So Let It Be Done by Mish mish_rose@yahoo.com Classification: VA, post-Milagro, Scully POV (except for Epilogue) Rating: PG-13 (just a few bad words) Spoilers: A few through season six. Summary: Sequel to "So Let It Be Written"; you *really* should read the first one to know what's going on here. Distribution: Yes to Gossamer. All others, just let me know where, okay? Disclaimer: The X-Files and the characters used here are the property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. I just like to make them suffer. This is dedicated to my friend and beta-reader extraordinaire, Haphazard Method. Thanks Hap - I never would have done this without you! So Let It Be Done My third floor office has all the appeal of a jail cell on death row. It's very small, with windowless eggshell walls that defy my attempts at removing the mildew. The pathetic African violets, a gift from my mother, are sitting woefully neglected upon my monstrous file cabinet. My dingy lab coat hangs from a nail I had to hammer in myself, along with several certificates and degrees I've collected over the years. I drop the overstuffed briefcase with a thump by the door. Between struggling with my overcoat and my coffee, my errant keychain toss misses the desk by several feet. Damn, I forgot about my spurt of energy the day after Easter that manifested itself in a little furniture rearrangement. I smile at my foolishness and pick up the keychain from the dust-covered floor. Thankfully, the coffee finds its way down safely amidst the clutter that is my desk. The inbox on my desk is piled high with paperwork to be processed, all awaiting my signature. Dana Scully, Special Agent. FBI pathologist, Mrs. Spooky Mulder. Maybe someday I'll have those words engraved on my business cards. I'm pretty sure that in the history of the Bureau, I am forever destined to bear that distinction. Well, there are worse crosses to bear. I tackle the pile with less than enthusiastic fervor. With a grimace, I notice the Padgett file staring me in the face at the top of the stack. I've finally shaken the scary feeling of weakness that case left me with. Of course, almost having my heart ripped out of my body didn't help any. I brush my fingers across the well-worn forms, pondering the events of the previous afternoon. After ignoring the disquiet for several days, I had finally sought out Karen Kossef yesterday, badly in need of a stable leg to stand on. It was she who suggested I find a way to regain control by seeking out the instrument of my destruction. Padgett's typewriter was an innocuous piece of office equipment, I must say. I stared at it for a few minutes, wondering if it really had the power to manipulate people. I turned it on and listened to the hum while I wondered what to type. Nah, way too juvenile. Well, I wasn't until I came down here. The sight of Padgett's typewriter made my chest ache once more. That made me laugh. Couldn't make myself do it, much as I longed to. The thought helped ease my nervousness, though. Finally, I settled on the truth. *Philip Padgett is dead. He cannot hurt me anymore.* I typed this at the very top of the page and smacked the return key ten times for good measure. To my surprise, the pain ebbed and my spirit lightened considerably with every hour that's passed since. Amazing how such a simple thing can return you to command. Oh yeah, I did type in something else. Today I realize it was a very silly thing to do. The typewriter beckoned me, though, and I couldn't resist. You know how in that instant when you blow out the candles on your birthday cake you just *know* your wish will come true? In the very next instant, you laugh and come back to your senses. But maybe, just maybe. I hinted to Mulder that something unusual was going on with this man and his typewriter, but never fully believed in the possibility. Even now, I scoff at such things; I suppose I'll always doubt, it's my nature. However, as I stood before that typewriter, my fingers lightly caressing the keys, I quickly typed my dearest wish. *Fox Mulder never lost his sister Samantha.* It looked so fine on that paper, etched in permanent black. I toyed with the platen, rolling the paper up and down. The text disappeared and reappeared while I worked up the courage to type in the words I've always wanted to say to Mulder. *I love you - Scully.