From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 10 Jun 2002 11:46:22 -0000
Subject: Fidelity (1/3) by lil_gusty
Source: direct

Reply To: lil_gusty@hotmail.com


Title: Fidelity (1/3)
Classification: SRA
Keywords: S/O, MSR - um, something between UST and RST, AU
Rating: R
Distribution: anywhere, just let me know first
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine, they're Chris Carter's, 
            but he's done for now anyway, so...
Spoilers: None
Feedback: please to lil_gusty@hotmail.com
Thanks: as always, to RealB, Karri, and Liam for betaing.
Note: this is the seventh part of the Trefoil series and yes, 
      you'll be completely confused if you haven't read the other 
      parts.  The other parts can be found at 
      http://sciencex.tzo.com/xf/wips/trefoil.html

Summary: According to my dictionary, fidelity means "adherence to 
         the truth."




<><><><><><>

Do you ever have dreams where you know that you're dreaming?  
That you're just asleep enough to be dreaming, but not awake 
enough to control them?  I used to have dreams like that.  I 
would try and tell myself what to do in the dream, but it would 
never work.  I would never listen to myself.  Like that time I 
dreamed of making love with Ethan in Mulder's bed, calling him 
Mulder, and him not caring.  I told myself not to go into 
Mulder's bedroom, not to pull back the covers, not to climb into 
bed with Ethan, but I did it anyway.

Sometimes I have dreams of waking, getting up, and even being in 
the shower, starting my normal routine.  It seems so real and 
then, when I wake up, I'm still in bed in my pajamas.  It's so 
disappointing, especially when it takes every ounce of strength 
and dedication you have to haul yourself out of bed and drag 
yourself into the shower every morning.

Sleep paralysis comes and goes, less frequent now.  If Mulder is 
correct, that it happens when you fall asleep too slowly or wake 
up too quickly, that's probably the reason that it doesn't happen 
too often anymore.  All I ever seem to do is sleep, though I 
constantly feel exhausted.  I go to bed when Emma does - usually 
around nine - and wake up long after she goes to school.  Right 
now, with his schedule, Ethan is able to take her to school on 
his way to work and I dread that schedule ever changing.  I might 
actually have to get up before noon.

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday are for laundry, so at least I have 
something to do on those days.  Tuesday is free, unless there's 
some sort of function at Emma's school.  She attends a private 
Catholic school about four miles away, Queen of Angels, and her 
teacher is always calling me and asking if I'll bake something or 
come in and help the class with a project.  I've yet to say no, 
but all I ever do is help a struggling student with reading or 
math.  Emma seems to enjoy having me involved in her life and I 
enjoy anything that she enjoys, so I guess it's a nice 
arrangement.

Thursdays, I clean house, whether it needs it or not.  I've 
become sort of a maniac about cleanliness, actually, and the 
floor has been mopped more times in the six months I've been here 
than in the nearly ten years that I lived in my apartment in DC.  
I polish furniture, wash windows, and vacuum around the 
baseboards with those attachments that I never knew what to do 
with before.  On Saturdays, I go grocery shopping, Emma always in 
attendance.  I try and cook balanced, slightly elaborate meals 
everyday except Sunday, when we go out to eat as a family after 
evening Mass.

I pick Emma up from school every day and shuttle her back and 
forth to her various practices, sometimes staying during them and 
talking to the other mothers there.  Occasionally, I keep one of 
the younger children in the neighborhood while their mother goes 
shopping or for a manicure.  I'm dependable, reliable, 
responsible, moral, wholesome, selfless, and devoted.

I've also taken to staring at my razor in the shower, wondering 
how it would feel to drag it across my wrist.
 
Ethan leaves before I wake up in the mornings, though sometimes 
he accidentally wakes me as he gets dressed.  He gets home long 
after I've gone to bed, though he occasionally wakes me as he 
gets into bed and wraps his body around mine.  He still tells me 
he loves me although I rarely hear it.  He claims he's happy and 
I'm glad for that.  At least one of us is.

The other women in the neighborhood, Penny, Sonya, Carrie and 
Linda, invite me to go shopping with them sometimes or out to 
lunch.  I always decline, claiming that I'm busy with some 
unnamed project at home.  They say they're sorry, but they keep 
asking me, and I keep turning them down.

The other day, as I was driving home from soccer practice, a 
commercial came on the radio that featured some of the lines of 
"Joy to the World," the Three Dog Night version.  I griped the 
steering wheel in my fists and hiccuped, trying to hold my tears 
back until we got home.  When we did, I let my tears slowly and 
silently come as I went about cooking dinner, pushing my food 
around on my plate, clearing the table, and loading the 
dishwasher,  all because of a stupid song - the memories, the 
associations - and for the person that sang that song in the 
Florida woods three years ago, the person who is now dead.

On the weekends or the rare days off that Ethan gets, I smile a 
lot, dress in bright colors and style my hair.  We do things as a 
family, even if it's just taking Emma to a movie.  Ethan puts his 
arm around me and steals a kiss when he thinks no one is looking 
and Emma holds my hand as we walk across the parking lot.

On the other days when I'm alone, I stay in my pajamas, pull my 
dull, stringy hair into a pony tail, and huddle under a blanket 
on the couch all day, only moving for mundane household chores.  
I cry a lot, sometimes for no reason, and I don't eat.

I don't have nightmares as often anymore.  That's one good thing.

<><><><><><>

The ringing of the phone is what woke me up.  When I finally 
climb through the layers of unconsciousness and reach out for it, 
the person on the other end has almost given up.

"'Lo?"  I slur out, still not quite awake.

"Ma'am, this is your Greystone Security Monitoring Station, is 
everything all right?"

"Huh?"  What the hell is this way-too-cheery person for - I look 
at the clock - almost one in the afternoon talking about?

"Your alarm system went off, do you need the police?"

I sit straight up in bed, my eyes going wide.  "The alarm went 
off?"  And it didn't wake me?  Shitshitshitshitshitshit.

"Yes, ma'am, do you need the police?"

I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling her that I am the 
police.  It's been nearly seven months since I quit my job at the 
FBI, yet I still think of myself as a gun-toting, ass-kicking 
Federal Agent.  "The alarm didn't go off," I say, my breath 
coming in nervous shallow pants.  

My ears pick up every tiny noise and my mind interprets them as 
someone stalking slowly across the carpet, someone trying to 
break a window to get inside the house, someone unsheathing a 
knife, someone wanting to kill me.

"Are you sure?"  The woman asks, patient concern turning into 
annoyance.

"Yeah."  I guess.  I tend to sleep pretty deeply these days.

"Well, there may be a problem with your system.  Are you sure you 
don't need the police?"

The floor outside the firmly closed door creaks and I jump, my 
breath catching.  "Yeah, I'm sure," I finally tell her.

After giving her my password, she hangs up, telling me that 
someone will call later to set up an appointment to have the 
system checked out.  I'm out of bed as soon as I put the phone 
down, rummaging through the closet, trying to find some sort of 
weapon, anything I can use to defend myself.  Finding nothing, I 
steal myself for a physical fight, hoping that my eighty-five 
pound frame can match whoever is outside.

Slowly, I open the bedroom door, standing behind it as I do.  
When no one enters and I hear no footsteps in the hall 
approaching, I cautiously walk around the door and step outside, 
straining my ears for the faintest sound.  I slide along the 
walls, checking under beds and peaking into each room the way 
they taught us to do at the Academy, opening closet doors loudly 
and quickly, slamming them shut when I find nothing.

Repeating the same actions downstairs, I come to the conclusion 
that no one is in the house, that the monitoring station 
reporting an alarm was just some sort of error.  The adrenaline 
fades quickly and, as I climb the stairs, the edges of my vision 
fade to black and my head gets heavy.  I sag against the rail and 
sink to the floor, arms clutching my suddenly-rolling stomach.  I 
cough - dry heave, really - then unsteadily climb to my feet a 
few minutes later.  Finally in the shower, I sit down after 
washing my hair, too weak to continue to stand.

I can't believe that Ethan doesn't have some sort of weapon in 
this house - a knife or even a baseball bat.  What if someone 
were to break in, how we would defend ourselves?

Roswell Gun Specialty, 11240 Alpharetta Highway.  My brain is 
buzzing - which one is Alpharetta Highway again?

The short, pudgy, scraggly looking man behind the counter eyes me 
as soon as I pull into the parking lot, probably wondering why 
someone like me is at a place like this.  He scans me up and down 
and back again when I walk in, grinning, his beer belly 
stretching the deer-and-Confederate battle emblem design on his 
T-shirt, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose.  Leaning over 
the counter towards me, he says, "Afternoon, ma'am," in a thick 
southern drawl, not ashamed of the leer in his voice.  "What can 
I help you with?"

So, this is what Frohike would look like as a redneck.  "I'm 
looking for a hand gun, a Sig or a Glock.  Nine millimeter, 
something that can be concealed.  Semi-automatic."

Standing upright and apparently taken off guard by my detailed 
knowledge of firearms, he comes around the counter and over to a 
dirty glass showcase with several Sigs behind it.  I look them 
over, then move on to a showcase of Walther PPKs, asking about 
prices.  The Sigs are slightly more expensive, but I'm more 
familiar with them, so I ask the man if I could hold one, try out 
the grip.

He scans me once more, probably deciding that I look harmless 
enough, then goes back to the counter for the keys.

The gun that he hands me is a Sig 229, exactly what I carried at 
the Bureau.  Its weight is familiar and desperately missed in my 
hand and I know immediately that I must have this weapon.

"There'll be a five day waitin' period 'for you kin take 'at 
home, ma'am," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the 
world.

"Actually, I'm licensed to carry all small fire-arms."  Another 
incredulous look.  "I'm a former FBI agent."

He leans back over the counter again, cocking his head and 
grinning disgustingly.  "Cute li'l thing like you?  An FBI 
agent?"

I realize that he's not looking at my eyes but at my breasts.  
"Yes," I tell him, getting annoyed and slightly dizzy.  "You can 
call the Bureau and ask for my personnel file."

His grin lessens slightly when I tilt my head down to meet his 
eyes.  "I'll do that," he says with a wink, turning around and 
picking up the phone.

As he's talking, my eyes flit over a bulletin board near the 
counter.  Two advertisements for shooting ranges dot the board, 
one in Marietta and one in Dallas, where ever those are.  The man 
hangs up the phone and in an unexpected tone of respect, says, 
"All right, ma'am, here you go."  He hands over my gun and asks 
if I want extra clips.  Yes, I do, and he adds them to my total.

"These shooting ranges," I say, gesturing towards the 
advertisements, "which is the closest?"

"One in Maretter is closer but the one in Dallas'll take you less 
time to get there."

"Can you give me directions, then?"

A bit surprised that I asked, he dutifully grabs a piece of paper 
and draws me a sloppy map, then reminds me to have a good day 
before I leave.

I certainly will, I think, as I climb back into my tank and 
decipher the directions that he gave me.  Laundry can wait for a 
few hours today.

<><><><><><>

These women are starting to rub off on me - I'm waiting for 
Emma's cheernastics practice to end, filing my nails.  Next thing 
I know, I'll be painting them, too.  I'd figured out a long time 
ago that, with traffic the way it is around here, it's more 
practical to just stay and wait than it is for me to drop her off 
then come back later.

If I try hard, I can still smell the gun power on my fingers.  My 
aim isn't as good as it used to be, of course, but I can still 
incapacitate the target.  At the Academy, they teach us to aim 
for middle mass but not to shoot to kill.  I could probably hit 
an arm or a leg, which hurts like hell and could mean substantial 
blood loss.

A memory appears in my head, of a deafening gunshot, then the 
sickening sound of the bullet meeting flesh and Mulder crying 
out, falling, and laying still on the cold, wet ground.  Boggs 
had warned him to stay away from the white cross, that his blood 
would spill on the white cross.  He almost bled to death, the 
bullet severing an artery.  After only having worked together for 
twenty-two months, I was already terrified to lose him.  I stayed 
by his side as much as possible at the hospital and was there 
when he finally woke up and was lucid.  How many times had I done 
that?  Watched as his eyes slowly came into focus, for his nerves 
to register my hand in his, for his lips to form a small, painful 
grin?  Once, he told me he loved me.

He lied to me.

We get home at six thirty and I fix dinner, Emma's favorite, 
macaroni and cheese - from scratch, not a box.  I have Lean 
Cuisines stocking the freezer for those rare occasions that I 
feel like eating; Ethan usually eats at work, before he comes 
home.  At seven, I run Emma's bath, then get ready for bed myself 
as she plays in the tub, pretending to bathe.  No homework 
tonight, so at seven forty five, she settles into her bed and I 
sit beside her, holding a book while she tried to read.  At eight 
thirty, she's thoroughly tired and I turn her lamp off, close her 
door, then retire to my bedroom.  Before I climb into bed, I make 
sure that my gun is still in the drawer in my bed-side table, 
safety on, clip in, then pull the covers over my shivering body 
and stare out the window, at the deep orange sun peaking through 
the cracks in the blinds.

I had a good day today - got a lot accomplished, spent time with 
Emma, remembered Mulder.  I haven't done that last one in a 
while.  I'd tried my damnedest to forget him after Ethan and I 
married and sometimes, I was successful.  I managed to forget the 
way he would smile when he was happy, a rarity in itself.  I 
forgot the way his eyes looked when he was upset or depressed - 
like a lost little boy at a shopping mall, desperate to find his 
mother.  I forgot about his late night phone calls, about telling 
him that I wasn't asleep when he apologized for waking me even 
thought he really had.

I guess if I remember these things now, I really haven't 
forgotten them.

I wonder what he's doing tonight.  Is he out in the field in a 
dirty motel room in some small, backwoods town, fighting his way 
into a serial killer's mind?  Is he in his apartment, laying on 
his couch, watching "World's Deadliest Swarms?"  Is he thinking 
of me?  Is he missing me, wondering what I'm doing right now?  
Maybe he's at home in bed, alone, or maybe he's with someone, 
clinging to her desperately and begging her not to leave him, not 
to ever leave him.  Maybe he's forgotten about me, glad that his 
eight years of unpleasantness are over and that I'm out of his 
life.

