TITLE:   2008
AUTHOR:  Mystphile@aol.com


CLASSIFICATION:  S, X, MSR
RATING:  early chapters, PG; middle, R
                   last eight chapters, NC-17

SUMMARY:  With the quest at an end, the X-Files closed in
the year 2000.  Our heroes went their separate ways.  In
2008, they meet in Bloomingdale's and the past, present,
and future are explored.  Nine chapters take place in
New York City; the last part takes place in Nova Scotia, with
the influence of a ghost-like presence.   An X-File, it was  posted
as "Scully's Haunting."

INTRODUCTION:  This is an attempt to create a grown-up
Mulder and Scully,  with the intellectual and cultural interests
of well-educated adults.  I believe that they would be more
interested in higher levels of culture (not just Moby Dick) and
not spend their time watching old horror films and listening to
pop music.

I think of this as my lit crit series, and literary discussions DO
ensue.  Among the works discussed are The Scarlet Letter,
The Great Gatsby, The Glass Managerie, and The Turn of the
Screw.  Conversation reigns in this story.  Think Merchant/
Ivory, not action flick.  Settle in with some chocolates for a long
cozy read.  These people like to talk.

SPOILERS:  FTF; other vague references
DISCLAIMERS:  Property of 1013
THANKS:  For ch 1 through 9, thanks go to Christine and
Danielle; for ch 10 through 20, thanks to alelou and Jamie.
I am grateful to all my patient, erudite betas.  Thanks!

FEEDBACK:  Please.  To Mystphile@aol.com


CHAPTER ONE:  MEETING


"When they found voice to speak, it was at first only to utter remarks 
and inquiries such as any two acquaintances might have made, about the 
gloomy sky, the threatening storm, and next, the health of each.  Thus 
they went onward, not boldly, but step by step, into the themes that 
were brooding deepest in their hearts.  So long estranged by fate and 
circumstances, they needed something light and casual to run 
before..."
-----The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne


They were *not* like magnets, drawn inevitably toward each other, closer,
closer, joining at last.  They were more like moths, flitting here and 
there in Bloomingdale's, each etching a jagged trajectory as mindless as 
any insect's flight.  She stopped to peer at scarves; he examined 
neckties with considerable intensity.  She paused to finger skirt 
materials, caressing some of the silks; he glanced briefly through the 
tee-shirts. Now they were moving further apart.  He stopped to check out 
the prices of running shorts; she gave the handbags a cursory glance.  
They were drawing closer, marginally.   He spent some minutes examining 
water-proof watches; she stopped long enough to try on some earrings.  
Several pairs.

Closer, again closer.  But perhaps the meeting was not to be. She turned to
leave, having noted that it was past noon on a beautiful day in early June.
But first, she headed for the pastries, thinking that an eclair  might be 
nice to nibble on, especially if she stopped in Central Park on the way 
home.  Although not interested in pastries, he just happened to choose 
that path to the book department, intending to look for a best seller he'd 
remembered hearing about.  In view of temptingly arranged eclairs, cream 
puffs, cookies, pies, tarts, cakes, and other delectable confections, it 
happened:  Fox Mulder and Dana Scully met for the first time in eight 
years.

Time stopped.  Finally, both of them could believe in lost time, for neither
could tell how much time had elapsed before the paralysis wore off and they
glided toward each other, neither aware of their movements, crossing the ten
feet that separated them.  Neither knew how long the hug lasted or even,
really, how it felt; awareness returned as both stepped back and gazed at 
each other with identically intense, startled expressions, tinged with 
wonder, pleasure, but with a hint of trepidation.

He thought she looked wonderful--still slim in her casual blue jeans and a 
sky blue short-sleeved sweater that exactly matched her eyes.  Her hair 
was longer and curlier, much less finished-looking than she'd worn in her 
days with the Bureau.  The most remarkable aspect, Mulder thought, was 
that Scully simultaneously managed to look both older and younger.  He 
wondered how that could be.  She had acquired more fine wrinkles around 
her eyes and mouth; anyone would, in eight years.  Yet, she looked 
so...carefree.  Had being free of him led her to some fountain of youth?  

The only creases in her face were shallow laughlines; the furrow which 
used to appear all too often in her forehead--back where the cancer used 
to be—was gone.  Her eyes were clear and direct; she'd lost that 
official, guarded quality somewhere along the way.  She no longer looked 
like a grim professional; she looked like a beautiful, happy, carefree 
woman.  Although Mulder was pleased to see her looking so well, he felt 
bad that she'd blossomed so... excessively in his absence.  It was almost 
insulting, even though their not seeing each other had been his idea.

For her part, Scully, now Dana, saw before her a man who, though nearing 50,
was still trim in the standard casual Mulder togs:  jeans and gray tee-shirt.
His hair was depleted a bit and gray at the temples, but that became him, 
she decided.  He'd gained maybe ten or fifteen pounds, which looked fine 
on him.  His eyes were clear with no hint of guilt or angst. Now, alight 
with pleasure, they were easier to read than they used to be.  His 
expression too was unguarded:  He looked genuinely happy to see her.  Like 
her, he had lost his professionally blank face.  Both, it seemed, had in 
the eight-year interval turned into at least a semblance of normal human 
beings.

The first glance completed, two pairs of eyes simultaneously moved toward 
the other person's left hand.  No wedding rings in sight.  The glances 
swiveled back to the faces.

"You look great," Mulder said.  His voice, heard for the first time in eight
years, was the same:  soft, gentle, slightly hoarse, unmistakably sincere.

Dana gave him the beautiful smile which had not been in evidence nearly 
enough in their years as partners.  "So do you.  Do you live in the City 
now?"

Mulder nodded.  "You?"

"Yeah.  Upper West.  Where are you?"  Dana's voice was a bit different, still
distinctly alto but more expressive, livelier, more casual.  Yet it still
carried a hint of authority.

"The Village," Mulder replied.  "Would you like to have some lunch and catch
up?"

"Sure," Dana said after a slight hesitation, and they were off.

          -----------------------------------

Seated in a small restaurant in front of a sun-filled window, Mulder and Dana
studied each other rather than their menus.

"Tell me about your life now," he asked.

"Sure.  How about if we both give the vital information first, then we can
talk about the details.  Okay?"

He nodded, smiling.  "You first."

"Allll right," Dana said.  "It's been a while.  After the end of the X-Files
and quitting the Bureau, I decided I'd like to get back into medicine.  I 
also wanted to work with live people.  I think I saw enough corpses to 
last me five lifetimes.  So I went back to train in a new specialty."

"Where?"

"Too much detail," Dana said.  "I want to hear about you, not talk about 
me at boring length.  Let's cut to the chase.  I am now a pediatrician, 
and I divide my time between my practice and doing research on childhood 
diseases."

"Like it?"

Reaching for her menu, Dana smiled again. "I absolutely love it.  It's a 
great combination.  Now, enough about me.  Tell me how you are and what 
you're doing these days."

Mulder took a sip of water.  "You're not gonna believe this, but I play the
stock market--stocks, bonds, currencies, futures, all that stuff I once
thought was so boring.  Hell, that's understating it.  I didn't even know
those things existed then."

Dana closed the menu she'd started to open and gazed at Mulder with widened
eyes.  "You do this for a living?  You're interested in making money?"
Realizing how incredulous she sounded, she caught herself. "Oh, I'm sorry.  I
beg your pardon.  Of course you have a different life now.  It's been eight
years.  I didn't mean to sound so judgmental."

"No problem.  I think the same thing about myself a lot of the time.  But I
don't do it for the money.  In fact, I give most of the money away.  You once
told me I had rather Spartan needs."  He paused for in instant, as though
remembering those long gone days.  " I still do, on a Manhattan scale, of
course."

Scully laughed, and Mulder reflected that he'd seen more of her teeth in the
past half hour than she'd shown him in seven years of partnership.  "Loft in
the Village?" she asked, showing that her detective instincts hadn't entirely
deserted her.

"'Fraid so," Mulder muttered, slightly embarrassed that even in his new
persona he was so easily profiled.

Her eyebrow quirked inquiringly. "Why the market?"

"It's exciting and unpredictable.  I'm addicted to risk, it turns out. Not
that you find that terribly surprising, huh?   All that talk about making a
killing in the market or losing your shirt isn't so far-fetched.  The dangers
are what attract me, that and the fact that I can work on my investments from
my home or anywhere else at any time.  They're totally absorbing, especially
since I have interests in the world market."

Scully sipped her water, then opened her menu again.  "It makes sense, now
that you've explained it. The people I know who're really active investors 
are extremely intense about it.  A certain...boldness seems to be 
required." She glanced up. "Here comes the waitress for the third time.  I 
think we'd better get ready to order, or we'll be taking a big risk, 
judging from the look in her eye."  



After giving their orders, Mulder again took up the interrogation.  "So, how
long have you been in the City?"

Dana drummed her fingers on the table.  "I guess it's been over six years.  
I came to Columbia to work on some medical interests and I just never left.  
I worked and studied with some great people there, very talented and 
inventive.  We became friends, I met their friends, and gradually there was 
this large circle of friends and acquaintances.  I didn't want to leave, 
and of course, there's cutting edge work to be done here.  And I grew to 
love the social and cultural life of the City.  It's been great.  How long 
have you been living here?"

Mulder drew back as the waitress set down their iced tea.  "Nearly five years.
After my mother died, I spent a lot of time settling her estate and getting
rid of both her and my dad's properties.  I tried teaching psychology for a
while..."

"Someone, I don't remember who, told me a long time ago that you were
teaching.  Where did you teach?"  Keeping her eyes on Mulder, Dana unfolded
her napkin and spread it on her lap.

"Northeastern.  It was a great location while I was selling all the
properties.  Amazing how acquisitive my parents were."

"And you didn't like teaching?"

"Too tame.  It wouldn't have been so bad if I could have been Indiana Jones
and loped off on an adventure from time to time.  But my most frightening
adventures, unfortunately, were my encounters with illiteracy and apathy."

The conversation paused as food arrived.  Mulder picked up his burger and
turned the inquisition back to his former partner.  "How's your health?"
Remembering the old days, he rushed on, hoping to deflect the then-customary
response to such a query.  "And how's your family?" he asked, speaking around
a mouthful of food.

Dana flaked off a piece of salmon with her fork, then picked up a lemon slice
and started to squeeze.  "I've never felt better," she said with complete
conviction.  "I'm brimming with energy and have been pronounced a magnificent
specimen."  She rolled her eyes upward and shrugged slightly, either fending
off any further discussion of her health or showing an amused contempt for her
doctor's too-subjective description.  She continued,  "My mother's still 
going strong.  She moved to San Diego about six years ago.  Since most of 
my family is there now, that's where I usually spend my vacations.  I've 
even come to like Bill, if you can believe it."

"No."  He smiled to show he was kidding and picked up a french fry.  "I
remember that you'd gotten fed up with the constant travel.  Do you pretty
much stick with the City and visits to San Diego?"

Dana shook her head.  "I didn't travel much for a few years, but gradually I
developed an urge to take to the skies again.  I've been to Europe a few 
times and even took two trips to Asia."

"Yeah?"  Mulder continued to chomp.  "I've been traveling a lot the last four
years, partly because of my basic wanderlust, I guess, and also because I 
like to check out foreign companies for myself before I invest my easily 
earned money."

"What country did you enjoy the most?" Dana asked, still exploring this new
rendition of her former partner.  He seemed so frank, so forthcoming, so
relaxed,  she was having trouble adjusting to this apparently straightforward,
normal individual.  Somewhere in the back of her mind she was wondering about
the whereabouts of the real Fox Mulder.

"Nepal, without question," he answered, sipping his tea.  For his part, he 
was enchanted with the new Dana Scully.  She was the same beautiful, 
intelligent, vital woman she'd always been with an intriguing air of freedom 
added into the mix.  The meeting could have been unbearably awkward, but so 
far, the conversation flowed and warmth hovered in the air between them.  In 
some ways, it seemed a lifetime had passed; in others, they were able to 
pick up where they'd left off.  It was all very strange yet haunting in its 
familiarity.

Dana dropped her fork.  "That's an incredible coincidence," she breathed.  "I
went trekking in Nepal three years ago and it was the experience of my life.
I felt transported into a different state of consciousness.  I honestly feel
it changed my life."

Mulder nodded.  "I guess it did if Dr. Scully is discussing altered states of
consciousness.  Sounds like you sampled the native wares."  He held up a 
hand.  "I'm kidding!  It had the same effect on me.  I've never been open 
to the spiritual, as you discovered to your dismay and general disapproval.  
But in Nepal, on the trails in the mountains at sunrise, I could almost 
believe in God.  It really was a spectacular experience."

"This is amazing. When were you there?  Could you have been on the same trail
as I was, only a mile away?"

"November of 2004. I was there for ten weeks, the longest I've ever spent on 
a vacation.  Of course, I made my way to a computer from time to time to 
keep an eye on my then newborn kingdom."  He pushed his plate away.  "How 
long were you there?"

"Eight weeks.  I was cutting back my practice and beginning the research
assignment, so it was a natural time to schedule a career pause."  She
finished her tea and folded her napkin.

Suddenly the air of comfort dissipated.  Their new locations, careers,
travels, family status had been established.  But now, if the connection was
to be renewed,  the questions would have to touch on more personal areas.  
Up till now, the conversation had been the catching up of old friends.  It 
was time to make a choice:  a mutual expression of how pleasant it was to 
see each other, a reiteration of how well the other looked, and a vague 
promise to get together sometime, followed by a brief handshake and 
another eight years (or eternity) apart.  Or, there was the other path, 
more exciting, more dangerous, more unsettling, and nearly irresistible:  
to have a truly intimate conversation that might unveil the state of the 
other's heart, what attachments they'd forged, what relationships existed.   
Most exciting—and terrifying --was the prospect of an extensive 
exploration to determine if the two of them still had a chance of 
renewing, and completing, their severed relationship.  

Tension pulsed over the table.  Mulder contemplated the check and started
searching for his wallet.  Their eyes were no longer meeting as each 
realized a moment of decision was at hand.  Here they were, eight years 
later, still unable to make a move, still fearing to define their own 
emotions, still afraid of the exposure, the vulnerability each sensed if 
the barricade should drop.  What good was middle age, if the 
vulnerabilities of youth persisted?  Were their new personas just that?  
They were old, intimate friends, yes, certainly.  Should there be more?  
There had been, in the past, but never acknowledged by both at the same 
time. "It" had hovered in the shadows like a 500 pound gorilla, so large 
and insistent that it took a good deal of self-control, or willful denial, 
to ignore.

