Value & Honor
by Forte
(Forte1354@aol.com)

Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc.


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- Chapter 8c -

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J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, DC
Saturday, 11:16 a.m.


Mulder was right.  The coffee at the FBI was sludge.

Scully set down her Styrofoam cup and frowned at it, as though her
scolding look would improve the coffee's taste.  Needing a break
from her work on the report for Kersh, she'd started the pot of
coffee and then checked her e-mail, voicemail, and home answering
machine while she waited for the brew.  She had no new messages, no
additional contact from Kurt Crawford.  Now she stared at the stack
of autopsy reports in front of her.

She was nearly finished with her report, but needed to flip through
the files one last time to see if any additional details caught her
eye.  She didn't expect to find anything, but her experience had
told her that one final review was a good idea.  As much as she
wanted to skip that step this time, as sick as she was of the photos
and graphic details, she couldn't do it.  The dead were speaking,
demanding justice, and she wasn't going to shortchange them.

Scully reached toward the stack of autopsy files and set the top one
in front of her.  She read through the pages methodically, closed
the file, did the same with the next.  And the next.  Within 15
minutes she had gone through the entire pile.

No, nothing new, just the renewal of her anger at the sick bastard
that would kill little children so brutally.  The deaths described
in the unsolved cases dated back to 1992.  Dear God, if her theory
was correct, and Morse was responsible for murdering many of these
innocents, then he'd been bringing death to families across the
country for close to seven years, at least.  She always thought
she'd known how incensed Mulder had felt about John Lee Roche, but
if his feelings had been anything like hers were toward Morse.... 
Well, it was remarkable that he hadn't put that bullet through his
brain the second he saw him.  As much as the doctor in her, the
healer, hated death, the end of life for these killers couldn't come
too soon.

And God, how much anguish had the parents suffered, not knowing what
had really happened to their children?  How did they survive it? 
How were they able to look at the pictures of those children on
their walls, on their mantles, and not break down every time?

They were... they were probably able to look at those pictures for
the same reason she could look at the one picture of Emily she
possessed.  Because it hurt more to not look.  It would be worse to
deny that Emily had lived and breathed and smiled and played.  The
circumstances weren't identical, but in a way she shared that unique
loss, the nightmare of a child's sudden death, with those parents.

But one thing she didn't share with them was years of memories. 
What had she and Emily missed?  Her eyes began to sting with
threatening tears as she remembered coloring on the floor with her
daughter.  And what could have been if... if things had turned out
differently?  They could have made cookies.  Cut out paper dolls.
Fed ducks at the pond in the park.

Would I have been a good mother?  As good as mine had been for me?

Yes.  Yes, I think I would have been.  Could have been.  Could =be=.

No, Dana, you can't, remember?  They took that away from you.  They
made you a thing.  A tool for their plans, to be discarded when it
was used up.

Just a tool for the Consortium's plans.

Unbidden, a saying she'd heard years before reverberated in her
head.

"Man plans, and God laughs."

But at whose plans was He laughing?

Maybe it was the Consortium's plans, Cancer Man's plans, that God
laughed at.  She hoped, prayed, that she was one of His instruments
for foiling their plans, just as she had been for saving Kevin
Kryder.  For saving Roberta Dyer, one of the four sisters that
Father Gregory tried to protect.

She had saved them, hadn't she?  Or did she just want to believe
that she had?

Scully looked down at the autopsy files.  Of course the parents were
tortured by the pain of not knowing what had happened.  Were these
children tortured as well, by the not knowing?  She was too late to
save their lives, but could she ease the pain of their souls?

She'd done all she could for them now.  She hoped it would be
enough.

And she would do everything she could for the women from Allentown. 
She'd been too late to save their lives.  But she'd do her best to
fulfill their demands for justice, the ones she'd heard the previous
night in Mulder's apartment.

