DISCLAIMER: The X-Files and the characters Dana Scully and Fox Mulder, etc. are the intellectual property of Chris Carter and are ©and TM Chris Carter, 20th Century Fox, and Ten Thirteen Productions. The story "Finite Spaces" was written in homage to the show and was not meant to infringe upon the creative rights of Chris Carter and the talents of David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson. No monetary gain results from the writing and online display of this short fiction. Anyone can display this online as long as they do not use it for commercial purposes and as long as it appears as it is with my name attached to it. A. Diao Lavina, Bangkok January 1999.

Finite Spaces

by A. Diao Lavina

KRONER, KANSAS
FEBRUARY 15

You know sometimes where a relationship will end up-whether it is fated to germinate and grow or if it is better classified as a deep friendship.
Sometimes you can't really tell; although once in a while, you look at a man or a woman who is a friend, your best friend, and you realize in a moment that that's the person you cannot be without.
Rarely is a relationship both inevitable and hesitant. When it is both, it is a waiting game where restraint governs impulse, and love-well, love is a word unspoken, its expression bathed in silence, its existence never uttered nor acknowledged but always present.
They are waiting. Judy Garland was singing from speakers in a gymnasium in Kroner, Kansas. "...Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue...And the dreams that you dare to dream ready to come true..." All around them couples were dancing, slowly, and he and she, they stood watching. She kept still.
He said, "I didn't know reunions could be so..."
She said, before she could check herself, a non sequitur, "Wet?"
Then she bit her lip, cursed herself quietly.
Couples were dancing. Close.
She thought of his embraces, she remembers each one. The last being in the hallway outside his apartment, when he had pleaded for her to stay in his life, when she'd walked into his arms because she had wanted to. He had held her tightly, unlike the other times, when he had always given her room within the embrace. She had thought then, that night, that in that embrace he had told her everything she had waited to know but hadn't dared hope.
Five years. She remembers.
Then Holman and Sheila were walking to them and she swept her thoughts back into herself, into a little white room inside where she kept her longing.
He said to Holman, "Well, how'd it go?"
"You should try it sometime," Holman replied, and his arm was tight around Sheila, who wore a happy smile.
The couple left, their arms around each other. Already they had begun to move together like they belonged.
He and she, they stood a short distance apart, watching the couple walk away, and the music played on, and the couples in the party danced.
He very suddenly felt the weight of his arms and hands, by his sides. He wanted to feel motion, maybe sway a little to the music and the play of light and shadow in the large room. He wanted to feel that he belonged here, to the dancing and the rest of the evening. But he was filled, at that moment, with the feeling that he was a stranger to all this, to the dance of men and women, to the evenings of shadow playing a game with light. He remembered gestures and words, so he sighed to himself and turned to the woman beside him, "I guess-" and stopped because her eyes were closed, and although he was not sure, he thought he saw her chin quiver slightly, in the way it does when an emotion washes over her. Then the look was gone.
"Hmm?"
He could read nothing from her face. He asked, "You tired?"
She nodded.
"Wanna call it a night?"
Again a nod.
They left. It's another town, he thought to himself. Another night in another motel in another town.

He sat in the light of the tv, eyes closed, the flicker of images like shadows on his lids, a familiarity. He had walked her to her room, asked her if they could put off writing the case report until they got back to D.C. Another nod. He'd said good night, to which she had said nothing, and he had stood there waiting for what he didn't know until she had closed the door behind her. She hadn't even looked at him. She hadn't said anything, not even about the case, or word choice for the report, nothing. He'd waited, but her light didn't turn on. After a moment, he walked to his new room, Number 16. Fell into the chair in front of the television, surfed for a decent rerun or documentary, thinking about the man who could make rain for love of a woman. In the same thought into which he let himself wander was a line from old poetry he had read once, when he was younger. Longing, we say, because desire is full of endless distances. He gave a cry from the back of his throat, suddenly, and fell forward in the chair, his head in his hands. Then he stood up, angrily wiped at his eyes with the back of his hands, and found himself outside.
It was raining. Very gently, it was raining.

* * *

FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON D.C.
FEBRUARY 17
1.00 PM

"...So I told her, in the bathroom, that you had this theory. I explained it to her, and she told me I was...that I was jealous because she and you had a special connection. And that I was trying to divert her to Holman. Then I observed the sinks were filling, so I--"
He stopped typing into the computer. "Jealous? Why would she think you were jealous?"
She shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "I think we should focus on the events. The sinks were fill--" his eyes were not letting her get away from this one.
He waited.
She cleared her throat. "She assumed that I would be. Of course."
"She assumed."
"Yes."
He smiled and shook his head. "OK." Then a chuckle escaped from him.
"What. Is. So. Funny." Sometimes he could just say something or chuckle and she would feel her calm self crumbling into bitchiness.
He caught the look on her face and it stopped him mid-laugh, he raised his hands in front of him and said, "I'm laughing because it's the perfect word. I just remembered the Mayor with that poor baton twirler. The missus, he said. And the Gundersons. You're right. There were a lot of assumptions in Kansas."
He heard her drop a heavy sigh. "Mulder," she started, and her voice was too even, "I don't want to talk about the assumptions. I want to finish the report and move on."
He couldn't think of another time when she had been angry like this, like now. She had been angry at him before, but it was always for a valid reason, like when he was about to risk his life or work unnecessarily or unthinkingly. Never like this. They'd always laughed about the assumptions. Or they'd always kept away from the assumptions altogether and talked about other things.
The questions in his head nudged at him. She peered at her notes on her lap. Her forehead was knitted with concentration, or annoyance. She bit her lower lip. He let her have the silence between them, then he turned to the computer and said, "The sinks were filling," and looked at her.
She looked up, and for a moment he saw her eyes searching his, then she was closed again, and she narrated the events until they finished the report.

