From: "lil_gusty" <lil_gusty@hotmail.com>
Date: Fri, 29 Mar 2002 01:47:43 -0000
Subject: xfc: NEW: Signs From God (1/3)
Source: xfc

Title: Signs From God(1/3)
Classification: SRA. Lots of A.
Keywords: Scully/Other, MSR/UST, AU.
Rating: R, for language.  Flagrant use of the F word.
Distribution: Anywhere, just let me know.
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me; they belong to 
            Mr. Chris Carter, lucky bastard.
Spoilers: Every episode ever produced until "Je Souhaite," 
          but that last one specifically is "all things."
Timeline: A few weeks after "Je Souhaite" and after my fic 
          "Practice."
Feedback: Ooooh, yes to lil_gusty@hotmail.com.
Thanks: At the end.
Notes: Here is it, the fabled third part of my little series.  
       You will need to read "The Longest Time" and "Practice"  
       before reading this one, unless you want to be totally 
       confused.  

Summary: Ethan's return has Scully questioning her past, her 
         present, and her future.

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

"When you ain't got nothin', you got nothin' to lose."
            ~ Bob Dylan
<><><><><><>


For some reason, everyone thinks that Mulder can't organize an 
egg carton, let alone complete an entire expense report on his 
own.  But Mulder is very good with numbers, which, I'll admit, 
surprised even me a little; I took lots of math as an undergrad 
and these things befuddle me sometimes.  Mulder and I learned a 
long time ago that, since we both hate doing the damn things and 
are both still capable of doing them correctly and quickly, we 
would share the responsibility.  We alternate, it works well.

Except that I ran out of Ben & Jerry's Concession Obsession 
about thirty minutes ago.  I can't work with large numbers 
without ice cream.

I briefly consider putting my trench coat on over my pajamas and 
going to the store to stock up on supplies, but decide against 
it.  It's only Friday, after all, and I have all weekend to get 
this thing done.

I get up and walk into the kitchen to get some water when I hear 
a knock on my door.  My immediate thought is that Mulder has come 
to rescue me from boredom and migraine headaches, but that wasn't 
his knock.  Mulder-knocks are always loud and confident, as if 
he's knocking out of politeness instead of necessity.  This knock 
was soft, shy, insecure.  Almost like the knocker decided against 
knocking three seconds after he began.

My water forgotten, I approach the door and stand on my tiptoes 
to look into the peephole.  For a second, I don't recognize the 
man standing there, and then my world turns upside down.

Not knowing what else to do, I unlock the door and open it 
slowly, trying to figure out what to say.  I peak out of the 
opening I've made, staring at the toes of the shoes in front of 
me.  I work my gaze upwards, to the gray dress pants and wrinkled 
white work shirt, the mildly non-decorative tie, and finally to 
the drawn, world-weary face of the man to which they belong, 
looking everywhere except at his eyes.

For a minute, we just stand there, silently appraising each other 
from our opposing sides of the threshold.  He's giving me a 
similar stare to the one I gave him - toe to head.  I'm breathing 
quite heavily, and my heart has decided to beat at twice its 
normal rate.  I hope he can't hear that.

Not knowing what else to look at, my eyes fall on his mouth which 
is mutely working syllables, trying to figure out exactly what to 
say.  That's a first: speechlessness from him.  In all the years 
that I'd known him, I'd never rendered him speechless by anything 
I'd done.  I just wish I knew exactly what I'd done this time to 
finally achieve it.

I keep my lips tightly closed, afraid that if I start to say 
something, I'll never stop.

He breaks the silence before me and we make eye contact for the 
first time.  In his eyes, I see apology and fear; not something 
I'm used to from him.  "Hi," comes out as almost a whisper and I 
look down, afraid of what he saw in my eyes.  Whenever I used to 
look at his eyes, I could always tell what kind of mood he was 
in.  He wasn't as easy as Mulder - Mulder's chameleon eyes give 
everything away to anyone smart enough to pay attention.  Gray 
for sad, depressed, self-loathing; green for anger; hazel for 
happiness, contentment.  Ethan was always more difficult.  One 
had to pay careful attention to his moods before one could match 
them with his steady brown eyes.  I always saw love in his eyes, 
no matter what his mood.  At times it was tinged with fear or 
confusion, even disappointment, but love was always there 
balancing the other renegade emotions, reassuring my place in his 
heart and his life.

He used to tell me that my eyes turned a deep, cold blue when I 
was angry, and that he saw that color much more often than he 
wanted.  Other than that, he said, my emotions were unreadable to 
him.  Mulder tells it different, and maybe I've changed since 
Ethan last saw me.

When I don't immediately respond to his greeting, he tries a 
different tactic.  "I hope this isn't a bad time," he starts, 
only marginally louder than before.  "I just thought..."

He sighs and I realize he's nervous.  That makes me feel better.  
Maybe it's his heart I hear trying to pound its way out of his 
chest instead of mine.  "I was in town for a conference and I... 
thought I'd say 'hi,' see how you're doing."

I nod, still looking at my fuzzy brown slippers.  The same fuzzy 
brown slippers that miraculously managed to stay on my feet 
throughout my most recent ass kicking from Donnie Pfaster.  While 
I was hog-tied and bleeding on my closet floor, waiting for him 
to run me a bath and pull out my nails and severe my fingers, at 
least my feet were warm.  

Brown - how ugly.  They don't go at all with my pale blue 
pajamas.  I wonder what Mr. Pfaster would think of that fashion 
disaster.

I still haven't said anything to Ethan, still haven't looked at 
him except for that one brief glance into his eyes.  "Maybe I was 
being too...presumptuous.  If you want me to go, I will."

I consider for a moment.  No, I don't want him to go, but if he 
stays, we'll have to talk, and I don't know if I want that.  I 
wanted to talk eight years ago, when he left me.  I don't know 
what I could possibly have to say to him now, or what he could 
possibly have to say to me.

"No.  No..."  I finally manage to whisper to my fuzzy brown 
things.  I see his shadow sway as he nods, but says nothing.  I'd 
forgotten that he has to be invited in now that he doesn't live 
here anymore.  "Come in," I say thickly, stepping back so he can 
enter.

"Thanks," he whispers, taking a tentative step, then another, 
across the threshold and into my apartment.

I close the door and lock it, taking my time with the simple 
task.  I'm delaying the inevitable as long as possible.  Whatever 
has finally brought him here, I doubt it has to do with just 
saying "hi" and seeing how I was doing.  He wouldn't be here 
unless he wanted something specific - Ethan was always a very 
specific person.  

I finally look up and see him taking in his surroundings.  Over 
the years, I'd gradually made a lot of changes to the apartment, 
replacing furniture as time and wear dictated, rearranging things 
to suit my convenience.  I find myself absently wondering what he 
thinks about all the changes surrounding him.

"Do you want something to drink?"  I ask perfunctorily from 
behind him, trying to break the tension in the air around us.  I 
hope my voice isn't shaking.

He turns around and faces me, shaking his head.  "New couch," he 
observes.  "I like it."

I nod, not knowing what else to do.  "Thank you.  Have a seat," I 
say as I go into the kitchen and make myself another glass of 
water, the first forgotten on the counter.  Did he say he wanted 
something to drink?

"Thanks," he says again, eyeing me closely as I take a seat at 
the other end of the couch, as close to the armrest as I can get.  
It's awkward, having him here after all this time.  For all of 
the times I though I couldn't ever stand to be away from him, now 
I can't stand to be close to him until I know why he's here. 

I look down and turn my glass around and around in my hand, 
looking for something to do.  He's staring at me.  How can he 
stare at me when I can't even look at him?

"I guess I should have called; I know how you hate surprises,"  
he begins, lacing his words with sarcasm.  Yes, Ethan, I 
remember.

I nod absently but say nothing, not knowing how to respond to 
such an obvious insult.  I wasn't used to him hurting me; it was 
always the other way around.

He sighs deeply.  "I'm sorry, Dana.  I didn't come here to dredge 
up the past - "

"Then why did you come here?"  I interrupt suddenly, finally 
looking at him, though not at his eyes.  While he's probably 
planned and prepared for this moment, I'm reeling from his abrupt 
reappearance at my door.  Logically, I know I should have turned 
him away instead of letting him in, letting him upset me like 
he's doing.  

He did say that I think too much, though.

He sighs again and runs a hand through his hair.  I was right; 
he's nervous and scared.  Obviously, that preparation didn't give 
him any extra confidence.  "I thought I'd see how you were 
doing...after all this time."

"Why?"

He shrugs stiffly, trying to meet my eyes.

"You mean, you wanted to see if I regretted everything that 
happened?  You wanted to see if you could get me to beg you to be 
a part of my life again?"  I ask, suddenly very angry.

"No, not at all," he says solemnly, seriously.

I tilt my chin up, feigning confidence and nonchalance.  "Then 
why?"  I ask again, beginning to get annoyed.

"I just...wanted to see you again.  Is that such a bad thing?  
Wanting to see you?"  He almost looks like he's holding back 
tears.  He must be allergic to the air freshener.

I hang my head, knowing I've overreacted.  "No, I guess not."  I 
don't know what else to say, so I stare into my water.

"I know I surprised you, in fact I'm probably the last person you 
expected to see, but..."  He fades out, taking a deep breath.  
"If you really want me to go, I will."

"You haven't gotten what you came for yet,"  I say sarcastically, 
just low enough for him not to hear.

His shadow nods again.  "So...how are you?" he asks hesitantly.

"I'm..."  I stop and take a deep breath trying to figure out 
exactly what I should tell him.  "I'm good...good."  I finish, 
less than convincingly.

He keeps nodding and continues, "Still with the Bureau?"

"Mmmhmm..."  Quit staring at me, dammit!

"So, what do you do there now?"

"I'm still working on the X-Files with Agent Mulder."

"Oh...really?"  He asks, shocked.

"Yes.  Really."

He nods again, keeping time to some random song I can't hear.  He 
sighs and wistfully says, "Eight years..."

"Yeah...eight years."  I agree.

We're silent for another minute and I wonder if that's all he 
wanted to know: if I was still a field agent instead of working 
at Quantico or a hospital.  Then, he begins interrogating me 
again.  "So what about other stuff?"

"Other stuff?"  I ask.

"Yeah, you know...family, love life..." he fades out again.

"You mean, am I seeing anyone?"  

He nods shyly.  "Well, I assumed you weren't married.  I didn't 
think you'd still be living here if you were, and no one has come 
out to chase me away yet, so..."

I decide to humor him.  "No, I'm not seeing anyone."

He makes a sound that says he's intrigued by my answer and we 
fall into an uncomfortable silence.  The polite thing to do would 
be to ask him how he is.  After a few tense minutes, my curiosity 
gets the better of me and I make my mother proud.

"So, how are you?"

"Me?  I'm uh...good."  He says quietly, looking down at his 
hands, fingers templed between his legs.  He seems surprised I 
asked.

"Still with CNN?"

"Yup."

We start nodding together.

"I uh...recently got divorced."  He offers, still looking down.  
I nod some more, not knowing what the polite thing to do would 
be.  I'm beginning to wonder if the real point of his visit was 
to compare notes after all these years.  "We were married for six 
years."

Just two years after he left me, he married someone else.  I was 
being abducted by either aliens or the government, or perhaps 
both, while he was on his honeymoon - how depressing.

We're both still for a moment before I bravely say,  "If you 
don't mind my asking...what happened?"

"She, uh...she had an affair with one of our neighbors."  He says 
quietly.  I look down, blushing slightly.

"I'm sorry." 

"Well, it was my decision to end it.  She wanted to try and work 
it out, but...I didn't think I could trust her anymore."  He 
raises his head and looks off into space in front of him.

"You never were one to stay and try to work things out."  

"It was a hard decision.  The hardest one I've ever had to 
make - "

"And I suppose it was just easy to leave me?  I thought you 
thought more of me than that."

"Dana...that's not what I meant.  It's...it's different."

"How is it different?"

"I was thinking of more than just myself, which is something that 
you never did.  I had to do the best thing for my daughter - "  
He stops abruptly, realizing he's said more than he intended.

I absorb this new piece of information for a moment before 
asking, "You have a daughter?"

"Yes, and I didn't tell you that to try and hurt you.  I was just 
trying to explain...kids...change things."

"I know," I whisper absently.

"No.  You can't know until you've had them...how many things 
change because of them."

I know how much having - and losing - a child changes things, 
changes you, better than I could ever tell him.

"Is she old enough to understand what happened?"  I ask suddenly.

"No, not really.  She's only five."

He and his wife certainly didn't waste any time.  While his 
daughter was being born, my daughter was being created in some 
sterile, top-secret government facility without my knowledge.

"What's her name?"

"Emma."

Oh, that's too much.  This has to be some kind of joke.  I get up 
suddenly, walking backwards away from him until I run into the 
wall.  "Stop," I say less angrily than I had intended.  The tears 
in my throat make it difficult to articulate my emotions. 

"What?"  he asks, rising and following me.

"Just stop.  You don't know,"  I say suspiciously.

"Don't know what?"

I take a deep breath and push my tears down into my stomach where 
they can't get out.  "I'm sorry..."  I whisper, hoping he'll drop 
this line of conversation.

