Calendar Girl: Known But To God
by Jori

Over Memorial Day weekend, Mulder is haunted by a mysterious visitor in his 'sleep' who says that only he can help him.

WWI photos in collage taken from this wonderful site: http://raven.cc.ukans.edu/~kansite/ww_one/photos/greatwar.htm

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FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
May 28, 1999
8:55 a.m.

For the last three nights, it has been the same dream, over and over. I thought I was done with dreaming, my mind suppressing all those free flowing images of night time abandon. The mental images that used to come to me in my sleep have long been thankfully replaced with a silent nothingness. It is a bad omen when something finally does creep through that self-created silence. It always makes me think of Alice in Wonderland, free falling into another world, not able to stop herself. That's what the dreams are like now.

Someone comes to me in my sleep, and pleads over and over. It has been the same plea every night. 'Find me. Give me a name.' He cries out to me those same words over and over, and I plead with him to help me, give me at least a clue as to where to start. The clues never come. Just the cry for help. Last night I didn't even bother sleeping. I didn't want to hear that faraway voice asking me for something I don't know how to provide. I can't give a ghost in my mind an identity.

"You okay?" Scully asks, as she enters the office. Even though my eyes are closed in a desperate attempt to rest without sleeping, I could recognize the tapping sound of her heels coming down the hall.

"I'm just tired," I reply, opening my eyes and attempting to look awake. "Bad dreams."

"You? I thought you didn't dream," Scully says, sitting down opposite of me.

"Usually, I don't," I say, as I shove around some paperwork in front of me, trying to appear as if I do deserve the tax payers' dollars occasionally.

"And?" she asks, as she reaches for my paper cup of Starbuck's coffee and takes a sip, leaving her lipstick on the plastic lid. She sets it down and I look at it before I pick it up and take a sip myself. It would be such things as this that would provide any outsider clues as to where our relationship stands. Sometimes I think it should be so obvious to everybody, but no one says a word.

"And it is the same voice, over and over, begging for me to find him. Begging for me to give him a name. I don't know what it is, Scully. It isn't like with Roche. The dreams don't lead me to anywhere," I say, frustrated. I wish that just once I could dream of something as simple as eating chili dogs at a county fair. How come nothing I do is simple?

"Did you sleep last night?" she asks. She called me late last night, wanting to know if she should come over. I told her no, in the firm belief that one of us needs to be rested for this job of ours.

"No. Not at all. It has become easier to be sleep deprived than to hear that voice," I answer her. I clumsily knock the coffee cup over in my bid to look busy, and the hot liquid splashes out of the tiny hole in the lid.

"Yes. You function well on very little sleep," Scully says, as she gets up to find the pile of paper towels we keep in here.

I start to wipe up the spill on my desk before it can get to any of the paperwork I completed this morning. She sits back down in her chair, and watches me clean up my mess.

"You know I've gone on very little sleep before," I say to her with a vague smile. She only returns my statement with a knowing smile of her own. Nothing can be said about the present state of our relationship in this room. Too many ears would love to have that knowledge. How they can't tell already, I don't know. I think the simple way I look at he would tell it all and expose us for what we are.

We sit in silence, just watching each other. I don't know how to even help myself. She can't be expected to help me. It isn't like I can invite her into my dreams, and ask her opinion. At least not without some magic mushrooms.

"What are your plans for this long weekend, Agent Mulder?" Scully asks, in her ultra-professional tone.

"I was going to pretend I was back in college and see how many days I could go without sleeping," I tell her, as I lean back in my chair. "What are your plans?"

"My brother, Bill, will be in town," she says. Well, that excludes me from any of her plans. Ever since Christmas, he has avoided most of Scully's phone calls. Even when we were practically in San Diego, he said he was too busy that week for her to visit. "My mother is having her usual Memorial Day picnic on Monday."

"I'm sure that will be fun," I say, knowing full well it would be hell on earth for me. She didn't exactly invite me along anyway. I've spent most of the holidays this year with her. I guess missing this one won't hurt. Besides, by Monday, I will be one surly, tired son of a bitch instead of just a sorry one.

"So, what's on the agenda for today?" Scully asks, looking at her watch. It is only 9 a.m. and it is going to be a horribly long day. I can hear the seconds tick out before me, taunting me as they do to someone who hasn't slept.

"Today, Agent Scully, we are going to do what every FBI agent loves to do best and what everybody falls asleep doing. Paperwork," I say to her, as I hand her a stack of desk work we have managed to ignore for a month.

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Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia
May 28, 1999
11:28 p.m.

I finally acquiesced, allowing myself to drift off to sleep while sitting at my desk trying to keep myself awake with the internet. Not even the Vampire Dungeon Whores could keep me awake this Friday night.

And the dream returns again. Just as sorrowful. Just as haunting.

The hollow, sad voice of a young man, imploring me to give him his identity back. This time around, I scream at him, asking for him to give me more to go on. He rattles off a series of numbers that mean nothing to me before he begins to walk away from me. He moves with the ease and grace of someone not quite into the prime of their life. He is so young, so small, so defenseless. What is he doing here and how did he get lost?

I chase after him for the first time since this dream started days ago, stumbling in a foggy haze, unable to follow him for long. The fog smells appalling and burns my eyes and my skin, and I struggle not to breathe. This is just a dream. It cannot burn like this. I struggle to pull the hem of my shirt out of my pants, so I can put something over my mouth and nose, but it doesn't help much. My skin is still burning.

He knows too well where he is going, as if he has inhabited this corner of my mind for years. I slip down a long embankment, unable to get a foothold in the mud, and I hit the bottom with a thud. The dream doesn't end with the fall, like it should end, before I hit the ground. The fog doesn't vanish here, but thickens into a heavy soup of toxicity. Is this a dream? It is wet and unbelievably cold. Too cold for the boy-man I was following. What would he be doing here, in this numbing mud? Suddenly, a ricochet of gunfire goes off over my head, and I recoil into the recesses of this dark pit. Somewhere I hear screaming, and the barking out of orders. Another volley of gunfire come this way and I want out . . .

It wasn't gunfire, I realize, as I wake to the shrill of my phone. It was only a dream. Only a damn realistic dream. I fell asleep on my keyboard, too tired to follow whatever it is on my screen.

"Mulder," I answer quickly, trying not to sound like I was having a nightmare.

"Mulder, it's me. I just wanted to see if how you were," Scully says in a voice so warm and inviting. A voice so far away from that dream world invading my mind. Did that young man ever have someone talk to him like this, before he was missing? Someone who conveyed so much concern in just a few words? Or was that person still his mother? Shit, Mulder. He is just a dream. Don't give him a life that exists outside of your head.

"I'm fine now. I fell asleep. He was there, Scully. I have to find him," I say, not knowing how I'm going to go about doing this task.

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FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
May 29, 1999
10:23 a.m.

"These numbers mean nothing!" I exclaim, frustrated beyond belief. There are no records that I can find that contain this exact series of numbers my 'dream boy' told me. I go to search again on Scully's laptop, knowing that this won't result in any more than the last twenty searches.

"Mulder, those numbers could just be something that your mind supplied randomly in your sleep. Maybe you are so desperate to find answers, your own unconsciousness is trying to give you something to go on. But they might not be any more or any less significant than, say dreaming of the winning lottery numbers. For all you know, those *are* the winning numbers for the Iowa state lottery," Scully says.

She is standing behind me in the office, here on another Saturday working on some asinine project of mine. A project based solely on a dream. She is only here because she knows the power of dreams, and the power of the human mind. The power of our minds together saved us just a few weeks ago. The strength of my dreams helped two families lay their daughters to rest several years ago. But each of those was through a connection with someone else. I have no idea where these dreams are coming from. Although Scully knows what dreams can do, she also sounds doubtful that these mean anything.

"It is too real to just be a dream," I say, resting my head in my hands. I'm tired, and didn't fall back to sleep after my ten minute nap last night. I don't know what would have happened had Scully's call not waken me up. How much of that hell would I have been able to endure.

