From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Thu, 11 May 2000 18:00:55 -0500 Subject: Seven Stages Pt Five (1/2) by Reply To: echonymph@casbah.org ****** Disclaimer: I don't own Mulder and Scully, nor do I own the X-Files or Skinner or the Lone Gunman. I don't mean to infringe on anything. I use a song in this section called Try to Believe. I have no clue who the lyrics or the music is written by, and I also don't know who sang it. I also mention Killian's Irish Red, I don't own that, either. ~~~ PART FIVE: DESCENT Crisis of Faith: Deborah can no longer hide her secret from everyone, and Reggie gets the shock of a lifetime. While Scully recovers from her discoveries at her Mother's home over Christmas, she makes new ones and Mulder makes peace with himself and the people around him. It's ground zero, Sculy confronts Mulder. Will he be forgiven? Will she understand? Or will the partnership be as fragile as the threads of sanity that are barely holding each and all of them together? Ironies are cruel, and Deborah celebrates a birthday on the death-day of a daughter. ~~~ ****** 304 Glendael Rd. Washington DC Thursday, December 24, 1998 3:45 pm Deborah glanced around the house, she was pretty proud of herself, regardless of the fogginess that the painkillers she was still adjusting to caused her, she had managed to clean the entire place up. Every surface was dusted, every counter cleaned and disinfected. All the bathrooms met their fate against a bottle of Lysol and a scrubber sponge. The rooms were aired, the garden was watered quickly before the water and the hose froze outside, dinner was roasting in the oven, she had basted the turkey for the tenth time just a few minutes ago. Danny and May were going to come over for dinner. Something that they had been doing ever since they found out. Apparently, they were storing up memories. She had spent a good part of that morning at the tree lot downtown, and finally deciding on the perfect fir, she paid for it, loaded, and set it up all by herself. The decoration was finished, and the Christmas lights sparkled. She had even put up the strings and strings of icicle outdoor lights around the front porch. She admittedly fell on her ass three times because she didn't have a good enough grip on the damned ladder, but she had done it eventually, and she had figured out why William hated to put up the lights every year. Anything that would draw her mind away from the events that had passed so long ago, so far away, and yet so close and so new that she could taste the fear and pain if she gave it the barest effort. Never mind all of that though. Right now was happy time, a few small tokens of remembrance she would treasure in the darker times yet to come. She would remember the snow, the cold, the tree, the lights, the turkey, and damned if she would forget the bathrooms. She was all decked out and prepared to be Christmassed to death. Pardon the bad pun. Now what was she supposed to do? Everything that had been done that morning was merely a preoccupation for her mind. They were all tactics that everyone knew of, cleaning, cooking, socializing, sex... Well, there hadn't been any sex involved, but she had thought about it for a good hour while she was cleaning out the four bathrooms in the house. She knew what she really wanted to think about, her countdown, the case, William, her past, her daughter... But these were all such taboo subjects for her to deal with. Deborah hadn't shared anything in the way of emotions for a long time. The closest thing to an admission was when she had revealed to her doctor that she didn't like the way the stethoscope was freezing when he listened to her heartbeat. She had spent much over the early morning hours covering her rose bushes and fussing about her frozen over garden. The snow had been light the first time it fell, but this time the blizzard that had blown through overnight left a trail of ruined gardens and heartbroken gardeners. Now, her eyes caressed the glittering leaves on the frozen icicle trees surprised by the sudden blast of winter air in DC. Glittering killers, beautifully deceptive. Now, sitting in the afternoon glow of her back porch sipping a mug of Peppermint tea in the freezing air and wrapped in a warm quilt, there was nothing to do but to think of those things that hurt her the most. Namely, everything that was going on right at this moment. Her employees were back in New York explaining to angry wives why they had to leave home on January second of the new year. They would be packing in quiet while systematically hiding Christmas presents in more and more difficult to reach - even for them - so their very elastic children with insatiable curiosities wouldn't find them before Santa Claus came Christmas eve. Deborah stared and yet saw nothing as her mind wandered back to that night... -------- Oxford 1983 "Aaaaahhhhh!" The dust rose and wood beams splintered and capsized all around her. Ceiling plaster fell in large chunks, and Deborah was sure that the lightbulb had landed on her head just seconds ago. Save for the grains of spackle and a creak and a groan there was absolute silence. Deborah was curled into a little ball at the head of the enormous - thank God for small favors - canopy bed that some prissy guest had pissed and moaned about not having many years ago while lodged in this same room. Deborah reminded herself to write that person a thank you note. Her eyes danced over to the large, moaning figure on her bed. Deborah in all her life had never been that terrified before. The moaning figure pushed himself - she discovered that it was a male - off the bed, coughing dust and rubbing ceiling plaster out of his hair. Her eyes didn't wander from his sculpted body. Deborah! He just fell through your roof, he could be trying to kill you! But somehow the preppie clothes and the neat haircut he had disproved that theory. He seemed to be just another British student that had fallen through her roof... "Are-are you okay?" The man looked up at her, and his hazel eyes locked on green ones, and something passed. She knew that he wasn't trying to hurt her, and that she would never want to hurt him. She captured his gaze, and loosened herself from her curled up position, crawling towards him on the bed, ignoring the wood splinters digging into her hands. She refused to let him look away, she had never seen eyes as stormy and as beautiful as those, she had never seen eyes that changed colors in the moonlight and darkened with mystery and magic that she had never seen before other than in movies. "Yeah- yeah, I'm fine." She was startled. He didn't have a British accent, he spoke like a good-ol', homestyle yank. He sat up and flexed his arms, rubbed down his legs and rubbed his neck, looking up as the hole and the moonbeam now streaming through it. He glanced over to her sheepishly. "Oh, God, I'm sorry- I don't know what to say...I didn't know that the roof was going to-" She interrupted him, "It's okay, I don't think anyone did, least of all us. Are you sure you're okay?" Deborah crawled a little closer to him, and brushed her hand lightly over a cut along his hairline. He grabbed her delicate wrist, and she gasped in surprise, there was something so wrong, and yet so right... Fox was stunned, in all his years, and all the women he had ever met, he had never had the pleasure of becoming friends with one as beautiful as this surprise stranger that sat with him on the bed. Her eyes were a turbulent green, and her graceful, curling, chestnut hair gleamed in the night. Her tiny, pink, bow lips were puckered into an 'o' of suspense. "Oh, God-," She muttered. "Don't be scared, it's just that the cut kind of hurts." He stammered quietly. For the first time they realized how ridiculous this situation was. They were within inches of each other, on a luxurious canopy bed with a hole through the canopy and a matching one in the ceiling, and they were staring deeply into each other's eyes, refusing to let go. It was something out of a stupid romance novel. The both of them burst out laughing at the same time. Deborah finally caught her breath, "Oh, God, you just don't expect something like this to happen to you, ever." The young man nodded, and dark chocolate colored hair fell into his twinkling eyes. "I know what you mean. I really am sorry, for the roof, for the bed, and for scaring you earlier." He let go of her wrist, and yet her hand remained curled up in a little fist on his chest. "That's okay." Deborah looked around the room and heard people coming up the stairs. "Oh shit." The young man's brow creased, and the hazel eyes turned dark brown. She wondered how on earth he did that...and if he could change his eyes any other colors. "What's wrong?" Everything. She thought. Deborah wasn't stupid, she knew that this man was going to get punished, kicked out of school, or at least suspended. And the mess in her world was bad enough without puppy-love and guilt on her head. Her mind raced frantically, attempting to conjure scenarios that would get him out of trouble, one that popped up immediately was to change her clothes and pretend that they fell through the roof together, and their position was completely of her own volition. Unfortunately, her butler for seventeen years was going to come barreling in, and he knew her better than she did herself. She would get caught in the lie and all hell would break loose across the pond in Connecticut when her parents got wind of this. As ideas rapidly came and discarded themselves, the young man on the bed stared at her with a frightening intensity. The young man looked up at the hole in the roof, and back down at her, "I'm going to get caught, it won't matter what you think up. You won't be able to save this lost cause." Deborah gaped at him. "How-How did you know that I was thinking?" He smiled, and genuine toothy grin, and twinkled this hazel/green/blue/brown eyes at her. Deborah felt her heart skip a beat. "You can't keep a secret, Miss, your eyes tell all." Those were the last seconds they shared before the brigade broke down the door and the enigma of a man she barely knew was hauled bodily out, a serene smile pasted on his face as he limped from the room. Deborah felt a chill go through her body as a gust of north wind screamed through the hole in her roof. And for just a moment, she felt as free as one of the glassy stars that floated in oblivion because something was going to happen and for better or worse, her life was going to change forever. -------- Present Day Deborah's mind wandered into oblivion. Words from an unfamiliar song registered from the radio on the windowsill. Music drifted through her head, for a woman who had so treasured the art of euphony in a past life, it was amazing that she had given it up completely. But God, did she wish. She wished that none of the horrible things in her life had ever happened, she wished that her daughter had never been singled out and murdered. She wished that she had never ruined her marriage with her own dillusion, and she wished every day that William was still there to make everything better, to make everything work out because when he was around, everything was always going to be okay. At this point in time, probably no, she thought wryly, a smirk on her face at the irony of it all. When she was young, and had no power, had no pull, had no money, all she ever wanted to do was to save the world, but she had been far to busy with things like falling in love and going insane to do anything further about it. Now, she had wealth, she had power, she had pull, and dammit, she had lawyers. But the urge to do anything other than to put a killer in jail before she perished from leukemia had gone. She didn't want to live anymore, she didn't want to put up with treatments, search the country for a bone marrow transplant match, go through all that pain only to know in the end that it was a helpless cause. All she wanted now was peace. She had indeed found a reason. This case, this case was going to be her ultimate undoing, her ultimate achievement, her dying wish, her last memory, and this case was going to be her peace offering to the Gods, her daughter, and to William. William, Mulder, Fox, whatever he was calling himself now, deserved some armistice - and dammit if she wasn't going to try and give it to him. Regardless of what had happened to her when she was with him, he was still her most favorite memory, second only to their daughter. And in her own way, she still loved him, and always would, although she understood that he probably hated her. If she tried to believe in herself, in God, in love, in life, in hope, and in everything that had died with her daughter, would it make everything go away? Hot tears started to slide down her frozen cheeks. Questions, so many questions, none of which would ever be answered, none of which would ever make sense. It wasn't fair. She bit her lip, unwilling to let herself start to sob again. It was hard to be alone, it was so terrifying to wake up at night, knowing that the darkness was coming, and no one was there to protect you from it. It was so hard to fight day after day after day. It was so hard to understand why out of all the people in this world, she would be completely alone. She would never have anyone. Deborah would always stand by herself against the raging winds, but time was running short, soon she would be too weak to stand alone, but then how would she fight for her daughter's cause if she wasn't even able to stand in court? She'd burn that bridge when she got there. Love, that was all that she really wanted now. That was all that she really needed now. But it was so hard to forget, to let go, to move on. Deborah wondered if she could ever uncover the wealth of love that she had to give, if she'd have someone to give it to in the short amount of time she had left. The song hit too close to home. She broke skin, and tasted the tangy, metallic flavor of blood. It mixed in with the salty tears running down her ashen face. And then she realized something, this blood, the essence of her life was killing her. There was no one to blame but herself. Her own body was going against her. It was far too easy to hide behind her curtain of money, her veil of power, and her oath of silence than to tell someone. The only reason Danny and May knew at all was because she had been caught off-guard, she had no choice, and she had no alibi. Deborah needed to talk to someone. She was only afraid that he wouldn't want to listen. Virtually impossible, her mind whispered. She would try, she would try her hardest. But who was 'we'? The tea had grown cold, and