Blinded By White Light by Dasha K.

Somehow they managed to separate and wiggle between the
sheets.

"We've defiled the poor bedspread," Dana said as she felt
the heat of Mulder's body curve around her back.

"That's why they have a laundry.  Besides, it serves them
right for choosing cream for the comforters."

She made a low, surprised sound as he began to push aside
her hair and kiss the nape of her neck.  Oh yes, she
thought, that's just the spot that does it for me.  And the
feeling intensified as his kisses traveled at a deliberate
pace down her spine, vertebra by vertebra.

Already, she was dying for it again.  She was still sweaty
and sticky from their lovemaking just minutes before, but
she craved that impossible wholeness she'd felt when Mulder
had been inside her.  Her fingers curled into fists as her
breathing quickened with the touch of his tongue on her
tattoo.

Mulder moved back up the bed and she made a disappointed
sound as he returned to spoon against her.

"Shh . . ." he said. "We've got all night.  There's no need
to rush . . ."

Dana allowed herself to relax into his body, to let each
muscle slacken.  Floating, she felt like she was floating
in the water of a calm pond.

"Dana," Mulder whispered, "you've never told me."

Her head rose from the pillow.  "Told you what?"

Mulder's fingers brushed through her hair, which reminded
her of soothing a fretful Julia after a nightmare.  "You've
never told me what you remember of Before . . ."

Her mouth opened.  "Oh."

"Will you tell me?"

John won't talk about it, she thought.  I've tried and he
shuts me out and sometimes it makes me wonder if he truly
wants to know me, or wants me to know him.  Mulder wants to
hear this.

And perhaps that was the crucial difference.

Her head fell back onto the soft pillow.  "Okay," she
whispered.  "I'll tell you."

She began with the easiest things, fragments of childhood--
blowing out birthday candles on a clown cake, fierce games
of tag on a quiet street where all the houses were
identical, lying in bed and shivering as thunder boomed
outside the windows.

Mulder was silent as she recounted her memories, still
stroking her hair and simply letting her talk.

Her voice became halting when she came to her few adult
memories, and, finally, the dreams she'd been having.

"I dream of him," she said.  "Always the same man, but when
I wake I can't remember what he looks like or the sound of
his voice.  I can only recall how it feels to be held and
loved by him.  When I'm with him in my dreams, I feel so .
. . I feel like I have everything I need in the world."

Dana paused for a moment, biting her lip, unsure of sharing
with him the rest of her thoughts.

"What is it?" he asked, draping his heavy arm over her
waist.

She took a deep breath.  "When I dream about that man, I
feel like I do when I'm with you, Mulder."

He nuzzled her neck with his nose.  "Dana, what if?  What
if?"

What if?

No.

She smiled, even though she knew he couldn't see her face
in the dark.  "I wish," she said, "even though there's no
way it could be true."

Dana felt his chest rise in a sigh.

"I know.  But what if we played pretend for a minute?"

Her eyebrow rose.  "You want to play pretend?  Because
there's no way I'm putting on a French Maid costume for
you."

"Don't tease," he said.  "No, picture this-- I'm the
dashing young FBI agent and you're the pretty little doctor
at the crime scene.  Our eyes lock over a headless corpse
and I'm a goner . . ."

Her entire body began to shake with helpless chuckles and
he joined her.

"You're . . . you're such a romantic, Mulder," she gasped
through her subsiding peals of laughter.

His fingers crept up her chest and began to circle her
nipple.  "That I am," he whispered in her ear and then took
the flesh of her earlobe into his hot mouth to suck on it.

"Again?" she said as she felt his cock hardening against
her spine.  "You're hardly a teenager, Mulder."

He chuckled, a low rumbling from his chest.  "Don't ever
underestimate the power of exercise, vitamins, and the
presence of a beautiful, naked woman in bed with me."

The heat rose both in her face and between her legs.  "Any
naked woman?"

The cotton of his pillow rustled as he shook his head.
"No.  Only you, Dana."

What about Sarah, she treacherously thought.  Do you make
love to her with such overwhelming passion and reverence?
Does she feel like me?  Do you make her come like I do?
Does she make you come like I do?

She willed her mind to shut up.  They were out of time in
this hotel room.  Sarah and John could not exist right now.

Mulder's hand delved between her thighs and found her
swelling clitoris.  She crooned in joy as she ground her
buttocks into him.

"Can we?" he asked in a hesitant voice.

She almost laughed.  "Need you ask?"

As she drew her knees up to her chest, he began to slide
into her with aching slowness.

The only word to describe this is complete, she thought.
But as wonderful as it felt to have Mulder inside her, she
needed more.  Dana pushed her hips forward and his cock
slipped out.

"What are you doing?" he mumbled thickly.

She rolled over to face him and brushed her lips against
his.  "I need to see your face, Mulder," she whispered.

"Oh yeah," he breathed and moved onto his back.

I need to make sure it's really you, she thought as she
switched on the bedside lamp and straddled his lean body.
I want to be able to remember every detail of this night as
fully as I can.

Her fingers wrapped around the circumference of his
erection and she squeezed, watching the resulting tremor go
through his entire body, down to his twitching toes.

"Please," he said, his long fingers curling restlessly.

While it was amusing to delay their pleasure, Dana craved
it too much to wait any longer.  Every cell of her body
needed to be filled with him again.  She lifted up and then
down again, letting out all her breath as she slid down on
him, inch by inch.

She stilled and bent to his face, her hands gripping the
pillow on either side of his head.  Her tongue mimicked the
slow thrusts of her hips.  Such rhythm, she thought, we fit
together so well despite our difference in size and the
newness of it.  Even though there was the electricity of
being new lovers, she also felt as comfortable as if they'd
been doing this for years. There just wasn't the usual
fumbling and sweet awkwardness of a first night together,
no-- "Does this feel all right?"  Somehow it felt like
they'd had their movements choreographed, so smooth was the
flow of liquid pleasure.

Mulder's hands rose to her shoulders to steady her as she
took him inside with deeper strokes.  His mouth opened and
closed as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't quite
find the strength or words.

I know, she thought, I don't have the words to describe
this, either.

Again, she moved closer to him and he took a nipple in his
mouth, lightly flicking his tongue around the stiffened
flesh.  She gasped at the sensation it produced and ground
her hips down on his body all the harder.

He was impossibly deep inside her and she wanted to take
more, until there was no way to tell where Mulder ended and
she began.  If only they could stay like this forever.

Dana's thighs began to shake from the exertion and the
rising tide of her orgasm.  I've never come twice in one
night, she thought with astonishment, but oh, Mulder, what
are you doing to me?  And this time the pleasure was slow
and sweet, one long wash that rose up her back and down her
thighs as she made small, breathless sounds.

Mulder groaned as he lifted his hips to meet her halfway.
"That's it, Dana, oh yeah, that's it . . ."

This is it, she thought, as her climax peaked and faded,
this is the way I've wanted to feel all along, alive and
complete.

She saw Mulder's orgasm building in the way his brow
wrinkled and his mouth opened to suck in air.  Her hands
reached under his body to grasp his buttocks and pull him
closer to her, and he let go with the howl of an animal as
he came.

His eyes popped open, long lashes blinking at her in
surprise.  Dana collapsed on his slick chest, the two of
them panting in near unison.  He wrapped his arms around
her back and said, "What will I do if you've crippled me
for life?"

"You'll be fine, Mulder."  She kissed his sweaty brow,
tasting salt on her lips.

"I'm getting too old for this . . ." he muttered, but the
tiny grin on his face belied his words.

"No, I think you've definitely proved that you're not too
old."  And she kissed him again, basking in the post-coital
scent on his skin and hers.

They moved back onto their sides, facing each other, and
she reached to switch off the light and pull the covers
back over their bodies.

Mulder's eyes were already drooping with fatigue but he
managed a lopsided smile.  He took her hand in his.  "I've
never loved anyone like this before," he said.

She shut her eyes.  "Not even Sarah?"

A long sigh issued from his body and he was silent for a
few moments.  "Not even Sarah.  But I do love her, Dana.
I've never stopped."

Nodding, she fought off her tears.  "I know, Mulder," she
whispered.  "I love John, too."

"I don't want to hurt her.  I can't hurt her, she's been so
good to me."

This time, she wasn't able to stop the tears from running
down her face as she thought of John and Sarah, blissfully
unaware their spouses had fallen in love with someone else.
Stop it, she told herself, don't let him see you like this,
you're stronger than that.  But it was useless, she
couldn't maintain her flawless facade with Mulder. Not
lying in bed with him, naked in his arms, still flushed
from the pleasure he'd given her.

"Don't cry," he said, wiping her tears away with his thumbs
as if she were a child.  "It'll all be okay."

"No, it won't," she said, shaking her head.

She felt like a wounded animal in a trap, unable to move in
either direction.  Her overwhelming love for Mulder was on
one side and her commitment and love for John was on the
other.  There was nowhere they could go, no solution that
wouldn't involve deep pain for all parties involved.

"Don't regret this," he said, his voice cracking.  "I'll
never be able to live with myself if you do . . ."

"I don't, Mulder.  I love you in a way I never dreamed I
could love another person, but . . ."

"But?"  Mulder's voice was soft.

"But you and I both know we can't be together like this
again.  After tonight we have to go home and try to put our
normal lives back the way they were."

He rolled onto his back and threw his arm over his face.
She wondered if he was trying to hide his own tears.

"I know," he finally said in a resigned voice.  "I know
that's the right thing to do."

"This isn't easy for me, you know," she said, smoothing his
hair.  "But we have families.  We have vows to honor."

Mulder turned to her and gave her a sorrowful smile.  "We
have vows to honor," he repeated.

They were silent after that, merely lying wrapped together
and knowing this night was the only time they'd ever be
able to be close like this.

Eventually Mulder's breathing slowed and she knew he'd
fallen asleep.

I don't want to sleep, she thought.  I want to stay awake
all night and capture every moment.

But soon she, too, caved in to the exhaustion and her
consciousness faded to black.

She had no dreams of note that night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dana woke before it was light.  The clock read 5:00 am and
she experienced mild shock at the realization that she was
in a hotel room, with Mulder curled up next to her.

What have I done, she thought.

She climbed out of bed and walked, aching and sticky, to
the bathroom.  The bright overhead light made her eyes
clamp shut and even after she adjusted to the glare she
wouldn't look at herself in the mirror as she brushed her
teeth with one of the complimentary brushes.

Her skin smelled like Mulder, like the most extraordinary
lovemaking she'd ever experienced.  She wanted to carry
that scent on her body forever, but she turned on the
shower anyhow.

The needles of hot water felt refreshing on her stiff
muscles, but not good enough to halt the sobs building in
her chest.  The shower had always been the place she
allowed herself the luxury of crying.  She remembered the
mornings she'd wept in the shower after her two
miscarriages, letting the rage and sorrow wash down the
drain with the water and shampoo.  She'd had to let the
pain go in order to endure another day playing the part of
the cool, rational research scientist and to be a good wife
to John.

The only time John had seen her truly cry was when he'd
tiptoed into her Maternity Clinic room carrying the tiny,
pink-wrapped bundle that was Julia.  They'd cried together,
then, as they held their dream come true.

Now she sobbed at the realization that she was irrevocably
in love with the one man she could never have.  Before
Mulder, she hadn't known how deep it could go.  Now,
anything John could offer her would never be enough.

But she'd pledged John her loyalty, her fidelity, until
death parted them and she never broke her promises.  She
would not break this one.  It had been stretched to the
limit with this night spent with Mulder, but she could not
sever the bond of marriage.

For the first time Dana grasped the negative implications
of the word bond.

This is the right decision, she told herself, washing away
the tears with vanilla-scented soap.

She felt stronger with her resolve and her spine and
shoulders straightened.

Dana shut off the water and groped for a towel on the rack
just outside the shower.  She dried off and wrapped it
around herself, drew the shower curtain aside.  Mulder was
standing at the sink, nude, brushing his teeth.  He rinsed
his mouth and turned to her.  His eyes were still at
morning half-mast and he smiled.

She stepped out of the shower and he touched her bare
shoulder.  "You're up early," he said.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Neither could I.  Not without you there."

Dana nodded.  "I have to go home, get changed for work."
She averted her eyes.  It would only be more difficult to
leave if she looked at him; she would be lost to it again.

But Mulder stepped forward and caught her face in his large
hands.  "Stay just a little longer, Dana.  We have time."

She lifted her eyes to his.  "If I stay, I may never
recover from this."

"It's too late," he said and kissed her.

He's right, we'll never recover from this, she thought, and
they backed out of the bathroom and fell onto the tangled
sheets of the bed.

Mulder took his time exploring her, touching her body with
gentle fingers and small flicks and tastes of his tongue
and lips-- her neck, her nipples, even the insides of her
elbows.  Her skin hummed with live wire cracklings and she
felt the juices begin to flow between her legs.

His hand traveled down to where she needed his touch most
and Dana whimpered at the light ministrations of his
fingers.

Rising on his elbows, he kissed her and said, "Finally, I'm
going to find out what you taste like."

"Please, Mulder," she groaned.

Then his mouth was everywhere, his dark head between her
spread legs.  The hot length of his tongue delved into her
and she cried out at the sensation.  He momentarily lifted
his head and licked his swollen lower lip.  "You're so
sweet," he said and fell to her again with hungry swipes of
his tongue against her clit.

It was almost painful how hard her heart was beating with
excitement.  With her hands she controlled his pace, but
Mulder didn't really need her help.  It was perfect.  Just
as before, he seemed to know instinctively just what she
needed and when.  Even though she normally scoffed at the
idea, she briefly considered the possibility of psychic
powers.

Just as she felt the beginning of her climax, he plunged
two long fingers into her and she almost sat up, the
sensations he produced were so powerful.
"Yesyesyesyesyes," she heard herself insensibly moaning as
the orgasm burst deep inside her.

Her body was still trembling as he moved up to her and held
her shaking body, kissing her all over her face.  "You're
just so . . . beautiful," he said.

"Yeah, right."  It wasn't even six am, her hair was still
wet and no doubt in a terrible tangle and she didn't have a
drop of makeup on her face.

Mulder touched her just above her upper lip.  "How come you
cover this up?" he asked, referring to the small mole
there.

She shrugged.  "I don't like the way it looks."

"I do."  He kissed her, his mouth tangy with her juices.

