From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Wed,  9 Dec 2009 09:42:22 -0600 (CST)
Subject: A Dim Capacity For Wings 1-3 by Aloysia Virgata
Source: direct

Reply To: aloysia.virgata@yahoo.com


TITLE: A Dim Capacity For Wings

AUTHOR: Aloysia Virgata

DISTRIBUTION/FEEDBACK: Just let me know first on 
distribution. Feedback always welcomed and appreciated at 
aloysia.virgata@yahoo.com 

RATING: R

CLASSIFICATION: MSR

SPOILERS: This is post The Truth, so anything is fair game.

SUMMARY: This story is prequel to another one I wrote 
called Inhaling The Different Dawn is therefore AU.

DISCLAIMER: Breaking seal constitutes acceptance of 
agreement. Proceed at your own risk. Do not use while 
operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. For 
recreational purposes only. Driver does not carry cash. 
And, as always, thank you for choosing Aloysia Airlines for 
your direct flight from 1013 to fanfic.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: When the previews (and early spoilers) for 
IWTB first came out, I wrote a fic based on a conversation 
Scarlet Baldy and I had about how I things might have gone 
between The Truth and IWTB. In that story, I had them 
married because rumors were flying around about a band on 
Mulder's right ring finger. I thought it best to cover all 
my bases just in case. Really though, I never saw them as 
the marrying type and I decided to write a prequel to 
explore a situation in which I could see them getting 
married. So...I basically fanwanked my own fic. *laugh*

Many, many thanks to Scarlet Baldy for patiently editing 
numerous drafts with such care, and to Amal Nahurriyeh for 
squeezing in a look-see of the final draft during a very 
busy time for her. The title is from Emily Dickinson's poem 
that begins My Cocoon tightens-Colors tease-.

Reading the other story first will help this story make 
more sense in places, but it's not necessary to understand 
anything. You can find it here:  
http://undertherug.insatiable-
mind.net/Aloysia/Aloysia_files/dawn.html

Author's Notes continued at the end of Part 3.

***

Lauren Atwater sits on the edge of the front stoop, 
drinking coffee out of a worn plastic travel mug she bought 
a year ago from a Dunkin' Donuts in Abilene. The coffee is 
from Revel's Feed Store and General Dry Goods up in town, 
and it's good as any Organic Fair Trade Limited Edition 
brew from Whole Foods. Mud streaks her cheeks, and her 
long, sweat-stiff hair's got hay tangled through it because 
she woke up at four-thirty to start mucking stalls for her 
landlord. A woman who, despite her Wicked Witch of the West 
features, turned out to be the kindhearted, grandmotherly 
sort. Vera had sweetened Lauren's under the table pay with 
rent-free lodging in a tiny four-room cottage on her 
property. But she is exacting about her horses and Lauren's 
arms hurt from all the shoveling and hauling. Her triceps 
are looking damn good after a month of this though. She 
smiles at the thought and takes another sip of coffee.

When she'd gotten home a little while ago, Lauren had taken 
her clothes off in the postage stamp sized laundry/storage 
room, wadding the dirty t-shirt and shorts into the washing 
machine along with her socks, bra and underwear. Now she's 
wearing a pink bathrobe that clashes violently with her 
hair. It's a Pepto-Bismol colored chenille affair, soft as 
a new chick, with wide, deep pockets and a face-cradling 
lapel. The bathrobe's become a sort of joke now. She bought 
it for a dollar fifty at a revival tent flea market 
because, at the time, she didn't have a bathrobe or the 
money to be picky about what a new one might look like. Now 
it's traveled so far with her she can't bear to think of 
replacing it, though she pretends she only holds onto it 
because money's still scarce.

She shields her eyes as a shadow ambles up the walk, ground 
up oyster shells crunching under a pair of work boots.

"Goodness. You look a fright," he says.

"I expect I do," she agrees. "But really, I didn't know 
there was a dress code for the porch. It's before five, so 
cocktail attire seemed a bit much."

"It's five o'clock somewhere," he admonishes, then glances 
at her mug. "I don't suppose there's any more coffee, is 
there? Harvey ran out at the house and tried to buy me off 
with a second cinnamon bun, but I'll be damned if I can be 
had that cheap." He wipes sweat from his forehead and 
scowls.

She smiles in return. "Did you happen to bring me this 
pastry which you so nobly disdained?"

"I ate it," he admits. "But I made it clear that it was an 
unacceptable offering. I spent the whole morning out in 
that west pasture sawing up every single one of those trees 
by myself because that asshole nephew of his got too drunk 
to wake up on time." He sits on the step next to her, his 
left knee scabbed over after a run-in with the tractor on 
Wednesday. 

She'd been afraid he'd need stitches and that she'd attract 
attention by stitching him up, but once the blood had been 
mopped away, the cut wasn't as bad as she'd feared. 
"There's always more coffee," she tells him. "But you'd 
better make another pot. I have to be out to the shelter by 
two and I need to shower without falling asleep and 
drowning myself."

He sniffs her. "I'd certainly hate to interfere with your 
hygiene. You smell like a right-wing militia bomb factory, 
Scully," he tells her, with the air of a sommelier 
ferreting out the blackcurrant notes of a good Bordeaux.

She pinches his arm. "Don't call me that," she admonishes. 
"You know better."

He rolls his eyes and scratches a mosquito bite on his 
neck. "Nobody's around."

"Still, it's a bad habit."

"Bad habits are the only kind I ever managed to cultivate," 
he informs her. "I see you've pulled out the Muppet skin 
again despite the oppressive heat. Wouldn't you rather go 
naked than wear fur?"

Scully hunkers down into the silky, synthetic fibers of her 
robe. "Shut up," she says amiably. "And, by the way, you 
don't smell like a rose yourself."

"It's becoming on me. It's the manly smell of a man who has 
engaged in a hard morning of lone, manly labor." He pounds 
his chest and steals her coffee cup.

"You'll go blind if you spend all your mornings engaged in 
hard, lone, manly labor."

"Keep me company more often, then. That west pasture's 
awfully isolated..."

She grins at him and takes her mug back. She turns it 
slowly in her hands, her thumbnail flicking at the places 
where the letters are worn away. "I drove by the house 
again," she says, watching him sidelong. "I pulled around 
back and walked over to that stream by the woods. There 
were some huge crayfish in it. They need their ranks 
thinned. I could plant some grapes out by the woodshed." 
She knows he doesn't want the house. He doesn't want to 
settle here or, it would seem, anywhere. But Christ, she's 
tired of running, and heartsick for someplace to call home. 
This is the longest they've stayed anywhere, and she's 
getting attached. They've got five sets of identification 
that will hold up to the scrutiny of a home loan, Lauren 
Atwater and Andrew Zeller among them.

He smiles at her, his eyes crinkled up at the corners. 
She's been looking at his eyes for over a decade and still 
can't make out what color they are.

"Grapes sound good," he tells her. "What about chickens? 
There's something so pastoral about a rooster. I may take 
to wearing overalls if we ever acquire one." 

"God forbid. There's a fox-in-the-henhouse joke in there 
somewhere, but I can't find it," she muses.

"Don't. Besides, my name's Andrew now, remember?"

"You could be an Andrew," she remarks. 

"I've come a long was since Rob Petrielikethedish, yes?  
But you don't look like a Lauren. I think you should be 
Abigail next time. I always liked the name Abigail."

She sighs a little. "It means 'my father is joy.' But I'd 
rather stay here and just be Lauren and Andrew until 
whatever's coming comes." It's as close as she'll get to 
any mention of 2012. 2012 makes her think of William, and 
thinking of William makes her hands ache with barely 
contained anxiety.

"What else do you want at the house, Lauren?"

She can tell he knows what she's thinking and is trying to 
redirect her thoughts. But even knowing that doesn't 
prevent her from feeling soothed. She remembers a question 
he'd asked her years ago. //Can you name me one drug that 
loses its effect once the user realizes it's in his 
system?// She still couldn't. The tension in her hands is 
receding.

She settles back against the step, resting her elbows on 
the gapped wooden treads. "I want to have a big garden. I'd 
like to grow some heirloom tomatoes. Those bright-colored 
ones that are all misshapen and striped, do you know the 
ones? Maybe an orchard. Peaches, plums..." she trails off 
and shakes her head. 

"What is it?"

She shrugs. "All the education I have, and I couldn't tell 
you the first thing about planting an orchard. It's just 
funny I guess. How life turns out." She doesn't really 
think it's funny at all, but she'd gotten into the car with 
him time after time and this was the road they'd ended up 
taking. She's okay with it now. Mostly. Scully misses her 
baby and her mother and her various skin creams, but Lauren 
can rebuild a transmission and field dress a deer. She can 
certainly grow a damn orchard if he'd just stay somewhere 
long enough to let her plant one.

"You'll figure it out. You always do." He doesn't specify 
whether he means the orchard in particular or life in 
general.

Pleased in either case, she smiles at him. However 
unwillingly, he's indulged her house fantasy for a time, 
and she's grateful. "This robe looks ridiculous with my 
hair," she observes, apropos of nothing. "I was thinking I 
might get rid of it. Buy something less obnoxious." 

"I'm all for it. I heard on the radio that they're having a 
twofer down at Mr. Ray's Hair Weave. You go pick out 
something blonde and sexy, and I'll see if they can help a 
brother out with some dreds."

Scully smiles a little. "I was thinking just a regular old 
white robe, as in days of yore."

He scoots closer and strokes her sleeve. "Don't. I've found 
I like you in pink fluff. There's something whimsical and 
unexpected about it."

"Well, you know me. I'm the Unexpected Whimsy poster girl."

"Oh, there's no stopping you. I remember the time you 
ordered your grilled chicken salad with lemon-poppy 
dressing instead of fat-free ranch and I said to myself, 
'Fox Mulder, you'd better watch that one because there is 
no telling what outlandish tricks she'll think up.'"

"Sometimes I'd shock myself and go for the zesty Italian." 
She checks her watch. "I'd better get cleaned up. Some guy 
trapped 14 feral kittens out by his chicken house and, more 
than likely, I'll be spending my afternoon picking ticks 
off of them. What are you up to for the rest of the day?"

"Taking some hay over to Lorelei's and maybe playing 
baseball with Dwight and his buddies depending on how long 
it all takes. I'll probably be home before you though. I'll 
get dinner going."

She stands, then walks up the creaky steps to the front 
door. "I like it here," she says. "I'm tired all the time, 
but it's a good kind of tired." She rubs the tip of her 
sunburned nose. "I really want you to think about staying."

"I like your freckles," he says.

The screen door snaps shut when she goes into the house.

***

"Well shit, son," Harvey says. "I'm sorry he didn't show 
up. I'd-a gone out there with you myself if I'd known." 
He's tall and lanky, half-sitting on a bar stool, with the 
sleeves of his shirt rolled up his forearms. His skin is 
almost the color of the good leather saddles in the barn.

"I know you would have," Mulder replies, pouring himself a 
glass of orange juice. "But it wasn't any trouble."

Harvey makes a harrumphing sound, but says nothing further 
on the matter. "You taking that truck over to Lorelei's 
here shortly?" He squints out the window towards the front 
barn, his clear gray eyes as sharp as they were in his 
sniper days.

"Yes sir. That's the plan."

"I'll ride along too. I haven't seen the baby since 
Saturday. How's your knee?"

"Knee's fine." This isn't strictly true, but it's mostly 
fine. Good enough for government work, as they say. 
Besides, Harvey had the first two fingers of his right hand 
lopped off with a bolt cutter while he was a POW in Korea. 
Mulder's hardly going to whine about his boo-boo in the 
presence of such an injury.

"And how's that cute little girlfriend of yours? I always 
like a girl with red hair."

Mulder smiles at the idea of Scully being called a cute 
little anything. "She's fine too, thanks."

