Title: Sam Und Zeit

Author: Trixie

Email: scullymulder1121@hotmail.com

Classification: UST/MSR, S, A, C

Rating: PG

Archive: Really? You want it? Oh, please let me know where
it's going . . .

Spoilers: This is set during SUZ/Closure, and yet, I *still*
manage to spoil, in a vague sense, through 'Existence'. It's
a gift.

Disclaimer: Oh, I so own them now. They can't have them
back. It scares me, what may happen to them. Mulder and
Scully can live with Buffy and Angel in my head . . .

Thanks: To Brandon, for staying up way past his bedtime to
beta for me, =and= for making this all spiffy pretty at the
NG. To Narida, for wimping out and going to bed, thus saving
me from having to rewrite half of this to her no doubt
superior specifications. And to Lysandra, for saying "honey,
no" to two different titles, even though she hasn't actually
read the fic yet. Squishy wet kisses to all of you, because
you really are the best ones.

Notes: Yes, this is an XF/Quantum Leap crossover. Though, I
warn you, it's a =little= more Quantum Leap than XF. I
really wanted to view this through Sam's eyes. This was
written from the floor of Narida Law's apartment in November
of 2000. I just remembered again that I had it lying around,
so I dusted it off, and figured I'd post it because dang it,
I =like= it. <g> I hope you like it, too.

Summary: Dr. Sam Beckett leaps into the lives of our
favorite Dynamic Duo

It was bright and dark at the same time. There was no noise
here, no sense of self or time or anything else. Only the
unending contrast of brightness and darkness. At the end of
it -- if such a thing could have an end -- was always the
flash as the bright turned blue and the dark faded away to
nothingness.

And always left, was Sam.

In a single, brilliant lightning bolt of sensation, one
consciousness slipped away, and another seamlessly took its
place. Dr. Samuel Beckett looked around his new
surroundings. A sparsely furnished apartment greeted him.
Immaculately clean, a place for everything, and everything
in its place. Not a bad place to live, but it made Sam
wonder exactly how much =living= was done here.

He was so absorbed in taking in his new surroundings, he
barely noticing the phone in his hand before it was almost
too late. Sam kept himself from dropping it just in time.

"Mr. Skinner? Did you hear what I said?"

"Uh . . ."

"Mr. Skinner, I need to speak with Agent Mulder.
Immediately. I understand he's suffered a . . . loss. But
please, can't you find it in your heart to at least ask him
to speak with me? This is about my little girl."

Sam didn't know who Agent Mulder was, but he could hear the
naked pain in this woman's voice. These were the situations
he hated leaping into the most. No clue what to do, nothing
to guide the right course of action but his instincts. They
had rarely led him astray before. He hoped they wouldn't do
so now.

"I'll speak with Agent Mulder."

"Thank you." She definitely sounded relieved. He smiled.
That had to have been the right thing to do. "You may have
saved Amber Lynn's life."

The phone went dead in his hand as she hung up. Sam's
nerveless fingers dropped the receiver and he mopped a hand
over his face. "Oh boy," he muttered into his suddenly
sweaty palm.

~

Admiral Al Calavicci strode through the control room, en
route to the Imaging Chamber. Walter S. Skinner, he mused,
remembering to snag the hand link that would keep him in
constant contact with Ziggy. Ziggy was a super computer Al
didn't even pretend to understand the inner-workings of. She
was Sam's baby, just like this project was Sam's baby.

"Admiral, I don't have to tell you that--"

"Stuff it, Gushi," Al snapped. "Sam doesn't have the time to
spare on protocol this time. If I don't get to him now, he
might not be in time."

"But, Admiral--"

"Ziggy, center me on Sam," Al ordered, barely sparing Gushi
a glare.

The Imaging Chamber door shut and Al found himself
surrounded by holograms, swirling in dizzying circles before
they came into focus. Nice pad, he thought, looking around
for his best friend. Too bad it looked like a total square
lived in it . . .

"Al."

"Sam." He was relieved to have located him so quickly. It
didn't always happen that easy. "Listen, Ziggy's been
running predictions faster than we can hack into the
Pentagon's files, but--"

"Al, there's someone . . . a little girl. Amber Lynn. She's
in trouble, Al."

Al's gaze was downcast for a moment. He did not want to dash
the hope he saw in Sam's eyes. "Sam . . . she was never
found. Granted, it's only been a couple of years, but . . ."
Al smacked the hand link as it beeped at him. "Woah. Sam,
you've already changed history." His gaze snapped up to
Sam's. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!" Sam threw his hands up in the air.
"I leapt into the middle of a phone conversation . . . this
woman was asking me to speak to someone named Mulder on her
behalf. I . . . I said yes."

"Billie LaPierre," Al told him, concentrating on the mission
at hand. Sam had never leapt this close to his own time
before, and Al refused to get his hopes up until Ziggy
finished running tests. It probably meant nothing. There was
no pattern to Sam's leaps that anyone -- super computer or
human -- could calculate.

"Who?"

"The woman on the phone. And you just saved her life. In the
original history, Walter Skinner -- that's you, by the way
-- refused her request to speak with Agent Mildred . . .
Moldy . ." Al smacked the side of the hand link furiously.
"Mulder," he crowed triumphantly as he popped a cigar
between his lips.

"Why wouldn't he let her speak with Agent--" He made an
emphatic 'help me out here' gesture with his hands.

"Mulder."

"Mulder." Sam's hands pinwheeled his gratitude.

"Ahh, because Agent Mulder's mother recently committed
suicide. After she was denied access to Mulder, Mrs.
LaPierre took her own life. Her husband told the authorities
that she lost all hope of finding her daughter after that
phone call. You -- Skinner -- never forgave himself."

"Okay, so I stopped that from happening. Why haven't I
leaped?"

Al felt his friend's tension. This thing wasn't easy for
him, and he was just a hologram in the grand scheme of
things. At least he was home; able to see his loved ones, to
speak to them whenever he liked. Sam was lost, in control of
nothing but his own actions, actions that ultimately
affected the lives of people he barely knew in the most
profound of ways. It was tough, but Al had never known
someone so suited to their lot in life.

