No Regrets
by MystPhile@aol.com

Classification:  S, S/O, MSRelationship, Post-eps
Spoilers:  From Arcadia to Field Trip

Rating:  Some parts are NC17 for language and explicit sexual acts

SUMMARY: In the middle of the Arcadia episode when she travels to San Diego, 
Dana Scully realizes that she is fed up with her life.  As walled in as the 
residents of the community, she sets out to break down the defensive emotional 
barriers she has erected over the years.  She finds some joy with Detective John 
Kresge, works through some of her issues with Mulder, and connects with people: 
Kresge, her old friend Ellen, her memory of Melissa, her mother, and, finally, 
Mulder.  This is Scully's interior journey to recover her lost self and face the 
future.

Disclaimers:  These characters are not mine; property of 1013.



Chapter One:  No Regrets



Pressing the gas pedal to the floor, Dana Scully shot a worried glance at the 
dashboard clock.  The sight sent her swerving into the passing lane.   Sure, she 
thought.  Quick and simple--run the evidence to the San Diego lab.  It turned 
out to be about as simple as a pleasant walk in the woods.  She snorted.  And 
then a wide smile broke out, as she reviewed her day.

Initially, all had gone as planned.  She'd delivered her minuscule, faintly 
disreputable scraps of evidence--the scrapings from the ceiling fan, the foul 
smelling smears from Scruffy, that oh-so-aptly-named pooch, and the caduceus 
from the storm gutter.  Very glamorous evidence, she thought, glad to get it (a) 
wrapped in plastic, and (b) off her hands.  Literally.

She's bonded a bit with the lab techs, then headed off to see Tara and Matthew, 
after a phone call had assured her that Bill was at sea.  He'd always been at 
sea as far as Dana was concerned, but Tara was easy enough to take, in small 
doses.

After an early lunch and after his mother had all but chiseled the clumps of 
food off Matthew, Dana had picked him up to go out for a walk.  She held him 
high above her head and, delighted, he stretched out his arms like a chubby 747, 
gurgling and drooling.  The saliva dripped across her nose and headed toward her 
mouth.  She loved it.

Strolling down the clean, sunny street on the base, Dana watched Matthew's face.  
He heard a high-pitched sound to the right.  His head swiveled, his eyes moving 
like searchlights.  He spotted a swallow, flapped his arms like a nestling, and 
turned to his aunt, complaining that he couldn't touch the tiny bird.

"A bird in the hand," she told him, "is one of the least desirable things I can 
imagine."  He laughed appreciatively.  "Oh, Matthew, you're a great audience," 
she told him, beaming.

So far, the day was going as planned.  Before leaving Tara's, Dana called the 
lab, hoping to pick up her results and head back.  The results weren't ready, 
she was told.  She could have gone shopping, but instead, dutiful Dana drove off 
to the San Diego PD to see if they'd unearthed any further news of Big Mike.  
Here, she hit a snag.  They weren't interested in gate crashing any prize-
winning gated communities.  You'd think it was a medieval fortress, she fumed, 
striding down the hall.

"Hey.  Scully FBI."  

She turned.  She met intense--and intent--eyes in a very handsome face.  A 
familiar face.  "Hi, Kresge."

As he approached, holding out his hand, she felt her face grow warm.  When his 
hand clasped hers, she wondered if she could be having hot flashes.  "How've you 
been?" she asked, reluctantly extricating her hand.

"Better than the last time we met," he said, referring to her visit to his 
hospital room shortly after Emily's death.  "You look better too," he continued, 
examining her with a gaze that didn't even pretend to be objective or 
impersonal.

So, what is it with me, she wondered. First, Mulder sticking to me like...like 
an annoying nettle, now this guy giving me the once over without even trying to 
be subtle.  Am I secreting something?

"I'm sorry you got caught up in that case," she said, trying to regain her 
professional footing.  "I know contact with one of those guys can make 
you...really ill."

He shook his head.  "And I'm still not even sure I know what you mean by 'one of 
those guys.' Or that I want to.  You seem to specialize in weird shit."  He 
smiled.  "Miserable segue, I know, but what brings you here?"

Scully couldn't help smiling back.  She noticed that his teeth were very white 
and even.  Beautiful.  Good God, now she was even picking up his odor--and 
liking it.  Since when did she go around smelling guys, she asked herself.

Getting a grip, she briefly explained about the disappearances she and Mulder 
were investigating, concluding that she'd be heading back to the community as 
soon as her lab results came back.

Kresge, with a hand beneath her elbow, guided her to a bench in the hallway.  
Despite her intention of getting back to the lab, Scully found herself seated 
beside him.  As he settled himself at a close but respectful distance and turned 
to look into her face, she couldn't resist comparing him to Mulder, who had all 
but ripped her clothing off on Gogolak's couch, confident she wouldn't blow 
their cover by shrugging off his too-intimate hands.

"Do you have to rush back?" Kresge was asking, looking movie-star handsome and 
eminently sane.  She wondered how she could have failed to note these sterling 
qualities at their previous meetings.  "If you're free for an early dinner, I 
know some great places.  Give yourself a break, why don't you? The case'll still 
be there when you get back."

"What's your first name?" Dana heard herself ask, to her great embarrassment.  
Suddenly, nothing was working right--her eyes were seeing new attractions, her 
nose was alive and on the prowl, and her speech was beyond her control.  Had she 
expended every bit of self-control she possessed back at the Arcadian community?  
She really had been on her guard an inordinate amount of time, with appearances 
to keep up before the residents and Mulder to keep at bay on the homefront.

"John.  And you're Dana, right?"

She nodded.  "Actually, I've been Laura the past couple of days.  For some 
reason my partner named us Rob and Laura Petrie."

John's brow rose.  "And that's his idea of a great undercover name?  That'll 
really throw them off!"

She shrugged. "I don't know if he's taking the case that seriously.  Or at least 
he wasn't when we first got here.  He's been having a great time."

"I remember him," John remarked.

Scully wondered what *that* meant.

"I would like to have dinner with you, Dana Scully.   Not Scully FBI.  We can 
eat early if you'd like.  Wouldn't you rather be Dana than some fluffy character 
from an old sitcom?"

He seemed on the level to Scully.  Direct without being pushy.  Not someone on 
the make.  Could he be... that rarity in her life these days--a nice, 
attractive, intelligent, good-humored man who was not put off by her profession. 
A man who seemed to like her.  Who might enjoy talking...chatting..with her.  
Maybe listening.  What the hell, she thought.  It's just dinner.

"John, I would be glad to have dinner with you. Name the time and place and I'll 
meet you there.  Not too dressy since I don't have a change of clothes."

                         -------------------------------

Several hours later, Scully was enjoying her walk through the Gaslamp Quarter, 
admiring the tall, dignified Victorians, tempered here and there by the ornate 
continental flair of houses in the Italian Renaissance style.  The street was 
hip, trendy, and teeming with life.  Her spirits soared as she realized she 
didn't have to return to that oppressive, rule-ridden Paradise for a few more 
hours.

Why did she feel like she was on parole, she wondered.  Or maybe even an escaped 
prisoner.  "Something there is that doesn't love a wall."  Yes, definitely.  You 
had to know what you're walling out and what you're walling in.  She frowned as 
she realized the sentiments weren't applicable only to the community, but to the 
heavily barricaded inner person of Dana Scully.  

But I *need* the walls, she told herself.  He'll trample me entirely if I don't 
keep him back.  It wasn't Kresge she was thinking of.  As John appeared at the 
end of the block, she cheered up. She realized she liked him, at least what she 
knew of him.  She was, to her surprise, eager to spend some time with him.

Kresge had lost the tie and substituted a sportier shirt.  He dazzled her with a 
smile as he approached and took her arm.  His touch felt right, and she smiled 
in return.  She imagined a stone falling out of a wall, admitting a glimmer of 
light.  Her personal wall, starting to crumble.  Or maybe it was willing to be 
scaled.

As they strolled to Bella Luna on Fifth Avenue, John chatted abut the history of 
the Gaslamp District, named after its reproduction streetlamps.  He mentioned 
that this had been the red-light district around the turn of the century, known 
as the Stingaree.  Locals still argued about whether the name came from a fish 
or was a warning to the customers likely to get stung.  Here Wyatt Earp had run 
three gambling halls, he told her, guiding her into the Bella Luna, bustling, 
trendy, and chic.

Scully was feeling a bit like an outlaw herself by this time.  She had her lab 
results; duty decreed that she should be pulling into her spotless suburban 
driveway about now, back on the job and fighting crime.  And for the cause of 
truth, justice, and the American way, she added with a mental smirk.  Instead, 
she was torn between the pull of the food odors assailing her from every 
direction and the unmistakable magnetism of her escort.

She felt unlike herself tonight.  Sensuous.  Yes. And sensual.  Was it the 
Italian food?  The closeness to a beautiful man with whom she had no past?  And 
no worries abut the future?  She wanted to inhale Kresge along with the 
calamari.  As she relished the delicate texture of calamari in a rich red sauce, 
she felt she'd somehow slid into the eating scene from the movie of Tom Jones.  
Her practical side warned her that a food that most resembled thick elastic 
bands couldn't possibly be sexy.  Her awakening sensual side saw symbolism 
everywhere.  She slid her tongue through the center of a piece of calamari and 
closed her eyes to savor the full effect.

Pasts unraveled as the first course whetted multiple appetites.  John was in his 
mid-30s, had divorced over two years ago, and was the proud, doting father of a 
five-year-old daughter, Janet.  He pulled out several dozen pictures of a 
beautiful little girl who, thank  God, didn't look in the least like Emily.  He 
discussed his life freely, as far as Scully could tell, appearing to be candid 
and forthcoming.  He was frank about the problems of being a homicide detective, 
knowing that another workaholic law enforcement officer would understand.

"So, it was your job?" Scully asked, referring to the breakup of his marriage.

"It's nearly always the job.  At least in my experience.  Don't you find the 
same thing?"

Scully mopped up her remaining sauce with warm, crunchy Italian bread.  "The 
job..." She couldn't go on.  She tried again.  "It's affected my life in every 
possible way.  It'll never stop."

Kresge poured them more wine. "What parts do you want to stop?"

She concentrated on soaking up every drop of sauce on her plate.  "The feeling 
that...it's got me in its grip.  Like the community I dread going back to."  She 
looked up.  "Those people are controlled by a big book of rules.  Trapped.  
Can't do what they want."

She twirled her wine glass, studying the candlelight's sparkle through the 
liquid. "So am I," she said softly. "Trapped, I mean. But..." she trailed off, 
her eyes fixed unseeing on her wine glass.

John frowned and reached across to squeeze her hand. "What *do* you want?" he 
asked.  He looked as if he really wanted to hear her answer.

She hesitated, sipping wine, staring out the window as the light waned.  "I'm 
finding out what I *don't* want," she finally answered.  "I told you about that 
woman I was walking with when her dog got away--Cami.  She couldn't speak freely 
in her own house.  She was afraid to say much even when she was outdoors walking 
with me.  I know I don't want the kind of life they have there." She held up her 
hand.   "I don't mean just the creepy part, how they're all scared."

She sipped more wine.  "I mean...all those perfect houses filled with sad, 
nervous people.  Everyone following those damned picky, petty regulations." She 
shook her head.  "I've tried following rules.  I've sat in front of so many 
boards who quoted the regulations to me.  I don't...accept their authority any 
more." She looked out the window at the lowering night.

"So, what you want is...to do what you want?" He sat back as the main course 
arrived.  Both had ordered pasta, John's with shrimp and scallops, and Scully's 
with crab meat and clams. The smells were intoxicating.

"Um-hm," Scully said, either answering John's question or approving of her food.

John dug in.  "It's great, isn't it?"

"Oh, God, yes."  Perhaps her reaction was a bit too fervent, Scully thought.  
This was, after all, food.  She reined in her erotic imagination.

"How does your partner fit into this thing of yours--doing what you want?" He 
twirled, slurped, chewed, and reached for his wine glass.

"Beats me.  Mmmm, heavenly crab meat.  And what a sauce." She poured more wine 
and broke off another slice of bread.  "My feelings for him...are pretty 
changeable.  Sometimes he's infuriating.  Sometimes he's totally charming and 
admirable."

He grinned.  "In other words, human."

"I guess.  We've had a pretty bad year."  She twirled her pasta.  "One reason I 
feel so good tonight is that...he isn't here."

"So it's not because I am?  Here, I mean."  John looked a bit downcast.

"Oh, no," she protested.  "I'm very glad to be with you."

"No complications." His smile had a cynical edge.

Scully raised an eyebrow, rather pleased with his bluntness.  After all these 
years of dancing around things with Mulder, the direct approach was very 
attractive.  "That's part of it," she admitted, determined to be equally honest.  
"But I also like you...what I know of you so far." 

