From: Gwendyn@aol.com
Date: Fri, 2 Oct 1998 23:19:23 EDT
Subject: NEW: "Drama Queen" by Gwendolyn


Title: Drama Queen
Author:  Gwendolyn
E-mail:  gwendyn@aol.com
Rating:   PG-13 (strong language)
Category: VAH, MSR
Spoilers: Totally spoiled.

Summary:  It's OK to cry Scully... go ahead, you've earned it.  

Archive: Yes to Gossamer and to all -- if you're not Gossamer please let
me know you're using it so I can visit.

Disclaimer:  They're not mine. They do belong to CC, 1013, Fox and
possibly even others of whom I am unaware.

Thanks to Alanna and Dasha, a couple of totally rad chicks who give good b
eta!

Feedback...yum.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Drama Queen


How did I let it come to this? If he looks at me a certain way, or touches
me just so, or on the off chance, says the right thing, I could crack. I
probably shouldn't worry about him saying the right thing. He's already
filled his quota for the year. It went something like, "you make me a
whole person," which struck me as a rip-off of that Tom Cruise movie but
had its desired effect nonetheless. Or almost did.

God, I don't even sound like myself. Not even my own voice in my own head
is quite right tonight. This is Scully. This is Scully having a nervous
breakdown. When the hell did I start referring to myself as Scully?

Since I was a child, I have worked to convince myself and those who love
me that I am strong. Rigid. Unyielding. I have spent the better part of my
life erecting this dam. I have maintained with care the intricate system
of concrete and steel that stanches the flow of dreaded emotion.  God, I
sound like a Harlequin Romance, the kind Missy and I used to stealthily
read with the flashlight under the covers. I detest melodrama but here it
is.  Dana Scully: Drama Queen for a Day.

This stoicism did not come naturally to me. I willed it. I am strong. I
can do anything, weather any storm. I don't need anybody to validate my
worth. I am a rock. I am an island.

Bullshit.

It's a word my father would have used, but never would have approved
coming from me.

Fuck it. He's dead. I can't live my life to please him. Or Mulder. I can't
live my life to please Mulder. That bears repeating. I can't live my life
to please Mulder.

Time for another glass of wine. It's fortifying.

I expect to hear from him anytime now.  The only question is whether he'll
call first or come straight over. The repressed panic in my voice on his
answering machine is just the sort of thing that will spur him into
feverish action.  He may be somewhat inattentive most of the time, but
Mulder is good to have around in a crisis.

Thank God, the crisis is over.  Thank God, there was never really a crisis
to begin with, just my over-developed sense of paranoia.

When I left mom after our lunch this afternoon, she said she had some
errands to run before heading home.  I worry about her driving in the city
so I told her to call me when she got there. It amuses her I think, that
the tables have turned and now I am the one requesting the "I got home
fine" phone call. We've shared so many losses, my mother and I. It is a
natural progression that we now worry too much about losing each other.

I'm not sure how she does it, how she copes with the danger inherent in my
work. It is to her credit that she doesn't beg me to quit, to find a safe
job. She seems to understand the importance of what I am doing and she
leaves me to it.  She finds solace in religion, where I can only strive to
find solace of my own.

I left her at one-thirty this afternoon.  At seven o'clock I still hadn't
gotten the phone call.  I tried calling her. No answer. I paced. I called
her again, left a message. I called around to make sure she hadn't been in
an accident. Nothing.  I paced some more. I called her again.

Eight o'clock. Still no word.

I called mom's neighbor, Mrs. Lenton, and asked her to go by the house.
She called me back at eight-thirty. Mom still wasn't home. My transition
from calm to panic-stricken is barely perceptible to the unaided eye.
Mulder is the only one who would have recognized it, but only if he was
paying special attention. He has been paying special attention lately,
since all hell broke loose in the arctic tundra. It's a testament to my
contradictory nature that I crave such attention from him and resent it
when I have it.

It is after ten o'clock now. She finally called at exactly
nine-thirty-seven.

Apparently Mrs. Lenton accosted her on the sidewalk leading from the drive
way to the front door to tell her how frantic I was.

When I answered the phone, before the first ring even had the chance to
complete itself, she didn't say, "hello," she said, "Oh, Dana, I'm so
sorry. I wasn't thinking." Yes, well, that's been going around. Seems
while I was on the first leg of the madcap journey to mental anguish, she
was outlet shopping (and got the best bargain on some new Mikasa
flatware).

