MAKING IT PERSONAL by Brandon D. Ray ================== RATING: Mostly PG or PG-13. Some chapters are NC-17, and have been appropriately marked. CATEGORY: Story, Romance, Angst -- there's even a bit of Humor SPOILERS: The entire series, but especially the second half of Season 6, beginning with "One Son" and running through "Biogenesis". KEYWORDS: MSR. M/S married. MulderAngst. ScullyAngst. Explicit sex. Bad language. Diana Fowley. Maggie Scully. Bill Scully, jr. Lone Gunmen. SUMMARY: A series of episode-based vignettes, covering the second half of Season 6 and tracing the evolution of Mulder & Scully's relationship during that time. Based on the following quote from "One Son": "Because it is personal, Mulder. Because without the FBI, personal interest is all that I have. And if you take that away then there is no reason for me to continue." -- Dana Scully AUTHOR'S NOTES: This started as a standalone. I wrote "A Slight Miscalculation" (which is now the prologue) shortly after "Biogenesis" aired, and I thought I was done. Wrong. Almost immediately, I started getting email from people who wanted the back story. At first I didn't see any way to do that, but after talking it over with some of my net pals, I decided I could write a story or two to fill in the blanks. Ha. Two months later, it's finally done. Nearly a dozen and a half stories in all, and something in the vicinity of 270K in length. And here it is. THANKS: To all the lovely ladies at Babyfishmouth, without whose tireless beta reading this story would not be nearly as good as it is. If I try to list you all by name I'm afraid I'll leave someone out, so I'll just leave it at that. ;) Of course, any remaining lack of cool is my own responsibility. FEEDBACK: You betcha. publius@avalon.net DISCLAIMER: Yeah, I own 'em. I'm pretty sure I've got the proof around here somewhere. NOT!!!!! ================== ================== MAKING IT PERSONAL an X-FIles novel by Brandon D. Ray ================== ================== ================== Biogenesis: PROLOGUE - A Slight Miscalculation ================== I've always prided myself on being thorough, and considering all the possibilities. Preparation, I've always believed, is the name of the game. Prior planning prevents poor performance. You snooze, you lose. And all the other Type A cliches. Even as a girl I was like that. I was one of the kids who always arrived on the first day of school with all of the necessary supplies: Three number two pencils, meticulously sharpened; two wide-ruled spiral bound 118 page notebooks; and all the rest. I continued this pattern in college, and later when I joined the Bureau, and it's always stood me in good stead. Until I finally met someone who is even better at it than I am. Until I met Dana Scully. I underestimated her right from the start. When I received the phone call summoning me back to the States, nearly a year ago, the man who calls himself C.G.B. Spender -- among other things -- warned me that Fox had a new partner, and that I would have to watch my step. Unfortunately I didn't take his warning seriously, and that was my first mistake. I already knew about Agent Scully, of course, having kept tabs on Fox through various contacts over the years. So when I reviewed the Project's dossier on her during the flight back from Europe, I found no surprises. She is, like me, a Type A personality. A place for everything, and everything in its place. She lives in a neat, orderly world of straight lines and primary colors. Her rent is always paid on time, she donates precisely ten percent of her annual income to charity and she's always exactly five minutes early for an appointment. You see, I thought I had her number. I even knew her most intimate secret, the quality which made her uniquely vulnerable and which she also happened to have in common with me: I knew that she was in love with Fox Mulder. What I didn't figure on was that *he* was in love with *her*. It never occurred to me that the man I had known and loved so many years ago could ever form an attachment to a woman like Dana Scully. They are so different from each other, with so many potential points of conflict, that I just didn't see how it was possible. After all, if Fox and I couldn't make a go of it .... That was my second mistake. Once I realized the nature of their feelings for each other, of course, I did not hesitate to try to use the situation to further the goals of the Project. I had been ordered to return to Washington for a very specific purpose, after all, and as they say in the military, no plan of action ever survives contact with the enemy. This new development was simply another data point, something to be considered, analyzed and ultimately shaped into yet another weapon. These unresolved feelings between Fox and Agent Scully would actually make my job easier, I thought. And so I set about trying to drive a wedge between them on a personal basis, rather than just on the professional level as I had originally planned. That was my third -- and most crucial -- mistake. And this one has cost Fox his freedom and may very well wind up costing him his sanity. There was a time when that would have bothered me -- and deep down inside, it still does. I *do* still have feelings for this man, and it breaks my heart to stand here and watch him on the monitor as he stumbles back and forth across the room he's in, calling out, crying, *begging* .... Begging for "Scully". There was a time when he would have been begging for me. I angrily push the thought away. My personal feelings have no place in this situation. Whatever there once was between Fox and me, it really and truly is over. If that wasn't clear to me the night of the El Rico massacre, Fox made it abundantly clear to me last night in his apartment. I finally had to use a stun gun to keep him under control, and now here we are. Agent Scully was here a few hours ago. Fortunately Skinner was here too, so I didn't have to face her alone, and between the two of us we were able to prevent her from getting in to see Fox. Skinner's influence as her supervisor was enough to turn her away, so that I didn't have to pull out my ace in the hole. I think Fox knew she was here, though. Something very strange has been going on inside his head. From his behavior while she and I were watching him on the monitor, I am almost certain that he was aware of her presence. He had been fairly quiet the last hour or so prior to her arrival, but as soon as she walked into the room he started up again. Which was a good thing, of course, since it made it easier to justify our claim that he is dangerous. Even *I* know *that's* a lie. Fox Mulder is not dangerous. Not to her, anyway -- and she knows it. Skinner and I were able to distract her, though, and now she's gone again. I turn my eyes back to the monitor. Fox has quieted down again; he quieted almost as soon as Agent Scully left. He looks so sad and lonely, though, crouched there in the corner of the room, just staring up at the camera. He looks scared. I wish I could go to him and hold him, and make it all go away. I wish none of this had had to happen. I wish I had never been ordered to leave him and accept that transfer to Europe. I wish they had chosen someone a little more reliably cold and closed off to replace me. I wish .... I hear the door open behind me, and I turn around to see who it is. To my surprise, it's Agent Scully. Dammit, I thought we were rid of her. And now Skinner is gone, and I'm going to have to deal with her myself. Alone. "Agent Scully," I say calmly, trying not to betray the shock and dismay I feel at her sudden reappearance. "What brings you -- " Before I can even finish my greeting she has moved past me, as if she were unaware of my presence, and is staring intently into the monitor. My gaze follows hers, and I am unsurprised to see that Fox has risen to his feet and appears to be looking back at us. This time, however, he isn't moving frantically back and forth across the room, and he isn't saying anything. He's simply standing there, staring up at the camera as if he can see us. No, not as if he can see *us*; as if he can see *her*. "Mulder," she says, very softly. "Mulder, I'm here." And god help me if he doesn't nod slightly, as if he just heard every word she said. "I'm going to get you out, Mulder," she continues. Her voice is gentle and tender, almost loving. "I've taken the necessary steps, and you'll be transferred to Johns Hopkins first thing in the morning, so my mother can keep an eye on you. I've got to make a quick trip to check a few things, but I'll be back in a couple of days. Okay?" And again he nods. I can't let this go on. I don't know what "necessary steps" she's taken, but I've got to stop this right now. I step forward and grab her elbow and turn her to face me. Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, as if she hadn't realized I was still in the room. "I'm afraid he's not going anywhere, Agent Scully," I say firmly. "He's going to stay right here, where he can be taken care of properly." I wince inwardly at the double meaning in my words, but she doesn't seem to notice. "He's staying right here," I repeat. She shakes her head slightly, as if at a minor annoyance. "No he's not," she says. "I've already made the arrangements." And she starts to turn away as if that were the end of it. "Agent Scully!" I say sharply, and wait until I have her attention again. "Fox is in no condition to be moved." She stands quietly looking at me for a moment, and I am almost starting to believe that she's going to back down -- but then she shakes her head dismissively and turns away again. I feel my eyes narrow at her casual disregard for my presence. I was important in this man's life once; I was there when he found the X-Files. She hadn't even graduated from the Academy yet, and I was there, with him. Even though part of me suspects that this reaction is just what she wanted, I can feel the anger building within me, and I stride forward into her personal space, trying to use my height to intimidate her. "He is not going anywhere!" I say, biting off the words one at a time. "He is staying right here, and there is nothing you can do about it. I hold his power of attorney." There it is, the ace in the hole. Prior planning and all that. Top *that*, Agent Scully. Her eyebrows twitch slightly in surprise. Not shock, not worry, not panic -- just surprise. Mild surprise. As if she has encountered an unexpected obstacle, but one she is confident she can overcome. Already she's reaching into her purse and pulling out a sheaf of papers. "Then it's a good thing I had myself declared his guardian, isn't it?" she says, and I can tell that she's struggling to keep the amusement out of her voice. Dumbfounded, I take the papers from her hand and let my gaze skim over them. They are just what she said they are: She apparently found a judge somewhere and obtained an emergency order of temporary guardianship. This won't stand up, of course; it can't withstand the light of day. The only situation where something like this might actually work would be if she and Fox were -- Oh my god. I look back up at her, and the only thing I can think of to say is, "When?" Her lips quirk slightly. She's trumped my ace, and she knows it. "Shortly after El Rico," she says. "I suppose I have you to thank for it, in a way. If it hadn't been for all the head games you kept playing with him ...." Her voice trails off, and she shrugs -- and I realize that I've lost. After all that planning and thinking, after all that *scheming*, dammit, I've been outmaneuvered. I've lost. "I've got to go now, Mulder," she says, and I realize she's turned back to face the monitor. "But I'll be back. I promise." One last time he nods, and then he settles back down in his corner -- but now he no longer looks lost and despairing. He looks, in fact, about as content and happy as it's possible to look when you're locked in a room against your will. Agent Scully moves past me and walks towards the door, but I continue to stare at the monitor in disbelief. There is no possible way it should have ended like this. I had it all planned out; I had everything under control, and I knew what I was doing. How could everything have gone so terribly wrong? And what can I possibly do to fix it? "Have you ever read Nietzsche, Agent Fowley?" I turn at the sound of Scully's voice, and see her standing in the doorway with a look of amused triumph on her face. Of course I've read Nietzsche, but I gesture numbly for her to continue. "'That which does not destroy me, makes me stronger,'" she says. She starts to turn away, but then she glances back over her shoulder one more time. "I'm stronger," she adds, very softly. And then she's gone. I think there's been a slight miscalculation. ================== One Son: CHAPTER ONE - There But By the Grace of God ================== They were some of the most powerful men in the world, but most of the world didn't even know of their existence. And now they're nothing but ashes. Literally ashes. I sit at the desk in my cold, dark apartment, and I pore over the crime scene photographs. Crime scene. What a prosaic term to describe that horror chamber. I can still smell the acrid odor of charred human flesh; it fills my nostrils and seems to permeate my soul. I don't know if I'll ever get rid of it. I don't know if I ever WANT to get rid of it. A phrase keeps drifting through my mind, over and over, as I stare at these photographs: There but by the grace of god go I. There but by the grace of god. The phrase doesn't really apply to me, of course. It has been many years since I believed in god, and it's been even more years since I believed god manifested grace to his creations. But still I can't seem to chase the phrase from my mind as I examine these photographs. Still it continues to haunt me, echoing and reechoing inside my head, reverberating in my soul. There but by the grace of god. There's always Scully, of course. Always Scully. If I could believe in a god who cared, it would be Scully whom he cared for. It would be for her sake that I was moved to call her on my cell phone, allowing her voice to drag me back from the depths of despair. It would be for her sake that I sent Diana on ahead of me, alone. It would be for her sake, always for her sake. There but by the grace of god. Diana. How could I have been so wrong about her? How could I have failed to see the signs? Especially when my own partner, the one I have come to trust as no other, my one in five billion, kept trying to get through to me, kept rubbing my nose in the unpleasant facts that I didn't want to see, didn't want to hear, didn't want to know. How could I have been so blind? God, Scully....I'm so sorry. There but by the grace of god. She came to me earlier this evening and tried to talk it out. She was so gentle and understanding, so open and caring. She wanted to forgive me; I truly believe she wanted to forgive me. But I would not allow it; I shut her out and kept her at arm's length, and finally I sent her away. I couldn't face her; not tonight. Not with these horrible photographs freshly burned into my memory. Not with the sure knowledge that if events had followed the course I intended there would be two more charred bodies on that hangar floor, and one of them would be hers. There but by the grace of god. I remember another time, another place. I sat in a hospital cafeteria, and a woman eerily like my partner, yet very different, sat across the table from me and pleaded with me to save her sister's life. I was in a very dark place that day, and somehow she could see that and tried to pull me out. "You could spend the rest of your life finding every person who's responsible," she said. "And it's still not going to bring her back. Whoever did this to her has an equal horror coming to them." And I asked her, "Including myself?" There but by the grace of god. I think now perhaps Melissa was right after all. For certainly the men who died in that hangar were partly responsible for what happened to Scully, both then and subsequently, and they have all now faced their own horror. Whether death