Yikes, she thought.  Since when did I go around making declarations of...of like 
to near strangers?  Since I started to withdraw emotionally from Mulder?

Frowning over her pasta, she continued her train of thought.  Let's not make 
this about Mulder, she lectured herself.  You just turned 35 years old.  This is 
your life.  It's about you--what you want to do with it. It's not about whether 
he needs you or trusts you.  Or wants you.  Fuck him.

Dragging herself out of an emotional marshland she tended to get sucked into far 
too often, she asked John about his daughter.  He chattered happily about her 
amazing antics and talents through the rest of the meal.  As the table was being 
cleared, he reached across to cover her hand.  

"Dana?"

She looked up, smiling.  She had no desire whatever to snatch her hand from 
under his.  Even her little mental detour onto the what-has-become-of-my-life 
path hadn't derailed her interest in Kresge.  He seemed like a...a really nice 
guy.  And unlike far too many nice guys she'd known, he wasn't boring.  At all.

"You've had too much wine to drive back right now," he was pointing out.  "Want 
to go listen to some jazz, or blues?  In a club?  At my place?  I have a great 
collection."

Well, there it was.  Lying on the table beside their clasped hands.  Invisible, 
but, in her mind, about as unobtrusive as a tank.  She thought of Ed Jerse, of 
going back to his place after some drinks and conversation.  At another time in 
her life when she was feeling angry with Mulder, frustrated by her job, and 
generally unappreciated.

Was she in danger of once again letting Mulder control her life, her actions?  
Reacting against him was still letting him pull her strings.  Or push her 
buttons.  Too much wine can play hell with a person's ability to draw apposite 
analogies, she noticed.  Was she giving serious thought to going home with 
Kresge because she was tired of Mulder's trusting Diana, sneering at her own 
theories?  Out of dread of the slow and subtle dismantling of a partnership she 
had thought insoluble?

She studied the man holding her hand.  Attractive, interesting, understanding, 
witty.  His expression radiated interest and good will.  His hand was firm and 
warm.  Every time he had touched her today, it'd felt...exactly right.  Was she 
out of her mind, brooding about Mulder when this extraordinary man was so 
obviously interested in her?  And if she was any judge of character, John didn't 
make a habit of one-night stands.  Somehow, all his stories of Janet, the time 
he spent with her, the glow in his eyes as he described her, had convinced Dana 
that he was a devoted family man at heart, one with deep loyalties. 

He was also very patient.  Or else the wine had distorted her sense of time.  He 
was still waiting, still slightly smiling.

Moment of truth, Dana, she told herself.  Go back and be harassed by Mulder, or 
go to John's apartment.  She was relieved to discover she had some sanity left.

"Your place would be fine," she said.  "I'd like to see it."

Was that another stone she heard dropping out of the wall? 
                                                          ----------------------
------------------------------------------



"Why, it's so...so neat...and beautiful," Scully said, surveying Kresge's 
tastefully furnished living room with its immense windows overlooking the lights 
on the water.

"I'm not here enough to mess it up," he explained, taking her coat.  "Coffee?"

"Just what I need."  She walked to the window, admiring the water view and 
wondering if his intentions were, after all, what she'd assumed.  She was so 
damned out of practice at this.  Was she here for coffee?  Just coffee?  To 
sober up and avoid the embarrassment of a DUI?  Or were her sensuous longings 
reciprocated?  Could she generate that kind of electricity on her own?  I was a 
physics major, she thought.  I should know.

Vintage Charlie Parker began playing in the background.  Twisty, sliding, 
slippery.  The notes were hard to follow.  Yet it was equally hard not to follow 
the pieces of melody that lured like a pied piper. She listened carefully.  She 
could only expect the unexpected, and marvel at it, with that talent.  When a 
coffee odor wafted her way, she turned to John, who was setting coffee cups on 
the table by the couch.

"Like the music?"

She nodded, perched on the couch, took a cautious sip of coffee, and 
concentrated on the twists and turns in the music.  So beguiling.  She *did* 
require complexity, she realized.  She glanced at John, now close beside her.  
What she saw in his eyes answered her insecure questions and she carefully set 
her cup down before turning to face him.

Inches apart, unspeaking, they studied each other.  She gradually came to 
realize that he was as hesitant as she.  He didn't know if she was attracted to 
him--wanted him--or just needed some coffee for the road.  Maybe he was out of 
practice too, a very busy man who'd been divorced for only two years.

She moved toward him.

Oh, she thought.  Jesus.  Their mouths touched, lips brushed, pressure 
increased, lips opened, tongues came out to visit, were warmly welcome guests.  
She felt lost, dizzy.  Or maybe the right word was *found*.

Senses that had long lain dormant were not just blinking sleepily but leaping up 
and doing handstands.  Although only her lips and mouth were thoroughly engaged, 
her entire body was blossoming into eager life.  Dana Scully--so often divided 
between being Dana, her mother's intelligent, normal, ambitious daughter, and 
Scully, Mulder's tenacious, growing-ever-more-tough-and-cynical partner--
suddenly felt whole.

Yes, she was a woman with a grim past which contained tragic losses, including 
what some regard as part of the defining essence of her gender.  But she was 
also a woman of passion.  Of feeling.

Just now, she felt like a candle which had been sitting in an unused room, 
growing dusty, the wick drying out, becoming increasingly hard to light.  But 
now a powerful match had been struck.  The wick was catching fire.  It was 
aglow, and *hot*.  It ran the length of the candle, sending warmth further down, 
even where it was not yet aflame.

Oh, Christ, she thought.  I have needed this...this...for so long.  She clasped 
her hands around John's neck and buried them in his hair, pressing the intricate 
bone structure underneath.  His hands gently caressed her back and shoulders as 
their mouths continued to shift, to taste, to experience.

She didn't recall that kissing could hold this much variety.  Like the Parker 
music in the background, there were intriguing, unexpected twists.  All good 
jazz musicians can improvise.  She threw herself into the duet, sometimes 
creating a new melody, and at other times, following John's lead.  The sounds, 
the touches, the odors--who needed sight, when the other senses could deliver 
such an overload?

"John." She pulled back an inch.

"Yeah." His breath was coming in gasps.

"I am...undone by this."  She stared into his warm eyes in the soft light, 
seeing that her words had been ambiguous.  He feared she was going to straighten 
out her clothes, run a comb through her hair, and say how pleasant dinner had 
been.  She kissed him. Again.  And again.

"I hope you're not going to throw me out," she said.

"You can stay as long as you want," he said, moving his hand to her breast, 
which leapt to attention.  He bent to kiss her neck.  His lips were so warm, so 
tender,  His breath both warmed and tickled her neck.  The candle was burning 
lower.

"The bedroom?" he murmured, traversing the sensitive skin beneath her jaw.

"Yes," she breathed.

Although his bedroom was as attractive as his living room, Scully was too 
entranced by their mutual unveiling to pay much attention to her surroundings.  
She was much more taken by the way the soft light brushed John's chest and made 
the silvery hair glow, its subtle caress of his abdomen, beautifully flat and 
hard.  And his penis, long and smooth, so very receptive to her light touch, 
semi-erect and on the rise.  She thought his body beautiful, every inch of it, 
as she explored it with eyes, nose, hands, and mouth.

After some time--a minute, an eternity?--he sighed and pushed her gently onto 
her back, telling her he wanted to return the favor.  "Always start at the top," 
he murmured, tangling his fingers in her hair and nipping her ear lobe.  He 
didn't rush, lavishing attention on her forehead, her eyelids, her nose (which 
she hadn't realized was en erogenous zone), her jawline, and once again, her 
mouth, now as warm and welcoming as a lagoon.  She was rapidly liquefying 
anyway, she thought, a candle rapidly losing its shape and melting into molten 
wax.

Everything was loosening, everywhere.  She felt pliable enough to bend her knee 
behind her ear and place it in back of her neck, if asked, but at the moment, 
John seemed perfectly content to suck, kiss, nibble at, and lick her breasts, 
first one, then the other, back and forth.  She was now so sensitized that every 
touch was becoming a sting.  And every pull at her nipple brought a reaction 
below, an internal gasp of ecstasy that set more liquid flowing.  The wick 
really did run all the way through.  And its entire length was now aflame.  This 
new heat felt wondrous.  She had been cold for so long, long before the 
Antarctic.

His fingers entered her wetness, and she gasped with joy.  "All right?" he 
asked, releasing her nipple.

"Oh, God.  Much better than all right."

He returned to his ministrations, his mouth passing--sometimes rapidly, 
sometimes slowly and tantalizingly--over her breasts while his hand continued 
its moist explorations, caressing her rhythmically, with increasing speed.  At 
last, she was groaning and crying out incoherently.

"There, there, yes," she cried, as she exploded like a Roman candle, all light 
against the dark, with dazzling color, noise, and spectacle.  Thunder, 
lightning.  The view behind her eyelids had never been so spectacular.  She came 
back to herself to see John's face looming over hers.  He looked pleased.

She touched his cheek, caressing his face and his ear and running her hand 
through his hair.  "Thank you."  She realized this was the most blatant of 
understatements.  If she *were* a candle, she'd be, by now,  hot liquid ready to 
be formed into a new, improved version.  Hopefully, one that would enjoy more 
use.

He kissed her lips lightly.  "I had the impression you were enjoying that."

She smiled, more relaxed than she'd been in months.  She slid her hand down to 
grasp his penis, running her fingers up to the tip and spreading the droplets of 
liquid.  "Tell me what you'd like," she said, her voice warm and dusky.  She 
felt so happy, so loose, she would probably agree to virtually any bit of 
kinkiness he proposed, up to and including having sex with Rex the Wonder Horse.  
Luckily, Kresge was a man with his mind firmly entrenched in the basics.

He reached into the drawer of the bedside table and fumbled with a condom.  "To 
be inside you," he said, tearing the package.

"Let me," she said, and soon he was ready to enter her.

They stared into each other's eyes as his penis teased her entrance.  "I really 
want you," he said, pushing a little harder.  "You are a beautiful woman."

"I want you very much," Scully said, jerking her hips upwards and realizing her 
words were true.  She really did want this man, at least for this night, at this 
moment.  So often she worried about the future, whether the invasion would 
occur, whether the partnership would become unbearable, whether she could have a 
"life" after the X-Files.  Right now, she had no worries at all.  Her concerns 
had narrowed to a wish to give John Kresge the same pleasure he had given her.

"Push as hard as you like," she urged him, aware that her sexual inactivity had 
rendered her close to virginal.  But he didn't.  Not for a long time anyway.  
With infinite care, with rapt attention to her reactions, with frequent 
questions about how she felt, with...love, at least for that time,  it happened.  
He penetrated deeply, reaching places in Scully--not just physically--that had 
not been touched for years.  He didn't fuck her.  He made love to her.  Slowly, 
exquisitely.  And eventually, frantically, erratically, and passionately.  Her 
body sang.  She wailed like Charlie Parker, with equal depth of feeling. She 
came again, to her astonishment.

                          ---------------------------

Barreling down the highway, she realized she had no regrets.  None at all, to 
her surprise.  She smiled, a serene, sated smile.  She, Dana Scully, had gone to 
bed with a man she hardly knew, one she might never see again.  This was 
probably a one-night stand.

But it hadn't felt that way.  They had connected, emotionally as well as 
physically.  Two lonely people, needing someone to hold, someone to talk to, 
someone to make them feel human.  It was so refreshingly uncomplicated, 
so...rewarding.

They'd held each other afterwards, talking and caressing.  That feeling of 
closeness was almost as good as the sex, which had been...outstanding. She 
*would* like to see him again.  He was easy to talk with, didn't seem to be 
withholding parts of himself, and was totally accepting, whatever she said or 
did.  He listened; he responded.  Her practical side pointed out that the 
"honeymoon" stage would likely be over in a week.

But that would still be better than this pseudo-honeymoon with Mulder.   How 
nice to be with a man with whom she had no history.  Starting with a blank 
slate, with all the possibilities lying ahead.  No closed roads.  No used, too-
worn paths.  She wished she could somehow acquire a magic eraser and wipe out 
selected portions of her past with Mulder.  Certain scenes and events, excised 
from their history, could make the present so much more comfortable...bearable.

This interlude with Kresge had been heavenly, ideal.  The sort of thing that 
only happens once in a while, like a delightful, unexpected gift.  It was so 
ideal that it threw into sharp relief the starkness of the games she and Mulder 
played so endlessly.  He the mischievous, impetuous, wise-cracking rebel.  She--
Scully the Sensible, about as exciting as a rock, the ballast that kept Mulder 
from hurtling off into space.  What a contrast, she thought, to the soft, 
passionate woman who'd let down all the walls tonight.