"Tell me about it again," she says, her hand casually resting on my shoulder.

"It is dark, and there is this dense fog that smelled like mustard. I chase after him, only to slip down a deep embankment," I say, not having anything new to tell her since replaying it in my mind over and over all night.

"Sounds like World War I. Or what we would know of that war from history class," she says, as she makes her way around the front of my desk and sits down.

"I know," I say, without any idea as to why my mind would have me chasing some young soldier through the trenches of the Western Front. "The gas, the trench I fell in, the gunfire."

"Now you just have to figure out why you would dream of World War I. Perhaps the explanation is easy. Did you ever consider that it is a residual effect of our mushroom experience?" she asks.

"I can now contact the dead because of a bad trip? Next I'll be hearing voices," I say to her and she smiles.

"I don't think it will get that bad, Mulder. I, too, have had more vivid dreams since that experience. But not like yours. I don't know what to tell you. How many records are you going to dig through to find some missing doughboy?" she asks, looking at her watch. She doesn't need to be down here with me for this. She should be with her family for the holiday weekend.

"Just a few more, Scully. You don't have to stay here with me. Go to your mom's house. Visit your family," I tell her, and she looks at me with doubt in her eyes.

"Are you sure? I will stay with you if you need me," she says and I believe her fully. I just don't want to drag her into this bit of insanity I've fallen into.

"I'll call you later on today. Maybe you can help me stay awake tonight," I say. She answers me with a nod of her head before leaving the office.

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Industrial College of the Armed Forces
Washington, DC
May 29, 1999
3:00 p.m.

"Well, Mulder, you aren't giving me a lot to go on," Dr. Roger Sheldon tells me after I describe my dream to him. He is not only a Professor of Grand Strategy and Mobilization, but he is also absolutely obsessed with World War I. Although he is American, we met several years ago in England while he was studying the event from the British perspective and we have occasionally remained in contact ever since.

"There isn't any more to give you," I say, looking at all the maps and charts lining his office walls.

"It isn't like I can have you flip through 'mug shots' of World War I soldiers. And the trenches you are describing could be any number of trenches in that region. Now, as for the smell, the Germans first used chlorine gas on the Western front with great success in the Second Battle of Ypres in 1915. Dichloroethylsulphide, or mustard gas, became far more common, especially where American boys were concerned. If you were to put an odor to your dream from something you learned in history class, it would probably be mustard."

"It was," I say. Could this all just be American History from high school playing out in my mind?

"Do you have any idea where this field might have been? Are you certain the soldier was wearing an American uniform? Or was he British? Or Canadian?" he asks, rattling off questions I can't answer.

"I don't know. I told you what I can remember, Roger. It isn't like he handed me a map of the French countryside and said 'here I am,'" I say, trying to remember anything else. "But I'm pretty sure the uniform looked like that picture."

He turns to look at a picture hanging behind him, of a man who looks a lot like the one I'm presently talking to. It is probably his grandfather.

"That would be American. What about the ammunition you heard fly overhead? Did you recognize it as something from the latter part of this century, or was it something you never heard before?" he asks, as he begins to pull some books off the shelves.

"It was just a high pitched, shrill sound. I couldn't place it as anything I've ever fired before," I say.

"Well, Mulder, I suggest that you ask a few more questions next time you go to sleep. This isn't really a lot to go on. I will e-mail you some general World War I web sites. And I will send you the dates of any battles involving Americans and mustard gas," he tells me, as he places a stack of books on his desk. "But to find this boy will be like searching for a needle in a haystack."

"You don't sound exactly optimistic," I say, wishing this was so much easier. I want to return to my dreamless sleep again soon.

"I wish I could help you more. Next time, ask him where you are. Hopefully, it will be someplace I can help you with," Roger says, as he hands me the book he wrote on the Battle of Belleau Wood.

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Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia
May 29, 1999
10:19 p.m.

I finally hear her key turn in the lock, and even though it is late and has been hours since she called, I'm still awake. Very awake. Scully walks in to find me sitting in my living room with every light on, as if I can chase away the ghosts that way. It reminds me of when I was young and would tell Samantha that her one blanket was a ghost shield, and as long as she had it, she would be safe from things that go bump in the night. I was so very wrong.

"I brought you some coffee. And Mom sent along some blueberry pie," Scully says, as she hands me a cup of late night drive through coffee and sets the plate down on the coffee table. She goes into the kitchen and returns with a plastic fork. I really should do dishes now that I have given up sleeping.

"Thank you. I didn't think you were coming," I say, as she sits down next to me on the couch and kicks off her shoes, making herself quite at home.

"I said I'd be here. Just because my brother's in town doesn't mean I'm not spending my usual Saturday night with you," she says, reaching for the plate of pie.

We break the rules occasionally, and spend week nights together, but it is too difficult to show up to work at different times when we do that. Not that anybody would notice now that we are back in the basement.

"I assumed you didn't want to spend a night with me roaming around the place, trying to stay awake," I say, accepting the plate that she hands me.

I take a bite of the pie, and it is sweet and delicious. I forgot to eat anything all day, while I was busy running around town chasing the apparitions that live only in my head.

"It's Bill's favorite," Scully says, referring to the pie I'm wolfing down. "She always makes it when he comes to visit."

"And how is your wonderful brother?" I ask sarcastically, and receive an admonishing look from her. I can't help but not to like the guy. Why should I? He detests me.

"Bill is fine. He thought that since you weren't accompanying me, it was over," she says. Her voice sounds apologetic and she doesn't ever need to apologize for her ass of a brother.

"Bet that made him do handsprings across the living room floor," I say between bites of pie. She looks at me and then looks at the plate and I offer her a forkful of my sugary dinner. I've never been good at feeding people, and Scully gets a little bit of the blueberry filling on her lip. I have an urge to kiss it off of her, but she wipes it off with her own thumb.

"Mom informed him right away that you were indeed very much still part of my life, and that at least you had the decency to wish her a Happy Mother's Day," Scully says, gloating that we did something right and he did something as awful as forget to call his own mother on that day.

"Go, Mom," I say, as I offer her another bite, avoiding getting it all over face this time.

"So, how do you plan on staying awake tonight?" Scully asks as I finish off the last bite of pie and put the plate down and take a sip of coffee.

"Jeez! This would wake the dead," I say, taking a sip of sludge that could possibly be motor oil instead of coffee.

"Good stuff, isn't it?" she asks, amused at the expression I must be making. "That is what I use when I know it is going to be a late night."

"Then you take a sip so you can stay up with me," I say offering it to her. She declines my offer of mud in a cup.

"No, I'm not the one afraid to go to sleep. What I don't understand, Mulder, is why *you* don't want to sleep. Isn't that where you are think you are going to find your answers?" she questions me. It is something I've already considered. Falling to sleep and asking him more. But something is too terrifying about that option.

"It isn't a fun place to be, Scully. It is too real. I can feel everything, taste everything and it gets worse each time I go there," I answer her, pulling her close to me. She is dressed casually, wearing a cardigan and jeans, having changed her clothes from the business attire she felt necessary to wear into the office this morning.

"Then we will just have to come up with some way to stay awake. Want to watch a movie?" Scully asks, reaching for the remote control and turning on the TV. "We can watch movies for guys who watch movies because they can't get laid on Saturday night."

She has stopped on some channel showing an old Charles Bronson flick.

"I gave those up around Christmas time," I say, and she continues to flip through the channels.

"Because of the holiday, we do seem to have a nice selection of war movies. But I suppose you could just fall asleep for one of those," she says, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. She seems to be in rare form tonight. It is a shame I'm too tired to compete.

"I could just get out one of my videos, and we could enjoy one of those," I say, and she doesn't say anything for a moment, as she seems to get into one of those movies for women.