by fire is commensurate with their offenses I cannot say, but what's done is done. And now only one of us remains, and surely my own punishment in the months and years to come shall cause theirs to dwindle to insignificance. And that's as it should be. There but by the grace of god. Tomorrow I'm going to have to face her again. Tomorrow I'm going to have to walk into the office and look her in the eye, and somehow I'm going to have to work with her. Spender has asked for a meeting with the two of us, and with Skinner and Kersh. I don't know what he wants, but for some reason I've agreed to go. I suppose it will just be more flogging, more recrimination, and I hardly even feel the beatings anymore. I hardly even feel that pain. There but by the grace of god. I feel a draft against the back of my neck and I turn to look, but there's no one there. I didn't really expect her to return; I don't even really want her to return. She doesn't belong here in the shadows; she should be in the light and sunshine, with the wind blowing through her hair and a sparkle in her eye. That's why I sent her away, after all. That's why she isn't here. But god I miss her. There but by the grace of god. Something moves in the shadows and I squint into the gloom, but there's nothing there. Then it moves again, and I think I see a flash of red and I hear a woman's voice. "Why is it so dark in here?" she asks, and I want to say that it's because the lights aren't on, but I don't. I know what she really means. And she continues speaking: "Listen. I don't have to be psychic to see that you're in a very dark place... much darker than where my sister is. Willingly walking deeper into darkness cannot help her at all. Only the light...only the light...only the light...." And her voice trails off and is gone. There but by the grace of god. I sit numbly at my desk for a long time, still peering into the darkness. It never occurs to me to question whether she was really here; some things you just know. The photographs lie neglected on my desk, and somehow I no longer feel the urge to pore over them and examine them. I no longer feel the need to obsess on them. Something has changed. Something has changed. There but by the grace of god. I am startled from my fugue by a knock on the door, and I rise from my seat and cross to answer it. It never occurs to me to question who might be calling at this hour of the night; some things you just know. I stand before the door for just a moment, steeling myself for the ordeal to come, and then I twist the knob and pull the door open -- and it's Scully, as I knew it would be. Her eyes are red from crying, but still she is strong, unbroken and unbowed. And she says, very softly, "Mulder, we need to talk." And I nod slightly and I reach out my hand to turn on the light, banishing the darkness, before I usher her into my apartment. By the grace of god. ================== One Son: CHAPTER TWO - Making It Personal ================== How has it come to this so quickly? I shift awkwardly on the hard, wooden bench in the courthouse lobby. This is far from the first time I've had to wait like this, of course. Any law enforcement officer can tell you horror stories about long, tedious hours spent waiting outside of courtrooms. Waiting for the lawyers to get their acts together. Waiting for the judge to come back from lunch. Waiting for the witness ahead of you to finish telling *her* story. Waiting. So yes, I've waited before. But never when the stakes have been this high. I cast a quick glance at Mulder, seated next to me on this godawful bench. He's waiting too, of course, but for once he seems to be taking it better than I am. Normally Mulder would be climbing the walls at this point. He has very little patience for the antics of lawyers, and he hates being cooped up. By now he should be up off the bench and pacing, making acerbic comments about the personal habits, probable ancestry and ultimate destinations of the other participants in the proceeding, and generally being a pain in the ass. It would then be my job to keep him as calm as possible, to divert him and entertain him and have him ready when our turn finally comes. But today he just sits, serene and to all appearances content. I wish I could understand how he's managing it. I force my attention away from my partner, and for the hundredth time in the past thirty minutes I look around the lobby. It is an undistinguished chamber, no different from a hundred other rooms in public buildings where we've had to sit and wait over the course of the past six years. Directly across from us is a portrait of Thomas Jefferson; the decor also includes a weathered bronze plaque commemorating someone I've never heard of, a hand-sewn tapestry proclaiming the Ten Commandments, and a relief map of the county which must be at least thirty years out of date. As I said -- typical. I shift restlessly in my seat again -- and then I start in surprise as Mulder lays a gentle hand on both of mine, where they sit tightly clenched together in my lap. I look up at him, and I see the question marks in his gaze. I know what he's asking, but despite my jitters at the suddenness of all this, I'm sure this is where I want to be. And so I lace my fingers through his and give his hand a reassuring squeeze, and we both smile. What time is it, anyway? I free my hand and look at my watch. 12:17 p.m. Three minutes later than the last time I looked. We're supposed to be back at the Hoover Building by a quarter till one, but unless something happens soon we aren't going to make it -- and Kersh is far less forgiving than Skinner when it comes to minor infractions. 12:17. There's something about that number that seems familiar. For a moment I can't place it, but then I remember: It was 12:17 a.m., exactly 36 hours ago, when I arrived at Mulder's apartment for the second time. Thirty six hours since I pushed over the first domino and started the chain of events that led us to this moment. Thirty six hours. # # # I stepped off the elevator and walked slowly down the hall towards Mulder's apartment. I'd been here earlier in the evening and he'd turned me away, flatly refusing even to listen to what I had to say. Rejecting the forgiveness I'd tried to offer, because that would have required him to acknowledge the pain he'd caused me, and the damage he'd done to our partnership. I left his apartment fully intending to put an end to it. I'd given him his chance, I thought. I'd given him a clear and unambiguous warning in the Gunmen's office two days earlier, and he'd chosen to ignore me. I'd then come to him tonight, in the aftermath of that nightmare at El Rico, and I'd tried to reach out to him. I'd tried to build a bridge which might allow us to save what little we had left. But he had not cooperated. He'd refused to do his part to save our partnership. And so I left, and as I drove away from Alexandria and back towards D.C. I truly believed that it was finally over. Something wouldn't let me give up, though. As I sat on our old bench by the Reflecting Pool, trying to say goodbye to Mulder in my mind, I found myself unable to let go. I kept remembering all the things we'd been through together, everything we'd seen and heard and said and done, and I just couldn't put that down and walk away. I couldn't leave him, no matter how much part of me wanted to. And so at length I dried my eyes and blew my nose, and I headed back to Mulder's place. Finally I stood in front of his door, trying to work up the courage to knock. A small corner of my mind suggested that maybe he was asleep at last, and that I should leave him be and we could address these problems tomorrow. But I knew better than to really believe that. Mulder hadn't slept since El Rico, and I knew he wouldn't be asleep now. I gathered up all my courage and knocked lightly on the door. For a moment I thought perhaps he hadn't heard me. It was so still and quiet; I couldn't even hear the TV playing, and that worried me more than anything. Mulder always has the television on; if he'd turned it off that meant he was in a very dark place indeed. Abruptly the door swung open, and my partner stood in front of me. The lights were out in his apartment, and his face was lost in shadow. He seemed so calm, so still, and I felt a shiver of fear race down my spine -- and in that moment, I knew I'd done the right thing to come back. "Mulder," I said, "we need to talk." And he nodded slightly, and turned on the light and allowed me to enter his apartment. # # # It's past 12:30 now, which means we are definitely going to be late getting back to work. I've finally exhausted the possibilities in examining Mr. Jefferson's portrait, and I've had the Ten Commandments committed to memory since I was seven, and so I've resorted to studying the back of my partner's hand. It's really quite an interesting hand. Long lean fingers, such as you might find on an artist or a musician. The knuckles are well-defined, but not so prominent as to be considered gaunt or bony. Good muscle tone, and I know from experience that his grip is firm and controlled without being overbearing. I turn his hand over in mine, and now I study the palm. The soft, fleshy pads of his fingertips. The bold pattern of creases and indentations. The underlying structure of bone and tendon and ligament. The barely discernible network of veins and capillaries. "Scully?" I flush slightly as I realize I've been studying and manipulating Mulder's hand as I would that of someone on my autopsy table, and I hesitantly look up at his face. But there is no reproach there, nor any sign of the weariness and resignation which I've seen in his features so often these past few months. Instead I see a glint of the old humor in his eye -- and unless I am greatly mistaken, there is a hint of tenderness, as well. Has that been there all along, and I've just been missing it? Or is it something new? Before I have time to examine that question, however, the door across the way swings open, and my attention is drawn to the middle aged woman who earlier took our names and told us we'd have to wait for a few minutes. "Fox and Dana?" she says, and there is a friendly smile on her face. "We're ready for you now." As we rise to our feet I hear Mulder mutter something which sounds suspiciously like, "Geronimo." I couldn't have put it better myself. # # # "Scully ... I don't know what to say." At last Mulder spoke, breaking the silence which had hung heavy between us since my arrival twenty minutes earlier. We were sitting on opposite ends of his sofa, and at the sound of his voice I lifted my gaze from the floor and looked at my partner. God, he was hurting. He was hurting so terribly much. In that first instant all I could see was his pain, and I so wanted to reach out and comfort him. I very nearly did. But I couldn't. I just couldn't. The anger of two days before was gone, but in its place there was a dull, burning ache, and I could not simply set that to one side, no matter how much I wanted to. And so after the briefest of hesitations I looked away again, and resumed staring at the floor. "Scully?" he whispered. I closed my eyes and shook my head. Not this time, Mulder, I thought. Not this time. I've done as much as I can simply by coming here tonight. I can't do anymore. Not this time. I felt the sofa sag a little as he shifted his weight, and I tensed slightly lest he try to touch me. But either he'd never intended to do that, or he thought better of it. And after another moment he spoke again. "Scully," he said, using my name as if it were a talisman. "Scully. I don't know what you expect of me. I don't know why you came back." He paused, just long enough for my heart to begin to break. Then: "But I'm glad you did." I let out a breath which I hadn't realized I was holding, and at last I was able to open my eyes and look at him again. But still I could not speak; the hurt was just too strong. It was almost more than I could bear just to sit silently in the room with him. I knew that he was hurting too; I could feel it radiating off of him in waves. But I couldn't find the strength to respond. I just couldn't do it. "Scully," he repeated, and now that I was looking at him I could not ignore how much this was costing him. He looked as if he was tearing each word from his own flesh before offering it up to me -- and I was letting him do it. Worst of all, deep down inside a small part of me was glad. "Scully," he said to me one more time, shaking his head. "Scully, I don't know any way to say this other than what I've said before. If I knew how, I would; you know that." Somehow, I managed the tiniest of nods, encouraging him to continue. "You finish me, Scully," he went on, his voice a tragic whisper. "You make me what I am. If it weren't for you I would have long since withered up and blown away. It's all because of you, Scully. Everything is because of you." It wasn't enough. God, how I wanted it to be enough, but it just wasn't. As his words flowed over and around me I tried to make them fit, I tried to use them to fill in that terrible emptiness, but still the void remained. Almost against my will, I compared what he'd just said to the words he'd spoken last summer, when we'd both thought that I was leaving. I remembered the sense of utter loss and despair I'd felt then, and I remembered the rising hope as his words -- just what I'd come there hoping to hear, I realized later -- soaked into my soul and seemed to offer salvation. "You make me a whole person," he'd said then. And I'd believed him, because I so wanted it to be true. I still did. But I couldn't do it again. Despite everything we meant to each other, despite all that we'd been through together, I could no longer put my blind trust in this man's words. No matter how much I wanted to. No matter how much part of me desperately needed to. I think he must have read my answer in my eyes before I started speaking, because even as I opened my mouth to respond I could see him shutting down, and getting ready to turn out the lights. But not even that was enough this time. Not even that. "I've heard that speech before, Mulder," I said, very softly. "Last summer. Right outside that door. It didn't work out the way either of us hoped, I think. I know it didn't work out the way *I* hoped. And this time it just isn't enough. This time, I need something more." He sat silently for a moment, simply looking at me. Finally, his voice even softer than my own, he replied, "That sounds suspiciously like an ultimatum, Scully." I shook my head. "No," I said. "No, it's not an ultimatum. I gave you the ultimatum two days ago in the Gunmen's office. This is your second chance, Mulder; this is me coming back and saying I don't want to follow through on what I said then." Work with me on this, Mulder, I thought. Don't force me to make this decision. Please don't force me to do this. Don't force me to leave you forever. He frowned. "This is about Diana, isn't it?" he asked. "Of course it's about Diana!" I snapped, trying and failing to keep the sudden surge of anger from my voice. My God, I wondered. How could this man be so brilliant and so stupid, all at the same time? He's a profiler, for God's sake; how could he not understand? "Can't you see that by now, Mulder?" I continued. "How many times and how many ways do I have to say this? I've been by your side for nearly six years, and I need to know that you're by *my* side, rather than hers." He tried to speak, but fell silent as I shook my head. I'd thought about this so often in the past year -- worried over it, obsessed over it, and now even *cried* over it -- that it almost seemed like a preprogrammed speech. I could only hope he would be able to hear the truth in what I was saying. He hadn't heard me in the Gunmen's office, but maybe now, after all that had happened as a consequence of that error .... "When I follow you off to the far corners of the earth," I said abruptly, "I need to know that it's you I'm following, not her. Because I don't trust her, Mulder -- you're the only one I trust. And because you were right in what you said the other night: It *is* personal for