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

Chapter Nine: Don Giovanni

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

6:35 PM

Mulder's cellphone rang just as he and Scully were heading
out of the library. He answered it before the librarians could
chase him out with shooshes and wagging fingers. It was
Dillmont, sounding characteristically impatient.

"How soon can you get over to the opera house?"

"The opera house? Is something wrong?"

"No. Prince Charming asked me to call you, to tell you he's
attending the opera tonight. Deal is, it starts at 7PM sharp--
no late seating. I already had to stomach one concert today;
no way am I hanging out for four hours of screeching fat
women in armored brassieres."

Mulder smiled a little. So he was to be treated to the opera
tonight. He figured he might as well get in one last cultural
indulgence before ending this whole affair. "I'll be right
over." Mulder returned the phone to his pocket and joined
Scully outside on the long stone steps. "Scully, can I ask you
to take a cab back to the hotel? I have to meet Joshua at the
opera house in fifteen minutes."

Scully looked at him, intrigued. "The opera? I'm envious,
Mulder. That man is spoiling you."

Mulder shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, well, these are his
'social hours' as he calls them."

"Whenever you get tired of being social, remember I'll be
happy to switch shifts with you," she said with a parting
smile, and stepped down to the curb to hail a cab.

"I might have to take you up on that," he mumbled to
himself, heading off toward the garage.

###

War Memorial Opera House
6:57 PM

Dillmont was practically hopping up and down at the side of
the curb as Mulder handed his keys off to the valet along
with a meager tip.

"Jeeze, it's about time you got here," he said, rushing up to
Mulder with a ticket.

"Where's Joshua?"

"He's already gone in--he's got a real hottie with him tonight.
You get to stand in the back. Sorry, I didn't mention that--but
hey, this is your case."

Mulder glanced at his ticket in confusion. It had *standing
room only* printed across it. "He has a *what* with him
tonight?" Mulder asked, as Dillmont started pushing him in
the direction of the red carpeted entry.

"Some girl--I don't know. Now we have to chaperone his
dates. Guess you'll be sitting out in the car half the night.
Well, have fun!"

Mulder stood there and blinked stupidly, watching Dillmont
run off across the street toward the Civic Park Garage.

"Sir, if you'll hurry this way, we're about to close the
doors..."

Mulder flicked the ticket with his thumb and headed into the
War Memorial Opera House, alone.

###

The orchestra had begun the Overture by the time an usher
with a flashlight led Mulder to the standing area behind the
dress circle seating. It was an open pen of art-inclined
humanity, too poor or too late to get seats. Mulder jockeyed
for position between the waist-high leaning rails and peered
into the gloom in sparse hope of locating the elusive
musician among the seated hundreds.

The long velvet curtains opened and the arias got underway,
echoing in Italian vibrato throughout the old 1930s gray
stone structure. Mulder cursed his nearsightedness, until he
finally spotted Joshua sitting not too far away in a private
box--overhead and to the right. Dillmont was right; he was
with a hottie--a hottie who seemed to have formed a
permanent attachment to Joshua's right arm. What the hell
was this all about?

Mulder tapped a young woman standing next to him on the
shoulder. She looked up at him. "Can I borrow your
binoculars?" he whispered. She gave him a big smile and
removed the strap from around her neck, handing them
over. Mulder thanked her and peered through the eyepieces,
adjusting the focus until he could clearly see the hand-
painted Greek gods and goddesses captured mid-flight in a
mural across the ceiling and far wall. He then lifted his view
to the private box.

Joshua was seated in a comfortable red velvet chair, dressed
in what Mulder had come to recognize as his casual evening
wear--a collarless rough silk beige shirt and light coat. His
"date" was wearing a plain slip of a dress in pink with white
flowers along the sleeveless neckline. She looked very young,
only twenty or so. Mulder had no clue who she was, but one
thing he was sure of; she didn't come here tonight to watch
the opera. Her eyes kept flitting to the man next to her as he
sat gazing forward at the stage.

"It's almost more fun to watch the audience, isn't it?" a voice
whispered in his ear. Mulder lowered the binoculars,
remembering his make-shift spy equipment came with an
owner. He handed them back with a thanks, and tried to find
a comfortable standing position. He settled for leaning
against the near wall. He couldn't see the stage very well, but
if he turned his head, he could keep a wary eye on Joshua.

###

8:45 PM

An hour and 45 minutes later, the tenors showed no signs of
slowing down and Mulder's lower back was beginning a
throbbing cadence of its own. He shifted from one leg to the
other, hoping he'd eventually find a bearable position. He
had no idea how he was going to manage another two hours
like this without a packet of Tylenol.

Above, young Zeus and his consort gave the minions standing
in the shadows no notice. So this was what it was like to be
on the outside, Mulder thought with a gust of depression.
Well, it served him right. This was what he wanted, after all--
professional detachment. It's what he had insisted on in his
life ever since Diana's desertion--permanent removal from
the inconvenience of being convenienced. He'd set ground
rules early with Scully and over the years, those hands-off
conditions had left him in a endless state of limbo. As much
as he wished he could make changes, there was no easy way
to deploy them. Being with Joshua this past week had revived
him and made him yearn for feelings of affection and
intimacy with other human beings. Looking up with dread at
the box high above, his worst fears were confirmed as he
found the young woman's fingers laced in Joshua's as the
strings bowed the duplicity of Mozart's minor-toned laughter
in a pit somewhere below the stage.

Meanwhile, upon the stage, a young crass lover, Don
Giovanni, in long robes and too much rouge, made quick
work of deflowering the maidens of a small village. He threw
charm and passion on every hapless female who crossed his
path, leaving each simpering conquest cast away in his wake.
Love could be so easy for some men. Why was his situation
so...complicated? What was stopping him from allowing
himself those same indulgences? There had been a time in his
life, many years ago, when he'd rarely slept alone. It seemed
like another life, another person than the man left standing
alone in a crowd in the back of an opera house. At least he
could still rely on the companionship his career afforded
him. Scully's dedication to their partnership meant more to
him than he could have imagined right now, because whether
he could bring himself to name it or not, Mulder was feeling
Joshua's rejection like a cold spade digging a fresh hole in his
chest.

###

"Thank you, God," Mulder sighed, giving into a painful
stretch as the curtains closed on intermission. He followed
the rest of the flock out of the corral and slowly navigated
through the clump of people exiting the seated aisles.
Together, the murmuring mass milled into the main lobby
where drinks were being served at a long bar.

Peering through the crowd, Mulder found them standing
together near the bar, each with an ice filled glass in hand.
Joshua's fingers curved under the belly of a cognac glass,
swirling it absently while the young lady with her pearls and
white neck laughed like a bell and raised the chilled wine to
her red-painted lips. He watched her reach out with a slender
arm to brush Joshua's coat collar with the long tips of her
nails.

Mulder clasped his hands behind him and walked the back of
the room, working the stiffness out of his legs. He was
pretending not to watch her perfect white teeth catch the
candlelight as she smiled up at those sinfully deep eyes and
said any manner of unimportant things. Was she having an
effect on him? he wondered. Did Joshua even have a sexual
orientation, or did he reinvent himself as he went along?

Joshua had lovers before him, and there would be others to
follow him--just as there were others in his own lonely life
whose significance no one could touch, least of all this man.
It was more than insulting to find an affair ended before
you've had the chance to turn your lover down. No matter--
sooner or later Joshua would retire for the night, the girl
would leave, and Mulder would come in the front door and
say his piece and take his stolid detached post at the couch.

A waiter was at Mulder's elbow, holding up a clear soda with
a napkin stuck to its damp base. He took it, confused. "From
Monsieur Segulyev." Mulder gave the man a quarter and
looking through the ice and liquid he could see a dark stain
leaching through the delicate white paper. He peeled it away
and unfolded it at the concentric ring.

"It's not what you think. -J"

Mulder raised his eyes. Joshua was regarding him--for a
moment of brief understanding--then he turned away and
back to the lady at his side, who hadn't noticed she was no
longer the center of his attention.

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

10:15 PM
 

The statue was coming to dinner. Don Giovanni had insulted
the dead commander's brass image--and he had risen from
his grave to embody the effigy, seeking revenge on the
brazen young man who had flaunted his talent for deceit and
heartless seduction in the faces of an entire village.

The theatrical table was set and a resounding knock
thundered against the tall door. The statue was admitted by
the sniveling servant who soon fell to his knees. The voice
from the grave called out to Don Giovanni, reaching out to
him...leading him to his judgment.

"Joshua..."

Joshua dropped the hand of the maiden who had been
holding fast to him all evening to turn around. In the
shadows of the thick purple curtains at the back of the
private box, he saw the Thin Man--gaunt and disheveled. With
a cracked and bleeding smile, its bony hand reached out to
him through the pleats. The horrifying pulse of the final act
of Mozart's darkest opera rose as Joshua got to his feet to
face him. The arm of bone slipped back through the slit and
vanished.

"Joshua...?" The lady was touching his coat. "What is it?"

He shook his head. He couldn't have seen what he just saw,
but the curtain was still rocking from the intrusion. He
touched her shoulder. "I'll only be a moment."

He paused at the curtain before yanking it aside to reveal the
darkness of the sloping carpeted hall, dimly lit by flickering
simulated brass lamps. At the far end, the sidewing door was
slowly easing shut.

Joshua felt his pulse rising as he jogged to the end of the hall
and caught the door that led into a long stone hallway--
backstage. He entered and his own footfalls echoed in the
cold hall as he walked past empty dressing rooms and racks
of flowing bedazzled costumes. On the floor were half-
opened boxes of hats and shoes and powdered wigs. Ahead,
he saw a coat rack tip over, casting woolen vestments across
the floor. Joshua stepped over them and turned about, trying
to catch sight of the phantom hand that had pulled it over.

"Hello...?" he called out, but no one was there to answer him.
He moved ahead through a stone arch into a tall, wide room,
cold and dark--filled with chairs, tables and props, covered
in sheets and bound with cords, stacked one upon the other,
smelling of dust and damp mold.

"Joshua..." it whispered to him. In the back, beyond a
standing forest of fifty-foot-tall rolled backdrops, he saw a
door opening and heard the sound of the street beyond,
blowing a fog choked wind into the dark room.

"Who are you?" Joshua called out, shivering as his steps led
him forward past a row of half-dressed mannequins caught in
odd poses, staring blankly into space. He couldn't tell where
the voice was coming from. It was as if it was calling from
inside his own head--but it was a voice he didn't know. The
opened door blew and thudded against the jamb, bouncing
back open a crack. Joshua walked into the canvas forest, that
stank of cracked oil paint and turpentine, and found a way to
push through, careful not to knock one of the three-hundred
pound trunks over on himself. It was tight and dark within
the grove, but he could see the thin line of the door blinking
ahead, leading him steadily until a hand reached at him from
within the solid columns and he screamed, ripping his arm
free of the fingers.

In the opera house proper, Don Giovanni raised his voice in
one last bellow of defiance as black and twisted hands
reached up from the stage trapdoors, belching smoke,
dragging him down into hell.

Joshua stumbled his way through the forest of forgotten
scenes and leapt out the door into the alley. The lights of a
car were on him and the brakes screeched as the wheels
skidded toward him.

###

10:16 PM

From his lower berth, Mulder saw Joshua rise from his seat
and touch the shoulder of the woman seated next to him,
then move toward the rear of the box, out of view.
Something was going on. It wasn't like a musician to wander
off during an opera's climatic scenes. Mulder excused
himself from the pack of viewers and slipped out through the
back curtains and into the hall. He turned to his left to rush
up the curved passage to the private boxes. An usher stopped
him at the top of the rise and Mulder pulled his badge,
explaining that he was following a suspect.

Once cleared, Mulder made his way up the steep hallway,
circling the edge of the opera house until he came to the row
of box alcoves. The hall was empty; there was no way he
could have missed Joshua leaving. He counted the number of
openings until he found the right box and with a finger,
pulled the curtain open an inch and peered in. The lady was
seated alone in silhouette.

Looking up the hall to his right, he saw a backstage door,
resting slightly ajar. He hurried over to it and slipped into the
bowels of the structure, calling Joshua's name.

There were footstep ahead and Mulder heard the clatter of
something falling and Joshua's voice calling out to someone.

"Joshua?"

There was no reply, and soon Mulder found himself standing
before a dark archway which led into a large scene storage
room. The lighting was very dim, but he could just spot a
form slipping into the canvases piled up at the far end. He
ran forward and followed him in, calling out to him. Joshua
failed to respond and slid into darkness, screaming when
Mulder made a reach for his arm. A moment later the
violinist was rushing out the back door, oblivious of the car
speeding up the narrow alley. Mulder made a leap for him,
knocking both of them across the brick passage to safety as
the car swerved at the last minute, plummeting into a wall
with a deafening bang of buckling metal and shattered glass.

###

10:30 PM
 

"... Joshua's okay--I've got him back inside. Meet me in back
of the opera house as soon as possible."

Mulder ended the call to his partner as he pushed the
dressing room door open, letting Joshua in ahead of him. The
violinist reached for the nearest bench and eased himself
down on it, brushing the dirt and powdered glass from his
left pant leg.

"Are you all right?" Mulder asked, pocketing his phone. "You
nearly scared the shit out of me."

Joshua looked down at his left side, wincing. "I'm okay, but I
think the fall may have torn my stitches." He was beginning
to pull his shirt loose from his pants. "Can you see...?"

Mulder kneeled on the thin carpeting and helped Joshua pull
back the bandage. The wound was torn a little on one side.
"You're bleeding. We'll have to get you back into the ER
tonight."

"No!" Joshua said vehemently.

Mulder looked up at him, holding the bandage back against
the man's side, feeling Joshua's agitation in the heart rhythm
under his fingers. In truth, his own heart had yet to approach
a normal tempo. The valet was dead, crushed behind the
steering wheel. Mulder knew his call for an ambulance had
been a futile gesture.

"If I go back to the hospital, they'll pick up the story for sure.
A man was killed. You saw him...the blood. I want no part in
this."