"Dana, I didn't mean to upset you by telling you all this."  I 
nod, knowing I must look like an emotional basket-case to him.

"No.  I know.  It's... it's not what you think," is all I can 
manage before I have to push more tears away.  I can't let him 
see me like this.

"Dana..." he says softly, slowly coming to stand in front of me.  
"I'm sorry...I didn't think it still hurt this much."

I vehemently shake my head, raising my eyes to look into his for 
the second time tonight.  He tentatively puts his arm around my 
shoulders.  At first, I resist his gesture out of pride.  When he 
doesn't pull away, I gradually relax into his partial embrace, 
letting him comfort me, if only for a moment.  Oh, I'd forgotten 
how good that feels; to have someone hold you and not pull away.

"It's not *that,* Ethan..."  is muffled by my hands ineffectually 
trying to hide my grimace from holding back my tears.  I can't 
say anymore, so I try and shield myself from him as best as I 
can.  In the two years we were together, I'd only cried in front 
of him once, and that was in anger and frustration, not sadness 
and despair.

He doesn't let go of me when I try to turn away.  Instead, he 
cautiously approaches me and leans his forehead against my 
temple, rocking me for a few minutes.  Maybe I'm humoring him, 
letting him think that my killing his child is the reason that 
I'm upset.  Maybe I want him to believe that; the truth is just a 
little too complicated for him to hear, if he'd even believe it.

But I think he needs this too, to comfort me after all this time, 
and I let him have it.  We never talked about what happened, why 
we broke up.  He left and never looked back before I was even 
released from the hospital.  Maybe he regretted his hastiness: I 
killed his child and never gave him an explanation.  Maybe that's 
why he's here, for an explanation, to see if I regret it as much 
as he does.

He kisses me softly on the temple and pulls back, turning my chin 
towards his face.  He brushes the renegade tear tracts from my 
cheeks and quietly, strongly reiterates, "I didn't come here to 
upset you."

"I know," I whisper thickly.  I rub my eyes hard with my palms 
trying to dry the dampness that's collected there despite my 
normally iron control.  He nods and pulls away from me slightly, 
unsure of how his gesture of comfort has been interpreted.  He 
moves his hand to the center of my back and rubs gently.  Just 
what I need.

"Maybe..." he sighs.  "Maybe I should go.  It's late, you're 
ready for bed," he says, fingering the edge of my silk pajama top 
just above my hip.  I nod, not knowing what else to do.  As 
ashamed as I am of my actions and his witnessing them, his 
presence, surprisingly, was a comfort.  Ethan was one of the only 
people in the world who actually made me feel better by holding 
me when I was upset.  He didn't patronize me or make me feel 
childish.  When I told him to go away, to go to Hell, he 
hesitated before he approached me, but he never left me.

I miss someone knowing the difference between when I need them to 
go and need them to stay.

When I don't look at him, he softly asks, "Are you gonna be 
okay?"

"Yeah," I say, raising still-damp eyes to his equally damp brown 
ones.  I sniffle once and nod, trying to convince him, and he 
nods in return, letting me regain my strength.

He doesn't let go immediately and, desperate to change the 
subject, I impulsively ask, "How long are you in DC for?"

He pushes a piece of hair behind my ear and says, "Just until 
Tuesday.  I've been here since the day before yesterday, but I 
couldn't work up the nerve to come see you 'til tonight."

He laughs softly at himself, trying to lighten the mood.  I smile 
slightly and he finally pulls away from me.  I start walking 
towards the door and he follows me.  When we reach our 
destination, we briefly lock eyes again and he asks, "Maybe we 
could have dinner tomorrow night?"

I look down and stifle a grin.  "If you don't have any plans, of 
course," he sarcastically amends.

Oh, yeah, I have a date with an expense report, sorry.  "No.  I'd 
like that."  I look up at him again and he smiles.  He's so cute 
when he smiles like that, just like a little boy.

I mentally wince at that thought and he opens the door.  "I'm 
looking forward to it.  I'll be here about 6:30?"

"Okay."

"'Kay."  I stare at the center of his chest and he leans down and 
presses his lips to my cheek.  "Goodnight," he whispers.

I feel a shock course through me as his skin touches mine again.  
"'Night."  I whisper back, not daring to raise my eyes.

He quietly steps out, closing the door behind him.  After locking 
it, I take a deep breath and try and figure out what the hell 
just happened.  When no explanation is forthcoming, I do the only 
logical thing: I take a shower and sob for about forty-five 
minutes.

Later, in bed, I stare at the ceiling and try not to imagine what 
my son - our son - would look like.  He would be almost eight 
years old now.  Would he look like Ethan?  Or me?  Or maybe a 
combination of both of us?

I used to dream about him right after the abortion, wondering if 
I'd truly done the right thing.  I dreamed of him laughing, 
playing.  Sometimes I dreamed of him hurt and crying.  But I 
never once regretted my decision.  At that time in my life, I 
believed I had done the right thing.  Not just for myself, but 
for my son as well.

Ethan's visit shocked the hell out of me, and our conversation 
depressed me even more.  A little over eight years since the last 
time I saw him and he suddenly comes back into my life, if only 
briefly, and we shared tears over memories of the life that 
wasn't - the life that I took away from us.

I know what my mother would say.  She would say that it's a sign 
from God.

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

Stupid me accidentally mentioned to my mother earlier today at 
lunch that I had plans tonight.  She prodded and cajoled until I 
admitted that yes, it was a date.  Yes, it was with someone she 
knew.  Then, of course, she asked who it was.

At first, I hesitated.  I knew that if I told my mother that it 
was Ethan, she would bring up the past - what happened, why we 
didn't get married, and all the other stuff that I had worked so 
hard to forget over these last eight years.

Eight years...God, I can't believe it's been that long.  It 
doesn't seem like I've been a field agent for that long; it 
doesn't seem like I've known Mulder nearly that long.  Sometimes, 
I think I know him better than anyone - that I know everything 
about him.  Other times, its almost like I barely know him at 
all.  

When I think of all the things that have happened in such a short 
amount of time, I wonder when I even found time to live in 
between the tragedies and deceptions, let alone cultivate the 
best friendship that I've ever had in my life.  

When I got home from lunch, I sat on my couch and thought for 
three hours.  I though about a lot of things, but mostly about my 
impending date with Ethan.  Spending just a few minutes with him 
last night had turned me into an emotional wreck, and I wondered 
what it would be like after spending hours with him tonight.  I 
felt like, somewhere in the world, someone was scheduled for an 
execution and the executioners were testing the death knell to 
make sure it still worked.  I could feel the vibrations from that 
sound.  It bounced around my empty insides and made me shutter.

When he knocked on my door at 6:25, I snapped out of my reverie 
and realized that I was still in my old jeans and faded blue tee 
shirt that I had worn earlier.  I hadn't even realized it had 
gotten so late.  I wasn't dressed for a date; I didn't feel like 
a date.  I felt like I wanted to crawl in bed and not come out 
until Monday morning.

I answer the door and let him in.  We don't speak at first, but I 
notice that he's dressed casually as well.  He's also bouncing up 
and down on the balls of his feet - a sign of his nervousness.

I wasn't nervous, though.  I was nothing.

"You ready?"  He asks uncertainly.

"Yeah," I reply, sadder than I had intended or felt.

We don't speak again until we're in the car.  Ethan goes first.  
"You know, the only thing I didn't miss about living here is the 
traffic."

I smile tightly, wondering exactly what he had missed.

"I don't know how you do it everyday," he continues.

"Most of the time I don't drive.  I walk to Foggy Bottom and take 
the Metro."  My voice was dull, disjointed.

"Foggy Bottom?  That's so far away!"

"No, not really.  And it's good exercise."  That wasn't exactly 
true.  Yes, I did take the Metro every chance I got, but it's 
hard to walk that distance in heels every day.

He had taken me to what used to be our favorite Mexican 
restaurant.  I hadn't eaten there in years although I still loved 
the food.  In the beginning, there were too many memories; later, 
it got too depressing to eat alone in a restaurant.

Abruptly, as our waiter walks away with our order, I ask Ethan my 
question from earlier.  "What did you miss?"

He doesn't seem to know what I'm talking about, so I clarify.  
"About DC - Georgetown.  You said you didn't miss the traffic.  
What did you miss?"

He sighs heavily and rearranges his silverware.  "Lots of 
things."

He seems content with his answer and takes a sip of water.  I 
continue staring at him until he elaborates.  "Like, I miss those 
sandwiches they used to sell at that deli down the street from 
the apartment.  If one of us had to work late, the other would 
stop on our way home and get us some sandwiches for supper.  And 
they were so messy.  The vegetables would always come out the 
bottom while you were eating it."  His eyes are looking past me, 
at some nondescript point in space.  There's a slight twinkle to 
his eyes, and I wonder if it's a happy memory.  "Well, mine would 
do that, but you always had some dainty way of eating yours so 
that it stayed together and wouldn't get oil and vinegar all over 
your hands.  You used to laugh at me, and I'd chase you around 
threatening to smear mayonnaise in your hair."  He fades out 
towards the end and drops his head.  He was never ashamed to let 
me see him cry, but he hated to do so in public.  I remembered 
that, too.

We're silent for a minute, both of us thinking about the past, 
about good, messy deli sandwiches.

We don't speak again until we're back at my apartment, both of us 
lost in memories.  He parks close to the building and turns off 
the ignition.  He expects me to react - to tell him thanks for 
dinner, but goodnight.  To tell him not to be so presumptuous.  I 
don't do anything, though.  I'm still lost in my head, lost in 
the past.

"Dana?"  He starts, hesitantly.  It takes me a long time to 
swivel my head around to his, and when I do, he continues.  "What 
ever happened to us?"

That's it: what I've been waiting for the entire night.  He wants 
to know why I did what I did, why I didn't tell him.  He wants to 
know what he did wrong and how he can fix it.

"It's late, Ethan.  I have work to do..."

"It's only 7:49, and you can do your work tomorrow.  I'm going 
home Tuesday and...I don't want to wait another eight years 
before I get to talk to you again."

"You said you'd call me.  You asked me not to call you and I 
didn't."

"I know...but I didn't know what to say.  What was I supposed to 
say, Dana?  I just didn't understand."

"If you didn't understand then, you won't understand now."  For 
the first time tonight, we make eye contact.  I see my anger and 
hurt reflected back at me, and I can't take it.  "Thank you for 
dinner," I say quickly as I get out of the car and start walking 
to my apartment.

I hear the car door slam as he gets out to follow me.  When he 
catches up, he grabs me by my arm and spins me around to face 
him.  "Don't you do this to me again, damn it!  I let you shut me 
out once and it cost me everything!  I'm not letting you do that 
to me again!"  His face is red and his eyes are brimming with 
tears.  His voice is raised; Ethan hardly ever raised his voice 
with me.

I drop my head and swallow against the sob in my throat.  After 
all this time, I wouldn't have thought that it would hurt so 
much.

He lets go of my arm and stands, panting, towering over me.  I 
turn back towards the door to my building and he follows me.  I 
want to tell him to go back to his hotel, back to Atlanta, but I 
can't.  I can't let him go without discussing this first, knowing 
how he feels about what happened, how he feels about me.  I need 
closure, if nothing else.  

Back in my apartment, I automatically start some coffee, avoiding 
him for as long as possible.  He goes into the bathroom and 
emerges a few minutes later with a damp shirt and bangs.  His 
eyelashes hold onto a few stubborn drops of water from where he 
tried to cool himself off, making them look darker and longer 
that they are.  He looks like a sulking, adorable little boy.

He stands behind me as I continue to prepare the coffee and 
begins what I know will be a long, emotional conversation.  His 
voice starts out soft and unassuming, but by the end, he's 
shouting and angry.  "I know that you didn't want to get 
pregnant.  I know that it was a huge shock and that the timing 
was horrible.  I know that you wanted what was best for your 
career and that a baby didn't fit into that.  But what I don't 
know is why you wouldn't tell me any of this.  We could've 
discussed our options instead of you making such a hasty - "

"What options?  There were no options, Ethan.  The baby would've 
died anyway if it had even been born.  Maybe I was doing us a 
favor."

"How can you say that?  How did you do us a favor?"

"By saving us the trauma of having a child only to lose it."  
Damn it.  I knew I would cry eventually, but we'd barely even 
begun to scratch the surface.  I'd never faced these feelings 
before.  Right after I was released from the hospital, I went 
back to work, back to Mulder and the X-Files, throwing myself 
into my job and turning my back on my emotions.  Without him 
there to force me, I'd separated from the pain until it seemed 
like it had never happened to me at all.  Now that he was back, 
Ethan was reuniting me with that pain, forcing me to face it.

"Dana...God doesn't do things without a reason.  He wanted us to 
have that child.  Maybe he was trying to tell us something."

"I don't even know that I believe in God anymore," I whisper more 
to myself than to him.

He's silent for a minute, shocked at my announcement.  "Dana, God 
wanted us to have that child the way He made it.  There was a 
reason for that, but you wouldn't see that - "

"What was the reason?  What could be so damn important that he 
gave us a horribly deformed child to show us?"

