From: msk1024@yahoo.com   
      
   Title: One Choice     
   Author: msk   
   Email:  msk1024@yahoo.com   
   Rating:  R   
   Keyword: M/S, M/Fowley, Angst   
   Spoilers:  One Son   
   Notes:  This is the fourth and final story   
   of the series, following "Inextricable,"    
   "Draw the Line" and "Buried Deep."  Thank   
   you for hanging in there for the series.   
   It's been a great joy to write.   And   
   thank you to Kel who beta'd and made such   
   great suggestions.     
      
      
   "What if there was only one choice and all    
   the other ones were wrong? And there were    
   signs along the way to pay attention to."   
                             Scully, all things    
      
      
      
   Mulder was right.  The room was cramped    
   with two desks.   
      
   The basement had character in its previous   
   incarnation.  Now it was indistinguishable    
   from any other bureau office space.  The   
   real X-File was how Spender and Fowley had   
   sucked all the personality out of the room.   
      
   Arms folder over her middle, Scully stood    
   in the center of the office.  The desktops    
   were bare except for the telephones and    
   computer monitors.  A huge plant sat by the    
   door.  She wondered how long it would take    
   to die from neglect.   
      
   The tabloid clippings on the bulletin board    
   had been replaced by FBI memos and notices.     
   She missed the marvelous assortment of    
   oddities.  The plaster cast of a yeti footprint,    
   the alien head paperweight, all had been    
   reduced to ashes by the fire.   
      
   "Is this a social call?" Mulder asked from   
   the doorway.  He carried a large box in   
   his arms.  "Or have you decided to rejoin   
   the department?"   
      
   "I didn't know that was in question," she   
   said, turning to him.  He looked tired; the   
   last few days had taken a toll on him.   
      
   "I wasn't sure," he said, dropping the box   
   on one of the desks.  "You haven't exactly   
   been enthusiastic since we got the X-Files   
   back."   
      
   His back was to her as he pulled some books   
   from the box.  Mulder put them on a shelf,    
   each movement slow and deliberate.  He was    
   still testy from their argument in front    
   of the Lone Gunmen.   
      
   "Enthusiastic?  That's a bit hypocritical,    
   isn't it.  Last week, I practically had to    
   wave my arms to get you to put the    
   basketball down and look at the evidence I    
   had on the cigarette man.  And now you're    
   questioning my commitment to the job?"   
      
   "I stand corrected," he said, turning on   
   his heel.  "You did manage to work up some   
   interest when it came to Spender.  And   
   you were an absolute zealot on the subject   
   of Diana."   
      
   "That's what this is all about, isn't it,   
   Mulder?  What's really bothering you--that I    
   had the nerve to dig into her background?   
   Or that I actually found something?"   
      
   He moved to stand over her, his face dark with   
   anger.  She should have been uneasy at the   
   potential explosion, but after weeks of    
   unspoken conflict, it felt oddly exhilarating.   
       
   "What exactly did you find?" he sputtered.     
   "Yes, her records had been cleaned out.  Yes,    
   she moved all over Europe.  That doesn't prove   
   a thing.  The woman was in counter-intelligence.   
   I'd expect her records to be screened against   
   hacking."    
      
   "I don't want to argue about this again, Mulder.   
   I gave you my legitimate concerns, and you    
   blew them off.  If it were anybody else, you'd   
   have nailed them."   
      
   "You never gave her a chance," he said.   
      
   "I'm tired of this."   
      
   "No, really, Scully.  You hated her from the    
   beginning, and that isn't like you."   
      
   "Drop it, okay?"  Her voice was sharp, painful   
   even to her own ears.   
      
   "No.  I want to know.  What do you have against   
   her?"   
      
   "She was there."  The words were out before   
   she could stop them.   
      
   "What are you talking about?" His gaze locked    
   on her face.   
      
   "Diana was there, Mulder.  When they abducted   
   me, when they did their tests on me."   
      
   He grabbed her by the shoulders, his hands    
   rough.  "I don't believe this," he said.   
      
   "When have I lied to you, Mulder?" she asked.   
      
      
   His hands tightened on her.  She would have   
   bruises tomorrow.     
      
   "You told me you remembered nothing from your    
   abduction."   
      
   "I didn't, not for a very long time," she said.   
   Her knees felt weak as she spoke, Mulder's    
   hands seemingly the only thing holding her up.   
      
   "But you remember now."    
      
   "I started having the dream a few months after   
   meeting the women in Allentown, always the   
   same scene....I'm in a white room, strapped   
   down on a cold table, and doctors wearing   
   masks surround me."    
      
   The anger in his eyes diminished as her    
   words sunk in.  The closeness was almost    
   more than she could bear.  As his grip on    
   her arms loosened, she shrugged free and    
   moved a few feet away.   
      
   "And Diana is there?" His voice was flat.   
      
   "I didn't remember her initially, but there    
   was always this feeling in the dream that   
   someone was watching, someone who wasn't a   
   doctor.   I never knew who it was.  Then, a    
   few weeks after I was shot that I had a    
   flashback and realized Diana was the observer."   
      
   "You're sure about this," he said.  "How do   
   you know this flashback is true?  It could be    
   a product of this aversion you have for Diana."   
      
   "Don't you think I've asked myself that?  I   
   agonized over this, Mulder.  I lay awake    
   nights wondering about it."   
      
   "So what convinced you?"  His voice was almost    
   gentle.   
      
   "It came down to the expression on her face,"   
   she answered.  "If I'd imagined her with    
   devil's horns, cackling like the Wicked Witch    
   of the West, I'd have chalked it up to dislike.     
   But she looked...I hardly know how to describe    
   it.  She wasn't triumphant, Mulder.  She    
   seemed...haunted."   
      
   Mulder shook his head, as if the motion would    
   allow him to avoid a bitter truth.   
      
   "You were shot over a month ago, Scully," he bit    
   out.  "You've known for all that time, and you   
   never told me, not even with all your 'evidence'    
   on Diana.  How could you keep something like    
   this from me?"   
      
   She wished she could tune out the pain in his    
   voice.  It would be so much easier to have    
   this conversation if she could hang on to   
   her anger.   
      
   "I had no proof.  Just the flashback and the   
   dreams.  I brought you things that I could    
   prove because I...I owed you at least that,   
   proof."   
      
   His laugh was bitter.  "Six years together,   
   Scully, and you don't get it.  I'm not the one   
   who needs cold, hard facts--you are."   
      
   "Not when it came to Diana."   
      
   "Diana," he said, dropping into a chair, as    
   if his legs couldn't hold him up any more.    
   "She lied and I believed her.  She was   
   involved, maybe from before she ever   
   joined the FBI."   
      
   "Maybe," Scully said.  She should feel    
   vindication.  Triumph, perhaps.  Instead,   
   she felt weary beyond words.     
      
   Mulder was bent over, elbows on knees, and   
   he was silent for a long time.  His head was    
   down, his voice almost inaudible when he finally    
   spoke:   
      
   "I hate them for what they did to you, Scully.   
   And I hate her for being part of it."     
      
   "I was afraid you wouldn't believe me."     
      
   "I always believe you, Scully.  Even when you   
   tell me things I don't want to hear."   
      
   She crossed to him, one hand reaching out to   
   rest on his shoulder.  His skin felt warm    
   beneath his shirt, and he raised his head at   
   her touch.    
      
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)