From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 24 May 2002 14:44:15 -0000
Subject: Phantom Pains (1/3) by lil_gusty
Source: direct

Reply To: lil_gusty@hotmail.com


Title: Phantom Pains (Part Six of the Trefoil Series)
Classification: SRA
Keywords: S/O, MSR/UST, AU
Rating: R for language and sex
Distribution: anywhere, just let me know
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, they belong to 
Mr. Chris Carter, lucky bastard.
Feedback: please to lil_gusty@hotmail.com
Thanks: at the end
Note: This is the sixth part of the Trefoil Series.  It begins 
      with "The Longest Time," "Practice," "Signs From God," 
      "Next Step," and "If You See Her."  They can be found at 
      Ephemeral or Gossamer.

Summary: Perfection isn't always what it seems.

Warning: If you thought that the previous parts were angsty, you 
ain't seen nothin' yet. 

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

"My, oh, my, you sure know how to arrange things.  You set it up 
so well, so carefully.  Ain't it funny how your new life didn't 
change things?  You're still the same old girl you used to be."

                ~ The Eagles

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

The harsh lights of Hartsfield International Airport reflect off 
the newly polished floor in sickening, pale white cubes, making 
my sinuses throb in time with my heartbeat, making me choke back 
bile and weak coffee as I try and find the nearest restroom.

I vomit a little, mostly stomach acid and dry heaves, making my 
throat and mouth burn, leaning against the cool, metal wall, 
panting, and desperate for some water to wash the bitter taste 
away.  Surprisingly, the floor and walls are clean, so I linger 
longer than I should, until someone asks if I'm all right, if I 
need help.  No, I tell her, I'm fine.  She offers to fetch my 
traveling companion and I tell her that I don't have one, but 
thank her anyway.  She leaves me alone in the blessed hum of 
silence and I unsteadily rise to my feet, shiver a little in the 
overly chilled bathroom, then venture out to find my luggage.

After collecting everything, I load them into a handy wheeled 
cart that has a sign on the front which, in seven different 
languages, declares "Welcome to Atlanta."

For fun, I decipher the German, trace my fingers over the odd, 
Japanese characters, and try my French and Italian pronunciation.

I wheel the creaky metal cart over to the row of pay phones and 
stare at them.  Out of five, two are occupied, one by a woman 
trying to corral a screaming toddler and communicate with the 
person on the other end of the receiver.  She looks frustrated 
and embarrassed and I consider going to help her.  Our eyes meet 
and she turns away from me, yanking her child's arm and telling 
it to "straighten up right now."  I look away and finger my name 
tag on the top suitcase in my stack, then turn around and settle 
myself in a seat among the passengers headed for Houston, Texas.

I cross my legs until the one on top falls asleep, then re-cross 
them the other way.  I pick imaginary lent off of my jeans.  I 
push my hair behind my ears, run my fingers through it, then push 
it back again.  I rearrange my luggage stack.  I root through one 
of my carry-ons looking for nothing.  I turn on my cell phone.

"Trust no one."

Mulder set my welcome note when I got my new phone, about seven 
months ago.  He said that it was something to remember, something 
to always be reminded of.  I had never thought to change it.

I check the battery - four little bars out of five - and go 
through my phone book.

"Bullwinkle."

Mulder set his cell phone number as number two, calling himself 
Bullwinkle, after Bullwinkle J. Moose.  He said that I was Rocky 
in his phone.

"Bullwinkle in Sweden."

His home phone was number three - a joke about my love of "Monty 
Python and the Holy Grail."  Moose bites can be quite nasty, you 
know.

"TLG."

Simple: The Lone Gunmen.  He said that I should always keep their 
number handy in case I needed it.  They were number four.

"Richard Gere."

He never got over the fact that Gary Shandling played him in that 
movie and was jealous of Skinner being played by Richard Gere.  

In Los Angeles, we sang "Hollywood Nights" and "LA Woman," going 
back and forth with the lines.  I was drunk from the most 
expensive champagne that the most expensive restaurant had and he 
tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, leaning over the table and 
landing one of his lapels in his alfredo sauce.  He told me he 
liked to hear my giggle, that he would have to get me drunk more 
often, and that he didn't think it was fair that they cast Tea 
Leoni as me, that I was much prettier than she is.  

Skinner was number five.

"Mom."

I had programmed that one myself.  I rarely called her from my 
cell phone but figured that, in an emergency, if for some reason 
Mulder wasn't present and I wasn't conscious, the EMTs would at 
least be able to decipher one person to call.  She was number 
six.

A drop of something wet and warm lands on the screen and slides 
down over the numbers and finally to my thumb: a tear.  I'm 
crying again.

I don't know how he'd insinuated himself into my life, into every 
aspect of it.  I didn't realize that he was everywhere, 
physically and emotionally.

I sniff twice and wince - I need Tylenol.  I turn my phone over 
and press the battery release button, counting to ten before I 
slide it back into the phone, erasing everything.

I put it back in my bag and dig around some more for my plastic 
pill container.  After finding it, I dump the contents into my 
hand and sort through the pills, looking for a pain reliever.  
Finding three Tylenol-3s, I funnel the rest back into the bottle, 
snap the lid shut, and shove it back into the bag, then swallow 
the pills dry.

In about forty-five minutes, I'll be dead on my feet - the 
codeine in one of these things knocks me out; three will give me 
half a day of unconsciousness, which is just what I want right 
now.

Mulder's allergic to codeine.  It gives him migraines.

I zip my bag harder than necessary, catching my finger in the 
zipper at the other end.  I wince again, the pain throbbing in 
tandem with my head and heart, and suck on my finger, tasting 
blood.  My face gets hot and I want to throw myself on the floor, 
kick my feet and pound my fists and scream and scream and scream, 
scream until I lose my voice.  I hiccup, holding back tears, and 
jerk the zipper back open, fish my cell phone out of my bag 
again, turn it on, and dial the unfamiliar numbers, hesitating 
before pushing send.

I push clear instead, then zip the bag again, put it on top of my 
stack, and wheel my metal cart over to a news stand, feeling very 
much like a bag lady pushing a baby carriage.

When I pick up an Atlanta-Journal Constitution and stare at the 
front page, my blood has soaked into it.  I read the headline, 
not knowing what it says, then put it back down and turn away.

There are people milling around, businessmen in a hurry, 
desperate to make their flights, families relaxing and strolling 
about, taking in the sights and sounds of the airport, their 
children mesmerized by the bright lights and big planes.

One catches my eye, her lilting British accent sounding strange 
on a child so young.  She's tugging at her mother's hand, wanting 
a cinnamon roll.  Her father is walking towards them, big white 
box, knives and forks in his hand.  She jumps up and down - she 
can't be more than four - so excited about something so simple.

She looks exactly like Emily and I wonder briefly if she's 
adopted.

Her father hands her the white box and points them to a table 
where they sit and divide the cinnamon roll, the little girl 
getting the biggest part.  Mother and Father talk while the girl 
makes a mess of the sticky icing, Mother telling her to be 
careful, not to get icing on her clothes.

I just stand there and watch the happy little family through the 
film of tears covering my eyes.  She smiles and laughs, her face 
and eyes brightening the way Emily's did when Mulder made his 
silly face.  Despite myself, I smile, too, and continue to gape 
at them, making the rushing minions walk around me to get where 
they're going.

The night that she died, Emily asked me where Mulder was.  I had 
sent him away, told him that I wanted to be alone to watch my 
daughter die, hoping that he would stay against my wishes, 
knowing that I only told him to go to try and preserve my pride 
and strength.  She asked me if he was going to come see her 
again, make another silly face.  I told her that he was probably 
asleep back at his hotel, but that I could make a silly face for 
her if she wanted.  Her face contorted in pain and her already 
protruding veins turned a little bluer and became more 
pronounced.  I pushed the button on her morphine pump, increasing 
her dose and she smiled again, the medicine taking effect.  She 
said that Mulder did it better because he looked silly anyway, he 
didn't really need to make a face.

When she finally died, I called him at 3:30 in the morning.  I 
apologized for waking him, but he claimed he wasn't asleep.  My 
voice was shaking but I wasn't crying.  I simply told him that 
her heart had stopped and I had asked the doctors not to try and 
resuscitate her.  He said he would be there in ten minutes, but 
was there in three, wearing the same clothes he had been earlier, 
only a little more wrinkled.  A nurse later told me that he had 
been in the lobby all night in case I needed him.  He had asked 
her to let him know if Emily's condition changed.

He kept his arm around me while the orderlies wheeled her down to 
the morgue, turned me towards him once they were gone, and told 
me it was okay to cry.  I covered my face with my hands and 
sagged into his chest, his arms supporting me when I could no 
longer support myself.  He stroked my back and whispered to me 
that she was better off, that she wasn't in pain anymore.  I 
shook and hiccupped, but never shed a single tear, nodding when 
he asked a few minutes later if I was okay.

An errant, world-weary traveler bumps into me, breaking me out of 
my reverie.  He doesn't apologize and my cheeks turn scarlet and 
hot from embarrassment.  The little girl is staring at me oddly, 
almost like she recognizes me but isn't sure from where, licking 
the icing from her fork and kicking her legs underneath the 
table.  I look away from her and point my cart towards the 
nearest bank of seats and fall into one, shielding my eyes from 
the harsh lights.  Everywhere I look, there's a memory and every 
one has Mulder playing a prominent role.

I shake my head and rub my temples, suddenly dizzy.  Sleep - I 
need sleep.  I'm so tired, so, so tired.  I want nothing more 
that to crawl into my big, soft, warm bed, pull the covers over 
my head, and not emerge for a century.  Darkness tinges the edge 
of my vision and I shake my head again, willing it away.

I'm delaying, putting off calling Ethan.  He doesn't even know 
I'm here yet - I never called him to tell him my flight plans.  
He's at work and probably unable to get off in the middle of the 
day to take me home.  I could take a cab to his house, assuming 
they have cabs in Atlanta, but it hits me suddenly that I don't 
even know where he lives, I don't even know his address.  For all 
I know, Roswell could be two hours away in any direction.  I 
wouldn't have the faintest idea what to tell the cab driver.

Cell phone still clutched tightly between my trembling fingers, I 
dial the unfamiliar numbers again and finally push send.

After a hesitation and a few clicks, it rings.  And rings.  And 
rings.

Finally, "Minette."

He sounds busy and I feel a twinge of guilt for interrupting his 
day.  I raise my head slightly and feel dizzy again, moaning into 
the phone.

"Hello?"  He asks suspiciously.

"E-an?"  I slur out, hoping he recognizes my voice.

"Dana?"

"Mmm..."  I rub my temples again, trying to push the pain away 
but only making it worse.

"What's the matter?"

"'M sick..."

Hearing the cacophony of background noise, he asks, "Where are 
you?"

"Airport..."

"Oh.  When's your flight?"

"No...'m in A'lana..."

"Already?  Dana -"

"E-an, 'm sick..."  My voice is light, airy, almost a whisper, my 
words fading out at the end.

"Dana, I'm kinda busy right now.  You should've called."

"'M sick!"  I scream, my vision blurring and darkening again.  
The codeine is starting to take effect.  I need him.  Now.

"Okay, okay.  I'll see what I can do."  He sounds disappointed, 
like CNN can't function without him for...however long it takes 
to get here, to Roswell, and back again.

"E-an...'m sick..."  I mumble again, in case he missed it the 
first hundred times.

"I'm on my way, Dana, I'm walking out the door right now.  Just 
hang on, okay?"

"Hurry," I whine miserably, sounding exactly the way I feel, like 
a Kindergartner on her first day of school.

"I will, I will.  Twenty minutes, Dana."

I whimper.  "Okay..."

"Okay."  The phone clicks again as he hangs up.  Pressing the end 
button, I dip my head between my knees and try to take deep 
breaths.  If the room would stop spinning, I might not feel so 
nauseous.

An eternity later, I feel a cool hand on my shoulder.  "Dana?  
Are you all right?"

Not raising my head from my knees, I shake it as best as I can, 
trying not to vomit or pass out.

He kneels in front of me, tipping my head up to his.  "Dana, I 
need you to get up.  Can you stand up?"

I shake again and he stands, then lifts me until I'm leaning 
against him, his arm around my waist holding me up.

"Is all of this yours?"  He gestures to the metal cart with the 
teetering stack of luggage beside me.

I make some sort of affirmative grunt and he sighs, rearranges me 
in his arms, and then pushes the cart with the one not supporting 
me.  "Dana, I need to you walk," he says, sounding annoyed and a 
little angry.

I make another sound, then float through the twirling room, 
outside, and finally to his car.  He opens the door and pushes me 
into the passenger's seat, slams the door after me, then loads 
the luggage into the trunk.  When he slams that shut, I gag on 
bile and start sweating profusely.

He finally gets in the car and starts the engine, the air 
conditioner blasting my face at full speed.  I blindly reach out 
my hand to push the air away and he twists a knob, lessening the 
blizzard.

"Now, what happened?" he asks, looking sharply at me.

I loll my head against the seat.  "Cold," is all I can manage 
before he puts the car in gear and swings quickly out of the 
parking space.  Before we're even out of the lot, I've already 
lost consciousness.

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

So warm...so soft...so comfortable...

The cotton sheets feel luxurious against my skin and I burrow 
into my little cocoon, take a deep breath, then relax and enjoy 
the task of just laying still and quiet in a big, empty bed.

Big, empty bed?

I open my eyes and push the covers off of my head, then look 
around in confusion.  It's not my apartment, it's not Mulder's 
apartment, it's not a hospital room, and it's not a hotel room.  
Where the hell am I?  And where the hell is Mulder?

I look at the clock beside the bed, 2:09.  There's a piece of 
paper lying beside it and I reach out for it, trying several 
times before finally grasping it and bringing it to my face.

"Dana-  I had to go back to work.  Hope you're better.  Should be 
back around seven.  Make yourself at home.  Love, Ethan."

So I'm at Ethan's house.  In Ethan's bed.  When did I call Ethan?

I lay back against the pillows and reread the note.  "Hope you're 
better."  Oh, the headache.  And the pills.  I must've fallen 
asleep...or something.

My luggage is sitting in one corner, my clothes that I don't 
remember taking off are draped over the largest piece.  In 
nothing but my bra and underwear, I'm cold, so I stand and sway, 
feeling all the blood rush out of my head, sit back down on the 
bed, take a few deep breaths, then stand again and wait for the 
room to stop spinning before collecting them and dressing.

There's a long mirror standing in one corner of the bedroom, 
framed in deep, cherry wood, carved with an ornate, old-fashioned 
designs.  It's tilted so that I can see myself from across the 
room, the glare from the afternoon sun distorting my face and 
chest.  Beside the mirror is the bathroom door, partially closed.

I walk over to the door, the plush, expensive carpet feeling like 
little massaging fingers against my feet, then push it open.  The 
blinds above the largest Jacuzzi tub I've ever seen are open and 
I lean over it, closing them to block out the brightness.  My 
head doesn't hurt as much as it did, but my body is weak, tired, 
like it used to be after a nosebleed and paralyzing cancer 
migraine.

The tub is impossibly wide and deep, but I don't see any bubble 
bath sitting on the edge.  In fact, there's a fine layer of dust 
covering the edges and I gather that this isn't Ethan's favorite 
way to bathe.  There's a shower stall next to the tub, but I 
don't feel like making the effort of taking off the clothes that 
I just put on, drying myself, and redressing again.  Instead, I 
turn towards the double vanity, only one of which is adorned with 
a toothbrush, paste, and deodorant.  The other is rather dusty 
like the tub, so I assume that this one will be mine and turn on 
the water, wiping the dust away and waiting for the water to warm 
up.  I splash some on my face and rinse my mouth, discovering 
that I'm actually thirsty enough to swallow the tepid, tasteless 
stuff.

I pinch the skin of my arm between my fingers and it slowly 
slinks back into place - I'm dehydrated.

Turning off the water, I almost look at myself in the mirror.  
Remembering what I saw the last time I studied myself - a pale, 
sick-looking, foreign face - I decide to avoid my reflection out 
of fear of what I'd see this time.  Instead, I turn away, eager 
to explore the rest of the house.  

My house.  Our house.

I walk out the bedroom door and step into a large, airy hall, 
blinded by the light streaming in through the arching window high 
on the wall above the foyer.  I squint and turn away, peaking 
into one bedroom, empty except for the barest of necessities.  A 
big, high bed, a chest of drawers, a night stand, a mirror.  This 
must be the guest bedroom.

I crane my neck to look into the other bedroom across the hall.  
The walls are covered in pink and white stripped wallpaper, the 
furniture is white with pink edging, the bedspread and curtains 
white with pink flowers.  Several stuffed animals sit on the bed 
in front of the pillows, each either white, pink, or a 
combination of the two.  It looks like a room for a princess, so 
I assume that this one belongs to Emma.

Feeling awkward about intruding into her personal space, I 
hesitantly step inside.  The room exudes a comforting feeling, a 
warmth and safety that Ethan's bedroom - our bedroom - didn't.  A 
white bookshelf in the corner is full of big, colorful children's 
books and I finger their spines, my eyes flitting over their 
titles.  I slide one out of its home and gingerly sit on the bed, 
flipping through the pages, mesmerized by the simplicity of the 
language and story, the exaggeration of the illustrations.

Emma must like to be read to before bed.  Or maybe she's learning 
to read and Ethan sits with her while she struggles with the 
words, proud of herself when she masters another one.  I close 
the book and place it beside me on the bed, then pick up a random 
stuffed animal: a white whale.

Just like one I had when I was her age.  My father brought it 
back for me after one of his many visits out into the ocean.  He 
told me that his name was Ahab, so that I would always have one 
Ahab with me for when the other was away.  I slept with that 
whale for twelve years, until I went to college, and I'm sure my 
mother still has it tucked away with the rest of my childhood 
somewhere in her basement.

Remembering my father, his gentleness, how much he loved and 
missed me each time he would leave brings fresh tears to my eyes.  
I put Emma's whale down before I drip onto it, then stand and 
quickly walk out of the room, closing the door behind me.

