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

FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
April 22, 1999

The pages are before me, and the words still hurt. This is the only part of Padgett's novel I photocopied, a small piece of his whole, twisted tale. It was the completed work that almost cost Scully her life, all because this man believed he 'loved' her and he wanted her love in return.

I can only glance at these few paragraphs, for they are in such detail one would believe he was there with Scully, lying on that bed beside her, making love to her. Making love to my lover.

Yes, Agent Scully is already in love. We just didn't know it was so obvious to the casual observer. But Padgett could hardly be called a casual observer. He stalked her, lived her life, tried to live in her head. He had probably seen us together, heard us. Watched us. We were discreet, but he was obsessed. He wanted to touch her thoughts and dreams, to be her. Just so he could write a character.

Scully is not a character. She is a person who cannot be placed into words and sold to the world. She is a woman who amounts to so much more than letters on a page, images created merely by a fantasy. I readily admit I had thoughts about Scully before we became lovers, dreams of what it would be like the day we finally tore down those walls built up between us and let our souls collide, when we could finally stand in front of each other and readily admit that we needed each other.

Padgett wanted that, too. He wanted her love. The same love it took me years to get her to admit, the love that binds us together fast and tight. And this man wanted to tear it apart. To tear the heart right out of it.

Scully clung tight to me, sobbing. Her fingernails grasped desperately for something to hold on to, to show her she was still in this world, not the world Padgett wanted her to be in. We clutched each other for so long, until her hot blood soaked through to my flesh, and her tears began to wash it away.

Never have her emotions been so open, never before has she allowed herself to collapse to such a degree in front of me. She just let everything out, and before she was through, I was crying with her. If she had been dead, lying there in all that blood, I would still be there, still be holding her body to mine, wishing my life to be hers. But that didn't happen. Not this time.

"Hi," I hear Scully say through my thoughts. I look up to find her standing at the office door, her first day back since it all happened. Feeling suddenly like a voyeur but not knowing why, I shuffle the story pages under a stack of files. She doesn't know I have them, that I have read them over and over trying to get into Padgett's head. I guess I am trying to profile him.

"Hi! How are you feeling?" I ask, jumping up out of my chair and going to her side. I saw her briefly last evening and she made no mention of returning to work.

"I'm fine, Mulder," she says, but I know her better now. If she goes back to work, she can put it all behind her.

"Are you sure? We don't really have too much to do today. Just one case about a kid who disappeared yet his parents can't . . . well, never mind about that. I just want to be sure. . . for you to be sure," I say, as I touch her lightly on her arm.

Perhaps it is these small gestures, stolen glances, and random touches that can give us away so easily. They haven't changed just because she shares my bed now. There is just so much more behind them.

"I'm sure. That is why I'm here. So what about this missing kid? Where are we going?" Scully asks as she sits down in front of the desk. She doesn't look very interested, and instead plays around with one of her fingernails. I can still feel those nails, holding me for dear life. Although I have felt her nails across my back many times before, and never have they had such a hold over me.

"Um . . . he disappeared into a sugarcane field about four or five days ago in Florida and, hold on," I say.

"Florida? Again? Are you sure this doesn't have something to do with that silly rule you made about the distance from water?" she asks. She doesn't smile. She doesn't look amused at all.

"No, it doesn't. Besides, it won't work this time. Not unless the Everglades count as a major body of water, and I know that even though it supplies the water for . . . " I start to say, as I flip through the files on my desk.

I shuffle everything too fast and Padgett's pages fall out onto the center of my desk.

Scully's eyes go to the papers and recognition flashes immediately across her face. Where else would I have gotten typewritten, double spaced pages from? I don't move towards them, but she does. Her fingers flip slowly through the pages. These are words she has read before, if only once; words describing her in the arms of a man who in the end, wrote her death scene.

I watch her eyes flow across the overly descriptive words, and I watch as she absorbs it all. I know she recognizes the setting and how close it came to actually happening.

Our eyes meet again over top of my desk, while she still holds the scant pages tight.

"Why did you keep this, Mulder?" she asks, and I can hear a tinge of anger rising in her voice. I know she suspects I got a secret thrill out of this part of the story. That is was a turn on to read about her wrapped in another man's arms. It isn't a turn on, nor is it a thrill. It actually made me sick. I'm not usually a jealous person. Or I don't think I am. But how could I enjoy these words? No, that is not why I kept it.

"I wanted to know him, to see how he knew you so well," I answer her.

"You know it's not true," she says.

"I know. I *do* know you better than that," I say to her. I'm certain she would not have gone to another man's bed. Not now. But my mind still is working out the delicate nature of the relationship they did have. She was in his apartment, in his bedroom. Something pulled her into his world, just as he desired.

She tosses the pages at the surface of my desk, and they scatter across the top. The words are fanned out before me again, and my stomach almost turns from the images they suggest.

"When do we leave?" she asks, ignoring those pages for now.

"In two hours," I answer, as I pile up the remaining pieces of Padgett's story and place them in a trash can. Right where they belong.