Dana nearly sobbed as he entered her again, knowing this
was the final time they'd be together.  It was a little
painful; she was sore from the night before, but it also
felt incredible to have him inside her.

"Never," he grunted.  "I'll never forget this."

Where have I heard that before, she hazily wondered, but it
wasn't a good time for trying to think.

Her thighs ached as she wrapped them high on his back, but
it was a good ache.  She was scared to shut her eyes, for
fear she'd miss out on something.  The rest of her life
would have to be sustained on these memories of the sheer
bliss of making love with Mulder.

Yes, the memories would probably haunt her with guilt
later, but they would also remind her of the one night when
she learned how love was supposed to be.

Why do I love you so much, she wondered, kissing every part
of his face she could.  Who are you?

Mulder made a strangled noise as he came, burying his face
in her shoulder.  She rubbed the satin of his back as he
drove into her with impossible force and she smiled through
the tears blurring her vision.

"Oh," he sighed.  "I'm sorry it was so . . . fast . . ."

"You don't need to apologize."

"But you didn't . . . I wanted it to be perfect this time."

She understood what he couldn't say-- that it was their
last time together.

"Shh," she soothed, kissing his neck.  "It was wonderful,
beautiful."

He made a mollified sound and rolled off her.  "I must be
crushing you."

Actually, she'd loved the weight of his body, his solid
muscles under her hands, the scent of him surrounding her
entirely.

Dana didn't want to, but she glanced at the clock.  It was
nearly 6:30, almost time to leave.  The thought made her
stomach lurch and her mouth go dry.

Suddenly everything seemed to take on awesome significance.
As she curled into his arms, she realized it was for the
final time.  When they kissed, tongues gliding together,
she knew they'd never kiss like that again.  She'd never
taste him again.

"I wish there could be alternate realities," Mulder said,
his eyelashes fluttering against her cheek.

"Why?"

"Because then I could be two men.  One would leave this
hotel and go back to my life with Sarah, happily unaware
that you existed, Dana.  And the other would build a new
life with you.  Every day we'd come home from work, share
our day while making dinner.  And every night I'd go to bed
with you, make love with you and wake up with you by my
side."

It was an image she couldn't even bear to contemplate.
"The thrill would wear off, Mulder.  It always does.  It's
hot and fresh in the beginning, but after a while it's
still good, but you know the routine, you know each other
so well that it loses its true excitement."

His voice was raw.  "No.  Not with you.  I know we've only
been together for one night, but somehow I know it would
always be wonderful with you.  I could never tire of you,
Dana."

She blinked rapidly.  "Don't say that.  It'll just get me
crying again."

"I know.  But I can't help having these thoughts."

She sat up.  "Mulder, I have to leave now."

His warm hand touched her bare back.  "I didn't think it
would be this hard."

"I know."  She stood and walked to the bathroom without
looking back at him.

Five minutes later she emerged from the bathroom, fully
dressed.  Mulder was sitting on the bed, now wearing his
boxers, with his head in his hands.

With difficulty, she managed to keep her voice even.  "I
don't think I can stand it if we have a big goodbye scene."

He didn't look up, but he nodded.

She walked over to him and laid her hand on his.  I love
those hands, she thought.  They're large and strong but
infinitely gentle.

Mulder still didn't look up.

"Please tell me we're doing the right thing," she
whispered.

When he finally looked at her, his eyes were the darkest
gray before black and shiny with tears.  "We're doing the
right thing, Dana."

She nodded.  "I love you," she said.

He stood and kissed her, a long slow kiss that made the
breath catch in her throat.

"So do I," he said.  "That's the problem."

Dana gave his hand one last squeeze. She braced herself,
like standing on the edge of a diving board and knowing the
water would be cold, and then she turned and walked out the
door.

Somehow, she got through the day on coffee and sheer
willpower.

She was simply too drained to feel anything, to think about
anything but cell structures and DNA matches.

She left work a little early and went straight to Primary
Care to pick up Julia.  Her daughter was sitting at one of
the little red tables, making something lumpy with molding
clay.

"Mommymommymommy!" Julia shouted, and bolted across the
room to fling herself into Dana's arms.

Dana took a deep breath of Julia's apple juice and vanilla
wafer scent.

She was where she belonged.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was funny how the more you pretended life was normal,
the more normal it actually seemed.

At home, Dana made Julia's favorite meal-- grilled cheese
and tomato soup-- and didn't even mind when her daughter
managed to get most of her soup on the high chair and the
white and blue linoleum below.  Julia was thrilled to be
with her again and couldn't stop prattling nonsense about
her day, even as she chewed on her sandwich.

"Jerry and the Blue Spaceship" had a record engagement of
five readings, each repetition ending with Julia smacking
the book with her tiny, fat fist and gleefully shouting,
"More Jerry!"

Dana realized she was half-listening for the phone, for a
call from John, and she was a little on edge.  But the
phone remained silent, the only noise in the apartment her
own voice reading the story, Julia's responses and the
muted sound of music from a ballet program on the
telescreen.

She didn't think about Mulder, not really.  It required a
force of will so strong her jaw ached from clenching it.

Julia wandered off to her art table in the corner,
scribbling on the light screen with her markers.  Dana sat
back on the couch with the afghan over her legs, watching
the concentration on Julia's small face as the little girl
hummed to herself.

She'd fought so hard to have her daughter.  Her excitement
over the prospect of being a mother had turned to anger and
horror when she'd discovered, after months of trying to
conceive, that she was infertile.  She knew,
intellectually, that the inability to have a baby didn't
make her any less of a woman, but the failure of her own
body had struck her hard all the same.

Julia was happily unaware of what a miracle she was.  She'd
been only the sixteenth baby in the world to be born using
cell regeneration therapy obtained from the Others.  The
procedure had nearly wiped out Dana and John's credit and
ended their marriage as the entire focus of their
relationship turned towards conception.  But it had been
worth it, every cent and every minute spent on the quest.
Her daughter was willful, curious, intelligent and --face
it-- hopelessly adorable.  She had Dana's curiosity and
John's inherent kindness.  She was theirs, a blend of their
genetic material and their ultimate legacy for the world.

She couldn't leave her family for Mulder, even if he were
willing to leave his own family.  She wouldn't subject her
child to a broken family unit, to shuttling back and forth
between separate apartments.  Dana knew all too well what
it felt like to be cast adrift and insecure, to not have
the warmth and belonging of family.  She wouldn't do that
to Julia.

But a niggling little voice in the back of her head spoke
up, asking, but is it right for the child to be in a family
where the mother is truly unhappy?

The thing was, she didn't know if she would be unhappy in
the years to come.  Yes, she was miserable right now, but
perhaps time would heal that.  Perhaps she would be able to
forget the extraordinary night she'd spent with Mulder.
Right now the pain was as raw as Julia's skinned knee after
she'd fallen off the jungle gym in the park, but surely it
would ease with time.  Right?

With all her heart, Dana devoutly hoped so.

She was able to keep her emotions in check all night,
viewing them from a safe, detached distance, until she
asked Julia, "What are you drawing, honey?"

Julia looked up from the light screen.  From her angle on
the couch, Dana could see a vaguely humanoid scribble in
blue, and a something round and brown.  "This is a lady,"
Julia said, as gravely as if she were reporting on test
findings, "and this is a potato."

For some reason, that made Dana burst into tears.

With alarm, Julia ran over to her and crawled into her lap,
touching Dana's face with her hot little hands.  "Don't
cry," she said, in a tone that made her sound just like
Dana soothing her own tears. "Don't cry, Mommy."

The sound of her voice only made Dana cry harder.

Finally she gathered herself together and kissed the top of
Julia's head.  "I'm okay," she said, forcing a smile and
wiping her eyes.  "Sometimes even mommies need to cry."

She lifted Julia off her lap and went to start the bath.



Just as the sun is setting they stop working and decide to
go down to the water with their pre-dinner beers.
Beausoleil, the next door neighbor's Golden Retriever,
spots them and hyperactively scampers ahead until he
reaches the surf.

The breeze is rather stiff and she shivers despite her
Irish fisherman's sweater, the sweat from raking leaves
rapidly cooling on her body.  They walk in the sand,
leaving a side-by-side track of running shoes, one set of
large feet and one much smaller.

They stop at the water's edge and watch the waves.  Even
though she has spent most of her life near one ocean or the
other, she's never failed to be surprised at how many
shades of gray there are in the Atlantic.  High season is
long over at the Vineyard and the beach is deserted and
somehow seems abandoned.

The dog comes crashing out of the water, spraying droplets
everywhere as he shakes his shaggy red coat.

She turns to the man standing next to her and watches the
wind ruffle his dark hair.  He's been wearing it shorter in
the last year or so and it makes him look more vulnerable.

"This is wonderful," she says, stretching out her stiff
back.

He smiles.  "It's kind of one of those General Foods
International Coffee moments, huh?"

She laughs, hearing the annoying 'celebrate the moments of
your life' jingle in her head.  Great, now it'll be stuck
there for the rest of the day.

Turning to her, he lays his large hand on her arm.  "This
weekend has felt like we've been living that normal life
you've always wanted, Scully."

"It's always good to get away from the city."

"Well, I appreciate your spending your entire weekend doing
yard work with me."

She leans in closer to him and is rewarded with a faint
hint of his sweat.  "That's what friends are for . . ."

A curious expression passes on his face and he quickly
squeezes her hand, dropping it almost as soon as he makes
contact with it.  He mumbles something, but she can't quite
catch the words over the crash of a large wave.

"What did you say?" she asks.

He looks slightly sheepish.  "I said that you're my best
friend, Scully."

She nods.  "You're my best friend, too."

"It's been a difficult year for us, but I hope you still
know that."

"I do."

Without even thinking about it, or its possible
implications, she rises on tiptoes and presses a quick kiss
to his closed lips.  They're cool and slightly chapped.

He takes a half step back and runs his hands through his
tousled hair.  For a moment she's afraid she's ruined it
all, the delicate balance that has existed through all
their years together.

Looking at her, he says, "What does that mean, Scully?"

That's the trouble with her, her intentions are always so
difficult for others, even him, to read.

For once, she chooses to be brave and get to the heart of
the matter.  "Unfinished business."

"Are you referring to my hallway?"

The kiss that never was-- she recalls it like a strange
dream only half-remembered.

She nods.

"I haven't . . . I didn't think . . . I thought it was too
late for us . . . so many years, so long . . ." he
stammers.

"I don't believe it's ever too late for anything," she
says, aware of the fact that she's smiling, "especially us.
We just need to make sure we're ready."

The expression of astonishment on his face is priceless.
She wishes she had her camera with her.

And then he seems to snap to his senses and his face seems
to turn softer, his look almost tender.  "Not too late," he
says and walks toward her.

This kiss is different than the last, harder, longer,
wetter.  She revels in his unique taste and the sensation
of completion.

They're finally here.

When they stop to breathe, she can't help grinning.

He touches her lips.  "What's so funny?"

"We're definitely ready, Mulder."


The sound of crying woke Dana, but it wasn't her own tears,
it was Julia's.

She sat up and shook her head awake, still half-clinging to
the dream she'd had.  The bedroom was pitch dark and she
felt a light sheen of sweat on her body.

The beach, the kiss, the waves, Mulder.

Mulder?

What the hell was that dream?

She climbed out of bed and crossed the hall to Julia's
room.  Her daughter was on her side in a tangle of sheets,
sobbing.  Dana sat on the edge of the little bed and
touched her daughter's face.  "Did you have a dream,
sweetie?"

That makes two of us, she thought.

Julia opened her eyes and snuffled.  "Where's Daddy?" she
asked in a pitiful little voice.

She leaned down and kissed Julia, checking to see if the
bed was dry at the same time.  It was, thank God.  "He's
going to be home soon."

"I need Daddy."

"Soon, soon," she crooned and kissed Julia again.

Dana scooped the little girl up, marveling at how heavy she
was getting.  It wasn't the best idea to get Julia used to
sleeping in her parents' bed, but she wasn't in the mood
for good child psychology right now.  Her daughter had
caught her emotional temperature and was having bad dreams.
Julia needed comfort and for that matter, so did she.

In the big bed, Julia settled back to sleep snuggled next
to her mother's body.

Fighting sleep, Dana thought about what a strange thing the
subconscious was.  Her dream had had elements of Before.
It had been the same man who had appeared in her other
dreams, but he'd been Mulder, too.  And the beach where
they'd been had been an awful lot like Mulder's Netspace
beach.

She'd had dreams like that before, of course, where she'd
been working in the lab, but the lab was located on the
roof of her apartment building and John was her partner
instead of Meghan.  Things were always getting mixed-up and
jumbled in dreams.

But . . . what if?

No, it couldn't be.  Her subconscious was looking for a
nice excuse for what she and Mulder had done.

She couldn't, wouldn't, trust the hazy, fleeting memory of
a dream.  It was not the kind of quantifiable proof she
needed.

Wishful thinking, Dana mused, turning onto her stomach to
sleep.

She tried to call up how it had felt to hold Mulder's warm,
solid body, but already she was losing her ability to
imagine him in three dimensions.

Perhaps it was a blessing, after all.  John would be home
in a few days and she'd need to forget that night to
survive.

She shut her eyes and thought of everything but Mulder as
she floated back to sleep.


"What do you want to eat tonight?  We can order pizza or do
you want stir-fry--" Dana and Julia were walking into the
apartment, later than usual due to impromptu children's
shoe shopping.  Dana stopped in mid-sentence, in the middle
of the doorway.  The living room lights were on and the air
smelled like garlic and tomatoes.

Julia got it before Dana did.  She threw up her arms in
glee and shouted, "Daddy!"

John was home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dana's heart began to beat with nauseating irregularity.
Oh God, John was home.

He ran out of the kitchen, dressed in his oldest pair of
jeans and a blue button-down shirt, and swung his giggling
daughter in his arms. Kissing the top of Julia's head, he
said, "Oh, Jules, I missed you so much!"

Such a pretty scene, Dana thought, watching their
homecoming with an odd detachment.  What a lovely family we
make-- handsome father and husband, devoted mother and
wife, ridiculously cute and precocious little girl.  What's
wrong with this picture?

I'm what's wrong with this picture.

John set Julia down and walked towards Dana with an
impatient stride, his eyes shining with emotion.  "Dana,"
he breathed, "God, it's good to see you again."