"Ziggy says that's not what you were here to do."

"Then am I here to find her? Amber Lynn?"

Sam was getting impatient. Al wished he had more information
to give him. "I don't think so. Ziggy only gives it a 10.3
percent possibility." He hated to dash the hope in Sam's
eyes like that. Accepting there was nothing they could do
was always the hardest part for Sam.

"This is like pulling teeth! Damn it, Al, just tell me what
I'm supposed to do, so I can do it."

Al narrowed his eyes. "Are you okay, Sam? You're getting
kind of cranky."

Sam glared at him. "Maybe I =feel= cranky." He took a deep
breath, swiping a hand over his face. "All right, I'm sorry
for being cranky. I just . . . I don't like not being able
to do anything." He pasted a smile on his face. "Would you
please sweet talk, seduce, bribe, cajole, or threaten Ziggy
into telling you what I'm here to fix?"

"You've gotta book two flights to California. Ziggy says
there's a 72.5 percent possibility that you're here to take
Foxy--"

"Foxy?" Sam's eyebrows crept toward his hairline.

Al grinned around his cigar. "Special Agent Fox Mulder." Sam
motioned for him to continue. "The two of you are supposed
to go talk to Mrs. LaPierre."

A look of puzzlement crosses Sam's face. "How will that
help?"

Al put his hands up. "Do I know?"

Blowing out an impatient breath, Sam sighed. "Fine.
California, here I come."

~

"I'm an Assistant Director?"

"A Big Cheese if ever I saw one," Al confirmed. "Born Walter
Sergei Skinner, you're divorced, no children, and one of
your primary supervisory duties is overseeing the X-Files
division." The hologram smacked his hand link again. "Weird.
There's not a lot of data about the X-Files."

Sam continued walking down the hallway of Agent Mulder's
building, disconcerted, as always, when Al walked through
doors and other solid objects as though they weren't there.
Logically, having designed the technology that made it all
possible, Sam recognized that everything around him was as
insubstantial to Al as fog. It didn't make watching a
newspaper sailing through the air toward a door passing
right through his best friend's head any easier to view.

His nerves must have shown through, because Al stood right
in front of him. "Just say what we practiced, Sam."

Nodding, he rapped on the door. He didn't know what was
wrong with him this leap. It wasn't like it was that
drastically different from all the others. It just . . . aw,
hell, he thought, it =felt= different. He couldn't pinpoint
it, but something about this leap gave him butterflies in
the hard, ex-Marine stomach he currently inhabited.

Breathe, Sam, he intoned mentally. Just say what you
rehearsed. Tell Mulder that Billie LaPierre needs to see him
and--

The door opened suddenly, and before Sam stood a woman whose
eyes looked older than she could possibly be. Her red hair
stood out starkly against her pale skin and Sam was taken
aback at how lovely she was; how poignantly sad. He was
stunned stupid for a brief moment.

"Hi," he got out lamely.

"Hi," she said back, defensive. Her entire posture was
defensive, he realized. Almost as though he were an enemy.
But if she were in Mulder's apartment, why would she
consider Mulder's boss an enemy?

"How's he doing?" Sam asked, trying to see past her into the
apartment, hoping for a glance at this Mulder, the man whose
mere presence would keep Billie LaPierre from taking her own
life.

"It's been a hard night for him." And if you know what's
good for you, you won't make it any harder. Her message was
clear, as though it were a sign on her forehead, flashing in
bright green letters.

A trickle of unease crept up his spine. She was scary. Flat
out, no holds barred, scary. And she was angry at Sam --
Skinner -- for being here. Al, for once, was blessedly
silent beside him. Given how unsettled Sam already felt by
this whole leap, he didn't think he could sufficiently
ignore what would appear to be thin-air to this woman
watching him so closely.

"Billie LaPierre is asking for him," he began, quoting from
the mental script in his head, changing only the identity of
the person he was addressing. "She's got something to say
and she'll only talk to Mulder."

Her eyes flashed and, in Sam's mind, she appeared to grow
even taller and -- more imposing if that were possible.
"It's not a good . . ."

The reason for her sudden silence loomed behind her, an
imposing figure himself if he hadn't looked so weary at the
moment. Sam felt for him immediately, aware of the loss that
the other man had just suffered, as well as something else
he couldn't identify at the moment. He stood close to the
woman, close but not touching, letting her be his barrier
against the outside world.

Which, it appeared, included him. At least Mulder's posture
didn't suggest he saw Sam -- Skinner -- as a threat. That
opinion seemed to be reserved by the redhead, who was subtly
glaring daggers at Sam, making him want to shrivel in every
way it was possible for a man to shrivel.

"What is it?" Mulder's voice was raw, testimony to the hard
night he'd had.

"This case has heated up. I've booked two flights for us."
That sounded commanding. Sam didn't know much, but he had a
strong feeling that Walter Skinner was a very commanding
man. You spend enough time literally and figuratively
getting under people's skins, you pick things up pretty
quick.

Mulder nodded, but made no other sign that he understood, or
even noticed, Sam for that matter. His gaze did, however,
find the redhead's. Sam was witness to a non-vocal
communication as Mulder passed his hand over her lower back
briefly as he turned back into his apartment. Like he was
gaining the strength to endure whatever was ahead, Sam
thought, just by that barely substantial enough to be called
tactile touch.

He missed that. It had been so long since anyone had known
=him=, Sam, well enough to impart such affection, such
strength in a simple touch. There, then, was something he
clearly remembered of home. Not the who, or the when, or the
where -- just the simple, easy sensation of being touched by
someone who =knew= him.

Suddenly, he was alone with Mulder's imposing woman again,
and it didn't matter that Walter Skinner was a good foot
taller than she was. He almost took a step back.

"Well then, you better book three." He didn't think his eyes
could get any wider until she shut the door gently but
firmly in his face.

Alone now, except for Al, Sam turned toward the hologram,
agog. "Who is she? His bodyguard?"

