From: Ann K Date: 29 May 2002 23:19:55 -0700 Subject: [xfc] NEW: Fade by Ann K (1/6) Source: atxc "Fade" by Ann K Summary: Mulder never returns after his disappearance in "Requiem," leaving Scully alone and a single-mother. Years later, fate conspires to bring Scully back to the man she has never forgotten. Can she accept the truth she finds? Rating: R (individual chapters may vary, please read carefully) Keywords: MSR, A, S, Sc/Sk friendship, William, AU Timeline: After Requiem, although the events of seasons eight and nine never happened. Doggett and Reyes do not exist in this story. Scully found out she was pregnant at the end of "Requiem," and then it all changed. Feedback: Much appreciated at annhkus@yahoo.com. Read more of my stories at http://www.yahoo.com/annhkus. Distribution: Please let me know, and leave my name and headers attached. Thanks. Disclaimer: The X-Files and the characters of Scully, Mulder and Skinner belong to Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox. See author's notes, thanks, etc. at the end of chapter six. Chapter One (1/6) I. How she became the mother of a boy who loved horses, she wasn't sure. The horse obsession started simply enough. They had been on a summer vacation with Walter near Myrtle Beach, the memories a blur of sunburns and squishy sand. But William spotted a pony ride set up on the boardwalk, and after she fished around in the bottom of her beach bag for a crumpled five dollar bill, he spent the next hour in bliss, and cried as the sun set and Scully pulled him off to go back to the hotel. The five dollars fed an obsession that brought her to this place, sitting in the battered bleachers near a dusty riding ring, three years later. William loved to ride, and she loved to see her son happy. So, they made the trek to the stables every other day, a short ride from their suburban home. A three-bedroom house, a large mortgage, two dogs romping in a fenced in green backyard, a SUV in the garage. Life was grossly idealistic, minus the absence of a simple figure. It was that absence that she felt everyday, in the mornings when she woke alone in her king-size bed, huddled to one side, unconsciously leaving Mulder's space empty. She felt it at lunch, when she rushed home to walk the dogs and was greeted by an empty house, when it should have been filled with his larger than life presence. It caused her to ache at night, when she and Will cuddled on the couch, laughing at some inane movie, and the space seemed too big and empty. It wasn't supposed to be this way, of that she was sure. The plans she made for herself when she was William's age never included nights of aching loneliness, a loneliness she refused to acknowledge in a feeble effort to make it go away. They never included the paralyzing uncertainty of a single mother, wanting to do everything right, and terrified that it would all come out wrong. They never included the heartache of not knowing, of accepting a cruel hand dealt by the mistress of fate. Dana Scully believed in fate, however, just as she believed in science and right and wrong, so she sat and watched her son and thanked God for his presence in her life. She held her breath as he jumped over the small oxer, directing the gelding effortlessly. The distance between him and the ground seemed so large to her earthbound eyes. She exhaled sharply as the two landed, and a bright smile crossed William's face. She resisted the urge to clap, not wanting to embarrass her son. He seemed so much older than his eight years, with a maturity that often haunted her. It haunted her because he would look at her and, at times, she would see his father. A younger Mulder, one that she never knew. William shone with innocence, and an intense curiosity about the world. Another trait inherited from his father, she was sure. The sun was beginning to set in the horizon, the pinkish hue a backdrop to the pine trees lining the riding ring. She was lucky they had found this stable so close to their house. There were endless days of rushing out from work to pick William up from school. He would bounce on the car seat the entire way there, rattling on about what horse he might get to ride that day. It wasn't his words that captivated her as much as his voice, a meticulous self-assurance peppering his tone in an echo of times long gone by. The bleachers rattled underneath her, snapping her away from her thoughts. "I swear, Dana, that boy would be happy if you let him live at the stable." She laughed softly, and accepted his outstretched offering of coffee, the warm aroma mixing deliciously with the smells in the summer air. "There are those days when his room reminds me of the stable," she answered grimly, but with a smile lurking behind her eyes. "But I know even those moments are precious. We both know William is a special child. I am sure he knows it, too." Walter was quiet. Dana figured he did know how special Will was. He had been there for each of William's birthdays, even his first. His preschool graduation, his first riding lesson, his school plays. He joined them on occasional weeknights, when he could escape from work at the Hoover Building and the traffic was cooperative. "Busy day?" she asked, already knowing the answer. Since Walter's promotion, they had seen him less and less, and she was grateful for the time he could steal away to be with them. "As always," he answered, stretching his legs on the bleachers and leaning forward onto his elbows. "I had to go down to Quantico today, and then met with some agents in Alexandria. Someone asked about you. An Agent Campbell?" She had to think for a moment, willing her thoughts back to her tenure with the Bureau. She left after the birth of William, unable to continue with work that seemed so different without Mulder's presence. It was another lifetime, but she had vague memories of a balding ASAC in Virginia. She shrugged noncommittally, and returned her gaze to William in the riding ring. They sat in comfortable silence for a long moment. "It's hard to believe you've been gone from the Bureau for such a long time, Dana. I miss working with you." Despite their close friendship, such a display of emotion was rare from Walter, and she was touched by his devotion. Reaching over, she grabbed his hand for a brief moment, and then let go. "I appreciate the sentiment. You know I do. But things weren't the same for me after everything that happened." Walter knew what she was thinking, and simply nodded. "It wasn't the same for any of us, you know." But it had been hardest on Scully. As the search for Mulder waned, and Scully labored under the pressures of work, pregnancy and aching uncertainty, a fire in her was extinguished, something that terrified Walter. When William was born, she had a new purpose, a new reason for living. He was eternally grateful that Mulder, and fate, had given her one last gift before everything changed. The sound of a horse near the rail caused him to look up, and he saw that William's lesson was over. He stood, as did Scully, and they made their way down to the dusty riding ring. William's riding lessons were a regular occurrence. They knew the routine. "Mom, did you see how we jumped the fence today?" William's voice was excited, as were his eyes, and Scully felt her heart clutch for a brief moment. "I did, Will. You looked awfully good up there." Wherever Will got his riding genes from, it certainly wasn't from the Scully side of the family. They were sea-faring stock, she thought ruefully, not cowboys, remembering her one and only attempt at riding, to make William happy, and how her thigh muscles ached for the next week. She wondered vaguely if Mulder had ever been interested in horses as a child. "He is a good kid, Dana. You have done well." Becoming Will's mother made her own mother's annoying adages so true. "You'll understand when you have a child, Dana." "One day, you'll have to be the responsible mother." "Life changes when you have a child." As blessed as she felt, however, it was sometimes like getting a brightly wrapped gift with nothing inside. It felt hollow without Mulder, and she had come to the realization that it likely would forever. Will would never know his dad, although she kept pictures of Mulder scattered around the house, and Will often sleep with Mulder's old Knicks jersey as a makeshift pillowcase. She would stand in his doorway, long after he had gone to sleep, when the world had slowed from its feverish pace and she could take stock of her day. The sight of William's innocent face, his cheeks ruddy and his mouth slightly open, nestled against the worn garment she so intimately associated with Mulder, was too much at times. For all the progress she had made since the day she came home for good, the day she made her peace with Mulder and concentrated on raising William the best way she could, there were moments when she crumpled, sagging against the wall, weeping silently as the moonlight fell across Will's bed. "Dana? I asked you if you had any dinner plans for tonight. I wanted to take you and Will out to eat." He knew where her thoughts had been, but there was no cause to speak of them. They each carried their own heavy burden when it came to Mulder, and, while time might heal their wounds, the loneliness was a constant reminder of what had been lost. "Sounds good," she whispered huskily, clearing her throat. Hooking her foot on the railing in the stable aisle, she watched as Will curried the horse, his strokes strong and confident. He loved this part of the lesson, being able to brush the horse and put him up for the evening. She still rolled her eyes everytime they got in the car to go home, and Will would wave his fingers under her nose, exclaiming with glee that they smelled like horse. It was a warm, rich aroma, and she found herself intoxicated by it as well. "Will and I were talking about you last night," she finally said, breaking the comfortable silence between them. "My ears were burning. All good, I hope?" "We were watching one of those forensic how-to shows on the Discovery Channel. He wanted to know, when his dad and I were partners, if you were like the man who stood in the back of the autopsy lab supervising all the work." Walter laughed, a deep laugh that brought a smile to Scully's face. "Did you tell Will that I don't think I could have supervised you and Mulder, even if I tried? The best I could do is try to keep some semblance of order. I think we all knew that I wasn't running the show." "Well, I certainly wasn't either. I disavow all responsibility for some of the trials and tribulations we all went through. I think we all know who to blame for those." He was quiet a long time, and she turned to look at him when he finally muttered, "Yes, we do," a small smile creasing his face. "Fast food or fancy tonight?" he asked her, shaking the mood. "Ah, I get a choice. Somehow I think we might not be allowed in a fancy place, with Will's dirty jeans and dusty boots." "This is true. And it'll take him a couple of hours to stop bouncing on the chair, pretending he is still riding. Perhaps fast food might be the best bet." "Hey, what can I say? I'm cheap." She watched William lead the gelding into the stall, and prepared to head out to the car when Walter caught her arm. "Dana, can you do me a favor?" She blinked. "Of course," she responded immediately, trying to figure out what this favor might be. "Do you mind coming by my office on Monday, in the morning? I know it's a drive for you, and you'll have to take off work, but I have something I need to discuss with you." Scully wrinkled her forehead, trying to understand the motivations behind his peculiar request. She hadn't been to the Hoover Building in a very long time. "Is it something we can discuss this weekend?" "No," he replied quickly. "I'd rather talk in person, and in my office." At her quizzical stare, he added hurriedly, "It's nothing bad, I promise." He ran out of words. Why would he want to see her? She ran through several different options in her mind, none of them making much sense, before she nodded. She trusted him. "Of course, Walter. Monday morning. I bring the doughnuts, you supply the coffee." They walked companionably out to Scully's car, Will leaping in circle around them, and she filed Walter's request away, thinking about dinner and Will's riding lessons and her life as the mother off a very special boy. II. She walked briskly down the sidewalk, never looking at the masses of people that surrounded