XxXxX
Chapter Two
XxXxX

The sex was not new but the bed sure as hell was.
  
I had not intended to sleep.  I had not intended to be there 
at all, really, but Mulder obviously had greater foresight.  
He had bought a bed.  Boxes of file folders, once strewn 
about the room, now sat neatly stacked against the far wall.  
The sight of them sitting idle caused my heart to squeeze.  
"Oh, Mulder," I whispered.

At first I'd thought our present lackluster caseload was 
because of my recent illness; I'd thought he was giving me 
time to recover my strength.  Now I wasn't so sure who really 
needed the recovering.

I blinked and shifted a bit, which caused the hair on his 
legs to tickle the backs of my knees, and he snuffled into my 
neck.  Under the tangled sheet, one heavy arm lay warm and 
solid across my hip, keeping me snuggled firmly in a 
possessive embrace. I stroked his arm, playing with his long, 
tapered fingers and enjoying the silken texture of his sleep-
warm skin.  

I could not make myself sorry that it had happened again.  
Lord knows I'd wanted this, and if the bed was any 
indication, Mulder wanted it, as well.  Maybe too much.  The 
taste of last night's desperation lingered on my lips, as 
stinging as it had been two months ago. 

That first time had been fast because circumstances had 
dictated that it must be; last night had been fast because we 
could not be joined quickly enough to satisfy my overwhelming 
hunger.  Last night, he had leaned in close to study my new 
haircut and murmured, "You have a few loose hairs here, 
Scully," as the warm pads of his fingers brushed against the 
side of my neck.

And from that first touch, we were gone again.  

I think I passed out with him still inside me, too tired to 
come any more, but unwilling to surrender to my body's need 
for rest.

Now in the morning light, the memory of his hands on me 
caused a new ache to form--on my lips, my breasts, and 
between my thighs.  Anywhere he had touched, I began to burn.  
It was time to go.

I moved his arm over my hip and back onto his side.  I had to 
do this twice, because the first time he grunted something 
unintelligible and encircled me again.  Ever so slowly, I 
inched over to the edge of the bed, at last swinging my feet 
onto the cold, bare floor.

I rubbed my arms against the morning chill and began casting 
about for the remnants of my clothing, which lay strewn 
across the floor, mixed with Mulder's garments in an 
obscenely intimate fashion that spoke volumes about the 
activities that had taken place the night before.  

My panties were a scrap of lace that peeked out from under 
his rumpled shirt.  I flushed as I remembered standing nearly 
naked, clutching Mulder's head as he kissed me through the 
thin, damp material. 

I shook off the vivid memory and collected my clothes with 
renewed efficiency, eager to get as far away from the scene 
of the crime as possible.  The silk blouse smoothed over my 
memory-sensitized skin in a whispery caress, and I shuddered, 
slipping the tiny buttons closed with shaking fingers.  I 
glanced nervously again at Mulder, half-hoping he would wake 
and change my mind about leaving.

Almost done, almost done, I chanted inwardly.  The muscles in 
my legs protested as I tried to balance on one foot long 
enough to slip into my wrinkled pants.  After smoothing my 
clothing into place as much as possible, I scooped up my 
shoes and walked with silent steps toward the door.

But the boxes, stacked three deep along the wall, stopped me.  

There were easily two dozen of them, all topped with lids 
bearing labels like, "Supranumeral limbs and psychic 
ability." I fingered their dusty edges and wondered how long 
they had been sitting there, stagnant and shadowed. 

I'd told Mulder that they had given me the cancer to make him 
believe, but amazingly my cure seemed to succeed where my 
illness had failed.  After four harrowing years, they had 
finally reined him in.  These days he reminded me of a kid 
kicking rocks up and down the street -- bored and restless, 
with a dangerous lack of purpose. 

I glanced at the bed again.  Well, maybe not entirely without 
purpose.  But that was part of the problem.  Mulder was 
settling.

For half-truths.
For the status quo.
For me.

Tears stung my eyes and I blinked them away.  I had stayed 
too long already.  Under a weight of sadness, I moved slowly 
towards the door.  

"Leaving so soon?"

I jumped.  His words made my ears burn, and I hesitated 
before turning around.  "Mulder...hi."