"That was Special Agent Dr. Dana Katherine Scully," Al said,
leering at the closed door. His friend poked his head
through the closed door. "Ooo, and if the way they're moving
around there, trying =not= to touch is any indication, I'd
say they were being naughty when you showed up. Woo. My
third . . . no fourth . . . fifth . . . my =fifth= wife,
Maxine, was a redhead." Al sighed, the sound wistful.

"Al, I couldn't care less about your love life at the
moment."

Al straightened and punched a few commands into his hand
link. "Ziggy says Dr. Dana in there is Mulder's panther."
His eyebrows drew together and he smacked the hand link a
few times. "Panter . . . =partner=, oh, she's his partner at
the FBI."

"I take it they're close." Sam recognized the
understatement. He kept waiting for her to pull a gun on him
and make him promise never to darken Mulder's door again.

"Partners for seven years," Al confirmed. "Sam, Ziggy's
trying to access the Bureau's files -- which isn't easy,
cause in 2002 they sealed these X-Files things up pretty
tight -- but from what she's been able to get so far, those
two in there have been to hell and back a few times together
and lived to tell the tale. It's only natural they'd be
protective of each other."

Sam shook his head in amazement. "Protective is one thing,
but she was almost . . . insubordinate. Isn't Skinner --
aren't I -- doesn't she work for us?!"

Al answered with an eyebrow quirk. Sam sighed. That eyebrow
meant any one of a dozen things. In this particular
situation, Sam decided to fill in the mental blank it left
with "redheads are notoriously fiery and passionate." It was
certainly a more modest statement than Al himself would have
made had he spoken aloud. Sam could already tell, as he let
his forehead rest lightly against apartment 42 in defeat,
that it was going to be one of those leaps.

~

He'd almost kissed her.

The thought kept circling through Mulder's mind, prolonging
the sorrow he felt, extrapolating on it in different
directions. They had been seconds away from kissing when
Skinner came to the door. And not a moment too soon, he
grumbled to himself as he ransacked his closet for a clean
suit. Damn it, why couldn't he have remembered to go to the
cleaners yesterday?

Resting his forehead against the closet door for a moment,
he would have laughed if he remembered how.

The whole night long, she hadn't left. She hadn't even tried
to leave. From the moment she told him the results of his
mother's autopsy, she had made up her mind to stay with him,
for as long as she was needed. And he had needed her,
possibly more than he ever had before. Her touch had been
nothing but gentle and comforting the entire time she spent
in his apartment. Caring for him more like a mother than a
lover, her name, her smell, the touch she offered him, were
the only things he could recognize from his grief induced
stupor.

When morning came, when the sleepless night had finally
passed and his tears had been dried, she made coffee and
English muffins that she forced down his throat. He had just
polished off his coffee and placed his cup on the table when
it happened. They were sitting side by side on the couch,
their legs touching. Her hand had touched the side of his
face, her fingers gently threading through the hair at his
temple, and it hadn't felt motherly anymore, not even a
little bit.

Placing his palm just above her knee, he had leaned in
toward her just as she leaned in toward him. They weren't as
close as they'd been in his hallway once upon a time, but
they were still close enough that the intent behind the
movement was clear and undeniable.

He had wanted to kiss her.

In his whole life he'd never wanted anything as badly as he
wanted that kiss. At the time, it had seemed so right, so
natural. There had been nothing in his head but the want and
the promise of how good it would be, how incredible it would
feel to press his lips to hers. Because it wasn't just a
woman he would be kissing; it was Scully. Pretending for the
moment that he didn't love her enough to rip his own heart
out at her behest, there was still a natural curiosity he'd
felt toward her from the moment they'd met.

Green as grass, she'd walked into his life with an air of
calm indifference surrounding her. Only the light she took
such pains to hide behind her eyes gave her away. Early on,
he had thought about taking things between them to another
level. Abstractly, of course, not as something that could
ever be, or he'd even think of seriously attempting. But it
was a fanciful notion he'd considered on occasion.

What would it feel like to kiss Dana Scully?

His first instinct was to say it would be nice. She was a
beautiful woman, her lips were full and inviting, and he had
been sure, years ago, that she was the type of woman who
knew how to kiss. Later, he would amend that to a simple
word: soft. Kissing Dana Scully would be soft and sweet,
like innocence and purity wrapped up in a pair of heavenly,
ruby red lips.

It was only when he grew closer to her, when he began to
truly know her, that his perceptions were forever changed,
and he began wanting that kiss for real.

A kiss from Scully would be soft and sweet, wet and
wonderful, safe and dangerous, exciting and breathtaking,
all consuming and never ending. He would become lost in how
luscious it was, forget himself and all that came before.
His senses would become limited to touch and taste as he let
her consume and absorb him through her perfect, liquid lips.

Thoughts like that were what brought him to that moment on
his couch, poised on the edge of something he wasn't
prepared to fall into.

He still wanted to kiss her.

But he couldn't.

Because she didn't really want to kiss him back.

She would, of course, but not because it was a desire she
had, something she'd thought about, imagined, pushed away
from her mind as a means of survival. It would be because
she knew he needed it, needed her, and she did love him, in
a way that was different from how he loved her.

No words could express how much he didn't want her to come
to him out of loyalty, or duty, or a feeling of pity. He
would rather remain her friend, only her friend for the rest
of his life. Better to never know the flavor of her mouth,
its texture beneath his own, than to experience it all
because she thought it the only way to save him from
whatever demon threatened his sanity at the time.

Pulling on a suit that at least wasn't dirty, Mulder thanked
God for Skinner's fortuitous timing. It was for the best
that whatever might have followed that second un-kiss of
theirs was interrupted. It was probably for the best that
they never know what might have been. It could have been
disastrous, for him and Scully both if it had happened like
this, because he was desperate to live and she was desperate
to help him.

Confusion was an old friend of his and it joined him now. He
still felt there was so much to be done. Whatever his mother
had been trying to tell him, he wouldn't stop looking until
he found answers to the questions he'd been searching for
half his life. And even knowing the consequences, knowing
what a mistake it would be, he was not confused about one
thing.

