Title: The Longest Time
Classification: VRA
Keywords: Pre-XF, Scully/Other
Rating: R, for language and sexual situations
Spoilers: Pilot
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, they belong to
            Mr. Chris Carter, lucky bastard.
Summary: Did you ever wonder about Ethan?
Feedback: Pretty please to lil_gusty@hotmail.com
Special Notes: This fic assumes that the scenes deleted from the 
               Pilot featuring Ethan are cannon. 



I met him by accident when I was twenty-five and by the time I 
turned twenty-eight, it was over.  We met through a mutual friend; 
at first, I thought he was boring and stiff, but he loved me, and 
when you want and need to be loved, you'll put up with almost 
anything.

I know now that I never loved him, not really.  Not in the way 
that he loved me. He was in love with me while I loved him more 
like you would love a pet: you appreciate their loyalty and 
devotion, but sometimes you're thankful for their short life 
spans.

He proposed to me at my twenty-seventh birthday party.  

I never wanted a full-blown party; just a casual outing with my 
parents and Ethan -- we would go out to dinner at my favorite 
restaurant and then back to my parents' house for gifts, cake, and 
ice cream.  I guess I should've suspected something when my 
brothers were waiting at my parents' house along with several co-
workers, friends, and Ethan's parents.  I didn't pay too much 
attention to the people -- when you have twenty adults yelling 
"surprise" at you, you're too busy trying to get your heart rate 
back under control to properly sniff out a conspiracy.

Maybe I should've suspected something that morning.  Ethan and I 
made love before we got up, in the shower, and then again in bed 
afterwards.  I suggested that we call my parents and cancel dinner 
so we could stay in bed together all day, but he refused.  When a 
man refuses sex; a woman should take notice.

His gift was the last to be given: a small, square box hidden 
amongst the others. I couldn't think of anything Ethan could give 
that would fit in a box so small. I know that sounds strange, but 
it was a total surprise. I guess that was the point, though.

When he sunk down to one knee and took my left hand in his, the 
content of that box became frighteningly clear.  I knew what was 
in that box, and I knew what he was going to say.  I also knew 
immediately how I would respond. 

"Dana," he started, almost wistfully, "you know how much I love 
you.  How much I absolutely adore you.  You make me so happy, and-
-"

My mother chose that moment to burst into tears.

"Dana, I want you to marry me.  I want to spend the rest of my 
life with you. Please."

Have you ever felt the terrifying feeling of having, 
simultaneously, all of the oxygen in the room removed, the walls 
starting to close in, and the ceiling starting to crumble above 
your head, but you are the only one who seems to be aware of the 
impending catastrophe? And while God, your parents, your friends 
watched, you felt your life slowly slipping from you, but you had 
to keep smiling anyway because you were supposed to?

I didn't want to hurt him. No, I loved him. Didn't I?
Of course I did, but enough to marry him?
I didn't know.
Yes, I did know. 
I knew that I loved him enough to marry him
and be content with him for the rest of my life.
But I didn't want contentment. I wanted to be 
in love with the man I married, but even if this hypothetical man 
asked the very same question that Ethan just had, I would've said 
no. I couldn't get married - I had too much at stake.

I wanted to scream at him, "No, of course not.  I don't want to 
marry you! I thought we were happy with our relationship the way 
it was!  Why did you have to go and ruin it?  You selfish bastard, 
I can't marry you!"

"Ethan, I--" I was crying, too.  I never cry, dammit, and 
certainly not for this arrogant, selfish prick who addressed his 
proposal more like a command than a question.  He knew how happy I 
was with the way things were without marriage. He knew how 
committed I was to Quantico. Didn't he understand that marriage 
didn't fit into the right now? 

"Oh, Dana--" my mother began softly, enchanted as though she was 
the one who had just been asked, "you see, I knew he would make 
her cry," she told everyone.  They laughed nervously.  I think 
they realized I wasn't smiling anymore.

I turned to look at my mother and father who were standing behind 
me.  "You knew about this?"  I asked slowly.

"Yes, Starbuck.  Ethan told us about his little plan, didn't you 
son?" Ahab answered proudly. In his mind, maybe I would marry and 
settle down with this good Catholic boy who could talk some sense 
into me. I would quit my job at Quantico, at Ethan's urging, and 
go practice medicine. Meanwhile, Ahab would sit back and watch the 
grandchildren roll in.

I turned back to Ethan, still on one knee and grasping my hand.  
"I wanted everyone to be here.  Everyone to know... how much I 
love you."

I shut my eyes thinking that if I concentrated hard enough this 
nightmare would end.  How could I tell him no?  How could I hurt 
him like that, and embarrass the hell out of him in front of all 
our friends and family?  I loved him, but not enough...

I took a deep breath and started: "Ethan," his face was so 
hopeful, but held an air of "this is just a formality so say your 
line." How could I say no to that? "You know I'll have to think 
about this," I said in my most authoritative voice. Yes, I was 
still in charger here. I'm in control. Quit making a fool out of 
me.

Of course, it would have sounded better if my voice was steady and 
if my throat was not clogged with tears.

His head bowed and he stood. The guests took a deep breath 
together, as if the tension in the room was making the air thick 
and humid. Or was that just me? Yes, everyone had been given an 
advanced copy of the script but I had mysteriously been absent at 
rehearsal. They all knew their lines, places, and pauses, and had 
their performance perfected. Obviously, they had been expecting a 
slightly different answer from me.

Ethan pulled my into a fierce hug and said, "Did anyone ever tell 
you that you think too much, Dana?" 

Everyone laughed again, right on cue, except for me.

<><><><><><>

He thought I was just embarrassed, he told me later that night, as 
we lay spooned together in our big bed.  

Our bed was actually my bed, but since he had moved in with me 
four months ago, everything that was mine had suddenly become 
ours. Nothing seemed to be just to mine anymore. It was like I had 
lost my identity to him.

He insisted that I wear the ring anyway, despite the fact that I 
hadn't said yes. It was an ugly thing. A huge diamond fit for a 
middle-aged woman trying desperately to be young again, not for a 
young woman with a distaste for jewelry in the first place.  I 
wondered how he thought I could stand the wear this thing every 
day for the rest of my life.

The next day, a Saturday, my mother called and suggested that we 
go and meet with a wedding planner she had contacted a couple of 
weeks earlier.  She said we needed to get started as soon as 
possible because we had a lot to do.  I reminded her that I hadn't 
said yes yet.  She laughed and said, "I'll pick you up for lunch, 
okay sweetie?" How did I lose control over my life so suddenly? 

Four wedding planners and a month later, I still hadn't given 
Ethan an answer and my mother had given up on forcing me to plan 
an elaborate, ten thousand dollar wedding. "Honestly, Dana," she 
said after we left the last planner, "you're so difficult.  It's 
as if you're determined not to do this!  Sometimes I wonder if you 
really want to get married at all!"

Two months later, I stopped wearing the golden weight.  When Ethan 
asked, I said it was too expensive to leave in my locker at 
Quantico all day, and I certainly couldn't wear it while doing an 
autopsy.

Three months later, Ethan stopped asking me for an answer.  He was 
still hopeful, but realized that asking me everyday if I had made 
up my mind yet only made me angry. I was relieved. Maybe he had 
changed his mind.

Four months later, my father shipped out again and told me that, 
when he returned, he expected me to have a date set.  He was angry 
and disappointed.  What else was new?

Five months later, just before his birthday, I asked Ethan what he 
wanted me to give him.  He said a wife.  I knew a couple of 
catalogs where I could get one of those, but they were rather 
expensive, so I got him a watch instead.

Six months later, Quantico wanted me to increase my teaching 
duties from three classes a week to five.  I agreed.  If they 
wanted me to move in and sleep in the morgue, I would've said yes 
at that point.  Work was my sanctuary, the only place Ethan didn't 
touch.  He was a director at a local news station and besides 
knowing him by name and briefly meeting him at my last birthday 
party, none of my coworkers knew anything about him.  I was still 
"I," instead of "we" and I reveled in it.

Ethan was angry at my increased responsibilities at work: he was 
old fashioned and expected that, when we got married, I would 
decrease my hours at work to keep the house.  After the children 
came, if he had his way, I would stop working all together to 
raise them.  And, like my father, Ethan was used to having his 
way. 

One night at dinner, about seven months later, I mentioned that 
Quantico was looking for an Assistant Head Pathologist and that I 
was a contender.  I was young and a woman, but it would be a great 
honor to achieve such a position at this point in my career.  
Ethan glared at me and said that he was vying for a position as a 
director at CNN.  If he got the job, it would mean a transfer to 
Atlanta.  I glared right back and told him that Atlanta had a 
field office, although I wasn't sure if my request for a transfer 
would be approved.  The FBI sends you where they need you, not 
where you want to go.  And besides, I really didn't want to work 
at a field office anyway.

Eight months later, I was asked, again, to take on additional 
teaching responsibilities.  They also wanted to put me on call 
twenty-four hours a day.  I agreed.  Ethan and I hadn't mention 
marriage in a while, and I finally figured that if I ignored it 
long enough, it would go away.

<><><><><><><>

Ethan and I both had been very responsible when it came to sex 
before we started dating each other.  After a while, we were 
tested for any STDs and HIV and when all of our results were 
negative, we stopped using condoms.  I took my birth control pills 
religiously to protect against an unwanted pregnancy, and didn't 
think twice about the risks.

Nine months after the marriage proposal, I skipped my first 
period.  I chalked it up to stress: I was working 60-70 hour weeks 
and things weren't exactly comfortable between Ethan and me.

The next month, I skipped my period again and panicked.  I called 
my gynecologist and explained the situation to her suggesting that 
maybe my body had become accustomed to the low levels of estrogen 
and progesterone in these pills and that I probably just needed 
something stronger to keep my cycles regular.  Or, it could just 
be stress.
 
Dr. Shin asked if I had taken a home pregnancy test yet.  "No," I 
told her, "why would I need to? I can't get pregnant."  She 
explained in her sweetly placating tone that if I had been 
sexually active two months ago, there was a possibility that I 
could be pregnant.  No form of birth control is 100% effective, 
she reminded me.  Then she recommended a brand of home pregnancy 
test. I explained to her again why I couldn't be pregnant. It was 
just stress. I just needed stronger pills. She sat in silence on 
the other end of the phone and calmly asked me to call her back 
when I had taken a home test, "just to cover all of our bases." I 
very impolitely hung up on her. I kept taking my pills, thinking 
that I needed to find a new gynecologist, one who listened to her 
patients, especially when her patient is a doctor herself.

About a week later, I developed a stomach virus. I would wake up 
about 3:30 in the morning and vomit until 6:00. Ethan usually 
slept right through all of that. I would be too nauseous to eat 
anything until lunch, sometimes dinner, but the vomiting stayed 
restricted to early morning. I skipped another period. I finally 
began to think that Dr. Shin could be right.

Up until the timer dinged for me to check the test, I refused to 
even consider the possibility that I could be pregnant.  I never 
skipped a day taking my pills. I could not be pregnant.  If I 
were, that would mean that I would have to marry Ethan, move to 
Atlanta if he got his job, and give up the rest of my identity.

I had too much at stake to have a baby, anyway.  I had a promising 
career in forensic pathology at the best investigative facility in 
the free world.  Would they hold my Head Pathology position while 
I was taking my family leave? Would I even be considered for the 
position if I were pregnant? 

Of course not, and they didn't have to, because I can't be 
pregnant.

I considered not even looking at the test when the timer went off.  
I already knew the result, but to appease Dr. Shin and the 
butterflies inside my stomach, I had to say I tried.

It was pink. 

Pink means positive.

Positive means yes.

Yes means baby.

Baby means Dr. Dana Minette, a faceless drone at some general 
hospital. Move to Atlanta, give up self to support husband, raise 
kids, volunteer at elementary school, give elaborate birthday 
parties, watch soap operas, and cook five course meals for dinner.

All that school, hard work, and FBI training to be a housewife? I 
sat down in the bathroom floor and sobbed for two hours, pregnancy 
test clutched tightly in my hand. Ten minutes before Ethan was due 
home, I threw the test in the trash and took it to the dumpster. I 
washed my face and smiled into the mirror. I was going to be a 
mother and a wife. 

And I wouldn't be selfish or emotional ever again.  It wasn't my 
place to be.  It wasn't my life anymore.

<><><><><><><><>

The next day, I woke up much happier and more rational. I called 
Dr. Shin right after I got to work and explained that the results 
of the home pregnancy test were inconclusive. I knew what the 
error rate of those cheap things were and refused to trust the 
results of one. She suggested that we do a blood test just to be 
sure, but I told her that I was pulling 18-hour days at work and 
couldn't come to her office just then. I agreed to make an 
appointment later to discover the mystery behind my missing 
periods, still clinging to my explanation that it was stress and 
that I needed stronger pills.

I didn't tell Ethan any of this. He, of course, wanted children 
but I doubted he would want them immediately. And there was no 
reason to get his hopes up by telling him that there was a remote 
possibility that I might be pregnant.

<><><><><><><><>

Two weeks later, as I was taking a shower, I noticed a slight 
pooch in my stomach where there was no pooch before. 

At my appointment with Dr. Shin a few days later, I told her the 
truth about the result of the home pregnancy test that she had 
recommended. I weakly explained to her how unreliable the test 
was. She suggested a blood test might fully convince me. 

I nodded dumbly.  She told me to stop taking my pills, and stated 
that although extremely rare, the elevated hormone levels that the 
pills induced could damage a developing fetus.  

I was late getting home that night.  Ethan was worried and angry 
that I hadn't called.  He had fixed us dinner and told me that he 
had gotten the job at CNN and would start work in April.  I 
congratulated him, and then walked into his warm embrace.  Still 
reeling from my earlier activities, I told him how happy I was for 
him and finally, how sorry I was for making him wait so long after 
he proposed to me.  I told him that I loved him and that of course 
I would marry him.  

I didn't tell him that I might be pregnant.

<><><><><><><><>

Five days later, Dr. Shin called me at work saying that she needed 
to see me right away.  After I left Quantico that afternoon, I 
went straight to her office where she informed me that I was 
indeed pregnant. She congratulated me while I starred blankly at 
my hands and the horrible weight of my ugly engagement ring.

Because I had continued to take my pills until the third month of 
pregnancy, the doctor wanted to do immediate testing to ensure 
that everything was fine with my baby. She suggested the usual, a 
CVS procedure and an alpha-fetoprotein test, both of which would 
yield quick, reliable results and more importantly, could be 
performed right then. Ethan was expecting me home for an early 
dinner.

My baby--those words didn't belong together

The CVS, or chorionic villus sampling, is more reliable than an 
amniocentesis for pregnancies in their first-trimester.  The 
doctor goes through the vagina and cervix into the uterus to take 
a sample of the chorionic villi, which line the chorion--the fetal 
membrane that becomes part of the placenta.  The sample will 
determine the same thing an amnio would, if and how the baby is 
genetically abnormal.  The procedure is also more risky than an 
amnio.  Infection and miscarriage are common side effects, so it 
is only done in extreme cases.  Since I had continued to take my 
birth control pills after I became pregnant, there was a small 
possibility that the baby was abnormal, so I was dubbed an extreme 
case.

The alpha-fetoprotein test is a common blood test that can detect 
certain abnormalities of the heart or neural tube. If there is a 
low AFP level, this also may indicate a genetic disorder such as 
Down syndrome. 

The doctor told me that, if possible, I needed to stay off my feet 
for twenty-four hours to decrease the risk of bleeding after the 
CVS procedure.  The next day, I was on time for work--I had a 
class at 7:30 a.m.

The results of the tests didn't come for almost two weeks.  I was 
now almost four months pregnant and I still hadn't told Ethan.  I 
convinced myself that I needed to know all the answers to his 
questions before I told him about the baby.  

My mother had resumed her campaign to spend her and Ahab's life 
savings on my wedding.  I started finding things to do at Quantico 
on Saturdays so I wouldn't have to lie to her about not going to 
pick out announcements or dresses.

Ahab was back on shore, and, finally, we had set a date.

Ethan was looking for houses in the suburbs of Atlanta and told me 
that I should see if I could find a job down there as well.

Finally, someone from Dr. Shin's office called me at work saying 
again that they needed to see me right away.  Again, I waited 
until after work to go. 

She told me that when I mess up a bell curve, I don't do it half 
way.  My baby was abnormal, but whether it was due to the 
increased hormones from the pills or not, she couldn't say.  

An obstetrician at Dr. Shin's office, Dr. Williamson, told me that 
the CVS procedure hadn't detected any genetic abnormalities in my 
baby. The alpha-fetoprotein test, on the other hand, had detected 
high levels of AFP in my blood, meaning that my baby was afflicted 
with a serious disorder. He ordered a Doppler Scanning to check 
the baby's blood flow and try to make a diagnosis. As it turns 
out, the baby had anencephaly, a disorder where part of or all of 
the brain is absent. It was a mild case with only part of the left 
hemisphere missing. Regardless of whether it was mild, it would 
still seriously affect the baby.

He calmly explained that half of the fetuses afflicted with 
anencephaly miscarry. Of the half that are born, almost all die 
within a few hours. A few go on to live days or possibly weeks and 
there have been cases where the baby has lived months or years.  
Often times, the baby's skull was exposed and required several 
bandage changes daily and constant supervision exceeding the needs 
of a normal infant. The baby would be seriously mentally 
deficient, of course, and stood absolutely no chance of living 
anything approaching a normal life.

Dr. Williamson then explained to me what my options were. I could 
choose to terminate the pregnancy and save myself five more months 
of pregnancy, plus labor, delivery, and recovery. Or I could 
choose to try to deliver it and let nature or God choose its 
course. Obviously, the pregnancy would be risky for it
as well as for me; hemorrhaging was a very real possibility
during a miscarriage. 

He informed me that many parents with anencephalic children chose 
to deliver the baby and, after their deaths, to harvest it's 
organs to be used in saving other babies' lives. He said that 
saving the lives of other terminally ill children was a healing 
experience for the baby's parents and allowed some good to come 
from such a horrible disorder.

He said that I should go home and discuss all of this with my 
husband before making a decision and for us to take our time.

I only had to think for a few seconds before I answered him. 

I told him that that wouldn't be necessary, that I wasn't married 
to its father, and could we please do the abortion now?

I say it, but it was a boy.


<><><><><><>

I went straight to bed that night without mentioning any of this 
to Ethan.  He held me while I cried silent, angry tears. He though 
I was stressed out because of work and all the planning and 
preparation for the upcoming moving and wedding.  He whispered to 
me that everything would be all right, that he would take care of 
everything, for me not to worry. When that only made me cry 
harder, he suggested that we take a short vacation, maybe go to a 
secluded beach somewhere, and just be together, away from the 
stresses of our lives for a while.  I agreed, thinking that a 
relaxing beach vacation in February was a stupid idea, but 
thinking that being alone with Ethan might be a way to get closer 
to him.  Maybe I could convince myself to fall in love with him.  
Maybe I could tell him about the baby, our baby boy. 

We planned the vacation for the middle of March, which was only 
marginally less stupid than February in my mind, but I looked 
forward to it nonetheless.

For my birthday that year, Ethan and I stayed home and had dinner 
together.  He had bought us a house in a quiet suburb of Atlanta; 
supposedly, that was my gift.  I still hadn't told him about the 
baby.

<><><><><><><>

At the beginning of March, just a few days before we were supposed 
to leave for our vacation, I was summoned to Section Chief 
Blevins' office at FBI Headquarters.  I was given a field 
assignment on the X-Files, and a partner, Fox "Spooky" Mulder. I 
was scheduled to leave the next day for Oregon on our first case.

I went to see Ethan at work to give him the news.  He laughed when 
I told him who my new partner was.  He had heard of Spooky, and 
had tried to do a story on him when Mulder had tried to convince 
Congress to increase their funds for the search for 
extraterrestrial intelligence.  I told him not to be so quick to 
judge, that I may be working with Mulder for a year of two before 
I was made ASAC. For the moment, I was my strong, confident self 
again. I had forgotten about moving, marrying, and the baby.

That night as I was packing, Ethan asked about Atlanta. I told him 
that I didn't know what would happen with this X-Files thing.  
Really, his career was the furthest thing from my mind.  My career 
was going up, and if Blevins wanted me to make a fool out of Fox 
Mulder to keep climbing, I would do it in a heartbeat.  I was sure 
I was on my way to the top, Ethan and Atlanta be damned.

<><><><><><><>

As I suspected he would, Ethan called me incessantly while I was 
in Oregon to ask about wedding invitations and numbers of guests.  
I finally lied to him and told him that while I was on assignment 
I wasn't allowed to take personal calls on the Bureau's time. 

By the time I got home, he had packed his things for Atlanta.  I 
told him that I couldn't leave with him, that I hadn't even given 
my two-week notice. In the back of my mind, I thought that Mulder 
would've expected my notice: his new partner had been too 
traumatized and frightened by him and his aliens that she had left 
the FBI entirely. Ethan just shook his head and hugged me tightly, 
telling me how much he had missed me.  

Before bed that night, I passed out and Ethan rushed me to the 
hospital.

The doctors told him that his wife had a uterine infection from 
her abortion, but that she would be just fine after she had some 
rest and fluids.

<><><><><><><><><>

When I woke up, Ethan asked me about the baby.  I told him 
everything and surprised myself by not shedding a single tear and 
by keeping a clinical, detached tone in my voice.  He told me he 
would be out of my apartment by the end of the week and asked that 
I not try to contact him right away, that he would call me when he 
was ready to work things out. He still wanted to get married.

I haven't seen or spoken to him since then. My mother kept in 
touch with him for the first few months after he left. She only 
told me that he loved his new job in Atlanta but missed me 
terribly.  I never could bring myself to tell her or Ahab the 
truth about why we ended our relationship, just that we had 
different goals for the future.

I don't have any regrets about what I did to Ethan or the baby.  I 
realize now that what I told my parents about Ethan's and my plans 
for the future were not lies.  Ethan wanted marriage, children, a 
happy homemaker wife, a dog, and a minivan.  I wanted that too, 
but Ethan wanted it right then.  At 28, I was more concerned with 
my career than raising a family.  In my mind, I had time to have a 
family later, but I needed a good occupational reputation 
immediately.

After Ethan and I broke up, I got a hair cut, and eventually lost 
some weight. My new work assignment-- and partner-- took up most 
of my time. Everything was so new and exciting, and it provided a 
huge distraction from what happened between Ethan and me.    

I try not the think about what my life would have been like if my 
baby have been healthy, if I had quit the FBI, and married Ethan.  
I'm sure that somewhere along the line, I could've convinced 
myself to fall in love with him and be happy. 

I am happy with my life now, although I miss the little things 
about Ethan -- like the way he would hold me at night and keep me 
warm.  The way that he would surprise me by fixing an elaborate 
dinner after I had had a hard and stressful day at work.  Or the 
way it felt to be loved and wanted.  I think I miss that the most.

What I did may have been selfish but it was honest.  If I'd 
married Ethan, I would've been lying to him, to God, and to 
myself. 

And I'm such a terrible liar.



<><><><>End<><><><>



Notes, thanks, dedication, and miscellaneous ramblings: 

I know some of you might not understand why Scully did what she 
did, but you must remember, this is not "Scully," its "Dana." We 
don't see much of "Dana" on the show, and in this fic, I tried to 
explore her character, as well as provide an explanation for 
Ethan's mysterious presence. I hope that I've succeeded.

This story absolutely could not have been done without my friend, 
Beta, and cheerleader, RealB. I owe her all the praise that I may 
get for this story, but I'll keep all the criticism for myself. 
Because of her wonderful comments, suggestions, and corrections, 
I'm dedicating this to her.

Thanks also go to Karri, for convincing me that this deserved to 
be posted. Her praise was just what I needed.

Finally, I thank you, fellow reader, for finishing this. I hope 
you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Title: Practice
Classification: SRA
Keywords: BRIEF Mulder/Other; MSR/UST.  Try it, you'll like it.
Rating: R, for language.
Spoilers: Paper Clip, Emily, Redux II, Sein Und Zeit, Closure, and 
          all things.
Timeline: Think post Je Souhaite, but no Requiem.  
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me.  They belong 
            to Mr. Chris Carter, lucky bastard.
Distribution: Sure, just let me know where.
Feedback: Absolutely to lil_gusty@hotmail.com.
Thanks: to my Princess Betas, Liam and Karri, and to the Queen, 
        RealB.
Note: For simplicity's sake, assume that Mulder and Scully did NOT 
      "consummate" their relationship during "all things." Also, 
      while this fic isn't a direct sequel to "The Longest Time," 
      it is the second part of a little series I'm working on.  
      You can most certainly read this one without reading "The 
      Longest Time," but if you plan to read the one after this, 
      you'll need to read "The Longest Time" eventually.

Summary: Mulder is asked out on a date; Scully helps him prepare.


<><><><><><>

"Freedom is just another word for nothin' left to lose."

<><><><><><>



When I was in college, I started this thing: every Sunday 
afternoon, I would shave my legs.  I'm not talking about the 
quick job that you do in the shower, holding your leg up to your 
chest, trying to keep your balance and not sever an artery.  I'm 
talking about a sit--down, take your time job, with shaving cream 
and everything.  I found that by doing it this way, I gave myself 
a little time to feel feminine, to do something a little shallow.  
And I didn't loose nearly as much blood.  So, since college, 
every Sunday afternoon, I sit down on the edge of my old--
fashioned tub (which is a balancing feat in itself) to shave my 
legs.  Usually, I'm not interrupted. 

Of course, trust Mulder to interrupt me doing something girlie.

As I walk to the door, I briefly consider putting my pajama pants 
back on, but he's seen me less clothed than this before.

"You know, I gave you a key for a reason," I say as I swing the 
door wide open.  He stands there, mildly shocked and embarrassed 
at my appearance.  That's what he gets for interrupting my 
shaving.

"Did you know it was me, or did you just assume?" he smiles and 
asks after recovering his speaking capabilities.

"Mulder," I toss over my shoulder on my way back to the bathroom, 
"only you would come over, without calling, on a Sunday 
afternoon."

"And now that I know you walk around half--dressed, I'll be sure 
and stop by more often." 

Before I would've grumbled and rolled my eyes at that, but now I 
grin in response to his innuendo.  Lately, it seems that we've 
become more comfortable with each other: our attitudes and 
demeanor have changed when we're together and not on the Bureau's 
time.  We're more playful, more relaxed.  We act like best 
friends--which, I suppose, is what we are. 

"I'm shaving my legs..."  I say as I disappear into the bathroom.

"Oh, I didn't mean to, uh, interrupt you."  For a second, he 
sounds genuinely sorry.

"Its okay.  Did you need something?"

"Uh, well kinda.  I, uh, needed to talk to you... about 
something."  His voice is right outside the partially closed door, 
making it sound deeper and fuller than it really is.

"Mulder, you can come in."

He slowly pushes the door open, hesitating when he sees me draw 
the razor up my right calf and bend down to rinse it in the two 
inches of water at the bottom of the tub.  "It can wait.  I'll 
just, uh... wait.  Outside."

He turns to leave, but I stop him with my voice.  "Am I making 
you nervous?"  I say, trying--and apparently succeeding--to be 
coy and seductive. 

"No!"  He says firmly.  He turns and takes a seat on the closed 
lid of the toilet and says, "Its, uh... personal."

"Mmmhmm..."  I say, moving on to my thigh.

He hesitates, then begins.  "You, uh... you know Alicia?  From, 
uh... latent prints?"  He studiously avoids my legs.

"Agent Wilder?  Yeah.  Why?"

"She, uh..." he turns a nice shade of scarlet as his voice fades 
out.  I stop shaving for a minute and look at him.

"Mulder, what is it?"

His eyes flash to mine and back down to the floor.  "She asked me 
out... on a... a, uh... date.  For Friday... next Friday... this 
coming up Friday... five days from now." he rambles for his or my 
edification, I'm not sure which.  His words are rushed and quite, 
like saying them quicker and softer can make it like they didn't 
exist at all.

His eyes meet mine again for a split second as his face reddens a 
little more.

"And..."  I prompt.

"What?"  He says, shocked that I would dare not to understand the 
significance of this revelation.

"She asked to you on a date, five days from now.  For Friday..." 
he continues to stare mutely at the floor.  I'm lost.  "I'm 
confused Mulder, you look embarrassed or scared or something."

I go back to shaving as he studies the intricacies of the 
bathroom tile.  I've finished with my right leg and move onto my 
left, propping my foot on the ledge beside me to get a better 
reach.

"Are you almost done?" he asks suddenly, sounding slightly 
annoyed.

"Yeah."

"I'll, uh...  I'll wait outside then."

As he leaves, he pulls the door back to its semi--closed position.  
I hear him in the kitchen, getting something to drink, then in 
the living room as he sits down on the couch and props his feet 
on my coffee table.  I wonder if he took off his shoes this time. 

I quickly finish shaving, drain the water from the tub, and dry 
my legs.  I still have to put lotion on, but I can do that in the 
living room.

Question answered: Mulder finally remember to take his shoes off.  
He even has a glass of water waiting for me beside his tea.

"Okay," I start as I sit down beside him, "Alicia Wilder asked 
you out on a date, and somehow this signifies the end of the 
world..."

"It's not that." he sighs.  He leans his head on the back of the 
couch and closes his eyes.  When I open the lotion and start to 
smooth it over my legs, he turns his head, looks at me, and asks 
in exasperation, "Now what are you doing?"

"Putting lotion on my legs."  I say in a placating tone.  "Now 
tell me what's so bad about this woman asking you on a date."

He resumes his head back, eyes closed position.  After a few 
minutes, he suddenly says, "how many men have you slept with?"

Caught off guard, my eyes open wide.  I look at him and ask, 
"What?"

"How many men have you slept with?"  He's looking me straight in 
the eyes now, and I do the only logical thing: I give him an 
honest answer.

"Well," I snap my mouth shut and think.  "I don't really know."

Now he's intrigued.  He turns towards me, putting his knee on the 
center cushion and throwing his arm over the back of the couch.  
"What you mean you don't know?" he asks in disbelief.

"I mean... I don't know."  I say slowly, not quite believing where 
this conversation has gone.

"Well, give me an estimate."

I give him an annoyed look for a moment, then catch myself.  "I 
don't know... college was... it was a big blur of beer and frat 
boys, with some education thrown in around the edges.  There were 
a lot of parties, so..." 

"You don't quite remember?" he finishes.

"Yeah."

We sit in silence for a minute, not really looking at each other, 
before he asks, "So, you were in a sorority?"

"Yeah, Tri Delta."

"Ahh..." he says, as if I just gave him the secrets to the 
universe.

"You know what they say about TriDels, don't you?"  I ask 
figuring it's the reason for his epiphany.

"No, what?"

Now it's my turn to get embarrassed.  "Well, at my school anyway, 
they say TriDels give good head."

"Oh." he says softly, redness returning with a vengeance.

More silence.  My state of undress is making me cold, not to 
mention adding to our mutual embarrassment.  I pull to omnipotent 
blanket down from the back of the couch and cover my legs while 
he watches me, mesmerized.

"How old were you when you lost your virginity?" he asks shyly.

Since this conversation is obviously going somewhere, I continue 
to play along.  "Sixteen."  I answer.  At one time, I would've 
been ashamed at my answer; now I'm almost proud.  I had sex early 
and got it over with.  That's the reason I don't do it anymore.

He seems surprised and says, "I'll bet Ahab was happy about 
that."

"Ahab didn't know.  He died thinking I was still a virgin."  I 
smile then, imagining me, a thirty-year-old virgin.

He nods, looking slightly amused.

"What about you?"  I ask, drawing the blanket up further to my 
chest to cover my arms.

He looks serious all of the sudden and drops his head.  "It's 
really embarrassing."

I crane my head trying to get him to notice my look of inquiry.

"I was... twenty one," he whispers.

I'm taken aback.  Mulder, my partner, best friend, person I know 
better than anyone in the world and who has half the secretarial 
pool drooling over him... was a virgin until he was twenty one?

He quickly explains.  "Its not that I was opposed to having sex 
earlier, it's just that...  I never had the opportunity."

"What do you mean?"

He looks at me with that kicked puppy look that melts my insides 
and says, "I wasn't exactly popular with the ladies in high 
school.  Hell, I wasn't popular with the men, either."

He looks away, fiddling with a loose thread on the couch.

"And here I though you were the star athlete."  I say, trying to 
lighten the suddenly somber mood.

"I was, but... that didn't guarantee that I had the personality to 
go along with it.  I mostly kept to myself.  And everyone knew 
anyway... about Samantha and my parents.  No one wanted anything 
to do with me."

Okay, that makes sense.  "So, when you got to college--"

"It was an opportunity to start over.  No one ever had to know 
anything unless I told them."

He stops abruptly, then continues.  "The second semester of my 
freshman year, I met Phoebe.  I fell for her--hard--and she used 
that.  Used the fact that I was... inexperienced.  She would 
promise me things so I'd give her what she wanted--material 
things, mostly--then she'd never hold up her end of the deal."

He pauses and I can tell he's trying to figure out how he should 
say the next part.

"I don't drink much, you know that.  If my father taught me 
anything, it was not to drink.  But one night, I got really 
drunk--so was she--and I...  I was angry with her.  I had found 
out that she was basically fucking the entire male population at 
Oxford, including Professors, and she was just using me because I 
was naive and I guess I..."

He makes eye contact then, sorrow in his eyes.  I nod, not 
knowing what to say.

"She didn't even remember it, which is good, cause she probably 
would've had me arrested if she did.  But I wasn't that drunk, 
Scully.  I knew exactly what I was doing.  It just didn't seem to 
matter right then."

More silence.  I know what Mulder thinks he did; I also know how 
gentle and caring he is towards people he loves--he would never 
intentionally hurt them.  He must've been livid.

"For the longest time, she was the only one.  At first, I... uh, 
abstained because that first time wasn't all that phenomenal.  It 
was almost like 'what's the big deal about this?'"

I smirk, make an agreeing sound in my throat, and nod--alcohol 
tends to do that.

"I made more of an effort to be social after that.  Needless to 
say, Phoebe didn't monopolize all my time anymore, so I dated a 
few times.  And all those girls eventually wanted sex, but I 
couldn't do it.  I think that, in my solitude, I realized how 
intimate it all was--how much trust you had to have in someone-- 
how much you had to love someone--before you could give yourself 
to them like that.  And I never trusted or loved anyone like 
that."

He pauses and looks up with tears in his eyes, then drops his 
head again.  "Until Diana."

At that confession, I inadvertently draw in a sharp breath.  He 
raises his head again and I drop mine, not wanting to hear this 
part of the story.

"I was with her for almost a year before we finally... consummated 
our relationship." he says sarcastically.  "And then she just...
left me.  I learned my lesson."

I find my voice again.  Knowing that Mulder hadn't had any dates 
in years, and never a girlfriend while I'd known him, I ask, "Are 
they the only ones?"

"Yeah," he says sadly.  "I've come close a couple of times, but...  
I've never been able to... do it.  Go through with it."

I raise my eyes to see his head lower, almost touching his chest.  
Disappointed.  Ashamed.

"Mulder, there's nothing to be ashamed of,"  I say, trying to get 
him to look at me.  "I kind of envy your interpretation of sex."

He raises his head and furrows his eyebrows, so I clarify.  "I've 
always thought it was easier to give my body than my mind--my 
emotions and feelings.  For almost every guy I dated, that was 
fine.  It was enough for them.  I've never really seen sex as the 
intimate, trusting bond that you do, but I like your version 
better."

For the first time since we started this conversation, we make 
eye contact and he smiles.

"But what does any of this have to do with Alicia Wilder asking 
you out on a date?"

He sighs, turns around facing the coffee table, and slumps down 
on the couch.  "I can count on one hand the number of dates I've 
ever been on, and none of them in the last ten years.  I didn't 
even know a woman could ask a man out."

"Well, apparently they can,"  I answer.  He nods, suddenly a 
million miles away.  "So, what'd you say?"

He's back to earth now, started and looking at me incredulously.  
"What do mean what'd I say?  I said...  I don't know."

"You don't know what you said or that's what you told her?"

"I...  I told her I'd have to see.  We might be out of town or 
something..."

"Oh, bullshit, Mulder.  You decide when we go out of town!"

"Exactly, and I may feel the need to be on the other side of the 
country Friday night."

I drop my head and laugh.  Mulder's afraid of a girl!

"What are you laughing at?  You think this is funny?"

"No... well, yes, it's hilarious!  What, are you afraid she'll 
give you cooties?  Come on, it's a date!  Dinner with someone 
other than me!  Its not that difficult or intimidating!"

"I'm not intimidated!" he says, almost sounding hurt.

"Oh, what are you then?"

"I'm... scared to death!  It's been years since I've dated, 
Scully.  I don't think I remember how."

Now I'm cracking up laughing, gulping huge breaths of air and 
feeling tears well up in my eyes.  When I look at him, he's not 
sharing the humor, so I try and stifle the giggles.

"Mulder," I start, still being assaulted by fits of laughter, 
"you don't forget how to date.  You may be out of practice, but 
you can't actually forget.  It's like riding a bike."

"This coming from the Queen of Dating."

"Well, I've had more experience than you!"

He crosses his arms like a toddler throwing a tantrum and I add, 
"Besides, she asked you.  She has to do all the hard work.  All 
you have do is show up and be civil."

He forces a grin and asks, "So, I don't have to pay?"

"Nope."

He sips his tea and I take a drink of water, breaking from this 
intense discussion.

"If you want, you could take me out on a practice date."  I 
suddenly say, feeling brave and invincible.

"A practice date?" he asks incredulously.

"Yeah, you know.  You take me out to dinner and we pretend we're 
on a date.  When we get back, I'll critique you and give you some 
comments on how to improve."

"Does that come with a practice good--night kiss?" he asks smugly.

"Only if you do well."  I say, taking another drink of water.

He considers for a minute, then says, "Okay.  When?"

"I don't know, you have to ask me.  You pick a day."

"That's not quite the same scenario..."

"Take it or leave it."

He pauses a beat, and answers, "Okay then."

"Okay then," I agree.

We stare at the air between us for a few seconds before I ask, 
"So, you're going to tell her yes?"

He looks confused.

"To Friday?"

"Oh!  Uh, yeah...  I'll... uh, tell her first thing tomorrow."

Gee, that was convincing.

He rises and then says, very solemnly, "Thanks, Scully."

"You're welcome.  Are you leaving?"

"Yeah, I have to go home and prepare for my date."

He walks to the door, opens it and says, "See you tomorrow.  
Sorry to interrupt your shaving ritual."

"S'Okay," I reply.  "See you tomorrow."

Something occurs to me, and I call to him just before he walks 
out the door, "Mulder?"

"Yeah?"  He says, turning to face me again.

"I never asked you, but do you want to date her?  I mean, are you 
interested in her?"

He hesitates, a little too long for my comfort, and says, "Well, 
she's pretty, reasonably intelligent, I guess... it might not be 
too bad."

He sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than me, but 
I decide to let it slide for now.  We can discuss that later.

"Okay.  Just making sure you weren't going on a date with her 
because I promised you a practice date."

He smiles sheepishly and starts to turn pink again.  "No.  See 
you tomorrow."

He closes the door and leaves me in silence.  I take a deep 
breath and plan the rest of my afternoon.  He's not the only one 
who has to prepare.

<><><><><><>

Now this is odd: Mulder's usually immersed in paperwork or 
pictures of Bigfoot by the time I arrive at the office.  He's 
missing from his desk, which is a little worrisome.  Maybe he 
went to tell Agent Wilder his answer and she locked him in her 
office and handcuffed him to her desk.

If he's not here by 9:30, I'll go look for him, I decide as I sit 
down to check my email.  Just as I'm being distracted by a memo 
from Quantico, I hear Mulder's footsteps in the hall outside the 
office door.  He stops right in front of the partially open door, 
then sticks his head in shyly, looking at me.

I don't look at him in return, and my sharp witticism about 
Wilder and handcuffs dies when he opens his mouth and quietly, 
nervously, says "Morning."

I look up then, intrigued by his demeanor--half of him in, half 
of him out of the office, looking the like a scared teenager 
asking a girl out for the first time... oh, yeah.

"Morning."  I say confidently, almost condescendingly.  I 
remember how to play this game.  It's been a while, but as I told 
Mulder yesterday, it's just like riding a bike.

He looks down, tries to scuff his shoe against the floor, and 
ends up kicking the door instead.  Since he was loosely holding 
on to the door when he kicked it, it bounced back and smacked him 
in the nose.  I drop my head a little more and try not to laugh.  
"I was, uh, I wanted to... ask you something.  A question."

Oh, that shy, nervous, adorable voice.  "Okay."

"Uh, I was wondering if... if you're not busy... you'd, uh... like 
to... uh, go out to dinner.  With me."

I have to smile at his behavior; like I'm gonna say no!  "Mulder, 
we have dinner together all the time!  You don't have to ask."  I 
bait him.

"No!  No, Scully, not like that."  Ooooh, panic face.

"Not like what?" feign innocence and disinterest.

"I mean, like... uh, a, um... a date."

Make shocked face, then look at him placatingly, "A date?"

Maybe I've gone too far.  This was successful in high school and 
college, but maybe Mulder doesn't get the teasing.  He looks like 
I just told him I was marrying the Smoking Man.

Quietly, almost inaudible, "Just a thought."

He starts to pull his head back through the slight opening 
between the door and its frame, and I stop him, saying, "And when 
would we go on this 'date?'"

He perks up, saying, "How about Thursday night?"

"Well," I start, drawing out my words to make it appear that I'm 
deep in thought, "If we're not out of town or anything..."

He stands expectantly, eyes round and large, focused on mine.

"...Thursday sounds good."

He looks relieved and exhales sharply.  "Okay then."

I smile seductively, still enjoying this game, "Okay."

He withdraws his upper body from its position inside the door and 
closes it.  After a few seconds, he enters, back to my regularly 
scheduled partner.  He sits down at his desk while I stare at 
him, an amused smile on my face.  "So where were you?"  I ask.

"Oh, uh, up in the latent print lab.  I had to talk to Alicia."

"Ah, so you gave her your answer?"

"Yup.  She's picking me up Friday night at 7:00."  He sounds 
genuinely excited and happy.

"Well, good."  I tell him.

"Hey, Scully, with all this gender--reversal stuff, does this mean 
I have to wear a dress?"

I laugh at his familiar humor and shake my head, redirecting my 
eyes to my computer screen.

We work in silence for a few minutes, and when he gets up and 
walks to the file cabinet, he asks, "So how'd I do?"

"Hmmm?"

"How'd I do?  Asking you out?"

I had already forgotten.  "Oh, you did fine.  Good.  You seemed a 
little nervous, but other than that..."

"Good.  I wanted to seem nervous."  He says, returning to his 
chair.

"Why?"  I ask.

"I dunno.  Makes it seem more real, I guess."

"Oh."  We return to our work, the only sounds in the room the 
clicking of keys on the keyboard and the occasional scratch of a 
pen against paper.  I'm getting more and more excited about this 
practice date.

<><><><><><>

The week dragged by, filled with reams of paperwork, pointless 
meetings, and debunking a few of Mulder's theories.  He hadn't 
mentioned our impending practice date since asking me on Monday, 
and I wondered if he had forgotten about it, being so wrapped up 
in his first real date in twenty years.

Then again, he hadn't mentioned the real date or Alicia, so maybe 
I was just being too analytical.

We had never discussed a time that he would pick me up (minus one 
point), but I figured it would be around 7:00--the dinner hour.  
By 6:30 Thursday evening, I had already tried on every piece of 
clothing in my wardrobe at least twice before I asked myself what 
I was doing.

I was having dinner with Mulder, as I had done countless times 
over the years that we had worked together.  I had never seen it 
fit to think twice about what I was wearing before, or fix my 
hair, apply more make--up, or anything else I had discovered 
myself doing since returning home from work.  I was acting like 
this was a real date, dressing to impress and all the rest of it.  
This is just a practice date, I reminded myself.  I'm helping 
Mulder prepare for his real date with someone else tomorrow 
night.

I was suddenly very depressed: just the concept that I'd now 
become the always dependable shoulder to cry on-- always there to 
help my best friend with a practice date instead of going out on 
a real one.  I'm beginning to think that it's true: someone in 
college once told me that I was the kind of girl guys date but 
never marry.  Now, apparently, I'm not even the kind of girl that 
guys date. 

And Mulder must've developed a sixth sense for knowing when I was 
half naked in my apartment, because he knocked on my door right 
then, interrupting my brooding.

Grabbing my robe and pulling it around me, I walk to door and 
open it.  He's standing there, looking at the floor, hands clasp 
behind his back.  Oh, no, he didn't bring me flowers, did he?

He looks up at me, and whispers, "Hi."

"Hi," I whisper back.  "Come on in."

He follows me and closes the door behind him.  "Have a seat.  I'm 
not ready yet."

He smiles and says, "I noticed."

I smile back.  "It'll just take me a minute."

I close my bedroom door behind me and try to find my good jeans 
in the mass of clothes covering my bed.  My good jeans--the ones 
that are tight in all the right places without making me look 
cheap.  Mulder's wearing his usual casual fare: jeans, gray T-
shirt, and leather jacket.  My favorite Mulder look.

After adding a soft, v-neck, button-up sweater to my jeans, 
glancing in the mirror at my hair, and putting on my shoes, I 
walk back into the living room, where Mulder sits staring into 
space.

"Ready?"  I ask, surprising him out of his reverie.

"Yeah."  He says, standing and walking to the door.  He doesn't 
have to pretend; I can tell he's really nervous this time.

He opens the door for me and we walk out into the hall.  In the 
elevator, he glances shyly at me several times.  He didn't give 
me a compliment on my appearance.  Minus two points.

At his car, he doesn't open the door for me.  Minus one point.

He doesn't say a word as we drive to the restaurant.  "Where are 
we eating?"  I ask, breaking the silence.

"Uh, that new Italian place that just opened."  He looks at me 
like I should know exactly what he's talking about, and I do, but 
I don't let him know that.  I continue to stare at him and he 
adds, "I don't remember the name of it."

"Oh, well.  That's okay.  Italian is Italian."  Minus three 
points.  He started at zero, and now has a score of negative 
seven.  This practice date is looking more and more necessary.

<><><><><><><><>

I'd figured a nice, objective way to assess Mulder's dating 
skills and capabilities would be to give him a numerical score: 
for every good or successful thing he did, he would get a point 
or two, depending on what it was.  For every bad or unsuccessful 
thing he did, I would deduct some points.  Of course, knowing 
Mulder the way I did, my opinion of him would be biased, so I 
tried to think like some other woman would.  Like Alicia Wilder 
would.

I'd also secretly wondered what it would be like to go on a date 
with Mulder.  He rarely actually treated me like a woman, an 
object of desire.  He had occasionally shown me what it was like 
to be loved by him, and I reveled in those moments.  Of course, 
usually I was bleeding or recently rescued from the clutches of a 
madman, so dating him, I hoped, would be a nice change of pace.

But it was just a practice date, I kept reminding myself.

Imagine my surprise when our dinner together was just like any of 
our other dinners together.  Oh, there were a few differences: we 
didn't discuss work, like we usually do.  Instead, we discussed 
nothing.  We sat in silence staring at each other while the 
inexperienced waitress fumbled with trying to get our order right 
and not drop her drink tray.  Actually, once or twice Mulder 
forgot that we were on a date and tried to discuss some meeting 
with Skinner or my latest autopsy results.  The first time, I 
looked him in the eyes and shook my head: no, you don't discuss 
autopsies on a date.  The second time, I told him that Alicia 
didn't work under Skinner and wouldn't be able to talk about his 
latest meeting.  Mulder got the hint, but didn't even attempt any 
conversation after that.  I let those mistakes slide, though.  I 
could see how it was easy for him to get this dinner confused 
with our others.  I couldn't even remember that this wasn't a 
real date.

No small talk is another minus two points, but bringing me to a 
restaurant that just opened (not knowing if it would be fit to 
eat or not), that's a minus four points.  

He also paid for my meal, after some mental coaxing, which is 
definitely different from our usual dinners.  No points for that, 
though.  He was supposed to do that.

By the time we left the restaurant, much to my disappointment, I 
couldn't wait to get home.  Definitely not a good sign on a date.

He walked me up to my apartment and stood expectantly by the door 
while I unlocked it.  After opening it, I perfunctorily asked if 
he wanted to come in for coffee, which of course he did.  We 
seriously needed to talk.

He sat on the couch while I made the coffee, not speaking.  I was 
trying to figure out the best way to approach this, uh, disaster.

I carried the coffee mugs to the couch, sat down at the opposite 
end, turned towards him, and began.  "Mulder, that was awful."

Shocked at my abrupt revelation, he asked in disbelief, "What?"

"You weren't kidding when you said you hadn't dated much."

He stared at me with his mouth gapping and his eyes moistening.

"Mulder..."  I sighed.  There really was no delicate way to do 
this.  "If I had to decide based on our date tonight whether or 
not I would go out with you again, I would definitely say no." 

His mouth moved without sound before he asked "Why not?"

I sighed again and tried to convince myself not to sound too 
scolding.  "I gave you a score tonight, trying to be objective 
and trying to think like Alicia would.  You started at zero.  
Every good thing you did, you got points for; if you did 
something bad, I deducted points.  Do you want to know what you 
score is?"

"Probably not."

"No, probably not.  It was a negative thirteen.  You didn't get 
any points for anything."

"What the hell do you mean a negative thirteen?  What did I do?"

He sounded angry, but I was just trying to be honest and prepare 
him for tomorrow.  "That's just it.  You didn't do anything.  It 
was just like our regular dinners together, only this time, you 
paid for my meal."

"Oh, so now you don't like having dinner with me at all?"

"I didn't say that.  It's just that... when you take a woman out 
on a date, you're supposed to make her feel special."

He stared at me like I'd started speaking Mandarin Chinese.

"Like, you bring her flowers.  You open the car door for her.  
You ask her things about herself--make small talk.  You pay 
attention to her.  You make her want to be with you."

He sighed sadly, "I almost did bring you flowers, but I didn't 
think you'd like them."

I looked down, knowing he was right.  That wasn't the point, 
though.

"And I would've opened the car door for you, but I knew you'd be 
offended by that.  And I couldn't make small talk with you 
because I already know everything about you."

"I understand that, but..." deep sigh; how do I explain this?  
"This was our first date Mulder.  Usually, on first dates, you 
don't know the person that well, right?"

"Yeah."

"So, you would need to make small talk.  And you wouldn't know 
that I don't like flowers or men opening car doors for me, 
right?"

"Yeah, I guess."  He answered, sounding sad.

"So, if this was your date with Alicia, would you have brought 
her flowers?"

"Yeah.  Maybe."

"And would you have opened the car door for her?"

"Yeah."

"And would you have made small talk with her?"

Big sigh.  He realized where this was going.  "Yes, Scully I 
would have.  I told you, I suck at dating."

"You don't suck, Mulder.  At least you didn't talk about yourself 
the entire time."

He laughed quietly.  "So, you wouldn't go out with me again?"

"If I didn't know you as well as I do, no, I wouldn't."

He was silent for minute, drinking his coffee.

"But think about it this way," I said, breaking his reverie, 
"she's the one who has to make you feel special.  She asked you."

"That's even worse."  He said, and we both laughed a little.

He sighed, "So, any advice?"

"Just... be yourself.  Don't try and impress her or anything.  She 
obviously likes you just the way you are."

He snorted in disapproval and said, "Be myself?  I've been myself 
for almost forty years and looks where it's gotten me."

He looked sharply at me, and I dropped my head.  Well, what the 
hell does he want me to say?  Act like someone else?  Act like 
Frohike? 

He stood to leave, putting his empty coffee mug in the sink and 
filling it with water.  As he shrugged into his jacket, he said, 
"Thanks Scully."

"You're welcome."  I walked him to the door and he opened it, 
standing there for a second before asking, "So, if this was a 
real date, you wouldn't let me kiss you goodnight?"

I grinned and looked down.  Sighing and sounding playfully 
annoyed, I said "on the cheek."

He grinned, but his eyes suddenly looked terrified. 

"It's what Alicia would say."  I explained.

"Oh."  He leaned down to my left cheek and kissed me just in 
front of my ear.  I inhaled quickly.

He leaned up and whispered, "Goodnight."

"Night."  I whispered back.  Alicia is one luck woman.  I just 
hope she realizes that after tomorrow night.

<><><><><><>

I expected Mulder to act different that usual on Friday but I 
don't know why.  I guess I figured he'd be excited, nervous, 
giddy, something.  Instead, he acted as if it was just a normal 
day and that nothing out of the ordinary would happen tonight.  I 
stopped myself several times from asking him if he canceled his 
date.

He left promptly at five, which is extremely odd, but I 
overlooked it and told him good luck before he left.  He smiled 
and said "thanks" before walking out the door.

On the way home, I stopped by the grocery store and got a pint of 
Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby and Cherry Garcia.  I felt like 
gorging myself tonight.  Maybe I'd even take a bubble bath and 
watch a sappy movie.

I'm ensconced in my Lean Cuisine when the phone rings at five 
minutes before seven.

"Hello."  I say into the receiver.

"Scully!"  It's Mulder, and he sounds panicked.

"Mulder!  What is it?"

"I can't do this..."

"Do what, Mulder?"

"Go out on this date!  I don't know what the hell I was 
thinking!"

"Isn't Alicia supposed to pick you up at seven?"  I ask, a little 
worried.

"Yeah, she's not here yet.  Scully, I can't do this..."

"Yes you can, Mulder.  Remember what I told you?  She likes you, 
so just be you."

"I'm so nervous..."

"Mulder, listen to me."

He doesn't say anything, and I listen to his rapid, shallow 
breathing.  "Take a few deep breaths, close your eyes, and count 
to ten.  Relax.  Everything will be fine.  Its just one date."

He does as I told him, but before the ten seconds have passed, I 
hear a knock on his door.

"Shit!  That's her, Scully!"  He almost whines in my ear.

"Deep breaths, Mulder.  Go answer to door."

He doesn't say anything, and Alicia knocks again.

"Mulder," I say, "you can call me and give me all the details 
when you get home.  Right now, you need to let your date in."

He takes another deep breath and finally says, "Okay.  I'll, uh... 
call you.  Later."

"Okay.  Good luck."

"Thanks."  He says, and then I hear a click as he hangs up the 
phone.  I briefly consider saying a prayer for him, but I figure 
God has better things to do than worry about my partner's 
performance on a date.  I estimate that Mulder will be home by 
nine, and should call by ten at the latest.

I throw the rest of my dinner away and go straight for the ice 
cream.  Leaving the container of Cherry Garcia on the counter to 
thaw, I go to the bathroom to fill the tub.

<><><><><><><>

Two pints of ice cream, a less than relaxing bath, and ten 
minutes of a sappy movie later, I'm pacing, phone in hand, 
anxiously awaiting Mulder's call.  Its nine thirty, and he should 
be home by now.  Why hasn't he called?  Is he all right?  Maybe 
they got in a car wreck or something...

After struggling through another half-hour of that damn movie, 
the ten o'clock news and the eleven o'clock news, I'm full fledge 
worried about my partner.  I didn't want to call him on his cell 
phone and, uh, interrupt, but curiosity gets the better of me and 
I call at 11:18.  No answer.  Shit.

At midnight, with my cell phone and regular phone beside my bed 
with their ringers turned up as loud as they'll go, I crawl in 
bed, not sure if I'm depressed because Mulder didn't call or 
because he got to go on a date and I didn't.  I run through all 
of the logical explanations for the former in my head: maybe he 
had too much to drink and went right to sleep when he got home; 
maybe he forgot; maybe he's still with Alicia--

No wait, Mulder wouldn't do that.  Would he?

I roll over and sink faced down into the pillow.  This depression 
and jealousy that snuck up on me in the last twenty-four hours is 
getting annoying.  I don't know if I'm jealous that Mulder has a 
real date with someone and I don't or if Alicia has a real date 
with Mulder and I don't.  I try not to focus on the most logical 
explanation for Mulder not calling, close my eyes, and convince 
myself not to cry in self--pity.  This is going to be a long, 
sleepless night.

<><><><><><>

Sunday afternoon again and I'm shaving my legs as usual.  Mulder 
never did call.  Saturday, I called both his phones three times, 
leaving messages telling him to call me.  I wasn't too worried 
about a car wreck, now.  The hospital would've called me if he'd 
been brought in.  I thought about going to his apartment just to 
make sure he hadn't died of carbon monoxide poisoning, but 
figured that wasn't too plausible.  He obviously just didn't want 
to talk to me.

That meant one of two things: either the date went really, really 
well, or really, really badly.

As I start on my left leg, I hear a knock at the door.  Gee, I 
wonder who that could be.  About damn time he came around!

I walk to the door, neglecting my pajama pants yet again, and let 
him in.  He doesn't seem too shocked at my state of undress this 
time.

"Hey," he says, as if nothing was wrong.  "You shaving again?"

"Yeah, but I'm almost done."  Do I sound angry?  I hope I sound 
angry.

"Okay, I'll just wait out here then."  He seems confident, happy.

I go back and finish my shaving, choosing to put lotion on my 
legs in the bathroom, and walk back to my living room fully 
clothed.  Mulder's sitting there, just like last week, with his 
sock--feet propped on my coffee table and two glasses set out: one 
of water, one of tea.

I sit down and grab my glass, taking a time-consuming drink.

"So..." he starts smugly.

"So..."  I answer impatiently.

"You gonna ask me how my date went?"

"I thought you were gonna call me when you got home."

He sighs and his expression changes to sadness.  "I was, but..."

He searches for words, then says "I'm sorry I didn't call you 
or return your messages."

"So, you got the messages."  Definitely angry.

"Yeah," he grins, "all six of 'em."

I look down, a little embarrassed.

He's waiting for me to ask, so I play along and say, "So, how was 
your date?" a little less enthusiastically than I intended.

"It was... horrible.  I bored the hell out of her.  She wouldn't 
even walk me back up to my apartment."

A part of me is happy that it didn't work out, but another, 
larger part of me is sad that Mulder had to endure yet another 
rejection.

"Why was it so horrible?"  I ask.

"Because I tried to be myself."  He responds sadly.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, absently sipping our drinks.

"Scully," he finally says, "why don't you ever date?"

I think for a moment, then answer, "Because no one ever asks me.  
And I'm not interested in anyone anyway."  

Even though I'd never admit it to him, I had a niggling 
suspicion that the fates were determined to keep me with Mulder 
at all costs.  I had given up on meeting anyone, falling in love, 
and riding off into the sunset together a long time ago and 
became content with my like right where it was.  And just as I 
had started to doubt where my life was going, where my end--
Mulder's end--would be, I'd stumbled into Daniel again.  If I'd 
learned anything from my encounter with Daniel a few weeks ago, 
it was that all the decisions I had made in the past were the 
right ones, and that in the end I was exactly where I was 
supposed to be: beside Mulder. 

I wondered if Mulder had had a similar epiphany about me; that he 
was destined to be stuck with me for the rest of his life.

"Oh."  He says sadly and goes back to nursing his tea.

Something suddenly dawns on me, and I abruptly say, "Mulder, can 
I ask you a question?"

"Yeah."

"Did you really intend to have a good time last night?"

He's shocked at my question, but doesn't answer right away.  "Why 
wouldn't I?" he finally asks.

"Okay, let me try this another way.  Where do you see yourself in 
ten years?"

Now he's positively perplexed.  "What do you mean?"

"I mean, where do you see yourself in ten years?  Still at the 
Bureau?  Still single?"

"I don't know."  He answers.  "I can't see any reason why I 
wouldn't be at the Bureau."  He studiously ignores the second 
question.

"What about twenty years from now.  You know the Bureau forces 
retirement at fifty--five."

He nods and considers.  "Then I guess I'll be retired."

We regard each other for a minute before I continue.  "Still in 
DC?"

"Maybe.  I've always wanted to go back to the ocean."

I nod, encouraging him.

"I can't see myself married, if that's what you're getting at."

There's my answer.  "Why not?"

"I don't know.  Can you see me married to anyone?"

I laugh and say, "no."

"Why the questions, Scully?"

I take a deep breath.  "Mulder,"  I deflate.  Why the questions, 
indeed.  "By the time most people are our age, they're already 
married.  With kids, a dog, a mortgage, and plans for the 
future."

He nods, still confused.

"You're not.  And maybe its time to think about changing that."

"You don't have any of that stuff either."

I sigh, caught.  "My point is where does it end."

"What end?"

"This.  The X--Files, your quest for the truth, this solitary, 
singular obsession you have?"

He looks at me with confusion on his face, so I continue.  
"You've found your sister and the men who took her are most likely 
dead, yet you still keep going.  Why is that?"  

He doesn't respond right away, so I keep going.  "Why aren't you 
looking for someone to settle down and build a life with?  Are 
you just so used to your life the way it is that you're afraid to 
change?  Are you afraid that you don't know how to change even if 
you wanted to?"

"I don't know.  I've never...  I haven't really ever though about 
it.  I've always been so focused on the present that I've never 
really considered the future.  And I guess I never really thought 
I would have to put any effort into finding someone and getting 
married.  It just seemed to be effortless for everyone else-- 
dating and stuff.  But I think that subconsciously, I never 
though I would get married.  I mean, who would want me?  Now, I 
just don't know.  I don't know the answers to your questions.  I 
don't even know that I want all... that," he gestures at the air 
and stares at me as if I have a feeble grasp of the English 
language.  "Scully, I don't regret the way I spent my life.  Yes, 
I regret some of the things that happened, to you especially.  
Yes, sometimes it was frustrating and lonely, but I was never 
really alone."  He looked pointedly at me and finishes, "If I had 
to do it all over again, I would still choose to spend my life 
looking for my sister."

"Even knowing that you would never find her?  That she had been 
dead all those years?"  I interrupt.

"Yes... wouldn't you?"

Oh, don't make me do this, Mulder...

"Mulder, all those things that most people have when they're our 
age, I want those things.  I still want to get out of the damn 
car.  I want that stability and certainty of someone to spend the 
rest of my life with.  Someone to share myself and my life with.  
I want a happy ending like you got..." my chin is trembling now 
with what I'm about to say.  "But I can't have it."

He snaps to attention with a rebuttal on his lips, but I keep 
going.  "Mulder, you can have that.  You deserve that."  I 
whisper with as much vehemence as I can muster.

"Why can't you have that, Scully?"

My chest is heaving in an ineffectual attempt to take deep 
breaths and stave of the tears I feel welling up inside me.  "You 
told me you were free.  You found your Holy Grail, and you got a 
happy ending too.  Well guess what.  I didn't get a happy ending 
Mulder, and I'm not free.  My sister is still dead from a bullet 
through the head.  My daughter--the only daughter I will ever 
have--is dead from an excruciatingly painful disease.  I had to 
watch her die, watch her suffer and I stood there knowing that I 
couldn't do anything to help her.  Well, where were Emily's walk-
ins, Mulder?  Where were Melissa's?"

My voice breaks.  I pause for a few seconds, getting my emotions 
back in check, and continue.  "I can't ever have any more 
children because of what They did to me.  I'm not free, Mulder, 
and I never can be.  This can never end for me.  And because of 
that, I can't have what I want for me.  But for you... I just want 
you to be happy.  That's all I've ever wanted for you.  Why don't 
you want that?"  I end in a weak whisper.

A few hot tears are slipping down my cheeks, and I duck my head to 
avoid making eye contact with him.  My words have sobered him, but 
as usual, my crying is making him uncomfortable.  I think that my 
confession has shocked him, and we sit tense silence for a few 
minutes. 

"Are you saying that I should marry Alicia?" he finally asks 
incredulously.

"No.  No, not at all."  I say in a voice hoarse with grief, 
wondering where the hell all of that had come from.

He's silent for another minute, then asks, "What are you going to 
do when the Bureau forces you to retire?"

"I don't know."  I say sadly.  "I though about moving back to San 
Diego, but as long as my mother still lives in Baltimore, I'll 
stay on this coast."

"You'd be closer to you brother out there... or did you just want 
to go back to the ocean, too?"

"I don't know... a lot of reasons."  I say, smiling slightly.  
"But, yeah back to the ocean, too."

I realize how ironic that is, that we both want to ultimately 
return to the ocean, where we came from. 

"Scully?" he asks softly, "do you honestly think that after 
everything that has happened to you because of me that I could 
ever abandon you for a fairy tale ending, leaving you all alone?"

No, of course he wouldn't.  And I've probably added so much guilt 
to him in the last ten minutes that he'll never leave me, if 
only out of some misguided attempt of loyalty.

When I don't answer him after a few seconds, he says again, 
"Scully?"

"Yeah?"  I ask, barely audible.

"How about, if neither of us are married by the time you retire, 
we get married."

I laugh mirthlessly and ask, "to each other?"

"Yeah.  We could move up to the Vineyard... or wherever you want 
to go..."

"Mulder... do you think we could stand being married to each 
other?"

He grins and says, "We could get used to it."

I look down, not giving him an answer.  I couldn't ask him to 
spend the rest of his life with me, his nagging partner who could 
never been more than an empty, useless vessel.  

"Even if we don't work together, I still want you to be a part of 
my life."  He says softly.  "I can't imagine my life without 
you."

I can't tell if he's being sincere, or just trying to make me 
feel better, but it further depresses and infuriates me.  When I 
was younger, I wanted to be in love with the man that I married.  
I wanted him to be in love with me.  I never, ever wanted someone 
to marry me because they thought that they couldn't do any 
better.  I never wanted anyone to pity me so much that they would 
spend the rest of their life making sure I was never alone, never 
lonely.  Mulder deserves better than me and my grief.  He has for 
years now, but neither of us ever realized it.

"You know Mulder, I won't be around forever..."

He looks down and nods.  "I know."

"And right now, aside from the Gunmen, I'm the only person in 
your life.  What if something happened to me?  Then what would 
you do?"

"I don't want to think about that."  He says quickly.

"I could be shot by a suspect tomorrow.  My cancer could come 
back...  Or something as mundane as a car wreck--"

"Stop."  He says angrily, and I do--for a moment.

"You need someone else in your life besides me.  You need to stop 
wasting time."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head.  He almost looks like 
he's about to cry, too.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?  I just want you to be happy 
in the end."  I remind him, now significantly less confident 
about this conversation than I was.

"Yeah.  I just don't agree with everything you've said."

I exhale sharply and look down.  We sit in silence for a few 
minutes before he abruptly stands and walks to the door, saying, 
"I guess that's a no?"

"No, what?"  I ask, harsher than I intended.

"If neither of us are married by the time you retire, we can't 
get married?"

I sigh, exhaustion eating at me.  "If I said yes, you'd stop 
looking for someone else.  Someone who can give you everything I 
can't.  I couldn't do that to you."

"Maybe I don't want anyone else," he says angrily.  Then, he 
turns, opens the door, and leaves, slamming it being him.

<><><>End<><><>

Author's notes: Okay, I don't really know if the FBI requires its 
employees to retire at 55, but I couldn't find out the real age, 
either.

Please let me know what you thought of this fic: 
lil_gusty@hotmail.com.



Title: Signs From God(1/3)
Classification: SRA. Lots of A.
Keywords: Scully/Other, MSR/UST, AU.
Rating: R, for language.  Flagrant use of the F word.
Distribution: Anywhere, just let me know.
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me; they belong to 
            Mr. Chris Carter, lucky bastard.
Spoilers: Every episode ever produced until "Je Souhaite," 
          but that last one specifically is "all things."
Timeline: A few weeks after "Je Souhaite" and after my fic 
          "Practice."
Feedback: Ooooh, yes to lil_gusty@hotmail.com.
Thanks: At the end.
Notes: Here is it, the fabled third part of my little series.  
       You will need to read "The Longest Time" and "Practice"  
       before reading this one, unless you want to be totally 
       confused.  

Summary: Ethan's return has Scully questioning her past, her 
         present, and her future.

<><><><><><>

"When you ain't got nothin', you got nothin' to lose."
            ~ Bob Dylan
<><><><><><>


For some reason, everyone thinks that Mulder can't organize an 
egg carton, let alone complete an entire expense report on his 
own.  But Mulder is very good with numbers, which, I'll admit, 
surprised even me a little; I took lots of math as an undergrad 
and these things befuddle me sometimes.  Mulder and I learned a 
long time ago that, since we both hate doing the damn things and 
are both still capable of doing them correctly and quickly, we 
would share the responsibility.  We alternate, it works well.

Except that I ran out of Ben & Jerry's Concession Obsession 
about thirty minutes ago.  I can't work with large numbers 
without ice cream.

I briefly consider putting my trench coat on over my pajamas and 
going to the store to stock up on supplies, but decide against 
it.  It's only Friday, after all, and I have all weekend to get 
this thing done.

I get up and walk into the kitchen to get some water when I hear 
a knock on my door.  My immediate thought is that Mulder has come 
to rescue me from boredom and migraine headaches, but that wasn't 
his knock.  Mulder-knocks are always loud and confident, as if 
he's knocking out of politeness instead of necessity.  This knock 
was soft, shy, insecure.  Almost like the knocker decided against 
knocking three seconds after he began.

My water forgotten, I approach the door and stand on my tiptoes 
to look into the peephole.  For a second, I don't recognize the 
man standing there, and then my world turns upside down.

Not knowing what else to do, I unlock the door and open it 
slowly, trying to figure out what to say.  I peak out of the 
opening I've made, staring at the toes of the shoes in front of 
me.  I work my gaze upwards, to the gray dress pants and wrinkled 
white work shirt, the mildly non-decorative tie, and finally to 
the drawn, world-weary face of the man to which they belong, 
looking everywhere except at his eyes.

For a minute, we just stand there, silently appraising each other 
from our opposing sides of the threshold.  He's giving me a 
similar stare to the one I gave him - toe to head.  I'm breathing 
quite heavily, and my heart has decided to beat at twice its 
normal rate.  I hope he can't hear that.

Not knowing what else to look at, my eyes fall on his mouth which 
is mutely working syllables, trying to figure out exactly what to 
say.  That's a first: speechlessness from him.  In all the years 
that I'd known him, I'd never rendered him speechless by anything 
I'd done.  I just wish I knew exactly what I'd done this time to 
finally achieve it.

I keep my lips tightly closed, afraid that if I start to say 
something, I'll never stop.

He breaks the silence before me and we make eye contact for the 
first time.  In his eyes, I see apology and fear; not something 
I'm used to from him.  "Hi," comes out as almost a whisper and I 
look down, afraid of what he saw in my eyes.  Whenever I used to 
look at his eyes, I could always tell what kind of mood he was 
in.  He wasn't as easy as Mulder - Mulder's chameleon eyes give 
everything away to anyone smart enough to pay attention.  Gray 
for sad, depressed, self-loathing; green for anger; hazel for 
happiness, contentment.  Ethan was always more difficult.  One 
had to pay careful attention to his moods before one could match 
them with his steady brown eyes.  I always saw love in his eyes, 
no matter what his mood.  At times it was tinged with fear or 
confusion, even disappointment, but love was always there 
balancing the other renegade emotions, reassuring my place in his 
heart and his life.

He used to tell me that my eyes turned a deep, cold blue when I 
was angry, and that he saw that color much more often than he 
wanted.  Other than that, he said, my emotions were unreadable to 
him.  Mulder tells it different, and maybe I've changed since 
Ethan last saw me.

When I don't immediately respond to his greeting, he tries a 
different tactic.  "I hope this isn't a bad time," he starts, 
only marginally louder than before.  "I just thought..."

He sighs and I realize he's nervous.  That makes me feel better.  
Maybe it's his heart I hear trying to pound its way out of his 
chest instead of mine.  "I was in town for a conference and I... 
thought I'd say 'hi,' see how you're doing."

I nod, still looking at my fuzzy brown slippers.  The same fuzzy 
brown slippers that miraculously managed to stay on my feet 
throughout my most recent ass kicking from Donnie Pfaster.  While 
I was hog-tied and bleeding on my closet floor, waiting for him 
to run me a bath and pull out my nails and severe my fingers, at 
least my feet were warm.  

Brown - how ugly.  They don't go at all with my pale blue 
pajamas.  I wonder what Mr. Pfaster would think of that fashion 
disaster.

I still haven't said anything to Ethan, still haven't looked at 
him except for that one brief glance into his eyes.  "Maybe I was 
being too...presumptuous.  If you want me to go, I will."

I consider for a moment.  No, I don't want him to go, but if he 
stays, we'll have to talk, and I don't know if I want that.  I 
wanted to talk eight years ago, when he left me.  I don't know 
what I could possibly have to say to him now, or what he could 
possibly have to say to me.

"No.  No..."  I finally manage to whisper to my fuzzy brown 
things.  I see his shadow sway as he nods, but says nothing.  I'd 
forgotten that he has to be invited in now that he doesn't live 
here anymore.  "Come in," I say thickly, stepping back so he can 
enter.

"Thanks," he whispers, taking a tentative step, then another, 
across the threshold and into my apartment.

I close the door and lock it, taking my time with the simple 
task.  I'm delaying the inevitable as long as possible.  Whatever 
has finally brought him here, I doubt it has to do with just 
saying "hi" and seeing how I was doing.  He wouldn't be here 
unless he wanted something specific - Ethan was always a very 
specific person.  

I finally look up and see him taking in his surroundings.  Over 
the years, I'd gradually made a lot of changes to the apartment, 
replacing furniture as time and wear dictated, rearranging things 
to suit my convenience.  I find myself absently wondering what he 
thinks about all the changes surrounding him.

"Do you want something to drink?"  I ask perfunctorily from 
behind him, trying to break the tension in the air around us.  I 
hope my voice isn't shaking.

He turns around and faces me, shaking his head.  "New couch," he 
observes.  "I like it."

I nod, not knowing what else to do.  "Thank you.  Have a seat," I 
say as I go into the kitchen and make myself another glass of 
water, the first forgotten on the counter.  Did he say he wanted 
something to drink?

"Thanks," he says again, eyeing me closely as I take a seat at 
the other end of the couch, as close to the armrest as I can get.  
It's awkward, having him here after all this time.  For all of 
the times I though I couldn't ever stand to be away from him, now 
I can't stand to be close to him until I know why he's here. 

I look down and turn my glass around and around in my hand, 
looking for something to do.  He's staring at me.  How can he 
stare at me when I can't even look at him?

"I guess I should have called; I know how you hate surprises,"  
he begins, lacing his words with sarcasm.  Yes, Ethan, I 
remember.

I nod absently but say nothing, not knowing how to respond to 
such an obvious insult.  I wasn't used to him hurting me; it was 
always the other way around.

He sighs deeply.  "I'm sorry, Dana.  I didn't come here to dredge 
up the past - "

"Then why did you come here?"  I interrupt suddenly, finally 
looking at him, though not at his eyes.  While he's probably 
planned and prepared for this moment, I'm reeling from his abrupt 
reappearance at my door.  Logically, I know I should have turned 
him away instead of letting him in, letting him upset me like 
he's doing.  

He did say that I think too much, though.

He sighs again and runs a hand through his hair.  I was right; 
he's nervous and scared.  Obviously, that preparation didn't give 
him any extra confidence.  "I thought I'd see how you were 
doing...after all this time."

"Why?"

He shrugs stiffly, trying to meet my eyes.

"You mean, you wanted to see if I regretted everything that 
happened?  You wanted to see if you could get me to beg you to be 
a part of my life again?"  I ask, suddenly very angry.

"No, not at all," he says solemnly, seriously.

I tilt my chin up, feigning confidence and nonchalance.  "Then 
why?"  I ask again, beginning to get annoyed.

"I just...wanted to see you again.  Is that such a bad thing?  
Wanting to see you?"  He almost looks like he's holding back 
tears.  He must be allergic to the air freshener.

I hang my head, knowing I've overreacted.  "No, I guess not."  I 
don't know what else to say, so I stare into my water.

"I know I surprised you, in fact I'm probably the last person you 
expected to see, but..."  He fades out, taking a deep breath.  
"If you really want me to go, I will."

"You haven't gotten what you came for yet,"  I say sarcastically, 
just low enough for him not to hear.

His shadow nods again.  "So...how are you?" he asks hesitantly.

"I'm..."  I stop and take a deep breath trying to figure out 
exactly what I should tell him.  "I'm good...good."  I finish, 
less than convincingly.

He keeps nodding and continues, "Still with the Bureau?"

"Mmmhmm..."  Quit staring at me, dammit!

"So, what do you do there now?"

"I'm still working on the X-Files with Agent Mulder."

"Oh...really?"  He asks, shocked.

"Yes.  Really."

He nods again, keeping time to some random song I can't hear.  He 
sighs and wistfully says, "Eight years..."

"Yeah...eight years."  I agree.

We're silent for another minute and I wonder if that's all he 
wanted to know: if I was still a field agent instead of working 
at Quantico or a hospital.  Then, he begins interrogating me 
again.  "So what about other stuff?"

"Other stuff?"  I ask.

"Yeah, you know...family, love life..." he fades out again.

"You mean, am I seeing anyone?"  

He nods shyly.  "Well, I assumed you weren't married.  I didn't 
think you'd still be living here if you were, and no one has come 
out to chase me away yet, so..."

I decide to humor him.  "No, I'm not seeing anyone."

He makes a sound that says he's intrigued by my answer and we 
fall into an uncomfortable silence.  The polite thing to do would 
be to ask him how he is.  After a few tense minutes, my curiosity 
gets the better of me and I make my mother proud.

"So, how are you?"

"Me?  I'm uh...good."  He says quietly, looking down at his 
hands, fingers templed between his legs.  He seems surprised I 
asked.

"Still with CNN?"

"Yup."

We start nodding together.

"I uh...recently got divorced."  He offers, still looking down.  
I nod some more, not knowing what the polite thing to do would 
be.  I'm beginning to wonder if the real point of his visit was 
to compare notes after all these years.  "We were married for six 
years."

Just two years after he left me, he married someone else.  I was 
being abducted by either aliens or the government, or perhaps 
both, while he was on his honeymoon - how depressing.

We're both still for a moment before I bravely say,  "If you 
don't mind my asking...what happened?"

"She, uh...she had an affair with one of our neighbors."  He says 
quietly.  I look down, blushing slightly.

"I'm sorry." 

"Well, it was my decision to end it.  She wanted to try and work 
it out, but...I didn't think I could trust her anymore."  He 
raises his head and looks off into space in front of him.

"You never were one to stay and try to work things out."  

"It was a hard decision.  The hardest one I've ever had to 
make - "

"And I suppose it was just easy to leave me?  I thought you 
thought more of me than that."

"Dana...that's not what I meant.  It's...it's different."

"How is it different?"

"I was thinking of more than just myself, which is something that 
you never did.  I had to do the best thing for my daughter - "  
He stops abruptly, realizing he's said more than he intended.

I absorb this new piece of information for a moment before 
asking, "You have a daughter?"

"Yes, and I didn't tell you that to try and hurt you.  I was just 
trying to explain...kids...change things."

"I know," I whisper absently.

"No.  You can't know until you've had them...how many things 
change because of them."

I know how much having - and losing - a child changes things, 
changes you, better than I could ever tell him.

"Is she old enough to understand what happened?"  I ask suddenly.

"No, not really.  She's only five."

He and his wife certainly didn't waste any time.  While his 
daughter was being born, my daughter was being created in some 
sterile, top-secret government facility without my knowledge.

"What's her name?"

"Emma."

Oh, that's too much.  This has to be some kind of joke.  I get up 
suddenly, walking backwards away from him until I run into the 
wall.  "Stop," I say less angrily than I had intended.  The tears 
in my throat make it difficult to articulate my emotions. 

"What?"  he asks, rising and following me.

"Just stop.  You don't know,"  I say suspiciously.

"Don't know what?"

I take a deep breath and push my tears down into my stomach where 
they can't get out.  "I'm sorry..."  I whisper, hoping he'll drop 
this line of conversation.

"Dana, I didn't mean to upset you by telling you all this."  I 
nod, knowing I must look like an emotional basket-case to him.

"No.  I know.  It's... it's not what you think," is all I can 
manage before I have to push more tears away.  I can't let him 
see me like this.

"Dana..." he says softly, slowly coming to stand in front of me.  
"I'm sorry...I didn't think it still hurt this much."

I vehemently shake my head, raising my eyes to look into his for 
the second time tonight.  He tentatively puts his arm around my 
shoulders.  At first, I resist his gesture out of pride.  When he 
doesn't pull away, I gradually relax into his partial embrace, 
letting him comfort me, if only for a moment.  Oh, I'd forgotten 
how good that feels; to have someone hold you and not pull away.

"It's not *that,* Ethan..."  is muffled by my hands ineffectually 
trying to hide my grimace from holding back my tears.  I can't 
say anymore, so I try and shield myself from him as best as I 
can.  In the two years we were together, I'd only cried in front 
of him once, and that was in anger and frustration, not sadness 
and despair.

He doesn't let go of me when I try to turn away.  Instead, he 
cautiously approaches me and leans his forehead against my 
temple, rocking me for a few minutes.  Maybe I'm humoring him, 
letting him think that my killing his child is the reason that 
I'm upset.  Maybe I want him to believe that; the truth is just a 
little too complicated for him to hear, if he'd even believe it.

But I think he needs this too, to comfort me after all this time, 
and I let him have it.  We never talked about what happened, why 
we broke up.  He left and never looked back before I was even 
released from the hospital.  Maybe he regretted his hastiness: I 
killed his child and never gave him an explanation.  Maybe that's 
why he's here, for an explanation, to see if I regret it as much 
as he does.

He kisses me softly on the temple and pulls back, turning my chin 
towards his face.  He brushes the renegade tear tracts from my 
cheeks and quietly, strongly reiterates, "I didn't come here to 
upset you."

"I know," I whisper thickly.  I rub my eyes hard with my palms 
trying to dry the dampness that's collected there despite my 
normally iron control.  He nods and pulls away from me slightly, 
unsure of how his gesture of comfort has been interpreted.  He 
moves his hand to the center of my back and rubs gently.  Just 
what I need.

"Maybe..." he sighs.  "Maybe I should go.  It's late, you're 
ready for bed," he says, fingering the edge of my silk pajama top 
just above my hip.  I nod, not knowing what else to do.  As 
ashamed as I am of my actions and his witnessing them, his 
presence, surprisingly, was a comfort.  Ethan was one of the only 
people in the world who actually made me feel better by holding 
me when I was upset.  He didn't patronize me or make me feel 
childish.  When I told him to go away, to go to Hell, he 
hesitated before he approached me, but he never left me.

I miss someone knowing the difference between when I need them to 
go and need them to stay.

When I don't look at him, he softly asks, "Are you gonna be 
okay?"

"Yeah," I say, raising still-damp eyes to his equally damp brown 
ones.  I sniffle once and nod, trying to convince him, and he 
nods in return, letting me regain my strength.

He doesn't let go immediately and, desperate to change the 
subject, I impulsively ask, "How long are you in DC for?"

He pushes a piece of hair behind my ear and says, "Just until 
Tuesday.  I've been here since the day before yesterday, but I 
couldn't work up the nerve to come see you 'til tonight."

He laughs softly at himself, trying to lighten the mood.  I smile 
slightly and he finally pulls away from me.  I start walking 
towards the door and he follows me.  When we reach our 
destination, we briefly lock eyes again and he asks, "Maybe we 
could have dinner tomorrow night?"

I look down and stifle a grin.  "If you don't have any plans, of 
course," he sarcastically amends.

Oh, yeah, I have a date with an expense report, sorry.  "No.  I'd 
like that."  I look up at him again and he smiles.  He's so cute 
when he smiles like that, just like a little boy.

I mentally wince at that thought and he opens the door.  "I'm 
looking forward to it.  I'll be here about 6:30?"

"Okay."

"'Kay."  I stare at the center of his chest and he leans down and 
presses his lips to my cheek.  "Goodnight," he whispers.

I feel a shock course through me as his skin touches mine again.  
"'Night."  I whisper back, not daring to raise my eyes.

He quietly steps out, closing the door behind him.  After locking 
it, I take a deep breath and try and figure out what the hell 
just happened.  When no explanation is forthcoming, I do the only 
logical thing: I take a shower and sob for about forty-five 
minutes.

Later, in bed, I stare at the ceiling and try not to imagine what 
my son - our son - would look like.  He would be almost eight 
years old now.  Would he look like Ethan?  Or me?  Or maybe a 
combination of both of us?

I used to dream about him right after the abortion, wondering if 
I'd truly done the right thing.  I dreamed of him laughing, 
playing.  Sometimes I dreamed of him hurt and crying.  But I 
never once regretted my decision.  At that time in my life, I 
believed I had done the right thing.  Not just for myself, but 
for my son as well.

Ethan's visit shocked the hell out of me, and our conversation 
depressed me even more.  A little over eight years since the last 
time I saw him and he suddenly comes back into my life, if only 
briefly, and we shared tears over memories of the life that 
wasn't - the life that I took away from us.

I know what my mother would say.  She would say that it's a sign 
from God.

<><><><><><>

Stupid me accidentally mentioned to my mother earlier today at 
lunch that I had plans tonight.  She prodded and cajoled until I 
admitted that yes, it was a date.  Yes, it was with someone she 
knew.  Then, of course, she asked who it was.

At first, I hesitated.  I knew that if I told my mother that it 
was Ethan, she would bring up the past - what happened, why we 
didn't get married, and all the other stuff that I had worked so 
hard to forget over these last eight years.

Eight years...God, I can't believe it's been that long.  It 
doesn't seem like I've been a field agent for that long; it 
doesn't seem like I've known Mulder nearly that long.  Sometimes, 
I think I know him better than anyone - that I know everything 
about him.  Other times, its almost like I barely know him at 
all.  

When I think of all the things that have happened in such a short 
amount of time, I wonder when I even found time to live in 
between the tragedies and deceptions, let alone cultivate the 
best friendship that I've ever had in my life.  

When I got home from lunch, I sat on my couch and thought for 
three hours.  I though about a lot of things, but mostly about my 
impending date with Ethan.  Spending just a few minutes with him 
last night had turned me into an emotional wreck, and I wondered 
what it would be like after spending hours with him tonight.  I 
felt like, somewhere in the world, someone was scheduled for an 
execution and the executioners were testing the death knell to 
make sure it still worked.  I could feel the vibrations from that 
sound.  It bounced around my empty insides and made me shutter.

When he knocked on my door at 6:25, I snapped out of my reverie 
and realized that I was still in my old jeans and faded blue tee 
shirt that I had worn earlier.  I hadn't even realized it had 
gotten so late.  I wasn't dressed for a date; I didn't feel like 
a date.  I felt like I wanted to crawl in bed and not come out 
until Monday morning.

I answer the door and let him in.  We don't speak at first, but I 
notice that he's dressed casually as well.  He's also bouncing up 
and down on the balls of his feet - a sign of his nervousness.

I wasn't nervous, though.  I was nothing.

"You ready?"  He asks uncertainly.

"Yeah," I reply, sadder than I had intended or felt.

We don't speak again until we're in the car.  Ethan goes first.  
"You know, the only thing I didn't miss about living here is the 
traffic."

I smile tightly, wondering exactly what he had missed.

"I don't know how you do it everyday," he continues.

"Most of the time I don't drive.  I walk to Foggy Bottom and take 
the Metro."  My voice was dull, disjointed.

"Foggy Bottom?  That's so far away!"

"No, not really.  And it's good exercise."  That wasn't exactly 
true.  Yes, I did take the Metro every chance I got, but it's 
hard to walk that distance in heels every day.

He had taken me to what used to be our favorite Mexican 
restaurant.  I hadn't eaten there in years although I still loved 
the food.  In the beginning, there were too many memories; later, 
it got too depressing to eat alone in a restaurant.

Abruptly, as our waiter walks away with our order, I ask Ethan my 
question from earlier.  "What did you miss?"

He doesn't seem to know what I'm talking about, so I clarify.  
"About DC - Georgetown.  You said you didn't miss the traffic.  
What did you miss?"

He sighs heavily and rearranges his silverware.  "Lots of 
things."

He seems content with his answer and takes a sip of water.  I 
continue staring at him until he elaborates.  "Like, I miss those 
sandwiches they used to sell at that deli down the street from 
the apartment.  If one of us had to work late, the other would 
stop on our way home and get us some sandwiches for supper.  And 
they were so messy.  The vegetables would always come out the 
bottom while you were eating it."  His eyes are looking past me, 
at some nondescript point in space.  There's a slight twinkle to 
his eyes, and I wonder if it's a happy memory.  "Well, mine would 
do that, but you always had some dainty way of eating yours so 
that it stayed together and wouldn't get oil and vinegar all over 
your hands.  You used to laugh at me, and I'd chase you around 
threatening to smear mayonnaise in your hair."  He fades out 
towards the end and drops his head.  He was never ashamed to let 
me see him cry, but he hated to do so in public.  I remembered 
that, too.

We're silent for a minute, both of us thinking about the past, 
about good, messy deli sandwiches.

We don't speak again until we're back at my apartment, both of us 
lost in memories.  He parks close to the building and turns off 
the ignition.  He expects me to react - to tell him thanks for 
dinner, but goodnight.  To tell him not to be so presumptuous.  I 
don't do anything, though.  I'm still lost in my head, lost in 
the past.

"Dana?"  He starts, hesitantly.  It takes me a long time to 
swivel my head around to his, and when I do, he continues.  "What 
ever happened to us?"

That's it: what I've been waiting for the entire night.  He wants 
to know why I did what I did, why I didn't tell him.  He wants to 
know what he did wrong and how he can fix it.

"It's late, Ethan.  I have work to do..."

"It's only 7:49, and you can do your work tomorrow.  I'm going 
home Tuesday and...I don't want to wait another eight years 
before I get to talk to you again."

"You said you'd call me.  You asked me not to call you and I 
didn't."

"I know...but I didn't know what to say.  What was I supposed to 
say, Dana?  I just didn't understand."

"If you didn't understand then, you won't understand now."  For 
the first time tonight, we make eye contact.  I see my anger and 
hurt reflected back at me, and I can't take it.  "Thank you for 
dinner," I say quickly as I get out of the car and start walking 
to my apartment.

I hear the car door slam as he gets out to follow me.  When he 
catches up, he grabs me by my arm and spins me around to face 
him.  "Don't you do this to me again, damn it!  I let you shut me 
out once and it cost me everything!  I'm not letting you do that 
to me again!"  His face is red and his eyes are brimming with 
tears.  His voice is raised; Ethan hardly ever raised his voice 
with me.

I drop my head and swallow against the sob in my throat.  After 
all this time, I wouldn't have thought that it would hurt so 
much.

He lets go of my arm and stands, panting, towering over me.  I 
turn back towards the door to my building and he follows me.  I 
want to tell him to go back to his hotel, back to Atlanta, but I 
can't.  I can't let him go without discussing this first, knowing 
how he feels about what happened, how he feels about me.  I need 
closure, if nothing else.  

Back in my apartment, I automatically start some coffee, avoiding 
him for as long as possible.  He goes into the bathroom and 
emerges a few minutes later with a damp shirt and bangs.  His 
eyelashes hold onto a few stubborn drops of water from where he 
tried to cool himself off, making them look darker and longer 
that they are.  He looks like a sulking, adorable little boy.

He stands behind me as I continue to prepare the coffee and 
begins what I know will be a long, emotional conversation.  His 
voice starts out soft and unassuming, but by the end, he's 
shouting and angry.  "I know that you didn't want to get 
pregnant.  I know that it was a huge shock and that the timing 
was horrible.  I know that you wanted what was best for your 
career and that a baby didn't fit into that.  But what I don't 
know is why you wouldn't tell me any of this.  We could've 
discussed our options instead of you making such a hasty - "

"What options?  There were no options, Ethan.  The baby would've 
died anyway if it had even been born.  Maybe I was doing us a 
favor."

"How can you say that?  How did you do us a favor?"

"By saving us the trauma of having a child only to lose it."  
Damn it.  I knew I would cry eventually, but we'd barely even 
begun to scratch the surface.  I'd never faced these feelings 
before.  Right after I was released from the hospital, I went 
back to work, back to Mulder and the X-Files, throwing myself 
into my job and turning my back on my emotions.  Without him 
there to force me, I'd separated from the pain until it seemed 
like it had never happened to me at all.  Now that he was back, 
Ethan was reuniting me with that pain, forcing me to face it.

"Dana...God doesn't do things without a reason.  He wanted us to 
have that child.  Maybe he was trying to tell us something."

"I don't even know that I believe in God anymore," I whisper more 
to myself than to him.

He's silent for a minute, shocked at my announcement.  "Dana, God 
wanted us to have that child the way He made it.  There was a 
reason for that, but you wouldn't see that - "

"What was the reason?  What could be so damn important that he 
gave us a horribly deformed child to show us?"

"Maybe he was trying to show us that that was the way it was 
supposed to be.  Us - you and me - together, raising a child, a 
family."  I'm stunned into silence - I'd never thought of it that 
way before.  "But you were only concerned with yourself," he 
whispers, now more sad and tired than angry.

I find my voice again.  He's not playing fair, digressing from 
the subject.  "Oh, and what exactly were you concerned with?  You 
didn't give a damn about me or what I wanted for my life!  You 
were too stuck on your fancy directing job to even notice that I 
worked my ass of for my reputation at Quantico.  That was all 
that I ever wanted and you didn't care!  You just expected me to 
give it all up for you and move to Atlanta!"

"It wasn't your life anymore, Dana.  It was our life.  And yes, I 
felt that I could make a better living for us in Atlanta working 
at CNN than in DC at some second rate local news station.  And 
you would've been better off at a hospital being a real doctor 
instead of being locked away cutting up dead people for a living.  
I was thinking of us, Dana, of our future, but you were too 
selfish to realize that.  Maybe that's what God was trying to 
show you!"

"All that God has ever shown me is how nothing I ever do is 
Goddamn right!  I can't ever do anything right!  It was my body, 
Ethan, and my baby.  I could do whatever the fuck I wanted to 
with it!  And I did!  I made a decision for myself - the best 
decision that there was and God has been punishing me ever since!  
So don't stand there and tell me that what I did was fucking 
wrong!  Don't stand there and tell me that you know what's best 
for me because you don't and you never did!"  My ears are buzzing 
and my heart is racing and my throat is throbbing from all of my 
yelling.  Tears are streaming down my face and I immediately 
regret everything that I've just said.  I've opened the door to 
his curiosity, and now he'll want answers.

My chest heaves as I pant and try to get myself back under 
control.  He approaches me, slowly, carefully.  "Dana...what do 
you mean God's been punishing you?"

I squeeze my eyes shut wishing that I didn't have to tell him 
this.  It will make him look right, and make me look like a fool.  
I take in a few deep breaths and feel my heart start to slow 
down.

"A few years ago I had a daughter.  She was very sick."  I pause 
to swallow, but don't look at Ethan's reaction.  "She had a very 
severe and rare form of anemia.  She..." I sob pitifully and will 
myself to finish this, to show him that not everything is about 
him.  "She died.  She was only three years old."

The sobs take over now, and Ethan puts his hands on my upper 
arms, soothing, rubbing.  "Dana..."

"I can't ever have any more children.  I'm infertile," comes out 
in a pitiful rush.  He sighs and keeps rubbing.  "Maybe that's 
God's way of punishing me," I whisper. 

I'm crying openly now, my voice thick with tears long unshed.  
Ethan says nothing, taking me in his arms and tunneling his 
fingers through my hair, slowly rubbing soft circles in my back.

"Her name...her name was Emily."  I add, hiccuping a few times 
before I finish.  He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, 
realizing why I became so upset last night when he mention his 
daughter, Emma.  He pulls me into his chest again, resting his 
chin at my temple.

"I'm so sorry, Dana," he whispers, and I sob harder.  Ethan says 
nothing more as I pound my fists in frustration against his 
chest, heaving and sobbing.  He lets me cry everything out, 
emptying my soul into him until finally, I relax into his arms in 
exhaustion, and he carries me to my bedroom, kissing my forehead 
and cheeks gently before I drift off to sleep.

<><><><><><>

I wake up with sticky, swollen eyes and a sore throat, but I'm 
warm - so warm.  I think for a moment that I'm dreaming - that 
someone has their arms around me, holding me close, keeping me 
warm.  It's safe and familiar, this feeling, though I haven't 
experienced it in years.  I missed it.

I slowly open my eyes to darkness.  I sigh contentedly and burrow 
further into the man in front of me.  It wasn't a dream; it was 
Ethan.  Of course, he stayed last night, not wanting to leave 
after my admission, with so many things left unsaid.  Maybe he 
just wanted to hold me as much as he knew I wanted to be held.

I turn my head around and look at the digital clock on my night 
stand - 2:14 am.  I sigh again and readjust myself in his arms.  
I know that I should get up, be angry with him for being so 
presumptuous, but I'm comfortable and content right where I am, 
and I want to enjoy this before he wakes up and we have to finish 
our conversation.

He's not in bed with me; we're laying on top of the bed together 
with a blanket thrown over us.  I notice that my feet are cold - 
he took my shoes off before he laid down.  I stick my feet 
between his calves and think about how considerate that was.  He 
could've just laid me on the bed and gone out to the couch, or 
just left completely.  But he didn't.  He stayed.

I close my eyes again, but I'm not sleepy - tired, but not 
sleepy.  I am thirsty, though.  I weigh my options: do I get up, 
disturbing my comfortable cocoon and probably waking Ethan, or do 
I lay here and be thirsty.  My throat feels like it was set on 
fire and then scratched with a Brillo Pad, and I know some cold 
water would make it feel better.

Ethan and I shouldn't be laying here like this anyway.

I slowly, carefully withdraw myself from his arms.  He shifts 
slightly, reaching for the blanket to make up for his lost 
warmth.  I pull the blanket back up to his chin and he shifts 
again, but doesn't wake.  I let out a breath I'd been holding and 
back slowly away from the bed.  In the darkness, I can barely 
make out my pajamas on the corner of the bed, and I quickly 
change into them.  I walk into the kitchen, greedily drink a 
glass of water, and wince as it hits my abused throat.  I had 
yelled at Ethan last night - screamed, really.  I don't know that 
I have ever been so angry, with him, with myself, with God, with 
everything and everyone for all of the injustices in my life.

I had told Ethan that I blamed God for them, that He was trying 
to punish me.  I believed it in my overly-emotional state, though 
now I'm not so sure that it was the truth.  If one wanted to get 
technical about it, everything was Mulder's fault.

But I can't blame Mulder for the way that I've reacted to 
everything that's happened to me.  I was responsible for my 
feelings and how I had let them affect my life. 

I straighten the kitchen, pouring out the coffee that we didn't 
drink last night, washing the pot, and placing it back in the 
coffee maker.  I wipe off the counter and rinse out the dishrag.  
Then, I stand in the middle of my dark kitchen, looking at 
everything around me, seeing nothing.

I walk to the couch and contemplate laying down.  If I fall 
asleep, I don't want Ethan to find me here and get the wrong 
impression about me waking up with him, then coming out here to 
sleep.  I appreciated what he did, I just don't want to talk to 
him in the daylight.

I know that if I go back to my bedroom, I'll certainly wake him 
up when I lay down, so I choose to lay down on the couch and pull 
the blanket down over me.  I shiver, though I'm not cold.  Not on 
the outside, anyway.  I pull the blanket tightly around me and 
close my eyes.  I try not to think of anything, to just be still 
for a while, but instead I find myself thinking of what my life 
would have been like if I'd kept the baby, married Ethan, and 
moved to Atlanta.

I know that the baby would've died - there was no doubt in my 
mind.  But I could've told Ethan about our son and we could've 
made a decision together like he'd wanted.  Knowing the Church's 
stance on abortion, we would've decided to keep it and let God's 
will be done.  Then we would've told our families knowing that I 
would be showing by our wedding day.  His parents, while devout 
Catholics, loved their son regardless of his misgivings.  They 
knew that we had sex and while they didn't necessarily approve, 
they didn't scold or criticize either.  They accepted him, and 
they would've accepted our son and me as well.

My parents would've been more of a challenge.  My father would've 
been angry, blaming me for "letting this happen."  As I had told 
Mulder, my father still thought I was a virgin when he died, and 
would never had conceived that his baby girl, his Starbuck, 
would've fornicated and conceived a child out of wedlock.  My 
mother would've publicly told him to calm down, but in private 
would've agreed with him.  She would've told me that she was 
disappointed in me for not being responsible.  She would've 
politely turned her head when I entered the room with a swollen 
stomach, and would've been horribly embarrassed that her 
rational, practical daughter would be the one to get pregnant.  
She would've calmly explained to Father McCue why I needed 
counseling and confession, and why Ethan and I shouldn't have a 
public wedding, but a private, just-the-immediate-family service.  
When the baby was born sick and deformed, my parents would've 
told me that it was God's punishment for my sins.  If I would've 
had a miscarriage and bled to death, God would've decided that I 
wasn't worthy of life if my innocent child couldn't have it 
either.  They would not have seen my death as a tragedy. (Do you 
really think her family would be this harsh?)

Ethan and I would have buried our first child in Atlanta.  I 
would've been working at a hospital then, and may have decided to 
go back to school to change my specialty - to pediatrics, maybe.  
Ethan wanted me to work on the living.

He probably would've wanted to start having children immediately, 
having had and loved a brief taste of fatherhood.  I would've 
agreed, though I doubt that I would've been emotionally ready to 
deal with another pregnancy, another child.  I would've gotten 
pregnant again soon after and would've wanted to continue school 
as long as possible, which Ethan would've disagreed with.  We 
would fight, and in the end, I would've stopped going to school 
until after the baby was born.  I would've stayed home without a 
job, perfecting my June Cleaver routine, cleaning house every 
week, making sure supper was on the table when Ethan got home at 
night, and going quietly insane.

After the baby came, his parents would congratulate us on our 
lovely, perfect child.  My parents would shake their heads and 
pray that God didn't use this innocent to teach me yet another 
lesson.

Ethan would've told me shortly after the birth that he wanted me 
to stay home with our child instead of going back to school.  He 
would've hated the idea of a baby sitter or daycare, so I 
would've agreed to sacrifice my life, my wishes, to cater to his.  
It would've been easier than fighting with him.  If I'd have 
fought him on everything we disagreed on, we would've fought 
constantly.  We would've gotten divorced, and my parents would've 
disowned me.  It was just easier to give in to him.

About a year after the first healthy child, he would've wanted a 
second.  I would've given in again.

He would've convinced me, years later, to continue not to work, 
to instead be involved in our children's lives by volunteering at 
their school, being "room mom."

At night, he would sleep curled up to my back, and I would cry 
quietly, thinking about how much I had sacrificed to him.  My 
intelligence, years of hard work in college and medical school, 
my body, my life - all to his ideals of how our life should be.  
I would still love him and my children very much, but I wouldn't 
have been happy.

I would lay awake and wonder about what my life would've been 
like if I'd never told Ethan about our first son, married him, 
and quit the FBI.

I never would've met Mulder, but I would have Melissa.

I would have those three months that They took from me.

Emily would never have been created, and she never would have 
suffered what They did to her.

I would have the ability to have children, whether I chose to or 
not.

I would have companionship and love.

I wouldn't be so empty and alone.

<><><><><><>

I must've fallen asleep, because my next conscious thought is of 
smelling coffee and hearing water running.

When I peak over the top of the couch, I see Ethan's bare back 
and jean-clad legs standing at my sink.  He'd gained weight, 
though not much.  He wears it well, and for the first time in 
almost eight years, I feel a kindling of attraction and desire 
towards him.