the air had grown colder. Deborah let out and involuntary shiver, one glance at her watch revealed that she had been sitting out here for almost three hours. The quilt no longer provided any comfort, and the meager clothing she was wearing just proved how chillingly powerful the wintry wind was. "No dammit," she whispered quietly to herself. There was more to life than reliving events from ages ago. She had convinced herself about that long ago, Deborah had forced herself to stop believing, to stop feeling, and to stop *being*. She stopped believing in God when her daughter died. She stopped feeling when William left her. She stopped being alive when she was diagnosed with leukemia. "God no," she muttered again, dragging herself painfully from her seat out back. Her medication was wearing off, and the arctic temperatures were not helping with her situation. A chime from her front door shook her out of her thoughts. And as she raced through the silent house to the two people in the world that loved her the most, Deborah wondered if she wasn't starting to believe again, for she had prayed last night before falling asleep. ****** Vietnam War Memorial 5:45 pm Mulder stared at the glassy wall of polished stone, fingers flying over each chiseled letter, searching, searching for a name, Gerry Southerland, a teacher he had lived next door to in Connecticut who had gone to fight the war. In his childhood, Mulder spent his time throwing baseballs, soccer balls, whiffle balls, jump ropes, his sister's old teddy bear, and once a shoe into his yard. Once every week, Mister Southerland would show up in front of the Mulder house, bearing a basket of toys and footwear to give back to the two children. And always, Bill Mulder would roll his eyes, say his deepest apologies, and chuck the things back in Samantha and Fox's rooms, respectively. Fox at that young age had never respected anyone as much as he respected Mr. Southerland. When he had gone to war, promising he would bring Fox a coconut from Vietnam, the child had believed him with all his heart. Five years and a thousand questions later, his father finally told him that Mr. Southerland was never coming back. He had been devastated, knowing that his favorite neighbor would never again bring back his wandering basketballs and shoes. However, years later, when he was older and willing to deal with it, he had flown out from Cambridge University to look for Gerry's name. Forever immortalized as Mr. Southland in his mind. In all these years of looking down rows and rows of young men sacrificed to a cause that had never been stated, he had never found the name Gerald Southland. Just another loose end for his ever maddening mind to wonder over. Distant music from a passing car filled his ears: Oh God, he had so many dreams that had gotten away, taken away, torn away, against will, by his own hand, or because of his idiocy. So many things had been lost, his sister, his mother, his daughter, his wife, his Scully, and soon, his sanity. Hell, even his window was shattered from a baseball. If he ever got back any of it, what would he say? What would he do? How would he react? He had his sister, but surrendered her to the Cigarette Smoking man because he believed she would be happier there. He had ruined his relationship (or lack thereof) with a girl he barely knew and had searched for his entire life, what would he say to his mother? The last time they met, he accused her of being unfaithful to his father, and got a slap in the face for it, too. She would probably never speak to him again - he doubted that she would ever love him again. And his daughter, what would he ever say to her? Would she ever be able to forgive her father, her Daddy, her most trusted and beloved protector when he hadn't saved her? Hadn't gotten to her in time? She had died with his most treasured title on her lips. She had died crying for her Daddy. And Scully would never even look at him again, not after he lied like that to her. If he had a chance to be someone else, he would choose to be anyone, hell, he would even be Skinner, at least he had respect within the FBI and still a little bit of power. Skinner didn't have dead daughters and angst driven lives to deal with every single day of the week, and his divorce wasn't as traumatic as his was. Mulder would even do ol' Skinny a favor if he was in his place, he was smack his bald head, and find Sharon again. She was the best thing ever to happen to him and still would be if Skinner hadn't been such an ass and driven her away. Unfortunately, he didn't really have a right to talk, he was the same way, only a lower life form because he had left his wife when she needed him the most. He had tried to believe for so long, and had believed for so long... And where had it gotten him? In a dead- end job without anyone on his side, about a dozen high-security persons hiring snipers to shoot him, a child who was sacrificed to the FBI, a wife that went insane but came back and left forever, a partner that now hated him, and a broken window. There was only one person he could speak to about this, and he wasn't sure that she would listen to him any more than he was willing to talk. Yeah he would try to believe, he would believe all right. ****** Margret Scully Residence Baltimore, Maryland Thursday, December 24, 1998 5:46 pm Dana had been awakened from her disillusioned state only to be hurried upstairs to her old room by her mother when she discovered that she had a fever of a hundred and two. So for the past two days, Scully had been chained to a bed, raving and crying, or sometimes being very quiet. The silence terrified Margret more than anything else did. Bill had arrived without incident the night before, and to avoid fiasco, Margret had simply left out the part of Dana's story that named Mulder as her misery. That would give Bill just the reason to go find him and pound his face into his skull and down his trachea. Margret, regardless of how angry she was at her daughter's partner for denying her the truth she so richly deserved, didn't want him to be murdered. Besides, she was sure that Mulder had a good reason to avoid telling Dana that part of his life, not everyone was comfortable discussing their divorces. Especially not a hermit like Fox Mulder. Margret was downstairs, entertaining Bill, Tara, and Matthew with her kitchen skills. Doing any and everything to give her heartbroken daughter some time alone. Now, Dana Scully stared out a window, watching snow start to fall gently once again, listening to the radio hum with a song that seemed to paint her emotions perfectly, the words weaved through her soul, and started killing her softly with it's message... How could she? How could she suspend reason one more time for a man that had lied a thousand others? How could she place her faith in someone who had just committed the ultimate betrayal, and broken the one rule that they held dearest? He had committed the sin of omission. He had held back after so many times that he said he trusted her implicitly. Tears started to surge again, but she rubbed them away with her fist and stared some more at the snow. Refusing to let this bother her. She did try, she really was. It was just so damn hard. What made it worse was that it was Christmas, the one time of year that they usually didn't suffer during. Every Yule Tide that they had spent together had been special, the first year, he had given her his first genuine smile, and told her that maybe she wasn't that bad after all. The second year, he had bought her one of those world's best partner trophies, only, he had it personalized (ripping the original trophy topper off, and supergluing the disembodied head of Marvin the Martian on instead), third year, a silver bracelet that had TRUSTNO1 printed on it. The fourth year had been her cancer scare, and he had filled a vase on her desk with lilies of the valley, the fifth year, no matter how painful, had given her a daughter, and regardless of how short a time she had with Emily, Dana Scully had treasured it. But now...their sixth year working together, and this was what was happening to them. Christmas Shmistmas, life was a vacuum. You have no idea, she thought. No, she wouldn't, but she would anyways. She didn't have any other choices, she never had any choices, everything she did was to survive to see the light of day. In this case, if she ever wanted to feel the rosy warmth of another dawn, she would have to be brave and get through this, even if she was all alone. She probably would have been sure at one time that she would be able to recognize anything in Mulder, she'd thought that perhaps she'd be able to notice every detail about him, search his soul's every crevice, understand his every pain, and know him in complete. Now, she wasn't so sure. If she had missed out on something as enormous as his marriage to another woman, and perhaps more, who knows, maybe he had a child, maybe it was a picture of his daughter in his wallet, and maybe, they had more than one child. If he had lied to her about something of that scale, she wasn't sure that she could trust him at all. There was so little time now, and very little understanding, how would she ever be able to forgive him and walk past all the pain that he was causing? She had believed, she had really believed that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. She had actually thought that if she gave it some time, Fox Mulder would see how much she loved him, and he would finally let himself love her, she had fooled herself into thinking that there was nothing more to this man than she saw at face value. Hadn't she been the one to point out how many layers there were to him? Hadn't she been told time and again to expect the unexpected? Hadn't she herself trusted no one? Yet, she had let herself get fooled into safety with Mulder. Scully felt a single tear slide down her cheek. She almost laughed, she had nagging doubts about Mulder for the longest time, after Phoebe, after Bambi, after Detective White, but the worst ones of all were after Diana. Why had she given up those doubts anyway? After all, she was always wrong, she was wrong about her sister, she was wrong about her father, and she was wrong about the rabbit she had hidden from her brothers. But most of all, she was wrong about Mulder. There was nothing more in that moment in time that Scully wanted more. She wished that Mulder had never gotten that phone call, that he had never given any indication that he was married, that he was just his normal paranoid self, dragging her off to some no-name town in east Palookaville. There was always hope. But who was 'we'? That dream of being together without fear of the Consortium, without any doubts about their love for each other, without any problems whatsoever. And it would never happen. Not a chance in hell, knee-deep in camel shit while spit polishing Satan's vibrator would something as euphoric as peace ever come to them. She was sick of being sad, sick of being lied to, and sick of being sick. Dana Scully was pissed off. She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. Images of her confrontation with Fox Mulder dancing through her mind like sugar plum realities and candy-covered pain. ****** 304 Glendael Rd. Washington DC Christmas Day 3:56 The dinner had been quiet, filled with soft laughter, soft chatter, soft, awkward moments of silence, and most of all, an omnipresent soft sadness that seemed to drift through the entire house while Danny and May were there. Their eyes had gleamed with unshed tears as she told jokes and smiled at the stories that they told to her as she sat wrapped in an old afghan by the fire. There had been so many soft touches, so many tiny hugs, it was as if they thought she was made of the rarest and finest glass, charming on it's little pedestal, but slowing slipping from it's place. Too bad she had already been broken. They had seemed unwilling to let her go, both of them prepared for a fight, they probably thought that she was, too. The doctors had assumed that she would be receiving Chemo to prolong a life that meant nothing to even the soul held in its delicate cradle. All that mattered now was winning the Twilite case, and knowing that he was burning in hell. Deborah knew that hoping to be able to flip the switch in the gas chamber was too much to ask, she wouldn't be alive by then, but she would know, and God as her witness, she would rejoice as she heard his last screams for mercy. They had left without incident around 11:30. And had each given her a tight hug and a kiss goodbye, each glancing at her as if she was a statue that was to be torn down in a town square, long loved, but unavoidable in her destruction, and to these looks she simply replied with a serene expression. She had nothing to lose, and everything to gain. And in a heartbroken woman, that is the singularly most dangerous combination. The house was quiet, the dishes washed, everything done that needed to be done. Deborah sat in the stillness that surrounded her like the new- fallen snow. It was amazing that all of this chaos had only started a mere few weeks ago, fascinating that an entire life could fall apart in less than an hour, and that not even Christmas Day could make it all better. Especially not if you were alone. She remembered Christmases when she was a child, filled with false laughter coming from a parlor that was forbidden territory for her, and endless mounds of presents purchased with her parents' money. She hadn't wanted any of the things they gave her. Not one of the beautiful Blue Spruce trees, covered in glass ornaments and lights, not any of the wreaths that adorned every door, not one of the million gingerbread houses baked by the servants. All she had wanted was her mother and father to love her like she was their real child. Instead, the only witnesses to her Christmas morning were her nanny and a maid, the only ones awake in the house, after all, Mommy and Daddy's sleep could not be compromised, they had a long day of parties and feasts ahead of them. None of which she would be present at. No, little Deborah would be left alone to her own devices, playing with the four China dolls that she had been given, the new dollhouse furniture, and perhaps even staring a generic Christmas card with her mother's signature on the bottom, an 'I love you' nowhere to be found. Needless to say, Christmas was not a happy time at the Deerson residence, at least not for their child. Deborah walked around the empty rooms, listening to her footsteps and memorizing the sound of reverberating clicks on hardwood floor, remembered what shadows looked like, and how snow always fell in zig-zag patterns like a little kid near puddles before landing on the ground. The woman finally came to the Den, the blazing fire that Danny had made for her was still going strong, and just as she was settling down to dial Reggie's phone number, an unnerving ring came from outside her house. A thousand different possibilities raced through her head, it could have been carolers, or something much more sinister. Maybe Twilite had gotten out of jail and was planning to kill her as some sort of twisted revenge. And then it registered in her mind; it was probably the doorbell. She got out from in front of the fire and went to the door, peeping through a window next to it, she saw a dark coat, and shiny shoes. "Great," she muttered, "It's Sergei again." She checked her hair in the hall mirror, took a deep breath, and opened the door, instead of the tall, balding man, she found a moderately tall brunette with shining brown eyes the color of soul and a wry grin that made her ache for his kind of smile. