CHAPTER THIRTEEN:  EXPLORATION

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"I was conscious of a mortal coldness and felt as if I should 
never again be warm."

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

Mulder's hand groped across the area to his left in the bed and  
found it empty.  When he forced his eyes open, the moonlight, so 
brilliant that he could see into every corner of the room, 
revealed that Scully wasn't there. "Scully?" he called, thinking 
she might be in the bathroom.  After a silence, he rubbed his 
eyes and got out of bed, sleepily looking for some pants to throw 
on.  He pawed through the heap of clothes he'd tossed on the 
floor, finally extracting his shorts.  Zipping up, he left the 
room.

Scully was seated in the library facing the fireplace, or, to be 
precise, facing the portrait that hung above the mantel.  She was 
staring deeply into the blue eyes, searching out their message.  
It seemed vitally important for her to understand what those old 
eyes in the vibrant young face were trying to tell her.

It concerned *her*.  The message was specifically for her.  And 
it contained mixed emotions.  If only she knew what they were; it 
was the most important thing she could think of.  The only thing 
she could think of.

A hand touched her neck.  She jumped about six inches before the 
voice penetrated.  "Scully.  What are you doing down here?"

Mulder's voice was really quite soft, not frightening at all.  
And his hand was gentle, barely touching her.  Yet, it seemed as 
if he'd appeared from a different world, not the one she'd been 
inhabiting.  She took a deep breath, tried to relax and make her 
way back to Mulder's world, to withdraw from the blue-eyed woman 
with the compelling gaze.  It was hard to leave her; there was an 
attachment, one she felt but couldn't describe.

"You're freezing," Mulder exclaimed, touching her face.  He bent 
and took her hands.  "Like ice cubes.  How did you get so cold?"

With effort, Scully focused on his words.  "I guess it's because 
the windows are open," she said.  Language seemed to come slowly 
to her.  She'd been speaking a different language, totally 
engrossed in it, one without words.  "The sea breeze is really 
chilly in the middle of the night."

He nodded.  "What are you doing down here?"

She shrugged.  "I woke up.  The library seemed like a good place 
to come."

Mulder looked around.  No bookshelves disturbed, no books lying 
around the room.  Only one light, one that lit the portrait over 
the mantel.  "Doesn't look like you read anything," he said.

"No, I guess I just sat here and basked in the moonlight.  Let's 
go back upstairs."

Scully took off her robe and took a flying leap to make it back 
into the bed.  "It's a lot warmer up here," she said.  "Do you 
think the library was unusually chilly?"

Mulder slipped out of his shorts and easily seated himself on the 
bed, then pushed his legs under the covers.  He pulled Scully 
into his arms.  "I don't see a big difference.  But I'll keep you 
warm, babe."

She snuggled into him and felt his body relax, his breathing 
deepen, his arm grow heavier.  He was soon in a deep sleep while 
she felt. . . an unease.  The portrait downstairs stirred 
something in her, fascinated her, excited her.  It was hard to 
get back to sleep when downstairs, waiting for her like a cookie 
jar crammed with her favorite goodies, was that magnetic 
personality who looked as if she might be willing to yield up her 
secrets to the right listener.  But eventually the rhythm of 
Mulder's breathing lulled Scully into sleep.

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

Breakfast was wonderful, Scully thought, admiring the formal 
setting of thin yellow-flowered china on mahogany, which gleamed 
in the light admitted by the three large windows facing the sea.  
The sky was a deep, deep blue, gulls swooped, pure-looking, puffy 
clouds floated by.  Gazing out of this aerie was like being on 
top of the world, above all common cares.  She felt she could fly 
like a bird, spread her wings like the gulls and float above it 
all.  And the yellow roses bloomed with a fierce beauty, calling 
Look at me.  Hurry.

Again, Scully noticed how fanciful she'd become since she entered 
this house.  Maybe it was because she was wrestling with a life 
decision, on the verge of changing her way of life and making the 
connection with Mulder permanent.  The process seemed to have cut 
her loose from her normal thought patterns, sharpened her 
perceptions.  Up here above the rest of the world, surrounded by 
sky and sea, she felt buoyant.

Well, she wasn't alone up here.  At the moment, she was seated at 
the table with Mulder and another couple, the one they hadn't met 
yesterday.  As they helped themselves to fresh fruit, Martha set 
down a basket of hot breads and went off to put together her 
special crepe with raspberry sauce dish. The smells emanating 
from the kitchen were heavenly.  It was a perfect morning.

Everything looked great, inside and out.  She was not in the 
least tired by her night-time excursion.  Mulder too was looking 
energized, Scully thought.  Rested and refreshed, he was clean 
shaven, clear-eyed, and neatly dressed in a blue polo shirt and 
trim khaki shorts.  Good enough to eat, she thought, laying a 
hand on his thigh.  He dropped his fork and reached down to 
squeeze her hand gently.  They exchanged smiles, then turned 
their attention to what the other couple were saying.

The Booths had driven up from Virginia, from the horse country 
outside Charlottesville.  They were in their sixties and had been 
coming to Canada every summer since the kids were little.  Now, 
of course, the kids were grown and gone.  "Yes," Sara Booth was 
saying in her soft Southern drawl, "they'd complain about leaving 
the horses.  When they were at the horse adoration stage, they 
insisted on writing postcards to the horses every day."

Her husband, Jerry, laughed.  "Small price to pay to be up here 
eating seafood and boating instead of sweltering in Virginia all 
summer.  We always rented a cabin for the whole summer, somewhere 
in Nova Scotia or PEI.  We've been in every part.  And every 
place we've been has been great."

Sara nodded. "We can't stop.  We'll be coming up here, at least 
through July and August, till the day we drop.  We're addicts."

"I could become addicted to this," Mulder said, as Martha set 
down the steaming crepes and raspberries.  "Want to come back to 
the city and be a chef, Martha?"

She shook her head and rushed back into the kitchen, then 
reappeared with two more plates.  "I couldn't give up all this," 
she said, gesturing to the lush view outside the windows.  "Take 
a walk down the cliff path after breakfast.  You'll fall in 
love."

Martha picked up the orange juice pitcher and took it back to the 
kitchen for a refill.  Mulder murmured to Scully, "I *am* in 
love."

She gave him the kind of full-wattage smile that he imagined 
might make his socks roll up and down if he were a 'Toon 
character.  Faces flushed, they turned to their plates and joined 
the Booths in exclaiming about the excellence of Martha's 
cooking.

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

The wild yellow roses, which were out of control everywhere else, 
were clipped back from the cliff path.  The path was wide, 
composed of large, flat rocks, and had sturdy wooden railings on 
both sides.  Only halfway down, they could hear almost nothing 
but the pounding of the sea on the rocks.  "Look up," Mulder 
said, leaning close to her ear.

Scully obediently turned and squinted.  "Can't even see the 
house," she said.  "Just cliffs and roses."

"It's really steep," Mulder said.  "Look how many twists and 
turns this path makes to get us down in any form but on our 
asses.  Don't try this at home, boys and girls."

"It's fine," Scully said.  "And the railing is here for anyone 
suffering from vertigo.  Don't you think this is a great place?"

"Yeah, I do," Mulder said, as they neared the bottom of the 
stairs and started to step from rock to rock, approaching the 
sea.  "Would you like to live in a place like this?  As a 
vacation house, I mean?  You heard the Booths, a place up here 
would be great to come to in the summer."

Scully stopped leaping from rock to rock and stepped onto the 
large rock Mulder was standing on.  "You could afford a place 
here, *places* in other countries?  As well as any apartment, 
loft, or house I choose in New York?"

He nodded.  "*We*," he corrected.  "We can afford whatever house 
or houses we want."

"I thought you didn't particularly care about spending your 
money.  That the thrill was in making it, playing the market, 
making a killing, so to speak.  You said you give most of it 
away."

"Yeah, I do.  There's a whole hell of a lot of it, Scully.  We'll 
have to get into the finances; this is stuff you should know 
about.  And besides, before, I didn't have anything to spend it 
on, once I'd furnished my loft.  Now you're with me.  We can 
spend it on anything we want."

Approaching the sea, they lowered themselves onto a long flat 
rock and stretched out their legs.  Scully stared out to sea, 
admiring the clear, fresh waters.  She hadn't bargained on 
joining a financial empire.  Money bored her, basically.  She 
appreciated that it could buy comfort and beauty, like the place 
she was sitting and enjoying the living hell out of, but she 
seldom thought about money as an end in itself.   She'd always 
realized that with additional funds, she could try more research 
avenues, reach her goals more quickly.  In that sense, she knew 
it could save lives.  But she wasn't used to its exerting a 
direct influence on her personal life.  And wasn't sure she 
wanted to add that to the equation.  Although it was already 
there.  It came with Mulder.

She turned to him.  His eyes were on the horizon, crinkled and 
lively.  He looked like a bronzed god today.  "Mulder?"

He turned to her and gave her a questioning look.

"You're Gatsby, only a whole lot richer.  I am but. . .  a poor 
and humble doctor.  Do you. . . do you want a pre-nup?"

He laughed, threw an arm around her shoulder and drew her close.  
He kissed her temple, still chuckling.  "Christ, no.  Why would 
you think that?"

She shrugged.  "You're rich, Mulder.  People like to protect 
their assets."

"You're my asset," he answered swiftly. "Or at least I hope you 
will be.  If you left. . . why, why would I give a fuck about the 
money?"

"I. . .I don't know.  People do.  They get crazy when there's 
money involved."  She felt embarrassed now for having asked the 
question.  He'd told her--several times--that she was the most 
important thing to him.  When would it get through her thick head 
that he very likely, almost certainly, highly probably, meant it?  
Gotta believe, babe, she told herself.  

She pulled his head down for a kiss.   "I'm sorry," she told him, 
raising her voice to be heard over the sea pounding on the rocks.  
"I should have known the answer to that.  I shouldn't have asked 
the question."

"You can ask any question you want," he said.  "I'll tell you 
anything you want to know."  He grinned.  "For two weeks.  Then 
the offer expires."

She laughed.  "Good.  Then I'll have to come up with some 
challenging questions.  Quick."

He pulled her face to his and closed a hand over her breast.  The 
sun formed a nimbus around their heads as they coiled into each 
other on the rock.

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

Although they had expected to spend a half day at the Museum of 
the Fisheries, it was so fascinating and so full of exhibits and 
demonstrations, Scully and Mulder spent the entire day there.  
The museum encapsulated the history of the town, its ship 
building, and its fishing industry.

Exhibits abounded.  They examined fish and other marine 
life, the evolving designs of boats, the evolving life of the 
town itself, the history of its fishermen, and the town's  
participation in training Norwegian fighters during the Second 
World War.  They pored over lobster traps, different methods for 
capturing clams and mussels, and the increasingly complex means 
of catching and processing fish.

"Poor fish," Mulder commented.  "They've got them surrounded."

"Poor fish?  You drool over them every time you sit at a table.  
I don't see you refusing to eat them."

"Well, no, of course not.  They're delicious.  But they do seem 
like the, pardon the expression, underdogs, with all this 
technology."

Scully shrugged.  "How sympathetic do you find a lobster anyway?"

"Not very," they said in unison.

They studied exhibits of the historic Bluenose and the Bluenose 
II.  The guides were working people, very knowledgeable.  It 
wasn't a mere exhibit; this was still a working, evolving fishing 
town, with most of the residents still involved in the fishing 
and boating industries, just as their ancestors had been.

They broke for lunch, within the building, savoring a delicious 
lobster bisque before digging into  cold sandwiches stuffed with 
lobster, scallops, and crab.   Well fortified, they set out to 
see more demonstrations--a miniature boat launching, techniques 
for the  harpooning of whales, exhibits of various whale parts 
along with information about how whale materials were used.

"This should be a dream come true for you, Scully, with your love 
of Moby Dick."

Scully studied the charts that showed pictures of different types 
of whales.  "I don't see the white killer whale listed here."

Mulder raised a brow.  "Could it be. . . that he doesn't exist?  
That he's fictional?"

There were also films running throughout the day, thrilling films 
showing adventures at sea, close-ups of cruises that looked as 
though there would surely be no survivors.  From time to time, 
they went out and sipped drinks in the sunshine, resting 
bonelessly on a bench and staring dreamily at the sailboats 
swooping across the clear blue waters.

Entranced by the treasure house, they went back for more.  They 
watched boats being built and questioned the builders.  They learned 
to tie a variety of knots and to knit fishermen's mittens and to 
mend a fishing net.  They studied the art of fish filleting ("At 
last," Mulder said, "something I might conceivably do."). They 
toured rooms displaying pictures of the Norwegians who had joined 
the town during the war.  The previous night they had noticed the 
memorial to the slain Norwegians.  By the time they were well 
informed about the town's adventures with rum running, both had 
had enough.

They again strolled through the town, admiring the Victorians, 
the abundance of the bloom in the gardens, and the view from the 
hills on which the town was perched.  They visited the oldest 
building in the town, St. John's, the second oldest Protestant 
church in North America, built in 1753.  By that time, they'd 
worked up an appetite again, so they settled at a table facing 
the sea.  With the sun beginning to set, they watched the action 
wind down at the golf course across the water, studied the play 
of light on the green grass and the blue waters.

They began with another seafood chowder; then Mulder moved on to 
seafood in filo while Scully tore into a huge platter of mussels 
in red sauce, sopping up the sauce with huge pieces of bread.  
They talked little, content to enjoy the tastes and the view.  No 
dessert was needed, they agreed, walking back to the car.

"Another great day," Mulder said upon their return, as they 
walked past the house and stood at the top of the walkway down to 
the sea.  Again, they made their way down and strolled on the rocks 
by the sea until darkness descended and they made their way back 
to the house.

"I think I could live here," Scully said, as they reached the top 
of the stone steps.  "Or someplace like this, overlooking the 
sea."

"Would you like to sail?"  Seeing no one else around, they headed 
for the stairs.  Scully felt a little pull as she passed the door 
to the library, but the day itself had exerted a powerful effect 
on her.  She was filled with contentment.  A wonderful day 
crammed with interesting information and exhibits, delectable 
food, and the company of her favorite person in the world.  All 
had been beautiful and harmonious.  The lady's blue eyes were not 
such a potent force at the moment.

"Sure," she said.  "We could rent a boat tomorrow if you'd like."

"You're on."

Entering their room, they headed for the window.  "Another full 
moon," Scully noted.

"Did you know it turns me into a werewolf?"  Mulder bared his 
teeth.

Scully turned around and pulled his shirt up over his chest.  He 
obligingly bent down and raised his arms to let her slip it over 
his head.  She touched his chest, ran both hands over it.  "You 
don't feel very hairy to me," she observed.  She kept rubbing, 
however, just in case some tufts were about to spring up.

"Maybe I've got it backwards," he said, reaching for her shirt.  
"Maybe it's you who turn into a werewolf.  Let's see."  He yanked 
her shirt over her head and let it drift to the floor.  "None 
yet," he said, peering down her bra.  "But this could be hiding a 
lot of hair."  The bra sailed down to rest near the shirt.  
Mulder shook his head.  "We're just going to have to, uh, conduct 
a more thorough search.  Investigate, as we used to say."

Scully nodded.  "As long as I get to do the same."  She reached 
for his shorts and unbuttoned them easily.

"You're good at this," he said.

"I'm good at a lot of things."  She leaned forward and took his 
nipple into her mouth, giving it a gentle nip.

He pulled her body against his.  He whispered, "Show me."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:  MOONLIGHT VENTURES

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"A talk!  Do you mean she spoke?"

"It came to that."