How ironic, and pathetic, and sick was it that these women who had
sought treatment for their infertility had been used to create
some... some mockeries of life that they never knew about?

No.  No.  Emily wasn't a mockery.  She was a beautiful, beautiful
little girl who didn't deserve to be born as... an experiment.

Scully squeezed her eyes shut.  A tear tracked down each of her
cheeks.

Oh, Emily.  I tried to save you, too.

Her head throbbed.

Scully opened her eyes and realized that her head was in her hands,
elbows on the desk.  When had that happened?  She rolled her neck,
trying to loosen her stiff muscles.  Her headache had abated with
seven hours of sleep, but the tension in her shoulders was drawing
out its intensity again.

Pull yourself together, Dana.  Right now these children and their
parents need you to finish this report.  They need you to help them
get the answers they deserve.  And then there are others who need
your help.

Scully took a deep breath, pulling herself up to her straightest
height.  She fished out the bottle of Tylenol that she'd returned to
her desk drawer the previous day and swallowed two of the caplets
with a mouthful of FBI coffee.  Swiveling her chair towards her
computer, she raised her hands to the keyboard and clicked on "caps
lock".  She got as far as typing CONCLUSION before a phone rang,
somewhat muffled.

Scully closed her eyes against the intrusion, then remembered who
would be calling.  And why.  Her eyes flew open and she pulled the
cell phone from her coat pocket.

"Scully."

"Hey Scully, it's me." 

The last syllable had barely left his lips before she rushed out her
own words.  "Have they broken the encryption?"  Her question was met
with silence.  Eager much, Dana?  "I'm sorry, Mulder, I'm... on
edge, I guess."

"It's okay, Scully.  I am, too.  Unfortunately there's nothing to
report yet.  They're still working on it."

"Oh."  Disappointment.  < "So why are you calling, Mulder?">  "So
what's up?"

"I'm doing a food run for the guys.  You want anything?"

"Umm... no, thanks.  I'm not really hungry."

Mulder paused.  "Okay."  He paused again.  "How's the report going?"

"I have about an hour's worth of work before it's in inter-office
mail to Kersh."

"What are your conclusions?" Mulder asked the question as though he
were tip-toeing around a hand grenade with the pin about to fall
out.  And Scully knew it.  She wasn't sure whether she should be
annoyed with the kid gloves treatment or appreciative of his
sensitivity.  She decided that a neutral answer would be easiest in
the long run.

"I'm recommending that this case be run through the Violent Criminal
Apprehension Program database," she replied.  "Quite frankly, I
don't know why Kersh had me do this work at all, rather than just
running it through VICAP to begin with." 

"To test you?  To gather proof of your investigative skills so he
can recommend you for another position?" Mulder suggested.  "You
said yourself, Scully, that he might try to split us up."

She was in a bad enough mood already.  The thought of Kersh
re-assigning her made her blood boil.  Her jaw tightened.  "Yes,
well," she muttered, "if he tries, I'm going to have to give him a
special demonstration on doing Y-incisions."

"Can I sell tickets?  We'd make a fortune, Scully."

Scully looked down at the unfinished report and sighed.  "Mulder, I
should really get back to work here.  Was there anything else?"

"Well, I've checked my e-mail, voicemail, and my answering machine
at home.  Nothing else from Kurt."

"I checked my e-mail and my messages, too.  Nothing."

There was silence for a moment.

"Scully, you said you'd be done in about an hour, right?  What were
you planning on doing after that?"  Then he added quickly, "Of
course, by then the guys will probably have these messages
deciphered and we'll be on our way to meet Kurt."

Scully chose to ignore his optimism, not wanting to get her hopes
up.  "I'm not certain what I'll do.  Probably go home and read
through more of those downloaded files.  Why?"

"I'm getting pretty antsy, here, Scully, and I think the guys are
sick of me hovering.  I should probably get out of here for a while
after I pick up the food.  I think you could stand to get outdoors,
too.  You want to meet somewhere?  One o'clock, say?"

