Title: Sfumato (4/? - Sequel to "The Marionette Rebellion")
 
Author: supernova
 
Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue.
 
Rating: R
 
Category: MSR, Angst-O-Rama
 
Archive: Not this time. Other than Ephemeral, this story will be housed 
exclusively at my site. 
(http://www.angelfire.com/ms/KtblleStorage/main.html) Thank you, Kat, for 
everything.
 
Feedback: Feed me at supernova818@aol.com
 
Author's Notes: Many thanks to Tori Amos for her song "A Sorta Fairytale" 
which played non-stop while I wrote this chapter. If you haven't heard it, 
well, you're missing out. Also, this chapter took longer to write than I had 
planned because of midterms and the flu (yuk!). I hope to post a new chapter 
once a week from now on. Hugs and thanks to Beach for beta. Much love to 
Snick.
 
---------------
 
Sfumato
 
----------
 
Chapter 3
 
---------------
 
He finds her standing over Dara's corpse. The smell of death hangs heavy in 
the air; a bitter, metallic scent that invades his body and settles heavily 
in his stomach like bad wine. Some semblance of awareness makes its way into 
his shock-addled brain.
 
"Scully, until we find out what's going on, maybe you shouldn't stand in 
front of the window," he says.
 
She visibly startles at the sound of his voice. Mulder thinks he sees her 
nod, although she doesn't turn around to face him. Their earlier 
carelessness irritates him. Years ago they would have hit the floor first 
and asked questions later. Instinct would have taken precedence over 
emotion. He thinks they have been so long removed from the war that they 
have grown accustomed to being ruled by something other than fear. All in 
all not a bad trade, but he doesn't want their carelessness to rob them of 
everything they have worked so hard to attain.
 
"Scully, I have a question," Mulder says. Slowly, he walks up behind her, 
lays his hands on her shoulders, and then turns her towards him and away 
from the carnage. She shrugs his hands away. "Scully, why do you think they 
let you go? Why after all this time?"
 
"I don't know, Mulder. Two men came for me earlier today and tied me up, 
blindfolded me, and dropped me here," she replies. "I already told you 
that."
 
"Something isn't adding up-" Mulder starts.
 
"I assume they were finished running tests on me. Perhaps they'd found what 
they were looking for," she shrugs noncommittally. "Dara was a loose cannon 
waiting to go off. They probably didn't want to deal with the ramifications 
of who and what she was. She was created to serve an agenda and once she was 
finished, they were finished with her. No loose ends, no ties to them, and 
they'll get away with it as always."
 
He doesn't have anything to say in response.
 
Scully walks over to their shared walk-in closet. She stands in front of her 
clothes, gently letting her hands trail over tailored suits and a pair of 
threadbare jeans. "I suppose she wore my clothes," she laughs. It's not a 
question so he doesn't comment. Scully moves into the bathroom and slides 
her hands over the marble countertop. A hairdryer is precariously perched on 
the edge of the counter. Thigh highs are draped over the glass enclosed 
shower. A pair of black, Prada pumps is hiding in the corner. She remembers 
when she bought them. She and Mulder had taken the children to New York 
during Christmas break last year, so they could expose them to some culture, 
as she had put it to Mulder. Scully had seen the shoes in the window of the 
Prada store on Fifth Avenue. She'd gone inside the store, picked them up, 
and had fondled the smooth lines and curves of the very nearly perfect shoe. 
Mulder had cringed when he'd fondled the price tag. She'd mouthed "Armani 
suits" at him and he'd smiled. She'd happily marched to the counter and 
whipped out her credit card. There is nothing like a good pair of shoes. 
Later that day, Hope had begged to see a production of "Annie" that was 
playing Off-Off-Off Broadway. They all gave in; none of them could say no to 
Hope. After they returned home from New York, Hope had walked around the 
house for weeks singing "Tomorrow". It had been boys against girls as 
William and Mulder ganged up on her and tried to tickle her into promising 
she would stop singing the song. Scully had taken Hope's side and wrestled 
Mulder and William off Hope onto the floor. Hope had danced behind the couch 
and sung her heart out. That had been in January. She wondered whose side 
Dara took when she came into their lives.
 
Scully slams her hands down on the countertop and whirls around to face him, 
"How could you think she was me?" she yells, pointing in the general 
direction of Dara's corpse.
 
"How could you?"
 
