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Chapter 21, Epilogue
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Scully's apartment
November 22, 2000
6:35 p.m.

Thanksgiving Eve in Georgetown and the snow falls, fresh and
white.

Such a contrast to three weeks before when leafsmoke scented
the air with the crisp, pungent musk of autumn, when
crackling piles dotted the curbs near Scully's apartment in
colors of cinnamon, sage, and honey.  The National Weather
Service would have a viewing public believe it's a freak
storm front that has moved in from the Midwest just in time
for the holiday.

She knows better, preferring to explore her own conclusions
in the matter, though her thoughts eddy into pools that are
decidedly Mulderish in theory and content.  Because of his
eclectic interpretation of events her belief system has
taken yet another jar, another stretch further away from the
clinical realms of science.  But the fact remains that her
heart, along with her body, is slowly healing.

"The soul often communicates to us through synchronistic
events," Mulder insisted again last night, when they
whispered together in bed.  "It's the nature of the beast
that deep psychic patterns are formulated within each one of
us, struggling to reach the conscious level where they align
with physical patterns in the outer world until they reach a
peak --"

"So, in your opinion, did I reach my peak?"  Her question
was posed in innocent skepticism and soft shadow, not
referring to sex at all, though her fingers browsed the side
of his face in a teasing, familiar caress while they
conversed.

The corners of his eyes crinkled; he kissed the palm of the
hand that touched him, ignored the temptation to jest, and
continued with his point.

"I'm convinced that yours peaked when it reached a level of
consciousness strong enough to support a manifestation of
the inner pattern.  Your visions.  This case, the Lego
house.  The date and time alignments between Benjie Tillman
and your depression over Emily coinciding with the jump of
the killer's demon from Cokely's bloodline to fresh ground."

"Your theory seems surprisingly astute."

He nodded.  "The power couldn't function within the kid's
youth and innocence, so when opportunity came it leapt, like
the train off the tracks, to a riper victim who was more
deserving of possession.  Evil attracts evil, Scully.  By
accident it re-discovered its original, intended victim,
Alice Eberhardt Marshall, at a child's birthday party.  A
psychic reunion, if you will."

"She duped Cokely back in '42 and escaped for all those
years," she mused, letting her hand drop.  "Victimology in
reverse.  I still call that hideous recompense, Mulder."

"But consider that the poetic justice satisfied by such a
convergence... "

"...came with such a price," she finished, placing his hand
above her breasts on the warm skin of her upper chest, where
all the healing powers within her own body have been brought
to bear over the last two weeks.

Recuperation offers her abundant time in which to muse and
wander the apartment alone.  Other than Alice's confession,
she has only vague, brushstroke recollections of that
terrifying night in Aubrey.  Images of malice and darkness
mingle with Benjie Tillman's wiry little body and the
downward flash of a razor.  The silky pressure of Emily's
small hand and voice.  Sensations of deep pain and
suffocation, of despair... then merciful release.

Thank God a plastic surgeon was on call and at the Aubrey
Memorial ER within minutes of her arrival.  His fingers
sutured the chest cuts with gossamer thread and the
consummate skill of an artist.  Scarring, he promised
afterward, would now be negligible in that high-profile area
of the body, hard to detect unless someone with knowledge
sought it out purposely.

Mulder, she imagines, would have smiled at that observation,
though at the time she felt only simple gratitude for being
one of the luckier survivors.  Like Mulder had been, when
B.J. attacked him six years before.  Unlike Linda
Thibodeaux, who remains in the ICU, scarred and semi-
comatose.

They became separated during the flurry of treatment in the
ER.  X-rays were taken, her ribs taped, the deep scalp wound
closed and stitched.  Abraded skin was salved and covered
until she felt cocooned in gauze and hazy from sedative.

Awakening later and turning her cheek sideways in the
hospital bed, she met Mulder's Oxford shirt and the strong,
steady rise and fall of his breathing.  His blessed
closeness, his kiss to her forehead, nudged the floodgates
open.  Over the nurse's objection he would not be budged
while Scully leaned her face against him and wept slow,
heavy tears that darkened the front of his shirt.

Within twenty-four hours they were back on the plane to DC.

It takes four to six weeks for fractured ribs to become
stable, she knows.  Only two weeks into the imposed
sabbatical and she already chafes from inactivity, hence the
restive walks through the apartment for exercise and peace
of mind.  Fractures of the fifth and sixth vertebra and a
bruised lung are small prices to pay for her life, Mulder
reminds her.  Her mother stands in vigorous agreement.