"Hi," he answered, propping himself up on one elbow.  He 
nodded in the direction of the boxes.  "Are you looking for 
some bedside reading, Scully?  'Cause I could go get the 
Sunday paper."

I felt myself flush under his curious gaze.  "I was just 
admiring your new filing system.  It's very...organized." 

He patted the bed at his hip.  "Had to make room somewhere," 
he said, offering me a crooked smile.  I stood paralyzed on 
the threshold, shoes still dangling from my hand.  Mulder sat 
up against the pillows.  "What's going on, Scully?" he asked 
softly.  He was lean and golden in the morning sun.  It 
almost hurt to look at him.

"I...I have to get going.  Mass starts in a couple of hours 
and I have to get changed first."

He smiled again.  "You look just fine to me."  The words 
floated over me like a caress.  

"Mulder..."

"Scully."  He stretched one arm toward me, his fingertips 
grazing the edge of a slanting sunbeam.  "Come here."

I shook my head, but already I could feel our invisible 
rubber band snapping me back into place.  My hand found his 
without my willing it.  He tugged me unceremoniously onto the 
bed with him.  "I really have to go," I murmured as he traced 
a figure eight pattern on my knee.

"I know," he answered, but he did not stop touching me.  I 
rubbed the crisp cotton sheet between my thumb and 
forefinger.

"When did you get this bed, Mulder?"

He ducked his head, his fingers smoothing over the sheets. "A 
while ago, after the first time."
 
"Really?"  

"Well, the kitchen table is fine occasionally, Scully, but as 
a routine it lacks a certain romance, don't you think?"

I thought back to that night.  The night Mulder had asked me 
to lie for him.  "A lie to find the truth," he'd said.  We 
were working with borrowed minutes -- Mulder, who was 
supposed to be dead and me, who nearly was.  I remembered 
sitting naked from the waist down, the cool wood of the table 
under me as we kissed repeatedly, tongues parrying in the 
same sweet rhythm of Mulder's hips as he moved himself inside 
me.

"So was it hard enough for you?"  

My head snapped up. "What?" 

"The mattress.  Too hard?  Too soft?  I can never tell."

"Oh."  I cleared my throat.  "It was fine. It's just that..." 
I hesitated, not sure how to phrase my question.

"What?" he asked finally.  

"Well, I'm a little puzzled by your recent redecorating, 
Mulder.  You used to have six projects at once tacked up on 
the walls.  And what happened to your need to have all the 
files spread out for easy access?"

He shrugged. "They're still here.  I can access them any time 
I want."

"But you haven't accessed them," I pointed out.  "I can see 
the dust from here."  He frowned and pulled away from me with 
a sigh. 

"Don't you ever get tired of spinning your wheels in the mud, 
Scully?  Don't you get tired of chasing all the lies?"

"Is that what you think we're doing?"

"Well, isn't it?"

I considered our four years together.  "I guess I always 
thought we were chasing the truth, Mulder.  I was under the 
impression that's what you thought, too."

He was quiet for a long time, then stretched out to touch his 
fingertips to mine.  "I don't know what the truth is 
anymore," he said at last.  "At this point, I'm not sure I 
would recognize it even if I found it."

This was it, I thought.  This was the time to ask the 
question that had been bothering me for weeks.  I pressed 
against him so our fingers formed a makeshift bridge.  
"Mulder, did something happen?  Did something happen to you 
while I was in the hospital?"

He frowned.  "I told you there was a deal and that I turned 
it down.  Nothing's changed since then."

I searched his face for more information, but his features 
were carefully neutral.  "No, something has.  You just won't 
tell me what."  He looked away, hoarding his secret, and I 
withdrew my hand.  The distant sound of church bells bounced 
off our silence, reminding me of my stated purpose.  "I 
should go."

I slipped on my shoes and headed for the door.  The sheets 
rustled as he scrambled out of bed after me, but I did not 
slow down.  He caught me anyway, right at the front door.

He grabbed me by the shoulders.  "Wait a second, Scully.  
Please?"  I hunched in response, and his hands slid down to 
my neck, his thumbs rubbing teasingly over the fine hairs 
there.  Frozen under his rhythmic touch, I stood with my eyes 
squeezed shut and listened to the ragged sound of his 
breathing behind me. His hands took up a gentle massage of my 
shoulders, and he leaned in to lay his cheek against the top 
of my head.  "Scully..." he breathed.  "Don't go."