"Mulder, why would I want to sit and watch other people screw when I could be making love to you?" she asks, not taking her eyes off of the TV screen. I couldn't agree with her more. We say nothing for minutes, and just sit next to each other in a comfortable silence. I wrap my arm around her, and pull her to me. This is what was really missing for all these years.

I will admit it. I'm a guy, so sex at least once in a calendar year is nice. Once a month is even better. And the way it is now is damn near heaven. The only thing that could be better is if she . . . lived here. Where in the hell did that thought come from? Must be the exhaustion. That would never work. At least not yet.

It makes me wonder if that young man in my dreams has had contact with anyone in all these years, and how sad existence would be without any contact. I know I don't have a plethora of friends, but the ones I do have mean quite a lot. Especially the one tucked nicely under my left arm.

"So, how do you plan on keeping me awake? I finished my coffee, even drank the sludge off of the bottom. Now what?" I ask, and she doesn't answer for a while. She shifts from under my arm, leaves the couch and heads towards my bedroom. I most certainly have to follow. Even if I was dead with exhaustion, and had to crawl after her, I think I would.

Scully is standing in my room, looking around at the small changes I have made since the last time she was here. I stand in the doorway admiring her. She turns to me, her eyes holding mine as her fingers go to undo the tiny little pearl buttons up the front of her sweater. I see a hint of lace and ribbons as she moves towards the bottom buttons and I gasp as she drops the sweater from her shoulders.

Next, she removes her jeans and stands before me dressed in a one-piece scrap of lace and satin. Her breasts are cupped and pushed upwards, and I want to put my hands over them, to feel the silky flesh that covers them, to feel the now exaggerated upthrusts terminating in perfect, hard nipples. I could have her out of that thing by just untying one small bow between her breasts. But I want to watch her stand before me. Just for another second. She turns around and my eyes widen at how very little there is on the backside. Very little. And what it leaves exposed is absolutely perfect.

She sits on my bed and scootches up towards the headboard, and leans back against my pillows. Scully is being quite the vamp this evening, and I have to adjust myself in my jeans just a little. Just from watching her.

"Do you know wonderful it felt wearing this under my clothes all day, with my brother Bill around, while all I could think about was you? Do you know how terrific it felt every time I shifted and could feel the lace rub against me, knowing what I would be doing with you tonight, and how much he would hate it?" she says, her voice taking on the tone of a satisfied sibling getting even.

"So this is all about your brother?" I ask, as I lie down next to her, propping myself up on one elbow so I can watch her gleeful eyes. I trace a line along the top of the bustier, feeling the soft skin of her breasts. It is cool and smooth and I lean in to taste her neck. She tastes of salt, as if she was sweating at some point today. The Scully family must have been outside.

"This has nothing to do with my brother. Not anymore," she says, still gloating despite her words. She rolls to her side, and her hands expertly pull my shirt up and I discard it quickly, followed by my jeans. She looks down at my boring, striped boxers. "Perhaps I should get you some fancier underwear to match."

"What are you going to get me? One of those glittery pouches with at thong backside?" I say, laughing. "Or one of those shaped like an elephant with a trunk?"

She laughs as she looks down to the erection that is now tenting my un-fancy underwear. "I think the elephant thing is out. But I wouldn't mind seeing you in a thong. You do have a nice ass."

"So do you," I say, as I pull her on top of me for a kiss. My hands wander to her ass, feeling their firm roundness and she moves to straddle me. She sits up above me, taunting me just a little with the view from below.

"I made sure to pick one that afforded easy access," she says, and I notice that she says pick one and not buy one. I wonder who else might have been privy to this show in the past? Somehow I always think of lingerie as belonging to the spectator as much as it belongs to the person showing it off.

"That was very sensible, Agent Scully. One never knows when easy access is going to be required. You wouldn't want to waste a lot of time in untying and unbuttoning," I say, as I go to undo the ribbon between her breasts. I pull the satin fabric slowly, and it slips out of its bow shape into two equal lengths at either side of her cleavage, allowing her breasts to take on the form I know and love. Slowly I pull the crisscross of satin loose, and it begins to fall of her shoulders.

"You have very wonderful ideas for keeping me awake, Scully. If you keep this up, I might not ever need to sleep again," I say, my voice becoming huskier with the desire I have for her.

"But then it could never end, because you usually fall asleep within minutes after we finish," she says, as she shrugs off the small straps on her shoulders.

"Maybe tonight will be different," I say, not wanting to fall asleep, but somehow knowing it is inevitable.

She rises up off of me a little, and I wiggle out of my boxers, throwing them haphazardly to the side. Now it is just the feel of her and the tiny slip of fabric that barely contains what is between her thighs. She is wet, and I wish that material would just disappear so I could just sink into her. Or pull her to where I could taste that wet heat coming from her. As if she can read my mind, she reaches down and I hear the popping of a few snaps.

"I told you that it had easy access," she says, and I hike it up around her waist, leaving her with the lingerie gathered around her waist.

"Come here," I say, and I pull her towards my face. I want to taste her, and appreciate how alive I am and what I really do have here. I want to make her happy. She moves so she is over me, and supports herself with the headboard. My tongue slowly delves in between her folds, and her voice rumbles with a sound that approaches a moan of pure pleasure. She settles back a little, maneuvering herself to where she wants to be. She has never been shy, not even the first time we made love.

Scully begins to rock gently, and my tongue explores further, tasting more, wanting more. If she stays right here all night, I will surely not ever fall asleep. My hands move from her waist, and I touch her breasts, stroking her already firm nipples. My combined efforts makes her head go forwards until it is resting against the wall, and she lets out a sigh. It doesn't take long until her body spasms, quivering ever so slightly, and finally every muscle tightens around me. I think I can hear her head slightly totter against the wall, but I know for sure that somewhere along the way, she moaned out my name.

She catches her breath before moving back down my body, and resting her head next to mine.

"Well, I'm done. I guess I can go home now," she teases, as she nibbles on my ear and wiggles down a little more. Her mouth meets mine, and it is the taste of blueberries and Scully and I want her to sink down on me, and pull me into her world. I want to be in her world, no one else's.

Deliberately, she draws her wetness over my hard cock, ever trying to taunt me into wanting more. I should have known when I saw that lingerie I was in trouble.

"Scully, please," I say, not really wanting to reduce myself to begging, but if it comes to that, I will. She finally pulls that tiny scrap of lingerie off over her head, so she is totally exposed before me.

I don't have to ask again, and she lowers herself on to me, enfolding me in heat and wetness. Sometimes when I'm in her, I have to tell myself that it is real, and it isn't just a dream anymore. We are together, and she is my lover. I am so thankful for this.

Every even, rhythmic move she makes on my body reminds me of how much I love her. My heart can't even bear the thought of her not ever being here. Or of me not being here for her. My heart and mind can't even figure out how I lasted so long without her here, like this.

"How do you want it, Mulder?" the seductress I usually call Scully asks. "Do you want it faster? Do you want it slower? Or do you want it to last so long you won't have to even worry about falling asleep before going to work on Tuesday?"

"I'll take all three, please," I manage to get out as she picks up her pace, and then slows down again, drawing it out until I'm suffering.

"You think you can stay up until Tuesday?" she asks, smiling at the double meaning of her words.

"Continually? No. But we can see how many times I can get it up by Tuesday," I say, wanting to really give that a try.

"What would my mother say? Or my brother if I didn't show up for the get together on Monday?" she asks me.

"I would like to think they would say 'thank God one member of the Scully family is getting fucked this holiday weekend,'" I say, and watch her chuckle.

"I don't think that is what Bill would say," she says.

"Scully, could we not talk about your brother while we are making love. I keep seeing what his face would look like if he walked in right now, and I don't know how long I can stay up with that image in my mind," I tell her, and she doesn't say another word. She just goes back to bouncing up and down on my cock, bringing me so close to the edge before she slows down, pulling me away from that precipice again.

I can only last so long with this beautiful woman above me, and I come into her, powerful waves moving through my body with the force of a hurricane. She falls forward on me, her mouth meeting mine again.