How delightful to act as a woman again.  A woman of feeling, with the complexity 
of an intricate jazz riff or a dusky, rich, aged brandy.  There was so much more 
to her than she used, so much unexplored territory.  Her life had become too 
simple, predictable, routine--"Where are you, Mulder?"  And gradually she had 
retreated to the point where she lived behind protective barriers that admitted 
little fresh air.

Yet, as each mile flew by, she knew the wall must be rebuilt.  The job, the 
status quo, demanded it.  For now.  "Something there is that doesn't love a 
wall."  I don't, she thought.  Gated communities, gated people.  Enough was 
enough. Opening her gate, letting down the drawbridge, had been such a relief.  
Through the years, almost without noticing it, she had walled in--and walled 
out--so very much.

As she neared Paradise, noting that it was almost 11 p.m., she wondered how much 
time she, like the fearful residents, would require to put her fears aside and 
open herself, once more, to all the world had to offer.


Note:  "Something there is that doesn't love a wall" and the material about 
walling out and walling in come from "Mending Wall" by Robert Frost.

Chapter Two

Still No Regrets

"Okay, I think we're ready to check in all our furnishings and possessions.  Or 
rather, *their* possessions."  Mulder placed his hand over his heart.  "Petries, 
we hardly knew ye."

"Peetries," Scully corrected him, as they hurried through the corridors of the 
San Diego Branch Office.  "And could you handle the check-in?  I'd like to make 
a phone call."

"Yeah, sure.  I guess it's the least I can do for my ex-wife," he grinned.  
"Talk about quickie divorces. This beats Mexico."

As Scully claimed an empty office, Mulder noticed his left hand.  "Hey," he 
called, following her through the doorway.  "You can't keep the rings.  Never 
let it be said we're on the take, Scully."

She glanced at the rings she'd forgotten to remove.  Maybe this is as close as 
I'll ever get to the real thing, she thought, as she tried without success to 
slide the rings off.  Of course, this may be as close as I *want* to get, at 
least with Laughing Boy here.

Laughing Boy's spirits were still soaring.  Why, she wondered.  Joy at regaining 
the X-Files after months of fertilizer inspection?  If that was the case, why 
had he treated most of this assignment as a joke?  She really didn't understand 
him these days.  Perhaps she never had, it occurred to her, but at one time 
she'd needed to convince herself that she did.  But now, she was ready to face 
the truth--he *was* an X-File: unexplained.

"That's it," he was saying, watching Scully twist the ring.  "Hand over a piece 
of the rock."  He shot her a cocky grin and lowered his voice to a teasing 
murmur, "Or you could just give me a piece...of ass."

Scully looked up from her struggle with the rings and pinned him with an icy 
stare.  His grin faded as she failed to respond.  The silence grew tense.

Finally, Scully yanked off the rings, stepped up to Mulder, and reached for his 
hand.  Despite himself, he flinched as her hand approached. She grabbed his 
hand, pried it open, and jammed the rings--hard--into his palm.  She looked up, 
eyes still twin glaciers.  "Tell me, Mulder. I'm curious.  What would you do if 
I'd said, 'Okay, let's get it on'?"

She had just about had it with him, she thought.  This case, especially, had 
been a strain, living together as they were.  With him taking every advantage of 
the situation, but always with a sardonic wit that left her wondering if he 
really thought being with her was merely a gigantic joke. She'd taken his 
innuendoes with good humor through the years.  They were part of him, his way, 
she'd always suspected, of testing the waters.  But inviting her to bed as a 
joke...informing her she 'wanted to play house'...these were just too adolescent 
to let continue.  It was time to take a page from Mulder's book:  Don't be 
defensive; be as offensive as possible.

He, in the meantime, looked shocked in spite of his habitually bland expression.  
She thought she could detect in his eyes a flash of Dan-Quayle-in-the-spotlight 
panic.  For once, he had nothing to say.  She closed his fingers, which seemed 
to be temporarily out of service, over the rings, stepped back, folded her arms 
across her chest, and gave him the full effect of her best chilly look.  "Well?"

To her secret delight, he stuttered.  "I...I.."

"You don't know, do you?" she interrupted.  "The truth is, you'd have no idea 
what to do if I ever responded to your increasingly offensive remarks." She 
paused, then let him have it.  "You're afraid of me."

As Mulder remained speechless, she swiveled toward the phone.  "Excuse me, will 
you?  I need to make a call."  Her voice was cool, dismissive.

After Mulder, looking fairly robotic, closed the door, Scully dialed John 
Kresge's number.  She thought it might be her encounter with him that had 
inspired her to speak up.  Someone who's recently been well and royally laid is 
not too happy with schoolboy innuendo.

"I wanted to say good-bye," she said.  "We're flying out this afternoon." 

"Can't you stay an extra day?  It's Saturday, you know.  Come on over.  We'll 
cook dinner, find something to do tonight--movie, play, club, whatever.  You can 
fly home tomorrow, can't you?"  His voice was warm and inviting.  Very tempting, 
especially when she visualized him.

"I could, yeah.  But are you sure you want me to come over?"

It'd been an amazing one-time experience, she thought.  Why try to make 
lightning strike twice?  As it was, in her mind, their coming together already 
had been elevated to an epic "we'll always have San Diego" quality.  Should one 
tamper with the perfect memory?  Well, maybe.  Lightning strikes all the time.

"Sure, I do," he said. He sounded sincere.  "Look, Dana, no obligation.  Dinner, 
entertainment--anything else, we decide when the time comes.  I am not under the 
impression that I have any rights where you're concerned."

"Well, it should run both ways.  Nobody owes anyone anything but the pleasure of 
our company.  Okay?"

"Fine with me," he said.  "Look, tomorrow I'm scheduled to pick up Janet for 
lunch; then I'm taking her to the zoo.  So, I'm not free after tomorrow 
morning."

"No problem. I'll book the early afternoon flight."

Her next call was to Tara, to bid Matthew a gooey fond farewell.  She was sweet 
talking her nephew when Mulder returned.

"Yes, sweetie," she said tenderly, as Mulder paled and shot her a quick glance.  
"Of course, sweetie, Aunt Dana loves you.  Say bye-bye.  Bye.  Bye."

As she hung up, Mulder sagged against the wall, looking a bit haggard.  "Ready?" 
he asked.

"Actually," she said,  "I've decided to stay over an extra day.  You go ahead.  
I'll be back tomorrow."

Mulder didn't speak for a moment.  He leaned against the wall, looking like 
someone doing math calculations in his head.  Finally, he said he'd see her at 
work on Monday and left.

                  -----------------------------------

Scully and Kresge were engaged in a highly exotic activity: shopping. For some 
reason, food shopping with a man felt more weird to Scully than encountering a 
liver-devouring mutant.  Her years on the X-Files had had some strange effects.

While scrutinizing fruits with the intensity of a lab tech, John explained that 
he'd signed up for cooking classes after his divorce.

"I felt at a loose end, you know?  Suddenly I had no life.  I was used to seeing 
Janet every day, even if she was sleeping by the time I got home.  So, instead 
of moping, I decided to use my time to...to sculpt a life that was mine." He 
laid down an avocado that didn't meet his high standards. "First I studied 
interior design.  That was kind of fun, and it kept me really busy during the 
first horrible, empty months."  He located the ideal avocado and placed it 
tenderly in the basket.

"That's great," Scully said.  "They always say that if you're depressed, it 
helps to throw yourself into a project."  She sniffed at a tomato.  "And after 
mastering the decor, you moved on to cooking?"

"Yeah. To be honest, I also thought that'd be a good way to meet women.  I'm no 
good at clubs and places like that."  Scully tried to judge him objectively.  
She concluded he'd be a big hit on the club scene regardless of his insecurity.

"Any luck?  At meeting women?"

He shook his head, leading her toward the seafood section.  "They tended to be 
blissful newlyweds, not who I really needed to see just then." He laughed.  
"Them and this bunch of newly uncloseted gay men."  He shrugged.  "It was a 
plan, but not a good one.  At least I learned to cook."

"You're probably a better cook than I am," Scully said, peering at the rows of 
snapper, tuna, salmon, and other creatures from the sea, attractively regimented 
on the ice.

Kresge looked up from his study of the fish.  "How did you learn?"

She smiled.  "My mother insisted we all learn to do everything.  Boys or girls, 
she wanted us all to be self-sufficient." They drifted toward the shellfish.  
"That may have been because Dad was at sea so much and she was left with four 
obstreperous kids.  So she put us all to work."

"Smart lady."  He nodded toward the counter. "You had crab last night, but this 
lump crab meat looks great.  And I happen to have a terrific crabcake recipe. 
How about it?"

                     ----------------------------------

Kresge hung up the phone.  "I hope seeing 'The Cripple of Inishmaan' is okay 
with you.  There's not much available on a Saturday night.  Hey, at least you're 
Irish, right?"

Scully was peeling oranges for a salad to be composed of orange slices, romaine, 
sliced red onion, and toasted walnuts, one of her favorites.  She nodded 
absently.  "Whatever.  I don't get to the theater much, so just seeing a play 
will be a novelty."

John poured them both some wine and began assembling his crabcake ingredients.  
It was such a cozy domestic scene that Scully felt like weeping.  After all of 
the discomfort, misery, and terror she'd seen in the Arcadian community, here 
she could experience the flip side of home life, one that brought back waves of 
nostalgia.

She remembered her mother assembling all the kids in the kitchen, assigning a 
job to each.  As they worked, she would ask each about his or her day.  Those 
were some of the best memories Dana had of family life--busy, close, with a 
vital sense of belonging.  What a contrast to her present life.  Fast food 
grabbed on the run, or hastily tossed together salads eaten in front of the TV 
or computer screen.  Suddenly, she yearned for the "good old days," when she 
still had a family, every day, back when she'd found them so annoying and 
embarrassing.  "You don't know what you got 'til it's gone," she sang, in her 
slightly off-key alto.

John, startled by the sound, looked up. He'd been mixing his ingredients with 
total absorption. 

"I was thinking about when I was young," Dana explained, and told him of the 
cooking sessions, some of them on the base in San Diego.  "I remember Melissa 
and I arguing about who'd get to slice the vegetables," she said with a sad 
smile.  "I must have won since I'm the kid who turned into a pathologist."

"And what's Melissa doing now?"

"She died three years ago," Dana said quietly, trying to convince herself that 
it was the red onion she was slicing that brought tears to her eyes.  "She was 
shot in my apartment...mistaken for me."

"Oh, Christ, I'm sorry," John said, hastily wiping the goop off his hands and 
throwing an arm around her shoulders.  "That's got to be even worse than a 
divorce.  In terms of someone you love being gone from your life, I mean."

"Yeah.  It was rough."  She accepted the towel he handed her and patted her 
eyes.  "But more and more, I'm remembering the good times--we had years of 
laughing, arguing, stealing each other's clothes and jewelry, hassling each 
other.  I don't know if anyone can ever be as close as your sister.  I could 
tell her anything."  She sniffed.  "And she'd always tell me what she really 
thought, even when it hurt.  Even when I hated to hear it.  That's what I'm 
missing now--an honest voice in my life that...that has only my welfare at 
heart."

John gave her a final pat and began to mix his sauce.  "Sounds like my brother 
and me," he said, and launched into a hilarious monologue about his boyhood 
adventures with his brother Steve.

Soon they were both laughing uproariously as they prepared their meal.

                      ------------------------------


"So, what'd you think?" John asked, as they exited the theater and strolled 
toward his apartment through the chilly night air.

"I liked it," Scully said, drawing her coat closer and folding her arms across 
her chest to shut out the chill.  "But every once in a while an action seemed 
out of character."  She paused to think.  "Although I suppose that's realistic.  
People do act in unexpected ways."

John wrapped an arm around her shoulders.  "Well, it's hard to tell what someone 
is like without knowing them really well.  I can't tell you how many fine 
upstanding citizens, who've looked as innocent and respectable as nuns, have 
turned out to be murderers.  People do not wear white and black hats for easy 
identification."

"I know," Scully said, huddling closer to his warmth.  "But this is a play, 
where you can expect some foreshadowing.  What's his name, Bobbybabby, was 
troublesome for me.  He seemed kind of like a softy, right up to the moment he 
pulled out his lead pipe and beat the shit out of the cripple, Billy.  I know 
we're *supposed* to be surprised, but..." She shook her head.

"Haven't you ever had the shit beat out of you with a lead pipe?  So to speak?" 
He pulled her closer as they stopped to watch the lights on the water.  "Maybe 
by someone you thought was harmless?"

She nodded.  "Yeah.  Many times.  You're right.  Evil is disguised in real life, 
so why not in the play.  Someone can seem really nice, then they let you have 
it."