My nightly ritual of crying myself to sleep begins and I turn 
over onto my stomach, burying my head in the pillow, thinking of 
Mulder.

The other day, I called his apartment after one o'clock in the 
morning, just to hear his voice.  I knew he wouldn't answer, but 
I wanted him to know that I'm still trying to be here for him, 
whenever he needs me.

I hope he remembers that about me, if it's the only thing he 
remembers.  That I'm here, no matter what, even if he's not there 
for me anymore.

He was so close to me and I never realized it.  He was there and 
I never took advantage of it.  He loved me and I never believed 
it.  I loved him and I always denied it.

I can't remember now when I realized that I loved him, really 
loved him, like he said he really loved me.  It was probably 
during one of these late-night cries as I was replaying the last 
day I saw him in my mind, trying to imagine how his mouth tasted 
and what it felt like for him to hold me against him.  I tried to 
pretend that it was him behind me, spooning with me, instead of 
Ethan.  Once, I'd pretended that it was him inside me instead of 
Ethan.  That had been the last time that I'd had an orgasm during 
sex.

I guess I always thought that I was too good for Fox "Spooky" 
Mulder, the emotionally scarred and overly dependent, selfless 
hero.  I thought I deserved better than to fall in love with 
someone who couldn't give me material things or who wouldn't have 
met with my father's definition of a good husband.  Ethan fit my 
father's model, but Mulder would've only infuriated Ahab, to him, 
another stage of my rebelliousness.  I wanted so badly to please 
him, even after his death, that I repressed my true feelings, my 
true desires for Mulder.

I wonder if my father would be proud of me, his depressed, 
anorexic, suicidal Starbuck with the devoted, loving husband and 
the beautiful, bright step-daughter.

Exhausted, I finally fall into a fitful sleep, hoping not to 
awake until long after my devoted, loving husband and bright, 
beautiful step-daughter have left for the day.

<><><><><><><>

"I'm gonna execute every one of you...shut up and do it!"

Nonononono.  "Mulder," I beg him, but he doesn't listen.  He 
falls back against the wall, his head sagging to his chest.

"It's all on you, now.  It's your fault he's dead," Lula tells 
me, taking the gun from Mulder's limp fingers and pointing it 
towards me.

"No!  Mulder -"

Then the shot and I wake up, sitting straight up and shrieking 
weakly, sweating, my heart pounding out of my chest.

"Hey, sorry.  I didn't mean to wake you," a soft voice in the 
darkness tells me.  Footsteps across the carpet as Ethan walks 
towards the bed.  "You okay?"

I take a deep, shaky breath.  "Yeah."

He sits down and kisses my forehead, stroking my shoulders.  "I 
accidentally slammed the door when I came in.  Did I scare you?"

I nod, covering my face with my hands and trying to stop shaking.

"Sorry," he says again.  "Lay back down.  I'll be back in a 
minute."  I do as he says - as always - and pull the covers up to 
my chin, glancing at the clock.  It's only a little after ten.

As promised, he emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later and 
lays down beside me wearing only his briefs.  He curls up to my 
side, sliding his arms around me and nuzzling my neck with his 
nose.  "This is the first time you've been awake in a while," he 
whispers.  "I've missed you."

I inwardly sigh and turn towards him, dutifully dragging my hands 
down his chest to his groin, stroking the already prominent bulge 
there.  He latches his mouth to my neck and sucks lightly - it 
should feel good, it used to feel good, but Ethan stopped waiting 
on me a long time ago.  In the beginning, he said he was just too 
tired to last, that he would make it up to me later.  Then, he 
just stopped making promises he had no intention of keeping.

He pulls away and wiggles out of his briefs while I divest myself 
of my pajama pants and panties.  The cool night air sneaks in 
underneath the covers and I shiver, goosebumps rising on my 
exposed legs.  He rolls back towards me and gathers me in his 
arms, holding me tightly against him, his erection hot and ready 
at my stomach.  "Cold?" he asks perfunctorily.  I don't respond, 
just turn onto my back.  Let's get this over with.

He rolls on top of me, supporting his weight on his elbows, his 
knees keeping mine apart.  He nudges my entrance, but doesn't 
seem bothered by the fact that I'm almost completely dry, not 
aroused at all.  Latching onto my neck again, he pushes in with 
one hard, splitting thrust, making me bite back a gasp of pain.  
Just a few minutes and it will be over, I remind myself as I hook 
my legs around his waist, urging him on.

After five minutes and twenty four seconds, he moans and 
increases his pace, then shutters as he comes, collapsing onto me 
when he's finished.  His breathing goes from frantic and erratic 
to deep and even in a matter of seconds, then he moves off of me, 
spooning behind me and kissing the back of my neck.  "Dana..." he 
whispers a few minutes later, still seeping out from between my 
legs and soaking into the sheets.

"Hmm?"

"Love you."

I pull his arms tighter around me: for now, it's enough.

<><><><><><>

These people have cook-outs for every occasion known to man.  
Whatever holiday, birthday, minor, unknown religious celebration, 
there's always a grill lit and meat ready to be burnt on it.  
They decorate someone's backyard (thankfully, not ours yet) and 
spread red-checked tablecloths - real fabric, not the cheap 
plastic - over picnic tables and pass around glasses of White 
Zinfandel.  Don't these people know that you have beer with 
hamburgers and hot-dogs?

I had a good day again today.  Ethan didn't have to work since it 
was a Sunday, so we stayed in bed wrapped in each other's arms 
until Emma woke up and demanded to be fed.  I actually ate 
breakfast - made-from-scratch pancakes and sausage - then put on 
my white Capri pants, pink tank top, and matching pink sandals 
and headed over to Sonya's house.  I feel good, today, like I 
belong, like I'm right where I should be.

Our contribution to the party - well, actually mine, since Ethan 
isn't the one who shops for groceries - is a case of beer.  It is 
Saint Patrick's Day, after all, and I am part Irish.  When I set 
them in the cooler, Spencer came over and volunteered to put them 
in the refrigerator instead, claiming they'd stay colder.  I took 
one, popped it open, and asked if he'd like one.  He looked 
horrified and quickly disappeared into the house.

He and the rest of the men are crowded around the grill, dressed 
in their khaki pants and polo shirts, pretending to be geniuses 
at grilling.  So far, they've used two canisters of lighter fluid 
and burnt four hot-dogs to a crisp.  They look so silly - Ethan 
too - and I suddenly wish I'd brought bottled beer instead of 
canned, just so I can flip the caps at them.  I'd miss, though.  
Mulder has better aim.

No, dammit, I will NOT think of him.  Not today.  I'm having a 
good day.  I'm having a good day.  I'm having a good day.

I wonder what Mulder's doing today.  During our movie nights, one 
of us would buy a six-pack of beer - bottled - and I would always 
end up drink four and a half, he only finishing one whole bottle.  
More than once, I'd woken up in his bed with a hangover.  I asked 
him why he didn't drink much on one of these mornings and he told 
me that his father had become an alcoholic after Samantha had 
disappeared, which I knew.  He also told me some things that I 
didn't know, like how his mother would be terrified of his father 
when he was drunk, how he would come in from the carriage house, 
where he would do all of his drinking, demanding to kiss her 
goodnight before he went to bed.  He would chase his mother 
around the house, stumbling over his feet and knocking things off 
tables and shelves.  His mother would try and hide in closets or 
lock herself in the bathroom, but he always managed to get to her 
somehow.

Once, when Mulder was fifteen, he'd tried to defend his mother 
and wound up with a black eye and six stitches in one of his 
arms.  Since then, he'd said, he'd been terrified of drunks, too, 
and was determined not to become one himself.

I remember wondering if he was afraid of me when I was drunk and 
swore that I would never be drunk in front of him again.

Well, so much for my good day.

We sit down to eat, all of the adults sitting at two tables 
pushed together, the kids at a table by the covered pool.  We're 
crowded in like sardines, but with the moderate amount of alcohol 
in our bloodstreams, we're laughing and don't mind the 
discomfort.

"Great food, boys," Carrie says, making all of us girls giggle 
and flake the blackened crust off of our meat.

"I'd like to see y'all try it next time," Jason teases.  I guess 
it's an unofficial rule that one couple has to say those exact 
same lines at every one of these get-togethers.

"So, how's newlywed paradise?"  Mike asks Ethan, not me, from the 
far end of the table.

"Great," he responds, slinging his arm around my shoulder and 
getting greasy finger prints all over my new shirt.  Wonderful, 
those will never come out.

"You two thinking about more kids?" someone asks, just making 
casual, polite conversation.

I cough, choking on my food and reaching for my beer, the only 
one at the table.  Blaming my suddenly moist eyes on the choking, 
I bow my head, my good day now officially shot to hell.  It's 
always something.  Mulder, nagging infertility...

"We're, uh, thinking about," Ethan says carefully, smiling 
looking at me as if nothing's wrong.

"I'm sure Emma would love a little brother or sister to play 
with," someone else says, drawing murmuring agreements from 
everyone else.

Yes, she would.  She deserves one.

Ethan smiles again, looking away from me.  "We're working on it," 
he assures everyone, then they all return to eating as if the 
world just didn't stop turning.

I just sit, eyes staring at my hands folded in my lap, anger 
making my blood boil.  My breath comes in increasingly loud and 
shallow pants, my face drawing into a tight scowl, my eyes 
squinting.

"Dana," Ethan asks a few minutes later, "aren't you gonna 
finish?"

I snap my head towards him, raising my voice so that everyone, 
even the boisterous children, can hear.  "Why did you tell them 
that?"

The activity around me ceases, everyone's mouths hanging open at 
my outburst, gazes riveted to me and him, wondering what the next 
move will be.

"What do you mean?" he asks innocently.

I stand, swaying as I do.  I must be drunker than I thought.  
"You know that we can't."

"Dana, calm down," he says, like he's scolding Emma for splashing 
water in the bathtub.

"No!  You KNOW that we can't, Ethan, why didn't you tell them 
that?"  Hiccup.  "Why did you lie?"

He glances over his shoulder at everyone and shrugs slightly, 
exonerating himself from blame by claiming ignorance.

"I'm infertile,"  I tell them, head held high.  "I can't have 
children."  Hiccup.  "I was abducted.  My ova were taken from 
me."  Not that they know what ova are.  "They were used in secret 
experiments to create an -" hiccup "alien -" hiccup "human 
hybrid.  I m-" hiccup "may have hundreds of children all over the 
wo-" hiccup hiccup "world that I know nothing about.  That's the 
tr-" hiccup "truth."  I stamp my foot for emphasis, hiccuping 
again for good measure.  "Isn't it, Ethan?"  I finish, grinning 
at him snidely.

He leans his elbow on the table and massages his forehead with 
his finger tips, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a 
long, embarrassed sigh.  "She's drunk," he says softly to 
everyone, whose eyes are round with confusion, fear, and what 
looks like pity.

"We're going home," he decides, standing and yanking me by my 
elbow.  "Spencer, do you think Emma could stay with you for the 
night?"

"Of course," Spencer says.  Ethan's not paying attention, though; 
he's dragging me across the yard and down the street.

"How dare you!"  He explodes once we're inside the house.  "How 
dare you embarrass me in front of everyone like that!  What is 
wrong with you, Dana?"

I hiccup again.  "I'm drunk, remember."

"That's no excuse!  That in itself is embarrassing, but then to 
go and tell people those crazy stories of yours, what the hell 
were you thinking?"

I get right in his face, remembering that courage is found in a 
bottle.  "They're not stories!  They're the truth!"

"Dana, there is no such thing as aliens, you know that.  That," 
he spits the word, "Mulder filled your head with all of that 
bullshit.  I don't know what happened to you, but -"

"Mulder did not fill my head with bullshit!  Mulder is the only 
person who believes me because he's the only person that knows 
the truth!  He's the only one that understands what I've been 
through because he's been through it too, right beside me!  He's 
always been right beside me, Ethan, and all you ever do is call 
me a liar!  Well, fuck you, Ethan!  You won't believe the truth!"

I had started out livid and yelling so loud that all of our 
perplexed neighbors could hear, but end up sinking to the floor 
in a quivering, bawling pile of sadness.

"Well, why did you ever leave him, then, if he's the only one 
that can understand?"  Ethan asks calmly, looking at me huddling 
into the wall, fists clenching and unclenching in anger.

"I don't know," I sob, not sure if he can understand and hoping 
he can't.  He turns away regardless, going up the stairs and 
slamming the bedroom door behind him, leaving me to keen and cry 
like a wounded animal all alone in the dark forest, waiting for 
another to come and rescue it.

<><><><><><>

It's illegal to call someone and hang up when his answering 
machine comes on twenty times in a row.  Harassment, I think, 
praying that he'll answer the next time, if only to tell me to 
stop calling.

I've come to the conclusion that God hates me.  Mulder believed 
in previous lives and if he's right, which he usually is, I 
must've done something really, really horrible in one of my past 
lives to warrant such disdain and loathing from Him in this one.  
As if my outburst and emotional break down weren't enough today, 
as I was flipping through the TV stations at two o'clock in the 
morning, I happened across the very beginning of that episode of 
COPS that Mulder and I were on.

Ethan had never come back downstairs, to apologize or to check on 
me, so I'd crawled to the bathroom, threw up the alcohol and 
meager food I'd managed to eat, then crawled to the couch and 
pulled the blanket down over my frail, shivering body.  Not able 
and not wanting to sleep, I turned on the TV a few hours ago and 
have been surfing ever since, desperate for something to take my 
mind off of this.

They thought that we were the ones who'd overturned that police 
cruiser.  They cornered us and confiscated our weapons before 
they'd realized who we were, Special Agent Fox Mulder and Special 
Agent Dana Scully, FBI.  After that, they seemed glad to have us 
aboard the investigation, unlike most local law enforcement who 
see the FBI as invading their territory.  At the time, I hated 
being on camera, hated Mulder looking foolish and crazy on 
camera, but now I'm glad they caught these moments so that I can 
relive them over and over again.

I never realized before how commanding Mulder's presence was.  I 
always think of him as my shy, soft spoke, gentle, emotional 
partner, dependent on praise and hypersensitive to criticism.  To 
me, he'd always blended into the background, never creating nor 
demanding attention, yet somehow always gathering it from others, 
gaining respect and admiration along the way.  He did it 
unobtrusively and almost reluctantly, but I knew that it meant a 
lot to him for others to regard him in those ways.