I wonder if Emma will ask me to read to her tonight, or to sit 
with her as she reads.

I sniff and find the stairs, then descend them to explore the 
downstairs.

A modest living room greets me at the bottom, some generic fruit 
and farm paintings hanging on opposite walls, deep green paint 
and matching striped wallpaper making the room seem small and 
foreboding.  It appears that this room doesn't get much use, so I 
step through it and into the front foyer, a faux-wooden door with 
a fancy, frosted glass oval in the middle projecting prisms of 
light onto the polished hardwood.  I look through the glass, 
remembering how I always wanted a pretty front door like this.  
Navy housing gave us cheap, torn screen doors, but I would see 
these kinds of doors in other houses and envied them.

To the left, there's a large dining room, a long table with eight 
chairs around it and a china cabinet behind it displaying the 
delicate porcelain like fine jewelry.

When I was little, my mother used to take Missy and me shopping 
with her while she picked out wedding gifts for distant 
relatives, always buying them a piece of china for their 
collection.  She explained that, when we got married, we would 
get to pick out our own china patterns, both casual and formal.  
Missy was enthralled, picking out several different patterns each 
time we shopped, dreaming about how her own wedding would be.  I 
was less than impressed, though, telling her that her patterns 
were ugly and wondering why you needed such expensive dishes that 
you wouldn't even use.  My mother just laughed and said that I 
would understand one day, when it was me playing the bride.

Mulder asked one time if we should be picking out china patterns 
and I couldn't imagine it - Mulder shopping for something as 
fragile and feminine as china.

The kitchen is next, another fine layer of dust coating the 
counters and stove.  I doubt this room gets much use either, 
except maybe the microwave.  I open a cabinet and search for a 
glass, astounded at the number of crystal wine glasses that sit 
on the top shelves, out of reach of little fingers.  I pick the 
simplest glass which is fancier than any I've ever owned and fill 
it with water from the tap, not bothering to fetch some ice to 
cool it down.

On the refrigerator are several drawings done by a child.  Some 
of a little girl with squiggly, yellow hair in what looks like a 
cheerleading uniform in one, a soccer uniform in another.  One of 
the girl with a tall man with the same yellow hair, one of a 
stick-thin woman with a triangle skirt and light brown hair.  All 
of the figures have red slashes across their faces, Emma's 
version of a smile.  There's a report card, too, of all A's and 
S's, proclaiming that Emma is a bright, curious child, a pleasure 
to have in class.

Through the kitchen is another table, this one small and round 
with only four chairs around it.  Down a small hallway is a full 
bathroom and a study, a computer and several bookshelves lining 
the walls.  A bulletin board is hung on one wall, pictures of 
Ethan shaking hands with important looking men in expensive suits 
pined haphazardly to it, an old picture of he and Emma at the 
beach tucked into one corner.

On the other end of the second-table area is a living room, a 
large TV and entertainment system against one wall, a plush couch 
across from it.  Three windows behind the couch overlook the 
green, fenced back yard, a child's swing set in the middle 
looking well used.

This house is huge.  And fancy.  And expensive.  I had never 
given it much thought before, but Ethan must make a lot of money 
working at CNN.

I sip my water and set it on the coffee table in front of the 
couch, careful to place it right in the center of a coaster.  Not 
knowing what else to do, not having anyone to talk to, I sit 
down, then lie down, on the couch.  The air here is cool and the 
air conditioning has been on constantly since I awoke, so I pull 
the blanket down from the back and cover myself, arranging the 
pillow under my head and my hips between the crack of the 
cushions.

I should probably call someone, just to let them know that I'm 
here and that I'm safe.  My mother doesn't even know I've left 
yet and Mulder...Mulder's at work, I guess.

Or maybe he's still at the airport, certain that, at any minute, 
I'll walk up behind him, tell him I'm sorry, that I was wrong, 
that I'm staying with him.

My eyes burn with tears again, thinking of his face before I left 
him, his sad eyes, his pouty lips.  He's probably worried about 
me.  I should probably call him.

After twenty minutes of trying to convince myself, I slip into a 
light sleep, shivering under the thin blanket.

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

I awake to little fingers carefully kneading my shoulder.  
There's a shadow leaning over me and then a child's whisper, 
"Daddy, she's asleep."

Ethan says in a low, gentle voice, walking towards us, "Yeah, 
she's sick, Em.  Why don't we let her sleep for a few more 
minutes and surprise her with dinner, okay?"

"Okay," Emma whispers back and the shadow disappears, little feet 
padding across the carpet then squeaking across the linoleum of 
the kitchen.  I sigh, then adjust myself, and decide to let them 
surprise me as they'd planned.

When I hear Emma pound up the steps, I pinch the skin of my arm 
underneath the blanket, checking my dehydration.  One sip of 
water doesn't make up for days of poor nourishment, and my skin 
slowly returns to its rightful place, itching and stretching as 
it does.  I rub the area and hear Ethan approach the couch.  He 
kneels down beside me as I flutter my eyes open, surprised at the 
darkness that's taken up residence since this afternoon.

He brushes my hair away from my face, leaning in to kiss me 
softly on my lips.  "Hey," he whispers, pulling back and grinning 
at my laziness.

"Hey," I try and whisper back, but it doesn't make it out.  I 
cough and clear my throat, Ethan hands me the water, and I take a 
long gulp, knowing I should drink slowly but not caring.

"You feelin' better?"

"Yeah," I finally manage in half a voice.

"What happened?"  He asks, taking the water from me and setting 
it back on the table, rising to sit beside me.

"I don't know.  I had a headache..."

"I thought you said you'd call."

I sit up, pull the covers tightly around me, and nod sadly.  "I 
know.  I'm sorry."

"What's wrong?"

I look up at him, his soft eyes and the little lines around them, 
his slight grin, his concerned expression.  Despite my mother's 
advice, I should tell him what happened with Mulder, why I felt 
that I had to get away now if I was ever to get away.  How I had 
been having second thoughts about this whole moving a thousand 
miles away and getting married immediately thing, having second 
thoughts about why I'm doing it and if I really want to do it, 
having second thoughts about who I really love and how I really 
love him.

No, not second thoughts, more like fifth, sixth, eightieth 
thoughts.

"Nothing," I finally say after he's forgotten what he asked.

"What do you feel like you could eat?" he asks, closing the 
blinds on the windows behind us.

I can't remember the last time I've actually had a decent meal, 
can't even remember the last time I ate anything.  My stomach is 
empty and rolling, but I'm just not hungry.  "I don't know."

"Emma wants pizza, but Emma always wants pizza."  He grins.

"Pizza's fine," I say, nodding, not looking forward to greasy 
cheese and soggy crust.

"Good, I'll order it.  Any topping preferences?"

"Whatever Emma likes."

He wrinkles his nose, standing.  "You might want to rethink 
that."

Emma comes back down the stairs and navigates her way into the 
living room as Ethan bends down to kiss me once again, harder, 
longer, more insistent this time.  "I'm glad you're here," he 
whispers, then notices Emma standing behind him, looking 
perplexed.

"Look who's awake, Em," he says cheerily.  "Come say hi."

She stays where she is, studies the floor, and insincerely says, 
"Hi."

"Hi, Emma," I say back, feeling awkward and out of place.

Ethan looks back and forth between us, then decides it's time to 
change the subject again.  He claps his hands together once, asks 
Emma to set the table, then turns to me and says, "You rest, 
okay?"  Not waiting for an answer, he turns and disappears into 
the kitchen, leaving me alone in the living room.

It looks like Emma's less than excited that I'm here, unlike her 
father.  She and I have more and more in common every day.

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

The pizza was greasy and soggy, as I'd suspected, and my stomach 
punished me for eating something so heavy so soon after not 
eating anything.  It rolled and churned, making me lean over the 
toilet in the master bathroom for nearly an hour before deciding 
that no, it wouldn't send the pizza back after all.

Ethan came in once, asked if I was okay, to which I, with my gray 
skin, cold sweat, and trembling frame, replied, yes, why wouldn't 
I be?  He laughed, thinking I was kidding, but wetting a 
washcloth for me and pressing it against the back of my neck to 
try and feel useful.  The water was cold, of course, and only 
made me shiver harder.  He then suggested that maybe I'd like a 
bath, if I didn't mind Emma's kid-scented bubble bath.  He ran 
the water, poured the bubble bath, and shut the door before he 
left.

I promptly drained half the water, refilling it with water that 
turned my skin a frighteningly bright red, and added more bubble 
bath when I was finally able to drag myself over to the tub, 
divest myself of clothes, and climb in.

Either I fell asleep again or passed out, but when I can process 
thoughts again, the water is freezing, the bubbles are gone, and 
my skin is tinged blue.  Teeth chattering, I climb out and dry 
off, leaving the water and slowly opening the door.  The bedroom 
is dark and the door is closed, so I hastily get into bed, 
pulling the covers around me in a futile attempt to get warm.

A few minutes later, the door opens and Ethan walks in, flips on 
the light, and heads towards the bathroom, actually standing in 
the doorway before he notices me and tiredly asks, "Feel better?"

Yes, Ethan, I feel much better now that I'm hypothermic, now get 
in this bed and get me warm, dammit!

I shake my head against the pillows, which are wet from my hair.  
He continues into the bathroom and I hear water gurgling as the 
tub drains.  A few minutes later, he comes out and sits beside me 
on the bed.  "You're freezing," he declares and I nod.  
Obviously.

"Make me warm," I beg, sounding much more seductive than I really 
feel.

He laughs and bends to kiss me on the forehead, the only part of 
me that's exposed.  "Later.  I have work to do."

I cover the rest of my head and turn over, not answering.  Can't 
work wait just a few minutes before I get frostbite?

I guess not.  He stands and I hear the door close after he walks 
out, leaving me alone and cold, empty and lonely.

When I peak my head out into the cool air, the clock says that 
it's nearly two hours later than it was the last time I looked, 
but still not midnight, yet.  I wonder what time Ethan will 
finally come to bed, though I'm no longer in danger of losing any 
toes.  I'm sleepy and bored, but I'm tired of laying in this bed 
all by myself.

My mother doesn't even know I'm here, Goddamn it.  Maybe I should 
call her to pass the time.

There's a phone beside the bed so I pick it up, dialing six out 
of eleven numbers before I hang up, then dial eleven other 
numbers.

"Hi, this is Fox Mulder, leave a message," is said in a rush, 
like he had better things to be doing when he recorded that 
message five years ago.  And just where is he at 11:30 at night?  
He should be camped out on his couch, keeping vigil against the 
nightmares and demons that haunt him.  He should answer his 
phone.  He should be here.

Maybe he's screening, but he's got caller ID.  Maybe he fell 
asleep, but he's a very light sleeper.  The phone would wake him.  
Maybe he's lying cold and stiff in a morgue somewhere, waiting 
for someone to claim his body and grieve his loss.

"Mulder, it's me," I say softly, thinking that maybe the mental 
telepathy that he's so fond of will say the rest.

No, I didn't think it really existed.  "I'm...I'm here."  And I 
miss you and I'm sorry that I hurt you and where are you and I'm 
cold and scared and lonely and where are you?  "I'm fine."  And 
I'm sick and I miss you and where are you and are you mad at me 
and where are you?  "Call me when you get this...on my cell."  
WHERE ARE YOU WHY AREN'T YOU ANSWERING ME WHY AREN'T YOU HERE?

I hang up the phone and let my arm drop from the table to dangle 
above the floor, the blood tingling in my fingers the only thing 
that I can feel other than fear and sadness.

What if he needs me?  What if he's lying in a hospital 
unconscious and without ID?  What if he's alone somewhere, 
injured and hurting and wishing someone would come and rescue 
him?  What if he's lying in his big, empty bed watching the clock 
tick eternity away, cold and afraid and alone and missing me?  
What if his hand is clutching the phone, wanting to call me but 
afraid to, afraid that I'll tell him to leave me alone, to never 
call again, to get out of my life?

Don't be afraid, Mulder.  I'm here.  Please, don't be afraid.

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

The bed sinks and shifts as someone climbs in, scooting over to 
me and spooning up behind me.  "What did you have in mind, Dana?"  
He whispers against my neck, kissing slowly down over my collar 
bone and trying to get me to turn over.

I forgot - I'd gone to bed nude, too cold to try and find 
pajamas, thinking Ethan would be right behind me.  The clock says 
2:13 a.m., now, and my eyes are sticky from tears, my body sore 
from huddling and shivering.  I shake my head, telling him no, I 
didn't have anything in mind, go to sleep.

He doesn't take the hint.  He's nude, too, his straining erection 
nudging the tops of my thighs.  I shift away and his arms pull me 
back against him, his hips grinding against me.

"Ethan," I finally whisper, pushing his hands away from my 
breasts.

"What?"  He sucks at my earlobe, then behind it, still not 
getting it.

"You woke me up...I don't feel well."  My voice is strong, 
betraying my pleas, but it works nonetheless.

"Okay," he says, nuzzling my cheek.  "Tomorrow."

I should remind him that, technically, tomorrow is twenty-two 
hours away and he probably doesn't want to wait that long, but my 
pounding heart and rush of adrenaline have faded, leaving me more 
exhausted than before.  He curls his legs around mine, relaxes 
his arms a little, and within minutes, his breathing is deep and 
even: he's asleep.

I'm not, though.  I'm wide awake, my eyes huge and alert in the 
blackness of the bedroom.  They flit between the clock and the 
phone, willing one to make some noise to break the silence and 
stillness.

Neither does.  Mulder doesn't call and hot tears slip down the 
bridge of my nose and disappear into my hair as the darkness 
slowly becomes daylight.

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

About six thirty, I realize that I'm floating through that haze 
of semi-consciousness, not really asleep, not really awake.  
Sometimes, I feel paralyzed.  Sometimes, I hear Mulder calling my 
name, begging me to help him, to come back to him.

He told me once that many reports of alien abduction are actually 
cases of sleep paralysis.  When you wake up too quickly, or fall 
asleep too slowly, cycling in and out of deep sleep, your brain's 
natural dream paralysis doesn't know not be active, hence the 
feeling of paralysis while you're awake.  He said that it's also 
common to experience the feeling of a presence in the room or to 
hear familiar people calling you when, in reality, no one is 
speaking.

I don't remember feeling those things during my abduction.  I 
remember feeling heavy and sleepy, but not that someone was 
calling out to me, not that I was paralyzed.

I clutch my pillow in my fist, taking deep breaths as another 
paralyzation fit passes, remembering being awake and seeing men 
hovering over me, but too tired and afraid to move, to scream, to 
try and fight back.

Something shifts behind me, making me jump, misty visions of tall 
men in dark suits and drills and pumps running through my head.  
It tightens its arms around me and pulls me closer, then nuzzles 
the tender spot behind my ear, breathing against me.  "Morning," 
it whispers.

I don't answer, just swallow thickly.  I feel nauseous, sweaty, 
feverish.

"This is nice."  Ethan.  It's Ethan.  He kisses across the back 
of my neck and around to my shoulder.  "I missed this."

He slides his one leg on top of mine, then down and between them, 
trying to pry mine apart.  His erection makes its way between my 
thighs and when it brushes my groin, I suck in a deep breath and 
choke back the bile that rises in my throat.  "Ethan,"  I 
whisper, shifting my hips away from his.

"What?"  He asks, pulling me back against him.

"No," I say, louder than necessary.  He loosens his arms around 
me and lets me slide across the bed and away from him, then 
stands up and walks into the bathroom.  A few minutes later, I 
hear the shower come on and I release a nervous breath, glad to 
be away from him, if only for a few minutes.

He emerges, hair wet and chin freshly shaven, dresses quickly, 
and sits beside me on the bed as he works on knotting his tie.  

"You want some coffee?"  He asks, leaning down to kiss me.

I shake my head, trying to disappear into the covers.

"How 'bout some breakfast?"

Another shake.

He sighs, clearly disappointed.  "Don't sleep too late," he 
gently commands before standing and leaving the bedroom, closing 
the door behind him.

I lay still for another few minutes feeling embarrassed and 
shaky, my migraine from yesterday making an encore appearance.  

When I can't hold back the vomit anymore, I stand on wobbly legs 
and make my way to the toilet, kneeling there for ten minutes 
before I'm able to drag myself into the still-damp shower and 
scrub off the top few layers of my skin.  It feels so good to be 
clean again, fresh and pretty.

I keep the lights off as I dress in my most oversized pajamas and 
hold tightly to the rail as I descend the stairs.  Ethan's 
already got coffee going, although its sweet odor only makes my 
head pound harder, my stomach feeling rebellious again.  I 
stagger through the kitchen and to the four-chaired table where 
he's sitting, engrossed in a paper.

He puts it down long enough to lean in and kiss me, returning it 
to its position in front of his face before saying, "You look 
pale.  You're not sick again, are you?"

I rub my temples and stare daggers through the paper.  "No.  I'm 
fine."

He stands abruptly, pouring the remainder of his coffee down the 
sink.  "I don't have to be to work until ten today, but I need to 
go in early anyway.  We just got a new intern and I need to start 
training him."  I nod, keeping my head down against the sunlight 
spilling in through the French doors.  "I thought that Emma could 
stay here with you today.  She usually stays with one of her 
friends down the street, but since you'll be here..."

"She doesn't like me, Ethan," I whisper into the table.

He walks back over to me, rubbing my shoulders lightly.  "She 
just has to get to know you.  And you have to get to know her.  I 
told you, she's a little shy sometimes."

"Still, she'd have much more fun with her friend than with me.  
And I really don't feel well -"

"You have to get to know each other eventually, Dana."

I rub my eyes, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into bed 
and hibernate for a century.  "I know.  But maybe it's too soon.  
I don't think you should push her."

He drops his hands from my shoulders and picks up the suit coat 
that's draped over the chair he recently vacated.  "Look, I don't 
have time to discuss this.  We can talk about it later, but one 
day isn't going to kill you or her, okay?"  He kisses me on the 
cheek once more, saying against my skin, "I was thinking Labor 
Day weekend," grinning smugly.