Reasonable explanations flutter through his mind, not sounding quite as 
reasonable when he sees the pain of his purported betrayal in Scully's eyes. 
"Scully, I thought something was wrong. We'd both been so busy with our 
respective cases that we'd hardly seen each other, and when we did, and you 
I mean she was acting strange, I chalked it up to tiredness or stress over 
the case. I did figure it out, though. I knew she wasn't you."
 
"Took you long enough," she says under her breath.
 
Anger fuels him and he rushes her so they are toe to toe, "You think this is 
easy for me? She's taken over your life, she's been playing mother to our 
children, she tricked me into bed!" Looking away from her, he sees his 
reflection in the bathroom mirror, fury shining brightly in his eyes. "I'm 
sorry for what atrocities I know you've suffered at the hands of these 
bastards, but you aren't the only one that has suffered, Scully; we've all 
suffered as a result of this."
 
"You don't know the meaning of suffering," she says, leveling her gaze 
against his. "You don't know what it's like to come home after surviving 
hell and see your lover in bed with another woman. You don't know how I feel 
about missing even more of my son's life, and that another woman has been 
kissing my daughter goodnight." Like lightning striking, it comes back to 
her that he does know, at least to some extent. He was gone for months only 
to come back and find her enormously pregnant with their son; he left again, 
and their son was gone. She supposes that he can fathom how she feels, but 
anger and hurt combine to create a certain kind of destructive rage, and 
even as the next words leave her mouth, she knows she shouldn't say them. 
"Or maybe you've just forgotten. Maybe it's easier for you to forget so that 
you can live with it all. I can't forget, though."
 
"Cruelty doesn't become you, Scully," he says and walks away.
 
They've never talked about the aftermath of his miraculous resurrection. 
There were so many issues to face all those years ago, that everything 
surrounding his abduction was pushed to the backburner in favor of her 
safety and the safety of their child. Then Hope was born and they busied 
themselves with raising their two children and creating something resembling 
a normal life. Days have turned into years and they've still never found the 
words, but the emotions so long buried gurgle to the surface like lava, and 
finally it all boils over, unstoppable in its wrath.
 
"That's right, Mulder. Walk away! You are so damn good at walking away. 
That's what you did after your abduction. You treated me like a second-class 
citizen and practically ran from me for months. I've forgotten how 
self-absorbed you can be. I'm still here, though, as always."
 
"I could barely get close enough to you with John Doggett shadowing your 
every move, and you defending him at every given opportunity, and then there 
was Skinner with his whispered concern for you, Dana," he says, emphasizing 
her first name. "It seemed to me that you had more men in your life than you 
could handle. They may not have been in your bed, but they'd damn sure taken 
my place. I was bowing out gracefully and trying to allow you to make the 
decision that was right for you."
 
"You were being a coward," she retorts.
 
"I'm going to ignore that because if I reply it will definitely not be 
anything you want to hear." The muscles in his jaw twitch and he runs a hand 
through his hair. "Why in hell are we discussing this now?"
 
"Because we've never talked about it. We shove everything under the 
proverbial rug, and go on without ever dealing with the ramifications of 
anything that has happened to us. I'm tired of turning the other cheek and 
pretending like I'm okay with people fucking with our lives. I'm so tired of 
being an instrument whereby evil men further their cause by violating me 
over and over again." Her voice peaks and then valleys. Emotions flicker 
across her face so quickly that he doesn't catch their meaning.
 
Bile pushes its way up into his throat. "What are you saying, Scully? Did 
someone lay his hands on you in that way? Did one of those men force himself 
on you?" His earlier anger and frustration is gone. Now, there is only her 
and this moment, and those who have hurt her. He will kill them eventually; 
of that, he has no doubt.
 
"Someone tried to but I rearranged his balls and he never touched me again," 
she says. Frustration and pain line her face; their marks even more apparent 
than her bruises. "They have violated me in the way that they have touched 
my body, tortured it, and taken from it without my consent. Violating 
someone isn't about sexual gratification; it's about power. They exert their 
power over me to the point that I am helpless. They have violated me for 
years, and I've gone on without saying much, but I'm tired of keeping it 
inside. I used to think if I kept it inside that you'd see me as your brave 
Scully, and that if I talked about it that you would see me as weak. Now I 
know that I didn't talk about it because I was weak; it takes more courage 
to face what they've done than to ignore it." Her hands come up to her face 
and she hides behind them as if embarrassed by her confession. He hangs his 
head as if ashamed that he's failed to acknowledge what they've been 
through.
 