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

Broken Sound Farms
Palm Beach County, Florida

"I'm Special Agent Mulder, and this is Special Agent Scully, with the FBI. We're here to see Mr. Court Worthington concerning his son," I say to the guard at the front gate to the complex.

The cane processing plant looms large in front of us, a massive mixture of agriculture and technology. Dark blue silos stand tall against the ash-colored sky, and with a little imagination, one could almost believe they are in America's corn growing heartland, and not on the edge of the Florida Everglades.

The man calls somebody from the phone in the booth, gets the confirmation that he needs, and raises the gate for us to go through.

This isn't just a farm, but a major money-making industrial complex, complete with security. Quite a long way away from the 'American Gothic' view of farming, but understandable. The sugar industry doesn't always get the admiration of those trying to protect the Everglades. Some even suggest that Jeremy Worthington might have even been kidnapped, to be ransomed.

We are met by a man in his early forties, dressed to work in the heat of the Florida sun yet avoid being eaten alive by pests. He motions for us to park by the main office for Worthington Sugars at Broken Sound Farm, and he meets us as we get out of the car.

"Court Worthington?" Scully asks the man, and he takes his hat off and nods 'yes' at us.

"We're Agents Mulder and Scully, with the FBI. We're here about your son, Jeremy," I say to him as we all walk towards each other.

Court Worthington is deeply tanned from hours in the sun, and his hair is bleached out despite the hat. He doesn't look like a man worth millions, but one can never really tell, especially in this line of work.

"Do you have any news?" the man asks, his voice wary of our answer.

"No, sir. We are sorry. We are here to ask some questions," Scully answers him, and he leads us into the main office.

Scully and I sit in the chairs in front of a big oak desk, and Worthington sits opposite of us. His desk is covered with invoices and memos. I also notice that he has been collecting all the newspaper accounts of his son's disappearance.

"Mr. Worthington, according to your accounts, your eight year old son, Jeremy, wandered off from your house about five days ago, is that correct?" I ask, and the man looks briefly at his calendar, as if had forgotten.

"That's right. He was home from school on Spring break and he wanted to help out, so I brought him here. The foreman says he last saw him near the edge of the compound, playing catch with one of the workers during lunch. No one can figure out what happened to him afterwards," Court says. He leans back in his chair and holds his hands in front of his face, as if in prayer. He looks over his fingers at us.

I can't tell to what degree this is upsetting him. Sometimes it is harder with fathers, for they try to be stronger than they should be. Mothers always seem to be ready to let the emotions over their missing child just flow forth.

"What do you think happened to him?" Scully asks Court Worthington.

"I don't know. Why don't you ask Robert Martin?" Worthington says to us.

"Robert Martin?" I ask, not recognizing the name from any of the reports. I do recall reading his name in the local newspaper reports.

"Yeah, Bob Martin. Leader of the coalition to close down big cane sugar. Also known as the "Save The 'Glades" campaign. When he and his friends couldn't get their legislation passed in '96, he became quite militant about spreading his propaganda," he says, and I can feel the hate he has for Martin from across the desk.

"And what is his propaganda?" Scully asks.

"That the sugarcane farmers are ruining the 'delicate' balance of the Everglades. That we are dumping phosphates into the 'Glades willy nilly, and sucking all the water back out. Oh, he has quite a diatribe concerning all the evils of big sugar," Court Worthington says, as he leans back in his chair.

"You believe he has something to do with your son's disappearance? Why didn't you mention this to the police?" I ask.

"I wouldn't put it past him. He's lost all credibility as of late, and would stop at nothing to dig his claws into one of the big farms," Worthington says, "I just can't imagine Jeremy wandering off into the cane. He knows that is no place for a kid. The police are too busy right now, with all the fires out there. They seem to have better things to do."

"What about this report from your wife, that she can still hear your son crying out in the night?" I ask, and get a quick sideways glance from Scully.

"Emmaline hasn't been herself since this happened. I'm sure she's just imagining it," Worthington tells us bluntly, sounding embarrassed about his wife's report.

"Can we talk to her?" I ask. I take a quick glance around his office and notice that it lacks any family photos. There is no reminder here at the workplace that he has children or a wife. Just a large map of Florida covered in pins with flags and a picture of Court Worthington with the present state governor.

"She's . . . at the main house. I don't know how much help she will be. Emmie is very upset by this whole thing," he says, sounding like he doesn't want us to hear her story.

"Of course she is. We won't take up much of her time, Mr. Worthington," Scully says and Court Worthington gives us directions to the family home.

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

Worthington House
Palm Beach County, Florida

The Worthington's house is built in traditional, old Florida architecture: white siding with a shiny tin roof and a wrap-around verandah. It is large, yet not overwhelming. Perhaps it isn't their only home.

Emmaline Worthington is sitting on a swing chair on the front porch when we approach her. She motions for us to sit down on a wicker couch, but never says a word.

"Mrs. Worthington, your husband told us a little about Jeremy's disappearance. Can you tell us more?" Scully asks the woman, using quite a calming voice.

"Call me Emmie," she says in a voice laden with an Australian accent.

