TITLE:  "Liar" 1/1

AUTHOR:  Mystphile@aol.com

Distribution:  Gossamer, Ephemeral, Xemplary, yes; others,
yes, but please ask.

Classification:  S, post-ep Biogenesis Rating:  PG13

Summary:  Scully's thoughts during a white-knuckled flight to
the Ivory Coast.  A secret fund is disclosed.

Spoilers:  Anything up to end of season six.

Disclaimer:  They are not my characters

Feedback:  Welcome




Her stomach stayed behind--about a hundred feet north of the
rest of her body--as the tiny plane plunged into yet another air
pocket.  This last leg of the flight to the Ivory Coast was
Scully's worst nightmare brought to light.  She clung to
existence (and to the arms of her seat) in what purported to be
a prop plane, a battered, near-dead  veteran of the Second World
War. Saying it was roped together would be generous, Scully
thought. More like twine.  Scotch tape.  Glue.  As for a
propeller, it felt as if burros were supplying the sporadic
power.  Or an exhausted,  dwindling flock of hummingbirds.  She
dabbed at the sweat dripping down her face and wondered if she
would survive.

The things I do for you, Mulder, she thought.  And for me.

Usually Mulder was the one who dipped into "the fund."  This was
the first time Scully had taken out money, although they'd
discussed using it after Kersh had billed them for their
abortive attempt to save Mr. Crump.  Then, she had insisted that
the fund be preserved for true emergencies, not for trivial
domestic costs.

The fund had begun about eight or nine months after the death of
Mulder's father.  After probate, Mulder had found himself owner
of a valuable Vineyard property and a lavish portfolio of stocks
and bonds.  Either Bill Mulder was an investment genius, or he
was on the take.  In either case, he died a rich man and left
his entire estate to his son.

Around the time the will was probated and the property sold,
Mulder had acted strange and secretive (more so than usual) for
a month or two.  Then, as they were walking through the parking
garage one evening, he'd asked Scully to meet him for a drink in
a certain bar in Georgetown.  Puzzled by his low murmur and
barely moving lips, she had agreed.  "Should I wear a disguise?"
she'd asked.

"Come as you are."

That night, Mulder had sat in a dark corner nursing a dark ale
of the sort he'd probably acquired a taste for in his Oxford
days.  When Scully finally located him in the shadows, a
difficult task given that he was wearing his black turtleneck,
he'd slid two items across the sticky table:  a tiny key and a
small card.

In the dark in all senses of the phrase, Scully had squinted and
asked, "What's this?"

"Emblems.  Of our ticket to freedom, to take off when it's
necessary.  To buy information.  Whatever."

"You've lost me, Mulder."

His teeth flashed in the darkness.  "I hope not.  That's exactly
what I'm trying to prevent."

"So, are we gonna play Twenty Questions or are you going to tell
me what's going on?  And since you invited me for a drink, will
you snag the waiter next time he goes by?"  Scully shed her
trench coat and picked up the items. The key looked like it
would fit a safe deposit box.  Okay, she thought, next item.

She held it up to catch the rays of the candle that flickered in
a jar on the table.  It was a signature card for a safe deposit
box.  It held space for two signatures, one of which was already
filled in:  Fox Mulder.  The other typed name, waiting for a
signature, was her own.  "This is so sudden,"  she said.

Mulder waved at the waiter and Scully relayed her order.  Then
he leaned forward.  "Okay, here's what it's for.  My dad left a
fucking fortune."  He shook his head.  "Ill-gotten gains, if I'm
not mistaken.  Well, I like to think there's some irony in using
his money against the people he knew and worked with.  If not
worse," he finished vaguely.

Scully's brow arched.  "We're gonna be vigilantes?  Count me
out, Mulder."

"More like an emergency fund," he said.  "Sometimes we need to
go somewhere in a hurry, you know?   Like when I needed to fly
from San Diego to Japan. The FBI doesn't cover that kind of
travel, as you know.  So why shouldn't we have our own fund? 
For travel or expenses the Bureau won't cover.  For paying
informants.  For financing work by the Lone Gunmen.  Even paying
ransom for each other, if necessary."