"They performed horrible tests, Mulder. It's not like with my first 
abduction; I remember everything this time."
 
"What kinds of tests? What were they looking for?" he questions.
 
"The were looking for that part of me that would save them. There was no 
part of me that was left untouched, Mulder. They examined every part of me 
and took samples of everything you could ever imagine and some things you 
probably won't want to. They even cut my damn nails," she laughs. The 
attempt at humor is gone, and suddenly she is very serious, a desperate edge 
to her voice, "Whatever it is they were looking for, I hope my body didn't 
betray me, and give it to them."
 
She slides to the floor and the tears begin to fall. Mulder is by her side 
in an instant, and wraps his arms around her, murmuring comfort in her ear. 
She flinches when he rubs her back and he tells her not to be afraid and 
that he won't hurt her. She looks down to the floor and something like shame 
passes across her face. He can't describe the way it changes her, only that 
it has, and he hates with renewed passion what these men have done to her, 
to all of them. He rubs his hands over her back again, testing to see if 
it's his touch or pain that causes her to shy away from him.
 
Her eyes are closed and her mouth is clamped shut when she hisses as a 
result of what is definitely physical pain. He tips her head up towards him 
and tells her to open her eyes. He promises not to hurt her, but that he has 
to check her injuries. She closes her eyes again and nods her head in 
assent.
 
She's wearing blue scrubs, and so there is no way to check her injuries but 
to remove the scrub shirt, which will leave her completely bare to him. He 
gets up and grabs one of his t-shirts off a hanger in the closet. He hands 
it to her with the hope that she will retain some semblance of control over 
the situation. She clutches it to her chest like a dying man would the Bible 
on his deathbed.
 
"I'm going to take this shirt off now, Scully," he says. Her only 
acknowledgement to his having spoken is when she gently lays his t-shirt in 
her lap. Slowly, he begins to remove the over-sized top portion of the scrub 
ensemble over her head. When it is completely off, she clutches his t-shirt 
to her breasts, covering them from view.
 
"Shit," he says. Her back is a rainbow of old and new bruises. The bottoms 
of the scrubs hang low on her hips, obviously too large for her small frame, 
a square, raw patch of skin peeks up from the waistband. He can't even 
imagine what they did that would leave behind such an angry wound. There are 
five, small, oval marks on the inside of each of her biceps. "What the hell 
is this, Scully?" he asks, not wanting to think about the implications.
 
"I never stopped fighting, Mulder," she says and then she is in his arms 
again, and her small, bruised body has never felt so good. "Sometimes they'd 
give me a mild sedative before the tests, to make me more compliant, but I 
always fought, Mulder. I didn't want to help them. They've taken so much 
from us, I didn't want to help them take more," she says.
 
"Who did this to you," he says quietly. She doesn't answer because she 
can't. They were faces that smiled at her pain, bodies that moved in sterile 
rooms as she screamed, and strong arms that held her down when she fought. 
They were men who beat her when she resisted. They were the bitter laughter 
in her ears after they sanctimoniously informed her time and time again that 
Mulder wasn't looking for her. She shakes her head and is startled when 
Mulder wrenches away from her. "Who did this to you?" he yells. She is 
afraid for him, not of him, when she sees the look in his eyes.
 
She knows that look. He won't rest until he finds out who did this to her. 
She's seen it before, but not for a long time. She knows that his justice 
will, in his mind, exorcise whatever guilt he may have in regard to this 
whole situation. Avenging the victim is easier than dealing with the pain.
 
"I don't know, Mulder," she answers.
 
"Do you think you could remember where they kept you? Do you know where they 
were keeping you?"
 
"No," she replies solemnly.
 
"Damn it!" he yells and half-heartedly punches the wall.
 
Quietly, Scully rises to her feet, still clutching Mulder's t-shirt to her 
breasts, and makes her way to his side of their shared closet. She pulls a 
loose fitting long-sleeved shirt off its hanger and exits the bedroom 
without a word.
 
Mulder hears a door open and close in the hall signaling she is making use 
of their guest bathroom for the evening. He looks over at Dara; her eyes are 
wide open, and her lips are blue. Some unknown verbal exchange will remain 
forever on the tip of her tongue. Despite the hatred he feels for this dead 
woman, he doesn't want to bury her. She looks too much like Scully. He 
supposes this is his punishment for failing to realize sooner that she 
wasn't.
 
-X-
 
"Hope, wake up!" William murmurs frantically.
 