"Okay, Emmie. Mr. Worthington was hesitant to discuss your most recent report to the police, concerning you hearing your son's voice every night," I ask her and her eyes meet mine quickly.

"Court is like that. Never believing in the legend," she says seriously. It is obvious that she has been crying and is quite distraught.

Scully looks over at me, her lips pursed, and I'm sure she is wondering what kind of case I've gotten us involved in now. Of course we wouldn't be sent out on a simple missing child case. Surely she would know that.

"What legend is that, Emmie?" I ask.

"The legend of the broken sound . . . about how the cane fire calls out for someone, beckoning them to come in to where they can never get out. When the fire goes out and the sound stops, they are lost. They can't even cry out . . ." Emmie Worthington says, and I can feel Scully settle back next to me and cross her arms.

"I told you she wasn't quite well," Court Worthington says from behind us, as he comes up the paved walkway.

"You just don't believe it because you don't know better!" Emmie shouts at her husband.

"It is some old story her grandmother used to tell her when she was a child, to keep her from wandering out into their cane fields back in Queensland," Mr. Worthington says, looking disgusted with his wife.

"How did you two meet?" Scully asks.

"Court came to work for my father in Australia when he first got out of college. He wanted to learn the cane business, and ended up marrying me and convincing my father to set him up with his own farm, here in America," Emmie says, her eyes steady on Court. Whatever love there might have been between them when that marriage took place seems to be long gone now.

"And Broken Sound is named after a story your grandmother told you?" Scully asks Emmie.

"It is more than just a story. It is the truth. I did wander off into the cane. Something saved me, and returned me before the fires went out. When the fires are put out, it will all be over," Emmie says, and tears begin to roll down her cheeks.

"What was that something that saved you, Emmie?" I ask, curious about what must be a family legend. I'm sure that the family lived separated from much of society out on a large farm, and stories must abound. Some probably were told so often that they became the truth, even if only in one family. Perhaps Emmaline Worthington clings to these stories because she is so far from home.

"Probably just a 'coolie' laborer saved her and never said a word. Perhaps he was the same person who lured her out into the cane in the first place. I think it would be best if you spoke to Deputy Suarez. Or better yet, like I said earlier, Robert Martin. I've got better things to do than sit and listen to the tales of little old ladies. My son is missing, the land around me is burning, and I have millions of dollars worth of equipment that is in danger from those same fires," Court Worthington says, and I wonder whether his son or is equipment is a bigger concern.

"Robert had nothing to do with this, and you know it," Emmie says, defending the person who appears to be her husband's biggest enemy, "And Suarez doesn't know anything else."

"Do you know where we can find either of those men?" Scully asks.

"Suarez is probably out on the fireline. And Martin is probably trying to round up all the waterbirds before their precious feathers get singed," Court Worthington says, dismissing us with his voice.

"We will be back," I tell him, hoping he doesn't think this is over.

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

North Broward County, Florida

The ash falls out of the sky like snowflakes, bringing to mind the haunting stories of people who lived outside of the concentration camps in Nazi Germany. The air is hot and heavy with smoke, and the roar of the fire is loud even though it is quite a distance away from us. In some places it appears to reach twenty feet in the air in a solid wall of flames.

Those flames burn quickly in a line, turning the sawgrass black as it passes over, leaving room for new growth behind it.

"I don't know what Mr. Worthington would like me to tell you that wasn't already in the report" Deputy Michael Suarez says to us. The Motorola radio on his shoulder is constantly going off, requesting his attention every few seconds.

"Could an eight year old boy survive out in this for that many days?" I ask, knowing for certain what the answer will be.

"If he stayed in the cane, I would say that there might be a chance. But we searched the whole farm. It was hard work, but we scoured every inch of Broken Sound. Have you ever tried to search for someone in sugarcane? It is as bad as trying to find someone in a cornfield. Maybe worse. It is so wet," Suarez says, and Scully and I both exchange knowing glances.

"You think he could have gotten out into the sawgrass?" Scully shouts over the helicopter going overhead of us.

"I sure hope to hell not. This would not be a good time to be lost in the sawgrass. Nearly 200,000 acres have burned in this area in the past week. Hopefully it won't reach the cane farms. Or civilization," Suarez say, pointing over his shoulder towards the east.

"What do you know about Robert Martin?" I ask, and Deputy Suarez begins to laugh.

"Nature Boy? Yeah, he's relatively harmless. He hates the cane farmers. He was just out here a few hours ago," Suarez says as his radio squawks again.

"Saving all the water fowl?" I ask.

"No. He was here spouting how good the fire is for the ecosystem in the area. We all know it is. We just don't want it taking down the power lines," Michael Suarez says.

"Do you know where we can find him?" Scully asks.

"I would guess at the 'Save the 'Glades' office over in Coral Springs. That's where he usually is," he tells us, as the helicopter buzzes back overhead.

"Do you know of any stories concerning something that lives in the sugarcane?" I ask Deputy Suarez and he cocks his head to look at me.

