From: Nynaeve Date: Wed, 24 Mar 1999 17:37:07 -0500 Subject: NEW: Faith 5: (1/3) Faith 5: My Wild Frontier (1/3) by Nynaeve e-mail: mtknigh@ibm.net Rating: PG Category: S Spoilers: little ones for whole series Keywords: MSR, RST, Character death Summary: Scully relfects on the events of her life with Mulder. Timeline: post series Disclaimer: Yes, I know, they belong to Chris Carter, 1013, and a bunch of other legal entities. Author's Note at end Archive Statement: Anywhere as long as all above info stays attached. 'How do I feel, well I feel so alone Like a sad armadillo across this desert I roam I've been stripped down bare, 'til I break Still the wheel keeps turning/ The sun is shining. Brightly. It shouldn't be. The world should be swathed in gray; the skies should open up, spitting cold, hard droplets of stinging rain. Her sunglasses should be out of place on this day. She should be wrapped in a dark, woolen coat, shivering in the cold. Instead she stands in a summer weight suit. Her hair glows in the abundant light of the clear summer day. She should be wearing heavy gloves to keep her hands warm, so she won't have to see the ring. Instead the sunlight glints off the facets of its brilliant surface, catching her unwilling eye. Her mother's arm is around her shoulders, for comfort, for support. No one can comfort her. Comfort is gone, and she will never be comforted again. Support she will not accept. She only allowed one source to support her. Support is gone, and she will never accept it from another. Her mother is shedding soft tears. Tears. Grief. Emptiness. These things remain. These things will not pass; they will abide with her until she can continue no longer. She will know their form,outline, taste, sound, scent, as she once knew his. And yet, the sun is shining. Brightly. Words roll past her ears, distant thunder, nothing more. Like gunshots heard from afar. No, she will not think about that. She stifles a sob. Her mother holds her more tightly. She can see AD Skinner, can watch his lips move. She knows empirically that he is speaking, he is the source of that distant rumbling, but she can't hear him. She won't hear him. The words he speaks are meaningless anyway. She was the only person who knew him well enough to do this and she is not capable. She is so numb, her lips don't move. She can't remember the last time she spoke. She only remembers the last word to fall from her lips, "Mulder". Her mother has not left her since everything happened. She knows her mother is there, is concerned for her. She wants to thank her, but she is paralyzed. At last Skinner seems to be finished. She watches impassively as he returns to the group of mourners at the graveside. In fact, he is standing right next to her. He squeezes one of her hands. She withdraws it from his grasp. There is another man, a priest, her mind identifies, who is reciting words now. Words Dana knows from childhood. Why is there a priest? *He* wasn't religious. Oh yes, her mother had planned this, had felt it was important. Well, it wasn't as though it was important. *He* wasn't going to care now, and if it made Maggie feel better... Dana knows it was supposed to make her feel better, but she felt nothing. "I will fear no evil..." He hadn't feared the evil, not for himself. For her, yes, but never for himself. His only fear had been that the evil would find a way to stop him, that he would leave his work undone. He had spent most of his life in the valley of the shadow of death. He didn't fear it. Is she afraid? No, her fear had run out of her, as she had watched his blood flow from his body. She fears living now. Life stretches before her endlessly gray, bleak, meaningless. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of life..." she thinks. The service is finished and he is buried. She will never again behold his gentle hazel eyes, brown one moment, green the next. His lips would never smile again at her, that sad half smile, the shy, please-forgive-me-for-whatever-it-is-I-did-or-didn't-do grin, the broad, rare, happy toothy smile that set her heart dancing in her chest and weakened her knees imperceptibly. She would never feel the silky texture of his dark hair against her fingers again, never lace her fingers in that hair as he kisses her, never ruffle it up or smooth it down before a meeting with AD Skinner. Her fingers were already forgetting the feel of his skin against them. She would not be able to remind them. His beautiful face was frozen forever, the eyes closed, the lips curved into a fake smile such as he'd never worn in life, his hands stilled, all the strong muscles of his back, his arms, his legs, cold and useless now. Why didn't they bury her with him? She is as dead as he is, only no one can see it. The mourners at the graveside begin to file away. They first pass his mother, who seems to be bearing up stoically. They all remark on her composure. Dana wants to scream that it's because she never loved him; she doesn't care that he is dead. She even let someone else's mother plan his funeral. That would be too easy though. Too easy to blame her for the pain in his life, for being the architect of the walls he built, for forging in him the yoke of guilt he wore so well for so long. Dana turns her thoughts from Teena. Once they pass Teena, they come to Dana. They murmur polite words, to which Maggie responds. Maggie speaks soothingly, mentioning "shock" and "profound grief" and "loss" to which they all nod politely. They all squeeze her fingers quickly and move on. They can't wait to get out of there. Most of them came out of curiosity, anyway. They could hardly believe "Spooky" had really gone and gotten himself killed. They wanted proof. She considered bringing in the blood stained clothing, the clothing she'd been wearing when it happened. She could display it. Maybe then they would believe. Soon , only a few people remain. She could focus enough to identify them. Skinner. Frohike. Langly. Byers. and Diana, reappeared from God only knew where. That should have made Dana angry, but she has no energy for anger now. If Diana wanted to delude herself that she had meant anything to him, that was fine. Sure. Fine. Whatever. Diana is speaking to her, but Dana can't understand her. She nods woodenly and lets Maggie murmur her polite words. Diana leaves. Now, for the worst. Byers. Langly. Frohike. Each hug her and whisper in her ear, offering help, protection, kindness, in short. For him, for what they had meant to him, and consequently to her, she has to respond. She hugs each of them back. Still her lips will not move. They understand. At last, Skinner. Skinner who had spoken about him. Was it kindly, with affection even? Probably. Skinner who had helped them , protected them, infuriated them, even nearly sacrificed himself for them. She can say nothing. He holds her tightly, telling her to take all the time she needed, he would arrange it. Telling her he knew all they had meant to each other, yet never saying the words. She can read the fear in his eyes, fear that she would never be all right. He has every right to that fear. She won't. She doesn't want to be. Her mother drives her home, to her apartment. Maggie insists on staying, cooking food that her daughter won't eat, tidying up her daughter's already spotless home. Maggie sits on the couch and watches television for a while. Dana lays in her bedroom, on her bed, stiff as a board. Her hands, at her sides, are clenched into fists of rage, yet she has nothing to strike out at. The tears never seems to stop leaking out of her eyes, rolling down her face in a burning trail of memory. She thinks of a song she'd heard a few weeks ago. About being sad, being alone. Being forced to wander across a desert alone. That was her life before and what her life would become again. She feels just like the song, as though she'd been stripped down until she should break, but the wheel kept turning. She had broken, broken into a million pieces on that street. She had shattered as surely as the bullet that ripped through him had shattered his internal organs, had ripped open his arteries, she had shattered and been ripped open. For her, the wheel kept turning. Crushing her. She sobs, the first sound to pass her lips, since his name, nearly three days ago. The sob is a long, keening sound, torn from the very depths of her tattered soul. Maggie rushes in. She gathers her daughter in her arms and lets her cry. Scully cries in her mother's arms. She cries for him, for all they would never have. She cries for herself, just wanting to join him, but being kept here. She lets the grief consume her, wrack her body. Her mind wanders briefly through the times he had been injured or nearly died, the time he had convinced everyone