On camera, though, I see now how he just exudes an air of 
intelligence and depth, of compassion and understanding.  From 
the way that he carefully told Ms. Gutierez that we'd catch the 
"claw monster" to the way that he gentle but firmly probed 
Chantara into giving us information about her boyfriend, who we 
thought was perpetrating the crimes, it was obvious how dedicated 
he was not only to finding his proof of the paranormal, but to 
protecting and comforting the people that he met.  The camera was 
immediately drawn to that tone of balanced authority, showing the 
world that someone cares for their safety and well-being.

He could be so passionate and determined, but he could be so 
gentle and tender, too.  When he imposes his looming figure on 
Chantara, not to intimidate her, but to make her feel safe and 
secure, I'm reminded of the countless times that he did that to 
me: corner me in his office when it was clear that I was having a 
bad day.  He'd lower his voice and lightly touch my shoulder, 
asking in just the right way what was wrong so that I would tell 
him.  Then, he'd reassure me, he'd help me, he'd be there.

He always said that I was the strongest person he knew, but he 
never realized the strength within himself that I drew on time 
after time.

The woman on the screen beside him and I only have two things in 
common, our first name and our love and devotion for Mulder.  She 
seems to be a world away from the fragile, weak woman I've become 
and I wonder what he would think of me now, if he would still see 
me as the strongest person he knows.  I can't even remember a 
time when I felt like that woman on the screen; I wonder if he 
would even recognize me.

Why aren't you here now, Mulder, when I need you the most?

<><><><><><>

The sun is so bright, the sand is so warm.  The ocean is a 
perfect clear blue, the sound of it crashing onto the beach 
comforting.  There's a little boy with dark hair, maybe eight, 
and a little girl with slightly wavy red hair, maybe five.  
They're building a sand castle, but it's huge - they couldn't be 
doing this alone.  And where are their parents?  Kids this young 
shouldn't be out here all alone.

I see a man, then, tall with the same dark hair as the boy, 
walking towards them from the ocean with a large bucket.  When he 
gets to the kids, he dumps the bucket, full of sand, into the 
center of the construction and starts helping the kids fortify 
the outer walls.  He looks up, smiles, and says brightly, "C'mon, 
Scully, you're missing all the fun."

Go to him, I tell myself.  He's calling you, go to him.  But I 
don't listen, I just stand there, watching them, so happy and 
innocent.

Mulder keeps staring at me, then rises to his feet and dusts the 
wet sand off of his jeans.  He walks right up to me, so that 
we're almost nose to nose before turning and standing beside me, 
watching the kids with me.  "You were a cute kid," he says 
softly, leaning into to speak over the waves.

"That's me?"  I ask him, finally looking into his bottomless 
green eyes.

"Yep, and that boy is me."

Instead of working on two separate sections of the castle and 
meeting in the middle, the kids are working side by side, helping 
each other complete the most minute of tasks before moving on.

"We work well together, don't we?" he asks, seeming proud and so 
happy.

I just nod.

"We always did, Scully."

I look at him again, wondering why he's speaking in the past 
tense.

"You gonna come help us out, now?  We can't finish without you."

Yes, I want to scream.  I want to run to him, to the kids, to the 
castle and help them.  I'll do whatever he wants.

I just stand there, not speaking, until he hangs his head and 
sighs, scuffing one bare foot in the sand.  "What happened to 
you, Scully?" he asks sadly, not waiting for an answer before he 
ambles back towards the kids, kneeling to help them again.

Despite his bigger hands, he's building much slower than they 
are.  After a few minutes, he sits back on his heels and wipes 
his hands on his thighs, looking defeated.  He looks at me again, 
then says something I can't hear to the kids, who turn their 
little heads and look at me sadly.  Mulder stands, then, and 
walks towards the ocean, never looking back.

<><><><><><>

"Dana?"  A stern voice asks, shaking my shoulder harder than 
necessary.

I bite back my "M," changing it instead to an "E".  "Ethan?"  I 
ask, still half asleep.

"Yeah, wake up."

I open my eyes slowly, adjusting easily to the dimness of the 
living room, pale pink and orange pieces of sunrise coming in 
through the blinds behind the couch.  "What?"

He sits beside me, then runs his fingers through his still-damp 
hair.  "We need to talk," he says softly, tucking the blanket 
around my shoulders and brushing a piece of hair off of my 
forehead.

I blink at him, wanting him to go first so that I know what we 
need to talk about.

"I'm worried about you," he says slowly, seeming nervous.

"Why?"

"Because...you're not eating.  All you ever want to do is sleep.  
You have these dreams.  Little things seem to scare you.  You cry 
all the time."

I just nod.

"Dana, are you happy?" he finally asks in exasperation.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, wondering how long I can 
put this off.  "Yes," I say after a few seconds, trying to inject 
some vehemence into my voice.

"Really?"  He brushes another piece of hair away from my face, 
cupping my hollow cheek in his palm, stroking just under my eye 
with his thumb.

"Yes,"  I say again.

"You don't act like it."

"I just...this isn't how I thought it would be."

He cocks his head, looking confused.  "What do you mean?"

"This...isn't how I thought it would be."  I know that I haven't 
explained it any better, but if I knew how, I would.

"So, you're not happy?"

"I didn't say that."  I sit up, pulling the blanket with me and 
sliding my fingers underneath his hand at my cheek, twining my 
fingers with his and pulling them down to my lap.

We just sit in silence, staring at each other for long minutes, 
before he slowly leans in a kisses me like he did before we were 
married, deep, reverently, lovingly.  He pulls back slightly and 
whispers against my lips, "I love you," before kissing me again 
the same way.

"I know that this...adjustment...has been hard for you, but I 
think it's getting better, don't you?"

"Yes," I answer him, knowing it's a lie and not caring.

"Promise me that you're still trying.  That you'll keep trying," 
he says.

"I promise."

He sits back, away from me.  "I'm sorry about what happened 
yesterday."

"Me, too."

"They were just being polite, trying to break the ice.  No one 
really cares if we have more kids."

"We can't, Ethan," I remind him, in case he's forgotten.

He nods.  "I know.  But they didn't have to know that."

"Are you ashamed?"

"No.  No, Dana, of course not."  He brings his hand back to my 
cheek, stroking again.  "Why would I be?"

"Because you want more children."

He takes a deep breath before answering.  "Yes, I do.  I did," he 
quickly corrects.

"But you knew.  I told you that I couldn't.  You knew that."

He nods again, one of those shut-up-and-let-me-finish nods.  "But 
I didn't know why."

"I told you!"  I raise my voice, desperate for him to understand.

"Was I actually supposed to believe that story?  About aliens 
taking all of your eggs?"

Not again.  "Ethan, it's the truth.  Why would I lie about that?"

He looks away from me, staring at the closed blinds instead.  
"Maybe because something happened.  Maybe that infection you had 
after the," he swallows, "abortion did something to you.  Maybe 
it," another swallow, "damaged something and that caused you to 
be unable to conceive."

I enunciate all of my words clearly and precisely, thinking that 
maybe that will help.  "No, Ethan, They -took- my ova.  They 
harvested them from me.  I remember...I remember Them doing these 
things to me."

"Okay," he strokes my cheek again, placating me.

"I do!"

"Okay, Dana."

Hot, frustrated tears start to spill out of my eyes and I 
savagely wipe them away.  Ethan helps, leaning in and tenderly 
sponging one away with his tongue, then trying a different 
tactic.  "How do you know that you're infertile?"

"Before I started my chemo -"

"Chemo?" he asks, his eyes going wide and his mouth dropping 
open.

That's right, I never told him.  "About four years ago, I was 
diagnosed with an inoperable tumor.  Cancer."

He closes his mouth and covers his face with his hands, nodding 
for me to continue.

"Before I started, my oncologist recommended that I have some of 
my ova harvested and cryogenically frozen so that if, in the 
future, I wanted to have children, I would have healthy, viable 
ova, but when I went to the gynecologist, she told me that she 
couldn't find any ova, that I was barren.  Later, Mulder and I 
learned that the other women that I was abducted with had all 
undergone treatments for infertility, that as part of the 
experiments They did on us, They left us infertile."

At the mention of Mulder's name, Ethan's face hardens and he 
shakes his head in something akin to disgust.  "Did you ever get 
a second opinion?" he asks.

"No.  I didn't see a reason to."  The gynecologist was 
trustworthy, the oncologist wasn't.

He nods again, then looks back at me.  "Well, it wouldn't hurt," 
he declares, standing and leaning over the couch to open the 
blinds, conversation apparently over.

"I don't want to, Ethan."

"Well, I do," he snaps, walking into the kitchen.

"It's my body, I make the decisions."

"And this is our future, Dana, mine and yours.  I have a say, 
too."

"No," I tell him firmly.  "Absolutely not.  I've been through 
this before, I know that I can't have children, and I will not go 
through that again."

I pivot my body on the couch so that I'm facing him again, his 
hands braced on the counter and his eyes closed.  "I don't have 
time to discuss this right now, we'll talk about it later," he 
finally says decisively, which means that he'll just wait for me 
to give into what he wants.  With a lingering, unsettling look at 
me, he picks up his jacket from the kitchen table and walks out 
the garage door, not bothering to kiss me goodbye.

<><><><><><>

There's a good reason that I'm sitting on the top step in the 
middle of the night aiming my gun at the darkness.  I heard a 
noise.  It could just be the house settling, or Mulder might say 
that it was a poltergeist, but it could be a serial killer or a 
kidnapper or a robber or Them.

Someone from the security company came out and checked the system 
the other day.  He claimed that, like a smoke detector, when the 
battery back-up was low, the system would send an alarm system to 
the monitoring station letting them know.  He replaced the 
battery and asked if I had any questions.  No, I told him, but 
thank you.

I don't trust this thing.  It can be bypassed with special codes, 
the wires can be rerouted or simply cut, the sensors can be 
disabled.  A much more suitable means of home protection is a 
dependable weapon and the knowledge of how to use it.

And that's why I'm sitting on the top step in the middle of the 
night aiming my gun at the darkness.

After another hour of my vigil, Ethan realizes that his little 
furnace isn't in bed with him and comes looking for me.  Catching 
me by surprise, I turn around, stand, and aim my gun at him in 
one fluid motion, only feeling slightly dizzy, which is an 
improvement.

"Dana, what the hell are you doing?"  He whispers in a loud, 
slightly fearful voice.

I drop my arm, the gun brushing my leg.  "I heard a noise and 
came to see what it was," I explain, struggling to get control 
over my breathing again.

"Where did you get that thing?"

"This?"  I ask, holding the gun up as the example.

"Yes, that."

"I bought it.  We need some sort of weapon in this house."

"For what?"  He asks incredulously.

"For protection."

"We have the alarm -"

"Which isn't very effective," I interrupt.

He puts his hands on his hips and shifts his weight to one foot, 
saying sternly, "I don't want that thing in my house.  What if 
Emma found it?"

"She won't.  I keep it hidden and it has a safety."

He shakes his head, not satisfied.  "No, Dana, I want that thing 
out of my house first thing tomorrow.  We don't need something 
like that, it's ridiculous."

"How ridiculous will is be when someone is slitting your throat 
as you sleep?"  I ask, feeling a twinge of my old self, that 
woman with Mulder on COPS reappear.  No one takes Agent Scully's 
gun away from her.

"No arguments.  That thing has to go," he says, turning back 
towards the bedroom.

I glance down at the gun, limply hanging between my fingers.  "I 
won't stay in this house without one.  So if it goes, I go."

I keep my chin up high in defiance, hoping that Ethan sees the 
seriousness of the situation and issue.

"Dana..." he sighs.  "This is getting worse.  Maybe you should 
talk to someone."

"I talk to Emma all the time."

"Someone other than Emma," he says, beginning to get angry.  
"Maybe Father Michaels."

"Why?"

"You just seem so...depressed lately.  Maybe it would be good for 
you to just talk to him"

"What can a Priest do?"  I ask him mockingly.

He seethes, not knowing what to say to that.  "No gun, Dana," he 
finally spits.

"Then maybe I should go," I say quietly, my voice faltering 
slightly.

"What?"

"Maybe I should go."

"Like, a vacation," he states warily.  I nod.  "By yourself?  
Where would you go?"  

"Maybe to visit my mother."

"Do you think that would help you?"

I take a deep breath, pretending to think about this in great 
detail.  "Yeah, I do," I add some reluctance to my voice for good 
measure.

"Good.  You can call her tomorrow and fly up as soon as you're 
ready."

"Okay."

"Okay," he echoes.  "Let's go back to bed."

I nod and follow him back into the bedroom, him watching me 
warily as I click the safety of the gun on and put it in the 
drawer, closing it and sliding closer to him.

<><><><><><>

First thing the next morning, I called my mother and asked if I 
could come visit.  She was enthralled, of course, gushing about 
how much she missed me and how excited she was.  I have to admit 
that I'm a little excited, too.  I haven't seen my mother since 
the Thanksgiving, when she came down to have dinner with us and 
Ethan's parents.  With Bill out to sea and Chaz off doing 
whatever it is he's doing these days, we've gotten used to 
unquestionably spending the holidays together.

As we were about to sit down to dinner that day, she asked about 
Mulder, if I knew what he was doing for the holiday.  Despite her 
misgivings about him, she always invited him to our family 
gatherings, not wanting him to be alone.  I think that in a way, 
she pitied Mulder and his fractured family life, his ultimate 
aloneness, even while his mother was still living.  When we were 
kids, Mom was always a sort of second mother to all of our 
friends, even though, most of the time, she admitted that she 
didn't like them or us being with them.  She thought that she 
could save them, mold them so that they were just like her own 
perfect children, and I think she felt the same about Mulder.  

The first year that we worked together, I shyly invited him to 
our Thanksgiving Dinner, not sure of the proper etiquette of 
partnerly relations.  He seemed bewildered, shocked that I had 
chosen to spend time with him outside of work, in a private, 
casual setting, but declined, saying that he planned to work that 
day.  Every holiday after that, though, I eagerly relayed the 
invitations to him, even begged him a couple of times, but he 
always declined, afraid of Bill and of intruding into my private 
life.