In the final analysis, this is a happy ending. It is hard to recognize
since it's such a new phenomenon. Mom's fine, I'm fine. There are no
larger conspiracies at work here, though I will see what information the
Lone Gun men have on Mikasa. Just in case.

Great. There's the knock on the door. Guess he decided to come over
without calling first.

Shit. Why did I have to put this mirror on the wall right next to the
door? I do not need to be reminded of the brown coffee stain decorating my
newly donned but ancient white terry-cloth robe and I am suddenly very
aware of the mascara that has escaped my eyelashes to migrate southward
toward the warmer climate of my reddened cheeks. My eyes aren't so cold,
are they?

"Scully, are you in there?" That's his concerned voice. My ulcer's acting
up. I've got at least two stomach ulcers, possibly more. As a doctor
specializing in the medical sciences, I know that peptic ulcers like mine
are caused by the bacterium Helicobacter pylori and not stress as was
believed for years. Stress, however, is a mitigating factor and I know for
a fact that at least one of my ulcers has Fox Mulder's name written all
over it.

I am turning the lock, I am rotating the knob, I am passing my hand over
my face to smooth it. I am opening the door.

"Hello, Mulder." Good. Nice, dull, flat monotone. All's right with the
world.

"Scully, I came over as soon as I got your message. Any word on your
mother?" He sounds pretty frantic himself, better put him out of his
misery quickly .

"It's OK, Mulder. She's fine. It was just ... I overreacted." I'm in no
mood to recount the details of said overreaction so I distract him with a
question.

"Why didn't you call before you came over?"

"I wasn't far from here when I checked my messages so I decided to just co
me by."

"Where were you?"

"Umm...tailing a suspect." He's wearing the 'I've just been shopping for
porn in your neighborhood' face. I know it and he knows I know it.

"Oh, OK. Do you want to come in? Have a drink or something?"

"Sure."

We glance at the half-empty wine bottle sitting on the coffee table, then
at each other. I move quickly to pick it up and put it away, calling over
my shoulder, "I'll just fix some coffee real quick." Because nothing
soothes raw nerves like a quick jolt of caffeine.

"OK." He's just full of scintillating conversation tonight, isn't he?

My hands are shaking and my teeth hurt. I can't even begin to sift through
my emotions, to determine what is nervousness and why and what is the
sudden crumbling of defenses and why.  Such overwrought indecision is the
tried and true stomping ground of the Drama Queen.

I've been performing this high wire act for years and only now, just
tonight, did I happen to look down and notice the absence of a net. Was it
ego that held me up here for so long? Was it ego that kept me from looking
down? Maybe.

I know how I appear to others: cold-hearted, codependent,
passive-aggressive. Passive aggressive, now there's a nice five-dollar pop
psychologist's dream of a word. Bite me. I've been to hell and back and
I've done what I had to do to survive. If I've sacrificed some innocence
on the journey, if I've been less than communicative, well that's what
I've had to do to live. I'd do it again and anybody who doesn't like it
can take a long walk off a short pier, as my father would say.

And, oh yeah, I've got a world class Electra Complex. Anything else to
add?

"Hey, Scully, everything OK in there?"

"Yes, I'm just pouring the coffee." The mugs are dancing in my hands like
some damn flailing Irish dance troop on speed but I don't tell him that.

Deep breath. One, two, three. OK. I'm fine. Mulder can see me now.

But I can't see him.

I can face down the dirty old men of the bleeping conspiracy, liver eating
mutants, terminal cancer and strange angels. I have survived the theft of
the one thing I cherish the most, my own autonomy. Yet I'm standing in my
kitc hen, just to the side of the door with painfully hot coffee mugs
clasped in my shaking hands because I just glanced around and saw the back
of Mulder's head. He can't see me like this. He needs me to be strong. He
needs me and I need him to need me. God, I can't lose him too.

"Scully, is something wrong?"

Shit. There goes the coffee. It is hot.

"Damn it, Mulder. Ouch. Don't sneak up on me like that."

"I'm sorry. I was just...watch out for the glass."

"Thanks. I think I could have figured that out." The robe will have twin
coffee stains now but it doesn't burn so hot. Nothing to sue McDonald's
over. So, why am I about to cry? In front of Mulder.

He's bathed in familiar fear. What's wrong with Scully? Will she finally
give up? Finally leave me? No, Mulder. Oh, no, never that. I really am
completely dependent, not on your love or approval but on your life. How
maudlin.