He still wanted to kiss Scully more than he wanted anything
else.

And he still couldn't do it.

~

Scully really hated California.

It was odd, hating a place most of the world worshipped.
With its perfect sunshine and laid back population, she
should have been in heaven. Maybe it was all the horrific
things they'd seen, maybe it was growing up in San Diego ­
whatever the reason, California had lost its shine for her a
long time ago.

The fact that she was killing time with her boss, leaning
against the side of a rented Ford Taurus, while the most
important person in her world hung by a thread inside the
LaPierre's home only exacerbated matters.

He was killing himself over this, just like he'd killed
himself over Samantha for as long as she'd known him. Little
Amber Lynn had become a miniature quest for him, an addendum
to his Search. He was wrapping up all his hopes and sorrows
in this one case, and with his mother's death compounded
onto things, Scully was seriously beginning to fear for his
sanity.

Which was why she couldn't forgive herself for their almost
kiss.

The depths of her selfishness were astounding. Mulder had
been in pain, had trusted her to see him at his most
vulnerable, to care for him. And how had she repaid that
trust? By thinking how immensely kissable his lips were. By
noticing -- not for the first time -- how lush and soft his
hair looked. By not stopping her hand from touching him,
turning his head toward hers just so she could look into the
eyes of her best friend for a fraction of a second and think
how dearly she loved him.

There was no comfort for her in the obvious fact that he'd
been about to kiss her. It wasn't the first time, and it
probably wouldn't be the last he'd looked at her, not as his
partner, not just as a friend, but as so much more. It was
only natural, after all. They were close, and he loved so
easily, so effortlessly, that he was bound to confuse what
he felt for her as something more romantic if he got caught
up in a moment.

And that's exactly what this morning had been. A moment. A
beautiful, perfect moment that would have shattered
everything had Skinner knocked a second later.

He would have kissed her because he was grieving, because he
wanted someone to hold onto, someone that wouldn't leave
him. And Scully was willing to do that, but not at the
expense of what they had.

"Dana . . ."

Scully gave Skinner an odd look. It had taken a moment for
his voice to register, and now that it had, his casual use
of her first name disconcerted her.

"Sir?"

"Uh . . . Is Agent Mulder . . . that is, are you aware of .
. ." He grew silent.

"Sir, are you feeling all right?"

"Fine, fine." A beat of silence passed, as though he was
waiting to see if she'd question him further. A quirk of her
eyebrow served as her only response. "I didn't sleep much
last night."

She nodded in understanding, and once again, they slipped
into silence.

Skinner's night had most likely been spent the same as hers
-- worrying about Mulder, about the LaPierre's, about all
the other children, and wondering how the hell they could
stop it.

Mulder told her once that if he had one wish, it would be to
stop all the needless suffering. Not the pain, he'd been
careful to point out, because pain was part of life, the
acute, perfect flip side of joy. But there was so much
suffering in the world he wanted to ease.

A fond smile tugged at Scully's lips. How could she not love
him? He was so easy to love. Hard to live with, but easy to
love. And she was not a woman who gave pieces of herself
away on a whim. Yet to this man, this man she never expected
to love her back, she had given everything.

But oh, how she wished he'd love her back, even a little
bit, the way she loved him . . .

Ruthlessly, she squashed that train of thought. Wishing for
impossible things did no good, whatever Mulder might tell
her. His obsession, his work, precluded his ability to be
involved with anyone, because no one would ever come before
Samantha. Scully accepted that, and if someone had asked her
seven years ago if she could be second in a man's life, and
still be happy, she would have answered with an emphatic no.

Now?

Her answer would still be no. Because Mulder wasn't "a man".
He was the only man she saw herself spending a lifetime
with. The only one she'd make the effort to put up with. If
he turned to her, needed to use her to forget, she'd let
him. She'd be second in his life, and she'd love every
minute of it.

But it wouldn't last. It would only lead them down the path
to ruin, because one day, she wouldn't be enough for him,
he'd realize he wanted a woman he felt passion for, and she
would have lost her best friend, all for the sake of getting
laid.

Thank God for Skinner, she thought again, even if he is
acting bizarre today.

 ~

Sam had been in some tense situations before, but the
silence in this car was absolutely deafening.

He'd always thought of himself as a fairly empathic guy, but
whenever he looked at Mulder's face in the rear view mirror,
it was like somebody hit him in the gut. The guy's pain was
like a palpable, breathing entity. He wore it around him
like a shroud, his face impassive, but his eyes telling
stories Sam understood too well, even though his memories
were Swiss cheesed.

The redhead -- Scully, not Dana, he reminded himself with an
internal grimace -- seemed concerned as well. She kept
casting surreptitious glances at Mulder, not caring whether
or not he noticed her hovering.

Bodyguard, he mused, was perhaps too mild a term for how
close Scully stuck to Mulder, how protective she was of him.
He'd be tempted to use the term Œmother hen' were it not for
the decidedly un-mother-like ways she looked at her partner
. . .

"Stop the car."

Her voice was so authoritative, Sam didn't even think, just
slammed on the breaks.

~

"Ho, ho, ho."

Sam nearly jumped out of his skin. This place was creeping
him out, and whenever Al appeared out of thin air it usually
gave his heart a healthy jumpstart.

"What're we doing in the land of Christmas past?"

"Scully had a hunch," Sam muttered.

"A hunch." Al made no other comment, but walked along with
Sam. "Where are Nick and Nora, anyway?"

"They're checking out -- Nick and Nora?"

Al waved him off. "Pop-culture thing. Pair of married
detectives. Not surprised your brain chose to delete that
bit of useless information."

"I remember some stuff, Al." Sam looked around the deserted
village, the old buildings and decrepit cheer reminding him
of a ghost town.

"My dad took us to a place like this when I was a kid, Al.
It was great, magical. Tom hated it and Katie cried when she
sat on Santa's lap."