Eight long years.  Dana stared out the window.  She felt like a character 
in The Scarlet Letter, but she wasn't even sure which one.  Here her life 
had been humming along, comfortable, rewarding, pleasurable.  Did she want 
to let the Mulder wild card into her game, now serene and safe within the 
house rules?  On the other hand, there were things she had once longed to 
know.  Their parting had been most unsatisfactory, at least from her 
viewpoint. She had felt bitter, rejected, heartbroken.  Would it be best 
not to expose herself again?  Or would it be worse never to know what had 
happened to break up the most meaningful relationship of her life?  Or 
perhaps ignorance WAS bliss, and she was better off never knowing the 
reasons for Mulder's hurtful actions.

Mulder recognized her discomfort.  What to do, he pondered, counting out
bills.  He was fairly content with his life as it was and could see that 
Dana was happy and vibrant.  Perhaps "well enough" should be let alone.  
Why stir up old pains?   But he wasn't that safe sort of person, never had 
been.  What was life without risk?  Damned boring, that's what it was.

He looked up, meeting Dana's eyes.  A challenge was issued.  Again time 
seemed to stop.  Finally, it was Dana who broke the silence and the 
impasse.  She began with one tiny step into the personal territory, a 
fairly safe inquiry from an old friend.

"Have you ever married?"  She kept her voice carefully casual.

He shook his head.  "No.  You?"

Dana stood up and started to search for her sunglasses.  "No," she answered.
"I've been engaged twice but didn't make it to the altar."  She hid her eyes
behind the glasses.  "The last time I called it off only two weeks before 
the wedding.  It was pretty humiliating."

"Why'd you call it off?"  Mulder held the door open and they exited into the
bright sunshine.  Somehow he felt cheered by the fact that Dana had been
unable to commit to another man; he also felt that this emotion was not
becoming to him.

"I wish I knew.  I just didn't want to spend the rest of my life with either
of those men.  Both of them were great; it was my problem."

They turned northward and began to walk.  Dana pulled her sunglasses off,
stopped walking, and stared up at Mulder, who was forced to halt as well.  
She looked up into the familiar gold-flecked eyes, searching for the answer 
she'd wanted for eight years.

Like a dam cracking, the question burst out:  "Why, Mulder?  Why did you 
leave the Bureau and me?  Why did you refuse to see me again?  I've wanted 
to know that for years."

"Are you still angry?" Mulder asked gently, reverting to his old habit of not
answering a question but instead posing one of his own.

Dana thought about that for a few minutes, staring unseeing into the sparse
Saturday traffic.  "I thought I wasn't," she said slowly.  "I thought I'd put
all that out of my mind years ago.  But now it's back.  And I'm mad as hell.
More furious than I've been in years, to tell you the truth.  And growing 
more pissed by the minute.  I'm ready to give you the finger and walk."  
She shook her head, stunned by the return of the old feelings and the 
impact they carried.  She had thought them long buried and here they were 
again, unruly, restless ghosts of the past, refusing to be laid to rest.

"I'll try to explain," Mulder said, crouching slightly to meet her eyes.
"Please listen.  I will be totally honest, I promise.  I owe you that after
all these years.  Will you let me tell you how I felt then?"

Dana hesitated.  "Actually, I think it'd have been better for you to tell me
then, not years and years later.  Maybe this is a can of worms that should
remain closed."

"I think the lid is already cracked at this point," Mulder said.  "Let's 
walk up to the Park and talk.  I will bare my soul, if that's any 
inducement at this point."

She shrugged, her shoulders feeling tense and stiff.  "Once it would have
been.  Now...well, let's say that I'm willing to satisfy my curiosity.  I
guess."

They continued their walk northward, two people together but not 
touching.

CHAPTER TWO: Conversation

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
"Love, whether newly born, or aroused from a deathlike slumber, 
must always create a sunshine, filling the heart so full of 
radiance that it overflows upon the outward world."
----The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<


"John Lennon, too bad you're not alive to see your Strawberry 
Fields," Mulder mused as he and Dana selected a bench to observe 
the teeming crowds in the Park.  Ultimate Frisbee was in full 
swing, in addition to the dog walkers, the parents with young 
children, and other New Yorkers enjoying the sunshine.

"You think Lennon's dead, but not Elvis?" Dana asked, dropping 
down a careful two feet from Mulder and still wondering if she 
shouldn't have walked away.  Her life was *fine*, she told 
herself.  Why let him back in?  He'd proved himself unworthy.  
But then, she wondered, why had her first intuitive reaction 
been to throw herself into his arms.

"No, they're both dead," Mulder admitted, squinting at a flying 
Frisbee.

"Well," Dana said sardonically, "it seems people *are* capable 
of facing reality despite years of denial."  She yanked off her 
sunglasses and faced Mulder.  "So, hit me with your version of 
reality."

He winced at the challenge in her voice and in her harder eyes.  
Part of a day with me, he thought, and she's reverting to the 
hard-faced woman I left.  Maybe this wasn't such a great idea. 
He swiveled to face her, pulling one knee up under his chin and 
stared into her eyes.  "You're not gonna like this," he warned.

"I never did."

"Two," he said.  "There were basically two factors in my 
decision.  And I know you're gonna hate me for the first one, 
but please let me explain.  I really did what I thought was best 
at the time."

What *you* thought was best, you paternalistic bastard, Dana 
thought but didn't say.  She simply motioned impatiently for him 
to go on. Spit it out, her gesture seemed to demand.

"I know you hated it when I made decisions that I thought would 
be in your best interest," Mulder began, his mind-reading 
faculties still intact.   "I know you think I don't-- and 
didn't-- have that right."

"Well, that's one thing you've got right," Dana said, growing 
more angry.  Was she strong enough to lift a park bench, she 
wondered.  "So, what was in my best interest?  And why was this 
your decision?  And why wouldn't you discuss your reasons with 
me at the time?"

Abruptly, Dana turned away, disgusted with herself for 
resurrecting all the old feelings.  Her life had gone on.  It 
was good.  She'd arrived at the point where she seldom dwelt on 
the past.  She had achieved acceptance and serenity.  Why let 
this hurt her all over again?  Why hadn't she gone to Macy's?

Seeing her hurt, Mulder had his own doubts about his sudden, 
late bout of honesty.  Besides,  her anger was beginning to 
irritate him.  Here he was, ready to explain *everything* in a 
way he'd never done before.  And instead of a willing, or at 
least curious, audience, he was faced with a woman he was
glad no longer carried a sidearm.  He hadn't expected credit, 
exactly, but the conversation at lunch had at least suggested to 
him that here was a woman with a receptive mind.  This was 
looking more and more like the old, stubborn, skeptical Scully, 
not the new Dana.  He drew a deep breath.

"I couldn't discuss the reasons because of you, Scully," he said 
forcefully.  "I know you, or at least back then, I knew you.  
You were the most loyal person I'd ever met.  If I'd told you 
that I wanted to leave for your sake, you would have insisted on 
keeping up the relationship.  So, I used a little psychology on 
you.  I knew if I simply said I didn't want to see you again,
you'd...you'd have too much pride to ask questions or hunt me 
down.  I thought my cruelty was an effort to be kind, in the 
long run."

Dana snorted.  "Hah," she said.  "Maybe you should have shot my 
dog as well.  Oooops, I forgot.  You *were* around when my dog 
died, and you had no regrets about that either."  She turned to 
face him on the bench, pulling up her legs.  "Now, let me get 
this straight.  You wanted to sever our relationship for my
sake.  So you told me to get lost, correctly figuring that I'd 
just slink off to lick my wounds, right? Case closed.  Seven 
years down the tubes."  She looked at him as if he were a 
particularly loathsome insect.

"That's not a very nice way of putting it," Mulder complained, 
glancing away for a moment to avoid the contempt wafting his 
way.  "But try to look at it from my point of view.  During our 
partnership, you lost a lot of the options that every woman 
deserves to have.  You lost family members, your health was
threatened, you were abducted--several times--, you lost the 
ability to have children, you lost the opportunity to know the 
children made from your stolen ova.  Jesus, I was poison for 
you!  I was a plague that took over your life and just kept 
eating it away."

Dana winced and closed her eyes for a moment.  Here it was--
again--and she had been so sure it was all behind her now, 
buried behind the pleasant, busy facade of her New York life.  
Could nothing be safely tucked away, laid to rest?  Would the 
tragedies, the agonies always crop up again, even when peaceful 
fields of lilies were blooming above ground?

"And I was so damned weird," he continued, looking intensely 
into her face as she dragged her thoughts back to the present 
and refocused on him.   "You deserved the chance to get back 
into the real world and out of my bizarro universe.  I wanted 
you to be able to find someone to love, make a normal home, 
maybe adopt children, get another dog.  I wanted you to be able 
to live a life, be safe, be normal."

"You wanted," Dana exploded.  "Did it ever occur to you to ask 
what *I* wanted, you congenital egomaniac?" Her eyes slashed 
into him like swords and her hands curled into fists.

Mulder, however, remained unperturbed by the storm.  "Yeah, 
sure, but your loyalty would have gotten in the way.  I wanted 
to cut you loose so you'd *have* to make a new life, one you'd 
chosen, not one that was thrust upon you."

"*Jesus*, Mulder," she exclaimed.  "You make loyalty sound like 
a disease.  What did you think I was--Old Yeller? Contrary to 
what you may have thought, I wasn't just hanging around to 
support and succor you."  She shook her head in disgust. "Did it 
never occur to you that I had my own reasons for wanting to
find the answers?  That I lost *my* sister, *my* health, *my* 
children?  Oh, the hell with it.  You're hopeless."

"I *do* understand," Mulder protested. He leaned forward, giving 
her his most earnest look. "I know you're your own person, but I 
also knew being around me had cost you more than anyone should 
have to pay.  You deserved to get away from my fucked-up world  
and be happy.  And it looks to me like you are!"

Dana's eyes softened slightly.  She unclenched her hands and 
folded them across her knees. "Okay, I can see your reasoning-- 
in your particular twisted Mulderistic way.  But why did it have 
to be for good, a complete 'I think we shouldn't ever see each 
other again'?  That hurt *so* much."

"Otherwise you wouldn't be free," he said softly, his eyes 
pleading for understanding.  "I thought of some 'Affair to 
Remember,' chick flick type of deal at first, but then I 
realized you'd just wait the year, or two years or
whatever.  You're *loyal*!  Damn it!  In the best, most 
admirable sense.  I wanted to make the break permanent to ensure 
you'd go on with your life and forget me."

Now it was Dana's turn to look away.  Painful as it was to 
admit, there was some logic in Mulder's reasoning.  With any 
hope remaining for a future connection, she would have waited 
for him for any period of time.

But because he'd slammed the door, she *had* gotten on with her 
life, taken control, stopped waiting for some faceless, 
intangible authority figure to take charge.  She was now the 
mistress of her fate.  This, she realized, was not a bad 
outcome.  She didn't have a permanent love interest, but she had 
a good deal of happiness.  She'd been quite happy for at least 
five years, secure in the  rewards of her work, her many close 
friendships, various romantic relationships, and her ability to 
live life on her terms.   She turned back to Mulder, who was 
looking as miserable and hangdog as she'd ever seen him.

"It wasn't easy for me either," he pointed out in a low, 
cracking voice. He was desperate to make her understand. "Surely 
you know I loved you."

Dana's eyes flashed.  How had they gotten back to poor, pitiful, 
noble Mulder already?  He had broken her heart, out of kindness, 
he said, and now he wanted her to feel sorry for *him*?  "Isn't 
it pretty to think so?" she said scornfully.

After thinking over her remark for a moment, Mulder surprised 
her by smiling. "You've been reading Hemingway, a hardened 
feminist like you?"

"I've always felt a certain identification with Brett Ashley," 
she said.  "Forced by circumstances to wear men's clothes and 
assume an artificial toughness.  Turning into a bitch 
practically out of self-defense.   Now, at least, I can dress 
like a woman, be nice to the people I meet,  and coo over
babies."

"Is that why you opted for pediatrics?" Mulder asked.  "I'd 
thought you might adopt children.  Despite that stupid comment I 
made once, I think you'd be a terrific mother."

"I love kids," Dana admitted, "and it's maybe the biggest sorrow 
of my life not to be able to have them.  But there are 
compensations.  As it is now, I see children most days, I help 
them, I work on finding cures for their diseases.  It's not a 
bad tradeoff."

"You shouldn't have had to make the tradeoff at all," Mulder 
said.  He'd turned morose as Dana grew more accepting.  The old 
tendency to heap guilt upon himself was about to seap out.  Odd, 
he reflected, how they both kept alternating between their new, 
better adjusted selves and their old, rigid roles and 
temperaments.  Were they or were they not good for each other?  
He really couldn't tell.  But he knew this conversation felt 
real, more real than any he'd had for years.

Dana's thoughts were wandering similar paths.  Having taken up 
the reading of American literature in her recent efforts to be a 
normal, well-rounded person, as opposed to a harried, paranoid 
Agent with a fucked up relationship, she once again felt like an 
escapee from The Scarlet Letter. Here they were, out in the 
open, baring their souls as Hester and Dimmesdale did in the 
forest, at last letting the sun shine upon them and expose the 
secrets they'd harbored for so long.  Like Mulder, she too was 
feeling more real, more alive, but she feared that, as was the 
case with Hester and Dimmesdale, it was too late.  When too much 
time passes by without the truth being exposed, the best
intentions in the world may not be enough to recover what was 
lost:  the faith, the innocence, the trust.

Odd, she thought.  Both Hester and Dimmesdale loved the truth 
yet ruined their lives by lying.  She recalled the narrator's 
moral:  Be true! be true! Be true!  Well, why not try it.

She tapped Mulder's knee to recapture his attention.  "I loved 
you too," she said. Her voice was tender and wistful, her eyes 
soft and warm with the memory. "It wasn't only loyalty."

His sad eyes met hers.  "I know.  That's what made it all the 
harder to walk away."


CHAPTER THREE: Détente

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
"She assured them, too, of her firm belief, that, at some 
brighter period, when the world should have grown ripe for it, 
in Heaven's own time, a new truth would be revealed, in order to 
establish the whole relation between man and woman on a surer 
ground of mututal happiness."  ----The Scarlet Letter by
Nathaniel Hawthorne

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

They sat in silence for a few minutes, thinking of both past and 
present, inextricably intertwined,  unable to sort out what 
would be the best course to take, or even to determine if 
options still existed.  There had been so very much time and 
change. Eight years is a long time in some respects, yet, in
some ways, it felt as if they were resuming a long-standing, 
never-ended conversation.  Had their souls never lost touch?

Mulder mused, "After I kicked you out of my life, I made a big 
effort to see other women; I tried to form  new relationships.  
None of them lasted more than six months.  Even when I thought I 
might be getting serious, I'd  stop dead in my tracks when I 
realized I'd have to commit to spending all my time with them.  
That was....unthinkable.  Always, at bottom, no matter how
intelligent and charming they were, I knew I needed to escape.  
They weren't you."