me, and it has been for a long time. I don't want to give that up, but you have to give me something. Some sort of reassurance. Something tangible, something I can depend on, to tell me that you and I are in this for the long haul. Together, Mulder. You and me, together." His lips quirked at my words, and for just an instant I saw the playful, spirited man I used to know -- and then from somewhere I had a sudden premonition of what he was about to say. "You sound like you want to get married or something, Scully." I paused and blinked, and in the space between two heartbeats a jumble of images flashed through my mind: -- Me and Melissa giggling in our beds after lights out as we one-upped each other in imagining the most lavish wedding possible. -- Dancing with Marcus Hollister at the senior prom, and realizing with regret that he would not be the one. -- Lying in bed with Tom Danforth the afternoon I lost my virginity, terrified that I might be pregnant and wondering what I was going to do if I was. -- Filling out applications for medical school and suddenly realizing that I hadn't seriously considered the question of a husband and children for years. -- Leaving Jack Willis' apartment for the last time, after that horrible fight the night he proposed. -- Sending Mulder away when he tried to comfort me, and then lying down next to Emily and waiting for her to die. -- Hearing Mulder's voice on my cell phone asking me to marry him, and feeling a strange flutter of ... something ... in the brief instant before I turned his words aside. -- Mulder's lips lightly touching mine for one eternal instant as we stood in the hallway outside this very apartment. And then time started up again, and I was sitting on Mulder's sofa and looking up into his eyes, and very soberly I said, "Maybe I would." # # # I'm sitting in the passenger seat of Mulder's car as we make our way through the late lunch hour traffic. The ceremony didn't take very long; only ten minutes or so, fully half of which was consumed by the magistrate's desire to "get to know" us. But finally we each said the necessary words and signed the necessary papers, and now we're in the car and on our way back to work. I don't feel any different yet. I turn in my seat and look at Mulder. He wants me to believe that all of his attention is focused on the traffic, but I know better. Inside that mind of his, wheels are turning. Just as they are in mine. I wish I understood a little better how this all came to pass. Even more, I wish I knew what's supposed to happen next. There are so many questions we haven't answered -- haven't even addressed. So many things we still need to work out. So many things I still want to know. Will we live together? If so, where? How will we tell our families? *When* will we tell our families? We never really discussed it, but somehow we've arrived at an agreement to keep this to ourselves, at least for the time being. My mother will be hurt, and my brothers will be furious -- but I didn't do this for them. I did this for me. For us. To save what we had. To save each other. God. Will we sleep together? Married people typically do -- but there is very little about my relationship with Fox Mulder which can reasonably be characterized as typical. We haven't even bothered to buy rings. Mulder is pulling into the underground parking garage at the Hoover Building. In a few more minutes we'll be getting out of the car and walking back inside, back to the bullpen with all the other agents, where we'll proceed to spend the afternoon doing paperwork and conducting background checks. Just as we did yesterday, and just as we'll do tomorrow. We've met with Skinner and Kersh and Spender, and we have hopes that we may soon get the X-Files back. But so far that's all it is -- a hope. As of right now, nothing has changed. It is still possible that nothing *will* change. Unless we decide to make it change. The car comes to a halt and Mulder switches off the engine, and for a moment we just sit together in silence. He seems to be studying the dashboard, and for a moment I think he's trying to come up with something to say, but then I realize the truth: He's waiting. Waiting for *me* to say something. And somewhere, deep down inside, I find the courage. "Mulder?" I say, very softly. His mouth twitches slightly, and then he turns his head to look at me. In his eyes I see everything I'd ever hoped would be there, and I reach out one hand and lay it on top of his as it rests on the steering wheel. "After work, would you like to come over to my place? We could have dinner and ... talk." A slow smile spreads across his face, and he says, "Yeah, Scully. I'd like that." And then he leans over and kisses me on the mouth, giving me a provisional answer to at least one of my questions. And that's good enough for a start. ================== One Son: CHAPTER THREE - Objects in Motion ================== I'm going to wear a hole in this carpet if I'm not careful. I've been pacing back and forth through my apartment for something like twenty minutes now. I glance at my watch. Twenty-three minutes, to be precise. It is now 6:54 p.m., and Mulder is due to arrive in exactly six minutes. I tried sitting on the sofa, but it didn't work. Isaac Newton said that objects in motion tend to remain in motion unless acted upon by an outside force, and I guess maybe that law applies to me tonight, because I just can't seem to stay still. Or maybe I'm just nervous. It's been a little over two hours since we parted company at the Hoover Building. I've spent most of the intervening time getting ready -- putting together dinner and, God help me, changing clothes three times, from the skin out. Which makes no sense at all. Mulder has seen me in just about every state of dress and undress imaginable -- down to and including stark naked and covered with sticky green goo. Still, somehow it seems to matter how I look tonight. I guess in a way it's like getting ready for a date. A blind date. With my husband. Jesus. I can't believe I'm actually doing this. I can't believe I've actually *done* this. I can't believe I've actually married Fox Mulder. Forty-eight hours ago the thought had not even entered my mind. Forty-eight hours ago I was ready to call it quits, and walk out -- on Mulder, on the X-Files, maybe even on the whole damned Bureau. Now I'm more committed than I ever was before. Or maybe I should just *be* committed. Or something. I stop pacing for a moment and stare at the small collection of photographs sitting on the bookcase. Pictures of my family: Mom and Ahab; Melissa; Bill and Tara and Matthew; Charlie and Betty and their kids. Bill, especially, seems to be staring back at me accusingly, but the others don't look too happy at the moment, either. Except for Matthew, of course. He's too young to care. There's a knock on the door and I glance again at my watch. 6:59 p.m. Mulder is actually punctual tonight. Well, he has reason to be. I move to the door and pull it open, and there he is. Fox William Mulder, Oxford educated psychologist and Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. My husband. I turn the word over in my mind: Husband. Husband. Husband. *My* husband. Dear God. "Scully?" he says. "Can I come in?" I realize with a start that I've been standing here in the doorway staring at him, mesmerized by his sudden presence. He's gorgeous, simply gorgeous. It has been a very long time since I've allowed myself to notice this about my partner, but there's no denying it. He's dressed in black jeans, a white t-shirt and a v-necked pullover sweater which I don't remember seeing before, and the overall effect is absolutely ... something. And he's holding flowers. Two of them. One red rose and one white one. "Scully?" he says again -- and I'm finally prompted to move out of the doorway and allow him to enter. As I do so I realize that he's looking at me, too, openly checking me out for the first time in years. And it looks as if he likes what he sees. I look down at myself and realize with embarrassment that I'm wearing what could be construed to be makeout clothes: My nicest pair of casual slacks and my loose-fitting, low-cut, blue angora sweater. I bought the sweater because I thought it went well with my eyes, but from the expression on Mulder's face it obviously has other qualities as well. The thing is, I only put it on tonight because it's comfortable. I think. This is just one of the many things we have to work out. The whole question of sex, I mean. I don't think it's going to happen tonight -- that is, actual sex is not going to happen tonight-- but we may be able to talk about it a bit. Along with all the other myriad details which we never quite addressed before we drove over to that courthouse in Virginia at lunchtime today and swore we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. I've been working on a list. "I brought you some flowers," Mulder says unnecessarily. Who else would they be for, after all? But the way he stutters it out is actually very endearing, and I find it reassuring to know that he's just as nervous as I am. "Thank you, Mulder," I say, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice as I take the two roses from him. White for friendship, red for .... "I didn't know which color you liked best," he explains, and now he sounds even more nervous. "So I got one of each." I stand there in front of him for a moment studying the flowers, not saying anything. Despite the subterfuge, it's easy to see that Mulder is actually asking me a question, in his own oblique, idiosyncratic way. And it would be so easy just to take the white rose and be done with it. It would resolve a lot of the stickiest issues and questions emanating from our actions of the past two days. It really would. But I can't do that. I can't do that to him, and I can't do that to myself. Most of all, I can't do that to *us*. Us, I remind myself. Since this afternoon it's no longer him, or me. It's us. "Thank you Mulder," I say again, very softly. "I think I'd like to keep them both, if that's okay." I dare to look up at him, and judging from the relieved smile on his face I must have picked the right answer. I reach out with my free hand and lightly touch the back of his, then turn away to get a vase from the kitchen. I stand in the kitchen looking at the roses for just another minute after I put them in the vase. They really are beautiful, and the symbolism is touching. So Mulder is a romantic. I wonder how I managed not to know that? Maybe this marriage is going to have some fun in it after all. Before going back to the living room I turn the heat on under the pot of water I left sitting on the stove earlier and throw in some vermicelli. The herbed butter sauce is already simmering, so I just give it a quick stir, then grab the bottle of sparkling cider from the fridge and two glasses from the cupboard and head back out to Mulder. I find him standing in front of the bookcase, examining the same pictures of my family which I had looked at earlier. He doesn't seem to have heard me come back in the room, so I quietly set the bottle and glasses down on the coffee table and then move up behind him. I hesitate for just a moment, and then I remind myself that this is my *husband* standing here, and that I'm allowed to show some affection towards him. And so I take the last two steps until I'm standing next to him, and tentatively slide my arm around his waist. He jumps slight at my touch, but I don't mind that. I'm kind of jumpy myself this evening. Then he puts his arm around my shoulder, and glances down at me for a second and nods his head in the direction of the photos. "You have a nice family, Scully," he says, just a hint of wistfulness in his voice. "Very normal and wholesome. Coming from anyone else in some other context those words might seem self-pitying, but Mulder and I have been through a lot together, and I know exactly what he means. He's referring to this whole "normal life" discussion that he and I have been intermittently carrying on ever since the X-Files were taken away from us at the end of last summer. There are some incredibly subtle shades of nuance in his simple statement -- and as is so often the case with Fox Mulder, he's asking a question which is very different from what he seems to have said. "They like who they are and what they're part of," I offer. "They're happy." I pause, then continue, "But I don't think I would be. There was a time when I could have been like that -- " and now it's my turn to nod at the photographs " -- but that was a long time ago." I raise my eyes to meet his, and I finish, "I've told you before, Mulder: Even if I could, I wouldn't change a single day." "They're your family, Scully," he replies, very softly. "Yes, they are," I acknowledge, my own voice equally soft. I can't force myself to go on; I can't force myself to say the rest of what I'm thinking, and tell Mulder that I've made my decision and that I'm happy with it. I only hope he can read it in my eyes. It seems he and I still have a few issues to work through. # # # It's later. Dinner is over, and Mulder and I are sitting curled up on my sofa, not quite cuddling, but just a little closer and more intimate than mere friends would be. I've discovered I like this; I like it a lot. I like the warmth of his body only a few inches from mine. I like the gentle comfort of his touch. I like the fact that we can sit here holding hands and watching television, just sharing some quiet time together. I like the soft rumble of his voice, and the friendly company of his laugh -- a laugh which I have not heard in so very, very long. I like everything about this. Maybe we really can make a go of this. I have to admit that despite the determination I've been projecting the past two days, I have had my doubts. I still do, but they seem to be slowly fading. I don't kid myself that we're over the hump by any means, and I know there are still plenty of challenges ahead of us. But I'm beginning to feel pretty good about my relationship with Mulder -- for the first time, really, in more than two years. One challenge we face at the moment is figuring out how to draw this evening to a close. It's getting late, and we both need our rest. The problem is, I don't quite know how to ask him to leave. "Scully?" Mulder says. "Would you be upset if I went home now? It's been a long day, and I have a few things I need to do around my place before I hit the hay." I feel a slow smile spread across my face. Score one for non-verbal communication. I turn to face him, and dammit, this time I'm going to give in to temptation, just a little. I slip one hand behind his head and draw his mouth to mine. "That's fine, Mulder," I murmur, just before our lips meet. "I've got some things I need to get done myself." And then I kiss him. It's not a great kiss, but it's a good kiss. Much better than the one in his car this afternoon. I think we're both just a little too nervous for it to be a great kiss, but this too is something that will come with time. Finally I release him, and we share a smile. I wait for him to get up and leave, but it seems he still has something on his mind. I wait patiently for him to work up his courage, and then my eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he suddenly starts digging in his pocket. "Mulder?" "I brought something for you," he explains, and his hand emerges from his pocket and he opens it to display a ring. Not an engagement ring or a wedding ring; a heavy gold ring, suitable for a man's hand. I feel my pulse speed up a bit, and I reach out and take the ring from him, and I turn it over and examine it. There's a large blue-green stone, and as I look closer I realize there's a small crest of some sort with what looks to be a diamond chip on it. Studying it still closer, I discover that the crest is a stylized rendition of the letters CHS, and on the inside is an inscription: FWM, 5/24/80. It's his high school class ring. My vision is suddenly blurry, and I shift my gaze back up from the ring to my partner. He appears nervous and embarrassed, but more than anything else he appears determined. "I've