Scully shook her head without thinking that he couldn't see her. 
"Mulder, I should really -- "

"We've both been cooped up inside, Scully.  Come on.  It's a
beautiful day.  And I want to show you the great ID's Frohike made
for us," he added, starting to sound as enthusiastic as a kid on his
way to Disneyland.  "He really outdid himself."  

Scully sighed again. Mulder's attempt at distracting her from her
thoughts about the Jack Morse case and Kurt Crawford was
transparent, but nonetheless appreciated.  "All right.  Potomac? 
The usual bench?"

"Scully, you're such a romantic." 

She heard the grin in his voice, but ignored his gentle tease. 
"I'll see you at one."

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Office of the Lone Gunmen
Saturday, 11:46 a.m.


"And I want to show you the great ID's Frohike made for us," Mulder
enthused.  "He really outdid himself."  

Frohike cocked his head in Mulder's direction, listening but not
wanting to let Mulder know that he was listening.  He caught Byers'
and Langly's eyes and knew they were doing the same thing.

"Scully, you're such a romantic."

All six Gunmen eyebrows shot up, but they quickly pasted innocent
looks on their faces and returned their attention to their computers
when Mulder turned back toward them, his conversation over.  A huge
grin spread over his face.

"Decisions made?" Mulder asked.

Byers gestured to a list on the edge of the table.  "You know the
way to the sub shop, right?"

"Yeah." Mulder picked up the piece of paper and scanned it.  "What
are you doing, feeding half the neighborhood?" he asked, still
smiling.

"You made a generous offer, we're taking advantage of it," Frohike
replied.

"I don't recall =offering= to buy you lunch.  I believe it had
something to do with extortion." The grin remained and Mulder
grabbed his jacket.  He shoved the list and his cell phone in the
pocket.  "Be back in thirty."

Langly followed him to the door and re-locked it after Mulder had
left.  The three gave each other questioning looks, then Langly
broke the silence.  "He's in a good mood."

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Half an hour later, Mulder and three hungry Gunmen gathered at the
table closest to the kitchen to dig in to the lunch Mulder had
picked up.

"We still have several things to try with those messages," Byers
said, pulling sandwiches and bags of potato chips out of one of the
large sacks.  "The number of variables used to encode messages makes
the possible encryption methods almost limitless."

"How much longer do you think you'll need?" Mulder asked.

"Hard to say," Langly responded.  "Part of it is luck -- trying the
right things at the right time."  He pulled drinks, straws, napkins,
and packages of condiments from another bag, while Frohike removed
grease-soaked containers and forks out of a third bag.

Mulder made a face that was a cross between impatient and stricken. 
It wasn't lost on Frohike.  "We're hoping to crack it this
afternoon," the Gunman added.  "I have a feeling we're getting
close."

Mulder nodded while he collected his drink, sandwich, and French
fries from the food spread out on the table.  His reverie was broken
by a sudden squabble.

"Hey!  Those are my fries," Langly protested, gesturing at the
container in front of Frohike.

"You snooze, you lose, kid," Frohike replied.

"If you wanted fries, you should have asked for some, =Melvin=."

"Right now you're asking for a knuckle sandwich, =Ringo=."

"All right, all right," Mulder interrupted.  "No wonder we never go
out to nice restaurants.  I can't count on you to behave."  He
plunked down his own fries in front of Langly.  "Can you boys play
nice now?"  He grabbed a second sandwich, another can of soda, and
two bags of potato chips from the table and placed them in one of
the now-empty sacks along with his own sandwich and drink.

Byers watched him and cocked an eyebrow, but the face he made was
friendly, teasing.  "Two of everything, Mulder?  And you accused us
of ordering a lot of food?"

"The extra is for Scully.  I'm meeting her at one o'clock.  Thought
you guys would like to get rid of me for a while."

