Archive of Our Own

Scully drives while Mulder dozes, and the deep green rolls past them, endless and silent. Scully drives well, smoothly, so Mulder is able to sleep. She is thinking about him, about them, as she drives, musing over their relationship and how it's changed over the years.

A signpost. Haggerty, five miles. They're climbing now, up from the coast, and the clouds seem lower and darker. What a dreary place, Scully thinks with the part of her mind that's driving; it must rain four hundred inches a year here. Yet the air smells sweet with pine and salt air and her heart is a bit lighter to be so far away from DC. And all that it's come to represent.

The first signs of a town appear. A gas station, only two pumps, no self-serve and certainly no fast food. A bar. Another bar. And now they're into the town itself. Once past the usual poor margins of an isolated center of population, the town itself is attractive. No empty stores, everything's painted and well-lit in the gloom of early evening, and the people are attractive.

In fact, Scully observes, the people are quite attractive. They are also mostly male, wearing as if a uniform blue jeans, tee shirts, Doc Martens, and baseball caps. She wrinkles her brow in puzzlement as she slows past a group of five or six such men standing outside yet another bar. They really are fine looking men. One might even say buff.

She's grinning to herself when she pulls into the sheriff's parking lot and turns to wake Mulder. Head rolled back into the seat, his eyes are sleepy but open. He is watching her. Her smile fades and they stare at each other. She wonders yet again what their relationship is, what it means to him, to herself. She sighs deeply and touches his shoulder. "Are you awake? Or sleeping with your eyes open?"

"Always open, Scully," he responds in a sleep-husky voice, but he smiles gently at her. She knows that he knows what she's been thinking. One of the problems of being partnered with the FBI's best profiler. They continue to stare at each other, caught again in something undefinable, at least for Scully. She is afraid to ask for Mulder's definition.

A bang on the hood of their car breaks the moment and they jerk their heads to see a tall, slender man in a khaki uniform leaning against the rental, both hands on the right front fender. Scully is surprised to see how handsome he is, too. Obviously the right gene pool settled this town. The two agents unbuckle their seatbelts and climb out of the car. Scully wishes she'd worn her walking shoes or boots as the heels of her Ferragamo pumps sink into the muddy gravel of the lot. Mulder shakes hands with the sheriff, for that is who the handsome man is, and introduces her. She shakes hands with him as well, peering up into his sculpted face. But he is watching Mulder, a slight smile on his Botticelli lips. Shit, Scully thinks; he's gorgeous and gay.

Apparently oblivious to the other man's interest, Mulder yammers away about why they're here. Scully and the sheriff, Todd Owens, watch him gravely. Scully thinks neither of them are listening to Mulder, but Owens surprises her by responding appropriately and intelligently. The two men are the same height, so they look directly into each other's eyes. Owens' are a silvery blue, an unusual color that catches Scully's attention. His build is a runner's, similar to Mulder's, but he's fair, with a buzz cut. And a tiny gold earring in his right earlobe. Scully has temporarily given up on the case and is focusing her attention on Owens focusing on Mulder. This, she thinks, is going to be quite an investigation.

"Thanks for coming, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully. I've heard so much about you over the years, it's a real pleasure to meet you. I'm glad you think our problem is worth the FBI's time and attention." He shakes his head and a small frown creases his forehead. "It's been very difficult for all of us here in Haggerty. I hope you can help."

"The information you sent us was fascinating." Mulder leans through the open passenger window and pulls at his briefcase, scattering papers on the carseat, but he immediately locates the ones he wants. "I'm just sorry you waited so long to call. According to this," he indicates a report in his hands, "the incident took place almost eighteen months ago."

"Yessir, it did. I was hoping things would resolve, or . . ." Owens stops talking and looks at the ground for a moment. Scully senses rather than sees his distress, and wonders at its significance. When he looks up, he doesn't complete his sentence but instead says, "Let's go inside. I could use a cup of coffee, and I bet you could, too."

The sheriff's office is as surprisingly good looking as the town's inhabitants. There actually seems to be some sort of decorating scheme. Navy blue curtains with white piping hang at all the windows, over white, dust-free miniblinds. The three desks are tidy, with navy blue in-boxes; the material in the in-boxes is neatly stacked. Even the staplers on each desk are navy blue. The coffee area has an espresso machine as well as a two-pot Krups coffee maker, with timer. A coffee grinder sits next to the pot. The cups are clean and stacked neatly. Scully can't take her eyes off them. They match. Every oversized coffee mug is a striking yellow with blue flowers. She is convinced they were made in Italy, and longs to own them. Where *are* they? Into what twilight zone has she driven them?

Sure enough, Owens grinds fresh beans as he continues. "I'm sorry that the trail is so old. I did think about calling you when it all happened, but the publicity was so horrible, so offensive, that I was hoping everything would just go away." He pauses each time he pulses the electric grinder, not competing with its high-pitched buzz. "Besides, I wasn't sheriff then, just a deputy. Now the publicity has gone away, but not the mystery. I have friends who are still disturbed and upset by the disappearance. I had to do something."

As the sheriff measures coffee into the Krups, Mulder asks, "What precipitated your decision to call now?"

Owens gives a small laugh, more a grimace, then sighs heavily. "I need to tell this in my own way, Agent Mulder." He stops what he's doing, turns to face Mulder, and puts a hand on Mulder's shoulder. "Forgive me for not answering just yet?" he asks. Scully is astounded by both the question and the gesture. Mulder just nods his head. Does Mulder not know what's going on, she wonders.

Owens completes his coffee ritual and, once the coffee begins to trickle through the filter, motions for the two agents to be seated. He pulls a Koret tray from a cupboard, places on it napkins, spoons, a sugar bowl and creamer that match the mugs, and finally three cups of coffee. Balancing it carefully, he places it on the desk where Mulder and Scully sit. "Please," he invites them.

After the first sip, Scully tells him, "This is the best coffee I've ever tasted." Owens looks to Mulder who nods in agreement, and smiles. He lifts his cup to them and takes a deep drink. Scully puts her nose in her cup and breathes in the homey scent. Good coffee in the sheriff's office. This *is* a twilight zone.

"Okay." Owens set his half-empty cup down, looks both agents in the eye. "First, I have to confess that the report I sent you was false. Well, partially false. I know that you're now in the National Security Division, investigating domestic terrorism, so I added some stuff to make it appropriate for you to come here.

"Now that you're here, I hope you'll stay long enough to help us, help me, find out what really happened. I apologize for the deception. It's just that I've followed your careers, what you've done in the X-Files. I know a little bit about what you used to investigate -- the paranormal, the unexplained, even the extraterrestrial. I don't know what happened here in Haggerty. Maybe it's one of the above, maybe not. Hell, maybe it *is* domestic terrorism. All I know is that I'm not clever enough to figure it out, and the case needs to be solved. Anything I can do to help you, I will. My deputies feel the same way.

"I asked to tell this story my own way, and I thank you for letting me. You've read the newspaper accounts, and the reports filed at the time. You've seen the grand jury's decision. They all add up to shit. Excuse me," he interrupts himself to apologize to Scully, who nods. "But really, it *is* all shit.

"The sequence of events was this. On a warm night in June, two friends were sitting on a back porch visiting. One disappeared before the other's eyes. No body was ever recovered. No money has been taken from the disappeared man's bank account. His ATM was never used. His passport is still in his safe deposit box. There is no motive for the friend to have injured him; in fact, quite the contrary.

"For political reasons -- as I said, I wasn't sheriff at the time -- a grand jury was called to decide whether there was enough evidence to charge the friend with murder. They decided that there was not, and the friend was released. And I know nothing more today than I did when I was first called all those months ago. Not a damn thing.

"So, Agents, what questions do you have for me? I should warn you that I probably can't answer them." Owens smiles again, this time a tight, bitter smile. He doesn't meet their eyes.

Scully turns to Mulder. He is watching Owens, but catches her movement and flicks his eyes up at her. Scully shakes her head very slightly, using the wordless communication they have perfected over the years, and he turns back to Owens.

"Sheriff," he says gently. Then Scully realizes that Owens is silently crying. Tears track down his face and drip onto his crisp uniform. She is suddenly gripped by fear. What on earth could cause a professional to weep, and in front of two strangers, two federal agents? Given the long history of antagonism between state and federal officials, she knows that whatever has happened in Haggerty must be horrifying. She wants to flee down the mountain, back to the coast, away from the trees and dark clouds. She takes another sip of her coffee, and watches as Mulder slowly puts his hand on the sheriff's, who grips it tightly.

"Sorry," he chokes, "so sorry." His throat closes and he can say nothing more. The doctor in Scully observes his distress clinically; the federal agent wonders if it's guilt; the woman wants to grab Mulder's hand and pull him away, away from whatever nightmare awaits them. She sits very still and observes her partner, the psychologist, go to work.

