Chapter 13 – Delivery

A/N: Well, this is it! I have REALLY enjoyed writing this case, and I probably will write more. Thank you for reading! And I swear – I didn't mean for this X File to have 13 chapters! Just a SPOOKY coincidence. ~CeeCee

And thanks to Deyse, for reviewing every chapter! This last one's especially for you!

Last but not least, I really started to write this fic for one of my besties IRL. This whole story is inspired by her bravery during this period of enormous personal change and growth.

She walked back into their subterranean office nearly a week later, after an extended period of sleep, and then more sleep. Her fears about what would happen between she and Mulder when the returned to the questionable normality of their daily lives had yet to be tested: they left New Hampshire as they'd arrived, separately, and she'd driven back to DC.

She'd wanted – no needed – the time to think. About the case. And about her partner. Her friend. Her lover.

"Christ," she muttered as she sat down behind Mulder's desk. There was a wobbly pile of packages to go through, mostly comprised of conspiracy theories and wish fulfillment. But they never ignored what Mulder called their "anti-fan mail." Whether she liked it or not, there were, on rare occasion, actual cases in the tower of mad correspondence and bunches of cleansing sage.

"Gee, thanks, Mulder, I get to go through all of the blurry photos of someone's cake plate or hairy Uncle Mike stalking in the woods," she said, grinning wryly and taking a sip of her tea.

Her partner had phoned on Sunday, early, and her heart has sped up – stupid, that – wondering if an invitation to brunch or lunch or tea or Thai or something would be forthcoming. It had been Sunday, after all. She was well-rested, if irritated and disappointed at their truncated investigation. She thought she could think of a few things to lift her spirit. Most of them involved Mulder in some capacity.

However.

"Hey, Scully, I'm not going to be in Monday," Mulder had begun. "The Gunmen have a lead on something, in Ohio, or Illinois, or something. I'm catching a flight now I'll keep you posted."

"Mulder! You can't keep doing this. What's this lead? What's this 'something'? You really shouldn't keep this sort of thing from me, you know, and Skinner's –"

"Exactly, Scully. Plausible deniability. What you don't know, you can't be prodded to reveal," she had been able to hear the grin in his voice, but she had also wondered…was he running from her? Not permanently, but…things between them had snowballed rather dramatically between them in less than a week. She still wasn't sure about her own feelings, let alone his. Also, he did this: someone, a bunch of someones, had taken their case from them. Mulder would bury his disappointment and frustration in a new lead, instead. She knew him. So well. Too well.

So, she had backed off.

"Fine, Mulder. Fine. I'll tell Skinner you're out 'Squatching."

She had hung up with his laughter ringing in her ears.

And now she sat in their dim, cluttered office, feeling more at home than she'd ever thought she would. It was where she belonged, like or not.

She worked her way slowly through the anti-fan mail, rolling her eyes and giggling in turn. Then she came to a small standard Priority USPS box, a little heavier than she expected. She glanced at the return address and exclaimed, grinning.

It was from Joanne Dudourge. She shook the box, and she was pretty sure what was inside. She ripped the package open.

And was greeted by the tempting aroma of homemade banana bread.

She pulled out three golden brown loaves, ensconced in clear plastic wrap adorned with The Gray Dove stickers. There was a small, unadorned card on the bottom of the box. She ripped open the envelope, pulled out the card, and read,

"Dear Dana,

I hope you don't mind me calling you by your first name! Even though I am sending this to you at the freakin' FBI! I was putting a package together for Alice and Derek and remembered you really enjoyed your slice the morning you came in and we had our "unofficial" talk, so I decided to send you a few loaves. They freeze great, and you can share, or not, at your discretion. But I always find it tastes better over conversation and a mug of something warm, myself.

I wanted to write to say thank you. That may seem strange, but truthfully, life has been pretty strange the past few years, so I've learned to go with my gut on things anymore. And I really enjoyed our conversations, especially when you came to the Dove that morning.

I feel pretty terrible about what happened to Tim, though I don't know anyone could have stopped it, or him, even if we knew what was what. And no one seems to, Dana. You were the most honest with me, with us, you and Agent Mulder, but I'm not stupid. I know even the two of you kept stuff from us. I just get the feeling you did to protect us, rather than hide the truth, whatever that is.

Freddie and I are officially back together. He turned to me after Tim's funeral yesterday, and just said, "Jo, this is stupid." And you know? He's right. Whatever Tim was looking for, out there in the woods, Freddie and I already found it. Why act like we haven't?