* * *

MARTHA'S VINEYARD, MASSACHUSSETTS
FEBRUARY 17
8.25 PM

His mother looked happy to see him, they embraced at the door. "I wasn't sure if anything was wrong," she said to him, "you sounded sick, Fox."
"Mom." He kissed her forehead tenderly. He didn't know why he called his mother, why he asked if he could talk to her. They never knew how to do this, the Mulders. They spoke of things, like new technology, politics, theories, news. Not how they felt, not unless one was chastising the other for a mistake of a decision which caused the family hurt.
"Have you had dinner, Fox?"
"Yes, Mom. But I wouldn't mind making us some tea." He headed for the kitchen.
Later they sat across each other, Mulder on the couch, his mother on a lounge chair. Mrs. Mulder waited, kept herself still.
"Mom," he finally started, "I'm at a loss. I can't figure out what, or how to think anymore. About Scully." He sighs.
"What do you mean, Fox?"
He traced the crease of his pants. "Lately. I've found myself wanting to reach out to her, personally. But always there are these factors which forbid me to do that."
"Factors?"
"Our work. Bureau regulations."
His mother's voice was gentle, "Fox. You were involved with another agent before. What is it, really?"
He sighed again, heavily, "You're right, Mom. It's more than our being partners. I--I'm afraid. I'm just very afraid."
"Of what? Of her?"
"Of how I feel. Of her reaction. Of her feelings," his voice cracked, "I'm afraid she won't reciprocate. She's not usually expressive with how she really feels, but how can I be certain that her usual aloof exterior isn't a true reflection of how she feels toward me?"
"Have you told her how you feel?"
"I told her, I told her that she made me a whole person."
"And how exactly did she react?"
It hit him, then, the answer to his question. His mother could see that he had known, already.
When he spoke again, his voice was stronger. "I just feel, that with the work we have done, in the years we have worked closely together, emotionally I've left her in a dark ditch and gone to a place where I thought I wanted to be, a place where I didn't have to feel attached to anyone, but now I suffer from it because I can't have her beside me, emotionally. Not really. Not after I left her behind."
His mother reached out to cover his hand with hers. "Don't you think you owe her--and yourself--an honesty about how you feel? When and where do you want for the feelings to surface? If they are there, between you, what stops you from acknowledging them?" She got up from the chair and sat beside him on the couch. She touched his face, briefly. "Fox. Your father was a man who was passionate about his work. When he was pursuing what he thought was right and good, he was a man possessed. And when he became like that, I kept still and in the shadows, but I always knew that no matter how important the work was, he would come home to me, and the way he looked at me, and spoke, and touched my face--these belonged to me, and the moment he was home, I did not doubt that he and I were in the same place."
Mulder folded himself into his mother's arms. "Thank you, Mom," he said, simply.

* * *

FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON, D.C.
FEBRUARY 18
8.00 AM

He was already in the office when she arrived, and when she walked in he was grinning. What was up this time?
"Mulder?" She set her briefcase down on the table.
"Hey Scully."
She raised an eyebrow. "Mulder, why are you smiling idiotically?"
He pulled a chair for her and turned off the lights. Then he turned the slide projector on. The slide was taken at night, of a cloudlike vapor rising from the water of a lake or sea. "What do you see, Agent Scully?"
"Mist on water."
He clicked the remote. Picture of a craggy coast, again at night, and another cloudlike vapor rising from the water, but this time the cloud had a loose shape. Click; another slide, this time the vapor rose from the water off a beach.
"What are we looking at, Mulder?"
"For the past three weeks, these phantom whales have been sighted off the Oregon and California coasts."
"Phantom whales," she pronounced each syllable skeptically.
"The photographs were taken with Polaroid night film by UC San Diego researcher Dr. Alvin Trof. They were sent to the Polaroid labs in Cambridge, Mass, to test if they were caused by electromagnetic fields or ionization, causing fogging effects of the film." He stopped and handed her a file. "Here, check the lab work they did. This is the real thing, Scully."
She scanned through the lab results. "Mulder, what exactly is this all about? Are you saying we're going to California to look for ghosts?"
He shook his head and gave her a small smile. "Scully, this is a chance to prove that there may be something other than our form of consciousness out there. An energy form of consciousness. If we could prove that, then--"
"--it would prove to a certain extent that time and space are bound together, that, that time and space are contained in matter?"
He was beaming again. "Scully, do you want his and hers sinks in our bathroom?"
"I can't believe that Skinner is letting us do this." She turned away from his glance. "What, are we running out of strange murders in this town?"
"Scully?" His voice sounded like the Mulder who was about to ask her a question or tell her something which would infuriate her. She couldn't meet his eyes; there was something in his which frightened her a little, an intensity she had seen only in very small moments.
"What." She swallowed and looked at him, keeping her face still.
He smiled a small smile. "Actually, I--I also told Skinner that maybe we needed a vacation." He opened his desk drawer and took out plane tickets, handed them to her.
She took the tickets and read the destination --San Diego--and her mind raced, factoring in all the implications in a matrix calculation, but all she could say was, "I am on vacation with you?"
He nodded. "And while we're there we're gonna skip Sea World and instead hunt the phantom whale."
Scully could only sigh.

* * *

WHALE COVE INN
CALIFORNIA COAST
18 FEBRUARY
6.45 PM

She began to really suspect when they drove into the inn's grounds: the lawns were well-kept, the reception/main entrance had nice wicker furniture and healthy houseplants, there were bell hops. There were lawns.
"Mulder?"
He paid the cab driver. "Yes, Scully?"
"Are you sure we're booked here?"
"Yes." He got out of the cab, and nodded at the bellhop who met them, who asked "Mr. Mulder?" The kid started unloading their suitcases.
"Mulder," her tone was more insistent.
He stopped walking, calling to the bellhop, "Uh, we'll be right there," and turned to her, "What is it, Scully?"
"Mulder, this place is NOT on the FBI list of places to stay--"
He puts up his hands, "Scully--"
"--and we didn't rent a car like we usually do when we're in the field--"
"--Scully," his tone was more cajoling now.
"-so tell me exactly what's going on, Mulder, or I am taking a cab back to the airport and flying back to D.C.!"
He sighed, but his tone was soft, "Scully, I told you. We're on vacation. Is that so upsetting?"
She sighed back. Long pause. "OK. Granted we are on vacation, as you say we are. Fine. This place is fine. But what's upsetting is that I didn't know anything about this, I wasn't consulted, and now I'm here and I don't know why the hell I am all of a sudden having a vacation with you, Mulder." She expelled a breath of frustration and turned away, hands on hips.
"OK, OK, Scully," his tone was conciliatory, "I'm sorry I didn't warn you or consult you. It's just that--six years, Scully, and we--we've never spent time out of our heads, together--"
She could hear it now, that raw honesty she had heard in his hallway last summer, and she felt herself listening closely, to his every syllable.
"--I just wanted to give you a vacation. And me, too."
Damn the pleading in his eyes. She felt her tears coming on. She took a deep breath and shut her eyes tightly for a second, let the breath out slowly.
"Scully?"
"I'm sorry, Mulder. It's just that we--we've never done this." She lifted her face to his.
He tried a small smile. "First time's always the hardest, right?" He indicated the entrance and reception desk with a tilt of his head. "You ready to check in?"
"All right, but if my room's got a bad view I'm gonna start taking hostages."

