TITLE: Hearts and Other Strangers
AUTHOR: Kestabrook
EMAIL ADDRESS: Kestabrook@aol.com <mailto:Kestabrook@aol.com>
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Archive if you'd like. Please let me
know where, and do use my name
SPOILER WARNING: "Milagro;" slight mentions of "Never Again,"
"Fight the Future," and "Triangle"
RATING: PG-13 (for language)
CONTENT WARNING: M/A, MSR
CLASSIFICATION: V
SUMMARY: This takes place during and after "Milagro."
DISCLAIMER: These characters are not mine--legally. They, of course,
belong to Chris Carter and the whole X-Files gang.
COMMENTS: For Great Friends: Laine-for her countless kindnesses and
because I promised her this one; Nicola-for never giving up on me and not
allowing me to give up on my writing; Lisa-for clarity, insight, and
invaluable help.
FEEDBACK: If positive or helpful only, please.

Hearts and Other Strangers (1/2)
by Kestabrook

Jealousy is a hellish monster. Born of love and fear, it stalks a man until
its scorching claws rip the heart from his chest and leave his soul to gasp its
last breaths as the monster retreats into the distance, carrying its
prize. It captures rational thought; it conquers common sense. It rips away all
vestiges of comfort and reliance. And the empty shell left in its wake
withers to dust which either fades into the earth or casts off in the wind,
imbedding itself in an already scarred phoenix.

That vicious monster now stared Fox Mulder in the eye. And it had for
days. Ever since his partner, Dana Scully, had spoken on the phone to him
of a charm slid beneath his office door, his suspicions had been
ignited; his concern that--no, his fear of--a possible secret admirer 
claiming her had plagued him. And it still did.

He allowed himself a glance at her. She sat on his couch, her boots
removed and off to the side, her stockinged feet resting more comfortably
on his rug. Her head lay against the back of his couch though her eyes still
stared at the surveillance screen before her, watching Phillip Padgett stare
at his typewriter. Red hair fell back from her face; the white collar of her
blouse fell open at the neck. And she wore the earphones which monitored
sounds in the nextdoor apartment. She seemed tired, yet her alertness on
this stake-out in his apartment never faltered even though night's blackness
crept in through the window, reminding them of the lateness of the hour.

Mulder knew Scully hoped he was wrong, hoped this admirer of
hers--maybe not her only secret admirer--would be proven innocent after
all. But he knew it wouldn't happen that way. Phillip Padgett was guilty of
several murders--somehow. Padgett, the slight, soft-spoken, "normal
looking" man whose imagination had caused havoc. The perfect crimes.
Hearts removed. Lots of blood. No breaks in the skin. No forms of
evidence left at crime scenes. Ghost-like murders. Somehow "The
Stranger" in Padgett's newest novel was a committer of psychic surgery,
and Mulder knew it. And had Scully not been smitten--if not with the lover
himself, then with the idea of being loved--she'd have seen it, have known
it herself.

"Anything?" He had to say something. Scully's eyes had flashed up to meet
his, questioning his glance that had turned into a stare of his own.

She shook her head slightly, her gaze not leaving his.

What did he see in her eyes? Anger? Fear? Resentment? Embarrassment?
Concealment? He'd seen these there already since this case had been
handed to them. Her anger had flared when he'd first returned to the office
after she'd found the milagro charm. She'd been quick to downplay a
secret admirer--maybe too quick. He'd offered to look into it for her, had
told her of an appointment he'd made for her performance of an autopsy in
the DC Medical Examiner's office. Her eyes, her voice--both angry as
she'd responded, "Thank you for making my schedule, but I think I'm
gonna have to be late for that appointment." And she'd left their office,
dignity intact. And he'd watched her go, his confusion as to what he'd
done wrong wringing his heart. It had reminded him of another time, of a
case he'd sent her on in Philly when he'd taken a rather forced vacation.
Her quest for independence that time had burned them both, and he'd
thought he'd learned his lesson: Dana Scully didn't want him in her life
outside the office. Dana Scully didn't want him making her plans. And yet,
he'd done that again without thinking. And it had angered her.