Mulder tightened his lips. "If you neglect this wound, I'll have
no choice but to haul you in. What the hell were you doing,
running out like that?"

Joshua looked pensive. "I was following someone."

Mulder wasn't in the mood to play guessing games. "Who,
Joshua?"

Joshua regarded him obstinately for a few seconds, then he
relaxed, giving in. "I saw the Thin Man again."

"Here? In the opera?"

"Yes. I don't have the slightest idea how he could have gotten
in."

Mulder kept his hold tight on the man's side. "I do."

Joshua gave him a look of irritated disbelief.

"Dammit, Joshua. This...thing means business. You're going
to get yourself killed if you don't start trusting your own
eyes."

Joshua began to shake his head, "I don't think..."

"Did anyone else see this man? Did that woman see him?"
Mulder couldn't help but let a little venom into his voice at
the mention of her. It was easy to see Joshua picked right up
on that. Well, at least he was selectively observant--his whole
expression was changing to one that made Mulder's stomach
drop.

"No, she didn't see him..." Joshua said absently, as if he
didn't care to waste another word on her. He reached his
hand out to touch Mulder's chin. The agent flinched away.

"God, she really upset you. Mulder, I was doing a favor; she's
the Symphony Chairman's daughter." Mulder let his hand fall
from Joshua's side and he looked away, resting his arm on
his own knee, feeling heat rising to his neck. "I'm sorry.
There was no time for me to call you. Dillmont didn't exactly
get the hint and I sure as hell wasn't about to explain it to
him..."

"That's enough, Joshua. It's over; it was a mistake."

Joshua leaned over closer to him despite the pain it caused
him. "I don't believe that for a second."

Mulder didn't respond, just kept his eyes on the end of the
bench.

"Don't sit there and tell me you haven't been thinking about
me all day like I've been thinking of you, of how much I
wanted you last night and how much more I need you
tonight."

Mulder felt like he couldn't catch his breath, but refused
himself the luxury of air as his eyes closed and he feigned
resistance.

"Look at me and tell me you're going to put an end right now
to something that's just beginning."

Mulder turned to face him before he opened his eyes *...tell
me you haven't been thinking about me all day...* He
couldn't tell him that; it would be a lie. He opened his eyes
and met his adversary head-on.

Mulder couldn't tell who moved first, but somehow they met
halfway with mouths eager to finish off this argument with a
kiss. It wasn't gentle or subtle, and in Mulder's mind it quite
simply blew off the last of his pretenses and false
assumptions about the irrevocable attraction he felt for this
man. Their kiss was deep and powerful. He felt Joshua slip
off the bench toward him so his arms could grip him and
Mulder felt the violinist's hands reach up and dive into his
hair. The warmth of Joshua's mouth and tongue moving
against his own was devastating, wreaking far more damage
than any of the pleasures they had explored the previous
night.

Mulder was ruined. This first taste, this first introduction to
the inside of the man was making his mind bend with desire.
He wanted in, as far as he could reach--as deep as he could
fall, slip or move.

There were footsteps in the hall and the two men broke
apart, coming quickly to their feet as War Memorial Security
officers kicked the door open.
 

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

12:15 AM
SUNDAY

"Why should I be surprised to find you here?"

Mulder didn't need to turn around to know that was Lt. Jarvis
about to come chew his ass from where it was poking out of
the passenger's side of the crushed '98 white BMW now
sporting a brick and leather dashboard. The victim had been
removed with the help of a hydraulic arm and a couple of
body bags. What was left of the valet remained smeared in
bloody splatters across the crumpled windshield.

Mulder reached for the claim stubs that had spilled from the
victim's pocket onto the floor with a latex-covered hand,
before easing himself back out of the stomach-churning
mess. Jarvis was at his hip, chewing the front of his
mustache.

"Mind telling me why you got your paws all over this car
before my men arrived?"

Mulder wasn't in the mood to play 'territorial cop' as he fit
the stubs into an evidence bag. "I was almost turned into
hamburger by this vehicle when I chased a suspect through
the backstage door into the alley."

"Which suspect?" Jarvis asked, doubtful.

"The unidentified thin man."

Jarvis' eyes grew suspiciously wider. "You saw the fella?"

Mulder nodded faintly and scanned the bystanders lit by
flashing police lights to make sure Joshua hadn't wandered
off again. He saw him lingering in the back, far from the
yellow tape, trying to remain inconspicuous. Mulder had
offered the musician his long trench to keep warm in the
chilled late evening and to help hide him from the media that
was beginning to file in by ones and twos. So far this incident
was announcing itself over the scanner as a solo head-on, not
an attempted murder. Mulder hoped it stayed that way for
Joshua's sake, but if he didn't get him out of here quick
someone was bound to recognize the violinist and start
telling stories.

"I followed the suspect through the opera house into this
alley just as the car struck the wall," Mulder explained to
Jarvis. "The valet may have swerved out of control in an
effort to miss him."

"That's a nice theory, son; but from the tire marks, I'd say
the driver was aiming for the stage door, not away from it."

Mulder pretended to find this news enlightening, never mind
the fact he'd observed that very thing from the start--before
shouting at a nearby parking attendant to call security and
rushing a stunned and shaken Joshua back inside to make
sure he was safe and uninjured.

Since the crash, Mulder had insisted Joshua keep close to
him until Scully arrived--but he had slipped off to locate his
date and get her to her car before "the Chairman gets wind of
this." It was the least the musician could do to stay put,
Mulder thought, considering he'd elected to lie to the SFPD to
cover him. Scully knew the real story, however, and Mulder
wondered what was taking her so long to get to the scene.

Just as he thought it, Mulder saw his partner exiting a cab at
the curbside. Her hair was a little damp at the edges--there
wasn't likely to be much sleep for either of them tonight.

"My God, Mulder. What the hell happened here?"

"The fat lady was singing," Mulder grimly replied, leading her
to the passenger's side so she could take a look. Jarvis had
eased back and was talking with his men, hopefully placated
for a while. In a low voice, Mulder related the true details of
the crash and Joshua's narrow escape to her.

She leaned in to inspect the damage. "Where's the victim?"

"Scooped out and deposited in the morgue's freezer. I'd like
you to autopsy what's left of the body, and determine if the
valet had any brain or blood abnormalities like we've seen in
Harris and Schmidt."

"Do you think the valet was deliberately aiming for Joshua?"
Mulder held up the bag of claim tickets, spreading them out
through the plastic. Written on the backs of them in felt-tip
were hauntingly familiar phrases and on one, a line of
Cyrillic.

"Joshua would appreciate it if we kept this aspect of the case
under Federal jurisdiction," he said quietly and she
understood. Stealing a glance at Jarvis, she slipped the bag
into a deep coat pocket.

"I've gotta get out of here," Mulder said, beginning to move
away from the mangled car.

"Where are you going?" she called after him.

"I need to take somebody home."
 

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

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

Chapter Ten: The Sound of Silence

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

12:40 AM

The backseat of the yellow cab lacked a certain level of taste
and privacy the two men had come to appreciate recently
while traveling by car together. They weren't really free to
communicate openly as the cabbie drove them carelessly
toward the Marina. All Mulder could do was look.

Joshua appeared less shaken, but still agitated by the
evening's events. The musician kept fiddling with the clip on
the seatbelt neither of them wore, watching the road spin by.
Mulder was surprised to feel a strange sense of calm, of
resignation, and ultimately, a rising undercurrent of desire.
He couldn't shake the recent arresting memory of pressing
his face to Joshua's, hunting for his tongue. At the opera
they'd kissed like secret lovers caught backstage at a dance
before the chaperones forced them apart. He was somewhat
glad for that intrusion. There was no predicting when they
would have pulled away from each other. A strange romance
was this, but one Mulder seemed powerless to stop. Soon
they'd be at Joshua's apartment and Mulder could only guess
at what was going to happen next. He just hoped they
survived it.

Joshua's dark eyes were regarding him with apology and
apprehension. Joshua knew he'd upset him, and was now
plainly showing concern. Why wasn't he more concerned for
his own life? His sanity? It wasn't every day a man in Joshua's
line of work found himself face to face with death. For
Mulder, however, it was just another day at the office.
Mulder knew how to handle danger; it was seduction that
remained a mystery to him--he'd have to trust Joshua in that.
He had no idea what to expect now--all he knew was that he
needed to feel the warm welcome of the man's mouth again,
and soon.

###

Mulder paid the cab driver and the two men walked briskly
up the entry to Joshua's flat. Joshua was fumbling for his
keys under Mulder's coat, which he still wore over his
shoulders. As much as he had wanted Mulder to come back
to him tonight, he was nearly frightened by the quiet
intensity he sensed coming from the agent who stood close
to him, the soft green in his eyes growing sharper by the
minute. It had been years since he'd been with a man. He
wasn't going to get the door opened fast enough.

The agent uttered an expletive and Joshua was taken by the
shoulders and pressed back against the wall as the man's
mouth descended on his, pressing a hungry tongue past his
own, slipping deep into him. Joshua felt himself harden in an
instant as his head thudded against the white stucco wall and
he gave up the search for his keys to the taste and feel of
Mulder's warm tongue working its way around his lips and
teeth.

Mulder was kissing him openly and passionately, with the
urgency of a starving man. His mouth hard on his, Joshua
could smell his sweat and cologne as his evening brush of
stubble grazed his lips and chin. Mulder's hand was holding
his head up to the wall for leverage as he sucked at his
mouth with a less-than-tender force. Joshua noted it hadn't
taken Mulder long to realize he was kissing a man and could
come at him with a man's drive for physical pleasure.
Mulder's long fingers were rifling through his short hair,
adjusting Joshua to fit his mouth as he bore down on him
from varying angles and pressures. Joshua found he had no
clear memory of the last time he'd been kissed half this
intensely. Mulder's tongue was exciting some long-forgotten
pleasure center in his head. He wanted to drop, fall to the
ground and be taken into the agent's rough custody. Mulder
was taller and heavier than him and Joshua ached to submit
to him--to lie down on his belly and be taken over without
mercy.

Their mouths still moving together greedily, Joshua felt
Mulder flip the coat lapel open and reach into his front
pocket for the elusive keys. The agent's knuckles brushed the
side of his cock where it lay prominent against the pleated
fly. Joshua choked down the whimper he felt rising in his
throat--he needed to be stronger than that. He reached up to
grip and pull on Mulder's neck and shoulder. He needed to
fight him to regain himself before he shocked them both with
his capacity for physical possession.

Mulder looped his finger through the keychain and extracted
it. His other hand held a fist-full of Joshua's hair as he pulled
him back from his mouth. "I need to fuck you tonight," he
said lowly between thick kisses, his eyes dark and wild.
"Anywhere. Any way. Show me. I need to know."

Joshua found he had to look away from what he saw
reflected in that beautiful face to keep himself in a
manageable state of emotion. He closed his eyes and
conjured a slow smile. "I'll show you everything."
 

###

Sooner or later a man in deep arousal will find the instinctive
urge to thrust just takes over. Mulder meant it when he said
he needed to fuck. The mechanics were foreign to him,
however, and he needed some guidance--but tonight his body
was far too impatient to wait politely for the official tour into
this chapter of male sexuality.

Joshua was under him in the bed, as naked as he. They were
sliding over one another, slick with sweat and slippery where
their cocks met hard and hot, a tense friction building
between them as they rolled over the sheets, knocking
pillows to the floor. Mulder was too far gone with arousal to
stop the hand that kept insinuating itself between them,
squeezing the head of his cock almost painfully as he fought
to keep the man still under him, his mouth busily devouring
his own, muffling their harsh, unguarded sounds.

If it had been a struggle with the keys outside, inside it was a
battle of the removal of clothes. Men were too overdressed--
there were coats, and buttons and other needless things that
tied and clipped and fastened. Women needed a gentle
undressing, a seduction. For men in this mindset, seduction
was entirely unnecessary--foreplay, a joke.

Joshua's pants were barely to his knees when he'd dropped
to the floor and made for Mulder's belt, pulling it aside with
a grunt of quiet fury. Mulder's mouth was still numb from
the bruising kisses Joshua and he shared, both outside and
while stumbling through the door, when he found those
perfect smooth lips around his hard and aching cock. Joshua
loved to give pleasure; that was not only obvious in the way
he was expertly stroking and licking his length, moaning, but
also in how he played the violin. He gave himself over to each
task fully, without restraint. It was easy to fall prey to it and
just let the virtuoso have his way with his body, or his mind,
through music or touch. But what Mulder really wanted
tonight was to take pleasure rather than receive it, which was
why he dragged Joshua to his feet and pushed him back onto
the bed, pulling his shirt up over his head with two frugal
moves of the arms and fists, parting the sheets for them to
fall into together.

Joshua's tongue and teeth were taking long hungry tastes of
his neck and shoulder while his practiced hands struggled
between them, wet with saliva to find the organ thrusting
against his pelvis and groin. "Come for me, come for me..."
he kept saying, but Mulder was too busy trying to bury
himself in a curve of thigh or a patch of slick soft belly as his
arms reached under the man's shoulder and waist, trying to
bring him closer--to thrust against him harder. Close as a
kiss, Joshua's fist found him tightly and the urge to climax
struck Mulder like an iron brand. There, it was right there
and he raised himself, rearing to throw his ass into it--so the
warm slippery fist could grip and pull and squeeze and he
could close his eyes and thrust and feel it rising in him and
peak, surging into climax. He groaned and came over the
smooth pale chest of the man who moments ago was
whispering to him and kissing him mindless.

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

Mulder's cheek was resting against the tile, his forehead on
his hands. His hair and skin were warm and wet as the mist
and spray of Joshua's shower gathered around him in a damp
cloud. He was standing while Joshua was down on his knees,
lathering and massaging the backs of his legs. The hands of a
violinist are strong and stimulating to whatever surface they
touch. It was heaven to be that surface as the warm soapy
hands came up over his ass, rolling and kneading, pressing
into the dip of his spine. There was a spot that had been
sorely neglected and the shot of pleasure made him give into
a shameless whimper.