"I suppose that's why I broke off my engagements," Dana said, 
turning away and crossing her legs.  "But after a while, I 
didn't think of you....hardly ever.  Just when I'd read some 
absurd item in the newspaper about a strange phenomenon or about 
some daredevil rescue.  I wasn't consciously comparing you
with the men in my life, but I guess when it came to marriage, 
you stepped between me and whoever it was at the time."

Silence reigned again.  Finally, with a decisive twist, Dana 
turned back to Mulder.  She caught his eye and held it.  "You 
know, whatever your intentions, it was *not* your right to 
decide that I should be free.  I am--and was—an intelligent 
adult, fully able to make my own decisions.  I don't know if I 
can forgive your incredible presumption.  That's....it's beyond 
all bounds.  If you didn't love me--fine; that's how things go.  
But to say you loved me and then make a unilateral decision!  
How *could* you have loved me if you didn't respect my ability 
to make decisions?  I just can't get past that."  She shook
her head sadly and gazed off into the distance away from Mulder.  
"Don't you remember what I once told you?" she asked harshly.  
"It's *my* life."

Turning, she pinned him with her stare again.  "Damn it, you 
even changed my name.  You dubbed me Scully.  *I* respected your 
wishes and called you Mulder.  *My* life, *my* name...." she 
trailed off, voice near breaking, weak with anger she'd thought 
was long gone.

"I understand," he said. "I *do*!" he exclaimed as she shot him 
a cynical glare. "I'm sorry.  I didn't give you the respect you 
deserved. Or anything else.  I realize that now.  But please, 
please listen. Remember, I said I had two reasons.  Will you 
listen to the second?"  His voice cracked again, suggesting that 
this reason, too, would not be pleasant to hear.

Dana swiveled to stare at a distant tree.  He saw the back of 
her head bob up and down and began, "About ten years ago I stood 
in my hallway and said some words to you that were about as true 
as any I've ever spoken.  I said that you made me a whole 
person."

Dana's head turned so she was again facing forward on the bench, 
her profile to Mulder.  "I was very touched by those words," she 
said softly.

"They were true.  They were! But later I got to thinking they 
were in the wrong tense.  They implied that already, by my 
knowing you, I'd become a whole person.  I think I should have 
said, to be accurate: 'You *make* me a whole person.'  I was 
only a whole person, or even had a shot at being one, when you
were there.  Without you, I was still this inadequate, weirdo 
geek, hardly able to tie my shoes without tripping over them 
while pursuing phantoms."

Dana faced him again.  "Oh, come *on.*  You're overstating 
things by a mile.  You were somewhat obsessive, but most 
successful people are.  And your spirit was so unquenchable....I 
loved the passion you had for your beliefs."

"Even then, that day, I said I didn't know if I could go on with 
the work without you.  Remember?"  Mulder grimaced.  "Then after 
the X-Files were gone, and my quest was ended, and it seemed I'd 
found the answers I spent my life searching for,  my passion 
didn't have much of a point.  I was forced to face the fact that 
I'd channeled my life into such a narrow focus that there wasn't
much of me left.  What was I?  A professional paranormal 
explorer, Sir Galahad clutching as much of the Grail as he was 
ever likely to, and now out of a job.  Or worse, a raison 
d'être.   And I was also the guy who loved you. And that's
*all* I was.  So, I thought this over--and it wasn't pretty:  I 
didn't have much to offer you.  What was I gonna do?  Stand 
around and make eyes at you all day?  You were the only thing 
left to give my life any meaning."

Mulder's voice and gaze increased in intensity as he continued, 
"I may not be much of a psychologist, but I do know a formula 
for failure when it marches up and bites me on the ass.  Any 
time a couple enters into an unequal relationship, when one is 
overly dependent on the other for worth and meaning, that's an 
invitation to disaster.  What a burden to place on the other
person--you're everything to me; I'm nothing without you; I'm a 
piece of shit unless you're there to complete me.  

"This may sound great when it's a Platonist ideal, but it's 
stupid as hell in a real-life situation.  Do you understand?  I 
felt I had NOTHING to offer you, except my need.  Why should
you have to fill the vacancies in my soul, my psyche?  I 
realized that I had to break it off because I didn't have 
anything to bring to the table.  I loved you too much to offer 
you...."  He shrugged, unable to go on.

Mulder seemed to wilt after his long, impassioned speech.  He 
leaned his head against the bench's back and closed his eyes, 
still breathing heavily.

Dana stared at the Frisbee game, frowning slightly.  Mulder had 
often seemed confident to the point of arrogance.  Why had she 
never fully recognized the underlying lack of confidence and 
sense of self?  There *was* some truth in what he said.  She had 
always wanted an equal, a helpmeet, not a permanent child to 
spend her life with.  But was his vision of himself true? She
supposed it might be, if that was how he saw himself.  But it 
wasn't the way she'd viewed him.  

Hell, often she'd looked to him for support, for leadership; 
maybe their relationship wouldn't have been so fucked up if 
they'd been secure enough to reveal their insecurities to each 
other.  Ironic, she mused.  A cloud passed over the sun.  The 
Scarlet Letter again, she thought.   Can't get away from the 
secrets, the guilt, the lies, spoken or implicit.

Mulder, for his part, was exhausted by his eruption of honesty 
and was beginning to doubt that confession was good for the 
soul.  All he'd done was expose himself as a pathetic wimp; how 
could she respect him after this?  Now she would feel both 
hatred and contempt for his poor pitiful ass.  Oh, well.
At least he wouldn't have to go into the office and face her on 
Monday.  Now *there* was an advantage to not confessing his 
weaknesses back when they were partners.  Now he could enjoy 
solitary humiliation.  He could enjoy solitary everything.

He let out a long sigh.  All these years of reconstruction, shot 
in two hours.  He'd thought he'd finally managed to construct a 
*self*, but this little episode had eroded all he'd worked so 
hard to attain.  He'd relapsed into a morass of self-pity. 
Suddenly, he realized that Dana was speaking to him.

"Mulder?  Mulder?  What's your life like now?  Do you have 
friends?  Activities?  What do you do besides make money?"

He leaned back to consider, gathering up the tattered remnants 
of his identity.  "Until I revisited my past self, I was feeling 
pretty good about my life," he confessed with a rueful, pained 
smile.  "I *did* set out to become a complete person, to grow up 
and escape my arrested-adolescent mindset.  I have friends now, 
both geeks and non-geeks.  I date.  I trashed my porn collection
years ago.  I belong to several clubs; I've joined professional 
organizations.  I still play sports."  He chuckled.  "Thanks for 
reminding me.  I went into a complete regression there."

"It's hard," Dana confessed. "We're such a weird combination of 
our old selves and our new selves, or at least our... reinvented 
versions.  I don't know how really new either of us is.  Maybe 
we needed to get this out in the open to go on, to truly be able 
to change and grow."  She smiled, "Sounds like I need a
shrink."

"Hell, you're in New York City, Shrink Capital of the World.  
Indulge yourself."

A more comfortable silence enveloped them, isolated within sight 
of a hundred people. Maybe that's how it'd always been with 
them, Dana thought.  Just the two of them.  Whoever they were.

Eerily, Mulder echoed her thought.  "Whoever I am, I still think 
you're the most significant person in my life."  He moved closer 
and studied her face.  "I feel everything more strongly when I'm 
with you.  The whole world becomes more distinct. I realize I 
sound like a really sappy movie, but it's true.   I can't be 
honest--this way--with anyone but you.  Who else could I expose
myself to like this?"  He shook his head, still upset at how 
quickly the integrity of his newly formed self had crumbled.

"I think we're still connected," Dana said.  "I'm not sure how, 
or why, or even if it's a good thing."  She grimaced. "Too bad 
we couldn't be more honest with each other years ago."

"I don't think we were ready then. But I'd like to know you now, 
in all senses of the word."

Dana leaned back onto the bench again and considered.  It had 
been a painful day, wrenching to discover that feelings once 
buried can resurrect themselves so forcefully and that issues 
thought resolved can flare so fiercely.  She turned back to 
Mulder and laid her hand on his knee.  "I think if we can keep
talking the way we are now, we might be able to...I don't know.  
I don't have any particular expectation at this point. I guess 
I'm afraid to."

"Scully?"

"Mmmmmm?"

"How about we go out and have some fun.  Maybe we could 
alternate between deadly serious discussions and madcap 
adventure."

Dana laughed, glad to return to the mundane,  and dug her 
calendar book out of her purse.  "Name your day."

"Next Friday?"

"No good." She flipped a page.   "I'm free next Saturday night."

"Great.  What do you like to do?"

"Ballet?" she suggested.

"Men in tights." His voice was filled with mock scorn.

"Opera?"  This time the suggestion was accompanied by an impish 
smile.  "It can be great fun," she said.  "Once when I was at La 
Scala with a friend who speaks Italian, this really chicken-
legged tenor was trying to haul a 200-pound soprano across the 
stage.  He was reeling every which way and nearly walking on his 
knees.  Suddenly this voice rang out from the audience, and my
friend was kind enough to translate:  'Make two trips.'"

"That's funny," Mulder exclaimed, cheering up now that the 
conversation had turned away from his inadequacies and past 
mistakes.  He was looking forward, with more zest than he'd felt 
for a long time, to renewing his partnership with Dana Scully. 
He thought their coming experiences--if they could take this
one step at a time-- might be even more exciting than the 
adventures they'd shared years ago.  He was ready.

"Were you always this funny?" he asked curiously.  "Maybe my 
megalomaniacal tendencies got in the way and there were a lot of 
things I didn't appreciate about you."

Dana Scully was more ambivalent about the future of the 
relationship.  Maybe it was because she'd been hurt very deeply 
before.  She still felt reluctant to open herself fully to 
something she remembered as being so painful that her
heart had actually ached within her chest. For months and 
months.  But there were still intense feelings, and maybe--
maybe-- the future rewards could somehow equal, or even 
overshadow,  the past pains. With their new honesty,
the potential was there. She returned her attention to what 
Mulder was saying.

"Actually, Mulder, through the seven years of our partnership, I 
kept up a running interior monologue on the ludicrous things we 
encountered, including obscenely tart responses to most of your 
ridiculous assertions.  Inside, I felt like I was doing 
standup."

"Really?" Mulder looked amazed.  "Why didn't you tell me what 
you were thinking?"

"Honestly?  You tended to be somewhat...overwhelming in those 
days.  I needed to keep *something* for myself."

CHAPTER FOUR: At the Opera
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

"I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses 
into the human heart."  The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Dana Scully sank back into her seat and took a deep breath, 
trying to concentrate on the mezzo soprano's beautiful voice.  
Cherubino's aria soared through the Metropolitan Opera house, 
floating over the well-dressed, glittering listeners, most of 
whom were enraptured by the beauty of the voice combined with a 
setting that overwhelmed the senses.  Dana's senses were 
overloaded to begin with.  She was seated beside Fox Mulder, whom 
she had seen for precisely one afternoon, a week ago, after an 
eight-year separation. Seeing him again was not easy.

Cherubino continued to sing of love:  at the sight of the beloved 
woman, he declared in hauntingly evocative tones, his heart 
palpitates.  He burns; he freezes.  Dana checked her own inner 
temperature. Cherubino had the right idea, she thought.  Hot, 
cold, who could tell.  She glanced at Mulder, who sensed her 
attention and gave her a quick smile before returning his gaze to
the stage.  At least he seemed to be absorbed in the opera, she 
reflected.  Luckily, The Marriage of Figaro was playing, and no 
one in the world could be impervious to its charms.

Dana's unrest had several causes.  One was the very act of being 
here with her former partner after firmly removing him and--as 
much as possible—all thoughts of him, from her life.  In this she 
had been rather too successful.  To have him turn up again, a new 
man, as it were--open, mentally healthy, productive, and 
apparently content--with all the familiar charm of the man she
had once loved, was disconcerting at best and panic-inducing at 
worst.

She had planned to prepare herself, physically and mentally, for 
this meeting, but a seriously ill child had kept her at the 
hospital from morning until 6 p.m.  The four-year-old girl, who'd 
developed pneumonia, was much better after a day of treatment, 
and Dana was glad to have been able to help her and her
anxious parents.  Inexpressibly glad.  This was what she lived 
for.  But the fact remained that she had made arrangements that 
would have made her feel "together" and confident for this 
meeting, and they'd all gone to hell.

The day was to have been spent on some much-deserved pampering:  
massage, pedicure, manicure, sauna, maybe even a miniature 
shopping spree. Relaxing, thinking.  Certainly some eyebrow 
plucking and leg shaving were indicated. But here she was, still 
sweating from her headlong rush to arrive at Lincoln Center on 
time.  

Instead of meeting Mulder for an early dinner at Lutece--Lutece, 
my God, she thought; who did he know and how much did he have to 
pay to get an immediate reservation there, or for that matter, to 
get these seats, at this opera, on such short notice.  

Her restless mind paused to appreciate Cherubino's sentiments.  
And what a voice--ravishing, she thought.  She shook her head, 
entranced by the beauty.  But it wasn't sufficient to transport 
her as she wished.  She still felt off kilter from the rush.  

Leaving the hospital, she'd panicked when she discovered it was 
after 6.  The subway was late and crowded and the platform 
stifling.  At home she had little time to make herself look the 
way she wanted for this occasion, this man.  A quick shower, mere 
minutes for hair and makeup--and at age 44, makeup was no small 
consideration--just time to throw on the little black dress and 
some jewelry and call a cab to go directly to Lincoln Center.  

Luckily, she had been in New York long enough to acquire a really 
nice collection of little black dresses, New Yorkers tending to 
dress as though in perpetual mourning.  After several months in 
New York, she'd asked some of her new friends why New Yorkers 
wore black so often, and why beige was their second choice.  
Little black particles in the air, she was told.  This made
sense to a practical person like Dana.  Anyway, she'd already had 
a fairly extensive dark wardrobe.  Now, however, she owned a 
dark, chic wardrobe.

Setting off her little black dress, a stylish loose summer one 
with short sleeves and a scoop neck showing slight cleavage, were 
silver earrings and necklace and a stunning stole, a black one 
with a blazing red lining.  She thought of it as her Dracula 
cape, except that it wasn't long enough to be a cape.  Mulder had 
looked properly impressed when she appeared, panting after
her rush from the hot cab.  Actually, he looked thunderstruck.  

This new Mulder was full of surprises.  Here was a man who'd 
faced monsters of all kinds with little change of expression, who 
had prided himself on his poker face.  Now, at the sight of a 
hastily dressed woman with sweat seeping through the little 
makeup she'd had time to apply, whose hair had frizzed in
the stuffy cab, you'd think he'd seen...a ghost? A flukeman? A 
liver-eating mutant? No, he'd faced all those with equanimity.