William gets out of his bed, walks to the edge of Hope's bed, and tries to 
rouse his sister. He gently shakes her but she is caught in the clutches of 
her nightmare and continues to alternately whimper and cry out. William 
begins to shake her more insistently, begging her away from whatever it is 
that frightens her, prodding her to awaken.
 
Finally, her eyes open, and William's body goes slack in relief.
 
"What was that all about, Hope?" Before she can answer, Skinner stumbles 
into their room, squinting his eyes, and mumbles, "what's wrong?"
 
"She just had a nightmare, Mr. Skinner. She's okay now."
 
"You sure?" Skinner questions.
 
"Yeah, she's okay now," William assures.
 
Skinner stumbles out the way he entered. William turns back to his sister, 
the look on her face causing his small body to tense.
 
"You okay, short stuff?" William asks.
 
"It's the same dream, Will," she says, grasping his hand.
 
"The one about running?"
 
"Yeah, that one," she says. Damp, brown curls frame her face, and she 
trembles as the remnants of her dream fade away.
 
"It's okay, Hope. Everything will be okay," William says. He pushes on her 
shoulder and she scoots over on the bed. William lies down beside her.
 
"Will you tell me a story," she asks. William is practicing to be as good a 
storyteller as his father. Hope is always a more than willing audience to 
his tales of heroes and far away galaxies.
 
"Which one?" William asks, yawning.
 
"Anything," Hope answers, mirroring William's yawn.
 
William ruminates for a few moments, mentally flipping through the stories 
in his mind, and then decides on the one he knows to be her favorite. Hope 
turns on her side, facing him, and closes her eyes.
 
"There was once a little girl named Emily and because evil men wanted to 
steal her beauty, she traveled to a faraway place called Heaven, where she 
would be beautiful forever. She was so sad she had to leave planet earth, 
though, that she developed a magic passageway so she could visit earth 
whenever she was lonely. It was perfect because only she could travel in the 
passageway: no bad guys allowed," William pauses and looks over to Hope who 
has already fallen asleep. He is tired and it is becoming harder for him to 
keep his eyes open, but he continues telling the story, and doesn't stop 
until he comes to the end, where everyone lives happily ever after.
 
-X-
 
He remembers back to the early years of their partnership, an encounter in a 
warehouse, where Scully shot herself in the head. It wasn't her then either, 
he laughs without humor, but he remembers being completely off kilter for 
weeks in the wake of seeing her drop dead on a concrete floor. If he thought 
that was a nightmare, then this must be hell. His palms are blistered from 
the continuous friction of the shovel against his hands as he dug into the 
earth.
 
She looked so much like Scully.
 
Upon entering their house, he becomes aware immediately, of the absolute 
quietness. He begins searching for Scully. As he goes from room to room only 
to discover the emptiness it contains, he begins to feel alarmed.
 
"Scully!" he calls out.
 
"I'm in the office," he hears faintly.
 
He takes the stairs two at a time and finds her sitting at his desk.
 
"Is it done?" she asks.
 
"Yeah," he answers. "Any problems on the home front while I was gone?"
 
"No," she says. "I don't expect there to be any either. I assume they've 
finished playing doctor. At least for the time being." Quietly, she pushes a 
legal pad across the desk. She puts a finger to her lips and glances up and 
around, indicating she thinks the house might be bugged. Nodding, he turns 
the yellow legal pad over. After he's finished reading her request, he looks 
up at her in disbelief, and somberly nods his head.
 
She holds up a paper bag and rises from her position behind the desk. He 
notices that she has dressed in anticipation of his compliance. He opens the 
back door, and gestures for her to go ahead of him. Scully steps out onto 
the deck, and Mulder closes the door behind him as he joins her outside. 
They begin to make their way into the woods behind the house. Mulder drapes 
his arm around her shoulders and she does not pull away.
 
-X-
 
He breaks open the pen and allows the ink to spill into the container. She 
holds a flashlight in her hand, shining the light down on him.
 
"Are you sure about this, Scully?"
 
"Yes," is all she says.
 
He uncaps the needle and dips it into the ink. She bends her neck to the 
left and brushes the hair away from her face.
 
"Right here," she says, pointing to a place right at her hairline. She hands 
him the penlight and he puts it into his mouth, holding it in place with his 
teeth. He palms the needle and soaks a cotton ball in alcohol. She shivers 
when he brushes it across her skin. He brings his hand up to her nape. The 
needle is poised at her hairline. Blue ink shines on its tip. He tells her 
it might hurt. She already knows it will. She's been marked before, although 
that was done in a moment of recklessness, and has since been removed.
 