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but no words would come to her. Instead, the man spoke for her. "Hey, Deb, Merry Christmas." She gave him a genuine smile, something was finally going right for her now. "Merry Christmas, getting an early start are we on our greetings?" He grinned sardonically, and said, "You know me, couldn't stand waiting to see your beautiful face early in the morning." Deborah cocked an eyebrow at him. "Very early in the morning." She smiled and he continued. "I heard you were hanging around down here, so I figured, instead of teleconferencing with you later, I'd just fly down, considering that you probably were going to ask me to come." "At least I know that you feel loved." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "What's going on?" She lowered her head, and wondered how to break the news. Deborah bit her lip, and came up with the only response that felt right. "You wanna come in for a while? This is going to take longer than you want to stand outside." ****** "Wait, Deb, before you tell me whatever you're going to tell me, I want you to have this." Reggie had shrugged off his coat, kicked off his shoes, and was sitting next to her on the floor in front of the fire. He presented her with a small, rectangular box, covered with blue paper and silver ribbon. Reggie watched as her face brightened with surprise, his heart just about melted at how achingly beautiful she was. Her skin soft in the rosy light of the fire, flame reflecting off of her emerald irises as she looked up to him in thanks, lips twisting into a wicked smile as she lunged at that box like a little kid. Reggie couldn't help himself, he started to laugh, but it didn't seem to deter the hurricane of ripping paper and giggles sitting before him when the gift was finally revealed. It was a dark blue Gameboy. She gave him a soft smiled and settled closer next to him, eyes full of fondness for this man and the toy. "Thank you." Her voice was barely a whisper as she turned her big eyes at him. Reggie could barely smile back. "You're welcome. I thought that you would like it," He managed to choke out. "I do," She said softly. "I really do." Then she laid her new present down, and took his hands into her own. And in some slow ritual, turned them and stared at them wonderingly. Her smile had disappeared, and was replaced by a look that held infinite sadness. "Reggie, remember when I made you promise that you'd never forget me?" "Yeah," he breathed, feeling a cold sweat break out all over his skin. Her tone of voice was new, low, and very scared. "Do you still mean it?" Her eyes pleaded with him; the color clouding over like something was starting to haunt her soul. "You know I do." He felt the air around them crackle with anticipation, she had said that she was leaving the Firm in a way, what way? Did someone buy her out? Would she have decided to retire and live the rest of her life in Tahiti...never letting him see her face again in the morning? She dropped his hands, and placed her own on his cheek gently. Reginald put his fingers over hers and stared at her, trembling lightly, looking so terribly fragile. "Reggie, I, I..." He brought her closer to him, so that she had her head on his shoulder, and he had his arms around her. He whispered in her ear, "Just tell me, Deborah, I promise I won't ever forget you." She took a shuddering breath, and let it out for a long time. "I'm sick," She said. It was barely a whisper, and it was so softly spoken that he almost thought he didn't hear it, but he could tell from the way her small, pink lips moved that she had said something, and that 'I'm sick' were the only pearls of wisdom derived. He let out a breath, he thought that she was going to leave him, and it was just a simple illness. Probably just the flu, but if she was making such a huge deal out of it, perhaps bronchitis, or something like a blood condition that could be treated, but potentially deadly that had set her mind to things other than work. She had always been a hypochondriac, fearing the worst in every situation. She had called his mother for him once from the hospital when he had gotten his tonsils removed. She had made it sound like he had just had a malignant tumor removed. He smiled at her, smoothing the dark hair on her head with a gentle hand. "If that's all, Deb, I will be there for you every moment." She gave him a wavering smile, tears gathering in her eyes, the look created so beautiful, so powerful in its grief. She bit her lip back and gasped: "No," She took a shuddering break, tears spilling freely, and choking back a sob, she wrenched out, "It isn't-" She pulled away from him and turned to the fire, in a voice that sounded like silk being ripped thread by thread she whispered, "I have leukemia." Reginald wasn't sure, but it felt as if every star in the sky had just darkened. His mouth fell open, and waves of pain that he didn't know existed washed over his fluttering heart. "It's in an advanced stage. The doctors detected it too late for any treatment." He tried to speak but his mouth didn't cooperate. "I have six months left." She was going to die. Deborah was going to lose a fight for the first time that he had known her. He would never hear her yell at someone in the office again, nor see her sifting through a mountain of paperwork. Or dropping in pretending to be a disgruntled ex-worker when he tried to hire a secretary, or sleeping on his shoulder during a long plane ride, or singing along with the muzak when she was put on hold, or defending the ugly orange chair in her office. He would never be able to smell her perfume again, or touch her face, or hold her hand, he would never get a chance to kiss her mouth and make love to her and hear her call his name in the night. He would never have her. And all because she was being taken away by something so senseless, so evil, so indiscriminating that it would take someone that wonderful, that bright, that much of a saint to the horrors of earth. He slid over two inches and grasped her tightly, and in as brave a voice as he could manage, said, "Hey, we'll be okay, we'll be okay." And then he felt it. A slight dampness on his shirt, and then a light sniff. He held her tighter, a tear rolled down his own face as she sobbed into the dawnbreak, and he wondered what she had ever done to deserve this kind of a fate. He buried his face into her dark hair, smelling the light perfume that surrounded her body. He couldn't remember what it was called, but whatever it was, he thought nothing sweeter was ever created by man or God himself. She dug her nails into his back, clutching him tighter still, wishing that they could fuse together every aspect of their beings, so she wouldn't be alone anymore, so she would never be alone anymore. Reggie rocked her back and forth humming a tuneless lullaby as the last embers of the flame died in the ashes. ****** In the space between wakefulness and dream, Dana Scully hung in a delicate balance. Remembering and forgetting, reveling and regretting, loving and losing, hoping and hating all that drifted through her mind and in front of her eyes as she went back to another dreamless night so many years ago... -------- Maryland 1992 "Dana?" The redhead whipped around to face her older sister, dressed in a black flowered nightgown and matching bathrobe. Both sisters were home for the Easter holidays. Melissa's appearance made it special because she rarely ever made it to any family event. "Yeah?" Dana Scully answered lightly. "What's a girl like you doin' up?" Melissa sat down next to Dana, and stared at the raging fire and the crackling logs. "Most of the time, you're in bed and asleep by this hour." Melissa nodded at the large Grandfather clock in the foyer of the standardized naval housing unit. Both the big and little hand were directly on the ornamental twelve. Melissa grinned. "The witching hour. Careful Dana, a demon might possess you, and then Father McHue might have to be your exorcist." Dana shook her auburn tresses and laughed. It was odd that in the middle of a heartfelt one on one with her inner self, her mind should stumble onto this little tidbit. Dana was surprised however, her thoughts had drifted from her usual egg hunt cheer and chocolate rabbit cravings to her new partner of a mere one month. The mysterious, always suspicious and paranoid, Fox William Mulder. Melissa watched her little sister's pale pink mouth set itself into a tiny frown. Melissa had never known for her to be sad when she was around candy of any kind, and from the way the living room was decorated for the little kids' egg hunt tomorrow afternoon, Dana should have been euphoric with joy. Melissa had watched her sister change for years, and yet the most startling ones had just occurred in the last few weeks. Ever since Dana had joined the FBI, she had become weird. Well, weirder than she was before, anyway. Melissa grinned thinking to herself. However, in the two years that she had been with the bureau, nothing had really changed, except that Dana had a steady job and was getting paid for cutting up dead people and showing others how to do it, too. But ever since she went on that first case with her new partner...everything had become really, really eerie. Melissa had listened and watched in amazement as her little sister had charged into her apartment the night after she had come back from her first case with her new partner. Expecting for Dana to say something cautious like, 'he's very intelligent, if a little rough on the edges. 'He is a good investigator', or something about the case, like, 'it was all very fascinating, the microscopic organisms eating away at the flesh of the victim were very rare', or some such nonsense. Instead, Dana had dropped by without notice - something that she had never done before - dumped her belongings on the floor, and had boldly stated in a matter-of-fact voice; "Missy, my new partner's completely and totally insane." Melissa glanced at her sister. She was still brooding. And once again, instead of asking something quietly and attempting to cover it up with some excuse, Dana asked, "Melissa, how do you know? I mean, how can you be so sure that everything that you have ever believed in isn't false, isn't just a lie?" Melissa stared at the fire for a moment, wondering how she should answer Dana's question. "Dana," she started, but paused for a second, something catching her eye, Dana's gold cross, still hanging faithfully at the hollow of her throat, she shook her head and kept going, "Faith, or the belief in God, it's your own-" "That isn't what I'm talking about." "Then what are you talking about?" Melissa inquired, growing curious. Dana almost never spoke cryptically, but ever since she had started working on the 'bureau junk yard X-Files', she had begun to sound like one of the 1940's investigators. Dana chewed on her lip a little, wrapping the bathrobe tighter around herself. "My new partner, Mulder, he thinks, well, absolutely believes that aliens from another planet exist." She lowered her head and turned to Melissa. "What do you think?" "I think that there is a huge possibility." Dana's mouth dropped open in disbelief. "You're joking, right?" "No." "How can you believe in something that abstract, without any concrete proof, without ever seeing one?" Missy stared hard at something far off in the distance, but averted her eyes back to her sister. "How can you believe in God if you've never seen him? You've never even had a tiny bit of evidence to support his existence, and yet you put all your faith into a religion that has less background and backing than the statistical probability of extraterrestrials." Dana said nothing. She shook her head, and disappeared up the stairs to their room. Melissa spent the rest of the night out in front of the fire, and wondered exactly what kind of character this Mulder was. Melissa never knew, but that was the last time in a long time that Dana went to church, or wore her cross necklace. -------- Scully blinked away the half sleep, half daydream images that raced through her mind. She looked over at the clock, and realized with a great suddenness that it was Christmas Day. Scully stared out a window at the still falling snow, and heard soft voices drifting through the vent from the kitchen downstairs, there was a heated discussion underway. "Mother, who the hell else would have done this to her? I mean, I come home, and I see my baby sister lying up in bed with a fever, murmuring like some crazy woman! There's only one son of a bitch who would do this!" Scully recognized Bill's voice, but was too tired to acquire that usual rise of anger from his accusations of her partner. Maybe because for once in Bill's life, he was right about Mulder. "Billy, don't you dare use that tone of voice with me. I am your mother, and I deserve your respect. God knows I do." Bill was silent for a moment before muttering, "Sorry." "William Dennis Scully, I understand that you think that Dana's partner is the devil himself, but there are facets to their relationship you don't understand. You treat as if he's scum you sucked from the bottom of a lake." There was a pause here that Scully assumed was Bill looking down at the carpet, unwilling to comment. "Maybe you don't understand this, but that man has been there for Dana every time you have not and a better friend when you have been around, he has gone above and beyond the call of duty to make sure your baby sister was still alive. I don't care what you think of Fox, Billy, but I can't understand why he would intentionally hurt her. I knew what he was like