That's the fourth time; the fourth straight time I've tried to make eye contact, but he's having none of it.  Here I sit on this stained couch, on tenterhooks; the knot in my stomach won't unravel until the contents of that disc vindicates me and my seemingly rash, egocentric actions.

Wouldn't he have done the same given the circumstances and setting?  Hasn't he done so in the past; on whatever pretext for his finding out his truth?  I squelch the impulse to snort when the answer to the obvious fairly smacks my already smarting face.  I had to play it C.G.B.'s way.  Didn't I?  What would dear Spooky have done, over there hanging onto that door jamb like he's some kind of hangman?  Never thought the tables would be reversed like this, one day.  Well, maybe in some small way he realizes how I've felt throughout these touchy years of now you see me, now you don't.  So I semi 'pulled-a-Mulder' and he gets all bent out of shape.

What I had decided to do was in no way an attempt to cause him any more pain than he has already endured.  I did what I did was for me, my predicament; and for the good of many; millions, billions.  Didn't I?

What I fully did not count on, is his anger.  Yes, it's undeniably there; pure and unadulterated in its consistency.  I blink, and the use of that word in this syntax nudges my sensibilities.  Unadulterated, and alone with the enemy; willfully trusting, my curiosity calling the shots.  Nobody else was along for the ride; had to be that way, I make no apologies.  At the time, it was the only logical route; what he told me, gospel, according to the change-of-heart benefactor.  I believed him; I trusted, I went...by myself.  I had a choice--mine.

If, and even now, I'm not hundred percent sure if he did, undress me, what are the implications?  (Drugged?  I don't see how.  I never took so much as that LifeSaver he offered.  Too exhausted to know what I was doing, or allowing to be done?) I'm not sure I want to examine any of the loaded stuff in any depth for the time being.

He expected me to wear that dress, and I did.  I told him it was beautiful, but I know that was what he wanted to hear, and I'm more than certain he knew I couldn't wear the wire, in that skimpy frock, if he had undressed me and saw it.  When he said he looked forward to dinner that evening, I had shuddered, disturbed by the glint undeniably there in his eyes.  I knew what I'd seen; it had been there.

What was I thinking, though?  When we toasted, what was I toasting to?  Being won over to a so-called lonely man's shadowy side, a legacy, or his bed?  Without question, he puts the 'power' in powerful men, but surely even he has a master?  How do I like being thought of as a power-nympho?

What were you thinking, Dana?  Were you thinking?

I can feel the emotion raw and naked in my partner's brooding, yet compelling eyes, writhing within them.  Though grappling with, and reflecting the conflict raging within, they are ever beautiful, but purposefully blind to mine, which seek his recognition.  Atonement is not what I'm after; I've nothing to atone for; I'm not a child, although Mulder might beg to differ in this instance, running off like that on some myopic whim.

Justification?  That's a little warmer, perhaps. Maybe it just might be I don't really know myself. Who knows the reason why we do what we do all the time?  I've never said I was incapable of putting trust in the highly untrustworthy.  I wanted to help others.  Did he use that as bait?  What I acted upon was more than careless hunch, far more.

I glance over at Mulder again.  Nothing's changed. His eyes are boring holes in the back of each Gunmen's head.  I'm usually the one who's the expert when it comes to erecting walls between us. Usually.  With set jaw, and the grinding of his teeth, he's making it painfully clear that what I did is beyond his realm of comprehension.  Clearly, he's in no mood for letting me back in, anytime soon.  I betrayed nothing.

When you see the contents of the CD, Mulder, you'll know why...

"There's nothing on this," Frohike declares, a good deal of deadpan mystification tugging at the corners of his voice.

"It's empty," Langly broadcasts.  I hear the echo of dismay mixed with disbelief in his dry tone.  You usually are the next to take your place in my corner, Scarecrow; right behind Frohike.

"Completely," Byers vocally tamps down with a shake of his head, and a slack jaw.

I'm up off the couch like I'm a shot fired out of a cannon.  "No!  It can't be--that's impossible!"  Wedged between Frohike and Langly, who, for some unknown reason, is wearing gloves without any fingers, and still plunking away on the keyboard, I exhale again, "It can't be."  Summoning up the tenacity of a bulldog, I will data to show itself.  "It's got to be on there."