I lay my head back down and close my eyes, wondering what the 
next step will be.  Obviously, he didn't misinterpret me moving 
to the couch, because he's still here, fresh from the shower, 
making us coffee.  Everything - mugs, spoons, and cream - is 
still in the same place it was when he left.  For a second, it's 
almost like nothing has changed at all.

I hear the water stop and then him pouring coffee into mugs, 
adding two spoonfuls of creamer to mine, and one spoon of sugar 
and creamer each into his.  Then, his bare feet squeak and then 
shuffle against the floor as he walks from the linoleum kitchen 
to the carpeted living room to stand at the end of the couch.  He 
hesitates, then sets the mugs down on the coffee table and 
carefully sits down on the edge of the cushion and puts his hand 
on my hip, shaking gently.  "Dana..." he whispers.

I sigh inwardly and open my eyes, blinking sleepily.  His blond 
hair is still wet, looking dark brown, matching his eyes.  I had 
forgotten how beautiful he looks like this.

"What're you doing out here?" he asks gently.

"Mmm...I got up to get some water and was afraid I would wake 
you."

"I missed you."

I close my eyes again and think about that phrase.  I've been 
thinking the same thing a lot in the past thirty-six hours.

After an uncomfortable beat of silence, he says softly, "I made 
you some coffee."

I sit up, pulling the blanket with me, and take the mug he 
offers, tasting it and smiling.  It's perfect - just how I like 
it.

"What?" he asks of my smile.

"This...coffee.  You remembered how I take it."

"Oh."  We're silent again, sipping the hot coffee and trying not 
to stare at each other.  "I hope you're not angry about last 
night.  That I stayed with you."

"No.  No, it was...it's fine."  I answer, a little wary of where 
the conversation is going.

"Dana, I had no idea about your daughter.  I'm sorry, I just - "

"It's okay.  There's a lot more to the story than what I told 
you.  I'm sure it would make more sense if I explained everything 
to you, but..."  I hesitate, hoping he'll take the hint.

"You don't have to.  It's really none of my business, I guess."  
More uncomfortable silence.  Then, "So, do you usually go to Mass 
on Sundays?"

"No, not usually.  Only when my mother nags me into it."  We both 
laugh a little halfheartedly.  He remembers how pushy my mother 
can be about things like that.

"I've been making more of an effort to go lately.  After 
everything that happened with Michelle, I sought comfort in the 
church.  And it's good for Emma."

"Michelle's your ex-wife?"

"Yeah."  He's walking on eggshells, not knowing how emotional I 
am now.  He doesn't know that last night isn't usual for me.  In 
fact, I can't remember the last time I actually allowed myself to 
wallow in my self-pity like that.

I know that he wants me to ask him to go to church this morning.  
That, unfortunately, would require my mother to actually know 
that Ethan and I were speaking again, which would give her 
something else to nag me about.

"Do you still go to St. John's in Alexandria?" he asks, still 
fishing for his invite.

"Yeah."

"Father McCue still there?"

"Yup."

He sighs and smirks at another memory.  "Remember how excited he 
was the day that he announced our engagement to the 
congregation?"

I nod my head and look at my lap.  Ethan never was tactful, and 
he wasn't above inviting himself when I wouldn't take the bait.

"Do you think maybe we could go?"

"Ethan..."  I sigh and roll my eyes under my eyelids.  "I haven't 
been in such a long time.  I'm not quite as...devout as I used to 
be."

"Well, then maybe it would be good for you."

I nod again, though I don't agree.  "We'd probably see my 
mother."  I say quietly, hoping parental involvement might 
discourage him.

"That's okay; I'd love to see her."

Great.  At least one of us is excited.  If I said no to him, he'd 
get angry.  Then we'd argue some more and he'd leave.  I couldn't 
stand it if he left now, not after last night.  And it wouldn't 
kill me to go to Mass with him.  Maybe we would get there late 
and have to take seats near the back, then leave right after it 
ended.  Maybe my mother wouldn't see us.

But Father McCue would.  Ethan wouldn't let us leave before the 
end, until Father McCue exits, walking down the aisles towards 
the door, shaking hands and nodding hellos.  He would see us, and 
he would corner us after the service was over to talk.  My mother 
would notice the three of us and I would never hear the end of 
it.

I nod again and raise my head to look at the smile on his face.  
I had forgotten how that smile looked on him, and how it felt to 
know that I put it there.

"Great!  How 'bout I go back to my hotel to change and pick you 
up about 8:45?"

"Okay."  I say softly.

"All right."  He stands up and says, "see you in a bit," as he 
leans down and kisses my forehead.  When he pulls back, he's 
still smiling, and to my surprise, so am I.

<><><><><><>

Of course, I was right about Father McCue wanting to talk to us, 
wanting to know what went wrong.  Ethan simply said, "We decided 
that it wasn't a good time to make such a strong commitment," and 
Father McCue said nothing else.

My mother, after spotting us and exchanging confused and happy 
looks with Father McCue, asked if she could take Ethan and me out 
to lunch.  Ethan immediately said yes and didn't even notice my 
hesitant nod.

At the restaurant, while Ethan was in the restroom, my mother 
asked if my "plans" last night had been with him.  I nodded and 
she beamed.

When he returned, my mother asked us if we could go back home 
with her for a few hours, "to talk."  Ethan started to say yes, 
but I interrupted saying that I had some work to do at home and 
that we wouldn't have time.  They both looked at me as if I had 
said it in Gaelic, then Ethan said that he had some work to do as 
well, though less than enthusiastically than I had.

Back at my apartment, I stopped him before he was able to cut off 
the ignition.  "Ethan, I really do have a lot of work to do this 
afternoon.  That wasn't just an excuse."

"Oh..." he gives me a sad look and I close my eyes, willing 
myself not to give in to him.  "I won't stay long," he says 
quickly, then cuts the car off and gets out.  I have no choice 
but to follow him.

"So, exactly what kind of work do you have to do?" he asks when 
we're settled upstairs.

"I have to finish an expense report."

"Ooh, I can see why you were so excited to get back to it," he 
says teasingly, and I smile back.

"Well, usually, I finish them on Fridays, but someone interrupted 
me."

"Oh.  Sorry."  He doesn't mean it.  "I really have work to do, 
too, though nothing as interesting as an expense report, so..."  
He's about to leave; this is a crucial moment.  "It was nice 
going to Mass with you.  Kinda like old times, huh?"

"Yeah," I answer, not knowing what else to say.  It was just like 
old times, and that's the problem: I just wish I knew if that was 
good or bad.

"Well," he looks down, unsure how to continue.  "I know you have 
to go to work tomorrow..."

"Yeah."

"Do you think we could have lunch?"

"Sure, I guess."

"Great!  Can I meet you at the FBI building or will they not let 
me in?"

"No, they won't let someone who doesn't have security clearance 
in,"  I lie.  I don't want Mulder asking any questions.

He laughs stiltedly, then says, "So, how 'bout we meet 
somewhere?"

I nod, and he asks, "Know of anyplace good?"

"Well, the Hard Rock Cafe is just across the street from Hoover, 
so..."

"Perfect!  Is 12:00 okay?"

"Yeah, that's fine."  I say, almost looking forward to it 
already.

"Okay.  Well, I guess I'll see you then."  I nod and he catches 
my eyes and holds them with his.  He leans down and strokes my 
face and hair with on of his hands, puts the other on the back of 
my head, cupping it.  Then he gently brushes his lips against my 
cheek, just under my eye.  He pulls back slightly and his eyes 
are open wide, his pupils dilated slightly.  I can feel myself 
quivering, and I give him a weak, half-smile.  He leans in again 
and brushes his lips over mine for a brief second.  Then he pulls 
back, still keeping his hands where they were.  "I'll see you 
tomorrow," he whispers close to my ear.  I nod, and he turns and 
walks quietly out the door, glancing back and smiling just before 
he closes it.

<><><><><><>

"Scully...Scully..." he shakes my shoulder and I jump in my 
chair.

"Jesus, Mulder."  I say, slightly annoyed.

"You've been kinda spacey all day...is anything wrong?"

"Hmm?"  I was proof-reading a report he had written before we 
have to turn it into Skinner, and although it was only a few 
pages long, it had taken me most of the morning to get through 
it.  I was having trouble concentrating, and I guess I forgot to 
ask "how high" when Mulder said "jump."

"I've been trying to get your attention.  I didn't mean to scare 
you."

"It's okay.  I don't know what's wrong with me," I lie.

"You sure?  Nothing you want to talk about?"  He's giving me his 
patented kicked puppy look, the one that begs me to let him in, 
to tell him what I'm thinking.

"No, I'm fine," I lie again.  Actually, I'm nervous as hell.

"Okay," he says softly.  He gathers his suit coat from the back 
of his chair and announces, "It's lunch time.  Your turn to 
pick."

Oh, shit...  "Uh, actually, I have plans," I say, not looking up.

He hesitates for a minute before asking, "Plans, huh?  Anything 
interesting?"

"No.  Just a...a friend in town for a few days."

"Ahh...okay.  Well, have fun."  Then, to my utter amazement, he 
walks out the door, as if this isn't maybe the fourth time in 
almost eight years that we've not had lunch together, like I have 
"plans" all the time.

Maybe he just doesn't give a damn.

I put my computer into sleep mode and leave the office, locking 
the door behind me.  I glance at my watch, wondering if I have 
time to stop by the restroom.  Nope, 12:10 already.  I'll bet 
Ethan's already got us a table and ordered my drink.

When I arrive at the Hard Rock Cafe, I realize I'm wrong.  The 
hostess hadn't seen a 6'2" blond-haired-brown-eyed man waiting 
for someone matching my description.  I go ahead and get us a 
table, since they're crowded, and wait for him.  Whatever he's 
doing at his conference must've run late, or maybe he got stuck 
in traffic, or maybe he just decided that this was a bad idea, or 
something.

I'm sipping my water, watching the condensation collect on his 
glass of coke when I see him approaching me.  He has a huge smile 
on his face, and I wonder if it's because of me or because he's 
free of conference-boredom.

"Hey!"  He says merrily, and bends down to kiss my cheek.

"Hey," I say back, smiling slightly myself.

"Sorry I'm late.  The presentation I was forced to listen ran 
over."

"It's okay, I was a few minutes late myself."

"More expense reports?"

"No.  No, I was reading a report one last time before we turned 
it in."

He "hmms" in the back of his throat and picks up a menu.  "So, 
what's good here?"

"You've never been here before?  Isn't there one of these in 
Atlanta?"

"Yeah, but once you've had The Varsity, you never go back," he 
says, looking at me over his menu and grinning mischievously.

"What's The Varsity?"

He feigns shock and says, "Only the world's largest drive-in."  

"And I'm supposed to know what you're talking about?"

He laughs.  "No, but I go there for lunch just about every day."

This was easy, conversing with him, joking with him.  We were 
acting like two good friends, or maybe a slightly cautious, 
flirtatious couple, having a normal, casual lunch together.  I 
nod and we go back to perusing our menus.  

"What're you getting?"  he asks absently.

"Well, I should get the salad, but Mulder and I had lunch here a 
few times and he converted me to the cheeseburger."

"Sounds good to me," he says, abruptly putting down his menu to 
stare at me.  I pretend to be interested in the desserts.  

We're silent until our waiter comes and takes our orders.  After 
he leaves, Ethan says nervously, "So, what about tonight?"

I take a sip of water and think.  "Tonight?"

"Yeah.  I'm going home tomorrow, but..." he pauses.  "I've 
enjoyed these last couple of days with you.  I'll miss you."

I exhale a little too forcefully.  I want to ask why, if he 
missed me so much, he didn't call me all these years.  Instead, I 
look him in the eye and tell him the truth.  "I'll miss you too."

He nods.  "So, maybe we could have dinner tonight?"

"Sure.  I'd like that."

He nods again and we stare at each other for a while.  I feel it 
again: that inkling of desire and passion I didn't know I still 
had for him.  Maybe it's just the fact that he obviously feels 
the same that's making me feel this way.  Its not everyday that 
I'm looked at as a woman, an object of desire; not everyday that 
I'm made to feel wanted, special.

I smile slightly at the thought of this and he grins.  "So, how 
was work?"  he asks.

"Boring, today.  We were writing that report all morning, 
researching for our next case."

"No shooting bad guys?" he smirks.

"No, most of a field agent's job is spent behind a desk."

"I can't imagine that you'd like a job like that," he says, 
shaking his head.

"Well, Mulder and I spend a lot more time in the field than most 
agents.  It's really rare that we're stuck in the office all 
day."

"Chasing aliens and ghosts?"

He laughs and I'm infuriated.  How dare he make fun of my work -  
Mulder's work.  "No.  Is that what you think I do?"

He notices my change in demeanor and says quickly, "No, Dana, of 
course not.  It was just a joke."  I nod, not totally believing 
him.  "I just...remember that thing with Mulder and the Iowa 
Congressman..."

Okay, I overreacted.  I think after all the shit I've put up with 
from other agents who are just jealous of our 75% solve rate, I'm 
entitled.  "It's okay, Ethan.  I know, you didn't mean it to 
be...derogatory."

He smiles again and it infects me.  Our waiter brings our food 
and we eat, grinning at each other like teenagers on their first 
date.

<><><><><><>

"Must've been some lunch,"  Mulder says as I walk into the office 
27 minutes late.  His eyes follow me as I hang my head, trying to 
hide my blush, take a seat at my workstation that isn't a desk, 
and awaken my computer.

When I don't say anything in response, he asks, "So, was this 
lunch a lunch date?"

"You could say that,"  I answer, intentionally vague.

"With a guy?"

I shoot him a look.  "Yes, Mulder.  With a guy."

"Cute guy?"  Another look as I try not to laugh.  "Hey, I gotta 
make sure you aren't slipping."

"He's...reasonably attractive."

Mulder nods, suddenly very serious.  "So, how long is he in town 
for?"

"He's leaving tomorrow."

"Oh!"  He jumps up from his reclined-feet-on-desk-posture, sudden 
seriousness gone, and slaps some picture in front of me.  "What 
does that look like to you, Scully?"

<><><><><><>

"Hello?"

"Dana, hey, its me."

"Ethan, hey..." He's not backing out on dinner, is he?

"Listen, I'm really sorry, but this meeting that I'm about to go 
into, it's supposed to last until 7:00.  There was a typo on the 
schedule, I though it ended at 6:00.  I won't be able to make 
dinner.  I'm sorry."

I can tell he really is sorry, but it hurts none-the-less.  
"That's okay, it's not your fault."

"I know, but I was looking forward to it.  I really wanted to see 
you again."

I wanted to see you again, too.  "Well, um...why don't you just 
come over here when your meeting is finished?  We could order a 
pizza or something."

"I probably won't get out there 'til 7:45; are you sure?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine!"

A beat of silence, then, "Well, I'll call you before I leave so 
you can order it, okay?"

"Okay."

"'Kay...bye."  Wow, a man who actually says "bye" on the 
telephone.

<><><><><><>

"You've got good timing.  I met the pizza guy on the way up," he 
says as he breezes into my apartment, a spicy, mouthwatering 
scent surrounding him.

"I was going to pay for it tonight."

"It's okay."  He sets the pizza down on the kitchen table and 
kisses me on my cheek.  "I'm starved; let's eat."

During dinner, we talk about our days.  Ethan's was appropriately 
boring while mine wasn't much better.  Contrary to what Mulder 
had thought, the ectoplasm in the photos turned out to be lime 
green Jell-O that had been frozen, then thawed, and thrown on a 
wall, according to the lab techs and the twelve year old who 
admitted to perpetrating said "crime."

Afterwards, Ethan asked me a question that I hadn't been prepared 
for.  "Dana, are you happy?"

"What?"

"Are you happy?  With your life, your job..."

Was I?  I didn't know.  I hesitate before answering warily.  "I 
guess.  My job isn't exactly perfect, but I don't hate it, 
either.  I don't dread going to work every morning.  I enjoy 
working with Mulder and making a difference in the world.  I 
guess I'm happy."

"What about the rest of your life?"

"My work...is my life," I say sadly.  He looks at me as if that 
answer isn't acceptable, so I turn the tables.  "Are you?"

He sighs and looks at the floor.  "After Michelle and I divorced, 
I started asking myself that.  I honestly can't say that I was - 
if I was happy before...happier than I am now."

I nod, encouraging him to continue.  "When Michelle left, I felt 
like I had lost everything.  Nothing seemed to matter anymore and 
I wondered what I was supposed to do without her.  But then her 
lawyer contacted me saying she was going to ask for full custody 
of Emma after the divorce and I suddenly realized what truly 
mattered to me.

"I fought her with everything I had.  I told her I'd give her 
anything she wanted if she didn't take my little girl away from 
me.  At first, the judge gave us joint custody, but Michelle 
would always keep Emma longer than she was supposed to, promising 
to return her to me at certain times and never following through.  
We went back to court and I got full custody of her.  Now she 
hardly ever sees her mother.  Michelle didn't want Emma, she just 
wanted to hurt me."

He's trying not to cry although I know this is hard for him to 
talk about.  "Where is she while you're in DC?"

"With my parents.  They moved to Atlanta a few years ago."  He 
pauses, then continues.  "One of the things that I wondered 
through all of this was what I had done to deserve it.  I did a 
lot of soul searching and a lot of praying and I realized that I 
was missing a lot of crucial things in my life.  Things I had 
given up on that maybe I shouldn't have."  He looks me straight 
in the eyes, then.  "Like us."

I draw in a sharp breath and sit perfectly still.  "Dana, I know 
that I hurt you when I left you like I did, but I don't think 
that you could ever know how much you hurt me."

I nod, now fighting back tears as well.  "I know...it hurt me, 
too.  What I did...and then you leaving..."

"And I'm sorry that I left you.  I...for the longest time, I 
thought I had done the right thing.  You obviously weren't ready 
to get married and I shouldn't have tried to force you...but now, 
I think that it was a mistake - to just...leave."

A tear slips down my cheek and he reaches over to brush it off.  
"I'm leaving tomorrow and I don't know when I'll be back; if I'll 
be back.  But if you tell me to, I'll make sure I come back."

I sit up on my knees, lean across the middle cushion of the 
couch, and place my hands on his shoulders.  Slowly, I move 
towards his lips with mine and touch them lightly.  He doesn't 
pull away.  After a few seconds, I open my mouth and we kiss in 
earnest, teasing each other's tongues and slanting our mouths to 
increase contact.  It's dizzying - this feeling.  I can feel his 
desire rolling off of him in waves, and I know he can sense mine 
as well.  If I tell him to, he'll stay.  Not forever, but just 
for tonight.  It may just be enough for now.

"Stay."  I gasp when we separate.  He responds by crushing his 
mouth against mine again, wrapping his arms around me tightly, 
and pulling me towards him.

My last coherent thought as he's carrying me into my bedroom, my 
legs wrapped around his waist, is that tonight will be enough.  I 
will make it enough - for both of us.

<><><>End Part 1<><><>

Feedback time!  Lil_gusty@hotmail.com.



Signs From God (2/3)
Headers in Part 1

<><><><><><>

As I lay in the cool morning air, enjoying the feel of my crisp 
sheets against my body and the warmth of Ethan pressed against my 
back, I wonder if I was wrong, if this is how my life with him 
would've turned out: making frenzied, passionate love until three 
a.m., then passing out spooned together in the center of our big 
bed.  This is what I would've wanted - to be held and loved and 
cherished, like he's doing now.

I slowly run my hands over his lightly furred arms, strong and 
safe around my waist.  Enjoying the feel of his skin against 
mine, touching me everywhere, I sigh and burrow back into him 
even more.  Yes, this is all I've ever wanted.

"You awake?"  he whispers behind my ear, and I smile.  For a 
moment, I just want to lay here a bit longer and pretend that 
we're the only two people in the world.  Maybe we would talk 
about trying to have a child, our first child.  It would be a 
mutual decision, a product of our love.

I nod without speaking, not wanting to break the spell.  I wonder 
if he feels it too, and wants to preserve this feeling as long as 
possible.

"You didn't sleep much," he whispers again, nuzzling that tender 
spot just behind the lobe of my ear.

I shake my head in response and squeeze my eyes shut tighter.  
Maybe I wouldn't have to be at the hospital until this afternoon, 
and Ethan wouldn't have to be at work until later in the morning, 
and we could stay just like this for hours, building up our 
energy to make love again and again and again.

I feel his leg, warm and heavy, slide down over mine and curl 
around them.  I playfully try and release my legs from the prison 
of his, but he holds strong, both of us smiling in the darkness.  
"Mmm...what time do you have to get up for work?"

That's it - the spell is finally broken and reality crashes into 
me so hard that I want to cry with the injustice of it.  I say 
nothing, willing Ethan to end the conversation and lay here in 
silence with me for just a few more minutes.

"Dana..."  he tries again.  I shake my head, not wanting to 
answer.  Instead, I roll to my back, forcing him on top of me.  I 
bring my arms up around his shoulders and blindly kiss him as 
close to his lips as I can get -  ah, success.

Too soon, he pulls away, shaking his head.  "My flight leaves at 
10:30; can you take me to the airport?"

I shake my head again, willing him to stop speaking, placing my 
finger over his lips and kissing his throat.  He groans and I 
have him - this is all I've ever wanted.

"Dana..." he says breathlessly as I kiss my way down his neck to 
his collar bone.  I shift my legs until I'm positioned under him, 
drawing my knees up as far as I can get them and locking my 
ankles at the top of his thighs.  "Don't do this again..."

I freeze where I am.  "What?" I whisper.

"You used to do this all the time."

Well, obviously.  You used to never complain about it.  "What?"  
I ask again, a little more forcefully.

"Use sex to try and distract me, to keep from talking to me."

Oh, that.  Yes, I used to seduce him so that we wouldn't have to 
discuss whatever he wanted us to.  I never thought he noticed the 
pattern.

I tuck my head just below his chin and hold back a sudden sob.  
Is it really so much to ask to be loved like this?

"One more time..."  I quietly say into his chest, running my 
fingers lightly up and down his rib cage, trying not to sound as 
pleading as I feel.

"Promise you'll talk to me later?"

"Yes."  Then his mouth is on mine, hard and demanding, and I hope 
this never ends.  Yes, this is all I've ever wanted.

<><><><><><>

"You never answered my question,"  he reminds me from his half-
dressed position on the foot of my bed, watching me dress.

"Hmm?"  This is so normal, so domestic.  Would it have been like 
this every morning?  One of us dressing while the other watched, 
silently asking them to crawl back in bed and forget about the 
rest of the world for just one day?  Or would one of us struggle 
to get the kids up and dressed for school while the other fixed 
coffee and a quick breakfast to share before we started our days?

"I guess you have to be at work at 9:00, but do you think that 
you could take me to the airport?"

Only in my happy little domestic world, my husband wouldn't be 
getting on a plane in a few hours, flying out of my life - again.  
I watch my fingers clumsily try to button my white blouse, not 
meeting his gaze in the mirror.  "No.  I have a meeting with the 
Assistant Director this morning."

"Oh."

I turn around as he takes my beige skirt off of its hanger and 
unzips the side.  "You can chase after suspects in this?"  he 
asks incredulously.

"If I had to, I could, but I don't anticipate having to do that 
today."  I sit down beside him and slowly roll my hose over my 
legs.  He watches me, mesmerized by what I'm doing...and probably 
aroused as well.  I stand and take my skirt from him, sliding it 
over my hips, tucking in my blouse, and zipping it up.  I'm 
standing right in front of him, facing him, and I notice the 
sudden large size of his pupils.

I hike up my skirt a little, situating myself on his lap, one leg 
on each side of him.  He locks his arms around me, supporting me, 
and I slide my nails from the tops of his shoulders down his 
stomach.  When I reach denim, he inhales sharply, closes his 
eyes, and tilts his head back slightly.  I  don't say anything.  
When he opens his eyes again, I just stare into them.

Suddenly, he looks down and takes a deep breath.  "I didn't know 
this would be so hard..."

"What?"  I whisper, lowering my lips to his ear, blindly fumbling 
for a button and zipper.

"Leaving again.  I don't want to leave..."  He pulls me into a 
fierce hug then, trying desperately not to cry.

"You could stay a little longer - "

"Emma's expecting me back today," he whispers hoarsely.

I sigh, trying to keep my emotions under control as well.  I knew 
that this would come.  I knew that he would leave me again, and I 
would be alone.  Maybe I shouldn't have allowed him back into my 
life so readily and quickly, only to lose him again.

"Dana?"  he whispers.

"Yes?"

"Do you still love me?"

I squeeze him tighter, not knowing what to say.  Before I can 
answer, he says strongly, voice laced with tears, "'Cause I still 
love you."

I rest my forehead on his shoulder.  "I don't want you to go,"  I 
whisper pitifully.

"You know I have to..."  He's silent for a minute, and I can feel 
his heartbeat underneath my eyes.  "But I want to know 
something."  I nod.  "I want to know if this was just a one-night 
thing.  I want to know if you still love me..."

I press my face further into him.  Last night wasn't about love 
for me.  Last night was about loneliness, desperation, wanting, 
feeling, pleasure...just about everything except love.  I didn't 
ask him to stay out of love.  I asked him to stay because I 
needed him to.  I needed to feel something besides emptiness for 
just one night.

"If you do, I will find a way to make this work, Dana.  I will 
find a way for this to last forever."

He's said the magic words and I believe them.  I nod again, still 
not knowing what to say or what to feel.  Maybe its simple: right 
now, I feel loved.  When he leaves, I'll feel empty, alone, and 
worthless.

"Yes,"  I whisper, not really knowing what I'm agreeing to, if 
it's the truth or not, or if I even mean it.  I just know that I 
can't let this go again.

<><><><><><>

It took us another forty minutes to finish dressing and for me to 
choke down some orange juice.  Ethan decided that, while I 
finished getting ready, he would toast us a bagel.  I couldn't 
eat my half though, so he'd had to whole thing to himself.  Even 
with just the juice in my stomach, I felt queasy and feverish.  
If Ethan was feeling the same, he didn't show it.  He was 
nervous, but it was probably pre-flight jitters.  He wasn't 
feeling the same things I was; he had someone waiting for him at 
home, someone who cared whether he lived or died, whether he ever 
returned or not.  I had nothing. 

"Here - this is fine.  This is as close to the building as 
they'll let you."  He pulls the car into a lucky parallel parking 
space near Hoover.  He insisted on driving me to work and against 
my better judgment, I let him.  I should've said no, that I would 
drive myself, said goodbye to him at my apartment and used the 
trip to Hoover to reign in my emotions before having to face 
Mulder...and the Gossip Queen Kimberly and Skinner and our 
meeting.

We sit in silence, me staring at the traffic, Ethan staring at 
me.  "You should get going.  You don't know what traffic will be 
like, if there'll be an accident - "

"You're babbling," he interrupts.

"It's true,"  I say, suddenly defensive.

"You trying to get rid of me?" he asks playfully.

"No...but I don't want you to miss your flight."  I whisper, 
tears threatening again.  Why did I do this to myself?

"Dana..."  he cups my face in his hand, brushing away the tear 
that's fallen from my left eye.

"No.  No, you should go..."  I swallow thickly and search for 
something to say to break to awkward tension in the car.  
"Emma...I know she misses you..."  He nods slightly.  "You should 
go, Ethan."

He nods again, not letting go of my face, trying to turn it 
towards him.  "I do love you, Dana."  I nod in response and he 
forcefully admonishes, "And I will find a way to make this work."

I realize that he never even asked if that's what I wanted, if I 
wanted him to "find a way to make this work."  I wonder exactly 
what he means by that.  If he plans to move to DC and for us to 
get married, or if he wants me to move to Atlanta, just like 
before.  "I have to go,"  I say quickly, stepping of out the car 
and slamming the door behind me before he could change my mind, 
before I could figure out just what I'd gotten myself into.

When I find a clearing in traffic, I cross the street, not 
looking behind me.  I feel his eyes on me as I disappear into a 
side entrance, quickly flashing my ID and rushing away, out of 
his line of vision.  I walk down the hall with my head down and 
my shoulders slightly slumped.  I reach the elevator and push the 
down button, summoning it to me.  While I wait, I glance out of a 
window and see his rental car just where he'd parked it.  He 
couldn't see me, but his gaze was still fixed to the building.  
For a few seconds, I pretend that I can see the expression on his 
face.  Then, he looks behind him, puts the car in gear, and pulls 
out onto the road, towards the airport, away from me.  The 
elevator dings announcing its arrival and I step inside, square 
my shoulders, and tilt my chin up high into the air.  One of the 
agents in front of me nods in recognition and punches the "B" 
button for me.  "B" for basement; basement for Mrs. Spooky.

<><><><><><>

Before going to our office, I stop by the restroom to make sure 
that my face isn't splotchy, that my eyes aren't puffy or red.  
It doesn't really matter if they are or not.  Mulder will know 
that something is wrong even without any physical evidence.  He's 
always been able to do that - to know that something is wrong no 
matter how adamantly I deny it or try to cover it up.  Sometimes 
it's a blessing, other times a curse.

The office door is open and yellow florescent light mixed in with 
white rays of morning sun spill out into the dim hallway, 
inviting me in, luring me home.  I step into the light, into the 
office in a hurry, not saying "good morning" or looking at him, 
making a bee-line towards my area that is not a desk.

Gee, that was subtle.  Mulder will never suspect a thing.

The Monday morning after Mulder's date with Alicia Wilder, I did 
the exact same thing, thinking that maybe if I entered quickly 
enough, he wouldn't notice that I'd come in at all.  Of course he 
did, although he didn't say anything more than a quiet "morning" 
to me.  We were silent for the rest of the morning, trying to 
avoid speaking to or looking at each other as much as possible.  
I was embarrassed about my behavior the previous day, and I 
suspected that Mulder felt the same way about his.  A casual 
conversation about a date he had with someone else had turned 
into a deep discussion about our futures.  We had both admitted 
more about ourselves that we had intended and were now unsure 
about how those admissions had affected the other.  I'm sure 
Mulder didn't understand everything I had said to him - how could 
he?  - and I couldn't figure out what he had meant by his last 
words to me.  I doubted that Mulder's aspirations for the rest of 
his life include spending it with me, but I was afraid to even 
ask for clarification.  So, we tiptoed around each other until 
lunch time, when Mulder sighed heavily, got up from his chair and 
came to stand over me as I absently typed something on my 
computer.  He started making me uncomfortable, so I looked up at 
him.  He had that half-apologetic, half-uncertain look on his 
face, the corners of his mouth were turned down, and his sad eyes 
had dark, puffy circles underneath them as if he hadn't slept 
last night.  "Lunch?"  he asked quietly, offering a truce.  I 
saved what I was working on, put my computer to sleep, and rose 
to follow him out of the office, neither of us speaking more than 
was necessary.

We had eventually regained our normalcy and now, it was hard to 
imagine that Sunday had ever even occurred.

Mulder never mentioned going out on another date with Alicia or 
anyone else, and I didn't know how I felt about that.

He gives me a glance as I sit down at my computer, but doesn't 
say anything immediately.  After a few minutes, he approaches my 
area, kneels down next to my chair and says, "Scully?"  I look at 
him with my "this better be good, I'm busy" look.  "Everything 
okay?"

"Yeah,"  I answer, turning back towards my screen.

From the corner of my eye, I see him give me his best "bull shit" 
look.  He rises and walks back to his desk, saying, "We should 
probably head on up to Skinner's office then."  He didn't believe 
my lie, and Mulder never gives up that easily.  He'll let it 
slide now, but he'll try again later. 

I nod and pick up my report, following him silently to the 
elevator.

<><><><><><>

By the time our meeting was over, it was almost lunch time, and 
Mulder and I silently decided to take an early lunch.  He doesn't 
waste any time trying to get me to talk.

"Scully?"

I look past him over my water glass then back down to the menu.

"You seem a little distant today."  Hmm...  chef's salad or the 
grilled chicken salad?  "Are you sure everything's okay?"

I nod, not looking up.

He angles his head, trying to see my eyes.  "This wouldn't have 
anything to do with your friend leaving today, would it?"

Damn his memory!  I look up then, stare at a spot just above his 
left shoulder, a slightly annoyed mask painted on my face.  I'm 
annoyed at the fact that he pays so much attention to me, knows 
me so well, and that I can't hide anything from him, even if I 
wanted to.

Which I don't.

He nods, knowing that he's hit the nail on the head.  "Has his 
flight already left?"

"Yeah."  Italian or honey mustard dressing? 

"Where does he live?"

"In Atlanta."

He nods and turns around, jokingly trying to see what I'm staring 
at.  He turns back and catches my eyes, a small, adorable smile 
on his face: his unspoken concern for my lack of eye contact.  He 
doesn't smile often enough.  It makes him look younger, more 
attractive, like he hadn't carried the world on his shoulders for 
over twenty five years.  "Well, that's not too far away.  Do you 
see him often?"

"No...no, I haven't seen him in eight years."

He nods again, desperately trying to keep me talking.  "And he 
just came to visit, out of the blue?"

"No.  He was in town for a conference."

He takes a sip of tea.  "Good friend?"

I suddenly get brave and rebellious.  "We used to be engaged."

Mulder coughs, choking on his tea.  Oh, good job, Dana.

He just stares at me, eyes wide and watering from coughing, mouth 
hanging open.  I smile slightly, not really feeling it, and stare 
at something over his shoulder again.

"Engaged?" he hesitantly asks after regaining his speaking 
capabilities.

I nod, not paying attention, wanting to stop this conversation.

"I never knew you were engaged," he says, sounding hurt and 
almost angry.

"Well, there's a lot about me that you don't know, Mulder."

He stares at me again, not quite believing all of this.  I'm not 
quite believing it, either.

"We've been working together almost eight years," he starts.  He 
does the math and continues, "So, you were engaged to him when we 
started working together?"

"Yup."

"I didn't know that...why didn't you ever tell me?"

"It wasn't important."  I say, knowing immediately that that 
wasn't enough of an answer for him.  "I didn't want to get 
married anyway..."  I finish quietly, cursing myself, cursing 
Mulder for being so easy to talk to.

He starts nodding again, then asks the million dollar question, 
with a slight tremor in his voice, "So...what happened?"

"I got pregnant and when I found out the baby was abnormal, I had 
an abortion."  I look him in the eyes then, anxious to see his 
response, and continue.  "I never even told him I was pregnant, 
but he managed to find out and he left me," I say loudly and 
quickly, giving him a look that said, "See, I told you there was 
a lot you didn't know about me."

He says nothing and stares at me.  It's getting uncomfortable, 
and I'm wondering why the hell our waitress doesn't come over and 
rescue me.

"Abnormal?"  He finally, breathlessly asks.

"Anencephaly: missing part of its brain.  It would've died 
anyway,"  I say flippantly, though I feel tears making a repeat 
performance.

"And he came to see you now, after all these years?"  I nod.  
"Why?"

"I don't know...he said he missed me."

"He missed you?"  He's beginning to sound a little depressed by 
all of this.  It's good to have some company.

"Yeah.  I guess I kinda missed him too."

Mulder squints his eyes and asks, sounding confused and 
desperate, "You guess?"

"I guess I just forgot how it feels to be loved and wanted.  Made 
to feel like you matter.  He made me feel like that, and I miss 
that feeling."  I hesitate, wondering how much I should confess 
to him.  "This weekend...brought back a lot of memories."

He opens his eyes wide, looking shocked, and stares at me in 
disbelief.  He looks me right in the eye and quietly, slowly, 
vehemently says, "You matter, Scully."

I look down and nod.  "It's not the same though," I whisper.

He opens his mouth to protest, but thankfully, our waitress 
appears to take our orders and Mulder drops the conversation.  
After she leaves, he stares at me in silence, watching me 
carefully.  I busy myself arranging and rearranging my napkin on 
my lap.  Our food arrives a few silent minutes later, and I pick 
at my salad while Mulder stares nauseously at his sandwich.  

We return to work still not speaking.  I know that he's thinking 
about my little confession, wondering what he should say, if he 
should say anything at all.  I don't want him to say anything, 
though.  I'm too afraid of it.

<><><><><><> 

"You have one new message."  <BEEP>

"Hi Dana...its me.  I was just calling to tell you that I made it 
back safely and <deep sigh> I'll try and call you later." 
<BEEP> 

"Tuesday, two-oh-four p.m..."

I longingly touch the speaker on my answering machine, trying to 
touch Ethan through the plastic.  I touch the same fingers to my 
lips and, for the fiftieth time today, stifle my tears.  

The computerized voice drones on as I make my way through my 
darkened apartment kicking my shoes into the living room and 
trying to strip off my hose as I walk to my bedroom.  Everything 
reminds me of him, I think as I hastily strip the newly 
christened sheets from my bed.  I take them to the washing 
machine, turn the water to hot, and put in way more detergent 
than is necessary.  They need to be clean.

Back in my bedroom, I change into my pajamas, take a detour to 
the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, then crawl in 
bed at 5:47 p.m.  

It's not like I have anyone to fix and eat dinner with.

<><><><><><>

The rest of the week passed quickly.  Mulder and I were again 
stuck in the basement doing paperwork, and I tried my best to act 
normal and not-depressed around him.  It would only concern him 
if I acted like I felt - empty and alone - so I pasted a non-
committal, "everything's fine" look on my face and studiously 
tried to ignore his piercing stares and almost-questions.

For his part, Mulder has succeeded in not pressing me for any 
more information about our lunch conversation on Tuesday.  I  
couldn't tell how he felt about my admission, if he was intrigued 
or repulsed or apathetic, and his blank stares didn't give 
anything away.  We only spoke to each other at work and then only 
about work-related things.  Apathy, I decided.

After going to bed so early on Tuesday, I had, surprisingly, 
fallen asleep almost immediately (probably because I hadn't 
gotten much sleep the night before, being too busy) and awoke at 
3:30, unable to fall asleep again.  I went to my closet and 
pulled out my year books from high school, gazing at the pictures 
of myself like I had never seen them before.  I reread all the 
signatures and messages from my friends - all of them claiming 
that we would be "friends forever," none of them I had spoken to 
since graduation.  I realized that I used to be so pretty, in my 
punk, Clash-fan way.  Underneath all that make-up and hair dye, I 
had really been wistfully beautiful.  I had been popular, too.  
Moving around a lot either taught you to be quiet and reserved or 
to be outgoing and easy to be friends with.  When we moved my 
eighth grade year, I changed from the former to the latter, 
desperate to have companionship.  I sold myself out to fit in 
with what was trendy at the time.  I pretended to be fearless.  I 
would go to parties and drink at fifteen, I would sleep with 
strangers at sixteen, and I would get high on marijuana at 
seventeen, all because that's what everyone else was doing.  All 
so I wouldn't be alone.

It carried over to college, where I was finally away from my 
mother and Bill, who took his roll as man-of-the-house a little 
too seriously.  I was free to do whatever I pleased and my family 
never had to know about it.

I tried LSD once and got so sick I was in the school infirmary 
for two days.  They called home - thankfully, Missy answered the 
call and deflected the concerned student nurses.  She never told 
anyone in the family about that.

In med school, I met Daniel and fell for him immediately.  At 
first, I don't think he paid much attention to me, but I was 
determined.  I pretended to mature - I dyed my hair back to its 
natural color, started dressing more conservatively, and tried my 
best to exude my sexuality through my transformed academic 
attitude.  It worked, but ten months later, when Daniel told me 
that he was ready to leave his wife and young daughter to spend 
the rest of his life with me, I was shocked and scared to death.  
I realized that sleeping my way around campus was dangerous - not 
just medically, but emotionally.  I broke off my relationship 
with Daniel and became determined to become more mature instead 
of just pretending.  I stopped going to parties and sleeping with 
strangers, binge drinking, and occasional highs.  A year later, I 
was recruited by the FBI.  I had a relapse of sorts, sleeping 
with Jack, my instructor and superior - definitely not encouraged 
by the Bureau.  We mutually decided to end our "relationship" 
after we saw what it was doing to our reputations.  Shortly after 
that, I met Ethan.

Sometime after that, my life had begun to pass me by without me 
even realizing it.  My youth, my beauty, everything was gone, and 
I felt withered, beaten, and abandoned.

Wednesday and Thursday night, I went to bed before eight o'clock, 
but didn't fall asleep until after midnight.  I didn't live, I 
existed.  Get up, get dressed, go to work, work, come home, go to 
bed.

I was already ready to make it four nights in a row on Friday 
when a Mulder-knock sounded at my door.  What the hell - it's 
only 6:45!

In my pajamas and bare feet, without make-up and my hair pulled 
back, I open the door a crack and stare out at him.  He has a 
pizza, a six-pack of beer, and a movie from Blockbuster.

We had been doing that a lot - watching movies at each other's 
apartments on Friday nights.  After the Alicia-episode, we just 
stopped.  Now, we've apparently started again.

"Hey.  Can I come in?  This pizza's kinda hot,"  He says quietly, 
grinning.

I don't say anything as I open the door, standing behind it as he 
walks to the kitchen.  He sets the pizza down on the counter and 
puts the beer in the refrigerator.  Then he looks at me and seems 
to notice for the first time that I'm ready for bed before seven 
p.m. on a Friday.  "You okay?"

I rub my eyes and nod, walking over to see what video he rented.

"I thought you needed some cheering up, so..."  Ah, "Monty Python 
and the Holy Grail."

I smile despite myself and look up at him, his soft eyes, his 
gorgeous, boyish grin.  Maybe I do need some cheering up.

I get us some plates and napkins, letting Mulder divide the pizza 
between us.  Pulling two beers from the fridge, I carry them to 
the living room, Mulder following me with our overloaded plates.  
Eat first - then movie.

We open our beers and clink the necks of the bottles - what we're 
toasting, I don't know.  "So..." he starts, taking a healthy bite 
of his pizza, inviting me to begin the conversation.

I nod, agreeing, taking a bite of my pizza as well, and decline 
his invitation.

"You're not always ready for bed this early.  You okay?"  he asks 
again, genuine concern lacing his words.

"Yeah...I just..."  I stop and stare at my pizza.

"Does this still have to do with what's-his-name leaving 
Tuesday?"

I sit still for a minute, again cursing Mulder for knowing me so 
well.  I nod, not looking up.

I'm either more transparent than I thought or Mulder has an 
uncanny ability to divine the true meaning of my words from my 
vague, elusive phrasing of Tuesday's lunch.  He knows, or at 
least suspects, what happened between Ethan and me Monday night.  
"Has he called?"

"Yeah.  He called Tuesday afternoon to say that he got home okay 
and said he'd call later."

"But he hasn't?"

"No.  Not yet."

Mulder's staring at the top of my head, willing me to look up at 
him.  I pick a sick-looking pepperoni off my piece of pizza.

"Scully," I look up then, slightly annoyed.  "I don't want to 
seem...nosy, but you've been moping around all week.  You won't 
talk to me...I don't know what to do."

I close my eyes and nod.  "There's really nothing to talk about," 
I whisper, knowing he doesn't believe it.  Neither do I.

He stares at me for a few seconds before deciding that, right 
now, I just don't want to talk.  "Well, maybe you'll talk to me 
after the killer rabbit, huh?"  he tries, and I give him a small 
smile for his effort.  He's nothing if not persistent.

We finish eating in silence.  As I put the rest of the pizza in 
the fridge, Mulder gets us two more beers and asks if I want 
popcorn.  I say no, and he rolls his eyes, saying something about 
how we need to watch our lovely figures.  I smile at him, and he 
smiles back.

I sit down on the couch while Mulder puts the tape in the VCR.  
He comes to sit beside me on the middle cushion, close enough so 
that his thigh is touching mine while remaining casual, 
accidental.  I realize how much I've missed this time with him.  
We don't discuss work - we talk about things that normal best 
friends would talk about; we can tell each other anything and 
everything without the other judging or condemning us.  It's 
comfortable and familiar, and I like it.  As the movie starts, 
Mulder picks up the remote to fast forward through the credits, 
just so I'll tell him to stop, that the credits are a part of the 
movie.

It would happen that the killer rabbit, my favorite part of the 
movie, is almost at the very end.  By the time they're 
deciphering the Aramaic, I'm trying to keep my head up and my 
eyes open - I'm not used to staying up so late.

Mulder slides a little closer to me and hesitantly puts his arm 
around me, and I gratefully lay my head on his shoulder, falling 
asleep almost immediately.  I feel him push a piece of hair off 
my cheek and behind my ear and lean down to softly kiss my 
forehead.  I sigh in contentment and burrow closer into his 
chest, closing my eyes for good.

"Hey,"  I hear some time later, feeling a slight poke at my 
cheek.  "You're not being a very good hostess."

"Mmmm..."  There it is again: that feeling of comfort and safety, 
of never wanting to move from this position ever again.  I press 
my face further into the warm, solid chest in to front of me and 
slide my arm around his waist, pulling him closer, not letting 
him get away.  His head dips down and his cheek rests against my 
hair; one arm tightens around my shoulders and back while the 
other holds my waist against him.  He takes a deep breath, 
content.  He never wants to move again either.  He'd pulled the 
blanket around us while I was sleeping, and I duck my head below 
the top of it, his head following, into the little cocoon of heat 
we've made.  His heart is just under my ear and I hear it 
drumming quickly, lulling me back into sleep.  

It takes me a minute to realize that it's Mulder, not Ethan, 
trying to get me to wake up.

"I know I'm tasty, Scully, but you don't need to pre-digest me.  
I'm not that tough," he whispers, laughing.  I open my eyes, 
wondering what he's talking about and then see the small dark 
spot on his shirt just below where my mouth is.  Shit!

I pull my head upright quickly.  "Oh, Mulder...I'm sorry,"  I say 
sleepily, horribly embarrassed.  I don't know what's more 
embarrassing: me mistaking my partner for my lover, or drooling 
on him.

My lover.  Is that what Ethan is now?  I have a lover?

"S'okay.  I guess I should be used to it by now."  He's grinning 
at me and my face suddenly gets hot wondering exactly how often 
I've done this and he just hasn't told me.  "Movie's over," he 
whispers.

He stares at me for a few seconds, looking deeply into my half-
closed eyes, then stands and pulls the rewound tape from the VCR, 
putting it back in its snug little case.

I start to curl up in the warm place he left on the couch, almost 
asleep again, when the phone rings.  I perk up, wondering if it's 
who I think it could be.

I lunge for the phone on the table behind my couch, putting my 
back to Mulder, putting him out of my mind.  "Hello?"  I ask 
breathlessly, anxiously.

"Dana, hey."  Oh, thank God.

"Hey."  I wonder if he can hear my smile.

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, no.  What's up?"  Why haven't you called sooner?  I missed 
you.  Did you miss me?  When are you coming back?

"Nothing.  I just...wanted to talk to you."

"Oh."  You missed me!

"How was your week?"

Lonely, cold, empty, horrible.  "Oh, okay, I guess.  How was 
yours?"

"Long.  I miss you," he says in a rush.

I know.  I close my eyes, feeling tears.  "I miss you too."

We listen to each other breathe for a minute before he says, 
hesitantly, "I was thinking that, maybe after Emma gets out of 
school, we could come visit, take a vacation up to see you."

Yes, yes, yes!  "Yeah!  I mean, it's fine.  I'd...I'd love to 
meet her."

"Good."  I hear girlish giggling and little footsteps in the back 
ground and Ethan tells their owners to stop running.  "Sorry, 
Dana.  Emma's having a slumber party, so I probably need to go."

"Sounds like fun,"  I say, trying to imagine what it would be 
like to host a little girl's party. 

"Yeah.  They want to paint my toenails, so I have to be careful."  
He laughs nervously, then, "I'll call you later, let you know 
when we'll be coming."

I picture myself surrounded by five-year-old girls with nail 
polish and grin.  I would let them paint my toenails any color 
they wanted.  "Okay, I'm looking forward to it."

"Me too."  A hesitation, then, "I love you," whispered.

I think for a moment.  If I don't tell him I love him, he may 
decide not to come.  He may decide that it's not worth involving 
Emma in this indefinable relationship we've developed.  "I love 
you too," I whisper back.

He sighs in relief.  "Goodnight."

"'Night."  Another hesitation, then, <click>.

I put the phone back, euphoric and giddy.  Then I turn around and 
see Mulder standing there, eye brows lowered, as if he's angry 
about something, with large, round eyes watching me warily.

I smile slightly, look away from him, sit down on the couch, and 
pull the blanket up over my legs.

"That him?"  He asks suspiciously.

"Yeah,"  I say wistfully, happier than I've been all week.

He nods, coming to stand right in front of me.  "Scully - "

"What?"  I ask, looking up and staring at him.

He swallows tightly and asks, "What'd he say?"

I give him an incredulous look, as if it's any of his business.

He sits down beside me.  "You've been depressed ever since he 
left and now, after a two-minute phone call from him, you're 
ecstatic."  I nod.  He stares at me, willing me to continue.

"He said that he wanted to talk to me and that he missed me."  
Mulder nods, still staring.  "Then he said that he wants to come 
back to DC for a vacation and bring his daughter."

He gapes.  "He has a daughter?"  He asks in disbelief.

"Yes.  She's just turned five...her name is Emma."  I wonder if 
he can hear my voice shaking as I say her name.

He nods again and looks away from me, suddenly a million miles 
away.  I know that look: he's thinking, absorbing this new 
information and processing it, deciding how he feels about it.  
"Emma?"  He finally manages to ask, and I nod in affirmation.

He's silent for a few minutes, still absorbing and processing.  
"Did you know that before you saw him again?"

"Know what?"

"That he had a five year old daughter named Emma?"

"No.  I didn't even know he'd been married," I say.

He nods again, this time looking me in the eyes.  "And he told 
you and then..."

I'm lost.  "Then what, Mulder?"

"He told you that he had a five year old daughter named Emma and 
then you sl - "  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, "You 
slept with him."

"There was a little more to it than that,"  I say angrily.

"Like what?"  He counters.

"Like..."  I search the air and ceiling for an answer.  "Like I 
told you at lunch the other day, he made me feel like I used to 
feel when we were engaged.  Like I was loved and desired and..."  
Mulder's staring at me, looking like he's about to vomit or cry.  
I shrug; what does he want me to say?

He looks away from me then and shakes his head.  "I guess I just 
don't understand," he says quietly.

"Understand what?"

"How he can just walk back into your life after an eight-year 
absence and pick up right where he left off."

I tilt my chin up defiantly.  "What does that mean?"

He sighs.  "I don't know, Scully.  I guess...I guess it just 
seems a little weird."

I nod, not really understanding but not knowing what else to do.

"And now he wants you to meet his daughter?"  I nod again.  
"That's kinda sudden."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's not good to have women in and out of her life like 
that."

My mouth falls open; I can't believe he just said that to me.  
"You don't think it's good to have women in and out of her life?  
What the hell are you talking about?"

"That's a big step, Scully, meeting his daughter."

"Ethan wouldn't even think of doing this unless he was serious 
about our relationship."

"Oh, now all of the sudden, there's a relationship?  Christ, you 
spent, what, three days with him?  That's a relationship?"

"I spent almost two years with him!  I was going to marry him - "

"Then why didn't you?"  he interrupts quietly.  Our conversation 
had progressively gotten louder, but his sudden softness draws my 
attention more than our yelling.

"I told you,"  I say after a minute of staring at him, "I lied to 
him."

"And he left you.  I understand that.  But why didn't he come 
back?"

My eyes get blurry and I look away, shaking my head.  "I don't 
know.  He asked me not to call him and said he would call me."

"And he never did?"

"No."

"Sounds familiar," he says to himself.

"But he did call!  He wants me back in his life!  He wants me in 
his daughter's life!  He - "

"But why, Scully?  Why now, after all these years?"

I open my mouth to answer but nothing comes out.  After all these 
years maybe he'd forgiven me.  Maybe he'd come to understand why 
I did what I did.  Maybe he'd realized that he still loved me.  
Tears slip down my cheeks when I realize that I really don't know 
why at all.

"Scully..."  Mulder whispers.  He puts his hand on my shoulder 
and I drop my head, not wanting him to see me cry, for him to see 
how vulnerable this has made me.  "I don't want to upset you.  I 
just want to make sure that you're doing this for the right 
reasons."

"What do you mean?"  I ask miserably.

"I know that you want a family and that you can't have one.  And 
I know that he can give you that family, that little girl that 
reminds you so much of Emily."

I nod, telling him that he's right -  about that, anyway.

"But I don't know why *he* wants this and neither do you.  That's 
what's bothering me: that we don't know his motives.  I don't 
want you to get hurt, Scully, and I know that you don't want to 
hurt that little girl.  Right?"

I nod again, feeling foolish and juvenile.

"You're moving way too fast; faster than I think you realize."

My breath hitches.  I'm trying my best not to burst into a tears, 
but I'm losing the battle.

Mulder silently tugs my shoulder towards him and I fall 
gratefully into his chest.  He rubs my back with one hand and 
pulls me closer to him with the other.  He says nothing.  That's 
one thing I've always appreciated about Mulder: when I do cry in 
front of him and he comforts me, he never says things that he 
doesn't believe just to make me feel better.  He knows that 
everything won't be okay, so he says nothing.

I wearily slide my arms around his waist, pulling the blanket 
with me.  I'm so cold all of the sudden.  "Scully," he whispers.

"What?"

"Did you tell him about Emily?"

I nod, not picking my head up from his chest.  "I told him the 
first night he was here, after he told me about Emma."

"How much did you tell him?"

"Just that I had a daughter who was very sick...who died...and 
that I couldn't have any more children."

He rests his chin on the top my head and I can feel his throat 
vibrate as he speaks.  "Scully, you said something to me the 
other day at lunch, and I want you to understand something."

I don't say anything or move.  I'm so exhausted.

"You said that he made you feel loved and wanted, and that he 
made you feel like you mattered.  And then I told you that you 
mattered and you said that it wasn't the same."  I open my eyes 
and stare into his T-shirt.  "Why isn't it the same?"

"I don't know,"  I say, feeling fresh tears approaching.

He holds me for another minute, then quietly says, "Scully, if 
you're lonely, if you ever feel like you just...don't matter, 
please remember that you will always matter to me.  And if you 
just want to sit with me and not talk, or if you want to talk, or 
if you just want me to hold you, please just let me know.  Don't 
feel so alone because you're not.  You'll always have me, however 
you want me."

"I know."

He presses his lips to the top of my head and squeezes me 
tighter.

"But it's still not the same."

"It can be," he whispers so quietly, I'm not sure that he said it 
at all.

I pull away from him suddenly and stand in front of the couch, 
crossing my arms over my chest, wrapping myself in the blanket 
for security.  "No, it can't,"  I say more forcefully than I 
intend.

He's surprised.  "Why not?"

"It just can't."  I scream that last syllable, wondering why he 
doesn't understand this.  I've already explained this to him 
once; why doesn't he get it?  I stare at my toes - they're so 
cold, they hurt.  I'm afraid that if I move, they'll just break 
off.

I raise my head slightly and notice Mulder staring at them too.  
Then, he stands in front of me, not touching, not speaking.  He 
sighs, then his feet shuffle over behind the couch, where I can't 
see them anymore.  I hear him open the door, hesitate, then walk 
out and quietly close the door behind him.

Tears threaten again, but I'm determined to make it to my bedroom 
before I let them fall.  I don't know why I'm worried about where 
I cry in my own apartment.  Its not like anyone will know - or 
care - where or why I cry.

It just doesn't matter.

It will, though, soon.  Ethan will come and bring Emma, and I'll 
take them around DC and show them all the monuments and museums.  
We'll have lunch together, then find an ice cream vendor for 
Emma.  She'll make a sticky mess of her cone, then run around the 
Mall trying to get away from Ethan as he tries to clean her up.  
Then while she's playing in the grass, Ethan and I will sit on 
one of the benches together, watching her.  Just like a real 
family.

People will think we're a real family.

I look at the clock.  It's almost eleven and I wonder if it's too 
late to call Ethan and find out when Emma gets out of school, how 
soon they can be here.  I wouldn't want to wake all those little 
girls, but I need to talk to him.  I need him.

No.  I don't need him.  I don't need anyone.  But I want him.  I 
want it to matter to him that I'm standing in the middle of my 
living room shivering from sorrow and cold and wanting him.

I take a step - my toes stay attached, so I carefully walk to my 
bedroom and crawl into bed with my blanket still wrapped around 
me.  If I pull it tight enough, maybe I can pretend its Ethan 
keeping me warm, keeping me company.

That's all I ever wanted.

<><><>End Part 2<><><>

I fed you, now it's your turn.  Lil_gusty@hotmail.com.



Signs From God (3/3)
Headers in Part 1

<><><><><><>

Mulder called last Sunday night to tell me that we were leaving 
at five am on Monday for Montpelier, Vermont on a case: abduction 
and murder, with what looked to the local police like Satanic 
mutilation and carvings on the corpses.  This case was Mulder's 
cup of tea - ritualistic crimes - and my nightmare.  I spent the 
next eleven days in and out of an autopsy bay, trying, and 
failing to glean any bit of evidence from the bodies that 
couldn't speak for themselves.  When we finally solved the case 
and arrested the perpetrator, Mulder was exhilarated by another 
job well done, another killer behind bars, the world safe for 
humanity once again thanks to him...and his cute little sidekick 
who can work wonders with her scalpel, whose skin is pale from 
lack of exposure to the sun, whose hair smells perpetually like 
formaldehyde and death, and whose stock of lemon-scented Dawn 
desperately needs replenishing.

The whole time, Mulder barely even noticed my existence and only 
spoke to me to order me to perform another autopsy or to review 
one I had already completed.  Every time I tried to suggest an 
idea or theory about the crimes, I was basically yelled at for 
"not believing after all I'd seen" and made to feel like a 
bumbling rookie whose seasoned and skilled partner was only 
biding his time until he could return to Washington and rid 
himself of the annoyance.  I'll admit, I didn't really belong on 
the case.  The county coroner had already performed most of the 
autopsies before we arrived and, being old enough to be my 
father, didn't need my help in the least.  It would have been 
easier (and cheaper for the taxpayer) to have had the two newest 
murder victims shipped to Quantico where I could've examined them 
from the comfort of more familiar surroundings and without 
someone leaning over my shoulder asking me if I was sure that 
incision was straight.

Yes, I was exhausted, angry, and depressed by the time we 
returned almost two weeks after we'd left, and yes, I was 
contemplating why I continued to work with someone who was 
unappreciative of my skills and presence, the same as I had after 
many of the cases Mulder and I worked together over the years.  I  
used to think that Mulder would be better off without me, much 
more successful if I'd left.  Then, when I tried to leave, he'd 
had the nerve to tell me that I completed him, that he didn't 
know if he could do it alone, or if he wanted to.  The words were 
sobering, and him on the verge of tears while saying them made me 
believe him.  My renewed sense of purpose lasted all of two 
months before Mulder started treating me like another piece of 
luggage and I began questioning myself again.

He drops me off at my apartment just like usual.  Pulling up in 
front of the building, he puts the car in park and looks at me.  
"Home sweet home," he says with a smile.  I don't return it and 
slowly, achingly, release my seat belt and reach for the door 
handle.  It's locked - the doors lock automatically when the car 
is put into drive, but don't unlock until the ignition is cut or 
someone unlocks them - and my hand hovers over the unlock button, 
wincing at the pressure that I have to put on this damn button 
just so I can open the damn door.  Damn.

"Scully,"  he says and I turn back with a grimace on my face.  
"Thank you."

Oh, now he's thanking me for doing my job?  Just who the hell 
does he think he is?  "For what?"  I ask angrily.  I just want to 
go take a shower and scrub off a few layers of skin, then crawl 
in bed until the next century.

"For putting up with me.  I  know I can be a pain in the ass 
sometimes, and I just want you to know that I appreciate it."

"That's the understatement of the year,"  I snap, getting out of 
the car and slamming the door to punctuate my frustration.  I 
walk to the back of the car and wait for him to pop the trunk so 
I can get my bags out.  When he doesn't, I knock on the trunk, 
wondering if he'd forgotten about me already.  I see a confused 
look directed at me from the rear view mirror and I'm tempted to 
stick my tongue out at him.  He turns off the car, slowly 
starting the ritual of getting himself out, probably taking so 
long just to annoy me, and comes around, keys in hand, to where 
I'm standing, hands on hips, biting the inside of my cheek.

"You okay?"  He asks as he unlocks the trunk and reaches in to 
get my biggest suitcase.

I should tell him that I'm fine, to go to hell, but for some 
reason, I want him to really know how I am right now.  "No, 
Mulder, I'm not okay.  I'm tired, I'm dirty, I smell like a 
funeral home, and I'm questioning the meaning of my existence - 
again - so don't mess with me."  I reach into the trunk and throw 
his hand off of my luggage, pulling it and the other two bags out 
myself, and start towards to door to my building.  I drag 
everything behind me and, when I reach the door, have to 
rearrange my luggage to open it and get inside.  When I get to 
the elevator, I look at Mulder, standing right where I left him, 
trunk open, mouth agape, and eyes sad and puzzled.  Asshole.

I lug everything up to my apartment and by the time I reach my 
door, my shoulders are aching like I just tried to pull my arms 
from their sockets.  I fumble for my keys, checking every pocket 
on me and my bags before finding them in the least likely place.  
Fuck.  When I finally get my door open, I'm tempted to just fall 
on the floor and pound my fists and feet like a child until I 
finally get my way.  Right now, I want to go to sleep, dammit, so 
why don't these inanimate objects in my hall just cooperate and 
deposit themselves in front of my washing machine, empty, sort, 
and wash, dry, fold themselves, and put themselves away?

I drag the bags into my foyer and slam the door behind me for 
good measure.  After locking it and tripping over the bags, I go 
into the kitchen for some Tylenol.  I rummage through the cabinet 
and pull out the bottle - oh good, only three more left!  I empty 
the bottle and throw it away, turning the water on as I pass.  I 
test the water with my fingers, seeing if it's cool enough, and 
then reach into another cabinet for a glass.  As I pull it 
towards me, it slips out of my grasp, hitting the counter and 
shattering into thousands of tiny shards on the floor.

I stare at the glass on the floor for a moment in disbelief, then 
do the only logical thing.  I fall against the counter and slowly 
slide down until I'm sitting on the floor amidst the broken 
glass.  I draw my knees up to my chest and hug them against me 
tightly.  Then, I drop my head onto my knees and start to cry.

After a few minutes of sobbing like a wounded animal, I get up to 
get the broom and dust pan to clean up my mess.  When I'd put my 
hands on the floor to get up, I'd cut myself, and I stare down at 
the rivulets of blood coating my palm, making the lines stand 
out.  I start to sob all over again, and decide to let the mess 
sit where it is tonight.  I'm too tired to clean it up.  The 
water's still running, so I put my hands into the stream, wincing 
and the coldness touches my wounds.  Tears are still sliding down 
my hot cheeks and I hiccup every now and then, trying not to 
start sobbing yet again.  All I did was break a goddamn, fucking 
glass.  It's nothing to cry about, but for some reason I just 
can't stop.  It's the icing on the cake, I guess.  The perfect 
end to the perfect day.

I take one last look at the disaster area that is my kitchen, 
then, turning around, decide to leave my luggage where it sits, 
right in the doorway.  I'll deal with that tomorrow, too.

I go into the bathroom and scrub the make-up off my face, washing 
away my tears.  I look in the mirror, at my red, puffy eyes and 
splotchy cheeks.  What was I crying over?  A glass?  No, I have 
plenty more Wal-Mart specials.  My fight with Mulder?  Maybe, but 
I've never let our fights get to me like this before.  The case?  
No, we'd dealt with so many cases like this I'd become 
desensitized to it; death no longer affected me like it used to.  
So what was fucking wrong with me?  Maybe it was the fact that I 
had spent my life in a hell-hole of a job with an unappreciative, 
condescending, arrogant, self-absorbed, conceited, prick of a 
partner who wouldn't listen to me or treat me like a person or 
even notice my very presence unless I was on fire - then he'd run 
away from me because he's afraid of fire.  Maybe it was the fact 
that my youth, my utility - the best goddamn years of my life 
were over and I had nothing to show for them except a few scars 
from being beaten and shot.  Maybe it was these little lines 
around my mouth and eyes.  My mother had started telling me a few 
years ago that my perpetual frowning would cause wrinkles and I 
always told myself that I was too young for such.  I'm only 
thirty six.  Thirty six is too young to start looking old...isn't 
it?  

Before I can start sobbing all over again, I drag my eyes away 
from my reflection and start brushing my teeth.  I wanted to take 
a shower, but I'm too exhausted now to manage it.  I'll just take 
a quick nap, then shower, do laundry, and clean up the glass in 
the kitchen later.

As I walk from my bathroom to my bedroom, I strip off my clothes, 
crawling into bed wearing only my Victoria's Secret lace panties 
and matching bra and camisole.  I've always liked lingerie that 
matched.  It used to make me feel pretty and sexy, knowing what 
was underneath my conservative, demure suits.  Now I wonder what 
the hell I was thinking spending so much money on lingerie that 
no one, besides me, would be able to enjoy.  Wal-Mart has plenty 
of specials in that department, too.

Realizing it's uncomfortable, I take off my bra and drop it 
beside my bed.  I curl into a fetal ball in the center of my 
queen sized bed, not bothering to pull to covers around me.  I  
had turned off the air while we were gone to save energy and I 
hadn't though to turn it back on before I lay down, so it was hot 
and stuffy in my apartment.  Oh, well.  I'll do that later, when 
I take my shower, do my laundry, and clean up my mess.

I glance at the clock to see how long of a nap I can take.  It's 
only 3:14 now; I can sleep until seven, I tell my internal clock.  
I burrow my head down between the pillows and close my eyes, 
willing my exhaustion to take over and let sleep pull me into 
oblivion.  After a few minutes of cursed consciousness, I pull 
the covers up and over my head, simulating darkness.  A few 
minutes later, I finally fall asleep.

<><><><><><>

Dark - cold - pain - blood - no oxygen - can't breath - can't 
breath - can't breath - tied up - can't move - can't breath - on 
top of me - knee in my back - pressing my face into the floor - 
blood - run me a bath - go back to hell - blood - can't breath - 
can't move - where's Mulder - where's Mulder - Mulder!

My scream wakes me.  I've screamed for Mulder to rescue me from 
another madman, another nightmare, and he doesn't come.  No one 
ever comes.  

I'm on my stomach with my arms tangled in the sheets - why I 
couldn't move.  The covers are still covering my head - why I 
couldn't breath.  I was sweating, and now I'm freezing, shaking.  
It's dark, later than seven.  I glance at the clock and drop my 
head back into my pillow when I realize that it's almost ten.  
Air, shower, laundry, clean, in that order, is what I should do 
now.  Instead, I curl up on my side and take deep breaths, trying 
to calm myself down.  

I dream like this once a week.  The people, the places are always 
different, but the situation is always the same: someone is 
trying to kill me and I scream for help, for Mulder, but he never 
comes and I wake up, shaking from fear and chill.  When I finally 
fall asleep again, hours later if at all, it's with my bedside 
lamp on and my gun underneath my pillow.  I know the routine by 
now: I get up and check to make sure my door is locked and 
chained, that my windows are still locked.  I open every closet 
door, check every hiding place, to make sure that no one's here, 
waiting to kill me.  My mind repeats its soothing mantra as I 
make my way through my darkened apartment, gun in hand: deep 
breaths, no one's here, deep breaths, no one's here, deep 
breaths, no one's here, no one's here, no one's here...

Once, though, Mulder did come.  Last Thursday night, I dreamed of 
being in the trailer with Gerry Shnauz, being so close to a 
lobotomy, except, in my dream, Mulder didn't rescue me at the 
last second.  I screamed in my dream for him, knowing he was 
close, but not close enough.  I screamed in my tiny, echoing 
hotel room, and he heard me.  He came through the connecting 
door, shook me awake, and held me at arms length until I became 
aware of what had happened.  He brushed the damp hair off of my 
forehead and away from the nape of my neck.  His hands were cool, 
but his body was warm, and I was shivering from fear and cold.  
He pulled me into his chest, wrapped his strong arms around my 
back, and told me that I was safe, that everything was fine, that 
he was here.  He rocked me and murmured to me until my sobs 
quieted and my heart rate slowed, until I wasn't shaking anymore.  
I felt like a child, but it felt so good to finally have someone 
to hold me and keep me safe that I let myself enjoy it for just a 
few minutes.

"Does this happen often, Scully?"  he whispered after a while.  I 
nodded.  "How often?"  I shook my head.  If he knew how often, 
he'd camp out on my couch every night.

After I'd finally stopped shaking, he'd asked if I would be able 
to go back to sleep.  I pulled myself away from him then, and 
realized that he was still in his work shirt and trousers from 
earlier.  He'd said that he was going over some notes before he 
went to sleep, and that, if I wanted him to, he'd sit with me 
until I fell asleep again.  I nodded and he disappeared into his 
room, then came back with file folders, papers, and photographs.  
He put them on the table, then asked me if I wanted something to 
drink.  I nodded again, and he went to the sink and came back 
with plastic cup full of cool water.  I drank half of it and he 
set the cup on the bedside table.  He gently pushed me into the 
bed and pulled the covers around my shoulders, bent down, and 
kissed my forehead.  "I'll be right here," he'd said and sat down 
at the table, opening a folder.  I closed my eyes, knowing I was 
safe, and was asleep again within minutes.

That was so nice, having someone to hold me and comfort me after 
a nightmare.  I almost wanted to have a nightmare the next night 
so we could repeat our little scene, but I hadn't.  Not until 
tonight.

I get back to my bedroom and lay down.  I didn't find anyone 
lurking in the shadows, but I'm still not convinced of my 
complete safety.  After a few ineffectual minutes of trying to 
calm myself down, I turn on my lamp and check my gun.  I get up 
again and walk to my thermostat, turning on the air so that my 
apartment will be cool.  It's only seventy degrees tonight, and 
its only May.  By the end of summer, I'll be miserable in the 
heat and humidity, and my electricity bill will be outrageous 
from running my AC non-stop.  As I pass, I glance at the kitchen 
floor, covered with glass.  I should sweep it up, but I don't 
want to.  I turn around and my eyes fall on my luggage, sitting 
just where I'd left it earlier.  But I don't want to do laundry 
right now.

I go into my bathroom and open my shower stall.  I don't want to 
take a shower, either.

I stand in my hallway, not wanting to go back to bed, not wanting 
to do anything else.  Mulder had given me water the other night 
and I had fallen asleep almost immediately; maybe that was the 
key.  I start to walk towards my kitchen again and notice the 
blinking number on my answering machine: two.  Wow, a record!

I get excited suddenly, and nearly run to the machine.  I take a 
deep breath and push the play button.  It's probably Mulder, 
calling to ask if I was okay, saying he'd see me at work 
tomorrow.  He's so predictable.

The first message is a hang-up, probably a tele-marketer.  The 
second isn't Mulder, though.  It's Ethan.

"Hi, Dana, it's me...I was just calling to see how you were, tell 
you that I miss you, and that I can't wait to see you 
again...Emma's excited too...I've told her all about you...she 
gets out of school on the twenty-sixth, so I was thinking maybe 
we could come up about the middle of June...it's up to you...uh, 
I guess you can call me when you get a chance, okay?  Bye."

The machine tells me that the message is from last Friday, almost 
a week after we'd left for Vermont, a week since the last time 
I'd spoken to him.  He probably thinks that I intentionally 
didn't return his call, that I'd changed my mind about 
this...whatever this is.  Maybe I should call him right now to 
tell him that I've been out of town.  It's almost ten thirty, and 
I'd probably wake Emma...but I want to talk to him.  I need to 
talk to him.

Had Mulder called, I would've called him back, we would've 
mutually apologized for whatever we'd done, and I would've told 
him about my nightmare.  He would've offered to come over and sit 
with me until I fell asleep again, and I would've told him no, 
that I was fine.  Or maybe I would've said yes this time.  But he 
hadn't called; Ethan had.  I guess Mulder really doesn't give a 
damn anymore.

I realize that Ethan hadn't even given me his phone number, so I 
call 411 and hope that he's the only Ethan Minette in Atlanta.  
The operator tells me that there is no Ethan Minette in Atlanta, 
and for a second, I wonder if it was all a lie, if he really has 
a daughter and lives in Atlanta and still loves me.  I ask her to 
check the surrounding suburbs and she does; yes, there is an 
Ethan Minette in Roswell, could that be the one?

It strikes me as ironic that he lives in Roswell of all places 
and I tell her yes, that's the one, and she dials the number for 
me.

The phone rings and I wonder if it is the one - the right one.  I 
wonder if he'll be angry with me for waking Emma - or what if he 
was asleep?  What if someone else is with -

"Hello?"

I don't say anything at first, elated that he's on the other end 
of the phone at all.  "Ethan?"  I finally whisper, relief and joy 
echoing in my voice.

"Dana?  Hey!  I wondered if you'd forgot about me."  He sounds 
relieved too; at least I still matter to someone.

I laugh softly.  "No...I've been out of town since last Monday 
and I just got your message."

"Oh."

"Did I wake Emma?"  I ask nervously.

"No, no.  She can sleep through anything."

"Good...I was afraid you'd be mad - " my breath hitches.

"Why would I be mad?"  His voice drops from friendly, casual 
conversation to serious concern.  "Dana...are you okay?"

"Mmmhmm...I just...I wanted to talk to you..."  I try and keep 
the sudden renegade sobs from escaping.  It's so good to hear his 
soft, loving voice on the other end of the phone.  It almost 
makes me feel safe.

"Well I'm glad you wanted to talk to me, but don't cry."

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't apologize...it's okay.  I'm here."

Oh, he's here, of course he's here, just when I need him.  I nod, 
though I know he can't see me.

"Hey," he says, startling me, "you said you were out of town.  
Were you one a case?"

"Yeah," I whisper thickly.

"What kinda case?"

"Murder.  Local PD thought it was Satanic..."  my breath hitches 
again.

"Was it?"  He's trying to keep me talking about something other 
than us, thinking that will keep me from crying.

"Mulder thought it was...we caught a man who is a Satanist but 
that wasn't why he was killing..."

"Oh," he breathes, not really understanding.  "How'd you get my 
number?  FBI files?"

I smile.  "You have a file at the FBI?"

"No, but don't they have that kind of information about 
everyone?"

"You could've just given it to me."

"Where's the challenge in that?  I guess this proves what a good 
investigator you really are."

"Not really.  I called 411."

He laughs then.  "Wow...your investigative abilities astound me," 
he says sarcastically.  I smile, reveling in his light teasing.  
He's cheered me up from a thousand miles away.  

"You live in Roswell...Mulder will be suspicious."

"Huh?  Oh, like in New Mexico...yeah, I never thought about that 
before.  Except down here, it's not Ros-WELL, it's ROS-wuhl."

"Still..."  I trail off as he continues to laugh.

"Maybe you can come down here and investigate the origins of the 
name, then."  We fall into silence and I realize how comforting 
it is just to hear him breathing.

"I wish you were here," I say suddenly.

"I wish I was there too, or you were here."

"I had a nightmare..."  I start, needing to tell someone.  He 
doesn't say anything, but I know he's listening.  "A few years 
ago, I was abducted by a man who killed women and mutilated their 
bodies.  Mulder almost didn't get there in time..."  My breath 
hitches again.  "A few months ago, the man escaped from prison 
and attacked me in my apartment...

"Oh, Dana..."

"I'm fine, but...I still have dreams about it."  I hesitate.  
"He's dead, though.  I shot him."  My voice is flat and lifeless 
as I say that last part.

He's quiet for a minute, then, "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah...you helped."

"Good."  We're quiet again, and I focus on the slow, steady 
breaths puffing over the phone.  After a moment of silence, he 
asks "You still with me?"

"Yeah."

"You sound tired."

"I was...I got home at three and went straight to bed."

"I wish I could do that sometimes...come home and go to bed with 
you,"  he sighs wistfully.

"What are you still doing up?"

"Trying to arrange these stories for tomorrow.  This is an early 
night for me.  By the time Emma and I finish her homework, eat, 
and I give her a bath and put her to bed, it's usually after 
nine.  I try and get some work done then, and stay up until 
eleven or twelve."

"You're such a good father," I breathe.

"Thanks.  I try...to be a good father and mother."

"If you love her, that's enough."

"God, I hope so.  I know she's missing out on a lot, not having 
her mother around.  And she's so excited about meeting you.  At 
first, I was afraid she wouldn't want to, but she can't wait to 
go visit you."  

"Neither can I."

"Are you nervous?"

"No...should I be?"

"No.  You'd be a great mother."  His words sting in my freshly 
re-healed wounds, and he quickly apologizes.

"It's okay," I tell him.

"I'm excited about seeing you too, you know."  I grin stupidly 
and he continues, "You think Mulder will baby-sit for a few hours 
while we...visit?"

I laugh a little, then, feeling bold, I taunt him.  "You know, I 
just realized that my blinds are open and I'm standing in front 
of my window in nothing but my underwear..."

"Mmm...keep going..." he moans.

"Thinking about how much I miss you..."

"How much do you miss me?"  He asks breathlessly.

"A lot," I say, all traces of seduction vanishing, replaced by 
tears yet again.

"Dana...I miss you too.  Now go close your blinds before someone 
sees you."

I obey, thinking of another time that I approached these windows 
while holding a phone to my ear.  I screamed for Mulder then, but 
he still didn't come.  I shutter involuntarily and change the 
subject to hear vocalized warmth, safety, and comfort.

"So...Emma gets out of school soon?"

"Yeah, so I was thinking maybe June 19th  we'd come up and stay 
for a few days.  Is that okay?"

"Yeah...fine."

"Good.  Her mother gets a week sometime this summer and I'm sure 
she won't be happy about this, but - "

"I don't want to cause any problems."

"It's no problem."  He hesitates, then says, "I don't know how I 
did this for eight years."

"What?"

"Live without you."

Oh.  I don't know what to say, so I say nothing.

"Dana?  You didn't fall asleep on me, did you?"

I'm feeling playful again.  "Fall asleep...*on* you?"

He laughs, "No, you're still awake."

"Yeah,"  I breathe, stifling a yawn.

He heard it.  "Oh, am I boring you?"

"No...no, I'm just exhausted."

"Well, why don't you go back to sleep then."

I shake my head.  "Not yet."

"Scared?"  he asks seriously.

"No."  I'm not...not really.  Not anymore.

"Well, why don't you try and get some sleep, and if you have 
another nightmare, you can call me back."

"I'll wake Emma..."

"No, you won't.  Don't worry about that.  And don't worry about 
what time it is.  If you need me, I'll be here."

"I wish you were really here,"  I say, feeling tears threaten 
again.

"I will be soon."

I take a deep breath and yawn again.  "Go to sleep," he says.

"Okay...goodnight."

"'Night," he whispers.  Then, "I love you."

"I love you, too," I say without hesitation.  I hang up the phone 
and float to my bed, falling asleep almost immediately, 
pretending that he is here with me, his arms wrapped around me,
keeping me safe and warm. 

<><><><><><>

I think I'm dreaming again: I hear slow, quiet footsteps coming 
down my hall.  They stop right outside my partially closed 
bedroom door and wait.  Just a dream, I think.  

I hear a soft knock and a hushed "Scully?" as the door creaks 
open.  What's Mulder doing in my dream?

I hear a loud exhale and the footsteps start again across the 
carpet to my bed.  The mattress dips under his weight as he sits 
down next to my hip.  My back is to him, and his arm settles in 
front of my stomach as he leans over me.  Mmm...dreamMulder...

His breath tickles my ear as he again whispers, "Scully...you 
awake?"  I sigh contentedly and snuggle back against him.  This 
dream looks promising.

"Scully, you scared the hell out of me.  It's after 10:30."

What?  What's dreamMulder talking about?  I struggle up through 
the last barriers between asleep and awake and open my eyes.  
It's daylight, and this isn't a dream.

I sit up hurriedly and find myself blocked by his arm draping 
possessively across my abdomen.  I lean back against the 
headboard.  "What are you doing here?"  I slur out, rubbing my 
dry, itchy eyes.

"It's after 10:30.  You didn't call and you wouldn't answer 
either of your phones.  I got worried."

I lift my chin slightly and recognize the fact that, in my haze 
of alternating depression and elation, I forgot to set my alarm.  

He's grinning at me stupidly, like he's incredibly glad I'm so 
disoriented or he knows I'd yell at him for waking me.  I look 
down at my lap, partially obscured by the large, brown arm that 
won't budge.  I remember that I'm wearing a nearly shear 
camisole, and the slight morning chill is having an undesired 
physical effect.  I glance up at Mulder and see his eyes riveted 
to said physical effect, still grinning.  I raise my head and 
clear my throat; I'm technically still mad at him.

"Sorry..."  he says, turning a delightful shade of red.  Serves 
him right.

"So, you came to check on me?"  I ask, a little annoyed at his 
intrusion, although I know I'd have done the exact same thing 
should our roles have been reversed.

"Yeah.  After I dropped you off, I got kinda worried - "

"Why?"

"Cause you were mad at me and I didn't know why.  I just wondered 
if anything was wrong...if I did anything."

He put extra emphasis on the last "I," wordlessly asking if 
anyone else pissed me off...anyone named Ethan, maybe?

"Yes, I was angry with you."

"What did I do?"  He gives me that damn kicked puppy look.  He's 
ready to apologize for whatever it is, even if he doesn't think 
he needs to.  He hates it when I'm angry with him.

I shake my head before answering, "Nothing...I don't know.  
Nothing specific."  He keeps staring at me with those sad eyes, 
and I want to tell him that his face might freeze like that.  It 
wouldn't be so bad, though.  It's his most adorable face, which 
is why I'm a sucker for it.  "That case...I just hate it when I'm 
stuck in an autopsy bay the whole time."

"I know."  He neatly folds the covers down over my thighs and 
smoothes them with his hands.  "But I needed you there.  You know 
I wouldn't ask you to do it unless it was necessary."

As much as I want to argue with him, I don't.  I'm not in the 
mood.  "I know.  I was just exhausted by the time we got back and 
needed to yell at something.  I'm sorry."

He nods.  "You can always yell at me if you need to, Scully."

I smile at him and his hands slips off the covers to my silk-clad 
hip.  He doesn't immediately pull away and, deciding his hand is 
warm and my hip isn't, neither do I.  He looks me in my eyes, 
then, and the grin vanishes from his face as he keeps rubbing.

All at once, he looks away and pulls his hand back, folding his 
hands in his lap.  "Did you know there's glass all over your 
kitchen floor?"

"Yeah.  I dropped a glass last night and didn't feel like 
cleaning it up."

He nods, but doesn't look up.  "I almost broke my leg tripping 
over your luggage."

"Sorry...I didn't feel like doing that either."

He nods again and twists his hands nervously in his lap.  He's 
staring intently at the floor and I follow his eyes, noticing 
that he's staring at my discarded bra.  I smile and throw back 
the covers, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and landing 
my bare feet beside his.  "I guess I should get up, huh?"

He nods again.  "I'll give you a ride, if you want."

"Okay.  I'll hurry."

"Don't worry about it,"  he says quietly, still staring at my 
bra.  Just who does he thinking he's fooling?

I stand up and bend down to retrieve the object of Mulder's 
musings.  He looks at me, his eyes nearly bulging out of their 
sockets at my particular state of undress.  I feel them follow me 
to my dresser, where I retrieve clean lingerie and then out my 
bedroom door and into the bathroom.  I slam the door and smile.  
Looks like someone else got to enjoy them after all.

<><><><><><>

I emerge from the bathroom twenty minutes later.  Mulder's not in 
my bedroom and I don't go looking for him; he's had enough of a 
show for one day.  In twenty more minutes, I leave my bedroom 
fully clothed and walk down the hall putting on my shoes and 
earrings.

When I get to the end of the hall, I stop in shock.  The luggage 
has been pushed out of the way, next to the armoire beside the 
door.  Mulder's in the kitchen with a broom, sweeping the floor.  
His back is to me and he apparently doesn't hear me as I approach 
him.  I just stare at him for a minute, trying to decide how to 
handle this most unique situation.

He bends down and sweeps the glass into the dustpan, then empties 
it into the trash.  He puts the broom and dustpan away, then 
washes his hands, wetting the dishrag and wiping off the counter 
before turning off the water.  When he finally notices me, he 
grins shyly.  "It's almost lunch time."

I nod.  "You didn't have to do that."

"I know...I didn't know where to put your luggage, so I just - "  
He gestures towards where it sits now.

"It's fine, Mulder.  You didn't have to do any of it."

He nods and briefly looks down, then back up at my face, still 
grinning.  "You hungry?  My treat..."

"What's the occasion?"  I ask teasingly.

"I need an occasion to take my best friend out to lunch?"  He 
asks a little too seriously.  He's never referred to me as his 
best friend before.  I've always been his partner, but never his 
best friend.

We walk to the door and he opens it for me.  I lean back and look 
into his eyes, silently questioning his strange behavior.  "After 
you,"  he softly says.

"Thank you."  He closes the door behind him and locks it with his 
keys.

As we walk down the hall, his hand comes up and rests at its 
reserved place between my shoulders - not guiding, just hovering.  
We stop in front of the elevator and I look back at him again.  
He's still grinning and, feeling better than I have in days, I 
grin back.

<><><><><><>

He let me choose where to eat, so I chose our favorite all-you-
can-eat Chinese Buffet.  We haven't talked much since we left my 
apartment, and I suddenly announce, "Ethan lives in Roswell."

"Roswell?  I though he lived in Atlanta."

"He does.  It's a suburb, but he says its not pronounced like the 
one in New Mexico.  I told him you'd be suspicious."  I eat my 
egg roll, thinking this is just friendly conversation.

"Roswell, Georgia?"  He asks incredulously.

"Yeah...he said that maybe we could investigate the origins of 
the name."  I look up at him, thinking that the irony of this is 
too funny.  Mulder's not getting it, though.

"He said that?"  He sounds offended.

"Yeah."  I wrinkle my forehead in curiosity; why isn't he 
laughing?

He looks away, out the window, then sadly says into his plate,  
"I don't do aliens anymore."

"What?"

"I don't do aliens anymore.  I don't care about the origins of 
the name of some town in Georgia."  His last words are clipped 
like he's suddenly angry.

"He was just joking, Mulder."

"Well, I don't appreciate his joke."  He shoves his plate away in 
disgust - the first of what's usually four or five.  The petite 
non-English-speaking waitress comes and touches it delicately, 
wordlessly asking if he's done.  He nods and she disappears with 
his half-full plate.

I don't know what to say, so I keep eating, watching my food in 
case it tries to get away.

"Is that all he thinks I do?"  Mulder asks abruptly.  "Chase 
little green men and shake my fist at the sky?"

I shake my head and put down my fork.  "First of all, no, that's 
not all he thinks *we* do, and second of all, I'm the one who 
thought it was ironic that he lives in Roswell.  He didn't even 
notice the significance until I pointed it out."

He looks at me sharply and icily says, "Is that all you think of 
me?  That I have nothing better to do that investigate weird city 
names?"

"No, Mulder, of course not.  I just though it was ironic!"

"News flash, Scully, Roswell is a common name.  So is 
Springfield, but you don't see me running off to see if the 
Simpsons live there!"

I gape at him; where the hell is this coming from?  "Fine, I'm 
sorry.  Forget it."

He leans back heavily in his seat and watches me as I pick my 
fork up and play with my food.  After a minute, he speaks.  "I'm 
sorry, Scully."

I shake my head.  Apology isn't necessary, I don't think.

"No, I am.  I'm sorry.  I just...everyone thinks that's all *we* 
do: investigate aliens.  But that's not it.  That's not even half 
of it.  I don't even care about that stuff anymore..."  He fades 
out and silently begs me to probe him.

"What do you mean?"

He heaves a sigh.  "The only reason I cared about aliens was 
because I though they took Samantha.  I thought that if I found 
my little green men, I'd find her."  He stops and grins self-
deppreciatingly, looking me straight in the eye.  "But I didn't, 
did I?  She probably wasn't even taken by aliens.  All our 
work...all of the stuff that happened to us...to you...was for 
nothing."

"You don't know that.  I thought we understood that she was 
abducted by..."  I hesitate - it still sounds unbelievable 
"...extraterrestirals.  But she was returned - "

"I don't want to talk about it,"  he interrupts, standing quickly 
and making a bee-line towards the restroom.  Well, that was odd.

He comes back after a few minutes and sits down, crossing his 
arms and looking like a child threatening a tantrum.  I don't say 
anything and neither does he, for a few minutes.

"So, Ethan called again?"

"Yeah.  He called while we were gone and I called him back last 
night."

"Hmm..."

"He and Emma are coming June 19th."  He glances at me with those 
sad eyes.  "You know more about all these monuments and museums 
than I do.  Maybe you could join us on our tour of DC, help me 
not look like a moron."

He stares blankly at me before answering.  "No.  I wouldn't want 
to impose."  He's not bitter or angry, just miserable.

"You wouldn't be imposing - I asked you.  I want you to come."

He chews his bottom lip.  "And how would Ethan feel about that?"

I keep my comment about him baby-sitting while Ethan and I 
"visit" to myself.  "He'll be fine with it."

He nods absently, but I know he's not yet convinced.  Maybe 
Mulder just doesn't want to meet Ethan.

Or maybe this is too soon.  Maybe Ethan won't want to meet 
Mulder.  Maybe he won't want Emma to meet Mulder.  

But I can see how our day together would go; Mulder amazing Emma 
with his seemingly endless array of pointless facts and rambling 
stories about the history and myths of DC.  He and Emma would 
pair off quickly and leave Ethan and me to ourselves, to follow 
and ruminate, to enjoy our guided tour.

Throughout our cases together, I've discovered that Mulder has a 
natural rapport with kids.  They seem to gravitate towards him 
and he, in turn, always has a joke, a silly story, or a funny 
face to amuse them with.  I remember that stupid Mr. PotatoHead 
face he made to Emily, how her face lit up as she smiled.  He's 
also much better at interrogating children than I am.  I quickly 
get frustrated with children, having to talk so that they can 
understand what I'm saying, having to tip-toe around delicate 
issues so that I don't scare them into not talking to me at all.  
Maybe Mulder is so good with kids because he's a psychologist, 
and that's what they teach you to do, talk to anyone about 
anything and make them comfortable in your presence.  Or maybe 
because, in many ways, Mulder is still a child himself.  

Mulder would be a wonderful father.  I wonder if he knows about 
his natural aptitude and if he has a desire to use it on his own 
children one day.

Or maybe Mulder and Ethan will have a rapport of their own.  
Maybe they'll become fast friends and will pair off between 
themselves, leaving me to amuse Emma.

Or maybe Ethan will hate Mulder; they really don't have that much 
in common, and Mulder is so difficult to get to know.  He doesn't 
let anyone in easily and wants to see an advantage to having a 
person in his life before he'll commit to knowing them.  Then, 
and most importantly, he has to trust someone in order to become 
friends with them.  Ethan will think Mulder is arrogant and 
condescending, when, in reality, Mulder is just shy and quiet, 
but always willing to impart his vast knowledge upon someone and 
correct them if they're wrong.

Mulder is my best friend, my partner, a part of my family, my 
everything for so many years; Ethan will just have to accept him 
and his place in my life.

I have no idea what Mulder will think of Ethan.  I know that he's 
suspicious of Ethan's motives, why he wants me in his life again 
after all these years.  Mulder is very protective of me and may 
see Ethan as intruding into our comfortable, indefinable 
relationship.  After Mulder meets Ethan, he will either 
strengthen his suspicions or destroy them.  I just hope it's the 
latter.

In the worst case scenario, Mulder and Ethan won't get along at 
all, and Ethan won't want Mulder around Emma.  Then, I will be 
torn between my best friend and my...lover and his daughter.  My 
constant companion for eight years versus my blossoming romantic 
relationship with someone I barely know anymore.

As I think about all of these possibilities, Mulder stares out 
the window, watching the cars zoom by, unfocused on any one 
object.  A million miles away.

No, Ethan won't mind, and it's not too soon for this.

Besides, Mulder and Ethan have to meet eventually.

<><><>End Part 3<><><>

Notes: The Varsity really is the world's largest drive in, 
located in Atlanta, Athens, Kennesaw, and Gwinnett.  It also 
happens to be my favorite place to eat.  Instead of saying, "can 
I take your order" they say "what'd ya have" and they call "a 
plain hot dog to go" a "nekkid dog a walkin'."  

The deli sandwiches described in Part 1 are based on sandwiches 
from the Publix deli (that's a grocery store, though I think we 
only have them in Georgia and Florida).

Roswell really is a suburb of Atlanta, and it really is correctly 
pronounced "ROS-wuhl."

The beginning of Part 3 is dedicated to RealB, who wanted some 
fightfics the other night and I had none to give.

Thanks: To my amazing Betas, RealB, Karri, and Liam.  I know I 
get annoying sometimes, writing and rewriting until I'm happy 
with something, but they've been supportive throughout this whole 
process and I couldn't have done it without them.

Have you sent feedback yet?  lil_gusty@hotmail.com.  Yes, 
Virginia, there will be a next part, but stalking helps me write 
faster!
Title: Next Step (1/3)
Classification: SRA - lots of A
Keywords: Scully/Other, MSR/UST, AU
Rating: R, for language and sex - and not just S/O, either!
Spoilers: every episode until "Je Souhaite," but the latest 
          one specifically is "Hollywood AD."
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, they belong to  
            Mr. Chris Carter, lucky bastard.
Feedback: Pretty please to lil_gusty@hotmail.com
Distribution: anywhere, just let me know.
Notes: This is the forth part of my little heretofore unnamed 
       series.  You will need to read "The Longest Time," 
       "Practice," and "Signs From God" before reading this, and 
       they can be found at Ephemeral or Gossamer.
Thanks: at the end.

Summary: Scully makes some decision about her future.



<><><><><><>

"You know, we always had each other, baby.  I guess that wasn't 
enough."
                    ~ The Eagles

<><><><><><>

"So, have you talked to Ethan lately?"

The question that, to anyone else, would sound like passing 
interest about a cousin, maybe, plunged a knife into my heart.  
Who did she think she was kidding, anyway.  The look of quiet 
contempt, of disappointment that we should be having a 
conversation about this person in this context, was enough to 
make me regurgitate the meager amount of food I had happened to 
choke down during our stilted lunch together.

"Yes, mom, I have,"  I say sharply, giving her that look that 
says, "I'm not a child anymore."

Her face brightens and she smiles like my reunion with Ethan was 
all her idea.  "Well, when?  What did he say?"  She asks a moment 
later when I don't offer any details.

"I talked to him last week."

"And...?"

Oh, Mother, please.  "And, he says everything is fine."

She rolls her eyes and leans over the table to whisper her words.  
"Well, are you going to see him again?"

"Mom!"  I sit back in my seat and exhale in annoyance.  How dare 
she.

"I'm concerned, Dana.  He's a nice boy."

What, am I twenty again?  A nice boy?  What the hell is she 
talking about?

I nod, too afraid to say anything for fear that I'll yell at her, 
and take a sip of my diet coke.  If aliens were going to invade 
the planet, now would be a wonderful time to do so.

"He is.  Your father and I always loved him.  And you two were so 
happy together."

I can't take it anymore.  "No, Mom, actually we weren't.  He was 
overbearing and controlling and I...didn't want someone like 
that."

"He was just doing what was best for you - "

"What was best for me?  What does that mean?"

"It means that he didn't want you spending your life doing 
something that didn't make you happy."

"He didn't give a damn about my happiness."

"Dana," she takes that warning tone.  I cursed; oh horrors!

"He didn't.  He wanted to move to Atlanta and I was just supposed 
to follow him and be the dutiful fiancee."

"That's what a woman is supposed to do, Dana.  Follow her 
husband."

"This isn't the fifties, Mom, and I want a life outside my kids 
and husband."

She looks at me angrily; I've touched a nerve.  Before she and 
Ahab married, she taught elementary school and loved it.  It was 
truly her passion to guide young children.  But when she married, 
my father (not believing in birth control, of course) wanted 
children right away.  As soon as she learned she was pregnant 
with Bill, my father asked her to quit her job and she agreed 
immediately.  I'd always wondered if she was ever bitter about 
him taking away her independence and forcing her to be a 
housewife.  I guess not.

"And look where that's gotten you.  You're almost forty years old 
and still single.  That job of yours takes up more and more of 
your time; when are you supposed to have time to meet someone and 
settle down?  When are you going to move beyond this...phase?"

"Phase?"  I ask incredulously.  "You think this is just a phase?"

"I always told your father that this FBI thing was just a phase 
and that you would go back to medicine.  I always hoped Ethan 
would be there as well, and you and he could have a nice life 
together."

I stand up, ready to leave.  "This is NOT just a phase, Mom.  
This is a career!  A career that I love!"

She grabs my wrist and looks around embarrassingly at the other 
people in the restaurant who have taken to staring at us.  "Dana, 
sit down."

I do; I don't know why.  "I thought you understood how important 
this was to me,"  I whisper.

"I know how important it is to Fox, and how important he is to 
you, yes."

"That's not...Mom, that's..." I pause and take a deep breath.  
"Mulder is not the reason that I've stayed at the Bureau."

"Then what is the reason?"

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.  What do I say, that I'm 
afraid that I won't have a life at all without my job?  That I 
have to stay on the X-Files and see justice served to all the men 
who have hurt me and my family?

I say nothing and my mother takes my hand, holding it gently in 
hers.  "Dana, I only want what's best for you.  I want you to be 
happy.  But I don't see that you're happy with your life.  And I 
don't think this is the best thing for you."

I'm staring at the table and feel tears threaten in my eyes.  She 
continues, "Ethan still loves you and whatever disagreement you 
had, it's in the past.  He's here and wants to try again.  
Shouldn't you at least try too?"

I shake my head slightly, then change my mind and nod.  I feel 
like a child who's just received a scolding and one of those 
obligatory "this hurt me more than it hurt you" phrases 
afterwards.  I always hated it when I got in trouble, when my 
parents were angry and disappointed in me.  "He wants to bring 
his daughter here to meet me," I whisper.

She smiles.  "He has a daughter?"  I nod.  "How old is she?"

"Five."

By her voice, I can tell that she's trying not to cry, too.  "I 
think that's a wonderful idea, Dana."

"He wants her to see DC, and I told him that we could take her 
around the Mall."  I hesitate, then quietly add, "Mulder's coming 
too."

My mother drops my hand and her face and voice harden.  "Why?"

I look up at her with large, child-like eyes.  "He knows so much 
about the history, so..."

"That's not a good idea, Dana," she says harshly.

"What?  Why?"

She looks at me, confused.  "It just isn't."

I'm confused too, but she picks up the check and turns towards 
her purse: conversation over, time to go.

The car ride back to her house is silent, and just before I leave 
to go back to Georgetown, she looks me straight in the eyes and 
says, "Be careful, Dana.  Don't make any mistakes this time.  
This could be your last chance."

Last chance?  Mistakes?  This time?  I nod, though I don't 
understand and drive back home, trying to figure out what I need 
to be careful about.

<><><><><><>

May ended and June began, both without much fanfare.  Mulder and 
I stayed close to home, investigating things at the back of our 
filing cabinets instead of in the field.  A few years ago, Mulder 
would've been filling out 302's non-stop until we finally pulled 
an assignment.  He'd always been stir crazy and absolutely hated 
sitting in our claustrophobic office pushing papers.  He'd pace 
and ask me mundane questions, finding any excuse to go up and bug 
Skinner for a case.  He'd get anxious and irritable, raving about 
how the Bureau is out to get him and how they're wasting two 
valuable investigators, yadda, yadda, yadda.  I'd try to tune him 
out when he'd start rambling like that.

I hardly recognize my partner now, though.  We haven't had a 
field assignment since returning from Vermont and he hasn't 
started to file one 302.  He sits quietly at his desk, politely 
asks me questions, and not once has he been up to Skinner's 
office to raise hell.  It's eerie, seeing this more reserved side 
of Mulder, and I wonder if there's a reason that he's not 
pursuing any cases.  Maybe he just doesn't want to.

He also doesn't stare at me like he used to.  He would say that, 
when he got bored, studying people was a technique he'd perfected 
in college.  He said he could tell you anything about anyone just 
by studying them for a few minutes.  He'd told me once that I was 
his favorite subject because I was his most difficult one, and on 
boring, sweltering, sticky days in our unair-conditioned office, 
I would notice him staring at me, lost in thought.  But not 
today, and not lately.

I wonder if something's wrong, if he's upset or depressed about 
something.  When did this start?  Was there any event that I can 
trace these attitudes back to?

I think that last month has been boring, uneventful as far as 
work goes, and I trust that, if something had happened to him 
personally, I would've been the first to know.

I guess it started about the time we came back from Vermont, 
though I have no idea why that run-of-the-mill case would've 
caused such a dramatic change in him.  Maybe I should just ask 
him.

"Mulder?"

He keeps his head down, reading a file from 1996.

"Mulder?"

Still no response.  I rise from my chair and walk over to him, 
touching his shoulder lightly.  "Mulder?"  I ask quietly.

He looks up, slight shock written on his face, like he'd 
forgotten that I was even here.  "Hmm?"

"I want to talk to you."  He nods and swivels his chair around to 
face me, but doesn't say anything.  "You've been kinda...quiet 
lately.  Is everything okay?"

He nods that it is, but his eyes tell a different story.  Gray - 
I knew it, he's depressed.

"Are you sure?"  He nods again, looking down.  "You know you can 
talk to me about anything."  Another nod, and his head sinks 
lower.  "Okay.  I'm gonna go get something to drink.  You want 
anything?"  He shakes his head and I hesitate before turning away 
from him to get some money from the drawer in my un-desk.  I 
glance back at him before I walk out the door and see him in the 
exact same position: head bowed, starting at the floor.  Yes, 
something is definitely wrong.  Why won't he talk to me?

When I come back, diet coke in hand, he's still sitting in the 
same position, and doesn't look up as I walk in.  I walk back to 
my desk, sit down, and open the can with a loud "pop."  Still no 
movement.  Not knowing what else to do, I pull my chair closer to 
my table and begin going over an expense report.

In a minute, I hear him softly say, "Scully?"

I immediately turn my head towards him and, in my softest, most 
compassionate voice, say, "What?"

"I've been thinking."  He's still sitting in his same position, 
talking to the floor.  I can hardly hear him, so I wheel my chair 
over to sit right in front of his, our knees almost touching.  
"About what you said about there being an end..."

I nod.  He puts his hands over his face, his elbows on his knees.  
"I never really thought about it until you asked me...what I want 
to do with the rest of my life."

I nod again, though he's not looking at me.  He continues, "I 
honestly never thought I'd find my sister.  I wanted to, but as 
the years went by, I came to realize that I wanted my eight year 
old, bratty little sister back, not a grown woman who probably 
wouldn't even remember me...I think I almost wanted to find her 
dead, just so I wouldn't have to live with the fact that she had 
forgotten about me."  He looks up then, tears in his eyes.  "How 
selfish is that?" he whispers.

I scoot a little closer to him so that my knees rest between his.  
I pull his hands away from his face and hold them in mine.  "It's 
not selfish.  If she had lived, she would've been in so much 
pain.  At least, in death, she was peaceful."

"But she wouldn't have remembered me, and that's what bothers 
me," he says, quietly but vehemently.

"But she did.  She remembered that she had a brother.  You read 
it in her diary."  He shakes his head and looks to the side, 
grimacing slightly.

