From: Ann K <annhkus@yahoo.com>
Subject: [xfc] NEW: Fade by Ann K (1/6)
Source: atxc


Chapter Four


I.

"I'm a little worried about all this, Lyon. How often do you go 
around wining and dining women?" They sat together on a plaid 
blanket he grabbed from the cab of his truck near the large lake. 
It was late afternoon, and Scully smiled at the handful of children 
who played near the water, their parents sitting a discreet 
distance behind them. It was all so normal, and idyllic, that it 
made her forgot about the uncertainty, the turmoil she felt as she 
glanced at Lyon out of the corner of her eye. At Mulder.

He wrinkled his brow and sighed loudly, making a show of seriously 
considering her question. She couldn't help her laughter at his 
antics. While he was quiet and thoughtful at times, he could also 
be quick-witted and sarcastic. So many of his qualities were the 
same. He made her smile, and she needed someone to do that for her. 
"You might just be the first," he answered, taking the last bite of 
his sandwich and turning to prop himself up on one elbow, looking 
at her with a grin. "Why? Am I doing okay?"

He was doing more than okay. After a few awkward moments when they 
left the motel, when Scully suggested they stop for sandwiches and 
Mulder ordered for her, leaving off the onions and mustard, just 
the way she always liked it, they had settled into a comfortable 
companionship, one where they simply didn't ask awkward questions. 
As they bounced along the road to the town lake, Scully 
unconsciously slid closer to Lyon on the seat. He drove with a 
tranquil assurance, navigating the roads with simple ease, and she 
half-expected him to drape his arm over the seat behind her, like 
they were high school sweethearts without a care in the world. She 
was not surprised to find that she was pressed up against his thigh 
by the time they arrived.

"You are doing quite well, Lyon. That makes me wonder where you 
have gotten to be so good at this, or if I'm just getting lucky." 
The unintentional double meaning of her words caused her to blush, 
and Lyon watched her with a widening grin. "Maybe we are both 
getting lucky," he said, reaching over to tuck a stray strand of 
hair behind her ear. 

Without thinking, she reached for his hand as he pulled away, 
bringing it to her lips and kissing it softly.

He cleared his throat, and sat with his fingers lightly touching 
her cheek for another few seconds before he got to his feet. 
"Actually, I've got one more surprise for you," he said, pulling 
her up to stand next to him. Folding up the blanket as he walked to 
the truck, she laughed to see him turn around with two melting ice 
cream cones in his hand. "I got them at the caf on our way out. 
They are a little soft, but I think we can manage."

Who was this person, who remembered the way she ate her turkey 
sandwiches, but did not remember her name? Who accepted her kisses, 
but could not recall their first embrace? She was confused, and 
felt a little lost in front of this man, who had always been 
complicated and somewhat difficult, but now was even more shrouded 
in mystery.

But rediscovering Mulder as Will Lyon was an emotional journey as 
well. She wondered vaguely about testing his blood, matching his 
fingerprints, doing something so that she could wave hard proof in 
front of his face, evidence that she was right. It didn't seem 
important. She knew, and she clung to that, just as she fell in 
love all over again.

She accepted the outstretched offering of melting vanilla, and they 
began to walk around the lake, settling into an easy stride. Mulder 
had always seemed one step ahead of her, his lanky legs covering 
more ground than she could manage in a single step. It seemed that 
either her legs had gotten longer, or he was simply moving a little 
slower. Life in general seemed to be moving slower. She decided she 
liked it that way.

The landscape was startling in its beauty, even seen with the 
fading afternoon sunlight. The lake was surrounded by fields of 
green, tinged with gold, and beyond them, a scattering of pine 
trees and undergrowth. A barbwire fence marked the property to her 
left, and, beyond that, she saw a crumbling home and the remnants 
of a few small houses.

As they walked further away from the laughter and splashing of the 
children at the lake, Scully became aware of a deceptive stillness, 
a quiet that masked the sounds of nature that surrounded them. She 
decided she liked it here, the easy ambience, the fact that there 
was so little between her and the sky. And the fact that Mulder was 
here to share it with her.

"How long have you lived here, Lyon?" she asked tentatively. The 
question seemed safe, and normal, but she was hoping he would give 
her the answers she was looking for, somehow. She was also hoping 
his voice would distract her from the way he was licking the 
melting ice cream from the cone.

"Only a few months," he answered, reaching with his tongue to snag 
a stray wisp of cream on his upper lip. Her eyes darted to his 
lips, and then she forced them ahead, watching the path in front of 
them. Pay attention, Scully. "I came here to work for the Wilkins. 
They have been very good to me." He looked like he wanted to say 
more, and finally offered, "I'm not a very easy man to get along 
with. I wish I were, but I'm not. For some reason, even when I try, 
I always assume the worst about people."

His statement was stark in its sadness, and she frowned, reaching 
out to hold his free hand with her own. "And what about me, Lyon? 
What did you assume about me?" She was touched by his 
embarrassment, but he admirably stumbled ahead, trying to choose 
the right words. 

"I didn't know what to assume about you, Scully. Maybe that's what 
made you so damn appealing."

God, he was beautiful. How had she lived for the past nine years 
without his companionship? 

"This all used to be part of a ranch," Lyon said, watching as she 
gazed out upon the fields. "That was the main house there, and the 
cabins behind it were for the farmhands." There was an unexpected 
melancholy in his voice, and he saw the question in her eyes. "I 
like the way things are here, Scully. Simple and uncomplicated. 
It's a give and take relationship with the land. You only take so 
much, and then you give back. People can make their lives so 
complicated, searching for an answer, something that doesn't exist, 
when they don't have to." 

She didn't know what to say in response to those words. The Mulder 
she once knew and loved would have argued that the search was all 
that mattered, that the truth defined us. He would never have said 
that a search for the truth was useless. This Mulder, older and 
more disillusioned, if that were possible, was different, wiser, 
wary. She filed the fact away for future use, along with the 
growing stockpile of things she was learning about this new Mulder.

She worried, anxious that the changes in Mulder, however they came 
about, were too great to overcome, that he could never accept her 
and their past. Although he may have forgotten, she remembered 
everything, every single moment they were together. Yet, as she 
stood next to him, holding in his hand in an unstated moment of 
trust, she knew none of it mattered. Not enough to change how much 
she loved him.

"You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Scully," he 
said gently. "You shouldn't be unhappy." 

She shook her head, wanting him to understand. "Not unhappy, Lyon," 
she confessed. "Just overwhelmed. I am just trying to reconcile my 
past with my present. And my future." He watched her, his eyes 
patient, revealing nothing. "It's funny that, in some version, you 
are in all three."

That brought a smile from him, and they continued their walk, 
ambling slowly back towards the truck. She called him Lyon, the 
name he swore by, but in her heart, he was always Mulder. More than 
once during the day, she started to tell him something, stopping 
herself when she realized what name she was about to use. He said 
he was Lyon, and for now, she would bide her time, calling him 
whatever he wished. 

"Tell me about your son, Scully." Her breath caught in her chest, 
and she prayed for guidance, to chose the right words. Will wasn't 
just her son. He was their son. Even if Lyon didn't know it. She 
was struck again by the irony, how this man had a young son miles 
away, a boy that he never knew existed, a boy who adored his 
memory. She vaguely wondered how Will would react to the real 
person, if he would even get the opportunity to find out. She had 
to make sure he did, for both Mulder and Will. 

"William is a wonderful boy," she began. "Smart, curious, 
inquisitive. Respectful, for the time being. He would be in heaven 
here. He loves to ride horses. He's got horse pictures all over his 
wall, and gallops down the hallway to breakfast in the morning. I 
think he would live in a barn if I would let him." The thoughts of 
Will made her sad, and she stopped, picturing him miles away, 
wondering why his mother was traipsing over the country looking for 
his father. He deserved better.

"Is he like his father?" Lyon's question was unexpected, and, as 
she peeked up at his face, he looked away, intently studying the 
tree line in the distance. The question was a weighted one, and she 
didn't know how to respond. He has your eyes, she thought, and your 
pensive stare when he was contemplating a problem. He has your long 
fingers, and your sarcastic wit. He is your son in every way. 

"Yes," she answered instead. "Very much so."   

"And you, Scully? If you don't gallop horses alongside Will for a 
living, what do you do?" He was so curious, and she wanted to 
answer every question for him, so she tried to ignore the surreal 
nature of the moment, telling Mulder all these things he should 
already know.

In truth, she prayed to see a flicker of recognition in his eyes 
after her response.

"Pre-FBI, I was a doctor. Post-FBI, I am a doctor. When I was with 
the Bureau, I carried a gun and chased bad guys." With you by my 
side.

He nodded knowingly. "I can see you as both. Healing the sick, 
righting the wrong. I just"" He shook his head, searching for the 
truck keys in his pocket. 

"What, Lyon?" she urged. Tell me. Say the words I need to hear. 

"I'm trying to imagine being alongside you," he ultimately offered, 
"chasing monsters in the darkness."

Oh, Mulder. You were always by my side.

There was nothing else to say as he opened the door for her, and 
Scully slid into the truck. As he sat beside her, closing the door 
against the darkness, she felt safe. She had the missing piece of 
the puzzle beside her, the one person she needed to make everything 
right. Even if the looks had changed, even if the edges were worn, 
it was still the crucial link.

So she kissed him, and stopped running. Stopped running towards the 
truth, and stopped running away from the loneliness. She found what 
she needed.

"Scully?" he asked, pulling away from her. "Do you trust me?" 

She nodded in response. "Of course I do, Lyon." 

He was pleased with her answer, and turned the key in the ignition. 
"Good. Then let's go riding."


II.

He could tell by the apprehension in her eyes that Scully was 
having second thoughts about her decision. He led Beau out of the 
stall, and tried to see the dapple-grey gelding through Scully's 
eyes. He could imagine the horse looked huge. But she bit her lip 
as the horse walked up beside her, and reached up to stroke the 
short mane. "Big horse," she finally said, and he smiled. How could 
he keep falling more and more in love with this woman at each 
passing moment?

"Hey, Scully," he said, leaning down to kiss her as he led Beau 
outside. Her lips were so soft, and he could have stayed there, 
kissing her for hours, if Beau hadn't thrown his head up and 
snorted into the evening air. "It'll all turn out okay," he finally 
murmured as he pulled away. "I know," she said, and he was amazed. 
That he was loved, that he was trusted, that he had found this 
beautiful woman who cared for him so much.