"Good, clean fun for the whole family," Al agreed. "What's
up, Sam?"

"I don't know," Sam admitted. "But this place doesn't feel
like that. It feels . . .wrong. Like it was a sacred place
once, and now it's been violated."

Al shuddered at the mental picture Sam painted. Sensing the
hologram's discomfort, Sam changed the subject.

"What do the history books say about those two?"

"Moose and Squirrel?" At Sam's look, Al referred to his hand
link. "That's why I'm here, Sam," he admitted. "Ziggy says
things are . . . sketchy."

"Sketchy?"

"Sketchy. Apparently, when you changed history, you stopped
a chain of events that were seriously in motion. Ziggy isn't
even sure exactly what happened, given how tightly those
damn files are sewn up. That snooty Bureau computer spurned
her and now she's pouting."

"So what do I do now?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Buddy."

Sam was about to make a scathing reply when he spotted a
figure, hauling ass in the opposite direction. Truelove, he
thought, feeling some dormant part of Walter Skinner come
alive in him.

"Freeze!" he called out. "FBI!"

Instinct ruled, and Sam gave chase, running faster than the
body he currently inhabited had done in quite some time.
Desk job, he thought absently, catching up with Truelove and
firing a warning shot in the air. He heard Mulder and Scully
come up behind him, was in fact about to say something when
all structured thought left his mind.

Graves . . . violated . . . sacred . . . magical place . . .

"Al," he whispered, his voice barely audible as he ripped
his gaze from the sight before him, watching as Scully moved
closer to Mulder, both of them taking in the scene before
them with the same detached horror.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Al replied, crossing himself, his
eyes wide and haunted.

 ~

"Again."

"Don't you think maybe you've had enough, Sam?"

"Bite me, Al."

Sam ignored the odd look the bartender gave him when he
appeared to be talking to thin air. He accepted his drink
and downed it in one shot. He motioned for another, and
began to sip it slowly. Al =was= right; he couldn't afford
to get drunk no matter how much he desired to feel noting.

"Sam . . ."

"I saw them, Al. The excavation . . . God. There were so
many of them. So many children."

Al shut his eyes tightly. "I know, Buddy, I know. But Sam,
you can't . . . you've . . ."

"Got a job to do," Sam finished for him. "You tell me, Al,
what can I possibly do here to make it better? I'm a dozen
years too late to right those wrongs."

Al was silent for a moment, letting Sam work through his
anger. What else could the hologram do? Sam looked like a
guy who needed a hug, maybe someone to hold him while he
cried. Al was unable to do both, so he offered Sam his
silence.

With a sigh, Sam pushed his unfinished drink away and turned
toward Al, an expectant look on his face. Al immediately
brought the hand link up.

"Ziggy has given a 69.3 percent probability that you're here
to keep Mulder and Scully from blowing their professional
relationship out of the water."

"Come again?"

"You have to stop them from doing the Horizontal Hoochie
Coochie."

Sam refused to even dignify that with a response. "Where
have you been, anyway? It's been hours."

"I've been talking to good Œole Walt, trying to get him to
cough up the goods."

"And what did Walter have to say?"

Al snickered. "He said, Œthe FBI does not comment, or get
involved with the personal lives of its Agents.' And then,
he accused me of trying to use him to undermine Agent
Mulder's work . . . I swear, the guy sounds like he's a few
fries short of a happy meal."

"You know as well as I do that's probably a result of the
leap." Sam let out a sigh. "So he'll be of no help."

"Nope. He seems to think we're running some kind of
experiment on him, and he Œrefuses' to cooperate." Al
grinned. "You shoulda seen the dirty look he gave me when I
lit up my cigar."

~

He was avoiding her.

It was all happening, exactly what she'd been afraid of.
Mulder was getting so lost in this thing that he wasn't
confiding in her, wasn't taking proper care of himself,
wasn't letting =her= take care of him.

Scully was positive it was because of that almost-kiss. Even
though they hadn't gone through with it, it was still
affecting them. It had taken nearly a year for them to get
back into the groove of things after their =first= aborted
kiss. New Year's Eve -- chaste and proper though it was --
had prompted a week of awkward silence around the office.
Now this . . .

Would she ever be able to get her partner back? Would he let
her save him this time? Did he even need to be saved?

"Earth to Agent Scully."

Jerking slightly, Scully came back to the present. Skinner's
face hovered before her. She was sitting at Mulder's desk,
chin propped in her hand, a million miles away. Did he just
say 'earth to Agent Scully . . . ?'

"Sir," she greeted. "What can I do for you?"

"Mind telling me why I had to call your name three times
before I got a response?"

Scully flushed, angry with herself. It was bad form to think
about personal matters at work. Even when those personal
matters involved your partner.

"Sorry, Sir, I haven't had much sleep in the past few days."
That was true enough, although certainly not the cause of
her inability to focus.

"I can certainly relate to that," Skinner replied wryly.
"I'm sure you're also very worried about Mulder."

"I'm concerned," she began carefully, "about Agent Mulder.
His mother's death has understandably affected him in a way
that--"

"Agent Scully," Skinner interrupted. "You don't have to
defend him, or protect him. Not from me. He's going through
a hard time. I'm concerned too."

"You are," she said slowly, almost as though it surprised
her.

"Yes," he confirmed. Why was that so surprising, Sam
wondered. Was this ex-marine he'd leaped into so closed off
from the people around him they didn't even know he cared?
If he was exhibiting even half the resistance Al said he was
in the waiting room, he clearly cared quite a bit.

The Imaging Chamber door opened behind Sam's left shoulder,
but he ignored it with a discipline he'd perfected over the
five years he'd been leaping.

"Thank you, Sir. Agent Mulder is fortunate to have you
watching out for him," Scully said at the same time Al
commented, "If you want to keep those two crazy kids apart,
ix-nay on the discussion of Mulder."

"How is your investigation shaping up?" Sam asked, hoping
for an answer from both parties.

"Ziggy's been running projections," Al answered.

"Actually, I was just thinking of going to Mrs. Mulder's
home, see if I can dig up anything."