Dana Scully.

Her eyes had returned to Padgett's image, to the guy who'd caused her
fear. And Mulder had seen that fear when she'd finally shown up at the
M.E.'s--after she'd learned that Padgett had "too much information and
intimate detail" of her life. And the author did. Mulder had read the words,
had found in crisp black and white how Padgett regarded her to be like
him--one who rarely let her heart lead her. Mulder had read about the
"girlish indulgence" Scully had felt, knowing someone had thought of her,
had loved her from afar, had wanted her. He now wondered if the fear he'd
seen in her eyes that day had been put there because of a possible
stalker--or because of the unwelcome desire she felt for love?

Love. What was it anyway? Trust? Dependence? Need? He knew how it
felt to love. He'd known love for a while now and in all its forms,
including those of love for a partner and love for a woman. But for him, 
the two had merged. Why? Because he'd realized how fragile her presence was?
Because when faced with her cancer, he'd have gladly died a million deaths
than to see her suffer? He'd known it then. Known it for certain. He loved
Dana Scully.

He loved Dana Scully.

And he'd told her that. Not under ideal circumstances, but he'd told her.
And she'd scoffed at him. Why hadn't he learned then to bury these
feelings he had? Learned then that love *for* his partner was the best he
could expect.

"Mulder--"

Her voice startled him. She'd sat up, elbows on her knees. He moved from
the chair across from her and stood at her side to check the screen.

"Nope. Nothing," she observed. "Just another cigarette."

He watched Padgett light up, take a long drag, and then return to the
contemplation of the typewriter.

"Sorry. False alarm." She settled back on the couch and eyed him. "What
exactly are we expecting?"

The facetiousness in her tone bothered him. Or was it only in his
imagination? Why couldn't he be certain?

"Hey! You in there?" She touched his arm. A touch not unlike the one
yesterday--the grip on his arm, the tangible assurance of her presence. The
touch that sent warmth radiating from her fingers through his very being.
"How are you assuming this'll end?"

Mulder shook his head, as much to clear cobwebs as to show his own
uncertainty. "Flash of lightning. Puff of smoke. Who knows?" He began to
walk, and his fingers pulled at his lower lip as he tried to consider
Phillip Padgett's powers, Padgett's lack of knowledge as to whether an author
controlled his characters or his characters controlled their author.

"You're doing it again," she observed.

"What?" He'd only been aware of the sound of her voice.

"Pacing. Stand still, will you? Or sit. You make me nervous."

"*I* make you nervous?" Mulder looked at her and saw a light smile touch
the corners of her lips. He loved her smiles, no matter how reserved or
effusive she allowed them to be. "I pace to keep myself in shape."

"You seemed in good enough shape at the cemetery."

She referred to his run to catch up to what he'd thought to be "The
Stranger." And to his tackle of the same man--who'd turned out to only be
a cemetery worker.

"And you break through doors fairly well."

He'd picked the lock on Padgett's door and then forced it open quickly,
gun drawn, ready to kill the vicious bastard. He'd been expecting Scully to
bring the autopsy results but had fallen prey first to an overwhelming need
to know who Padgett was. He'd sort of "borrowed" a phone bill from
Padgett's mailbox which he'd sort of broken into. And then he'd been
startled when the S.O.B. had shown up in time to ride the elevator with
him to the fourth floor of his building. Mulder had met Padgett's stare
then, trying to swallow the revulsion he felt for this man who'd spied into his
partner's life. He'd asked Padgett about the non-success of his writing.
And Padgett had tried to dig back as they'd unlocked their doors, asking
Mulder if his current murder case was anything he'd know. Mulder's
"Possibly" had been meant to disarm the author, and he'd seen the quick
flash of shock in Padgett's eyes.