"Maybe he was trying to show us that that was the way it was 
supposed to be.  Us - you and me - together, raising a child, a 
family."  I'm stunned into silence - I'd never thought of it that 
way before.  "But you were only concerned with yourself," he 
whispers, now more sad and tired than angry.

I find my voice again.  He's not playing fair, digressing from 
the subject.  "Oh, and what exactly were you concerned with?  You 
didn't give a damn about me or what I wanted for my life!  You 
were too stuck on your fancy directing job to even notice that I 
worked my ass of for my reputation at Quantico.  That was all 
that I ever wanted and you didn't care!  You just expected me to 
give it all up for you and move to Atlanta!"

"It wasn't your life anymore, Dana.  It was our life.  And yes, I 
felt that I could make a better living for us in Atlanta working 
at CNN than in DC at some second rate local news station.  And 
you would've been better off at a hospital being a real doctor 
instead of being locked away cutting up dead people for a living.  
I was thinking of us, Dana, of our future, but you were too 
selfish to realize that.  Maybe that's what God was trying to 
show you!"

"All that God has ever shown me is how nothing I ever do is 
Goddamn right!  I can't ever do anything right!  It was my body, 
Ethan, and my baby.  I could do whatever the fuck I wanted to 
with it!  And I did!  I made a decision for myself - the best 
decision that there was and God has been punishing me ever since!  
So don't stand there and tell me that what I did was fucking 
wrong!  Don't stand there and tell me that you know what's best 
for me because you don't and you never did!"  My ears are buzzing 
and my heart is racing and my throat is throbbing from all of my 
yelling.  Tears are streaming down my face and I immediately 
regret everything that I've just said.  I've opened the door to 
his curiosity, and now he'll want answers.

My chest heaves as I pant and try to get myself back under 
control.  He approaches me, slowly, carefully.  "Dana...what do 
you mean God's been punishing you?"

I squeeze my eyes shut wishing that I didn't have to tell him 
this.  It will make him look right, and make me look like a fool.  
I take in a few deep breaths and feel my heart start to slow 
down.

"A few years ago I had a daughter.  She was very sick."  I pause 
to swallow, but don't look at Ethan's reaction.  "She had a very 
severe and rare form of anemia.  She..." I sob pitifully and will 
myself to finish this, to show him that not everything is about 
him.  "She died.  She was only three years old."

The sobs take over now, and Ethan puts his hands on my upper 
arms, soothing, rubbing.  "Dana..."

"I can't ever have any more children.  I'm infertile," comes out 
in a pitiful rush.  He sighs and keeps rubbing.  "Maybe that's 
God's way of punishing me," I whisper. 

I'm crying openly now, my voice thick with tears long unshed.  
Ethan says nothing, taking me in his arms and tunneling his 
fingers through my hair, slowly rubbing soft circles in my back.

"Her name...her name was Emily."  I add, hiccuping a few times 
before I finish.  He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, 
realizing why I became so upset last night when he mention his 
daughter, Emma.  He pulls me into his chest again, resting his 
chin at my temple.

"I'm so sorry, Dana," he whispers, and I sob harder.  Ethan says 
nothing more as I pound my fists in frustration against his 
chest, heaving and sobbing.  He lets me cry everything out, 
emptying my soul into him until finally, I relax into his arms in 
exhaustion, and he carries me to my bedroom, kissing my forehead 
and cheeks gently before I drift off to sleep.

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

I wake up with sticky, swollen eyes and a sore throat, but I'm 
warm - so warm.  I think for a moment that I'm dreaming - that 
someone has their arms around me, holding me close, keeping me 
warm.  It's safe and familiar, this feeling, though I haven't 
experienced it in years.  I missed it.

I slowly open my eyes to darkness.  I sigh contentedly and burrow 
further into the man in front of me.  It wasn't a dream; it was 
Ethan.  Of course, he stayed last night, not wanting to leave 
after my admission, with so many things left unsaid.  Maybe he 
just wanted to hold me as much as he knew I wanted to be held.

I turn my head around and look at the digital clock on my night 
stand - 2:14 am.  I sigh again and readjust myself in his arms.  
I know that I should get up, be angry with him for being so 
presumptuous, but I'm comfortable and content right where I am, 
and I want to enjoy this before he wakes up and we have to finish 
our conversation.

He's not in bed with me; we're laying on top of the bed together 
with a blanket thrown over us.  I notice that my feet are cold - 
he took my shoes off before he laid down.  I stick my feet 
between his calves and think about how considerate that was.  He 
could've just laid me on the bed and gone out to the couch, or 
just left completely.  But he didn't.  He stayed.

I close my eyes again, but I'm not sleepy - tired, but not 
sleepy.  I am thirsty, though.  I weigh my options: do I get up, 
disturbing my comfortable cocoon and probably waking Ethan, or do 
I lay here and be thirsty.  My throat feels like it was set on 
fire and then scratched with a Brillo Pad, and I know some cold 
water would make it feel better.

Ethan and I shouldn't be laying here like this anyway.

I slowly, carefully withdraw myself from his arms.  He shifts 
slightly, reaching for the blanket to make up for his lost 
warmth.  I pull the blanket back up to his chin and he shifts 
again, but doesn't wake.  I let out a breath I'd been holding and 
back slowly away from the bed.  In the darkness, I can barely 
make out my pajamas on the corner of the bed, and I quickly 
change into them.  I walk into the kitchen, greedily drink a 
glass of water, and wince as it hits my abused throat.  I had 
yelled at Ethan last night - screamed, really.  I don't know that 
I have ever been so angry, with him, with myself, with God, with 
everything and everyone for all of the injustices in my life.

I had told Ethan that I blamed God for them, that He was trying 
to punish me.  I believed it in my overly-emotional state, though 
now I'm not so sure that it was the truth.  If one wanted to get 
technical about it, everything was Mulder's fault.

But I can't blame Mulder for the way that I've reacted to 
everything that's happened to me.  I was responsible for my 
feelings and how I had let them affect my life. 

I straighten the kitchen, pouring out the coffee that we didn't 
drink last night, washing the pot, and placing it back in the 
coffee maker.  I wipe off the counter and rinse out the dishrag.  
Then, I stand in the middle of my dark kitchen, looking at 
everything around me, seeing nothing.

I walk to the couch and contemplate laying down.  If I fall 
asleep, I don't want Ethan to find me here and get the wrong 
impression about me waking up with him, then coming out here to 
sleep.  I appreciated what he did, I just don't want to talk to 
him in the daylight.

I know that if I go back to my bedroom, I'll certainly wake him 
up when I lay down, so I choose to lay down on the couch and pull 
the blanket down over me.  I shiver, though I'm not cold.  Not on 
the outside, anyway.  I pull the blanket tightly around me and 
close my eyes.  I try not to think of anything, to just be still 
for a while, but instead I find myself thinking of what my life 
would have been like if I'd kept the baby, married Ethan, and 
moved to Atlanta.

I know that the baby would've died - there was no doubt in my 
mind.  But I could've told Ethan about our son and we could've 
made a decision together like he'd wanted.  Knowing the Church's 
stance on abortion, we would've decided to keep it and let God's 
will be done.  Then we would've told our families knowing that I 
would be showing by our wedding day.  His parents, while devout 
Catholics, loved their son regardless of his misgivings.  They 
knew that we had sex and while they didn't necessarily approve, 
they didn't scold or criticize either.  They accepted him, and 
they would've accepted our son and me as well.

My parents would've been more of a challenge.  My father would've 
been angry, blaming me for "letting this happen."  As I had told 
Mulder, my father still thought I was a virgin when he died, and 
would never had conceived that his baby girl, his Starbuck, 
would've fornicated and conceived a child out of wedlock.  My 
mother would've publicly told him to calm down, but in private 
would've agreed with him.  She would've told me that she was 
disappointed in me for not being responsible.  She would've 
politely turned her head when I entered the room with a swollen 
stomach, and would've been horribly embarrassed that her 
rational, practical daughter would be the one to get pregnant.  
She would've calmly explained to Father McCue why I needed 
counseling and confession, and why Ethan and I shouldn't have a 
public wedding, but a private, just-the-immediate-family service.  
When the baby was born sick and deformed, my parents would've 
told me that it was God's punishment for my sins.  If I would've 
had a miscarriage and bled to death, God would've decided that I 
wasn't worthy of life if my innocent child couldn't have it 
either.  They would not have seen my death as a tragedy. (Do you 
really think her family would be this harsh?)

Ethan and I would have buried our first child in Atlanta.  I 
would've been working at a hospital then, and may have decided to 
go back to school to change my specialty - to pediatrics, maybe.  
Ethan wanted me to work on the living.

He probably would've wanted to start having children immediately, 
having had and loved a brief taste of fatherhood.  I would've 
agreed, though I doubt that I would've been emotionally ready to 
deal with another pregnancy, another child.  I would've gotten 
pregnant again soon after and would've wanted to continue school 
as long as possible, which Ethan would've disagreed with.  We 
would fight, and in the end, I would've stopped going to school 
until after the baby was born.  I would've stayed home without a 
job, perfecting my June Cleaver routine, cleaning house every 
week, making sure supper was on the table when Ethan got home at 
night, and going quietly insane.

After the baby came, his parents would congratulate us on our 
lovely, perfect child.  My parents would shake their heads and 
pray that God didn't use this innocent to teach me yet another 
lesson.

Ethan would've told me shortly after the birth that he wanted me 
to stay home with our child instead of going back to school.  He 
would've hated the idea of a baby sitter or daycare, so I 
would've agreed to sacrifice my life, my wishes, to cater to his.  
It would've been easier than fighting with him.  If I'd have 
fought him on everything we disagreed on, we would've fought 
constantly.  We would've gotten divorced, and my parents would've 
disowned me.  It was just easier to give in to him.

About a year after the first healthy child, he would've wanted a 
second.  I would've given in again.

He would've convinced me, years later, to continue not to work, 
to instead be involved in our children's lives by volunteering at 
their school, being "room mom."

At night, he would sleep curled up to my back, and I would cry 
quietly, thinking about how much I had sacrificed to him.  My 
intelligence, years of hard work in college and medical school, 
my body, my life - all to his ideals of how our life should be.  
I would still love him and my children very much, but I wouldn't 
have been happy.

I would lay awake and wonder about what my life would've been 
like if I'd never told Ethan about our first son, married him, 
and quit the FBI.

I never would've met Mulder, but I would have Melissa.

I would have those three months that They took from me.

Emily would never have been created, and she never would have 
suffered what They did to her.

I would have the ability to have children, whether I chose to or 
not.

I would have companionship and love.

I wouldn't be so empty and alone.

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

I must've fallen asleep, because my next conscious thought is of 
smelling coffee and hearing water running.

When I peak over the top of the couch, I see Ethan's bare back 
and jean-clad legs standing at my sink.  He'd gained weight, 
though not much.  He wears it well, and for the first time in 
almost eight years, I feel a kindling of attraction and desire 
towards him.

I lay my head back down and close my eyes, wondering what the 
next step will be.  Obviously, he didn't misinterpret me moving 
to the couch, because he's still here, fresh from the shower, 
making us coffee.  Everything - mugs, spoons, and cream - is 
still in the same place it was when he left.  For a second, it's 
almost like nothing has changed at all.

I hear the water stop and then him pouring coffee into mugs, 
adding two spoonfuls of creamer to mine, and one spoon of sugar 
and creamer each into his.  Then, his bare feet squeak and then 
shuffle against the floor as he walks from the linoleum kitchen 
to the carpeted living room to stand at the end of the couch.  He 
hesitates, then sets the mugs down on the coffee table and 
carefully sits down on the edge of the cushion and puts his hand 
on my hip, shaking gently.  "Dana..." he whispers.

I sigh inwardly and open my eyes, blinking sleepily.  His blond 
hair is still wet, looking dark brown, matching his eyes.  I had 
forgotten how beautiful he looks like this.

"What're you doing out here?" he asks gently.

"Mmm...I got up to get some water and was afraid I would wake 
you."

"I missed you."

I close my eyes again and think about that phrase.  I've been 
thinking the same thing a lot in the past thirty-six hours.

After an uncomfortable beat of silence, he says softly, "I made 
you some coffee."

I sit up, pulling the blanket with me, and take the mug he 
offers, tasting it and smiling.  It's perfect - just how I like 
it.

"What?" he asks of my smile.

"This...coffee.  You remembered how I take it."

"Oh."  We're silent again, sipping the hot coffee and trying not 
to stare at each other.  "I hope you're not angry about last 
night.  That I stayed with you."

"No.  No, it was...it's fine."  I answer, a little wary of where 
the conversation is going.

"Dana, I had no idea about your daughter.  I'm sorry, I just - "

"It's okay.  There's a lot more to the story than what I told 
you.  I'm sure it would make more sense if I explained everything 
to you, but..."  I hesitate, hoping he'll take the hint.

"You don't have to.  It's really none of my business, I guess."  
More uncomfortable silence.  Then, "So, do you usually go to Mass 
on Sundays?"

"No, not usually.  Only when my mother nags me into it."  We both 
laugh a little halfheartedly.  He remembers how pushy my mother 
can be about things like that.