her. With her purse tucked under one arm, a bag of doughnuts in the other hand, and her heels clicking in a steady staccato, she immersed herself in the rhythm of all the days she had walked this very road, taken these same steps, and entered the cool lobby of the Hoover Building. Some things on earth would never change, she long ago decided, and the Hoover Building was one of them. Its beige concrete walls stood as sturdy and unshakable as they did when she first walked the hallways as an agent trainee, and she drew comfort from that. The comfort wasn't the same, and never would be. Not after all she had seen and done, and not after she realized that some men in power would contort the truth to fit their own needs. But there was always the part of Dana Scully that drew comfort from right and wrong. As she made her way to the front desk, presenting her identification to the security officer and shifting her feet as he picked up the phone, she looked at the agents walking toward the elevator, beginning their day's work. Had she ever been that youthful, that radiant, with a passionate sense of justice? A young woman with a short red hair caught her attention. She was standing by the elevator, a small box balanced in her hands, and Scully saw the Sig resting comfortably in a side holster, barely covered by the woman's black blazer. Their eyes met briefly in the crowded lobby, and the woman nodded quickly out of politeness before she stepped into the waiting elevator. What she saw when she looked at the thinning crowd was Mulder. More than her own moral compass, her tenure at the Bureau had been guided by Mulder's passion, his quest, and his never-ending search for his own truth. While once she had been resentful of that, now she counted it among her deepest blessings, that she had known and loved a man like Mulder. And it was Mulder that she saw reflected in the earnest faces of the agents that morning. "Miss Scully?" the officer questioned, bringing her attention back to the present and letting her drop the curtains on her vision of the cloudy past. "Deputy Director Skinner will see you now," he curtly informed her, handing her an identification badge which she clipped onto her blouse, and sliding her license towards her across the gleaming granite desk. "Take the elevator on the right up to the sixth floor. The officer there will direct you." There was no need to tell this man that she knew the Hoover Building better than he did, that she had spent most of her career within these walls. It was her home, and her family, although, just like with any other family, it was her blessing and her curse. She rode up the elevator in silence, jumping as the signal sounded for the sixth floor and the doors slid silently open. The officer directed her into Walter's outer office, and she was somewhat startled to see a young black man sitting behind the desk. Kimberly was long gone, she knew, but she half expected to see her surly smile when she walked into the door. "Go on in, Miss Scully," he informed her, waving towards the open door. "Deputy Director Skinner is waiting for you." She stood for a moment in silence at his open office door. Much had changed since Walter's promotion, and his office reflected that. The morning sunlight gleamed off the polished wooden floors, partly covered by an oriental rug, and she smiled at the few pictures that she saw on his side table. "Dana," Walter exclaimed, looking up from his paperwork and rising quickly from his chair. "I must be slipping. I didn't hear you walk in." She smiled at him, settling into a chair across from his expansive wooden desk and putting the doughnuts down beside her. "Must be all this cushy office work you have these days," she teased. "Your office is lovely," she added, almost as an afterthought. "I am proud of you, Walter. You deserve this." "Thank you," he murmured, and she could by the faint blush spreading over his neck that he was embarrassed. "But the Bureau is determined to get their mileage out of me, and they certainly do." He hesitated, and she could tell he chose his next words carefully. "Was it hard for you this morning, Dana? Coming back here, I mean?" She had only been back to the building a handful of times since William's birth. While she was flooded with reminders of her tenure as an agent, those memories also seemed like they belonged to another person, another Dana Scully who she remembered faintly, like an old high school classmate. "It was fine," she finally shrugged. "I do have some pleasant memories here." He nodded, and they sat in silence for a minute longer before she spoke. "You know I always enjoy seeing you, Walter, but are you going to tell me why you asked me down here on a weekday morning?" "Of course," he answered quickly. "But I'm not sure how." They had been friends for years now, and she appreciated his honesty. "Just tell me." He pushed himself out of his chair, and paced behind his desk. She felt like she was a young agent again, desperately trying to cover for Mulder and his latest indiscretion. And just as suddenly, just as if someone had turned on the lights in a darkened room, she knew. She knew why he had asked her down here, and why he was so hesitant to tell her what was going on. It was the one thing that would always bind them together. A sharp inhale of breath punctuated her surprise. "It's Mulder, isn't it?" she asked rhetorically. She knew, by the way he looked down for a brief moment, and how his shoulders slumped when she said Mulder's name. The silence was agonizing, so quiet that she could hear the clock on Skinner's wall ticking loudly. Or was that her heartbeat? "For god's sake, tell me, Walter." He stuck his hands deep into his trouser pockets and finally nodded, an almost imperceptible gesture. Meeting her unwavering gaze, he began. "I know you never gave up hope for Mulder after his disappearance, Dana. Neither of us did. But you had to retain some semblance of a normal life for Will, a family, and I wanted to help you with that. I love you, and I love Will, and I only wanted you to be happy. So I did what you asked. Whatever hopes we had for Mulder we kept in our hearts." She nodded, impatient. She knew this already. Scully spent months driving across the country, following up leads, talking to witnesses, all in a desperate effort to find Mulder. She failed. The failure haunted her, but not as much as William's face when she returned from her searches. He changed overnight, over a weekend, over the weeks and months she was gone. He was not going to grow up without her. She wouldn't allow that, and she knew Mulder would have wanted her to be with their son. "What are you telling me, Walter?" she pressed, her voice strained. He took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I am telling you, Dana, that while I supported you and William and never mentioned Mulder in that context, I never gave up looking for him. I have been looking for him for years, unofficially, using Bureau contacts and some of my own resources. I couldn't accept the fact that he simply vanished from your life, that Will would never know his father." Scully sat perfectly still, her rigid back the only thing that held her ragged emotions together. Why was he telling her this? Why now, after all these years, after the Mulder she knew and loved was a comforting memory in her heart? Her face pale, she stood, desperate to hear the words. He dropped his eyes from her intense gaze, and continued. "I never told you, Dana, because I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't want to tell you that I couldn't find anything, so I never told you I was still looking. There were leads, and some sightings, but they were never substantiated, Dana. I promised myself I would never tell you unless I knew for sure." His last words took a moment to process. "Unless I knew for sure," he had said. And now he was telling her. Her complex emotions slowed her rational thought process, but, when her brain clicked, and the words connected, she felt her heart begin to race. He was telling her because he believed he had found him. "Mulder?" she whispered, her voice sounding pitiful and desperate. She clinched her hands against his desk, her knuckles white. Walter walked around the desk, holding her loosely by the elbow and guiding her back into the chair. His next words were painted too broadly on the canvas for her to completely comprehend. "An associate of mine in Texas, Dana, called me two weeks ago. I had given him a picture of Mulder some time ago, and asked him to keep it for reference. He called me, and told me that he ran into a man in town that looked exactly like the photograph I had given him." No. Mulder could not be in Texas. If he was ever returned, she knew he would somehow find his way home, to her and William. He would find someway to let her know he was okay. "I checked up on him. I ran all his records, checked his identification, everything. He has none, Dana. Up until a few years ago, there was nothing on this guy. Absolutely nothing, a blank slate. But now he's working on a small cattle ranch in east Texas, and has been for the past several months." She knew she should be asking questions, saying something, but her mouth refused to open. She could only stare at Walter, her eyes wide, panicked and disbelieving. Walter reached over to hold her hand, but she didn't feel the physical connection. She felt nothing, emotions and facts and sensations flooding over her. She was drowning. "Dana, I went there. I had to see for myself. This man sounded so sure, and I trusted him. I had to know if it was Mulder." Something finally clicked, and she spoke, her voice raspy. "You went there? You saw him?" He nodded slightly, and Scully's heart skipped a beat. The tears welled up in her eyes, but she remained oblivious to her tenuous control on her emotions. She trusted Walter like she did few people these days. He was her friend, he cared for her and William, and he was her last real connection to Mulder, outside of her son. "And?" she asked, knowing the answer, but not so sure she wanted to hear the words. "I didn't speak to him, Dana. I heard him speaking to some other man, I saw him. I was close enough to touch him. I watched him for two days to make sure. I told the owner of the ranch that I was looking into a fertilizer theft. I needed to know, Dana. I had to know." She was frightened to hear him say the words, and he was terrified to say them. It was as if they had never left that hospital after Walter's return from Oregon, after Mulder's disappearance and the discovery of her pregnancy. The conversation had been put on hold, indefinitely, and now, after years, she heard Walter say that he would find Mulder. And he did. Without the words being spoken, she knew. Walter watched as the emotions flashed across her face, but her quiet composure never faltered. Her tears did not fall. He grabbed the file from the corner of his desk, turning it around methodically in his hands for several long moments. "I know what I saw, Dana. I believe that man was Mulder. It was him." And with that proclamation, he dropped the file into her lap, quickly getting up from the chair to walk to the window, unable to see her face when she opened the file. He knew what he had done was right, and that belief sustained him during the long years he had continued this search. But he never knew if he would really find Mulder. He didn't know what to do now that he felt he had. But Scully knew. She traced the Bureau logo on the top of the manila file, a ghost of a smile on her pale face, the paper in her hands a comforting sensation. She and Mulder had lived their lives by these papers, the files dictating their travels, their beliefs, and their very existence. It was fitting, and ironic, that she would discover the man who still defined her inside of a beat-up Bureau file. Time stopped. Her heart slowed, and she inhaled slowly, agonizingly, as she flipped open the file. And there, staring back at her, were a thousand visions of the past. William's quirky smile and moody eyes. Long fingers and strong hands that had sustained her for years. A lock of brown hair that hung carelessly over the wrinkled forehead, the raised brow. The expression on his face that still revealed to her everything he was thinking, and everything she was feeling. It was Mulder. III. "But, Mom. Billy said he was bringing his video games. Why can't I?" She sighed. "Will, we have discussed this five times already