Each segment of this series is a single vignette; though they need to be read in sequence for the story to make sense, I prefer to think of each as its own individual piece. For this reason they have all been given their own subtitle, are labeled in single parts, and are individually rated. If you're counting, there are 21 parts altogether, and I'm sending them out in groups of 7 at a time. Here comes the required information: Title: CHIAROSCURO 6: DEVOTION (1/1) Author: Blueswirl @aol.com Classification: V,A, MSR Rating: PG Keyword: Mulder/Scully Spoilers: 4th Season, Pre-"Leonard Betts" Summary: The past cannot help but have an irrevocable effect on the present. Distribution: Please distribute to the EMXC, XF Fanfic List, ATXC and Gossamer. Feel free to post this story on any other archive or web page as long as my name remains attached. Watch out -- Disclaimer ahead: The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Prods., Fox Inc. and most importantly to David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson. I'm using them for this story without permission. So sue me. Feedback: I love it more than you could ever know. Please drop me a line -- good, bad, whatever! -- at Blueswirl@aol.com. CHIAROSCURO 6: DEVOTION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) Margaret Scully glanced up at the television as she flipped the page of the book she was reading. The weatherman was predicting that another storm was due to hit before the weekend, and Margaret made a mental note to get more wood for the fireplace. There was nothing she liked more than a roaring fire when it rained. Turning her attention back to the book, she skimmed another couple pages, but found it difficult to completely immerse herself in the world of the story. It was a political thriller, complex in its characters and situations, and though ordinarily it was the kind of novel that she would devour, tonight the reading felt more like effort than pleasure. Putting the book aside for a moment, Margaret listened as the sports reporter described the hits and misses of the day, but her mind was elsewhere, thinking of her youngest daughter. Ryan's birthday party had been a success, but Margaret was acutely aware of how difficult it had been for Dana. Even as a child, Dana had never been one to share her pain, masking hurt and disappointment with a skill that had belied her years. It was no different now, but looking at her daughter through a mother's eyes, Margaret knew the truth. Though Dana had said little while they cleaned up the post-party debris, Margaret suspected that Skinner had arrived with more than just a present for the birthday boy. He had brought some news about Fox, she guessed, and the news had not been good. Not that she had anything specific on which to base her conjecture. Nothing beyond the slump of her daughter's shoulders and the veiled pain in her eyes. How, thought Margaret, had it ended up like this? A vaguely remembered phrase filtered through her mind... it is always darkest before the dawn. True, too true, she reflected. But once the dawn comes, doesn't it banish the darkness forever? There had been darkness, much darkness, and the memory of it made Margaret shudder, pulling the bedcovers up over her chest. She had lost her beloved Ahab, and then Dana had been taken away. By a miracle, she had been returned, and managed to awaken from the coma that held her in its grasp despite the fact that the doctors had given no hope. But not long thereafter Melissa had been killed, in a tragic twist of fate that still had Margaret reeling, after all this time. And then Dana had vanished again. That, Margaret reflected, had really been her undoing. Both hers, and Fox's. Once again they had found themselves partners in a silent vigil, mute victims flooded by a bleak despair. She knew, however, that this second abduction had been much harder on Fox than it had been on her, if that were possible. She had watched it happen -- had seen him wither to a shell of his former self, until all that remained were his hazel eyes, bright and edgy with exhausted determination. As he had done the first time, Fox had left no stone unturned, searching for her daughter with a desperate vengeance that stunned her and left her reeling in the wake of his persistence. And as had been the case the first time, his fervent belief that Dana would be returned to them safely had given her comfort and strength. Fortunately, this second time, they had not had as long to wait. Instead of three months, Dana was missing for just five weeks, though Margaret knew that every second of that time had stolen a minute from the end of her own life. Instead of materializing out of thin air in an intensive care unit of a hospital, Dana had been found wandering half-conscious by the side of a highway in another state. As before, she had