"Agent Mulder, legends abound in this region. We have stories from the Seminole and Miccosukee nations. We have stories brought in by the migrant workers and by the sugar farmers themselves. But I have never heard of the one Mrs. Worthington keeps telling us. Now if you excuse me, I have to get back to traffic control," Suarez says, as he walks away from us back to his cruiser.

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

Sawgrass Expressway
Broward County, Florida

"Do you get the feeling that this little boy is not a priority right now, Scully?" I ask as we try to locate Robert Martin's office.

"His mother appeared genuinely distraught. His father, on the other hand, acted as if this was cutting into his time. And I'm sure the deputy has done all he can do under the circumstances," Scully says, as she quietly watches out the window. She is with me on this investigation, but she appears as disinterested as the rest of the parties concerned.

"What about Emmaline Worthington's story? I believe we should look into it further . . ." I start to say.

"Why? If you tell it, *they* will come? It is just a story, Mulder. Not all stories come true," Scully says with a sigh.

"Thankfully, that is true," I say, as I put my hand over hers, allowing for us to be as intimate as we can be under the circumstances. "But what if it isn't just some story told by an old lady to keep the kids out of the cane. What if it is a story of something that did happen told so many times people don't know which part of it is true or not?"

"What's next, Mulder? Are we going to be out looking for a big blue ox? What could possibly go unnoticed out in the sugarcane? They do harvest it," Scully says, pulling her hand out of under mine.

"I want to go back there tonight, to the farm. I want to listen for what Emmie says she can hear," I tell her resolutely. She can come with or not. I know she hasn't fully recovered from the last tall tale we lived through, and I want her to go at her own pace.

"First, let's talk to Martin and then we will find a place to stay. It is getting late," Scully says, as she lets out a little yawn. It is only 6:30 in the evening, but it has been a long day of getting nowhere fast.

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

Save the 'Glades Office
Coral Springs, Florida

"I didn't have anything to do with that kid's disappearance," Robert Martin informs us as soon as we identify ourselves.

"How did you know that is what we were here concerning?" Scully asks him in her matter-of-fact tone. We didn't call ahead to let him know we were coming.

"That is all anybody asks me about these days, as if I would stoop so low as to take Court and Emmie's son," Martin says, making it appear that he is quite familiar with the Worthingtons.

"You sound like you know the family quite well, Mr. Martin," I say as I look around the man's office.

It is a tiny store front, decorated with nature prints showing everything from water birds to alligators. There is also a map of Florida similar to Court Worthington's, with pins in many of the same places. The only difference is the flags on these pins are black.

"I tried to become familiar with all the cane farmers, hoping they would willingly clean up their operations. Emmie was the most willing to help, wanting to pass on techniques her family has used for decades. But Court, he's another story," Martin says, as he takes a seat behind an old metal desk. Scully and I are left standing in front of him.

"Court Worthington suggested that you might know something about the disappearance of his son," Scully says.

"Court Worthington is probably more concerned that the fire is going to eat up his equipment than he is about that kid. That man lives and breathes sugarcane," Martin says, as he begins to sort out his papers.

"And some have suggested that you are more interested in wildlife than you are in human life," Scully counters.

"That's not true. I'm just trying to make sure that the two can survive each other. Some of the farmers don't care. They merely tell you that they are using safe farming methods and that they are replacing the water to the Everglades basin. But they didn't want to pay for what they have done," Martin says, not looking at us standing above him.

"Would taking the son of a cane farmer be payment enough?" I ask, forcing him to look up at us.

"I don't have time for this. I have two newspapers to call back. I have a phone interview to prepare for the eleven o'clock news. This fire coinciding on Earth Day allows me to spread my message," Robert Martin tells us, as he starts jotting down notes on a legal pad.

"Which message is that, Mr. Martin? That the cane farmers are destroying the Everglades by draining the water and causing the fires, or that the fires are good for the ecology? Isn't that what you said to the newspaper earlier? I quote: 'Fire is part of the natural cycle in the Everglades. It moves through the system,

clears out old vegetation and triggers new growth that's almost immediate," Scully says to him. We both read the reports on the fire in the local newspaper.

"That is what I said. But this year they are getting lucky. The fires are early enough that the peat muck doesn't catch fire. When that happens, only God can put it out," Martin says, nearly ignoring us.

"We will be in touch, Mr. Martin," I say, and the man barely notices us leaving his presence.

"Well, he is most certainly dedicated," Scully says, as she climbs into the rental car. The car, which was clean when we picked it up at the airport, now has a fine layer of white ash covering its dark exterior.

"Are you ready to call it a day, Scully? I'm really burnt out . . ." I say, trying to make her smile. All I'm rewarded with is a quiver at the corner of her mouth and a nod 'yes.'

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

Palm Villa Hotel
Boca Raton, Florida

I find Scully on the balcony of her hotel room, staring out at the unnaturally darkened sky. Smoke and ash hang over the skyline like thunderclouds, and under it is the glow from the distant fires.

"Didn't get enough smoke today?" I ask, nodding at the lit cigarette in Scully's hand. This is new.

She takes a slow, deliberate drag and I assume this is not the first time she has smoked.

"I only do this when I'm stressed out," she answers back.

