Diametrically Opposed
by mountainphile

************
Chapter 23 
************

Red Roof Inn, Columbus, Ohio
March 17, 2001
3:15 AM

The windowpane felt cold against Scully's palm, the scene 
outside dark and unremarkable in these primeval hours before 
dawn.  Cars and semis honked unseen, like distant geese in a 
world that slumbered and snored.  She waited for Mulder to 
finish his shower, and the brief solitude was soothing after a 
night fraught with danger, chaos, and complete emotional 
drain.

With her hair in damp tendrils, she felt ambivalent about 
pajamas, since their room had no view to speak of but a wall 
of concrete.  Instead she'd scrounged a motel blanket from the 
closet shelf, wrapped it loosely around her hips and arms, and 
contemplated her half-naked image wavering in the glass.  

It was an amazing pass, how deeply events could affect a 
person in so short a period of time.  Touching the cool pane 
with a tentative hand, she knew that the woman before her had 
changed in many subtle ways.

If there was nothing new under the sun, she mused, then why 
this sense of renewal and promise, a feeling as though the 
dawn of all things lay at her fingertips, fresh and 
undiscovered?  If life is transition and growth, then love and 
friendship are surely the medium that would sustain it?  

In an official capacity, they had found the missing student, 
rescued a second hostage, precipitated the destruction of a 
valued and historic landmark, and opened up a worm can of 
suspicious conspiracy involving the city of Hocking and Putnam 
University.  Thankfully, no lives were lost within their small 
renegade group.  The outcome could have been far worse when 
Scully considered all the unforeseen variables. 

Suppose she had been the woman burned beyond recognition at 
the Super 8?  Could Mulder absorb such a devastating hit and 
truly get on with the rest of his life?

What if she hadn't been waylaid by Cricket or sought out 
Tusk's tattoo parlor on Union Street?  Suppose Willow 
Nightingale had survived?  What if the secret testing by the 
remnant Syndicate continued unabated?  Or if Mulder's summons 
underground had come even later... resulting in more 
casualties, including Amanda, Stefan, and Tusk's entire ragtag 
team of rescuers?

She was reminded of a murmured conversation she'd shared with 
him one stormy night last April.  While drowsing over tea 
after his return from England, she'd proposed that each person 
possessed a single true path in life.  All one had to do was 
pay attention to the signs that popped up along the way and 
make the right choices. 

In recent days Mulder pointed out how close she came to 
describing a Jungian model, with her emphasis on symbols and 
spirituality as a means to an end.  If he wanted to believe 
that Jung was a final authority, Scully had no intention of 
rocking that boat, but neither would she leap aboard.  

Wasn't it merely human to err and to falter, to seek and 
discover, to accept and to heal?  To give love and accept it 
in return?  Wasn't the building of character rooted in such 
growth?  She felt there could be greater honor in shaping the 
consequences of wrong choices into something for good, rather 
than requiring oneself to select the correct option in the 
first place.  

However, his point was well taken and his logic, as usual, was 
flawless.  And though the flesh wound on Mulder's arm might be 
superficial and easily treated, Scully sensed another, deeper 
wound within him.  

She'd first noted evidence of it at the rescue site outside 
the tunnel.  After his arm was wrapped, Mulder stood apart 
near the ambulances while she waited, stunned by grief, at the 
smoky entrance.  Blinking hard, she saw vague indelible shapes 
take form in the darkness.  Beyond belief, they drifted 
closer, became recognizable...

"Medics! Over here!" she'd shouted.  

EMTs rushed toward the entrance where Tusk staggered out, 
gashed, bleeding, and coughing.  He half-dragged Stefan who 
had little strength left to stand on his own.  Then Cricket 
flew toward her brothers like a magnet to iron, joined by 
Mason in the collective welcome home and subsequent flurry of 
medical aid.  

Where was Mulder?  She heard faint words drifting through the 
celebratory din...  