Thank you for what you did, and what you tried to do. It's good to know someone's actually trying to help out there.

Warm regards,

Jo Dudorge"

She set the letter aside, grinning a bit. "A fan-fan letter, this time, Mulder," she muttered, and started laughing. She leaned over and grabbed one of the golden loaves of banana bread, brought it up to her smiling mouth, and inhaled deeply, her laugher ringing through the dark, near-forgotten hallways in the bowels of the Bureau.

ooOOOoo

It was late when she finally got back to her apartment, a new X-File tucked under her arm. She'd spent most of the day filling out endless forms and typing pointless reports on their findings, both in Pennsylvania and New Hampshire, and she was fuzzy and worn out, mostly by the futility of it all, by evening.

Just as she was heading towards her car, she heard Skinner's voice echoing off the parking garage walls. He'd handed her a file, his lips tight.

"Take a look at this tonight, Agent Scully," he pushed the folder, which was thicker than the norm, into her waiting hand. "And when Mulder gets back from wherever the hell he is, get down to South Carolina and get started on the autopsies."

"What autopsies, sir?" She'd answered, but he was already jogging away from her, back into the building.

"The dozen you have waiting for you down in Ol' Dixie!" Skinner's wry reply had come as the door had slammed behind him.

"A dozen?!"

And, now she threw the still unopened file onto her small dining room table with a sigh. She needed fortification. She headed to her fridge and pulled out a half-finished bottle of white wine, poured herself a generous glass. She contemplated her fridge then remembered: Jo Dudorge's banana bread.

"Dinner of champions!" She exclaimed to her empty apartment and pulled a loaf out of her briefcase.

A second glass and slice later, she was seated cross-legged at the table, the file spread out around her, frowning over medical reports, ironically, feeling more focused than she had all day inspire of the surge of alcohol and sugar into her system.

She was examining a crime scene photo when there was knock on her door. She padded over in her stockinged feet, slightly lightheaded from the wine. She already knew who would be on the other side.

"It's late, Mulder." But she couldn't help herself. She was grinning up at him.

"Nah, Scully, it's early, especially for me," he grinned back at her, stepping over the threshold. "Ohio was as big of a bust as Stonehenge. The Gunmen are losing their mojo, I think."

"Oh, yeah, because those guys are usually dripping with it," she answered. He was very close to her, still smiling. Suddenly, he leaned over and engulfed her in an embrace. It felt so wonderful, she leaned into it. His nose pressed against her cheek, sniffing.

"You smell like banana bread, Scully."

"There's a logical explanation for that Mulder," she replied, moving away from him, towards the table. "And, surprisingly, it doesn't involve aliens."

"What's all this, Scully? Another case?" He grinned at the file fanned out around her from the doorway of her kitchen, a hunk of bread in his hand.

"Yes. One with autopsies," she answered. "Lots and lots of autopsies."

"This is delishiosh," he mumbled, sitting down next to her. "Where did you get this?"

"You're getting crumbs on the crime scene photos, Mulder," she chastised. "Joanne Dudorge sent them to the Bureau for us. For me, really." She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Fan-fan mail Scully! I knew it would happen someday! And it was bound to come addressed to you, of course," he replied, a spray of crumbs falling from his lips.

"She sent me more, but I hid it, wisely, I see," she replied. He scooted his chair over, so his side pressed against hers. "She and Freddie got back together, for good, she says."

Mulder nodded, but didn't speak. She continued.

"I can't help but think of Tim Garrison, Mulder. About what he kept going out to those woods for. What he hoped to find. Why he couldn't see what he was doing was potentially – ultimately – the worst kind of dangerous. And he wasn't the only one."

"I can understand it, Scully. That hope, that feeling, that surety – whatever it is that will finally help everything make sense is out there. You just need to have to audacity to keep looking," he shrugged.

"But at what cost, Mulder?" She replied, frustrated. The places where their bodies touched pulsed with warmth.

"I said I understood it, Scully, not that it was wise," he answered. "Besides, I think I've got more in common with Fred than Tim."

"Yeah, you're alive at least," she shot back.

"Exactly, Scully, I'm alive. My life, what I have, it's enough. No, it's more than enough," he gazed at her for a long moment, then picked up a random paper. "This is important, sure, our work, the X Files. Crucial, even. But I couldn't do it alone anymore. I wouldn't want to. What would be the point?"

He leaned over and kissed her, briefly but intensely. She inhaled and ran her hand down his cheek, brushing crumbs aside, their new case waiting patiently on her kitchen table.

Jo Dudorge was right. Some things were just better when they were shared.