"So, for the last six years, you've been doing three packs a day and keeping it a secret?" I say, as I gesture for her to hand me the cigarette. She looks at me as if I'm going to put it out, but instead I take it from her and take a drag from it myself. Oh, yes. This habit could be so easy to acquire again. The only thing that is saving me is that the smoke I exhale reminds me of everything I consider evil and vile these days.

"I just don't want to be so . . ." Scully starts to say something. I put the cigarette out in a little plastic ashtray. Good thing we couldn't get those non-smoking rooms this time.

"Predictable?" I finish for her, knowing her fears so well. Padgett again. He read her, and she feels that he read her right. I feel he had so many things wrong. But that is because I know *her.* I don't have an idealized vision of Scully in my head. I know all of the individual parts that make her a whole. Her mind, her soul and her . . . heart.

"He knew me, Mulder. I didn't think I was that . . . easy to profile. But he did it. And the worst part is I enjoyed the attention, enjoyed that someone noticed me," Scully says. Her eyes turn up at me at her last sentence.

"I notice you. Have for years," I mumble to her.

I suppose there is a certain attraction in a stranger that knows you. Just as I'm attracted to women who believe in me, Scully seems to like men who know her without really knowing her.

Scully stands up and walks to the railing of the balcony. She places her hands on the top rail, and leans forwards. I stand behind her, wrapping my arms around her. Her body melts comfortably back into mine, and we cling to each other for the first time since I found her on my apartment floor.

"If you were to write a novel about me, what would it say?" she asks in a voice that sounds like honey.

"First of all, I would make you two inches taller and me two inches shorter, so I could do this without having to stand funny," I say, as I pull her hair back away from her neck and slowly kiss her behind her ear.

"I think we fit perfectly," Scully says, as she settles against me even tighter.

"I would never give you titian hair," I tell her, and then take her earlobe into my mouth. She emits the most gentle of moans, and her hands come off the railing and meet mine around her waist.

"I'm glad. Only Nancy Drew could have titian hair," Scully says softly.

"Well, you do have a lot in common with Nancy Drew," I say, remembering the one time I read one of Samantha's books years ago.

"I don't drive a roadster and I have sex with my boyfriend. Nancy Drew never went all the way with her 'special friend' Ned," Scully says, as she turns around in my arms. I lean down and she reaches up and our mouths meet.

I am not used to the taste of cigarettes on her breath, and am glad that I smoked some of it, too. It would have been too startling otherwise. She pulls away from me and buries her head into my chest. I'm sure she can hear my heart thumping away from this contact with her.

"Nancy Drew was a fictional character, Scully. You are far from fictional," I whisper to her, hoping to comfort her fears.

"I am now," she says quietly. This will haunt us for the rest of our lives. Someone else thought they could have her, and could manipulate her through their words.

"If I could write you . . . oh, Scully. You can't be captured in words," I tell her, as I feel her hand move between us and slowly unzip my pants.

"How can I be captured?" she says, her eyes meeting mine again. She works her hand into my pants and through the fly of my boxers.

"No one can capture you. I can't even capture you completely. And no one claim your heart as theirs. You alone are in charge of it," I say to her. The touch of her finger tips on my already hard cock is pure electricity and I wonder how far we are going to take this on this very public hotel balcony.

"Should we go inside?" she asks, reading my thoughts exactly.

"Yes," I barely utter as her thumb glides across the top of my penis.

I clumsily fumble with the sliding door behind me, and she maintains the same distance, not taking her hand out of my pants. Scully pushes against me and we both move into the room in unison. Her other hand makes quick work out of unbuckling my belt and undoing my trousers all the way. They fall into a puddle around my ankles and I manage to kick off my shoes.

"If you could write this scene, how would it go," Scully asks me. Her breathing is now deep and shallow, and I know mine isn't faring much better.

"The much adored Agent Dana Scully, radiating beauty from every pore of her body, knelt before her partner. Her eyes looked up at his, as if asking for permission to do this one act, as if he had control over her. He nodded to her, knowing full well that he had no control over the moment, and his heart, or rather, his cock was in her hands. His eyes were urging her on, pleading, begging for her to wrap her hot, wet mouth around the essence of his being. She put her bee-stung coral lips around his manhood, and pulled him into her mouth . . . " I say, finally getting a small laugh out of Scully.

"Don't quit your day job, Mulder," she tells me.

"I didn't plan on it just yet," I say, as her eyes meet mine. She goes to her knees, and looks up at me. I nod to her, and don't know why. She certainly doesn't need my permission to do *this.* I'm pretty much open to this at any time.

She pulls my boxers down and they go the way of my pants. All I'm left in is a shirt and socks. Thank God we aren't expecting company. Scully pulls me slowly into her mouth, her tongue having its wicked way with me again. Her one hand goes to my balls, and I feel her nails gently scrape across them. Those nails that clutched me so tight the other day.

Her tongue flicks ever so lightly at the head of my cock with each dip she takes down the shaft. I moan out her name, wanting to stay forever like this, no matter how hard it would make meetings with Skinner. She lets me spring out of her mouth, and her tongue travels a small trail up my cock, circling the top and lapping up the precum.