A tenor's chuckle breathed across the tingling skin of his
shoulders as Joshua came up closely behind him. "Have you
forgiven me yet for making you stand for four hours?"

"Ask me again in ten minutes," Mulder answered. His eyes
remained closed, enjoying the massage as it continued up his
back and shoulders.

"I will. And again and again until you respond the way I want
you to." Joshua's hands slid down around his hips to his
balls, coating them in foamy lather and dragging Mulder's
long, slippery, limp cock through his fist.

"You shouldn't have made me come," Mulder mumbled to the
tiles. "Now you're in for a wait, regardless."

Joshua's chin was at his shoulder, his lips against his ear. "I
enjoy waiting."

Mulder slipped an arm around him and pulled Joshua
between himself and the tile wall, reaching for a kiss. He
could feel the man still hard and impatient against his
abdomen. His mouth moved from the musician's lips to his
ear where he licked the delicate curves line for line. He ran
his hand over Joshua's hip and gripped the offending organ,
stroking it, as mouth met mouth again, kissing slower this
time, dragging their lips over one another's, lingering.

"How's your wound?"

Joshua's head was tipped back, his lips parted awaiting
another kiss. "What?"

"You were bleeding, remember?"

Joshua looked down at his side, slowing his breathing to
touch the edge of the pinkish ripple of flesh. "It's stopped; I'll
be fine. The hospital sent me home the other day with plenty
of bandages..."

Mulder cut the health report short with a long tugging suck
at Joshua's exposed neck. Still savoring the musician's
throat, Mulder made a blind reach for the soap, lathering his
hand with every intention of pleasuring this man in his own
shower.

Joshua struggled against him, catching his wrist, rinsing it in
the spray. "Not yet," he smiled. "Not yet. I want you in me
when I come."

Mulder looked at him. The young man's dark hair lay wetly
across his forehead, giving him an almost Roman look. "You
were supposed to show me."

"Not like that, I wasn't. It's been too long for me. I need you
to be gentle."

"I can be gentle," Mulder said, relaxing his arm, feeling
suddenly very irresponsible.

Joshua kissed and nipped his lower lip, fondly. "*You* needed
to get off. In the worst way, I might add. There was no
slowing you down to point out the scenery."

Mulder felt a little embarrassed, sorry he'd been rough with
him. Man or no, he still didn't feel 100 percent satisfied
unless he served his lover just as well. "Give me a minute and
we can take all the time you want."

"I'd like to show you something first," Joshua said, sliding
down the wet wall to seat his ass on the edge of the shower
lip, drawing Mulder's sudsy groin closer to his face.

"I'm an old man. I told you; he's down for the count."

Joshua looked up at him like a misbehaving child. "You're
never too old for sex, Mulder. There's a lot you need to learn
about the sexual nature of men." The young man's eyes
returned to his swiggling cock as the soapy fingers of his
right hand slid between his legs, stroking him from ass to
balls.

Mulder knew what Joshua wanted and closed his eyes, giving
in to the feeling. There were many apprehensions he still
needed to shed. The last time anyone had touched him this
way it had been anything but tender and it had ended in
death.

Kristen. In the empty house they'd kissed for what felt like
hours. He ran his tongue over every inch of her pale skin,
between her legs, licking her to orgasm. She'd returned the
favor, rubbing herself over his brazen hardness, teasing him
with her moist cunt, and finally rewarding him with her
mouth. She sucked him as a bloodsucker feeds, intensely,
voraciously. He felt he might burst when her slick finger
found its way up into his ass--probing. It was the first and
last time he'd been penetrated. Her long nail made the
invasion as painful as it was enthralling. It hurt and it felt
good; what he wanted--he needed the pain. He couldn't come
until he felt it so deep in him he wanted to scream.

But this was different. He no longer wished to be punished.
He wanted a sanctuary from the guilt and obligations. He
wanted to be free. He wanted to be taken. He wanted to
nestle in and be safe.

Joshua--handsome, seductive, and gifted in more than just
music, perhaps wasn't so unusual a lover for him after all. At
least he hadn't asked for his blood. His slender, precise
fingers were asking for something, however: entry, and
Mulder took a step apart to let him in.

It felt better than he remembered. The teasing swirls around
his anus coupled with the flow of warm water over his back
was inviting, helping him relax. Joshua's mouth was against
his bellybutton, his tongue mimicking the movements of his
finger--more circles and a gentle push.

It wasn't like he remembered. This was different, pleasant,
tender. More than the sex, what Mulder was starved for was
the affection, the delight you feel from just being physically
close to another human being. Joshua's tongue began to
poke around his bellybutton, almost ticklish, as his finger
worked its way deeper. Suddenly, Mulder found himself
getting hard again--quickly.

"Ah, found you," Joshua smiled, licking his abdomen like it
was made of sugar. He continued to press and vibrate his
finger in that exact spot. Incredibly, Mulder felt a sudden
urge to ejaculate. But somehow that couldn't be right; he
wasn't nearly ready. Still, the sensation was the same. He
gasped, gripping Joshua's hair as the musician slowly worked
his finger out, standing up again and kissing him softly.

"That's what you need to find in me," he said, taking both
hands to draw Mulder's face to his for another deep, wet
kiss.

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

"Despite how it may seem, I'm not promiscuous," Joshua
explained, tossing Mulder a towel as they made their way
dripping out of the shower to dry off in the steamy air. "I
haven't had a great number of lovers. I was truly lamenting
when I said my fans were usually much younger or older.
Maybe I should have been a rock star."

Mulder caught the towel and unrolled it, laying it over his
back and sliding it forward over his chest, drying himself.
"Hook an amp up to the violin? I've seen that act. They're
called Jethro Tull--went out in the '80s. Stick to the classics--
you're doing just fine."

Joshua looked up at him from where he was bent over drying
his legs, to laugh outright. Mulder smiled, realizing how
much he was enjoying this--making someone happy, sharing
his body with someone again, awakening to their touches. He
couldn't believe how long it had been for himself. What had
he been waiting for?

"If you keep looking at me like that, Mulder, I might have to
ask you to fuck me right here on the bathroom floor,"
Joshua said in a lower voice, as he ran the towel over his
groin, squeezing the tip of his still-engorged cock in a
toweled fist.

Mulder buzzed his short hair through the towel, getting it
dried quickly, feeling his own half-filled penis stirring at the
image that comment evoked. "Get us out of here, then."

###

Joshua brought an extra towel from the bathroom and
unfolded it over the bottom sheet. "I hate messing the bed,"
he explained. He then bent next to his dresser, opening the
bottom drawer, rummaging around. He tossed a tube of
lubricant and a packet of condoms on the bed--the sight of
which sent a stark signal of reality to Mulder that things were
going to be a bit different from here on out. Fucking a
woman required fewer drug store supplies. He wondered if
he really had the guts to go through with this. Joshua stood
up and laid himself down on the bed before him. Even if his
mind wasn't quite tuned to this yet, his own cock was
certainly interested, jerking involuntary at the sight of
Joshua hard and waiting for him.

"I know you're nervous, Mulder. I won't hold you to
anything. Just come lie down and relax."

Mulder slid down onto the cool sheet next to him and Joshua
reached up and kissed his nose. The sweet gesture made him
smile a little. "You don't like your nose, do you?" Joshua
asked, amused.

"No," Mulder readily admitted.

"You shouldn't feel that way. It's one of your sexiest features.
You have an incredible face--it's fascinating to look at," he
said, running a finger over his chin. "I love unusual looking
men. Calvin Klein models don't interest me in the least--
they're too pretty. I like men who resemble men."

Mulder set his head on the pillow, feeling like a high school
kid on his first date--both nervous and flattered.

"Are you sure you want to do this? I'd be just as pleased with
your mouth."

Mulder came up on his elbow. "I want to do this; roll over."

###

Joshua grinned and rolled while Mulder came up behind him,
spooning him. He shivered when Mulder began to touch him,
running his hand over his chest and back and ass,
unhurriedly, almost lovingly. His warm fingers wandered to
his groin, caressing his balls, rolling them slowly, making him
want to purr like a cat, but he decided it was best to keep
himself somewhat in control. Not all men enjoyed
enthusiastic displays of appreciation. So far Mulder had been
relatively quiet in his passion, so Joshua reined himself.

Despite his assurances to Mulder, Joshua knew very well he
wouldn't be half as pleased with fellatio. He'd spent most of
the day fantasizing about Mulder's long beautiful cock--in his
hands, in his mouth, moving deeply into his ass. Joshua loved
being taken by a man. To him, being penetrated by a strong
virile man, intent on reaching orgasm in his body, was the
greatest pleasure on earth--an experience he hadn't received
in nearly six years. He'd forgotten how much he hungered for
it, how aroused thoughts of the act made him. It had been a
struggle to resist the urge to relieve himself at some point
today. That discipline was hopefully about to pay off for him
in a most satisfying way.

Mulder stroked his cock with a maddening light touch until
Joshua couldn't take it anymore and moved Mulder's hand,
pressing himself onto his stomach, spreading his legs. "I hate
having to put you through all the work," he said to him,
quietly. "But it's unfortunately necessary. Open the tube."

###

Mulder kneeled behind Joshua and popped the top on the
tube, somewhat relieved to see it had never been opened. He
broke the seal and squeezed the clear gel out onto the tips of
the fingers of his right hand, warming it with his thumb. "Use
it like I used the soap a few minutes ago."

Mulder slipped his fingers in the warm valley of Joshua's ass,
slickening the area and swirling gel over his pale anus.
Joshua's back rippled as he moved against his pillow, burying
a moan in the downy feathers. It sent a rush of erotic pride
through Mulder that this simple touch seemed to affect him
so much. "Does this feel all right?"

"Yes, it feels incredibly good," Joshua said serenely while
Mulder ministered to him. "I've always been anal-erotic--
since I was a child. It never occurred to me that I shouldn't
be. It wasn't until I was older, in my teens, when some boys
told me it made me queer. Whatever. I tell you, there are
advantages to being raised apart from your peers. You grow
up being more honest about yourself."

"Can I ask you something?" Mulder said, applying more gel,
tracing his fingers around Joshua's opening, massaging the
muscle, feeling braver about it. Joshua was a finely-shaped
man, from all angles. It felt good to be touching him, like he
was somehow connecting to a beauty within himself.

"Sure."

"When did you realize...? I mean, you were engaged to a
woman..." Mulder stopped himself before he said all the
wrong things.

Joshua just smiled. "Sometimes I want women; sometimes I
want men. I don't attempt to explain it. I like certain people
for who they are, not by their physical make-up. I often ask
women to touch me this way. They won't always do it,
though. You can slip your finger inside me now."

Mulder took his middle finger and pressed in, feeling the
muscle give under the small pressure. He found it wasn't a
particularly aversive thing to do. With the lubrication, the
inside of a man felt a lot like the inside of a woman, only
much tighter. It occurred to him there was no way in hell his
cock was going to fit in there.

"Just slide your finger in and out, slowly going deeper,"
Joshua said in a hushed voice as he began to rock his hips
slightly with Mulder's delving finger. He told him how good it
felt and after a while to go with two fingers and how to tug at
the resistance of the ring of muscle and how it would
gradually open to allow for a third.

Joshua was plainly becoming more and more distracted by
the sensations as he mumbled less directions and gave into
longer sighs, closing his eyes and rocking into the terry cloth
surface of the towel beneath him, stimulating his cock.
Mulder found it incredibly erotic to watch him becoming so
aroused. His own cock began to ache to be given the same
attention. He wanted to rock his own hips, to thrust and find
mutual arousal and gratification along with him. Mulder was
suddenly hit with a wild fantasy image of secretly watching
Joshua as he fucked that girl from the opera. He imagined
watching the rise and fall of his ass, knowing how much he
wanted her to touch his ass, to penetrate him. He saw himself
naked and hard above him, moving over the two of them,
entering him and fucking him while he moved deeply into the
woman beneath him.

"Mulder...?" Joshua had turned his head and was looking at
him, bemused. "Why don't you put a condom on. I think
we're both ready."

Mulder pulled out his fingers and wiped them on the end of
the towel. He reached back and tore off a plastic packet,
removing the rubber ring, sliding and unrolling it down his
cock. Joshua watched him with great interest as he
lubricated the condom with an extra glob of gel.

"I haven't had anyone quite like you," Joshua said, with
admiration, settling his head on his arms. "You're straight
and narrow which is good, but longer than most. Take your
time going in."

Not entirely sure how to go about this, Mulder just did what
came naturally, and eased himself between the musician's
splayed legs, aiming his cock down and forward. At first it
didn't feel like it was going to go anywhere. He backed off.

"This won't hurt you?"

"Not now. You've readied me. You'll only hurt me if you make
me wait. Just push until you feel me give."

Sitting up a bit, Mulder held the base of his erection and
aimed it more carefully, shifting his weight forward onto his
hips. Joshua's expression remained passive even though it
felt like he was about to puncture something. Then, like a
window suddenly opening, he was sliding in tight and
smooth. He paused halfway, watching Joshua groan and roll
his forehead on the pillow in ecstasy. "More," he whispered.
Mulder pushed forward, grateful for the dulling sensation the
condom lent him. A man was so much tighter than a woman,
there was no room to adjust to a less-stimulating angle. His
submerged cock was being born down upon with a
tremendous pressure--it was everything or nothing. Mulder
decided everything was a good place to be and slid in full.
 

###

The realization of being penetrated by someone you desire
was an experience Joshua believed no one should be denied.
There weren't enough words to describe the feeling--to feel
whole and complete, possessed, while aroused was something
he'd been missing for far too long. His very first sexual
experiences as a teenager had all involved penetration, with
that young man he'd played on stage with for over a year.
The closeness he'd felt opening up to someone else for the
first time had been a divine experience, a celebration of the
self. You know who you are when you begin to let another
inside.

This was how he felt now that Mulder's body was merged
with his. There was no other way to describe it--it felt like joy
and peace and laughter. It also felt like his cock was going to
burst if things didn't get moving along.