And then he'd waited for Scully, becoming more worried as minutes ticked
by past the time she should have arrived. He'd stood on a chair to listen
into his neighbor's room, but had heard nothing. To defer his worries, he'd
browsed through the *DC Muse*, suddenly becoming engrossed when he
found Personals that corresponded to murder victims' names. Old copies of
the paper retrieved from his kitchen then showed other victims' names as
well. And in this way, Mulder had discovered how Padgett had targeted the
now dead and heart-less.

He'd heard Padgett's door open and had heard wisps of voices. He'd felt
fear pound his own heart. He'd risen, gone to Padgett's door. Had broken
into the barren rooms. Had found Padgett--and Scully. Sitting. Together.
In the darkened bedroom. On Padgett's bed.

"You all right?" He'd asked it, at first thinking he'd saved his
partner. And then the realization had hit him. She wasn't being held against her
will. She was with Padgett. On his bed. Voluntarily. Having coffee. On his bed.

Mulder had headed for the typewriter. She was having coffee with a
killer--how could she not know that? His eyes had scanned copy as his
hands had thrown pages to the floor. He'd looked up to find the resentment
in Scully's eyes--her reproach searing into him. He'd again denied her her
own life, her independence, her freedom to make her own "schedule." But
it didn't matter. Not when her life was at stake. Thrusting a page at her
with "beating heart" neatly typed on it, Mulder had arrested Phillip Padgett
and called the DC police to take the bastard out of his sight.

Scully had headed for the elevator shortly after.

And that night, Mulder had read Padgett's novel.

"Mulder?"

Avoiding thoughts about the book's words appealed to him just then.
Sometimes Mulder cursed his eidetic memory. He looked at Scully, finding
that she gazed at him from her resting position. "Yeah?"

"Pacing?"

"Can't help it. I wanna be ready."

"You'll be worn out by then. And the floor will be, too. How embarrassing
if you fall into the downstairs apartment. 'Hi folks. Just dropped by,'" she
taunted.

Embarrassment. On her face in the hallway outside Padgett's cell.
Discussion of *a priori* knowledge--that which comes before an act. *A
priori* writing. Padgett had written about Dana Scully. About his love for
her. Had detailed her sensuous attributes. Had described the beauty of her
naked body. Her firm, round breasts. Her full, soft lips. Her dainty silk
skin.

Her feral desire and unfulfilled needs. Her ecstasy as The Stranger satiated
her. A scene of sex so real, Mulder had found the monster of jealousy
nearly unconquerable. "What would her partner think of her?" Padgett's
writing had asked. And there in the holding center's hallway, Mulder had
told Scully about the work in progress, ending "with her doing the naked
pretzel with The Stranger on a bed in an unfurnished fourth floor
apartment." He'd barely contained his anger at Padgett's words, at
Padgett's thoughts--at Padgett's opportunity.

And what reaction had he expected from Scully after his revelation of
Padgett's plans? Rage at the author? Horror that such a thing had been
written about her? Disbelief? Doubt?

But no. Her reaction? Embarrassment. Why? Because she'd been written
about in such a way? Or--because she'd wanted it to happen?

He'd asked her, "I'm assuming that's *a priori*, too?" And he was afraid
of her answer--because he didn't want her falling for another killer? Sure.
But also because he hadn't wanted anyone else touching his Scully.

And he'd felt only some relief when she'd answered, "I think you know me
better than that, Mulder."

He hoped he did. He'd thought he did. Until Phillip Padgett.

In the cemetery, they'd found a fourth body--tipped off by a "confession"
Padgett had written in his cell. The victim's name had been in the
Personals, too, and she'd been written to by the third victim. No one else
had visited Padgett's cell. Mulder had fought jealousy, had fought his
confused feelings in regard to Scully, and had become convinced that
Padgett's release would be the only way to see how The Stranger worked.

And he'd opened the cell door, apologized to Padgett, said he'd made a
mistake. Given him back his novel.

But Padgett had surprised him, admitting to a mistake himself. "In my
book," he'd told Mulder and Scully, "I'd written that Agent Scully falls in
love, but that's impossible. Agent Scully is already in love."