"How did Will get started riding?" he asked, pulling the saddle and 
blanket off the rack near the front of the barn and tossing them on 
Beau's broad back. "Seems a little unusual for the urban wilderness 
of the East Coast." Scully's expression softened at the mention of 
her son, and he was touched again by her devotion to Will. He 
imagined her as a mother, caring and loving. It wasn't hard to do. 

"It's a long story," she said. "I had no idea what I was getting us 
all into with a five-dollar pony ride."

Scully was a fascinating mixture of power and frailty. It was what 
drew him to her from the moment he first saw her, at Joe's. The 
more time he spent with her that day, time that he savored as 
precious, the more he became aware of a worn quality about her, a 
weariness with the world and its games. He recognized it easily, 
because he wore the same face, the same mask of disinterest in the 
name of self-preservation. 

Had she always been like this, this controlling, this hard, this 
sad? He didn't want to imagine what had caused this change in her, 
because he instinctively knew that Mulder had been a part of it. 
And, although she hadn't said the words, Scully still believed he 
was Mulder. He wasn't Mulder. He simply couldn't be Mulder. But 
there was such a natural connection between he and Scully, things 
that he instinctively knew she liked and that she didn't, phrases 
that she said which caused him to rack his brain, trying to figure 
out when he heard the words before. He never believed in soulmates, 
or reincarnation, or karma. Life was what you saw. 

Scully was beginning to change his outlook, all of it, and that 
frightened him.

"Are you the only one riding tonight, Lyon?" she asked, reining in 
his wavering thoughts. She had an impish smile, one that had 
bestowed upon him often that day. But he had a feeling her smiles 
were rare, probably only reserved for her son. He felt blessed 
everytime she conferred one upon him. 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Scully?" he teased, reaching under 
the horse to grab the loose end of the cinch. "Actually, I thought 
you and I would ride together. You might feel safer that way."

He lightly kneed Beau near the cinch, as the stubborn gelding had a 
habit of holding his breath whenever he was saddled, causing the 
saddle to be loose when a rider mounted. Lyon was so focused on his 
task that he missed Scully's response to his words, the way she 
squeezed her eyes shut as he told her he wanted her to feel safe. 
Little did he know that simply by being around her, she was.

"It's easier if you mount first," he said, looping Beau's reins 
over the fence and crouching down, holding his fingers laced 
together for her. Her shoes were practical, but not riding boots. 
They looked like something she would choose: a medium heel, sturdy, 
but somehow still sexy and appealing. He had never given women's 
footwear much thought, but, as Scully placed one shoe in his hand 
and hoisted herself up in the air, swinging her other leg over the 
saddle, he thought he might have been missing out. 

She didn't look frightened alone on top of the horse, nor anxious. 
Not even uncomfortable. Instead, she in some way managed to look 
alluring, peering down at him in the dusk, waiting for him to join 
her. As he did, settling easy into the worn leather, he realized 
this might have been a very bad idea. Not the riding, as he wanted 
to show Scully parts of the land that were best accessed by 
horseback.

While it may have been easier for them both to ride one horse, 
rather than worrying about her on another, her weight pressing 
against his groin was instantly arousing, and he closed his eyes, 
trying to regain control of the moment. As she moved against him in 
an attempt to get comfortable, he almost lost control. "Hold still 
for a minute," he said, his voice short. But it betrayed him, as he 
heard the tone of arousal and need, and knew that she did, too.

"Are you okay?" she finally asked, hesitant, and distinctively 
amused. 

He barked a short laugh. "Damn, Scully, you make a man think some 
very improper thoughts." That seemed please her, even though it was 
nothing but the truth.

Beau walked easy down the dirt road, leading past the Wilkins' 
house and the barn and towards the open fields. The cattle were 
quiet tonight, standing motionless in the darkness, and he saw 
their dark shadows looming on either side of them. He knew they 
were an audience to something very significant, whatever it was 
that was happening between he and Scully. 

Scully's body shifted vaguely in rhythm with the horse's gait, and 
he allowed his hips to rotate slightly against her. "Will would be 
incredibly impressed if he could see me now," she announced. 

"You've ridden with him?" he asked, curious about her son and how 
Scully interacted with him. He was a student of human nature, and 
saw all sorts of mothers, from overprotective and smothering to 
those who simply didn't care. He imagined Scully somewhere in the 
middle, with definite smothering tendencies. 

"Only once," she said, sighing as she moved further against him, 
resting her head against his chest. "I think I held him back, 
because he never asked me to ride with him again." God, could this 
woman be any more spirited? He visualized the determined set of her 
jaw as she rode beside her son, intent on keeping up with him, 
making him happy. 

"I'm sure he was proud of you for trying," he concluded. Lyon 
wondered how hard it had been for her, being a single-mother. He 
imagined that the sacrifices were those that she made willingly.

She thought he was the father.

That idea gave him pause, and for the first time, he allowed 
himself to imagine life as a father, having a son who adored him, 
who respected him. It was a bit unnerving, but not in a frightening 
way. It was much the same as he felt from the moment he met Scully. 
It was a life he did not choose, but was now being offered 
tantalizing glimpses.

A life with a woman who loved him, and who he adored. A son who 
loved to ride, whose sparkling eyes reflected an enchantment with 
the world that Lyon had long ago lost. A permanent, secure home, 
not the transient lifestyle he had known for years. He wasn't sure 
he would fit in.

But it was far away, the house and the little boy, and Scully was 
here with him now, pressed against him in the darkness, and he 
inhaled deeply of her perfume and the saddle leather and the summer 
air. "This is beautiful, Lyon," she said, and he pressed his face 
against her cheek, murmuring into her hair, 

"It is," he thought aloud. "I love it out here. It's quiet. Just 
you and the horse."

They entered one of the pastures now, and he instinctively looked 
up into the stars. "You see that grouping of stars over there?" he 
asked her, pointing one finger into the heavens. The sky was 
impossibly clear, and it looked as if a thousand diamonds had been 
spread across the dark night sky.

She turned, gazing upward and nodded. "I do."
 
"It's the Virgo constellation," he said, bringing Beau to a halt 
near the trees and sliding to the ground, his hand resting on 
Scully's knee. "The brightest star, the one there on top, is Spica. 
It's the alpha star. Two hundred and sixty light years away." She 
stroked his fingers with her own, listening to his words. "It's 
deceiving, though. It looks like one bright star, although it's 
actually two. And it's dying. Even though it is so bright, it's a 
dying giant, slowly burning itself out."

He wasn't sure what he was trying to tell her. That appearances 
could be deceiving, that what we perceive to be true can be a hoax, 
that our hearts and minds can see something that really isn't that.

That he wasn't Mulder, but he loved her, and never wanted her to 
leave his side.    

"You spend a lot of time under the stars, don't you, Lyon?" She 
added a special emphasis to his name, and he knew she understood. 
He began to walk, holding Beau by the reins as they approached a 
small stream. It divided the Wilkins' property from the north, and 
was hidden from view by a low line of brush and trees. 

The sound of the gurgling water in the darkness gave him pause, and 
he prayed to whatever deity might exist to make this moment last. 

Let me be enough for her, he fervently thought. 

He told her the truth, that he could offer her nothing more. Scully 
took his hand, dismounting, and they sat together on the remains of 
a fallen tree near the stream. "I find my horse and the evening sky 
to be better companions than most of the humans I know." One side 
of her mouth twisted upwards as he hastily added, "Present company 
excluded, of course."

"Where are you staying tonight, Lyon?" she asked, startling him. He 
hadn't thought that far ahead, but knew that he wanted to stay with 
her. He couldn't find the words to tell her. "I mean," she said, 
flustered at his silence, "it's late, and after you drive me back 
to the motel, it will be even later." 

Her uncertainty was gently amusing. "Where would you like me to 
stay, Scully?"

Say it, Scully, he willed. I can't, but I'll stay with you if you 
ask. There's no place I'd rather be. 

"C'mon, Lyon. Give me a straight answer," she said, staring 
intently into the water. 

"Ask me a straight question," he responded.

And the distant call of the bird grew quiet, and a cloud crossed 
over the moon, and he swore even the creek became still. She was 
illuminated with the most slender beam of light, and he wanted the 
moment to last forever, just he and Scully, together, away from the 
craziness of the world.

"Can I stay with you tonight?" she asked, in a tiny, hopeful voice. 
And he had never loved a person more than he did this woman at that 
moment. He tilted her chin up so he could look into her eyes, and 
kissed her gently before answering. "I'd never let you go," he 
responded, and it was the truth.


III.

"I think you're going to have to help me off here," she managed in 
a shaky voice, and Lyon fought back a smile as he dismounted and 
grabbed Beau by the reins, holding his hat in the opposite hand. It 
was dark now, the only light coming from the barn up ahead and the 
stars above them, beacons in the darkness. Yet he could see her 
smile clearly, and the way her cheeks were flushed, and how her 
hair was gently tousled from the breeze.

He had fallen in love with this woman, and he didn't give a damn 
about the consequences.

"Grab onto my shoulders," he said as he walked up closer to her. He 
let the reins drop as she leaned over slightly, putting both hands 
out to him. So trusting, and he vowed he would never do anything to 
harm her. Of all the things he had learned about Scully, he knew 
instinctively that her trust was not given easily. For some reason, 
Lyon had it, and he treasured it, knowing its immeasurable value.

He pulled her off the horse, and felt her press up against him in 
the darkness, her hands tangled behind his head. Oh, god. He hadn't 
thought of this when he reached up to help her dismount, and he was 
unprepared for the sensations that ran through his body. Scully's 
full length was against his, and he couldn't help the groan that 
escaped from his lips. It was so unexpectedly erotic and intimate 
that he felt her shiver, and he held her even tighter, anchoring 
himself to that moment with her touch.

If he had any doubts, any doubts that he was immersed far over his 
head, that moment confirmed it for him. Scully felt it, too, he 
knew, by the way she stood on her toes to whisper in his ear. 
"Thank you," she sighed, her voice light and airy and full of want. 

"Jesus," he managed, just before he roughly pulled her head back 
and kissed her.

It was not the sweet, gentle caress of the kisses they shared 
earlier in the day. Instead, it was a hard, demanding kiss, one 
that screamed unequivocally of how much he wanted her, of how much 
his body and spirit desired her. Scully never flinched, never 
retreated from his kiss. She parted her mouth under him, touching 
his tongue fleetingly with the tip of her own. He groaned again, 
tightening his hold on her, and he grew bolder, tracing his hands 
down her back and lifting her just slightly, so her body pressed 
against the junction of his thighs.