"But she wasn't looking for me.  I spent my whole life looking 
for her and she wouldn't have cared."  His tears are falling 
freely now, and I keep a tight hold of his hands so he can't wipe 
them away.

"She was just a child, Mulder.  She couldn't even if she wanted 
to."

He closes his eyes and nods.  "I know," he whispers miserably.  
He squeezes my hands tightly and I squeeze back, letting him know 
that I'm here.

"I'm so tired of this..."  he whispers after a few minutes.  "I'm 
tired of failing at everything, of looking for things that aren't 
there to be found."

"You haven't failed at everything, Mulder.  In fact, I can't 
think of anything that you have failed at."

"When I first started working here, my mother asked me to promise 
her that I'd find Samantha, and I didn't keep that promise.  I 
never got to tell her - " he breaks down then, shoulders hunching 
and sobs rising from deep within him.  I scoot closer and pull 
him towards me, wrapping my arms around him as best as I can.  He 
rests his head on my shoulder and sobs as quietly as possible, 
squeezing me tightly.  I don't say anything; I just rock him 
slightly, massage my hands up and down his spine, and wait for 
his sobs to pass.

After the worst is over, he rests, spent, in my arms, tears still 
streaming down his cheeks.  He raises his head and presses his 
mouth against the base of my neck as he heaves in a deep breath.  
His closed eyes are wet against my pulse, and his soft breath 
against my skin causes a slight tremor to course through me.  He 
sniffs twice and settles contentedly into his little niche 
between my head and shoulder, still holding me tightly.

"Do you ever regret staying with me?" he asks softly against my 
neck.

Even if I could think,  I would give him the same answer.  "No."

"Not even after everything that's happened to you?  Everything 
you've lost?"

"No.  Never."

He readjusts himself and his parted lips brush against my 
pounding pulse.  "Why not?"

I take a deep breath.  "I may have lost many things, but I've 
gained a lot, too."  I move one hand to his hair and thread my 
fingers through it.  Slowly, I turn my head and press my lips to 
his forehead.  He sniffs again, but his tears have stopped.

"Thank you," he says quietly into my neck.

"For what?"

"For being here.  For saying that you don't regret this."

I smile and kiss his forehead once more, lingering longer this 
time.  He squeezes me for a second then starts to disentangle 
himself from me.  He rubs at his eyes and cheeks, then looks at 
me.  "I got your jacket wet," he says, touching my shoulder 
lightly.

"It's okay."

He nods and pulls his chair back so that my legs are no longer 
between his and stands, stretching.  "I'll be right back."  He 
peaks his head into the hall after opening then door then, 
assured no one is out there, steps out and closes it behind him.

Not knowing what else to do, I wheel my chair back to my area and 
start working again.

<><><><><><> 

"All right, our flight gets in to National at 11:05 am."

"On the 19th?"

"Yup.  Delta flight 146, Atlanta to Washington National."

I smile and write down Ethan's flight plans.

"Emma is so excited she can hardly stand it," he says, laughing.

My smile gets bigger.  "And would her father share those 
sentiments?"  I ask playfully.

"Maybe just a little."

"Mmmhmm..."  He laughs again and I remember a question that I'd 
meaning to ask him.  "So, are you staying at a hotel or...?"

He hesitates.  "Uh, yeah.  I don't want Emma to get the wrong 
idea."  I frown slightly, but I know he's right.  He doesn't want 
Emma to know that we're sleeping together - I understand that.  
"Did you talk to whomever about getting the day off Monday?"

I sigh.  As much as I had wanted to meet them at the airport, 
fate wouldn't allow it.  Mulder and I had to turn in our 
quarterly report to Skinner first thing Monday morning, and the 
meeting would likely last all day with only a half-hour break for 
lunch.  I would have just enough time to call Ethan and make sure 
that they had arrived safely before I would be whisked back into 
our meeting.  "No, I told you.  I have to be at this meeting."

"You sure do have a lot of meetings," he says with a tinge of 
suspicion in his voice.

I sigh.  "Yeah, we do.  I'm sorry."  I don't know what I'm 
apologizing for; it's not my fault.

"I know...I just wanted to see you."

"I wanted to see you too, but we're spending the whole week 
together."

"Yeah...Tuesday we're spending the day around the Mall?" he asks 
quickly.

"Yeah, but I don't think we should try and do everything in one 
day.  Some of the lines can get kinda long..."

"Well, we'll see how much we can do in one day."

"Oh, I invited Mulder to come with us."  He doesn't say anything 
for a minute.  "Is that okay?"

"Why?"

"Because...Mulder loves this kind of stuff, and he'd be a much 
better tour guide than me."

"I thought this week was for us," he whines.

"It is, but I want you to meet him.  It'll only be for Tuesday; 
we'll have plenty of time to spend together."  I had assumed that 
having Mulder come with us would be okay and had neglected to 
mention it in any of our other conversations about this vacation.  
But I can't really go back and uninvite him now anyway.

He sighs and says, "Okay, if it's just for one day."

"Good."

"But after that, it's just the three of us...unless he's agreed 
to baby-sit..."

"I didn't ask him, but I promise - after Tuesday, it'll just be 
the three of us."

<><><><><><>

I was excited - more excited than I could ever remember being 
about anything, except maybe for moving into a dorm at the 
University of Maryland for the first time.  Freedom was all I 
could think of then: from my father, my brothers, my 
mother...from being the perfect little daughter all the time.  
Now, it was a myriad of emotions: anxiety, companionship...love.

I all but skip into the office on Friday, three days before Ethan 
and Emma are due to arrive.  I've been cleaning my apartment, 
even though I know we won't spend much time there.  I've been 
shopping for new summer clothes, even though I know I won't wear 
half of them during the week that they're staying.  But I can't 
help it.  I'm too excited and nervous to sit and do nothing.

If I have a polar opposite in the world today, it's Mulder.  I 
notice it as soon as I walk in: his shoulders are slumped and 
there are dark circles under his eyes.  The faint lines around 
his mouth and eyes are stronger, more predominant now, and his 
forehead seems perpetually creased in what looks like worry and 
loneliness.  After his breakdown last week, we'd spent a lot of 
time together, both at work and afterwards, though we rarely did 
anything other than sit in silence.  We either went out to dinner 
or ate pizza or Chinese at each other's apartments almost every 
night last week and all but twice this week.  I had slept at his 
place three times, and he had slept at mine four.  We said we 
were too tired to go home, and the other had agreed - it was too 
late to be driving home anyway.

It struck me as odd that, at our closest moments, we often did 
little more than just be with each other.

Last night, Mulder decided to leave early, saying that his couch 
was infinitely more comfortable than mine.  He had been happy, 
smiling and boyish - his usual self.  I wondered what had changed 
in just twelve hours.

He looks up as I enter and continues to stare at me as I deposit 
my laptop at my table, then smooth my skirt to sit.  I take my 
computer out of its snug little case and turn it on, fumbling to 
plug it in to conserve the battery.  I glance at him, saying 
"Morning," quickly, and I go about checking my mail.

He doesn't respond immediately, but continues to stare at me.  
Then, he drops a bombshell.  "I don't want to go with you on 
Tuesday."

I slowly turn my head towards him.  "What?"  I ask, unable to 
believe his confession.  This was all planned and arranged.  He 
can't back out now.

"I don't want to go," he says again, more plaintively.  His brows 
are drawn up towards his hairline like he's afraid I'm about to 
yell at him and he's trying to make me feel sorry for him.

It's not working.  "Why not?"

"I just...I don't want to."  He looks at the top of his desk and 
shifts some papers around, trying to distract me.

"But, I want you to come,"  I say, sounding like a twelve-year-
old girl.

"Why?"  He keeps shuffling papers, even picks up a pen, feigning 
attention to them.

"Because...I told you...you - "

"You want me to be your personal tour guide?" he interrupts.  

I nod.  "I can count on one hand the number of times I've even 
noticed these places in passing.  I don't know anything about 
them, and you seem to, so I though you could help me."  I sound 
whiny, and I don't mean to, but I thought we had a deal.  He had 
agreed to this.  He couldn't just change his mind.

He puts down his pen, puts his palms flat on his desk, still 
staring at the papers.  "Did you ever ask Ethan if this was okay 
with him?"

I hesitate.  Technically, I didn't ask.  "Yes.  He said it was 
fine."

"You're a terrible liar, Scully,"  he says flatly.  He gets up 
and heads towards the filing cabinet, yanking it open and rifling 
through it, looking for nothing in particular.

"Mulder...why didn't you tell me sooner?"  I ask quietly.

"Forget it," he says, slamming the cabinet shut and returning to 
his chair empty handed.  I gape at him for a moment before he 
continues, "I've already been approved for the day off.  What 
else am I gonna do?"

He picks up his pen again and starts scratching away on one of 
the papers in front of him.  Not knowing what else to do, I turn 
back to my computer and finish checking my mail.

When I walked in and saw Mulder's countenance, I told myself his 
bad mood wouldn't ruin my day.  My good day would improve his, I 
told myself.  I guess I really am a horrible liar.

<><><><><><>

Mulder meets me outside Skinner's office Monday morning, files 
tucked under his arm, one cup of Starbucks coffee in each hand.  
He's clearly exhausted and I wonder how much sleep he's gotten in 
the past week.  Not much, I'll bet.  I'll have to watch him 
closely to make sure he doesn't fall asleep during our meeting.

"Coffee," he says, handing me the cup in his left hand.  "You're 
favorite, with whipped cream on top."  No smile accompanies his 
greeting.

"Thanks," I say extra sweetly.  "How much?"

He waves my question away.  "Don't worry about it."  He takes a 
long sip of his coffee, and I see my opening.

"Mulder, how much did you sleep last night?"

"I didn't," he softly tells his shoes.

I sigh and prepare to launch into a tirade about how unhealthy it 
is for him not to sleep, especially when we'll be on our feet in 
the hot sun all day tomorrow, but Kimberly interrupts with, 
"Agents, the Assistant Director is ready to begin."

Mulder nods to her and starts towards Skinner's door without 
looking at me.  Mulder's always been a gentleman, opening and 
holding doors for me, abiding by the "ladies first" rule, but 
today, he brushes by me and opens Skinner's door, quickly passing 
through it and leaving me open-mouthed, staring at the space he 
used to occupy in front of me.

I silently follow, keeping my head down so as not to draw any 
unwanted questions from Kimberly.  When I enter, Mulder is 
already seated in front of Skinner's desk.  Skinner looks at me 
as I pause in the doorway.  He approaches me, closes the door, 
and says, "Thank you for joining us, Agent Scully.  Please have 
seat."

I close my mouth and have a seat.

<><><><><><>

At lunch, Mulder was out the door and standing in front of the 
vending machines before I could even gather up our files.  
Skinner, noting my unusual disorganization, sternly asks, "Agent 
Scully, is everything all right?"

I glance up at him and attempt to close the folder without 
creasing any of its contents.  "Yes, sir," I answer crisply.

"There's nothing going on between you and Agent Mulder that I 
should know about?"

I try to stifle my sigh a frustration.  Damned if I know.   
"No, sir, not that I'm aware of."

"He doesn't look well.  Are you sure he's okay?"

I'm a horrible liar, remember, and I really don't like to lie, 
especially to my boss.  "He told me that he's been having 
difficulty sleeping," I answer, hoping that he will let it drop.

Skinner takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, 
a sign of his own frustration.  He replaces his glasses and says, 
"I expect you back here in twenty-five minutes, Agent."

"Yes, sir," I say dutifully as I walk out of his door.

Mulder is no where to be found in the hallway, elevator, or 
office, so I seize the moment and call Ethan's cell phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey!  It's me."

"Hey, me, how's your meeting?"

I smile.  "Boring, but we're taking a lunch break."

"How convenient.  I'm trying to fight my way through traffic to 
get to our hotel and you're relaxing over lunch."

"Actually, I'm neither relaxing or eating."

He laughs.  "Well, at least you know where you're going."

"Are you lost?"

"No...uh, I don't think so..."

"You're getting old.  Your memory's failing."

"I never knew my way around Crystal City."

"Then why are you staying there instead of Georgetown?"

"Because it's much cheaper in Crystal City."

We're silent for a minute.  "So, your flight was okay?"

"Yeah, Emma loved it."

"Was this her first flight?"

"Yup.  She did well."

"Good."  I hear feet shuffling and see Mulder standing in the 
door way, looking like he's about to cry.  "I'm glad you got here 
okay, but I have to go," I say quickly.

Ethan noticed my change in tone and asks, "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, everything's fine, I just have to go."

"Okay, I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah."

"I love you."

I look down at my lap.  "I love you, too," I whisper.  I hang up 
the phone and, when I look back towards the doorway, Mulder's not 
standing there anymore.

<><><><><><>

He shows every sign of ditching me again after our meeting is 
finally over - at 6:30 - and I run to catch up with him in the 
nearly empty hallway.

"Mulder?  Mulder!"  I call as he disappears into the stairwell.  
I follow him.

"Mulder?  Would you slow down?"

He keeps jogging down the stairs, two at a time, and I fall 
further behind him.

When I finally reach our office, he's gathering up some files to 
take home and digging his keys out of his pocket.  "Mulder?"  I 
say pitifully from the doorway, panting to try and control my 
breathing.

"What?"  he snaps, glaring at me with a "leave me the hell alone" 
look.

"I just...what's wrong?  Why won't you talk to me?"

"There's nothing to talk about," he says as he tries to push past 
me and into the hallway.  I block the doorway, spreading my feet 
and putting my arms up to brace myself on the door frame.

"You told me you weren't sleeping well.  There has to be a reason 
for that.  Now what is it?"  He looks at the floor and doesn't 
say anything.  "I can't help you if you won't talk to me," I say 
softly, trying to peer up at his eyes.

"Maybe I don't want your help," he says as he forces me out of 
his way, nearly knocking me down in the process.  I say nothing 
more, instead just watching him walk down the hallway and into 
the parking garage.  

I hope he's better by tomorrow.

<><><><><><>

I can't stop thinking about Mulder.  All the way home, I tried to 
determine what his problem is.  He said he hasn't been sleeping 
well which is common for him, but his insomnia is usually brought 
on by something.  I can't figure out what that could be, and its 
depressing me.  I can't stand to see him like this.

What he said is also depressing me.  He said that he didn't want 
my help.  Friday, he sobbed in my arms after pouring his heart 
out to me, and now he won't even talk to me.  If I've done 
something, I have no idea what it is, and if he won't tell me, 
then I truly can't help him.

By the time I get home, it's almost eight o'clock - Georgetown 
traffic after six is a nightmare and, against my better judgment, 
I had chosen to drive to work today instead of taking the Metro.  
I'm exhausted and want nothing more than to curl up with a nice 
Lean Cuisine and crawl in bed extra early.

Of course I can't though.  Ethan is in town - with Emma - and, 
although we didn't discuss it, I'm sure he'll want to go out to 
dinner.  For some reason, now that they're here, I'm not as 
excited as I was about their visit.  Maybe I was anticipating 
something fun to do instead of actually doing something fun with 
these specific people.  Or maybe Mulder's depression has affected 
me, too.

But I just don't feel like entertaining tonight, and I certainly 
don't feel like meeting my lover's daughter.

There's no message from Ethan when I get home and I decide to 
wait for him to call me.  I know that Mulder and I are meeting 
him and Emma at the Smithsonian Metro Station at ten o'clock 
tomorrow morning.  That's enough for now.

When he hasn't called by nine, I figure that Emma was tired by 
her day of travel and excitement and Ethan wanted to stay in.  It 
would've been nice of him to call, though.

I go to bed at nine thirty, feeling lonely and sad.  I want to 
call Mulder to see if he's feeling any better, to make sure that 
he's still going to pick me up at nine fifteen tomorrow morning, 
but decide against it and turn over to face my windows and stare 
out at the darkness until I finally fall asleep.

<><><><><><>

Before I decided on a new pair of shorts and a new pale blue tank 
top and new sandals, I tried on every item in my wardrobe at 
least three times.  I've blow dried my hair straight, pulled it 
up into a pony-tail, brushed it out, braided it, took it down and 
put barrettes in it, and brushed it out one more time before 
deciding on a simple headband - the one I wore to our movie 
premiere.  I smile as I remember the fun that Mulder and I had 
that night, holding hands and walking down the streets of LA, 
getting drunk at the Bureau's expense, Mulder gazing at me, 
telling me over and over how beautiful I looked...

Mulder arrives at ten after nine, looking very much like my 
average partner on casual days.  Jeans, gray T-shirt, and tennis 
shoes, adorable smile and soft, tired eyes.

"You're going to burn up today.  It's supposed to be ninety," I 
chide as I pour him a cup of coffee.

"I'll be all right," he says quietly.

"Did you sleep any last night?"

He pauses, spoon in mid stir.  "Yeah...I took one of those pills 
you gave me."

"You did?"  After his mother's death, his nightmares became so 
horrible that he couldn't sleep at all, and I had prescribed him 
a mild sedative to help him sleep, much to his dismay.  I didn't 
even know he had gotten the prescription filled.

He nods and goes back to stirring.

I leave him in the kitchen and make my way around my living room, 
opening my blinds, when he says softly, "You look pretty today."

I turn around and stare at him.  "Thank you."

H nods again and takes a sip of his coffee.  "Are you nervous?" 
he asks with more confidence.

"Yes," I answer, rejoining him in the kitchen and taking a sip of 
my orange juice.  "But I'll be more nervous when we get there.  
Have you eaten anything?"  He shakes his head.  "Neither have I.  
Will you split a bagel with me?"

He nods, and I fix our bagel while he watches me in silence.

<><><><><><>

We're early.  Mulder's casually standing at the top of the 
escalator at the Smithsonian Metro Station, watching me as I 
furiously pace back and forth in front of him.  My bagel is 
threatening to make a return appearance and my heart is about to 
pound its way out of my chest, but I can't stop pacing.

"Scully," Mulder says, gently taking my arm.  "Do you want to sit 
down?"

I shake my head and go back to pacing.  "What if she doesn't like 
me, Mulder?"

"She's five; she likes anyone."

"But, what if she doesn't like me?  I don't have much experience 
around kids, Mulder, what if I screw this up?"

"Just be nice to her, ask her open ended questions.  You won't 
screw this up, Scully."  He takes my arm again and halts my 
pacing.  "Look at me," he says softly.

I do, and he puts his finger under my chin, tilting my face 
towards his a little more.  I feel tears in my eyes as he says 
very earnestly, "Scully, she'll love you.  Just calm down."

I close my eyes tightly for a moment, squeezing out two tears in 
the process.  Mulder places his hands on either side of my face 
and, with his thumbs, wipes them away tenderly.  When I open my 
eyes, I see tears threatening in his eyes too.

We stare at each other for a minute as another wave of people 
begins streaming up and out of the underground tunnel.  I put my 
hands on Mulder's forearms and gently but firmly push his hands 
down, away from my face, and move in front of the escalator, 
trying to see Ethan.

I don't have to wait long.  I see only the top of his head as he 
leans down to a small girl with wavy blond hair cascading down 
her back from a high pony tail.  She's dressed remarkably like 
me, in shorts and a blue tank top, and I smile,  noting that at 
least we have one thing in common.  She looks excited but a 
little scared, and she holds tightly to Ethan's hand as they 
ascend the escalator.  She's asking him a question, and Ethan 
nods, then stands up to his full height and catches a glimpse of 
me.  I smile a little wider and stand frozen.  The closer they 
get, the more I'm sure that I'll faint from nervousness.  From 
the corner of my eye, I see Mulder notice my wide smile and 
follow my gaze, trying not to move his head in the process.

When Ethan finally reaches the top of the escalator, he almost 
drags the little girl behind him in his haste to approach me.  
His strides get wider and wider until he's standing right in 
front of me.  Then, he, too, becomes frozen.

The little girl at his side swings her hand in his to snap him 
back to attention.  He glances down at her and they exchange 
secretive smiles, then he drops her hand and steps forward, 
taking me into his arms.

I sag into him and bury my head in his shoulder, tightening my 
arms around his waste.  He strokes my back and whispers in my 
ear, "It's so good to see you again."

I pull back and nod slightly, feeling tears threaten again.  He 
leans down and chastely kisses my cheek, then glances back to the 
little girl at his side who is still smiling.  "Dana," he says 
proudly, taking the girl's hand, "this is Emma.  Emma," he 
glances at her again, "this is Dana."

Emma becomes shy suddenly and inspects her pink tennis shoes.  
"Hi Emma," I say in my best kid-friendly voice, not too stern, 
not too placating.

Ethan shakes Emma's arm and she says, barely audible, "Hi."

"It's nice to meet you.  Your daddy's told me a lot about you."

She giggles and looks up at her daddy, smiling.

We stand there for a moment, basking in our togetherness when 
Ethan asks, "So, where's Mulder?"

Huh?  Oh, yeah.  I turn around and spot Mulder, doing his best to 
either blend into his surroundings or sink into the ground, arms 
crossed over his chest, scuffing one shoe against the pavement, 
trying to look casual.  "Mulder!"  I say, and he looks at me like 
he's constipated.  "Come here!"

He slowly ambles over and appraises the three of us already 
standing there.  When he finally arrives, I being my 
introductions.  "Ethan, this is Fox Mulder.  Mulder, this is 
Ethan Minette."

Mulder looks Ethan over head to toe, as if trying to figure out 
the best way to take him down.  Ethan extends a friendly hand 
and, after a brief hesitation, Mulder takes it and they shake.  
"Mulder?"  Ethan asks, just to be sure.  Mulder nods.  "This is 
my daughter, Emma."  He gestures to Emma, who's eyeing Mulder 
warily.  Ethan bends down to her and says, "Emma, this is Mr. 
Mulder, one of Dana's friends."

She nods and looks at both of us again before looking back at her 
father and smiling.  She whispers something in his ear and he 
laughs, then stands up and addresses us.  "It's good to finally 
meet you, Mulder.  Dana talks about you constantly."

Mulder nods and looks at the ground again.  "It's good to meet 
you too, Ethan," he says, still looking down.

Well, this is going well.  Maybe Mulder should start carrying a 
cave around on his back like a turtle and then he'd never have to 
see or talk to anyone new.  I give him an annoyed look which he 
doesn't see and then ask everyone, "So, what's do we want to do 
first?"

<><><><><><>

In two hours, we managed to cover two Smithsonians.  Ethan and I 
talked almost constantly about anything that came to mind, 
reacquainting ourselves with each other, holding hands like 
teenagers and sneaking a kiss when we were sure Emma wasn't 
looking.  As I figured, Emma was immediately drawn to Mulder.  
From what little of their conversation I heard, she asked him 
silly, pointless questions and he gave her sillier, more 
pointless answers.  They got along well, and I even saw Mulder 
smile a few times as he hoisted Emma onto his shoulders to get a 
better look at something.

At twelve, Emma began to complain of being hungry, so we decided 
to take a break and eat lunch.  As we were walking to Ethan's 
favorite all-you-can-eat for $2.99 pizza buffet, Emma pointed to 
a hot dog vendor and asked Mulder what it was.  Mulder answered 
that the man behind the little rolling cart was selling the best 
hot dogs in the world and that at night, when he stops selling 
hot dogs, he goes to sleep inside the cart where it's warm and 
yummy smelling.  Emma gave Mulder a look that I said "I don't 
believe you," but laughed anyway and said she wanted a hot dog.  
Ethan said so, absolutely not, that "those things" were 
unhealthy, and Emma looked so disappointed I thought she might 
cry.  Mulder just stared at Ethan, so I intervened and told Ethan 
that at least once a week, Mulder and I eat one of those hot 
dogs, and we're still alive and healthy.  Emma turned on her best 
pouty look, and so the four of us bought hot dogs and chips and 
sat on a bench across from the Jefferson Memorial and ate.

After we had finished eating, Mulder walked with Emma down to an 
ice cream vendor to buy dessert.  Ethan watched them walk away 
and, when they were out of earshot, said, "Emma seems to really 
like Mulder."

I nod, "Yeah...he's great with kids."

"Does he have a girlfriend?"

"Mulder?  No."

"Is he, uh...?" he hesitates.

I turn towards him.  "What?"

"Gay?"  he asks quietly.

"Ethan!"  I slap him playfully on the arm.

"Well, I had to ask."

"No, he's not gay.  He's just...shy...hard to get to know."

He nods.  "I noticed."

I sigh and make my plaintive face.  "Ethan, please be patient 
with him.  This is a new situation for us - "

"What do you mean?"

"Neither of us have ever dated before - while we've been friends 
- and Mulder's very...possessive of me sometimes.  He doesn't 
have any other friends, really, or family.  I'm all he has - "

"You make it sound like you're the couple here, not us."

I look down at my hands and fiddle with the hem of my tank top.  
"That's not what I meant, I just...if he seems a little distant, 
it's just because he doesn't know how to act in this kind of 
situation, and he's not really a people-person anyway.  Please, 
be patient."

Ethan nods.  "Okay."

I nod back.  "Thank you.  It really means a lot to me that you 
two get along."

"I'll try my best," he says as he leans in to kiss me.

I push him away suddenly when I see Mulder and Emma coming back.  
Whether its embarrassment at being seen by Mulder or Emma, I'm 
not sure.

Emma runs up, ice cream cone in hand, and jumps up on Ethan's 
lap.  "Want some?"  she asks.

"No, thanks," he tells her, kissing her temple lightly.

"Sorry, Scully, they didn't have any non-fat tofutti rice 
dreamcicles.  I guess it's regular ice cream for you," Mulder 
says, handing me my cone.

"You didn't get one?"  I ask, noticing his now empty hands.

"No.  I thought maybe you'd share."  He grabs my wrist and pulls 
it towards him, taking a healthy bite out of my chocolate ice 
cream.

"Mulder!"  I laugh as melted ice cream drips down his chin and I 
reach up to wipe it off, licking my thumb and finger afterwards.  
He's smiling at me for the first time today and, for a minute, I 
forget where I am and who I'm with as I lose myself in his eyes.

Ethan clears his throat angrily and asks, "So, what's next on our 
agenda?"

Mulder's smile falls and I look back at Ethan, my cheeks burning.

"I want to go to see the fishies," Emma says excitedly, bouncing 
up and down on Ethan lap.

"Well, let's go," Ethan says, standing up suddenly and taking 
Emma's hand.  "Mulder, you know how to get there?"

Mulder nods and turns around, walking towards the nearest 
intersection.  Emma drops her fathers hand and runs after Mulder, 
tugging on his fingers until Mulder notices her.  She smiles up 
at him and jumps up and down some more, too excited to stand 
herself.

"I never should have let her have that ice cream," Ethan sighs.  
"She'll be hyper the rest of the day."

"Oh, let her have fun," I say, struggling to catch up to Mulder 
and Emma already across the street.

Inside the aquarium, Emma stands amazed at the exotic fish 
species around her.  Mulder asks her if she knows how to make a 
fish-face and she says no.  Mulder glances at me, still lagging 
behind with Ethan, and then looks back down at Emma, sucks in his 
cheeks and opens and closes his mouth as much as possible.  Emma 
laughs and so do I, despite myself.  Ethan looks at me like I'm 
crazy, not seeing the humor in his daughter imitating Mulder's 
silly face.

Mulder stops making the face and rubs his sore cheeks, smiling 
shyly at me.  I return his smile and Ethan clears his throat, 
urging us to continue our tour of the aquarium.

Ethan wanted Emma to see the White House, but she was less than 
interested in it, seeing it as just another white house.  She 
quickly became bored with Ethan's stories of the opulent mansion 
and found it infinitely more fun to talk to Mulder, who never 
failed to amuse her, even in the most unexciting of situations.

By dinner time, Emma was exhausted and Ethan had to carry her 
everywhere.  "I figured all this walking and the heat would get 
to her," he says as we stood in front of the Metro station where 
we had met.

"Maybe she'll feel better tomorrow," I say.

"Thanks for entertaining her, Mulder."  Mulder nodded and studied 
his shoes.  "Do you think you might be interested in watching her 
for a few hours while Dana and I go out to dinner one night?"

I look at Ethan, eyes wide.  We hadn't talked about having an 
intimate dinner alone, and I know Ethan real intentions aren't to 
eat out at a restaurant.

Mulder looks up at us briefly and I think he's about to cry.  
"Sure, I guess," he says, and quickly looks away.

Ethan smiles and leans in to kiss me.  Before he pulls away, he 
whispers, "I love you," then, with a quick, spiteful glance at 
Mulder, disappears underground.

I watch him and Emma until I can't see them anymore, then turn 
around and find Mulder watching me warily.

I walk towards him slowly, looking up at the rapidly setting sun.  
When I'm a few steps in front of him, I close my eyes and stretch 
my arms up over my head, feeling energized and happy.  "Now, that 
wasn't so bad, was it?"  I ask him playfully.

Mulder obviously doesn't feel like playing.  He shakes his head 
and looks at the ground again, the same as he's done every time 
anyone spoke to him today.  "We should probably be headed home, 
too," he mumbles sadly.

"No.  Let's walk," I say decisively.  He opens his mouth to 
object but I stick my hand out towards him in invitation.  "It'll 
be fun, I promise."  I give him my biggest, most sincere smile 
and reach for one of his hands, stuck in the pocket of his jeans.

He looks at my face, at my eyes, and I can see him trying to 
fight the smile tugging at his own lips.  He reluctantly takes my 
hand and shyly asks "Where're we going?"

I lace our fingers together, putting my other hand on his forearm 
to draw him closer.  "Where ever we end up," I reply.

We walk in silence for a minute before I finally ask, "Did you 
have fun today?"

He hesitates and stares off into the distance.  "Yeah.  Emma's 
great...she's a lot of fun."

I smile again and look up at him.  "She seemed to really like 
you."  He shrugs.  "She did.  I think Ethan was a little jealous 
of it, actually."

"Yeah, he barely seemed to notice her at all," he says, glancing 
down at me before quickly looking up and away again.

"I guess he was...preoccupied," I say, feeling a blush creep into 
my cheeks.

"You could say that," he says angrily.  

I glance over his anger and giddily ask, "So, what'd you think of 
Ethan?"

I feel him startle and he looks over at me.  He opens his mouth 
but hesitates before saying, "It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does."

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes, it does, Mulder.  I want to know what you thought of him."

"Why?"

"Because.  It matters to me."

He looks away and takes a deep breath.  "Scully, I honestly 
didn't talk to him that much.  You were with him and I was with 
Emma."

"What are you general impressions of him, from what time you did 
spend with him?"  I feel Mulder try and pull his hand away, but I 
tighten my grip and stop walking, standing in front of him.  
"Mulder...what's the matter?"

He shrugs again.  "Nothing."

"Don't tell me that.  I know that something's bothering you, but 
you won't talk to me.  I'm worried about you."

"You don't need to worry about me, Scully," he says solemnly.

"I know I don't have to.  You're my best friend and I care about 
you, so I want to worry about you, especially when I think there 
really is something wrong and you just won't tell me."  I can 
feel exasperation creeping into my voice and try and chase it 
away.  I'm not angry with him, I'm just...concerned.

He looks down again and chews his bottom lip, calculating his 
next words.  Then he looks up, tears in his eyes.  "Is that all I 
am to you, Scully?"

I cock my head.  "What do you mean?"

He shakes his head in frustration and looks away again.  A tear 
slips down his cheek and he violently wipes it away, turning away 
from me.  He again tries to reclaim his hand from mine, but I 
hold tightly to it, squeezing.  "Mulder...please talk to me," I 
whisper with as much vehemence as I can muster.  He shakes his 
head again.  I let out a deep breath.  "All right.  You don't 
have to talk to me."

He squeezes my hand and looks at me suddenly, but doesn't say 
anything.

Around us, the street lights are staring to come on as it gets 
increasingly darker.  "You're right.  We should be heading home," 
I say before dropping his hand and turning around towards the 
Metro station.  Mulder hesitates and I look back at him.  He 
looks lost and pathetic, but I don't know what else to do to help 
him.  "You coming?"  I ask, and he catches up to me.  

The Metro ride back to Foggy Bottom and the short walk to my 
place are made in silence, and right before we approach the 
building, Mulder stops beside his car and announces, "I'm gonna 
go."

"You're not coming up?"  He shakes his head.  "Not even for a few 
minutes?"  Another shake.  "Okay."  I walk back towards him and 
he crosses his arms over his chest in his classic "stay away from 
me" posture.

"Thank you for coming with me today.  I don't know how I would've 
done this without you."

He nods and I place my hands on his forearms, trying to pull them 
away from his body.  He doesn't budge, so I just rest my hands 
there.  I stand on my tip-toes and brush a kiss over his cheek.  
When I pull away, I notice tears in his eyes again.  "Thank you," 
I say again.  "I'll see you next week."

He nods and slowly pulls himself away from me, climbs in his car, 
and leaves without making sure I'm safely in my building - an 
oddity from him.  I stand in the parking lot for a minute, 
watching his tail lights disappear into the darkness then turn 
around and head up to my apartment.

<><><><><><>

Mulder never did offer to watch Emma for a few hours and I wasn't 
about to ask him.  I hadn't spoken to him since our parting on 
Tuesday afternoon, three days ago.  That has to be some kind of 
record of us not speaking to each other.  I decided that I'm not 
going to call him, that he'll have to call me.  I told him he 
didn't have to talk to me, which is usually a good way to get him 
to talk to me, but the reverse psychology obviously didn't work 
this time.  Although I know he is hurting, his mini-confession 
last week in his office was only scratching the surface, or maybe 
a diversion from the real problem.  But Mulder knows that I'm 
here if and when he needs me, that I'll always be here, and all 
he has to do is call or come over.  He's yet to do either.

Friday afternoon, I asked Ethan to come over to my place and said 
that I would cook dinner for him and Emma.  I had a bit of an 
ulterior motive, too.  Ethan and I hadn't been alone since they 
had arrived and my libido was in full overdrive.  If I was lucky, 
I thought, Emma would fall asleep on the couch and let Ethan and 
me have a few minutes to ourselves.

I asked Ethan what Emma's favorite food was and he said anything 
Italian, so I made spaghetti.  If she liked it, she didn't give 
much of an indication.  She played with it, mostly, but did 
manage to eat a few noodles every now and then.  There was ice 
cream for dessert, which she loved, but other than that and the 
obligatory "please" and "thank you," she didn't say a word to me 
the entire time.  Ethan alternated between trying to get a 
conversation going between Emma and me and praising me for my 
cooking, both of which were futile.  Emma wasn't interested in me 
or my food, and I felt like a complete failure.

Surprisingly, as I'm loading the dishwasher, Emma comes and 
stands on the other side of the open door, looking at the dishes.  
I don't know what to say, so I don't say a word, instead making 
sure not to get water on her.

"Where's Mulder?"  she asks quietly.

I close my eyes for a moment.  Damned if I know.  "He's at home, 
I guess,"  I say with false cheeriness.

"Where does he live?"

"He lives in Alexandria.  That's not far from here."

"Oh."  She goes back to staring at the dishes and I'm ready to 
close the door, but afraid that if I do, she'll run off.

"Did you have fun with Mulder the other day?"  I finally ask.

She nods happily.  "He said he has fishies."

"Yeah, he does.  He has two little fishies."

She smiles and, after a minute of staring at me, runs off to sit 
beside her father on the couch in the living room.

Well, that was odd.

I follow her after a minute, handing Ethan a glass of white wine 
as I pass him and sitting on the other side of Emma.

"Why don't we see if we can find some cartoons on TV, Em?"  Ethan 
asks, nodding at me conspiratorially.

In about thirty minutes, Emma is peacefully sleeping on the couch 
and Ethan and I are trying our best to be quiet as we fumble our 
way to my bed half dressed.

He tells me that he loves me right before he comes, and I smile 
in contentment.  Tonight wasn't quite perfect, but it was 
definitely better than Tuesday.

Afterwards, I lay on my stomach, my head on his chest, listening 
to his heart beat.  He rubs my back and pulls the covers over me 
against the chill of the sweat cooling on my skin and says, 
"Thank you."

I giggle into his shoulder.  "For what?"

"For trying so hard.  With Emma, I mean."

"I failed miserably.  I would suck at being a mother."

"No, you wouldn't," he whispers.  "What do you mean, 'would?'"

Huh?  My lazily closed eyes snap open.  "What?"

"You said you would suck at being a mother."

"Yeah...?"

"I thought you said you had a daughter."

Oh.  I burrow my face into his shoulder, trying to disappear.  
"Yeah...but it was...different."

"How?"

"Ethan," I sigh in exasperation.  I do NOT want to get into this 
right now or ever.  "Even if I explained it to you, you wouldn't 
understand."

"I bet I would.  I could try, anyway."

"No," I say angrily.

"Then will you at least answer one question for me?"  I don't say 
anything, tears stinging my eyes.  "Who was her father?"

I take a deep breath.  "I don't know," I whisper.  What was that 
noise?  The shit hitting the fan?  My relationship crumbling to 
the ground?

Ethan holds his breath for a minute, then asks softly, "You don't 
know?"

"Like I said, you wouldn't understand."  I roll away from him and 
curl myself into a tiny ball, pulling the covers tightly around 
me.

He hesitates for a moment, then curls himself around me, pulling 
me close to his body, resting his arms over mine.  "Try to 
explain it, Dana, please.  I want to know."

He kisses my temple lightly and I whimper, fighting back my 
tears.  Another kiss down my cheek, then a series from my neck to 
my shoulder and collar bone and I start talking, very slowly and 
softly.  "A few years ago I was abducted..."  His hair tickles my 
neck as he nods, kissing down to my breast.  "The men that 
abducted me did tests on me...some kind of experiments...they 
removed my ova and - "  My breath hitches as he lightly teases my 
nipple.  "They used the ova to create a child...my 
child...without my permission or knowledge.  I have no idea who 
her father is or if she even has a father."

Ethan pauses and looks up at me.  He pushes himself up and braces 
his arms around me, gently coaxing me onto my back, then settles 
down to continue his ministrations.  "Another woman gave birth to 
her and raised her as a daughter.  Then I found her.  Her mother 
and father were killed by the same men who abducted me, but she 
was so sick.  I only knew her for a few days and then she died."  
Tears are streaming silently down my cheeks now, and Ethan's 
tongue and hands have stopped feeling good.

"Ethan..."  I say pitifully, pushing him away as he settles 
himself between my legs.

"What?" he asks in surprise.

"Were you even listening to me?"

"Yes," he whispers, laying his body over mine, kissing away my 
tears.  "You're right.  I don't understand," is all he says 
before he starts his journey downwards again.

I wiggle, trying to get out from under him.  I don't feel like 
sex now.  I just poured my heart out to him and he didn't even 
acknowledge it.  All I want to do is drowned myself in a bubble 
bath and sob for a few hours - alone.

He puts his hands on my hips to keep me still; he probably thinks 
I'm just playing around, not actually trying to get away.  He's 
reached my stomach again and he pauses, looking up at me. 

"We're leaving tomorrow," he whispers.

"I know," I whisper back.

"Dana?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't want to leave you."

I don't answer.

"I love you," he whispers, resuming his task.

"Ethan, I don't want to do this right now," I say a little too 
loudly.

He sits up and rests on his calves, studying me in the dim light 
slanting through the blinds.  "What's the matter?"

I shake my head and turn over, resuming my fetal position, not 
answering.

He sits for a minute, then the mattress jumps as he stands up.  
He searches for his clothes, then dresses, and opens the door.  
"I'll call you before we leave tomorrow," he says, then closes 
the door behind him.

I hear him open and close the front door, too, then silence as he 
leaves me blessedly alone.  I look at the clock - 10:17 - then 
turn my head into my pillow and sob.

<><><>End Part 1<><><>

Feedback now!  Lil_gusty@hotmail.com



Next Step (2/3)
Headers in Part 1

<><><><><><>

I can't sleep.  I've been laying here for three hours, 
alternately crying in loneliness and anger.  Loneliness because 
I've pushed Ethan away from me, either by telling him a story 
which I knew he wouldn't understand or believe, or by turning him 
out of my bed.  I'd tried so hard to be good for him in every way 
imaginable: I'd tried to coax his daughter into liking me, I'd 
tried to gloss over and creatively edit the facts of the past few 
years of my life, I'd tried to act like the happy, tenacious Dana 
that he knew - that he left - for him, and everything had back 
fired.  I was right back where I started, before he ever came to 
visit me one lonely Friday night, only slightly more depressed 
about the state of my life than I was then.

If someone had asked me before he came back if I was happy, I 
would've hesitated, but answered that yes, I was.  Maybe not 
every minute of every day, but overall, in general, I was 
basically happy.  I had a nice apartment, enough money to pay my 
bills and live comfortably, a good friend and partner, and a 
reasonably exciting and challenging job.  It wasn't the life I 
had imagined for myself when I was twenty-five, but it wasn't too 
bad.  It could have been a lot worse.

Now, though, if someone asked me if I was happy, as Ethan had a 
few weeks ago, I would honestly say that I didn't know.  All I 
can see now is that life that I could've had if I'd married Ethan 
eight years ago, and all I see are positive things.  Somewhere in 
the back of my mind, I know I'm idealizing my life-that-wasn't, 
but the negative doesn't register right now.

All this week, where ever Ethan and I would go with Emma, I would 
try my best to treat Emma like she was my daughter.  I thought it 
would help me erase my anxiousness about being with her, but it 
hadn't.  It had only deepened my depression and emptiness.  I 
kept thinking of all the people around us, the strangers, who 
thought that we were a happy little family, maybe on vacation, 
maybe just going out to eat together.  They didn't know that she 
wasn't my daughter; that my daughter had turned to sand before we 
buried her in San Diego, next to an aunt and a memorial for a 
grandfather she never knew.  They didn't know that I couldn't 
have any more children.

Not being able to have children never really bothered me.  As I 
was told when I tried to adopt Emily, I wasn't a very good 
candidate for parenthood.  My job had become my life, and what 
tiny cracks it didn't fill, Mulder was there to complete the 
take-over.  I never had time to think about having a family and 
therefore never missed the fact that I couldn't.  I never thought 
about it and it never bothered me.

Ethan's resurfacing has brought up those long-repressed emotions.  
I told Ethan that I thought it was God's way of punishing me.  
Maybe I was being a little over dramatic, but it wouldn't 
surprise me that the same God who has taken from me and taken 
from me, and has showed me no mercy or support over these last 
few years when I've needed Him the most, would see that, because 
of my abortion of one deformed innocent, I would never be allowed 
the chance to have a healthy child.

Mulder said he was tired of chasing after things that weren't 
there to be found when the chase ended; maybe I'm tired too.  I 
never intended to be consumed by his quest, and while I don't 
regret my decision to stay with him, sometimes I wonder if it's 
been worth all the sacrifices I've had to make.

If Mulder were happy with his closure from Samantha, it would be 
worth it.  But Mulder's not happy, so was it worth it?

I told Mulder that I wanted an end.  Maybe Ethan is that end.  My 
life has always seemed to move in circles, and I have a tattoo on 
my back to prove it.  Maybe my circle is completing itself and 
I'm supposed to return to Ethan after my trials and tribulations.

Maybe God sent him to show me that.

I sit up in bed, the sheet and comforter falling to my waist and 
exposing my bare chest to the darkness.  If Ethan is that end, I 
may have just ruined my chance of accepting it.  He said he would 
find a way to make this work - this thing between us - so that it 
would last forever.  I want that forever.

But I can't leave without my closure.

I rise from the bed and dress in the dark, putting my black dress 
pants and sleeveless cream-colored blouse back on from earlier, 
slip into my black sandals, and hastily leave my apartment.

The night had gotten colder, and chill bumps rise on my bare arms 
and make me nervous, edgy, as I climb into my car and start the 
short drive to Alexandria.

When I arrive at Mulder's building, I notice his car parked out 
front.  It's almost two o'clock.  I don't know where he would be 
at this time of night, but I'm glad he's here instead.  He's 
always here when I need him.  There's a faint, bluish-white light 
flickering inside his window.  He must be awake, too.

When I get to his door, I hesitate, listening to the muffled 
sounds of the television coming from the other side.  He's not 
watching one of those tapes that aren't his, thank God, but he's 
exercising a method of breaking his insomnia.  He told me once 
that, all through college, he would sleep with either the TV or 
radio on to chase away his nightmares.  After the nightmares 
tapered off, he'd never thought to get used to sleeping in the 
silence again.

I knock softly on his door, not wanting to wake his neighbors or, 
if he is asleep, wake him.  In a moment, I hear his footsteps 
crossing the foyer and pause in front of the door, wondering who 
could be visiting him at this time of night.

Slowly, I hear the lock disengage and the door creak open a 
crack.  I peak through it into the quasi-darkness, but I don't 
see him.

"Mulder?"  I whisper as loud as I can.

I hear a sigh of relief, then the door swings open and Mulder 
emerges from behind it.  He's bare-chested and wearing a pair of 
flannel pajama pants hanging low on his hips, ready for bed - or 
couch.  I see the light from the TV reflecting off something in 
his hand and, looking down, I realize that he's holding his gun, 
ready to shoot whoever was at the door.

He sees me eyeing the gun and tucks it behind his back.  "What're 
you doing here?" he sleepily asks.

"I wanted to talk to you.  Were you asleep?"

He shakes his head and steps back, letting me enter.  He closes 
the door softly behind him and locks it, clicking the safety of 
his gun on.

I walk into the living room and plop down on his couch heavily.  
The cushions are molded to his body and warm from where he was 
laying.  A thin blanket and pillow adorn opposite ends of the 
couch, and I impulsively pull the blanket over me in a belated 
attempt at warmth, then curl up into the pillow like a large 
house cat.

He watches me warily for a minute and I realize that he lied to 
me.  There are crease on his face from the pillow and his 
movements are sluggish, his eyes hooded: he was asleep.  He sits 
down on the middle cushion and mutes the TV, then stares at me.

"I did wake you.  I'm sorry," I whisper miserably.

"It's okay.  I shouldn't be sleeping out here anyway."

I give him a questioning look.

"I'm gettin' old.  If I sleep out here, I wake up sore the next 
morning."  He smiles slightly and looks at the floor between his 
knees.

"You're going to be thirty-nine on your birthday," I say, 
laughing.

"Don't remind me."  He shakes his head and looks back at me with 
wide, sad eyes.

"I wanted to talk to you," I repeat and he leans back into the 
couch.  "Get comfortable.  I'm on a rant and this could take a 
while."

He tugs the bottom of the blanket over his legs and I snatch it 
back.  He smiles again and scoots closer to me, pulling a corner 
of the blanket over his lap, then slides my sandals off my feet 
and tucks the rest of the blanket around my freezing toes.

"Ethan and Emma are going back home tomorrow," I start, and he 
looks away, fiddling with the blanket.  "I was thinking about 
that end we keep discussing.  And I've come to the conclusion 
that my end is with him."

Mulder looks at me then, eyes wide and shocked.

"You know this tattoo I have?"  He nods.  "At the time, it 
represented the way that I lived my life.  In circles."  He nods 
again, trying to follow my tangled diatribe.  "Maybe Ethan 
returning to my life is another of those circles...maybe he 
symbolizes where this stage of my life is supposed to end and the 
next phase is supposed to begin."

"The next phase with Ethan?"  Mulder asks quietly, sadly.

"Yeah."  I look at him, but he's studying a spot on the ground 
between his knees again.  "What'd you think?"

He shakes his head, pondering, but not saying anything.

I sit up and touch his shoulder lightly, but he still doesn't 
look at me.  "If I quit the Bureau and went with Ethan, what 
would you do?"

He looks up and stares straight ahead, at the people on TV, 
silently talking to no one.

"Mulder?"

"I don't know," he says quickly.

I nod and rub his shoulder, right over the scar where I shot him 
all those years ago.  "Would you stay at the Bureau?"

"I don't know!"  He repeats loudly.

I sigh and he looks sharply at me.  "Is that what you wanted to 
talk to me about?  Did he ask you to marry him?" he asks 
seriously.

"No.  Not yet.  I don't even know if he wants to, but if he 
does -"  

He stands abruptly, slowly pacing behind his coffee table.  
"You'll say yes?  Just like that?  He leaves you eight years ago, 
then mysteriously pops back into your life with a little girl 
that reminds you of Emily and you just concede to marry him?  You 
don't even know him anymore, Scully!"

"I do know him, Mulder, I've known him for years," I interrupt.

"But he's changed, Scully, and so have you.  The relationship 
that you had with him may not work now."

I sigh in annoyance.  He's treating me like a child, someone 
who's not competent to make her own decisions, just because he 
doesn't agree with them.  He's always done that, belittled me 
because I'd disagree with him.  Even if he does have a good point 
this time.

"Okay...okay, maybe you're right.  But it's still something to 
think about."  He stops pacing, looks at me for a second, then 
bows his head in seeming defeat.  "But I want to know what you'd 
do if I left."

He nods sadly.  "I don't know, Scully."  He looks at me very 
solemnly and my heart unconsciously speed up a little.  He sighs 
tiredly and sits back down beside me.  "Why do you want to know?  
I mean, what does it matter what I would do?"

"Why wouldn't it matter?"  He shrugs.  "For so long, it's just 
been you and me, and I want to make sure that you understand why 
I'm doing this.  I'm not running away from you, I'm just...I just 
want to know what you'll do without me."

He sighs again and closes his eyes.  "I've never really thought 
about it.  I guess I never thought I'd have to worry about it - 
not having you in my life -"

"I'd still be a part of your life, Mulder, just not to the degree 
that I am now," I sternly interrupt.

"And how would Ethan feel about that?"

"It's not up for discussion.  He accepts every part of my life, 
or he doesn't accept me at all."

We're silent for a minute, both staring at the flashing 
television in front of us.  "Scully?" he quietly asks, not moving 
his eyes from the screen.

"Yeah?"

"After everything that's happened to you because of me, you 
deserve some happiness.  If he makes you happy, that's all that 
matters to me."

I blink back tears at his sentiments, then say to him very 
softly, "Thank you, Mulder."

"I'm just not convinced that he can make you happy, Scully."

He looks at me then, honesty and seriousness in his eyes.  I nod, 
not knowing how to respond to that.  He looks away again, the 
conversation officially declared closed.

I stand up, feeling fatigue and ache in my joints.  "Do you mind 
if I sleep here tonight?"  I ask in a tiny voice.

He shakes his head and looks away, towards his empty window.

"Do you have a reasonably clean T-shirt I can sleep in?"

He nods and quickly disappears into his bedroom, not looking at 
me as he passes me.

He emerges after a few seconds with a white undershirt and asks, 
"This okay?"

I smile and take it from him.  "I'll sleep out here.  Don't want 
you to be sore in the morning, old man," I tease.

He smiles shyly and shakes his head.  "No, that's okay.  One more 
night won't kill me."

"You sure?  We've shared a bed before; I don't mind."

He pauses, thinking.  "No.  It's okay."

I nod and reach up to his neck, curling my fingers around the 
base of it and pull him down, brushing a kiss over his cheekbone.  
"Goodnight," I whisper.  "Thank you for talking to me, for 
listening to me.  You've always been a good listener."

He nods, blushing slightly, and picks up his remote, turning off 
the TV.

I stand in front of him, in the dark, and listen as he whispers, 
"'Night."

I turn and walk into his bedroom, close the door, hastily change 
into his T-shirt, and climb into his bed.  In just a few minutes, 
I fall asleep, surrounded by his scent like a second skin.

<><><><><><> 

I'm dreaming again.  It's one of those dreams where you're awake 
enough to still be dreaming, yet not able to control what 
happens.  You're watching it like you watch a movie, shouting at 
yourself and the other players to do what you want them to do, 
not what your subconscious wants them to do.  It's futile, but it 
makes you feel a little better to at least try and control the 
situation.

It's about that night that Mulder came back from England, the 
night that I fell asleep on his couch while we were discussing 
destiny, fate, and how to throw a curve ball.  Mulder gingerly 
covered me with his scratchy Indian blanket, then went into his 
bedroom, I assume to get ready for bed.  A few minutes later, he 
emerged in his pajama pants and bare-chested, and came to tower 
over me, hands on hips, a distressed look on his face.

He appeared to be thinking and, in the end, decided against 
whatever it was he was thinking about.  He re-tucked the blanket 
around me, turned out the lights, and went back into his bedroom, 
partially closing the door behind him.

After about an hour, I woke up and realized where I was.  Already 
a little stiff from sleeping in the awkward position, I quietly 
stood up and started slipping on my shoes.  I saw light spilling 
into the living room from Mulder's bedroom, and I peaked into the 
room, seeing if he was asleep.  He wasn't - instead, he was 
propped up against his headboard, reading a book by lamplight - 
and noticed me standing there immediately.

I smiled shyly and walked into his room, sitting on the side of 
his bed.  "Sorry I fell asleep," I said softly.

"It's okay.  You were exhausted," he'd said, looking at me with 
sleepy eyes.

"Well...I'm gonna...go home, I guess."

He sat up straight, then, and quickly, nervously, said "You don't 
have to."  I cocked my head, silently asking why I didn't.  "It's 
too late for you to be driving home now, and you're still tired.  
You might fall asleep on the way."

I nodded, looking at the floor.  "You're right."

He nodded, too, then shyly asked, "Do you want to sleep in here?"

I looked back at him.  His eyes were pleading, begging me to 
stay, watching me carefully in case I didn't.

I grinned at his nervousness.  We'd shared a bed before - when we 
hadn't had a choice - and I didn't find it awkward to sleep with 
him.  I crawled over to the other side of the bed, turned away 
from him, and stripped down to my panties and camisole, crawling 
into bed and piling the covers on top of me against the slight 
chill in the spring air.  When I'd gotten settled and 
comfortable, I looked back at Mulder, still staring at me, wide 
eyed.  I smiled again and said, "'Night," before turning away 
from him and closing my eyes.

He took a deep breath, held it, and then asked, "Do you want me 
to turn off the light?  I can, if it's keeping you awake."

"No, it's fine," I'd said.  

The next thing I remember, I woke up at 5:30 with a heavy, lazy 
arm draped across my stomach.  Mulder had curled around me 
sometime during the night seeking warmth and I, apparently, had 
snuggled back into his body.  I'd shifted myself in his embrace 
and discovered that he'd shed his pajama pants at some point 
during the night and was pressed against me in only a thin pair 
of boxer-briefs and that underneath those boxer-briefs was a very 
impressive erection.  As I'd inadvertently rubbed against it, 
he'd groaned slightly and rubbed back, pulling me tighter against 
him.  His open mouth settled itself over my collar bone and the 
moist puffs of air had made me shiver.  That's when I knew it was 
time to go.

I untangled myself from his warm, heavy limbs and walked softly 
into the bathroom, rinsed my mouth with mouthwash, washed my 
face, and redressed in my clothes from the previous day.  After a 
lingering glance at my sleeping partner, I'd left his apartment 
and returned to my own before the sun had come up.

I never mentioned that morning to him and either he didn't 
remember it or he did remember it, but was too afraid to 
acknowledge it, but he never mentioned it either.

That was how it had really happened, but my dream had different 
ideas.

In my dream, I wake up and realize that I've fallen asleep on 
Mulder's couch.  I slip on my shoes and, as I pass his firmly 
closed bedroom door, I hesitate, staring at it like I could see 
through it.  I turn the knob and gently push the door open, 
seeing Mulder asleep in the big bed, the street lights outside 
painting him in golden-orange color.  I step towards the bed, 
expecting him to wake up at any minute, but he doesn't.

I tell my dream self to turn around and walk out the door, to go 
home, to leave Mulder sleeping, but she doesn't listen.

I keep approaching the bed, trying not to wake him.  When I get 
even with his head, I slowly divest myself of my clothes, 
including the panties and camisole.  Then I slowly draw the 
covers back, exposing a delightfully nude Ethan, not Mulder, 
sporting that same impressive erection.

Why Ethan is in Mulder's bed, why he's nude, I have no idea, but 
my dream self isn't inclined to try and figure it out.

I put one knee on the bed, then straddle him, my hips poised 
above his, though not touching, my hands fisting the pillow on 
either side of his head.  I lean down and kiss the tender spot 
behind his ear, then trail my open mouth down to his throat.  He 
wakes, but doesn't seem to find it odd that we're both nude, in a 
strange bed, and inches away from having sex in this strange bed, 
instead placing his hands on the curve of my waist, then sliding 
them up to cup and caress my breaths before sliding back down to 
my hips, pulling me closer to him.  

"Mul...der..."  I moan against his neck.

Our mouths, which had before now been panting and gulping breaths 
against each other's skin, join in a harsh, bruising kiss.  As my 
tongue dips between his open lips and finds his, he tugs my hips 
one last time and I slide down on to him, shuttering in pleasure.  
I moan Mulder's name again, louder, and I know Ethan heard it.  
He doesn't appear to be phased, though.

Yeah, that's definitely a dream, and I'd stopped screaming at my 
dream self to stop, instead watching her, seeing how far this 
would go.

As he penetrates me, I wake up, still shuddering.  I open my eyes 
and see darkness surrounding me, though I know I'm in Mulder's 
bed.  Sweat coats my face and chest in a fine layer, and I kick 
the thick covers off, desperate to cool myself down.

I roll to my back, tucking my damp hair behind my ears.  Looking 
at the clock, I realize that it's almost seven am, and that the 
sun will be rising at any moment and remembering that, on 
weekends, Mulder rises with the sun to go jogging.

I sigh and pull the covers back over my now-chilled body, close 
my eyes, and burrow deeply into my cocoon of soft.

I'm almost asleep again when I hear the bedroom door creak open.  
My dream, still fresh in my memory and body, began similar to 
this.

I wonder what that dream could mean.  Ethan in Mulder's bed, my 
moaning Mulder's name instead of Ethan's.  Ethan not caring.  
Maybe it doesn't mean anything.

He walks in and I clamp my eyes shut tightly, feigning sleep.  He 
quietly steps towards the foot of the bed, pausing and watching 
me silently.  After a few seconds, he walks to his closet and I 
hear him changing clothes.  A few minutes more and he leaves his 
bedroom, closing the door behind him.  Then, another door closes 
as he leaves for his jog.

I'll wait until I'm sure he's gone, I tell myself as I mentally 
prepare my departure.  After a dream such as the one I'd had, I 
don't want to face him.  I'd had dreams about him in the past 
and, although I hadn't had one quite so graphic in a long time, 
I'd always felt that somehow, he knew.  He could read it in my 
face or body language, and I'd always spent the next few days 
avoiding him as much as possible, until I was sure he could no 
longer see it.

My eye lids get heavy again and I remember how exhausted I am.  
Sex with Ethan, crying, and pornographic dreams are taxing on my 
body, and I struggle not to fall asleep in Mulder's soft, 
yielding, warm, luxurious bed.

Ethan - he's leaving today.  He'd said earlier that he wanted me 
to go with him to the airport, to be with me as long as possible.  
He'd said that Thursday - I wonder if he feels the same way now.

I take a deep breath and pull the covers more tightly around me, 
letting my body lose its battle with sleep.

<><><><><><>

The next thing I know, I'm smelling coffee and hearing a shower 
run.  Mulder was back and I had fallen asleep.  I sigh, then 
snuggle deeply into the covers, savoring the warmth for a moment 
more before I throw them off of me and stand up.  It cold, and I 
hurriedly dress and follow the scent of fresh caffeine to the 
kitchen.

Mulder had bought us Starbucks coffee - again - plus gooey, 
yummy, cinnamon rolls.  I consider waiting for him to finish his 
shower before I start eating, but the smells and sights are 
making me famished, so I dainty dig in to my share of the 
breakfast, chewing slowly in an effort to wait for him.

A few minutes later, the shower cuts off and the bathroom door 
opens.  Mulder sticks his head out and, seeing the empty bed, 
calls "Scully?" into the apartment.

"I'm in here...I found breakfast," I call back, mouth full.

"Oh...I'll be out in a few minutes."

Before I can swallow and answer, the door's closed again as 
Mulder continues his morning routine.

In the silence, I consider my dream again.  What a weird dream to 
have.  Maybe it says something about how stressed I am about 
dividing my time between Mulder and Ethan.

I look at the clock on the microwave.  Assuming it's right, it's 
a little after nine.  Ethan hasn't called me on my cell phone to 
see if I'm still going to the airport with him yet and a part of 
me thinks that he won't.  That he'll just leave without saying 
goodbye again and disappear from my life.

I'm suddenly not hungry anymore and shove my half-eaten cinnamon 
roll away, swallowing bile with my last sip of coffee.

Well, Mom, I'd screwed up again.  My last chance and I blew it.

I hear the bathroom door open again and Mulder emerges.  He 
ambles into the kitchen, smiling slightly, and asking, "Sleep 
well?"

Yeah, except for this pornographic dream I kinda had about you 
but not really, I slept just fine.  "Yeah."

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No."

He nods.  "We hadn't had a cinnamon roll in a while so..." he 
gestures at my half-eaten one and opens his, picking up the fork 
that I'd laid out for him.

"It was good; thank you."

"You done?" he looks back and forth between me and the pastry and 
I nod, swallowing more bile.

He nods back, slightly confused.  Usually, when we buy these 
cinnamon rolls, he ends up sharing half of his with me after I've 
finished my own.  But I'm just not hungry anymore.

I take a deep breath.  "Mulder, I -"

He puts his fork down, devoting all of his attention to me.

"I'm sorry I bothered you last night, but I needed to talk to 
someone who understands, someone who believes me. "

"It's not a bother Scully," he says seriously, tilting his head 
in silent encouragement for me to elaborate and leaning heavily 
on the counter beside me.  "I told you - anytime you want to 
talk."

I nod and swallow again.  "Last night...Ethan and Emma came over 
for dinner and I told Ethan about Emily."  My voice is flatter 
than necessary, but I don't want to start sobbing again.  As I 
look down at the floor, Mulder stands up and puts his hands on my 
shoulders, taking a step closer towards me.

"What'd he say?" he asks quietly.

"Nothing.  He said absolutely nothing," I answer pitifully, 
sniffing once despite myself.

He gently massages my shoulders and takes another step towards me 
until his nose is almost touching my hair.  "I'm sorry, Scully."

"I knew it, though.  I knew he wouldn't understand, but I thought 
he should know...what he was getting into."

Mulder nods and tugs on my shoulders, trying to pull me into his 
chest for a comforting hug.  I don't let him, though, pushing him 
away and taking a few steps back.

He doesn't look up from where his head was bent, talking softly 
to me, and I manage to say, "I have to go.  Ethan's leaving 
today..."

He looks up at me, then, and opens his mouth to say something.  I 
cut him off, though.  "I have to go," I whisper again, turning 
and opening his door, not hesitating as I step out and close the 
door harder than necessary.

I pull my keys out of my pocket and navigate my way to my car 
through a film of tears, wondering if Ethan's awake yet.

I drive home on auto-pilot, coming close to at least one serious 
accident when I tried to change lanes without checking my blind 
spot.  When I get to my apartment, I close my eyes and walk to my 
answering machine, praying that there'll be a message from Ethan 
there.  Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes and a red, blinking 
"1" greets me.  I punch the button and curse at the machine 
telling me "You have one new message."  Well, obviously.  Get on 
with it!

"Dana, it's me."  I close my eyes again and a tear falls onto the 
talking plastic against my will.  His voice is sad, tired, like I 
feel.  "I, uh, I was wondering if you were still gonna meet us at 
the airport."  A pause.  "I'm sorry for the way I acted last 
night.  You were obviously upset and I shouldn't have left you 
like that, but..."  Deep breath.  "I want to talk to you before 
we leave.  If you don't want to come to the airport, please call 
me.  I love you."

The machine tells me he called at eight thirty, while I was still 
asleep at Mulder's.  I pick up the phone and, holding my breath, 
dial his hotel room.

On the fifth ring, just when I'm about to hang up, he answers.

"Ethan," I whisper, relief flooding my body.

"Dana, thank God.  I was afraid you wouldn't call."

"I was afraid you wouldn't call.  I'm sorry...I was - wasn't 
here."

He doesn't say anything for a minute, expecting me to elaborate.

"You shouldn't be apologizing to me.  I'm the one who ruined our 
night last night," I finally say, breaking the silence.

"Well, we both agree that we're sorry for the way we handled it," 
he says diplomatically.

I nod.  "I need to talk to you, too, and I still want to come to 
the airport if you want me to."

"Yeah, absolutely."

I smile.  "Okay.  I'll meet you there at 12:30?"  I ask, 
remembering our plans.

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"Dana, I do love you."

I close my eyes again, and no tears fall this time.  "I know.  I 
love you, too."

I hear a 'click' as he hangs up, not saying goodbye.

Yet, anyway.

<><><><><><>

Ethan and Emma ate lunch at the airport, but I couldn't stand the 
thought of food and sipped my over-carbonated diet coke, watching 
Emma watch the minions of people bustling around her.

When we return to the gate, Ethan asks Emma to sit down in one of 
the seats, explaining that he and I are going to stand by the 
window, and for her not get up.  She dutifully nods and Ethan 
takes me by the hand, walking to our place in the drama.

"Dana..." he abruptly starts, turning so he can watch Emma over 
my shoulder.  "What you told me last night, about Emily...that's 
not true, is it?"

"Yes, it is," I strongly answer, a little annoyed that he would 
think I'd lie to him about something as important as this.

He nods, though I can tell he's not convinced.  "Well, that's a 
hell of a story."  I stare blankly out the window, watching the 
planes and people below.

"You said you wanted to talk to me," he prompts.

I don't take my eyes away from the outside, not wanting to look 
at him as I say this.  "I wanted to apologize for not being fair 
to you and Emma.  I looked so forward to your visit, but I 
just...I was preoccupied with work, " I hedge - Mulder qualifies 
as work.  "I couldn't enjoy it like I wanted to, and Emma 
probably hates me and I'm sorry.  I'm sorry that I ruined 
everything."

"Dana, you didn't ruin everything," he softly says, stroking my 
cheek with his knuckles.

"I've made some decisions.  I've decided that I want this.  I 
want you and Emma...and that life that I chose not to have.  I 
want to make this last forever, too, and I'm willing to change to 
do that.  What ever I have to do, I'm ready," I finish, tears in 
my eyes and voice.

I'm still looking away, but from the corner of my eye, I see 
Ethan take a deep breath, hold it, close his eyes, and exhale 
slowly.  "That's a big decision," he murmurs, gently turning my 
face towards his.

I finally, hesitantly meet his eyes, which are welled with tears 
as well.  "I'm ready, too, Dana," comes out as barely a whisper.

I nod and smile, feeling it stretch my taunt, dry skin.

"Does this mean that you're finally ready to get married?" he 
asks, seriousness in his eyes.

I nod again, though less confidently than before.  "I think so."

He beams, then, and cheerily says, "Then let's go tell Emma."

<><><><><><> 

Telling Emma proved to be less than exhilarating.  Ethan and I 
walked over to where she was sitting - holding hands - and Ethan 
bent down and simply said, "How would you like it if Dana came to 
live with us?"

Emma kept kicking her feet in the plastic seat, making little 
drumming noises as the heels of her tennis shoes hit underneath, 
and blinked up at her father, then at me, then back to her 
father.

I smiled and tried to show my enthusiasm, but Emma didn't seem to 
notice.  Maybe she didn't understand what Ethan was trying to 
tell her or maybe she just really doesn't like me, but Emma gave 
no reaction, positive or negative.  The only thing she did was 
shrug halfheartedly, then tell Ethan she was thirsty.

Ethan said later that he had discussed the possibility of me 
living with them before they arrived in DC and that Emma seemed 
receptive.  Ethan said that Emma was probably just tired and 
ready to get back home.  I kept smiling, brushing away renegade 
tears as they sporadically fell, and agreed with him; she was 
tired and homesick.

Before they boarded the plane, Ethan asked me when I would tell 
my mother and I replied that I didn't know.  I hadn't actually 
thought about it.  In a way, I felt that telling my mother would 
be admitting that she had been right, that I was supposed to 
marry Ethan all those years ago and now he and God were giving me 
another chance.  It would be admitting that working for the 
Bureau had really just been a phase left over from my rebellious 
youth and that now, I had come to my senses, realized where my 
place in life was, and decided to grasp it with both hands before 
it escaped again.

It would be admitting that Ethan was right, too.  That God had 
brought us together again for a reason - to be together after all 
of our trial, tribulations, and tragedies we had suffered while 
apart.

I hate it when other people are right.

Thinking of all this on the drive back to my apartment, 
rehearsing what I would say to my mother when I called, how I 
would deflect her questions about when and how much money, I 
realized that this was a huge blow to my pride and independence.  
I was admitting to my mother and to myself that loneliness had 
finally gotten the better of me and that I needed companionship.  
I needed someone.

For so long, I had convinced myself that needing someone was weak 
and that I would never, ever sacrifice my pride, my life, my 
sovereignty, just to have someone to share my life with.  But I 
was doing those things now, and while it sickened me to think of 
how I was admitting dependence and conceding defeat, it excited 
me to know that I would finally be settled, have someone to sleep 
beside me at night, someone to expect me home in the evenings, 
someone who cared whether I lived or died.

Maybe that isn't the same as admitting dependency.

I put off calling my mother, though, as long as possible.  On 
most Saturday's, we have lunch together or, at the very least, 
talk on the phone, but I had called her earlier in the week 
telling her that Ethan and Emma were leaving on Saturday and that 
I wouldn't be able to make our lunch date, and wouldn't be near a 
phone until later that day.  She said she understood, then asked 
how things were going.  "Fine," I had told her.  She asked if 
Ethan and I wanted to spend an evening alone together, if we 
wanted her to watch Emma, and I automatically responded no.  
After a beat of tense, misunderstanding silence, she said that 
her offer would be open if we changed our minds.  I never 
mentioned the offer to Ethan, and I hadn't changed my mind.

My giddiness and initial excitement over Ethan's proposal had 
worn off by the time I'd gotten home, and my thoughts were now 
filled with the practical things: would I have to move to Atlanta 
or would they move here?  Ethan would probably insist that Emma 
stay in Atlanta, if only to be close to her mother and his 
parents.  If I did move, where would I work?  I still had no 
interest in working in an FBI field office, so I would have to 
find an entirely new career.  Maybe teaching at a college - Emory 
University was in Atlanta, and it had a medical school.  Or maybe 
the CDC - I was offered a job there when I graduated from med 
school and when I turned it down to go to the Bureau, they 
periodically sent me job offers, claiming they would double my 
salary, buy me a car, pay my relocation expenses.  But I was 
happy at Quantico and later, happy on the X-Files, so I remained 
adamant in my refusals.  But maybe the offers are still open.  
How would I feel about leaving my mother all alone?  Bill and 
Charles moved so often and were hardly ever available to visit 
Mom, but at least I was only an hour away if she needed me in an 
emergency, but if I moved to Atlanta, she'd be up here all alone.

And what about Mulder?  He'd be up here all alone, too.  He 
doesn't have any family, no real friends.  How would he react to 
my moving a thousand miles away?

I hadn't even thought about telling Mulder about my engagement.  
He thinks that Ethan and I are moving too fast and, in many ways, 
I think it makes him angry that I finally have a life, that I'm 
no longer lonely, and he still is.

I think that it's always been a comfort to Mulder that he has 
company in his solitary lifestyle.  He's an extremely possessive 
person, especially of me, and maybe he's a little jealous of my 
relationship with Ethan as well.  Jealous that I have someone to 
love and that loves me and he doesn't, the same sort of jealousy 
I felt towards him when he dated Alicia.

It is a comfort to know that someone as socially isolated as 
yourself has a counterpart that's just as socially isolated.  And 
I can't imagine how I would feel if Mulder approached me and 
suddenly announced that he was getting married to someone that I 
barely knew, that he barely knew.  I would be jealous of that 
relationship and I would be angry that he was leaving me in my 
solitude while he went off and lived the American dream.  After 
all, it wouldn't be fair.  I'm the one that suffered because of 
his quest, and now he abandons me for someone else?  If either 
one of us should be marrying or abandoning the other, it should 
be me marrying and abandoning him.  It's only fair.

Something occurs to me then, smacking me upside the head like a 
slap across the face: Mulder's weird moods, his depression and 
irritability, his distance from me - all of these things started 
when I mentioned that Ethan was coming to visit and bringing his 
five-year-old daughter named Emma.  He'd started avoiding me 
then, and acted awkward whenever I brought up something about 
Ethan, like him living in Roswell.  He'd started not sleeping and 
his eyes had been perpetually bloodshot after I'd asked him to 
come with us to the Mall.  Maybe Mulder was jealous that I had a 
relationship with someone and he didn't.  Maybe he was afraid 
that I would abandon him, and depressed because I had already 
appeared to be doing so.

Or maybe it was all a huge coincidence.  Mulder could have a 
relationship with someone if he wanted to, and he chooses to 
alienate anyone who is interested in him - like Alicia.  His 
loneliness is his fault.

But whose fault was his depression and jealousy?

Maybe Mulder was right: maybe I am moving way too fast.  Could I 
really abandon him and leave him all alone to sink further and 
further into his depression and self-loathing.  Could I really 
marry a man whom I haven't had any contact with in eight years, 
who'd abandoned me when I'd needed him the most?

Maybe I should've told Ethan that I needed to think about this 
before I gave him an answer.  Maybe I shouldn't have rushed into 
this.  Maybe I should've thought about all the practicalities of 
this before I'd committed myself to it.

Then, if I'd told Ethan to wait, that I'd needed to think, 
chances are he would've gotten on that plane and I never would've 
seen or spoken to him again.  I hurt him once by making him wait 
on me, he probably wouldn't allow me to do so again.

My apartment seems darker, emptier when I get home.  I wonder 
what kind of house Ethan lives in - I know he makes a lot more 
money than I do.  Certainly, it's bigger than my moderately sized 
apartment and I'm sure it exudes that "homey" feeling that my 
home never did.  Ethan's home would never seem dark and empty, it 
would always be filled with light and comfort.

I decide that, even though it's only a little after three, I'm 
taking a long, hot, relaxing bath and sipping white wine.  
Carrying the phone into the bathroom with me, I slip beneath the 
vanilla scented bubbles and just-hot-enough water, emitting a 
huge, echoing, sigh of relief as I get comfortable.

I hadn't allowed myself to realize how stressful this past week 
had been on me and while it hadn't been quite as successful as I 
had intended, the end product had been surprising and 
stimulating.  For the first time in a long, long while, I felt 
that I had a goal, a purpose in my life, and a reason to achieve 
it.  I just wonder if that goal is attainable, or if I've set 
myself up for failure.

I wonder idly if Ethan's master bathroom has a large enough 
bathtub for both of us, then giggle quietly as I imagine what a 
dual bath would consist of.

After the bath water gets cold and the bubbles disappear, I wrap 
myself in my thin, summer robe and lay down on my couch, 
determined to find something boring on TV to vegetate in front 
of.  I'm almost asleep when, at 5:30, my mother calls.

"So, did Ethan make his plane okay?"

"Yeah.  They should be home by now."

"He hasn't called?"  She asks in surprise.

"No, not yet."

"Oh, well..."

Silence.

"Mom?"  I ask in a tiny, childish voice.  "Can I ask you 
something?"

"Of course, Dana, you know you can ask me anything," she says 
sweetly, like mothers are supposed to do.

"Okay."  I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and begin.  "Last 
night, I told Ethan about Emily."

"Why?"  My mother sternly interrupts.

I'm surprised by her tone.  "Because, he needed to know.  She was 
a part of me, and I don't think it's right to keep her a secret.  
I don't think I should keep any secrets from him."

My mother sighs heavily, disappointedly, and says in a low, angry 
voice, "Ethan doesn't need to know everything, Dana.  Some things 
should remain in the past."

I gape at the phone.  "Are you saying that you're ashamed of 
her?"

"No, Dana of course -"

"She was my daughter!  The only daughter I'll ever have!  Your 
granddaughter!  How can you possibly be ashamed of her?"  I 
scream.

"Dana, I am not ashamed of her, but she was an abomination of 
nature.  She was never meant to be!  She wasn't even human!"

I hear my mother's mouth snap shut after those words, regretting 
them as soon as they left her lips.  Tears sting my eyes and 
nothing comes out of my open mouth, no words are there to express 
what I feel to her.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, she finally speaks again.  
"What did he say, Dana?"

"He said that he didn't understand," I rasp into the phone.

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

Neither of us says anything else for a few tense minutes and I 
wonder if she's hung up on me.

"Dana, what did you want to ask me?"

I'd forgotten I'd had anything to ask her.  "Ethan asked me to 
marry him today and I said yes."  There's no reaction from the 
other end of the line, so I continue.  "But I'm wondering if my 
decision was too hasty."

"Why?"  She asks, totally perplexed.

"Well," I inhale deeply, then slowly exhale through my nose.  "I 
didn't think about some things.  That I'd be leaving you all 
alone up here -"

"Oh, I'll be fine, Dana," she says in exasperation.

"And that I'd be leaving Mulder all alone."  No response.  "He's 
been so depressed lately, and I just realized today that it may 
be because of Ethan, because of our relationship.  I think Mulder 
feels like I'm abandoning him, and I'm not, but how can I 
convince him of that?  I don't want to hurt him..."  I finish in 
a whisper.

"Dana, don't worry about Fox.  He's a grown man and he can take 
care of himself."

"But he's all alone.  He doesn't have any family or friends.  I'm 
all he has -"

"Don't worry about him, Dana.  Its his own fault that he doesn't 
have anyone else."

I hang my head, like I'm ten and being scolded for fighting with 
Missy or sixteen and being lectured about breaking curfew.  "I 
can't help it," I tell her, hoping she can hear the sincerity in 
my voice.

"Dana, I know that you care about him very much, but you can't 
live your life around him."

"I know," I say thickly, even though I really don't know.

"You have to remember everything that's happened to you because 
of him.  Your abduction, your infertility, your cancer, Melissa's 
death...what am I leaving out?"

"Emily," I say softly.

"Yes, Emily.  All of those things were Fox's fault.  I know he 
didn't have any control over them, but indirectly, he was 
responsible for them."  When I don't respond, she finishes.  
"You've given enough of your life to him, Dana.  It's time that 
you start living for yourself."

I want to tell her that I have been living for myself every since 
I left medicine to work at the Bureau, but she has a point.  I've 
been dedicated to my work, but for more important reasons than 
just myself.  It was always Mulder that kept me in the basement 
year after year, tragedy after tragedy.

"Do you understand, Dana?  I just want you to be happy and safe, 
and I don't think that you can be with Fox.  You'll never be 
completely safe, and you'll never have the kind of life that 
Ethan can give you.  I love you.  I only want what's best for 
you."

I sniff and my head pounds at my overflowing sinuses.  I wince 
and weakly say, "I understand, Mom."

"I think that you made the right decision.  Ethan loves you, too, 
and he only wants what's best for you just like I do."

I can argue with my mother.  I may not always win - she 
frequently tells me that I'm being disrespectful or stubborn - 
but I can always find a flaw in her logic or a loop hole in her 
argument.  I can't argue with what she says next, though.

"Maybe God brought Ethan back to you to show you that it's time 
to settle down, time to leave Fox and the FBI."

When we finally hang up, I'm more unsure than I was about my 
decision.  And I'm more nervous than ever about telling Mulder.

<><><><><><>

Monday morning when I arrive at work, Mulder is already seated 
behind his desk, drowning under stacks of new files, pictures, 
and theories.  He raises his head slightly as I enter, but is too 
engrossed in what he's looking at to look at me (thankfully) and 
I slide behind my table-not-a-desk and start up my computer, 
pushing my hair behind my ears, trying to act nonchalant.

All of Saturday night and Sunday morning, I planned how I would 
tell him about the latest development in my and Ethan's 
relationship.  I even had a dream about it: Ethan and I were 
sitting on a plush, obviously expensive couch in a large, 
brightly lit room in our house, sipping tea or coffee.  We're 
laughing and smiling, and Ethan's touching my hands, my face and 
hair.  When I look up, away from Ethan, I see a dim corner of the 
room.  I get up to investigate and notice that the closer I get 
to the corner, the colder I get.  Ethan calls me to come back and 
when I ignore him, he gets up and grabs my wrist, trying to pull 
me back to the couch, away from the darkness.  I twist my way out 
of his grasp and approach the corner warily.  When I finally get 
there, I can't see anything or anyone in the corner, so I drop to 
my hands and knees, feeling blindly for something, anything.  I 
find a small, cloth heart tucked in a plastic evidence bag, 
sitting in the very corner of the darkness.  As I delicately pick 
it up, turning it over in my hands, I feel a hand on my shoulder 
and, turning around, I realize it is Mulder, not Ethan.  He says, 
tears in his eyes, "You found her.  Scully, you found her for me!  
You finally found her!"  He reaches for the bag and I pull it 
away from him, hugging it to my chest.  A look of confusion and 
intense pain flits across his face, then everything goes black.

I woke up.

Maybe Mulder has some sort of dream interpretation book he'll let 
me borrow; these dreams keeping getting more and more strange.

My fingers clicking on the keyboard finally arouses Mulder's 
attention.  He looks at me and nods, starts to speak, clears his 
throat, then says, "Morning," before casting his eyes back 
towards his mounds of paper and photographs.

"Morning," I repeat after he's not paying attention anymore.

At barely 9:03, the phone on Mulder's desk rings.  He stares at 
it for a minute like he's forgotten what it is, then answers it 
tonelessly.  A tense, "She'll be right there," later, and he 
replaces the receiver, swiveling his chair towards me, a cocky 
grin on his face.

"You're in the doghouse now, Scully.  Skinner wants you in his 
office ASAP."

I blink at him and ask, "Just me?"

"Yup, just you.  Good luck, partner."

I open my mouth in confusion, the snap it shut again, feeling 
suspiciously like a fish who's just realized there's no water on 
land.  I get up, smooth my jacket over my skirt, then say, "I'll 
be back," as I breeze out the office door and into the elevator.

When I walk into Skinner's outer office, Kimberly's standing at 
the partially closed door.  She sees me and says, "The Assistant 
Director is ready for you, Agent Scully," then steps away, 
allowing me to enter.  The tight smile she gives me as I walk 
past her isn't one of recrimination, it looks like one of pride.

Skinner's seated at his desk, talking merrily with another man, 
someone I don't know, as I walk in.  Both men stand and Skinner 
walks towards me, closing the door and guiding me towards the 
stranger with a light hand on my back.

"Agent Scully, thank you for coming so quickly.  This is Doctor 
Richard Clifton from Quantico.  Dr. Clifton - Dana Scully."

The man extends his hand towards me, smiling.  "Dr. Scully, it's 
a pleasure to finally meet you," he says, sounding flustered.

I take his hand and shake briefly, then look back at Skinner, 
silently asking if I should know this man.

"Agent, have a seat, please," Skinner says tersely, both he and 
Dr. Clifton going back to theirs.

I sit down in my chair, the one that Mulder usually occupies when 
we're in Skinner's office together, and primly cross my legs, 
waiting for the punch line.

"Agent Scully," Skinner begins, "Were you aware of a serious car 
accident this weekend in Roslyn?"

"No, sir.  Should I be?"

"Not necessarily, no.  But this particular car accident killed 
Dr. David Kohl.  You do know who that is?"

"Yes, sir.  He was the Head Pathologist at Quantico."

Skinner glances at the man beside me and nods, allowing the man 
to take over the conversation.

"Dr. Scully, I've been working on and off at Quantico for a 
number of years, at times very closely with Dr. Kohl, and I know 
that he was a big admirer of yours.  Of your medical expertise, 
that is, and that he desperately wanted you back at Quantico."

"I didn't know that," I say, wondering where the hell this 
conversation is going.

"Well, as you can figure, Quantico will need a new Head 
Pathologist, and it's my belief that Dr. Kohl would want you to 
have that position."

I stare at him for a minute, processing what he's just said to 
me.  I'm being offered a job that will put me in charge of the 
best medical investigative facility in the world because someone 
was killed in a random car wreck - that can't be right.

He takes my silence as a bad sign and quickly adds, "Assistant 
Director Skinner has informed me of your serious dedication to 
your current position as a field agent - and I admire that - but 
this is a very coveted position.  It's an honor to even be 
considered for it, and we're basically giving you the job, if you 
want it."

"I know that," I finally answer after finding my voice again.  "I 
just...this is such a shock.  I had no idea Dr. Kohl thought so 
highly of me."

"We very much hope that you'll take this position, Dr. Scully," 
he finishes, smiling proudly.

I nod absently, and Skinner stands, asking the man if he would 
excuse us for a moment.  "Of course," the man says, rising and 
walking into Skinner's outer office.

When he walks back to his desk, Skinner sits beside me, in the 
chair the man just vacated, and turns towards me, removing his 
glasses.

"He's right, you know.  This is a wonderful opportunity for you, 
Agent Scully."

I nod - you don't have to tell me twice.

"And I did tell Dr. Clifton that he was probably wasting his 
time, that you were very dedicated to the X-Files."

I nod again.

"Scully, off the record...Violent Crimes is begging for Mulder 
back and it's getting harder and harder to put them off.  Since 
this LaPierre case, you two haven't been doing much except 
sitting in that office and I imagine that's Mulder's doing.  He 
just doesn't seem...interested in anything anymore, and I can 
tell that his heart's no longer in those files.  When you turn in 
your budget at the end of this fiscal year, in all likelihood, 
the Bureau will see that it's putting money in and not getting 
anything out, and God knows they've been looking for excuses to 
shut you down.  Are you following me, Agent?"

I look at my hands, neatly folded in my lap.  He's right: 
Mulder's heart isn't in his work anymore and we hadn't been out 
in the field much in the past few months, since Mulder found 
Samantha.  If Skinner's noticed it, then all the wrong people 
have noticed, too.  It was just a matter of time.

"I like to see my agents succeed, Scully, and with your 
intelligence and your background, you could go so far - farther 
than some banal job they'd put you in after the X-Files are shut 
down.  I'm telling you all this because I want you to at least 
think about accepting this job."  He replaces his glasses on his 
nose, then adds, "It offers you more of a future than the Bureau 
does."

I nod again, maintaining my silence, as Skinner gets up and lets 
Dr. Clifton back in.  The men stand just inside the door, talking 
softly, and Clifton asks perfunctorily, "So, Dr. Scully.  Can I 
tell the Board you're considering our offer?"

I inhale deeply, slowly, then stand and smooth my skirt, walking 
towards the men.  "Yes, I'll consider it.  Thank you, Dr. 
Clifton."

"Thank you, Dr. Scully."

I look at Skinner, who opens the door and, actually smiling 
slightly, says, "That'll be all, Agent."  I dip my head towards 
my chest, then walk out of the office and hail the elevator.

I amble slowly down the dark, empty hallway that leads to our 
office, thinking hazily about the first time I made this walk.  I 
never thought this would turn into a career, or have the dramatic 
impact of my life - every aspect of it - as it has.  Being forced 
out of this job and into another one was one thing, but 
voluntarily leaving it for another was completely different, and 
I didn't know if I could do the latter.

When I approach the half-open door, I pause before pushing it 
open, knowing that I'll have to tell Mulder about this, 
momentarily forgetting the other important thing I had to tell 
him.

When I finally manage to heave the door open, he looks up at me 
and playfully asks, "So, forty lashes?  Thumb screws?  Water 
torture?"

I shake my head and slowly walk up to his desk, sitting heavily 
in the chair in front of him.

His grin fades and he asks me, playfulness gone, "What's up, 
Scully?"

I become interested in my hands again, pushing back a cuticle 
with a nail.  "Nothing bad," I answer vaguely.

"It looks bad."

I shake my head again.  "Did you know that the Head Pathologist 
at Quantico was killed this weekend?"

"No, no I didn't.  Did you know him?"

"Not well."  I sigh and finally look up, but behind him.  "I 
worked with him a few times, but I didn't know him personally."  
Mulder nods, urging me to continue.  "They're offering me the 
job,"  I say hurriedly.

He gapes, then asks, "As Head Pathologist?"

I nod, looking straight at him for the first time.

"What'd you say?"

I hesitate.  "That I'd have to think about it."

Mulder nods again, looking slightly dejected and confused.  I sit 
up straighter in my chair and lean towards him over his desk.  
"Mulder, Skinner says that they're trying to close us down."

"They're always trying to close us down, Scully."

"But this time they're serious.  Skinner says that we're over 
budget and basically a waste of man-power."

"And?"  Mulder asks in annoyance.

"And...what are they gonna do with us then?  They'll send you 
back to the VCS, but what about me?"

His eyes open a little wider and his brows creep towards his hair 
line.  

"I don't want to be in some mundane job - like background checks 
again.  And I can't think of anything outside of this," I gesture 
towards the stacks of files on his desk, "that holds any interest 
for me."

He sits back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest 
defiantly.

"Mulder...when I first got my job at Quantico, the only thing I 
wanted was to be Head Path.  That was my dream, and I thought 
that they were testing me by sending me here, to see how high I 
would jump when they said to.  I never thought I'd make a career 
out of this."

His jaw clenches, and I can tell I'm not doing this right.

"My point is that they're finally offering me this job.  You 
know, they've never had a woman as Head Path.  And I'm pretty 
sure I'd be the youngest, too.  This is a big honor, Mulder, and 
if they weren't going to shut us down, I wouldn't even consider 
it, but -"

"You don't know that they will!"  He explodes, leaping out of his 
chair and pacing back and forth behind his desk.  "How do you 
know that they're not offering you this job because they know 
you'll take it and then they can shut us down?  How do you know 
it's not a part of their plan?"

"And they just killed Dr. Kohl as part of that plan?  That's a 
long way to go."  I'm trying to stay calm, hoping that it will 
infect Mulder, but I'm apparently not contagious enough.

"They've gone further before, Scully."

"Mulder," I exhale an exaggerated breath.  "I'm not definitely 
taking the position.  I told them I'd consider it, and I am, but 
I thought I should tell you."

I sigh and admit defeat - there is no way in hell I will ever win 
this argument, so I might as well save my breath.  When I just 
sit silently, inspecting my nails again, Mulder stops his furious 
pacing and looks at me, hands on his hips.  He takes a deep 
breath and closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them and sits 
down at his desk.  In an emotionless voice, he quietly says, 
"There's been a report of people disappearing near Little Rock, 
Arkansas.  Apparently, each of the missing had reported a dream 
they'd had about being abducted to their families."  As he's 
speaking, he picks up a file and throws it at the edge of his 
desk, towards me, and it slides over the side and onto the floor, 
spilling its contents at my feet.

I stare at the papers and photographs, not saying a word.

<><><><><><>

I've heard a lot of weird words and phrases come out of Mulder's 
mouth in the past, but one that I've never gotten used to - 
probably because I hear it so rarely - is "You were right, 
Scully."  It takes me a moment to process what he's said and, 
when I look up at him, I see defeat evidenced in his weary facial 
expression, in the sag of his shoulders.

He replaces the phone receiver, then slowly stands, places his 
hands on his hips, and paces over to my little table, not taking 
his eyes off of the floor.

"What, Mulder?"  I ask softly.

"Tuesday, eight a.m.  You and me and OPC.  They're shutting us 
down."

He brings his hands up to cover his face, scrubbing tiredly at 
his eyes, bending slightly at the waist.

"So soon?"

"Apparently.  I asked them to hold off until we got back from 
this case," he says, gesturing at the papers and photographs 
littering the table-top in front of me.

"What'd they say?"

"They agreed.  I guess a couple more weeks doesn't make much 
difference."  He slowly walks back to his desk, gazing at the 
newspaper clippings and pictures attached to the wall behind it 
before sitting down.

He leans his elbows on his knees, fisting his hands between them, 
bowing his head.  He doesn't say anything more and neither do I, 
at a loss for words.

I neatly put the papers back in their folder, closing it and 
setting it to the side of my table, then turn my chair towards 
his, looking at him while he refuses to look at me.

"Scully," he says suddenly, loudly, looking up and slightly above 
me.  "Take that job at Quantico."

"What -"

"Take it and get out.  Get away from here.  Go get your dream job 
and live your perfect life.  Don't let me drag you down anymore."

"Mulder -"

He's already out of his seat, tugging on his suit coat and headed 
for the door.  I know that anything I say will go unanswered, 
most likely unheard, so I silently watch him walk away, listening 
as his footsteps fade down the hallway towards the elevator, out 
of my life for a few hours, at the least.

<><><>End Part 2<><><>

Go feedback!  Lil_gusty@hotmail.com



Next Step (3/3)
Headers in Part 1

<><><><><><>

I know what he's doing.  He's pulling away, thinking that if he 
detaches from me, it won't hurt him as much.  He initiates the 
leaving so he can say he left, not that he was left.  I've done 
the same thing.

When my cancer was methodically eating away at my body, and I was 
so weak that, in order to vomit, I had to crawl on my hands and 
knees to the toilet, when the headaches made me see red and black 
spots before my eyes, when the restless hum of silence made my 
sinuses throb, I did the same thing.  I pushed away the people 
that cared for me - my mother, my brothers, my faith, my friends 
- thinking that if I left them, if I pushed them away, if I hurt 
them so deeply that they wouldn't come back, it would hurt them a 
little less when I died.  If I made them angry, they wouldn't 
miss me when I was gone.

And it didn't work.  Not on my mother, not on my brothers, not on 
my faith, and most certainly not on Mulder.

I think he knew what I was doing - trying to spare him the pain 
of losing me to a mindless disease by him losing me to myself - 
and he wouldn't allow it.  He knew that if he didn't return one 
day, that I would mope and sob and miss him.  And he would miss 
me.  So he just never left.

One night, right before the end that I was sure was near, he came 
back late at night.  I was trying to sleep.  I was exhausted, as 
I always was, so much so that sleep was impossible.  And I had 
one of my headaches.  The doctors had maxed out my pain 
medication, and I had sent the gentle, cooing nurse away.  A cool 
wash cloth on my forehead did nothing to ease the pain.

He came and, assuming I was asleep, knelt by my bed.  He touched 
my arm, my hair, reverently, then put his face into my palm and 
wept.  Soundlessly.  He was afraid of waking me.

I wanted to comfort him, to whisper to him how much I hurt 
physically, how much I wanted to cry and someone to silently 
absorb my tears like I was doing for him.  I wanted to share, but 
Mulder took up all of his emotional space and most of mine - 
there was no room for my pain to exist.

So I let him cry out his despair, his loneliness, his sadness, 
while I suffered alone with mine.

After a few hours, he left, and I cried.  I cried because I was 
selfish, because I couldn't even comfort my best friend when he 
needed it, because I had wanted him, for once, to hold me while I 
cried.

I was the one dying, after all.

Mulder has always had the ability to make everyone else's pain 
and suffering seem inferior to his, like he owns stock and 
property in the land of hurt and loss.  No matter what I was 
feeling, why I was feeling it, he could always top me, make me 
feel that I didn't deserve to acknowledge myself when he was so 
much more forlorn than me.

When I was younger and depressed over something frivolous, I 
would think 'what right do I have to be sad when I have so much, 
when there are people in dire circumstances - starvation, 
repression, sickness - who aren't.'  Those people always seem to 
love life the most, those who realize its preciousness.  I envied 
them.  And that would make my depression even deeper, knowing 
that I envied strife.

But even when I was diseased, I didn't recognize the beauty of 
life.  I was still trying to make life beautiful for Mulder, 
ignoring my own ugliness.

I thought at one time that if my death could lead him closer to 
his truth, to his sister, that it would be worth it.

But after so many lives sacrificed, what difference would mine 
have made to him?

He thinks that the world owes him something for all of the pain 
that he'd had to endure.  He wears his pain arrogantly and uses 
it as an excuse to exempt him from life.  

Despite all my weary trials, I couldn't bring him happiness or 
beauty, and it drained those qualities from my life until there 
was nothing left except emptiness and ugliness.

He's depended on me for comfort, for extra space for his pain 
when he didn't have room enough in himself.  He comes to me in 
the middle of the night, the middle of the day, and weeps.  I 
hold him and whisper to him, and he leaves, no longer weeping.

Yet he's never stayed to see if I wept for him, for myself.  I've 
always played the strong one because I had to - for him.  He's 
come to depend on me for comfort and companionship through his 
darkest nights and days, so much so that he's convinced himself 
that he can't live without me, can't bear for me to live without 
him.  It would hurt him too much, and where would that hurt go?

So he pushes me away, making me feel inferior and unneeded.  
Making me want to leave him even more.

But it hurts me and it hurts him, which hurts me even more.

And I keep letting him push.

<><><><><><>

It would happen that the entire time we were in Little Rock, it 
rained like Noah and the flood.  The rain was constant, sometimes 
only drizzle, sometimes blinding torrents.  We didn't accomplish 
much of anything while we were there and spent most of the eight 
days in our hotel rooms going over police reports and conducting 
interviews by phone.

Skinner was right. Mulder's heart just wasn't in it anymore.

As a child, I was never afraid of thunderstorms like Missy.  We 
always shared a room and, on nights when thunder shook our tiny 
house and lightening illuminated our room like sunlight, she 
would climb into bed beside me, curl up to my back, and sleep 
peacefully, knowing that she was somehow safer with me in my bed 
than alone in hers.

Sometimes, though, seeing lightening now brings back fragmented 
memories of events that I don't think I've actually lived.  They 
seem like bits of a movie I saw long ago or perhaps read in a 
novel and envisioned vividly in my mind.  Regardless, they come 
to me, whether asleep or awake, when the darkness is shattered by 
lightening and thunder rumbles, vibrating the ground.

My mother used to tell me that, when it rained, the angels were 
doing their laundry, and when it thundered, God was bowling.  She 
never had an explanation for the lightening, though.

In the fragments, the lightening is blue and flickers on and off 
intermittently, not yellow and random like in reality.  I'm 
laying on a table and there are white and blue patterns of light 
on my forearms.  Sometimes, I see a pump attached to my stomach 
and can almost feel the air being forced into my expanding belly.  
Sometimes I see a drill, hear it softly whirring in the 
background.

Lightening reminds me of these things, though I can't place their 
origin.  They frighten me and, at 2:14 in the morning, with the 
angels doing the laundry for all of Heaven and God bowling a 
three-hundred game, I'm sweating, trembling, and huddled in the 
corner of my motel room, clutching my gun in my hand and begging 
Mulder to hear my soft whimpers through the thin, plaster walls.

When the rain slacks off so that the sound of it hitting the roof 
isn't deafening, I slowly stand up, wavering as the movement 
shocks my joints.  I still can't hear my feet as they stalk 
quietly across the floor, nor does the door seem to make the 
slightest creak as I open it into Mulder's room.

I feel childish, but I also feel exhausted.  I need sleep.  I 
need safety.

He's asleep, laying on his left side, facing his bed-side table 
and digital clock.  The covers are pushed down to his hips, a 
concession to July's sticky humidity, exposing his bare chest, 
colored golden by the sparse light streaming through a gap in the 
drapes.  His chest softly, steadily rises and falls as he 
breathes, soft snores oozing from between his lips, declaring him 
fast, soundly, deeply asleep.

I tip-toe to the opposite side of the bed and pull back the 
covers.  The lightening flashes and paints the room in white 
light for a split second and I close my eyes, pushing back the 
shards of memories that threaten to dance before my eyes again.

Slowly, gently, I lower myself onto the mattress, hugging the 
empty side of the bed in a fetal ball, squeezing my eyes shut 
tightly.  Despite the thick covers on top of me, I shiver at the 
cold of the air conditioner and accidentally whimper aloud in 
desperation.

Mulder stirs, adjusts his long legs under the sheet, then relaxes 
again.

Another lightening flash, this one accompanied by another of 
God's strikes, and I whimper again, louder, more desperate.

He doesn't stir this time.

I take a deep breath and don't exhale, moving one half of my body 
at a time, turning towards his back.  When both halves are facing 
the same direction again, I slowly scoot across the mattress 
until I'm against his back.  Warm, heavy, soft, Mulderskin.

I tiredly rest my forehead against him, comforted in the steady 
rise and fall, rise and fall of his back as he breathes.  I fold 
my arms in front of my chest, then push them between me and him, 
seeking more contact, more proof that I'm not alone.  I mold my 
legs to his, and finally exhale, finally safe.

Lightening flashes again, but through my eye lids and under the 
cover of Mulder, I barely see the eerie shadows it casts.  My eye 
lids grow heavier and I sink deeper and deeper into sleep, 
cradled against him until finally, I can no longer stay afloat 
and drown in softness, safety, warmth, Mulder.

<><><><><><>

"Scully?" washes over me as a whisper and I murmur an 
unintelligible response, still below the waves of consciousness.

My cocoon shifts, then a strong, heavy arm drapes around my 
shoulders, pulling me closer.  I mumble something else, and sigh 
as I adjust and get comfortable again.

Fingers stroking my hair, then another soft "Scully" right above 
my ear and I slowly open my eyes, seeing nothing around me except 
darkness.

"You okay?"

I close my eyes and finally manage an understandable grunt in the 
affirmative.

"What are you doing in here?" he whispers, still stroking my 
hair, still holding me tightly against him.

I say nothing, feigning sleep, tightly cradled against his chest.

"Lonely?" he asks teasingly.

"Lightening..." I sigh against his shoulder.

His forehead dips and rests against mine, his lips touching my 
eyelids softly.  "Bad dreams?"  His voice more serious.

I shake my head slightly, feeling sleep tug at me once again.

"What about the lightening, then?  I didn't know you were afraid 
of thunderstorms."

"Not," I weakly manage.

His forehead shifts on mine; he's nodding, not believing, but not 
probing either.

"Then what?  It's not every night I awake to find a little 
furnace with ice-cold feet pressed against my back."  I feel him 
smile above me, and I rise through a few more layers of black, 
back to consciousness.

"Bad dreams," I finally, reluctantly confirm.

His head raises and his warm lips touch the skin between my eyes 
brows, holding their position for long seconds before releasing.

"Tell my about your dreams, Scully," he pleads so softly, I 
wonder if I heard it at all.

"Mulder...I'm fine now."  Another slash of lightening illuminates 
the room and my once opened eyes slam shut, squeezing tightly, my 
face aching with effort.  I dip my head lower, towards the center 
of his chest, blocking out the light.

"You're not fine, Scully."

I shake my head vehemently as the lightening fades.  I didn't 
come here to talk about these things.

"Why won't you talk to me?" he whispers, pain lacing his voice.

"Blue lightening...drill...pump in my stomach..." I say louder 
than is necessary, slight anger touching my words.  My breath 
hitches and I stop, admitting defeat to these fragmented 
memories, then feel his lips on my cheek, just under my eye.

"From your abduction?"

I sniff and burrow further into his chest, his arm tightening 
around me, his legs locking around my own.

"What else?"

I shake my head again and turn my head into the pillow.  A tear 
escapes my eye and trickles slowly down my cheek, stopped by 
Mulder's soft, warm tongue, kissed away by his lips.

"I'm so sorry, Scully," he says softly against my skin and I turn 
my eyes towards his, opening them again, staring at his in the 
darkness.

"You think a story would help you sleep?"  I close my eyes and 
smile slightly.  "They always helped Samantha."

"Okay," I sigh as his arms tighten around me again, both of us 
getting comfortable.

"While you were missing, your mother had me go with her to pick 
up your tombstone.  She insisted I go, even though I told her I 
didn't want to.  She was ready to give up on you, and I told her 
it was too soon, that we had to keep looking, and she told me a 
story."  Another gentle kiss against my tear tracked cheek.  
"About when your brothers were teaching you to shoot a BB gun, 
and Bill found a snake and you were all shooting at it.  Then the 
snake started to bleed and you went and picked it up and held it 
as it died.  You remember?"

I nod, my head buzzing from sleep and Mulder's lips.