Suddenly, I am in his arms because I have thrown myself there. My head is
buried in his neck and I'm leaking all over him. How the hell did that
happen? His eyes must be ringed with gold; they explode with color when
he's deciphering a riddle. I've never before met anyone so certain of
themselves in their own utter confusion. It's damn sexy, if you want to
know the truth.

And truth is what it's all about.

"Mulder, I can't lose you." Uh-oh. I'm pretty sure I just said that out
loud.

"What?" Apparently, I did, but was saved by the sheer incoherence of my
liquid blubbering. Good, he didn't hear it. I don't have to explain it or
take it back.

"I said..." blubber, hiccup, gasp, blubber, "...I can't lose you, Mulder."=
 Oh God, I said it again. What happened to my famous self-control?

He heard me this time. He's pulling my head back from his neck and forcing
me to look at him. His hands hold my head firmly, in the Rhett and
Scarlett position, but face to face. He could crush me with those hands.

No, he couldn't. And if he tried, I'd kick his ass. Then I'd glare at him
in stony silence until he begged for mercy. It's a special bonus skill
included with the Hyper-Repression Deluxe Package.

"Scully, I'm not going anywhere."  He sounds unsure. His eyes are
brilliant with color now yet somehow clouded with doubt. It is terrible to
be the cause of his uncertainty when I'm supposed to be his one certain
thing.

Through the blur I can see his mouth moving now. What this signals is that
he is talking again but somehow I've hit the mute button and I can't hear
him . He's so much more beautiful mute. That's not fair. True, but not
fair.

"...go into the living room and sit down," he finishes.

So that's what he wanted.

"Yeah, OK." We leave the coffee soaking into the white tile and he guides
me to the couch. Watch the hands Mulder.

I purposefully position myself on the end of the couch, as far from him as
I can. We twist to face each other.

"Scully, are you drunk?" He asks the question with a confused breathy
chuckle. He's thinking to himself, God I hope she is drunk, please let her
be drunk.

That would be the most acceptable explanation.

"No. Well, a little tipsy, maybe."

He is sitting in silence waiting for me to speak again. I've brought us
this far tonight; finally I get to lead a conversation. This is it. If I
don't speak the truth now, the moment is gone forever. We are so good at
pretending these moments never happened.

Why would I even want to speak the truth? How do I know what it is? I do
know that I am not attractive when I cry but it's starting to happen
again. My face is contorting beyond my control and the tears are beginning
to flow.

Stop. Stop it now. Don't let him see you like this. 

He's leaning toward me, still waiting for me to say something. So, he
picks now to finally shut up and listen? God, I resent the hell out of
that.

"Scully." He can't stop himself. He has to say something, even if it's
only my name.

I don't even have the muscle control right now to arch an eyebrow. This
alarms Mulder as much as anything. He relies on my gestures of disdain.
They're only gestures, Mulder, I swear.

"Mulder, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course." He says of course like it means the opposite of of course.
But, of course, I continue.

"How do you see me? How do you think I see you?"

"That's two questions."

He's so smart. "OK. Pick one and answer it."

Intrigued and wary, Mulder just watches me for a moment. Equilibrium is a
condition of balance between opposed forces. In losing my balance, I've
thrown him off his. We are now unbalanced together. Nice to have company.
Welcome to my nightmare, Mulder.

"I...ummm...well...huh. Scully...you know how important you are to me.
I've told you how I feel. In the hallway, in front of my apartment." He's
sweating bullets. I almost feel sorry for him but I've earned this.

"You said you need me, Mulder. You didn't really tell me how you feel
about me."

I think he's beginning to feel angry. Angry at me for putting him on the
spot like this. He's considering his options and the slump in his posture
tells me that he's deciding to give me what I want. Anything to keep my
tears at bay. Anything to convince me not to leave him.

Tomorrow, maybe he'll change his mind and try to convince me to leave
again. Hopefully, I won't be in the mood to take him up on it.

"How do I think you see me?" He has weighed his options and decided that t
his is the safer question to answer. I am not surprised.

"OK. How do you think I see you?" I loathe my voice, so small and unsure.
Good God, woman, maintain control.

"Sometimes I think you barely tolerate me..."

"But..."

"No, Scully, you asked the question. Let me answer it."

