THE BOY THEY CALLED JACK


Missing scenes following Jackson's disappearance from the hospital in 11x05 Ghouli


This chapter includes lines and paraphrasing of lines taken directly from X Files episodes 01x21 (Tooms), 04x14 (Memento Mori), 10x01 (My Struggle I), and 10x04 (Home Again). No copyright infringement intended. All duplication is strictly for the purpose of remaining canon with the X-Files mythology and overall storyline. Direct quotes can be found in bold. Quotes paraphrased, while not bolded will be quite obvious and easily recognizable to anyone who has watched the series. Credit: X-Files writers and FOX.


SCULLY

We've been sitting in a small, isolated waiting area just down the hall from the crime scene for well over an hour. The DoD took over the crime scene immediately following the shooting, relieving both Mulder and me of our weapons, phones, and badges. So far we've been told very little other than the fact that we are not here to perform at any level of investigatory capacity. While I wasn't entirely surprised that they confiscated our weapons, I'm still not sure what to make of them taking our phones and badges. Unable to call Skinner, we've had little to do other than to wait.

Initially, I feared that they had been successful in capturing William, but after observing the officers around us interact and speak in hushed tones for the past hour, I now highly doubt that's true.

Of all the things currently unclear, the one thing that is clear is that the DoD knows something that we don't.

"Agents Mulder and Scully?"

We both nod.

"I'm Officer McPherson with the Department of Defense, and I'm going to need to both to come with me."

Exchanging glances we follow him down a flight of stairs and through a series of hallways into what appears to be a security office. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but opening the door to find Skinner speaking to military personnel in full uniform was not one of them. The man who I immediately peg as being the one in charge is not someone that I recognize, and based on the way Mulder is assessing him, he doesn't either.

"Agents Mulder and Scully, this is Colonel Nease. He will be personally overseeing the Van De Kamp investigation moving forward. I believe you met several of his officers at the crime scene early this morning," Skinner says by way of introduction. His voice is steady, but his eyes and tone warn us to tread lightly.

Nease shakes neither of our outstretched hands and wastes no time getting directly to the point.

"Either one of you care to explain why you failed to apprehend a suspect suspected of killing three of my officers and two civilians?"

"I'm not sure what —"

"Cut the shit, Agent Scully, I've got three dead officers out there, and I don't have time for your bullshit," he says silencing me.

Nodding, he signals for one of the other officers in the room to turn on the projector on the opposing wall, directing our eyes to watch the surveillance footage leading up to and following the shooting of the two fallen DoD officers in the hallway.

Watching two officers open fire on one other for no apparent reason is troubling, but that's not what causes my stomach to drop.

Out from underneath the workstation emerges Jackson Van De Kamp. The terrified nurse Mulder and I saw is nowhere to be seen.

For a moment, the room is completely silent. If it weren't for the freeze-framed image stilled on the wall in front of me, I wouldn't believe it myself.

"Your superior seems to think that there are some extenuating circumstances at play, so instead of cuffing you first and asking questions later, I'm asking the questions first. So I'll ask again," his voice rising. "Why, with two dead Department of Defense operatives on the floor, did you not apprehend Jackson Van De Kamp?"

The silence in the room is so deafening that all that can be heard is the humming of the computers and screens around us. In the freeze frame, you can see both of our expressions clearly. Both of us looking directly at Van De Kamp and neither of us raising our weapons or making a move to stop him.

"I think it's fairly clear from our expressions and body language that we were not aware of who he was. Had we have recognized him, I can assure you that we would have pursued him."

How Mulder managed to find his voice is beyond me, because, at the moment, I'm incapable of speech.

"So you're not going to deny that you let a young male matching the general description of Van De Kamp run away without stopping him to question him or confirm his identity?"

"Clearly that is not something that either of us is in a position to deny."

I can tell by Nease's expression that he is bit surprised by Mulder's lack of defensiveness and admission of error. The look of confusion that crosses his face, however, is short-lived, giving way to annoyance and then fury.

"So tell me Agents Mulder and Scully … Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have you both charged with obstructing justice," Nease says, his voice rising a decibel with each word he expels.

I should speak, but the shock of seeing my son on film has stunned me into silence, reducing me to exactly what I am at this very moment. Right now, I'm not a federal agent or a physician. I'm a mother ... a mother who has just seen her missing son alive for the first time in over 16 years.

My silence leaves Mulder to speak for both of us. His tone is level, but his voice has an edge to it that I've only heard a handful of times in all the years I've known him.