She couldn't still her heart until the door to her room shut behind her. She unpacked in a kind of stupor, her fingers hanging things up and opening and closing drawers automatically. This was really great. What was she doing here? With Mulder? What was Mulder up to, and why didn't she pack any dresses damn it and why did she have to get worked up over the fact that she only packed trouser suits and jeans? She took a long shower, trying to calm herself, and was just toweling her hair when she heard a knock.
Damn. She glanced at the clock beside the bed. 7.50. She pulled the robe tight and checked herself in the dresser mirror. Stringy, wet hair. She cursed to herself again, and again cursed because what the hell was the big deal with the hair anyway?
He stood outside, leaning against the doorway, when she opened the door. "Hey," he said. He was wearing gray slacks and a denim shirt, open at the neck.
"Mulder."
"Expecting someone else?"
"I'm not dressed. Are we--were we going anywhere?" She opened the door wider and he walked in. She caught a slight scent on him. God, he smelled good. Had he ever used cologne? She wasn't sure.
He headed for the couch and plunked himself on it, put his feet up on the coffee table. "You hungry?"
She nodded, all of a sudden not trusting herself to speak.
"Well, then get dressed, Scully. We've got reservations at this nice little place on the coast."
She walked into the bathroom and shut the door. It was getting entirely out of hand. Inside, she was beginning to feel a kind of panic, chaos, walls collapsing. Her cool control was crumbling, and the pieces were slipping between her fingers. "OK, Dana. It's just dinner. Mulder and you are going someplace to eat," she said to herself through clenched teeth. She let out a couple breaths as she slipped on her jeans and a light sweater. She had to talk to him sooner or later. She opened the door and called to him, "OK if I spend a few minutes drying my hair?"
He got up and came to the door to the bathroom. "OK if I talk to you while you're doing that?"
She left the door ajar, and he leaned against the doorjamb. She plugged the dryer in and turned it on. He stood there watching her dry her hair, making her feel slightly out of control again. She kept her insides still. He just kept watching.
He spoke after she finished drying and was brushing her hair. "Hey, Scully?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you ever wonder why we don't--really socialize?"
She stopped brushing and looked at him. "What kind of a question is that, Mulder?"
"Well?"
"Do we socialize much? At all?"
He shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. "Don't you? I thought you were socializing with Colton."
What was the point of this? But she said, "Lunch once in a while. Mulder, most of the time we're chasing fat-sucking vampires or, or genetic mutants. Alien-human hybrids and clones. Mulder, we do not socialize. We work. A lot. In fact, we work all the time." Then she saw his grin and understood. She had to laugh. "All right. So we do need a vacation. I need a vacation, I'll admit that now. The last time I had a vacation, I ended up with a case about a killer doll. Come to think of it, Mulder, your susceptibility to strange cases seems to be rubbing off on me." It wasn't that bad; at least talking, like this, she was getting her control back.
"Scully?"
"Hmm?"
"Why do you hide that mark above your lip?"
"What?!" Her head spun around at his question. Damn it! Her grip was starting to slip again.
Before she knew it he had stretched his arm out and with his thumb rubbed over the spot. "This one right here."
It was all she could do not to jerk back from his touch. She could feel it course through her spine, down to her toes. She didn't answer. Instead she brushed past him out of the bathroom, making a beeline for her weapon and badge beside the bed, clasping them onto her belt, under her sweater, heading for the door, her face turned away from him so he wouldn't see that it was burning, saying with as even a voice as she could muster, "I'm hungry, Mulder. Let's go."

He thought it went well. They had gotten to the restaurant in time for the reservation. He'd stolen glances at her face as she took in the Caribbean-type open-air
décor, the thatching hanging over the windows, which were open wide, the clean, clear air coming in, the wicker furniture.
He was pleased when she said, as they were being seated, "I'm impressed, Mulder. How did you find this place?"
He spoke while simultaneously nodding at the maitre-d'. "Fedor's Guide to the West Coast."
A waiter came over an instant later with a bottle of white, showing it to Mulder, who nodded. She was impressed again; she didn't ever think he would ever think of things like this. Scully checked herself inside; she was beginning to feel, well--very confused. On the one hand she sort of felt intensely light, almost comfortable about the idea that she and Mulder were having an evening out away from files and anonymous motels in small, anonymous towns, following obscure, weird leads. On the other hand, the thought that she almost felt comfortable about the fact that this was in all probability not a case but a vacation with Mulder was disconcerting.
He was saying something as a friendly waiter clad in a flower-print shirt poured wine for them.
"Sorry--what was that again?" She sipped from her glass. Vaguely she made a note to take it easy on the wine.

Mulder thought he had detected a little uneasiness in Scully the whole evening. He couldn't blame her; after all, he had studiously avoided this type of situation between them for six years. How could she believe this was just another trip for them? This was pretty paranormal. On the other hand, how could he have believed that he was perfectly happy with his relationship with Agent Scully, like he told Holman in Kansas? What a dope! He was not a man who nursed regret, but tonight, thinking back on their evening, how she had smiled across the table at him, how her eyes had softened, and he had seen laughter in them, and how it had felt to just drink in these things about her without worrying about controlling his face, he regretted having wasted six years of their time together being so goddamn tight.
He would have to slow down, though; he was scaring her. Long after they had finished with the meal, after the waiter had poured the last glasses of wine, a slow Sinatra song came on, and having seen her eyes light up slightly at the tune, he had asked her to dance. She had looked at him with naked surprise.
He'd gotten up and held out a hand to her and said, "C'mon."
She had made an uncertain sound but got up. There was no one else in the restaurant except them and the waiters, the bartender.
Awkwardly they arranged their arms and started dancing. He pulled her gently close to him, so her chin brushed his chest, and he closed his eyes and took in the scent of her hair, and impulsively, Mulder bent his head down and kissed Scully's hair. Immediately, he felt her stiffen in his arms. He drew back. After that the dance broke, and he felt a stab of something, a wincing in his guts.
And she was quiet, pensive on the way back to the inn. He didn't press it; it was enough that she had calmed down and accepted their time together as a matter of course. Of course, he wasn't sure if she was just then, in the car, thinking of a way to argue against this whole thing; he didn't know if deep in that logical head of hers she was calculating all the variables, distilling them into an airtight equation, the sum of which was: Let's forget about this. He could only hope that her skepticism didn't bleed into what existed between them, too; his salvation would be that she also felt as he did.
He had felt a little at ease when, having walked her to her door at the hotel, she had not said anything about cutting the trip short. She had simply said, "Thanks for dinner, Mulder. Good night." Her eyes had been in shadow in the dim hallway light, but had she been upset, surely he would have heard a hint of it in her voice? He let it go at the good night and walked back to his room.

Margaret Scully was sleeping when the phone rang at 10.00 PM in Maryland. Her first thought when she heard it was that something had happened to Dana.
She was right; it was in her daughter's voice.
"Mom?" Margaret Scully woke up quickly. "Dana? What is it?"
"Mom, don't worry. I'm not in trouble with work. I just--need to talk."
"Where are you?"
"California."
"For what?"
"I know it sounds extraordinary, Mom. I'm on vacation. With Mulder."
"Fox?" Margaret Scully sat up in bed.
"Mom." Pause. Dana was having a hard time with what was in her head.
"Yes, Dana?"
"I--I'm confused. He's--I don't even know why I'm here, with him, with no case in clear sight. I think I'm losing sight of what's important, Mom."
"What do you mean, Dana?"
"I shouldn't be out here with him, like this! I shouldn't even think to get involved!"
"Dana, listen to me. If you stopped thinking about what you ought to do, and just listen to yourself, what are you saying?"
Pause. Then a dry sob, and then her daughter said, "Mom, I think I'm--attached to him. It's just that I don't know what to do."
Margaret Scully spoke to her daughter gently, "Honey, you don't have to know what to do. You just have to listen to yourself."
Dana sighed at her end and finally said, "Thank you, Mom."
"Honey?"
"Yeah Mom?"
"Don't push him away, Dana. If he's reaching out and you want to hold out your hand to him, don't push him away. You'll be pushing yourself away, too."
After they hung up Dana Scully stayed awake for a long time, listening to a restless and persisting ache.