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They lay naked on the bed in the moonlight, Scully on her 
back, arms angled above her head, hands clasped.  Mulder lay 
turned on his side, very close but not touching her, just 
looking.   She found it *very* sexy to be studied, pored 
over, in this way, his eyes narrowed with fierce 
concentration, as though she were the only object in his 
world.

His eyes traveled up her body, making their way slowly from 
the slightly rounded flesh of her stomach to her eyes.  Their 
eyes met and mingled in the moonlit room, pupils large and 
dark.  "You're beautiful," he whispered, leaning down to kiss 
her shoulder.  It was a quick, gentle kiss.  He lifted his 
head and continued to examine her with loving eyes.

"You're beautiful too," she told him softly.  "All day I've 
been thinking that you look like a god.  The sun's made you a 
perfect bronze.  And all I do is freckle."

"I've always wanted to be a deity, especially one who adores 
freckles," he said, moving his right hand over her and letting 
it rest on her stomach.  His fingertips brushed her skin 
lightly, sending shivers down her spine.  They made their way 
slowly up her body, stopping from time to time to rub, brush, 
or caress.

She caught her breath, then forced herself to relax and enjoy 
the journey.  Mulder, she had found, loved foreplay.  After 
having known so many men to whom it was a duty, something that 
women expected them to do before getting to the good stuff, 
she was delighted and even a bit surprised to make this 
discovery.  He'd always been so hard-driving and impatient in 
the old days.  She'd suspected he might just want to stick it 
in, get it on, and get off.  Nope.   Way back on one of their 
first cases, he'd told his fledgling partner that she, at 
least, respected the journey.  Well, so did he, the journey 
toward sexual fulfillment.  He respected the hell out of it.

His hand arrived at her breasts, which he weighed carefully, 
one at a time, then circled the tender flesh.  He repeated 
this action, slowly inching toward the center with each 
rotation.  Scully closed her eyes to revel in the sensation, 
willing him to touch her nipples.  He took his sweet time 
about it, but when he arrived, he lavished each with 
attention, rubbing the tips, circling the base, flicking each 
with his thumb.  "Oh, God," she breathed.

Sometimes they were quick, as they'd been the other night in 
the shower, passion carrying them past any extended foreplay.  
Sometimes they were quick simply because they were tired and 
wanted sexual release, followed by much-needed sleep.  But not 
often.  Usually, they took their time and made love, gave each 
other an hour or more of pleasure.  They were still exploring 
each other's bodies and making fresh discoveries.

One discovery they were both pleased with concerned her 
breasts.  Mulder loved them--to manipulate them, to play with 
them, to suck them, to lick them, to bite them.  And Scully, 
it turned out, had enormously sensitive breasts.  Sometimes 
she was convinced she'd come if he just stared hard enough at 
her breasts and looked as if he was going to touch them or 
suck them.

"Oh," she cried out, as his mouth closed over one breast while 
his fingers continued their rhythmic teasing of the tip of her 
other nipple.  As his mouth performed its magic, she tried not 
to squirm, told herself to relax and enjoy what would probably 
be a long, pleasurable prelude.  He licked her nipple to a 
hard point, then took a gentle bite, bringing forth a hoarse 
moan from Scully.  He sucked it again while pinching its mate, 
and Scully gave up and started shifting her hips restlessly 
over the bed.

He lifted his head.  "Excited?"

Scully unclasped her hands and moved them down to wrap around 
the back of his head.  "You should be this excited," she told 
him.  "And I'd be happy to oblige.  Remember, I promised to 
show you how good I was at some things."

"All in good time," he said.  "I'm enjoying this too much to 
stop."  He lowered his head to hers, covering her face with 
gentle pecks, kissing every inch of her flesh and hairline.  
She loved it when he kissed her eyelids.  She moved her hands 
to his cheeks and guided his lips to hers, where they met in a 
blaze of passion, feasting on each other in a strange 
amalgamation of tenderness and greed.  This seemed to go on 
for several eternities as they lost themselves in the pure 
sensation of taking turns being inside each other.  Why hurry 
when you're already engaged in perfection, Scully thought.

Another thing that had surprised her, pleasantly, about the 
sexual Mulder was that he was not kinky.  She'd had a 
lingering fear in the back of her mind that a guy who'd spent 
the better part of his sexual life closeted with a bunch of 
porn films would have picked up some esoteric tastes.  Wrong.  

Actually, of all the men she'd known in New York, he was one 
of the most conventional--and by far the most pleasurable--
sexually.  He mentioned no desires to have sex in public 
places, wear women's underwear, tie her up, be whipped with 
trendy little sex toys, or have a third party watch or 
participate.  Sexually, Mulder was apple pie.  The best: 
genuine, delicious, and full of surprises and variety.  No 
dessert had so many delightful and tasty variations as apple 
pie, in Scully's opinion.  She liked her Mulder a la mode.

He lifted his head, looked into her eyes.  Then, he began to 
kiss his way down her body, taking a very long time, sampling 
each part, tasting, nipping, licking.  His leisurely caresses 
brought to her mind the poem, "To His Coy Mistress."  Mulder 
made love as though he *did* have world enough and time, 
centuries, in fact.

He stopped for a lengthy detour at her breasts and gave an 
encore performance, aided this time by her pressing inside his 
ears, guiding him, conducting this movement.  His fingers 
traveled downward and slipped inside her, sliding with the 
same rhythm as his tongue against her nipple.  She groaned and 
jerked her hips.

He played her like an instrument, she thought.  She envisioned 
herself as a guitar.  An instrument that responded best to 
highly skilled fingers and techniques, that, in expert hands, 
could produce an astounding array of beautiful music.  It 
could play classical music, jazz, bluegrass, folk, in endless 
variations and combinations.  This, she felt, was how he 
played her body.  His careful fingers chose a style and 
practiced their artistry on her, producing harmonies, dominant 
chords, and, often, dazzling improvisation.  She was delighted 
to be the instrument in a master's hands, producing the 
melodious sounds of ecstasy. 

Time slipped away as Scully felt herself drowning in 
sensation.  Parts of her body were moving without her 
volition, as her hips thrashed and her feet began pounding 
against the mattress.  Even her toes furled.  Muscles in her 
buttocks tightened till she could nearly hear their "twang."  
Mulder moved his head up and thrust his tongue into her mouth, 
at the same time sliding his hand up and pressing hard against 
her clit.  

The pressure, the scent of her arousal, the sounds of slick 
sliding alternating with her own pants and gasps--all combined  
to bring her to the breaking point.  Her eyes clamped shut, 
her mouth drank him in, her hips spasmed, and she thrust 
herself hard against his hand, grinding her clit into the 
target he presented.  With a rumble deep in her throat, she 
came, her hips continuing to jerk up and down.  He rubbed her 
gently, spreading the juices, till her movements subsided.  He 
kept his mouth on hers, soothing her now with tender movements 
against her tongue.

He lifted his mouth from hers and smiled down at her.  "You 
made me do a lot of the work," she said.  She pulled him down 
and tasted his mouth again, then released him.  After a few 
minutes of silence and recuperation, she smiled.  "Now," she 
said, "your turn.  Any special requests?"

He turned to his side again, looking at his right hand, soaked  
with her juices.  He showed it to her.  "Maybe I could paint 
my initials on your stomach with this."

She laughed.  "Or drink it for breakfast.  Don't try to gross 
me out, Mulder.  I am both a doctor and a New Yorker.  You 
don't have a chance."  She reached for him and ran her hand 
down the length of his penis, ready to serve as the baton in 
this interlude if called upon.  "Now what shall we do with 
this?" she asked.  "It feels as if it needs to go somewhere.  
Any preferences?"  She squeezed gently and caressed its head, 
running her thumb over the droplets.  "It feels very nice 
indeed."

"Do you really like my cock, Scully?"

She continued to run her hand up and down, giving it 
affectionate little squeezes from time to time.  "I don't 
understand the question, Mulder.  What's not to like?  It's a 
fine specimen.  Sturdy, upstanding, long-lasting.  Perfectly 
satisfactory, as far as I'm concerned.  Actually, better than 
satisfactory--downright wonderful."

She turned onto her side and continued stroking the object in 
question.  She leaned down so she could be nose to eye with 
it, so to speak.  She kissed it, gave it a gentle lick.  "It 
would medal in the Olympics," she murmured, taking it into her 
mouth and providing a gentle, rhythmic suction.  "Gold, of 
course," she added, applying her tongue to the ridge.

He knows all this, Scully thought.  He just feels like being 
told.  Men, she thought, drawing the head to the back of her 
throat.

He lay on his back, eyes closed, savoring the sensations, 
keening his pleasure.  She gave him the same kind of slow, 
careful attention he had offered her, making occasional forays 
to his mouth, his chest, his inner thighs.  Her mouth, which 
had some difficulty producing the words of love, was much more 
eloquent when it came to physical expression.  Mulder felt 
that he would gladly place himself in her hands and in her 
mouth for all eternity.  No one had ever touched him as she 
could.  In every way.

When his breathing and twitching and frantic clutches at her 
hair suggested that the time was right, Scully moved up, 
straddled his hips, and lowered herself onto the object of 
discussion, which acquitted itself admirably, making two 
people extremely happy.  Afterwards, they curled together, 
facing each other, eyelids drooping.

"Why did you ask me if I like your cock?" Scully asked him 
sleepily, cradling it, a shadow of its former self, in her 
hand.  She was always trying to figure out how the male mind 
worked.  And Mulder, she recalled, had said he'd answer her 
questions.

"I don't know," he yawned.  "Anyway, when you're holding it, I 
can barely string two words together."

"That's why they call it the other head."

"Yeah, yeah," he said.  "The place where men keep their 
brains, I know, I know." 

She gave it an affectionate pat.  "Doesn’t it *seem* to you 
that I like it?  I consider myself to be on very fond, 
familiar terms with it."

"Yeah, but. . .it's kind of a strange looking thing, don't you 
think?  Especially when it gets hard.  It's such an . . 
.unwieldy piece of flesh.  It. . . it cries out  to be 
satisfied.  If it doesn't get what it wants, it. . . it can 
embarrass a guy.  Or, even worse, it can refuse to get hard 
when you want it to.  Sometimes, the damned thing just has a 
mind of its own.  It *is* a second head."  He laughed 
bitterly.  "A moronic one."

She stroked it lovingly, causing it to perk up slightly.  "No, 
it's not a moron.  It knows enough to stand up when I come 
into the room.  It's a gentleman."

He snickered, then went on. "Yet, at the same time, it's so 
vulnerable."  She hadn't expected this much information.  He 
really seemed not to want to banter about this.  "If you 
squeezed it hard, you'd half kill me.  It's like. . . really 
putting it out there, you know?  And it's got to take on all 
the pressure of the performance.  Women can pretend, like 
moving your mouth when you're supposed to be singing, but with 
*this* thing, we can't fake.  We've got to. . . come across."

Scully ran her fingers down to give his balls a squeeze.  
"Sweetie, you don't have performance problems.  Far from it.  
I think your cock is a gorgeous piece of flesh.  I'm very 
attached to it.  Do you believe me?"

He nodded.  "Yeah.  I do.  You always treat it so well."  He 
looked surprised, as if he'd just realized what he'd been 
saying.  "I never told anyone that before."

"I always thought guys preened themselves about having them.  
Hence, the term penis envy."

"Yeah, but we make such a big deal because they've got to 
perform.  A lot of it's pure bravado.  It's like a pep talk in 
the locker room before the game."

"Well," she said, giving it a final stroke before burrowing 
her head into his chest and closing her eyes, "you've got a 
winning team down there.  But you knew that, didn't you?"

"Uh-huh.  I guess I did.  But it's nice to hear sometimes." 

Happy and exhausted, they drifted off.

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

Once again, in the middle of the night, Scully awoke, 
moonlight shining in her eyes.  Mulder was snoring in her ear, 
his limp hand wrapped around her forearm.  Gently, she 
extricated herself.  After washing up in the bathroom, she 
looked around the bright room.  She felt the pull again, the 
urge to go downstairs to the library.  Not just an urge, a 
compulsion.  She buttoned herself into a sleeveless dress, 
slipped on some underpants, and let herself quietly out the 
door.

In the library, the lady was waiting for her, wide awake and 
receptive.  Scully seated herself and looked into those deep 
blue eyes.  Soon she was lost.

The emotions that seemed to be emanating from the portrait 
were complex, the events that caused them not clear at all.  
First, there'd been happiness.  Extreme happiness, ecstasy.  
Then it had modulated into contentment.  After that came 
another upward bump.  Joy, expectation, delight.  There was a 
glow around that period.  It was wrapped in a haze of yellow, 
like the roses.  The sun shone, the birds chirped, the spirits 
sang.

And then a plunge, a freefall.  The yellow sunlight and 
blooming roses were extinguished, like a candle being snuffed.  
Darkness loomed over all, oblivion threatening.  There was 
misery, depression, despair.  It was all too hopeless.  It was 
not to be borne.  It would be difficult to manage, when one 
was feeling too listless to act, but finally, the despair 
triumphed and the move was made.  An exit was at hand.

Next, there was a hesitation.  A standing on the brink, 
rethinking the options.  To act or not to act.  Which would be 
best?  Could life go on, bereft and bleak as the future 
looked?  Were there any grounds for hope at all?  Back and 
forth.  Indecision held her in its loose, weak grip.  What of 
him?  What would be best for him?  To remove this bleak, black 
presence from his life, so that sunshine could return again, 
so that the birds could sing, so that all the motion of living 
which had been frozen by the descending gloom would re-animate 
itself?

It was the right decision, given that there was no hope.  No 
hope at all.  Just darkness.  Over she went, a black figure 
flying through the night.  Petticoats billowed in the dank 
chill, and for a moment she soared like a gull.  Then she was 
plummeting, a mere speck in the expanse of moonlight that 
bathed the pounding waves.  She hit the rocks all too soon.  
They were her very last sight, as her eyes--and the rest of 
her-- crashed into them, destroying all, ending all.  Only the 
sounds of the waves breaking over the rocks, the moisture  
spitting over her broken body, remained.  She had her 
oblivion, which she had coveted above all else.

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

Mulder woke up, once again wondering where Scully had gotten 
to.  Feeling like he was replaying the previous night, he 
searched out his shorts, forced his feet into his shoes, and 
left the room, headed for the library.  He expected to find 
her there, sitting in the same chair as last night, or quietly 
reading a book.  They had gone to sleep very early, so it 
wouldn't be terribly odd for her to have woken up.

She wasn't there.  The light still shone on the portrait of 
the woman over the mantel.  Something clicked into place in 
Mulder's mind, open and receptive with sleep.  The instincts 
were working.  That woman looked like Scully, the Scully who 
had walked into his office many years ago.  How had he been so 
blind as to miss the resemblance?  The red hair, the blue 
eyes, the sprightly, intelligent expression, the graceful 
hands, the general benevolence and gravity of her countenance.

And this meant what?  Who the fuck knew, he muttered to 
himself.  He sought to resuscitate his powers of observation 
and the instincts which had once been second nature to him.    
Although the room was chilled from the breeze whipping through 
the windows, the chairseat in front of the fireplace was still 
warm.  Scully had been here.  The window was open, as usual, 
but one of the doors wasn't latched.  It hung ajar, flapping 
in the wind.  He stepped through the door and looked around in 
the moonlight.

The light was almost as bright as day, possibly because of the 
added reflection off the water, but he still didn't see 
Scully.  He stepped off the porch and listened.  The first 
sound he was aware of was the background noise that came with 
the house:  the crashing of the waves.  The primitive rhythm 
that kept rocking him to sleep every time he sat down in this 
house.  Okay, tune out the background.  What else could be 
heard?