he was dead; all near misses or hoaxes, but this is real. She had held him as he died, unable to stop it, able only to cradle him, to whisper words of comfort and love to him, to pray to God for a miracle. A simple case of "wrong place, wrong time". A man, depressed at losing his job, had opened fire on a crowded street in the middle of the afternoon. Mulder had thrown her to the ground. In the split second it took him to do that, a bullet found him. Nothing to do with their jobs, no X File, just bad timing. The scene plays constantly in her head, with the voice over "bad timing, that's all, just bad timing". She hopes it might drive her crazy soon. Then maybe she will be insensible to this world. She becomes aware that her mother is crooning her name softly. "Danadanadana". She realizes that was who she has to be now. She realizes why she feels so dead; she is right to say she is dead. She hadn't been Dana for a long time; she had become Scully. Scully is who she wants to be. But Scully had died on that street, because it was he who had made her Scully. Mulder. Her mind begin whirling back, tracing the path that had brought her here. Reliving how she had become Scully; when it had become the most important thing to her. How it had come to pass that Scully could not exist without Mulder... Into that basement office she had walked, a lifetime ago. She had known of his reputation, but she had been young, naive, ambitious. She had thought she could debunk his work, his theories, make a name for herself. Instead she had been drawn in by his ideas and by him. Spooky Mulder. From that first case in Oregon, in spite of herself, she had begun to believe in him. Not his theories, but in his belief in them. She had found those marks on her back and like a foolish child, scared by the campfire stories, she had gone running to him. His eyes had been concerned, his fingers trailing over her back tender and reverent, his voice soft, amused, but only at the situation, not at her. Then, he had confided in her, about Samantha and what her disappearance had done to his family. She had seen what it still did to him as an adult. The beginning of trust. The beginning of knowing she would not be the pawn *they* had hoped for. Her ambitions had begun, even then, to change, especially when she had to deliver her report to Blevins. She had read the look on his face, had sensed what Mulder claimed to be true might have some merit. One step on a path. The first leg of the long, circuitous journey. Could she ever have foreseen? Would she have taken the next step? She could have done nothing else. So many steps along this path. Forward, backward, off the path, sometimes apart, sometimes fighting each other about the next step, but always, always, eventually together again. Face to face, as time slid by, hand in hand. Now she must find a way to finish the journey without him. A journey she had never intended on making, a journey she does not now want to complete. Never has she felt so intensely the desire, the sheer need to give up. Even when she had been stricken with cancer, lying at the edge of death, she could not give up. There had been Mulder to return to. Now there is Mulder to follow. These thoughts residing in her brain, Scully falls into an exhausted slumber in her mother's arms. Maggie was understandably concerned, deeply concerned about her daughter. Her work for the FBI, with Fox Mulder, had given Maggie plenty to worry about over the years. That work had been the cause of Melissa's death and had driven a wedge firmly between Dana and her brother, Bill. Her association with Fox had cost Dana months of her life, hermemories of that time, and ultimately her ability to conceive children. Yet, Maggie knew for everything her choices had cost her, Dana would not have changed a single one. Maggie amended that; Dana would have chosen to be somewhere else with Fox than that particular street three days ago. For years Maggie had watched her daughter grow and change. She had seen the deepening role Fox Mulder played in her daughter's life, until he had become the most important person to her. At first, Maggie believed, it was not because Dana had romantic feelings for him, but because Fox was the only person who could help her find the answers to what had been done to her. The feelings she had for him had come more slowly, almostimperceptibly. She once told Maggie it wasn't until she had a conversation with a womaninvolved in a case that she had begun to *realize* her emotions towards Fox Mulder. She said she had laughed out loud when she realized how applicable the words she had spoken to this woman were to herself as well. "I told her, Mom," Scully had confided, "that I thought the best relationships often develop out of good friendships." Maggie had smiled at her. And agreed. Scully had never confided to her mother how events following that realization had caused her to question herself. In her dreams, Mulder visits Scully. She is back in their office, sitting at his desk, reading a case file, his notes on that case in the "perfect" gated community. He walks through the door soundlessly. He has a new file in his hand. He is smiling, saying something about a rabid dog, which doesn't sound much like an X File to her. She isn't really listening to his words, only to the tone in his voice. Excitement. Fire. He is daring her to argue with him, to tell him how this couldn't be an X File, give him some rational explanation. She sighs and smiles at him. How could she argue? She wants to tell him about the dream she'd had. She'd leave out some parts, though. She has opened her mouth to speak when she notices. He casts no shadow. He is smiling at her still as she begins to shriek. He breaks into thousands of tiny pieces at her feet. Maggie holds her daughter as she sobs and thrashes about. Scully drags herself awake, staring owlishly at her mother. Maggie smoothes Dana's hair and wipes away her tears. "I'm so sorry, darling. So very sorry." "Mom?" Scully's voice is thick with tears. It cracks, even on the single syllable of her mother's name, having lain unused for so long. "I dreamed ... I dreamed he died." Maggie struggles to control her face. Of the many times she had feared for her child, this one is the worst. For physical suffering, there was hope of an end, a release. For this emotional torment, Maggie knows no cure. This child had always been the strongest of her four, but even the strongest person would be tested by the tragedies that had befallen Dana in the last seven years. Her belief that she had dreamed Fox Mulder's death concerns Maggie deeply. If Dana is retreating into a world of dreams ... "Dana, honey." "Mom, please tell me I dreamed it. Please." Hope glitters desperately from the depths of her deep blue eyes, but Maggie sees beneath it the well of fear, the sane knowledge that she had not dreamed it, the excruciating pain of reality. "I wish, Dana, that I could." Scully turns from her mother and curls herself into a fetal position. She is silent again. Maggie can hear the sounds of her fists clenching and unclenching against the sheets. "He was so real," Scully whispers at last. "So happy, so alive." Maggie lays a hand on her back. "Try to remember him that way, honey. Remember the good times you had with him." Scully laughs harshly, mirthlessly. "A few months, Mom. That's all we got. And we couldn't even show how we felt around other people." "Dana Katherine Scully, do you really think that's all you had? He was your best friend. The only person in the world you truly trusted with everything about yourself. I know you two had arguments, but in the end, it always came down to that, didn't it? And in that, you had more than most people ever get." Scully turns over to face her mother. She looks at Maggie levelly, for a very long time. "When I think of the time we wasted ... being apart from each other." "Of course, it hurts, darling. But I don't think you two were ever much apart from each other. I think you just had trouble seeing how close you were. And in the end, you did see it." Scully nodds, thinking about the course of her relationship with Mulder. Maggie is right in that they had been close a lot longer than either of them had realized or admitted. She thinks about the first time she knew she could not live without Fox Mulder in her life. A hospital bed in Alaska. Watching him slowly come back to her. She thinks about the first time she knew she would kill anyone who harmed him. Modell. Watching Mulder with that gun to his temple, listening to the anguished tones of his voice begging her to run. If Mulder hadn't emptied the gun into Modell, she would have. A multitude of events spin through her mind. Singing to him in the forest in Florida, emptying