Yeah, he's so far removed from my private life.

I would always save food for him though, my mother packing her 
Tupperware containers full so that he wouldn't go hungry in the 
event of nuclear war.  I could tell that it made him glad that 
someone bestowed such a small gesture on him.  It let him know 
that someone other than me cared for him, even if it was my 
mother's self-satisfying gesture.

I answered her question honestly, telling her that I hadn't 
spoken to him in months and that I had no idea what he was doing.

"This is his first Thanksgiving without his mother," she'd said 
sadly.  I'd pushed my food around on my plate at dinner, wanting 
to call him, wondering what he was doing, if he was missing me, 
if he was lonely, but I didn't.  I had guests to entertain and, 
if he wanted, he could've called me.

This Christmas was harder because Bill was back on shore and, by 
default, our family gathering was to be held in San Diego, where 
he was still stationed.  Mom called and asked when I would be 
able to leave and when I asked Ethan, he said that he wanted to 
spend our first Christmas as a family together, at home, and 
didn't think it would be practical for me to fly out there.  We 
had an argument about it, but, in the end, I gave in, agreeing to 
stay in Atlanta.  I was devastated, though - it was my first 
Christmas away from my Mommy and I missed her terribly.

It was also Mulder's first Christmas without his mother and, 
thought she wasn't the celebration-type, I knew how lonely and 
depressed he got when I went to my mother's and he stayed home in 
that tiny, dark apartment.  If I had gotten to go to Baltimore, 
if only to help my mother with all of her packages and luggage 
before our flight to California, I would've made a point to go 
and visit Mulder while I was there, just to let him know that I 
was thinking about him.  I still called him, though, and hung up 
after his voice but before the beep.  He knew it was me and he 
didn't answer.

In the back of my mind, I have the same plan now, to drive down 
to Alexandria one day and visit Mulder.  Even if he doesn't want 
to see me or talk to me, I still want to see him and talk to him.  
I can't forget about him as easily as he forgot about me.

I'm leaving on Friday, seven thirty in the morning.  Ethan said 
he could drop me at the airport on his way to work.  I absolutely 
can't wait.

<><><>End Part 1<><><>

<><><>Begin Part 2<><><>

"Put that away, Dana Katherine.  This is my treat," she says 
firmly, her smile betraying her scolding tone.

"Mom, we agreed -"

"I don't want to hear it.  It's been such a long time since we've 
done this, I owe it to you."

"You don't owe me anything."

"You came to visit me.  The least I can do is pay for your 
dinner."

We'd spent the day doing mom-and-daughter things - shopping, out 
to lunch, ice cream, dinner.  Ever since my rib-bruising hug in 
her driveway, I've been inseparable from her.  Maybe it's being 
away from Ethan or maybe it's just the change in scenery, but I 
feel better than I have in a long, long time.  I'm smiling and 
having fun, enjoying being with my mother.  I slide my credit 
card back into its place inside my purse and playfully scowl at 
her.  "I'll get you back," I warn.

She rolls her eyes and hands the cash to the waiter.  "I'm just 
happy to see you eating, so if you want to pay for the next meal, 
that's fine."

I look down at the shiny wooden table and pick at a chipped place 
in the varnish with my finger nail.  "I'm eating, Mom."

"How often?"

Looking up at her, I suppress the urge to groan.  "Everyday," I 
finally tell her, which is usually a lie.

"You don't look like it.  How much do you weigh?"

"Mom!"

"Dana, I'm worried about you.  You look sick."  Remembered pain 
flashes through her eyes at her words and their possible 
implications.  She leans over the table to speak softly to me.  
"You're not, are you?  You would tell me?"

"I'm fine.  I'm not sick, Mom.  I'm fine."

She sits back and exhales a long, tired breath.  "You're pale, 
too, and you've got those dark circles under your eyes."

I look down again, more varnish flaking away over my nail.

"Dana?"

"What?"  I ask the table quietly.

"Is everything okay?  At home?  With Ethan?"

"Fine."

The waiter returns with her change and she tucks a few dollars 
beside her water glass, sits back, crosses her arms, and waits 
for me to elaborate.  "You're sure?" she asks when I don't 
elaborate.

I nod and take a deep breath.

Clearly annoyed, she changes the subject in hopes of prying more 
honest information out of me.  "Well, how long are you planning 
on staying?"

"I don't know," I say, shrugging.  "'Til you kick me out, I 
guess."  I smile at the comment, but when she doesn't return the 
teasing gesture, just sits with her eyes boring into mine, my 
face falls and I fold my hands in my lap, admitting defeat.

"You said on the phone that you wanted to come as soon as 
possible.  Are you sure there's nothing going on with Ethan?"

I frown slightly, rectifying that mistake immediately.  
"It's...it's been hard to get used to...being a wife and a 
mother."

She nods.  "It's a big change to make so quickly."

"He hasn't really been very," I pause, looking for the right 
word, "supportive of me."

"What do you mean?"

"He just...he's so demanding.  Inflexible.  I feel like nothing I 
ever do is right, like I'm failing at everything and he's not 
helping me."

"Did he say that?" she asks in a sickening tone of sweetness and 
understanding.

"No," I whisper.

"I'm sure Ethan is having a hard time adjust to it, too.  You've 
been away from each other for so long and now you're living with 
each other again.  You've both changed, you just have to learn 
each other again."

I nod again, fingering the straw in my drink for something to 
distract myself with.  "Sometimes I think it was a mistake to get 
married so fast.  I think...I think that I felt like I had to do 
it right then or I'd talk myself out of it.  Like it was now or 
never."

"Do you really believe that, Dana?"

I clench my jaw tightly.  "I don't know."

"It just takes time," she reminds me and I nod, ready for this 
conversation to be over.

While we're back in the car, driving towards her house, I look up 
at the black sky, wishing that the lights of the city weren't 
quite so bright and that I could see the stars.

"So, what would you like to do tomorrow?" she asks at a red 
light, startling me out of my reverie.

I start to speak, then bite my tongue against it.  I refold my 
hands in my lap, then decide to say it anyway.  "I want to go see 
Mulder."

She turns her head and blinks at me, not saying anything.

"I found something of his the other day.  I need to return it to 
him."

Her mouth pops open as she gapes.  "What?" she eventually manages 
to say in disbelief, not wondering what I found. 

"It's a credit card.  He signed the back of it, so anyone could 
use it if they found it.  He may be worried about that, so I need 
to give it back to him."  The other day, I had gone to a new 
Super Target that had been built a couple of miles from the 
house.  After spending nearly an hour just browsing around the 
store, I'd collected fifty dollars worth of stuff - mostly for 
Ethan and Emma.  Having already spent my monthly allowance of 
cash from Ethan, I'd searched for a credit card, accidentally 
handing the cashier Mulder's.  When she asked to see my ID and 
discovered that I was not Fox W. Mulder, I felt my face get hot 
and immediately snatched it away from her, tucking it safely back 
in my purse and handing her another one, hopefully with my name 
on it.

On the way home, I'd thought about how I'd acquired such an odd 
piece of him.  At first, I couldn't remember it, but after 
racking my brain for the rest of the day, I'd finally recalled 
the story laying in bed that night, half-heartedly waiting for 
Ethan.  It was a Thursday, he'd want to have sex.

Mulder and I were at a Mexican restaurant on a Saturday night 
after spending the day doing mountains of paper work at his 
apartment.  I'd ordered us a pitcher of Peach Sangria and we 
shared it.  When his fajitas arrived, he unquestionably slid his 
plate towards me, waiting until I'd scrapped his sour cream onto 
mine, gathering my guacamole onto his fork, before sliding it 
back across the table.  When the check had come, he'd grabbed it 
and had his credit card out before I could even react.

"Mulder, you don't have to buy me dinner.  This isn't a date, now 
gimme that ticket!"

"No, Scully, consider it a gift for that lull between your 
birthday and Christmas," he'd say, handing the check and card to 
the poor, confused waiter.

"He always does this to me!"  I told the boy, whipping out my own 
card and holding it out towards him.  "You give me that," I said, 
taking Mulder's card from him, "and take this one instead."

The boy hurried away before Mulder and I could get into a real 
argument and Mulder stared at me, unbelieving.  "Give me that 
back," he said in a trying to be serious but failing tone.

"No.  Knowing you, you'd go find him and trade again."

Somehow, when the waiter returned, I forgot to give my ransom 
back to Mulder and accidentally put it in my purse with my card.  
He'd never asked for it back, probably forgetting about it, too.

When I'd found it, though, I'd almost leap for joy.  I have a 
connection to him, now, a reason to see him again.  I'm still 
bound to him.  But if I give it back, I'll break that tie and 
never have an excuse to see him again.  Selfishly, I'd thought of 
just keeping it, just going to see him without a tangible reason, 
but he could need his card.  I know that he has more than one, 
but he could need this one for some reason.  I can't keep it from 
him, even if it meant giving up another stowaway piece of him.

"You could mail it to him," my mother says flatly.

"No.  It could get lost or intercepted."

"Then put it in an envelope and slide it under his door while 
he's at work."

"He might not see it or he might throw it away -"

"Dana," she starts, easing her foot onto the gas as the cars 
start to move again.  "You shouldn't give it to him in person."

"Why not?"

"Because...that wouldn't be a good idea."

Now it's my turn to gape.  "Why?"

She makes a sound in her throat between an angry growl and a 
disappointed sniffle.  "Have you even talked to him recently?"

"No.  He hasn't been answering my phone calls or emails, but I 
sent him a card for his birthday and at Christmas."  And I'd 
signed both of them "Scully," even though that wasn't my name 
anymore.

"You've called him?"  She shouts, echoing in the small car.

"Yes.  Why wouldn't I?"  She shoots me a look that says she 
honestly doesn't know.  "He's still my best friend, Mom, I can't 
just cut him out of my life."  Like he did to me, I don't add.

She shakes her head.  "And what does Ethan think of all this?"

"He doesn't know."

"You're hiding it from him?"

"No, I didn't say that.  He never asks and I never tell him."  I 
make the calls on my cell phone, since they're long distance, and 
I pay the bill.  He has no reason to know.

She just keeps shaking her head, not saying anything else until 
we're back at her house, when I'm climbing the stairs to get 
ready for bed.  Earlier today, we'd rented some movies, 
anticipating staying up late and watching them together.  "Is 
that the reason that you're here, Dana?"  She asks my back.  "To 
see Mulder?"

"No," I respond, my voice only wavering slightly.  "No, I wanted 
to see you.  I've missed you.  But while I'm here..."

She nods and reaches out for me, drawing me to her in another 
tight hug.  "Just to give him his credit card?"

"Yes," I whisper, nodding against her and squeezing a little 
tighter.

"I know that you miss him, but you have to be careful now."

I pull back slightly.  "What do you mean?"

She puts her hands on my shoulders, straightening my shirt and 
not looking at my eyes.  "Things have changed between you.  You 
just need to remember that."  Smiling slightly, she steps back, 
dropping her hands.  "I know we've had a long day and you look 
tired.  Why don't we just go to bed?"

I nod, confused but exhausted.  And maybe a little depressed.

In my room a few minutes later, I sit on the bed and debate 
whether or not I should call Ethan.  He's probably not home from 
work yet, though.  I'll call him tomorrow.

Before I go see Mulder.  I'll call him tomorrow and tell him I 
love him before I go see Mulder.

I lay down, pulling the covers tightly around me.  I doubt I'll 
be able to sleep at all tonight.

"Morning.  I was wondering if you were going to sleep all day."

I smile tightly, rub my eyes with the heels of my hands, and 
glance at the clock.  Technically, Mother, it's afternoon, but 
I'll let that slide for now.  "I didn't fall asleep until after 
two."

"I thought you were exhausted," she says, handing me a hot cup of 
coffee.

"I was, but I just couldn't turn my mind off."  The warmth of the 
coffee floods my system, its unaccustomed sweetness making my 
jaws ache for a moment.  She put sugar in it.  She knows I don't 
like sugar in my coffee.

"Ethan called about an hour ago.  He said you didn't call him 
when you got here."

I collapse, already tired, into one of the chairs at the kitchen 
table, pushing the mug away from me slightly.  "No, I didn't," I 
say softly, then add when she looks at me strangely, "I didn't 
have time."

"And you didn't call him last night?"

"No."

She sighs and joins me at the table, bringing her own sickeningly 
sweet coffee with her.  "That's not like you, Dana.  You know 
that he worries about you."

"I'm fine."

"Well, I told him I'd have you call him when you woke up.  He was 
surprised you were still sleeping."

I start to tell her that he knows I always sleep this late, but 
decide against it.  Actually, he doesn't know.  He has no idea 
when I get up or when I go to bed, since he's never around to see 
it.

"Do you want some breakfast?" she asks, standing and walking to 
the counter, opening a random cabinet.

"No, it's almost one."

"Lunch, then?"

I stand and extend my arms over my head, reaching for the ceiling 
and coming several inches too short.  "No.  I'll get something on 
the way," I tell her, even though I know that I won't.

She closes the cabinet and decides to inspect the refrigerator 
instead.  "On the way where?"

I cock my head at her - I told her this last night.  "To 
Mulder's."

She slams the door closed and turns to me, eyes squinting and 
angry.  "You're still going?  I thought we discussed this, Dana."

"We did, kind of.  You told me you didn't want me to go, then we 
went to bed."

"And?"

"And, what?"

"Dana, give me the credit card.  I'll return it to him, if you're 
that worried about it."

"No," I tell her, picking up my mug and walking to the sink, 
pouring it out and send water chasing after it.  "I want to give 
it to him."

"You want to see him.  The credit card is just a convenient 
excuse, isn't it?"

I turn to her, hands on my hips.  "No.  I mean I want to see him, 
too, but I don't need an excuse to see my best friend."

She matches my posture, hands on hips and head cocked.  "And how 
long are you expecting this visit to last?" she asks in a 
placating tone of idiocy.

I take a deep breath, thinking.  All I have to do is knock, then 
hand him the card when he opens the door, explaining why I have 
it.  We exchange perfunctory "how are yous" and "fines," then 
it's over.  Two minutes, tops.