remembered little or nothing of what had happened to her, but it hadn't mattered at all to Margaret -- the fact that she was still alive was enough of a gift. And it was apparent that Fox felt the same way. From the moment Dana was checked into a local hospital for care and observation, he never left her side, and Margaret had known before she heard the words spoken aloud that he had recognized a very important truth as a result of this second abduction. It hadn't come as any surprise to Margaret when, after Dana was recovered and out of the hospital, her daughter told her that Fox had asked her to marry him, and that she had accepted. It is always darkest before the dawn... Perhaps it was the fact that things had fallen into place so smoothly after that, Margaret mused, that she had never considered the possibility that anything else could go wrong. The wedding had been beautiful, a brilliant sunny April day that was only marred by the fact that Ahab wasn't present to walk his youngest daughter down the aisle. After they returned from their honeymoon, both Fox and Dana had left their jobs, for reasons that Margaret to this day didn't quite understand. Fox had returned to Violent Crimes, and Dana had become a teacher at Quantico. And a year and a half later, Ryan had been born... The sound of the doorbell startled Margaret out of her reverie. Glancing at the clock by her bed, she confirmed that it was well past eleven, far too late for anyone to be calling. The bell chimed again, more insistently this time, and Margaret slipped out of bed, pulling on her robe as she headed down the stairs. She had just reached the bottom when the bell rang once more. Margaret pressed her eye to the peephole in the door, glancing outside instinctively. The sight that greeted her made her breath catch in her chest and she fumbled with the lock, yanking the door open. "Dana? What are you doing here so late?" Her daughter was standing there, dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans and her buffalo plaid coat. With one arm, she held Ryan cradled against her waist, his eyes closed and his head nestled on her shoulder, his tattered plush bunny gripped in one tiny fist. In her other hand, Dana carried a small duffel bag embroidered with his name. "Hi, Mom," Dana said in greeting. "I need you to take care of Ryan for a little while." "Of course," Margaret responded automatically, pulling the door open further to allow them entrance. "What's --" "Let me put him to bed," Dana answered, cutting her off. "He's pretty much asleep already." As though to contradict her statement, Ryan raised his head and blinked his eyes at her sleepily. "Hi, Grandma." "Hello, precious," Margaret responded, giving him what she hoped was a cheerful smile. To Dana, she said, "We'll put him down in your old room." Dana nodded, and headed up the stairs, handing over the duffel bag in answer to Margaret's silent request. Upstairs, Margaret put the duffel bag down against the wall, watching as her daughter tucked her grandson into the single bed, kissing him tenderly on the forehead and ruffling his hair before closing the door and following her mother back into the hall. "What's going on, Dana?" Margaret asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. A strange expression flitted across her daughter's face at the question, an odd mixture best described as anticipation colored by fear. "I've got to go away for a little while, Mom. Hopefully it won't be for more than a day or so, but --" "Does this have something to do with Fox?" The words tumbled out of her mouth before Margaret had a chance to examine them fully. "Yes," Dana answered, slowly, as though she wasn't entirely certain of her answer. "At least, I think so." "I don't understand, Dana, what do you mean --" "I don't know, Mom," her daughter answered. "I wish -- I wish that I did. But you have to understand -- I don't have a choice about this." She paused, then added, "I don't." Margaret drew in a deep breath as she studied her daughter, taking in the determined set of her jaw, the fire in her wide set blue eyes. Instinctively, she knew that there was nothing she could do or say that would cause Dana to stray from the course that she had set for herself. But as much as she wanted to blindly accept her daughter's request, her maternal instincts were too strong. "I don't like this, Dana. Don't you think you should talk to someone -- to Walter? - - someone, before you just go off and...." "Mom, please." Dana gazed at her with the intense stare of the desperate. "I don't have the time for this -- I don't have the luxury of discussing it. Not with you, not with Skinner. You have to trust me on this. And you have to look after Ryan for me while I'm gone." Margaret felt herself weakening, the intensity of her daughter's conviction melting her own resolve. "Alright, Dana. I