An Unchanged Soul
Chapter Twenty-Two


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The abrupt glow of light from the sitting room
startled him.  He narrowed his eyes at the soft
intrusion, remembering that he'd killed the lights
after their dinner had arrived.  Someone moved
about in the next room, and his sudden fear
catapulted him from the bed.  He fumbled with his
trousers, glancing back at Emma, who slept on.

Jesus, not now, he thought.  Not with her mere feet
away and so vulnerable - with him so slowed by
idleness and the intoxication of lovemaking.  He
wasn't ready.

But as the moments passed with no sound of
encroachment, he took the first step.  Then several
more, each more panicked than the last, pausing in
the bedroom door to find the source of disquiet. 
His hand clenched around the door frame, his eyes
searching the room for intruders.

A lone man stood at the window, his back to Sam. 
The light he'd seen from the bedroom came from the
form, generated by some unknown source of power. 
At once, Sam knew the glowing was birthed from
within the man.  It chased away shadow, the
darkness he'd lived with for weeks now.  He looked
back at Emma with fright, his feet glued to the
floor as indecision gripped him.  Could he gather
her up and reach the door in time?  Or would she,
in her waking, offer enough resistance to entrap
them both in the power of the hand he knew would
reach out for him?

"She won't awaken."

His voice sounded the same to Sam's ears, though
somehow hollow and lacking emotion.  He'd heard it
often enough to recognize it.  A chill ran up his
spine, knowing the moment was at hand.

"Sit, Sam," it continued.  "We have a lot to talk
about."

Something about the way the man stood apart made
Sam breathe easier.  But anxiety at the whole
situation, the ease with which his ghost had
entered his room, made him hesitate to comply.

"Who are you?" he demanded in a hushed, biting
voice, fearing Emma's being caught in the middle of
this confrontation.

"I told you she wouldn't wake up.  Trust me."

Trust had never come easy to Sam, and it certainly
wouldn't now.  Not with this thing standing before
him glowing like a thousand candles.  It defied the
laws of nature, and that alone told him he was
dealing with something he couldn't pound to dust
with his fists.

One gloved hand lifted from its side, and Sam
flinched, tensed and ready to grab Emma and run. 
The lamp by the chair burst to life; Sam gasped,
his heart hammering in his chest as he gaped at the
trick.

"Is that better?"

Sam's head swung back to face his adversary, who
now appeared normal, though the light from the lamp
seemed drawn to him.  This was too weird.  "Who the
hell are you?" he said again, swallowing down his
fear.  He had to be strong.  He knew his will was
all that stood between him and oblivion.

"I've frightened you, and I apologize."  The rigid
back relaxed beneath the black drape of his rain-
dotted coat.  "I see now my earlier attempts to
speak to you were too brusque."

"Brusque?"  Sam stepped into the sitting room,
anger now moving his legs.  He stopped, his hands
tight with the need to hit.  "You've been trying to
kill me, you son-of-a-bitch."

"Kill you?"  The absence of malice in the statement
was more chilling to Sam than anything, as if the
specter spoke of nothing but truth.  "How can you
kill someone who's only half-alive?"

He turned at last, and Sam went weak with... no,
not recognition.  But the tweak of awareness when
he saw the face was definite and alarming, as if he
looked into a mirror and saw a kindred soul.  He'd
thought the man a shadow all this time, with only
voice and no face.  But the face was there, carved
in stark lines and bottomless eyes.

"I show you my true face," he said softly, taking
one step into the light from the lamp.  "In an
effort to make you believe."

Sam retreated on shaking legs to the sofa, feeling
himself sink in more ways than one.  The man was
ordinary in that he dressed well, his hat tilted to
one side with confidence.  His skin was black, his
beard a distinguished salt-and-pepper.  He looked
like he belonged in an office, with the fine fit of
his suit and the modulated tones of a banker.  But
he no more belonged in an office than Sam did, and
his bright gaze spoke of things far more world-
shaking than pushing pens and dirtying his hands
with money.

"Who are you?" This time, Sam's whispered plea for
understanding was yearning, almost begging.  The
man knew.  He knew everything.  Instead of running
in fear, Sam wanted the same knowledge.  He wanted
all he'd lost.

"Who do you want me to be?"