Though unable to fully embrace her stitched, scuffed
daughter, Margaret Scully was solicitous.  She hovered,
eager to do mother-things, providing small comforts and a
homemade pot of soup.  When the first evening darkened,
however, she made no offer to stay the night and play
nursemaid.  Mulder's intent to remain was ironclad, evident
in the possessive, easy way he stood beside Scully's
bedside, monitoring her needs.  His suitcase, airline tags
dangling, camped just inside the bedroom door and he reached
out to stroke her hair with open affection when farewells
were said.

Their casual touching and all similar signs of intimacy
weren't lost on Margaret, Scully knew.  After kissing her
daughter's bruised cheek, she then bestowed a similar buss
to Mulder's sandpapered one before heading for the front
door.

"She'll get the best of TLC," Scully heard him assure her in
the hallway, all grave earnestness and calm possession, "so
don't worry about a thing."

"Call me, Fox, if you need me to come over," was the
straightforward reply.  Closing her eyes in exhaustion, she
sensed her mother's tacit acceptance of their new depth of
partnership.  And that despite the tumultuous, dangerous job
they shared, all would once again be well in Dana Scully's
life because of her partner's protective, loving presence
and care.

Home to recuperate, she faced a daunting therapeutic regimen
of breathing exercises to be performed several times daily.
Hold the pillow tight to the chest to supply pressure and
decrease pain, breath deeply to expand lung capacity and
prevent build up of fluid.  She knows the drill, the
consequences of shallow respiration; pneumonia is not an
option she wants to consider.

Mulder observed her from afar the first night.  She slouched
on the side of the bed in pajamas, bare feet placed apart
for balance, hugging a pillow close to her chest.  Deep,
deep breath, hard squeeze of the pillow, then the resulting
hurtful moan.  After her third time he clucked with
impatience and tossed the offending thing away, kneeling to
take its place in her arms and between her knees.

"Now, squeeze me," he'd instructed, so she dutifully
encircled his broad body with her arms and pressed him
tightly, stifling her small groans of hurt and
breathlessness into his neck and shoulder.  Loving him,
grateful for his closeness and selfless involvement in the
things that cause her pain.  "Partners in everything,
Scully," he'd murmured in explanation.

So much to heal, and they both profit...

Mulder has attended to their caseload and mandatory meetings
at the Hoover, continuing where they left off several weeks
ago.  During this quasi-leave-of-absence, she's also managed
to contribute by working from home to flesh out the final
report for the Aubrey case and add research addendums, but
little else.  Major cleaning and meal prep remains off-
limits.  As he's done since their return, Mulder should
arrive soon at the dinner hour, bringing food and his own
unique, companionable charm.

Restless and hungry now, she makes another round of her
apartment, a meandering journey through cool, quiet rooms,
pausing to take in the virgin snowfall through windowpanes
stenciled with frost.  In the bedroom she nudges the
thermostat higher and eases her sweater tighter around her
tender sides, conscious of a chill.  Streetlights flicker
awake at this hour, powdered by snow, and other neighborhood
families grouse safely in warmth and lamplight.

Scully knows the obvious: that each case she and Mulder
accept carries significant risk.  Each tragedy they endure
offers ripe opportunity for her to refine her equilibrium,
to redefine her sense of faith, or lose another necessary
part of it.  Looking back she sees that Mulder has always
been more attuned to the darker side of an X-File than she;
a profiler, he's been adept at sensing its manic surges in
behavior and reacts in time to dodge the worst of the
fallout.

She, on the other hand, has been known to stand evaluating
the ground that bucks beneath her feet, weighing belief
against a scientist's skepticism before the splintered
foundation threatens to disintegrate beneath her weight.
The evidence that has touched her so recently -- a little
boy's dreams, a tiny house made of block, the protective
gratitude from a dear child ascending from beyond the grave
-- must be reverently sorted and catalogued, but from them
Scully has gained a sense of resolution, acceptance, and
comfort.

Alice Marshall died at the scene on that dark, snowy night,
cut down by the second of Mulder's two bullets.  The first
was intended to disable, but the one that followed meant to
kill.  The demon within the old woman proved unstoppable,
despite a verbal warning and a neat, first shot to the
shoulder.

Suffering with his own severe head wound, Lieutenant Brian
Tillman was able to corroborate that Alice Marshall did
indeed confess her accessory role and guilt in the 1942
slaying of her sister Kathy at the hand of Harry Cokely.  He
had also coached his son to pitch the tiny block house like
a hardball at the old woman in order to protect a federal
agent by gaining valuable minutes until help could arrive.
According to news brought home by Mulder, his immediate
plans include an extended leave of absence, divorce
proceedings, psychological counseling for himself and his
son, and relocation away from Aubrey.