won't press you to tell me more -- I won't fight that battle with you now." Pursing her lips in a stern line, she continued, "But I won't stand to be kept in the dark on this for long. You have to call me -- you have to let me know what's happening, where you are. You have to promise me that." For a long moment, the two women remained still, mere feet apart in the small upstairs hallway, their eyes locked in an intense battle of wills. Dana was the first to surrender, dropping her eyes and then inclining her head in the merest of nods. "I promise, Mom. I'll call you -- I'll let you know what's going on." Knowing that she had already won an extremely substantial victory, Margaret conceded. "Good," she replied. "Don't you worry about Ryan. He'll be fine here with his grandma." "I know," Dana replied, and when she raised her head once more Margaret was stunned to see tears glistening in her daughter's blue eyes. An overwhelming rush of emotions swept over her then and without hesitation Margaret Scully pulled her daughter into her arms. They held each other for a brief, powerful moment and then Dana pulled back. "I'll call you, Mom, I promise." Without another word, or even a backwards glance, Dana headed for the stairs. Margaret remained where she was, waiting until she heard the sound of the front door close with a thud that marked the dropping of a seemingly impenetrable barrier between them. "Be safe, darling," Margaret murmured. Closing her eyes, she offered up another, silent prayer. There was nothing more she could do. "And the trouble is, if you don't risk anything you risk even more." - Erica Jong CHIAROSCURO 7: SIMPLICITY (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) It was now or never. There was really no other way of looking at it. And look at it he had, from every side. It was all too clear. There was never going to be a better time or place, and regardless of the danger, he had no choice but to take the chance. He waited for the right moment to come, hoping that something would change to make it easier. But though he waited with the patience of a saint, nothing changed. Absolutely nothing. Finally, his courage in place, he decided to make a move. He knew he was being watched -- and watched carefully, at that -- but there was nothing he could do about that now. If they wanted to stop him, they would. And he would have to deal with the results. He knew he could make it down the stairs without being seen. The hard part would be next. Cautiously he made his way, step by quiet step. He was careful not to make any noise, any sound that would give him away. He couldn't afford a mistake, not now. His heart was pounding in his chest, so loudly that he was certain that they could hear it. Yet he made it to the bottom safely, and allowed himself a deep relieved breath of air when he finished. It's now or never, he reminded himself. Now, or never. Cautiously, he glanced around. A man stood off to his right, far away but still too close for his liking. And there were others, at least two that he could see. Any of them could put an end to his plan. Somehow he managed to move past them, step by cautious step. He kept his goal firmly in sight, praying that he would somehow succeed. He was nearly there when he heard a voice that made him stop in his tracks, frozen with fear. He had thought he had more time, but he had been wrong. Really wrong. But now he had no choice. He couldn't go back. It was go forward, or give up, and he would never give up. Of that much, he was certain. A few more steps. Around the corner, and through the doorway. Across the tile and then hope flooded him, a fledgling spark that threatened to blossom into full blown triumph. He was almost there. Victory was within his grasp. Rising to his full height he balanced on the balls of his feet, leaning forward, both hands outstretched. The tips of his fingers brushed against the object of his desire and he pulled it towards him, slowly, as silently as he could. And then he was there, he knew it, there was nothing that could stop him now. He pulled off the lid and reached inside, a smile blooming on his face now that he had finally, finally, achieved his heart's desire. "Ryan William Mulder! Get your hands out of that cookie jar!" Caught. He was caught in the act. Ryan dipped his head guiltily, one hand still dangling within the confines of the large silver tin. He had no other choice. He had to do it. Turning the corners of his mouth down in his very best pout, Ryan brought out his deepest, saddest, neediest voice. "Gr-and-ma," he whined, drawing the word out as long as he possibly could, "I'm hungry." "If you're hungry, Ryan, I'll make you a sandwich." He knew that tone. That was Grandma's no-nonsense tone. The game was up. But Ryan wasn't the sort to give up without a fight. "Just *one*, Grandma? Please?" A sigh. A sigh! That