"Sir?  You need to take a seat on the ground.  Right now... 
put your head down between your knees, agent.  Keep it down 
and breathe deeply--"

Ducking away from the group, Scully hobbled over to him in 
double-time.  Weeds were tickling Mulder's nose and she knew 
the ground was hard and cold on his rear end.  Slumped 
forward, he sucked in big lungfuls of the cold air while his 
face bobbed between his knees.  

"Mulder, what's the matter?"

At the sound of her voice his head jerked up.  Hauling himself 
to a standing position with his good arm, he leaned back 
against the ambulance as though physically evading the 
question.

"Mulder?"

"What's--" He shook his head in irritation.  "The obvious 
isn't enough?"

"You know very well what I mean.  Lean down here a minute..."

She switched with instinctive ease into doctor mode.  Despite 
his objections she explored his scalp and forehead for signs 
of injury.  Her warm fingers massaged his neck to locate nodes 
and artery, to count the beats of his pulse. 

Sliding her hands forward to cradle his stubbly face and chin, 
she searched his eyes with new disquiet.

"Mulder, tell me what's wrong," she whispered.  "Your skin's 
dry and you aren't anywhere close to feeling shocky to me.  I 
see no wound or visible trauma other than that crease on your 
arm, so tell me why you nearly passed out just now."

"You're making a big deal about nothing."

She released him, stepped back.  "We'll see about that."

"Later," he said, his tone turning frosty.  "Leave it alone 
until later."  He motioned to the EMT who had deferred to 
Scully minutes before.  "So," he said lightly, "what's our 
mode of transport to be?  Plane, train, or automobile?" 

"It'll be a MedFlight chopper, sir."  The incoming beat of 
blades cut through the swiftly whirling air over their heads 
and the man was forced to shout a reply.  "All of you are to 
be airlifted STAT to OSU Medical Center.  That's it now..."

************

The flight to Columbus was mercifully quick.  Scully outlined 
what she knew of Amanda Carmichael's condition to the medics, 
who called ahead with the information.  After landing, the 
girl preceded them into the trauma bay where she was taken to 
ICU for an immediate CAT scan, blood work, and examination.  
The others were divided up amongst the physicians on duty for 
stitching and treatment.  Debriefing would follow.

She insisted Mulder's wound be attended to before her own.  
Then they separated.  Her presence in the ER held priority, 
while he met with FBI agents from both the Cleveland and 
Cincinnati field offices to debrief and assess the situation 
in Hocking.  

Back in emergency, Scully served as mediator for the unique 
challenges represented by the Toskala clan.  After she 
explained to hospital personnel that her tattooed and muscle-
bound friend wasn't part of the criminal element so often 
admitted through their doors, Tusk became a godsend and stable 
buffer for Stefan's paranoia. 

Understandably, the Whisperer balked when hospital staff tried 
to separate him from his siblings for treatment.  It fell to 
Tusk to comfort his brother, keep Cricket's mouth in check, 
and reassure Mole and Needlenose.  Scully heard later that he 
courageously delayed his own treatment, though many of his 
wounds were far more extensive than Stefan's.

In the meantime, Mulder had received a message from Dave 
Hostetler.  Shaken but alive, the Dean and nearly every one of 
the meeting's attendees had managed to escape the full force 
of the blast by accessing a ravine on the rolling property.  
It would be impossible to ascertain how many people had been 
lost in other wings and adjacent structures.

Scully joined her partner once she was suitably re-stitched.  
After another hour of debriefing her brain, as well as her 
body, cried out for reprieve.  She was grateful to Mulder for 
offering the necessary excuses and ushering her out towards 
the hallway.  She felt even more gratitude when she spotted 
their travel luggage side by side on the waxed linoleum floor.  
To her relief both suitcases had been salvaged from the 
vehicles parked back in the field near Hocking and transported 
by MedFlight chopper. 

"I'm ready to call it a night if you are," he said.

"Where are we staying?"

"The Super 8's closer, but I don't trust the karma.  Tonight 
we're Red Roofin' it."

"I feel safer already."