"Your mother said that you kept saying that you had taken 
something that wasn't yours to take - you weren't supposed to 
kill that snake.  Then your mother looked at me so hard, so 
hatefully, and said that she knew how that felt, to have 
something taken from her by someone that wasn't supposed to take 
it.  She was talking about me, Scully.  I took you away from her 
and she hated me for it.  I hated myself for it."

I sigh heavily.  No matter how many times I tell him this, he 
never seems to believe it.  "Mulder, my disappearance was not 
your fault.  You couldn't have known that Duane Barry would come 
after me and that chip.  It wasn't your fault."

He slowly shakes his head from side to side as I speak.  "I 
should have run you off years ago, Scully.  After that first 
case, I should have made you leave, forced you go back to 
Quantico."

"You couldn't have forced me to do anything, Mulder."

"And now you're afraid of lightening because of what They did to 
you because of me.  You could've died a thousand times over 
because of me Scully, and you never would've known..."  He kisses 
me again and again, breathing ragged - cheeks, eyes, forehead, 
chin, temple, neck, anywhere he can reach.

"Known what?"  I quietly ask.

He ignores it.  "At least then I could look for you.  I knew you 
wanted to be found.  I thought I could rescue you and keep you 
safe after that.  I could do something about it."

More kisses, harder, more insistent.  Closer to my lips.

"Mulder -"

He's not talking to me now.  He's talking and I just happen to be 
in the room, in bed with him, held tightly against him.  "I can't 
rescue you now, Scully.  You don't want to be rescued.  If I lose 
you this time, if you marry Ethan...Scully, what will I do?  I 
can't look for you, go crazy trying to find you.  I can't do 
anything about it, Scully...what will I do?"

The hollow of my throat is bathed with his tongue, then he raises 
his head, looks me in my eyes, and softly whispers, "You can't 
leave me, Scully.  I can't let you.  I can't lose you again."

I open my mouth, protest ready, when his lips suddenly cover 
mine, hard but yielding, demanding but gentle.  His tongue pushes 
against mine, teasing, tasting, testing.  His hand moves to cup 
my head, threading his long fingers through my hair, crushing my 
mouth against his.

My hands, held loosely in front of me, come up against his chest 
meaning to push him away, but only pull him closer, snaking 
around his shoulders and into his short, soft hair.  His legs 
shift and then I'm under him and he's everywhere, kissing me, 
touching me, and I can't breathe.

I pull my mouth away from his, turning my head to the side, the 
stifled protest from before still on the tip of my dazzled 
tongue, when his mouth slides down my throat and latches on to my 
pulse, beating quickly, heavily against my skin.

Hands on my waist, now, pulling my hips closer to his.  I moan 
unconsciously and another bolt of lightening crashes as God makes 
another strike.

My moan causes Mulder to become more desperate and, through the 
four layers of material separating us, I feel his erection 
pressed firmly, rubbing, against my thigh.

He must've had a dream, too, about me being abducted again.  He 
must be afraid of the lightening, too.  He's starved for contact 
with me - he needs to know that I'm here, that I'm real, that I'm 
alive.  And he'll go as far as I let him for that contact.

His mouth slides over my chin and back to my lips, bruising my 
mouth as his attaches to it.  His tongue and his arousal are 
making me just as desperate as he is and, for a second, as his 
tongue twines around mine, I wonder what would happen if I let 
him go as far as he wanted for one night.

Then I abruptly tear my lips away from his, turning my head 
towards the window as another flash of lightening strikes.  I 
don't cower this time or shut my eyes - I'm no longer afraid of 
the storm outside.  It's the storm inside that scares me now.

His lips are back at my neck now, sucking at my pulse, causing my 
arousal to become unbearable.  "Mulder," I pant hoarsely.  His 
hands, which had been braced on the mattress forming a cage 
around me, find their way to my waist again and slide under my 
pajama top.  He quietly moans as his hands touch the skin of my 
back, then creep towards my shoulders, still pinning me against 
him.  "Mulder," I try again, desperate for his attention.

"He asked me, Mulder...he asked me to marry him..."  I finally 
get out in a huff of breaths and moans.

His lips pause above the top button of my pajama top and his head 
raises, his eyes searching for mine in the darkness.

"I said yes, Mulder.  I'm getting married.  We're getting 
married."

He's still and silent for a moment, then he catapults himself up 
my body until his face is millimeters above mine, our noses 
rubbing slightly.  "When?" he asks in a harsh, strained voice 
that sounds like he can't decide whether to yell and scream in 
anger or sob in defeat.

"Just before he left...at the airport -"

"And you didn't tell me?" he whispers hoarsely, sounding wild.

"Mulder, I -"

"Why the hell are you here, Scully?  Why did you do this?  Why 
are in my bed like this if you're engaged to him?"  He spits the 
word "him" out like it's sour, then pants above me as he waits 
for my answer.

"I didn't know how to tell you, Mulder.  I didn't know how you'd 
react."

"You knew how I'd react, Scully.  You know how I feel about him 
and about this, so why are you here now?"

I hesitate, then answer him honestly.  "Because I was afraid and 
I wanted to be close to you."  I meant it as a vehement reply, 
but it comes out as barely a whisper.

"Close to me, or close to a warm body?"

"Mulder, I -"

"I didn't think you were that much of a slut, Scully.  Do you 
just jump into bed with anyone who's alive and got a dick?"

"Mulder!"

"Not me, Scully.  I'm not gonna let you do this to me."  He leaps 
out of bed in a flurry of covers, limbs, and movement and turns 
away from me, searching in the darkness for his discarded clothes 
from earlier in the day.

I sit up against the plastic that's glued to the wall in place of 
a headboard, pull the covers up to my chin, and watch as he 
fumbles for escape.  I hiccup, and realize there are hot tears of 
hurt and anger streaming down my cheeks.

He kicks something towards the wall then sits down heavily on the 
end of the bed, far away from me.  His hands come up to cover his 
face and he sobs once, sounding mortally wounded, then asks 
softly, "Why did you do this, Scully?"

I clutch the covers tighter against me, not answering.

"I thought I meant more to you than this.  I thought *we* were 
more than this."  He sounds tortured, but the anger has been bled 
from his voice, exposing his raw hurt.

He turns his head towards me then, dropping his hands.  Then he 
rises from the bed, picks up a pile of something from where it 
fell beside the wall, walks into my room and slams the door 
behind him, locking it.

In a few more minutes, I hear the door to the outside from my 
room open, then close, as Mulder leaves.  Then, a car starting 
and the sound fading.

Another bolt of lightening, another strike, as Mulder drives 
away, into the dark, rainy morning.  

<><><><><><> 

After three hours of tossing, turning, fuming, and hiccuping away 
sobs, I finally got up to take a shower, start my morning, after 
awaking the hotel manager so I could get back into my room - 
Mulder had locked the connecting door and I didn't have my key 
with me.  I had no idea where he had gone and if - when - he 
would return.  Technically, we were still on assignment and 
therefore, required to actually work while we stayed in beautiful 
downtown Little Rock.  

Today, we were supposed to go to the police station to meet with 
the local detectives working the case and compare what 
insubstantial evidence we had collected.  If the rain held off, 
we were then going to see a few of the crime scenes, as if there 
would be any trace evidence left after the deluge of the last few 
days.

I scrub harder than necessary in the shower, washing my hair 
twice and using too much lather to wash myself clean.  When I was 
brushing my teeth, I noticed faint red splotches on my chin, 
neck, and chest - from his early morning beard - and a little, 
round reddish-purple bruise from his lips.  I smiled slightly, 
fingering it in the mirror; it's been years since I've had a 
hickey.  My lips were also sore and bruised from the pressure of 
his, but that wasn't visible upon a casual glance.

The hickey could be covered with the collar of my jacket, the 
irritation from Mulder's beard stubble would probably not be 
suspicious enough to warrant a second glance.

No one would ever suspect that Special Agents Dana Scully and Fox 
Mulder almost put an end to eight years of unresolved sexual 
tension early this morning.

Despite myself, I dabbed concealer on the bruise on my neck, just 
in case my collar wouldn't cover it.  I felt dirty, like the slut 
that Mulder had called me.  But I felt exhilarated, too, knowing 
that I had caused Mulder to lose control over himself like he 
had, given into his primal, animalistic desires.

Yes, Mulder desired me; I wasn't dumb or blind.  He found me 
mildly physically attractive, but then again, he hadn't been laid 
in ten, fifteen years.  He was desperate and, for a little while, 
I had been willing.  There was no deep mystery about what had 
happened.  He was there, I was there, and it just happened.

The night his mother killed herself, we laid in his bed, him 
clinging to me, begging me never to leave him.  He had sobbed 
earlier and was emotionally exhausted then, content to rest his 
head near mine and occasionally thank me for being there.  I told 
him that he didn't have to thank me, that I would never leave 
him.  I promised I would never leave him, and he rose up, then, 
fencing me against the bed with his arms.  In the dim light from 
the street lights outside, I saw the need, the desire in his eyes 
boring down on me.  He was desperate then and, if I'd have let 
him as I did this morning, he would've crossed that faded line 
between platonic and sexual.

But I didn't let him, that night.  I placed my hands on either 
side of his face, brushed away his tears with my thumbs, and 
shook my head slightly, never breaking our eye contact.  He 
sniffed and nodded, then rested his head between my breasts and, 
within moments, was asleep.

In the aftermath of that night, we had never discussed what had 
wanted to happen.  I didn't think it was necessary, just as I 
don't think it's necessary in this case.

But this is different.  I'm engaged now - engaged to be married 
to a man living a thousand miles away, to whom I haven't spoken 
in almost a week.  I'm getting married and yet I almost had sex 
with my partner and best friend in his hotel room while on 
assignment.  How cliche, how...as Mulder said, slutty.

I inspect my reflection in the mirror - I don't look any 
different now than I did before bed last night, and yet, on the 
inside, I already feel like I've betrayed Ethan.

He said that he divorced his first wife because she cheated on 
him.  I immediately condemned her, wondering how she could've 
done such a thing to her family.  So little pleasure for so much 
pain.  I had forgotten how easy it is to get caught up in 
something, how quickly things can move if you're not careful.

But I had nearly done the same thing.  Maybe there was more to 
her story than just a quick fling.

Finishing my appraisal of myself, I walk to the telephone and 
pick up the receiver, intending to dial the number to the police 
station.  As I turn the old rotary dial to the first number, I 
hear a faint, hesitant knock at the connecting door - the one to 
Mulder's room.

I replace the receiver, then slowly walk to the door, taking a 
deep breath before turning the knob.

I open it only a crack and Mulder's standing there, running his 
fingers nervously through his damp, unstyled hair.  He's still 
wearing his wrinkled clothes from yesterday which are also 
slightly damp and there are droplets of water hanging from the 
tip of his nose and chin, and from his earlobes.

"Detective Mitchell called," he begins without preamble.  "He 
wants us to meet him at the crime scene instead of the station.  
He gave me directions.  I told him we'd be there at eight 
thirty."

He doesn't look up at me through his well-rehearsed speech and 
impatiently awaits my equally stilted response.

"Okay.  I'm almost ready."

He nods, just a quick jerk of his head.  "It'll take me about a 
half-hour.  We can get breakfast."

"Okay," I say again.  Just like always.

He jerks his head again and walks away from the door, towards his 
bathroom.  I sigh and inwardly shrug, not knowing what else to 
do.  I close the door and walk back to the bed, stopping in front 
of the bed and unbuttoning my suit coat, turning down the collar 
to see if my concealer is still in place.

Mulder's doing it again: pulling away from me.  Shutting himself 
off to avoid getting hurt.  He won't mention or allude to what 
happened this morning for fear of me saying that it didn't mean 
anything, for rationalizing that what happened was just the 
normal reaction two healthy, sexually repressed adults would have 
to laying in bed together, that it didn't have any deep, romantic 
meanings behind it.

We won't talk about this and it will never happen again.  
Everything will return to normal, just like it always does.  
Mulder asked me one time if we ignored someone, did I think he 
would go away.  That's his policy about everything: if you ignore 
it, it didn't happen.  The man hadn't gone away, though, and 
neither will this.

Any other time I would force him to face this reality, just as I 
did that night that I told him yes, his mother killed herself.  
Now, I'm too tired of this stupid game to force him to stop 
playing it.  He can wallow in his self-recrimination.

Twenty eight minutes later, he knocks on my door again, this time 
dry, shaven, and wearing clean clothes.

"Ready?" he asks perfunctorily.

"Yeah.  Let's go."  And we do.

Breakfast was a silent, awkward affair that consisted of a lot of 
playing with the food and little eating of it.  The short car 
ride to the crime scene was equally silent and Mulder didn't look 
at me the entire time.

When we arrive at our destination, a large, soggy field, 
Detective Mitchell meets us at our car, shakes both our hands, 
and grins in an uncharacteristic way.

"Well, motorists found somethin' out here earlier this morning."  
Oh, you mean while Mulder and I were almost having sex?  "We 
thought at first he was dead and we had another victim on our 
hands, but this one was alive."

"Alive?"  Mulder asks incredulously.

"Yup.  He says he was caught out in the storm last night.  
Hypothermia, the paramedics say.  Mumblin' a bunch of gibberish, 
or so we thought."

"What'd you mean?"

"Kept sayin' somethin' 'bout slashin' people, follerin' 'em then 
slashin' 'em, over 'n over 'n over.  Like I said, we though he's 
just ramblin' but come to find out, this is our man."

"The murderer?  You caught him?"  I jump in.

"Yes ma'am.  Said he's been follerin' these people - the victims 
- before he's been killin' 'em.  Guess that explain their 
dreams."

I nod, looking over at Mulder.  Just as I'd told him on the plane 
- the dreams were stress related and were just a coincidence.  
Mulder's nodding, too, then asks, "Can we talk to him?"

"Yeah, they took 'em to the hospital.  He was unconscious when 
they left, so you may not get to talk to him today.  We got 
everything we need, so y'all can go home today, I guess."

Mulder opens his mouth to protest, but I cut him off.  "Thank 
you, Detective.  I'm sorry we couldn't be of more help."

"Me too," he says genuinely.  "I really appreciate y'all comin' 
out here, though."  He shakes our hands again, then walks away 
towards a group of sheriff's deputies, leaving Mulder staring 
after him like a puppy left at the kennel.

"I'll call the airline and see when the next flight leaves," I 
say absently, pulling out my phone.

Glancing at him as I dial, he doesn't move or say anything, just 
keeps staring blankly at the field and the officers.

I walk away from him, anxious to move while I talk to the 
airline.  According to the woman on the phone, we could be home 
by two o'clock this afternoon.

I hang up and walk back towards Mulder.  "There's a flight 
leaving at ten thirty.  That'll give us just enough time to get 
back to the hotel and check out, then get to the airport."

Mulder remains still and unseeing.

I step closer.  "Mulder?"

He breaks his trance, then, and walks to the car, brushing past 
me without a word, then climbs into the car and cranks it, 
waiting for me.

I sigh and shake my head at the ground.  Awkwardness around 
Mulder is not something I enjoy, especially when I have to spend 
so much time around him.

Before I even close the car door, he's accelerating, heading 
towards the hotel and then, towards home.

<><><><><><>

Other than the necessities, like "you're in 18C, I'm in 15A," 
Mulder didn't say a word to me from the time we left Little Rock 
until the time he dropped me off at my apartment.  He didn't get 
out to help me with my bags, but he sat in front of my building 
for almost ten minutes afterwards before he finally left.  His 
face remained blank the entire day, though I knew he was feeling 
angry with me and probably a little hurt too.  He wasn't giving 
anything away, though - certainly not to me.

My answering machine has two messages for me, and I press the 
button impatiently, wondering who else called besides Ethan.

"Dr. Scully, this is Dr. Clifton.  I was just calling to see if 
you've reached a decision yet.  We need an answer before August 
first.  I'll be in my office whenever you'd like to talk."

I rub the bridge of my nose wearily, realizing that the job offer 
had been the furthest thing from my mind in the last week.  
Mulder and I would probably have our meeting with OPC first thing 
tomorrow morning and, after that, I'd officially be out of a job.  
Without any other prospects, I guess I'll call Dr. Clifton today 
and let him know I'll be taking the job.

The second message, as I anticipated, is from Ethan.  I feel I 
smile spread across my face when his voice fills my quiet 
apartment.  "Hey, Dana, it's me.  I was calling to see how you 
were and tell you that at the very least, we need to set a date.  
I was thinking that you could come down here for a week or two to 
visit and we could plan then, but I don't know what your 
schedule's like, so just let me know, okay?  I love you. Bye."

My smile decides to take up residence as I pick up the phone and 
call him at work.  I should wait and call him at home, but I want 
to talk to him now, to tell him my good news.

"Ethan Minette," he crisply answers, sounding busy.

"Future Dana Minette," I mock, giggling slightly.

"Dana!" he says surprised to hear from me at this time of day.  
"Hey!  Did you just get in from a case again?"

"Yeah.  You're not too busy to talk for a few minutes, are you?"  
I ask, silently praying the answer is no.

"No, I'm never to busy for you,"  He answers matter-of-factly.

"Good, because I have something to tell you."

"Okay."

"I was offered a job as Head Pathologist at Quantico."

As his silence stretches, the smile on my face fades away.

"The Bureau is shutting down the X-Files and this position just 
came at the same time and you know how much I've always wanted 
this," I ramble, getting nervous.

He takes a deep breath.  "Dana, what about us?"

"What do you mean?"

His voice is soft, gentle, trying not to anger me.  "I though you 
understood that you'd be living down here."

"We never talked about it."

"Well, I think it would be best for Emma if we stayed down here.  
All her family and friends are here, and my job -"

"You could get a job up here, Ethan.  Doesn't CNN have a DC 
office?"

Another deep breath.  "But what about Emma?"

"She can make new friends..."  I trail off, not really having a 
solid argument for that.

"Dana, I thought you understood this," he says again, sounding 
slightly annoyed.

"But this job - this position at Quantico.  You remember when I 
first starting working there, that was all I wanted, and now I 
can have it -"

"I also remember you saying that you were ready for this and that 
you'd sacrifice whatever was necessary to have it."

"Yes, but -"

"But what?  Tell me, Dana.  If you don't want this then tell me 
right now.  I'm not gonna wait forever like I did the last time.  
Just tell me, because I have better things to do than wait for 
you to grow up and decide what kind of life you want.  I have my 
own life and my daughter's to think about."  His patient softness 
has been replaced with desperate anger, tinged with a little 
betrayal at my stubbornness.

I press the phone closer to my ear and hear him quickly, 
nervously breathing on the other end, waiting for my reply.  He 
was right: I did say that I was willing to do whatever it took to 
be with him.  And it wouldn't be fair to hurt him again.

I take a deep breath and slowly exhale it through my nose, 
searching for words.  "You're right.  I'm sorry, Ethan.  You're 
right," is all I can come up with.

I hear him exhale in relief, then the squeak of metal and plastic 
as he leans back in his chair and relaxes.  "Okay," he says 
quietly, then, "Have you told your mother yet?"

"Yeah," I say sadly.  "I told her last week, after you left."

"What'd she say?  Is she excited?"

"Yeah, she is."

"What about you coming down here for a while?  Do you think you 
could do that?"

"Ethan," I almost whine, sounding tiny and afraid.  "Things are 
very stressful at work right now and this time tomorrow I'm going 
to be out of a job -"

"Why?"  he interrupts.

"Because, I told you, the Bureau is shutting us down."

"Oh.  Well, then I guess your schedule isn't a problem."

I exhale a frustrated breath.  "My point is, I don't know if I'll 
be able to do that right now."

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Because I need a job.  I need money -"

"Then why don't you just come down here, Dana?  Take a break from 
all of that."

"And where would I live when I get back?"  I ask in alarm.

"Who says you'd be going back?"  My mouth drops open and I gape 
like a fish out of water.  "You have to move down here sometime.  
Why not right now?  It looks like it would work pretty well, to 
me."

He's serious about this - he really wants me to move right now.  
Mulder was right, this is very sudden.

Oh, fuck.  Mulder...Mulder...what in the hell am I supposed to 
tell him?

"Ethan -"

"Look, Dana, I have to go.  Just think about it, okay?  We don't 
have to get married right away, but as long as there's nothing 
tying you to DC, what's the point of staying there?  Dana?"

"Okay," I whisper.  "I think about it."

"Good.  I love you.  I'll try and call you later."

I nod, though he can't see it.  "I love you too."

"Bye," he says quickly, just before the phone clicks in my ear.

I hang up the phone, leaving my hand on the smooth plastic.  I 
guess he has a point, now would be a good time to leave DC, but I 
just wasn't prepared for such a big step so quickly.  Marrying 
him seemed like some distant future that I didn't have to face 
right away but I always knew it was there, and that comforted me.  
I never seriously thought it would happen so soon.

I pick up the phone again and, after finding Dr. Clifton's card 
with his office number on it, call him to tell him my answer.

No, I will not be able to accept your offer.  Thank you for 
considering me.  No, lucrative offers will not change my mind.  
I'm engaged now.  It's not my decision to make.

<><><><><><>

The next morning, I arrived at work early.  I had been up late 
last night going over all of the things that I needed to do in 
order to move to Atlanta.  My lease wouldn't be up until 
November, so I would have to talk to the landlord about sub-
letting until then.  I would have to find something to do with 
all of this furniture - Ethan's house was already furnished.  A 
job wasn't a factor on this end, but once I got to Atlanta, I 
would need to find a job there.  And I would need to make sure 
that Mom really was comfortable being up here all alone.

And make sure Mulder wouldn't put a gun to his head once my 
flight took off.

I had wrangled some boxes from the janitor and had already set to 
work at packing up my tiny area of Mulder's office when he 
breezed in at seven thirty, looking tired, pale, and like the 
puppy left at the kennel had just been spade.

As I'm stacking books and folders into a box atop my table, he 
freezes in his tracks and cocks his head, not quite 
understanding.

"There was a voice-mail this morning.  Our meeting with OPC is at 
ten," I say, not looking up at him.

He still doesn't move, so I continue.  "I called Quantico 
yesterday."  I drop the box on the floor and finally look at him 
then.  "I told them I won't be able to take the job."

It takes him a few seconds, but he eventually reacts.  "What?  
Why not?"

I take off my suit coat and drape it over the back of my chair, 
holding my hair off the nape of my neck for a minute to cool 
down.  It's not even eight o'clock yet and this office is already 
sweltering.

"I hadn't mentioned it to Ethan until yesterday.  He wants me to 
go ahead and move down there even if we don't get married yet."

Mulder stays rooted to the floor, but keeps probing me verbally.  
"And he doesn't want you to take the job?"

"No.  He said that this would be a good time to move, being that, 
after today, I won't have job here anymore."

His unblinking stare is unnerving, so I pick up another empty box 
and place it on my table, resuming my task of packing.  I had 
only told the old janitor that I'd need five medium sized boxes, 
but I'm already on the fourth and I've barely made a dent in my 
part of this office.  My stuff was strewn everywhere and it 
hadn't occurred to me how easily and seamlessly I'd insinuated 
myself in Mulder's office after all these years.

I pretend that filling a box requires more concentration than 
necessary and jump when a small, rectangular box lands with a 
light 'thud' on the table in front of me.

"I guess you won't need that, then," he says tonelessly as he 
turns and walks back out of his office, slamming the door behind 
him.

I stare at the plain white, shiny box for a moment before 
reaching for it, afraid that it might burn me.  When I conclude 
that it's cool, I pick it up, surprised at the slight weight of 
it.  I pull the top off of it and push back the tissue paper 
surrounding the object inside.

When I see the gold winking off the florescent lights and the 
black and white contrast of the lettering, I gasp and take a step 
back, trying to get away from it.

"Dana K. Scully, MD"

Knowing that, at Quantico, I would finally have my very own desk, 
Mulder had gotten me my very own nameplate to go with it.

I touch the bright white letters reverently, then fumble my way 
into a sitting position in my chair.  He knew how much I wanted 
that job, my dream job, and he had told me to take it.  He told 
me that he wanted me to be happy, no matter what, and he knew 
that I would be happy there.  And by giving me this, he had given 
me his blessing to be happy without him.

Not knowing what else to do, I push the half-full box aside, lay 
my head down across my arms on my table, and quietly sob.

<><><><><><>

As we'd expected, OPC, citing a budget crisis and the fact that 
we weren't a significant advantage to the Bureau and, therefore, 
a waste of money, formally shut down the X-Files that day, 
reassigning Mulder to the VCS as a profiler and me to Quantico 
doing whatever "they deemed necessary."

While they were telling us all this, Mulder sat stone faced, not 
letting any emotion mar his face.  Inside, I knew that he was 
dying, having his life's work dissected and it declared "a 
valuable waste of time, money, and man-power," but he didn't give 
the panel the satisfaction of showing them how much it hurt.

I at least put up a fight.  I told them that, as many of the 
investigative departments do, we were simply going through a slow 
period and that our solve rate hadn't fallen, just the number of 
cases we solved.  Percentage wise, we were still one of the best 
teams the Bureau had.  And I asked how it costs the Bureau any 
more money to keep the X-Files open when, in our other jobs, we 
would be traveling and our salaries would stay the same.  My 
arguments fell on deaf ears and, as my ire increased, Mulder 
leaned over to me, tugged on the sleeve of my jacket, and 
whispered for me to stop, just to let it go.

After they dismissed us, Mulder silently got up and walked out of 
the room, not waiting for me.  I hurried to catch up to him, just 
to give the panel a view of us walking out together - as a team - 
but he was long gone before I had even risen from my chair.

When I get back to his office, he's there, just sitting in his 
chair playing with a pencil like nothing's amiss.  His face is 
still unreadable, even to me - and that scared me.

I let out a disheartened sigh and sit down in the chair in front 
of him, and ask, "Well, now what?"

Without hesitating, he answers, "I guess this is where you ride 
off into the sunset with your knight in shining armor for your 
happily-ever-after fairy tale."

I stick my chin out defiantly, just for the hell of it.  "And 
you?"

"Me?  I guess I'll go back to profiling like a good little 
agent," he says sarcastically.

"You mean, you're staying here?"

"What else would I do?  This is all I know."

I shrug.  "I don't know.  I just can't believe you're staying 
here.  You hate profiling."

He looks at me sharply, then, and it makes me shiver.  "I don't 
have an alternative, Scully."

"You at least could have fought them on this," I say quietly.

"It wouldn't have done any good.  Especially with you leaving."

He gets up and walks to his filing cabinet, rifling through the 
top drawer looking for something to distract him.

"I wouldn't be leaving if they weren't shutting us down, you know 
that."

"No, I didn't know that," as he slams the drawer shut, finding 
nothing.

"Mulder, we've been through this.  I never would have considered 
that job at Quantico if they weren't shutting us down -"

"What does that have to do with anything, Scully?  You're leaving 
completely and you'd still be leaving even if they hadn't shut us 
down because you're get -" he hesitates.  "Getting married," he 
says in a soft voice to the toes of his shoes.  "And even if we 
were still here on the X-Files together, you'd still be getting 
married, so what does it matter?"

He sounds so lost, so empty, so alone, and I can't take it.  I 
get up and stand in front of him, close enough so that, with his 
head bowed in defeat, our foreheads are almost touching.  "It 
matters to me.  It matters that you know why I'm leaving."

"Why?"  Comes out as a ragged, tortured plea.

I pull his forearms and hands away from their spot on his hips, 
then slide my fingers in between his.  "Because, I want you to 
understand this.  Everything that's happened, when it happened, 
is all just a coincidence.  This job at Quantico, the X-Files 
closing, me getting engaged - they just happened to occur around 
the same time."  My voice is soft and placating, but it must be 
working because Mulder's fingers tighten around mine and he takes 
a step towards me, raising his head a little so that he can look 
at my eyes.

"Scully, I want to ask you a question," he says in a low, serious 
voice.  I nod.  "If he had asked you to marry him and all this 
other stuff hadn't happened, would you have still said yes?"

My instantaneous reply dies on my lips as his eyes pierce my 
mind, begging me to think about this before I answer and to 
answer honestly.

Not able to stand his intense gaze any longer, I close my eyes 
and feel his fingers tighten around mine again, squeezing 
desperately.  I take a deep breath and begin.  "Mulder..."  Okay, 
another deep breath and continue.  "Mulder..."

This isn't working.  I bow my head and open my eyes, face-to-face 
with our entwined fingers held between us like a bridge.  Okay, 
continue.  "I told Ethan that I was willing to do whatever it 
took, to sacrifice whatever I had to, in order to be with him.  
That was before all of this other stuff happened, and when he 
asked me if that meant I was finally ready to get married, I said 
yes."  He lets out a huge sigh of air and then sniffs - damn it.

"But then when I was thinking about it later I thought that maybe 
I spoke to soon, that maybe I wasn't ready to give up my life for 
him, if that's what he wanted.  I didn't know if I could do that, 
but I'd already committed myself to him -"

"You changed you mind?"  Mulder asks suddenly, kneeling down a 
little to try and regain our eye contact.

"I didn't say that -"

"Then what are you saying?"

I squeeze my eyes shut again, feeling tears building up in them.  
"A couple of weeks ago, when I came to your apartment, just 
before he left, and you answered your door with a gun in your 
hand...Mulder, you're so paranoid, but you should be.  You never 
know when someone is going to try and kill you or harm you - 
you're never safe anymore.  And neither am I."  His fingers 
loosen slightly around mine, pulling away.  "Mulder, I want that 
safety.  I want to know that, if I answer my door in the middle 
of the night, it's not going to be someone trying to kill me or 
harm me.  I want to relax, I want to live my life without always 
being afraid someone is following me and without wondering if the 
guy next to me in line at the dry cleaners can be trusted or not.  
I'm tired of this life, Mulder, and I want that other one that I 
gave up.  I want that normalcy and stability and safety."  I stop 
because I've run out of air and because I hear Mulder's chest 
heaving above me as he tries not to explode out of anger or 
sorrow.

"So if he asked me to give up this job to be with him, I'd say 
yes, Mulder."

He suddenly goes still and I open my eyes, raising my head to 
look at him.  He's staring at a distant spot on the wall behind 
me, his eyes seething with anger, and lets go of my hands like 
they're acidic, placing them back on his hips.

"So what you're saying is that you're running away because you're 
scared of turning into me.  Or scared of being with me," he huffs 
out in disgust.

"Mulder, no -"

"That's what you basically just said, Scully.  You're tired of 
facing all of the dangers in this life so you're running away, 
thinking that you'll be safe somewhere else - away from me.  
Isn't that the cliff note's version of it?"

I bow my head again, thinking, is that really what I just said?

"Let me ask you something else, then.  If he hadn't asked you to 
marry him at all, if he'd never even come back into your life, 
and they still shut the X-Files down and offered you that job at 
Quantico, what then?  Would you still have run away from 
everything?"

"No," I whisper.

"Why not?"

"Because...where would I go?"

"Would you have taken that job at Quantico?"

"Yes."

"And would you have felt safer, then?"

"I don't know."

"Yes you do."

"Yes, then, I guess I would."

"So why aren't you taking that job?"  He sounds proud of himself, 
like he just figured out the secrets to the Universe.

"Because, I told you...Ethan doesn't want me to -"

"And since when have you let anyone tell you what to do, Scully?"

I take a deep, calming breath, then slowly ask, "What's your 
point, Mulder?"

"My point is, why you say you're doing this and why you're 
actually doing it are two different things."

I look up at him sharply again.  "What the hell are you talking 
about?"

He widens his stance, getting comfortable on his feet and 
decreasing his height advantage.  "Scully, all you're seeing 
right now are the positive things about Ethan's life, most of all 
that he has a little girl who looks like Emily and is roughly the 
same age as Emily would be if she were still alive.  I don't 
think that you even love Ethan at all, I think that you're in 
love with the idea of him and the life he can give you.  I think 
you're marrying him more for that little girl than you are for 
him."

I gape at him, not able to tell him how wrong he is.

"Think about it Scully: just three months ago, you told me that 
you could never be free from this job, that you would always be 
bound to it because of everything They've done to you and your 
family.  Now, all of the sudden, you're willing to give all of 
this up without a fight?"  He leans down so that he's right in my 
face for his big finish.  "What's changed, Scully?  Why is it 
suddenly okay for you to leave now when it wasn't three months 
ago?  Is it really because you love him and you want to spend the 
rest of your life with him or is it because you see an 
alternative to spending your life down here and you're just 
jumping at that opportunity?"

After a few squeaks and false starts, I finally form a coherent 
reply.  "How dare you say that to me!  How dare you accuse me of 
using Ethan and his daughter like that!"

"Is it true?" he asks, unfazed by my anger.

I open my mouth again to speak, though I have no idea what I'm 
supposed to say.  I take an unconscious step back from him, but 
he steps forward, not letting me get away.

"Scully, I told you that all I want for you is happiness and 
that's the truth.  I really don't give a damn what you do, but if 
you're happy, I'll be happy for you, and I'm willing to let you 
do whatever you want to do to achieve that - even if it means 
leaving me.  I would be completely miserable, but if you would be 
happy, that's all that matters to me, and you know what a selfish 
bastard I can be.  But do you know why I would sacrifice my 
happiness for yours?"  I just stand there, stunned.  "Do you?"  
He loudly asks and I frantically shake my head.  "Because I love 
you, Scully," he slowly enunciates, looking straight into my eyes 
as he does so.  "And I love you so much that I'm willing to let 
you go so that you can be happy."

Tears start their journey from my eyes to my cheeks unchecked, 
and my chin quivers as I struggle to breathe.  "And if I thought 
that you would be happy with him, I would let you go, let you 
live your life with him where ever and however you two wanted.  
But it's like I told you earlier, Scully, I don't think that 
you'll be happy with him and I'm going to do everything in my 
power to make sure that you don't get to prove me right.  
Whatever I have to do to keep you from moving away and marrying 
him, I will do it, Scully, and don't underestimate how far I will 
go."

"Is that what you think love is?"  I shriek.  "You think that 
love is telling another person how they feel then deciding that 
they don't know what's best for themselves?  Is that how much you 
love me, Mulder?  That's not love.  That's some kind of, of 
obsession or...desperation to get me to stay with you.  That's 
not love, Mulder.  And how dare you say something like that to 
me?"

"Then what is love, Scully?  Explain it to me."

"Love is letting a person live their life the way they want to, 
not the way that you want them to.  Love it letting a person do 
what they want and make mistakes and enjoy their successes -"

"That's what I'm doing," he growls through his clinched jaw.

"No, it's not!  You're being selfish and insecure, just like 
always.  You're so afraid of being alone that you'll lie to 
people and manipulate them until you get what you want from them, 
just because you think you need them and you can't bear to see 
them be happy without you -"

"Look who's talking, Scully," he says quietly, sounding odd in 
the middle of our shouting match.

That's all I can handle.  I will not be insulted and belittled by 
my best friend.  I storm over to my table and pick up my gift, 
still in its box, from where I left it after my crying jag this 
morning.  Mulder's standing in the same position, staring at me, 
fury burning in his eyes.

"You can take this back," I say tonelessly, throwing the box at 
him.  It hits him in the chest and bounces to the ground - he 
didn't even try to catch it, but his eyes follow it to where it 
sits at his feet.  "And you can do whatever the hell you want to 
with all of this shit that I've packed.  It's your goddamn 
office, anyway."

On my way out, I realize that, if I wanted, I would never have to 
see him again.  I could fax my letter of resignation to Skinner 
this afternoon.  I could pack the necessities tonight and be in 
Atlanta by lunch-time tomorrow and to hell with everything else.  
To hell with Mulder.  He doesn't run my life.

I could be in Atlanta tomorrow and married to Ethan by the 
weekend.  And I'd never have to speak to Mulder again.

<><><>End Part 3<><><>

Note:  I really have no idea about Quantico's Head Pathology 
position, how they go about selecting a new person for it, or 
even if it exists.

Thanks:  as usual, to RealB, Karri, and Liam, my Betas and dear 
friends.

And to you, dear reader, for reading this.  Thank you for 
following me on this journey.  We're not done yet, but we've 
found a shady spot under a tree to sit and rest for a while, so 
drink from the canteen as it's passed and get comfortable.

Feedback: when I don't get much (or any), I start to think that 
no one is reading this or cares if it's finished in a timely 
manner or finished at all.  So if you are reading this, please 
let me know - whether you enjoy it or not - and please let me 
know if you want me to continue.  All questions, comments, and 
mild complaints accepted at Lil_gusty@hotmail.com. 

Title: If You See Her (1/1)
Classification: SRA, lots and lots of A
Keywords: S/O, MSR/UST, AU
Rating: R for language and sexual situations
Distribution: anywhere, just let me know
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, they belong to 
            Mr. Chris Carter, lucky bastard
Feedback: absolutely to lil_gusty@hotmail.com
Thanks: at the end
Spoilers: none
Note: This is the fifth part of my now named series (see the 
      thanks at the end) starting with "The Longest Time," 
      "Practice," "Signs From God," and "Next Step."  You will 
      need to have read them before you read this one unless you 
      want to be totally confused.

Summary:  "It's amazing what a difference a day can make, 
          sometimes."




<><><><><><>

"If I could, baby, I'd give you my world.  How can I when you 
won't take it from me?"

             ~ Fleetwood Mac

<><><><><><>

It's not that I hate flying.  I actually find it relaxing and 
exhilarating, though sometimes a little unsettling if there's 
turbulence.  Usually, I look forward to our flights - time to 
read case files, start reports, or just talk to Mulder.  Of 
course, sometimes, those things lose their appeal and I'm left 
wedged into my cramped seat (window, usually, as he always liked 
to stretch his legs out in the aisle), bored to death.

Those times were more common during our first few years together, 
when we were still feeling each other out.  After that, though, 
we talked almost constantly about anything and everything.  Some 
conversations were deep and emotional, others were just about 
where we would eat lunch that day, but they were always 
interesting and broke the monotony of our frequent flights 
together.

I lean my head against the window, wishing it were cool against 
my burning forehead, wishing that Mulder were here, talking 
incessantly about everything, anything, nothing.  He could read a 
dictionary to me and I'd still be happy.

But Mulder's not here.  He's inside the airport, probably 
watching the plane leave like a puppy left at the kennel.

When the plane finally decides to take off, I feel nauseous and 
press my head further against the glass, praying for sleep.  I 
haven't had much of that in the past few days and it's starting 
to take its toll on me.  Yesterday, especially.  It's hard to 
believe that just under twenty-four hours ago, I was an FBI 
agent.  I was a fiercely independent woman.  I had a best friend 
who cared about me, who loved me, who thought we'd be together 
forever.  

It's amazing what a difference a day can make, I think, as my eye 
lids grow heavy, the buzz and hum of the engines beginning to 
soothe me into what will be, hopefully, a refreshing and well 
deserved nap.

As I ruminate about yesterday, a twinge of pain settles itself 
between my eye brows and I take a deep breath, pull my jacket 
further around my chilled arms, and give into unconsciousness.

<><><><><><>
Yesterday...

I can't stop sneezing.

Although I rarely had time to do something as mundane as 
cleaning, my carpet was always vacuumed when it needed it, my 
furniture was always dusted every few weeks, my kitchen floor 
even got mopped once every couple of years.  Laundry was once a 
week on whatever day I had time - unless we were out of town for 
a few weeks, then laundry was done when I got home.  My apartment 
was always clean by my standards and, although my mother or 
Better Homes and Gardens wouldn't have approved, I never thought 
of all those tiny places where dust loves to collect and group 
together into giant, disgusting, sinus-clogging balls.

I finally give up and go to a window, opening it and sticking my 
head out into the hot, summer afternoon, gratefully gasping the 
fresh air into my lungs between earth-shattering sneezes.

I'm not allergic to dust, but I guess that an excess of anything 
will irritate something inside you.

And my sinuses are not irritated due to my excess of crying, 
either.  It's all that damn dust.

On my way home, I stopped at a grocery store and asked for any 
boxes they had so I could start packing my things.  After living 
in one place for almost ten years, I had things spread out and 
comfortably nestled in their respective places, and they were 
unwilling to leave them.  Books, clothes, miscellaneous articles 
of decoration were all supposed to be stuffed into a few boxes 
and shipped to my new life in Atlanta.  In a way, I felt that I 
was packing my old self away, taping the lids shut so that she 
couldn't get out, then conveniently labeling her for 
organizational purposes, making room for my new self in my new 
life with my new family.  I would probably not unpack many of 
these things, but it made me feel better to know that I would 
have them with me, should I choose to revisit my old self.

I pull my head back into the bathroom window, then rest my chin 
on top of my arms, crossed on the window sill.  So much to do and 
so little time to do it in.

After I got home, I typed my letter of resignation to Skinner 
four different times before I finally faxed him one of them.  
About an hour later, I got a call from him telling me when and 
where to drop off my gun and badge, telling me he would miss me 
and, of course, good luck.

Skinner still thinks that I'm going to Quantico and, as far as 
I'm concerned, he can go on thinking that.

I also called Ethan at work to tell him of the latest 
developments and that I would be able to fly down in the next few 
days.  He was out of his office, so I left him a voice mail 
telling him to call me at home as soon as possible.  

I unfold my legs from the toilet seat, lazily stretching my 
taunt, stiff muscles.  I'd been sitting on my heels for two hours 
frantically sorting, trashing, or boxing the contents of my 
bedroom before I realized that I really wasn't sorting or boxing 
much of anything, just throwing things in the general direction 
of my big white plastic garbage bag hanging from the doorknob.  I 
guess it didn't matter, though.  Even if I had been concentrating 
on sorting and boxing, I wouldn't have been able to see through 
my haze of tears and curses.

So I started over, dumping the garbage bag out on my bed, then 
resorting and boxing most of the contents.  After I had finished 
with that, I sat down in the now-empty floor of my closet, hugged 
my knees to my chest, and sobbed loudly and angrily until my eyes 
were dry and itchy, 'til I couldn't breath anymore, and started 
sneezing from all the dust I had stirred up from my histrionics.

I was extremely surprised that Mulder hadn't called yet, but 
after the way I had left him at the office, I guess I wouldn't be 
surprised if he let me leave and never spoke to me again - that 
was certainly my plan when I walked out that door.  How dare he 
say the things he did to me.  How dare he be so selfish and 
desperate to tell me that he loved me - really loved me, not just 
some drug-addled love for everything, not just your best-friend 
type love, but the all-consuming, passionate, lustful, love more 
than life itself love.  How dare he love me like that.  How dare 
he tell me he loves me like that.

Mulder doesn't know what real love is.  He mistakes love for 
dependency or gratitude.  Just because I've stayed with him all 
these years while everyone else had left him, while everyone told 
me to leave him, he's confused himself into believing that he 
loves me when really, he's just overwhelmed that I'm still here.  
Or maybe he's deluded himself into believing that I stayed with 
him out of love and, therefore, assumes that the proper way to 
manifest that pity is to convert it into love.  Maybe he's trying 
to make up for everything that's happened to me because of him by 
loving me.  Mulder's just conceited enough to do something like 
that.

And now that I'm doing something for myself - not him - he's hurt 
and jealous.  I'm getting a life.  I have a life - a new life, a 
happy life, waiting for me to step into it - that doesn't cast 
him in a leading role, so he tells me that he won't let me go and 
justifies that by saying he loves me.  Like him loving me 
suddenly fixes everything.

I guess I see now how much he loves me: he hasn't even called me 
to apologize.  Well, fuck him.  I don't need him.  I don't need 
his goddamn pity.  I don't need a damn thing from him.

Dehydrated of tears, I finally rose from the floor and limped 
into the bathroom, sneezing and fumbling to a window, my jaw 
clenched, determined not to think of Mulder anymore today.  I 
should think about the future - what awaits me on the other end 
of the plane.  My new life.  My happy life.

Conceding defeat to my sweaty stickiness and the humid air around 
me, I close the window and open my shower stall, turning the 
water to cool.  After I close the bathroom door, I strip down to 
nothing, step in, and pull my hair down from its pseudo-pony 
tail, telling myself that all my stuff will still be in its ten-
year-old places when I finish my afternoon indulgence.

And if Mulder calls while I'm in the shower, maybe he'll think 
I've already left and never call again.

No, damn it, I think as I clench my jaw tighter.  Fuck Mulder, 
remember?  To hell with him.

I take my time, washing my hair twice to get rid of all the dust, 
using more body wash than is necessary for the rest of me.  After 
rinsing everything, I stand underneath the spray and savor the 
chill that the water has inspired in me, feeling tiny and frail 
as I curl my arms around myself and shiver harder.

When my skin looses its pink tone and turns white, I decide that 
my shower is finished and step out of the tiny stall, wrapping a 
fluffy towel around myself and shivering again in the cold steam 
that's collected in the unventilated bathroom.  After I dry my 
body, I turn my head upside down and scrub at my hair much harder 
than necessary.  I wrap my thin, cotton summer robe - the one 
that's been washed so many times it's nearly sheer and soft as 
silk - around my body, then pull a wide-toothed comb through my 
hair, leaving it to air-dry until it's slightly wavy.  Dropping 
my wet towel on the bathroom floor, I then inspect my reflection 
in the steam-covered mirror.

Pale skin, bloodshot, sunken eyes, cheek and collar bones 
pronounced and protruding more than usual.  I look sick.  Or 
tired.  Or sick and tired.

I try to smile, just to see what it looks like, and it comes out 
as more of a grimace.  My shoulders slump a little at my mirror-
self, and then I hear the sound of couch springs squeaking and a 
shuffle of feet across the carpet in the living room.

My sleepy, hooded eyes pop open and I turn my head towards the 
bathroom door, my heart pounding, my hand unconsciously reaching 
behind me for my gun that's sitting on my bedroom dresser.  With 
no practical weapon with me in the bathroom, I step closer to the 
door, pressing my ear to the wood, straining for the slightest 
sound from the person in my apartment.

Another few footsteps and I realize that the person is pacing, 
most likely in front of my couch.  Then, a familiar sigh and I 
realize who it is.  Who else would it be: Mulder.

I grip the door knob and yank it open, hands already on my hips 
and words pouring from my lips before he can even turn around and 
react.

"Mulder, what the hell are you doing?  Don't you knock anymore?  
You scared me to death!"

His hands are on his hips, too, and he immediately hangs his 
head, muttering a strangled "Sorry," as I stop to refuel.

"You could've called, you know."

"I did.  You didn't answer.  I knocked, too.  Three times."

"So then you just let yourself into my apartment?"

He shrugs, keeping his head down and scuffing one shoe against 
the carpet.

"What do you want?"  I ask more hatefully than I intended.

"Lots of things."  He's being intentionally cryptic, like he 
always is when he's brooding.  I'm not in the mood for it right 
now, though.

"I have things to do, Mulder, so get on with it."

He looks up at me, eyes wide.  "What?"

"I need to pack.  Now, if you're just gonna stand there like a 
moron, I'm going to continue.  If you have something to say, say 
it."

"Why do you need to pack?"  He asks in awe, his eyes growing 
unbelievably large.

I sigh in exasperation and hang my head.  "I told you, Ethan 
wants me to move right away -"

"And you're actually doing it?  Is that how your relationship 
with him works?  He says jump and you ask how high?"

"I've had enough practice at it with you," I say smugly, turning 
to go into my bedroom, if only to get away from him.

"What's that supposed to mean?"  He follows me down the hall, but 
pauses at the doorway to my bedroom, his breath catching as he 
takes in the multitude of boxes, the clothes strewn across the 
bed and floor, the bare furniture and walls.

"That's how our relationship works: you demand things of me and I 
do as told, as always, like the dutiful little sidekick."

"You're not my sidekick!"

"No, not anymore.  Now, I'm just a floating liability."  I push 
one of the boxes on my bed to the floor, hearing an unexpected 
shatter of something breakable, then jerk the knot of my robe 
open, turning away from him.  "Can I get dressed?"

He turns around and hangs his head, probably closing his eyes, 
too.  "What do you mean you're just a liability, Scully?"

I wrap my robe around me and stomp over to my dresser, forgetting 
that I've yet to pack my lingerie, then stomp back to the bed 
after collecting the necessities.  "I was always something They 
could use against you, a bargaining chip, someone else for you to 
feel guilty about.  Well, you don't have to worry about me 
anymore, Mulder.  I'll be out of your life soon enough."

He turns quickly.  "No, Sc -"  His eyes fall on my body, 
considerably thinner than it has been in a while.  My ribs stick 
out more than usual, just as my cheek and collar bones do.  He 
hesitates, drinking in the sight of me partially nude, before he 
drops his head, turns red in embarrassment, and faces the wall 
again.

"Oh, Christ, Mulder, you've seen me naked before," I say in my 
best naggy, annoyed voice.  I hastily zip my jeans and grab a 
tank top from the pile on my bed, pull it over my head, and flip 
my damp hair out from the neckline.  Crossing my arms, I angrily 
ask again, "Mulder, what are you doing here?  I have work to do."

"Your stuff is in my car - I thought that you might want it after 
you calmed down.  And your nameplate, too.  You might still be 
able to use it," he says quietly in his best whiny puppy voice.

I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath.  He didn't 
come here to fight with me, he came to make peace.  "Thank you,"  
is all I can think of to say.  Had I been him, I probably 
would've built a bonfire in the woods and burned all of that 
stuff.

"You want me to bring it up?"

"Yeah.  I'll help you."  I walk past him, his head still hung and 
hands stuffed in his pockets.  Slipping on my sandals - the new 
ones I bought for when Ethan and Emma visited - I open the front 
door and wait for him to saunter up behind me.

Five medium sized boxes - the contents of a career that had cost 
me so much.  Half this stuff I would probably throw away, maybe 
give some to Mulder.  It's amazing how little you really have 
when you sit back and take inventory of your life.

After carting the last boxes up to my apartment, I fix us some 
ice water, handing Mulder's to him and gesturing for him to 
follow me to the couch.  We sit on opposite ends, like we usually 
do, and he takes a sip of water, wincing.

"Don't you have any tea?  Coke?  Something with flavor?"

"You don't drink enough water - it's good for you," I say, taking 
a long gulp of mine.

"What will I do without you, Scully?" he asks his glass.  "You 
always make sure I'm healthy, always make me eat the right kinds 
of food, always make sure I throw my milk out when it 
expires...what will become of me?"

"I guess you'll wither and die, Mulder," I flippantly answer, 
thinking that he's just kidding, just teasing me for always 
telling him what he should or should not eat or drink.  When he 
doesn't match my grin or look up at me, I realize that he's 
serious.  He really wonders what will become of him after I 
leave.  "Mulder," I pause, turning towards him and cocking my 
head.  Not knowing what else to say, I say nothing.

"You always take care of me.  Even if you're angry with me or 
sick or injured yourself, you always take care of me.  I could 
show up at your door with blood on my hands and shirt and a 
hundred degree temperature, and you'd put me to bed with some 
Tylenol before you'd ask me who's blood it was."

I follow his example and stare into my glass.

"Do you remember that, Scully?  That night that my father was 
murdered?  I had his blood all over me and I was sick from that 
LSD?  You took care of me that night.  You didn't accuse me or 
patronize me.  You just put me to bed.  You believed me."

"I remember," I say softly.  I remember him calling me, telling 
me that his father was dead, asking him if they'd been arguing.  
He sounded so lost, so alone that night, and I'd wanted nothing 
more than to take him into my arms, smooth his sweaty hair away 
from his burning forehead, and hold him tightly while he cried 
and screamed after his fever-dreams.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you for taking my gun.  You were just 
trying to help me.  I'm sorry, Scully."

I look at him, then scoot onto the middle cushion, still facing 
him.  "It's okay, Mulder.  You weren't really yourself that 
morning.  I understand that."

"I would've killed Krycek that night if you hadn't stopped me," 
he whispers.

"I know."

"And after all that, after I'd accused you of lying to me, of 
spying on me, you still saved my life.  You still took care of me 
in New Mexico."

"After I'd shot you.  It was the least I could do."  I bump his 
shoulder with mine, smiling and trying to lighten the mood.  It 
doesn't work, and he sits still, twisting his glass round and 
round in his hand.

"I loved you then," he says quietly, looking at me slowly.  I 
shake my head and stare into my own glass again.  "I did.  I've 
loved you for a long time."

I sigh and look back at him, our eyes meeting.  His are light 
blue, almost gray - depressed - and my heart speeds up a little 
as they pierce my soul.

"I didn't know it until you were taken.  I knew that I liked 
you...a lot...after they closed the X-Files.  I knew that you 
were a valuable asset to me and my work, that I could trust you.  
But I didn't know that I loved you until I heard you calling out 
to me that night.  You were leaving a message on my answering 
machine when Duane Barry abducted you.  And the whole time I was 
looking for you, when I sat beside you in the hospital waiting 
for you to wake up, when everyone kept telling me that you 
wouldn't, just to let you go, I told myself that I would tell 
you...how I felt."  He swallows, tears in his eyes.  "And I 
didn't.  And then, when you told me that you had c -"  his voice 
catches, "cancer...when you were dying...I told myself again that 
I would tell you.  And I never did, Scully.  I kept putting it 
off, telling myself that it wasn't the right time.  I wanted to 
tell you...so badly...but I just didn't."  He takes a deep 
breath, then, "And now it's too late."

He swallows thickly, pushing his tears back, his breath coming in 
rapid, shallow pants.  I slide his glass out of his hands, set 
our waters on the coffee table, then place my hand in the center 
of his back, rubbing slowly.  I trail my nails up and down his 
spine and rest my chin on his shoulder, his hands covering his 
eyes.  "Mulder, it's okay."  

That only makes him want to sob harder, his body shaking as he 
tries to hold them back.  "Mulder," I whisper again close to his 
ear.  "It's okay...I'm here."

"I'm sorry, Scully...I should've told you a long time ago...I'm 
sorry," I manage to decipher through his scratchy voice.

"It's okay, Mulder.  You don't need to be sorry."

"How is it okay?"  He asks miserably, turning his head slightly 
to look at me through his fingers.

I just look at him, not knowing how to answer.  I know it's not 
okay, but what am I supposed to say?

"You told me, Mulder, just now."

"But it's too late," he says, tears rimming his dim, bloodshot 
eyes.

"For what?"

"What I wanted."

"What did you want?"

"I wanted...I wanted you to love me.  I wanted to love you, to 
show you how I love you.  I wanted to have more than a friendship 
with you.  I wanted the kind of relationship that you 
and...Ethan...have.  I wanted all of that, and I put off telling 
you, thinking I would have forever to tell you."  He looks at me 
again and whispers, "I thought I'd have forever with you, 
Scully."

I look away, nodding my head imperceptibly.  I thought I'd have 
forever with him, too, but it is too late for all that.

"Would it have been different?  If I had told you, would it have 
been different?  Would you have loved me?  Would we have had more 
than this?"

I sigh, still rubbing small circles at the base of his spine.  "I 
do love you, Mulder -"

His mouth gapes open in disbelief and his eyes grow round and 
deep.  "You do?"  He asks in a tiny, childish voice that makes my 
heart shatter into a million pieces.

"Yes," I whisper, combing my fingers through the short, soft hair 
at the nape of his neck.

I see a shiver pass through his body and his pupils grow a little 
larger.  "Is it too late?"

I look away, feeling my broken heart clench in my chest.  "Yes."

He takes a deep breath, nodding, expecting that answer but 
thinking he can change my mind, then asks vehemently, 
desperately.  "But if it wasn't...would you have wanted that kind 
of relationship with me?  Would I have had a chance?"

I remove my hands from him but he grabs my arm, keeping me beside 
him.  "Mulder -"

"Please, Scully, I need to know.  I need to know if there was 
ever a chance."

"I don't know.  I don't know how we could have done that while we 
were partners..."

He takes another deep breath.  "We could've tried."  I start to 
shake my head.  "I would've tried, Scully.  Whatever I needed to 
do, I would've done it.  Give up the X-Files, quit the Bureau, 
whatever you wanted.  I would have done it."

That's the same thing I told Ethan, and I'm already having second 
thoughts - giving up my home, my job, my life all for him.  Would 
Mulder have been different?  Would he have really sacrificed 
whatever I asked of him for me?

"I wouldn't have wanted you to do that," I say softly, his hand 
relaxing its grip on my arm.

"We could still try, Scully," he says, moist eyes betraying his 
deep, confident voice.  "You can take that job at Quantico-"

"I'm engaged, Mulder," I interrupt, in case he'd forgotten.

"But I love you...and you said...you said that you loved me," he 
whispers, thinking that those magic words will fix everything, 
fix me and everything that's happened to me.

"Yes, Mulder, I do love you but -"  I look back at him.  Holding 
his breath, blood slowly draining from his face, heart and soul 
cracking.  "You're my best friend, Mulder, and that's how I love 
you, and I know that you think that you love me as something 
more -"

"I do!"  He shouts hoarsely.

"- but that's not all that matters."  His forehead wrinkles in 
confusion.  "Mulder, you know that we can never have any kind of 
future together, don't you?"

His eyebrows creep a little higher.  "No.  Why can't we?"

"Because...love doesn't make a perfect relationship.  There are 
things that are missing, things that we would need -"

"Like what?"

I sigh, feeling exhausted, and study my feet, "Mulder, one day, 
you're going to find someone who can give you all the things that 
I can't.  Someone who can support you.  A nice home, children -"

"What the hell are you talking about, Scully?  I never said I 
wanted children - where is this coming from?"  His eyes are dry 
now and his voice is raised, sounding angry.

"You say that now, but in a few years -"

"I told you, that doesn't matter to me.  If I have to sacrifice 
that, then I will, Scully.  I told you: anything."

"I can't have you do that..."

"Why not?"  He grabs my arm just above the elbow again, turning 
me towards him.

"Because..."  I feel tears threaten in my eyes and I hang my 
head.  I've cried more in the past few months than I've probably 
cried in my entire life and I feel emotionally drained, 
dehydrated.  "You deserve that," I say soundlessly, wiping my 
cheeks.

He loosens his grip on my arm, not letting go completely.  "You 
deserve that too, Scully.  And I'm sorry you can't have that, 
but -"

"You don't have to stay with me out of pity or some misguided 
sense of duty, Mulder.  I don't want you to think that you do.  
You don't understand this now, but one day you will."  He's just 
staring at me like I've grown a second head, his eyes filling 
with tears of frustration.  "I just want what's best for you, 
just like I always have."

"Scully -"

"Mulder, Ethan doesn't need me to give him those things.  He 
already has them.  So, you see?  This is what's best for both of 
us.  I can have what I want and you can be free to get what you 
want.  See?"

"All I want is you," he whispers faintly.

I shake my head, wiping my eyes, glad I don't have on mascara.  
Taking a deep breath, I declare in a loud, falsely confident 
voice, "I need to finish packing."

"Scully," he reaches for me as I stand, but I back away from him, 
feeling like a caged animal.

"Please just go, Mulder," I beg him.

He studies me for a moment, then stands up, looking down at me.  
He reaches his hand out for me and when I don't take it, he takes 
my arm and pulls me against his chest.  "No."

I brace my arms in front of me and try to push his away.  I have 
to be away from him.  I can't stand this.  My struggling only 
makes him stronger, though.  His arms circle around my back, 
supporting my weight, holding me tightly against him, his hands 
cupping my shoulder blades.  "Scully, I can't just go.  And I 
can't just let you go.  I love you, whether you believe it or not 
and I've lost everyone else that I've ever loved.  I won't lose 
you too."

I give up, sagging against him.  As he touches his forehead to 
mine, I slowly murmur, "It's not your choice, Mulder."

He dips his head and when his nose brushes mine, I close my eyes, 
reveling in his touch.  I feel his moist exhales on my lips and 
part them unconsciously, his head bending lower so that his lips 
are even with mine.  "I won't let you go, Scully," he whispers 
against my cheek, then his lips lightly graze over mine, stating 
their purpose, waiting for my reaction.

I know what I should do.  I should wrench myself out of his 
grasp, order him out of my apartment.  I should slap him, maybe, 
for being so presumptuous.  But I shouldn't pull his lower lip 
between mine, lick it, suck on it.  No, I definitely shouldn't be 
doing that, but that's not stopping me.

One of his hands moves up to my head, tunneling its fingers 
through my hair and anchoring my mouth to his.  He returns my 
gesture, sucking my upper lip between his, then slowly sliding 
his tongue into my mouth, searching for mine.

I meet it and we glide against each other, opening our mouths 
wider, his hand angling my head one way.  My fingers trail up his 
ribs and underneath his shoulders, pulling him against me, 
feeling the solid evidence of his love nudging my stomach.

For long minutes, we explore each other's mouths until we 
finally, for lack of oxygen, mournfully pull away from each 
other, panting.  He keeps his fingers tangled in my hair and 
gasps into my ear, "Do you love me like I love you, Scully?"

I can barely think through the buzzing in my head and hips and he 
takes my hesitation as indecision, confusion.  He lowers his head 
and kisses behind my ear, his mouth sliding down to my pulse, 
sucking hungrily.

I shouldn't moan or pull him closer to me, and I most certainly 
shouldn't grind my hips against his, seeking more contact.  But 
that's still not stopping me.

The hand at my back slips around my waist and up my stomach, then 
lightly over the sides of my breast, searching for and finding a 
slightly pebbled nipple under two layers of cotton.  I moan 
again, unintelligible sounds of illicit pleasure.

His mouth skates down my neck to my collar bone, then across my 
throat to the other side, still sucking, licking, tasting, 
kissing.  "Do you love me?" he asks again.  My only response is 
to sink my fingers into his hair and hold him against that one 
tender spot in the dip of my collar bone.

Too soon, he stops and raises his head, his hooded eyes boring 
into mine with lust, passion, and longing.  Placing his hands on 
either side of my head, tilting my face up to him, he asks one 
more time, "Do you?"

My tongue feels fuzzy and sparkling and the words at the front of 
my brain don't make it to the tip of my tongue, dying somewhere 
in the middle.  I just gape at him like a dying fish and pull his 
head back down to me, crushing my mouth against his and thrusting 
my starving tongue through his teeth.

Again, he takes my gesture as an affirmative answer: yes, I love 
you, yes, I want you, yes, I want this.  His hands leave my head 
again and trail down my back and around to my breasts, teasing 
both of them this time.  I moan into his mouth and arch my back 
against him, trying to grin my hips against his at the same time.  
His tongue, his lips, his hands - I can't think of anything 
except how it felt to be underneath him that night in the hotel, 
his weight pressing me into the mattress as his arms pinned me in 
place, right where he wanted me.

A shrill buzzing then, high pitched and deafening in the silence 
of my apartment.  Mulder pulls away slowly, keeping one hand on 
my breast, the other trailing down my back to keep my hips 
against his.  His pupils are impossibly large and black, his lips 
swollen and red.

The phone.  The phone is ringing.

I turn my head towards the table behind my couch, acknowledging 
the source of our interruption.  I look back at him, scrap my 
nails around his neck and down his chest, catching his nipples 
underneath them along the way, and he hisses and closes his eyes 
in response.  I lick my lips, tasting him, then stand up on my 
tip-toes, reaching for him again.  He pushes me down and steps 
back slightly, jumping when he hears the person on the other end 
begin their message.

"Dana, hey, it's me.  I got your voice mail - so, you think 
you'll be coming down soon, huh?"

The speaker rambles on and I hang my head, suddenly remembering 
what I'm doing, who I'm doing it with, and what I need to be 
doing.

"Answer the phone, Scully," Mulder whispers above my ear, sending 
pleasant, guilty shivers all over my body.  I nod and step away 
from him, very cold without his heat.

I shakily pick up the phone and realize I'm panting as I push the 
'talk' button.  Taking a few deep, calming breaths, I weakly 
murmur, "I'm here," into the receiver.

"Hey, I was about to hang up."  I nod.  "So, did everything go 
okay at work today?"

Work?  What's he talking about?  "Yeah."

"And you're officially unemployed now?"

"Yeah."  I can feel Mulder's eyes burning holes in my back as he 
stares at me, can feel the lingering sparks his hands and tongue 
left on my body.

"Dana, I'm sorry.  I know that you loved your job and that this 
is all so sudden.  If you want to take some time, just come down 
for a visit right now, that's fine.  I don't want to push you 
into anything."

I close my eyes.  "I've already started packing."

"Oh!  I guess you're as anxious as I am.  I miss you so much...I 
can't wait until you're here."  He sounds genuine and his soft, 
deep voice envelops me as I again let the world fall away and 
focus on nothing but him and how much he loves me.

"Me neither."

"So, when can we expect you?"

We - Ethan, my finace, and Emma, my soon-to-be-step-daughter.  My 
new, happy life.  "Tomorrow."

"You sure?"

"Yeah.  I'll call the airline later, let you know when to pick me 
up."

"Okay," he whispers.  I hear muffled voices in the background, 
then, "I need to go, but I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah."

"Dana, I love you so much.  I can't tell you how long I've wanted 
this, wanted you."

I sniff and in a thick, tear-laden voice, say, "Me too.  I love 
you, too."

"Don't cry," he says sweetly.

"I'm not."

"Okay."  He laughs a little, knowing I'm fibbing.  "Bye."

"Bye."

The phone barely falls into its plastic niche before I hear 
Mulder panting behind me.  Mulder - he heard that, all of that.

"Goddammit, Scully," he growls.

I turn, nervous, trying to calm him with my eyes.

"GodDAMMIT!!!" he explodes, bending at the waist and covering his 
face with his hands.  "How could you do this?  Dammit, Scully!"

"Mulder -"

"How far were you gonna let this go, huh?  Were you just gonna 
let me sleep with you so that you could show me what I'd be 
missing?  A cheap pity-fuck as my good-bye gift?"

My hands cover my gaping mouth in shock and humiliation - he's 
right.  If Ethan hadn't called and interrupted, I would have kept 
going, let him keep going.  At the time, it felt so right, so 
good.  "Mulder, no, I -"

"What, you're sorry?  You don't even care, do you?  You don't 
even care about what this means to me, what you've just done.  I 
didn't know you were that selfish, Scully.  I didn't know you 
were that much of a slut."

I hang my head and pant out my hurt and anger, afraid to say 
anything.

His voice lowers a little.  "No, I guess you are sorry.  You're 
sorry that you got to see my face when I figured out that you 
don't really love me.  Well, it's more than I got from Phoebe and 
Diana.  They just left without any warning, disappeared without a 
trace, and I still thought they gave a damn about me, I still 
thought they would come back.  I guess you're better than that, 
thought.  You wanted to be here when I realized that you were 
just using me."

When I still don't answer, he turns away from me and his feet 
walk quickly across the carpet to the door.  He opens it, then 
stops, not finished yet.  "I always thought you were different 
from them.  I guess I thought that you actually cared about me."  
He sighs and lowers his voice, his sadness and pain evident.  
"You're one hell of a good actress, Scully."

Before I can catch him, before I can even open my mouth to tell 
him how wrong he is, he's already out my front door, slamming it 
behind him.

I look around my apartment for answers, for something to tell me 
what to do, how to handle this.  Finding none, I turn around and 
walk into my bedroom, closing and locking the door behind me, 
then sinking to my knees and wrapping my arms around them, before 
I let myself cry again.

<><><><><><>

Exhausted and emotionally empty, I fell asleep curled into a 
tiny, fetal ball on my bedroom floor.  When I finally wake up, 
the street lamps are casting an eerie, orange glow across the 
floor.  Stiff and sore, I gradually get to my feet and walk to 
the windows to close the blinds.  After packing all afternoon, I 
had gotten most of the things in my bedroom put away, and it 
feels empty now, like I've never lived here at all.

I turn towards my bed and pull down the covers, then decide that 
I need to wash the stickiness off of my face.  And Mulder out of 
my mouth.

When I return to the bed, the sheets are chilled from the air 
conditioner and feel like ice when I slide in against them.  I 
turn out my lamp and pull the covers tightly around me, wishing I 
had an electric blanket or a man to keep me warm.  

After almost a half-hour of shivering and teeth-chattering, I 
concede defeat to insomnia and pick up my bed-side phone, dialing 
the familiar numbers slowly and holding my breath as it rings.

"Hello?"

"Mom?"  I whisper into the phone, sounding like a child.

"Dana?  What is it?"  Her mother-mode instant concern voice is 
utilized, and I feel even more juvenile than before.

"I did something.  I did something horrible and I didn't know who 
else to call..."

"You know you can always talk to me."

I sniff, trying not to sound as devastated as I feel.  "Mom, I 
don't know if I want to marry Ethan."

She hesitates.  "What?"

"I don't know if I want to marry Ethan, I don't know if I want to 
move to Atlanta, I don't know if I want to leave Mulder."

Her voice turns deadly and serious.  "Dana, what happened?"

I swallow.  "Quantico offered me a job.  A job as Head 
Pathologist.  I wanted to take it but Ethan didn't want me to, so 
I didn't.  And they closed the X-Files.  I resigned from the 
Bureau, Mom, and Ethan wants me to move right now.  He wants to 
get married right now."

"When did all of this happen?"

"Just in the last few days...I told Mulder about the job and he 
told me to take it.  He knew that I had always wanted that job.  
He knew how important it was to me -"

"Dana, what happened?"  She asks again, sounding frantic, like 
she already knows and is just waiting for me to admit it so she 
can yell at me.

"He came over today...we had a fight at the office and he came by 
to see me...he told me that he loves me, Mom.  He kissed me -"  I 
hear her sigh into the phone, like I've just disappointed her in 
the worst way imaginable.  "He loves me, Mom.  He told me that he 
loves me and he wants me to stay here.  And he kissed me and I 
let him."  I stop then, sudden tears making it impossible for me 
to talk any more.

She just listens to me, not saying anything, thought I can feel 
her shaking her head in disgust on the other end of the phone.

"I hurt him, Mom.  I didn't mean to, but I did...and now I don't 
know what to do," I finally manage, though I'm not sure that she 
could understand what I said.

"Have you told Ethan any of this?"  She asks, no sympathy or 
concern in her cold, stern voice.  Well, that sobered me up.  I 
sniff a few times, trying to figure out why she's asking.

"No, but -"

"Don't, Dana.  Don't tell him."

"But, I have to."

"Why?"  She asks, genuine in her confusion.

"Because," I gape.  "Because, I don't know if I want to marry 
him.  I have to tell him."

"Why do you think you don't want to marry him?"

"Mulder...he loves me..."

"Do you love him?"  I swallow, sniff, the swallow again.  "Do 
you?"  She demands.

"Yes.  No...I don't know..."  I whisper, barely a breath with 
some intonation attached.

She sighs again, louder and more disappointed this time.  "And 
what are you going to do about it?  You can't spend the rest of 
your life with him, Dana.  He'll never love you the way that 
Ethan does.  He'll never be devoted to you like Ethan will.  Fox 
will always have his nose to the sky, searching for things that 
aren't there.  I thought you'd finally realized that."

"No.  You're wrong.  He's not like that anymore -"

"And how long will that last?  How long will it be before he 
finds something else to look for and leaves you to find it?  How 
many times has he thought he's finally found what he's looking 
for only to realize that it was a lie just like everything else?"

I sniff again, not having an argument.  My mother knew the reason 
that Mulder was so passionate and driven - that he wanted to find 
his sister.  I'd called her a thousand times before telling her 
that he'd finally found her, found the truth, and always had to 
call her again to tell her that it was just another lie.

She twists the knife a little deeper.  "It's foolish to believe 
that you can change a man, Dana, especially one like Fox.  You 
should know that by now.  But Ethan can give you the kind of life 
that you deserve.  The kind of life that I know you've always 
wanted - the kind that Fox can't give you."

Maybe she's right.  Maybe Mulder needs something to focus his 
intensity on, and I just happen to be convenient.  In a month or 
a year, he'll find something else - someone else - and forget 
about me, push me away because I'm holding him back.

"But I still have to tell Ethan.  He deserves to know."

"No, you don't.  You made a mistake, Dana, a foolish mistake, but 
you don't have to tell him about it.  Just go to him and forget 
about it."

"You want me to lie to him?"

"No.  I just don't want you to tell him the truth."

"I didn't tell him the truth the last time and he left me," I 
whisper, more to myself than her.

"What?"

"The reason that we didn't get married before.  I didn't tell him 
the truth.  I did something and didn't tell him, but he found out 
and he left me."

Probably figuring that I'm just exaggerating, she flippantly 
asks, "What did you do?"

"I had an abortion."

The air freezes and becomes thick with her surprise before she 
finally seethes, "Dana Katherine -"

"I don't want to hear it, Mom.  What ever you're going to say, I 
know.  I know how disappointed you are.  I know how embarrassed 
you are.  I know how angry you are that Dad isn't around to 
disown me.  I know, so don't even start."

"Don't you talk to me like that, Dana.  You may be an adult, but 
you're still my daughter -"

"Then stop treating me like a child," I say, then listen to her 
voice get further and further away as I hang up the phone, 
silencing her.  My tears of sadness have turned into tears of 
anger and disbelief and I unplug the phone so she can't call 
back, burrowing down into the covers and shaking with cold and 
fury, watching the digital numbers on my clock morph into each 
other until I finally fall into a fitful sleep.

<><><><><><>

A foolish mistake.  A phase.  Sewing my wild oats.  The last 
eight years of my life can be summed up into a few words or a 
convenient catch-phrase.  When I woke up at 2:30, I plugged in my 
bed-side phone, checked the dial tone, then got up to see if my 
mother had called back and left a message.  She hadn't done 
either, according to my caller ID, and I picked up the cordless 
phone, put it down again, picked it up again, then put it down a 
final time, deciding not to call her back.  I would only make her 
angrier if I woke her up.

I thought about calling Mulder, too, just to make sure that he 
was still living.  I wondered if the last thing he said to me was 
true, if he really saw me as another Phoebe or Diana.  I always 
hated those women for hurting him, and if I was just the latest 
version of them, I guess I hate myself now, too.  In the back of 
my mind, I saw Mulder crashing his car or putting a gun to his 
head and pulling the trigger, lost and lonely and miserable.

If I thought he'd listen to me, I'd call him and apologize, tell 
him that I didn't mean to hurt him, and make sure he was okay 
before I left tomorrow.

Of course he's not okay.  He probably wouldn't even answer his 
phone.  He probably doesn't ever want to speak to me again.

Saying that I was having second thoughts about leaving - about 
marrying Ethan - would be putting it lightly; I was torn, 
confused about why I was doing this.  Mulder and his tears were 
so convenient today and I almost let myself belief that what he 
said was true, that all he wanted was me.  I wanted to call him, 
just to see if it was true or if it was the product of his grief 
and desperation.

So, he loved me.  As I'd told him, that doesn't make everything 
okay.  And yes, I love him, but not like he loves me.  All these 
years, I've loved him and cared for him more than I've love and 
cared for anyone and letting him go is hard - harder than I 
expected, when it came right down to it.  I just have to keep 
reminding myself that this is for the best, not just for me, but 
for him too.  And if I really love and care for him, I'll leave 
him to make a new, happy life for himself.

But if I knew that we could make it work, if I knew that he truly 
loved me and really wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, 
I'd stay.  I'd say and try.  I'd tell him it wasn't too late.

But I can't stay.  I have to leave, let him go, let myself go, 
let us move on.  He'll find someone that he loves, that he really 
loves, who can really love him in return, who can give him 
everything that I can't, everything that he deserves.

And that's why I didn't call him, why at 2:57 a.m., I sat down in 
my living room and started packing again.  

He'll realize that one day, when his pretty, young wife tells him 
she's pregnant with their first child, when he feels their baby 
kick against his mother's womb from inside of her, when he looks 
down into his child's face for the first time, seeing those 
beautiful, happy green eyes looking back at him.  He'll 
understand then why I did this, he'll understand how much I love 
him. 

So I pack - everything that I can fit into a box is shoved into 
one, sealed shut, and labeled.  I fill my suitcases with all of 
my clothes, carefully folding my suits and putting them in a 
separate suitcase so that, when I'm unpacking, I can immediately 
know not to open this one, just to put it in the back of the 
closet to gather dust.

Having gathered the essentials, I decide to let the moving 
company deal with everything else.  I told my landlord that I 
would gladly leave most of my furniture in the apartment and pay 
the rent until my lease expired in September.  He said that he 
had a waiting list of people ready to move in and that he would 
talk to me later about the sub-letting arrangements.

Delta's next flight to Atlanta from National wasn't until 11:00 
a.m., but from Dulles, there was one leaving at 8:35.  I bought a 
one-way ticket at six o'clock that morning and was at the airport 
by seven with my bags checked and my heart drumming nervously in 
my chest.  The last Washington newspaper I would ever read was 
held loosely in my fingers and I flipped the pages, just to have 
something to do.

As I was about to walk out of my door for the last time, I saw 
Mulder's gift sitting on my coffee table where he had left it 
yesterday.  I picked up the box, weighing it in my hand wondering 
if he had left the bits of his shattered heart in it when he 
left, then stuck it into one of my carry-on bags and left my 
apartment, turning in my key on my way out.  

Maybe I would still get to use the nameplate when I got to 
Atlanta - if I worked at the CDC or taught at Emory, I would have 
an office and a desk, and would need a nameplate to remind me of 
who I was, who I had once been, and who I wasn't anymore.

At 8:06, I put down the paper, the words running together and 
making my dry, puffy eyes ache.  After I fold it neatly in my 
lap, I drop it unceremoniously in the trash can beside my seat in 
the terminal.  I scan over the other people, some waiting to go 
back home, some waiting to bid them goodbye, some waiting to 
return from far away, some waiting to welcome them.  My eyes flit 
over one, then snap back to him.  He's sitting across the 
terminal, facing me, staring at me sadly.

Our eyes make contact across the room and I drop my gaze, 
silently berating myself for even noticing him.  Through my 
eyelashes, I see him get up and saunter towards me, his shoulders 
slumped and his head hanging like a kicked puppy.

He stops in front of me, close enough so that he can talk without 
others hearing, far enough away so that he can't touch me, and I 
studiously push a cuticle back with a nail.  He doesn't say 
anything at first, maybe waiting for me to speak, to apologize, 
but I don't, still pretending to ignore him.

As my eyes mist over again, I start on another cuticle and he 
recites his premeditated diatribe with a stern finality.  "I just 
wanted to tell you that you deserve this," he says softly.  "You 
deserve to have what you want.  You deserve this new life.  You 
deserve that little girl, you deserve Ethan and that life that he 
can give you."

When I still don't acknowledge him, he takes a deep breath and 
continues.  "I'm sorry I tried to talk you out of that.  Whatever 
makes you happy, Scully, I'll support it.  And I know it probably 
doesn't matter to you, but I didn't want the last thing I said to 
you to be angry, impulsive words."

So, he didn't mean it?  Then why do I still hate myself?

I still don't look up at him, but I know that the tears in my 
eyes match his, both of us valiantly trying to hold them back.  
"I just wanted you to know that," he says softly, hesitating to 
give me a chance to respond.

I raise my head just in time to see him turn away.  "Mulder," I 
call after him and he stops and turns, piercing me with his eyes.
I stand and walk towards him, almost close enough to feel his 
warm exhale of breath on my face.  Tears still in my eyes, I 
reach for him and he closes the short distance between us, his 
arms going around my back and squeezing me so tightly I can 
barely breath.  I press my face into his soft T-shirt, letting it 
absorb my tears as my hair absorbs his.  We're still for a 
moment, just holding each other, not saying a word.  He tunnels 
his fingers through my hair and I close my eyes, content and 
comfortable, for a moment forgetting why I'm leaving.

I'm doing this for my future, his future.  I'm doing this for the 
lives that we never had, that we can have now.

I should tell him that it does matter to me, that I'm sorry for 
everything that's happened, but all I can manage is a strangled, 
"Thank you."  He kisses my forehead, nodding, lingering there.

I raise my head and open my eyes, his hands coming up to brush my 
tears away.  I do the same to his and look into those bottomless 
eyes, then drop my head, my resolve breaking.

The loudspeaker announces that passengers in seats twenty-five 
through fifty can now begin boarding and I take a few steps back, 
our hands linking.  "I need to go," I tell my shoes and he nods, 
not letting go of me.  He'll never let go.

He takes a ragged breath and, seeing my opportunity, I remove my 
hand from his, bend to gather my things, and turn around just in 
time to watch him walking away from me, walking out of my life.  
It takes every ounce of strength I have not to run after him.  
Instead, I walk to the gate, check my ticket, and walk onto the 
plane, keeping my head bowed against the tears streaming from my 
eyes.

I put one carry-on in the compartment above me and, when I'm 
seated, before I shove the other underneath the seat, I unzip the 
side pocket and reach in, then pull out my nameplate.  I slowly 
trace the etched letters with my nail, wondering how long I'll 
still be Dana K. Scully instead of Dana K. Minette.  Mulder knew 
that I was getting married, yet he had this made with my maiden 
name: he never really expected me to go, never really expected me 
to leave him.

I didn't either, but this is for the best, I keep reminding 
myself.  Letting him go.  Letting him let me go.  I'll finally be 
able to move on, move past this phase of my life, let him move on 
as well.  Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I'll eventually 
believe it.

I put the nameplate back into my bag, zip the pocket, then push 
it under my seat.  As I buckle my seat belt, I stare out the 
window, leaning my head against it, closing my eyes, and wishing 
that the flight to Atlanta took longer than just an hour.

<><><><><><>

Wide, wooden doors swing open and I step inside.  The church is 
decorated with white flowers, white streamers, white everything.  
I see everything through a haze of white - my veil - and my big, 
heavy dress; everything is white.  White for purity, however 
ludicrous that is.  I obviously didn't plan this wedding.  

There are masses of people here, both on my side and Ethan's 
side, though I can't see their faces.  They're all dressed in 
white, too.  My family is ahead of me at the alter - Mom in her 
white dress with soft pink flowers and white corsage, Missy in a 
long, flowing, ivory gown, Dad and Bill in their dress white 
uniforms, Chaz in a hideous white suit that looks like it belongs 
on a Ken doll.

Wait, if Dad is up there, then who's on my arm, giving me away?

We reach the alter and the man beside me hesitates, Ethan, my 
father, and Bill glaring at him hatefully.  His warm arm slips 
out from beneath my hand and he grasps it with his, slowly 
passing it to Ethan's sweaty, nervous grip.  He hesitates again, 
not wanting to sit down, and I see him turn towards me from 
underneath my white fog.

His vacant, gray, bloodshot eyes are filled with tears, his 
bottom lip stuck out slightly in a pout.  He's dressed all in 
black, like a shadow is cast over him from some unseen cloud over 
his head.  Mulder.

Mulder's giving me away instead of my father or one of my 
brothers, giving me over to my new life.

His puffy eyes meet mine and I take in a sharp breath, hating to 
see him so obviously in pain, so alone and lost.  I want to go to 
him, to follow him and take his arm again, for him to lead us 
somewhere, someplace where I can hold him close to me as he cries 
and tells me how he loves me.

He glances as Missy who shakes her head sadly at him, then turns 
away and walks down the aisle again, leaving the church, not 
wanting to witness the ceremony.

I turn to run after him, his name on my lips to call to him, when 
Ethan squeezes my hand, pulling me back.  I turn my head around 
to tell him to let me go, that I have to go to Mulder, but the 
smile on his face, on that of my father's, makes me stop and turn 
back to the front of the alter, sniffing away my tears, 
swallowing my cries to Mulder.

Everyone is smiling and everyone is so happy.  Except Missy - she 
watches Mulder walk down the aisle, alone, until the doors open 
and close, shutting him out of my life.

<><><><><><>

"Ma'am...Ma'am?"  Someone is shaking my shoulder lightly.

"Muller?"  I mumble, not opening my eyes.

"We're here, Ma'am," the strange voice says softly.

My eyes snap open - we're where?  Who is we?  Where's Mulder?  
Who's this man beside me?  When did I become a "Ma'am?"

I look around the emptying cabin searching for Mulder's dark head 
above the others.  I don't see him - where the hell is he?  I 
stand to get a better view and the man beside me holds out a 
large, heavy bag to me.  "This yours?"  He asks in a heavy 
southern drawl.

I sink slowly back into the seat, reality setting in.  I'm in 
Atlanta - without Mulder.  I'm here alone, to start my new life 
without him.  Tears rim my eyes and the man leans over to me.

"Ma'am, are you all right?"

"Yes," I whisper, nodding absently.

"Is this your bag?"

"Yes."  He sets it in the seat he's vacated beside me, then 
hoists his bag onto his shoulder and joins the masses of people 
fighting to get off the plane.

I sit, still and quiet, starring out the window, watching the men 
unload our luggage, until a stewardess passes and says to me in a 
tired voice, "Ma'am, you have to get off the plane now.  Is there 
a problem?"

I slowly turn my head and look at her, wondering what she 
imagines could be the problem.  Am I nervous about seeing a long-
lost relative?  Am I homesick already?  Maybe I got on the wrong 
flight by mistake?

"No.  Sorry."

She nods, then walks away.

I sigh and stand again, bending to wrestle my bag from underneath 
my seat, picking up the one in the seat beside me, then walking 
down the aisle towards the door.

Walking down the aisle...like in my dream.  What a strange dream.  
My father and Missy wouldn't be there, and Bill probably wouldn't 
be able to make it.  And why was Mulder giving me away?

And why do I feel like I'm missing something?  Like I've 
forgotten something?  Left it behind?  Like I went into surgery 
and came out with one limb less, but still feel it connected to 
my body?

<><><>End<><><>

Thanks: I've been an especially large pain in the ass this time, 
so extra big, juicy thanks to my betas RealB, Karri, and Liam.  I 
don't know what I would do without them, but I certainly wouldn't 
be writing.

Also, thanks to those of you who sent me feedback for my stories 
and recommended my series at the Haven fic board.  I've saved 
every email I've gotten and read them when I need encouragement - 
they really do help me write faster.

We have a title for the series now: Trefoil.  Christelle, who 
runs the wonderful WIPs Of Our Lives, came up with it.  As well 
as listing the series at WIPOL, she also volunteered to make me a 
web page where all my stories can be archived.  Thanks, 
Christelle, for everything!

A note about the title of this story: my inspiration for Mulder's 
characterization comes from Bob Dylan's beautiful, tragic song, 
"If You See Her, Say Hello."  For lyrics, go to 
bobdylan.com/songs/sayhello.html. 

Please, PLEASE keep sending feedback.  Questions, comments, and 
mild complaints always accepted at lil_gusty@hotmail.com.  

Title: Phantom Pains (Part Six of the Trefoil Series)
Classification: SRA
Keywords: S/O, MSR/UST, AU
Rating: R for language and sex
Distribution: anywhere, just let me know
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, they belong to 
Mr. Chris Carter, lucky bastard.
Feedback: please to lil_gusty@hotmail.com
Thanks: at the end
Note: This is the sixth part of the Trefoil Series.  It begins 
      with "The Longest Time," "Practice," "Signs From God," 
      "Next Step," and "If You See Her."  They can be found at 
      Ephemeral or Gossamer.

Summary: Perfection isn't always what it seems.

Warning: If you thought that the previous parts were angsty, you 
ain't seen nothin' yet. 

<><><><><><>

"My, oh, my, you sure know how to arrange things.  You set it up 
so well, so carefully.  Ain't it funny how your new life didn't 
change things?  You're still the same old girl you used to be."

                ~ The Eagles

<><><><><><>

The harsh lights of Hartsfield International Airport reflect off 
the newly polished floor in sickening, pale white cubes, making 
my sinuses throb in time with my heartbeat, making me choke back 
bile and weak coffee as I try and find the nearest restroom.

I vomit a little, mostly stomach acid and dry heaves, making my 
throat and mouth burn, leaning against the cool, metal wall, 
panting, and desperate for some water to wash the bitter taste 
away.  Surprisingly, the floor and walls are clean, so I linger 
longer than I should, until someone asks if I'm all right, if I 
need help.  No, I tell her, I'm fine.  She offers to fetch my 
traveling companion and I tell her that I don't have one, but 
thank her anyway.  She leaves me alone in the blessed hum of 
silence and I unsteadily rise to my feet, shiver a little in the 
overly chilled bathroom, then venture out to find my luggage.

After collecting everything, I load them into a handy wheeled 
cart that has a sign on the front which, in seven different 
languages, declares "Welcome to Atlanta."

For fun, I decipher the German, trace my fingers over the odd, 
Japanese characters, and try my French and Italian pronunciation.

I wheel the creaky metal cart over to the row of pay phones and 
stare at them.  Out of five, two are occupied, one by a woman 
trying to corral a screaming toddler and communicate with the 
person on the other end of the receiver.  She looks frustrated 
and embarrassed and I consider going to help her.  Our eyes meet 
and she turns away from me, yanking her child's arm and telling 
it to "straighten up right now."  I look away and finger my name 
tag on the top suitcase in my stack, then turn around and settle 
myself in a seat among the passengers headed for Houston, Texas.

I cross my legs until the one on top falls asleep, then re-cross 
them the other way.  I pick imaginary lent off of my jeans.  I 
push my hair behind my ears, run my fingers through it, then push 
it back again.  I rearrange my luggage stack.  I root through one 
of my carry-ons looking for nothing.  I turn on my cell phone.

"Trust no one."

Mulder set my welcome note when I got my new phone, about seven 
months ago.  He said that it was something to remember, something 
to always be reminded of.  I had never thought to change it.

I check the battery - four little bars out of five - and go 
through my phone book.

"Bullwinkle."

Mulder set his cell phone number as number two, calling himself 
Bullwinkle, after Bullwinkle J. Moose.  He said that I was Rocky 
in his phone.

"Bullwinkle in Sweden."

His home phone was number three - a joke about my love of "Monty 
Python and the Holy Grail."  Moose bites can be quite nasty, you 
know.

"TLG."

Simple: The Lone Gunmen.  He said that I should always keep their 
number handy in case I needed it.  They were number four.

"Richard Gere."

He never got over the fact that Gary Shandling played him in that 
movie and was jealous of Skinner being played by Richard Gere.  

In Los Angeles, we sang "Hollywood Nights" and "LA Woman," going 
back and forth with the lines.  I was drunk from the most 
expensive champagne that the most expensive restaurant had and he 
tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, leaning over the table and 
landing one of his lapels in his alfredo sauce.  He told me he 
liked to hear my giggle, that he would have to get me drunk more 
often, and that he didn't think it was fair that they cast Tea 
Leoni as me, that I was much prettier than she is.  

Skinner was number five.

"Mom."

I had programmed that one myself.  I rarely called her from my 
cell phone but figured that, in an emergency, if for some reason 
Mulder wasn't present and I wasn't conscious, the EMTs would at 
least be able to decipher one person to call.  She was number 
six.

A drop of something wet and warm lands on the screen and slides 
down over the numbers and finally to my thumb: a tear.  I'm 
crying again.

I don't know how he'd insinuated himself into my life, into every 
aspect of it.  I didn't realize that he was everywhere, 
physically and emotionally.

I sniff twice and wince - I need Tylenol.  I turn my phone over 
and press the battery release button, counting to ten before I 
slide it back into the phone, erasing everything.

I put it back in my bag and dig around some more for my plastic 
pill container.  After finding it, I dump the contents into my 
hand and sort through the pills, looking for a pain reliever.  
Finding three Tylenol-3s, I funnel the rest back into the bottle, 
snap the lid shut, and shove it back into the bag, then swallow 
the pills dry.

In about forty-five minutes, I'll be dead on my feet - the 
codeine in one of these things knocks me out; three will give me 
half a day of unconsciousness, which is just what I want right 
now.

Mulder's allergic to codeine.  It gives him migraines.

I zip my bag harder than necessary, catching my finger in the 
zipper at the other end.  I wince again, the pain throbbing in 
tandem with my head and heart, and suck on my finger, tasting 
blood.  My face gets hot and I want to throw myself on the floor, 
kick my feet and pound my fists and scream and scream and scream, 
scream until I lose my voice.  I hiccup, holding back tears, and 
jerk the zipper back open, fish my cell phone out of my bag 
again, turn it on, and dial the unfamiliar numbers, hesitating 
before pushing send.

I push clear instead, then zip the bag again, put it on top of my 
stack, and wheel my metal cart over to a news stand, feeling very 
much like a bag lady pushing a baby carriage.

When I pick up an Atlanta-Journal Constitution and stare at the 
front page, my blood has soaked into it.  I read the headline, 
not knowing what it says, then put it back down and turn away.

There are people milling around, businessmen in a hurry, 
desperate to make their flights, families relaxing and strolling 
about, taking in the sights and sounds of the airport, their 
children mesmerized by the bright lights and big planes.

One catches my eye, her lilting British accent sounding strange 
on a child so young.  She's tugging at her mother's hand, wanting 
a cinnamon roll.  Her father is walking towards them, big white 
box, knives and forks in his hand.  She jumps up and down - she 
can't be more than four - so excited about something so simple.

She looks exactly like Emily and I wonder briefly if she's 
adopted.

Her father hands her the white box and points them to a table 
where they sit and divide the cinnamon roll, the little girl 
getting the biggest part.  Mother and Father talk while the girl 
makes a mess of the sticky icing, Mother telling her to be 
careful, not to get icing on her clothes.

I just stand there and watch the happy little family through the 
film of tears covering my eyes.  She smiles and laughs, her face 
and eyes brightening the way Emily's did when Mulder made his 
silly face.  Despite myself, I smile, too, and continue to gape 
at them, making the rushing minions walk around me to get where 
they're going.

The night that she died, Emily asked me where Mulder was.  I had 
sent him away, told him that I wanted to be alone to watch my 
daughter die, hoping that he would stay against my wishes, 
knowing that I only told him to go to try and preserve my pride 
and strength.  She asked me if he was going to come see her 
again, make another silly face.  I told her that he was probably 
asleep back at his hotel, but that I could make a silly face for 
her if she wanted.  Her face contorted in pain and her already 
protruding veins turned a little bluer and became more 
pronounced.  I pushed the button on her morphine pump, increasing 
her dose and she smiled again, the medicine taking effect.  She 
said that Mulder did it better because he looked silly anyway, he 
didn't really need to make a face.

When she finally died, I called him at 3:30 in the morning.  I 
apologized for waking him, but he claimed he wasn't asleep.  My 
voice was shaking but I wasn't crying.  I simply told him that 
her heart had stopped and I had asked the doctors not to try and 
resuscitate her.  He said he would be there in ten minutes, but 
was there in three, wearing the same clothes he had been earlier, 
only a little more wrinkled.  A nurse later told me that he had 
been in the lobby all night in case I needed him.  He had asked 
her to let him know if Emily's condition changed.

He kept his arm around me while the orderlies wheeled her down to 
the morgue, turned me towards him once they were gone, and told 
me it was okay to cry.  I covered my face with my hands and 
sagged into his chest, his arms supporting me when I could no 
longer support myself.  He stroked my back and whispered to me 
that she was better off, that she wasn't in pain anymore.  I 
shook and hiccupped, but never shed a single tear, nodding when 
he asked a few minutes later if I was okay.

An errant, world-weary traveler bumps into me, breaking me out of 
my reverie.  He doesn't apologize and my cheeks turn scarlet and 
hot from embarrassment.  The little girl is staring at me oddly, 
almost like she recognizes me but isn't sure from where, licking 
the icing from her fork and kicking her legs underneath the 
table.  I look away from her and point my cart towards the 
nearest bank of seats and fall into one, shielding my eyes from 
the harsh lights.  Everywhere I look, there's a memory and every 
one has Mulder playing a prominent role.

I shake my head and rub my temples, suddenly dizzy.  Sleep - I 
need sleep.  I'm so tired, so, so tired.  I want nothing more 
that to crawl into my big, soft, warm bed, pull the covers over 
my head, and not emerge for a century.  Darkness tinges the edge 
of my vision and I shake my head again, willing it away.

I'm delaying, putting off calling Ethan.  He doesn't even know 
I'm here yet - I never called him to tell him my flight plans.  
He's at work and probably unable to get off in the middle of the 
day to take me home.  I could take a cab to his house, assuming 
they have cabs in Atlanta, but it hits me suddenly that I don't 
even know where he lives, I don't even know his address.  For all 
I know, Roswell could be two hours away in any direction.  I 
wouldn't have the faintest idea what to tell the cab driver.

Cell phone still clutched tightly between my trembling fingers, I 
dial the unfamiliar numbers again and finally push send.

After a hesitation and a few clicks, it rings.  And rings.  And 
rings.

Finally, "Minette."

He sounds busy and I feel a twinge of guilt for interrupting his 
day.  I raise my head slightly and feel dizzy again, moaning into 
the phone.

"Hello?"  He asks suspiciously.

"E-an?"  I slur out, hoping he recognizes my voice.

"Dana?"

"Mmm..."  I rub my temples again, trying to push the pain away 
but only making it worse.

"What's the matter?"

"'M sick..."

Hearing the cacophony of background noise, he asks, "Where are 
you?"

"Airport..."

"Oh.  When's your flight?"

"No...'m in A'lana..."

"Already?  Dana -"

"E-an, 'm sick..."  My voice is light, airy, almost a whisper, my 
words fading out at the end.

"Dana, I'm kinda busy right now.  You should've called."

"'M sick!"  I scream, my vision blurring and darkening again.  
The codeine is starting to take effect.  I need him.  Now.

"Okay, okay.  I'll see what I can do."  He sounds disappointed, 
like CNN can't function without him for...however long it takes 
to get here, to Roswell, and back again.

"E-an...'m sick..."  I mumble again, in case he missed it the 
first hundred times.

"I'm on my way, Dana, I'm walking out the door right now.  Just 
hang on, okay?"

"Hurry," I whine miserably, sounding exactly the way I feel, like 
a Kindergartner on her first day of school.

"I will, I will.  Twenty minutes, Dana."

I whimper.  "Okay..."

"Okay."  The phone clicks again as he hangs up.  Pressing the end 
button, I dip my head between my knees and try to take deep 
breaths.  If the room would stop spinning, I might not feel so 
nauseous.

An eternity later, I feel a cool hand on my shoulder.  "Dana?  
Are you all right?"

Not raising my head from my knees, I shake it as best as I can, 
trying not to vomit or pass out.

He kneels in front of me, tipping my head up to his.  "Dana, I 
need you to get up.  Can you stand up?"

I shake again and he stands, then lifts me until I'm leaning 
against him, his arm around my waist holding me up.

"Is all of this yours?"  He gestures to the metal cart with the 
teetering stack of luggage beside me.

I make some sort of affirmative grunt and he sighs, rearranges me 
in his arms, and then pushes the cart with the one not supporting 
me.  "Dana, I need to you walk," he says, sounding annoyed and a 
little angry.

I make another sound, then float through the twirling room, 
outside, and finally to his car.  He opens the door and pushes me 
into the passenger's seat, slams the door after me, then loads 
the luggage into the trunk.  When he slams that shut, I gag on 
bile and start sweating profusely.

He finally gets in the car and starts the engine, the air 
conditioner blasting my face at full speed.  I blindly reach out 
my hand to push the air away and he twists a knob, lessening the 
blizzard.

"Now, what happened?" he asks, looking sharply at me.

I loll my head against the seat.  "Cold," is all I can manage 
before he puts the car in gear and swings quickly out of the 
parking space.  Before we're even out of the lot, I've already 
lost consciousness.

<><><><><><>

So warm...so soft...so comfortable...

The cotton sheets feel luxurious against my skin and I burrow 
into my little cocoon, take a deep breath, then relax and enjoy 
the task of just laying still and quiet in a big, empty bed.

Big, empty bed?

I open my eyes and push the covers off of my head, then look 
around in confusion.  It's not my apartment, it's not Mulder's 
apartment, it's not a hospital room, and it's not a hotel room.  
Where the hell am I?  And where the hell is Mulder?

I look at the clock beside the bed, 2:09.  There's a piece of 
paper lying beside it and I reach out for it, trying several 
times before finally grasping it and bringing it to my face.

"Dana-  I had to go back to work.  Hope you're better.  Should be 
back around seven.  Make yourself at home.  Love, Ethan."

So I'm at Ethan's house.  In Ethan's bed.  When did I call Ethan?

I lay back against the pillows and reread the note.  "Hope you're 
better."  Oh, the headache.  And the pills.  I must've fallen 
asleep...or something.

My luggage is sitting in one corner, my clothes that I don't 
remember taking off are draped over the largest piece.  In 
nothing but my bra and underwear, I'm cold, so I stand and sway, 
feeling all the blood rush out of my head, sit back down on the 
bed, take a few deep breaths, then stand again and wait for the 
room to stop spinning before collecting them and dressing.

There's a long mirror standing in one corner of the bedroom, 
framed in deep, cherry wood, carved with an ornate, old-fashioned 
designs.  It's tilted so that I can see myself from across the 
room, the glare from the afternoon sun distorting my face and 
chest.  Beside the mirror is the bathroom door, partially closed.

I walk over to the door, the plush, expensive carpet feeling like 
little massaging fingers against my feet, then push it open.  The 
blinds above the largest Jacuzzi tub I've ever seen are open and 
I lean over it, closing them to block out the brightness.  My 
head doesn't hurt as much as it did, but my body is weak, tired, 
like it used to be after a nosebleed and paralyzing cancer 
migraine.

The tub is impossibly wide and deep, but I don't see any bubble 
bath sitting on the edge.  In fact, there's a fine layer of dust 
covering the edges and I gather that this isn't Ethan's favorite 
way to bathe.  There's a shower stall next to the tub, but I 
don't feel like making the effort of taking off the clothes that 
I just put on, drying myself, and redressing again.  Instead, I 
turn towards the double vanity, only one of which is adorned with 
a toothbrush, paste, and deodorant.  The other is rather dusty 
like the tub, so I assume that this one will be mine and turn on 
the water, wiping the dust away and waiting for the water to warm 
up.  I splash some on my face and rinse my mouth, discovering 
that I'm actually thirsty enough to swallow the tepid, tasteless 
stuff.

I pinch the skin of my arm between my fingers and it slowly 
slinks back into place - I'm dehydrated.

Turning off the water, I almost look at myself in the mirror.  
Remembering what I saw the last time I studied myself - a pale, 
sick-looking, foreign face - I decide to avoid my reflection out 
of fear of what I'd see this time.  Instead, I turn away, eager 
to explore the rest of the house.  

My house.  Our house.

I walk out the bedroom door and step into a large, airy hall, 
blinded by the light streaming in through the arching window high 
on the wall above the foyer.  I squint and turn away, peaking 
into one bedroom, empty except for the barest of necessities.  A 
big, high bed, a chest of drawers, a night stand, a mirror.  This 
must be the guest bedroom.

I crane my neck to look into the other bedroom across the hall.  
The walls are covered in pink and white stripped wallpaper, the 
furniture is white with pink edging, the bedspread and curtains 
white with pink flowers.  Several stuffed animals sit on the bed 
in front of the pillows, each either white, pink, or a 
combination of the two.  It looks like a room for a princess, so 
I assume that this one belongs to Emma.

Feeling awkward about intruding into her personal space, I 
hesitantly step inside.  The room exudes a comforting feeling, a 
warmth and safety that Ethan's bedroom - our bedroom - didn't.  A 
white bookshelf in the corner is full of big, colorful children's 
books and I finger their spines, my eyes flitting over their 
titles.  I slide one out of its home and gingerly sit on the bed, 
flipping through the pages, mesmerized by the simplicity of the 
language and story, the exaggeration of the illustrations.

Emma must like to be read to before bed.  Or maybe she's learning 
to read and Ethan sits with her while she struggles with the 
words, proud of herself when she masters another one.  I close 
the book and place it beside me on the bed, then pick up a random 
stuffed animal: a white whale.