Over there, a rustling.  In the rose thicket.  Shit.  He was 
wearing no shirt and those fuckers would tear him to shreds.  
He darted back into the house and picked up an afghan from the 
back of the couch.  On the run now, he wrapped the cover 
around his shoulders, pulled it tight around his chest, and 
plunged into the thorny maze, headed toward the rustling 
sounds, as best as he could place them.

What he saw ahead of him nearly stopped his heart.  Scully was 
walking steadily through the thicket, oblivious of any damage 
to her skin.  She was wearing something sleeveless, and in the 
glimmers of light, he could see what looked like black 
rivulets of blood trailing down her arms.  Her face was 
bloodied as well.

But even more frightening was the look in her eyes.  She was 
walking parallel to him at this point, he having tightened the 
blanket and plunged through the barbs at an angle meant to cut 
her off.  He bulled his way through the tangled ancient 
thorns, desperately trying to get to her before she ran out of 
space and walked unseeing off the cliff.  Her eyes were empty.  
She was not herself.  He was scared shitless at the 
realization that at this moment she was not *anybody*.  She 
seemed uninhabited by any spirit or trace of life.

He had no idea how soon she--or he--would run out of clifftop 
and take a fatal step.  He lunged toward her, bringing himself 
within ten feet of her.  He wondered if he should call out her 
name, try to bring her out of her trance so she would save 
herself, but he was afraid she was sleepwalking and would wake 
up startled and make some movement that would be even worse 
than her steady, inexorable pace.

Eight feet.  He plunged through bushes that seemed to have 
their hands knotted together to keep him from penetrating 
their barrier.  He was acquiring a mass of painful cuts, even 
through the afghan.  Five feet.  God, she was so pale.  A 
bloody, battered goddess gleaming in the luster of the moon.  
"Scu--"

Fuck!  She was gone.  One minute she was almost within his 
reach, that is, if he could get through that last tangle of 
brambles; the next, she had disappeared from his sight.  But 
he hadn't heard anything that suggested she fell.  Wishing for 
a machete, Mulder forced his way through the last obstacle, 
plunged forward, and tripped over Scully.  She had apparently 
gotten her foot caught on a root and fallen to the ground.  
They were less than a yard from the edge of the cliff.

Mulder breathed a sigh of relief.  At least she hadn't plunged 
to her death.  Yet he was still faced with a major problem.  
The woman he loved was lying in a trance, dazed and bleeding, 
at the edge of a cliff.  And only a fortuitous misstep had 
kept her from disaster.  And him from an incalculable loss.
And she seemed to have no idea what was happening, or what had 
happened.  His Scully was gone.

"Scully," he shouted, trying to make himself heard over the 
pounding sea.  "Scully, wake up."  He grabbed her shoulders, 
picked up her upper body, and shook her.  Her head fell limply 
to one side.  He grasped one shoulder and used the other hand 
to push her hair back, then grab her chin.  Her eyes were 
still open, but there was nobody in there.

He squeezed her chin.  Shook her shoulder.  Let go of her face 
and gave it a light slap.  Another.  "Scully," he shouted, in 
a voice overflowing with desperation.

She blinked.  "What the hell are you doing, Mulder?"  She 
glared at him, then looked around.  Her mouth fell open as she 
took in the scene.

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

CHAPTER FIFTEEN:  SUSPICIONS

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

"You must tell me now--and all the truth.  What did you go out 
for?  What were you doing there?"

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


She ran the damp washcloth over his shoulder, patting gently.  
"It's no use, Mulder.  We need a first-aid kit.  We're going 
to have to wake Martha."

Seated on the closed toilet, he looked up at her.  He turned 
her jaw so he could see her face in the light, examining its 
scratches.  "They're pretty shallow on your face, but your 
arms are a mess."

She looked at each arm, held it out and rotated it.  Blood 
still seeped from a couple of deep scratches.  But for where 
she'd been, and for such a length of time, she had emerged 
pretty much unscathed.  She patted the worst spots with a 
washcloth.  "I'll go wake Martha," she said.  "Their rooms are 
behind the kitchen."

Mulder hauled himself to his feet.  "We'll both go down," he 
said.  "You're not going downstairs at night by yourself."

Scully opened her mouth, but nothing came out.  She nodded.  
Both wrapped towels around themselves, not wanting to bleed on 
the oriental carpets.  Scully gave the mirror a rueful glance.

"We look as if we met some feral cats.  And lost."

"We've got to talk about this, Scully.  Something. . .  
happened down there.  You were. . . gone."

She laid her hand on his towel-padded arm.  "Hey," she said.  
"I know.  I'm perfectly willing to discuss this.  I'm not 
going to tell you I'm fine or that there's nothing weird going 
on here, or. . .or with me.  All I want to do is get our 
wounds bandaged before we get infected.  Okay?"

He stared down at her.  He shrugged.  "Hard to argue with 
that."

She smiled.  "I know.  That's the idea.  Let's go."

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

Martha came to the door wearing a thick terrycloth robe, 
rubbing her eyes.  "What. . . what is it?"

"It's. . .hard to explain," Scully said, realizing that she 
hadn't considered how to describe the incident to Martha.  
What was she going to say?  I was taking a moonlight walk 
through your brambles and nearly walked over your cliff?  Hey, 
what can you expect from those crazy Americans? 

Mulder leaped into the breach.  "Scully. . . Dana was, was 
sleepwalking or something and. . .and wandered into the rose 
bushes.  I went in after her and we both got scratched.  Do 
you have a first-aid kit we can use?"

Martha raised a hand to her cheek.  "Oh, no," she exclaimed.  
"Not. . .not you."  She reached out and gently lifted the 
towel away from Scully's arms, observing the deep scratches.  
She bent down to look at her legs, spotting other cuts.  She 
shook her head in sorrow.  "Just a second," she said, pulling 
at the belt of her robe and drifting back into the darkness.

"Did you hear--" Mulder began, then broke of as Martha 
returned.

"I'm so sorry, so sorry," she said, bustling back and handing 
over a first-aid kit.  "If you'd like, we can sit in the 
kitchen and I'll take care of your wounds.  Please let me."

Scully shook her head.  "No, thanks, Martha.  We've bothered 
you enough already.  I'm a doctor, so we won't have any 
problems.  Thanks for lending us the kit."  Martha still 
looked rattled.  She opened her mouth, appearing ready to 
launch into another effort at persuasion.  Scully patted her 
shoulder lightly.  "Don't worry, Martha.  They're just some 
scratches.  We'll see you in the morning."

They left the kitchen, Scully avoiding even a glance in the 
direction of the closed library door.  As they made their way 
upstairs, Mulder said, "Don't you think her reaction was 
pretty damned strange?"

Scully frowned.  "It's hard to tell about people's reactions 
when you wake them up at 4 a.m.  And we *are* her guests.  She 
should damned well be upset if we get injured on her property.  
For all she knows, we're the super-litigious types who'll sue 
and maybe wipe out her business."

"Could be.  But I don't think she asked enough questions about 
what we were doing in her shrubbery in the middle of the 
night."

Scully pulled open the door to their room and led the way to 
the bath.  She gestured to Mulder, who was more extensively 
scratched than she, despite the fact that he had worn more 
clothing and had been wrapped in a blanket.  "You first.  
Sit."

He sat.  She removed the towel and patted away the remaining 
blood, then located a bottle of antiseptic.  "This is going to 
sting."  She went to work.   As a pediatrician, she well knew 
the value of distracting the patient when painful actions 
needed to be performed.  "So, Mulder, what kind of questions 
did you expect her to ask?  Something like--Sleepwalk often?  
On the edges of cliffs?"

He shook his head, resolutely ignoring her ministrations to 
his chest.  She knelt before him, concentrating on finding 
every scratch.  "It was something about the way she said, 'Not 
you.'  Isn't that a strange thing for her to say?  I could 
accept an 'Oh, no,' or 'It's a damned shame,' or 'How'd you 
get all the way out there,' or 'Jesus Christ, are you all 
right.'  But what she said seemed--to me--to imply that . . 
.this has happened before."

Scully rose and began work on his back.  "'Not you.'  Yeah, 
you're right, Mulder.  It sounds as if it's happened before.  
As if she was surprised that it'd happened to me, but not that 
. . .that something like this would happen.  And while you 
were sleeping the day we came, she told me that last year they 
were fully booked, but this year she has only the six of us 
staying here, even in August."

He frowned, winced as she dabbed one of the deepest scratches.  
"So last year, someone could have been. . . out there walking 
among the roses, like you, tonight.  A number of someones, for 
that matter.  Who knows how often this has happened?"  He 
laughed.  "She should provide each room with its own first aid 
kit."

Scully inspected his arms, then broke out the bandages and 
started applying them to the deepest cuts.  "What kind of 
someones wind up walking on clifftops in the moonlight? 
Fighting their way through huge tangles of rosebushes?" Scully 
mused.  "Why me?  I'm not even a particularly imaginative or 
suggestible person.  As you're well aware."

"Why, Doctor Scully.  Are you trying to say that *I* am the 
one who should have been dancing over the clifftops tonight?  
Hell, I was snoring my head off, totally oblivious to what was 
happening to you.  In fact, I've been really goddamned sleepy 
since I set foot into this house."

"Okay, all done.  Your turn to play doctor, Mulder."  He rose, 
and Scully hoisted herself up onto the sink so her arms would 
be at the right level for Mulder to work on.  She dropped the 
towel and he shook his head, overlooking the fact that his own 
lacerations were more numerous and deeper.  "Hope these don't 
scar," he said, dabbing away the last of the blood.  He 
started to apply the antiseptic.

Scully was still pondering Mulder's remark about being sleepy.  
"You know, at first I thought you'd just half killed yourself 
working at all hours to get out of New York.  But you've been 
like Sleeping Beauty since we got here.  Even on the porch the 
first day."

Mulder looked up from his task.  "Okay, in this story, the guy 
gets the spell of enchantment placed on him.  We're going to 
put me into a glass case until my true love comes along and 
wakes me with a kiss."  He waggled his brows at her.

Scully pulled his head to hers and kissed him.  "Sorry, 
detective, too late.  Your true love has already come along 
and she's been kissing the bejeezus out of you.  Try another 
theory."

Mulder started bandaging Scully's arms.  "My theory, 
unfortunately, is that the female, no matter what fairy tale 
we've fallen into, is still the victim.  You weren't out of it 
in a glass case, but you were in danger of walking off a  
cliff.  I was put out of the way so I wouldn't notice you were 
gone.  If I'd slept five more minutes, it might have been too 
late.  You were headed for the edge.  You saw where you were.  
You do remember, don't you, Scully?"

She nodded.  "I do.  Not how I got there, just waking up and 
seeing where we were.  Tell me what happened from your 
perspective, okay?"

He bent to dab at her legs.  "I woke up, just like last night, 
and noticed you were gone.  I went downstairs, to the library, 
where I found you last night.  I saw the door to the porch was 
unlatched."  He crouched to apply a couple of band-aids.  "I 
went outside and looked all around.  The moonlight was almost 
as bright as day.  Finally, I heard rustling in the rose 
bushes and started to push my way through.  Oh, first I ran 
back and got the afghan to try to protect my skin."

Scully smiled.  "Too bad it was crocheted with such large 
gaps, isn't it?"

"What I can't figure is how come I sustained more damage than 
you."  

Ah, she thought.  He's noticed this little anomaly.  She'd 
been stuck by how deep some of his lacerations were, through 
the blanket.  As though the thorns were reaching out and 
trying to stop him from getting through.  Fanciful again, she 
noticed.  But look where her fancies had led her.

"I was covered--well, inadequately--but my bare arms weren't 
exposed like yours," he continued.  "And my legs were totally 
covered.  Yet my wounds are deeper.  You only have two that 
are all that serious, although it looked a lot worse till I 
got the blood all wiped off."  He wiped her face, then dabbed 
on a bit of antiseptic.  "Even on your face.  And you're 
shorter than I am, and subject to a lot more damage from those 
overgrown bushes."

She shrugged.  "The luck of the Irish?  Only people who are 
conscious get scratched?"  She slipped in her fanciful 
thought.  "The bushes were out to stop you from getting to me?  
They wanted to hold you back long enough for me to walk off 
the edge?"  She watched his imagination reach out and pull 
that one down for further thought.  She could tell by the 
gleam in his eye.  He's so predictable, she thought fondly.  
"Tell me what happened next," she said.

Mulder re-packed the first aid kit while Scully jumped down 
from the sink.  They stood looking at themselves and each 
other in the mirror.  They were a sorry sight.  At the same 
time, their heads started shaking, in unison, in precisely the 
same rhythm.  They burst into laughter.  "Oh, shit," Mulder 
muttered.  "Even on vacation."

"It's okay," Scully assured him.  "We're barely damaged, 
really.  This is nothing compared to all the stuff that used 
to happen to us.  Go on with your story.  You ran back to get 
the afghan, and then. . . ."

They headed back to bed, throwing off their clothes as they 
arrived at their respective sides.   Mulder climbed in easily, 
Scully with the usual highjump approach, accompanied by a yelp 
as her damaged areas hit the mattress.  Both collapsed onto 
their pillows.  "I plunged into the brambles," Mulder 
continued.  "I headed toward the noise I heard.  That's when I 
saw you."

"And I was. . ."  She sounded a little scared, as if she 
dreaded hearing what she was doing out there before she awoke 
at the cliff's edge.

He reached for her hand.  "You were walking, eyes open, but 
unseeing.  Like a. . . sorry, like a zombie.  I worked my way 
toward you, having no idea where the edge was, and all those 
fucking bushes were in a conspiracy to keep me from breaking 
through."  He squeezed her hand.  "You were right.  They were 
out to stop me.  That's why I look as if I've been mauled."

"Poor Mulder."  She stroked his hand.  Sadly, she thought he 
could be right.  Finally, she found it possible to. . .  
entertain the possibility that bushes were conspiring against 
people. 

"Just as I was closing in on you, you disappeared.  I found 
you on the ground and started trying to wake you.  Eventually, 
you woke up and. . .and you know it from there."

They lay in silence, hands joined.

"Your turn, Scully.  You said you weren't going to hide from 
this one, remember?"

"I'm not," she protested.  "I'm just trying to remember what 
happened."  She turned onto her side, facing him, delicately 
touched the non-bandaged areas of his chest.

Mulder's voice turned cold.  "Sex is *not* going to distract 
me from finding out what happened to you."

"We're too scratched up for sex," she said.  "That was just 
affection."

"Give."

She sighed.  "The first day we were here, I was. . . taken by 
the portrait above the mantel.  She looked. . . interesting.  
I wanted to know her story.  When Martha came into the room, I 
was. . .kind of in a trance.  It was hard to leave the lady, 
even that first time."

Mulder turned over so he was facing Scully.  "And the next 
time was when?"

"The middle of the night, last night.  I woke up.  I could not 
get back to sleep, no matter what.  I told myself I wanted to 
look in the library for a book, but it was really the portrait 
I wanted to see.  I sat there for a while, caught up in her, 
trying to understand what she wanted to tell me.  It seemed 
like she had some. . . vital information.  Then you came along 
and we went back to sleep."

Mulder reached over to push hair back from Scully's face.  
"You were very cold, like ice."

She stared into his eyes.  "You're saying there's a ghost, 
aren't you?"

He smiled.  "Ah, Scully, you know my ways."

Her face took on a faraway expression.  "I felt I had to. . 
.receive whatever it was she wanted me to know.  That her 
message was. . . for me alone."