* * *

CALIFORNIA COAST
FEBRUARY 19
9.00 AM

The day began with the sun on her face, the sea breeze, the easy cruise of the rented convertible. Beside her, driving, Mulder was completely at ease; the way he changed gears to speed up, with just a soft nudge of his fingers, strangely made her insides tighten in a small, delicious way. Maybe it was his hands, they seemed to know exactly where to go, exactly what to do. The man had a grace he seemed unaware of. Funny how she never let herself notice Mulder physically; or maybe it was that she did but refused to acknowledge it.
"You OK, Scully?"
"Hmm? Yeah. I was just enjoying the-the view."
"You seem more relaxed. But quiet. I just wondered why you're not asking where we're going," he ended sheepishly.
She gave a chuckle. God, she felt so good, so relaxed. Last night had been a battle with herself. She hadn't slept until she'd exhausted every possible scenario that could result from her letting her defenses down. In the end it was simple: She wanted this, she had always wanted it, the intimacy between them, and no matter what happened, she was going to work to keep it between them. She could think of no reason why she had to be defensive all the time, not after all that they had been through, after all that was said and done. She glanced at his profile now, the strong nose and the slight crinkling beside his eyes when he smiled. "Aren't you going to surprise me?"
He heard it, the smile in her voice. "Oh, so you're beginning to like the uncertainty?" He pointed with one hand ahead at docks. A marina. "We're here. Surprise."
"No, you didn't!"
"Yes, I did." He stopped the car at the parking lot. Before he had shut the engine she was out of the car, standing looking at the boats, hands on hips, smiling.
He let himself laugh at what he saw in her face. It was not easy to make Dana Scully smile.

The boat he rented was a seventeen-meter cruiser, with a large bedroom and bunkroom, a toilet and bath, a small kitchen and living area. The bay was elevated. She asked the man he rented it from all the right questions, but there was a breathless quality to her voice, like she couldn't wait to get out onto the water. When they were underway, she turned to him and said, "How did you know."
"You really wanna know how I know?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Remember when we were staking out Tooms? You fell asleep."
"Yeah? So?"
"You were mumbling things. I asked you questions."
"You didn't."
"I did. And you told me answers."
"I didn't!"
"I got a lot of answers out of you that night, Scully." She could hear him smiling.
"Such as?"
"Such as you like the water. Such as you always wanted to go to the Caribbean and sip white wine and dance to Sinatra."
"Mulder," her voice was soft, "that was four years ago."
His voice was equally soft, "Yeah, well, I remember, Scully."
In the silence that followed, he and she, they felt something move between them, some understanding, a new intimacy which somehow felt familiar, comfortable. He watched them from outside himself for a moment. God, Scully. She was beautiful.
She felt his glance on her. She could almost feel it like a touch. She spoke, "Mulder, last night..." she started, half expecting him to stop her by saying, "Scully, whatever you're going to say..." like he had many times, but after her phrase trailed and faded and there was no interruption from him, she felt courage touch her, and she said again, "Last night..."
"Yes?"
She paused; she could feel her heart against her ribcage; she took a deep breath, "I was up late thinking about this--vacation."
"And?"
"And...I realized that I was too caught up last night in my own thoughts that I didn't let myself enjoy the evening completely, like I should have."
"Caught up in your thoughts? What were you thinking about, Scully?"
"Mulder, I've noticed that when we--" she paused, groping for words, "--when we reach a point when one of us summons enough honesty to say something about how they feel--" and she stopped because he reached to brush her chin with his hand. She heard herself gasp. She struggled to continue, her voice raw, "--the other one stops it, like we're forever both rule keepers for this, this-this whatever it is between us, and whatever we say may ruin it." There. It was out.
He was nodding, biting his lower lip. Finally he said, "I know, Scully. For my part I know the restraint I demand from myself exceeds even what you may expect. I--I've never been good at talking about how I feel."
"Neither have I."
They shared a smile.
"So what are we doing, Mulder? What's this?" she indicated the trip, their togetherness, with a wave of her hand.
She saw him take a deep breath. This was equally hard for him. She kept herself still. When he spoke his voice was raw, like hers, with his honesty, "Scully. I've always thought that we should stay within the finite spaces of ourselves, because, because of the work we do. It was always the work. And sometimes when I found myself looking at you and wishing I could brush an eyelash from your cheek--any excuse, to touch you--I'd look away and tell myself it wasn't something I wanted to happen.
He looked away, at the water, at the sky. She loved this about him, that he was always looking, as if he was afraid there was something he might miss. His eyes were moist. "Then in Kansas, last week, I thought--there's this man who loved this woman so much his emotions created havoc with the weather. And I thought, I asked myself, what would I do, for the woman I--" he swallowed and almost choked on the word, "--loved." He turned his face to hers, searching her eyes.
She tried to keep herself still. She waited.
She was drowning in his eyes now. "Scully. I asked myself this and the answer was that I could start being honest with her with how I feel."
"Is--" she was afraid of her question, "is that why we're here?"
He nodded. "If we stayed in D.C. I'd have been too scared, and too comfortable in the familiarity of our work."
"Scared?"
"Scully, I'm scared of your reactions. I've always been. I'm--not some smooth guy who knows his way around-my life keeps itself to small, finite spaces; it doesn't get any simpler than that."
She stopped him with a finger on his lips and a glance. Then she took the two steps to close the distance between them. She spun the skipper's chair, where he sat, spun him around to face her so she could step between his knees, and lifting her face to his, she held his face in her hands and pulled him to her. Brushed her lips against his. Electric.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, his hands running up her back, up and down her arms, then gripping the curves of her waist.
She brushed her lips against his lips again, but this time he was ready for it; the kiss lost its hesitation and overwhelmed him; he was the one who had to pull away, calling her name like a senseless protest.
"No, Mulder--"
"Scully--"
All it took was her whisper. "Shut up, Mulder. Shut up and come here."
So he did.