"Or vice-versa," Kresge pointed out as they strolled along the water front.  It 
was a beautiful clear night with plenty of people milling around.  "Look at the 
guy who talked all the time, that babbling windbag, the pain in the ass."

"Johnny."

"Yeah.  He was such a bore.  And he seemed like a really selfish, even evil, 
guy.  But it turns out that once, when it was really important,  he acted 
heroically. He saved the cripple from drowning as a baby.  And he didn't even 
take credit for it."

"Yeah, that is remarkable--for such a windbag to keep quiet all those years."

"So all our expectations were flipped at the end.  The nice guy turned out to be 
a brutal bully while that prattling pain in the ass was the savior."

"And the cripple's parents, the ones he always missed and mourned, had  drowned 
while out trying to...to drown their deformed child," Scully added, thinking 
about the depth of evil that could cause a parent to murder a child.  She 
thought of Mulder, another man who'd discovered his parents may not have been 
who he thought them to be.  "That must be one of the most terrible things a 
person could discover," she said.  "It'd shake your faith in everything, 
wouldn't it?"

"Anyone in particular in mind?" Kresge inquired, noticing her intensity.

Just the guy who keeps creeping into my thoughts when I'm trying like hell to 
shut him out, she thought.  It's as if he were this spirit who could pass 
through a keyhole, despite all the seals on the door.  One little opening, and 
he'd be back in her mind, taking up entirely too much space.

Go away, Dana thought, changing the subject.  "The women were interesting, don't 
you think?  Here we have this young male playwright, and almost all of the 
strong characters are women. Individuals, even.  While some of the males were 
types."  She pulled her coat closer and shivered.  "And the women tended to be 
the saviors--both survivors and saviors."

Kresge laughed.  "Yeah, even Helen.  I thought she was the most interesting 
character.  A total ball buster who deliberately hurts everyone she meets.  And 
busts eggs over people's heads.  Think that's symbolic?"

A shadow crossed Scully's face at the mention of destroyed eggs, but Kresge was 
absorbed in talking about Helen, the play's most dynamic and absorbing 
character.

"So she goes around hurting and sneering and insulting," he said.  "And cursing 
a blue streak.  But in another twist, she's the one who saves Billy from suicide 
at the end.  By giving him so...so incredibly little.  He changes his mind about 
killing himself simply because she agrees to go for a walk with him."

"The power of hope," Scully murmured, leaning into Kresge's body.  "He wants to 
see love in his future.  And that gives him a reason to want to live."

Scully's voice was so serious that Kresge gave her a keen glance. "Like you?" He 
put his arms around her and rubbed her back vigorously.

"Like everyone.  You're lucky to have a daughter, someone who'll always be there 
to love."

"Yes, I am."  He touched her face.  "You're freezing.  Let's go in.  I didn't 
realize you were this cold."

"I've been really sensitive to cold since an incident last summer," Dana 
explained.  "But let's go in.  I'd love a hot drink."

                    --------------------------------------


Dana was relaxing on John's couch, her feet stretched out toward the fire he'd 
built.  Welcome warmth was just starting to reach her soles.  "Coffee or hot 
chocolate?" he asked, moving toward his entertainment center.  "And what kind of 
music would you like while I heat up something ?"

She yawned and slumped further back into the couch.  "Hot chocolate, please.  
And what are my choices--jazz, blues?"

"Mostly.  I have some old folk stuff, back from when we were born or just 
toddling around.  Early Baez, Dylan, Collins, Mitchell.  Stuff like that."

"Early Baez, please.  She had an amazing voice.  Besides, I've always admired 
her for living her convictions.  There are very few people that do that, at 
least as far as I know."

"You've got it," he said, pulling out a tape.

Scully closed her eyes, feeling warmth seep back into her bones, and didn't pay 
much attention to the words.  She was just enjoying the pure soprano of  Baez in 
her prime.  Then, some words grabbed her attention, because they were so closely 
related to what she'd been thinking earlier about Mulder's unwelcome intrusion 
into her thoughts.

"Go 'way from my window/ go at your own chosen speed."

Right, she thought.  Just get out.  But do I really mean that?

"You say you're looking for someone/ Never weak but always strong
To protect you and defend you/ Whether you are right or wrong."

In Bob Dylan's song, the speaker was trying to detach the woman who clung to him 
and smothered him with her expectations.  But in Scully's case, she thought the 
genders might be switched, at least some of the time.  Mulder, in her view, 
seemed to need her protection and strength at least as much as she needed his.  
And the last phrase applied especially to him.  He wanted her support and 
defense whether he was right, wrong, or insane.  He needed her belief, period.  
And that's where the biggest problem lay, what could eventually tear them apart.  
She could not defend ideas or actions she felt were wrong.  Her support was not 
unconditional.  She could support him, but not always his ideas or beliefs, as 
recently he'd seemed to require.

"I'm not the one you  want, babe/ I'd only let you down."

Just what she'd thought last summer.  He assured her then that he did want her 
with him, that he wasn't sure he could go on with the work alone.  But now that 
had changed.  Diana was here, a professed believer in anything that Mulder 
needed to hear.  If Diana *had* been involved in the experiments on Mufon woman, 
and Scully--how could Mulder overlook an accusation like that.  You've let *me* 
down, she thought.  It may no longer be a question of what *you* want. These 
loyalty oaths run both ways, pal.

"Go melt back into the night, babe/ Everything inside me is stone."

Bingo.  That's how she'd been feeling for....how long now.  Lately she'd 
concluded that she might be suffering from some kind of battered woman's 
syndrome.  With all that'd happened to her since her abduction, that incredible, 
painful series of events and torments, she felt numb.  To cushion herself 
against whatever blow was coming next, she'd started to shut off feelings, raise 
protective walls.  She didn't know how long she could go on like this, caged in 
and afraid to face the feelings which might overwhelm her if she let them roam 
free.  That's why the other night with John had been such a blissful experience.  
For a few hours, she'd been able to let herself go, relocate that lost self 
she'd been trying to close off from harm.  And the feeling--recognizing her self 
again--was so liberating.  She didn't know if she could close off completely 
again--or if she wanted to.

"You say you're looking for someone/ Who will promise never to part
Someone who'll close his eyes for you/ Someone who'll close his heart.
Someone who would die for you and more."

Well, the "more" part was the problem, wasn't it, she thought.  Yeah, we've both 
shown we'd die for the other.  But beyond that...How much more does he want?  Do 
I want?  It had turned out, she thought with some irony, that risking death was 
relatively easy, especially in the heat of doing the job.  Living was the real 
challenge.  Which, she supposed, was how she'd reached this numb, limbo-like 
state.

She thought Mulder wanted someone who wouldn't leave him.  He'd been abandoned--
like the crippled Billy in the play--too often by too many. And staying was no 
problem, if he could just tell her he needed her to stay.  He doesn't say much, 
she thought.  For a person who talks so much, he says amazingly little.  But he 
does want me to close my eyes, in the sense that I'll see things *his* way, and 
abandon my own perceptions, my own beliefs. Close my heart against what I see, 
believe, and feel.  That's too much to ask.  If in fact that's what he's asking. 
Since he never asks in words.  He just walks away.  Or sulks.

"But it ain't me, babe.  No, no, no, it ain't me, babe.
It ain't me you're looking for, babe."

Very emphatic.  Protesting too much? she wondered.  What really pisses me off, 
she thought, is that I think about these things so much, and he probably doesn't 
give me a thought. If he's not thinking of a case, he's probably wondering when 
his next skin magazine is due in the mail.  Or contemplating his jump shot.

He takes me for granted, assumes I'll always be right there.  But if I'm 
not...he may not give a shit.  It may not even be Diana.  Just his habit of 
being alone on his quest, as crippled--in making human connections-- as Billy in 
the play.  And he's so contagious, I'm afraid he's got me walking with a limp.  
No.  Stop that.  He isn't responsible for any of the changes in my life.  I am.  
If I decide the quest is worthwhile and I'm sticking, that's my decision.  Not 
his.  Stop blaming him for everything that's wrong in your life.  You've always 
had options.  And not accepting his behavior when it's insulting is one you 
should be exercising all the time. Every day.  Stop being so damned passive.  
Defrost, get off your ass, she told herself.

"Great stuff, huh?" Kresge said, setting down two cups of hot chocolate with 
whipped cream heaped on top.  

Scully looked up, guilty once more of dwelling on Mulder instead of the man she 
was with.  A man who was not a cripple, but a human who'd failed at staying 
married and gone on to construct a life he could feel good about.  

"Beautiful," she said.  "You are a very fine man, John Kresge."  She leaned into 
him and kissed his cheek.  "This has been a really great day, one of the best 
I've had in years.  Guess that makes my life pretty pathetic, huh?"

He kissed her lips, pulled away, and returned for  a longer stay.  Soon she was 
very warm indeed.

Scully and Kresge stood on opposite sides of the bed as they undressed, careful 
not to stare at each other.  One instance of making love does not make people 
lovers.  She pulled on a silk thigh-length top she had kept out of sight while 
sharing the house with Mulder, while he pulled on pajama bottoms.  They were 
planning to sleep together, but she wasn't sure what that meant at this point.  
They had agreed to make no assumptions about anything other than her staying the 
extra night.

Still, someone had to say *something*.  "So, what do we have here?" she asked.

Kresge responded from the other side of the wide bed. "Don't know.  A two-night 
stand?  The beginning of a relationship?"

"Bi-coastal?"

He crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to his waist.  His tan, muscular 
chest looked as tempting as an Edenic apple to Scully.  She decided there were 
worse things in life than a two-night stand.

"It probably wouldn't work," he admitted.  "Besides, there's your partner."

Scully froze while lifting the covers.  "What about him?" she said. She 
instantly regretted the defensiveness she heard in her voice.  This was not 
Mulder.  She could speak freely.  She lay down and pulled the blanket to her 
waist.

"Well, as we modern people like to say, you two have issues.  I don't know what 
they are.  Love, hate?  Fire, ice?  How does the poem go? 'I think I know enough 
of hate/ To say that for destruction ice/ Is also great/ And would suffice.' 
It's none of my business, of course, but the problems you have with being cold 
probably...never mind." He smiled, as they lay with heads on their respective 
pillows.  "I went to a shrink during the divorce, so now I think I know 
everything."  He laughed.  "Strike that.  I *know* I know everything."

"You're not far off," she said. "We're pretty much frozen into our positions.  
And I don't think either of us is very happy with where we are.  But we're 
just...stuck."

"Do you know where the problems come from?" John asked.  "I know that when my 
marriage was going down the tubes, I talked a lot to my shrink, trying to figure 
out how I could stop the slide.  But finally, I realized that no matter what I 
did, it was over. We were simply...at the breaking point.  Have you gotten there 
yet?"

Scully reached out and put her hand in John's.  It was such a novelty to be able 
to touch someone, know he would accept it, and not have the entire tiny 
transaction fraught with meaning.  "I don't see any one breaking point," she 
said. "More like an accumulation of a lot of things.  I guess that's always the 
case in relationships."

She thought about the secrets Mulder kept from her, even information that 
concerned her, not him, vital facts about her own body.  His general 
secretiveness, as though he didn't trust her to know everything he did.  There 
was so much she didn't know about Diana.  "I know her, Scully; you don't."  
Well, why not *tell* about their past?  And he seemed to trust Diana, despite 
her own information that suggested involvement in the conspiracy.  Then there 
were his recent personality changes:  switching from full-speed-ahead manic 
pursuit of cases to total lack of interest.  Ignoring Cassandra's return until 
Scully virtually dragged him from a basketball court.  His disturbing propensity 
to want to give up just when the danger was worst.

"He's...just not the man I thought he was," she said, turning to John. "And I 
don't think I'm the woman he expected me to be.  Although I don't know about 
that.  Maybe he's always seen me largely as a tool. I...just don't know."

John looked her fully in the eye.  "Dana, I really hope I'm not being used as 
some kind of pawn for you to take vengeance on your partner.  Or  as a ploy to 
gain back his attention. I don't expect this to be the affair of the century, 
but I also don't want to be used as a sex toy." He laughed. "I realize that 
sounds weird coming from a guy, but I want to be more than a handy penis."

She met his eye and tightened her grip on his hand. "No.  John, no vengeance is 
involved.  I'm here for me.  I've been feeling...numbed by events.  Untouchable.  
And untouched. You're helping me recover...who I was six years ago.  When I 
trained as a medical student, I had to force myself not to feel.  Then when I 
joined the FBI, I had to repress even more feelings.  Now they're so far gone, 
I'm having trouble finding them.  I'm like the cripple in the play, looking for 
a reason to keep living.  I'm not saying I'm suicidal, more like emotionally 
numb.  But when I'm with you, I do see hope."