"Lyon, I want"" He knew what she wanted, for he wanted the same 
thing. He kissed her again, and then let her slide abruptly against 
his body to the ground, setting her on her feet. 

"I do too, Scully," he managed, his voice raw. "Just not right 
here."

He was ready to take her in the middle of the Wilkins' driveway, 
for god's sakes. She deserved better, he thought, looking at her 
guiltily in the hazy twilight. She deserved the best he could give 
her, and he wanted to give her everything. Lyon was ashamed that he 
had so little to offer, but he could certainly do better than the 
hard Texas soil.

It was lust, but it was more. He wanted the best for Scully because 
he loved her. He met her only a day ago, yet he knew with agonizing 
certainty that he loved her. 

The horse gave a low snort, shaking his head, causing both he and 
Scully to jump. "Guess we forgot we had an audience," Scully said, 
and he could tell by the tone of her voice that she was a little 
embarrassed. He kissed her again, lightly, on the forehead, and 
then held on to her hand, perching his hat on top of her head. She 
looked good in his clothes. She would look better without them, 
without any at all.

"I guess we did," he answered her, and they began to walk, slowly, 
letting the gelding cool off and giving them both a moment to 
regain their senses. "I think you could be a good rider, Scully," 
he said, making small talk, trying to bring them back to an even 
keel. 

She rolled her eyes at him. "I don't think so. Will inherited his 
riding abilities from someone other than me."

Her words were unintentionally poignant, and he had a fleeting 
glimpse of a redheaded boy with his own dark eyes, cantering beside 
him in an open field.

"It's not rocket science," he answered, shaking the image away. 
"It's all about balance, a give and take, an understanding of the 
horse." As they started walking, her initial steps had been 
unsteady, and he wanted to think it was due to his kisses, for it 
certainly made his own legs weak. But he knew their brief ride must 
have had some effect, given her admitted lack of riding experience. 

"How long have you ridden, Lyon?" she asked him as they stopped by 
the barn and he began to unsaddle their mount.

He stopped midway through unbuckling the cinch. He couldn't 
remember. "I don't know," he slowly admitted, trying to recall the 
first time his father set him on a pony or how often he rode as a 
child. The memory wasn't there. "I suppose forever, since I can't 
remember ever starting."

She gazed at him steadily, her eyes speaking volumes that she was 
afraid to put into words. They both were, so they let the moment 
escape.

"C'mere," he said as he led the horse into the stall, shutting the 
gate behind him and grabbing her by the hand. "I want to show you 
something." She followed him willingly, only hesitating for a 
moment as he gestured at the ladder up into the hayloft. She 
climbed up first, and he pointedly looked at the gate, the walls, 
the horses, anything to avoid looking at Scully's shapely legs as 
she climbed up the ladder.

He tried to remember that, beneath the rough exterior of a cowboy, 
he was a gentleman. But Scully made it damn hard to keep that fact 
in mind.

She had already settled into the space overlooking the pasture by 
the time he followed her into the loft. "This is beautiful, Lyon," 
she breathed, and he agreed. The loft overlooked the back of the 
Wilkins' land, and, with the sparse trees and the straight line of 
the fence, there was precious little between their bodies and the 
stars.

"I know," he answered, sitting beside her, naturally drawing her 
body to his. He pulled a few blankets from the stack near the wall, 
and spread them out over the hay. "I come up here a lot at night, 
to be by myself, and to look at the stars. To think."

"Why are you such a private man, Lyon? Who hurt you so?" It was the 
unspoken question she had been mulling most of the day, and she 
spoke it so softly, so easily, that he almost missed it beneath the 
quiet summer breeze. "No one," he finally answered. "Everyone. I 
don't know, Scully. I really don't. I only know that I never felt 
like I could trust anyone. I never wanted to."

Oh, god. He was desperately clutching his self-control, hanging 
about him in tatters. "Until you, Scully. I want to trust you." He 
couldn't take back the words when he uttered them, so they hung 
between them, dancing, tantalizing them both. He couldn't move, but 
only watched her as she moved, stopping inches from his lips. 
"Trust me, Lyon."

It didn't matter what she called him. It all felt so right, so 
natural, that the issue of his name was no longer important. 
Reaching down to pull her shirt up from her slacks, he vowed to 
show her with his body what there weren't enough words to express. 
That he trusted her, that he loved her, that he would do most 
anything for her.

As he lifted her shirt up over her head, he stopped, staring at the 
exquisite sight of the moonlight on her pale skin. Her breasts were 
revealed with the single twist of the bra clasp, and she pulled off 
her slacks on her own. It was not her naked body that aroused him 
the most, although the curve of her hips and the dark curls between 
her legs took his breath away.

It was the look on her face, the open, simple expression of a woman 
who loved him. He felt unworthy, and joyous, and wanted to weep and 
shout at the same moment.

"Let me see you," she said, and he could not refuse her gentle 
request. He couldn't refuse her much of anything, he realized, as 
he stood in front of her, facing her, watching as she lay on her 
back on the soft blanket, naked, never taking her eyes from him. 
Her eyes were the color of a turbulent sea, and his last clear 
thought was that they were both far past the point of tangible 
reason.

Scully looked at him, cataloguing him with a lover's eye. But 
instead of making him feel awkward, he was incredibly aroused. He 
was also making a sacrifice for her. Because instead of loving her 
with just his body, as he had other women before, he was loving her 
with his heart.

"You feel exactly like I dreamed you would," she said, as he laid 
next to her, bringing his hand up to the warmth between her thighs, 
the burnished curls tickling his fingertips. "You've dreamt about 
us, Scully?" he asked her, tracing the outline of her nipple with 
the tip of his tongue. She arched her back and purred. "God, yes. 
I've dreamt of you."

Then he was on his back, and she straddled his hips, and he was 
inside of her. And he knew, as long as he would breathe, this 
moment would remain etched in his memory as perfect. Scully above 
him, nude, her head thrown back and her red hair teasing her 
shoulders, and the full Texas moon rising above her, bathing them 
both in twilight.

"Yes, baby," he murmured, urging her on as she settled her body 
into an easy rhythm. He wanted this moment to last forever, he 
realized, and thrust his hips against her, dragging her closer to 
him, slowing the rhythm to a more manageable pace. "Jesus, Scully," 
he whispered, unsure of what he wanted to say, and not able to find 
the words in any case.

She whimpered, and moved just slightly, rotating her hips so the 
friction changed, and he shuddered. He wanted to tell her that this 
was about so much more, so much more than just sex. That he had 
never felt this way, and it frightened him. But that he wanted her 
to know he would never hurt her, and that he would always do his 
best to protect her. 

Scully knew, by the way she brought her hands up to his face, 
lovingly resting them on his shoulders, using the leverage to 
increase her motions above him. She knew, as they both came, and 
the name he cried was hers, and it was said with as much reverence 
and tenderness as the moment would allow. She knew, for as she fell 
on top of him, her body quivering, she let her breathing fall into 
a pattern echoing his own, and they were complete.

The minutes passed, and he could tell Scully was asleep, her body 
limp on top of him, her breathing finally slow and even. He didn't 
want to move, to ever feel her weight leave him, so he reached over 
to one side, stretching as he grabbed a spare blanket with his 
fingertips and pulled it over them. They lay there, cocooned.  

Just as his eyes began to close, and he felt the hazy twinges of 
sleep pass over him, he heard a voice, his own. "You made me a 
whole person, Scully. I owe you everything, and you, you owe me 
nothing." He had never spoken those words to her, not during the 
day they spent together. But they were true, and, as he drifted to 
sleep, the voice continued to echo in his mind. "You saved me, 
Scully. You saved me."


Chapter Five


I.

Her eyes were heavy still, even as the first edges of dawn made 
their way into the loft, rousing her from her sleep. Sometime 
during the night, she had found her discarded shirt and underwear. 
But her legs were bare, and she pulled them beneath the blanket, 
the chill of the morning air giving her pause. As she opened her 
eyes, with regret, hesitant to leave the peaceful world of sleep 
and dreams, and Mulder, she took stock of her surroundings.

Her legs ached only slightly, and her neck was a little stiff from 
falling asleep on Mulder's bare chest. She wasn't sure how long she 
slept there, but, when she awoke, the night was inky black, and she 
could barely make out the features on his face. He had been relaxed, 
his breathing slow and even, and she never wanted her eyes to close. 
He was beautiful, and she had found him, and something seemed right 
again.

Regretfully, she did roll off him, but, even in his sleep, he gave 
a small moan of protest, quickly encircling her with his arms and 
pulling her closer to him. So she slept, with peace.

He wasn't there when she reached to her side. She panicked, sitting 
up straight. He wouldn't have left her, not again, not after 
everything that happened.

And he hadn't. Instead, he was standing by the open loft door, 
leaning against the aged wood, clad only in his worn jeans. One 
bare foot was propped over the other, and he had his hands slung 
low in his pockets. She admired him, her own Greek god, and with 
her eyes, lovingly traced the line of his back, the way his muscles 
stretched and tapered off into his jeans. She knew his body so 
well, and last night she treasured discovering it all over again.

"Lyon?" she said softly, standing unsteadily to her feet and 
wrapping the blanket around her bare legs, unwilling to take 
the time to find her slacks. He didn't turn around. "Aren't 
you cold without your shirt?"

Again he was silent, and then he dropped his head, and she could 
hear a strange emotion in his voice, one she couldn't define. 
"I didn't want to take it off you," he finally answered. 

Confused, she looked down, realizing that, in the black of night, 
she had slipped on his shirt, which now hung down to her knees.

She walked up, reaching her arms around him, draping the blanket 
over them both, and kissed him on the neck. He didn't move, 
didn't react, and after a long moment, she began to get worried. 
What if he was angry with her? What if he had regrets? What if 
he wished he could have left her asleep in the loft this morning, 
so that they both would have had a moment to regroup, to adjust 
to the accelerated pace of their relationship?

"Lyon?" she asked again, more tentatively, her lips brushing against 
his neck.

"Oh, Scully," he said, and there was something different in the way 
he spoke her name. She recognized that he was trembling, and she 
panicked when she realized that they were sobs. Before she could 
speak, he turned quickly in her arms, nearly knocking her off her 
feet, and began to kiss her, worshipping her, showering her face 
with kisses. He brought both hands up to her face, and she could 
feel the wetness on his cheeks, his own tears.

