From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: 7 May 2002 16:47:50 -0000 Subject: If You See Her (1/1) by lil_gusty Source: direct Reply To: lil_gusty@hotmail.com Title: If You See Her (1/1) Classification: SRA, lots and lots of A Keywords: S/O, MSR/UST, AU Rating: R for language and sexual situations Distribution: anywhere, just let me know Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, they belong to Mr. Chris Carter, lucky bastard Feedback: absolutely to lil_gusty@hotmail.com Thanks: at the end Spoilers: none Note: This is the fifth part of my now named series (see the thanks at the end) starting with "The Longest Time," "Practice," "Signs From God," and "Next Step." You will need to have read them before you read this one unless you want to be totally confused. Summary: "It's amazing what a difference a day can make, sometimes." <><><><><><> "If I could, baby, I'd give you my world. How can I when you won't take it from me?" ~ Fleetwood Mac <><><><><><> It's not that I hate flying. I actually find it relaxing and exhilarating, though sometimes a little unsettling if there's turbulence. Usually, I look forward to our flights - time to read case files, start reports, or just talk to Mulder. Of course, sometimes, those things lose their appeal and I'm left wedged into my cramped seat (window, usually, as he always liked to stretch his legs out in the aisle), bored to death. Those times were more common during our first few years together, when we were still feeling each other out. After that, though, we talked almost constantly about anything and everything. Some conversations were deep and emotional, others were just about where we would eat lunch that day, but they were always interesting and broke the monotony of our frequent flights together. I lean my head against the window, wishing it were cool against my burning forehead, wishing that Mulder were here, talking incessantly about everything, anything, nothing. He could read a dictionary to me and I'd still be happy. But Mulder's not here. He's inside the airport, probably watching the plane leave like a puppy left at the kennel. When the plane finally decides to take off, I feel nauseous and press my head further against the glass, praying for sleep. I haven't had much of that in the past few days and it's starting to take its toll on me. Yesterday, especially. It's hard to believe that just under twenty-four hours ago, I was an FBI agent. I was a fiercely independent woman. I had a best friend who cared about me, who loved me, who thought we'd be together forever. It's amazing what a difference a day can make, I think, as my eye lids grow heavy, the buzz and hum of the engines beginning to soothe me into what will be, hopefully, a refreshing and well deserved nap. As I ruminate about yesterday, a twinge of pain settles itself between my eye brows and I take a deep breath, pull my jacket further around my chilled arms, and give into unconsciousness. <><><><><><> Yesterday... I can't stop sneezing. Although I rarely had time to do something as mundane as cleaning, my carpet was always vacuumed when it needed it, my furniture was always dusted every few weeks, my kitchen floor even got mopped once every couple of years. Laundry was once a week on whatever day I had time - unless we were out of town for a few weeks, then laundry was done when I got home. My apartment was always clean by my standards and, although my mother or Better Homes and Gardens wouldn't have approved, I never thought of all those tiny places where dust loves to collect and group together into giant, disgusting, sinus-clogging balls. I finally give up and go to a window, opening it and sticking my head out into the hot, summer afternoon, gratefully gasping the fresh air into my lungs between earth-shattering sneezes. I'm not allergic to dust, but I guess that an excess of anything will irritate something inside you. And my sinuses are not irritated due to my excess of crying, either. It's all that damn dust. On my way home, I stopped at a grocery store and asked for any boxes they had so I could start packing my things. After living in one place for almost ten years, I had things spread out and comfortably nestled in their respective places, and they were unwilling to leave them. Books, clothes, miscellaneous articles of decoration were all supposed to be stuffed into a few boxes and shipped to my new life in Atlanta. In a way, I felt that I was packing my old self away, taping the lids shut so that she couldn't get out, then conveniently labeling her for organizational purposes, making room for my new self in my new life with my new family. I would probably not unpack many of these things, but it made me feel better to know that I would have them with me, should I choose to revisit my old self. I pull my head back into the bathroom window, then rest my chin on top of my arms, crossed on the window sill. So much to do and so little time to do it in. After I got home, I typed my letter of resignation to Skinner four different times before I finally faxed him one of them. About an hour later, I got a call from him telling me when and where to drop off my gun and badge, telling me he would miss me and, of course, good luck. Skinner still thinks that I'm going to Quantico and, as far as I'm concerned, he can go on thinking that. I also called Ethan at work to tell him of the latest developments and that I would be able to fly down in the next few days. He was out of his office, so I left him a voice mail telling him to call me at home as soon as possible. I unfold my legs from the toilet seat, lazily stretching my taunt, stiff muscles. I'd been sitting on my heels for two hours frantically sorting, trashing, or boxing the contents of my bedroom before I realized that I really wasn't sorting or boxing much of anything, just throwing things in the general direction of my big white plastic garbage bag hanging from the doorknob. I guess it didn't matter, though. Even if I had been concentrating on sorting and boxing, I wouldn't have been able to see through my haze of tears and curses. So I started over, dumping the garbage bag out on my bed, then resorting and boxing most of the contents. After I had finished with that, I sat down in the now-empty floor of my closet, hugged my knees to my chest, and sobbed loudly and angrily until my eyes were dry and itchy, 'til I couldn't breath anymore, and started sneezing from all the dust I had stirred up from my histrionics. I was extremely surprised that Mulder hadn't called yet, but after the way I had left him at the office, I guess I wouldn't be surprised if he let me leave and never spoke to me again - that was certainly my plan when I walked out that door. How dare he say the things he did to me. How dare he be so selfish and desperate to tell me that he loved me - really loved me, not just some drug-addled love for