He pulled her into his arms, settling her head on his shoulder.  "Yeah, I 
understand.  I felt the same emptiness after the divorce.  I still do, 
sometimes.  I wonder if I'll ever find a woman to love again." He ran his 
fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp.  "It's not easy, working all the 
time, spending any spare time with Janet.  Women aren't interested in guys who 
have no time for them.  Hell, that's why I'm divorced."

She leaned down to kiss his nipple.  "You're a very nice man, John.  Do you 
think when the right one comes along, you'll *make* time?"  She rubbed her hand 
across his chest, enjoying the softness of the hair against her palm.

"I hope," he said, kissing the top of her head. "I haven't had...what we had the 
other night since the good days of my marriage.  You know.  Great sex and 
genuine feeling.  It was one of the only times since my divorce that I felt 
involved, that it wasn't a performance."

Dana rose and lifted herself so that she was stretched out on top of him.  
Hills, valleys, warm flesh, firm bones.  He felt so substantial. "It was great," 
she told him, leaning forward to kiss him softly just to the left of his mouth.  
"You were very generous, very giving.  You made me want to give as well. It made 
me feel...desirable again.  It was a gift."

He framed her head in his hands.  Pulled her closer.  "Dana, if you could 
transfer here, we could try to have an actual relationship.  We like each other.  
We can talk.  It could work."

"I wish I could," she said, bringing her mouth to his.  His mouth was a dark, 
warm cave, with her the fortunate explorer.  There were delightful nooks, 
crannies, cavities, textures to discover.  Stalagmites, crevices.  A warm, 
rough, thrusting tongue.  Reaching out like a welcoming, enveloping handshake.  
Polished edges, ample moisture.  A place she'd like to stay, savoring the safety 
and the pure rush of sensation.

When she did pull back, she faced reality.  "I wish I could," she repeated.  She 
caressed his face, feeling the stubble brush her palm, then trying to erase the 
tiny wrinkles by his eyes.  "But back in DC, we're working on something really 
serious.  A virus.  That could harm...a lot of people.  It's vital to stay there 
and do what I can. It's really...serious."

"The job comes first.  Like me."

"Yeah.  But look at our jobs.  Our doing them affects the welfare of a lot of 
people.  Right?"

He nodded, pushing her up so that she was straddling his thighs and helping her 
pull the silk shirt over her head.  He cradled her breast.  She placed her hand 
over his and pressed him closer.  She gave a small nod. He raised his head and 
put his mouth over her other breast.  As his avid mouth performed its magic, she 
felt--fire.  The other side of the poet's equation.  "From what I've tasted of 
desire/ I hold with those who favor fire." All around her, within her, fires 
were flaring, and flames were leaping, nipping, stinging.

Sensation pulled her into its vortex.  She felt she was alone on an island, this 
bed, with this man, who was showing her with every movement what a reason to go 
on living really is.  We are all cripples, in some way or another, she realized.  
But we usually elect to go on, pulled by a primal drive--the urge to experience 
the future, to continue the existence of the race, to dance joyously to the 
rhythms of the music we share with another.

Her primal urge asserted itself, and she lifted herself long enough to pull down 
John's pajamas.  Her moist cave was now positioned over his most impressive 
stalagmite, hot and demanding.  His hips thrust unconsciously, rocking them 
both, and making her moan with the contact.  She reached down to grasp his 
penis, rubbing with the same rhythm his tongue had established against her 
breast.

It was time.  She lifted herself and settled him within her, inch by inch.  He 
abandoned her breast and pulled her mouth down to his, thrusting into her below 
with the same rhythm his tongue applied to her mouth.  Time stopped as sensation 
surrounded every aspect of her being.  Then, it disappeared altogether, taking 
with it Agent Scully and her soap-opera life.  Dana was there, however, happily 
caught up in the present.  Beset by feelings that blotted out everything but the 
immediate images: bright flames, leaping ever higher; pounding surf, thundering 
in a steady, inevitable rhythm; lava spewing forth from an active, erupting 
volcano, hot, molten lava; the crash of a white-hot meteor connecting with the 
earth;  the shattering of the pieces, hot and soaring; the blinding dazzle of 
fireworks filling a July 4th night sky.  Then came the peace of darkness.  

How, she wondered, could a void be so *full* and perfect.

                      ------------------------------

She thought of Kresge on the plane ride, a nice change from brooding about 
Mulder.  He had asked her to come meet Janet, a wonderful compliment.  But she'd 
refused, not wishing to meet another little girl that she might never see again.  
In a burst of honesty, she'd told him she was sterile, watching his face 
carefully for any hint of distaste or revulsion.  There was none.  Nor did she 
detect any pity.  His own emotional problems seemed to have made him 
understanding and accepting.  She could learn from him.

But theirs was an easy relationship, with little commitment on either side.  
He'd promised to visit her in DC, which might or might not happen.  Some warm 
phone conversations, a few delayed visits, and their connection could tail off 
harmlessly, naturally, with no hurt feelings. There was as yet no serious 
connection, and probably there wouldn't be, much as she liked him.  She couldn't 
move away from DC unless she was fired, or the invasion was averted.  She knew 
he wouldn't leave any city his daughter was living in.

But she'd gained a lot from him, and, she hoped, given something in return.  
With him, she reflected, she wasn't Scully the drag, the nay sayer, a suspicious 
or jealous woman, the one who always said "Prove it," the one who always had to 
be *sane*.  Instead, she could wail like a banshee, purr like a well-fed kitten, 
or growl like a slinking panther.  The roles--the newness, the freedom--filled 
her with delight.  She hoped to see John again.

He could talk, even about serious things, like feelings.  Also, he was an 
Olympic-caliber lover.  She suddenly remembered the scene in "When Harry Met 
Sally" when Billy Crystal recounted his dream about being rated as a lover by a 
group of Olympic judges.  Not necessary, she thought.  Who cares about form or 
technique; it's the results that count.  She'd give John tens.  She smiled.

               -----------------------------------

Scully's smile disappeared at the airport when she discovered that Mulder had 
come out to pick her up.  His smile faded as well when he caught her expression 
and heard her words, "What are you doing here, Mulder?"

She caught his faint pout as he tersely explained, "I drove out to pick you up."  
He was beginning, to her keen interpretive eye, to look pissed.

Well, well, she thought, apparently I'm supposed to be agog with gratitude at 
his showing up.  This...rare thoughtful gesture is supposed to...impress me.  
Why?

"Is there a case?" she asked, still unable to believe he was here out of 
kindness.

He shook his head.  "I can't pick up my partner?" he asked, now looking hurt.

What's *with* him, she wondered.  Did her staying over raise his sensitive 
antenna?  He *was* intuitive.  She had to give him that. She studied him.  Maybe 
he can sense my deflected attention, she thought.  Or maybe he can smell Kresge 
on me, like some kind of alpha male protecting his territory.  But I'm not his 
territory, she told herself with much more conviction than usual.  And I don't 
want his attention only when he senses an intruder at the outpost, or when he's 
worried that his territory is under siege.  By abduction, cancer, other men, 
whatever.  I require daily attention.

"You ready to go?" he asked.

Not enough, buddy, she was thinking.  I've been with a man who cooks for me, 
takes me to plays, makes me hot chocolate,  talks to me with honesty and 
respect.  And get this, pal.  He fucks my brains out while simultaneously making 
tender, passionate love with me.  A little drive to the airport just doesn't cut 
it, friend.  Too little.  Too late.  But...

"Yeah, I'm ready," she said.  "Thanks."  Okay, she thought, let's give this a 
shot.  "Mulder?  Did you want to talk about something?  Are there some things we 
need to get straight between us?"

There you are:  an olive branch, she thought.  Let's talk, Mulder.  I'll show 
you mine if you'll show me yours.

His face was guarded.  "No, I just came out to give you a ride."

She watched her mental olive branch wither.  Okay.  No change. The walls would 
remain in place, for now.

"Well, thanks," she said.  "Let's go pick up my luggage."

She wasn't hypocritical enough to add that it was good to be home.


Notes:  The drama discussed is "The Cripple of Inishmaan" by Martin McDonagh.  
The fire and ice references are from Robert Frost's poem, "Fire and Ice."  The 
lyrics to "It Aint Me, Babe" are from the song by Bob Dylan.  The line, "You 
don't know what you got til it's gone" is from Joni Mitchell's "Paved Paradise 
to Put up a Parking Lot."




CHAPTER 3:  Regrets?  Not Yet

(Post-ep  Alpha)

"There's something I should like to ask you, dear."/

"You don't know how to ask it."/

"Help me, then." -----all quotes in this chapter from Robert Frost's
"Home Burial."



"I Want To Believe," Scully murmured, studying the restored poster on the wall 
of the basement office.  "And, Jesus, I wish I could."

"It'd help," Mulder said, entering the office behind her.  "Maybe we could 
average our capacity to believe--since I'll believe anything and you'll believe 
nothing."

She turned to face him, noting that he still looked deflated from their recent 
experience in California.  After some days, he still felt responsible for 
Karin's death.  "She made her own decisions, you know," she told him, 
straightening up piles of papers in preparation for the weekend. She was sure 
he'd know whom she meant by "she." "You can't expect to read minds."

He flopped into his chair and propped his feet up on his desk.  He rubbed his 
eyes, then looked up.  "If I could, I'd probably read yours," he told her, 
letting his head fall backwards.  "I've been thinking.  You said Karin was 
enamored of me."  He straightened his head and glanced at her, hunched over a 
pile of papers, apparently absorbed.  "I didn't see any sign of that at all.  
Interesting interpretation, Dr. Scully."

She looked up. "Meaning what?"

He shrugged.  "Projection?  You get pretty touchy when a woman enters the scene, 
Scully.  If I could read your mind, maybe I'd know why."

Scully grabbed her briefcase and her coat.  What the hell, she thought.  He 
thinks I'm jealous of any other woman who comes along.  She flipped a mental 
coin.  Discuss this now.  Maybe have an open exchange of ideas and feelings--for 
a change.  Or get out of here and prepare for John Kresge's arrival tonight.  
Get ready for a weekend with a man who did not speak in codes.

She slipped into her coat.  "If you could read my mind, Mulder, you'd see a 
whole lot of plans for the weekend."  Picking up her briefcase, she glanced at 
her partner.  "Do me a favor, Mulder.  Unless the invasion actually starts, 
don't call.  I'll be tied up and have no wish to jet out of town to chase 
mutants and monsters."  She headed towards the door.  "Have a good one."

"Scully?"

She swiveled her head and raised an inquiring brow.

He waggled his own brows into a mock leer.  "Big plans, huh?  Hot date?"

She studied his expression.  Does he think it's impossible that I'd have a hot 
date, she wondered.  Is the idea *that* funny?  She mentally shrugged, not 
wanting to dwell on the labyrinthine twists in her relationship with Mulder, not 
with Kresge's arrival so close.  

At least I'm seeing someone in person, she thought, instead of exchanging ideas 
about animals over the Internet.  This is progress.  Feeling cheerful, she gave 
him the genuine Scully smile, the one that displayed teeth and reached all the 
way to the eyes.  "Yeah," she said.  "I guess you could say that.  See you 
Monday."

She left, closing the door, not seeing the collapse of his smartass
leer into open-mouthed shock.  Mulder stared at the door, his eyes still focused 
on the spot where Scully had stood.  His expression was that of a man who does 
not want to believe.

                           -------------------------------

"Don't--don't go./
Don't carry it to someone else this time."


Scully stood in front of the arrivals board at the airport, noting that John's 
plane was delayed.  She looked around.  Although she spent more time in airports 
than most terminal employees, this, she thought, was a first.  She could not 
remember *ever* going to the airport to meet a...whatever Kresge was to her at 
this point.  She'd seen it so often in films--the rush of the woman to throw 
herself into the strong, waiting arms of her lover.  She wasn't sure this was 
her sort of role, since she was not impetuous, to put it mildly.  And public 
displays of affection always turned her off.  So what should she do?  Shake 
hands?  No, too cold.  A decorous kiss on the cheek?  Maybe.

She couldn't even decide if John was her lover.  They made love, the few times 
they'd been together recently in San Diego.  It wasn't just sex, she thought.  
Although she could see little future in their relationship, she could see a 
present.  Ever since her return from San Diego, they'd talked by phone every two 
or three days.  And they'd actually *talked*, not the "I'm fine, how are you 
doing" drivel.  They'd discussed their respective cases, pleased that their 
professions allowed for a shorthand and the understanding that was almost 
impossible for an outsider.  They'd discussed their lives, both the trivial "I'm 
flying to Chicago, but you can reach me on my cell," and the important--"I'm 
worried about Janet's lack of playmates," or "Mulder had a whole plane ride to 
tell me about this woman, but instead, he sprung her on me when we got to her 
house."