"Is that okay?" Mulder was asking him.

"It's perfect. Go ahead and move. Go gently at first."

Mulder was uncertain and his movements were almost
annoyingly gentle. But Joshua decided it was better to start
slow and build; he'd hate to ask Mulder to back off at any
point. That might intimidate him and Joshua knew once he
adjusted to the full depth of Mulder's gorgeous cock, he'd
want everything the man could offer in drive.

Joshua fed another long moan to his pillow and tried to hold
still while his body warmed to the deep sliding sensations
coursing through his rectum. Some say the male body is
designed for only one form of sexual satisfaction--the
stimulation of the penis to orgasm. Bullshit. Joshua knew
very well he craved a darker, more intimate form of sexual
experience, one that drew his entire body into the act. Being
slowly fucked by a man as beautiful and intelligent as Mulder
was pumping a steady stream of spine-melting pleasure from
his ass to his brain stem. His penis had nothing to do with it--
he was only marginally aware of it right now, slowly rubbing
against the terrycloth beneath him.
 

###

"Come closer. Lay down over me."

Mulder came down off his arms so he could rest the majority
of the weight of his body against Joshua's back and ass. It felt
so good being this close to another person. Joshua's back
was warm and smooth against his chest. He found himself
slipping an arm around his waist, trying to hug him, setting
his cheek to the man's shoulder as his cock continued to
stroke in and out of the warmth of his ass, pressing them
both into the soft give of the mattress.

Joshua's head was turned against the pillow, his eyes closed
in what looked to Mulder to be utter bliss. He was moaning
softly to him under each pump of his hips in an innocent
keening way, like a child soothing himself to sleep. Mulder
had assumed that when men had sex with one another they
made sounds similar to jocks watching a football game, loud
and obnoxious. Joshua was instead displaying a very delicate
and private part of his emotional make-up, and that honesty
was making Mulder's throat ache. It made him want to please
him that much more, to keep him safe and sheltered in his
arms. He kissed Joshua softly on the back of his neck,
stroking his hair, letting this connection between them slowly
build.

Joshua suddenly began to resist under him. A body that had
been so pliant was now fighting him; he'd turned his face into
the pillow, pushing up against Mulder with his arms. "Let me
up," he groaned. Mulder immediately withdrew from him as
Joshua came up onto his knees. "No, God, don't stop...I need
to come." Baffled, Mulder shifted up behind him and
reentered, pushing deep. Joshua's hand moved to his own
cock, jerking quickly. The musician sighed loudly and came
in several quick sharp spurts into the towel beneath him,
squeezing the head of his penis, emptying himself. "Keep
fucking me," he whispered, tossing the towel away and
dropping back onto all fours. "Please, as long as you want, as
hard as you want. Let me feel you."

There was a real pleading in his tone that drove a deep rush
of sexual power into Mulder. He did as he was asked, pulling
back and pushing in deeply until his groin thudded against
Joshua's ass. The musician groaned and lowered his head,
pushing back against him, submissively. "More," he pleaded.
It was astounding to see a strong adult male presenting
himself for such an invading act, in a sense begging for it. All
those forbidden notions, those sins of sex, of sodomy, that
had been only hinted to Mulder as a child, were making
themselves known to him in real adult experience. He should
have known better; he should have realized years ago that all
the most forbidden acts between human beings are also the
most exciting.

Mulder gave himself over to the pleasure of fucking, of
overpowering someone--just letting go of his mind and giving
his starved body permission to lose itself in the gripping,
thrusting motions it was made for. Mulder's groin was
brimming with pleasure as it moved with abandon in this new
erotic environment. The sensations were all foreign; his cock
was being too tightly held; he had lost his sense of knowing
what to expect and it was locking his release in his balls. It
was hell and it was heaven and he was helpless to do anything
about it, so he stopped thinking and  began to lose himself in
the all-encompassing psychological grip of lust, thrusting and
pumping short and quick until the resistance gave away in his
groin, and he opened his throat to moan in pleasure as he
felt his semen rushing from his balls and through his cock,
gathering warm and wet into the tip of the condom buried
deep inside Joshua's ass.

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

"Please don't get up," Joshua pleaded, softly, opening his
eyes, as Mulder exited the bathroom to come back to bed
and lie down. "I know you need to stay awake. But don't get
dressed yet. Sit up if you have to."

Mulder could see Joshua was in a fragile state of mind. He
supposed that wasn't too unusual, considering he hadn't
done this in a while. Joshua seemed sluggish to him, almost
drunk with lassitude. It occurred to Mulder the man hadn't
moved a limb from where he had pulled out of him.

Mulder got back in bed and pulled the sheet over them both,
resting on his side, stroking Joshua's arm where it lay limp
against the bed. "Are you okay?"

Joshua closed his eyes and smiled faintly. "Yes. I'm just
acclimating. This act takes some breaking in, both before and
after. I feel wonderful, though. Thank you."

Mulder touched Joshua's hair where it had wound itself into
a small tangle over his brow, evening it out. "You're
welcome."

"I don't know if I told you, Mulder. But I haven't done this
with a man in over six years," he said opening his eyes,
looking somewhat embarrassed. "I forgot how much I missed
it."

"Well, I've got you beat," Mulder said, dryly. "I was working
on forty years."

Joshua smiled, beginning to come back into himself. "Is that
how old you are? I would have guessed younger."

"Thanks, but I don't believe you," Mulder said, tracing a
reddish mark on the low curve of Joshua's neck. "Did I do
this?"

Joshua grinned. "No. It's the violin. My mistress marks me
where I hold her under my chin. All fair-skinned violinists
and violists share this branding. You don't want to see what
happens to tubists."

"I suppose I don't."

Joshua's expression turned curious. "How long has it been
since you've been intimate with another person?"

Mulder looked at the pillow, saying nothing.

"You aren't going to tell me?"

"I'm embarrassed to tell you. Intimacy isn't a regular part of
my life right now. It hasn't been for a very long time."

"Since your engagement?" Joshua offered.

"Aside from a few isolated incidents, yeah, as long as that."

"So you and Scully haven't...?" Joshua started to ask.

Mulder looked up, startled. "No. No, we haven't. She's my
*partner.*"

Joshua seemed mildly surprised. "You make it sound like
that's an excuse."

"I'm going to ignore that," Mulder said, coolly. He found
himself defensive as he always was when he and Scully were
mistaken for lovers. No, he thought, we're mistaken for
spouses. Lovers carry about an air of mystique--he and Scully
bickered like Ma and Pa Kettle.

"I'm sorry. I was only curious. I didn't mean to offend you."

Mulder touched the violinist's hand, realizing Joshua would
have no idea how complicated things had become between
Scully and him over the years. "I think I've just grown tired of
being accused of something I've not had the pleasure of
experiencing."

"So you want to sleep with her," Joshua stated cautiously. He
seemed to understand this might not be an area he had
privilege to, but couldn't help himself from inquiring.

A knot of tension wound itself at the center of Mulder's
brow. "I don't know, honestly. It's complicated."

"Are you attracted to her?"

"Of course."

"Then...?"

"I think Scully and I have managed to evolve as a couple
without actually engaging as a couple. We're devoted,
protective, caring, yet some days we hardly seem to know
what to say to one another."

"So you have the weight of commitment without its simple
joys?"

"Perhaps. I'd rather not talk about it. She has no place in
what happens between us. Let's leave it at that."

Joshua nodded in agreement, averting his eyes. "I respect
that."

"The odd thing is, just these past few weeks I've been
thinking about how much I've wanted to be involved with
someone again, romantically. And to be perfectly honest, I
wasn't sure until now if what happened between us last night
was just a lapse of reasoning for me."

Joshua stilled, but didn't interrupt, letting him speak freely.

"It wasn't a lapse. It's...well, I don't know what it is, but I like
it."

Joshua sighed, letting his tension go. "I think I'm very
relieved to hear that."

Mulder exchanged a long look with him--conveying an
unspoken understanding that neither of them was taking this
situation lightly. "Joshua, I know I don't need to tell you that
what happens in this bed or elsewhere needs to stay between
us."

Joshua nodded. "Of course."

"You're a protected witness. It could mean my job."

"I'm also a man," Joshua said matter-of-factly.

Mulder wondered why he chose now to point that out. It
sounded like a prepared statement.

"I'm not saying this to reproach you," Joshua continued. "I
just know it can take some time to accept. I want you to
know I'm very patient in that regard."

Mulder could sense Joshua had experienced rejection of this
kind before. It was almost as if he was apologizing for not
being female. The truth was, if Joshua had been female,
Mulder never would have let him get this close. "Joshua. I'm
okay with this. I really am."

"All I can advise you is to try and not think about it too
much," Joshua said, finding his limbs and sitting up,
wrapping a small blanket around himself. "Don't try to label
yourself--just be honest," he said with a hopeful smile and
headed for the bathroom.

###

When Joshua emerged, he tried not to let himself feel too
disappointed at finding Mulder dressed and seated at the
couch with his book light on. The rest of the apartment was
dark. Mulder turned when he heard him, setting whatever he
was reading aside.

"Hey," he said gently with those kind eyes that had been the
first thing Joshua had learned to love about him. "Come
here."

Joshua wrapped his blanket around himself and came to
stand behind the back of the couch. Mulder reached up for
him and Joshua bent to receive his kiss. "I'm sorry I can't
sleep with you," Mulder said, stroking his cheek. Joshua
began to feel a little less hurt. "Why don't you put something
comfortable on and come join me?"

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

3:11 AM
 

"My childhood wasn't all bad, you know."

Joshua had settled in next to Mulder, warm under a blanket,
reclining against him. Mulder was half-lying against the end
of the couch with his arm around Joshua, stroking his hair.
They were sitting in the dark, talking quietly, discussing what
Mulder and his partner had deciphered from the contents of
Nanette's lock box earlier that day. Joshua was relating how
some of the photo images had reminded him of his first
home.

"The farm in winter could be beautiful. I had a dog, Nell. We
found a way out through a loose board in the back of the
barn one day. In the morning, just as the sky began to turn
light gray, we'd escape and run out across the fields coated
in frost past the rows of icicles that would hang from the
irrigation pipes. Beyond the fields there was a small pond and
it would be frozen solid by the first of the year. I'd push her
out onto it. She was always spooked at first, feeling the solid
water under her paws. I'd run and slide and she would bark
and chase me into the bare tree branches at the far end. The
dog would curl at my feet, covering her nose with her tail to
sleep and I'd sit there under that twisted canopy in the snow
and listen to the morning.

"Have you ever listened to an early country dawn before the
stars have completely failed?" Behind him, Joshua could feel
Mulder shake his head. "It sounds like emptiness and
wholeness--everything and nothing at all. I would listen to its
grand pause--'tishena,' my grandfather called it.

"'Listen, Sasha,' he would say to me when it was quiet. 'The
sound of silence is the most beautiful chord of all.'"

"Why did your grandfather call you Sasha?" Mulder asked.

"Sasha is a nickname for Alexander, my middle name. There
was some argument over my birth name. My father wanted
Joshua; my grandfather made a fuss over Alexander. 'A
proper Russian name,' he said."

"Joshua," Mulder said with surprise. "Alexander is the first
name of the child on the birth record Nanette kept locked
away for so long."

"Is it? Well, it is a very common name. It could be anybody."

"But think about it. I can't keep track of my gas bill longer
than three days. I don't imagine someone would hold onto a
birth record for 86 years without a very good reason, or
close association."

"Who do you think it is?"

"I think it's the man standing with your grandfather in that
1929 photograph."

"Why do you think it's him? The photograph doesn't name
him."

"I don't know yet--it's just a feeling I have."

Joshua chuckled silently, rolling his head against Mulder's
arm, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of pressed
suit sleeve. He was beginning to lose the battle of staying
awake. "Do you always work on hunches and feelings?" he
asked, stifling a yawn.

"Mostly."

"Are you usually right?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Joshua..." Mulder paused
before changing the subject. "Did your grandfather ever talk
about a famine in Ukraine?"

"A famine? No. He mentioned times were hard and people
were losing their land, but he never said anything about a
famine. He spoke very little about his past."

"I learned today at the library that there was a Soviet-induced
holocaust in Ukraine between 1932 and '33--nearly nine
million people died."

"That's around the time I understand my grandfather left his
country. How horrible. I wonder why he never mentioned
anything about it."

"So do I...Oh, I meant to mention," Mulder said, tapping his
arm. "I saw your concert review in the paper today."

Joshua made a grumbling sound.

"That's what I thought, too. Who are these people to be so
critical of what you've spent a lifetime perfecting?"

"One moment they spear me for being empirical, the next,
they accuse me of being pedantic. I learned a long time ago
not to read my reviews too closely. Yet the mention of Nigel
Kennedy didn't slip past me."

"Who is he?"

"A British violinist who recently made classical music history
by bringing back the art of the improvisational cadenza--a
practice unobserved since Mozart's time."

"Improvisation?"

"Yes. The idea is the musician should be so melded to his
instrument, and the heart of the composer, that when the
cadenza begins, he or she will slip into an improvised solo.
Only jazz and rock musicians improvise solos. Classical
music has been a planned form of musical expression for
hundreds of years, but modern virtuosos are changing that,
and critics are expecting the rest of us to follow suit."

"Have you ever tried it?"

Joshua closed his eyes, feeling sleep coating his mind. "Not
onstage, but often, when I'm alone, I'll play something that
comes into my heart."
 

###

The next thing Joshua was aware of was the sound of
Mulder's voice, whispering to his partner as he slipped out
the front door. Something to the effect of, "I don't know why
he fell asleep on the couch."

Joshua's head had a pillow set under it and an extra blanket
had been thrown over his legs. He closed his eyes and went
back to sleep.
 

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

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

Chapter Eleven: Nanette

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

SF FBI Field Office
12:11 PM
 

Mulder flipped through the photocopied threat letters sitting
on the evidence table in front of him one by one, going
through the motions, not really seeing the words anymore.
His mind was elsewhere as he waited patiently for the
handwriting analyst to reach her conclusion. He could see
her through the interior window to the lab, bent over a
binocular microscope, carefully shifting the brittle pages of
the Cyrillic farm log over the lighted base. They were looking
for a match.