She shot another glance his way.  He looked pretty damned 
amazing, she thought, trim and shining in an impeccably tailored 
black suit.  Their meeting had gone by in a blur, since she was 
late. All she could recall now was the sheer impact of seeing him 
again.  She had spent the week visualizing him, setting into her 
mind an image of the new, slightly aged and very attractive
Mulder.  Despite this preparation, however, her memory hadn't 
done him justice.  Not even close.  He was the most beautiful, 
*delicious* sight imaginable. She hoped she didn't look as 
stupified as she felt.

She had no idea how long--a minute?  a few seconds?--they'd spent 
in  mutual awe.  Then the freezeframe lifted and action resumed.  
After wiping the astonished look from his face,  he'd leaned down 
to peck her cheek, said, "You look beautiful," and taken her arm 
to lead her to their seats.  Their excellent seats.  And here 
they were, he--averse to operas on some obscure principle--
completely absorbed and even enchanted to all appearances, and
she--the opera lover--sweaty, uncomfortable, and distracted.  

Was it worth it to let this man back into her life?  Would she 
have cared so much about her appearance if it'd been some other 
man she had this date with? NO, she answered herself.  *Should* 
she let herself care, after all this time?  Did she have a choice 
in the matter?  Maybe her heart was going to do whatever
it wanted.  And, if she had no power to choose, what good were 
the eight years apart, the eight years that had removed her from 
his thrall and given her a life of her own?  

*Damn* him, she thought, and immediately felt guilty.  He hadn't 
forced her to attend the opera.  She agreed--she chose--to see 
him on this night, at this place.  What had he done that was so 
dastardly but go along with her wishes?  Moreover, he had 
arranged for dinner at a restaurant regarded as one of the
world's best.

What did *that* mean?  Had he been lying last week when he said 
he had plenty of money but didn't spend much on himself?  Was he 
trying to impress her by taking her to Lutece?  Did he know her 
so little that he thought he could buy her affections for the 
price of a French meal?  Or did he think so highly of
her that he simply selected the best place he could think of?   
Shit, this is confusing, Dana thought, squirming in her seat.

Cool down, she told herself.  Enjoy this.  She was in a beautiful 
place, experiencing one of the world's great operas,  replete 
with superb musicians and production, and accompanied by a 
handsome, intelligent, charming man who seemed only to want to 
please her.  

Mulder had not been at all upset when she called in the middle of 
the afternoon from the hospital to say she didn't know when she 
could get away.  He'd simply told her to keep him posted if she 
had a chance and they'd arrange the evening around her needs.  If 
the child needed her, he said, don't worry about canceling.  They 
could reschedule whenever she was free.  He didn't turn a hair 
about missing dinner; he simply said they could eat later if she 
wished, or they could scrap the opera and have a leisurely 
dinner.  It was up to her; he'd be happy whatever she decided.

When did he get so fucking accommodating, she wondered.  Wow.  He 
was damned if he did and damned if he didn't, as far as she was 
concerned.  How unreasonable could she be?  Even when he was 
making no demands whatsoever, he was demanding her gratitude for 
being so undemanding.  I am sick, Dana thought.  If I have so 
much resentment that I can't even accept it when he's
nice, what's going to happen when he relaxes and lapses into his 
old m.o.?  Bad attitude, she warned herself.  This can't possibly 
work, she thought, not with me feeling like this and blaming him 
for being generous and accommodating.

I was healthy till he came back into my life, she insisted 
inwardly.  And happy.   Why did I ever agree to see him again?  
Several answers presented themselves.  Because I loved him.  
Because he's the part of my past that's most responsible for who 
I am now.  Because it'd be cowardly to run away from him.  
Because I am inutterably fucked up.

The aria was over and conspiracies were blooming all over the 
stage.  What sneaks all these characters were.  Mulder should 
feel right at home, Dana thought.  Disguises, informants, 
clandestine meetings, secret identities, uncertain parentage--she 
winced at that one.

"Are you all right?" Mulder whispered, his breath brushing her 
ear and making a shiver run down her spine.  He laid his warm 
hand on her bare arm and she felt hairs rise all over her body.  
Whoa, he packs a wallop, she thought.

"It's just the air conditioning," she returned, turning to face 
him so their noses were about three inches apart.  Now they were 
inhaling the same air, breathing in each other.  They stared into 
each other's eyes, searching, but in the dim light Dana wasn't 
sure what she saw.  Intensity?  Desire?  Abruptly, the moment 
ended. Always the gentleman, Mulder reached behind her and 
wrapped her stole around both her arms.  "Better?" he asked, 
smiling slightly.

My God, he's perfect, Dana thought.  Where is the real Fox 
Mulder, egotistical, narcissistic asshole?  She nodded, outwardly 
calm, and turned her eyes back to the stage.  She wondered how 
she could possibly get through this evening with this ideal man, 
particularly since all his gentlemanly attentions made her feel 
like an ungrateful bitch.  And, to be honest, that bitch was
beginning to feel as if she were in heat.

This opera's about power, she thought.  And if this *evening's* 
about power, I'm a goner.  How could he do this to me?  Last 
week, I was the wronged woman and he was the obsessed egomaniac 
who abandoned me for my own good.  I could feel martyred and 
superior.  But now he's so generous and goddamned nice--he's
winning.  And I don't think he knows it.  He's not even 
contending.  What a fucked-up mess I am.  I'm worse off than 
these characters in the opera.  And they're supposed to be comic 
characters.  God.  I'm just pathetic.

Alternating her attention between her brooding and the opera, 
Dana waited for the intermission.  She prayed for her beeper to 
rescue her from this agony and take her back to a nice safe 
emergency room.  She wondered if she could call the hospital 
during the intermission and then tell Mulder that her patient
needed her.  No, she couldn't.  

She despised herself for her cowardice. It was an evening at the 
opera.  It didn't have to be anything more than that.  She could 
discuss the opera with him at dinner, then grab a cab and get the 
hell out of Dodge.  Nothing was compelling her to revisit the 
scenes of her past miseries, fight her own hormonal surges, and 
develop a new and bitchy personality.  Nothing but her own 
conflicted self.

I'm 44 years old, she thought.  Why don't I know if I want to get 
involved with him or not?  

How do you know he wants to get involved with you, an inner voice 
answered her.  Flattering yourself, don't you think?  He asked 
you for a date, not your life.

Watching the lying and scheming on stage, accompanied by peals of 
laughter from the audience, Dana wished she could stop lying to 
herself.  Then she would know what she really thought and felt.  
Then she would know what to do.
                   



During the intermission, Dana refrained from calling the 
hospital. By the time Mulder fought his way through the crowds to 
bring her a glass of wine, the interval was half over.  Sipping 
his drink, Mulder asked about the sick child, then moved to more 
general questions about Dana's practice, the patients she
saw, and the hours she kept.  

Either last week's session of "true confessions" had left him so 
stripped and raw that he wished to keep his distance (and his 
remaining skin) or he realized that a ten-minute interval should 
remain impersonal.  On the other hand, Dana thought with a 
mixture of relief and trepidation,  maybe he realized since we 
made this date last week that the past is best left in the
past.  It could be that his amazed look when I got here was 
because he thought I looked like a sweaty, frantic mess, not the 
cool Scully he was used to.  Maybe he was so willing to 
accommodate my patient because he saw it as a way
to escape a date he wished he hadn't made.  Maybe he's really 
eager to feed me a quick meal and stuff me in a cab.  See you in 
another eight years, she imagined him calling as he waved.

Mulder banished that line of thinking with a look that singed her 
damp hair.  "You look fantastic," he said, staring intently into 
her eyes.  "All these women, plastered with makeup, they're 
artificial and untouchable.  You're so....natural. And gorgeous. 
You look eminently touchable."

Well, what do I say to that, Dana wondered.  Touch me?  Nah.  
Return the lob.  "I've been thinking how great *you* look," Dana 
said with a sweet smile.  "It's like you've stepped out of GQ."

"I'd rather be touchable, accessible," Mulder said.  "I don't 
want to be treated like something you'd just look at."

I don't think he wants to stuff me in a cab, Dana decided.  There 
may be a desire to stuff.....

That tantalizing and potentially obscene thought was cut off as 
the lights blinked. It took Dana an instant to realize that was 
the signal to return to their seats rather than a celestial 
strobe mirroring the patter of her heart.  No, she thought.  
Palpitations, just as Cherubino had sung in the aria.

She turned to re-enter the hall.  "What do you think of the opera 
so far?" she asked, discomfited by Mulder's overt lust and not 
ready to go there.

They made their way to their seats, Mulder's hand resting in the 
place on her back where it had first fallen years ago.  All this 
time, an empty space back there, just waiting to be filled, she 
thought.  His hand, in that place.  It felt right.  Suddenly, 
melted by his intense gaze, his flattering words, the intimate 
tone of his voice, the warmth of his touch, doubting, bitchy Dana
made her exit.  The Dana who remained felt extraordinarily 
feminine--or was it simply female--and receptive to....seeing how 
the evening would go.  There was a touch of desire, maybe more 
than a touch, but it was more a curiosity, a readiness to explore 
the possibilities.  See who they were, what was there, what could 
be.

Mulder was chatting about the beauty of the singing and the 
inventiveness of the staging, telling her how having an English 
translation made all the difference.  All the time, his mouth was 
close to her ear, his voice intimate, and warm.  As they sat, he 
once again settled her stole around her, his hands lingering over 
her arms as he smoothed the silky fabric.

"I didn't expect to enjoy this so much," he told her, sitting 
back and clasping her hand.  "The drama, the spectacle--if they 
throw in some fights, this may be almost as good as watching the 
Knicks."

Dana laughed and relaxed, certain she could now enjoy the rest of 
the opera.  She didn't remove her hand from his.

CHAPTER FIVE: Playing Gatsby


>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
"'I'm going to fix everything just the way it was before,' he 
said nodding determinedly."  The Great Gatsby by F. Scott 
Fitzgerald

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>


As they made their way through the well-dressed, milling crowd 
outside the Met, Mulder kept his arm around Dana's shoulders.  
"Hungry?" he asked.

"Famished."

Finally free of the crowd, they made their way to Lutece, to 
Dana's surprise.  Could he drop in any time he wished, she 
wondered.

Their table was superb; the service was more than attentive.  
Dana was no stranger to fine New York restaurants; like everyone 
who lives in or often visits the city, she had come to take 
excellent food for granted.  But this particular menu looked to 
her like a peculiar, enticing combination of nectar and money.

She glanced up at Mulder.  "Have you turned into Midas while I 
wasn't around to hold you back?"

He smiled.  "More like Gatsby, I'm afraid.  I'm an upstart, a 
parvenu."

"But weren't your parents fairly well off?  The vacation houses 
and the house in Chilmark were right on the water."

"That's true.  When they bought them, though, they were 
relatively inexpensive.  By the time I sold them, they were worth 
a small fortune.  Which I turned into a bigger fortune.  But I 
don't care about the money, as I told you."

"What *do* you care about?" Dana asked, putting her menu aside. 
She felt as if she were laying a gauntlet beside her menu.

"That's what I've been trying to get straight," he said, 
beckoning to the waiter.  Apparently the time was not yet ripe to 
joust.  "Ready to order?"

By the time the elaborate ordering process was completed, Mulder 
was able to turn the conversation back to the opera.  "I thought 
the singing was incredible," he said.  "And the staging and 
costumes were great.  But even with that hilarious plot, it made 
me uncomfortable."

"Why?" An eyebrow arched.  Just like old times.

"The power of the Count, I think.  It reminded me too much of the 
influential people we've had to go up against in the past.  When 
one man can decide the fate of others, who are helpless, it just 
isn't funny to me."

"Actually," Dana said, sipping the wine that had just arrived, 
"it was considered a subversive opera in its time.  For three 
years, the King decreed that it couldn't be performed.  Having 
this wily underling outsmart the master was considered dangerous. 
When it *was* performed, Figaro's victory made it a big hit with 
the masses."

"Really?  It preceded the French Revolution, didn't it?"

"Yeah.  I read somewhere that Napoleon thought it influenced the 
buildup of the peasants' sentiments.  Figaro's insolence 
supposedly inspired the revolutionaries."  Dana snickered.  "Of 
course, they did more than foil their master's attempts to fool 
around.  Heads rolled and blood flowed."

Mulder buttered some bread and looked at her curiously.  "Did you 
think the Count's fooling around was all that funny?"

"No. He was a pig, obviously," Dana said.  "But he was fooled and 
foiled and made to look like a dolt. *That* was supposed to be 
funny. I guess it was comforting at the time to see a powerful 
figure made to look that foolish. His stupidity makes him very 
vulnerable, don't you think?"

"Yeah, sure.  I just know that people like that do exist, so I 
have a hard time seeing them as harmless.  Imagine if we made our 
old enemy the black-lunged bastard a figure in an opera.  Would 
his machinations be that funny, even if he did look foolish at 
the end? Or would you rather see his blood flow than have a good 
chuckle at his foibles? And would you consider his actions mere 
foibles?  I'd say they were evil, not amusing."

Dana buttered some bread, thinking over Mulder's words.  "Go 
ahead," she smiled, "ruin my sweet little opera.  Is this why you 
prefer sports?"

Mulder lobbed back her smile.  "You got it.  At least there, you 
don't have to deal with good and evil.  Just a clash of skill or 
power.  Sometimes refreshingly violent.  Invigorating."

Dana was diverted from Mulder's bloodthirsty remarks by the 
arrival of their food. She exclaimed over the beauty of the 
appetizer set before her, a pear, spinach, walnut, and chevre 
salad so beautifully arranged that she was reluctant to touch it. 
Fleetingly, she wished she had a talent for painting still lifes.  
Hunger prevailed, however, and they appreciated their food in
silence for a few minutes.  

Then Dana said, "You know, you're forcing me to apply modern and 
realistic standards to this old farce, and it doesn't come off 
too well. But few older works do, if you think about it."  
Warming to her topic, she paused to think for a moment, nibbling 
at her salad.  "Look at Othello.  He strangles his wife for 
alleged infidelity.  And this *wife killer* is the tragic hero.  
Even if she *had* been unfaithful, that doesn't give him the 
right to choke her to death!" She frowned and picked a walnut out 
of the still life.

"Some people think Desdemona should have put up more of a fight," 
Mulder said, dipping his shrimp in cocktail sauce.  "I've read 
that a lot of modern critics find her kind of wimpy."

"Typical," Dana snorted.  "Blaming the victim." She looked 
annoyed.  "Why, even in the comedies, Shakespeare's women often 
have to resort to dressing like men to gain power.  Look at 
Twelfth Night."  She seemed to be workingherself into a minor 
feminist rage.

"You've come a long way, baby," Mulder said, straight-faced.

She cheered up.  "Ah well, there's always Portia.  Now there's a 
kickass heroine.  But then she's another woman who has to resort 
to a disguise to gain power." She sighed and muttered, "Sexist 
times."  Chewing thoughtfully, she returned her thoughts to the 
opera. "It's horrible, isn't it, this droit du seigneur, the 
master being able to sleep with any servant he chooses, even if
it's on the eve of her marriage."