"You both getting along with everbody all right?"

"Yes sir." They generally work and go home and mind their 
own business, which is as well as they've ever gotten along 
with anybody. Although, for Scully's sake, he is making 
moves towards being a more social animal. He plays baseball 
once a week.

"Y'all are real quiet. People are still adjusting to that, 
I expect. People in small towns always talk a lot, you 
know, even if they cain't be bothered to say much."

Mulder takes a long drink of orange juice, then wipes his 
mouth with the back of his hand. "I hope no one's offended. 
I guess we just don't have much interesting to say and 
don't want to bother anyone." He laughs in a self-
deprecating way, and imagines discussing the finer points 
of cryptozoology over at Arlene's Bar, where Arlene plays 
both kinds of music: Country and Western.

Harvey laughs too and claps him on the shoulder. "Well, you 
just get along however you need. I talked to Miss Rebecca 
over to the shelter. Said everbody likes Lauren real well 
and she's good with the animals."

"I'll be sure to tell her that, Harvey. Thank you."

Harvey nods, looking pleased at having passed on good news. 
"Sure thing. Listen, Vera told me Lauren likes that nice 
little blue house out on Black Dog Lane. I cain't make any 
promises, but I do know that Everly Tate is mighty keen to 
sell it. I expect he'll take ninety for it."

Mulder swallows another mouthful of juice. "Ninety? He's 
asking one-thirty, isn't he?" They can afford a down 
payment on ninety thousand now, but he doesn't want the 
house. He doesn't want any house. He gets anxious when they 
stay still too long, even though he knows it's killing 
Scully. 

"Mmm. As I said, no promises. But if I were a betting man - 
which, as it happens, I am, - I'd lay money on the fact 
that you could have it for ninety without a lick of 
trouble. Naturally, this information did not come to you 
from me."

"I'll take the secret to my grave," Mulder vows. Which, in 
his case, provides less than the usual degree of assurance, 
but Harvey doesn't know that and Mulder wouldn't say a word 
to Everly anyhow.

Harvey glances at the clock on the microwave, then pulls a 
John Deere hat over his thick silver hair. "Well, let's get 
along then. Vera's got a bunch of hens coming over to cluck 
later. Having one of them vendor parties she likes so well, 
and I need to get back in time so as she can make a 
production of shooing me out."

Mulder laughs. He likes Harvey and Vera and their 
sprawling, comfortable house. He likes the easy way they 
talk, their vast, rolling acreage dotted with obscenely 
expensive horses, and their utter lack of pretension. His 
mother would have disdained them. Completely NOCD. Not our 
class, dear.

They walk out through the sunroom and down to where the 
loaded hay truck's parked. Harvey and Vera's daughter 
Lorelei keeps two cows, several goats, and a half-dozen 
horses and they bestow truckloads of their sweet-smelling 
hay upon her at regular intervals.

"Hard to believe I got six grandkids now," Harvey says as 
they climb in. "Don't know how the kids managed to grow up 
when I never got any older. Y'all ever think about having 
some babies?"

Mulder smiles faintly over the painful acid surge in his 
stomach. "You never know," he says, buckling his seatbelt.

"You never do."

Silence for a time, the back country road jostling them on 
the sun-warmed seat. Mulder remembers the father of the 
little girl who wasn't Samantha. Roche's victim. //I used 
to think that missing was worse than dead because you never 
knew what happened.// He suddenly aches to tell Harvey 
about William, to make his son real in this new life he's 
living, but he steps down hard on the feeling.

"Y'all aren't from around here. I mean, not within a five 
hundred mile radius," Harvey states.

Mulder doesn't deny it. "Sometimes you have to go a long 
way to leave a thing behind." It's the closest he can come 
to being honest.

Harvey nods thoughtfully, then holds up his right hand. 
"Sometimes you do. But sometimes it follows you anyhow and 
you have to learn to live with it. You look tired, boy. I 
think you've gone far enough."

Mulder looks out the window at the sunlight filtering 
through the cottonwood and pine. He can hear jays and 
mourning doves calling to each other, and the lowing of 
cows out in Jerry Tisdale's pasture. Long white chicken 
houses stretch across the horizon, and the big grain 
elevator out in Skipton rises above the landscape. 
Raspberry bushes jeweled with ripe red fruits cluster 
around the split rail fences beside the road. He knows that 
she'll leave him if he can't promise her more than this 
fly-by-night existence. The loneliness is diffusing through 
her like ink in water, and there's hardly a clear patch 
left. "I think you're right, Harvey," Mulder says, watching 
bees drone in the clover. "I think we've gone far enough."

***

The first time Scully disappeared was three months after 
they'd gone on the run. They were living in a motel about 
fifty miles outside of Moab, Utah. She wrote a note on a 
paper towel and left it wrapped around his toothbrush.

//Back in two days. No need for your panic face.//

The handwriting was undoubtedly hers, but it didn't stop 
him from panicking. Mulder punched the wall until a crack 
spiderwebbed up and plaster started raining down from the 
ceiling like ashes. He couldn't call the police, he had no 
neighbors or friends, and hated that a civilian life meant 
no badge and gun allowing him to make demands of the 
populace. He filled the sink with ice water and dunked his 
head into it, the shock leaving him gasping for breath. 
From that reboot, he calmed himself down, rationalizing 
that if someone had taken her, there would be (a) signs of 
a struggle and (b) a more ominous note. He forced himself 
not to do anything rash and, instead, went through her 
belongings. The red duffel bag, one pair of shorts, 
underwear, and a gray t-shirt were missing. The little 
wooden box full of heartache - the item she always packed 
first when they moved - was still in a dark corner of the 
closet. He made himself wait. He ate little and slept less. 

Forty-two hours later, he was outside changing a flat on 
their van when Scully came down the sidewalk, the setting 
sun at her back. 

She looked tired, her shoulders slumped forward, strands of 
hair wrapped across her face. She straightened when she saw 
him, her chin tipping up as she hitched the duffel bag up 
on her shoulder. "Hi," she said, something like defiance in 
her voice.

He tightened the nuts on the tire, then wiped his hands on 
his grease-stained jeans. "If I'd known you were coming, 
I'd've baked you a cake," he replied, too pissed to let her 
see his relief. 

"I left a note."

"It brought me a great deal of comfort, thanks. Your 
penmanship is so elegant." He stood up to lean against the 
passenger's side door.

She glared at him, then walked around to the walkway 
through the main building of the motel. Behind it was the 
broad ocean of desert that brought in just enough tourists 
to sustain the rattletrap establishment where they lodged.

Mulder watched her vanish around the corner, then followed 
behind. He'd known her to stay out there for hours, lost in 
thoughts he was too afraid to ask about. 

Scully was sitting with her knees drawn up and her arms 
wrapped around them. Her small body cast a long shadow over 
the red sand and stone. She said nothing and did not stir 
when he took a seat beside her. She kept her empty gaze on 
the canyons to the south; a rust-colored hellscape, 
bloodied by the waning sun.

He studied her for a moment. A summer of working outside in 
the blazing Southwest heat had turned her hair the same 
shade as the inside of a ripe peach. Her skin, while still 
smooth, was now golden and freckled instead of creamy. 
"Why'd you go?" he asked her cautiously. 

Fluid shrug of her shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe to see 
if I'm capable of walking away from you." She laughed 
darkly. "I'm still not, as it happens."

He'd known this was coming. It had been looming for a 
season, but the stark bitterness of her words still punched 
him low in the gut. A beat, and then he spoke. "I know 
how-"

She turned to stare at him with gas-flame eyes. "What, 
Mulder? What do you know? How hard this is for me? The hell 
you do."

Count to three, crush the flash of temper between his 
molars. He tried again. "We both left -"

"We?" Scully got to her knees, her face level with his, her 
voice tight with anger. "We? What did you leave? Your 
money? Your houses? A few graves? You left it all ages ago 
for-"

She was pushing it. "You can't think I-"

"For the truth, the fucking truth you couldn't even tell me 
when they were going to *kill* you for it! You left me for 
a desert full of mystical claptrap. For the rambling of a 
crazy old man. You left your son, you *asshole*!"  She was 
shouting down at him by then, the bright rage in her 
exploding outwards like a supernova. "And I left everything 
because of it, God *damn* you. My mother, my brothers, my 
*child*." Her shoulders trembled with her voice, but she 
held her head up and stared at him. 

And she'd pushed far enough. He believed for the briefest, 
most awful instant that he could hit her, but instead he 
spoke in a low and steady voice. "Don't you dare put this 
all on me, Scully. You gave up our son, you gave him up and 
I never had a word to say on the matter. God forbid you 
should ask for help for once in your life; it might put a 
crimp in your fucking Joan of Arc routine."

Tears breached the dam of anger, running down her cheeks to 
leave dark spots on her khaki shorts. "You have no idea 
what you're talking about," she choked out. "You don't know 
what it was like."

Mulder watched her in silence. He hurt for her. Because of 
her. But he was also outraged that she should try and guilt 
him. He thought it beneath her. "Leave," he said flatly.

She sat back on her heels at this. "What?"

"Go back to DC. Trade them my last known address for 
immunity. Don't worry - I'll be long gone by then. Maybe 
you can go marry some regular Joe who will put a roof over 
your head until the fucking apocalypse comes in a decade or 
so." Mulder saw the dull shock in her eyes at this, saw 
that it stung her, and found - to his shame - that he liked 
it.

"I don't...I wasn't..." She trailed off, the words falling 
limply from her cracked lips.

"You do," he said. "And you were. Don't act like you don't 
imagine it all going differently for you. Imagining the 
life you should be having right now. And don't act like you 
didn't know what you were signing up for, Scully." He knew 
he was being unkind, that she hadn't really known. That 
he'd kept secrets from her. But for her to bring up William 
was low, considering what he'd come back to just a few 
months ago.

There were shiny streaks on her face. "Ten years, Mulder, 
and I still don't know what the hell I signed up for. Why 
does it have to be so black and white with you? I had to 
get some space. And then I came back. You can't be the only 
thing I need all the time. We can't live like that." She 
sounded tired, resigned. The fury had been spent, and her 
eyes were the same faded blue as Mulder's jeans.

"Go home," he said. He drank in the familiar angles of her 
face, studying each new freckle and line in case she called 
his bluff and packed her few things. Mulder had learned to 
pre-package his memories.

Scully drew her knees up to her chin, watching the horizon 
swallow up the sun like the great, glowing egg of a 
phoenix. She was crimson and gold as the landscape, a thing 
of contained fire. They stared out together into the 
desert, at the creosote and sandstone warped by wind and 
heat into shapes both strange and beautiful. He waited 
until her breathing slowed, until there seemed no further 
risk of immolation for either one of them. At length he 
slid closer and chanced resting his hand on her thigh. 

She remained folded in on herself, slim and still beneath 
the burning sky. "Do you know the story of Ruth?" she 
asked.

"'Whither thou goest,' right? That one?" 

"Yeah," she said. "That's the one."

"How'd things go for Ruth?"

"She lived happily ever after," Scully told him.

She relaxed her stiff posture when he put his arm around 
her, holding her like a basket of smoke.  

***

He'd called around six to say that the baseball game had 
gone into extra innings and he'd be much later than 
expected, so she fixed herself two poached eggs with toast 
and fruit salad. She ate them on the old cedar swing behind 
the house, then left her dishes there and went for a quiet 
walk as the purple twilight whispered down.

Leonard's Pond lies silver and still as condensed 
moonlight, and Scully sits before it in a little clearing 
near the pine trees. The early September night is warm and 
sultry, and her body aches from too much work. She's off 
tomorrow, and is making plans about sleeping in until 
seven-thirty. Behind her comes a low crunching sound that 
startles the crickets into silence. Even after fifteen 
months, her hand still goes to her hip for the gun she left 
behind in her other life.