I turn to face him.  "What about it?"

"The wedding.  You haven't forgotten already, have you?"

Yes.  "No."

"What do you think?"

I think we need more time.  "It's fine."

"Good.  We may have to put off the honeymoon, though.  I don't 
know that I could get the time off."

I shudder involuntarily, thinking of just me and him and a big 
hotel room, isolated from the world.

He bounds up the stairs, to kiss Emma good-bye, I guess, then 
comes back down, talking a mile a minute.  "I gotta go.  Traffic 
in Atlanta is hell.  I'll be home around seven, okay?  You and 
Emma do something fun today," and is out the door before I can 
even raise my leaden eyelids and say, "Bye," to the empty room.

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

It's eight thirty.  He has to be there at nine.  He's usually 
there by seven forty five.  Why isn't he answering his phone?

They wouldn't have already locked him out of his office.  He 
would have to have another meeting with OPC for his official 
reassignment and they would give him time to pack and move his 
things before disconnecting this phone number and giving him a 
new one to go with his new phone and desk and partner.

So why isn't he answering?

His voice mail isn't picking up either.  Okay, I'll just try his 
cell phone.

After six rings, I'm informed that the cellular customer I'm 
trying to reach is unavailable.

I try his office again, still not getting an answer.

Out of desperation, I call his apartment, hanging up after his 
voice asks me to leave a message but before the beep.  I've 
already left him one message, he'll call when he has time.

Mulder's always called, whether he's had time or not.  He's 
always made time for me, made a place in his life for me.

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

After a short nap, my head and stomach are feeling remarkably 
better, so I get up and, after determining that the Princess is 
still sleeping upstairs, pick up the paper that Ethan discarded 
on the kitchen table as he left for work.  I've probably read 
every single word in this paper - even the Sports section - 
waiting for Emma to wake up and discover that she's here all 
alone with me.  The Atlanta Journal-Constitution contains an 
interesting section called "The Vent," which is what I'm focusing 
on now.  I'm not sure what it is, exactly, but it's hilarious.  
Mulder would like this, I think, and I actually smile, my tight 
skin burning as it stretches to accommodate the foreign gesture.

Little feet sound against the stairs and I look up, waiting for 
Emma to wander into the kitchen, trying to figure out what to say 
when she gets here.

Start with the obvious.  "Good morning, Emma," I say brightly, 
stretching my skin again with a bigger smile.

She's in her pajamas, too, her long hair tangled from sleep.  
Starring at me as if she doesn't recognize me, she runs her tiny 
fingers nervously through her hair, catching several knots in the 
process.

"Are you hungry?  Would you like some breakfast?"  It's almost 
eleven thirty.  She probably wants lunch.

Hesitating, then staring at the floor, she shakes her head.

Okay, I'm out of ideas.  I have no clue how to handle this 
situation.  I stare at her, staring at the floor, and the silence 
makes me nervous.

"Can we go to the pool today?" she asks suddenly, thankfully 
saving me from having to start any other conversation.

"Where is the pool?"

"Down the road."

"Is it in the subdivision?"  She nods, not looking up.  "Okay, I 
guess we can go later."

That was apparently the right answer, as she looks up and smiles, 
her blue eyes brightening.  "Do you know how to swim?"

"Well, I haven't been in a long time, but I used to.  Maybe you 
could help me."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Conversation apparently over, she turns quickly and runs back up 
the stairs, emerging a few minutes later in a bathing suit, 
cotton shorts, and little plastic flip-flops with big pink 
flowers on them.  She's carrying a brush and walks up to me, 
looking very serious as she asks, "Can you put my hair up?"

"Sure."  She turns around and hands me the brush.  As gently as I 
can, I draw it through her hair, wincing as I hit a tangle, 
hoping she won't run away screaming. 

Hair up in a crooked pony-tail, she turns around and takes the 
brush from me and asks another question.  "What are we having for 
lunch?"

I lean down to look into her eyes.  "What would you like?"

She shrugs her shoulders.  "You can't wear that to the pool," she 
sternly informs me, changing the subject and looking suspiciously 
at my pajamas.

I look down self-consciously.  "I know.  I'll change before we 
go.  In fact, I'll go change right now while you decide what you 
want for lunch, okay?"

"Okay."

Okay - that must be the word of the day.

Rooting through my luggage, I remember that I haven't owned a 
bathing suit in at least ten years.  I just won't go swimming, 
then.  Come hell or high water, I'm taking Emma to that pool.

When I return downstairs in blue jean shorts and a tank top, Emma 
has turned on the television in the living room, mesmerized by a 
cartoon.  Hearing me approach behind her, she declares from over 
her shoulder, "I want peanut butter and strawberry jelly."

Taken off guard by her almost-command, I stammer, then slowly 
say, "All right.  Would you like to help me make it?"

She doesn't seem to hear me, or maybe she's ignoring me.  Okay.  
If Emma wants a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich, Emma 
will get a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich.

She eats in silence, only speaking once to ask if I'm eating.  
No, I'm not.  Dana doesn't feel like a peanut butter and 
strawberry jelly sandwich.

Am I Dana?  Miss Dana?  Mom?  Evil Stepmother?  I'll have to ask 
Ethan.

Thirty minutes after Emma's finished, we start our surprisingly 
short walk down to the pool slash clubhouse slash tennis courts.  
The other houses in the neighborhood are as big and fancy as 
Ethan's - ours - and I idly wonder just how much money he makes 
at CNN and how much this house cost him.

Before we left the house, Emma instructed me on how to work the 
alarm system "to keep the bad guys away."  Maybe I should tell 
her that I kept bad guys away for a living, that alarm systems 
rarely present anything more than a small challenge to a bad guy 
if he really wants access to your house.

I gathered sunscreen and two bottled waters I found in the 
refrigerator into Emma's beach bag that matched her bathing suit, 
tucking my cell phone into the corner, checking for the five 
hundredth time that it was on and charged for when Mulder called, 
before arming the system and closing the door, running to catch 
up with an eager, excited Emma and our day at the pool.

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

As soon as we walked through the gate, two little girls Emma's 
age ran up to her, giggling and taking her back to the pool with 
them.  I should have called after her, told her to be careful and 
that I would be sitting in one of the lounge chairs to the side, 
but I didn't.  Feeling completely inept, I just let her go and 
sat down at the end of one of the chairs, dug the sunscreen out 
of my bag, and started slathering myself with it.

Damn, it's hot here.

I watch Emma and her two friends practice diving off the side of 
the pool, play Marco Polo, having the time of their little lives 
in silence.  Missy, Bill, and Chaz had always wanted a pool 
which, or course, we couldn't have.  I was more content to lounge 
in a warm, private bathtub all day than expose myself to the 
dirty, freezing water of a concrete hole in the ground.

Squinting my eyes, I watch two women headed towards me, talking 
and laughing at the girls in the pool.  One of them speaks, 
looking down at me through her designer sunglasses.  "Are you 
Dana?" she asks in a false Southern drawl, the other appraising 
me accusingly.

How these women know who I am, I have no idea, but they look 
harmless enough, so I say, "Yes," sounding more like I'm unsure 
myself.

The silent appraiser sits down on the chair beside me, extending 
a delicate hand with red manicured nails that match her bathing 
suit perfectly.  "I'm Carrie, Hollie's mom."

I nod, wondering who Hollie is, and take her limp hand, shaking 
lightly.

"Ethan's told us so much about you!"  The designer sunglasses 
woman declares.  "I'm Sonya, Abigail and Amelia's mom."

"It's nice to meet you," I say, hoping that I don't sound too 
insincere.  Her head is right in front of the sun, and I feel 
rude for not looking at her.

"Well, we didn't know you'd be here so soon.  We were planning a 
surprise welcome to the neighborhood party for you," Carrie says.

"Oh, well -"

"Maybe we can just take you and Ethan out to dinner, get one of 
the older girls to watch the kids."

I look down, rubbing the sunscreen further into my skin.

"What a cute pair of shoes!"  Sonya sticks her foot beside mine, 
enthralled that they look to be the same size.  "Maybe I can 
borrow them sometime.  They'd look great with this new dress I 
got last week."

"The purple one with the white flowers?"  Carrie asks.

Sonya nods and turns towards the pool.  "Abby, let's not run, 
sweetie," she femininely yells, the girl named Abby dutifully 
slows to a walk, flashing a huge grin.

"So, Ethan says you two are getting married," she sits down 
beside Carrie and crosses her tiny, perfectly bronzed legs, 
adjusting her sunglasses.

"Um, yes, we are."

"It's so romantic - he told us the whole story!"

"Whole story?"  I ask Carrie, who is beaming and batting her too-
long eyelashes.

"Yeah, about how y'all were engaged all those years ago and then 
y'all called off the wedding and went your separate ways and how 
y'all met again and decided that you couldn't live without each 
other."

Oh.  That whole story that can be condensed into one cluttered, 
run-on sentence.  I smile tightly and look down again.  I never 
said that I couldn't live without him.

"He said you were an FBI agent!"

"Yes, I was."  It sounds foreign to speak of that in the past 
tense, but it's true.  I'm no longer an FBI agent.

"How exciting," Carrie says, gazing through me wistfully.

"Yes, it was," I answer softly.  Peaking into the bag, I check to 
see if my cell phone is still there and will it to ring, even if 
it's just a wrong number.  I can lie and say it's an emergency, 
that I have to go and escape these women.

Call, Mulder.  Dammit, where are you?  Call!

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

With Emma exhausted and asleep on the couch, I decide to turn on 
the computer and check my email.  If Mulder's away from his 
phones - all three of them - maybe he'll check his mail.

"Mulder-

I don't know if you've gotten my message, but I'm here.  
Everything's fine."

Well, not fine exactly.  Not wonderful but certainly not 
horrible.

"Call me at 770-555-2483 or on my cell phone, or just email me.

-Scully"

Okay, he's bound to read that.  He has to read that.  He'll call.  
Maybe he's on a case or something and just hasn't been able to 
check his messages at home or answer his phone at work.  It still 
doesn't explain why he isn't answering his cell phone, though but 
he'll check his email...I hope.

I stare at the computer after sending the mail, thinking that 
maybe he'll respond instantly.  After twenty minutes, my stomach 
announces that it's empty and hungry and I give up, going into 
the kitchen, wondering if Ethan has any actual food in this house 
or if he and Emma just order something every night.

In the pantry, there are a few cans of spaghetti-O's and another 
jar of peanut butter.  The frigde is full of leftover Chinese and 
pizza, but nothing that looks appetizing.

I learned today that Carrie, Jason's wife, lives two doors down 
and Sonya, Spencer's wife, lives behind us.  I guess I could do 
what people on 60's sitcoms do in these kinds of situations, go 
borrow something to cook dinner with, but I'm not feeling overly 
friendly right now.  I listened to them prattle back and forth 
about fashion and talk shows and child rearing for nearly three 
hours before the girls came to announce that they were tired and 
wanted to go home.  Carrie invited Ethan and me for dinner 
tomorrow, much to Sonya's disgust, who invited us for Sunday 
brunch.  I nodded and said I'd have to talk to Ethan and they 
said they looked forward to having us over, apparently ignoring 
my statement.

For lack of anything better to do, I sit down at the kitchen 
table and rub my eyes and temples, trying not to go check my 
email.  It's not working, and after five minutes, I check again.  
Nothing.  Maybe he's away from his computer - in a meeting, 
maybe.

Needing something to occupy me, I decide that I need to start 
looking for a job.  I search the Internet for Emory's website, 
looking through their job posting.  They need a professor for a 
few afternoon classes being offered this fall and I need 
something to do - this is only my second day here and I'm already 
bored to tears.  I pull up my resume and change a few things, 
adding my ten years at the FBI to my employment history, type a 
cover letter, then, spying a fax machine in the corner, fax all 
of it to them.  The web site said that it may be a month before I 
hear anything - I don't know if I can stand this a month.

Bored again, I decide to call Ethan at work, just to see what 
he's doing.  He doesn't answer, either, so I call Mulder's cell 
phone again, then check my email again.  Nothing.

I'm starting to wonder if something really is wrong, if he really 
may be injured or unconscious and needing me.  No, someone would 
call.  I'm still his emergency contact and his personal 
physician, someone would have to call me.

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

I'm sitting at the kitchen table when Ethan arrives at 7:38.  He 
looks exhausted but kisses me on the cheek and asks how my day 
was.

"Fine," I say.  "Emma and I went to the pool."

He rolls his eyes.  "Lucky you."

"And I met Carrie and Sonya."

"Really?  They're gonna be so disappointed that you ruined their 
party plans."

"I hate surprises," I remind him, in case he's forgotten.  He 
nods and sticks his head in the refrigerator, looking for 
something to drink.  "I was gonna cook something, but you don't 
have any food in this house, Ethan."

"You could've gone to the store."

"I don't have a car.  And I don't know where anything is," I 
remind him.

"Emma could tell you, and there's a car in the garage."

"There is?"

"Yeah, a Suburban.  We use it for soccer games and cheernastics 
competitions."  He looks at me like I'm stupid for not noticing, 
then approaches me and leans down to whisper in my ear.  "I'm 
sorry.  I forgot to tell you.  You're welcome to drive it 
anywhere you want."

I lean back against him, wondering what the hell cheernastics is.  
"Good, cause I may have a job interview soon."

He stands abruptly, then walks around the table to sit beside me.  
"A job interview?" he asks incredulously.

"Yeah, at Emory.  They need an associate medical professor.  I 
faxed them my resume today."

He shakes his head, slowly, not understanding.  "Dana -"

"What?"

He takes a few slow, measured breaths.  "Dana, you don't have to 
work."

I gape at him.  "What do you mean?"

He scoots his chair closer to mine.  "You don't need to work.  We 
don't need the money."

I look around the house and say flippantly, "Obviously."

"No, I'm serious.  You don't need to work."

"I know I don't need to, Ethan.  I want to.  You can't expect me 
to sit around this house all day and do nothing."

He just stares at me, his brow drawn and serious.

"You can't really expect me not to work," I repeat, my voice 
going up a few octaves.

He rubs his eyes like he's speaking to a child.  "What about 
Emma?"

"What about Emma?"

"Dana," he takes another deep breath, closing his eyes briefly.  
"I don't like having neighbors watch her all the time."  I just 
stare at him, perplexed.  "I think it would be best for her if 
you stayed home." 

I don't respond.

"Don't you?"  He finally asks, reaching out for my hand.

"What about when she goes back to school?"

He sighs and looks away.  "Listen, I've had a long, stressful day 
and I don't need this right now."  He stands up and walks away, 
saying, "We'll talk about this later, okay?"

No.  Not okay.  Not okay at all.  I stare out at the increasing 
darkness on the other side of the French doors, listening as he 
gently wakes Emma and asks her what she wants to eat.  A few 
minutes later, he comes back to the kitchen, carrying his sleepy 
little girl and announces, "We're going to get McDonald's," 
walking out without even asking what he can bring me.

Waiting for Ethan's Lexus to pull out of the garage and the soft 
hum of the engine to fade down the street, I stand and walk back 
into the study, checking my email once again.  Still nothing.

I check the phone to see if it has a dial tone.  It does.

I check my cell phone to see if it's on and the battery is still 
charged.  It is.

Tears burning my eyes, I slowly walk up the stairs, get ready for 
bed, and crawl between the sheets, clutching my cell phone 
against my chest and praying that Mulder is safe and healthy, 
that I'll be able to talk to him soon.

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

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

All of my things arrived today - boxes and boxes of memories and 
nostalgic possessions.  When the movers rang the door bell and 
told me that they had items to deliver, I cocked my head at them 
and didn't reach for the proffered clipboard to sign my receipt.  
The heavyset, leering man asked if I was Dana Scully, to which I 
replied, yes, then he asked if I hadn't recently moved from 
Washington, DC, if I shouldn't be expecting them.  After a 
moment's hesitation, I finally nodded and let them in, watching 
in amazement as they continued to haul the boxes from the truck 
to the downstairs foyer.

I wasn't aware that I had so much stuff.

I immediately employed Emma to help me unpack.  Her job was to 
push the boxes into relative corners of the foyer based on what 
their outside labels said - pointless, really, but it made me 
feel good to have her involved with a project of mine.  Clothes 
were pushed to the foot of the stairs.  Things labeled fragile, 
most likely decorations and things that would only gather dust, 
were, for now, relegated to the far corner in the dining room.  
Books and files were pushed into the study, where I would have to 
organize them before putting them away on the bookshelves and in 
the filing cabinets.

Leaving Emma to rest in front of her afternoon cartoons, I 
trudged up and down the stairs, lugging boxes with me.  One whole 
wall of the large, walk-in closet in the master bedroom was bare, 
so I began stripping the tape off of the boxes, taking out the 
clothes, and hanging them on hangers or placing them on shelves.  
As I was packing the morning that I left, I'd simply opened 
drawers, grabbed armfuls of clothing, and dropped them into 
boxes, not noticing what I'd packed as I'd sealed them.  While I 
unpack, however, I discover that I've brought three articles of 
Mulder's clothing with me.

After our longer cases, where we were living in hotels for weeks 
at a time, we would sometimes take a piece of clothing home that 
wasn't ours, realizing as we loaded the washing machine that the 
maroon boxer briefs or lacy Victoria's Secret lingerie didn't 
belong to us.  We would wash them anyway, calling the other to 
tell them of the mix up and promising them their clothing the 
next time that they came over to the other's apartment.  
Sometimes, though, we simply forgot, and the boxer briefs or 
lingerie would be stuck in a random drawer and covered over with 
our own clothing.

For some reason, the thought of a pair of Mulder's maroon boxer 
briefs being in the same drawer as my lingerie makes me blush 
slightly, and I hide them under a thick winter sweater that I 
don't think I've ever worn.