when Dana was gone, and I know that he would rather lose and arm and a leg before he cause her any pain." "Then explain this because I don't understand." Her mother's voice was hesitant. "From what I gathered, he never told her about some things in his life. And thinking back, I understand why he wouldn't want her to know." "What things," Billy asked suspiciously. Dana bit back a smile, reading Bill's mind, he probably thought that Mulder was gay, or that he had some horrible sexually transmitted disease that he had only just told her about. There was a great sigh from her mother. "I think I'll respect Dana and Fox's privacy and leave it up to them to tell you." Dana smiled and drifted off into real sleep, she would need the energy, when she woke up again, it would be Christmas for real, and she wanted to be ready for Mulder. She had decided that if she wanted to start out 1999 with a clean slate, she had to get all the facts, and what better day to clear the air than on New Years Day. ****** Mulder sat in the shadows of the all night diner. The cup of coffee that he had in his hands was fast growing cold, and the angling shadows became unfriendly. The waitress that had thrown him smiles and winks earlier now glared from the corner booth where she huffed on a Morely Light, tapping ashes onto the tabletop. He glanced at his watch, and took another sip of the thick, caffeine sludge. There was nowhere else to go right now. There was no one else to be with that night. He looked down at his watch, the glowing, neon digits pronounced that it was 3:04 am, much too late, or too early for the office to be opened, not even security would be there. He could only think of one place that he wanted to go, and he wasn't sure if he was welcome there, or even allowed to near the grounds without it being trespassing. Mulder tossed back another sip of the coffee, ordering another one and contemplating whether or not to take the coward's way out. He decided that he would decide first thing in the morning. He left the diner, throwing a twenty on the counter, not bothering to get his second mug of coffee. He knew where he had to go, but before he did, he had to make himself presentable to the spirit of Christmas Past. ****** 304 Glendael Rd. Washington DC December 26, 1998 6:34 am An early morning phone call distracted Reggie from observing Deborah's sleep the enormous bed in the master room. He had left her by the fire earlier, and went in search of a good place for her to rest, when he stumbled upon this haven of comfort. He had carried her up the steps and snuggled her under the covers, she never even stirred. Reggie scrambled for his cell phone, knowing by some psychic connection that it had to my his two children. "Hello?" He cried breathily, answering just before his message service kicked in. "Daddy!" He heard two girls' voices squeal in unison, and he thanked God again for his children, he had never thought that he could love anything that much until his first, Charlotte, had been born, and followed shortly by Clarice. He was sure his heart burst every time that they smiled at him. "Hey, babies. How's Mom's house?" He eased himself down in a chair before a window, watching the sun rise fiery red. Charlotte took a long sigh of infinite patience, as if answering such a mundane question caused her great physical pain. And perhaps it did, Charlotte had no patience whatsoever for anything that couldn't be settled in three seconds or wasn't brightly colored and loud. The one exception to that rule was her fascination with the stars, she could stare at them forever. "It's okay, she's got a new boyfriend, he's French, and he smells, and his name is-" "Serge," Clarice yelled into the phone. Reggie smiled sadly. He was almost never around, and the only way he and his darling daughters communicated was through the telephone. He so rarely saw them, and whenever he had a chance, he was out of town litigating some huge case or another, making money so his deadbeat ex-wife could spend it on her fling of the week. "Charlotte, Clarice, be nice to Serge, you know your mother's only going to toy with him for a few months and throw him away. Now, when is it that you're supposed to visit me?" "January 1st!" Once again they yelled it together. Reggie groaned internally, he wasn't going to make it to the January 1st date for Christmas with his girls after all, he had the case, and he had Deborah to take care of and- "Dad, where are you?" Someone suddenly ripped the phone from his ear. "He's in Washington, kids, don't worry, I will personally fly you down here to stay in a really cool old house and you'll get to see him all the time." Reggie watched in amazement as Deborah spoke into his cell phone, clad in last night's jeans and t-shirt, with an enormous white afghan wrapped around her, a motherly smile on her face. He heard cheering from the other end of the phone, and then an abrupt hang-up. Deborah closed the phone and turned to Reggie, explaining. "Serge caught them using his cell phone. They really hate him, don't they?" "Yeah," he said softly, eyes full of concern, he added, "Shouldn't you be in bed and asleep? You need your energy." She laughed. A deep, full, belly laugh, one he hadn't heard from her in ages. She kissed him on the cheek lightly, dropped the afghan on the couch and trailed into the kitchen, saying, "Thanks for the thought, Reg, but I'm sick, not dead, I can walk around the house, you know." He followed her into the room, hands in his pockets, "I'm just worried." "I know." She opened the fridge and pulled out an apple, turned back towards him and asked, "Well, do you want your two kids to be around an invalid, because if you don't, I completely understand." He couldn't believe it, she actually sounded serious. "Deb, I would love to have my kids around you more often," He said truthfully. "You're so sweet to them, and unlike Annabelle, my dear, darling, *ex*- wife, you don't spoil them." She giggled lightly. "Why, thank you." "Besides, you're a better role model than *Serge*." "You're being cruel, for all you know, he could be a perfectly wonderful man." Reggie made a face, and pretended to vomit all over the kitchen counter. He was shocked to find that Deborah was cracking up behind him, this sparkling laughter only egged him on to do something even more juvenile. "Gag me with a spoon," He said in a valley girl voice. She giggled some more, and leaned against a counter, "Come on Deborah, let's go shopping, I checked the fridge, the only things you have in there are fruit and wheat. And-" Deborah finished for him, "Clarice is allergic to nuts and Tylenol, Charlotte is allergic to wheat, oysters, and her mother's boyfriends' cologne." Reggie stared at her in amazement. "How did you know that?" Deborah took another bite out of her apple and winked, gesturing at the laptop computer she had in the den through the doorway. "We're great e-mail buddies." Reggie wondered if they told her his very deep, very dark, very special secret. "They say that you have a great love for Diane Sawyer." He turned beet red and dug his hands into his pockets, studying the tile floor at great length. Deborah sighed, she said, "Oh come on, there are plenty of people who think that Diane Sawyer is hot!" He looked up hopefully, but she continued, "Just because they're all from the planet Jupiter doesn't mean a thing." He threw a towel at her, Deborah just ducked and went into the other room to play with her Christmas Present. Reggie had been bouncing with anticipation the night before the bomb dropped. He had seen the Gameboy in a store window on the way to the airport, and had made the taxi wait twenty minutes while he bought and paid for it to be wrapped. It had cost him a fortune, but it had been worth the cab fare and the hassle, just to see that look on her face... Who knew if she'd ever get a chance to grace him with that smile again. After all, the leukemia was taking her away from him, forever, and ever. Not only was the disease robbing him of a friend and unrequited love, it was taking away the good mother that his daughters had never had. Two years ago, when Deborah had taken a rare and short vacation coinciding with the time he spent with his two daughters, Charlotte and Clarice, the macabre quartet had gone on a Christmas shopping trip. New York is a wonderful place to grow up, and the sentimentality was made possible by the magical displays in the windows of Bloomingdales, the cheerful Santa at Macy's, ready to make an exception from coal in the stocking because, after all, it was only * one * lizard. That day had been wonderful, and both his daughters grew attached to Deborah, giving her their special smiles, and choosing to favor her side of the sleigh when they rode the merry-go-round. At first he had been jealous of his girls' obvious favoritism, but them when the familiarity set in, he realized what the warm smiles from old ladies and young lovers meant, they looked like a family, a happy one at that. A group that he hadn't quite yet discovered how to infiltrate at that time. He could understand their misconception, the four of them walked hand in hand, the two girls in between, all of them smiling and singing along with the Christmas Carols, most of the time, horribly off-key, but loving every minute. Charlotte and Clarice both had dark chocolate brown hair with streaks of blonde, and emerald green eyes the color of Deborah's. They must have looked like a family in every way except on paper. He hadn't noticed until later, but it was one last thing that indicated them to be a brood, his daughters had an obvious affection for Deborah. Their love of her was evidenced in their constant questions about her, "Is she coming over this weekend, Daddy?", "Why don't you marry her, Dad?", "Clarice wants a baby sister, you think that Debbie would make a baby sister for us?", and his personal favorite, "Can we call her, 'Mom'?" And to think, it was Charlotte herself who had cried Hell nor High water could ever make her want another baby sister. Any sacrifice for a new mother, he supposed. He thought that litigation was in the blood, because whenever Deborah was around, there was not-so-subtle-hint-dropping from his two daughters, and they constantly lobbied for their holy union when they were with him. Plea-bargaining was, in fact, involved quite often. They would clean their rooms forever, and all he would have to do was marry the woman of his dreams. How awful. Even his ex-wife was getting in on the act. Coming from a broken home and repeating the pattern himself, he was determined not to hurt his daughters in the pushing and shoving match called custody he had gone through. Though that day, wonderful just in the whole- ness of being together, one moment stood out as particularly darling for him, it was what Kodak advertised for and Hallmark dreamed of. Deborah, Charlotte, and Clarice, each of them a controller in hand, jerking left and right rapidly to a deadly game of competitors Tetris. A large crowd was gathering in the computer department of FAO Schwartz watching with jolly Christmas cheer as the trio went at the game with the fervor of kamikaze soldiers. Each one of them grumbling and hissing and whining as he dragged them away to another store midst laughter and booing from the crowd. The part he remembered the best was the pure concentration Deborah had held when playing the game, and her declaration that, "If I had one of those things to play with all the time, I would beat both of your pants off!" And he had made a mental note. Hence, the Gameboy. He looked through the French doors towards a woman made of crystal, and spirit made of diamond, both beautiful as they were precious. Her body was faulty, weak, a traitor to her ambitions and an enemy for her age. Her heart, her soul, her mind were made the stongest compound known in nature, pure and unbreakable, glowing with an inner light, the softest possible pale pink shimmer that radiated from deep within her. He blinked away an involuntary tear and turned to the kitchen, he needed to make a few phone calls. ****** From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Thu, 11 May 2000 18:09:24 -0500 Subject: Seven Stages Pt Five (2/2) by Reply To: echonymph@casbah.org * previously disclaimed * Summary: cherish the past, treasure the future, ignore the present Seven Stages of Human Madness ****** 7:45 pm A raging flame was once again burning, and Deborah leaned her head against one end of the enormous sofa, sighing softly, her feet propped on up Reggie's lap. He had his eyes closed and was sipping a bottle of Killian's Irish Red. "So," Reggie started, letting out a sigh as he said the word, "What was school like for you?" He remembered the wild parties, the years of believing that he was going to grow up and be a punk rocker just like Aerosmith or some other insanely popular cult group that still held concerts in their garage. Then reality decided to take a big bite out of his dreams one rainy Sunday afternoon. He went into church one day rather grudgingly with his parents, and slipped into the choral uniform that he had worn since before he could remember, grabbing a hymnal and heading towards the pulpit. He had pulled his usual meet and greet of all the people in the crowd, and it was during one such introduction that he heard a squeak as he was talking. The horrible reality of the situation was revealed, puberty had struck. The beautiful baby voice that was infinitely sweet while singing Catholic chants in mass was no longer with him. He had given up the dream and had gone to law school, finding that the constitution and the book of rules had it's own source of music, not as harmonic, but just as beautiful, and perhaps just a little more flexible. Deborah contemplated his question for a moment before answering, "Well, I didn't have any parties if that's what you're asking, it's impossible to have a rave at an all-girls Catholic school. St. Mary's School for Fine Young Women, if I remember correctly." She shifted her position on the couch slightly. "God, it was awful there, I remember I had to wear a stupid plaid vest and skirt all the time, and every time I passed someone begging on the street, I was required by Sister Francine to tell them that God was with them." Reggie let out a laugh. "There was this entire month where all the girls had to say this prayer to become a nun, and I was the only girl in my class who didn't send in an application to become a nun at the St. Mary's Convent. Everyone thought I was a whore and a devil for not taking the vow of chastity with them in class, and I was the only one who wanted to think out my prayers