"I think you're asking the wrong questions, Colonel."

"I beg your pardon."

"How was a troubled teenage boy able to manipulate multiple licensed medical professionals into zipping him into body bag, monopolize highly trained operatives into opening fire on the other with no visible barriers or any apparent circumstances that would have impaired their judgment, and exit a hospital surrounded by armed local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies without being pursued or identified? Those, Colonel Nease, are the questions you should be asking."

The entire room is stunned into silence at Mulder's brazenness, but the Colonel's silent, seething, furry does little to deter him. Without pause, he continues to charge forward despite the rising temperature in the room.

"Because I'm willing to bet my right kidney that if you continue to roll that footage, you will find that Jackson Van De Kamp bypassed multiple law enforcement personnel on his way out the door … including your own. None of which will question him or give him a moment's pause."

Nease, at this point, has clearly had enough. Taking an aggressive step towards Mulder, he raises his arm as if he's going to poke Mulder aggressively in the center of his chest.

"I'll fucking have your —"

"You've already taken my badge, and if I'm wrong, you can keep it."

"Roll it," Skinner says, interrupting the showdown between Nease and Mulder before it escalates to the point of no return.

"Assistant Director Skinner —"

"Colonel Nease …"

Skinner's tone is respectful and calm, doing his best to deescalate the tension building between Nease and Mulder.

"I'm well aware of the fact that I am outside of the chain of command and that I have no official say in this matter, but if Agent Mulder happens to be right, that would mean that you have additional witnesses to interview. If Van De Kamp did indeed leave this hospital undetected by officers who should have recognized him, I would imagine that you would want to know why."

Taking a deep breath, Nease places his hands in his pockets as he appraises Skinner, his gaze shifting between Skinner and Mulder before coming to rest on me.

"Run the footage. Follow Van De Kamp out."

Just as Mulder predicted, Jackson easily bypasses multiple local and federal officers on his way to the north exit. None of which appear to recognize him or give him a moment's pause despite the fact that he perfectly matches the description and photographs distributed to all agencies.

"Well, I'll be damned," says the officer controlling the feed. His comment earns him a look from the Colonel that immediately silences him from making any further comment.

Nease is also silent. His confusion appears to be genuine. If he's working for those who pursue our son for his alien DNA, he's playing his cards well. The look he gives Mulder is a cross between furry, confusion, and intrigue.

"Care to share with the class Agent Mulder, since you clearly know something I do not?"

"When you interview these officers, they will all deny seeing or speaking to Van De Kamp. Should they happen to recall this precise moment," he says pointing to the frozen frame on the screen of a local law enforcement officer directing Jackson to a hospital exit. "They will describe a woman in her mid to late 20s to early 30s wearing navy scrubs."

The room falls silent.

"And you expect me to buy that? To believe that what is in full living color right in front of my eyes is not an accurate account of what these officers saw?"

"I know what I saw Colonel, and it wasn't Jackson Van De Kamp. I suspect their experience will be similar."

"And I'm to believe this over a more reasonable conclusion? One where you and Agent Scully made sure that Agent Scully's son escaped unscathed?"

Something in one of our expressions must have given him the confirmation of acknowledgment he was seeking because his rant doesn't relent.

"Oh, you thought you could run the analysis, and nobody else would notice? You are both operating so far outside of investigative ethics and jurisdiction that — "

"Colonel Nease, may I have a moment with my agents?"

Stepping out into the hallway, Mulder doesn't waste any time getting to point.

"Skinner, you know damn well what that footage means."

"Keep your voice down Mulder. And yes, I do know, but that doesn't change the fact that if we don't navigate this carefully, we're all done. I'm here to help, but my reach only extends so far. Kersh is far from amused."

"Is it even remotely possible that he is as green as he's acting? Odds are we aren't playing with a full deck, to begin with. You know this goes. You know how they operate."

"There's no way to be certain, but either way, you'll accomplish nothing by pushing this, especially if the deck is already stacked."

"He's right Mulder," I say quietly. "We can't fight from behind bars."

Before anything else can be said, the door opens.

Whatever patience the Colonel initially possessed is certainly gone now.

"Agents?"

The screens in the room are now dark, and based on the body language of the other officers in the room it's clear that we weren't the only ones discussing strategy.

Having snapped out of my earlier stupor, I make sure that I'm the first to speak.