Frequently, when I'd spend the night with him, I'd ask to sleep 
in one of his T-shirts, claiming that they were cooler and more 
comfortable than my pajama sets.  He would always grin at me, 
feigning annoyance at my desire to constantly borrow his clothes, 
but he would always come up with a clean, soft as silk undershirt 
or that day's still-crisp work shirt for me to wear.  The next 
morning, I'd pack it with my things and tell him that I'd wash it 
and return it, but often never did.  He'd never said anything 
about missing them and I never offered them back.

When I was sick, once, I'd changed into one of his blue oxfords 
that hung to my knees and covered my wrists with the sleeves 
rolled up.  It somehow brought me comfort, knowing that this 
shirt that had once been against his skin was now against mine.  
It had made me feel a little less lonely.  That day, I'd stayed 
out of work, and he'd brought me lunch.  When I'd opened the door 
to let him in, he grinned and said that I looked good in his 
clothes.  A little embarrassed at him catching me in one of my 
indulgences, I'd changed immediately, much to his disappointment.

I hold the shirt to my face, inhaling deeply, pretending I can 
still smell his aftershave and unique scent on the fabric.  He 
hasn't worn it in years, but he always looked good in blue.  I 
fold it carefully, the way a department store clerk would fold 
the shirts for a display, then place it neatly in an empty drawer 
along with my pajamas.

Oddest of the stowaways is a pair of his too-big-for-him plaid 
pajama pants.  I hold them in my hands and wrack my brain, trying 
to remember how I acquired these, but I can't remember and that 
disturbs me.  I place them on top of his blue shirt and close the 
drawer harder than necessary.  I have a complete Mulder outfit, 
even if it doesn't match.

True to my plan, the luggage with my suits is shoved into the 
back of the closet.  I'll need one when I go on my interview at 
Emory, but for now, they don't fit with the blue jean shorts and 
tank tops I've been living in since I've arrived.

Clothes finished, I descend the stairs and peak in on Emma, still 
engrossed in the television, then start in on the boxes in the 
dining room.  My hodgepodge decor doesn't mix well with Ethan's 
carefully planned and immaculately placed themes and decoration, 
so I just reseal the boxes and carry them upstairs, putting them 
in front of my suits and behind my tennis shoes.

Finally withdrawing my nameplate from my carry-on bag, I place it 
on the table next to my side of the bed.  Dana K. Scully.  I 
wonder what Ethan will think of my addition to our bedroom, how 
he feels about Mulder giving me a gift that he knows I won't be 
able to use for very long.

Not taking Ethan's name was not an option I considered.  Maybe 
Mulder thought that I'd keep my own instead, my maiden name being 
a sign of my independence and cautious rebellion.

Deciding that Ethan wouldn't like it either way, I open the empty 
drawer and place it inside, then slowly close it.  I wonder where 
Mulder is right now, what he's thinking, if he's thinking about 
me, wondering if I'll ever return to him one day.

I pick up the phone and dial his cell phone, but his voice mail 
picks up instead of him.  "Mulder, it's me.  I don't know if 
you've gotten my messages, but please call me when you get this."  
I tried not to sound too desperate, knowing that, in all 
likelihood, the BSU was so thrilled to have him back that they 
sent him out in the field as soon as he'd been reassigned.  He 
was probably just too busy to make small talk with me and would 
call when he returned, emotionally drained and physically 
exhausted.  He would tell me of all the horrors of profiling and 
how this latest case had reminded him of Samantha.  He would say 
over and over how much he hated profiling, hated what it did to 
him, hated its lingering effects - the nightmares, the unexpected 
cold-sweats, the jumps and starts when someone unfamiliar spoke 
to him.

I hate the idea of him profiling, too.  I'm always afraid that, 
one day, he'll follow the criminals he's chasing so far into the 
dark abyss that I'll never get him back.  So far, though, on the 
few occasions I'd been with him while he was profiling, I'd 
always been able to call him back to me, back to safety and 
sanity, with a cool hand on his forehead, a soothing voice, and 
strong arms to hold him.  I wonder if that will work through a 
phone line connecting us a thousand miles apart.

He thinks that he'll wither and die without me, and I dial his 
office phone, praying that it's not true.

Still no answer.  I think of calling Skinner, but then I'd have 
to explain to him why I'm not with Mulder and why I'm worried 
about him.  There's no need to involve Skinner in this and, if 
Mulder is already back at the BSU, he won't be under Skinner's 
supervision anyway.  Placing the phone back in its cradle, I 
switch out the light and slowly walk down the stairs, hearing the 
garish cartoons entertaining Emma.

It's final, now; it's real.  My life is here now, stuffed into 
boxes and shoved into dark corners of the closet.  My apartment, 
my independent life is gone.  Intellectually, I had known that I 
was leaving for good when I got on that plane.  Emotionally, 
though, it still seemed that I would be returning, not feeling 
like I had cut all my ties and wrapped up all my loose ends in 
DC.  But now that all of me is here, however compact and remote, 
it feels real.  It feels irreversible.  It feels final.

Well, a part of me is still somewhere out there, aching for me to 
come back to him.

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

Depressed and tired of watching Emma drown in the TV, I'd decided 
that we'd make a trip to the grocery store.  First rule of living 
with children: never trust their sense of direction.

We'd driven in circles for nearly fifteen minutes before Emma 
finally admitted that she didn't know how to get the grocery 
store.  Frantic and thinking I was lost, I tried to retrace our 
route, blessedly arriving at a grocery store, where I'd learned 
my second rule of living with children: never tell them that they 
can pick out whatever kind of food they want.

Finally, we'd arrived home at nearly six and I fixed Emma a box 
of macaroni and cheese, which she ate with a vigor I couldn't 
imagine anyone possessing for dried noodles in the shape of 
animals and powered cheese-sauce.  I'd sent her upstairs to her 
room after that and started preparing the elaborate meal I'd 
planned for Ethan when he got home from work.  My lasagna hadn't 
turned out bad, much to my surprise, and the wine was poured in 
glasses, the dining room table set for just the two of us.  I was 
lighting the candles as the phone rang and I nearly dropped the 
match in the wine trying to rush to answer it.  Finally, Mulder's 
calling me back.  Or maybe someone's calling on his behalf, if 
he's injured and needs me.  A million different, horrific 
thoughts swirled through my head as I took a deep breath and 
answered the phone.

"Dana, it's me," Ethan says, sounding exhausted.

Oh, it's Ethan.  "Hey," I say, trying to sound cheery, like I 
missed him and am thrilled that he's calling.

"I'm gonna be a little late tonight.  It may be eight or nine 
before I get home."

"Oh," I exhale, glancing at all of my hard work from this 
afternoon.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, obviously distracted by something.

"Yeah, I just...I fixed us dinner."

He takes a deep breath.  "You did?"  He sounds surprised.

"Yeah, but that's okay.  It'll keep, I guess."

"Dana, I'm sorry."

"It's okay.  You can't help it."  I try and keep the 
disappointment out of my voice.

"I'll try and hurry, okay?  You eat, though, don't wait for me."

"Okay," I say, already pouring out the wine and turning on the 
oven, keeping the lasagna warm for him when he gets home.

"I'll see you later."

"Okay," I repeat, blowing out the candles.
 
He hangs up without saying goodbye and I let the phone fall from 
my fingers and against the counter, turn off the light in the 
kitchen, and walk up the stairs.

Just before I turn off the lamp beside the bed, I call Mulder's 
apartment again and leave another message, asking him to call me 
as soon as possible.  Then, I roll over and face the window, 
waiting for the headlights of Ethan's car to shine through the 
blinds, announcing his arrival.  At eleven, I roll back towards 
the wall and fall asleep.

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

Icy hands twine around my waist and, in my dream, they're sharp, 
frozen alien tendrils, scrapping at my chest, trying to birth one 
of their own.  I can hear Mulder, screaming in pain as they slash 
him, screaming for me as his eyes glaze over, terrified and fixed 
on me, my name gurgling from his lips as he exhales his last 
breath.

"You awake?"  A sleepy voice asks and I push the hands away, not 
quite conscious.  "Dana," Ethan whispers, nuzzling my neck with 
his cold nose, "Are you awake?  I have a surprise for you."

"Mmm..."  I mumble, shifting away from him again.

"Open your eyes," he says, sitting up and turning on the lamp.

"What time is it?"  I manage to slur out, my heart pounding as I 
become aware of my true surroundings, not quite able to do as he 
requested.

"Almost one.  You can go right back to sleep, I promise."

I burrow my head into the pillow and pull the covers up over me 
where he had pushed them down.  Hot Georgia days turn into cold 
nights, but the air conditioner keeps the house at sixty-eight 
degrees, not caring about the weather outside.

Pulling my left hand out from under the covers, he laces his 
fingers through mine and, with his other hand, slips something 
cold and heavy onto my finger.

"Dana, look," he commands and I do, seeing the blinding 
refraction from a too-large diamond engagement ring.  "You like 
it?" he asks softly, arranging it on my finger, then kissing it 
once he's satisfied.

"Yeah," I mumble, wondering why this is important enough to wake 
me up at almost one in the morning.

He kisses me behind my ear, then says jokingly, "I want you to 
actually wear this one, okay?"  When I don't giggle in delight 
and throw myself into his arms, he realizes his mistake and 
amends.  "I really want this to work this time, Dana.  I love you 
so much."

I sigh and pull the covers back up.  "I love you, too, Ethan."  
Content, he reaches over me and switches off the lamp, then 
settles behind me and is asleep within minutes.

Starring out at the darkness, I lean back into him, his arms 
tightening around me.  I really want this to work, too, Ethan, I 
think as I slip back into oblivion, glancing at the clock one 
last time before falling asleep and hoping that Mulder is safe in 
his bed, sleeping peacefully, and will call me first thing 
tomorrow morning.

Goodnight, Mulder.  I love you, too.

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

I slept late this morning - until nearly ten - and dozed on and 
off after Ethan inadvertently woke me up with a kiss as he left.  
True luxury, I've discovered, is being able to press the snooze 
button on your alarm for two hours before finally deciding to get 
up.  I was determined to be productive and resourceful today, and 
getting up early was a big part of that.  So last night, I'd set 
my alarm for eight a.m.  As I waited for Ethan to get home, I 
planned my day in my head: get up, eat breakfast, contact the CDC 
about possible employment, spent time with Emma doing what ever 
she wanted to do, call my mother and apologize, letting her know 
that I was here and safe, and call Mulder every fifteen minutes.

Of course, I was thrown off schedule by oversleeping, but I just 
couldn't bring myself to climb out of the big, comfortable, warm, 
soft bed.  When I finally do manage to get up, I take a lazy 
shower and dress in clean pajamas, then mentally cross breakfast 
off my list.  It's almost lunch time, anyway.

The CDC's web page doesn't list any specific openings, so I type 
a cover letter stating my qualifications and credentials, then 
say that I'm looking for any position they can give me.  I print 
it and my resume, then fax them to their Human Resources 
department.  It's been a week since I'd faxed these things to 
Emory and I still haven't gotten a response, though the web page 
said it could take up to a month.  I have the time to wait, 
though I want to finish getting settled in here, and a job is a 
big part of that to me.  A job is permanence, a responsibility 
and a commitment.  If I had a job, I couldn't just leave - I'd 
have to give a two weeks notice, at least, so it would keep me 
grounded and focused, give me something to do to help develop a 
sense of normalcy to this new, foreign life I've acquired.

I wonder if Mulder has settled into his new routine with ease, 
the fast pace and high stress of the BSU familiar and comforting 
to him.  I wonder if he's gotten used to me being gone.  I wonder 
if he's gotten a new partner yet and he's already breaking them 
in, silently wishing for me - someone who knows him, someone who 
pushes him and challenges him and accepts him the way that he 
often is, distant, reclusive, and standoffish, someone who can 
pull him out of his moods and brighten his day just by being with 
him, just by telling him with my eyes or a slight grin that I 
care about him, that I love him.

Yes, I love him.  He may not believe that, but I do.  Love 
doesn't have to be romantic and passionate and all consuming.  
Love is dedication, loyalty, devotion, tolerance, and tenacity, 
even if those qualities aren't readily accepted by the person 
that you love.

When I'd found him in that basement office eight years ago, he 
was so alone, so needy for someone's acceptance and approval, 
even though he didn't want to admit it.  He took one look at me 
and saw a girl, fresh and naive and gullible, eager to succeed 
and please my superiors in every way, and imagined that I'd be 
just like everyone else.  That I would deceive him, that I would 
spy on him and lie to him and claim allegiance to him, then rat 
him out to his enemies to climb another rung on the ladder.  He 
guarded himself and his emotions against me, having been burned 
too many times by others.  He pushed me away with jokes and stern 
words, brush-off explanations and condescending demands, thinking 
that, when we returned from Oregon, I would run as far and as 
fast as I could from him, because as much as it hurt him to be 
alone, it hurt him worse to let someone in, only to have them 
abandon him later.

I stayed, though, matched his stern tone and condescending words 
with my own, but most of all, I respected him, listened to him, 
didn't call him crazy as soon as I met him.  He let me in and, 
over the years, I became his only confidant, his only friend and 
ally, his constant, unquestionable companion.  He had changed, 
become happier, more trusting of everyday situations, like the 
man who asked him for the time in a restaurant one night, more 
open to life and all that it could offer.  I liked to think that 
all of that was because of me, that he knew that he no longer had 
to carry the weight by himself, that he wasn't all alone in the 
world.

And, somehow during those eight years, he became my only 
confidant, my only friend and ally, my constant, unquestionable 
companion.  I pushed other friends away, always missing Mulder 
when I wasn't with him, longing for his wry humor and his 
unbelievable tenderness towards me.  I never conceived of the 
idea that we would ever part that I would ever leave him under 
the circumstances that I had, but I'd had my reasons and I can 
only hope that, one day, he'll understand them.  He's still 
irreplaceable in my life, though, and I'd like to think that I'm 
just as irreplaceable in his.

I feel an emptiness deep inside me without him now.  I feel like 
a piece of myself has been torn away, like a limb in a sudden car 
accident.  I woke up from a coma, only to discover that my right 
arm was missing, yet I could still feel it, feel the tingling 
injuries and sore bruises it sustained.  Even from a thousand 
miles away, I still feel Mulder.  I've felt it all these years, 
whether we were together or apart, even if I suspected him dead.  
I still felt him, still knew that he was with me where ever I 
went.  Now, though, the gaping hole is being torn open anew every 
time I pick up the phone and realize that he's not answering.  I 
feel him and, in some intangible way, I know that he's safe, but 
my imagination still gets the better of me sometimes.  I don't 
feel his emotions as well as I feel just him, all of him, but, 
intellectually, I know that he feels these phantom pains just as 
I do, missing his limb, wondering what will fill that void now.

Nothing.  Nothing will ever fill that void for me.

Just as the fax finishes, I hear Emma softly pad down the stairs 
and into the kitchen, presumably looking for me.  "I'm in here, 
Emma," I call to her and she follows my voice, stopping just 
inside the doorway into the study.

Her eyes suddenly grow larger when she sees me sit down at the 
computer and click the mouse, opening the web browser to check my 
email.  "That's Daddy's computer," she says in a low, serious 
tone.

"I know," I say, glancing at her.  "But I don't think Daddy will 
mind if I use it."  Other than the standard annoying spam porn 
advertisements I have no new mail.  The promise of hot, farm 
girls makes me think of Mulder, though, and those videos that 
aren't his, and I have to smile, even though I'm disappointed yet 
again by still not receiving a response from him.

"Daddy said I'm not allowed in here," Emma announces, lancing me 
out of my reverie.

I can imagine why Ethan wouldn't want Emma in his office, with 
all of his organized chaos that could be disturbed and the 
expensive equipment that, to a child, looks like a new toy.  I 
close the web browser and stand, Emma's round eyes following me 
as I walk towards her.  "What would you like for lunch?"  I 
cheerily ask her, changing the subject.

She shrugs and sits down at the kitchen table, kicking her feet 
restlessly against the bottom of the chair.  I walk to the pantry 
and get out the bread, peanut butter, and chips, then to the 
refrigerator for the strawberry jelly, and set them on the 
counter.  I had picked at the leftover lasagna I'd made for four 
days until I'd finally given up and thrown the rest of it away 
yesterday.  Not having anything else that looks appetizing to me, 
I fix Emma's sandwich and set it in front of her without saying 
another word.  It's been almost two weeks since I've arrived, I 
know the routine by now.  After she finishes, she and I will go 
change and head down towards the pool where I'll listen to Carrie 
and Sonya and, occasionally, another woman named Penny prattle on 
about what they saw on Oprah yesterday or their latest shopping 
excursion or their children's various activities.  Several times, 
I've had to stop myself from standing up and screaming at these 
women to get a life for themselves, to be strong and claim a 
little independence from their domineering husbands, to live for 
themselves instead of for their children and families all the 
time.  I imagine that they would only stare at my through their 
sunglasses and continue calmly talking just as before, not 
understanding my outburst.

Today, I'm taking a book with me.  I'm sure I can find something 
- a novel or an old medical journal - to pass the time while Emma 
and I are there.

"You and Daddy are getting married," Emma states matter of 
factly, staring at me very intensely, a smear of jelly on her 
cheek.

"Yes," I say softly, gazing out the French doors.

"Does that mean that you're gonna live here forever?"

"I suppose so."  I look at her, then, and smile.  She looks away.  
"How do you feel about that, Emma?"  She shrugs and takes another 
bite of her sandwich.  "You can tell me," I say, leaning closer 
to her.  "Whatever you're feeling, you can always talk to me, 
even if you don't like me.  You can tell me that."  She looks at 
me and her chewing slows, thinking deep, little girl thoughts.

"Does that mean you're gonna have a baby?" she asks suddenly.

I sit back and close my eyes momentarily, her question catching 
me off guard.  "No.  Why do you ask that?"  I finally say slowly, 
measuring my breaths, trying to keep them even.

"That's why Mommy had to marry Neil.  She was gonna have a baby."  
Casually, she reaches for her juice and takes a sip.  "Daddy said 
that's why she had to get married," she adds, focusing on her 
food.