before just saying a Hail Mary, or something like that." Reggie glanced down at the woman speaking. She had so many layers, and so many secrets, he could never imagine growing up in such an oppressive environment, never having a true good friend, it would be a living hell. "Either you're neglecting to tell me the good stuff or it really was as bad as I think." Deborah almost jumped out of her position to defend her school. "No! No, it wasn't all bad, the sisters, they really believed, and my parents, they just wanted the best for me. They didn't know that I didn't like it there, it was my own fault, I never told, I should have told them." Reggie frowned, he didn't like how she was blaming this on herself, any parent with two brain cells to rub together would have been able to tell she was miserable, why not her own? "Tell me more then." Anything to divert the subject, he thought. "You know," She started, eyes still shut tight, "When I was a little kid, I was a horrible crush on the priest-in-training that was sitting in on my Theology classes." Reggie looked up, a wry smile on his face. He noticed that her eyes were still closed. "Yeah," she whispered, "Those were the days, he was so gorgeous, and he had the sweetest smile." "Why, Deborah, I can't believe that you would go after someone of deep religious roots like that." He paused a moment, "You didn't rape him, did you?" She laughed, hitting him lightly in the stomach with her toe, "No, nothing like that, but the one day I finally cornered him in prayer, he told me that he was gay, and was joining the church so people wouldn't get suspicious when he didn't get married." Reggie stared at her slack-jawed. "You're kidding." "Nope." She took a sip of her own beer, something suddenly came to her, and she laughed so hard the Killian's almost came through her nose. "That very next week, he disappeared mysteriously along with the Pastor, never to be found again. I hear they live in Boca now." Reggie chuckled. He ran his cold beer bottle along the bottoms of her feet, she kicked him lightly. "Stop that." "Not unless you tell me another story." She hesitated for a moment, and then sat up, pulling her feet away from him, she stared at the roaring fire and sighed. Her voice started out again, and he was lost within her tale... "A long time ago, Reggie, I was in love, too." Reggie settled in for the long and harrowing ride. He had suspected as much. When Newsweek was doing her profile, they had reached an enormous gap between the late 80's and the early 90's. She cocked her eyebrow at him. "You aren't surprised." "No," He admitted, "Perhaps a little saddened that you didn't tell me, but otherwise, I should have known that some other dashing and charming man swept you off your feet before I was able to become your shining knight in white armor." She smiled, a silent motion of thanks. "Anyway, where was I, oh yes, I was also married, in a way, and in the beginning..." -------- Oxford 1983 The haze in the small Irish pub prevented Deborah to see much further than beyond her nose, and she liked it that way. The cigarette smoke nearly choked her, but that was a small sacrifice to pay for the valuable camouflage it provided. She had run out of a meeting with Jonathan that afternoon, and had escaped into the world of college drinking parties and hazing rituals that made her stomach turn. She had caught a small glimpse of what happened in the back rooms of this place, and she didn't need to know any more than what she had seen out of the corners of her eyes to know that more than one illegitimate child had been conceived in this pit. But for now, she was concerned with divining the contents of the small, dark blue drink that had been handed to her. She had ordered a Bourbon. The bartender had looked at her as if she was from outer space and handed her the blue...thing, instead. "What the hell is this?" She yelled over the racket. From behind her, a vaguely familiar voice answered: "It's an Aquarium Swirl." She whipped around to find a tall, dark, and very handsome man standing next to her bar stool. The hazel eyes, the wry grin... "Oh, my God! You're the guy that fell through my roof!" He laughed, eyes twinkling at her, and she couldn't help but giggle a little at her obvious innocence towards the culture here in Jolly old England. "Sorry," she said sheepishly. He waved a hand in the air. "Forgotten. Let's just skip that part of our meeting, and pretend that," he glanced at the barkeep and he nodded, the man was rewarded with a drink of the same color, "you, are a darling coed student," She smiled shyly, no one was ever this blatant with compliments around her. She realized with shock that he was grinning with pride. The son of a bitch was proud of making her into a nervous wreck! "Who has decided to grace me with your presence while I get completely smashed." She rolled her eyes and rested her elbows on the counter, refusing to think about how sticky the surface was. "Deal?" His eyes appealed, his mouth pouted, and he looked everything like a puppy that had just been beaten with a newspaper. Only tastier. Deborah let out an involuntary gasp. She couldn't believe that she was doing this. He was probably trying to rape her. Oh fuck reason for once. "Deal," She said. He smiled, this time with a shy blush. He took a deep drink from the glass full of blue liquid. "I know that you're wondering about this lovely mixture." Deborah had to laugh, she nodded as she picked up her own cup, taking a tentative sip after he motioned for her to do so. It tasted like...like nothing she had ever had nor heard of before. It was like blueberries, grapes, raspberry, peppermint, chardonney, champagne, whiskey, vodka, and an olive for taste, mixed together and thrown in a freezer for decade so it would chill her to the very core. It took a minute for it to go all the way down. He waited for a reaction. "Wow," Was all she could say coherently. He smiled and patted her lightly on the back. "It's a little strong, but you'll probably get used to it." He stuck out his hand. "Hi, my name is William, and you are?" She hesitated, and answered, "May." They shook hands and she took another sip of the drink, convinced that her tongue was died blue, she stuck it out to check, and then she noticed William repressing a small smile. She instantly yanked it back in, blushing like crazy. "Yes," He said. "Yes, what?" "Your tongue's blue, along with everyone else's. Don't worry you'll fit right in." She gave him a grin, and looked at him intently. "What were you doing out on the roof that night?" He seemed uncomfortable. "Well, I'm not lucky with women as well as roofing." She looked apologetically at him. "Your lover was taking a roll in the hay with another man?" she asked softly, putting a hand on his lightly, offering him some comfort. His only response was to take another gulp of the concoction and nod tightly. "Who was he?" William laughed bitterly, taking another sip of the drink. "I don't know, some slut law major-" He stopped himself, and turned back at her. "But we're not here to talk about me." He pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and she blushed prettily. "We're here to talk about you. So why are you here?" She rolled her eyes again. "My parent's have this archaic tradition of taking a girl around to meet her fiancee before she is forced into marriage." He drew his hand back from her and looked awkward. "Oh," He started, thoroughly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I didn't know that you were engaged. I apologize for my inappropriate behavior." May shook her head and grabbed his hand, keeping him from escaping the pub. "William," He turned back to her, eyes shaded in humiliation. "I don't want to get married." He looked up to her with a cocked brow. "If it gives you any comfort, I'll let you know that I have known my fiancee since I was three years old, and I have hated him since two days before that. I was betrothed to the jerk three days after I was born." His eyes widened in shock. "Really? Isn't that, like, illegal?" May laughed bitterly and took another swig of the blue liquid, she grabbed William's collar and breathed into his ear: "Not if your Daddy has dirty politicians in his back pockets." William looked at her with understanding. She gave a small smile. "So goes the life of Greenwich Girl." He stared at the bar table. William finally looked up, a question in his eyes. "What are you doing at Trent's? You don't exactly seem like the kind of woman who would find the dirtiest bar and camp there until you're too drunk to think, if you know what I mean." She nodded in agreement. "I understand." She leaned in close and whispered, "You promise you won't tell?" His eyes twinkled. "Cross my heart and hope to die." "Oh," She laughed, "I hope that you won't die." He laughed, propping his head up on an elbow, "I hope I don't die, either." She looked mildly annoyed, but shrugged it off and continued with her little secret. "But here's the thing." The alcohol was making it's way to her brain, and she never could take too much of the strong stuff. She made a mental note to ask William what was in it. The mental note was immediately forgotten to make room for how incredibly good William smelled. "I'm supposed to be at the Chancellor's cottage, meeting with my fiancee for our first formal dinner together in front of society, the alleged 'engagement' was supposed to be announced to everyone during dessert." Both of them broke out into raucous giggles, drawing the attention of all around them, but not caring if they looked idiotic. Their eyes sparkled, their mouths curved into smiles far more meaningful than they would have been had the two been completely sober, and the tension cracked the air around them with telekinetic sparks that set everything afire. The Aquarium Swirl was working it's magic. William's face became solemn. "That means that I'm harboring a criminal, wouldn't it, May?" She was too preoccupied with the way her name rolled off of his tongue and emerged between his luscious lips, and through the pearly white teeth to quite grasp what he was saying. "Who cares?" She threw back the rest of the drink and ordered another. The tall, graying Bartender threw her a smile and rolled his eyes. The ones new to the Aquarium Swirl didn't quite realize exactly how much alcohol was in one glass. Needless to say, she'd regret having two in the morning. The bartender watched how the Yank was staring at his darling girl, and shook his head. Maybe she wouldn't regret it, after all, if she was going to get laid, the Aquarium Swirl, or so he had been told, made keeping it up much easier. And for loosening inhibitions, it worked wonders. ***Three hours later*** They were some of the last people in the bar, patiently awaiting their Amaretto Sours, and talking of everything and nothing, much like they had done for the past hours. They already knew that they would be the best of friends, if not more than that. "So," May asked, "When did Phoebe, you know, ravish you?" She grabbed the two drinks from the barkeep and put them on the counter, not sliding one over to William as she had been doing. He gave her an annoyed scowl, "Why should I tell you?" William reached for his drink, but with a whip of her hand, the cups were further down the bar then he could reach. He watched as her green eyes narrowed. "Never sass the woman holding your drink, Mister Yank." "Why does that have a decidedly sexual undertone?" "Because," she slurred, and handed him his liquor, "We're both fall-off-our-asses drunk as skunks in a moonshine still." He gave her an engaging grin and saw that indeed, the darling May was smashed beyond her limits, and he frowned. "Hey," He started, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder as she stared at the light behind them. "You want me to take you home?" She thought for a moment, tension crossing her delicate features. "No. No, take me anywhere, but home." He took her hand solemnly and helped her from the barstool. "May, are you serious? You don't want to go home?" She thought for a moment, he could see the concentration on her face, and then proclaimed that: "I'd rather...never have a drink again." He laughed, draping her frame over him as he walked them out of the bar towards his apartment. "Those are some pretty big losses, May." She lay her head on his shoulder and stumbled a little, a smile on her face anyway. "Yeah, big risks usually give you big rewards." -------- ****** St. Mark's Cathedral Annapolis, Maryland 8:36 pm Dark, angling shadows reached for the small, huddled figure at the feet of the Virgin Mary. The aging plaster had turned into a pale yellow, only making the rendition of the woman all the more lifelike. And the plump fingers outstretched towards the sinners of the world softer, gentler, like a grandmother's ever- forgiving touch, tempered with an inexhaustible strength that so few in the mortal world were worthy to posses. That night, the huddled figure was Fox Mulder, and he was a sinner of sinners, committing acts that weren't quite sin, yet were unforgivable in and of themselves. He kneeled before the Holy Virgin, a long abandoned ivory and ruby rosary clutched between his fingers, tirelessly having innumerable trespasses weighted down upon them while Mulder repeated over and over in a voice as quite as the church itself: "Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of your womb Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen-" And so it went, every word loaded and layered with so much more meaning that a simple man could interpret. The chant, so simplistic and so innocent in it's yearning for forgiveness touched every part of the darkened Cathedral, and for all the darkness that surrounded Mulder, a faint light, scarcely visible, started to glow in the stain-glass depiction of Mary and the Holy Child above the pulpit. Inaudible to human ears, a low hum, as sweet as nectar from heaven started to grow louder in the ineffectual silence around the pitch-colored pews. The angels were laughing. ****** 10:34 pm Deborah wasn't sure when it had happened, but sometime during her story, she had moved closer to Reggie, probably because the last embers of the fire were dying out, and both were far too comfortable next to each other on the couch to turn on the heat. She was now sprawled languidly out on his chest, his arms wrapped around her and his nose buried deep in her hair. She opened her eyes after a short nap and turned slightly to see her friend still asleep. She slowly and cautious turned over so her was belly down on top of him. She stared in fascination at his dark lashes, and