She took a deep breath as he wrapped his arms around her.
It's time to start over, she thought.  This is your husband
and you love him.

He tilted her face to his to kiss her with lips that tasted
pleasantly of tomato sauce, while Julia circled around
them, twirling in her navy blue Primary Care jumper and
singing, "Daddy's home, la, la, la . . . Daddy's ho-oo-me!"

John gave Dana a questioning look that made her wonder, for
one breathless moment, if he could somehow see everything
that had happened in her eyes.  But he only said,
"How are you, Dana?  You look tired."

She flashed him what she hoped was a sunny smile.  "I'm
fine.  I just didn't sleep very well while you were gone."

It wasn't exactly a lie.

"Sorry I didn't call you when I arrived.  I got in at noon,
took a nap and decided to surprise you with dinner."

"I was surprised, all right."

That was definitely no lie.

He kissed her again and tugged at her hand.  "The pasta has
to be done now.  Come on, let's eat."

After dinner, the three of them lingered for a long time at
the kitchen table, eating bowls of chocolate ice cream.
John had a lot of stories from his weeks in Sao Paolo.
Dana found it fascinating, as always, to hear about a new
city being built.  The Others had created the very first
cities, including the one where they lived, but the humans
were building more cities using the technology they'd
learned from their benefactors.  John talked about heat and
wind and mosquitoes, things Dana couldn't really remember
herself.

It was somehow sad to think that her daughter would grow up
never having been cold or feeling rain.

Dana missed rain.  She could remember walking down the
sidewalk on gray mornings, shivering under her umbrella,
stinging pellets of cold rain hitting her face.

Julia was nearly passing out in John's lap by the time he
finished his travelogue.  Her head kept bobbing down and
then abruptly up again as she realized she was falling
asleep.

Looking down at his daughter with a tender expression, John
said, "I think it's time we put Little Miss to bed."

The child's head jerked up again.  "No bed," she said
vehemently and Dana and John exchanged amused glances.

"I'll read you a story . . ."  Neither John nor Dana was
above bribery to get Julia to bed.

Julia's eyes lit up.  "Jerry?" she asked hopefully.

"We've got to get her hooked on a new book," Dana said
under her breath.

John stood and slung Julia over his shoulder in a fireman's
carry.  "We'll read Jerry, but first you need a bath.
You're wearing more spaghetti and ice cream than you
actually ate."  He poked her side and she yelped in
ticklish joy.

This is why I can't be with Mulder, Dana thought, rising
and gathering dirty plates for the dishwasher.  The easy
warmth and camaraderie of family is rare and precious.

So is real love, cut in her opposing inner voice.

I don't want to be that selfish, she thought as she scraped
pasta and salad into the garbage disposal.

Julia ran screeching into the kitchen, buck naked, to wrap
her arms around Dana's legs.  "No bath, no bath!" she
shouted.

John ambled in, holding a bottle of shampoo.  He looked
exasperated.  "Come on Jules--no bath, no Jerry."

Letting go of Dana's legs, Julia walked toward her father
in defeat.  "Okay, let's bath."

"I'll try to hurry," John said, smiling now.  "You and I
have some catching up to do."

It had been almost three weeks for them.  She knew John
could probably think of little else than sliding into bed
and making love with his wife.  She wished she could share
his eagerness, wished the idea didn't fill her with a
sinking feeling of dread.

She finished up in the kitchen and went to the bedroom to
change into pajamas.  If things were different she might
have put on her black silk negligee or gone to bed with
nothing on at all, but she found she couldn't make herself
do it.

As she got into bed, she heard the soft baritone of John's
voice, reading to Julia.  Dana rolled onto her side, facing
away from the open door, and wondered if Sarah had returned
from Boston yet.  Was Mulder at this very moment facing the
prospect of sex with his wife?  Did it scare him, too?

Enough of Mulder, she warned herself.  You have to learn to
forget him.

It was such a strange paradox that she was feeling as if
she were about to cheat on Mulder.  It was supposed to be
the other way around.

Dana heard Julia's door shut and then John's footsteps as
he crossed the hall to their bedroom.  She tried to will
her heart into beating less rapidly.

John's clothes rustled as he took them off and laid them on
the chair.  He didn't open the bottom bureau drawer for his
t-shirt and sweatpants, which always meant he was coming to
bed expecting to make love.

And didn't he have the right to expect that?  She was his
wife, after all, and they'd been apart for so long.

She wondered if she could get away with pretending to be
asleep, but she knew she couldn't.

John climbed in bed and under the covers, moving against
her back.  His body was warm and she could feel his
erection through the cotton of his briefs.

This is your husband, she told herself.  You love him.

"Dana," he whispered in her ear.  "I'm so happy to be
home."

She rolled over to face him, to trace the familiar features
of his face with her fingers.  She'd pledged this man her
whole life, herself-- body and soul.

They began to kiss and despite herself and her misgivings,
Dana felt the excitement begin to build.  What a slut I am,
she thought as she twined her tongue with John's.   It
would seem that any man can turn me on, any time.

John turned her onto her back and she saw his radiant
smile.  "I dreamed of this while I was gone," he groaned,
cupping her breasts with his hands.  "I missed you so much
I almost told the crew to go fuck themselves and hopped on
the next plane back."

I wish you had, because then we wouldn't be in such a mess,
Dana thought.  She moaned with arousal and shame as his
tongue made its slippery way around her nipples and his
fingers dived into her wetness.

She sat up a little to remove his shorts and clasped his
erection in her hand, gently squeezing the silken hardness.
He sighed and shifted onto his elbows to enter her.

Dana heard herself, in a gasping voice, say, "No."

"No?"  He blinked at her in confusion.

She scrambled out from under him and turned onto her hands
and knees, pushing her bottom into the air.

"Oh God, Dana, what's gotten into you?"

She didn't know herself.  They'd never done it this way
before, in all their years together.  It had never even
really occurred to her before this night.

"You're amazing," he said and moved to the end of the bed.

She gripped the sheets between her fingers, waiting for
him.

And then John's mouth was on her, licking her juices as if
she were an exotic fruit.  Her back arched until her
forehead was touching the sheet as she began to make little
mewling sounds at the sensation of his tongue.  John had
been clumsy at oral sex in their early days, but in time
he'd learned to give her just what she wanted.

But her treacherous mind turned on her, plunged her into a
fantasy of how it would be if things were different.

. . . they arrive at their apartment door at the same time,
both of them dressed in their suits and home from work.  As
soon as they step inside, Mulder catches her mouth in a
crushing kiss of need.  "I thought of you all day," he
says.

They stumble into the bedroom and she slips off her jacket
and begins to unbutton her white blouse.

"No time for that," he says and hitches up her skirt, peels
off her nylons.  While he pulls off her panties, she unzips
his gray trousers and he lets out all his breath as his
hard cock springs free between the slit in his boxer
shorts.

Mulder playfully pushes her onto the bed and she lands face
down, her legs shaking with anticipation.

There's no preamble, no beginning niceties, just the
incredible sensation of the length of him sliding into her.
She balances on her elbows and rears back to meet his hard
thrusts.  I love you, she thinks, I love I love I love you.

His fingers snake around to find her clit and a strangled
sound escapes her throat.

"More," she cries, pushing against his fingers, "Give me
more."

When she comes, it's not a quiet thing.  The sounds she
makes are as violent as the explosion coursing through her
entire body . . .

And then she was back in her own bed, blinking in surprise
and still feeling the last twinges of climax, still crying
out, "Love, love, love you."

"Me, too," John grunted from behind her and pumped faster
into her.

He buried his face in the back of her neck as he came,
bucking against her with manic little thrusts, and then
John was still.

Dana lifted her head from the mattress and realized it was
wet with her tears.  The shame of dreaming of Mulder while
making love with John threatened to make her collapse in
helpless sobs, but she swallowed hard and forced herself
into composure.

They lay side by side, gently kissing.  "That was
incredible," John said, still breathing hard.  "I've never
seen you so . . . wild before.  You must've really missed
me, huh?"

She nodded.  John was right.  In bed with him she was
usually passive, letting him do all the leading.  He'd
never complained, but now she wondered if he'd ever wanted
her like this, completely uninhibited.

"You're always full of surprises, Dana.  Just when I think
I have a handle on you . . ."

I could really surprise the hell out of you, she dourly
thought, but I won't.  Not now, not ever.

As always, John fell asleep almost immediately. She
couldn't, her mind busily racing away with horrible little
stabs of guilt.

She disentangled herself from his arms but John slept away,
exhausted by travel and furious sex.

In the bathroom she took a quick, hot shower and then
wrapped herself in her bathrobe to wander out into the
living room.  It wasn't even midnight yet.  She made a cup
of green tea and turned on the computer, hooking the
connect cable behind her ear.

She didn't really know why she was checking her Mailserve
account.  There would be nothing from Mulder, of that she
was certain.  They had definitively said goodbye the other
morning.

Still, she felt disappointed when she found nothing from
him in her inbox.

Feeling as if she were outside her body and watching
herself do it, she punched in the coordinates for Mulder's
Netspace.  Her Net Tracker told her he wasn't online, but
she went there all the same.

Dana stood outside the Netspace's door, wondering if the
software would allow her to enter.  She stepped forward and
was sucked through the blackness and onto the beach.

This time, the beach was bathed in darkness, the only light
that of the full moon above the water and a thick canopy of
bright stars overhead.  She looked around in amazement.  It
was indeed the same beach as the one she'd seen in her
dream the night before.

How odd dreams were . . .

Dana slipped off her virtual shoes and socks, and walked
onto the squishy, wet sand, the cold waves lapping at her
feet.

After a while, she began to cry.

She wondered how real tears were in cyberspace.

When she finally disconnected and found herself back in her
living room, her face was wet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As morning turned to afternoon, Dana sat in her small
office, stuck on a speech she was due to give at a
symposium in late March.  She wasn't especially fond of
public speaking for large groups but at the same time she
was looking forward to traveling to London with Meghan for
the conference.  Parts of the city, including Buckingham
Palace, had either escaped the invasion's destruction or
been restored, and she already had pages from a London
guidebook downloaded into her palm computer.  Meghan never
failed to tease her about this kind of overly-anal
behavior.

Now she was trying to decide on a joke for the opening of
the speech.  She lifted her head at a knock on her half-
closed door.  "Come in," she called out.

Meghan poked her head in.  "Dana-- Fred, Jenny and I are
going down to the deli for lunch.  Want to come along?"

She shook her head.  "This is the only chance I have to
work on the speech this week. I'll get something later."

Her partner mock pouted.  "Are you sure?  We haven't really
talked in days."

"Too much to do."  Dana removed her reading glasses and
rubbed her eyes.

"Okay, fine.  But don't forget that we're going over the
latest results with Fred at three."

"I'll be there."

More coffee, she thought after Meghan left, and poured
another cup from the thermal carafe.  She was running on a
chronic sleep shortage and only massive caffeine intake was
allowing her to concentrate on her work.   Dana briefly
fantasized about a week at a fancy hotel, all alone and far
away from her problems and conflicts, with nothing to do
but purchase movies on the telescreen and sleep in a
comfortable bed.  But it wasn't going to happen.  There was
too much to do.

There was another knock at her door.  "Meghan," she said
with a short laugh.  "I *told* you I have to work on my
speech."

"Is this a bad time, Dana?"

The blood drained from her face and for a sickening moment
she feared she might pass out.

Oh.  Mulder.  What the hell are you doing here?

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.  Her eyes
drank in the sight of him-- the nervous expression on his
face, the way his fingers clutched the handle of his
briefcase.

"I'm sorry to just show up like this, but I had a meeting
across the street."  He laid the briefcase down on her desk
and popped it open.  "You forgot your birthday present when
you left."

She shut her eyes for a second and let the pain of that
morning wash through her body.  Dana touched her cheek.  "I
can't believe I forgot it."

She rose from her chair and he handed her the black leather
book.  For a moment their hands brushed against each other
and a shiver ran through her at his touch.

"I wanted you to have it."  As Mulder turned to leave, his
eyes found the framed photograph on top of her bookshelf.
It was a picture of John, Julia and Dana, taken on Julia's
second birthday.  Dana was lighting the candles on the
birthday cake and John held Julia on his lap while the
little girl giggled and tried to grab the candles.

Mulder stared at the picture for a long moment.  "So, this
is John," he said softly.

She nodded.

That was right, Mulder and John had never met.  Perhaps it
was good for Mulder to see a picture of John, to make the
man in her life as real to him as Sarah was real to Dana.

He turned to her, his eyes infinitely sad.  "How are you
doing, Dana?"

She shrugged.  "I'm okay."

He took a few steps closer to her, close enough that she
could smell him, or at least imagine she could.   "I'm
not," he said flatly.  "I'm not doing very well."

Dana found herself meeting the gap between them with two
steps.  She looked up at his beautiful, mournful face.

"It's going to take time, Mulder."

He clasped her hands in his.  His hands were so warm, as
warm as his body in the middle of the night.  "I don't know
if I can get over you, or if I want to."

"We have to," she said with what she hoped was vehemence,
but her rebellious body rose to kiss him all the same.

Nothing had changed in the past few days; kissing him was
still as intense and fulfilling as always.  Kissing Mulder
was everything; it made every kiss she'd shared with John
seem shallow and bleak.  Her mouth opened to him and they
both whimpered a little as their tongues met.

Her hands pulled his body closer to her, his body heat
radiating into her, his erection seeming to taunt her by
firmly pressing into her belly.  She found herself wanting
to lock the door so she could have him again, to briefly
lose herself in loving Mulder.  Or better yet, to spend the
afternoon at the Cascade Falls, wrapped in the sheets and
each other, sharing their secrets.

I don't love John, she dizzily thought, not like this.  I
love him because of shared history and responsibility and
because of his inherent goodness, but I will never be able
to love him as wholly as this.  Never.

Mulder pulled away, breathing hard and wiping her lipstick
off his mouth with the back of his hand.  "We can't do
this," he said in a hoarse voice.  "We can't sneak around.
It's not what I want."

She bowed her head in shame.  "I'm sorry.  It's clear that
we really can't be alone together."

"I don't know what to do," he said.

Wasn't that the refrain running though their relationship?

"We have to give John and Sarah a chance.  We owe it to
them."

He nodded.