Jesus, he's gone into professorial mode. I hate professorial mode. I can't
help but wonder if I will be getting a slide show presentation soon.

"Fine. Go ahead, Mulder." Thankfully, my voice is stronger. I really can't
shake the image of the slide show presentation. From almost hysterical
tears to near hysterical laughter in less than two minutes. But I bite my
tongue and keep my silence.

"I guess I really don't know how you feel about me, Scully. You're not the
easiest person in the world to read, you know." He leans forward. My, he
really seems to be warming up to his subject. "Sometimes, I guess you just
see me as a stray puppy you've rescued or, worse, some kind of a joke."

"That's ridiculous." And that's righteous indignation in my voice.

"Is it? I don't think so."

"Mulder, I wouldn't have stayed with you for so long if I thought you were
a joke. None of this has been fun for me."

"Then, why? How do you really feel about me?"

"Mulder, you're the most important person in the world to me. I've put you
ahead of my family, of my career, of everything I've ever wanted."

"That's bullshit, Scully."  Excuse Me? And how did he turn this around on
me anyway?

"Bullshit?" is all I can manage to say. My mouth is hanging open and the
way things have been going, I'm afraid I will start drooling any second
now. HOW DARE HE?

"How could you doubt me, Mulder?" On top of everything else, I'm about to
start crying big girlie-tears again.

"I don't doubt your loyalty, Scully, but don't pretend you do it all for
me." Wait a second, isn't he supposed to be the one who blames himself for
everything?

"I never said I did it all for you..."

"If you would just give up your Goddamn martyr complex for one second..."

"Martyr complex!" I'm off the couch now and facing him in all my coffee-
stained, red-cheeked, make-up-impaired glory. I'm breathing fire and
leaning over close to his face so I can blast him with it. "How dare you,
you sanctimonious prick? When have I ever claimed to be a martyr? Is that
how you see me? Like some Goddamned martyred saint?"

"No. That's not how I see you, Scully. It's how you see yourself." He
stands up too and faces me with an equally rigid stance. Bastard.

"Listen, I've been victimized, time and time again, but I AM NOT A
MARTYR! " I can't even begin to tell you how good it feels to be
screaming at the top of my lungs right into his clenched face. "What I do,
what I'm willing to suffer, isn't for me. It's for the truth, Mulder, but
I'm not willing to just roll over and die for it. How dare you presume
that my motives aren't as high and mighty as yours?"

"I don't, Scully. I don't see you as a victim and I don't question your
motives. You're the most honorable person I know. So why the hell are you
questioning yourself? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

"Gee, Mulder, you seem to have all the answers. Why don't you tell me?"

"All right. You're afraid."

"Afraid of losing you? Yes. I as much as told you that earlier."

"No. Afraid of losing yourself."

Shit.

I hate it when he's right.

Here's an idea, why don't I just ignore that he said that?

"I'm not a victim, Mulder, but I cannot deny that I have been victimized.
Why do you refuse to look back at the things they've done to us? How long
can we continue as though our lives have some degree of normality? We move
from case to case and we don't even try to make sense of what it all
means."

"I haven't forgotten anything." We're both yelling. The truth is, it feels
good.

"And you are not a victim, Scully. You're a survivor." He blanches at his
own words. As well he should at spouting such trite drivel. It sounds like
something someone in a movie of the week might tell a rape victim, sorry -
survivor, or someone with a terminal illness.

"However I choose to move on, to get past all this, Mulder, I am a
victim.= And so are you."  The time has come for full-frontal self-pity
and I'm not ashamed of it anymore. It's been held in for too long and my
list is long.

"Scully..."

"SHUT UP AND LISTEN!" Jesus, the vase on the mantle just shook with the
power of my voice. "I've been abducted, kidnapped by various and sundry
forces of evil, from the Goddamned shadow government to trailer trash
fetishists and shape-shifting aliens. Medical experiments have been
performed on me again st my will.

"I thought you died in that boxcar and I lived through that, fought
through it, until I almost thought that it was the sheer force of my will
that brought you back to life..."

"Maybe it was..."

"I said SHUT UP."

"Sorry." He really does sound contrite. 

"My sister's murder. Mulder, that should have been me, but you know all ab
out guilt, don't you?" I'm slowing down now, my voice has lost its power
and I am once again fighting tears. I need to sit down. Collapsing on the
couch, I hold my chin up with my hand. Mulder continues to stand, watching
me with dewy eyes.