"You're aware she looks like you?"

Scully's eyes widened.  "Maybe that's why I. . .tended to 
identify with her from the moment I saw her.  It's as if she's 
a part of me, trying to . . .break through and tell me 
something, some story I need to know."  She noticed Mulder's 
expression.  "Yeah, yeah, I know.  This is way too imaginative 
for me, and we both know it.  I'm just telling you what my 
emotional response to her was."

"Fair enough."  He stroked her face.  "You see a red-headed, 
blue-eyed beauty with some of your characteristics showing in 
her face.  You identify.  She was Victorian, right?"

"It'd seem so, from the clothes.  And even the pose."

"Okay.  Tell me about tonight."

Scully was silent, then began.  "I woke up, knew she was 
expecting me.  And yes, I know how crazy that sounds.  I threw 
on some clothes and hurried down there, sat in the usual 
chair.  I didn't hear words, I just caught. . . drifts of 
feelings.  Very changing feelings.  I . . .sensed that she was 
happy, very young and beautiful and. . .happy.  Then something 
happened, and . . .some tragedy or other made her despair.  
Things got very black.  I saw her feelings in color.  Yellow 
turned to black."

Scully looked into the distance.  "That's all I can remember.  
The blackness.  Something about soaring like a gull.  But it 
was all black."  She shook her head.  "And the next thing I 
knew, I was having my face slapped at the edge of the cliff."

Mulder studied her face.  "I think you were. . .possessed.  I 
don't know if it's because you look like her, because you have 
some similar character traits, or simply because you're a 
guest here, and she has a go at all the women who stay here."

"Just women?"

"Well, her message seems to be aimed at you.  And Martha 
looked at both of us standing there with towels wrapped around 
us and chose to lift *your * towel to check for scratches.  
She barely glanced at me."

Scully nodded.  "But all the women who stay here can't be 
possessed.  They'd be out of business."

"They're close to it now," he said.  "And, to repeat myself, 
Martha just didn't have the appropriate reaction.  I'd guess 
that they bought this place as a steal.  Didn't she say it was 
freshly refurbished when they bought it?  Maybe the previous 
owners had a bad experience with the portrait and decided to 
get out, no matter how much money they'd poured into the 
place."

Scully sighed.  "Wouldn't it be easier to get rid of the 
portrait, rather than sell the damned house?"

"It would be if you realized what the source of the trouble 
was.  But suppose the people affected didn't have all the 
memories you do.  You only have a partial memory of what 
happened.  Maybe what they remembered didn't include the 
portrait, maybe it just seemed like the house was haunted.  
That room made you, the sensitive one here, awfully cold.  
Maybe they sold to get rid of that frigid room.  Or maybe 
different people feel different compulsions.  You said her 
message was for you alone.  Maybe other people get their own 
messages."

"That's a lot of theorizing on the basis of this one incident.  
You're taking a whole lot of little nuggets and constructing a 
gold mine."

"Can't help it.  Old habit."

Scully yawned.  "Well, my old habit is to find some facts.  
Let's ask Martha if others have had experiences like mine, how 
much of a steal the house was.  Maybe look up the history of 
the house and see if we can discover who the red-headed lady 
was."

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You came within two feet of *dying* tonight, Scully.  The 
smart thing to do is get the hell out of Dodge.  We're not 
being paid to investigate this thing.  We're on vacation, and 
I'd like for both of us to come back alive."

"It can't hurt to ask a few questions.  Where's the harm?  
Wouldn't you like to know if you're right, Mulder?  You don't 
want to walk away with all these unproven, untested theories, 
do you?"  She felt like Eve holding out an apple.

Adam shrugged and ignored the offering.  He gave an 
exasperated sigh.  "I want to walk away with you.  That's what 
I really want."

"We can walk away.  Stay with me all the time.  She doesn't 
seem to have many successful wiles where you're concerned.  
Aren't you curious, Mulder?  Getting too rich to follow the 
old paranormal bouquet?"  Eve polished the apple to a tempting 
sheen.

Mulder spoke through clenched teeth.  "I've told you, over and 
over, that you are what I value most.  So why would I risk 
your safety to investigate what looks like a ghostly presence 
in an old house?  Yes, I'm interested.  I love spooky 
portraits and cold rooms and mysterious rumblings in the 
night.  Ordinarily, I'd be fascinated.  But not when it's you 
headed for the rocks."

Scully flipped over onto her back and thought for a while.  
"We ask some questions.  Tomorrow, in daylight.  We leave the 
house and find the local historical society and do some 
research.  Then we decide what to do next."  She turned to 
look at him.  "And there *is * a good reason for looking into 
this, if anything you believe turns out to be true.  And I'm 
not saying it is, just that I've had some very remarkable 
experiences, and . . .you've set forth a theory.  If your 
theory is right, Mulder, then our looking into this could save 
the next person she sends out cliffwalking in the moonlight."

He slid over and wrapped himself around her.  "Okay," he said, 
planting a kiss on her forehead.  "Tomorrow.  In daylight.  
Then we'll decide.  And we'll stay together.  Don't you get 
out of this bed without telling me.  Promise."  He gathered 
her in his arms, buried his face in her neck.

She reached out to pull him closer.  "Oh, Mulder," she said.  
"I promise."  She wrapped her arms around him, heedless of 
scratches and cuts, and pressed her flesh into his.  He pulled 
up the sheet and, curled together like kittens, they fell 
asleep as dawn neared.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: FACT FINDING

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

"Then, in spite of yesterday, you *believe*--"

"In such doings?" . . . .she gave me the whole thing as she 
had never done.  "I believe."

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


When Scully awoke the next morning, she had a feeling it was 
late.  She couldn't bring herself to open her eyes to confirm 
this, however.  Whatever she'd experienced last night, losing 
time in that frightening way, doing things she couldn't 
remember at all, actions which brought her to the *brink* of 
losing her life--all this was enough to make her want to 
huddle in bed a while longer.  To keep her eyes closed, 
literally, to the danger she had narrowly escaped.

She felt Mulder stir beside her and run his hand down her 
belly, where it combed briefly through her pubic hair, and 
gently entered her.  "Yes," she murmured.

She felt his heat and saw shadows darken her eyelids as he 
settled over her, felt the bed give where his knees and elbows 
pressed rested.  She reached down to touch him, found his 
morning liftoff ready to blast into space, and guided him to 
his target.  "Ah," he muttered, upon entry, tucking his head 
into her neck.

She raised her arms and legs to wrap around him.  He jerked 
and yelped as she made contact with his back, the sound 
muffled in her shoulder.  "The scratches," he croaked.

"Right," she soothed, moving her limbs down to his buttocks.  
He established a rhythm, slow and comfortable as befitted a 
late morning with two damaged participants who'd had a really 
rough night.  So comfortable, in fact, that Scully found the 
act more relaxing than arousing.  Such a nice affirmation of 
life, she was thinking, especially when you've been within 
steps of death.  He rocked inside her, and every stroke was 
soothing; she could go on like this forever.

Mulder, however, seemed to harbor other ideas.  As he 
increased the pace without a reaction from his partner, he 
moved his mouth down to her breast, the surest place to excite 
Scully.  She brought her hands up to tangle in his hair, 
caress his scalp, cup his jaw to feel the vibration of the 
suction and his steady movements.  He noticed, however, that 
her breathing remained steady and that her hips were rocking 
gently in response to his movements.

He lifted his head and looked down at her closed eyes.  "This 
isn't going to happen for you, is it?"

She squeezed his buttocks.  "Not without heroic measures," she 
murmured.  "It feels great, Mulder.  But it's just not. . 
.going anywhere for me.  Go ahead and finish; I'll help you."  
She caressed his balls and heard his sharp intake of breath.

"Maybe it was the late night," she said.  "Maybe it's being 
possessed by a lady in a picture, if that's what happened.    
Maybe I've turned into a Victorian.  I don't think Victorian 
ladies came, or if they did, they'd have to keep it a deep, 
dark secret.  Maybe. . ."

"Scully?"

"Hmmm?"  It really did feel good.  She was filled with peace 
and loved the feel of his movements within her.

"Shut up, *please.*"

"Right."  She tightened her internal muscles and rotated her 
hips in counterpoint to his movement, running both hands over 
his balls and ass.  "Better?"

He huffed and drove into her frantically and all was over 
within the minute.  He eased over onto his back.  "Thanks."

"My pleasure."  For the first time that morning, Scully opened 
her eyes.  The room was ablaze with sunshine; it must be at 
least nine, she thought.  She turned to Mulder, who was still 
breathing hard and wearing a contented look which was in the 
process of changing to a worried one.

She propped herself up and laid a hand on his cheek.  "It 
*was* a pleasure," she told him.  "It felt terrific.  I could 
have had an orgasm, but it would have taken half the day.  We 
have better things to do with our time.  We have an 
investigation."  She sat up and smiled at him.  "Like old 
times."

Mulder's mind was returning.  "Except this time, you kind of 
believe.  Don't you?"

She neatly executed the Scully sidestep.  "I want to find out 
what happened.  I want to know what that portrait. . .has, to 
cause me to. . .do what I did.  I resent something taking 
control of me, stealing my memories."  She frowned.  "That's 
happened to me enough.  I want to get at the truth about 
this."

He nodded.  "All right.  I won't insist on dragging you away, 
the way I wanted to last night.  I can see why you need to 
know about this."  He laughed.  "Ironic, isn't it?  This time 
I'm the one who wanted to cut and run.  Mr. I Don't Care About 
No Steenking Risks."

She leaned over and kissed his abdomen, one of the few 
unscathed spots on the front of his body.  "I know it's 
because you care about me, and that some part of you is still  
clamoring to investigate.  Well, this time, so am I."  She 
kissed him again and licked a drop of semen off his stomach.  
"Want to take a shower with me and we can moan and groan and 
re-bandage each other?"

He nodded and began to spring out of bed, only to stop 
abruptly and moderate his motions to those of a cautious old 
man.  They made their way to the shower.

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

"You're the last ones down," Martha said, pouring their orange 
juice.  She looked subdued, and worry lines had appeared on 
her forehead.  She noticed that both wore bandages on their 
arms.  "How are you feeling?"

"Curious," Scully said.

Martha looked surprised.  "About what?"

"Whether other guests have had problems here."

Martha set down the pitcher with a gesture that suggested it 
had suddenly become too heavy for her to hold.  "Problems?"

Without warning, Scully was overcome by fury.  She had nearly 
died last night, and this woman was fencing with her.  "Okay," 
she said.  "Here's where we are.  Sit down, please."  The 
Agent Scully voice, not in the least like Pediatrician Scully, 
brought results.  Martha dropped into the nearest chair with 
the alacrity of a well-trained dog which has been commanded to 
"Sit."

"We are former agents of the FBI," Mulder told her, taking up 
the familiar double teaming tactic.  "We spent years 
investigating the paranormal.  Last night, we experienced 
events that suggest that there is a force in your library that 
caused my partner to slide into a trance and come within a 
couple of feet of walking off a cliff."  

He cleared his throat.  "Your response was not the. . .shock  
we'd expect if this had never happened before.  Now, you can 
either tell us what's happened to your former guests, or we 
can call on the local police to see if complaints were made, 
or have our old friends at the Bureau look into this place and 
get lists of the guests who've stayed here.  Do you want to 
make it hard, or do you want to tell us what's been going on 
here?"

Martha's voice broke.  "Oh, please.  I didn't want anyone to 
get hurt.  I try to. . .book only the kinds of guests that 
haven't been. . .bothered."

"Who has been bothered?" Scully asked.  "And in what way?"

"They were all women," she began, causing Mulder to shoot a 
triumphant glance at Scully.  "And they were always young.  
So, so after last season, I tactfully tried to find out the 
age of anyone who called to book.  If anyone was the age of 
the women who. . .were bothered last year, I told them I was 
booked up.  If you'll recall," she told Scully, "when you 
called, I asked for your age and explained that we had a lot 
of steep stairs in this old house, and that there's a steep 
climb down to the sea.  That's how I tried to keep young women 
out of here.  You said you were, what, 44.  I thought that was 
old enough."

"How old were the others?" Scully asked.  "And how many were 
there?"

"I don't know!"  Martha sounded frantic and on the verge of 
tears.  "I never wanted to hurt anyone, just enjoy this 
beautiful house.  I don't see what's wrong with. . .fulfilling 
a life-long dream of having a beautiful guest house."

She bit her lip and clutched the edge of the table.  After a 
moment, she spread her hands out flat, took a deep breath, and  
resumed, more calmly.  "There were people who left abruptly 
and didn't give a reason.  So I don't have an exact count.  
There were three who told me about their experiences, and they 
were in their twenties and thirties.  So I thought having 
guests over forty was safe, and I am so goddamned sorry I was 
wrong that you can not imagine!"  She laid her head on the 
table and wept.

Scully and Mulder exchanged a glance.  They'd just lost their 
witness.  Nice going, their eyes communicated.  Scully poured 
a glass of juice for Martha and handed her a napkin.  She 
pressed her shoulder.  "Martha, we're not here to attack you 
or blame you.  We want to prevent this from happening again.  
Help us.  Okay?"

Martha picked her head up and wiped her eyes.  She looked 
resigned to telling all.  "This is why we have so few people 
staying here this year.  It's going to put us out of business, 
but I was determined to choose guests who wouldn't be 
endangered.  I did the best I could and it still didn't work."  
She was determined to justify herself.  "And *I'm* okay here.  
I live in this house year round and nothing ever bothers me.  
I just can't figure out how to choose guests who'll be safe!"  
Tears threatened again.

"You said when you bought the place it had just been 
refurbished," Mulder said, changing the subject.  "Was it a 
bargain?"

"Oh, we got a fantastic price, considering the location and 
the size and the condition. . ."  Martha trailed off.  She 
stared at the beautiful view out her window, then turned back 
to Mulder.  "You think the people who fixed it up were trying 
to unload it.  Something happened to them. . .or her?"

He shrugged.  "It's a possibility."

"The portrait in the library, over the mantel," Scully said.  
"Did it come with the house?"

"Virtually all the furnishings did," Martha said.  "That's 
what made it such a tremendous bargain."  She seemed 
determined to justify her actions--again.  "And nothing, 
absolutely nothing, has ever happened to me or my family in 
this house.  My kids live here.  Do you suppose I'd subject 
them to danger?  There is no danger."  She glared at them 
defiantly, then added in a small voice,  "Except to certain 
female guests."

"The three who were bothered last year," Scully said.  "How 
were they bothered?  What happened?"

"The first one," Martha paused to sip the orange juice.  She 
obviously hated talking about the incidents.  "She went out in 
the night and got caught on some rose thorns in her nightie.  
She woke up and started screaming.  We thought it was a freak 
incident of sleepwalking, and we all laughed it off."

"The next?"

She sighed, like a witness hopelessly incriminating herself.  
"She was up in the night and tripped on the steps walking down 
from the porch.  She broke her ankle and had to sit there 
calling out for help until someone heard her.  Her husband 
finally woke up and heard her cries."

"How old were they?"  Scully asked.

"The first one was in her early thirties, the second one in 
her late twenties.  The third was in her mid-thirties."  
Martha buried her head in her hands.  This one she obviously 
didn't want to describe.  "She and her husband came up here to 
relax after she'd had a miscarriage.  She'd been looking 
forward to the birth of her first child and was in a . . .very 
precarious emotional state."  Martha looked ashamed.  "This 
was supposed to be a getaway, a chance to relax by the sea and 
watch the world go by, get herself in order again."

Scully felt a familiar wave of sadness.  "What happened to 
her?"