Of course, it's pretty ridiculous to drive an hour to Alexandria 
for a two minute conversation, but that's not all I'm hoping for.  
With any luck, right as I'm about to turn away, he'll apologize 
for being so rude and hateful towards me the last time we talked 
and invite me in for a few minutes.  I'll ask him if he got his 
birthday card and he'll say yes, thank you.  We'll talk for a few 
more minutes, catch up on what's been happening in our lives, 
then he'll walk me to the door, both of us promising to call the 
other and keep in touch.  We'll just be best friends again, 
without all of the complicated emotions and tangled, exaggerated 
feelings.

"I don't know," I finally answer her, then turn to walk out of 
the kitchen and up the stairs.

"Dana," she calls after me, standing at the bottom of the stairs, 
staring after me, like when I was seventeen and she told me to 
march upstairs and change, that no daughter of hers was going 
outside dressed like that.  "Don't forget to call Ethan," she 
says softly, then turns and walks away.

My jeans are all too big, but everything I own is too big.  
Yesterday, while we were shopping, I'd bought a new pair, a size 
zero.  They're too big too, but they look better than my size 
twos.

I add a long sleeved, button up, thin blue sweater, the one I 
think I wore on our practice date.  It's a little chilly outside, 
so I'll be warm without a jacket, and it was a little too small 
the last time I wore it, so it fits perfectly now.

Next is make-up, just mascara and a little neutral lip stick.  I 
blow dry my hair, more than I've done to it in months, so that 
it's got a little body to it, and comb it straight, not tucking 
it behind my ears.  When I look in the mirror, I look younger 
than I remember.  I look happy and carefree, very much like that 
women that used to dress in suits and go to work at the FBI, 
instead of lying around in pajamas everyday.

"Okay, I'm leaving now," I tell my mother when I amble back 
downstairs.  She's just sitting at the kitchen table, fingering 
that same mug of coffee, staring straight ahead.  "I'll call you 
before I leave so that you'll know what time to expect me."

She doesn't respond, doesn't even look at me, so I walk to her, 
bending down and kissing her cheek lightly.  "Bye, Mom."

No response.  Okay, she can play the silent game, I don't care.  
I'm not a child anymore and she can't tell me what to do and what 
not to do.  She can try and guilt me into doing things her way, 
but I'm not going to let it work this time.  Not about this.

I grab my purse and car keys on the way out, opening the door and 
not looking back.

It feels weird to be in such a small car after driving that 
Suburban for six months, but I prefer this car to that tank.  
It's more personal, more comfortable.  It's a Taurus - Lariat, of 
course - though I prefer to not think about why I picked this car 
out of all the others they had.

As I pull onto the freeway, it crosses my mind that I forgot to 
call Ethan.  My cell phone is in my purse, so I could call him 
now, though I don't like to talk and drive at the same time.  
He's at work now anyway, he'd be too busy to talk to me.  
Besides, Mom told him I was here and safe.  What else does he 
need?

During the drive, I practice what I'm going to say to Mulder.  I 
know he'll be there - it's a Saturday and, unless he's out of 
town on a case, the only things he'll be doing is laundry and 
brooding.  Knock three times, not too loudly, not too softly.  
Hear his footsteps crossing the foyer, then the locks clicking 
and the door opening, revealing my glorious partner in all of his 
tight blue jeans and gray T-shirt glory.  He'll give me on of 
those brilliant little boy smiles when he sees me and I'll give 
him one to match.  Maybe we'll even hug, being so overcome with 
emotion.  "I've missed you," I'll tell him in a soft voice.  
He'll repeat it to me and close the door, locking it after us.

Then what?  So, how's the BSU?  Unearthed any shattering 
government conspiracies with the Gunmen yet?  Read any good books 
lately?

"Fine, no, and no, Scully.  How's married life?  Are you as happy 
as you thought you'd be, or have you come here to beg me to take 
you back?"

"I hate it.  Please take me back, Mulder.  I'm sorry, I'm so, so 
sorry.  I love you.  Please take me back."

No, wait, that's not how it will go.  Not if I can help it.

"Married life is wonderful, Mulder.  Emma likes me now, though 
she seems to get annoyed with me sometimes and tends to use the 
fact that I'll do anything she wants against me.  Ethan wants to 
start having children and doesn't believe that I'm infertile.  I 
cry myself to sleep every night.  Everything's fine, Mulder.  I'm 
just as happy, no, happier than I ever thought I could be."

Yeah, he'll believe that.  Just like he'll believe that I flew an 
hour, then drove another hour, just to give him a stupid piece of 
plastic.

Or maybe he'll open the door and frown at me, or scowl, and ask 
why I'm here.  "I came to give you this," I'll say, cowering away 
from his anger.

"I don't want it, whatever it is.  Get out of my life, Scully, 
leave me the hell alone.  I don't ever want to see you again.  I 
hate you.  I always have.  Now, go."

"But Mulder, I missed you, I l-"

"You think I care about you anymore?  I don't give a damn about 
you.  I never did.  Go away."  Then he'll slam the door in my 
tear stained face.

That's more likely.

By the time I get to his building, my heart is pounding, my 
stomach is rolling, and I feel like I can't breath.  I can't ever 
remember being as nervous as I am right now, except maybe when I 
was standing at the alter in my fake virgin outfit, waiting for 
him to burst through the heavy, wooden doors of the church and 
take me away from Ethan, take me back with him.  The blinds on 
the windows above his desk are open, but no light looks to be on 
inside.  Scanning the parking lot, I don't immediately see his 
car, but he could've parked it somewhere else or gotten a new 
car.  Or maybe he is out of town.  Maybe I should have called 
first.

No, ninety percent of an agent's work is done at a desk: paper 
work.  It's highly unlikely that he'd be out of town.  

Maybe he's out someplace else then?  With the Gunmen, or with 
someone else?  A woman.

No, this is Mulder.  He's here.  He just likes the dark.

When I pull the keys out of the ignition, my hand is shaking 
violently.  I fold them in my lap, telling myself to take deep 
breaths and to calm down.  This is Mulder.  This is my best 
friend.

I finally talk myself into getting out of the car, then quickly 
walk to the building and summon the elevator.  The old machinery 
moans as it makes its way down from an upper floor, taking its 
own sweet time and increasing my nervousness in the process.  
Maybe this is another one of those signs that God keeps sending 
me.  Leave now, Dana.  Get back in your car and drive away.  
Leave the credit card with the manager and he'll never have to 
know you were here.

The ding makes me jump, the doors sliding open and a young couple 
with a tiny baby emerge.  They smile at me as they walk past me, 
though I don't recognize them.  They must be new here.

I step into the elevator, pressing the "4" button and exhaling 
when the doors close.  It moans again as it comes to life and I 
open my purse to drop my keys inside, but hesitate when something 
on my left hand catches my eye.  My ring and wedding band, 
snuggled happily against my knuckle.  The sight of them makes my 
stomach turn over again and I wonder if I should take them off so 
that Mulder doesn't see them.

No, that's ridiculous.  He knew I was getting married, he's 
expecting it.  If he sees them, he'll think everything is fine 
and that I really did just come here to give him this fucking 
credit card.

In record time, the elevator lands at the forth floor, sighing as 
it opens the doors for me.  I hesitate, then step out and into 
the long, dark, foreboding hallway, remembering how many times 
I've walked this exact same path before.  It was so easy then, 
when things were so simple.  I long for those days again.

My feet seem to make entirely too much noise on the hardwood 
floors as I slowly walk towards his door.  He has to hear me 
coming, I think, if he can hear over the thudding of my heart.

You can still leave, Dana.  Just turn around and get back in the 
elevator.  He never has to know.

By the time I reach his door, my knees are shaking and I feel 
slightly dizzy.  I take a deep breath, raise my hand and tuck my 
fingers under in a fist, then drop it to my side again, unfolding 
my fingers and wiping my sweaty palm on my jeans.  I take another 
deep breath, raise my hand again, and knock twice, so softly that 
I don't think he could've heard it even if he's here.

There's no light underneath the door, either, not even the 
flickering, bluish light from the TV - maybe he really isn't 
here.  I could just slide the card under the door, like Mom 
suggested, and he'd never have to know I was here.

I shift my feet, nervousness abating slightly.  He's not here.  I 
don't hear his feet as they cross the floor to let me in.  He's 
really not here.  Good.

So, why do I feel like crying?

Before I can start to do so, I open my purse and fish around in 
it, trying to find his credit card in the myriad of shit I have 
in here.  Metal rattles and clinks as it hits my rings, grating 
on my nerves.  Where is that goddamn thing?

I sigh in frustration and stamp my foot, feeling a tremor of 
weakness shoot through my body.  He's really not here.  After all 
of that preparation and nervousness and arguing with my Mom, he's 
really not here.

He used to always be here when I needed him.

I'll just slip the card under the door - he'll notice it.  Maybe 
put a note with it, "Sorry I missed you.  Scully."  No, Minette.  
No, Dana.  No, Scully.

Instead of grasping the credit card, I find my keys instead, four 
of them all on a single, tiny ring.  One for the Suburban, one 
for my rented Taurus, one for the house, one for Mulder's 
apartment, all on my Apollo XI key chain.  I never gave his key 
back to him, never had the opportunity.  I could just let myself 
in, as I had done a hundred times before, and leave the card on 
the table with a note.

But would he be angry with me for invading his privacy like that?  
No, when he gave me this key seven years ago, he'd said it was 
"just in case, you never know," not specifically just for 
emergencies.  Of course, I'm sure this scenario never crossed his 
mind at the time.  The only times I had used it was in 
emergencies or when I was worried about him: when he wasn't 
answering his phones and I didn't know where he was.  He had 
never questioned my using it and had never put any additional 
boundaries on it.

What if he is in there?  Lying in bed or on the couch, not able 
to get to the door or reach a phone?  What if he's sick or 
unconscious or hurt?  What if he can't call for help, just hoping 
that someone will drop by out of worry?

But who else would have a key?  Just me, and he doesn't think I'd 
be coming.  He doesn't think I'll rescue him this time.

Hang on, Mulder, I'm coming.

I slide the key in the lock and turn it easily, the door creaking 
open as I put my weight on it and turn the knob.  I'd imagined 
this scene in my mind, too, what his apartment would look like 
now.  I was always nagging him to organize, dust, throw things 
away, and he would grin at me and do as I said, secretly waiting 
for me to nag him about something else.  Without me, the 
furniture would be covered in papers and folders and photos from 
his various cases, a layer of musty dust covering everything 
else.  Things would be strewn all over the floor, knocked there 
accidentally in one of his dazes, never picked up.  Would the 
fish tank be empty, Mulder having given up on keeping anything 
alive and healthy, even himself?

But I'm totally shocked when I finally take in my surroundings.  
The blinds are open, spilling sunny, golden light across the 
squeaky wooden floors.  On the desk, in neat piles, are the 
folders I'd imagined, packed full with horrific scenes and 
descriptions of the latest madman.  The coffee table is clear, 
the fish tank happily gurgling in the corner, its habitants 
furiously swimming in the clear water.  As I walk further into 
the apartment, I find that no dirty dishes are pilled in the 
sink, no two-week old pizza boxes sitting beside the garbage can.  
Everything is neat and clean, dishes nestled in their cabinets, 
trash taken out.  The fridge has Mulder's usual: leftover Chinese 
and a carton of orange juice that I'm hesitant to check the date 
on.

In the bedroom, his big bed is made with clean, crisp sheets.  
His clothes are hanging on their respective hangers or placed 
neatly in their drawers.  His running shoes are even tucked in 
the corner, out of the way.  His luggage sits on the floor of the 
closet, partially obscured by his jackets and shirts.  That means 
that he's here, in town.  Not out in the field.

So where is he?

Drained and slightly dizzy, I stagger over to the foot of the bed 
and collapse onto it, hiding my head in my heads and shaking, 
trying not to cry.  He's really not here.

Maybe he is out with the Gunmen.  Maybe he is at work.  Maybe he 
is at some random woman's house, folded safely in her arms.

No, Mulder's not like that.  At least, he wasn't.

I finally let myself cry: frustrated, alone, and bitter.  I was 
expecting to find a broken, needy, desperate man ready to fall at 
my feet and beg me to come back to him, but instead, it looks 
like I've found a stronger, more independent, self-reliant man.  
Someone who discovered that he doesn't really need me like he 
though he did, someone who discovered that he really doesn't love 
me like he thought he did.

Just as I suspected, everything was a lie.  How could I be so 
gullible?  And why does it hurt so much?

The dizziness starts again and, when I open my eyes and stare at 
the floor through the stinging film of tears over my eyes, the 
floor is spinning.  I'm shaking violently, painfully cold.  The 
force of the sobs make my diaphragm contract, making me dry heave 
until bile finally rises into my mouth and I quickly stand, 
stumbling, falling hard onto my knees and elbows.  Crying harder 
and moaning, I crawl in the bathroom and vomit into the toilet.  
I try to ignore the swirls of red in the white bowl when I flush 
it.

Mulder hates me.  He hates me.  He hates me.

Gray, sweating, and shaking, I hobble back into the bedroom, then 
use every ounce of energy I have left to pull the bed covers 
down.  Spying a renegade white undershirt tucked under one of his 
pillows I tug off my jeans and shirt, noting the redness and 
swelling at my knees and elbows.  Pulling his shirt out, I hold 
it to my face, relieved by the scent of him that clings to it.  I 
wearily pull it on, then fall into the tangle of sheets and 
pillows, falling into exhausted, fitful unconsciousness.

<><><><><><>

When I can open my sticky eyes again, I hear a beeping sound and 
it takes me a minute to figure out that it's from a microwave.  
There's a sweet, slightly spicy smell, and then a small plastic 
door opening, someone taking something out and closing the door, 
all the while trying to be quiet.

Mulder - he's all around me.  His smell, his feel, his 
everything.  It's everywhere.  I'm in Mulder's bed, wrapped in 
his sheets, my head buried in his pillow.  Mulder's here, too.  
He's in the kitchen, heating something up in the microwave - 
maybe that Chinese I saw in the fridge.  I wonder if he even 
knows that I'm here, laying in his bed, missing him, waiting for 
him.