"Sheriff," he begins again, in the same soft voice. "Sheriff, it's okay to cry, but I want you to look at me. Look at me, Todd. You can keep crying, but look at me." Owens slowly lifts his eyes to Mulder's. They are shiny with unshed tears but as he looks into Mulder's eyes, his breathing slows, the tears recede from his eyes, and he swallows, twice. Scully has seen Mulder do this trick before, but she's always impressed. He squeezes Owens' hand, pats it once, and then pulls away. "Agent Scully and I can see how difficult it's been for you here. You feel isolated, without appropriate resources, overwhelmed by the task of solving this case." Owens nods silently. "That's why we're here. I won't promise you that we'll solve the case; I can't do that. But I promise you that Agent Scully and I will do everything we can to help you put this to rest."

Owens wipes his face with his hands, then pulls out a white handkerchief and blows his nose. He sighs heavily. "Thank you, Agent Mulder. That's more than I dared ask for."

Mulder takes another sip of coffee and the three officers of the law sit in companionable silence. Scully thinks they make the strangest tableau she's ever been part of: a weeping sheriff, an hypnotic psychologist, and a terrified doctor. This is *so* Rocky Horror. At that thought, she hears the rain begin to slam down onto the roof and windows. A smile crosses her face, which neither man misses.

"I'm sorry," she says, genuinely apologetic, "but isn't this called a pathetic fallacy? Having a literal storm at a time of a figurative storm?" To her relief, Owens bursts out laughing so hard that he has to put down his coffee mug.

"I am so glad you two are here," he finally says. Mulder is smiling at her, almost proudly.

"Listen," Owens says, "Let's get you checked into your rooms and a bite to eat. It's been eighteen months since all this came down; what's one more night. This storm is supposed to blow over quickly. We'll start fresh in the morning." The agents nod in agreement, then Mulder jumps from his chair.

"Shit. I left my window open." He dashes out into the rain.

They are staying at the Night Owl. Scully loved the movie _LA Confidential_, and wonders if the motel was named after the diner in the movie or if it really is a name from the fifties. Their rooms are as tidy as the sheriff's office, with the scent of pine in the bathroom and rose in the main room. She hears Mulder unlock their adjoining door and does the same, opening it to find him clicking the remote at the television. He looks up at her, grinning. "Cable! They must have every channel in the universe!"

She walks into his room so she can see his tv, which is against their shared wall. He flicks from a Japanese cooking show to a remodeling show to Martha Stewart to Rugrats to Dan Rather to wrestling to an anorexic topless woman writhing on a bar, surrounded by drunken men staring at her. He leaves that station on and throws the remote on the bed. She knows him well enough not to overreact to the too-obvious ploy for attention and just lifts one eyebrow. He bursts out laughing, pleased.

"Todd says the best place for dinner is two doors down, at Tiny's." He picks up an umbrella. "Shall we go?"

"Tiny's. Better than Mom's."

And Tiny's is. Better than Mom's, even her mom's, Scully thinks as she bites into homemade gnocchi in a creamy pesto sauce. The salad must have been picked moments before, the bread made on the premises, and the wine list astounds her. She couldn't resist trying a Sangiovese and it gleams in the candlelight. How could this heaven be called Tiny's, she wonders, and watches Mulder wrestle with his choice, rosemary pappardelle with roasted winter vegetables. He catches her eye as a forkload heads to his mouth. "Try my wine," she gestures with her garlic bread. "I know you don't drink much, but this is incredible."

They eat happily and Scully feels as relaxed with him as she has felt in two years. Maybe three. She remembers a similar meal when they were investigating the disappearance of teenagers. Teenagers who had mistaken them for husband and wife, she also remembers, and smiles at the thought.

"Penny for them," Mulder says around a mouthful of salad, but she shakes her head, still smiling.

"It's just great here. I mean, I was sorry to see the sheriff so upset, but god, this place -- everything is perfect. The townspeople are all good looking, the buildings attractive, the food excellent. I think we're in Lake Woebegone."

"And the children are all above average," Mulder agrees, but he doesn't look quite as pleased as she feels. "I suppose you've noticed that most of the men we've seen appear to be gay."

"As three dollar bills," she concurs, and Mulder guffaws at this. "My dad used to say that," she admits. "How do you feel about the way Sheriff Owens is looking at you?" Mulder lifts his shoulders. "Shit, you're *used* to it," she suddenly realizes. She looks at Mulder, who appears only mildly nonplussed. He is a beautiful man, she knows; every gender must have hit on him at one time or another. In fact, the more she looks at him, the more probable it becomes to her that he would respond to such a possibility.

"What?"

"Nothing. But -- is this going to get in the way?"

"Is what going to get in the way of what?" But he knows, he always knows, and she knows he knows. Kindly, she lets the topic go and takes another sip of the Sangiovese. God, she'll sleep well tonight.

But she doesn't sleep well. She cuddles in her warm bed (pine-green flannel sheets topped by a crazy quilt) and goes through the history of the case that has brought them all the way to Washington State in a late rainy autumn. Eighteen months ago, two friends sat on a back porch and watched the sky. Two best friends, one a woman and one a gay man. Of course a gay man, she thought, too sleepy to censor her thoughts. There are no straight men in Haggerty. For some reason she starts to giggle at this thought. Tomorrow they'll meet the woman, see the place where it happened, talk to some of the townspeople who knew them.

What drew Mulder, she knows, more than the duplicitous report of domestic terrorism from Sheriff Owens, was the disappearance. The woman, Emma Wakeman, is a vice president at the local state university, Snohomish State; the man, Jesus Rodriguez, the director of new student services there. They had been friends for many years; their husbands had been friends before they had died. That would bear looking into, that both their partners were dead. From all accounts, Wakeman would have no reason to wish Rodriguez ill. He was her right-hand man at work, and her best friend at home. Scully is experienced enough to know that more evil grows out of love than out of hatred, but the file's grainy photocopies of newspaper pictures reveal Wakeman as a woman devastated by loss.

Rodriguez' home is slightly out of town, on the edge of a federal wetlands. Two or three times a week, the two would meet for dinner, or a beer, or just to talk. His back porch faced the wetlands and several witnesses had commented on how clearly the stars could be seen there. Apparently both were amateur astronomers; there was even an inexpensive telescope set up. Scully tries to imagine losing her best friend in front of her eyes; it's all too easy.

That's what's keeping me awake, she decides. A man and woman, best friends, and the man disappears, leaving the woman to be blamed for the loss. Her stomach roils at the thought. She is perilously close to making an admission about Mulder's and her relationship; this case seems . . . what? Seems to be about them? But Mulder is safe in the room next door; watching television, by the sound of it. She listens for a moment, then gets out of bed and leans against the wall they share. She can clearly hear the tv; it sounds like Jerry Springer. She can even hear his bedsprings squeak, then footsteps, coming closer. She closes her eyes. She knows he also is standing by the wall, listening for her. Checking on her. She stands, breathing quietly, surrounded by something she refuses to name. She stands.

"Dr. Wakeman," Scully says as she shakes her hand. The agents' silent communication has led her to open the interrogation. Dr. Wakeman is listed as fifty in the file, but she appears a little younger. Her graying light brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck; she's wearing a black sweater and khaki trousers. Both she and Scully are wearing white Saucony walking shoes, Scully notices idly.

They are in Wakeman's office at the university. Not a large room, but very comfortable, with a matching loveseat and oversized chair sharing an ottoman. White oak end tables and bookcases. A long workstation with a Macintosh G3 minitower, but no desk. Two of the walls are windows and from the third floor of Wilde Hall, they can see above the forest, see how deep the forest is.

She gestures for them to sit and they do, side by side on the loveseat, as she sits in the chair. Wakeman smiles at them, a genuine smile of liking. Scully isn't accustomed to being liked by potential murderers, but she doesn't find this disconcerting. She finds herself smiling back and glances at Mulder, comforted to see that he is smiling, too. Good, comments a sardonic voice in her head that sounds a lot like Mulder; we're all smiling here.

"Toddy, Sheriff Owens, told me you'd be coming. I'm very grateful." Wakeman's still smiling, but tears fill her eyes. "It's been so hard. I still miss him so much." She gestures at a picture on a bookcase, and Mulder rises to bring it back to them. In it, Wakeman and an Hispanic man stand before a microphone. She is handing him an absurdly ornate trophy. They look more than happy; they look happy for each other. It's not a good likeness of Wakeman, but Scully understands why she keeps this photo out. These two loved each other, and the photo is the most tangible evidence Wakeman must have of that fact.

Scully thinks of a photo op from a few years earlier. Mulder was briefly back in the good graces of the FBI, having caught yet another serial killer. They too stood before a microphone, smiling at each other. There is probably even a photograph of that moment, somewhere in the FBI's press release files. She is seized by a desire to possess that picture, but wrests her thoughts back to the woman seated before her, gazing steadily at her.