brushed her fingertips over his soft, full lips. Tearstains marked the corners of his eyes and ran along his cheeks. His mouth was folded into a sad smile. She brushed come light hair of his forehead, and looked at him in the dim light of the December moon. Her mouth ached to rest atop his lips, if even just once, to taste his depths and to know him in complete. She fought the urge, no, he was just her friend. And she couldn't do this, she couldn't fall in love with him when they would only even have a year together. How would she survive if she knew that they had a mere blink of time before she left. Besides, he probably didn't even like her that way. But she still wondered. Wondered what it would be like to kiss a man again and have it taste like ambrosia from Mt. Olympus. To hold him close in your arms and feel him holding you in return, neither willing to let go for a moment. All the while fearing that to break contact was to break the delicate moment you shared in that lazy, multicolored blur that flew through your mind as your lips touched and tasted. Deborah hadn't been kissed like that in a long time, she hadn't kissed a man had felt the fairy-dust shimmering around her as they were propelled above the heavens simply by the friction of their mouths. No, she hadn't felt that magic in a very long time. She bit back a whimper as she thought of how many things she was being robbed of by the disease. She wouldn't ever have a chance to fall in love again because to fall in love again was to poison whomever received and returned her affections, and she didn't want to be responsible for anyone else's deaths. But just one, one little brush of her lips against his, would it hurt? He wouldn't even know, he would never know, but she would, and she would carry that single pleasure in her heart for the rest of her life. Perhaps even beyond. She had loved him for so long. It had started out with admiration that a man who came from such a wealthy family would refuse to go in on his family's multi-million dollar law firm, and decide to strike it out on his own. She sympathized with his position. Although her family was a group of Connecticut WASPs, and his were born and bread in Manhattan, they had hit it off immediately when they met each other by both trying to lease an office space for a law firm. And when he had gotten married six months later, she had decided that she had achieved friendship, and would stay there. Little did she know that he would become a divorcee just a mere two years later, just enough time for him to father two adorable children, breaking her heart all over again. She had barely been able to restrain tears every time she saw them. For a period of time, valium had been her constant companion when not at work. After his breakup, she started seeing him more, and she started believing that they were more than just mere friends, but had never let her mind wander further than that. But now... There was no way that she could offend him, if she just tried once to kiss him, he would probably let it slide, seeing as she was going to die soon. There would be no lasting consequences, in fact, no consequences at all. Deborah smiled dreamily, sometimes, even in the face of the worst possibilities, there was a silver lining. Please, God just let me have this before I die, she thought feverishly, and continued her descent. ****** Delicate pearls of ice beaded the darkened canvas of night as Dana Scully awoke from a three day haze that had ruined her Christmas. Blaming him for everything wasn't going to get her anywhere in this matter. Scully threw the sheets from her legs and paced around the room, sliding on her slacks and buttoning her shirt and jacket as she grabbed her shoes. With as little sound as possible, she padded down the stairs to the computer her mother had purchased two months ago due to her constant troubles with keeping up with her children. Charles Scully had a laptop and internet access on his ship, and Bill had it both at sea and on land, so in an effort to keep tabs on her sons, she had bought it and gotten on the net. Scully checked all the downstairs rooms to make sure that no one was up and around. She knew what kind of argument she would get into with Bill if he had even an inkling of what was wrong, and knowing her mother's penchant for spilling her secrets, she didn't want to risk getting into an argument about Mulder. Knowing damn well she wouldn't be able to defend him this time. Knowing that for once Bill was right about her partner. She powered up the Blue iMac and logged onto the internet, typing in the URL to the FBI's background search webpage. She keyed in her password and started her snooping. With a few soft clacks she had the words Fox William Mulder running through the FBI archives. There was a soft beep, letting her know the search engine had found something. She turned around cautiously to make sure no one was coming upon hearing the sound. Taking a deep breath, assured that none was the wiser to her midnight escapade, she turned back to the glowing screen. Her eyes scanned the page for something, anything that would lend a clue to his past. Anything that would clarify her situation and stop the dull throb she felt in her chest. Her eyes moved over rows of success rates, recommendations, case files, all things that she had seen before, she sighed in frustration. How could there not be a single trace of his former life left on the files the FBI had on him? She knew that Mulder's good friend was Danny Valedeo, legendary computer hacker, and that her partner may have gotten him to erase records on his marriage and any other subsequent evidence of former attachment, but there had to be something. Something that they forgot to get rid of, an old phone number, an emergency contact, she read through pages of useless knowledge and stopped upon his former address: 304 Glendael Rd. Washington DC No one heard a note being written and stuck to fridge, and no one heard Dana Katherine's graceful exit at 3:57 am. ****** 4:23 am Mulder's car pulled to a stop in the asphalt driveway of a white clapboard Victorian house. A mental overload of images assaulted his senses, his photographic memory bringing up a play by play of the three and a half years he had lived in that house. Those three and a half obscenely happy, lighthearted, sweet, cherished, lazy, hazy years. But those days were gone now and those memories were missing time. He opened the car door and walked up to the welcoming front porch, the house wasn't that large, the lot it was built on engulfed the property and hid the house in a cobblestone path of oak trees and rose bushes. Mulder unconsciously counted the steps to the front porch, twenty-three, as it had always been. He pulled the wicker porch chair from its resting place and shoved it under the light fixture of the porch. Using one hand to steady his perch on the chair, the other reached up to unscrew the fixture and draw a small metal key from mess of wires under the light cover. He put the chair back in its place and slid the key into the lock, breathing a sigh of relief, he was almost certain that she would have changed the locks on him. He turned to the left but realized with a shock that the door wasn't locked. No, he thought, it wasn't possible, she'd be crazy to stay in this house. The house that had caused her all the pain, the house that was the final reminder of everything that had ever gone wrong in her life. From the moment I fell through her roof to the moment we parted in front of the courthouse, vowing to hate each other for all eternity. She had always been this way, had it been any other person, they would have checked themselves into the Sheraton and gotten drunk. Deborah had to stay in the house their child had been killed behind. He gently pushed open the door, surprised by the sudden noise of a shocked gasp and someone running towards him in the foyer. He was stunned to see a brown-haired man pull to a screeching halt at the end of the hallway and stare at him in wonder and then in fear. Mulder knew what was going through his head. Who is this guy? What's he doing in my house? Why didn't he knock? And for a second, he wondered if Deborah had sold the house and he had officially trespassed on someone else's property. Prepared to make an apology for his intrusion, Mulder was even more shocked when Deborah emerged from behind the mystery man. She touched his arm gently, and with a tug of her head, pointed him in the direction of the kitchen, the man went obediently, but not without throwing her a concerned look. Deborah brushed it off and headed towards Mulder. "Hi." She stopped two feet in front of him. The silence in the hallway was deafening. It ebbed and flowed with a life of it's own, slipping into the cracks of Mulder's resolve, whispering doubts into his ear and settling in a deep pool in his heart, harboring the fear that chipped away at him. Deborah heard her own breaths, deep and scratchy, each one measuring the length of the uneasiness that plagued her. Would some grace of God provide a sound to fill this interminable awning of awkwardness? Or would she stand here, waiting for an eternity for his reply? Would there even be a reply? Or would he be too angry with her frailty, her descent into madness? "Hey," he answered softly, unsure of what to say to her. "I didn't know that you were here. I would have called." He realized the foolishness of his words as soon as they were spoken. All she did in reply was let out a light chuckle. "It would have been useless. This house doesn't have a phone number. I managed to keep paying the electric and water bills, but the phone had to go. I couldn't afford it at first, but after a while, it just didn't seem as important anymore." The comment about affording the phone bill stabbed at his heart. He knew about what she had been through, the three jobs when she just got to New York. It hurt him to think of this woman, someone who had crawled and fought her way to the top of her class at Georgetown University while being pregnant. Someone who had taken her bar exam three days after giving birth, someone who was strong, and dignified and beautiful, scrubbing floors and driving a delivery truck. Mulder stared at her, just a lovely as the day he had first laid eyes on her fifteen years ago, he unconsciously whispered, "You're still so beautiful." She blushed all over and lowered her head as a small smile formed on her lips. When she looked back up, she motioned towards his lightly bruised face, saying: "Sorry about the, uh," she made a punching motion with her hand. Mulder shook his head. "It was nothing, don't worry about it. I deserved it." He did deserve it. He had hurt her so much, it was her turn to hurt him back. He wouldn't have held any grudge against her if she sent professional hitmen after him to beat him into oblivion. "Yes, you did." The uneasiness that had been relieved through their tentative conversation returned with vengeance and Mulder felt his stomach tighten into a knot. Deborah opened her mouth in horror as she realized what she had done. "I didn't mean that I blame you for what happened." She thought it sounded false. Do I blame him for what happened? There was a mental shake from left to right. No, she had never blamed him, she didn't think that she could blame him. "I meant that I was angry," she paused there, gritting her teeth, "and I felt betrayed that you never told me the truth about the Twilite case." Mulder felt a tear trickle down his face and land on his lip. It tasted salty and bitter. Salt for the wound, bitterness for his heart. He looked up at her and they locked eyes. Green against hazel, grief and pain, the lover and the lost. She didn't look like she blamed him. Even her clear, emerald eyes didn't lay any guilt to him. They were just pained, betrayed, like she had said to him. With startling clarity he realized what he had assumed. Without a second thought he had presumed that she had lied to him about how she was feeling. Deborah never, under any circumstances lied to him. She was physically unable to tell a fib to him and not lose her nerve halfway through the fabrication. He had assumed that she had lied to him just like... Just like who? He almost laughed at that. Who didn't lie to him? His mother lied by omission, using her stroke as her sacred cross, warding off any deep introspection to the Mulder family's connection to the Consortium. His father had lied about everything, Skinner lied to keep him in the dark, and Scully. His precious Scully, the one he thought he could believe. It turned out that she lied more than all of them combined. He had realized this like a slap in the face during a case dealing with death omens. She had repeatedly vowed that she was fine, blatantly lying when he asked her frankly about her cancer, and he had seen through her facade. A horror he had not known in the five years he had been with her became omnipresent with every breath and every beat of his heart. He knew. He knew the cancer was getting worse, he knew that she knew. He knew she was lying to him. His heart broke twice over, from knowing that she had lied, and from knowing that she was leaving him alone and deceived. Deborah walked closer to him, and he saw her for what she was, a woman he had betrayed and torn apart, a woman he could no longer draw strength from. His heart nearly stopped when she took his hand and gave him a tight smile. We're in this together, the smile revealed, we have nothing to lose, and hatred isn't going to get us anywhere. He smiled shyly in return. He felt another tear slide down his cheek, and saw a matching one escape her eye. He pulled her closer to him, holding her tight as their bodies shook with the irrepressible sobs that bubbled out of nowhere. Their pain was unending. But little did they know as they held each other in desperation, the pain they were feeling was actually healing them. The tears were flushing out the lies they told and they misery they caused one another. The tears were cleaning the wound. They drew strength from togetherness, and comfort from forgiveness. And Mulder felt a small piece of his heart adhere itself back to the whole. ****** "So," Reggie started nervously, tapping his fingers lightly over the honey colored oak table. The introductions had been made, the explanations regarding past relations had been bestowed, and all that was left of a conversation was the monotonous silence. He looked over at Deborah sitting to his right, her head balanced on her hands, a faint smile on her lips. He then looked to Mulder, studiously observing Deborah. "It's December 27th," she finally