He winked and touched shoulders with her, chewing a few 
sunflower seeds he'd purloined or purchased from who knew 
where.  "Can't be too careful.  Be back in about ten minutes 
with the rental car."

"In that case, I'll check on the patients before we go."

With everyone else settled in, Tusk alone met her in the 
hallway of the eighth floor wing.  Eschewing regulation 
hospital garb, he wore only clean gray sweatpants low on his 
hips, the natural bulge in front too impressive for Scully to 
risk a second glance.  Cleansed and treated, his head, arms, 
and broad colorful chest and shoulders were patched with a 
myriad of dressings, stitches, and staples.

"You look like my brother's old postage stamp album," she 
sighed in regret.  "Or a crazy quilt pattern.  Will that do 
significant damage to the artwork?"    

"You know what? I don't even give a shit," he confided.  "Just 
having Stefan back is... I can't express what it means to me, 
to all of us.  And just so you know..." he hesitated, 
"consider that episode back in the tunnel a fluke.  I've moved 
way beyond it."

She touched his arm, charmed by his candor.  "I knew you 
would."

"I heard there's a hospital nearby that specializes in severe 
neurological disorders," he added.  "Depending on how things 
go, I'm thinking it might be a good move to keep Stefan here a 
while for evaluation.  At least to see what his options are 
and get him on a treatment plan."

"I agree."  By now it took all her willpower to minimize the 
yawn.

"How'd my stitching fare?"

"Better than I expected.  But replaced, unfortunately."

"Looks like you'd better turn in.  Be sure and tell Mulder 
thanks for everything tonight; he's top-notch in my book."

"He is that."

"And you, my feisty little red-haired friend," Tusk whispered, 
bringing his hand up to the back of her head, "are as 
unforgettable as they come."  He leaned in quickly.

Before Scully knew what had happened, he'd kissed her. 

She wasn't sure what stunned her the most: the abruptness, who 
it was, the heat and softness of his lips, or the sparks that 
ricocheted through her belly.  

"What the hell's going on?"  Averting her face, she tried to 
hide the flush that tinted her cheeks.  

"Wow... looks like I really lit a wick."  

"And I thought we had an understanding between us," she said 
testily.

Up to his old tricks, Tusk grinned down at her.  "Listen, 
Dana, it's not my fault you got all hot and bothered by a 
simple smooch.  Haven't you ever thanked a friend with a kiss 
on the mouth before?"

Her knee-jerk reaction was to deny such a thing -- but to her 
eternal chagrin she remembered the time Mulder had gone 
missing in the Caribbean near Bermuda.  How, with impulsive 
and uncharacteristic appreciation for his help, she'd laid one 
on AD Skinner's astonished lips in the Hoover elevator-- 

"Just see it doesn't happen again," she said, turning away.

"Or you'll have Mulder kick my ass, right?"

"No," she answered over her shoulder, "*I'll* do the ass-
kicking around here."

************

"Shower first?"

Mulder threw out the question as they clicked on motel room 
lights and tossed their suitcases on the low dresser near the 
window.  A non-smoking room, thankfully, with one queen bed 
and a tiny humming refrigerator they'd never use.

The room next door would also sit empty.

"Modified shower, you mean; we can't afford to saturate the 
bandages... unless you think something more important should 
take precedence."

"Musky works for me."

"I wasn't implying sex, Mulder.  Talking was more of what I 
had in mind."

He made no answer, going instead into the bathroom and pulling 
the door partway shut.  Sounds of urination, the flush of a 
toilet, and he was back, easing off his coat and nudging the 
thermostat higher.  Snatching up the remote, he clicked on the 
TV and gave her his back.

"So get the ball rolling," he said, surfing channels.

His defenses were up and she'd hardly begun.  Hearing his curt 
tone, Scully felt a tinge of frustration.  "If it's all the 
same to you, I'll bathe first."

"Go for it."

The therapeutic effects of the shower raised her spirits 
immeasurably.  Now it was Mulder's turn to feel refreshed and 
rejuvenated.  Water sounds hissed and faded from the bathroom.  
Plumes of steam ran riot, fogging every glass surface in the 
room, including the TV screen.