"I've been making more of an effort to go lately.  After 
everything that happened with Michelle, I sought comfort in the 
church.  And it's good for Emma."

"Michelle's your ex-wife?"

"Yeah."  He's walking on eggshells, not knowing how emotional I 
am now.  He doesn't know that last night isn't usual for me.  In 
fact, I can't remember the last time I actually allowed myself to 
wallow in my self-pity like that.

I know that he wants me to ask him to go to church this morning.  
That, unfortunately, would require my mother to actually know 
that Ethan and I were speaking again, which would give her 
something else to nag me about.

"Do you still go to St. John's in Alexandria?" he asks, still 
fishing for his invite.

"Yeah."

"Father McCue still there?"

"Yup."

He sighs and smirks at another memory.  "Remember how excited he 
was the day that he announced our engagement to the 
congregation?"

I nod my head and look at my lap.  Ethan never was tactful, and 
he wasn't above inviting himself when I wouldn't take the bait.

"Do you think maybe we could go?"

"Ethan..."  I sigh and roll my eyes under my eyelids.  "I haven't 
been in such a long time.  I'm not quite as...devout as I used to 
be."

"Well, then maybe it would be good for you."

I nod again, though I don't agree.  "We'd probably see my 
mother."  I say quietly, hoping parental involvement might 
discourage him.

"That's okay; I'd love to see her."

Great.  At least one of us is excited.  If I said no to him, he'd 
get angry.  Then we'd argue some more and he'd leave.  I couldn't 
stand it if he left now, not after last night.  And it wouldn't 
kill me to go to Mass with him.  Maybe we would get there late 
and have to take seats near the back, then leave right after it 
ended.  Maybe my mother wouldn't see us.

But Father McCue would.  Ethan wouldn't let us leave before the 
end, until Father McCue exits, walking down the aisles towards 
the door, shaking hands and nodding hellos.  He would see us, and 
he would corner us after the service was over to talk.  My mother 
would notice the three of us and I would never hear the end of 
it.

I nod again and raise my head to look at the smile on his face.  
I had forgotten how that smile looked on him, and how it felt to 
know that I put it there.

"Great!  How 'bout I go back to my hotel to change and pick you 
up about 8:45?"

"Okay."  I say softly.

"All right."  He stands up and says, "see you in a bit," as he 
leans down and kisses my forehead.  When he pulls back, he's 
still smiling, and to my surprise, so am I.

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

Of course, I was right about Father McCue wanting to talk to us, 
wanting to know what went wrong.  Ethan simply said, "We decided 
that it wasn't a good time to make such a strong commitment," and 
Father McCue said nothing else.

My mother, after spotting us and exchanging confused and happy 
looks with Father McCue, asked if she could take Ethan and me out 
to lunch.  Ethan immediately said yes and didn't even notice my 
hesitant nod.

At the restaurant, while Ethan was in the restroom, my mother 
asked if my "plans" last night had been with him.  I nodded and 
she beamed.

When he returned, my mother asked us if we could go back home 
with her for a few hours, "to talk."  Ethan started to say yes, 
but I interrupted saying that I had some work to do at home and 
that we wouldn't have time.  They both looked at me as if I had 
said it in Gaelic, then Ethan said that he had some work to do as 
well, though less than enthusiastically than I had.

Back at my apartment, I stopped him before he was able to cut off 
the ignition.  "Ethan, I really do have a lot of work to do this 
afternoon.  That wasn't just an excuse."

"Oh..." he gives me a sad look and I close my eyes, willing 
myself not to give in to him.  "I won't stay long," he says 
quickly, then cuts the car off and gets out.  I have no choice 
but to follow him.

"So, exactly what kind of work do you have to do?" he asks when 
we're settled upstairs.

"I have to finish an expense report."

"Ooh, I can see why you were so excited to get back to it," he 
says teasingly, and I smile back.

"Well, usually, I finish them on Fridays, but someone interrupted 
me."

"Oh.  Sorry."  He doesn't mean it.  "I really have work to do, 
too, though nothing as interesting as an expense report, so..."  
He's about to leave; this is a crucial moment.  "It was nice 
going to Mass with you.  Kinda like old times, huh?"

"Yeah," I answer, not knowing what else to say.  It was just like 
old times, and that's the problem: I just wish I knew if that was 
good or bad.

"Well," he looks down, unsure how to continue.  "I know you have 
to go to work tomorrow..."

"Yeah."

"Do you think we could have lunch?"

"Sure, I guess."

"Great!  Can I meet you at the FBI building or will they not let 
me in?"

"No, they won't let someone who doesn't have security clearance 
in,"  I lie.  I don't want Mulder asking any questions.

He laughs stiltedly, then says, "So, how 'bout we meet 
somewhere?"

I nod, and he asks, "Know of anyplace good?"

"Well, the Hard Rock Cafe is just across the street from Hoover, 
so..."

"Perfect!  Is 12:00 okay?"

"Yeah, that's fine."  I say, almost looking forward to it 
already.

"Okay.  Well, I guess I'll see you then."  I nod and he catches 
my eyes and holds them with his.  He leans down and strokes my 
face and hair with on of his hands, puts the other on the back of 
my head, cupping it.  Then he gently brushes his lips against my 
cheek, just under my eye.  He pulls back slightly and his eyes 
are open wide, his pupils dilated slightly.  I can feel myself 
quivering, and I give him a weak, half-smile.  He leans in again 
and brushes his lips over mine for a brief second.  Then he pulls 
back, still keeping his hands where they were.  "I'll see you 
tomorrow," he whispers close to my ear.  I nod, and he turns and 
walks quietly out the door, glancing back and smiling just before 
he closes it.

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

"Scully...Scully..." he shakes my shoulder and I jump in my 
chair.

"Jesus, Mulder."  I say, slightly annoyed.

"You've been kinda spacey all day...is anything wrong?"

"Hmm?"  I was proof-reading a report he had written before we 
have to turn it into Skinner, and although it was only a few 
pages long, it had taken me most of the morning to get through 
it.  I was having trouble concentrating, and I guess I forgot to 
ask "how high" when Mulder said "jump."

"I've been trying to get your attention.  I didn't mean to scare 
you."

"It's okay.  I don't know what's wrong with me," I lie.

"You sure?  Nothing you want to talk about?"  He's giving me his 
patented kicked puppy look, the one that begs me to let him in, 
to tell him what I'm thinking.

"No, I'm fine," I lie again.  Actually, I'm nervous as hell.

"Okay," he says softly.  He gathers his suit coat from the back 
of his chair and announces, "It's lunch time.  Your turn to 
pick."

Oh, shit...  "Uh, actually, I have plans," I say, not looking up.

He hesitates for a minute before asking, "Plans, huh?  Anything 
interesting?"

"No.  Just a...a friend in town for a few days."

"Ahh...okay.  Well, have fun."  Then, to my utter amazement, he 
walks out the door, as if this isn't maybe the fourth time in 
almost eight years that we've not had lunch together, like I have 
"plans" all the time.

Maybe he just doesn't give a damn.

I put my computer into sleep mode and leave the office, locking 
the door behind me.  I glance at my watch, wondering if I have 
time to stop by the restroom.  Nope, 12:10 already.  I'll bet 
Ethan's already got us a table and ordered my drink.

When I arrive at the Hard Rock Cafe, I realize I'm wrong.  The 
hostess hadn't seen a 6'2" blond-haired-brown-eyed man waiting 
for someone matching my description.  I go ahead and get us a 
table, since they're crowded, and wait for him.  Whatever he's 
doing at his conference must've run late, or maybe he got stuck 
in traffic, or maybe he just decided that this was a bad idea, or 
something.

I'm sipping my water, watching the condensation collect on his 
glass of coke when I see him approaching me.  He has a huge smile 
on his face, and I wonder if it's because of me or because he's 
free of conference-boredom.

"Hey!"  He says merrily, and bends down to kiss my cheek.

"Hey," I say back, smiling slightly myself.

"Sorry I'm late.  The presentation I was forced to listen ran 
over."

"It's okay, I was a few minutes late myself."

"More expense reports?"

"No.  No, I was reading a report one last time before we turned 
it in."

He "hmms" in the back of his throat and picks up a menu.  "So, 
what's good here?"

"You've never been here before?  Isn't there one of these in 
Atlanta?"

"Yeah, but once you've had The Varsity, you never go back," he 
says, looking at me over his menu and grinning mischievously.

"What's The Varsity?"

He feigns shock and says, "Only the world's largest drive-in."  

"And I'm supposed to know what you're talking about?"

He laughs.  "No, but I go there for lunch just about every day."

This was easy, conversing with him, joking with him.  We were 
acting like two good friends, or maybe a slightly cautious, 
flirtatious couple, having a normal, casual lunch together.  I 
nod and we go back to perusing our menus.  

"What're you getting?"  he asks absently.

"Well, I should get the salad, but Mulder and I had lunch here a 
few times and he converted me to the cheeseburger."

"Sounds good to me," he says, abruptly putting down his menu to 
stare at me.  I pretend to be interested in the desserts.  

We're silent until our waiter comes and takes our orders.  After 
he leaves, Ethan says nervously, "So, what about tonight?"

I take a sip of water and think.  "Tonight?"

"Yeah.  I'm going home tomorrow, but..." he pauses.  "I've 
enjoyed these last couple of days with you.  I'll miss you."

I exhale a little too forcefully.  I want to ask why, if he 
missed me so much, he didn't call me all these years.  Instead, I 
look him in the eye and tell him the truth.  "I'll miss you too."

He nods.  "So, maybe we could have dinner tonight?"

"Sure.  I'd like that."

He nods again and we stare at each other for a while.  I feel it 
again: that inkling of desire and passion I didn't know I still 
had for him.  Maybe it's just the fact that he obviously feels 
the same that's making me feel this way.  Its not everyday that 
I'm looked at as a woman, an object of desire; not everyday that 
I'm made to feel wanted, special.

I smile slightly at the thought of this and he grins.  "So, how 
was work?"  he asks.

"Boring, today.  We were writing that report all morning, 
researching for our next case."

"No shooting bad guys?" he smirks.

"No, most of a field agent's job is spent behind a desk."

"I can't imagine that you'd like a job like that," he says, 
shaking his head.

"Well, Mulder and I spend a lot more time in the field than most 
agents.  It's really rare that we're stuck in the office all 
day."

"Chasing aliens and ghosts?"

He laughs and I'm infuriated.  How dare he make fun of my work -  
Mulder's work.  "No.  Is that what you think I do?"

He notices my change in demeanor and says quickly, "No, Dana, of 
course not.  It was just a joke."  I nod, not totally believing 
him.  "I just...remember that thing with Mulder and the Iowa 
Congressman..."

Okay, I overreacted.  I think after all the shit I've put up with 
from other agents who are just jealous of our 75% solve rate, I'm 
entitled.  "It's okay, Ethan.  I know, you didn't mean it to 
be...derogatory."

He smiles again and it infects me.  Our waiter brings our food 
and we eat, grinning at each other like teenagers on their first 
date.

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

"Must've been some lunch,"  Mulder says as I walk into the office 
27 minutes late.  His eyes follow me as I hang my head, trying to 
hide my blush, take a seat at my workstation that isn't a desk, 
and awaken my computer.

When I don't say anything in response, he asks, "So, was this 
lunch a lunch date?"

"You could say that,"  I answer, intentionally vague.

"With a guy?"

I shoot him a look.  "Yes, Mulder.  With a guy."

"Cute guy?"  Another look as I try not to laugh.  "Hey, I gotta 
make sure you aren't slipping."

"He's...reasonably attractive."

Mulder nods, suddenly very serious.  "So, how long is he in town 
for?"

"He's leaving tomorrow."

"Oh!"  He jumps up from his reclined-feet-on-desk-posture, sudden 
seriousness gone, and slaps some picture in front of me.  "What 
does that look like to you, Scully?"

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

"Hello?"

"Dana, hey, its me."

"Ethan, hey..." He's not backing out on dinner, is he?

"Listen, I'm really sorry, but this meeting that I'm about to go 
into, it's supposed to last until 7:00.  There was a typo on the 
schedule, I though it ended at 6:00.  I won't be able to make 
dinner.  I'm sorry."

I can tell he really is sorry, but it hurts none-the-less.  
"That's okay, it's not your fault."

"I know, but I was looking forward to it.  I really wanted to see 
you again."

I wanted to see you again, too.  "Well, um...why don't you just 
come over here when your meeting is finished?  We could order a 
pizza or something."

"I probably won't get out there 'til 7:45; are you sure?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine!"

A beat of silence, then, "Well, I'll call you before I leave so 
you can order it, okay?"

"Okay."

"'Kay...bye."  Wow, a man who actually says "bye" on the 
telephone.

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

"You've got good timing.  I met the pizza guy on the way up," he 
says as he breezes into my apartment, a spicy, mouthwatering 
scent surrounding him.

"I was going to pay for it tonight."

"It's okay."  He sets the pizza down on the kitchen table and 
kisses me on my cheek.  "I'm starved; let's eat."

During dinner, we talk about our days.  Ethan's was appropriately 
boring while mine wasn't much better.  Contrary to what Mulder 
had thought, the ectoplasm in the photos turned out to be lime 
green Jell-O that had been frozen, then thawed, and thrown on a 
wall, according to the lab techs and the twelve year old who 
admitted to perpetrating said "crime."