thought and thought," he explains, his voice almost breathtaking in its sudden shyness. "Trying to think of something I could give you as a ... present. This is the only thing I have that really seems appropriate. I know we haven't talked about rings and we may not want to wear them under the circumstances and this is kind of cheesy at our age, but -- " "It's beautiful," I say, cutting him off. "I like it. Thank you." I pull his head down again and we share another kiss. This one is better than the last, but not as good as the next will be. There is promise here, promise of wonderful things to come. Promise that we *will* be able to work out all the other problems which still are unresolved. This time when our lips finally separate I find myself a little short of breath -- and Mulder is, too. Again we both smile, and he lifts his hand and lightly caresses my cheek. I lean into his touch, just a little, and I close my eyes, and for a minute we simply share the quiet. At last he rises from the sofa and heads for the door. He stops with his hand on the knob and turns back to look at me. "See you tomorrow?" he not-quite-asks. "Wouldn't miss it," I reply with a smile -- and I wonder how long it will be before we don't feel the need to say goodbye at the end of the evening. Mulder smiles back, then he pulls the door open and in another moment he's gone. I stay sitting on the sofa for several minutes, thinking about everything that's happened here this evening. I'd thought we were going to talk about things tonight -- all the details, both trivial and important, and all the changes that lie ahead. Money, living arrangements, sex -- all the things that most people work out *before* they get married. And of course there's still the small matter of Agent Fowley and his misplaced trust in her .... I shake my head and push those thoughts away. We do still need to talk about those things, but I guess they can wait. Establishing a comfort level, which I now realize is what we've been working on tonight, is more important, and even a necessary prerequisite to all those other discussions we're going to have down the road. We're still not there yet -- we're still not where *I* want us to be, and I don't think we're where Mulder wants us, either. But at least we've taken a step in the right direction. Objects in motion tend to remain in motion, unless acted upon by an outside force. Two days ago Mulder and I were in motion, all right, but we were moving away from each other. Now we've been acted on by an outside force -- Diana Fowley -- and we're finally growing closer. We're still in motion, though. We probably always will be. It's not in either of our natures to remain still for long. And now I'm tired. I'm really, really tired. It's been a long stressful day -- hell, it's been a long, stressful week -- and I truly do need to get some rest. But first I have two things I need to do. The first is easy. I reach up behind my neck and unclasp the chain which holds my cross. I thread Mulder's class ring onto the chain, then fasten it back in place. The ring is cool and heavy lying against my skin, and its presence comforts me. I touch it lightly with my fingertips, and I try to imagine the gawky, unhappy boy who wore this ring so many years ago. That gawky boy has grown into the man who sat on my sofa tonight and kissed me so thoroughly, and I desperately want to know more about both of them. Someday I hope I'll have the opportunity. Now for the harder of the two chores. I rise from the sofa and go to my desk. It takes a few minutes of rummaging in the drawers, but finally I find it: The one and only picture I have of Mulder. It's a crime scene photo, taken by one of the Bureau's official photographers. I don't even remember which case it's from anymore; it was taken years ago, very early in our partnership. It shows Mulder supervising the investigation, looking very calm and authoritative and in control. In the background there's a short, blurred figure with red hair -- me. And I'm watching his every move. Did I really used to be that person? I shake my head and move back over to the bookcase. For a moment I look once again at my family, considering where I want to put the newest member. Finally I prop Mulder's picture up against the one of Melissa. Tomorrow I'll stop by Wal-Mart and pick up a frame, but this will have to do for tonight. That shouldn't be a problem, though; Mulder can stand on his own for that long. I stand gazing at my newly enlarged family for just another minute, before I finally turn the lights off and go to bed. ================== Arcadia: CHAPTER FOUR - Sin of Omission ================== The good news is we've got the X-Files back! The bad news is -- we've got the X-Files back. I don't mean to suggest I'm unhappy about this -- and Scully seems pretty pleased about it, too. I certainly don't mean to be looking a gift horse in the mouth. But the timing could have been a little better. I mean, it wasn't even a week ago that Scully and I managed to dodge the metaphorical bullet and save the tattered remnants of our partnership. Somehow in the process we wound up married -- I still don't quite understand how that happened, although again, I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. When it comes to Dana Scully, I'll take whatever I can get. But the fact remains that we now have a huge number of issues to work through, both personal and professional, and it would be nice if we had a little breathing room to do it in. Trust the universe not to allow that to happen. Yesterday afternoon we were called into Skinner's office and informed that we had our old assignments back. This morning, before we even had a chance to go down to the old basement office and see what kind of shape it was in, he called us in again and told us that we're being sent out to the field. Immediately. As in, our flight leaves Washington National tomorrow morning at five, we have a briefing and other preparations at the San Diego field office scheduled to begin 30 minutes after we arrive, and then we're supposed to be on site by mid-afternoon. Oh yes -- and it's an undercover assignment. As husband and wife, no less. When God decides to play games with our heads, He doesn't fuck around. The end result of this is that we spent all of today -- Scully's birthday, when I had promised to take her out for an extended lunch at a nice restaurant -- cooped up in a conference room, eating stale sandwiches and receiving an intensive briefing on a series of mysterious disappearances at a planned community called the Falls at Arcadia. This doesn't really sound like an X-File to me, but what the hell. Skinner's got it classified as one, and it sure beats the manure patrol. God, that briefing was long. We were told what we will wear, how we will act, and what we're supposed to look for. We were even told what sort of food we're going to eat. My one contribution was our phony names: Rob and Laura Petrie. Nobody caught it except Scully -- of course -- who shot me such a glare that it should be no problem making people believe we're married. Especially since we are. Anyway, now we're in her car on the way to Georgetown, where I will spend the night on her sofa since we have to get up at such a godawful hour to catch our plane. We don't even need to pack; clothing and other personal necessities consistent with our cover identities will be waiting for us at the other end. At last we arrive at her apartment building, and I'm just starting to really look forward to the opportunity to take my shoes and necktie off and relax -- and suddenly my partner begins swearing. "Shit!" Scully says as she pulls into her parking spot. "My mother's here! Damn, damn, damn!" "Scully?" "I promised I'd let her take me out to dinner for my birthday," she explains. "But I got so wrapped up in the briefing I completely forgot. I was supposed to be here at six. Dammit, Mulder, I was looking forward to it, too!" She slams her hands on the steering wheel in apparent frustration, then climbs from the car and heads for the front door, and I have to hurry to catch up. As we wait for the elevator I take a moment to consider the situation. Mrs. Scully doesn't know yet that I've married her only remaining daughter. In fact, nobody knows, other than a few clerks and one magistrate at the Fairfax County Courthouse. Which means I am about to come face-to-face with a woman who does not yet know she's my mother-in-law. Christ. I'm not quite sure how we came to the decision to keep our marriage a secret. Certainly in the long run that's not going to work -- not if it's going to be a real marriage. But I have the impression that Scully isn't quite ready to go public, and that's okay with me. We both need some time to adjust to the situation, and it'll probably be easier to do if we don't have a lot of people watching our every move and second-guessing us. At least, that's what I keep telling myself. At last the elevator arrives and we get on board and ride up to Scully's floor. The walk down the hallway to her door seems to take forever, making me feel like a condemned prisoner being led to the gallows. I like Maggie Scully, and I'm not at all comfortable with the idea of lying to her, even if it is a sin of omission. Unfortunately, that's pretty much what we've been doing for the past week -- and if I feel this badly about it, it must be ten times worse for Scully. Just as we reach her door I grab her elbow and turn her to face me. We need to talk about this; we need to work out what we're going to do and say. We just stood in front of Skinner for the fifth work day in a row and kept it from him, but this is different. This is Scully's *mother*. But before I can even open my mouth to say anything, Scully arches an eyebrow at me and shakes her head, and I can hear the message as clearly as if she'd spoken the words: Shut up, Mulder, and follow my lead. I acquiesce. It's her mother, after all. She studies my face for a few seconds, then turns and unlocks the door and we both step across the threshold into the living room. Which is empty. I glance at Scully, and she shrugs. "Probably in the bathroom," she says. "Or went for a walk." She gets that nervous look which says she's about to kiss me, and then she does. It's a pretty good kiss, too. We got in a fair amount of practice over the weekend, and we're both finally starting to get comfortable with the touching that goes with a romantic relationship. "I'll be back in a minute," she adds after she finally releases me. "I want to get out of my work clothes." And she disappears down the hall in the direction of her bedroom. While I'm waiting I wander over to the shelf where Scully -- my wife, I remind myself -- keeps her family pictures. I have not yet told her how touched I was when I came over here the day after we were married and found that she'd added a photo of me to her collection. It has been a very long time since I had any real feelings of belonging or intimacy with either of my parents, and Scully's simple, quiet act of inclusion has made me feel warmer and better loved than I am comfortable admitting to her, at least yet. I only hope the rest of her family feels the same way when we finally get around to telling them -- although in the case of her older brother, at least, I realize that's probably asking a bit much. "Fox?" I turn to see Maggie Scully standing in the entrance to the hallway, apparently having just come from the bathroom. "Mrs. Scully," I say, moving forward to greet her. "Scu -- Dana will be out in just a minute. She just went down the hall to change. I'm surprised you didn't bump into her." "I see." Her manner seems slightly stiff; I guess she must be a little angry at having been stood up. "I'm sorry Dana wasn't here when she said she would be," I go on, hoping to smooth things over. This *is* my mother-in-law, after all, even if she doesn't know it yet. "We just got a new assignment and the briefing took longer than we'd hoped, and Dana forgot to call." Mrs. Scully nods in acknowledgement of this information, but it seems to do nothing to alleviate her annoyance. I'm forced to remind myself that I really don't know this woman very well. We spent a fair amount of time together after Scully was abducted by Duane Barry, but that was years ago, and a lot has changed since then -- not all of it for the better. I am uneasily aware that there is more than a little justice in Bill Scully's reasons for disliking me, and I can't help but wonder if some of that dislike hasn't rubbed off on his mother. If that turns out to be true, it's going to make it that much harder when we do finally break the news to her. Which may well be tonight. "Mom?" We both turn to see Scully emerging from the hallway. She's changed out of her suit and is now wearing soft gray slacks and a light blue blouse which sets off her hair and eyes. She's been dressing in a more casually feminine style during our non-work time this past week, and that's one change of which I wholeheartedly approve. "Mom," Scully repeats, moving forward to hug her mother. "I'm so sorry. We had a meeting at work and it ran late, and I --" "Yes, Fox was just telling me about it," Mrs. Scully replies, cutting her off -- and if I wasn't sure before, I am now. This woman is angry -- more angry than seems reasonable at what appears to me to be a fairly minor offense. Mrs. Scully steps out of her daughter's embrace and moves a few steps away before continuing. "I suppose if you've got a new assignment that means you're going to be busy this evening getting ready, so I'd better be going." And she starts to walk towards the door. "Mom?" Scully's voice is showing the strain; it's obvious she's picked up on her mother's feelings. "Mom, what's wrong?" Mrs. Scully hesitates, her hand on the doorknob. I can see from the set of her shoulders that she just wants to keep on going, but she apparently can't quite bring herself to do it. Unfortunately, I don't know her well enough to know whether that's good or bad. And then she apparently settles her internal debate and turns to face her daughter again. "When were you planning to tell me, Dana?" she snaps. Oh my god. She knows. I don't know how she knows, but she knows. "T-tell you?" Scully stutters. "Tell you what?" From the look on her face I can see that she's drawn the same conclusion I have, but she apparently couldn't keep herself from trying to dodge the question. "Oh, come on, Dana," Mrs. Scully replies, the anger rising in her voice. "It's bad enough that you cut me out of this; please don't play stupid with me as well." She gestures at Scully's desk, where a small stack of personal papers sits waiting to be processed or filed. "You left your marriage license lying out in plain sight." Scully's gaze flicks briefly at me, and I can see in her expression that even now she's considering denying our marriage -- denying *me* -- but then she looks back at her mother, takes a deep breath, and says, "Mom, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to find out this way, but it just ... sort of ... happened." "'Just sort of happened,' Dana?" Mrs. Scully replies, mimicking her daughter's tone. "'Just sort of happened?' To *you*?" She shakes her head and takes a couple of steps towards Scully, who right this minute is looking pretty damned small and lost and vulnerable. I wish I could do something to make this better, but even I have enough sense to realize that anything I say or do right now will almost certainly just make matters worse. "More than any of us," Maggie Scully continues, "you were the one who always had everything planned out in advance. A place for everything, and everything in its place -- including love and marriage. And you want me to believe that you just woke up one morning and decided to get married -- and then you simply forgot to tell me? I'm sorry, Dana, but I can't believe that." I wince at her words, and I want to break in and tell her that's pretty much exactly what happened, and that she's trivializing the pain and heartache the two of us went through to get where we are. But it won't help, I remind myself, and she's clearly not in a mood to