He said her name, over and over again, chanting it with reverence 
and sadness and awe.

"Lyon? Are you okay? What's wrong?" She thought of every 
possibility, and felt the cold fear grip her again. Please, God. 
Please don't let this have been a mistake.

He finally slowed his kisses and simply held her in a loose embrace, 
her face pressed against his bare chest. "I saw you last night, 
Scully." 

She was confused. Of course, he saw her. She revealed herself to him 
with wanton abandon, and nothing had ever felt so right. But slowly 
the pieces came together. "You dreamt of me?" she asked him, unsure 
of why he was so upset, so emotional. Please, God, she prayed again, 
this time with more fervent despair. Don't let him leave me again. 
It was a desperate plea.

And then he spoke the words, the words that changed everything, the 
words that frightened them both. "It wasn't a dream, Scully," he 
said in a low timbre, his breath teasing the hair on her neck. He 
spoke slowly and deliberately, trying to make her understand. "It 
wasn't a dream, Scully," he said again, pulling back to see her, 
tracing his fingers lovingly along her cheek. "It seemed almost 
like a memory."

Memories.

Her eyes widened, and she couldn't think of anything to say. The 
delayed reaction hit her a second later, and the words rushed over 
her, her own tidal wave of awareness. He saw a vision of their 
previous life together. Somehow, he was remembering who she was, 
who he was. Oh, god. 

"What did you see, Lyon?" She had no idea what to call him, and he 
winced at her uncertainty, pulling away from her, pacing along the 
piles of hay stacked against the wall. They were both raw, ultra 
sensitive to the words and emotions that anchored them together, to 
that moment in time. Whatever was happening, whatever happened to 
Mulder during the night, had changed everything for them both.

"I saw you, Scully, standing in long hallway. You looked so tired, 
and so frightened, and all I wanted to do was comfort you, to make 
you somehow whole again. But I knew that I was part of the problem, 
and how could I fix that? I couldn't let you go." His voice dropped 
a few octaves until she could hardly hear him, but she instantly 
knew what he was describing.

Dear god. Mulder was recounting the moment in the hallway outside 
of his apartment, when he nearly kissed her, desperate for her not 
to leave for Salt Lake City. He remembered.

He couldn't stop, the words gushing forth in a torrent of repressed 
fear and anger. "You and I were standing in front of each other, 
and you were crying, and I felt like the biggest bastard in the 
world because I knew I was the one who made you cry. I was so 
scared I was going to lose you again."

He stopped, unsure, and she could only look at him, tears glistening 
in her eyes. He remembered. It wasn't a dream. It was a memory, a 
clear memory of their life together, a memory of Fox Mulder, the man 
who, up until two days ago, was a stranger to Will Lyon. Now the 
unthinkable for him, that they were one and the same.

Mulder saw the fear in her eyes, and walked towards her, holding 
onto her free hand. His voice dropped a fraction, and she swore 
she saw the ghost of a smile float across his face. "Tell me about 
that moment, Scully, because I know it was real. I knew it last 
night, because I could smell your perfume, and felt your tears 
on my hands when I wiped them away."

Her tears fell freely now. Mulder was recounting the night she 
almost left him behind, the night that set forth the dreadful 
course of events where he turned the world upside down to find her. 
It was the night she knew, with amazing clarity, just how much 
he meant to her. And he remembered. Oh, god, Mulder.

She lost track of time, and then she was sitting in his lap, 
his chin resting on her head. "I don't understand, Lyon," she 
said, and she felt him shake his head. 

"I don't either," he answered, tightening his arms around her. "And 
I don't even have to ask you if it was true, if you and Mulder 
shared that moment. I see it in your face." Neither of them 
understood what was happening. You and Mulder, he said, and she 
realized he couldn't put the pieces together, could not fathom 
the unthinkable.

"It wasn't a dream, Scully. It was a memory." A long pause, and she 
wanted so badly to comfort him, to give him the answers he so 
desperately needed. She needed them, too. She needed to understand 
why he was taken from her, and how, in the course of a single day, 
she found him, and he remembered. It was a small moment, a fraction 
of the kaleidoscope of memories they shared, but for now, it was 
enough.

"At first, I thought my mind was deceiving me, that I wanted so 
badly to be Mulder for you that I convinced myself I actually might 
be. I want to be enough for you. But it was so real. I lived it."

He lived it. Just as she did. When she first started working with 
Mulder, when she believed the lies that were told to her as truths, 
she kept a journal, a memoir of sorts about her experiences. As time 
progressed, those experiences became more bizarre, too terrifying to 
make real with words, so she only recorded them in her mind.

She wanted to run through that list, day by day, to see if he 
remembered. But what was their truth? What happened to him? She 
could see the uncertainty in his eyes, and she had no answer, no 
weapon to fight the evil that lurked in the shadows, the evil that 
took Mulder away from her and made him another man. But they, 
whoever they were, couldn't take away the memory of one 
fleetingly perfect moment. 

She only wanted to have Mulder and Will beside her, sitting near a 
gurgling Texas stream, watching the sunrise.

The sound of a car horn in the driveway caused them both to jump. 
Mulder got to his feet, walking a few steps to see who arrived at 
the Wilkins. She was embarrassed, sitting in a stranger's barn 
without any pants on. She quickly changed shirts, lingering over 
Mulder's soft cotton with regret, and found her slacks, crumpled 
beneath a blanket. She slid them on, brushing out the wrinkles and 
picking off the stray wisps of hay. Taking a deep breath, she 
mentally braced herself for the day, for whatever reality she and 
Mulder were to find outside of the loft.

Mulder wore a confused expression as he walked back to her, slipping 
his shirt on and sliding on his boots. "It's the county sheriff," he 
explained as he took her hand, leading her over to the ladder. As he 
stepped aside to help her down, he said her name, and she looked up 
into his dark, expressive eyes. "I love you," he simply said, and 
she nodded. 

"I know," she answered him, and she did know.

"Lyon," the sheriff announced as they walked out of the barn. He was 
standing on the Wilkins' front porch, one hand on his hip, his face 
shadowed by a large cowboy hat. 

"Sheriff Bensimon," Mulder responded, holding her hand tightly as 
they walked up to the house. "Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins aren't here, 
Sheriff. They went down to Austin for the weekend."

The sheriff gave her a curious glance, but said nothing. Instead, 
he took off his hat and walked down the steps, joining them in the 
front yard. Scully held onto Mulder's hand tighter. The sheriff wore 
his law enforcement persona well. His holster hung low on his hips, 
and the badge on his chest glittered in the morning sunlight. She 
had a fleeting moment of fear, that somehow he was here to take 
Mulder away again.

"Actually, I was here looking for you, Lyon. I'm afraid I have some 
bad news for you." At his words, the fear in Scully's heart grew, 
and she vowed that Mulder would never be taken from her again. She 
simply wouldn't allow it.

Mulder showed no reaction to the Sheriff's announcement. He stood 
very still, his expression bland and emotionless. She had not come 
all this way to lose Mulder again. Not just for the two of them, 
but for Will. He needed his father, and she swore she would give 
that to him.

Oblivious to their quiet drama, the Sheriff watched them with a 
steady gaze. "It's about the Wilkins, Lyon. They're dead, killed 
in a car crash late last night near Austin."

Scully closed her eyes, somehow knowing that the proverbial other 
shoe had just dropped.


II.

It never rained this much in Texas, at least during this time 
of year. She learned this from the handful of farmhands who 
gathered at the Wilkins' home that afternoon. Their faces were 
tired, and tanned, and they reminded her of Mulder, with their 
dusty Levis and well-worn boots. Or at least the new incarnation 
of Mulder.

Scully sat alone on the front porch swing, barefoot, tracing the 
worn outline of the cracked wood with her feet. It was afternoon, 
and the ominous clouds which were gathered near the treeline at 
noon had finally erupted, bringing forth a torrent of rain, the 
large drops slapping against the dirt driveway, quickly turning 
it into a river of mud.

Make it real, she willed silently. Make this moment real, the warm 
rain falling from the heavens, the summer breeze, the way the 
trees in the front yard swayed and danced in the wind, the 
rivulets of water streaming off the side of the porch. Make 
Mulder real.

She saw the truth falling together, although she knew that a certain 
element of the truth had died alongside a Texas highway to Austin, 
in the Wilkins' truck. Even if they had no idea how Will Lyon came 
to be, they knew how he walked onto their ranch, how he worked their 
lands and tended to their herds. They knew, but they were gone, 
their answers silent, fading away.

Were they a part of the deception? Did it matter?

The swing swayed gently as Mulder sat down beside her, his eyes 
betraying his exhaustion and sadness.

"You okay?" she asked, not knowing what else to say. Their emotions 
were sensitive, and she wanted nothing more to walk out into the 
rain, into the surrounding pastures, and simply be alone. That would 
have meant leaving Mulder, however, and she wasn't prepared to 
do that.

"I guess so," he roughly replied, staring intently at the floor. 
"I don't know what the hell is going on, Scully. In the past two 
days, my life has been completely turned upside down. I don't 
understand anything anymore." 

She was angry at what had been done to them. Damn angry, and she 
wondered vaguely again if things would ever be the same. "The 
Wilkins were good people, Scully," he continued. "They gave me 
a roof over my head, and respectability. And they helped you 
find me." 

But what part did they play in the deception? The morning she 
stood in the Wilkins' driveway seemed a lifetime ago. She wasn't 
even the same person as she was then, the hopeful, determined 
woman who was so focused on finding Mulder. Now, she found him, 
yet the world was a slippery landscape of jumbled emotions 
and words unsaid.

"They did help me find you, Lyon," she finally answered. She 
wanted him to understand. How much should she say? She wanted 
to tell him that she believed their deaths to be no accident, 
that they died because she came to Texas, that they died because 
he remembered a fleeting moment in a hallway years ago. But he 
wouldn't understand. Not yet, not this soon, not when he still 
lived and breathed life as Will Lyon. 

He didn't meet her eyes. "And now they're gone," he responded, 
and she winced at the barely contained anger in his voice. She 
had heard that tone from him countless times before, always when 
they had their backs against the wall, always when it seemed as 
if their last chance was gone. It was different now, she wanted 
to scream. We have a child, and we have a chance to build a life 
together, one that was taken from us.

Mulder wanted answers, and she had never been able to deny him 
his quest for the truth.