Afterwards, Ethan asked me a question that I hadn't been prepared 
for.  "Dana, are you happy?"

"What?"

"Are you happy?  With your life, your job..."

Was I?  I didn't know.  I hesitate before answering warily.  "I 
guess.  My job isn't exactly perfect, but I don't hate it, 
either.  I don't dread going to work every morning.  I enjoy 
working with Mulder and making a difference in the world.  I 
guess I'm happy."

"What about the rest of your life?"

"My work...is my life," I say sadly.  He looks at me as if that 
answer isn't acceptable, so I turn the tables.  "Are you?"

He sighs and looks at the floor.  "After Michelle and I divorced, 
I started asking myself that.  I honestly can't say that I was - 
if I was happy before...happier than I am now."

I nod, encouraging him to continue.  "When Michelle left, I felt 
like I had lost everything.  Nothing seemed to matter anymore and 
I wondered what I was supposed to do without her.  But then her 
lawyer contacted me saying she was going to ask for full custody 
of Emma after the divorce and I suddenly realized what truly 
mattered to me.

"I fought her with everything I had.  I told her I'd give her 
anything she wanted if she didn't take my little girl away from 
me.  At first, the judge gave us joint custody, but Michelle 
would always keep Emma longer than she was supposed to, promising 
to return her to me at certain times and never following through.  
We went back to court and I got full custody of her.  Now she 
hardly ever sees her mother.  Michelle didn't want Emma, she just 
wanted to hurt me."

He's trying not to cry although I know this is hard for him to 
talk about.  "Where is she while you're in DC?"

"With my parents.  They moved to Atlanta a few years ago."  He 
pauses, then continues.  "One of the things that I wondered 
through all of this was what I had done to deserve it.  I did a 
lot of soul searching and a lot of praying and I realized that I 
was missing a lot of crucial things in my life.  Things I had 
given up on that maybe I shouldn't have."  He looks me straight 
in the eyes, then.  "Like us."

I draw in a sharp breath and sit perfectly still.  "Dana, I know 
that I hurt you when I left you like I did, but I don't think 
that you could ever know how much you hurt me."

I nod, now fighting back tears as well.  "I know...it hurt me, 
too.  What I did...and then you leaving..."

"And I'm sorry that I left you.  I...for the longest time, I 
thought I had done the right thing.  You obviously weren't ready 
to get married and I shouldn't have tried to force you...but now, 
I think that it was a mistake - to just...leave."

A tear slips down my cheek and he reaches over to brush it off.  
"I'm leaving tomorrow and I don't know when I'll be back; if I'll 
be back.  But if you tell me to, I'll make sure I come back."

I sit up on my knees, lean across the middle cushion of the 
couch, and place my hands on his shoulders.  Slowly, I move 
towards his lips with mine and touch them lightly.  He doesn't 
pull away.  After a few seconds, I open my mouth and we kiss in 
earnest, teasing each other's tongues and slanting our mouths to 
increase contact.  It's dizzying - this feeling.  I can feel his 
desire rolling off of him in waves, and I know he can sense mine 
as well.  If I tell him to, he'll stay.  Not forever, but just 
for tonight.  It may just be enough for now.

"Stay."  I gasp when we separate.  He responds by crushing his 
mouth against mine again, wrapping his arms around me tightly, 
and pulling me towards him.

My last coherent thought as he's carrying me into my bedroom, my 
legs wrapped around his waist, is that tonight will be enough.  I 
will make it enough - for both of us.

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

Feedback time!  Lil_gusty@hotmail.com.

Signs From God (2/3)
Headers in Part 1

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

As I lay in the cool morning air, enjoying the feel of my crisp 
sheets against my body and the warmth of Ethan pressed against my 
back, I wonder if I was wrong, if this is how my life with him 
would've turned out: making frenzied, passionate love until three 
a.m., then passing out spooned together in the center of our big 
bed.  This is what I would've wanted - to be held and loved and 
cherished, like he's doing now.

I slowly run my hands over his lightly furred arms, strong and 
safe around my waist.  Enjoying the feel of his skin against 
mine, touching me everywhere, I sigh and burrow back into him 
even more.  Yes, this is all I've ever wanted.

"You awake?"  he whispers behind my ear, and I smile.  For a 
moment, I just want to lay here a bit longer and pretend that 
we're the only two people in the world.  Maybe we would talk 
about trying to have a child, our first child.  It would be a 
mutual decision, a product of our love.

I nod without speaking, not wanting to break the spell.  I wonder 
if he feels it too, and wants to preserve this feeling as long as 
possible.

"You didn't sleep much," he whispers again, nuzzling that tender 
spot just behind the lobe of my ear.

I shake my head in response and squeeze my eyes shut tighter.  
Maybe I wouldn't have to be at the hospital until this afternoon, 
and Ethan wouldn't have to be at work until later in the morning, 
and we could stay just like this for hours, building up our 
energy to make love again and again and again.

I feel his leg, warm and heavy, slide down over mine and curl 
around them.  I playfully try and release my legs from the prison 
of his, but he holds strong, both of us smiling in the darkness.  
"Mmm...what time do you have to get up for work?"

That's it - the spell is finally broken and reality crashes into 
me so hard that I want to cry with the injustice of it.  I say 
nothing, willing Ethan to end the conversation and lay here in 
silence with me for just a few more minutes.

"Dana..."  he tries again.  I shake my head, not wanting to 
answer.  Instead, I roll to my back, forcing him on top of me.  I 
bring my arms up around his shoulders and blindly kiss him as 
close to his lips as I can get -  ah, success.

Too soon, he pulls away, shaking his head.  "My flight leaves at 
10:30; can you take me to the airport?"

I shake my head again, willing him to stop speaking, placing my 
finger over his lips and kissing his throat.  He groans and I 
have him - this is all I've ever wanted.

"Dana..." he says breathlessly as I kiss my way down his neck to 
his collar bone.  I shift my legs until I'm positioned under him, 
drawing my knees up as far as I can get them and locking my 
ankles at the top of his thighs.  "Don't do this again..."

I freeze where I am.  "What?" I whisper.

"You used to do this all the time."

Well, obviously.  You used to never complain about it.  "What?"  
I ask again, a little more forcefully.

"Use sex to try and distract me, to keep from talking to me."

Oh, that.  Yes, I used to seduce him so that we wouldn't have to 
discuss whatever he wanted us to.  I never thought he noticed the 
pattern.

I tuck my head just below his chin and hold back a sudden sob.  
Is it really so much to ask to be loved like this?

"One more time..."  I quietly say into his chest, running my 
fingers lightly up and down his rib cage, trying not to sound as 
pleading as I feel.

"Promise you'll talk to me later?"

"Yes."  Then his mouth is on mine, hard and demanding, and I hope 
this never ends.  Yes, this is all I've ever wanted.

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

"You never answered my question,"  he reminds me from his half-
dressed position on the foot of my bed, watching me dress.

"Hmm?"  This is so normal, so domestic.  Would it have been like 
this every morning?  One of us dressing while the other watched, 
silently asking them to crawl back in bed and forget about the 
rest of the world for just one day?  Or would one of us struggle 
to get the kids up and dressed for school while the other fixed 
coffee and a quick breakfast to share before we started our days?

"I guess you have to be at work at 9:00, but do you think that 
you could take me to the airport?"

Only in my happy little domestic world, my husband wouldn't be 
getting on a plane in a few hours, flying out of my life - again.  
I watch my fingers clumsily try to button my white blouse, not 
meeting his gaze in the mirror.  "No.  I have a meeting with the 
Assistant Director this morning."

"Oh."

I turn around as he takes my beige skirt off of its hanger and 
unzips the side.  "You can chase after suspects in this?"  he 
asks incredulously.

"If I had to, I could, but I don't anticipate having to do that 
today."  I sit down beside him and slowly roll my hose over my 
legs.  He watches me, mesmerized by what I'm doing...and probably 
aroused as well.  I stand and take my skirt from him, sliding it 
over my hips, tucking in my blouse, and zipping it up.  I'm 
standing right in front of him, facing him, and I notice the 
sudden large size of his pupils.

I hike up my skirt a little, situating myself on his lap, one leg 
on each side of him.  He locks his arms around me, supporting me, 
and I slide my nails from the tops of his shoulders down his 
stomach.  When I reach denim, he inhales sharply, closes his 
eyes, and tilts his head back slightly.  I  don't say anything.  
When he opens his eyes again, I just stare into them.

Suddenly, he looks down and takes a deep breath.  "I didn't know 
this would be so hard..."

"What?"  I whisper, lowering my lips to his ear, blindly fumbling 
for a button and zipper.

"Leaving again.  I don't want to leave..."  He pulls me into a 
fierce hug then, trying desperately not to cry.

"You could stay a little longer - "

"Emma's expecting me back today," he whispers hoarsely.

I sigh, trying to keep my emotions under control as well.  I knew 
that this would come.  I knew that he would leave me again, and I 
would be alone.  Maybe I shouldn't have allowed him back into my 
life so readily and quickly, only to lose him again.

"Dana?"  he whispers.

"Yes?"

"Do you still love me?"

I squeeze him tighter, not knowing what to say.  Before I can 
answer, he says strongly, voice laced with tears, "'Cause I still 
love you."

I rest my forehead on his shoulder.  "I don't want you to go,"  I 
whisper pitifully.

"You know I have to..."  He's silent for a minute, and I can feel 
his heartbeat underneath my eyes.  "But I want to know 
something."  I nod.  "I want to know if this was just a one-night 
thing.  I want to know if you still love me..."

I press my face further into him.  Last night wasn't about love 
for me.  Last night was about loneliness, desperation, wanting, 
feeling, pleasure...just about everything except love.  I didn't 
ask him to stay out of love.  I asked him to stay because I 
needed him to.  I needed to feel something besides emptiness for 
just one night.

"If you do, I will find a way to make this work, Dana.  I will 
find a way for this to last forever."

He's said the magic words and I believe them.  I nod again, still 
not knowing what to say or what to feel.  Maybe its simple: right 
now, I feel loved.  When he leaves, I'll feel empty, alone, and 
worthless.

"Yes,"  I whisper, not really knowing what I'm agreeing to, if 
it's the truth or not, or if I even mean it.  I just know that I 
can't let this go again.

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

It took us another forty minutes to finish dressing and for me to 
choke down some orange juice.  Ethan decided that, while I 
finished getting ready, he would toast us a bagel.  I couldn't 
eat my half though, so he'd had to whole thing to himself.  Even 
with just the juice in my stomach, I felt queasy and feverish.  
If Ethan was feeling the same, he didn't show it.  He was 
nervous, but it was probably pre-flight jitters.  He wasn't 
feeling the same things I was; he had someone waiting for him at 
home, someone who cared whether he lived or died, whether he ever 
returned or not.  I had nothing. 

"Here - this is fine.  This is as close to the building as 
they'll let you."  He pulls the car into a lucky parallel parking 
space near Hoover.  He insisted on driving me to work and against 
my better judgment, I let him.  I should've said no, that I would 
drive myself, said goodbye to him at my apartment and used the 
trip to Hoover to reign in my emotions before having to face 
Mulder...and the Gossip Queen Kimberly and Skinner and our 
meeting.

We sit in silence, me staring at the traffic, Ethan staring at 
me.  "You should get going.  You don't know what traffic will be 
like, if there'll be an accident - "

"You're babbling," he interrupts.

"It's true,"  I say, suddenly defensive.

"You trying to get rid of me?" he asks playfully.

"No...but I don't want you to miss your flight."  I whisper, 
tears threatening again.  Why did I do this to myself?

"Dana..."  he cups my face in his hand, brushing away the tear 
that's fallen from my left eye.

"No.  No, you should go..."  I swallow thickly and search for 
something to say to break to awkward tension in the car.  
"Emma...I know she misses you..."  He nods slightly.  "You should 
go, Ethan."

He nods again, not letting go of my face, trying to turn it 
towards him.  "I do love you, Dana."  I nod in response and he 
forcefully admonishes, "And I will find a way to make this work."

I realize that he never even asked if that's what I wanted, if I 
wanted him to "find a way to make this work."  I wonder exactly 
what he means by that.  If he plans to move to DC and for us to 
get married, or if he wants me to move to Atlanta, just like 
before.  "I have to go,"  I say quickly, stepping of out the car 
and slamming the door behind me before he could change my mind, 
before I could figure out just what I'd gotten myself into.

When I find a clearing in traffic, I cross the street, not 
looking behind me.  I feel his eyes on me as I disappear into a 
side entrance, quickly flashing my ID and rushing away, out of 
his line of vision.  I walk down the hall with my head down and 
my shoulders slightly slumped.  I reach the elevator and push the 
down button, summoning it to me.  While I wait, I glance out of a 
window and see his rental car just where he'd parked it.  He 
couldn't see me, but his gaze was still fixed to the building.  
For a few seconds, I pretend that I can see the expression on his 
face.  Then, he looks behind him, puts the car in gear, and pulls 
out onto the road, towards the airport, away from me.  The 
elevator dings announcing its arrival and I step inside, square 
my shoulders, and tilt my chin up high into the air.  One of the 
agents in front of me nods in recognition and punches the "B" 
button for me.  "B" for basement; basement for Mrs. Spooky.

