Collage by Amy - archived at Haven's Collage Galleries

TITLE:  Face Value
AUTHOR:  Lara Means
E-MAIL:  LaraMeansXF@aol.com 
WEBSITE:  www.geocities.com/larameans_2000
CLASSIFICATION:  V, R (implied), A (kinda heavy)
RATING:  PG
ARCHIVE:  Gossamer, Spookys, NO (I'll submit directly to both); 
Ephemeral, Xemplary, YES; anywhere else, please ask.  I'm sure 
I'll say yes, I just like to know where the kids are at the end 
of the day.

SPOILERS:  End Game, The End, FTF, The Beginning, Biogenesis/The 
Sixth Extinction/Amor Fati, En Ami, Brand X, Requiem, Within.  
(post-ep/missing scenes/contemplation for Within)

SUMMARY:  Are you proud of me?  I'm starting to think like you.

DATE POSTED:  11/17/00

FEEDBACK:  Encouraged and welcomed at LaraMeansXF@aol.com

DISCLAIMER:  U.S. copyright law says that the studio is the 
author of a movie or television show, not the writer or creator.  
Which means that "The X-Files" ultimately belongs to Rupert 
Murdoch, even though it was created and brought to life by 
people with WAY more talent.  I mean no infringement, Mr. M. -- 
I do this for love, not money.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  Written for the Church of X Challenge for 
November (challenge #2).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FACE VALUE

written by Lara Means

I know you.

I know you so much better than they think.

The Smoking Man didn't know.  He couldn't have known and said 
what he said to me.  "You would die for him, but you won't let 
yourself love him."

What utter bullshit.

So is this.  This nonsense I'm being fed.

He thinks he's being clever.  Trying to make me doubt you.

As if I could ever believe that you would turn to someone else, 
confide in someone else that you weren't sure you could trust 
me.

He says he knows you.  But he doesn't.

I know you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Was it really you in my apartment tonight?

I think if it were you, I would know.  I knew that you'd been 
taken.  When I came to at the hospital -- dear God, was it just 
a few days ago? -- I knew you were gone.  I felt your absence 
like a gaping wound.  As if a part of myself had been excised.

In a way, it had.

Just as I make you a whole person, you complete me as well.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I find myself drawn to your home.  Your computer is gone too.  I 
don't understand it yet, the significance of our computers being 
stolen.  I know, if you were here, you'd make some great and 
inspired leap of logic that would inevitably lead to the 
solution.

But you're not here.

I'm in your bedroom now.  Staring at your rumpled bed.  Our bed.  
I can still smell us, the scent of our passion, lingering there.

We made a baby there.

I pick up your shirt from where you tossed it carelessly as you 
changed and packed to return to the Oregon woods.  Tears 
threaten as I hold it to my face, the starched cotton blend no 
substitute for your soft caress.  I clutch it tightly anyway, 
curling up with it as I lie down.  I fall asleep with it in my 
arms, like Linus with his blanket.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He's here when I wake up.  Staring at me.

Bastard.

How dare he?  The arrogance of this man, to think he can just 
come in here like this.

But I can't let him see me get angry.  I can't lose control.  I 
can't let him think he can affect me.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You've been busy in the night.

My apartment.  Your apartment.  FBI Headquarters.

I know it wasn't you.  I'm certain of that now.  Maybe... maybe 
it was that shape-shifting thing... what did you call it?  A 
bounty hunter?  That makes sense, in a way.  If it wanted to get 
to those places, what better disguise than you?  Even if it knew 
we were looking for you, it could... blend in, if necessary.

But what could possibly be in both our computers and certain 
files at the Bureau that someone -- something -- would want?  I 
can't explain it, but I have a feeling that if I figure out what 
the bounty hunter wanted, the answer will bring me closer to 
finding you.

Are you proud of me?  I'm starting to think like you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Oh, God.

No.

Your name, etched in cold black marble.

I just stare at it as he talks.  As he hands me a folder.  As he 
tells me...

I can't believe it.  I won't believe it.  It's too convenient, 
too coincidental.  Too contrived.

No.

Please, God, no.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I figured it out.  The missing piece of the puzzle.  The why.