She pulled the heavy curtain shut and turned away from the 
window, the blanket draping her bare shoulders.  Drawing a 
hand across the weeping face of the mirror, she noticed his 
reflection behind her, rippled and indistinct.  

"That's a great look for you, by the way," he said, wrapping 
the towel around his hips.  "Very Pre-Raphaelite."

His hair stood up in short wet spikes and he walked from the 
bright bathroom into the shadows behind her, damp footprints 
marking the carpet.  He looked exhausted, distracted, and a 
trifle aloof as he glanced toward the silent but flickering 
TV.

"You put it on mute."

"Because we need to discuss the dizzy spell you had earlier.  
Or at least talk about whatever it is that's bothering you," 
she said gently.  "From our conversation on the phone last 
night, I suspect it has something to do with Willow 
Nightingale."

He shrugged.

"You never did explain the circumstances of her death.  Did 
she hurt you in some way?"

Mulder's lip curled into a sneer as he clicked off the channel 
and flung away the plastic remote. 

"Mulder?"  
  
"You really want to do this now, Scully?  Tonight?"  He 
planted himself before her, hands on his hips.  "Want to get 
inside my head with your bare little hands and help me clean 
house right now?"

She was taken aback by his hostility, but not cowed.  "If 
that's what it takes to understand what's going on with you, 
then yes, I'm game."

For a full minute they stared at one another, both breathing 
heavily.  She watched Mulder's face go through several 
metamorphoses as he moved from anger, to resentment, to 
sadness, and finally to an expression of anguished defeat.  
Walking toward her, he gathered her to his bare chest and held 
on, rested his forehead against her hair with a groan.

"God, Scully... it's all been a fucking lie."

"What has?" 
  
"I thought I'd been able to file everything away since the 
LaPierre case... and everything associated with it.  I guess I 
just wanted it to finally be over.  I tried to defrag, purge, 
and delete all the non-essentials.  Do a clean sweep.  Draw 
comfort from the closure offered to me and convince myself I 
was free.  And you know what?"

"What, Mulder?"

"I wasn't close.  Not by a long shot."

Her particular demons, apparently, were not the only ghosts 
that had drawn him to her bed these many months since the case 
in Aubrey.  Womanly insight and experience with his moods 
should have alerted her long ago that something was amiss.  
Like a short-sighted physician, she'd failed to discover all 
the symptoms past and present that may have triggered this 
malady.  

"Let's sit down," she whispered.  Taking him by the hand, she 
led him toward the quilted bed and was grateful for his 
acquiescence.

He sat, regarding her with an expression of deep pain.  "I've 
been contemplating people with whom I've felt a significant 
and personal connection."

"And?" she prompted.

"You're a given; you own my heart, Scully." 

"As you do mine," she assured him.  "Who else were you 
thinking of?"

"Remember Max?"

"Max Fenig?  Of all people, why?"

"Because I never met anyone with such single-minded energy 
directed toward an end that was necessary to his existence, to 
his very happiness.  Despite the danger.  Despite the fact 
that so few people believed him.  He felt kindred to me, like 
a brother, Scully.  The closest I'd ever come to experiencing 
that after Sam disappeared."

"Sharon Graffia believed him."

"Yes.  Though she didn't always understand his motives or 
trust his judgment and methods, she allowed him to follow his 
instincts to the limit.  She believed *in* him, Scully.  Like 
I know you do in me."

"Even though I kept you in the dark for so long on this case?"

His arm went around her, pulled her closer.  "You did what you 
had to do, even if it meant keeping me guessing for a while." 

"Is there anything else?"

"I only mention your big tattooed friend," he said after a 
pause, "because he knocked my socks off tonight by what he 
accomplished."

"You mean Tusk?"  