Martha paused, then blurted, "She was out in the roses heading 
for the cliff edge.  She tripped and woke up.  She became 
hysterical and almost ran off the cliff instead of toward the 
house.  It was horrible."

All three were silent, staring at the bright blue sky.  
Finally, Mulder spoke.  "What did they say caused them to get 
up and go outside in the middle of the night?"

"None of them had an explanation.  The third said she'd been 
sitting in the library and felt chilled.  She couldn't explain 
why if she felt a chill, she'd gone outside instead of back to 
bed."

"What'd your husband make of all this?"  Scully asked.

"He seems to think we had an unusual run of hysterical women 
last summer."  She shrugged.  "Thinks maybe they're not used 
to being by the sea and are being pulled by the tides or 
something like that."

"He sounds like the former me," Scully remarked to Mulder.

"Well, I'd *pay* to see him explain to you what a hysterical 
woman you are," he replied.

Scully turned to Martha.  "Would you dig out your records of 
all the women who were guests here last summer?  We could call 
all of them and ask if anything unusual at all happened to 
them.  And check out their ages and. . .life circumstances."

"Like what?" Martha asked.  She looked less distraught, now 
that action was at hand.

"Well, were they all married?  Maybe you already know that, or 
maybe you don't.  Just call them and ask them to speak with 
me.  If you call them, they'll be more willing to give me a 
few minutes of their time."

Martha sighed.  "Fine.  I'd like to get to the bottom of this 
myself.  Believe me.  It's not just the money.  I don't want 
anyone to get killed on my property!"

"No, of course not.  We'll want to contact the former owners 
and ask them why they left so abruptly.  And we want to find 
someplace where historical records are kept.  I want to find 
out who the woman in the portrait over the mantel is.  Maybe 
there are some old people living here who have a good memory 
of what they were told about Victorian times.  Think of who we 
can contact, will you?"

Martha stood up, glad to have a plan of action.  "I'll get all 
that together as soon as I feed you.  I have a vegetable 
quiche and an assortment of muffins and breads.  Let me get 
that, then I'll go through my records."

As Martha stepped into the kitchen, Scully called, "Martha?  
How old are you?"

She turned.  "Forty-seven."

"And the couple we met our first night here, the ones who kept 
talking about missing their kids.  How old is that woman?"

Martha thought.  "Forty-three, if my memory serves me well."

She disappeared from sight, leaving the forty-four year old 
Scully lost in thought.

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

The phone calls were informative.  Although she reached a 
number of answering machines whose owners might be on vacation 
and not return their calls for weeks, Scully did manage to 
speak to six women who had been guests the previous summer at 
the Yellow Rose.  One was the third woman who'd been 
"bothered," Marlene, who had come to recover from her 
miscarriage and instead, wound up running hysterically through 
the roses.

"I don't even want to talk about it," Marlene declared.  She 
sounded ready to hang up.

"I understand that perfectly," Scully soothed.  "It happened 
to me last night, and I'm covered with scratches.  I was 
within two feet of going over the edge."

Sensing a fellow victim, Marlene became more talkative.  "I 
remember sitting in the library, feeling chilled," she said.  
"Then I woke to find myself outside in a bramble.  I freaked."
Her voice was Southern, gentle.  Her "I" actually sounded like 
an "Ah."  Scully peeked at the guest book.  Alabama.

"I was in the library too," Scully told her.  "I was staring 
at the portrait over the mantel.  The red-haired lady with the 
yellow rose.  Do you remember her?"

"Oh.  Yes.  Very well.  Ah fell in love with her.  Ah felt she 
sympathized with me, with my loss.  Ah'd sit there and tell 
her my problems.  In my head, of course.  Ah didn't actually 
sit there talking aloud to a portrait."  She laughed 
nervously.

"Did you feel she was telling you anything about herself?  I 
know it sounds silly," Scully said.  "But I was getting. . 
.sensations from her.  I thought I knew what she was feeling."

Marlene thought.  "Ah just identified with her.  Ah felt she 
understood me.  Ah can't be more specific."

"You have no other children?"

"No.  Do you?"

Scully's lips pursed.  "No, I don't."

"Ah'm. . . Ah'm pregnant again."  Her voice held an 
undercurrent of joy.

"Oh, congratulations!  I'm so happy for you," Scully 
exclaimed.  "I wish you all the best, a happy, healthy baby.  
I'm a pediatrician, you know, and I adore babies."  She 
realized she was gushing and shut up.

Marlene was pleased with the warm response and chatted for a 
few more minutes about morning sickness and due dates before 
hanging up.

Scully also managed to reach one of the women who'd left 
abruptly, two days before she and her husband were scheduled 
to move on.

Once again, Scully explained her experience with the portrait 
and stressed how she had nearly gone over the cliff.  Being a 
victim, she found, got people to talk.  Too bad she'd never 
admit to being one during her days as an investigator.  She 
might have found out more, she thought with a rueful frown.

And once more, the tactic worked.  Jane was 28.  She and her 
husband had left abruptly after she awoke to find herself 
standing in the library, shivering.  She was so chilled and 
creeped out by the experience, she insisted they leave 
immediately.  "Too many ghost stories, I guess," she said 
cheerfully.  "All this stuff about cold rooms.  I was outta 
there, let me tell you."  Her voice was fast, staccato.  She 
sounded cheerful and had obviously not given the experience a 
second thought.

"Very wise," Scully said.  "Did you pay any attention to the 
portrait over the mantel?"

"The redhead?  Yeah, she was always looking right into my 
eyes, as if she was trying to tell me something.  But I never 
figured out what it was."

"You're not a redhead yourself?"

Jane laughed.  "If truth be told, I have brown hair.  At 
present, and last summer, I was a blond."

"Do you have children, Jane?"

"No, not yet.  Maybe in a couple years."

Of the other four women Scully reached, two were in their 
sixties and had not been bothered.  They extolled the virtues 
of the Yellow Rose and said they planned to return.  The other 
two were in their thirties, married with children, and had 
also gone unmolested.

As far as Scully could figure, whether a woman was "bothered" 
seemed to be determined by age and childlessness.  Her 
sterility had brought her varying degrees of misery over the 
years.  Hunched over the phone, staring unseeing at the wide 
blue sky, she clenched her fist.  "Shit," she muttered, 
banging her fist on the desk.  It was bad enough being 
sterile, she thought.  Now someone wanted to *kill* her for 
it?  No fuckin' way, she vowed.  Not me, lady.

Jesus Christ, she thought.  I'm talking to a ghost.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:  DECLARATION

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

"No, no, it's the place itself.  She must leave it."

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


The former owners of the Yellow Rose, the Millers, were 
ensconced in a newly built house at water's edge, a triumph of 
modern design with angled windows, free-standing stoves, and 
sleek built-in furniture in beautifully-grained teak.  It 
looked as if--except for the stunning water views--they had 
selected a house to contrast in every way with the Yellow 
Rose.  Lisa Miller shook hands and invited them in, mentioning 
that her husband was traveling in Alberta.

Accepting lemonade, Scully studied their hostess, a tall, thin 
blond who looked as if she were in her early- to mid-thirties.  
"What a beautiful house," she said, smiling her thanks and 
placing the glass on a nearby coaster.  She felt as surrounded 
by wood as she did aboard ship.

"It's one month old," Lisa said with a huge smile.  "Our 
baby."

Oh, nice segue, Scully thought.  "And this is your only child 
at the moment?" she asked.

Lisa nodded, seemingly puzzled about why Scully had asked that 
question.  Her mental shrug was nearly visible as she 
returned, "And you?"

Scully shook her head.  "No, no children."  She cleared her 
throat.  "We really shouldn't take up a lot of your time, so 
I'll tell you why we asked to see you.  We're staying at the 
Yellow Rose, and we understand you used to own it."

Lisa set her glass down and crossed her long, shapely legs.  
Her body stiffening slightly, she raised an inquiring brow.

"Something strange happened to us last night," Mulder said.  
"And we were wondering if anything happened to you when you 
owned the house."

Lisa's leg began to swing rhythmically.  Her brow furrowed.  
"Anything *happened*?"  she said.

"Anything like what happened to me," Scully said.  "I found 
myself, or rather, Mulder here found me, outside in the middle 
of the night.  I was walking like a zombie through the roses 
and brambles, headed for the cliff.  Did you have any strange 
experiences like that?"  She hastened on, before the denial 
could come.  "You see, I'm not an imaginative person at all 
and it's such a strange thing for me to do.  Then, I started 
to wonder if I was the only woman this has happened to.  And 
you lived there, so I wanted to ask you.  Just as a matter of 
curiosity.  Because it bothers me that I'd do something like 
that."

There was a lengthy silence.  Lisa seemed to be turning it 
over in her mind.  At last, she spoke.  "Yeah.  It happened to 
me twice.  I woke up and found myself outside at night.  Once 
on the porch, then in the roses.  Then I moved out while Jack 
made the arrangements to sell.  I rented a place in town and 
hired a builder to put up this house.  Brand new.  I couldn't 
stand the idea of moving into another old house."

Mulder frowned.  "Because you think there was something in the 
house."

"Something in the library," Lisa said.  "The room chilled me.  
Gave me the creeps."

"The portrait over the mantel.  Did she attract you or bother 
you?" Scully asked.

"I liked her.  She was the only thing I didn't want to leave.  
I felt such a sympathy with her.  She had lovely eyes.  But 
the deal, to offload the place quickly, was to leave all the 
furnishings.  And," she gestured around her,  "this place 
hardly has any wall space.  It's all windows and angles.  I 
don't think she'd fit here, do you?"

Scully shook her head.  "She was there when you bought the 
place?"  She noticed that they kept referring to the woman in 
the portrait as if she were a living entity--'she,' not 'it.'  

Lisa nodded.  "Yeah, she was there.  A lot of the stuff was.  
It all belonged to a woman who lived there for. . . I don't 
know, at least fifty years.  She loved the house, but she was 
moving to a retirement home."

"Is she still alive?"  Mulder asked.

"I think so.  Her name was Hannah Thorsen, and she was moving 
to the Shady Pines home.  You can check.  Obviously, if she 
was there for all those years, she wasn't being driven outside 
to take midnight walks on the wild side.  So I don't know what 
she could tell you."

"How long were you there?"  Scully asked.

Lisa gave a short, bitter laugh.  "Less than a week, if you 
can believe it.  After we'd put months--and a packet of loot-- 
into updating it and putting in a new kitchen and baths and 
all sorts of stuff."

Scully nodded.  "You're happy here?"

"Love it."

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

In a restaurant with the usual stunning sea view, Scully and 
Mulder ate chowder and planned the rest of their day.

"Okay," Scully said.  "Here it is."  She tapped her finger on 
the map spread beside her.  "I'll drop you at the Historical 
Society, which is an easy walk to the town library.  Then I'll 
drive out to Shady Pines.  Hannah said she'd talk to me."

"And you'll join me at either the Historical Society or the 
library.  You won't go off anywhere else?"

Scully put down her spoon.  "Of course I will, Mulder.  I'm 
planning to act like the heroine of a Gothic novel and return 
to the Yellow Rose because there's. . . there's something I 
forgot to tell the lady in the portrait.  The house will be 
deserted and she'll send me walking off a cliff.  Jesus, 
Mulder!  Do you think I'm a moron?"

He merely smiled and continued shoveling in his soup.

"It's nice to see you throw yourself into a case again," he 
said.

"Well, despite the threat of death, I've got to admit it's 
kind of nice to have this sort of. . . problem again.  It's 
far more exciting than treating croup, I assure you."

As they ate, Scully studied Mulder.  He'd hung back pretty 
much on this one, letting her do most of the questioning.  He 
hadn't even suggested anything particularly outrageous.  Or 
maybe the difference was that this time she too was a half-
believer in the outrageous theory, so he actually came off as 
sensible.  Also, unlike the past, they weren't even fighting.  
Amazing, she thought.  The partnership goes on.

For how long, she wondered.  For a reunion over a ghostly X-
File, a fling in the city, or a lifetime?   I'm always trying 
to figure out exactly what I want out of this relationship, 
she thought.  What does Mulder want?

"How much do you want to marry me, Mulder?" she suddenly asked 
him.  "Would your life still be. . . okay if I don't marry 
you?"

He set down his glass.  "Why do I sense a trick question 
here?" he asked.  "I think this is one where I'm damned either 
way.  So I'll just be honest."  He paused and looked her in 
the eye.  "I want to marry you.  You know that.  I think it'll 
make both of us happy.  I don't mean happily-ever-after happy.  
We'll still get fed up with each other and snap at each other 
and occasionally feel like wringing each other's neck.  But 
we've always been able to fight and get over it.  So I know 
that no matter how much I feel like throttling you, I still 
love you."

He hesitated, then came to a decision.  This, he thought, is 
probably not the way to a woman's heart.  But this is Scully, 
not just any woman.  She wants it straight.  I hope. 

"To be honest," he told her, "I can live without you.  I can't 
say that I'll be miserable the rest of my life without you.  I 
may be; I may not be.  The difference between me now and me 
eight years ago is that I thought I was nothing without you 
then and that I. . .had nothing to offer you.  Well, now I 
know that I don't require you.  I *prefer * having you in my 
life." 

Scully opened her mouth, but Mulder raised a hand.  He was on 
a roll.  "Let me finish.  I prefer having you in my life 
because I love you.  I know that now.  And I understand that 
love. . .  isn't the same thing as need.  It's something you 
want to give another person."  

He took a deep breath and laid a very large card on the table.  
"And I'm starting to wonder if you want to give me your love.  
I realize that I'm the one who walked and. . . and destroyed 
your trust in me.  And it's only been a couple months since 
we've been together again.  Fine.  But if you're really so 
beset by doubts about us together, so. . .so wary of 
commitment, I'm wondering if this can work.  I said I wouldn't 
push, and I won't.  I'm just answering your question fully."

Scully was stuck dumb for an instant, never having expected 
such a straightforward, frank assessment from him.  "You've 
really changed."

"I have.  I wonder if you have, though.  You're still so. . 
.distant, sometimes, emotionally."   He studied his hands, his 
expression sober.

Scully determined to be equally honest.  He deserved no less.  
"I'm trying to put it behind me.  It's hard.  As you said, you 
walked away.  Nothing in my life has hurt that much.  The 
scene is etched in my memory and I still get enraged every 
time I think of it."  She shook her head with frustration, as 
though she were trying to shake the feelings away.  "Even 
though you've explained your reasons.  I know it's just a tiny 
piece of our past, but. . .it's part of a pattern.  You. . . 
you used to ditch me, and it always hurt."

"I know."  Mulder now doubted that she'd ever be able to 
forgive his past actions.  His eyes filled, and his voice 
cracked as he spoke in fits and starts.  "I. . . I wonder if 
we can ever get it together.  If underneath it all, you still 
kind of. . .hate me. . . or resent me for that, if you can't 
forgive or forget. . . . What have we got, Scully?"  He met 
her eyes, trying to read a glimmer of hope there, but braced 
himself to meet despair.

She stared out the window at the perfect blue sea, then 
returned her eyes to his.  His words, the sea, her feelings-
all coalesced for her, suddenly, leading her to perhaps the 
biggest decision of the rest of her life.  "We've got love," 
she said, finally seeing clearly.  "A lot of problems, yes.  
'Cause my memory keeps replaying a very ugly scene.  But," she 
took his hand, leaned forward, and whispered with a piercing 
earnestness,  "I *do* love you."

His mouth nearly fell open as his eyes widened.  "You've never 
said the words before," he whispered, as if speaking aloud 
might drive away her admission.