"Colonel Nease, as a law enforcement officer and medical doctor, I too am at a loss to explain what Agent Mulder and I saw today. We never saw Jackson Van De Kamp. What we saw was a terrified female nurse, who we let go without question. As for the DNA testing … Agent Mulder and I were investigating the assault and attempted murder of two teenage girls who we learned were both associated with Van De Kamp. His potential involvement in that crime was determined during the course of our investigation and was not something we were privy to before taking the case. I ran the DNA analysis to ensure that ethical lines were not crossed, because I had reason to believe, given the information I was provided about my son's adoptive family years ago, that Van De Kamp could very well be my biological child. So before performing his autopsy, I ran the analysis to ensure that the integrity and ethics surrounding this case would be maintained, fully intending to recuse myself should my suspicions be confirmed."

It's a lie, and I suspect he knows as much, but it's reasonable enough to be dismissed as fact.

"Yet here you stand in the middle of my crime scene, well aware of who he is and his relation to you."

"With all due respect sir, if your son, who you hadn't seen in over 16 years had just risen from the dead, could you just get on a plane and go back to D.C.?"

To this Nease says nothing. Nobody in this room can explain how two paramedics, responding officers, and two M.D.s, myself included, pronounced an undead teenager dead at the scene. Or how anyone, teenager or not, could have survived a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head without medical attention, escaped the morgue, and sing-handedly eliminated the trained professionals sent to capture him.

The idea that Mulder or myself could have orchestrated such a feat to save him is equally ludicrous given the number of different agencies involved and the nature of circumstances. That, right now, is our only saving grace. Charging us with obstruction of justice would be reckless, especially given that Nease's officers made the same error we had.

Nease has clearly worked out the same algorithm in his mind and is musing carefully over his next move.

His lack of impulsiveness gives me pause. This is not a man who is merely following orders, if he were, Mulder and I would be in separate cells in the bowels of justice building or a body bag.

"I suggest that you both make yourselves easy to find, should we have any further questions," he says shifting his eyes between Mulder and me before settling them on Skinner.

"And might I suggest to you, Assistant Director Skinner, the importance of impressing the art of coloring between the lines to those under your command who have a knack for coloring outside of them."

To this Skinner only nods.

"Officer McPherson will show you out. And, Agents … If I am to see you again, it better be because I sent for you."

"You've made yourself clear," Mulder tells him.

"Stay put for the next 12 hours. After that, I would strongly suggest that you find yourselves back on a flight to D.C."

Once outside the building, McPherson reiterates the order to leave the premise immediately.

We exchange glances as we start in the general direction of our rental, silently agreeing to make the best of our walk through the mayhem. Separating only briefly, we scan the parking lot, making it a point not to do anything to draw attention to ourselves.

"Anything?" I ask him as we both approach the car.

"No. Nothing."

He pulls me into his arms and anchors me in place.

"It's late Scully," he says after a few moments. "We should head back to the hotel; there's little we can do at this point other than wait."

I nod because he's right. Even if William is still here somewhere, his ability to mask his identity will make him impossible to find, and poking around after being explicitly told to leave would not be wise. Not that it's stopped us before, but in this case, there is little to be gained by poking. We were able to get what we needed from the Van De Kamp scene before the DoD took over and have a pretty good idea of what caused the experienced operatives to turn on one another.

Sensing my unease, Mulder opens the passenger door for me as we both scan the faces of those standing around us, each of us wondering if one of them could be William.

We say very little on the short drive to the hotel. The comfortable silence we can hold between us has always been an aspect of our partnership that I have treasured. While we do have a great deal to discuss, I don't have to ask him what he is thinking. Not really. His silence is telling enough. With the DoD now aware of our connection to 'Jackson,' it's safe to assume that our every move is now being monitored. Given what we've experienced in the past and the nature of claims Price has made, it would be reckless to assume that any conversation occurring in our rental or in close proximity to our phones would be secure.

With this in mind, we make it a point to leave all of our electronic devices in the car when we arrive at the hotel.

"We should change rooms," I tell him.

"Let's take a look around first; we may actually be okay with our phones in the car."

Placing his hand on the small of my back, he gently takes the key card from my hand, unlocks the door to my room, and follows me inside. Having left the adjoining door between our rooms opened, he goes into his room and rustles around in his suitcase for the portable scanning device that he now carries with him everywhere. It's not as sophisticated as the equipment we have at home, but it's better than nothing. We have both always had a healthy sense of paranoia given our history and line of work, but after the Russians, Mulder has taken it to an entirely different level. He relentlessly and continuously scans our homes, vehicles, and office for bugs. While at times it's exhausting, nerve-wracking, and downright annoying, it can also be oddly comforting.