"Man, she's like a dog with a bone." Al started punching
buttons. "She's never going to let this go unless you do
something about it."

"Sounds like a good idea," Sam said to Scully. With a nod,
she stood and headed toward the office door. There, she
looked at him pointedly.

He got the hint, and exited the office, watching as she
locked the door behind him. Al strolled through the closed
door a moment later.

"Sam, Ziggy says that given Dr. Dana's profile here, that
there's a 39.9 percent chance she'll react positively if
Wally here makes a pass at her."

"Those aren't overwhelming odds," Sam hissed when he was
sure Scully had stepped out of earshot.

"Take what you can get," Al advised.

"What about Walter?" Sam countered. "What's he going to
think when he ends up back here to find himself embroiled in
a relationship with Dana Scully? I mean, does he even see
her that way?"

"Are you kidding?" Al laughed. "Have you looked at her?
He'll probably want to kiss your feet."

"I don't know, Al. It just . . . it doesn't feel right."

"Saaaaaam," Al whined, half warning, half foreboding.

"I know. I know. Don't go out on a limb. Do what Ziggy says,
she's the super computer I built to know better than me. But
Al . . . what if keeping the two of them apart is wrong?"

"Sam, in the original, original history -- which you already
changed -- they shacked up. It's sketchy--"

"What isn't with this leap?" Sam muttered.

"--but the bottom line is, they split up, it was very angry,
very bitter. I mean, it was even worse than my second . . .
no, my third divorce.  Mulder ended up dead six months
later, shot to death on some army base, and Scully quit the
Bureau, chucked her career and has been living with her
mother, her =mother=, Sam. Ziggy predicts that--"

"Fine, Al, I'll do it," Sam interrupted. "I'll keep them
apart for their own good." He sighed. "Somehow."

~

"I always wanted to be a doctor, but then my mom lost her
job, and I had to help support her and my brother and . . ."

"And your dreams got lost along the way."

Kimberly smiled softly. "Yeah." A nervous laugh escaped her
lips. "Sir, is this a mid-life thing, or . . ."

Sam gave her a gentle smile. "Maybe I just feel like a new
man lately."

"I think I really like the new you," she all but purred. Her
eyes widened in horror. "Sir," she practically choked.

Sam laughed, grateful for the opportunity to do so. "So
instead of healing the sick out there, you're keeping the
office of a stuffy ex-Marine organized and intact."

"You're not so stuffy."

"Maybe not the new me--"

"Not the old you, either." She looked down, seeming
embarrassed. "You um . . . you've always been very nice to
me. Offering to give me time off to spend with my family,
the times you've smiled at me because you saw I looked
depressed . . . I appreciate that. You weren't stuffy," she
repeated. "Maybe a bit closed off . . ."

The wheels in Sam's brain were turning a mile a minute. This
woman =liked= him ­ Skinner. And if he wasn't mistaken, a
few of Skinner's leftover neurons were firing when they came
in contact with Kimberly. Sam had never been so thankful to
have forgotten his car keys back at the office.

"How long have you known Agent Mulder?"

Kimberly blinked, and Sam internally winced. He could have
made that transition a bit smoother, but he really didn't
have a lot of time . . .

"Same as you, about seven years now."

"What's your opinion of him?"

"I think he's a brilliant, albeit misguided agent who could
have had a stellar career--"

"No, no, not as an agent. I mean as a man."

"Well, Sir, I don't really know him as a man."

"But surely you've formed some sort of opinion," Sam
encouraged, growing a little desperate. "He and Agent Scully
have been coming in and out of this office for nearly seven
years. In all that time, you must have . . .you know . . ."

"Sir, are you asking me for gossip about Mulder and Scully?"

"Maybe. If you'll drop the 'sir'."

They smiled at each other for a moment, and Sam got that
feeling he always got toward the end of a leap, when
something inside his chest started to ache pleasantly, like
he was doing a good job . . .

"Scuttlebutt around the secretarial pool is that they're a
good team . . . Walter." It was as though she were testing
out the name, and he smiled his approval.

"Just a good team?"

"A great team," she amended. "Partners are notoriously close
knit. But those two . . . they've got that bond, and then
some. He treats her differently than the other guys treat
the women who work here."

"Different how?"

"He treats her . . . like he treats everyone else. Only
better."

Sam began to smile even wider. His little heart to heart
with Kimberly was interrupted by Al's appearance, complete
with panicked eyes and emphatic gesturing.

"While you've been making eyes at Walt's secretary, Moose
and Squirrel are about this close to blowing this leap!"

~

"You know, Al, you could have stopped babbling long enough
to help me think up a better excuse than ŒI just remembered
I have to pick up a friend from the airport,' to tell
Kimberly."

"You shouldn't be worrying about Kimberly, anyway. I mean,
she's cute, if you like wholesome chicks, but Sam, you
should be concentrating on Dana--"

Sam held up a hand to stall Al's words. They had reached the
edge of a clearing in the woods. Mulder was walking away
from something, and the look on his face . . . Sam shivered.

Scully stood near a car, a man -- Harold, if Sam remembered
correctly -- next to her. Mulder's strides grew more
purposeful as he headed toward Harold, passing a reassuring
hand along Scully's arm.

From where he stood, Sam could hear everything being said.
Thankfully, Al was being quiet as Mulder pled with Harold to
let his boy go. Sam felt a kinship with Mulder in that
moment; knew what it meant to feel something in your marrow,
then try to convince an unbeliever of the same.

Harold fled into the woods, and like beacons drawn together,
Mulder and Scully gravitated until they stood close enough
to touch.

"Now, Sam," Al said pointedly.

"No," Sam murmured, his suspicions and doubts all put to
rest with two hoarsely whispered words from Mulder. "No," he
repeated as Mulder's gaze was drawn to the stars.

"Sam!" Al hollered as the time traveler headed in the
direction that Harold stalked off in.

"It's not them, Al," Sam called out quietly.