was a very good sign. "P-l-e-a-s-e?" Another sigh. "Just *one*, then, Ryan. Just *ONE*." So he hadn't lost, after all. A huge smile crossed his face as Ryan resumed his forage into his grandmother's silver cookie tin. He grabbed the biggest, fattest chocolate chip cookie that he could find, and then slammed the lid back down, satisfied. He took a huge bite of the cookie, savoring its gooey softness, and it wasn't until he'd swallowed that he remembered his manners. "Thanks, Grandma." "You're welcome," she replied, but there was something about the way that she said it that made him realize that she wasn't paying attention to him anymore. For a fleeting moment, Ryan considered sneaking another cookie, but decided that the odds were against him. Instead, clutching his hard-won prize, he made his way across the kitchen and under the archway that led to the dining room. His grandmother was standing by the table, next to Uncle Walter and two of the strange men who had come into the house with him earlier, carrying boxes of equipment. That equipment was now all over the dining room table, which Ryan found quite surprising. Grandma always yelled at him when *he* put things on the dining room table without asking first. Curious, Ryan edged his way closer to them, anxious to see what they were doing. One of the men sat down in a chair, and put on a pair of headphones that Ryan thought were very cool. They were much bigger than the headphones on his bright yellow Walkman, and Ryan found himself wondering if the music that they played would be louder. The machine that they were attached to didn't look much like his Walkman, however, and Ryan decided that if the sound was louder, it would be because of that bulky machine, and not the cool headphones. "Don't worry," Uncle Walter said as he approached. "It doesn't take long for a trace. We just need you to keep her on the phone as long as you can. But we'll be getting it from the beginning -- we won't miss a thing." Ryan looked up at his grandmother and saw her nod. "Okay," she replied, nodding her head. "I'll do my best." "I know you will," Uncle Walter answered, with a funny little smile that didn't quite show his teeth. No one was paying any attention to him, but Ryan didn't really care. It seemed like something exciting was about to happen, so he climbed up into the chair at the opposite end of the table, hoping that he would get a good view. But for awhile after that, nothing really did happen. The other two men paced around the living room, back and forth, and the man with the funny big headphones fiddled with his cool machine. His grandmother brought out some iced tea and Uncle Walter took some, although none of the other men did. And a little while later, she brought out a baloney and cheese sandwich cut into triangles, with the crusts off the sides of the bread, and gave it to him with a glass of cranberry juice. Ryan examined it carefully and it looked okay, so he ate it, one triangle at a time, and waited. And waited, and waited, and waited. They had all been waiting around forever in a very uncomfortable quiet when the phone rang. It sounded really loud, but Ryan figured that it was maybe just because the guy with the headphones still hadn't turned up the music. When the phone rang, his grandmother jumped, and Uncle Walter put his hand on her shoulder. "Just answer it," he told her, and his grandmother nodded and grabbed the phone off of the counter. "Hello?" She asked the question and then waved her hand vigorously at the man with the headphones, but the man didn't even look up. Ryan was watching him closely and it was clear that the man wasn't going to look up because he was too busy watching the spools on the machine turn around and around. The spools and that little green window at the center of the machine. Numbers were flashing in the window and Ryan stared at them, fascinated. "Dana, honey? Where are you?" his grandma asked, and Ryan grinned at the sound of his mother's name. "Is that Mommy? I want to talk to her!" Much to his surprise, his grandmother turned her back on him, concentrating instead on whatever was coming through the phone. There wasn't anything that Ryan hated more than being ignored, so he raised his voice to a shout, despite the fact that his grandmother was saying something into the receiver. "Is that Mommy? Let me talk to her!" His grandmother's only response was to lean forward, clutching the phone even closer to her ear, blocking him out. That was more than enough, and Ryan leapt out of his chair, knocking over the remainder of his juice as he did so. He was halfway to his grandma when Uncle Walter grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him back. "Hang on a minute, Ry," Uncle Walter told him, keeping him firmly in his grasp. "Let your grandma finish, first." Although he didn't want to, Ryan stayed