It was difficult to think when he was this close.  Part of me 
wanted to stay so badly, and the feeling only grew stronger 
as he held me. I could feel the heat of his skin warming me 
through the thin layer of my blouse.  Biting back a moan, I 
dropped my head forward, searching for the resolve to take 
those last steps out the door.

Mulder used the opportunity to kiss the base of my neck, a 
light brush that was clearly intended to be reassuring and 
not passionate, but I jumped all the same.

"Mulder, stop."  I pulled away from him, turning around so 
that he could see my face and know I meant it.

He stood before me barefoot and bare-chested, with the sheet 
cinched around his waist so that the ends trailed behind him 
on the floor like ceremonial robes.  My own pagan god of 
debauchery.

"I'm sorry," he said.  "I just thought..."

"I know, I know.  And you weren't wrong, Mulder, but..."  I 
groped for the right words but came up empty. "Now isn't the 
time."

His face scrunched up as his eyes grew sad.  "When will be 
the time?" he asked, and the mournful question vibrated in 
the air between us.  I had no answer to give him. 

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mulder, okay?" 

He nodded. "Yeah, okay."

With a shuddering breath, I opened the door and walked 
through it, closing it gently behind me. I lingered for a 
minute in the hallway, trying to catch my breath against the 
constricting pain in my chest.  I stared at the "forty-two" 
on his door until tears blurred my vision.  Blinking them 
back, I drew my fingertips down the smooth wood, offering one 
last caress to the man on the other side.

Then I left.

XxXxX

I did not see Mulder at all on Monday morning.  I could lie 
and say it was because I had too much work to do, but the 
truth was that on an ordinary Monday, I would have stopped in 
at his office first thing to share a cup of coffee and chat 
about the weekend.  This time, however, I knew only too well 
how Mulder's weekend had gone, so I concentrated my efforts 
on a pile of menial tasks that suddenly seemed of the utmost 
importance.

By two in the afternoon, I had triple checked the expense 
report from our latest foray into the field, alphabetized my 
stack of computer disks, changed the background pattern on my 
desktop monitor, and separated a chain of paper clips that 
had mysteriously appeared in my top desk drawer.  My phone 
had rung only once.  It was Skinner, wanting to know if I had 
seen my partner at any point that day.  

I held back my instinctive reply, which would have been to 
state once and for all that I was *not* Fox Mulder's keeper, 
and answered instead that I had not seen him anywhere.

I did not add that this was on purpose.

Skinner clicked off in his usual abrupt way, offering no 
"good-bye" and no explanation as to why he was looking for 
Mulder.  Apparently he was MIA somewhere.  Hardly unusual.  I 
wondered if perhaps Mulder was still on the premises, holed 
up in the basement and ignoring his phone because it might be 
me on the other end.

I headed downstairs, intent on getting our first contact out 
of the way, but his office was dark and shut up tight. I 
entered anyway, searching for any sign that he had been there 
earlier.  But since Mulder would never be mistaken for Mr. 
Clean, it was impossible to tell if anything had been 
disturbed recently.  I returned to my desk with the mystery 
unsolved.

Sometime late afternoon my computer beeped, informing me that 
I had new mail.  It was from Mulder, through his work 
account, and appeared to be a quote.

"'History has little to do with truth; it is merely one 
version of events, told by the men lucky enough to live to 
write it down.'"

I pushed my glasses further up my nose and leaned in for a 
better look, in case I had missed something on the first 
pass.  But the same cryptic sentences reflected back at me.  
What the hell?

I was unsure how I was supposed to interpret the words.  
Mulder was not one to distribute internet frivolities, so I 
suspected that the message was more than your standard Quote 
of the Day.  Was it a reference to what had happened over the 
weekend?  

Confused, tired and jittery from too much coffee and too 
little sleep, I was not in the mood to trade word riddles 
with Mulder.  I banished his message to cyberspace with one 
click of a button.

The action brought me some satisfaction, and I leaned over my 
stack of paperwork with renewed vigor, determined not to give 
Mulder's witticism any more thought.  