Al opened, then closed his mouth. He punched in a few
commands to the hand link. "Gushi, center me on Sam," he
called out.

A moment later, he appeared in another part of the woods.
Sam was calling out Harold's name, a restraining hand on his
shoulder.

"Wait, please."

"I have nothing to say to you," Harold bit out, a look of
extreme distress plastered across his face.

"Please," Sam implored, "I have something. Something I need
to show you."

"What?"

"Meet me tomorrow night. There's a bar in D.C., the Headless
Lady. I promise, you won't regret it."

Harold said nothing more, just turned and continued walking
into the night.

"Sam--"

Once again, Sam turned from the hologram and headed back to
the clearing where Mulder and Scully still stood, their two
hands clasped tightly together, their gazes still firmly
fastened on the sky above. Scully's front just barely
brushed against Mulder's back, but the contact was such that
Sam read a thousand gestures, a dozen easy embraces in the
bare contact.

"Hey, you two, break it up!" Al yelled right in Scully's
face. "Do you want to end up an old maid, living with your
mom and a couple a cats?" He turned to Mulder. "And you! You
get shot to death in Arizona. Arizona! Do you want to =die=
in Arizona?"

Almost as though they heard him, Mulder and Scully broke
apart, their hands reluctantly parting company as they
turned toward the car.

"They're going back to D.C.," Sam predicted. "Heading home,"
he added almost wistfully, "putting this behind them."

Al glanced down at the hand link. "You're right. How did
you--"

"Because this is what they do. It's their job. Just like
this is what I do. Knowing these things. Just trust me, Al.
I think I know what I'm doing this time."

"I hate it when you say that."

 ~

"Sir."

"Mulder, sit down."

"Sir, what am I doing here?" Mulder asked as he took a seat
in the booth opposite his boss, filled with a kind of
bemused wariness.

Skinner smiled at him, and Mulder felt his wariness meter
crank up a notch. Not only did Skinner invite him to a bar,
but he also couldn't stop =smiling=?

"I thought we could talk."

"Talk," Mulder repeated, slightly incredulous.

"Yeah. About this past week. It's been . . . eventful."

"That it has," Mulder agreed, sitting back in his seat. This
was so weird. Skinner was smiling, and asking about his life
. . . "Sir, is everything all right?"

"Fine, Mulder." That smile again. "I've come to a certain
point in my life where I think it's time I relax a little.
Get to know the people in my life. Let them know they matter
to me."

Sam bit the inside of his lip and prayed that sounded like
something Mulder would buy from Skinner. Given the scraps of
information Al had been able to dig up on the X-files, Sam
was willing to wager Mulder was the sort of man who =would=
jump to the conclusion that his boss had been possessed by a
time traveler driven by an unknown force to change history
for the better.

"We've never been close," Mulder began hesitantly. "In fact,
there have been times when we weren't even on the same
side."

"I'd like to change all that," Sam said, sincerity coloring
his words.

He knew the exact moment Mulder believed him. It was like a
mask dropped from the other man's face and Sam wondered if
Walter had ever seen Fox Mulder look like Fox Mulder,
instead of the Special Agent who sat in his office.

"I'd like that, too," Mulder admitted. "Sir," he added as an
afterthought.

"Try Walter."

Mulder winced. "Baby steps, Sir."

Sam couldn't help it. He laughed. Busted a gut, more like
it, and given the stares he attracted from those around him,
not only didn't the Assistant Director frequent this place,
but when he =did= drop in, he made it a point =not= to draw
attention to himself.

"Tell me one thing about yourself, Mulder. Something I don't
know."

Mulder bit his lip, a considering expression on his face. "I
want things from my life that I don't think I'll ever have,"
he said finally.

"Such as?"

A grin split Mulder's face. "You said one thing."

"So I did."

"What about you?"

Sam paused for a moment. "I'll make you a deal. I'll trade
you secret for secret."

"I don't know about that--"

"And we'll seal each secret with a shot of bourbon."

"Deal."

They waved a waitress over, and once she'd armed them with
five shots each, they began.

"When I was growing up, I always wanted to do something that
would help people," Sam began, drawing from his own life,
rather than Walter's. It didn't matter. Once the other man
returned to his own body, a little bit of Sam would remain,
as it did in all the people he leaped into.

He took a drink.

"When we were young, Sam and I once stole my dad's car keys
to keep him from leaving on one of his endless trips away.
He was so angry when he found them stuffed behind the bread
in the pantry that he wouldn't even look at us for days."

Drink.

"During the time I spent in Vietnam, I saved my brother's
life, but sacrificed my best friend, and six other men, to
three years in a POW camp."

Drink.

"Before Scully's remission, I did almost kill myself. I sat
in my apartment, numb, except for the cool metal of my gun
pressing against my palm. I felt all my work, and along with
it, my sanity, seep away with every tick of the clock. I . .
. I don't know what might have happened had I not confronted
that man, shot him. I've never been to that place, before or
since."

Drink.

"I once loved a woman more than my life, but she couldn't
trust me enough to stay, and I lost her."

Drink.

"I've loved a woman more than my life, but I feel as though
I don't deserve her. Still, though . . . I think that if I
lost her, I would die."

Drink.

"Sometimes," Sam began after a lengthy silence, "I can't
remember what hope feels like."

Mulder was quiet for a moment, then seemed to gain focus. He
leaned closer to Sam, palms flat on the table. Pulled in by
the intensity he saw in the other man's eyes, Sam leaned in
as well.

"Did you ever want to go home so badly, you ached inside?"

Sam felt his throat constrict. He was almost positive it was
because his heart had become lodged there.

"Yes," he managed to whisper hoarsely.

"That's hope," Mulder told him. "That ache . . . I've
=ached= for home longer than I can remember. Twenty years,
at least. I've ached for that place where I know I'll always
belong." Both men's eyes were wet, but Mulder's tears had a
cathartic quality to them. "It's when the ache goes away
you've got to start worrying. As long as it's there . . .
you'll never really forget what hope feels like."

"I think I might have found someone to call home," Sam lied,
because it was true for Walter.