her gun into a window out of which she could have sworn she saw a large bug departing, and racing crazily through the Hoover building getting classified information so she could track him in the Bermuda Triangle, for starters. Not the type of good times most would describe, but, for Mulder and her, good times. The times they had worked together, as a team, to accomplish something. Sometimes those accomplishments only recognized as such by the two of them. There had been bad times, too, horrible ones. She isn't thinking of, surprisingly, injuries. There had been enough of those, God yes, but those had only damaged their bodies. They'd always recovered. She flinches at the memories of those dark moments. The more recent ones had taken the biggest toll on the bond they shared. When he had not trusted her over the matter of Diana Fowley. When he had accused her of letting it all get personal. The rift had been forged swiftly and deeply. It had taken months to heal it. Things had been so different after that. "Playing house" with him, a case a few monthsbefore she might have enjoyed, turned into a hassle. Arthur Dales' Florida assertion that she saved him, and not just from the sea monster, was an embarrassment more than anything, a reminder of the distance between them. That day in the bank, with Bernard and Pam, had been the beginning. They had started making tentative steps back toward each other then. Tentative steps and slow, with the awkward clumsiness of people long unused to discussing their emotions, unused even to admitting they had them. 'And there were highways to get across And places far from here...' They had eventually crossed those highways, bridged their path across the gaps, and found their way back to each other from those far places. It had been Mulder who had made the overtures. She had ignored him at first, attempting to shut him out. His persistence had mildly annoyed her at first, then irritated her as he refused to take the hints she dropped. His words, his gestures, calculated to soothe her had provoked only irritable responses, rolled eyes, and impatient sighs. Vivid in her memory was the day he had cornered her, as it were. He had walked into their office, after lunch. She had met her mother for a quick lunch; she had no idea what he had done for lunch. She had been going over the expense report from their latest case. She had heard him come in, but she had not even looked up. She had felt the now familiar burning in the pit of her stomach. There was so much tension in their relationship, both personal and professional, that his very presence evoked these feelings. She had heard the door shut. Actually, it would be more accurate to say she had heard the door slam. She had looked up. "Well, at least that got your attention," he had sneered. "What do you want, Mulder?" She had been in no mood to humor him; she had been in no mood to humor him for months now. He had stared at her before stating simply, "You." "Excuse me?" She had arched an eyebrow at him. Hostility had been dripping from her voice. He had positioned himself in front of her, hands palm down on the desk. He had leaned toward her. "Ever since the events with Cassandra Spender, since we got the X Files back, you've been acting like you don't even want to be around me." "Maybe I don't," she had shot back. She had hung her head. "Mulder, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that." "Yes, you did, Scully. You don't want to be around me." His voice had softened and he had looked genuinely hurt. "Mulder..." She had started. "Scully, I know you were upset by everything that happened. I've been trying to make it up to you, but you won't let me." "Do you honestly think it's that easy, Mulder? You crack a few jokes, murmur a few non specific apologies and think everything's going to be all right." She stood up, leaned forward , and placed her own palms down on the desk, facing his. "I was more than *upset* by those events, Mulder." "What do you want me to say, Scully? I've apologized as many ways as I can think of." "I don't want you to say anything; I want you to realize how deeply you hurt me." "Scully, I don't understand how I hurt you so much. Explain it to me. Because if this is about Diana..." She interrupted him. "This has *nothing* to do with her. Nothing, Mulder. It has to do with you. You and me." "What did *I* do?" he had asked earnestly. "Mulder, you accused me of making it all personal. Of course, it's personal. Look at what I've been through in six years. I was abducted by still unidentified people, who implanted some type of microchip in my neck. My sister was killed. After I had that chip removed, I developed a form of cancer that almost killed me. The only "cure" we found was another chip, which was replaced in my neck. I found out I can't have children, and on the heels of that, Mulder, I found out I *had* a child, who was dying. You're damn right, it's personal. It's personal as hell." He had hung his head. "You're right, Scully. What I said to you was unfair. It was cold and callous. I didn't think that's why it was personal. I spoke in anger. " "Anger? Anger? What right did you have to be angry?" "You accused Diana..." "You taught me to 'Trust No One', Mulder! Yet you couldn't see beyond ...beyond...whatever it is you had with her. She's dirty, Mulder, involved up to her eyes with the Syndicate. But *she* was not and never could be the reason it was personal to me." He had only looked at her. Their faces had been only inches away. She had been able to feel his breath on her face. She had heard the blood pounding in my ears and had felt her breath coming in angry, ragged gasps. At last he had said, "Never, Scully?" The softness in his voice, the long buried question lurking there had nearly disarmed her. "Jesus, Mulder, did you think I was jealous of her? Did you?" She had glared coldly at him. As he had started to speak, she cut him off. "I guess you could say I was jealous of the fact that you chose to believe her over me. I didn't understand that, Mulder. I know she was with you when you found the X Files, but she had left. I've stayed. Through everything, I've never willingly left this quest of yours, of *ours*." "She believed me," he had answered simply, calmly. "And I've always believed *in* you, Mulder. I believed in the sincerity of this quest; I knew there was a conspiracy. I've seen too much to doubt that. I needed proof that it was more than a group of megalomaniacs, but I never needed proof about you." She had paused. Hung her head. Speaking to the desk, she had said, "Mulder, you really always think it's all about you. This was about me, about my gut instincts, and you pushed me away, shut me out, ignored me. One of the few times I asked you to have the same belief in me that I've placed in you, you refused." "I know that I was wrong. Your instincts were right about Diana and I should have listened to you. I'm sorry that I've never told you this." He had been sincere. She had been able to see that. His face had been hopeful. His eyes had pled silently with her to accept this apology, to accept him. "Thank you. That helps," she had said, her voice more gentle that at any time since he'd walked in that afternoon. "Helps?" he had asked. "What else can I do, Scully?" "Mulder, it's not a question of what you can do; it's a matter of time. We need to rebuild the trust that existed between us. That can't be done with a few words." She had smiled at him, a small, sad smile. "But I think we've both started to use the tools we have for rebuilding, instead of bludgeoning each other." They had still been face to face, palms flattened confrontationally on the desk top, but the tension had seeped out of their shoulders, and both of them had relaxed minutely. Mulder had reached a hand up and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. She had let him, for the first time in a long while. His hand had trailed its way down her cheek. His fingers had stopped at her chin, lifting it a little so that his eyes could find hers. "Scully, you are the last person I ever want to hurt. I cannot imagine what this life would be like without you in it. I know I'm one lucky son of a bitch. When you walked out on me at the Gunmen's you should have kept going, but you didn't. You came back." She had started to speak, but he stopped her. "I know, you came back to our quest, but I'd like to hope you came back to me, too, at least a little bit." Then, without preamble, he had kissed her, gently, briefly. Chuckling a little, he had looked at her startled face and asked, "Are you going to bludgeon me, now?" "No, Mulder. Maybe later." She had been smiling, the same small smile, but the sadness had crept out of it, replaced with a confused sort of