"Did Daddy tell you why we're getting married?"  I ask her 
softly.  She shakes her head.  "Well, I'll tell you, okay?"  She 
looks at me and nods.  "Your Daddy and I love each other very 
much and we want to be with each other forever."

She stares through me and I hastily add, "But that doesn't mean 
that your Daddy doesn't love you any less.  He loves you very 
much, too, Emma."  No reaction.

"Mommy and Daddy were married and then she left.  Are you gonna 
leave?"  She finally asks.

"No.  Not everyone who gets married leaves."  I don't tell her 
that I can't ever imagine why I would ever leave, but I remember 
saying the same thing to Mulder a thousand times before, and look 
what happened.

Mulder - I have to call Mulder.

"Emma, I'll be right back, okay?"  I say, already standing and 
walking to the phone.  I dial his cell phone number quickly and, 
as I'd suspected, his voice mail picks up.  I take a deep breath 
and add a bit of worry to my voice, thinking that maybe that will 
help him to call sooner.  "Mulder, it's me.  Please call me when 
you get this."

As I was speaking, Emma's head turned towards me, watching me 
carefully.  After I hang up the phone, she starts a new 
discussion.  "You called Mulder?"

"Yeah," I say, slightly disappointed that I didn't get to talk to 
him.

"Is he gonna come live with us too?"  She smiles, looking like 
she hopes my answer is yes.

I smile, too, wondering what Mulder would think of living in a 
Falls at Arcadia neighborhood permanently.  "No.  He's gonna stay 
in Virginia."

Her tiny faced falls.  "Oh."

"You like Mulder, don't you?"  She eagerly nods, her eyes 
brightening.  "Maybe he could come visit us.  Would you like 
that?"  She nods furiously again and I grin at her.

Me too, Emma.

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

When we got to the pool, Emma immediately ran to the girls and 
showed them the one thing that she learned from Mulder: how to 
make a fish face.  Once everyone had mastered it, they came over 
to us to proudly display their new skill, making their mothers 
giggle and making me glance at my cell phone, checking to see if 
I had any missed calls.

"Where'd you learn that, Em?"  Sonya asks, pulling the leg of her 
swim suit back with a false nail, checking her tan.

"Mulder taught me!"  She says gleefully, jumping up and down on 
her tiny, flip-flop clad feet.

"Who?"

"Mulder!"  She repeats, then runs off after the other girls.

"Who's Mulder?"  Sonya asks from her seat in front of me, pointed 
directly towards the sun for maximum tanning ease and 
convenience. 

"He was my partner at the FBI," I tell her, closing my old copy 
of Scientific American.

"And Emma knows him?" she asks suspiciously, Penny and Carrie's 
eyes glue to me, waiting for my answer.

"Yeah.  Ethan and Emma came to visit me in DC a couple of months 
ago and Mulder joined us one day.  He's really good with kids and 
Emma seemed to bond with him immediately."

"He?"  Carrie asks, lowering her sunglasses and looking playfully 
coy.

"Yes, he," I say back, mimicking her.

"Cute he?"  She asks, Penny slapping her leg teasingly.

I smile and blush a little, looking down.  "Yes," I finally 
decide.  "Very cute he."

They grin and go back to watching the girls, launching into a 
discussion about what kind of shoes would go with Capri pants and 
I study my nails, trying not to look at my cell phone again.  
This is getting a little ridiculous.  He has to be getting my 
messages and, usually, he calls me immediately.  Hell, usually 
he's the one leaving message after message on my machine until I 
call him.  Where is he?

After hours at the pool, a thoroughly exhausted Emma retires to 
her room and I decide to take a more proactive approach to 
contacting Mulder.  If something has happened to him, they'll 
know.  They know everything, even things you don't want them to 
know.

"Lone Gunmen." 

"Langly, it's me," I say, my words clipped.  I hear a series of 
clicks as he turns off the tape recorder, then puts me on speaker 
phone.

"Scully," he says nervously, loudly, his way of announcing my 
call to Byers and Frohike.  I hear them drop what they're doing 
and hurry over to huddle around the phone and exchange perplexed 
glances.

"Yeah, I have a question."

"What can we do for you?"  Frohike asks, a slight leer in his 
voice.

I roll my eyes, actually enjoying the light flirting.  It makes 
me feel good, even if it is with Frohike.

"I need to know if you've heard from Mulder in the last couple of 
weeks.  I haven't been able to get in touch with him."

They confer, then Byers speaks.  "No, we're sorry, Agent Scully.  
We haven't spoken to him in about a month."

"Great," I mutter, my heart speeding up.

"He hasn't been showing up for work?"  Frohike asks, picking up 
on my unease.

"N-."  I catch myself.  "He didn't tell you?"

I can feel them looking at each other, eyebrows raised.  "What?"  
Langly finally says.

I sigh.  "They've closed the X-Files."  A collective gasp from 
the other end of the phone.  "And I've resigned from the Bureau.  
I've moved."

"I wondered why the caller ID said 'Roswell, Georgia,'"  Langly 
adds.

"Anyway, Mulder's not returning my phone calls or my emails.  I 
just wondered if you had talked to him."

Silence on the other end.

Finally, Byers speaks.  "Do you want us to check on him for you?"  
He asks slowly, almost sounding like he hopes I'll say no.

"Would you?  He may just be out of town, but he's not answering 
his cell phone, either."  I pause.  "I'm worried about him."

"We'll take care of it," Frohike assures me.

"Thank you.  Just tell him...tell him to call me.  Or to email 
me.  Or something.  I just want to make sure he's okay."

"Will do," Byers says, then the phone disconnects as they hang 
up.

I'm glad that Mulder's not completely alone without me.  Even 
though he and the Gunmen had never been any more than casual 
friends, it still comforts me to know that there are some people 
who care about him, who can watch out for him and make sure that 
he's okay.  They'll call him, take him out for cheese-steaks, and 
tell him that I'd asked about him, wondering if he was okay.  
Then, he'll call me, apologizing for not calling sooner and for 
worrying me.  He's fine, he'll say, though he does miss me.

I miss you, too, Mulder, I'll say and we'll listen to each other 
breathe for a few minutes before one of us breaks the silence and 
announces that we have to go.  We'll hang up, each promising the 
other a phone call tomorrow, or a brief email, catching us up on 
all of the changes that have happened in the past two weeks.  As 
I'd told him before I left, just because we're apart physically 
doesn't mean that we have to be apart emotionally.  Our 
friendship will survive, as strong as ever, it will just have to 
evolve a little.

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

Later that week, I meet Ethan at the garage door, beaming and 
excited.  He kisses me deeply and tells me he missed me at work, 
then looks for Emma behind me and, not seeing her, asks where she 
is.  It's after nine o'clock, and I tell him that she's been in 
bed for nearly an hour.

"I got an interview, Ethan," I burst out as he turns towards the 
kitchen, loosening his tie and opening the refrigerator.

He stops, holding the door open, and gapes at me.  "What?"

"I got an interview at Emory.  It's tomorrow morning."  Seeing 
his face become stony and serious, my elation flees.

"Dana," he says slowly, "I thought we talked about this."  My 
right eyebrow creeps high on my forehead, not understanding.  "I 
told you: you don't have to work."  He goes back to looking for 
dinner, apparently not expecting me to fight him on this.

"You said we would talk about it, but we never did.  And I know I 
don't have to work.  I know that you make enough money."  He 
slams the heavy door and turns towards me, hands on his hips.  
"But I told you: I want to work, whether I need to or not."

He hangs his head and a long, tired sigh escapes his lips.  
"Why?"  He asks sharply, raising his head and looking me straight 
in the eyes.

"Because..."  Do I really have to explain this to him?  "I've 
been doing nothing but sitting in the house playing maid for two 
weeks and I'm bored out of my mind."

"School starts in a few weeks, volunteer in Emma's class.  You 
don't have to spend all of your time here," he says, like that 
should be obvious to me.

"Volunteering doesn't pay," I mumble, regretting it as soon as 
it's out of my mouth.

"What's that supposed to mean?"  He asks, raising his voice and 
coming to tower over me, trying to intimidate me.

"It means that I don't like not having my own money.  I want my 
own money and a life outside you and Emma."

"Why?"

I take a deep breath.  "Because, I see these women - Carrie and 
Penny and Sonya - they don't have a life of their own.  They 
don't have their own identity.  All they are is their children 
and husbands and they're completely dependent on someone else.  I 
don't want to be like that.  I want my own identity.  I don't 
want to introduce myself and have to state my relation to someone 
else to be noticed or important.  I don't want my entire life to 
be about your life and Emma's life."

He shifts his feet and looks down briefly, calculating his words.  
"In case you haven't figured it out by now, Dana, marriage is not 
about one person.  It's about two people sharing their lives 
together.  We can't have a healthy marriage if we're just two 
people living in the same house and sleeping in the same bed.  We 
have to sacrifice some parts of ourselves for the other, and 
that's what you still don't seem to realize.  You're about to 
become my wife and you're about to become a step-mother; you're 
going to have to make some changes to accommodate that."

"No, Ethan, I understand that.  I know that I'll have to make 
some changes and I'm willing to do that.  But it seems to me that 
I've always been the one to make the sacrifices while you dictate 
to me what I'm supposed to do.  That's the way it was before and 
I'm not gonna let you do that to me again."

He squints his eyes, clearly angry that I would dare to defy him.  
"You have no idea how much I've had to sacrifice for you, Dana.  
I sacrificed the first opportunity I ever had to be a father to 
you, so you could keep your precious independence and fancy 
career -"

"Don't," I warn, taking a step away from him.  "Don't you dare 
try and justify this by saying that I owe it to you."

"I'm not."  He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his 
nose in annoyance.  "The reason I work the hours that I do is so 
that you and Emma can have all this," he says, gesturing to the 
kitchen and the rest of the expensive house.  "I don't just work 
seventy hour weeks because I enjoy it."

"This isn't up for discussion," I decide, turning away from him 
and walking towards the stairs.  He follows me, grabbing my arm 
and turning me towards him roughly.

"Yes, it is, Dana.  You don't make the rules around here."

"Neither do you," I say, wrenching myself out of his grasp and 
stomping up the stairs, slamming and locking the bedroom door 
behind me.

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

When he doesn't come to bed by midnight, I consider getting up to 
see if he's still working or simply ignoring me, so mad at me 
that he's sleeping in the guest bedroom.  I curl up in the 
indentation that he's left in the mattress and inhale his scent 
from the pillow, feeling petulant and juvenile.  Yes, I told him 
that I would sacrifice what ever I had to in order to have him in 
my life, but I never dreamed that he would ask me to sacrifice 
myself.  My career at the FBI was my life and I felt a sense of 
pride and accomplishment to know that I had helped to make the 
world a safer place on a daily basis.  As a medical professor, I 
would still make the world a safer place, only indirectly.  I 
would still be making a positive contribution to the world and 
that's important to me.

My job may be my life, but at least it's better than having other 
people be my life.  And I've already given up my dream job at 
Quantico for Ethan - what more does he expect?  Is it too much 
for me to want to have something that's mine, that's not entirely 
ours?

I curl up tighter, cold without his heat beside me.  If this is 
what it costs me: Ethan being angry with me, I almost don't think 
it's worth it.

A few minutes later, I hear a knock on the bedroom door and get 
up to open it for him.  He looks tired and wrinkled, but his eyes 
are soft and apologetic.  "Dana, I'm sorry," he says.  "You gonna 
make me sleep out here tonight?"

Despite myself, I grin and open the door wider.  He climbs into 
bed behind me, pulls me towards him, then whispers against my 
neck, "You kept it warm for me."  I grin again and lace my 
fingers with his.

"I think you were apologizing," I remind him.

He laughs softly.  "I'm sorry for getting angry at you.  It was a 
long day," is all he says before running his free hand over my 
rib cage.  "You've lost weight," he says into my ear.

I nod, my anger rising again.  That's it?  He's sorry for getting 
angry?  He's not sorry for forbidding me to have a life of my 
own?

"What time is your interview?" he finally asks a few minutes 
later.

"Eleven."

"Maybe we could meet for lunch."

I don't respond.  I'll be anxious tomorrow, being in a foreign 
city, not knowing where I'm going, wondering if Mulder or the 
Gunmen have called.  I won't have time to eat.

"Love you," Ethan whispers to me.  I relax against him and take a 
deep breath.  He loves me.

"Love you too," I whisper back and he tightens his arms around 
me, both of us asleep within minutes.

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

Mulder always told me that I looked good in red, so I'd worn his 
favorite red suit - the one with the black on the lapels.  I 
curled my hair, too.  He told me once that he liked my hair best 
curly.  He said it made me look like a movie start from the 
forties, a classic beauty.  I remember that I blushed when he 
told me that.  "Now you match," he'd said, his eyes lighting up 
and a rare, silly grin crossing his face.

When I got to Emory, right before my interview was supposed to 
start, I'd dialed his cell phone again, nervousness and worry 
making the meager breakfast I'd eaten rise in my stomach.  I  
still hadn't heard from him in the nearly three weeks since I'd 
left - something has to be wrong.  He just wouldn't not call me.

Would he?

The last time I'd worn this suit, the skirt had pinched in the 
side; now, it hangs off of me, resting loosely on my pronounced 
hip bones.  Out of curiosity, I find a scale and weigh myself: 
97.5 pounds.  Wonderful, my mother will think I'm anorexic.

Oh, there's another thing I can do daily now, call my mother.  
I'm sure she'll be ecstatic that I'm following in her footsteps 
and becoming a house wife.

Dr. Bradley'd said that my resume and credentials were 
impressive, but since I hadn't ever practiced and my specialty 
was in a field that, at Emory, wasn't in high demand at the 
moment, that he couldn't see hiring me.  "It wouldn't be 
practical, you understand," he'd said.  I'd nodded and walked 
out, finding the nearest restroom and starring at my pale, sunken 
face in the mirror as tears rolled unchecked down my cheeks.  I'd 
never been refused anything before.  I'd always succeeded.  I 
didn't know what it was like to fail.

After drying my tears, I'd called Ethan and told him that I was 
finished if he still wanted to meet for lunch.  He barely had 
enough time to say that he couldn't, not even asking about my 
interview, so I hung up and drove home, brooding and humiliated.

I guess this is another one of those signs that God keeps sending 
me, telling me what I'm supposed to do.  By not getting the job, 
God must be telling me that Ethan is right, that I don't have to 
work.

I just wish sometimes that God would show me that I'm right.

With Emma at Carrie's until three, and not knowing what else to 
do, I finally decide to call my mother after changing out of my 
suit, folding it, and packing it away with the rest.  I won't 
ever need them again, I guess.  Maybe I should give them to 
Goodwill, but I just can't bear to part with them.  With some of 
these suits, I can tell you when I wore it and what case Mulder 
and I were working on at the time, can tell the story of the sewn 
up tear in one of the legs or the frayed cuff of a jacket.  After 
looking through all of them, refolding them, and covering the 
suitcase with boxes again, I open a drawer and pull out Mulder's 
pajama pants, rolling them up at least five times at the waist, 
then find a comfortable tank top to change into before sitting on 
the edge of the bed and picking up the phone, stopping myself 
from dialing his number by instead, calling my mother.

"Hello," she cheerily says into the phone, making me wince and 
wonder what the hell I was thinking.

"Mom, it's me," I manage to say.  I sound like a scolded child 
trying to defend itself even though it knows it's guilty of 
whatever it's just been scolded for.

She takes a deep, even breath, then says tersely, "Dana."

I look around the bedroom, searching for something to say.  "Are 
you busy?"  I ask, waiting to be scolded again.

"No."

"Oh.  Well, I just wanted to let you know that I'm at 
Ethan's...in Atlanta."

I can feel the dark cloud that she imposed over me lift 
immediately and her voice brightens, relief evident.  "When did 
you leave?"

"The night after I talked to you."  You know, when I hung up on 
you?

"You don't sound very happy about that," she observes.

"It's not that," I try and explain.  "I am happy here."  I guess, 
anyway.  "But I just got back from a job interview.  I didn't get 
the job, Mom."  I suddenly feel like crying.  I remember the 
first time I got a B in college, I'd called her and told her the 
news before she got my report card in the mail, to prepare her.  
I went on and on about how I was a failure, how horrible and 
stupid I felt.  I thought that she'd be disappointed, but she 
wasn't.  She didn't say a word to me over the phone, not even to 
remind me that a B was still good, that I wasn't stupid or 
horrible.  She never showed that report card to Ahab, though.

"I'm sorry, Dana," she says, sounding sincere.

"Ethan didn't want me to have a job anyway.  He got mad when I 
told him last night about the interview," I sniff.

"Oh," is all she says.

"Is that what Dad did to you?  Did he forbid you from having a 
life outside him and us kids?"

"No.  Your father never forbade me to do anything.  I wanted to 
stay home with all of you."  I know she's lying - how could 
anyone be content with that kind of life?

"Did you ever regret it?  Staying home with us?"

"No.  I raised all of you, got to spend time with you and be 
involved in your lives -"

"But what happened when Chaz moved out?  Once we were all gone, 
what did you do then?"

She takes a deep breath, her fairy tale shattered.  "By then, 
your father was retired, so we spent time together."

Oh, I get it.  After you stopped waiting on us hand and foot, you 
started doing the same for him.

"Dana, raising a family is an important job in itself.  It's also 
a much tougher one that you seem to realize.  If you remember, I 
was always busy doing something, whether it was taking one of you 
to dance lessons or baseball practice, or cooking or cleaning, my 
work was never done.  You'll find that, after a while, being a 
wife and mother becomes more important than any professional 
status or career."

"I've been here for almost three weeks and I'm bored out of my 
mind," I tell her, not convinced by her diatribe.

"You just have to get used to it," she says, sounding like she's 
scolding again.

I nod at the phone, then fall silent, waiting for her to ask the 
inevitable.  I don't have to wait long.  "So, have you set a date 
yet?"