He drew back and sat silent while more drinks were delivered. 
He stared at Scully, waiting for her response.

"So," she said slowly, "this is going to be in cash.  You don't
want a bank account."

He nodded.  "Right.  Untraceable.  Either of us to have access
to the box. The only thing we should agree on is to tell each
other when we've taken money out.  That way, I can replenish it
when necessary."

"Makes sense," she said.  "An emergency fund.  I like that.  So
next time you go haring off to the ends of the earth, I can
follow you even if my credit cards are maxed out."  She smiled. 
"Smart move, Mulder."

He drank.  "Thanks.  I think it'd be even smarter to keep some
extra passports and credit cards in there.  Give me some
passport size photos and some fake names.  I'll have them made
up."

She signed the card and handed it back to Mulder.  Then she
picked up the key and placed it deep within her wallet.  "How
much cash are you putting in the box?"

"Two hundred grand."

Scully was glad she didn't have a mouth full of liquid.  She
spluttered anyway.  "Jesus, Mulder, where do you expect us to
go?"

He shrugged.  "I just want us to be free to do what we need to
do."  He placed the signature card in his jacket pocket.  "I'll
take this to the bank tomorrow and transfer the cash.  Any time
after tomorrow, you can access the box.  Just tell me when you
do.  I want two hundred grand in there at all times."

Scully tasted her drink and teased.  "Maybe I'll take your money
and disappear.  I could buy a lot of time in a warm place by the
sea with that kind of cash."

Mulder had just smiled.  "I trust you, Scully."

Scully teared up thinking about it.  She was using the deposit
box money for the first time.  It didn't make her happy to be
jetting--wait--wrong word for the bouncing she was doing at the
moment.  She felt as if she were on a pogo stick.  Thank god
she'd never been seasick.  She began her thought again. She was
not happy to have left Mulder incapacitated.  Strike "happy,"
too. She was...miserable.  Yes, that was the word.  And,
ironically, she *was* headed to a warm place by the sea.

Up until now, Mulder had been the only one to use the contents
of the box. He had needed it to fly to Tunguska and to bribe his
way out of Russia. Without the cash from the box, he might have
never escaped.  Also, without Mulder's second raid of the
contents of that box, she herself might still be frozen in
Antarctica.  The FBI didn't normally send its agents to other
continents.  The reason became obvious when, following their
return that summer, a hefty stack of bonds had to be sold to
replenish the funds.  She'd felt bad when Mulder, as per their
agreement, told her what amount he'd used and replaced.  The
enormous cost of retrieving her boggled the mind.  But Mulder
laughed and said that he'd spend every penny he had, not just
the cash in the box, to recover her.

She could do no less.  He was lost in a different way but lost
nonetheless. She would use the funds and all her personal
resources to recover him.  If she lived.  If the plane,
shuddering hard enough to register on the Richter scale, landed
safely.  She thought she'd be lucky if she merely had to have
her fillings replaced.  She gripped the arms of the seat and
clamped her mouth shut.  She decided it was time for a pep talk.

She had the financial means, she told her shuddering self, she
had a fierce determination, and she believed Mulder's condition
would improve, once the drugs wore off.  She believed this
because she was experiencing her own version of psychic
intuition.  She'd tried to brush it off, call it a coincidence,
but finally, she faced the facts.  She had *heard* Sandoz.  Some
power had let her intuit where he went and hear him when he was
clearly out of hearing range.  For an instant she'd felt like
the Bionic Woman.  Weird.