Padgett had walked then, but Mulder, stunned as if someone's hand had
slapped his face, had stared after him. He'd taken a quick glance at Scully,
seeing her own surprise as she gazed at the author, and yet her expression
betrayed the truth: she did love another and was surprised that Padgett
could see that. She'd concealed it from Mulder and thought she had hidden
it from everyone. And Mulder had passed her, mumbling something about
the need to pick up surveillance equipment. She'd called after him, telling
him she'd be at his place within two hours.

And he'd merely lifted his hand in a wave, indicating he'd heard. But his
throat had tightened.Who else did she love? When did she have time to see
anyone? What the hell did he have to do to win her love--and hadn't he
already done just that? She'd nearly kissed him in his own hallway once.
Had that meant nothing? How badly had he misjudged her?

Now, here they were in his apartment. He'd managed to set up a tiny
camera and a microphone in the wall vent near the ceiling. Scully had
arrived, having obviously returned home and changed into a black suit and
white blouse. Distractedly, he'd wondered why she'd come dressed as for
work. He'd changed into jeans and a dark sweatshirt, glad to be out of his
monkey clothes for the day.

"You know, Mulder," she now said from the couch, "he's sat there quietly
for a long time. Maybe nothing's going to happen tonight."

He considered. Checked his watch: 11:15. She looked tired. "Go home if
you want, Scully. I can manage this. You might have calls to return. People
to see."

She stared at him. "Yeah, right. Maybe a call from my mother, like usual.
But anybody else? Who else would call me, Mulder?"

He shrugged. "I could go nextdoor and ask."

Her smile was slight, and he knew she was remembering Padgett's earlier
words. "Do that if you want, but you really wouldn't have to look far--you
know, for who he meant."

Mulder glanced at her, noticing her mouth set, her eyes downcast, as if she
was hiding something again...or still. He dropped into the chair across from
her. She didn't want to be pressed further on the point; he could tell. But
god, how he wanted to know who she loved. "Padgett--"

She closed her eyes. "I don't even know why I went in there."

He picked a piece of lint from his sleeve."His book said you felt a
compulsion."

"Yeah."

"And that you were flattered by his interest."

"I suppose I was."

Mulder thought about their six years together. The interest he thought he'd
shown. "For what it's worth, Scully...I think--"

"Mulder, I wonder why he calls himself 'The Stranger' in his book? What
is it? The darker side of himself, or something else?"

He thought about this as he had since he'd read Padgett's pages. "Maybe. I
think, though, that it refers to the part of himself that he's least
familiar with--maybe his passion. That's why he's come after you like he
has--almost stalking you--instead of introducing himself months ago."

She nodded slowly. "That's why he writes about hearts getting ripped out?
Because the heart's such a strange thing to him?"

And to you...and to me, Mulder wanted to say.

"You know," she said quietly, "we sacrifice our hearts, too, don't we,
Mulder? Like the story behind the flaming heart on the milagro charm. It's
a miracle of self-sacrifice. Love might be something we desire, but we just
can't--" She stared at the screen and sat up.

"What?" he asked, wishing she'd have finished her sentence.

"I-I thought I saw a shadow in his room."

Mulder stood and began again to pace, watching her for reaction to the
surveillance screen.

"There...no...I'm not sure."

He stepped onto the chair and stretched, adjusting the camera, shifting its
direction as much as he could before returning it to its original setting.
"Anything?" His gaze returned to her.

"No. He's just sitting there. Staring." She removed her headphones, setting
them on the coffee table. Leaning back against the couch, she sighed
heavily. "These last few days have really been strange."

"You mean you don't turn up as a main character in somebody's novel
every day?"

"No, thank God. Being in one like that is more than enough for a lifetime."

"Did you finish reading it?"

"Yeah--all there was of it. Mulder--" She stopped, fixing him with a shy,
reluctant gaze. "I just want you to know I didn't...feel anything for him.
It's important...for me...to know that you know that."