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

Before going to our office, I stop by the restroom to make sure 
that my face isn't splotchy, that my eyes aren't puffy or red.  
It doesn't really matter if they are or not.  Mulder will know 
that something is wrong even without any physical evidence.  He's 
always been able to do that - to know that something is wrong no 
matter how adamantly I deny it or try to cover it up.  Sometimes 
it's a blessing, other times a curse.

The office door is open and yellow florescent light mixed in with 
white rays of morning sun spill out into the dim hallway, 
inviting me in, luring me home.  I step into the light, into the 
office in a hurry, not saying "good morning" or looking at him, 
making a bee-line towards my area that is not a desk.

Gee, that was subtle.  Mulder will never suspect a thing.

The Monday morning after Mulder's date with Alicia Wilder, I did 
the exact same thing, thinking that maybe if I entered quickly 
enough, he wouldn't notice that I'd come in at all.  Of course he 
did, although he didn't say anything more than a quiet "morning" 
to me.  We were silent for the rest of the morning, trying to 
avoid speaking to or looking at each other as much as possible.  
I was embarrassed about my behavior the previous day, and I 
suspected that Mulder felt the same way about his.  A casual 
conversation about a date he had with someone else had turned 
into a deep discussion about our futures.  We had both admitted 
more about ourselves that we had intended and were now unsure 
about how those admissions had affected the other.  I'm sure 
Mulder didn't understand everything I had said to him - how could 
he?  - and I couldn't figure out what he had meant by his last 
words to me.  I doubted that Mulder's aspirations for the rest of 
his life include spending it with me, but I was afraid to even 
ask for clarification.  So, we tiptoed around each other until 
lunch time, when Mulder sighed heavily, got up from his chair and 
came to stand over me as I absently typed something on my 
computer.  He started making me uncomfortable, so I looked up at 
him.  He had that half-apologetic, half-uncertain look on his 
face, the corners of his mouth were turned down, and his sad eyes 
had dark, puffy circles underneath them as if he hadn't slept 
last night.  "Lunch?"  he asked quietly, offering a truce.  I 
saved what I was working on, put my computer to sleep, and rose 
to follow him out of the office, neither of us speaking more than 
was necessary.

We had eventually regained our normalcy and now, it was hard to 
imagine that Sunday had ever even occurred.

Mulder never mentioned going out on another date with Alicia or 
anyone else, and I didn't know how I felt about that.

He gives me a glance as I sit down at my computer, but doesn't 
say anything immediately.  After a few minutes, he approaches my 
area, kneels down next to my chair and says, "Scully?"  I look at 
him with my "this better be good, I'm busy" look.  "Everything 
okay?"

"Yeah,"  I answer, turning back towards my screen.

From the corner of my eye, I see him give me his best "bull shit" 
look.  He rises and walks back to his desk, saying, "We should 
probably head on up to Skinner's office then."  He didn't believe 
my lie, and Mulder never gives up that easily.  He'll let it 
slide now, but he'll try again later. 

I nod and pick up my report, following him silently to the 
elevator.

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

By the time our meeting was over, it was almost lunch time, and 
Mulder and I silently decided to take an early lunch.  He doesn't 
waste any time trying to get me to talk.

"Scully?"

I look past him over my water glass then back down to the menu.

"You seem a little distant today."  Hmm...  chef's salad or the 
grilled chicken salad?  "Are you sure everything's okay?"

I nod, not looking up.

He angles his head, trying to see my eyes.  "This wouldn't have 
anything to do with your friend leaving today, would it?"

Damn his memory!  I look up then, stare at a spot just above his 
left shoulder, a slightly annoyed mask painted on my face.  I'm 
annoyed at the fact that he pays so much attention to me, knows 
me so well, and that I can't hide anything from him, even if I 
wanted to.

Which I don't.

He nods, knowing that he's hit the nail on the head.  "Has his 
flight already left?"

"Yeah."  Italian or honey mustard dressing? 

"Where does he live?"

"In Atlanta."

He nods and turns around, jokingly trying to see what I'm staring 
at.  He turns back and catches my eyes, a small, adorable smile 
on his face: his unspoken concern for my lack of eye contact.  He 
doesn't smile often enough.  It makes him look younger, more 
attractive, like he hadn't carried the world on his shoulders for 
over twenty five years.  "Well, that's not too far away.  Do you 
see him often?"

"No...no, I haven't seen him in eight years."

He nods again, desperately trying to keep me talking.  "And he 
just came to visit, out of the blue?"

"No.  He was in town for a conference."

He takes a sip of tea.  "Good friend?"

I suddenly get brave and rebellious.  "We used to be engaged."

Mulder coughs, choking on his tea.  Oh, good job, Dana.

He just stares at me, eyes wide and watering from coughing, mouth 
hanging open.  I smile slightly, not really feeling it, and stare 
at something over his shoulder again.

"Engaged?" he hesitantly asks after regaining his speaking 
capabilities.

I nod, not paying attention, wanting to stop this conversation.

"I never knew you were engaged," he says, sounding hurt and 
almost angry.

"Well, there's a lot about me that you don't know, Mulder."

He stares at me again, not quite believing all of this.  I'm not 
quite believing it, either.

"We've been working together almost eight years," he starts.  He 
does the math and continues, "So, you were engaged to him when we 
started working together?"

"Yup."

"I didn't know that...why didn't you ever tell me?"

"It wasn't important."  I say, knowing immediately that that 
wasn't enough of an answer for him.  "I didn't want to get 
married anyway..."  I finish quietly, cursing myself, cursing 
Mulder for being so easy to talk to.

He starts nodding again, then asks the million dollar question, 
with a slight tremor in his voice, "So...what happened?"

"I got pregnant and when I found out the baby was abnormal, I had 
an abortion."  I look him in the eyes then, anxious to see his 
response, and continue.  "I never even told him I was pregnant, 
but he managed to find out and he left me," I say loudly and 
quickly, giving him a look that said, "See, I told you there was 
a lot you didn't know about me."

He says nothing and stares at me.  It's getting uncomfortable, 
and I'm wondering why the hell our waitress doesn't come over and 
rescue me.

"Abnormal?"  He finally, breathlessly asks.

"Anencephaly: missing part of its brain.  It would've died 
anyway,"  I say flippantly, though I feel tears making a repeat 
performance.

"And he came to see you now, after all these years?"  I nod.  
"Why?"

"I don't know...he said he missed me."

"He missed you?"  He's beginning to sound a little depressed by 
all of this.  It's good to have some company.

"Yeah.  I guess I kinda missed him too."

Mulder squints his eyes and asks, sounding confused and 
desperate, "You guess?"

"I guess I just forgot how it feels to be loved and wanted.  Made 
to feel like you matter.  He made me feel like that, and I miss 
that feeling."  I hesitate, wondering how much I should confess 
to him.  "This weekend...brought back a lot of memories."

He opens his eyes wide, looking shocked, and stares at me in 
disbelief.  He looks me right in the eye and quietly, slowly, 
vehemently says, "You matter, Scully."

I look down and nod.  "It's not the same though," I whisper.

He opens his mouth to protest, but thankfully, our waitress 
appears to take our orders and Mulder drops the conversation.  
After she leaves, he stares at me in silence, watching me 
carefully.  I busy myself arranging and rearranging my napkin on 
my lap.  Our food arrives a few silent minutes later, and I pick 
at my salad while Mulder stares nauseously at his sandwich.  

We return to work still not speaking.  I know that he's thinking 
about my little confession, wondering what he should say, if he 
should say anything at all.  I don't want him to say anything, 
though.  I'm too afraid of it.

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

"You have one new message."  <BEEP>

"Hi Dana...its me.  I was just calling to tell you that I made it 
back safely and <deep sigh> I'll try and call you later." 
<BEEP> 

"Tuesday, two-oh-four p.m..."

I longingly touch the speaker on my answering machine, trying to 
touch Ethan through the plastic.  I touch the same fingers to my 
lips and, for the fiftieth time today, stifle my tears.  

The computerized voice drones on as I make my way through my 
darkened apartment kicking my shoes into the living room and 
trying to strip off my hose as I walk to my bedroom.  Everything 
reminds me of him, I think as I hastily strip the newly 
christened sheets from my bed.  I take them to the washing 
machine, turn the water to hot, and put in way more detergent 
than is necessary.  They need to be clean.

Back in my bedroom, I change into my pajamas, take a detour to 
the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, then crawl in 
bed at 5:47 p.m.  

It's not like I have anyone to fix and eat dinner with.

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

The rest of the week passed quickly.  Mulder and I were again 
stuck in the basement doing paperwork, and I tried my best to act 
normal and not-depressed around him.  It would only concern him 
if I acted like I felt - empty and alone - so I pasted a non-
committal, "everything's fine" look on my face and studiously 
tried to ignore his piercing stares and almost-questions.

For his part, Mulder has succeeded in not pressing me for any 
more information about our lunch conversation on Tuesday.  I  
couldn't tell how he felt about my admission, if he was intrigued 
or repulsed or apathetic, and his blank stares didn't give 
anything away.  We only spoke to each other at work and then only 
about work-related things.  Apathy, I decided.

After going to bed so early on Tuesday, I had, surprisingly, 
fallen asleep almost immediately (probably because I hadn't 
gotten much sleep the night before, being too busy) and awoke at 
3:30, unable to fall asleep again.  I went to my closet and 
pulled out my year books from high school, gazing at the pictures 
of myself like I had never seen them before.  I reread all the 
signatures and messages from my friends - all of them claiming 
that we would be "friends forever," none of them I had spoken to 
since graduation.  I realized that I used to be so pretty, in my 
punk, Clash-fan way.  Underneath all that make-up and hair dye, I 
had really been wistfully beautiful.  I had been popular, too.  
Moving around a lot either taught you to be quiet and reserved or 
to be outgoing and easy to be friends with.  When we moved my 
eighth grade year, I changed from the former to the latter, 
desperate to have companionship.  I sold myself out to fit in 
with what was trendy at the time.  I pretended to be fearless.  I 
would go to parties and drink at fifteen, I would sleep with 
strangers at sixteen, and I would get high on marijuana at 
seventeen, all because that's what everyone else was doing.  All 
so I wouldn't be alone.

It carried over to college, where I was finally away from my 
mother and Bill, who took his roll as man-of-the-house a little 
too seriously.  I was free to do whatever I pleased and my family 
never had to know about it.

I tried LSD once and got so sick I was in the school infirmary 
for two days.  They called home - thankfully, Missy answered the 
call and deflected the concerned student nurses.  She never told 
anyone in the family about that.

In med school, I met Daniel and fell for him immediately.  At 
first, I don't think he paid much attention to me, but I was 
determined.  I pretended to mature - I dyed my hair back to its 
natural color, started dressing more conservatively, and tried my 
best to exude my sexuality through my transformed academic 
attitude.  It worked, but ten months later, when Daniel told me 
that he was ready to leave his wife and young daughter to spend 
the rest of his life with me, I was shocked and scared to death.  
I realized that sleeping my way around campus was dangerous - not 
just medically, but emotionally.  I broke off my relationship 
with Daniel and became determined to become more mature instead 
of just pretending.  I stopped going to parties and sleeping with 
strangers, binge drinking, and occasional highs.  A year later, I 
was recruited by the FBI.  I had a relapse of sorts, sleeping 
with Jack, my instructor and superior - definitely not encouraged 
by the Bureau.  We mutually decided to end our "relationship" 
after we saw what it was doing to our reputations.  Shortly after 
that, I met Ethan.

Sometime after that, my life had begun to pass me by without me 
even realizing it.  My youth, my beauty, everything was gone, and 
I felt withered, beaten, and abandoned.

Wednesday and Thursday night, I went to bed before eight o'clock, 
but didn't fall asleep until after midnight.  I didn't live, I 
existed.  Get up, get dressed, go to work, work, come home, go to 
bed.

I was already ready to make it four nights in a row on Friday 
when a Mulder-knock sounded at my door.  What the hell - it's 
only 6:45!

In my pajamas and bare feet, without make-up and my hair pulled 
back, I open the door a crack and stare out at him.  He has a 
pizza, a six-pack of beer, and a movie from Blockbuster.

We had been doing that a lot - watching movies at each other's 
apartments on Friday nights.  After the Alicia-episode, we just 
stopped.  Now, we've apparently started again.

"Hey.  Can I come in?  This pizza's kinda hot,"  He says quietly, 
grinning.

I don't say anything as I open the door, standing behind it as he 
walks to the kitchen.  He sets the pizza down on the counter and 
puts the beer in the refrigerator.  Then he looks at me and seems 
to notice for the first time that I'm ready for bed before seven 
p.m. on a Friday.  "You okay?"

I rub my eyes and nod, walking over to see what video he rented.

"I thought you needed some cheering up, so..."  Ah, "Monty Python 
and the Holy Grail."

I smile despite myself and look up at him, his soft eyes, his 
gorgeous, boyish grin.  Maybe I do need some cheering up.