everything, not just your best-friend type love, but the all-consuming, passionate, lustful, love more than life itself love. How dare he love me like that. How dare he tell me he loves me like that. Mulder doesn't know what real love is. He mistakes love for dependency or gratitude. Just because I've stayed with him all these years while everyone else had left him, while everyone told me to leave him, he's confused himself into believing that he loves me when really, he's just overwhelmed that I'm still here. Or maybe he's deluded himself into believing that I stayed with him out of love and, therefore, assumes that the proper way to manifest that pity is to convert it into love. Maybe he's trying to make up for everything that's happened to me because of him by loving me. Mulder's just conceited enough to do something like that. And now that I'm doing something for myself - not him - he's hurt and jealous. I'm getting a life. I have a life - a new life, a happy life, waiting for me to step into it - that doesn't cast him in a leading role, so he tells me that he won't let me go and justifies that by saying he loves me. Like him loving me suddenly fixes everything. I guess I see now how much he loves me: he hasn't even called me to apologize. Well, fuck him. I don't need him. I don't need his goddamn pity. I don't need a damn thing from him. Dehydrated of tears, I finally rose from the floor and limped into the bathroom, sneezing and fumbling to a window, my jaw clenched, determined not to think of Mulder anymore today. I should think about the future - what awaits me on the other end of the plane. My new life. My happy life. Conceding defeat to my sweaty stickiness and the humid air around me, I close the window and open my shower stall, turning the water to cool. After I close the bathroom door, I strip down to nothing, step in, and pull my hair down from its pseudo-pony tail, telling myself that all my stuff will still be in its ten- year-old places when I finish my afternoon indulgence. And if Mulder calls while I'm in the shower, maybe he'll think I've already left and never call again. No, damn it, I think as I clench my jaw tighter. Fuck Mulder, remember? To hell with him. I take my time, washing my hair twice to get rid of all the dust, using more body wash than is necessary for the rest of me. After rinsing everything, I stand underneath the spray and savor the chill that the water has inspired in me, feeling tiny and frail as I curl my arms around myself and shiver harder. When my skin looses its pink tone and turns white, I decide that my shower is finished and step out of the tiny stall, wrapping a fluffy towel around myself and shivering again in the cold steam that's collected in the unventilated bathroom. After I dry my body, I turn my head upside down and scrub at my hair much harder than necessary. I wrap my thin, cotton summer robe - the one that's been washed so many times it's nearly sheer and soft as silk - around my body, then pull a wide-toothed comb through my hair, leaving it to air-dry until it's slightly wavy. Dropping my wet towel on the bathroom floor, I then inspect my reflection in the steam-covered mirror. Pale skin, bloodshot, sunken eyes, cheek and collar bones pronounced and protruding more than usual. I look sick. Or tired. Or sick and tired. I try to smile, just to see what it looks like, and it comes out as more of a grimace. My shoulders slump a little at my mirror- self, and then I hear the sound of couch springs squeaking and a shuffle of feet across the carpet in the living room. My sleepy, hooded eyes pop open and I turn my head towards the bathroom door, my heart pounding, my hand unconsciously reaching behind me for my gun that's sitting on my bedroom dresser. With no practical weapon with me in the bathroom, I step closer to the door, pressing my ear to the wood, straining for the slightest sound from the person in my apartment. Another few footsteps and I realize that the person is pacing, most likely in front of my couch. Then, a familiar sigh and I realize who it is. Who else would it be: Mulder. I grip the door knob and yank it open, hands already on my hips and words pouring from my lips before he can even turn around and react. "Mulder, what the hell are you doing? Don't you knock anymore? You scared me to death!" His hands are on his hips, too, and he immediately hangs his head, muttering a strangled "Sorry," as I stop to refuel. "You could've called, you know." "I did. You didn't answer. I knocked, too. Three times." "So then you just let yourself into my apartment?" He shrugs, keeping his head down and scuffing one shoe against the carpet. "What do you want?" I ask more hatefully than I intended. "Lots of things." He's being intentionally cryptic, like he always is when he's brooding. I'm not in the mood for it right now, though. "I have things to do, Mulder, so get on with it." He looks up at me, eyes wide. "What?" "I need to pack. Now, if you're just gonna stand there like a moron, I'm going to continue. If you have something to say, say it." "Why do you need to pack?" He asks in awe, his eyes growing unbelievably large. I sigh in exasperation and hang my head. "I told you, Ethan wants me to move right away -" "And you're actually doing it? Is that how your relationship with him works? He says jump and you ask how high?" "I've had enough practice at it with you," I say smugly, turning to go into my bedroom, if only to get away from him. "What's that supposed to mean?" He follows me down the hall, but pauses at the doorway to my bedroom, his breath catching as he takes in the multitude of boxes, the clothes strewn across the bed and floor, the bare furniture and walls. "That's how our relationship works: you demand things of me and I do as told, as always, like the dutiful little sidekick." "You're not my sidekick!" "No, not anymore. Now, I'm just a floating liability." I push one of the boxes on my bed to the floor, hearing an unexpected shatter of something breakable, then jerk the knot of my robe open, turning away from him. "Can I get dressed?" He turns around and hangs his head, probably closing his eyes, too. "What do you mean you're just a liability, Scully?" I wrap my robe around me and stomp over to my dresser, forgetting that I've yet to pack my lingerie, then stomp back to the bed after collecting the necessities. "I was always something They could use against you, a bargaining chip, someone else for you to feel guilty about. Well, you don't have to worry about me anymore, Mulder. I'll be out of your life soon enough." He turns quickly. "No, Sc -" His eyes fall on my body, considerably thinner than it has been in a while. My ribs stick out more than usual, just as my cheek and collar bones do. He hesitates, drinking in the sight of me partially nude, before he drops his head, turns red in embarrassment, and faces the wall