in the last hour. The camp rules say no video games allowed. Don't you think that you'll be too busy riding the horses and swimming in the lake to play a video game?" Ah, that was low, Dana, but effective. She watched as Will's defiant face crumpled just a little, then he finally muttered, "All right," tossing the game onto the overstuffed chair behind him. The suitcase lay open on the floor, stocked with shorts and socks and all the essentials for a week away at summer camp. It was her longest time away from Will since right after he was born, and it hurt. But she refused to damper Will's excitement by her matronly, bittersweet reflections. "Thanks for your help, Mom. I'm going to take a shower before bed." He scampered off, aiming a kiss towards her cheek, but kissing the air between them instead. She eased herself off the bed, walking slowly back into the den, picking up her by now cold mug of tea along the way. The manila file folder, highlighted under the single desk lamp illuminating the room, drew her eye like a beacon. Actually, she had been unable to take her eyes off of it since she begged Walter to let her take it home with her after their morning meeting. It seduced her from the passenger seat during her drive home, and she found herself praying for red lights so she could flip open the cover and memorize another detail of the face she thought she would never see again. She grabbed it on her way to the sofa, and settled down against the pillows, staring at the well-worn emblem on the cover. Federal Bureau of Investigation, it read, in bright, red lettering. That's why they put the "I" in FBI, Mulder had said. So why was she so frightened to follow her instincts on this one, to go to Texas and answer the question for herself? She knew that she had lost some of her edge after she resigned from the Bureau, that her quick responses, while a lasting part of her reflexes, had been dulled somewhat. Responding to a milk and cereal crisis during Saturday morning cartoons was different than reacting to an inbred homicidal maniac chasing after you. But that wasn't the point. The point, she finally admitted to herself, was that she was scared. What if it wasn't him? More than that, what if it was? "Mom," Will exclaimed from the spot behind her. She jumped involuntarily, throwing her hand up over her chest. So much for those lasting powers of observation. "Jesus, Will. You scared me. You sure are good at sneaking up on people." He grinned, a smile that reached his eyes. "Oh, Mom. You just weren't paying attention," he concluded, moving the blanket aside so he could sit next to her on the sofa. She knew that other eight-year-old boys were not like this. She knew that, one day, she would not be cool, that her "mother" label would automatically render her an embarrassment to Will. But, for now, she relished in his affection. She kissed the top of his head, the hair still damp from his shower. "That was a record fast time in the shower. Are you in a hurry to leave tomorrow?" she teased. He did not answer, and, after another quick inhale of his freshly washed red hair, she looked down at his face. He was fingering the file laid in her lap, the one she had momentarily forgotten was there. "Did Uncle Walter give you that today?" Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god. What was she going to say? After the rush of exhilaration she felt in Walter's office, looking at the picture of the man she was sure was Mulder, and even after staring at it for hours since then, she didn't know what she wanted to do. She was even less sure about what to tell William. Oh, god. Please don't let me screw this up. "Yes, he did. It's a case he thought I might be interested in." Will lifted an eyebrow, a move he acquired honestly, and asked, "Why would Uncle Walter ask you to look into a case? You've been gone for the FBI for a long time now." Will had never seemed able to connect the image of his mother, who baked him chocolate-chip cookies and tucked him in at night, to a gun-toting FBI agent, who tracked down bad guys. His image of Mulder was even murkier. He understood that his father had disappeared in the line of duty, and that he investigated paranormal cases, but he could never fully grasp the extent of Mulder's lifestyle. Oh, god. Her stomach clenched into a tight knot. "It's a case he thought I might be interested in." He stared at her inquisitively, and Scully swore at that moment, she was looking into Mulder's face. It was as if he knew her fears, he knew the Pandora's box they were possibly opening. And he thought she should press forward, for the elusive truth. Mulder may have been gone for nine years, but she had lived with his likeliness every day. "It's about Dad, isn't it?" She only stared at him, nodding dumbly. "It is, Will. Your Uncle Walter..." She hesitated, trying to pull the words together from thin air to explain this to Will, without getting his hopes up. He had long ago accepted that his dad was gone. If this wasn't Mulder, if she was wrong ... Oh, god. She tried again. "Your Uncle Walter thinks he may have found someone who has some information about your dad. He thinks I should go." "Is he going with you?" His face was solemn, and his eyes, wide and trusting. "No, Will. I told him that if I was going to go, I wanted to do it on my own." Walter had protested, as she knew he would, but, if this indeed was Mulder, she was going to meet him alone, just the two of them, the way it had always been. But now there were three. "I should go with you," Will said, nodding with intense seriousness. "If it's something about Dad, I should be there." Oh, William. Her heart broke, and she reached out to hold his hand. "Will, I'm not sure what I will find. I need to do this alone. You need to go to camp. But, whatever I find, I will tell you. If you need to be there, I will come and get you." He blinked at her, unconvinced. "Will, trust me. You can always call me on my cell phone, always, or reach me through Grandma. I trust your Uncle Walter, and he would not have me go anywhere that would potentially be unsafe." That she was sure of, knowing that Walter only wanted to accompany her for emotional support. The reality rushed past her a second later. The decision was made. She was going to Texas. She was going to see if this man, this Mulder in the photograph, was the same Mulder who haunted her dreams at night and peppered her memories during the day. Will finally nodded, slowly. "Okay, Mom. But you promise you'll call me if you find out anything about Dad. You promise." The inflection in his voice as he said "Dad," the only way he knew Mulder, brought tears to her eyes, and she cursed her weakness. Her weakness would cripple her again and again before she would cross the border into Texas the next day with the sun rising a dewy pink from the hilltops behind her. She wept as she slept that night, the file clutched tightly against her chest and the tears soaking the edge of the photograph. She wept as she rushed to get William ready to ride to camp with his best friend Billy, and instead found him with his arms crossed and the tiny suitcase at his knees in the back seat of the SUV. She wept as they huddled together there for what seemed like hours, talking about Mulder and her memories and how much Mulder would have loved being a father, and she finally convinced William to get in the car with Billy's mother. And she wept as she drove away from DC, driving through the day and night, and realizing with startling clarity that the careful world she had constructed for both herself and William was soon to be irrevocably changed. "Fade" (2/6) by Ann K For summary, disclaimers, etc., see chapter one. Author's notes at the end of chapter 6. www.geocities.com/annhkus Chapter Two I. It was noon when she finally arrived, the heat shimmering off the asphalt and creating ripples across the dusty two-lane road. She had driven for miles, the ribbon-straight highway tracing the tops of the flat hills, surrounded by pastures and farmland and large barns set off from the road. This was a country with which Scully was unfamiliar, an earthy atmosphere, and one driven by the sweat and toil of those that labored on the land. She tried, unsuccessfully, to imagine Mulder, sweat trickling down his brow, working in the fields, a hat propped haphazardly on his head. She saw his face in the men who galloped beside her as she drove, rounding up cattle from the large pastures dotting the countryside, sitting astride horses wet from exertion. She saw his body underneath the brimmed hats and plaid shirts, and she saw a Mulder very different from the one she held in her memory. She willed herself to believe that she was not making a mistake. Scully turned into the gas station inside the city limits, relieved to be able to walk for a moment and stretch her legs. After filling her up car, she walked aimlessly around the parking lot, unsure of what to do next. She felt feeble, her senses dulled. It had been a long time since she was out on her own, and she was unsure of herself. She thought of all the towns she and Mulder had seen, the beige and navy and black rental cars as innocuous as the cities that colored her tenure with Mulder. It all seemed so long ago, but she clung to it with a desperate ferocity that frightened her. It was part of what she shared with Mulder, so she strove to make it real and tangible. If he could not be with her, then she would make sure their memories, the inane and significant and minute, all of them, would exist. Brushing the dust off her slacks, she sat down on the curb, clutching a copy of Walter's file in front of her and taking stock of her surroundings. The town was small, at least from what she could see from her vantage point. She counted three stoplights on what she assumed to be the main street, lined by old brick buildings. A faded Coca-Cola sign stared back at her from what looked to be the town grocery. A few pick-up trucks rolled down the street, the midday heat making even their progress slow and lethargic. The grass was spotty, and uneven, giving the entire town an atmosphere of exhaustion, a place that had outlived its time and purpose. She instinctively knew that this was a place of hard knocks, broken dreams, all of the descriptions of a worn fragment of Americana. Across from her was the town bank, its single drive-thru empty and looking somewhat forlorn. The sun shone off the glass windows, but, if she squinted, she could make out the shadowy figures moving around inside. Next to the bank, a large church, its pillars and staircase sweeping backward from the sidewalk. A furniture store, a small coffee shop, the local pharmacy, a handful of dress shops. Absolutely nothing remarkable. She tried to imagine Mulder walking these streets, living his life among these people. She was hard pressed to imagine him settling down here. The Mulder she knew would only be comfortable settling down with her, and that was a bridge that they had just begun to tentatively cross right before he disappeared. She refused to acknowledge the idea that Mulder did not remember her, or who he really was. That idea was better than the one that lurked beneath the surface, and mocked her insecurities the entire drive to Texas. That he simply did not want to be found, especially by her. She remembered how she clung to him before he left for Oregon. She remembered how he turned to look at her as she left, the lingering glance speaking volumes when their voices could not. She remembered the first night he had come into her bed, the night she would always believe they created William. Scully refused to believe that he did not want her. If he had been returned, if he had been taken and returned somehow, she had to find him. She wanted to believe. Her cell phone rang, causing her to jump, and the papers in the file to shift, spilling out onto the asphalt. She grabbed them at the same time she pushed the "talk" button. The reception was fuzzy, but she saw Walter's office number reflected on the face of the phone. "Hello? Walter?" she shouted above the static, shoving the papers back into the folder, the photograph resuming its place on top. "Dana? Are you there?" She sighed, the sound of Walter's voice bringing a smile to her face. It reminded her of why she was here, and that he truly believed this man she sought was Mulder. Walter believed, and she found strength in that belief. She made it her own. "I am," she answered. Clearing her throat, she