*********************************************************************
  This author's e-mail address has changed to: xanaduxf@yahoo.com
*********************************************************************

***DISCLAIMER***: All "X-Files" elements and references
in this story belong to Fox Broadcasting, Chris Carter,
and 1013 Productions, and I am making no money from it.

==========

Facade
by shannono
shannono@iname.com


Vignette, Angst, Mulder first person, Mulder/Scully UST

Rated PG

Spoiler for "Terms of Endearment"

Author's notes: So now I can mark THIS ep off my list ... ;)

Thanks: To Brandon and Robbie, for the beta -- and Brandon
for title help. :)

===========

Facade
By shannono


It hits me as soon as I see her. I try to hide it, as I 
always do, but I feel it keenly from the moment I catch 
sight of her small form, kneeling beside one of several 
shallow holes in the grassy lawn. The ache settles somewhere
between my throat and stomach, right about in the spot where
I've heard rumors I have a heart.

No. I know it's there. My heart, I mean. I just tend to spend
half my time ignoring it and the other half wallowing. I can't
find a middle ground; for me, it's either full-blown emotion
or none at all.

I feel an attack of the full-blown variety coming on right
now, but I shove it down deep. Can't lose control now -- 
not now; not here.

I step carefully as I approach, studying her profile. Her
face is arranged into its usual professional mask, cool and 
clinical, as she scoops and sifts through the dirt.

Only I know it's a facade.

I stop next to her, and she looks up at me, still calm but
making no effort to hide the anguish in her eyes, the slight
slump of her shoulders. No one else but me would even notice
it, would ever have any idea of what this is doing to her.

I squat down to her level and we talk briefly, about Wayne
and Betsy, about what kind of ... *things* they would have 
to be, to do what they've done. She doesn't believe either of
them was a demon, of course, but she does know evil when she
sees it. She's stared it down more than once.

But as we talk, in soft tones, my mind and heart and soul rage
inside me. How could anyone do this? How could a woman give 
birth to not one, not two, but *four* perfectly normal, healthy
babies ... and then kill every one of them simply because of 
their perfection?

This is what's bringing these feelings out in me, making it
so hard to hold it in. That ... woman ... had four beautiful
children and killed them all. And meanwhile, my partner, my 
beautiful, brilliant, compassionate, loving partner, will
never know the feeling of holding her own son or daughter in
her arms.

And she wonders why I have so much trouble believing in a
benevolent God.

I have to literally shake myself free of my thoughts, and I
see Scully's gaze turn questioning. I shrug and give her a 
slight smile, then stand and hold out my hand to help her up.
She looks at it, then back at me, before accepting the offer 
and rising to her feet.

She releases my hand immediately, bending to brush grass and 
dirt from her knees, then stripping off the latex gloves.
"Mulder," she starts, her eyes trained on her hands.

"Scully," I say, before she can go on. "Forensics can handle
the rest of this. Let's get out of here."

Her head snaps up, and she looks at me quizzically. "Mulder,
I can't, I --"

"C'mon," I interrupt again, almost pleadingly. "Let's go get
a late breakfast. My treat."

She continues to look at me like I'm crazy -- not an extreme
idea in the least -- then glances around the yard, her eyes
lingering on the four holes in the ground. She knows what I'm
doing. And finally, she gives a small sigh, then nods once.

"Okay," she says. "Let me go talk to Agent Wilson first."

I nod in response, then watch her walk across the grass
toward the Forensics van. Her back is straight, her stride
purposeful; she looks like the consummate professional, as
she always does.

But I know the truth. I know the depth of feeling hidden 
under that armor, and I know the efforts she makes to keep 
it all under wraps. I've been privileged enough to see a 
few glimpses here and there, but always under the worst of
circumstances.

Maybe someday things will be different. Maybe someday she'll
open herself to me willingly, without a traumatic catalyst.
Throw aside that facade, and let me see everything she really
feels.

God, I think. If you *are* there ... please, let it be soon.