"I hated that," admitted Mulder.  "Why should people have to 
resort to trickery and disguise to have what's rightfully theirs? 
Or to protect themselves from predators?"

"Guess that's why there was a revolution."

He smiled and nodded, chewing.

"This is absolutely delicious," Dana said, concentrating on her 
food again.  "How's your shrimp?"  He speared a piece and passed 
it to her plate.  She tasted, nodded her enthusiastic approval, 
then continued, "The wife's situation is really, really sad, if 
we compare her to modern women.  Her husband is constantly lying 
to her, and even when she knows he plans to bed her servant, she 
can't do a damned thing about it except scheme."  The brow
went up.  "A modern woman would be able to deal properly  with 
the swine."

"Uh oh," Mulder said.  "Dr. Scully sharpens her scalpel."  He 
waggled his brows at her.  "Now you know why I've always been 
fond of the truth." 

"Are we being truthful now?" Dana asked, circling back to the 
subject that interested and scared her the most.  "No holding 
things back or telling protective lies?"

Mulder turned serious and put down his fork.  He reached for 
Dana's hand and grasped it firmly.  "No more bullshit as far as 
I'm concerned," he said.  "I realize those aren't beautiful, 
noble words, and I sure can't put them to music, but I'd like us 
to really talk now."

He met her eyes and continued,  "What I want most is for us to be 
honest about the way we feel.  I don't want to be cagey about 
this.  You appeared back in my life, and it seems like a miracle 
to me, the second chance I never expected." His eyes glowed and 
his voice rang with sincerity,  "I don't want to blow it this 
time."

"You scare me," Dana said in a low voice, turning her hand so 
their palms were touching.  She stared at their joined hands.  So 
this is what it feels like, she thought, to touch freely and 
openly.  Just because we want to or need to.

"Why?" His voice was the merest whisper.

"It's hard to explain.  I guess part of it is your intensity.  
You've always seen life in a larger sense than I have.  With 
brighter colors. Your cosmology is just...bigger."

Mulder had apparently decided not to move too quickly. He gently 
released her hand, picked up his fork and returned to his shrimp.  
He sent her a mock leer.  "You haven't seen 'big' yet, babe."

Dana laughed, glad to postpone a discussion of feelings.  She was 
on a seesaw tonight. On the one hand was her desperate need to 
find out if a relationship was feasible. The suspense, the inner 
conflict, was exhausting and painful.  Yet her fears made her 
want to run home and bolt the door, locking the disturbing 
emotions out.  

She wondered if Mulder, often more sensitive than she gave him 
credit for, hadn't picked up on her inner turmoil and backed off 
to give her some space. Picking up her fork to finish her salad, 
she said,  "Okay, if we're going to be truthful, tell me what 
bothered you the most about the opera."

"That a challenge?"

She nodded. "Yeah, there's something you're not telling me.  Your 
objections have been good ones, but I have a feeling you're not 
telling me what bothered you the most."

"Abuse of power and avoidance of truth aren't enough?" Mulder 
asked with a smile, picking up his napkin.  He patted his mouth.

Dana shook her head and pushed away her salad plate.  "Not if 
we're going to be honest this time around."

Mulder sighed.  "Okay.  Two things.  One is that Figaro and his 
bride are presumably in love, yet when she's in disguise, they 
each decide to punish the other by pretending a passion for 
someone else.  That doesn't sound like a successful basis for 
marriage to me.  And yes, I realize it's a comedy, a farce, and 
I'm supposed to laugh lightly.  And I did, but I don't think it's
that funny."

"Fair enough.  And I can't argue with that objection except to 
note that it's a momentary decision made by mischievous 
characters in a farce." Actually, Dana was pleased to hear that 
Mulder considered honesty a necessity in a relationship.  Maybe 
this could work after all, she thought.

He'd said two things bothered him, however, and the evasive look 
in his eye caught her attention. She asked, "What's really on 
your mind?"

After a hesitation, Mulder confessed, "The droit du seigneur.  It 
bothered me because the Count could take anyone he wanted and use 
her against her will.  It reminded me..." He broke off, 
frustrated, and protested, "I don't want to dredge up old hurts, 
Scully."

Seeing how serious this was to Mulder, Dana suddenly knew what he 
was thinking.  "It reminded you of my abduction," she said 
softly.   "Women being taken, used sexually or in some other way.   
Some unstoppable power doing whatever it wants to whoever it 
chooses. And not giving a fuck about the consequences to the 
person it used. Is that it?"

Mulder breathed out.  "Yeah.  Do you see why I didn't want to 
bring it up?"

Dana smiled, a bit grimly.   "Sure.  I understand your point 
completely, and I hadn't made the association.  But my abduction 
was so long ago, I've kind of adjusted to the fact that it 
happened.  Worrying about it is a waste, at this point.  I'm much 
more concerned with the future than with the past."

"But you and I were in the past," Mulder protested, sitting back 
as the waiter picked up their plates. "We have a *huge* history."

Dana reached for his hand this time.  "I know," she said 
soothingly.  "And I don't think we'll ever have an easy 
relationship.  It's not who we are.  But let's talk.  Bring our 
history with us, sure.  Especially the good parts." She smiled. 
"And there were a lot of good parts."

"There were," Mulder agreed.  "I just tend to think of everything 
you lost because you stuck with me."

Dana sighed, not wanting to go along on the old Mulder guilt 
trip. "Can't we just catch up on what we've been doing for eight 
years, get to know each other again?  Be honest?  Not play 
games?"

Mulder frowned.  "I've always thought it's impossible for men and 
women not to play  games, but we can try to minimize that." 
Pausing, he took a deep breath.  "I want you in my life, Scully."

Dana was silent. She stared down at the tablecloth. Well, she 
thought.  I asked for no games.  That's what I got. There it 
sits.  On a very expensive tablecloth.

Finally, Mulder squeezed her hand to get her to look up.  "What 
do *you* want?" he asked.

"I wish I knew," Dana said honestly. She looked up.  "You 
mentioned that you felt like Gatsby.  Well, so do I.  He thought 
he could cling to the parts of the past he wanted to remember and 
wipe out all the undesirable parts, including Daisy's little 
girl.  That's kind of what we're doing, it seems to
me.  I *do* want to forget the undesirable parts, or at least not 
dwell on them.  Abduction, cancer, sterility, loss of loved ones-
-they're there and they're not going to go away.  But if letting 
you back in my life is going to activate all those old pains--
which I still feel sometimes anyway-- you can see why I might 
have some doubts."

"I can understand that,"Mulder replied.  "But returning to our 
pal Gatsby for a minute. Wasn't he poor Jimmy Gatz before he was 
the magnificent Jay Gatsby, with all his wealth and confidence?  
I think I've managed to unload a lot of my baggage along the way.  
I'm not saying I'm suddenly gonna throw Gatsby-esque wild 
parties, but I do think we've both reinvented our selves to an
extent."  He paused thoughtfully.  "Or maybe that's the result of 
aging.  Growing and changing, I mean."  

He shook his head, having difficulty putting his thoughts into 
words.  "I do know there's one major change after all these 
years.  I needed to get away.  And I needed to get you away from 
me.  I know you hate that, but it's how I felt then.  Now I want 
to be with you, and I don't think I'd hurt you this time.  I 
don't feel like a blight any more."

Dana closed her eyes briefly.  "But you asked what *I* want, and 
I'm trying to explain how I feel."  Was this the return of the 
egomaniacal Mulder she'd been waiting for?  Would he give her an 
easy "out" after all, and rescue her from this sea of 
indecisiveness?

"We can't just wipe out whole sections of our history," she said 
slowly.  She glanced up.  "What we experienced and suffered 
influenced our lives--forever.  On the other hand,  I think it's 
a mistake to cling to a past that no longer exists, the way 
Gatsby tried to do. Just because we had this...connection
once, doesn't mean we can pick it up eight years later.  No 
matter how successful you've been in changing yourself into a 
different--somewhat different-- person.  That's Gatsby's mistake, 
thinking he could remake himself into the perfect man for Daisy." 

"I'm not saying I'm a whole new person," Mulder protested.  "Just 
that I'm ready to go on.  I don't want to forget the past--that's 
when I got to know you.  And I know I can't forget what your 
loyalty cost you.  It'll always be there." 

Dana considered his words.  "Here's my big problem:  I don't want 
to go back into mourning for my lost fertility. And all the rest 
of it.  I've done that.  It's always there and I can't escape it.  
But that doesn't mean I have to pull off the scab and keep the 
wound open."

"So, you're saying you don't want to wallow in that stuff.  I 
don't blame you," Mulder said, stroking Dana's hand as she once 
again studied the tablecloth.  "What's bothering me is that you 
seem to be saying that I bring back those bad memories, that your 
life is easier without me to remind you of the losses."

Dana looked up.  "We're being honest, right?  In all honesty, my 
life is easier without you in it." She saw Mulder's face fall and 
quickly continued.  "But I think my life is also emptier without 
you in it.  What you tend to forget  is that you've brought me 
joy. Sitting here with you, right now, touching you--that makes 
me happy."

Mulder looked up, his eyes glowing,  and Dana smiled.  "You have 
so many positive qualities.  You are exciting, intelligent, 
funny, intense, generous, passionate.  Or at least the Mulder I 
once knew was all those things.  I expect a lot of that is still 
true.  I'd like to find out."  

Dana let go of his hand and sat back.  "I *loved* you."  She 
sighed.  "I think you sometimes forget that.  You may have 
felt...inadequate in some way, but I found you lovable.  Despite 
some qualities that were distinctly unlovable," she added, since 
they were being honest.  "Our shared past had...really high highs 
and miserably low lows.  It seemed to lack middle ground."

"So, you're saying...what?" Mulder looked bewildered.  "We should 
get to know each other again and I should shut up about 
abductions and that shit? Try to avoid the lows?  Leave the scabs 
alone?  Is that what you want?"

Dana sat back as their main courses arrived.  The food was worthy 
of being framed and sent to a museum, so artistic was its 
presentation.  But Dana hardly spared it a glance.  "Not if we're 
going to be *honest*.  We've both got to say what we feel.  But 
I'd like to remember the good parts of the past, not just all the 
terrible stuff that happened--to both of us.  I'm not the only 
one who lost people and things that meant everything to me.  We, 
of all people, can't pretend to view the world through rose-
colored glasses, past or present.  I don't think either of us 
owns such things anyway."

"Right," Mulder said, picking up a steak knife.  "No more 
bullshit."

"That's so sweet," Dana said, checking out her tuna steak with a 
lusty eye.  "Maybe I could embroider it on a sampler."

"I've always liked women who engage in delicate feminine 
pursuits," Mulder noted, guiding a piece of rare prime rib to his 
mouth.

"Mulder?"  He looked up from his plate inquiringly.  Dana smiled 
and said quietly, "You wouldn't really want to start a food fight 
in Lutece, would you?"

He chuckled.  "That's where the Gatsby stuff comes in handy.  If 
you have enough money, they'll even let you have sex while 
hanging from their chandeliers.  Interested?"

Dana looked demure.  "Maybe later."

Mulder choked on his steak.

CHAPTER SIX: Facing the Future

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

"It was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such 
as I have never found in any other person..."
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

By the time the cab pulled up outside Dana's apartment, a great 
deal of ground had been covered.  Dana was now reasonably well 
informed about the workings of Wall Street and international 
financial markets.  Having previously suffered eye glaze on the 
few dates she'd accepted with brokers, she was surprised to
find that finance actually sounded interesting and exciting.  
Mulder's enthusiasm was contagious.

Mulder now knew how and why Dana had switched to pediatrics, what 
her practice was like on a day-to-day basis, and what kind of 
research she was engaged in.  Further, he had mentioned that hers 
was the type of project he liked to donate his unneeded money to.  
Repressing her instinct to refuse, because it felt as if he were 
offering money to *her*, Dana promised to give him the 
documentation he'd need to make a decision.  Who was she, after 
all, to turn away funds that could help make a breakthrough in 
treating hereditary diseases?  She should be grateful, not 
embarrassed or resentful, and luckily she found that she was.

As the driver turned off his meter, the conversation about their 
treks in Nepal came to a halt, and Dana realized that she hadn't 
even had a chance to embark on her internal should-I-invite-him-
up-or-not mantra.  Before the debate could gear up, the decision 
was out of her hands.  The cab was pulling away and Mulder was 
guiding her up the steps outside her building.

"I know it's really late," he said.  "I'll only stay a few 
minutes."

"It's all right.  Tomorrow's Sunday and I can sleep late."

"No church?" he asked, watching her turn the key.  "How are you 
and God getting along these days?"

She shrugged and flipped the light switch. "Mutual non-aggression 
pact, I guess.  It's not a big issue for me any more."

"Nice," Mulder said, looking around the living room.  Like most 
New York apartments, it had impressive vertical space rather than 
spacious room dimensions.  One outstanding feature was the 
twelve-foot-high bookshelf with library ladder.  The windows, 
too, were impressive, at least eight feet high with healthy 
plants clustered in front of each.  The floors were light and
varnished, with semi-worn oriental rugs scattered around.

"Does your fireplace work?" he asked, surveying the space. A 
small table and three Windsor chairs stood in front of the island 
that separated the living area from the tidy, efficient kitchen.

"Not to my knowledge," Dana said, sliding off her heels and 
heading for the kitchen.  "What can I get you?  Coffee?  Brandy?  
Wine?"

"Nothing, thanks," Mulder murmured, noting that Dana owned a 
leather couch, a medium green one.  He sank into its softness and 
loosened his tie while he continued his inventory:  some glass 
tables, including the coffee table in front of him, two arm 
chairs covered with a greenish material with small, delicate 
flowers, and some soft lighting.  A very warm, pleasant room, 
much like Dana herself, with a combination of moods and textures.

"It's pretty small," Dana remarked, sitting at the other end of 
the couch and curling her feet under her.  "I'll bet your place 
could swallow this one several times."

"Well, you know--lofts." He shrugged. "Been here long?"

"A couple of years.  I moved in here with a man, and we lived 
together for nearly a year.  Then the non-wedding occurred, and I 
got possession of the apartment.  He got the cat."

Mulder looked surprised. "When was this?  Who was he?"  He caught 
himself.  "If you don't mind talking about it."

"Nah, it's all behind me.  His name is Bill and he's an attorney.  
Great guy.  We dated, got along fine, seemed totally compatible.  
Since I'd already broken one engagement, I felt too cautious to 
enter into another one without our living together first.  So, 
being very modern and turf-conscious, we found a new place--this 
one--and furnished it.  Things seemed to be working."  She
broke off, frowning. "Are you sure you don't want something to 
drink?  Water even?"

Mulder shook his head.  "I'm fine.  You don't have to get into 
this if you don't feel like it."