Mulder emerges from the pine trees, ducking around the low 
boughs, but still bumping his forehead. He holds his thumb 
and forefinger at right angles, points them at her, and 
says, "Bang."

Scully rolls her eyes, but smiles. "Watch where you point 
that thing."

He waggles his eyebrows, which makes her toss her head in 
scorn. "Did you win?" she asks.

He settles down beside her in a bed of dried pine needles 
and kisses the little dip at the top of her cheekbone. "It 
was a moral victory."

"Ah."

"I told Lorelei about the kittens you mentioned. She's 
interested in taking two or three when they're well 
enough."

Scully turns to smile at him in the dusky light. "I'll call 
Rebecca tomorrow."  

He scratches his neck and, to Scully's dismay, looks 
anxious. In years previous, anxious looks meant he was 
about to pontificate on werewolves or merpeople, and she 
could exercise her brain with exasperated contradictions. 
But now they generally signify far more unpleasant topics 
of conversation. He wants to move again, she thinks, and 
feels preemptively defensive.

"I thought maybe we could take one too," he says.

"Mulder...?"  

"Andrew. I think you'd better get in the habit of calling 
me Andrew all the time, Lauren, because I plan to stick 
with it indefinitely."

Before she can manage a reply, Mulder's talking again, the 
words coming fast and jittery.

"I talked to Harvey today, which led me to call Everly 
Tate. We can afford the house if you still want it. So you 
know, I thought a cat would be good since we're going to 
stay here. Just keep it away from my rooster, all right?"

She actually gapes at this, staring at him wide-eyed for a 
moment. "I have no idea what to say," she says, having 
recovered her powers of speech. It's hardly a brilliant 
reply, but it's honest, and therefore a reasonable starting 
point. 

Mulder rubs his hands over his face before dropping them to 
his lap. "You know Lorelei's baby is a month younger than 
William," he tells her softly.

Scully closes her eyes. "Don't," she says, hearing the note 
of panic in her own voice. "Please don't." Her light dinner 
sits like lead in her stomach, and her skin is beginning to 
crawl. He's lured her into this conversation under false 
pretenses. Kittens indeed.

"She's talking up a storm. Running all over the place. 
William was so little when I saw him, but I guess he's 
doing all that now."

"*Please*. I'm not... We can talk about this another time." 
Her throat is so constricted that it hurts to speak and she 
wants Mulder to shut the fuck up and go away.

He shakes his head. "No," he says. "This is all the time 
we'll ever have."

She can barely see him in the drawn curtain of night, but 
stares at his face anyway. "What, then?" she whispers. 

There's no answer for a moment. When he finally replies, 
the words are choppy and ragged. "When I was in the...when 
Skinner told me that, um...about William. Jesus, Scully. I 
hated you. For weeks it, uh, it was hard to look at you 
sometimes." He laughs a little after this confession - a 
nervous, half-relieved sound. "But I want to tell you that 
I'm just...I'm so sorry you had to do it. I don't really 
think I ever told you that." 

She notices he doesn't say he understands or that he 
forgives her. Scully's certain she's too heartbroken to 
cry, but doesn't trust herself to say anything just the 
same. 

She risks a few words. "I'm sorry too. And I hated you for 
leaving."

Mulder reaches up to take her hand, squeezing it. "I 
want..." He clears his throat. "I want to start with as 
clean a slate as possible, all right?"

"What does that mean?"

"Well, the house. Let's buy the house and have our own 
place. We'll subscribe to seed catalogues so you can grow 
improbable tomatoes. And you pick out whichever kitten 
looks the most pathetic and bring it home. And I was, um, I 
was thinking..." He rests her hand on his leg and draws 
little pictures on the back of it with his finger. "I was 
thinking you might want to get married, Lauren."

She sighs deeply, breathing in air sweet with timothy and 
honeysuckle. Some part of her had known this was coming, 
and she wants nothing more than to say yes for both their 
sakes.  "I can't," she tells him, grateful for the dark.

He coughs. "Oh. Okay. I just, well, because you're 
*Catholic*, so I thought, you know, making you an honest 
woman or whatever..."

His embarrassed rambling pinches at her heart and she 
remembers again why she followed him down all the dark 
alleys that led them here. "You can't make me honest with a 
lie."

"A lie?" The hurt seems to have been replaced by confusion.

"We're not Lauren and Andrew, Mulder. The house, that's one 
thing. But marriage is a promise to God and if I can't do 
it as myself, it's a lie." She hadn't known she felt so 
strongly about it until the words had been spoken, but 
she's sure of it now. She's as sure of it as she was of 
walking away from Daniel, of leaving behind medicine, of 
kissing William goodbye.

"I understand," he murmurs.

She wonders if he does, if his faith is analogous enough to 
hers to grant him that understanding. "Ask me again when 
this all over."

"Aren't you the little optimist?"

She strains for sounds of bitterness in his words, but 
there are none. Just something sad and fond and aching. "I 
refuse to believe we'll spend the rest of our lives in 
hiding," she asserts. "It might take years, but one day 
it'll be finished."

"My God. You could be old by then. Who says I'll still want 
you?"

Relief washes through her. He's making jokes, which means 
things are okay. She quietly pushes thoughts of William 
back into the forgetting place. "I didn't promise I'd say 
yes," she points out. "You may get a reprieve."

"A man doesn't like being jilted," he says haughtily. "I'm 
going to have to think very seriously about all of this 
now. You practically threw my engagement kitten back in my 
face."

"A gentleman should never ask his intended to provide her 
own engagement kitten."

"I'm a poor man, and you have no dowry."

Scully snorts. "You've got about five-point-two million 
dollars in assets, last time I checked. Your family 
certainly had a penchant for real estate."

"Mulder's family left him plenty, but Andrew is not going 
to be needing a wealth management advisor any time soon."

She slides over to rest her head against his shoulder. "I 
want the house," she says. "Will you live in sin there with 
me until such time as we can return to publicly addressing 
one another by our rightful surnames?"

"Well, since you asked so nicely..."

"We'll need furniture. There's an Ikea about 2 hours away. 
Will you buy FLERVIKS and SNAARFENS with me, Andrew?"

He kisses her hair and skips a pebble across the pond. 
"Lauren, you're a hopeless romantic."

She tucks her head beneath his chin. "No," she says. "I'm 
not hopeless."

***

Part 2
***

"I'm going on a picnic and I'm bringing Berger cookies, 
pizza from Paradiso's, licensure to practice medicine in 
the state of Virginia, season's tickets to the Knicks' 
games, a Farouk CHI flat iron, a Maxa Beam flashlight, a 
scanning electron microscope, and some cannoli from that 
mean old guy on Pennsylvania Avenue."

Scully, who is folding towels on the kitchen table, pauses 
to scratch a mosquito bite on her leg. "He went out of 
business right after you left," she says. "Moved back to 
Sicily. You have to pick something else."

"What? No I don't." Mulder, washing dishes, looks put out. 
Whether it's by the loss of the distant cannoli or her 
decree is anyone's guess.

"You do. It's in the rules. You have to pick something you 
can actually have."

"You're cheating."

"I never cheat," she says with a touch of asperity. 

"No, I suppose you don't. You just bend the rules beyond 
the point of recognition to ensure your triumph."

Scully deals him a look full of withering irony.

"Which I've always liked about you," he adds.

"Are you forfeiting?" she queries, rising from the table to 
join him at the counter.

"It's a moral victory."

"Mmm," she says, putting away the clean silverware. "You 
have a lot of those, don't you?"

"You wouldn't know anything about it. Cheater." He scrapes 
cheese off of a dinner plate and flicks the garbage 
disposal on for a moment.

She likes this. She likes the playful sniping while washing 
dishes at her own sink in her own house. They've been 
living on Black Dog Lane for ten days now and the thrill is 
far from wearing off. Scully, without a landlord for the 
first time in her adult life, has happily stocked up on 
home repair books in anticipation of something breaking so 
that she can fix it. 

Her work, while not intellectually stimulating, is 
enjoyable. It keeps her fit and busy and, tentatively, 
she's begun making friends. Lorelei invited her to the 
weekly trivia night she and some girlfriends attend at the 
bar, and Scully - to her own great surprise - accepted. 
Mulder's already begun teasing her about it, asking if 
Arlene's pub quiz is likely to feature categories such as 
Use of Computerized Tomography in Postmortem Exams or 
Implications of Telomere Shortening. The veterinarian at 
the shelter, impressed by her "natural ability," has been 
urging her to go to school and become a vet tech. 

"Let's take a vacation," she says suddenly. "Somewhere 
nice."

"We're pretty much broke," he reminds her. "You went a 
little nuts with the FLERVIKS, although we do now have a 
handsome set of Allen wrenches."

"Well, yes. But I like having long-term goals in mind."

"Isn't 'not getting arrested by our former colleagues' a 
good long-term goal? Because it tops my list at present, I 
have to tell you."

She waves her hand dismissively. "A few dollars into a 
savings account whenever we can spare it. Where do you want 
to go?"

He dries the last glass and looks thoughtful. "I saw an 
article about silicon-based worms in a lake just outside a 
remote Mongolian village. We could go there and drink 
fermented mare's milk. Live in a yurt."

Scully regards him with both contempt and suspicion, long 
years of red-eye flights and hospital stays having taught 
her not to dismiss any apparent lunacy outright. 
"Congratulations," she says. "You're fired from the 
planning committee."

He sits down at the table and starts pairing up socks. "You 
don't think a yurt sounds fun?" 

"I don't believe you even think a yurt sounds fun. It's 
just a systems check, to see if you can still convince me 
to go somewhere insane. I was hoping we might...um. I 
wanted to go somewhere kind of more romantic." She says the 
last word shyly, even as she pictures them lounging in 
hammocks and drinking elaborate cocktails ornamented with 
fruit. She's never really been on a big vacation.

Mulder's looking at her warmly, which makes her feel shyer. 
"How about Paris?" he asks. "Paris is romantic, right? I 
think you'd love it. I used to go with Phoe- ellow students 
when I was at Oxford," he finishes lamely. 

She laughs. "You think I'm jealous of your girlfriend 
from...what? Twenty years ago?" That sociopath who had you 
wrapped around her trigger finger, she doesn't say, certain 
that Mulder knows exactly what she thinks of his weakness 
for leggy, socially maladjusted brunettes.

He cocks an eyebrow at her. "Oh, let's not be coy. You were 
a little weird when she was in."

"*She* was a little weird." Scully clears her throat. "Oh 
Fox, darling, I hope you won't think me rude if I engage in 
a little deranged psychological warfare."

Mulder laughs. "Your RP is impressive as ever."

"Thank you. I own the entire Jeeves and Wooster DVD 
collection. Owned. Own?" The verbs tenses of her parallel 
lives have become slippery.

"Own. I won't torture you with remembrances of past loves. 
So let's forget Paris. We'll pick somewhere neither of us 
has been before. Clean slate, right?"

Scully looks out the window, where feathery moths swirl 
around the porch light like snow. "I guess that rules out 
Antarctica," she observes.

"Alas, it does. And the Arctic Circle. Norway's off the 
list too."

"Don't forget the Ivory Coast." 

"Several hundred dreary little towns throughout this great 
nation."

Scully sighs. "How come no one ever gets eaten by sea 
monsters or beset by vampires in Hawaii?"

"They do. It's an elaborate cover-up perpetrated by the 
State Board of Tourism. I'd take you there and prove it, 
but Hawaii's out too. My dad used to go there on a golf 
vacation in the summer, and he'd bring us along sometimes." 

"Jamaica?"

"Roommate's stag weekend." Mulder sounds apologetic.

"Aruba?"

He perks up. "Never been."

"Good. That'll be the plan then."