"If I could write you, Scully . . . I would write it so you are happy. I would give you back everything that has been taken from you," I say, looking down at the top of her head. She stops driving me mad with her tongue and places her head against my abdomen, pressing my cock slightly with her cheek. "Maybe I would write it so we never even met."

She looks up at me again, her eyes filled with emotion. I don't want to hurt her and we've been down this path before. If she never came to work on the X-Files, her life would be so different now. So much . . . better.

"If you wrote that, I would have to burn it," Scully says, as she stands up and presses her body to mine. I bend down to kiss her again, wanting so much to have her. But like Padgett, I really don't have control over the end of this story.

I move her to the bed, and we fall into it together. It hasn't been that long since we've been together, but it feels like ages. So much has happened. So much always happens to us.

Our hands both fumble with the other's buttons, before giving it up and undoing our own. We are lying naked next to each other in moments, and I find myself staring at her chest, looking at the place over her heart. I trace a heart shape over that spot, my fingers gliding along her smooth skin. So much was injured yet there are no external signs. No, he got a bit of her heart, but not all of it.

"Do you want to?" I ask her, not knowing if she is ready to be touched so intimately after everything she has been through this week, knowing that she was, in a way, violated by Phillip Padgett. She mouths the word 'yes' soundlessly, and I trace and line with my index finger down from her heart to that warm, wet place between her thighs. She parts her legs just a little to allow me access, and find her clit, already eager for me to touch further. My eyes do not leave hers, for I have her body memorized now. I know what she likes, and what she reacts to. I am no stranger to this body.

Her hips tilt to accommodate me, and I make slow, deliberate movements against her clit, while I watch her. This is what Padgett wanted. This is what he couldn't have.

"I want you inside of me," Scully says, her voice quiet. Her hands reach around me as I maneuver between her thighs, and enter her slowly. I don't move, but rather I watch her beneath me. Can other people tell we are doing this just by watching us?

She moves her hips just a little and her eyes question what I'm doing. All I am doing is enjoying her beneath me. I almost lost her. Again.

Scully's legs wrap around my waist, pulling me into her, helping me sink as far as I can go. I begin to thrust in and out of her, picking up the pace as I go. Then I remember that Padgett wrote her under him, under 'the stranger.' That was how he could control her and possess her.

"Scully, can you come like this?" I ask, knowing her answer already. I pull out of her, and put her legs over my hips, sinking back into her from underneath them. This way, I have full access to her body. I want her to enjoy this, making love with me. This is not someone's idealized version of sex with her. This is the real thing.

She scoots back onto me, pulling me deeper than I thought possible, and I thrust into her quickly. My fingers mimic my rhythm on her clit. I want us to come together. I don't think that has ever happened yet. I want it now.

"Tell me, Scully, tell me when you are close . . ." I whisper to her and watch her face. I can tell by her eyes, and how her mouth twists up slightly. I know her so well. I'm so close to the edge, but I want to wait for her. I push into her and hold myself there, while I continue touching her, bringing her closer. She is always quiet when we make love, only making small utterances here and there. Padgett had that right. Did he listen to us, watch us that closely? Or did he know that was what she'd be like?

Scully gasps in a quick breath. "Yes. Now, Mulder," is all she says, and I move in her quickly just a few times more before we both come together at the exact same moment for the first time. I can feel her muscles tugging at me, draining me even more. When the waves are done, we just lie there. I don't want to pull out of her body, enjoying feeling her pulse, her heartbeat, around me.

She moves away from me, releasing me, and curls up against me. Now her finger traces a pattern over my heart. It does belong to her. She can sign her name on it and take full possession at any time.

The next thing I hear is the gentle meter of her breathing. She has fallen asleep in my arms.

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

The ringing phone stirs me from my sleep and I reach for it quickly.

"Yes?" I ask, not sounding fully awake, my voice sounding rough and gravely.

"Agent Scully?" an overly familiar voice asks. Oh God. This is Scully's room. And this is Skinner on the phone.

"Hold on, sir. I'll get her," I say, covering the mouthpiece of the phone. I look at the clock. Fucking 2:30 a.m. This is just great.

I stir Scully from her deep slumber and mouth to her who is on the line. Her eyes grow wide as she sits up in bed, covering herself with the sheet as if Skinner is in the room with us.

"Scully here," she says after clearing the sleep from her voice.

I cannot hear what he has to say, but she apologizes profusely for not answering her cell phone. It is still sitting out on the balcony next to her pack of cigarettes.

"Yes, this explains why Mulder didn't answer his room phone. We were putting together an . . . an analysis of the case . . . with the reports we got from the local police today. Sir? Yes. I don't know what happened to Mulder's cell phone. I'll ask him. Okay. I'm sorry they disturbed you. We will call them right away. Yes, sir. Goodnight," Scully says, and hands me the phone to hang up.

"Well?" I ask, watching her closely to judge her reaction.

"Well, it seems Emmie Worthington has been looking all over for us all night. Somehow, an emergency call went through to the assistant director and he found . . . us," she says, not looking at me.