"Empty," Frohike confirms again, reading the confounding 'volume empty' message aloud.

I feel myself sag between the shoulders of my now silent friends, and feel Frohike pat my hand; he whispers something comforting close to my flushed face.  I force an anemic smile which lasts seconds.  Again I chastise myself, and somehow the courage to face around leaves me.  But I fight the quandary off, feeling my anger spark, to face Mulder, still suspended on the door jamb like some wiry, death defying trapeze artist.  I look askance, and am haunted by the sensory imagery of the trusting, having-been-duped Scully, coupled with the imaginary, yet oppressive image of Spender.  The pair are over in the opposite corner dragging off the same malodorous cigarette.

Is it my imagination?  Or, can I actually smell the cancer stick's stench?  Their mockery rips unsightly gashes in my armor.  All my positiveness and cocksureness come crashing down around my ears.

"He lied to you," Mulder says hollowly.  He's looking me straight in the eyes at last, but what I see in them courses a chill through me clear to the bone.  I lied to you, Mulder.  He's not mocking; in fact, I'd trade that, for his tragic, pitying look.  Involuntarily, I shudder, but dictate that I tender his gaze true.  I may have been tricked, but I wasn't undone; not by a long shot.  "He used you..."

"Hold up, lemme try something, else," Langly interjects.  Bless you again, Scarecrow.  I'm back sandwiched between the guys, and I squeeze his shoulder, wanting him to know that so much is riding on this.  I dare to hope that his techno mastery and focused aplomb will turn the tide to save the day, and my face.  "Even if it's been licked clean as a whistle, there's a way we have of tellin'..."  His free-flowing fingers fly as his voice trails off several moments later.  Somberly, what seems all too quickly, he mutters in that one-of-a-kind, laconic turn of phrase he has, "Sorry, Scully.  There's bupkis here; zippo, zilch, 'nada.'"

The Gunmen and I commiserate in silence, with Byers saying then in a hushed, low-key voice, "It's virtually a brand new disc."

I mutter some choice curses, and the trio nod.  "Sorry, girlfriend," Langly reiterates.  "Wish it could have been what you wanted..."

"Yeah, me too," I mutter, in kind, sounding as defeated as he.

Frohike tags C.G.B. what I'd just called him blistering moments ago, with several of his choicer maledictions.  The four of us hang our heads what feels like an eternity.

"Hey, guys, mind packing it in sort of like right now?" Mulder intrudes, breaking up our mutual bemoaning society.  "I'd like to speak with my partner in private.  Are ya down?"

"No prob, Mulder, man," Byers and Frohike fire back in compliance.  Langly already has the laptop's screen closed down.

The Gunmen make quick work of dismantling their technology on the run hardware.  As I watch them scurry about, unplugging this, and disconnecting that, I realize that they never fail to amaze me more and more of late.  Guess our three stooges really have grown on me over the years.  I'd hate to think where Mulder and I would be if availing ourselves of their expertise was no longer an option.

"Thanks for trying, guys," I say as gratefully as I can muster, considering my current disposition of mind and heart.

"Anytime," Frohike assures.

"We've always got your back, Scully," Byers supports, touching my shoulder.

"Don't take any wooden CDs, next time," Langly cracks, in what I sense, is high good nature, trying to make the best of a galling situation.

"Don't remind me," I return in a lowered voice, giving his blond-haired, bleach-white arm a light swat.  After he leans down, following my indication that I want him to, I whisper in his ear, taking acute care that Mulder does not hear, "There won't be a next time.  Do me a favor in future?"

"What?" he replies softly, in kind.

"Keep a casual eye on my e-mail?  I know I'm not asking the impossible..."

"No sweat," he assures.  "We'll do the nosy without being obnoxious about it."

Before they're out the door, and despite my subdued mood, I can't resist.  "Uh, Langly, what's with the fingerless gloves?"  He starts wriggling his digits.  "And Byers, who's doing your 'do these days?  That's quite a look; you look punk in a gentlemanly-retro sort of way."  He gives me a self-aware grin.