Mulder nodded.  "And he did what any man worth his salt would 
do.  More than that, he reached for something deep inside 
himself, ignored the odds, and thumbed his nose at failure.  
Nothing stopped him from attaining his goal, which is 
something," he murmured, staring into the gloom, "I feel I've 
lost sight of along the way... in the search for Samantha."

"You're being too hard on yourself," she demurred, though his 
words alarmed her.  "The circumstances were in no way 
comparable.  We both know you came to terms last year with 
what happened to your sister." 

"You think so?  Want to know what went wrong with me out there 
near the tunnel?"

"Tell me."

"It was an anomalous paranormal residual."  He stumbled over 
the complex syllables like a man after too much drink and gave 
a harsh laugh.  "In fact, let's give it a name.  How about 
'post-traumatic spell syndrome'?" 

"Jesus, Mulder--"

"Jesus has nothing to do with it.  But Willow, or the being 
who impersonated her, packed a potent brand of power.  And I 
let it all happen by falling into her trap."

Scully frowned.  "I thought she was a fake.  You implied she 
impersonated the real psychic."

"Only so she could infiltrate under the guise of the LIFE 
organization.  She was working for the other side all along 
and you were right about that from the start.  Every time we 
investigated Amanda's dormitory she used her power to trip me 
up and hold me under."

He rubbed shaking hands over his face.  "I was mind-fucked 
until I didn't know up or down and was barely conscious.  When 
I finally got the drop on her, she... she told me... things."

"What things?"

"That I've been living a lie ever since Victorville.  That 
Samantha-- that my now-adult sister might still be somewhere 
out there."

"How can that be?"  Her heart stung at the earnestness and 
pain in his voice.  

He shook his head.  The corners of his eyes crinkled.  He 
sagged to his knees like a child at prayer, while she listened 
and held him close.  Tears seeped between Mulder's fingers as 
he talked disjointedly about Willow and her betrayal... about 
Harold Piller's treachery and the travesty of San Diego and 
Victorville, about the doubts that had shadowed him since that 
case... the wrong and stupid choices he'd made...

His voice broke, recovered, and broke again as he spoke about 
troubled souls and walk-ins sharing a single body... that 
Samantha might still be alive, grown to adulthood with a new 
consciousness... Of being duped and disillusioned, the shame 
and abdication he felt for abandoning the quest... and how 
Scully was the only person he could ultimately trust in all 
the world...

Absorbing every word and whimper of anguish, she believed him. 

************

Had she been asleep for two hours or three?  

The fog-dark room suggested that only farmers, sanitation 
workers, and paperboys should be stirring.  Sounds of city 
traffic seemed distant and sporadic.  What had roused her 
then?  

Lying naked on her left side beneath the motel sheets, she 
felt the mattress dip from restless movement and disturb the 
heat radiating along her back.  Mulder was awake. 

"Scully?"

Voice soft and husky, he made careful contact with his long 
body, snuggling in closer.  His chest hair tickled her 
shoulder blades and a familiar appendage pressed above the 
small of her back.

An arm encircled her waist.  One cool hand moved across her 
belly and his finger crept down, teasing the first curly wisps 
it encountered.  

Behind, she felt the hot length of his penis twitch.

"Are you serious... Mulder?"

His hand slid up to her breast and squeezed, then leisurely 
toyed with its sensitive little tip.  

"You tell me," he crooned, stroking his erection behind her.  
It left a touch of wetness on her skin.  "Feels like a long 
time in terms of what's happened.  Don't you think?" 

Sleepy sex, it appeared, would be their final healing act 
before dawn's arrival.  She felt his lips' slow caress along 
her neck, heard his deep hum of contentment and arousal.

His fingers browsed low again beneath the sheet.  Finding her 
tender furrow, they began to ruminate and explore its 
intricacies, striking a slow memorable cadence.  

"God," she breathed.  "You know what that--"

"Relax, let me do the work."

Her body responded to the tempo set by his fingers as they 
rhythmically dipped into her rising heat, spreading it like 
honey...  