"He's a lonely man with a good heart," Scully murmured one
night soon afterward, drawing Mulder's eye.  "So much of his
life has been wasted on women who have given him only hurt
and disappointment.  They haven't been able to reciprocate
for a variety of reasons."

"Present company included?"

She frowned.  "A gratuitous question, Mulder... you know
that."

"But I still like to hear your answer," he said gravely,
reaching to take her hand in his.

Last week they learned that Janine Tillman surfaced in a
small city near Lincoln, Nebraska, where for over a year she
had rendezvoused with an off-again, on-again lover, a man
who shared a similar pattern of substance abuse.  Weary and
also ripe for divorce, she agreed to whatever was necessary
to expedite the proceedings.  Taking his lawyer's -- and his
young son's -- advice, Tillman reluctantly declined to
pursue allegations of child abuse and negligence, choosing
to break all ties rather than prosecute.

As for the elusive connection Scully shared with Benjie
Tillman during those two weeks, she wonders now whether his
new counselor will also be a recipient of toy houses and
whispered warnings.  She thinks not, if Mulder's theories
about synchronicity bear out and the vicious cycle has come
to an end for the boy.

"Jung claims synchronous events are often associated with
periods of intense transformation," he explained during one
of their whispered exchanges between the sheets.  "The
internal restructuring produces external resonances, as when
a burst of mental energy is propagated outward into the
physical world.  In this case, both yours and Benjie's
encountered one another within the same time frame and
space."

While not sold on this matter of colliding synchronicities,
it startles her to realize that she misses Benjie Tillman's
presence and endearing, childish attentions.  Hopefully the
boy's voice will one day lose its husky tightness, his skin
will attain full, healing clarity.  He'll flash wide boyish
smiles and laugh out loud at will, like a healthy,
expressive five-year old should.

Like Emily would have, if she'd lived.  Like she does now,
full-throated and tinkling happily in Scully's subconscious
thoughts and in her tumultuous, recurring dreams at night.
When Mulder shakes her awake and murmurs his concern, she
wipes a tear but feels better able to respond with honesty,
his arms a life jacket around her insecurities.  That they
talk about such things now, even under cover of darkness, is
evidence of further emotional healing and trust between
them.

Slowly the walls of self-imposed solitude are beginning to
tumble down...

Her circuitous journey brings her back to the kitchen.
Supplies for tomorrow's modest holiday meal wait on the
clean white countertops.  A package of dry, seasoned stuffing
mix, prepared dinner rolls, a can of whole-berry cranberry
sauce, at Mulder's insistence.  They've begged off attending
the annual Scully Thanksgiving dinner at Margaret's house
this year, preferring to remain at home together to aid in
Scully's recovery and to celebrate the gift of life.  Even
so, her mother insisted on dropping off a home-baked apple
pie and several decorative gourds, which Mulder has been
shaking with annoying frequency, impatient for the seeds to
dry and break free into a musical rattle.

Some things, Scully knows, profit through time and waiting.
Intercourse is one.  She draws in a deep lungful of air and
exhales carefully, brushing a wishful hand over her breasts.
Her nipples tighten at the stimuli and she sighs.

It may happen for them this evening, if her body permits
such tempting invasion.  The desire is alive and lusty, but
flesh and bone may still be less than cooperative for such a
purpose.  Mulder, as befitting a close friend and lover, has
been patient and inventive over these last few weeks, gentle
with hands, mouth, and tongue.  He reads her body and its
intricacies like a connoisseur.  The sexual seeds that
sprouted between them last spring, that reached their true
blossom in Aubrey, are just the first fruits, she realizes,
in this new depth of devotion they share.

Torn from her meditation, she hears Mulder's key in the lock
and turns to greet him.  He stamps into the entryway,
dislodging the last remnants of snow, then removes his shoes
before looming into the shallow light of her kitchen.  His
eyes seem dark and hesitant as he approaches, making no move
to touch her.  Shucking both his coat and a large bag that
smells deliciously of Chinese carry-out onto a chair, he
holds out a wide goldenrod-hued mailing envelope.

"This came to the office today," he says, searching her
face.

"What's in it?"

"It's addressed to Special Agent Dana Scully, so I figured
you should do the honors."

The envelope feels bulky between her hands.  Glancing at the
return address, she reads the name 'Tillman' and closes her
eyes briefly.  "Mulder..." she defers, head tilting.

"Scully, open it."

She's fearful, she admits to herself, not knowing whether
the message hails from father or son, and why now on the
cusp of a holiday?  But innate curiosity and the need to
ferret out truth no matter how difficult cancels out any
hesitation.  Taking a thin knife from the block on the
counter, she slits the end of the wide envelope, turns, and
lets the contents slip out onto the table before them.