Sleep beckons me to enter the dreamworld I'm avoiding, and I knew after this I wouldn't be able to fight it for long.

"Mulder, keep your eyes open," I hear Scully say, her voice sounding further away than I know she actually is. But she doesn't sound upset. She must understand how exhausted I am. "How can we cuddle if you fall asleep?"

"Cuddle? You cuddle. I will sleep," I say, as I drift off into that world I tried so hard to avoid.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

This time the sky is clear and bright. Soft, billowy clouds are forming, their whiteness shocking against the deepness of the heavens. There is no sign of a war, or hate or the evil that explodes from within humanity, driving us to kill one another. I am in a large meadow, apple trees on all sides, blossoming as if it were springtime. Everything is awash in spring freshness, and the air is heavy with the scent of recent rain, though the ground is dry.

I see him, sitting still in the sunlight, watching the grass in the field sway gently in the breeze. It is cool and quiet, the only sound being my footsteps and the wind through the meadow, and he turns to me as I approach.

"Why me?" I ask for the first time. "I don't know you or anything about you. Why do you invade my mind?"

He looks at me and smiles. His teeth are crooked, for this was long before orthodontics became an almost mandatory requirement of youth. Yet, his smile is so real, embodying a spirit only the young retain.

"I don't know why you. Perhaps you are the only person who let me in," he says, as he motions for me to sit down. He is so young, but had his life gone on, he would be well over twice my age now. Chances are, he would be dead. He lost so much that we take for granted.

His speech has a definite accent, though I cannot place it immediately. A southern state, I'm sure, but which I cannot tell.

"Why can't you tell me your name?" I ask. He looks at me briefly, before looking away. A look of confusion crosses his face, and he loses that happy-go-lucky look of a teenager he just possessed.

"I knew my name once. But it was so long ago. I can't remember it anymore. It doesn't seem like something someone would forget, does it?" he asks, his eyes displaying a sorrow I have not seen in a long time. He seems nervous, as if he is unaccustomed to talking to anyone.

"No, it doesn't," I answer. I do not know what it is like to be dead. Perhaps names mean nothing in the next world. *If* there is a next world.

"I can tell you my favorite foods, although I haven't eaten in . . ." he says, and looks at me. He has no concept of how long he has been gone. I'm not going to tell him now. He chuckles a little at his own lack of memory, even though that memory is in my head. "I don't know the last time I ate. I remember swimming in a cold pond at home. I remember the smell of lavender and of mint. I remember shipping out. But I don't know my own name."

"Where was home?" I ask, hoping for some clue as to how I can help this individual who has reached out to me.

"I don't know. I remember there was some snow in the winter. I think it was a farm, but I can't remember where. There were hills. I know a cousin of mine enlisted years before I did . . . he went to Canada, so he could join up in 1915," he says. He is looking past me, as if he can bring back his memories by concentrating hard enough.

His eyes meet mine again, his face blushing slightly. He smiles just a little, as if he just got caught stealing candy.

"What?" I ask, wondering what distant memory could possibly embarrass him.

"If I would have known it was that good, I would have taken Rebecca up on her offer before shipping out," he says, a little grin still tugging at his face.

"You are in my mind when I'm not sleeping?" I ask, stunned. I don't even know how this person invades my thoughts during my sleep, let alone how he could know what I was doing while I was awake.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to know . . ." he says, looking apologetic.

"Help me here. You are missing how?" I ask, changing the subject. "All World War I dead are accounted for in one way or another. Their remains may not have been identifiable, but they are no longer MIA. Their names are noted somewhere."

"Missing? No, I'm not missing. I'm unknown," he says to me, as he hands me something. "Give me a name."

It is a small red flower. I examine it and images of the Wizard of Oz come to mind. Falling asleep in the poppy field when they were so close to their destination, one of the last hindrances before they could get what they most desperately wanted. So many obstacles on the path to the truth.

Within seconds, the scenery around us changes, and that meadow slips into mud, filled with the ruts of tires trying to get out of the mire. Whatever vehicles might have passed this way are now long gone. He jumps up, putting his hands over his ears. Something squeals overhead of us, and he yells for me to get out of here, that I can't remain here anymore. The noise becomes unbearable, and a noxious odor seems to emanate from the earth itself. I shrink to the ground, not knowing where to go. He seems to know which direction he must go in.

"This is the world you live in?" I scream over the overhead noise. He doesn't move for several moments, as if he is contemplating exactly which direction to run this time, trying to get it right.

I watch him turn towards me, and he reaches out his hand. I can feel him touching me this time, his hand caked in mud and blood, but it isn't him.

"Mulder, wake up. It's just a dream," Scully's sleepy voice says from beside me. It is her hand shaking me out of my slumber. I didn't intend to fall asleep. I thought with her here, I would stay awake.

"Poppies, Scully. We were in a field, and it was spring. Their were apple blossoms blooming everywhere and then . . . all hell broke loose," I say to her, wanting to relate it all while it is still fresh.

"Mulder, poppies are a common theme for World War I and for veterans in general. They are usually associated with Veteran's Day. And apple blossoms and springtime, well, that is just another common theme among wartime youth. You should know that . . ." she says, her hand still on me, as my heart continues to race.

"In Flanders fields the poppies blow, between the crosses, row on row . . ." I start to recite from memory.

"We are the Dead. Short days ago, we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved, and now we lie in Flanders fields," Scully continues, pulling more of it from her memory.

"We shall not sleep, though poppies grow, in Flanders fields," I say, recounting the end of the poem. "But I'm the one not sleeping, Scully."

"And the apple blossoms are from another famous poem, Mulder. Another one you would know," she says.

"When Spring comes back with rustling shade and apple-blossoms fill the air -- I have a rendezvous with Death when Spring brings back blue days and fair," I say, wanting to believe that this is something else.

"Like I said, what you put in your dreams are common images of that war. Your mind is just filling in with what you know. Besides, both those poems weren't published until after the war," Scully says.

"Flanders was mainly a Canadian offensive, wasn't it?" I ask, trying to recall all I know about World War I before the American's got involved.

"Mulder, I can't play World War I trivia with you at 3:30 in the morning," she says, as she begins to settle back into sleep.

"He said he had a cousin . . . he went to Canada to enlist before our country got involved. It has to mean something, Scully," I say, and she mumbles something before rolling back to her side of the bed.

I leave her there in the dark, grab some clothes and I make my way to my computer. I spend hours reviewing the Canadian history of the war, trying to find some clue as to who this man was, or who his cousin was. The answers aren't going to jump out at me from the internet. It isn't that easy when dealing with records so old, and holding on to the dim hope that someone transferred this information from yellowed, handwritten pages to an electronic source.

Scully comes up behind me and I'm surprised that I didn't even notice it was early morning.

"Good morning," she says, as she puts her hands on my shoulders and massages the muscles that formed into knots hours ago.

I can see her reflected in my computer monitor and she is wearing one of my dress shirts, a deep blue one, with nothing under it as she often does when she spends the weekend here. Scully looks well rested and beautiful, while I look worn. Just the sight of her makes me wish everyday was Saturday.

My computer tells me that I have mail, and Scully looks at me suspiciously.

"Don't trust me?" I say, as I elbow her a little.

"When it comes to that thing, no," she says, nodding at my computer.

The mail is from Roger Sheldon, in response to the early morning missive I sent to him. I open it and Scully leans over my shoulder to read it.

<Mulder,

<This should help a lot (insert sarcastic laugh here.) Now the haystack is just slightly smaller.

<I will try some searches on families with boys serving both

<for Canada and the US using Flanders as a starting point.

<Try not to take a nap until I get you more. I can only

<search so fast.

<Roger

"Well, it's a start," Scully says. She walks over to my couch and makes herself comfortable while I continue my internet digging.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The ringing of my phone startles me. My nerves are on edge from not sleeping, and every little thing is a nuisance right now. I finally gave up on my computer because it wasn't moving fast enough to keep me awake.