I sigh.  "Ethan said something about Labor Day weekend -"

"That's less than a month away.  You have lots of planning to 
do."

"No, Mom.  I don't want a big wedding.  Just a small, family 
service," I tell her, knowing that it's futile.

"You're the only daughter I'll ever get to see get married, Dana, 
and you're not cheating me out of this," she says firmly and I 
hang my head, remembering that I cheated her out of seeing her 
other daughter get married.

As I sit, chewing my lip and waiting for her to elaborate about 
the dress and the flowers and the food, the phone beeps, 
announcing that someone is calling in.  "Mom, I need to go," I 
say hurriedly, sitting up and my finger already hovering over the 
button.

"Dana, what's the mat-"  The phone beeps again.

"Nothing.  I just have to go.  I'll call you later."  Then I 
click the button.  It's about damn time Mulder called me back.

It's not Mulder, though.  It's a telemarketer.  I hang up on him, 
then pull the covers down and climb into bed, another headache 
deciding to make an appearance in my temples.

When the phone rings again, I notice that the clock beside the 
bed says three thirty.  It's probably Carrie, wondering where I 
am to pick up Emma.  I apologize, tell her that my interview ran 
over and that I'd just walked in the door.  She sends Emma home, 
then asks me if I'm all right, saying that I sound sick.  I'm 
fine, I tell her, rubbing my forehead against the midday sun 
slanting through the blinds.

As Emma plays in her room, I drag myself into the study to check 
my email: still nothing from Mulder.  I've almost stopped 
expecting anything.

Ethan gets home at six, early for him, and announces that he 
wants to take Emma and me out to dinner.  Emma is, of course, 
excited, but I decline, telling them to go ahead.  Looking 
disappointed, Ethan tells Emma that we'll go out another night 
and makes it up to her with pizza.

"How'd your interview go?"  He finally asks over the cardboard 
box and paper plates.

I put down my partially eaten first piece.  "I didn't get the 
job," I say softly, then stand and take my plate to the garbage 
can, throwing it away.

"I'm sorry, Dana," he says to me a few minutes later as we lay 
down for the night.

"No, you're not," I tell him.  "You got what you wanted."

He stares at me in the half light from the moon, swallowing what 
ever arguments he has, then turns away from me and falls asleep, 
hugging the edge of the bed.

I wish Mulder were here.  No matter what time it was, no matter 
what was wrong, I could always talk to him.  He would never judge 
me or interrupt me, never give me unsolicited advice and never 
reproached me.  His soft puffs of breath would soothe my temper 
and, without having said a word, he would've made me feel better, 
made me feel a little less burdened and a little more cared for.

If I thought he'd answer, I'd call him now.  He'd understand why 
it was so important to me to have a job, to have my own life.  
He'd support me and call Ethan an ass for telling me what to do.  
He'd respect me and my desires and, if I asked him, he'd be with 
me before the sun came up.

But he won't answer.  Either he's really angry with me or he's 
dying and right now, I can't decide which would be worse.

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

Penny called this morning and asked if Emma and I would like go 
with her and Stephanie, her daughter who's the same age as Emma, 
and Matthew, her younger son, to Kennesaw Mountain.  The girls 
would be going back to school in a few weeks, so she'd thought it 
would be nice to have one last outing with them this summer.  "I 
miss her so much when she's at school," Penny said on the drive 
over.  "I can't imagine what it will be like when she goes to 
college."  I looked out the window and rolled my eyes, thinking 
how pathetic she was.

Although the park had hiking trails and Civil War exhibits, the 
girls were content to play in the grass while Penny and I sat on 
the blanket we'd spread out for our picnic.  Matthew, who was 
two, spent most of his time trying to eat flowers or bugs and 
making hilariously adorable faces at his mother when she told him 
to stop.  Jealousy and longing that I hadn't expected rose in my 
chest and I turned away, blinding myself with the bright sun.

The CDC called this morning right before Penny, offering me a job 
dependent on my perfunctory interview, as they'd called it.  I'd 
taken a deep breath, hesitated, then thanked them, but told them 
that I'd already found a job.

For the first time in almost a month, I didn't call Mulder today.  
I'm still waiting on the Gunmen to call, but he has my numbers 
and email address if he wants to talk to me.

Just as Penny launches into a horror story about a manicurist, I 
snap my head sharply towards the girls as one of the them emits a 
shriek, both of them running towards us.

"What happened?" she asks, seeing Stephanie clutching her arm.

"A bee stung me," she says thickly through a few tears.  Penny 
pulls her daughter's hand away from her arm and examines the 
reddening welt.

"It's fine, honey," she tells her.

"Emma, are you all right?"  I ask her, grabbing her arm and 
yanking her towards me.  Not giving her a chance to answer, I 
keep talking.  "Did you get stung?  Did you see any more bees?"  
She shakes her head, looking at my fingers, clamped tightly onto 
her arm.

My heart keeps pounding, my mind telling me to get away before 
it's too late.  A mountain, bees...we have to get out of here.

"Stephanie, what kind of a bee was it?"  I ask, standing up, 
gesturing for everyone else to do the same.  Stephanie shrugs, 
her tears drying.  "Was it big, little?  Do you have a funny 
taste in your mouth?  Do you have any pain in you chest?"

Frightened, the girl shakes her head frantically.  I look around, 
watching the people warily, calculating exactly how long it will 
take us to get back to the car.

"Dana, what's wrong?"  Penny asks, perplexed.

"We need to go," I tell her, picking up the blanket and not 
bothering to fold it.

"Why?"

"We just do.  Right now."  I look around again, searching for Men 
In Black or convenient EMTs.

When she doesn't move, I turn to face her, still walking 
backwards towards the parking lot.  "Dana, it's just a bee," she 
finally says to me.

I want to tell her that nothing is just as it seems, sometimes.  
That the bee could be carrying small pox or some alien virus.  
There could be swarms of them waiting to infect all of us, men 
waiting to take us away to cold, sterile ships where we can 
incubate their young until they're born, sucking our lives out of 
us, then bursting out of our chest and killing us.

Still starring at me, I take a deep breath, embarrassed.  It's 
just a bee, Dana.

I swallow and nod, hanging my head and finally letting my death 
grip on Emma's arm loosen.

Just a bee.

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

I can hear the phone ringing as soon as I'm out of the car and I 
run to the door, leaving Emma to turn off the alarm while I 
answer it.  "Hello?"  Mulder?

"Agent Scully?"

"Yes."  It's Byers.  Finally!

"It's John Byers," he says in his gentle, polite tone.  "Is this 
a bad time?"

"No, not at all.  Did you get in touch with Mulder?"  It's been 
more than a week since I talked to them - they better have talked 
to Mulder.

"Yes, we did."  A pause, then a heavy sigh.  I'm on speaker phone 
again and Frohike isn't happy.

"He said that he's gotten your messages," Byers says carefully.

"So why hasn't he called?"

"You didn't tell us you were getting married," Frohike growls.

I lean against the counter, rubbing my eyes.  "Did he tell you 
that?"

"Yes," Langly chimes in.

I nod at the kitchen.  "I ask again, why hasn't he called?  I was 
worried about him."

They quietly confer, then Byers answers.  "Agent Scully," I guess 
I should remind him that it's no longer Agent Scully, but I let 
it slide.  "He's a little upset by all this."

I sigh and say softly, "I know."

"He's...he's okay, Scully.  He's not great, but he's doing okay."  
Frohike sounds as sad as I suddenly feel.

"You're sure?"

They confer again.  "Yeah," Langly finally answers for them.

"Did you tell him to call me?"

"Yeah," they say in unison.

I hesitate.  "Thank you.  I really appreciate this."

"You're welcome, Agent Scully."

"I never really thought about it before, but you guys have done 
so much for us over the years and I don't think I've ever said 
thank you.  I'm glad that Mulder has friends like you."

I feel the collective blush spread amongst them, then Frohike 
says, "It's been a pleasure to know you too, Scully."

I smile a little and the silence grows between us.  "Bye," I 
finally whisper.

"If you need anything else, Agent Scully, just let us know.  
We'll always be here."

I sniff, touched at their sincerity and generosity.  "I will."

"Bye," and the phone clicks as they hang up.

Contemplating my next move, I can't help but be infuriated by 
Mulder's actions.  He'd said that he would miss me, he'd said 
that he loved me, he'd said that he wouldn't let me go, that he 
couldn't let me go.  It's been less than a month and, already, 
he's cutting me off.  He won't speak to me, won't even return my 
goddamn emails.

He may be finished with me, but I'm not finished with him yet.  I 
quickly dial the FBI operator and ask for Fox Mulder, not knowing 
what his new office number is.

After a few seconds, the phone is picked up and the loud clatter 
of voices talking and papers rustling greets me, then a weary, 
low voice, "Mulder."

My anger fades as his forlorn voice permeates me down to my soul 
and I choke back my hateful words, quietly panting into the phone 
instead of saying anything.  "It's me," I finally whisper, 
praying he doesn't hang up on me.

The papers on his desk stop rustling and he holds his breath, not 
knowing what to say.

"I wondered if you'd fallen off the Earth," I say, falsely 
confident and trying to lighten the mood.

"You had the Gunmen check up on me.  Didn't they tell you that I 
was still here?"  His voice is cold and angry, with a tinge of 
sadness behind it that he doesn't want me to detect.

"I was worried about you.  I didn't know if something had 
happened to you -"

"I can take care of myself, Scully, I don't need another mother," 
he snaps.  "My world just doesn't stop turning because you left."

In a shaking voice, I stammer out, "I'm-I'm sorry."

He takes a deep breath, then, "I'm a little busy right now."

He's trying to get rid of me.  He doesn't miss me.  He doesn't 
love me.  It was all a lie.

I guess he doesn't miss me as much as he said he would.  I guess 
he discovered that living without me is more liberating than he 
imagined.  I guess he realized that he really doesn't love me, 
just as I suspected he would.

But it still hurts.  It hurts to know that I came so close to 
giving up this life with Ethan so that I could spend my life with 
him when he was lying to me, manipulating me the whole time.  If 
I'd stayed with him, he would've abandoned me and then I would've 
been completely alone forever.

So I made the right choice.  I was starting to wonder.

Tears drip down my face and onto the shiny linoleum floor.  "I'm 
sorry," I repeat.

I hear him open his mouth to say something else, then snap it 
shut and slowly put down the phone, shutting me out of his life.

I hold the phone to my ear until the rapid, loud beeping sounds, 
reminding me that I'm alone now.  I push the talk button, ending 
the beeping, then slowly sink down to the floor against the 
cabinets and wrap my arms around my knees, shaking, tears 
streaming down my cheeks, choking back my sobs.

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

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

Mulder, there you are.  I was wondering if you were really angry 
with me, if you had really already forgotten about me.  No, you 
were right, you were busy.  You've had your head between my 
thighs this whole time.  Dammit, you could've told me.  I was 
worried.

Well, that's okay.  You're obviously very sorry for what you've 
done.  And very repentant.  Yes...very, very sorry.

I always wondered what you could do with that tongue.  I've 
watched and envied those sunflower seeds for years - it's fueled 
my vibrator fantasies more often than I care to admit.

I'll just lay here and let you make it up to me, okay?  You just 
keep doing exactly what you're doing.  You're doing well.  Very 
well.  Very, very well.

God, Phoebe and Diana were fools to ever leave you...

"Are you finally awake?"

My eyes snap open - what happened to Mulder's voice?

"I thought I was losing my touch, here."  Ethan grins and dips 
his head again, licking and sucking.

I turn my head on the pillow, fisting the sheets in my hand.  
Ethan, not Mulder...

My thighs are trembling and he pulls back, kissing the insides of 
them softly before sliding up my body.  "It never took that long 
to wake you before," he says against my neck, making a hot, wet 
trail from my ear lobe to my collar bone.

I put my arms around him, reminding myself where I am and who I'm 
with.

I dreamed about Mulder because he's been on my mind lately - I 
had been worried about him, afraid that he was done with me, 
never wanted to speak to me again.  And Ethan's actions inspired 
Mulder's actions in my dream.  Yeah, that's it.

"You okay?"  He lazily asks, tracing a renegade tear tract across 
my cheek and up to my eye lashes.

"Yeah," I say softly.  I must've started crying in my sleep, 
dreaming about Mulder.  Mulder...

"What?  Dana, what's the matter?"

Okay, I'll tell you the truth, Ethan.  Mulder and I kissed before 
I left.  He begged me to stay with him, he told me that he loved 
me more than anything, that he had loved me for years.  I almost 
gave in to him, I almost stayed.  I've been trying to get in 
touch with him since I've arrived and I haven't been able to.  I 
thought that he was sick or hurt or dead when, really, he just 
didn't want to talk to me.  He lied to me.  He doesn't love me.  
He never did.  "Nothing," I tell him, turning my head away.

"You sure?"  He sits up and I can see the outline of his face 
hovering over mine in the darkness.  I almost gave this up for a 
lie.

"Yes."  When he doesn't immediately finish what he started, my 
thighs still trembling around him, I whisper to him, "Love me."

He latches on to my neck, then, and loves me.

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

For the first Sunday since I've been here, over a month now, 
Ethan doesn't have to work.  I guess I underestimated how 
important he was at CNN.  I certainly underestimated how much 
money he made.  He woke up early, as he's used to doing, and laid 
in bed, holding me, softly touching my skin with his lips and 
hands until I woke up an hour later.  In the cool morning air, we 
made achingly slow, infinitely tender love to each other, careful 
not to wake Emma.  He spooned up behind me after we'd finished 
and laced his left hand through mine, examining my ring.

"It needs something else," he says, twisting it back and forth, 
trying to arrange it perfectly.  It's just where he left it when 
he gave it to me, I haven't taken it off.

"I think it's big enough as it is."

"No.  It needs a companion."

Oh, okay.  I get it.  He nuzzles my neck and whispers against my 
skin, "Have you thought any more about the wedding?  Labor Day is 
in a couple of weeks."

I sigh and pull his arm tighter around me.  "No."

"You gonna let your Mother do all the planning?"

"It doesn't matter what I want, she'll find something wrong with 
it."

"That's not true," he says.

"Yes, it is.  I told her that I don't want a big wedding and she 
insists that we have one.  I told her that I don't want a lot of 
people there and she wants to invite all of our extended family."

"What about me?"

I turn to him, stretching out on my back, partially underneath 
him.  "What do you mean?"

"This is my wedding, too.  What if I want a big wedding with lots 
of people?"

I reach for him, tangling my fingers in his hair.  "Why do you 
want that?"

He leans down to me.  "I want everyone to know that I'm marrying 
Dana Scully.  I want the whole world to know how happy we are."

"I'm sure the world doesn't care, Ethan."

"I care."

He kisses me, long and deep, and I forget how I was going to 
respond to what he said.

"This is every little girl's dream, isn't it?  A big wedding with 
the pretty, white dress and bridesmaids and flowers.  How would 
Melissa feel if you deprived her of the opportunity to play maid 
of honor?"

I close my eyes and think back to what my mother said, how I'd 
robbed her of seeing one daughter get married and she wouldn't 
allow me to do that again.  Tears must be streaming from my eyes 
again.

"Dana, please talk to me.  Don't keep everything inside."

"I never told you," I begin, sniffing.

"What?"

"Missy's dead."

Surprised, he leans back a little.  "What happened?"

"She was murdered.  In my apartment.  Someone was trying to kill 
me and shot her instead."

His mouth gapes.  "Someone was trying to kill you?" he asks 
incredulously.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I had something that I wasn't supposed to have and I knew things 
that I wasn't supposed to know," I say softly.

He shakes his head.  "That doesn't make any sense."

"I was warned that someone would kill me in my home.  And then 
she told me that she was coming over...I just forgot.  When I 
remembered, I called her back, but she had already left.  I tried 
to meet her on the way, to stop her, but I couldn't.  It was my 
fault."

He just stares at me, not knowing what to say or do.  Since he 
doesn't tell me to stop, I continue pouring my heart out to him.  
"I didn't even get to the hospital in time to tell her I was 
sorry.  Mulder...Mulder said she knew, but I don't think she 
did."  Tears overcoming me, I turn on my side and bury my head in 
my pillow, my back shaking with my sobs.

I miss my sister.

After a long hesitation, Ethan finally reacts.  "Dana..."  He 
touches my shoulder lightly, trying to comfort me.  I remember 
Mulder doing the same, the night Missy died.  We sat in her 
hospital room holding each other, not saying anything for hours.  
It was one of the only times I had allowed myself to cry in front 
of him, one of the only times I let myself accept his comfort.

I miss Mulder.

"Is that what was wrong with you the other day?  Emma said that 
you answered the phone and then started crying."

I stop, sniff, and turn my head to look at him over my shoulder.  
"That was Mulder.  I called him."

"And he made you cry?"

Yes.  "No."

He kisses my cheek, tracing his tongue up to my eye again, 
absorbing my tears, then leans back a little, looking into my 
eyes.  "I'm sorry about Melissa."

I nod.

"Maybe you'll feel better after Mass," he decides, moving towards 
the edge of the bed.

"No.  I don't want to go."  Since I've arrived, I've yet to 
attend Mass, even though Ethan depended on me to take Emma.  I 
just never woke up early enough and, if I did, I just never felt 
like getting up.  Emma never complained, anyway.

"It'll be good for you.  We need to start going on a regular 
basis again, especially if we're gonna be married in that church.  
People have to get to know you."

It would be futile to tell him that I don't want a church 
wedding, so I just shake my head at him, pulling the covers over 
my chilled body.  "I don't feel well,"  I tell him, not really 
lying.

He sighs and comes around the bed to sit beside me.  "You don't 
feel well a lot, lately.  You're not eating, you have nightmares 
all the time.  Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

"I'm fine."

His shoulders sag.  "What can I do?" he asks, leaning down to 
kiss my forehead.

Bring Mulder back.  "Nothing."