But ten minutes later, I was drumming the end of my pen 
against the desk and glancing idly around the room.  He wins 
again, I thought with disgust, and opened my web browser to 
begin tracking down the source of the quote. 

My search for "history" revealed wisdom for the ages, with 
pithy remarks by everyone from Joseph Stalin to Woody Allen.  
I scrolled through them quickly, scanning each one for a 
match with Mulder's message, but none seemed to even 
approximate his words.

It was time for another trip to the basement.

This time, the door was wide open, with light streaming into 
the hall.  The smell of Chinese food wafted from within the 
room, reminding me that I had skipped lunch. I found Mulder 
at his desk, feet up as he shoveled what looked like Kung Pao 
chicken into his mouth straight from the container.

"'Bout time you got here," he grumbled around a mouthful of 
hot peppers.  How he could eat them like that, I would never 
know.

"If you wanted to speak with me, you could have indicated 
that in your message," I replied.  "I didn't realize it was a 
summons."

He scraped a last bite of sauce-laden chicken from the bottom 
of the container and popped it in his mouth before replying.  
"Here, take a look at this," he said, sitting upright and 
handing me a battered book with the American flag emblazoned 
on the cover.  We were careful not to touch hands in the 
exchange.

"United States History," I read aloud as I flipped through 
the pages.  The text was large and accompanied by frequent 
photos, pictures and drawings of the major figures and events 
that comprised American history.  "It appears to be a 
children's history text, Mulder.  What of it?"

"It's *my* American history book, to be precise," he 
answered.  "From fourth grade with Mrs. McIvor."

I glanced once more at the textbook.  Sure enough, it read 
"Property of the Fitzpatrick Elementary School, 1971."  

"Is this where you got the quote?" I asked, surprised.  
"'History has little to do with the truth' doesn't seem like 
a sentiment one would find in a fourth grade textbook."

He fiddled with a pencil, his brow furrowed.  "No, the quote 
is from my father," he said at last.  

I lifted my eyebrows at him and took a seat on the edge of 
his desk. "Go on."

"He said that to me one night when I was studying the Civil 
War at our kitchen table, right from this very book."  For 
emphasis, Mulder waved the thick text in the air with one 
hand.  "He made quite an impression on me, too."

"How so?"  

"You see, I'd never thought about it before, that the stuff I 
read in school might not be the whole truth.  I just assumed 
that if I saw it in a text book, it must be true."

"You and all the other ten year-olds, Mulder."  I was still 
confused about where he was going with this story.

He gave me a wry grin.  "Yeah, I know.  Most kids have other 
things to think about than truth and history--believe me I 
did, too.  But I never forgot what Dad said that night, and I 
never looked at history the same way again once I realized 
that it was always the winners who got to write the story."  
He shrugged.  "I thought it was unfair."

I shrugged back.  "To the victors go the spoils."

His eyes met mine and for a long silent moment we just looked 
at one another.  My skin tingled.  I was just about to speak, 
to ask him where he had been all day, when he stood and 
walked over to the fax machine.  As if on cue, it started to 
hiss and beep.

"I kept the book," he said, watching the machine and not me, 
"because I always wondered which stories didn't make the 
cut."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to halt the beginning 
of a tension headache.  "Is there a point here, Mulder?"

He nodded at the book on his desk. "Page one thirty-eight," 
he said.

I flipped to the designated page with exaggerated impatience, 
scanning the bold text.  "The Salem witch trials?"

"Fascinating stuff, isn't it?" he asked as he pulled several 
sheets of paper off of the fax machine.  "Some girls playing 
parlor games cry 'witchcraft!' and the next thing you know, 
twenty innocent people are dead, victims of mass hysteria."

I moved from the desk to a chair.  Apparently, we were going 
to be a while.  "Okay, Mulder, I give up.  What do the Salem 
witch trials have to do with anything?"

"Not the Salem trials, Scully," he replied.  "Those are well-
documented and duly recorded.  I'm interested in the one that 
didn't make the books."  He stretched out one long arm to 
hand me the papers he had retrieved from the fax.  The top 
one appeared to be a sketch of a dark-haired woman, about 
twenty-five years old, dressed in traditional Colonial 
American attire with a bonnet and long dark dress.  I looked 
at Mulder questioningly.