"I know you've told this story many, many times, Dr. Wakeman, and I'm sorry to have to ask you to repeat it. But Agent Mulder and I need to hear you describe what happened the night Mr. Rodriguez disappeared." The woman's smile disappears, but her gaze never falters.

"Of course, Agent Scully. I expected this. First, though," another quick smile, "please call me Emma. We're very informal here. I can't think who you mean when you say 'Doctor Wakeman.'"

"Emma, then. I'm Dana." Without thinking, Scully gestures to her partner and adds, "and this is Fox."

Emma turns her gaze onto Mulder, who looks surprised to the point of shock. "Fox suits you. Your mother named you well." Then she returns to Scully, who is by now alarmed by her impulse to refer to him as "Fox." What has gotten into her?

"I know because of the police reports that this happened on June 13. But I would remember that date anyway. It's the birthday of an old friend, who lives in Iowa. Both Jesus and I know him, so we were talking about Mike that night.

"I doubt that Toddy mentioned the lights in the wetlands, but I know you've read about them in the papers. They're quite famous, I gather; people from all over the world come out to study them. I'm told that rolling balls of light are common in wetlands, swamps, and marshes, but these are unusual in that they appear so regularly and are so bright.

"The lights are actually the reason Jesus bought that house. He was fascinated by the paranormal; really, he was quite childlike in that regard. He was willing to believe in almost anything: telepathy, psychic phenomena, ghosts, poltergeists, aliens. We had years ago agreed to disagree on this -- I'm more a materialist. If I can't see it, I have trouble believing it exists.

"Except that isn't really true," she interrupts herself. "I can't see a photon or an electron, but I believe in them. I can't see love, but I believe it exists. So I guess I'm a hypocrite. Let's just say I have grave doubts about anything paranormal."

Scully doesn't look at Mulder during this fascinating recitation, but she's startled by what she's hearing. She files away Emma's last remarks to study later, and nods in encouragement.

"Anyway, we'd sit on the back porch on clear nights and watch the lights roll around. Of course, they didn't always appear. Maybe two or three times a month. The other times we'd watch the sky. Jesus absolutely believed that extraterrestrial life visits Earth regularly. Bless his heart," and she smiles again in pleasant memory.

Mulder clears his throat, so Scully prompts, "How was that night different than any other night?"

Emma brings her gaze back up to Scully. "The lights were bigger, brighter. They came earlier and were more active. We both noticed it. We sat and watched without talking for some time. The lights kept rolling closer and closer to the house. I was actually frightened, which I'd never been before. I mean, if they're some kind of gas, methane or something, and they rolled onto the porch, wouldn't they asphyxiate us? I was just going to suggest to Jesus that we go in when it happened.

"There was a blinding flash. I've always assumed that a light rolled onto the porch and over us, but of course I don't know. I couldn't see anything. I thought my heart would stop out of fear. Even after the light dimmed, I couldn't see -- just blue and red spots. I kept calling Jesus' name, but he never answered. When I could finally see the porch again, he was gone.

"I was terrified. There were no footsteps in the mud off the porch -- that's the first thing I looked for. I thought he'd become disoriented and wandered into the marsh. I shouted and shouted his name, then went through the house. There was nothing. No one.

"Finally, I called the sheriff. Molloy. God, what an asshole. Me, I mean. I actually told him the truth, what I've just told you. Next thing I knew, he's convened a grand jury. He tried to get re-elected on Jesus' disappearance. What a fool."

Scully and Mulder accept this story in silence. Scully knows she needs to ask more questions, but she is reluctant to do so. Finally, before Mulder can clear his throat again, she asks, "Had you and Mr. Rodriguez argued that day?"

"No, no. We rarely argued, anyway. But there's no need to believe me. The sheriff's office interviewed everyone in my and Jesus' offices, as well as all the people we'd been in meetings with that day. They all said we were getting along as well as always."

"Had anything happened in Mr. Rodriguez' life that might make him want to disappear?"

Emma's gaze again catches Scully. She feels scrutinized by the intelligence and sensitivity of the other woman. "No, Dana. Jesus' life had been a difficult one. Gay and Hispanic -- not a good combination, especially for Jesus. He realized he was gay when he was a little boy, and had to grow up the youngest of ten macho men. No, he'd made it through all the bad times -- growing up gay in a homophobic culture, the AIDS years, the loss of his long-time partner. We used to joke that we were settling into middle age together and sliding into old age, like an old married couple. If this had happened six years ago, when Steve died, I might have believed he'd run away, or killed himself. But not now. Not here, in Haggerty."

"Did he have any enemies?"

"Enemies? People who would want him dead?" Scully nods, even though she recognizes the rhetorical question for what it is -- surprise. "No. Faculty and students loved Jesus. He had a hard time saying no to people, so he rarely pissed anyone off. Unlike me," she smiles.

Scully doesn't know where to take the interview. All her interrogation skills seem to have dried up before this woman. She can't conceive of her injuring her friend. She is identifying too much with Emma, but doesn't know how to stop. She turns to Mulder, who instantly picks up the cue.

"Dr. Wakeman, Emma, sorry, please think back to that night, when you were on the porch. Where exactly were you?"

"In a rocking chair. We both had rockers out there, and were both sitting in them."

"What time of night?"

"Dispatch shows I called the sheriff's at eleven fifty-eight, and I know I must have spent thirty minutes looking for Jesus, so it must have occurred about eleven thirty. But I never checked my watch."

"Did you hear anything when it happened?"

Emma's gaze transfers from Scully to Mulder, and her eyes widen. "No one has ever asked me that." Her eyes lose their focus for a moment, and lift up and to the right. Then they return to Mulder. "A hissing noise. Like electricity through a wire."

"Not an explosion."

"Oh, no."

"Did you smell anything?"

"Yes, I noticed that right away. Ozone. Unmistakable odor."

"Were you bruised or injured in any way? Did you have sore muscles the next day?"

Emma's expressive eyes widen even more, and her mouth pops open. "How did you know? Fox," she leans forward toward him, "what happened that night? You know, don't you."

Scully is impressed with the woman's quickness of perception. She turns to look at Mulder herself, and sees a handsome man moving gracefully into middle age. His face is kind as he looks at Emma, but Scully can see faint lines around his mouth and shadows under his eyes. He does think he knows what happened to Jesus, but he won't tell Emma. Not right now, at least. He shakes his head and takes her hand. "I need to see Mr. Rodriguez' home, Emma. I understand he made you his executrix. May I borrow the key?"

"In other words, will I give you directions how to get there but not accompany you?" But her words are gentle and she's smiling. "Of course. I never go there anymore; the memories are too much. I'll draw you a map."

"Well, I wouldn't live here," Mulder comments, spitting a sunflower seed out the window as Scully pulls into Jesus Rodriguez' former home. She silently agrees. The house is too far from town, too deeply tucked into the forest. It's the perfect setting for a ghost story, or a vanished friend. "Let's check out the infamous porch."

The house smells stale, although it's clean. Emma had explained that she has a cleaning service come in once a month. She's changed nothing, moved nothing. Just paid the taxes, she'd said wryly, as she'd handed Mulder a key.

They move through the still rooms, filled with the detritus of the missing man's life: pictures on the wall, framed photos on shelves, books, CDs, dried flower arrangements. A gay man's life. Mulder's rooms don't look like this, Scully thinks; does that mean he isn't gay? She remembers a case in San Francisco when they'd both been drugged. She'd seen -- or hallucinated -- Mulder with another man. He seems to lead a monastic life, chaste, committed to his obsession. But he is passionate about his work, and she knows from her own experience that passion in one area of a life usually translates to other areas.

She watches him pick through the CDs, flipping one over to read the song list. She sees its title: Abbey Road. "Hey, put that one on. Next to last track." He grins at her request, but puts the CD down and moves into the next room, the kitchen.

"What a beautiful room!" Scully can't help but exclaim when she enters it. The kitchen's original exterior wall has been pushed back to make an enormous, very livable room. White walls trimmed near the ceiling with a pink floral design painted right onto the walls; pink floral curtains swagged above glass french doors leading to a porch running the length of the house. Two white rocking chairs sit side by side, in front of those doors. Mulder gently pushes on the back of one with his index finger.

"They must have been sitting right here, with the doors open, or just outside." He sits, and motions for Scully to join him. They sit and rock, looking out the back of the house into the wetlands. It's another gloomy day; heavy clouds sit just above the treeline. The wetlands might be attractive on a sunny day, but to Scully they look ominous, oppressive.

"I agree, Mulder." He looks at her. "I wouldn't want to live here, either." They sit in silence for another few minutes, then Scully stands. "There's nothing here, Mulder. There never was and there never will be. Whatever happened to Jesus Rodriguez won't be found here."

He stands with her, but shakes his head. "I don't know. I want to come back at night, see these lights."

"Okay. But I'm going to the library. I want to find out how Emma's and Jesus' partners died."