In a flash, he saw his father's face.  As in the
hospital corridor, it was the same.  So was his
mother's, and finally, the serene countenance of
the elderly nun.  All of them bleeding into each
other, but with a commonality not seen before.  The
eyes.  Dark and laced with a trace of compassion. 
Who was this man?

"You don't know my name, Sam."  The face became
bearded and austere once again.  "But you called me
'Sir'."

Sir.  It rang no bells or unlocked doors in his
brain.  But 'Sir' seemed to possess an eerie
ability to read Sam's mind, a fact he found hard to
swallow with any grace.  His face hardened as he
thought of several colorful curses, his frustration
taking precedence over his fear for the moment.

"Tell me who I am.  Tell me what I've done, damn
it!"

Sir took the chair with a fluid, almost floating
stride.  He sat ramrod straight, his gloved hands
lying upon the opulent tapestry as if he had all
the time in the world.

"What you've done is change everything.  None of
this was supposed to be."

"You're not making any sense."  None of this made
any sense; it hadn't from the start.  He was damned
tired of trying to figure it out.

"If you'd let yourself remember, you'd understand. 
But you won't.  And you won't until you stop
fighting me."

"And let you take me back?  I don't think so."

As soon as he'd voiced the reply, Sam realized what
he'd said was loaded with meaning.  An elusive
meaning that he felt just out of reach of his
grasping mind.  His mouth went dry, and he looked
at Sir, whose unflinching gaze softened.

"I can't take you back until you're ready, Sam. 
You know it."  He nodded, confirming what Fox had
told Sam yesterday.  "You have to take my hand. 
You left knowing I couldn't touch you.  I always
knew you were headstrong, but I never believed
you'd do this.  I am powerless against you."

Sam could see it pained the man to admit his
inability to act.  "Feels like hell, doesn't it?"
he said, taking a bit of pleasure in Sir's
discomfort.  "It's no more than you deserve for
following me around."

"I follow you to save you, Sam."

"Save me?  From what?"  He doubted his life would
be any different if he gave in to this man's
wishes.  On the contrary, he would be with the
people he loved without fear of having to leave. 
"I don't work for Chang, do I?"

"Please."  Sir waved a hand; a flash of lightning
seared the night sky and Sam cringed, wondering if
the man had lied when he'd said he was powerless. 
"You haven't a dishonest bone in your rather
selfish body... your now all too human body, I
might add."

A chill settled over Sam.  "What do you mean?"

"You saw it yourself, boy.  The knife was bloody,
yet you felt no pain.  No sign of puncture.  It
takes time, I understand.  But it will come - *has*
come, if my reasoning is correct."

"That was a trick, and you know it."  He grasped at
the thin logic, daring this man to refute what
simply had to be true.  "I don't know how you did
it, but you set Cannon up with a fake knife.  Kinda
going overboard with this, aren't you?"

"The knife was real.  Mr. Cannon's injuries are
real.  That was not engineered by me, but by you. 
I told you, your presence here -"

"Has changed everything.  Yeah, yeah."  Sam gave
the man an incredulous look.  "You're saying *I*
pushed him in front of that bus?"

"I'm saying you're the reason Mr. Cannon lies in a
coma.  One you could have brought to an end days
ago."

"Oh yeah?  Because I'm what - Superman now?"

Sir leaned back in the chair, eyeing Sam with
superiority that grated.  "There is no word for one
such as you, so I cannot explain.  What you've done
has been attempted before, but not under my care. 
But they always come back.  Always.  They think
they want this, but in the end, they find out the
hard way."

"Find out what?"

"That the earth moves on without them.  Bound as
they are to pay for past transgressions, they
cannot fathom the next plane of existence that
awaits them if they but spend time helping others. 
Impatience lingers even after the soul is freed
from blood and body."

Sam snorted at the man's matter-of-fact delivery,
unable to believe what he was hearing.  And he
thought *he'd* be locked up if he told anyone what
he'd seen?  This guy had 'loony' down pat.

"Don't tell me - heaven and hell are real, and I
was stuck in between with you because I liked to
raise hell a bit too much.  Except I ducked out the
back door when you weren't looking and now you're
in hot water for losing my ass.  That about it?"

A rumble of thunder accompanied the clench of Sir's
jaw.  He looked down his nose at Sam and said
softly, "I am *not* in hot water."

Sam's cocky smile died.  Time seemed to slow and he
felt every hair stand on end.  The rain hit the
window like pellets of ice and he found it
difficult to draw breath.  Sir did nothing but
stare unblinking, his eyes gleaming as his face
lost all trace of emotion.