All the time she was in New Mexico, strange feelings had
assailed her. Mulder had held his head when struck by intuitive
thoughts or aural dissonance.  She found herself, without even
realizing it, holding her own head in New Mexico.  Besides, the
whole time she was gone, she felt... attached to Mulder;
something had been tugging--gently but insistently--on the other
end of a psychic string.  She didn't know what; she just knew
something was wrong and that she was being jerked around.  She
felt off-balance, not always clearheaded.  Then the phone call
from Skinner had set her into flight, back where she belonged,
to where the cord was pulling her.

Was she also affected by whatever had overpowered Mulder?  Was
she just slower in responding to whatever it was?   That would
make sense, she told herself.  He was so highly intuitive that
he might be more  sensitive to...whatever it might be.  Or, she
thought, there was another possibility. She and Mulder had
established a psychic connection while buried together
underground.  If they had shared hallucinations, maybe there was
a residue of that connection.  Certainly, when she'd returned to
DC and rushed to the hospital, she'd felt the tug grow stronger.
Their connection, the cord, was like a wet rope that had dried
in the sun.  As it tightened, it cut into her psyche.  And it
hurt.

Part of it was seeing Mulder in pain.  The connection *was*
there.  His pain was her pain.  He manifested it outwardly, loud
and overt.  Howling.  She swallowed the pain and put on her game
face to meet Fowley and Skinner.

Fowley was odious.  No other word for it.  "Thank you for
coming" indeed. Fucking bitch, she thought.  But as superior as
she tried to act, Fowley was floundering, Scully realized in a
flash of intuition.  Fowley had spent at least part of the night
at Mulder's.  And she still knew nothing.  She was full of
questions; she didn't even know what artifact was at the center
of the case.  Mulder had not trusted her with information.

Then she lied.  She said that Mulder had called her because she
was the only one who'd believe him.  Gotcha! Scully thought. 
Liar!  He'd call me, or the Lone Gunmen, or even Chuck.  In
previous encounters, Scully's insecurities had left her
vulnerable to Fowley mindgames.  Not this time.  Either she'd
been tied so tightly to Mulder through their joint hallucination
that she *knew* his loyalty--his connection--was with her.  Or
she was affected by the same force as Mulder, and thus *knew*
Fowley was lying.  Just as Mulder had known Barnes was lying. 
Had known Skinner was not telling the full truth. Like Mulder,
she could feel it.

And then she felt it from Skinner as well.  Her intuitions were
sharp, her mind assailed by a strange blend of logic and an
inner radar that shouts, this person is lying. It was like she'd
had an internal lie detector installed.

Her course was clear.  Go to the source; find out more about the
artifact. She now believed it had affected Mulder.  It may have
affected her, or she was being affected through Mulder.  It made
no difference.  The artifact was the key.  But first, she had to
make sure Mulder was safe.  She could not leave him in the hands
of those...liars.

Never had she acted so quickly or decisively.  She made travel
arrangements, raided the safe deposit box, and contacted a
lawyer to show him the durable power of attorney that Mulder had
signed.  She was the only person holding power of attorney
should Mulder become incapacitated.  In her case, Mulder and her
mother held joint power.

Less than an hour before leaving the country, she finally
succeeded in having Mulder transferred to a private facility,
one whose location she shared with no one but the Lone Gunmen
and the trusted security force they promised to employ.  She had
also called in all her markers and personally chosen his medical
team.  All these arrangements had made a considerable dent in
the emergency fund, but now she knew how Mulder had felt when
she was in the Antarctic.  Every penny and more could be spent. 
He was worth it.  There was no sum too great to insure his
recovery and safety.

At last, one eye on her watch, she approached his bedside. 
Although he was drowsy, he was in restraints since he still
erupted from time to time, particularly when a lot of people
were around.  It was as if their noises drove him crazy, like a
swarm of bees diving into his ears.  She hoped she wouldn't
experience that stage, particularly since she hoped to see the
original source of the artifact, not just a rubbing.

Knowing how sensitive he was, she approached him slowly.  She
tried to clear her mind of worry or panic, not wanting to infect
him and start him thrashing again.  Although her footsteps were
silent, he sensed her presence and opened his eyes.  She leaned
closer to examine his face, searching for signs of lucidity. 
His eyes glittered.  She realized they were filled with tears.