"They put this damn chip in my neck and play their little mind games with
me. You know, Mulder, of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the
most."

He twists his lips into a smile at my small attempt at humor and squats
down on the floor to face me, taking my cold hands in his warm ones. He is
watching me with such attention, such passionate intent; I imagine I can
feel him inside of me, sharing my pain. I want so much for him to
understand my heart.

"Then, there's you, Mulder."

"Hey, what'd I ever do to you?" He asks in his most appropriately self-moc
king manner.

I manage to sob, "you ditch me and you keep things from me."

"What things?"

"Well, Diana Fowley, for one."

"Can we please not go there?"

"OK. I'll leave that one alone for now." I am proud of my own
magnanimousness.

"Thank you. Go on."

"Hmmm?"

"Scully, go on. There's more. What else has been done to you?"

"The cancer. I really resented that one, you know. They could have just
had me shot or something. To make me suffer such a debilitating illness
was just adding insult to injury."

"But, you won that one, didn't you?"

"Yes." But it was a victory short-lived.

"What else?"

"Emily," I squeak out. "That's something else you kept from me. What you
found out from Kurt Crawford."

"I was trying to protect you."

"Haven't you figured out that that just doesn't work? You can't protect me
if you're hiding the truth from me; you're only denying me the opportunity
to look after myself."

"Ok. I'll try to do better." It pains him to say it and he'll probably for
get it at the first available opportunity but it's nice to hear anyway.

"I wanted to have my own children someday. That's one of the reasons Emily
was so...I don't know. She was mine in a way, but she wasn't mine to keep.
They reduced her to a medical mystery, to a symbol of everything I've lost
when she was really just a little girl. My little girl."

Finally, there is silence. I have more to say, believe it or not. After
all, there is the whole office fire and bee thing to go into. Not to
mention that frostbite on your face hurts like a bitch. In my current
mood, I would delve into those subjects and I would probably bring Diana
Fowley into it too just because I can. Except that I can't. All the
muscles I normally utilize for speech are busy with other things. The dam
is about to burst and the strain on its resources is enormous. I don't
want to give in to it, if I give in now, the tears may flow forever.

His voice is a whisper. "Whatever you're feeling right now, Scully,
whatever happens, I'm here.

"And I'll never leave unless you ask me to."

Will wonders never cease? He has now said the right thing twice in one
year. I am eroded. The tears flow again and this time I do not try to stop
them. There's no use.

I am no longer embarrassed by the sheer volume of these involuntary bursts
of sound or by the spastic facial contortions or even by the thick yellow
fluid flooding out of my nose. It's not pretty but it's real. I haven't
felt so real, so much myself, in years. I'm even glad that Mulder is here.
It might not feel as real if it wasn't his to share. Hell, I might not
feel so real if I wasn't his to share.

The tears, released, flow without constraint - a gushing waterfall.
Niagara Falls, no, Victoria Falls. I have no more control over them now
than I do over any such natural force.

Still frightened, but no longer hiding, I fall again into Mulder and his
arms encircle me with comforting strength. He is strong for me. He is
strong because of me. I know this too as I know the feel of him as if he's
held me in these arms a thousand times. As if. As if the tides are rolling
with us rather than us with them.  As if we are lovers. As if it's as
simple as this: I find my solace in Mulder.

He's pulling back now and holding my head again in his hands. They're
artist's hands. I've noticed this before. The sobs are abating but the
tears are still running and he's kissing my eyes and my cheeks to absorb
the flood. It's not long before I start kissing him back - his forehead,
his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and now his eyes.

And now his lips. They are slick with my tears. The kiss is innocent
enough but deepening. Mouths open, and...God, if I'd known he would taste
like this I would have rammed my tongue down his throat years ago.

No coherent thought now. Time passes. Seconds, minutes, hours, days. Who
the hell knows or cares?

I like this. This is fun.

Oh, my God. I'm kissing Mulder and he's certainly kissing me. How did I
end up on the floor?  He's not wearing too much hair gel today, which is
nice, all the better to run my fingers through. He's hard against me. I've
seen the goods before but never in their full glory. I'm looking forward
to the experience. As a matter of fact...

His hand reaches down to still mine over his fly. He pulls it away as he
pulls his lips away. Damn.

"Scully, we don't have to do this now." I must say his obvious discomfort
and the difficulty he has in saying this is rather flattering.  What would
be more flattering would be if he took me right here on the living room
floor. Apparently those romance novels Missy and I read under the covers
had more of an impact than I thought.