I wasn't away *that* long that I can't let them see, along with Mulder, that CSM may have 'played me,' or is the correcter term, 'played with me'--maybe--but, he cannot--and never will--hoodwink me out of my sense of humor.  And still having the ability to take in the bigger picture, if indeed there is one.  No, sir!

Frohike gives me a generous nod along with a sly wink.  "Owing to our near-apprehension by certain highly questionable authorities, which necessitated re-inventing ourselves, and, being the masters of dis--"

"It's a long story which I've already heard," Mulder nips in, giving them prodding looks of let's get-the-lead-out, guys, I need to speak with her *now*, now beat it.  "Next time we drop by I'll remind them to tell you all about it."

"'Bye, Scully," Byers and Langly chime.  The latter gives me a farewell salute, as though the firing squad is my next stop.

"Don't let this big galoot bully you, Scully, or he'll answer to me," Frohike promises.  "Unlike Mulder, I know you wouldn't have run off without having a hard-line reason.  Oh, and it's not like I don't think you can't take care of yourself like Mul--"

"FRO-hike," Mulder grouses, and the communications expert desists, taking a step back from Mulder who advanced on him.

"Thanks, Frohike, I'll keep it in mind," I tell him with a chestnut of a lilt to my voice.  I think back to, and harp on, my being a sitting duck in that outboard motorboat.  I had thought about jumping overboard, but didn't; can't explain why I didn't.  I wasn't frozen by fear.  Frozen never entered in.  Somehow I just knew that if I got that motor started, I'd be all right.  Thankfully, the shooter missed his or her mark in my case, and I rocketed out of there as though I was manning a hydrofoil.

I also have no explanation for this either: suddenly, I don't feel as downcast as I did moments ago, when the knowledge that the disc was a fraud, and being royally had, a real possibility, was sticking its tar and nicotinic-coated tongue out at me.

"See you guys soon," I say to their retreating backs.

"Yeah, Frohike," Mulder muscles in.  Seconds before semi-slamming the door, he flings, "catch ya later..."

We stand toe to toe, regarding each other for several up in the air minutes.  I'm tired, and not spoiling for a row over this right now; not ever.  Truth be told, I did what I did, period; over.  I survived the close encounter of the C.G.B. kind, so let's just drop it.  Okay?

I don't need my head handed to me, Mulder; leastof all from you.  Why is it when, in this instance, I did one of yours, you're ready to rake me over the hot and toasty ones, but when you strike out on your own for parts unknown, it's the maverick maneuverability factor you get the luxury of falling back on?  Well, I'm a maverick at heart, too, as a matter of fact, in case you never noticed, and I'm too old for being turned over your knee like I'm some flighty, bad little gir--

"Scully..."

"Mulder..."

"Well, now that there's no doubts in our minds what our names are--"

"Mulder, if you're going to tell me how--"

"Just hear me out, okay?"

I huff, but go back into the living room; without further word, Mulder follows.  I flop down on the couch again.  "This feels deeply weird, to coin a Langlyesk phrase.  Why do I get the feeling we'd both be more comfortable if you were on the other side of this lecture I sense you're preparing to give me?"  I look up at him, standing over me, not in a menacing way; rather, a contemplative way.  The instant his expression changes, I feel it for the first time today.  How it must have felt having no notion where I was, and what was happening to me.  I know that feeling, I've lived it too many times.  It's never a good one.

"No lecture, Scully, just a word of advice." He flops down practically smack dab on me. When I try to pry myself out of the depression he's just made, his hand snakes around my waist, and as it cinches me tighter, I know this isn't what I was expecting at all.

"'A word of advice?'  A single, solitary word of advice, Mulder?  Oh, this promises to be a first."

"Promise you'll trust me enough to never--"

"Mul-derrrrr."

"Okay, okay.  No promises, and I'll try to avoid the use of the word, 'never.'  An understanding then."

"An understanding...but, Mulder, we've always had that, haven't we?  Don't we?"  Why do I sound as if I'm about to apologize?  If that's what he thinks he's going to get, I can be just as stubborn as he can be when he's pulled a boner.  Boner?  Is that what I really think I did?