"Mulder, this is Roger. Feeling like someone with a newborn baby yet?" Roger asks. He has four children, and I'm sure this is nothing compared to the feeling that you can't sleep well for decades.

"Well, my breasts are slightly bigger, but besides that . . ." I quip and he laughs at the other end of the line.

"I think I might have something for you. Your mystery cousin who joined up in Canada . . . I think you might be right. I think he served in Flanders. Maybe he died there. Since he was American, he would be one of the 300 odd boys who were buried in an American cemetery there. I'm going to e-mail you a list of all their names. Well, the names of the ones that could be identified. How good are you at genealogy research?" he asks.

"I can't even tell you my grandmother's maiden name," I say. I've never gone digging that far into my past. Well, not for this life anyway.

"I have a friend who specializes in genealogy research. I will put you in touch with her and she can get you started. You probably won't end up with anything, but at least you can say you gave it a shot," Roger says, before hanging up.

I sign on to my e-mail again and download a list of 368 names. There is no way in hell I can cross reference this many people.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Georgetown University Library
Washington, DC
May 30, 1999
4:00 p.m.

I stare at one more page of genealogy records of the local region, hoping his accent was a clue. My eyes have grown tired from trying to read the script writing some of these are written in. My time is running out today and the library is going to close in another hour. I don't know what good this is going to do.

Sheldon's genealogist friend, Linda, laughed when I told her what I was attempting to do and offered me a position as a research assistant if I could solve this one in an afternoon. She gave me open use of all the books and CD-ROM's she has on W.W.I veterans and went into her office, still chuckling.

"How's it going?" Scully asks from behind me. I didn't even hear her approach although the place is abandoned on a holiday weekend. She sits down at the table and looks at what I've been researching.

"It is going . . . slow," I admit. "I can't match any of the names of these dead people with any names of missing people. Of course, since they were cousins, they may not share the same last name. Or maybe the cousin isn't buried where I think my dream is telling me. Maybe he isn't dead at all."

She gives me a sympathetic glance. I am beginning to hate this person demanding I find them. Scully looks like she spent an enjoyable Sunday afternoon with her family before she called me to find out where I was. She is dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, and her hair is pulled up. I think she said she and her brother were going boating somewhere. At least their relationship in on the mend.

"Perhaps there is no way to find him, Mulder. How many hours are you going to devote to searching through record after record to give some image from a dream a name? What if he isn't even real, Mulder? When will this end?" she asks me. I know she means well, but I cannot just let this go. I cannot face that person who says I'm their only hope for an identity.

"He is someone. He meant someone to somebody. I have to give that back to him," I say to her, looking up from the stack of books spread out in front of me.

"Mulder, he would have died over eighty years ago. The people who cared about him are probably dead by now, too," she says, her voice soft and appropriate for the library we are in. I found a table as far away from the general traffic as I could. This is my own puzzle to solve, and I want to be alone to do it.

"Are you saying that he no longer matters? What about when I am dead? And my mother? Will Samantha no longer matter then?" I ask her, my voice spreading beyond the stacks I'm hiding behind.

"We only live as long as someone remembers us," she says, her voice filled with some sort of misplaced sadness for me. I don't want that now. I want help.

"I refuse to accept that, Scully," I say, as I pull out another tome of genealogy records from the beginning of the century.

"That is so unlike you, Mulder. You don't even believe in God or the notion that some part of us exists outside of this plane after death. But you believe in this particular ghost," she says, as she rises up from the table and gathers her stuff. "Why? Because he needs *you* to save him?"

"I have to believe him. It is the only way I can get him to leave my mind," I respond, watching her walk away.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

This time I am running beside him, and we are surrounded by woods. The equipment strung across my shoulder and over my back is heavy, and the sky above us is a steely gray and filled with smoke. I have something over my face, and it is hampering my field of vision. It must be a gas mask and the smoke must be some variety of gas. The claustrophobic feeling it causes swells up through my entire being, and I want to tear it off and gasp for air. Something inside warns me not to. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, and my heart is about to beat out of my chest.

This is different from any of the other battles I have witnessed during this journey into my imagination. This time I'm cast into the middle of it. I can swear we are running into the worst of it, yet I have to follow him. He must know where he is going. Of course he could be running towards his death. He turns to me and grabs me, pushing me ahead of him.

"I don't know where to go!" I scream over all the howling noise, and he keeps pushing.

"None of us do!" he screams back, and he keeps pushing and pushing. Something is wrong. I feel as if we are running towards certain doom, but he keeps shouting behind me. "Just don't get yourself killed!"

Suddenly he grabs the collar of my jacket, and jerks me backwards so hard I almost fall. The world falls still around us, and we are enveloped in an unnatural silence. The chemical fog stops creeping along. There is no crackle of gunfire. Nothing. He points towards something in front of me, but it is getting hard to see through the mask and the fog. It is impossible to slow my beating heart down enough to concentrate.

I walk towards it, the fog not even so much as swirling around my feet as I make my way over to where his finger is pointing . If I had kept running, we would have reached a wall of barbed wire. I'm sure somewhere beyond the wall lies someone more than willing to send us to our deaths.

My partner in this escape pulls of his gas mask, and pulls mine off, too. We are in a dream world that I have control over. We can't die here. I look down to see that I am dressed in a murky colored wool uniform, with boots laced up tight over the bottom the pants. I'm sure the helmet on my head matches the saucer shaped one on his head, and around my waist is cinched a belt with ammunition. Where in the hell is my weapon? I have nothing but what I carry on my back and waist.

"What in the hell is this?" I demand, grabbing him and pulling him towards me. I want to shake the life from him, but it is decades too late for that.

"I wanted you to see what it was like. You need to know what I went through. I want everyone to know," he nearly spits at me.

"If I give you your identity back, this will end?" I ask, as much for my sake as for his.

"I hope so," he says, as he walks closer to the barbed wire. "Why did they pick me? Because they did, I will never be found. I will never have my name back."

"Pick you for what?" I ask. He just looks at me, eyes so empty and sad.

"Over there, just beyond our view, is a nest of German machine gunners," he says after several moments of silence.

"Is this how you died?" I ask. If he doesn't remember his life perhaps he remembers his death.

"I used to know where and how. But I can't find it again," he says, turning his haunted eyes towards me, before scanning the woods around us. "It was so close to the end. I shouldn't have . . ."

"Shouldn't have what?" I demand from him. He must fucking remember something. I can piece together his damn life with nothing to go on.

"Shouldn't have run this way," he says, and it all falls into darkness.

My eyes open to mercifully find that I had just fallen asleep in the library. Linda is standing in front of me, starting to collect the material I had been looking through.

"Sometimes this research has that effect on me, too," she say. She is very amicable and must enjoy this in order to endure the mindless hours spent researching the subject. "Find what you are looking for?"

"Only if I want to pick through the names of 117,000 American men who died during the Meuse-Argonne campaign, looking for someone who was never identified and given their name back," I answer, recognizing for the first time where I was from some picture in a book.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Jefferson Memorial Tidal Basin
Washington, DC
May 30, 1999
7:15 p.m.

"Here's all I have about the first Unknown Soldier," Roger says as he hands me a few photocopied sheets of paper. "If this is your guy you aren't ever going to put a name to his body. Well, not without using one of your paranormal freaky methods."

"I was just curious as to how they selected him. That's all. Want to give me a synopsis? My eyes are a little tired," I say.

"You look like you did in college when you were running around with . . . what was her name?" he asks me with a smile. I'm sure he remembers Phoebe. She made a spectacle of herself enough times around him.

"Phoebe Green," I answer without elaborating, not needing to go back into history anymore than I already have. "So, tell me what you've got."

"Well, here's the skinny on it. More than 1,600 Americans were interred in four U.S. military cemeteries in France because their identities could not be determined. One was selected from each cemetery and taken to

Chalons-sur-Marne, France, I believe in 1921. The caskets were switched during the night and all burial records were destroyed to further ensure that the remains could not be identified," he says, as he flips through the photocopies he brought for me.