stood, tucking the file under her arm. "I just got here," she continued. "The drive was fine, and I slept a little at a rest area last night, enough to keep me going. That, and a couple of cups of strong coffee." She could still feel the slick caffeine pulsing in her veins. "Have you checked into the motel yet? It's supposed to be in the middle of town." "Not yet, Walter. But I don't think I could miss it. This place isn't exactly a sprawling metropolis." That was an understatement. "Look, Dana. I think you should check into the motel, take a hot shower, get some rest, before you start looking for..." He couldn't bring himself to say Mulder's name for some reason. They both sat in silence for a moment, but there was nothing else to be said. She was there, in a place where they believed she would find the answers that had eluded them both for years. That was enough. Even now, after all this time, they both took comfort in the possibility of the truth. "I will, Walter. I am going to do this right, okay? Don't worry. We both have too much at stake here for things to go wrong." But I have more than anyone, she thought. I have the possibility of losing everything that defines my life. Or regaining it. She silently admitted that she wasn't sure what would be worse. "I know, Dana, I know. I am just worried about you. I wish you had let me go with you. It would have been better having two of us there." But they both knew this was something she had to do on her own. Whatever question lay in this dusty town, she would have to be the one to answer it. "Did William call you from camp this morning?" she finally asked, leaving his unspoken sentiment hanging in the distance between them. "He did," Walter answered. "Said he had talked to you twice, and was off for the trail ride. He's worried about you, Dana." "I know he is. But he can call my cell phone anytime, and he knows that. I know he is safe there, and you are close by if he needs anything." He needs a father, she thought. He needs Mulder to be there when he leaves for school in the morning, and plays with the dogs at night. He needs his parents to be in the audience for his school play, and to be applauding him from the battered bleachers at his riding lessons. Don't screw this up, Dana. Do it right, do everything right, for William, for you, for Mulder. "So, call me and let me know what is going on, okay?" She focused again on Walter's voice, listening to the chatter of voices and the light static in the background. "I've got to go, Dana. But call me. Let me know what is happening." "I will," she answered, and with the electronic beep echoing in her ear, she realized she was alone again. Tucking the file under one arm and reaching for her wallet with the other, she walked inside the gas station to pay, the cool air enveloping her as she pushed open the door. A small radio next to the cash register played twangy country music, and the smell of fried chicken blanketed the small space. An older woman sat behind the counter, her gray hair swept up on top of her head, and her glasses perched on the end of her nose, a dull silver chain hanging by her neck. "Betty," her nametag proclaimed. Betty's eyes reflected the fact that Scully was a stranger. "That'll be eleven-fifty," Betty announced, taking the bills from Scully's hands. She pushed the receipt across the counter that was covered with a large sticker, peeling at the edges, that read, "We card," and pursed her thin lips even closer together. "Are you traveling through town?" Her heavily accented tone indicated that most strangers she met at the Stop N' Go were doing just that. "Actually, I was looking for the motel. Is it on the main street?" Betty's eyes widened only a fraction before she answered. "It is. About a block from here. My sister and her husband run it. They bought it from Mr. Simpson about three years ago." Scully wondered what to do with this information, and decided nothing. She smiled at Betty. "Thank you. I heard it was the best motel in the area." Actually, it was the only motel in the area, from what she gathered from Walter, but there was no harm in being friendly to Betty. Betty's eyes warmed a fraction before she answered. "They work hard. I'm sure they'll have a room for you." Betty paused a minute, considering, and then asked, "Are you staying in town long?" Ah, the million dollar question. Well, you see, Betty, she thought, I am in town looking for my partner and the father of my son, who I believe was abducted by aliens almost nine years ago and now is working as a cattle rancher in some small dot on a Texas map. I have no idea why he is in Texas instead of home with me and Will, and I have no idea what he'll say to me if, and when, I find him. Instead, she answered, "A few days, at least." Cutting off Betty's inevitable next question, she smiled, thanking her and walking back into the suffocating heat, driving in the direction of the motel. Paying for the room, her eyes began to blur, and she realized that she was exhausted. Before she could make sense of her surroundings, she opened the lime green door, the faded room number lopsided on the metal frame, and took off her shoes. She lay on the bed, not even bothering to turn back the bedspread. The air conditioner on the wall rattled, emanating a cold stream of air into the tiny space. Betty was right. The motel was clean, but sparse, and she dimly heard a few passing trucks from the street as her eyes began to close. She dreamt, of William riding a cowpony, galloping alongside her car as she drove down a road she did not recognize. He was smiling, a wide, toothy grin, the kind that graced his face so often when he was younger, but had begun to fade with age and maturity. "I'm riding, Mom. Look at me. Let's show Dad. We have to show Dad how I can ride. Tell him to come see," he exclaimed. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell Will that she was trying, but no words escaped. Walter sat beside her, holding tightly onto her hand as she slowed the car down and opened the door. She stood in the middle of the road, the sky clear, and the sunlight almost unbearable. And Mulder stood in front of her, his eyes dancing and a smile on his face. "Where have you been all this time, Scully? Why did you take so long?" When she finally woke, the room was dark, and she pulled the bedspread over her body, shivering in the darkness and thinking of Mulder. Despite the lingering humidity, she felt the sweat chill on her back, and she couldn't stop her shaking. Tomorrow, she decided. Tomorrow, she would go to the ranch where Mulder worked, talk to the owner and find Mulder. She would know from the moment she saw him if he was really the Mulder she remembered, and she would bring him home, to Will. She would make everything just right. She had to make everything right, she decided, trembling uncontrollably, because everything without Mulder had been so wrong. II. Dawn in Texas might be one of the most beautiful sights she had ever seen. After a restless night of sleep and vivid dreams of Mulder and Will, she woke before the sun, and took a long shower, reluctantly turning off the water only when it began to run cold. Pulling her hair up in a ponytail, she slipped on her slacks, and was surprised by her reflection in the small mirror above the sink. Even in the florescent glare, and despite the slight circle beneath her eyes that betrayed her insomnia, she looked younger than she had in years. She was reminded of the image of herself as a young woman, walking into Mulder's office for the very first time. And now she sat on the trunk of her car, parked on the side of the motel, and watched the hues of the sun spread from a pink to an orange to a faded yellow, until the sun finally made its appearance over the horizon and the day began. The day when she was to find Mulder, to find all the answers to the questions that plagued her for the past nine years. It was a lot to ask for just one day, but she would accept nothing less. "Miss Scully?" She looked up to see Molly, Betty's sister and the motel manager, walking up to her. Her hair was swinging in a ponytail similar to Scully's, only streaked with gray, and Scully saw the weathered lines on Molly's face. A lifetime spent in the Texas sun, she decided. "How did you sleep last night?" "The room was just fine. Thank you. I was awfully tired last night, so I slept just fine." That wasn't exactly true, but there was no need to burden Molly with the truth. Her poor night of sleep had nothing to do with the motel room. "That's good. Robert said you walked by the office this morning without picking up any breakfast. I brought you a doughnut and some coffee." Scully smiled, knowing that the last thing she needed was another cup of coffee, but she accepted the steaming mug with a smile. The day would be long, and she wasn't sure when she would have time to eat. Thank goodness for Southern hospitality, she thought, taking a small bite of the sweet doughnut. "Big plans for the day?" Scully choked as she swallowed the doughnut. She supposed they could be called big plans. "Something like that. I have some things I need to take care of in town." "Anything I could help you with?" Instinctively, Scully felt wary, untrusting, but she stared into Molly's sincere gaze for a moment, and then let out her pent-up breath. She just might need the help. Ask for it, Dana. Do this the right way. "Actually, there is. I was looking for Battle Creek Ranch. I have it on the map here, but wanted to make sure I have the directions right." Scully could tell Molly was biting her tongue, struggling with the conflicts of politeness and curiosity. The question of why Scully was going to Battle Creek Ranch never came. Instead, Molly leaned over her shoulder, tracing the route with her finger. Scully watched the short, stubby nail outline the county road leading out of town. "Take a left up the street at the first light," Molly said, mimicking her directions with her fingers. "You are going to go about twelve miles out of town, and you'll see the ranch sign on the left. The house sits back a little from the road, but I don't think you should have any trouble. Are you going to see Larry?" Larry Wilkins, the owner of Battle Creek Ranch, Mulder's employer, and indeed the man she hoped would be able to answer some of her questions. "I am," she confirmed, folding the map back into a small rectangle and smoothing the creases. "Thank you for breakfast, Molly," she said, pulling the keys out of her pocket. If Mulder was indeed here, if they were breathing the same air and watching the same sunrise, she couldn't wait a minute longer to find him. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears as she pulled out of the parking lot. The town was beginning to come alive. She sat at the red light, watching a young woman fumble with her keys before opening the door of a small bakery. Two men dressed in orange vests moved methodically down the sidewalk, stopping at the randomly placed trashcans to empty the refuse. She was entranced by the color, the simplicity and the vibrancy of the life here. It was as if she was seeing everything in Technicolor, everything magnified. She was so aware of the brightness that she winced, slipping on her sunglasses. As she drove down the two-lane road, her only companions the light breeze blowing through her open window and a few passing motorists, she struggled to make sense of her thoughts. What day was it? She furrowed her brow, and then remembered it was Thursday. Three days since she walked into Walter's office and her life changed forever. Two days since she packed her son, Mulder's son, into her neighbor's car and sent him off to summer camp. Less than a day since she arrived in town. Mulder had been on her mind every moment of the last three days. She allowed her mind to wander as she drove a steady fifty- five, her heartbeat a steady accompaniment to her thoughts. What would she say to Mulder? A thousand possibilities ran through her mind. Hello. I've missed you. Where in the hell have you been? As sure as she was that Mulder was the man staring back at her from the well-worn photograph, she was also sure he would never knowingly abandon her. The cold grip of fear and uncertainty tightened around her chest. She screeched to a sudden halt, looking out to an open field to her left. The steel sign decorating the front gates told her in looping cursive that she had indeed arrived at Battle Creek Ranch. Time slowed almost to a standstill as she surveyed the open land, lined by a ring of trees and a straight, white fence. Cattle grazed to her left, and a few horses were scattered to her right. A working cattle ranch, Walter told her. Mulder was a farmhand. She desperately tried to put the pieces together in her mind as she drove down the dirt driveway to a rambling farmhouse in the distance. The dust had yet to settle in her wake when she turned off the car. A wind chime tinkled from the wrap-around porch. Two tabby cats lay in the grass, soaking up the morning sun. As if on cue, a group of chickens ambled up beside the car, pecking the ground. Mulder could not be here. The squeak of the screen door caused her to look up. A gray- haired woman walked out onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron, looking at the unfamiliar car with curiosity. Now or never, Scully decided. It had already been too long. "Good morning," she offered as she stepped out of the car, her steady voice betraying none of her inner turmoil. If she stopped to process what was happening, she would falter. After all these years, she was so close. She could almost smell Mulder's scent in the air. "Morning," the older woman responded, walking down the steps to greet her. "Can I help you with something?" Scully was surprised, when the woman neared, to see that she was even older than she first thought. She had a matronly, comforting air, and Scully was instantly drawn to her. "My name is Dana Scully. I was looking for Larry Wilkins. Is he around?" "He is actually out in the fields this morning, but should be returning shortly. Is there some sort of problem?" She was so close to Mulder, the truth, the answers that she craved for so long, that it was almost painful, and she felt the blood drain from her face. Her heart pounded mercilessly in her ears, and she took a long breath. "There's no problem, Mrs...." "Wilkins," the woman supplied. "I'm Larry's wife." Scully nodded. "Mrs. Wilkins, I was looking for a man who is an employee of your husband's. I believe he is someone I knew from a long time ago, someone who I have searched for many years to find." It was strange, to sum up Mulder so succinctly, but she could offer the woman no other words. Her relationship with Mulder was unexplainable, even to her, much less to a stranger. "Ellen? Is something wrong?" Scully turned to see whom she presumed to be Larry Wilkins, walking towards them from the barn in the distance. He was much as Walter described him, the quintessential Texas cowboy, with his brimmed hat riding low on his tanned face. She felt sickly pale in comparison to the people she met here. "Everything's fine, Larry. Miss Scully was here looking for someone she thought you might know." They both gazed at her expectantly, and she stood stupidly for a long moment, unsure of what to do next. She was grasping for anything to hold onto in this long side down a treacherous slope, and she was failing. "I have a photograph," she finally said, reaching down to pull the file folder from the car seat. Handing them Mulder's photograph, she catalogued their expressions, and stopped breathing when she saw recognition dawn on their faces. Ellen glanced up at her momentarily, and then reached her hand over to her husband's arm. Neither of them said a word. Scully was about to speak when Larry thrust the photograph towards her and took his wife by the hand. "I'm sorry, Miss Scully. I can't help you." By the time she grabbed the photograph from the ground, the couple was halfway to the front door. She began to run, catching Larry by the shoulder and turning him around. "What do you mean, Mr. Wilkins?" she stammered. "Are you saying you don't know this man, that he doesn't work for you?" He stared at her, his expression blank, but his eyes sorrowful. "I'm saying, Miss Scully, that I can't help you." She could not accept that. "No," she shouted, holding the photograph up in front of the couple. "Look again. I was told that you knew this man, and that he worked for you. I traveled a long distance to find him." She was desperate. "I have to find him," she said, her panic causing her voice to rise. "Dana." Ellen was speaking to her now. "We have many men who work on the ranch during the season. We have to respect their privacy." "Then he's here." Her words were not a question. Neither Larry nor Ellen would look at her. "He's here, now, working on your ranch." Their silence continued, and Scully cursed the tears that began to flow down her cheeks. She saw William, sitting defiant in the backseat of her car, begging her to take him to Texas, his stubborn gaze just like his father's. She could not fail him. She wept openly, staring at the couple. "If you know something," she managed in a painful whisper, "you have to tell me." Larry walked inside the house, silent. But Scully looked into Ellen's face and saw a deep sympathy. "I can't tell you anything, Dana." Her words were deliberate, and Scully closed her eyes against the bright sun, wiping the wetness away with a quick swipe of her hand. "He is the father of my son," she said, blindly, speaking in a monotone. She had failed. "He doesn't even know that he is a father. He has been gone for such a long time, and I was told he was here. I didn't want to believe, but I came anyway." She pinned Ellen with her gaze and her words. "He drew me here. Don't you understand? I have to find him. I have to find him for Will." Whatever wall existed crumbled. Ellen gave a visible shake, and then reached out to hold her hand. "I can tell you this," Ellen said, her voice a stealthy whisper. "Usually all the men on the ranch go down to Joe's on Thursday night. It's a pool hall not far from here. You just might find what you are looking for there." Scully watched as the older woman followed her husband into the house, her footsteps echoing on the wide planks of the porch. She wasn't sure what had just happened. She walked back to the car, exhausted, and sat behind the steering wheel for another half hour, thinking of Mulder and cattle and Joe's Pool Hall. She was halfway back to the motel before she realized the second emotion that crossed the face of the couple as they looked at Mulder's photograph. They recognized him, she was sure. They were also terribly frightened. III. Will Lyon hated the pool hall. It was smoky, and dirty, and generally tended to bring out the worst in people. Guys who would ride alongside him day after day, mild-mannered men who appreciated a good cigar and a better woman, would turn into raving thugs when they entered the pool hall. They would drink, they would swagger, and they would dare a guy across the room to catch their eye. When someone invariably did, the punches would start, and Will Lyon would walk out into the parking lot, staring up into the clear evening sky. He supposed the men considered themselves to be true cowboys, but he considered them all to be idiots, at least on Thursday nights at Joe's Pool Hall. He wouldn't even be here, except he seemed to draw even more attention to himself when he stayed away. He hated answering questions, so he avoided them by nursing a warm beer and watching the locals sway drunkenly on the wooden dance floor. It was already round two inside, with the boys from Mr. Jim's ranch down the road shoving Paul and Shane from his crew and generally starting a ruckus. He sat on the sidewalk, stretching his long legs out in front of him and leaning back against the building. The parking lot was full, mostly of cars with license plates from neighboring counties. They all came here on a Thursday night, women to find a cowboy and men to find a good fuck. That's just the way it went at Joe's Pool Hall. The sky was clear, so clear he swore there were a million stars dangling mere inches from his head. He was tempted to reach out, try to touch them, but a group of giggling women walking by stopped him. For some reason, he felt like he spent a lifetime trying to grab onto the stars, gazing into the heavens. It was an old habit that was hard for him to break. Some men smoked, others drank. Will Lyon would walk out under a clear evening sky and spend hours gazing into the darkness. "Hey, Lyon. Scoot over, wouldja?" Mark Hagler stood beside him, his eyes dilated with alcohol, and his Levis reeking of smoke. Not the companion Lyon wanted, but he moved over anyway. Mark sat down heavily beside him. "You always seem to cut out when the good stuff starts." Lyon grunted. "I'm there when you guys need me. This stuff," he said, jerking his head back in the direction of the pool hall, "is just a waste of time. You should know better." Lyon did indeed have a reputation among the men who worked Larry Wilkins' ranch. He was a loner, an introspective man who spoke rarely and smiled less. He had a quick wit that few were able to see. But, in a pinch, Lyon was the man you wanted on your side. He was loyal. Be it a lost calf in a driving rainstorm or a late night call from the drunk tank, Lyon was always the levelheaded thinker. Mark supposed that was why the men admired him. Liked him, no. Not really. But certainly admired him. "Did you see that blonde by the bar? I wouldn't mind a piece of that." They sat in companionable silence before Lyon answered. "Did you ask her to dance?" Mark choked on his beer. "Hell, no. I don't ask women to dance." Lyon couldn't help the deep chuckle. "So, you admire them from afar, and never know what they would say if you actually got up the nerve to ask them to dance." Mark bristled and squinted his eyes at him. "I don't see you in there with all the ladies, Lyon. If you are such a goddamned Cassanova, why are you sitting outside here all by yourself in the fucking parking lot?" By choice, he thought, looking away from Mark without answering. There had been a few women recently, a few tentative dances on the wooden floor inside Joe's. But he just wasn't interested, not right now. He was too tired to care, and he was too frayed around the edges to ever be able to give a woman the love she needed. He accepted that as a part of his character. He didn't like it, but he accepted it. "No answer, huh?" Mark goaded, drinking the last of his beer, crushing the can with one hand and tossing it in the direction of the trashcan by the door. It missed, tumbling noisily underneath a nearby Ford. "I didn't think so. You talk big, Lyon, but I have never seen you with a woman on a Thursday night." He wasn't interested in discussing this, especially not with Mark, but he spoke anyway. "I'm no expert, but I know you at least have to talk to them before you have a chance." "Yeah, you're no expert," Mark answered, embarrassment egging him on. He knew his own flat face and unruly blond hair were not the same as Lyon's dark hair and darker personality. Women were attracted to that sort of thing, he thought ruefully, feeling sorry for himself. What Mark lacked in looks, he tried to make up in attitude. It rarely worked, except with women who were as desperate as he was. He clasped Lyon on the shoulder, pulling him to his feet. "But I know neither of us will get lucky tonight staring at dirty pickup trucks. C'mon back inside. I'll buy you a beer." Lyon allowed himself to be pulled back inside, the quiet of the evening sky broken by the band playing on the small stage and the heavy boots on the dirty floor. Only a few more hours, he thought, and then I can go home, to my small room, where things are mine. I am answerable only to myself. The cigarette smoke hung heavy around him as he settled on an empty bar stool, accepting the beer Mark pushed toward him and watching as the younger man ambled away, heading in the general direction of a petite blonde surrounded by men Lyon did not recognize. Leave it to Mark to pick out the woman every other man in this place would want. Dumb kid. He swiveled the stool back around, staring at his reflection in the smoky mirror behind the bar. Sometimes, when he caught a glimpse of his face passing by a mirror, he didn't recognize himself. He was startled, turning quickly to see the stranger who was walking so close to him. His own face belonged to a stranger. He would stare at himself for hours, cataloguing every wrinkle near his dark eyes, the prominent nose, the wayward dark hair. He tried to remember that face, every detail, so he would quit scaring the shit out of himself when he walked by a mirror, but it didn't work. Lyon took a long sip of the cold beer, wincing as it slid down his throat. Alcohol dulled his senses, and