If only they could be less noble and simply shake free of
their bonds and be together.

"I hope we can," he said, blinking away tears.

"Me, too."

He grabbed his briefcase and walked out of her office
without another word.

Dana sat back down and watched her hands shaking in her
lap.  She didn't have time to cry; she had a speech to
write.

She took another slug of hot coffee and ordered herself to
get back to work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Tube was crowded that night but she managed to squeeze
into a hard plastic seat two stops down the line.  "Please
take caution, the doors are closing," said the melodious
voice on the loudspeaker.  "The next stop is Binghamton
Crossing."

Dana idly watched the other people in the car. Some looked
relaxed and happy, chatting away or reading, and others
seemed stressed.  She wondered if she looked as depressed
and strung-out as she felt.

She fished through her bag until she found the journal.
What a gorgeous gift.  Jewelry and perfume were sweet, but
she'd never received anything as deeply meaningful as this.
Mulder just had an uncanny ability to know her, to know
what her heart needed.

Dana opened the book and touched the thick, slightly rough
paper.  Paper just wasn't made like this anymore.  There
was no need, as nearly all information conveyed
electronically.

There was some writing on the second page.  She stifled a
small gasp, which made the man sitting next to her shoot
her a curious look.

The writing was black pen on the cream paper, small and
angular writing.  She knew it was Mulder's handwriting even
though she'd never seen it before.

With dread mixed with excitement, she read the words
written there.


Craving

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

--Pablo Neruda

There is no reason, no excuse for our love, Dana, but it is
undeniably there.  We've made our decision and intend to
honor it, but it doesn't change the way I feel and I
suspect it's the same for you.

The night we spent together will remain the shining memory
of my life.

With love,

M

February, 2004


When she finished reading the poem, she closed the book and
turned her head to stare, largely unseeing, at the concrete
subway tunnel rushing past.

"The sovereign nose of your arrogant face."  She touched
her much-hated nose and smiled.

Mulder, I never knew how lonely I was until I met you.

"We are now approaching Morningside Heights.  Please step
carefully onto the platform."

The bright and crowded Tube station assaulted her senses as
soon as she walked off the train.  A burly man in a trench
coat shoved her as he passed and she nearly twisted her
ankle as she careened into a trashcan.  Got to get out of
here, she thought, gritting her teeth and plunging through
the horde, past the bright mosaic walls that depicted
children frolicking.

She had almost reached the escalator when she felt the wave
of nausea building, saw the multitude of tiny gold spots
wavering before her eyes.  Not again, she frantically
thought, but her stomach gave a sharp heave and she went
running for the nearest bathroom.

It was too late, though.  She only made it as far as the
trash receptacle outside the bathrooms before she lost the
contents of her stomach.  Shame burned through her as she
felt the eyes of passers-by on her while she retched.

After she lifted her head from the can, she saw a familiar
figure standing next to her.

"Holy shit," Evan said under his breath.  "Are you okay,
Dana?"

She shook her head, sensing the migraine gathering force.

He took her by the elbow and led her to a row of plastic
seats.  "I'll be right back," Evan said and took off, his
leather jacket flying behind him.

Dana closed her eyes and tried to breathe as the pain
escalated.

Evan returned with a bunch of paper napkins and a bottle of
water that he'd bought from the little convenience store
across the way.  She tried to smile in thanks and fumbled
to uncap the bottle.  It wouldn't come open in her fingers
and she nearly screamed in frustration.

Her unlikely savior deftly removed the cap and handed her
the bottle and she took a long drink, trying to wash the
sour taste of vomit out of her mouth.

"Did you eat something that didn't agree with you?" he
asked.

She shook her head, noticing that since she'd last seen
Evan, he'd gotten rid of the plaits and was now sporting a
bright-red afro, studded with multicolored wires and beads.
She needed a chart to keep up with his ever-changing
hairstyles.

"A migraine," she said, shrugging. "It happens to me
sometimes."

"Let's get you home," he said and helped her up.

The two-block walk home seemed to take an eternity, with
her stomach still lurching and her head pounding away.
Evan was considerate, walking at her pace, his arm looped
through hers for support.

On the elevator she slumped against the wall, wishing the
sappy soft-classical music would just shut up.

Evan took her to her door.  "I hope you feel better, Dana."

"Thanks for rescuing me."  She squeezed his arm and kissed
his cheek, just to see his embarrassed expression.

"Say, I'm sorry I haven't gotten to looking for your
friend.  I'll try to do it as soon as possible."

"Don't worry about it."  Mulder was gone now.  She could
never see him again.  What had happened in her office had
made that crystal clear.

The door opened and John appeared, already changed into his
at-home sweats.  His face paled when he saw Dana.  "Are you
all right?"

The nausea rose again and she pushed past him to the
bathroom.  On the way she heard Evan explaining about the
Tube station and her migraine.

She stumbled out of the bathroom, hitting on her Migranex
inhaler and kicking off her shoes at the same time.  John
was standing in front of the bed with Julia clinging to his
back.  "Another one, huh?  When was your last migraine?"

Setting the tube on the bedside table, she began to
unbutton her blouse.  "Just a few days ago."

"Promise me you'll call your doctor in the morning."

She nodded and threw the blouse on the floor.  Normally she
would either toss the blouse in the laundry hamper or hang
it in the closet so it wouldn't wrinkle, but the pain was
getting so bad she just plain didn't care what happened to
it.  John set Julia down and handed Dana a pair of flannel
pajamas.

He kissed the top of her head.  "Get some rest," he
murmured.  "I'll try to keep Julia to a dull roar."

"Is Mommy sick?" Julia piped up.

"Just a little bit," John said.  "Why don't we go and make
quesadillas?"

After she changed and got into bed, Dana felt the drug-
induced stupor hitting her, but the pain didn't seem to
lessen.  Instead, she felt as if her head were splitting
into a thousand fragments.

Breathe, just breathe.


Pain, pain, go away, come again some other day.

Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day.  Missy and
I sing this on the way to CCD from school, splashing in the
puddles until our pants are soaked.  Mom is gonna be mad,
but it's fun to jump in a big one and get the water all
over Missy.  She yelps at me and stomps her boot, splashing
me, too.

Rain, dripping down the windows as I curl up on the couch,
a fire lit in the hearth, trying to read through the pain,
waiting for the painkillers to take effect.

Can I tell you my secret?

In the side of my bag is a zippered pocket and in that
pocket is a plastic bag which holds seventy-five of my pain
pills.  It's my secret stash, the one I can't tell anyone
about.

When it gets too bad, when I can't handle it anymore, I'll
take myself and that bag to a hotel.  Check in, pour a nice
glass of wine and one by one, swallow the pills.

I'll only do it if I have to.  I need to die with dignity.

I've already written my letter to you.

God will forgive me, I know this.  I can't believe that he
wants me to suffer in the end, to become blind, to lose my
motor functions, to become a helpless creature trapped in
her bed as the invader eats her from inside.  God cannot be
that cruel.

I'll fight to the end, but the minute the battle becomes a
losing one, I'll just let go.

Is it like sleep?

Stay tonight, stay with me.  In the morning you can go into
your room and mess up the bed like you actually slept
there.  I know it's against some arcane regulation, but
stay with me.

Hey, Scully, did you know that the word for 'to kiss' in
Romany, the language of the Gypsies, literally means, 'to
eat?'  If they want to say, 'I want to kiss you,' they say,
'I want to eat your face.'

Did I really need to know that information?

I want to eat your face.  I want to eat your lips, your
neck, your breasts.

Did you know you talk in your sleep?

Dad, you never met him, but I wish you had.  I know you
disapproved of my ultimate choice, of the path I decided to
follow, but I think you'd be proud of me all the same.  And
I think you could have grown to love him.  He's nothing
like you, of course, but he has the same strength of
spirit.  And he loves me.  He loves me the way Jack and
Ethan never could, with absolute surrender to the
condition.  And I love him wholly, because watching you and
Mom over the years taught me that such a thing is possible.

It's not possible.  I don't believe.

The world will not end.

they'recomingthey'recomingthey'recoming . . .

Get up, get up, we have to run, it's too late, we have to
get supplies and hide and do what we can to survive.

Two days and two nights and it all ends here.

Do you remember that time when we got away?  The weekend in
New York, happily anonymous in the crowd, ignoring pending
cases to eat overpriced bistro food at Choucroute and drink
too much wine and the way every night we stumbled back to
our room at the Plaza to make love to each other.   The way
the room smelled after we woke and ordered room service,
like roses and hot coffee and newspaper and our sweat and
love on the sheets.

Do you remember?

I remember.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.  It has been more than
five years since my last confession.  I have committed the
sin of adultery.  I have fallen in love with a man who is
not my husband.  I have sinned but I love him, Father.  He
wants to know my secrets and I want to know his.

If I tried to tell you, John, would you even listen?

Why can't you understand that I need to remember?

Say the Act of Contrition and a decade of the rosary, Dana.
Ask God for His forgiveness.

I don't know if I want to be forgiven.  I don't know if I
need to be forgiven.

We will be together in the next life, I promise.

I want to believe, Scully.

I look at the ruined land below me and wonder why it took
me so long to believe.

When I wake, I'm coughing.

I want my mother to tuck me into bed with a spoonful of
Robitussin and the heating pad.  And when I wake, I want
her chicken noodle soup and her warm hand on my forehead.

Not tonight, Scully, it's not time, let's just keep each
other warm, please, for me, one more night, I want to see
another morning with you.

Put down the gun.

Put down the gun, you're stronger than this.  You bastard!
I slam my hand on the table so hard I fear I've broken a
small bone, but their concentration doesn't waver, they are
focused on death.  Don't let yourself be pushed, you're
stronger than that.

Oh God, do you hear it?  Can you feel it coming?  The earth
is shaking under us.

Hold my hand, this is it.

Somehow, I always knew we'd die together.  As strong as we
are, there's no way one could survive without the other.
Can you even imagine such an existence?

We will be together in the next life.

It's coming.

It was just a dress rehearsal before.  It was simple
vandalism.  This is the real deal.

Look, the sky, how beautiful.  It's just . . .lovely . . .

Hold my hand.

This is it.

We end right here.

It feels so intimate.

We end together.


Light in her face roused Dana and she felt John's hand on
her cheek.  "What?" she mumbled, the pain still fiercely
raging in her skull.

"Get up, honey," he said in a gentle voice.  "We have to
get you to a doctor."

She shook her head like a petulant child.  "I don't need a
doctor, I am a--"

John cut her off.  "You're bleeding."

Her hand rose to her face and instinctively went to her
nose.

When she took her hand away, she saw it was crimson with
blood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later, Dana would be unable to recall much of the trip to
the Emergency Clinic in a taxi.  She only had fleeting
images of pressing a wad of tissues to her nose and trying
to breathe evenly through the throbbing pain.  She couldn't
even remember John and Julia being in the car with her, or
the route they took.

Things became clearer when they reached the clinic.  The
waiting room was mostly empty but the triage nurse told
her, after he gave her a brief exam, that the wait might be
a long one.  "I'm sorry," he said, shrugging his broad
shoulders apologetically, "we're short-staffed tonight and
we have a heart attack, a burn case and a drug overdose."

They settled in their seats, John laying a sleeping Julia
down across two chairs, her small face buried in a pillow
the nurse had given them.  It was just after four in the
morning and John hadn't wanted to wake any of their friends
to watch Julia.

Dana felt fairly foolish, sitting in the clinic in her
pajamas, with a jacket thrown over them.  She formed the
tissues into a ball in her hand.  The bleeding had stopped.
It hadn't been a heavy gush of blood from her nose, just a
slow trickle most of the way to the clinic.

She didn't know why this nosebleed filled her with a
creeping sense of terror.  She was a doctor, used to seeing
blood all the time.  Granted, she was a researcher, not
involved in the primary care of patients, but she could
remember a time when she'd done forensic pathology, cutting
into the dead without a second thought.

The pain in her temples had finally faded somewhat, enough
that she could think coherently again.  Even though the
waiting room was designed to be as cheerful as possible,
with fish tanks built into the walls, comfortable chairs of
plum and royal blue and a shelf of toys for children, Dana
found it depressing.  There was an elderly couple in the
corner, heads together and whispering in desperate tones.
A moan of pain echoed from down the hall and the room
smelled of hospital disinfectant.

John excused himself and went to make a phone call, no
doubt expecting a long morning at the clinic and making
plans for Julia and rearranging early meetings via
Messenger.

She wondered if it had hit John yet that this was where
she'd been taken for her two miscarriages. Both times she'd
been at work and had suddenly started hemorrhaging, both
times brought there by an ambulance and rushed to a cubicle
only to be told by the doctor that it was too late-- the
baby could not be saved.  Dana reached over and stroked
Julia's fine hair, her survivor, the one who'd hung on long
enough to emerge bright pink and screaming at the indignity
of being forced into the cold, bright world of the birthing
room.

It was out of these glass doors that an orderly had wheeled
her to a waiting cab after her second miscarriage, John at
her side.  Pale and still weak, she'd silently sat in the
car and stared out the window, feeling crushed by her
failure to hang onto this baby, too.

John had patted her hand and smiled at her.  "It'll be
okay, Dana.  We'll just have to try again."

She'd shuddered, then, restraining herself from screaming
at him.  Try again?  She wasn't going to do this again,
wasn't going to lie on another table for a D&C, numbed with
sedatives while the resident OB-GYN scraped the rest of her
child from her uterus.

Never again.

Six months later, they went to the Fertility Clinic for
another round of IVF.

"Dana Scully?"

She looked up to see Rebecca Haugen, the Emergency doctor
who'd seen her for both miscarriages, the one who'd had to
gently break the bad news to her.  She wondered if the
doctor would remember her.

She did.  "Fancy meeting you here," the short, heavyset
doctor said.  "I understand you're having a bad migraine."

"Yes," Dana said, standing a little too quickly, which made
her nearly black out.

"Careful," Rebecca said, taking her arm.

John returned and sat next to Julia, giving Dana a little
farewell wave.

"She's a gorgeous girl," Rebecca said with a smile.  "I'm
glad it worked out for you."

In the examining room, the doctor looked at Dana's records
on her computer and then gave her a quick but thorough
exam, catching up on her recent medical history.  "What did
you eat yesterday?" she asked.

Dana struggled to remember.  "I had some toast in the
morning and blueberry yogurt.  No lunch; I was working and
forgot to eat."