Dana experienced a flash of the same annoyance she'd felt at the 
opera.  Where had this sensitive, tactful creature come from?  
When would the mask drop and the weapons appear? And, perhaps 
even more dreadful, what if they didn't?  If this was really who 
Mulder was these days, what was she going to do?

"It's okay." She made a dismissive hand motion.  "We got engaged.  
We made plans for the wedding. Then I started to feel panicky all 
the time.  I couldn't eat.  I'd get nausea and stomach cramps.  
Shortness of breath.  Palpitations.  I turned into a walking 
medical text."

Mulder's brow arched in a perfect imitation of Dana's inquiring 
look.

"But I was still too stupid to realize what was happening. So, I 
went to see my doctor, who made a pretty swift diagnosis.  I 
decided this wasn't just a typical case of pre-wedding jitters 
but a bout of soul-rending dread.  I couldn't go through with 
it."  She sighed and pulled her arms protectively across her  
chest.  "I don't really understand it. I could live with him.  
But the thought of marriage scared the crap out of me."

"I understand.  I've been there, but *I* was too cowardly to 
*think* of marriage--or even to live with someone." He moved 
toward her end of the couch, dropping his jacket onto the glass 
table as he rose.  Sitting closer, he touched her hand lightly.  
"To be honest, which is a more refined wording of our new motto, 
you're the only woman I can see myself with for any length of
time.  I'm pretty sure you're the only woman I've ever really 
loved."

At one time, Dana Scully would have rejoiced to hear these words 
from him.  Her heart would have leapt up and all sorts of poetic 
emotions would have assailed her.  But time had gone by, and she 
was an essentially practical person.

"You know," she said quietly, "I'm no prize.  I have this really 
huge fear that memory garnishes and gilds, that you've built me 
up into some impossibly desirable woman.  You really should think 
back--we drove each other crazy most of the time.  There was 
almost nothing we could agree on.  You used to feel like 
strangling me, I'm sure, but unlike poor Desdemona, I was armed."

He shook his head emphatically.  "That's just wrong.  I always 
knew--and I assure you I remember well--exactly what I liked and 
didn't like about you.  But none of that kept me from *loving* 
you."

"I don't know.  Even Gatsby, lovesick as he was, felt some 
disillusionment with Daisy before the end.  No one can live up to 
years of hoarded memories.  And I don't even have her advantage 
of sounding like money."

Mulder turned away and slumped, pulling his tie off and tossing 
it on top of his jacket. "Money is vastly overrated," he pointed 
out.  "And I don't know why you have such a hard time believing I 
love you."

"Because you don't know me any more?"  Time passed. Nobody spoke. 
"Because we both feel inadequate?"  she offered tentatively.

"Yeah, well, only one of us has grounds for that," Mulder 
grumped. "What was Daisy--the golden girl?  That's you.  
Beautiful, intelligent, successful, and really goddamned nice."  
He turned toward her again.  "Look at me," he said, louder and 
obviously frustrated.

Dana jumped slightly as he continued, "I'm more your basic Jimmy 
Gatz type.  You can make the boy rich and give him some really 
neat toys, but under his GQ facade, he'll still be this insecure 
schmuck."

Dana was distressed and showed it. "I don't know how you can say 
that, someone with all your--amazing, *sterling*--qualities."

"Simple," Mulder snorted.  "Grow up with my parents. Lose your 
sister. Feel responsible.  Be unloved."

Dana moved next to Mulder and looped her arms around his neck. 
"I'm sorry," she murmured.  "That's one of the bits of the past 
that causes *you* pain.  We can't ignore it, can we?"

"No."   After a brief sulk, Mulder pulled himself together. "But 
we could try what you suggested earlier.  Remember the good times 
instead of wallowing in the dreck." He brightened. "Let me tell 
you about one of my boyhood experiences that was actually 
interesting and fun, for a change."

"Great." Fun in his youth, Dana thought.  Who would have 
suspected.

"This is subtitled the 'Chilmark Files,'" he began, as she 
removed her arms from his neck but continued to sit close. "I 
don't know how familiar you are with the Vineyard, but Chilmark 
is a spectacular place, all bad memories aside.  It's got higher 
hills than you usually find on an island, and it's surrounded by 
water on three sides."

"Sounds like my kind of place."

"I think it is.  When I was young, it seemed like paradise.  
There weren't too many of us year-rounders, so we were almost 
like a secret club."

"Your childhood sounds idyllic," Dana said, "at least to me.  We 
were always moving and having to abandon our friends.  Then, we'd 
have to start from scratch.  That's one reason I'm pleased with 
New York--I have a steady group of friends, people I've actually 
had time to get to know."

"That *is* important," Mulder agreed.  "Maybe what happened when 
I was twelve was kind of my own personal paradise lost, and after 
that, I had a hard time getting close to people."

They sat in silence.  Then, Dana, not in the mood for bleak 
memories, reminded him, "Your Chilmark X-File?"

Mulder brightened, his eyes lighting up.  "We had a rock 
formation called the Quitsa Quoit.  Some people called it a 
dolman, if you're familiar with the term."

Dana frowned and searched her memory.  "Like Stonehenge?"

"Not exactly.  The stones were sticking up, but there was a slab 
of rock resting across their tops.  We spent months trying to 
figure out how they got there."

"Now why is it I sense the beginning of a pattern here," Dana 
remarked with an impish grin.

Mulder looked happy and boyish.  "We took up research and studied 
British dolmans, which were definitely prehistoric structures."

"And were yours?"

"American scholars couldn't quite agree.  Some thought they were
fakes--"

"Ah HA!"

"And others thought they were storage chambers built by early 
settlers," he concluded, ignoring the Skeptical Scully outburst.  
"But, I gotta tell you, you haven't lived until you sneak out of 
the house at night and tell ghost stories surrounded by what 
you're sure are prehistoric rocks put there by mysterious 
beings."

He smiled and put his arm around her shoulder, drawing her close 
to his chin.  "So, you see, I wasn't always a morose loser.  
There were some good times."  Dana was pleased that the mood had 
shifted again and enjoyed being in his arms.  His touch, his 
scent, his very pores--his presence stirred her senses strongly.  
It was as though her body remembered him better than her mind, 
and her body was feeling quite stimulated by his return.

"Are you seeing anyone?" he murmured, his mouth close to her ear.

She shook her head slightly, careful not to distance herself from 
his warm breath.  "Nobody special.  You?"

"I broke up with someone about six months ago.  I'm not seeing 
anyone now.  Except the beautiful woman I'm holding now." He 
placed a gentle kiss on her temple.  "So, Scully, you've dated, 
you've been engaged, you've lived with a guy.  How'd it feel to 
have a sex life again?"  

Dana laughed.  "That was ridiculous, wasn't it?  What kind of 
people *were* we to sublimate all normal desires for so long?  Or 
was I the only one sublimating?"

"No, it was just me and my porn." He joined her in laughter. 
"What an obsession the X-Files were, to drive two healthy young 
people into lives of celibacy.  It was a folie a deux."

"Yet, I don't think we were ready for a sexual relationship.  It 
would have distracted us, interfered with the tension we needed 
to bring two viewpoints to every case." She paused. "Maybe."

"I don't know," he admitted, landing a soft kiss on her jawline. 
"When I wanted you to get away from me and make a new life for 
yourself, I was glad we'd never slept together.  That was the 
only thing that let me walk away."

"Then I *don't* know if it was a good thing," Dana said, burying 
her nose in his neck and inhaling his familiar essence.  
Beginning to feel drunk, she struggled to regain sobriety.  She 
managed.

"Not that I'm saying we can just kiss eight years good-bye and 
fall into each other's arms," she said, pulling back from him 
slightly.

"I still want you," he said quietly, running his fingers across 
her cheek. His touch was very light. "You're the only person I 
really care about in this world.  If the last few years are any 
indication, I'm not likely to find anyone else I can care for.  I 
think I'll either spend the rest of my life alone, or with you.  
And, from what you've said, you can't commit to anyone else 
either.  Your bridegroom-to-be made you sick."

Dana stroked Mulder's face in return.  Stubble brushed her 
fingertips; in the soft light, he looked like a dark angel, a 
worn, dark angel.  "Maybe I couldn't commit to you either.  What 
if I've gone beyond that point?  What if I find out you're not at 
all like the man I remember?  Or you don't like what *I've* 
become?  You can't just brush away eight years.  Look what 
happened to Gatsby."

"Fuck Gatsby," Mulder retorted.  "This is us. We are not 
fictional characters.  Our circumstances have changed, and we've 
certainly changed, at some level or another. For the better. But 
have we changed our essence?  Look at us, for Christ's sake.  We 
haven't seen each other in all this time.  And what are we doing?  
Living alone, each with no current relationship, devoting a 
shitload of time to our work.  Sound familiar?"

Dana stared at him, thinking over what he'd said.  Her mind came 
up with a dozen counterarguments, but her treacherous body moved 
toward his, and her arms slid around his neck. For some seconds 
they faced each other, much as they had at the opera, inhaling, 
staring, searching for the other's soul.  Simultaneously, their 
faces moved forward slightly and their lips met and
opened.

Dana was lost in the sensation of being enfolded in his arms, 
tasting the brandy and coffee flavors on his tongue, feeling the 
familiar contours of his body, still lean and muscular.  The kiss 
went on for eons, and Dana imagined she heard an iceberg cracking 
somewhere in her soul.  Meltdown was occurring.

She pulled back slightly and looked into his eyes.  They were 
soft, glowing, filled with what might be love.  He smiled, a 
pure, happy smile.  She returned it, enjoying the perfect moment.  
Then her mind re-entered the equation, and she pulled back a bit 
more, removing her arms from his body but clasping his hands.

"We're being honest, yes?" she said.  He moved his dark head into 
the crook of her neck, murmuring, "Yeah.  Honest, no more 
bullshit, whatever.  And that is great because it lets me tell 
you...."

He nuzzled her neck, beginning an intricate path of kisses and 
licks.  He moved down her shoulder, licked the inside of her 
clavicle, inched down her chest toward the neck of her dress. 
"...lets me tell you exactly how delicious you are, lets me tell 
you..." He came up the other side and bit her neck gently.  
"...that I want to taste every inch of you, that I want you to be 
my flavor of the century."

Dana, her breath coming faster, was having a hard time not 
dissolving into a puddle on her couch. "You're making me weak," 
she said, "and that's a problem for me." She slowly pulled her 
neck away from his mouth.  "Yes, I want you," she said, kissing 
him gently near his lips, "and part of me wants to be with you.  
But there's a side of me that really resists."

Mulder sat back a few inches.  "Tell me why."

"It's hard.  You've always been a bit...overwhelming to me.  I 
like being in control of my life and doing things my way.  I just 
have this fear of being...subsumed by you.  Even when I know you 
don't mean to, you kind of sweep me away." She paused, then 
added, "This isn't a criticism of you, it's more a statement 
about me.  I've just grown to like...doing whatever I want."

"Do you think I'd ever ask you to do something against your 
will?"

"No, of course not." Dana's shoulders slumped.  "What I'm afraid 
of is that if I'm with you, I'll *want* to do the things you 
want. Whatever they are.  I'll have this desire to please you. 
I'll put your needs ahead of my own.  But I don't think I want 
to.  It's *my* problem."

Tears were forming in her eyes, shining in the lamp light.  In a 
way, it was a great relief to be honest at last, to discuss her 
fears. "It's only you," she admitted.  "No one else could ever 
make me feel this way, and that scares me.  You're the only one I 
could love enough to...lose *me*."

Mulder scooped her into his arms and held her tight.  He stroked 
her hair tenderly and dropped light kisses over her face and 
hair.  When he drew back, tears were glinting on his cheeks.  "I 
have the same fears," he told her, in a voice so low she could 
barely make out the words.  "It scares me to realize that I'd do 
*anything* for you.  Don't you think two middle-aged, stubborn
loners like us would both have those feelings?"

Dana sniffed. "I don't *want* to feel like that," she said. "I'm 
just afraid it's too late. I *like* my life the way it is.  I 
don't want to feel...young, unbalanced, uncertain.  I *really* 
hate being uncertain."

"I've always sought out change more readily than you," Mulder 
said, stroking her arms.  "But don't just think of the down side.  
Honestly, can you think of any advantages--not what you'd lose, 
but what you'd gain?"

After a few seconds, Dana smiled through her tears.  "Your love.  
And hopefully, great sex."

"I'd give it my best effort, I assure you," he said, kissing her 
mouth.

"Having a person I could be honest with, admit when I feel weak 
or scared."

"Absolutely," Mulder said.  "And you'd gain a guy who'd love you 
no matter what--weak, strong, rich, poor, happy, sad, defeated, 
triumphant--you get the idea." He leaned forward again to give 
her a soft kiss. "Could you give me the same?"

Dana looked surprised. "I think I could." She returned his kiss.  
"We've already seen the worst of each other and managed to love 
each other anyway."  She kissed him again, harder.  "This could 
work."  She sounded amazed.

Bodies tangled, hands caressed, tongues touched tenderly, then 
roughly.  When time began again, Dana found she was straddling 
Mulder, who'd been pushed deeply into the couch cushions.  She 
thought her tongue was probably probing his mouth more thoroughly 
than his last dental checkup, and pulled back reluctantly. Both 
were struggling for breath.  Holding his face, she looked into 
his eyes, which reflected the joy that echoed through her being.  
His hands were tenderly running up and down her back from 
shoulders to buttocks, with tantalizing detours to her breasts.  
His shirt was open (how had that happened, she wondered) and she 
leaned down to kiss his chest.

"Nice," he murmured.  He sounded more contented than the purring 
cat who was now in the custody of her ex-fiancé.

"Do you realize it's after 4 a.m.?"

"Want me to go?"  The question was distinctly halfhearted.

Moment of decision.  One full week of seesawing back and forth.  
Blaming him for abandoning her.  Hating the power he held over 
her life.  Resentful that he'd walked back in and disturbed the 
hard-won tranquillity.  Doubtful that she could ever put her 
happiness in his hands, drop the reins she needed to
hold. But.  Loving him more than ever.  Convinced that this older 
Mulder was ready to acknowledge and respect her powers and 
abilities.  Certain that he was the only man in the world who was 
capable of both knowing her and loving her, Dana Scully, full of 
faults, insecurities, and vanities.

They were so very different, yet they fit together.  It would 
never be a smooth fit; both had too many rough edges.  Yet 
neither would want to file down the other's edges; both valued 
individuality.  If they'd wanted "normal" lifemates, they'd have 
married long ago.  This, the two of them together, would be a 
challenge.  She wanted to believe...she *believed*...it would 
also be a joy.

"No.   I want you to stay."