The public library turns out also to be the university's library; some kind of financial leveraging, the reference librarian tries to explain as she leads Scully to a computer room. Everything is archived and web-accessible, apparently. Better by far than trying to read microfilm or fiche.

Mulder slouches through the shelves, pausing to take down a book, flip through it, then replace it. She is aware of him in her peripheral vision and knows he won't stay long. "Mulder," she calls softly, and he swiftly comes to her side. "Go on," she tells him. "Go find the sheriff, talk to his deputies, meet some of Jesus' friends at the university. I'll be fine here." His warm hazel eyes look deep into her light blue ones, then crinkle as he smiles. He gently touches her back, just below her right shoulder, and then, equally swiftly, walks away.

She clicks to another link, to another newspaper article, and focuses on her task.

They meet for lunch at Tiny's. The food is just as good, and Scully resigns herself to gaining a few pounds on this case. Now Mulder, she thinks, eyeing him critically, could certainly use some. I'll order desert; he'll eat most of it that way.

"Emma's husband, Henry, died of natural causes seven months before Jesus disappeared. He had been ill for some time, with heart disease. He'd had all the usual procedures, but he really needed a new heart.

"Steve, Jesus' significant other, died of complications from AIDS six years ago. He too had been sick a long time. Both men's illnesses are very well documented. I spoke with Henry's doctor; she lives in Haggerty and I reached her by phone. She assured me there was nothing suspicious about his death and offered to get permission from Emma to let me review his medical records. Steve's doctor is in San Francisco, but right now I don't feel any need to pursue that avenue."

Mulder nods, filing away the information. He is full of news about the deputies. "The deputy, Jack Wayne, and Todd Owens are lovers," he says through his grilled portobello mushroom sandwich. "You should see the way they look at each other." He pauses to dip a cottage fry into ketchup. "I wonder what it's like to work with your lover, in law enforcement? 'Watch my back' takes on an entirely new meaning." Scully chokes on her salad, a little shocked at his comment. "Hey, I'm sorry," he says, concerned.

She shakes her head and takes a sip of water. "No, no, I swallowed wrong."

"Anyway, both seem more than competent. They have master's in criminal justice, from the university here. Jack's worked in Las Vegas; he's really a professional. Todd is --" Scully silently supplies the word "odd," but Mulder continues, "Todd strikes me as too sensitive to be sheriff." Now he shakes his head. "The other deputy is a woman, and if she isn't a lesbian, I'll eat your salad." He looks at Scully. "What *is* this place, Scully? Why is everyone gay?"

Back in Emma's office, Scully asks that question. "Is everyone in Haggerty gay?"

Emma laughs. "Almost. Obviously you don't know our history. The town is about a hundred years old. It was founded by two gay couples, two brothers and their lovers actually. You won't be surprised to learn that the brothers' surname was Haggerty. Friends and foes call it 'faggerty.' We're thought to be a bit safer here for alternate sexual orientations.

"Even the university is. We're known throughout the gay community as a safe place for young gays and lesbians to attend. We don't, of course, publish that in our marketing brochures. But we do stress our acceptance of alternate lifestyles, and it's a significant component of our freshmen and parent orientation sessions.

"Many of our students come from high school and college environments, even from homes, where their sexual orientation was ignored or punished. Many have been victims of hate crimes: called names, spit on, beat up. We, the town and the university, have pledged to give them a time and place in which they can accept their sexuality, and learn how to be different in a world that rarely tolerates differences.

"So, yes, many if not most of the townspeople, faculty, staff, and students that you'll meet are gay, or lesbian, or bi, or omni, or something. New combinations crop up daily." She looks at each agent in turn, serious for a change. "Is this a problem? What is *your* sexuality?"

Scully can honestly say that she has never been asked that question before. She doesn't know how to answer, and turns to Mulder. He is blushing. Is she surprised? She doesn't know that, either.

"I'm not sure what my sexuality is, Emma. I don't even know if I understand the question. I'm a doctor, a pathologist, so I work mostly with the dead. I'm a federal agent with the Department of Justice, so I work mostly with criminals. By the time I come home from a day of dead bodies and living criminals, I'm not sure I have any sexuality left."

Emma is nodding. Scully feels flushed and a little light headed. She has never imagined saying those words to anyone. She picks up the cup of tea Emma had served, sipping its bright warmth to hide her confusion.

Mulder is still silent, still pink from some emotion. Emma looks at him and Scully's eyes follow. Finally, he stammers, "I - I'm not convinced my sexuality is at issue here." Coward, the Mulder-voice in Scully's head mocks, but she only takes another sip of the tea.

Emma doesn't respond, just continues to wait for an answer.

"There's no problem," he finally says, and also picks up his tea. Scully nods her head at Emma, to confirm what he's said. He can do it. He can do anything he wants to, and he wants to solve this case. For Todd and for Emma, as well as for the solve rate he's justly proud of.

"We can't keep eating at Tiny's," Scully starts to complain, but then stops. Why not? she asks herself. The food is delicious, the service more than competent, the ambiance quiet, and her too-skinny partner eats every bite.

He pauses, uncertain, and says, "Well, there are other places," but she waves her hands in surrender.

"No, no, you're right, Tiny's it is. I guess it's just the *name*," she adds, only half joking. He holds the door open for her and gently touches the small of her back as she enters. The waiters already recognize them and one promptly leads them to what has become their table. Hand-written menus are left with them and coffee appears almost immediately. "You're right," she repeats, "let's never eat anywhere else."

Mulder pulls out his glasses and reads the menu. "Artichoke pesto crostini, roasted beets with anise vinaigrette, polenta croquettes with gorgonzola, baked fruit and honey compote."

Scully groans in pleased anticipation. "That's exactly what I want. Order me the same."

"I was just reading the menu -- I'm not even sure what some of this stuff is."

"Just order it, Mulder. Order it, eat it, and die happy." The waiter, Glen, finds them laughing; he's brought them a bottle of Beringer's Chenin Blanc, on the house, for being such good customers. Silently, mutually, they agree not to discuss Jesus' disappearance again that evening.

As they eat, talking idly of the people they've met, the university's philosophy, the hate-filled world they've elected to take a stand against, Scully feels united with Mulder in a way she hasn't in years. His soft tenor, his wit, his graceful good looks are a comfort to her. She realizes, with a sharp shock, that she's happy. Tears fill her eyes and she has an impulse to take his hand, to tell him how she feels. He talks on, about a gay student in his high school who'd been mercilessly teased and how he wishes now he'd stood up for the boy. You're a decent human being, Scully tells him in her mind, staring at his gentle, concerned face. The wrinkles are coming, she sees again, but they only add to his considerable appeal, revealing as they do his humor and his caring.

He finally notices her silence and realizes that something is off. Once again, they stare into each other's eyes. Why don't I have the courage to speak to him, Scully wonders, playing with her crostini. Finally, she simply smiles, her best smile, the one she knows shines like a spotlight. She pins him in that light and after a heartbeat receives his smile in return. A shy smile from a shy man.

The moment is interrupted by a chirp from her cell phone. "Scully."

"Agent Scully. This is Walter Skinner. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No, sir. Mulder and I were just having dinner. A great dinner, I might add. I'm sorry you aren't here to enjoy it with us." Mulder lifts an eyebrow, so she mouths, "Skinner." Surely he didn't think she invite *Kersh* to dinner, did he?

Skinner laughs, sounding a little embarrassed. "Well, I might take you up on that offer." Now her brows rise. "I'm in Seattle, at a conference reviewing the Green River murders. I heard through the grapevine that you'd stopped by the Seattle office, on your way to a domestic terrorism investigation. I need to burn a little vacation before the end of the year, or I'll lose it, and I thought, um, well . . . It's just that it's been a while, Agent Scully."

She covers the mouthpiece and whispers to Mulder, "Skinner wants to come out." He looks stunned, but begins to grin and nods vigorously.

"Sir, we'd both love to see you again. Do you know how to get here?"

"Yes, yes. I'll be there tomorrow morning." There's a shared silence for a few seconds. Then he clears his throat and says, "Please tell Agent Mulder I'm looking forward to seeing both of you again."

She closes the phone, smiling quizzically at Mulder. "He wants to see us. I think he misses us."

Mulder laughs. "I was the biggest pain in his ass for how many years? Now he misses us?" They both laugh, in apprehension and in pleasure.

Back at Jesus Rodriguez' home. This time they wait in the car, engine running, heater blowing on them. Mulder is fiddling with the radio, but only static comes through. The clouds of last two days have dissipated, and, overhead, the milky way glows incandescent, whitewashing the gray-green landscape. There is no moon yet; the local paper said it would rise around twelve thirty.

"What do you hope to find, Mulder?"

He shrugs. "To be honest, Scully, I would be satisfied just seeing the lights. I've seen the Marfa lights," and she nods to indicate she knows of them, "and the ones in northern Michigan. But I've never seen any up close, the way Emma described these.