"And what did you have to drink?"

"Um . . .let me see . . . a cup of English Breakfast tea in
the morning and then some coffee."

The doctor's dark eyebrows rose.  "How much coffee?"

"I'm not sure."  Dana shrugged, unable to remember how much
her office carafe held.  "Four, five cups, I think."

"Dana," Rebecca said with a sigh, "you're a doctor, you
should know better.  With your history of migraines, you
can't have more than a cup or two a day, and then only if
you're eating properly."

"I've been busy lately; I needed the energy."

"Well, your health has to take top priority.  Now, you say
your Migranex inhaler didn't help much this time?"

Dana shook her head.  "I had two doses, but the pain was
nearly constant, even after I took them.  I got sleepy, but
my head still hurt."

"Resistance to Migranex has been noted in a few journals.
There's a new drug, Madorex, that's been very successful
with severe migraine pain.  I'm going to give you a dose,
but only after we've gotten an IV into you.  You're clearly
dehydrated from the vomiting and lack of fluids."

She was afraid to ask the next question, but she had to
know.  "What about the nosebleed?"

"Nosebleeds aren't common in association with migraines,
but they are known to happen.  Extra pressure in your
capillaries . . .  But I noticed on your chart that Dr.
Young has never given you a full brain scan.  Any idea
why?"

"He said my presenting migraine complaints were so textbook
that he didn't want to give me an unnecessary test."

Dr. Haugen smiled.  "Ah yes, socialized medicine.  Although
I probably would have done the same thing.  Still, it's
best to rule out certain things.  I'm willing to bet a
week's pay that your migraine was brought on by caffeine,
lack of sleep and stress."

Stress was a mild word for the last week of Dana's life.

The doctor continued, "I'm going to have the nurse come and
put the IV in and I want you to rest for an hour or so
while you rehydrate.  Then we'll get you upstairs for the
scan.  I don't want to give you the pain medication until
after the test because it'll knock you out for a few
hours."  She companionably squeezed Dana's shoulder.
"Think you can take the pain for a bit longer?"

Dana nodded.  "It's not as bad as it was before."

"Good," Rebecca said and left the room.

Dana lay in bed, listening to the bustle of the clinic
around her, the IV dripping clear liquids a vein in her
left hand. Monitors beeped and the PA system kept
announcing, "Paging Dr. Patel to Radiology.  Dr. Patel to
Radiology."

The more anxious she became, the more the pain worsened,
spiking jolts into her temples.  Slow that adrenal system
down, Dana told herself, nice, slow breaths from the
diaphragm.

She tried to remember her disjointed dreams from earlier in
the night, but they were just beyond her reach, like old
song lyrics only half-remembered.

I want to remember something good, she thought, staring at
the tiles in the white ceiling.  I want a sweet memory, not
a disturbing flash of remembered pain.  I want it whole and
beautiful . . .

Dana closed her eyes and willed her brain to bring
something tangible to her.

For once, it worked.

She took a deep breath and remembered.


The dishes are cleared off the table and put in the
dishwasher and the leftover turkey and stuffing is packed
neatly away into Tupperware.  Tara and Sally put on their
coats and leave for a walk around the block and sister-in-
law gossip.  The men take their pie and coffee into the
living room to watch the game.  Judging by all the
shouting, the Redskins are winning.

Her mother brings out the bottle of Bailey's and pours a
healthy slug into their coffee.  They sit down at the big
wooden kitchen table, the site of every childhood meal Dana
can remember.

Maggie gives her a look that tells Dana they are going to
have A Talk.

"Tell me about him," her mother says, sipping her coffee.

Dana grins.  "I already did."

"Sweetie, announcing the news to me that you're a couple
five seconds before he and everyone else arrives does not
constitute talking to me about him."

She notices how wonderful her mother looks today in her
sapphire blue dress, her hair waved around her face.
During the horrible years, when Melissa and her father
died, when Dana went missing and was so ill, Maggie had
taken on a haggard, haunted look.  Now her face is flushed
and pretty, and she is clearly content to be surrounded by
her loved ones on Thanksgiving.

Dana reaches over and cuts herself a slice of apple pie.
"What do you want to know, Mom?  I mean, you've known him
almost as long as I have."

"Sure, I know him; I like him.  But almost every time I've
dealt with him it's been in a . . . crisis situation."  A
flicker of pain crosses Maggie's face.  "What I want to
know is how is he with you now that you're together?

Stalling for time by eating pie, Dana tries to think of
what to tell her mother.

She doesn't want to tell her mother about waking in the big
bed at the Vineyard house, after their first night
together.  She opened her eyes and saw their bodies were
entangled like conjoined twins.  Her head was on his chest
and she turned it to take a deep sniff of his morning
scent, realizing she'd always known how he would smell the
morning after they'd made love.

She doesn't want to tell her mother how surprised she'd
been to discover how tender they could be with each other.
That 's too personal.  She'd been so sure that all they'd
seen and endured had beaten all the sweetness out of them.
Instead, Dana has found out that underneath their cynical
and jaded exteriors, they have a deep reserve of reverence
for one another.

She doesn't want to tell her mother how alive she's felt in
the last month.  She's found herself wearing brighter
colors, higher heels, and singing in the car on the way to
work to old pop songs from the early 1980s.  Somehow she
has more energy, no longer feels crushed by the fight.

She doesn't want to tell her mother that she's learned that
being his woman doesn't change being his partner.  She'd
worried about that, that they'd lose their edge, the yin
and the yang that makes their partnership so successful.

And she especially doesn't want to tell her mother that
despite her newfound happiness in their union, she still
fears that it will all come crashing down upon them one of
these days.  She's learned that happiness is often
fleeting.

"I don't know what to say, Mom," she finally answers,
toying with the tiny silver demitasse spoon.  "I'm just
happy with him, that's all."

"Well, as your mother, it's my job to ask if we'll be
planning a wedding soon."

Dana groans.  "Mom, we haven't even discussed it.  I mean,
we have, but only in the abstract.  We've still got so much
to do, so many things to learn, before we can look that far
ahead."

"You're not getting any younger, sweetie."  Maggie clucks
her tongue.

She rolls her eyes at her mother like an indignant
teenager.

"I just want to see you standing in front of Father McCue,
wearing my veil.  I've dreamed of that since you and Missy
were born."

Dana pats her mother's hand.  "I know you do, Mom.  But I
don't know if that will ever happen.  For one thing, he's
not Catholic.  And at my age, I'd look kind of ridiculous
in a full-length wedding veil.  I'm a woman in her
thirties, not a virginal girl of twenty."

Her mother raises her hand.  "I do not need to hear that,
Dana."

Something rebellious flares in Dana.  "You can hardly
expect that at my age . . ."

"A mother can always hope," Maggie says, demurely folding
her hands on the table.

Dana just snorts at that.

But then her mother surprises her with a mischievous smile.
"Although he *is* a good-looking man.  If I were you, I
probably wouldn't be able to resist his advances, either."

She has to laugh, thinking about how in the end, she was
the one who made the advances.  She was the one who'd
kissed him on the beach, who led him by the hand up to the
house and into the bedroom, who'd whispered in his ear how
much she wanted him, here, now, inside her, inside her now.
Dana can still, if she listens hard enough, hear the
squeaking of the bed frame as they moved together.

"You're terrible," she says to her mother, still grinning.
For the first time, she feels as if they're not just mother
and daughter, but two grown women, friends at last.

Maggie squeezes her hand and smiles back.


Dana opened her eyes and brushed away the small tears
oozing down her face.  Her mother.  She could see her
mother now, Maggie's lovely face.  She could see Maggie's
eyes in Julia's face.

It felt like a rare and precious gift.

She still couldn't recall the face or name of her lover,
but for a moment, despite the pain and the fact that she
was in the clinic with an IV in her hand, she basked in the
love they'd once shared, and the love she could still feel
for her mother.

Now she had a story she could tell Julia about her
grandmother.

A nurse in purple scrubs came in.  "We're going to unhook
you and take you upstairs now."

When she was wheeled past the waiting room, Dana saw John
slumped over in his chair, sleeping.  Julia was gone;
Meghan must have come to take her to Primary Care.

Dana lay in the scanning tube and held her breath, fighting
the claustrophobia.  Over the last years, she'd been
subjected to all sorts of painful procedures, but none had
ever filled her with stark fear like this.  My brain, my
brain, she frantically thought, resisting the urge to get
out of there, what the hell is going on in my brain?

The machinery hummed and clicked to life and her heart rate
escalated to nearly intolerable levels.  Please don't let
it be cancer, not a tumor.

Why was she thinking of a brain tumor?  She wasn't one to
imagine the direst consequences; she was too pragmatic for
that.

The scan ended and she moved out of the tube, sighing in
relief.

Dana was sent back to the same room and an orderly brought
her a large glass of apple juice and a bowl of hot oatmeal.
"Dr. Haugen wants you to eat," he said.

She ate slowly, her stomach still feeling vaguely upset and
the act of chewing making her head hurt.

As she was finishing her breakfast, the doctor came in and
started punching keys on the computer, bringing up a three-
dimensional image of Dana's head on the screen.  Dana
leaned forward to see the screen, but without her glasses
or contacts, she couldn't make out the fine details.

Rebecca sat down.  "Everything looks good, Dana.  I can see
no abnormal growths that could have caused the bleeding or
the migraine."

Relief flooded every cell of her body.

"I did find something rather interesting, though."  The
doctor made a few clicks and the image rotated to show the
back of Dana's head.

The sensation of relief abruptly ended.

The doctor pointed to the base of Dana's skull on the
monitor, where her head met her neck.  Dana couldn't see
what Rebecca was pointing out.

"There's a tiny piece of foreign matter right here."

Dana's mouth opened.  "Foreign matter?"

"It seems to be metallic, judging from the resonance.  I
don't think it's anything to worry about, though.  It's
probably some kind of debris or shrapnel, most likely from
the Invasion.  I've seen a number of patients with old
injuries they weren't even aware they'd had."

Her hand rose to the nape of her neck.  "Do you think it
should be removed?"

"It's not a bad idea," the doctor said, shrugging. "But not
today-- you've been through enough for one day.  I suggest
you see your family doctor in a few weeks and have it taken
care of."

Dana sighed.  She would be all right.

"How is the discomfort now?"

"Better, but it's still there."

Rebecca rummaged in a cabinet and pulled out a small box.
"Madorex comes in inhaler form, just like your Migranex.  I
want you to only take a single dose; it's very strong."

Dana took a hit.  It tasted even worse than her old
medication.

The doctor got a serious expression on her face.  "Dana, I
know you're a doctor and know all of what I'm about to tell
you, but I find that doctors, including myself, are often
the worst at following common sense advice."

She grinned self-consciously, knowing that what Rebecca
said was all too true.

"A migraine is often your body telling you that you're
under too much stress.  You need to sleep more, eat better
and reduce your stress level.  I don't care if you jog,
take up yoga or get a weekly massage, but you have to take
care of yourself."

"I will," Dana said, feeling cowed.

"Now, go home and get some sleep and I don't want you at
work tomorrow, either."

"But I have--"

"I don't want to hear it.  Whatever you have on your
schedule, cancel it.  You work with doctors, they'll
understand.  Spend the day in the bathtub or lie on the
couch, reading."

Dana suddenly became so dizzy from the drugs that the
doctor had to fetch a wheelchair for her.

In the waiting room, she loopily smiled at John, who was
awake again and sipping coffee.

He rose and kissed her cheek.  "Are you going to be all
right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," she slurred, chin dipping to her chest.

As the cab pulled out into the street, she leaned into
John's solid side and smiled.

He touched her cheek.  "What are you smiling about?  Or is
it the drugs?"

Her eyes were already closing.  "I remembered my mother,
John. When I shut my eyes, I can see her face."

John only said, "Oh."

She fell asleep in the car and the next thing she
remembered was waking from a dreamless sleep in her bed at
home.  It was six in the evening and already dark.

The pain was gone.  She wanted to exult at the sensation of
freedom from the nagging ache and the fact that she didn't
feel hungover from the drugs, either.  Instead, she was
clear-headed and starving.

She took a shower, appalled at the way she smelled, and
changed into jeans and her oldest black turtleneck.  Dana
walked through the dark living room and into the kitchen,
where she devoured a container of yogurt and some leftover
pasta, and drank nearly a quart of Julia's fruit punch.

The apartment was silent and she wondered where John and
Julia were.

She stepped into the living room and stopped in her tracks
when she heard a small cough in the darkness.

Dana fumbled for the light and gasped as she saw John
sitting on the couch, his face shadowed with stubble and
his eyes red.

On his lap was her journal, the one Mulder had given her
for her birthday.

She forgot she even knew how to breathe.

John lifted his head and looked at her, brown eyes boring
straight into hers.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but laden with
both sorrow and anger.

"Who is he, Dana?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once upon a time, there was a woman named Dana, who'd stood
in front of her mirror on her wedding day.  She'd stepped
back to appraise herself in the full-length glass.  From
the satin shoes on her feet to the white empire waist dress
to the pearl cluster earrings, she'd been every inch the
radiant bride.

She'd had no reason to doubt she would have a perfect
marriage.

On that day, Dana had believed in her marriage as firmly as
she believed the earth was round and rotated around the
sun.

She'd believed in words like love, honor, cherish and
forever.

Dana had believed in fairy tales.  John Rosen was Prince
Charming and she was his princess and their wedding meant
happily ever after.

Yes, on that day she'd believed in all those things.  It
had seemed so simple.  They'd found each other, literally
picked one another out from across a crowded room.  The
first time she'd kissed John, Dana had thought, "Now I'll
never have to be alone again."  The gaping emptiness she'd
felt ever since her awakening in the Clinic to a brave new
world would be replaced by the security of belonging to
another.  She'd never again wake in the middle of the
night, gasping for breath and wondering just who the hell
she was.

Once upon a time, she'd believed in fairy tales.


Dana sank into the chair behind her, every bone and muscle
liquefied.

Only one thought penetrated the noisy buzz in her brain--
oh no, oh no, oh no . . .

"What are you doing with that?" she said, looking down at
her hands, at the band of braided gold on her ring finger.

John's eyes had been shining when he'd slid that ring on
her finger.  "With this ring, I marry you," he'd said in a
clear, joyful voice.