Gibson Praise.

The guys have tracked some odd signals in the southeast.  Arizona.

That's where Gibson is.

I think... I think that's where you are, too.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Christ, it's hot.  Hot, dry, dusty.  I can't open the window for 
the dust, and of course the air conditioner in this piece of 
shit car Skinner rented doesn't work.

Damn.  Are the hormones kicking in already?  I've snapped at him 
twice already in the last eight hours.

He doesn't deserve that.  He feels badly enough as it is.  He 
feels guilty for not protecting you.  He feels obligated to 
protect me, as your proxy.  He feels... conflicted.  Unable, at 
my insistence, to tell what he saw that night -- unable to deny 
what he saw.

He's a good man.

I return to my task of staring out the window at the passing 
landscape.  The speed of the car, the heat waves rising off the 
desert, the shimmering of the air in the distance...

"Stop."

"What?"

"Pull over, now."  My nails digging into his forearm, he slams 
on the brakes and swerves to the shoulder of the road.  Almost 
before the car comes to a halt, I throw the door open and 
stumble out.  I only get a few steps away before I sink to my 
knees and lose what little I've managed to eat today.

Whoever called it morning sickness had a perverse sense of 
humor.

Turning around, I see Skinner standing next to the car.  
Watching me.

Shit.

This is just what I don't want.  I don't want him to see me like 
this.  To see me nauseous and weak.

I make my way back to him, wiping my mouth with a tissue.  I've 
started carrying them around, just in case of morning sickness 
at odd hours of the day.

If someday I exchange the tissues for a handkerchief, shoot me.

Skinner hands me a water bottle and I rinse my mouth, giving him 
an embarrassed smile of gratitude.  "Sorry."

He just shrugs.  "You okay?"

"I'm fine."  It's an automatic response, but the expression on 
his face stops me.  I feel I owe him more.  "No, I'm not.  I'm 
hot, I'm cranky, I'm tired, I'm... emotional..."

He shrugs again.  "You're pregnant."

Not the best response he could've come up with.

I glare at him for a moment, and he seems to realize his error.  
He makes no overt move to apologize or take it back.  He just 
looks a bit sheepish.

We both get back in the car in silence.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A few miles closer to our destination, he glances at me and 
clears his throat.  "Scully?"

I return his glance, and he continues.

"This thing about Mulder... about him being sick..."  An eyebrow 
arches almost involuntarily.  His eyes are on the road, though, 
so he misses it.  "Have you had a chance to go over the records 
Doggett gave you?"

I nod.  I've done little else but go over those records again 
and again in my head.

They're clever, our enemies.

They concocted something that's plausible.  Something based 
entirely on what you experienced last year.  The anomalous brain 
activity.  The voices.  The madness.  Their hypothesis, 
apparently, is that the impromptu surgery they performed was 
ineffective.  They must have gotten that impression from the 
Smoking Man.

They're clever.  But they're wrong.

I know you.

If you were sick -- still or again -- I would know.  Not just 
because I'm your partner.  Your friend.  Your lover.

But because I'm your doctor.

At least, that's how I functioned in North Carolina.  When your 
lungs were infested.  When I had full and complete access to any 
and all medical tests performed on you.  When you almost died on 
three separate occasions.

If you were sick... dying... would you have fought so hard, 
struggled so desperately to breathe?

Skinner's voice draws me from my thoughts.  "What do you think, 
Scully?  Do you buy into this?  Are those records genuine?"

I'm not certain how much to tell him about my suspicions.  The 
more information he has, the more information he has to hold 
back.

"All my years with Mulder... with the X-files... everything I've 
seen, everything we've experienced..."  I look at him, hoping 
he'll read both my words and my intent.  "I don't take anything 
at face value."

He meets my steady gaze for a moment, then nods.  Message 
received.  But he's still unsure.

"Scully, you... you know Mulder better than anyone, you're closer 
to him than anyone.  Would he have kept something like this from 
you?"

"No."  My answer is firm, allowing no dissent, no second-
guessing.

From him, anyway.

From myself...

I shake my head fiercely, reaffirming my response.

I know you, Mulder.

I know you.

Don't I?

END