again. "Oh, Christ, Mulder, you've seen me naked before," I say in my best naggy, annoyed voice. I hastily zip my jeans and grab a tank top from the pile on my bed, pull it over my head, and flip my damp hair out from the neckline. Crossing my arms, I angrily ask again, "Mulder, what are you doing here? I have work to do." "Your stuff is in my car - I thought that you might want it after you calmed down. And your nameplate, too. You might still be able to use it," he says quietly in his best whiny puppy voice. I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath. He didn't come here to fight with me, he came to make peace. "Thank you," is all I can think of to say. Had I been him, I probably would've built a bonfire in the woods and burned all of that stuff. "You want me to bring it up?" "Yeah. I'll help you." I walk past him, his head still hung and hands stuffed in his pockets. Slipping on my sandals - the new ones I bought for when Ethan and Emma visited - I open the front door and wait for him to saunter up behind me. Five medium sized boxes - the contents of a career that had cost me so much. Half this stuff I would probably throw away, maybe give some to Mulder. It's amazing how little you really have when you sit back and take inventory of your life. After carting the last boxes up to my apartment, I fix us some ice water, handing Mulder's to him and gesturing for him to follow me to the couch. We sit on opposite ends, like we usually do, and he takes a sip of water, wincing. "Don't you have any tea? Coke? Something with flavor?" "You don't drink enough water - it's good for you," I say, taking a long gulp of mine. "What will I do without you, Scully?" he asks his glass. "You always make sure I'm healthy, always make me eat the right kinds of food, always make sure I throw my milk out when it expires...what will become of me?" "I guess you'll wither and die, Mulder," I flippantly answer, thinking that he's just kidding, just teasing me for always telling him what he should or should not eat or drink. When he doesn't match my grin or look up at me, I realize that he's serious. He really wonders what will become of him after I leave. "Mulder," I pause, turning towards him and cocking my head. Not knowing what else to say, I say nothing. "You always take care of me. Even if you're angry with me or sick or injured yourself, you always take care of me. I could show up at your door with blood on my hands and shirt and a hundred degree temperature, and you'd put me to bed with some Tylenol before you'd ask me who's blood it was." I follow his example and stare into my glass. "Do you remember that, Scully? That night that my father was murdered? I had his blood all over me and I was sick from that LSD? You took care of me that night. You didn't accuse me or patronize me. You just put me to bed. You believed me." "I remember," I say softly. I remember him calling me, telling me that his father was dead, asking him if they'd been arguing. He sounded so lost, so alone that night, and I'd wanted nothing more than to take him into my arms, smooth his sweaty hair away from his burning forehead, and hold him tightly while he cried and screamed after his fever-dreams. "I'm sorry I yelled at you for taking my gun. You were just trying to help me. I'm sorry, Scully." I look at him, then scoot onto the middle cushion, still facing him. "It's okay, Mulder. You weren't really yourself that morning. I understand that." "I would've killed Krycek that night if you hadn't stopped me," he whispers. "I know." "And after all that, after I'd accused you of lying to me, of spying on me, you still saved my life. You still took care of me in New Mexico." "After I'd shot you. It was the least I could do." I bump his shoulder with mine, smiling and trying to lighten the mood. It doesn't work, and he sits still, twisting his glass round and round in his hand. "I loved you then," he says quietly, looking at me slowly. I shake my head and stare into my own glass again. "I did. I've loved you for a long time." I sigh and look back at him, our eyes meeting. His are light blue, almost gray - depressed - and my heart speeds up a little as they pierce my soul. "I didn't know it until you were taken. I knew that I liked you...a lot...after they closed the X-Files. I knew that you were a valuable asset to me and my work, that I could trust you. But I didn't know that I loved you until I heard you calling out to me that night. You were leaving a message on my answering machine when Duane Barry abducted you. And the whole time I was looking for you, when I sat beside you in the hospital waiting for you to wake up, when everyone kept telling me that you wouldn't, just to let you go, I told myself that I would tell you...how I felt." He swallows, tears in his eyes. "And I didn't. And then, when you told me that you had c -" his voice catches, "cancer...when you were dying...I told myself again that I would tell you. And I never did, Scully. I kept putting it off, telling myself that it wasn't the right time. I wanted to tell you...so badly...but I just didn't." He takes a deep breath, then, "And now it's too late." He swallows thickly, pushing his tears back, his breath coming in rapid, shallow pants. I slide his glass out of his hands, set our waters on the coffee table, then place my hand in the center of his back, rubbing slowly. I trail my nails up and down his spine and rest my chin on his shoulder, his hands covering his eyes. "Mulder, it's okay." That only makes him want to sob harder, his body shaking as he tries to hold them back. "Mulder," I whisper again close to his ear. "It's okay...I'm here." "I'm sorry, Scully...I should've told you a long time ago...I'm sorry," I manage to decipher through his scratchy voice. "It's okay, Mulder. You don't need to be sorry." "How is it okay?" He asks miserably, turning his head slightly to look at me through his fingers. I just look at him, not knowing how to answer. I know it's not okay, but what am I supposed to say? "You told me, Mulder, just now." "But it's too late," he says, tears rimming his dim, bloodshot eyes. "For what?" "What I wanted." "What did you want?" "I wanted...I wanted you to love me. I wanted to love you, to show you how I love you. I wanted to have more than a friendship with you. I wanted the kind of relationship that you and...Ethan...have. I wanted all of that, and I put off telling you, thinking I would have forever to tell you." He looks at me again and whispers, "I thought I'd have forever with you, Scully." I look away, nodding my head imperceptibly. I thought I'd have forever with him, too, but it is too late for all that. "Would it have been different? If I had told you, would it have been different? Would you have loved me? Would we have had more than this?" I sigh, still rubbing small circles at the base of his spine. "I do love you, Mulder -" His mouth gapes open