"And if we learn something about Jesus' disappearance, that would be even better. In fact, there's a lot more I want to know about that. For example, did you notice that the sheriff never told us what precipitated his decision to call us? Nor did he say why he believed the case should be solved. Why are we here, Scully? Eighteen months is a long time to wait to call in the feds."

"I think it's something to do with the town. Something about its heritage, all the gays and lesbians who live here. Remember, Emma said it was called 'faggerty.' That's not a friendly nickname."

He's nodding even as she speaks. "You're thinking a hate crime. That someone burst a percussion grenade on or near the porch and killed Jesus while Emma was blinded or unconscious." He looks at her. "The forensics aren't good, Scully. This is a small town with few resources; the sheriff at the time was convinced Emma had killed Jesus; and there's been a cleaning crew through that house a minimum of eighteen times since the disappearance." They sigh simultaneously. "Go back through that house, Scully. I'll ask Todd or Jack or Denise to go with you. I'm gonna find that former sheriff, Molloy."

He shifts the car into reverse, but Scully puts a hand on the wheel and he stops. "You think you know what happened to Jesus, and it isn't a percussion grenade," she says with confidence.

He makes a face. "Oh, Scully, let's not go through our routine tonight. I'll give you a theory, you'll shoot it down, we'll argue, I'll say you're closed minded, you'll say I'm too accepting, and then we'll agree to disagree until we have more evidence. Can we just skip to the last part?"

Scully again feels hurt, but nods in agreement. "Of course, Mulder. " She looks out the window. "Skipping right along, let's go back to the motel. I'd like a hot shower."

"Oh, shit!" Scully watches the water rise in her shower and quickly twists off the faucet. "Shit, shit, shit." The drain is very plugged. A shower would have felt so good, too. A bath even better, but there's no tub in her room.

"Scully?" Mulder's heard her swearing. She pulls on her robe and opens the bathroom door to find him standing there, a worried frown on his face.

"I'm okay, Mulder, it's just that my shower won't drain. And I *really* wanted a hot shower before I went to bed."

"Use mine. I take my shower in the morning after I run; you know that. Use my shower and tomorrow I'll call the manager, have yours unplugged."

She nods gratefully and grabs over overnight bag and nightgown. Back to get her shampoo and creme rinse, and then -- "You have a tub!" Oh, heaven. And the motel has even put out little packets of bubble bath. Aloe vera and milk. What a place. She may move to Haggerty, telecommute to DC.

Near the end of her bath, she hears a knock, and Mulder's voice, then Todd Owens'. She can't hear what they're talking about, but neither sounds upset. She dries and dresses as quickly as she can, then realizes that she can hear only the television. Did they both go out? Did Todd leave and Mulder fall asleep in front of the tv? She quietly opens the door, then closes it almost completely, peering out into Mulder's room.

Todd and Mulder have their arms around each other. Todd is facing her, in three-quarter profile; she can see Mulder's face when he leans forward to rest his cheek against Todd's. Todd runs his right hand down Mulder's back, cupping his ass and pulling him closer. Scully's stomach clenches when she sees Mulder's knees loosen and he rubs his groin against Todd's right hip. She hears Todd whisper, "Fox," and Mulder lifts his head. They are, she notices again, exactly the same height. Mulder tilts his head to his left and they kiss. Passionately. Mulder slides his hand from Todd's waist to his shirt front and he slowly begins to undo the last two buttons. When he reaches Todd's belt, he unbuckles it, and unbuttons his pants. Then he slips his hand down, inside Todd's pants. Todd exhales sharply into Mulder's mouth and rolls his head back. Mulder kisses his throat. He is smiling.

Scully retreats into the bathroom, stunned. Afraid. Aroused. Jealous. Really, really jealous, she admits to herself. He's never kissed me that way. But Scully is nothing if not fair. She knows that she's never encouraged him. If she had opened up to Mulder the way Todd had, if she had kissed him the way Todd is kissing him, if, if, if.

She peeks around the door again. Todd is gone. Mulder stands in front of the television, remote in hand, clicking methodically. His lips look swollen, and his erection is visible beneath his blue jeans.

Scully starts banging around in the bathroom, packing up her stuff, then exits. "Hey," she says calmly, against the pounding of her heart, "I thought I heard Todd Owens' voice."

Mulder looks at her idly. "Yeah. He came by to set up a time for me to meet Molloy. He'll be going with you to Jesus' home. Says it would impede the investigation to accompany me." She nods and returns to her room.

As she moves around her room, putting her bath things away, Scully tries to think through what she's seen. Twice now, she's been gifted or cursed with a vision of Mulder in another man's arms. She knows how alone he is, and can only imagine how lonely. He's lost so much -- his sister, his father, the X-Files. Herself, for a time. Another partner he trusted, Krycek. The only supervisor who believed in him was reprimanded and removed. Now he works in domestic terrorism, an area in which he has little interest and less experience. His abilities as a profiler are extraordinary and well documented, yet unused. Kersh has even suggested he quit the FBI.

Could she remain, if Mulder leaves?

Should she tell Mulder that she loves him? And in what way *does* she love him? Partner, friend, brother, yes, but why is she jealous? Can their relationship be named?

Another sleepless night.

Todd meets them as they leave their rooms. For a moment, Scully wonders if he spent the night with Mulder, but dismisses the thought. The walls are far too thin, and Mulder wouldn't do that, anyway.

They walk to a different restaurant for breakfast, a diner really, one where everyone knows Todd. He introduces them, as Dana and Fox, to about a dozen people, who all smile and shake their hands. Scully finds it disconcerting to be surrounded by such friendliness. Is it me, or is it this town that's wrong? she wonders. Why does simple friendliness disarm me?

They find Emma in the diner, finishing her coffee. "Sit, sit," she insists, and scoots over to make room. Scully sits next to her, and Todd and Mulder sit together. Scully is a trained observer, and tries to put her training to use. Emma is telling a story about a raccoon that got into her garage, climbed onto the garage door as it folded in and up, and wouldn't get off. She'd had to open and close her garage door a half dozen times before the silly thing finally jumped off and ran away. As she laughs, Scully notices that Todd sits very near Mulder, and that their arms brush. She drops her napkin and climbs out of the booth to pick it up, and to observe that their thighs are touching. She is ashamed of her behavior. She is ashamed to be jealous of Todd, and ashamed to resent Mulder's good fortune.

After breakfast, they walk back to the motel. Todd will ride in the rental car to Jesus' with Scully, dropping Mulder off at the sheriff's office to meet Denise, the deputy who will drive him out to Molloy's. They walk two by two on the sidewalk, Scully and Emma in front, Todd and Mulder behind. Scully's heightened sensibilities warn her that an approaching car is trouble, and she stops abruptly. Mulder says quietly, "What," but by then the trouble has arrived.

"Hey, faggots," one of the four teenaged boys in the dented Chrysler shouts, and the others laugh. All the windows are rolled down, and Scully can see a baseball bat in the rear window of the car. She suddenly realizes what they look like -- Scully and Emma, Todd and Mulder. Her heart rushes into a staccato rhythm of fear and anger. Emma falls back, moving away from the street, but Scully, Todd, and Mulder stand their ground, waiting to see what will happen next.

The boys are noisy, the music blaring from their car is noisy, and the four doors opening sound like the end of the world. Suddenly a Crown Vic pulls up, its distinctive engine drowning out the cacophony, and a tall balding man steps out. "What the hell is going on here?"

AD Skinner. Scully's heart begins to slow, her jaw unlocks, but the young man from the front passenger seat shouts, "Fuck off, asshole! Unless you're one of them, too --" he gestures at four on the sidewalk. Skinner calmly walks up to the young man and slams him into the side of the Chrysler. The other three scramble to his assistance, but the AD flips out his badge.

"Don't even think about it. Just get back in your car and leave. Don't ever come back. Agent Mulder," and Mulder straightens almost to attention, "Do you have this vehicle's license number?"

"Yessir."

"Very good." To the homophobes, "leave now or never." Engine knocking, they race down the main street, slinging mud with their rear wheels.

Scully is stunned by the suddenness of the attack. My god, she thinks to herself, this could happen any day, any time. There's absolutely no protection, and no way Skinner could stop it. She's embarrassed to find herself trembling, but even in her state notices a thin sheen of sweat on Mulder's face.

Skinner approaches them, somewhat gingerly. "Agents, are you all right?" Mulder nods.

Scully says, "Thank you, sir. I don't know how to thank you." Surprising herself, she reaches out and takes him by the hand. The look of concern on his face brings her back to herself and she tries to pull away, but he puts his other hand on her shoulder.

"Let's find someplace to sit down," he suggests, and now five of them return to the diner. No one, apparently, saw or heard a thing; the diner is just as they left it, an oasis in a hate-filled world.