whispered after a five minute silence. Reggie looked to the two of them, unsure of exactly what importance the date of the twenty-seventh held. But Reggie was a skilled people watcher, and determined from the looks on their faces that it had been some tragic or otherwise unhappy event. Perhaps the date of their divorce, perhaps the date they were forced apart. But as Reggie stared, he realized this was a sadness much deeper than separation, for that could be doctored with phone calls and lawyers, this was the sadness of something precious lost, something that could never be retrieved. "Ironic, isn't it?" Mulder asked. "To think, everything we had fell apart today, and that everything we have left is coming together today again, too." Deborah smiled at him, intrigue written into her eyes. "I think we're going to be okay after all, William, I really do think so." Mulder nodded to her, they had reached a point where they would receive closure. Healing for a wound sustained many years ago. She reached over and took his hand in hers, leading them away from the table, and towards the backdoor. They smiled in tandem, and walked out into the snow. Reggie watched in perverse fascination as they sat down a wide wooden swing attached to the thickest branch of the tallest maple in the backyard. Using their toes to slowly propel themselves back and forth, they spoke. And Reggie watched and felt his heart bleeding for the loss of someone he had never had. ****** Mulder watched her face rise and tilt to observe the powder soft snow fall like fairy- dust around her. Deborah's dark chestnut hair had gotten longer since he last saw her and the emerald green eyes had become dark indescribable pools of color, as they had always become whenever she had something on her mind. But her smile was her saving grace. The only indication that she was still okay, that she was still the woman he had known and loved and cherished so many years ago. "Eight years to the day. Fascinating," he whispered in her ear. "I think we can finally start to heal now. It's going to be all behind us soon. We can forget about it, move on," her head was turned to observe a bare patch littered with broken sticks and rotting logs. Mulder brushed his fingertips across her cheek, drawing her attention rapidly back to him. "And forgive?" he pleaded, he begged, prayed with every fiber of his being. She lowered her eyes, thinking, deciding, fighting an internal battle. Would she? Could she? Did she even want to? "Please," he started again, his voice strained by unshed tears, "I know I was cruel, and wrong, and I know I betrayed you. I should have told you, but I was so afraid. So very afraid." Mulder turned his head, but was surprised when she ran her fingers lightly through the hair at the base of his neck, that had always been her way of saying she wanted to speak to him. Mulder turned abruptly back, only to find her piercing eyes locked onto his face. "Why?" she asked softly, in the voice of a child, "Why were you so frightened." He lowered his head in shame. "I was so scared that you'd blame me." He looked back up to gauge her reaction, and found it to be one of horrified shock. "I thought," he continued, "I thought that you would think I hadn't done my job, I thought you would think I killed her." She looked like someone just punched her in the stomach hard enough to knock the wind out her. And after a minute of stunned silence, she gathered him into her open arms and held him as he sobbed into her chest. She pressed her face into his hair, whispering: "Oh, no, William, how could you ever think that? How could I ever blame you? How could I ever say that you didn't do enough to try and save her." She brought her hands to either side of this tear-streaked face and made him look her in the eyes. "I'm so sorry that you had to live with that for so long, William, too long." He embraced her again, this time, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in, finding release in her assurances. "I could never blame you, William. I knew what you put into that case, I knew what you did, how much you sacrificed. How would I ever be able to say it was your fault?" He tightened his hold on her, and murmured: "But how could you not? I didn't save her. I didn't save her. And I let her die." He pulled away from her, looking her eye to tear-soaked eye. "She died because of me." Deborah placed a finger over his lips, silencing him. "No, no one let her die. You did everything you could to save her. And if it weren't for you, we would have never found the man who killed her." Mulder let out a breath that could barely be recognized as a bitter chuckle. "I wasn't the one to save her. Someone else caught him." "Yes," she interrupted, "but without your profile and your months of work, we never would have even known who he was." "What little good that did." Deborah pulled his face towards hers so their foreheads touched. She stared deep into his eyes, pooling green with hazel and frightening herself with the intensity with which she looked at him. She pulled her mouth into a straight line and looked at him hard. "Fox William Mulder, I have known you for fifteen years, I have never doubted your heart or your good intentions, whether or not you knew, you were a great comfort to me in good times and bad. And even though many of the things you hoped to give me in life were never obtained, I never faulted you. Your job was important, you had to save the world, superheros don't get vacations." She brushed away a stray tear traveling down the line of his cheek with her thumb. "You have always done good in my eyes, and to the children you saved and the closure you granted to parents in pain, you were nothing short of a phenomenon." He looked up at her after a long silence. "But," he added weakly, "I left you. I left you in the hospital when you needed me the most." He winced at the thought. He had seen her, pale and drawn from her miscarriage, and catatonic from shock. And when she had awoken many days later, she had developed multiple personality disorder, and in her mind, Grace Katherine Mulder hadn't died, she was just sleeping. And even with his constant pleading, she refused to her buried, cremated, or put to rest for that matter, convinced that she would eventually wake up and be scared if she were underground. And that they would have killed her if they cremated her. Deborah hadn't been ready to let go. She had lost two children in the space of days. First their daughter, and then a child who hadn't even been born. At first she had reacted like many bereaved parents reacted, with listlessness, and apathy to everything around them, unwilling to live life if their child wasn't in it with them. And Mulder, being a certified psychologist knew that their reactions were nothing new. That even though it didn't feel like it, they would eventually feel better. They had a responsibility to Grace's little sister - still in her mother's womb. But three days later, she had miscarried after the autopsy reports came back with harsh details of her daughters last moments that she hadn't wanted to know. "You are only one of many miracles I have seen in my life, but you are one of the most important." She gave him a stunning grin and hugged him again. He stared past her and looked at the sugar frosted trees, feeling his heart constrict at the thought of who he was holding and where they held one another. They were together again, finally after so many years of fearing guilt and falling tears, here it was, confirmation. He buried his nose in her tresses, smelling the unique blend of vanilla and almonds that was hers alone. He held her gently, afraid of hurting her, he had always known that she wasn't a very strong person. During their seven years of courtship she had been ill often. He had tried to protect her, but she had a strong will, and her strong will ended up causing many of the worry lines on his forehead. He remembered trying to make her wear two coats to work in the mornings because the budget was too tight for her to fix the heat in her car. She had just laughed and kissed him, saying that thoughts of them together would keep her warm for years and years to come. He had frowned at her, and she had pouted at him, giving him a butterfly kiss before she drove through the below-freezing weather to work at the District Attorney's office in Annapolis. She was so soft. His cheek was against hers and he felt the alabaster satin beneath his fingertips, and brushed his hand through her hair. He let out a sigh of sadness, he hadn't protected her after all. He had ruined her, broken her, but she loved and had forgiven him anyway. "I don't deserve you," he whispered. This elicited a laugh from her and she pulled away from him. A grin in her eyes and on her lips. It was what she would have called an 'all-over smile'. It was the first one he had seen in a long time. She leaned in and brushed her lips gently against his. Mulder let his eyes slide closed. It was completely innocent, the lightest touch, but somehow, just the minuscule amount of friction was incredibly erotic. In his mind, he heard his first year psychology teacher drone on about how after many years of intimacy, a couple often lost their desire for one another, thus the affairs began and the crumbling of the foundation of marriage. He repressed the desire to laugh. If only Professor Kennedy could see him now. She smiled at him and her round face turned cherubic. She lay her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, ignoring the world around her. And just like before, Mulder worried about her health, and wrapped his arms around her. He stared at her steady breathing for a while, surprised to find that she was fast asleep in his arms again. Mulder took a deep breath and gazed into the snow. He remembered the first time she had ever fallen to the seduction of sleep in the safety of his embrace. -------- Oxford 1983 Mulder decided that women and cats were all alike. When they fell asleep, or became massively inebriated, they became impossible to move in any way shape or form. When he finally got the key to go in the lock, Deborah had leaned forward too much and he had to drop everything to catch her before she became a drunk with a concussion. He sighed, seeing no other solution, he made her stand behind him, and she leaned against him, snoring lightly. Mulder craned his neck and saw that a tiny bead of saliva had just landed on his new trenchcoat. He winced, but opened the door, and turned around, grabbing her before she collapsed again. He picked her up and carried her to his bedroom, cursing himself for not stopping her before she ended up in this condition. Either Danny and Melanie would never let him hear the end of it - geez, Fox, getting women drunk so they'll come home with you these days...sounds pretty desperate to me. Or her father would come after his hide, he could just imagine it, an ex-Navy seal, 6'8", 240 pounds of solid steel, with the wrath of God and the speed of demons knocking on his door. Mulder gulped and told him mind to shut up. He assessed her position on the bed. This would be a problem. Her clothing was soaked from a late- evening, early morning shower they experienced coming into his apartment building. He wondered which would be a lesser evil, letting her stay wet and have her become ill, making her father even angrier. Or, taking off her damp garments and changing her into one of his old t-shirts and risk her father thinking that he had done something inappropriate with his daughter. He reasoned with himself, first of all, if she got sick, he would never forgive himself, she looked rather frail. And if her father found out, he at least could explain it. He chose door number two. He closed his eyes and reached for her sweater. When his hand brushed instead against the mound of her breast, his eyes flew open, and he felt his face burn with shame. Okay, he said to himself once his hand had been removed, this isn't going to work. It isn't as if you're fifteen again, Mulder, you can deal with this. It's just a woman, and it's just a breast. You can do it. Even with your eyes open. Come on, man, be strong! He nodded forcefully and reached tentatively to the row of mother of pearl buttons again, undoing each one softly and lovingly, finally, he gently stripped off the cold sweater and dropped it on the floor. He prayed to God that Danny didn't enter the room, heaven knew what he would think of his roommate then. He was already considered a yuppie conformist, he didn't need to add rapist to his title. Mulder lifted her torso lightly off the bed and pulled off her plain silk camisole, willing himself not to pay attention to her bra and what it concealed. He then proceeded to remove her skirt, whispering thanks that the zipper was on the side of her dress instead of the back. He dumped that next to the pile on the floor. He unrolled the pantyhose, take deep gulps of air, thinking the most un-sexy thoughts he could muster. Finally, she lay bare before him save for her bra and panties. He grabbed an old New York Knicks jersey, the softest of all his t-shirts, and slipped her into it softly. He grabbed the clothes on the floor and dripped his way into the bathroom, making a side trip to the linen closet to grab a few extra hangers, and hung the clothing on the shower rod to dry out over night. He sighed and retreated back to his room to change out of his wet clothing. Mulder stripped down to his boxers and put on a heather gray shirt over it all. With a sigh of weariness, he grabbed the wastebasket out the bathroom and placed it next to the bed. He settled down on the living room couch with his reading glasses and a book for a long night of studying. Mulder was jolted into waking with a start, he rolled off of his perch and landed with a thump on the floor. A glance at the clock confirmed that it was about three hours after he had put May down to sleep. There was the sound of retching. Mulder ran over to the bathroom in the hallway to find a young woman sprawled over the toilet, releasing her stomach contents into the bowl. He sighed sympathetically, she must have been miserable. Mulder sat down on the edge of the old claw footed bathtub and held her hair away from her face as another round of horrible noises came from her. Ten minutes later, she fell away from the toilet and leaned against the tub, resting her head against Mulder's leg. He grabbed a wet towel and cleaned off her face, flushed the toilet and helped her walk back to bed, after covering her again, she looked up at him, her face was pale. "Thank you." He just blushed and lowered his eyes. "Don't mention