in disbelief and his eyes grow round and deep. "You do?" He asks in a tiny, childish voice that makes my heart shatter into a million pieces. "Yes," I whisper, combing my fingers through the short, soft hair at the nape of his neck. I see a shiver pass through his body and his pupils grow a little larger. "Is it too late?" I look away, feeling my broken heart clench in my chest. "Yes." He takes a deep breath, nodding, expecting that answer but thinking he can change my mind, then asks vehemently, desperately. "But if it wasn't...would you have wanted that kind of relationship with me? Would I have had a chance?" I remove my hands from him but he grabs my arm, keeping me beside him. "Mulder -" "Please, Scully, I need to know. I need to know if there was ever a chance." "I don't know. I don't know how we could have done that while we were partners..." He takes another deep breath. "We could've tried." I start to shake my head. "I would've tried, Scully. Whatever I needed to do, I would've done it. Give up the X-Files, quit the Bureau, whatever you wanted. I would have done it." That's the same thing I told Ethan, and I'm already having second thoughts - giving up my home, my job, my life all for him. Would Mulder have been different? Would he have really sacrificed whatever I asked of him for me? "I wouldn't have wanted you to do that," I say softly, his hand relaxing its grip on my arm. "We could still try, Scully," he says, moist eyes betraying his deep, confident voice. "You can take that job at Quantico-" "I'm engaged, Mulder," I interrupt, in case he'd forgotten. "But I love you...and you said...you said that you loved me," he whispers, thinking that those magic words will fix everything, fix me and everything that's happened to me. "Yes, Mulder, I do love you but -" I look back at him. Holding his breath, blood slowly draining from his face, heart and soul cracking. "You're my best friend, Mulder, and that's how I love you, and I know that you think that you love me as something more -" "I do!" He shouts hoarsely. "- but that's not all that matters." His forehead wrinkles in confusion. "Mulder, you know that we can never have any kind of future together, don't you?" His eyebrows creep a little higher. "No. Why can't we?" "Because...love doesn't make a perfect relationship. There are things that are missing, things that we would need -" "Like what?" I sigh, feeling exhausted, and study my feet, "Mulder, one day, you're going to find someone who can give you all the things that I can't. Someone who can support you. A nice home, children -" "What the hell are you talking about, Scully? I never said I wanted children - where is this coming from?" His eyes are dry now and his voice is raised, sounding angry. "You say that now, but in a few years -" "I told you, that doesn't matter to me. If I have to sacrifice that, then I will, Scully. I told you: anything." "I can't have you do that..." "Why not?" He grabs my arm just above the elbow again, turning me towards him. "Because..." I feel tears threaten in my eyes and I hang my head. I've cried more in the past few months than I've probably cried in my entire life and I feel emotionally drained, dehydrated. "You deserve that," I say soundlessly, wiping my cheeks. He loosens his grip on my arm, not letting go completely. "You deserve that too, Scully. And I'm sorry you can't have that, but -" "You don't have to stay with me out of pity or some misguided sense of duty, Mulder. I don't want you to think that you do. You don't understand this now, but one day you will." He's just staring at me like I've grown a second head, his eyes filling with tears of frustration. "I just want what's best for you, just like I always have." "Scully -" "Mulder, Ethan doesn't need me to give him those things. He already has them. So, you see? This is what's best for both of us. I can have what I want and you can be free to get what you want. See?" "All I want is you," he whispers faintly. I shake my head, wiping my eyes, glad I don't have on mascara. Taking a deep breath, I declare in a loud, falsely confident voice, "I need to finish packing." "Scully," he reaches for me as I stand, but I back away from him, feeling like a caged animal. "Please just go, Mulder," I beg him. He studies me for a moment, then stands up, looking down at me. He reaches his hand out for me and when I don't take it, he takes my arm and pulls me against his chest. "No." I brace my arms in front of me and try to push his away. I have to be away from him. I can't stand this. My struggling only makes him stronger, though. His arms circle around my back, supporting my weight, holding me tightly against him, his hands cupping my shoulder blades. "Scully, I can't just go. And I can't just let you go. I love you, whether you believe it or not and I've lost everyone else that I've ever loved. I won't lose you too." I give up, sagging against him. As he touches his forehead to mine, I slowly murmur, "It's not your choice, Mulder." He dips his head and when his nose brushes mine, I close my eyes, reveling in his touch. I feel his moist exhales on my lips and part them unconsciously, his head bending lower so that his lips are even with mine. "I won't let you go, Scully," he whispers against my cheek, then his lips lightly graze over mine, stating their purpose, waiting for my reaction. I know what I should do. I should wrench myself out of his grasp, order him out of my apartment. I should slap him, maybe, for being so presumptuous. But I shouldn't pull his lower lip between mine, lick it, suck on it. No, I definitely shouldn't be doing that, but that's not stopping me. One of his hands moves up to my head, tunneling its fingers through my hair and anchoring my mouth to his. He returns my gesture, sucking my upper lip between his, then slowly sliding his tongue into my mouth, searching for mine. I meet it and we glide against each other, opening our mouths wider, his hand angling my head one way. My fingers trail up his ribs and underneath his shoulders, pulling him against me, feeling the solid evidence of his love nudging my stomach. For long minutes, we explore each other's mouths until we finally, for lack of oxygen, mournfully pull away from each other, panting. He keeps his fingers tangled in my hair and gasps into my ear, "Do you love me like I love you, Scully?" I can barely think through the buzzing in my head and hips and he takes my hesitation as indecision, confusion. He lowers his head and kisses behind my ear, his mouth sliding down to my pulse, sucking hungrily. I shouldn't moan or pull him closer to me, and I most certainly shouldn't grind my hips against his, seeking more contact. But that's still not stopping me. The hand at my back slips around my waist and up my stomach, then lightly over the sides of my breast, searching for and finding a slightly pebbled nipple under two layers of