He nods, then stands and disappears into the bathroom.  The sound 
of the shower spray lulls me into sleep again and when I wake up, 
late morning sun spilling in through the open blinds, I discover 
that I'm alone.  Ethan must've taken Emma to Mass without me.

When I stand, my legs are shaky and weak and I immediately feel 
dizzy.  In the bathroom, I weigh myself and find that I've lost 
another six and a half pounds; I barely weight ninety, now.  I 
lazily brush my teeth, the strong, minty paste making me gag, and 
dress in Mulder's blue Oxford, wishing that I hadn't washed it 
and that it still smelled like him.  I comb my limp, dull hair 
and notice that it looks thinner that it ever has.  Like when I 
was sick with cancer, my eyes are sunken and dull, the whites 
tinged yellow.  My ribs stick out sickeningly and my stomach is 
starting to look concave.  Nearly in tears again and exhausted 
from my minimal activity, I crawl back in bed, curling up into a 
fetal ball in the center, hug my pillow, and sob alone in the 
big, empty house.

If Mulder were here, he'd be thinking of ways to annoy the 
neighbors, putting a pink flamingo in the front yard and setting 
up his basketball hoop in the drive way.  He'd call me Laura and 
make jokes about how we should act more like a married couple, 
keeping his arm around me and playfully insisting that he be 
allowed to sleep in the bed with me.  When we would go to dinner, 
making our polite rounds in the neighborhood families, he would 
sound so serious as he talked about eating dolphins, horrifying 
the quaint couple sitting across from us.  He'd make up a story 
about how we met, making me into the magnetic bracelet wearing, 
UFO chasing, new ager.  He'd make this boring situation 
tolerable, he'd add humor and life to my humorless, lifeless 
existence.

I miss Mulder.

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

A warm body drapes itself over me, pushing the hair off of my 
neck with its nose and kissing me just over the tiny scar on the 
nape.  Large hands and strong arms brace themselves around me, 
making me feel small and protected, a deep, soft voice washing 
over me as I slowly wake up.  "You've been into my clothes," the 
voice observes and I shake my head, his lips tracing my shoulders 
under the collar of the shirt.  No, you gave me this shirt, 
remember?  You told me how good I looked in blue, especially if 
it was your blue.  Don't you remember, Mulder? 

"It's almost dinner time.  I want you to come down and eat with 
me, or at least let me bring something up here for you."

I shake my head again.

"Dana, you've been sleeping all day.  You have to get up and you 
have to eat."  He pushes the covers off of me, then slips one arm 
under my knees, the other under my shoulders and lifts me, 
placing me on my feet.  I immediately fall back against the bed, 
not able to stand.

"Dana," he says in exasperation.  "You've made yourself sick.  
Come on."  He picks me up again and walks us to the door.  
"Emma's at Sonya's for the night, so we can have what ever you 
want."

I want to go back to bed.

After he seats me at the kitchen table, he opens the newly 
stocked pantry, searching for food.  "How about some soup?  Do 
you like tomato soup?"

I stare blankly at the table, not responding.  In a few minutes, 
a steaming bowl of thick, bloody looking liquid is placed in 
front of me.  Ethan puts another one down at his chair, then 
stares at me, waiting for me to take the first bite.  I slowly 
raise my eyes to him.

"Dana, eat.  Humor me, at least."

Wanting to get this over with, I pick up the spoon and bring it 
to my lips, wincing as the hot blood floods my mouth.  When I 
swallow, he smiles and starts eating his own soup, still watching 
me carefully.

When we've finished, we takes our bowls, mine still half-full, to 
the sink and runs some water in them.  "Stay there for a minute, 
okay?" he says softly, and then goes upstairs, leaving me alone 
in the kitchen.

I should check my email, see if there's anything important.

I drag myself to the study, collapsing in the chair at the desk.  
I'm not expecting an email from Mulder, I remind myself.  Still, 
I'm disappointed yet again when I have nothing from him.

I stare at the screen until the screen saver comes on, a slide 
show of family pictures.  Some of Ethan and Emma, some of Emma 
and a woman with long, dark, curly hair, most just of Emma.  I 
smile, wondering how long it will be before pictures of me make 
it into the slide show.

"Dana?"  I hear Ethan call, looking for me.

"In here," I tell him and he comes to the door of the study, 
watching me.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking my email."

"Oh.  I have a surprise for you upstairs."  He smiles at me and, 
feeling better than I have in a long while - probably from eating 
for the first time in days I smile back, following him up the 
stairs.

"Close your eyes," he commands, letting me step in front of him 
and guiding us into the bathroom.

I immediately feel the warm steam envelope me, smell the sweet, 
relaxing bubbles.  Opening my eyes, I gasp slightly in surprise, 
then clamp them shut, taking a step back, but stopped by Ethan's 
body.

His arms come around me, holding me against him and whispering in 
my ear.  "You like it?"  He kisses my temple, oblivious to my 
rapid breathing and surging pulse.

Several candles line the big bath tub, filled to the top with hot 
water and bubbles.

"I thought we needed to relax," he whispers.  "Go ahead.  I'll be 
right behind you."

"No," I say quietly, trying to step back again.

"You don't like it?" he asks, hurt.

"No," I tell him again, frantically shaking my head.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Let me go," I say loudly, instinctive flight mechanism kicking 
in.

"What?"

"Let me go!"  I scream, turning and trying to run for the door.  
He catches me, though, and holds me in front of him.

"Dana?  What's the matter?"

I pound my fists against his chest, Ethan and the big bathroom 
disappearing, Donnie Pfaster and my shattered bedroom taking 
their places.  "Let me go, Goddamn it!  Go back to hell!"

He drags me into the bedroom, still holding tightly to my arms.  
He's too big I can't fight him he's gonna kill me Mulder where 
are you he's here he's here he's gonna kill me - not the closet 
please not the closet.

"Dana?  Dana!  Stop it!  What is the matter with you?"

Exhaustion kicking in, I sag against him, his voice finally 
breaking my hallucination, remembering.  Donnie Pfaster is dead.  
I killed him.  I saved myself from him.  I'm in Ethan's house.  
I'm safe.

I shake my head, trying to force the thoughts away.

Ethan's grip on me loosens and he bends down to look into my 
eyes.  "You okay now?"

I nod, feeling a flood of embarrassment and shame creep into my 
cheeks, then wrap my arms around his waist and bury my face in 
his chest.  He holds me, stroking my hair and whispering comfort 
into my ear.  "What happened?  You used to love baths."

I nod again and squeeze my eyes shut.  After a death fetishist 
tries to kill you twice, candles and bubble baths involved both 
times, you lose your affinity for the once-soothing things.

I'll go drain the water; you get in bed," he says, then lets me 
go and walks away.

I do as he says and crawl into bed, realizing that I'm still 
wearing Mulder's shirt.  Drying my tears with the sleeves, I 
wonder what Ethan will think of me keeping and wearing another 
man's clothes.

When he comes to bed, I shift towards him and hold him like a 
life preserver (saver).  The sun has yet to set, but he places 
his hand over my eyes, softly telling me to go to sleep.  "I love 
you, Dana," is the last thing I hear before I let myself sink 
into unconsciousness, his arms keeping me safe from all of the 
evil in the world, the evil that Mulder used to protect me from.

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

After weeks of nagging and pleading, Ethan and I are finally 
having dinner with James, head of the Homeowners Association and 
his wife, Linda.  Ethan said that it was an unofficial 
requirement, that all new residents have dinner with them.

There are weeds on my plate.

They're all eating their dinners like they're starving African 
children, weeds and all.  Actually, Linda said that they were 
herbs, thought she didn't tell me their names.  She said that 
they flavored the yellow-sauce covered circle of fish, that they 
were delicious, and that I would love them.  James loved them, 
she'd beamed, wiping her hands on her vintage 1952 apron and 
stirring the sauce.

I scrap the weeds and sauce off my fish, then inspect a piece of 
it carefully with my fork before deciding that the salad is much 
safer.

When Linda invited us for dinner, I had no idea I'd actually be 
helping her cook.  I also had no idea that we'd be eating a four 
course meal, including salad, an appetizer, dessert, and white 
wine to drink.

Sarah Anne, James and Linda's daughter, and Emma are in the 
kitchen, dining on canned ravioli, giggling and shrieking with 
delight.  I sip my wine, wondering if they'd share some ravioli 
with me.

"So, Dana," James begins, leaning back in his chair and slinging 
his arm around Linda's shoulders, "what did you do at the FBI?"

I gratefully put down my fork.  "I worked on something called the 
X-Files."  His eyebrows raise.  "They're cases where there's no 
obvious means, motive, or suspect.  Mostly they deal with 
possible paranormal phenomenon."

"So that's where my tax dollars go?" he asks jokingly.

"Well, it was a small division of Violent Crimes.  Just me and my 
partner."

"And you actually believe in that stuff?  The paranormal?"

I look down at my food and wince.  Yes, I do.  I accept the fact 
that science cannot explain everything.  I've witnessed events 
that defy logical, rational explanation and that, according to 
all accepted laws of physics, should never have occurred.  I've 
experienced things that I never would have believed, if I hadn't 
been there myself.

"No.  My partner was the real expert," I say, sipping my wine 
again.

James smiles.  "And you just got tired of all that psychic crap, 
huh?"

My face gets hot and I squint my eyes at him, livid.

"She just couldn't resist me anymore," Ethan says, rubbing 
circles between my shoulders, making them laugh and drop the 
subject.  I just stare at my plate and dissect my fish, pushing 
it around on my plate.

"This is a wonderful dinner, ladies," James declares a few 
minutes later.  It took us almost two hours to prepare it, so it 
damn sure better be good.

"Oh, it was no trouble, was it Dana?"  Linda says, blushing 
slightly.

I take a tiny bite and chew so that I don't have to answer.  Two 
hours preparing a meal that we finish in thirty minutes qualifies 
as a lot of trouble in my book, Mrs. Cleaver.

We finish dinner in silence, and then Ethan and James retire to 
the "game room," leaving Linda and me to clear the table and wash 
the dishes. 

"That's a beautiful ring, Dana," she says, gesturing to my left 
hand, breaking the tense silence.

"Thank you."

"You know, I've really been eager to meet you.  Ethan has talked 
about you constantly for the past two months."  She stops washing 
and turns to me, a serious look on her face.  "He loves you so 
much.  I'm glad you're finally here.  I think you'll be good for 
him."

"What do you mean?"  I ask, my hands suddenly feeling limp in the 
tepid water.

She shakes her head and goes back to washing.  "After what 
happened with Michelle, he just...he almost had a nervous 
breakdown.  I really think that the only thing that stopped that 
was Emma.  She was the only thing that kept him going.  We were 
all so worried about him, and Emma, too.  I believe that a child 
belongs with her mother, but Michelle is not a fit parent.  And 
Ethan...he tries so hard."

I stare out the window above the sink, absently rinsing an 
already well-rinsed plate.

"He needs someone."  She looks at me again.  "I'm glad he found 
you, Dana.  I'm glad that he'll finally be able to be happy 
again."

I turn my head towards hers, meeting her eyes.  "Me, too," I say 
and she nods, both of us returning to our tasks.

As I lay in bed, wrapped in Ethan's arms later that night, I 
realized that I hadn't thought of Mulder the whole day.  Even our 
dinner with what could've been Win and Cammie from The Falls 
didn't remind me of him.

I must finally be getting over him.

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

Ethan promised me this morning that he'd be home by six tonight, 
so I cooked dinner.  Emma helped me, excited by the novelty of a 
family all sitting down for dinner at the same time eating the 
same meal.  While it was cooking, she had the idea that we paint 
our fingers nails - she would do mine, I would do hers.  She 
wanted pink, of course.  I chose pink, too, so that we would 
match.

At six thirty, we all sat down around the big dining room table 
and ate, Ethan repeatedly commenting about how delicious the meal 
was and how beautiful his dining companions were.  It was much 
more enjoyable than our stilted dinner out the other night and I 
found myself laughing and smiling, genuinely having a good time 
with my little family.

Something Linda said that night, and something Emma asked me 
earlier, prompts me to direct our conversation into more serious 
subject matter after Emma finishes and retires upstairs, leaving 
Ethan and me, the wine and the candle light.

"Ethan?"

He chews.  "Yeah?"

"Who's Neil?"

He abruptly puts down his fork and folds his hands, thinking.  
"Who did you hear that from?" 

"Emma."

"Emma?" he asks in disbelief.

"Yeah.  She said that the reason her mother and Neil had to get 
married was because Michelle got pregnant."

He nods and takes a deep breath.  "Yeah.  That's true."

"He was your neighbor?"  I ask, remembering what he told me 
during our first conversation in nearly eight years.

"Yeah.  He was married with two sons and a baby on the way."

"And how did you know that it wasn't your baby she was pregnant 
with?"

He obviously doesn't want to discuss this, but I'm curious.  I 
want to know.  I need to know.  "We weren't really...getting 
along when she told me.  She was only ten weeks - I could do the 
math."

"Oh."  He nods, depressed.  "I'm sorry, Ethan."

"It's okay," he says, reaching across the table for my hand and 
linking our fingers.  "Everything happens for a reason, Dana."

I nod, his thumb stroking the ring on my finger.

"Can I ask you a question now?"  He asks.

"Yeah," I say, wondering what he could possibly want to know.

"Will you tell me about Mulder?"

"Mulder," I repeat slowly.  I hadn't thought of him in days, 
pushing him out of my mind, trying to move on with my life.  
Ethan's simple question brings it all back, though.  The way 
Mulder looked as I left him at the airport, how his voice shook 
slightly as he begged me to stay with him, how he brushed me off 
later, telling me he was busy.

"Yeah.  You two seemed so close."  I nod.  "I want to know some 
more about him."

I pull my hand away from his and tuck them under my legs, trying 
to figure out what exactly to tell him.  "We're best friends."  I 
try not to think about the deep, psychological reasons that I'm 
still speaking about him in the present tense.

"And?" he prompts when I pause.

"And...we are very close.  I told you, it was just me and him all 
these years."

"What do you mean?"

I take a deep breath.  "Well...the work that we did...it was 
very...ambiguous.  A lot of times, it felt like it was just us 
against the evil forces of the world, trying to make the world a 
safer place for humanity."

"By investigating ghost stories and aliens?"

I narrow my eyes at him.  "No.  I told you, there was more to it 
than that.  There's a lot that I haven't told you, that I don't 
think I can tell you.  You wouldn't believe me if I did."  He 
looks at me skeptically.  "Just...okay, the work that we did 
brought us very close together.  He was the only person I could 
trust and I was the only person he could trust."  When I run out 
of things to say, knowing I can't explain this any better, I just 
stop and push my pasta around on my plate.

"Were you ever...closer?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, romantically?"

I freeze, feeling like I was a teenager caught with my boyfriend 
in the back seat of his car.  This is my cue: I should tell him 
about what happened just before I left - Mulder kissing me, 
Mulder telling me that he loved me - but I don't.  My mother was 
right, Ethan doesn't need to know.  And as far as I'm concerned, 
there's no way he'll ever find out.

I wonder if that was Michelle's idea, too.

"No.  No, never romantically," I say softly, not looking at his 
face.  Mulder always told me I was a bad liar - I hope Ethan 
doesn't notice that.

Apparently, he doesn't.  He just nods and picks up his wine 
glass.  "So, what's he doing now that they've closed the X-
Files?"

"He started out at the Bureau profiling; he's very good at it.  I  
think that's what he'll do now."

He nods again and puts his glass down, not drinking any of the 
wine.  "Let's get the dishes cleaned up," he says decisively, 
standing and carrying his plate into the kitchen.

Grinning at me mischievously, he wraps his arms around my waist 
as I'm loading the dishwasher a few minutes later, stopping me 
and drawing me closer to him.  "Why don't you leave those until 
tomorrow?"

"Why?"  I ask him, sounding sexy and coy.

"Because, it's time for bed."  He kissed me behind my ear softly, 
brushing his knuckles against my breasts.

"It's not even eight o'clock yet."

"I didn't say it was time to sleep, I said it was time for bed," 
he clarifies.

"Oh," I say, turning to him and kissing him deeply.

As Ethan loves me, any lingering thoughts of Mulder are expunged 
from my brain, allowing me to focus entirely on my fiance for the 
first time since I left DC.

Yes, I'm finally getting over him.  It's about time.

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

Ethan thought it would be a great idea to invite my mother down 
so that she could see the house and meet her soon-to-be-step-
granddaughter and annoy the hell out of me.  As soon as we picked 
her up from the airport, she and Ethan started discussing wedding 
plans, completely ignoring me, slumping in the back seat.  

When we got home, they set up in the dining room, spreading 
pictures and sample invitations over the table, desperately 
trying to plan everything before Labor Day.

"I'm not wearing white," I tell them for the millionth time, 
thinking that maybe this time, they'll understand.

"I'm not having you get married in a church in front of God not 
wearing white, Dana."

"Mom, I'm almost forty!  People know that I'm not a virgin!"

"Dana!"  She takes a deep breath, regains her composure, then 
looks at Ethan.  "What do you think?  What color should she 
wear?"

He sits back and alternates his eyes between my scowl and my 
mother's lovely, icky-sweet smile.  "I'd like white.  It's more 
traditional, and it will be in a church...I just think it would 
look better," he says slowly.

"Look better to who?  Do you think that people really care?"  I 
ask, standing up and pacing restlessly.  My ass is numb, my legs 
are stiff, and my temper is gone.  

"Thank you, Ethan," my mother replies, looking at me spitefully.  
"You're wearing white, Dana, but you can pick out the dress 
yourself.  I think it would be pointless to ask you to wear a 
train and a veil, but that's up to you."

"Why am I even here?  You two are doing just fine without me," I 
say, walking into the kitchen to get away from them.

"Dana," Ethan calls after me.  "You've put this off long enough.  
We need to get these things taken care of - it's almost 
September."

"Maybe I don't want to get married in September."

He stands quickly, his chair hitting the wall as he pushes it 
back.  "Then what do you want?"

"I want for you to listen to me and to respect my desires and 
opinions!"