listen even if it would. So I remain silent. "Mom -- " "Save it," her mother replies. "Don't even bother to try. You've been progressively shutting the family out of your life ever since you joined the FBI, and I guess I shouldn't be surprised that it's finally come to this." And she turns and walks to the door. "Mom, wait!" Scully runs after her mother and catches up with her just as the older woman opens the door to leave. "Mom, *please* don't go. I want to talk -- " Mrs. Scully hesitates, then turns back to her daughter -- and I'm relieved to see that her features have softened, just a bit. "We'll talk, Dana," she says. There's still a grim undercurrent to her voice, but it seems suddenly a little less implacable. "We'll talk. Just not ... not right now." She looks over at me. "I'm sorry Fox," she adds. "I know this should be a happy occasion, but I'm just not up to it right now." "I'm sorry too, Mrs. Scully," I say, very softly. "Neither one of us wanted it to be like this." She nods slightly, then looks back at her daughter and her features soften even further. "I'm sorry, Dana," she says. "It's just come as a bit of a shock. Call me when you get back from wherever you're going." And then she turns and walks out of the apartment, closing the door quietly behind her. ================== Arcadia: CHAPTER FIVE - Fallout ================== I'm trying to figure out just what's gotten into Scully these past few days.. I'm pretty sure it's got something to do with our stay at the Falls at Arcadia. Just what, I don't know, because it seemed to me that things went pretty smoothly, considering it was our first time in the field together since last summer -- and especially considering the personal challenge it presented to both of us. Having to pose as husband and wife in order to conduct our investigation of the planned community was pretty well guaranteed to present us with problems -- especially in light of our *actual* marriage ten days ago. But somewhat to my surprise, we seem to have passed that test with flying colors. I suppose Scully's upset must have something to do with that horrible confrontation with her mother the night before we left. I can see Mrs. Scully's position, of course. Oh boy can I see it. It must have come as quite a shock to her to let herself into her daughter's apartment and discover our marriage license sitting there on the desk. But that doesn't change the fact that Scully ... my Scully ... Dana ... my *wife*, dammit ... was pretty badly hurt by some of the things her mother said to her that night. And I can understand that, too, and I can't help feeling partly responsible for having driven a wedge between my partner and her mother -- and probably the rest of her family, too. So, yeah, that's probably what's been bothering her. Scully started giving me a hard time almost as soon as we arrived in Arcadia -- even going so far as to heckle me about squeezing the toothpaste wrong and leaving the toilet seat up. By the time we got back to DC it was no surprise to me that she didn't invite me back to her apartment to unwind. I may not have been married very long, but I've had enough experience with women to know when I'm in the doghouse -- even if I don't understand why. It even occurred to me to wonder whether she's going to keep our date for this afternoon -- but she hasn't called to cancel, so I here I am, pulling into the parking lot at the new shopping mall in Chevy Chase. The venue was Scully's choice, but the basic concept was mine. We've been working on establishing a comfort zone, adjusting to the idea of being married and all that it entails. Most of this has taken place either at her apartment or mine, and at the end of last weekend I had hesitantly suggested that it was time to take the show on the road, so to speak, and start getting used to being a couple in public. Somewhat to my surprise, she agreed -- but then, one of Scully's strengths is her ability to face up to reality and do whatever is necessary. So here we are, about to embark on our first real "date", window shopping at the mall of all things. As I said, it was Scully's choice, but I don't really mind -- assuming she shows up, of course. I park my car and make my way into the mall. The original plan was to come here on Saturday, but since we wound up spending the weekend working, we rescheduled for Monday afternoon. And I have to admit that it's actually not too bad here, at least in terms of crowds. All the kids are in school, of course, and a lot of adults are at work, leaving the place comparatively empty. Well, almost all the kids are in school. As I stand in the entryway a small group of teenagers -- three boys and two girls -- push roughly past me into the mall. For an instant I'm tempted to go after them, and I have visions of taking them down with a bark of, "Federal agent! Freeze!" But then I have additional visions, visions which involve explaining to Skinner why I was spending my day off using my badge and gun to enforce truancy laws in suburban Maryland. And so I desist. A few minutes later, having checked the directory by the main entrance, I find myself drifting slowly in the direction of the food court, which is where I'm supposed to meet Scully in twenty minutes or so. There's a definite sameness to all of the shops I pass, despite the variety of products they offer. It seems so strange to me that Scully would be drawn to a place like this. She's so alive and vital and original, while malls have always seemed to me to be sterile places, stamped out of plastic and mediocrity. Still, I remind myself, Scully must like it here, or she wouldn't have made the suggestion. And so I amble along, not paying much heed to the other shoppers. I have to admit that it's nice just to stroll along at loose ends, not needing to be anywhere at any particular time, and not having to watch every passerby against the possibility that he's an enemy. The only thing I can think of that might improve the situation would be to have Scully with me, and she'll be here soon enough. Maybe I'm beginning to see the point to this after all. After a few minutes I come to a stop in front of a jewelry store. I hadn't been planning this; I haven't even been consciously thinking about the possibility of buying Scully a ring. She seems pretty happy with my class ring, as corny as that may sound, and I'd sort of assumed we were going to leave it at that, at least for now. It's not as if we don't have plenty of *other* issues we need to settle. However I got here, I am now standing in front of this jewelry store, looking in the window and trying to get up the nerve to go inside. And I'm having a sudden flashback to the last time I visited a jewelry store with this purpose in mind. It was in early 1989, and Diana was with me that time, of course. We spent a pleasant afternoon hitting every jewelry store in Georgetown that we could find. We finally settled on a pair of simple gold bands, then went out to dinner before going back to my place to celebrate. I can barely remember being that person. Diana and I had been together for nearly three years at that point, and we thought we were ready to make the commitment. Practical obstacles kept getting in the way, and we never did set a date, but we wore the rings as a sort of promise -- right up until the day she left for Europe, more than a year later. I even continued wearing mine for several months after that. I assumed she was coming back, of course; she never did quite explain how she got that assignment, but she promised me that it was temporary, and that when she came back we would finally finish what we'd started. I believed her, of course, and I still think she was sincere about her intentions. Then her letters stopped coming. I shake my head and try to force the memories away -- and it occurs to me that my relationship with Diana is probably not the most suitable or constructive topic for reflection under the present circumstances. It is, of course, one of the most important sore points still remaining between Scully and me, and although I know we're going to have to deal with it at some point, I don't think today is the best day for it. Besides, we're supposed to be having fun this afternoon. "Is this spot taken?" I can't help but smile at the familiar words, and I turn to see Scully standing beside and a little behind me. She smiles back, and takes my hand, and there's hardly any awkwardness at all as she leans up and kisses me briefly. I guess maybe I'm forgiven for whatever transgressions I may have committed. I suppose I should be grateful for that, but I'd still like to know what I did. "Actually, it is," I say, once my mouth is free. "It has been for awhile." That elicits another smile. "And the woman who's taken it -- she sometimes experiences violent impulses." "Well, I'm armed, so I'll take my chances," she replies, and at this point we're both grinning like idiots, so I kiss her again. Finally we break the clench, and Scully raises an eyebrow and nods at the jewelry store window. She doesn't even have to say anything; I can see the question in her eyes, and suddenly I'm nervous all over again. There's something in her manner that isn't quite right, despite her apparently outgoing mood. "Well, you said window shopping," I point out, trying to keep the unease from my voice. "This is a window. I was shopping." She studies my face for a moment, and if I wasn't sure before, I am now. Something's wrong. For just an instant she looks as if she wants to say something in response to my comment, but then she just snorts softly and tugs on my hand, leading me away from the jewelry store and on in the direction of the food court. "Come on, Mulder," she says. "I'm hungry." As we stand in line at Taco Bell I spend a few minutes pondering the situation. The only things clear about it are that Scully is upset about something, and that she has deflected me from considering buying wedding rings. *Why* she did so is a mystery. Does she not need a ring? Does she not want to spend the money on something we couldn't wear most of the time anyway? Or is there some other thread of Scully logic that I'm just completely failing to see? Is she having second thoughts about the whole marriage? I don't know where the hell *that* idea came from, but I instantly reject it. Whatever else may be wrong, I know that can't be true. Scully wouldn't do that to me. She wouldn't jump into something like this if she wasn't absolutely sure it was what she wanted, and it would take more than a few days of stupidity from me -- from her husband -- to make her decide she wanted out. God, I hope that's true. Suddenly I feel very claustrophobic and oppressed. I don't know where all these people came from; the rest of the mall is almost deserted, but the food court is actually crowded. They couldn't all have come here just to eat, could they? Eventually we reach the front of the line and place our orders, and a few minutes later we're making our way through the knot of people and sliding into seats at one of the ridiculously small tables. For a few minutes we both concentrate on our food. Scully doesn't talk much when she's eating, and in this instance that's fine with me, because it gives me a little time to collect my thoughts. Not very much time, as it turns out. She eats about half of her burrito, then sets it down with a sigh and catches my eye -- and I've already been married long enough to know what *that* means, so I swallow the bite I'm working on, and push the tray a little to one side. Clearing the decks for action, so to speak. "Mulder, why did we get married?" Oh my god. She *is* having second thoughts. I feel as if I've just been pitched headfirst into a bucket of ice water, and I am suddenly acutely aware of exactly how easy it would be to have this marriage annulled and just walk away from it. I've got to find a way to talk her out of this. Unfortunately, the only thing I can think of to say is, "W-why? I thought you wanted to get married." She nods slightly. "I did. I do. I'm very happy with my decision." Before I can even breathe a sigh of relief, she goes on, "But that's not an 'us' answer, Mulder. That's a 'me' answer. If the only reason we got married was because I wanted to, that's not good enough." I can't think of anything to say to that. I'll admit, if only to myself, that I didn't expect her to take me seriously when I suggested we get married, that night in my apartment. But that doesn't mean I was insincere when I took those vows, does it? Does it? But Scully isn't giving me much time for introspection today. "Mulder," she says, "why did you act the way you did in Arcadia?" "I -- I don't understand, Scully. How did I act?" She stares at me in apparent disbelief for a pair of minutes, and if my stomach hadn't already sunk through the floor it would now be doing so. "Scully? I say quietly, "I really don't understand. Help me out here." She shakes her head slowly. "You really don't know?" I know better than to answer that question; instead, I just wait. Finally she says, "Mulder, you were ... " Her voice trails off, and she seems to be struggling to find the words -- and suddenly there are unshed tears in her eyes. I want to reach out and wipe them away, but something tells me touching her at this point would be a bad idea. So I continue to wait. Finally it all comes out at once: "Mulder, you were treating the whole thing as if it were a joke. You were treating *me* as a joke. And I had to stand there and take it, and play the part of the happy housewife for the sake of our cover. While *you* were mugging around and making a fool out of me." "Scully, I never intended --" "No, Mulder," she snaps. "No, you never do intend to, do you? You never intend to ditch me, you never intend to ignore my advice or embarrass me, you never intend to -- " her eyes widen slightly as if she hadn't realized what she was about to say " -- hurt my feelings." Her words hang between us for an extended moment, and I'm just beginning to realize that I'm supposed to say something -- an apology, maybe -- when she speaks again. "I think I need some time to myself," she says, rising quietly to her feet. She turns to go, but she's only gone a few steps before she turns back again, and now I see she's got her hand resting lightly on her chest, right at the spot where the ring I gave her hangs beneath her blouse. "This wasn't a mistake, Mulder," she says quietly. "Arcadia was just a little too much, too soon, and I ... I need some time. I'll see you tomorrow at work, okay?" I nod dumbly, and she forces a little smile. Then she turns away again and threads her way through the crowd of strangers. Away from me. And I just sit there at the table watching her go. I think this is going to be a long night. ================== Monday: CHAPTER SIX - All the Myriad Ways ================== As I first awaken I'm afraid to open my eyes, for fear of what I might see. My mind is assaulted by a jumble of confused and contradictory thoughts and images. Things which appear to be memories, but cannot possibly be. I squeeze my eyes even more tightly shut, and try to banish these visions, and of course I fail. # # # MONDAY, 6:47 a.m. I awaken at my usual time and climb promptly out of bed. I step into the kitchen just long enough to start the coffee machine, then head back down the hall to the bathroom, stripping off my pajamas and underclothes as I go. A few minutes later I emerge from the shower and stop to look at myself in the mirror as I dry my hair. I frown. My hand goes to the ring and gold cross suspended from a chain around my neck. My frown deepens. It's been a week since I left Mulder at the mall in Chevy Chase, and told him I needed some time. I realize now I should have stayed and talked it out with him, rather than leaving both of us hanging. It's too late to change that decision, but it's still not too late to make a new decision. Today, I decide. Today we'll address the issue, and things will start to get better again. Today I'll tell him that I love him. At last. And I finish drying my hair and grab my robe, and I head back out to the kitchen. Mulder is late for work, which