"If you continue as you have," he said, every word
resounding in Sam's ears with the slow peal of a
church bell, "you will find that second chances
don't come free."

As that cryptic statement sank in, Sam's eyes
narrowed, anger edging his reply.  "I don't believe
you.  You think you can just come in here and
threaten me?"

"I've only stated the truth, Sam.  Think on all
I've told you.  You must make the first move."

Through a fog, he felt himself stand.  The man's
features took on a hazy, unfocused look and the
light in the room dimmed.  He couldn't speak, nor
could he move.  It was as if the world came to a
screeching halt and Sam wavered, his body slowly
adjusting to the lack of movement.  His eyes
closed, slamming the door on the meeting.

The sharp ring of the telephone broke the silence. 
He rolled over sluggishly, watching it for a few
seconds before he reached for it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Sam.  How's it going?"

He almost cried at the sound of his brother's
voice.  Gripping the receiver as if he held Fox's
hand, he answered, "Smokey?" in a gravelly voice. 
Disoriented, he looked around the bedroom, trying
to pick out familiar things in the darkness.

"What's the matter?"

Sam spared his visitor a glance, expecting to see
the granite-like, black face of the one called
'Sir'.  Instead, he only saw the faintest outline
of pale skin above the sheet.  Emma.  "Shit," he
muttered, feeling the panic of one who'd woken from
a bad dream.

"Sam?  Sam, talk to me.  What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he assured Fox, clearing his throat of
fear.  It did no good to convey his agitation to
his brother; he sensed he was in no real danger as
long as he stayed away from those black-clad hands. 
"I'm just a bit claustrophobic."

Fox chuckled.  "Guess so.  No visitors today?"

He thought of Emma, sleeping so sweetly just a
inches away.  He thought of his ghost man, who'd
managed to upset his dream world in the last few
minutes.  He could tell Fox about neither, not yet. 
The first was too personal and the last he was
certain had been just another trick of his
overtaxed mind.  "Nah.  I'm beginning to think this
was all just a figment of my imagination."

"Sam -"

He rose slowly from the bed, trying not to disturb
Emma.  "Smokey, hang on while I catch the other
phone."

"Sure."

Almost tripping over his own shoes, he somehow
managed to make it to the sitting room, snapping on
the lamp.  Squinting against the brightness, he
grabbed the other phone.  "So, what's up?"

"Just checking on you.  Did I wake you?"

Sam stretched, feeling sore in a million places -
some of which he didn't mind at all.  He smiled,
hoping Fox couldn't hear his pleased tone.  "I
guess I fell asleep early."

"That's not like you."

"Tell me about it.  Not much to do in here but eat
and sleep."  Neither of which he'd done much of in
the past few days.  No wonder he'd had a nightmare. 
Noticing the noise in the background of the
connection, he asked, "Sounds like you're having a
good time - where are you?"

"Office Christmas party..."  Fox's words faded.

Sam's breath locked in his lungs as he saw the air
shimmer in the depths of the nearby chair.  The
fabric seemed to ripple as if moved by an unseen
force.  Fox's answer was lost in the roar of sudden
fear in his head.  He turned, almost dropping the
receiver in his haste to put some distance between
himself and the fantastic scene.  In an instant,
all was still, the chair's agitation bleeding away. 
Sam rubbed at his eyes with his free hand, blinking
to clear his head.  He felt like he'd had one too
many - but he hadn't had any at all!

"... but we won't stay long.  If you want, we can
stop by on the way home."

"Huh?"  Sam gaped at the empty room.  The guy
hadn't really been there... had he?  The bedroom? 
Sam grabbed the telephone, its cord almost tripping
him as he checked on Emma.  She was alone as well,
her breathing heavy and even.  What the hell had
happened?

"I said, I'm calling from my office Christmas
party.  It's in D.C. proper, but we're just making
an appearance.  We can look in on you on the way
home, if you feel like having company."

Sam jerked himself back to the conversation, softly
stepping back from the bedroom.  "No, that's okay." 
There was no trace of anyone having been there
besides himself and Emma.  Sam was beginning to
doubt his own sanity.  Even with the exhilaration
Emma's arrival had created, he knew he hadn't
gotten more than a few hours' sleep each night he'd
been holed up in the hotel.