"I know.  You said. . .love. . . it's something you want to 
give the other person.  I've wanted to give you those words.  
I'm stubborn, as you know."  Now that she'd started, she might 
as well give him the whole thing, she thought.  Show him 
exactly how petty the person he loved was, how really 
unworthy.  Confession time, she thought, preparing to admit 
what she had refused to face.

"Somehow," she said slowly, "I think maybe I've been trying to 
hurt you, to get back at you for the way you hurt me.  But 
that's awful.  It's just not right.  It's time for me to let 
the grievance go and get on with things.  The person you are 
now. . . I love you.  And I know you need to hear that."

"And you don't?" He sounded genuinely curious.

"I don't know.  The actions may be enough for me.  But I don't 
have to test that anyway, because you're generous with words."

She paused, then continued, caressing his knuckles.  "I guess 
I'm really pleased to hear that you. . . don't need me.  
Because I don't need you to make me happy.  I've been quite 
happy on my own.  I like the idea that we can simply prefer to 
be together and love each other.  That we can add to each 
other's otherwise acceptable lives."  She sent him a blazing 
smile.  "Gain, not lose."

Mulder finally relaxed and grinned.  "I ain't Romeo.  I'm not 
going to die if I can't have you.  Or vice-versa, I'm sure.  I 
think we may be well past the youthful desperation stage.   
But I want to be with you--with the whole commitment and till-
death-do-us-part thing--and I'm willing to wait till you've 
reached the same place."

"You really needed to hear that I love you.  I'm sorry I 
withheld that from you, Mulder."

He got up from his side of the table and seated himself beside 
her.  "I didn't want it till you were ready to give it, 
Scully.  And I don't want to marry you till you're sure, 
either.  If we make it out of here alive," he smiled, "we have 
plenty of time."

"We do," she agreed.  She kissed his cheek.  "We do."

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

Mulder took a dusty trip down Lunenburg's Memory Lane, burying 
himself in old records, journals, and newspapers.  This was a 
town that took its history seriously.  After floundering 
around with no results, he asked for help from the elderly 
lady in charge, Mrs. Briggs.  With her guidance, he found that 
the Yellow Rose had been built in 1873 by a sea captain, John 
Morgan.  His young wife, from all indications, was the lady 
whose portrait graced, or haunted, the mantel.  She died, 
according to the town's records, in 1880.

"How can I find out what the cause of death was?" he asked his 
savior, his low voice making its way from among the morass of 
disintegrating materials.

"Try reading through some of the personal journals," she 
suggested.  "We don't have coroners' certificates, or anything 
like that, just some of the town's records of births and 
deaths, as I explained.  There was no regular newspaper.  In 
those days, there was one if someone came into town who felt 
like bankrolling it.  There was no town newspaper in 1880."  
She paused.  "But it was printed before that.  Let me see what 
I can find."  She bustled away.

Mulder started to work his way through dusty journals, their 
thin yellow pages crowded with faded handwriting embellished 
by curlicues and other strange flourishes.  Shit, he thought, 
these people make my scrawl look legible.  He pushed his 
glasses back up his nose and plunged in.

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

Scully, in the meantime, was sitting in a sunroom with Hannah 
Thorsen, a sprightly woman in her nineties.  Her white hair 
was a striking contrast to the deep tan of a woman who has 
spent her life by the sea.  She was tall and thin and still 
looked surprisingly strong in a wiry sort of way.  Scully had 
the uneasy feeling that this woman twice her age could 
probably take her in a one-mile run.  Hannah's eyes were alert 
and she seemed pleased to have a new visitor.

"I moved into the Yellow Rose during the Second World War," 
she told Scully.  "I remember admiring General Eisenhower so 
much at the time.  We were on the sea, so we had to be very 
strict about our blackout precautions.  We had big shutters 
built and heavy blinds as well.  Didn't want to attract any 
German subs," she smiled.

"I hope you didn't."

"No, we got through the war safely enough.  It was hard, you 
know.  The shortages, the rationing.  We turned the entire 
front of the property into a vegetable garden, and we did it 
because we were hungry.  I had one child when we moved in, and  
after the war, I had four others.  That vegetable garden 
managed to feed a large family."

"Since you were so many years in the house, I guess you loved 
it."

Hannah nodded.  "Oh, yes, dear.  Those were the best days of 
my life.  About sixty years.  I can hardly remember when I 
*didn't* live in the Yellow Rose.  It was a wonderful place 
for the children, except for the lack of transportation.  They 
had to walk everywhere when gas was rationed.  And it was so 
out of the way, and such a steep walk.  But we got them a 
horse and carriage, and then everyone was happy."

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

Back at the Historical Society, Mulder's head was throbbing.  
"I felt a funeral in my brain," he quoted to himself.  Yeah, 
right.   Mrs. Briggs had staggered to his table with a stack 
of rotting newspapers from the earlier 1870s, and he was doing 
his best to read them without causing massive disintegration 
and bringing down the wrath of the stern ladies who watched 
over the materials.

He found the couple's wedding announcement in 1874, so now he 
knew the first name of the late Mrs. Morgan.  But the 
newspapers ceased to be printed soon afterwards, so he sighed 
and turned back to the journals, rubbing his forehead until 
the skin turned red.

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

"Do you remember anything about the earlier history of the 
house?"  Scully asked.

"It was in terrible shape when we moved in," Hannah told her.  
"It'd been unoccupied for many, many years following the death 
of a sea captain.  He was the original builder, if I recall 
correctly, and he'd lived alone in the house for years, then 
died.  After that, it was vacant for, oh, perhaps twenty years 
or more, which left it on the verge of ruin.  I believe he had 
no children, so the estate was handled by lawyers for distant 
relations who weren't doing much in the way of upkeep or even 
trying to actively dispose of the property.  I sometimes 
wonder what possessed us to buy such a wreck of a place and 
move in.  The foolishness of youth, I guess."  She smiled.  
"And the energy, of course.  We needed a great deal of energy 
to deal with that deteriorated pile."

"Do you remember what *did* attract you?"

"When I walked in, I overlooked the mess, the hundreds of 
hours even I could see would be needed to make it decent.  I 
loved the location, the views out over the sea, and I. . .felt 
it needed me.  That the house had been empty, that it needed 
children to run around and fill it with their sounds.  I had 
one noisy child and I planned to have as many others as God 
saw fit to bless me with."  She paused.  "It. . . just seemed 
to fit my needs; it called out to me.  It seemed to need an 
injection of life and energy, and I guess that's what I felt I 
could give it.  It's hard to believe now, the way I worked to 
put it into some sort of order.  I worked harder than any 
slave."  She shook her head.

Scully gazed out the window at the pine trees by the water and 
decided the time was ripe for the big question.  "Was there a 
portrait over the mantel in the library when you moved in?"

Hannah's eyes lit up.  "There was.  That was one thing that 
gave me the impression the house needed me and my noise and my 
children.  She looked so lonely.  I wanted to cheer her up and 
set my kids to playing on her hearth rug."

'She' again, Scully noted.  Could no one think of the portrait 
as 'it'?  "Did. . .did any female guests ever have strange 
experiences while they stayed with you?"

Hannah chuckled.  "There was a bit of sleepwalking over the 
years, but nothing serious.  At least, as long as the children 
were around."  She glanced at Scully.  "That sounds silly, I 
know.  But you start to feel a house is a. . . living entity, 
when you've spent so many years in it.  And as long as we were 
happy, the house seemed to. . .rejoice along with us."

Scully nodded.  "The portrait's still there.  I think most 
women like the lady."

"They tend to see different things in her, I think.  She's 
almost like a. . .Rorschach test, in my experience."  Hannah 
smiled.  "I saw it as my mission to cheer her up.  So one day, 
I took down the portrait and changed her rose a bit."

Scully recalled how surprised she'd been by the hybrid tea 
rose the lady held.  "It was originally one of the wild ones 
from the cliff path?"

"Yes.  But I wanted to offer her some peace, so I painted on a 
tinge of pink so it'd look like the Peace rose.  It was a very 
popular rose in the 50s."

Scully nodded, wondering why it hadn't occurred to her that 
hybrid teas went back a long way, but that the Peace rose was 
unlikely to have existed in Victorian times.  What a nice 
thought on Hannah's part, she decided.  To offer the lady 
peace.  Although it obviously hadn't worked, she thought, 
recalling her own experiences.  It was hard, in the face of 
the lady's universal attraction, but she needed to keep in 
mind that the sweet-faced lady could be deadly.

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

Mulder, half blind and ready to give up and go off in search 
of aspirin, astonished himself by coming across a reference to 
Mrs. Morgan.  He almost missed it.  It was in a spidery 
handwriting in an obscure journal amidst a catalogue of 
recipes (or 'receipts,' as they called them) for baking with 
rhubarb.  The lady had disappeared over the cliff edge during 
the night, leaving her husband bereft.

"Poor Mr. Morgan," read the faded handwriting.  "She had her 
grief, to be sure, but she also had her duty.  His heart will 
surely never be mended."

And despite spending another hour leafing through piles of 
dusty and incredibly hard-to-read journals, that's all Mulder 
could find.  At last, Scully arrived and rescued him from his 
task, just as he was convinced his head was about to burst.

It looked as though they'd finally collected some hard 
information, and they were both pleased, till their personal 
demons woke up and angrily shook their fists.  Again.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:  SCULLY'S HAUNTING

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

"I go on, I know, as if I were crazy; and it's a wonder I'm 
not."

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


Glaring at Mulder, Scully stood beside the car with both arms 
folded stiffly across her chest.  Partnership, schmartnership, 
she thought.  Just when she'd thought they were working so 
well together.  In tandem, with respect.  Yeah, right.  So why 
shouldn't she drive?  And why was she losing it over something 
so incredibly trivial, as Mulder was unwise enough to point 
out?

"This is idiotic," he told her.

"Damn straight it is," she responded.  "I drove here to pick 
you up.  Is there any reason that when we come back to the 
car, you should reach for the keys?  You may be stronger than 
I am, Mulder, but we're using the car's horsepower.  You're 
not carrying the damned thing."

"I don't see what the big deal is," he said.  "I reached for 
the keys because I usually drive.  All you have to do is say 
you prefer to drive.  You don't have to throw a fucking 
tantrum."

She drew a deep breath.  "Fine.  I prefer to drive."

He rolled his eyeballs at her, then turned his back.  "Fine," 
she heard him mutter.  "Sure, fine, whatever."

"Don't you pull that crap, Mulder."  Why should they be duking 
it out over *this*, of all things, she wondered.  To avoid the 
bigger, more damaging issues that could rip them apart?  To 
widen the distance between them since their mutual declaration 
of love had drawn them close?  Could they never have peace?

He swiveled and shot her a murderous glance.

Taking in his expression, Scully abruptly regained her 
equanimity.  Like someone turning a kaleidoscope, her view 
shifted.  It was really kind of funny, she thought, that 
they'd chosen this issue to go to the mats over, especially 
since, as New Yorkers, they seldom drove anyway.    

Her change of mood registered in her eyes.  "Still love me?" 
she asked, recalling what he'd said at lunch about loving her 
even when he wanted to throttle her

His glare faded as he too realized that this was not a big 
issue.  They had issues, sure, but who drove shouldn't even 
make the list.  "Yeah, I do," he said.  "Even when you're 
acting like an idiot."

"Me?"  Well, yeah, she thought.  But he doesn't have to call 
me names.  Still, she couldn't stop herself from retorting,  
"I'm not the only idiot here."

Mulder actually threw up his hands.  "Please, just drive.  
Okay?  In fact, before we take off, let's sit on this nice 
bench overlooking the water and figure out where we're going.  
Isn't that kind of a good idea?"

"Don't patronize me, Mulder."  Scully stopped fuming, seated 
herself, and crossed her legs.  After a few minutes of 
communing with the sea, she was ready to speak.  "Okay, 
Mulder.  Now we know some things.  Our lady went over the 
cliff, and it was thought to be suicide at the time."

"A perfect example of the ghostly phenomenon," he said.  "An 
uneasy spirit who left unfinished business.  She can't rest."

"She has no effect on anyone we've discovered except women-- 
childless women, from what I've heard."

"So far," he agreed.  "The women in the house right now who're 
close to you in age aren't being bothered in the least.  And 
notice how I've taken up Martha's euphemism.  Bothered!  What 
should I call it?  Haunted?  Possessed?"

"All right, all right.  She was apparently a childless woman.  
Hannah said the lady's husband lived there until he died and 
there were no children to inherit the place.  Of course," she 
added, her logical side chiming in, "a child could have pre-
deceased the father.  But you didn't see any children listed 
in the birth or marriage records, right?"

"Right.  But the records are incomplete.  I was told a lot 
were moved during the war and not all were recovered."  He 
paused, thinking of what other facts they'd accumulated.  "And 
we know her name."

Scully's head turned swiftly.  "I don't.  You didn't tell me."  
She thought it over.  "It wasn't Rose?"

"Close.  Iris."

Scully nodded.  "She looks like an Iris."  A slender stem, a 
graceful bloom, in pure, harmonious colors, she thought.  And 
irises have a brief springtime bloom, like this woman.   She 
didn't live long enough to experience the summer of her life.  
She cut if off, like snipping a stem.  Why?  

Scully gave herself a mental slap.  More to the point, she 
lectured herself, why are you dewy-eyed over this woman who 
apparently tried to send you off a cliff?  Does she seduce us, 
she wondered.  All the women were attracted in some way.

She pulled her wandering mind back to the case.  "Since she. . 
. uses her influence on childless women, I'm going to assume 
that the cause of her death had to do with a child, not having 
a child, or maybe losing a child."

Mulder leaned forward and put his head in his hands.  "Why 
does it always come back to this?" he muttered.  "We will 
*never* get past this, this. . .lasting monument to the 
effects of the X-Files."

Absently, Scully laid her hand on his back.  He winced as she 
hit one of his lacerations.  "Sorry," she said, staring at the 
boats swooping in the breeze and withdrawing her hand.

"Have you ever read 'The Turn of the Screw'?" she asked.

"By Henry James? I don't think so.  Saw a movie version 
though.  About these kids who are haunted by ghosts, to the 
great distress of their governess.  Right?"

"It's debatable if that's really what it's about.  When I 
first came to New York, I lived across the hall from a woman 
writing her literature dissertation at Columbia.  She was 
working on 'The Turn of the Screw,' and there are different 
interpretations.  For years, people thought it was just a 
scary ghost story.  How horrifying, to think that these evil 
ghosts were plotting to possess the souls of the children.  
Not one child, but two, another turn of the screw.  And the 
children seemed to want that, appearing innocent while in 
reality being. . . corrupted by the ghosts and seeming to seek 
them out, presumably for activities implied to be vaguely 
sexual."

"That's pretty much what I remember from the movie version."

"Then came the critical revolution, in the form of a guy who 
taught years ago at Swarthmore," Scully said.  "He was the 
first one to see another interpretation.  When he was young, 
he'd been briefly in the care of a hired woman who was quite 
mad.  And no one, not even his parents, could see this.  He 
knew what it was like to be a child in the power of a 
madwoman.  So, he suggested. . ."

"That the ghosts weren't real, but a. . . figment of the 
demented governess' imagination?" Mulder guessed.

"Yep.  And once you read it with that in mind, all sorts of 
evidence pops out at you.  You can practically see her 
inventing the ghosts to serve her own purposes, to make her 
the heroine and thus gain the attention of the children's 
attractive uncle, who hired her and said not to bother him  
with any of the details of their care."