cotton. I moan again, unintelligible sounds of illicit pleasure. His mouth skates down my neck to my collar bone, then across my throat to the other side, still sucking, licking, tasting, kissing. "Do you love me?" he asks again. My only response is to sink my fingers into his hair and hold him against that one tender spot in the dip of my collar bone. Too soon, he stops and raises his head, his hooded eyes boring into mine with lust, passion, and longing. Placing his hands on either side of my head, tilting my face up to him, he asks one more time, "Do you?" My tongue feels fuzzy and sparkling and the words at the front of my brain don't make it to the tip of my tongue, dying somewhere in the middle. I just gape at him like a dying fish and pull his head back down to me, crushing my mouth against his and thrusting my starving tongue through his teeth. Again, he takes my gesture as an affirmative answer: yes, I love you, yes, I want you, yes, I want this. His hands leave my head again and trail down my back and around to my breasts, teasing both of them this time. I moan into his mouth and arch my back against him, trying to grin my hips against his at the same time. His tongue, his lips, his hands - I can't think of anything except how it felt to be underneath him that night in the hotel, his weight pressing me into the mattress as his arms pinned me in place, right where he wanted me. A shrill buzzing then, high pitched and deafening in the silence of my apartment. Mulder pulls away slowly, keeping one hand on my breast, the other trailing down my back to keep my hips against his. His pupils are impossibly large and black, his lips swollen and red. The phone. The phone is ringing. I turn my head towards the table behind my couch, acknowledging the source of our interruption. I look back at him, scrap my nails around his neck and down his chest, catching his nipples underneath them along the way, and he hisses and closes his eyes in response. I lick my lips, tasting him, then stand up on my tip-toes, reaching for him again. He pushes me down and steps back slightly, jumping when he hears the person on the other end begin their message. "Dana, hey, it's me. I got your voice mail - so, you think you'll be coming down soon, huh?" The speaker rambles on and I hang my head, suddenly remembering what I'm doing, who I'm doing it with, and what I need to be doing. "Answer the phone, Scully," Mulder whispers above my ear, sending pleasant, guilty shivers all over my body. I nod and step away from him, very cold without his heat. I shakily pick up the phone and realize I'm panting as I push the 'talk' button. Taking a few deep, calming breaths, I weakly murmur, "I'm here," into the receiver. "Hey, I was about to hang up." I nod. "So, did everything go okay at work today?" Work? What's he talking about? "Yeah." "And you're officially unemployed now?" "Yeah." I can feel Mulder's eyes burning holes in my back as he stares at me, can feel the lingering sparks his hands and tongue left on my body. "Dana, I'm sorry. I know that you loved your job and that this is all so sudden. If you want to take some time, just come down for a visit right now, that's fine. I don't want to push you into anything." I close my eyes. "I've already started packing." "Oh! I guess you're as anxious as I am. I miss you so much...I can't wait until you're here." He sounds genuine and his soft, deep voice envelops me as I again let the world fall away and focus on nothing but him and how much he loves me. "Me neither." "So, when can we expect you?" We - Ethan, my finace, and Emma, my soon-to-be-step-daughter. My new, happy life. "Tomorrow." "You sure?" "Yeah. I'll call the airline later, let you know when to pick me up." "Okay," he whispers. I hear muffled voices in the background, then, "I need to go, but I'll talk to you later." "Yeah." "Dana, I love you so much. I can't tell you how long I've wanted this, wanted you." I sniff and in a thick, tear-laden voice, say, "Me too. I love you, too." "Don't cry," he says sweetly. "I'm not." "Okay." He laughs a little, knowing I'm fibbing. "Bye." "Bye." The phone barely falls into its plastic niche before I hear Mulder panting behind me. Mulder - he heard that, all of that. "Goddammit, Scully," he growls. I turn, nervous, trying to calm him with my eyes. "GodDAMMIT!!!" he explodes, bending at the waist and covering his face with his hands. "How could you do this? Dammit, Scully!" "Mulder -" "How far were you gonna let this go, huh? Were you just gonna let me sleep with you so that you could show me what I'd be missing? A cheap pity-fuck as my good-bye gift?" My hands cover my gaping mouth in shock and humiliation - he's right. If Ethan hadn't called and interrupted, I would have kept going, let him keep going. At the time, it felt so right, so good. "Mulder, no, I -" "What, you're sorry? You don't even care, do you? You don't even care about what this means to me, what you've just done. I didn't know you were that selfish, Scully. I didn't know you were that much of a slut." I hang my head and pant out my hurt and anger, afraid to say anything. His voice lowers a little. "No, I guess you are sorry. You're sorry that you got to see my face when I figured out that you don't really love me. Well, it's more than I got from Phoebe and Diana. They just left without any warning, disappeared without a trace, and I still thought they gave a damn about me, I still thought they would come back. I guess you're better than that, thought. You wanted to be here when I realized that you were just using me." When I still don't answer, he turns away from me and his feet walk quickly across the carpet to the door. He opens it, then stops, not finished yet. "I always thought you were different from them. I guess I thought that you actually cared about me." He sighs and lowers his voice, his sadness and pain evident. "You're one hell of a good actress, Scully." Before I can catch him, before I can even open my mouth to tell him how wrong he is, he's already out my front door, slamming it behind him. I look around my apartment for answers, for something to tell me what to do, how to handle this. Finding none, I turn around and walk into my bedroom, closing and locking the door behind me, then sinking to my knees and wrapping my arms around them, before I let myself cry again. <><><><><><> Exhausted and emotionally empty, I fell asleep curled into a tiny, fetal ball on my bedroom floor. When I finally wake up, the street lamps are casting an eerie, orange glow across the floor. Stiff and sore, I gradually get to my feet and walk to the windows to close the blinds. After packing all afternoon, I had gotten most of the things in my bedroom put away, and it feels empty now, like I've never lived here at all. I turn towards my bed and pull down the covers, then decide that I need to wash the stickiness off of my face. And