"That could explain why he doesn't know his own name, and why he says they stole it from him," I say. I'm glad my few friends don't take me away and put me in the loony bin. I guess they are saving that for the day I really go over the edge. "So, what happened to the ones not selected?"

"Those not selected were reinterred in the Meuse-Argonne Cemetery in France," he says. "But there were a lot of boys who were missing in action and unidentifiable. It isn't like today with DNA and all that fancy stuff I'm sure you are quite familiar with."

"So, they made quite sure he'd never be identified?" I ask, afraid these dreams will last my lifetime.

"They certainly did their best. Of course, they recently discovered the identity of the Vietnam soldier. But this would be so hard. I honestly think they don't want him found, as a matter of national pride. I think perhaps they enjoy the idea of him more than they value his identity" he tells me. We both look out over the tidal basin and all the people still milling around because of the holiday weekend.

"He was young and quite . . . virginal. I doubt he would have direct descendants. And any brothers or sisters would probably be dead, so we would be looking for the grandchildren of a soldier with no name based only on a damn dream," I say.

"People have been found on less," he says, as he hands me the information in his hands and stands up. "I hope something gives you some peace. You look like shit."

"You always know the right thing to say, Roger," I say, rolling up the papers in my hand. "Say 'hi' to the wife and kids for me."

"Speaking of the old ball and chain, Jane told me to ask you to come over tomorrow. We are having a little get together. I think she has a single friend in mind for you . . ." he starts, and I put my hand up.

"I don't think so, but thank Jane for the invitation," I say. He doesn't know about Scully so it is an innocent mistake.

"Maybe when you get your dreams straightened out, you will tell me about her?" Roger asks, acting like a man who has been married too long, wanting to live vicariously though a single man.

"Yeah. Maybe. Get home to your wife, Rog," I say, standing up myself and heading off in a different direction from him.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia
May 30, 1999
9:38 p.m.

The can hear my phone ringing when I get off the elevator, and I dash frantically to catch it before it goes to the machine, hoping it is Scully.

"Mulder," I say breathlessly.

"Hi, Mulder. It's me," Scully says. I look at my watch and realize that she is probably home and getting ready for bed. Busy day with the family tomorrow and all. "Need me to keep you awake again tonight?"

"Considering you failed miserably at keeping me up last night, I think I'll be fine," I say, smiling at the innuendo.

"Oh, I think I kept you up just fine. You just tend to fall asleep instead of cuddling," she says. She sounds tired, too and I wouldn't expect her to drive over here now.

"I'll be fine, Scully. I have some research to do tonight, some leads to follow," I say, as I hit the power button on my computer and listen to it whir through start-up.

"I tried calling awhile ago. Where were you?" she asks, as I play back the messages on my answering machine.

"I was out running," I say. "I'm just going to take a shower and look some things up on the net."

"Mulder, you are still invited to come over to Mom's house tomorrow. I'm sure Bill pacing around will keep you awake," she says.

I sit down on my couch, and lean my head back. I want so badly to sleep and to dream of nothing.

"I'll think about it," I answer. I don't know if I'm ready to handle another visit with Bill again. Not when I feel like this. Silence hangs between us across the line, neither of us having much to say right now. I'm not upset that she doesn't think I'm ever going to find this person's name. I just wish she would understand more why I have to do it. I want my head back.

But I also know it has become more than that. I want to give this kid his name back. I want him to be able to go free of that world he lives in. If his name is the key to release him, then I will find it for him.

"Mulder, if this doesn't end soon, you might have to consider seeing a doctor," she instructs, and she is serious.

"Anytime you are available, Scully, we can play doctor over here," I say, wanting to lighten the mood a little.

"I'm just suggesting it. Like I said, this might just be an after effect of the hallucinations. But if it goes on much longer, you will have to look into it," she says. I know she is looking out for me, but now I'm almost afraid to have them stop before I get him his answer. I'm scared to have the dreams, but I've become more terrified of not having them, of failing that poor trapped soul.

"If I find his answer, then I will be fine. It will be soon. I have some ideas," I tell her.

"How many names do you plan on cross-referencing tonight, Mulder? Every American who served for Canada and every doughboy who was missing in action?" she asks. I know it is a daunting task, but the answer has to be here.

"Scully, the answers are there. I just have to know where to look for them," I say to her before telling her good-night.

I'm headed for the shower and the phone rings again.

"Hi. Did you miss me?" I ask, assuming that only Scully would call me this late.

"Agent Mulder," is all the unrecognizable voice says at first. Chances are, this isn't good.

"This is Mulder," I say, walking over to my caller ID panel. Of course it says unknown. Doesn't it always?

"Some things are just better left alone. You don't need to know every answer," he says. He sounds far away, and I'm sure something has been done stop any traces and electronically alter his voice.

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask. I've told very few people about my dreams, but then nothing I do is all that secure. I've talked about it in the office, on the phone and now have a myriad of W.W. I web sites bookmarked.

"It is a matter of what is important. Let the boy go unknown, for that is how it should be. That is how why he was selected. There is more involved here than just a lost youth" he says before hanging up on me. Like that is going to stop me. I'm certainly not going to go for all this national pride bullshit. They want the country to be more important than the individual. Fine. It has been that way for years. But now I have this individual living in my head, begging for help. Shit. I think it is time to look into a little more outside help myself.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The Office of the Lone Gunmen
May 30, 1999
11:28 p.m.

"Hey, dude! We tried calling you all night. You want to come over tomorrow for a barbecue?" Frohike asks as soon as he gets all the locks fastened again.

"It is today already, man," Langly says, coming out of somewhere in the back, looking like he was getting ready for bed.

"I have plans for tomorrow, guys. What I need now is a little help in the electronic cross-referencing department," I say, hoping they don't ask about the plans I might have.

"What do you need? By the way, Mulder, has anyone told you that you look like crap?" Frohike says, as he gets the computers all humming.

"I'm sure you hear that all the time," I say, and Langly laughs hard. "Yes, I've heard it a few times lately. I haven't slept in a few days. I'm working on a . . . case that is rather stressful and I'm under a lot of pressure."

"Then you have come to the right place. What do you need?" Frohike asks and I tell him about how I need him to match the particular credentials for two different soldiers. When I finish, he just looks at me, and I can tell I might have finally reached the realm of the impossible. Even for the boys.

"Mulder, the DOD web site talks about aliens, but it doesn't cover soldiers and their lost relatives. This is going to take some time . . ." Frohike says.

"I have all the time in the world right now. It is the missing soldier I'm worried about," I say, as Frohike begins to type in search parameters into his computer.

"I thought you said he was dead?" he asks, as Langly watches him over his shoulder.

"He is. And someone doesn't want me to find him, which just provides me with more incentive to find the truth," I say, before sitting down on their couch, struggling to stay awake. I should have taken Scully up on her offer. It would be more exciting then watching these two work. Byers must already be sleeping somewhere. It must be nice to sleep . . .

Hours pass, and I have nearly completed flipping through Frohike's collection of classic issues of Playboy when I hear Frohike exclaim something about 'hot damn!'

"Did you find something?" I ask, as I go to peer over his shoulder at what he is looking at. It is a scanned in image of a letter, on some history page, and the handwriting far more flourished than how we write today, the edges tattered. It is dated 1919.

"See this line?" Frohike says, pointing to a torn section of the letter. "The author of this letter discusses the time he served in the Canadian army before being wounded. He wasn't killed in action, like you originally thought. Now this is the good part . . ."