Mulder flashed a quick smile. "Good. Good," he repeated,
almost to himself.

"Mulder?"

"I found home a long time ago, Sir," he answered without
hesitation. Then, almost as an afterthought, he murmured, "I
was just too lost to realize it."

"Still feeling lost, Agent?" Sam asked, injecting a touch of
humor into an intense discussion.

"Actually, I'm feeling very found, Sir."

"Then what the hell are doing talking with me?"

Mulder sat up straighter. "I don't know, Sir."

"Then I suggest you get off your ass, Agent Mulder, and call
her."

"Yes, Sir," Mulder readily agreed, before bounding away from
the table, his trusty cell phone already dialing.

"Sam, I don't know what you think you're doing, but--"

"He had things to finish, Al," Sam interrupted the hologram.
"Things that were inside him, screaming to be completed
before he could let go. But he's free, now." His voice took
on a wistful quality. "He's free."

"Sam--"

Once again, Al was cut off, this time by the appearance of
Harold.

"I'm here," was all Harold said once he'd taken the seat
that Mulder had vacated.

"Thank you for coming." Sam paused. "Your son is gone,
Harold." He held up a hand to forestall Harold's outburst.
"I know you don't want to believe it. I know you want to
fight and rage against it, but somewhere, Harold, somewhere
inside of you, I think that you do believe it. I think that
you realize it." He pulled out a sheaf of paper. "This is
something I think you might be interested in."

Sam was quiet as Harold accepted the paper, looking through
it warily, as though it were something he feared. Perhaps it
was, Sam thought. This was the end of his denial, and losing
something that's been such a close companion for so long had
to be terrifying.

"This is--"

"A mission in South America," Sam interrupted. "There are
children there, Harold, dozens of them, no parents, no love,
no hope in their lives. They need people with love to give,
and I think you've got more than enough to spare. I've
already spoken with the woman who runs the home. She's very
eager to meet you." Sam gave it a moment to let his words
sink in, waited until Harold met his eyes. "You're a father
without a child, Harold. These are children without
fathers."

Harold appeared wary, but he took the paperwork, which was a
major victory in Sam's eyes. Covertly, Sam glanced at Al,
silently asking him if anything had changed.

"Amazing," the hologram murmured. "He goes. Ends up marrying
that woman who runs the place. We've only got data for the
next five years, but he's still there, helping her take care
of orphaned kids." Al got a funny look on his face, and Sam
was reminded that his best friend grew up in an orphanage.
If only he'd had someone like Harold, he thought sadly.

"So why haven't I leaped?" Sam asked out of the corner of
his mouth once Harold had started toward the exit.

Al helplessly consulted his hand link for a moment, before
his gaze was drawn to the door. "I think she just walked
in," he said by way of explanation.

Dana Scully strode toward where her partner sat at the bar,
nursing a cup of coffee. Her eyebrow rose as she sat next to
him, their shoulders touching.

"He called her here," Sam said. "Just a few minutes ago.
Said it was an emergency."

"Sam, are you reading lips?"

"Shhh."

Mulder stood and held out his hand. There was music playing,
but it was inappropriate for the moment. Sam quickly moved
to the jukebox, emptied Walter's pockets and pushed E12.

"Sexual Healing, Sam?"

"It's the only song I can remember right now."

As Marvin Gaye turned up the heat, Mulder and Scully melted
into one another on the dance floor. Her hand was buried in
his hair, and his arm was holding her to him so tightly, Sam
wondered if she could breathe. Her head tilted upward,
Scully pressed her nose into the hollow of Mulder's throat,
and he pressed his lips against her hairline. It remained
tender for a moment, before the song penetrated his brain
and he started exaggeratedly bumping and grinding until she
was actually giggling in his arms. Sam mentally extolled the
virtues of alcohol killing inhibitions when Scully began to
bump and grind a bit herself.

"Woah," Al groaned.

"Were those the two people I was supposed to keep apart?"
Sam tried, but he couldn't keep the jab to himself. Well, he
didn't try very hard.

"But Sam," Al whined, "it was right there, in black and
white. It was bad when they got together."

"Check it again."

Al did just that, scanning the hand link obsessively until
the data began to flow. "Well, I'll be damned. Ziggy says
they work on the X-Files for the next year . . . and then
there's something vague, about Mulder disappearing . . . but
Dr. Dana gets pregnant, and continues with the Files for
quite awhile after Mulder resigns. Oh, and the very =day=
the doc finally resigns, they fly to Vegas and get married.
And in two years, they're going to adopt a little girl and
her brother whom they rescue from, oh, ewww," he winced,
"Spider People, yuck."

Sam chuckled. "Spider people?"

"That's how the official report read. It was one of Scully's
last cases. She was reprimanded for allowing a 'civilian' --
that's our Foxy -- to participate in the investigation." Al
punched a few buttons. "Scully has a small, but thriving
private practice, and Mulder becomes the first true crime
science fiction author."

"And do they live happily ever after, Al?"

"For the foreseeable future they do." They watched as Mulder
and Scully leaned in for what all parties present knew to be
their very first kiss as a real couple. "I don't get it,
Sam. Why weren't they perfect for each other before?"

"Because of the way they came together, Al. Out of grief and
confusion, doubt and misunderstanding between them, instead
of like this. Free." A bittersweet smile crossed his face.
"They weren't ready before."

"Ready for what?"

"To go home." Sam fell silent. "What about Walter?" he asked
after a time.

"Walter is going to be =very= happy when he gets back."

"Why?"

"Hey, Marine," Kimberly purred, leaning up next to Sam,
against the jukebox, "care to buy a thirsty secretary a
drink?"

Al grinned around his cigar, and proudly held up the hand
link. "Walter Sergei Skinner Jr. is born to two very proud
parents exactly one year from tonight. Two guesses who mama
is." Kimberly gave Sam a look that would have make a porn
star blush as she ran the tip of her finger down the bridge
of his nose. "And the first two don't count."

Sam grinned at Kimberly. "Oh boy."

~

END