"More coffee," Emma requests, and the queen-sized waitress brings them an entire pot. When she leaves, Emma says to Skinner, "Thank you, sir. Like Dana, I don't know how to thank you, but thank you. That hasn't happened to me in a long time. I'd forgotten how terrifying it is."

"I hadn't." Todd is speaking. Scully sees he is again sitting very close to Mulder; in fact, they might be holding hands under the table. All of a sudden, Scully is furious -- at Todd, for being gay; at Mulder, for being susceptible; at the boys in the beat-up car, for being assholes; at Skinner, for having to rescue them; at the world, for being the way it is.

"How do you stand it?" Four faces turn to her in surprise. "How can you stand knowing that at any minute someone can attack you simply for being who you are? What you are?" She is almost whispering, but her intensity is causing the other diners to turn toward her flaming presence. Skinner, seated at the head of the table, puts his hand on her arm.

"Settle down, Agent Scully. It's over. Things like that happen every minute of every day." She glares at him, but he's unmoved. "Drink your coffee. It's very good coffee." At this amazingly inane comment she has no words. Although it is good coffee.

"Who are you?" Emma asks. "Besides our deus ex machina." Skinner grins at that, and Mulder introduces him.

"But what are you doing here?"

"I was at a seminar in Seattle. I'd heard that Agents Mulder and Scully were here and thought I'd come up. I don't often get out in the field anymore, and I wanted to see them again. We used to work together." There's so much unspoken there, Scully thinks. Years of hard work and pain, of loyalty tested, of secrets shared. Emma and Todd apparently pick up on some of the unsaid and remain quiet. Scully's heartrate has finally returned to normal, but her stomach still feels upset, as if she'd eaten something nasty. Which I guess, she thinks to herself, I have.

Finally, Mulder pulls himself together enough to explain the case, and who's going where today. "Would you like to come with me, sir?" he asks. Skinner stares directly at Mulder, then nods abruptly. "Good." Mulder looks happier already. Scully feels better, too, knowing he'll have Skinner as backup.

There is nothing at the house. Scully had told Mulder that the night before, he already knows it, Todd knows it, but they dutifully go through the routine. In a way, it's calming, and they both need calming. Scully does put on the Abbey Road CD, though, and offers a prayer of thanks to the missing Jesus for owning it, and such a wonderful sound system. Much better than hers.

She groans as she straightens her back. The kitchen and back porch are a mess, but Emma says the cleaners will be out next week, not to worry. Todd comes in from the back yard where he's been sweeping with a metal detector. He shakes his head and sits on one the of the rockers. Scully joins him, and they sit quietly.

"You're attracted to Mulder." Todd's silvery-blue eyes meet her own. He's blushing slightly, which intensifies their odd color, but he nods.

"Very much. Aren't you?"

She is silent, lacking Todd's courage and courtesy, and shamed by the lack. His question is the very one she has been afraid to ask herself. She closes her eyes. "Yes. I am. I have been for many years." She feels a tear slide down her face, but doesn't move to brush it away. Todd takes her hand.

"It's okay, Dana." She opens her eyes and looks at him. He, too, she sees, is a decent human being who has gone into law enforcement to stop the kind of behavior they experienced this morning. If Mulder wants him, she'll learn to live with it. She refuses to be anything less. Not with Mulder at stake. She squeezes his hand in return.

"There's nothing here, Dana." Changing the subject. A kind man, too. She nods. "I hate to disappoint Fox, but whatever evidence was here is long gone. We should go back, or we'll be late."

"Watermelon and blackberry soup, baked ricotta with thyme, eggplant rollatini with corn bread stuffing, mushroom turnovers, fresh fig and honey galette." Skinner looks up from the menu and says, "This place is called *Tiny's*?"

"Let's get it all. Sounds fabulous." Emma is obviously happy to be here; her happiness shines out of her and warms her tablemates. Another bottle of the Sangiovese has been ordered, and the five have settled in for a night of feasting at Tiny's.

Skinner lifts his glass to the others, but especially to his two former subordinates. Mulder sits between Todd and Scully, who is to Skinner's right; Emma at his left. He thinks that Mulder looks thin, almost frail, but as happy as he's ever seen him. He notices how close to Mulder the Sheriff sits, and how he looks at Mulder when he speaks. Scully looks, thank god, healthy, but she keeps glancing at her partner. She's worried. He feels a rush of affection for them both. They were his partners, too, in an attempt to slow a conspiracy so powerful that all three have been moved effortlessly, almost painlessly, to the sidelines. Almost painlessly. Unaware of how rueful his smile is, he lifts his glass a little higher, and says, "To old friends and new."

The others lift their glasses in turn. Mulder stares at him, smiling. He says, "Well met, keep well, and live in love." Now Skinner stares at him, puzzled but pleased, until Scully waggles her glass for attention.

She points at Skinner. "Italian." She points at Mulder. "Dutch." She points at herself. "Irish. So if anyone is going to offer a toast, it'll be me." She shakes her hair back from her face, straightens her back, then lifts her glass to the men in her life, and recites:

"May you be poor in misfortune, rich in blessings, Slow to make enemies, quick to make friends. But rich or poor, slow or fast, May you know nothing but happiness."

Emma and Todd watch this interplay closely, Skinner observes from a corner of his mind. They are smiling as well, comfortable in their company. It occurs to him that, in such a place, the three of them may very well appear to be a -- well, not a couple. A menage? More than they are? And what are they? Skinner feels a longing for something he cannot quite name, some connection or coalescence. A coming together.

Into the silence their waiter brings the first course, the watermelon and blackberry soup, and they move their attention to the exquisite food. No words are needed now.

Skinner is also at the Night Owl, two doors up from Mulder. They meet in the morning, another dark drizzly day. Scully stands in her door and watches them talk. She realizes that she feels quite proprietary toward them, as they shuffle and fidget, planning the day. They all had a little too much to drink of the wonderful Sangiovese last night, so she has secreted a bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol in her pocket. No doubt they will welcome it with their breakfast.

She shuts the door firmly behind her and they turn at the sound. "What is the plan, gentlemen?"

"Coffee," Skinner says instantly, "and then a debriefing." He herds his agents toward the same diner and good coffee he remembers from yesterday morning.

As they seat themselves, Skinner begins to describe what happened the previous day, at Molloy's.

"He lives in the next town east. Driven out of Haggerty, no doubt, by his homophobia." Skinner grimaces slightly. "What an asshole. He was abusive to Mulder, had him pegged as gay. Marginally better to me, so I led the interrogation. Thank you, Mulder," he turns to face him directly, "that was skillfully done." Mulder drops his eyes, unable, as always, to accept a compliment.

"That prick was clueless about what really happened on that night. He certainly didn't believe that Emma had killed and disposed of Jesus' body. There wasn't enough time, and no evidence. It was all just political hay." He washes the sour taste in his mouth away with a sip of coffee. "We learned nothing."

"That's not entirely true, sir," Mulder says after a moment. "We confirmed what we already believed to be true: that Emma never killed Jesus. But we don't know if she helped him escape from some problem. And we still don't know why we were called in so long after all this has happened."

"I may know why," Scully says quietly. Both men look at her. She sighs. "I spent much of yesterday with Toddy. He's a good man. But he's tired. Things could be better between Jack and him. Winning the election took a lot out of him. And he spends a lot of his time trying to assist students and townspeople injured by outsiders who come here specifically to harass them. He's followed Mulder's career and feels a kinship. Odd-men-out sort of thing." Mulder looks both embarrassed and proud at the same time; Skinner snorts and drinks more coffee to hide his smile.

"Emma told us that this town is a safe place for its inhabitants. Todd keeps it safe. How much responsibility is that, for one man? For a gay man, who has the same fears as the people he's trying to protect?"

Skinner and Mulder remain silent, obviously thinking over her comments. Scully has admitted to herself that she is in a similar position: trying to protect others when she cannot protect herself. It does get old, it does wear on one's soul, and one does look to others for -- comfort. For support. For connection. She watches the two men carefully, sees them meet each other's eyes and nod.

There is a Catholic church in Haggerty, Scully discovers from Jack. While Skinner and Mulder spend the day meeting with faculty and staff at the university, getting background on both Jesus and Emma, she will meet with the priest, Father Bernardone. She isn't sure what she hopes to accomplish.

The church is small, but striking. It's narrow, with a very steep pitched roof and a charming steeple pointing straight to God. The shingles are green with moss, and the white church shimmers in the dark under enormous fir trees. Scully is cold, and zips her jacket closed.

Inside, she genuflects before the altar and crosses herself with holy water. She turns then to the tiny Lady Chapel, to the right of the altar, and kneels in prayer. Help me, dear Mary, mother of God, to understand my feelings for Mulder and Skinner. Who are they to me? Who am I to them? She crosses herself again, and rises to search for the priest.

He's waiting for her, a young man, the youngest priest she's ever met. She's used to older priests, like her family's Father McCue. They shake hands, and he leads her into a small chilly room where there's a pot of coffee dripping. This town and coffee, she thinks, as she accepts yet another excellent cup.