he avoided it. At the very least, there was an evening sky to look upon, and fresh air to breathe. A commotion started behind him near the stage, where Mark was standing next to the blonde. Lyon turned to look, but instead, was drawn to a woman walking in the front door. Later, he would spend hours trying to recall the way she bit her lower lip as she stood in the doorway, the harsh lights glinting off her red hair. He would try to remember her expressive blue eyes, the way they surveyed the room, betraying nothing, yet noting everything. He would close his eyes and desperately try to picture the soft swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips. But, for now, his first thought was that she was lost, and she certainly picked the wrong place to go to for directions. She stood awkwardly near the door, scanning the crowd. He didn't know much, but he knew from the lean cut of her slacks and her blouse that her clothes were expensive, and not from any shop around here. He watched as she tucked her red hair behind her ears, crossing her arms uncertainly. There was something about her, a vulnerability that made Lyon follow her petite figure as she began an uncertain route around the crowded room. She was hesitant and desperately unsure. Lyon prided himself on his ability to read people, their body language and their unspoken words, and this woman was sinking in despair. But there was something else, he realized, watching with hooded eyes as she climbed onto the stool at the end of the bar, away from him, her feet not touching the floor, and motioned to the bartender. He grinned when he decided that this woman could probably kick the asses of about half the cowboys in this room. She was strong, her sinewy figure only one indication, but her eyes the other. They were desperate, and determined, and he admired that. Jon, the bartender, pushed what looked to be a soda toward the red- head, and she slipped him a few crisp bills. As he turned to walk away, she called him, motioning him back to her with her hand. Lyon watched, intrigued, trying to figure out what the hell this woman was up to. Jon obviously felt the same, a quizzical look on his face as he stood in front of her. She leaned over the bar, trying to make herself heard over the loud bass guitar. Lyon was surprised by an irrational rush of what he recognized as jealousy when Jon leaned over to speak to her, his face mere inches from hers. He wasn't even aware when his back stiffened and he unconsciously leaned closer to the two, trying to decipher their conversation. The redhead spoke for a few moments, and then pulled something out of her bag. It was a photograph, and Lyon watched with interest as she fingered the edge of it absentmindedly as she spoke, almost as if she drew comfort from its existence. She extended her hand for emphasis, talking heatedly to Jon, and then placed the photograph on the bar between them. Jon knew whoever was in the photograph. Lyon could tell from the way his eyes lifted the instant he saw the image, and the way he looked around the crowded bar room. His gaze never reached the shadowed end of the bar where Lyon sat huddled on the bar stool, but Jon nodded his head earnestly at the woman before turning to mix a drink. So, whoever the woman was looking for was here, in the bar tonight. He surveyed the crowd himself, trying to decide which lucky bastard this woman could be looking for in a joint like this. She didn't belong here, and she sure didn't belong with any of the roughnecks who gathered here on Thursday nights. "Lyon!" He watched as Mark stumbled closer to him, his arm draped around a plump brunette that he saw here every Thursday. Looked like she needed the company tonight, and Mark sure as hell did. "Who's the fucking Cassanova now, Lyon?" Mark drawled, his words thick from alcohol. "Knock yourself out, buddy," Lyon shouted after the pair, watching as they walked towards the door, Mark's middle finger extended in his general direction. Prick. When he twisted back on his stool, his heart stopped when he saw the redhead staring straight at him. Her eyes widened, and a manicured hand flew to her mouth. She paled, and Lyon swore, even from twenty feet away, he saw tears suddenly glisten in her eyes. She looked like she had seen a ghost. He couldn't help but glance behind him, to see if someone was standing there, returning her gaze, but there was no one. The woman was staring at him like she knew him. But he had never seen her before tonight, and he sure as hell would have remembered. What in god's name was going on here? They stared at each other for what seemed like hours, when it only could have been a few seconds before she slid off the bar stool and walked towards him. She never took her eyes off him, never wavered, in spite of the crowded dance floor. She ignored the jostling, moving towards him in a steady line. The world slowed down as she stood in front of him, and he realized that this woman was absolutely beautiful. What she said next shocked the hell out of him. "Mulder?" He opened his mouth, but no words came to him. He wasn't this person, this Mulder she was seeking, but this woman looked at him as if she knew him, an absolute certainty in her eyes that unnerved him. He instantly decided that Mulder must be one lucky son of a bitch. "Mulder?" she asked again, stepping so close to him he could smell her perfume. "Is it really you?" Before he could answer, to tell her that she was mistaken, that his name was Will Lyon and he was sorry, he wasn't Mulder, whoever the hell that was, the woman closed her eyes and swayed in front of him. He barely had time to react before she fainted, falling into his arms in front of Jon the bartender and half his crew from the ranch and most of the population of Blackwood. He was never going to live this down in the morning. "Fade" (3/6) by Ann K For summary, disclaimers, etc., see chapter one. Author's notes at the end of chapter 6. www.geocities.com/annhkus Chapter Three I. The rain fell steadily against the window, a comforting sound, one that brought with it so many memories. She was still, her eyes closed, listening to the steady rhythm of the rain. It was soothing, and gently melodic, and she pulled the covers closer to her chin. It was not morning yet, she could tell, even without opening her eyes. Darkness permeated the room, without a hint of dawn. She knew she was not alone. She could hear his steady breathing, but could not summon the energy to open her eyes and seek him out in the darkness. Instead, she imagined him, just as she saw him last night, after so long apart. His hair was longer, traces of gray at the temples. He was thinner, which was remarkable given that he had always possessed a leanness about him, which she assumed came from the fact that his body devoured whatever energy he produced. When she saw him, sitting on the bar stool, shouting at someone walking out the door, she knew it was Mulder before he even turned back around. It was the curve of his ear beneath his overgrown hair, and the way he sat on the stool, one boot hiked over the side, ready to pounce at the slightest notice. She catalogued her memories of him, trying to recall a time when he was truly relaxed, and she was not surprised to realize they were few. He was always looking over his shoulder, always waiting. For something, for someone. She wondered if he had been waiting on that bar stool for her for the past nine years, while she had been raising their son alone, never knowing what happened to him. Scully finally gave in, opening her eyes, and was greeted with the sight of Mulder sprawled in the chair by the window, the dim of the streetlights coating him in a soft glow, patterned by the steady rain. His long legs stretched under the desk nearby, and his head rested to the side, on the worn back of the chair. She sat up so she could see him better, pulling the pillow close to her chest. He looked older, more tired, even when his face was slack from sleep. But he was Mulder. She knew every detail of his face better than her own, even after all their time apart. She did not question why he was here with her in this motel room. She knew, somehow, that he figured out to bring her here after she fainted at Joe's, just as she knew he would stay with her until he was sure she was alright. But what truly frightened her was the memory of his face when she said his name. Later, it would haunt her nightmares, and dance in her daydreams. He didn't know her. He wasn't evasive, or ashamed, or happy, or frightened to see her. Instead, he was curious, but looked back at her blankly when she called to him. It was her worst fear, which now stared back at her in six-foot-one reality, sleeping in a dingy chair in yet another godforsaken motel room. She moved toward him, drawn to him, as the rain continued to fall. She knelt at his feet and gazed up at him, unable to draw her eyes from his face. The room was silent, except for rain and the sound of her heartbeat. It was just she and Mulder, again, locked away from the insanity of the world outside. Despite everything, he was still the most beautiful sight she could ever have hoped to see. "Are you okay?" His voice was gruff from sleep, but she was not startled to see him staring back at her, earnestly, his eyes clear and shining in the darkness. "I am. Thank you for bringing me back to my room. I am sorry I fainted." She couldn't remember the last time she fainted, not counting the moments when she was pregnant with Will. She couldn't have picked a worse time, hazily remembering with chagrin Mulder's surprise as she fell into his arms. Come to think of it, maybe she couldn't have picked a better time. He only nodded, sitting up to look at her better. "Not a problem. You seemed really tired, and I found the motel room key in your pocket. I hope it's not a problem that I stayed. I wanted to make sure you were feeling okay." She expected nothing less from him. She nodded, "Of course it's okay, Mulder. I have so many questions to ask you." At the sound of his name, he shook his head. "You called me that before, in the pool hall. I was trying to tell you then, but that's not my name. You must have me mistaken with someone else." She was not mistaken. It was Mulder, but she bit her lower lip uncertainly and asked anyway. "What is your name?" "It's Will. Will Lyon. But everyone calls me Lyon." Oh, god. Fate laughed at her, daring her to put together the tantalizing pieces. She stared, her eyes wide, at Mulder, who said he was not Mulder, but Will, but insisted he be called by his last name. She angrily wiped away a wayward tear, refusing to lose her composure again. She nodded her head curtly, not sure of what to say. Before she could speak, he slipped down on the floor next to her. It was so natural, his lanky frame settling next to her body. He was warm, and she instinctively closed her eyes to savor his touch. "I'm sorry. I really am. You seemed so certain I was this Mulder you were looking for. To be honest, I wouldn't mind being that man, if he was that important to you. But I'm not. My name is Lyon, not Mulder." He reached over to touch her chin lightly, turning her face to his. His touch crumbled what was left of her resolve, the dogged tenacity she was somehow holding together since she drove away from Washington now falling apart. To their mutual horrors, she began to weep, softly at first, then loud sobs which seemed to echo around the room. He never flinched. Instead, he gathered her into his strong arms and rocked her gently back and forth. She was reminded of how she would comfort Will when he awoke from a nightmare, and how strange it was to be in his arms again. Her memory served her well, but the reality was so much better. And, in that instant, her face pressed against the hollow of his neck, the pulse of his heartbeat steady beneath her tears, she didn't care what he said his name was. She knew who he was. Scully drew back from him, and, without hesitation, leaned forward to kiss him, his lips wet from her tears. He sat very still, not moving, accepting her touch, as she deepened the kiss, tasting him, the familiar warmth comforting her. She had never forgotten. She traced the outline of his face with her fingertips, and ran her hands down his neck to rest of his chest. He groaned, and then pulled away from her. "Stop it." It was his voice, but it was not spoken with anger. It was tinged with frustration, and regret. "Mu-," she began, stopping