Oh, dear God, she thinks, frozen where she stands.  No, it
can't be --

On the table rests a mound of construction paper in vibrant
autumn colors, creased to fit into the mailer.  Brown,
orange, yellow, red.  Another, with silvery foil pasted on a
black band, white collar, and another...  Tears rush to
blind her and she squeezes the bridge of her nose with one
hand, shielding her eyes from view.

Mulder is at her side in an instant, his hand gingerly
supportive across her sweater-covered back.  "What is it?
Pictures?"

She shakes her head.  "No, paper cut-outs.  They tape them
to the windows at the elementary school."  Benjie must be
safely back in attendance, sharing in the joys of childhood
art with his classmates, unafraid.  She senses it from the
bright colors and widened shapes, an expression of peace and
of well-being.

The tears reach her throat, thickening her words, and Mulder
brushes a quick kiss to her temple before attending to the
gifts laid out before them.

"Hey, Scully, check this out..." He opens the first one,
flattening it out on the table for her, working out the
creases.  The foil buckle gleams.  "A pilgrim boy with a
gun.  Not bad."  Reaching for the next one, she hears him
chuckle.  "Here's an Indian girl holding an ear of corn.  At
least I *think* it's supposed to be an ear of corn.  Looks a
little on the long, purple side..."

"Mulder..." she scolds, diverting him from questionable
territory with his observation.

More shuffling of bright paper and he urges her tighter
against him, caressing her hip with one hand.  "Here, you
unfold the last one."

"It's a turkey," she murmurs, dabbing an eye and then
extending both hands to fully reveal the traditional holiday
bird.  Pasted on, multi-colored spikes of construction paper
serve as a tail, the wattle wide and red beneath a yellow
beak.  The body... She swallows and blinks in recognition.
The bird's outline was made by tracing a child's fully-
opened hand, with the thumb being neck and head, the palm a
plump body, the fingers providing a base for tail feathers.

It's exactly what she's hungered for, these long weeks of
early November.  But who could have known?  A chill prickles
her arms with gooseflesh and her chin lifts toward him.
"Who are these really from, Mulder?"

He flips over the mailer.  "Tillman, it says.  So it's gotta
be Benjie.  I think the Lieutenant's hand is a whole lot
bigger than that, Scully."

"I realize Benjie made them.  But suppose he was guided by
someone else to do it?  What if... what if *she* asked him
to make these -- for me?"

"You think he could still be channeling Emily."

Honest to a fault, he says the name aloud in the stillness
of the kitchen.  She feels his hand curving over hers,
requesting eye contact in the tense web of silence.
"Scully, there are some truths we may never know.  I don't
think it matters *which* child you feel this came from.
Both are precious to you.  Either way, you're the designated
recipient and keeper of the gift."

His words make sense, but regret flutters in her chest,
stings her eyes.  As before, life boils down to a hard crust
of never knowing the true whys and wherefores of her
abduction and infertility, of things so achingly precious to
her soul.  Whether it's little Benjie Tillman who sent her
Thanksgiving cheer, or her own cherished, long-lost child,
she realizes the difference is negligible.  She's pondered
for some time what Emily's creative efforts might have
looked like, gracing the classroom window, or here at
home...

A sudden burst of gratitude fuels her impulsive need for
Mulder.  Reaching up, she pulls his mouth down to meet hers,
savoring his moistness and male scent, his responsiveness
and the sinuous stirring of his tongue against her palate.
Ever conscious of her injury, his hands rest splayed and
tender along her sides until the kiss ends with a soft,
mutual tug of lips.

He leans down to nuzzle her for one more moment, browsing 
her hair with renewed interest.  Clearing his throat, he 
takes in a long breath of her scent before he eases back, 
eyes soft from suppressed emotion.

"So, Scully... where you gonna hang 'em?"

"Over there, I think.  On the refrigerator."

"Tape or magnets?"

"Um..." She thinks quickly, swallows.  "Magnets.  I have
some in the junk drawer by the sink."  Turning away, she
says over her shoulder, "Don't wait around for me.  You can
get started on dinner if you want--"

But he's already gone, one loping step ahead, carrying the
heavy, white bag of food to the living room.  Lamps click
awake, the TV flares to life with bluish energy, and she
hears him rummaging through the paper bag, spreading out the
little boxes of wealth they'll soon share together over the
coffee table.

But it's so much more than that, Scully realizes, blinking
back tears of thankfulness and love.  He understands and
respects her need for privacy now.

So like Mulder, he's granting her this time alone in the
quiet glow of her kitchen.  These fragile, magical moments
in which to hang up her gifts and commune in solitude with
her children, before joining him for dinner.

************
End of Chapter 21, Epilogue
Seeds Of Synchronicity