Before she could speak, the front door opened, and Scully saw 
one of the ranch hands emerge. She herself had been in the house 
earlier that day, when the sheriff first arrived. Walking into the 
shadowed foyer, she had crinkled her nose, the smell reminding her 
of the houses of older people. Cooked vegetables, and dust from 
rooms whose doors were rarely, if ever, opened. Mulder didn't 
belong in this place.

The young man walked over to them, and she vaguely remembered his 
name as Mark, in the rush of introductions that had been made in 
the late morning as the Wilkins' crew arrived and heard the news. 
"Lyon," he said, his boots heavy on the wooden porch, "I finished 
up those phone calls. The herd is ready to ship out on Monday, 
and Mr. Wilkins' son finally called back. He's on his way 
down here."

Mulder never moved, his face impassive, and Scully knew he was 
slipping away, away from the joyous cocoon in the loft this 
morning, away from the possibility that he was Mulder, that 
they shared a life together. In his grief, and anger, he shut 
down the realm of the impossible, instead focusing on inhaling 
and exhaling.  

What was once lost was now found, and she could never bear the 
pain of that loss again.

Mark was looking at them expectedly, as if waiting for some 
sort of response. She glanced at Mulder, who sat staring out 
into the afternoon drizzle. "Thank you," she murmured, unsure 
of exactly what to say. "I know the Wilkins would have appreciated 
it." Mark looked at her curiously, as if trying to place her 
face, and then smiled tightly before walking off.

The remainder of the men said their goodbyes, murmuring words 
of half-hearted comfort to each other. They seemed to Scully to 
be expressions people thought they should say at a moment like 
this, when casual conversation seemed inappropriate and no one 
wanted to seem insensitive. 

Her cell phone rang, the sound jarring amidst the drizzle of 
rain and perfunctory gestures. Mulder watched her curiously as 
she searched for the phone in the pocket of her slacks. It was 
Walter, her reminder of the outside world, of the way things 
were just a week ago. Dana Scully, single mother and former FBI 
agent. Somehow, she didn't feel like the same person, much as 
she imagined Mulder felt.

The world would forever be different for the both of them.

"Walter," she said as she answered the phone, and she watched 
Mulder's eyes when he heard Walter's name. Nothing. No moment 
of recognition. She felt her stomach twist, and realized it was 
all too soon for Mulder, too fast. Their intimacy had brought 
forth one memory, but she refused to believe the rest of those 
memories were not still there, behind the floodgates of another 
man's life.

"I was worried, Dana," Walter said. "I tried to call you a few 
times last night, but you didn't answer. Did you find out 
anything? Did you find Mulder?" 

"Yes," was her only response, because she didn't know where to
 begin. There was no possible way she could begin to describe 
the past two days to anyone. What she and Mulder had experienced 
was something that had changed them both.

The static in the background was the only sound for what seemed 
like minutes, neither she nor Walter knowing what to say. Mulder 
only watched her, quiet, his eyes shadowed. She wanted to scream 
at him, to tell him to say something, anything, so she would 
know what he was thinking. It saddened her, to realize that she 
could no longer read his thoughts, that the instinctual reaction 
to his emotions was gone.

"You found him," Walter finally said. It was surreal to hear 
the words, and she knew Walter was disbelieving. "Is he alright? 
Is everything okay? Where the hell has he been?"

"Things are complicated right now," she offered, not wanting 
Walter to think ill of Mulder. That was all she would say, 
knowing the rest would gradually emerge over time. "I'm fine. 
Right now, that's all I can tell you."

Walter was immediately concerned. "Do you need me to come down 
there, Dana?" The protectiveness in her voice brought unexpected 
tears to her eyes. 

"No," she responded immediately, wiping away the wetness as 
Mulder got to his feet, walking away from her, leaning against 
the railing on his elbows. "And don't tell Will," she whispered. 
She wasn't ready for Will to know. She wasn't ready because 
she didn't know what was going to happen in the next hour, 
the next day, the next week. "I'll call him myself," she asserted, 
not giving Walter a chance to protest. "I have to go," she 
said, getting up to stand near Mulder, holding onto his hand.

His hand was intensely warm, and she savored the sensation. It 
was life, and it reminded her that he was here with her. She 
wasn't doing this alone. Disconnecting the phone, she stood in 
silence. The rain was finally beginning to slack off, the 
large drops diminishing to a steady haze. The air smelled clear, 
fresh, dancing over her face with the afternoon breeze. The 
grass, though still damp with rain, glistened beneath the 
emerging sun, and she relished the sight, the fact that Mulder 
was standing beside her to see it.

"I hope everything's okay," he said, nodding vaguely in the 
direction of the phone. If you only knew, she thought, shrugging 
her shoulders in response.

"Things between us will never be simple, will they?" It was 
Mulder's question, but he already knew the answer. She knew 
the connection that brought them together. She knew that Will 
was his child. She knew that the death of the couple who he 
cared for was part of a larger plan, something he could not 
yet process. Something she could not understand herself.

"I need to have things arranged here," he said, "for when Jerry 
gets into town. He's the Wilkins' son. I don't know what he's 
going to want to do. The cattle have to be shipped out, the men 
have to be paid -"

When he paused, she wanted to scream at him about the 
insignificance of the damn cattle, when they were so close to 
the truth. And then she realized she sounded exactly like him, 
back in the days when he was driven by a force even he could 
not define.

"Yes," she finally said. "There will be a lot to do." 

He kissed her suddenly, an unexpected ferocity to his embrace. 
"I haven't forgotten this morning, Scully. I haven't forgotten 
that memory, that feeling." Oh, Mulder. Don't forget, because 
it's all we have for the time being.  

"I'll drive you back to the motel," he announced, pulling away 
from her, turning his face so she would not see his tears. "I 
imagine we would both like a hot shower, a chance to get 
cleaned up."

"Okay," she whispered. They were leaving this place, this spot 
of discovery and heartache and deception, and she was glad. 
They needed time to heal, to lick the wounds of their latest 
escapade. 

He kissed her lightly on the lips, murmuring, "It'll be okay, 
Scully." And she believed him, for what other choice did 
she have?

She should call her mother, who was doubtless worried over 
her impromptu drive to Texas. She should call her son, to let 
him know she was okay and that she was thinking of him. But 
she simply stood there, motionless on a dead man's porch, and 
watched Mulder walk to the barn, through the last of the storm.


III.

He flipped through the telephone book, passing through the 
Albertsons and the Criglers and the Hollidays and the Joneses. 
He stopped at Lyon, recognizing the first entry as that of Larry 
Lyon, who lived in a small house off Main Street. His wife had 
passed away a few months ago, and the handful of times he saw 
Mr. Lyon in the streets, his eyes were rimmed with red and his 
breath smelled distinctly of bourbon. 

Lyon wondered what it would be like to love someone so much that, 
when they were taken from you, life simply didn't seem worth 
living. Reality paled in comparison to the dull numbness of alcohol. 
He thought of Scully, how she searched for Mulder, her strength 
never wavering, and he wondered how this woman, this invincible 
woman, came to be.

And then there was his name. Will Lyon, Rural Route 26. That was 
the Wilkins' address. He never got any mail there, except for 
the odd solicitation or the revival announcement from the local 
Baptist Church. He never cared much, to be honest. Mail and phone 
calls and visits were inconsequential when you didn't give a damn 
about anyone but yourself.

But now he did, a redheaded woman who silently believed he was 
another man, and who loved him beneath the Texas stars. Now there 
was a reason to give a damn, he thought, a shiver dancing down his 
spine, because he was sure the moment he told Scully she was 
everything, that she saved him, was real. He lived it. In that 
moment, he was Mulder.

The door to the room opened, and Scully entered, balancing a drink 
In each hand and a bag of chips under her chin. She shut the door 
with her foot, pushing it extra hard. Lyon wondered absently how 
old the door was, and how many more years it would take for the 
frame to warp completely in the warm Texas humidity. Like so many 
things in this town, time was wearing them away, reshaping them 
into a new form.

He should have gotten up to help her. But he couldn't move from 
his position on the bed, where his legs were stretched out on the 
worn bedspread and the town phone book lay open in his lap. He 
couldn't take his eyes from her, savoring every detail, like a
man dying of thirst who spots a clear stream in the distance.

Leaving her would kill him, but he had to leave her to save 
them both.

She wordlessly handed him his iced tea and they unwrapped their 
sandwiches. "Are you going to be okay, Lyon?" she finally asked 
him. He wanted to laugh at her, to tell her he really had no 
idea if he would ever be okay again. That he wasn't sure who he 
really was, that the couple he once trusted were dead, that he 
felt he was somehow indirectly involved, that he loved her so 
goddamned much it hurt.

But that wouldn't be fair, so he gave her a semblance of a smile 
before he replied. "I think so. You are here, and for the moment, 
that is enough." He was proud of himself for speaking the truth, 
for the right words brought an answering smile from Scully. He 
noticed how the wrinkles near her eyes became more prominent as 
she smiled, and how the weariness, which haunted her expression 
since she came into town, now seemed more noticeable. 

"What did you do, Scully, when you found out Mulder was gone?" 
He tortured himself with conjectures about that time, what she 
went through, finding out she was pregnant with a new life when 
she had no idea if Mulder was dead or alive. But he needed to 
know. The desire in him pulsated, twisted through his body, 
demanded satisfaction. He couldn't explain it, but the thought 
of Scully alone, pregnant and desperate, blinded him.

"I looked for him," she said simply, blinking as if surprised 
by his question, and it was enough. He loved her so impossibly 
much that it nearly crippled him.

Which is why he had come to decision, as they drove the once 
familiar road back to Scully's motel room. The town taunted him, 
laughing in the face of his confusion. He knew every stoplight, 
every business lining the dusty two-lane. But he wasn't sure 
what was real. The memories of his forty-odd years were twisted, 
confused. He tried to understand if it was the normal wear of 
time, the way the wood of the motel creaked and the Wilkins' 
front porch sagged, or if it was something more. If everything 
was fading for a reason.

He had to know. He had to answer the questions for himself, for 
Scully and for Will. And he had to do it alone. 

Scully finished her sandwich, crinkling the paper in her hands, 
and he knew he was a bastard. He had to protect her. She had no 
idea that he was leaving her. That, in a few short hours, he 
would walk out that battered door into the evening darkness in 
a desperate attempt to find the truth. Nothing would be the 
same for them until he knew.

He had to know who he really was, and until then, he refused 
to put Scully and her son in danger, refused to taint their 
life with his uncertain presence. 

"I'm sorry about the Wilkins," she said, and he watched her 
face as she spoke. "I know you found a home there, Lyon, and 
I know how important that was for you."