His mind whirled. The jealousy he'd felt was hard to let go, and yet she'd
basically told him he could do just that. Was it possible that Scully
had only been interested in Padgett because she wanted and needed somebody? Why
hadn't he seen that before? She had him. Or didn't she want him?

"I'm so tired."

He glanced her way, noticing her eyes were about to close. "Grab a nap."
He moved to the couch, gently sitting beside her. "I'll watch our author."

Her hand touched his forearm. "I don't want to sleep. But a little rest from
the screen would be good." She closed her eyes and withdrew her hand.

Mulder watched the screen, seeing Padgett do nothing but stare into space.
He listened to Scully's breathing, felt her beside him. And wished he could
feel secure--that he could know she wanted to always be beside him.

She dozed. He heard her breaths even and slow. He looked at Padgett,
resenting the guy for what he'd put Scully through, for what he'd be
putting her through if and when the novel was confiscated for evidence,
and parts of it were divulged to the Bureau's agents and to the press.

He found himself pacing again. Shook his head and went to his kitchen. He
took a glass from his cupboard and turned on the faucet, letting the stream
run over his fingers, waiting for it to get cold enough, wishing the water
could wash away Phillip Padgett and all the harm he'd done, the pain and
the deaths he'd caused. Mulder filled the glass, turned off the water, and
drank slowly.

"Mulder?"

Scully said his name fairly softly but urgently. His quick steps took him
back to the living room. She was sitting up again, every part of her alert.

"What's he up to now?" Mulder sat on her left and watched with her.

"He just started typing again," she intoned as she lifted the earphones,
holding one to her right ear.

Mulder drank once more, then lowered the glass, setting it on the coffee
table. "Now what?" he wondered as Padgett rose and neatened the stack of
paper that was his novel. And then the author lifted the book and left the
room.

Mulder instantly was on his feet and standing on the chair opposite . Again,
he moved the camera, checking Scully's reaction. "Anything?" He saw her
shake her head. And he also heard Padgett's front door close. A slight
scrape of chair leg against wood ensued as Mulder bounded from his perch
and to his own door which he opened but looked from cautiously. The
elevator door was closing, and as he vaulted and ran toward the stairs, he
felt a flicker of wonder and envy that the elevator's opening had been so
instantaneous for Padgett.

His footfalls echoed through the stairwell, and they were inconsistent. He
skipped as many steps as he could to descend in record speed. He listened
for Scully behind him, then remembered her boots were off and knew she
would put them on before following. She'd back him no matter what her
feelings were for Padgett. She was still his partner.

At ground level, Mulder drew his gun, paused, and then burst through the
door into the lobby. Empty. A glance at the floor indicator over the
elevator told him it had journeyed to the basement. Gun in hand, he hit the
stairs again, but when he got to the cellar, he found it empty, too.
Only one logical place remained as to where Padgett could be .

Mulder nudged open the door of the incinerator room, and he aimed his
gun. "Padgett!!" He yelled to be heard over the roar of the fire. The
incinerator door was open, and the author was slowly feeding the pages of
his book to the flames. That couldn't happen. "Freeze! Step away from the
incinerator!" Mulder slowly started down the steps toward his target,
calming his breathing, hoping to calm his heart. Half-wishing Padgett
would give him a reason to pull the trigger.

But Padgett complied slightly, and he watched the FBI agent warily.

When his feet touched the floor, Mulder asked, "What do you think you're
doing?"

"Destroying my book.

"Destroying evidence, you mean. Let me see what you wrote." He took
what looked to be the last section from Padgett, scanning copy. Not much
new material had been added, but Mulder's eyes widened when he found
"She's only trying to get her partner's attention but doesn't know it." He
forced himself to skip down further, reading, "And in this final act of
destruction, a chance to give what he could not receive."

"He kills her," Padgett told Mulder wistfully.

Mulder didn't like "destruction" and "kills." "You came down here to give
these instructions to your accomplice," he spat at Padgett, hating the
bastard who'd written about taking Scully's heart.

"No," Padgett corrected. "He told me how it ends."

"When?"

"In my apartment."

"You were alone up there," Mulder scoffed.