My knees and elbows are sore, but I sit up, keeping the covers 
tucked tightly under my arms.  No, he has to know I'm here.  His 
clothes - work trousers, a white oxford shirt and a dully 
colorful tie are in a pile on the floor in front of his closet, 
like he was interrupted, surprised, unable to put them away after 
he'd taken them off.

Footsteps, then, squeaking across the floor and approaching the 
bedroom.  The partially closed door slowly swings open and he's 
there, in my favorite plaid pajama pants and gray T-shirt.  His 
hair is longer than it has been in years, his bangs falling on 
either side of his forehead and making him look like a little, 
lost boy.  His eyes are soft and round, his forehead creased, 
worried, and afraid, the day's beard stubble dotting his cheeks, 
making him look darker.

Not saying anything, just nervously licking that sumptuous lower 
lip, he walks in, trying to keep his footsteps light and silent.  
I rearrange the covers around my body, sitting up straighter and 
trying to remember my lines.

"Hey," he says when he reaches the foot of the bed, trailing his 
fingers lightly over the soft comforter and then sitting beside 
me, slightly out of reach.

I swallow and look down - dammit, I should've rehearsed more.

"You okay?" he asks in that "please talk to me, Scully," voice.

If I say I'm fine, like I would if he were anyone else, he would 
know that I was lying.  I can never lie to Mulder.  I look up at 
him, avoiding his eyes - those steady, steel gray eyes - then 
swallow and look down again, fisting the top sheet in my hand 
underneath the comforter.

"There was blood across the floor and in the bathroom.  Are you 
bleeding?"

I graze my fingertips over my elbows - yes, one of them was 
bleeding a little.  It's dried now and hurting like hell.  
"Sorry," comes out as barely a whisper to the covers.

"It's okay.  Are you all right?"

Nodding weakly, I touch my chin to my chest, unable to sink into 
the mattress and just disappear.

"Scully," he pauses, thinking, not remembering his lines either.  
I wonder if we have the same script.  Obviously not, as his next 
words weren't in my version.  "What are you doing here?"

I start to explain, but my voice won't work; it's sore and 
scratchy from sobbing like a wounded animal.  I clear my throat, 
then try again, sounding like a cackling witch.  "I came to give 
you something that I found the other day.  Your credit card, 
though I'm sure you've already canceled it."

The bed jiggles a little as he nods.  "Thank you," he says 
softly, even though he probably doubts that excuse.

I take a deep breath that hitches in my chest, more tears popping 
up in my eyes.  Brushing them away fiercely, I pull the covers 
tighter, shivering again.

"I think you have a fever, Scully.  You were burning up."

I look at him again, wondering how he knows that.

"You were so pale and the blood...plus it's not every day that I 
come home to find you asleep in my bed."  A slight smile then, 
that disappears too quickly.  "I heated up some rice for you, if 
you think you could eat."  When I don't answer immediately, just 
look down again, he says in a low, serious voice.  "You've lost a 
lot of weight.  Are you sure you're okay?"

Oh, God, what does he think?  The blood?  The weight loss?  The 
fever and weakness?

"It's not the cancer, Mulder."

He exhales heavily, relieved, and nods.

We sit in silence for a few moments, him staring at the top of my 
head, me staring at the design on the comforter.  "Scully?"

I don't look up, wiping away another hot tear.

"Scully," he says again, reaching out to touch my chin and tilt 
it up towards his face.

My lower lip quivers and quirks into a frown as more sobs make 
their way up through my chest.  Another breath hitches as Mulder 
scoots closer to me, sliding his arms around my back and pulling 
me towards him, not saying another word.  He pulls me closer as I 
press my face into his chest and let my last bit of self control 
dissolve as he holds me tighter.  I just clutch at the soft 
fabric of his T-shirt and he rocks me, his breath falling against 
my ear.

"Mulder..."  I mumble, unintelligible through my tears.  
"Mulder..."

Finally: Mulder.

<><><><><><>

Long moments later as I lay, spent, in his strong, supportive 
arms, I finally regain my powers of understandable speech.  
"Mulder," I whisper to him, not raising my head from its 
comfortable position right over his heart, "I missed you so 
much."

He stiffens, but doesn't loosen his death grip on my body, 
doesn't pull away.  After a long, slow breath, he answers me.  "I 
missed you too, Scully."  It's so faint, I could barely hear it.

"Then why don't you ever call me?  Why don't you answer your 
phone or the emails I sent you?"

"What am I supposed to say?" he asks carefully, louder, stronger 
than before.

"That you miss me -"

"Would it have done any good?"

I readjust my arms around his back, squeezing him tighter.  "What 
do you mean?"

"So what if I miss you?  It doesn't matter."

"It matters," I say into his T-shirt, breathing him in.

His chin rubs against my hair as he shakes his head, not 
answering me.  "You need to eat," he decides, changing the 
subject and pulling away.  I realize then that he had been 
silently crying with me, his eyes now red and puffy, his cheeks 
still wet and tear stained.  Not meeting my eyes, he stands and 
turns towards the door, not waiting for me to follow him.

When I finally manage to get out of bed, make the room stop 
spinning, and hobble out of the bedroom, he's sitting at the 
table in his foyer, just staring at his plate of congealed 
Chinese food with his arms crossed and his jaw set.  My bowl of 
rice is steaming on the table across from him, the chair pulled 
out and waiting for me.

I gingerly sit down in it, the bruising skin of my knees 
protesting and stretching as I do.  He doesn't acknowledge me 
except to stare at my elbow and the dried blood covering the 
small scrape there - he focuses on it, not taking his eyes away.  
The rice smells so good, as does his food, and I gratefully pick 
up my fork and start gorging myself.  The more I eat, the more 
hungry I get and, when I scrape the bottom of the bowl, he pushes 
his plate over to me, still not looking me in the eye.

The silence is tense, but I know that we need it to process 
seeing each other again, to catalogue the changes in the other.  
He hasn't changed at all, really, just a few more lines around 
his mouth and eyes.  He looks sadder, more forlorn, but he always 
did have that air about him.  I'd expected dramatic differences: 
weight loss, neglect of appearance and personal hygiene, but I 
don't see any of that in him.  All in all, it looks like he's 
handled all of this pretty well.

Amazed that I've eaten my dinner and his, I look at him and smile 
shyly, expecting him to make some sort of joke about cannibalism.  
He doesn't, though, just clenches his jaw again and stands, picks 
up the plate and bowl, then walks into the kitchen and sets them 
in the sink, running a little water over them.  When he's done, 
he walks to the doorway, braces his arms above him, and looks 
sharply at my elbow again.  "You really did it," he says in 
disbelief.

"What?"  I ask soundlessly.

"You really married him."

Suddenly, the rings on my finger seem entirely too heavy and cold 
for me.  I self-consciously put my right hand over my left, 
worrying my fingers around them, hiding them.  "Y-yes," I 
stutter, nervous.

He shakes his head and walks around the table and into the living 
room, picks up a folder from his desk, then sits on the couch, 
opening it and spreading its contents over the coffee table.  
Bowing his head, he picks up a yellow legal pad amidst the other 
papers and begins scratching away at it, glancing at the photos 
occasionally.

After watching him for a few minutes, I walk towards him, my 
knees still shaking and my stomach starting to roll and complain.  
"Mulder?"  I ask him softly, wondering what he's doing.

"I have work to do Scully, or whatever your name is now.  I don't 
have time for Social Hour," he says, not raising his head or 
halting his pen.

Taken aback, I gape at him, not knowing what to say to that.  
"Mulder -"

"If you want to disinfect your elbow, there's some stuff in the 
bathroom.  I'm sure you know what to do with it."

I close my mouth and squint my eyes at him, wondering who this 
person is and what he's done with my infinitely sweet, caring, 
tender, compassionate best friend.  My elbow is throbbing and 
does need to be cleaned and bandaged, so I retreat to the 
bathroom to do so and maybe take a peak at my script.  I'd 
prepared for repentantsadweepyneedy Mulder and 
angrybittercolddistant Mulder, not for 
completelyindifferentastowhyyou'rehere Mulder, and I've always 
been bad at improv.

My stomach keeps threatening to send the food back and, as soon 
as I get the bandage secured on my elbow, it makes good on those 
threats.  I can barely manage to lift the toilet lid before I'm 
heaving and retching again, shaking, gray, and sweaty.

"Oh, Scully," I hear behind me, then water running in the sink as 
Mulder soaks a wash cloth with cold water and places it on the 
back of my neck, holding my hair back with his cool fingers.

The retching slows and I sit back on my heels, the heaves making 
my chest shutter and burn so painfully.  "Are you all right?"  He 
asks me and I nod, pulling the wash cloth from my neck to my 
mouth, wiping away the vomit.  "You sure?" he says softly right 
above my ear in that tone that makes me feel like I'm the only 
person in the world.

I nod again and try to stand but fail, collapsing to the ground 
again, frustrated tears starting to cloud my eyes.  "Here," he 
says, sliding one arm behind my shoulders and the other 
underneath my knees, lifting me effortlessly.  I nuzzle my face 
into his neck, feeling his throat vibrate as he speaks again.  
"Jesus, Scully, how much do you weigh now?"

He sets me down on the bed and pulls the covers over me, tucking 
them tightly beneath my chin and pushing my sweat-dampened hair 
behind my ears.  His fingers linger on my forehead and he frowns.  
"I think you still have a fever," he says softly, his eye growing 
larger and more compassionate.

I shake my head.  "I'm okay," I tell him weakly.  "It was just 
the food."

"It wasn't even two weeks old yet."  He grins slightly, then 
seems to catch himself as his mouth falls back into its default 
frown.

"I haven't eaten that much in a while," I explain.

"You barely ate anything, Scully."  He shakes his head almost 
spitefully.  "Sorry, I don't know what to call you."

"Call me Scully, Mulder.  I'll always be your Scully."  Yes, I 
took Ethan's name, but he can't call me Minette and Dana would be 
too weird, too unMulder.  I reach my hand - my right hand - out 
from under the blanket and find his, resting lightly at his side, 
and lace my short, thin fingers with his, golden and strong.  He 
stares at that for a minute, then looks away, lost.

I hate this: being uncomfortable around someone that I used to 
feel completely at ease with, someone who I could talk about 
anything with, without fear of offending him or angering him or 
hurting him.  Someone who I trusted undeniably, someone who I 
depended on unquestionably, someone that I could be completely 
honest and open with, no matter what the circumstances.

Right now, he looks so sad and lost, so empty and afraid, so 
lonely and reserved.  Is it because of me?  Because he really did 
miss me?  Because he really does still love me?  Or is it because 
of something else?

"How are you?"  I ask him quietly, pulling him back to me.

"Good.  Fine," is all he says before returning to his fascinating 
study of the air in front of him.

"Really, Mulder?"

"Yeah.  Fine.  Why wouldn't I be?"  There's a hint of bitterness 
in his tone.

"Are you back at the BSU?"

"Yep."

"Profiling?"

"What else?"  He grins again, then returns his face to stone.

"I was worried you were out of town on a case when you didn't 
answer the door," I say, desperately wondering where he was on a 
Saturday afternoon and evening.

"I was at work...working."

"Oh."  According to my script, his next line is "how are you 
Scully?"  but his version apparently doesn't have that little 
alteration in it because he just sits there, staring, his hand 
limp in mine.  "I'm okay," I tell him even though he didn't ask.  
"I'm busy with Emma..." and laundry and nail-painting and 
housewifery.

He winces and stands, dropping my hand like it burned him and 
walks to his bathroom door, not going in, just staring, hands on 
hips.

"Why are you really here, Scully?"  He asks, whirling around to 
me, his eyes slightly hooded and angry.

I take a deep breath, hesitating.  "I was visiting my mother -"

"She lives in Baltimore."

"- and wanted to see you while I was here.  I wanted to give you 
your credit card and just," I hesitate again, "talk to you, since 
you won't answer your phone or call me."

He nods, that angry, quick nod he has, then walks to the other 
side of the room.  "So?  Talk."

I gape at him again, not talking, just staring.

"Listen, Scully, I appreciate this little visit, but I really am 
very busy right now," he says in an annoyed, clipped tone.

"You want me to leave?"  I ask, hoping he'll say no.  "I'll leave 
then.  I'm sorry I bothered you when you're obviously very busy."  
I inject as much sarcasm into my voice as possible which isn't 
much, considering how weak and shaky I feel.  My voice is barely 
a scratchy whisper as it is, it's not very convincing.

I throw the covers off of my legs and swing them to the floor, 
shutting my eyes and shaking my head against the twirling room.  
As soon as I stand, I fall back down again, and Mulder just 
watches me, eyes large and worried.

Ignoring him, I stand again and wobble, catching myself on his 
bedside table.  Once I'm steady, I brush past him and pick up my 
jeans, pulling them on and falling on my ass in the process.  
He's still standing there, looking at me, and tears prick my eyes 
again: embarrassment, frustration, and hurt.

Instead of looking at him, though, I stare at my jeans, wondering 
why they refuse to cooperate.  When I let a sob escape me, Mulder 
jumps into action, kneeling beside me and tugging my jeans off of 
my legs, folding them and sliding them against the wall.  
"Scully, you're not in any shape to go anywhere except back to 
bed," he says tonelessly, picking me up and setting me back in 
bed, pulling the covers back over me.

"What do you care?"  I ask him in between sniffles.

He blows all of the air out of his lungs, like he was just hit by 
a car, then answers.  "I still care about you, Scully."

"No, you don't.  You never did," I say, meeting his eyes, anger 
rising, pushing my tears away.

He gapes like a fish for a few seconds.  "How can you say that?  
After everything that I said to you, how can you still think that 
I don't care about you?"

"You won't even answer your Goddamn phone!  Even when I beg you 
to talk me, tell you that I need you, you ignore me!  Is that how 
much you care about me, Mulder?"

He hangs his head, knowing exactly what I'm talking about.  "How 
do you know I was even here, Scully?"

"Were you?"

He chews on his lower lip before answering, "Yes."

I just don't have the energy to maintain any emotion other than 
desolation and my anger flees, my voice becoming a mournful, 
empty whisper.  "Then why didn't you answer me?"  