I look to the words his finger is running across. It mentions the loss of a cousin at Meuse-Argonne, a younger cousin who's body was never identified and brought home or laid to rest under the family name. Or even just his name. Cousin Andrew is all it says. No last name given. It asks if Rebecca has recovered from her loss and he talks about how well the mint is growing this year and how he knows that is her favorite scent. The author of the note is identified as Robert, but he doesn't sign his last name. It is addressed to his Aunt Caroline, and I'm guessing that is Andrew's mother. It was found in an old trunk bought at an auction and the family name is unknown. Of course it is. That would be too easy.

"Will that help you?" Frohike asks.

"I really hope so," I say, as Frohike prints of a text copy of the letter and I head for the door.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia
May 31, 1999
11:53 p.m.

Sleep comes so easily after so many hours being awake. I struggled to keep my eyes open on the whole drive home. I even called poor Roger in the middle of the night to tell him what I found. He sleepily told me he would investigate it future tomorrow with some books he had at home.

Now, I can finally begin to fill in the gaps, to give this boy his name back. He comes to me, in that bright field, dressed still in his uniform. I look down to see what I am wearing, thankful it is my normal clothes. I don't want to take another walk through gas-filled woods again. I would rather be here where the world still has some hope.

"Andrew," is all I say, and he gets a curious look on his face. "Your name is Andrew. Your mother's name is Caroline. Your cousin is Robert. And I think Rebecca was your girlfriend."

He falls before me, slumping to the ground and putting his hands to his face. "Andrew. I am Andrew."

"Yes. That is all I could find for you," I say, hoping it is enough.

"Rebecca Taylor. Oh, I kissed her good-bye and she smelled of lavender. It was her favorite scent. She was so young, her hair up in a bow. And my mom. All these years she never knew. . ."

He looks to me, with tears streaming down his dirty face. He has been through hell for ninety years now, and I want to be able to help him. I can't bring myself to telling him that his mother has probably been dead for decades now.

"Will that be enough?" I ask him, hoping this will ease his mind.

"That is enough for me. But will that be enough for you?" he asks, as he puts his hand out towards me. I take it in my own, and pull him up to standing.

"What do you mean?" I ask. If he is free from this, I don't know what more I could want.

"You need to know. You want to know why and how. They even told you to let it alone, but you still went searching. I know you won't be happy with just my first name. But I am overjoyed," he says, holding on to my hand for dear life.

"Are you free now?" I ask. "Can you finally escape the Meuse-Argonne?"

"I escaped it years ago. But only you and I know that. Only you and I know how close I really am," he says. Andrew squeezes my hand in his and finally lets go. He picks up his pack, out of habit I suppose, and turns to leave me here alone in this field.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Margaret Scully's House
May 31, 1999
3:48 p.m.

"Fox! I'm so glad you could make it," Margaret Scully says, opening the door and letting me in.

"Thank you for inviting me," I say, taking a cautious look around to see if Bill is waiting to pounce me from a dark corner.

"Dana and Bill are out on the back porch. I already warned him to behave, that his sister's life is none of his business," she says, as she takes my arm and starts to lead me to the back of the house.

"Thank you," I say, hoping that he abides by his mother's wishes.

"Fox, you look like shit," she says and I nearly choke before I start to laugh. I didn't know Mrs. Scully ever said that word, let alone to just me.

"I haven't been getting much sleep lately . . ." I start to say, but she stops me.

"I don't even want to know," she says, inferring the wrong thing. I will just let her infer what she wants. It is Scully's life. She gently shoves me through the porch door and leaves us there. I feel like my own mother just forced me onto a playground full of bullies and told me to play nice.

The two siblings are sitting around the table on the porch, both sipping on lemonade. Bill looked me up and down when I came through the door, and I can see it is taking every ounce of will power that he has not to say anything. It has been a few months since he caught my wet and very naked ass standing in his sister's living room, but I don't think it is something that he will ever forget. Neither will I, for that matter.

"Hi, Mulder. Would you like something to drink?" Scully asks me, and I answer no, I would just have sip of hers. And for good measure I give her a kiss. On the lips.

"Dana says you are into World War I history right now. That you have been having strange dreams about being in battle," Bill says, his arms crossed in front of him. Do all the Scully's do that? "Do you even have any idea what it is like to be in battle, Mulder?"

"No, not that kind of battle," I say. "But I've seen the depths of hell before."

I look at Scully, wanting to know why she would tell him, of all people. Her expression doesn't supply the answer I'm looking for.

"Bill is shipping out to the Adriatic next week. That is why he came to visit," Scully says. She didn't tell me he would be seeing action, but I guess it is to be expected. He can't possibly stay dry docked in San Diego forever, can he?

"I was looking for someone," I say. "And he has a name. It is Andrew."

Scully sits up and looks surprised that I have such news. I spent the rest of the night after Andrew's departure in peaceful slumber. I just don't look like it yet. I think it takes more than four hours to replace nearly a week of missing sleep.

"Andrew?"

"Or at least I hope it is Andrew. If not, there is a dead guy out there walking around introducing himself with the wrong name," I quip and Scully smiles.

"Did he have a last name?" Bill asks in a tone that makes me sound like a failure.

"I'm still looking. But I think a first name will suffice for now," I say, looking at my watch already. It is going to be a long afternoon and I should have never come here. I just wanted Scully to know that I didn't fail Andrew. I gave him what he wanted, whether it was a dream or not.

"You have somewhere you need to be, Mulder?" Bill asks. "If you do, you might as well be going on your way."

"Bill, stop that!" Scully says, and Mrs. Scully joins us on the porch.

"Please, Bill. Fox is my guest as are you and I will not tolerate that," she tells him, and I can feel the embarrassment rise off of him. It is never fun to be scolded by a parent, and it is even worse when you are an adult. At least she didn't smack him.

"No, that is okay. I do actually have a place I want to go to today. It was really nice seeing you again, Bill. And I'm sure I'll see you soon, Mrs. Scully," I say, as I stand to leave. I give Mrs. Scully a kiss on the cheek and offer Bill my hand. He doesn't take it.

I only wanted to spend the day with Scully, and I don't need this bullshit right now. Scully stands up and follows me to the door.

"Where are you going?" she asks, as she puts her hand on my arm, slowing me down.

"I don't know. Maybe I will just go home and get some sleep, now that I can," I say to her. I give her another kiss, wishing I could explain better why I can't stay here right now. I need to go somewhere. I need to visit someone.

"I will come over later, okay?" she says, and I answer that of course it is okay. Just leave Bill at home.

I squeeze her hand a little before walking out of her mother's house.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Arlington National Cemetery
The Amphitheater
May 31, 1999
6:11 p.m.

Even with evening approaching, it is still crowded here today. So many people looking up and down the rows of grave markers, declaring the name of a young man or woman, and stating the sacrifice they made for their country and for the whole world. Each marker has a flag waving in front of it, representing the country they were willing to die for. Representing a country that just might not deserve to collect the sum of the price these men paid. But we know who they are, and can praise them as heroes. By name. So many young men got no such luxury. And a few rest here, before me.

Chances are, it isn't Andrew buried under that slab of marble. He could be here, under that tomb engraved with 'HERE RESTS IN HONORED GLORY AN AMERICAN SOLDIER KNOWN BUT TO GOD.' But it could be so many other young men, too.

So many men were buried with their name listed on a wall somewhere else, not above their remains on those white markers all lined up in a row, imitating the soldiers themselves standing in rank and file. Roger is running a list for me of all the men named Andrew who were missing in action. He said he'd try to have it for me by Tuesday, but he needed to get back to his guests. The investigator in me just can't let it rest. People can threaten me, but I need to know. Only for me. I have no desire for it to go further. I will know. And Andrew now knows.

I can see Scully approaching the amphitheater steps, and she scans through the people to see if she can find me. Most all of the ceremonies of remembrance are over for the day, except for mine. He called out for me, and I had to help. Now I wish someone could help me. Scully finally sits down next to me, and I can see she is holding a scrap of paper in her hand.

"I went to your apartment, but you weren't there. Somehow I suspected this was your destination. Do you really think that he is here, under there?" Scully asks in a whisper, not wanting to upset the solemnity of this place.