Home. When he was a child, he would come in from school, and 
his mother would always be there to welcome him, her apron 
sprinkled with flour from whatever project she had going on 
in the kitchen. She would make him a sandwich, and he would 
sit on the back porch. When his parents died, a certain love 
died with him.

He always believed that was why his emotions were a sparse 
landscape, where nothing would take root. He traveled once 
towards the border, to South Texas, picking up some cattle 
with Mr. Wilkins, and he was fascinated with the flat desert 
and the mountains in the background. He saw himself.

And now he wondered if any of it was real, if his barren heart 
was because something was taken from him, something that was 
his and his alone, something he had only chosen to share with 
this beautiful woman who believed he was someone else.

He wondered if he believed it, too.  

"I think I'm going to take a shower now," Scully said, 
grabbing the trash from the bed as she stood. She walked over 
to him, kissing him on the head, and every breath he drew as 
she stood over him was painful. It was a reminder of what might 
have been taken from him. "Do you need anything else?" she 
asked, resting her chin on the top of his head.

I need so much, Scully. I need you, I need answers, I need to 
find the truth that will make everything okay. "I'm fine," he 
lied, and she believed him, because she wanted to do so.

He listened as she took off her clothes in the small bathroom, 
the sound of her slacks and her blouse hitting the tile. Lyon 
heard the water turn on, and he swore he heard a sigh. He 
imagined Scully standing underneath the water, letting it 
cascade down her back, her hair becoming damp. 

A pounding began near his temples as he remembered Scully 
standing in that long hallway, frustration and heartache on 
her face. He knew she never cried. What brought forth those 
tears? Why was she leaving him that day? He was determined to 
remember. He was determined to give her back what she lost. 
But he could only do that by leaving her again. 

Before he could doubt himself, Lyon was standing in the 
bathroom, the steam from the shower already blanketing the 
small space. He unzipped his jeans, adding them to the messy 
pile of Scully's clothes. And he pulled the curtain back, 
and stepped inside.

"I wondered what was taking you so long," she said, and he 
smiled.

"I'm an old man, Scully," he said, intending to tease her, 
but becoming distracted by the way the water ran down her 
back, tracing the curve of her legs before hitting the tile. 
"But I could never turn down an invitation from the woman 
I love." 

"I don't remember inviting you," she began to reply, but he 
cut off her words with his mouth, kissing her with an urgency 
he felt from the moment the Sheriff arrived at the ranch that 
morning, from the moment he realized that he could not rest, 
not yet. She sighed beneath him, bringing her arms around 
him, pulling him under the warm stream.

Scully's hands were everywhere, slick from the remnants of 
soap and shampoo, and, as they caressed him, she whispered 
his name in his ear. "I found you," she said, stopping only 
to kiss him again, her tongue flicking against his teeth. He 
knew what she meant, that he couldn't leave her, that she 
wouldn't allow him to leave her again.

Didn't she understand? Couldn't she see that he wanted her, 
no matter who he might be, no matter who he used to be? There 
was something about this woman that beat in time to the 
rhythm of his heart, so essential to every breath he drew. 

The sex was desperate, tinged with unstated declarations of 
possession and control, of loss and betrayal. Even as he 
turned her around, her hands pressed up against the slick tile, 
her hair hanging wet around her face, and entered her from 
behind, the warmth that was her essence sending a shiver 
through his body, he knew what he must do.

And so, after the water ran cold and their bodies were 
exhausted, after he lay spooned behind her in bed, telling 
how much he loved her and how much he needed her in his life, 
she slept. It was a fitful sleep, Scully's hands clutched 
tightly around a pillow pressed to her naked skin. As much 
as he wanted to go to her, to comfort her, he only watched 
for what seemed to be an eternity, staring at her in the 
little light that came through the blinds.

Who was he? His life as Lyon and Scully's stories of Mulder 
were intertwined, and he couldn't tell where one stopped and 
the other began. He could only hold onto one moment, one 
moment when he knew he told her how much he loved her, and 
that she had saved him.

And then he walked into the darkness, careful to pull the 
door shut, always aware that time causes even the most 
formidable objects to fade away.

Chapter Six (6/6)


  
I. 
  
The summer had become a ritual of marking off great chunks of time. 
The time between breakfast and lunch, the time between Will's riding 
lessons and a weekend barbeque, the minutes between when her alarm 
went off and when she left the house for work, and the hours after 
she ate dinner with Will, before it seemed alright to go to bed.
 
In that time, the signs of summer diminished. Will grew resigned to 
starting school again, not having the endless hours to spend at the 
stable. She watered her lawn less and less, the cooler weather 
decreasing the fears of dead spots of grass. The neighborhood 
children traded their shorts and bicycles for backpacks and the 
school bus. And Scully's impressions of Texas became blurry, a 
mixture of open fields and cattle and miles of fencing along 
the highway. 

But she held the image of Mulder, his hat propped rakishly on his 
head and his worn Levis dusty from his work, close to her, refusing 
to let it wither away with the remains of the summer. 

He was coming back to her. She had run through the gauntlet of 
emotions: overwhelming sadness, when she awoke that gray morning to 
find the room empty; furious anger, that he ditched her once again, 
proving that certain Mulder qualities would never be abated; 
loneliness, sleeping alone at night when she was accustomed to his 
warm body, even after their short time together; and finally, 
acceptance. She found him, and gave him the key to unlock the 
puzzle of his past, his true identity. She did not follow him that 
day, sensing somehow his personal quest. And when he found his 
answers, their answers, he would come home to her. 

Scully held onto that belief as passionately as she did her image 
of Mulder, and it sustained her. 

"Food's ready!" Walter shouted, and she reined in her thoughts to 
the present, her mother and Walter setting the patio table with 
plates. Will ran in large circles in the backyard, flapping his 
arms wildly around him, shouting at the top of his lungs, the 
dogs at his heels. 

Scully told all of them the truth, even Will. That she found 
Mulder. That he was physically okay, but somehow changed. That his 
memories were different. That he would come home to them when he 
could. And, to Will, that he loved the idea of being a father to a 
boy who loved horses. Will smiled at that, a knowing smile, and 
asked surprisingly few questions. 

But he did start sleeping with Mulder's old basketball jersey every 
night, and he moved the picture of Mulder that was on the hallway 
table into his room, on the small bookcase by his bed. Scully would 
stand there long after Will had gone to sleep, when even the dogs 
were snoring in the front hallway, and watch her son. Now, it all 
seemed so real, Mulder watching over him. Instead of bringing 
forth tears, it brought a smile. 

She was ready to call Will to the table when her mother stopped her. 
"Let him play some more, Dana," she said, resting her hand lightly 
on Scully's arm and motioning to the open chair next to Walter. 
"He'll eat when he's hungry. He's fine."

She sat without argument, knowing her mother was right. "Thanks for 
grilling, Walter. It smells delicious." And it did. Walter's 
specialty was grilled chicken, with some sort of sauce that he 
zealously guarded in the kitchen. Scully grinned everytime she saw 
him in there, peeking out from behind the refrigerator as he mixed 
together his secret ingredients. 

"Only the best from Chef Skinner," he said, and she laughed, loving 
him for everything he had done for her family, and for Mulder. 
Especially for Mulder. 

She was blessed, and she knew it. She was loved, and she knew it. 
Just as she knew Mulder would be coming home, and everything just 
might just be okay. 

The conversation was small talk, mindless chatter between bites of 
chicken and potato salad and corn on the cob. When she returned 
from Texas, Walter had endless questions, but she never answered 
them. Not only was she not sure how to answer, but she felt like 
Mulder should be given the opportunity to explain what happened over 
the past nine years. If he even could. 

Giving up that opportunity would be giving up hope, and she wasn't 
willing to do that. 

She had not been able to resist doing some investigation of her own, 
into Will Lyon and his history. Although his records were sparse, 
they seemed legitimate. She finally had to stop looking, because 
everytime she saw Lyon's name, she saw Mulder that morning in the 
loft, standing beside the open door, the sunrise a backdrop to 
their day. The day he remembered something, however small, and the 
day she absolutely knew it was Mulder, the man she always loved. It 
caused an ache inside, one she would rather live without if 
she could. 

"Will starts school next week, huh?" Walter spoke casually between 
bites of her mother's potato salad. 

She nodded in response. "He does," she said. "And he's not too 
happy about it either. Seems that Billy has been assigned to a 
different teacher, so they won't be in the same classroom." Will 
had been temporarily devastated, as Billy was his best friend and 
this was the first year they had not been given the same teacher. 

As she wiped his tears away that night, trying to convince him with 
the argument that Billy only lived right down the road, and Will 
could see him anytime he wanted, her thoughts naturally drifted to 
Mulder. How would he handle Will's crisis? God only knew there were 
enough of them. She tried to imagine Mulder sitting with Will on his 
lap, the two of them with their heads nestled closely together, 
Mulder whispering softly to Will. She was reminded of the way 
Mulder gently saddled his horse, the innate quality in his hands 
and his voice that calmed the gelding. 

As sure as she was that it was Mulder who walked away from her that 
night in the motel, she also saw the changes in the man he had 
become. For his abundance of wariness, he was also tired, and took 
greater comfort in the simple things in life. Sitting in the grass 
with her, eating ice cream. Pointing out constellations in the 
heavens. Kissing her gently in a musty motel room. All of these were 
traits of the man she respected, and she catalogued them with a 
desperate tenacity. 

Just as being a mother had given her the gift of patience, and she 
drew on it daily, every hour, every minute. She saw Mulder 
everywhere: in front of her at the bank, checking out a book from 
the library, throwing a ball to a small black dog in the park. 
Everywhere he couldn't be, yet she saw him. 

"This has been an eventful summer, for everyone," her mother said, 
and she saw her mother and Walter exchange a quick glance across 
the table before looking at her. She wanted to give a sarcastic 
laugh, as "eventful" seemed unable to capture everything that 
had happened. "Yes, it has," she simply answered instead. 

Will galloped up to the table, his face flushed with exertion and 
his red hair sticking to his forehead. "Had enough?" she asked him 
with a laugh. He looked exhausted. He nodded his head and sighed, 
sitting beside her mother, who brushed the hair away from his 
forehead as she fixed his plate. 

"Mom, Billy wants to know if he can go riding with me this weekend," 
he stated, his mouth full of potato salad. 

