On the couch Mulder stared back at her, uncomprehendingly. Finally he said, "What? What are you talking about?"
"I meet with OPR day after tomorrow for remediation and reassignment."
Mulder looked stricken. "Why?"
Sighing, Scully sank onto the couch. "I think you must have an idea. They cited a his-tory of problems relating back to 1993."
"But they were the ones who put us together—" Mulder protested heatedly.
"Because they wanted me to invalidate your work," Scully interrupted, "your investigations into the paranormal. But I think this goes deeper than that…"
"This isn't about you, Scully." Mulder stared at her intensely, almost pleadingly. "They're doing this to me."
" They're not doing this, Mulder." Scully looked away, avoiding his gaze. "I left behind a career in medicine because I thought I might make a difference at the FBI. When they recruited me, they told me that women made up nine percent of the Bureau. I felt that was not an impediment, but an opportunity to distin-guish myself.
"But it hasn't turned out that way. And now, even if I were to be transferred to Omaha, or Wichita, or some other field office where I'm sure I could rise—it just doesn't hold the inter-est for me it once did.
Not after what I've seen and done."
She fell silent, and stared at her hands. Beside her Mulder sat in disbelief.
"You're… quitting?"
For a moment Scully said nothing. Finally she shrugged. "There's really no reason left for me to stay anymore…"
She turned" then, gazing at Mulder with frank blue eyes. "Maybe you should ask yourself if your heart's still in it, too."
Behind them the door to the hearing room creaked open. Mulder looked up, his expression still stu
"Agent Mulder. You're up."
Scully looked at him sadly. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "Good luck."
He turned to her, waiting to see if there would be more, giving her the chance to change her mind, to offer a better explanation, any-thing. But Scully said nothing else. At last Mulder stood, his stu
Only after the door shut behind him did she let her resolve fade, and gave voice to a sigh that was almost like a sob.
CHAPTER 4
CASEY'S BAR
SOUTHEAST WASHINGTON, D.C.
Casey's never got much of a crowd on a week-night. A few regulars, government employ-ees who wandered over from the Mall to knock back a few before catching the last Metro back to Falls Church or Silver Spring or Bethesda. Mulder had been here since late afternoon, and the bartender was wondering if he was ever going to leave.
"I'd say this just about exceeds your mini-mum daily requirement," she said, pouring a jolt of tequila into a shot glass in front of him. She smiled, brushing back a strand of faded blonde hair, and replaced the bottle.
In front of her, Fox Mulder sat by himself on a stool. He stared at the sticky rings on the bar's dark wood surface, the dull light gilding the edges of four empty shot glasses. When the bartender placed the full glass in front of him he spun it thoughtfully, licking his finger where a drop of tequila had spilled, before tossing back the shot. When he put it back down, he drunkenly knocked over the other glasses.
"Gotta train for this kind of heavy lifting," she went on, eyeing him with some concern— this guy definitely did not seem like he'd been practicing much before tonight.
Mulder tilted his head as though consider-ing her advice, then motioned for another shot. She retrieved the empty glasses, intrigued by his brooding silence.