Mulder rewards her with an off-key chorus of Kokomo, and 
puts the last pair of socks in the basket. "I got you a 
housewarming present," he says. "I know it's a little 
belated and it's also kind of self-serving, but anyway. I 
hope you like it.

Lingerie, she thinks in abject mortification. He's gone and 
purchased some kind of tacky lace confection and it's going 
to be awkward and horrifying. "You didn't have to get me 
anything," she says a little too fast. "I didn't buy you a 
present." 

"As I said, this one's self-serving. Come on outside and 
I'll show you."

She cocks her head, curiosity stirring in her, and she sees 
Mulder smile to have the upper hand. There's no chance of 
him ever wearying of surprises. She gets up and follows him 
to the sliding glass doors that lead to the back deck.

The silvered pine planks creak a little beneath her bare 
feet, and she slips on the green flip flops next to the 
steps. They both pause to spray themselves with Off!, then 
walk down to the overgrown flagstone path that winds back 
behind the woodshed. The air is tangy with the scent of 
windblown crabapples turning to cider in the grass.

Mulder leads her down through the stand of cottonwood trees 
at the back end of Leonard's Pond which is fed, in part, by 
the stream that circles the edge of their property. The 
water is purple and orange with the reflected sunset, the 
surface alive with tiny splashes and eddies. "Happy 
housewarming," he says, pointing.

She gives him a questioning look. 

He presses his finger to her chin, steering her head to the 
left where a bright red jon boat bobs in the rippling 
water. There are white letters on the side and an Evinrude 
outboard on the back

"You got me a boat?" She squints at the letters, then grins 
broadly. "Pequod," she says. 

He shrugs, jamming his hands into his pockets, looking 
pleased and embarrassed. "I know it isn't exactly a 
whaleship, but there aren't many whales around here and 
besides, I didn't need Greenpeace gunning for me along with 
everybody else."

Her face hurts from smiling. "You got me a boat," she 
repeats, walking along the water's edge to the little dock 
where the Pequod is tied. It's stocked with a few rods and 
a sturdy long-handled net. She sees a tackle box under the 
center bench and thinks of Mulder as an Indian Guide in New 
England, tracking woodland creatures and fly-fishing for 
striped bass.

"It's used," he says, with an air of self deprecation. "But 
I patched it up pretty good and repainted it, and the motor 
works great now. The guy I bought it from is bringing the 
boat trailer over tomorrow morning when he gets his new 
one, but I wanted you to see it in the water first anyway."

Scully crouches down and runs her finger over the glossy 
paint, listening to the small waves lap at the sides. She 
closes her eyes and breathes deeply, drawing in the smell 
of wet rope and wood, the music of living water.

"I'm glad you like it," he says from behind her. "I thought 
we might take it for a spin on Saturday and catch something 
to go with that raspberry pie Vera promised."

She gazes at the boat again, smiling. "I love it," she says 
softly, hearing the thickness in her voice. "Thank you." 
She gets to her feet, stepping close to him. Her fingers 
absently fiddle with his buttons as she stares up and lets 
him read her eyes. It doesn't make her uncomfortable 
anymore, acknowledging the breathless thing that crackles 
between them, but the words are still skittish when she 
tries to summon them. 

//Never show 'em your hand, Starbuck. And never show 'em 
how much you have to lose.//

Scully reaches down and twines her fingers through his, 
their once-smooth white collar hands now callused and 
scarred. "Come on," she says, pulling him back to the 
cottonwood grove. Clusters of aspens mingle throughout, 
their tremulous leaves fluttering in the light breeze. 
Green-gold light filters through the canopy, dappling them 
both with shadowed camouflage, and through the trees she 
sees a kestrel swoop to the pond, snapping up something 
bright and thrashing. She is overcome by the fitness of 
things, by the ruffled saprophytes on fallen trees and a 
fat raccoon snatching crayfish with its clever paws.

She sits down against an evergreen trunk, the bark scraping 
her back, the lime green fuzz of moss soft against her 
calf. Mulder sits next to her, folding his long legs to the 
side. The sun catches the silver threads in his hair, 
highlighting his skin like a rustic god from a Waterhouse 
painting. 

Scully leans over and kisses him, and his work roughened 
hands make her shiver when they ease under her shirt. He 
fumbles at her bra with boyish haste, his mouth warm at her 
neck while she tugs first at the fastenings of his shorts, 
then of her own. Her underwear are still hooked around her 
left knee when he pulls her onto his lap. Scully settles 
against his thighs, drawing him inside her as he braces his 
hands between the hard wings of her scapulae. 

She traces the outlines of his features with a nail, 
marveling at the fine lines of his mouth, the way his 
eyelids are creased with all the delicacy of a paper crane. 
There is nothing hurried, nothing urgent, both of them old 
enough to know that harder and faster often makes for 
better porn than sex. Her lips are parted slightly, drying 
with her quickening breath, and her tongue slips out to 
moisten them. Mulder meets it with his own, hand sliding up 
to cradle the back of her head as he tips her down against 
the cool, damp earth.

Her hair is tangled in the undergrowth, infused with the 
spicy oils of crushed ferns and pennyroyal, and Mulder is 
above her with his eyes closed and the tendons of his neck 
in bas relief. The moment is vivid, lush with sensation and 
color and she knows in some deep down way that if she lives 
to be very old, she will recall it in minute detail. She 
focuses on the interweaving of their bodies, his arm 
crooked beneath her head, her knee drawn like a bow against 
his hip. They move with practiced certainty, drawing ragged 
sighs and whispered entreaties, muted counterpoints to the 
sharp violins of the crickets.

When he opens his eyes she can see herself reflected in 
them, a dryad in the wood. Her life, for all its many 
poverties, is rich in this instant. Love, deep and 
boundless, catches her up in its arms, coaxing from her 
throat all the things she thought she must never say.


***


Those first weeks after they started running are a dark 
smear in her memory, when the anger hummed like electricity 
and resentment coated the very air with a greasy film. The 
sex was frequent and often loud because they'd earned it, 
goddammit, even if it was had partially to punish each 
other and partially to punish themselves. Sometimes the 
rickety bed would squeak as he moved behind her, her eyes 
fixed on the cheap paneling as her hands gripped the 
particle wood headboard. She liked him looking at her 
tattoo, reminding him she'd belonged to other people before 
she'd run with him into the wasteland. Other times she 
clutched his weight against her, bruising her hips with 
his, biting her lip until her mouth was bright with the 
cold metal taste of blood. 

She was never on top, hating to be conscious of him looking 
at her - the faint stretch marks above her pelvic bone, the 
waxy star of scar tissue that shone on her belly. The way 
he made her pupils dilate and her white skin bloom to rose. 
Every night with him was a one night stand, unacknowledged 
by daylight as she draped herself with a sheet to walk from 
the bed to the rattling shower. She felt his eyes on her, 
knowing that he was taking stock of her idiosyncrasies, 
profiling her intimacy issues and her tendency to 
compartmentalize.

She'd curse him quietly as she scrubbed him from her skin.

It was a scorching July morning - five weeks after her life 
ended - and Mulder was sitting on the bed eating Raisin 
Bran from a scuffed plastic mixing bowl. She came out of 
the bathroom wrapped in a towel and curls of steam, 
smelling of Ivory soap and Lubriderm.

"I love you," he said, making her freeze.

She looked at him in silence for far longer than courtesy 
permitted.

"I just thought you should know that," he went on. "I 
thought you should know that it's why I left you and why I 
came back and why I can stand living like this." 

He didn't elaborate on "this," but she could fill in the 
blanks. //Without my son. With a bounty on my head. With 
the knowledge that Doomsday clock is ticking down. With a 
woman who will only let me touch her when she can't look at 
me.// Pigeons squabbled at the window, the air conditioner 
clattered and whined, but all she could hear was the 
deafening silence in the room.

"Okay," she said, not wanting to bear the responsibility of 
his pronouncement. Didn't he understand that it panicked 
her to be needed, to be expected to need in return? That 
it's why she ministered to the dead? To confess her 
feelings for him aloud, to surrender another piece of 
herself when she was so close to broken was more than she 
knew how to give.

She caught a slice of her reflection in the mirror, 
disliking what she saw. Whippet-thin, long wet hair 
dragging out her sharp chin and nose, her eyes too big and 
dark-circled. She looked like an old time consumptive 
heroine, one of those feverish ingenues who reclined 
delicately on brocade cushions, fading like flowers as they 
spat blood into point lace handkerchiefs. 

The mirror showed Mulder on the bed, unshaven and unhappy, 
hurt weighing down his eyes and lower lip. She imagined she 
could fall through the image like water, and that on the 
other side Looking-Glass Scully could be kind to him and to 
herself. I'm better than this, she thought angrily, though 
the anger was vague and undefined, wandering through her in 
search of a target. It stopped briefly at her father's 
grave and resented him for the lesson of her proud 
austerity.

"Mulder," said the Captain's daughter as she settled on the 
bed. She touched his wrist with careful fingers, feeling 
his heart keep time with her own. "I'm here because I want 
to be with you. I know..." she cleared her throat, blinking 
rapidly. "I know I'm not very good at conveying that. But 
I'm here."

He set the bowl of cereal on the night table, then turned 
to her again. Leaning forward, his forearms grazing her 
shoulders, he gathered her dripping hair at the base of her 
head, wringing it out so that a thin trickle of water ran 
down her back until the towel drank it up. His bare chest 
was warm against hers, his breath tickling the sweep of her 
neck. He twined her hair into a thick braid, then took her 
by the shoulders and held her at arm's length.

"I couldn't see you before," he said, brushing a few loose 
strands from her face.

"I'm hungry," she told him, feeling naked without her veil 
of hair. "I want to go get a burger."

"We'll be okay, Scully," he assured her, making goosebumps 
rise where his breath touched her skin. "We're always okay, 
right?"

Scully rested her hand on his knee. She felt herself 
filling up with something other than nothing.

***

Mulder's out in the barn, loading up the blue pickup with 
two-by-fours to patch up a section of fencing. They have a 
nice piney smell, and make satisfying clunking sounds as he 
stacks them. He hears light footsteps from behind the truck 
and turns as Vera emerges around the corner, her black 
riding boots caked with mud.

"Morning, Andrew," she says in her melting drawl. Vera is 
not blessed with beauty in any conventional sense of the 
term, but her voice regularly makes people weak in the 
knees. Mulder thinks it sounds like buttermilk biscuits and 
sun tea. She sings at Arlene's sometimes too, music 
rippling out of her like a wind-plucked harp.

"Morning, Vera," Mulder replies, sliding another board into 
place. He brushes his hands off against his jeans, watching 
the dust filter lazily earthward in broad shafts of morning 
light.

"I ran into Audrey from the post office over to the donut 
shop this morning and she said there's a certified letter 
there for you." 

He snaps to attention. "What?"

"Yep. Audrey says it's from Washington, DC. Which she 
probably shouldn't have told me, but she did because her 
damn tongue's hung in the middle and flaps at both ends." 
Vera holds out a paper bag slightly stained with donut 
grease. "Here. I got you a cruller." 

"Thanks," he says, fighting surge of panic as he accepts 
the bag, wondering if Vera can hear his heart pounding like 
the hoofbeats of her Thoroughbreds. Mulder feels like his 
throat is closing up, like the air is thickening and 
condensing into something toxic and unbreathable. 

"Um." He looks up, forcing a smile onto his face. "Don't 
mention the letter to Lauren, would you? I...this is about a 
surprise for her." Surprise, Scully! We're fucked.

Vera smiles at him, twisting her long salt and pepper hair 
into a knot at the nape of her suntanned neck. "I won't 
breathe a word. Oh, hey. Y'all should send out some moving 
announcements," she suggests. "I've been wanting to throw 
you a housewarming party."