Just like one I had when I was her age.  My father brought it 
back for me after one of his many visits out into the ocean.  He 
told me that his name was Ahab, so that I would always have one 
Ahab with me for when the other was away.  I slept with that 
whale for twelve years, until I went to college, and I'm sure my 
mother still has it tucked away with the rest of my childhood 
somewhere in her basement.

Remembering my father, his gentleness, how much he loved and 
missed me each time he would leave brings fresh tears to my eyes.  
I put Emma's whale down before I drip onto it, then stand and 
quickly walk out of the room, closing the door behind me.

I wonder if Emma will ask me to read to her tonight, or to sit 
with her as she reads.

I sniff and find the stairs, then descend them to explore the 
downstairs.

A modest living room greets me at the bottom, some generic fruit 
and farm paintings hanging on opposite walls, deep green paint 
and matching striped wallpaper making the room seem small and 
foreboding.  It appears that this room doesn't get much use, so I 
step through it and into the front foyer, a faux-wooden door with 
a fancy, frosted glass oval in the middle projecting prisms of 
light onto the polished hardwood.  I look through the glass, 
remembering how I always wanted a pretty front door like this.  
Navy housing gave us cheap, torn screen doors, but I would see 
these kinds of doors in other houses and envied them.

To the left, there's a large dining room, a long table with eight 
chairs around it and a china cabinet behind it displaying the 
delicate porcelain like fine jewelry.

When I was little, my mother used to take Missy and me shopping 
with her while she picked out wedding gifts for distant 
relatives, always buying them a piece of china for their 
collection.  She explained that, when we got married, we would 
get to pick out our own china patterns, both casual and formal.  
Missy was enthralled, picking out several different patterns each 
time we shopped, dreaming about how her own wedding would be.  I 
was less than impressed, though, telling her that her patterns 
were ugly and wondering why you needed such expensive dishes that 
you wouldn't even use.  My mother just laughed and said that I 
would understand one day, when it was me playing the bride.

Mulder asked one time if we should be picking out china patterns 
and I couldn't imagine it - Mulder shopping for something as 
fragile and feminine as china.

The kitchen is next, another fine layer of dust coating the 
counters and stove.  I doubt this room gets much use either, 
except maybe the microwave.  I open a cabinet and search for a 
glass, astounded at the number of crystal wine glasses that sit 
on the top shelves, out of reach of little fingers.  I pick the 
simplest glass which is fancier than any I've ever owned and fill 
it with water from the tap, not bothering to fetch some ice to 
cool it down.

On the refrigerator are several drawings done by a child.  Some 
of a little girl with squiggly, yellow hair in what looks like a 
cheerleading uniform in one, a soccer uniform in another.  One of 
the girl with a tall man with the same yellow hair, one of a 
stick-thin woman with a triangle skirt and light brown hair.  All 
of the figures have red slashes across their faces, Emma's 
version of a smile.  There's a report card, too, of all A's and 
S's, proclaiming that Emma is a bright, curious child, a pleasure 
to have in class.

Through the kitchen is another table, this one small and round 
with only four chairs around it.  Down a small hallway is a full 
bathroom and a study, a computer and several bookshelves lining 
the walls.  A bulletin board is hung on one wall, pictures of 
Ethan shaking hands with important looking men in expensive suits 
pined haphazardly to it, an old picture of he and Emma at the 
beach tucked into one corner.

On the other end of the second-table area is a living room, a 
large TV and entertainment system against one wall, a plush couch 
across from it.  Three windows behind the couch overlook the 
green, fenced back yard, a child's swing set in the middle 
looking well used.

This house is huge.  And fancy.  And expensive.  I had never 
given it much thought before, but Ethan must make a lot of money 
working at CNN.

I sip my water and set it on the coffee table in front of the 
couch, careful to place it right in the center of a coaster.  Not 
knowing what else to do, not having anyone to talk to, I sit 
down, then lie down, on the couch.  The air here is cool and the 
air conditioning has been on constantly since I awoke, so I pull 
the blanket down from the back and cover myself, arranging the 
pillow under my head and my hips between the crack of the 
cushions.

I should probably call someone, just to let them know that I'm 
here and that I'm safe.  My mother doesn't even know I've left 
yet and Mulder...Mulder's at work, I guess.

Or maybe he's still at the airport, certain that, at any minute, 
I'll walk up behind him, tell him I'm sorry, that I was wrong, 
that I'm staying with him.

My eyes burn with tears again, thinking of his face before I left 
him, his sad eyes, his pouty lips.  He's probably worried about 
me.  I should probably call him.

After twenty minutes of trying to convince myself, I slip into a 
light sleep, shivering under the thin blanket.

<><><><><><>

I awake to little fingers carefully kneading my shoulder.  
There's a shadow leaning over me and then a child's whisper, 
"Daddy, she's asleep."

Ethan says in a low, gentle voice, walking towards us, "Yeah, 
she's sick, Em.  Why don't we let her sleep for a few more 
minutes and surprise her with dinner, okay?"

"Okay," Emma whispers back and the shadow disappears, little feet 
padding across the carpet then squeaking across the linoleum of 
the kitchen.  I sigh, then adjust myself, and decide to let them 
surprise me as they'd planned.

When I hear Emma pound up the steps, I pinch the skin of my arm 
underneath the blanket, checking my dehydration.  One sip of 
water doesn't make up for days of poor nourishment, and my skin 
slowly returns to its rightful place, itching and stretching as 
it does.  I rub the area and hear Ethan approach the couch.  He 
kneels down beside me as I flutter my eyes open, surprised at the 
darkness that's taken up residence since this afternoon.

He brushes my hair away from my face, leaning in to kiss me 
softly on my lips.  "Hey," he whispers, pulling back and grinning 
at my laziness.

"Hey," I try and whisper back, but it doesn't make it out.  I 
cough and clear my throat, Ethan hands me the water, and I take a 
long gulp, knowing I should drink slowly but not caring.

"You feelin' better?"

"Yeah," I finally manage in half a voice.

"What happened?"  He asks, taking the water from me and setting 
it back on the table, rising to sit beside me.

"I don't know.  I had a headache..."

"I thought you said you'd call."

I sit up, pull the covers tightly around me, and nod sadly.  "I 
know.  I'm sorry."

"What's wrong?"

I look up at him, his soft eyes and the little lines around them, 
his slight grin, his concerned expression.  Despite my mother's 
advice, I should tell him what happened with Mulder, why I felt 
that I had to get away now if I was ever to get away.  How I had 
been having second thoughts about this whole moving a thousand 
miles away and getting married immediately thing, having second 
thoughts about why I'm doing it and if I really want to do it, 
having second thoughts about who I really love and how I really 
love him.

No, not second thoughts, more like fifth, sixth, eightieth 
thoughts.

"Nothing," I finally say after he's forgotten what he asked.

"What do you feel like you could eat?" he asks, closing the 
blinds on the windows behind us.

I can't remember the last time I've actually had a decent meal, 
can't even remember the last time I ate anything.  My stomach is 
empty and rolling, but I'm just not hungry.  "I don't know."

"Emma wants pizza, but Emma always wants pizza."  He grins.

"Pizza's fine," I say, nodding, not looking forward to greasy 
cheese and soggy crust.

"Good, I'll order it.  Any topping preferences?"

"Whatever Emma likes."

He wrinkles his nose, standing.  "You might want to rethink 
that."

Emma comes back down the stairs and navigates her way into the 
living room as Ethan bends down to kiss me once again, harder, 
longer, more insistent this time.  "I'm glad you're here," he 
whispers, then notices Emma standing behind him, looking 
perplexed.

"Look who's awake, Em," he says cheerily.  "Come say hi."

She stays where she is, studies the floor, and insincerely says, 
"Hi."

"Hi, Emma," I say back, feeling awkward and out of place.

Ethan looks back and forth between us, then decides it's time to 
change the subject again.  He claps his hands together once, asks 
Emma to set the table, then turns to me and says, "You rest, 
okay?"  Not waiting for an answer, he turns and disappears into 
the kitchen, leaving me alone in the living room.

It looks like Emma's less than excited that I'm here, unlike her 
father.  She and I have more and more in common every day.

<><><><><><>

The pizza was greasy and soggy, as I'd suspected, and my stomach 
punished me for eating something so heavy so soon after not 
eating anything.  It rolled and churned, making me lean over the 
toilet in the master bathroom for nearly an hour before deciding 
that no, it wouldn't send the pizza back after all.

Ethan came in once, asked if I was okay, to which I, with my gray 
skin, cold sweat, and trembling frame, replied, yes, why wouldn't 
I be?  He laughed, thinking I was kidding, but wetting a 
washcloth for me and pressing it against the back of my neck to 
try and feel useful.  The water was cold, of course, and only 
made me shiver harder.  He then suggested that maybe I'd like a 
bath, if I didn't mind Emma's kid-scented bubble bath.  He ran 
the water, poured the bubble bath, and shut the door before he 
left.

I promptly drained half the water, refilling it with water that 
turned my skin a frighteningly bright red, and added more bubble 
bath when I was finally able to drag myself over to the tub, 
divest myself of clothes, and climb in.

Either I fell asleep again or passed out, but when I can process 
thoughts again, the water is freezing, the bubbles are gone, and 
my skin is tinged blue.  Teeth chattering, I climb out and dry 
off, leaving the water and slowly opening the door.  The bedroom 
is dark and the door is closed, so I hastily get into bed, 
pulling the covers around me in a futile attempt to get warm.

A few minutes later, the door opens and Ethan walks in, flips on 
the light, and heads towards the bathroom, actually standing in 
the doorway before he notices me and tiredly asks, "Feel better?"

Yes, Ethan, I feel much better now that I'm hypothermic, now get 
in this bed and get me warm, dammit!

I shake my head against the pillows, which are wet from my hair.  
He continues into the bathroom and I hear water gurgling as the 
tub drains.  A few minutes later, he comes out and sits beside me 
on the bed.  "You're freezing," he declares and I nod.  
Obviously.

"Make me warm," I beg, sounding much more seductive than I really 
feel.

He laughs and bends to kiss me on the forehead, the only part of 
me that's exposed.  "Later.  I have work to do."

I cover the rest of my head and turn over, not answering.  Can't 
work wait just a few minutes before I get frostbite?

I guess not.  He stands and I hear the door close after he walks 
out, leaving me alone and cold, empty and lonely.

When I peak my head out into the cool air, the clock says that 
it's nearly two hours later than it was the last time I looked, 
but still not midnight, yet.  I wonder what time Ethan will 
finally come to bed, though I'm no longer in danger of losing any 
toes.  I'm sleepy and bored, but I'm tired of laying in this bed 
all by myself.

My mother doesn't even know I'm here, Goddamn it.  Maybe I should 
call her to pass the time.

There's a phone beside the bed so I pick it up, dialing six out 
of eleven numbers before I hang up, then dial eleven other 
numbers.

"Hi, this is Fox Mulder, leave a message," is said in a rush, 
like he had better things to be doing when he recorded that 
message five years ago.  And just where is he at 11:30 at night?  
He should be camped out on his couch, keeping vigil against the 
nightmares and demons that haunt him.  He should answer his 
phone.  He should be here.

Maybe he's screening, but he's got caller ID.  Maybe he fell 
asleep, but he's a very light sleeper.  The phone would wake him.  
Maybe he's lying cold and stiff in a morgue somewhere, waiting 
for someone to claim his body and grieve his loss.

"Mulder, it's me," I say softly, thinking that maybe the mental 
telepathy that he's so fond of will say the rest.

No, I didn't think it really existed.  "I'm...I'm here."  And I 
miss you and I'm sorry that I hurt you and where are you and I'm 
cold and scared and lonely and where are you?  "I'm fine."  And 
I'm sick and I miss you and where are you and are you mad at me 
and where are you?  "Call me when you get this...on my cell."  
WHERE ARE YOU WHY AREN'T YOU ANSWERING ME WHY AREN'T YOU HERE?

I hang up the phone and let my arm drop from the table to dangle 
above the floor, the blood tingling in my fingers the only thing 
that I can feel other than fear and sadness.

What if he needs me?  What if he's lying in a hospital 
unconscious and without ID?  What if he's alone somewhere, 
injured and hurting and wishing someone would come and rescue 
him?  What if he's lying in his big, empty bed watching the clock 
tick eternity away, cold and afraid and alone and missing me?  
What if his hand is clutching the phone, wanting to call me but 
afraid to, afraid that I'll tell him to leave me alone, to never 
call again, to get out of my life?

Don't be afraid, Mulder.  I'm here.  Please, don't be afraid.

<><><><><><>

The bed sinks and shifts as someone climbs in, scooting over to 
me and spooning up behind me.  "What did you have in mind, Dana?"  
He whispers against my neck, kissing slowly down over my collar 
bone and trying to get me to turn over.

I forgot - I'd gone to bed nude, too cold to try and find 
pajamas, thinking Ethan would be right behind me.  The clock says 
2:13 a.m., now, and my eyes are sticky from tears, my body sore 
from huddling and shivering.  I shake my head, telling him no, I 
didn't have anything in mind, go to sleep.

He doesn't take the hint.  He's nude, too, his straining erection 
nudging the tops of my thighs.  I shift away and his arms pull me 
back against him, his hips grinding against me.

"Ethan," I finally whisper, pushing his hands away from my 
breasts.

"What?"  He sucks at my earlobe, then behind it, still not 
getting it.

"You woke me up...I don't feel well."  My voice is strong, 
betraying my pleas, but it works nonetheless.

"Okay," he says, nuzzling my cheek.  "Tomorrow."

I should remind him that, technically, tomorrow is twenty-two 
hours away and he probably doesn't want to wait that long, but my 
pounding heart and rush of adrenaline have faded, leaving me more 
exhausted than before.  He curls his legs around mine, relaxes 
his arms a little, and within minutes, his breathing is deep and 
even: he's asleep.

I'm not, though.  I'm wide awake, my eyes huge and alert in the 
blackness of the bedroom.  They flit between the clock and the 
phone, willing one to make some noise to break the silence and 
stillness.

Neither does.  Mulder doesn't call and hot tears slip down the 
bridge of my nose and disappear into my hair as the darkness 
slowly becomes daylight.

<><><><><><>

About six thirty, I realize that I'm floating through that haze 
of semi-consciousness, not really asleep, not really awake.  
Sometimes, I feel paralyzed.  Sometimes, I hear Mulder calling my 
name, begging me to help him, to come back to him.

He told me once that many reports of alien abduction are actually 
cases of sleep paralysis.  When you wake up too quickly, or fall 
asleep too slowly, cycling in and out of deep sleep, your brain's 
natural dream paralysis doesn't know not be active, hence the 
feeling of paralysis while you're awake.  He said that it's also 
common to experience the feeling of a presence in the room or to 
hear familiar people calling you when, in reality, no one is 
speaking.

I don't remember feeling those things during my abduction.  I 
remember feeling heavy and sleepy, but not that someone was 
calling out to me, not that I was paralyzed.

I clutch my pillow in my fist, taking deep breaths as another 
paralyzation fit passes, remembering being awake and seeing men 
hovering over me, but too tired and afraid to move, to scream, to 
try and fight back.

Something shifts behind me, making me jump, misty visions of tall 
men in dark suits and drills and pumps running through my head.  
It tightens its arms around me and pulls me closer, then nuzzles 
the tender spot behind my ear, breathing against me.  "Morning," 
it whispers.

I don't answer, just swallow thickly.  I feel nauseous, sweaty, 
feverish.

"This is nice."  Ethan.  It's Ethan.  He kisses across the back 
of my neck and around to my shoulder.  "I missed this."

He slides his one leg on top of mine, then down and between them, 
trying to pry mine apart.  His erection makes its way between my 
thighs and when it brushes my groin, I suck in a deep breath and 
choke back the bile that rises in my throat.  "Ethan,"  I 
whisper, shifting my hips away from his.

"What?"  He asks, pulling me back against him.

"No," I say, louder than necessary.  He loosens his arms around 
me and lets me slide across the bed and away from him, then 
stands up and walks into the bathroom.  A few minutes later, I 
hear the shower come on and I release a nervous breath, glad to 
be away from him, if only for a few minutes.

He emerges, hair wet and chin freshly shaven, dresses quickly, 
and sits beside me on the bed as he works on knotting his tie.  

"You want some coffee?"  He asks, leaning down to kiss me.

I shake my head, trying to disappear into the covers.

"How 'bout some breakfast?"

Another shake.

He sighs, clearly disappointed.  "Don't sleep too late," he 
gently commands before standing and leaving the bedroom, closing 
the door behind him.

I lay still for another few minutes feeling embarrassed and 
shaky, my migraine from yesterday making an encore appearance.  

When I can't hold back the vomit anymore, I stand on wobbly legs 
and make my way to the toilet, kneeling there for ten minutes 
before I'm able to drag myself into the still-damp shower and 
scrub off the top few layers of my skin.  It feels so good to be 
clean again, fresh and pretty.

I keep the lights off as I dress in my most oversized pajamas and 
hold tightly to the rail as I descend the stairs.  Ethan's 
already got coffee going, although its sweet odor only makes my 
head pound harder, my stomach feeling rebellious again.  I 
stagger through the kitchen and to the four-chaired table where 
he's sitting, engrossed in a paper.

He puts it down long enough to lean in and kiss me, returning it 
to its position in front of his face before saying, "You look 
pale.  You're not sick again, are you?"

I rub my temples and stare daggers through the paper.  "No.  I'm 
fine."

He stands abruptly, pouring the remainder of his coffee down the 
sink.  "I don't have to be to work until ten today, but I need to 
go in early anyway.  We just got a new intern and I need to start 
training him."  I nod, keeping my head down against the sunlight 
spilling in through the French doors.  "I thought that Emma could 
stay here with you today.  She usually stays with one of her 
friends down the street, but since you'll be here..."

"She doesn't like me, Ethan," I whisper into the table.

He walks back over to me, rubbing my shoulders lightly.  "She 
just has to get to know you.  And you have to get to know her.  I 
told you, she's a little shy sometimes."

"Still, she'd have much more fun with her friend than with me.  
And I really don't feel well -"

"You have to get to know each other eventually, Dana."

I rub my eyes, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into bed 
and hibernate for a century.  "I know.  But maybe it's too soon.  
I don't think you should push her."

He drops his hands from my shoulders and picks up the suit coat 
that's draped over the chair he recently vacated.  "Look, I don't 
have time to discuss this.  We can talk about it later, but one 
day isn't going to kill you or her, okay?"  He kisses me on the 
cheek once more, saying against my skin, "I was thinking Labor 
Day weekend," grinning smugly.

I turn to face him.  "What about it?"

"The wedding.  You haven't forgotten already, have you?"

Yes.  "No."

"What do you think?"

I think we need more time.  "It's fine."

"Good.  We may have to put off the honeymoon, though.  I don't 
know that I could get the time off."

I shudder involuntarily, thinking of just me and him and a big 
hotel room, isolated from the world.

He bounds up the stairs, to kiss Emma good-bye, I guess, then 
comes back down, talking a mile a minute.  "I gotta go.  Traffic 
in Atlanta is hell.  I'll be home around seven, okay?  You and 
Emma do something fun today," and is out the door before I can 
even raise my leaden eyelids and say, "Bye," to the empty room.

<><><><><><>

It's eight thirty.  He has to be there at nine.  He's usually 
there by seven forty five.  Why isn't he answering his phone?

They wouldn't have already locked him out of his office.  He 
would have to have another meeting with OPC for his official 
reassignment and they would give him time to pack and move his 
things before disconnecting this phone number and giving him a 
new one to go with his new phone and desk and partner.

So why isn't he answering?

His voice mail isn't picking up either.  Okay, I'll just try his 
cell phone.

After six rings, I'm informed that the cellular customer I'm 
trying to reach is unavailable.

I try his office again, still not getting an answer.

Out of desperation, I call his apartment, hanging up after his 
voice asks me to leave a message but before the beep.  I've 
already left him one message, he'll call when he has time.

Mulder's always called, whether he's had time or not.  He's 
always made time for me, made a place in his life for me.

<><><><><><>

After a short nap, my head and stomach are feeling remarkably 
better, so I get up and, after determining that the Princess is 
still sleeping upstairs, pick up the paper that Ethan discarded 
on the kitchen table as he left for work.  I've probably read 
every single word in this paper - even the Sports section - 
waiting for Emma to wake up and discover that she's here all 
alone with me.  The Atlanta Journal-Constitution contains an 
interesting section called "The Vent," which is what I'm focusing 
on now.  I'm not sure what it is, exactly, but it's hilarious.  
Mulder would like this, I think, and I actually smile, my tight 
skin burning as it stretches to accommodate the foreign gesture.

Little feet sound against the stairs and I look up, waiting for 
Emma to wander into the kitchen, trying to figure out what to say 
when she gets here.

Start with the obvious.  "Good morning, Emma," I say brightly, 
stretching my skin again with a bigger smile.

She's in her pajamas, too, her long hair tangled from sleep.  
Starring at me as if she doesn't recognize me, she runs her tiny 
fingers nervously through her hair, catching several knots in the 
process.

"Are you hungry?  Would you like some breakfast?"  It's almost 
eleven thirty.  She probably wants lunch.

Hesitating, then staring at the floor, she shakes her head.

Okay, I'm out of ideas.  I have no clue how to handle this 
situation.  I stare at her, staring at the floor, and the silence 
makes me nervous.

"Can we go to the pool today?" she asks suddenly, thankfully 
saving me from having to start any other conversation.

"Where is the pool?"

"Down the road."

"Is it in the subdivision?"  She nods, not looking up.  "Okay, I 
guess we can go later."

That was apparently the right answer, as she looks up and smiles, 
her blue eyes brightening.  "Do you know how to swim?"

"Well, I haven't been in a long time, but I used to.  Maybe you 
could help me."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Conversation apparently over, she turns quickly and runs back up 
the stairs, emerging a few minutes later in a bathing suit, 
cotton shorts, and little plastic flip-flops with big pink 
flowers on them.  She's carrying a brush and walks up to me, 
looking very serious as she asks, "Can you put my hair up?"

"Sure."  She turns around and hands me the brush.  As gently as I 
can, I draw it through her hair, wincing as I hit a tangle, 
hoping she won't run away screaming. 

Hair up in a crooked pony-tail, she turns around and takes the 
brush from me and asks another question.  "What are we having for 
lunch?"

I lean down to look into her eyes.  "What would you like?"

She shrugs her shoulders.  "You can't wear that to the pool," she 
sternly informs me, changing the subject and looking suspiciously 
at my pajamas.

I look down self-consciously.  "I know.  I'll change before we 
go.  In fact, I'll go change right now while you decide what you 
want for lunch, okay?"

"Okay."

Okay - that must be the word of the day.

Rooting through my luggage, I remember that I haven't owned a 
bathing suit in at least ten years.  I just won't go swimming, 
then.  Come hell or high water, I'm taking Emma to that pool.

When I return downstairs in blue jean shorts and a tank top, Emma 
has turned on the television in the living room, mesmerized by a 
cartoon.  Hearing me approach behind her, she declares from over 
her shoulder, "I want peanut butter and strawberry jelly."

Taken off guard by her almost-command, I stammer, then slowly 
say, "All right.  Would you like to help me make it?"

She doesn't seem to hear me, or maybe she's ignoring me.  Okay.  
If Emma wants a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich, Emma 
will get a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich.

She eats in silence, only speaking once to ask if I'm eating.  
No, I'm not.  Dana doesn't feel like a peanut butter and 
strawberry jelly sandwich.

Am I Dana?  Miss Dana?  Mom?  Evil Stepmother?  I'll have to ask 
Ethan.

Thirty minutes after Emma's finished, we start our surprisingly 
short walk down to the pool slash clubhouse slash tennis courts.  
The other houses in the neighborhood are as big and fancy as 
Ethan's - ours - and I idly wonder just how much money he makes 
at CNN and how much this house cost him.

Before we left the house, Emma instructed me on how to work the 
alarm system "to keep the bad guys away."  Maybe I should tell 
her that I kept bad guys away for a living, that alarm systems 
rarely present anything more than a small challenge to a bad guy 
if he really wants access to your house.

I gathered sunscreen and two bottled waters I found in the 
refrigerator into Emma's beach bag that matched her bathing suit, 
tucking my cell phone into the corner, checking for the five 
hundredth time that it was on and charged for when Mulder called, 
before arming the system and closing the door, running to catch 
up with an eager, excited Emma and our day at the pool.

<><><><><><>

As soon as we walked through the gate, two little girls Emma's 
age ran up to her, giggling and taking her back to the pool with 
them.  I should have called after her, told her to be careful and 
that I would be sitting in one of the lounge chairs to the side, 
but I didn't.  Feeling completely inept, I just let her go and 
sat down at the end of one of the chairs, dug the sunscreen out 
of my bag, and started slathering myself with it.

Damn, it's hot here.

I watch Emma and her two friends practice diving off the side of 
the pool, play Marco Polo, having the time of their little lives 
in silence.  Missy, Bill, and Chaz had always wanted a pool 
which, or course, we couldn't have.  I was more content to lounge 
in a warm, private bathtub all day than expose myself to the 
dirty, freezing water of a concrete hole in the ground.

Squinting my eyes, I watch two women headed towards me, talking 
and laughing at the girls in the pool.  One of them speaks, 
looking down at me through her designer sunglasses.  "Are you 
Dana?" she asks in a false Southern drawl, the other appraising 
me accusingly.

How these women know who I am, I have no idea, but they look 
harmless enough, so I say, "Yes," sounding more like I'm unsure 
myself.

The silent appraiser sits down on the chair beside me, extending 
a delicate hand with red manicured nails that match her bathing 
suit perfectly.  "I'm Carrie, Hollie's mom."

I nod, wondering who Hollie is, and take her limp hand, shaking 
lightly.

"Ethan's told us so much about you!"  The designer sunglasses 
woman declares.  "I'm Sonya, Abigail and Amelia's mom."

"It's nice to meet you," I say, hoping that I don't sound too 
insincere.  Her head is right in front of the sun, and I feel 
rude for not looking at her.

"Well, we didn't know you'd be here so soon.  We were planning a 
surprise welcome to the neighborhood party for you," Carrie says.

"Oh, well -"

"Maybe we can just take you and Ethan out to dinner, get one of 
the older girls to watch the kids."

I look down, rubbing the sunscreen further into my skin.

"What a cute pair of shoes!"  Sonya sticks her foot beside mine, 
enthralled that they look to be the same size.  "Maybe I can 
borrow them sometime.  They'd look great with this new dress I 
got last week."

"The purple one with the white flowers?"  Carrie asks.

Sonya nods and turns towards the pool.  "Abby, let's not run, 
sweetie," she femininely yells, the girl named Abby dutifully 
slows to a walk, flashing a huge grin.

"So, Ethan says you two are getting married," she sits down 
beside Carrie and crosses her tiny, perfectly bronzed legs, 
adjusting her sunglasses.

"Um, yes, we are."

"It's so romantic - he told us the whole story!"

"Whole story?"  I ask Carrie, who is beaming and batting her too-
long eyelashes.

"Yeah, about how y'all were engaged all those years ago and then 
y'all called off the wedding and went your separate ways and how 
y'all met again and decided that you couldn't live without each 
other."

Oh.  That whole story that can be condensed into one cluttered, 
run-on sentence.  I smile tightly and look down again.  I never 
said that I couldn't live without him.

"He said you were an FBI agent!"

"Yes, I was."  It sounds foreign to speak of that in the past 
tense, but it's true.  I'm no longer an FBI agent.

"How exciting," Carrie says, gazing through me wistfully.

"Yes, it was," I answer softly.  Peaking into the bag, I check to 
see if my cell phone is still there and will it to ring, even if 
it's just a wrong number.  I can lie and say it's an emergency, 
that I have to go and escape these women.

Call, Mulder.  Dammit, where are you?  Call!

<><><><><><>

With Emma exhausted and asleep on the couch, I decide to turn on 
the computer and check my email.  If Mulder's away from his 
phones - all three of them - maybe he'll check his mail.

"Mulder-

I don't know if you've gotten my message, but I'm here.  
Everything's fine."

Well, not fine exactly.  Not wonderful but certainly not 
horrible.

"Call me at 770-555-2483 or on my cell phone, or just email me.

-Scully"

Okay, he's bound to read that.  He has to read that.  He'll call.  
Maybe he's on a case or something and just hasn't been able to 
check his messages at home or answer his phone at work.  It still 
doesn't explain why he isn't answering his cell phone, though but 
he'll check his email...I hope.

I stare at the computer after sending the mail, thinking that 
maybe he'll respond instantly.  After twenty minutes, my stomach 
announces that it's empty and hungry and I give up, going into 
the kitchen, wondering if Ethan has any actual food in this house 
or if he and Emma just order something every night.

In the pantry, there are a few cans of spaghetti-O's and another 
jar of peanut butter.  The frigde is full of leftover Chinese and 
pizza, but nothing that looks appetizing.

I learned today that Carrie, Jason's wife, lives two doors down 
and Sonya, Spencer's wife, lives behind us.  I guess I could do 
what people on 60's sitcoms do in these kinds of situations, go 
borrow something to cook dinner with, but I'm not feeling overly 
friendly right now.  I listened to them prattle back and forth 
about fashion and talk shows and child rearing for nearly three 
hours before the girls came to announce that they were tired and 
wanted to go home.  Carrie invited Ethan and me for dinner 
tomorrow, much to Sonya's disgust, who invited us for Sunday 
brunch.  I nodded and said I'd have to talk to Ethan and they 
said they looked forward to having us over, apparently ignoring 
my statement.

For lack of anything better to do, I sit down at the kitchen 
table and rub my eyes and temples, trying not to go check my 
email.  It's not working, and after five minutes, I check again.  
Nothing.  Maybe he's away from his computer - in a meeting, 
maybe.

Needing something to occupy me, I decide that I need to start 
looking for a job.  I search the Internet for Emory's website, 
looking through their job posting.  They need a professor for a 
few afternoon classes being offered this fall and I need 
something to do - this is only my second day here and I'm already 
bored to tears.  I pull up my resume and change a few things, 
adding my ten years at the FBI to my employment history, type a 
cover letter, then, spying a fax machine in the corner, fax all 
of it to them.  The web site said that it may be a month before I 
hear anything - I don't know if I can stand this a month.

Bored again, I decide to call Ethan at work, just to see what 
he's doing.  He doesn't answer, either, so I call Mulder's cell 
phone again, then check my email again.  Nothing.

I'm starting to wonder if something really is wrong, if he really 
may be injured or unconscious and needing me.  No, someone would 
call.  I'm still his emergency contact and his personal 
physician, someone would have to call me.

<><><><><><>

I'm sitting at the kitchen table when Ethan arrives at 7:38.  He 
looks exhausted but kisses me on the cheek and asks how my day 
was.

"Fine," I say.  "Emma and I went to the pool."

He rolls his eyes.  "Lucky you."

"And I met Carrie and Sonya."

"Really?  They're gonna be so disappointed that you ruined their 
party plans."

"I hate surprises," I remind him, in case he's forgotten.  He 
nods and sticks his head in the refrigerator, looking for 
something to drink.  "I was gonna cook something, but you don't 
have any food in this house, Ethan."

"You could've gone to the store."

"I don't have a car.  And I don't know where anything is," I 
remind him.

"Emma could tell you, and there's a car in the garage."

"There is?"

"Yeah, a Suburban.  We use it for soccer games and cheernastics 
competitions."  He looks at me like I'm stupid for not noticing, 
then approaches me and leans down to whisper in my ear.  "I'm 
sorry.  I forgot to tell you.  You're welcome to drive it 
anywhere you want."

I lean back against him, wondering what the hell cheernastics is.  
"Good, cause I may have a job interview soon."

He stands abruptly, then walks around the table to sit beside me.  
"A job interview?" he asks incredulously.

"Yeah, at Emory.  They need an associate medical professor.  I 
faxed them my resume today."

He shakes his head, slowly, not understanding.  "Dana -"

"What?"

He takes a few slow, measured breaths.  "Dana, you don't have to 
work."

I gape at him.  "What do you mean?"

He scoots his chair closer to mine.  "You don't need to work.  We 
don't need the money."

I look around the house and say flippantly, "Obviously."

"No, I'm serious.  You don't need to work."

"I know I don't need to, Ethan.  I want to.  You can't expect me 
to sit around this house all day and do nothing."

He just stares at me, his brow drawn and serious.

"You can't really expect me not to work," I repeat, my voice 
going up a few octaves.

He rubs his eyes like he's speaking to a child.  "What about 
Emma?"

"What about Emma?"

"Dana," he takes another deep breath, closing his eyes briefly.  
"I don't like having neighbors watch her all the time."  I just 
stare at him, perplexed.  "I think it would be best for her if 
you stayed home." 

I don't respond.

"Don't you?"  He finally asks, reaching out for my hand.

"What about when she goes back to school?"

He sighs and looks away.  "Listen, I've had a long, stressful day 
and I don't need this right now."  He stands up and walks away, 
saying, "We'll talk about this later, okay?"

No.  Not okay.  Not okay at all.  I stare out at the increasing 
darkness on the other side of the French doors, listening as he 
gently wakes Emma and asks her what she wants to eat.  A few 
minutes later, he comes back to the kitchen, carrying his sleepy 
little girl and announces, "We're going to get McDonald's," 
walking out without even asking what he can bring me.

Waiting for Ethan's Lexus to pull out of the garage and the soft 
hum of the engine to fade down the street, I stand and walk back 
into the study, checking my email once again.  Still nothing.

I check the phone to see if it has a dial tone.  It does.

I check my cell phone to see if it's on and the battery is still 
charged.  It is.

Tears burning my eyes, I slowly walk up the stairs, get ready for 
bed, and crawl between the sheets, clutching my cell phone 
against my chest and praying that Mulder is safe and healthy, 
that I'll be able to talk to him soon.

<><><>End Part 1<><><>


<><><>Begin Part 2<><><>

All of my things arrived today - boxes and boxes of memories and 
nostalgic possessions.  When the movers rang the door bell and 
told me that they had items to deliver, I cocked my head at them 
and didn't reach for the proffered clipboard to sign my receipt.  
The heavyset, leering man asked if I was Dana Scully, to which I 
replied, yes, then he asked if I hadn't recently moved from 
Washington, DC, if I shouldn't be expecting them.  After a 
moment's hesitation, I finally nodded and let them in, watching 
in amazement as they continued to haul the boxes from the truck 
to the downstairs foyer.

I wasn't aware that I had so much stuff.

I immediately employed Emma to help me unpack.  Her job was to 
push the boxes into relative corners of the foyer based on what 
their outside labels said - pointless, really, but it made me 
feel good to have her involved with a project of mine.  Clothes 
were pushed to the foot of the stairs.  Things labeled fragile, 
most likely decorations and things that would only gather dust, 
were, for now, relegated to the far corner in the dining room.  
Books and files were pushed into the study, where I would have to 
organize them before putting them away on the bookshelves and in 
the filing cabinets.

Leaving Emma to rest in front of her afternoon cartoons, I 
trudged up and down the stairs, lugging boxes with me.  One whole 
wall of the large, walk-in closet in the master bedroom was bare, 
so I began stripping the tape off of the boxes, taking out the 
clothes, and hanging them on hangers or placing them on shelves.  
As I was packing the morning that I left, I'd simply opened 
drawers, grabbed armfuls of clothing, and dropped them into 
boxes, not noticing what I'd packed as I'd sealed them.  While I 
unpack, however, I discover that I've brought three articles of 
Mulder's clothing with me.

After our longer cases, where we were living in hotels for weeks 
at a time, we would sometimes take a piece of clothing home that 
wasn't ours, realizing as we loaded the washing machine that the 
maroon boxer briefs or lacy Victoria's Secret lingerie didn't 
belong to us.  We would wash them anyway, calling the other to 
tell them of the mix up and promising them their clothing the 
next time that they came over to the other's apartment.  
Sometimes, though, we simply forgot, and the boxer briefs or 
lingerie would be stuck in a random drawer and covered over with 
our own clothing.

For some reason, the thought of a pair of Mulder's maroon boxer 
briefs being in the same drawer as my lingerie makes me blush 
slightly, and I hide them under a thick winter sweater that I 
don't think I've ever worn.

Frequently, when I'd spend the night with him, I'd ask to sleep 
in one of his T-shirts, claiming that they were cooler and more 
comfortable than my pajama sets.  He would always grin at me, 
feigning annoyance at my desire to constantly borrow his clothes, 
but he would always come up with a clean, soft as silk undershirt 
or that day's still-crisp work shirt for me to wear.  The next 
morning, I'd pack it with my things and tell him that I'd wash it 
and return it, but often never did.  He'd never said anything 
about missing them and I never offered them back.

When I was sick, once, I'd changed into one of his blue oxfords 
that hung to my knees and covered my wrists with the sleeves 
rolled up.  It somehow brought me comfort, knowing that this 
shirt that had once been against his skin was now against mine.  
It had made me feel a little less lonely.  That day, I'd stayed 
out of work, and he'd brought me lunch.  When I'd opened the door 
to let him in, he grinned and said that I looked good in his 
clothes.  A little embarrassed at him catching me in one of my 
indulgences, I'd changed immediately, much to his disappointment.

I hold the shirt to my face, inhaling deeply, pretending I can 
still smell his aftershave and unique scent on the fabric.  He 
hasn't worn it in years, but he always looked good in blue.  I 
fold it carefully, the way a department store clerk would fold 
the shirts for a display, then place it neatly in an empty drawer 
along with my pajamas.

Oddest of the stowaways is a pair of his too-big-for-him plaid 
pajama pants.  I hold them in my hands and wrack my brain, trying 
to remember how I acquired these, but I can't remember and that 
disturbs me.  I place them on top of his blue shirt and close the 
drawer harder than necessary.  I have a complete Mulder outfit, 
even if it doesn't match.

True to my plan, the luggage with my suits is shoved into the 
back of the closet.  I'll need one when I go on my interview at 
Emory, but for now, they don't fit with the blue jean shorts and 
tank tops I've been living in since I've arrived.

Clothes finished, I descend the stairs and peak in on Emma, still 
engrossed in the television, then start in on the boxes in the 
dining room.  My hodgepodge decor doesn't mix well with Ethan's 
carefully planned and immaculately placed themes and decoration, 
so I just reseal the boxes and carry them upstairs, putting them 
in front of my suits and behind my tennis shoes.

Finally withdrawing my nameplate from my carry-on bag, I place it 
on the table next to my side of the bed.  Dana K. Scully.  I 
wonder what Ethan will think of my addition to our bedroom, how 
he feels about Mulder giving me a gift that he knows I won't be 
able to use for very long.

Not taking Ethan's name was not an option I considered.  Maybe 
Mulder thought that I'd keep my own instead, my maiden name being 
a sign of my independence and cautious rebellion.

Deciding that Ethan wouldn't like it either way, I open the empty 
drawer and place it inside, then slowly close it.  I wonder where 
Mulder is right now, what he's thinking, if he's thinking about 
me, wondering if I'll ever return to him one day.

I pick up the phone and dial his cell phone, but his voice mail 
picks up instead of him.  "Mulder, it's me.  I don't know if 
you've gotten my messages, but please call me when you get this."  
I tried not to sound too desperate, knowing that, in all 
likelihood, the BSU was so thrilled to have him back that they 
sent him out in the field as soon as he'd been reassigned.  He 
was probably just too busy to make small talk with me and would 
call when he returned, emotionally drained and physically 
exhausted.  He would tell me of all the horrors of profiling and 
how this latest case had reminded him of Samantha.  He would say 
over and over how much he hated profiling, hated what it did to 
him, hated its lingering effects - the nightmares, the unexpected 
cold-sweats, the jumps and starts when someone unfamiliar spoke 
to him.

I hate the idea of him profiling, too.  I'm always afraid that, 
one day, he'll follow the criminals he's chasing so far into the 
dark abyss that I'll never get him back.  So far, though, on the 
few occasions I'd been with him while he was profiling, I'd 
always been able to call him back to me, back to safety and 
sanity, with a cool hand on his forehead, a soothing voice, and 
strong arms to hold him.  I wonder if that will work through a 
phone line connecting us a thousand miles apart.

He thinks that he'll wither and die without me, and I dial his 
office phone, praying that it's not true.

Still no answer.  I think of calling Skinner, but then I'd have 
to explain to him why I'm not with Mulder and why I'm worried 
about him.  There's no need to involve Skinner in this and, if 
Mulder is already back at the BSU, he won't be under Skinner's 
supervision anyway.  Placing the phone back in its cradle, I 
switch out the light and slowly walk down the stairs, hearing the 
garish cartoons entertaining Emma.

It's final, now; it's real.  My life is here now, stuffed into 
boxes and shoved into dark corners of the closet.  My apartment, 
my independent life is gone.  Intellectually, I had known that I 
was leaving for good when I got on that plane.  Emotionally, 
though, it still seemed that I would be returning, not feeling 
like I had cut all my ties and wrapped up all my loose ends in 
DC.  But now that all of me is here, however compact and remote, 
it feels real.  It feels irreversible.  It feels final.

Well, a part of me is still somewhere out there, aching for me to 
come back to him.

<><><><><><>

Depressed and tired of watching Emma drown in the TV, I'd decided 
that we'd make a trip to the grocery store.  First rule of living 
with children: never trust their sense of direction.

We'd driven in circles for nearly fifteen minutes before Emma 
finally admitted that she didn't know how to get the grocery 
store.  Frantic and thinking I was lost, I tried to retrace our 
route, blessedly arriving at a grocery store, where I'd learned 
my second rule of living with children: never tell them that they 
can pick out whatever kind of food they want.

Finally, we'd arrived home at nearly six and I fixed Emma a box 
of macaroni and cheese, which she ate with a vigor I couldn't 
imagine anyone possessing for dried noodles in the shape of 
animals and powered cheese-sauce.  I'd sent her upstairs to her 
room after that and started preparing the elaborate meal I'd 
planned for Ethan when he got home from work.  My lasagna hadn't 
turned out bad, much to my surprise, and the wine was poured in 
glasses, the dining room table set for just the two of us.  I was 
lighting the candles as the phone rang and I nearly dropped the 
match in the wine trying to rush to answer it.  Finally, Mulder's 
calling me back.  Or maybe someone's calling on his behalf, if 
he's injured and needs me.  A million different, horrific 
thoughts swirled through my head as I took a deep breath and 
answered the phone.

"Dana, it's me," Ethan says, sounding exhausted.

Oh, it's Ethan.  "Hey," I say, trying to sound cheery, like I 
missed him and am thrilled that he's calling.

"I'm gonna be a little late tonight.  It may be eight or nine 
before I get home."

"Oh," I exhale, glancing at all of my hard work from this 
afternoon.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, obviously distracted by something.

"Yeah, I just...I fixed us dinner."

He takes a deep breath.  "You did?"  He sounds surprised.

"Yeah, but that's okay.  It'll keep, I guess."

"Dana, I'm sorry."

"It's okay.  You can't help it."  I try and keep the 
disappointment out of my voice.

"I'll try and hurry, okay?  You eat, though, don't wait for me."

"Okay," I say, already pouring out the wine and turning on the 
oven, keeping the lasagna warm for him when he gets home.

"I'll see you later."

"Okay," I repeat, blowing out the candles.
 
He hangs up without saying goodbye and I let the phone fall from 
my fingers and against the counter, turn off the light in the 
kitchen, and walk up the stairs.

Just before I turn off the lamp beside the bed, I call Mulder's 
apartment again and leave another message, asking him to call me 
as soon as possible.  Then, I roll over and face the window, 
waiting for the headlights of Ethan's car to shine through the 
blinds, announcing his arrival.  At eleven, I roll back towards 
the wall and fall asleep.

<><><><><><>

Icy hands twine around my waist and, in my dream, they're sharp, 
frozen alien tendrils, scrapping at my chest, trying to birth one 
of their own.  I can hear Mulder, screaming in pain as they slash 
him, screaming for me as his eyes glaze over, terrified and fixed 
on me, my name gurgling from his lips as he exhales his last 
breath.

"You awake?"  A sleepy voice asks and I push the hands away, not 
quite conscious.  "Dana," Ethan whispers, nuzzling my neck with 
his cold nose, "Are you awake?  I have a surprise for you."

"Mmm..."  I mumble, shifting away from him again.

"Open your eyes," he says, sitting up and turning on the lamp.

"What time is it?"  I manage to slur out, my heart pounding as I 
become aware of my true surroundings, not quite able to do as he 
requested.

"Almost one.  You can go right back to sleep, I promise."

I burrow my head into the pillow and pull the covers up over me 
where he had pushed them down.  Hot Georgia days turn into cold 
nights, but the air conditioner keeps the house at sixty-eight 
degrees, not caring about the weather outside.

Pulling my left hand out from under the covers, he laces his 
fingers through mine and, with his other hand, slips something 
cold and heavy onto my finger.

"Dana, look," he commands and I do, seeing the blinding 
refraction from a too-large diamond engagement ring.  "You like 
it?" he asks softly, arranging it on my finger, then kissing it 
once he's satisfied.

"Yeah," I mumble, wondering why this is important enough to wake 
me up at almost one in the morning.

He kisses me behind my ear, then says jokingly, "I want you to 
actually wear this one, okay?"  When I don't giggle in delight 
and throw myself into his arms, he realizes his mistake and 
amends.  "I really want this to work this time, Dana.  I love you 
so much."

I sigh and pull the covers back up.  "I love you, too, Ethan."  
Content, he reaches over me and switches off the lamp, then 
settles behind me and is asleep within minutes.

Starring out at the darkness, I lean back into him, his arms 
tightening around me.  I really want this to work, too, Ethan, I 
think as I slip back into oblivion, glancing at the clock one 
last time before falling asleep and hoping that Mulder is safe in 
his bed, sleeping peacefully, and will call me first thing 
tomorrow morning.

Goodnight, Mulder.  I love you, too.

<><><><><><>

I slept late this morning - until nearly ten - and dozed on and 
off after Ethan inadvertently woke me up with a kiss as he left.  
True luxury, I've discovered, is being able to press the snooze 
button on your alarm for two hours before finally deciding to get 
up.  I was determined to be productive and resourceful today, and 
getting up early was a big part of that.  So last night, I'd set 
my alarm for eight a.m.  As I waited for Ethan to get home, I 
planned my day in my head: get up, eat breakfast, contact the CDC 
about possible employment, spent time with Emma doing what ever 
she wanted to do, call my mother and apologize, letting her know 
that I was here and safe, and call Mulder every fifteen minutes.

Of course, I was thrown off schedule by oversleeping, but I just 
couldn't bring myself to climb out of the big, comfortable, warm, 
soft bed.  When I finally do manage to get up, I take a lazy 
shower and dress in clean pajamas, then mentally cross breakfast 
off my list.  It's almost lunch time, anyway.

The CDC's web page doesn't list any specific openings, so I type 
a cover letter stating my qualifications and credentials, then 
say that I'm looking for any position they can give me.  I print 
it and my resume, then fax them to their Human Resources 
department.  It's been a week since I'd faxed these things to 
Emory and I still haven't gotten a response, though the web page 
said it could take up to a month.  I have the time to wait, 
though I want to finish getting settled in here, and a job is a 
big part of that to me.  A job is permanence, a responsibility 
and a commitment.  If I had a job, I couldn't just leave - I'd 
have to give a two weeks notice, at least, so it would keep me 
grounded and focused, give me something to do to help develop a 
sense of normalcy to this new, foreign life I've acquired.

I wonder if Mulder has settled into his new routine with ease, 
the fast pace and high stress of the BSU familiar and comforting 
to him.  I wonder if he's gotten used to me being gone.  I wonder 
if he's gotten a new partner yet and he's already breaking them 
in, silently wishing for me - someone who knows him, someone who 
pushes him and challenges him and accepts him the way that he 
often is, distant, reclusive, and standoffish, someone who can 
pull him out of his moods and brighten his day just by being with 
him, just by telling him with my eyes or a slight grin that I 
care about him, that I love him.

Yes, I love him.  He may not believe that, but I do.  Love 
doesn't have to be romantic and passionate and all consuming.  
Love is dedication, loyalty, devotion, tolerance, and tenacity, 
even if those qualities aren't readily accepted by the person 
that you love.

When I'd found him in that basement office eight years ago, he 
was so alone, so needy for someone's acceptance and approval, 
even though he didn't want to admit it.  He took one look at me 
and saw a girl, fresh and naive and gullible, eager to succeed 
and please my superiors in every way, and imagined that I'd be 
just like everyone else.  That I would deceive him, that I would 
spy on him and lie to him and claim allegiance to him, then rat 
him out to his enemies to climb another rung on the ladder.  He 
guarded himself and his emotions against me, having been burned 
too many times by others.  He pushed me away with jokes and stern 
words, brush-off explanations and condescending demands, thinking 
that, when we returned from Oregon, I would run as far and as 
fast as I could from him, because as much as it hurt him to be 
alone, it hurt him worse to let someone in, only to have them 
abandon him later.

I stayed, though, matched his stern tone and condescending words 
with my own, but most of all, I respected him, listened to him, 
didn't call him crazy as soon as I met him.  He let me in and, 
over the years, I became his only confidant, his only friend and 
ally, his constant, unquestionable companion.  He had changed, 
become happier, more trusting of everyday situations, like the 
man who asked him for the time in a restaurant one night, more 
open to life and all that it could offer.  I liked to think that 
all of that was because of me, that he knew that he no longer had 
to carry the weight by himself, that he wasn't all alone in the 
world.

And, somehow during those eight years, he became my only 
confidant, my only friend and ally, my constant, unquestionable 
companion.  I pushed other friends away, always missing Mulder 
when I wasn't with him, longing for his wry humor and his 
unbelievable tenderness towards me.  I never conceived of the 
idea that we would ever part that I would ever leave him under 
the circumstances that I had, but I'd had my reasons and I can 
only hope that, one day, he'll understand them.  He's still 
irreplaceable in my life, though, and I'd like to think that I'm 
just as irreplaceable in his.

I feel an emptiness deep inside me without him now.  I feel like 
a piece of myself has been torn away, like a limb in a sudden car 
accident.  I woke up from a coma, only to discover that my right 
arm was missing, yet I could still feel it, feel the tingling 
injuries and sore bruises it sustained.  Even from a thousand 
miles away, I still feel Mulder.  I've felt it all these years, 
whether we were together or apart, even if I suspected him dead.  
I still felt him, still knew that he was with me where ever I 
went.  Now, though, the gaping hole is being torn open anew every 
time I pick up the phone and realize that he's not answering.  I 
feel him and, in some intangible way, I know that he's safe, but 
my imagination still gets the better of me sometimes.  I don't 
feel his emotions as well as I feel just him, all of him, but, 
intellectually, I know that he feels these phantom pains just as 
I do, missing his limb, wondering what will fill that void now.

Nothing.  Nothing will ever fill that void for me.

Just as the fax finishes, I hear Emma softly pad down the stairs 
and into the kitchen, presumably looking for me.  "I'm in here, 
Emma," I call to her and she follows my voice, stopping just 
inside the doorway into the study.

Her eyes suddenly grow larger when she sees me sit down at the 
computer and click the mouse, opening the web browser to check my 
email.  "That's Daddy's computer," she says in a low, serious 
tone.

"I know," I say, glancing at her.  "But I don't think Daddy will 
mind if I use it."  Other than the standard annoying spam porn 
advertisements I have no new mail.  The promise of hot, farm 
girls makes me think of Mulder, though, and those videos that 
aren't his, and I have to smile, even though I'm disappointed yet 
again by still not receiving a response from him.

"Daddy said I'm not allowed in here," Emma announces, lancing me 
out of my reverie.

I can imagine why Ethan wouldn't want Emma in his office, with 
all of his organized chaos that could be disturbed and the 
expensive equipment that, to a child, looks like a new toy.  I 
close the web browser and stand, Emma's round eyes following me 
as I walk towards her.  "What would you like for lunch?"  I 
cheerily ask her, changing the subject.

She shrugs and sits down at the kitchen table, kicking her feet 
restlessly against the bottom of the chair.  I walk to the pantry 
and get out the bread, peanut butter, and chips, then to the 
refrigerator for the strawberry jelly, and set them on the 
counter.  I had picked at the leftover lasagna I'd made for four 
days until I'd finally given up and thrown the rest of it away 
yesterday.  Not having anything else that looks appetizing to me, 
I fix Emma's sandwich and set it in front of her without saying 
another word.  It's been almost two weeks since I've arrived, I 
know the routine by now.  After she finishes, she and I will go 
change and head down towards the pool where I'll listen to Carrie 
and Sonya and, occasionally, another woman named Penny prattle on 
about what they saw on Oprah yesterday or their latest shopping 
excursion or their children's various activities.  Several times, 
I've had to stop myself from standing up and screaming at these 
women to get a life for themselves, to be strong and claim a 
little independence from their domineering husbands, to live for 
themselves instead of for their children and families all the 
time.  I imagine that they would only stare at my through their 
sunglasses and continue calmly talking just as before, not 
understanding my outburst.

Today, I'm taking a book with me.  I'm sure I can find something 
- a novel or an old medical journal - to pass the time while Emma 
and I are there.

"You and Daddy are getting married," Emma states matter of 
factly, staring at me very intensely, a smear of jelly on her 
cheek.

"Yes," I say softly, gazing out the French doors.

"Does that mean that you're gonna live here forever?"

"I suppose so."  I look at her, then, and smile.  She looks away.  
"How do you feel about that, Emma?"  She shrugs and takes another 
bite of her sandwich.  "You can tell me," I say, leaning closer 
to her.  "Whatever you're feeling, you can always talk to me, 
even if you don't like me.  You can tell me that."  She looks at 
me and her chewing slows, thinking deep, little girl thoughts.

"Does that mean you're gonna have a baby?" she asks suddenly.

I sit back and close my eyes momentarily, her question catching 
me off guard.  "No.  Why do you ask that?"  I finally say slowly, 
measuring my breaths, trying to keep them even.

"That's why Mommy had to marry Neil.  She was gonna have a baby."  
Casually, she reaches for her juice and takes a sip.  "Daddy said 
that's why she had to get married," she adds, focusing on her 
food.

"Did Daddy tell you why we're getting married?"  I ask her 
softly.  She shakes her head.  "Well, I'll tell you, okay?"  She 
looks at me and nods.  "Your Daddy and I love each other very 
much and we want to be with each other forever."

She stares through me and I hastily add, "But that doesn't mean 
that your Daddy doesn't love you any less.  He loves you very 
much, too, Emma."  No reaction.

"Mommy and Daddy were married and then she left.  Are you gonna 
leave?"  She finally asks.

"No.  Not everyone who gets married leaves."  I don't tell her 
that I can't ever imagine why I would ever leave, but I remember 
saying the same thing to Mulder a thousand times before, and look 
what happened.

Mulder - I have to call Mulder.

"Emma, I'll be right back, okay?"  I say, already standing and 
walking to the phone.  I dial his cell phone number quickly and, 
as I'd suspected, his voice mail picks up.  I take a deep breath 
and add a bit of worry to my voice, thinking that maybe that will 
help him to call sooner.  "Mulder, it's me.  Please call me when 
you get this."

As I was speaking, Emma's head turned towards me, watching me 
carefully.  After I hang up the phone, she starts a new 
discussion.  "You called Mulder?"

"Yeah," I say, slightly disappointed that I didn't get to talk to 
him.

"Is he gonna come live with us too?"  She smiles, looking like 
she hopes my answer is yes.

I smile, too, wondering what Mulder would think of living in a 
Falls at Arcadia neighborhood permanently.  "No.  He's gonna stay 
in Virginia."

Her tiny faced falls.  "Oh."

"You like Mulder, don't you?"  She eagerly nods, her eyes 
brightening.  "Maybe he could come visit us.  Would you like 
that?"  She nods furiously again and I grin at her.

Me too, Emma.

<><><><><><>

When we got to the pool, Emma immediately ran to the girls and 
showed them the one thing that she learned from Mulder: how to 
make a fish face.  Once everyone had mastered it, they came over 
to us to proudly display their new skill, making their mothers 
giggle and making me glance at my cell phone, checking to see if 
I had any missed calls.

"Where'd you learn that, Em?"  Sonya asks, pulling the leg of her 
swim suit back with a false nail, checking her tan.

"Mulder taught me!"  She says gleefully, jumping up and down on 
her tiny, flip-flop clad feet.

"Who?"

"Mulder!"  She repeats, then runs off after the other girls.

"Who's Mulder?"  Sonya asks from her seat in front of me, pointed 
directly towards the sun for maximum tanning ease and 
convenience. 

"He was my partner at the FBI," I tell her, closing my old copy 
of Scientific American.

"And Emma knows him?" she asks suspiciously, Penny and Carrie's 
eyes glue to me, waiting for my answer.

"Yeah.  Ethan and Emma came to visit me in DC a couple of months 
ago and Mulder joined us one day.  He's really good with kids and 
Emma seemed to bond with him immediately."

"He?"  Carrie asks, lowering her sunglasses and looking playfully 
coy.

"Yes, he," I say back, mimicking her.

"Cute he?"  She asks, Penny slapping her leg teasingly.

I smile and blush a little, looking down.  "Yes," I finally 
decide.  "Very cute he."

They grin and go back to watching the girls, launching into a 
discussion about what kind of shoes would go with Capri pants and 
I study my nails, trying not to look at my cell phone again.  
This is getting a little ridiculous.  He has to be getting my 
messages and, usually, he calls me immediately.  Hell, usually 
he's the one leaving message after message on my machine until I 
call him.  Where is he?

After hours at the pool, a thoroughly exhausted Emma retires to 
her room and I decide to take a more proactive approach to 
contacting Mulder.  If something has happened to him, they'll 
know.  They know everything, even things you don't want them to 
know.

"Lone Gunmen." 

"Langly, it's me," I say, my words clipped.  I hear a series of 
clicks as he turns off the tape recorder, then puts me on speaker 
phone.

"Scully," he says nervously, loudly, his way of announcing my 
call to Byers and Frohike.  I hear them drop what they're doing 
and hurry over to huddle around the phone and exchange perplexed 
glances.

"Yeah, I have a question."

"What can we do for you?"  Frohike asks, a slight leer in his 
voice.

I roll my eyes, actually enjoying the light flirting.  It makes 
me feel good, even if it is with Frohike.

"I need to know if you've heard from Mulder in the last couple of 
weeks.  I haven't been able to get in touch with him."

They confer, then Byers speaks.  "No, we're sorry, Agent Scully.  
We haven't spoken to him in about a month."

"Great," I mutter, my heart speeding up.

"He hasn't been showing up for work?"  Frohike asks, picking up 
on my unease.

"N-."  I catch myself.  "He didn't tell you?"

I can feel them looking at each other, eyebrows raised.  "What?"  
Langly finally says.

I sigh.  "They've closed the X-Files."  A collective gasp from 
the other end of the phone.  "And I've resigned from the Bureau.  
I've moved."

"I wondered why the caller ID said 'Roswell, Georgia,'"  Langly 
adds.

"Anyway, Mulder's not returning my phone calls or my emails.  I 
just wondered if you had talked to him."

Silence on the other end.

Finally, Byers speaks.  "Do you want us to check on him for you?"  
He asks slowly, almost sounding like he hopes I'll say no.

"Would you?  He may just be out of town, but he's not answering 
his cell phone, either."  I pause.  "I'm worried about him."

"We'll take care of it," Frohike assures me.

"Thank you.  Just tell him...tell him to call me.  Or to email 
me.  Or something.  I just want to make sure he's okay."

"Will do," Byers says, then the phone disconnects as they hang 
up.

I'm glad that Mulder's not completely alone without me.  Even 
though he and the Gunmen had never been any more than casual 
friends, it still comforts me to know that there are some people 
who care about him, who can watch out for him and make sure that 
he's okay.  They'll call him, take him out for cheese-steaks, and 
tell him that I'd asked about him, wondering if he was okay.  
Then, he'll call me, apologizing for not calling sooner and for 
worrying me.  He's fine, he'll say, though he does miss me.

I miss you, too, Mulder, I'll say and we'll listen to each other 
breathe for a few minutes before one of us breaks the silence and 
announces that we have to go.  We'll hang up, each promising the 
other a phone call tomorrow, or a brief email, catching us up on 
all of the changes that have happened in the past two weeks.  As 
I'd told him before I left, just because we're apart physically 
doesn't mean that we have to be apart emotionally.  Our 
friendship will survive, as strong as ever, it will just have to 
evolve a little.

<><><><><><>

Later that week, I meet Ethan at the garage door, beaming and 
excited.  He kisses me deeply and tells me he missed me at work, 
then looks for Emma behind me and, not seeing her, asks where she 
is.  It's after nine o'clock, and I tell him that she's been in 
bed for nearly an hour.

"I got an interview, Ethan," I burst out as he turns towards the 
kitchen, loosening his tie and opening the refrigerator.

He stops, holding the door open, and gapes at me.  "What?"

"I got an interview at Emory.  It's tomorrow morning."  Seeing 
his face become stony and serious, my elation flees.

"Dana," he says slowly, "I thought we talked about this."  My 
right eyebrow creeps high on my forehead, not understanding.  "I 
told you: you don't have to work."  He goes back to looking for 
dinner, apparently not expecting me to fight him on this.

"You said we would talk about it, but we never did.  And I know I 
don't have to work.  I know that you make enough money."  He 
slams the heavy door and turns towards me, hands on his hips.  
"But I told you: I want to work, whether I need to or not."

He hangs his head and a long, tired sigh escapes his lips.  
"Why?"  He asks sharply, raising his head and looking me straight 
in the eyes.

"Because..."  Do I really have to explain this to him?  "I've 
been doing nothing but sitting in the house playing maid for two 
weeks and I'm bored out of my mind."

"School starts in a few weeks, volunteer in Emma's class.  You 
don't have to spend all of your time here," he says, like that 
should be obvious to me.

"Volunteering doesn't pay," I mumble, regretting it as soon as 
it's out of my mouth.

"What's that supposed to mean?"  He asks, raising his voice and 
coming to tower over me, trying to intimidate me.

"It means that I don't like not having my own money.  I want my 
own money and a life outside you and Emma."

"Why?"

I take a deep breath.  "Because, I see these women - Carrie and 
Penny and Sonya - they don't have a life of their own.  They 
don't have their own identity.  All they are is their children 
and husbands and they're completely dependent on someone else.  I 
don't want to be like that.  I want my own identity.  I don't 
want to introduce myself and have to state my relation to someone 
else to be noticed or important.  I don't want my entire life to 
be about your life and Emma's life."

He shifts his feet and looks down briefly, calculating his words.  
"In case you haven't figured it out by now, Dana, marriage is not 
about one person.  It's about two people sharing their lives 
together.  We can't have a healthy marriage if we're just two 
people living in the same house and sleeping in the same bed.  We 
have to sacrifice some parts of ourselves for the other, and 
that's what you still don't seem to realize.  You're about to 
become my wife and you're about to become a step-mother; you're 
going to have to make some changes to accommodate that."

"No, Ethan, I understand that.  I know that I'll have to make 
some changes and I'm willing to do that.  But it seems to me that 
I've always been the one to make the sacrifices while you dictate 
to me what I'm supposed to do.  That's the way it was before and 
I'm not gonna let you do that to me again."

He squints his eyes, clearly angry that I would dare to defy him.  
"You have no idea how much I've had to sacrifice for you, Dana.  
I sacrificed the first opportunity I ever had to be a father to 
you, so you could keep your precious independence and fancy 
career -"

"Don't," I warn, taking a step away from him.  "Don't you dare 
try and justify this by saying that I owe it to you."

"I'm not."  He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his 
nose in annoyance.  "The reason I work the hours that I do is so 
that you and Emma can have all this," he says, gesturing to the 
kitchen and the rest of the expensive house.  "I don't just work 
seventy hour weeks because I enjoy it."

"This isn't up for discussion," I decide, turning away from him 
and walking towards the stairs.  He follows me, grabbing my arm 
and turning me towards him roughly.

"Yes, it is, Dana.  You don't make the rules around here."

"Neither do you," I say, wrenching myself out of his grasp and 
stomping up the stairs, slamming and locking the bedroom door 
behind me.

<><><><><><>

When he doesn't come to bed by midnight, I consider getting up to 
see if he's still working or simply ignoring me, so mad at me 
that he's sleeping in the guest bedroom.  I curl up in the 
indentation that he's left in the mattress and inhale his scent 
from the pillow, feeling petulant and juvenile.  Yes, I told him 
that I would sacrifice what ever I had to in order to have him in 
my life, but I never dreamed that he would ask me to sacrifice 
myself.  My career at the FBI was my life and I felt a sense of 
pride and accomplishment to know that I had helped to make the 
world a safer place on a daily basis.  As a medical professor, I 
would still make the world a safer place, only indirectly.  I 
would still be making a positive contribution to the world and 
that's important to me.

My job may be my life, but at least it's better than having other 
people be my life.  And I've already given up my dream job at 
Quantico for Ethan - what more does he expect?  Is it too much 
for me to want to have something that's mine, that's not entirely 
ours?

I curl up tighter, cold without his heat beside me.  If this is 
what it costs me: Ethan being angry with me, I almost don't think 
it's worth it.

A few minutes later, I hear a knock on the bedroom door and get 
up to open it for him.  He looks tired and wrinkled, but his eyes 
are soft and apologetic.  "Dana, I'm sorry," he says.  "You gonna 
make me sleep out here tonight?"

Despite myself, I grin and open the door wider.  He climbs into 
bed behind me, pulls me towards him, then whispers against my 
neck, "You kept it warm for me."  I grin again and lace my 
fingers with his.

"I think you were apologizing," I remind him.

He laughs softly.  "I'm sorry for getting angry at you.  It was a 
long day," is all he says before running his free hand over my 
rib cage.  "You've lost weight," he says into my ear.

I nod, my anger rising again.  That's it?  He's sorry for getting 
angry?  He's not sorry for forbidding me to have a life of my 
own?

"What time is your interview?" he finally asks a few minutes 
later.

"Eleven."

"Maybe we could meet for lunch."

I don't respond.  I'll be anxious tomorrow, being in a foreign 
city, not knowing where I'm going, wondering if Mulder or the 
Gunmen have called.  I won't have time to eat.

"Love you," Ethan whispers to me.  I relax against him and take a 
deep breath.  He loves me.

"Love you too," I whisper back and he tightens his arms around 
me, both of us asleep within minutes.

<><><><><><>

Mulder always told me that I looked good in red, so I'd worn his 
favorite red suit - the one with the black on the lapels.  I 
curled my hair, too.  He told me once that he liked my hair best 
curly.  He said it made me look like a movie start from the 
forties, a classic beauty.  I remember that I blushed when he 
told me that.  "Now you match," he'd said, his eyes lighting up 
and a rare, silly grin crossing his face.

When I got to Emory, right before my interview was supposed to 
start, I'd dialed his cell phone again, nervousness and worry 
making the meager breakfast I'd eaten rise in my stomach.  I  
still hadn't heard from him in the nearly three weeks since I'd 
left - something has to be wrong.  He just wouldn't not call me.

Would he?

The last time I'd worn this suit, the skirt had pinched in the 
side; now, it hangs off of me, resting loosely on my pronounced 
hip bones.  Out of curiosity, I find a scale and weigh myself: 
97.5 pounds.  Wonderful, my mother will think I'm anorexic.

Oh, there's another thing I can do daily now, call my mother.  
I'm sure she'll be ecstatic that I'm following in her footsteps 
and becoming a house wife.

Dr. Bradley'd said that my resume and credentials were 
impressive, but since I hadn't ever practiced and my specialty 
was in a field that, at Emory, wasn't in high demand at the 
moment, that he couldn't see hiring me.  "It wouldn't be 
practical, you understand," he'd said.  I'd nodded and walked 
out, finding the nearest restroom and starring at my pale, sunken 
face in the mirror as tears rolled unchecked down my cheeks.  I'd 
never been refused anything before.  I'd always succeeded.  I 
didn't know what it was like to fail.

After drying my tears, I'd called Ethan and told him that I was 
finished if he still wanted to meet for lunch.  He barely had 
enough time to say that he couldn't, not even asking about my 
interview, so I hung up and drove home, brooding and humiliated.

I guess this is another one of those signs that God keeps sending 
me, telling me what I'm supposed to do.  By not getting the job, 
God must be telling me that Ethan is right, that I don't have to 
work.

I just wish sometimes that God would show me that I'm right.

With Emma at Carrie's until three, and not knowing what else to 
do, I finally decide to call my mother after changing out of my 
suit, folding it, and packing it away with the rest.  I won't 
ever need them again, I guess.  Maybe I should give them to 
Goodwill, but I just can't bear to part with them.  With some of 
these suits, I can tell you when I wore it and what case Mulder 
and I were working on at the time, can tell the story of the sewn 
up tear in one of the legs or the frayed cuff of a jacket.  After 
looking through all of them, refolding them, and covering the 
suitcase with boxes again, I open a drawer and pull out Mulder's 
pajama pants, rolling them up at least five times at the waist, 
then find a comfortable tank top to change into before sitting on 
the edge of the bed and picking up the phone, stopping myself 
from dialing his number by instead, calling my mother.

"Hello," she cheerily says into the phone, making me wince and 
wonder what the hell I was thinking.

"Mom, it's me," I manage to say.  I sound like a scolded child 
trying to defend itself even though it knows it's guilty of 
whatever it's just been scolded for.

She takes a deep, even breath, then says tersely, "Dana."

I look around the bedroom, searching for something to say.  "Are 
you busy?"  I ask, waiting to be scolded again.

"No."

"Oh.  Well, I just wanted to let you know that I'm at 
Ethan's...in Atlanta."

I can feel the dark cloud that she imposed over me lift 
immediately and her voice brightens, relief evident.  "When did 
you leave?"

"The night after I talked to you."  You know, when I hung up on 
you?

"You don't sound very happy about that," she observes.

"It's not that," I try and explain.  "I am happy here."  I guess, 
anyway.  "But I just got back from a job interview.  I didn't get 
the job, Mom."  I suddenly feel like crying.  I remember the 
first time I got a B in college, I'd called her and told her the 
news before she got my report card in the mail, to prepare her.  
I went on and on about how I was a failure, how horrible and 
stupid I felt.  I thought that she'd be disappointed, but she 
wasn't.  She didn't say a word to me over the phone, not even to 
remind me that a B was still good, that I wasn't stupid or 
horrible.  She never showed that report card to Ahab, though.

"I'm sorry, Dana," she says, sounding sincere.

"Ethan didn't want me to have a job anyway.  He got mad when I 
told him last night about the interview," I sniff.

"Oh," is all she says.

"Is that what Dad did to you?  Did he forbid you from having a 
life outside him and us kids?"

"No.  Your father never forbade me to do anything.  I wanted to 
stay home with all of you."  I know she's lying - how could 
anyone be content with that kind of life?

"Did you ever regret it?  Staying home with us?"

"No.  I raised all of you, got to spend time with you and be 
involved in your lives -"

"But what happened when Chaz moved out?  Once we were all gone, 
what did you do then?"

She takes a deep breath, her fairy tale shattered.  "By then, 
your father was retired, so we spent time together."

Oh, I get it.  After you stopped waiting on us hand and foot, you 
started doing the same for him.

"Dana, raising a family is an important job in itself.  It's also 
a much tougher one that you seem to realize.  If you remember, I 
was always busy doing something, whether it was taking one of you 
to dance lessons or baseball practice, or cooking or cleaning, my 
work was never done.  You'll find that, after a while, being a 
wife and mother becomes more important than any professional 
status or career."

"I've been here for almost three weeks and I'm bored out of my 
mind," I tell her, not convinced by her diatribe.

"You just have to get used to it," she says, sounding like she's 
scolding again.

I nod at the phone, then fall silent, waiting for her to ask the 
inevitable.  I don't have to wait long.  "So, have you set a date 
yet?"

I sigh.  "Ethan said something about Labor Day weekend -"

"That's less than a month away.  You have lots of planning to 
do."

"No, Mom.  I don't want a big wedding.  Just a small, family 
service," I tell her, knowing that it's futile.

"You're the only daughter I'll ever get to see get married, Dana, 
and you're not cheating me out of this," she says firmly and I 
hang my head, remembering that I cheated her out of seeing her 
other daughter get married.

As I sit, chewing my lip and waiting for her to elaborate about 
the dress and the flowers and the food, the phone beeps, 
announcing that someone is calling in.  "Mom, I need to go," I 
say hurriedly, sitting up and my finger already hovering over the 
button.

"Dana, what's the mat-"  The phone beeps again.

"Nothing.  I just have to go.  I'll call you later."  Then I 
click the button.  It's about damn time Mulder called me back.

It's not Mulder, though.  It's a telemarketer.  I hang up on him, 
then pull the covers down and climb into bed, another headache 
deciding to make an appearance in my temples.

When the phone rings again, I notice that the clock beside the 
bed says three thirty.  It's probably Carrie, wondering where I 
am to pick up Emma.  I apologize, tell her that my interview ran 
over and that I'd just walked in the door.  She sends Emma home, 
then asks me if I'm all right, saying that I sound sick.  I'm 
fine, I tell her, rubbing my forehead against the midday sun 
slanting through the blinds.

As Emma plays in her room, I drag myself into the study to check 
my email: still nothing from Mulder.  I've almost stopped 
expecting anything.

Ethan gets home at six, early for him, and announces that he 
wants to take Emma and me out to dinner.  Emma is, of course, 
excited, but I decline, telling them to go ahead.  Looking 
disappointed, Ethan tells Emma that we'll go out another night 
and makes it up to her with pizza.

"How'd your interview go?"  He finally asks over the cardboard 
box and paper plates.

I put down my partially eaten first piece.  "I didn't get the 
job," I say softly, then stand and take my plate to the garbage 
can, throwing it away.

"I'm sorry, Dana," he says to me a few minutes later as we lay 
down for the night.

"No, you're not," I tell him.  "You got what you wanted."

He stares at me in the half light from the moon, swallowing what 
ever arguments he has, then turns away from me and falls asleep, 
hugging the edge of the bed.

I wish Mulder were here.  No matter what time it was, no matter 
what was wrong, I could always talk to him.  He would never judge 
me or interrupt me, never give me unsolicited advice and never 
reproached me.  His soft puffs of breath would soothe my temper 
and, without having said a word, he would've made me feel better, 
made me feel a little less burdened and a little more cared for.

If I thought he'd answer, I'd call him now.  He'd understand why 
it was so important to me to have a job, to have my own life.  
He'd support me and call Ethan an ass for telling me what to do.  
He'd respect me and my desires and, if I asked him, he'd be with 
me before the sun came up.

But he won't answer.  Either he's really angry with me or he's 
dying and right now, I can't decide which would be worse.

<><><><><><>

Penny called this morning and asked if Emma and I would like go 
with her and Stephanie, her daughter who's the same age as Emma, 
and Matthew, her younger son, to Kennesaw Mountain.  The girls 
would be going back to school in a few weeks, so she'd thought it 
would be nice to have one last outing with them this summer.  "I 
miss her so much when she's at school," Penny said on the drive 
over.  "I can't imagine what it will be like when she goes to 
college."  I looked out the window and rolled my eyes, thinking 
how pathetic she was.

Although the park had hiking trails and Civil War exhibits, the 
girls were content to play in the grass while Penny and I sat on 
the blanket we'd spread out for our picnic.  Matthew, who was 
two, spent most of his time trying to eat flowers or bugs and 
making hilariously adorable faces at his mother when she told him 
to stop.  Jealousy and longing that I hadn't expected rose in my 
chest and I turned away, blinding myself with the bright sun.

The CDC called this morning right before Penny, offering me a job 
dependent on my perfunctory interview, as they'd called it.  I'd 
taken a deep breath, hesitated, then thanked them, but told them 
that I'd already found a job.

For the first time in almost a month, I didn't call Mulder today.  
I'm still waiting on the Gunmen to call, but he has my numbers 
and email address if he wants to talk to me.

Just as Penny launches into a horror story about a manicurist, I 
snap my head sharply towards the girls as one of the them emits a 
shriek, both of them running towards us.

"What happened?" she asks, seeing Stephanie clutching her arm.

"A bee stung me," she says thickly through a few tears.  Penny 
pulls her daughter's hand away from her arm and examines the 
reddening welt.

"It's fine, honey," she tells her.

"Emma, are you all right?"  I ask her, grabbing her arm and 
yanking her towards me.  Not giving her a chance to answer, I 
keep talking.  "Did you get stung?  Did you see any more bees?"  
She shakes her head, looking at my fingers, clamped tightly onto 
her arm.

My heart keeps pounding, my mind telling me to get away before 
it's too late.  A mountain, bees...we have to get out of here.

"Stephanie, what kind of a bee was it?"  I ask, standing up, 
gesturing for everyone else to do the same.  Stephanie shrugs, 
her tears drying.  "Was it big, little?  Do you have a funny 
taste in your mouth?  Do you have any pain in you chest?"

Frightened, the girl shakes her head frantically.  I look around, 
watching the people warily, calculating exactly how long it will 
take us to get back to the car.

"Dana, what's wrong?"  Penny asks, perplexed.

"We need to go," I tell her, picking up the blanket and not 
bothering to fold it.

"Why?"

"We just do.  Right now."  I look around again, searching for Men 
In Black or convenient EMTs.

When she doesn't move, I turn to face her, still walking 
backwards towards the parking lot.  "Dana, it's just a bee," she 
finally says to me.

I want to tell her that nothing is just as it seems, sometimes.  
That the bee could be carrying small pox or some alien virus.  
There could be swarms of them waiting to infect all of us, men 
waiting to take us away to cold, sterile ships where we can 
incubate their young until they're born, sucking our lives out of 
us, then bursting out of our chest and killing us.

Still starring at me, I take a deep breath, embarrassed.  It's 
just a bee, Dana.

I swallow and nod, hanging my head and finally letting my death 
grip on Emma's arm loosen.

Just a bee.

<><><><><><>

I can hear the phone ringing as soon as I'm out of the car and I 
run to the door, leaving Emma to turn off the alarm while I 
answer it.  "Hello?"  Mulder?

"Agent Scully?"

"Yes."  It's Byers.  Finally!

"It's John Byers," he says in his gentle, polite tone.  "Is this 
a bad time?"

"No, not at all.  Did you get in touch with Mulder?"  It's been 
more than a week since I talked to them - they better have talked 
to Mulder.

"Yes, we did."  A pause, then a heavy sigh.  I'm on speaker phone 
again and Frohike isn't happy.

"He said that he's gotten your messages," Byers says carefully.

"So why hasn't he called?"

"You didn't tell us you were getting married," Frohike growls.

I lean against the counter, rubbing my eyes.  "Did he tell you 
that?"

"Yes," Langly chimes in.

I nod at the kitchen.  "I ask again, why hasn't he called?  I was 
worried about him."

They quietly confer, then Byers answers.  "Agent Scully," I guess 
I should remind him that it's no longer Agent Scully, but I let 
it slide.  "He's a little upset by all this."

I sigh and say softly, "I know."

"He's...he's okay, Scully.  He's not great, but he's doing okay."  
Frohike sounds as sad as I suddenly feel.

"You're sure?"

They confer again.  "Yeah," Langly finally answers for them.

"Did you tell him to call me?"

"Yeah," they say in unison.

I hesitate.  "Thank you.  I really appreciate this."

"You're welcome, Agent Scully."

"I never really thought about it before, but you guys have done 
so much for us over the years and I don't think I've ever said 
thank you.  I'm glad that Mulder has friends like you."

I feel the collective blush spread amongst them, then Frohike 
says, "It's been a pleasure to know you too, Scully."

I smile a little and the silence grows between us.  "Bye," I 
finally whisper.

"If you need anything else, Agent Scully, just let us know.  
We'll always be here."

I sniff, touched at their sincerity and generosity.  "I will."

"Bye," and the phone clicks as they hang up.

Contemplating my next move, I can't help but be infuriated by 
Mulder's actions.  He'd said that he would miss me, he'd said 
that he loved me, he'd said that he wouldn't let me go, that he 
couldn't let me go.  It's been less than a month and, already, 
he's cutting me off.  He won't speak to me, won't even return my 
goddamn emails.

He may be finished with me, but I'm not finished with him yet.  I 
quickly dial the FBI operator and ask for Fox Mulder, not knowing 
what his new office number is.

After a few seconds, the phone is picked up and the loud clatter 
of voices talking and papers rustling greets me, then a weary, 
low voice, "Mulder."

My anger fades as his forlorn voice permeates me down to my soul 
and I choke back my hateful words, quietly panting into the phone 
instead of saying anything.  "It's me," I finally whisper, 
praying he doesn't hang up on me.

The papers on his desk stop rustling and he holds his breath, not 
knowing what to say.

"I wondered if you'd fallen off the Earth," I say, falsely 
confident and trying to lighten the mood.

"You had the Gunmen check up on me.  Didn't they tell you that I 
was still here?"  His voice is cold and angry, with a tinge of 
sadness behind it that he doesn't want me to detect.

"I was worried about you.  I didn't know if something had 
happened to you -"

"I can take care of myself, Scully, I don't need another mother," 
he snaps.  "My world just doesn't stop turning because you left."

In a shaking voice, I stammer out, "I'm-I'm sorry."

He takes a deep breath, then, "I'm a little busy right now."

He's trying to get rid of me.  He doesn't miss me.  He doesn't 
love me.  It was all a lie.

I guess he doesn't miss me as much as he said he would.  I guess 
he discovered that living without me is more liberating than he 
imagined.  I guess he realized that he really doesn't love me, 
just as I suspected he would.

But it still hurts.  It hurts to know that I came so close to 
giving up this life with Ethan so that I could spend my life with 
him when he was lying to me, manipulating me the whole time.  If 
I'd stayed with him, he would've abandoned me and then I would've 
been completely alone forever.

So I made the right choice.  I was starting to wonder.

Tears drip down my face and onto the shiny linoleum floor.  "I'm 
sorry," I repeat.

I hear him open his mouth to say something else, then snap it 
shut and slowly put down the phone, shutting me out of his life.

I hold the phone to my ear until the rapid, loud beeping sounds, 
reminding me that I'm alone now.  I push the talk button, ending 
the beeping, then slowly sink down to the floor against the 
cabinets and wrap my arms around my knees, shaking, tears 
streaming down my cheeks, choking back my sobs.

<><><>End Part 2<><><>


<><><>Begin Part 3<><><>

Mulder, there you are.  I was wondering if you were really angry 
with me, if you had really already forgotten about me.  No, you 
were right, you were busy.  You've had your head between my 
thighs this whole time.  Dammit, you could've told me.  I was 
worried.

Well, that's okay.  You're obviously very sorry for what you've 
done.  And very repentant.  Yes...very, very sorry.

I always wondered what you could do with that tongue.  I've 
watched and envied those sunflower seeds for years - it's fueled 
my vibrator fantasies more often than I care to admit.

I'll just lay here and let you make it up to me, okay?  You just 
keep doing exactly what you're doing.  You're doing well.  Very 
well.  Very, very well.

God, Phoebe and Diana were fools to ever leave you...

"Are you finally awake?"

My eyes snap open - what happened to Mulder's voice?

"I thought I was losing my touch, here."  Ethan grins and dips 
his head again, licking and sucking.

I turn my head on the pillow, fisting the sheets in my hand.  
Ethan, not Mulder...

My thighs are trembling and he pulls back, kissing the insides of 
them softly before sliding up my body.  "It never took that long 
to wake you before," he says against my neck, making a hot, wet 
trail from my ear lobe to my collar bone.

I put my arms around him, reminding myself where I am and who I'm 
with.

I dreamed about Mulder because he's been on my mind lately - I 
had been worried about him, afraid that he was done with me, 
never wanted to speak to me again.  And Ethan's actions inspired 
Mulder's actions in my dream.  Yeah, that's it.

"You okay?"  He lazily asks, tracing a renegade tear tract across 
my cheek and up to my eye lashes.

"Yeah," I say softly.  I must've started crying in my sleep, 
dreaming about Mulder.  Mulder...

"What?  Dana, what's the matter?"

Okay, I'll tell you the truth, Ethan.  Mulder and I kissed before 
I left.  He begged me to stay with him, he told me that he loved 
me more than anything, that he had loved me for years.  I almost 
gave in to him, I almost stayed.  I've been trying to get in 
touch with him since I've arrived and I haven't been able to.  I 
thought that he was sick or hurt or dead when, really, he just 
didn't want to talk to me.  He lied to me.  He doesn't love me.  
He never did.  "Nothing," I tell him, turning my head away.

"You sure?"  He sits up and I can see the outline of his face 
hovering over mine in the darkness.  I almost gave this up for a 
lie.

"Yes."  When he doesn't immediately finish what he started, my 
thighs still trembling around him, I whisper to him, "Love me."

He latches on to my neck, then, and loves me.

<><><><><><>

For the first Sunday since I've been here, over a month now, 
Ethan doesn't have to work.  I guess I underestimated how 
important he was at CNN.  I certainly underestimated how much 
money he made.  He woke up early, as he's used to doing, and laid 
in bed, holding me, softly touching my skin with his lips and 
hands until I woke up an hour later.  In the cool morning air, we 
made achingly slow, infinitely tender love to each other, careful 
not to wake Emma.  He spooned up behind me after we'd finished 
and laced his left hand through mine, examining my ring.

"It needs something else," he says, twisting it back and forth, 
trying to arrange it perfectly.  It's just where he left it when 
he gave it to me, I haven't taken it off.

"I think it's big enough as it is."

"No.  It needs a companion."

Oh, okay.  I get it.  He nuzzles my neck and whispers against my 
skin, "Have you thought any more about the wedding?  Labor Day is 
in a couple of weeks."

I sigh and pull his arm tighter around me.  "No."

"You gonna let your Mother do all the planning?"

"It doesn't matter what I want, she'll find something wrong with 
it."

"That's not true," he says.

"Yes, it is.  I told her that I don't want a big wedding and she 
insists that we have one.  I told her that I don't want a lot of 
people there and she wants to invite all of our extended family."

"What about me?"

I turn to him, stretching out on my back, partially underneath 
him.  "What do you mean?"

"This is my wedding, too.  What if I want a big wedding with lots 
of people?"

I reach for him, tangling my fingers in his hair.  "Why do you 
want that?"

He leans down to me.  "I want everyone to know that I'm marrying 
Dana Scully.  I want the whole world to know how happy we are."

"I'm sure the world doesn't care, Ethan."

"I care."

He kisses me, long and deep, and I forget how I was going to 
respond to what he said.

"This is every little girl's dream, isn't it?  A big wedding with 
the pretty, white dress and bridesmaids and flowers.  How would 
Melissa feel if you deprived her of the opportunity to play maid 
of honor?"

I close my eyes and think back to what my mother said, how I'd 
robbed her of seeing one daughter get married and she wouldn't 
allow me to do that again.  Tears must be streaming from my eyes 
again.

"Dana, please talk to me.  Don't keep everything inside."

"I never told you," I begin, sniffing.

"What?"

"Missy's dead."

Surprised, he leans back a little.  "What happened?"

"She was murdered.  In my apartment.  Someone was trying to kill 
me and shot her instead."

His mouth gapes.  "Someone was trying to kill you?" he asks 
incredulously.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I had something that I wasn't supposed to have and I knew things 
that I wasn't supposed to know," I say softly.

He shakes his head.  "That doesn't make any sense."

"I was warned that someone would kill me in my home.  And then 
she told me that she was coming over...I just forgot.  When I 
remembered, I called her back, but she had already left.  I tried 
to meet her on the way, to stop her, but I couldn't.  It was my 
fault."

He just stares at me, not knowing what to say or do.  Since he 
doesn't tell me to stop, I continue pouring my heart out to him.  
"I didn't even get to the hospital in time to tell her I was 
sorry.  Mulder...Mulder said she knew, but I don't think she 
did."  Tears overcoming me, I turn on my side and bury my head in 
my pillow, my back shaking with my sobs.

I miss my sister.

After a long hesitation, Ethan finally reacts.  "Dana..."  He 
touches my shoulder lightly, trying to comfort me.  I remember 
Mulder doing the same, the night Missy died.  We sat in her 
hospital room holding each other, not saying anything for hours.  
It was one of the only times I had allowed myself to cry in front 
of him, one of the only times I let myself accept his comfort.

I miss Mulder.

"Is that what was wrong with you the other day?  Emma said that 
you answered the phone and then started crying."

I stop, sniff, and turn my head to look at him over my shoulder.  
"That was Mulder.  I called him."

"And he made you cry?"

Yes.  "No."

He kisses my cheek, tracing his tongue up to my eye again, 
absorbing my tears, then leans back a little, looking into my 
eyes.  "I'm sorry about Melissa."

I nod.

"Maybe you'll feel better after Mass," he decides, moving towards 
the edge of the bed.

"No.  I don't want to go."  Since I've arrived, I've yet to 
attend Mass, even though Ethan depended on me to take Emma.  I 
just never woke up early enough and, if I did, I just never felt 
like getting up.  Emma never complained, anyway.

"It'll be good for you.  We need to start going on a regular 
basis again, especially if we're gonna be married in that church.  
People have to get to know you."

It would be futile to tell him that I don't want a church 
wedding, so I just shake my head at him, pulling the covers over 
my chilled body.  "I don't feel well,"  I tell him, not really 
lying.

He sighs and comes around the bed to sit beside me.  "You don't 
feel well a lot, lately.  You're not eating, you have nightmares 
all the time.  Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

"I'm fine."

His shoulders sag.  "What can I do?" he asks, leaning down to 
kiss my forehead.

Bring Mulder back.  "Nothing."

He nods, then stands and disappears into the bathroom.  The sound 
of the shower spray lulls me into sleep again and when I wake up, 
late morning sun spilling in through the open blinds, I discover 
that I'm alone.  Ethan must've taken Emma to Mass without me.

When I stand, my legs are shaky and weak and I immediately feel 
dizzy.  In the bathroom, I weigh myself and find that I've lost 
another six and a half pounds; I barely weight ninety, now.  I 
lazily brush my teeth, the strong, minty paste making me gag, and 
dress in Mulder's blue Oxford, wishing that I hadn't washed it 
and that it still smelled like him.  I comb my limp, dull hair 
and notice that it looks thinner that it ever has.  Like when I 
was sick with cancer, my eyes are sunken and dull, the whites 
tinged yellow.  My ribs stick out sickeningly and my stomach is 
starting to look concave.  Nearly in tears again and exhausted 
from my minimal activity, I crawl back in bed, curling up into a 
fetal ball in the center, hug my pillow, and sob alone in the 
big, empty house.

If Mulder were here, he'd be thinking of ways to annoy the 
neighbors, putting a pink flamingo in the front yard and setting 
up his basketball hoop in the drive way.  He'd call me Laura and 
make jokes about how we should act more like a married couple, 
keeping his arm around me and playfully insisting that he be 
allowed to sleep in the bed with me.  When we would go to dinner, 
making our polite rounds in the neighborhood families, he would 
sound so serious as he talked about eating dolphins, horrifying 
the quaint couple sitting across from us.  He'd make up a story 
about how we met, making me into the magnetic bracelet wearing, 
UFO chasing, new ager.  He'd make this boring situation 
tolerable, he'd add humor and life to my humorless, lifeless 
existence.

I miss Mulder.

<><><><><><>

A warm body drapes itself over me, pushing the hair off of my 
neck with its nose and kissing me just over the tiny scar on the 
nape.  Large hands and strong arms brace themselves around me, 
making me feel small and protected, a deep, soft voice washing 
over me as I slowly wake up.  "You've been into my clothes," the 
voice observes and I shake my head, his lips tracing my shoulders 
under the collar of the shirt.  No, you gave me this shirt, 
remember?  You told me how good I looked in blue, especially if 
it was your blue.  Don't you remember, Mulder? 

"It's almost dinner time.  I want you to come down and eat with 
me, or at least let me bring something up here for you."

I shake my head again.

"Dana, you've been sleeping all day.  You have to get up and you 
have to eat."  He pushes the covers off of me, then slips one arm 
under my knees, the other under my shoulders and lifts me, 
placing me on my feet.  I immediately fall back against the bed, 
not able to stand.

"Dana," he says in exasperation.  "You've made yourself sick.  
Come on."  He picks me up again and walks us to the door.  
"Emma's at Sonya's for the night, so we can have what ever you 
want."

I want to go back to bed.

After he seats me at the kitchen table, he opens the newly 
stocked pantry, searching for food.  "How about some soup?  Do 
you like tomato soup?"

I stare blankly at the table, not responding.  In a few minutes, 
a steaming bowl of thick, bloody looking liquid is placed in 
front of me.  Ethan puts another one down at his chair, then 
stares at me, waiting for me to take the first bite.  I slowly 
raise my eyes to him.

"Dana, eat.  Humor me, at least."

Wanting to get this over with, I pick up the spoon and bring it 
to my lips, wincing as the hot blood floods my mouth.  When I 
swallow, he smiles and starts eating his own soup, still watching 
me carefully.

When we've finished, we takes our bowls, mine still half-full, to 
the sink and runs some water in them.  "Stay there for a minute, 
okay?" he says softly, and then goes upstairs, leaving me alone 
in the kitchen.

I should check my email, see if there's anything important.

I drag myself to the study, collapsing in the chair at the desk.  
I'm not expecting an email from Mulder, I remind myself.  Still, 
I'm disappointed yet again when I have nothing from him.

I stare at the screen until the screen saver comes on, a slide 
show of family pictures.  Some of Ethan and Emma, some of Emma 
and a woman with long, dark, curly hair, most just of Emma.  I 
smile, wondering how long it will be before pictures of me make 
it into the slide show.

"Dana?"  I hear Ethan call, looking for me.

"In here," I tell him and he comes to the door of the study, 
watching me.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking my email."

"Oh.  I have a surprise for you upstairs."  He smiles at me and, 
feeling better than I have in a long while - probably from eating 
for the first time in days I smile back, following him up the 
stairs.

"Close your eyes," he commands, letting me step in front of him 
and guiding us into the bathroom.

I immediately feel the warm steam envelope me, smell the sweet, 
relaxing bubbles.  Opening my eyes, I gasp slightly in surprise, 
then clamp them shut, taking a step back, but stopped by Ethan's 
body.

His arms come around me, holding me against him and whispering in 
my ear.  "You like it?"  He kisses my temple, oblivious to my 
rapid breathing and surging pulse.

Several candles line the big bath tub, filled to the top with hot 
water and bubbles.

"I thought we needed to relax," he whispers.  "Go ahead.  I'll be 
right behind you."

"No," I say quietly, trying to step back again.

"You don't like it?" he asks, hurt.

"No," I tell him again, frantically shaking my head.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Let me go," I say loudly, instinctive flight mechanism kicking 
in.

"What?"

"Let me go!"  I scream, turning and trying to run for the door.  
He catches me, though, and holds me in front of him.

"Dana?  What's the matter?"

I pound my fists against his chest, Ethan and the big bathroom 
disappearing, Donnie Pfaster and my shattered bedroom taking 
their places.  "Let me go, Goddamn it!  Go back to hell!"

He drags me into the bedroom, still holding tightly to my arms.  
He's too big I can't fight him he's gonna kill me Mulder where 
are you he's here he's here he's gonna kill me - not the closet 
please not the closet.

"Dana?  Dana!  Stop it!  What is the matter with you?"

Exhaustion kicking in, I sag against him, his voice finally 
breaking my hallucination, remembering.  Donnie Pfaster is dead.  
I killed him.  I saved myself from him.  I'm in Ethan's house.  
I'm safe.

I shake my head, trying to force the thoughts away.

Ethan's grip on me loosens and he bends down to look into my 
eyes.  "You okay now?"

I nod, feeling a flood of embarrassment and shame creep into my 
cheeks, then wrap my arms around his waist and bury my face in 
his chest.  He holds me, stroking my hair and whispering comfort 
into my ear.  "What happened?  You used to love baths."

I nod again and squeeze my eyes shut.  After a death fetishist 
tries to kill you twice, candles and bubble baths involved both 
times, you lose your affinity for the once-soothing things.

I'll go drain the water; you get in bed," he says, then lets me 
go and walks away.

I do as he says and crawl into bed, realizing that I'm still 
wearing Mulder's shirt.  Drying my tears with the sleeves, I 
wonder what Ethan will think of me keeping and wearing another 
man's clothes.

When he comes to bed, I shift towards him and hold him like a 
life preserver (saver).  The sun has yet to set, but he places 
his hand over my eyes, softly telling me to go to sleep.  "I love 
you, Dana," is the last thing I hear before I let myself sink 
into unconsciousness, his arms keeping me safe from all of the 
evil in the world, the evil that Mulder used to protect me from.

<><><><><><>

After weeks of nagging and pleading, Ethan and I are finally 
having dinner with James, head of the Homeowners Association and 
his wife, Linda.  Ethan said that it was an unofficial 
requirement, that all new residents have dinner with them.

There are weeds on my plate.

They're all eating their dinners like they're starving African 
children, weeds and all.  Actually, Linda said that they were 
herbs, thought she didn't tell me their names.  She said that 
they flavored the yellow-sauce covered circle of fish, that they 
were delicious, and that I would love them.  James loved them, 
she'd beamed, wiping her hands on her vintage 1952 apron and 
stirring the sauce.

I scrap the weeds and sauce off my fish, then inspect a piece of 
it carefully with my fork before deciding that the salad is much 
safer.

When Linda invited us for dinner, I had no idea I'd actually be 
helping her cook.  I also had no idea that we'd be eating a four 
course meal, including salad, an appetizer, dessert, and white 
wine to drink.

Sarah Anne, James and Linda's daughter, and Emma are in the 
kitchen, dining on canned ravioli, giggling and shrieking with 
delight.  I sip my wine, wondering if they'd share some ravioli 
with me.

"So, Dana," James begins, leaning back in his chair and slinging 
his arm around Linda's shoulders, "what did you do at the FBI?"

I gratefully put down my fork.  "I worked on something called the 
X-Files."  His eyebrows raise.  "They're cases where there's no 
obvious means, motive, or suspect.  Mostly they deal with 
possible paranormal phenomenon."

"So that's where my tax dollars go?" he asks jokingly.

"Well, it was a small division of Violent Crimes.  Just me and my 
partner."

"And you actually believe in that stuff?  The paranormal?"

I look down at my food and wince.  Yes, I do.  I accept the fact 
that science cannot explain everything.  I've witnessed events 
that defy logical, rational explanation and that, according to 
all accepted laws of physics, should never have occurred.  I've 
experienced things that I never would have believed, if I hadn't 
been there myself.

"No.  My partner was the real expert," I say, sipping my wine 
again.

James smiles.  "And you just got tired of all that psychic crap, 
huh?"

My face gets hot and I squint my eyes at him, livid.

"She just couldn't resist me anymore," Ethan says, rubbing 
circles between my shoulders, making them laugh and drop the 
subject.  I just stare at my plate and dissect my fish, pushing 
it around on my plate.

"This is a wonderful dinner, ladies," James declares a few 
minutes later.  It took us almost two hours to prepare it, so it 
damn sure better be good.

"Oh, it was no trouble, was it Dana?"  Linda says, blushing 
slightly.

I take a tiny bite and chew so that I don't have to answer.  Two 
hours preparing a meal that we finish in thirty minutes qualifies 
as a lot of trouble in my book, Mrs. Cleaver.

We finish dinner in silence, and then Ethan and James retire to 
the "game room," leaving Linda and me to clear the table and wash 
the dishes. 

"That's a beautiful ring, Dana," she says, gesturing to my left 
hand, breaking the tense silence.

"Thank you."

"You know, I've really been eager to meet you.  Ethan has talked 
about you constantly for the past two months."  She stops washing 
and turns to me, a serious look on her face.  "He loves you so 
much.  I'm glad you're finally here.  I think you'll be good for 
him."

"What do you mean?"  I ask, my hands suddenly feeling limp in the 
tepid water.

She shakes her head and goes back to washing.  "After what 
happened with Michelle, he just...he almost had a nervous 
breakdown.  I really think that the only thing that stopped that 
was Emma.  She was the only thing that kept him going.  We were 
all so worried about him, and Emma, too.  I believe that a child 
belongs with her mother, but Michelle is not a fit parent.  And 
Ethan...he tries so hard."

I stare out the window above the sink, absently rinsing an 
already well-rinsed plate.

"He needs someone."  She looks at me again.  "I'm glad he found 
you, Dana.  I'm glad that he'll finally be able to be happy 
again."

I turn my head towards hers, meeting her eyes.  "Me, too," I say 
and she nods, both of us returning to our tasks.

As I lay in bed, wrapped in Ethan's arms later that night, I 
realized that I hadn't thought of Mulder the whole day.  Even our 
dinner with what could've been Win and Cammie from The Falls 
didn't remind me of him.

I must finally be getting over him.

<><><><><><>

Ethan promised me this morning that he'd be home by six tonight, 
so I cooked dinner.  Emma helped me, excited by the novelty of a 
family all sitting down for dinner at the same time eating the 
same meal.  While it was cooking, she had the idea that we paint 
our fingers nails - she would do mine, I would do hers.  She 
wanted pink, of course.  I chose pink, too, so that we would 
match.

At six thirty, we all sat down around the big dining room table 
and ate, Ethan repeatedly commenting about how delicious the meal 
was and how beautiful his dining companions were.  It was much 
more enjoyable than our stilted dinner out the other night and I 
found myself laughing and smiling, genuinely having a good time 
with my little family.

Something Linda said that night, and something Emma asked me 
earlier, prompts me to direct our conversation into more serious 
subject matter after Emma finishes and retires upstairs, leaving 
Ethan and me, the wine and the candle light.

"Ethan?"

He chews.  "Yeah?"

"Who's Neil?"

He abruptly puts down his fork and folds his hands, thinking.  
"Who did you hear that from?" 

"Emma."

"Emma?" he asks in disbelief.

"Yeah.  She said that the reason her mother and Neil had to get 
married was because Michelle got pregnant."

He nods and takes a deep breath.  "Yeah.  That's true."

"He was your neighbor?"  I ask, remembering what he told me 
during our first conversation in nearly eight years.

"Yeah.  He was married with two sons and a baby on the way."

"And how did you know that it wasn't your baby she was pregnant 
with?"

He obviously doesn't want to discuss this, but I'm curious.  I 
want to know.  I need to know.  "We weren't really...getting 
along when she told me.  She was only ten weeks - I could do the 
math."

"Oh."  He nods, depressed.  "I'm sorry, Ethan."

"It's okay," he says, reaching across the table for my hand and 
linking our fingers.  "Everything happens for a reason, Dana."

I nod, his thumb stroking the ring on my finger.

"Can I ask you a question now?"  He asks.

"Yeah," I say, wondering what he could possibly want to know.

"Will you tell me about Mulder?"

"Mulder," I repeat slowly.  I hadn't thought of him in days, 
pushing him out of my mind, trying to move on with my life.  
Ethan's simple question brings it all back, though.  The way 
Mulder looked as I left him at the airport, how his voice shook 
slightly as he begged me to stay with him, how he brushed me off 
later, telling me he was busy.

"Yeah.  You two seemed so close."  I nod.  "I want to know some 
more about him."

I pull my hand away from his and tuck them under my legs, trying 
to figure out what exactly to tell him.  "We're best friends."  I 
try not to think about the deep, psychological reasons that I'm 
still speaking about him in the present tense.

"And?" he prompts when I pause.

"And...we are very close.  I told you, it was just me and him all 
these years."

"What do you mean?"