* * *

In the dream she was adrift in a bright light, her temples pounding. She tried to scream, for there were others, she tried to call to them; urgently she felt she had to warn them, though she knew not of what. The others' faces looked familiar, but she knew none of their names. She called for Mulder, but he was not there. And she knew that he would not be there. Her body felt hollow; her heart thumped as if it were empty. She tried to think: in twenty-four hours, her heart will have pumped 2600 liters of blood through her body…the pain struck her as a pin, a long and thin pin being inserted into the tapered verterbra at the top of her spine. She could feel the pin pierce its way through the delicate tissue, soundlessly slicing through ganglia and basal cells-
"Scully?" His voice found its way into her dream, and the dream burst suddenly as she startled into wakefulness.
He cradled her. "You had a bad dream. Shh."
She exhaled into his shoulder, reigning in the sobs. "It came back. The light. The others. What they did to me."
"The implant?" He held her closer.
She nodded into his neck. "This time I have a new image. A pin."
"A pin to what? Pierce your neck?"
"My spine. It was inserted into the top of the spine and slowly worked into the hypothalamus."
"Do you think it means anything? Is that what they could have done, Scully?"
"I don't know, Mulder." She shuddered slightly.
He peered into her face and swept stray hair away from her eyes. "You OK?"
She breathed in the sea air and nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine."
He nodded and kept peering into her face.
She understood. She had always assured him she was "fine," even when the cancer had given her pain so extreme her vision had turned into black tunnels. Now she turned to Mulder, reaching for his hand, and gripping it, said, "I know I haven't been honest with you in the past about being fine, Mulder. But this time I really am. A little shaken. Disoriented. But I'm OK. Really."
Mulder nodded again and rubbed the back of her neck with his hand.
After a while, Scully was breathing easier, stirring in his embrace, asking, "What time is it?"
"Late afternoon."
"Are we heading to shore soon?"
Small chuckle into her hair. "Shore? As opposed to uncertain?"
"Ha ha. What, we're having a slumber party on a yacht?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"Mulder, why?"
He laughed. "Why not?"
She gave him a look and got up to open the cabin door, climbed out onto the deck. "Mulder, come up here."
"Aye aye Cap'n," Mulder mumbled and followed her example.
"Look," she said. The sea was burning in the setting sun, and they were alone, in the middle of the sea. He went to her and stood behind her, enfolding her into his arms as if in prayer, and the years of alone fell away.

* * *

OFF THE OREGON COAST
FEBRUARY 19
9.42 PM

The charcoal gray pickup truck screeched to a stop at the edge of the cliff. The driver extinguished the headlights and turned off the engine. Hurriedly he climbed out and half-ran down the slope of the cliff, his breath coming out in gasps. He shivered as the cold air hit him through the thin jacket he wore. He ran all the way down to the beach below.
Scattered on the dunes were other men and women. All of them were turned to the water, watching, waiting, unmoving. They shivered and rubbed their hands against their arms. In a moment, their breathing grew agitated; they gripped their heads in pain, and their mouths were open in eerily silent screams.
On the water, a figure rose, higher than an eight story building and as wide as the length of a grown blue whale. The figure was made of mist though it rose from the water like a whale for air, soundlessly.
On the beach the figures, one by one, fell to the sand, their faces contorted in agony, blood seeping from their nostrils and ears.

* * *

OFF CALIFORNIA COAST
FEBRUARY 19
9.00 PM

Mulder was hunched over the console of the controls, muttering to himself. Abruptly he hanged a fist against the fiber glass bubble encasing the compass. "Damn it!"
"What is it?" Scully turned from her sky watching, startled.
"Damn compass is berserk, Scully. We'll have to steer by the stars. Or we could anchor here."
She went to him and touched his arm. "Mulder, we can't assume that the sea is going to be stable; you know how it is-"
He nodded and looked up at the stars and the faint outline of the coast. "Orion is right there," he pointed. "We can steer by Betelgeuse and keep a course south by southwest until we're a few hundred meters from the coast."
"I'll keep the course, you steer," Scully said.
"Aye aye Cap'n," Mulder said, saluting and heading for the wheel.
Six hundred meters from the coast, Mulder called out, "Hey, Scully, you OK?"
"Yeah, I'm fine Mulder, but I'm freezing," Scully called out in a trembling voice, "I'm gonna go below."
"OK. I'll be there in a minute." Mulder locked the wheel and quickly dropped anchor.
Below decks, Scully had found a jacket in the small overnight bag Mulder had packed earlier that day and was wearing it. "We can take turns, Mulder," she said.
Mulder shook his head. "No, Scully. You go ahead and get warm. I plan to sleep in your arms tonight. You said yourself-"
Scully started to protest, "Mulder, don't-"
"-that the best way to keep a body warm-"
"-think that you're that-"
"-is with another body beside it."
"-lucky."
He went to her and opened his arms. She walked into them, easily. They smiled at each other, their eyes locked in a glance like a thousand glances they had exchanged before, only now it contained no hesitation, no denial of the inevitable. It was their own finite space, where they had always found each other, a refuge within their silent talk which said more than any words could.
Momentarily Mulder bent to close the distance between their faces, whispering, "Are you warm enough now?"
"Yes," she said, her eyes smiling, then closing as he leaned in to touch her lips with his; Scully very suddenly cried in pain, sending Mulder into a frightening déjà vu.
"Scully?"
Her voice was faint. "Mulder, my head…temporal area…pain…" She sagged in his arms, unconscious. He carried her limp body to the bed and set her down, calling her name. He administered CPR, panic growing in his guts, a cold dread spreading fast over his body.
Scully's heartbeat was steady, although her arms felt clammy. Oddly, her forehead was burning. Mulder removed her clothes and covered her body with the bedclothes, arranged loosely around her. She looked like she was sleeping fitfully, but he noticed that she had a slight nosebleed which didn't last long. He cleaned off the blood and kept the towel he used, so he could show it to her when she woke up.
When she woke up.
The phrase haunted him; he checked her breathing again: she was breathing normally. Her pulse was strong. The fever seemed to cool down with the cold compresses he was applying to her forehead.
He felt helpless and naïve of the betrayals of the body. He wished she were awake, to tell him what to do, to explain what was wrong, to tell him how to fix it. The terrors of her cancer came back, tangible as the sweat he woke in when he dreamed of Samantha's abduction, a dark and nebulous foreboding, hounds baring their teeth at a fox trapped in a thicket, horses' hooves the thunder and tremble in the ground. He had known this before, this fear which ate at a man's insides until he no longer knew himself except as a husk of a self desperately grasping at the smallest hint of hope. Scully in that wretched spacecraft, slowly being eaten inside out by a 35,000-year old alien virus. Scully in the snow, weak, pale. Scully in the hospital bed, holding his hand, holding his sanity with her strength, holding onto life. Scully saying, "I'm fine, Mulder."
A cry broke from his lips, and he began to sob as he lay himself down beside her and put his arms around her, whispering promises into her hair, until he, too, fell into sleep.