"None of them are really here, Scully. This is only where their bodies are housed. I now think their souls just might be housed somewhere else," I say. She laces her fingers discreetly into mine, knowing full well that at anytime, someone we know or work with could come by. Sometimes it just doesn't matter.

I wait for her to question when I got religion in my blood, but she doesn't. She only looks down the paper in her hand that is free.

"While I was at your apartment, your friend Roger called. He, um, was quite excited and he came up with some answers for you," she says hesitantly, as if they were answers she didn't want to hear.

"He found his full name?" I ask, not knowing why Scully would be apprehensive over such knowledge.

"He said he ran into someone today who recognized those numbers you gave him. They were the merit numbers for cadets at the Virginia Military Institute. Nine smaller numbers followed by one large number." she says, and she watches me closely.

"Roger knew someone who would recognize that?" I say, astounded that such a random series of numbers would mean anything to anybody.

"One of the professors he works with graduated from there, and helps them archive old records electronically. He looked up years and years of records for you, and then he found a match. A young cadet who never made it to graduation. Seems he left school because he was in love with a young nurse and was under orders for being off of the property. He was later killed in the Civil War," Scully says. Her voice acquires a hollow sound, and she grips my hand a little tighter, as if she is afraid I will leave her here if she doesn't hold on to me.

My eyes narrow, while my mind tries to fill in the gaps, somehow knowing what is coming. I swallow hard, preparing myself for the answers. "Andrew's name is what?"

She hands me the piece of paper, and I unfold it. There in the middle, in her handwriting, is his full name. Andrew Biddle Kavanaugh. Her handwriting slips just a little at the last name, as if she had to struggle to finish the word. My heart skips more than just a beat, as I fight to put it all together. The rest of the world fades around me for just a second and I struggle to bring it all into focus.

"He was the was the son of a man who was born out of wedlock. Andrew's grandmother's name was . . ."

"Sarah," I say, filling in the name for her.

"Yes. Roger said he called his friend, Linda, and she found the rest. His grandmother was Sarah Kavanaugh. And a baptismal record in Hamilton County lists his father as being the deceased Sullivan Biddle, who dropped out of VMI in 1862. Sarah Kavanaugh never married, and she raised her only son also named Sullivan. He married a girl named Caroline and they had three sons, Andrew being the second oldest and the only one to serve in World War I," she finishes. Her hand doesn't leave mine, and right now it is the only thing keeping me grounded. "He could be identified. There are other family members . . ."

"That is why . . ." I say in barely a whisper, not worrying about his identity now, yet trying to find the words to describe how this might have all happened.

"That is why he came to you," Scully says. We both look straight ahead, our eyes on the tomb before us.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
June 1, 1999
9:36 a.m.

Scully and I sit across from each other in guarded silence. A part of me is content in knowing the connection I had with Andrew Kavenaugh. But the part of my heart where Scully resides is dissatisfied with what is happening here. This can't pull us apart. No matter what happened in the past, we are all we've got in the present. Melissa Riedel-Ephesian is dead. If we were meant to be soul mates eternal, I have several years to wait for her to be reborn and achieve legal age. And then I would have to find her. Or else we will run into each other in the next life. That seems to be the way it works no matter what we do. It is ill-fated if nothing else.

I have already received another mysterious phone call since I've been here and received another warning about going public with anything I find. It could be anyone. I will never know. I don't intend on making Andrew known the world. That wasn't my objective. I just wanted to make him known to himself. And to me. That was all he asked for.

"Are we meant to just be friends?" Scully asks, her voice hushed. She has a paper poppy in her hand, and she is twirling the wire stem around her index finger. I gave the elderly veteran collecting money a few bucks as we were leaving Arlington yesterday, and he handed it to her while telling her how beautiful she was. Just like his wife Flora, may she rest in peace. He was lucky. He got to come home and have a wife and a family. Both of us looked at that flower, for its significance had changed so much.

"Scully, maybe being friends is the basis of it all. Maybe that is what we *had* to be first in order to achieve what we have now. If all those past lives of mine were right, then this is perhaps the first time we can be together like we are now, beyond just friends," I say, not caring who hears me right now. This is more damn important. Life is more damn important than anything and this last week has certainly taught me that. I know she doesn't believe in any past-life regression, nor would she ever participate herself. I accept that. Her faith is her own, and I respect what she believes. Sometimes I question it, but I always respect it.

"Are you suggesting that we have moved through lifetimes with each other as just friends or partners or even as someone in control just in order to arrive at this place?" she asks. I know it is hard for her. And it is hard for me to understand, too.

"I am suggesting that everything we have ever experienced, any life we ever lived and shared some part of with each other, has led up to this. It has taken us literally ages to get here, and perhaps it is the way it is supposed to be. Perhaps it is because of that time that we *do* belong together. Here in this time," I say.

Scully contemplates what I've just told her. I would add so much more, but I think I've said enough for whatever ears are listening to us. I would add that I love her. That a dead *soul mate* means nothing when I have her.

"As long as I get to be the person in control in all of our lives, then I guess I will learn to live with the knowledge that I am not your soul mate for the ages," she says with a smile. She sets the frayed little flower down on the corner of my desk, and makes her way so she is standing behind me, her hands on my shoulders. "Next time, I could be your senior high principal of the same gender so I better take what I can get while I can have it. Even if that meant we could only ever be friends."

"This will always be more than just friendship, Scully. Even if there is a next time around. It will always be more," I tell her, leaning my head back against her. She places a chaste yet quite inappropriate for the workplace kiss on my forehead before she leaves the office. It could never be just friendship again.

The End

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Author's Notes part II: I am not a W.W.I expert and it isn't the easiest war to find facts about on the internet. Please remember all my 'battles' are in Mulder's dreams, so I added elements common to the average person's knowledge into all those sequences just to add an element of doubt.

Please also remember all that died for this nation so that we can be allowed the liberties we are today. After all my research, I know personally that it isn't anything I'd be able to do. These men and women were at the prime of their life, yet were willing to give it up. They deserve to be remembered more than once a year. We should hold them in our hearts everyday.

The poem 'In Flanders Field' is by John McRae and this is it in its entirety:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

The name of John McCrae (1872-1918) may seem out of place in the distinguished company of World War I poets, but he is remembered for what is probably the single best-known and popular poem from the war, "In Flanders Fields." He was a Canadian physician and fought on the Western Front in 1914, but was then transferred to the medical corps and assigned to a hospital in France.

He died of pneumonia while on active duty in 1918. His volume of poetry, In Flanders Fields and Other Poems, was published in 1919.

'Rendezvous' was written by Alan Seeger and this is it in its entirety:

Rendezvous

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air--

I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.
It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath--
It may be I shall pass him still.

I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.
God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear . . .

But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

Alan Seeger was born in 1888 and he had his rendezvous with death at Belloy-en-Santerre on July 4, 1916. Seeger spent two years in the French Foreign Legion; as an American citizen he could not join the French military, so he did the next best thing and joined the Legion, since the United States had not yet entered the war against the Central Powers.

Alan Seeger's "Rendezvous" echoes a letter he wrote in 1915, in which he says, "If it must be, let it come in the heat of action. Why flinch? It is by far the noblest form in which death can come. It is in a sense almost a privilege. . . ."

For sources on the web, I mainly used:

World War I - Trenches on the Web at http://www.worldwar1.com/index.html

This site offers a comprehensive overview of all aspects of the war and the individual battles.

American Battle Monuments Commission: About ABMC Cemeteries

http://www.usabmc.com/abmc2.htm

This site offers information about all the cemeteries 'over there' where American soldiers now rest. The pictures here are beautiful and haunting.

Washington DC City pages at http://www.dcpages.com

This site has a special section for Memorial Day detailing the history of the day and offers a brief explanation about the Tomb of the Unknowns. Also has great pictures of DC.

I also used the magazine Command: Military History, Strategy and Analysis Issue #51

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