I get us some plates and napkins, letting Mulder divide the pizza 
between us.  Pulling two beers from the fridge, I carry them to 
the living room, Mulder following me with our overloaded plates.  
Eat first - then movie.

We open our beers and clink the necks of the bottles - what we're 
toasting, I don't know.  "So..." he starts, taking a healthy bite 
of his pizza, inviting me to begin the conversation.

I nod, agreeing, taking a bite of my pizza as well, and decline 
his invitation.

"You're not always ready for bed this early.  You okay?"  he asks 
again, genuine concern lacing his words.

"Yeah...I just..."  I stop and stare at my pizza.

"Does this still have to do with what's-his-name leaving 
Tuesday?"

I sit still for a minute, again cursing Mulder for knowing me so 
well.  I nod, not looking up.

I'm either more transparent than I thought or Mulder has an 
uncanny ability to divine the true meaning of my words from my 
vague, elusive phrasing of Tuesday's lunch.  He knows, or at 
least suspects, what happened between Ethan and me Monday night.  
"Has he called?"

"Yeah.  He called Tuesday afternoon to say that he got home okay 
and said he'd call later."

"But he hasn't?"

"No.  Not yet."

Mulder's staring at the top of my head, willing me to look up at 
him.  I pick a sick-looking pepperoni off my piece of pizza.

"Scully," I look up then, slightly annoyed.  "I don't want to 
seem...nosy, but you've been moping around all week.  You won't 
talk to me...I don't know what to do."

I close my eyes and nod.  "There's really nothing to talk about," 
I whisper, knowing he doesn't believe it.  Neither do I.

He stares at me for a few seconds before deciding that, right 
now, I just don't want to talk.  "Well, maybe you'll talk to me 
after the killer rabbit, huh?"  he tries, and I give him a small 
smile for his effort.  He's nothing if not persistent.

We finish eating in silence.  As I put the rest of the pizza in 
the fridge, Mulder gets us two more beers and asks if I want 
popcorn.  I say no, and he rolls his eyes, saying something about 
how we need to watch our lovely figures.  I smile at him, and he 
smiles back.

I sit down on the couch while Mulder puts the tape in the VCR.  
He comes to sit beside me on the middle cushion, close enough so 
that his thigh is touching mine while remaining casual, 
accidental.  I realize how much I've missed this time with him.  
We don't discuss work - we talk about things that normal best 
friends would talk about; we can tell each other anything and 
everything without the other judging or condemning us.  It's 
comfortable and familiar, and I like it.  As the movie starts, 
Mulder picks up the remote to fast forward through the credits, 
just so I'll tell him to stop, that the credits are a part of the 
movie.

It would happen that the killer rabbit, my favorite part of the 
movie, is almost at the very end.  By the time they're 
deciphering the Aramaic, I'm trying to keep my head up and my 
eyes open - I'm not used to staying up so late.

Mulder slides a little closer to me and hesitantly puts his arm 
around me, and I gratefully lay my head on his shoulder, falling 
asleep almost immediately.  I feel him push a piece of hair off 
my cheek and behind my ear and lean down to softly kiss my 
forehead.  I sigh in contentment and burrow closer into his 
chest, closing my eyes for good.

"Hey,"  I hear some time later, feeling a slight poke at my 
cheek.  "You're not being a very good hostess."

"Mmmm..."  There it is again: that feeling of comfort and safety, 
of never wanting to move from this position ever again.  I press 
my face further into the warm, solid chest in to front of me and 
slide my arm around his waist, pulling him closer, not letting 
him get away.  His head dips down and his cheek rests against my 
hair; one arm tightens around my shoulders and back while the 
other holds my waist against him.  He takes a deep breath, 
content.  He never wants to move again either.  He'd pulled the 
blanket around us while I was sleeping, and I duck my head below 
the top of it, his head following, into the little cocoon of heat 
we've made.  His heart is just under my ear and I hear it 
drumming quickly, lulling me back into sleep.  

It takes me a minute to realize that it's Mulder, not Ethan, 
trying to get me to wake up.

"I know I'm tasty, Scully, but you don't need to pre-digest me.  
I'm not that tough," he whispers, laughing.  I open my eyes, 
wondering what he's talking about and then see the small dark 
spot on his shirt just below where my mouth is.  Shit!

I pull my head upright quickly.  "Oh, Mulder...I'm sorry,"  I say 
sleepily, horribly embarrassed.  I don't know what's more 
embarrassing: me mistaking my partner for my lover, or drooling 
on him.

My lover.  Is that what Ethan is now?  I have a lover?

"S'okay.  I guess I should be used to it by now."  He's grinning 
at me and my face suddenly gets hot wondering exactly how often 
I've done this and he just hasn't told me.  "Movie's over," he 
whispers.

He stares at me for a few seconds, looking deeply into my half-
closed eyes, then stands and pulls the rewound tape from the VCR, 
putting it back in its snug little case.

I start to curl up in the warm place he left on the couch, almost 
asleep again, when the phone rings.  I perk up, wondering if it's 
who I think it could be.

I lunge for the phone on the table behind my couch, putting my 
back to Mulder, putting him out of my mind.  "Hello?"  I ask 
breathlessly, anxiously.

"Dana, hey."  Oh, thank God.

"Hey."  I wonder if he can hear my smile.

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, no.  What's up?"  Why haven't you called sooner?  I missed 
you.  Did you miss me?  When are you coming back?

"Nothing.  I just...wanted to talk to you."

"Oh."  You missed me!

"How was your week?"

Lonely, cold, empty, horrible.  "Oh, okay, I guess.  How was 
yours?"

"Long.  I miss you," he says in a rush.

I know.  I close my eyes, feeling tears.  "I miss you too."

We listen to each other breathe for a minute before he says, 
hesitantly, "I was thinking that, maybe after Emma gets out of 
school, we could come visit, take a vacation up to see you."

Yes, yes, yes!  "Yeah!  I mean, it's fine.  I'd...I'd love to 
meet her."

"Good."  I hear girlish giggling and little footsteps in the back 
ground and Ethan tells their owners to stop running.  "Sorry, 
Dana.  Emma's having a slumber party, so I probably need to go."

"Sounds like fun,"  I say, trying to imagine what it would be 
like to host a little girl's party. 

"Yeah.  They want to paint my toenails, so I have to be careful."  
He laughs nervously, then, "I'll call you later, let you know 
when we'll be coming."

I picture myself surrounded by five-year-old girls with nail 
polish and grin.  I would let them paint my toenails any color 
they wanted.  "Okay, I'm looking forward to it."

"Me too."  A hesitation, then, "I love you," whispered.

I think for a moment.  If I don't tell him I love him, he may 
decide not to come.  He may decide that it's not worth involving 
Emma in this indefinable relationship we've developed.  "I love 
you too," I whisper back.

He sighs in relief.  "Goodnight."

"'Night."  Another hesitation, then, <click>.

I put the phone back, euphoric and giddy.  Then I turn around and 
see Mulder standing there, eye brows lowered, as if he's angry 
about something, with large, round eyes watching me warily.

I smile slightly, look away from him, sit down on the couch, and 
pull the blanket up over my legs.

"That him?"  He asks suspiciously.

"Yeah,"  I say wistfully, happier than I've been all week.

He nods, coming to stand right in front of me.  "Scully - "

"What?"  I ask, looking up and staring at him.

He swallows tightly and asks, "What'd he say?"

I give him an incredulous look, as if it's any of his business.

He sits down beside me.  "You've been depressed ever since he 
left and now, after a two-minute phone call from him, you're 
ecstatic."  I nod.  He stares at me, willing me to continue.

"He said that he wanted to talk to me and that he missed me."  
Mulder nods, still staring.  "Then he said that he wants to come 
back to DC for a vacation and bring his daughter."

He gapes.  "He has a daughter?"  He asks in disbelief.

"Yes.  She's just turned five...her name is Emma."  I wonder if 
he can hear my voice shaking as I say her name.

He nods again and looks away from me, suddenly a million miles 
away.  I know that look: he's thinking, absorbing this new 
information and processing it, deciding how he feels about it.  
"Emma?"  He finally manages to ask, and I nod in affirmation.

He's silent for a few minutes, still absorbing and processing.  
"Did you know that before you saw him again?"

"Know what?"

"That he had a five year old daughter named Emma?"

"No.  I didn't even know he'd been married," I say.

He nods again, this time looking me in the eyes.  "And he told 
you and then..."

I'm lost.  "Then what, Mulder?"

"He told you that he had a five year old daughter named Emma and 
then you sl - "  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, "You 
slept with him."

"There was a little more to it than that,"  I say angrily.

"Like what?"  He counters.

"Like..."  I search the air and ceiling for an answer.  "Like I 
told you at lunch the other day, he made me feel like I used to 
feel when we were engaged.  Like I was loved and desired and..."  
Mulder's staring at me, looking like he's about to vomit or cry.  
I shrug; what does he want me to say?

He looks away from me then and shakes his head.  "I guess I just 
don't understand," he says quietly.

"Understand what?"

"How he can just walk back into your life after an eight-year 
absence and pick up right where he left off."

I tilt my chin up defiantly.  "What does that mean?"

He sighs.  "I don't know, Scully.  I guess...I guess it just 
seems a little weird."

I nod, not really understanding but not knowing what else to do.

"And now he wants you to meet his daughter?"  I nod again.  
"That's kinda sudden."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's not good to have women in and out of her life like 
that."

My mouth falls open; I can't believe he just said that to me.  
"You don't think it's good to have women in and out of her life?  
What the hell are you talking about?"

"That's a big step, Scully, meeting his daughter."

"Ethan wouldn't even think of doing this unless he was serious 
about our relationship."

"Oh, now all of the sudden, there's a relationship?  Christ, you 
spent, what, three days with him?  That's a relationship?"

"I spent almost two years with him!  I was going to marry him - "

"Then why didn't you?"  he interrupts quietly.  Our conversation 
had progressively gotten louder, but his sudden softness draws my 
attention more than our yelling.

"I told you,"  I say after a minute of staring at him, "I lied to 
him."

"And he left you.  I understand that.  But why didn't he come 
back?"

My eyes get blurry and I look away, shaking my head.  "I don't 
know.  He asked me not to call him and said he would call me."

"And he never did?"

"No."

"Sounds familiar," he says to himself.

"But he did call!  He wants me back in his life!  He wants me in 
his daughter's life!  He - "

"But why, Scully?  Why now, after all these years?"

I open my mouth to answer but nothing comes out.  After all these 
years maybe he'd forgiven me.  Maybe he'd come to understand why 
I did what I did.  Maybe he'd realized that he still loved me.  
Tears slip down my cheeks when I realize that I really don't know 
why at all.

"Scully..."  Mulder whispers.  He puts his hand on my shoulder 
and I drop my head, not wanting him to see me cry, for him to see 
how vulnerable this has made me.  "I don't want to upset you.  I 
just want to make sure that you're doing this for the right 
reasons."

"What do you mean?"  I ask miserably.

"I know that you want a family and that you can't have one.  And 
I know that he can give you that family, that little girl that 
reminds you so much of Emily."

I nod, telling him that he's right -  about that, anyway.

"But I don't know why *he* wants this and neither do you.  That's 
what's bothering me: that we don't know his motives.  I don't 
want you to get hurt, Scully, and I know that you don't want to 
hurt that little girl.  Right?"

I nod again, feeling foolish and juvenile.

"You're moving way too fast; faster than I think you realize."

My breath hitches.  I'm trying my best not to burst into a tears, 
but I'm losing the battle.

Mulder silently tugs my shoulder towards him and I fall 
gratefully into his chest.  He rubs my back with one hand and 
pulls me closer to him with the other.  He says nothing.  That's 
one thing I've always appreciated about Mulder: when I do cry in 
front of him and he comforts me, he never says things that he 
doesn't believe just to make me feel better.  He knows that 
everything won't be okay, so he says nothing.

I wearily slide my arms around his waist, pulling the blanket 
with me.  I'm so cold all of the sudden.  "Scully," he whispers.

"What?"

"Did you tell him about Emily?"

I nod, not picking my head up from his chest.  "I told him the 
first night he was here, after he told me about Emma."

"How much did you tell him?"

"Just that I had a daughter who was very sick...who died...and 
that I couldn't have any more children."

He rests his chin on the top my head and I can feel his throat 
vibrate as he speaks.  "Scully, you said something to me the 
other day at lunch, and I want you to understand something."

I don't say anything or move.  I'm so exhausted.

"You said that he made you feel loved and wanted, and that he 
made you feel like you mattered.  And then I told you that you 
mattered and you said that it wasn't the same."  I open my eyes 
and stare into his T-shirt.  "Why isn't it the same?"

"I don't know,"  I say, feeling fresh tears approaching.

He holds me for another minute, then quietly says, "Scully, if 
you're lonely, if you ever feel like you just...don't matter, 
please remember that you will always matter to me.  And if you 
just want to sit with me and not talk, or if you want to talk, or 
if you just want me to hold you, please just let me know.  Don't 
feel so alone because you're not.  You'll always have me, however 
you want me."

"I know."

He presses his lips to the top of my head and squeezes me 
tighter.

"But it's still not the same."