Suddenly, muffled gunshots rang out. Mulder could have recognized the
sound any time. He turned his head; the shots and the realization that
Scully had never followed him registered at the same time. His breath
caught. He dropped Padgett's novel and was headed back up the stairs in a
heartbeat.

Though his feet moved effortlessly and fast and took steps three or four at
a time, he felt he was in slow motion. The accomplice was with Scully.
Padgett had lured Mulder; the agent had stupidly taken the bait. And Scully
was in danger.

The echoes in the stairwell again filled his ears. He heard no more
gunshots. He didn't want to think about what that could mean. Nor did he
pause before bursting into the fourth floor's hallway. He dashed to his own
door, pushing it open. And he froze.

Scully lay on the floor. Still. Too still. Blood covered her neck and
part of her chest. It had begun to seep into her white blouse. Her gun still lay in
her limp hand.

Mulder couldn't feel his feet anymore. Nor was he aware of his ragged
breathing. He knew he was moving toward her, watching her, searching her
face, hoping her eyes would flash open. But they didn't. She didn't move.

Her body looked like the other victims of The Stranger. She was so pale.
So still. And the blood. God, was her heart still there?

He bent over her, kneeled beside her. Somehow his gun had gotten
holstered, for both his hands were free. His Scully was there. His Scully
was a vicitm. And she'd taken his heart, his life with her.

He'd left her there. Left her there to die. His features contracted with his
guilt and fear.

And then her eyes suddenly flickered open. He jumped slightly--in shock
and joy. But as he reached out for her, she flinched and struggled to get
away. Her arms came up to fend him off as she gasped. She saw The
Stranger now, but Mulder grabbed her shoulders as gingerly as he could,
and in that instant, recognition overtook her terrified expression.

Her arms continued up, but they sought his shoulders. They moved around
his neck, clutching his sweatshirt, and pulling him to her with such
strength, such need.

He felt her fear, her relief in her grip. He felt his own relief, and
his arms tightened around her. Her face turned in to his shoulder, in to his neck,
seeking his protection, his presence, his assurance. Her hands clutched at
his back.

Her tears trickled against his skin. He heard and felt her sob heavily. He
held her tighter, his own emotions churning. For several days, he'd allowed
jealousy to be a monster in his life. And now that monster was retreating,
leaving Mulder with horrid memories. But leaving Mulder with Scully held
tightly in his arms.

He knew crying like this wasn't normal for her--to let him see her emotions
wasn't. What had Padgett's book said? "To be thought of as simply a
beautiful woman was bridling--unthinkable...Yet the compensatory respect
she commanded only deepeened the yearnings of her heart--to let it be
open--to let someone in." She wanted him there--in her heart. Padgett's
last page had said that. She just didn't know how to open the door--how to
acquiesce to the stranger in herself.

She sobbed still. He let his right hand softly stroke her hair as he gently
rocked her. "'S okay, Scully. 'S all right now," he whispered. He felt her
arms tighten around his shoulders even more; her face was buried in the
hollow of his neck.

"Mulder--" It was a gasp between whimpers.

"Sh-sh. Don't talk. 'S okay."

"It was him, Mulder. Ken Naciamento. He attacked me. He tried to kill
me."

"I know." The suspected psychic surgeon; Padgett's accomplice.

"He's dead--for two years. How can that be?" Fresh sobs erupted.

"We'll talk about it later," he told her quietly. "Not now. Not tonight. It
doesn't matter."

"Yes--"

"No, Scully. You're here. You're alive. You're all that matters--to me."

"Mulder, I was...scared."

"I know." He closed his eyes at her understatement. How much had this
woman been through in the past six years? How many terrors had she
faced? And now she was "scared"?

"Mr. Mulder?"

The voice came from the open door. Without reducing his grip on Scully,
Mulder turned to find his building's manager peering in curiously but
warily.

"I--uh--called the police. Everything okay?"

Mulder nodded. "My partner was attacked. By Phillip Padgett. I think he's
in the incinerator room. Direct the police there, would you? I'll fill
them in in a few minutes."