"So, she. . .invents ghosts so she can defeat them and save 
the children from them?  Despite the fact that they exist only 
in her mind?"

"That's one interpretation," Scully said.  "And it's 
interesting that she invents ghosts who want to possess the 
children when in fact, that's what she winds up doing in her 
own demented way:  trying to possess every living, breathing 
minute of their lives.  She's all over them, driving them 
crazy, demanding to know where they're going, what they're 
thinking, pouncing on them in their sleep, seeing apparitions, 
convincing herself that they see them too."

"So, what you're saying," Mulder suggested, "is that we see 
the ghosts we want to see?  That the person who sees the ghost 
is . . . expressing a part of his own psychological needs.  
But. . . the women who've been affected have been pretty 
consistent here.  They had similar experiences and reactions, 
didn't they?"

Scully shrugged.  "In a way.  Hannah called the lady a kind of 
Rorschach test.  She, for instance, thought Iris looked lonely 
and needed some noisy children to warm her hearth.  I guess 
since she stayed there with the lady for sixty years, she 
heard a lot of different opinions about her over all that 
time."

"It's interesting, though," Mulder said, echoing Scully's 
earlier thought, "that no one has found Iris creepy or scary 
or anything like that.  They thought what happened to them was 
creepy, but not her.  Everyone more or less liked her or 
thought she was beautiful or interesting."

"Yeah, she's seductive.  A Pied Piper, maybe."  Scully studied 
her hands, frowning.  She confessed,   "I'm just wondering if 
I'm seeing her as a Rorschach.  That because I'm. . .haunted, 
if you want to call it that, by not having children, I've 
decided that that's Iris's problem."  

Before he could speak, she went on.  "Other reasons for her 
suicide are certainly possible.  Maybe Iris found out she had 
a fatal disease and decided to end it before the painful 
stage.  Maybe she was depressed because she discovered her 
husband had twelve mistresses.  Or syphilis, and she didn't 
want to lose her mind.  I'm bothered that I've. . . managed to 
attribute all this to childlessness.  Do I sound like the 
governess?  Seeing a made-to-order ghost?"

Mulder took her hand and stared out over the water.  "I knew 
it bothered you, Scully.  I didn't know how much or how 
constantly or how deeply."  He gave a frustrated sigh and ran 
his other hand over his face.  "My angst isn't going to help 
right now, so I'm going to think about the investigation."  He 
realized the irony of their role reversal as he, Scully-like, 
continued,  "And mention that there's evidence to suggest 
you're right.  She only affects childless women."

She turned to him, clutching his arm.  "I need to *know*, 
Mulder."  Her expression was earnest.  "The governess in the 
book started to doubt her sanity.  When you make leaps of 
imagination like this, see things you don't even believe in, 
you. . . you want to know if you had any. . .grounds for it. 
It's. . . ridiculous to me to suspect that my actions were 
controlled by a. . .a portrait.  Ludicrous.  I need to. . 
.understand."

Mulder pondered her words, read the need in her expression.  
"I've never felt I had to justify my leaps, Scully."  But they 
were very different people, he knew, and because he loved her, 
he tried to put himself in her place. "Yet I understand what 
you're saying.  It was a big shock for you last night, waking 
up like that, finding out where you'd gone.  You need to. . 
.find an explanation, a reason for what happened."

"Exactly."  She was being honest and open, she realized, 
spelling out her needs, not claiming to be fine, nor 
repressing her fears.  Would he understand, she wondered.

He draped his arm around her shoulder.  "But we've done all we 
can, Scully.  It happened over a century ago.  I don't think 
there's anyone around who can give us the answers."

Scully stiffened beneath his arm.  Here we go, she thought.  
"Maybe Iris can."

"Huh?"

She braced herself for an argument and told him, "I want to go 
back to the Yellow Rose, sit in the library with her, and . . 
.ask her, in effect.  Just me and her.  A. . .confrontation.  
See if she'll. . . convey anything so I can. . .let this go."

For the second time in ten minutes, Mulder saw red. "Jesus, 
Scully, not again.  You *like* walking through brambles and 
stepping over cliffs?  What the fuck. . . ."

Scully stood up, keys jingling in her hand.  Enough of this 
shit, she thought.  You're either in or you're out, but I want 
to. . . know.  Jesus, she thought, I've turned into Mulder.  
The old one.

Nevertheless, she stood over him, hands planted on hips, and 
tried to be rational.  

"It's not even four o'clock in the afternoon," she said 
evenly.   "This is not the middle of the night.  There will be 
other people in the house, awake and moving around.  You can 
camp outside the library door on the porch to make sure I 
don't sleepwalk my way to the cliff.  Every single person 
affected has wound up on that porch or in the roses.  If 
you're there, I'll be safe.  Unless you believe she'll cast a  
spell and put you to sleep."  She turned toward the car.  
"Think you can stay awake, Mulder?"

"Shit," he muttered, heading for the passenger side.  This 
time, he was the one going along for the ride.

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

Seated in the familiar chair, Scully stared up into the sea-
blue eyes that had become as familiar as her own.  "She is 
me," she thought, an echo of a long ago case at a time when 
she was in severe emotional trauma.  Maybe when her emotions 
got all stirred up, she saw things, she thought, projected 
women who would "tell" her what she felt, act out what she was 
afraid to face.

No, not this time, she told herself firmly.  Iris projected 
some kind of influence, affecting other women as well.  The 
question that gnawed at Scully was whether she had projected 
her own despair about childlessness--an issue she thought she 
had pretty successfully dealt with and buried--onto this 
portrait.

Mulder sat outside on the porch, the window closed so Scully 
could be alone with her. . .no, she wouldn't call her a demon.
She might well be evil, with her history of attempted murders, 
but her appearance hid any malevolence.  She looked like a 
beautiful, lively woman.  Like all who'd spoken of her, 
Scully--despite her knowledge--felt an attachment.  

Iris seemed to draw women to her and force them to. . .walk 
toward their death, as she apparently had.  Scully recalled 
the image of the black. . .thing falling through the air.  
That would be Iris, sailing over the cliff, to smash on the 
rocks below.  Scully remembered sitting at breakfast, just 
yesterday, envying the gulls' ability to soar above the sea 
and the rocks.  Humans were without wings, except those made 
of hope.

She felt a trance-like state descend as she reached out to the 
long-dead woman in the portrait.  She no longer felt 
confrontational, just eager to understand the connection.  
"Why," she whispered to her.  "Why did you do it?  You were 
young, beautiful, living in the most beautiful house in the 
world, newly built and probably furnished just the way you 
wanted.  You were married to an influential man.  I thought 
you were happy with him.  All that yellow I got from you the 
other night.  It spelled happiness to me.

"And look at you," she continued.  "You've got this secret 
little smile.  You're not at all unhappy.  Your eyes snap with 
life and mischief.  You enjoyed life.  You held it in your 
hands, like a beautiful rose in bloom.  Can't you tell me 
why?"

She closed her eyes, listening hard.  The sound of the sea 
clicked off like a radio, and she was truly alone with the 
long-dead Iris.  She opened herself to the connection.  She 
wanted to understand.  She threw herself into the void with 
open spirit, all her doubts vanished, refusing to let feelings 
of foolishness or skepticism block this effort to communicate.  
She rid her mind of all remnants of thought about the 
credulous fools who attended seances, pitifully trying to make 
contact with the dead.  She was *in*.

"I was smiling because I was expecting a child," she thought 
she heard, in a quiet, melodious alto voice.  "I was three 
months with child, and few people knew my secret.  I clasped 
it to myself, nursed it, cherished it, this miracle that I 
expected to make my happiness complete."

"The yellow, the sunshine," Scully whispered.  "That was your 
joy."

"Yes."  There was a long pause.  Scully kept her eyes closed, 
waiting.  She sensed that the next part, the sensation she had 
received as black, was hard for Iris to talk about.  It was 
what had festered all these years, giving her a powerful 
influence over the women who'd come under her spell.  Despair, 
Scully knew, can be overwhelming.

"I had the baby, a little girl," the voice went on, so quiet 
that Scully had to strain to hear the words.  "Despite forty-
eight hours in labor, and tremendous pain, I was in bliss, and 
my husband didn't mind that it wasn't a boy, an heir.  Her 
name was Amelia, the name of one of my husband's aunts.  She 
had fuzzy auburn hair and immense blue eyes, and her skin 
smelled like angel wings."

Again there was a pause.  The voice continued, still quiet but 
trembling.  Scully kept her eyes closed, dreading the 
revelations to come.  She didn't doubt that she was hearing 
the voice of Iris Morgan.  Her breathing practically stopped 
as she waited to find what tragedy had occurred.

"We were ecstatic, but. . .eventually, it became clear that 
Amelia wasn't. . .a typical infant.  She didn't respond. . .to 
me, to anyone.  She was often agitated, and there was no way 
to comfort her.  We became exhausted.  I had a nurse for her, 
from Trinidad,  but I couldn't let her cry at night without 
getting up to be with her.  I felt. . .I was wasting away, 
that I'd never be happy again."

The voice slowed, the words dragging out.  "The doctors gave 
her. . . medicines to try to sedate her, to calm her.  I. . 
.guess they misjudged the dose, for a tiny angel like her.  
After one dose, she. . .didn't wake again.  We buried her tiny 
body in the sea, sprinkling rose petals atop the waters.  We. 
. .didn't even have a church ceremony, or tell the people in 
the town about her.  Although there were rumors, as always in 
a small community.  But we didn't discuss her.  She was. . 
.ours.  Our. . .love and our bane.

"I felt guilty about not giving her a Christian burial.  But I 
was angry with God for giving me a child so beautiful. . .and 
then making her suffer, making all of us suffer, unbearably.    
Then whisking her away, leaving us with nothing but a . . 
.black taste in our mouths."

Scully, eyes pressed closed, knew the feeling well.

"And God punished me for that sin.  I could not. . . conceive 
another child.  I saw the world as dark and empty.  Even the 
beauty of this landscape closed itself to me.  I ceased to 
sleep.  I would wander through the roses half the night, 
searching for some faith, for some reason to go on living.

"I feared God's wrath toward those who took their lives from 
despair.  But he'd already done His worst to me.  I didn't see 
how I could be punished more than I had been, left with no 
child and no hopes.  Ever.

"I thought about my poor husband.  He still loved me, empty 
shell that I'd become.  He worried about me constantly.  I was 
a burden to him, and I knew that I could never present him 
with an heir.  He deserved an heir.  He deserved a happy wife 
and a productive life, not the . . .unremitting gloom I had to 
offer.

"I turned it over in my mind, for weeks and weeks, pacing 
through the gardens, never sleeping, growing more and more 
haggard, and, I think, demented.  Finally, I couldn't bear it 
any longer.  I could not see one reason to go on for another 
minute.  I was no good to anyone, just a burden.  I hadn't 
even any hopes left of heavenly comfort, since I couldn't 
bring myself to pray.  All was gone.  So. . .I walked over the 
edge.  I thought that would end matters for me for all 
eternity.  It didn't."

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

Outside on the porch, Mulder checked his watch, making sure 
that he hadn't fallen asleep and let Scully slip by.  She'd 
been in there for what seemed like an eternity, but which was, 
in fact, about an hour.  Too long, he told himself.  Peek in 
again, make sure she's okay.  Every time he'd checked on her, 
she'd been sitting there like a statue.

He rose, tiptoed to the window.  He pressed his hand to the 
glass, trying to shield his vision from the reflections, so he 
could see inside the room.  His eyes took a minute to adjust, 
shifting from the bright outdoors to the dim room.  Which was 
empty.

He tore the door open, wrenched the screen aside and looked at 
the empty chair.  His eyes traveled upward to the mantel.  The 
picture was gone.

Jesus Christ, he thought.  Where is she?

CHAPTER NINETEEN:  A PROPOSAL

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

"A talk!  Do you mean she spoke?"

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


Mulder burst through the library doorway into the hall.  If 
she didn't exit onto the porch--and she hadn't unless she'd 
become invisible--this was the only way she could have come.  
His darting glance lit upon the older couple from Virginia in 
the parlor.

He headed for that room, slowing his gait and wiping the 
desperation from his face.  "Excuse me," he croaked, trying to 
sound matter of fact.  "Have you seen, uh, Dana?"

They consulted each other with a leisure that made Mulder wish 
he still carried a sidearm and could pistol whip the answer 
from them.  "She went through the hallway a while ago.  I 
heard her feet on the stairs."

Mulder took off like a deer.  She wasn't in their room or in 
any of the unlocked rooms on the second floor.  Nor was she on 
any of the balconies.  He muttered curses as he galloped up 
the stairs to the third floor, where no rooms were occupied.   
He opened every door, scanned every room.  Breathing heavily, 
he returned to the hallway, his shoulders sagging.  There, at 
the end of the third floor hallway, he spotted the stair 
leading to the widow's walk.  He'd forgotten its existence.  
He jogged over to the stair and was rewarded with the sound of 
a voice above him.  He breathed a sigh of relief.  Halfway 
there, he thought.  At least I've found her.

Although her words were being carried away by the wind, he 
recognized Scully's voice.  With caution, he mounted the 
stair, not wishing to make a noise that would startle her.  If 
she was in a trance, he figured, she would have to be 
approached carefully, standing as she was at the highest point 
of a very tall house.  He could hear the wind whistling as he 
drew near the top.  He hoped she wouldn't be blown over if she 
got near the edge.  His head was just beneath the hatch that 
served as part of the widow's walk flooring.  He inched his 
head upward and was finally able to see.

The surface was larger than he'd expected, perhaps ten by ten,  
and it was enclosed by a sturdy railing nearly four feet high.  
Two cast iron benches, painted to match the railing, faced 
each other.  Scully sat on one bench.  On the opposite bench 
rested the portrait of Iris.  To his amazement, Scully was 
talking. . . to the portrait.

Was this a nightmare, he asked himself.  His Scully, doing 
something that would have once been so much more in character 
for him.  His world rocked.

Furthermore, he felt like an intruder.  He was fascinated by 
the unknown, as always, but primarily,  he was concerned for 
Scully's safety.  He thought he should stay and listen and be 
on his guard should she be. . .influenced by the spirit.  But 
he also placed a high value on Scully's privacy.  He decided 
to listen for a few minutes and then figure out what to do.

"The world isn't black, Iris, although it looks that way 
sometimes.  If you had just. . .stayed, I think time would 
have healed you."

She was silent for an interval, then resumed.  "No, it really 
does heal.  The proverb is correct."

My God, Mulder thought.  She thinks the portrait's talking 
back to her.  What if it is?  Why not?  All along we've 
realized it has the power to influence people.  What if it 
tells her to jump?  Better stay.  And be ready to move.  He 
crouched below her point of vision, his muscles tensed to act.

"I felt despair," she was telling the portrait.  "I knew I'd 
never have the children I'd always taken for granted. . .at 
least as an option.  Like you, I think. . .I'd have been a 
good mother.  A loving mother, like my own was.  And when that 
option was. . .taken away, I. . .I felt like jumping off a 
cliff."  Her voice broke on a sob, and Mulder felt his cheeks 
grow damp.

Scully was immersed in her connection with the portrait.  Part 
of her was aware that inanimate objects have no spirit, yet 
empirically, she could feel her communication with a long-dead 
woman.  The voice was there, and real, as far as she was 
concerned.  And she needed to discuss this issue, so long 
buried.

She wiped her eyes.  "And shortly after I discovered I 
couldn't have children, I found that. . .I had a daughter.  
You wouldn't understand how that could happen.  You lived in 
simpler times, Iris, better times, in a way.  It's only 
something that. . .evil men figured out how to do long after 
your time.  But they used. . .part of my body that they'd 
stolen from me. . . .No, I really can't explain how they did 
that.  I was. . .asleep or unconscious when it happened, and 
it's. . . modern stuff you don't want to know about."