He collapses onto the bed beside me, mimicking my posture from 
earlier, his head in his hands.  "I couldn't, Scully."

I pull my knees up to my chest, huddling closer to him.  "Why 
not?"

"I just...couldn't.  I just froze.  I was staring at the machine, 
telling myself that you could be in danger and to pick up the 
phone, but I couldn't.  Just like that night when I came home and 
found that message you left as Duane Barry was abducting you - I 
just couldn't move."  He scrubs his eyes with the heels of his 
hands, then whispers, "What could I have done anyway?"

"You could've talked to me.  That's all I wanted."

He turns towards me.  "What happened that night?"

"I had a nightmare.  It was thundering and lightening, like that 
night in the hotel."  You know, that night when we almost had 
sex?

"I'm sorry, Scully."

I nod, pulling my knees closer to my body and shivering.

"You said you hadn't eaten in a while," he says, voice thick with 
tears.  "Why not?"

"I just...forget, I guess.  I don't feel like it, most of the 
time."

"Is everything okay?  With," he swallows, "Ethan?"

I nod at him slowly.  "Yeah.  Everything's fine."

He nods back.  "Just...visiting your mother."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

I stare at my knees, wondering how much I should tell him.  "I 
missed her."  He stares, silently asking me the real reason.  
"It's been stressful, trying to adjust to this new life.  I guess 
I really haven't been handling it that well."

"Is that why you haven't been eating?"

I exhale - he could always read me so well.  "Yeah.  And I 
haven't been sleeping well, either.  It seems like that's all I 
ever want to do, but I never feel rested.  I'm tired all the 
time."

"Sounds like clinical depression," he says, setting his jaw 
again.

"What?"

"Those are symptoms of clinical depression: changes in eating and 
sleeping habits."

"You think I'm depressed?"  I ask him incredulously.

"Well, something's wrong with you."  I nod, knowing it's true but 
not wanting to admit it.  "And it must be pretty bad for you to 
come to my apartment," he finishes spitefully.
 
"Mulder..."  I get tired of telling him this over and over.  
"You're still my best friend.  I missed you, too."

He rolls his eyes, clearly tired of hearing it.  "Is that what a 
best friend is, Scully?  I thought that best friends cared about 
each other.  I didn't know that best friends abandoned each other 
just because things got complicated."

"What the hell are you talking about?"  He shrugs his shoulders, 
feigning ignorance.  "If you're insinuating that I abandoned you, 
you're wrong, Mulder.  I'm the one that called you five times a 
day and left you message after message, asking you to call me 
back.  I'm not the one who just brushed you off because you were 
'too busy.'  I'm not the one who wouldn't answer his phone in the 
middle of the night when I was crying and begging you pick up.  
If anything you abandoned me!"

He raises his voice, something that's rare for him, even when 
he's angry.  "And I suppose you leaving in the first place was 
just another way of acting as my best friend?  What was I 
supposed to say to you when you called, Scully?  Glad your life 
is perfect?  Glad you've finally gotten everything you've always 
wanted?  I'm glad you're happy, even if I'm miserable without 
you?"  He winces and looks away as soon as he finishes, like he 
just said something that he hadn't meant to.

"You certainly don't look miserable.  You look like you're doing 
quite well, actually," I say snidely.

He looks at me coldly.  "You have no idea, Scully."

"Then tell me.  Give me an idea."

He takes a deep breath, runs his hands roughly through his hair, 
then leans back over his knees, kneading his forehead with his 
fingers, like he's deciding whether he should tell me or not.  
"Losing you, losing the X-Files...I felt like I had lost 
everything that mattered to me all over again.  For weeks I was 
in a daze, thinking that it was all just a dream and that, at any 
minute, I'd wake up and you'd be just on the other side of a door 
at a hotel, that we'd be on another case together.  I kept 
expecting you to just...be there, everywhere I went."  Another 
deep breath and he sits up, stretching his back and closing his 
eyes.  "Do you remember, one time I told you that when I was a 
kid, I used to close my eyes before I walked into my bedroom, 
certain that when I opened them, Samantha would be there, just 
like nothing had happened?"

I nod, anxious for him to continue.

"I did the same thing with you.  Every time I walked down the 
hallway at work, I would look for you.  I would close my eyes 
right before I got off an elevator, expecting to see you waiting 
for me.  Before I walked into the bullpen every morning, I'd 
close my eyes, thinking  that you'd be at the desk in front of 
me, but you were never there.  And after a while, I stopped 
torturing myself.  I stopped expecting you to come back.  After 
that, I just withdrew, not speaking to people or eating for days.  
I just didn't have the motivation."

He looks down at his flannel-clad legs, pulling at a loose 
thread, wrapping it around his finger until the tip turns purple, 
then releasing it, watching the blood flow back into it and 
return to it's honey-color.

"I knew I couldn't go on like that, though.  I had told you that 
I would support any decision that made you happy and I decided to 
move on.  I knew that you were safe and content with everything 
that you had given up when you started working with me and, if I 
really loved you, that would be enough for me.  So, I made it 
enough.  It was still hard - it is still hard - but if you're 
happy, Scully..."

"What if I'm not happy?"  I ask quietly.

He snaps his head towards me, his eyes round and soft suddenly.  
"You're not happy?"  He asks slowly, like the idea just occurred 
to him.

I look away.  "I don't know.  It's not like I thought it would 
be.  Nothing...nothing is like I thought it would be," I whisper, 
sniffing back fresh tears.

He buries his face in his hands again and his back shakes 
slightly.  "You need to rest, Scully," he says softly, his voice 
thick with his own unshed tears.  He stands, then tugs the covers 
over my arms.  "Lay down; rest."

"It's getting dark.  I have to drive back to Baltimore," I remind 
him.

Brushing more hair off or my forehead, he holds his breath.  "You 
need to rest," he says again, his words surrounding me like an 
electric blanket.

"Can I stay here tonight?"  I ask quietly, afraid he'll say no, 
get out of my bed, get out of my life.

"Yeah.  Just rest right now, though."

"I'll have to call my Mom, let her know not to expect me."

"Okay.  I'll get you some Tylenol.  It'll help you sleep."  His 
eyes linger on mine before he turns and walks out of the room.

I have to smile, remembering all of the nights where we lay down 
in his bed together, watching movies and eating popcorn until two 
am, then him clumsily, shyly getting out of bed and going to 
sleep on the couch.  

Picking up the phone beside his bed, I wonder how to explain this 
to Mom.

"Hello?"

"Mom, it's me," I say, a little breathless.

"Dana," is all she says in that angry, non-tone of hers.

"I'm, um, still at Mulder's."  No response.  "I think I'm gonna 
stay here tonight."

"Why?"

I swallow around a suddenly large lump in my throat.  "Because, 
it's getting late.  We were talking and...time just got away from 
me."  She takes a slow, measured breath on the other end of the 
phone, not responding.  "Okay?"

"Be careful, Dana," she says sternly.

Be careful?  "What?"

"Be careful.  Remember that Ethan loves you."

"I know he does.  I know."  But what does that have to do with 
this?

No response.

"I'll call you before I leave tomorrow."

No response.

"Bye, Mom."

Mulder comes back in as I hang up the phone, water glass in one 
hand, the other cupped with Tylenol in his palm.  He watches me 
as I take them, thirstily gulping all of the water down before 
handing the glass back to him.  "Okay?"  He asks, gesturing to 
the phone.

"Yeah," I tell him, laying back down and letting him tuck me in, 
closing the blinds before he walks out of the room and closes the 
door.

<><><>End Part 2<><><>


<><><>Begin Part 3<><><>

I'm too nervous to sleep, even though I am exhausted.  All of 
those nights that I wished Mulder were with me, beside me in bed.  
That it was his arms around me, his breath falling warmly against 
my neck.  That it was him across from me at the dinner table, him 
that I would kiss as he walked through the door when he came home 
at night, telling him how much I missed him.  For all of those 
nights, silently spent missing him, now he's just on the other 
side of a wall, a few feet from me, yet he couldn't be further 
away.

Of course he still cares about me.  That's why he's letting me 
stay here tonight, sleep in his bed, sleep in his clothes.  He 
would worry about me if I were on the road late at night, driving 
back to my mother's in the sick, weak condition that I was in.  
But if he really did care about me, if he really did love me, why 
is he being do distant now?

I remember meeting Phoebe all those years ago, how shocked I was 
that Mulder let her kiss him - in front of me - after all of the 
pain she had put him through.  How he had helped her when she 
needed him, how he didn't turn her away immediately.

And Diana, how he did the same for her, dropped everything to 
cater to her, just because she asked.  I never asked for the 
whole story behind their relationship and he had never 
volunteered, but from what I do know, she hurt him just as much 
as Phoebe did: betrayed his trust, lied to him, abandoned him, 
misled him.  Yet he was still solicitous to them, still polite 
and courteous, if a little standoffish.

I wonder if Mulder slept with Diana in this bed when she came 
back.  If he let himself be so overwhelmed by her, thinking that, 
after all these years, she had come back to him, realizing what a 
mistake she had made.  I wonder if he believed that she was 
trustworthy, that she loved him.

Could he have been that desperate?  That needy and alone?  Is 
that what he's afraid of now, that I'll lie to him, take 
advantage of him, that I'll abandon him just like she did, just 
like both of them did?  Is that why he's so distant and guarded?

I'm not like that, Mulder.  I do love you, I do care about you.  
I do realize that I made a mistake.  I want to be here now, not 
in Atlanta with Ethan.  I want you.

It's nearly midnight, but the light in the living room is still 
on, though I don't hear the muffled sounds of the television.  He 
must still be working.  I silently slip out of bed, relieved when 
I don't feel dizzy or weak, then make my way through the darkness 
and to the door of the bedroom, quietly twisting the knob and 
opening it, peaking out at him.

Yep, he's working, papers, folders, and horrific photos spread 
all around him, some having fallen to the floor.  He's still 
scratching away at that legal pad, his brow furrowed, his eyes 
huge and empty, his shoulders hunched and alert, ready to pounce 
at the slightest sound.  This is how he gets when he profiles and 
it's always been my job to bring him back to consciousness, to 
sanity.

He's in a daze and doesn't hear me as I approach him.  "Mulder?"  
I whisper, wondering how deeply into his mind he's sunken.

No response, just a flip of a paper and more intense scratching 
with the pen.  A glance at a photo, but no interruption as the 
killer speaks to him.

I take another step closer, pushing the papers on the ground 
underneath the table with my foot.  Carefully, slowly, so as not 
to startle him, I sit down on the couch close the arm rest, him 
occupying the middle cushion.  "Mulder?"  I whisper again, 
placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, calling him back to me.

All at once, he drops the legal pad and pen, collapsing until his 
head is on his knees, his breathing labored and quick.  He's back 
and scared as hell.

I keep my hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently.  "It's okay, 
Mulder.  You're okay," I tell him, keeping my voice low and 
soothing as he coughs and wheezes between his knees.

"Sc-scully.  What...what are you doing?  You should be in bed."

"So should you."

He shakes his head, slowly raising it and straightening his 
shoulders, pushing his bangs out of his face.  "You're sick," he 
says simply, tonelessly.

I shake my head, still rubbing between his shoulders against the 
impossibly tense muscles there.  "No, it was just the food.  I'm 
fine."

He starts to smirk at that, but catches himself, shrugging my 
hand away.  "I'm busy," he explains, leaning closer to his coffee 
table and picking up the pad and pen.

"How long were you planning to stay up?"  I ask carefully, not 
wanting to push him too far, not wanting him to push me away.

He shakes his head, already slipping away again.  "'Til I'm 
finished."

"You need to rest, Mulder."  He doesn't respond, just focuses on 
a photo, turning it around and around in his hands, studying it.  
"Mulder," I say a little louder, gently taking it from him.  
"Stop, just for a little while.  It'll still be here in the 
morning."

He stares at the floor where the photo would be, not moving.  
"Will you?"  He asks, still not looking at me.

"What?"

"Will you still be here in the morning, or were you planning to 
leave before I woke up?"

I turn towards him on the couch, sliding his scratchy Indian 
blanket down from the back and pulling it over my arms.  "No, 
I'll still be here."

"Then what?  You go back to your perfect life and leave me here 
again?"  He asks angrily, scrubbing his eyes with his fingers.

"First of all, I'm going back to my mother's for a few more days 
and second of all, it's not perfect, Mulder."

"It's better than this," he says to himself.

"Sometimes, I wonder if it really is."

For the first time since I came out here, he looks at me with 
those little lost boy eyes and that adorably creased forehead.  
"What do you mean?"

I sink back against the cushions.  "I never thought I would miss 
this," I say softly, gesturing at the papers littering the table 
and floor.  "I never thought I'd miss those midnight phone calls 
from you, telling me to be ready in half an hour and that we had 
a flight to Nowhere, USA to investigate flying saucers.  I never 
thought I'd miss driving around in rental cars with you, 
exhausted and dirty and frustrated."  He exhales heavily, making 
me pause.  "But I do.  I miss all of that, even the things that I 
hated.  I miss this.  I miss you."

His eyes get a little bigger, a little shinier.  "My life in 
Atlanta is so boring, Mulder.  Ethan won't let me work so all I 
do is stay home and clean house or shuttle Emma back and forth 
from school to soccer practice...I hate it."

He lowers his eyebrows, scowling.  "What do you mean Ethan won't 
let you work?"

I shake my head, looking away.  "He says I don't need to, which 
is true.  He makes plenty of money, but I just want to work."

"So why don't you?  He doesn't own you, Scully."

"I know.  I applied for a job at Emory University as an Associate 
Medical Professor, even got an interview, but I wasn't hired.  
They didn't need Pathologists."

"So, try again.  There are other places -"

"No.  It would just cause problems with Ethan...and I'd rather 
avoid that."

"You give up your financial and social independence just to avoid 
arguing with him?  That's not like you, Scully."

I look back at him, pulling the blanket tighter around me.  "But 
I'm not supposed to be Scully anymore.  I'm supposed to be Dana, 
the perfect, dependable wife and loving, devoted mother.  
Sometimes, I wonder if Scully even exists anymore."