"But, I want to."  I sound petulant and cloying, like every cheerleader I
ever hated in high school. Hey, whatever it takes, right?

"I mean it, Scully. I don't think it's a good idea right now. You're
overwrought." I wonder when the last time was I could have been accused of
being overwrought.

I search his eyes with mine. There's a method to this. I start by noting
the shape of the lids. Are they wide or narrowed? Right now, they're wide,
indicating a certain hyper-attentiveness. Next, the moisture level must be
analyzed. They're moist but that was pretty much a given; it's been an
emotional evening. My study next leads me to the whites of his beautiful
orbs. They are reddened but without the yellow tint that indicates
exhaustion or impending illness.

I suppose you would call his eyes hazel. The colors do not blend into one
color easily defined. They are like twin prisms, distorting and reflecting
white light into brilliant hues of blue and green, purple and gold. His
pupils are dilated, causing an almost primal response in me.

Most notably, his eyes are serious. He means it when he says not now.

"Mulder, I'm not that overwrought." He chuckles and shakes head.

"I wasn't expecting this," he says, "not tonight. I think we should hold
off for a while."

Finally, my breathing has slowed to a manageable pant. Again, he is right.  
We should take the time to consider this change in our relationship, to
pay it the respect it deserves. This is not a matter to be taken lightly
or to be rushed into foolishly. We have been growing toward this for over
five years and we will have each other forever.
 
"How about tomorrow morning?"

"Sounds good to me," he answers quickly.

Good, that's settled. I'm at my best when I'm working off an established
schedule.

"Stay the night? On the couch, I mean."

"I thought you'd never ask."

I must be grinning like an idiot as we rise, facing one another. We will
walk to the couch and spend the night there together but first he stops
me, his hand rising to stroke my face. He kisses me softly and seeks the
truth in my eyes. He speaks.

"I love you."  I have always secretly hoped that he would say it first. 

"I love you, too." 

I am suffused with peace and it's not what I expected. Life with Mulder
has never been peaceful. I would expect such a monumental declaration to
come with a thunderbolt from the heavens and the quaking of earth under
our feet. Instead, there is this, a gentle summer breeze that fills and
calms me, warming the coldness I have lived with for too long.  Suddenly,
all is right with the world. For this moment at least, we are normal
people, in love and together with no barriers between us.

We sit on the couch, very close and facing one another. Holding hands.
Dana Scully, sittin' on the couch, holdin' hands with a boy. I suppose it
was all worth it.

"So," he says quietly, "how do you see yourself now Agent Scully?"

"I'm not a victim. I'm a survivor." My voice is tinged with irony but I me
an what I say - it isn't so trite after all. He smiles.

Looking at him now, feeling his warmth next to me, I can see that he is
happy too. Life is a struggle, more so for some than for others. Happiness
is rare and we breathe it in while it lasts.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The clock over the television says 2:43. I have been lying in silence for
hours now, my head on Mulder's chest. Neither of us has spoken for some
time but we are both awake, adjusting ourselves to the novelty of this new
circumstance.

"Scully?"

"Hmmm?"

"What are you thinking?"

I am thinking about how difficult it is to get dark coffee stains out of
white tile. I am thinking about how handsome Mulder looks in his gray
T-shirt. I am thinking that sunrise will come in a few hours and we will
be completely together.

I am thinking about Adam and Eve. Science has shown that the Book of
Genesis is nothing more than a religious fable. No such two people ever
existed. A dam in his loneliness never called out for a companion, borne
of his own flesh and bone. Eve, innocent and curious, never roamed
paradise naked and without shame. They were never tempted by the forbidden
fruit, never punished for knowledge. It was someone else at some other
time in our history who discovered that with knowledge comes pain. Someone
else who chose to teach that lesson through the story of two people who
sought the truth in the false promises of fallen angels and discovered
that it existed in each other. Damaged and frightened, completely alone,
they built a world out of only that. Maybe Eve was the first Drama Queen.

"Oh, nothing."

He does not press me for another answer. Instead, he sighs in his
contentment and lightly squeezes my hip.

I press my head firmly into his chest and drift into sleep, carried by the
slow rhythmic cadence of Mulder's heart.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The End

Hmmmm?let's see?do I want feedback? Uh?YES! Send it here if you are so
inclined:

gwendyn@aol.com