"Oh, well, you don't have to do that," he says, hoping his 
distracted tone will be mistaken for awkward gratitude 

"Yeah, yeah. Andrew, go get the letter now. The fence can 
wait. Lauren moved Black Cadillac and Santeria to the front 
paddock last night, so there's no hurry. Surprises are more 
important." She jerks her head at the truck and winks.

Her voice is coming from a long way off, down a metal tube 
or a tunnel. He mumbles something vague and grateful before 
climbing into the pickup. She gives a friendly wave and 
heads into the tack room. Mulder watches her, watches her 
starting out a regular day without knowing she just handed 
pastry to a dead man walking. 

Mulder drives along the rutted dirt track that leads out to 
the road, his skin crawling and his heart feeling as though 
it might explode. The two by fours rattle behind him like 
the sound of another vehicle following close behind. Get a 
grip, he orders himself. You don't know it's anything bad. 
It could be totally innocuous. Something from the IRS or 
the Census Bureau.

The miles disappear under a steady hum of panic and, 
suddenly, he finds himself parking at the red brick post 
office. He gets out of the cab, swallowing hard as he opens 
the heavy door.

"Well, well. Look what the cat drug in," exclaims Audrey, 
patting a hand over her sleek black ringlets. "Morning, 
handsome. I reckon you're here about that letter." She 
drapes herself over the Formica counter, resting her chin 
on a slim brown hand. Audrey used to be a local beauty 
queen, and likes to cast soulful glances at Mulder from her 
stunning brown eyes. Scully finds Audrey amusing.

"Can you give it to me please? 

"I was hoping you'd ask me that eventually." She winks at 
him, tongue poking through her teeth a little.

His body is tingling with impatience, and state-mandated 
death is the only thing stopping him from leaping over the 
counter and sorting through the mail himself. He grits his 
teeth. "Audrey. I am in a hurry. And don't say anything to 
Lauren about this if you see her." //And if you do I will 
get your ass fired// hangs unspokenly in the air between 
them.

"Asking me to keep secrets from your girlfriend? You ought 
to be ashamed, you bad thing."

"I believe there are at least four laws in place governing 
the destruction, obstruction and delay of mail," he informs 
her.

Audrey stands huffily, turning to retrieve a manila 
envelope from a shelf, then slaps it down in front of him. 
She holds out a pen, letting their fingers touch when he 
takes it. "Sign, please," she murmurs, pointing at a blank 
line on the green return receipt. Mulder reminds himself to 
sign Andrew Zeller, and takes the envelope without another 
word to Audrey.

He walks back to the pickup, his thumb worrying the edge of 
the Certified Mail sticker. The handwriting on the envelope 
is smooth and fluid - no crappy Bic pens here - and the 
imprint suggests it was written on a blotter. There's 
something hard and flat off to one side. Dread and 
curiosity mingle as he tosses it on the passenger's seat, 
where it sits like a pin-pulled grenade.

Mulder drives back to the horse farm, turns off the central 
track into a small clearing where a short but steep hill 
leads down to the compost heap. He shuts off the engine and 
picks up the envelope again. He stares at it, wondering if 
he should rig up some kind of hazmat suit, and then decides 
that if anyone were really trying to kill him, they 
wouldn't bother with anything as unreliable as sending 
biotoxins through the post office.

Darkly comforted by this assessment, he tears the envelope 
open, tipping out two passports, two driver's licenses, and 
two American Express cards onto the seat. A quick 
examination reveals that these items bear names Fox W. 
Mulder and Dana K. Scully. Hands shaking, he withdraws a 
sheet of paper, folded into thirds. He can see the FBI seal 
through the cream-colored stationery.

He unfolds the letter and reads.

Mr. Mulder, 

It is my privilege to inform you that all charges against 
you have been dropped. Recently declassified CIA documents 
have come to light linking you with a deep-cover operation 
to detect and neutralize enemy operatives infiltrating the 
highest levels of our government. Knowle Rohrer, as you are 
obviously aware, was named as one such operative. All 
parties involved regret that the highly classified nature 
of these documents prevented you from speaking of them at 
your trial, but respect your integrity even at the risk of 
your own life. You and Dr. Scully - who will have all the 
credentials of her profession restored - may, if you wish, 
be fully reinstated as Special Agents with the Federal 
Bureau of Investigation. All of your seized financial 
assets are now available to you.

Prior to and during your absence, an international 
collective of experts has been working on perfecting the 
vaccine you and Dr. Scully encountered five years ago to 
make it viable for widespread distribution. Clinical trials 
are extremely promising, and your continued involvement in 
such intelligence would be welcome and appreciated if you 
wish to participate. Enclosed are valid forms of 
identification, as well as credit cards in your names, 
which you may activate when you see fit. Funds for lost 
wages, estimated travel and living expenses, as well as 
compensatory restitution will be made available to you upon 
your return to Washington, where the Director and myself 
both wish to meet with you and Dr. Scully.

If I do not hear from you, there will be no further contact 
made.

Regards,

Alvin Kersh 
Deputy Director
Federal Bureau of Investigation

Mulder gapes, scanning the letter twice more in a daze. The 
FBI letterhead is the same stuff he and Scully had reams 
of, stored in a plastic bin in their office. He touches a 
finger to the imprint of Kersh's familiar signature. It's 
real. It's all real. They can stop hauling hay and manure. 
He can take Scully to Aruba, where they will spend a month 
drunk and ordering room service. She can see her nieces and 
nephews - if her family will speak to her.

If they follow the rules.

The subtext is clear - stick to the party line, you can 
come home a hero, and heck, we'll even let you help save 
the world. He suddenly feels cheap and used and so very, 
very fucking angry that they threw him out with the trash 
and then had the balls to send him this...this...*thing* in 
the mail. 

He has an unexpected swell of loneliness at the thought of 
leaving Black Dog Lane. They have a life here now. He and 
Scully have played pool with Lorelei and her husband Dwight 
a couple of times, and he's become a regular feature at the 
baseball games. People sent them casseroles and pies when 
they moved into their little blue house with clematis 
climbing up the siding. Scully is the uncontested champion 
of Arlene's weekly trivia contest. What in the hell is 
waiting for them back in DC? Margaret Scully moved to San 
Diego after learning what had become of William. Life here 
is real - settled - but he has a powerful longing to go 
back to the familiar as well. 

He went along with Scully's dreamworld of absolution, 
though he never thought they'd actually be exonerated. But 
he realizes now that he had formulated a hazy fantasy in 
his own mind. There would be a helicopter, formal 
apologies, something in the papers about FBI AGENT FALSELY 
ACCUSED! But this?  A bribe and a cock and bull story about 
the CIA thanking him for electrocuting an alien clone? 
Mulder and Scully, Andrew and Lauren...he's strung between 
two truths like a spider web, and all he can catch are 
lies.

To live the lie, you have to believe it.

Flashes come, some real memories and some only things 
imagined, all blurring together at the edges. Scully chip-
implanted, cancer-snared, and gut-shot. Scully with her lip 
split and her eye blacked, Pfaster smashing her porcelain 
face against the glass. Emily dying by inches behind the 
window. Dead sisters, dead fathers, curls of cigarette 
smoke, the gray fingers of cadavers, and Scully with a 
scalpel and a gun. Her stricken face, her tired eyes and 
all of it replayed in a hundred, a thousand hotel rooms. 

He is afraid to risk going back to it even tangentially 
because, truth be told, he doesn't trust himself to stay 
away. He misses his badge, he misses his gun, he misses 
being backed - however grudgingly - by the might and main 
of the federal government. They owe him now. Owe him big 
time, and he is sorely tempted to cash in on that and ask 
some very serious questions. The vaccine tantalizes him. 
But he cannot let it touch her again, that broken life that 
took and took and took and left them both with nothing.

Mulder crumples up the letter, stretches his arm back with 
the lazy grace of an athlete, and is about to toss the wad 
of paper through the open passenger's window and down into 
the compost heap when he sees the sun reflecting off of 
Scully's shiny new AmEx. 

He drops his hand to his lap and smoothes the paper over 
his thigh. 

She can be a doctor again. An FBI agent, if she wants. 
They'd probably make her Surgeon General if she asked, just 
to keep her mouth shut. He knows at this point she'd swear 
on the proverbial stack of Bibles that Jesus himself 
descended from Heaven and commanded the CIA to have Mulder 
dispose of Knowle Rohrer, Jimmy Hoffa, and the Tylenol 
Killer if it meant she could go home. She still does not 
always see things as he does.

He remembers the small bundle of his son, imagines Scully 
handing him over to strangers because she didn't know what 
else to do. The old life touches them every day, no matter 
where they go. He shoves the letter, the identification, 
and the credit cards into his pocket.

Mulder rests his head against the steering wheel and, for 
the first time in years, he cries.

***

There's a note stuck to the door when he gets home late 
that afternoon. 

Ishmael

Hope you're in the mood for bass
Come down to the water when you get this

Starbuck

He goes back down the steps, walking around the side of the 
house and down the path to the water. Out towards the 
middle of the pond, Scully's sprawled in her boat wearing a 
black bathing suit and a pair of green shorts, her fingers 
lazily skimming the water. Her face is half obscured by a 
pair of sunglasses, her legs draped carelessly across the 
center bench. A fishing pole lies half-propped at the end 
opposite her, balanced between two small coolers. 

Tell her. Tell her now. Get her out of that piece of shit 
boat and aboard a plane.

But he can't. Not yet. I'll know when the time is right, 
Mulder thinks, rationalizing at warp speed. The moment will 
present itself.

"Woman!" he yells. "What do you mean with this shirking? 
I've been working hard all day, dammit. Fetch me a 
martini."

She raises her fingers from the water, flips him off, and 
then rests her hand across her stomach. 

The person in the boat, he knows, isn't Scully anymore. Or 
Dana. She's a new entity altogether, formed from this 
patchwork of tragedy, and he's not quite ready to risk 
giving up her freckled nose and easy laugh. Mulder tugs his 
shirt over his head, unbuttons his jeans, and drops them 
both to the grass before wading into the pond in his 
boxers. The water is warm, and he submerges himself 
entirely as he swims. He quickly covers the distance to the 
Pequod and pulls himself partially up on the side, chin 
resting on his folded arms as he treads water.

"Hello," he says. "I've come for the grog and wenches."

She slides her sunglasses partway down her nose and offers 
him an amused look. "I'm busy here. The bar and brothel are 
closed for business until further notice."

"I'm prepared to board your craft," he informs her, rocking 
the boat back and forth. "And I take no prisoners."

She laughs. "Come on in then. I don't want you dumping out 
all my fish to prove a point." 

He hoists himself into the boat, squelching as he settles 
on the bench. "Hi honey, how was your day?" he asks in a 
falsetto as he takes one of her feet and massages the arch 
with his thumb.

"Mmm," she says. "If I say it was terrible will you keep 
doing that out of sympathy?" She presses her toes into his 
palm and he shivers a little - the casual intimacy between 
them still throwing him for a loop now and again. How the 
hell did they get here? How did his hand go from barely 
brushing the waist of her sleek black jackets to being 
curved around the instep of her suntanned foot?

"I'll do it just to be nice. So how was your day really?"

"It was great, actually. I took that new mare out for a 
bit, then helped Lorelei with the chicks. Adopted out six 
cats and that donkey from the shelter. Came home, caught 
dinner. Got boarded by a pirate." She flexes her foot 
experimentally, then nudges the other one into his hands. 
"You?"

Got exonerated by the federal government and cried like a 
girl. Also apparently decided to lie to you indefinitely. 

He shrugs. "Eh, you know. Fixed the fence. You bringing 
those horses back down later?"   

"No. Vera wants me to come to her book club."

"You're funny."