She luxuriated, arched her spine, inhaling the pheromone-rich 
scents of lovemaking.  Opened her eyes when he left the bed 
and settled onto the other side to face her.  He drew down the 
sheet and bunched his pillow behind her shoulders.  In a 
sleepy sensuous haze she understood that her good hip and his 
bad arm were opposite and therefore workable if they leaned to 
one side...  

"Leg up," he coached in a whisper, easing down on his knees.  
"On my shoulder... then I can--"

She moaned as invisible thumbs fanned her gently apart and his 
mouth settled in between her thighs.  

He bathed her with patient, imaginative lip work, the 
insistent whorls of his tongue driving her higher, toward 
release.  It hit hard and sent Scully's head reeling against 
the pillow.  In a daze she felt a subtle shifting of his body, 
velvet heat along the inside of her leg.  He waited with tiny 
rocking movements of his hips.

"Everything okay?"

"Ummm... go for it."  

Stealing her breath, he filled her with one slick, careful 
thrust.  Gradually he picked up speed, his bad arm cradling 
her back for leverage.  She found, because of their angle, 
that her hand could just reach around the firm nest of his 
balls-- 

With a groan he ground to a halt, shaken by spasms while she 
milked him with gentle fingers.  She waited until Mulder's 
trembling subsided and he fell away, limp and motionless 
again.  Still lying on her good side, she gently kissed this 
man she loved and drew up the sheet and blanket to shield him.  

Sleep crept in to reclaim them both as the first rays of dawn 
peeked beneath the curtains.    

************

Outside Hocking
March 18, 2001
9:15 AM

It was a morning of sun and few clouds, and a good one for air 
travel.  Tiny gusts puffed through the light-flecked forest, 
rustled bushes and undergrowth beaten down by winter, cheering 
them with the promise of spring.

Scully stood before the slight mound that lay covered by last 
autumn's leaves.  Unlike the cemetery at the Knoll, not even a 
stick or stone lozenge honored this lone grave.  But it was 
how Old Harry, Mason reminded her, had wanted his last haven 
on earth preserved.  Other indistinct graves dotted these 
woodlands that surrounded Hocking, honoring those who had 
suffered at the hand of the new Consortium, but who had 
managed to die free.  

"I said I'd show you this... if we ever made it out of there 
alive," Tusk said quietly to Scully.  "You earned it.  And I 
feel I can trust both of you."  

A short while before, she and Mulder had completed farewells 
to Dean of Students Dave Hostetler.  Along with nearly all the 
administrative members who attended the fateful meeting at the 
Knoll several days before, he'd escaped with only minor 
injuries.  However, many of the apparent survivors had 
vanished in the aftermath, including the foreign-speaking 
contingent of scientists, the moderator, and his entire staff.

Hostetler felt new optimism for his job, but much depended 
upon whether the university itself could survive such a blow.  
Since the explosion at the Knoll and the investigation that 
ensued, the place seemed in near turmoil.  

"We're not sure how the dust will actually settle after spring 
break -- whether classes will continue as usual, or even if 
President Gladstone retains his position or not.  He was a 
victim of terrorist tactics, just like a lot of us were.  But 
the people really going crazy over this whole thing are the 
historic preservation fanatics.  They're trying to pin the 
blame for the Knoll's destruction anywhere they can.  And for 
the first time on record no one's paying them much attention."

The last time Scully checked, Amanda Carmichael was showing 
definite improvement in the ICU trauma wing.  Her parents, 
accompanied by FBI field agents from the Cincinnati office, 
arrived the same night of her rescue.  Despite her guarded 
condition, they were overjoyed to have their daughter restored 
alive and showered Mulder, then Scully, with tears of thanks.  

Valerie Pinkerton floated in and out of consciousness in 
Hocking, her condition upgraded, but still a concern.  
Horrified that she had been victimized to ensure his 
cooperation, Hostetler felt a sense of responsibility toward 
the young woman.  After determining that his Indiana family 
had not been molested, he devoted the free moments of his time 
to bedside vigil.  