happiness. "Why did you do that?" "Because I've wanted to, for a long time." His eyes had seemed to be boring directly into her soul and she had wondered if he was reading her mind. "Besides, isn't it traditional to argue, make up, then kiss?" She had pondered that, or had appeared to. In reality, the only thing she had been able to think was that Mulder had kissed her. She was vaguely surprised how happy that had made her. Not that she hadn't considered it numerous times before, always with happiness. But in the time since she'd left him standing there at the Gunmen's, those thoughts had been banished from her mind. When they had managed to wheedle their way into her conscience (and howcould they not when she and Mulder had been "playing house"), they had only caused her sadness. "You know, my mother always told me never to go to sleep mad at someone I..." she had stopped herself in time. Her mind had desperately cast about for something less incriminating to say than 'love'. "...care about." "My mother never had advice like that, for me," he had said, almost mirthfully. Scully had sat back down in the chair, her legs suddenly refusing to remain standing any longer. Mulder had perched himself on the desk top and leaned close to her. He had been regarding her intently. Scully had guessed he was weighing what he had been about to say, trying to decide if it was likely to be part of the rebuilding process or if she might choose that moment to bludgeon him. He must have reached a decision. She had inferred from the way he had taken a deep breath that he had decided on the dangerous path. She had found herself being amused by that. She had smiled quizzically at him. "Yes, Mulder?" He had looked startled, perhaps unaware that his dilemma had been so clear to her. "Scully, when you paused, telling me about your mother's invaluable advice, were you about to say that you should never go to sleep mad at someone you love?" There had been no humor in his eyes and his voice had been absolutely serious. For all the times he had jokingly propositioned her or humorously alluded to what might be between them, this had been unexpected. "Yes," she had said, before she had been aware that she was saying it. Her mind had whirled in panic once it realized what her mouth and tongue had done. She had been in a place completely unfamiliar to her; she had not had the first clue on how to extricate herself. Mulder had proved to be no help, whatsoever. His response had been to lean closer to her and kiss her again. The feel of his lips against hers had driven coherent thought from her mind. The delicate pressure and silky texture of his lips pressing ever so gently upon hers. The warmth he had been radiating enveloped her. His hand had come up and cradled the back of her head. She had pulled away from him, regretfully, when she needed oxygen. "I love you,Scully," he had told her. Words he'd spoken in a drug induced haze months before. Words she hadn't really been ready to hear then. In their office that afternoon she had relished them, luxuriated in them. For all the complications they might bring into their lives, they had simplified one thing: he was hers and she was his. "I love you, too," she had answered. end part 1 Faith 5 (2/3) by Nynaeve The personal side of their relationship had grown slowly from that moment. They were both cautious people. There had been no headlong rush into a physical relationship. Despite the fact that they had known they loved each other, they both had had to admit they didn't *know* that much about each other. They had spent hours talking, debating the existence of aliens, arguing over the science of proof, determining how to expose the conspiracy against which they fought, but they had rarely just talked like normal people. The sad truth was that Eddie Van Blundt had known more about Scully, in some ways, than Mulder did. She had shared the joys of growing up in a Navy family, having siblings whom she alternately loved, admired, liked, and despised. She had recounted stories of her childhood. Mulder had discovered she was a rather gifted storyteller, able to find the humor in most situations and punctuate a story with it. He had been treated to images of Maggie getting the four Scully siblings ready for Easter Service when they were all still under the age of eight. He had discovered just how much of tomboy Dana had been when she talked about how her brothers even taught her to fight like a boy, a skill which came in handy, apparently, in the Fifth grade when a classmate teased her once too often about her red hair. He had come to understand how deeply Scully had felt Melissa's death. She had acknowledged that they hadn't been close in years, maybe not ever really, not the way some sisters are, but Missy had been the one person who had always been there for her, even times when Dana hadn't wanted her or liked her presence. He had felt he could almost feel the bond Dana had shared with her father and how she had suffered when that bond had been severed. She had confessed to remembering seeing him when she'd been in the coma after she was returned and wanting so desperately to stay with him. Mulder had opened up to her in a way he never had, with anyone else. He had told her stories of when Sam was little and his family had been whole. Before that he had told her bits and pieces about the night Sam had been taken, but at last, he was able to tell her all the things he had felt, all the recriminations with which he had lived. He had shared with her the painful memories of how his family had disintegrated. He had found happiness in regaling her with anecdotes from his days playing high school sports. They had traded Senior Prom stories. She had been able to envision him at Oxford, young, impressionable despite all that had already befallen him, free, for the first time since he was twelve. He had told her about Phoebe, what she had been like, how she had drawn him in and ensnared him. He had even confided in her the details of his relationship with Diana Fowley, painful as it turned out to be to the both of them. He had made it clear Diana was very much the past and Scully very much the future. He had even started attending Mass with her. Her religion was so centrifugal to her that he had sought to understand it, to understand the faith she placed in it. It had meant a lot to her, too. The first time he had arrived with her, looking uncomfortable and slightly trapped, Maggie had been utterly shocked. She was wise enough to say nothing of that, instead welcoming him warmly. Scully had led him through the service, finding the appropriate pages in the hymnal and missal without any seeming effort. Mulder had thought his knees would never be the same again after the number of times they knelt, stood, knelt again, and then were seated. He had declined the offered blessing during Communion, choosing to remain at the pew and watch Scully. When she had returned, she had knelt (again!) to pray silently. She had done so for some minutes, then had taken her place next to him again. He had not been able to resist the temptation to lean over and whisper in her ear, "Does Christ taste good?" She had turned a shocked gaze on him, until she had seen the twinkle in his eyes. Then, she had tightened her lips and stifled a grin. "Mulder," she had whispered back, "that's blasphemous." He had said nothing, only raised his eyes heavenward. He had held his hands out, palms up, as though waiting for lightening to strike him. She had scooted away a tiny bit, still suppressing that grin. Maggie had given her the same look she had when Dana had been a child and she and Missy had been up to shenanigans. After that Mulder had insisted on taking the Scully women to brunch. Maggie, who had been mostly unaware of the deepening relationship between her daughter and Fox Mulder, had been pleasantly surprised watching them together. They had come to the church in one car, the doors of which Mulder held open for Scully. He had repeated the procedure as they got out of the car at a lovely restaurant along the Potomac. The weather had been lovely and they had eaten overlooking the water. Mulder had asked what each of them wanted to eat and had then ordered for them. When the waiter had departed, Maggie had taken to staring at the two of them. Scully had finally said, "Mom? Is everything all right?" Maggie had smiled at her, a little uncertainly. "I think so." Mulder had excused himself at that point, promising to return in just a few moments. Scully had smiled her conspiratorial grin at her mother. "You can ask, Mom," she had said. "Dana, you and Fox? I've been wondering. You seemed to be spending more time together, away from work that is." "We had a really rough time a while