Night Ride Across the Caucasus by Politic X Part 3 See part 0 for header information. If Scully hadn't been at Monica's place this morning, if Doggett's gun hadn't been used to shoot her, and if there were no witnesses, she'd have to believe that Scully was remembering things wrong. Brain damage was a definite possibility. Then again, what of her own memory? It was wrong, too, even if the bag of bagels and Styrofoam cups of coffee that Scully had brought her still sat on her kitchen counter. In fact, there seemed to be several different stories going on: Monica believed that Scully had visited her during the time of the shooting. Scully said she and Doggett were on a stakeout and that the guy they were casing, Erwin Lukesh, shot her. Erwin Lukesh said he witnessed the shooting, and that Doggett was the one who'd shot Scully. Doggett said he was in Louisiana while all of this was happening. Skinner said he didn't know what the hell happened, but they - meaning Doggett and Reyes - had better find out. Monica worked the facts in her mind while pacing her floors, unpacking, and cleaning. She watched midnight turn to three a.m., three turn to six, and six turn to nine. Her partner called with news. Because Scully had been on target with Lukesh's criminal background, they'd brought him in again. While Doggett was questioning Lukesh, he'd blurted out something about Doggett harassing him days before the shooting took place. This was a crumb Doggett was pursuing. He and Skinner were going to work on Lukesh more, on the assumption that it may have been Lukesh who'd shot Scully with a gun that - for some reason - seemed to be Doggett's, but wasn't. When nine turned to twelve, she returned to the hospital. Everyone was there - Dana's mother, Doggett, Skinner, Follmer. They were running questions by the patient and reading her responses as she spelled them out on a computer-type device. It was a painstaking process of communication; Scully formed words by picking letters with a joystick. Monica hung in back of the room, hearing them out, wanting to see what their ideas were, wanting to know where they were with Lukesh. Scully caught and held her gaze. Was she as angry at her as she seemed? Scully could be a bit hard to know. Not the cold fish that people said she was, but not exactly receptive to strangers, either. And despite all that they'd been through together, Monica felt they were still strangers. She sensed there was a lot more to Dana Scully than she knew, a lot that couldn't fit into the confines of an eight-hour workday. She wished it was different. She wished she knew why Scully chose the FBI as a career, why she was a loner, why she wore three-inch heels to work. She wondered what Scully was like when she read to William. What she was like in love. She had the idea that Scully loved very few people, but loved each of them passionately. Monica had loved someone once in that way. She knew the heat of desire, the consuming need, the blaze of jealousy. The memory of it still scorched her. So, she squirmed under her scrutiny for forty- five minutes, wondering if Scully was angry with her or if she was trying to send her some kind of telepathic message. Everyone began trickling out. Margaret Scully was the last to leave, and suggested that Monica accompany her. "Dana needs to rest," she said softly. She couldn't be anything but compliant to the wishes of someone so concerned and loving. Monica felt Margaret's energy, soothing but weary, and wondered at the woman's resilience. Life had dealt her a number of blows, it seemed, losing her other daughter and her husband, not to mention dealing with Dana's constant perils, but she was still kind, and strong enough not to cry in front of Dana. Her hand was on the door handle when Mrs. Scully's voice stopped her. "She wants you, dear." It didn't surprise her; she felt Scully's eyes burning her back. Mrs. Scully left, promising to return soon, and Monica walked to the bed slowly, as if in a dream. "Dana," she said, and forced herself to look cheerful. Scully's fingers moved the control. She didn't watch because she was afraid to make Scully more self-conscious than she was. She didn't look up, in fact, until she heard the tap-tap-tapping of Scully's finger, signaling her attention. The screen held three words. 'Talk to me.' She wet her lips. It was the way Scully stared at her that had her flustered. "I..." She was hit with a wave of emotion and a tear dropped from her eye. Sleep deprivation did it to her every time. Why the hell did it happen? Why Scully? "Baby." Stephanie's pet name for everyone, but it was Scully's voice she heard. She looked up, startled, and saw that Scully was staring a hole through her. She'd not spoken, of course. 'Don't cry.' "Look - look at you." Her voice broke. "This shouldn't have happened. Not to anyone. Not to you." 'Be strong. Help me figure it out. Don't want them to think brain damage.' It took her almost two minutes to spell it out. Monica watched the screen this time, relief washing over her. Scully had been staring at her not in accusation, but because she needed her help. "They don't think that at all." 'I know Doggett was cut. He bled.' "Okay, let's start there. Doggett wasn't with you, Scully. He told you himself that he was in Louisiana." 'Lying.' "No, he's not. What reason would he have to lie to you? He's just as confused as you are. You said his throat was slashed. You saw him, Scully, he wasn't hurt. He wasn't with you." She wondered if Scully even remembered that she was no longer on the X files. "He wouldn't have been with you anyway, even if there was a case you had to investigate on a Saturday; you're not his partner, I am." 'Yes. Your case.' She shook her head, puzzled. 'You were sick yesterday. Bronchitis.' "I don't know what you're talking about." Scully blinked. 'I'm not upset. Not your fault.' She frowned. "What do you mean?" Scully stared at her. 