Just before dawn Scully stirred awake and found herself in Mulder's arms. She tried to wriggle out, but the sheet over her, Mulder on top of the sheet, his right arm under her neck and the left one draped over her waist did not give her much room to maneuver without risking waking him up. So she start by turning to face him.
The movement did it. Mulder started stirring, and barely audibly, she heard him saying her name. He did not know how many times he had fallen asleep in her arms, and he had called her name; she did not know why she never believed that he would feel so much. For her.
She worked her right arm out of the covers and touched his face.
He opened his eyes. "Scully?"
"Hey," she said.
"Hey," he said, "you blacked out. I was worried. You had a nosebleed."
A nosebleed? "Mulder, what are you telling me?"
He just looked at her. She already knew what he didn't need to say. She shook her head at the fear in his eyes, and said, "Mulder, we have to exhaust every possibility. It can't be just a sign of-that."
"Scully, I'm afraid of it. If it's back--"
She gave him a look which silenced him. "Mulder, stop. Look at all that happened. Not just the nosebleed. Not just my blacking out." Her voice was stern.
He said nothing. He brought a hand to her hair, her face, and held it there.
"Mulder," gently now, "I know it's what comes to mind first. But we can't let our fear for each other cloud our judgement of facts." She reached up to cup the hand that was on her face.
"Scully, I've almost lost you so many times. And now, now I don't think I can stand even thinking of losing you."
She gave him her eyes and said, her voice even softer still, "Mulder, how different is the fear now from before? Utterance doesn't necessarily mean existence, Mulder; I've felt terrified of losing you so many times before; I just never said how I felt. But it was there. I felt it, just as deeply as I do now."
He closed his eyes tightly, and when he opened them again, small, wet streaks ran down his cheeks. He nodded and let Scully kiss his tears.
"Now, tell me what happened," she said.
"You said that your head hurt. The temporal area. Then you blacked out. Your hands were clammy, but you had a fever. Then the nosebleed."
"It was a piercing pain, like many points all at once, plunged into the sides of my head. That's all I remember."
Suddenly she felt him tense up.
"What is it?"
He looked at her, a familiar fire in his eyes. "Scully. The compass. The temperature change before you fainted. It was in the 60s right before the compass went crazy. A minute later it was really cold. I'd say the temperature dropped 25 degrees, maybe more."
"What are you saying? That what happened to the compass and the temperature is somehow related to my blackout and the nosebleed?" She gave him The Eyebrow.
"Look, Scully, I know it's a wild guess, but what if-what if somehow there was a change in electromagnetic energy level, and that affected the implant in your neck? That-that the jump in energy somehow triggered a biochemical reaction?"
"You're right, Mulder, I can't seem to follow your train of thought. But if I recall correctly, you said back in D.C. that the phantom whales could be a conscious form of energy. Are you suggesting that we could have been in the middle of a-a-manifestation of that energy? And that somehow it affects the chip in my neck which may in turn suggest that the chip itself is both a transmitter, a receiver, and a catalyst for biochemical reactions?"
Whatever else he didn't know, he knew this: he loved this woman. "Yes."
"So what do we do now?"
Mulder sighed. "Scully, I am extremely turned on right now, but it looks like we need to get to the bottom of this."
She looked at him pointedly. "Then let's weigh anchor and head for shore, Mulder. And get off the sheet so I can wear it to the bathroom."
He sighed again and rolled off the sheet. "Aye, aye, Cap'n."

* * *

WHALE COVE INN, CALIFORNIA COAST
FEBRUARY 20
10.00 AM

"This is Agent Mulder returning AD Skinner's call. I'll hold." He tapped the hotel pencil against the table while Headquarters switched lines.
There was a click as Skinner went on line. "Skinner."
"Sir, it's Mulder. I got your message this morning. Agent Scully and I were-we were on a boat off the coast."
"Agent Mulder. I understand that you and Agent Scully are on vacation-uh, but there's something which demands your kind of experience. The San Diego field office called for you late last night. Apparently there's been an unexplained event in Oregon. They'd like you there immediately."
"It's nice to know our "kind of experience" is appreciated," Mulder said dryly.
"Keep in touch, Agent Mulder."
"Yes, sir."
"And-uh, my best to Scully."
"Yes, sir." He hung up as Scully came in with her bag. He said, "I guess we have to check out?"
She nodded. "Duty calls. The inevitable: a weird case."
"I hear ya loud and clear, partner," he said, getting up to pack, "You know, my fate consists of a certain redhead and weird cases."
"Without which you wouldn't exist, Mulder," she shot back.
"So, knowing that you're going to have to share me with strange phenomena, Agent Scully, is that OK with you?"
She hit him square in the forehead with one of his tee shirts, balled up.

* * *

SAN DIEGO MEDICAL EXAMINER'S OFFICE
1.00 PM

Agent James Herrera hitched up his pants as they walked down the stairs of the dark, dank building into the autopsy theaters. "Dr. Roberts hasn't done the autopsy yet; we thought we'd wait for you."
"What exactly happened to this man, Agent Herrera?" Scully asked.
"Found at the Holiday Hotel in Portland. One kill shot. We found the entry point through the window. Apparently someone had been watching in the building across. No significant trace evidence has been found in his hotel room or in where the sniper seems to have been waiting for the kill."
"And the victim is who?" Mulder asked.
"Dr. Alvin Trof. His wallet revealed ID's which say he's a professor at the University of Notthingham."
Mulder and Scully exchanged glances. They had arrived at the door to the autopsy rooms. Scully said, "We'll take a look at the body and let you know what the next logical step may be, Agent Herrera."
Herrera looked relieved. He said, "I'll wait for you upstairs," and started the climb up.
"What are you thinking, Mulder?" Her voice was low.
"I know of a Dr. Trof in England."
She raised an eyebrow.
Mulder continued, "A Dr. Trof was involved in some research I read up on a few years ago. Fluctuating magnetic fields found to occur in places where ghost sightings were reported."
"What are you saying? That this is related to what happened last night?"
"I don't know, Scully-" he was interrupted by Herrera running down the stairs and saying, "Agents. Oregon just called. They've just found twenty-seven bodies on the beach, south of Seattle."
"Were they killed?" Scully asked.
"As far as we know, they suffered severe hypothermia. And dried blood was found on their faces, from their noses and ears."
Scully looked sharply at Mulder, who said, "Scully. I think we should check out the Oregon deaths."
Agent Herrera said, "I'll ask Dr. Roberts to go ahead with the autopsy. We'll let you know what exactly killed Dr. Alvin Trof."

* * *

PORTLAND MEDICAL EXAMINER'S OFFICE
FEBRUARY 20
4.53 PM

"Greg Postapopoulis." He held out a hand.
"Agent Mulder. This is Agent Scully." They both shook hands with the medical examiner.
"I understand that the victims did not show signs of physical assault, no injuries suggestive of sharp weapons, no gunshot wounds?" Scully asked.
Postapopoulis shook his head. "We've done autopsies of, so far, four of the victims. All four show severe necrotization of the epidermis and mesodermis, suggesting hypothermia. Frostbite. Also because of the dried blood on their faces and necks, we examined the tissue in the nose and ears and found breakage consistent with severe temperature change. We can't explain how this would lead to the apparent strokes the victims had, which ultimately caused death."
"Frostbite and nosebleeds." Mulder said, looking at Scully.
Scully turned to the medical examiner, "Dr. Postapopoulis, I'm a medical doctor with a specialization in forensic medicine. I'd like to take a look at the bodies, if I may."
Postapopoulis asked, "Do you have any idea what may have happened?"
"We-may have a hypothesis, Doctor," Mulder said, "I'd like to confer with Agent Scully for a moment, if you don't mind."
Scully looked surprised but tried to hide it. Postapopoulis nodded and said, "I would appreciate your help in the labs, Dr. Scully."
When he had walked through the doors to the labs, Scully whispered loudly, "We have a theory?"
Mulder whispered back, "I don't know, Scully. But I think that the temperature change, the fact that these people were all gathered at the beach but seem to have no apparent connection to each other, the way they died-that there's a connection somewhere. We just need to put the pieces together."
"Mulder, strange as it may sound, I have a niggling feeling that won't go away that you are right."
"You have a feeling, Scully?"
"I have lots of feelings, Agent Mulder. But right now I think you should go check out the murdered professor while I examine the bodies."
He nodded and left.