"Her name was Elysian," he said, downing a half a bottle of 
ice tea in one swallow. "She lived in Tiburton, Massachusetts 
at about the time that all hell was breaking loose in Salem."

It was then that I noticed the woman was not just standing 
demurely with her hands behind her back.  She was on a 
platform with a wooden railing at her waist, and I could see 
the end of a piece of rope peeking from around her skirt, 
indicating her hands were probably bound. 

"She was on trial for witchcraft?" I asked.

Mulder shuffled some papers around his desk, piling them into 
a folder.  "I don't know that there was a formal trial, but 
Elysian was accused of collusion with the devil and burned at 
the stake in 1692."

I glanced again at the stoic woman in the sketch.  "Who were 
her accusers?"

He handed me another sheet of paper, this one also an old 
black and white sketch, depicting a stern looking couple and 
three small boys.  "Sarah Pritchard, wife of Jacob Pritchard, 
the town minister.  The Pritchards were also Elysian's 
employers.  Apparently, they met her on a trip to Barbados in 
1690.  Elysian's husband had died, so she took her daughter 
to live with the Pritchards way up north."

"So what happened?"

"Exactly?  I can't say.  The good citizens of Tiburton were 
the ones writing this story, and they buried the details 
along with the body.  These sketches are about all that 
remain.  I got them from a woman named Cathleen Duncan.  She 
lives in Tiburton and has apparently made quite a study of 
its history.  It's her opinion that no one ever really 
believed Elysian was a witch.  She thinks they just wanted 
her gone."

"Well, they certainly got their wish." I exhaled a long 
breath and set the papers down on Mulder's desk.  He 
immediately scooped them into a pile.

"Maybe.  Maybe not," he said cryptically.

"What are you talking about?"

He paused his shuffling to look at me.  "The last thing that 
Elysian said before they lit the logs was that she would be 
back to punish them all, to make sure that the good people of 
Tiburton paid for their sins.  Now, accounts vary on the 
exact wording of her threat, but most people I've talked to 
seem to agree that she promised to burn Tiburton to the 
ground."

"I can understand her anger," I said.  "But I hardly know 
what she could do about it."

"I suspect that's what the people in Tiburton thought, too, 
right up until six months ago."  He glanced over at me again, 
preparing for the punch line.

Always the straight man, I parroted my line. "And what 
happened six months ago?"

"The town of Tiburton started burning to the ground."

"Arson?" 

"Dunno. Ten fires so far, and three deaths.  Each fire is of 
undetermined origin, and there are no suspects and no 
witnesses."

"Mulder..." I began to prepare my usual spiel, the one about 
how there was no such thing as ghosts, how every fire did 
have an earthly origin, even if it was undetermined, but then 
I stopped.  "Mulder, if it is Elysian setting these fires, 
why now?  Why would she come back for revenge over three 
hundred years later, when the people responsible for her 
death are long buried?"

He tilted his head at me and closed his briefcase with a 
snap.  "Excellent question, Agent Scully.  If we find her, we 
can ask that one first. John Kazdin of the local PD tossed 
the case our way this morning."  

"So that's where you've been all day?" I asked. "Researching 
this?"

He nodded.  " I figure if we're going to chase lies, they 
should at least be interesting ones."

I suddenly felt unbelievably foolish.  I had presumed he was 
off sulking somewhere, obsessing over what had happened 
between us, but instead he had been working while *I* was the 
one having a hard time letting go.  I felt my cheeks go hot.  

"I've got tickets for seven tomorrow morning," he said, "if 
that's not too early."

"No, it's fine."  I fingered the edge of his tattered 
textbook as I stood.  "Can I take the files home with me 
tonight?"

He handed me the papers wordlessly, and I made it to the door 
before he spoke again. "Scully?"

I turned around.  "What?"

"Was it a mistake?  The bed?"

Everything went so still that I could hear my heart beat in 
my ears.  Images of tanned limbs and white sheets spun 
through my mind, and I swallowed them down as I met his eyes.  
"I hope not," I whispered finally.

I led that hope out of the basement with me, took it home and 
wrapped myself with it as I waited for sleep to come.