She pokes him in the stomach with her toe. "I'm serious. 
What, you don't think I can be in a book club? I used to 
have a life, back before you knew me. Girlfriends. We 
engaged in social behaviors. I thought I might try it 
again, see what it's like."

Mulder laughs like he hadn't actually forgotten this. "So 
what has the Oprah commanded you all to discuss?"

"Hannibal," she replies. "It's about a female FBI agent who 
gives up everything to go on the run with a former 
psychiatric specialist wanted for murder. Can you imagine?"

He flicks her ankle. "Cute. What are you really reading?"

Scully squirms a little. "The Da Vinci Code," she mumbles.

"I'm sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear you over the 
sound of your cerebral cortex screaming for mercy."

She glares. "The point is that we're putting down roots 
here, and it feels good. It feels like we finally have a 
home."

Everything is going wrong, he thinks. She's supposed to be 
restless and unfulfilled so I can save the day with that 
evil fucking letter. She's not supposed to be going to book 
clubs. "What about your Berger cookies and Virginia medical 
license?  What about my cannoli?"

She laughs. "I'm not giving up on the belief that this will 
end. But in the interim? Things are good. They're better 
than good. I'm happy here, all things considered." She 
cocks her head thoughtfully. "And I can buy cookies online, 
now that we have an address to send them to." 

He smiles carefully. "So would you give it all up today to 
be a pathologist again?"

"Interesting question. I'd have to say no."

He can actually feel his jaw drop. "No?"

"I mean I wouldn't want to be a pathologist again. I 
just...I'm done with the FBI for good, and there would 
be...I don't know. Too many memories, I guess." She looks 
nervous. "If I ever got to practice medicine again though? 
I'd, um, I'd like to see if I could start a residency in 
pediatrics. If, if, if..." She finishes with a small laugh. 

Jesus. She wants to be a pediatrician. Any freshman in 
Psych 101 could figure that one out. Tell her NOW, says the 
voice again. This is your moment. Be her goddamned hero.  
But his throat closes up. 

"You will," he manages to choke out, the words thick and 
strangled-sounding. "I promise."

Concern flashes across her face and she sits up. "What's 
the matter?"

"I think I have one of those late summer colds coming on." 
He coughs a little for effect. "I'll take some NyQuil 
before bed tonight."

She eyes him up suspiciously, but lets it go. For the 
moment, he knows.

"Okay. Well, we need to head ashore. I want to get the fish 
on the grill and hop in the shower."

"You hop and I'll make dinner," he says. "And I want to 
hear about the book club when you get back. All the gory 
details."

"I would," she replies. "But the first rule of Book Club is 
-"

"-you don't talk about Book Club," they finish together, 
grinning.

He reaches around behind them to start the motor and steer 
them back to shore.

***

Part 3

***

The alarm goes off at 4:30 AM with a flat, irritating buzz 
that manages to piss him off every single morning. 
"Mmmrnff," he says, burying his face in the pillow and 
pushing the sides around his ears. "Turninoff." He hears 
Scully bat around for the off button and then, blessedly, 
there is silence.

"I'm going to make some eggs," says Scully after a moment. 
"Do you want any?"

He rubs his hands over his face and blinks experimentally. 
"Please. Those ones you do on toast where I can poke the 
egg and the runny part goes on the toast." 

She chuckles a little, running her fingers through his 
tumbled morning hair. "You'll never survive in the wild 
now. You've been fully domesticated."

"Not fully," he protests. "I still drink things from the 
carton. And I bite." He growls a little and snaps at her 
palm, worrying it between his teeth.

"But only on command." Scully frees her hand. She yawns 
loudly and then gets up, walking around the foot of the bed 
to the dresser. "I'm going to be testing your carpentry 
skills this morning," she says, pulling her pajamas off.

"There's a wood joke in there, but I won't offend your 
delicate sensibilities by making it."

Scully tosses him a contemptuous look over her bare 
shoulder as she steps into a pair of gray underwear. "Oh, 
you're such a wit."

"Audrey thinks I'm funny." His stomach does a little flip 
at the thought of the post office.

"Audrey thinks you're Grade A prime meat." The words are 
muffled as she pulls a yellow tank top over her head. "She 
just wants to get in your pants."

"I have a way with government employees." He swings his 
legs over the edge of the bed and sits up, scratching his 
stomach. "Hey, are you working at the shelter today? I 
forgot to put your schedule on the fridge." 

"I am. I just have to get the horses turned out and then 
I'm headed there until four or so. I thought maybe we could 
see a movie afterwards, if there's anything good." She 
buttons her shorts, pulls her hair into a ponytail, then 
tugs her scuffed boots on. They come to the tops of her 
calves.

He looks at the little hollows behind her knees, the way 
her coppery hair swishes against her back. "You look very 
hot in that getup. Just so you know." 

She laughs. "This has been my uniform for a while now. 
What's special about it today?"

I'm probably never going to see you in it again. "I just 
want you to know I appreciate the little things."

She smiles, something almost shy in her face. "Well, thank 
you. Now get up while I go make breakfast." She leaves the 
bedroom, and he hears her boots clomp heavily across the 
floorboards.

Mulder dresses quickly in a t-shirt and jeans, makes the 
bed, then pads after her in his sock feet. The kitchen is 
full of warm smells and sounds of morning. Eggs sizzle on 
the stove, and he can hear the soft tickticktick of the 
toaster oven. The coffee pot gurgles promisingly. He 
watches her jerking the frying pan to make the eggs flip, 
her movements spare and efficient as ever. The timer dings 
and he walks over to the counter to butter the toast. She 
bumps her hip against his, then tips the contents of the 
pan onto their plates. Mulder leans down to kiss her and 
finds that she tastes of V8. His hands are around her waist 
when she pours them each a cup of coffee.

He's terrified of losing this easy thing between them, 
unsure of how comfortable she'll be under the scrutiny of 
familiar eyes. 

"You look so sad," she remarks, carrying the plates to the 
table. "Still not feeling well?" Her tone is 
conversational, but he hears the trained interrogator 
skimming below the surface like a shark spying an exhausted 
swimmer.

"Just sort of run down, I guess. Might call it a day after 
I help Harvey with those beehives." He takes the chair 
across from her and pokes his eggs with a fork, the yolks 
running rich and golden over the toast. He wonders if 
there's anywhere in DC to get eggs this fresh. 

"You should meet me for lunch," Scully says. "There's that 
little deli on the corner. You could get some chicken soup 
for your cold."

"Where'd you go to med school again? The University of My 
Grandmother?"

Scully takes a large swig of coffee. "Chicken soup 
suppresses inflammation, smartypants. Besides, I know 
damned well you're not sick. So why don't you tell me 
what's really going on?"

He offers her the look of wounded innocence she expects. 
"So paranoid," he says. "Everything has to be a cover-up 
with you." He blows his nose pitifully into a napkin and 
resists the urge to fake a cough.

She rolls her eyes and spears a bite of pineapple. "Okay 
then, don't tell me. As long as you don't develop pneumonia 
by noon, come on by." She checks her watch. "Running late. 
See you at lunchtime." She drops a kiss on the top of his 
head before leaving.

Mulder uses Tabasco sauce to make a frowny face on his cold 
food, then finishes it without really tasting a bite. He 
grabs the phone to activate the credit cards.

***

Mulder wanders down Amelia Street, sunglasses and a 
baseball cap concealing most of his somewhat disoriented 
expression. He's got two velvet boxes jammed into his 
pocket, souvenirs from the forty minute drive to the mall 
where he took his new credit card for a spin. 

"That's pretty, isn't it?" said the girl behind the 
counter, showing him a band studded with tiny pink 
diamonds. 

"It's very sparkly," he said evasively. "But I'll take the 
plain ones."

The girl sighed, popped her gum, and put the other back in 
the case. She boxed up the rings Mulder had selected, and 
asked how he'd be paying.

"American Express," he said, sliding the card onto the 
counter with no small amount of trepidation. He watched her 
swipe it, his muscles tensed as if a SWAT team was about to 
descend from the ceiling as soon as the transaction went 
through.

Mulder signed the receipt and felt like he'd come through a 
gauntlet. He resisted the urge to pump his fist in the air.

"Have a nice day, Mr. Mulder," the girl said, handing him 
his card and paper bag. "And congratulations."

Mr. Mulder. 

He drove back to town on autopilot. Somewhere in the back 
of his mind, Tony Robbins is telling this is the first day 
of the rest of his life. He's gazing at familiar 
storefronts, all of them suddenly containing Things He Can 
Buy. No more itchy Wal-Mart sheets. No more crinkly toilet 
paper and Goodwill clothes. He wonders what Scully will do 
when he takes her at her word.

//I didn't promise I'd say yes,// she'd told him. Well, 
he'll burn that bridge when he comes to it.

Just ahead of him, Dwight emerges from the liquor store 
carrying two brown paper bags. "Goddammit Andrew," Dwight 
says. "That hat sure better not say what I think it does."

Mulder grins. He'd put on the Knicks hat Scully bought him 
for his birthday last year, feeling as though it were some 
signpost to the Rubicon he was about to cross. Once you 
publicly support the Knicks this far south, there's no 
going back. "'Fraid so," he replies. 

"Harvey sees that hat, he'll kick your ass up between your 
teeth."

Harvey. He's going to miss Harvey. "Yeah, he might."

"Well, we all have our peculiarities. Y'all want to come by 
for dinner tonight? We're having ribs." Dwight hefts the 
bags. "And beer."

He does. He really, really does. "I'd like to, but we're 
already booked tonight."

"Well, we'll have to take a raincheck," Dwight says. "Maybe 
next week."

Maybe next lifetime.

***

Mulder drives to the shelter in a fugue, unaware of the 
staccato his fingers play on the console, directed by some 
innate autopilot as his conscious mind roams far afield. He 
parks in front of the squat gray building where the county 
animal shelter is located, then sits as though waiting for 
a burning bush to order him inside.

He draws a deep breath and there's the blink of a memory. 
He's going after Modell, got his carapace of Kevlar on, 
antennaed with AV gear, and Scully is sitting with her 
stubborn chin tipped up and her eyes full of worry. I'm 
going to kill you if you come back here dead, her eyes say, 
and he knows right then that he's got it bad, that she does 
too, and that from here on out it's them against 
everything. He squeezes her hand and tells her to smile.

He opens the door and gets out of the car.

***

Scully's back hurts. She and a coworker have been hauling 
industrial sized bags of animal food around, finding places 
to shove them as Rebecca hauls them off the delivery truck, 
and being hunched over like this is murder on her spine.

It's been a bad day all around. Mulder is acting peculiar 
and she has a sinking feeling that it's linked to her 
relative contentment. She has betrayed him with her 
adaptability, broken up their aloof little team with Vera's 
book club and drinks with Lorelei. Maybe she shouldn't have 
pushed him on the house, but she was ready to fall apart. 
She had been leaving too many pieces of herself behind in 
mildewed motel rooms. 

In addition to the greater drama, Black Cadillac - the 
temperamental new stallion - chewed a big hole in her 
yellow tank top and now she's got on a John Deere t-shirt 
with a pair of ragged cutoffs. She feels like a reject from 
a country music video, though she suspects Mulder has a 
fantasy that starts with her in this outfit and ends on a 
tractor. And he still owes her a cat, dammit. She grunts in 
generalized annoyance as she heaves another bag into place.

"Lauren!" Rebecca hollers from across the room. "Just five 
more bags. You okay, girl?"

"Yeah," Scully lies, and rubs a sore spot on her neck 
before grabbing another bag of Alpo. The storage room is 
stiflingly hot, the air so wet it's practically a liquid. 
She hears a door bang open behind her and a swirl of fresh 
air wafts in, tempting her with freedom. She sighs and 
moves a box of flea dip to make more space.

There are heavy footsteps from the doorway, and then 
Mulder's voice crows, "Agent Scully!"