At 8.46 PM Scully was sipping a hot cup of coffee when her cell phone rang.
"Hey, Scully it's me," it was Mulder. "I've found the same Dr. Trof I was telling you about."
"What was he doing in San Diego, Mulder?"
"Apparently not what we were here for, Scully. No R and R for this guy. He was checked in at the Holiday Hotel until the 22nd, after which he had a flight for Portland. And guess what we found at his hotel room, Scully."
"What?"
"A SPIDER."
"An arachnid?"
"No, not a spider, Scully. A device known as a Spontaneous Psychophysical Incident Data Electronic Recorder. A small box which activates a recording device if and when a certain level of electromagnetic activity hits its sensors."
"And this implies what, Mulder?"
"He was hunting something, Scully. That's why he was here. He was hunting the phantom whale."

* * *

Dr. Postapopoulis left to sleep around 5.00 in the morning. Scully stayed behind, even though she and Postapopoulis had not found anything other than what they had earlier found in the other victims. Still, Scully felt that there was something she was missing, something vital which connected the victims to each other.
She drank the last of the coffee. Her mind was slower; she was craving a hot bath and a few hours of sleep. She rubbed the knot in her right shoulder and picked up the small cassette recorder. "Victim # 27, male, in his forties. As with all the other victims, he appears to have suffered severe necrotization of the epidermis and mesodermis. Examination of his nose and ears reveal breaks in the mucus membrane-" she stopped because there it was again, a nagging feeling that something was missing. Something beyond the obvious, something she wouldn't check, but maybe Mulder might. What was it? She closed her eyes and reviewed the evidence.
High levels of electromagnetic radiation. A scientist with ghost-hunting device. Twenty-seven strangers congregated on the beach. Dead.
Congregated. Strangers. Called there for an event?
Cassandra Spender had said to her two years ago, "You feel it too, don't you, Dana? You feel that they are going to call you?"
And Scully had touched the implant on her neck.
Cassandra had had an implant, too. As did Scully. Called for a gathering. An event.
Scully rushed to get her cell phone. Mulder answered on the second ring.
"Mulder, it's me. I think I have that thing we were looking for that connects the people on the beach to each other."
"What is it, Scully?"
"It's a premature hunch, Mulder, but I think that those people were called to the beach to participate in something-I have yet to check if my hunch is true. Where are you?"
"Just finished talking to Skinner about my lead. And I've got the SPIDER with me. I'm on my way to you. I'll book us a motel and come and get you, OK?"
"All right, Mulder. I've got to verify my hunch."

Scully turned the body of victim number 9 over and incised two areas on the base of the neck, one vertical and another horizontal, so she could open the skin flaps and take out what she had suspected, a small, round chip. It was the tenth implant she had found. Victims number 27 and one through eight had them, too. She headed for the gurney holding victim number 10 and leaned on the edge of the gurney. Her body was tired; her vision was blurry and her mind sluggish. It was 6.40 in the morning.
"Hey," Mulder said from the door a few minutes later. He looked as worn out as she felt.
"Hey," she said weakly, "I've found it, Mulder. Look in the evidence bags on that table," she said, pointing with the scalpel to a table near the sinks.
Mulder walked over and picked up the evidence bags. Wordlessly they passed a glance between them.
Scully turned to victim number 10 and was about to do the first incision when she felt him standing behind her.
"Scully. Stop now. You're tired."
Scully bent her neck back and rolled her head, sighing. "The victims' families are claiming the bodies today, Mulder. If I don't remove all the chips now, we won't have conclusive proof."
Mulder laid his hands on her shoulders and kneaded on the knots. "We can call for help. There should be someone on call."
She leaned back against him. "OK. Just this one more."
Mulder kissed the top of her head and took out his cell phone. A moment later he was connected to an assistant medical examiner who agreed to come and relieve Scully to remove all the implants and tag them as evidence before nine that morning, when the bodies would be taken away and buried, or burned.

* * *

SCHOONER'S REST MOTOR HOTEL, OREGON
FEBRUARY 21
12.35 PM

"-wait, no, oh…there. Mmm." There was something else, it seemed, that she needed to appreciate in Mulder; his hands knew where to go. Scully was sprawled on her stomach on the bed in her room, letting Mulder knead the knots out of her shoulder muscles. She yawned, feeling like a cat on a porch on a fine day. "Mulder."
"Mmm?"
"Sometime soon I am going to drop off to sleep."
"That's good, Scully. You need the rest." He slowed his strokes, making deep circular dents in her shoulders with the palms of his hands.
"Promise me something."
"What is it."
"Promise me you won't go off on your own and solve this case while I'm sleeping."
"What?" He chuckled.
"Well, Mulder, you often ditch me. In certain circles it's officially known. The Scully Ditch, they call it."
"I do not ditch you, Scully. We-we separately investigate different leads."
"Often without your telling me."
He didn't say anything, as if he was thinking about it. "Does-does that upset you, that I don't tell you sometimes where I'm going?"
Scully motioned for Mulder to stop the massage and wrapped the towel around her before she turned to face him. "Sometimes when I don't know what you're up to, Mulder, I know you're just trying to protect me. But I'm your partner, and of course, I worry about you. I just need to know, that's all."
He reached over to touch her face. "You're right. I think I'm protecting you that way. But it's not fair." Her cheek under his palm felt soft. He rubbed his thumb over her lower lip and leaned in for a kiss; the cell phone rang. "Damn." He got up and picked up the phone from the coffee table. "Mulder."
It was Skinner. "Agent Mulder. I thought this was Agent Scully's number?"
Oops. Wrong phone. Mulder said, "She's right here, sir. She's-exhausted from the autopsies she did last night. I thought I'd let her sleep a while." He grinned at Scully, who blew him a sleepy kiss.
Skinner hesitated, uncomfortably it seemed, before he said, "Mulder, we checked on Dr. Alvin Trof. He was here on his own, apparently to test his new device. We do not have conclusive interpretations of his notes which you sent, but we do know that he had been in close contact with a group called MUFON."
"I'm familiar with MUFON, sir," Mulder said, "they were involved in an X-File case which are still suspected to be mass abductions. What they call 'events' in their literature. When what are believed to be alien spacecraft somehow summon large groups of people for either abductions or what happened in Maryland-mass killings."
"What is your assessment of the situation, Agent Mulder?"
"I've got Dr. Trof's device, the SPIDER. Agent Scully and I will use it tonight to verify the electromagnetic levels he noted down."
"And the other evidence you mentioned?"
"I'd rather not send it by courier, sir."
"I see." Skinner paused. "Let me know of any other assistance you need, Agent Mulder."
"Sir." They hung up.
Mulder walked over to the bed, where Scully was already soundly sleeping. He yawned, stretched, and lay down beside her, and for the first time in years, he simply promptly fell asleep.