The fact was, Kresge's presence had changed Scully's life.  She opened up to 
him, shared her feelings.  The experience was even carrying over into her work, 
where, instead of merely brooding about Karin's motives, she was able to 
articulate her suspicions to Mulder and confront Karin herself.  John's presence 
was also opening up her past, so long closed off in an effort to deny the tragic 
losses.  For instance, right now, gazing at the changing times on the board and 
noting the gate for his flight, she was visualizing what Melissa would have done 
in this situation.  Melissa had returned to her life, thanks to Kresge--and 
time.

Melissa, she thought, would have been wearing something long and flowing.  
Jewelry would be prominent, crystals among them.  Her fragrance would be a 
mixture of lavender and some other healing herbs.  Her hair would be fluffed out 
and flyaway, her spirit soaring, as it always did at the thought of travel, hers 
or anyone else's.  She was someone for whom life was a journey, every step a 
delight, whatever its consequences.  She had been open to every shade of 
experience life had to offer, meeting it with welcoming heart and eager 
anticipation.  Dana pictured her standing there.  Actually, she wouldn't be 
standing.  She'd be speeding toward the gate, eager to launch herself into her 
lover's arms.  And she'd have no difficulty thinking of the man in question as a 
lover; all men were lovers to her, or potential lovers.  Her heart was large--it 
had room for all.

I love you, Dana thought, grateful that Melissa had re-entered her life at last.  
The guilt was gone and now Melissa entered her mind and spirit freely, 
observing, commenting, chiding, encouraging.  That part of Dana that she'd 
thought irretrievably lost had been found.  Her eyes filled with tears as she 
searched for the correct gate.  

Smiling, she contrasted her steady pace with Melissa's headlong rush.  Her 
appearance too was that of the anti-Melissa.  Well, at least she wasn't wearing 
her work clothes. After shopping, she'd straightened up the apartment, and 
treated it to several fresh flower arrangements, bought, undoubtedly, at the 
prodding of Melissa.  After her shower, she'd let her hair dry naturally, which 
gave it more wave and body, lending her a looser, more casual look--Melissa 
again?--and donned some worn jeans, a light T-shirt, and a black leather jacket.

Now, there she was.  And there he was.  Looking like shit, or as close to shit 
as a really attractive man can look.  He trudged in her direction, the bags 
beneath his eyes nearly as large as the one in his hand.  All her indecision 
about her role in this reunion vanished.  She enfolded him into her arms and 
pressed her body close to his, feeling his arms circle her and tighten.  This 
felt good.  Here, on her home territory, he felt real.  In San Diego, their 
connection was something that happened "on the road."  Something that didn't 
necessarily have to affect her real life.  But now, in her territory, (how 
*alpha* I am, she thought), he was genuinely part of her life.  Here, she was 
Dana Scully, about as whole as she ever got.  And that whole Dana Scully was 
reaching out to this exhausted man who seemed to need to hold her in his arms.

They pulled back slightly to see each other.  "You look so tired," she said, 
touching his cheek.

"And you look fantastic," he said, running his hand through her curly hair.  
"Love your hair."  He buried his nose in it for a moment.  "But the truth is, 
I'm beat.  The case I told you about?  It broke last night. I was up the whole 
night."

"The Kostermyer case?  Who did it?  The husband?"

"Yeah, as I thought.  The idiot kept some tapes we found when we pried up the 
floorboards."

"Trite.  If I ever hide something, it's not going to be under the floorboards," 
she said, running her hand along his neck and wondering whatever happened to her 
disapproval of public displays of affection.

He hugged her again.  "You feel so good."  He ground their lower bodies 
together.  "And I am good for absolutely nothing, I have to warn you."

"That's okay.  I didn't invite you here to service me sexually.  Although I 
certainly have no objections if the mood should strike," she smiled.  She pulled 
back and picked up his bag from the floor.  "Looks like I'm better equipped to 
carry this.  Come on.  I'll take you home and you can go straight to bed."

He looped his arm around her shoulder as they walked out of the terminal.  As 
they got out of the car at her apartment, he did the same, still too tired to 
walk without staggering.  Scully carried his bag in one hand and wrapped her 
other arm around his waist as they approached her apartment.  Her head was close 
to his ear as she murmured that he could go right to sleep and rest as much as 
he wanted tomorrow.  

If she were not so absorbed in helping her exhausted friend to the building, she 
might have noticed a familiar car parked nearby.  Inside, Mulder watched the two 
enter the building, his head shaking slightly, his mouth set and grim.

                       --------------------------------------

"I won't have grief so/
If I can change it.  Oh, I won't, I won't!"


Mid-morning sun slithered into Scully's bedroom.  John Kresge sat up in bed, 
naked to the waist.  Giving a flawless imitation of a starving man, he stuffed 
food into his mouth, mindless, probably not even tasting it.  Scully had brought 
him, along with his coffee, a combination of fresh fruits mixed with yogurt and 
coconut, generously presented in a brandy snifter. 

John halted his ravenous actions and looked at the goblet in his hand, now half 
empty.   Embarrassed, he glanced up at Scully, standing beside the bed with 
tussled hair, dressed in a light green, short silk robe, with arms folded across 
her chest.  The corner of one side of her mouth quirked upward.

"This is really nice," he said.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't even look at it.  It's 
delicious, it really is.  I...I was starving.  Plane food, you know?"

"I *do* know.  And when I'm alone, I do the same thing."  She perched on the bed 
beside him and picked up her own goblet, selecting a cherry.  "You can sleep 
some more if you want.  I honestly don't mind.  Or, we can have breakfast and 
see some sights.  It's up to you."  She speared a piece of fresh pineapple.

He looked down at his remaining fruit.  "Now why is it," he said, "that I think 
to make up for my display of boorishness, I should smear this stuff on your body 
and lick it off."  He resumed eating, but at a civilized rate.  "This really 
*is* good."  He raised his brow.  "Would you like it if I put this grape in your 
belly button and licked it out?"

Dana laughed.  "Not really.  I know that licking food off a person's body is a 
big turn-on in fiction, but in real life...it just seems as if we'd get all 
sticky."

"Yeah, the sheets too.  Those people in fiction must have servants or a good 
laundry service."  He looked up.  "Not that I'm averse to getting bodily fluids 
on the sheets."

Scully set her goblet on the side table and ran her hand down his chest.  
Although she enjoyed having a warm body to cuddle up to through the night, he'd 
been corpselike in his exhaustion.  Now that he was awake, his muscular chest 
was too tempting not to touch.  She twirled his hair around her fingers, feeling 
its soft tickle and watching the sun swirl through it, making it transparent as 
she combed her fingers through it.  Her eyes raised to meet his, which were 
ablaze.  Was that because of the sun, she wondered?  Or because of her?

Keeping his eyes attached to hers with the compelling force of an iron grip on 
the wrist, he maneuvered his goblet to the side table without upsetting his 
coffee.  His hand returned to touch hers, still exploring his chest.  Then it 
reached out to spread open her robe, slip inside, and cover her breast.  She 
closed her eyes, savoring his delicate, teasing touch.  His warm hand circled 
her breast, weighed it, caressed every inch, growing ever closer to her nipple, 
waiting at attention like an eager recruit.  When he touched it--finally--and 
gave it a gentle squeeze while running his forefinger back and forth across its 
tip, she moaned and wished he'd stay in her bed forever.

Her bed had not had a man in it for years; even then, that man had been a 
feverish Mulder.  Her bed had been empty.  Her body had been empty--was still 
empty in one sense.  Her life had been empty, or she had allowed it to become 
that way in her  mind.  She'd allowed bits and pieces of it to fall away.  She'd 
put certain areas off limits.  Soon there was not much territory left, hardly 
enough to keep her alive.  It had turned into the barren plain she'd dreamed of 
after losing Emily, a lonely, solitary habitation. Only Mulder occupied the 
territory along with her, sporadically and ambiguously.  Not offering her 
enough.  Like John earlier this morning, she'd been starving.  And like him, she 
felt like greedily taking the sustenance offered.  Gobbling it up.  With both 
hands.
 
With Kresge's help, vacancies were being filled.  She opened her eyes, watching 
his intense, attentive face. His eyes were locked on her shifting expressions, 
the flush of color she could feel rising in her cheeks.  He monitored the pace 
of her breathing.  "Thank you," she whispered, licking her lips, which suddenly 
felt fuller and ripe, although he had not yet touched them.

He remedied that, leaning forward and laying his lips on hers, kissing her 
gently, then licking along her lower lip.  The pressure on her nipple increased, 
as did the pace of the finger rolling back and forth across the tip.  "For 
what?"  He nipped her lower lip and pushed her mouth open with his tongue.

She couldn't answer for a while.  Her mouth was full, her breast was sending 
fiery streaks--happy messages--to southern territories which were preparing with 
some excitement to receive a guest.  Her own hands became explorers, touching 
smooth skin, flexing muscles, softly downed surfaces.  His pubic hair was wiry, 
a bewitching contrast to the texture of his silky chest hair.  She buried her 
fingers, pressing, pulling, feeling absolute greed for his body.  Lust.  She 
moved her hand to his balls, exploring the different texture of the surface, 
weighing, squeezing gently, feeling his moan echo inside her mouth.

She pulled her mouth away and stared into his eyes, stormy with passion and what 
appeared to be wonder.  Do my eyes look like that, she thought.  So wild, yet so 
eager.  Amazed.  "Thank you for everything," she said, kissing him again, and 
nipping at his lower lip.  She moved her hand to his penis, leisurely explored 
its length, and paused at the tip to spread the fluid with her thumb.  "You've 
made me feel...alive again.  It's an...amazing feeling."  She buried her tongue 
within him again, wishing to crawl inside him where everything was warm and wet 
and welcoming.  Where she could be herself, once more, the one she thought was 
lost.  Or dead.

He pulled her robe aside, brushed it off her shoulders where it puddled on the 
floor,  and sat on the side of the bed, lifting her buttocks to pull her close 
as she straddled his lap.  Her arms wrapped around his neck as once again their 
eyes connected.  "You're doing the same thing for me," he whispered.  "I love 
how you make me feel."  He pulled her mouth to his again and this time, the 
passion flared out of the comfort zone into a place of pure need.  Their 
explorations ceased to be leisurely and teasing, and hands moved quickly across 
slick surfaces, pushing, sliding, abrading as they moaned into each other's 
mouths.

"Now," she breathed, as he lifted her buttocks and she took her weight on her 
knees to impale herself on his penis as he, in turn, rammed it into her with an 
impact that forced a grunt from both.  They moved quickly, frantically, finesse 
forgotten, the only sounds gasps, moans, and the pounding of slick flesh, 
slapping together, the pace becoming a blur of sight and sound.  Scully 
screamed, the most out of control she'd ever been in her life, as her orgasm 
turned her into a simple animal seeking completion and nothing else.  John soon 
followed with an anguished shout and an iron grasp that kept her glued to him, 
barely able to breathe, until his spasms ceased,  eons  passed,  and they fell 
bonelessly to the bed, still entwined.  

They gasped and panted, soaked and slippery with sweat, yet unwilling to let go 
or even draw their sticky skin apart.  He was still inside her, and she reached 
around his buttocks to press him even closer.  The emptiness in her body was 
filled.  She felt gloriously alive.  Her body, and her spirit, sang.

                         ---------------------------------

"There, you have said it all and you feel better./
You won't go now."


It was a glorious day to show DC to someone she...valued.  The cherry blossoms 
were just beginning to open, the sunshine was inviting and warm, and Dana Scully 
felt ready to break into blossom herself.  It was a day calculated to make her 
forget her infertility,  not care so much that she would never put forth fruit.  
April may indeed be the cruelest month, but today, it smiled on Dana and John.

Fortified by pancakes filled with bananas and pecans, one of Dana's few brunch 
specialties, they sallied forth to see what looked good at the moment.  
Organized Scully was taking a brief break, and spontaneous Dana had taken her 
place, so they freely wandered through the sunshine, stopping at places that 
caught their fancy.  

The Jefferson Memorial was one such place.  It turned out both were admirers of 
Jefferson, even though his feet of clay were softening rapidly.  Actually, they 
had turned to mush with the recent discoveries that his DNA, or at least that of 
the male side of his family, was found in the descendants of Sally Hemmings, a 
young slave girl who had had her first illegitimate, red-haired child in her 
early teens.  "So," Scully said, gazing up at the magnificent re-creation of 
that eloquent man of the Enlightenment and promoter of freedom and equality, 
"does that make him a child molester?"

John shrugged.  "Maybe a man of his time.  And a hypocrite like the rest of us."

She nodded.  "Or maybe even not guilty.  The proof isn't ironclad, as the 
newspapers seem to keep printing.  A male Jefferson, yes.  But not necessarily 
Tom."

"I wouldn't think that much less of him anyway," John said.  "As un-PC as that 
sounds.  It doesn't alter the fact that he wrote words that changed the world.  
His public actions were...it boggles the mind."