"I'm sure he can't tell, just because I answered the phone in your room in the middle of the night. We work at all hours, Scully. He knows that. What did Mrs. Worthington need anyway?" I ask, wanting to change the subject.

"She wants us out at the farm. Apparently, she can hear her son again," Scully says, as she gets out of our bed and starts to dress again.

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

Worthington House
Palm Beach County, Florida

"Can you hear that! Can you hear him!" a frantic Emmie Worthington cries out to us, as we run up her front walk.

"What happened here?" Scully asks as she takes Emmie's outstretched hand.

"I can hear Jeremy crying for me. He doesn't have much time left. The fires will be out soon. It can only keep him safe while the fires burn," she sobs to us. I look up to see Court Worthington standing on the verandah, his arms crossed defiantly in front of him.

"Where can you hear him from, Emmie?" I ask, listening carefully to the still night. It is dark out here, the only light being cast from the house and the half moon. I turn on the lantern, casting it's large, focused beam towards the fields.

She points out towards the edge of the lawn, to where the cane begins. I walk quickly to the indicated spot, and Scully follows behind me.

"Can you hear anything?" I ask her quietly. We both stand still, not wanting to miss the slightest noise. The night insects whirl around us, creating a hum of their own. Suddenly, a small desperate cry pierces the night. It could be from a child. It could also be from any unknown animals out there.

"That's it!!" Emmaline cries from behind us, "That's him!"

"That's nothing but an animal, Em. He's not out there," Court yells to her from the porch.

The next sound that comes from the field sounds more human, more childlike than the first. Scully and I both move for our weapons simultaneously.

"Where did it come from, Scully?" I ask, and she shrugs her shoulders. This is going to be like finding a needle in a haystack. I always thought sugarcane was harvested before this. God only knows why this field hasn't been done yet.

"I wouldn't go out there. Not in the dark," Court Worthington calls from the front steps.

"Call Deputy Suarez. Now. Tell him we need a helicopter out here with a search light. And make it fast," I yell at the man before I move into the dark cane field with Scully behind me.

We can't move very fast through the dense cane, and I finally find a row down which we can walk.

"Suarez was right. This is worse than corn," Scully says from behind me.

"He's alive out here, Scully. I don't know how, but he is," I say back as I start calling out the boy's name. No one answers back.

"Mulder, we're going to get lost out here. They are going to have to search for us next," Scully calls from behind me. I'm moving faster than her, trying to get to where I think that sound came from last.

"It isn't going to bring him back. We have to find him. It will keep him safe until we get there, Scully," I say to her, to be answered only with a heavy sigh.

"What is it, Mulder? What do you think could be living out here?" Scully asks.

"I don't know," I answer honestly.

Something moves quickly past us, to our right. Scully yells out for it to stop, but we can see nothing.

"Mulder, we need to wait for the helicopter," I hear her cry behind me, as I move off into the cane away from her.

I can hear the soft weeping of a child, but it stays equidistant from me. I can't catch up to it, can't quite figure out where it is coming from. All I can do is listen to it before me, while Scully screams my name behind me.

She finally catches up to me, finding me standing still among the cane. Scully is out of breath, and damp with sweat. I shine the flashlight beam in her direction, to find that I left her alone with only a penlight. And I didn't find anything.

"How do we get out of here, Mulder?" she asks, as I shine the beam all around. We are in a tiny clearing, and area trampled down by something. We stand there, trying to get our bearings, when the sound of helicopter blades buzzes overhead. We both put our hands up to our eyes as the search beam shines down on us, and I resist this strange urge to run. We called for this one, we aren't being hunted this time.

The intense beam guides out of the field, and we emerged soaked and dirty into the humid night. The Worthingtons meet us at the edge of the field, and Emmie falls to her knees sobbing upon seeing that we didn't return with her son.

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

"Agent Mulder, the search and rescue team has scoured this field for hours now. They can't find anything out there," Deputy Suarez tells me. Scully and I are sitting on the steps to the house, after being instructed not to go back out into the cane. Daylight is beginning to break over the field and the latest report is the fire is expected to be under control by sundown and out sometime over night. We are running out of time.

A helicopter still circles out over the field, and more men have been brought in to cover the ground. I know I heard him, but they still can't find him.

"He's got to be there," I say, standing up from the step and walking to the edge of the field. Scully catches up to me a moment later and puts her hand on my arm.

"Come on, Mulder. They are doing the best they can. Let's go back to the hotel, get cleaned up and get some rest. There's nothing we can do right now," she says, pulling me gently. I turn around to see Suarez watching us with a curious gaze. Maybe we are that obvious.

"Okay," I say, not really wanting to leave this place.

"Everything will be fine," she pleads, and I find myself following her.

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

Palm Villa Hotel
Boca Raton, Florida

I wake up alone in my room, having slept for over eight hours. I can't believe it, that I'm so worn out. I turn on my laptop computer, hook it up to the phone line and delve into the world of legends on the internet.