"Sharing a meal with the lovely Dr. Scully?  I wouldn't mind that,"
Frohike smiled.  "Actually there's a lot of things I'd like to share
with the lovely Dr. Scully."

"Get in line," Mulder muttered under his breath, stuffing napkins
into the bag.

Frohike looked up at him.  "No shit, Sherlock."

"What?" Mulder snapped his head up at him, startled.

"You heard me.  But I'll repeat it to emphasize my point."  He
leaned in closer to Mulder to speak, his words slow and careful. 
"NO.  SHIT.  SHERLOCK."

Mulder stared.  "What the hell does =that= mean?"  Realizing he was
all but gawking, he re-focused himself on the table, grabbing straws
and adding them to his bag.

"When are you going to tell her, Mulder?" Frohike asked.

"Tell who what?"

"You know damn well what I'm talking about," Frohike growled.

"No, I'm afraid I don't."  < Danger.  Danger.  Proceed with extreme
caution.>  He grabbed packages of mustard and mayonnaise and threw
them in the bag.

Byers and Langly looked at each other.

"It's obvious even to us, Mulder," Byers said quietly.

"Yeah, we're pretty dense about this sort of stuff, but..." Langly
added.

"=What=?" Mulder demanded.  

"We see the way you and Scully talk to each other.  Look at each
other.  Get in each other's faces," Frohike said.

Mulder gave them his best confused look.  "The way we do =what=?" 
He looked at Frohike, then Langly, then Byers.  "This is a joke,
right?"  He rolled over the top of the bag to close it, giving it
much more attention than necessary.

"Give it up, Mulder," Langly responded.  "After all these years, we
can read you like a comic book."

"You're serious, aren't you?  Look, there's nothing to read.  If you
think there's something going on between Scully and me, you're
wrong."  

"On the contrary," Byers corrected.  "We're sure that there =isn't=
anything going on between you and Scully.  And we're wondering why
not."

"We are partners.  Period."  He continued rolling the top of the
bag, even though it was securely closed.  "Give it up yourselves,
boys.  There's nothing to talk about."

"If there's nothing to talk about, then why are you strangling that
bag?" Langly demanded.

Mulder released the bag, backed away from the table, and grabbed his
jacket.  "We're partners," he repeated.  "That's all."  < Get the
jacket on and get out the door.  NOW.>

"You're full of shit, Mulder," Frohike interjected.  "Or is it just
that you're even blinder than we thought?"

< I'm not blind.  Just paralyzed.  Different problem.>  Mulder shook
his head as though he were tired of a drawn-out joke.  "I have to
go.  Call us when you've got those messages deciphered."  He threw
on the jacket and stuffed the pockets with the money and ID's he'd
gotten from Frohike, and a CD onto which he'd copied the various
passenger manifests.  Then he grabbed the food bag and stalked to
the door, snapping open the locks as quickly as he could.  When he
started to turn the doorknob, he heard Frohike's voice.

"Mulder."

Mulder stopped, took a breath, and turned to face the Gunmen again.

"You should tell her, Mulder," Frohike insisted.  "And soon.  What
the hell are you waiting for?"

Mulder had no answer for him, nor for himself.

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J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, DC
Saturday, 12:40 p.m.


Scully deposited the sealed report into the inter-office mail bin. 
She stood for a moment, just staring at the envelope, as though
saying a silent goodbye.  Then she took a breath and returned to her
desk, slipping on her coat and gathering her briefcase and laptop.

She rode the elevator down to the parking garage and locked her
briefcase and computer in the trunk of her car.  Then she returned
to the building and exited at street level, heading toward her
rendezvous with Mulder.

She was unaware that she was being watched.

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- end Chapter 8c -

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Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com.

Many, many thanks to my wonderful beta reader, Jintian, for her
extra efforts to get 8b and 8c ready so I could post before
going on vacation.  I couldn't do this without you, Jintian. :)