back. It took a while, but we eventually worked through it." "Do you .... did you tell him how you feel about him?" Maggie had asked tentatively. Scully had nodded, coloring slightly. "We love each other. I think we have for a long time. It's probably never going to be the sort of relationship you envisioned for me, but it suits me. It suits us." "Dana, honey, that's all that matters. I realized a long time ago that your dreams aren't what I would have dreamt for you, but they are your dreams. You look happy. Happier, in fact, than I've seen you in a long time. That's what matters the most to me. And Fox looks happier than I've ever seen him." Mulder had returned on the heels of that remark and had taken his seat. He had laid his hands on the table and looked from one Scully woman to the other. Dana had reached for his hand and clasped it firmly. He had looked over and questioned her with his eyes. She had nodded. "Do you approve, Mrs. Scully?" "Fox, it's *Maggie*. And, yes, I approve. You make her happy. That makes me happy." Their lunch had been a pleasant one. After coffee had been drunk and dessert consumed, Maggie departed. Mulder and Scully had left shortly afterwards, having watched a Senatordock his speedboat at the restaurant's private dock. They had walked along the narrow pathway along the river before returning to Mulder's car. The wind off the river had been fresh and ruffled Scully's hair as it disarranged Mulder's suit coat. They had held hands and walked slowly, gazing intermittently at each other, but most often out at the rolling blue water beside them. "Thank you," she had said quietly. "For what?" he had asked. "For coming with me this morning. I know you don't understand it, that it has no meaning for you." "But it means a lot to you. It gives you peace and contentment. Would you bludgeon me if I said that I believe in your belief?" She laughed. "No, but I might kiss you." They had stopped and Mulder wrapped her in his arms. She had tilted her head up to meet his gaze. They had both been smiling brightly and laughing softly. He had leaned in and kissed her. She could feel his lips still smiling against her own. Breaking the kiss, she had laid her head against his chest and sighed in contentment. They had turned and began walking back to the restaurant parking lot. On the way back to Scully's apartment, they had stopped and bought fresh pasta and sauce, as well as greens for a salad, and a bottle of wine. At Scully's, Mulder had flopped down onto the couch while she changed into more comfortable clothing, jeans and an emerald green T-shirt. She had brushed her hair back into two clips and scrubbed the make up from her face. Comfortable and looking considerably younger than she was, she had rummaged through the bottom drawer of her dresser until she found the clothes he always stashed there in case of emergency. Returning to the living room, she had tossed him the white T-shirt and jeans. Mulder had thanked her and gone to affect his own wardrobe change. Determining that there was nothing on TV, Scully had turned on the stereo and selected a variety of CD's, setting the option to 'random play'. She had laid the Post on the couch next to her and had taken up the latest issue of National Geographic, which she had yet to read. Mulder had come back, dressed comfortably in his 'emergency' clothes, and sunk down next to her. He had rifled the newspaper until he found the sports section. They had sat reading, listening to music for some time. Scully had sighed happily and set her magazine down. "What?" he had asked. "This music," she had said softly, not wanting to disrupt the flow of music. Mulder had listened carefully. He had not recognized the words; was not able to make them out, but the singer's voice was breathtaking. A high, fluted soprano that rang true on the highest notes, shining like morning light through soft white curtains. "Who is it?" he had asked as softly as she had responded. "Charlotte Church," Scully had told him when the song had ended. "She's Welsh. She's all of fourteen years old now." He had looked at her. "Really? What a voice," he said simply. Scully had nodded. A new song had been playing. Mulder had reached over and tickled Scully's arm. She had slapped him playfully. They had both been giggling. Mulder had continued to tickle her, working his way up her arm, then down to her stomach. She had struggled half-heartedly to get away from him, but only succeeded in wriggling herself so that she had been positioned under his body. He had looked down at her, grinning broadly. "Agent Mulder has the suspect exactly where he wants her," he had proclaimed, in an 'official' sounding voice. "And how do you know that the suspect isn't exactly where she wants to be, Agent Mulder?" Scully had retorted. "In that case..." he had told her and began kissing her. His hands had continued to tickle her, at first, but soon turned to a heated exploration of her skin. He had tugged her shirt from the waistband of her jeans and began to kiss the smooth, supple flesh of her stomach. Her hands had been on his back, under his shirt, caressing, touching lightly. He had left off kissing her and looked at her. Strands of her hair had come loose from the clips she wore in it. Her face had been flushed, lips parted as her breath came in quick, fast gasps. She was gorgeous. She had also been looking at him rather quizzically. "Scully," he had whispered, voice husky, "it's um ... I mean, we've been ... is this the right time?" She had caught her lower lip in her teeth and nodded at him, slowly. He had uncoiled his long frame from around her and stood up. She had looked bereft, but only momentarily. He had leaned down, over her, and gathered her into his arms. She had wrapped both arms around his neck, bringing his mouth down to hers once more. How Mulder had managed to carry her to her bedroom without breaking that kiss, she never did figure out, but he had done it. He had laid her tenderly down on her bed. She had scooted over to make room for him and patted the covers next to her. He had recognized the invitation for what it was and for the way it mirrored his own when they had been undercover at Arcadia Falls. Almost disbelieving that they had progressed this far in a relationship, he had laid down next to her, cradling her in his arms, kissing her face and hair. Mulder had known that he had never known anyone as well as he knew Scully. She had let him inside all the walls she'd built over the years, walls he had sometimes helped to build. He had found the courage to trust her with everything there was to know about him. She knew more accurately than anyone in the world what his fears were, as well as his hopes and dreams for a life lived outside the influence of the Syndicate. She had accepted him for every flaw he had and loved him , she told him, because of those flaws. He had explored the fissures in her own soul and fallen just as deeply into those as he had scaled the peaks found in that same soul. They had seen each other through crises too numerous to count, too painful to want to remember, yet too critical to be able to forget. They had seen each other in tears, and more recently, in laughter. Mulder had also known there was no one in the world he wanted to know any better, nor anyone whom he wanted to know him better. She was the other half of his soul; he was already complete. Making love to her was the final transcendence of that. "I love you," she had whispered, drawing him from his contemplation of her. "I love you, too," he had told her. "This was never quite how I pictured it, Mulder," she had said. He had appeared thunderstruck. "You ... thought about this?" She hadsmiled at him. "Of course, I'm only human. We've always spent so much time together and...." her voice had trailed off. "And?" he had prompted. She had licked her lips a little. "And you're damndably attractive, Mulder." He had grinned at her. "And you, Scully, are, as a dear friend of ours once stated, *hot*." She had giggled at him, a blush creeping into her face. "By the way, how *did* you picture this?" "I ... I don't know." He had propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her. "No, you said this was not how you pictured this. So *how* did you picture it? C'mon, Scully, tell me." She had pressed her lips into a line, something between a grimace and a smile. Closer to a smile, Mulder had been pleased to note. "How did *you* picture this, Mulder?" She had effectively turned the tables on him. "Candlelight, rose petals, soft music, you in a pale silk negligee, ..." he had stopped. She had been convulsing with silent laughter. "What?" "Mulder, you're kidding." "Why?" he had looked hurt "We're ... not ... that ... type of couple," she had gasped