Scully paused, blew her nose.  "Thank you for crying with me, 
Iris.  It's so. . .good that you understand.  My daughter. . 
.only she wasn't really my daughter.  You're only a mother 
when you have your child with you, love her, watch her grow, 
the way you did with Amelia.  I just knew my. . .biological 
daughter, for a few days.  No.  She died.  Like Amelia, she. . 
. didn't have a chance."

Mulder peered at her through eyes so full he could hardly see.  
She was still sitting safely on the bench, rubbing away her 
tears.  She seemed to be listening to the portrait.  Mulder 
was torn.  That the portrait contained a presence was his own 
theory, so why should they not communicate?  And, as Scully 
had suggested, these were issues she needed to deal with, 
through whatever medium.  No pun intended, he thought, wincing 
at having such a thought at such a time.

He knew she'd been sad.  How blind he'd been not to realize 
the depth of her feelings of loss.  But she'd hidden them 
under her stoic facade, at least from eyes like his that 
didn't want to see the evidence and accept part of the blame.

"Yes," Scully told the portrait.  "I felt like dying.  I know 
what you mean when you say how depressed you were, how 
everything around you lost its color, its taste, its smell.  
Yes, you can look at a rose and see it as black, not yellow, 
ignore the bloom and force the thorn into your thumb--because 
somehow you think you deserve that pain.  At least if you feel 
the pain, you're feeling something, not just drifting along 
trying to let the numbness swallow you up.  With pain, you 
know you're still alive."

She sat in a silence broken by her sobs, the wind, and the 
thundering sea below.  "But things do improve, Iris.  That's 
what I'm trying to tell you.  That's why I brought you up 
here, out of that library.  You've been shut up too long.  
There's a beautiful world out here, and you've been there  
waiting for women to come along.  Women. . .like me, who're. . 
.vulnerable to your spell.  You can't keep doing that!"

She stopped, listened.

"You were wrong, Iris."  Scully squared her shoulders. "Yes, I 
freely admit it.  I was totally depressed and I felt like 
killing myself.  But I didn't, and that was. . .about ten 
years ago now.  And somewhere along the way as the years 
passed, I discovered how to be happy again.  Even the most 
terrible tragedy doesn't have to ruin your life.  There's 
always something left, some way to recover the joy, one day at 
a time."

Another pause.  "No.  I work with children, as their doctor.  
Yes, women can be doctors now.  They *can*."

Scully leaned forward and spoke forcefully.  Part of her was 
distanced from this scene, wondering what the hell she was 
doing, trying to reason with a ghost, which didn't exist in 
the first place.  The rest of her was convinced that this was 
a sad spirit, one who could be convinced to be sensible, given 
the right reasons.

"You have to stop what you're doing, Iris.  Your suicide 
didn't help anyone, including you.  Look at what you've been 
doing all these years, trying to force other women to follow 
in your footsteps.  Have you learned that you made a mistake?  
So you want to ruin the lives of other women too?  Are you a 
murderer?  I hope you're not trying to convince yourself 
you're doing them any favors."

She stood and approached the portrait, kneeling to face Iris 
at her level, ignoring how foolish her action seemed.  "You 
*are *!" she insisted.  "Just because a woman has no children 
doesn't mean she should walk off a cliff.  She can have a 
satisfying life--with a man, a job, doing whatever it is that 
makes her happy.  She doesn't have to be a mother, Iris.  Even 
when she wants to be, and it turns out to be impossible, she 
can still find things she wants to do with her life.  Things 
that bring her pleasure."

She listened.  "I think you're being narrow-minded.  You made 
a mistake, Iris.  Face it.  Your husband didn't go out looking 
for a nice new wife after you died.  He moped around this 
house for the rest of his life, right?  Did you ever consider 
that he might have been a lot happier to have you in this 
house with him, to have lived his life with you?

"Right.  You do understand.  Listen, Iris.  Are you familiar 
with the term hubris?  Yes, exactly.  You cannot control other 
people's fates, make them act like you.  They need to exercise 
their free will, not get taken for walks in the roses.  You've 
never actually led anyone off the cliff, have you?"

She nodded.  "I thought not.  That means that you know it's 
wrong.  You always release them before it's too late.  It's 
enough to have your own. . .wrongful death on your conscience, 
Iris, let alone trying to drag others down with you."

Scully stood up.  "I know.  I'm sorry.  I know how you felt.  
But it's time to. . . to let it go."

She leaned down and picked up the portrait.  "Back to the 
library?  Into the sea?  What's it to be, Iris?  You can't go 
on this way.  Remember Hannah?"  She smiled at the portrait, 
which appeared to offer its own slight smile.  "She tried to 
give you peace.  She understood that that's what you needed."

She carried the portrait over to the railing and leaned it 
against the inside horizontal bar.  Iris seemed to be peering 
out to sea between the bars.  Her action was extremely 
foolish, Scully realized.  But for once she needed to follow 
her feelings.  Having ignored her rational objections, she 
felt at peace.  She stepped back and gazed at the sea, the 
wind whipping her hair around.  Her face, though tear-stained, 
was serene.

Mulder cautiously raised his head and called, "Scully?"

"Hmmm?"

"Can I come up?'

"Sure."

Mulder moved to her side and said, "I wanted to make sure you 
were okay, and there's a lot I want to say.  But first, I have 
to tell you that I am pissed beyond words that you came up 
here without telling me."  

His anger took off like a rocket. "What's the deal here?  You 
send me out to stand guard on the porch so you can evade me by 
taking the interior route?  How the fuck did you think I'd 
feel when I saw you were gone?  Do you not give a shit about 
me?"  Abruptly, he ran out of breath and turned away and 
collapsed on a bench.

Scully swiveled to face him, not at all averse to one of 
their. . . animated discussions.  "Mulder, I care about you a 
lot, as you know.  I guess I. . .just lost track of time.  It 
seemed as if only a minute went by since I started to. . 
.communicate with Iris.  I didn't realize that enough time had 
passed that you'd be worried."  She frowned at him.  "And I 
didn't think you'd come into the library anyway.  I asked for 
privacy.  This was between Iris and me."  She narrowed her 
eyes.  "It's like invading the confessional."

She paced around the area, working up her own set of 
grievances.  "And you've been eavesdropping on a. . .private 
conversation?"

"Conversation with whom, for Christ's sake?  Don't try to turn 
this on me, Scully.  You ditched me."

She raised a brow.  "Exactly."

They were silent, Mulder studying the floor.  "I suppose 
you're going to tell me that's how my ditches made you feel."

"If you mean you felt panicked, betrayed, furious, and 
generally screwed, yes."

He nodded.  "Touché," he muttered.  "Vengeance is yours."

"I wasn't after vengeance, Mulder."

He joined her on the bench, his anger spent.  "I know.  And I 
never intended to hurt you either.  Now you know what it's 
like when you just get. . .carried away with the chase."  He 
took her hand.  "I was listening because I was afraid you were 
still. . .under her spell.  I was afraid you'd take a dive 
from here.  That's the only reason I stayed."

"Okay," she said, moving closer to his side and cradling his 
hand in hers.  She imagined what he'd heard, what conclusions 
he'd draw.  Hell, she herself wasn't far from those same 
conclusions.  "So I suppose you think I'm crazy.  I assume you 
couldn't hear her voice.  That only I could hear her, or 
imagine I heard her."

"I heard. . .you try to exorcise a lot of ghosts.  You were 
doing a damned good job.  And I *do* believe in ghosts, as you 
know."

"I don't know if you believe I heard her at all, Mulder.  It'd 
be like you to turn skeptical just when I fall into line.  But 
she told me about her life, about the death of her baby, about 
her despair.  I brought her up here to see the sun and the 
surf and to let the winds blow away all her nasty feelings.  
She needed an outing.  And yes, I realize how mad that sounds.  
Now you're convinced I'm insane," she sighed.

He shook his head, then leaned down to kiss her temple.  "No, 
not at all.  I'm sorry for eavesdropping, but without that, I 
don't know if I'd ever realize exactly how devastating all. . 
.that happened back in the. . .oh, Christ.  I was so blind.  I 
knew it hurt, but not how much."  His face contorted with 
misery. "No wonder you hate me sometimes.  Your association 
with me cost you so much. . . ."

She threw her arms around his neck and buried her head in his 
neck.  "And life went on," she said, her voice still distinct.  
"It always goes on.  The only alternative is the one Iris 
chose.  And I never seriously considered that."

"That's not what you said."  He pulled back and searched her 
eyes.

"I told her I felt like it, not that I considered doing it.  
There's a big difference."

He rubbed her back, kissed her neck, tucked her close to his 
chest, despite the lacerations.  "Scully?"

"Yeah?"  She was leaning into him with her eyes closed, 
totally at peace with him and with the world.  Confession is 
good for the soul, she told herself with wonder.  Sometimes 
saying it *is * necessary.

"We could have a child, or children.  We could adopt, or we 
could find an egg donor, fertilize with my sperm, and have the 
fertilized egg implanted.  You'd carry the child, we'd bring 
up the child, we'd be its parents.  Think about it.  We're not 
too old.  The option really isn't gone."

She pulled away to watch his face.  "You've never expressed a 
desire for children, Mulder."

"Which doesn't mean I don't want them," he told her with a 
slight smile.  "I always enjoy adventure and risk.  Can you 
think of anything riskier than the two of us trying to raise a 
kid?"  He laughed.

"Are you just joking?"

He shook his head.  "Not in the least.  I had some. . .serious 
deficiencies in my childhood.  I'd like to do a better job as 
a parent than was done for me.  I like kids, I get along with 
them, probably because I'm like an overgrown kid myself 
sometimes.  But yeah, I could seriously see having a kid or 
two, giving a few lessons in how to throw a curve ball."

"You throw enough curves already," she said, studying his 
face.  "If you like kids so much, how come you don't have any 
by now?  You tooled around for eight years with plenty of 
opportunities, I'm sure.  Are you sure you just didn't hear me 
say how I felt and decide that you'd like to make it better, 
make it up to me?  Because I don't want any sacrifices."

"What I want most is you," he told her.  He kissed her.  "I 
didn't have kids because I never found anyone else I wanted to 
marry.  I don't *have * to have kids.  I like them, I think 
I'd be a decent dad, and I've just found out that you. . 
.covet them, you love them.  Why should you be deprived when 
we can make it happen?"

She continued to study him.  "You'd be doing it for me?"

He sighed, pushed her hair back from her eyes.  "For us."  He 
kissed her again, then let her go and settled back on the 
bench and stared out to sea, a faraway look in his eyes.  "We 
don't have to decide anything, Scully.  Hell, you haven't even 
said you'll marry me.  We've got time."  He squinted at the 
horizon.

Scully rose and wandered around the small area, stopping 
occasionally to check out the view in different directions.  
She leaned on the railing for a while, watching the yellow 
roses sway in the breeze.  She picked up the portrait, smiled 
at Iris, whose small, secret smile seemed to have broadened, 
to Scully's fanciful eyes.  She set the portrait down again 
for another look at the sea.  She felt unusually good. . 
.free.

Why the change?  Getting her feelings into the open, admitting 
that she had taken some nearly lethal blows in the past and 
that they had *hurt*.  Facing the fact that Mulder would 
always be with her, and that was a good thing.   Realizing 
that he was not the obsessed, egocentric man he'd been when 
engaged in the quest.  Like a male version of Sleeping Beauty, 
or some other enchanted creature, the spell cast over him by 
his childhood trauma had been broken.  After that, he was able 
to grow up, become a complete human being.

She turned to watch him.  He was absorbed in the sea view, 
wind whipping his hair around, bronze skin glowing in the sun.  
She had once loved him despite his selfishness and lack of 
consideration, judging that his virtues usually outweighed his 
flaws.  Now, she loved him for everything that he was.  He 
wasn't perfect, but he was perfect for her.  The only one for 
her.  And God knew she wasn't a prize herself, she who hauled 
around heavy baggage crammed with myriad neuroses and hang-
ups.  He accepted the package.  She could do no less.

She walked over and stood in front of him.  He looked up, gave 
her a golden smile.  She knelt at his feet.

"Mulder."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.  "What are you doing 
down there?"

"Probably not what you're hoping," she smiled.  "I'm proposing 
to you."

He opened his mouth; she laid her fingers over it.  "And I get 
to make a speech," she said.  "I. . .know I'm a mess in some 
ways, but I also know you love me anyway.  I really believe 
that you will love me for better or for worse, in sickness and 
in health, and. . .no matter what.  And I. . . I can promise 
you the same thing.  I love you now.  I loved you then.  And 
I'll always love you."  

Tears rolled down her cheeks, again.  "Mulder," she whispered, 
"marry me."

He lifted her up and into his lap and engulfed her in his 
arms.  "Yes," he said.  "Yes, yes, yes."  He laughed.  "I 
thought you'd never ask."  Their tears mingled.



CHAPTER TWENTY:  FREEDOM

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

"It was the first time, in a manner, that I had known space 
and air and freedom, all the music of summer and all the 
mystery of nature."

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

In bed that night, he moved inside her.  She moaned.

"Feel good?"

She tightened her arms and legs around him.  "The best."

He sped up his movements and buried his tongue in her mouth,  
pounding into her with a force as steady and powerful as the 
waves thundering against the rocks below the open windows.  

They'd remained at the Yellow Rose after all, Scully convinced 
that Iris had learned the error of her ways.  Indeed, by the 
time she picked up the portrait to return it downstairs, all 
connection had ceased.  Iris was just a pretty woman from 
another time.  No longer did she seem to have a secret, a 
message, an influence.  She was just a rather nice old-
fashioned portrait.  Perhaps her spirit had fled out to sea 
while she was propped against the railing, freed at last.  At 
any rate, to Scully, she was gone.

And Scully was here, very much in the present moment.  She 
strained against Mulder, moving her hips to get the best 
contact.  "Oh, please," she gasped, pulling away from his 
mouth and biting his shoulder.

He reached between them and rubbed her clit.  "Oh," she cried.  
"Yes, yes."  The waves inside her hit hard as she went rigid 
for a moment, then undulated frantically against Mulder, who 
made some frenetic movements of his own before he climaxed 
with a deep groan, his head pressed into Scully's shoulder.  
"Yes," he echoed her, "Oh, God, yes." 

They clung together like limpets, not wanting to let go on 
this night.  "Stay inside me," she said.  "I want you to stay 
close."

He rolled them sideways to avoid crushing her and kissed her 
tenderly.  "I could stay in here the rest of my life," he told 
her.  "We could send out for food."

"All right."  She kissed him, caressing his mouth with her 
tongue, licking his lips, losing herself in him.  She really, 
really loved him, she thought.  And it felt so damned good.

"Let's get married here," she said.  "Martha told me how much 
she wanted to have a wedding here, among the roses, with the 
bride's dress billowing in the breeze."

Mulder cleared his throat.  "You want to get married here to 
please Martha?"

"No, this is where I realized how much I love you and how much 
you add to my life. . . how far I've come since those years of 
despair and thinking I'd never be happy again.  I've kind of. 
. .faced things, myself, here, and. . .faced you as well.  
This seems like the right place."

"Since you put it that way. . . "  Mulder pulled her closer 
for a long, deep kiss.  Their passion grew and they explored 
each other at their leisure, locating ever more pleasure 
points.  The moon burnished their bodies silver throughout 
their long night of joy.  

END

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