"Got a boom box?  Play 'Black Velvet'," Mulder suggested, 
slipping Val's cassette into Hostetler's hand.  "It might jog 
a memory about what she experienced that night.  At the very 
least, you'll appreciate the words."

"I don't think so."

"Shouldn't diss the 'King'."  For emphasis, Mulder tapped the 
tape with a finger.  "Trust me, that song deserves a listen."

Hostetler's farewell consisted of a polite, warm handshake to 
Scully and a lengthy and emotional one with Mulder.  

"I can't begin to tell you what it meant, having you come 
here... sorting out this mess and exposing the root of the 
cover-up.  I'm still reeling over it.  Will you be back?  As 
the investigation here progresses, I mean...?"

"That's up to our Assistant Director," Mulder replied, 
glancing at Scully.  "Whether it's likely or not -- your guess 
is as good as mine."

The Toskala homestead outside of Hocking was their next stop.  
With Mulder at the wheel, Scully directed the car toward the 
little vale hidden within denser forest, where Tusk and Mason 
awaited their arrival.  The two men had returned to Hocking 
with Needlenose and Mole, so they could heal from their 
injuries in the safety and isolation of their communal home. 
 
Even at Old Harry's grave site, Cricket and Stefan were 
noticeable for their absence.

"She wanted to come back to see you off," explained Tusk, "but 
figured it was better for her to stay up there with Stefan 
while he's undergoing evaluation.  Those two have become 
inseparable and it's a real comfort to him, having her around.  
I'd be there too, if I didn't have to hit the needle and ink 
again so soon."

"Mason can't run the shop for you?" asked Scully.

"Nah.  He's good, but he doesn't quite have my touch.  Thanks 
to you, Dana, I'm obligated to tat a former convict free of 
charge.  It's not in my best interest to renege."

She had experienced emotional good-byes at the Columbus 
medical center the previous evening.  Stefan had smiled and 
held both of their hands, hers and Mulder's, whispering his 
thank you ("Kiitos!") and farewell ("Nakemiin!") in Finnish.  
Cricket threw her arms around Scully's neck in a startling 
display of gratitude and sisterly affection, and even Mulder 
had received a generous hug from the once-sullen young woman.

"Will she take time off from school?" Scully wondered, 
standing with Tusk and Mulder beside the grave.   

"That's the plan.  Correspondence courses are an option if she 
sticks around Columbus with her brother.  But she's hoping to 
finally declare a major next year.  She's got it narrowed down 
to three choices, thanks to you two."

"Which ones?"

Tusk grinned.  "She considered psychiatry first.  Now it's 
criminal justice or law enforcement.  Wouldn't that just blow 
your mind, having Cricket in uniform, mouthing off and packing 
heat?"

"We've seen worse things," joked Mulder and they all chuckled 
in response.  Eyebrows raised, he looked down at Scully and 
nodded toward his watch.  

"Right... we need to get on the road," she said in apology, 
clearing the sudden tightness from her throat.  "One last 
stop, then it's to the airport and back to DC."

Mulder stepped forward, extending his hand toward Tusk in 
thanks.  The taller man ignored it and enveloped him instead 
in a brotherly bear hug.  The expression Scully saw on her 
partner's face was, literally, priceless.  

"I'm the one who should be thanking you," Tusk muttered to 
him.  "You came in and kicked some serious ass, dude!  If I'd 
been in a position to trust you earlier on, I would have.  
But, like Dana herself will tell you -- even *she* had a tough 
time breaking into this."

"You had an important investment to protect," concurred Mulder 
with a last handshake.  "Good luck to all of you.  Scully?"

She hesitated, feeling foolish now that the moment had 
arrived.  It was Tusk who voiced their shared request with a 
low rumble.  

"If it's not a problem for you, man... can you give us a quick 
minute alone?"  

Mulder gave a sober nod, but he kept his eyes on Scully longer 
than necessary and walked with Mason back toward the two cars.

"So... apparently this is good-bye," she said, feeling the 
awkwardness. 