She knows this mark will be forever.
 
The needle bites into her flesh like a thousand little teeth. Pain subsides 
for a moment. He dips the needle into the makeshift inkwell and the needle 
sinks its teeth into her again.
 
They are not married in the eyes of the law. There has never been a 
ceremony. Their marriage has been born, like a child, brought into being by 
anguished cries, and then realized in secret moments, and finally an 
embraced happiness. No rings have ever been worn, or for that matter, 
offered. He asked once if she wanted them to be married, after Hope was 
born, and she said it wasn't necessary. He never brought it up again.
 
As the pain ebbs and flows, she thinks there should be a fire, with tribal 
men dancing around, indicative of some kind of primitive marriage ritual. 
Warm hands caress her neck. She's dreamt about them for the past month.
 
When he is finished, he stares at his handiwork. "It's done," he whispers in 
her ear. "I tried to make it blend in like you said, Scully." To anyone else 
it might look like a vein: something necessary that carries blood to her 
heart. She supposes his mark is somewhat like that.
 
He is like that to her.
 
Necessary.
 
Vital.
 
A small blue line, less than an inch long throbs beneath a veil of auburn 
hair. No one can copy this. Her scars are available for the entire world to 
see, but this mark, will remain their secret.
 
"I'm sorry I hurt you," he says.
 
"I know you are," she sighs.
 
"You know there were other women before you," he says, drawing in a breath. 
"But Scully, I spent my life looking for you, that's why nothing ever 
lasted. I knew there was something better out there for me. I wasn't sure 
I'd ever find it, but I knew it was out there, waiting for me. What I'm 
trying to say is that you are it for me. There were other women before you, 
but there will never be a woman after you. No one could ever measure up, 
baby. And this whole thing with Dara, even though I didn't know, it was 
wrong, and I'm sorry that I've hurt you."
 
She melts into him.
 
"You are my soul mate, Scully." He brushes the hair away from her ear, 
finding his mark, and places a whisper of a kiss atop it.
 
A sob breaks loose and shatters the quiet that surrounds them. A hundred 
different variations of "I'm sorry" fall from his lips. She takes them all 
in the palm of her hand, and presses kisses to each and every one.
 
Pulling away, she turns in the direction of their house, and begins to walk 
the short distance home. He stands in place, the remnants of a primitive 
ceremony, scattered around him. She stops, her back to him, and holds out 
her hand. He gathers up the bits and pieces of their ceremony and rushes to 
her side.
 
Forgiveness is found in a tangle of fingers.
 
They arrive home within a few minutes, and as they stand together on the 
deck, Scully says she wants some time alone. Mulder nods and tells her he's 
going to clean up their bedroom. The back door shuts softly behind him, 
leaving her feeling slightly vulnerable, and beyond lonely. She needs this 
time, though, to regain her footing.
 
A cast iron chimenea is nestled in the corner of the deck. Scully remembers 
it fondly; she and Mulder curled up on the built in seats of their low deck, 
the chimenea giving off warmth on an otherwise cold Bangor night. They would 
look up at the stars, and being in each other's arms made those stars 
beautiful again.
 
Scully lifts the lid of a sturdy wooden box and retrieves the long stemmed 
matches it contains. She walks to the back door and opens the brown, paper 
bag Mulder dropped before going inside. Finding the yellow legal pad that 
has settled to the bottom, she tears off the first few sheets of paper and 
throws them into the chimenea. Upon striking the match, an eerie orange glow 
throws off color in the otherwise murky night. The match lands silently on 
top of the paper, and slowly, it all begins to burn. Yellow pieces of paper 
writhe as the fire begins to eat at it. Her words turn to face her, one last 
time, before being consumed: You've got to do this, Mulder. I never want you 
to doubt who I am again. I want you to always know it's me.
 
Finally, the fire has its way, yellow is turned to black, and her words are 
ashes. She goes inside long enough to dispose of the bag and its contents. 
She shoves it under a rind of a cantaloupe and expired loaf of French bread. 
After her task is complete, she goes back outside, and watches as the fire 
begins to tease its way up the side of a partially charcoaled piece of wood. 
It's a cold night, and so she wraps her arms around her body, Mulder's shirt 
not an entirely appropriate barrier against the elements. Pulling the 
sleeves down, she covers the marks on her wrists. She's practicing for 
tomorrow. She doesn't want to frighten her children. Make-up, she hopes, 
will cover most of the bruising on her face.
 