"You are perhaps puzzled to find a Catholic priest ministering to the needs of a largely homosexual community?" he asks once they're settled.

"No. I'm aware of many priests who have the courage of their convictions. My own priest, in fact." He nods. "I'm here to learn more about the community. Has anything happened recently?"

He sighs. "Too much. The outside is learning about us." She makes a slight movement at his use of the pronoun "us." "I'm homosexual, Agent Scully. Although I'm celibate, if I were to engage in sexual relations, it would be with another man.

"The towns around us are growing in size; western Washington is a great place to live. The high schools boys harass us, and their fathers egg them on. It's worse than when I was in college here, ten years ago, and the old timers say it's significantly worse. I don't think we're unique; from what I read in the papers, this type of behavior is on the rise everywhere. It's just that we've felt protected for so long."

"Todd and his deputies do the protecting?"

"Yes, of course, but our isolation helps. The presence of the university, too -- that kind of intellectual center attracts a certain kind of person and demands a certain kind of tolerance. Call it academic freedom. Our history helps, too -- everybody knows about the Haggerty brothers. Faggerty brothers," he adds softly, with a bitter smile.

"Did you know Jesus Rodriguez?"

"Oh, yes, he is -- was a Catholic. Attended mass almost every Sunday, came to confession regularly. Gave generously to the church, too. A good man. I miss him." Scully sees tears in Father Bernardone's eyes. "We're such a small town, the loss of even one person leaves a large hole."

"Do you know what happened that night in June?"

"No, Agent Scully. I know that Emma would never hurt Jesus. But I also know Jesus would never hurt Emma, and his disappearance has hurt her terribly. If he were alive or if he could return, he would have when Sheriff Molloy convened the grand jury. What a terrible time that was."

They talk a while longer, but he doesn't have anything to tell her that she doesn't already know. As she leaves the beautiful building, she feels a pang of regret for even more lost innocence.

Scully walks back to town, sniffing with pleasure the sweet air and enjoying the freedom of being outdoors. She's thinking again about Mulder, about the vicissitudes the last three days have brought to her. And of Skinner, a man she refused to trust for so long it almost became habit. She does trust him, or at least she wants to trust him. And of Todd, and what he could mean to Mulder, in a different world.

Last summer, when she'd experienced the vision of Mulder kissing Alex Krycek, she'd recognized in him a need for connection, and recognized in herself a reluctance, or perhaps an inability, to admit to the connection that exists between Mulder and herself. Yet here in Haggerty, in faggerty, she can acknowledge that connection. For the first time she feels ready to begin examining what she feels for Mulder, and to consider the possibility of acting on those feelings. Maybe she needed the competition? She would hate to think she was that kind of person. But maybe she is. She remembers how she fled to her car when she saw Mulder and Diana Fowley holding hands. I'm jealous, she tells herself in dismay.

"Scul-lee!" Mulder's familiar voice reaches her and she looks up. He and Skinner are standing outside Tiny's; he's waving at her, and they're both laughing at something. She strides briskly toward them, her heart cheered at the sight and sound. Her guys, gay or straight. She loves Mulder, and maybe even Skinner. She might as well admit it to herself, even if she can't to them.

This town has been good for me, Scully thinks as she nears them. I hope we can be good for the town.

"Hey, fellas," she calls and enjoys the surprise on their faces at her address. "Is it lunch time already? Seems like all we do here is eat."

"Scully, you're always telling me to eat more. I'm just trying to be a good partner." They enter Tiny's and go straight to their usual table. "You're in a good mood," he tells her.

She smiles at him, and then at Skinner. "Yeah. Yeah, I haven't felt this good in a long time. I'm really happy here, in Haggerty; aren't you?"

Both men are taken unawares. After a pause, Skinner says, "Yeah, I am." He looks at Mulder, who nods. "It's kind of a gay Disneyland." The two agents look at him in surprise. "I mean, everything is so clean. The people are so good looking and polite. I feel safe here. Well, safer than in DC." Mulder is nodding, and Scully feels tears rise. She knows what's caused it: the word "safe." How can any place be safe after everything the three of them have seen and done?

As if reading her mind, Skinner continues, "Although even Disneyland has its share of violence." Then he picks up the menu and begins reading out loud. "Grilled jack cheese with chile and cilantro on foccaccia with arugula. That's it, that's for me. And a Sam Adams." He slaps the menu down and gives the most un-Skinner-like grin Scully can imagine. Glen walks toward their table, smiling.

Lunch is delicious.

The three drive back to Jesus Rodriguez' beautiful home. The cleaners have come and gone, and it's spotless once again. Skinner enters last, standing in the door, silently observing. His eyes move around the room, cataloging the items, assessing their significance. He nods to himself, then steps inside and carefully closes the door behind him.

Mulder is already in the kitchen, impatient for Skinner and Scully to follow. He sticks his head into the hallway with a puzzled look on his face. "Just a minute, Agent," Skinner says. He moves slowly through the living room and into the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Mulder sighs dramatically, but follows.

"Scully and Todd went over the place again, but it was too late. Too many cleaning crews through here." Skinner nods, but doesn't reply. They're in the first bedroom now, which has been turned into a den or study. There's a handsome white oak desk with a Macintosh G3 sitting on it.

"Scully," Skinner begins, but she's already booting it up.

"I cataloged what's on the harddrive, but it might be interesting to see what Jesus bookmarked in his browser," she tells him.

Skinner watches her approvingly, then moves past Mulder back into the hallway and the bathroom across the hall. Everything is so neat, so decorated. He thinks briefly of his ex-wife, Sharon; she would have loved Jesus' taste. But that's a painful thought, and, as always, he turns it aside to focus on the task at hand. Where is Jesus Rodriguez?

The bathroom is obviously for guests; not much in the cupboards or medicine chest, so he moves on to the next bedroom. This is the master bedroom, and a beautiful room it is. A four-poster king-sized bed, again in white oak, with matching dresser and what he thinks is called an armoire. Back home in Texas, he would have called it a chiffarobe -- a sort of exterior closet. He opens it and finds it as neat as the rest of the house. Jesus was obviously careful in his dress, and seemed to have a penchant for leather. Several leather jackets, even a pair of leather trousers. Hmm. Soft to the touch.

When Skinner was a field agent, he often had to sort through the clothes and possessions of the deceased. He's never much liked it, but it does offer insights. Not the type that Mulder has, he knows; that's another paradigm altogether from the kind of methodical categorizing he does, but useful, useful. Right now, he believes he could describe Jesus Rodriguez quite accurately. A small, Hispanic, gay male -- well, that's public knowledge. House-proud, as his mother would have said. Proud of his clothes, too. In both the master bath's medicine chest and in a bedside table he finds tubes of Astroglide and KY Jelly, plus rolls of condoms, so a careful man although not celibate. Discreet, he would hazard; Emma Wakeman could probably tell him. He wonders who the selected lovers were. Skinner very much doubts whether that oaf Molloy would have checked into that angle.

Finally, he's ready to see the kitchen and porch. Mulder still lurks behind him, observing him study Rodriguez' home. He gives him a brief grin, and then leads the way to the kitchen. "All right, Mulder. Show me your stuff." Skinner always enjoys insights into Mulder's technique. He crosses his arms and waits to be impressed.

As Mulder recites what he's learned from Emma and from studying the rooms, a picture builds in Skinner's mind. He can see Emma, whom he likes, in this cheerful kitchen, wine glass in hand, leaning over the counter as Jesus prepares some elaborate meal. He can imagine them sitting in the white rockers, silently watching the mysterious lights. He can hear Jesus' speculations, because they would be much like Mulder's. Aliens. Supernatural beings. Communication from beyond.

Night has come. He can see his and Mulder's reflections in the french doors, so he flicks off the lights. As his eyes adjust, he moves closer to the glass and peers out into the dark. No lights tonight. Just the endless quiet of the wetlands and the forest beyond them.

Mulder has fallen silent, and comes to stand beside him. The two men stand for many minutes, looking out into the night. No lights from a neighbor's home can be seem, no street lights, or even the moon. Just the attenuated starlight whitening the landscape. Skinner finds his mind turning from Jesus' disappearance to the man beside him. A friend. "Buddy," Mulder had once called him, but ironically. Skinner turns to study his profile; the long nose, the Renaissance lips. He places a hand on Mulder's shoulder but isn't sure what to say. You were a terrible subordinate but a brilliant agent. I consider you a friend. I miss you. Finally, he sighs. "They haven't won, Fox."

Mulder drops his head, then turns to face him. "Not yet. At least *you* believe." He grins crookedly. "Did you ever in your wildest dreams think you'd believe in a global conspiracy? That the Department of Justice is subverting the U.S. constitution? That high-ranking officials within the DOJ would forge a deal with aliens to control the Earth?"