He touched the book.  "I went in your bag to get out the
Madorex inhaler, in case you needed it."

She couldn't think of anything to say.  After all, she
couldn't really be angry that he'd invaded her privacy.

"Who is he?" John said again, this time his voice a mere
whisper.

Dana couldn't, wouldn't look at his face; she didn't want
to see the naked expression of pain and confusion he wore.
Yes, confusion.  It had never occurred to John that she
would stray.

"Please, Dana. I have to know."

No, you don't, she thought.  We need to rewind the tape,
erase the last five minutes and carry on.  In time, I'll
forget Mulder and we'll live our life as before.  We can
have a sister or brother for Julia and watch them grow and
flourish.  But you don't want to know, John.

He had to know, though, Dana understood that.  If the
situation were reversed, she'd want to know.  John deserved
the painful truth.

It took a moment for her to get her voice and when she did,
it was unsteady.  "You don't know him.  I met him shortly
before you left."

"That was fast . . ."

She nodded.

"Of course, that's how you operate, isn't it?  I mean, it
didn't take very long for you and me, either."

Dana folded her hands in her lap.  John didn't mean what he
was saying, she told herself.  It was his anger talking and
he certainly had a right to express it.

This time, John's voice was gentler.  "Why?"

She shook her head.  "I don't know."

Dana heard him stand, heard his feet pacing on the carpet.
"I don't know," he said, repeating her words.  "That's all
you can come up with to explain why you betrayed our
marriage?"

She looked up and saw his back as he stood at the window,
staring at the city lights.

Her mouth was so dry.  "John," she said, "I don't have a
good reason.  I met him and it was so . . . powerful.  I've
never felt anything like that before."

As he turned around and she caught the expression on his
face, Dana wished she'd chosen her words more wisely.  He
ran his hand through his pale brown hair.  "Never, huh?  Do
you love him or was this just some kind of fling?"

Lying would be so easy, she thought.  If she said it had
been merely an affair, one hot, drunken night, they could
probably survive this more or less intact.  It would take
John a long time to forgive her, but he would.  But to love
another man, that was unforgivable.

To lie or not to lie, that is the question . . .

Dana was tired of dishonesty, tired of the bitter taste the
lies she'd told John left in her mouth.

She looked up at John and their eyes met.  I used to
treasure those brown eyes beyond measure, she thought.

"Yes," she said, her heart pounding.  "I love him."

The expression "he looked crushed" was one she'd heard
before, but she'd never actually seen someone look crushed
until she told her husband she loved another man.  His
handsome face went white and she watched his shoulders and
back slump at her words.  He sat down, as stunned as if
he'd received a blow to the head.

It was John's turn to look down at his hands.  "Why, Dana?
I've tried so hard to make you happy, to be the best
husband I could be."

"I know you have," she said softly.

His voice again gathered strength as he looked at her.
"Then why love someone else?  What does he give you that I
can't?"

Her mind flashed back to something Mulder had said when
they'd first walked into the hotel room.

"Before," she said.  "He gives me Before."

John exhaled.  "Oh God, is that what this is all about?
Because I don't want to go into the past?"

Dana thought about her words before she spoke them.  "John,
I loved for more than thirty-five years before I met you.
I had a life-- a family, friends, a career, a man I loved.
I don't want to be a clean slate.  I want to know who I
was."

He nodded, digesting her words.

"Maybe you can just move on, but I can't," she continued.
"I used to think I was selfish to feel this need for the
past, but not anymore.  I think it's healthy to want my
memories."

"And . . . and this other man feels the same way?"

"Yes."

"If I could talk about it, I would, Dana.  But I don't want
to know.  I just want to move on."

And that's our fatal flaw, she thought.

"I know you do, but I can't.  Yesterday, I had a wonderful
memory of my mother and I was so happy, because I could
someday tell Julia something about her grandmother.  She
deserves to know who she is, where she came from."

John said nothing, simply sat on the couch like a shell of
a man, staring at a point just above her head.

She felt desperate for the words that would fix this, that
would bandage the wound and make everything right again.
But she knew there were no such words.

A few tears began to trickle down her face and she wiped
them away.  "I'm not going to see each him again," she
whispered.  "I want to start over.  I know you're angry
with me, that I've done a terrible thing, and for what it's
worth, I'm sorry.  But I chose to stay and I want to try to
make it work."

John still said nothing.

"I love you," she said.  "I love you and I don't want our
marriage to end.  We have a child; we have so many years
and so many memories together."

He rose from the couch.  "What if I don't want to be your
consolation prize, Dana?"

She sighed.  "Whatever we have to do to make this right
again, I'll do it."

"I can't think about this right now," he said, grabbing his
wallet off the coffee table and stuffing it into the pocket
of his jeans.  "It's just too much to deal with."  He
turned, heading for the front door.

"Where are you going?" she said in alarm, jumping up from
the chair.  "We have to talk about it."

"I need to think," he said.  "I'm going to go for a walk
and then pick up Julia at Mike and Jody's place and take
her out for some dinner."

She stood in the middle of the room, fighting the
overwhelming urge to pitifully beg her husband to stay.

"Just remember that I love you," she said.

He nodded and headed out the door.  She knew he didn't mean
to do it, but he slammed the door shut behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She had to get out of here.  Everything in the apartment
was oppressive to her, the photos of their life together
reminding her of what a failure she was, what a terrible
wife she'd become.  The walls actually felt as if they were
closing in and choking her.

As soon as she walked out into the hallway, Dana realized
she had nowhere to go.  Her friends, even Meghan, would not
understand what she'd done.  She couldn't see Mulder.  She
was utterly alone.

She leaned against her door and shut her eyes, breathing
hard and trying not to cry.  But the tears came all the
same, breaking over her as she squeezed her eyes shut and
bent over with the force of her sobs.

If she had still believed in God, she would have prayed
just then.  But it was difficult to believe in a higher
power after the world had ended.

Dana heard the door open across the hall and music blared.
It sounded as if a cat were being strangled while hoodlums
beat aluminum trash cans with baseball bats.

Evan's voice was soft as he touched her shoulder.  "Dana,
are you all right?"

My knight in shining armor, she thought as she sniffled.
She shook her head.

"Another migraine?"

She shook her head again, unable to form a coherent
sentence.

He took her by the hand and led her across the hall and
into his apartment.  "Whatever's wrong, we can fix it," he
said.

Dana wiped her eyes and smiled.  She'd always thought of
Evan as a sweet, but immature, boy.  Now she realized he
was truly a man of strength.

He turned off his stereo and turned the lights up.  His
apartment was a mess, as usual, scattered with papers,
takeout boxes and soda cans.  On the futon in the corner
was a slim young woman with long dark hair, sprawled on her
stomach and wearing only a pair of black lace panties.
Dana saw that she had an intricate tattoo of a vine that
began on her left ankle and wound its way around and around
her leg up to the top of her thigh.

Evan's dark skin flushed red.  "That's Kitty," he said.
"Don't mind her, she's kind of out of it."  He covered her
with a dark red quilt.

"Is she all right?"

He shrugged.  "Yeah.  We went clubbing last night and she
did too much MZ."  Evan snorted.  "Drugs-- strictly for
amateurs."

Dana bent and touched the girl's back under the comforter.
Her respiration appeared to be regular.  "You don't think
she's overdosed, do you?"

"Nah, she'll be okay, she just needs to sleep it off.
She's been up to pee a couple of times, cranky as hell."

He led her into the kitchenette, where the sink was
overflowing with dishes and the garbage can was on its
side.  "Sorry about the mess," he said.  "The maid never
shows up."

She found the strength to laugh at that.

"Can I get you something to drink?  A beer?"

"No, I shouldn't have any alcohol with all the migraine
drugs in my system."

"I know what you need," Evan said, grinning.  "You need hot
chocolate."

"Hot chocolate?"

"Cures all that ails you.  Sit down on the couch and I'll
nuke us a couple of mugs."

Dana cleared a stack of fanzines off the couch and sat
down, shaking her head in amusement at Evan's lifestyle,
which was miles away from her orderly little life.  Or how
her life had been . . .  She pinched the bridge of her nose
to stave off a fresh onslaught of tears.

Evan returned with two steaming cups.  "I even washed the
mugs for you, Dana, cause you're an honored guest.  And the
cocoa has little marshmallows."

She sipped the hot, rich liquid, thinking about how this
was Julia's favorite drink.  She called the marshmallows
"mushamellas."

He touched her arm.  "Want to talk about it?"

"Not right now," she said, setting down her mug on the one
place on the coffee table that wasn't taken up by half-full
glasses and scattered disks.

"Okay," Evan said agreeably.  "Then how about this-- I just
went looking for your friend."

She felt an erratic little flutter in her heart.  "Did you
find anything?"

He grinned with impish glee.  "Oh, I found something, all
right.  Come on . . ."  He stood and motioned her over to
the computer, dragging an extra chair up to the desk.

As he madly tapped away on his keyboard, Dana sat next to
him, feeling her breathing quicken with anticipation.

"It was easy to get in," he said, with evident pride.  "Now
that no one's really minding the store, the FBI's security
protocols are child's play."

Screens flashed until he reached one that said Human
Resources.

He turned to her.  "So, yeah, I found some stuff.  Their
files are a real mess, though.  A lot of things are
missing, destroyed, I guess.  But there's still information
there."

She nearly screamed with impatience.  "You found my
friend?"

Evan's smile grew wider.  "Not exactly."

"What do you mean?"

"I ran the name Fox Mulder through and came up with
nothing.  I even tried variations of the name, but he
didn't appear in any of the surviving files.  I thought my
Crawler program might not be functioning, so just for fun I
ran your name."

Dana touched her chest.  "My name?"

He tapped in some more commands and a file came up.  "You
were in the FBI's Human Resources files."

Stunned into silence was an understatement.

"This is a medical claim, dated February 16, 1999, to your
insurance carrier.  It seems you were shot in the line of
duty that January."

This is not possible, she frantically thought, but she
moved closer to read the words on the screen.  Dana
Katherine Scully, the claim said.  It had her birth date,
her Social Security number, a Georgetown address.  Special
Agent Dana Katherine Scully.  Her emergency contact person
was listed as Margaret Scully, relationship: mother.

Her hand reached down to where she knew the scar on her
torso was.  The claim read, "for payment for treatment of
gunshot injury to lower left quadrant of abdomen . . .
surgery performed at New York University Medical Center."

She turned to Evan, who was still grinning at his prowess.
"This can't be real," she whispered.

"Need more proof?"

He brought up another page and she gasped aloud.

"This was on the Public Relations page," Evan said.

The page was titled "Washington D.C. Agent Wins Prestigious
Pathology Award."  There was a photograph on the page,
undeniably of her, looking young and serious in a black
suit with a white blouse, a pair of glasses on her face.
She was standing at a podium, apparently giving a speech.

She scanned the text.  "Special Agent Dana Scully was
awarded the Harrington Award for Forensic Excellence by the
National Society of Women in Pathology on June 2, 1998."

It was real.  She blinked at the screen, staring at her own
image, at the Dana Scully of almost seven years before.
She hadn't changed much in all those years.  She still wore
the same type of suits, given small changes in fashion, and
her hair was even now worn in the same short bob.

"Didn't mean to shock you," Evan said softly.  "I was
surprised as hell to see you, too.  Do you have any
memories of being an agent?"

She shook her head.  She didn't have a single one.

"I found a cache of pictures related to this page," he
said.  "They were the ones that weren't used.  You want to
see them, see if anything jogs your memory?"

"Show them to me," she said.

It took a moment for the new page to load.  "Their server
is all wonky," Evan grumbled.

Three photos came up on the screen.  The first was another
shot of her on the podium, accepting a plaque from a woman
with short gray hair.

The second was of her shaking hands with a tall, broad-
shouldered man, bald and wearing glasses.  "Does he look
familiar?" Evan asked.

"No," she said.  "Scroll down to the last picture."  Only
the top inch of the image was visible on the screen.

She made no sound when she saw the final photo, but she now
understood how some people could faint at unexpected news.

In the picture, she was holding a glass of wine, apparently
at the reception after the award ceremony.  She was no
longer wearing the black jacket and was smiling broadly for
the camera.  A man was standing at her side, his arm around
her. He was grinning just as widely as she was.

A tall man with dark hair.  Full lower lip, largish nose,
sleepy eyes.

It could not be real.

It had to be some elaborate hoax, a prank on her friend's
part.

But she knew it wasn't.  Evan wouldn't do that to her.
Besides, there was no way he could.  He had never laid eyes
on the man in the photo with her.

She took a deep breath, considering the implications of the
picture.

For the man in the picture with her was unquestionably Fox
Mulder.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She paced the small room, clenching and unclenching her
fists.  Evan watched her from his computer chair with a
concerned expression on his face.

Her mind was racing too quickly for her to keep up with her
thoughts.  They were coming at her in bursts that weren't
quite coherent.

Before.

Mulder.

I knew him.

I loved him.

Oh, God.

He was right.

My dreams were right.

We knew each other.

What the fuck.

We found each other again.

Mulder.

It was you.

It was you it was you it was you all along it was you.

Suddenly, she stopped and whirled around to face Evan.

"Can I use your phone?"

He nodded, getting up to hand her the remote from its niche
on the coffee table between a bowl of soba noodles and a
coil of computer cord.

Her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly punch in
Mulder's number.  Oh please be home, she thought.

She let out her breath in exasperation and panic as Sarah's
face filled the screen.  It was their Messenger program.
Sarah smiled for the camera and said, "You've reached the
line of Sarah Morelli and Fox Mulder.  We can't take your
call right now, so please leave us a message and we'll get
back to you as soon as possible."

"No," Dana muttered under her breath.  "Pick up, Mulder."

She cut the connection before the message beep and buried
her face in her hands.

She needed to talk to Mulder.  Now.

And then an idea struck her.  She looked up at Evan.  "Can
you bring up your Net Tracker and see if Mulder's online?"

Evan looked almost relieved to have something to do to help
her.  His fingers flew across his black keyboard.  He
turned back around and grinned.  "He's online and immersed.
Do you know where he might be?"

Dana stood on shaking legs and walked over to Evan and his
computer.  "I know exactly where he is," she said
breathlessly.  "Do you mind if I go into immersion with
your computer?  He's got a Netspace."