Mulder out of my mouth. When I return to the bed, the sheets are chilled from the air conditioner and feel like ice when I slide in against them. I turn out my lamp and pull the covers tightly around me, wishing I had an electric blanket or a man to keep me warm. After almost a half-hour of shivering and teeth-chattering, I concede defeat to insomnia and pick up my bed-side phone, dialing the familiar numbers slowly and holding my breath as it rings. "Hello?" "Mom?" I whisper into the phone, sounding like a child. "Dana? What is it?" Her mother-mode instant concern voice is utilized, and I feel even more juvenile than before. "I did something. I did something horrible and I didn't know who else to call..." "You know you can always talk to me." I sniff, trying not to sound as devastated as I feel. "Mom, I don't know if I want to marry Ethan." She hesitates. "What?" "I don't know if I want to marry Ethan, I don't know if I want to move to Atlanta, I don't know if I want to leave Mulder." Her voice turns deadly and serious. "Dana, what happened?" I swallow. "Quantico offered me a job. A job as Head Pathologist. I wanted to take it but Ethan didn't want me to, so I didn't. And they closed the X-Files. I resigned from the Bureau, Mom, and Ethan wants me to move right now. He wants to get married right now." "When did all of this happen?" "Just in the last few days...I told Mulder about the job and he told me to take it. He knew that I had always wanted that job. He knew how important it was to me -" "Dana, what happened?" She asks again, sounding frantic, like she already knows and is just waiting for me to admit it so she can yell at me. "He came over today...we had a fight at the office and he came by to see me...he told me that he loves me, Mom. He kissed me -" I hear her sigh into the phone, like I've just disappointed her in the worst way imaginable. "He loves me, Mom. He told me that he loves me and he wants me to stay here. And he kissed me and I let him." I stop then, sudden tears making it impossible for me to talk any more. She just listens to me, not saying anything, thought I can feel her shaking her head in disgust on the other end of the phone. "I hurt him, Mom. I didn't mean to, but I did...and now I don't know what to do," I finally manage, though I'm not sure that she could understand what I said. "Have you told Ethan any of this?" She asks, no sympathy or concern in her cold, stern voice. Well, that sobered me up. I sniff a few times, trying to figure out why she's asking. "No, but -" "Don't, Dana. Don't tell him." "But, I have to." "Why?" She asks, genuine in her confusion. "Because," I gape. "Because, I don't know if I want to marry him. I have to tell him." "Why do you think you don't want to marry him?" "Mulder...he loves me..." "Do you love him?" I swallow, sniff, the swallow again. "Do you?" She demands. "Yes. No...I don't know..." I whisper, barely a breath with some intonation attached. She sighs again, louder and more disappointed this time. "And what are you going to do about it? You can't spend the rest of your life with him, Dana. He'll never love you the way that Ethan does. He'll never be devoted to you like Ethan will. Fox will always have his nose to the sky, searching for things that aren't there. I thought you'd finally realized that." "No. You're wrong. He's not like that anymore -" "And how long will that last? How long will it be before he finds something else to look for and leaves you to find it? How many times has he thought he's finally found what he's looking for only to realize that it was a lie just like everything else?" I sniff again, not having an argument. My mother knew the reason that Mulder was so passionate and driven - that he wanted to find his sister. I'd called her a thousand times before telling her that he'd finally found her, found the truth, and always had to call her again to tell her that it was just another lie. She twists the knife a little deeper. "It's foolish to believe that you can change a man, Dana, especially one like Fox. You should know that by now. But Ethan can give you the kind of life that you deserve. The kind of life that I know you've always wanted - the kind that Fox can't give you." Maybe she's right. Maybe Mulder needs something to focus his intensity on, and I just happen to be convenient. In a month or a year, he'll find something else - someone else - and forget about me, push me away because I'm holding him back. "But I still have to tell Ethan. He deserves to know." "No, you don't. You made a mistake, Dana, a foolish mistake, but you don't have to tell him about it. Just go to him and forget about it." "You want me to lie to him?" "No. I just don't want you to tell him the truth." "I didn't tell him the truth the last time and he left me," I whisper, more to myself than her. "What?" "The reason that we didn't get married before. I didn't tell him the truth. I did something and didn't tell him, but he found out and he left me." Probably figuring that I'm just exaggerating, she flippantly asks, "What did you do?" "I had an abortion." The air freezes and becomes thick with her surprise before she finally seethes, "Dana Katherine -" "I don't want to hear it, Mom. What ever you're going to say, I know. I know how disappointed you are. I know how embarrassed you are. I know how angry you are that Dad isn't around to disown me. I know, so don't even start." "Don't you talk to me like that, Dana. You may be an adult, but you're still my daughter -" "Then stop treating me like a child," I say, then listen to her voice get further and further away as I hang up the phone, silencing her. My tears of sadness have turned into tears of anger and disbelief and I unplug the phone so she can't call back, burrowing down into the covers and shaking with cold and fury, watching the digital numbers on my clock morph into each other until I finally fall into a fitful sleep. <><><><><><> A foolish mistake. A phase. Sewing my wild oats. The last eight years of my life can be summed up into a few words or a convenient catch-phrase. When I woke up at 2:30, I plugged in my bed-side phone, checked the dial tone, then got up to see if my mother had called back and left a message. She hadn't done either, according to my caller ID, and I picked up the cordless phone, put it down again, picked it up again, then put it down a final time, deciding not to call her back. I would only make her angrier if I woke her up. I thought about calling Mulder, too, just to make sure that he was still living. I wondered if the last thing he said to me was true, if he really saw me as another Phoebe or Diana. I always hated those women for hurting him, and if I was just the latest version of them, I guess I hate myself now, too. In the back of my mind, I saw Mulder crashing his car or putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger, lost and lonely and