is unusual since we got the X-Files back. Under Kersh it was different. Neither of us really wanted to be here then. But now that we have our proper work, we've both been coming in early and staying late. Today, though, he's late. The one day I need him to be on time, so we can talk, he's late. I pace the office in frustration, but somehow I know we've missed yet another chance. Finally I can't wait any longer, and I go to the budget meeting without him. During a break I return to our office, to find that Mulder has finally arrived. I want to talk to him about our relationship, about our marriage, and about my epiphany from this morning, but there's no time. At lunch, I decide. We will definitely talk at lunch. I go back to the meeting and Mulder goes to the bank. After more droning from Agent Arnold, Skinner finally asks me where my partner is, and I roll my eyes and go to try and find him. I walk into the bank looking for Mulder, and find myself staring down the barrel of a gun. Before I can react there's a flash of motion, and the man with the gun changes his aim and fires. My own weapon is out in an instant, and then the two of us are facing each other down ... until he opens his jacket and shows me what's strapped to his chest. I'm on my knees, trying to hold back the tears as the waning seconds of Mulder's life stain my hands and clothes. I tear my eyes from my partner, my husband, and I beg the shooter to let me save this life. I plead with him; I tell him he's in control, and that he doesn't have to let this happen. My last thought before he throws the switch is that I never told Mulder that I love him. # # # MONDAY, 6:44 a.m. I awaken in the predawn darkness. Someone is in the room, but before I can become alarmed I hear Mulder whisper my name as he slides into bed and wraps his arms around me. For just a moment I tense. We have not taken this step before; we have not discussed it, and I have not agreed to it. But even as those objections flash through my mind, I dismiss them. This is Mulder, my husband, the man I love, and this is what I want. His arms are wrapped around me, warm and strong and comforting. I have never felt this cherished and secure. For the first time since I walked out on him at the mall in Chevy Chase, everything seems right. I smile sleepily and turn to face him. I start to speak, but he puts his fingertips on my mouth to silence me. No words this morning, then. That's fine. We don't need words for this. His fingers trace down my jaw to my neck, and then brush against his class ring where it hangs on the chain next to my cross. He lifts the ring to my lips and I kiss it; then he kisses my cross. The emotion evident in this simple gesture warms me, and sends waves of desire rippling outward from my center. And then my husband gathers me into him and captures my lips with his. We arrive at work together, and only a few minutes late. The budget meeting is long and boring, but my memory of how we spent that early morning hour makes it bearable. At last Skinner calls a break, and Mulder and I leave to run an errand at the bank. We step through the doors just as the bearded man loses his temper and draws his gun. We both reach instinctively for our own weapons, but he has the drop on us. There's a burning in my chest as I fall to the floor, and an instant later Mulder falls beside me. I turn my head to look at him, and I see him reaching out to me even as my own hand is moving towards him. I want to touch him so very, very much, but our fingers are not quite in contact when the shooter throws the switch. # # # MONDAY, 6:52 a.m. I awaken at my usual time, but I don't feel rested. It's been a week since I told Mulder I needed some time to think. I realize now I should have stayed and talked it out with him, rather than leaving both of us hanging, but it's too late to change that decision. As I slowly come to full consciousness I realize with a heavy heart that I've been putting off the inevitable for long enough, and today I'll have to make some phone calls, and see what needs to be done to unravel this terrible mess we've made. Then I get to break the news to Mulder, but somehow I doubt that it will be too much of a surprise. I lie in bed for a few minutes, fighting back the tears and thinking back on all the things that went wrong. Our marriage was strange and unconventional, and obviously an error in judgment. We were fools to think we could make something like that work under these sorts of circumstances. With a sigh of resignation I climb out of bed. Getting ready for work seems to take forever, and I finally decide to skip breakfast and just grab a cup of coffee to drink in the car. Maybe by the time I get to work I'll be hungry, and I can pick something up in Hoover's cafeteria. Mulder's late, of course. I knew he would be. We've barely spoken since I left him at the mall last week, and his working hours have been growing more and more erratic. I finally go to the budget meeting without him -- but I take his ring off first. I'm sitting in the meeting, not listening to the presentation being given by Agent Arnold. Mulder's ring is clenched in my fist, and all I can think is that I don't want to do this, I don't want to give it up. But I can't seem to find a way out of this trap we've set for ourselves. There is a dull booming noise in the distance, coming from outside the building, but I barely notice, so lost am I in my own despair. A few minutes later Skinner's assistant enters the room, a stunned look on her face. Somehow I know before she speaks that the decision has been taken from me. And so has my husband. # # # MONDAY, 6:49 a.m. I awaken in the predawn darkness. Eyes closed, I reach out across the bed, but there is no one there, and the sheets are cool and undisturbed. I move my hand to my throat, and lightly touch Mulder's ring. I feel a stinging moisture in my eyes. I don't want it to be like this. I don't want it to end like this. I don't want to be alone, and I don't want *him* to be alone. Not today. Not ever, but especially not today. Please God, not today. Don't let us be alone today. Don't let us die alone. I'll give up anything else if at least we can be together. I'll even settle for simple friendship, if only we don't have to be alone. # # # WEDNESDAY, 7:28 a.m. As I first awaken I'm afraid to open my eyes, for fear of what I might see. My body is drenched in sweat and my pajamas and the bedclothes are cold and clammy. I don't want to know this. I don't want to know which world I've awakened to. I just want to keep my eyes closed and go back to sleep, and try to dream of better times. The shrilling of my cell phone cuts off my thoughts. Eyes still closed, I reach across the bed and fumble around on the bedside table until I find it. Somehow, I manage to punch the connect button. "Scully, it's me," comes my partner's voice, very hesitant and tentative. "I'm about ready to leave; I'll be there in twenty minutes. You going to be ready?" "Ready?" I ask. Ready, Mulder? I think. Ready for what? "Ready for me to pick you up," he explains, almost as if he can read my thoughts. And I'm in a strange enough state of mind that I think perhaps he can. "Pick me up," I repeat -- and gradually the memories come filtering back. Car trouble. I had car trouble last night, and Mulder drove me home. Now he's supposed to pick me up, and we'll drive to work together. "Yeah," he says, sounding even more uneasy. "You do still want me to drive you in this morning, right?" More memories start reporting in. Memories of my anger when we got back from Arcadia. Memories of walking out and leaving Mulder at the mall in Chevy Chase. Memories of working together in tight-lipped silence for the last week. And still there's more: The woman in the bank the day before yesterday, Pam Oates, throwing herself into the line of fire. Even though I had never seen her before that day, somehow I'm sure she knew what she was doing: Saving Mulder's life. Saving my life. Giving us another chance. I realize that Mulder is waiting for my response. "Yes, of course," I say, hoping that my voice is a little clearer, a little stronger. "Of course, I do. But I can't be ready that soon." I glance at the clock and see that it's past 7:30. "I guess I slept through my alarm," I add, suddenly feeling very contrite. I wait for Mulder to reply, but he doesn't speak. The silence stretches on, becoming heavy and uncomfortable. I wonder what he's waiting for. And then I know: me. He's waiting for me to tell him what to do. I have not invited him up to my apartment since we got back from Arcadia, and we've spent no time together outside of working hours in that time, either. Even yesterday, when we were both in shock due to our brush with death at the bank the day before, I kept him at arm's length. I am tempted to do the same again today. It would make things so easy. So simple. So plain. But then I remember Pam Oates, and my conviction that she died to give us another chance, and I just can't do it. I can't deny this man's importance in my life. I lick my lips nervously, and I reach up with my free hand to lightly touch Mulder's class ring, trying to draw strength from it. Images of his blood staining my hands and clothes invade my consciousness, but I push them firmly away. I can do this, I think. I can do this, and I must do this. It's really not that hard. "Mulder," I say, "I need some time to get cleaned up and dressed. Why don't you ... why don't you come on over and let yourself in. That is, if you don't mind waiting a bit." I've missed you, I add in my mind. I've missed you so very much. Please hear me. The silence on the other end continues for just a few seconds longer -- long enough for me to know he understands the layers of meaning in my words, and has heard my silent plea. At last he says, in a very low voice, "Sure, Scully. I'll be right over." And then the connection is broken. I sit in bed for another moment or two. It has to have been a dream, I think, a nightmare brought on by the stress of Monday's events. Just a dream, I repeat in my mind. But even as I think those words my hand rises once again to touch Mulder's ring, and I know that much, at least, is real. And I climb out of bed and go to start the coffee, so it will be ready when my husband arrives. ================== Alpha: CHAPTER SEVEN - A Little Comfort ================== I make it as far as the elevator before I realize I'm doing it again. I'm walking out on Mulder. I stop and look back down the hall towards our office door as I consider the matter. We just got back from California a couple of hours ago, and I am really tired. Jet lag has never been my best friend in the world, and on top of that this has been an emotionally stressful case, both professionally and, I admit, personally. It's the personal angle that's making me want to leave Mulder alone in the office, I realize. The rest of it -- the long days and short nights, the inevitable disagreements over the nature of the case, and on and on and on -- that part I could handle. I *have* handled it, many times. No, it's the personal side that's threatening to drive me away -- just as it did when I walked out on him at the mall in Chevy Chase. It took more than two weeks for us to recover from that little episode, and we still aren't completely over it. Inviting him over for breakfast a week ago last Wednesday helped, and spending most of the following weekend together just kicking around doing nothing much in particular helped even more. But there's still a bit of an edge whenever we're together, and the events of the past few days while we were in California investigating the supposed Wangshang Dhole have done nothing to help matters. Mulder's relationship with Karin Berquist is at the heart of my discomfort, of course. At least I can admit that to myself now, even if I haven't quite managed to work up the nerve to talk to him about it. I've always been a jealous person where men are concerned. This is not something I'm proud of, but I seem to be unable to change it, so I've tried to accept it as part of who I am. From my earliest crushes in junior high school, right down to my relationship with Jack Willis, I've been possessive and protective of any man who I perceived to be mine. That applies to Mulder too, of course, and not just since we've been married. As long ago as our first year as partners, I remember doing a slow burn when I saw him kissing Phoebe Green. I told myself at the time that I was just annoyed at his blatant display of unprofessionalism, to be necking with his old girlfriend when he was supposed to be working. But deep inside I knew the truth, even then. I was jealous. Through the years there have been other women, of course. None that he slept with, so far as I know, but a steady enough parade of women showing an interest in him -- and him showing an interest back -- to keep me at a low boil a good deal of the time. Bambi Berenbaum. Angela White. Melissa Ephesian. Marita Covarrubias. And now Karin Berquist. And then there's Diana Fowley. She, of course, is the crux of the whole situation. It's because of Agent Fowley that Mulder and I had what could have been our final blowup -- and indirectly, it's because of her that we wound up married. I guess I should thank her for that, but quite frankly I'm not feeling that generous towards the bitch. Yes, I said bitch. I do know the word, and I use it from time to time, when circumstances seem to warrant. And boy do they ever warrant it in this case. Fowley is a special situation, both because she actually has been Mulder's lover, and because she is now actively engaged in trying to discredit and destroy him professionally. The mix of those two factors, the personal and the professional, has caused more pain and heartache for Mulder and me than any other issue in our six year partnership. Damn her. I push thoughts of Agent Fowley out of my mind. I'm not ready to deal with her -- not today. Mulder and I are going to have to settle that issue once and for all, but we just aren't strong enough as a couple to face it yet. Which leaves Karin Berquist. I would have to be blind not to see the parallels between Mulder's relationship with her and his relationship with Fowley: In each case, he trusted a woman too easily and allowed her to take advantage of him -- *and* in each case he chose not just to ignore my warnings, but to openly dismiss them. And of course, as he did with Fowley, Mulder kept Berquist a secret from me. That's what hurt most of all. I know I should be used to it by now -- Mulder has a pattern stretching back to the very beginning of our partnership in which he dribbles out information about our current case a little bit at a time. But in this instance he was over the line. As I stand here thinking about it, I'm once again experiencing that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I get whenever I realize some other woman is interested in my man. My man. My Mulder. My husband. My husband, who I have just left sitting by himself in our office when I knew he was feeling hurt and depressed. Suddenly I feel a stab of guilt at my own behavior. Mulder may have been a little cavalier in not telling me about Karin Berquist ahead of time, but I'm just as wrong for having left him to his own devices when what he clearly needs is a little comfort. Which, of course, is one of the things that husbands and wives are supposed to provide each other. And so I take a deep breath and try to swallow my own feelings as I head back down the hall towards our office. As I step across the threshold I see Mulder sitting in his chair behind his desk. On the wall behind him is a new "I Want to Believe" poster -- presumably the one from Berquist's office. So that's what was in that mailing tube. I'd wondered about that, but he didn't offer to open it while I was still here, and I was too proud to ask. I can't keep myself from feeling a slight burn of resentment as I see it hanging there -- I've spent a considerable amount of time trying to find a replacement for him, and now *she* has stepped in to fill the gap. I suppress the emotion, though; even *I* can see that's unreasonable. I should be glad that he finally found a new poster, I tell myself firmly. I know how much the old one meant to him -- and to be perfectly honest, I was fond of it as well. "Hey, Scully," he says. I look back down from the poster to see a puzzled expression on Mulder's face. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd gone home." His lips quirk slightly. "Did you lock yourself out of your car again?" "No," I say, shaking my head and forcing a smile. You are not going to distract me today, Agent Mulder, I think. I came here for a reason. "No, I didn't lock myself out." I take a couple of steps closer to him, and I see his eyebrows rise slightly. "I came back because ..." I hesitate, and the words catch in my throat for an instant. "Because you looked lonely," I finally manage. "I thought you might like some company." His eyebrows rise even farther, and it suddenly strikes me just how pathetic the two of us are. Here we've been married nearly a month, and friends and partners for more than six *years*, and we *still* have difficulty expressing our feelings for each other. We haven't even said "I love you" yet. I intended to say it last week when we had breakfast together, but I couldn't quite manage to get the words out. I don't know why it's so hard, but it's got to stop. Now. "Mulder," I say, my voice sounding far steadier than it has any right to sound, considering how much unease I'm feeling at the moment. "Mulder, I ... I care about you." I wouldn't have thought his eyebrows could go any higher, but somehow they do. "I care about you," I repeat more firmly. "And I don't like to see you hurting and unhappy. So I came back. To see if there was anything ... anything I could do." God, that sounded lame. I can barely stand to look at Mulder; I'm sure that at any instant he's going to burst out laughing, or pop out one of his cute little jokes, or in some other way deflect my statement, humiliating me and hurting my own feelings in the process. It's not that he *wants* to do that; I know him better than *that*. He just can't help himself; it's the way he is. Which of course doesn't make it hurt any less when he does it. God. Why did I decide to come back to the office tonight? Why didn't I just go home, like I started to do? Why -- "Scully," Mulder says very softly, interrupting my rapidly building panic. "Scully, come here." And he pushes his chair back from the desk and holds out his arms to me. Somehow, despite my suddenly shaky legs, I manage to cross the intervening space, and then Mulder is drawing me down into his lap and wrapping his arms around me. For a few minutes we just sit there in his chair and cuddle. A small part of me, the practical part that runs me most of the time, is generating a dozen different reasons why this is a bad idea, at least here and now. It's unprofessional. Nobody knows about our relationship yet. Physical intimacy, even of the limited variety Mulder and I have engaged in since our marriage, is no substitute for real communication. And on and on and on. Except to hell with it. This feels too good to stop, and I suddenly realize that holding Mulder and being held by him is one of the things I missed while we were in the field this week. We never really talked about it -- we never seem to talk about *any* of these things -- but somehow we came to the mutual decision not to do this sort of thing while we were conducting the investigation. And I hadn't even realized that I missed it until now, when I finally have it back. It gradually occurs to me that the reason I came back to Mulder just now was to comfort him, and that I haven't really been doing that. I've just been curled up here in his lap, letting the warmth of his body and the strength of his arms soak in through my skin. I inhale deeply, and immediately add his scent to the equation. Nothing else in the world smells quite like Mulder, and this is still another of the many things I am now allowed to notice and enjoy. Still .. I *am* supposed to be comforting him. I give a little sigh and raise my head off his shoulder and open my eyes. God, he's beautiful. He's looking right back at me, and the expression on his face is so warm and tender it almost makes me cry. There are question marks in his eyes -- he's still wondering why I came back, I suppose. But even the questions seem open and accepting. I feel a sudden rush of sexual arousal spreading out from my lower abdomen. This man is mine, I realize; mine in a way that no other man has ever been before, not even Jack. Mulder and I have been through so much together; we have done and seen so much, and we've come to depend on each other so completely that sometimes I almost feel like we aren't two separate people anymore. The sensible part of me is trying to tell me that this is not a healthy adjustment for us to have made, but my heart just doesn't want to listen -- And before I quite know what I'm doing, I'm kissing him, fiercely and deeply. My tongue probes aggressively at his lips, and then his mouth opens and I plunge inside. God ... he tastes so good tonight. Mulder and I have kissed before, but he's never tasted this good. I try to move a little closer on his lap, and I cup the back of his head with one hand while gripping his upper arm with the other. One of his hands is holding the back of my neck, while the other is gently stroking his spot on my lower back. I hear somebody moaning, and I realize it must be me. It has been a long time since I've been this aroused, and it's come on so very suddenly. I feel as if I should be afraid, but there's no room in me right now for anything but my desire. My desire for Mulder. I shift on his lap, trying to get a better angle on his mouth, and now I can feel his erection pressing up against me. He's gripping me more tightly, too, and now his tongue is exploring my mouth the way mine explored his a moment ago. His hand caressing my lower back is driving me wild, and I wonder for the thousandth time since I've known him if he has any idea what it does to me when he touches me there. I shift my body again, moving so that I'm straddling his lap, and now I finally have to break the kiss so I can catch my breath. I close my eyes and rest my forehead against his, and for a moment I just breathe. There are so many images flitting through my mind, and all of them have Mulder in them. Mulder as I've dreamed of him; things I haven't allowed myself to consciously acknowledge for years, all coming to the surface in a sudden rush. I lean forward and press my mouth against Mulder's again, very briefly. I then move on to shower fast, tiny kisses across his face, working my way along his jaw towards his ear as I press my center down against his erection. A shiver runs through me as we make contact. I have waited for this for so long, and now it finally seems right. I press a long, open-mouthed kiss into the hollow beneath his ear, and then proceed to slide my tongue down towards the base of his neck, reveling in the warm, salty flavor of his flesh. And then Mulder pushes me away. He gently but firmly pushes me away. I open my eyes and look at him. I can't be wrong about this. I simply can't be. I know he wants me; I can still feel his erection pressing up against me, and I can see the desire in his eyes. But as I try to lean forward to kiss him again, he grabs onto my shoulders and holds me at arm's length. "Mulder?" I say, trying very hard to keep the hurt from my voice. "Mulder, what's wrong?" "I'm sorry, Scully," he says, very softly. "I can't do this. Not tonight. Not ... not like this." I shake my head in confusion, and I fight to keep the hurt from mutating into anger. I thought he wanted this. I *know* he wanted this. He can't be refusing me; not now. Not when I'm finally ready. "What do you mean, 'not like this'? I don't understand." My voice sounds bitter and whiny, even to me, and I wince as I hear my own words. "Scully," he murmurs. "Oh, Scully." He pauses a moment, as if he isn't sure he wants to say what he's thinking. Then he does speak, but what he says only confuses me further. "Why are you doing this, Scully? Why now? Why here?" "I - I don't understand," I repeat. "Why now? Because, because you're my husband. And I told you a few minutes ago, I care about you. Don't you believe me?" He releases one of my shoulders and reaches up to gently stroke my cheek. "Of course I believe you, Scully," he says, his voice still very soft. "I know you would never ... " He lets his voice trail off, apparently not wanting to complete that thought. He looks at me, and seems to be calculating something. Finally he says, "Come here," and tugs gently on my shoulders. I resist for just a moment, before allowing myself to be drawn back into his embrace. We sit cuddled together on the chair for a pair of minutes. I try to think, but with my body still buzzing with arousal it's difficult. I don't understand why Mulder pushed me away, but it's clear he isn't completely rejecting me. He still wants me, I reassure myself; I can feel the evidence pressed against the side of my thigh. He still wants to hold me and touch me; he just doesn't want to make love to me, at least for tonight. I may not understand the reasons for it, but I have to respect it. No matter how much it hurts. And then suddenly I have it. I realize what I've been doing. It's so blindingly obvious I want to kick myself, and then run from the room and hide somewhere. Two months ago I would have done just that -- I would have gotten up and left the room, and shut Mulder out. But I can't do that anymore. If I want this relationship -- this *marriage* -- to work, then I have to learn to open myself to him, even when it's painful to do so. And so I take a deep breath and lift my head from his shoulder again. Mulder is still looking at me, making and keeping eye contact as soon as I turn my head towards him, and I am relieved to see nothing but caring and compassion on his face and in his eyes. His clear willingness to accept and try to understand whatever I have to say helps me find the courage to speak the words. "I'm sorry, Mulder," I whisper. "I've treated you very badly tonight." I have to stop and swallow down the lump that's forming in my throat before I can continue. Now comes the hard part. "I've been ... using you," I say. "I've been treating you like some sort of prize or trophy. I'm sorry." And I close my eyes and press my forehead against his. "I was jealous, Mulder," I go on. "I'm still jealous. I've always been that way. I don't know why, and I can't seem to stop it. But when I realized that you knew Karin Berquist, and had been keeping it from me ...." I let my voice trail off; I can't go on. It's just too much. "It's okay, Scully," he replies, his voice very soft and loving. "I do understand. But do you understand why I can't -- do that? Tonight, I mean." I nod silently, and try to keep my chin from quivering. Mulder looks at me for another moment, then smiles and leans forward to kiss me lightly on the cheek. "I love you, Scully," he whispers in my ear. I shudder involuntarily as I realize that this is the first time either of us has said those words -- at least, it's the first time when I was sure I could believe it.. "I love you and I'm committed to you. We can work this out. We just need a little more time." He pulls back and looks at me again, and waits for me to nod. "Now why don't we both pack up and go back to your place," he says. "I'll fix some dinner; Frohike gave me a great recipe for huevos rancheros ...." His voice trails off, and suddenly *he's* the one looking nervous. "And then, if you like, we could ... go to bed. To sleep." I study his face for a moment, and I realize that he's trying to offer me something. Not a compromise, exactly, and certainly not a consolation prize. No, it's much more than that. Despite what I just put him through, despite the embarrassment and the frustration and the risk of further misunderstanding, Mulder is offering me everything he has to give, at least for tonight. He's offering *me* a little comfort. Which is one of the things that husbands and wives are supposed to provide each other. No wonder I love this man. I lean forward and kiss him lightly on the mouth, and then I climb off his lap. I wait for him to stand, and watch as he stuffs a few papers into his briefcase and slips on his coat. Then I reach out my hand and he twines his fingers through mine, and for a minute we just stand there, looking at each other. At last Mulder pulls me to him and kisses me, briefly but thoroughly, before we finally turn off the lights and leave the office. Together. ================== Trevor: CHAPTER EIGHT - Declarations ================== I am 35 years old, I remind myself as I steer the car through late afternoon Baltimore traffic. I am 35 years old, I am a professional woman, and I have been completely independent of my parents for more than a decade. So why do I feel so much like a little girl being called in for a spanking? I glance over at Mulder, sitting in the passenger seat next to me. Outwardly he appears completely calm and relaxed, but surely that can't be true. Surely he's as nervous as I am. He's got to be. If he isn't, I may have to kill him. I turn my attention back to the highway. Almost there. Shouldn't be long. Not more than another 20 minutes until we arrive at my mother's house for dinner. God help us both. Mom finally called me at the end of last week. We hadn't spoken in nearly a month -- not since that horrible confrontation in my apartment the night of my birthday. I had intended to call her the next day in hopes of smoothing things over, but the case in Arcadia went longer than we'd hoped, and then Mulder and I had that fight the day after we got back, and then we'd barely made up before we had to go to California again, and there was always *some* damned reason not to call her. Yes, it was avoidance, and I knew it even while I was doing it. The truth of the matter was -- and is -- that I'm afraid to face my mother again. I don't know what I'm going to say to her; I don't know how I'm going to explain the reasons which led me to marry Mulder. None of this is going to make sense to her. Hell, it doesn't make sense to *me* when I stop and think about it too hard. It's not something I had ever considered, before that night in his apartment a few days after the El Rico massacre. As I said to Mom the night she found out: It just sort of happened. But now I've done it -- *we've* done it -- and we have to move forward. We may not have thought this through as thoroughly as we might have, but we did make this decision, and we did act on it. Together, I remind myself. We did it together. We've faced liver eating mutants and prehistoric insects and dark conspiracies against all of humanity. We can face this, too, as long as we're together. Besides, I *do* love the man, and I'm sure he loves me. That ought to count for something. I glance at Mulder one more time, and now he's looking back at me with warm, sympathetic eyes. He smiles slightly and nods reassuringly, almost as if he can read my mind, and he reaches out to squeeze my hand where it rests on the steering wheel. I force a smile in return, then face once more to the front. And there's Mom's house, dead ahead. It's showtime. # # # The first few minutes of the visit are taken up by empty pleasantries. I have just the briefest instant of panic as the front door swings open, but then Mom is stepping forward and giving me a warm hug, and I start to feel better almost immediately. Then she turns to Mulder, and I don't even have time for another panicky moment because my husband is stepping forward and giving his best friendly smile. He really can be very charming, even charismatic, when he wants to be. For Mom's part, I'm pretty sure I detect a slight hesitation, and maybe just a little stiffness as she moves to embrace him. Then she lets him go and leads us on into the house, ever the perfect hostess. Now we're seated in the living room, Mulder and me on the sofa and Mom in the old recliner that was Ahab's chair for as far back as I can remember. It doesn't really go with the rest of the