She felt the warmth of Evan's hand on hers.  "I know it's
none of my business, Dana, but who is this guy to you?"

Such a simple question, such a complicated answer.

"He's everything to me," she said in a quavering voice.
She cringed a little, waiting for Evan's words of
recrimination.  After all, Evan had known John as long as
he'd known her.  Sometimes they played a little basketball
in the park.

Evan merely nodded judiciously.  "So, you knew him Before."

She tapped the photo of the two of them with her index
finger.  "Apparently so."

I knew you and loved you and when I finally saw you again
after five years, I couldn't remember you.

Dana couldn't begin to wrap her mind around the concept.

His eyebrows rose.  "Wow, that is just wild . . ."  He
handed her his connect cable.  "Go for it."

She smiled.  "Thanks, Evan."

After some fumbling with the connect cord, she got it
hooked and logged into her Centralnetsystem account.  Dana
shut her eyes and tried to clear her head with a deep
breath, but it didn't work.  She was wired.

With a few quick commands tapped into Evan's computer, she
found herself in the virtual hallway, outside Mulder's
door.

You can do it, she told herself.  Be brave.

The Netspace was set for a sunny day, the air warm and the
waves gently lapping at the sand.  Mulder had his back to
her, sitting on the sand.  She crept up behind him and
touched his shoulder.

The look he gave her when he turned his head was one she'd
never truly seen from him before.  It was . . .
penetrating.

She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

Oh God, I think he somehow knows, too, she thought.

He got to his feet and brushed the virtual sand off his
jeans.  "I was just going to call you," he said in a husky
voice.

Dana took his hand and squeezed it.  "We need to talk."

Mulder nodded.

"Not here," she said.  "In person."  She gestured toward
the shimmering ocean.  "This isn't real enough."

"We need to talk," he repeated in a stunned voice.

The temptation to stay and blurt out what she now knew was
the truth was too tempting.  No, she thought, this isn't
the place.  "The park, the one where we first met.  Can you
be there in ten minutes?"

"I'll be there."

I knew you and loved you and forgot you.

She turned around and actually ran to the Netspace's door.

When she disconnected from the computer, she opened her
eyes to see Evan sitting on his kitchen table, swigging
from a bottle of water and staring at her.  She rose from
the chair.  "Thanks, Evan," she said, already heading for
his door.  "I've got to run."

He jumped down from the table with a thud.  "Where are you
going?"

Dana stopped.  "I'm going to find out the truth.  I'm
meeting him."

Evan grabbed his leather jacket off the back of the
computer chair.  "Let me take you there."

"I'm just going down the block to that little park.  Don't
worry about it."  She smiled at his chivalrous but
unnecessary gesture.  The streets were safe; she'd be just
fine.

"Bullshit," Evan said with a crooked smile.  "I'm coming
with you."

The street was nearly empty.  It was early evening and all
the respectable little families were inside their
apartments, eating their dinners and sharing the news of
their days.  She was headed to the park to meet the man who
had been her lover Before, with a leather-clad hacker in
tow.  Her life had gotten awfully bizarre in the last few
weeks.

"You're really brave," Evan said.  Even though he was
taller than she, and had longer legs, he was struggling to
keep up with her rapid strides.

"I just need to know," she said.

"I know, and I admire that.  No one seems to want to know.
But I'll let you in on a little secret.  I've been looking
for my past, too.  It's been tough.  I was born in Chicago
and the birth records there are completely screwed up.  But
I'm still looking . . ."

Dana stopped and touched his arm.  "I hope you find what
you're looking for."

He smiled in embarrassment.  "I do, too."

They began walking again.  Almost there, she told herself,
still feeling frantic.

"What does this mean for you and John?" Evan asked.

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"Well, whatever happens, you're my friend, Dana.  You've
been so good to me.  I feel so alone, you know?  I don't
have a family and you're probably the closest thing to a
sister I have in this world."

They had reached the little park.  She wrapped her arms
around Evan and hugged him close.  "Family doesn't have to
mean blood," she said.

Together, they walked into the park.  The playground was
empty, as were the benches surrounding it.  Just past the
swing sets was the glow of a bonfire.  There was a small
fire pit and sometimes community groups held gatherings
there.  Dana could hear singing.

Feeling as if she were in a trance, she walked toward the
fire, Evan discreetly trailing her like a private
detective.

As she got closer, she could make out the words of the
song.

"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me . . .
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see."

She stopped and stared at the flickering lights of the
fire, not seeing the faces of the people that surrounded
it.

Fire.

"I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see."

She saw everything.


When she wakes, she's coughing.

She slips her shoes on and stumbles out of the tent to head
into the woods to pee.  As she crouches on trembling and
weak legs, she fondly thinks of her bathroom back in
Washington with its large bathtub, endless supply of hot
water and triple-ply quilted toilet paper.  No, she tells
herself, don't even think about it because you can never
have it again.

With wood gathered earlier in the day she lights a fire to
boil water for tea.  The coughs are coming more and more
frequently now, with a deep, rattling sound and a force
that makes her fear breaking a rib.  In one of the packs
she finds a bottle off 44-D and takes a judicious swig.

After her tea is made, she grabs her day pack and makes her
way down the trail to the cliff edge overlooking the
valley.  Not so very long ago this was a park popular with
bikers and backpackers.  It would be easy to pretend that
they're up here in the mountains for an impromptu camping
weekend.  It's a beautiful summer late afternoon, the sky
cloudless and radiant blue.  The humidity is low and it's
just warm enough to wear only a t-shirt and shorts.

She's wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, though.  Her low
fever has given her chills.

The view is spectacular from the cliff.  She can see for
miles.  That is, it would be spectacular if she didn't look
down at the town in ruins in the valley below.

She doesn't look down, only straight across at more
mountains and hills stretching across the horizon.

A mosquito bites the back of her neck and she swats it
away, annoyed that she missed that spot with the repellant.
She touches the place where she knows the chip lies just
under the skin and smiles at the irony of it all.  That
tiny piece of metal had been both a curse and a blessing to
her.  It may or may not have sent her cancer into
remission, but it also called her to the bridge and the
burning on that terrifying night.  But in the end, it saved
them five days ago when she woke in the middle of the night
in the motel room, screaming that They were coming.

No, scratch that-- the chip didn't save them.  It merely
postponed the inevitable.

She coughs again and looks down at the ruins of
Abbotsville, population 2,475.

There's a rustle in the brush behind her and she grabs for
her ever-present gun, turning to point it at the source of
the sound.  There's no telling what's out there.

It's only Mulder, though, and she breathes a small sigh of
relief, setting the gun back down on top of her pack.  He
looks haggard and exhausted, just as she must look, and his
face is bristly with the patchy beginnings of a beard.

He greets her with a hacking cough and sits beside her.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Just looking . . . and thinking . . ."

He strokes her cheek with his fingers.  "Oh yeah?  What
about?"

She gestures down at the town below.  "All of this.  It's
been more than three days, Mulder.  Why haven't they come
back to finish the job?"

Mulder shakes his head.  This time he doesn't have any more
answers than she does.

"What if this wasn't a concerted effort towards
colonization, but just the alien version of vandalism?
Like, hey, let's go destroy mankind today."

"Either way, the result is the same," Mulder says, staring
off into the distance.

They're so cut off from everything, there's no way to tell
what has happened to the rest of the world.  There had been
just enough time to gather together supplies and warn their
mothers, the Gunmen and Skinner with hasty phone calls, but
their fates are unknown.  It's this sensation of not
knowing which is driving her crazy.

Both of them begin to cough and she passes him the bottle
of red syrup.  He takes a small slug and winces at the
taste.

There's no time like the present for brutal honesty, she
thinks.  She used to live cocooned in the warm comfort of
denial, but now she can't.

"We're dying, Mulder," she says.

"No."  He fiercely shakes his head.  "We've been outdoors,
slept two nights in a cave, three in a tent.  We've got
colds, that's all."

Her voice comes out more exasperated than she truly wants
it to sound.  "No, Mulder.  We saw those people die down
the mountain.  We've got what they had."

She lifts her hands so he can see the dark swelling
beginning on the palms.

"Whatever this is, it's fatal and they brought it with
them."

"No," he says, still shaking his head.  "This can't be the
end."

I want to die with dignity, she thinks, remembering the
secret cache of painkillers she'd carried in her bag when
she was so sick with cancer.

She picks up her gun and strokes it almost lovingly.  "They
died horrible deaths," she says in a flat voice.  "You saw
their convulsions, heard them scream."

When she closes her eyes at night, she can still hear the
agonizing sounds of pain.

"It doesn't have to be like that," she says.

"What are you talking about, Scully?"

She offers the gun to him as if it's a precious gift.  "We
can end it here.  Die with dignity."

His hand reaches out and gently wraps around her wrist.
"No," he rasps, and coughs.

Tears begin to burn her exhausted eyes.

"I . . . I can't stand to watch you die like that," she
whispers, her lips trembling.  "And I can't stand to have
you watch me die in such agony."

Mulder's voice is low and pleading as he wraps his arm
around her.  "Not tonight, Scully.  It's not time.  Let's
just keep each other warm.  Please, for me, one more night
. . ."

Slowly, she puts the gun down and she hears him let out his
breath in relief.

He pulls her closer to him and his breath ruffles her hair.
"I just want to see one more morning with you."

She thinks about all the mornings in the last year.  Some
were hurried, the two of them bustling around trying to get
ready for work.  There were a number of mornings they woke
in a motel room on a case, flaunting Bureau regulations
about agent fraternization on duty.  And then there were
the sadly rare weekend mornings when they had time to read
the paper in bed, drink coffee and litter the sheets with
pastry crumbs, make love as the sunshine streamed through
the windows.

Never did she think this day would come.

She never believed in it, just as she didn't believe in
vampires, goat-suckers or extraterrestrial life.

How wrong she was.

"Come on, let's go back," Mulder says, standing and tugging
her up, coughing at the effort.

They walk back up the trail to the campsite.

Inside the tent they slowly undress each other.  They
haven't made love since their world ended.  Fear and the
stench of death don't do much for the libido, but now she
needs to connect.

Don't think about how this may be the last time, she tells
herself.

Actually, their lives were so dangerous, every time they
were together she was all too aware of how it could be
their last.

It's slow, achingly slow, with several pauses to cough.
Side-by-side they move together, kissing each other
everywhere their mouths can reach.  "I love you," Mulder
says and it turns into a chant.  "Iloveloveloveyou."

They end by shuddering at once with pleasure and lie
wrapped together on top of their sleeping bags.

She takes a deep breath and is pleased not to cough.  The
syrup has temporarily taken effect.

He lazily strokes her hair.  "I have so many regrets," he
says with a sigh.

"No, Mulder," she whispers.  "We can't have any regrets.
We did the best we could."

How could two people possibly save the world?

"No, not that.  About you and me.  I always dreamed that
someday we'd find our answers and everything would turn out
for the best.  And then we could live that normal life,
just you and me.  We could learn to love each other like
regular people."

She rolls over and presses her cheek to his feverish chest.
"What we had was enough for me."

God, they're already speaking in the past tense.

He continues, "I wanted to marry you, Scully."  Mulder's
heavy arm wraps tighter around her back.

"I know, Mulder."  She tries to smile.  "But if you think
about it, we've always been married.  It was an arranged
marriage at first, but we grew to love each other."

"Arranged by Chief Blevins and the Smoking Man," he says
with a sharp laugh.

"Either way, after a while, I couldn't see myself spending
my life with anyone but you," she says.

Even though their love has been very real and evident, they
haven't done a lot of talking about feelings.  It's just
not their way.  But she sadly realizes that if they don't
say it now, they never will.

He pulls her up a bit so she's looking directly into his
eyes.  Mulder's lips part in a small smile.  "Scully, will
you marry me?" he says.

She should laugh at the absurdity of a marriage proposal in
the aftermath of the apocalypse, with the both of them
dying of some alien plague, but she understands the intent
of his words.

Her forehead touches his.  "Yes, Mulder," she whispers.

They lie together as night falls on the woods, simply
touching each other, kissing and sharing small memories.

Finally, Mulder's voice slows and she knows he's growing
sleepy.  She ruffles his dark hair.  "Go to sleep," she
says.  "I love you."

His eyes snap open.  "I'm scared, Scully.  I don't want to
die."

"Neither do I."

The sleeping bag rustles as he rises on an elbow.  "I wish
I believed like you.  I wish I believed in an afterlife."

She grasps his hand in hers.  "I'll believe for the both of
us."

"It would be so comforting to know that there was a place
in the afterlife where we'd eternally be together."

Around her neck is still hanging her cross necklace.  It
has been around her neck since she was fifteen as a
testament to her faith.  If there is ever a time to
believe, this is it.

"Mulder," she whispers, pausing to kiss his lips.  "We will
be together in the next life, I promise."

His voice becomes slurred with sleep again.  "I want to
believe . . ."

"You don't have to.  I do."

And she does, that's the miracle.

"Scully, will you sing to me?"

She smiles, remembering a simpler but frightening night
when they were lost in the Florida woods and she sat vigil
over an injured Mulder.  He'd asked her to sing to him then
and she'd complied, with a great deal of embarrassment.
That night she'd sang "Joy to the World."  She won't sing
that one again-- it doesn't seem appropriate.

Holding him in her arms, she sings, in a soft and tuneless
voice, a song which has always brought her a great deal of
comfort.

"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
 That saved a wretch like me . . .
 I once was lost but now am found,
 was blind, but now, I see.

`Twas Grace that taught
my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear . . .
the hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares . . .
we have already come.
`Twas Grace that brought us safe thus far. . .
and Grace will lead us home."

By the time she finishes the third verse, Mulder is asleep.

Soon after that, she falls asleep, too, thinking, I'll
believe enough for the both of us.

The sound of supersonic screaming wakes them and she and
Mulder sit bolt upright.  "What the fuck?" she shouts.

"They're back!"

Her first instinct is to run and hide, run up the trails to
the cave where they sat out the first invasion.  But she
and Mulder look at each other and the unspoken thought they
telegraph to each other is 'what's the point?'

Instead, they climb out of the tent and look up at the
night sky, lit by a full, luminous moon.

Several black, triangular ships streak by in the sky.
They've seen those ships before.

They're back and this time it's truly over.  This is it.

Mulder takes her hand in his.