"You're the same person as you always were," he says softly, 
fingering the fringe-edge of the blanket, then recovering my 
feet.

"The other day, I saw that episode of COPS we were on and I 
didn't even recognize that woman as me.  She was so strong and 
independent and -"

" -you still are, Scully.  You've just suppressed that, pushed 
that person away.  But she's still there."

"No," I say, shaking my head.  "No, she's not."

He stares at me, mouth agape, not saying anything.

"Mulder, sometimes I feel like I can't do anything right.  No 
matter what I do, I just screw it up.  I tried being my own 
person, asserting my independence and defying my father and Ethan 
and look what it got me.  I got my sister killed, I got my 
daughter killed, I had the rest of my children stolen from me, I 
cause my family so much pain...and then I tried being someone 
else, that woman that my father wanted me to be, the kind of wife 
that Ethan wants, a good mother, but that hasn't worked either.  
I'm just...miserable.  I can't do anything right."

"Scully, yes, you can," Mulder says, turning towards me slightly.  
"None of those things that happened to you while we were working 
together was your fault.  It was my fault -"

"No, it was my decision to work with you and it was my decision 
to stay with you.  It was my fault."  I keep sniffling and 
blinking, thinking that I'm about to burst into tears any minute 
now, but none come and my voice just shakes, heavy with emotion.

Mulder sighs, leaning on his knees and rubbing his eyes again.  
He doesn't want me to see him cry now, after I've held him 
countless nights while he sobbed against me.  "What happened to 
Melissa was the fault of the men who killed her.  What happened 
to Emily was the fault the men who abducted you and created her."

"But it wouldn't have happened if I'd have listened to my father 
and Ethan and done what they wanted me to do."

He looks back at me, completely bewildered.  "Then is it worth 
it?  Is it worth being miserable and depressed and sick?  To be 
the kind of person that they want you to be?"

Looking into his eyes right now, I can't imagine how I ever made 
myself get on that plane and leave him.  "I don't know," I 
whisper thickly, my breath hitching, but still no tears falling.

"It's not, Scully, and you know it.  It's not worth sacrificing 
your happiness for them."

I sit up, then, and he puts his arms around me, holding me close 
to him while I whimper, trying to crawl inside his chest, where 
it's warm and safe.  "Scully," he says against my hair, his 
breath making me shiver.  "You could've left all of this behind 
last year when you found out that Daniel Waterston was still in 
love with you.  You know that he would've welcomed you back into 
his life, but you didn't go.  You stayed here with me, telling me 
that you thought that you were on the right path, that you did 
the right thing when you left him to come work for the Bureau.  
But yet when Ethan reappears, you gravitate towards him.  Is that 
why?  Because you thought that you could make it up to your 
family by marrying him now?"

"My parents never knew about Daniel, but my father loved Ethan."

"You told me that you loved him, Scully.  You said that he could 
accept you the way the were, unable to have children, and that he 
loved you.  But that wasn't true, was it?"  He tangles his 
fingers in my dull, limp hair, sending more shivers down my 
spine.  "It was because he could give you everything that you had 
given up when you started working on the X-Files, just like I 
thought."

"Yes," I tell him, pressing my face against his heart.

He lets out a long, pained sigh.  "I should never have let you 
get on that plane.  I should have stopped you.  I should've done 
what ever it took to get you to stay."

I shake my head, feeling his fingers slip through my hair and 
against my scalp, reveling in that feeling.  "It's not your 
fault, Mulder.  It's my fault.  I should have listened to you.  
Everything is my fault."

He leans his cheek against the top of my head, squeezing me 
tighter.  "You'll never convince me of that, Scully."

"You loved me," I whisper to him quietly.

"Yes."

"Do you still love me?"

He takes a deep breath and his heart speeds up a little.  "Yes, 
Scully, more than anything."

I close my eyes and say a silent prayer of thanks to a God that 
I'm not even sure exists.  "The reason I got married, Mulder...I 
knew how miserable I would be with Ethan, but I didn't think I 
had a choice.  When you wouldn't speak to me or answer your 
phone, I thought that you hated me and that you had lied to me 
when you tried to get me to stay.  Mulder, I loved you and I 
thought that you hated me."  Tears finally come, small and salty, 
stinging my dry skin as then drip onto my cheeks and into his 
soft T-shirt.

Another deep breath and he sighs again, his heart hammering in 
his chest and his body stiffening.  When he doesn't say anything 
in response, probably remembering how, the last time I'd admitted 
that I loved him, I'd qualified it, saying that I loved him only 
as my best friend, I reluctantly raise my head from his chest, 
leaning my forehead against his, breathing in his breath.  "I 
love you, Mulder.  I didn't realize it at the time, but I do now.  
I know I do.  I love you," I whisper to him, my lips brushing his 
as I do.

His eyes are closed, little lines around them accentuating how 
tightly he's holding them that way.  His breath comes in nervous 
little pants against my mouth, his lips slightly parted.  Slowly, 
I slip my hands from his waist up his back and to his shoulders 
and neck, scraping my nails against the soft hair there, watching 
the tremor go through him.  I open my mouth and press it against 
him, holding it there when he tries to pull away.  Sucking his 
lower lip into my mouth, I wet it with my eager tongue, then 
press it into his mouth, searching for his.

He pushes me away gently, bowing his head and taking a deep 
breath.  "It's too late, Scully.  I can't...we can't...it's too 
late for this."

"No," I whisper, leaning in again, him leaning back, further away 
from me.

"Yes, it is.  I can't...Scully, I can't lose you again.  I can't 
go through that again, thinking I'm doing the right thing by 
letting you go -"

"I don't want to go."

"You have to.  You have a new life now - one that doesn't include 
me - and you have responsibilities to the people in that life.  
And I...I don't know how I can," he searches for the right word, 
"fit into that now, just as your friend.  I don't know that I 
could trust you like that again without thinking of...what you 
did...to me...when you left."  He's trying to stay calm and not 
get angry, trying not to make me angry or defensive, either.

"Do you trust me, Mulder?"  I ask him, my voice deep and breathy, 
my fingers sliding around his neck to the sides of his face, 
stroking the short stubble there.

He hesitates.  "I don't know, Scully," he whispers.

I start to lean into him again, to show him how he can trust me 
now.  His eyes focus on my lips, watching them as they come 
closer to his and not stopping me.  He could stop me if he wanted 
to.

This time, when I plunge my tongue between his lips, he sits 
still, letting me explore him, drinking in his taste.  Long 
seconds later, I pull back, unable to take my eyes away from his 
swollen, red mouth.

His body is rigid, his breathing erratic.  But his arms are still 
around me, not letting me go, not wanting to let me go, his face 
still close to mine.  "Mulder, do you trust me?"  I whisper, 
leaning in again, feeling him respond hungrily, bruising my lips 
as he crushes his mouth against mine.

For the first time in almost six months, I feel a stirring of 
arousal as he devours me.  Ethan doesn't kiss me like this; Ethan 
doesn't love me like this.  And I don't love Ethan like this.  I 
can't.  Only Mulder.  Always Mulder.

He shifts and I push his back against the couch, straddling his 
hips, feeling the beginnings of his erection pressing against me, 
making me squirm and throb.  He tears his lips away from mine, 
latching onto my neck and sucking, licking, kissing from my chin 
to my collar bone before switching sides and starting again.  I 
dig my nails into his shoulders and press my knees into the 
cushions on either side of him, wanting more, harder, faster, 
now.

He's in the mood for slow, careful, achingly tender exploration, 
though.  His hands find my hips, slowing their maddening 
undulations against him, guiding me into a more sensual, erotic 
rhythm.  With him growing harder beneath me, a low moan escapes 
my throat and I slide my hands down to his waist, slipping my 
fingers under his shirt and trailing my nails over his ribs, 
pulling the shirt up and out of the way.  He absently sits up, 
letting me rip the shirt off over his head and making me moan 
again at the increased contact it causes.

I trail my hands down further, over his stomach and to the loose, 
elastic waist band of his pajama pants.  Sitting back, my hands 
drift lower, to the hard, insistent bulge underneath my left hand 
now, my right stealing below the flannel to the hot, sensitive 
skin of his hips.

He moans against my neck, then crushes his mouth against mine 
again, devouring me.  His hands mimic mine from seconds before, 
pulling my shirt up and roughly jerking it over my head.  They're 
warm, soft, so, so good, kneading, then trailing around to my 
back and wrestling with the clasp of my bra.  He can't even wait 
for me to slide my arms out of the straps before his hands are 
underneath the loose fabric, finding my stiffened nipples and 
rubbing, teasing, stroking.  I melt then, pliant in his arms as 
he gently lays me on my back, hovering over me and settling his 
hips firmly between my legs, tugging my bra off completely and 
flinging it somewhere, his mouth drifting to one of my breasts 
while his hand occupies the other.

I just lay there for a moment, fisting my hand in his hair and 
guiding him to the perfect spot, my other hand lightly grazing 
over his shoulders and down to the small of his back.  Wrapping 
my legs low on his waist, I fight to tug his pants down while not 
breaking the contact, eager to have all of him against me, all of 
him inside me, right now.

With him on top of me like this, he has all the control.  
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize that we're closer 
than I thought to finally consummating this, that I'm only 
wearing a thin pair of cotton panties.  He must've realized this 
too, as he sits up and tears them off of my legs, then plunges 
one hand between my thighs, not stopping until two of his long, 
beautifully tapered fingers are inside me up to his knuckles.

The penetration makes me gasp - I was ready and wet, but it 
surprised me, how impatient he is all of the sudden, how much he 
wants this, too.  His palm grazes my clit and I grind against 
him, hooking one leg around his waist again.

No, fingers aren't enough.  I need all of him.  Now.

Using my feet and stretching my arms, I manage to wiggle his 
pants down just enough so that they're off of his hips; now the 
only barrier between us is his boxer briefs.  Slipping my hand 
beneath those, I'm rewarded with my first touch of him - hard 
steel under soft skin as his mouth consumes mine again.

He grabs my wrist, forcing my hand away from him, the slight 
touch too intense for his plans of making this last as long as 
humanly possible.  With one hand on his chest, pushing him up 
slightly, I touch him again and he pulls my hand away, removing 
his fingers from inside me, replacing them with his eager 
erection.

"Sc-cc-ccull-ll-y," he moans, shuttering once he's deep inside 
me, deeper than I thought anyone could go without being painful.  
"Ll-o-vv-e yy-ooo-uu...ll-oooo-vv-e yyyyy-oooo-uuuu."

Yes, this is it.  There is nothing more.  Just him and me, loving 
each other.  As he strokes deeper and deeper, I relax underneath 
him, letting the sensations take over, letting my mind shut down.

Then, suddenly, he pulls away, pushing me away from him and 
standing so quickly he stumbles into his desk, sending the 
carefully arranged stacks of folders and papers crashing to the 
floor.  He backs away from me, nearly climbing onto the desk, 
brutally wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"No," he says weakly, bending at the waist and holding his head 
in his hands.  "No, no, no."

Still panting, desperate for oxygen and him, I sit up, leaning 
towards him.  "What?"

"No!"  He screams more fiercely.  "We can't...we can't do this."  
Suddenly self-conscious, I pull his blanket around me, standing 
and taking a step towards him as he backs away against the wall.  
"No, Scully, please don't.  We can't.  We can't do this."

"Mulder -"

"You're married, Scully, we can't do this."  He sinks to the 
floor, drawing his knees up to his chest and burying his head in 
his hands, shaking.

"Mulder...we can," I whisper to him, carefully walking towards 
him.  "We can.  Mulder, I love you and I want this.  I want you.  
We can do this."

"You're married," he says again, muffled by his legs.

"He never has to know, Mulder.  I won't tell him.  I don't love 
him like this.  It doesn't feel like this with him."

He looks up, lost and confused.  He wants so badly to say yes, I 
can tell.  "No," he says softly.

"Mulder -"

"You'll know, Scully.  You'll have to live with it for the rest 
of your life...and so will I.  You can't keep it hidden forever.  
And when he finds out, what then?  You divorce?  You leave him 
and that little girl who's already had her family ripped apart 
once?"

"Mulder, I don't love him!  Not like this -"

He raises his voice, anger taking precedence over hurt.  "Then 
why did you marry him?  If you knew that you didn't love him and 
you knew you'd be miserable with him, then why did you do it?  
Just because you thought I'd abandoned you?"

"I didn't think I had a choice," I whisper.

"That's childish, Scully.  Childish and irresponsible.  And now 
you think you can come back and seduce me and that will fix 
everything?  There's more at stake here than just you and me and 
Ethan, Scully.  There's Emma.  What about her?  Could you really 
do that to her?"

Of course.  Mulder's parents divorced because of his mother's 
infidelity.  His family was ripped apart for her fleeting 
pleasure.  Of course he would think of Emma, how much this would 
hurt her, no matter how much he wants this.

"I don't have to.  Just once, Mulder, please.  No one ever has to 
know, I promise.  I swear to you, no one will find out."

"NO!  No, Scully.  Just go.  Just leave me alone.  Just leave, 
please.  Just leave me alone," he mumbles, pleading, desperate.

Ashamed and embarrassed, I turn away and walk back into his 
bedroom, dress quickly, then walk back into the foyer, picking up 
my purse and rummaging through it for his credit card, the whole 
reason I came to see him.  I set it on the table just inside his 
door, then look back at him, still huddled in the far corner of 
his living room, hands covering his face, shaking and sobbing 
quietly.

Not saying anything, I open the door and leave, forcing myself to 
get into my car and onto the road before I change my mind again.


<><><>End Part 3<><><>

Notes: I really don't know whether Scully's ex-Federal Agent 
Status would exempt her from the five day waiting period before 
she's allowed to purchase a gun, but I think I'm entitled to a 
little creativity every now and then, don't you?

And as for the reason that Mulder's parents divorced: it's been 
sufficiently established that Mrs. Mulder was unfaithful to Mr. 
Mulder in canon, and I believe that is one of the reasons that 
they divorced.  Again: creativity, friends.

Summer classes started today, so while you've all gotten used to 
updates about every two weeks, unfortunately, I won't be able to 
write any more for a while.  Savor this slowly and remember, a 
little stalking never hurt anybody.