Leaves rustle to her left, and suddenly she senses that she isn't alone. A 
man begins to appear from the shadows, and the knot in her stomach grows 
tighter when she realizes she recognizes him.
 
It's the man that has haunted her for the past month; the man who laughed at 
her helplessness; the man whose fists bruised her face.
 
"Jesus, there you are, Dara. I've been staking out the place for the last 
half hour! Where the hell have you been, and why aren't you answering your 
fucking phone?"
 
Scully is frozen in place, rendered speechless, completely helpless without 
a way to defend herself. She already knows he is much stronger than she.
 
"I'm sorry," she says. Immediately, her hands go to her face, trying to 
cover the bruising there. She hopes the darkness will serve her well, at 
least for a few moments. She hopes he doesn't notice the way her voice 
hitches with each syllable. "What are you doing here?"
 
"Well, haven't I got a story for you. Seems like Dana had a fucking Good 
Samaritan after all. Four motherfuckers broke into the lab earlier and stole 
her right out from under our fucking noses. Sebastian has everyone out 
looking for her. You need to make up an excuse for lover boy and come with 
me. Sebastian wants to see you. Plans have changed, Dara."
 
"I can't leave right now," Scully says. She pulls at the sleeves of her 
shirt and pins the edges between her palm and the tips of her fingers.
 
"Don't be a fucking bitch about it, Dara. The boss wants to see you, now 
come on," he says. Scully barely has time to register that he's moved, and 
before she can even react, he's got her by the arm, and is dragging her 
around the side of the house towards a dark colored sedan.
 
"What do you think you're doing?" She's surprised at how calm his voice is. 
The man holding her arm falters and turns around at the sound of Mulder's 
voice. The man looks to Scully and realization dawns. A break in the trees 
allows moonlight to filter through, and as pale light illuminates her face, 
it also reveals her bruises.
 
Dara doesn't have bruises, but Dana does. She can almost hear the thought 
circulate through his brain.
 
"What the fuck?" he says, and his grip on her arm becomes tighter.
 
Mulder has his gun out from behind his back and is pointing it at the man 
before Scully has time to blink. "I'm going to count to three and you're 
going to release her, or I'm going to blow your head off," Mulder says. His 
arm doesn't falter and neither does his voice.
 
He begins walking toward them, "One, two-"
 
Scully feels herself being pushed toward Mulder as the man that held her 
begins to run. Mulder catches her in his arms, and says "Stop, or I'll shoot 
you in the fucking back you coward", and the man stops, his arms raised 
above his head.
 
Scully stands off to the side fairly shocked at the recent turn of events.
 
Mulder is busy dragging her tormentor towards the woods. Scully runs to 
catch up, and as she comes closer, she hears Mulder asking the man a 
question. "Are you the one that hurt her?" he asks. The man stands stone 
silent and is visibly afraid. Mulder backhands him and the man drops to his 
knees.
 
"Did you hear what I said you son of a bitch?" Mulder yells.
 
"Mulder-" Scully starts. Mulder turns his head slightly to look at her. In 
his peripheral vision, he watches the man now bleeding heavily from his 
lower lip. Mulder keeps his gun trained on the man directly in front of him, 
and brings his hand to Scully's face.
 
"Did he do this to you? Is he the one that hurt you so badly?" His hand is 
so gentle against her bruised flesh. "Scully, did he do this to you?" Mulder 
asks more insistently.
 
Her shaky exhale is the only answer he needs. Positioning Scully behind him, 
he raises himself up to his full height. Broad shoulders, muscles defined 
from working in the yard and running every morning, resolve steeled from so 
many years of loving Scully.
 
"Stand up you piece of shit," Mulder says. His hand falls away from Scully's 
face; the hand holding the gun is steady and trained on its target. He 
stares at the man now standing before him. "You took Scully away from me. 
You took away the person I love most in the world, the person who has been 
faithful to me in spite of myself, and you made me betray her by putting 
someone else in my bed. You took her away from our children. You tortured 
and beat her; you bruised her beautiful face. You have robbed us of memories 
we can never get back, you have robbed us of happiness, you have robbed us 
of the peace we have fought so long to have," Mulder pauses, his free hand 
fisting at his side, "and now you are going to pay for it all."
 
Continued in Chapter 4