Mulder shifted his legs in the cold chair, trying to stay alert
and keep his mind from reoccupying itself with memories of
last night. It was too easy to lose himself in remembrances of
the smells and sounds and visions of sex. He'd slept like the
dead last night, mollified by the endorphin rush. It's amazing
how quickly the body readapts itself to an active sexual
status--once it gets a really good taste, it only wants more.
Joshua, naked and warm, moving under him, making small
sounds, responding to his touch, was everything he could
need right now. It would be so easy to just blow this whole
investigation off and go lock themselves in a secluded hotel
room somewhere and fuck each other senseless.

"Agent Mulder?"

He sat up straight, wiping the fantasy clear from his mind.
Dammit, he needed to get his priorities straight quickly
before he made an ass of himself, or gave himself an
erection, whichever came first.

"Yes?"

"I think you're going to want to see this."

He stood and moved through the connecting door, joining
the analyst behind the magnifier. She offered him to take a
peek. He bent to peer through the lenses. He was looking at a
close-up of a Cyrillic character that looked similar to an
uppercase "B."

"Take a look at that letter and note how the bottom stroke
fails to connect to the stem."

"I see that," he said as the paper was whipped away. He stood
back and let her readjust the viewer to a cell wall
photograph, same character. He looked again. "And this is a
match, right? I see the same anomaly in the bottom stroke."

"Yes, it is a match--a definite match. But look again, here."
She removed the photo and set in one of the earliest
handwritten threat letters made before Joshua had arrived in
San Francisco. Mulder peered into the dual eyepieces again. It
was English, but a similar letter, a capital "B" had the same
unconnected characteristic on the lower loop.

Mulder stood up. "They're all a match. So, I'm correct in
assuming that the phantom author is also the same person
who wrote this farm log and register?"

The analyst nodded in agreement. "Except, from what you've
told me, this would have to be a very old suspect to be
writing in adult penmanship from the late 1920s until today.
How old is the woman who had these documents in her
possession?"

"She looks to be about seventy."

The analyst shook her head. "It's not her, then--she'd be too
young. A child's writing takes time to develop into an adult
script."

"Do you think the 1930 documents could have been forged?"
Mulder asked, leaning against the edge of the examining
table, tapping the yellowed farm log page with his finger.

The woman looked skeptical. "I doubt it," she said, taking
another look at the farm log sample under the scope,
readjusting the knobs. "No, I don't think so. The implement
used to script this document is consistent with free-flowing
ink pens common to the late 1920s. It's not a ball point, in
other words. Plus, the India ink has faded to a brownish hue--
that takes at least forty years. If someone alive today forged
these papers, they did an extraordinary job."

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

12:35 PM

Mulder was just thanking and sending the analyst on her way
when Scully arrived at the field office, meeting him at the
front door. He held it open for her.

"You're going to be very interested in what I found out this
morning," she said, leading him into the first conference
room.

Mulder sat across from her at the table as she pulled out a
set of photocopied documents from her file bag. "I tactfully
asked Dillmont to pull an early shift so I could get a head
start on a hunch," she explained.

She slid two documents out side by side so Mulder could
read them--a marriage certificate and a death certificate.
"The San Francisco County Recorder was kind enough to drop
everything and dig these up for me this morning," she said.

Mulder glanced them over. "This is Nanette's marriage
license," he realized.

"Yes, and her ticket to US citizenship. The problem is, she
married a dead man."

Mulder looked up. "Is the certificate a forgery?"

"Yes, and so is the death certificate. When I followed Joshua
to Nanette's home office, he mentioned she had married a
Barry Anderson out of convenience while Joshua was away
on tour in Europe in 1989--which, I've found, happens to be
the year her working VISA was due to expire. According to
these two official documents, she would have married
Anderson five months before he succumbed to bronchogenic
carcinoma, lung cancer. The records looked good until I put
in a call into SF Hospice. They gave me the name of the nurse
who had been assigned to Anderson's care. I reached her
about an hour ago. She can testify for certain that Barry
Anderson died two weeks before Thanksgiving, in his home,
over a month before his supposed wedding day."

Mulder stroked his lower lip. "So Nanette's been living here
on borrowed time."

"And stolen money."

"You've got a lead on Joshua's missing $60K?"

Scully nodded and passed a bagged canceled check and
several bank account statements across the table top.
"Nanette opened an account with Golden Gate Savings two
days after her 'marriage,' under the name Anna Anderson.
The account held a small savings of five thousand dollars
until just six months ago, when deposits and withdrawals in
the amount of $10,000 began to come and go monthly."

"Where was the money being sent?"

"That's where things get really interesting," Scully said,
pointing to the canceled check. Mulder smoothed the plastic
down so he could read it. The check was made out in the
amount of $10,000 to the 'Recovery Foundation of Poltava
Province.' On the memo line Nanette had written 'final
payment.'

"She's been paying back a debt to charity," Mulder realized.

"Yes, it would appear so. I checked my Eastern European
geography--Chutove is a village within Poltava Province."

"Interesting that she's been paying it back with Joshua's
money," he said, tapping the table's edge with his finger.
"Why?"

"I think we should ask her ourselves. We have grounds to
bring her in on document forgery."

Mulder agreed, but added, "I also want to call in a
psychoanalyst."

"Why?"

"I just had the Cyrillic handwriting in the farm log compared
to the legible scrawling on the cell wall. They're a match."

"But Mulder, aren't we assuming Joshua's grandfather, Ivan
the farmer, penned that log in the 1930s?"

Mulder shook his head, admittedly befuddled. "I'm thinking
they're a forgery--some sort of blackmail Nanette concocted
to get Joshua's grandfather to help her defect to the US. I
want Nanette to submit a handwriting sample while under
hypnosis. If she's an expert forger as these documents would
lead us to believe, then she can forge her way right through
the test. But if she's in trance, there's no telling how many
multiple 'personalities' may come to light on paper."

Scully caught his logic. "You think she might be the hand of
your Thin Man, Mulder?"

"I'm not positive. Not everything adds up, but she's the best
shot we've got. That, and I find it ironic that 'Anna Anderson'
was also the Americanized alias of the Polish mental
institution patient who fooled experts for decades into
believing she was Anastasia."

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

2:24 PM

Mulder stepped out of the interrogation room, where Scully
was still trying to calm a very frightened Nanette Anderson,
and made his way over to the coffee vending machine. He
plunked in a few quarters and waited for the cup to drop and
fill. Mulder had decided not to read Nanette her forgery
charge in the event she would kindly submit to the
handwriting exam. He was dead wrong. She wouldn't agree to
anything. He could see the psychologist he'd requested from
Behavioral Sciences pacing the hall just outside, giving him
that 'look' again--the therapist had 'real cases' to get back to,
he'd said.

This whole scheme hadn't gone nearly the way Mulder
thought it would. The old woman was acting panicked and
erratic--begging for a phone call. He'd granted her one about
forty minutes ago. One guess who she'd called. The gurgling
machine shut off and Mulder picked up the paper cup, only
half-filled with thin, brownish, tepid fluid. He drank it back
quickly--he needed the caffeine to brace himself for the
ensuing encounter.

Mulder tossed the crumpled soggy cup in the wastebasket,
rinsing the foul taste from his mouth with a swallow of
equally awful-tasting drinking fountain water. It didn't
surprise him one bit to hear some familiar commotion
coming from the lobby.

"No, I won't take a seat. I need to speak with Agent Mulder
immediately."

Joshua was coming up the hall, not sounding very pleased.
Mulder spared the clerk and popped his head out the door.
Joshua stopped in the hall where he had marched just past
him and turned, flustered. It seemed he had given Dillmont
the slip.

The clerk caught up with him. "Sir, this man is insisting..."

"It's all right," Mulder said, opening the door the rest of the
way. "Joshua, please come in and have a seat." Mulder could
see the man was beyond agitated with him. So much for the
afterglow. He addressed the clerk. "And could you please call
Agent Dillmont and tell him we have Mr. Segulyev?"

"Agent Dillmont knows exactly where I am--he’s parking the
damn car," Joshua said, following Mulder into the room,
waiting impatiently for the door to shut before he started up
again. "What's going on here, Mulder? I came home to hear a
call on my voice mail from Nanette, in tears, telling me you'd
arrested her."

Mulder shook his head. "She's not charged with anything. I
have her here to submit to a writing test."

Joshua still didn't look remotely satisfied. "What the hell
for?"

"The letters you brought us from her lock box--some of the
handwriting matches the Cyrillic in the threats."

Joshua stood with his mouth slightly open. "I didn't bring you
those letters so you could throw her in prison--she's an old
woman for God's sake!"

"Joshua, please calm down. It's okay."

Joshua set his hands on his hips. "Don't tell me to calm
down. I want her released."

Mulder reached for Joshua's elbow to still him, but he took a
step back. "Joshua, I'll let her go as soon as she agrees to the
exam. If she's innocent, she has no reason to resist."

"No reason? How about scaring her half to death by locking
her in this place?" Joshua pointed in the general direction of
the interior offices. "That woman has seen first-hand how
'authorities' deal with suspicious people. She grew up in a
country where women's heads were blown off for so much as
saying a prayer. She has absolutely no reason to trust you."

Mulder folded his arms and looked down, waiting for Joshua
to finish his rant. Joshua waved his arm up into the air in a
gesture of frustration and turned around, pacing.

Mulder spoke quietly to him. "If you could talk to her--tell
her it's okay--she'll take the test and be home in time for
dinner."

Joshua still had his back to him, but he could see the violinist
was rubbing his forehead, beginning to give, having blown off
the top layer of his anger. He looked over his shoulder at
Mulder. "You *promise* me you'll let her go as soon as she's
done?"

"I promise, but there's something you need to know."

"What?"

"Nanette's been sending your mortgage payments to Chutove,
Ukraine."
 

###
 

When Joshua entered the interview room, Nanette got
immediately to her feet. He held her tightly while she shook
in his arms. "Joshua, darling, please don't let them take me
away."

"Nana...shh, you're not going anywhere. They haven't
charged you with anything. I won't let them...shh."

Once she calmed, he was able to get her to come sit with him
on a short pea-green vinyl couch at the end of the room. He
held her hands.

"Nana. Please listen to me. I've talked to Agent Mulder. We
can trust him. He only wants a sample of your handwriting."

She was shaking her head, looking very fragile and scared.

Joshua leaned in close to her so they could speak quietly.
Agent Scully had exited the room, leaving them in privacy.
"What are you afraid of, Nana? Tell me and I'll make them
release you."

"They want you to think I wrote those letters, Joshua. I
didn't! I swear it on my soul. I didn't write them."

Joshua touched her arm. "I know you didn't, Nana. The
writing test will prove that."

She gripped his hands tightly. "How can they tell? They want
to trap me. Like GPU officers, always forcing people to
confess. You cannot trust these men, Joshua."

Joshua had assumed this was the true nature of her fear,
echoes of her past. But still, he felt somewhat relieved she
wasn't resisting due to guilt. "Nana, this is America, not
Soviet Russia. You are innocent until proven guilty. They
can't keep you here for over 24 hours without charging you
with something. You haven't done anything wrong. You are
innocent. Take the test and prove it to them so I can take you
home."

She smiled through her misery and patted his shoulder. "But
you see, Joshua, I am not innocent. I have never been
innocent--since the day I came to America."

Joshua felt cold dread creep up on him and he spoke even
more softly to her. "What do you mean, Nana?"

"Did I ever tell you, Joshua, that I saw you for the first time a
week before I came to work for your grandfather?"

"No."

She patted his hand and started to relate a story to him from
13 years ago.

"When I came here to America I was filled with bitterness. I
had very dark feelings in my heart for your grandfather who
had done so well for himself in America. When I arrived at
the train station, your grandfather had a car waiting to bring
me to Berkeley. I met him again for the first time in 50 years
sitting in the audience at Zellerbach Hall waiting with a seat
for me. I was still wearing the same dress and shoes from
three days of traveling. I asked him why he had brought me
to the Hall instead of home where I could rest. He told me he
wanted me to meet his grandson. I sat and waited for you.
The people came in and I saw there was no seat for you. It
was then that the lights went down and he leaned in to me
and said in Russian, 'He will be holding the violin.'

"I cannot tell you, my darling, how beautiful you were,
seventeen years old and so handsome and proud with your
instrument. Then you played, with another beautiful young
man, a Schumann sonata for violin and piano. All the
coldness in my heart melted away as you played for me. I
remember I cried for you, because all the misery of our lives
we left behind had come to good--it had come to you. I know
you never learned I was there that night. I waited in the car
until your grandfather kissed you good-bye and sent you on
your way for the evening.

"'Now you understand,' he said to me as he entered the car
and I dried my tears, not wanting to cry anymore. Those were
the last words of Russian we ever exchanged and there was
no more bitterness in my heart."

Nana's voice trembled and she reached to touch his cheek,
gazing lovingly into his eyes. "You had the power to help me
forgive. You are my salvation, my darling. I love you like my
own child. Why have they brought me here? I won't go back
to that world, Joshua. Make them send me to France...please.
If I have to leave, let it be France."

"Nana. What have you done that would make them deport
you?"

"I know you know, Joshua. The mail--it comes to you. You
know the money is missing now, I'm sure of it."

"I don't care about the money, Nana. But why did you take
it?"

Her eyes grew wide, desperate, and her voice rose as she
went on, almost babbling. "I sent it away. I sent it so they
would stop hurting you--but I was wrong; it's done no good.
The debt is paid, but they're still after you. He won't let you
go, Joshua. He told me when he died that he'd never let your
family live in peace. I believed it; I wished for it, and now I
know the devil was in me--he lived in that land of suffering
and death. He drove us all mad and we forgot God, we forgot
who we were. I would give anything to take it back. I would
give anything."