where he was, leaning against his uncle and waiting for his chance at the phone. He loved talking on the phone, especially to his mother. But his grandma wouldn't stop talking, and she didn't turn around. He couldn't quite hear what she was saying, but at one point he heard her say his name, and he couldn't resist shouting, "Hi, Mommy!", which caused Uncle Walter to squeeze his shoulders again. After he had waited forever, he finally heard his grandmother say, "Okay dear, I'll talk to you later." "My turn! My turn!" Ryan shouted, but then his face fell as he saw his grandmother press the off button on the portable phone and put it back down on the counter. "Hey!" He raised his voice, indignant. "I didn't get to talk to Mommy!" Now his grandma was paying attention to him, now that it was too late and she had hung up the phone. "I know, sweetie, but she's going to call back and she's going to talk just to you." She leaned down and gave him a hug but when she pulled away, her eyes were looking up, at Uncle Walter, not at him. "Did you -- did you get it?" his grandma asked, and her words were strangely soft. Ryan glanced over his shoulder and saw that his uncle was looking at the man with the headphones. The headphone man nodded and gave a little smile. "We got it," Uncle Walter announced, and Ryan saw his grandmother sigh a big huge sigh, a sigh so big that he wondered if she had lost all of her air. "Thank God," his grandma said, and the happy look on her face made Ryan feel lucky. "Grandma," he asked, taking his chances, "do you think I could have another cookie?" "It is not how much we have, but how much we enjoy, that makes happiness." - Charles H. Spurgeon CHIAROSCURO 8: SUPPLICATION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) Dana Scully gently replaced the phone in its cradle, her motions slow and deliberate. She had kept her promise. Of that, at least, she could be proud. She didn't have the energy to justify the rest of it. What rational explanation could there be for her behavior? What logical reason was there for her to leave town in the middle of the night, abandoning her son to her mother's care? What possible argument could make sense of the fact that she had decided to place all of her faith in an anonymous phone call? Some questions, she decided, weren't meant to be answered. Love.... Dana sighed and rose from her perch on the edge of the bed. Her feet led her of their own volition across the worn carpet of the motel room, from the bed to the dresser and back again. Past the closet to the window. Towards the bathroom at the far end and the doorway on the opposite side. Back and forth. Back, and forth. Love, she thought. Love is the answer. Love gives us the courage to attempt the impossible. Are those who attempt the impossible dreamers, or fools? At this moment, she felt like a little bit of both. It was fifteen hours since the phone call that had shattered the stillness of her empty bedroom. Eight weeks since her life had been shattered by Mulder's disappearance. How could she not respond? How could she not take this chance? How could she not grasp at even the most fragile thread of hope? Come south, the mysterious voice had told her. Take a plane, bound for Mobile. Buy the ticket in cash, directly at the gate. She had obeyed, without questions. Take a bus, south to the water of the Gulf Shores. Rent a room, at the last hotel on Route 59. Use your professional name, not your married one. Cover her tracks, yet leave a clue. It made little sense, but she had followed orders. Tell no one of your destination. No one. The voice had been insistent, but she had bent the rules. Not so much, but enough. It was her duty, she reasoned. She owed her mother that much, at least. She had left her in charge of a little piece of her soul. The instructions ended there, and there Dana Scully was stalled. Unable to make a move, because she had no idea as to what her next move should be. Unable to do anything else, she paced, and waited. And thought about him. Love gives us the courage to attempt the impossible. Mulder..... She thought about his height, and how it forced her to tilt her head in a vain attempt to meet him eye to eye. Thought about his strength, and how his arms felt when they encircled her back and held her close. Thought about his kiss, and how his lips touched hers in the sweetest of ways. She thought about the first day that she had met him, how she had walked into that basement office to meet his appraising stare. Wanting more than anything to be worthy of that appraisal, to surpass his expectations as he had so immediately surpassed hers. She paced, silently, remembering their life together, every minute of the last ten years. She paced, knowing she should try to sleep, even if it was only for a little while. Knowing she should conserve her strength, to be ready for