* I rolled the platen up to hide my words in the shadows, where they remain. Now, as I sift through endless forms and reports, I feel ridiculous. God would not be so kind to me. He's taken so much away from me, why would He give me this? I'm not ungrateful; just realistic. My birthday wishes never came true. My Dad and Melissa are still gone, I can't hold Emily just one more time - this wish will also remain unfulfilled. Sighing, I pick up the Padgett file once more, determined to archive it and never let it darken my desk again. It seems to be in order, although Mulder's signature as SAC is missing from the autopsy report. That's easily taken of. I pick up the phone and dial his number. "Mulder," he answers on the second ring. "Hi, Mulder. Listen, I need your signature -" "Who is this?" he interrupts me impatiently. Guess he hasn't had his coffee yet. "It's Scully. I was calling to make sure you were there before I came down. I need your signature on this autopsy report," I explain, slightly miffed at him. It's not my fault he woke up on the wrong side of the bed. "Oh - Agent Scully. What report did you say that was?" he replies distractedly. I can hear the sound of rustling papers in the background. "The autopsy on Philip Padgett. I need your signature..." I trail off in confusion. Agent Scully? Since when? "Mulder, are you okay?" I ask, sloshing coffee all over the pile of unfiled expense reports. "Yes, fine, thanks for asking," he replies cordially. "We'll be here until noon, if you want to bring it down. Thanks again for catching that, Agent Scully. Wouldn't want to piss off the boss, that's for sure." With a chuckle he rings off. Dumbfounded, I stare at the receiver in my hand. *We'll* be here until noon? *Wouldn't* want to piss off the boss? What the hell is this? Did I warp into the Twilight Zone sometime between last night and this morning? It hits me with the force of a jackhammer. Oh my God. What if the typewriter really has the power to change lives? What if the murders weren't Padgett's doing but the typewriter's? Don't be ridiculous, I tell myself, picking up the file and heading for the door. Mulder is just playing a game, having some fun at your expense. The freight elevator arrives almost immediately at my summons. Maybe he had a visitor and couldn't talk. That's it. *We'll* be here until noon. A frightening thought arises unbidden. Oh Jesus, what if it's a most unwelcome visitor! Now I'm really scared, punching the button for the basement, cursing the elevator's sluggishness. With a ding, the elevator gently touches down and the doors creak open. I step into the hallway on my tiptoes, scanning for trouble but seeing nothing out of place. The office door is ajar; as I creep closer, two voices drift into the corridor. Dropping the folder, I reach for my weapon. "She's coming down with the autopsy report this morning. It would be rude to not be here - I can't leave until I sign it," Mulder says. "Fox, you were late this morning already. We have to be in Skinner's office at nine. It's quarter of now. What am I going to tell him when you're not there?" What the hell is that bitch doing here? If she's trying to go behind my back with Mulder, so help me - "I explained why I was late, Diana. Sam and I had breakfast together." Sam? A flush of excitement makes me dizzy. Did Sam finally make contact with Mulder? "As for Skinner - just give him some excuse, okay? That's what partners are for, Diana," he replies. I can hear the smile in his voice. Partners? What the fuck is going on here? I can hear her slithering about the room. "Okay, Fox. I've covered for you for eight years, I guess once more won't hurt." Eight years? Is she nuts? Or am I? Deciding to put an end to this charade, I holster my gun, gather up the papers into a neat bundle, and put them back into the folder. Making as much noise as I can with my heels, I stomp to the door and open it without preamble. He's lounging in typical Mulder fashion on his chair and she's spinning her web from her perch on his desk. Her impossibly short skirt is hiked to an indecent level, baring the length of her crossed legs to his admiring gaze. He's wearing that cobalt blue shirt that I love, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. They both look up when I clear my throat. He rises and walks around those cherry red heels of hers. But not before Diana rubs a foot along the back of his thigh in the process of uncrossing her legs. If I had a bucket of water handy, I'd bet she'd melt faster than a snowball in July. Mulder forgets Diana instantly as he greets me with a warm smile. "Agent Scully. So nice to meet you face to face," he says with the casual air of a mere acquaintance. "It's been what - six months since the Crump case?" He guides me to the chair opposite his desk, his hand at the small of my back. Diana retreats to the glass-enclosed anteroom, feigning interest in the overhead projector. So much for a polite hello. "Face to face?" I ask, searching his eyes for signs of recognition. Did he suffer yet another concussion somewhere between last night and this morning? "Well, if I remember correctly, we've only spoken on the phone until now," he answers, slight puzzlement on his face. "Unless you remember something I don't." He chuckles and returns to his desk. What the hell is going on here? He knows very well that we've done a lot more than speak on the phone. I don't want to sound stupid, but I have to find out what's going on. "Mulder -" I begin, but Diana speaks from the shadows. "Agent Scully, we're really rushed this morning. Can we make this quick?" In the backlighting from the screen, I can't see her face clearly. I am not deterred, however. No way is Diana going to brush me off. "Mulder, you know very well we've been working together for years." "Yeah, if you count all the phone consultations," he says with a lopsided grin, donning his black suitcoat and sitting down once again. "So, you said you needed my signature?" He leans forward, hands clasped, and raises an eyebrow. Realization dawns with every word we exchange. Things have changed since yesterday. Mulder's not joking, injured, or mental. He simply doesn't remember me. "You remember the Crump case, don't you Mulder?" I ask, trying a different approach. "Sure, Agent Scully. Diana and I had a helluva time convincing Skinner that your conclusion of abnormal reaction to ELF waves was accurate. We believed you though, didn't we, Diana?" He turns to her with a smile. From her watchdog post by the projector cart, she addresses me. "Of course we did, Agent Scully," she says smoothly, moving into the light shining through the small window above her. Kersh. It was Kersh we had to convince, not Skinner. I almost voice that dumb thought aloud. Instead, I swing to face Diana. She knows. One look at her, arms crossed, smug smile on her face, eyes challenging me to dispute this inane conversation, and I know that she knows. Whatever I did yesterday in the evidence locker apparently worked like a charm. It worked so well that Mulder's life is changed. Not drastically, but changed nonetheless. I glance around the room, looking for the familiar picture of him and Samantha, so happy the summer before her abduction. There it is, on the credenza behind his desk. But instead of the solitary frame it's usually in, it's in a double frame with another picture, a more recent one, from all appearances. My eyes narrow slightly, then widen. Samantha and Mulder. Side by side at what looks like a graduation ceremony. Sam is dressed in a navy blue cap and gown, a brilliant smile on her face, posing for the camera. Mulder has his arm around her, smiling just as broadly. He's as handsome as ever, though he looks ten years younger. It worked. I don't know how, but it worked. He never lost Samantha. He even had breakfast with her this morning, I realize with wonder. Mulder takes the file folder from my slack fingers and busies himself sifting through the mess I made. I raise my eyes once again to Diana. Her eyes are pleading now. My heart heavy, I realize that Mulder is the only one in the room who has no clue. Apparently, when I changed his past, I changed our past together as well. He has no memory of the time we've spent together. He knows me as a colleague, not a friend. My breath hitches and I reach for my gold cross - the talisman we both treasure. Treasured. It gives me no comfort. I want to leave this place. It's no longer mine. "Fox, I'll see you in Skinner's office, okay?" she says, and with a final beseeching glance my way, exits the office. "Okay," he answers, oblivious to the unspoken conversation I just shared with Diana. Don't cry, I order myself. Don't expose him to the misery that's suffocating you. I watch him silently shuffle through the papers, not trusting myself to speak. His glasses reflect the forms on his blotter and his lips are pursed in concentration. His hair is shining like burnished copper in the sunlight; where once I saw a generous sprinkling of gray, there is now hardly any. The lines of worry and distress that were becoming more pronounced have miraculously disappeared; his face is smooth, the jaw relaxed. He's never looked more handsome to me. And never been more beloved by me. "There you are," he says, closing the file and handing it over with a smile. "Sorry you had to come down here because of me." "That's okay," I reply, my voice husky with unshed tears. Clearing my throat, I rise from the chair and turn slowly to leave. Almost out, I'm almost out. I hear him move behind me, his right hand at my elbow and his left reaching for the doorknob. Mulder will always remain a gentleman. "I hope we can work together again sometime," he says as I cross the threshold into the unknown future the hallway holds. One more look, just one more. I leisurely scan the room, taking in the number two pencils in the ceiling, the ancient microscope on the file cabinet, and the "I Want to Believe" poster. I drink my fill of this room before returning my gaze to his. His hazel eyes dance with amusement as he reaches to enfold my fingers in a goodbye handshake. "Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials, Agent Scully?" he asks. I can't help it - the corners of my mouth turn up. I take comfort in the fact that he's still basically the same. I wouldn't want it any other way. "I believe there are forces at work in