I take a deep breath.  "Well...the work that we did...it was 
very...ambiguous.  A lot of times, it felt like it was just us 
against the evil forces of the world, trying to make the world a 
safer place for humanity."

"By investigating ghost stories and aliens?"

I narrow my eyes at him.  "No.  I told you, there was more to it 
than that.  There's a lot that I haven't told you, that I don't 
think I can tell you.  You wouldn't believe me if I did."  He 
looks at me skeptically.  "Just...okay, the work that we did 
brought us very close together.  He was the only person I could 
trust and I was the only person he could trust."  When I run out 
of things to say, knowing I can't explain this any better, I just 
stop and push my pasta around on my plate.

"Were you ever...closer?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, romantically?"

I freeze, feeling like I was a teenager caught with my boyfriend 
in the back seat of his car.  This is my cue: I should tell him 
about what happened just before I left - Mulder kissing me, 
Mulder telling me that he loved me - but I don't.  My mother was 
right, Ethan doesn't need to know.  And as far as I'm concerned, 
there's no way he'll ever find out.

I wonder if that was Michelle's idea, too.

"No.  No, never romantically," I say softly, not looking at his 
face.  Mulder always told me I was a bad liar - I hope Ethan 
doesn't notice that.

Apparently, he doesn't.  He just nods and picks up his wine 
glass.  "So, what's he doing now that they've closed the X-
Files?"

"He started out at the Bureau profiling; he's very good at it.  I  
think that's what he'll do now."

He nods again and puts his glass down, not drinking any of the 
wine.  "Let's get the dishes cleaned up," he says decisively, 
standing and carrying his plate into the kitchen.

Grinning at me mischievously, he wraps his arms around my waist 
as I'm loading the dishwasher a few minutes later, stopping me 
and drawing me closer to him.  "Why don't you leave those until 
tomorrow?"

"Why?"  I ask him, sounding sexy and coy.

"Because, it's time for bed."  He kissed me behind my ear softly, 
brushing his knuckles against my breasts.

"It's not even eight o'clock yet."

"I didn't say it was time to sleep, I said it was time for bed," 
he clarifies.

"Oh," I say, turning to him and kissing him deeply.

As Ethan loves me, any lingering thoughts of Mulder are expunged 
from my brain, allowing me to focus entirely on my fiance for the 
first time since I left DC.

Yes, I'm finally getting over him.  It's about time.

<><><><><><>

Ethan thought it would be a great idea to invite my mother down 
so that she could see the house and meet her soon-to-be-step-
granddaughter and annoy the hell out of me.  As soon as we picked 
her up from the airport, she and Ethan started discussing wedding 
plans, completely ignoring me, slumping in the back seat.  

When we got home, they set up in the dining room, spreading 
pictures and sample invitations over the table, desperately 
trying to plan everything before Labor Day.

"I'm not wearing white," I tell them for the millionth time, 
thinking that maybe this time, they'll understand.

"I'm not having you get married in a church in front of God not 
wearing white, Dana."

"Mom, I'm almost forty!  People know that I'm not a virgin!"

"Dana!"  She takes a deep breath, regains her composure, then 
looks at Ethan.  "What do you think?  What color should she 
wear?"

He sits back and alternates his eyes between my scowl and my 
mother's lovely, icky-sweet smile.  "I'd like white.  It's more 
traditional, and it will be in a church...I just think it would 
look better," he says slowly.

"Look better to who?  Do you think that people really care?"  I 
ask, standing up and pacing restlessly.  My ass is numb, my legs 
are stiff, and my temper is gone.  

"Thank you, Ethan," my mother replies, looking at me spitefully.  
"You're wearing white, Dana, but you can pick out the dress 
yourself.  I think it would be pointless to ask you to wear a 
train and a veil, but that's up to you."

"Why am I even here?  You two are doing just fine without me," I 
say, walking into the kitchen to get away from them.

"Dana," Ethan calls after me.  "You've put this off long enough.  
We need to get these things taken care of - it's almost 
September."

"Maybe I don't want to get married in September."

He stands quickly, his chair hitting the wall as he pushes it 
back.  "Then what do you want?"

"I want for you to listen to me and to respect my desires and 
opinions!"

"Then tell us what you want."

I want a cigarette.  "I want a small service and I really don't 
care if it's in a church or not.  Just you, me, my Mom, your 
parents, and Emma.  Ten minutes and we're done - wear whatever 
the hell we want, no fancy receptions or decorations or ten mile 
long guest lists."  I turn and face him, my eyes on fire and my 
cheeks flushed with anger.  "That's what I want."

"You're getting married in a church, Dana Katherine.  Your father 
wouldn't stand for anything less," my mother says definitively.  
She's said the magic words: your father.  If my father were here, 
I'd do what ever he wanted without question, just because he 
wanted it and she knows that.  Bitch.

"And you have to have a reception," she continues, sounding like 
the Goddess of Weddings.  "It gives you a chance to mingle with 
your guests, thank them for coming.  It's a celebration, Dana, 
you're supposed to have fun."

"And the church that we'll be getting married in is very dull.  
We'll need to decorate it to make it look nice," Ethan adds.

"I don't give a damn how it looks!"  I shout, stomping back into 
the dining room where we've spread out lists and pictures and 
possible invitations and all that other crap they think we need.  
"All of this," I gesture at the table, "is for kids - young 
people without jobs or kids or ex-wives.  We're adults, Ethan, 
and we have better things to spend our money on than this!  It's 
ridiculous for us to have something like this!"

"That's your opinion," he says calmly.  "But this is my wedding, 
too, and this is what I want."

"Why?  You've already had it!"

"I haven't had it with you," he says softly, walking up behind me 
and massaging my shoulders.  "I don't understand why you don't 
want it.  This is something to be proud of, Dana, and you act 
like you're ashamed to be getting married."

I wince and shrug his hands away.  "Is that it?"  He asks.  "Are 
you ashamed?"

"No."

"Then what?"  He turns me around so that I'm facing him and tilts 
my face up to his.  "Have you changed your mind?"

I open my mouth to answer, but my mother does so for me.  "No, 
Ethan, she hasn't changed her mind.  She's just nervous and 
overwhelmed, aren't you, Dana?"

"No!"  I scream.  "I'm tired of everyone dictating my life for 
me!  I'm tired of people telling me what to do and telling me 
what's best for me!  This is my life!  I can do and say and think 
and feel any fucking thing that I want to!  And I don't want this 
goddamn wedding!  I don't want you living my life for me!"  

I've forgotten whether I'm talking to Ethan or to my mother, but 
it's appropriate for both of them.  They just stare at me 
blankly, waiting for me to finish so that they can continue 
planning the wedding like nothing's happened.  Frustrated and 
angry, I turn and leave the dining room, navigating my way up the 
stairs and into the bedroom, slamming the door and locking it 
behind me.  When I don't hear any footsteps coming to check on me 
or any voices calling me back, I crawl into bed fully clothed and 
pull the covers over my head, shaking and hiccuping from trying 
to hold back my angry sobs.

A couple of hours later, I finally hear Ethan coming up the steps 
and turning the knob on the bedroom door.  Finding it locked, he 
doesn't knock, but just walks down the hall, away from me, 
leaving me alone.

<><><><><><>

A hot, steamy August day had turned into the perfect environment 
for rain, lightening, and thunder that night.  I'd laid in bed, 
curled up tightly to Ethan's back for nearly an hour before I'd 
had to get up and do something.

The lightening was bright, painting the room in an eerie golden-
yellow glow for a split second before fading and leaving me to 
imagine all of the evils that could lurk in the shadows, waiting 
to come for me, to take me and test me again.

I rummage through the closet, looking for something to keep them 
away - a weapon of some kind to protect myself with.  Not finding 
anything, I become frantic, pulling clothes off hangers and 
things down from the shelves, making them crash loudly to the 
floor.  Then, bed springs squeaking and feet shuffling across the 
carpet toward me.

They're coming They're coming They're coming.

I crawl into the farthest corner from the door and huddle against 
the wall, trying to melt into it.  The footsteps get louder and I 
start sobbing and shaking.

Mulder help Mulder They're coming Mulder make it stop Mulder 
where are you Mulder They're here Mulder help!

Another crash of thunder shakes the house and I scream, burying 
my head in my arms and sobbing louder, whispering "Mulder, 
Mulder, Mulder," wondering where he is and why he isn't coming to 
rescue me.

"Dana," I hear from the other side of the closed door.  It didn't 
have a lock, so I'd pushed a shelf in front of it, thinking it 
would keep Them out.

"Go away," I whisper, knowing They can't hear me and wouldn't 
listen even if They could.

"Dana, what the hell is wrong with you?"  The voice asks, angry 
and tired.

Another sob escapes me as more thunder crashes, again vibrating 
the house.

The shelf smashes into the floor as the door opens, a dark, lanky 
figure standing there, searching for me.

"NO!"  I scream, crying and shaking and terrified.  "No, go away!  
Mulder, help!"

"DANA!"  The voice says, coming towards me.

Where's my gun where's Mulder why isn't he here why isn't he 
helping me where is he?

"MULDER!"  I scream again, desperate.  What if They've gotten 
him, too.  What if They got him before They came for me?

"What did you do to him?  Where's Mulder?  Mulder!"  I ask the 
voice and the looming figure that it belongs to.

Strong hands seize me by my shoulders, pulling me out from my 
corner.  My training kicks in and I fight, digging my nails into 
its face and scrapping skin away as I drag them down its cheeks.  
It makes a sound of pain and I wail again, "Mulder!"  It grabs me 
again by my wrists and I kick futilely; it drags me across the 
floor and out into the bedroom, slamming the closet door behind 
us.

Then, it lets me go and walks away.  I crawl towards the bed, 
fitting underneath it and knowing that it's bigger than I am and 
won't be able to follow.  I put my arms over my head and sob into 
the floor, calling for Mulder again.  He's not coming, though.  
He's not coming to help me.

A light comes on then, spilling under the bed and making me turn 
my head towards the window, another rumble of thunder vibrating 
the house.  They're all around me - no way out.  They're taking 
me again and Mulder's not here to save me.

"Dana, get out from under there," the voice yells, grabbing my 
ankle and yanking me towards it.

"No...no, please, don't...not again, no...no..."  I beg, knowing 
that it's pointless.  My body goes limp and I give into it, 
letting it drag towards it, out into the light.

It pins my arms above my head and I squeeze my eyes shut, turning 
my head away.  When it straddles my body, crushing my chest, I 
hold my breath, hoping that it will think it killed me and just 
leave me alone.  "Dana, open your eyes," it commands.  "Dana!  
Open your eyes!"

I hear a door squeak open, then, and a tiny, terrified voice ask, 
"Daddy?"

I open my eyes, wondering what the hell just happened.  Ethan is 
on top of me, his arms pinning me to the floor, blood dripping 
from three parallel scratches on one side of his face.  Emma is 
standing at the door, clutching her white whale and looking at us 
with round, frightened eyes.

"Emma, go back to bed," Ethan says over his shoulder, not taking 
his eyes off me.  "Everything's fine, honey, just go back to 
bed."  She does as she's told, turning away and closing the door.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" he asks, loosening his 
grip on my wrists and moving off of me.  He wipes his cheek with 
his arm and fresh blood pools in the scratches, replacing the 
old.

I say nothing and lay in my prone position, panting, tears 
streaming from my eyes.

He sits back and wipes his cheek again, then holds out his hand 
to me.  "Get up," he says, then takes my arm and pulls me up when 
I refuse to move myself.

He leads me into the bathroom and flips the light switch, turning 
on the faucet in his sink and splashing water on his face, 
wincing when it hits his cheek.

I'm still trembling, cold, and afraid.  The thunder has stopped, 
but the rain is still deluging the house, blocking out the sound 
of the air conditioner and my own sniffs and hiccups.

Calmer but still angry, Ethan turns off the water and comes to 
stand in front of me, leaning down to look into my eyes.  I look 
down, not wanting to meet his, and he jerks my face up again.  
"What happened?"  He asks again, wanting an explanation.

I tremble harder and stutter out, "Lightening...and th-thunder -"

"Dammit, Dana, you're not a child!"  He yells, making me cower 
away from him.  "Is that why you were hiding in the closet?  
You're afraid of thunderstorms?"  I wrap my arms tightly around 
my body.  "Is it?"

I nod furiously.

He sighs and looks at his face in the mirror.  The bleeding has 
stopped, but the scratches need to be disinfected and bandaged.  
His shoulders slump and he takes a deep breath.  "I need to go 
check on Emma - I can't imagine what she thinks about this."

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

He nods, saying nothing, then walks out the bathroom door, 
leaving me alone.

Not wanting to turn out the light in the bedroom, I climb back in 
bed and pull the covers over my head, embarrassed and still 
afraid of the weather outside.  In a few minutes, Ethan comes 
back into the bedroom and turns out the light.  

"You okay?"  He asks, sounding like he doesn't really care and 
reaching for me under the covers.  I don't respond.  "Emma's 
scared.  She wants me to sleep in her room, so..."  His voice 
trails off.

I still don't answer.  He hesitates, then I hear his feet shuffle 
across the carpet and out the door, closing it behind him.

I finally let myself cry, terrified and alone.  Not knowing what 
else to do, I pick up the phone beside the bed and dial the 
familiar numbers, bursting into tears as I hear his pre-recorded 
voice on the other end.  It's been so long since I've heard that 
voice and it immediately makes me feel safer, less alone, less 
afraid. 

"Mulder," I sob into the phone.  "Please, please, pick up the 
phone."  Another sob.  "Please, Mulder...Mulder, I need you.  I 
need to talk to you, please.  Pick up the phone."

Nothing.

"Mulder, please," I beg, openly crying, hoping that he'll take 
pity on me and answer.

Nothing.

I sniff a few times and my sobs quiet.  Pressing my ear harder 
against the receiver, I hope that he'll pick up now, thinking 
that I'm about to hang up and I hold my breath, waiting.

Nothing.

I slowly hang up the phone, unable to believe that someone who 
said so honestly and openly that he loved me more than anything, 
someone who begged me to stay with him, to love him, would treat 
me so carelessly.

He hates me.  He always did.  He was glad when I left, thought he 
was finally rid of me.  He never wants to speak with me again.

I thought I was alone before.  I've never felt more alone than I 
do right now.

<><><><><><>

I never called him again.  He obviously didn't want to talk to 
me, so I gave him what he wanted.  For all I knew, he'd found 
someone to replace me, someone who could fill all of those voids 
in him that I hadn't been able to, someone that he deserved.  I 
wouldn't interfere and I wouldn't interrupt.  If he ever wanted 
to talk to me, he had my email address, he had my new home phone 
number, he had my cell phone number.  He could easily find out my 
new home address and, if he really wanted to, he could come and 
visit me in person.

I never forgot about him, though.  I thought of him constantly.  
Little things that people would say, something I would see on TV 
or read about in the paper, a random memory or silly joke - they 
would all come back to me, assault me day and night, reminding me 
of him, how close we used to be, how much he used to care for me 
and how much I still cared for him.  I would often find myself, 
late at night, picking up the phone and dialing his number, 
hanging up during the first ring.  I would catch myself quietly 
chanting his name to myself for comfort during early morning 
thunderstorms, remembering how safe and protected he'd made me 
feel before by just being near me.  I would look for him where 
ever I went, thinking that he had finally come to see me, to beg 
me to come back to him.

He had told me once that he was free - after he'd found Samantha, 
he'd thought that he was finally able to move on with his life, 
to say good-bye to his sister, to accept her fate.  Later, after 
his date with Alicia, I'd told him that I envied his freedom, 
that I could never be free from what They had done to my sister, 
my daughter, and me.  I believed that I would be forever chasing 
these men - Them - trying to bring them to justice, to make them 
pay to what they had done to me while Mulder went off and lived 
his life, free of the pain and guilt that had haunted him for 
twenty seven years.

But Mulder would never have left me.

I thought that after I married Ethan and started living that 
normal, safe, happy life that I had wanted, every trauma and loss 
that I had suffered would fall away, leaving me free to move on 
and be happy and safe and normal.  I'd told Mulder that Ethan and 
his daughter and his life freed me, but now I don't know how I 
could've been so naive.  Ethan couldn't free me, Emma couldn't 
free me, and this life that we live couldn't free me, not just 
from the loss and pain, but from the person that had suffered 
beside me, supported me, and carried me through for eight years.

I came to the conclusion that, no matter how far I ran, no matter 
how hard I tried, I would never be able to extract him from my 
life, just as I would never be able to erase all of the tragedies 
from my life.  He and they were a part of me, as deeply ingrained 
in my mind as my social security number, as important to me as my 
cherished memories of my father.  I would never be able to let 
Mulder go, no matter how easy it was for him to do that to me.  I 
accepted it and moved on with my life, just as he had done.  But 
there would always be a void there that would go unfilled, that I 
would guard and mourn late at night or early in the morning when 
the world was still and quiet, in my bed with my tears.

Mulder was my safety net, my escape route.  In my mind, I still 
pictured him at the airport, waiting to welcome me back to him, 
to make me a part of his life again.  I'd imagined that I would 
always be able to run to him if things didn't work out, if my 
life with Ethan fell through.  It made me feel safer to think of 
him as always waiting for me, even if it wasn't likely.  The last 
night I called him, I just knew that he'd pick up the phone this 
time, when I needed him the most, and tell me to hang on, that 
he'd be there by sunrise.  He'd do anything that I asked, if he'd 
just picked up the phone.

But he didn't.  I eventually came to realize that he wasn't going 
to be my escape route anymore.  He wasn't going to wait for me to 
come back to him.  He was moving on with his life and leaving me 
behind and, not having any other option, I gave up on wondering 
if I'd done the right thing by leaving him and contented myself 
with my new life, exactly what I'd said I'd wanted.

I continued to tell Ethan that I wanted a small service, just my 
mother, Emma, and his parents.  He disagreed and one day when 
Emma and I returned from soccer practice, every family in the 
neighborhood plus our families were in our living room and 
kitchen, shouting surprise, pouring wine, and handing me gifts.  
He and my mother had planned it all, thinking that I would be 
flattered and overwhelmed, that I would love the surprise.

On Saturday, September second of the year two-thousand, I 
officially became Mrs. Ethan Minette at a large Catholic church 
near our house with our families and his co-workers all present 
to witness it.  Bill gave me away, beaming the entire time.  He'd 
told me before the wedding that Ethan would be good for me.

While we were making the guest list, Ethan casually asked me if I 
wanted to invite Mulder.  I didn't answer, just locked myself in 
the bathroom for an hour, sobbing, while he pounded on the door, 
demanding that I let him in.  When I finally emerged, Ethan asked 
me what was wrong.  I told him that it was just stress and yes, 
that I would like to invite Mulder.  I made out the invitation, 
my hand shaking as I wrote his name in the slowest, neatest 
cursive script I could manage.  See, Mulder?  How well I'm doing 
without you?  How easily I've moved on and forgot about you?  
Almost as easily as you moved on and forgot about me.

The day I mailed the invitations, I stood with his in my hand 
beside the oversized blue mail box at the post office.  I 
couldn't bring myself to drop it in.  I guess a part of me 
thought that it was spiteful and cruel to invite the man who said 
he was irrevocably in love with me to the eternal joining 
ceremony between me and another man.  I still held onto hope the 
he loved me.  I put the envelope into my purse and, when I got 
home, I stuck it in my bed side drawer along with the nameplate 
that he had given me.

As I walked down the aisle on my brother's arm, I searched for 
Mulder in the crowd of people, thinking that he had found out 
about the wedding somehow and that he wouldn't let me go through 
with it.  I pictured him bursting in during the service, as the 
priest asked if anyone objected to Ethan and me being married, 
seizing me and taking me away with him, wherever he was going.  I 
held my breath during the long silence, certain that, at any 
moment, he would come for me, but he didn't.

The closest thing Ethan and I ever got to a honeymoon was a night 
in Atlanta's most expensive hotel.  Emma stayed with friends and 
Ethan made slow, sweet love to me, pouring his soul into me each 
time.  After he'd fallen asleep, I dialed Mulder's number one 
last time, listened to his voice on his answering machine, then 
hung up, went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and cried 
until the water turned cold.

Afterwards, Ethan returned to work and I learned to stifle 
myself, to sacrifice myself, to always agree with and support his 
decisions and opinions.  I got used to my life as a house wife, 
feeling smothered and bored and empty, reminding myself daily 
that what I was doing was important - providing Emma with a 
stable, dependable mother figure, making and keeping a nice home 
for my family.  I cleaned house every week, made sure supper was 
on the table when Ethan got home at night, and went quietly 
insane.

Ethan worked a lot, his schedule always changing to accommodate 
the odd hours and weekends they needed him for, but he always 
told me that he loved me and held me close to him every night as 
he fell asleep, always kissed me before he left every morning.

I was lonely with only my shallow, simple, gossiping fellow 
housewives and neighbors for companionship.  I was sometimes 
jealous of the younger ones, announcing their pregnancies to 
everyone, beaming with pride and expectation.  I still felt 
empty, still felt that, in a way, I was letting Ethan down by not 
being able to give him that.  He never said anything to me about 
it, though, and I never said anything to him.

It was my happy, perfect, fulfilling domestic life, only without 
the happiness, perfection, and fulfillment.  It was exactly as 
I'd imagined my life would've been if I had married him eight 
years ago, like the eight years that we'd spent apart hadn't 
happened at all.

<><><>End Part 3<><><>

Notes: This is NOT the end of this series, so don't get too 
depressed.  I never would've imagined it would be this long and I 
have no idea how much longer it will be, but please stick with it 
and let me know what you think.

The Vent really is a section in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.  
It's so named because you can call a number or send an email 
complaining (or venting) about whatever displeases you.  Back at 
the beginning of season eight, a vent was published that asked, 
"Am I the only one looking for Mulder?"

Thanks: to my wonderful betas RealB, Karri, and Liam, who 
constantly reassure me when I'm having an "I suck" day and who 
gently stalk me the rest of the time.

Feedback: PLEASE!!!  lil_gusty@hotmail.com

Title: Fidelity (1/3)
Classification: SRA
Keywords: S/O, MSR - um, something between UST and RST, AU
Rating: R
Distribution: anywhere, just let me know first
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine, they're Chris Carter's, 
            but he's done for now anyway, so...
Spoilers: None
Feedback: please to lil_gusty@hotmail.com
Thanks: as always, to RealB, Karri, and Liam for betaing.
Note: this is the seventh part of the Trefoil series and yes, 
      you'll be completely confused if you haven't read the other 
      parts.  The other parts can be found at 
      http://sciencex.tzo.com/xf/wips/trefoil.html

Summary: According to my dictionary, fidelity means "adherence to 
         the truth."




<><><><><><>

Do you ever have dreams where you know that you're dreaming?  
That you're just asleep enough to be dreaming, but not awake 
enough to control them?  I used to have dreams like that.  I 
would try and tell myself what to do in the dream, but it would 
never work.  I would never listen to myself.  Like that time I 
dreamed of making love with Ethan in Mulder's bed, calling him 
Mulder, and him not caring.  I told myself not to go into 
Mulder's bedroom, not to pull back the covers, not to climb into 
bed with Ethan, but I did it anyway.

Sometimes I have dreams of waking, getting up, and even being in 
the shower, starting my normal routine.  It seems so real and 
then, when I wake up, I'm still in bed in my pajamas.  It's so 
disappointing, especially when it takes every ounce of strength 
and dedication you have to haul yourself out of bed and drag 
yourself into the shower every morning.

Sleep paralysis comes and goes, less frequent now.  If Mulder is 
correct, that it happens when you fall asleep too slowly or wake 
up too quickly, that's probably the reason that it doesn't happen 
too often anymore.  All I ever seem to do is sleep, though I 
constantly feel exhausted.  I go to bed when Emma does - usually 
around nine - and wake up long after she goes to school.  Right 
now, with his schedule, Ethan is able to take her to school on 
his way to work and I dread that schedule ever changing.  I might 
actually have to get up before noon.

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday are for laundry, so at least I have 
something to do on those days.  Tuesday is free, unless there's 
some sort of function at Emma's school.  She attends a private 
Catholic school about four miles away, Queen of Angels, and her 
teacher is always calling me and asking if I'll bake something or 
come in and help the class with a project.  I've yet to say no, 
but all I ever do is help a struggling student with reading or 
math.  Emma seems to enjoy having me involved in her life and I 
enjoy anything that she enjoys, so I guess it's a nice 
arrangement.

Thursdays, I clean house, whether it needs it or not.  I've 
become sort of a maniac about cleanliness, actually, and the 
floor has been mopped more times in the six months I've been here 
than in the nearly ten years that I lived in my apartment in DC.  
I polish furniture, wash windows, and vacuum around the 
baseboards with those attachments that I never knew what to do 
with before.  On Saturdays, I go grocery shopping, Emma always in 
attendance.  I try and cook balanced, slightly elaborate meals 
everyday except Sunday, when we go out to eat as a family after 
evening Mass.

I pick Emma up from school every day and shuttle her back and 
forth to her various practices, sometimes staying during them and 
talking to the other mothers there.  Occasionally, I keep one of 
the younger children in the neighborhood while their mother goes 
shopping or for a manicure.  I'm dependable, reliable, 
responsible, moral, wholesome, selfless, and devoted.

I've also taken to staring at my razor in the shower, wondering 
how it would feel to drag it across my wrist.
 
Ethan leaves before I wake up in the mornings, though sometimes 
he accidentally wakes me as he gets dressed.  He gets home long 
after I've gone to bed, though he occasionally wakes me as he 
gets into bed and wraps his body around mine.  He still tells me 
he loves me although I rarely hear it.  He claims he's happy and 
I'm glad for that.  At least one of us is.

The other women in the neighborhood, Penny, Sonya, Carrie and 
Linda, invite me to go shopping with them sometimes or out to 
lunch.  I always decline, claiming that I'm busy with some 
unnamed project at home.  They say they're sorry, but they keep 
asking me, and I keep turning them down.

The other day, as I was driving home from soccer practice, a 
commercial came on the radio that featured some of the lines of 
"Joy to the World," the Three Dog Night version.  I griped the 
steering wheel in my fists and hiccuped, trying to hold my tears 
back until we got home.  When we did, I let my tears slowly and 
silently come as I went about cooking dinner, pushing my food 
around on my plate, clearing the table, and loading the 
dishwasher,  all because of a stupid song - the memories, the 
associations - and for the person that sang that song in the 
Florida woods three years ago, the person who is now dead.

On the weekends or the rare days off that Ethan gets, I smile a 
lot, dress in bright colors and style my hair.  We do things as a 
family, even if it's just taking Emma to a movie.  Ethan puts his 
arm around me and steals a kiss when he thinks no one is looking 
and Emma holds my hand as we walk across the parking lot.

On the other days when I'm alone, I stay in my pajamas, pull my 
dull, stringy hair into a pony tail, and huddle under a blanket 
on the couch all day, only moving for mundane household chores.  
I cry a lot, sometimes for no reason, and I don't eat.

I don't have nightmares as often anymore.  That's one good thing.

<><><><><><>

The ringing of the phone is what woke me up.  When I finally 
climb through the layers of unconsciousness and reach out for it, 
the person on the other end has almost given up.

"'Lo?"  I slur out, still not quite awake.

"Ma'am, this is your Greystone Security Monitoring Station, is 
everything all right?"

"Huh?"  What the hell is this way-too-cheery person for - I look 
at the clock - almost one in the afternoon talking about?

"Your alarm system went off, do you need the police?"

I sit straight up in bed, my eyes going wide.  "The alarm went 
off?"  And it didn't wake me?  Shitshitshitshitshitshit.

"Yes, ma'am, do you need the police?"

I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling her that I am the 
police.  It's been nearly seven months since I quit my job at the 
FBI, yet I still think of myself as a gun-toting, ass-kicking 
Federal Agent.  "The alarm didn't go off," I say, my breath 
coming in nervous shallow pants.  

My ears pick up every tiny noise and my mind interprets them as 
someone stalking slowly across the carpet, someone trying to 
break a window to get inside the house, someone unsheathing a 
knife, someone wanting to kill me.

"Are you sure?"  The woman asks, patient concern turning into 
annoyance.

"Yeah."  I guess.  I tend to sleep pretty deeply these days.

"Well, there may be a problem with your system.  Are you sure you 
don't need the police?"

The floor outside the firmly closed door creaks and I jump, my 
breath catching.  "Yeah, I'm sure," I finally tell her.

After giving her my password, she hangs up, telling me that 
someone will call later to set up an appointment to have the 
system checked out.  I'm out of bed as soon as I put the phone 
down, rummaging through the closet, trying to find some sort of 
weapon, anything I can use to defend myself.  Finding nothing, I 
steal myself for a physical fight, hoping that my eighty-five 
pound frame can match whoever is outside.

Slowly, I open the bedroom door, standing behind it as I do.  
When no one enters and I hear no footsteps in the hall 
approaching, I cautiously walk around the door and step outside, 
straining my ears for the faintest sound.  I slide along the 
walls, checking under beds and peaking into each room the way 
they taught us to do at the Academy, opening closet doors loudly 
and quickly, slamming them shut when I find nothing.

Repeating the same actions downstairs, I come to the conclusion 
that no one is in the house, that the monitoring station 
reporting an alarm was just some sort of error.  The adrenaline 
fades quickly and, as I climb the stairs, the edges of my vision 
fade to black and my head gets heavy.  I sag against the rail and 
sink to the floor, arms clutching my suddenly-rolling stomach.  I 
cough - dry heave, really - then unsteadily climb to my feet a 
few minutes later.  Finally in the shower, I sit down after 
washing my hair, too weak to continue to stand.

I can't believe that Ethan doesn't have some sort of weapon in 
this house - a knife or even a baseball bat.  What if someone 
were to break in, how we would defend ourselves?

Roswell Gun Specialty, 11240 Alpharetta Highway.  My brain is 
buzzing - which one is Alpharetta Highway again?

The short, pudgy, scraggly looking man behind the counter eyes me 
as soon as I pull into the parking lot, probably wondering why 
someone like me is at a place like this.  He scans me up and down 
and back again when I walk in, grinning, his beer belly 
stretching the deer-and-Confederate battle emblem design on his 
T-shirt, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose.  Leaning over 
the counter towards me, he says, "Afternoon, ma'am," in a thick 
southern drawl, not ashamed of the leer in his voice.  "What can 
I help you with?"

So, this is what Frohike would look like as a redneck.  "I'm 
looking for a hand gun, a Sig or a Glock.  Nine millimeter, 
something that can be concealed.  Semi-automatic."

Standing upright and apparently taken off guard by my detailed 
knowledge of firearms, he comes around the counter and over to a 
dirty glass showcase with several Sigs behind it.  I look them 
over, then move on to a showcase of Walther PPKs, asking about 
prices.  The Sigs are slightly more expensive, but I'm more 
familiar with them, so I ask the man if I could hold one, try out 
the grip.

He scans me once more, probably deciding that I look harmless 
enough, then goes back to the counter for the keys.

The gun that he hands me is a Sig 229, exactly what I carried at 
the Bureau.  Its weight is familiar and desperately missed in my 
hand and I know immediately that I must have this weapon.

"There'll be a five day waitin' period 'for you kin take 'at 
home, ma'am," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the 
world.

"Actually, I'm licensed to carry all small fire-arms."  Another 
incredulous look.  "I'm a former FBI agent."

He leans back over the counter again, cocking his head and 
grinning disgustingly.  "Cute li'l thing like you?  An FBI 
agent?"

I realize that he's not looking at my eyes but at my breasts.  
"Yes," I tell him, getting annoyed and slightly dizzy.  "You can 
call the Bureau and ask for my personnel file."

His grin lessens slightly when I tilt my head down to meet his 
eyes.  "I'll do that," he says with a wink, turning around and 
picking up the phone.

As he's talking, my eyes flit over a bulletin board near the 
counter.  Two advertisements for shooting ranges dot the board, 
one in Marietta and one in Dallas, where ever those are.  The man 
hangs up the phone and in an unexpected tone of respect, says, 
"All right, ma'am, here you go."  He hands over my gun and asks 
if I want extra clips.  Yes, I do, and he adds them to my total.

"These shooting ranges," I say, gesturing towards the 
advertisements, "which is the closest?"

"One in Maretter is closer but the one in Dallas'll take you less 
time to get there."

"Can you give me directions, then?"

A bit surprised that I asked, he dutifully grabs a piece of paper 
and draws me a sloppy map, then reminds me to have a good day 
before I leave.

I certainly will, I think, as I climb back into my tank and 
decipher the directions that he gave me.  Laundry can wait for a 
few hours today.

<><><><><><>

These women are starting to rub off on me - I'm waiting for 
Emma's cheernastics practice to end, filing my nails.  Next thing 
I know, I'll be painting them, too.  I'd figured out a long time 
ago that, with traffic the way it is around here, it's more 
practical to just stay and wait than it is for me to drop her off 
then come back later.

If I try hard, I can still smell the gun power on my fingers.  My 
aim isn't as good as it used to be, of course, but I can still 
incapacitate the target.  At the Academy, they teach us to aim 
for middle mass but not to shoot to kill.  I could probably hit 
an arm or a leg, which hurts like hell and could mean substantial 
blood loss.

A memory appears in my head, of a deafening gunshot, then the 
sickening sound of the bullet meeting flesh and Mulder crying 
out, falling, and laying still on the cold, wet ground.  Boggs 
had warned him to stay away from the white cross, that his blood 
would spill on the white cross.  He almost bled to death, the 
bullet severing an artery.  After only having worked together for 
twenty-two months, I was already terrified to lose him.  I stayed 
by his side as much as possible at the hospital and was there 
when he finally woke up and was lucid.  How many times had I done 
that?  Watched as his eyes slowly came into focus, for his nerves 
to register my hand in his, for his lips to form a small, painful 
grin?  Once, he told me he loved me.

He lied to me.

We get home at six thirty and I fix dinner, Emma's favorite, 
macaroni and cheese - from scratch, not a box.  I have Lean 
Cuisines stocking the freezer for those rare occasions that I 
feel like eating; Ethan usually eats at work, before he comes 
home.  At seven, I run Emma's bath, then get ready for bed myself 
as she plays in the tub, pretending to bathe.  No homework 
tonight, so at seven forty five, she settles into her bed and I 
sit beside her, holding a book while she tried to read.  At eight 
thirty, she's thoroughly tired and I turn her lamp off, close her 
door, then retire to my bedroom.  Before I climb into bed, I make 
sure that my gun is still in the drawer in my bed-side table, 
safety on, clip in, then pull the covers over my shivering body 
and stare out the window, at the deep orange sun peaking through 
the cracks in the blinds.

I had a good day today - got a lot accomplished, spent time with 
Emma, remembered Mulder.  I haven't done that last one in a 
while.  I'd tried my damnedest to forget him after Ethan and I 
married and sometimes, I was successful.  I managed to forget the 
way he would smile when he was happy, a rarity in itself.  I 
forgot the way his eyes looked when he was upset or depressed - 
like a lost little boy at a shopping mall, desperate to find his 
mother.  I forgot about his late night phone calls, about telling 
him that I wasn't asleep when he apologized for waking me even 
thought he really had.

I guess if I remember these things now, I really haven't 
forgotten them.

I wonder what he's doing tonight.  Is he out in the field in a 
dirty motel room in some small, backwoods town, fighting his way 
into a serial killer's mind?  Is he in his apartment, laying on 
his couch, watching "World's Deadliest Swarms?"  Is he thinking 
of me?  Is he missing me, wondering what I'm doing right now?  
Maybe he's at home in bed, alone, or maybe he's with someone, 
clinging to her desperately and begging her not to leave him, not 
to ever leave him.  Maybe he's forgotten about me, glad that his 
eight years of unpleasantness are over and that I'm out of his 
life.

My nightly ritual of crying myself to sleep begins and I turn 
over onto my stomach, burying my head in the pillow, thinking of 
Mulder.

The other day, I called his apartment after one o'clock in the 
morning, just to hear his voice.  I knew he wouldn't answer, but 
I wanted him to know that I'm still trying to be here for him, 
whenever he needs me.

I hope he remembers that about me, if it's the only thing he 
remembers.  That I'm here, no matter what, even if he's not there 
for me anymore.

He was so close to me and I never realized it.  He was there and 
I never took advantage of it.  He loved me and I never believed 
it.  I loved him and I always denied it.

I can't remember now when I realized that I loved him, really 
loved him, like he said he really loved me.  It was probably 
during one of these late-night cries as I was replaying the last 
day I saw him in my mind, trying to imagine how his mouth tasted 
and what it felt like for him to hold me against him.  I tried to 
pretend that it was him behind me, spooning with me, instead of 
Ethan.  Once, I'd pretended that it was him inside me instead of 
Ethan.  That had been the last time that I'd had an orgasm during 
sex.

I guess I always thought that I was too good for Fox "Spooky" 
Mulder, the emotionally scarred and overly dependent, selfless 
hero.  I thought I deserved better than to fall in love with 
someone who couldn't give me material things or who wouldn't have 
met with my father's definition of a good husband.  Ethan fit my 
father's model, but Mulder would've only infuriated Ahab, to him, 
another stage of my rebelliousness.  I wanted so badly to please 
him, even after his death, that I repressed my true feelings, my 
true desires for Mulder.

I wonder if my father would be proud of me, his depressed, 
anorexic, suicidal Starbuck with the devoted, loving husband and 
the beautiful, bright step-daughter.

Exhausted, I finally fall into a fitful sleep, hoping not to 
awake until long after my devoted, loving husband and bright, 
beautiful step-daughter have left for the day.

<><><><><><><>

"I'm gonna execute every one of you...shut up and do it!"

Nonononono.  "Mulder," I beg him, but he doesn't listen.  He 
falls back against the wall, his head sagging to his chest.

"It's all on you, now.  It's your fault he's dead," Lula tells 
me, taking the gun from Mulder's limp fingers and pointing it 
towards me.

"No!  Mulder -"

Then the shot and I wake up, sitting straight up and shrieking 
weakly, sweating, my heart pounding out of my chest.

"Hey, sorry.  I didn't mean to wake you," a soft voice in the 
darkness tells me.  Footsteps across the carpet as Ethan walks 
towards the bed.  "You okay?"

I take a deep, shaky breath.  "Yeah."

He sits down and kisses my forehead, stroking my shoulders.  "I 
accidentally slammed the door when I came in.  Did I scare you?"

I nod, covering my face with my hands and trying to stop shaking.

"Sorry," he says again.  "Lay back down.  I'll be back in a 
minute."  I do as he says - as always - and pull the covers up to 
my chin, glancing at the clock.  It's only a little after ten.

As promised, he emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later and 
lays down beside me wearing only his briefs.  He curls up to my 
side, sliding his arms around me and nuzzling my neck with his 
nose.  "This is the first time you've been awake in a while," he 
whispers.  "I've missed you."

I inwardly sigh and turn towards him, dutifully dragging my hands 
down his chest to his groin, stroking the already prominent bulge 
there.  He latches his mouth to my neck and sucks lightly - it 
should feel good, it used to feel good, but Ethan stopped waiting 
on me a long time ago.  In the beginning, he said he was just too 
tired to last, that he would make it up to me later.  Then, he 
just stopped making promises he had no intention of keeping.

He pulls away and wiggles out of his briefs while I divest myself 
of my pajama pants and panties.  The cool night air sneaks in 
underneath the covers and I shiver, goosebumps rising on my 
exposed legs.  He rolls back towards me and gathers me in his 
arms, holding me tightly against him, his erection hot and ready 
at my stomach.  "Cold?" he asks perfunctorily.  I don't respond, 
just turn onto my back.  Let's get this over with.

He rolls on top of me, supporting his weight on his elbows, his 
knees keeping mine apart.  He nudges my entrance, but doesn't 
seem bothered by the fact that I'm almost completely dry, not 
aroused at all.  Latching onto my neck again, he pushes in with 
one hard, splitting thrust, making me bite back a gasp of pain.  
Just a few minutes and it will be over, I remind myself as I hook 
my legs around his waist, urging him on.

After five minutes and twenty four seconds, he moans and 
increases his pace, then shutters as he comes, collapsing onto me 
when he's finished.  His breathing goes from frantic and erratic 
to deep and even in a matter of seconds, then he moves off of me, 
spooning behind me and kissing the back of my neck.  "Dana..." he 
whispers a few minutes later, still seeping out from between my 
legs and soaking into the sheets.

"Hmm?"

"Love you."

I pull his arms tighter around me: for now, it's enough.

<><><><><><>

These people have cook-outs for every occasion known to man.  
Whatever holiday, birthday, minor, unknown religious celebration, 
there's always a grill lit and meat ready to be burnt on it.  
They decorate someone's backyard (thankfully, not ours yet) and 
spread red-checked tablecloths - real fabric, not the cheap 
plastic - over picnic tables and pass around glasses of White 
Zinfandel.  Don't these people know that you have beer with 
hamburgers and hot-dogs?

I had a good day again today.  Ethan didn't have to work since it 
was a Sunday, so we stayed in bed wrapped in each other's arms 
until Emma woke up and demanded to be fed.  I actually ate 
breakfast - made-from-scratch pancakes and sausage - then put on 
my white Capri pants, pink tank top, and matching pink sandals 
and headed over to Sonya's house.  I feel good, today, like I 
belong, like I'm right where I should be.

Our contribution to the party - well, actually mine, since Ethan 
isn't the one who shops for groceries - is a case of beer.  It is 
Saint Patrick's Day, after all, and I am part Irish.  When I set 
them in the cooler, Spencer came over and volunteered to put them 
in the refrigerator instead, claiming they'd stay colder.  I took 
one, popped it open, and asked if he'd like one.  He looked 
horrified and quickly disappeared into the house.

He and the rest of the men are crowded around the grill, dressed 
in their khaki pants and polo shirts, pretending to be geniuses 
at grilling.  So far, they've used two canisters of lighter fluid 
and burnt four hot-dogs to a crisp.  They look so silly - Ethan 
too - and I suddenly wish I'd brought bottled beer instead of 
canned, just so I can flip the caps at them.  I'd miss, though.  
Mulder has better aim.

No, dammit, I will NOT think of him.  Not today.  I'm having a 
good day.  I'm having a good day.  I'm having a good day.

I wonder what Mulder's doing today.  During our movie nights, one 
of us would buy a six-pack of beer - bottled - and I would always 
end up drink four and a half, he only finishing one whole bottle.  
More than once, I'd woken up in his bed with a hangover.  I asked 
him why he didn't drink much on one of these mornings and he told 
me that his father had become an alcoholic after Samantha had 
disappeared, which I knew.  He also told me some things that I 
didn't know, like how his mother would be terrified of his father 
when he was drunk, how he would come in from the carriage house, 
where he would do all of his drinking, demanding to kiss her 
goodnight before he went to bed.  He would chase his mother 
around the house, stumbling over his feet and knocking things off 
tables and shelves.  His mother would try and hide in closets or 
lock herself in the bathroom, but he always managed to get to her 
somehow.

Once, when Mulder was fifteen, he'd tried to defend his mother 
and wound up with a black eye and six stitches in one of his 
arms.  Since then, he'd said, he'd been terrified of drunks, too, 
and was determined not to become one himself.

I remember wondering if he was afraid of me when I was drunk and 
swore that I would never be drunk in front of him again.

Well, so much for my good day.

We sit down to eat, all of the adults sitting at two tables 
pushed together, the kids at a table by the covered pool.  We're 
crowded in like sardines, but with the moderate amount of alcohol 
in our bloodstreams, we're laughing and don't mind the 
discomfort.

"Great food, boys," Carrie says, making all of us girls giggle 
and flake the blackened crust off of our meat.

"I'd like to see y'all try it next time," Jason teases.  I guess 
it's an unofficial rule that one couple has to say those exact 
same lines at every one of these get-togethers.

"So, how's newlywed paradise?"  Mike asks Ethan, not me, from the 
far end of the table.

"Great," he responds, slinging his arm around my shoulder and 
getting greasy finger prints all over my new shirt.  Wonderful, 
those will never come out.

"You two thinking about more kids?" someone asks, just making 
casual, polite conversation.

I cough, choking on my food and reaching for my beer, the only 
one at the table.  Blaming my suddenly moist eyes on the choking, 
I bow my head, my good day now officially shot to hell.  It's 
always something.  Mulder, nagging infertility...

"We're, uh, thinking about," Ethan says carefully, smiling 
looking at me as if nothing's wrong.

"I'm sure Emma would love a little brother or sister to play 
with," someone else says, drawing murmuring agreements from 
everyone else.

Yes, she would.  She deserves one.

Ethan smiles again, looking away from me.  "We're working on it," 
he assures everyone, then they all return to eating as if the 
world just didn't stop turning.

I just sit, eyes staring at my hands folded in my lap, anger 
making my blood boil.  My breath comes in increasingly loud and 
shallow pants, my face drawing into a tight scowl, my eyes 
squinting.

"Dana," Ethan asks a few minutes later, "aren't you gonna 
finish?"

I snap my head towards him, raising my voice so that everyone, 
even the boisterous children, can hear.  "Why did you tell them 
that?"

The activity around me ceases, everyone's mouths hanging open at 
my outburst, gazes riveted to me and him, wondering what the next 
move will be.

"What do you mean?" he asks innocently.

I stand, swaying as I do.  I must be drunker than I thought.  
"You know that we can't."

"Dana, calm down," he says, like he's scolding Emma for splashing 
water in the bathtub.

"No!  You KNOW that we can't, Ethan, why didn't you tell them 
that?"  Hiccup.  "Why did you lie?"

He glances over his shoulder at everyone and shrugs slightly, 
exonerating himself from blame by claiming ignorance.

"I'm infertile,"  I tell them, head held high.  "I can't have 
children."  Hiccup.  "I was abducted.  My ova were taken from 
me."  Not that they know what ova are.  "They were used in secret 
experiments to create an -" hiccup "alien -" hiccup "human 
hybrid.  I m-" hiccup "may have hundreds of children all over the 
wo-" hiccup hiccup "world that I know nothing about.  That's the 
tr-" hiccup "truth."  I stamp my foot for emphasis, hiccuping 
again for good measure.  "Isn't it, Ethan?"  I finish, grinning 
at him snidely.

He leans his elbow on the table and massages his forehead with 
his finger tips, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a 
long, embarrassed sigh.  "She's drunk," he says softly to 
everyone, whose eyes are round with confusion, fear, and what 
looks like pity.

"We're going home," he decides, standing and yanking me by my 
elbow.  "Spencer, do you think Emma could stay with you for the 
night?"

"Of course," Spencer says.  Ethan's not paying attention, though; 
he's dragging me across the yard and down the street.

"How dare you!"  He explodes once we're inside the house.  "How 
dare you embarrass me in front of everyone like that!  What is 
wrong with you, Dana?"

I hiccup again.  "I'm drunk, remember."

"That's no excuse!  That in itself is embarrassing, but then to 
go and tell people those crazy stories of yours, what the hell 
were you thinking?"

I get right in his face, remembering that courage is found in a 
bottle.  "They're not stories!  They're the truth!"

"Dana, there is no such thing as aliens, you know that.  That," 
he spits the word, "Mulder filled your head with all of that 
bullshit.  I don't know what happened to you, but -"

"Mulder did not fill my head with bullshit!  Mulder is the only 
person who believes me because he's the only person that knows 
the truth!  He's the only one that understands what I've been 
through because he's been through it too, right beside me!  He's 
always been right beside me, Ethan, and all you ever do is call 
me a liar!  Well, fuck you, Ethan!  You won't believe the truth!"

I had started out livid and yelling so loud that all of our 
perplexed neighbors could hear, but end up sinking to the floor 
in a quivering, bawling pile of sadness.

"Well, why did you ever leave him, then, if he's the only one 
that can understand?"  Ethan asks calmly, looking at me huddling 
into the wall, fists clenching and unclenching in anger.

"I don't know," I sob, not sure if he can understand and hoping 
he can't.  He turns away regardless, going up the stairs and 
slamming the bedroom door behind him, leaving me to keen and cry 
like a wounded animal all alone in the dark forest, waiting for 
another to come and rescue it.

<><><><><><>

It's illegal to call someone and hang up when his answering 
machine comes on twenty times in a row.  Harassment, I think, 
praying that he'll answer the next time, if only to tell me to 
stop calling.

I've come to the conclusion that God hates me.  Mulder believed 
in previous lives and if he's right, which he usually is, I 
must've done something really, really horrible in one of my past 
lives to warrant such disdain and loathing from Him in this one.  
As if my outburst and emotional break down weren't enough today, 
as I was flipping through the TV stations at two o'clock in the 
morning, I happened across the very beginning of that episode of 
COPS that Mulder and I were on.

Ethan had never come back downstairs, to apologize or to check on 
me, so I'd crawled to the bathroom, threw up the alcohol and 
meager food I'd managed to eat, then crawled to the couch and 
pulled the blanket down over my frail, shivering body.  Not able 
and not wanting to sleep, I turned on the TV a few hours ago and 
have been surfing ever since, desperate for something to take my 
mind off of this.

They thought that we were the ones who'd overturned that police 
cruiser.  They cornered us and confiscated our weapons before 
they'd realized who we were, Special Agent Fox Mulder and Special 
Agent Dana Scully, FBI.  After that, they seemed glad to have us 
aboard the investigation, unlike most local law enforcement who 
see the FBI as invading their territory.  At the time, I hated 
being on camera, hated Mulder looking foolish and crazy on 
camera, but now I'm glad they caught these moments so that I can 
relive them over and over again.

I never realized before how commanding Mulder's presence was.  I 
always think of him as my shy, soft spoke, gentle, emotional 
partner, dependent on praise and hypersensitive to criticism.  To 
me, he'd always blended into the background, never creating nor 
demanding attention, yet somehow always gathering it from others, 
gaining respect and admiration along the way.  He did it 
unobtrusively and almost reluctantly, but I knew that it meant a 
lot to him for others to regard him in those ways.

On camera, though, I see now how he just exudes an air of 
intelligence and depth, of compassion and understanding.  From 
the way that he carefully told Ms. Gutierez that we'd catch the 
"claw monster" to the way that he gentle but firmly probed 
Chantara into giving us information about her boyfriend, who we 
thought was perpetrating the crimes, it was obvious how dedicated 
he was not only to finding his proof of the paranormal, but to 
protecting and comforting the people that he met.  The camera was 
immediately drawn to that tone of balanced authority, showing the 
world that someone cares for their safety and well-being.

He could be so passionate and determined, but he could be so 
gentle and tender, too.  When he imposes his looming figure on 
Chantara, not to intimidate her, but to make her feel safe and 
secure, I'm reminded of the countless times that he did that to 
me: corner me in his office when it was clear that I was having a 
bad day.  He'd lower his voice and lightly touch my shoulder, 
asking in just the right way what was wrong so that I would tell 
him.  Then, he'd reassure me, he'd help me, he'd be there.

He always said that I was the strongest person he knew, but he 
never realized the strength within himself that I drew on time 
after time.

The woman on the screen beside him and I only have two things in 
common, our first name and our love and devotion for Mulder.  She 
seems to be a world away from the fragile, weak woman I've become 
and I wonder what he would think of me now, if he would still see 
me as the strongest person he knows.  I can't even remember a 
time when I felt like that woman on the screen; I wonder if he 
would even recognize me.

Why aren't you here now, Mulder, when I need you the most?

<><><><><><>

The sun is so bright, the sand is so warm.  The ocean is a 
perfect clear blue, the sound of it crashing onto the beach 
comforting.  There's a little boy with dark hair, maybe eight, 
and a little girl with slightly wavy red hair, maybe five.  
They're building a sand castle, but it's huge - they couldn't be 
doing this alone.  And where are their parents?  Kids this young 
shouldn't be out here all alone.

I see a man, then, tall with the same dark hair as the boy, 
walking towards them from the ocean with a large bucket.  When he 
gets to the kids, he dumps the bucket, full of sand, into the 
center of the construction and starts helping the kids fortify 
the outer walls.  He looks up, smiles, and says brightly, "C'mon, 
Scully, you're missing all the fun."

Go to him, I tell myself.  He's calling you, go to him.  But I 
don't listen, I just stand there, watching them, so happy and 
innocent.

Mulder keeps staring at me, then rises to his feet and dusts the 
wet sand off of his jeans.  He walks right up to me, so that 
we're almost nose to nose before turning and standing beside me, 
watching the kids with me.  "You were a cute kid," he says 
softly, leaning into to speak over the waves.

"That's me?"  I ask him, finally looking into his bottomless 
green eyes.

"Yep, and that boy is me."

Instead of working on two separate sections of the castle and 
meeting in the middle, the kids are working side by side, helping 
each other complete the most minute of tasks before moving on.

"We work well together, don't we?" he asks, seeming proud and so 
happy.

I just nod.

"We always did, Scully."

I look at him again, wondering why he's speaking in the past 
tense.

"You gonna come help us out, now?  We can't finish without you."

Yes, I want to scream.  I want to run to him, to the kids, to the 
castle and help them.  I'll do whatever he wants.

I just stand there, not speaking, until he hangs his head and 
sighs, scuffing one bare foot in the sand.  "What happened to 
you, Scully?" he asks sadly, not waiting for an answer before he 
ambles back towards the kids, kneeling to help them again.

Despite his bigger hands, he's building much slower than they 
are.  After a few minutes, he sits back on his heels and wipes 
his hands on his thighs, looking defeated.  He looks at me again, 
then says something I can't hear to the kids, who turn their 
little heads and look at me sadly.  Mulder stands, then, and 
walks towards the ocean, never looking back.

<><><><><><>

"Dana?"  A stern voice asks, shaking my shoulder harder than 
necessary.

I bite back my "M," changing it instead to an "E".  "Ethan?"  I 
ask, still half asleep.

"Yeah, wake up."

I open my eyes slowly, adjusting easily to the dimness of the 
living room, pale pink and orange pieces of sunrise coming in 
through the blinds behind the couch.  "What?"

He sits beside me, then runs his fingers through his still-damp 
hair.  "We need to talk," he says softly, tucking the blanket 
around my shoulders and brushing a piece of hair off of my 
forehead.

I blink at him, wanting him to go first so that I know what we 
need to talk about.

"I'm worried about you," he says slowly, seeming nervous.

"Why?"

"Because...you're not eating.  All you ever want to do is sleep.  
You have these dreams.  Little things seem to scare you.  You cry 
all the time."

I just nod.

"Dana, are you happy?" he finally asks in exasperation.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, wondering how long I can 
put this off.  "Yes," I say after a few seconds, trying to inject 
some vehemence into my voice.

"Really?"  He brushes another piece of hair away from my face, 
cupping my hollow cheek in his palm, stroking just under my eye 
with his thumb.

"Yes,"  I say again.

"You don't act like it."

"I just...this isn't how I thought it would be."

He cocks his head, looking confused.  "What do you mean?"

"This...isn't how I thought it would be."  I know that I haven't 
explained it any better, but if I knew how, I would.

"So, you're not happy?"

"I didn't say that."  I sit up, pulling the blanket with me and 
sliding my fingers underneath his hand at my cheek, twining my 
fingers with his and pulling them down to my lap.

We just sit in silence, staring at each other for long minutes, 
before he slowly leans in a kisses me like he did before we were 
married, deep, reverently, lovingly.  He pulls back slightly and 
whispers against my lips, "I love you," before kissing me again 
the same way.

"I know that this...adjustment...has been hard for you, but I 
think it's getting better, don't you?"

"Yes," I answer him, knowing it's a lie and not caring.

"Promise me that you're still trying.  That you'll keep trying," 
he says.

"I promise."

He sits back, away from me.  "I'm sorry about what happened 
yesterday."

"Me, too."

"They were just being polite, trying to break the ice.  No one 
really cares if we have more kids."

"We can't, Ethan," I remind him, in case he's forgotten.

He nods.  "I know.  But they didn't have to know that."

"Are you ashamed?"

"No.  No, Dana, of course not."  He brings his hand back to my 
cheek, stroking again.  "Why would I be?"

"Because you want more children."

He takes a deep breath before answering.  "Yes, I do.  I did," he 
quickly corrects.

"But you knew.  I told you that I couldn't.  You knew that."

He nods again, one of those shut-up-and-let-me-finish nods.  "But 
I didn't know why."

"I told you!"  I raise my voice, desperate for him to understand.

"Was I actually supposed to believe that story?  About aliens 
taking all of your eggs?"

Not again.  "Ethan, it's the truth.  Why would I lie about that?"

He looks away from me, staring at the closed blinds instead.  
"Maybe because something happened.  Maybe that infection you had 
after the," he swallows, "abortion did something to you.  Maybe 
it," another swallow, "damaged something and that caused you to 
be unable to conceive."

I enunciate all of my words clearly and precisely, thinking that 
maybe that will help.  "No, Ethan, They -took- my ova.  They 
harvested them from me.  I remember...I remember Them doing these 
things to me."

"Okay," he strokes my cheek again, placating me.

"I do!"

"Okay, Dana."

Hot, frustrated tears start to spill out of my eyes and I 
savagely wipe them away.  Ethan helps, leaning in and tenderly 
sponging one away with his tongue, then trying a different 
tactic.  "How do you know that you're infertile?"

"Before I started my chemo -"

"Chemo?" he asks, his eyes going wide and his mouth dropping 
open.

That's right, I never told him.  "About four years ago, I was 
diagnosed with an inoperable tumor.  Cancer."

He closes his mouth and covers his face with his hands, nodding 
for me to continue.

"Before I started, my oncologist recommended that I have some of 
my ova harvested and cryogenically frozen so that if, in the 
future, I wanted to have children, I would have healthy, viable 
ova, but when I went to the gynecologist, she told me that she 
couldn't find any ova, that I was barren.  Later, Mulder and I 
learned that the other women that I was abducted with had all 
undergone treatments for infertility, that as part of the 
experiments They did on us, They left us infertile."

At the mention of Mulder's name, Ethan's face hardens and he 
shakes his head in something akin to disgust.  "Did you ever get 
a second opinion?" he asks.

"No.  I didn't see a reason to."  The gynecologist was 
trustworthy, the oncologist wasn't.

He nods again, then looks back at me.  "Well, it wouldn't hurt," 
he declares, standing and leaning over the couch to open the 
blinds, conversation apparently over.

"I don't want to, Ethan."

"Well, I do," he snaps, walking into the kitchen.

"It's my body, I make the decisions."

"And this is our future, Dana, mine and yours.  I have a say, 
too."

"No," I tell him firmly.  "Absolutely not.  I've been through 
this before, I know that I can't have children, and I will not go 
through that again."

I pivot my body on the couch so that I'm facing him again, his 
hands braced on the counter and his eyes closed.  "I don't have 
time to discuss this right now, we'll talk about it later," he 
finally says decisively, which means that he'll just wait for me 
to give into what he wants.  With a lingering, unsettling look at 
me, he picks up his jacket from the kitchen table and walks out 
the garage door, not bothering to kiss me goodbye.

<><><><><><>

There's a good reason that I'm sitting on the top step in the 
middle of the night aiming my gun at the darkness.  I heard a 
noise.  It could just be the house settling, or Mulder might say 
that it was a poltergeist, but it could be a serial killer or a 
kidnapper or a robber or Them.

Someone from the security company came out and checked the system 
the other day.  He claimed that, like a smoke detector, when the 
battery back-up was low, the system would send an alarm system to 
the monitoring station letting them know.  He replaced the 
battery and asked if I had any questions.  No, I told him, but 
thank you.

I don't trust this thing.  It can be bypassed with special codes, 
the wires can be rerouted or simply cut, the sensors can be 
disabled.  A much more suitable means of home protection is a 
dependable weapon and the knowledge of how to use it.

And that's why I'm sitting on the top step in the middle of the 
night aiming my gun at the darkness.

After another hour of my vigil, Ethan realizes that his little 
furnace isn't in bed with him and comes looking for me.  Catching 
me by surprise, I turn around, stand, and aim my gun at him in 
one fluid motion, only feeling slightly dizzy, which is an 
improvement.

"Dana, what the hell are you doing?"  He whispers in a loud, 
slightly fearful voice.

I drop my arm, the gun brushing my leg.  "I heard a noise and 
came to see what it was," I explain, struggling to get control 
over my breathing again.

"Where did you get that thing?"

"This?"  I ask, holding the gun up as the example.

"Yes, that."

"I bought it.  We need some sort of weapon in this house."

"For what?"  He asks incredulously.

"For protection."

"We have the alarm -"

"Which isn't very effective," I interrupt.

He puts his hands on his hips and shifts his weight to one foot, 
saying sternly, "I don't want that thing in my house.  What if 
Emma found it?"

"She won't.  I keep it hidden and it has a safety."

He shakes his head, not satisfied.  "No, Dana, I want that thing 
out of my house first thing tomorrow.  We don't need something 
like that, it's ridiculous."

"How ridiculous will is be when someone is slitting your throat 
as you sleep?"  I ask, feeling a twinge of my old self, that 
woman with Mulder on COPS reappear.  No one takes Agent Scully's 
gun away from her.

"No arguments.  That thing has to go," he says, turning back 
towards the bedroom.

I glance down at the gun, limply hanging between my fingers.  "I 
won't stay in this house without one.  So if it goes, I go."

I keep my chin up high in defiance, hoping that Ethan sees the 
seriousness of the situation and issue.

"Dana..." he sighs.  "This is getting worse.  Maybe you should 
talk to someone."

"I talk to Emma all the time."

"Someone other than Emma," he says, beginning to get angry.  
"Maybe Father Michaels."

"Why?"

"You just seem so...depressed lately.  Maybe it would be good for 
you to just talk to him"

"What can a Priest do?"  I ask him mockingly.

He seethes, not knowing what to say to that.  "No gun, Dana," he 
finally spits.

"Then maybe I should go," I say quietly, my voice faltering 
slightly.

"What?"

"Maybe I should go."

"Like, a vacation," he states warily.  I nod.  "By yourself?  
Where would you go?"  

"Maybe to visit my mother."

"Do you think that would help you?"

I take a deep breath, pretending to think about this in great 
detail.  "Yeah, I do," I add some reluctance to my voice for good 
measure.

"Good.  You can call her tomorrow and fly up as soon as you're 
ready."

"Okay."

"Okay," he echoes.  "Let's go back to bed."

I nod and follow him back into the bedroom, him watching me 
warily as I click the safety of the gun on and put it in the 
drawer, closing it and sliding closer to him.

<><><><><><>

First thing the next morning, I called my mother and asked if I 
could come visit.  She was enthralled, of course, gushing about 
how much she missed me and how excited she was.  I have to admit 
that I'm a little excited, too.  I haven't seen my mother since 
the Thanksgiving, when she came down to have dinner with us and 
Ethan's parents.  With Bill out to sea and Chaz off doing 
whatever it is he's doing these days, we've gotten used to 
unquestionably spending the holidays together.

As we were about to sit down to dinner that day, she asked about 
Mulder, if I knew what he was doing for the holiday.  Despite her 
misgivings about him, she always invited him to our family 
gatherings, not wanting him to be alone.  I think that in a way, 
she pitied Mulder and his fractured family life, his ultimate 
aloneness, even while his mother was still living.  When we were 
kids, Mom was always a sort of second mother to all of our 
friends, even though, most of the time, she admitted that she 
didn't like them or us being with them.  She thought that she 
could save them, mold them so that they were just like her own 
perfect children, and I think she felt the same about Mulder.  

The first year that we worked together, I shyly invited him to 
our Thanksgiving Dinner, not sure of the proper etiquette of 
partnerly relations.  He seemed bewildered, shocked that I had 
chosen to spend time with him outside of work, in a private, 
casual setting, but declined, saying that he planned to work that 
day.  Every holiday after that, though, I eagerly relayed the 
invitations to him, even begged him a couple of times, but he 
always declined, afraid of Bill and of intruding into my private 
life.

Yeah, he's so far removed from my private life.

I would always save food for him though, my mother packing her 
Tupperware containers full so that he wouldn't go hungry in the 
event of nuclear war.  I could tell that it made him glad that 
someone bestowed such a small gesture on him.  It let him know 
that someone other than me cared for him, even if it was my 
mother's self-satisfying gesture.

I answered her question honestly, telling her that I hadn't 
spoken to him in months and that I had no idea what he was doing.

"This is his first Thanksgiving without his mother," she'd said 
sadly.  I'd pushed my food around on my plate at dinner, wanting 
to call him, wondering what he was doing, if he was missing me, 
if he was lonely, but I didn't.  I had guests to entertain and, 
if he wanted, he could've called me.

This Christmas was harder because Bill was back on shore and, by 
default, our family gathering was to be held in San Diego, where 
he was still stationed.  Mom called and asked when I would be 
able to leave and when I asked Ethan, he said that he wanted to 
spend our first Christmas as a family together, at home, and 
didn't think it would be practical for me to fly out there.  We 
had an argument about it, but, in the end, I gave in, agreeing to 
stay in Atlanta.  I was devastated, though - it was my first 
Christmas away from my Mommy and I missed her terribly.

It was also Mulder's first Christmas without his mother and, 
thought she wasn't the celebration-type, I knew how lonely and 
depressed he got when I went to my mother's and he stayed home in 
that tiny, dark apartment.  If I had gotten to go to Baltimore, 
if only to help my mother with all of her packages and luggage 
before our flight to California, I would've made a point to go 
and visit Mulder while I was there, just to let him know that I 
was thinking about him.  I still called him, though, and hung up 
after his voice but before the beep.  He knew it was me and he 
didn't answer.

In the back of my mind, I have the same plan now, to drive down 
to Alexandria one day and visit Mulder.  Even if he doesn't want 
to see me or talk to me, I still want to see him and talk to him.  
I can't forget about him as easily as he forgot about me.

I'm leaving on Friday, seven thirty in the morning.  Ethan said 
he could drop me at the airport on his way to work.  I absolutely 
can't wait.

<><><>End Part 1<><><>


<><><>Begin Part 2<><><>

"Put that away, Dana Katherine.  This is my treat," she says 
firmly, her smile betraying her scolding tone.

"Mom, we agreed -"

"I don't want to hear it.  It's been such a long time since we've 
done this, I owe it to you."

"You don't owe me anything."

"You came to visit me.  The least I can do is pay for your 
dinner."

We'd spent the day doing mom-and-daughter things - shopping, out 
to lunch, ice cream, dinner.  Ever since my rib-bruising hug in 
her driveway, I've been inseparable from her.  Maybe it's being 
away from Ethan or maybe it's just the change in scenery, but I 
feel better than I have in a long, long time.  I'm smiling and 
having fun, enjoying being with my mother.  I slide my credit 
card back into its place inside my purse and playfully scowl at 
her.  "I'll get you back," I warn.

She rolls her eyes and hands the cash to the waiter.  "I'm just 
happy to see you eating, so if you want to pay for the next meal, 
that's fine."

I look down at the shiny wooden table and pick at a chipped place 
in the varnish with my finger nail.  "I'm eating, Mom."

"How often?"

Looking up at her, I suppress the urge to groan.  "Everyday," I 
finally tell her, which is usually a lie.

"You don't look like it.  How much do you weigh?"

"Mom!"

"Dana, I'm worried about you.  You look sick."  Remembered pain 
flashes through her eyes at her words and their possible 
implications.  She leans over the table to speak softly to me.  
"You're not, are you?  You would tell me?"

"I'm fine.  I'm not sick, Mom.  I'm fine."

She sits back and exhales a long, tired breath.  "You're pale, 
too, and you've got those dark circles under your eyes."

I look down again, more varnish flaking away over my nail.

"Dana?"

"What?"  I ask the table quietly.

"Is everything okay?  At home?  With Ethan?"

"Fine."

The waiter returns with her change and she tucks a few dollars 
beside her water glass, sits back, crosses her arms, and waits 
for me to elaborate.  "You're sure?" she asks when I don't 
elaborate.

I nod and take a deep breath.

Clearly annoyed, she changes the subject in hopes of prying more 
honest information out of me.  "Well, how long are you planning 
on staying?"

"I don't know," I say, shrugging.  "'Til you kick me out, I 
guess."  I smile at the comment, but when she doesn't return the 
teasing gesture, just sits with her eyes boring into mine, my 
face falls and I fold my hands in my lap, admitting defeat.

"You said on the phone that you wanted to come as soon as 
possible.  Are you sure there's nothing going on with Ethan?"

I frown slightly, rectifying that mistake immediately.  
"It's...it's been hard to get used to...being a wife and a 
mother."

She nods.  "It's a big change to make so quickly."

"He hasn't really been very," I pause, looking for the right 
word, "supportive of me."

"What do you mean?"

"He just...he's so demanding.  Inflexible.  I feel like nothing I 
ever do is right, like I'm failing at everything and he's not 
helping me."

"Did he say that?" she asks in a sickening tone of sweetness and 
understanding.

"No," I whisper.

"I'm sure Ethan is having a hard time adjust to it, too.  You've 
been away from each other for so long and now you're living with 
each other again.  You've both changed, you just have to learn 
each other again."

I nod again, fingering the straw in my drink for something to 
distract myself with.  "Sometimes I think it was a mistake to get 
married so fast.  I think...I think that I felt like I had to do 
it right then or I'd talk myself out of it.  Like it was now or 
never."

"Do you really believe that, Dana?"

I clench my jaw tightly.  "I don't know."

"It just takes time," she reminds me and I nod, ready for this 
conversation to be over.

While we're back in the car, driving towards her house, I look up 
at the black sky, wishing that the lights of the city weren't 
quite so bright and that I could see the stars.

"So, what would you like to do tomorrow?" she asks at a red 
light, startling me out of my reverie.

I start to speak, then bite my tongue against it.  I refold my 
hands in my lap, then decide to say it anyway.  "I want to go see 
Mulder."

She turns her head and blinks at me, not saying anything.

"I found something of his the other day.  I need to return it to 
him."

Her mouth pops open as she gapes.  "What?" she eventually manages 
to say in disbelief, not wondering what I found. 

"It's a credit card.  He signed the back of it, so anyone could 
use it if they found it.  He may be worried about that, so I need 
to give it back to him."  The other day, I had gone to a new 
Super Target that had been built a couple of miles from the 
house.  After spending nearly an hour just browsing around the 
store, I'd collected fifty dollars worth of stuff - mostly for 
Ethan and Emma.  Having already spent my monthly allowance of 
cash from Ethan, I'd searched for a credit card, accidentally 
handing the cashier Mulder's.  When she asked to see my ID and 
discovered that I was not Fox W. Mulder, I felt my face get hot 
and immediately snatched it away from her, tucking it safely back 
in my purse and handing her another one, hopefully with my name 
on it.

On the way home, I'd thought about how I'd acquired such an odd 
piece of him.  At first, I couldn't remember it, but after 
racking my brain for the rest of the day, I'd finally recalled 
the story laying in bed that night, half-heartedly waiting for 
Ethan.  It was a Thursday, he'd want to have sex.

Mulder and I were at a Mexican restaurant on a Saturday night 
after spending the day doing mountains of paper work at his 
apartment.  I'd ordered us a pitcher of Peach Sangria and we 
shared it.  When his fajitas arrived, he unquestionably slid his 
plate towards me, waiting until I'd scrapped his sour cream onto 
mine, gathering my guacamole onto his fork, before sliding it 
back across the table.  When the check had come, he'd grabbed it 
and had his credit card out before I could even react.

"Mulder, you don't have to buy me dinner.  This isn't a date, now 
gimme that ticket!"

"No, Scully, consider it a gift for that lull between your 
birthday and Christmas," he'd say, handing the check and card to 
the poor, confused waiter.

"He always does this to me!"  I told the boy, whipping out my own 
card and holding it out towards him.  "You give me that," I said, 
taking Mulder's card from him, "and take this one instead."

The boy hurried away before Mulder and I could get into a real 
argument and Mulder stared at me, unbelieving.  "Give me that 
back," he said in a trying to be serious but failing tone.

"No.  Knowing you, you'd go find him and trade again."

Somehow, when the waiter returned, I forgot to give my ransom 
back to Mulder and accidentally put it in my purse with my card.  
He'd never asked for it back, probably forgetting about it, too.

When I'd found it, though, I'd almost leap for joy.  I have a 
connection to him, now, a reason to see him again.  I'm still 
bound to him.  But if I give it back, I'll break that tie and 
never have an excuse to see him again.  Selfishly, I'd thought of 
just keeping it, just going to see him without a tangible reason, 
but he could need his card.  I know that he has more than one, 
but he could need this one for some reason.  I can't keep it from 
him, even if it meant giving up another stowaway piece of him.

"You could mail it to him," my mother says flatly.

"No.  It could get lost or intercepted."

"Then put it in an envelope and slide it under his door while 
he's at work."

"He might not see it or he might throw it away -"

"Dana," she starts, easing her foot onto the gas as the cars 
start to move again.  "You shouldn't give it to him in person."

"Why not?"

"Because...that wouldn't be a good idea."

Now it's my turn to gape.  "Why?"

She makes a sound in her throat between an angry growl and a 
disappointed sniffle.  "Have you even talked to him recently?"

"No.  He hasn't been answering my phone calls or emails, but I 
sent him a card for his birthday and at Christmas."  And I'd 
signed both of them "Scully," even though that wasn't my name 
anymore.

"You've called him?"  She shouts, echoing in the small car.

"Yes.  Why wouldn't I?"  She shoots me a look that says she 
honestly doesn't know.  "He's still my best friend, Mom, I can't 
just cut him out of my life."  Like he did to me, I don't add.

She shakes her head.  "And what does Ethan think of all this?"

"He doesn't know."

"You're hiding it from him?"

"No, I didn't say that.  He never asks and I never tell him."  I 
make the calls on my cell phone, since they're long distance, and 
I pay the bill.  He has no reason to know.

She just keeps shaking her head, not saying anything else until 
we're back at her house, when I'm climbing the stairs to get 
ready for bed.  Earlier today, we'd rented some movies, 
anticipating staying up late and watching them together.  "Is 
that the reason that you're here, Dana?"  She asks my back.  "To 
see Mulder?"

"No," I respond, my voice only wavering slightly.  "No, I wanted 
to see you.  I've missed you.  But while I'm here..."

She nods and reaches out for me, drawing me to her in another 
tight hug.  "Just to give him his credit card?"

"Yes," I whisper, nodding against her and squeezing a little 
tighter.

"I know that you miss him, but you have to be careful now."

I pull back slightly.  "What do you mean?"

She puts her hands on my shoulders, straightening my shirt and 
not looking at my eyes.  "Things have changed between you.  You 
just need to remember that."  Smiling slightly, she steps back, 
dropping her hands.  "I know we've had a long day and you look 
tired.  Why don't we just go to bed?"

I nod, confused but exhausted.  And maybe a little depressed.

In my room a few minutes later, I sit on the bed and debate 
whether or not I should call Ethan.  He's probably not home from 
work yet, though.  I'll call him tomorrow.

Before I go see Mulder.  I'll call him tomorrow and tell him I 
love him before I go see Mulder.

I lay down, pulling the covers tightly around me.  I doubt I'll 
be able to sleep at all tonight.

"Morning.  I was wondering if you were going to sleep all day."

I smile tightly, rub my eyes with the heels of my hands, and 
glance at the clock.  Technically, Mother, it's afternoon, but 
I'll let that slide for now.  "I didn't fall asleep until after 
two."

"I thought you were exhausted," she says, handing me a hot cup of 
coffee.

"I was, but I just couldn't turn my mind off."  The warmth of the 
coffee floods my system, its unaccustomed sweetness making my 
jaws ache for a moment.  She put sugar in it.  She knows I don't 
like sugar in my coffee.

"Ethan called about an hour ago.  He said you didn't call him 
when you got here."

I collapse, already tired, into one of the chairs at the kitchen 
table, pushing the mug away from me slightly.  "No, I didn't," I 
say softly, then add when she looks at me strangely, "I didn't 
have time."

"And you didn't call him last night?"

"No."

She sighs and joins me at the table, bringing her own sickeningly 
sweet coffee with her.  "That's not like you, Dana.  You know 
that he worries about you."

"I'm fine."

"Well, I told him I'd have you call him when you woke up.  He was 
surprised you were still sleeping."

I start to tell her that he knows I always sleep this late, but 
decide against it.  Actually, he doesn't know.  He has no idea 
when I get up or when I go to bed, since he's never around to see 
it.

"Do you want some breakfast?" she asks, standing and walking to 
the counter, opening a random cabinet.

"No, it's almost one."

"Lunch, then?"

I stand and extend my arms over my head, reaching for the ceiling 
and coming several inches too short.  "No.  I'll get something on 
the way," I tell her, even though I know that I won't.

She closes the cabinet and decides to inspect the refrigerator 
instead.  "On the way where?"

I cock my head at her - I told her this last night.  "To 
Mulder's."

She slams the door closed and turns to me, eyes squinting and 
angry.  "You're still going?  I thought we discussed this, Dana."

"We did, kind of.  You told me you didn't want me to go, then we 
went to bed."

"And?"

"And, what?"

"Dana, give me the credit card.  I'll return it to him, if you're 
that worried about it."

"No," I tell her, picking up my mug and walking to the sink, 
pouring it out and send water chasing after it.  "I want to give 
it to him."

"You want to see him.  The credit card is just a convenient 
excuse, isn't it?"

I turn to her, hands on my hips.  "No.  I mean I want to see him, 
too, but I don't need an excuse to see my best friend."

She matches my posture, hands on hips and head cocked.  "And how 
long are you expecting this visit to last?" she asks in a 
placating tone of idiocy.

I take a deep breath, thinking.  All I have to do is knock, then 
hand him the card when he opens the door, explaining why I have 
it.  We exchange perfunctory "how are yous" and "fines," then 
it's over.  Two minutes, tops.

Of course, it's pretty ridiculous to drive an hour to Alexandria 
for a two minute conversation, but that's not all I'm hoping for.  
With any luck, right as I'm about to turn away, he'll apologize 
for being so rude and hateful towards me the last time we talked 
and invite me in for a few minutes.  I'll ask him if he got his 
birthday card and he'll say yes, thank you.  We'll talk for a few 
more minutes, catch up on what's been happening in our lives, 
then he'll walk me to the door, both of us promising to call the 
other and keep in touch.  We'll just be best friends again, 
without all of the complicated emotions and tangled, exaggerated 
feelings.

"I don't know," I finally answer her, then turn to walk out of 
the kitchen and up the stairs.

"Dana," she calls after me, standing at the bottom of the stairs, 
staring after me, like when I was seventeen and she told me to 
march upstairs and change, that no daughter of hers was going 
outside dressed like that.  "Don't forget to call Ethan," she 
says softly, then turns and walks away.

My jeans are all too big, but everything I own is too big.  
Yesterday, while we were shopping, I'd bought a new pair, a size 
zero.  They're too big too, but they look better than my size 
twos.

I add a long sleeved, button up, thin blue sweater, the one I 
think I wore on our practice date.  It's a little chilly outside, 
so I'll be warm without a jacket, and it was a little too small 
the last time I wore it, so it fits perfectly now.

Next is make-up, just mascara and a little neutral lip stick.  I 
blow dry my hair, more than I've done to it in months, so that 
it's got a little body to it, and comb it straight, not tucking 
it behind my ears.  When I look in the mirror, I look younger 
than I remember.  I look happy and carefree, very much like that 
women that used to dress in suits and go to work at the FBI, 
instead of lying around in pajamas everyday.

"Okay, I'm leaving now," I tell my mother when I amble back 
downstairs.  She's just sitting at the kitchen table, fingering 
that same mug of coffee, staring straight ahead.  "I'll call you 
before I leave so that you'll know what time to expect me."

She doesn't respond, doesn't even look at me, so I walk to her, 
bending down and kissing her cheek lightly.  "Bye, Mom."

No response.  Okay, she can play the silent game, I don't care.  
I'm not a child anymore and she can't tell me what to do and what 
not to do.  She can try and guilt me into doing things her way, 
but I'm not going to let it work this time.  Not about this.

I grab my purse and car keys on the way out, opening the door and 
not looking back.

It feels weird to be in such a small car after driving that 
Suburban for six months, but I prefer this car to that tank.  
It's more personal, more comfortable.  It's a Taurus - Lariat, of 
course - though I prefer to not think about why I picked this car 
out of all the others they had.

As I pull onto the freeway, it crosses my mind that I forgot to 
call Ethan.  My cell phone is in my purse, so I could call him 
now, though I don't like to talk and drive at the same time.  
He's at work now anyway, he'd be too busy to talk to me.  
Besides, Mom told him I was here and safe.  What else does he 
need?

During the drive, I practice what I'm going to say to Mulder.  I 
know he'll be there - it's a Saturday and, unless he's out of 
town on a case, the only things he'll be doing is laundry and 
brooding.  Knock three times, not too loudly, not too softly.  
Hear his footsteps crossing the foyer, then the locks clicking 
and the door opening, revealing my glorious partner in all of his 
tight blue jeans and gray T-shirt glory.  He'll give me on of 
those brilliant little boy smiles when he sees me and I'll give 
him one to match.  Maybe we'll even hug, being so overcome with 
emotion.  "I've missed you," I'll tell him in a soft voice.  
He'll repeat it to me and close the door, locking it after us.

Then what?  So, how's the BSU?  Unearthed any shattering 
government conspiracies with the Gunmen yet?  Read any good books 
lately?

"Fine, no, and no, Scully.  How's married life?  Are you as happy 
as you thought you'd be, or have you come here to beg me to take 
you back?"

"I hate it.  Please take me back, Mulder.  I'm sorry, I'm so, so 
sorry.  I love you.  Please take me back."

No, wait, that's not how it will go.  Not if I can help it.

"Married life is wonderful, Mulder.  Emma likes me now, though 
she seems to get annoyed with me sometimes and tends to use the 
fact that I'll do anything she wants against me.  Ethan wants to 
start having children and doesn't believe that I'm infertile.  I 
cry myself to sleep every night.  Everything's fine, Mulder.  I'm 
just as happy, no, happier than I ever thought I could be."

Yeah, he'll believe that.  Just like he'll believe that I flew an 
hour, then drove another hour, just to give him a stupid piece of 
plastic.

Or maybe he'll open the door and frown at me, or scowl, and ask 
why I'm here.  "I came to give you this," I'll say, cowering away 
from his anger.

"I don't want it, whatever it is.  Get out of my life, Scully, 
leave me the hell alone.  I don't ever want to see you again.  I 
hate you.  I always have.  Now, go."

"But Mulder, I missed you, I l-"

"You think I care about you anymore?  I don't give a damn about 
you.  I never did.  Go away."  Then he'll slam the door in my 
tear stained face.

That's more likely.

By the time I get to his building, my heart is pounding, my 
stomach is rolling, and I feel like I can't breath.  I can't ever 
remember being as nervous as I am right now, except maybe when I 
was standing at the alter in my fake virgin outfit, waiting for 
him to burst through the heavy, wooden doors of the church and 
take me away from Ethan, take me back with him.  The blinds on 
the windows above his desk are open, but no light looks to be on 
inside.  Scanning the parking lot, I don't immediately see his 
car, but he could've parked it somewhere else or gotten a new 
car.  Or maybe he is out of town.  Maybe I should have called 
first.

No, ninety percent of an agent's work is done at a desk: paper 
work.  It's highly unlikely that he'd be out of town.  

Maybe he's out someplace else then?  With the Gunmen, or with 
someone else?  A woman.

No, this is Mulder.  He's here.  He just likes the dark.

When I pull the keys out of the ignition, my hand is shaking 
violently.  I fold them in my lap, telling myself to take deep 
breaths and to calm down.  This is Mulder.  This is my best 
friend.

I finally talk myself into getting out of the car, then quickly 
walk to the building and summon the elevator.  The old machinery 
moans as it makes its way down from an upper floor, taking its 
own sweet time and increasing my nervousness in the process.  
Maybe this is another one of those signs that God keeps sending 
me.  Leave now, Dana.  Get back in your car and drive away.  
Leave the credit card with the manager and he'll never have to 
know you were here.

The ding makes me jump, the doors sliding open and a young couple 
with a tiny baby emerge.  They smile at me as they walk past me, 
though I don't recognize them.  They must be new here.

I step into the elevator, pressing the "4" button and exhaling 
when the doors close.  It moans again as it comes to life and I 
open my purse to drop my keys inside, but hesitate when something 
on my left hand catches my eye.  My ring and wedding band, 
snuggled happily against my knuckle.  The sight of them makes my 
stomach turn over again and I wonder if I should take them off so 
that Mulder doesn't see them.

No, that's ridiculous.  He knew I was getting married, he's 
expecting it.  If he sees them, he'll think everything is fine 
and that I really did just come here to give him this fucking 
credit card.

In record time, the elevator lands at the forth floor, sighing as 
it opens the doors for me.  I hesitate, then step out and into 
the long, dark, foreboding hallway, remembering how many times 
I've walked this exact same path before.  It was so easy then, 
when things were so simple.  I long for those days again.

My feet seem to make entirely too much noise on the hardwood 
floors as I slowly walk towards his door.  He has to hear me 
coming, I think, if he can hear over the thudding of my heart.

You can still leave, Dana.  Just turn around and get back in the 
elevator.  He never has to know.

By the time I reach his door, my knees are shaking and I feel 
slightly dizzy.  I take a deep breath, raise my hand and tuck my 
fingers under in a fist, then drop it to my side again, unfolding 
my fingers and wiping my sweaty palm on my jeans.  I take another 
deep breath, raise my hand again, and knock twice, so softly that 
I don't think he could've heard it even if he's here.

There's no light underneath the door, either, not even the 
flickering, bluish light from the TV - maybe he really isn't 
here.  I could just slide the card under the door, like Mom 
suggested, and he'd never have to know I was here.

I shift my feet, nervousness abating slightly.  He's not here.  I 
don't hear his feet as they cross the floor to let me in.  He's 
really not here.  Good.

So, why do I feel like crying?

Before I can start to do so, I open my purse and fish around in 
it, trying to find his credit card in the myriad of shit I have 
in here.  Metal rattles and clinks as it hits my rings, grating 
on my nerves.  Where is that goddamn thing?

I sigh in frustration and stamp my foot, feeling a tremor of 
weakness shoot through my body.  He's really not here.  After all 
of that preparation and nervousness and arguing with my Mom, he's 
really not here.

He used to always be here when I needed him.

I'll just slip the card under the door - he'll notice it.  Maybe 
put a note with it, "Sorry I missed you.  Scully."  No, Minette.  
No, Dana.  No, Scully.

Instead of grasping the credit card, I find my keys instead, four 
of them all on a single, tiny ring.  One for the Suburban, one 
for my rented Taurus, one for the house, one for Mulder's 
apartment, all on my Apollo XI key chain.  I never gave his key 
back to him, never had the opportunity.  I could just let myself 
in, as I had done a hundred times before, and leave the card on 
the table with a note.

But would he be angry with me for invading his privacy like that?  
No, when he gave me this key seven years ago, he'd said it was 
"just in case, you never know," not specifically just for 
emergencies.  Of course, I'm sure this scenario never crossed his 
mind at the time.  The only times I had used it was in 
emergencies or when I was worried about him: when he wasn't 
answering his phones and I didn't know where he was.  He had 
never questioned my using it and had never put any additional 
boundaries on it.

What if he is in there?  Lying in bed or on the couch, not able 
to get to the door or reach a phone?  What if he's sick or 
unconscious or hurt?  What if he can't call for help, just hoping 
that someone will drop by out of worry?

But who else would have a key?  Just me, and he doesn't think I'd 
be coming.  He doesn't think I'll rescue him this time.

Hang on, Mulder, I'm coming.

I slide the key in the lock and turn it easily, the door creaking 
open as I put my weight on it and turn the knob.  I'd imagined 
this scene in my mind, too, what his apartment would look like 
now.  I was always nagging him to organize, dust, throw things 
away, and he would grin at me and do as I said, secretly waiting 
for me to nag him about something else.  Without me, the 
furniture would be covered in papers and folders and photos from 
his various cases, a layer of musty dust covering everything 
else.  Things would be strewn all over the floor, knocked there 
accidentally in one of his dazes, never picked up.  Would the 
fish tank be empty, Mulder having given up on keeping anything 
alive and healthy, even himself?

But I'm totally shocked when I finally take in my surroundings.  
The blinds are open, spilling sunny, golden light across the 
squeaky wooden floors.  On the desk, in neat piles, are the 
folders I'd imagined, packed full with horrific scenes and 
descriptions of the latest madman.  The coffee table is clear, 
the fish tank happily gurgling in the corner, its habitants 
furiously swimming in the clear water.  As I walk further into 
the apartment, I find that no dirty dishes are pilled in the 
sink, no two-week old pizza boxes sitting beside the garbage can.  
Everything is neat and clean, dishes nestled in their cabinets, 
trash taken out.  The fridge has Mulder's usual: leftover Chinese 
and a carton of orange juice that I'm hesitant to check the date 
on.

In the bedroom, his big bed is made with clean, crisp sheets.  
His clothes are hanging on their respective hangers or placed 
neatly in their drawers.  His running shoes are even tucked in 
the corner, out of the way.  His luggage sits on the floor of the 
closet, partially obscured by his jackets and shirts.  That means 
that he's here, in town.  Not out in the field.

So where is he?

Drained and slightly dizzy, I stagger over to the foot of the bed 
and collapse onto it, hiding my head in my heads and shaking, 
trying not to cry.  He's really not here.

Maybe he is out with the Gunmen.  Maybe he is at work.  Maybe he 
is at some random woman's house, folded safely in her arms.

No, Mulder's not like that.  At least, he wasn't.

I finally let myself cry: frustrated, alone, and bitter.  I was 
expecting to find a broken, needy, desperate man ready to fall at 
my feet and beg me to come back to him, but instead, it looks 
like I've found a stronger, more independent, self-reliant man.  
Someone who discovered that he doesn't really need me like he 
though he did, someone who discovered that he really doesn't love 
me like he thought he did.

Just as I suspected, everything was a lie.  How could I be so 
gullible?  And why does it hurt so much?

The dizziness starts again and, when I open my eyes and stare at 
the floor through the stinging film of tears over my eyes, the 
floor is spinning.  I'm shaking violently, painfully cold.  The 
force of the sobs make my diaphragm contract, making me dry heave 
until bile finally rises into my mouth and I quickly stand, 
stumbling, falling hard onto my knees and elbows.  Crying harder 
and moaning, I crawl in the bathroom and vomit into the toilet.  
I try to ignore the swirls of red in the white bowl when I flush 
it.

Mulder hates me.  He hates me.  He hates me.

Gray, sweating, and shaking, I hobble back into the bedroom, then 
use every ounce of energy I have left to pull the bed covers 
down.  Spying a renegade white undershirt tucked under one of his 
pillows I tug off my jeans and shirt, noting the redness and 
swelling at my knees and elbows.  Pulling his shirt out, I hold 
it to my face, relieved by the scent of him that clings to it.  I 
wearily pull it on, then fall into the tangle of sheets and 
pillows, falling into exhausted, fitful unconsciousness.

<><><><><><>

When I can open my sticky eyes again, I hear a beeping sound and 
it takes me a minute to figure out that it's from a microwave.  
There's a sweet, slightly spicy smell, and then a small plastic 
door opening, someone taking something out and closing the door, 
all the while trying to be quiet.

Mulder - he's all around me.  His smell, his feel, his 
everything.  It's everywhere.  I'm in Mulder's bed, wrapped in 
his sheets, my head buried in his pillow.  Mulder's here, too.  
He's in the kitchen, heating something up in the microwave - 
maybe that Chinese I saw in the fridge.  I wonder if he even 
knows that I'm here, laying in his bed, missing him, waiting for 
him.

My knees and elbows are sore, but I sit up, keeping the covers 
tucked tightly under my arms.  No, he has to know I'm here.  His 
clothes - work trousers, a white oxford shirt and a dully 
colorful tie are in a pile on the floor in front of his closet, 
like he was interrupted, surprised, unable to put them away after 
he'd taken them off.

Footsteps, then, squeaking across the floor and approaching the 
bedroom.  The partially closed door slowly swings open and he's 
there, in my favorite plaid pajama pants and gray T-shirt.  His 
hair is longer than it has been in years, his bangs falling on 
either side of his forehead and making him look like a little, 
lost boy.  His eyes are soft and round, his forehead creased, 
worried, and afraid, the day's beard stubble dotting his cheeks, 
making him look darker.

Not saying anything, just nervously licking that sumptuous lower 
lip, he walks in, trying to keep his footsteps light and silent.  
I rearrange the covers around my body, sitting up straighter and 
trying to remember my lines.

"Hey," he says when he reaches the foot of the bed, trailing his 
fingers lightly over the soft comforter and then sitting beside 
me, slightly out of reach.

I swallow and look down - dammit, I should've rehearsed more.

"You okay?" he asks in that "please talk to me, Scully," voice.

If I say I'm fine, like I would if he were anyone else, he would 
know that I was lying.  I can never lie to Mulder.  I look up at 
him, avoiding his eyes - those steady, steel gray eyes - then 
swallow and look down again, fisting the top sheet in my hand 
underneath the comforter.

"There was blood across the floor and in the bathroom.  Are you 
bleeding?"

I graze my fingertips over my elbows - yes, one of them was 
bleeding a little.  It's dried now and hurting like hell.  
"Sorry," comes out as barely a whisper to the covers.

"It's okay.  Are you all right?"

Nodding weakly, I touch my chin to my chest, unable to sink into 
the mattress and just disappear.

"Scully," he pauses, thinking, not remembering his lines either.  
I wonder if we have the same script.  Obviously not, as his next 
words weren't in my version.  "What are you doing here?"

I start to explain, but my voice won't work; it's sore and 
scratchy from sobbing like a wounded animal.  I clear my throat, 
then try again, sounding like a cackling witch.  "I came to give 
you something that I found the other day.  Your credit card, 
though I'm sure you've already canceled it."

The bed jiggles a little as he nods.  "Thank you," he says 
softly, even though he probably doubts that excuse.

I take a deep breath that hitches in my chest, more tears popping 
up in my eyes.  Brushing them away fiercely, I pull the covers 
tighter, shivering again.

"I think you have a fever, Scully.  You were burning up."

I look at him again, wondering how he knows that.

"You were so pale and the blood...plus it's not every day that I 
come home to find you asleep in my bed."  A slight smile then, 
that disappears too quickly.  "I heated up some rice for you, if 
you think you could eat."  When I don't answer immediately, just 
look down again, he says in a low, serious voice.  "You've lost a 
lot of weight.  Are you sure you're okay?"

Oh, God, what does he think?  The blood?  The weight loss?  The 
fever and weakness?

"It's not the cancer, Mulder."

He exhales heavily, relieved, and nods.

We sit in silence for a few moments, him staring at the top of my 
head, me staring at the design on the comforter.  "Scully?"

I don't look up, wiping away another hot tear.

"Scully," he says again, reaching out to touch my chin and tilt 
it up towards his face.

My lower lip quivers and quirks into a frown as more sobs make 
their way up through my chest.  Another breath hitches as Mulder 
scoots closer to me, sliding his arms around my back and pulling 
me towards him, not saying another word.  He pulls me closer as I 
press my face into his chest and let my last bit of self control 
dissolve as he holds me tighter.  I just clutch at the soft 
fabric of his T-shirt and he rocks me, his breath falling against 
my ear.

"Mulder..."  I mumble, unintelligible through my tears.  
"Mulder..."

Finally: Mulder.

<><><><><><>

Long moments later as I lay, spent, in his strong, supportive 
arms, I finally regain my powers of understandable speech.  
"Mulder," I whisper to him, not raising my head from its 
comfortable position right over his heart, "I missed you so 
much."

He stiffens, but doesn't loosen his death grip on my body, 
doesn't pull away.  After a long, slow breath, he answers me.  "I 
missed you too, Scully."  It's so faint, I could barely hear it.

"Then why don't you ever call me?  Why don't you answer your 
phone or the emails I sent you?"

"What am I supposed to say?" he asks carefully, louder, stronger 
than before.

"That you miss me -"

"Would it have done any good?"

I readjust my arms around his back, squeezing him tighter.  "What 
do you mean?"

"So what if I miss you?  It doesn't matter."

"It matters," I say into his T-shirt, breathing him in.

His chin rubs against my hair as he shakes his head, not 
answering me.  "You need to eat," he decides, changing the 
subject and pulling away.  I realize then that he had been 
silently crying with me, his eyes now red and puffy, his cheeks 
still wet and tear stained.  Not meeting my eyes, he stands and 
turns towards the door, not waiting for me to follow him.

When I finally manage to get out of bed, make the room stop 
spinning, and hobble out of the bedroom, he's sitting at the 
table in his foyer, just staring at his plate of congealed 
Chinese food with his arms crossed and his jaw set.  My bowl of 
rice is steaming on the table across from him, the chair pulled 
out and waiting for me.

I gingerly sit down in it, the bruising skin of my knees 
protesting and stretching as I do.  He doesn't acknowledge me 
except to stare at my elbow and the dried blood covering the 
small scrape there - he focuses on it, not taking his eyes away.  
The rice smells so good, as does his food, and I gratefully pick 
up my fork and start gorging myself.  The more I eat, the more 
hungry I get and, when I scrape the bottom of the bowl, he pushes 
his plate over to me, still not looking me in the eye.

The silence is tense, but I know that we need it to process 
seeing each other again, to catalogue the changes in the other.  
He hasn't changed at all, really, just a few more lines around 
his mouth and eyes.  He looks sadder, more forlorn, but he always 
did have that air about him.  I'd expected dramatic differences: 
weight loss, neglect of appearance and personal hygiene, but I 
don't see any of that in him.  All in all, it looks like he's 
handled all of this pretty well.

Amazed that I've eaten my dinner and his, I look at him and smile 
shyly, expecting him to make some sort of joke about cannibalism.  
He doesn't, though, just clenches his jaw again and stands, picks 
up the plate and bowl, then walks into the kitchen and sets them 
in the sink, running a little water over them.  When he's done, 
he walks to the doorway, braces his arms above him, and looks 
sharply at my elbow again.  "You really did it," he says in 
disbelief.

"What?"  I ask soundlessly.

"You really married him."

Suddenly, the rings on my finger seem entirely too heavy and cold 
for me.  I self-consciously put my right hand over my left, 
worrying my fingers around them, hiding them.  "Y-yes," I 
stutter, nervous.

He shakes his head and walks around the table and into the living 
room, picks up a folder from his desk, then sits on the couch, 
opening it and spreading its contents over the coffee table.  
Bowing his head, he picks up a yellow legal pad amidst the other 
papers and begins scratching away at it, glancing at the photos 
occasionally.

After watching him for a few minutes, I walk towards him, my 
knees still shaking and my stomach starting to roll and complain.  
"Mulder?"  I ask him softly, wondering what he's doing.

"I have work to do Scully, or whatever your name is now.  I don't 
have time for Social Hour," he says, not raising his head or 
halting his pen.

Taken aback, I gape at him, not knowing what to say to that.  
"Mulder -"

"If you want to disinfect your elbow, there's some stuff in the 
bathroom.  I'm sure you know what to do with it."

I close my mouth and squint my eyes at him, wondering who this 
person is and what he's done with my infinitely sweet, caring, 
tender, compassionate best friend.  My elbow is throbbing and 
does need to be cleaned and bandaged, so I retreat to the 
bathroom to do so and maybe take a peak at my script.  I'd 
prepared for repentantsadweepyneedy Mulder and 
angrybittercolddistant Mulder, not for 
completelyindifferentastowhyyou'rehere Mulder, and I've always 
been bad at improv.

My stomach keeps threatening to send the food back and, as soon 
as I get the bandage secured on my elbow, it makes good on those 
threats.  I can barely manage to lift the toilet lid before I'm 
heaving and retching again, shaking, gray, and sweaty.

"Oh, Scully," I hear behind me, then water running in the sink as 
Mulder soaks a wash cloth with cold water and places it on the 
back of my neck, holding my hair back with his cool fingers.

The retching slows and I sit back on my heels, the heaves making 
my chest shutter and burn so painfully.  "Are you all right?"  He 
asks me and I nod, pulling the wash cloth from my neck to my 
mouth, wiping away the vomit.  "You sure?" he says softly right 
above my ear in that tone that makes me feel like I'm the only 
person in the world.

I nod again and try to stand but fail, collapsing to the ground 
again, frustrated tears starting to cloud my eyes.  "Here," he 
says, sliding one arm behind my shoulders and the other 
underneath my knees, lifting me effortlessly.  I nuzzle my face 
into his neck, feeling his throat vibrate as he speaks again.  
"Jesus, Scully, how much do you weigh now?"

He sets me down on the bed and pulls the covers over me, tucking 
them tightly beneath my chin and pushing my sweat-dampened hair 
behind my ears.  His fingers linger on my forehead and he frowns.  
"I think you still have a fever," he says softly, his eye growing 
larger and more compassionate.

I shake my head.  "I'm okay," I tell him weakly.  "It was just 
the food."

"It wasn't even two weeks old yet."  He grins slightly, then 
seems to catch himself as his mouth falls back into its default 
frown.

"I haven't eaten that much in a while," I explain.

"You barely ate anything, Scully."  He shakes his head almost 
spitefully.  "Sorry, I don't know what to call you."

"Call me Scully, Mulder.  I'll always be your Scully."  Yes, I 
took Ethan's name, but he can't call me Minette and Dana would be 
too weird, too unMulder.  I reach my hand - my right hand - out 
from under the blanket and find his, resting lightly at his side, 
and lace my short, thin fingers with his, golden and strong.  He 
stares at that for a minute, then looks away, lost.

I hate this: being uncomfortable around someone that I used to 
feel completely at ease with, someone who I could talk about 
anything with, without fear of offending him or angering him or 
hurting him.  Someone who I trusted undeniably, someone who I 
depended on unquestionably, someone that I could be completely 
honest and open with, no matter what the circumstances.

Right now, he looks so sad and lost, so empty and afraid, so 
lonely and reserved.  Is it because of me?  Because he really did 
miss me?  Because he really does still love me?  Or is it because 
of something else?

"How are you?"  I ask him quietly, pulling him back to me.

"Good.  Fine," is all he says before returning to his fascinating 
study of the air in front of him.

"Really, Mulder?"

"Yeah.  Fine.  Why wouldn't I be?"  There's a hint of bitterness 
in his tone.

"Are you back at the BSU?"

"Yep."

"Profiling?"

"What else?"  He grins again, then returns his face to stone.

"I was worried you were out of town on a case when you didn't 
answer the door," I say, desperately wondering where he was on a 
Saturday afternoon and evening.

"I was at work...working."

"Oh."  According to my script, his next line is "how are you 
Scully?"  but his version apparently doesn't have that little 
alteration in it because he just sits there, staring, his hand 
limp in mine.  "I'm okay," I tell him even though he didn't ask.  
"I'm busy with Emma..." and laundry and nail-painting and 
housewifery.

He winces and stands, dropping my hand like it burned him and 
walks to his bathroom door, not going in, just staring, hands on 
hips.

"Why are you really here, Scully?"  He asks, whirling around to 
me, his eyes slightly hooded and angry.

I take a deep breath, hesitating.  "I was visiting my mother -"

"She lives in Baltimore."

"- and wanted to see you while I was here.  I wanted to give you 
your credit card and just," I hesitate again, "talk to you, since 
you won't answer your phone or call me."

He nods, that angry, quick nod he has, then walks to the other 
side of the room.  "So?  Talk."

I gape at him again, not talking, just staring.

"Listen, Scully, I appreciate this little visit, but I really am 
very busy right now," he says in an annoyed, clipped tone.

