Title: Night Ride Across the Caucasus 
Author: Politic X 
Author Email: politicx@aol.com 
Rating: PG 
Archive at Gossamer: DO NOT ARCHIVE 
Category: Story, UST 
Keywords/Pairings: Scully/Reyes UST 
Crossover Info: 
Spoilers: 4D 
 
Summary: '4D' done my way. 

Night Ride Across the Caucasus
by Politic X

Part 1
Please see part 0 (template) for warnings and summary.

'It's the blaze across my nightgown.
It's the phone's ring...'
-Hirsch

-PROloGUE-
11.10.01
10:08 a.m.

Two gunshots punctured the morning silence,
but she only heard the first.  It was the one
that slammed a bullet against her spine,
throwing her a full seven feet forward.  The
second bite of lead caught her at an angle
and spun her around before she hit the
asphalt. It was initially the less damaging
of the two, even though it made its target
and cracked her skull at the temporal lobe of
her brain.

The pavement was slow to meet her, but she
eventually hit, splitting a kneecap wide open
and spraining her left ankle.  Not that it
made a difference at that point; Dana Scully
would never use her legs again.

She'd escaped death so often in the past
decade, her body had been so battered and
beaten, that her legs didn't concern her.
They didn't even matter.

All that mattered right now was A. D. Follmer
shouting for her.  It wasn't good news for
Doggett that they'd stopped calling his name.
Not good news for her, either, as they were
still searching the building, unaware that
she'd chased Lukesh to an alley, and that
this is where he'd tagged her.

She'd answer Follmer's screams with one of
her own if her voice was working, but it
wasn't. Of course, that was probably the
least of her problems. She was sure she
wasn't helpless, though, and to prove it,
Scully evaluated herself, beginning with her
right toes.  She focused on sensation and
motor ability, and ticked off the parts of
her body in a clockwise pattern.

It was a quick assessment.

She had full use of her torso, except her
right side, which jerked and quivered
spasmodically. She dragged her hand - the one
that wasn't convulsing - along the asphalt
and touched her head.  Her face was icy cold
and numb, her hair soaked with blood.  She
intended to search for the wound, but she was
growing very tired.

"Scully!"  Follmer yelled.  This would look
bad for him, and she was sure he realized it
as well as she did.  She'd bleed out soon if
he didn't find her.  Not as soon as Doggett,
but soon enough.  If that happened, Follmer
would be retired like a lame horse.  She was,
after all, an FBI legend.

Or so Monica teased her.

Scenes of a different future ricocheted in
Scully's mind.  It could very easily have
been Monica Reyes lying here.  Would have, in
fact, if Monica hadn't come down with a nasty
case of bronchitis.

"Stake out of a tongue collector by the name
of Lukesh," Follmer had explained to Scully.
"Has to be today.  I'll do it without her;
there are other agents."

She knew Monica had been working with
Doggett, trying to pin the murderer down.
Lukesh was slippery, the opportunity was
ripe, and Scully didn't want to risk him
being out there another day.  She didn't want
to risk Monica being out there another day,
either.  She'd spooked Scully with one of her
visions - Reyes' throat slashed, Doggett shot
while they were on a case - just the evening
before.

Of course, the only reason she was disturbed
by the vision was because Monica was due
another accurate one.  They'd wrestled with
her nightmares, vivid but misleading, for the
past few months.  This time, the vision came
while Monica was taking a shower.  And though
she'd been self-medicating for the oncoming
bronchitis, Scully didn't think this was a
hallucination.

So, Scully didn't ask Follmer to put her on
the case - she demanded it.  And whether
Follmer acquiesced because she intimidated
him or because he needed another agent, he
gave her the job.

She was glad Reyes was sick, had told her so
before she headed to work.

And Reyes, in turn, had let Scully know that
she wasn't worried by the previous day's
vision. Why should she be?  It didn't involve
Scully.  Besides, she said, "Nothing bad's
going to happen to John unless he's with me."

Monica was even playful.  "My hero."  She
grinned lopsided, dopey from Nyquil. "Rushing
in where angels fear to tread."

Scully had felt a bit like Marlene Dietrich
then, larger than life and suddenly so small,
like a black and white image on a tv set.
She was both vainglorious and humble in this
love affair.  "Where angels are too sick to
tread," she murmured, kissing Monica's brow.