out. He had hung his head. She had been worried that he really was hurt, until he raised his head. His eyes had been twinkling and he had flashed her the toothy grin. "All right, you got me." "So?" she had demanded "Well, I imagined you, wearing a lovely leather ensemble, pinning me to the top of my desk, ripping my shirt off ... " he had stopped again. "No?" She had been shaking with laughter again. "Me? Leather?" Tears were starting to roll down her face as she continued to laugh helplessly. Taking deep breaths, she had begun to get control of herself again. Finally, she had said, "Mulder, be serious." "Scully, the truth is, I never actually pictured *this*. Anything that ever went through my mind ... it wasn't part of a relationship; it was some isolated incident. I couldn't let myself picture this because I never dared to hope you'd actually love me." He brushed hair from her face and traced the path of moisture down her face. "I have no frame of reference for this, Love." "Oh, Mulder," she had purred. "That's beautiful. This is like nothing else for me, too." She had pulled him down on top of her. Their lips had found each other. He had plunged his hands into her hair, spreading it out on the pillow, like a glowing red halo. She had slipped her hands underneath his T-shirt and pushed it up. He lifted himself up enough for her to help him shrug out of it. Her hands had been splayed against his chest, fingers curling in the soft hair they found there. He had murmured her name, as he kissed behind her ear, trailing his lips down her neck to her shoulder. Slowly, gently, clothes had been shed, as new lovers explored each other's flesh. Passion nhad built between them as their bodies met in the eternal rhythm of love. He had melted into her, gathered her to him. She had clung to him, calling out his name, as waves of pleasure caught her, dragged her deep in the undertow of ecstasy. Moments later, he had shuddered against her as his own pleasure peaked. She had wrapped her arms around him, drawing him down against her, despite his attempts to keep all of his weight off her. "I'll hurt you," he had whispered in her ear. "No, you won't," she had assured him. "I want to feel your weight on me." Sated, he had given in to her. Burying his face in her neck, putting light kisses there. The scent of her shampoo had mingled with the scent of her skin and their lovemaking, surrounding him. She had sighed against him as she rubbed his back lightly. She had brought her hands down and joined them with his, stroking his long fingers lightly, absent-mindedly. As the afternoon sun had slanted across her bedroom and crept onto the bed, bathing the lovers in golden beams, they murmured, in hushed whispers, endearments and words of love to each other. After a long while, Mulder had slid off her, rolling onto his back and keeping hold of her slender hand. They had spent the remainder of the afternoon entwined in each other's arms, talking, kissing, making love again, as twilit shadows claimed the skies outside. It had been full dark before either of them was willing to withdraw from the cocoon they had created. Hunger, however, had driven them forth. Together they had made a simple meal of pasta and salad, which they had eaten sitting on the couch, watching the Sunday news, and drinking the wine they had bought. When they had eaten, they did the dishes together, finishing the wine. Mulder had gazed over at Scully, drying a dish. He had dipped his fingers into the soapy water. "Don't," shehad said without looking at him, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Don't what, Scully?" he had asked innocently, then splashed her. She had squealed and jumped. He had done it again. To get him back, she had slapped him with the towel she was holding. Before long they had been breathless with laughter and soaking wet. Mulder had stood back and looked appreciatively at her. "Mulder?" she had asked. "Just thinking how that as nice as that shirt looked on you before, it looks even better now." He had been leering for all he was worth. "Mulder!" she had exclaimed. She had looked down at her soaked clothing. "You are impossible." "And yet you love me," he had reminded her. "And yet I love you with all my heart," she had agreed. "Let's get out of these wet clothes." "Agent Scully, I think this breaks all the rules about agents of the opposite sex consorting anywhere." She had responded by arching an eyebrow at him and heading toward her bedroom. Mulder had followed, turning off lights as he went. Later, as they had lain in the dark, Mulder told her he had decided he might go to church with her every Sunday. "Why?" she had asked. He had smiled and kissed her hair. "Well, I thought we could make the whole day a habit. Church, brunch with your mom, spending the afternoon in bed, dinner, you know." "Did I mention you are impossible?" she had asked, smiling. "Often," he had assured her. "Were you serious? About going with me every week?" "I don't know about *every* week, but, yeah, I'll go with you. I'm honored that you want me to be there with you, that you want to share that part of your life with me." "I love you, Fox William Mulder" she had told him. "And I love you, Dana Katherine Scully." end part 2 Faith 5: My Wild Frontier (3/3) by Nynaeve A week before Christmas, Scully had come in from collecting a pathology report on a victim in a recent case. She had found a note on her desk asking her to meet Mulder at 'their bench' near the reflecting pool, after work. She had smiled to herself. Only Mulder would have asked her to meet him outside, in D.C., in the winter, after dark. Only Mulder would have known she would be there. She had been sitting, waiting for him about ten minutes when he sat down next to her. He had wrapped an arm around her and kissed her forehead. "Thanks for meeting me, Scully." "Mulder, it's freezing. I think it's even going to snow. What are we doing here?" "Scully, do you remember the times we used to come here? When they had shut down the X Files the first time and split us up? You risked reprimands, your career to meet me. I didn't know why you did that, but I knew how much it meant to me. I don't think I ever told you that." She had taken his hand and squeezed it gently. "I told you once that I wouldn't do that for anyone but you, and I meant it, Mulder." "I just couldn't think of anywhere else that I wanted to do this, Scully. For me this bench symbolizes how we've always stood by each other, despite the odds, despite the threats." He knew she had truly forgiven him the incident with Diana when she had let his 'always' slide. "You *are* my one in five billion and you do complete me, make me a whole person. I can never give you even a fraction of what you've given me, but I'd love the opportunity to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you." "Mulder, you give me so much. Don't you..." "Scully? don't argue with a man who's attempting to propose marriage. OK?" he had told her. She had gazed at him and her mouth formed a silent O. She had nodded slowly. Mulder had slid forward on the bench and moved closer to her. He had placed one warm, slightly callused hand on each side of her face. His ever changing hazel green eyes had searched the depths of her clear blue ones. His voice had been soft. "Will you marry me, Scully?" She had leaned into him, touching her lips lightly to his. She had whispered against them, "I will." He had pulled her into his arms and kissed her hotly. They had broken apart, panting, after what seemed a dizzyingly long time. Mulder had brushed her hair from her face. "Really?" he had asked, an uncertain look on his face, like a little boy who has been given the one thing he always wanted and is afraid it will taken away. "Absolutely," she had told him. He had taken her left hand and slipped onto her finger a ring, a simple, Princess cut solitaire, just about a carat. The fit was perfect. She had gazed down at her newly adorned finger, then back to him. Then she had looked up at the sky. "Mulder, it's starting to snow," she had observed. Mulder had looked skyward, watching flakes drift lazily down out of the dark winter night. Cold white downy flakes had settled around and on them, melting almost instantly. He had stood up, lifting Scully with him into his warm embrace. "Scully, do you like Robert Frost?" "The poet?" she had asked. "I haven't read all that much of his work, but what I've read I've enjoyed. Why?" "I've read most of his work. There's one poem I've always liked. I felt myself in it." She had looked at him, eyebrow arched quizzically. "Are you going to recite poetry to me now, Mulder?" He had smiled at her, dipping his head down to kiss her lips briefly. Into her ear, he had whispered, "Yes, I think I am." He had turned her in his embrace, so that they both faced the Reflecting Pool. He had wrapped his arms around her tightly. His voice had been soft and melodic as it flowed over her hair. 