Quickly running the wand over light fixtures, electrical outlets, and phone jacks, he gives me a nod, waving for me to hand him my gun and badge which also scan clean. While we're both fully aware that a clean scan doesn't mean we are completely in the clear, the fact that nothing appears to have been moved or gone through in our absence gives me some level of comfort. I'm meticulous in how I organize, fold, and place my things, so if someone had gone through them, I would be able to tell. Mulder, on the other hand, is not as easily convinced. Without saying a word, he opens every drawer and shines his flashlight behind every piece of furniture in my room before returning to his room to do more of the same.

Removing my coat, I sit heavily on the edge of the bed and listen to Mulder rustle around next door.

"What do you think the odds are of finding a bug with that thing if they've planted one?" I ask him.

"I don't know, but I won't be able to sleep if I don't at least try."

"We could just switch rooms."

"None of the tape I left this morning has been disturbed, so I think we are okay. What about your things?"

Tape. Of course, he left tape.

"If anything has been touched, they sent in a woman with an immaculate photographic memory and a touch of OCD, because everything is just as I left it."

It's meant to be a joke, but neither of us laughs.

"Would you like me to order us some food?" he asks, peeking his head through the door.

"If you do, only something light. I'm not that hungry. My stomach has been weird all day, and that was before all of this."

He nods silently and then disappears back into his room.

I can hear him on the phone, but don't pay much attention to what he's saying.

Opening my coat, I pull out the pictures I managed to conceal in its lining before the DoD forced us to leave the Van De Kamp scene. The DNA test confirmed William's identity but offered very little perspective. Had he been loved, cared for, and appreciated? Or had his entire childhood been troubled and disjointed by his abilities, making it impossible for him to make connections?

While I've seen the majority of the pictures already, I know there are still a few that I haven't seen.

My breath catches when I discover one of Jackson as a baby. Standing in a crib with a big smile on his face is the baby boy I remember. He's older, maybe a year or so old, but he's undoubtedly William.

When I first laid eyes on the body of Jackson Van De Kamp, I was hopeful that perhaps I was mistaken about his identity. The young man in the morgue had darker features. While it's possible that William's hair could have darkened over the years to match Mulder's, his eyes had matched mine. Jackson's, on the other hand, were a deep brown. Which makes the pictures I'm looking at now all that much more perplexing. The young boy smiling back at the camera is undoubtedly ours. His eyes, nose, and coloring are mine, but the smile and a playful gleam in his eyes is all Mulder.

Aside from being in somewhat of a chronological order, there is no apparent theme or organization to the pictures. Most are just of him, but there are few with him and his adoptive parents, and one with him and two other boys sitting on the front porch of a farmhouse with big smiles, sun-kissed cheeks, and baseball gloves. I'm struck again by how much his smile and facial expressions favor Mulder. When I flip the photograph over I find 'Jack, Ben, and Zak 2009' written in a cursive script in the bottom right-hand corner.

Seeing him happy, healthy, and loved in his early childhood fills me with a sense of relief that is immediately snatched away when my eyes settle on the next picture. It's still William, but the features that made him so undoubtedly ours are gone. He's older here, ten or eleven maybe, but his fair hair and blue eyes are gone. The child staring back at me now doesn't resemble William at all in his coloring or demeanor … the smirk on his lips more forced than genuine.

There's no date or writing on the back to indicate when it was taken, but it was clearly taken sometime after 2009. The pictures that follow do nothing to relieve the sickness in my stomach. Dark clothes. Stoic affect. All the markers associated with a troubled child. Until I get to very last two pictures.

It's the same dark-haired boy pictured before, only this time he's laughing and holding a brown puppy as it licks his face. The joy on his face is undeniable. Flipping it over I find 'Jack and Abe, July 2010' written in the same distinctive cursive I saw earlier. The final picture is of Jackson with the same dog pictured before; only they are both older. Crouched down along what appears to be the edge of a wheat field, he has his arm draped over Abe — both of them smiling. The photograph is dated September 2011.

I feel the bed dip beside me, but I don't look up.

"I ordered us some food," he says softly.

"I heard, thank you."

I'm not sure how long he's been in the room, but he's been watching me for longer than I realized because I can hear the reverence in his voice.