it," he replied, and prepared to leave the room again. "No, really," she continued, voice raspy, "Not many guys would have done this for me. The best case scenario would be them leaving me in the bar, drunk to the eyeteeth." She smiled weakly at him and grabbed his hand. "I don't know why that idiot ex-girlfriend of yours would ever go looking anywhere else." This brought an enormous unabashed smile to his face. "Thanks," he whispered. She continued looking at him intently, small and frail in the bed. Mulder felt uncomfortable. "Uh," he continued, "you want some water? Some aspirin? Maybe some tea?" Her eyes lit up with some unascertained emotion and nodded. He disappeared into the small kitchen unit and waited impatiently for the water to boil. There was something about the way she made him feel when she was near. Like he didn't have anything to hide, like he could tell her everything, and it would always be okay. She wouldn't necessarily believe, but she wouldn't ridicule or call him crazy. She actually cared. He let out a goofy grin, if she was an angel around perfect strangers, he wondered how she was when she was around people she loved. "What is that smile about, William?" The sound of his middle name startled him, and he realized that she had emerged from the bedroom and was leaning against the doorway into the kitchen, an amused grin on her face. Mulder felt himself blush thirty-three different shades of red. "Absolutely nothing. Thinking about the water," he quipped. "Sure." May made her way into the kitchen, obviously uncaring that she was clothed in only a jersey. He watched in fascination as she retrieved milk from the refrigerator and brown sugar from the cupboards, after a short inspection, she grabbed a spoon and ripped open the two tea bags that Mulder had gotten from the pantry. She emptied the tea leaves into the kettle, turning the heat down so the water would remain at a slow simmer. She poured two tablespoons of milk into each glass and threw in a spoonful of brown sugar for taste. She said to herself, "I don't suppose that you'd have fresh mint leaves in the house," and continued with her bustling. After another five minutes of adding dashes of cinnamon and mixing in a little clover honey, she turned off the fire and poured the steaming tea-flavored liquid into the two mugs, after a moment of stirring each, she handed him his cup. She took a deep sip and disappeared into the living room. Mulder blew the top of the liquid, enjoying the ripples spreading further and growing larger and larger. Would they be like the ripples, he wondered, would he and this mysterious woman have anything more than just a night out for drinks and fond memories? Something in his heart told him that they would have far more together than they ever expected. He sipped the tea, and was pleasantly surprised, he was certain that throwing the leaves into the water would make the tea too strong, but he had been mistaken. He had never had anything that tasted so incredibly good before in his life. He drank again, and followed suite to the living room couch. She was sitting in front of the TV, watching old American cartoons with a soft smile on her lips. She turned to him, grinning widely this time, and said, "When I was little, I loved cartoons." She closed her eyes here, and continued, "But I had to stop watching them when I got into High School, because no one else watched them at Phillips Exeter." Mulder sat down next to her. "Yeah, well, I talked my mom out of Phillips Exeter, I told her that it would be child abuse to make me go to yet another private school." She turned to him and smiled again. And Mulder had no choice but to smile back. It shocked him that his recluse of a personality was letting him enjoy his time with her, even though he had just broken up with Phoebe and May was already engaged. Then, another thought struck him. "Hey, um, your fiancee won't be offended when he finds out that you spent the night here, will he?" He started feeling nervous again. He really didn't need anyone else out to get him. She let out a bitter chuckle and said, "I don't really think so. The only reason that he claims to love me and cherish me is because he needs a regular source for sex. So basically, in marriage, I will become a trophy wife, and just a hole between the legs to him." Mulder swore he saw a tear in her eye. "I don't care if he's offended, if I'm lucky, he'll be so offended that he'll die of a premature heart attack." He bit his lip. "May," he started, "I don't think that you could ever be just a pretty face with a hole between her legs." He felt awkward saying it, and that was odd, he hadn't felt awkward towards girls since high school when he had 'grown into' his features. His palms were sweaty, his breathing was tight, and he felt as if he were in eighth grade again. "That's sweet, William, but you've never met Jonathan, he could make any woman feel like just a pretty face and a hole between the legs. But thanks for trying." She took another sip of her tea, and turned back to the TV. Laughing out loud at the antics of Wile E. Coyote. Mulder shook his head in amazement. She had just been saying how her life was doomed one second ago, and yet she was able to forget it and enjoy something as mindless as cartoons? He ventured upon the subject again. "Haven't you ever thought of saying, you know, like, 'No'?" He sounded stupid, he just knew it, he must have sounded stupid. I squeaked, he realized, I actually squeaked while talking to a woman. Oh my God, I'm regressing, I'm fifteen again. This is not happening, this is not happening. What happened to my calm and cool demeanor she was so enchanted by? "No one can force you to say yes at the alter you know. I mean, I'm harboring an escapee now, I could harbor you then, too." That's it, his mind proclaimed, there are far easier ways to recapture your youth than acting like an idiot. I formally protest. However, she just shook her head. "No, you don't understand. If I don't marry Jonathan, my mother and father will never speak to me again, I'll get shunned by the family. I won't have anyone." She stopped, and whispered, "I'll just be alone all the time." Mulder felt his psychiatrist's mind start ticking, being the only function that hadn't quit on him, intelligence went a long way when anger was not restrained. "You mean," he stuttered in ire, "to say that if you don't marry him, not only will your parents be angry, your entire family will shun you and leave you penniless and without a home?" She laughed with genuine humor. "God, William, don't get so worked up, I mean, I had known the consequences since day one. There aren't that many options for me, and I have at least a few more years before I have to marry him, and I fully plan to enjoy them." Mulder wasn't appeased. "But the shunning and the penniless and the homeless thing is true?" She was silent. There wasn't much to say that would change him mind and wouldn't be lying at the same time. "So what you're saying is that you're entire family is committing emotional blackmail on you so you'll marry some scumbag who thinks that you're merely something to screw?" "I wouldn't use that kind of language." "Okay, some scumbag who thinks that you're merely something to have sexual intercourse with. Am I right or wrong." She sighed. "Even if you were right, it wouldn't mean anything." She grabbed his hand and held it tightly, "William, you've got to understand, tonight's..." she searched for an appropriate word, "chance meeting and the circumstances surrounding it aren't ever going to happen again. I'm never going to be able to meet you for drinks again, or hell, I'll probably never be allowed outside the house again. I will remember this forever, and I will treasure our conversation." She scooted closer to him on the couch. "But I am just some drunk you met, and you are just a dream. You don't have to worry about things you won't be there for." At first he was angry, and then he was sad. This night of freedom was relatively natural to him, he took for granted that he could marry who he wished, and that he could make it out on his own. But for her, this was a one-time deal. His heart broke for her. For her future marriage to Jonathan the nymphomaniac, for her dreams, for her spirit, and most of all, for her smile, the one she carried with so much courage. It wouldn't be there for much longer. "Who says so?" he replied unexpectedly, surprising even himself with the words. "How long will you be in England?" She opened her eyes and closed them again. "Did you not hear me?" "Yeah, I heard you, but seriously, how long will you be here?" "Three more weeks. Why?" She asked suspiciously. If he were to assassinate her fiancee, although morally she'd be opposed to it, subconsciously she would not, and wasn't sure that she would not be at all helpful in her family's investigation into his death. "Three more weeks. Are you still going to be in the guest cottage?" "Yeah." He grinned wickedly. "How about I meet you at night in the attic room. I heard that it's going to take another month for the roofer to become available." She felt herself warm internally at spending more nights like this, with good conversation and good friends. "I don't know if I should," she answered. "Come on," he leered, "take a chance." She leaned into his personal space, and breathed into his ear: "I think I've already taken too many." She smiled in reply and closed her eyes in exhaustion. Mulder sat on the couch, her head on his chest, watching her sleep for the second time that night. And he was content. ***The next morning*** May knew that the screaming she heard in her left ear was unnaturally high and shrill, even for a woman. She knew with certainty that the curses that flowed like water were familiar and the order and tone in which they were yelled were even more so. She knew the voice bellowing and shouting and carrying on, she just wasn't sure if she was ready to wake up. She had created a cocoon made from William's chest, and a large, soft afghan. She felt her body pressed up against his, and she was breathing him into her. He smelled like ivory soap and aftershave, ballpoint pens and psychology textbooks. And most of all, he was warm, gentle, and wrapped all around her. Somehow during the night, she had shifted her head from his chest to the crook of his neck, and had moved so she was back to back with the couch, and her arms were around his waist. William must have been conscious enough to throw the blanket over them. And as if to guard her from the cold, he had both his arms around her, pulling her closer to him as the voice in the background grew louder. Suddenly, sunlight pierced the veil of dark in the room, and the shouts became more and more insistent for her to rouse herself and to: "Get the hell away from him!" May opened one eye, and all she saw was heather gray cotton. Then she opened the other eye, and the fabric dominated only half her field of vision. She saw Danny standing behind William, waving his arms around and screaming at her about something. "Danny?" she whispered softly, so not to wake her still sleeping companion. Something about 'why is Danny here?' registered in the back of her mind, but she didn't have enough of her facilities to think it through, and the thought was discarded. "Get the hell up!" he bellowed in return. "Shhhh!" she said, "don't wake him up, we went to bed late last night." This only seemed to turn her cousin's face a darker shade of red than she had ever seen in all her studies of color theory in art. "What's wrong?" she added. Her cousin opened his mouth, but before he could say a thing, William groaned to signal his awakening, and smiled at her dreamily has his eyes slowly drooped open. "Hey." "Hey," she replied. This seemed to be too much for Danny, he exploded in a fit of righteous anger. "What the hell do you two think you're doing?" May was certain that the people in the next apartment were going to complain. "Waking up, thanks to you," William muttered angrily and turned on the sofa to face Danny, dressed in a brown trenchcoat, wet from head to toe, and looking red as a tomato. William took a good look at him and said with a tone of amused disgust, "What the hell did Melanie talk you into doing last night?" Danny ripped off his trenchcoat and threw it roughly past Deborah's head onto the coat-rack. She jumped in shock, and William opened his eyes wide. "I can't believe it!" he yelled. "I mean, I leave for one bloody night - and look who you brought home! Jesus Christ! I just can't believe it, the both of you, I can't believe that you two..." he trailed off for the lack of profanity strong enough for his emotion. May looked over to her companion on the sofa, both of them still in wrinkled clothing and wrapped around each other and an afghan. She was right, they were both confused. "Do you have any idea what this means? I mean, how did he get into your apartment?" she asked cautiously. It had finally hit her what was so incredibly weird about this situation. William shook his head and said: "Don't worry, May, he's just my roommate, and he's usually harmless...although, today," he paused, "I'm not so sure." May's eyes grew wide. "You mean, you're Fox?" William's eyes grew to match hers. "And you're Deborah?" They looked at each other for another split second before both breaking into unstoppable fits of giggles. Danny disappeared into the bathroom, swearing on his grandmother's grave that if they couldn't explain the morning's events without using terms like sex and almost-sexual instances, that something would be cut off of both of them. -------- Mulder blinked, and felt his lids scratching against his delicate cornea, had his eyes been open that entire time? Deborah let go of him, and touched her cheek to his, moving off of the swing, and heading back towards the house. Mulder watched her walk through the snow, the bottom of her blue jeans soaked with the wet stuff, and her arms wrapped around herself to ward away the bitter cold that was Washington in December. Her feet sunk into the two inches of flurries, and at first, Mulder's mind didn't acknowledge what was happening. She had crumbled to her knees, and then as if she had no energy at all, had fallen to the ground, and was lying in the freezing snow. Mulder knew he was fast, but not that fast, in a split second, he was at her side, then carrying her gently to the back door, entering the house, and then laying her gently on the couch in the den. He watched with horror as the tell-tale river of red ran from her nose, and past her lips. He felt his world caving in around him for the second time that day.