'Whose woods are these I think I know/ His house is in the village though/ He will not see me stopping here/ to watch his woods fill up with snow/ My little horse must think it queer/ to stop without a farmhouse near/Between the woods and frozen lake/ the darkest night of the year/ He gives his harness bells a shake/ To ask if there is some mistake/ The only other sound's the sweep/ Of easy wind and downy flake/ The woods are lovely dark and deep/ But I have promises to keep/ And miles to go before I sleep/ And miles to go before I sleep.' " She had tilted her head so that it rested on his shoulder. By craning her neck slightly, she had been able look into his eyes, could see the sad smile on his lips. "You see yourself in that, Mulder?" He had nodded. "When I first read it, in a high school English class, I felt a connection to it. Not that I said that out loud." She had chuckled at him and shook her head. "Over the years I felt it came to symbolize the life I lead, the man I became." "How so?" "The voice in the poem is a man alone, out in the cold, isolated in some way from his fellow men. He's out on the darkest evening of the year. That's me, Scully. Living the darkest evening of the year every day. He says the woods are lovely, dark, and deep. Isn't that this quest we're on? It would be so lovely to reach the end, but in the meantime it makes my life dark. The answers we search for, answers to secrets horrifying and brutal, those answers are buried deeply under so many layers of conspiracy. It's my job to unearth those. That's what my father hoped for me to do; he wanted me to do what he had been unable to accomplish, to stop Colonization, to fight the alien race. Those are the promises I have to keep. And it's always seemed that no matter how close I came, I had that much further to go. I couldn't rest until ..." "'And miles to go before I sleep'?" Her voice had been low and soft. He had nodded, hugging her a little more tightly. "The thing is, Scully, I still think it's a beautiful piece of poetry, but with you, I've covered those miles. I can sleep at last. I'm no longer alone or isolated. There's light in my life now. I may still be wandering the woods, but I have you and the promises that matter now are the ones I've made and plan to make to you." "That's beautiful, Mulder." She had paused and lifted a hand to caress his cheek. "You tell me that I complete you, that because of me your life has light, but, don't you know by now, Mulder, that you do those things, bring that same light into my life?" "But, Scully, all the things you could have had if it weren't for..." "For what?" she interrupted. "If it weren't for you? Mulder, you are everything I want. If I had never joined the Bureau, never met you, my life would have been empty. I wouldn't trade one moment I've had with you for a whole life time of so-called 'normal' existence." "Well, maybe that Flukeman thing," Mulder had teased her. She had laughed with him. "OK, maybe that Flukeman thing." She had stood on her tiptoes, craned her neck around, and kissed him. "Mulder, let's go. It's cold and it's snowing. And I have an engagement ring I'd like to show to a few people, if that's all right with you." They had walked back to the Hoover Building, hand in hand. Traffic had been light, most government employees home by then. The Capitol have been dark, Congress having adjourned for the holidays. Snow still fell in a soft swirl, beginning to stick to the pavement and the branches of the dark, leafless trees. Mulder had looked over at the woman who had agreed to become his wife, his partner in all ways, his best friend. A smile had played delicately on her lips, as though something secret amused her. "Tell me," he had said to her. "What?" she had asked lightly. "What you're thinking right now," he had explained. "Oh, that," she had laughed. Her laughter had met the snowflakes and seemed to dance on the air with them. "I was just thinking that of all the Frost poems I would have associated with you, 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening' is not what I would have picked." "What would you have chosen?" he had wondered aloud. She had quoted, " 'Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-/ I took the one less traveled by,/ And that has made all the difference.' That's you, Mulder, the road less traveled." He had smiled and kissed her hand. "And you, too, Scully. It *has* made all the difference, hasn't it?" She had nodded contemplatively. Maggie Scully had been thrilled with the news. Bill Scully, visiting with Tara and Matt for the holidays, had been less thrilled, but a warning glance from Maggie had kept his tongue still. Tara had congratulated them graciously. All had asked if they had picked a date. They both demurred that it was too new to have even considered that yet. They both had known that they were not likely to actually pick a date terribly far in advance, as any wedding they would have would have to be, of necessity, very quiet. They had declined Maggie's dinner invitation, preferring to celebrate at a small, elegant French restaurant where Mulder had made late reservations. After dinner they had graced the Gunmen with their dual presence and their announcement. All three had congratulated Mulder warmly, assured him of his amazing luck, and verified that Scully had not taken complete leave of her senses. All three Gunmen had quickly fallen to bickering good-naturedly about who got to be the best man. Leaving them to settle the dispute, Mulder and Scully had taken their leave and gone home. Mulder had insisted on carrying her the threshold. For practice, he had claimed, as he had borne her through the doorway. Although she had pleaded with him to set her down, he had refused, kicking the door shut gently behind them and spiriting her all the way to the bedroom. The months had passed. Washington had shaken off the chill, gray cloak of winter, bursting forth into all her spring glory. Mulder had thought there had rarely been a spring so lovely. He could have sworn the sun shone more brightly, the waters of the Potomac rolled by more peacefully, and the flowers smelled more sweetly. Each morning he had awakened with the woman whose soul was the complement of his own. There had been interesting cases to investigate. Cases during which neither of them had been injured. No blood loss, no broken bones, not even any minor cuts or abrasions. Whatever members of the Syndicate had survived, whatever plots they were hatching, had not been in evidence. Progress was being made on the vaccine by scientists working secretly. Scully had agreed with Mulder's observation that it was the best spring ever. Her view had been as colored by her emotions as his. There had been little difference in that fact, in and of itself. The real difference had been that this spring those emotions were happy ones, contented ones,loving ones. They had confided in no one at the Bureau about their engagement, guarding its secret as vigilantly as they had guarded that of their relationship. Nor had they set a date, although Mulder had suggested, in early April that they take a vacation together, in June. "A honeymoon," she had stated, more than asked. He had smiled at her over the sports section, the day being one of their now traditional Sundays. "It could be." He had regarded her for a long time. She had returned his level gaze. "What kind of wedding did you want when you were little, Scully?" She had laughed softly. "That depends on how old I was. For example, when I was ten, I was such a tomboy, trailing after my brothers, that the thought of that white dress, the flowers, all those frills made me sick. Not to mention I couldn't believe I would actually have to *kiss* a boy. By the time I was sixteen I suppose I wanted the typical wedding. Long white, silk dress, masses of flowers everywhere, Missy as my maid of honor, my father giving me away dressed in his Navy whites, church full of guests, reception with tons of gourmet food, dancing, and a five tiered cake." "Did you want the little people on top?" he had asked. "Of course, the little people, hand painted to look like me and the groom, perched inside that little white crystal heart. By the time I was actually old enough to get married, I had realized I didn't much care how the day looked. The most important thing to get right was the man I married." "And?" "You know already that I got that right, Mulder. I could not have gotten it more right." "So what kind of wedding do you want, before our honeymoon?" he had asked her. "A simple, quiet