A dream.  Had to have been a dream.  He stared down
at his trousers, wondering when he'd dressed.  He
hadn't sleepwalked since he was a child.  Then he
remembered donning them to fetch dinner from room
service and sighed.

"Sam, are you sure you're okay?"

His inattention had caused suspicion in Fox's mind;
he silently cursed his tired brain and made his
voice light.  "Right as rain."  Cradling the
receiver in the crook of his shoulder, he checked
the door to the suite.  Locked up tight.  He ran
quick fingers over the window latch.  Secure. 
Besides, there was no way anyone could scale that
wall below, or drop three stories after a
clandestine visit.  He was losing it, big time. 
"Speaking of, you and Dana take care tonight. 
Weather's nasty."

"At least it isn't snowing."

<Snowfall or two... so different this year.>

Emma's voice whispered in his brain, followed by a
more insistent tone.

<What you've done is change everything.  None of
this was supposed to be.>

Sam shook his head, chuckling at his own self-
importance.  If he'd had the power the man had
spoken of in the dream, he'd be batting .400 and
raising a passel of kids with Emma by this time
tomorrow.  Snap of the fingers.  Easy.

Talk about conceit!

"Look, Smokey - snow or not, be careful.  Dana's
too important to be careless with her."

"*I* wanted to stay home," Fox muttered.  "She's
the one who wanted to come to this damn thing.  I
think she has a thing for my boss."

"She has a thing for you, moron."  Rubbing a hand
on his belly, he recalled Dana's fierce
protectiveness of her husband's feelings.  That was
one sore spot well deserved.  "Believe me, I know."

On the other end, his brother laughed heartily. 
"At least you got it in a softer spot.  I had a
knot on my head for a week."

Sam heard the clamor rise behind Fox.  "You go on
and get back to Dana.  I'll be okay."  Well, until
Emma left.  Then it was back to staring at the
walls and wishing her there.

"I'll call tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay.  Good night, Smokey."  He padded back to the
bedroom, where he hung up the extension and crept
back into bed.

Emma rolled over with a sleepy sigh, giving him her
profile.  He could not stop his hand from moving.

Against the smooth paleness of her cheek, his
fingers seemed dark and clumsy, able to bruise with
the slightest pressure.  His touch, already feather
light, drew away at the crease of her brow in
sleep, and he held his breath, not wanting to
destroy the moment by waking her.  This would be
his only chance for a while to look at his leisure
and he didn't want to deprive his mind of the
memory.

She settled once again, turning her face into his
warmth.  Her body relaxed and an overwhelming sense
of protectiveness suffused his chest with the
fluttering only felt by those who loved deeply.

Yes, he loved Emma.  Had loved her for a long time,
it seemed.  She needed the words, he knew.  But he
denied them birth, even after the sweetest gift of
herself.  With the saying of it, Emma would expect
total commitment, something he wanted as well but
couldn't give just yet.  Not until he'd gotten past
the black hole that was his life of late could he
embrace this woman without reservation.  The dream
had only reinforced his determination to prevail. 
He wouldn't hurt her for anything; just the
lingering memory of her face as he'd left last week
was enough to make him vow never to see her like
that again.

She believed him to be good, no matter what he
eventually discovered about those two years.  But
what if, as Dana had implied, he was part of some
criminal group - the realization of which would
trigger the killing animal within?  He'd been too
selfish with stealing this night spent with Emma. 
He'd taken her virginity without thought to
tomorrow, or the day after.  Such an act could even
now have consequences that could ruin her in the
eyes of her family and her church.

God... she could be pregnant even now.

Sam already felt Mike's impending wrath sear his
body.  The man had obviously sent his daughter here
to confront Sam, though she'd tried her best to
distance herself.  It wasn't until Sam gave in to
the urge to touch that she'd crumbled beneath his
amorous advance.  Mike wouldn't have let her near
Sam if he'd known they'd end up in bed together.

He let himself fall back to his pillow with a sigh. 
Oh, he was a fiend.  A rogue, as Emma put name to
it.  He should have turned her away, sent her home
to the eventual future she'd have as the much
beloved wife of a man who'd be free to walk with
her in the light of day.  One who'd give her safety
and security, children and the pleasure of growing
old together.  As it stood now, Sam could offer
none of those things.  Only his love remained in
his empty hands.  Even that he kept hidden - in
fists that could hurt at the instant the switch
clicked on.