"Then tell us what you want."

I want a cigarette.  "I want a small service and I really don't 
care if it's in a church or not.  Just you, me, my Mom, your 
parents, and Emma.  Ten minutes and we're done - wear whatever 
the hell we want, no fancy receptions or decorations or ten mile 
long guest lists."  I turn and face him, my eyes on fire and my 
cheeks flushed with anger.  "That's what I want."

"You're getting married in a church, Dana Katherine.  Your father 
wouldn't stand for anything less," my mother says definitively.  
She's said the magic words: your father.  If my father were here, 
I'd do what ever he wanted without question, just because he 
wanted it and she knows that.  Bitch.

"And you have to have a reception," she continues, sounding like 
the Goddess of Weddings.  "It gives you a chance to mingle with 
your guests, thank them for coming.  It's a celebration, Dana, 
you're supposed to have fun."

"And the church that we'll be getting married in is very dull.  
We'll need to decorate it to make it look nice," Ethan adds.

"I don't give a damn how it looks!"  I shout, stomping back into 
the dining room where we've spread out lists and pictures and 
possible invitations and all that other crap they think we need.  
"All of this," I gesture at the table, "is for kids - young 
people without jobs or kids or ex-wives.  We're adults, Ethan, 
and we have better things to spend our money on than this!  It's 
ridiculous for us to have something like this!"

"That's your opinion," he says calmly.  "But this is my wedding, 
too, and this is what I want."

"Why?  You've already had it!"

"I haven't had it with you," he says softly, walking up behind me 
and massaging my shoulders.  "I don't understand why you don't 
want it.  This is something to be proud of, Dana, and you act 
like you're ashamed to be getting married."

I wince and shrug his hands away.  "Is that it?"  He asks.  "Are 
you ashamed?"

"No."

"Then what?"  He turns me around so that I'm facing him and tilts 
my face up to his.  "Have you changed your mind?"

I open my mouth to answer, but my mother does so for me.  "No, 
Ethan, she hasn't changed her mind.  She's just nervous and 
overwhelmed, aren't you, Dana?"

"No!"  I scream.  "I'm tired of everyone dictating my life for 
me!  I'm tired of people telling me what to do and telling me 
what's best for me!  This is my life!  I can do and say and think 
and feel any fucking thing that I want to!  And I don't want this 
goddamn wedding!  I don't want you living my life for me!"  

I've forgotten whether I'm talking to Ethan or to my mother, but 
it's appropriate for both of them.  They just stare at me 
blankly, waiting for me to finish so that they can continue 
planning the wedding like nothing's happened.  Frustrated and 
angry, I turn and leave the dining room, navigating my way up the 
stairs and into the bedroom, slamming the door and locking it 
behind me.  When I don't hear any footsteps coming to check on me 
or any voices calling me back, I crawl into bed fully clothed and 
pull the covers over my head, shaking and hiccuping from trying 
to hold back my angry sobs.

A couple of hours later, I finally hear Ethan coming up the steps 
and turning the knob on the bedroom door.  Finding it locked, he 
doesn't knock, but just walks down the hall, away from me, 
leaving me alone.

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

A hot, steamy August day had turned into the perfect environment 
for rain, lightening, and thunder that night.  I'd laid in bed, 
curled up tightly to Ethan's back for nearly an hour before I'd 
had to get up and do something.

The lightening was bright, painting the room in an eerie golden-
yellow glow for a split second before fading and leaving me to 
imagine all of the evils that could lurk in the shadows, waiting 
to come for me, to take me and test me again.

I rummage through the closet, looking for something to keep them 
away - a weapon of some kind to protect myself with.  Not finding 
anything, I become frantic, pulling clothes off hangers and 
things down from the shelves, making them crash loudly to the 
floor.  Then, bed springs squeaking and feet shuffling across the 
carpet toward me.

They're coming They're coming They're coming.

I crawl into the farthest corner from the door and huddle against 
the wall, trying to melt into it.  The footsteps get louder and I 
start sobbing and shaking.

Mulder help Mulder They're coming Mulder make it stop Mulder 
where are you Mulder They're here Mulder help!

Another crash of thunder shakes the house and I scream, burying 
my head in my arms and sobbing louder, whispering "Mulder, 
Mulder, Mulder," wondering where he is and why he isn't coming to 
rescue me.

"Dana," I hear from the other side of the closed door.  It didn't 
have a lock, so I'd pushed a shelf in front of it, thinking it 
would keep Them out.

"Go away," I whisper, knowing They can't hear me and wouldn't 
listen even if They could.

"Dana, what the hell is wrong with you?"  The voice asks, angry 
and tired.

Another sob escapes me as more thunder crashes, again vibrating 
the house.

The shelf smashes into the floor as the door opens, a dark, lanky 
figure standing there, searching for me.

"NO!"  I scream, crying and shaking and terrified.  "No, go away!  
Mulder, help!"

"DANA!"  The voice says, coming towards me.

Where's my gun where's Mulder why isn't he here why isn't he 
helping me where is he?

"MULDER!"  I scream again, desperate.  What if They've gotten 
him, too.  What if They got him before They came for me?

"What did you do to him?  Where's Mulder?  Mulder!"  I ask the 
voice and the looming figure that it belongs to.

Strong hands seize me by my shoulders, pulling me out from my 
corner.  My training kicks in and I fight, digging my nails into 
its face and scrapping skin away as I drag them down its cheeks.  
It makes a sound of pain and I wail again, "Mulder!"  It grabs me 
again by my wrists and I kick futilely; it drags me across the 
floor and out into the bedroom, slamming the closet door behind 
us.

Then, it lets me go and walks away.  I crawl towards the bed, 
fitting underneath it and knowing that it's bigger than I am and 
won't be able to follow.  I put my arms over my head and sob into 
the floor, calling for Mulder again.  He's not coming, though.  
He's not coming to help me.

A light comes on then, spilling under the bed and making me turn 
my head towards the window, another rumble of thunder vibrating 
the house.  They're all around me - no way out.  They're taking 
me again and Mulder's not here to save me.

"Dana, get out from under there," the voice yells, grabbing my 
ankle and yanking me towards it.

"No...no, please, don't...not again, no...no..."  I beg, knowing 
that it's pointless.  My body goes limp and I give into it, 
letting it drag towards it, out into the light.

It pins my arms above my head and I squeeze my eyes shut, turning 
my head away.  When it straddles my body, crushing my chest, I 
hold my breath, hoping that it will think it killed me and just 
leave me alone.  "Dana, open your eyes," it commands.  "Dana!  
Open your eyes!"

I hear a door squeak open, then, and a tiny, terrified voice ask, 
"Daddy?"

I open my eyes, wondering what the hell just happened.  Ethan is 
on top of me, his arms pinning me to the floor, blood dripping 
from three parallel scratches on one side of his face.  Emma is 
standing at the door, clutching her white whale and looking at us 
with round, frightened eyes.

"Emma, go back to bed," Ethan says over his shoulder, not taking 
his eyes off me.  "Everything's fine, honey, just go back to 
bed."  She does as she's told, turning away and closing the door.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" he asks, loosening his 
grip on my wrists and moving off of me.  He wipes his cheek with 
his arm and fresh blood pools in the scratches, replacing the 
old.

I say nothing and lay in my prone position, panting, tears 
streaming from my eyes.

He sits back and wipes his cheek again, then holds out his hand 
to me.  "Get up," he says, then takes my arm and pulls me up when 
I refuse to move myself.

He leads me into the bathroom and flips the light switch, turning 
on the faucet in his sink and splashing water on his face, 
wincing when it hits his cheek.

I'm still trembling, cold, and afraid.  The thunder has stopped, 
but the rain is still deluging the house, blocking out the sound 
of the air conditioner and my own sniffs and hiccups.

Calmer but still angry, Ethan turns off the water and comes to 
stand in front of me, leaning down to look into my eyes.  I look 
down, not wanting to meet his, and he jerks my face up again.  
"What happened?"  He asks again, wanting an explanation.

I tremble harder and stutter out, "Lightening...and th-thunder -"

"Dammit, Dana, you're not a child!"  He yells, making me cower 
away from him.  "Is that why you were hiding in the closet?  
You're afraid of thunderstorms?"  I wrap my arms tightly around 
my body.  "Is it?"

I nod furiously.

He sighs and looks at his face in the mirror.  The bleeding has 
stopped, but the scratches need to be disinfected and bandaged.  
His shoulders slump and he takes a deep breath.  "I need to go 
check on Emma - I can't imagine what she thinks about this."

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

He nods, saying nothing, then walks out the bathroom door, 
leaving me alone.

Not wanting to turn out the light in the bedroom, I climb back in 
bed and pull the covers over my head, embarrassed and still 
afraid of the weather outside.  In a few minutes, Ethan comes 
back into the bedroom and turns out the light.  

"You okay?"  He asks, sounding like he doesn't really care and 
reaching for me under the covers.  I don't respond.  "Emma's 
scared.  She wants me to sleep in her room, so..."  His voice 
trails off.

I still don't answer.  He hesitates, then I hear his feet shuffle 
across the carpet and out the door, closing it behind him.

I finally let myself cry, terrified and alone.  Not knowing what 
else to do, I pick up the phone beside the bed and dial the 
familiar numbers, bursting into tears as I hear his pre-recorded 
voice on the other end.  It's been so long since I've heard that 
voice and it immediately makes me feel safer, less alone, less 
afraid. 

"Mulder," I sob into the phone.  "Please, please, pick up the 
phone."  Another sob.  "Please, Mulder...Mulder, I need you.  I 
need to talk to you, please.  Pick up the phone."

Nothing.

"Mulder, please," I beg, openly crying, hoping that he'll take 
pity on me and answer.

Nothing.

I sniff a few times and my sobs quiet.  Pressing my ear harder 
against the receiver, I hope that he'll pick up now, thinking 
that I'm about to hang up and I hold my breath, waiting.

Nothing.

I slowly hang up the phone, unable to believe that someone who 
said so honestly and openly that he loved me more than anything, 
someone who begged me to stay with him, to love him, would treat 
me so carelessly.

He hates me.  He always did.  He was glad when I left, thought he 
was finally rid of me.  He never wants to speak with me again.

I thought I was alone before.  I've never felt more alone than I 
do right now.

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

I never called him again.  He obviously didn't want to talk to 
me, so I gave him what he wanted.  For all I knew, he'd found 
someone to replace me, someone who could fill all of those voids 
in him that I hadn't been able to, someone that he deserved.  I 
wouldn't interfere and I wouldn't interrupt.  If he ever wanted 
to talk to me, he had my email address, he had my new home phone 
number, he had my cell phone number.  He could easily find out my 
new home address and, if he really wanted to, he could come and 
visit me in person.

I never forgot about him, though.  I thought of him constantly.  
Little things that people would say, something I would see on TV 
or read about in the paper, a random memory or silly joke - they 
would all come back to me, assault me day and night, reminding me 
of him, how close we used to be, how much he used to care for me 
and how much I still cared for him.  I would often find myself, 
late at night, picking up the phone and dialing his number, 
hanging up during the first ring.  I would catch myself quietly 
chanting his name to myself for comfort during early morning 
thunderstorms, remembering how safe and protected he'd made me 
feel before by just being near me.  I would look for him where 
ever I went, thinking that he had finally come to see me, to beg 
me to come back to him.

He had told me once that he was free - after he'd found Samantha, 
he'd thought that he was finally able to move on with his life, 
to say good-bye to his sister, to accept her fate.  Later, after 
his date with Alicia, I'd told him that I envied his freedom, 
that I could never be free from what They had done to my sister, 
my daughter, and me.  I believed that I would be forever chasing 
these men - Them - trying to bring them to justice, to make them 
pay to what they had done to me while Mulder went off and lived 
his life, free of the pain and guilt that had haunted him for 
twenty seven years.

But Mulder would never have left me.

I thought that after I married Ethan and started living that 
normal, safe, happy life that I had wanted, every trauma and loss 
that I had suffered would fall away, leaving me free to move on 
and be happy and safe and normal.  I'd told Mulder that Ethan and 
his daughter and his life freed me, but now I don't know how I 
could've been so naive.  Ethan couldn't free me, Emma couldn't 
free me, and this life that we live couldn't free me, not just 
from the loss and pain, but from the person that had suffered 
beside me, supported me, and carried me through for eight years.

I came to the conclusion that, no matter how far I ran, no matter 
how hard I tried, I would never be able to extract him from my 
life, just as I would never be able to erase all of the tragedies 
from my life.  He and they were a part of me, as deeply ingrained 
in my mind as my social security number, as important to me as my 
cherished memories of my father.  I would never be able to let 
Mulder go, no matter how easy it was for him to do that to me.  I 
accepted it and moved on with my life, just as he had done.  But 
there would always be a void there that would go unfilled, that I 
would guard and mourn late at night or early in the morning when 
the world was still and quiet, in my bed with my tears.

Mulder was my safety net, my escape route.  In my mind, I still 
pictured him at the airport, waiting to welcome me back to him, 
to make me a part of his life again.  I'd imagined that I would 
always be able to run to him if things didn't work out, if my 
life with Ethan fell through.  It made me feel safer to think of 
him as always waiting for me, even if it wasn't likely.  The last 
night I called him, I just knew that he'd pick up the phone this 
time, when I needed him the most, and tell me to hang on, that 
he'd be there by sunrise.  He'd do anything that I asked, if he'd 
just picked up the phone.

But he didn't.  I eventually came to realize that he wasn't going 
to be my escape route anymore.  He wasn't going to wait for me to 
come back to him.  He was moving on with his life and leaving me 
behind and, not having any other option, I gave up on wondering 
if I'd done the right thing by leaving him and contented myself 
with my new life, exactly what I'd said I'd wanted.

I continued to tell Ethan that I wanted a small service, just my 
mother, Emma, and his parents.  He disagreed and one day when 
Emma and I returned from soccer practice, every family in the 
neighborhood plus our families were in our living room and 
kitchen, shouting surprise, pouring wine, and handing me gifts.  
He and my mother had planned it all, thinking that I would be 
flattered and overwhelmed, that I would love the surprise.

On Saturday, September second of the year two-thousand, I 
officially became Mrs. Ethan Minette at a large Catholic church 
near our house with our families and his co-workers all present 
to witness it.  Bill gave me away, beaming the entire time.  He'd 
told me before the wedding that Ethan would be good for me.

While we were making the guest list, Ethan casually asked me if I 
wanted to invite Mulder.  I didn't answer, just locked myself in 
the bathroom for an hour, sobbing, while he pounded on the door, 
demanding that I let him in.  When I finally emerged, Ethan asked 
me what was wrong.  I told him that it was just stress and yes, 
that I would like to invite Mulder.  I made out the invitation, 
my hand shaking as I wrote his name in the slowest, neatest 
cursive script I could manage.  See, Mulder?  How well I'm doing 
without you?  How easily I've moved on and forgot about you?  
Almost as easily as you moved on and forgot about me.

The day I mailed the invitations, I stood with his in my hand 
beside the oversized blue mail box at the post office.  I 
couldn't bring myself to drop it in.  I guess a part of me 
thought that it was spiteful and cruel to invite the man who said 
he was irrevocably in love with me to the eternal joining 
ceremony between me and another man.  I still held onto hope the 
he loved me.  I put the envelope into my purse and, when I got 
home, I stuck it in my bed side drawer along with the nameplate 
that he had given me.

As I walked down the aisle on my brother's arm, I searched for 
Mulder in the crowd of people, thinking that he had found out 
about the wedding somehow and that he wouldn't let me go through 
with it.  I pictured him bursting in during the service, as the 
priest asked if anyone objected to Ethan and me being married, 
seizing me and taking me away with him, wherever he was going.  I 
held my breath during the long silence, certain that, at any 
moment, he would come for me, but he didn't.

The closest thing Ethan and I ever got to a honeymoon was a night 
in Atlanta's most expensive hotel.  Emma stayed with friends and 
Ethan made slow, sweet love to me, pouring his soul into me each 
time.  After he'd fallen asleep, I dialed Mulder's number one 
last time, listened to his voice on his answering machine, then 
hung up, went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and cried 
until the water turned cold.

Afterwards, Ethan returned to work and I learned to stifle 
myself, to sacrifice myself, to always agree with and support his 
decisions and opinions.  I got used to my life as a house wife, 
feeling smothered and bored and empty, reminding myself daily 
that what I was doing was important - providing Emma with a 
stable, dependable mother figure, making and keeping a nice home 
for my family.  I cleaned house every week, made sure supper was 
on the table when Ethan got home at night, and went quietly 
insane.

Ethan worked a lot, his schedule always changing to accommodate 
the odd hours and weekends they needed him for, but he always 
told me that he loved me and held me close to him every night as 
he fell asleep, always kissed me before he left every morning.

I was lonely with only my shallow, simple, gossiping fellow 
housewives and neighbors for companionship.  I was sometimes 
jealous of the younger ones, announcing their pregnancies to 
everyone, beaming with pride and expectation.  I still felt 
empty, still felt that, in a way, I was letting Ethan down by not 
being able to give him that.  He never said anything to me about 
it, though, and I never said anything to him.

It was my happy, perfect, fulfilling domestic life, only without 
the happiness, perfection, and fulfillment.  It was exactly as 
I'd imagined my life would've been if I had married him eight 
years ago, like the eight years that we'd spent apart hadn't 
happened at all.

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

Notes: This is NOT the end of this series, so don't get too 
depressed.  I never would've imagined it would be this long and I 
have no idea how much longer it will be, but please stick with it 
and let me know what you think.

The Vent really is a section in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.  
It's so named because you can call a number or send an email 
complaining (or venting) about whatever displeases you.  Back at 
the beginning of season eight, a vent was published that asked, 
"Am I the only one looking for Mulder?"

Thanks: to my wonderful betas RealB, Karri, and Liam, who 
constantly reassure me when I'm having an "I suck" day and who 
gently stalk me the rest of the time.

Feedback: PLEASE!!!  lil_gusty@hotmail.com