wedding, with my mother, the Gunmen, maybe Ellen and Trent." "Bill?" She had shrugged her shoulders. "Yes and no. I'd like to have my brother there, but I worry that he'd make a scene." "At your church, with Father McCue presiding?" "If it's all right with you, yes, I'd like that." "Do you think we should tell Skinner?" Mulder had said. She had looked at him. "I'd like to, but, Mulder, do you think it's a good idea" He had shaken his head. "No. He's ignored a lot over the years, but I don't know if he could ignore this. We shouldn't put him in that position." The following week Mulder had booked reservations to Jamaica and Scully had talked with her mother and Father McCue. If Maggie had been disappointed that the wedding was to take place on a Friday afternoon, with the absolute minimum of fuss, she had said nothing. She had insisted that Dana buy at least a simple dress in which to be married. She had also insisted that they allow her to host a small, private reception at a local restaurant. And, she had promised to take care of Bill and make certain that he made no objections. It had been a few weeks later, nearly May, that Scully heard the song whose words would haunt her. She had been shopping for vacation wear as the song played over the store's stereo system. The music itself was melodic, the singer's voice pleasant and soft, and the words tender and bittersweet. At the time, it had been only one pair of lines that really caught her attention. 'Because I was his lonesome prairie and he was my wild frontier...' She had smirked a little upon hearing that. It was apt for them. She had been lonesome, her life a great expanse of flat earth stretching endlessly to the horizon. And Mulder ... Mulder was her 'wild frontier'. He had changed her way of thinking, expanded her world views beyond any scope she had previously imagined. His wild theories had made her question all she knew, had kept her thinking. He had been an adventure she had embarked upon before she knew better. An adventure she would exchange for nothing else life could offer her, for nothing else in life had come to mean more, to have more power over her, thanthis adventure. The day had been sunny, clear, and a little hotter than usual for D.C. The air had been heavy with moisture. Mulder and Scully had eaten lunch at a small restaurant near the Hoover building. They had been walking back to their lovely basement office. Mulder had stopped to point out a travel agent's display window. "Just four more weeks, and that's where we'll be," he had whispered in her ear. "Can you see us on that beach, Scully? Mr. and Mrs. Fox Mulder. Sunning themselves, drinking exotic drinks, eating exquisite food, making love all night..." he had spoken low, and close to her ear. "Mulder..." she had growled as a blush crept up her neck and suffused her face. "Tell me you can see that," he had said, mouth now nearly covering her ear. She had shivered at his closeness, at his breath against her skin. "Yes, I can see that." They had continued to stand as if mesmerized by the sights on the poster. Mesmerized, in truth, by the visions in their own minds. Scully had become vaguely aware of music, somehow familiar. She hadn't been able to say why for a moment, then it came back to her. The song she'd heard while shopping. She had noticed more that time, '...as angel slipped past And with one breath said I'm taking him back to his father in Heaven'. She hadn't realized the first time just how sad the song was. Her mind had shied away from imagining the death of the man she loved more than anything. Yet the words had worked their way insidiously into her brain. '...I held him through my tears Because I was his lonesome prairie and he was my wild frontier'. Mulder had tugged her hand gently. "We'd better get going. We've got that meeting this afternoon with Skinner." "Yeah," she had agreed. She had slipped her hand into his. It was a rare action. They had been in public, quite close to their office. The chances of encountering someone they knew were fairly good. He had looked at her, his eyes asking the question. She had shrugged and held his hand a little more tightly. They had gone another block. Mulder must have seen it first, heard something. All Scully would ever remember hearing was the first sounds of rapid gunfire and Mulder screaming her name, as he pushed her to the ground, covering her body with his own. Seconds passed in eternities as the gunfire continued until the man holding the weapon turned it on himself. Panicked, confused screams and cries rent the air in deafening cacophony. Scully had murmured to Mulder to let her up. He had not responded. She had asked him to let her up, a little more louder the second time. His lack of response had begun to frighten her. She had struggled out from under him. He had been motionless. She could hear him groaning. She had rolled him onto his back and gasped at the sight that met her eyes. He had been covered in blood. Although she would never remember doing so, she must have taken out her cell phone and called 911, requesting a medical team immediately, adding that it was an FBI agent who was down. It would be scant minutes before they arrived. Scant minutes too many. She had held him, cradled him, crooned to him, and pleaded with him to hang on. Her medical training had asserted itself and she did what little she was able to do. She had known, in her head, that there was nothing to be done. There had been too much blood on his clothing and too much raining from his body onto the pavement and onto her, to sustain life. She had been begging God for a miracle, hoping that if, for once in her life, she could just *believe* enough everything would be fine. "Mulder, Mulder, can you hear me?" she had whispered to him. Chaos had swirled around them. As a doctor she should have been checking for any other injured victims. As a government agent, she should have been trying to take some control of the situation. In those moments, however, she could have been neither. She had been a desperate, heart broken lover, trying to will the embodiment of her soul to live. "Scully..." his voice had been weak as he spoke her name. Deep in the back of her mind, she had known he shouldn't talk, but her heart could not stop him. She had needed to hear his voice. He had been dying and she wanted to hear whatever he had to tell her. her mind had reasoned feverishly "I'm here, Mulder. I'm right here." "Scully... I'm sorry ... I wasted ... so much time... loved you ... for so long. Best thing ... ever happened ... to me." "Mulder, oh please ... " "I love ... you ... Scully. Always. Always ... my Scully." "Only yours, my love. Only yours. I love you. Muldermuldermuldermulder ..." His body had gone slack against hers. She had felt for a pulse and found none. The first sobs had escaped her, wracking her body with their force. She had identified the distant sound she heard as the high keening wail of an ambulance. her mind had shrieked, . It had been too late the moment the bullet had hit him, an autopsy would confirm that. The large caliber bullet had entered his upper chest, torn open his right lung as its trajectory carried it toward his heart. There it had nicked the aorta before lodging next to his spinal column. He had bled out at the scene in bare moments. She had held his lifeless hands in hers, stained with his blood. His blood had soaked into her clothing. It was on her face where she had brushed her hair away. It had masked the glitter, the now mocking glitter, of the diamond on her finger. She had quieted quickly after those first few sobs. Dana Katherine Scully was not a woman given to loud displays of grief and pain. Tears had flowed freely down her face, falling onto his blood soaked shirt. She had murmured his name, over and over, softly. The words of that song had played through her head, "And sometimes at night I swear I can hear him Calling out so clear He says, you were my lonesome prairie and I'm *still* your wild frontier". She would wait for that moment, listen for his voice telling her he was waiting for her. She had whispered softly, one last time, until forever came, and she could be with him, "Mulder..." end part 3 Author's Notes: I don't know if it would be possible to walk from the Reflecting Pool to the Hoover Building. So if it isn't, sorry. I have *no* medical training, unless you count watching "ER" and "Chicago Hope", so I hope that the path the bullet traveled in Mulder's body is possible. Charlotte Church is a real soprano; I aged her to concur with the timeline. If you were offended by Mulder's comment after Scully took Communion, please know that I took it from something a friend *actually* said to me at a Church service after I had taken Communion.