CHAPTER SEVEN:  Ball Game

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Laura--"Oh, be careful--if you breathe, it breaks!"--The Glass 
Menagerie by Tennessee Williams

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<


Fox Mulder checked his watch.  The time was 8:45, exactly two 
minutes later than the last time he looked.  While his arm was 
extended, he raised it to wipe the sweat from his face.  It was 
mid-July in Yankee Stadium, and despite the looming darkness, 
heat and humidity blanketed the soggy fans. Scattered
throughout the stands like billiard balls, bald heads gleamed 
under the night lighting.

He smiled when he spotted the trim figure of Dana Scully making 
her way to him.  She was wearing light khaki pants, a navy blue 
tank top, and brown sandals that revealed a careful pedicure.  
Her hair was pulled back and pinned away from her neck, but 
tendrils had escaped and frizzed in the muggy night.  Her face 
was pink and damp from her sprint into the stadium, giving her 
a healthy, youthful glow.

"Hi," she said, still breathing hard.  "I'm sorry."  She slid 
her arms around him and brushed her lips across his damp cheek.  
Feeling the moisture in his blue T-shirt, she pulled back.

"Do I offend?" Mulder grinned.

"No, I'm so drenched my deodorant is filing a protest."

"Good. We can sweat together."  He kissed her temple and ran a 
finger down her arm.  "Why're you apologizing?"

"Cause I'm so late.  I had to wait for the surgeon's report.  
He was late getting--"

"Forget it," Mulder interrupted.  "Even if you didn't have a 
life-or-death excuse, I still wouldn't mind.  Hell, I've been 
late enough times.  I even called off a date because I needed 
to move money around the Asian market. Not nearly as good as 
your excuse."

Scully flashed him an absent-minded smile and turned her 
attention to the batter.  "Any score?"

"Uh-uh.  You're not that late."  Mulder had been pleasantly 
surprised to find that Dana Scully, a tom-boy raised with two 
brothers, knew so much about sports. Maybe more than he did.

They hadn't seen each other all that often in the five or six 
weeks since they'd renewed their friendship and become lovers. 
Dana had patients who needed her.  She also had a schedule 
crammed with research commitments, speaking engagements, 
professional meetings, and teaching sessions. For his part, 
Mulder was so intricately involved with finance that, despite 
having two assistants, if a crisis broke, he was bound to be 
beeped. Then he would have to run off and give his full 
attention to the markets.  Both were, in a sense, on call.

How many times had they managed to get together, Scully mused, 
as she settled back to watch the game. There was the weekend 
they became lovers; actually, they'd had only a day.  It was 
nearly dawn that Sunday when they went to sleep. That day--
spent dozing, talking, and loving--had been perfect. At least
in Scully's memory.

But their busy schedules kept them apart. They were not college 
students who could cut class.  There'd been a movie, a drive 
north to spend the day hiking in the mountains, a couple of 
nights sitting home, paralyzed by exhaustion, watching a rental 
movie or a baseball game. It occurred to Dana that they'd
managed to make more contact than she realized.  Perhaps it 
seemed like too few meetings simply because she wished there'd 
been more.

Dana had been eager for Mulder to meet her friends.  After 
years of  building her friendships in New York,  she valued the 
opinions of the women who knew her well. Since she felt 
somewhat at sea in this renewed relationship--hell, downright 
seasick, sometimes--she was hoping for some sage observations 
from her friends.  Some words or perceptions that would guide 
her through her emotional upheaval.  One major difference 
between the old Scully and the New York version was her circle 
of friends.  She had learned to depend on them for advice as 
well as to offer it when asked.  She now had a support system.

To her mild frustration, her friend Kate was the only one who 
had met Mulder so far.  Dana and Mulder had gone out to dinner 
with Kate and her current lover, Jeff.  Kate had then spent a 
large part of the July 4th weekend talking about Dana's new 
relationship, at the house four of the women were visiting on
Fire Island.

That holiday weekend had presented a dilemma.  Before Mulder 
re-entered her life, Dana had agreed to spend the weekend with 
the girls: her best friends, Kate, Chris, and Sharon.  Despite 
the temptation of Mulder's company, she decided to go ahead 
with her plans.  Even when younger, she'd hated it when girls 
canceled arrangements with their girlfriends just because a guy 
came along.  It  devalued female friendship. At her age, she 
wasn't willing to play that game, particularly for a man who'd 
just reappeared in her life.  Her friends had spent years 
earning her loyalty; Mulder was still on trial.

At any rate, Mulder wasn't free for much of the weekend.  The 
world markets don't recognize American holidays, and he'd urged 
her to get away and enjoy herself.  So she sat under a beach 
umbrella, draped with towels and slathered with sunblock, 
listening to Kate rave about Fox Mulder.

"You should see the way he looks at you, Dana," she babbled.  
"The intensity in his eyes.  He *leans* toward you.  He wants 
to catch every syllable that falls from your lips."

Dana snorted. "A little melodramatic, don't you think?"

"It's true!" Kate assured her.  "He doesn't see or hear anyone 
else when you're there." She chuckled.  "He stares constantly 
at either your eyes or your lips." She turned to the other 
women.  "It's incredibly sexy."

"Bullshit," Dana said, refusing to believe.  "You're looking at 
him and seeing a...a romantic hero returning after a long 
absence. Ulysses." She started to splutter.  "He's fitting into 
some...some fictional stereotype left over from your girlhood.  
Mr. Rochester. The dark man with the mysterious past.  This is 
my ex-partner you're talking about."

"But he's great looking?" Sharon put in.

"Oh, yeah," Kate affirmed.  "And he's not the only one with 
romance bustin' out all over."  She turned to Dana.  "Sweetie, 
it's been years.  I have seen you with over a dozen men, some 
of whom you were planning to marry.  But you've never looked at 
any of them the way you look at this guy."

"Come on." Dana was starting to panic.  Was she wearing an I'm-
a-sucker-for-Mulder tattoo across her forehead?  Did *he* see 
her looking so smitten?  How embarrassingly uncool. Thank God 
he's so insecure, she thought.

"Really.  All your radar is directed his way.  You can barely 
look at your food long enough to get it on your fork."  She 
turned to the others.  "Bet she's lost weight since he came 
back."

"True?" Chris asked.

Dana looked sheepish.  "A little." Worse and worse, she 
thought.  Now it's gonna look like I'm pining away out of love 
for him.

"And they were holding hands under the table. That can make 
eating a little tricky, too," Kate smiled. "You were, weren't 
you?"

"Well..."

"I rest my case, ladies.  This is the real deal."

"Yeah, well," Dana protested.  "We've thought we had a winner 
before.  Let's not get carried away.  There's still a lot of 
time to blow this one, as usual."

"Optimism, Dana, optimism," Sharon counseled, unwrapping to 
venture into the water.  "We all know there are a few good men.  
Damned few. Don't be too quick to reject one. Especially one 
who obviously thinks you're a goddess."

Optimism, optimism.  Sure, Dana thought.  The way things were 
going, so damned smoothly, that could be a dangerous state of 
mind.  It was far too soon to relax.  Too soon to expect too 
much from this relationship. Too soon to expose herself to 
hurt--again. The same danger flags had arisen when Mulder
visited her laboratory.  He had come at the time specified, 
waited with patience and good humor till she was free, toured 
the facility with fastidious attention, and asked plenty of 
intelligent questions. He also had the grace to appear 
fascinated with her responses.  Too good to be true, went the 
chant through her head. Don't get too optimistic.  You could 
get swatted down--again.

I guess we *have* seen more of each other than I realized, Dana 
thought, squinting at an easy popup to left. Lost in thought, 
she watched the ball whip around the infield.  She had wanted 
to meet Mulder's friends as well, and they had spent an evening 
with his racquetball partner, Richard, and his date.  That had 
been one strange evening.  Richard was in his late forties.  A 
trim, athletic man, he had already discarded at least one wife.  
His date for dinner and an evening at a jazz club was a six-
foot tall blonde, very obviously bleached, clad in skimpy, 
trendy clothes, who couldn't have been an hour over 25.

Scully, who hated to stereotype, especially where her own 
gender was concerned, tried to get to know Jamie, the young 
blonde, over dinner.  She'd gotten nowhere.  Jamie seemed 
interested in nothing but her appearance and making flattering-
bordering-on-obsequious remarks to Richard.  She'd barely
glanced at Dana throughout the evening although she did direct 
some wattage toward Mulder. Dana began to feel like an elderly 
dwarf. An invisible one, as far as Jamie was concerned. And 
even more annoying,  Jamie had eaten only about four calories 
at dinner.  Dana, who as usual had missed lunch and was
harboring the appetite of a defensive end, couldn't decide 
whether to be embarrassed or enraged. She settled upon amused 
and enjoyed the evening.

Later, on the walk back to Mulder's apartment, she'd asked him 
if Jamie was the type of woman he'd been dating.

"You mean the younger generation?" he asked, clasping her hand 
tighter.  "I never went out with anyone young enough to be my 
daughter.  Never wanted to."  He grinned. "Or skinny enough to 
pass through a sieve."

"Did you know Richard's wife?" Scully asked curiously. She 
glanced around, enjoying the cooler night air.  It even smelled 
fairly pure, for the city.

"Back when I first met him, yeah.  She was nice.  About your 
age."

"Oh?"

"The only women I went out with, I chose because I liked them," 
he said, pulling her closer.  Apparently, the old Mulder mind-
reading mechanism was still intact. "I happen to think you're 
beautiful, but it's the total package that attracts me.  I 
think Jamie's a complete bore.  I don't have the least interest 
in vacuous blondes. Never had, never will."

Too perfect, Scully thought, watching an easy grounder to 
shortstop and taking Mulder's hand without even thinking. 
Charitably banishing from her mind all the porno bimbos she 
knew he'd lusted for over the years, she watched the team run 
off the field.  More and more, she was finding  touching him to 
be as natural as breathing.  An addiction seemed to be 
building, and she wasn't sure she approved.

Then she remembered the best hours of their brief time 
together, a night that neither had planned.

A week ago, she'd had a bad day.  It was like a book she 
enjoyed reading to her young patients when she had the time, 
about a little boy named Alexander who experienced a day when 
everything went wrong.  He had a terrible, no good, very bad 
day.  So did she.  From 7 a.m. till she crawled into a cab--
naturally, one without air conditioning--at 10 p.m., everything 
that could go wrong, did.  It had been a bitch of a day, filled 
with calamity large and small, and she was left without 
resources, an empty, burnt-out shell.

She thought she'd given the driver her address, so she was 
surprised to wake up from her funk and see the cab pulling up 
in front of Mulder's apartment.  Her subconscious had 
apparently blurted out his address, a suspicious occurrence, 
but one she was too tired to ponder. Wearily, she paid and 
trudged to his loft.

As she dragged herself toward his apartment, it occurred to her 
that she had no idea if he was there, if he was busy, or even 
if he were entertaining a Jamie-type in her absence.  That 
thought was beneath her, she realized.  She at least trusted 
him *that* much.  She knocked.

When he opened the door, he read her glazed eyes, the lines in 
her sweaty, unmade-up face, the slump of her shoulders, her 
disheveled clothes, the general dejection in her posture.  The 
old wordless communication was restored. It was magic.

He held out his arms and, without a thought, she walked into 
them.  He held her close for some time.  She relaxed, slumped 
into his arms, enjoying the sensation of being shielded.

Still wordless, he gently loosened his hold and led her toward 
the bath portion of his loft.  The loft, the creation of a 
skilled architect, was about 25 feet by 90 feet and divided 
into living areas.  She'd been right in her comments the first 
night Mulder visited her apartment:  His loft *could* contain 
her apartment several times over.

His bath area was equipped with a Jacuzzi.  After starting the 
mechanism, he turned to her and methodically undressed her.  He 
did this without speaking and with no overt sexuality.  His 
hands unbuttoning her clothes were warm and affectionate but 
totally undemanding.  Even slipping off her bra and pulling
down her underpants were accomplished with no suggestive 
overtones.  The matter-of-fact affection was very appealing to 
the exhausted Scully.

He then helped her into the bath, making sure she was 
comfortable and carefully folding a thick green towel behind 
her head. He padded from the room. She sank back and closed her 
eyes, not thinking, just soaking up the sensations.  She began 
to feel as if she were encased in a warm womb. Afloat in 
amniotic fluid.  She fleetingly wished she could stay there 
forever.

A little time later, the strains of La Boheme filled the loft.  
Maybe taking Mulder to see The Marriage of Figaro had whetted 
his interest in opera.  Maybe he merely wanted to please her.  
At any rate, she was definitely pleased. What sensations.  The 
glorious strains of the world's most beautiful music.  Muscles 
uncoiling slowly and deliciously. The sensuous play of the 
water over her skin.  The rough edge of the towel behind her 
neck.

A warm hand touched her arm.

She opened one sleepy eye.  Mulder handed her a glass of 
Chablis and left the room.  With the wine, the music, the warm 
womb water, Dana's relaxation reached fetal proportions.  The 
tensions of the day drained away, from body and mind.

She became caught up in the melodies, and tears trailed down 
her cheeks as she absorbed one of her favorite moments.  Mimi 
entered, and Rudolph lit her candle from his own.  A lovely 
intimate, symbolic act. Then her candle blew out; so did his.  
In the near darkness, a stunning duet rang out:  "Your tiny
hand is frozen/ Let me warm it into life."  That's how Dana 
felt: warmed into life.  Not just by the Jacuzzi, but by 
Mulder's presence. Her life had been frozen into place for so 
long; now it was changing. She felt cleansed without and 
within.

Eventually, it was time for her rebirth.  Mulder helped her out 
of the Jacuzzi and swaddled her in an immense green towel.  
Still silent, he guided her to his sleeping area, where the 
covers were already folded down and a shirt lay on the bed.  
There, he dried her gently and buttoned her into an old, soft 
dress shirt that reached nearly to her knees.  He tucked her 
in, and drifted away.

In the soft light, Dana lay as content as an infant, for once 
not bothered but soothed by being cared for.  The music 
swelled, and her relaxed body relished the smooth touch of the 
clean-smelling sheets. Her adult self had been rinsed away in 
the bath.  It felt good.

Within five minutes he returned, having turned off the music, 
locked up, and attended to his own bedtime needs.  Swiftly 
stripping to his boxers, he slipped under the covers behind her 
and turned off the light.  Her last memory of that night was of 
his arm falling across her belly while his minty breath stirred 
the hair at the back of her neck.  She slept like a baby.  In 
her case, it was not a cliché. Not a word was spoken from the 
time she knocked at his door until she woke up the next 
morning.

That was the ideal, not the norm, she reminded herself. *No*, 
her thoughts shouted.  That was *not* the ideal to a self-
sufficient grown woman like herself.  When did she start 
visualizing infancy as an ideal, she wondered, frowning.  
Besides,  real life didn't feature men who anticipated your 
every need and met it before you could even state it.  Real 
life was full of conflict, disagreement, and strife.  It just 
hadn't manifested itself yet.  It would.  Give it time, she 
told herself.  You must take some time.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the crack of a bat making 
solid contact with the ball. Instantly, she tuned back in to 
the game. "Call it," she said.  "In or out?"