miserable. If I thought he'd listen to me, I'd call him and apologize, tell him that I didn't mean to hurt him, and make sure he was okay before I left tomorrow. Of course he's not okay. He probably wouldn't even answer his phone. He probably doesn't ever want to speak to me again. Saying that I was having second thoughts about leaving - about marrying Ethan - would be putting it lightly; I was torn, confused about why I was doing this. Mulder and his tears were so convenient today and I almost let myself belief that what he said was true, that all he wanted was me. I wanted to call him, just to see if it was true or if it was the product of his grief and desperation. So, he loved me. As I'd told him, that doesn't make everything okay. And yes, I love him, but not like he loves me. All these years, I've loved him and cared for him more than I've love and cared for anyone and letting him go is hard - harder than I expected, when it came right down to it. I just have to keep reminding myself that this is for the best, not just for me, but for him too. And if I really love and care for him, I'll leave him to make a new, happy life for himself. But if I knew that we could make it work, if I knew that he truly loved me and really wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, I'd stay. I'd say and try. I'd tell him it wasn't too late. But I can't stay. I have to leave, let him go, let myself go, let us move on. He'll find someone that he loves, that he really loves, who can really love him in return, who can give him everything that I can't, everything that he deserves. And that's why I didn't call him, why at 2:57 a.m., I sat down in my living room and started packing again. He'll realize that one day, when his pretty, young wife tells him she's pregnant with their first child, when he feels their baby kick against his mother's womb from inside of her, when he looks down into his child's face for the first time, seeing those beautiful, happy green eyes looking back at him. He'll understand then why I did this, he'll understand how much I love him. So I pack - everything that I can fit into a box is shoved into one, sealed shut, and labeled. I fill my suitcases with all of my clothes, carefully folding my suits and putting them in a separate suitcase so that, when I'm unpacking, I can immediately know not to open this one, just to put it in the back of the closet to gather dust. Having gathered the essentials, I decide to let the moving company deal with everything else. I told my landlord that I would gladly leave most of my furniture in the apartment and pay the rent until my lease expired in September. He said that he had a waiting list of people ready to move in and that he would talk to me later about the sub-letting arrangements. Delta's next flight to Atlanta from National wasn't until 11:00 a.m., but from Dulles, there was one leaving at 8:35. I bought a one-way ticket at six o'clock that morning and was at the airport by seven with my bags checked and my heart drumming nervously in my chest. The last Washington newspaper I would ever read was held loosely in my fingers and I flipped the pages, just to have something to do. As I was about to walk out of my door for the last time, I saw Mulder's gift sitting on my coffee table where he had left it yesterday. I picked up the box, weighing it in my hand wondering if he had left the bits of his shattered heart in it when he left, then stuck it into one of my carry-on bags and left my apartment, turning in my key on my way out. Maybe I would still get to use the nameplate when I got to Atlanta - if I worked at the CDC or taught at Emory, I would have an office and a desk, and would need a nameplate to remind me of who I was, who I had once been, and who I wasn't anymore. At 8:06, I put down the paper, the words running together and making my dry, puffy eyes ache. After I fold it neatly in my lap, I drop it unceremoniously in the trash can beside my seat in the terminal. I scan over the other people, some waiting to go back home, some waiting to bid them goodbye, some waiting to return from far away, some waiting to welcome them. My eyes flit over one, then snap back to him. He's sitting across the terminal, facing me, staring at me sadly. Our eyes make contact across the room and I drop my gaze, silently berating myself for even noticing him. Through my eyelashes, I see him get up and saunter towards me, his shoulders slumped and his head hanging like a kicked puppy. He stops in front of me, close enough so that he can talk without others hearing, far enough away so that he can't touch me, and I studiously push a cuticle back with a nail. He doesn't say anything at first, maybe waiting for me to speak, to apologize, but I don't, still pretending to ignore him. As my eyes mist over again, I start on another cuticle and he recites his premeditated diatribe with a stern finality. "I just wanted to tell you that you deserve this," he says softly. "You deserve to have what you want. You deserve this new life. You deserve that little girl, you deserve Ethan and that life that he can give you." When I still don't acknowledge him, he takes a deep breath and continues. "I'm sorry I tried to talk you out of that. Whatever makes you happy, Scully, I'll support it. And I know it probably doesn't matter to you, but I didn't want the last thing I said to you to be angry, impulsive words." So, he didn't mean it? Then why do I still hate myself? I still don't look up at him, but I know that the tears in my eyes match his, both of us valiantly trying to hold them back. "I just wanted you to know that," he says softly, hesitating to give me a chance to respond. I raise my head just in time to see him turn away. "Mulder," I call after him and he stops and turns, piercing me with his eyes. I stand and walk towards him, almost close enough to feel his warm exhale of breath on my face. Tears still in my eyes, I reach for him and he closes the short distance between us, his arms going around my back and squeezing me so tightly I can barely breath. I press my face into his soft T-shirt, letting it absorb my tears as my hair absorbs his. We're still for a moment, just holding each other, not saying a word. He tunnels his fingers through my hair and I close my eyes, content and comfortable, for a moment forgetting why I'm leaving. I'm doing this for my future, his future. I'm doing this for the lives that we never had, that we can have now. I should tell him that it does matter to me, that I'm sorry for everything that's happened, but all I can manage is a strangled, "Thank you." He kisses my forehead, nodding, lingering there. I raise my head and open my eyes, his hands coming up to brush my tears away. I do the same to his and look into those bottomless eyes, then drop my head, my resolve breaking. The loudspeaker announces that passengers in seats twenty-five through