What else had she said to her this morning?
She concentrated, hoping it was something
more memorable.  Hoping she'd told Monica
that she loved her.  Hoping it was a good
enough goodbye.

It needed to be.

Somnolence was pulling her down like an
undercurrent, its force greater than the
weight of the world.  When her eyes drifted
shut, she tried to remain conscious, but an
ocean of waves spilled over her.  It was a
billowing numbness.  She was softly floating,
being carried out to sea, far, far from this
place.  She was dying, she knew.

Dying was always water.

****
oNe

11.10.01
10:08 a.m.

Carole King sang in her stereo.  She adjusted
the volume and stood back, admiring the
effect of her strategically-placed tiny
speakers.

New day, new home, the job of her dreams.
Monica Reyes' life was suddenly turning
better.

"Hello!"

Much better.   "Scully?"

The door was already ajar, and a pale hand
pushed it open.  It was followed by her
friend and sometime partner.  "Hi."  Her
large blue eyes swept over the room.  "How's
it going?"

"It's great, great."  Did she ever dress
down?  Beneath her wool coat, Scully was
wearing a chambray blouse and a black skirt.
"I wasn't even sure you knew I moved.  How'd
you find me?"

"Your partner told me yesterday.  Bass Lofts,
number 6."  She flashed a droll look.  "Not
difficult to find."  She pressed a sack into
her hands. "He also said you like bagels with
cream cheese."

"Bagels.  Oh, God, that sounds wonderful.
I'm starved."  She took the breakfast
present, noticing another.  "If there's
coffee in that bag, it could be love."

Scully looked at her strangely and cleared
her throat.   "Black coffee as a matter of
fact.  Doggett said if I wanted you coherent,
it'd be a good idea."

She grinned. "Coherence and Saturday mornings
don't mix in my world.  Come on in."  She
closed the door and led her to the kitchen
area.

"It's huge." Scully shrugged off her coat and
draped it on a bar stool. "And a little
strange."

She knew Scully wasn't referring to her place
in particular, but to the building itself.
It had been built as a high school in 1923,
converted to lofts only recently.  Original
to the building were hardwood floors,
enormous windows, transoms and classroom
doors.  There were even lockers lining the
wide hallways.  "Biggest place I've ever
lived, and definitely the best.  It's still a
wreck; it'll take a while to get everything
organized."  Her hands were trembling as she
unpacked the bagels and containers of cream
cheese.  Scully did that to her sometimes -
made her nervous, self-conscious and very,
very alert.  She was quite certain she could
feel the world turning.

"Here.  This is yours."  Scully pushed one of
the cups to her.

"Thanks.  Thanks for all of this.  Breakfast,
visiting me."  She blew on the coffee.  "It's
nice to feel welcomed."

Scully nodded.  "It's nice to have an ally in
the neighborhood."  Her eyes seemed to absorb
everything, from Monica's faded jeans to the
manic disarray of the place.  "Are you going
to show me around, or shall I help myself?"

'Pushy,' Monica thought, but then Scully
smiled brilliantly and murmured something
about being intrigued by what she saw, and
she decided that 'pushy' was probably too
severe a word.  'Aggressive' was a better
word.  The kind of aggressive woman that
would get up at six a.m. on a Saturday
morning, feed and dress her baby, shower and
dress herself (pull on her uncomfortable hose
and her even more uncomfortable shoes, find
the perfect tight skirt from a closet full of
black clothing, button the soft blue blouse
all the way to the neck, and then unbutton
until the look was right), carefully apply
makeup, dab light fragrance at her pulse
points and trudge outside in thirty seven
degree weather, leaving the child somewhere
with someone, picking up coffee and bagels
along the way, and not just coffee and
bagels, but Starbucks coffee and Kleigman's
bagels (cinnamon and raisin, her favorite),
all to welcome Monica and congratulate her on
the purchase of her home.

Then again, Scully was probably just dropping
in on her way elsewhere.

"You're staring at me."

"Oh.  Oh!  I'm sorry. I was just admiring
your ability to look so wonderful this early
in the morning."  It was the truth.

Scully quirked an eyebrow at her, but said
nothing.