Bringing me closer, suckering me in, he says into my ear before nuzzling it, and the thought of how not fair he's playing this dawns on me, "Humor, me, Scully, humor me.  If you gave ol' Smokey the benefit of the doubt, why not me?"  His lips start their inexorable trek across the plains of my burning cheek.  Incredibly, I wonder if his lips will get scorched.

"Mul-derrrrr," I drawl somewhere between a whine and a plea, succumbing to his masculine wiles, not wholly against my will.

"Mulder what?"

"Mulder, what do you think you're doing?  Mulder, you don't play fair?  Mulder what are you trying to prove?  Mulder..."

"Mulder, I love you?" he inveigles.

"*That* you already know," I insist, knowing that much for a certainty myself, and, for once, not annoyed that he knows.  At least at this late date, he should.  He's got to.

"I do; yes, I do.  The only thing I need to know now is, are we in this together?"

"In what together?" I murmur, as his lips dance across my nose.

"Everything."

"Be specific," I barely manage to churn out, as his lips sear mine.  My mind skips back a few intervals to that question I asked  myself as the Gunmen pored over their hardware trying to dredge up my justification.  What was I thinking?  I might not have known at the time, but there's more than a fractional chance I believe I know now.  I break the embrace, ever so gently.  "Mulder,"

"I am, Scully.  Specifically, everything means everything; I'm not working you over with semantics."

No, not semantics, just your electrically-charged lips, partner, and there's no stopping them.  Just when I think I've got you figured out, Mulder, you have the nerve to get mushy on me.  And I thought it was either going to be the cold, silent treatment, or just the opposite; the towering inferno.

ya l">Well, come to think of it, I am feeling pretty steamy myself, right now.

"Honestly, I can honestly say I know what I've put you through all those times I ditched you, and I'm working very hard not to do it anymore.  Won't you do the same for me, if something like this ever rears its ugly head again?  Could you find it in that loveable, trusting, and that's trusting in a good way, heart of yours to bring me in?  Not leave me out?  It hurts deep being left out in the cold.  It hurts more than I could ever imagine it could."

After we kiss another bodily heat-increasing time, I stammer, "Deal, then.  You drive a hard bargain, but I accept."  Ummm...a very hard bargain, and I'm blushing.

"Sorry I got so mad.  You know me when I feel powerless..."

Powerless, I consider; then reconsider C.G.B.'s observation regarding my taste in men.  "Mulder, I wasn't as up-front with you as you would haveliked.  I acknowledge that.  I'm not always as open-minded when it comes to you as I should be.  Frankly, if you asked me what got into me, going off with Spender, who, by the way, divulged he's dying of a brain abnormality, drawn like a moth to a flame, as I seemed to behave, I wouldn't take offense.  I--"

"But, I'm not asking, so we'll leave it at that.  I trust your judgment; always have, always will.  Just please don't shut me out.  Deal?"  I just stare at him, feeling my eyes mist; no carcinogenic irritant involved.  He's so beautiful, being so Mulder.  "Oh, and as far as ol' Smokey's days being numbered, I'll believe that when the air stays smoke-free in our airspace for a good long while."

"Deal; a second time."  I chuckle a little into his collar, liking the way this has turned out after all; amazed actually.  "Mulder?"

"Yeah?"  His arms are my stronghold now; a cuddling, protective fortress.  Why would I seek another?

"Tell me the part about your knowing you love me."

"Ah, Scully, that's a genuine piece a cake.  See, words aren't necessary for something as fundamental; primal, as that," he breathes, and avows, "only this..."  Then tenderly, consummately, as though he's preparing to transport me to his special, secret place, the rest of the huddled masses know nothing about, he shows me why words are superfluous.

~~~~~

The next afternoon, while standing in that unbelievably empty office, in that pervious building, what was hazy clears.  When I peer into Mulder's sincere face, following his voiced thoughts, gradually I allow an inconspicuous smile to test the waters.  I've always trusted my partner; despite Spender's presumptuous allegation, and my own misgivings, at times, to the contrary.  Why would I stop now?

End