"What did you do, Nana? Who are you talking about? Why
does he want me dead? Is this the man standing with my
grandfather in that old photo you kept?"

She didn't answer; she just covered her trembling mouth with
her hand, closing her eyes.

"Is his name Alexander? Why did Grandpapa call me Sasha,
Nana? Can you please tell me?"

She wiped her eyes and shook her head. She would say no
more.
 

###

2:54 PM

Nanette had agreed to submit to the writing examination, on
one condition--that Joshua remain in the room with her the
whole time.

Mulder sat across from Joshua at the opposite end of a table
while Nanette faced the therapist in the center. The
psychologist had set a pen and several wide sheets of thick
paper in front of her. He held up his finger in front of her
face, asking her to follow it with her eyes.

"Why is he doing that to her?" Joshua complained aloud, and
the therapist dropped his hand, giving Mulder another
impatient look.

"Joshua, I'd like Nanette to be in a light trance for this
examination."

Joshua glanced at his manager. She looked pale and scared
even though he was holding her left hand. "Why?"

"Trust me. It's to make sure she's writing in her natural
hand."

Joshua opened his mouth as if to launch a whole new
complaint campaign. Mulder broke his official FBI persona
and looked pleadingly at him, as his friend. "Just do this for
me, Joshua...please."

Joshua dropped his eyes, relenting. He nodded gently.

"Can we resume now?" the therapist asked.

"Yes, please."

###

Nanette was in trance and the pen was moving on the paper
before her. Her writing was small and precise--it didn't
resemble any of the samples. To get at her most primitive
consciousness, the therapist was gradually regressing her--
asking her to write from her point of view, memories from
the previous years. Joshua and Mulder both watched her
make short descriptive responses to particular memories--a
walk in the park, a concert, a holiday, a breakfast. Her
writing remained steady and unchanged.

They tried other things. The therapist told her to write short
responses about Joshua, Ivan, Alice Schmidt, the letters. Her
replies were all steady and neutral, no change.

After twenty more minutes, Mulder passed a note to the
psychologist. "Ask her to describe 'zariezam.'" It was the
Russian word for ‘slaughter.’ From what Scully had told him,
that particular word had upset Nanette a great deal during
her translation of the cell writing.

The therapist said the word as requested and Nanette's whole
body tensed and her lips twitched as she gripped the pen.
Her handwriting abruptly changed and she began to write in
French, in a blocky, rough manner. The words were odd,
disjointed, like a child's lettering. She wrote:

The soldiers come now.
There is blood on the road.
I run home.
I have grass and bark which I must not drop.
We are hungry.
The soldiers want grain and animals.
There are no animals.
They are slaughtered.
There is no grain.
It is eaten.

I see the house and run inside.
The men are gone.
They are dead or gone away.
Auntie is dead now since winter.
We buried her beside the back door.
Joseph has run off to beg for food.
He has not come back.
I hide under the table.
The room smells.
Tatiana is dead, her bones are in the hall.
She died a week ago.
Mama will not move her.

I hear Mama coming.
She is walking.
I did not know she could stand.
She is calling for the piggies.
There are no piggies.
She has a knife in her hand.
She is coming into the kitchen.
She is calling to me.
She is looking for me.
Her eyes are bad.
She thinks I am a pig.
I run.

My feet are swollen.
My shoes hurt.
I will be dead, soon.
I run.
 

"That's enough!" Joshua insisted, grasping Nanette's hand,
stopping the writing. It seemed his French was at least as
good as Mulder's.

Nanette came to, shaking, looking at Joshua. "What
happened? Am I done?" She looked to the writing in front of
her, dropping the pen from her clenched hand.

"Oh no..." she said weakly, and began to weep.
 

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

Evidence Room
4:10 PM

Mulder stretched his neck, hearing it crack painfully. He
couldn't believe just 12 hours earlier he'd been in such a
state of total relaxation. This job was eating him alive. He
flipped through the test papers again. The images the words
described were horrible, most likely from Nanette's
childhood traumas, her pitiful fight to survive the famine.
None of it was close to the type of handwritten evidence
Mulder had hoped for. Soon after the exam, Nanette was
cleared and released. Mulder told Joshua he would withhold
the evidence of Nanette's false marriage as a gesture of good
faith. 70-year-old self-reliant women weren't generally
menaces to society.

Still, he felt low, cheap. He was hitting dead ends and Joshua
knew it. Joshua had helped his manager out to his waiting car
a half hour ago to take her home, without FBI escort. Mulder
didn't know if he'd be coming back, although he'd asked him
to. Joshua's returning look had held a visible hurt--a
wavering of trust. Mulder felt like he was going to be sick.

The evidence room door opened and Scully slipped in,
reading over a fax.

"What's that?"

"The results of the blood work-up I ordered on the valet last
night," she said. "The autopsy itself didn't reveal any
abnormalities in Thomas Philmaker's brain function--or what
was left of it."

"The SFPD interviews with his co-workers I read this
afternoon also seemed to clear him of mental deficiencies,"
Mulder offered.

"Not to mention the fact he's never had a police record,"
Scully said, passing the fax to him. "I'm sorry, Mulder. For all
I can tell, this guy was a perfectly normal, law-abiding citizen
right up until the moment he drove into the wall," she said,
dropping into a nearby chair. She looked like she hadn't
caught much sleep last night between the autopsy and her 4
AM shift. "Maybe his remains were too traumatized for us to
find a connection?"

Mulder leaned forward on his elbows, pressing the heels of
his hands to his eyes. "Well, I'm out of ideas. You?"

"I think there's still one question we haven't addressed
properly yet."

"What's that?"

Scully chose a page of the farm log from the table in front of
her and held it up to the light. "Do we know if this is really
Ivan Segulyev's handwriting?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because of something I found on the back of this valet
ticket." Scully pushed forward the evidence bag containing
the ticket with the Cyrillic lettering. "I was in here earlier,
doing some translating of my own. The first word on this
ticket looked familiar to me. It's a name, Alexander. I then
looked at the ledger of names Petrovsky translated for us. Of
the five or so Alexanders on the list, one is an exact match
for the next string of letters on the ticket--a last name,
Kosynakov. Alexander Kosynakov, the half-burned name on
the synagogue birth certificate."

Mulder raised his head, feeling hopeful. "Who is he?"

"I don't know, but I'd like to ask Joshua if he can locate some
of his grandfather's US correspondence. Forged or not, I
want to see if we have correctly identified the author."

Mulder ran a hand through his hair, sighing.

"What is it?"

"That's not going to go over very well with Joshua. It looks
like we're accusing his dead grandfather of attacking him."

"Mulder, it doesn't matter what he thinks. We have to get to
the bottom of this."

Mulder folded his hands on the table in front of him, pensive.
"I'm just not scoring many good points with him today. He's
upset with me already over bringing Nanette in."

Scully gave him a questioning look. "Mulder, since when did
you develop such a paralyzing sense of empathy? Joshua's an
adult; he'll survive this. We have a responsibility to
investigate his case from all possible angles, whether they are
pleasant to the subject or not."

Mulder didn't answer. He tapped his thumbs together, trying
to figure a way around this without letting Joshua know
directly.

"Mulder?" Scully touched his hand to attract his attention. "I
don't understand. What's going on? Did Joshua say
something to you about his case?"

Mulder shook his head. "No, Scully. It's nothing. I just don't
want him to feel betrayed by me."

Scully gave him an odd look. "You're speaking in the singular
again, Mulder. We're both conducting this investigation--you
mean *us.*"

*******************************
 
 

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

Chapter Twelve: Four Seasons

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

1223 Divisadero
4:47 PM
 

Joshua sat in the backseat of the car, watching the light blue
and gray house pull into view. Mulder stopped the car, asking
him if this was the correct address--1223 Divisadero. It was.
He could still see the chip out of the front awning caused by
a zealous overthrow of a baseball. His silver ten-speed
bicycle used to rest against the turned column at the
entrance to the garage side-door. The vacant pathway was
now choked by fallen autumn leaves. This had been his home
for three years--the first three years of his professional
career--at sixteen, he'd been a musician coming into his own.

"Do you think your mother is home?" Mulder asked, twisting
in his seat behind the wheel to determine why Joshua was
reluctant to move a hand to the door handle.

Joshua didn't know how to answer his question. In Joshua's
mind this was never his mother's home. This was his
grandfather's home--the home he had remained in after
Joshua moved on to London, Venice, Cairo, Hong Kong.
Although he'd sent his mother the keys to this house after
the reading of his father's meager will, Joshua hadn't set foot
inside the home since his last visit with his grandfather, a few
months before he died. "I don't know if she's here or not," he
said, opening the car door. "I hope not."

The agents followed him up to the front door where he rang
the bell. It was an odd thing to do. He'd never rung the bell
before--he'd always strolled in. When no answer came, he
took out the tarnished keyring they'd picked up at his flat
before heading over. Joshua selected the longest key in the
loop and unlocked the door.

Inside, the wide wooden staircase with the cream and teal
runner welcomed him like it always had. It was still faded in
the same sunlight-exposed spots. The light fixture over the
landing still hung from a looped chain. It was strange how
little things changed. He walked in and invited Mulder and
Scully to have a look around and to head upstairs if they
wished. His grandfather's room used to be at the back of the
long hall upstairs if his mother had left it alone. He didn't
quite understand why Mulder felt it was important to look at
his grandfather's handwriting. Joshua *knew* it wasn't his
grandfather's writing; he didn't need an analyst to tell him
so.

The agents started up for the room, but Mulder paused,
noticing Joshua was still standing at the landing, looking into
the living room. Mulder asked him if he was okay.

Joshua sat himself down in a chair near the front door. "I'll
be fine. I'll come up in a minute." Across the room from him,
its back to the windows that looked out at the street, sat his
grandfather's wing-backed leather chair.

###

"Let's hear a season, Sasha."

It was early autumn. Joshua was in-between concert dates for
almost a week's reprieve. He'd had Nanette book him a flight
back to San Francisco so he could have a quick visit with
Grandpapa before heading off for a six-week French and
German chamber concert series with Philharmonia Baroque.
He was playing lead violin for Vivaldi's ‘Four Seasons’ with a
group of historical musicians who performed on instruments
made during the same era Vivaldi composed the music.
Joshua's Stradivarius was a precise historical match for 1726
and he was invited to join them as guest soloist.

Although he didn't even have his coat off yet and had barely
set his bags down, Joshua gladly kneeled on the wide stair
landing to unlock the case and shoulder the violin for
Grandpapa. He always played for him first as the old man sat
in his leather chair, wanting to hear the music before hugs
and kisses and conversation.

Joshua tightened the horsehairs on his bow, standing again.
"Which season would you like, Grandpapa?"

"Any but winter. It is too cold for winter."

"Summer, then," Joshua decided, and began to play. The
brightness of wide grassy meadows and green leaves and pale
blue skies sang through the violin. Joshua closed his eyes and
let the warmth of the melodic sun take the chill of November
out of his limbs as he played. When it was done, he opened
his eyes again to his grandfather's pleased and proud smile.

"It is good you are home, Joshua. I had forgotten the sound
of sunshine."

The lasting memory of that final homecoming, playing
summer out of season for his grandfather, would have been
perfect. Every note still sang in his ears--his grandfather
opening his arms for him as Joshua set the violin down and
came to the chair to kneel before him and wrap his arms
about him. He could still feel his long soft beard against his
face. It would have been perfect to see it all again, except the
chair was moved. His mother had turned it away from the
windows and back toward the hearth. It was wrong.
Grandpapa always looked outside, not inside. Joshua felt he
should get up and set it right, but somehow he couldn't
move. He turned his hands over; the sunlight from the bay
window passed over the knuckles of his left hand. In full
sunlight you could still see the discoloration, faint reminders
of a child's discipline gone horribly wrong.

###

The wrappings on his small hands had come off in the spring,
just as the last of the snow was melting, running into the
gutters outside his new Philadelphia home. Joshua had never
lived in such a crowded and busy place. The city scared him,
as did the vivid pink and white scarring on his hands. The
healing skin was stiff and thick and needed softening and
stretching before they could be retrained on the violin. His
left hand was the worst. It took most of the spring and the
aid of daily physical therapy to get the digits to fall into
precise position on the neck of the violin. His vibrato lacked
the finesse his nimble child's fingers had once brought to the
instrument. It was humbling and frustrating for a child of
seven to relearn what had once come so easily to him. From
that spring on, Joshua would understand the value of a sound
body. He became afraid for his hands, overly cautious when
handling sharp objects or riding his bike. He was afraid he'd
fall and break them like glass.

After the bandages had come off, Joshua could count on one
hand the number of times his mother took the five-hour
bustrip to Philadelphia to visit them, before Grandpapa and
he moved to San Francisco--distance ending the infrequent
visits altogether.

Grandpapa opened the door to her in surprise late that first
spring. "Mirriam? Why are you in Philadelphia?" She had been
delivered from a cab near the front of their small flat, lost
and nervous.

When Joshua saw her standing in the open doorway he ran
for his bedroom and closed and locked the door, terrified
she had come to take him back. He grabbed his violin case
and hid under the bed with it, hugging it to his chest. It was
some time later when his grandfather, talking through the
door soothingly, assured him it was safe to come out.

"Your mama wants to see you, Sasha," he said, sitting with
him on the bed, speaking softly, patting Joshua's head where
he had clung to his side, wide-eyed and shaking. "But she will
not take you from me. You are my child now--she cannot
claim you."

The only way his grandfather could get him downstairs was
to carry him gently, still clinging. At seven, Joshua had gotten
to be a large potato to carry. He remembered very little from
the visit other than he rarely let his head up from
Grandpapa's beard. He sat in his lap on the couch next to
her, refusing to let go, even for a second. Already he had
learned what being loved and kept safe under a caring
parent's guardianship meant to him, the difference it made.
His mother sat near them, trying to hold his scarred hand,
but he kept moving it away to hold onto Grandpapa. He no
longer recalled what she said to him. She cried; that he
remembered.