"Scully —"

"He has my coloring, but his facial expressions and smile are all you," I say, handing him the picture of William standing in his crib.

"He looks happy Scully."

"I think he was, at least for a while," I say as I hand him a few more pictures of William in his early childhood.

"What makes you say that? The medications you found?"

"That and this."

When I hand him the dark, stoic portrayal of our son, Mulder's expression changes just as mine did.

"Something happened to him, Mulder ... something that changed him. The boy in these photos," I say pointing to the ones that he's now set aside, "appears to have changed drastically sometime after 2009. And I'm not just referring to his appearance; his overall affect is different."

"There's no way to know Scully, not from pictures alone. He appears to be happy here," he says, taking the photo of Jackson and the puppy from my hand.

"I think that he may have left these for me to find, and I think he may have picked each one of them for a reason."

"Or —"

"Or he could have selected them to put in his senior yearbook ad or any number of other things. Yes. I realize that, but Mulder … he knew we were coming. The ship in the dream is why we are here. We are here because he told me where to find him. Why would he do that unless he wanted to tell us something? Or perhaps warn us?"

"I haven't had a chance to tell you yet, but I did some digging while I was waiting on the DNA analysis to come back. Both of our names were buried in his search history. He was aware of our work with the X Files. I think that's why he created ghouli. Maybe not to meet us, but to watch us from a distance. I think it's safe to say based on the documents that we found on his computer that he was aware that he was adopted. The ability he possesses would have certainly raised more than the average number of questions concerning who his birth parents were."

Taking in his words, I know he's right. The most straightforward answer is often the right one, but I can't shake the feeling that in this case there is more to it than that.

"They were laying in a stack on his desk in plain sight. Is it really too far fetched to believe that he specifically picked these, leaving them out for us to find?"

"No. I suppose not."

I reach over him to pick up the picture of Jackson with the two other boys on the porch, handing it back to Mulder.

"It's dated 2009 on the back, after this, there aren't any more pictures of him with friends or family members. His hair and eye color changed sometime after this was taken as well."

We remain silent for a moment, each of us silently contemplating the implications.

"Mulder, we didn't dig before because we wanted to protect him, but now … we can't find him or even begin to know how to protect him if we don't know what happened to him or what he's capable of. I know we can't go back to the house or investigate his parent's death, but I can't just do nothing. Not anymore. I have to know what happened to our son."

Before he can respond there's a knock at the door.

"With any luck, that's our dinner and not Skinner, but just to be on the safe side, you might want to put those wherever you had them hidden before."

Nodding, I separate the photos and out into smaller stacks, concealing them in various places in the lining of my coat to avoid making an obvious bulge. Mulder watches me, not looking through the peephole or moving to answer the door until I've obscured all of them.

Fortunately, it is food.

There's little doubt in my mind that Skinner is off somewhere getting skewered for our handling of the Van De Kamp case. If he turns up tonight, it won't be for coffee and a bagel.

"Thanks," Mulder says as he pays the delivery man and closes the door.

"Sandwiches and soup," he says placing the paper sack on the small table by the door. "You've been switching it up on me, so I just ordered the frequent flyers."

"If there's broccoli and cheddar in that bag, it might be love."

"As fate would have it," he says with a smile.

Pulling out spoons and several cups of covered soups, he scoots the covered cup that is undoubtedly broccoli and cheddar towards me and places a spoon on top of it.

"We also have turkey and chicken salad sandwiches, both toasted on whole wheat."

"I'll start with soup," I say as I move to stand by his side, placing my hand on his bicep and raising up on my toes to kiss him lightly on the lips. "Eat whichever sandwich you want, because I'm not sure that I'll be able to eat one."

"Okay," he says, his face masked with concern. "Is your stomach still bothering you?"

"I've just been queasy. I haven't slept well the past few nights, and my nerves are shot."

He nods, not asking any further questions because he doesn't have to.

We eat in silence for a few moments before I speak again.

"How do you think he does it?"

"Changes?"

"Yeah."

"I think that what was on that surveillance footage was reality. What we saw … what the girls on the ship saw … was what he wanted us to see."

"But why? Why hide from us? There's no way that he doesn't know that we know, not after the morgue."

To this he sighs, putting down his sandwich and leaning back in his chair.