'You were sick. Couldn't help it.' "I don't understand. I haven't been sick. Believe me, if I had bronchitis, I'd know it. I get it every year." She smiled. "The last time I had it, I croaked like a frog for two weeks." Scully's hand fell from the joystick. "Tell me what you mean - I 'couldn't help it'." Scully remained motionless, staring at her. "Tell me." She looked at her a long moment before slowly moving the joystick again. 'Where did you wake up yesterday?' "At home." She moved the joystick shakily. 'Where?' "128 Idlewood, Dupont, a studio apartment. You've been there." She spoke slowly, trying to explain. "You teased me when you saw it; you said it was about the size of your refrigerator." Panic gripped Scully's face. She tried moving the cursor, but she couldn't grasp the joystick. Her hand was shaking in a sudden spasm. Monica touched her. "Dana, it's okay, calm down." The trembling was violent. "Dana. Look at me, it's okay. Whatever's going on, we'll figure out." It took Scully a couple of minutes to relax. 'Going insane.' Scully was so literal. If she said she was going insane, it was surely how she felt. "Tell me why you feel that way, please. Let me help you if I can." While Scully worked the joystick - painstaking as always - Monica leaned on the bed, half sitting. She was exhausted. It was only a matter of time before she crashed. 'Yesterday a.m. you were sick. Bronchitis, fever. Fact.' She shook her head. "I've been moving the past few days, remember? I bought a loft. Yesterday morning I was up at the crack of dawn, giving the apartment the final walk through, making sure I'd moved everything out." She rubbed her neck, memories of her night on the floor making her ache. Her back, in particular, was hurting. "I had a few boxes left. I took everything with me to the loft, and you dropped in around 10. You brought me bagels." She smiled. Scully was white. Frightened. Her eyes scanned Monica's face and then she stared at her deeply, as if she was trying to see through her. "What is it, Dana? Take your time, tell me." She rubbed her leg. It wasn't something that Scully could feel, but she could see her doing it, at least. Maybe that would be of some comfort. 'You moved to the loft in June.' "No." This was really beginning to worry her. Scully's memory was off. Way off. "You were there with me yesterday." Of course, Monica's memory was off, too, because Scully obviously wasn't at her loft the day before. "You brought me coffee and bagels and looked at the place. I told you the story of Steph's painting. But then Brad called and said you were shot, and I turned around and you were gone." 'Laos.' "Yes, Stephanie Laos, my best friend." She was surprised that Scully could remember Stephanie's name from the painting, but could not remember being at her apartment. '67 Bennett Ave.' "Yes." 'Bass Lofts 6.' "Yeah, number 6." 'I was there.' "Yes." She felt some relief. 'You were in bed. Fever.' Monica read the screen and shook her head wordlessly, but Scully's attention was on the monitor, and she continued pushing the joystick. 'You took Nyquil, still kept me up all night.' She kept Scully up all night? What was she referring to? She clutched her arms to her chest, shivering. There was no way around it - Scully's memory was affected. She ground her teeth together to keep them from chattering. Something was wrong with both of their memories. Something was terribly wrong. "Kept you up? We weren't together Friday night, Scully." She didn't want to hurt her, but she had to. She took a deep, cleansing breath. It didn't help. "I'm sorry," she said as gently as possible. "I don't want to call it brain damage, because I think it's something else. Whatever it is, it's impaired your memory." Tears shone in Scully's eyes, but she blinked them away. Her hand moved the joystick very slowly. 'Your memory impaired. You don't remember.' She glanced at the screen. "What?" 'Us.' Goosebumps traveled up her spine. "Who?" 'You, me. Us.' Time played out in slow motion. She counted it in heartbeats. "What do you mean, 'us'?" Scully's hand clenched in another spasm. 'Nothing.' "It's obviously something." She cleared her throat. "What are you telling me, Scully? You said I kept you up Friday night. You said I was sick." The investigator in her made her ask. It was best not to infer things, although the possessive way in which Scully was looking at her left little room for doubt. "Why were we together?" Scully simply stared at her. "I was home," she murmured. "And you were with me, that's what you said. What are you leaving out?" She probed gently. "What's the rest of the story?" The look on Scully's face became angry. Her fingers were on the base of the joystick, and she pushed it hard, as if she was trying to knock it off the bed. It didn't move, and this seemed to anger her more. 'GO.' "No. Tell me what's going on." She placed her hand over Scully's and felt it jerk beneath her. She'd hit a nerve, had made Scully mad, and Monica's stomach suddenly hurt. 'Not a story.' "I didn't mean it like that." She squeezed Scully's hand. "You know I didn't. Your memory and mine are different. I need to know yours. I need to figure out what's going on, because my recollection is off, too. You were with me at the same time that you were shot and I know you weren't a vision." Her gaze was steely, but Monica suspected that Scully was merely fighting tears. She was frightened more than angry, it seemed. 'I.' She stopped the joystick, appearing to consider her next words. Monica waited silently. 'I remember love.' Scully lifted her forefinger and pointed at her. She was so touched by this that she was rendered speechless. She held her breath, wanting to preserve the moment, every detail, so that she could summon it later. She knew she would ponder it again and again, for a long time to come. But she had to say something, and Scully would prefer her to be direct. She swallowed. "You don't...you don't think we're lovers?" (Continued in part 4)