the universe that defy explanation, Agent Mulder. I've only come to realize that fact recently." Just today, in fact. My hand grips his, my thumb slowly caressing the sprinkling of fine hairs on the back of his hand. Memories of him flow through my mind, my heart, my soul, desperately sending a silent message to Mulder. It's not working. Nothing can bring him back to me. I try one last time, giving his hand a slight squeeze. For an instant I think he knows. His hand tightens on mine; he inhales sharply as if he's about to speak. The spark is still alive, I'm sure of it. "Agent Scully," he breathes in that drawl I know so well. His eyes glow with friendly warmth. "Would you care to -" Whatever he was about to say is interrupted by the peal of the telephone. The birthday candles sputter and die. Another wish that won't come true. Mulder pulls away reluctantly, catching his lower lip in his teeth. I sense his indecision before he finally turns away from me. He signals me with one finger to stay, then answers its insistent interruption. "Mulder," he barks into the receiver, his back to me now. "Mulder, it's me," I whisper before walking away. ********** The ominous smell of cigarette smoke greets me when I walk into my dim office. I tense for an instant, then relax and stroll on in. What can he do to me now? "Agent Scully, I've been waiting for you," he smoothly says from the dim corner. "What do you want?" I hiss in the darkness, not even bothering to turn on the light. "I think you should be asking yourself that." The smoke curls around me with insidious venom. "I want you to leave me alone," I reply, my shaky legs refusing to hold me up any longer. I collapse in my desk chair, giving him my back. He stabs quickly, twisting the knife. "Alone? How can you possibly be more alone than you are now?" So he knows too. I am not surprised at this revelation. "You bastard," I snarl, pivoting to face him, the tears flowing freely now. "You did this. I don't know how, but you did." He moves out of his hole to confront me. "I don't expect you to believe me, but no, I had nothing to do with this," he replies, snuffing the cigarette out on my floor. "I like you - I like him. Why would I want to separate you?" "Get out." I don't care anymore; his explanations and apologies are unwanted. He moves closer instead, piercing me with his black gaze. "Is he happy now?" he asks, ignoring my demand. "Yes," I whisper. That this man is here to witness my sorrow is the ultimate humiliation, compounding my heartache to the point of physical pain. I wrap my arms around me and fold into an impenetrable ball of agony. "Are you happy now?" he counters, unwilling to grant me peace. I don't answer. Surely he can't be that obtuse? If I ignore him, he'll go away. Several moments of silence pass, filled only with the sound of my labored breathing and the rustle of his hands searching his pockets. "You can fix this, you know." His lighter clicks to life. Why I should believe this man is beyond me, but I do. Raising my eyes to his, I ask, "How?" "Burn it," he states, his face illuminated by the flame. "It will be undone if you burn it." My eyes close in relief. The paper. He's talking about the paper. Of course. That's what Padgett did to erase his version of my death. For a moment, my heart leaps with joy. Then the photographs in Mulder's office swim before my closed eyelids, making the decision for me. "I won't. I can't," I say, much to his displeasure. If he knows what to do, why is he here? Then it comes to me, and I smile with as much satisfaction as I can muster. "You can't either. That's why you're here. Only the writer can undo what's been done." I don't understand the logic behind my reasoning, but it feels true. His chapped lips thin with malice, but I am not afraid. "You're lying," he whispers, frustration carving deep furrows into his neck. I rise with deliberate ease from my chair and challenge him with the armor of my crossed arms. My tears have ceased; I am Scully once again. "You've read the Padgett file. You realize he was the only one able to destroy his own work." Anger almost gets the best of him. The hand without the cigarette clenches into a stiff circle. Just when I think he's about to strike me, it flexes, reaching for the doorknob. He opens the door, but doesn't leave. "Oh, one more thing you may be interested in, Agent Scully." He drops the pungent, burning cigarette filter out the door and lights another with sinister calculation before continuing. "Mulder visited the evidence locker yesterday, too." He allows me to absorb this information, his form silhouetted in the light from the hall. "I followed him there shortly after you left." God, I don't want to hear this. "I assume he didn't know you had already been there. Actually, I'm surprised he made it down there at all. Half of a bottle of scotch tends to make one's legs rubbery, you know." I can't believe