* * *

OREGON COAST
FEBRUARY 21
9.00 PM

Mulder knelt and set the black box down on the ground as Scully shone her flashlights on it. Pointing, Scully said, "The gauges read the electromagnetic level, and it records the time, intensity, and temperature."
Mulder looked at his watch. "We should have an event in a short while." He looked up at Scully, saying, "You feel OK, Scully?"
Scully nodded uneasily. "So far. But there's a strange sensation on my neck, like an electric tingling."
"And the implication is-what?" Mulder asked, forehead furrowed.
"Mulder, it's the same sensation I felt just before the event with Cassandra Spender."
Mulder got up and brushed bits of dirt off his jeans. He didn't like this one bit. On the one hand, he knew that Scully really wanted to be here, to verify what happened, in case something did happen, and not have to take his word for it like she often had to. And damn if she hadn't emphasized that she didn't want to be "ditched" from now on. On the other hand, he was uncomfortable with the possibility that the implant in her neck may, coupled with the electromagnetic activity he anticipated tonight, hurt her just like it did the people at the beach three days ago.
"What are you thinking, Mulder?" Her question broke into his thoughts.
"Just-that I'd never forgive myself if we have put you in danger tonight, Scully."
Scully started to protest, "Mulder, I'm in this just as much as you are. I can't abscond just because of a hunch."
"Scully, I'm working on the connection between the beach deaths, the event, and the implant. I can't get closer than this."
"Mulder, I'm not going to let this scare us. I can't. If I do, we lose everything we've ever worked for."
He sighed. She was right, as was often the case, and she was stronger, braver than he was. "But if you feel pain, Scully,…"
She stepped close to him and touched his arm. "Then I'll run, Mulder. Get far as quickly as I can. If the pain begins to reach a slightly uncomfortable level. OK?"
He nodded. He dug into his jeans pocket and fished out the car keys. "Here."
She took the keys and put them in her jeans.


"What time is it?" Scully asked, pacing near the SPIDER.
"9.45.," Mulder said, and seeing Scully shiver and put her hands deep into her jacket pockets, "You OK, Scully?"
"I'm fine, Mulder. Just a little chilled."
"I'll get the coats from the car." He loped off, and she heard the trunk lid slam. He came back with thick coats and helped her into hers before putting on his.
The temperature dropped suddenly, and Mulder crouched by the SPIDER, peering into the gauges. "20 degrees drop. It's here, Scully."
"Mulder." Scully rubbed the back of her neck. She could feel it now, small stabs inside her neck. Piercing into her head.
Mulder frowned. "Scully, I think you better go-"
"Mulder, look at that. To your right." Her words had a breathless quality, as if she were about to faint.
To his right a figure was rising from the water. A large cloud, like mist, only this cloud had a shape. From where they stood, it looked like-a mushroom with one side larger than the other.
"Scully, it's the phantom. Only I think it isn't a phantom."
But she was weakened by the pounding in her head. "Mulder, I can't-"
"Go, Scully! Just go!" He cried at her.
Scully began to run for the car, the pain in her head now making her want to scream. She was so cold, so weak. She felt her heart thundering, her lungs almost imploding. She knew that if she didn't run from whatever was causing this pain, she might suffer a stroke. She got into the car and sped toward the road.

On the beach, Mulder watched as the phantom figure rose from the water until it towered in front of him on the water, a gigantic cloud which did not really look like a whale. More of a rounded cloud. He raised the infrared binoculars he had around his neck and then he could see the outline of the cloud. The mist looked three dimensional.
Mulder crouched down and checked the SPIDER. It was reading an abnormally high level of electromagnetic radiation. He knew that the cameras attached to the device and planted at four different angles on the beach were recording the event, and he hoped that they worked.
Abruptly he felt a slight tremor on the ground, and before he could react, he heard a loud crack. He looked up; from the cliff it looked like chunks of earth had broken off and was rolling toward him. The last sound he heard was a cry from his own throat. Then all was black.

Scully drove the brakes down hard, coming to a full stop a couple of miles from the beach. Her head throbbed, and she felt a wetness dripping from her nose. But the pain was faint, like a phantom needle being slowly inserted into the flesh between her scalp and subdural tissue. She touched a finger to her nose and it came away with blood. She wiped it off with a tissue. Not much. A reaction, nothing more.
It was at that moment when she heard the earth crack, and the pine-scented air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror began to swing in the tremor which followed. Scully braced herself for a quake, but the tremor only lasted for a couple of minutes. After it was over, she turned the car around fast, screeching on the stretch of empty Oregon highway. She'd never left Mulder behind; she wasn't about to start.

SAN DIEGO GENERAL HOSPITAL
4.37 AM

He woke up and felt rather than saw her presence in the dark room. He called to her.
She breathed a sigh of relief as she saw him coming to. Then she heard him call her name and she stopped waiting. "You're back," she said.
"What happened?"
"Apparently the tremor dislodged parts of the cliff, which fell on you." She wanted to brush his lips with hers, to kiss his eyes.
"You're very lucky, Mulder," Skinner said, "It could've caused more than a fractured fibula."
"The recordings-" Mulder started.
"-are all in the field office, and we'll be carrying them with you as soon as you're able to get on a plane," Skinner said. Then he turned toward the door, mumbling something about arrangements he had to make.
"I talked to a meteorologist at UCSD," said Scully, "and gave him the specific events. I now believe that the phantoms, such as they seemed to be, are caused by pockets of electromagnetic fields. I've requested a check for sunspot activity in the past few weeks."
"Wait, Scully-" Mulder said, lifting the injured arm and grimacing-"how do you explain the fact that I saw it?"
She bit her bottom lip. "Mulder, research suggests that electromagnetic radiation to the brain, at certain levels, can induce hallucinations."
"But Scully, how do these suppositions explain the drop in temperature? The tremor?"
"It could have been electromagnetic fields created by prezoelectric circuits created by rocks rubbing together in a fault below the area where we were." She sounded so matter-of-fact. For a moment he felt a familiar inner spasm; Scully was sexy when she was her old scientific self. Then he felt his arm hurting.
He said, "Wanna hear my theory?"
She almost smiled. Here we go, she thought. There was no one else who could think the way he did; he made her think, made her mind work; she loved that feeling, his challenge. It seemed that they'd had this long discussion over the years, and they'd never quite finished it. She nodded.
"The most likely cause of the event seems to be sunspot activity. Energy released during sunspots or sunstorms may provide energy for dormant entities to manifest themselves. What we saw-that was an independent entity. The radiation-woke it up."
She was giving him the Eyebrow. "Dormant entities. Woken up by radiation."
"Scully, you're giving me that look."
"What look."
"The Dana Scully I Don't Believe Classic Skeptic Look." He was smiling now.
She folded her arms but couldn't help smiling. "So this is a stalemate, then, eh, partner?"
"Nope. It's an X-File."

FIN.