One of their nights together, stretched out on her couch, 
they'd watched a baseball game on TV.  They'd amused themselves 
with a series of challenges:  predicting whether a ball was a 
home run, whether a base would be stolen, whether a runner 
would be thrown out, whether a well-placed blooper would be
caught.  The answer had to come instantaneously, testing the 
instinct of the challenged.

Mulder watched the ball sail toward the deep center field.  
"In," he predicted.

"You got it," Scully said, as the center fielder hauled it in 
on the warning track.

Mulder looked pleased and watched the next batter arrange his 
cup on national TV.  "Have you eaten?" he asked.

Scully thought.  "I think I had a late lunch," she finally 
responded.

"I'll go get you something.  Name it."

"I checked the food on my way in and didn't see anything I 
wanted. I don't mind waiting till after the game."

"Nope.  At least you need a drink.  So do I.  What do you want 
to stave off dehydration?"

"Who's the doctor here?" Scully asked.  "Whatever. No beer.  
Soda, iced tea, something like that."

Mulder rose and, as he slid past Scully, gave her cheek an 
affectionate, lingering touch.

He really *is* on his best behavior, she thought, smiling at 
him as he turned toward the concession area.  Too good to be 
true.  Oh, shit! I don't believe I'm still thinking that. He 
has been a goddamned prince this whole month and a half, and 
I'm still suspicious.  I just can't give him my trust.

She wondered unhappily if there were any way he could behave 
that she wouldn't contrive to find objectionable. Or be tempted 
to interpret in a negative way.  A stubborn part of her simply 
refused to accept this new relationship without a struggle.

Yet their time together was comfortable and comforting. Some 
was actually joyous. Often, it was exciting and stimulating. 
Fun. And, there was the night at his loft, when something 
unprecedented and miraculous happened to her—a willingness to 
relax and put herself in his hands. Not sexually.  That had
always come easily to her, so it didn't count.  But ceding 
control had rarely been easy in other areas of her life.  That 
night, she had achieved an unusual ability to *stop thinking*.  
To exist.  To give way to pure sensation.

She felt a great deal for Mulder, yet she couldn't put those 
feelings into words. Sometimes, she couldn't even identify 
them. At the same time, she was afraid of feeling too much, so 
she tried to fight back the feelings.  She'd been burned badly 
eight years ago, and the scars remained, often covered, at
other times seemingly healed, but sometimes raw and tingling.

She was too old to believe in "happily ever after." Yet she was 
too hopeful, too shaken by her feelings for Mulder, to assume a 
complete cynicism.  Therefore, she was caught on an endless 
teeter-totter.  The more smoothly things went between them, the 
less comfortable she felt. Danger signals flared, making her 
edgy. Sometimes she pictured him as a whirlpool, intent on
sweeping her away.  She needed a balance of power in this 
relationship.  She couldn't--wouldn't--give up control. Too 
many things had been *done* to her in the past.

Another side of her, which she regarded as traitorous, purred 
luxuriously, overjoyed to be with the only man she had ever 
felt this kind of passion for.  Some aspect of youthful, 
girlish Dana was ecstatic to be with Mulder at last, a tiny 
remnant of the "get your man" syndrome Scully thought she'd 
long ago outgrown and banished. Hidden deep inside her, 
Cinderella lived, to her vast dismay.  Her Prince had come.  
Blech, she thought, humiliated to uncover such thoughts at her 
age.  As a girl, she hadn't even played with dolls much.  Now
she wanted to *be* one?  Disgusting.

The more loving and considerate he was, the more happiness and 
optimism she felt.  Yet she was also afraid--somewhere deep 
inside where the insecurity wrought by his abandonment still 
lived, in a place where she was not at all rational--that he 
was faking it.  But, the more she doubted his honesty, and
his honor, the guiltier she felt, for no word or gesture had 
suggested even a trace of insincerity in his feelings.  In 
short, it had been an interesting, joyful, exciting, 
invigorating, frustrating, and confusing month.  Dana Scully
was at war with herself.

How to make it right, she mused.  Maybe only time could heal 
this particular wound.  He'd stabbed her in the heart, the most 
painful place to be attacked, and, as that wound healed, she'd 
firmly closed her heart against him, or even the memory of him.  
What has been so firmly sealed can't be ripped open.  Her
heart would have to open to him gradually of its own accord. As 
it had the night her subconscious sent her to his loft for 
comfort.  That night she was able to trust him completely.  For 
this to become a normal state, she would have to be patient.

We *have* time, she told herself, watching the second baseman 
boot an easy grounder.  She shook her head, as usual disturbed 
by imperfection. Mulder was not rushing her or pressuring her 
in any way.  Did this mean he wasn't as passionate as he 
claimed to be?  That he was still a workaholic who put his
personal relationships second?  Or that he realized how deeply 
she'd been hurt and was sensitively giving her time to heal?  
Boos echoed throughout the ballpark as the runner--who 
shouldn't even have reached first--stole second.

"Looks like I missed all the bad stuff," Mulder remarked, 
sitting down and handing her iced tea.  "Did you think he'd be 
safe at second?"

"It was close," she shrugged.

"Starving?"

"I'm okay.  It's just been a long day." She took a sip of her 
drink. "I'm glad to be out here in a sweaty crowd of 
loudmouths, to be honest." The stadium echoed with raucous 
calls from dissatisfied fans, or former fans, of the Yankees.

"The hospital was like a freezer today. Reminded me of the 
morgue."  She gestured vaguely at the air, so humid that it was 
almost visible.  Yankee Stadium had turned into a giant 
aquarium, the air thick and sludgy. "This, at least, is real."

Mulder nodded and wiped more sweat from his face.  "I don't see 
how any ball is ever going to get out of here tonight.  All 
this moisture'll make them so heavy."

"Who can object to heavy balls?" she smirked. "So, when we have 
a long fly, you're always going to call it in?"

Mulder jerked his attention away from her previous remark. 
"Unless it's hit with the power of Babe Ruth's ghost behind 
it."

They settled back to watch an entertainingly error-filled ball 
game.  Both teams seemed to be suffering from heat madness, so 
the basepaths were crowded with runners who had no right to be 
there.  Seeming to realize this, they kept making stupid 
running errors, three times being picked off bases.  The fans
were livid, when they had the energy.  Mulder and Scully 
laughed, enjoying the bungling till the end of the sixth.
 
Scully's hand, which had been resting on Mulder's thigh, moved 
upward, tracing tiny patterns on his jeans.  "Hey, watch it," 
he hissed.  "Keep that up and I'll have to drag you off to one 
of the tunnels under the stadium.  Have my wicked way with you 
against some wall." He waggled his brows suggestively.
 
The hand halted but did not lift.  "You sound like a guy I used 
to go  with.  He wasn't really happy with sex unless he was 
doing it in a public place.  Scully sighed. "It got wearing 
after a while."
 
Mulder laughed.  "How many women would describe public sex as 
'wearing,' " he said. "What a talent you have for 
understatement." He looked both amused and curious to hear 
about Scully's previous experiences. And perhaps a little 
shocked to discover this side of his ex-partner. "So, how
public *were* these places?"  Was that a trace of the indignant 
father she detected in his tone?
 
"They varied."  Scully thought.  "Some were okay.  Locked in 
the bathroom at a party.  Nothing too startling about that, I 
guess.  Or outdoors.  Maybe on the beach or hiking in the 
woods." She paused and drank from her third iced tea of the 
night.  "With the possibility of other hikers coming along."
 
"So he got off on the prospect of discovery," Mulder said.  
"Hmmm.  Elevators?"  He spoke with the enthusiasm of a profiler 
at work. Scully half expected a diagnosis would follow.
 
"Yeah, stopped between floors.  You know," she observed,  "you 
look pretty messy walking out of an elevator just after sex." 
She wondered why she'd brought up this topic.  And continued to 
offer details. A wish to titillate?  Or maybe a desire to let 
him know he wasn't the only one in her past, by any means.
 
"Never tried it. I somehow imagine you looking more guilty--or 
self-conscious--than messy." He paused to drink and think. 
"Have you ever had sex in an airplane's bathroom?  That's my 
definition of misery." He pondered just how miserable he had 
sometimes been, then qualified, "Sex-wise, that is."
 
"The Mile High Club," Scully said.  "No, that was one place we 
missed.  Thank God I never flew with him." She tapped her cup 
thoughtfully, trying to figure out why she felt compelled to 
tell all.  She hoped she wasn't going to start telling him her 
life story.  *That* would end it, she thought sardonically.
 
"Let's see.  In a car.  He insisted on pulling off the highway 
and doing it in an overlook.  It was night, but still..."
 
"Overlook is right," Mulder said.  "Great treat for the 
truckdrivers. But, you know, Dr. Scully, you're not exactly shy 
about making your wishes known."  He gave her a probing look. 
"Weren't you getting off as well?  To go along with him, I 
mean? This *was* consensual sex, right?"
 
Scully frowned. She was starting to view her former activities 
as pretty kinky.  She didn't know if she wanted to apply that 
label.  She hadn't found what they did *that* remarkable at the 
time, compared with her friends' sexual adventures in New York.  
At least this guy had worn men's underwear.  And he confined 
his lusts to human beings.  Too long in this city, she thought,
turning her mind to Mulder's query.
 
"It was kind of exciting at first. The novelty, you know." And 
besides, she added mentally, I'd had some pretty lean years, 
sexually,  and I was due for a breakout.  The kind of thing I 
could never have with you.  "But he was like some kind of 
escalating fetishist.  When he dragged me into a cleaning 
closet, I called it all off.  It wasn't just that there wasn't 
a lock on the inside of the door." She drank again, thinking 
back.  "Although that was certainly a factor.  But I was even 
more worried that we'd knock over some cleaning product and get 
burned.  Or be overcome by fumes.  And be discovered like 
that."
 
"And wind up in the newspaper," Mulder concluded with a smirk.  
"Pediatrician and date found naked in closet.  What a headline.  
Sure to attract a lot of new business." He dropped his empty 
tea cup to the floor and glanced at the torpid ballplayers.
 
"What do you think of sex in cars?" Scully asked. Her voice was 
getting huskier despite the objective wording of her question. 
She managed to combine the impersonal tone of a pollster with 
the honeyed seductive tones of a phone sex purveyor.  This 
conversation was...stimulating, she thought. Why *not* conduct 
a little exploration of the sexual past.  Or spice up the 
sexual present?
 
"Not much.  I'm too tall to be really comfortable. At least in 
any sort of horizontal position." Mulder paused for a moment, 
looking sweatier than he had all evening. He was now fully 
focused on her instead of the game.  Babe Ruth could have 
hunkered over the plate without his noticing. "And unlike your
friend, the prospect of discovery isn't an aphrodisiac for me."
 
Scully patted his thigh.  "You don't need an aphrodisiac."  She 
laughed to see Mulder blush, a first in their long history.  
"No tunnel under the stadium?"
 
"Not tonight. I'll be glad--more than glad--to participate in 
the joys of private sex." He picked up her hand and nibbled the 
tip of her finger.  Suggestively. Their eyes met,  and sparks 
flew.  Her finger felt electrified.  "But first, let's go get 
some food in an air-conditioned place," Mulder proposed.  He 
looked like a man who could use a cold shower.  For more than 
one reason.
 
"But I'm losing so much weight in this sauna," Scully said.  
"I'm surprised every woman in New York isn't here tonight."
 
He grabbed her arm and pulled her up.  "Come on."  He looked 
down toward the area where his lap had been. "What's that?"
 
Both stared at his groin area with interest. He reached deep 
into his pocket and pulled out his beeper.  "I wasn't sure if 
you were making me vibrate, or what.  Here's the culprit."
 
Scully groaned.  "I guess this means you make some phone calls, 
then head straight to a computer, huh?"
 
"I'm sorry." Mulder looked really, really sorry, she thought. 
"Don't worry; we'll get you some food."
 
Taking the stairs to the exit, Scully turned to Mulder. After 
all her musings and confusion about their relationship, she was 
disappointed that his business was coming between them, rather 
than what she had anticipated coming between
them. In delightfully graphic images.  

These sudden changes in her mood were disconcerting.  It was 
kind of scary--this return to adolescence in her mid-forties.  
A horny adolescent, at that, she thought. One who gives in to 
impulses and makes deliberately provocative statements.  In a 
phone-sex voice.  Like this one:
 
"You know, Mulder, I wanted you more than I wanted food." 
 
Reaching the corridor, Mulder spun her against the wall and 
pinned her there with his body.  "Don't let what I said about 
public sex make you complacent," he growled into her ear, as he 
bit her salty neck.  "You know how easily I can change my mind. 
How I've always been so damned impulsive." He wrapped both
hands around her head, making her hair tumble from its pins. He 
kissed her, hard and thoroughly, then drew back slightly.  
"Wanna do it, now?" he challenged, eyes ablaze. "How about a 
stall in the ladies' room?"
 
She met his eyes, finally bringing him into focus after his 
sudden assault on her senses.  She reached up and pulled his 
head down to hers, catching his lower lip between her teeth, 
then kissed it gently.  "I'm tempted to call your bluff," she 
said softly. "I *know* you need to get out of here and start
moving around vast sums. I *know* you're not turned on by 
public sex.  I may have the winning hand."
 
He kissed her forehead, temple, ear, brow, and lips. He pushed 
his hips into her stomach, demonstrating his serious desire for 
her.  "But do you *know* that I value you over any amount of 
money?  And surely you *know* that I've always had a serious 
addiction to risk.  I love danger.  Why else would I mess
with large sums of money?  And with you?" He smiled.  And 
challenged, "You game?"
 
Scully pulled him into a passionate kiss and ground her body 
against his.  But it was just a pleasurable gesture, meant to 
cast a little doubt in his mind, before throwing in her cards.  
She might be horny, but she didn't want to have sex in the 
ladies' room at Yankee Stadium any more than Mulder did.  The 
very thought was a turnoff.  Actually, even *using* the ladies' 
room was a turnoff.  
 
That's probably why he suggested that spot, the sneaky bastard, 
she thought.  She knew that behind all those male hormones 
there still lurked an avid businessman and a smart profiler. 
She seldom made the mistake of taking Mulder at face value.  
Sometimes people *do* learn from the past, she thought. Or
perhaps not.  Her present conflict, after all, revolved around 
trusting Mulder in his new persona. The jury was still out.
 
"Come on, Mulder." He looked confused for a moment as she 
pushed him away and began walking down the corridor.  "No, not 
to the ladies' room."
 
He sighed as he took her hand, tugged his tee-shirt *way* down, 
and headed for the exit.  A sigh of relief? Maybe 
disappointment.  "No hits," he said, "no runs, no score. 
Later?"
 
"Whenever, Mulder. We have plenty of time."  Just what she'd 
been telling herself all evening.  It was true.