he's torturing me this way. However, I stand firm in the lash of his biting words. "Would you like to know what he wrote?" No, please. "Dana Scully has never met Fox Mulder." Oh my God. The sobs expand in my chest, but I don't allow them the luxury of release. So that accounts for the "first" meeting we had this morning. My voice is steady as I remark, "It didn't take long for us to meet, did it?" He smiles with mock sympathy. "But I'm sure Agent Fowley will help him forget about you once again." He pauses, unable to let me win. "This is not finished, you realize. I always get what I want. Good day, Agent Scully." I watch him leave. At last I'm alone. ********** Epilogue She sits in the modest comfort of her apartment, musing over the day's events. Things turned out even better than she had hoped. Fox was hers again. That was all that mattered. Pouring another glass of champagne, she picks up the telephone, intending to invite him over to share her celebration. No time like the present to seal their bond in the physical sense. A knock interrupts her call and with impatience she slams the receiver into its cradle. Staggering slightly with dizziness, she moves to the door and looks through the peephole. "Open the door, Diana. I know you're in there," the muffled voice commands her. She cannot refuse this man her time. Jerking it open, she broadly gestures for him to enter, splashing the expensive bubbly in a spray on her carpet. "By all means. What can I do for you?" Nothing he can do can ruin her good mood. She has everything under control. He enters slowly, followed by a trail of cigarette smoke. For the life of her, she can't remember his name. She knew it once, had even screamed it in passion a few times. Oh well, she thought, guess the champagne is kicking in. "I have something to show you, Diana," he says without delay. He opens the file folder he's carrying, removing a single sheet of paper. "I think you'll recognize it." Swaying unsteadily, she moves to her desk and retrieves her glasses. Holding the paper under the soft glow from the lamp, she sees that it is the sign-in sheet from the evidence locker, dated yesterday. Trying to focus, she narrows her eyes and sees her own name, elegantly scrawled under Fox Mulder's. Time of visit - 4:55 p.m. So, she visited the evidence locker yesterday. What's the big deal? "Is this supposed to be significant?" she asks him, lowering her glass and grasping the desk for support. "To you, no. To me, it means everything." He takes a long drag from the cigarette, blowing the smoke directly into her face. After a few moments, he continues. "I have something else to show you." He opens the folder again, and, after removing the last piece of paper, tosses the folder to the couch. "Take a good look, Diana. Remember this?" She grasps the paper in confusion. It is missing the top half, like it's been torn in two. *Dana Scully will remember her life with Fox Mulder but he will not remember his life with her.* Then - *Diana Fowley will be granted her heart's desire.* "How did you get this?" she slurs, swaying unsteadily. "Surely by now, Diana, you know I can get anything I want." Nervously fingering the belt on her silk robe, she sputters a response. "This is not what you think -" "Oh, I'm sure it *is* what I think." The dying cigarette is snuffed out on her rug, only to be replaced by another. Her head wobbles with a futile attempt at concentration. Moving closer, he lowers his voice to a whisper. "You were a good soldier, Diana. You've given your life for the Project. But you've always been a vindictive bitch." He extends a gnarled hand toward her. "You are mine - you always will be. There is no room in your life for Fox Mulder." She reaches for the lighter he offers, turning it over in her hand, admiring the simplicity of the engraved words - "Trust No One". She feels her mind becoming blank; only one thought remains. Mesmerized, she scrapes her thumb across it. It roars to life, momentarily snapping her out of the trance. "Please don't make me do this," she pleads to the impassive man. "Do it," he orders, tired of her machinations. The paper ignites instantly, curling into a black web of carbon that scorches her fingers. She drops it listlessly to the floor. He moves a leather clad foot over it, grinding its remains into dust. "Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he asks, removing his lighter from her limp fingers. His work done, he brings her chin up with a nicotine-stained finger. Her vacant eyes watch his lips move, sealing her fate. "And Diana? Don't bother coming in tomorrow," he says with a last caress of her cheek. "You see, I know how to type, too." ********** END What? That's it? I should think not. After Biogenesis, I just *had* to give that Fowl person a taste of her own medicine... Throw some feedback my way while I consider just how to get our heroes together... mish_rose@yahoo.com