"O-Okay...Anything I can do--for you--now?"

"Would you close the door, please?"

The door closed. Mulder felt Scully trying to exhale away her sobs. She
shifted, bringing herself to a sitting position. He felt her pull back,
and he regretted having to break the embrace.

"Sorry," she whispered. "Didn't mean to lose control like that."

Tears still streamed from her eyes, her make-up drizzling down her face.
"You did what anybody would do, Scully."

She wiped at her cheeks and eyes. "Not an FBI agent." She wouldn't look
at him.

He reached out, lifting her chin, waiting until her gaze finally met his. The
anger was still there. And the fear. The resentment. The embarrassment--all
these renewed from the incident just caused by Padgett. But concealment
lingered from before. "You're so much more than an FBI agent, Scully," he
told her quietly. "Much more than that. There's a stranger in you, too.
Maybe she needs to come out once in a while." He smoothed away a tear
that wandered over the side of her face. "Maybe she needs to do the naked
pretzel once in a while." His joke was rewarded with the bashful smile it
had sought. He leaned in closely, lightly kissing her forehead. She didn't
pull back, didn't flinch. He felt his own heart leap as her arms went around
his neck again, pulling him down till her lips could press against his
forehead, too. That touch blew away the ashes of the jealousy that had
raged within him earlier. He hugged her, feeling her relax against him,
feeling the stranger in Scully come forward.

"Mr. Mulder?" The manager's voice came from the hallway. "Mr. Padgett
is dead."

Mulder sighed at the unwelcome interruption. He rested his forehead
against Scully's as he replied, "I know. I'll be right there." He pulled
back, looking at his friend, his partner closely. "Are you okay?"

She looked into his eyes. "Mulder, I really don't want to talk to the
cops--"

He nodded. "I'll take your statement whenever you want to give it." He
considered something, then said, "Geeze, Scully, you'll be in another
X-File. That gives you a triple X rating."

"Even without doing the naked pretzel." She smiled again. "You'd better
go. I'm going to get cleaned up and pack the equipment."

"Okay. I'll be back as soon as I can--" No. He was making schedules again.
"Scully, if you want to go home--" He stopped. Something in her
expression made him pause, made him wonder. He took a chance. "I'd like
it if you'd stay here tonight," he told her. "The water bed is fixed, and I
have the couch." He took her hand, folding it inside his own. "I-I don't
want you to go."

Her eyes didn't wander from his. Her reply was soft. "I don't want to go."

Mulder felt weights drop from his soul. He slowly stood, drawing her with
him to her feet. He squeezed her hand. "Don't open the door for anyone
but me."

"I couldn't."

Her response caught him off-guard, and he realized she referred to what
Padgett had written about the door to her heart.

"Agent Mulder? Are you coming?"

He shook his head. "Yeah." But he didn't move.

"Go, Mulder," she told him. "I'll be here. I'll be waiting for you."

He squeezed her hand again, then left, his heart still in the room with
Scully.

And minutes later, he stared at the dead monster that was Phillip Padgett,
The Stranger. The young author lay sprawled on the cold cement, and
those around him murmured in shock about the fact that Padgett's heart
rested in his own hand. Another perfect crime--no incision, just blood.

Mulder mumbled answers to the DC police detectives' questions, but he
knew no explanation he gave them would be believed. He gave up finally
and instead concentrated on the comfort and reliance that were seeping
back into the phoenix that had risen from this case's wake. Padgett was
dead, and Scully was alive. Mulder knew Padgett had burned his novel, had
destroyed it and himself--and The Stranger--in time to save Scully's life.

By doing so, Padgett had given what he couldn't receive himself: Scully's
love, Scully's heart. Those were meant for another. And glad as he was
that the murderous Padgett was gone, Mulder found himself forever
grateful to The Stranger. Scully's heart was waiting for him, and the
hellish monster that was jealousy had gone off without a prize.
******************************************************************************
End "Hearts and Other Strangers"