fifty can now begin boarding and I take a few steps back, our hands linking. "I need to go," I tell my shoes and he nods, not letting go of me. He'll never let go. He takes a ragged breath and, seeing my opportunity, I remove my hand from his, bend to gather my things, and turn around just in time to watch him walking away from me, walking out of my life. It takes every ounce of strength I have not to run after him. Instead, I walk to the gate, check my ticket, and walk onto the plane, keeping my head bowed against the tears streaming from my eyes. I put one carry-on in the compartment above me and, when I'm seated, before I shove the other underneath the seat, I unzip the side pocket and reach in, then pull out my nameplate. I slowly trace the etched letters with my nail, wondering how long I'll still be Dana K. Scully instead of Dana K. Minette. Mulder knew that I was getting married, yet he had this made with my maiden name: he never really expected me to go, never really expected me to leave him. I didn't either, but this is for the best, I keep reminding myself. Letting him go. Letting him let me go. I'll finally be able to move on, move past this phase of my life, let him move on as well. Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I'll eventually believe it. I put the nameplate back into my bag, zip the pocket, then push it under my seat. As I buckle my seat belt, I stare out the window, leaning my head against it, closing my eyes, and wishing that the flight to Atlanta took longer than just an hour. <><><><><><> Wide, wooden doors swing open and I step inside. The church is decorated with white flowers, white streamers, white everything. I see everything through a haze of white - my veil - and my big, heavy dress; everything is white. White for purity, however ludicrous that is. I obviously didn't plan this wedding. There are masses of people here, both on my side and Ethan's side, though I can't see their faces. They're all dressed in white, too. My family is ahead of me at the alter - Mom in her white dress with soft pink flowers and white corsage, Missy in a long, flowing, ivory gown, Dad and Bill in their dress white uniforms, Chaz in a hideous white suit that looks like it belongs on a Ken doll. Wait, if Dad is up there, then who's on my arm, giving me away? We reach the alter and the man beside me hesitates, Ethan, my father, and Bill glaring at him hatefully. His warm arm slips out from beneath my hand and he grasps it with his, slowly passing it to Ethan's sweaty, nervous grip. He hesitates again, not wanting to sit down, and I see him turn towards me from underneath my white fog. His vacant, gray, bloodshot eyes are filled with tears, his bottom lip stuck out slightly in a pout. He's dressed all in black, like a shadow is cast over him from some unseen cloud over his head. Mulder. Mulder's giving me away instead of my father or one of my brothers, giving me over to my new life. His puffy eyes meet mine and I take in a sharp breath, hating to see him so obviously in pain, so alone and lost. I want to go to him, to follow him and take his arm again, for him to lead us somewhere, someplace where I can hold him close to me as he cries and tells me how he loves me. He glances as Missy who shakes her head sadly at him, then turns away and walks down the aisle again, leaving the church, not wanting to witness the ceremony. I turn to run after him, his name on my lips to call to him, when Ethan squeezes my hand, pulling me back. I turn my head around to tell him to let me go, that I have to go to Mulder, but the smile on his face, on that of my father's, makes me stop and turn back to the front of the alter, sniffing away my tears, swallowing my cries to Mulder. Everyone is smiling and everyone is so happy. Except Missy - she watches Mulder walk down the aisle, alone, until the doors open and close, shutting him out of my life. <><><><><><> "Ma'am...Ma'am?" Someone is shaking my shoulder lightly. "Muller?" I mumble, not opening my eyes. "We're here, Ma'am," the strange voice says softly. My eyes snap open - we're where? Who is we? Where's Mulder? Who's this man beside me? When did I become a "Ma'am?" I look around the emptying cabin searching for Mulder's dark head above the others. I don't see him - where the hell is he? I stand to get a better view and the man beside me holds out a large, heavy bag to me. "This yours?" He asks in a heavy southern drawl. I sink slowly back into the seat, reality setting in. I'm in Atlanta - without Mulder. I'm here alone, to start my new life without him. Tears rim my eyes and the man leans over to me. "Ma'am, are you all right?" "Yes," I whisper, nodding absently. "Is this your bag?" "Yes." He sets it in the seat he's vacated beside me, then hoists his bag onto his shoulder and joins the masses of people fighting to get off the plane. I sit, still and quiet, starring out the window, watching the men unload our luggage, until a stewardess passes and says to me in a tired voice, "Ma'am, you have to get off the plane now. Is there a problem?" I slowly turn my head and look at her, wondering what she imagines could be the problem. Am I nervous about seeing a long- lost relative? Am I homesick already? Maybe I got on the wrong flight by mistake? "No. Sorry." She nods, then walks away. I sigh and stand again, bending to wrestle my bag from underneath my seat, picking up the one in the seat beside me, then walking down the aisle towards the door. Walking down the aisle...like in my dream. What a strange dream. My father and Missy wouldn't be there, and Bill probably wouldn't be able to make it. And why was Mulder giving me away? And why do I feel like I'm missing something? Like I've forgotten something? Left it behind? Like I went into surgery and came out with one limb less, but still feel it connected to my body? <><><>End<><><> Thanks: I've been an especially large pain in the ass this time, so extra big, juicy thanks to my betas RealB, Karri, and Liam. I don't know what I would do without them, but I certainly wouldn't be writing. Also, thanks to those of you who sent me feedback for my stories and recommended my series at the Haven fic board. I've saved every email I've gotten and read them when I need encouragement - they really do help me write faster. We have a title for the series now: Trefoil. Christelle, who runs the wonderful WIPs Of Our Lives, came up with it. As well as listing the series at WIPOL, she also volunteered to make me a web page where all my stories can be archived. Thanks, Christelle, for everything! A note about the title of this story: my inspiration for Mulder's characterization comes from Bob Dylan's beautiful, tragic song, "If You See Her, Say Hello." For lyrics, go to bobdylan.com/songs/sayhello.html. Please, PLEASE keep sending feedback. Questions, comments, and mild complaints always accepted at lil_gusty@hotmail.com.