She whirls around and feels her eyes widen cartoonishly, 
mouth gaping in utter astonishment. He's finally lost his 
damned mind, she thinks, and panic chases itself through 
her thorax. There's a wild impulse to run, but she is 
pinned in place by shock.

Mulder, wearing the Knicks hat she bought for his fortieth 
birthday, strides over and gets down on one knee. He's 
grinning like he's just found a colony of Reticulans living 
next door, and there's a gold ring dangling from his little 
finger. "Well, what do you say?" he inquires of her.

She swallows hard, her vision swimming, ambient sounds 
jangling in her ears. "I say you're out of your mind," she 
finally manages, her eyes fixed on the ring as though it is 
a hypnotist's pocket watch.

He laughs and slides the ring down over the first joint of 
his finger before standing. She is too dazed to do anything 
but wrap her arms around his neck when he lifts her up. Her 
knees bump against his thighs and he kisses her, holding 
her tight about the waist. She savors the rich coffee taste 
of his mouth and breathes him in, soaking herself in the 
moment against the terrible fear that she is about to wake 
up.

"Kersh says we're clear," he murmurs into her neck, his bad 
boy stubble making her shiver in the sultry room. 

Scully is dimly aware of Rebecca and the other employees 
watching the scene unfold, but they've all faded to a 
washed-out backdrop. "When?" she whispers into his hair. 
"How?"

Mulder bends forward and returns her to earth, her legs 
shaky as a colt's. "Got a letter in the mail yesterday. 
Certified, from Kersh. He sent our IDs. The real ones. We 
can go back to the FBI, you can be a doctor, whatever you 
want." He kisses her again and smoothes the hair back from 
her face. She wonders if her overloaded brain is generating 
static electricity.

His recent oddness suddenly makes sense. She wants to be 
angry at him for not telling her immediately, but thinks of 
that ring on his pinkie. Of him going to a store and buying 
it to bring here and surprise her, and has to will herself 
not to cry. She drops her head against his chest and closes 
her eyes, listening to the steady tidal rhythm of his 
lungs. His shirt is clutched tightly in her fingers

Mulder's hands plane her neck and shoulders, rubbing 
circles on her back. "It's over," he says quietly, and she 
can hear the words catch in his throat. "So I'm asking you 
again."

She takes a half step back and looks up at him. "You 
don't-"

"Say yes!" Rebecca yells.

Scully blushes darker than her sunbleached hair and 
Mulder's goofy grin returns. She ducks her head to keep her 
own at bay. "Outside," she says sternly. Turning to her 
boss, she asks, "Rebecca, do you mind if I...?"

"Only if you promise to say yes," Rebecca replies, 
apparently unfazed by details of nomenclature. "And I'd 
better not see you here for the rest of the day, miss."

Mulder tips his hat as Scully shoves him towards the door. 

Once outside, she crosses her arms, slouching against the 
wall of the shelter. "You're serious," she says, the shock 
starting to wear off. "We can really go back?"

He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and 
offers it to her. 

She reads it quickly, then looks up at him. "And you're 
okay with this?"

He leans against the truck. "I just want to go home."

Home. The mental image conjured up isn't just her polished 
apartment anymore. There's a distinct overlap with a small 
blue house full of modular furniture and carefully chosen 
secondhand items. Her mother's face and Vera's run 
together.

All the places she and William used to go are so safely far 
away.

"Andr - Mulder, they're asking us to be complicit in 
another layer of obfuscation. They're *bribing* us," she 
says, stalling.

He sighs. "I know. It's, well, it's why I couldn't bring 
myself to tell you right away. But think about it, Scully. 
What else can they do? They screwed up and the only way to 
undo it is wipe the slate clean. It's a bribe, yeah, but I 
think we've earned it. All the misery we've been through, 
all the nights sleeping in the van and hours working for 
slave wages...fuck it, Scully. They owe us." There's 
something hard and determined in his face, and she gets the 
distinct impression he's trying to sell himself on this as 
much as her.

"They want to know if we learned anything in the desert," 
she says. "They're worried. They'll make us work with them 
on the vaccine, Mulder. It's why they wanted William, 
because you and I are both immune..." She hears something 
shrill in her voice and hates it.

"They can't make us do anything. They could have coerced us 
years before if they just wanted complicity in their 
research. And hell, there's probably enough of our DNA 
floating around to clone us both and not have to bother 
with the real deal. I think...I think this is what it 
sounds like."

"But what if it's not?" she asks.

He sighs. "I don't know. I don't have an answer. But if we 
want to stop running, we're going to have to start trusting 
people at some point. This may be the only chance we get."

Scully looks at him for a moment, his face shadowed by the 
brim of his hat. He's run so far and he looks so tired. And 
she's sick of faking her way through every minute of every 
day. Returning to life as Dana Scully will hurt - she knows 
that - but it will be an honest hurt and that counts for a 
great deal with her. 

She runs her forefinger along Mulder's scratchy cheek. "Mr. 
Trust No One," she muses, and he smiles a little. "I'm okay 
with it too," she tells him. "They do owe us. And I want to 
go home."

"We don't have to stay in DC or Virginia," he points out. 
"We just have to go back to sort out the...details. Hell, 
we can move back here if you want."

"No we can't," she replies softly. "You know we can't come 
back here."

"Whatever you want. Pick a place. We can start somewhere 
new."

Scully shakes her head. "No. I don't want to be a stranger 
again. Whatever's waiting back there, that's home to me, 
Mulder. Let's do it. Let's go back." She smiles at him.

He brightens and wiggles his finger at her, making the sun 
bounce off the gold band "So...?"

She laughs a little, embarrassed by the nervous sound in 
it. "You don't really have to marry me," she tells him, 
walking around to the passenger's door. "You get to go back 
to the FBI, Mulder. You don't want a civilian ball and 
chain dragging you down while you're shooting for the 
stars." She opens the door and hitches herself across the 
vinyl seat, which sticks to her thighs. "Literally."

He gets in on the driver's side and starts the engine. 
"Pediatricians don't hunt alien invaders, right?" he asks 
rhetorically, pulling out of the lot. "That's strictly 
pathologist work."

For an instant she hates the letter in his pocket. Things 
were going so well. "I'm done with the FBI," she says. "I'm 
sorry."

He shakes his head and turns onto the road. "Nothing to be 
sorry about. I get it, believe me. I wish I were as certain 
as you."

Moments slide by as they drive towards their house. "So 
you're going to be an agent again?" she asks, willing him 
to say no. 

"I don't know. I'm still processing everything."

Scully takes his tight jaw, his white-knuckled hands 
gripping the steering wheel and wants to slap herself. 
"Mulder, turn up ahead. Turn left, okay?"

He looks puzzled. "Scully what's-"

"Turn!"

Mulder swings the steering wheel hard to the left and they 
squeal onto Mariposa Street. "What's on...oh," he says as a 
grand white house comes into view. He gives her an 
uncertain look.

"He's always at his home office after lunch," she says. 
"I'm sure he has all the necessary paperwork. You said 
Kersh sent ID, right?"

He reaches over and opens the glove compartment. Scully 
sees her driver's license sitting inside and scarcely 
recognizes the pale woman in the photograph. She takes it 
in her hand, tapping the hard plastic against her nails. 
The woman in the photograph wouldn't recognize her either.

"There's a passport too," Mulder tells her as he parallel 
parks.

She feels around and withdraws the small vinyl booklet. She 
doesn't open it, but slides her license between the pages. 
"All set," she tells him.

"Scully, you don't have to do this."

She turns to look at him and reaches for his hand. His 
large, familiar fingers feel good in hers. "I do. I want 
to. Unless you've changed your mind, Mulder, I want to."

He runs his thumb over her knuckles. "You don't want to 
have a big church to-do?" he asks. "Your family, your 
priest..."

She shakes her head hard as though it will dislodge the 
lump in her throat. "No," she whispers. "None of that 
matters." She discovers as she says it that it's true. 
She'll leave behind her house, her boat, all the lies that 
are her life. But what she has with him is the grit at the 
center of this strange pearl, and she can take that with 
her when the rest erodes.

Mulder, who once let her talk him out of wishing for world 
peace, had smiled then to know he had at least made her 
happy. He smiles at her that way again and there is joy in 
it, the light sparking behind his eyes. "Okay," he says, 
straightening his hat. "Let's get this show on the road, 
then."

Scully pulls his identification from the glove compartment. 
They get out and walk up to the house. She knocks on the 
massive front door, Mulder's hand firm against her waist. 
She can't believe they are going to do this.

The knock is answered by an attractive woman of a certain 
age who takes in their disheveled appearance with a faint 
and puzzled smile. "Hello," she says. "Can I help you?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Scully says in the voice of the 
nervous teenager who used to swipe her mother's cigarettes, 
"but we, um, were hoping that-"

"Oh, you've come to get married, have you?" the woman says, 
grinning broadly. "Come on in!" She turns and walks down 
through the elegant front hall.

Mulder leans down as they follow their hostess. "Sure you 
don't want to fly to Vegas?" he asks in a stage whisper. 
"Elvis, slot machines, a hot tub shaped like a champagne 
glass..."

She all but shudders at the thought. "No, this is good. I 
want to do it like this."

He smiles at her as the three of them enter a large, airy 
room papered in blue and yellow stripes. At a large cherry 
desk sits Ted Cavanaugh, the mayor/justice of the peace. 
His steely gray hair is stylishly cut, swept back from his 
face. He is finishing up a cold cut sub, an electric green 
banana pepper dangling from his lip as he chews.

"Hi!" he says, tucking the pepper into his mouth. He wipes 
his fingers on a paper napkin, then brushes crumbs from his 
snuff-colored trousers before getting to his feet. "What 
can I do you for?"

"We need the quickie wedding package please," Mulder says. 
"Just the basics. No shotgun."

The mayor laughs. "Do you have identification?" he asks, 
flipping through an accordion binder full of what Scully 
presumes are legal forms. He selects one and puts it on the 
blotter.

They lay their IDs on his desk and he hands them the 
application. "No waiting period here, you know. Just fill 
this out and we can get you hitched on the double. It'll be 
sixty five dollars, please." He hums tunelessly while they 
complete the paperwork and pool their funds.

"Do, um, do y'all want to change or anything?" Mrs. 
Cavanaugh asks delicately. "There's a washroom over there, 
if you have anything in the car..."

"I'm afraid this is it," Scully replies, hoping she doesn't 
sound defensive. 

"It was a bit unplanned," Mulder adds as she watches Mayor 
Cavanaugh make photocopies of their documentation.

Mrs. Cavanaugh smiles. "Well, that's real romantic. Hang on 
a second and let me at least get you a veil." She walks 
over to a closet next to the desk and opens it, rummaging 
briefly. "It's always more wedding-like when the bride's 
got a veil, and I keep mine around just in case." 

Scully cringes at the thought of pairing a stranger's veil 
with her current ensemble. "Oh, I couldn't, really..." but 
it's too late. Mrs. Cavanaugh is tugging the elastic band 
from her hair and positioning a hideous tulle and bugle 
bead concoction atop her head. 

"My! Look at all that red hair!" her impromptu stylist says 
admiringly, steering Scully before the mirror. She fluffs 
the enormous veil and pokes a few bobby pins into Scully's 
scalp. "You look just like a bride in a magazine now," she 
pronounces with great satisfaction.

Scully, transfixed by the enormous frill of tulle 
encircling her head, thinks she looks like nothing so much 
as a startled cockatoo. "It's...I...thank you..." she 
stammers. She chances a peek at Mulder, who is smirking 
intolerably. But when he says, "You look great," she hears 
something so terribly sweet in his voice that she has to 
look away.

"You look real pretty, honey," the mayor tells her. "So! 
Your paperwork is all filed, the bride's all fancied up, 
and I'm ready when y'all are."