"Don't talk with your mouth full, please," she gently chided him, 
"and yes, that'll be fine, as long as it's okay with Billy's 
mother." Will spent the past few years trying to convince Billy 
that riding horses might be the greatest pastime on earth. She 
wasn't sure Billy was all that convinced, but he did go riding 
with Will on occasion, mostly, Scully figured, to make her son 
happy. 

The doorbell rang, causing the dogs to bark, looking into the open 
patio door towards the foyer. "I'll get it," Will exclaimed, jumping 
to his feet and nearly toppling the table over. 

"Sit," she simply said, putting her napkin down on the table and 
getting to her feet. If Will got away from the table now, he might 
never finish supper. "I'll get the door." 

The rush of cool air greeted her as she stepped inside, and she was 
aware of a strange sense of calm in the house, the light from the 
front porch window creating hazy shadows in the room. She felt 
almost lightheaded, and decided it must be from the heat outside, 
and Walter's grilling. 

As she opened the front door, she knew it was something else. At 
her feet, there lay a simple white notecard, folded over, with 
no envelope. Picking it up, she felt her stomach churn and the 
hairs on the back of her neck prickle, all the signs that something 
was happening. 

"Come ride with me." 

Oh, god. 

Her breath caught in her throat as she immediately recognized 
the distinctive scrawl. Stepping off the porch, she raised one 
hand to her eyes to block out the last of the afternoon sun, and 
scanned the street, looking for his familiar form. Mrs. Evans was 
knelt over her flowerbeds, her large-brimmed hat hiding her face 
from Scully. She saw two young boys playing basketball in the 
driveway across the street from her. A young child leapt through 
the sprinklers in the lawn next door. 

Everything seemed normal, just as it did when she stepped onto her 
porch and looked out on the street on any other day, but it was 
different. She held the proof in her hands, proof that he had been 
standing on her front steps, proof that he existed. 

She looked closer at the folded notecard, and, below Mulder's 
invite, was an address, written almost as an afterthought, the slant 
making the words harder to decipher than the initial message. But 
she recognized it immediately, having spent the better part of her 
life for the past three years driving to it. It was the stable 
where William rode, not far from their home. Mulder was there, 
waiting to go for a ride. 

"Dana?" It was her mother, holding onto her arm, her eyes anxious 
and concerned. "Are you okay? Is something wrong?" 

She wanted to laugh with joy, to tell her mother that everything, 
for the first time in a very long time, might actually be okay. But 
she didn't. Doing so would waste precious time. "Come ride with me," 
he said. The words danced around her, tantalizing in their promise, 
and she could think of little else. 

"Everything's fine, Mom," she answered, rushing past her mother, 
grabbing her purse and car keys off the table in the foyer. "I've 
got someplace I need to go. Will you and Walter stay with William 
until I get back?" 

Her mother walked back inside, her brow wrinkled in confusion. "Of 
course, Dana. Are you sure there's not a problem?" Her mother was a 
godsend, Scully knew. She loved Will unquestionably, and understood 
so much without being told. How her daughter felt about Mulder, and 
how special their relationship was. How they all believed everything 
could be okay again. 

Yet her mother seemed to feel it was a personal affront that her 
daughter and Mulder were not living under the same roof, that Will 
grew up with a surrogate father in Walter while his biological 
father was missing. Maggie always maintained that Mulder was 
missing. He had not deserted them. He was not dead, nor lost. 
Just missing. 

She stopped only long enough to kiss her mother gently on the cheek. 
Don't think, were the words she chanted in her head. Just go. 
"Everything will be fine, Mom. I promise. Please don't worry." 

And, with that, she pulled on her shoes and ran outside, feeling 
like the young child leaping through the sprinkler in the neighbor's 
yard. She refused to think about what she was doing, about what 
might be happening, only knowing, with overwhelming assurance, that 
Mulder was waiting for her, wanting to go for a ride. 
  
  
II. 
  
He sat on an empty bench near the side of the barn, watching the 
sunset. He felt his age, like a tired, old man who was nearing the 
end of an exhausting ordeal. Lyon knew he was nearing the end of 
something. He hoped the ending would provide him with the courage 
he needed to make his life right again. 
  
Lyon waited for Scully to show. He knew he was a coward, putting 
that note on her doorstep and leaving before she answered the 
doorbell. Like a gawky teenager. He stood beside the garage across 
the street and watched her. When she stepped onto the porch, he felt 
the earth stand still. She looked gorgeous, radiant, like she had 
been waiting behind that door for him all summer.
 
He was such a bastard. A coward and a bastard. She probably had 
been waiting for him. He berated himself over and over again since 
he left her behind, wondering if he made the right decision, 
wondering if she would hate him for abandoning her. But it was the 
only one he could make at the time. 

And it was the only decision he could make until he knew the truth, 
and she accepted him for that truth. 

He recognized the sounds of a SUV rumbling up the stable drive, and 
knew it was Scully. It was late, and most of the other riders had 
gone home. He had struck up a friendship of sorts with the owner 
of the stable, mentioning Will. She rambled on and on about what a 
special boy Will was, about how he loved to ride, and he listened 
with rapt attention to every word. She easily agreed to let him 
rent a horse for an evening ride, provided he stay near the 
well-lit stable area. 

He rose unsteadily to his feet, uncertain, and then he saw her, 
rounding the corner, nearly out of breath. She looked like she ran 
the distance to the barn instead of drove. Her hair was slightly 
disheveled, her lips parted as she drew in an unsteady breath. He 
thought she had never looked more beautiful.
 
"You're here," she said, stopping a few feet in front of him. She 
clasped her hands uncertainly, as if she wasn't sure where she 
wanted to put them. He hoped she wanted to put them around him, 
for that was all he could think about. Holding her, touching her. 

"I am," he answered, and he closed the distance between them in 
a quick step, and held her. He pressed her closely against his 
chest, his chin resting perfectly on her bowed head. Neither of 
them said a word. For the moment, there was nothing to say. 

He had come back to her, just as he silently promised her he 
would that long-ago Texas night, and she met him at the stable, 
forgiving him. 

"Where have you been?" she finally asked, pulling slightly away 
from him. He took advantage of the moment to kiss her, his touches 
frantic. One kiss simply wasn't enough. Her lips were even softer 
than he remembered, and the way she faintly moaned beneath his touch 
made him want to kiss her even more. 

When he was finally able to regain his bearings, he saw that the 
sun had almost slipped beneath the horizon, and they were standing 
beneath the large light on the side of the barn, its glare casting 
an uncertain circle around them. "We need to talk," he said, 
stepping away from her with regret. 

They began to walk, falling into an easy, even stride, and she 
reached over to hold onto his hand. He wasn't sure if she was 
seeking an anchor, or if she was providing one for him. 

He didn't know what to tell her, where to begin. When he left her 
behind that morning, he did so with every intention of finding the 
truth, finding out what happened to him. That fleeting memory with 
Scully was so real, so tangible, that he was determined to uncover
more, along with the truth regarding his life as Will Lyon. 

The problem, he found, was that every memory he had was hazy. He 
couldn't decide if Will Lyon had spent every summer riding on his 
father's ranch, or if that was Mulder. Did he spend time vacationing 
on the East Coast as a child, or was that a moment from another 
man's life? Who suffered the loss of a young girl named Samantha, 
Mulder or Lyon? He was only able to distinguish between the two 
sets of memories by Scully's presence. Looking into her shadowed 
eyes, he wondered how he could tell her that the moments he 
remembered between them, before she walked into Joe's, were 
fleetingly few. 

They continued to walk in silence, as he tried to decipher his 
thoughts. The organized speech he planned for this moment 
disappeared into the haze of emotion upon seeing her again. 
Finally, he spoke. 

"You and I were standing in the cold rain, Scully, surrounded by 
trees. It was so cold, and dark, and we were talking about time, 
how it was a universal element that could never be changed. We 
were dancing, in Memphis, and I twirled you around and pulled 
you back into my arms. You were so sick, so tiny in a hospital 
bed, and all I could do is hold your hand and cry." 

As he spoke, he watched her. She paled, and then held onto 
his hand tighter, her eyes reflecting every emotion. She 
remembered these moments, too. They were real. They had 
shared something between them that was too perfect to be 
taken away. 

"But I only remember a few things, Scully," he admitted, speaking 
the words he dreaded, the words he feared would cause her such 
pain. He knew they did for him. He tried, spending hours staring 
into the evening sky, watching the sunrise from his truck, gazing 
into a black cup of coffee, trying to remember more. He tried to 
put together memories a different life from what he lived, and was
only rewarded by bits and pieces. But all of them, the few he 
could remember, were with Scully. 

"I have tried, Scully, so damn hard. I have tried to remember 
a life as Mulder, with you. But all I can remember are these 
snapshots, memories that are so brief that they are gone in a 
flash. I nearly drove myself crazy." He thought about showing 
her his worn notebook, but then thought better of it. He 
picked it up that morning after he left the motel, and started 
writing, everything he thought, and everything he remembered. 
It was all too important to forget.
 
"What else did you find out?" she asked. It was as if she was 
trying to process everything at once, and understood nothing. 

He valiantly struggled ahead, wanting her to believe. "I went 
through the Wilkins' books after their son arrived, sorting 
through the records for him. Mr. Wilkins received several 
large payments about the time I started working there, from 
a company his son had never heard of before, a company here 
in DC. I did some checking, but couldn't trace down anything 
about them. The address doesn't exist. These payments continued 
until the week you arrived." 

He thought he saw a passing expression of pain on her face. 
"I went back to my hometown, Scully, hoping to find some of 
the friends I had growing up. There were a few, one or two, 
and they seemed to remember me. But it was so damn long ago, 
that I don't know if they really did or were only humoring 
me. I tried to track down people I worked for recently, 
places I stayed before I ended up with the Wilkins." 

She knew what he was telling her. "Let me guess," she said, 
for the first time speaking in the clear tone he recognized 
as belonging to her. "You couldn't find anyone." 

He was surprised, that she didn't seem angry or hurt or 
defeated. He felt all of these things over the past weeks 
he was away from her, the weeks he spent searching for the 
truth, about Will Lyon and Mulder. "No," he confirmed, not 
sure what she wanted to hear. 

"Scully, my life is so fucked up. I have no idea who I am or 
where I really was six months ago, a year ago. But I had to c
come back to you, because you are the only one I give a damn 
about. I don't care about Lyon or Mulder or anyone else, 
but I need to be here with you." 