"It's all right," she whispered to him.  "I've gotten you into a
safe place. With guards.  The Gunmen are here.  No one will hurt
you here."

He sighed gently and closed his eyes.

"I'd stay with you if I could.  You know that," she whispered. 
"But I think I need to track down the original artifact, so
that's where I'm going.  I have to leave in a few minutes."

His eyes opened again.  They looked unfocused.  But he was not
in pain.  His forehead was unlined, not scrunched in pain.  He
had not spoken a word since the hoarse shouting ended.  She
thought the residue of the drugs in his system kept him silent. 
He'd been given enough to make a horse keel over.

She wondered if he understood what she was saying.  She decided
to test their connection.  If she could tell that Fowley and
Skinner were lying, if she could detect Sandoz's presence far
off in a hospital, why could she not "pick up" the thoughts of
the man to whom she was so deeply connected?  With whom she'd
shared her hallucinatory thoughts.  With whom she'd gotten on
the same wave length in the ambulance, hearing him ask
her--without words--to extend her hand.  And, without looking,
she knew where his hand would be.

She silenced her inner voices.  She tuned in her inner ear.  She
listened. Hard.  She thought she heard:  Scully.  Scully.  Don't
trust them.  Go.  Do what you need to do.

She willed herself to think, over and over:  Will you be okay? 
Are you any better?  Are you okay?  Can I do anything?

She quieted her thoughts, closed her eyes, and concentrated,
hoping to hear a return message.  What came through was:  I'll
be better.  One person at a time in my room.  Please.  Please.

She nodded.  She whispered, "I'll give that order.  I'll be back
as soon as I can.  Get well."

She wondered why he was so blurry, then realized she was viewing
him through a film of tears.  She blinked and leaned over his
bed, slowly, making sure her movement didn't frighten him.  She
didn't want to make him hysterical again.

His eyelids were drooping; obviously, her presence did not alarm
him.  On the contrary, he looked more relaxed than drugged, as
if, with Scully in the room, all was right with his world. 
Peace settled over his features.  Maybe the drugs were wearing
off and with isolation and time to adjust to his new state, he
would become functional.

She touched her lips to his forehead, leaving them there for
several seconds. She trailed her fingers down his cheek, prickly
with stubble.  Seeing a speechless Mulder was  shocking.  His
ideas were such a large part of what gave him life.  "I have to
go," she said again.  "I'll be in Africa.  I'll be back as soon
as I can."

She leaned over the bed and rested her head on his shoulder for
an instant, pressing their upper bodies together.  With so much
of Mulder absent--it was like she was missing part of herself. 
She forced herself to pull away, to stand tall, to blink away
the tears, and to tamp down any panicky thoughts lest they
infect him in his vulnerable state.  His eyes, however, showed
no panic, just warmth.  His hand twitched, long fingers
stretching upwards.  She laid her hand in his.  He gave her hand
a weak squeeze and his eyes closed again.  His fingers continued
to curl around hers.

She stood by the bed a few more minutes, feeling the warmth and
slight pressure from his fingers, needing the contact.  Get
well, she thought.  Come back.  I need you.

Just as she was about to release his hand, another voice seemed
to enter her mind.  It said:  I need you too.

She smiled, leaned over and kissed his cheek, and gently
withdrew her hand. She left without looking back.

Now, if this crate held together about ten more minutes, she'd
be on the ground.  Then after some land travel, undoubtedly in
the greatest discomfort, she would be at the site of the
artifact.  Why did she feel trapped in an Indiana Jones movie? 
And here she was with no bullwhip.  Her only weapons, oddly
enough, were her beliefs.  In her, in him, in them.

The plane lurched again.  Badly.  Sickeningly.  She closed her
eyes, grasped the seat arms with knuckles already beyond white,
and prayed to the God she'd always believed in for a safe
landing.

END