herself. "Lyon," she said instead, simply, the strange name feeling foreign on her tongue. "I am not who you think I am, and I am sorry for that. You are beautiful, so beautiful, and I want nothing more than to take you into my arms and make you forget this Mulder, whoever he is. But it wouldn't be fair to you, or to me." She grasped for the words, trying to make him understand. "Lyon, you are this man. He has been gone a very long time, but I would know you, him, anywhere. Someone gave me your picture, and I knew it was you. I never forgot your face, or your voice, never-" He jumped to his feet, abruptly, and she looked up the long distance to his shadowed face. "I don't even know your name," he said. He could have said nothing less to break her heart, and she felt his words as a physical pain in her chest. The rain measured the seconds before she spoke. "It's Dana, Lyon. Dana Scully." Another long moment, and then, "Following our penchant for last names here, you called me Scully." He had to remember. Mulder had spoken her name a million times, in anguish, humor, frustration and passion. He spoke it uniquely, in his own way, a soft emphasis on the first syllable. "Tell me you remember my name." She walked over to him where he stood by the window, silent. "Tell me that you remember my name," she said again, urgently, willing him to say the words that would make this all okay, that would bring back what she was so frantically searching for. He wanted to. She could tell by the deep shadows of his eyes, and the way he paused before he answered. "I'm sorry, Scully. I want so damn badly to say yes, to make you happy, but I can't. I never saw you before last tonight, before you walked into Joe's." She was stonewalled, staring at an impasse that she dreaded, but never fully expected to materialize. And then he spoke again, trying to make things better, but making them that much worse. "You know, Scully, had you given me the chance, I might have asked you to dance with me last night. I don't normally ask women to dance, but there was something about you." He was sincere, the slight flush on his cheeks physical evidence of what his admission cost him. "I am attracted to you. You have to know that," he added. But she couldn't accept his words, not when there was so much more at stake here. "Fox Mulder was my partner," she said, turning to face the wall so she would not have to look at him as she spoke. She studied the print on the wall, a landscape portrait of the Texas hills, probably mass-produced somewhere in China. "We worked at the FBI together for seven years, and then he disappeared. He was taken while investigating a case in Oregon. He's been gone for almost nine years." He walked up behind her, so close she could feel his breath on her skin. Tell me you remember, she silently chanted. Remember me, she willed, remember our time together. Remember how much I love you. "Right after he disappeared, I found out I was pregnant." The sharp inhale of breath was his. "His son?" he asked, although he already knew the answer. She whirled around, angry, pounding her fists against his chest. "You are Mulder. I am not wrong. I have looked for you for years, and I can't let you walk out that door. I can't lose you again." It was a stalemate, a no-win situation for them both. His tortured eyes reflected his pity, his empathy, his desire for her, yet they showed his confusion, his genuine bewilderment at her ultimate certainty that he was Mulder. "Will Lyon," she finally said, her last defense crumbling, her desire extinguished. She felt hollow, an empty shell. "Yes," he managed, holding onto her hand as the rain slowed to a drizzle and the first hint of dawn emerged. "My name is Lyon, Scully. And I am so sorry I couldn't make it what you want. I sure as hell have never worked for the FBI. I've never even known anyone named Mulder." She couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. She couldn't process a thought beyond the fact that she had finally found Mulder, and she was about to lose him again. He was walking out the door, and she couldn't do a thing to stop him. "I have to go," he said, his voice heavy with regret and an emotion she couldn't identify. She nodded dumbly. She knew she should say something, anything to make him stay, but she felt lost, paralyzed with defeat. He handed her the folder and the bag sitting by the door. "You had these with you last night. They seemed important to you." He leaned over, his hands tracing the outline of her jaw, wiping away the tears she didn't even know she was crying. Hesitating, he kissed her, and it was Mulder, and something else. Something new. As he walked away from her, out into the drizzle, she managed to speak the words that were pounding in her head. "Don't go, Mulder," she whispered. "Don't go." But he was too far away to hear her, and he did not turn around. He sat in his truck for some time before he drove away, yet Scully remained, standing in the open door, staring as the photograph of Mulder, of Lyon, slipped from the folder in her hands and fell onto the sidewalk, into the last of the rain. II. Lyon didn't drive to the ranch that gray Friday morning. He didn't join the other men for their ritualistic Friday breakfast at the town restaurant, nor did he stop in at the station for a hot cup of coffee. Instead, he drove, away from town, away from the ranch, away from the redheaded woman in the motel room whose tears haunted him. She called him Mulder, and she was convinced he was that man. His life had been simple enough. He was an only child, born late in life to older parents. While they were both dead and had been for years, they had given him a stable upbringing. They instilled in him an appreciation for the land, of hard, honest work. His father insisted the entire family was at church every Sunday. Lyon still detested wearing a tie and sitting still for long periods of time, a remnant of his childhood. But he admired his father for his principles and his beliefs, and was grateful to be his son. Adolescence was a blur, flashes of basketball games and awkward Friday night socials and drinking beer with the guys in the cemetery on the edges of town. He spent most of his adult life traveling, working on one ranch or another, until he ended up with the Wilkins. It was a small, family ranch, but he found the stability he needed. The memories of the last few months of his life were the most clear, but he supposed that was because, for the first time since the death of his parents, he found a comfortable environment, one where he was respected. He did his job, and that was always enough for him. But the death of his parents, while so long ago that the once sharp edges had dulled, left him teetering on a dangerous abyss. He had no family. He didn't trust himself, so he suppressed his emotions. He was withdrawn and reclusive because he was frightened of what he could become if he wasn't. He was frightened of unleashing his anger because he didn't know if he could control it. He was frightened of loving someone, anyone, because they might ultimately leave him. So Will Lyon was a man with acquaintances, not friends. Colleagues, not family. One night stands with women whose names he soon forgot, not the accepting embrace of a woman who truly loved him. How could this woman, who seemed to Lyon to be a perfectly rational and reasonable human being, be so convinced he was someone else? He couldn't come up with an answer for that. When he saw her at the bar, it was lust that attracted him, for she was beautiful. She was also a strange combination of strength and fragility, and he wanted nothing more than to protect her. He had sat in his truck in the motel parking lot for sometime, watching her figure silhouetted in the door, and tried to shake the feeling that leaving her was a mistake. She was exquisite, and he wanted her, but her heart obviously belonged to someone else. He blinked, seeing the familiar pasture rise on his left, trying to figure out how he ended up at the ranch. He remembered driving away from town, and then shook his head, attempting to clear the hazy cobwebs away. Too many memories, and those only got you into trouble. He preferred to keep the past where it belonged, behind him. Lyon supposed driving to the ranch was instinct. It was home, for the time being. Then why were all his instincts calling him back to the motel on Main Street? Larry Wilkins' figure appeared from the barn as he drove down the driveway. He flagged him over, and Lyon got out of the truck, his legs stiff from an awkward night's sleep. In all honesty, he didn't think he got much sleep at all. Most of the night he spent staring at Scully, the rain-streaked moonlight through the blinds casting delicious shadows over her face. "Morning, Mr. Wilkins," he offered, smoothing out his shirt as he walked over to the older man. "Lyon," Wilkins responded, throwing a large bag into the back of his pickup truck. Lyon frowned, and asked, "Are you leaving for the day?" It was not an incredibly busy time on the ranch, the branding and weaning seasons in the spring and fall causing them the biggest headaches, but it was still unusual for Wilkins to leave during the week. "I am. I am headed down to Austin for the weekend, to take care of some business. I was hoping you would be able to bring the rest of the herd in from the back field so we can ship them out on Monday." He nodded, accustomed to being in charge when Mr. Wilkins left town. While most men at the small ranch lived a transient lifestyle, one he himself had lived for years, Lyon served as a quasi-foreman, living on the ranch even during the off season. The stability was a change for him. But he was still unsure as to why the boss was leaving in the first place. The screen door slammed shut, and Lyon looked up to see Mrs. Wilkins walking down the stairs, a small bag held in her right hand. She reminded Lyon of the grandmother he never knew, and he felt protective of her. The guys knew not to speak bad about the boss' wife when Lyon was around. There was something about her, a genuine sweetness that drew Lyon to her. He trusted her, and that was saying a lot. "Good morning, Lyon," she said as she walked up to the truck, handing her husband her bag, her slight Southern accent charming to Lyon's ears. "I've got to get a few more things from the house, Ellen, and then we'll be ready to leave." She shooed her husband away. "Fine, fine, Larry. I'll just be talking to Lyon." The humid breeze picked up slightly as they stood by the truck, and Lyon was somewhat taken aback by the serious gaze he saw in Mrs. Wilkins' eye. "So, Lyon," she asked, "any excitement at Joe's last night?" He wrinkled his brow, confused as why she would be asking him. They all knew what went on at Joe's every Thursday: drinking, dancing, and brawling. "The same," he finally offered somewhat tentatively, unsure of why she was asking. "How about you?" she persisted. "Did you meet anyone special?" The proverbial light bulb went on, and he cocked his head slightly to one side, answering her slowly. "Actually, I did. A redheaded woman from out of town." That was a simplistic explanation, but it seemed to work for Mrs. Wilkins, who only nodded her head sagely in response. "You need someone to settle down with, Lyon. You need someone who will take care of you." He bristled, despite her good intentions, but she cut off his protests with a wave of her hand. "Let me tell you something, Lyon. A piece of advice from a very old woman. Real love, true love, only comes along once in your lifetime, if you are truly lucky. Many people never get that chance at all. I found it with Larry. I know what it is, and how special it is. But don't waste it, Lyon. Because it won't come back again." It won't come back again. Her words had an urgency that caught him off guard, and he stood, his mouth slightly agape, trying to process the moment, when Mr. Wilkins walked up beside them. "Did you do everything you needed to do, Ellen?" he asked. She nodded knowingly, and then gave Lyon a small squeeze on the arm. "I did," she answered, and he almost expected her to give him a conspiratorial wink as her husband turned to open the door for her. "You know how to reach me if you need, Lyon," Wilkins said as he slammed the door. Lyon nodded, returning Mrs. Wilkins' cheery wave as the truck sped away from him. He stood still for a very long time, watching the chickens amble down towards the barn, a squirrel try to open an acorn