"I thought I told you to stop."  The whisper
tickled his arm.

A warm hand snaked about his waist.  Emma.  A
colder nose nuzzled his shoulder, and he shivered,
reacting to her touch.  "Stop what?" he muttered,
one last trace of control emerging beneath his
already rising desire.  Speaking of stopping... he
willed his body into submission.  Was this what it
was going to be like from now on?  He'd never
before had a problem tamping down an erection. 
Then again, this was Emma.  If anyone in the room
had power, it was her.

"Thinking."

"I wasn't," he lied.

"You were.  Let me guess... you're blaming yourself
for letting this happen.  Now that it's going on
nine and I'm about to leave, you figure you'll do
the right thing and tell me we shouldn't see each
other until you have the situation under control. 
That about it?"

His gave her a stern look he knew was useless. 
"Would you listen?"

"Since when have you known me to take orders, Sam
Mulder?"

He rolled toward her, pulling her close.  "True." 
His lips brushed hers; the smell of sex gently
wafted up between them and he sighed.  "This time,
though, you need to do what I say.  No arguments,
okay?"

"But -"

"I won't have you sneaking over here, and that's
final."

"It's my life you buffoon, and I'll do what I
please."

"And if I asked you to stay away?  For my sake?" 
He buried his face in her neck, clutching her to
him.  "Emma, this is hard enough without worrying
about you coming up here or taking the chance on
your family finding out -"

"I don't care."

"But *I* do," he insisted, facing her, his hands
cupping her cheeks.  In the dimness, he could make
out the distress in her gaze and knew his own to be
equally fierce.  "This was the best night of my
life, Emma.  If you think it's easy for me to deny
myself where you're concerned, you're crazier than
I am."

"You're not crazy."

"Maybe not.  One thing I do know - I have too much
respect for your father, and for *you*, to treat
our relationship with anything less than the
attention it deserves.  And right now, I can't do
that.  I have to come to you a whole man, Emma. 
Don't you see that?"

Her lashes lowered as she nodded.  Sam breathed a
sigh of relief, kissing her forehead.  "Thank you."

"Oh, don't thank me yet," she choked out, a mixture
of muted fury and sadness tearing up her voice.  "I
intend for you to make this up to me at the first
opportunity."

Sam smiled, using his kisses to wipe away her slow,
hot tears.  "Name it.  Whatever you want, it's
yours."

He fully expected her to demand flowers, dinner,
and a ring on her finger.  But her soft reply made
him ache.  "All I want is you."

He could have said the same, and his embrace
tightened with the need.  But he wanted so much
more than her love.  He needed to be able to get
his old life back, to shower her with gifts and
prove to his family and hers he was able to be a
responsible person.  There had to be a way to do it
besides sitting in this room night and day.

"C'mon," he whispered, taking one last deep breath
of her nearness.  "Get dressed.  It's time for you
to be going."

Thankfully she didn't protest, other than a small
sigh.  "I'll miss you, Sam."

That he could give her.  It wasn't much, but he put
his whole heart and soul into the words.  "Not as
much as I'll miss you, sweetheart."


**********


She didn't linger for long, mostly because he
practically dressed her himself.  With the grim
smile of the tortured, he helped her with her
clothes and coat, smirking at her awful attempt to
stall by shoving one of her shoes under the bed. 
She was an open book to him, especially now.  Her
displeasure at leaving was all-too-evident, but she
left him with a challenging kiss designed to make
him realize what he'd be missing once she'd gone.

He didn't miss her... for about a minute.  One
whole minute of standing in the empty room while
his mind replayed the night's activities.  Too
quickly for his liking, he decided, the ache of her
absence returning like a stab through the heart
when his lips tingled recalling that first kiss
against the door.  It built with an avalanche of
longing, each remembered touch making him want to
howl with the need to have it again.

There had to be something he could do.  A way to
get the ball rolling, so to speak.  Now that he'd
had a taste of what he wanted forever, he couldn't
just sit in this hotel room.  Waiting for someone
else to find the answers for him.  He had a place
to start, even if chances were slim the idea that
had taken shape would pan out.

Better yet, he now had a reason to hurry... in the
form of the one woman he wanted more than life
itself.

He waited until he was certain Emma would be away
from the hotel, then he called for a cab.


End Chapter Twenty-Two