They left the kitchen.  "I finally have a
place for my books and my desk."  She stopped
in an area she intended to make her study.
"It's with a friend - it's this enormous,
heavy antique; I haven't had room for it
until now."  She wished she had more of her
little treasures unpacked for Scully to see.
If she was going to put down her roots here,
in this soulless town, she needed a haven.
It would feel more like home when she could
share her heart and soul - her tiny stone
sculptures, Navajo rug, iron candlesticks,
pottery, books, photos, the wool tapestry a
blind boy had woven for her - with her
friends.

"Nice," Scully murmured.  She ran her hand
along the brick wall, but was staring at a
huge painting leaning against it.  "That's
something."

"My best friend - Stephanie - did it for me.
The one that has my desk - she has about half
of my life in her house - this was something
I couldn't leave behind.  In New Orleans."
She was babbling idiotically.

Scully eyeballed her.  "Some friend."

"My best friend," she repeated.

"Interesting."  She pointed a manicured nail
toward the top of the canvas, to the women's
faces barely visible in the night sky.  One
looked at the other, who looked down on a
mountain.  "Who are they?"

"'The Peasant and the Princess Witch.' It's a
folk tale about power and greed. Do you know
it?"

She shook her head, giving Monica an
unfathomable look.  "I'm not a person who
knows stories. That was Mulder's department."
She wrapped both hands around her coffee cup.
"I'd love to hear it, though."

It was the only invitation she needed.  "The
peasant's name was Irina."  She touched the
lighter of the two women in the sky, the one
looking on the mountain.  "She was the most
beautiful woman in her village, and the most
loved.  Men came from all over to court her -
she was that beautiful.  Even the prince of
the village loved her.  But she didn't return
his affection, nor that of any of the men who
courted her. All she wanted was to live her
quiet life, care for her younger brothers and
sing for the princess, Svetlana, who was a
respected sorceress."  She pointed to the
darker image on the canvas.

Scully's attention turned from the painting
to her.

"She'd always wanted to perform for the
princess, but Svetlana wouldn't allow the
peasant in her presence because she was
afraid Irina's beauty would eclipse her own.

"Then one day she heard Irina singing, and
she was enchanted by her voice.  She was so
captivated by it that she thought Irina must
have magical powers like her own, and that
she must have cast a spell on her.  So she
had her sing for her every day, in part for
pleasure, and in part to discover whether or
not Irina was a sister witch.

"But it didn't take long for the princess to
become jealous of her.  Every day that Irina
came and sang for her, Svetlana watched her
walk the road to the castle.  The women of
the village always smiled at Irina and called
her name. The men simply stopped and stared
as she walked by.  And children were always
in her presence, flitting around her like
butterflies.  Svetlana became more and more
jealous and obsessed.

"In time, Svetlana's brother announced that
he planned to marry Irina.  The witch locked
herself in her rooms for days, not allowing
anyone to see her, particularly the peasant.
Then one morning she opened her doors.  Irina
sang for her that day, and when she finished
singing, Svetlana canted a hex on her."

Scully raised her eyebrows.

"Its effects were immediate.  The prince
renounced his engagement to Irina and
banished her from the castle, men stopped
staring at her, and even her young brothers
seemed to become disenchanted with her.  Not
quite a full moon after the hexing, Irina
stole one of the royal horses and fled into
the night, sad and outcast.  Svetlana watched
her leave.  Irina's hair blazed like fire,
her cape billowed out behind her like a
ghost; she was heading for the Caucasus
Mountains.  It was an image that seemed to
burn itself into her soul.

"Svetlana thought of the spell she'd cast and
how powerful it had been, and how wonderful a
sorceress she was, and she congratulated
herself.  But she wasn't happy.  Even though
she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful
woman in the village now that Irina was gone,
Svetlana was haunted by the peasant girl.

"It seemed to her that not only was Irina
more beautiful, but she was also the better
sorceress.  Svetlana was so disturbed that,
once again, she locked herself in her rooms
and didn't see anyone.  She didn't eat and
she couldn't sleep.  When she closed her
eyes, she saw Irina's face.  When she tried
to sleep, she heard her voice. Irina was all
she thought about.

"After some time, Svetlana realized her
mistake, but it was too late to recant the
spell. Three moons later, she wrapped herself
in her warmest clothing and mounted her
strongest horse.  And she rode to the
Caucasus Mountains so fast that the villagers
who saw her leave swore she was flying."

(Continued in part 2)