Somehow, I always knew we'd die together, she thinks, her
breathing quickening.  As strong as we are, there's no way
one could survive without the other.  Can you even imagine
such an existence?

The earth begins to shake under their feet.  She looks at
Mulder in panic.  This didn't happen the first time.

"Can you feel it coming?" she shouts.

"What?"

"I don't know, but it's coming . . ."

We will be together in the next life, Mulder.

I believe.

Something huge moves across the sky, so large it seems to
stretch endlessly.  It appears to be made of multicolored
crystals that twinkle in the moonlight.

"Look, the sky, how beautiful," says Mulder, pointing at
the gargantuan craft.  Despite his fear, he can't keep his
innate curiosity from coming to the fore.

"It's just . . . lovely . . ." she gasps.

Keep holding my hand, Mulder.

This is it.  We end right here.

Three of the black triangles come screaming up to the giant
crystal ship and start firing.  It's like something out of
Star Wars, only this is real life.  She can't believe that
what she's watching is actually happening.

The larger ship begins to spin and give off a low hum and
they watch in astonishment as the black triangle ships
simply disintegrate, little pieces raining down from the
sky.

What the fuck?

The humming from the ship grows louder and she holds her
breath.

She and Mulder turn to each other.  They say goodbye with
their eyes.

But it isn't goodbye, Mulder.  We will be together in the
next life.

It feels so intimate to die together.

With a flash of white light from the ship, she is blinded
and everything just stops.


Dana opened her eyes and found herself sitting on a park
bench, wrapped in Evan's leather-clad arms.  She had no
memory of walking to the bench.

"Dana, you still with me?" he said.  "You were kind of out
of it for a second."

She could still hear the people around the bonfire singing.

So that was how they'd ended.

Mulder, how could I have forgotten that?

Evan touched her shoulder.  "Dana?" he asked, his voice
sounding more alarmed now.

"I'm okay," she said.  "I just had a flashback or
something."

And then she looked up and saw Mulder, walking across the
park to her in long strides.

Oh, I remember you.  I remember.

Evan stood.  "I guess this is where I take my leave."

"Thank you," she said.

He bent to kiss the top of her head.  "Any time," he said
and walked past Mulder to the street.

Dana stared at Mulder with the new understanding her memory
had brought her.

He stopped just before her, his face serious.

"I know you," she whispered.

You were my partner, my best friend, the love of my life.

"I know," he said.

You are still all of those things, Mulder.

"No," she said, shaking her head.  "I knew you, Before."

Mulder sank to his knees and buried her head in her lap.
Instinctively, her hands moved to stroke his hair.

Nothing has changed.  I still love you.  I never stopped.

He raised his head and blinked at her through tear-filled
eyes.  "I know, Scully."

She froze.  He did remember her after all.

He rose to sit by her and they stared at each other in
wonder.

"Today I realized they weren't daydreams, Scully," he said,
clasping her hands in his.

We will be together in the next life.

Such a miracle cannot be squandered, she thought.

"I made a promise to you five years ago," she said, not
sure if the urge she was feeling was to laugh or cry.

His kiss on her lips was gentle and full of promise.

"Tell me about it, Scully," he said.

And for a long time they sat on the park bench, remembering
together.


"It seemed to them that fate had intended them for one
another, and they could not understand why she should have
a husband, and he a wife. They were like two migrating
birds, the male and the female, who had been caught and put
into separate cages . . .

And it seemed to them that they were within an inch of
arriving at a decision, and that then a new, beautiful life
would begin. And they both realized that the end was still
far, far away, and that the hardest, the most complicated
part was only just beginning."

Anton Chekhov

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Epilogue


One night, she can't sleep.

In the dark she hears her husband roll over and she knows
he's still awake, too.

This is her favorite time, when the day's work is over, the
dishes washed and the kids tucked in bed and soundly
sleeping.  Sometimes at night she can hear the faint sound
of the upstairs neighbor practicing her flute, but just as
often all she can hear is his even breathing and it's
comforting.

At night she allows her stress, her guilt and fear to bleed
away and she simply floats between the covers, feeling her
husband's body heat radiating toward her.

At night there are no doubts that she made the right
decision that night in the park when she finally remembered
how Mulder and she had ended their first life.

Sleep will come, she tells herself, and turns toward him to
move against his warm, bare back.  While she's often cold
at night, he is constantly warm, his skin as hot as a
sunburn.

He makes a low sound in his throat at her touch and she
smiles against the muscles of his shoulder.  Tonight he
smells like baby bubble bath and the lemons he cut up for
the roasted chicken.

So this is domestic bliss, she dreamily thinks, as she
applies measured kisses along the expanse of his back.

"Oh, that's nice," he sighs.

While she rubs up against him like an affectionate cat, she
thinks of their wedding day and the vows they made to each
other.  Never had she believed in anything so firmly.
She'd clutched her small bouquet of spring lilacs and said
the words in a quiet, but steady voice.  But underneath her
outward serenity, she'd wanted to break down and cry with
the overwhelming sensation of the moment.  Later, she did,
when they were alone at home, their hands joined, fingers
wearing matching white gold bands fiercely gripped
together.

In the faint light from the open blinds, she watches her
hand move across his back and the way the ring appears to
almost glow in the dark, reminding her that they're bound
together for eternity.

Finally, he rolls over to face her.  "Can't sleep?"

She shakes her head.  "I'm not in the mood."

A grin spreads across his face.  "Neither am I."

On a night like tonight, she needs to be reminded that he's
real, that this isn't just another dream from which she'll
soon wake.  She has to drown herself in his physicality to
reassure herself.

She takes her time kissing him, touching his body
everywhere, to feel the way the texture of his skin varies
in spots.  She tries to memorize his form with her fingers.

She never wants to forget again.

He moans a little as she slides her wet lips down his belly
and takes him in her mouth.  This is real, she tells
herself, as he begins to lift his body off the bed with his
growing pleasure.

You are mine and I am yours.  Flesh of my flesh.

When he can stand it no longer, she moves back up the bed
to him.  He sits up and props his back against the
headboard with a pillow.  With a smile on his face he holds
out his arms to her, silently asking her to come to him.

This is her favorite way to make love with him.  She can
control the pace-- make it wild and fierce or languid and
sleepy.  Their height difference doesn't matter as much
when he's sitting and she straddles him and he's close
enough for her to kiss him and look into his remarkable
eyes.

When she looks into his eyes, she can see everything--
their shared history and the future to come.

"Scully," he gasps as she slides down onto his cock.

She smiles at that.  In the everyday world, he still tends
to call her Dana, as in "Dana, how much milk do we need
from the store?" or "I have to go pick up Adam from Sarah's
now, Dana."

Scully is his private name for her, the one he calls her in
bed.  It's their secret touchstone to the life they once
lived, the life they're still struggling to piece together.

Slowly, she moves with him, crooning low in her throat at
the bliss of being joined with Mulder.  One of his strong
hands cups her bottom and the other strokes her breasts,
making them full and heavy.

She leans closer to watch his eyes again.  How she would
love to see a child of theirs with those beautiful gray-
green eyes and dark lashes.  They're just beginning to
discuss the idea, to decide whether they want to risk the
possibility of failure.

Then again, they've always been risk-takers, haven't they?

A sharp cry leaves her mouth as his fingers find her
clitoris and begin their magic.  He laughs.  "You're going
to wake the kids."

She's learning to control herself on the nights when one or
both of their children is with them.

"I'm so . . . glad," she gasps, moving harder up and down
his length.

He knows what she means.  "I am too, Scully."

Her kiss is just another extension of the promise she made
to him on the night they died together.

We will be together in the next life, Mulder.

We are, she thinks, as pleasure blooms warm and sweet in
her body.  Oh God, we are.

She knows all too well that they did a terrible thing,
leaving John and Sarah.  John's eyes still silently
reproach her every time she sees him.  And Sarah flat-out
refuses to speak to her unless it's utterly necessary.
They destroyed the secure family units of their children,
who will probably grow up unable to remember when their own
parents were still married.

Yes, she knows this.  It haunts her in daylight sometimes.

But she also knows what a miracle it was to find Mulder
again.  She doesn't tend to believe in destiny and fate,
but it can't be an accident that they somehow managed to
make their way back to each other again.

The night she remembered Mulder was the night she began to
believe again.  It's the night she started to pray once
more.

As she wraps her arms around Mulder's neck, her gold cross
necklace dangles in his face.  It was his wedding gift to
her, serving to remind her of her faith, her mother and
father, sister and brothers, lost but no longer forgotten.

She wishes she had something of equal value to give Mulder
to remind him of Samantha, but she knows he has not
forgotten her.  He still wants to learn his sister's fate.

When she comes, trembling in his arms, it's more than the
hot, forbidden sensation she'd felt with him in the hotel
room more than a year ago.  It's pleasure and safety, the
past, present and future all rolled into one overwhelming
surge.  It's everything.

When Mulder comes, he manages to somehow laugh at the same
time, gushing into her with joyful release.

It's the next life and we're together, Mulder.

They roll onto their sides, replete at last, her body
curled into his.

"I love you," he whispers.  Those words still have the
power to give her chills.

"And I love you," she says, reaching back to touch his lips
with her fingers.

She's no longer afraid of night or her dreams.  But there's
one more thing they need to do before they sleep.

Closing her eyes, she says, "Tell me a story, Mulder."

This is what they do at night, share what they've
remembered.  The next day, she always writes it down in one
of her journals.  The red-bound book has memories for Julia
and Adam, so that when they're old enough to ask questions,
they might learn and understand.  The black one that Mulder
gave her for her birthday is just for the two of them,
their most private stories.

He thinks for a moment and then says, "I have a nice one,
Scully."

She smiles.  "Tell it to me."

"It was Thanksgiving at your mother's house and I felt
uncomfortable, surrounded by your whole family.  I knew
you'd told your mom about us before I'd come.  They were
nice to me, of course, even Bill, but I still felt out of
place and on the spot.  Your mother kept sneaking these
looks at me and I imagined her thinking, so you're the one
who's defiled my youngest daughter."

She laughs into the pillow.

"After dinner, you and your mom started in on the Bailey's
and I was forced into watching the game with Charlie and
Bill.  When it was over, you and your mom were still
talking so I wandered down into the basement for a nap.
There were so many people staying at the house that I'd
been assigned the hide-a-bed in the rec room.

"I had just about fallen asleep when I heard the basement
stairs creaking.  Looking up, I saw you, wearing an
entirely mischievous look on your face.  You were already
unbuttoning your blouse.  You flung it on the floor and
climbed into bed with me.  I could smell the coffee and
liqueur on your breath as you started kissing my ear and
neck.  Scully, I wanted you so much, but I was scared Bill
would come down and beat the crap out of me.  'Everybody is
upstairs,' I said but you kept kissing me and you wouldn't
stop and I didn't want you to.  'It's okay,' you whispered,
'We can be quiet.  Mulder, I know we can be quiet . . .'"

END


For WFD, for the alternate reality theory and life lessons
without which this story could not have been written.


My usual much too long post-story notes:

This is a story that was both difficult and easy to write.
It was one of the first ideas that came to me after I
discovered that wonderful thing called fanfiction.  It
haunted me for almost eighteen months, but I didn't feel
ready to tell this story until now.

I have to give credit where it is due.  Some elements of
the setting, such as the cities under domes, were inspired
by Marge Piercy's incredible novel, "He, She and It."  I
suggest you give it a read.  And she and I also took some
science fiction elements from the inimitable William
Gibson, you know, the one who wrote "Kill Switch."  If you
can, read his thrilling "Neuromancer" and "Idoru."  The
plot, though, is my own, even if the characters are Chris
Carter's.

Never have I written a story so quickly and I think it's
largely due to the fact that the story had been worked over
in my mind so many times over the months.  When I finally
was ready to write it, it just spilled out into my legal
pad.  Or maybe it was the caffeine.  I estimate that I
spent close to 75 dollars on iced lattes from Caribou
Coffee.

But this was also very difficult to write.  It's never easy
to write about adultery.  It's something that I'm, on
principle, not in favor of.  However, sometimes adultery is
not a simple black and white matter.  There are gray areas
to consider.  I'm not going to try to justify what Mulder
and Scully did in this story.  Hopefully, the story does
that for me.  I'll just quickly say that it's good to
remember that they did not choose to be separated or to
forget each other.  And yes, I feel for John, Sarah and the
kids.  John has been poking me for a while now, urging me
let him tell his side of the story.  After a rest, maybe I
will.

Several people wrote me, wondering if there would be a big
surprise Matrix-style twist at the end of the story, like
having them really be in a Consortium-run virtual reality.
That would have been a neat way to end, but I never
considered it.  I wanted the story to be one about
relationships and, in the end, to honor what the characters
went through in the course of the story.  And some of you
might wonder if the Others really are what they seem.  It
would take another 300 K of story to go into that.  I'd
like to think that their motives are honorable.  The scene
with Mulder and Scully ending their first lives in the
mountains would seem to bear that out.

I just have to say that this story was a ball to write.
Even though I'm not the world's biggest science-fiction
fan, I loved writing about domes, talking cabs and virtual
reality.

There are a whole lot of wonderful people I must thank:

First, there is nothing in the world I can say to properly
thank the magnificent Gwen and Plausible Deniability, who
were my partners in this story.  Their editing saved me
from bad spelling, dangling participles and incredible
sappiness.  They are my dear friends and their generosity
with time, ideas, inspiration and honesty is deeply
appreciated.

Shari was my ever-present cheerleader and reassured me more
times than I can count.  Also, Lisa, Kim, Meredith, MD1016,
Marasmus, and Amy all read early versions of various parts
and helped me remain sane with their comments. Big cookies
to all of you!

Many thanks to Bets, Kim, Meg, jordan, Cat and Bryan for so
much fun I'm still getting over it.  And much appreciation
to the root veggies, for the love and laughs.

To all of the readers who sent me such inspirational and
heartening feedback, I cannot thank you enough.  There's
brownies in the oven for all of you.

And special thanks to Meredith. Her stunning "A Show of
Strength" was the first post-colonization story I ever read
and still shines as the finest example of the genre in my
mind.

I also must thank my family and friends, who are so patient
when I'm madly writing and don't answer my phone.

Okay, I'll shut up now.  I do tend to ramble. <g>

Thanks for joining me on this wild ride.

Dasha

November 29, 1999

dashak@aol.com