"I think it's safe to assume that he heard everything you said, but having … abilities ... doesn't necessarily make him immune to fear and trauma. Being someone who has a little bit of experience with coming back from the dead, I think we just need to give him some time. The family who raised him is dead, and there are soldiers hunting him. That's a lot for anyone to take on, let alone a teenager, and based on what we found at the house … it's possible that he's not all that stable, to begin with."

I cringe at the thought, but Mulder isn't wrong. Everything that we've been able to piece together so far has suggested that Jackson is a troubled delinquent.

"I just … I can't bear the fact that he's out there with nowhere to go, feeling like there is nobody he can trust. I just want to talk to him, Mulder."

He nods and is quiet for a moment before he speaks.

"The way he left his room doesn't implicate him as being the aggressor. I think he was just as surprised by what happened as we were."

"Do you think they found him by following us?" I ask.

The very thought makes me nauseous, but it's something we have to consider.

"It's possible, but it's also possible that he was already on their radar. The documents he had on his computer were redacted, but how he found out about them and gained access to them … I have no idea."

He hesitates for a moment, lowering his spoon and wiping his mouth. When he speaks again his voice is lower, and his eyes waver.

"During my darkest periods, I searched endlessly. It was foolish and selfish, but I did it anyway. In the end, I found nothing. Absolutely nothing. I'm not sure how the gunman did it, but there was absolutely no trace. So how he was able to find those documents and figure out who we were and who he really was … I have no idea because I came up with absolutely nothing. On paper, William Benjamin Scully never existed."

The admission that he searched for William even when I repeatedly and explicitly asked him not to doesn't necessarily surprise me given his state of mind at that time, but the fact that he wasn't even able to find proof that our son was even born does surprise me. The gunman and Spender had promised me that they would burry William so deep that nobody would ever be to find him, but I always just assumed that they erased all traces of his adoption. It never occurred to me that they would erase his entire existence.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't want to you be angry, or worse — to feel hopeless and defeated knowing that one day, whenever you were ready, that there would be nothing for you find. I just couldn't … I couldn't tell you that, not in the place that we were at. I was scared it would break you. It sure as hell broke me."

Waves of emotions wash through me as my mind begins to put the pieces together. I always assumed that Mulder's depression stemmed from the passing 2012 date and being so isolated, but perhaps that had only been the tip of the iceberg.

"Up until then, I always held onto hope that there would be a day where it would be safe," he says quietly. "Safe for us to find him and to be able to see him happy and healthy so that we could start to live again … and that maybe, after seeing him again, you could find a way to forgive me for leaving you to make the most difficult decision of your life alone."

Dropping my spoon down into my bowl, I rise from my chair and make my way over to him, straddling his lap and wrapping my arms around him. As I bury my face into his neck, I do not attempt to stop the tears that stream down my face and onto his shirt.

"I'm so sorry, Mulder … I —"

"Scully —"

"No," I say clearing my throat. "I need to say this."

He remains silent as he rubs my back and waits for me to speak. Looking up into his eyes, I tell him what I should have told him sixteen years ago.

"I've NEVER blamed you, Mulder. Not once. I've spent the past sixteen years praying that one day you'd be able to forgive ME for giving away your son and robbing you of the chance to be a father, not just to him but to any other child because you were with me."

His grip around me tightens, encouraging me to lay my head against his chest. Lowering his head, he wipes away my tears and kisses me on the cheek before speaking softly into my ear.

"The times that I've chosen them … those are the decisions that keep me up at night, but never, not once, have I regretted choosing you."

His admission does little to settle me.

I feel sick.

I desperately want to tell him how sorry I am for leaving him over something that I had so profoundly misread and misunderstood, but when I try to speak my voice cracks and a sob escapes my lips.

"Shhhhh … all of that … everything that is back there was a battle Scully … it wasn't the war."

To this, I manage a light chuckle as I try to rein in my tears and settle myself.

"Liked that one didn't you?" I ask after a few moments.

"You have your moments."

I'm not looking at his face, but I can feel his soft smile against my temple.

When he speaks again, his voice is quiet and full of emotion.

"You told me once that I'd find all the answers to my biggest mysteries and that you'd be there with me when I did," he says, running his fingers through my hair. "You also said that you'd never find the answers to yours, but I don't think that's true. I've always believed that the truth would save us, Scully. It may be difficult and it might not be what we imagined in our fantasies, but I still believe that it will set us free."

I'm quiet for a minute before I respond.

"Are we ready for this Mulder?"

"I don't know there's a choice."

I'm not sure how long we remained in each other's arms, but when we separated, our soup was cold.