Mulder looks at her expectantly. "You ready?" he asks, and 
butterflies soar through her stomach.

"Let's do it."

The mayor tugs on a long black robe. "I always think it 
looks more official this way," he explains.

Scully feels like they're in a play. Mulder should be 
wearing a top hat instead of that Knicks cap. They need a 
curtain made of bedsheets and some lemonade in little waxed 
paper cups. Animal crackers and raisins.

"Do you have any vows prepared?"

Scully offers her betrothed a questioning glance.

"No," Mulder answers for them. "Whatever your standard 
boilerplate is will be just fine."

She breathes a sigh of relief.

"That's fine. So you'll just repeat after me, all right?"

"Sounds good," Mulder replies. "Anything you say can and 
will be used against you in a court of law," he murmurs to 
Scully, brushing her wrist with his fingertips. "Are you 
sure you want to do this?"

She laughs nervously, the veil prickling the back of her 
neck, and she takes his hand. "I'm positive."
The mayor clears his throat and looks at Mulder. "You 
first," he says. "Repeat after me: I Fox take you Dana to 
be my lawfully wedded wife. I promise to love you, honor 
you, and to cherish you; in sickness and in health; for 
better or for worse; for as long as we both shall live."
Mulder clears his own throat and looks embarrassed.
Scully feels herself blush. This is stupid. This is so 
completely stupid and awkward. "Man and wife," she mutters 
to herself. "Say man and wife." Consummation, at least, 
will be enjoyable, she thinks as she looks up at Mulder 
with what she hopes is an expression of bridely rapture.
"Go on, son," the mayor says encouragingly.
Mulder shuffles his feet. "I...Fo-"
"Mulder," she interjects. She can't marry Fox. It would be 
like marrying Andrew.
 He grins. "I Mulder. Take you Da-
"Scully."
"Scully. To be my lawfully wedded wife. I promise to...to 
track you across several continents, defrost you, and to 
subject you to untested vaccines; in underground fungal 
hallucinations or in, uh...
"...chloral hydrate induced tributes to Isaac Hayes," she 
suggests, wondering if this performance will nullify the 
"sound mind" clause.
"For official commendations or suspension without pay; for 
as long as we both shall fail to get killed," he finishes, 
beaming. 
Scully laughs. She leans against him and laughs until her 
sides ache because it is the most ridiculous thing she's 
ever done; getting married in a grimy t-shirt and ghastly 
veil in this nowhere backwater town, and Mulder has somehow 
made it wonderful. "What he said," she tells Mayor 
Cavanaugh when she finally catches her breath. "All of it. 
And then some."
The mayor shakes his head, but he's smiling. "Can't say 
I've ever heard that variant before," he informs them. "The 
rings, please."
She watches Mulder pull them from his pocket, and it's all 
suddenly quite real and serious and matrimonial. He passes 
the larger ring to her, the metal is solemn and heavy in 
her palm. Scully holds her left hand out, keeping it very 
steady, and bites her lip when he slips the small band over 
her ring finger. She stares at her new jewelry, marveling 
at the sheen of it. 
Mulder coughs and she looks up, startled. "Oh!" she says, 
fumbling with his ring for a second. She slides it over his 
knuckle and lets out a pent-up breath. Jesus Christ, 
they're married. She's officially Mrs. Spooky. She imagines 
Tom Colton's face when word filters through the Bureau, and 
likes the tableau.
"I now pronounce you man and wife," the mayor says with 
relish. "You may kiss the bride."
The bride - who feels as though she is in an alternate 
reality where any sort of madness might occur - tilts her 
face up and looks expectantly through half-lidded eyes. The 
groom, clearly pleased by her complacency, dips down to 
kiss her. The Cavanaughs, the room, and the veil all 
disappear down a crack in the space time continuum. She 
reaches up and curves a hand around his jaw, her fingertips 
touching the minky hair of his sideburns as her tongue runs 
over his bottom lip. Reminding herself that the faster they 
get out of here the faster they can have some privacy, she 
pulls gently away. Mulder's looking rapturous from under 
his blue hat and her own smile is making her cheeks ache.
"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Mulder," gushes the mayor's 
wife. "Smile for the camera, now!"
"Dr. and Mrs. Scully," Scully whispers to Mulder, but she's 
grinning like an idiot as the camera flashes and leaves 
starbursts before her eyes.
The Cavanaughs press them to have coffee and chicken salad 
sandwiches before they go, then send them off with 
printouts of the wedding picture. They walk back to the 
truck; Mulder clutching the manila envelope of photographs 
and paperwork, Scully still in something of a daze.
"Well," she says when they climb in, "this has been quite 
an afternoon. What are we going to do next?" She is falling 
in love with the way the sunlight bounces off her left ring 
finger. It looks so *right*.
Mulder turns the key, shifts into drive, then makes an 
illegal u-turn on Mariposa Street. "You want to make that 
honeymoon video now?" he asks his wife.

***

The ocean is the hue of liquid tourmaline, lapping at the 
topaz sky along the horizon. Picturesque cotton ball clouds 
drift lazily overhead, unhurried by the fragrant breeze 
that stirs the leaves of the coconut palms.

Gazing beatifically at this paradise, Mulder is sprawled in 
an enormous hammock, moderately drunk on Balashi beer. Next 
to him, Scully lies quasi-boneless, a floppy straw hat 
shading her face from the Southern Caribbean sun. The rest 
of her outfit consists of a black two-piece scant enough to 
have made her blush when Mulder first presented it. On the 
table to her left is a turquoise beverage containing a 
half-dozen varieties of juice and alcohol. It is her third 
of the afternoon. 

"You know, I think the implication was that we go back to 
DC immediately upon accepting the terms of the agreement. 
Not run off for an impromptu wedding tour of Aruba on the 
government's dime," she observes in a languid voice. 
"They're probably unamused with us."

He reaches down to grab a beer from the ice bucket in the 
sand. "Screw the bastards if they can't take a joke."

She laughs, her warm body moving against his chest. "You 
have to admit, Mulder, that for all the times they jerked 
us around, the FBI really has afforded us many travel 
opportunities."

Mulder chuckles, rocking the hammock a bit. "It was almost 
a challenge after a while. See how many new spots we could 
visit."

"Mmm. Too bad you never learned how to pronounce Oregon 
though. We hit that one twice."

He stares at her incredulously. "What the hell is wrong 
with how I say Oregon?"

"Nothing."

He takes a sullen swig of his beer. "Or-ih-gahn." 

Snickers from beneath the hat.

"Fine. How do you pronounce it?"

She draws her bare leg up against his thigh and kisses his 
neck. "Never mind. It's endearing." 

"You're a condescending drunk, Scully."

"Say 'park the car in Harvard yard,'" she purrs, nuzzling 
his ear. "I know you've been suppressing that Locust Valley 
Lockjaw for yeeeahs." Her fingers trail over his hip.

With one swift motion, Mulder flips her on top of him, 
dislodging her hat. She lands with her forearms pressed 
against his chest, her legs between his, and an impish 
expression on her face. He sleeks his hands over her hair, 
then runs a finger down the long, straight bridge of her 
nose. He traces the slight asymmetry of her full mouth. Her 
eyes are unfathomable as the Mariana Trench, made lovelier 
by the silken crinkle of laugh lines at the corners. "So 
you've got me all figured out, have you?" he inquires 
softly.

"Not really," she tells him, her breath exotic and citrusy. 
"I've just picked things up over time. But I could never 
hope to have you all figured out, Mulder. You're 
inscrutable."

He kisses her. "I don't mean to be. Consider me an open 
book to you."

She smiles. "Once upon a time there was a boy named Fox..."

"And he grew up and met Little Red Riding Hood walking 
through the forest. And she said, 'Oh! What a big-' "

Scully presses a finger to his mouth.

He nips it lightly. "What did you really think when you met 
me?"

She eyes darken a shade, turning serious. "I thought...I 
thought you were different than anyone I'd ever met," she 
says. "You did brave, strange things even though they 
pissed off all the people I hoped to impress. I didn't 
understand you at all."

"Yes you did; you just didn't realize it at first. You were 
looking for the truth too, Scully." 

She lays her head down and shakes it, the crown bumping 
against his chin. "No," she tells him. "For a while I just 
wanted explanations. I didn't care if they were true."

Mulder doesn't buy this for a minute, but Scully's always 
been her own harshest critic. "You were afraid to believe," 
he says. "How could I hold that against you? I was afraid 
*not* to. You've always done what you think is right and 
I've always respected you for it, even when it made me want 
to strangle you." She stiffens and, with an awful twist in 
his stomach, he realizes that he has never given her 
absolution for William. "You did the best thing for him," 
he murmurs into her hair. "I believe that, too."

Her tears are cool on his skin, but her muscles relax and 
she presses her cheek more tightly against him. "You've 
always forgiven me for everything," she observes, her voice 
catching like a silk stocking. "Even when you shouldn't." 

"You carry a lot of credit with me," he whispers, and she 
curls closer. They lay still for a time, skin on skin, the 
wind stroking them with gentle hands.

"So what was *your* first impression?" she asks at length, 
her words muffled by his chest.

He smiles to himself, looking down at the nearly-naked 
expanse of her back, thinking of the mosquito bites above 
her sensible cotton underwear. "I thought you looked like 
an interesting challenge," he muses. "You and your revamped 
Einstein. And I thought you dressed like my dad's La-Z-
Boy."

She punches him in the shoulder. 

"I thought you probably had a good sense of humor under 
that no-nonsense veneer," he continues. "That you were 
afraid your looks would undermine how seriously you hoped 
to be taken. The most important thing to you is being taken 
seriously and I bet you've been that way since you were 
little. All three of your siblings are of above average 
height, and I'm guessing those two factors have got 
something to do with that fancy footwear of yours."

"My next husband's not going to be a profiler," she 
mutters.

He laughs. "It's my only party trick. I can't sing classic 
rock or rotate my hand 360 degrees or anything."

"I'll teach you," Scully says. "You'll be a one-man 
entertainment sensation." She turns on her side again and 
drapes her arm across his chest.

Mulder closes his eyes and holds her like a security 
blanket, both of them drowsing in the afternoon heat.

He runs his hands over the fine kidskin of her body, smooth 
as his infant son's, and finds the pain has gone out of the 
memory of William's tiny fingers curled around his. He 
thinks of his parents, his sister, and remembers birthday 
parties and cookouts at the Vineyard before it all went to 
hell. He remembers Scully, soaking wet and incredulous, 
laughing at him in an Oregon graveyard.

Whatever strange elixirs course through their veins, 
whatever waits for them in DC, he can no longer muster up 
the urge to wade back into the fray. Someone else can save 
the world, he thinks, his finger idly circling the tiny 
scar at the back of Scully's neck. He is, for now, glad 
that they have managed to save themselves.

As he drifts to sleep, his last conscious thought is of his 
partner crouched beneath the West Virginia sky, her nails 
crusted with the dirt of a child's grave. He will not go 
back alone, and he will not ask her to join him again.

When he dreams, he dreams of starlight.

***

The End

***

Author's Notes continued: Writing this story was an 
incredibly weird experience in a way because I felt really, 
really guilty while doing the happy parts. When I wrote 
Inhaling The Different Dawn, I put in things that I didn't 
necessarily want to, but I was trying to weave together all 
the spoilers and snippets into something cohesive. I hated 
killing William off a whole lot. But it was right for the 
story and so I did it. Anyhow, I feel bad in a way for 
making them so happy in here because it doesn't exactly 
stay that way. But if it's any comfort, the way I envision 
things going after the end of Inhaling the Different Dawn 
is that they do live very happily ever after. I think 
Scully ends up at the Unremarkable House and Mulder 
consults for the FBI and Homer lives to a ripe old age.

***

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