Most sites feature legends I already know by heart. American folk tales I've heard since childhood, and English legends that everyone on earth knows, tales of knights and round tables. I search Australian lore, but find mostly aboriginal tales of creation. Shit. This woman did make this story up. Or her grandmother did. Her grandmother made it up when Emmie was a lost child, made up . . . a creature to keep her safe.

That is all it is. Another fucking story come to life. A story told so many times and believed by so many that it is a living, breathing entity. Parts have been added over the decades, the tale retold and embellished, but it is still the loving creation of the original teller.

I pull the phone cord from the computer, freeing up the line, and dial Scully's room.

"Scully," she answers, and I can hear the TV on in the background.

"Scully, it's me. Why didn't you wake me?" I ask, wondering how long she's been awake.

"You needed some rest. I figured we would be at the Worthington house all night again tonight," she answers.

"Actually, Scully. We've got to get there now. I think I know how to find Jeremy Worthington," I tell her.

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

Worthington House
Palm Beach County, Florida

Once again, we race up to the Worthington house. We find Emmie sitting in her spot on the front porch swing, slowly moving back and forth. She looks exhausted beyond belief. All is quiet on the property now, the search teams long gone.

Scully stands behind me, arms crossed in front of her. She doesn't believe my solution will work, doesn't believe that another story can come to life.

I kneel down in front of Emmie Worthington and am met by eyes lacking any hope.

"Emmie? You said your grandmother told you this tale to keep you out of the cane, right?" I ask her slowly. She nods her head, but doesn't respond in any other way. "What if she made the tale up to keep you safe in the cane? What if there was something out there, and your grandmother made . . . some form of a creature up to keep you alive, until you could find your way back?"

Emmie tilts her head a little, looking at me curiously.

"Your son wandered off, just like you. He's out there. And you are keeping him alive," I say to her.

"Then why can't we find him?" she asks quietly.

"Emmie, this has nothing to do with the cane or the Everglades or the fire. All this is about is you. You have to bring him home. Do you remember how you got home in your grandmother's story?" I ask her. Scully is still behind me, and I'm sure she still doesn't believe this is happening.

"The last person to see me . . . was the person who found me," Emmie says, her eyes lighting up with hope.

"Do you know where that man is, the one who last saw Jeremy?" I ask.

"Yes. His name is Don Lester. He's one of the foremen at the farm. Do you think . . . ?" she asks me, so hopeful.

"It worked once," I say, as we both rise and head towards the car.

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

Broken Sound Farms
Palm Beach County, Florida

"Didn't Don go back into the cane to help us search?" Court Worthington answers, sounding almost disappointed that Robert Martin might not have anything to do with this.

"I never did. I searched other areas of the processing plant, but never went out into the fields," Don Lester says, looking as if he did something wrong.

"We need for you to go out there now, to see if you can find him," Scully tells him, her first indication of solidarity on this issue.

"Sure. I'll do anything," Don says, as we all walk to the edge of the complex again and watch the man disappear into the field again.

Don is gone for less than five minutes when we hear him shouting.

"What in the hell was that!" he screams out, and I go to follow him in. Emmie's hand reaches for my arm, stopping me. She must remember this, from when it happened to her.

"I've got him!" we hear several moments later, followed by the rushing sound of footsteps trampling towards us.

"Oh my God," Emmie cries out upon seeing her son. He is lying in Lester's arms, lifeless. I watch as Scully demands that we call for the paramedics and checks the boy's vital signs.

"He's alive. I don't know how, but he's alive," she says, looking up at me.

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

Palm Villa Hotel
Boca Raton, Florida

I trace my finger down her arm, watching her as she rests.

"Can we write our own endings, Mulder?" she asks me, not opening her eyes.

"Perhaps we can, if we try hard enough. We are in control of our own destinies, aren't we?" I ask with a smile, remembering another conversation we had similar to this one not so long ago.

"I don't know. Maybe we aren't. Maybe we all have an effect on one another, a certain push and pull upon other beings," she says, and I flop over top of her to the other side.

"You are doing your impersonation of me again. I thought you'd like my side of the bed," I tell her, and she grins just a little.

"He had control of me, Mulder. Just like Emmie Worthington was in control of her son's life. Padgett held mine with each keystroke," she says, her eyes deep with emotion.

Emmaline created something to keep her son safe. Don Lester tried to describe what he saw out there, but was unable to. He could just feel a presence moving around him.

"Padgett is dead, Scully," I say, not wanting her to be afraid of losing control to that person any more. I want her to be free.

"I know he is dead. But it was so close . . ." she says. I'm not sure she means her own death or her falling into bed with a stranger.

"Scully, Padgett rewrote that story for you. He . . . *loved* . . . you enough to end it before it actually ended. I hate him for thinking he knew you, but am glad he knew you enough to let you live," I say, pulling her close to me. We are expected back in DC on Monday, and I thought we'd explore that 100 miles from the shore idea while we were this close. Not that we have to anymore.

"How would you write it, Mulder?" she asks me again.

"I'd write it with you right here," I say, as I push a strand of titian hair away from her face and kiss her.

The End of Broken Sound

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