Afterwards, Grandpapa took him back upstairs and got him
changed and into his bed. He brought him a glass of milk,
and wiped the tear-stains from his face, rubbing his back
with a warm hand, calming him. "You don't have to be afraid,
Sasha. I will always be here with you to keep you safe."

Over time, Joshua began to believe that no one could take
him away. As the years passed he wasn't nearly so terrified
by her brief visits. He learned to accept them and would
entertain her like he would any occasional friend of his
grandfather's. But he would not play the violin for her.
Never. He hid it in the darkest corner of his room whenever
Grandpapa told him she was coming for a visit.

Joshua wouldn't see his father until he was sixteen. The week
before Joshua and Grandpapa moved to San Francisco,
Grandpapa arranged for them to stop by the farm. Joshua
didn't want to go, but Grandpapa told him it was the brave
thing to do, to face the past, so he went. His mother was
weepy and overly sweet as usual, while his father remained a
closed, dark face sitting at the back of the room. Joshua
wouldn't look at him as his Grandfather told them about his
awards and studies he was to receive in California. As he
recalled, they weren't even invited to sit down. Eventually, his
father just got up and walked out of the room. Joshua never
saw him alive again. The only other thing he could remember
from that visit was driving away, looking out the back of his
grandfather's car, watching the barn grow smaller and
smaller in the window.

Today, his mother was someone Joshua had grown to
tolerate. He saw her when he had to--a brief cordial visit on
the holidays, or when he happened to be in town. He kept to
himself, otherwise, and when they did meet, spoke only when
he had to--telling her only what he had to. The way he felt
about his father now was irrelevant. He had shut off those
emotions years ago, buried them over and covered the dark
seething pit with renunciation. He was relieved when he
heard his father had died. It was a pale footnote on a death
that had crushed his spirit a little over a year before.

###

It was the Black and White New Year's Eve Ball in Paris,
France, 1997. Outside, snow fell on the steps of the Theatre
du Chatelet as frozen winds blew along the Rue de Varénne.
Inside, the harpsichord was metering the brisk tempo going
into the final three movements of The Four Seasons, entering
winter. Joshua's solo violin broke free from the mincing
steps, struck like icicles from the first and second violins, his
solo blowing swirling slurs and biting staccatos into the
phrase, shattering into finer and finer notes that flew over
the instrument's range. Spring, summer, autumn--the prior
movements had seemed fake and distant to him, but winter--
winter was cold and heartless, bringing a frozen and brittle
death to everything it touched. Winter was something he was
akin to.

Earlier, at intermission before taking stage for the Vivaldi, a
woman in a long velvet red dress had pulled him aside from
his green room visitors to whisper four simple words in his
ear.

"Your grandfather is dead."

Movement II-Largo. Vivaldi's melody flew over the snowy
waste with charm. The music spoke of gold sunlight breaking
through thin blue clouds over a stiffened meadow. It sang of
peace and splendor in brilliant reflecting prism hues on each
blade of grass. It lied to him; it lied to those who listened
quietly to the way he played it. Under that frozen and
glinting carpet, nothing stirred.

The final Allegro could not come soon enough. A cloud had
risen from somewhere deep inside him. Joshua was cold; the
heat of the blinding auditorium lights could not stop the
frost's gradual consolidation as it poured into his veins. He
was locked in the winter night again, the dog pressed against
his side. The shivers were coming, those shivers that left him
weak and exhausted as they wracked his small body. No
amount of burrowing into the hay would stop the oncoming
chill. But he played against it, fast and furious, as the tempo
rose and the chamber orchestra followed his accelerando out
through the loose board in the barn wall, out across the
frozen fields to the pond. He ran as fast as he could, but they
could still follow him, blowing ice stinging his eyes, catching
him in a final F-minor chord as his feet broke the crystal
surface of the pond and he began to drown.

Later, someone would tell him he had seemed collected,
calm--his playing spirited and chilling. He hadn't heard it, but
he was told the audience had been stunned into silence for
several moments at the suite's conclusion before erupting
into applause, standing from their seats.

Joshua could not remember any of it because in his mind he
was playing to an empty room, a blindfold over his eyes ever
since intermission. The message of death only came to him in
full realization when his head struck the snow-littered steps
outside the stage door--blood from his nose staining the
pristine blanket in fingers of red.
 

###

The day was ending. The sunlight seeping through the
windows of the living room was falling toward his knees,
growing more orange. Upstairs, Joshua could hear the agents
shuffling and clunking about. He knew he needed to see to
them and rose from his seat, ascending the stairs.
 

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

"Let's move this thing back from the wall," Mulder suggested,
taking the opposite end of the large locked trunk they'd
found under the window in Joshua's grandfather's bedroom.
Pushing together, the weighted and leather-strapped trunk
slid forward so they could take a better look at how it was
latched.

"Wait," Scully said, tracing a strap with her fingertip. "It
comes back to here and then...Hold it...” She pushed
something in and a latch gave way, freeing the brass lock at
the front of the lid.

Together they moved to the front and lifted the lid. Inside,
the trunk was filled with the musty smell of age along with a
few items of clothing, framed photos of Joshua and various
friends, and envelopes containing papers and documents.

"I think we've found the lost treasure," Mulder mumbled as
he kneeled to begin rummaging through the items on the
right-hand side while Scully covered the left.

The agents had wandered upstairs together at Joshua's
invitation. Along the hall, Mulder had noticed in passing what
looked to be a child's bedroom, complete with awards and
photographs. The next room was obviously occupied by
Joshua's mother--a woman's dressing gown was hanging over
the end of the bed along with other, older feminine effects--
slippers, a knit sweater, a hair brush.

The room at the end of the hall had belonged to an older
man. The arrangement of polished antique furniture--the
bed, the desk, the trunk--suggested a solid, home-bodied
personality. Some of Joshua's grandfather's suits still hung in
the closet along with casual clothing. The dresser had been
cleared, however, and filled with books, magazines, and
other common household items--none of which seemed to
have belonged to Joshua's grandfather.

The trunk appeared to hold what they needed.

"Look at this," Mulder said, unfolding an infant's colorful
heavy woolen jumpsuit. It looked as if it was finely crafted by
knowledgeable hands. The pattern looked Russian.
Underneath it was a long, worn, black felt coat. Wrapped in
the coat was an old children's book. Scully watched as
Mulder opened it, turning the pages. The text was in Russian,
and the water-color illustrations were stylized after classic
Slavic artwork. On one page was a drawing of a frightening-
looking gaunt old man, with long gray hair and a beard,
locked in a closet in chains. Mulder exchanged a knowing
look with Scully and set the book aside as they continued to
dig deeper into the trunk.

"These look like they might be Mr. Segulyev's," Scully said as
she pulled some letters from a manila envelope. She flipped
through a few pages, passing some to Mulder. Mulder looked
at the handwriting. They were business letters addressed to a
New York legal office relating to common investments,
securities, and properties.

"This isn't the handwriting we've been seeing," Mulder said,
handing the pages back. "You were right, Scully. These are
signed by Ivan, but they're not a match, and I've been staring
at the threats long enough to put the FBI handwriting analyst
out of a job."

"Don't be too discouraged," she said, lifting a stack of folders
out of the way. "There's more. I think this trunk has a false
bottom."

"It does?" he said, assisting her in lifting out the remainder of
the contents. Scully reached into the bottom of the trunk and
tapped. It did sound hollow. Mulder helped her feel around
the edges for a release or seam.

"Let's tip it up," she suggested. Together, they lifted the
heavy trunk back on its edge and Mulder held it in place
while Scully felt around under the base. Presently, he heard a
click and a bolt sliding back. They set the trunk back down
and looked inside.

"The edge is raised," Scully said, reaching in to wedge the
bottom panel up and off with her fingertips.

Nestled in the bottom, yellowed with years, was a wrapped
parcel, tied with string. Scully lifted it out and set it on the
floor between them. The package had been mailed to a
Philadelphia address in 1984 and then forwarded to 1223
Divisadero in 1986. It looked like the San Francisco address
had been written by Ivan Segulyev. The first address had been
typed.

"It looks like this package was resealed, but never opened
after its second mailing," Scully said. "There's no return
address, but the stamps look Russian."

Mulder pulled out his pocket knife and began to cut the
string loose. "Let's see what Santa brought."

Mulder unwrapped the parcel to reveal an old, woman's
shoebox. The tape that had once held the lid on had long lost
its stick and the top slid right off.

There was a dark cloth-covered bundle inside. On top was a
Russian birth certificate. Scully picked it up and looked over
the Cyrillic. "It's Ivan's," she said after a moment, handing it
to Mulder.

He took it from her. The only character he could recognize
was the cross at the top center of the document. "How can
you tell?"

"I recognize his name. Joshua made a point of showing it to
me on the 1929 farm photo. He also said his grandfather was
born in 1912. This document is dated that same year."

Mulder fingered the edges of the paper. It wasn't burned like
the first one they'd found. "This can't be Ivan Segulyev's
birth certificate; I'm sure of it."

"Why?"

Mulder ran his thumb over the cross at the top. "Because
Joshua was raised Jewish."

"Maybe Ivan converted?"

"Maybe. But something tells me immigrant refugees of war
don't lose their religion that easily."

"Unless he was trying to hide his identity...Oh my God,
Mulder. You don't think Joshua's grandfather was a war
criminal, do you?"

Mulder looked up. "Why would you say that?"

"Well, the fact that Nanette seems to have had some leverage
against him in order to get into this country. And...Joshua
has stated many times that his grandfather was very closed-
mouthed about his past and deliberately failed to keep old
photographs of himself. I think he was hiding something."

Mulder shook his head, brooding. "I don't know what it
means. But I do know I want all the answers before we show
this to Joshua. I'd hate to present anything that might
wrongly accuse his grandfather without definite proof."

Scully nodded her agreement. "Let's see what's in this
bundle." She held the dark cloth on her lap and began to
unfold it. "Oh..." she said in mild disgust, moving the
wrapping to the floor. "There's a dead bird in here." Mulder
watched her nudge the feathery corpse aside. Beneath it was
a smaller wrapping. Scully exchanged a look with Mulder. He
told her with his eyes that *he* wasn't about to touch it. She
carefully unfolded the smaller wrapping with her fingers.
Inside was part of a charred bone. On the bone was writing.

"That's...that's not human is it?"

Scully snapped a Latex glove on her hand and lifted the bone
to her eyes for closer inspection. "It's human all right. It's
part of a mandible."

"And the writing...please tell me it's English. I really don't
want to take a human jaw to Leo for his translation."

"Sorry, Mulder. It's Russian."

Mulder looked in the shoebox. There was one more item
wedged in the bottom, a letter. He removed it and unfolded
it. The letter was in Russian, unreadable to him except for
two things: the year, 1933, and the identification of the
handwriting.

Mulder looked up at Scully, who was still fingering the bone.
"We've got a letter here, Scully, from the Thin Man and it's
signed Alexander Kosynakov."

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

Satisfied with their find, the agents began to repack the
evidence for easier removal.

"Where's Joshua?" Scully asked, rewrapping the bird bits.
"Did he ever come up?"

"I thought I heard him in the hall a few minutes ago," Mulder
said. "This is upsetting him. I'll go check on him if you can
finish reassembling this trunk."

She nodded and Mulder stood, brushing the dust from his
knees.

Mulder found Joshua at the other end of the upstairs hall,
sitting on the edge of his childhood bed, looking up at the
trophy shelf. Bits of dust hung suspended in the setting
sunlight that broke through the parting in the curtained
window.

Tarnished awards, urns and medallions occupied the
crowded shelf. Joshua was sitting with his back to the door,
idly fingering a faded blue ribbon.

"'And on his head they'd placed a garland, briefer than a
girl's'," Mulder quoted.

Joshua turned his head, letting his arm drop at his side. "'To
an Athlete Dying Young'...Housman, Mulder? I thought you
were sent to protect me from an untimely end?"

Mulder leaned on the door jamb. "I am, but that still doesn't
keep the awards of childhood from fading when the boy
becomes a man."

Joshua's thoughtful blue eyes met his. "No, I suppose it
doesn't. Although I think I've outgrown the thrill of being
pinned. Don't tell me--your room at home is lined with
similar adolescent achievements."

Mulder let his eyes take in the rest of the room. In addition
to the trophy shelf, framed newspaper and magazine articles
about the young virtuoso hung on the walls. "No, my room
no longer exists. The tracks of my lifetime achievements have
all been swept away by Baba Yaga's broom. I like it that way.
It keeps people from pointing out what I could have been.
Most people at least."

Joshua took in his space as well, glancing up at the ceiling. "It
is true; it all looks smaller than you remember. I'm sorry I
stalled myself here, Mulder. I was coming to assist you, but I
can't seem to make it the rest of the way down the hall."

"You don't have to, Joshua. I think we found what we were
looking for--correspondence, in Russian, dating back decades
it seems."

"Did you find it in a big leather-bound trunk under the rear
window?"

"Yes."

Joshua smiled, wistful. "Good, then his room hasn't
changed."

"It doesn't look like anyone's been moving things around.
The room is dusty; untouched is my guess."

Joshua ran his fingers over his eyebrow. "Do you think we
can go soon?"

"Yeah. Just give Scully another minute or so."

Joshua poked at the blue and black pattern on his bedspread.
"When I was nineteen, I was in this room, lying on this bed
the night before I left for tour. I couldn't sleep. My bags were
already sent on--all I had to do was wait for the car to come
pick me up," he said, taking a glance at Mulder before
continuing. "I kept feeling like I was forgetting something. My
mind wouldn't rest until I figured out what it was. I was
scared. I got up and walked to my grandfather's room. His
bed was empty, but from the hall I could see there was a light
on downstairs.

"I found him sitting in his chair staring out the window. The
sky was turning gray; it was nearing sunrise. I came and
kneeled next to his chair, putting my head in his lap while his
hand rested on my head.

"'I won't go without you,' I told him. I'd never been anywhere
without him. He'd always accompanied me. We sat in silence
for a while before he spoke.