"Yeah.  My father told me that when Kennedy was President, he decided to have 
all sorts of talented people to the White House for dinners.  You know, artists, 
playwrights, architects, conductors, etc.  One of the first dinners had, if I'm 
recalling this correctly, guests like Arthur Miller, Robert Frost, Leonard 
Bernstein, a whole bunch of the best and brightest.  Anyway, Kennedy stood up 
and welcomed the group, saying the room hadn't held so much talent since Thomas 
Jefferson dined alone."

"I believe it. He could do everything."

Scully frowned.  "We're so much...smaller now.  Jefferson was expert at just 
about every field of learning that existed in his time."

A discussion about art carried them to the National Gallery, where John was 
overwhelmed by the displays of work ranging from DeVinci to last year's rage.  
The design and structure of the buildings also left him awed.

Since they were planning a relatively early dinner before seeing the Capitol 
Steps show that night, they ended their tour at the Vietnam Memorial.   Silence 
fell, as it does with nearly everyone who approaches that overwhelming monument 
to loss.

Scully sat quietly on a bench as John walked around, reading names and absorbing 
the desolate atmosphere.  She thought, as does nearly anyone who sits in that 
foreboding shadow, of loss, of the waste of life, of possibilities aborted and 
futures denied.  Soon tears were trickling down her cheeks.  She felt an arm 
cross her shoulder and leaned into John's comforting body.

"Your father was military.  This must mean a lot to you."

She touched her sleeve to her eyes.  "It's not just that.  It seems to 
suggest...I don't know, everyone's loss.  Of anything."  She remembered the 
night she knelt beside the monument and fingered the rose petal, entranced by 
its suggestion of the fragility of life.  How quickly life passes, whatever 
beauty it held withering like the rose petal, and after that, nothing to show 
for it.  When it's gone, it's as if it had never been.  Those feelings--that her 
life was passing, with no progress, no significant achievements--had led her to 
Ed Jerse.  And shortly after that, she'd discovered her cancer, which made her 
feel even more like a withering petal.  She would be gone in a matter of months, 
she thought, not decades.  If only she could leave a child behind, or a lasting 
accomplishment; it wouldn't have to be nearly on the Jeffersonian scale.  Just 
*something* to show that her life had made a difference.

She returned her attention to Kresge, who was staring at the stark monument.  
She took his hand.  "Actually, John, thanks to you, I'm feeling some gains these 
days, not losses.  I was thinking just before I picked you up last night that 
I've regained Melissa.  Now I can think of her with pleasure...not pain.  For so 
long, I was convinced that I was her...her killer, that if it weren't for...for 
me, she'd still be alive.  That guilt made me shut her out of my thoughts.  
Making her... twice dead."  She shook her head, her forehead deeply creased.

"I know what you mean.  I've felt so guilty about my failed marriage.  I feel 
like I've abandoned my child, you know?  She should have me there all the time, 
not just a few times a week."  He squeezed her hand.  "But I'm getting better 
too.  It'd be worse for her to grow up with two squabbling parents.  At least 
she has two parents who love her.  So I'm feeling less guilty.  Thank God."

They sat in silence for a while.  "I didn't kill Melissa," Dana said. "Or want 
her dead.  Or ever harm her in any way.  But it's not a rational thing.  You 
can't help feeling responsible.  That's where Mulder is now, with this latest 
case.  He feels guilty that he didn't know Karin was lying to him."

"Yeah, well."  John turned to look at Dana.  "He kind of gets off on guilt, 
doesn't he?"  Watching her eyes widen, he retreated.  "Not that he's any of my 
business.  You seemed more...accepting of him on this last case, at least from 
what you were telling me on the phone."

Scully thought.  "I guess that's true.  Being able to talk to you has made me a 
little more...generous, I guess you'd call it.  Maybe more open.  I know I've 
been miserable and sometimes I'm pretty cranky and impatient. There's just so 
much 'been there, done that' about our cases.  So, on this last one, I made a 
conscious effort to not be bitchy.  Instead, I tried to be more direct and say 
what I was thinking--for a change."

John smiled.  "So, did it work?"

She shrugged.  "We worked together more harmoniously.  Yeah.  But it didn't 
really affect the outcome of the case.  The woman--and a shitload of other 
people--died.  And I *did* present my views as forthrightly as I could.  I 
warned Mulder that Karin was hiding the truth.  But he chose not to believe 
that.  He believed her.  And as a consequence, she's dead.  Through her own 
choice.  Because she lied.  And now he blames himself."

John rose and pulled Dana with him.  He started them strolling back into the 
sunlight, out of the shadow of the grim monument.  Its black mood seemed to 
permeate everything nearby.  "Well, maybe he damned well should," he suggested.  
"You gave him some reason to doubt.  He ignored what you said.  Maybe he should 
pay some attention to *your* instincts for a change.  His famous instinct didn't 
serve him too well on this one.  Did it?"

She shook her head.  "No.  But I get the feeling he can never believe that 
women, even on the 'Net, find him attractive.  I think my theory about her 
feelings, and her wanting to meet him, just struck him as ludicrous."  She 
grimaced.  "It's as if Mr. I Want to Believe can't quite swallow that he's 
attractive."

He stopped to face her.  "*You* find him attractive."  He kept his eyes on hers.

She didn't flinch.  "To an extent.  I could see why Karin would be attracted to 
him over the 'Net.  It's his mind that's his most attractive organ."  She saw 
him start to grin. "Really!  He is intuitive, as persistent as anyone you'd ever 
meet, filled with passion about his beliefs, and has all the finesse of a steam 
roller.  He's very...overwhelming."  She frowned.  "That's how he's sucked me 
in.  And I guess that's why I'm now extricating my life from the X-Files."

John put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close as they continued 
their stroll through the sunshine.  "Funny," he remarked, "I don't see you doing 
any extricating."

"It's more mental," she explained.  "I'm still there for the work.  I can't 
imagine anything more important. It really *is* necessary," she assured him. 
"But where I'm extricating is in my life.  Here I am, out in the sunshine.  With 
you.  I'm not creeping through some dark, rainy forest on my weekend.  I'm 
pulling back enough to see if I can locate who I was before all this started."  
She stretched up to kiss his cheek.  "And I think I've found her."  She laughed.  
"I feel like an archeologist, chipping away, trying to unearth the lost Dana 
Scully.  And you, sir, are a big help.  You are connecting me with reality, or 
at least...the parts of it I lost."

"Glad to be of service," he said dryly.  He held up his hand.  "Whoa.  I didn't 
mean it like that.  As I said, you're excavating the happy parts of me that've 
been buried for some time.  So we're both benefiting.  And I like being with 
you, obviously."  He pulled her closer for a moment.  "But, you know, Dana, I 
can't get rid of the feeling that at some point I'm supposed to hand over the 
new, improved Dana Scully--that archeological treasure--to her rightful...owner? 
Nah, you'll slug me for that.  Mate?  All polished, revived, and ready to roll."

She stopped in her tracks.  "We are making no promises for the future, John 
Kresge.  But I assure you, I'm not using you in any way.  And, as for Mulder, 
I'd like our professional relationship to be more civil, with more respect.  But 
I want to carve out a personal life separate from the professional one.  
Really."

He studied her.  "I believe you.  I don't think you're a very good liar, and I 
think, or at least I *want* to think, that you like me too much to lie to me.  I 
just wonder if you're being honest with yourself."  As her mouth opened and she 
drew breath, he rushed on.  "But none of that bothers me.  I see us as two 
people who can offer each other something we both need.  We feel good about each 
other.  I don't require any blood oaths.  Just the truth from each of us.  Is 
that okay with you?"

Truth, she reflected.  What these past years were all about.  She didn't really 
believe in the kind of truth that Mulder thought was "out there."  Different 
people had done certain things throughout history for various reasons.  Just as 
it was difficult to find one ascertainable "truth" about Jefferson, it was hard 
to find an objective truth about the history and motivations that had led her 
and Mulder to the present moment.  She thought it was almost endearingly naive 
for him to believe that one "truth" was possible.

Personal truth, however, was a different matter.  With Kresge, she thought she 
could safely promise to be as accurate in describing her feelings as she was in 
admitting them to herself.  She knew she'd lied to herself in the past--plenty--
about Mulder, the X-Files, about her own motivations--many times--and about her 
own feelings.  She was an accomplished self-deceiver.  But she would be as 
honest with John Kresge as she could be.  He deserved nothing less.

"Okay," she said.

                          ----------------------------------

"Give me my chance."



They had a great evening together, one of the best Dana could remember.  Given 
the choice of any ethnic restaurant he could name, John had chosen French, and 
they had had a delectable early dinner which put them in a perfect mood for the 
rest of the evening.  John began with a portobello mushroom salad while Dana 
ordered baked brie with caramel sauce and toasted walnuts.  It was like starting 
dinner with a dessert, to which she had no objections whatever.  John then had 
beef, and Dana, escallop of veal, each with a sauce that threatened to bring on 
another orgasm.  They raved, they exchanged tastes of food, they sighed with 
delight, and they even held hands from time to time.

Incredibly, things improved after that.  They adjourned to the Chelsea Cafe in 
Georgetown to see a performance of arguably the funniest political commentators 
in America, the Capitol Steps.  A large troupe of present and former 
Congressional aides, the group had grown out of Christmas pageants years ago 
when, as they liked to say, they were scouring Congress for Three Wise Men and a 
Virgin, unsuccessfully.  Their show was a musical comprised of familiar popular 
music and show tunes, fiercely satirizing whatever was politically current.  As 
might be expected, Clinton, Lewinski, Tripp, Starr, and other assorted players 
were skewered, basted, broiled, and all but eaten.  The show was conducted at 
such a rapid pace, with clever costuming, ridiculous props, and truly hilarious 
satire, that when they emerged onto the Georgetown street, they could barely 
stay upright after two hours of non-stop laughter.

"Oh, God, my ribs hurt," Dana said, trying to catch her breath.

"I loved the 'Lirty Dies'", John said, recalling the funniest part of the show.  
One member of the group always stepped forward to tell of the current sex 
scandal in a monologue which transposed the initial letters of words, hence 
'dirty lies' becoming 'lirty dies.'  

"Every time I've seen them, they've used the one about the 'gorny huys' or 
'gorny hals,'" Scully said.  "And the bit about how he, whoever's been caught 
with his pants down at the time, should keep his 'bousers truckled.'"

They walked down the street.  Dana took John's arm and gazed around at the 
clear, mild night.  All was right with the world, for the moment.

"John, do you always have to keep your bousers truckled?" she asked plaintively.

In answer, he stepped in front of her, swept her into his arms, and lowered his 
mouth to hers.  As his tongue entered her mouth, she heard a muffled, "No."

The perfect end to a perfect day, she thought.
                                                   -----------------------------
-------------------------------

"She in her place, refused him any help,/
With the stiffening of her neck and silence./
She let him look, sure that he couldn't see,/
Blind creature; and awhile he didn't see."

           -----------------------

"My words are nearly always an offense./
I don't know how to speak of anything/
So as to please you.  But I might be taught,/
I should suppose.  I can't say I see how./
A man must partly give up being a man/
With womenfolk."


Monday morning the sun was still ablaze as Dana drove to work.  Birds were 
chirping, trees were in lustrous bloom, and she had one terrific weekend behind 
her.  Sizzling sex, she thought, sunny sights, and scintillating...conversation?  
Fuck it, why can't I think of a word that starts with 's'?

Pieces of the past few days were lodged in her mind, happy residents.  The 
delicious food, the beautiful Sunday afternoon spent strolling around the Mall 
before John's return flight, their continuing conversations about their 
respective lives.  One question she was still pondering:  Did her parents have a 
happy marriage?  At almost any time in the past, she wouldn't have hesitated to 
say yes.  Now, older but not yet wiser, she wondered.  Maybe her mother's 
generation just made the best of whatever happened.  Had she been truly happy 
moving constantly, always leaving friends behind, living in base housing, being 
alone most of the time with four unruly children?  And would she ever admit it 
if she weren't?

I have inherited the worst of both my parents, Dana thought.  Ahab's urge to 
serve, albeit in a position of authority, accompanied by a tedious moralizing 
streak and a liking for dominance.  And Maggie's wish to please, accompanied by 
the ability to suffer silently--as well as to rule through the tyranny of 
silence, if necessary.  What a mess.  Lucky they had lots of good qualities as 
well.