"Not even close.  It's more of a 'see you later.'  You got 
that straight?  I think you really accomplished something 
here, Dana," Tusk whispered.  "Now you know the whole story 
from start to finish."

"As in 'Finnish' roots?"

A wide grin creased his face and he moved closer; both his 
hands settled on her shoulders.  "Speaking of which, Stefan 
refers to you as our '*ystava*'."

"What does it mean?" she asked softly, touched by the exotic 
sound of the word.

"'Friend'.  Except, according to him, *ystava* implies more.  
It's someone or something used for great good, and you were 
that... to all of us."

"I've been thinking about something you told me concerning new 
friendships," she confessed, blinking away tears.  "It reminds 
me of what a Navajo elder once said to make me see more 
clearly.  'There are more worlds than the one you can hold in 
your hand.'  Until this past week I didn't fully appreciate 
the scope of those words."

They embraced long and tightly, the heels of Scully's boots 
lifting from the ground.  "Keep in touch," murmured Tusk into 
her ear.  A chaste kiss on the cheek and they parted ways.

Back in the car, Mulder shot her sidelong glances as he 
pointed the car down the indistinct track toward the road and 
town.

"On to the last stop?"

"Yes," she whispered, "and then we're headed home.  Together."

"Skinner tells me he's kept your mother in the loop," said 
Mulder.  

"I'm grateful for that.  Which makes me wonder how many others 
at the Hoover will be relieved that I haven't actually become 
a statistic."

"Are you kidding?  Special Agent Al Sloan should be doing 
backflips.  I bet your buddies down in the forensics lab break 
out the bubbly and try their damnedest, after the third glass, 
not to confuse it with the formaldehyde."

She gave a weak smile, dabbed her eyes, and focused on the 
passing countryside.  

"You know, I'm not completely against getting a tattoo one of 
these days," he ventured out of the blue.  "But I've got this 
indisputable need to maintain a full head of hair as long as I 
can--"

Reaching over, she slid her hand over his and squeezed hard.  
"Enough of that, Mulder.  You're exactly the way I want you 
and need you to be.  Don't forget it." 

Glenn was waiting for them at the office of the Hocking Super 
8, his face lighting up when their rental car pulled in.  
After final good-byes and a quick hug with Scully, he handed 
Mulder a cardboard container that radiated warmth. 

"Spudnuts, fresh from the oven," he boasted.  "These'll get 
you home in style."

"I appreciate it; Scully hasn't realized what she's been 
missing all this time.  How's the head today?"

"My head?  Looks like you two sure mopped up around here; the 
itch is history," said Glenn, with a sheepish grin and a shake 
of unruly salt-and-pepper locks.  "Now I know who to call if 
it ever acts up again and tells me there's another X-File 
afoot."  

************ 

Hocking, Ohio
Spring Equinox, March 20, 2001
1:20 AM

It hovered like a phantom firefly in the night.  

Four sets of eyes tracked the craft's sinuous progress over 
the countryside until it nestled just beyond a dark silhouette 
of treetops.  Overhead the melon-slice moon grinned and a 
galaxy twinkled through marbled cloud cover.  From their 
vantage point in the meadow this distant intruder eclipsed the 
whole universe with its potency.

"Tough luck, you lousy motherfuckers!" jeered Mole softly, 
waving the middle finger of his good hand.  "Take this up your 
alien asses!" 

Needlenose snickered with him as the distant monstrosity 
hovered for long indecisive moments.  Then it went streaking 
away into the night sky and oblivion.

"Hey, boss," called Mason under his breath.  "You gonna phone 
Dana and Mulder?  Let them in on this?"  

He turned toward the tall, broad-chested man who stood in 
silence behind them, hands shoved deeply into his coat 
pockets.  Tusk cleared his throat, face and eyes gleaming in 
the thin moonlight.  He walked over and clapped a strong hand 
on his friend's shoulder.

"Not right away," he murmured, staring off into the darkness, 
"but one of these days... you can bet on it."

************
Conclusion of 
Diametrically Opposed
December 28, 2005