"'I came here from far away, from a different land with
different skies,' he told me. 'I did not know at the time if
what I had done was right, if leaving my home behind was
what God wanted me to do. But now I know there was a
reason I was supposed to leave that place, Joshua--the reason
was you. God brought us together, but now he says it is time
for you to leave your Grandpapa and go be a violinist for the
world.'

"He told me to go get dressed and that he would sit with me
until the car arrived. I did and we sat together watching the
sun come up. I said very little to him other than good-bye. I
don't know if it was his words or the hand of God, but I recall
riding away from the house feeling safe, protected. I wasn't
afraid anymore."

Mulder regarded Joshua affectionately. "It must be the artist
in you--that you can pin-point the exact moment you became
a man."

Joshua smiled softly and got up, walking over to his old
wardrobe. He opened the stiffened door with a creak,
looking in. "Oh my God," he said with wonder.

Mulder took a few steps into the room to stand behind him.
"What?"

"Grandpapa's kept all my old violins in here. I told him to
give them away--to the Conservatory." Joshua opened the
second door, wide. In the wardrobe Mulder could see five
violin cases resting one next to the other on a deep shelf.
Joshua picked up the smallest one and blew the dust off the
case, coughing. He held it in one hand, unlatching it and
opening the velvet-lined lid. A diminutive violin lay inside
with a reduced bow. "I thought my room looked small...my
God, the strings are so close together. I must have been a tiny
child."

"Was that your first violin?" Mulder asked.

Joshua shook his head sadly. "No, it was my second. My first
was tossed in the fire by my father. This one is slightly larger,
but still so small compared to the Stradi."

"Does it still play?"

Joshua smiled fondly at the pint-sized instrument. "A child
could play it. I should give it to the Philadelphia Conservatory
along with the others. An instrument deserves to be played.
They gave me the Stradivarius, after all. Still, I'm glad to see
it again."

"What's this?" Mulder reached in and pulled a wide, thick,
strap-tied book from where it was resting behind the violins.
Joshua closed the case and set the violin back in the closet,
taking the heavy ring-bound tome from Mulder's hands as he
lifted it out.

"I don't know," Joshua said, bringing it over to set it on the
waist-high cabinet at the end of his old captain's bed. He
brushed the bits of dust and web wisps from the blue
marbled cover and releasing the straps, opened it.

Mulder watched Joshua's reaction as he examined the first
few pages of what was clearly a scrapbook of his career
assembled by his grandfather.

"I never saw this before," he said with amazement, turning
the next page. His eyes caught the memories as they
presented themselves page by page. "I had forgotten half of
this. This was when I first entered the Philadelphia
Conservatory," he said, pointing to a photo of a puffy-haired
boy holding a bow in line with a group of similar-aged
children. "The eighties did a number on my head. I look like
a mushroom," he laughed, turning another page. At the
bottom of each photo and in some of the margins, Joshua's
grandfather had written captions in a strong, bold hand
similar to the business letters Mulder and Scully had just
gathered.

"Is that you?" Mulder asked, when Joshua paused at a page
showing a newspaper photo of a child in silhouette in front
of a professional symphony orchestra.

Joshua looked delighted as he read the handwritten caption.
"'Joshua surprises New York City with his rendition of
Mozart's Violin Concerto #3.' Remarkable, that was my first
professional gig. I was twelve years old. They always want
children to play Mozart," he said and turned the next few
pages. "My God, Grandpapa saved every clipping of every
show I ever did. I knew he watched the papers for my reviews
and we would read them together and framed a few of my
favorites, but I had no idea he'd saved them *all.* He must
have been working on this for a very long time..."

Joshua turned more pages and paused, looking at a photo of
himself as a teen in San Francisco standing next to an old
man with white hair. "That's Master Gregory; he taught me
everything about being a showman. He died not too long
after I left for Europe."

The next section of the scrapbook was all about Europe, from
the newspaper story announcing Joshua's tour contract after
the recording of the Brahms, on through the foreign press
reviews of performances in Spain, France, England, Germany,
Switzerland, Japan, India, all in diverse languages.

Joshua was plainly moved and amazed by the thoroughness
of the coverage. "I can't believe it. Some of these papers...I
don't know how he could have acquired them. He followed
me all over the world..." Joshua said in almost a whisper,
flipping pages one after the other.

"I wonder when this ends..." Joshua said, skipping ahead
through what was easily over a hundred pages. Toward the
last fifth of the book Joshua slowed, turning the pages more
carefully, his eyes tracking and registering the years as they
flipped past: 1995, 1996... Soon he came to a set of clippings
that were not as securely mounted as the rest of the book.
The newsprint had begun to slip loose and some seemed as if
they hadn't been well-glued at all. The handwriting that had
been strong and bold before was now wavering, awkward,
and brief. A page or three later, the handwriting stopped
altogether. Even the clippings began to deteriorate in their
placing. Some had been partially glued to others, some only
folded into the binding. Others weren't cut properly, the
scissors having chewed the edges of the paper.

Joshua turned slowly, his expression tight and closed. He
paused at each page, taking the clippings in his fingers,
straightening them, unsticking them, laying them flat. Mulder
started to turn to leave, but Joshua, without looking up from
the book, grabbed his hand and held it, gripping him. Mulder
stayed, letting Joshua's fingers thread into his, but he
couldn't look at the scraps anymore. He couldn't bear to
watch Joshua picking up after his ailing grandfather's final
faltering steps.

Mulder breathed slowly and held onto Joshua's hand in
silence, his eyes rising to the trophy rack. In the curved base
of a tarnished award he saw Scully's reflection as she stood
behind him in the doorway, motionless, watching them. After
a moment she lowered her head and slipped past the door
and away.

Joshua made a pained sound.

"Are you okay?" Mulder whispered, turning to him.

Joshua held his mouth tightly, choking down the grief. "I
need to leave now," he said with effort. He had turned to the
last occupied page. Taped to it was a wrinkled and torn
section from the Paris Gazette. Mulder mentally translated
the French headline, "Tomorrow Night: Bring in the New Year
with Vivaldi, Segulyev and the Four Seasons."

###

Joshua excused himself to the bathroom. Mulder closed the
scrapbook, secured it and set it back into the closet where
Joshua's grandfather had left it for his grandson to find one
day along with his violins.

Scully was waiting in the living room with the shoebox in her
arms along with a stack of dusty folders. Her expression was
unreadable.

Joshua emerged looking pale and strained. Mulder was
following him down the long stairs to leave when a key
turned in the lock and the front door opened. A woman in
her late sixties came in, startled, until her eyes settled on
Joshua, a palpable longing coming over her thin and aging
face.

"Maelchik?" she said in a thin voice.

"Hello Mama," Joshua replied tentatively, stalling himself on
the stairs.
 

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

She looked even older to him, frail and small. Her long hair
was shorter and grayer now, but still clipped behind her
head. He must have known this was going to happen--his
chest felt weighted as guilt piled on top of sorrow and began
to settle in. He'd give anything if he hadn't had to come here
today.

"Mama, these are FBI Agents Mulder and Scully. They asked
me to bring them here today; we needed to look through
some of Grandpapa's papers."

She looked frightened and her hands gripped the strap of her
purse. "Why the FBI, Joshua?"

"It's nothing to worry about Ms..." Mulder began, stopping
himself evidently when he remembered Joshua went by his
grandfather's name.

Joshua glanced at him, moving aside on the step he'd
immobilized himself on so Mulder could greet her. "Poltov,"
Joshua said, looking away, trying to gather himself.

"Ms. Poltov," Mulder said, descending to the landing to shake
her hand, reassuringly. "We're just investigating..."

"Someone's been sending me threats in the mail," Joshua said
over him. Mulder looked back at him, questioning. "It's
nothing Mama, they just wanted to check out some old
correspondence to eliminate the people Grandpapa and I
used to know."

His mother took some steps forward around Mulder to come
closer to him, reaching up to cover his hand with hers on the
banister. "What threats, Joshua? Are you in trouble?"

"No Mama," he said, moving his hand casually away. "I'm not
in any trouble."

"How long have you been here, Joshua? When did you come
to San Francisco?"

He forced his eyes from the floor to look at her. She'd better
not cry, he thought to himself. I won't be able to stand it if
she cries.

"Joshua, we'll be outside," Mulder said, opening the door for
him and Scully to quickly exit. He watched the door close
after them. Dammit, he didn't want to do this right now,
especially not alone.

"Look at me, maelchik," she said in that sing-songy way of
hers. "Let me see you. Why won't you look at your mama?"
Her hand was on his, tugging him from his perch on the
stairs. He descended and gave her a quick hug, trying not to
cringe as he felt how thin she was, and how tightly her arms
were squeezing his shoulders. He felt like she would break
him. He stepped back from her, trying to find the strength to
muster a smile, to make this visit as brief and polite as
possible.

"I'm sorry, Mama, I've been busy." She was pulling him by the
hand into the living room.

"Sit, sit. Let me look at you. I never get to look at you. You're
getting so old, so grown-up."

Joshua suppressed a sigh. "Mama, I've been grown-up for a
very long time."

She smiled a thin and wavering smile, tears beginning to
gather in her tired dark-blue eyes. "I know, I know. All
grown-up. I thought about you all day on Friday. My little
boy, my maelchik, turning thirty. I was not much older than
that when I had you. When are you going to be married,
Joshua? You should be married--a man of thirty needs a wife
and children."

"Mama," he squeezed her hands, to try and calm her. Her
voice had been rising. "I have music, Mama; I don't need a
family."

She reached out her hand to touch his cheek, stroking his
face. He closed his eyes, hoping if he indulged her, she'd let
him go faster. "You need more than music, maelchik--you
need the love of a woman."

God, all these years and she still didn't know the first thing
about him--who he was, what he did. Sure, he played that
silly violin, but what of it? To her he was still supposed to be
some hard-working farm boy with a dull pregnant wife. He
felt the pattern starting again, the pattern that marked all
their brief infrequent visits together--she babbles, he
becomes angry and frustrated, he makes a polite excuse to
leave and sickens himself with the guilt for weeks until they
are hopelessly destined to meet again.

He opened his eyes, taking her hand from where it had been
starting to paw through his hair. "I'm never getting married,
Mama. You might as well accept that."

She shook her head, tsking him. "Whatever happened to that
young lady of yours, the girl from New Hampshire? She was
so lovely, Joshua. I still have the photo you sent. I don't
understand why you let her go."

"She's dead, Mama," Joshua said bluntly.

"What?"

He took a long breath, trying to tamp down the darkness he
felt threatening to rise in him. "She died last July," he said
quietly. "She shot herself."

His mama brought her hand over her mouth. "No, Joshua.
Why?"

He brought his hands up over his eyes, dragging his fingers
through his hair. God, he didn't want to do this right now. "I
don't know."

"No, no...this is not true--it can't be. You were going to be
married. She would have been so happy..."

"Mama!" He sat up straight, pulling away, trying to keep his
dread from turning into a panic. "It's not my fault."

"But you were so good together..."

This was what he couldn't stand, the endless pointlessness of
trying to get his mother to understand he was nothing like
what she believed him to be. He took her hands, leaning in,
forcing her to stop going on about his false marriage. "It was
a mistake, Mama. I made a mistake and now she's gone and I
can't do a damn thing about it. I'm sorry I could not marry
her--I regret it deeply. I tried to make it happen, but I just
couldn't...I won't ever try to marry again. I have my violin
and that's all I'll ever need."

His mama just sat there, looking so sad and upset with him--
disappointed, always disappointed. "No, Joshua. You do not
want to be alone. You don't know what it's like to be alone
and old. You do not want to live like this. You are young--you
can still be happy..."

He sighed and got up, beginning to pace the living room, a
room that brought back so many wonderful and painful
memories for him. When his Grandpapa was alive, he felt like
there was no one else in the world who mattered. But he was
gone, his chair was turned away from the window, empty.
Joshua knew all about what it felt like to be alone. He'd been
alone now for over two years.

"Mama, I'm sorry that you're lonely. But I have my own life
now. I'm happy. I am a concert violinist. I've played for the
grandest music halls in the world. This is my life, and I am
choosing how I want to live it. I will not be anybody but who I
am."

"But you are a man, Joshua, you can choose anything. You do
not have to chose to be alone."

He caught her teary glance, shocked and aghast. "What are
you saying, Mama? That because you're a woman your life
was not your responsibility? That you were forced to marry
my father? That you were forced to give me up?" He choked
on the words as they came out. He was shaking--he had no
idea why these truths were forcing themselves out now. He
and Mama never spoke about this. They always pretended
everything had been normal between them, just like every
mother and son. But now, after seeing Grandpapa's last days
laid out page by page, he just didn't have the distance
necessary for pretending.

She was quiet, and he turned away from her. The tears he
was tired of fighting were making themselves known, and he
wiped them away shamefully. He would not cry for her.

"A woman has no choice in who she loves, Joshua. I loved
your papa. I could not leave him."

Joshua crossed his arms, hugging himself, trying to breathe
evenly. "Not even for me," he whispered, glancing at her
through swimming eyes. She was staring at her hands.

"Your papa loved you, Joshua. It ruined him when Grandpapa
took you away."

Joshua laughed bitterly, letting the wetness he felt on his face
stay and mock him with the irony that he still cared enough
about that bastard to be upset. "Let's get something straight,
Mama. Fathers who love their children don't make them
sleep outside in the dead of winter." He looked at her then,
openly, letting her for once see the raw and painful anger
there. "And don't try to tell me again that it was my fault--
like you used to--telling me I needed to behave, that I needed
to mind him better."

"I tried to come see you..." She was weeping now, holding her
hands tightly in her lap. "I had no choice," she said weakly.

Joshua wiped his eyes on his sleeve with a snort. He couldn't
take it any more--he was not going to stand here while she
cried. "You had a choice, Mama," he said, heading for the
front door, feeling the sickening suffocation of guilt pressing
in on him. He paused a moment as he turned the knob. "You
had a key to the barn, too," he said with his back to her, and
left the house.

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

Chapters 13-14