She was silent for so long that he was scared, uncertain if he 
had said too much, too soon. He knew the connection between 
them, knew her absolute certainty that he was Mulder, but he 
also remembered the way she whispered his name, Lyon, beneath 
the evening sky, and the way she kissed him. 

He was not wrong. Coming here was not a mistake. 

"Who am I to you?" he asked, needing to hear her say the 
words that would make everything okay, that would keep him 
here next to her. Say it, he pleaded, begging her. 

"Say something, Scully," he finally said, unable to stand her 
silence any longer. And then she looked at him, and smiled. 
He was so surprised that he wasn't sure at first if she was 
weeping, and then he recognized the smile on her face, and the 
light in her eyes. 

She was staring at some distant spot over his head, near the 
trees, when she finally spoke. "Mulder and I didn't fall in 
love instantly," she said, speaking with a slow deliberateness, 
as if she were choosing her words with the utmost precision. 
"There was an instant respect, a mutual admiration, but mostly 
there was an incredible friendship. He was my best friend, and, 
as time passed, I loved him in every possible way." 

She paused, and reached out to hold his other hand. 

He had an absurd thought, one that made him almost laugh out 
loud from a combination of joy and fear. Several weeks after 
he left Scully, when he was driving through the farmlands of 
Oklahoma, searching for answers to a question he could not 
ask, he spent the night in a small motel. As he lay in bed 
that night, thinking of Scully and their time together in a 
room very much the same, a black-and-white film began to 
flicker on television. He watched, fascinated, as the hero 
appeared, sweeping the young woman off her feet, and whisked 
her to safety. At the end, they stood with their hands clasped 
together, vowing an eternal devotion, the sort of love that 
would not fade. 

He glanced down at Scully's small hands holding onto his, and 
then looked up again into her eyes. Her tears were finally
beginning to fall, but he could not make himself break their 
embrace to catch them. 

"I love Mulder," she said, one side of her mouth quirking up 
into a sad smile. "I love Lyon," she continued, finally releasing 
his hand to wipe the tears away from her cheek. He didn't know 
what to think, what to say, so he said nothing. "And I love 
you," she whispered, her voice nearly inaudible in the stillness 
of the evening air. 

Somewhere close by, a horse whinnied, and he thought he heard a 
dog bark off in the distance. He processed those sounds, the 
sounds of the world around them, before he could process her 
words. She loved him. Whoever he was, whoever he might become, 
it was enough for her that he was standing here. 

She loved and accepted him, and that was all he needed to know. 

He kissed her with a delicate tenderness, a reverence for this 
beautiful woman who changed his life, who changed him in ways 
he knew he could never understand, could never possibly know. 
And for whatever might happen, it was enough for them both at 
that moment to be standing with each other, creating their 
own version of the truth. 

She found her voice before he could speak. "Didn't you promise 
me a ride?" she asked. He was lost, and he was found, and he 
knew he would never let this woman go.     
  
  
III. 
  
  
It was morning when they awoke in yet another motel, a new day, 
and she felt it as she lay in Mulder's arms. A glorious rebirth, 
a victory over an invisible enemy. Whatever force tried to take 
Mulder from her had failed. Although things would never be the 
same, she found him. Things would be better. 
 
When she met him last night at the stable, she was frightened at 
what he might say. The confusion in his eyes as he haltingly told 
her the truth, that he no longer knew who he was, broke her heart. 
She wanted to scream against the injustice, pursue the ones that 
hurt him. But, for the moment, she suppressed her instinctual 
response, instead finding acceptance in the man who stood before 
her.   

They pulled into her driveway, and, as she turned off the ignition, 
she heard Mulder clear his throat, shifting his feet nervously. 
He always had a nervous habit of bouncing his feet, chewing on a 
pencil, twirling his fingers, any sort of physical outlet for 
his anxiety. His uncertainty was touching, and she leaned over to 
kiss him lightly on the cheek. "This will be okay, Lyon. I promise." 

She made the silent decision sometime during the night that she 
would call him Lyon. In her heart, he was always Mulder, would 
always be Mulder. But she respected the changes in him, and the 
fact that he possessed this new side to his personality. It 
didn't matter what name he was called. She knew who he was, 
and he was home.
 
"So, this is your house," he said, leaning forward as if to get 
a better look. 

"In theory, it is, but it actually belongs to the First National 
Bank. They are kind enough to take a large sum of money every month 
to let me live here." He laughed at her before he spoke. "It looks 
like you, Scully. Neat, orderly. Much how I imagine your life is." 

She knew what he was trying to tell her, as this was so new to him, 
to all of them. How would he fit into her life, into Will's life? 
After so long, after such changes, what would they find when they 
opened the door on their new life together? "Our life, Lyon. I 
hope you don't think I am letting you go back to Texas." 

"I never want to leave you again, Scully," he quickly answered. 
"Once, twice, however many times I've done it, they were enough." 

They walked up to the house, Mulder stopping at the sounds of a 
basketball thumping against the house in the backyard. She had 
called her mother the night before, telling her to get the guest 
bedroom ready for Walter, and asking them both to stay at the 
house, to watch William until the morning. 

"What's going on, Dana?" her mother asked, nervously, and she could 
hear Walter's questions in the background. She smiled before she 
answered. "I'm fine, Mom," she said, meaning it this time. "We're 
fine." 

Now, as they stood in the driveway, she saw Mulder's questioning 
glance. "It's William," she confirmed, nodding her head. "The only 
thing he likes as much as riding horses is playing basketball. He's 
pretty good at it, too." When Will first showed an interest in the 
game, she knew how he inherited that trait. She saw images of Mulder 
in Will's long fingers as he edged the ball towards the basket, the 
self-assured way he threw the ball over his head, his lanky gait as 
he ran around the court. 

Mulder pulled open the squeaky gate, holding it for her, and she 
understood. He wanted to meet Will. 

In the years after Mulder was taken, after Will was born, she 
imagined this scene a dozen times. It changed as Will grew, 
from Mulder returning to see her nursing a small newborn with 
flaming red hair and dark eyes, to Mulder watching his son riding 
from a distance. Now that it was real, that it was actually happening, 
she felt numb. 

So much had changed for them both. "Are you sure?" she asked, not 
knowing why, thinking maybe this was too soon, that another few 
minutes might change things. "It's been long enough," he answered, 
so she walked into the backyard. Will must have started playing ball 
right after breakfast. The dogs were stretched out on the side of 
the garage, watching him with a dull interest, and she could see 
the sweat trickling down his back. "He shoots, he scores," Will 
shouted as she watched him, throwing his arms up in the air, the 
ball swooshing through the hoop. 

Oh, god. Please let this be okay. 

"William?" she called, her voice shaky. He turned in surprise, 
obviously so engrossed in his game that he did not hear her enter 
the yard. "Mom!" he shouted, leaping over to her, letting the 
ball bounce against the ground. She watched as the ball disappeared 
into the grass, re-emerging a few times before stopping by the 
hedge near the fence, as if in slow motion. Everything seemed so 
surreal. 

"I missed you last night, Mom. Uncle Walter and Grandma let me stay 
up late to watch a movie, but not that late. I even got up to let 
the dogs out this morning..." Will's voice trailed off, and she 
could sense Mulder walking up behind her. 

Will's eyes grew large, and he blinked, twice, as if not sure 
that Mulder was standing there, in the backyard. He looked back 
to Mulder, and then to her. "Mom?" he said, a questioning, 
plaintive tone in his voice. Oh, Will, she wanted to say. It's 
so hard to comprehend this when you are only eight years old 
and can't understand why you came into this world without your 
daddy there with you. I can't tell you why, but I can tell you 
he is here. I found him for you, for all of us. 

She didn't say those words, not sure enough in her ability to 
form a coherent sentence. 

Instead, Mulder walked up beside her, and knelt slightly so he 
was eye-level with Will. She stepped backwards, wanting to record 
this moment in her memory, wanting to always remember how green 
the grass was and how red the roses were, and how much Will looked 
like his father with their dark eyes and strong features. 

"Hi, Will," Mulder said, gently, and she realized with a jolt 
what was happening. Even if Mulder could never fully remember, 
could never know with certainty who he was nor what happened to 
him, he wanted to be Will's father. He wanted to be in their life. 

"Dad?" her son said, and she watched, one hand pressed against 
her mouth, as he walked the few steps to Mulder and brought his 
skinny arms up around Mulder's neck. There was no hesitation on 
Will's part, and she saw Mulder's eyes close as he felt Will's 
embrace. 

If she could stop time forever, this might be the moment she 
would chose. This might be the perfect moment of all. 

"I don't understand," William said, looking over towards her with 
wide eyes. "You said that you found Dad in Texas, but now he's 
here. Where have you been?" he asked Mulder, looking over at 
him with faintly accusatory eyes. 

Mulder never flinched. He drew himself up to his full height, 
and tucked his hands into pockets. "There's a lot to explain, 
Will, but a lot that I don't understand myself. All I know is 
that I am so glad your mother found me, and glad to be here 
with you." 

A flicker of movement drew her attention to the back porch, and 
she saw her mother and Walter, watching the scene in the yard 
with quiet emotion. She thought she saw a flicker of recognition 
as Mulder looked at Walter, but she wasn't sure. Scully felt a 
brief moment of panic. This is too much, she wanted to say, too 
soon. She wanted to grab Will, to take Will and Mulder away from 
this life, to allow them time to heal, to discover each other. 

But then she felt Mulder's hand pressing against her own, and 
looked up to see his soft smile. "This will be okay, Scully. 
I'm going to be okay." 

And, as Mulder held Will's hand and walked to the porch, she 
understood that it was going to be all right. We are more than 
the sum of our memories. We are more than the recollections of 
our youth. 

We are a part of the people who love us, and believe in us, 
she thought, watching Mulder, and their son, in the morning light. 
That sort of eternal love, and life, could never fade.

 
 
Author's notes:
 
Thank you to everyone who sent emails and feedback in response 
to "Fade." I was truly touched by the response. If feedback 
sustains the author, I have feasted on this story. When I 
first started writing "Fade," I could hardly imagine the 
story that Scully and Mulder wanted to tell. Writing it was 
an adventure for me, and I hope reading it is one for you.

Thanks as always to my wonderful beta Kayla. Without her initial 
enthusiasm and encouragement, "Fade" might still be languishing 
on my hard drive. A special thanks to my husband and son, who 
always seem to understand why Mommy stays up so late at night, 
wanting to tell a good story.

I'd love to hear what you thought of "Fade." You can email me at 
annhkus@yahoo.com.