whatever lay ahead. But she had thrown practical concerns out the window with the last of her sanity and sleep at this point seemed incredibly far out of reach. Dana was nearing the end of her patience when the phone on the nightstand began to ring. One ring, and then another, and then her hand was on the phone. "Hello?" "You arrived safely." "Yes." "Good." "What now?" Her entire body was poised and ready to spring into action. "What now?" "What is it that you want me to do?" "Nothing." "Nothing?" The circular dialogue was driving her crazy. Nothing was all that she had been doing for the past eight weeks. She was completely unable to do nothing. "I don't understand." "You will." Dana pulled a hand absently through her hair, trying to maintain her composure. He's telling you something, she reminded herself. The clues are there, you just have to know where to look. The clues are there? No, that's not it, no -- -- The evidence is there, you just have to know where to look. -- The absolute insanity of it was confusing her, making her dizzy. She sank back down onto the bed, yanking the phone with her. "What do you want me to do? You must want something, you dragged me all the way out here --" -- It'll be a nice trip to the forest. -- "Just relax." "I don't want to relax, I want some answers, I deserve some answers -- " -- I've heard the truth, Mulder. What I want now are the answers. -- "Don't fight me on this." "I'm not... fighting... you," she tried to explain, but the words sounded fuzzy and distant. Sleep, she thought vaguely. I should have gotten some sleep. The hideous green patterned bedspread didn't look quite so hideous as she laid down on it, still clutching the phone to her cheek. In fact, the pattern was nice, even pretty when you looked at it this close, yes, prettyprettypretty..... "That's it. Just relax." In the dim part of her consciousness that still remained alert Dana realized that there was something else at work, something beyond the soothing sound of the voice on the phone, but it was hard, sohardsohardsohard to figure out what and maybe it was just better to relax, relaxrelaxrelax and sleep for just a little while, it couldn't matter if she slept for a little while, just a little bit of sleep sleep sleepsleepsleep..... "Just relax," said the voice. "Don't worry, I'll take care of everything." "I learn by going where I have to go." - Theodore Roethke CHIAROSCURO 9: COMMENCEMENT (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) Virgil keeps his eyes on the road, doing his best to avoid temptation. Now is a time for concentration; there will be time later for everything else. There are few cars on this stretch of highway, and that pleases him, though he knows he has taken every precaution. Still, he knows that he can never be too careful. Then he hears it, the slightest change in the cadence of her breathing, and knows that she has begun to awaken. He cannot resist, and turns his head just enough to watch. She stirs, her head lolling against the window glass, a few copper strands of hair falling across her smooth, pale cheek. Her eyes flutter open slowly, heavily. As consciousness floods her body she moans, just a little, and Virgil clenches the steering wheel tightly with both hands. Her shoulders shift, and then her hands, beneath the blanket. Her inability to move them freely brings her the rest of the way out, and she blinks several times in rapid succession and then draws in a quick, startled breath. Turning her head, she sees him watching her, meets his gaze with her own for an endless instant. Then she looks away, at the blanket that covers her from the chest down. To an outside observer it would appear as though she were merely seated with a blanket draped to keep her warm; he has planned it well. Though it isn't clearly visible, the seatbelt that crosses over her shoulder has been used to pinion her arms to her body. Her hands are cuffed, held firmly in her lap thanks to a chain wound around the middle of the cuffs and anchored to the metal mechanism beneath the seat. He has taken no chances. It takes her a moment to realize what he has done, and then she closes her eyes again. Deliberately. Firmly. But only for a second. Then she fixes him with a stare that makes him glad that he bound her so securely. In her blue eyes Virgil sees only darkness, the midnight darkness of her soul. It scares him, makes him wonder if perhaps he's too late, after all. "Where are you taking me?" The words catch him by surprise with their direct boldness, though he never expected her to remain silent. He hesitates before he answers. "I am giving you what you want." She brands him with her gaze. "How do you know what I want?" "I know what you need," Virgil replies. It feels right, he thinks, to say it out loud. To let her know that he has everything under control. He sees the turnoff and twists the wheel easily to the right, easing the car off of the highway and onto the service road. "Who are you?" He pauses again, weighing her request. It cannot matter now, he decides. The wheels are in motion. There is no turning back. "Virgil," he says. "Virgil." She repeats his name as though it were a magic talisman. Her voice is sweet, and deep. It drips over him like honey. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her moisten her lips with her tongue. An involuntary reaction, of course; the drug must have certainly left her mouth dry, her body craving water. His heart skips a beat nonetheless. "Virgil, why are you doing this?" He guides the car through yet another turn and then glances at her. She looks so young, so vulnerable, so hurt. He can detect no obvious malice in her expression, but he knows that it is there. He can see it in her eyes. He realizes then that she is trying to trick him, to trap him. He can't allow that to happen. "Shut up," he tells her, lacing his words with venom. "Shut up and let me drive." As though to prove his point he stamps down on the accelerator, pushing the car faster than he should on the narrow, twisted road. She is quiet after that, ominously, dangerously quiet. Virgil can see her body shift and knows that she is testing her bonds, but he is not afraid. He knows they are secure, though he considers the chain and cuffs to be clumsy and awkward. He has always found drugs to be much more effective as a method of control. For this reason, he looks forward to the end of this phase of the plan. They drive in silence. It is warm in the car, uncomfortably warm, and Virgil checks the dashboard twice to see whether he has accidentally turned on the heat. He is glad when they reach the clearing that marks the boundary of the abandoned property. There are boards on the windows of the house, which gives it a desolate appearance, but he drives past it without really looking. He pulls the car up just outside the barn and puts it in park, taking the keys from the ignition. "We're here," he says, and the minute the words escape his mouth he feels foolish. She says nothing, her expression defiantly blank. After a moment, Virgil gets out of the car, tucking the keys into the front pocket of his pants. He slams the door shut behind him and then walks over to the passenger side door. It is unlocked, and he swings it open effortlessly. He stands there a moment, looking down at her. She has turned her head to meet his stare but still says nothing, and of that he is glad. He thinks everything over one more time, to make sure that he hasn't forgotten anything. To make sure that he hasn't made any mistakes. Satisfied, he takes the gun from the pocket of his jacket and clicks off the safety. "No games," he tells her firmly. "I won't tolerate that. Do you understand me?" She nods, but he knows better than to trust her. Not yet, at least. Kneeling down beside the car, he pulls down the blanket and tosses it in the back seat. He holds shifts the gun to his left hand and then takes out the key to the chain that links her cuffs to the seat. He leans in towards her, pressing the gun against her thigh as a warning as he reaches down between her legs. It feels dangerously illicit and another flush washes over his body as he gropes for the padlock. Finding it, he inserts the key and gives it a quick hard twist and is rewarded with a loud click as the lock comes open. He pulls the chain all the way through, breaking the circle that it had made and freeing her hands. Finished, he tosses the chain and lock on the floor at her feet. She doesn't move, doesn't flinch as he leans across her body and unlatches the seatbelt. Then he stands tall once more and switches the gun back to his good hand. "Get out of the car," he demands, taking a step or two away for good measure. She swings her feet out of the car and awkwardly slides out to stand beside him. Virgil nods, pleased, and slams the door shut. "Come on," he says, prodding her arm with the pistol. She glances around at the woods that surround them as though trying to memorize the very landscape, but doesn't move. He feels his temper begin to flare. "Don't test me," he tells her, and this time she does as she's been told, walking in front of him towards the barn. When they reach the double doors he makes her stop and wait while he spins the combination lock that holds them shut, keeping one eye on her all the while. He yanks open the door on the right and ushers her inside. It's dark inside the barn, tiny slivers of yellow daylight seeping through the walls the only illumination. He finds the switch and turns on the light and hears the whistle of her indrawn breath. The man is lying on the floor, curled on his side in a loosely fetal position. It doesn't look to Virgil as though the man has moved at all, though he's been