More pleasant images streaked through her mind: John chomping away at her 
pancakes with a carnation in his hair.  John playing tourist, posing her with 
the Washington Monument in the background, careful to give the impression that 
the giant phallus was rising from the top of her head.  John pressing her 
against the wall in the shower, his penis bobbing and throbbing at her stomach,  
she  overwhelmed with heat and moisture, both within and without.  John bending 
over her prone body, licking, nipping, kissing, sucking, everywhere he could 
reach.  The top of his head moving over her, vigorously like a jackhammer, while 
he brought her ecstasy and, finally, a merciful blindness.  Her own face-to-
head, as it were, encounter with him, up close and personal, tasting, smelling, 
licking, while he stretched and hardened.  Bodily fluids everywhere.  And who 
cared about the sheets.

Dana felt fine walking into the building.  Reborn.  Along with the earth.  For a 
change, she felt a part of nature, not its cool, objective student.  Rather than 
scrutinize it, she wished to live with it.  Her face was pink from all the 
sunlit hours, and she felt beautiful, a rare enough feeling for her at all, let 
alone while entering  FBI Headquarters.   Although her hair was subdued into a 
smooth professional coif, she had selected her lavender suit today, the one with 
the above-the-knee skirt.  Weekends with John Kresge made her remember that she 
*had* knees--and other body parts.  Her good feeling lasted until she went 
downstairs to see what Mulder was doing.

He was seated behind his desk, pale and withdrawn.  She wondered if he was still 
brooding about Karin's death.  He did look grim.

Sad eyes glanced up at her.  "There's something I need to tell you, Scully.  I 
wasn't going to tell you...but I can't...stand myself if I don't."

She sat down and waited.  There goes my beautiful weekend, she thought.  This is 
going to be really gruesome.

"I...I saw you outside your apartment Friday night.  You and Kresge.  I 
was...going to say I happened by.  But that would be a lie.  I sat there...for 
hours.  To spy on you."  He looked like a little boy expecting blows from his 
father's belt.

Scully's stomach felt as if it had landed in her shoes.  This hurt.  Trust was 
all they had, these days.  Maybe all they'd ever had.  Yeah, her inner voice 
said.  But that didn't stop you from spying on him when he was involved with the 
terrorist group, did it?  That was professional, she hissed back at herself.  
She returned to the present.  "Why?"

"I don't really know."  He studied his desktop.  "I found myself...in your 
neighborhood.  I knocked on your door.  When you didn't answer, I went back to 
my car.  But I didn't drive away.  I pulled back under a tree and waited."

"See anything you liked?"  Her voice was harsh.

"No."  

The silence stretched.  "Look, Scully, I know we can get...lonesome at times.  
But we can't get involved with people."  He looked even more miserable, but he 
still kept his eyes on his hands.  "Our enemies are everywhere.  There's no 
telling who they've recruited to get to us."

Scully stood up and leaned over the desk.  "Mulder.  Look at me."  His eyes 
swiveled upward.  "Am I hearing you correctly?" she asked in poisonous tones.  
Ice-blue eyes froze him behind his desk.  "You're saying that it's impossible 
that a man could be interested in me...for me?  That he's only using me so he 
can get...to *you*?"

Mulder began to shiver from the frost flying across his desk.  "I know all sorts 
of men could be interested in you," he said hastily.  "But how are you to know 
which ones want you and which are working for the enemy?  It's safest to...trust 
no one." 

Scully whirled and started pacing around the office.  She couldn't seem to stop 
moving.  She was afraid if she did, she'd draw her gun and blow her partner's 
brains out.  If he had any, she thought viciously.  "Trust no one?" she said, 
her voice echoing off the walls.  "I don't believe you just said that."  She 
stomped around his desk and leaned over his chair, tilting him backwards to the 
point of toppling.  "You trust *everyone*!" she shouted.  "You go around 
spouting this 'trust no one' crap all over the place, but you trust everyone in 
the whole fuckin' world.  Except me."

"Of course I trust you," he sputtered, scrambling for balance as Scully 
continued to force him backwards.  "How could you think I don't?"

She straightened.  He caught his breath and yanked his chair upright.  She 
hitched herself onto his desk and waved a finger under his nose.  "Number one. 
Your late friend Karin.  I told you she wasn't telling you the truth.  I told 
you we shouldn't be sitting in that hospital.  I told you I should have stuck 
with the suspect.  But you trusted the word of a woman you'd never met.  Someone 
you'd chatted with on the Internet."

"But, she knew all about animals.  She was the expert in the field.  She--"

A second finger joined the first, waggling beneath his nose.  "Two.  Diana.  
Earlier this year, I said it came down to a matter of trust.  You decided, on 
the basis of nothing I could figure out, that she was more trustworthy.  Just a 
couple of months ago, I tried to get you to listen to evidence about her 
connection with European MUFONs.  You wouldn't listen."

Mulder pushed her fingers aside and stood up, regaining the height advantage.  
"Look, Scully.  I *did* listen.  I located her apartment and broke in and looked 
for evidence.  I didn't find anything, but I did hear what you said.  And I 
acted on it."

Unappeased, Scully looked up.  With scorn.  "And did you think to tell me about 
this search?  Did you ever think to tell me why you think she's so fucking 
trustworthy in the first place?  Don't you trust me enough to tell me 
*anything*?"

"Of course I trust you.  You *know* I do.  Jesus, Scully, you're being such a 
*woman* about this.  That's what gets in the way."  He walked away and started 
his own rapid pace around the crowded area.  "It's the same thing with Karin and 
Diana.  If it's a woman, you get...possessive.  You want to be the only female 
in my life."

He turned to her, watching her closed face.  "I know you don't want to hear 
this, but it's true.  Like animals with their territory.  You want to be the 
alpha female in my life.  Your fur bristled the minute Diana appeared.  Very 
shortly after meeting Karin, you called her 'wolf woman.' In a very nasty voice, 
I might add.  Face it," he said, getting into her face, "you hate it when you're 
not the only woman in my life."

"You think I'm *jealous*?" she hissed.

He shrugged.  "Call it what you want.  I just know that you want to be the one 
female in my life.  You even resent some poor woman I chat with on the Internet, 
someone I've never even met.  You want possession of me, in some way.  While you 
go out and meet your men, think your thoughts, whatever.  Sharing goes two ways, 
Scully."

Scully took a deep breath and hoisted herself up onto a file cabinet.  "It's the 
lack of information, Mulder.  It's as if you take some perverse pleasure in 
keeping me in the dark.  Is there any reason I shouldn't know about your past 
relationship with Diana Fowley?  Especially since it relates to our work?  I'm 
not prying into your personal life.  This is a professional need to know."

Mulder snorted and turned his back.

"Or Karin," she continued.  "I don't care who you chat with on the Internet.  
But when she becomes a leading figure in one of our cases, I need to know what 
you know.  She wasn't there as your friend; she was being consulted as a 
professional.  And if you'd handled her as a professional, you might not have 
accepted everything she said without question. The case *might* have ended 
differently."

He faced her with sad eyes.  "Okay.  I really fucked that up.  I know it."  He 
paced some more.  "But that doesn't change your attitude toward her.  You've 
just *got* to be top dog."

"You mean bitch?"  Scully stepped to the floor and resumed her own pacing.  "I'd 
settle for partner," she said.  "Someone who gets all the information you have.  
Not someone who's always at a disadvantage because I'm missing information or 
don't know who all the players are.

"Contrary to what you're thinking, Mulder, I wasn't jealous of your relationship 
with Karin.  I was afraid she was lying, and I was trying to save you from being 
deceived.  It was an attempt to *protect* you, not jealousy."  She paused for 
breath, then whirled to face him.  "I'm equally afraid Fowley is misleading you.  
I think she's one of *them*."

Mulder leaned towards her, towering over her.  "And I went and searched her 
apartment.  I *told* you."

Scully turned away, ignoring his words.  She tossed over her shoulder,  "But you 
don't trust me enough to respect my intuitions, my theories.  Anything from me, 
you feel free to ignore it.  But let someone you've never even met come along 
and give you information, you nod eagerly, pant, wag your tail, and act on it.  
Or even someone you did know but hadn't seen for umpteen years.  Pant, wag, 
maybe lick.  Trust no one?  I think your slogan, as you once said, is to trust 
everyone.  Except me."

Mulder collapsed in his chair, head buried in his hands.  "I can't believe you 
feel this way, Scully," he muttered through his fingers.  "Don't you know how 
much I depend on you?"

"'Fraid not.  Not when you sneer at half the things I say."

He dropped his hands.  "*When* did I sneer?  Tell me that."

"At the Lone Gunmen's office, when I told you about Fowley," she shot back.  
"You mocked me by gasping dramatically, said you didn't have time for that.  
Implying that whatever I told you was horseshit."  She glared at him.

"It's because you've taken an unreasoning dislike to Diana," he said.  "From the 
moment you laid eyes on her, you didn't like her.  And at that point, you knew 
*nothing* about her."  Seeing her glare ease, he pressed his argument.  "Years 
ago, when I introduced you to Phoebe, she looked over at you and whispered to 
me, 'She hates me.'  I just don't take your opinions as seriously when women are 
concerned.  I know how you are."  He paused, and when no storm broke, went on.  
"Which is fine with me.  Really.  I'm pleased that you care about me."

Scully sighed, thought for a moment, and walked behind Mulder's desk.  She 
collapsed into his chair and leaned back.  "It's kind of funny," she said, not 
looking particularly amused.  "I was just telling John--"

"You talk to Kresge about *me*?" Mulder exclaimed, looking as horrified as she'd 
ever seen him.

"I talk to him about anything I want to," she said evenly.  "As I was saying, I 
told John that I thought you were too modest to believe Karin was interested in 
you and lying to get your attention.  I guess I was wrong, about your modesty, I 
mean."

"Well, I really didn't believe she--"

"No, Mulder, I'm talking about how you believe I feel."  She folded her hands on 
the desk, looking like an interviewer facing a very nervous applicant.  "Sit 
down a minute, will you?  Stop hovering."

He sighed and obeyed.

"I wanted to point out some times I've been concerned about your being led 
astray by those of the other gender.  Let's go back a ways.  Deep Throat.  I 
told you he might be lying.  You insisted he was trustworthy.  He wasn't, at 
least until the moment he died in my arms.  Ring any bells?  Sound at all 
familiar?"

He opened his mouth, but she pressed on.  "The black gentleman whose name we 
never knew.  You considered him a trusted source.  I thought he was a thug and a 
killer.  Then there was your pal Krycek.  Your beloved partner who professed an 
admiration for your work, unlike your former skeptical partner.  The one who 
gunned down your father and was in on Melissa's death, the one who tricked you 
into a prison in Tunguska."  She sighed. "I could go on, both about Krycek and 
about all the men you've trusted and I haven't.   My point is, Mulder, that you 
are generally trusting, and I am generally suspicious.  I think I am an equal 
opportunity harborer of suspicion.  I don't specialize in the female of the 
species."  She leaned back, watching him closely.

He looked morose.  "I get your point, Scully.  And it's kind of depressing."  
Loosened by sorrow, words seemed to burst forth without his volition.  "I 
*liked* thinking I was the center of your life, that you really cared about me."

Scully rose and walked around the desk, placing her hand on Mulder's slumped 
shoulder.  She recalled all the people who had abandoned Mulder along the way.  
She didn't plan to be one of them.  "You're my partner.  Of course I care about 
you."

He looked up.  "But not, it seems, the way I care about you."

She lowered her head to meet his eyes.  "How's that?"

He shook his head and remained silent.  Scully straightened and walked away, 
feeling like someone who's won the battle but lost the war.  She now had what 
she wanted:  some separation between her professional and personal lives.  A 
line had been drawn today.  But looking at Mulder's pained face and feeling the 
ache in her heart made it a Pyrrhic victory at best.

*Did* he care about her, in the personal way his words seemed to imply?  Or was 
it an effort to manipulate her, make her feel obligated to serve his cause, the 
way she now suspected he had last summer when interrupted by the bee sting.  She 
didn't think him duplicitous, at least consciously so.  He was, she believed, a 
creature who lived largely by instinct, and he instinctively said whatever he 
needed to say to keep her with him.  Not, perhaps, because he valued her 
personally, but because she kept him honest, forced him to work for evidence.  
For the cause, for the quest.

She still didn't know how much he valued her for herself, and she suspected that 
after this conversation, he would never tell her.  If, for that matter, he knew 
at all, he for whom the personal and the professional were so entwined.  She was 
left with the knowledge that John Kresge valued her, and that, increasingly, she 
valued and respected herself.  That she was in the process of reclaiming 
herself, so long in thrall to Mulder and the X-Files.  For now, that would have 
to do.

She looked back at Mulder, elbows propped on knees, slouched and  brooding in 
his chair.  "You don't really think John Kresge is one of the enemy, do you?"

It took a while for her words to penetrate, but finally, he shook his head.  
"No, I'm sure he's sincerely attracted to you, Scully."  His attempt at a smile 
was painful to behold, so Scully turned and left the office.