living room, but every time I see it I'm glad she still has it. As Mom rattles on about her neighbors and the letter she got from Charlie last week and all the other trivialities involved in getting caught up, it gradually dawns on me that she is as unsure about what's going to happen this evening as I am. Ever since that night in my apartment I've been thinking of her as a powerful, threatening figure, but she's really not. She's my mother and she loves me. All she wants is for me to be happy. Maybe this won't be as hard as I thought. " ... but here I am chattering on, and I'm sure it's not really what's on any of our minds tonight," Mom concludes. She pauses and takes a breath. "Dana. Fox. I'm terribly sorry about ... that night. Please accept my apologies." For a moment there's an uncomfortable silence. I glance at Mulder, and I see that he's looking steadily at me, waiting for me to take the lead. Fair enough. It's my mother. I take my own deep breath, and look back at Mom. "Mom ..." My voice trails off and I shake my head. "I don't know what to say." And I really don't. This is not at all what I had been afraid of -- Mom no longer seems to be angry or upset. But it's still so very awkward. I glance at Mulder again, and he's still watching me, so I reach out and take his hand before looking back at my mother. "We never intended to hurt you," I continue. "And I was telling the truth that night; it really was ... rather sudden." Mulder squeezes my hand slightly, which for some reason I find infinitely reassuring. "I ... we never meant to shut anyone out, though." I can see her start to cloud up again, and I realize this is still a sore point. "It just happened so fast," I add hastily. "Honest, Mom. I would never want to hurt you." I wince as I realize I just repeated myself. I'd better shut up now; I'm starting to sound like a teenager trying to explain what her boyfriend was doing in her bedroom. There's another awkward silence, and now I can see in Mom's eyes that even though she's trying to make a clean breast of things, she still can't quite bring herself to forgive me for having kept her in the dark. She may feel guilty over the way she lashed out at us that night, but she also still feels she was wronged. Finally Mom lets out a sigh, and reaches over to pat my knee. "It's okay, Dana," she says. "Sometimes ... things happen." She smiles and rises from her seat. "Now why don't we go see about dinner. The pot roast should be about done by now." But from her body language I can see that it's not quite okay. Not all of it. # # # Things seem to get a bit more relaxed during dinner. Mom really does have the gracious hostess routine down to a fine art, and Mulder -- well, Mulder can charm a baby away from its mother's breast when it suits his purposes. And tonight he's pulling out all the stops. While Mulder and Mom are chatting I take the opportunity to look around the dining room for a minute. Not much has changed since I lived in this house, I realize. The same display cabinet with Grandmother Kinsella's china in it. The same reproduction of Winslow Homer's "Lost off the Grand Banks". The same handmade linen tablecloth. I'm suddenly reminded of the case we just finished in Mississippi. All Pinker Rawls really wanted was an opportunity to live this sort of life. Another chance, Mulder said as we drove back to our motel the evening we closed the case. All that Rawls wanted was another chance at ... this. I doubt that he would have been interested in these particular trappings, of course -- but they're really just symbols anyway. Symbols of a home. A family. Neighbors. Kids playing in the yard. All the conventional things. A normal life, as I put it to Mulder last fall during our abortive trip to Area 51. Rawls wanted it so badly he was willing to kill for it -- and ultimately, he was willing to die for it. I wonder when *I* stopped wanting it? I've always wanted a career, of course. As far back as I can remember, I wanted to do something more with my life than just raise children and keep house. I have nothing but love for my mother, and respect for her accomplishments, but I never wanted her life. On the other hand, I never intended to sacrifice a family life in order to have a career. I assumed that I would have all those other things, sooner or later. I never really planned for them, the way I did for my career in medicine, and later in the Bureau, but I always supposed that somehow they would come to me. Good things come to those who wait, after all. But somewhere along the line I stopped wanting them quite so much. Despite what I said to Mulder last fall, sometime during the last six years a "normal life" stopped seeming so important. And just in the past few months, whatever lingering desire I had for one seems to have completely vanished. I force my attention back to the conversation. Mulder is just finishing up an account of one of our less alarming cases, but from the look on Mom's face I can see that our idea of what's truly alarming doesn't jive with hers very well. And I suddenly realize that this is yet another way in which I've become set apart from my family and left the conventional way of life behind. My mother is not a sheltered schoolgirl, of course -- her husband was a Navy man, and so are both of her sons. But the X-Files are something different, and there's a reason I've never tried to explain my work to my family in any great detail. In retrospect, I can see now why Mom feels I've been shutting the family out of my life, but I was really only trying to protect them. Wasn't I? Almost as if she can read my mind, Mom is now turning her attention directly to me, and suddenly I feel like a bug under a microscope. This is the moment I've been dreading ever since she called me last week. The gloves are about to come off. "So Dana," she says, her voice deceptively calm. "Where should I be addressing your mail these days?" Shit. Shit, shit, shit. A very reasonable question, but one for which I don't have a reasonable answer. Even worse, it will lead inevitably to other questions, questions for which the answers I have are even less reasonable. Well, nothing to do about it now but respond as best I can. My mother loves me, I remind myself. Even if she doesn't always understand why I do the things I do, she still loves me. "I'm still living at my apartment in Georgetown, Mom," I reply, trying to match her calm as best I can. "Same address and phone number." As you well know, I add to myself. You called me there last week, remember? She nods slightly, and her gaze flicks to Mulder and then back to me. "I take it Fox has moved in with you, then?" I sigh and shake my head. No, this isn't going to be easy. "No, Mom," I reply. "We ... haven't worked out all those details yet." We're sleeping together most nights, Mom, but we're not *sleeping* together, if you catch my drift. Another one of those minor details we overlooked when we embarked on this little venture. My mother's eyebrows do not shoot up in surprise -- she has raised four children, after all. I do see the barest flicker of ... something ... in her eyes, but before I can say or do anything, Mulder intervenes. "Mrs. Scully," he says, leaning forward slightly and catching her eye. "As Dana said, this has all been very sudden, and there are a lot of, well, practical details that we haven't worked out yet. Some of it's as mundane as living arrangements." He reaches over and takes my hand and squeezes it. "But I want to assure you that I do love your daughter. I wouldn't have done this if I didn't." Damn him. Or bless him. Or something. I couldn't have asked for a better speech if I'd written it myself. Mulder and I aren't the types to go in for flowery declarations or wearing our hearts on our sleeves, but for Mom ... well, that was just about perfect. It *was* just for Mom. Wasn't it? Mom is nodding thoughtfully, still looking at Mulder -- and I suddenly remember that the two of them have a relationship of sorts; one that does not include me other than as a common interest. It was formed after I was kidnapped by Duane Barry, and I've never been able to find out much about it. Melissa claimed not to know anything, and I've never had the courage to ask either Mom or Mulder directly. "I see," Mom says. She glances briefly at me and then looks back at Mulder. "Well, I guess that's all that really matters, isn't it?" "I like to think so," Mulder replies, and he actually reaches over with his free hand and briefly squeezes hers, and then his lips quirk slightly. "Besides, there really isn't anyone else who'd be able to keep me out of trouble. It's kind of a full time job." Mom chuckles slightly and shakes her head. "I have no doubt of it," she says, and then she turns back to me, which is just as well. I was beginning to wonder if I was still part of this conversation. "Dana," she says -- and I can see from the set of her shoulders that she's about to tackle a topic which she considers difficult. "I realize you're probably going to regard this as a rather personal matter, but ...." Her voice trails off, and I suddenly realize what she's about to say. Oh God, please no. Not that argument; not again. Unbidden memories flash through my mind; memories of the horrible fight the night Missy told Ahab she wanted to marry outside the Church. She finally stormed out of the house, and was gone for more than a year. She didn't even come back for his funeral. Mom, I can't go through that; not again -- "Dana, I really think you ought to tell your brothers." "What?" I'm so startled by what Mom *didn't* say that I almost didn't hear what she *did* say. "Bill and Charlie," she says, much more gently than I had expected. "I think you should call them. Or at least write. They're entitled to know, Dana." "Mom, I don't know," I say. My voice sounds childish and whiny, even to me, and I try to firm it up a bit. "You know how Bill feels, and Charlie -- " "You brothers will adjust," my mother says firmly. "I know that Bill and Fox have had their ... differences, and I have to admit that I contributed to that a bit." She frowns, and I know that she's remembering the same things I am: The cancer, and Bill's reaction to the whole thing. I'd always wondered why he responded with such extreme hostility towards Mulder, and I think maybe this is as close to an explanation -- or an apology -- as I'm ever going to get. "Just tell them, Dana," she says, very gently. "They may not like it at first, especially Bill, but they'll come around in time." And now she reaches out and squeezes *my* hand, completing the circuit. "We all love you, Dana," she adds. "Whatever else happens, don't forget that we all love you." # # # It's later, and Mulder and I are on our way home. Back to D.C., I mean; it's still a little premature to say that we have a well-defined home. We've spent a few more nights together at my apartment than we have at his, but that's mostly because I live closer to work than he does. The rest of the evening ... passed. Mulder's driving now because he seemed to be less stressed by the whole experience than I was. To be fair, Mom never did subject us to the inquisition that I'd been more than half expecting -- but she didn't quite let us off the hook, either. There was always a slight edge to the conversation, and the end result has left me feeling pretty drained. At last we arrive at my apartment building. Our apartment building? We have been sleeping here more often than not when we're not out in the field -- but is that enough to make it "ours" rather than "mine"? I'm just tired enough to find that a meaningful question, but not nearly tired enough to believe that I can reach a useful conclusion. I push that particular distraction away and turn in my seat to find Mulder looking back at me quizzically. I know exactly what question he has on his mind -- but I also know that he will never, ever flat out ask me if he can spend the night here. The fact that our marriage has not yet progressed to the point where my husband and I can count on sleeping next to each other on any given night is one of the many things I'm just as happy not to have had to explain to Mom this evening. But it's an ill wind that blows no good. Mulder's willingness to wait patiently for an invitation means that I have as much time as I need to decide how to broach the *other* subject that I've been ruminating about for a good part of the evening. And so for a pair of minutes I study my husband's face. He really has quite a good face, in my admittedly biased opinion. Sensitive, almost feminine lips. A prominent, fleshy nose which some may think is too big, but which seems to me to be just right. And his eyes: warm and liquid and hazel colored; caring and compassionate. Mulder truly lives in his eyes, and I could spend a lifetime exploring them and never tire of his infinite variety. As I examine my husband's face I feel the beginnings of a warm tingling between my legs, but I quickly suppress it. It's not the time for that, unfortunately. I tried to act on those feels last week, the night we returned from California, and it was an unmitigated disaster. Mulder and I need to be on much firmer footing before we try to explore that particular extreme possibility. "Mulder," I say, quietly but abruptly. I need to say this quickly, before I lose my nerve. "Mulder, I don't want to stop the car." There. It's out. To his credit, Mulder's expression barely flickers -- but then, we've been carrying on this intermittent metaphor of a conversation for more than six months now, so there's really no reason for him to be surprised that I'm bringing it up again. The only real uncertainty lies in the timing of my statement. Profiler that he is, he's probably already figured out what I'm about to say. "I mean it, Mulder," I continue. "I've been thinking about it for months, and tonight when we were at Mom's ...." I let my voice trail off as I struggle to find the words that will make my meaning clear. "I got a glimpse of the world I used to live in," I say at last. "The world I grew up in. And as I told you a few weeks ago, there was a time when I think I could have found my niche in that world, and been happy in it." I reach out and lightly scratch the back of his hand as it rests on the steering wheel. "But that's not true anymore, Mulder," I go on, still looking into his eyes, and finding nothing there but love and understanding. "I *don't* live in that world anymore, and I don't want to go back -- if for no other reason, then because *you* don't live there. Pinker Rawls -- I can get into his head, but only partly. A normal life? I don't want a normal life, Mulder; I just want what's mine." I lean over and kiss him gently on the cheek. "And I've already got it." Mulder looks at me for just a moment or two after I fall silent. I can see that he's calculating something, trying to come to a conclusion. Only a few weeks ago seeing this look on his face would have filled me with unease, but not anymore. Now I know beyond any possible doubt that whatever he decides and wherever he goes, he'll take me with him. At last, without ever breaking eye contact, he moves his hand to the ignition switch and starts the car. "Where would you like to go, Scully?" he asks, very softly. I smile and shake my head. "I don't care," I reply. "As long as we're together." He nods, and an expression flits across his face which can only be described as one of pure delight. "I've been hearing reports from the back country in the Carolinas of an itinerant balladeer named Silver John. Nobody seems to know who he is or where he comes from. But they say that wherever he passes, good things happen. Magical things." My smile broadens. "I'm sure there's a logical, scientific explanation, Mulder." "We'll never know unless we go look, though, will we?" he replies, his voice the perfect mix of amusement and affection. "No, we won't," I answer. And Mulder throws the car into gear and pulls away from the curb and I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. I don't need to watch where we're going; not with my husband at the wheel. Later, it will be my turn to drive. ==================