from the tree, the cats basking in the emerging sun. His awareness was painful, and he was uncertain as to what it meant. Scully was drawn to him at the bar because she thought he was someone she used to know, someone she loved. Why was he drawn to her? Why was he thinking about her, wondering if she were still standing in the motel room door, waiting for him to come back? The morning work was a blur, and he performed his tasks with a routine, detached efficiency. He led the small group of men towards the pasture with an increasing urgency, desperate to finish the work for the day before mid-afternoon. The longhorns were slow, hesitant, as if they knew the fate that awaited them in a few days, so he rode his gelding even harder. The urgency was tinged with fear, with the knowledge that finding Scully again after she left town might prove impossible. "Hey, Lyon. When is old man Wilkins coming back?" Mark had ridden up beside him, a slightly concerned look on his face. If Lyon could see himself at that moment, through the eyes of the men who rode with him, he would understand why. He had drifted away from them, and was there in body alone. He was cutting the herd with rote, detached efficiency. His spirit was elsewhere, and only Lyon knew where. "Sunday evening," he answered briskly. "If you guys can handle the routine stuff for this weekend, I am going to be busy with the paperwork for the Monday shipment." Mark only nodded, and then asked, tentatively, "You alright, Lyon?" He barely acknowledged the question, knowing that he would be, as soon as he could get the hell off this horse and back into town. Cantering the horse ahead through the pasture, and watching his crew disperse and tackle the few odd jobs remaining for the day, he allowed his mind to wander, back to a moonlight motel room with a beautiful woman who called him Mulder. It won't come back again, Mrs. Wilkins told him, and he knew what she was telling him. Whoever this woman was, whatever she believed, don't let her leave. He didn't question how she knew about Scully, or how she was so sure they met at Joe's. It didn't seem particularly important. What was important, what was screaming at him in his veins, matching the rhythm of the horse's hooves against the black Texas soil, was that Scully somehow held the key to opening up his reclusive heart, and healing his battered soul. He'd be a fool to let her go, and, although Will Lyon knew that he could be many unpleasant things, he had never been known to be a fool. III. At the age of ten, she began to harbor doubts about the existence of God. She told no one, frightened of what her parents might think of her, and frightened, if she gave voice to her doubts, that would make them all the more real. So she played the role of the dutiful Catholic daughter, at least on the days where the family celebrated Mass, and as she knelt before the priest with her sister beside her, Missy's perfume tickling her nose, she prayed to God for a sign she could believe in, for something to restore her faith. She sat in her motel room on that gray Friday morning, somewhere in Texas, and prayed again for a sign, to restore her faith in life and love, for something to make her whole again. The problem was, even as a child, she never got the sign she so desperately prayed for. Nothing came about that convinced her there was a benevolent God, one that cared for her and watched over her during her times of turmoil. Although she continued to practice her faith, the faith of her parents, even now, it was with a secret, half-hearted intent, the feeling that someone had disappointed her. Maybe that was why she was sitting here, alone, she mused. Because her faith wasn't strong enough. Because, after everything she saw, she still couldn't bring herself to truly believe. If she truly believed Mulder was standing in her room mere hours ago, how could she ever have let him leave? After he left, she stood in the open doorway for some time, seeing nothing, feeling nothing except the light mist of rain against her bare arms. When she finally blinked, the sun was out, and the last of the clouds had disappeared. She had no idea how long she stood there. But then she took a deep breath, and time started moving again. She picked up the photograph from the asphalt, although, by now, it was limp at the edges and the black-and-white details of his face had begun to fade somewhat. How appropriate, she thought. I find him, in this photograph, only to have him drift away from me. She didn't look at the photograph again as she sat it on the desk to dry. She was barely aware of turning on the shower, the warm spray stinging against her skin. She dried her hair and put on fresh clothes, adding the barest hint of makeup, and then sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her feet up beneath her. Through the open window, she saw the signs of life outside. Yet she preferred to remain there, in that moment, in that space where she was last with Mulder. Mulder. Will Lyon. Of all the times she had ever stared in the face of question and uncertainty, she was as sure of this truth as she had ever been. The two men were the same. The melodic tones of her cell phone rang through the room, and she stared at it morosely, determined not to have this moment taken from her. She was desperate to preserve the tangible essence of Mulder that was still in this room, and letting anyone else in, even on the telephone, would intrude on that. But guilt began to rise a few seconds later, and she pictured Walter, or her mother, or William trying to reach her. "Hello?" she finally answered, her voice raspy from tears. There was laughter in the background, and she sensed William's breathing before she heard his words. "Mom? Can you hear me?" It was her reminder that she was a good person, she was someone's mother, that everything might just turn out to be okay. "I can, Will," she shouted, covering her other ear with her free hand in an effort to hear him better. "Are you having fun? How are things going?" His voice was rich and warm, and she felt a rush of love and affection for her son, the most solid evidence she had that Mulder existed. Her tears began anew as he spoke. "Things are fine, Mom. Billy and I have been swimming, and I've gotten to ride everyday." She smiled. William could forgo any pleasure in life as long as there was a horse for him to ride. "That's wonderful, Will. Just be careful." The miles between them only sharpened her mothering instincts. There was a long silence, filled with background chatter and what sounded to her like the clanging of a dinner bell, and then the question. "Mom? Have you found out anything about Dad?" Of course he would ask. It was her sole purpose for being here. But she didn't know how to answer that question. She didn't know how to answer it for herself, and she couldn't even begin to describe it for her son. How Mulder was here, but he didn't remember her, or even what his name was, and that she had never felt as defeated or lost as she did when she let him walk out the door. "Not yet," she answered, the lie bitter on her tongue. But it was better than the truth, which, in this case, was something she couldn't begin to comprehend. "I'm still looking though. I haven't given up." She was surprised to realize her last words were true, that she hadn't given up. "Uncle Walter said it might take a few days," Will said. "It might," she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. And then her son spoke the truest words of all, the ones that unleashed the barriers on her tears. "Maybe there's hope, Mom," he told her, and he was no longer an eight-year-old boy away for his first time at summer camp. He was her voice of reason and resolve and resiliency, and she muffled her sobs with her hand. "I've got to go eat now, Mom." She managed something intelligible in response. "I love you," she told him, as he hung up the phone. Maybe there's hope after all. And then, her prayers were answered and hope was renewed as she looked up through the open window and saw Mulder standing there, looking at her with solemn eyes. He looked tired, and sweaty, his jeans worn and dirty. He took the hat off his head when their eyes met, and brushed his hair back uncertainly. He looked like a little boy, tentative and uncertain, so much like his son, and at that moment, she loved him more than she ever had. She didn't remember getting up and opening the door, but then he was standing in front of her, and she reached up to put her arms around him and kissed him on the brow. He stood awkwardly, and then returned her embrace. "I wasn't sure you would still be here," he said, breaking the silence. I couldn't leave you behind again, she thought. "I am," she answered instead. "To be honest, I wasn't quite sure where to go." The words sounded pitiful even to her own ears, but they were true. She could have left that morning for DC, but the thought of walking into her empty house was even worse than staying in the motel room. He simply nodded, and she took him by the hand, pulling him into the room and closing the door behind them. He stood there, turning his hat around in his hand. "I don't know why I came back here, Scully. I was honest with you when I told you I wasn't Mulder. But I have been thinking of you all day, and I just couldn't bear the thought of you leaving town without seeing you again." She didn't trust her voice, so she stood silently. "I'm here as Will Lyon, and for right now, I hope that's enough for you. It's all I have to give you." She didn't let go of her hand, but urged him with her eyes to continue. "I've never been very good at this, Scully. I've always been too busy with my own problems or my work to ever be able to offer a woman what she deserves. I don't know that I can do that for you. But I want to try." Oh, god. He was so like the Mulder of old, yet there was a new element she couldn't quite define. He was harder, more uncertain, more wary. But he had come back to her, for reasons neither of them could understand. And she knew that was enough. She knew he was offering her so much more, something that his battered heart couldn't reveal, could never put into words. She was being offered the opportunity to love again, even if Mulder could not remember their first love. She would learn later what had happened, why he was so convinced he was someone else. For now, it was enough that he had come back to her. "I'll take it," she said, a small smile on her face, echoing the look on his. "Well, then," he said, clearing his throat, and shifting his feet uncertainly. "Not that there is much to do in town, but I would like to take you out somewhere, wherever you want to go." He was so charming and endearing that her heart melted, and she was filled with love for this man. "Sounds good, Lyon. Wherever you want to take me." And it was true. She would likely follow him to the ends of the earth if he asked her. Indeed, she already had, so many times before, even if she was the only one who remembered. "But I have one favor to ask of you," he added quickly. "I came right from work, and we probably would both like for me to take a shower first. Do you mind?" She only nodded, and he went to get a small bag from his truck. Scully sat on the bed, listening to the initial spray of the water from his shower, and then the changes as the water hit his body before landing on the tile. She imagined him, naked, his lean, muscular body standing beneath the water. While it was undeniably arousing, knowing he was so close to her, it was intimate in the simple act of trust. She breathed in, remembering their shower together after that first night, the way she tentatively parted the curtains, revealing his body, the one that she memorized so extensively the night before. The way he smiled at her, never hesitating as he extended his hand to pull her into the water, pressing their bodies together. Her heart beat in her chest loudly as she stood, walking to the bathroom door. It was closed, the slightest amount of steam trickling underneath. She wanted so badly to open the door, to walk to him, to take him into her arms under the wetness. Instead, she put both her hands on the door, bowing her head, as if in prayer, and swore that she would never forget that moment. He was there, safe, and she could almost feel his essence through the cheap plywood, could feel all the wonderful qualities that made him the man she could never live without. For that moment, it was enough.