"You want me to leave?"  I ask, hoping he'll say no.  "I'll leave 
then.  I'm sorry I bothered you when you're obviously very busy."  
I inject as much sarcasm into my voice as possible which isn't 
much, considering how weak and shaky I feel.  My voice is barely 
a scratchy whisper as it is, it's not very convincing.

I throw the covers off of my legs and swing them to the floor, 
shutting my eyes and shaking my head against the twirling room.  
As soon as I stand, I fall back down again, and Mulder just 
watches me, eyes large and worried.

Ignoring him, I stand again and wobble, catching myself on his 
bedside table.  Once I'm steady, I brush past him and pick up my 
jeans, pulling them on and falling on my ass in the process.  
He's still standing there, looking at me, and tears prick my eyes 
again: embarrassment, frustration, and hurt.

Instead of looking at him, though, I stare at my jeans, wondering 
why they refuse to cooperate.  When I let a sob escape me, Mulder 
jumps into action, kneeling beside me and tugging my jeans off of 
my legs, folding them and sliding them against the wall.  
"Scully, you're not in any shape to go anywhere except back to 
bed," he says tonelessly, picking me up and setting me back in 
bed, pulling the covers back over me.

"What do you care?"  I ask him in between sniffles.

He blows all of the air out of his lungs, like he was just hit by 
a car, then answers.  "I still care about you, Scully."

"No, you don't.  You never did," I say, meeting his eyes, anger 
rising, pushing my tears away.

He gapes like a fish for a few seconds.  "How can you say that?  
After everything that I said to you, how can you still think that 
I don't care about you?"

"You won't even answer your Goddamn phone!  Even when I beg you 
to talk me, tell you that I need you, you ignore me!  Is that how 
much you care about me, Mulder?"

He hangs his head, knowing exactly what I'm talking about.  "How 
do you know I was even here, Scully?"

"Were you?"

He chews on his lower lip before answering, "Yes."

I just don't have the energy to maintain any emotion other than 
desolation and my anger flees, my voice becoming a mournful, 
empty whisper.  "Then why didn't you answer me?"  

He collapses onto the bed beside me, mimicking my posture from 
earlier, his head in his hands.  "I couldn't, Scully."

I pull my knees up to my chest, huddling closer to him.  "Why 
not?"

"I just...couldn't.  I just froze.  I was staring at the machine, 
telling myself that you could be in danger and to pick up the 
phone, but I couldn't.  Just like that night when I came home and 
found that message you left as Duane Barry was abducting you - I 
just couldn't move."  He scrubs his eyes with the heels of his 
hands, then whispers, "What could I have done anyway?"

"You could've talked to me.  That's all I wanted."

He turns towards me.  "What happened that night?"

"I had a nightmare.  It was thundering and lightening, like that 
night in the hotel."  You know, that night when we almost had 
sex?

"I'm sorry, Scully."

I nod, pulling my knees closer to my body and shivering.

"You said you hadn't eaten in a while," he says, voice thick with 
tears.  "Why not?"

"I just...forget, I guess.  I don't feel like it, most of the 
time."

"Is everything okay?  With," he swallows, "Ethan?"

I nod at him slowly.  "Yeah.  Everything's fine."

He nods back.  "Just...visiting your mother."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

I stare at my knees, wondering how much I should tell him.  "I 
missed her."  He stares, silently asking me the real reason.  
"It's been stressful, trying to adjust to this new life.  I guess 
I really haven't been handling it that well."

"Is that why you haven't been eating?"

I exhale - he could always read me so well.  "Yeah.  And I 
haven't been sleeping well, either.  It seems like that's all I 
ever want to do, but I never feel rested.  I'm tired all the 
time."

"Sounds like clinical depression," he says, setting his jaw 
again.

"What?"

"Those are symptoms of clinical depression: changes in eating and 
sleeping habits."

"You think I'm depressed?"  I ask him incredulously.

"Well, something's wrong with you."  I nod, knowing it's true but 
not wanting to admit it.  "And it must be pretty bad for you to 
come to my apartment," he finishes spitefully.
 
"Mulder..."  I get tired of telling him this over and over.  
"You're still my best friend.  I missed you, too."

He rolls his eyes, clearly tired of hearing it.  "Is that what a 
best friend is, Scully?  I thought that best friends cared about 
each other.  I didn't know that best friends abandoned each other 
just because things got complicated."

"What the hell are you talking about?"  He shrugs his shoulders, 
feigning ignorance.  "If you're insinuating that I abandoned you, 
you're wrong, Mulder.  I'm the one that called you five times a 
day and left you message after message, asking you to call me 
back.  I'm not the one who just brushed you off because you were 
'too busy.'  I'm not the one who wouldn't answer his phone in the 
middle of the night when I was crying and begging you pick up.  
If anything you abandoned me!"

He raises his voice, something that's rare for him, even when 
he's angry.  "And I suppose you leaving in the first place was 
just another way of acting as my best friend?  What was I 
supposed to say to you when you called, Scully?  Glad your life 
is perfect?  Glad you've finally gotten everything you've always 
wanted?  I'm glad you're happy, even if I'm miserable without 
you?"  He winces and looks away as soon as he finishes, like he 
just said something that he hadn't meant to.

"You certainly don't look miserable.  You look like you're doing 
quite well, actually," I say snidely.

He looks at me coldly.  "You have no idea, Scully."

"Then tell me.  Give me an idea."

He takes a deep breath, runs his hands roughly through his hair, 
then leans back over his knees, kneading his forehead with his 
fingers, like he's deciding whether he should tell me or not.  
"Losing you, losing the X-Files...I felt like I had lost 
everything that mattered to me all over again.  For weeks I was 
in a daze, thinking that it was all just a dream and that, at any 
minute, I'd wake up and you'd be just on the other side of a door 
at a hotel, that we'd be on another case together.  I kept 
expecting you to just...be there, everywhere I went."  Another 
deep breath and he sits up, stretching his back and closing his 
eyes.  "Do you remember, one time I told you that when I was a 
kid, I used to close my eyes before I walked into my bedroom, 
certain that when I opened them, Samantha would be there, just 
like nothing had happened?"

I nod, anxious for him to continue.

"I did the same thing with you.  Every time I walked down the 
hallway at work, I would look for you.  I would close my eyes 
right before I got off an elevator, expecting to see you waiting 
for me.  Before I walked into the bullpen every morning, I'd 
close my eyes, thinking  that you'd be at the desk in front of 
me, but you were never there.  And after a while, I stopped 
torturing myself.  I stopped expecting you to come back.  After 
that, I just withdrew, not speaking to people or eating for days.  
I just didn't have the motivation."

He looks down at his flannel-clad legs, pulling at a loose 
thread, wrapping it around his finger until the tip turns purple, 
then releasing it, watching the blood flow back into it and 
return to it's honey-color.

"I knew I couldn't go on like that, though.  I had told you that 
I would support any decision that made you happy and I decided to 
move on.  I knew that you were safe and content with everything 
that you had given up when you started working with me and, if I 
really loved you, that would be enough for me.  So, I made it 
enough.  It was still hard - it is still hard - but if you're 
happy, Scully..."

"What if I'm not happy?"  I ask quietly.

He snaps his head towards me, his eyes round and soft suddenly.  
"You're not happy?"  He asks slowly, like the idea just occurred 
to him.

I look away.  "I don't know.  It's not like I thought it would 
be.  Nothing...nothing is like I thought it would be," I whisper, 
sniffing back fresh tears.

He buries his face in his hands again and his back shakes 
slightly.  "You need to rest, Scully," he says softly, his voice 
thick with his own unshed tears.  He stands, then tugs the covers 
over my arms.  "Lay down; rest."

"It's getting dark.  I have to drive back to Baltimore," I remind 
him.

Brushing more hair off or my forehead, he holds his breath.  "You 
need to rest," he says again, his words surrounding me like an 
electric blanket.

"Can I stay here tonight?"  I ask quietly, afraid he'll say no, 
get out of my bed, get out of my life.

"Yeah.  Just rest right now, though."

"I'll have to call my Mom, let her know not to expect me."

"Okay.  I'll get you some Tylenol.  It'll help you sleep."  His 
eyes linger on mine before he turns and walks out of the room.

I have to smile, remembering all of the nights where we lay down 
in his bed together, watching movies and eating popcorn until two 
am, then him clumsily, shyly getting out of bed and going to 
sleep on the couch.  

Picking up the phone beside his bed, I wonder how to explain this 
to Mom.

"Hello?"

"Mom, it's me," I say, a little breathless.

"Dana," is all she says in that angry, non-tone of hers.

"I'm, um, still at Mulder's."  No response.  "I think I'm gonna 
stay here tonight."

"Why?"

I swallow around a suddenly large lump in my throat.  "Because, 
it's getting late.  We were talking and...time just got away from 
me."  She takes a slow, measured breath on the other end of the 
phone, not responding.  "Okay?"

"Be careful, Dana," she says sternly.

Be careful?  "What?"

"Be careful.  Remember that Ethan loves you."

"I know he does.  I know."  But what does that have to do with 
this?

No response.

"I'll call you before I leave tomorrow."

No response.

"Bye, Mom."

Mulder comes back in as I hang up the phone, water glass in one 
hand, the other cupped with Tylenol in his palm.  He watches me 
as I take them, thirstily gulping all of the water down before 
handing the glass back to him.  "Okay?"  He asks, gesturing to 
the phone.

"Yeah," I tell him, laying back down and letting him tuck me in, 
closing the blinds before he walks out of the room and closes the 
door.

<><><>End Part 2<><><>


<><><>Begin Part 3<><><>

I'm too nervous to sleep, even though I am exhausted.  All of 
those nights that I wished Mulder were with me, beside me in bed.  
That it was his arms around me, his breath falling warmly against 
my neck.  That it was him across from me at the dinner table, him 
that I would kiss as he walked through the door when he came home 
at night, telling him how much I missed him.  For all of those 
nights, silently spent missing him, now he's just on the other 
side of a wall, a few feet from me, yet he couldn't be further 
away.

Of course he still cares about me.  That's why he's letting me 
stay here tonight, sleep in his bed, sleep in his clothes.  He 
would worry about me if I were on the road late at night, driving 
back to my mother's in the sick, weak condition that I was in.  
But if he really did care about me, if he really did love me, why 
is he being do distant now?

I remember meeting Phoebe all those years ago, how shocked I was 
that Mulder let her kiss him - in front of me - after all of the 
pain she had put him through.  How he had helped her when she 
needed him, how he didn't turn her away immediately.

And Diana, how he did the same for her, dropped everything to 
cater to her, just because she asked.  I never asked for the 
whole story behind their relationship and he had never 
volunteered, but from what I do know, she hurt him just as much 
as Phoebe did: betrayed his trust, lied to him, abandoned him, 
misled him.  Yet he was still solicitous to them, still polite 
and courteous, if a little standoffish.

I wonder if Mulder slept with Diana in this bed when she came 
back.  If he let himself be so overwhelmed by her, thinking that, 
after all these years, she had come back to him, realizing what a 
mistake she had made.  I wonder if he believed that she was 
trustworthy, that she loved him.

Could he have been that desperate?  That needy and alone?  Is 
that what he's afraid of now, that I'll lie to him, take 
advantage of him, that I'll abandon him just like she did, just 
like both of them did?  Is that why he's so distant and guarded?

I'm not like that, Mulder.  I do love you, I do care about you.  
I do realize that I made a mistake.  I want to be here now, not 
in Atlanta with Ethan.  I want you.

It's nearly midnight, but the light in the living room is still 
on, though I don't hear the muffled sounds of the television.  He 
must still be working.  I silently slip out of bed, relieved when 
I don't feel dizzy or weak, then make my way through the darkness 
and to the door of the bedroom, quietly twisting the knob and 
opening it, peaking out at him.

Yep, he's working, papers, folders, and horrific photos spread 
all around him, some having fallen to the floor.  He's still 
scratching away at that legal pad, his brow furrowed, his eyes 
huge and empty, his shoulders hunched and alert, ready to pounce 
at the slightest sound.  This is how he gets when he profiles and 
it's always been my job to bring him back to consciousness, to 
sanity.

He's in a daze and doesn't hear me as I approach him.  "Mulder?"  
I whisper, wondering how deeply into his mind he's sunken.

No response, just a flip of a paper and more intense scratching 
with the pen.  A glance at a photo, but no interruption as the 
killer speaks to him.

I take another step closer, pushing the papers on the ground 
underneath the table with my foot.  Carefully, slowly, so as not 
to startle him, I sit down on the couch close the arm rest, him 
occupying the middle cushion.  "Mulder?"  I whisper again, 
placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, calling him back to me.

All at once, he drops the legal pad and pen, collapsing until his 
head is on his knees, his breathing labored and quick.  He's back 
and scared as hell.

I keep my hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently.  "It's okay, 
Mulder.  You're okay," I tell him, keeping my voice low and 
soothing as he coughs and wheezes between his knees.

"Sc-scully.  What...what are you doing?  You should be in bed."

"So should you."

He shakes his head, slowly raising it and straightening his 
shoulders, pushing his bangs out of his face.  "You're sick," he 
says simply, tonelessly.

I shake my head, still rubbing between his shoulders against the 
impossibly tense muscles there.  "No, it was just the food.  I'm 
fine."

He starts to smirk at that, but catches himself, shrugging my 
hand away.  "I'm busy," he explains, leaning closer to his coffee 
table and picking up the pad and pen.

"How long were you planning to stay up?"  I ask carefully, not 
wanting to push him too far, not wanting him to push me away.

He shakes his head, already slipping away again.  "'Til I'm 
finished."

"You need to rest, Mulder."  He doesn't respond, just focuses on 
a photo, turning it around and around in his hands, studying it.  
"Mulder," I say a little louder, gently taking it from him.  
"Stop, just for a little while.  It'll still be here in the 
morning."

He stares at the floor where the photo would be, not moving.  
"Will you?"  He asks, still not looking at me.

"What?"

"Will you still be here in the morning, or were you planning to 
leave before I woke up?"

I turn towards him on the couch, sliding his scratchy Indian 
blanket down from the back and pulling it over my arms.  "No, 
I'll still be here."

"Then what?  You go back to your perfect life and leave me here 
again?"  He asks angrily, scrubbing his eyes with his fingers.

"First of all, I'm going back to my mother's for a few more days 
and second of all, it's not perfect, Mulder."

"It's better than this," he says to himself.

"Sometimes, I wonder if it really is."

For the first time since I came out here, he looks at me with 
those little lost boy eyes and that adorably creased forehead.  
"What do you mean?"

I sink back against the cushions.  "I never thought I would miss 
this," I say softly, gesturing at the papers littering the table 
and floor.  "I never thought I'd miss those midnight phone calls 
from you, telling me to be ready in half an hour and that we had 
a flight to Nowhere, USA to investigate flying saucers.  I never 
thought I'd miss driving around in rental cars with you, 
exhausted and dirty and frustrated."  He exhales heavily, making 
me pause.  "But I do.  I miss all of that, even the things that I 
hated.  I miss this.  I miss you."

His eyes get a little bigger, a little shinier.  "My life in 
Atlanta is so boring, Mulder.  Ethan won't let me work so all I 
do is stay home and clean house or shuttle Emma back and forth 
from school to soccer practice...I hate it."

He lowers his eyebrows, scowling.  "What do you mean Ethan won't 
let you work?"

I shake my head, looking away.  "He says I don't need to, which 
is true.  He makes plenty of money, but I just want to work."

"So why don't you?  He doesn't own you, Scully."

"I know.  I applied for a job at Emory University as an Associate 
Medical Professor, even got an interview, but I wasn't hired.  
They didn't need Pathologists."

"So, try again.  There are other places -"

"No.  It would just cause problems with Ethan...and I'd rather 
avoid that."

"You give up your financial and social independence just to avoid 
arguing with him?  That's not like you, Scully."

I look back at him, pulling the blanket tighter around me.  "But 
I'm not supposed to be Scully anymore.  I'm supposed to be Dana, 
the perfect, dependable wife and loving, devoted mother.  
Sometimes, I wonder if Scully even exists anymore."

"You're the same person as you always were," he says softly, 
fingering the fringe-edge of the blanket, then recovering my 
feet.

"The other day, I saw that episode of COPS we were on and I 
didn't even recognize that woman as me.  She was so strong and 
independent and -"

" -you still are, Scully.  You've just suppressed that, pushed 
that person away.  But she's still there."

"No," I say, shaking my head.  "No, she's not."

He stares at me, mouth agape, not saying anything.

"Mulder, sometimes I feel like I can't do anything right.  No 
matter what I do, I just screw it up.  I tried being my own 
person, asserting my independence and defying my father and Ethan 
and look what it got me.  I got my sister killed, I got my 
daughter killed, I had the rest of my children stolen from me, I 
cause my family so much pain...and then I tried being someone 
else, that woman that my father wanted me to be, the kind of wife 
that Ethan wants, a good mother, but that hasn't worked either.  
I'm just...miserable.  I can't do anything right."

"Scully, yes, you can," Mulder says, turning towards me slightly.  
"None of those things that happened to you while we were working 
together was your fault.  It was my fault -"

"No, it was my decision to work with you and it was my decision 
to stay with you.  It was my fault."  I keep sniffling and 
blinking, thinking that I'm about to burst into tears any minute 
now, but none come and my voice just shakes, heavy with emotion.

Mulder sighs, leaning on his knees and rubbing his eyes again.  
He doesn't want me to see him cry now, after I've held him 
countless nights while he sobbed against me.  "What happened to 
Melissa was the fault of the men who killed her.  What happened 
to Emily was the fault the men who abducted you and created her."

"But it wouldn't have happened if I'd have listened to my father 
and Ethan and done what they wanted me to do."

He looks back at me, completely bewildered.  "Then is it worth 
it?  Is it worth being miserable and depressed and sick?  To be 
the kind of person that they want you to be?"

Looking into his eyes right now, I can't imagine how I ever made 
myself get on that plane and leave him.  "I don't know," I 
whisper thickly, my breath hitching, but still no tears falling.

"It's not, Scully, and you know it.  It's not worth sacrificing 
your happiness for them."

I sit up, then, and he puts his arms around me, holding me close 
to him while I whimper, trying to crawl inside his chest, where 
it's warm and safe.  "Scully," he says against my hair, his 
breath making me shiver.  "You could've left all of this behind 
last year when you found out that Daniel Waterston was still in 
love with you.  You know that he would've welcomed you back into 
his life, but you didn't go.  You stayed here with me, telling me 
that you thought that you were on the right path, that you did 
the right thing when you left him to come work for the Bureau.  
But yet when Ethan reappears, you gravitate towards him.  Is that 
why?  Because you thought that you could make it up to your 
family by marrying him now?"

"My parents never knew about Daniel, but my father loved Ethan."

"You told me that you loved him, Scully.  You said that he could 
accept you the way the were, unable to have children, and that he 
loved you.  But that wasn't true, was it?"  He tangles his 
fingers in my dull, limp hair, sending more shivers down my 
spine.  "It was because he could give you everything that you had 
given up when you started working on the X-Files, just like I 
thought."

"Yes," I tell him, pressing my face against his heart.

He lets out a long, pained sigh.  "I should never have let you 
get on that plane.  I should have stopped you.  I should've done 
what ever it took to get you to stay."

I shake my head, feeling his fingers slip through my hair and 
against my scalp, reveling in that feeling.  "It's not your 
fault, Mulder.  It's my fault.  I should have listened to you.  
Everything is my fault."

He leans his cheek against the top of my head, squeezing me 
tighter.  "You'll never convince me of that, Scully."

"You loved me," I whisper to him quietly.

"Yes."

"Do you still love me?"

He takes a deep breath and his heart speeds up a little.  "Yes, 
Scully, more than anything."

I close my eyes and say a silent prayer of thanks to a God that 
I'm not even sure exists.  "The reason I got married, Mulder...I 
knew how miserable I would be with Ethan, but I didn't think I 
had a choice.  When you wouldn't speak to me or answer your 
phone, I thought that you hated me and that you had lied to me 
when you tried to get me to stay.  Mulder, I loved you and I 
thought that you hated me."  Tears finally come, small and salty, 
stinging my dry skin as then drip onto my cheeks and into his 
soft T-shirt.

Another deep breath and he sighs again, his heart hammering in 
his chest and his body stiffening.  When he doesn't say anything 
in response, probably remembering how, the last time I'd admitted 
that I loved him, I'd qualified it, saying that I loved him only 
as my best friend, I reluctantly raise my head from his chest, 
leaning my forehead against his, breathing in his breath.  "I 
love you, Mulder.  I didn't realize it at the time, but I do now.  
I know I do.  I love you," I whisper to him, my lips brushing his 
as I do.

His eyes are closed, little lines around them accentuating how 
tightly he's holding them that way.  His breath comes in nervous 
little pants against my mouth, his lips slightly parted.  Slowly, 
I slip my hands from his waist up his back and to his shoulders 
and neck, scraping my nails against the soft hair there, watching 
the tremor go through him.  I open my mouth and press it against 
him, holding it there when he tries to pull away.  Sucking his 
lower lip into my mouth, I wet it with my eager tongue, then 
press it into his mouth, searching for his.

He pushes me away gently, bowing his head and taking a deep 
breath.  "It's too late, Scully.  I can't...we can't...it's too 
late for this."

"No," I whisper, leaning in again, him leaning back, further away 
from me.

"Yes, it is.  I can't...Scully, I can't lose you again.  I can't 
go through that again, thinking I'm doing the right thing by 
letting you go -"

"I don't want to go."

"You have to.  You have a new life now - one that doesn't include 
me - and you have responsibilities to the people in that life.  
And I...I don't know how I can," he searches for the right word, 
"fit into that now, just as your friend.  I don't know that I 
could trust you like that again without thinking of...what you 
did...to me...when you left."  He's trying to stay calm and not 
get angry, trying not to make me angry or defensive, either.

"Do you trust me, Mulder?"  I ask him, my voice deep and breathy, 
my fingers sliding around his neck to the sides of his face, 
stroking the short stubble there.

He hesitates.  "I don't know, Scully," he whispers.

I start to lean into him again, to show him how he can trust me 
now.  His eyes focus on my lips, watching them as they come 
closer to his and not stopping me.  He could stop me if he wanted 
to.

This time, when I plunge my tongue between his lips, he sits 
still, letting me explore him, drinking in his taste.  Long 
seconds later, I pull back, unable to take my eyes away from his 
swollen, red mouth.

His body is rigid, his breathing erratic.  But his arms are still 
around me, not letting me go, not wanting to let me go, his face 
still close to mine.  "Mulder, do you trust me?"  I whisper, 
leaning in again, feeling him respond hungrily, bruising my lips 
as he crushes his mouth against mine.

For the first time in almost six months, I feel a stirring of 
arousal as he devours me.  Ethan doesn't kiss me like this; Ethan 
doesn't love me like this.  And I don't love Ethan like this.  I 
can't.  Only Mulder.  Always Mulder.

He shifts and I push his back against the couch, straddling his 
hips, feeling the beginnings of his erection pressing against me, 
making me squirm and throb.  He tears his lips away from mine, 
latching onto my neck and sucking, licking, kissing from my chin 
to my collar bone before switching sides and starting again.  I 
dig my nails into his shoulders and press my knees into the 
cushions on either side of him, wanting more, harder, faster, 
now.

He's in the mood for slow, careful, achingly tender exploration, 
though.  His hands find my hips, slowing their maddening 
undulations against him, guiding me into a more sensual, erotic 
rhythm.  With him growing harder beneath me, a low moan escapes 
my throat and I slide my hands down to his waist, slipping my 
fingers under his shirt and trailing my nails over his ribs, 
pulling the shirt up and out of the way.  He absently sits up, 
letting me rip the shirt off over his head and making me moan 
again at the increased contact it causes.

I trail my hands down further, over his stomach and to the loose, 
elastic waist band of his pajama pants.  Sitting back, my hands 
drift lower, to the hard, insistent bulge underneath my left hand 
now, my right stealing below the flannel to the hot, sensitive 
skin of his hips.

He moans against my neck, then crushes his mouth against mine 
again, devouring me.  His hands mimic mine from seconds before, 
pulling my shirt up and roughly jerking it over my head.  They're 
warm, soft, so, so good, kneading, then trailing around to my 
back and wrestling with the clasp of my bra.  He can't even wait 
for me to slide my arms out of the straps before his hands are 
underneath the loose fabric, finding my stiffened nipples and 
rubbing, teasing, stroking.  I melt then, pliant in his arms as 
he gently lays me on my back, hovering over me and settling his 
hips firmly between my legs, tugging my bra off completely and 
flinging it somewhere, his mouth drifting to one of my breasts 
while his hand occupies the other.

I just lay there for a moment, fisting my hand in his hair and 
guiding him to the perfect spot, my other hand lightly grazing 
over his shoulders and down to the small of his back.  Wrapping 
my legs low on his waist, I fight to tug his pants down while not 
breaking the contact, eager to have all of him against me, all of 
him inside me, right now.

With him on top of me like this, he has all the control.  
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize that we're closer 
than I thought to finally consummating this, that I'm only 
wearing a thin pair of cotton panties.  He must've realized this 
too, as he sits up and tears them off of my legs, then plunges 
one hand between my thighs, not stopping until two of his long, 
beautifully tapered fingers are inside me up to his knuckles.

The penetration makes me gasp - I was ready and wet, but it 
surprised me, how impatient he is all of the sudden, how much he 
wants this, too.  His palm grazes my clit and I grind against 
him, hooking one leg around his waist again.

No, fingers aren't enough.  I need all of him.  Now.

Using my feet and stretching my arms, I manage to wiggle his 
pants down just enough so that they're off of his hips; now the 
only barrier between us is his boxer briefs.  Slipping my hand 
beneath those, I'm rewarded with my first touch of him - hard 
steel under soft skin as his mouth consumes mine again.

He grabs my wrist, forcing my hand away from him, the slight 
touch too intense for his plans of making this last as long as 
humanly possible.  With one hand on his chest, pushing him up 
slightly, I touch him again and he pulls my hand away, removing 
his fingers from inside me, replacing them with his eager 
erection.

"Sc-cc-ccull-ll-y," he moans, shuttering once he's deep inside 
me, deeper than I thought anyone could go without being painful.  
"Ll-o-vv-e yy-ooo-uu...ll-oooo-vv-e yyyyy-oooo-uuuu."

Yes, this is it.  There is nothing more.  Just him and me, loving 
each other.  As he strokes deeper and deeper, I relax underneath 
him, letting the sensations take over, letting my mind shut down.

Then, suddenly, he pulls away, pushing me away from him and 
standing so quickly he stumbles into his desk, sending the 
carefully arranged stacks of folders and papers crashing to the 
floor.  He backs away from me, nearly climbing onto the desk, 
brutally wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"No," he says weakly, bending at the waist and holding his head 
in his hands.  "No, no, no."

Still panting, desperate for oxygen and him, I sit up, leaning 
towards him.  "What?"

"No!"  He screams more fiercely.  "We can't...we can't do this."  
Suddenly self-conscious, I pull his blanket around me, standing 
and taking a step towards him as he backs away against the wall.  
"No, Scully, please don't.  We can't.  We can't do this."

"Mulder -"

"You're married, Scully, we can't do this."  He sinks to the 
floor, drawing his knees up to his chest and burying his head in 
his hands, shaking.

"Mulder...we can," I whisper to him, carefully walking towards 
him.  "We can.  Mulder, I love you and I want this.  I want you.  
We can do this."

"You're married," he says again, muffled by his legs.

"He never has to know, Mulder.  I won't tell him.  I don't love 
him like this.  It doesn't feel like this with him."

He looks up, lost and confused.  He wants so badly to say yes, I 
can tell.  "No," he says softly.

"Mulder -"

"You'll know, Scully.  You'll have to live with it for the rest 
of your life...and so will I.  You can't keep it hidden forever.  
And when he finds out, what then?  You divorce?  You leave him 
and that little girl who's already had her family ripped apart 
once?"

"Mulder, I don't love him!  Not like this -"

He raises his voice, anger taking precedence over hurt.  "Then 
why did you marry him?  If you knew that you didn't love him and 
you knew you'd be miserable with him, then why did you do it?  
Just because you thought I'd abandoned you?"

"I didn't think I had a choice," I whisper.

"That's childish, Scully.  Childish and irresponsible.  And now 
you think you can come back and seduce me and that will fix 
everything?  There's more at stake here than just you and me and 
Ethan, Scully.  There's Emma.  What about her?  Could you really 
do that to her?"

Of course.  Mulder's parents divorced because of his mother's 
infidelity.  His family was ripped apart for her fleeting 
pleasure.  Of course he would think of Emma, how much this would 
hurt her, no matter how much he wants this.

"I don't have to.  Just once, Mulder, please.  No one ever has to 
know, I promise.  I swear to you, no one will find out."

"NO!  No, Scully.  Just go.  Just leave me alone.  Just leave, 
please.  Just leave me alone," he mumbles, pleading, desperate.

Ashamed and embarrassed, I turn away and walk back into his 
bedroom, dress quickly, then walk back into the foyer, picking up 
my purse and rummaging through it for his credit card, the whole 
reason I came to see him.  I set it on the table just inside his 
door, then look back at him, still huddled in the far corner of 
his living room, hands covering his face, shaking and sobbing 
quietly.

Not saying anything, I open the door and leave, forcing myself to 
get into my car and onto the road before I change my mind again.


<><><>End Part 3<><><>

Notes: I really don't know whether Scully's ex-Federal Agent 
Status would exempt her from the five day waiting period before 
she's allowed to purchase a gun, but I think I'm entitled to a 
little creativity every now and then, don't you?

And as for the reason that Mulder's parents divorced: it's been 
sufficiently established that Mrs. Mulder was unfaithful to Mr. 
Mulder in canon, and I believe that is one of the reasons that 
they divorced.  Again: creativity, friends.

Summer classes started today, so while you've all gotten used to 
updates about every two weeks, unfortunately, I won't be able to 
write any more for a while.  Savor this slowly and remember, a 
little stalking never hurt anybody. 

Title: 1013 (1/2) (Part Eight of the Trefoil Series)
Classification: SAR
Keywords: S/O, MSR/UST, AU
Rating: R, for language
Distribution: anywhere, just let me know
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me; they belong to      
            Mr. Chris Carter, lucky bastard.
Spoilers: none
Feedback: yes, to lil_gusty@hotmail.com
Thanks: at the end
Notes: This is the eighth part of my Trefoil Series.  For missing 
       parts, go to http://sciencex.tzo.com/xf/wips/trefoil.html

Summary: In the state of Georgia, a 1013 is the code to legally 
         hold someone against their will at a hospital, for 
         example, after a suicide attempt.

<><><><><><>

One night, Missy and I were folding towels in our bedroom: 
spreading them out on the bed, smoothing out all the wrinkles, 
doubling them perfectly in half each time, then placing them 
neatly into boxes on the floor.  Downstairs, we could hear Mom 
and Ahab fighting.  I was probably eight, Missy was ten or 
eleven, maybe.  Bill and Chaz were in their room, packing their 
clothes.  We had already done that, and were given the chore of 
packing my mother's things next.  Towels were part of that, 
though we had brought them in our room so that we could close the 
door and talk loudly, blocking out the screams and curses.

We were leaving.  My mother was taking all of us kids to her 
mother's, nearly an hour's drive away.  We only had one car 
though, in my father's name.  So, in a twist of dramatic irony, 
he would have to drive us.

When the last of the boxes were stuffed into the trunk and under 
our feet in the back seat, Missy, Bill, and I sat with Chaz 
stretched out across our laps.  He was six and clutching his 
stomach, moaning and thrashing around in pain.  Instead of 
getting on the interstate to go to my Grandmother's, my father 
started driving towards the hospital.  It turned out that Chaz's 
appendix was about to rupture and he would have most certainly 
died if we hadn't gotten there when we did.

Nearly two weeks later, Chaz came home - to the base.  My mother 
had taken his illness as a sign from God that she wasn't supposed 
to leave my father, no matter how bad things got.  Although she 
threatened to do so after that, she never told Missy and me to go 
fold towels again.  She learned her lesson.

<><><><><><>

The needles of hot water hit my skin, bouncing off and sliding 
down my cheeks, breasts, stomach, legs, to the ceramic floor of 
the tiny shower stall, swirling counter-clockwise around the 
shiny, metal drain and disappearing, carrying everything that I 
had been feeling for the past few hours with it.

From Mulder's apartment, I had driven at frightening speed 
towards my mother's house, fat, hot tears streaming down my 
cheeks.  When I pulled into the drive way at two thirty in the 
morning, it hit me that I didn't even have a key to get in.  I 
dried my tears, rubbed the center of my forehead against the 
sinus headache developing there, and picked up my cell phone, 
dialing the number shakily.

I just asked her if she could let me in, and she hung up without 
saying either way.  Knowing her, she'd make me sleep in the car 
for punishment.

Once inside, I'd gone to my room and packed, then called the 
airline, asking them when their next flight to Atlanta was.  Nine 
fifteen, the woman said, and I booked myself for a ticket home 
immediately.

I can't imagine what my poor mother thought.  Struggling not to 
collapse into a weepy puddle of tears, I kissed her goodbye after 
loading my luggage into the car.  She looked angry, but I could 
tell that she pitied me, too.  Her gullible, indecisive daughter, 
so easily led and manipulated - where did she go wrong?

She didn't ask any questions about why I was leaving so suddenly 
and I only offered the feeble "something's come up" explanation 
before I backed out of her driveway and rocketed towards the 
airport.

Yes, something's come up, Mom.  I just cheated on my husband, I 
think.  What is infidelity, really?  Is it thoughts of someone 
else?  Is it a kiss?  An intimate declaration?  Does it matter 
that we didn't finish, or is it enough that we started?  Is it so 
bad if I really love him?

And I do, Mom.  I really, really do love him.

I just knew that I had to go back home, back to my perfect life.  
I had to go back where I belonged; there was nothing left for me 
in DC.  There was nothing left for me with Mulder.  He was too 
scarred from his past, too afraid of my betrayals and 
abandonments, for us to ever have any kind of romantic 
relationship together.  He could never give me what Ethan gives 
me, just like my mother said.  He could never be to me what Ethan 
is: husband, savior, and lover.

I took a cab from the airport, knowing that Ethan was busy at 
work already, and then ran straight for the shower in our 
bathroom.  I still smelled like Mulder, could still feel his 
hands on my skin.  My lips were sore from his, as was my cervix.  
He was inside me, connected to me.  Forever.

It felt wonderful.

It felt dirty.

I watch him as he washes down the drain with the soap bubbles and 
tears.  He's gone.  For good this time.  No running back to him.  
No desperate attempts to make him understand how much I love him.

Loved him.  How much I loved him.

No more midnight phone calls, just to hear his voice on his 
answering machine.  No more needing him.  No more remembering 
him.  No more Mulder.

I belong to Ethan.  I am his wife.  I am Emma's mother.  This is 
my life now and Mulder has no part of it.  The sooner I realize 
that - the sooner I accept that - the better.  The quicker I can 
move on, the happier I'll be.

Why does it take so much sadness to be happy?

<><><><><><>

Warm hands on my shoulders, pulling me into him, stroking my 
cheek, his lips on my forehead.  Cold...so cold.

"Dana?  Dana, wake up."

No, don't want to.  Want to sleep forever...

In the air, in his arms.  Picking me up, carrying me somewhere.  
Putting me down, trying to get me to stand.

"Dana, I know you're awake, now open your eyes."

"Mmm...."  Soft cloth wrapped around me: warm.

The hands kneed at my body roughly, rubbing over my limps, 
stomach, and back, squeezing my hair, drying me.  Thumb brushes 
softly over my lips.  "Dana, your lips are blue."

"Cold."

"Yeah, I'll bet.  That water was freezing."

In the air again, Ethan carrying me to bed.  I loll in his arms, 
my head and arms limp like a doll.  Under heavy covers, more 
chill before I can finally get warm.

"You want to tell me what that was all about?" he asks, already 
accusing me of something.

I shake my head and wiggle to the middle of the bed, pulling 
covers tighter around me and curling into a tight fetal position.

"What are you doing home so soon?"

I shake my head again.  Shut up!

"Dana...how did you get here?  And why were you asleep in the 
shower?"

I'm not telling you again, SHUT UP!

"Fine."  He gets up from his seat on the side of the bed, making 
the mattress jump and jiggling me nauseatingly.  Just for good 
measure, in case I couldn't already tell he was angry, he slams 
the door on his way out, leaving me in blessed silence and midday 
sunshine.

<><><><><><>

The phone wakes me up later, and it hits me that Ethan was not 
supposed to be home in the middle of the day.  When I can drag 
myself to my feet, find my pajamas, and amble unsteadily down the 
stairs several hours later, I find Emma tucked in on the couch, 
clutching her stuffed white whale and looking completely 
miserable.  Ethan is in the kitchen, an empty can on Spaghetti-
O's next to the almost ready to beep microwave.

"Yeah, I don't think it's anything serious," he says into the 
phone, studiously stirring the steaming bowl as it comes out of 
the microwave.  "Uh huh.  Well, I'll ask Dana when she wakes up."  
A pause.  "She was here when I got home earlier, asleep.  I just 
let her stay that way.  She looked exhausted.  Yeah, I don't know 
either..."I lean on the counter hard, making it creak and Ethan 
notice me.  "Oh, she's up now, if you want to talk to her.  Okay, 
here she is."  He hands me the phone.

"Your Mom," he mouths.

"Thanks," I mumble, but he's not listening.  He goes back to the 
living room, feeling Emma's forehead and talking softly to her.  
She listlessly sits up and takes the bowl, her eyes drooping as 
she takes tiny bites.  "Hi, Mom."

"Dana," she says by way of a greeting.

"I know I forgot to call you when I got home.  I'm sorry," I say, 
exhaling steadily, wondering why else she would call.

"Fox came by this morning."

Well, I wasn't expecting that.  "Wh-what?"  I stammer.

"Fox came by this morning after you left.  He wanted to see you, 
and when I told him that you'd gone to the airport, he asked if I 
was lying to him," she says evenly, angrily.  "Why would he ask 
that?"

"I, uh, I d-don't know.  Did he say anything else?"

"Yes.  He asked what time your flight left.  I told him I didn't 
know."

Not that she would've told him if she had known.  Dammit, what 
the hell is he doing?  Following me to my mother's house, wanting 
to follow me to the airport?  Was he trying to stop me again?  
"Oh" is all I say.

"Does any of this have to do with the reason you left in such a 
rush this morning?" she asks tensely, probably already knowing 
the answer.

"N- I don't know," I lie through clenched teeth.

She takes a deep breath and holds it, then lets it out slowly.  
"Well, I just wanted to make sure you got home safely."

"Yep."

"That's good, Dana."

I nod, knowing she can't see me.  "I'll, uh, talk to you later, 
Mom.  I love you."

"I love you, too, Dana.  So much."

I swallow dryly against the lump in my throat; how do mothers 
always know how to guilt you?  When the silence gets 
uncomfortable, I hang up, and then wander into the living room in 
search of my beautiful, loving family.

"What's the matter, Emma?"  I ask the little girl in my best 
mother voice, wanting to be a part of this touching scene.

"I don't feel good," she whispers, going back to eating.

I look to Ethan to elaborate.  "She had a fever and said her 
stomach hurt when I picked her up from school.  The fever's come 
down, now, but she still looks pale."

So that's why Ethan was home earlier: Emma was sick.  I nod at 
him, wondering why she's downstairs on the couch instead of 
upstairs in bed.

"You look a little pale too, Dana," he says conspiratorially, 
glancing up at me.

I scrub my eyes with my hands, not answering, turning back 
towards the kitchen.  After you don't eat for a while, you don't 
feel the hunger anymore.  It's just emptiness, though you don't 
even feel it in your stomach, but you can feel your pulse there 
when you lay down at night.  Since I ate at Mulder's, though, my 
stomach is growling and I feel the desperate, feral hunger and 
know that I must have food.

'Cause that's what happy people do: eat.

I throw one of my Lean Cuisines into the microwave and press a 
few buttons as Ethan saunters into the kitchen behind me.  He 
looks at me, then looks away, sighs heavily, and says, "Now, you 
gonna explain all this to me?"

"What?"  I ask, peeking in at my food, wondering what it's like 
to crawl inside someplace like that and be warm forever: 
microwave, oven, dryer...

"I find you asleep in the shower, the water freezing, when you're 
supposed to be at your mother's.  I didn't even know you were 
coming home so soon."

What am I supposed to say to that?  Well, see, I wasn't going to 
come home so soon, but I felt I needed to be as far away from 
Mulder as possible after we had sex?  I just nod instead, 
hurrying my fetucinni alfredo along silently.

He takes a deep breath, then sighs again, crossing his arms.  "I 
don't like you not talking to me, Dana.  If something's bothering 
you, I want to know about it."

"Nothing's bothering me," I tell him.  It's simpler than the 
truth.

He nods like he expected my answer, but doesn't counter my 
argument.  He's probably as sick of this game as I am.  I wish we 
could just start over, from the moment he knocked on my apartment 
door a year ago.  I would do so many things differently.  I would 
throw myself into this relationship instead of resisting all of 
the changes it's wrought in me.  I would devote myself to Ethan 
and Emma unquestionably.  I would forget about my other life, my 
Mulder life, and we would all be so much happier.

"Okay, then answer me this."

"What?"  I ask, lost in my reverie.

"When did you get a tattoo?  And what are those scars on your 
stomach and back?"

I turn away from my irradiating food and stare at him agape.  
"We've been married almost a year and you're just now noticing 
these thing?"

He glances down at his shoes and, for a moment, looks almost 
embarrassed.  Ethan's a missionary-position-in-the-dark kind of 
Catholic.  He probably confesses oral sex.  "Yeah," he says 
quietly.

I roll my eyes and check on my food: who knew four and a half 
minutes could be so long?  "I got a tattoo a few years ago and 
the scars are from a gun shot wound," I answer simply.

"You were shot?"

"Yes."

"By who?"

"Another agent.  It was an accident."

"Was it Mulder?"  He asks after a thick beat of silence.

Now how can I forget about him if you won't?  "No," I tell him 
angrily.  How could he even think that Mulder would do something 
so stupid, so cocky as to shoot a fellow officer, let alone his 
partner, best friend, unrequited love?

Like I did that time: shooting my fellow officer, partner, best 
friend, unrequited love.

He nods, again as if he expected that answer, and changes the 
subject.  "You think you could take Emma to the doctor tomorrow?"

"I am a doctor."

"A real doctor.  A practicing doctor - a pediatrician," he 
quickly amends.

The microwave beeps, letting me know that my food is nearly 
thawed.  "Yea," I say quietly, not bothering to be offended.

'Cause good wives aren't offended by their husbands.  Good 
mothers take their children to real doctors.

He nods and disappears into the living room again, leaving me 
alone in the kitchen.

"I forgot to tell you," he whispers later that night, running a 
hand suggestively over my pajama-clad hip, waking me in the 
process, "we have an appointment with the fertility specialist on 
Monday."

"What fertility specialist?"

"I told you: I did some checking.  I want us to see a fertility 
specialist.  I want to have another baby."

I turn over onto my stomach and mumble into the pillow.  "Oh.  
Okay."

'Cause that's what good wives do: what their husbands want.

<><><><><><>

Turns out Emma had a twenty-four hour stomach bug.  Just rest, 
clear fluids, and lots of Disney movies were enough to get her 
feeling much better.  She only missed one day of school.  She 
loves school.

Ethan gave me the name of the fertility specialist and I did some 
checking on him.  As far as I could tell, he had no known 
connections to any secret government agencies and didn't have a 
criminal record.  We went to see him and answered his perfunctory 
questions: how long have you been trying to conceive, why do you 
think you could be infertile, what would your best-case scenario 
be for treatment.  When I told the balding, fatherly-looking man 
that I was infertile due to experiments performed on me, he 
looked at Ethan with wide, suspicious eyes.  I used to be wary of 
telling people that story, knowing that no one would believe me, 
think I was insane, but now, I just don't care.  I'll tell anyone 
who will listen about my experiences, however insane they sound.  
I'm almost proud of them; I wear them as a badge of honor.

If I can survive months with scientists working to create alien-
human hybrids, I can survive anything.

As I lay on the table, my feet hanging from the stirrups, Ethan 
beside me, squeezing my hand, I tried to pretend that I was with 
the men in the bright, white place again.  I tried to pretend 
that I wasn't alone, that Penny Northern was there somewhere and 
would hold me as I cried afterwards.  I tried to pretend that 
people missed me and were looking for me.  I tried to pretend 
that Mulder hadn't forgotten me, that he would be waiting beside 
my hospital bed when I finally woke up.

The doctor poked and scrapped and assured me that it wouldn't 
hurt a bit.  He lied.  It felt like he was sucking my insides 
right out of my body with a little vacuum cleaner.  

In the end, he came to the conclusion that I needed estrogen and 
progesterone supplements to try and "kick-start" my ovulation.  
According to him, it was feasible that I had gone into menopause 
early, since I hadn't had a period in seven years.  He handed the 
prescription for the supplements to Ethan who was beaming with 
anticipation and hope.

On the way home, we stopped by the Publix and got the 
supplements.  The side effects of the pills were moodiness, 
depression, severe menstrual cramps, increased menstrual flow, 
weight gain, insomnia, and water retention.  Wonderful.

It may not have been so bad if I had thought that there was any 
hope at all in these treatments.  Not only was it expensive (and 
it wasn't covered under our insurance), it was emotionally 
stressful and draining.  One night, Ethan came home with an 
ovulation detector.  I began to feel like a brood mare, always 
taking my temperature to see if it was slightly elevated, ending 
up on my back five out of seven nights a week on the off chance 
that They had left a single ova left inside me.  To appease 
Ethan, I lied to him and told him that I thought the pills could 
be working and that it was still worth a try.  We weren't 
supposed to go back to the doctor for three months, but I threw 
away the pills after two weeks, telling Ethan that I was still 
taking them religiously.  

I thought of his disappointment if we failed to get pregnant - 
not only in his hopes, but in me as well.  It would be 
frustrating and humiliating, and I had been through the silent 
berating of my body before.  I didn't want to go through it 
again, not even to make him happy.  Good wives don't have to 
worry about multi-governmental conspiracies to create alien-human 
hybrids stealing their ova, anyway, so I felt like I had an 
excuse not to be compliant.

We never discussed adoption, either.  In all honesty, I wouldn't 
have wanted to adopt anyway.  Having a child with Ethan...for 
some reason just seems like a bad idea.  Like I could never just 
leave him, forget about him, if I ever were to tell him the 
truth.  I would always be bound to him by the child, be it ours 
by blood or legality.  But if he had wanted to, I would've 
agreed.

'Cause that's what good wives do: agree.

<><><><><><>

Being that it's Easter, the neighborhood holiday get-together is 
at our house.  I've been cleaning all week in anticipation and 
know that I'll spend all of next week doing so as well.  The wine 
is in the fridge chilling, the meat is thawing, and I'm trying to 
carve one of those cute baskets in a hollowed out watermelon.

It's not working too well.  I thought I could do this, mainly 
because I'm so handy with a scalpel -

I was handy with a scalpel.  Was.

- but it's much harder than it looks.  I'm ready to throw the 
whole thing against the wall in frustration when the phone rings 
and I send a silent prayer to a fading God for my reprieve.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Dana," my mother's warm voice greets me.

"Mom, hi."  She usually doesn't just call for no reason.  
Something must be up.

"Is Ethan around?"  She asks quietly, like there's someone around 
to hear her on her end.

"No, he's outside.  Why?"

She sighs heavily.  "Dana...Fox just called me."

My mouth goes dry and I squeeze the dish towel in my hand so 
tightly my knuckles turn white.  "H-he did?"  I manage, not 
sounding as casual as I intended.

"Yes, he did."  

I look down, clear my throat, and avoid her question.  "What did 
he want?"

"He wanted to talk about you."

"Me?"  I squeak.

"Yes.  He asked me about you: if I thought you were happy, if 
everything was okay with Ethan."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him that everything was fine.  That you and Ethan were 
very happy," she answers, as if it's the most obvious thing in 
the world.

"Oh," I breathe, wondering when my mother became so good at 
lying.

"Have you talked to him?"

"No."

"He didn't call you?"

"No."

She sighs again.  "Dana, I want you to tell me what happened."

After a few false starts, I stutter out, "Nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Dana Katherine," she says in her warning tone.

"I'm not," I lie again.

She doesn't say anything in response to that.  Neither do I.

"Dana," Ethan says from behind me, poking his head through the 
French doors and into the kitchen.  "Guests are here."

"Mom, I have to go."

Silence.

"Mom...I have to go."

Silence.

I hang up the phone slowly, imagining all the things my mother 
imagines went on at Mulder's apartment that night.  She's always 
had a good imagination.

Shrill voices from outside float through the open doors - Emma 
and the other girls playing.  Their parents talking happily, 
smiling and laughing.  Everything looks so perfect, so inviting 
and comfortable.  I want to be a part of that.

I swallow against the tears in my throat and pick up my knife 
again.  I wonder how sharp this thing is.  If it's sharp enough, 
it won't hurt.

No.

I continue carving at my watermelon until I get something 
resembling a lopsided basket with a flattened handle.  It'll do.  
I get the rest of the fruit out of the fridge and dump it into 
the basket, just like I saw in Woman's World, and carry it 
outside to the party.

Since St. Patrick's Day, everyone has been tip-toeing around me, 
never knowing what will set me off again.  Of course Ethan 
assuring all of them that my crazy story was just the result of 
too much alcohol and an over active imagination, but they're 
still afraid of what else my imagination may come up with and 
Ethan is keeping the wine away from me to make them all feel a 
little more comfortable.

'Cause good wives and mothers don't get drunk and talk about 
space aliens.

As we sit down at the picnic table, Ethan keeps his arms around 
me and kisses my cheek every chance he gets.  Someone makes an 
idle comment about newlyweds and everyone laughs.  Someone else 
teases the men about the overly crisp hot dogs.  Another offers 
to let the women grill next time.  It's easy and scripted.  
Everyone has a place, a role, and certain lines to contribute.  
My contribution is to push my food around on my plate and giggle 
when Ethan tells a joke, to smile at the children and offer to 
clean all this mess up by myself.

I wonder what Mulder really wanted when he called my mother.  Did 
he think that I was lying to him when I told him that everything 
was fine at home?  Maybe he thinks that Ethan is abusing me, but 
nothing could be further from the truth.  Even if he was, Mulder 
knows that the last person I would tell would be my mother.

And why did he go see her the day that I left?  To tell me that 
he was sorry for what happened?  To try and convince me not to go 
back home?

I watched for him at the airport and I never saw him.  Had he 
been there this time, I might not have gotten on that plane.

"Dana?"  A hand shakes my shoulder; from the tone of the voice, 
it's been calling me for a while.

"What?"  I ask, still lost in my reverie.

"Ethan said that y'all went to see a fertility doctor," Penny 
says softly, eyeing Matthew closely as he follows the girls 
around, desperate to be a part of their fun.

"He did?"  This was supposed to be a secret.

"Yeah, he said the doctor gave you hormone pills to take.  Do you 
think it's helping?"

I stare at her for a minute, wanting to scream at her to mind her 
own damn business.  "No.  Not really."

She seems shocked at my level of optimism.  "We tried for years 
to get pregnant with Stephanie," she begins, thinking that her 
story may give me hope.  "It took a while, but we finally got 
pregnant."  She looks at her children wistfully and I feel an 
intense stab of jealously slice through me.  Why can't things 
just be simple for me?  Why does all of this sacrifice and loss 
have to be mine?  Why can't I just have what I want for a change?

"Well, in this case," I say slowly, trying not to sound as bitter 
and hateful as I feel, "I don't think 'we' will get pregnant."  
She blinks at me, saying nothing, telling me with her eyes how 
much she pities me.  I don't need her goddamn pity.  "I'm going 
back to the house," I snap and rise from my lounge chair.

I need to get a head start on cleaning up and washing dishes 
anyway.  God knows Ethan won't help.

<><><><><><>

I slam the door when I get back to the house, blocking out the 
roaring laughter and lilting conversations between too many 
yuppies that've had too much to drink.  They've been here for 
hours already; I want them to leave.  Now.

"Dana?  What's the matter?"  Ethan asks, closing the same door I 
slammed just minutes before behind him.

"Are they going to spend the night or what?"  I ask sharply, 
yanking the dishwasher door open and unloading it, clattering the 
dishes against each other as loudly as I can while I put them 
away.

"We're talking.  It's a party, people are allowed to have fun."

I slam a cabinet door before I explode at him.  "Why did you tell 
everyone about this fertility thing?"

"Wh -"

"It's not supposed to be public knowledge, Ethan!  I don't want 
the whole neighborhood to know when I have a period!"

"Dana -"

"This is an personal thing, a very intimate thing!  Why did you 
tell everyone?"

He crosses his arms and leans against the counter, cocking his 
head like I'm interfering with some kind of plans he has.  "Are 
you finished?"  He asks condescendingly.

I narrow my eyes at him.  "I want answers from you!"  I scream.

"Why is it such a secret that we're trying to have a baby?"

"Because!  I told you!  We can't!  We can't have a baby, Ethan, 
and no amount of hormones or money or fancy doctors will change 
that!  And I don't want everyone to blame me when you finally 
realize that!"

He walks over to me slowly a puts his hands on my shoulders, 
looking down into my eyes.  "Dana," he says softly.  "No one is 
going to blame you.  You're just tired and overly emotional from 
the pills -"

"I stopped taking those pills two weeks ago," I snap, then bite 
my tongue at my stupidity.

He takes a deep breath and his eyes go out of focus over the top 
of my head.  "Why?"

I enunciate my words very precisely, in case that was the problem 
before.  "How many times do I have to explain this to you?  It 
won't help.  This is a pointless waste of money.  I have no ova 
and I cannot get pregnant."

"You can't get pregnant if you don't let the doctors help you, 
Dana," he says simply, and then turns to go back outside, where 
the people are friendly and explain to them that poor Dana just 
had a mood swing from her hormone supplements.  I'm sure all the 
women will be giving me advice before they leave about how to 
increase the odds of fertilization and implantation.

The phone rings just as I start to pick up a heavy crystal bowl 
and contemplate the ear-splitting sound it will make as it 
crashes into the French doors and shatters them into millions of 
tiny pieces.

"Hello," I say as a statement instead of a question.

A beat of silence.  Then, "Scully?"

I nearly melt into a puddle on the floor at his warm tone of 
concern in his voice.  Guilt and shame come a half-second later, 
coursing through my veins behind the relief that he's still 
speaking to me.  "Mulder," I moan in response, pressing the phone 
against my ear.

"What's wrong?" he asks urgently.

"Nothing, is everything okay with you?"

Another beat of silence while he processes my lie.  "Yeah, 
everything's fine.  I just thought I'd call, say hi," he says as 
if the last time I talked to him, I didn't rip out his heart, 
throw it against the wall, then grind it under my foot after it 
slowly slid to the floor.

"My Mom said you called her this morning."

"Yeah, I did," he says in a petulant voice like a little boy 
caught sneaking cookies out of the pantry.  I can see in my mind 
the little crease in his forehead: two vertical lines from the 
end of each eyebrow, a horizontal line connecting them.

"Why?"

"I wondered if you had told her everything you told me."

"What do you mean?"  I ask, fear and unease rising at what he may 
have told her.

"I wondered if she knew how unhappy you are."  When I don't 
respond to that, he keeps going.  "She doesn't.  According to 
her, you and Ethan are the perfect picture of wedded bliss."

"Yeah," I agree, knowing that, according to my mother, that's 
true.

"Scully, are you sure everything's okay?"

I take a deep breath and say softly, "Ethan and I had a fight."

"A fight?"  He echoes.  "About what?"

Hesitating a little, I try and decide if I should tell him 
everything.  "Just...it's nothing."

"You fought about nothing?"  He asks suspiciously.

I groan inwardly, remembering why I can never lie to him.  "It 
was stupid."

"Uh-huh," he intones, sounding thoughtful.

I take a deep breath, calculating my words.  "Mulder -"  The 
French door slams as Ethan walks in carrying an empty plate that 
has residual bar-b-que sauce stains on it from ribs.  He eyes me 
cautiously, wondering who could be important enough to talk to on 
the phone when we have droves of company in our backyard, 
wondering where their hostess is.  "It's nothing," I reiterate 
more confidently.

Mulder doesn't respond, though I can hear him breathing heavily 
on the other end of the phone.  He must've heard someone come in 
and probably suspects that my abrupt attitude change means it was 
Ethan.

"Everything's fine."

"Uh-huh," he repeats, far away.

"I appreciate your concern, though, but everything's fine.  
Really."

"Okay," he says softly.  "Sorry to bother you, then."  Before I 
can respond, he hangs up.

I carefully place the phone back in the receiver, then I glance 
outside, watching the happy parents, the shrieking children.  All 
of them safe, secure, care-free.

"Who was that?"  Ethan asks, setting the plate on the counter 
beside me.  

I shake my head.  "Nothing important."

He nods at me, then holds the door open as I step through and 
into the beaming circle of people, taking my place in the 
choreographed production.  We smile and play the happy couple.

Just a mood swing, Ethan.

<><><><><><>

An unseasonably warm spring - actually, it's probably normal, 
around here - led the neighborhood to agree to open the pool 
early this year, just in time for Spring Break.  Emma and I have 
spent every daylight hour of every day that week at the pool and 
I'm sick of it.  Maybe it's part of that mood swing thing.

Monday, Ethan got my hormone prescription refilled and now, he 
wakes me up when he gets home from work to give me one, then 
wakes me up before he leaves so that he knows I take them.  It's 
his money and I'm tired of arguing with him, so I dutifully 
swallow the pills he offers.  I've yet to even have a period, but 
I know it's coming and I dread it: the look of disappointment on 
his face, the silent recriminations, the hopeful, optimistic 
promises of next time.

I've just finished Emma lunch - a turkey sandwich, mustard, extra 
pickles, no crust - when she bounds down the stairs in her new 
bathing suit and cotton shorts, flip flops smacking loudly 
against her heels.

"Dana, I wanted to go to McDondald's for lunch!"  She huffs, 
putting her little hands on her hips and jutting her lower lip 
out the same way she does to Ethan to get anything she wants.

It doesn't even phase me.  I'm not in the mood for negotiation 
today.  "Too late, Emma.  I already made your lunch.  The sooner 
you eat, the sooner we go to the pool."

She stomps over to her chair at the table and plops down, 
crossing her arms defiantly over her chest.  "I don't like 
turkey," she declares.

"Yes, you do.  It's your favorite."

"I don't like mustard."

"Emma, listen, you eat it or you go hungry.  It's your choice," I 
tell her as I start thawing my Lean Cuisine.  I have to eat 
because of the pills - they make me nauseous if I don't.

"I don't like pickles."

I ignore her.  She can be sweet and loving but, at times, she 
acts like what she is: a spoiled little brat.

She shoves the plate to the side of the table, then sets her 
elbows in front of her looking hilariously pathetic in her 
pouting.  I don't know if she meant to or not, but the paper 
plate goes sliding to the floor, the sandwich opening and 
landing, of course, mustard side down on my newly mopped kitchen 
floor.  Hearing the "plop" sounds, she looks at it and giggle.  
"Oops," she says unconvincingly, smiling and batting her 
eyelashes.

"Pick it up," I tell her.  She doesn't move.  "Emma, pick it up."  
Still nothing.  "If you don't pick it up, we're not going to the 
pool."  She looks down at the sandwich again like telekinesis 
would make it move, so I try something I learned from Sonya.  
"One...two...three..." she knows that if I get to five, that 
means big trouble, though usually she manages to charm her way 
out of the big punishment.  When I get to four, she finally 
speaks.

"I didn't mean to," she tells the back of the chair 
unconvincingly.

I take a deep breath, seething.  "Emma, I don't care if you meant 
to or not.  Pick.  It.  Up."

She blinks at me.  She fucking blinks at me, looking back and 
forth between the floor and me.

"GODDAMMIT EMMA!  PICK IT UP!"  I scream at her, pointing a 
finger savagely at the soggy bread.

Her hands fly to her mouth to cover her gapping expression.  Yes, 
I've just sinned, used the Lord's name in vain.  I'm surely going 
to hell now.  "Daddy said -"

"I DON'T CARE WHAT DADDY SAID!"  At a loss for anything else to 
say, I try the one thing that always got me when I was her age.  
"GO TO YOUR ROOM!"

Of course, I had to share a room with a sister who had a phone 
growing from her ear as a permanent appendage, so it was much 
worse for me.

Tears fill her round, scared eyes as she hops down from her chair 
and runs, sobbing, to the stairs.  A few seconds later, her 
bedroom door slams.

Well, that was a nice way to handle that situation.  Must be 
those pills.

Dejected, I sigh and bend to pick up the mess, wetting a paper 
towel and wiping the mustard off the floor.  As I drop the ruined 
food into the trash, I remember something my mother used to tell 
us: "Starving kids in Africa would love to have that."

I used to tell her to send it to them, whatever it was.

For months, I did what ever Emma wanted, gave into her every 
request, just so she would like me.  Then I figured out that she 
was taking advantage of that, so I tried being stricter, saying 
no to her and disciplining her as needed.  I'm still terrified 
that she won't like me.  I can't stand it that I've hurt her 
feelings.

My lunch forgotten, I slowly walk up the stairs to stand just 
outside her bedroom door.  From here, I can hear her crying into 
her pillow, ready to tell Ethan what a horrible mother I am and 
how much she hates me as he walks in the door tonight.

"Emma?"  I call softly, tapping on the door with one finger.

At my voice, she just sobs harder, sounding like a wounded 
animal.  I wonder what she would sound like if I spanked her.

"Emma, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to yell at you."  She sniffs, 
listening.  "Can I come in and talk to you?"

"Yeah," she says weakly, her voice trembling.

I push her door open, peek inside, and see her sitting Indian 
style on her bed, her white whale clutched tightly in her arms, 
wet from her tears.  Sitting beside her, I smooth her hair over 
her shoulders.  "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

She nods, her lower lip still trembling.

"But you did make me angry.  When I ask you to do something, I 
expect you to do it, especially if it's something as easy as 
cleaning up a mess you made."

"But I didn't mean to," she counters.

"That doesn't matter, Emma.  You were being,"  Obnoxious?  
Bratty?  A royal pain in the ass?  "difficult before that.  Even 
if you did want McDonald's you didn't have to order me around 
like that, right?"

"I guess."

Close enough, I suppose.  "Do you have anything you want to say 
to me?"

Searching my eyes, she realizes what I'm expecting.  "I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

"Can we still go to the pool?"  She asks hopefully.

"Sure, but we need to eat first."  I just can't say no to her.

Her eyes light up.  "McDonald's?"

I sigh and look away, telling myself that I'm doing this because 
I don't want to make another sandwich and we're almost out of 
bread anyway.  I would be such a horrible mother.  "Yeah, 
McDonald's."

<><><><><><>

Sonya and Penny are having an intense discussion about one of the 
other women in the neighborhood who, apparently, wore last year's 
fashion to church last Sunday, when Emma leaps out of the pool 
and runs towards the fence.

"Mulder!"  She shouts gleefully and my heart stops.

She catches him at the gate, showing him how to unlock the child-
proof lock and letting him in, jumping up and down on her bare 
feet, raising her arms for a hug.

"Hey, Emma!"  He says, grabbing her and pulling her tightly 
against him.  Yep, that's Mulder all right.  Tight jeans, gray T-
shirt, cocky grin, eyes that can make you melt from across the 
room.  All of him, hugging my sopping wet stepdaughter at our 
neighborhood pool.

She takes him by the hand and leads him to the pool, shrieking 
for him to watch her dive off of the diving board.  My mouth 
hangs open, my eyes decidedly moist, my feet and hands concrete.  
I can't speak, can't move, can't believe that he's here.  Why is 
he here?

"Hey, Scully," he says softly, making me feel I'm the only person 
in the world as he ambles towards me.

By the time he's towering over me, squinting at the sun, my vocal 
cords unfreeze themselves.  "Hi," I say weakly.

"Nice pool."  He gestures behind him casually, as if the last 
time I saw him, I didn't beg him to help me cheat on my husband.

"What are you doing here?"

He avoids the question.  "These mailboxes don't have numbers on 
them, so I stopped to ask for directions.  Guess I found you, 
huh?"

I just nod, dumbstruck, then hear a not-so-subtle throat clearing 
beside me.  "Dana?  Aren't you going to introduce us?"  Penny 
asks cattily.

Down, woman.  He's mine.  "Uh, y-yeah.  Penny, Sonya," I gesture 
in their general direction, "this is Mulder, my, uh... 
friend...from Washington.  Mulder," I look up at him again.  Big 
mistake.  "T-t-this is Penny and Sonya."

"Pleased to meet you, Mulder," Sonya drawls, sticking out her 
hand in a lady-like shaking gesture.

"You, too, ladies."  He grins that grin that turns my insides to 
jelly at them, then looks back at me, pinning me with his gaze.  
"To answer your question, Scully, I came to see you."

"Me?"  I squeak, figuring that he came all the way down here just 
to see if the mailboxes had numbers or not.

"Yeah.  I thought we could talk."

"Talk?"  I ask incredulously.

"Mulder, you're not watching!"  Emma shouts at him from across 
the pool.

He turns.  "I'm watching, Emma," he shouts back as she does 
another dive, doggie-paddles over to the side, jumps out, then 
dives again.  "So, talk?"  He asks me, turning again.

I lick my lips, unconsciously aroused.  "Yeah, sure.  Sonya?  W-
would you mind?"  I finally look at her.  "Taking Emma for a few 
hours?"

She grins.  "No, of course not."

Mulder cross his arms, waiting for me to stand up and looking 
like he expects me to fall over.  Without his help, I make it to 
the inside of his rental car, feeling his eyes burn holes in the 
back of my skull.

"It's the white house at the end of the cul-de-sac," I tell him 
absently.

He drives, and then makes a joke about expecting a pink house 
instead of white.  I'm not really listening.  Being so close to 
him is nearly unbearable and I feel that the slightest move from 
either one of us would end with us in the backseat like a couple 
of teenagers.  But other than a tightly clenched jaw, Mulder 
doesn't look like he feels the same, though.

"So, this is domestic bliss?"  He asks as we step into the foyer, 
looking around him and taking in every aspect of this new life 
without him.

"Yeah," I breathe, thinking I should offer him something to 
drink.

He walks up to one of the walls.  "Not moving.  That's a good 
sign," he says, grinning.

"What?"

His face falls and he looks away.  "Cockroaches...never mind."

Oh...moving walls, doctors named Bambi, girlie screams...

I clear my throat, walking into the living room, him following 
closely at my heels.  "Sit down," I offer him the plush armchair, 
but he chooses the couch, sitting beside me instead.  "You wanted 
to talk?"

"Yeah, I did."

When he doesn't elaborate, I prompt him.  "About?"

"You, this."  He gestures at the room around us, something in the 
backyard catching his eye.

"What about it?"

"I just wanted to see what it was like for you."

"Why?"

"I was curious," he pulls a thread at the back of the couch, not 
looking at my face.  "If it was everything you expected it would 
be."

I take a deep breath.  He came to see if I was lying to him when 
I told him that I hated it here and that I loved him.  "Sometimes 
it is.  But sometimes it's harder than others."

"What do you mean?"  He asks, piercing my eyes with his.

"J-j-just normal things, I guess.  Things I didn't anticipate -"

"You said that you weren't happy here, Scully.  Is that true?"

Shaking my head in frustration, I look away.  "Sometimes."

He leans closer to me, making my cushion dip towards his, sending 
me careening towards his warm body.  "Then come back to DC with 
me.  If you're not happy here, don't stay."

"What?"

"Scully...I want you to be happy.  If you're not happy here, I 
don't want you to stay here.  I won't let you," he says matter-
of-factly.

"You don't speak to me for nearly a year and then you expect me 
to just go back home with you?"  I ask, my mouth agape.

"That was different.  I didn't know...I didn't know you were like 
this."  He picks up my arm, wrapping his fingers around my wrist 
to emphasize how much weight I've lost.

I snatch my arm away from him.  "No."

"No, what?"

"No, I won't go back with you."

"Why not?  If you're unhappy -"

"It's not like that all the time, Mulder.  Ethan and I had a 
fight.  That's the reason that I was visiting my mother: we 
needed some time apart.  I was still angry at him when I went to 
see you -"

He stands then, his voice lowering with his eyebrows.  "So, what, 
you were just looking to seduce me to get back at him?"  He asks 
angrily.

"No!  Mulder...things were complicated - things are complicated - 
but," I soften my voice to an almost secretive level, "I still 
love you."

He sighs deeply and, when I look at him, his gaze is far away, 
his teeth worrying his lower lip.  "We'll see," he says simply, 
then turns away.

"Where are you going?"  I ask him, rising to follow.

"I need to find a motel."

"You're staying?"

"I'm not leaving until I find out what the truth is, Scully.  
Whether you're happy here with Ethan or whether you're miserable 
with him, I'm not going back to DC until I have some answers."  
Until I figure out if you really love me, he leaves out.

It only takes a split second for the words to tumble out of my 
mouth.  "No.  Stay here."

He turns around and fixes me with an incredulous stare.  "Here?"

I nod furiously  "Yes.  I want you to stay here."

He cocks his head, thinking for a moment.  "And how would Ethan 
feel about that?"

It's a challenge.  He wants to know just how I high I jump when 
Ethan says.  "It doesn't matter.  I want you to stay here."

Mulder looks down, studying his shoes.  "Okay.  I'll go get my 
stuff," says, then turns and walks out the front door to his car.

<><><><><><>

The marinara sauce is simmering wildly; the water in the big pot 
boiling and ready for the noodles.  Mulder and Emma are in the 
living room reading a book together.  Once she came back from the 
pool, she attached herself to his hip and I haven't been able to 
pry her off.  He doesn't seem to mind, though.  He actually seems 
to enjoy spending time with her.  He's a natural at this 
fatherhood thing.  It's too bad he never had any children 
himself.

Of course, it isn't too late for that.  Aaron Burr, Thomas 
Jefferson's first Vice President, fathered an illegitimate child 
while he was in his eighties.  He killed Alexander Hamilton in a 
dual, too, but men can father children until the day they die, 
unlike women, who are born with a limited number of ova.  Once 
those ova are gone, usually when a woman is in her forties or 
fifties, she can't even have any more children.

Then, there are those of us who has our ova stolen from us.

I drop the noodles in the pot and stir it, then head for the 
living room to check on their progress.  Emma is still sitting 
flush against Mulder's side, his arm around her holding her book, 
her little finger underlining the words as she slowly reads them.  
She comes to an unfamiliar one and Mulder patiently helps her 
sound it out, letting her figure it out for herself.  Delighted 
with the new addition to her vocabulary, she looks up at him and 
grins; Mulder smiles back.  Both happy.

Leaning against the wall outside the kitchen, watching them like 
this, I feel happy too, for the first time in months.  My little 
family, safe and content in our house together.  It's perfect, 
just like I thought it would be.

But then, it was Ethan instead of Mulder I imagined.

"Need any help in there, Scully?"  Mulder asks, turning his head 
to smile softly at me.

"No.  It's almost ready, though."  I return his smile and our 
eyes meet, his holding mine for what seems like an eternity 
before he looks back at Emma and her book.

Walking back into the kitchen, I'm not surprised to see Mulder 
follow me almost immediately.  "Want me to set the table?"  He 
asks, seeing me unloading the dishwasher.

"Yeah, sure," I say, handing him the dishes, gesturing for him to 
wait while I retrieve another plate and fork from the cabinet and 
drawer.

As Mulder's setting napkins at each of the place settings, we 
hear the garage door open.  He looks at me, a quick look of fear 
in his eyes.  "I wondered when he would be getting home.  It's 
after seven thirty."

"He works late, sometimes."  Actually, this is an early night for 
Ethan.

"Oh," he whispers, his eyes on the door leading to the garage.  
After the sound of a car door slamming and a few quick footsteps, 
the door opens, revealing a very tired, very rumpled-looking 
Ethan.

"H-hi," he says, caught off guard by Mulder in attack mode 
meeting him at the door.  "Dana?"  He asks, searching for me.

"In here.  Dinner's almost ready."  When I pick up the pan of 
sauce from the stove, Mulder intuitively reaches for a hot pad to 
put on the table.  "Thanks," I tell him, knowing better than to 
look at his face.

"Daddy!"  Emma squeals from the living room, tackling her 
father's legs.  "Mulder's here!"

"I know, Em.  I see," he says, less than gleefully, nearly 
glaring at me.

After a tensely silent dinner, Ethan stands at the French doors, 
gazing into the night that covers the back yard.  "So Mulder, 
what brings you to Atlanta?  On a case?"

"No," Mulder says, not looking away from his scrubbing of the 
counter, dutifully erasing all my cooking mishaps.  "Just, 
uh...vacation."

"Oh."  Ethan draws the syllable out, disbelieving.  "You know, 
Atlanta has some really nice hotels, like the one Dana and I 
stayed at during our honeymoon.  Right, Dana?"

I glare at him, noticing the slight shutter that runs through 
Mulder at his words.  "Family doesn't stay in hotels when they 
come to visit, Ethan.  Neither does Mulder."

"So, now he's visiting?  I thought he was on vacation."

Mulder just ignores him while I seethe, turning scarlet with 
embarrassment and anger.

It gets worse when Emma asks Mulder to read her bedtime story 
instead of me or Ethan.  I really didn't mind and was content to 
watch Mulder's gentleness with her, but Ethan furiously paced up 
and down the hallway, certain that the minute he left his 
daughter alone with "Spooky," aliens would come and abduct her.

"Is this gonna be okay?"  I ask Mulder as he saunters into the 
guest bedroom, avoiding Ethan's stare.

"It's fine, Scully.  At least it's not a couch."  He smiles that 
soft smile again, the one that barely crinkles the skin around 
his deep, warm eyes.  "Don't worry about me."  He looks over my 
shoulder at my husband, then says, "Night, Ethan."

Out of the corner of my eye, Ethan nods tightly.

"Night, Scully," Mulder says softer to me, leaning down a little 
so that I can hear.

"Night," I whisper.

Ethan waits until our bedroom door is closed before exploding.  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What?  He's my friend, Ethan, and I would appreciate it if you 
wouldn't act like a jealous, territorial ass while he's here!"

He gets right in my face, breathing the words down onto my face.  
"I do not want that man around my daughter.  Or you.  Or in my 
house.  He leaves tomorrow."

"This is my house, too, Ethan, and he's my friend.  I won't let 
you treat him like this."

He glares harder at me.  "I've had a long day, Dana, and this is 
the last thing I need right now.  Let's go to bed.  We'll deal 
with this in the morning."  And, with that, he crawls in bed, 
hugging his side of the mattress.

Longingly, I look at the bedroom door, through it, and into the 
hallway.  Even if I could go sleep downstairs, away from Ethan, 
what would I tell Mulder?  How would I explain that to him?

Conceding defeat, I crawl into bed beside Ethan, curling up to 
his back in an effort to get warm on the outside.

The inside, however, is a different story.

<><><>End Part 1<><><>


<><><>Begin Part 2<><><>

Because of those Goddamned hormone pills, after I woke up at one 
in the morning, I couldn't go back to sleep.  I lay awake, 
staring at the ceiling, trying to tell myself that Ethan wasn't 
breathing too loud, that I was just looking for excuses to go 
check on Mulder.  

He's not a child; he doesn't need to be checked on.  But still, 
is he having trouble sleeping, too?  Maybe he'd like to get up 
and watch some TV to help put him back to sleep.  Maybe he's 
reading.  Or maybe he's staring at the ceiling, wondering if I'm 
asleep and, if not, what I'm doing and thinking.

I know Ethan is angry that Mulder is here, but I just don't care.  
Mulder is...Mulder is my best friend.  My partner, in so many 
ways.

He's also the man that I had an affair with and now, he's under 
the same roof as my husband, just down the hall from our bedroom.  
If Ethan knew that...

...but I just couldn't let Mulder go this afternoon.  I wanted to 
keep him as close to me as possible, even if it meant making 
Ethan angry.  I still want Mulder as close to me as possible.  I 
want him in this bed with me.  I want his arms around me.  He 
wouldn't breath too loud.

Since Ethan's schedule changed a couple of weeks ago, he's had to 
be at work by four, which means he has to get up at two thirty.  
Which also means that after Spring Break, I'll have to get up and 
take Emma to school.  Too bad that private school doesn't have a 
bus.

After tossing and turning for an hour and a half, the alarm clock 
finally goes off and wakes Ethan.  He rises like a zombie, 
showers and dresses as quietly as possible.  The last thing he 
does is fill a small glass of water and retrieve a pill, wake me, 
watch me swallow it, then kiss me goodbye.  He announces that he 
should be home by four, which means he'll actually be home around 
seven.

After he closes the door and leaves, I spread out in the big bed 
and will myself to stay there, not to go check on Mulder.  If I 
walked into that room and saw him laying there, sleep warm and 
morning-adorable, I wouldn't be able to resist.

A few minutes before five, I finally fall back to sleep, thinking 
of Mulder and burning with pleasure and shame from my first 
orgasm in months.

<><><><><><>

It's the laughter that wakes me up.  The clock says it's nearly 
noon and the sun stealing through the blinds is inclined to 
agree.  I guess I'll get up early today.

Not bothering to put on a robe, I amble downstairs in my pajamas 
to find Mulder and Emma curled up on the couch together watching 
Dexter's Laboratory.  I had never thought of it before, but 
Mulder and Dexter are a lot alike.

Hearing me approaching, Mulder turns his head to say something 
sarcastic.  "Morning, Sunshine," he says, grinning.  His eyes 
briefly skate down to my breasts, linger, then leap back to my 
face, embarrassed and ashamed.

"Morning."  I sit in one of the big armchairs, not wanting to 
disturb the two of them on the couch.

"I was beginning to think that you were gonna sleep all day."  
There's a hint of concern in his voice, begging me to tell him 
what kept me in bed so late.

"Ethan woke me up when he left this morning and I couldn't get 
back to sleep until late."  Well, it's not a lie.

He nods above Emma's head which hasn't turned to notice me.  "He 
left pretty early."

"Yeah.  CNN can't function without him."

He nods again.  "Well, get dressed.  I want to take you and Emma 
out to lunch."

Before I can counter that, she leaps into action, turning on his 
lap.  "Where?" she asks, beaming.

"Where ever you want to go."  I roll my eyes, already knowing the 
answer to that: McDonald's or Chick-Fil-A.

"Chick-Fil-A!"

Mulder looks confused, a small, vertical crease appearing between 
his eyebrows.  "You don't have to, Mulder.  We can fix something 
here," I finally get to say.

"No, I wanna go!"  Emma pouts.

"The child has spoken, Scully."  He grins again.  "How can you 
say no to that face?" he asks of Emma's slightly jutting lip and 
wide, sad eyes.

I sigh.  "We just went out yesterday.  I -"  I catch myself, 
almost saying that it's the end of the month, and my monthly 
allowance from Ethan has almost run out.  "I don't think it would 
be a good idea."

Mulder meets Emma's eyes and they silently converse.  When he 
looks back at me, his already protruding lower lip hangs out even 
more sensually, his eyes mimicking Emma's.  I can't say no to 
both of them.  "Okay.  Okay, fine."  I twist my hands in my lap, 
feeling nervous.

Contented, Emma settles back down in Mulder's lap, mesmerized by 
the TV again.  He just grins, unconsciously glancing down at my 
breasts again before turning to see what Emma's laughing at.

At a loss for anything else to say or do, I stand and walk slowly 
up the stairs to the shower, not wanting to emerge once I'm 
clean.

<><><><><><>

As we watch Emma play on the playground, Mulder turns to me, 
speaking softly.  "So, is this what you do everyday?"

I look down at my lap and wonder what's safer: the truth or a 
lie.  "Sometimes.  When Emma's not at school, we do things 
together, go to the park or spend the day at the pool."

He nods, flicking his eyes over my shoulder to give the illusion 
that he's watching Emma show off for him.  "And when she is at 
school?" he prompts.

"Then I...do what ever needs to be done around the house."

"Like what?"

I take a deep breath and study my nails.  "Cleaning, laundry -"

"Which means you're just a convenient maid?"

"No, Mulder, it's not like that at all."  I raise my head to look 
into his eyes, wide, deep, and warm.  He's not believing anything 
that comes out of my mouth right now.

"Then explain it to me.  Explain to me the differences."

"I'm home anyway, so if it needs to be done, I do it."

"Excepts maids get paid, right?  Or does he give you money, too?  
A certain allowance each week for household expenses: groceries, 
what ever Emma needs, unexpected costs?"

"Mulder -" I warn him.

"I'm just trying to figure out the nature of this arrangement, 
Scully," he says innocently.

I squint my eyes at him, telling myself it's because of the sun 
and not my anger.  "It's not an arrangement.  It's a marriage."

"That's not what it looks like to me."

"Mulder, you're not watching!"  Emma yelps from behind me and he 
obediently turns towards her shrill voice.

"I am, Em," he tells her, then turns back to me.  "A marriage is 
a mutual relationship and, from everything I've seen, nothing in 
this relationship is mutual.  He won't let you work, thereby 
making you financially dependent on him.  He makes you feel 
guilty for wanting a life outside of his house and his daughter, 
which isolates you from the outside, making you socially 
dependent on him.  He forces you to agree to his demands and to 
cater to his desires, taking away any control you have over your 
own life and stripping you of your identity.  Is that what you 
call mutual, Scully?"

I look down again, shame burning my cheeks and tears stinging my 
eyes.  "You've misunderstood, Mulder.  That's all you see because 
that's all you want to see.  You refuse to acknowledge all of the 
positive things he's done for me."

"Name one," he says sternly.

Squeezing my eyes shut tightly, I stutter.  "He's...he's given me 
a safe, stable life -"

"And look what you've had to give up for that.  You're not even 
the same person you were a year ago; you're just an empty shell 
of that strong, independent woman that I know that you are.  You 
were so desperate for this life that you thought you should have 
that you gave all of that up.  This isn't you, Scully."

"How would you know?  You wouldn't even speak to me!"

He slides closer to me on the smooth, plastic bench, reaching his 
arm around me so that I can feel his words.  "I know you, Scully.  
I know what this has done to you and what it will continue to do 
to you.  I didn't even recognize that woman that fell asleep in 
my bed because she was so exhausted and malnourished, and I 
certainly didn't recognize that woman that tried to seduce me 
because she was lonely and afraid."

I slide away from him, putting as much distance between us as 
possible.  "Why are you here, Mulder?"

He sits back, turning his head to watch Emma from the corner of 
his eye.  "I came to take you home.  Back to DC.  I'm not gonna 
let you self-destruct just because you're too proud or scared to 
leave and I'm not gonna let you kill yourself because of him."

It takes me a minute to figure out how to answer that.  "You 
can't do that.  I won't go back.  I can't.  Not now."

"Well, I'm not leaving without you," he declares.  Fearing 
another outburst from Emma, he rises and walks to the plastic 
playground equipment and searches for her amongst the tunnels, 
leaving me to process and seethe.

When Mulder finds Emma, he reaches for her at the end of tunnel, 
pulling her out and swinging her around, making her giggle and 
squeal with delight.  He puts her down and she runs for the 
ladder again, wanting another round of hide and seek.  Not really 
wanting to hide, he finds her with ease and the scene repeats.  A 
quaint, touching family scene: a father and daughter playing 
together, mother looking on approvingly.  Perfectly normal.

I stand abruptly.  "C'mon, Emma, we need to go,"  I say sternly, 
already walking towards the door.

Her head pops out of the tunnel, a frown already gracing her 
face.  "No!"  She whines.

"What's the matter, Scully, are we gonna be late for your 
favorite soap opera?"  Mulder asks cynically.

I grind my teeth together, my jaw aching from the friction.  
"Emma, we need to go," I repeat, yanking the door open and 
shivering at the bombardment of cool air from the restaurant.

Behind me, Mulder sighs and shakes his head, then reaches for 
Emma, swinging her down from her perch and reluctantly following 
me.

After settling Emma in the back seat of his rental car, he calls 
over the roof, "I'm sorry, Scully."

Ignoring him, I climb into the passenger's seat, slamming the 
door after me.

"Can Mulder come to practice tonight?"  Emma asks as we sit in 
traffic.

I glance up at her in the side view mirror, teeth still clenched 
tightly together.  "No," I say simply.

She leans up towards me, stretching her seat belt.  "Why not?" 
she asks in the annoying as hell finger nails-on-chalkboard whine 
she has.

"Because."  I'm tempted to add "I said so" to that, but bite my 
tongue, remembering making a vow to myself that I'd never say 
that to my child.

"What kind of practice?"  Mulder wonders, turning around to face 
her.

"Cheernastics!"

Another small crease between his eyebrows; he looks to me for an 
explanation.  "Cheernastics?"

"Yeah," Emma elaborates.

He nods slightly, trying to catch my eye.  "It's like gymnastics 
and cheerleading together."

"Oh.  Sounds like fun."

Emma is unfamiliar with sarcasm.  "So, you'll come?"

He takes a deep breath, exhales, then turns back to her.  "Sure, 
yeah, I'd love to come."

Turning my head and placing it against the window, I almost snort 
in disbelief.  Mulder around a bunch of little girls...

...he'd be in Heaven.

When we get home, Emma wrangles Mulder into taking her to the 
pool.  He asks me to come with them, but I decline, knowing that 
not only do I have laundry to do, but I need a few hours away 
from him.  He shrugs, gauging my emotional barometer, then ushers 
Emma out the door, promising to be back by five.

After so much time spent trying to forget him, pretending I'd 
forgotten him, sharing such intimate contact with him nearly a 
year later, then seeing him again made it seem like nothing had 
changed.  We still tiptoed around each other, mentally and 
physically.  We still joked and acted like best friends, acting 
like the stolen gazes at each other were due to daydreams.  We 
didn't outwardly treat each other any differently than we had 
before I had moved to Atlanta.  Inwardly, though, we were 
hyperaware of the other's ever move, wondering at which point one 
would jump the other, devouring them.

Just like nothing had changed.

As promised, they returned just before five.  I sent Emma 
upstairs to change, already microwaving her mac and cheese.  
Mulder made a disgusted face, then teased Emma about the pathetic 
excuse for pasta as she ate.

All through her practice, he sat there, mesmerized by the girls, 
probably cataloguing how each of them resembled Samantha.  At one 
point, as he fixated on one with long, dark braids, I slipped my 
fingers into his and squeezed, bringing him back to the present.  
He looked through me, smiled softly, and went back to watching.

In the car on the way home, Emma fell asleep, stretched out on 
the back seat.  "She's exhausted," I muse, glancing back at her.

"We had a busy day," Mulder says softly, sharing my wistful look.

I nod.  "You fascinate her.  I can't remember the last time she 
was so excited."

"She fascinates me.  It's just like being a kid again, only 
without the salty air and me being too big for the playground."  
His face spreads into a genuine smile, happy, and I smile back.  
We sit in a comfortable silence for a few more stoplights.

"So, how'd you get the BSU to agree to giving you some time off?"  
I ask, not taking my eyes from the road.

"The Bureau's still pretty strict about that forced vacation 
leave, so I just took it.  The ASAC wasn't too happy, but at 
least I'll still get paid when I go back."

"Any interesting cases?"

"No, just your average, psychopathic, serial killer.  Nothing too 
challenging or otherworldly."  He looks over at me and I can feel 
his eyes searching for mine.

"No X-Files?"

"Nope.  I miss it, though.  I miss my basement, my bad coffee...I 
miss everything."

Finally, I chance a look at him.  "Me, too," I tell him quietly.

He hesitates for half a second.  "You can come back, Scully.  You 
know Quantico will give you a job -"

"No," is all I say, tired of telling him that.

"When ever you're ready, Scully, you can come back."

I just nod, focusing on the road ahead.

<><><><><><>

Ethan's car is in the garage, still cooling off, when we arrive.  
Mulder pulls Emma out and drapes her over his shoulder, careful 
not to wake her as we walk into the kitchen.

"Just take her upstairs.  She'll be fine for a little while," I 
tell him and he nods, looking at something over my shoulder, then 
starting up the steps.

"So?"  Ethan asks behind me.  I turn around to face him as he 
drops a light kiss on my cheek.  "Did he find a hotel?"

"No.  He's staying here."  Ethan narrows his eyes and I look 
down, swallowing.  "It won't be for long."

He sighs, sounding tired and frustrated, as Mulder's footsteps 
cross the carpet to the kitchen.  Seeing us, he stops, unsure of 
what to do.

"Are you hungry?"  I ask both of them, looking to break the 
silence.  "I can heat up something."

Neither of them answer, probably too absorbed in their glaring 
contest, but I open the refrigerator anyway.

"You know, Mulder, it's too bad you weren't able to come down for 
the wedding," Ethan smarts, watching me.  "It was really nice.  
Dana looked beautiful, of course."

"I wasn't invited," Mulder tells him matter-of-factly.

Ethan makes a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat, 
genuinely confused.  "Dana sent out the invitations.  I 
specifically remember her addressing one to you."

"We have leftover chicken.  I can make some rice," I add 
helpfully.

Mulder shrugs, thinking Ethan is just trying to pick a fight.  
"It must've gotten lost in the mail."

"Did you send that one, Dana?  Surely it would've been returned 
if it didn't get to him."

"Or Stovetop.  I could make some of that."

"Dana, I ate at work," Ethan almost yells.
 
"Mulder, what do you want?  Rice or Stovetop?"

He shifts his eyes between Ethan's smug grin and my crisis face.  
"I'm not hungry," he decides.

"None of the other invitations got lost, did they, Dana?"

"I think I'll make Stovetop.  Mulder, you like Stovetop."

"Scully, I'm not hungry," he says, a little more understanding of 
why I'm so distant.

I open the pantry.  "Damn, we're out.  I guess I'll fix rice 
instead."

Mulder grabs my wrist, turning me towards him.  "Scully, I'm not 
hungry," he repeats, holding my eyes with his.

"Did you send it, Dana?"  Ethan asks from somewhere.

"Wh-what?"  I ask, shaking.

"Mulder's invitation.  He said he didn't get it."

I look down, feeling my knees buckle.  "No.  No, I didn't send 
it, Ethan."

Mulder lets go of my wrist slowly, taking a step back.

"Oh," Ethan says.

"It's okay," Mulder says softly, not looking at him.  "I probably 
wouldn't have been able to come anyway."

"Too bad.  Dana, my shirts are ready to be picked up at the 
cleaners tomorrow."  Ethan turns to go into the living room, but 
Mulder catches him with his voice.

"Do you always do that?"

"What?"

"Make her look like a fool in front of people, embarrass her and 
order her around like that?"

Not facing Mulder, Ethan takes a step back into the kitchen.  
"What goes on in this house is none of your business, Mulder."

"Maybe not, but when it concerns Scully, I make it my business," 
he nearly growls.

"Her name isn't Scully anymore, but if you have to keep up this 
bizarre ritual of last names, you can call her Minette.  And 
she's my wife and this is my house, so if you don't like what you 
see here, you can leave."

I just stand there, watching them, afraid to say anything.

"I'm not leaving without her," Mulder says slowly, looking Ethan 
directly in the eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Ethan steps close to Mulder, having to look 
up at him slightly.  "Then you'll be here for a while, but not in 
my house."

Against his leg, Mulder's fist curls unconsciously.  "Scully?"  
He's waiting for me to jump in and defend myself, to tell Ethan 
the truth about everything: why I'm here, why I've stayed, why I 
should leave, but I don't.  My mouth hangs agape, silent.

"Why should she leave with you, anyway?"  Ethan asks, daring 
Mulder to escalate this so that he can have him legally thrown 
out.

"Because you're killing her.  This," he gestures around at the 
kitchen, the fancy house, the masquerading prison.  "is killing 
her.  You're suffocating her, trying to turn her into something 
she's not, forcing her to be what you want her to be, telling 
yourself she's happy.  That this is what she wanted."

"It's better than her life with you, always afraid of being 
abducted by aliens or...whatever it is you're chasing after this 
week.  And if she's unhappy, she doesn't have to stay.  She knows 
that."

"Scully?"  Mulder prompts again, turning his head to look at me.

I shake my head, looking down.

"Tell him what you told me that night.  About how this isn't what 
you thought it would be.  About how miserable you are."

I shake my head harder, choking the sobs down my throat.

"Scully.  Tell.  Him."

Another shake.

"Dana," Ethan says in a soothing, warm voice.  "Is that true?  
Are you miserable here with me and Emma?"

I heave a few shallow breaths, not trusting myself to look up, 
and shake my head again slowly.

Mulder exhales and I feel his defeat.

"See, Mulder?  Dana and I are perfectly happy here.  She doesn't 
need you anymore, so now you can go home."  To punctuate this, 
Ethan walks over to me and puts his arms around my shoulders, 
pulling me against him.

No words.  Just footsteps on the stairs, overhead, then on the 
stairs again.  A door opens.  Then closes.  A car in the 
driveway.  Leaving.

An hour later, I stand, mute, in the middle of our bedroom, 
waiting for Mulder to call and apologize, beg me to forgive him.  
I have a feeling I'll be waiting a long time.

"Emma's still asleep," Ethan whispers, closing the bedroom door.  
"Are you okay?"

I nod and climb into bed, shivering.  He follows me and wraps his 
arms around my waist, kissing just above my collar bone.  "I'm 
sorry, Dana, about Mulder.  I really think you'll just be better 
off without him now."

I love him, Ethan.  I love him and I lied to him.  And you.

Tears slide silently from my eyes, slipping into my hair and 
soaking into the pillow beneath my head.  "Ethan, I need to tell 
you something."

A soft kiss on my temple.  "What?"

"When I was in Baltimore, visiting my mother, I went to see 
Mulder, too.  Those things he said...that's when we talked for 
the first time since we got married.  Ethan..."

A kiss on the nape of my neck.  "What, Dana?"

"Mulder and I...we...we...slept together.  That night."  Behind 
me, Ethan goes still, holding his breath.  "He didn't want to, 
but I did.  I wanted to and he stopped, but it was too late.  I 
love him, Ethan.  I can't help it, but I do.  I've tried not to, 
I've tried to forget about him, but I can't.  I love him."

Ethan lets out his breath in a long, slow stream.  "Get up," he 
says tonelessly.

I sniff, nearly sobbing.  "What?"

"Get up.  Get dressed.  Get out."  He releases me from his arms, 
then gets out of bed himself, walking to the closet in the dark.

I get up, following him.  "Ethan, I'm not telling you this to 
hurt you.  I'm telling you this because I want to start over.  
Maybe you're right.  Maybe I will be better off without him in my 
life.  I want to try, though.  It wasn't fair to you or to Emma 
for me to try and hold onto him and I realize that now.  And I 
want to start over.  But I thought you should know.  I wanted to 
be honest with you.  I love you, too, Ethan, and I want this.  I 
want this to work.  I want to try again.  To start over.  Without 
him."

"No.  Get out," he repeats.  I hear the harsh, quick opening of a 
zipper on a suitcase and then clothes being torn off their 
hangers, drawers being yanked open and their contents being 
thrown into the luggage.

"Ethan -"

"GET OUT!"

"I don't want to!  Ethan, I made a mistake and I'm sorry, but I 
want to start over!  I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't good enough, Dana," he huffs into my face, closing 
the bulging suitcase.  His voice is eerily calm, like the eye of 
a hurricane.  "And what if I don't want to start over with you.  
What if I don't want to be your consolation prize."

"You're not, you're...I love you," I whisper, not even 
remembering if it's true.

"Too bad.  Get out of my house, I'll have the divorce papers 
served tomorrow."  He takes a deep breath, then adds hatefully, 
"Mulder's probably still at the airport, maybe you can catch 
him."

"I don't...I don't think he'd speak to me.  I think...I-I think 
he hates me now."

"That makes two of us, then.  So, now you have no one."

Surprisingly, my eyes are dry, my throat free of sobs.  "Yes."

"You see what happens?  I give you everything and you throw it 
away for one time with someone that will just abandon you 
afterwards.  And now you're all alone."

"You hate me?"  I ask him in a clear, strong voice.

"Get out, Dana."

So I do.  I get dressed, pick up my suitcase, and get in my - his 
- car, find the nearest motel, and check in, half hoping that 
Mulder will be there, too.  That I can tell him all this and 
he'll hold me as I cry and promise me that everything will be 
okay now.  That he loves me and everything will be fine.

The motel is nearly abandoned, though.  No rental cars like 
Mulder's in the parking lot.  I rent a single for one night, 
figuring that I can find a nicer motel or hotel tomorrow.  I 
certainly won't be going home.

I pick up the motel's vintage 1975 rotary phone and dial Mulder's 
cell, tears finally starting to flow as I realize what I've done.  
He has to understand, though, why I couldn't tell Ethan that I 
wanted to leave him.  And he'll understand everything once I tell 
him that, when I told Ethan the truth, he kicked me out.  He'll 
understand that I need him, that I have no one else to turn to.  
And he's always been the one that I could turn to, my one in five 
billion.

The phone rings and rings, but no one ever answers.  After a 
while, the pre-recorded voice tells me that the cellular customer 
is not answering and I hang up the phone.  Mulder's not here, 
now.  I pushed him away, too, just like Ethan.

I sit, hands folded in my lap, wondering just what the hell I 
should do now.  The bed is hard and the sheets smell musty: I 
doubt I'll be able to sleep, even though I'm desperately tired.  
My mind is buzzing, a million thoughts swirling in my saturated 
brain.  Mulder's gone.  Ethan kicked me out.  I've ruined this 
new life I worked so hard for.  I'll never be able to get it 
back, never be the person I was with Ethan.  I'll never be able 
to be that person I was with Mulder.

In my overnight bag that I used to take out of town when we were 
on cases, there's a side pocket that I hide things in: a Ziplock 
bag with forty prescription pain pills, last filled right after I 
was diagnosed with cancer.  Back then, when it would get so bad 
that the faintest light would shatter my skull into tiny shards, 
I would take a pill.  They would let me sleep deeply for nearly 
twenty four hours, but no one ever knew that I took them.  I 
pretended to be strong, to not need pain medication when really, 
I had almost become dependent on them to get a full night's 
sleep.  It was my little secret.

If I take a pill now, I'll sleep and, with no food in my stomach, 
it would be absorbed even faster.  If I take two, I may sleep all 
night and into tomorrow.  Then I won't have to deal with this: 
getting the divorce papers, having to tell my mother.  Having to 
realize that Mulder is gone, really gone, for good this time.

And if I take all of them, I'll sleep forever.

And no one would ever know, just like last time.  No one would 
care that I was gone.  It would be my little secret.

There's a minibar in the corner of the room with small bottles of 
whiskey, vodka, gin, rum, and tequila in it.  I pour them all 
into one of the little plastic cups.  Open the bag, count out all 
the pills and more than a cup of hard liquor.

No one will ever know.

Swallow them one at the time, the liquid burning my stomach as it 
hits the hydrochloric acid there.  Dissolving the pills.

I lay down in bed, pull the heavy covers over my shivering body, 
and close my eyes.

No one will find me; no one cares.  No one will even notice.

Just before I fall asleep, the world shimmers, then goes white.

My little secret.

<><><>End Part 2<><><>

Thanks: to the betas, RealB, Karri, and Liam, her Juiciness.

And thanks to all of you for being patient with this part.  I 
hope it's been worth the wait.  

Notes: No, really, if you've been 1013'd, you're being held 
against your will at a hospital.  You can't make this stuff up!
Title: Purgatory (1/2) (ninth part of the Trefoil Series)
Classification: SAR
Keywords: implied MSR, AU
Rating: R
Distribution: Sure, just let me know where
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, they belong to 
            Mr. Chris Carter, lucky, bastard
Spoilers: None
Feedback: yes!  to lil_gusty@hotmail.com 
Thanks: at the end
Notes: this is the ninth (and final) part of my Trefoil Series.  
       For missing parts, go to 
       http://sciencex.tzo.com/xf/wips/trefoil.html

Summary: Somewhere between Heaven and Hell where the sins are 
         purged and the soul is cleansed.

<><><><><><>

"Some say life will beat you down, break your heart, steal your 
crown.  So I started out for God knows where; I guess I'll know 
when I get there."

             ~ Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

<><><><><><>

"Do you see him?" he asks, clutching at my hand desperately.  "Do 
you see him?" 
 
I try and say that no, I don't, I have more important things on 
my mind right now, like why he isn't calling 911 and how I should 
be mentally assessing my vitals: respiration, heart rate, how 
much blood is pouring out of the gaping hole in my stomach, but I 
find it difficult to think in complete sentences, let alone 
communicate them aloud.  Instead, I just breathlessly moan, 
swallowing reflexively against the blood rising in my throat.  My 
stomach has been perforated, letting the blood seep in: not 
good.  Not good at all. 
 
He tilts the camera around his neck up to his face; the lens is 
broken, blood spilling out of it as well.  Undaunted, he reaches 
for another camera on his table, pointing it at me and focusing, 
seeming not to notice that I'm dying in front of him and he's 
doing nothing. 
 
Then, suddenly, he puts the camera down, taking hold of my hand 
again.  I can barely feel his old, wrinkled fingers on mine now.  
"Don't look," he says quietly, afraid that "He" might hear.  
"Close your eyes." 
 
Is he saving me?  Telling me his secret, how he avoided Death for 
over one hundred years?  Obligingly, I close my already leaden 
eyelids.  Immediately, I hear a gasp from the old man, then the 
jarring of the table as he leans back against it, dead.  
Everything goes white, then, and I hear voices shouting. 
 
This is how it ends.  In a dark, musty apartment in Brooklyn.  
Miles from home and people who love me.  Alone.  In pain, so much 
pain it makes me nauseous and dizzy.  This isn't fair.  It's not 
supposed to end like this.  Clyde Bruckman said so.  He said that 
I didn't die.  Not that I won't or that I can't, I don't, 
implying that I was supposed to die but now, for some reason, I 
just don't.  Death doesn't happen to me.  It skips me, like 
Alfred Fellig just taught me: how to skip Death. 
 
'Because I would not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me...' 
 
Except he won't stop for me, ever.  I don't die.  Not in a dark, 
musty apartment in Brooklyn.  Not from a single friendly-fire 
gunshot wound to the gut.  Never.

<><><><><><>

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is the cold.  So, so 
cold.  I've never been this cold before, even in Antarctica, 
naked, being pulled out of freezing liquid.  I'm shivering 
violently, but yet, I can't move.  I can't feel anything below my 
wrists and ankles.  Maybe my fingers and toes are frostbitten, 
dead.  Am I dead?  Is that what this feels like?  If Hell is 
burning hot, it would make sense that Heaven is icy cold, though 
I can't imagine how that feeling could be Heavenly.  Maybe this 
is Purgatory, the cold a means of making you uncomfortable until 
God decides what to do with you for All Eternity.  I'll save you 
the trouble, God.  I killed myself; therefore, I go to Hell.  
That's one thing the nuns taught us that I actually still 
believe.

But somehow, I don't think Purgatory gives you a semi-comfortable 
mattress, thick, warm blankets, a soft pillow, and antiseptic-
smelling sheets.

I feel like absolute shit.  Aside from being so cold my bones 
ache, my throat is raw and my stomach feels like it's exploded.  
I feel nauseous, shaky, weak.  My head is throbbing behind my eye 
lids, my skin feels tight and itchy, and my mouth tastes like 
charcoal smells.  Yes, absolute shit.