Skinner burst out laughing. Trust Mulder to summarize what they know so it sounds like a comic book conspiracy. "No," he agrees, "I never dreamed that. I did dream of finding agents like you and Scully, though," he continues more soberly. "Agents who take their jobs seriously, who never lose respect for the victims or their passion to find the perpetrators. Agents whom I can trust."

The two men continue standing in the darkened kitchen. They are hunting for more than Jesus Rodriguez, Skinner realizes. They are hunting for connections.

Scully finds them, standing there. She leans against the door and clears her throat. When they both turn to her, she shakes her head. "Jesus apparently checked his online horoscope everyday, sometimes several times a day. I checked the cache as well as his bookmarks -- no visits to any airlines or online travel agencies. If he did leave, he didn't buy tickets online."

Skinner turns and walks out of the kitchen. Scully and Mulder study each other and then follow him back to the Crown Vic. There doesn't seem anything more to say. Jesus is still missing, whereabouts unknown.

Skinner drives them to the diner and orders more coffee. The waitress, Betsy, brings them a plate of oatmeal-chocolate chip cookies, too, "fresh from the oven." Mulder has to order milk, then, which makes her laugh with pleasure.

Skinner begins. "Let's summarize what we know. You two were brought here under false pretenses. I don't think that Todd needs to face charges for that, so we need to come up with some cover story for him." Scully glances at Mulder to gauge his reaction to this duplicity, but he is nodding. She's going to have to get used to this new Skinner, freed by events to follow his conscience. "Whatever we cook up, the bottom line is that there's no domestic terrorism involved, just a missing persons case. Agent Mulder, your conclusions?"

"Emma Wakeman is a responsible citizen in a position of some authority who is respected by her peers and subordinates. She genuinely appears to miss her friend and co-worker, and has assisted us at every step in our attempt to locate him. It is unlikely in the extreme that she is lying to us about what happened that night. I don't believe she murdered Jesus Rodriguez, nor do I believe that she assisted him to flee.

"From all accounts, from both friends and enemies," he grimaces, "and by enemies, I mean the former sheriff, Molloy, Rodriguez had settled into a good life here in Haggerty. He was sexually active, but carefully. He was highly regarded by his co-workers and loved by faculty and students. Although not a wealthy man, he had no financial difficulties. He was superstitious, but that doesn't mean he would disappear under mysterious circumstances.

"Emma told Scully and me that she heard a hissing noise, like electricity through a wire, when Jesus disappeared. She found unexplained bruises on her body the next day. She may have lost time that night."

Scully interjects, "Mulder. You don't know that."

"I have good reason to suspect it. She admits that she didn't check the time. Think about it, Scully. The sheriff's office doesn't get a call until almost midnight. It gets dark late up here in the summer, but not that late. The lights show up at dusk. She doesn't know how long she was out, but thinks she searched for about thirty minutes. What happened between dusk and eleven thirty?" Scully purses her lips and looks away. "Come on, Scully. After everything we've seen. . ."

Skinner interrupts their discussion. "That's enough. Agent Scully, let's keep an open mind here. Agent Mulder's been right too often not to accord him that courtesy." Scully is stunned by the comment, and shamed by its truth.

"Go on, Mulder," she offers in restitution. "I do want to hear you."

He nods his head. "Inexplicable lights, strange sounds, and buzzing sensations are often associated with abductions. Emma may not know what happened to her because she was 'switched off' during the missing time. Her bruises probably resulted from falling out of the rocker."

"You think Mr. Rodriguez was abducted by aliens." Skinner's expression gives away nothing. He searches Mulder's face, his own calm and placid, lights from the diner reflecting off his glasses.

"Yessir."

"Will he be returned?"

"Most abductees are, but usually within hours. Occasionally within a few days. Almost none after that. So, no, I don't believe we'll ever meet Jesus Rodriguez." In the silence, all three cannot help but think of Mulder's long-lost, long-missing sister.

Nothing to say at that, Skinner thinks. He glances at Scully, who is biting her lower lip and frowning. "Agent Scully?"

She shakes her head. "I have no alternate theories, sir. He's just -- gone." She closes her eyes and sighs. "But Mulder, please, please don't put this in your report."

Skinner interrupts. "Oh, he won't." Both agents look at him in surprise. "Agent Mulder, we're all of us in a precarious position now, within the hierarchy of the bureau. I don't want you to damage yourself any further. I will review your report before you submit it to AD Kersh."

Mulder opens his mouth to argue, but immediately recognizes the futility, and the wisdom. He regards Skinner, head slightly tilted, then nods. "Yessir."

Scully is astonished by what's she just seen. Both Skinner's offer and Mulder's capitulation. She reaches out and takes the hand of each in her own. "Thank you, sir."

The next day they meet with Emma, Sheriff Owens, and his two deputies, enjoying a last lunch at Tiny's. Scully is sorry to be leaving Haggerty, and not least of all sorry to leave all the excellent food they've enjoyed. As Glen fills their wineglasses with a Piper Sonoma champagne, Mulder leads the debriefing, succinctly explaining their findings or, more accurately, lack of findings. Scully can see that something has changed between Jack and Todd; she wonders if it was Mulder. They exchange glances frequently, and several times Jack touches Todd's shoulder in a gesture of affection. Scully glances at Skinner, who sees all; he still has the relaxed look on his face. But when Jack touches Todd, Skinner looks at Mulder.

Mulder concludes, "There is still no forensic evidence to indicate foul play at Mr. Rodriguez' home. The only evidence we have, in fact, is Dr. Wakeman's testimony; however, she is considered a reliable witness with no motive to lie or injure Mr. Rodriguez. At this time, Mr. Rodriguez' disappearance must remain as an open case." Mulder's closes his summary by raising his hands; a typically graceful gesture.

Todd clears his throat. "Thank you, Fox. I know you tried; I know I tried. Not all cases can be closed successfully." He turns to Jack, who takes his hand. Denise smiles and glances at the floor.

"I'm sorry, too," Skinner says. "But I've reviewed the case files and discussed the details with my agents. There are no further leads at this time. It's time to put this case behind you. You have a fine town, Sheriff Owens, and I've enjoyed my three days here more than I've enjoyed any three days in the last five years. Take care of your people, and let this pass."

"Thank you, Walter."

Next to Todd, Emma bows her head in acceptance, her eyes closing briefly. Skinner puts his hand over hers for a moment, and she opens her eyes and smiles at him. "I know Jesus is gone; I've accepted that. It's just that I still miss him, every day."

Skinner pats her hand under his and glances at Mulder, thinking of his friend's lost sister. Mulder's face is composed, but his hazel eyes are sad. Skinner wonders yet again what it means to lose someone but never to know how or why. Emma and Mulder will have to always wonder, always hope, always doubt. He sighs heavily, picks up the hand-written menu, and adjusts his glasses.

"What shall we have for lunch? Something special, since it's our last meal here. Let's see. Cream of Leek Soup with Fresh Herbs, Polenta Gratin with Mushrooms and Tomatoes, Composed Winter Vegetables, Peppered-Cheese Bread, Chocolate Terrine." He looks around the table. "Any complaints?"

Emma smiles. "As if. But let me pay for the champagne. More, Glen, and this time let's try the Iron Horse Wedding Cuvee." Glen nods and quickly returns with another bottle.

"Be careful, sir," says Scully, the voice of reason. "We have miles to go before we sleep." Skinner lifts his glass to her, then to Mulder.

"Thank you for letting me invite myself to this investigation. It was good to work with you again." Scully smiles; Mulder drops his eyes, embarrassed grin on his face. Jack picks up his wineglass and toasts the three federal agents.

"Thank you for your help. For taking us seriously. For being such good people."

Emma adds, "And here's to absent friends." All lift their glasses to that.

The chocolate terrine is too much. They end up sharing three for the seven of them, and still groan in pleasurable pain. More of the good coffee that seems ubiquitous in Haggerty. Finally, they rise and stretch, and wander out to the cars.

Standing in the drizzle, they shake hands. As Mulder turns to go, Todd pulls him into an embrace, and Mulder returns the hug. They slap each other on the backs. Jack watches them bemusedly; Scully with a sad smile; Skinner impassively. The four from Haggerty head back to their lives and work, leaving the three from the other Washington standing by their rentals.

"Turn yours in at the next town," Mulder suddenly suggests to Skinner. "Let's drive back to Seattle together." Skinner nods. Scully is proud of them. Impulsively, she again takes their hands in hers. This is the memory I want to take back with me, she thinks; standing here in the mist, in this Disneyland, with the two men who mean the most to me in the world.

"You never got to see your lights, Mulder," she suddenly says.

"Oh, I see 'em, Scully." Looking right at her. Skinner smiles, watching them.

"I see them, too," he concurs softly.

Notes: All the food at Tiny's is from Deborah Madison's _Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone_, and is just as delicious as it sounds. The x-file in this story is based on something that happened to my dear friend, L.

First Posted: November 9, 2000