lying there for hours. A chain around his ankle binds him to the floor; other than the man, and the chain, the barn is completely empty. Virgil glances around anyway, just to be sure. In the seconds that it has taken him to survey the barn the woman has left his side and dropped to her knees beside the man. "Mulder!" she exclaims in a low, panicked voice, running her cuffed hands over his face and shoulders. Her fingers stop at his neck and Virgil knows she is checking for a pulse. She will find it, he knows, though it is surely slower than she might have expected. The drug he has been given is extremely potent, and for that reason it is one of his very favorites. He watches her as she runs her hands over every inch of the man, over the blackened bruises and the cuts scabbed with dried blood. She murmurs his name as though that alone would be enough to coax him back to wakefulness. He allows her this moment, this time. It is, he thinks, only fair. Soon enough, she turns her attention back to him, and Virgil is surprised to see the wetness in her bright blue eyes. "What have you done to him?" she asks, her voice heavy with tears. "What have you *done* to him, you bastard?" Virgil is glad at this moment that he took the time to clean up the man, to wash him and dress him and restore a semblance of his normal appearance. If you only knew, he thinks. If you only knew. Aloud, he offers bland words of reassurance. "He'll probably recover," he tells her. "Though it's more than he deserves." She rises to her feet then, a titian-haired blur of fury, and he thrusts the gun out between them to stop her advance. She is so close to him that the barrel of the pistol touches her chest, her face pinched white with anger, her cuffed hands clenched into fists. "You'll pay for this," she spits, the words filled with venom. Virgil has no time for threats. He ignores her outrage and reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out the cell phone. With his left hand he turns on the power and hits three digits. "He doesn't have much time. Play games with me now and you'll cost him what's left of his life." The words have their desired effect and he can see some of her rage slip away. "This is your chance to save him. If you try anything funny I'll end it for both of you, right here and now. Understand me?" She glances over her shoulder at the man lying prone on the floor before she responds, as though she is weighing her options. When she turns back to face him, the fierce resolve is in her expression once more. "I understand." Her voice is barely audible. Satisfied, Virgil presses the 'send' key and then moves to stand behind her. With his left hand he holds the phone to her head; with his right, he presses the gun into her back. Whispering into her ear, he guides her through the call, enjoying the unexpected intimacy of their close proximity. All too soon the call is finished and he flips the phone shut and tucks it away once more. Free of his grasp, she has moved once more to kneel beside the man. For some reason this annoys Virgil; this part of it is finished, he thinks, and it's time she realizes it. "Let's go," he tells her, but she doesn't move. Doesn't even deign to turn her head in his direction, so focused is she on the unconscious man. Virgil cannot bring himself to think of the man as her husband. In fact, when he thinks of the man at all, he thinks of him merely as evil. And there is no place in the world, he knows, for evil. "Let's go!" Angry now, Virgil crosses to her and yanks on her arm with his free hand, pulling her upwards. She resists him, still crouching above the man, her hands twisting in their cuffs. At first he thinks that she is trying futilely to free herself, but then he realizes that she is up to something entirely different. She has managed to pull off the plain gold band she wears on her ring finger. Virgil watches as she takes the tiny piece of metal and slides it onto the little finger of the man's left hand. It doesn't go down all the way, sticking as it reaches the final knuckle, but it seems to be enough for her. The simple gesture angers Virgil all the more and he hauls the woman to her feet with a final vicious yank. She is crying again, harder now, but he ignores it. "Let's GO!" In the end, he has to carry her from the barn. It doesn't bother him too much, though. From here on, nothing has the power to bother him any more. "For every problem there is one solution which is simple, neat, and wrong." - H.L. Mencken Thanks for reading. Feedback *always* appreciated at Blueswirl@aol.com. = The Blueswirl Stories = Revolving Satellites Platonic Tangible Inadequate Chiaroscuro Chiaroscuro 2: Interlude Chiaroscuro 3: Covenant Chiaroscuro 4: Inversion Chiaroscuro 5: Courage Chiaroscuro 6: Devotion Chiaroscuro 7: Simplicity Chiaroscuro 8: Supplication Chiaroscuro 9: Commencement