Purgatory also doesn't offer you an oxygen canula and IVs.  When 
I can finally move my fingers again, I ache to scratch my eyes.  
As I pull my hands up, another thought occurs to me: Purgatory 
doesn't restrain you, either.  I must not be in Purgatory, then.  
I must be in Hell.

I futilely pull at my restraints some more, rattling the plastic 
bed rails and jostling the IV in the top of my right hand.  When 
my eyelids finally manage to drag themselves over the sand in my 
eyes, I squint at the midday sun spilling through the blinds on 
the thick-paned windows and turn my head away.  There's another 
window, one that looks out onto a Nurses' desk and all the people 
walking up and down the hallway.  Some are visiting loved ones, 
some are taking care of the sick.  No one even glances at my 
room.

I look down at my body: straps cross over my legs and hips, 
pinning me to the bed.  My arms, what I can see of them, are 
faintly blue against the bleach-white of the blanket and the 
dirty white of the well-used restraints.  I must be in the 
hospital, which means that someone found me in that motel room.  
I wonder who it was.  It wasn't Mulder; he's probably home by 
now, having forgotten about me.  It wasn't Ethan; he's probably 
drawing up the divorce papers right now.  Who else is there?  
There is no one else.

Tears start sliding from the corners of my eyes, down my temples, 
and into my hair.  No one else.  I'm alone.  Really alone.

Just then, the door swings open and a pretty young nurse comes 
in.  "Good afternoon, Dana.  It's about time you woke up," she 
chirps.  I look at her, my eyes wide, wondering how she knows my 
name.

"Dr. Jesus wanted to know when you woke up.  He wants to talk to 
you."  Finally noticing my bewildered expression, she pats my 
arm, checking my IV at the same time.  "Do you know where you 
are, honey?  Your name is Dana, isn't it?"

More tears: how does this woman know me?  And why is she being so 
nice to me?

"You're at North Fulton Regional Medical Center, honey.  A 
housekeeper at a motel found you unconscious in bed this morning 
and called 911."

My face crumples as I struggle to hold back anguished sobs.  No, 
no!  No one was supposed to find me!  No one was supposed to 
care!

"It's all right, honey.  You're safe now.  You're gonna be just 
fine.  I'll go page Dr. Jesus, okay?  Do you need anything?  Is 
there anyone we can call for you?  Your husband, maybe?"

I strain to sit up, pulling at the straps over my hips.  I want 
out.  I want back in that motel with my pills and sleep.

"Calm down, baby, it's okay.  Who do you want me to call?" she 
coos, pushing me back into the mattress.

Frustrated, I pound my fists against the bed, letting out a yelp 
when the skin stretches over the needle in the hand.  I let the 
sobs come, not caring who hears me.  Who is there to care anyway?

The nurse slips her hand into mine, pulling my fingers out of a 
tight fist.  "Calm down," she repeats.  "You don't want to pull 
the IV out."

Yes, I do!  I want to leave!  I want to go and sleep forever!  
Dammit!  I'm too weak to keep fighting, though.  My head lolls 
back onto the pillow and my taut muscles go slack.  I whimper 
miserably and the nurse just smoothes my hair away from my face, 
making shushing sounds.

"You just lay right here, baby.  I'll go page the doctor, okay?"

She doesn't wait for an answer, just walks slowly out of the 
door.  I watch her as she approaches the desk, picks up a phone, 
and dials a few numbers.  She chats with one of the other nurses, 
then picks up a chart and walks back down the hallway, away from 
me.  Always away from me.

A few minutes later, a tall, dark skinned man knocks on the door, 
then walks in, scribbling on a chart and not watching where he's 
going.  "Mrs. Minette?  I'm Dr. Jesus," he says with a slight 
accent, finally looking up.  "How are you feeling?"

The way he's towering over me, steeling his dark eyes on me, 
intimidates me.  I sink further into the mattress, cowering away 
from him and not answering.

"Mrs. Minette, did the nurse tell you what happened?"

Yes, she did.  My chest heaves, wondering what the repercussions 
of that will be.

"From what the police have told us about the way they found you, 
it strongly suggests that you took those pills with the alcohol 
in order to kill yourself.  Is that what happened?"

More whimpering.  I took enough of those pills so that I wouldn't 
have to worry about this.

The doctor makes a gruff, dissatisfied face while he frowns.  
"You're going to have to talk to me, Mrs. Minette.  If you don't, 
I'm afraid I'll have to assume that your intention was lethal and 
we'll have to hold you here until we can arrange a transfer to a 
hospital where you can recover."

I squeeze my eyes shut tight, wondering if this is just one of 
those phases of hell Dante talked about.

"Okay, it's your choice.  We tried to contact your husband at 
home and at work, but were unable to reach him.  Is there anyone 
else we can call?"

No.  No one else.

"Mrs. Minette, I've asked that a Psychiatrist come down to talk 
to you.  He's going to evaluate you so that we have a better idea 
of how to proceed with your care, but you're going to have to 
talk to him."

I don't want to talk to anyone.  I don't want to proceed with my 
care.

Dr. Jesus sighs.  "He'll be down in a few minutes."  With that, 
he leaves.

I don't want to talk to a fucking Psychiatrist.  I want to leave 
here, go someplace warm and secluded where no one can find me and 
sleep.  I just want to sleep... 

Tapping on the door.  "Dana?  Are you awake?" 

What is this, the Bullpen at the Hoover Building?  Go the fuck 
away! 

He walks in, standing between the window and me, blocking the 
sunlight.  Pulling the chair up from the wall, he settles himself 
in front of me.  "Hi, I'm Dr. Wilson.  I'd like to talk to you 
for a few minutes, okay?"  

No, not okay.  Go back to your Sesame Street.  You're not old 
enough to be a doctor.

"Dana, Dr. Jesus has told me that there's a strong suspicion that 
you tried to kill yourself last night.  I want to talk to you 
about that, okay?  You can tell me anything that you feel like 
you need to and I'll listen.  I just want to help you, okay?  Can 
you tell me what happened last night?  Why you were in the 
motel?"

Because my husband threw me out after I confessed the truth, my 
infidelity with a man that I'm irrevocably in love with who, as 
it turns out, has abandoned me because I wouldn't tell my husband 
the truth.

The doctor waits patiently for me to respond aloud.  When I 
don't, he writes something on his chart, then studies me for a 
moment, methodically scanning my hair, face, eyes, and what he 
can see of my body.  Unnerved, I turn my head away, towards the 
Nurses' station and close my eyes.

"Can you tell me why you felt like you had to take your own life, 
Dana?" he asks in a soft, placating tone.

Because, I don't want to be alone.  I don't want to live a life 
that I've screwed up so badly.

"Dana, are you going to talk to me?"

No.  Go away.

I hear him stand, then, the chair scraping across the tiled 
floor.  "Okay, Dana.  I'm not going to force you to talk, but I 
do want you to listen," he says as he ambles to the other side of 
the bed to face me.  I don't give him the satisfaction of opening 
my eyes.  "I'm going to 1013 you.  That means that we're legally 
allowed to hold you here because we feel that you're a danger to 
yourself.  Tomorrow, we'll probably transfer you to another 
hospital so that you can rest and get better.  If you want to 
talk to me before you go, though, you can, okay?  Is there anyone 
I can call for you?  Someone that you would talk to?"

Why do they keep asking me that?  Just go away...

"Okay, Dana.  I'll try and come see you later."  His shoes squeak 
as he walks to the door, opens it, then disappears behind it.

No one else comes to bother me until the sun starts to turn 
orange and gold.  A nurse, not the same one as before, comes to 
change my IV bag and leaves a tray of food.  She tells me that 
it's chicken noodle soup and that Dr. Jesus wants me to eat so 
that I can start getting my strength back.  I don't touch the 
food, knowing that there's no reason to get my strength back.

About an hour later, she comes in to retrieve the food, chiding 
me when she sees that it's uneaten.  When she leaves this time, 
she tells me goodnight even though it's not even dark outside 
yet.

I'm finally alone.  The sounds of the hospital echo around me: 
machines, people's voices, movement.  I turn my head into the 
pillow as much as I can and let it absorb my silent tears until I 
finally fall asleep.

<><><><><><>

At eight a.m., the cheery young nurse from yesterday comes in 
with my breakfast: cream of wheat, toast, and orange juice.  My 
throat is still scratchy and raw, my stomach still aching, my 
mouth still tastes like charcoal.  I don't feel like eating.

"Did you sleep well last night, Dana?" she asks as she changes my 
IV bag.

I turn on my pleading look, wanting sympathy from her, even 
though I don't know what good it would do me.  I didn't wake up 
at all last night, sleeping for over twelve hours.  Now, though, 
I'm still exhausted and just want to go back to sleep.  Maybe I'm 
pleading with her so she'll give me a sedative that will knock me 
out.  That way, I won't have to deal with the doctors.

"I'll bet you're hungry," she says softly, rolling the bed-side 
table over my legs and pressing the button at my side to raise 
the head of the bed.  "Just don't eat it too fast.  Your stomach 
is still a little weak.  Do you need anything?  Did you think of 
anyone I could call for you?"

I stare absently at the tray as she unties my restraints.

"Dana, I hate to see you all alone.  Even if they live far away, 
I can still try and get in touch with them.  I'm sure your family 
is very worried about you by now."  She pats my arm, uncovering 
the tray.  "Well, if you think of anyone, just push this button 
right here," she indicates the little black button with a white 
outline of a nurse's head on it, "and I'll be here."

She leaves and returns half an hour later with Dr. Jesus at her 
heels.  "It doesn't look like you ate anything, Dana," he states.

Wow, what a genius he is.  Leave me alone.

"Dr. Wilson said that you wouldn't talk to him yesterday.  Are 
you ready to talk today?"

I turn my head on my pillow, looking outside the blinds and away 
from him.  

"In a few minutes, we'll be transferring you to Ridgeview 
Hospital.  It's not far from here, but they're more equipped to 
take care of you.  I think you'll be more comfortable there."  He 
waits for a reaction, but I don't give him one.  Disgusted, he 
walks out, leaving the nurse with me.

"Dana, honey, we finally got in touch with your husband."  Her 
voice tells me what I already suspect: he doesn't care about me.  
He's probably angry that his insurance is responsible for paying 
for all of this.  "His lawyer actually contacted the police who 
referred him to one of our Social Workers.  She called your 
husband and told him that you were brought here Thursday night, 
but she couldn't get him to say whether or not he would come see 
you.  Apparently, his lawyer left some divorce papers with her."  
She wisely stops there, figuring that I can put two and two 
together.  Of course he won't come, he hates me.

The nurse stands silently beside me, stroking my arm reassuringly 
as the orderlies come in with a gurney.  She disconnects my IV 
and takes my oxygen canula away.  When the orderlies ask me to 
move onto the gurney, I go limp, making them drag my deadweight 
like a rag doll.  As they strap me down and start to wheel me out 
into the hallway, tears start to roll down my temples again and I 
try and stifle the sobs in my throat.

I'm scared, lonely, and tired.  I just want this to end.  I want 
someone to explain to me what's happening.  I want that nice, 
perky nurse to hold my hand and tell me that everything is going 
to be okay.  I want Mulder here to tell me what they think 
happened to me and what kinds of evaluations they're going to do 
on me...

No, I don't want Mulder.  He won't come, even if I tell the nurse 
to call him.  He'll laugh and say that I deserve to be like this.  
He hates me.

I cry quietly in the back of the ambulance on the way to the 
other hospital.  When I get there, the new nurse makes me stand 
up and dress in white scrub-like pajamas and leads me to my room.  
She brings me papers and tells me to sign them.  My vision is 
blurry, but I'm supposed to attest that I'm here on my own free 
will, which is a lie.  I don't sign them.  The nurse calmly tells 
me that, until I do, I won't be allowed out of my room which is 
fine with me.  I lay down on my new bed with softer sheets and 
warmer blankets, curl into a tight fetal position, and cry.

In one of my classes in med school, we learned about this 
Ukrainian immigrant who had been held at a mental institution for 
nearly fifty years.  The police had found her wandering on the 
streets speaking to people in Ukrainian, which they mistook for 
schizophrenic babble.  She was locked away until a new faculty 
member at the institution finally realized that she was normal, 
not schizophrenic, and that she just didn't speak English.

I feel like that woman must have.  I don't want to be here, I 
don't need to be here.  This is a place where the sick are 
treated.  A place where people come to get better so that they 
can be released and live their lives again.  I don't want to be 
treated, though, and I don't want to be released.  I have nothing 
waiting for me on the outside.  My husband is divorcing me, my 
mother will disown me, ashamed at my selfishness and cowardice, 
my only friend in the world, the only person who's ever truly 
loved me, I pushed away.

With a suicide attempt and a stay at a mental institution on my 
record, I won't be able to get a decent, respectable job.  I have 
little savings, not even enough for a down payment and a month's 
rent for an apartment.  I would just try to kill myself again, 
knowing that there's nothing better for me here.  Hell would be 
better than living alone, broken, and afraid.

At lunch time, someone dressed in white brings me a tray of food, 
but doesn't speak to me.  A half-hour later, they come to collect 
the untouched tray.

At dinner time, a doctor comes to tell me that if I don't eat, 
he'll put a feeding tube into my stomach.  I don't even look at 
him while he speaks.  He asks me more questions as to why I tried 
to kill myself and I turn away, huddling under my warm, safe 
cover.

When he sends for nurses and orderlies to hold me down, I don't 
fight them.  When he shoves the tube up my nose and down my 
throat, I don't flinch or cry out.  When they leave me alone in 
my room, I lay still.

It's possible for people to will themselves to die.  Despite 
everything that medical science can do, they can't make a person 
live if they don't want to.  And I don't want to.

And no one cares.  No one will even come to my funeral, I'll bet.  
They'll just bury me with a non-denominational service.  The only 
person that will be there will be the preacher.

How did my life come to this?

<><><><><><>

The next morning, the nurse comes back with the same papers from 
yesterday.  She hastily explains that they can't help me until I 
first help myself and again asks me to sign them.  I still 
refuse.  She huffs and puffs and finally leaves.

Another nurse comes in every four hours just to make sure I'm 
still alive, I guess.  She checks my feeding tube, respiration, 
and heart rate, then leaves.  They always leave.

After lunch, a tall, lanky man with graying hair comes in and 
introduces himself to my back as Dr. Robert Clemmons, my 
psychiatrist.  He recites from his long-memorized script about 
how they're going to help me, that he's here to talk to me and to 
be my friend and confidant.  That together, I'm going to get 
well.  He says that the doctors at the other hospital told him 
that I had refused to speak to anyone and that he hopes I'll 
speak to him now.  I have nothing to be afraid of, according to 
him, and I have no reason not to speak.

I focus on taking deep, even breaths, giving every indication 
that I'm not listening.

"Dana," he starts in a soft voice that they teach all psych 
residents, "I want to do something called a Mental Status Exam.  
It will help me determine if there are any medical reasons such 
as dementia explaining why you attempted suicide.  I'll just need 
to ask you a few questions, but you're going to have to respond 
to them.  We can't move forward until you do."

That's fine.  Let's just stay stuck in neutral forever.  Behind 
my too-thin eye lids, I pretend that my I'm still locked in that 
perfect stillness between asleep and awake, not answering.

Sighing, the man drags a chair over in front of the bed, sitting 
down heavily and exhaling in relief.  "I understand that you 
haven't been talking much since you woke up the other morning."  
He pauses, maybe for dramatic effect, maybe to see if I'll talk 
to him.  No luck.  "I need to ask you some questions, Dana, and 
begin evaluating you.  The sooner we can get to know each other, 
the sooner we can understand what's bothering you so that we can 
fix it."

No, no need to fix it.  There's nothing to fix; nothing to 
salvage.  Go help someone who wants to get better, I'm a lost 
cause.

"Dana, everyone who tries to kill themselves has their own 
reasons.  I'd like to know yours.  Would you share that with me?"

Inside me, I can feel the cold, thick liquid from the feeding 
tube enter my stomach and slide around the shriveled cavity 
there, reminding me of how I've become dependent on a machine to 
live against my will.  Reminding me of the mockery that my life 
has become.  A year ago, I was a healthy, happy, independent 
woman who had everything she never knew she'd always wanted but 
wished for everything she thought she didn't have.  Today, I'm a 
hollow shell of that strong person.

"I spend an hour with each of my patients every day, Dana, and 
you're going to be no different.  Part of your treatment here is 
an individual counseling session in addition to group therapy and 
medicinal supplements.  So, for the next hour, you can talk to me 
and tell me about why you think you're here or we can sit in 
silence.  It's up to you, but I'll give you the opportunity to 
make the decision," he says in a slow, soothing tone.

I take a deep breath, wincing as the tube scrapes the inside of 
my throat and nose.  Pain means I'm still alive.

For the next fifty-five minutes, Dr. Clemmons and I sit in a 
comfortable silence.  I hear him scribbling with his pen 
intermittently, but he never sighed in frustration or raised his 
voice in anger.  When our time is almost up, he stands and puts 
the chair back in its proper place, speaking again.  

"Okay, Dana, I'll be back at the same time tomorrow.  Maybe by 
then, you'll have thought of something to say.  This afternoon, 
if you're feeling up to it, I want you to attend one of our group 
sessions for suicide survivors.  The nurse will let you know when 
it's time.  Good-bye."  The door squeaks open and closed as he 
leaves.

Except for the every-four-hours nurse, no one comes into my room 
for the rest of the day.  The nurse doesn't speak to me.  I watch 
the sun as it slides across the floor, elongating the shadows 
from the slats of the blinds and the bars on the floor, making 
little checker-board patterns.  Occasionally, the silence of the 
hall is broken by loud vehicles outside and once, the scream from 
another patient.  Nurses and doctors bustle up and down the 
hallway, having a purpose and being productive.  Family and 
friends visit relatives and loved-ones.  I lay still, waiting to 
die.

Shortly before the sun sets, I fall asleep, waking every time the 
every-four-hours nurse comes in to check on me.  At eight a.m., 
another nurse comes in, waking me as she slams my door closed 
behind her.  "Dana," she coos.  "You need to wake up.  You have 
visitors."

My eyes fly open, my fists unconsciously squeezing the sheets 
between my fingers.  Visitors...who could it be?  Mulder?  Did he 
come after all?  I turn my head towards the door, squinting at 
the bright light from the hallway.

"I'll send them in, okay?"  The cheery woman says, smiling, then 
stepping outside the door and telling whoever it is that they can 
see me now.

Footsteps in the hall.  My heart is slamming in my chest.

No, it's not Mulder.  It's my mother with Ethan at her heels like 
a dutiful puppy dog.  Neither of them looks very happy.  My 
mother's eyes are cold and squinted in disbelief and horror; 
Ethan looks pale, slightly embarrassed.

"I'll be right outside if you need me," the nurse tells them 
quietly, then closes the door softly on her way out.

Mom just stares at the floor for a few minutes taking deep 
breaths which whistle as she exhales through her nose.  Ethan 
takes in the room, peaking into the tiny bathroom and looking out 
through the bars on the window before returning to his spot 
behind Mom.  In her Sunday best and low-heeled shoes, she taps 
across the floor to stand within an arm's reach of the bed.  
Finally, she speaks.  "Dana," she declares in her carefully 
controlled anger voice, in case there was any doubt.

Figuring that they've come to officially disown me, I put my head 
back down, studying the tiny cracks in the paint on the wall.

Taking a deep breath and steeling herself, she starts again.  
"How are you feeling?"

I rearrange my arms underneath my head, getting comfortable and 
not answering.  Ethan sighs, walking back to the window.

My mother's eyes follow him, then she steps closer to the bed so 
that she can speak more softly.  "The nurse said that you tried 
to kill yourself.  Is that true?"

My shoulders start trembling, but I still don't raise my head to 
look at her face.  I couldn't stand what I'd see there.  I wasn't 
supposed to have to worry about all of this.  I was supposed to 
die alone in that motel room; my little secret.  It wasn't 
supposed to be like this.

"I told her that that's not what happened.  I told her that my 
daughter would never do something like this, but she was 
insistent.  She said that they found you unconscious in a motel 
room and that you had taken an overdose of pain pills with 
alcohol and that if you hadn't vomited most of it after you'd 
lost consciousness, you'd be dead right now.  But I still told 
her that my daughter would never do something so selfish and 
irresponsible.  She would never do something so immature.  But I 
guess I was wrong," she finishes softly, still studying the 
floor.

In the corner, at the window, Ethan hangs his head, puts his 
hands on his hips, and looks angry and pensive.

"Do you have anything to say to me, Dana?  Or to Ethan?"  Mom 
asks.

No.  Nothing.  I close my eyes as a few tears slip out from 
underneath the lids.

"Well, I have a few things to say to you," she snaps.  "First of 
all, I don't understand how you could do something like this 
after everything that has happened to you.  Your cancer, your 
abduction, when you were shot...after fighting so hard to live, 
you just want to throw it all away!  And what about your sister?  
She gave her life so that you could keep living!  Missy would've 
never done something like this, Dana!  She would've been grateful 
that her sister had made such a sacrifice for her instead of 
wasting it, acting like life doesn't mean anything!"

My lower lips trembles and I bite it, stifling a sob.

"Second, what about your family?  Me, Ethan, your brothers, your 
daughter?  What about them?  How were we supposed to react to 
something like this?  Did you even stop to consider how this 
would hurt us?  What this would do to us?  How could you be so 
selfish?"

Under the blankets, I dig my nails into the skin of my legs, 
trying not to scream.

"And what are you going to do now?  This is a sin, Dana!  I don't 
even know if the Church will take you back or excommunicate 
you...I'm glad your father isn't here to see this.  He would be 
so disappointed..."  She dissolves into well-placed, lady-like 
tears and Ethan comes over to pat her on the back, whispering 
that it will be okay and dragging the metal chair over for her to 
sit in.

It must be his turn to yell at me now, as he begins pacing the 
length of my bed, carefully watching the shiny tips of his 
expensive shoes.  I swallow thickly, turning off my emotions and 
going still like a zombie.

"You see what you've done to her, Dana?  Imagine how I felt 
having to call her and tell her what happened.  Imagine how I 
felt getting that call from the Social Worker."  He pauses, 
pivots, and then starts again.  "No, don't try and empathize with 
anyone.  It must be beneath you.  You just don't care about what 
you do to other people, do you?  It doesn't even matter to you."  
He stops pacing and crosses his arms.  "I told your mother why 
you were at a motel that night.  I told her everything you told 
me.  I half expected to see him here, too.  I thought maybe that 
you'd found him after I threw you out and had gone back to DC 
with him, but on the way here, I guessed that you had already 
called him and he had rushed back to be here with you.  But no.  
He's not here, is he?  Where is he, Dana?  Where is that son of a 
bitch that you risked everything for?"

Mulder.  He's not here.  He's at home, moving on with his life 
without me.  Forgetting about me.  Slow, hot tears start sliding 
down my cheeks, soaking into the sheets, disappearing.  I wish I 
could be one of those tear drops, just disappearing from 
everything.

"I guess he doesn't love you as much as you thought, huh?  He 
just leaves you here to pick up the pieces of this mess that he 
helped you create," Ethan finishes snidely, walking over to my 
mother and asking if she's okay.  She's fine, she's just gearing 
up for another round.

This time, though, she actually sits on my bed and touches me.  
She strokes my dull, matted hair, traces the feeding tube from 
where it's tucked behind my ear to where it disappears into my 
nose.  She wipes the tear tracks off of my face.  I lay still, 
her touch burning me, mocking me.

"Dana, look at me," she requests softly, tilting my chin up to 
her face and holding it there.  "I still love you, you know that.  
I will always love you."  Her voice quivers dramatically, adding 
an extra hint of genuineness to her otherwise stoic and cold 
pleas.  "I just don't understand this.  I don't understand how 
you thought that dying would fix everything.  I don't understand 
why you didn't tell me all of this.  I could've helped you, Dana.  
I still want to help you, but I'm just so angry at you right 
now!" she spits, disgusted.

No, you don't understand, Mom.  You don't understand what it 
feels like to be helpless and alone.  You don't understand what 
it feels like to be dead inside and to only want the outside to 
match.

Ethan just stands still, staring out the window, not saying a 
word.  The only reason that he's here now is because my mother is 
here, because he has to play the role of the tragically wronged 
husband.  If not for her, he probably wouldn't have come at all.

She pushes my hair behind my ears, trying to control her rage.  
"You're going to have to start eating again and you're going to 
have to take better care of yourself.  You'll have to let the 
doctors here help you.  We can only do so much without your 
help."

I don't want your help.  Help won't do me any good.  There's 
nothing to help, nothing to improve, nothing to salvage.  It's 
all wasted, wrecked.  I've wasted my life, my body, my only 
chance for happiness.  There's nothing left now but to wait for 
the end, for my end, to wait to die.

Someone knocks on the door, then, and Dr. Clemmons pokes his head 
in, entering and introducing himself to my visitors as my 
psychiatrist.

My mother, never one for subtlety and grace, gets right to the 
point.  "Doctor, what's wrong with her?"

He takes a deep breath, crossing his arms and looking at me out 
of the corner of his eye.  "Right now, all we know is that for 
some reason, Dana felt like she didn't need to continue living.  
There are many reasons that people attempt suicide, Mrs. Scully, 
but until Dana tells us hers, we can't begin to understand what 
is wrong with her," he explains calmly.

"She won't talk to you, either?"  Mom asks, frustrated.

"No.  Dana and I had a session yesterday morning, but she refused 
to speak."

"What does that mean?  I don't understand why she won't let you 
help her."

"Right now, Dana's silence tells me more than any words she could 
say," he says softly, his eyes sliding back over to me.  "She may 
not be ready to admit that she needs help or to accept it.  Until 
she is, I'd like to talk to both you and Mr. Minette about Dana 
to get a history on her.  It'll help me understand more about her 
current emotional state."

Mom looks back at Ethan for a reaction but gets none.  He's 
stone-faced and apathetic.  At a loss, she drops her head and 
stares at the cracked tiles on the floor.  "All right."

"We can begin to treat Dana medically as well.  As you can see, 
we've already begun feeding her since she refuses to eat.  In 
addition, we can start her on a low-dose anti-depressant or 
something similar to try and improve her mood.  If that's 
successful, she may begin to talk to us."

She nods along.  "All right," she repeats.

"Since Dana has refused to sign her admission papers, I'll have 
to get your authorization before we progress.  If you could sign 
right here," he says, holding out a chart and a pen.  Mom 
dutifully signs and hands them back to him.  "I'd like to get 
started on the history as soon as possible, if that's all right 
with you.  Until then, I'm afraid that our visiting hours 
prohibit you from visiting Dana any longer.  You can come back 
tomorrow, if you like."

Ethan sighs and leans on the wall, thankful for the excuse to 
escape my presence.  He must be worried about what to tell the 
neighbors.

"Of course," Mom whispers, then walks back over to the bed, 
bending down to kiss my cheek.  "Rest, Dana.  Think about what I 
said.  I'll be back tomorrow."

She and Ethan follow the doctor out the door like little baby 
ducks following their mother to a pond.  Dr. Clemmons puts a hand 
on my mothers back trying to encourage her.  "When you come, 
you'll need to bring Dana some clothes and toiletry items, plus 
any personal affects you feel that she'd want or need.  The nurse 
can give you a list of items that she can or can't have as you 
leave," he explains as they walk out into the hallway.  He must 
do this a lot: explain to confused families how their once strong 
and independent relative is now forced to live in a prison-like 
facility.

The door closes after them, slamming and locking me in.

As he'd promised, a large nurse comes in with a syringe a couple 
of hours later.  She doesn't speak as she injects the liquid into 
my arm or as she checks the bag connected to the feeding tube.

My heavy eyes flutter open and closed on the verge of sleep until 
the drugs start to take effect.  Immediately, my pulse and 
respiration increase.  I fight it, closing my eyes firmly, trying 
to grasp at my peacefulness that was so close.  The medication 
fights back, though, and my body starts to shake in its desperate 
attempts to move and my attempts to hold it still.

Frustrated at my body's betrayal, I start to cry, but no tears 
come.  I'm dehydrated and all that my crying amounts to is 
pathetic shrieks and a bloody nose.  A few minutes later, 
unconsciousness beckons again, stronger this time, and I finally 
succumb.

A year ago, I could've never imagined myself in this position.  I 
never thought that it could get this bad.

<><><><><><>

Later, a young, obviously new nurse knocks on my door and 
announces that it's time for "group."  I'm laying on the bed, 
facing away from her, and I pretend not to hear.  She comes over 
to me, peaking over my shoulder and trying to see if I'm awake, 
trying hard not to let any part of her body touch mine.  Insanity 
might be contagious.

Apparently noticing my irregular breathing, she surmises that I 
am awake.  "Dana," she whispers, "Wake up.  It'll be over in an 
hour and then you can come back and sleep for the rest of the 
day, okay?  C'mon."  Getting no response, she peaks over her 
shoulder, searching for someone to help her.  "Dana," she says a 
little more forcefully before heaving a frustrated sigh and 
walking to the door.

Another nurse comes to the party, squeaking her way across the 
floor in her rubber-soled shoes.  "C'mon now, Dana.  Everyone has 
to go to Group and you're no different."

I am different.  They want to get well, I don't.  Big difference.

"Nancy, go get me a wheelchair," she tells the younger nurse, who 
scampers off to find one.  Returning momentarily, the older nurse 
yanks the covers off of me, picks me up, and sets me down in the 
chair.  She must've gotten her insanity vaccination already.

After disconnecting the feeding tube, she starts to wheel me out 
of the room and down the hall.  I let my head loll against the 
back of the chair and take in my surroundings.  My vision is 
slightly blurry, but I can make out several other doors that dot 
the walls at regular intervals, hand rails occupying the space 
between them.  At the end of the hall, there's a large lobby with 
a television and several couches and chairs.  Other metal chairs 
are arranged in a circle, several other people occupying them.  
At the sound of the wheelchair, they all turn to look at me with 
their tired, hollow eyes.

The older nurse parks my chair in a gap in the circle, 
disappearing without a word.  "Are you Dana?"  A sophisticated-
looking woman asks me.  I wrap my arms around myself, shivering 
from cold and fear.  "I'm Dr. Shipp.  Everyone," she addresses 
the other people in the circle who I take to be the suicide 
survivors, "this is Dana.  She was just admitted Saturday after 
she attempted to kill herself."

They nod, some looking sympathetically at me.  I look down, 
wanting to melt into the floor.

"Dana, everyone here has been where you are, so we understand 
what you're going through.  This is a place where you can talk 
about those feelings openly and honestly, okay?"  When I don't 
respond, she looks to another member and addresses him.  "Now, 
when we left off, you were telling us about when you were fired 
from your job, right?"

The man nods and begins his story, the other members quickly 
jumping into a discussion with him.  They proceed as if I'm not 
even there.

An hour later, young nurse Nancy comes to retrieve me, watching 
me as I struggle to crawl back into bed.  She bites the corner of 
her lip, looking like she wants to do something but doesn't know 
what to do, so she just leaves me alone.

Just before sunset, another nurse comes in to inject me with more 
of the medication.  I go through the same thing as before, trying 
to fight its hold on me.  With no outlet, the extra energy in my 
system makes my body shake and my mind buzz.  Despite that, I 
feel so tired all of the sudden.  It's well before "lights out" 
when I fall asleep.

<><><><><><>

The next morning, Dr. Clemmons comes back, setting up his chair 
the same way he always does.

"How is the medication working, Dana?  Any side effects?"

I turn my head into the pillow as far as I can without pulling my 
tube out and stop thinking, still exhausted.

"Dr. Shipp told me that you went to Group, but that the nurse had 
to bring you in a wheelchair.  You can walk, Dana, if you try.  
Did you not want to go?"

Hell no, I didn't want to go.  Why should I?

He scribbles on his charts; I wonder what he's writing about me.

"I'm sure you were happy to see your mother yesterday," he 
begins, expecting me to agree and expand upon my feeling about 
seeing her.  Yes, I was elated to have her tell me how ungrateful 
and selfish I am, Doctor, it was wonderful.  "If there's anything 
you'd like to talk about, you can.  You can say anything to me 
and it'll be confidential.  Your mother never has to know," he 
says softly, like he's telling me some great and all-powerful 
secret.  I pull the covers up higher, covering my shoulders and 
chin.

Like always, we sit in silence for the remainder of the hour.  
When he leaves, a nurse gives me another injection and then, 
everyone leaves me alone.  I wonder how long it will be before 
they just give up on me and leave me alone for good.

At ten, there's a knock on my door and, when it opens, my mother 
follows young nurse Nancy in.  Nancy quickly leaves, locking the 
door on her way out.

Mom smiles as she enters, but it fades as she gets closer to the 
bed.  "Good morning, Dana," she says, touching my shoulder, 
trying to tell if I'm awake.  "I brought you some things from 
home.  Some clothes and your pajamas.  Some books and," she 
reaches into a bag, pulling something out.  "Emma drew this for 
you.  All Ethan has told her is that you're in the hospital, not 
why.  He couldn't come today; he had to work," she finishes in a 
rush.

I always forget how much more important work is to Ethan than I 
am.  It always was before, but somehow, I thought that this would 
be different.

When I don't answer her, Mom brushes the hair off of my cheek and 
behind my ear.  "Are you going to talk to me today?"

No.  I don't have anything to say.

She sighs harshly, then walks over to my little closet that 
doesn't have a door or removable hangers and starts emptying my 
suitcase.  "Do you want to change into your pajamas now or some 
clothes?" she asks over her shoulder, turning to look at me as I 
don't respond again.  "You can decide later," she says finally, 
returning to her task.

When she's done, it looks like she's unpacked all of my clothes.  
That means two things.  One, that Ethan has permanently kicked me 
out and two, that she expects me to be here for a while.

See, even she doesn't expect me to ever get well.

She takes something out of the suitcase before she closes it and 
pushes it to the back of the closet, coming to sit on my bed and 
holding it in her hands so that I can't see it.  "I never knew 
you had one of these, Dana.  I asked Ethan if I should bring it 
and he said he didn't know about it either."  She sets my 
nameplate on my night stand so that I can barely see it through 
my blurry eyes.

"Dana K. Scully, MD."  I remember when I was Dana K. Scully, MD.  
Now, I'm just a random mental patient.

"I thought you'd like to have it back," she says softly, brushing 
more imaginary hair away from my face.  "Dana, I don't know what 
to do.  I tried everything I know to get you to talk to me, to 
tell me what was bothering you, but you never would.  You never 
talked to me, even before all of this started.  Dr. Clemmons said 
that you can get better, though, but that you have to want to.  
Until you do, he said there's nothing that he or I or anyone can 
do to help you.  And I don't think that you want to get better, 
do you?  Dana, I don't understand that."

Even if I get better, what do I have?  I have no home, no husband 
or family, nothing.  Why should I get better?  She doesn't 
understand that there's no reason to.

She bends down to kiss my cheek, letting her lips linger on my 
dry, gray skin.  "I can't help you anymore, Dana.  I'm sorry.  
When you're ready to get well, you can call me.  I'll be here.  I 
love you."  A tiny tear drips onto my skin and she wipes it away 
before she stands and walks to the door.  "I called Fox.  I 
thought that he'd want to know you were here.  He wasn't home, 
but I left him a message.  Maybe he can help you; you always 
would tell him things," she tells the floor before knocking on 
the door, letting young nurse Nancy know that she's ready to 
leave.

She walks out without saying good-bye, telling Nancy thank you 
before disappearing down the hall.

Wait, she's leaving?  How can she leave me here?  She's my 
mother, she's not supposed to leave!  

I guess this is what happens when people finally give up on you.  

The sunlight makes the gold shine on my nameplate, drawing my 
eyes back to it.  Mulder gave this to the woman he loved who had 
no clue about how he felt.  She had no clue that the life that 
she was leaving was everything she had always wanted.  She gave 
that up for what she thought she deserved but that had been taken 
away from her.  Now, she's really getting what she deserves: her 
identity stripped away from her, her family and friends 
abandoning her.  She's finally learning what it is to be alone.

My hand shaking, I reach out for the nameplate, hugging it to my 
chest and crying quietly, mourning the woman that I'm not anymore 
until Nancy comes to take me to Group.  She has to call for the 
older nurse to pick me up and wheel me there, but neither of them 
takes my nameplate away from me.

I take special care to notice my surroundings today, knowing that 
I'll be here for the rest of my life.  I should start getting 
used to it.

After Dr. Shipp greets everyone, her eyes linger on me.  "Dana, 
what have you got there?" she asks.  Still sniffling, I turn it 
around so that she can read.  "You're a medical doctor?"

No.  I used to be, but not anymore.

"What are you specialized in?" she asks softly.

I blink at her, then clutch it to my chest again, bow my head, 
and sob in front of everyone, not saying a word.

<><><><><><>

Something outside the room hits the hallway floor, smacking 
loudly against the tile and waking me from my groggy, all-
encompassing sleep.  There's yelling outside, but not from the 
same patient as before.  Nurses trying to shush the voice, one 
hollers for security.  Another calling for someone to page a 
doctor.  The voice, a man's, won't be calmed.  He's enraged, 
demanding something.

"JUST TELL ME WHERE SHE IS...I DON'T CARE WHAT TIME IT IS, I'M A 
GODDAMMED FEDERAL AGENT...WHERE'S HER DOCTOR, I WANT TO TALK TO 
HER DOCTOR...WHAT ROOM IS SHE IN...TELL ME WHERE SHE IS, NOW!"  
Echoes loudly through the hall as the man paces heavily outside, 
peaking through the port windows on the doors and reading the 
name plates beside them.  Finding the one he wants, all the 
voices outside cease for a moment, like the eye of a hurricane; 
the calm before the storm.

"Open this door," the man orders in a low, barely controlled 
voice.

"Sir, I can't do that.  It's aft- "

"OPEN THIS DOOR NOW!"

Another woman's voice.  "Sir, please calm down -"

"YOU OPEN THIS DOOR OR I'LL KICK IT OPEN!"  Good luck; it's 
metal.

The first nurse huffs and jangles her keys, hastily unlocking the 
door.  "You have five minutes before Security will escort you 
from the premises, sir," she says haughtily, with a slight tone 
of fear in her voice.

"Thank you," he huffs, bursting through the doorway and stopping 
as soon as he sees me.

With my back to him, I can only guess at the look on his face: 
surprise - no, shock.  Shock and horror.  Fear.  Self-
recrimination and guilt.  Confusion.  Misunderstanding.  
Helplessness.  Hate.  He doesn't breath for a few seconds, 
walking softly over to the bed and placing a hand on my shoulder, 
trying to turn me or see if I'm alive.  The nurse is hovering in 
the doorway, her fat arms crossed over her double-D cup chest.

"She's sleeping, sir, and I'd advise you not to wake her.  Even 
if she was coherent, she hasn't spoken to anyone since she was 
admitted, not even her mother or husband."

"They were here?  When?" he asks in a thick tone, trying not to 
show too much emotion.

"Yesterday," the nurse snaps, probably missing her TV show.

Mulder leans in close to my shoulder, trying to see my face in 
the dark and shadows.  "Scully?" he calls softly.

I'm careful to control my breathing, acting like his whirlwind 
entrance didn't phase me from my drug-induced stupor.

"Scully?"  The sounds aren't words so much as they are 
vibrations, shaking me down to my core: intimate, concerned.

More footsteps in the hall.  "What in the hell is going on here?"  
A man asks, angry with the nurse.

Mulder turns, stalking towards him.  "Are you her doctor?"

"I'm the psychiatrist on call this evening yes, can I help you, 
sir?"

"I want to know everything about her condition: when she was 
admitted, what you've done with her so far.  Everything that's 
happened."

"And you are?"

"I am Special Agent Fox Mulder with the Federal Bureau of 
Investigation -"

"And what are you doing here?"  The doctor interrupts.

"Her mother called me."

"You know Mrs. Minette?"

"Yes, we...we're friends.  I'm also ABD in psychology, so please, 
spare me no detail," he says rudely, getting frustrated.

"Then you should be quite familiar with the rules and regulations 
that we have established so that our patients can rest 
comfortably.  I'll have to ask you to come with me, sir.  You can 
see Mrs. Minette in the morning."

Taking a few deep, obviously cowed breaths, Mulder glances over 
his shoulder at me, then looks down at the floor, his hands on 
his hips, his lower lip between his teeth.  "All right," he 
finally agrees hesitantly, pulling the door closed behind him as 
he follows the doctor down the hall.

No, he's not supposed to see me like this.  Why is he here?  Why 
did he even bother to come?  Dammit, Mulder, you weren't supposed 
to see this! 

I lay awake the rest of the night, staring at the ceiling and 
wondering when, if ever, Mulder will come back.  I want him here.  
I want him to sit beside me and hold my hand and make bad jokes 
about the mean nurses.  I want him to smooth my hair away from my 
face and kiss my forehead and promise me that everything will be 
okay.  I want him to tell me over and over again how much he 
loves me - how much he still loves me - and that he's still going 
to take me back after everything I've done.  I want him to say 
that he forgives me.

The same nurse as before comes to my room after nine a.m. with 
Mulder impatiently at her heels.  As she swings open the door, 
though, finally allowing him entrance, he stands in the doorway, 
starring at the floor instead of moving.  When he raises his 
head, his lower lip is between his teeth, his eyes slightly 
bloodshot and moist.  Slowly, he ambles into the room, pulling 
the dilapidated metal chair from the corner over in front of the 
bed, then sitting down heavily in it, burying his face in his 
hands.  The nurse appraises all of this from outside the door, 
shakes her head, and closes it.

We sit in, what is for me, an uncomfortable silence.  From 
Mulder's breathing pattern, I can tell that he's struggling to 
hold back tears, trying to be the strong one in this.  After a 
few minutes, he sits up and stares at the ceiling, rolling his 
head around on his neck like he'd slept in this same position and 
now was paying for it.  Finally, he speaks, his voice echoing off 
the tile floors.

"Your mother called me, left a message on my answering machine.  
She was upset - crying, barely able to talk - and she said that 
you were in the hospital.  I called her back, but she wasn't 
home.  I called Ethan and he wouldn't tell me anything...my God, 
Scully, do you know how worried I was?"

He wipes a tear away from where it's sliding across his temple, 
determined to get through this.  No, Mulder, I don't know how 
worried you were.  It didn't even cross my mind.  All I could 
think about was how it felt when you walked out the door and 
drove away, leaving me for what would've been the last time, how 
it felt to know that you hated me, how it would feel to feel 
nothing.

He slumps again, resting his elbows on his knees and bowing his 
head.  "I kept thinking the worst: that you were in a car wreck 
or something, but I never even considered..." he fades out, 
shaking his head in disbelief.  "You've always been so strong, 
Scully.  I always thought that you could handle anything.  You've 
never needed me or anyone else, you just...you've always been the 
strong one."

My mother said those same words to me years ago, when I was dying 
of cancer.  I didn't believe them then and I don't believe them 
now.  If they only knew how weak I truly was, how much I needed 
them.

He continues, his voice rough and deep.  "Everyone has always 
said that people who try to kill themselves must be selfish and 
cowardly, but I've never agreed.  I don't think that you can ever 
truly appreciate how much bravery and strength it takes to try to 
end your own life unless you've been there yourself.  Unless 
you've ever experienced the hopelessness and despair and pain 
that accompanies it.  I've been there, Scully, more times than I 
care to remember."  His voice breaks and he bites his lip again, 
stifling the sob.  "I know what it feels like to want to die 
enough to take matters into your own hands.  When I was fourteen 
and my parents divorced, I thought it was all my fault.  When I 
moved to England and I was all alone in a place where I couldn't 
even count the money.  When you were taken.  When you told me 
that it was my fault that They gave you cancer.  It would've been 
so easy for me to just...end it all.  I wanted to.  I had the 
means and the opportunity."

He pauses and takes a deep, shuttering breath, looking everywhere 
except at me.

"I know what it takes, Scully.  I know how it feels.  I had no 
one, though.  No one that cared about me or if I lived or died.  
I really felt that my only option was suicide, especially the 
last time.  You're the only person that would've given a damn if 
I died, but you would've been dead in a matter of months anyway.  
But that's what stopped me.  I never told you this, Scully, but 
that night that I was in your apartment waiting for you, I had 
been so close.  

"But I kept thinking about you," he continues. "I imagined them 
telling you that I had shot myself and your reaction.  I thought 
about you laying in a hospital bed, sick and weak, without me 
there.  Just you, Scully.  You're what kept me living.  And it 
was enough just to be there to support you, to hold your hand and 
tell you that everything would be okay when we both knew that it 
wouldn't.  I couldn't die quickly and painlessly knowing that you 
would die slowly and agonizingly."  

He shakes his head again, finally looking up at me.  "I guess my 
point is that I know how it feels to be suicidal.  I never tried 
it, but I still know what it takes.  And I know you.  How damn 
strong and independent you are, how you never, ever give up on 
something you believe in.  I can't put those two together, 
though.  I can't understand how you of all people would think 
that your only option was suicide."

He stands, picking the chair up and setting it back in the 
corner, then going over to stand in front of the window, hands on 
his hips.  "I know you knew exactly what you were doing, that 
taking that many pills with that amount of alcohol would kill 
you.  I know that you thought a motel would've been the perfect 
place to do it because no one knew you were there and no one 
could save you.  You planned all this whether you realize it or 
not and you executed it almost perfectly.  But there's only one 
flaw in your logic, Scully," he explains to the metal bars on the 
window.  "You didn't really want to die."  He pauses then, 
letting his accusation sink in.

In my warm little cavern, I hold my breath, wondering if he can 
hear my heart pounding all the way across the room.  How dare he.  
How fucking dare he.  He comes here days after I tried to fucking 
kill myself and tells me that I wasn't serious?  How fucking dare 
he!

Undaunted, he continues. "You only did it for the attention, just 
so me and Ethan and your mother would all pity you and realize 
what horrible people we are.  You wanted us to feel sorry for 
everything that's happened to you over the past year and you 
wanted us to fix it for you."

He turns around, fixing me with a cold gaze.  "Your mother told 
me that you finally confessed your infidelity to Ethan and that 
he kicked you out, that he's divorcing you.  You figured that she 
would hate you because of that.  You thought that I'd finally 
abandoned you for good that night when I left your house; you 
thought I hated you.  You didn't want to go through the divorce 
and being all alone again, knowing that you'd failed at what you 
thought you'd wanted most of all.  So, you took the easy way out.  
You decided to show us what we'd pushed you to."

Ambling back over to the door, he stops in front of it and 
addresses the floor again.  "And that is selfish and cowardly.  
When my mother did this, she did it because she didn't want to 
face that disease she had, she didn't want to go through all that 
pain and suffering.  That was cowardly and selfish, Scully, but 
that's not you or, at least, it's not the Scully I know.  I know 
that you don't want to be here and that you didn't think about 
what would happen when your suicide attempt failed.  The doctor 
says that you haven't spoken to anyone since you were admitted 
and that you refuse to eat.  You're still showing everyone how 
much you want to die and why we should clamor to help you because 
this is our fault anyway, but you act like you don't care whether 
we're here or not, which pushes us away.  Then when we do finally 
get frustrated and give up, you cry and wonder why we left you.  
So before you develop any explanations of your own, let me tell 
you why I'm here and why I'm leaving."

I finally take a deep breath, my pulse pounding in my temples.  
He can't be leaving me, after everything he's just said.

"I'm here because I love you, despite everything that's happened.  
I still love you more than anything and nothing will ever change 
that.  I'm here because I want to help you get better because, 
whether you want to admit this or not, everything that has 
happened is no one's fault but yours.  You've done this to 
yourself and you're sick, but you can get better, and I want to 
help you because I love you.  But I'm leaving because that's not 
what you want.  You don't want to get better and you don't want 
anyone's help.  Until you do, you're not going to make any 
progress.  You have to do this on your own."

He looks at me again with those soft puppy dog eyes, almost in 
tears.  "I know you can, Scully.  The nurse told me that all 
patients have phone privileges everyday between six-thirty a.m. 
and eleven-thirty p.m.  You can call me when you're ready to 
accept responsibility for your actions and you're ready to move 
forward.  Until then, you can lay here and feel sorry for 
yourself and be alone, or you can decide to get better, let the 
doctors help you, and have my support.  It's up to you.  I'll be 
ready when you are."

He hesitates for a moment, waiting for me to respond.  When I 
don't, he opens the door and walks out, leaving me in my solitude 
and silence.

I lay there, staring at the door, certain that at any minute, 
Mulder will walk back in and pick me up, hold me and whisper to 
me that of course he would never say those things to me, of 
course he would never leave me.  He doesn't though.

<><><><><><>

A year ago today, to the best of my recollection, Mulder stopped 
by my apartment unannounced.  It was a Sunday afternoon and I was 
shaving my legs, and he came by to talk to me.  Having the 
advantage of hindsight, I know now that he wanted my permission 
to go out on a date with someone; otherwise, he would've felt 
like, in a way, he was cheating on me.  He was nervous about 
going out with her because he said that he hadn't been on a date 
in ten years.  So, in a friendly, concerned gesture, I offered to 
go out with him on a practice date.

Mulder is infinitely sweet and caring, gentle, loving, polite, 
and dumb as a rock about the fairer sex.  Our practice date was 
horrible, uncomfortable, and I feared that he would repeat his 
performance on his real date.  He did, of course, and showed up 
the next Sunday, two days after his date, to tell me how 
miserable it was.  During the course of our conversation that 
afternoon, I realized something about my best friend and partner, 
something that I denied and repressed until eight months later: 
Mulder was in love with me.

He didn't want his date to go well; he wanted the woman to lose 
all interest in him.  I accused him of not trying to find anyone 
to settle down with, someone who could make him happy and bring 
love and balance to his world.  He accused me of not doing that 
either.  He was right, as he is 98.9% of the time, but I told him 
that he had a reason to do so while I didn't.  I was - and am - 
damaged goods.  I was - and am - simply an empty vessel of no 
practical use to any man on the planet.  Even if I did find 
someone that I loved and who loved me, I would never do him the 
injustice of marrying him; it wouldn't be fair.  I encouraged 
Mulder to reach out to happiness, though, to chase it and grasp 
it with both hands, should it ever come his way.  He retaliated 
by asking me if neither of us were married by the time I retired 
from the Bureau, we could get married.  To each other.

I said no.  I couldn't do that to him.

He got angry because I told him that if I said yes, he would stop 
looking for anyone else, someone who could give him all the 
things I couldn't.  He yelled at me that he didn't want anyone 
else, then left.  The next day at work, we didn't speak until 
lunch, when all was forgotten.  Whoever those two people were 
that had briefly inhabited our bodies on that Sunday afternoon 
were gone, leaving stoic, rational, Mulder and Scully to avoid 
the big pink elephant in the center of the room, or office, or 
Lariat-issue Taurus, or random, nameless motel in Podunkville, 
USA.

A year ago today, I was unaware that Mulder was in love with me 
and even more unaware that I was in love with him.  Ignorance is 
bliss and I was insanely happy.  Only I didn't think I was.

I had a good job that I loved and did well.  I had a partner who 
respected me and listened to me (sometimes), with whom I worked 
well.  I had a best friend who would always listen to anything I 
had to say, who would always help me without having to be asked, 
who would do anything for me.  I had a life, as Daniel had 
reminded me just a few weeks earlier.  I told him that I didn't 
know what I had.

What I had was everything that I never knew I always wanted.  
What I wanted was everything that I thought didn't have, that 
thought I should have, that I deserved.  And when it offered 
itself to me, I took it, as I had told Mulder to do.  I grabbed 
it with both hands and ran with it, afraid that if I let it get 
away again, I would never have another chance.

And now, one year later, I'm laying in a tiny bed in a mental 
institution, being fed by a tube, being kept alive against my 
will, after trying to kill myself.  I'm alone and empty with 
nothing and no one to respect me, listen to me, or help me.

I finally got everything I deserve.

At ten o'clock, a nurse comes in and injects me with another dose 
of whatever medication they have me on.  The immediate effects of 
it are more pronounced each time they give it to me, but I guess 
that's just a part of the treatment.  This time, though, I start 
to shake more violently and my head gets heavy, cloudy, and I 
can't think.  When my eyelids fall closed on their own, I let 
them stay like that, slipping blissfully into the thick, dark, 
welcome unconsciousness.

<><><>End Part 1<><><>


<><><>Begin Part 2<><><>

When I wake up this time, the first thing that I notice is how 
heavy my body feels.  My fingers and toes are tingling and my eye 
lids are like lead.  I'm hot; I feel thick blankets on top of me.  
I'm not restrained, but I'm still not able to move my arms and 
legs.  My mouth is dry and achy, my ears buzzing so loud I can't 
hear, and the rest of me is so sore, like I felt that first night 
on the ice with Mulder in Antarctica after shivering violently 
for hours.  I feel like absolute shit.

I guess God finally decided what to do with me and that this is 
Hell.  It makes sense: Purgatory was just a middle ground so that 
I could be abandoned by my family, so that I could see what I'd 
done to them, but this is where I'll be spending the rest of 
eternity.  I deserve it though after everything I've done.

After rolling my eyes around underneath their lids, which are 
full of sand, I finally manage to flutter them open and take in 
my surroundings.  I'm in a room - what looks like a hospital 
room, though neither of the two I've been in lately.  It's nicer 
than those, with what looks like a wooden chest of drawers 
against one wall and a matching wooden bed frame and night stand.  
There's a door with a small port window opposite the bed that 
leads to a darkened hallway, another door behind it in the 
corner, what I assume is the bathroom.  Another, larger window, 
one without bars, looks out onto a bright, lithium-lit night in 
the city, thick gray clouds obscuring any stars in the sky.

Beside the bed is a comfortable looking chair with a man sleeping 
there.  As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I gradually see the 
man's features: deep set eyes; strong, enlarged nose; full, pouty 
lips turned into a slight frown.  Mulder.

He's slumped in what can't be a very comfortable position, his 
head nearly touching one shoulder, his glasses, which I rarely 
have the pleasure of seeing, have slid down his nose to barely 
hold onto his ears; his mouth is slightly open and his arms are 
crossed tightly over his chest.  From this angle, he looks like 
he never meant to fall asleep, only to sit and stay for a few 
minutes, but eventually succumbed to exhaustion.  And he does 
look exhausted.  Stressed.  Sad.  Angry.  Beautiful.  My Mulder.

There's a stack of thick, old looking books on the night stand 
and one open on his lap.  I can't read the spines, but the glare 
off the gold lettering from the streetlights outside tells me 
that they're scholarly and important.  He must've fallen asleep 
while reading about something.

The buzzing in my ears gradually subsides and I can start to hear 
the low, angry sounds of car horns outside, the rumble of diesel 
trucks as they go down the road.  Mulder's soft snoring.  The 
bustle of people outside in the hallway.  It takes me a minute, 
but I eventually realize that the feeding tube is gone and 
there's a tiny IV line running from above the bed to the top of 
my hand.  I'm dressed in my own pajamas, different ones than 
those I remember putting on at the other hospital.  The stifling 
heat has subsided to comfortable warmth.  I relax, knowing that 
where ever I am, even if it's Hell, I'm safe if Mulder is here, 
too.  Hell can't be too bad.

He shifts, then, and I look back at him as he closes his mouth 
and licks his lips, stirring to a groggy consciousness.  I watch 
him as he opens his eyes and looks around from underneath his 
eyelashes, trying to place himself, until he finally looks at me.  
His eyes pop open and he sits upright quickly, inadvertently 
snapping his book shut and making it slide from his lap onto the 
floor with a loud, echoing slap against the tile.

Instead of speaking, he bends over to pick it up, his glasses 
sliding off his face to join the book on the floor.  He picks 
both of them up, clumsily placing the book atop the stack of the 
others, straightening them, then rearranging them in order from 
largest to smallest, placing his glasses on top.  He seems to be 
avoiding my gaze, but I hold it steady, wondering what, exactly, 
he's doing here when his last words to me were something along 
the lines of "I'm leaving."

He folds his hands in his lap nervously, then unfolds them and 
stands, walking to the other side of the bed and sitting down on 
the edge, his back resting lightly against my hip.  Facing the 
window, not me, he finally speaks in a voice so soft I can barely 
hear him.  "I was wondering how long it would take you to wake 
up.  The doctor said it wouldn't be long, but I didn't know what 
the long term effects of the medication would be."  He clears his 
throat and turns his body so that he's facing me now, but he's 
still looking down, picking at a thread on the blanket.  "You 
probably don't remember what happened; you were pretty out of 
it."  

Snapping the thread and worrying it between his fingers, he 
sighs.  "The doctor at the hospital in Atlanta talked to Ethan 
and your mother to get a psychological history, to try and figure 
out what might have been wrong with you, since you wouldn't talk, 
and whatever they said, he diagnosed you as having 
Schizoaffective Disorder, which is closely related to 
schizophrenia, since they're both characterized by bizarre 
delusions.  The difference is that Schizoaffectives also have a 
major depressive disorder.  He prescribed an anti-psychotic drug 
to you and it wasn't what you needed, so it messed you up pretty 
badly.  When I called the day after I'd left to check on you, 
your doctor told me what had happened.  He said that you started 
babbling about not being able to die, then you were completely 
catatonic..."  He ends his rambling, trailing off and running out 
of steam.

No, I don't remember any of that.  The last thing I remember was 
falling asleep after he walked out my door, nothing until now.

"Ethan was able to divorce you without your consent on 
psychological grounds and your insurance was terminated.  Your 
doctor told me that his only option was to send you to a state 
hospital, so your mother and I had you transferred up here 
instead."  He finally looks at me, his eyes round and soft, his 
brows climbing towards his hair line.  "You're at Potomac Ridge 
Behavioral Health Center in Rockville, Maryland, Scully.  You 
were unconscious for about thirty six hours while the effects of 
the medication wore off."

That must be why I feel so horrible.  "How?"  I whisper, my voice 
rough and scratchy from disuse.  "How is she paying for this if I 
don't have insurance?"  My father barely made enough money with 
the Navy to feed and clothe four kids; his retirement was just 
enough for him and my mother to live on with hardly any excess.  
She couldn't have the money for this.

Mulder takes a deep breath, looking away again, at his feet that 
are barely touching the floor.  "It was my idea, actually.  My 
father left me two houses on the Vineyard that I've been leasing 
through a Realtor since he died.  One of them sold just over a 
year ago and I put the money into savings.  Besides that, he left 
me nearly a million in savings bonds.  The money's just been 
sitting there accruing interest, so..."

I shake my head, looking away from him.  So, he's spending his 
father's money on me?  I can't believe my mother would let him do 
something like that.  She's always been proud, doing what was 
necessary to make ends meet with her meager income; she never 
accepted charity or handouts and she raised us not to do so, 
either.

"Scully, your mother and I talked about this.  There's no other 
way for you to get the care you need than to have you treated at 
a hospital like this.  Those state hospitals are dirty and 
overcrowded, you'd never get well in a place like that.  This is 
what you need and if you need it, we both agreed that no price is 
too high," he tells me in a low, serious voice that leaves no 
room for argument.

Since when did I ever back down from an argument with Mulder?  
"No, that's your money.  I don't need a hospital.  I don't need 
to be treated -"  I start to sit up, but he gently pushes me back 
down, his hands on my shoulders.  Not that I would've made it 
very far anyway, as all the blood rushed from my head and 
blackness overtook my vision as soon as I raised my head from the 
pillow.

"Listen to me: I'm gonna tell you the same thing I told your 
mother.  This isn't something that happened over night - your 
illness, whatever it may be, it's been lurking inside you for 
years, maybe forever, building and building until something 
finally set it off.  She thought that after we got you re-
hydrated and you gained a little weight, she could take you home 
and help you to get physically better on her own, but that 
wouldn't fix the problem, Scully, it would only fix one symptom 
of it.  In a few weeks or months or years, something else would 
set this off again and you'd end up right back here.  If we want 
you to get well, we have to keep you in a place where they 
understand what's wrong with you and they can help you to 
overcome it.  This is serious - probably more serious than you 
realize - and it's a disease, just like your cancer.  If we don't 
treat it, it will eat you alive.  And I'm not gonna let that 
happen," he finishes in a raised, angry tone.

"You told me that you were leaving," I say thickly, trying not to 
let any emotion into my voice.

"I know.  And from what your mother has told me, she said the 
same thing to you.  You've always been so strong and independent, 
Scully, that she - both of us - thought that you could do this on 
your own if we gave you the opportunity.  I still do, but your 
mother thinks that this misdiagnosis was some sort of sign from 
God that she's not doing the right thing.  Maybe she's right.  
Maybe He was trying to show her that she should be more accepting 
and understanding of you right now, I don't know.  What I do know 
is that this morning, me and her and your new psychiatrist all 
had a long discussion about where to go from here and we've 
decided that right now, you need support and patience from both 
of us."

I turn my head on the pillow again, looking for his face in the 
semi-darkness.

"I still don't believe that you actually meant to kill yourself, 
Scully, and I still think that you're gonna have to do most of 
this on your own.  I just don't think that you should be 
completely alone."  He raises his feet so that they're resting 
below the mattress, his knees almost touching his chest, and 
buries his face in his hands.  "Earlier, I was trying to imagine 
what I'd have done if my mother hadn't been successful when she 
tried to do this.  I tried to think if I would've let her recover 
on her own or if I would've been with her every step of the way, 
letting her know that I still cared about her and loved her more 
than almost anything, and the answer was that I never would've 
left her side."  

He pauses and looks at me again.  "But she wasn't as strong as 
you are, Scully.  She needed me and she needed that reassurance.  
I'm sorry I left you the way I did.  I said some very harsh, 
impulsive things to you, both at the hospital and that night at 
Ethan's house, but you hurt me, Scully.  You can't begin to 
imagine how much.  I honestly don't know that I can ever fully 
forgive you for what you've done.  But when I got home from the 
airport after I left Ethan's and heard that message from your 
mother, I turned around and caught the first flight back.  I was 
afraid...I was terrified that by the time I got there, you'd be 
dead or gone and I'd never get to tell you that I was sorry."  He 
pauses, then, taking a deep, shaky breath.  

"I'm sorry for so many things, Scully," he continues after a 
moment.  "I'm sorry I let you get on that plane to go to Atlanta 
in the first place, I'm sorry that I didn't do everything in my 
power to stop you from marrying him like I promised you I would.  
I thought about all those things on the flight and by the time I 
got there, talked to your doctor, and found out what had 
happened, I just didn't know what to say to you.  The only thing 
I knew for certain was that I needed to put myself and my 
feelings first if I was ever going to be able to help you and 
right then, I was most afraid of you hurting me again.  That's 
the reason I was so harsh to you and that's why I didn't even 
give you a chance to respond to me.  I couldn't let you hurt me 
again."

Hiding his face from me again, I hear him sniffling as he tries 
not to cry.  "I don't know what to do now, though.  I don't know 
if it would be better to just leave you to climb out of this hole 
you dug by yourself or if I should try and help you however I 
can.  I think I'll let that be your decision.  If you want me to 
go, I will and if you never want to see me or speak to me again, 
it's up to you.  If you want me to stay, I will.  I'll be here as 
often as you'd like.  Just tell me what to do, Scully."

"I thought I was alone," I begin, my voice shaking.  "I thought 
that I had ruined everything: my marriage, our friendship.  I 
didn't know how to fix it; I didn't want to fix it, I just wanted 
to sleep forever, pretend none of this had ever happened."

"You're only alone if you choose to be," he whispers, turning his 
body towards me again.

"I don't want to be," I breathe.

He nods, almost seeming relieved.

"Why are you here now, if you didn't know what to do?"  I finally 
ask him.

He grins, laughing slightly and looking away.  "I didn't mean for 
you to catch me.  I was doing some reading, trying to find 
something that would help your mother and me to better understand 
this, and I fell asleep."

Those are psychology books; he's really trying to help me.  "Oh."

"Speaking of sleep, you need to get some.  It's late."  He 
stands, tugging the already tightly tucked covers around me.  
"And I should go, too.  Visiting hours ended at seven - if the 
nurses knew I was here, there's no telling what they'd do to me."

He leans down, brushing imaginary hair from my brow and tucking 
it behind my ear before pressing his lips against my forehead.  
"Will you be back tomorrow?"  I whisper to him as he straightens 
up.

"If you want me to be."  I nod.  "Okay, I'll be here.  Goodnight, 
Scully."

I watch him as he walks to the other side of the bed and gathers 
his books and glasses.  "'Night, Mulder."

He lingers for a few seconds before turning around and walking 
out the door, closing it softly behind him.

This most certainly isn't Hell.  It's not quite Heaven, either, 
but it's definitely not Hell.

<><><><><><>

Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep after he left.  When I 
had fallen asleep the last time, I was in a confusing, 
frustrating world where I had no control over anything: my 
schedule, my body, the people in - or out of - my life.  I had 
resigned myself to being there forever, willing myself to die and 
wondering why God doesn't put me out of my misery and send me to 
Hell.  When I awoke, it had been in a completely different world, 
one where I wasn't alone and I wasn't ready to push myself into 
death.  I like this new world better, but I'm afraid that if I 
fall asleep again, when I awake, I'll be back in the old world.

I run over the things that Mulder said to me in my head, trying 
to figure out how to feel about them.  On the one hand, I'm 
infinitely happy and grateful that he's back and willing to help 
me.  On the other hand, I'm confused about his motives.  He said 
in the other world that he thought it would be best for me to be 
alone and now, he doesn't think so.  Maybe he really was just 
afraid like he said, maybe the words really were impulsive.  Or 
maybe he feels so responsible for this that he thinks it's his 
duty to help me now, to pay for my hospital stay and to be with 
me while I recover.  Mulder has gone to some astonishing lengths 
to assuage his own guilt before and I wouldn't doubt that he was 
doing the same thing now.  He didn't tell me this time that he 
loved me.  Maybe he doesn't anymore.

Or maybe he's just as confused about himself now as I am.  I 
honestly can't figure him out sometimes.

He'd said I'd hurt him and I know that it's true.  I'd honestly 
never stopped to consider what would happen if I wasn't 
successful at suicide.  I didn't care what it would do to the 
people around me, how they would react, what they would think 
about me and themselves.  At the time, I thought no one cared, 
that no one would even notice and, if they did, they would be 
glad that one burden in their lives was gone.  I thought I'd 
finally pushed him away - for good this time - but I guess I 
should know by now that Mulder is nothing if not persistent.  The 
only way he'd ever leave me for good is if he were to die.

I wonder if he thought the same thing about me a year ago, before 
Ethan came back into my life: that I would never, ever leave him 
unless I died.  I had almost done that this time, abandoned him 
for good.  And that's what hurt him the most, I think.  That I'd 
willingly, consciously, abandon him.  Marriage is only temporary 
- it can be broken, annulled, ended - it's only a legal ceremony.  
It's finite.  Death is permanent - once you're gone, you don't 
get another chance to change things.  Mulder still believed that 
even after I'd married Ethan, I would come back to him and to my 
old life one day.  That I'd see the error of my ways, that I'd 
wake up and realize that I was supposed to be with him forever - 
maybe I still believed that, too.  When I tried to kill myself, 
though, I was giving up any hope that my life could get any 
better.  I was giving up on myself, on our relationship, and most 
of all, on him.  And that's what hurt him.

Part of me thinks that, just for spite, I should tell him to 
leave me alone forever, tell him that I'll show him that I can do 
this on my own, that I don't need him.  Another part of me didn't 
want him to leave tonight, doesn't ever want him to leave.  
Another part of me wants a happy medium, a balance between 
needing someone for support and needing someone for the 
continuation of my very existence.

I also wonder what Ethan and my mother told the doctor in 
Atlanta.  I'm sure that Ethan, not knowing any better, would've 
said that I made up wild, impossible stories to explain things in 
my life: aliens and men working for the government had abducted 
me and stolen my ova in order to create alien/human hybrids; I 
had a daughter that was part alien and that she died as a result 
of her body's alien DNA; I terrified of thunderstorms because 
they reminded me of my abduction; my cancer had been cured with a 
metal chip that Mulder had found at the Defense Department and on 
and on.  The doctor probably called those delusions - they 
certainly sound like delusions.  But they don't know what I know.  
They haven't seen what I've seen.  The only person who even comes 
close to understanding what happened to me is Mulder - that must 
be why he was here, to tell them the truth.  I wonder why they 
didn't give us adjoining rooms, then, if he reiterated everything 
that I'd told Ethan.

So, Mulder comes to my rescue again, convincing them that I'm not 
psychotic.  I'm just...what, depressed?  Confused?  Lonely?  Does 
he think that my suicide attempt was merely a cry for help and 
that now, he needs to answer that cry?  Could his motives really 
be so petty, or do I just underestimate him sometimes?

I turn my head towards the window and watch as the sky turns a 
dark purple, then lavender, then orange, and finally blue as the 
sun rises.  The traffic noises pick up outside as everyone rushes 
to start their days on time.  Voices from outside my room get 
louder and more numerous as the hospital wakes up.  I wait for 
something to happen: a doctor or nurse to come check on me, 
Mulder or my mother to visit.  When nothing happens, my eye lids 
begin to get heavy again and I close them, then finally fall 
asleep.

<><><><><><>

There's knocking on my door a little later, when the sun is 
slanting through the blinds in nearly horizontal stripes.  A 
woman enters wearing a long lab coat - this must be my new 
doctor.  Her heels click sharply against the tile floor as she 
approaches my bed, sitting demurely in the chair that Mulder had 
vacated just a while ago.  "Hello, Dana," she says softly, 
extending her hand to slip her fingers inside my tiny half-fist.  
"I'm Dr. Ayers, your psychiatrist.  Do you know where you are?"

I nod slowly and she smiles, nodding back.

"Good, good.  Do you know how you got here?"

Again, I nod.  She seems surprised at this.

"How?"  She asks.

I take a deep breath and lick my lips.  "Mulder told me."

She grins slightly, understanding.  "He was here already?"

"Last night."

"I thought he left with your mother.  I guess he couldn't stay 
away, huh?"  She laughs a little, trying to break some imaginary 
ice.

No, Mulder can never stay away, I guess.

"Well, your family is anxious to have you home and I'm sure 
you're just as anxious, so I think we should get started, what 
about you?"

I nod once, wondering if I even have a home to return to.

"I've spoken with your mother and with Mulder at length to get a 
history on you.  I must say, you've had some interesting 
experiences in your life lately."  She pauses, glancing down at 
her chart.  "How would you describe your current emotional state, 
Dana?"

"I don't know, really.  I've been depressed, I guess.  Irritable, 
moody.  I haven't really felt like doing anything."

"Have you had any difficulty sleeping or eating?"

"Yes," I admit.

She nods.  "How long has this been going on?"

"A year; since I got married."

"Oh."  Her eyebrows go up a little and she makes a note on her 
chart.  "Do you think that's just a coincidence?"

"No.  No, I think it's the reason."

"Why is that?"

"I didn't like being married."  That's oversimplifying the 
problem, I know.  For now, it's as good an answer as any.

She makes a sympathetic face.  "So, you didn't feel depressed and 
irritable before you got married?"

"No."

"How would you describe your emotional state at that time?

I hesitate.  "Good.  I was happy."

"Why do you think being married has caused such a dramatic 
change?"  She asks slowly, clearly thinking.

"Marriage wasn't what I expected it would be.  My husband wasn't 
what I expected he would be.  Nothing had worked out the way I 
wanted it to," I say softly.

Staring at me long enough for it to be unnerving, she doesn't say 
a word.  Maybe she's waiting for me to elaborate.  A few seconds 
later, there's another knock at my door and my mother pokes her 
head in, dangling a suitcase from her arm.  "Oh, I'm sorry," she 
says to the doctor, looking a little flustered and nervous.

Dr. Ayers stands.  "It's okay.  I think this is a good start, 
Dana," she says to me, squeezing my hand again.  "I'll be back 
later."  She smiles slightly at my mother before walking out the 
door, closing it firmly behind her.

After she's gone, Mom takes the suitcase to the chest of drawers 
and opens it, emptying my clothes into the drawers and placing my 
nameplate on top of the chest.  A sense of deja vu washes over me 
as I watch her in silence, waiting for her to say something.

When she's finished, she goes to the window and adjusts the 
blinds so that the morning sun isn't too bright in the room.  
Happy with the new lighting, she turns towards me, crossing her 
arms tightly over her chest and looking at the floor.  "How are 
you feeling, Dana?"  She asks in a low voice.

"Fine," I tell her.

She nods at her reflection in the shiny tile.  "What were you and 
Dr. Ayers talking about?"

I sigh.  "Same things she probably asked you; how I've been 
feeling lately."

"It's better that she hear it from you," she says carefully.  
"I'm glad you're talking now."

I look down at my hands, fisting the blanket in between my 
fingers.

"Dana..."  She pulls one of my hands away, holding it between 
both of hers, and sits on the bed beside me.  "Dana, I'm so 
sorry."

"For what?"  I whisper.

"For everything.  For leaving you at that other hospital, for...I 
feel like, in some way, this is partly my fault."  A thin tear 
slips out of her eye and slides down her cheek.  She reaches up 
with shaking fingers to wipe it away, closing her eyes tightly to 
stave off any more.

"No, Mom.  It's not."

She nods like she's heard that before.  "I had no idea how 
unhappy you were with Ethan.  I just thought," she wipes away 
another tear.  "that you were having trouble adjusting to being 
married, I didn't realize that you were honestly unhappy."

I look away from her, wondering how she could've missed that.  
How many times did I try to tell her that I was unhappy with the 
things that Ethan demanded from me?  That I not work, that I go 
to a fertility specialist?  How could she just blame that on my 
not adjusting to him?  Maybe it is partly her fault because she 
didn't realize that I was serious.  Maybe it is partly her fault 
because she didn't offer to listen to me and to help me.  I bite 
my lip and don't give her a response.

"Fox told me what happened, Dana.  He didn't know that Ethan had 
already told me, but he confessed that you and he..." she shakes 
her head, not able to say it.

"That we had sex?"

"Yes."  She sighs, sounding somewhere between disappointed and 
confused.  "There's still no excuse for that.  Even if you were 
unhappy, infidelity wasn't the way to fix that.  Neither was 
trying to kill yourself."

"I know, and neither was starving myself or yelling at Emma.  I 
should've left Ethan a long time ago, but I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"I didn't want you to be ashamed of me.  I guess I achieved that 
anyway, though."

She brings her hands up to either side of my face, turning my 
head towards her and forcing me to look at her.  "Dana, you're my 
daughter.  You're the only daughter I have left.  I could never 
be ashamed of you.  I may not understand you or what makes you 
happy, I may be ashamed of some of the things you do, but I could 
never be ashamed of you."

My chest gets tight as tears spring up in my eyes, too.  She 
pulls me to her, wraps her arms around me tightly, and rocks me.

"You know I love you, Dana.  I could never stop."

I rest my head on her shoulder and nod.  "I know."

"I'm so afraid, Dana.  I just don't understand...tell me...tell 
me that you really didn't mean to kill yourself.  Tell me that 
you still want to live."

"I don't want to be unhappy, Mom.  I don't want to be miserable 
and alone.  I don't want to live like that," I say through my 
hiccups.

"You don't have to.  You don't have to be miserable and alone."

"But what do I have left?  I don't have a husband, I don't have a 
job, I don't have any money, I don't have anything."

"You have me, don't you?  And you have Fox."  She pulls back, 
tucking my hair behind my ears.  "You know that both of us love 
you.  We'd never leave you.  We both love you so much.  More than 
you can imagine."

I collapse into her chest again and she holds me as I cry, 
shushing and rocking me like a child.  We stay like that for a 
long, long time.

<><><><><><>

After my mother leaves, a nurse comes in with my breakfast: more 
cream of wheat.  When I was younger, I used to love this stuff 
with butter and salt.  Now, without those things to make it 
better, it's all I can do to force myself to empty the bowl.  I 
need to eat, though.  If I don't, they'll put in another feeding 
tube, and I certainly don't want that.  The nurse also must've 
paged Dr. Ayers when Mom left, because no sooner than I've 
swallowed the last bite of food, she knocks softly on my door and 
enters.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Dana," she begins, sitting in the 
chair beside the bed again, crossing her legs and getting 
comfortable.

"No," I answer, staring into the covers.

"Did you have a nice visit with your mother?"

I nod silently.

"Good.  I'd like to continue our conversation, if that's all 
right."  I nod again and she glances down at her chart.  "Most of 
our patients only stay here for a couple of weeks at the most, so 
we have a lot of work to do.  Now, you said something about how 
marriage wasn't what you thought it would be, can you expand on 
that?"

Shrugging a little, I repeat the last thing I'd said.  "It 
just...wasn't what I expected."

"Okay, tell me what you expected."

"I thought that it would give me a sense of...purpose, I guess.  
I would feel like someone cared for me, cared whether I came home 
at night or wasn't feeling well.  I thought it would mean someone 
loved me."

"Did it not?"

"No, not really."  She stares at me, waiting for me to elaborate 
again.  I take a deep breath, blowing it out slowly through my 
nose and hoping she asks another question.

"Well, tell me how it disappointed you."

"Mulder said something to me a while ago, that a marriage was a 
mutual union.  My marriage was not mutual," I say tensely.

"How so?"

"My husband expected me to cater to his every desire and wish 
without regard for my own.  He didn't want me to have a job, even 
though I nearly begged him to let me work.  He just...didn't act 
like he cared about me as a person, an individual."  She nods, 
again waiting for me to continue.  "He worked long hours, odd 
schedules.  Some days, I wouldn't even see him.  When I did, he 
was ordering me to do something for him.  Whenever I tried to 
confront him about it, we would get into an argument.  
Eventually, I just stopped confronting him.  It seemed easier 
that way."

"So, you would've rather repressed your own desires and opinions 
just to avoid an argument with him?"  She asks, writing it down.

"Yes."

"Why was that?"

"I don't know.  It was just easier."

"So, you were unhappy in your marriage.  Why didn't you seek a 
divorce?"

I shake my head, looking out the window.  "I couldn't have done 
that.  I would've been disappointing my mother and myself...it 
would've been like admitting defeat."

"Defeat against who?"

"That part of me that likes to succeed at everything I do."

"Well, from what you're telling me, your marital problems weren't 
entirely your fault.  Some couples just aren't compatible.  Did 
you ever consider that?"

I look back at her sharply.  "We used to be engaged a long time 
ago, before we got married last year.  When I starting seeing him 
again, he assured me that he'd changed since then, and I believed 
him.  It wasn't just him; I'd misjudged him by ever thinking he 
could change."

"Then was there something that drew you to him again?  Something 
specific?"

Looking down, I grin - or grimace - slightly.  "He had a 
daughter...she was about the same age as a daughter I had, who 
had died."  Dr. Ayers tilts her head, silently apologizing.  "I 
thought that Ethan could give me the life that I hadn't chosen 
when we'd broken up before, a life where I could've had children 
and been happy and safe.  He filled a void inside me."

She sits back in the chair, bracing her chin on her hand.  "He 
filled a void inside you," she repeats, seeming struck by this 
phrase.  "That's a very powerful way to put it."

I nod, looking away again.

"And he didn't fill that void, I suppose?"

"No," I whisper.

"Dana, did it ever occur to you that no one can fill that void?" 
she asks slowly, sitting up again.

I blink at her, confused.

"Did you ever think that the void inside you has to be filled by 
you and no one else?"

My mouth falls agape.  "N-no."  

"It's definitely something to think about," she says, grinning 
softly, standing and smoothing her skirt.  "I'm going to go now, 
let you think about it, and we'll talk some more tomorrow, okay?"

Before I can respond, she floats out the door, leaving me alone 
and perplexed.

<><><><><><>

The rest of the day goes by slowly.  Nurses come in and out to 
check on my IV, bring me food, take away the empty trays.  No one 
else comes to visit and no one calls.  I wonder where Mulder is, 
but remember that he has to work, unlike me, and he's probably 
too busy to come by.  In the past, he would've made time, told 
the Director himself to kiss his ass if necessary.  Now, he's 
biding his time.  Maybe this is a part of that "do-it-yourself" 
angle he's so intent on.

I wonder what he would think about what Dr. Ayers had said, that 
the void inside me could only be filled by me.  It sounds so 
simple, but when I actually start thinking about it, it's much 
more complex that I imagined.

So, what was the void, first of all?  The emptiness I felt 
without a husband, someone to love me; without children, without 
a greater responsibility to someone other than myself?  I 
certainly remember having some of those feelings before.  I felt 
like I didn't matter to anyone, that no one, outside my mother, 
cared if I lived or died or if I was late getting home at night.  
When I walked into my dark, lonely apartment at night, it was 
nearly suffocating not to be greeted by someone who had dinner 
ready and kissed me, telling me he'd missed me all day.  When I'd 
go to bed, I felt so alone not having anyone beside me to curl up 
to my back, telling me he loved me and keeping me warm.  I'd see 
little girls in airports or grocery stores who looked like Emily 
and wonder if they were adopted, if they could be my daughters.  
When I would drive to and from work, I would purposefully take a 
route that would avoid day cares or schools, not wanting to see 
all the children and their happy parents, dropping them off or 
picking them up.  My job at the FBI was stimulating and 
interesting, certainly, but I'd always heard that being a mother 
was the hardest and most rewarding job a woman could have, and it 
saddened me deeply to think that I'd never get to experience that 
myself.  I wanted something more, something that the X-Files and 
Mulder couldn't offer me.  I wanted that motherhood.  I wanted 
that omnipotent companion.  I wanted what I didn't have, and I 
felt empty because of it.

And, of course, when Ethan came back after eight long, lonely 
years, offering me those things that I wanted so badly, I was 
enticed by it.  It seemed so easy, like God had just dropped that 
other life into my lap, and all I had to do was accept it.  So, I 
did.  I filled that emptiness with Ethan's life.  Emma gave me 
motherhood and he gave me companionship, but I still felt like 
something was missing.

I assumed what was missing was love.  Neither Ethan nor Emma 
acted like they loved me or appreciated me; I was just the 
convenient maid, cook, or whore.  I still had my companionship 
and motherhood, but none of the emotions and feelings that went 
along with it.  On the surface, it was everything I had asked 
for, but on the inside, it was hollow.  I was still empty.

So, Ethan and Emma didn't fill the void.  According to Dr. Ayers, 
I was in charge of that.  Only I had no clue how to do it.

Finally, at five thirty, there's another knock on my door and a 
hesitation before it swings open, revealing a very tired looking 
Mulder.

"Hey," he says softly, crossing to the bed in three strides and 
sitting next to me.  "How're you feeling?"

"Fine."  He grins a half-angry, half-teasing grin at me and I 
rephrase that.  "Better than I was yesterday, I guess."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," I nod.

He grins again.  "That's good."

"How was your day?"

"Long, tedious, boring.  I got yelled at by three separate ASACs 
before noon, then had to give a lesson in basic crime scene 
analysis to two rookie agents who think they know everything 
there is to know about profiling.  Just a usual day at the BSU."  
We nod at each other, neither knowing what to say, for a minute.  
"How was your day?" he eventually asks.

"Good, I guess.  Mom came this morning and we talked for a little 
while.  She..."  I sigh.  "She thinks this is her fault."

"Is it?"  He asks, sounding like he already knows the answer.

"No."

"I don't know, Scully.  In a way, I think we all share a little 
of the blame."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, we're the two people who're supposed to know you better 
than anyone, but yet we failed to recognize how serious this 
was."

"That's what she said, that she didn't know I was truly unhappy."

He reaches for my hand, lacing his warm fingers with my cold 
ones.  "Do you think it would've made a difference if she had?"

"I don't know," I say honestly.

"It would've for me."  I look up at him, not understanding.  "If 
I'd have known that you were so unhappy right after you left, you 
never would've gotten a moment's peace until I'd convinced you to 
come back here with me.  I would've never let you get to this 
point," he says, his voice deadly serious.

But you're the one who wouldn't speak to me during that time, I 
want to say.  Instead, I just avoid his eyes and nod my head.

"Did Dr. Ayers come by?"  He asks, changing the subject.

"Yeah, right before Mom came and again a few hours later."

"What do you think of her?"

"She seems nice, I guess."

"She does, very patient and concerned.  I like her."

Again, I nod.  "She said something to me today that I've been 
thinking about and I still don't quite understand."  His eyebrows 
go up a little, those vertical creases appearing between them.  
"I told her that I married Ethan because I thought he could fill 
some void inside me and she said that I was the only one who 
could fill that void."

"Spoken like a true psychologist," he muses.  "What do you 
think?"

"I don't know.  I don't know what she means."

"Are you sure?"

I shrug.  "What do you think?"

"I think that if you think about it long enough, you'll figure it 
out."  I wonder if he already knows and he's just teasing me.  "I 
need to go," he says, standing up but not releasing my hand.

I tighten my fingers around his.  "So soon?"

"You have some thinking to do, right?  And I have some work to 
do."

"But you're coming back tomorrow?"

"If you want me to, I will."  He bends down to kiss my forehead, 
then whispers against my skin, "I love you."

"I love you, too," I tell him as he pulls away.  Impulsively, I 
lean up to him, closing the slight distance between us and 
kissing him lightly on his lips.

His slight smile falls a little.  "I'll definitely be back," he 
says, though he doesn't sound as serious or mirthful as I'd 
hoped.  As he walks away, I hold onto his hand until the last 
second.  He doesn't look back at me as I let go and watch him 
walk out the door.

<><><><><><>

For the next week, all I could think about was how I was supposed 
to fill this void inside of me.  In my sessions with Dr. Ayers, 
it's all we talked about: had I identified the void?  What were 
the components of it?  If Ethan hadn't reappeared in my life, how 
would I have filled it?  Do I think I would've been successful?  
Why or why not?

It's all that Mulder and I talked about, too.  He still stopped 
by every evening, only staying for a few minutes each time.  
Aside from holding hands and his light kisses on my cheek or 
forehead, he barely touched me, but he still told me that he 
loved me every day and I told him that I loved him.  He always 
seemed to leave a little sadder than when he arrived and, after 
that, I never got much thinking done on my "central issue," as 
Dr. Ayers had called it.

According to her, my actions over the past year had all centered 
around the same thing, my not feeling fulfilled in whatever I was 
doing, be it the X-Files or a stay-at-home-step-mom.  She said 
that until I figure out how to fill that void myself, I would 
continue to feel empty and restless.  I was still confused about 
how I was supposed to fulfill myself and in one of our sessions, 
she handed me a piece of paper and a pen and asked me to list all 
the qualities I thought I was missing in my life, characteristics 
that a perfect companion would have.  She sat silently while I 
wrote down a few words, unsure as to exactly what I was doing, 
then asked me to read it once I had finished.

"Well," I began in a resigned voice.  "Qualities would be that 
what I was doing mattered on a greater scale, beyond just me and 
my life.  I would like to feel that other people accept me and 
what I'm doing without mocking it or questioning the value of 
it."  I looked up at her then, to see if she was nodding or 
shaking her head, telling me I'd done the wrong thing.  She was 
nodding, eager for me to continue.  "Characteristics of a 
companion would be intelligent, good sense of humor, confident, 
open with themselves and their emotions, accepting of me and 
willing to listen to me, patient, mature...I'd want them to love 
me, most of all."

Dr. Ayers smiled.  "Is that all?"

"I guess, yeah."

"Okay," she took the list from me.  "Dana, how many of these 
qualities and characteristics would you say you possess?"

I opened my mouth to speak, stopped myself, then closed my mouth.  
"What do you mean?"

"If you were to make a list of qualities and characteristics 
about yourself, how many of those would appear on both lists?"

"I don't know."

"Well, think about it for a minute.  Do you think that what 
you're doing matters on a greater scale?  Do you accept yourself 
and what you're doing?"

I gaped at her again.

"Do you think you're intelligent?  Do you think you have a good 
sense of humor?  Do you think you're confident?"  She looked from 
the list to me, waiting for an answer.

I raised my right eyebrow at her.  "Well...no, not all the time."

"What about the rest of these things, would you say that you have 
these characteristics?"

"N-no."

She nodded.  "Why do you think you look for these things in other 
people when you don't have them yourself?"

"I don't..."  I struggled for a few seconds, eventually just 
shrugging.  Then, I realized what she was getting at.  I look to 
other people to give me these things, to balance myself and my 
life.  And as long as I did that, I'd never be happy with them 
because I'd never be happy with me.  We sat in silence for the 
rest of the hour as I stared at the list, wondering how I 
could've missed something so simple and obvious.

It makes so much sense now, though.  I need other people in my 
life to give me the things that I lack within myself.  I've 
always felt the need to compete with others, to be the best at 
things, especially intellectual things.  In school and college, I 
always had to have the highest grades, not just in my family, but 
among my friends as well.  I don't have a good sense of humor - 
hell, I barely have a sense of humor at all.  I'm always so 
serious about everything, taking jokes and light comments 
personally.  I'm not as confident as most people assume I am.  
The reason I hold my head high and never back down from 
conflicts, both mental and physical, with men twice my size is 
because I don't want them to know how unsure of myself I really 
am.  It makes me feel better about myself to watch a two-hundred 
pound man stutter over his words and not be able to look me in 
the eye.  I'm not open with myself and my feelings at all.  I 
expect others to talk openly with me about themselves when I 
can't do that about myself.  I don't accept myself as the person 
that I am, whether I'm middle aged, infertile, and single or 
married and with a step-child.  I have little to no patience with 
myself and others.  I crave maturity around me - maybe that's why 
I've always been attracted to older, more distinguished men.  And 
most of all, I discovered that I don't love myself.

All this time, I've thought that I needed someone else to make me 
whole when really, I've just needed the other side of me.  No 
wonder I've been miserable no matter what I've tried to do: I 
wasn't doing it right.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Ethan 
didn't have many of those characteristics: he didn't accept me, 
he wasn't open with me, he had no patience towards me.  He was 
just convenient.  He was there and ready when I was.

Just as Mulder had been saying all along.

Mulder, on the other hand, has all of those characteristics.  
Maybe that's why I missed him so much this past year - I didn't 
have a part of myself with me.  

I wonder what he'll think of that.

<><><><><><>

At five thirty today, I got out of bed, put on jeans and a thin, 
button-up sweater, and combed my hair, ready to tell Mulder my 
big break-through.

He knocks on the door at five thirty-seven and enters, pausing 
his steps when he sees me standing in front of the window, 
looking out at the city and all the cars zooming by.  I turn my 
head towards him and smile.  "Hey," I say softly.

"Hey," he repeats.  "What's up?"

"I think I finally figured it out."

He nods, confused, and walks over to the chair on the other side 
of the bed, sitting down heavily and watching me expectantly.  
"What's that?"

"Why I married Ethan.  Why I was so miserable.  Why I tried to 
kill myself."  He nods.  "I was looking for fulfillment and 
happiness in the wrong places.  I was looking outside myself when 
I should've been looking within," I finish proudly.

He bows his head, leaning over on his knees.  When he raises his 
head, he's smiling slightly, looking off to the side.  "Yeah, 
that's it," he whispers to the floor.  Matching his smile, I walk 
towards him and he stands, meeting me halfway and pulling me 
against him tightly.  "That's definitely progress, Scully."

"Progress?"  I ask in surprise.  "What do you mean?  That's it.  
That's the reason that I wasn't happy on the X-Files or with 
Ethan, that's it.  It explains it."

"It does, you're right.  But there's more to it than that."

"Like what?"

He fits my head underneath his chin, his throat vibrating against 
my forehead as he speaks.  "It's something that I figured out 
about myself, too: that true happiness comes from inside of you, 
not outside.  A few years ago, when I told you that you made me a 
whole person, I thought that was the truth.  When you left, I 
felt like I'd lost a part of myself and I was miserable.  I felt 
the same way you did: empty, alone.  Then, one day, I realized 
that if I wanted my life to get any better, I'd have to make up 
for the part of me that you had taken with you.  I had to make 
myself a whole person."  I squeeze him tighter, thinking how 
eloquently he could always phrase things.  "I still love you 
Scully, but not because you fulfill me.  I love you because of 
you, the person that you are and the way that you make me feel 
when I'm with you."

Pulling away, he takes a step back from me and leans against the 
foot board of the bed.  "That's only the beginning, though.  The 
rest is figuring out how to fill that void."

"How did you do it?"  I ask him, stepping between his legs and 
laying my head on his shoulder.

Hesitating, he strokes my hair but doesn't put his arms around 
me.  "I faced a lot of things in my life that until recently, I 
had been running from.  I forgave my parents for divorcing and my 
father for letting Samantha be taken away.  I forgave her for 
dying.  I forgave my mother for dying.  I forgave you for 
leaving."  Shocked, I look up at him, afraid of what, exactly, 
that means.  "I had to, Scully, or it would've eaten me alive.  
That's what you have do: come to terms with all the things that 
have happened to you and accept them as part of who you are, not 
resent them.  You have to find peace."

"How?"  I whisper.

He shakes his head.  "You have to figure that out on your own."

I sigh, so tired of being sick, unhappy.  I just want this part 
of my life to be over with so that I can move on to better 
things.

"You're off to a good start, though," he reassures me.  "Just 
take some time alone, after you get out of here, to try and find 
that balance within yourself."

I take a deep breath and look him directly in the eye.  "I don't 
want to be alone anymore.  I want to be with you."

He looks very far away for a minute, then says slowly, "We have 
the rest of our lives for that.  Right now, you need to get 
better.  And I," he says after a tense beat of silence.  "I still 
have some work to do, too."

"You do?"

He looks down at his shoes and nods, biting his lip.  "Scully, I 
still haven't forgiven you for marrying Ethan.  Forgiven you for 
leaving, yes, but not for marrying Ethan, and not for trying to 
kill yourself.  I haven't forgiven you for giving up on me and 
us.  I know that you're anxious to start pursuing a more romantic 
relationship together and I'm anxious to do that, too, but right 
now, I'm not ready for that.  It's gonna take some time before I 
can trust you with that part of me again."

My face falls and tears spring up in my eyes.  "How much time?"  
I ask desperately.

"I don't know, but I don't want to rush it.  We need to do this 
right, Scully, or it's not gonna work."

I join him in inspecting the floor, silent.  

"You're not ready for that either," he says softly.  After a 
minute, I nod.

"What about until then?"

"Until then, you work on getting better.  You're still not 
completely cured, Scully.  You get better and work on you and 
I'll work on me.  Then, we'll work on us.  Okay?"

I take a deep breath.  "Okay," I finally say, leaning into him 
again.  This time, he wraps his arms around my back and holds me.

<><><><><><>

I have this theory that my life can be explained by a Trefoil, as 
in a Trefoil knot.  One of the simplest knots known.  It has 
three loops, each of which is connected to the other.  Two loops 
cannot be altered without altering each other, but the third can 
be altered without affecting the other two.  I learned about it 
in one of my math classes in college and it applies to my life in 
so many odd ways.

On one hand, I could assign each loop a person: Mulder, Ethan, 
and myself.  Mulder and I are the two loops that can't be altered 
without altering each other - no matter what happens to either of 
us, no matter how far we stray from each other, nothing we do is 
entirely individual.  Everything we do effects the other.  Ethan 
is peripheral, a footnote on my life again, but someone that will 
always be a part of me.  I'm tied to him, too, just as I'm tied 
to Mulder, but not as firmly.  Not as permanently.

Since I left Atlanta, I haven't seen him, spoken to him, or heard 
about him.  My last communication with him was through the Church 
- he requested an annulment after our divorce was finalized.  I 
was able to submit my testimony in writing and it was done: my 
marriage to Ethan, that year of misery and loneliness, had never 
happened in the eyes of God.  I'm sorry for what I've done to 
him, though.  I cheated on him just as his first wife did, but 
that was merely a symptom of our problem and not the cause.  I 
know that I hurt him and I truly regret that, but he hurt me too 
and, somehow, I doubt I'll ever get an apology from him.

I'm also sorry for what I've done to Emma.  Because of me, she 
lost another mother and will have to deal with that pain and 
loss.  She's an innocent child and I can't imagine how difficult 
all of this has been for her.  I miss her and I love her, but I 
can't take her pain away from her and I can't take her away from 
it.  It's not my place to do so, anyway.

I still carry the pain of that year with me; my attempts to 
recapture something that I'd let slip away so many years ago - a 
part of me named Dana.  I'd somehow turned into someone named 
Scully, someone who had lost so much of herself without her 
knowledge or consent and who didn't want to be herself anymore.  
At some point, I began to hate Scully and by marrying Ethan, I 
thought I could kill her and erase everything that separated her 
from Dana.

That's the other side of this Trefoil knot theory, that Dana, 
Scully, and someone whose just been born, Dana Scully, who 
accepts that she's lost things that she can't get back, who knows 
that there are some things she'll never have, and who believes 
that she's important, that she matters just because she's 
herself, are the three loops.  Dana can't be altered without 
altering Scully; Scully can't be altered without altering Dana; 
but Dana Scully is an individual, she's separate from both the 
others, but she retains the knowledge and lessons that being both 
have taught her.  She is whole.

And I am Dana Scully.  I chose my path in life of my own free 
will; it was the best decision for me at the time.  I am a woman 
who was abducted, who had tests and experiments performed on her 
by mysterious men for mysterious purposes and, as a result, I 
can't even have children.  I am a woman whose sister was murdered 
so that I could continue to live and fight.  I am a person who 
has made mistakes and has regrets, but I don't spend my life in 
the past anymore.  I look forward to the future, wondering what 
it will bring.  Whatever that may be, I know that I can face it 
on my own.

After another week of group and individual therapy and some 
intense introspection, I was released from the hospital.  I went 
back to the ocean like I'd always wanted, to Mulder's house on 
Martha's Vineyard, and listened to myself.  I discovered what it 
would take to complete me and I tried my best to attain it: 
acceptance, confidence, purpose, love.  It's a battle that I 
still fight and that I'll fight for the rest of my life.  Dana 
was afraid of not being noticed, not being respected; Scully was 
afraid of being alone and empty; Dana Scully is afraid of whether 
or not she'll have sand in her washing machine tonight from her 
beach towel and if she'll see another sun rise over the ocean.

One morning, as I was finishing one of my morning jogs on the 
beach, I noticed an outline of a man standing near the waves, 
facing me, waiting.  As I got closer, I realized that it was 
Mulder.  He told me that he was ready.  I told him that I was, 
too.

I love Mulder because of the person that he is and the way that I 
feel when I'm with him, not because he's my other half or he 
fulfills me.  I love him for him and he loves me for me.

And for the first time, I'm finally happy.

<><><>End Part 2<><><>

<><><>End Trefoil Series<><><>

Long, long, LONG authors notes:

I tried my best to make this part as realistically accurate as 
possible, which is why it took so long.  Thanks to everyone who 
emailed me or otherwise to poke me into hurrying it along, 
though.

It's the end!  I was starting to think I'd NEVER get here!  
Finally!  I'm free!  Free!  Wheeeee!

My favorite non-fanfic author, Kurt Vonnegut, has three favorite 
phrases.  One of them, which is very fitting for me in this 
situation, is, "How the hell did I do that?"  I never in my 
wildest imaginations would've thought that this series (which 
wasn't even supposed to be a series) would go on this long.  
What, are we at 1MB yet?  Damn.  I amaze myself.

Writing this fic has been one of the most wonderful, horrible, 
exciting, stressful, rewarding, torturous experiences of my life.  
I've learned a lot about Scully and Mulder, but I've also learned 
a lot about myself as well.  It's amazing that fanfic can do 
that, but I hope that in reading this, you've learned a little 
about yourself too, if it's only that you have an incredibly high 
tolerance for long-winded stories.

I guess I should explain why I wrote this: I wanted to explore 
Scully's character in a way that I'd never seen explored in fic.  
I wanted to address certain issues that had been sort of swept 
under the rug either by 1013, the fic community, or both.  I 
wanted to do what had never been done before in fic and in a way, 
I guess everyone wants that.  I wanted you, as a reader, to at 
least sit back after reading these stories and say, "Wow, I've 
never thought about it like that."

This series to me has never been primarily a Scully/Other 
romance.  Ethan was just a vehicle for all these changes to take 
place from.  This has also always been a quasi-sort-of-half-way-
MSR to me, too, because we all know, even my NoRomo self, that 
Mulder and Scully love each other.  I knew I couldn't deny that, 
but I also didn't think that the way the characters were left 
post-Je Souhaite, that they could ever have any type of 
successful relationship with each other - they were just too 
emotionally damaged to ever be happy.  I hope that, in this 
series, I've given them a chance to work through some of their 
emotions so that now, they can be happy together.

I also feel like I've focused on one aspect of the fic more than 
another, equally important one and, consequently, have missed out 
on a lot of story telling: Mulder.  I never wanted this fic to be 
exclusively about Scully; I wanted him to partake in the 
evolution as well.  Unfortunately, I suck at third person point 
of view and needed to write this from either Mulder or Scully's 
perspective.  For the premise of the fic, it was Scully, but I 
feel that I've shortchanged Mulder here.  Let's not forget that 
he's been through a lot in this series, too.  I just couldn't say 
it all.

I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed 
writing it (well, most of the time).  Thank you for putting up 
with me.  I certainly hope it's been rewarding for you.

Thanks:

First of all, to realb.  Without her, I would've never started 
writing.  She's been my constant cheerleader, beta, researcher, 
ass-kicker, and friend throughout this.  I'm forever grateful to 
everything she's contributed to the series.

To Karri, who, being a writer herself, knows just what's wrong 
and just how to fix it.  She's also an excellent grammar Nazi.

To Liam, Her Juiciness, because without her this story couldn't 
be so wonderful.  I don't know how I could live without her 
support.  She was the best beta ever, the best of the best of the 
best and this story is hers.  Did I write that she really is the 
best beta ever?  I mean, before I met her I didn't know what 
sense had my life but now I know.  Liam is so funny, smart, in a 
genius way, it's like emailing Einstein, and I really believe 
that soon she will conquer the world.  I'll be very happy to be 
her slave like all the humans on this planet.  I just can't wait!  
Liam, I wish you a good colonization!  Become our leader please!  
(She told me to say all that, by the way, but really, she never 
failed to make me laugh or cheer me up and was always the first 
person in line with her poking stick.)

To Vicki, my newest beta, who swears she's never beta'd before.  
I don't believe her - she's just too good.

To all my stalkers at the Haven Fic Board for letting me know 
someone was paying attention.

To everyone who's sent me feedback, you have no idea how much 
you've contributed to this.

To you, dear reader.  Without you, this would be just twenty six 
letters and about six punctuation marks in idiosyncratic 
arrangements being transmitted through a complex and highly 
sophisticated network of telephone lines and computers.

Now, get your asses in gear and send me feedback, dammit!

<><><><><><>

RealB Notes:

I was there at a Mellow Mushroom in Nowhere, GA eating a 
pepperoni pizza with Li'l during of the conception of Trefoil.  
So of course the series are my surrogate child.  [Li'l says: 
Actually, I think it was over your nasty fish sandwich from 
McDonalds in my dorm room.]

Eight months later, and more chimichangas and desserts than 
anyone should be allowed to eat, I think that all the effort, and 
trials were more than worth it.  Our baby is ready to stand on 
her own, and I never thought it would be so hard to let it go.

Thank you Li'l for trusting me to edit, research, add some lines 
once in a while, bitch a lot, drive you around Roswell, GA, but 
most importantly for being a great friend.  Writing a fic is hard 
work, and I commend all writers out there.