"It can be," he whispers so quietly, I'm not sure that he said it 
at all.

I pull away from him suddenly and stand in front of the couch, 
crossing my arms over my chest, wrapping myself in the blanket 
for security.  "No, it can't,"  I say more forcefully than I 
intend.

He's surprised.  "Why not?"

"It just can't."  I scream that last syllable, wondering why he 
doesn't understand this.  I've already explained this to him 
once; why doesn't he get it?  I stare at my toes - they're so 
cold, they hurt.  I'm afraid that if I move, they'll just break 
off.

I raise my head slightly and notice Mulder staring at them too.  
Then, he stands in front of me, not touching, not speaking.  He 
sighs, then his feet shuffle over behind the couch, where I can't 
see them anymore.  I hear him open the door, hesitate, then walk 
out and quietly close the door behind him.

Tears threaten again, but I'm determined to make it to my bedroom 
before I let them fall.  I don't know why I'm worried about where 
I cry in my own apartment.  Its not like anyone will know - or 
care - where or why I cry.

It just doesn't matter.

It will, though, soon.  Ethan will come and bring Emma, and I'll 
take them around DC and show them all the monuments and museums.  
We'll have lunch together, then find an ice cream vendor for 
Emma.  She'll make a sticky mess of her cone, then run around the 
Mall trying to get away from Ethan as he tries to clean her up.  
Then while she's playing in the grass, Ethan and I will sit on 
one of the benches together, watching her.  Just like a real 
family.

People will think we're a real family.

I look at the clock.  It's almost eleven and I wonder if it's too 
late to call Ethan and find out when Emma gets out of school, how 
soon they can be here.  I wouldn't want to wake all those little 
girls, but I need to talk to him.  I need him.

No.  I don't need him.  I don't need anyone.  But I want him.  I 
want it to matter to him that I'm standing in the middle of my 
living room shivering from sorrow and cold and wanting him.

I take a step - my toes stay attached, so I carefully walk to my 
bedroom and crawl into bed with my blanket still wrapped around 
me.  If I pull it tight enough, maybe I can pretend its Ethan 
keeping me warm, keeping me company.

That's all I ever wanted.

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

Signs From God (3/3)
Headers in Part 1

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

Mulder called last Sunday night to tell me that we were leaving 
at five am on Monday for Montpelier, Vermont on a case: abduction 
and murder, with what looked to the local police like Satanic 
mutilation and carvings on the corpses.  This case was Mulder's 
cup of tea - ritualistic crimes - and my nightmare.  I spent the 
next eleven days in and out of an autopsy bay, trying, and 
failing to glean any bit of evidence from the bodies that 
couldn't speak for themselves.  When we finally solved the case 
and arrested the perpetrator, Mulder was exhilarated by another 
job well done, another killer behind bars, the world safe for 
humanity once again thanks to him...and his cute little sidekick 
who can work wonders with her scalpel, whose skin is pale from 
lack of exposure to the sun, whose hair smells perpetually like 
formaldehyde and death, and whose stock of lemon-scented Dawn 
desperately needs replenishing.

The whole time, Mulder barely even noticed my existence and only 
spoke to me to order me to perform another autopsy or to review 
one I had already completed.  Every time I tried to suggest an 
idea or theory about the crimes, I was basically yelled at for 
"not believing after all I'd seen" and made to feel like a 
bumbling rookie whose seasoned and skilled partner was only 
biding his time until he could return to Washington and rid 
himself of the annoyance.  I'll admit, I didn't really belong on 
the case.  The county coroner had already performed most of the 
autopsies before we arrived and, being old enough to be my 
father, didn't need my help in the least.  It would have been 
easier (and cheaper for the taxpayer) to have had the two newest 
murder victims shipped to Quantico where I could've examined them 
from the comfort of more familiar surroundings and without 
someone leaning over my shoulder asking me if I was sure that 
incision was straight.

Yes, I was exhausted, angry, and depressed by the time we 
returned almost two weeks after we'd left, and yes, I was 
contemplating why I continued to work with someone who was 
unappreciative of my skills and presence, the same as I had after 
many of the cases Mulder and I worked together over the years.  I  
used to think that Mulder would be better off without me, much 
more successful if I'd left.  Then, when I tried to leave, he'd 
had the nerve to tell me that I completed him, that he didn't 
know if he could do it alone, or if he wanted to.  The words were 
sobering, and him on the verge of tears while saying them made me 
believe him.  My renewed sense of purpose lasted all of two 
months before Mulder started treating me like another piece of 
luggage and I began questioning myself again.

He drops me off at my apartment just like usual.  Pulling up in 
front of the building, he puts the car in park and looks at me.  
"Home sweet home," he says with a smile.  I don't return it and 
slowly, achingly, release my seat belt and reach for the door 
handle.  It's locked - the doors lock automatically when the car 
is put into drive, but don't unlock until the ignition is cut or 
someone unlocks them - and my hand hovers over the unlock button, 
wincing at the pressure that I have to put on this damn button 
just so I can open the damn door.  Damn.

"Scully,"  he says and I turn back with a grimace on my face.  
"Thank you."

Oh, now he's thanking me for doing my job?  Just who the hell 
does he think he is?  "For what?"  I ask angrily.  I just want to 
go take a shower and scrub off a few layers of skin, then crawl 
in bed until the next century.

"For putting up with me.  I  know I can be a pain in the ass 
sometimes, and I just want you to know that I appreciate it."

"That's the understatement of the year,"  I snap, getting out of 
the car and slamming the door to punctuate my frustration.  I 
walk to the back of the car and wait for him to pop the trunk so 
I can get my bags out.  When he doesn't, I knock on the trunk, 
wondering if he'd forgotten about me already.  I see a confused 
look directed at me from the rear view mirror and I'm tempted to 
stick my tongue out at him.  He turns off the car, slowly 
starting the ritual of getting himself out, probably taking so 
long just to annoy me, and comes around, keys in hand, to where 
I'm standing, hands on hips, biting the inside of my cheek.

"You okay?"  He asks as he unlocks the trunk and reaches in to 
get my biggest suitcase.

I should tell him that I'm fine, to go to hell, but for some 
reason, I want him to really know how I am right now.  "No, 
Mulder, I'm not okay.  I'm tired, I'm dirty, I smell like a 
funeral home, and I'm questioning the meaning of my existence - 
again - so don't mess with me."  I reach into the trunk and throw 
his hand off of my luggage, pulling it and the other two bags out 
myself, and start towards to door to my building.  I drag 
everything behind me and, when I reach the door, have to 
rearrange my luggage to open it and get inside.  When I get to 
the elevator, I look at Mulder, standing right where I left him, 
trunk open, mouth agape, and eyes sad and puzzled.  Asshole.

I lug everything up to my apartment and by the time I reach my 
door, my shoulders are aching like I just tried to pull my arms 
from their sockets.  I fumble for my keys, checking every pocket 
on me and my bags before finding them in the least likely place.  
Fuck.  When I finally get my door open, I'm tempted to just fall 
on the floor and pound my fists and feet like a child until I 
finally get my way.  Right now, I want to go to sleep, dammit, so 
why don't these inanimate objects in my hall just cooperate and 
deposit themselves in front of my washing machine, empty, sort, 
and wash, dry, fold themselves, and put themselves away?

I drag the bags into my foyer and slam the door behind me for 
good measure.  After locking it and tripping over the bags, I go 
into the kitchen for some Tylenol.  I rummage through the cabinet 
and pull out the bottle - oh good, only three more left!  I empty 
the bottle and throw it away, turning the water on as I pass.  I 
test the water with my fingers, seeing if it's cool enough, and 
then reach into another cabinet for a glass.  As I pull it 
towards me, it slips out of my grasp, hitting the counter and 
shattering into thousands of tiny shards on the floor.

I stare at the glass on the floor for a moment in disbelief, then 
do the only logical thing.  I fall against the counter and slowly 
slide down until I'm sitting on the floor amidst the broken 
glass.  I draw my knees up to my chest and hug them against me 
tightly.  Then, I drop my head onto my knees and start to cry.

After a few minutes of sobbing like a wounded animal, I get up to 
get the broom and dust pan to clean up my mess.  When I'd put my 
hands on the floor to get up, I'd cut myself, and I stare down at 
the rivulets of blood coating my palm, making the lines stand 
out.  I start to sob all over again, and decide to let the mess 
sit where it is tonight.  I'm too tired to clean it up.  The 
water's still running, so I put my hands into the stream, wincing 
and the coldness touches my wounds.  Tears are still sliding down 
my hot cheeks and I hiccup every now and then, trying not to 
start sobbing yet again.  All I did was break a goddamn, fucking 
glass.  It's nothing to cry about, but for some reason I just 
can't stop.  It's the icing on the cake, I guess.  The perfect 
end to the perfect day.

I take one last look at the disaster area that is my kitchen, 
then, turning around, decide to leave my luggage where it sits, 
right in the doorway.  I'll deal with that tomorrow, too.

I go into the bathroom and scrub the make-up off my face, washing 
away my tears.  I look in the mirror, at my red, puffy eyes and 
splotchy cheeks.  What was I crying over?  A glass?  No, I have 
plenty more Wal-Mart specials.  My fight with Mulder?  Maybe, but 
I've never let our fights get to me like this before.  The case?  
No, we'd dealt with so many cases like this I'd become 
desensitized to it; death no longer affected me like it used to.  
So what was fucking wrong with me?  Maybe it was the fact that I 
had spent my life in a hell-hole of a job with an unappreciative, 
condescending, arrogant, self-absorbed, conceited, prick of a 
partner who wouldn't listen to me or treat me like a person or 
even notice my very presence unless I was on fire - then he'd run 
away from me because he's afraid of fire.  Maybe it was the fact 
that my youth, my utility - the best goddamn years of my life 
were over and I had nothing to show for them except a few scars 
from being beaten and shot.  Maybe it was these little lines 
around my mouth and eyes.  My mother had started telling me a few 
years ago that my perpetual frowning would cause wrinkles and I 
always told myself that I was too young for such.  I'm only 
thirty six.  Thirty six is too young to start looking old...isn't 
it?  

Before I can start sobbing all over again, I drag my eyes away 
from my reflection and start brushing my teeth.  I wanted to take 
a shower, but I'm too exhausted now to manage it.  I'll just take 
a quick nap, then shower, do laundry, and clean up the glass in 
the kitchen later.

As I walk from my bathroom to my bedroom, I strip off my clothes, 
crawling into bed wearing only my Victoria's Secret lace panties 
and matching bra and camisole.  I've always liked lingerie that 
matched.  It used to make me feel pretty and sexy, knowing what 
was underneath my conservative, demure suits.  Now I wonder what 
the hell I was thinking spending so much money on lingerie that 
no one, besides me, would be able to enjoy.  Wal-Mart has plenty 
of specials in that department, too.

Realizing it's uncomfortable, I take off my bra and drop it 
beside my bed.  I curl into a fetal ball in the center of my 
queen sized bed, not bothering to pull to covers around me.  I  
had turned off the air while we were gone to save energy and I 
hadn't though to turn it back on before I lay down, so it was hot 
and stuffy in my apartment.  Oh, well.  I'll do that later, when 
I take my shower, do my laundry, and clean up my mess.

I glance at the clock to see how long of a nap I can take.  It's 
only 3:14 now; I can sleep until seven, I tell my internal clock.  
I burrow my head down between the pillows and close my eyes, 
willing my exhaustion to take over and let sleep pull me into 
oblivion.  After a few minutes of cursed consciousness, I pull 
the covers up and over my head, simulating darkness.  A few 
minutes later, I finally fall asleep.

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

Dark - cold - pain - blood - no oxygen - can't breath - can't 
breath - can't breath - tied up - can't move - can't breath - on 
top of me - knee in my back - pressing my face into the floor - 
blood - run me a bath - go back to hell - blood - can't breath - 
can't move - where's Mulder - where's Mulder - Mulder!

My scream wakes me.  I've screamed for Mulder to rescue me from 
another madman, another nightmare, and he doesn't come.  No one 
ever comes.  

I'm on my stomach with my arms tangled in the sheets - why I 
couldn't move.  The covers are still covering my head - why I 
couldn't breath.  I was sweating, and now I'm freezing, shaking.  
It's dark, later than seven.  I glance at the clock and drop my 
head back into my pillow when I realize that it's almost ten.  
Air, shower, laundry, clean, in that order, is what I should do 
now.  Instead, I curl up on my side and take deep breaths, trying 
to calm myself down.  

I dream like this once a week.  The people, the places are always 
different, but the situation is always the same: someone is 
trying to kill me and I scream for help, for Mulder, but he never 
comes and I wake up, shaking from fear and chill.  When I finally 
fall asleep again, hours later if at all, it's with my bedside 
lamp on and my gun underneath my pillow.  I know the routine by 
now: I get up and check to make sure my door is locked and 
chained, that my windows are still locked.  I open every closet 
door, check every hiding place, to make sure that no one's here, 
waiting to kill me.  My mind repeats its soothing mantra as I 
make my way through my darkened apartment, gun in hand: deep 
breaths, no one's here, deep breaths, no one's here, deep 
breaths, no one's here, no one's here, no one's here...

Once, though, Mulder did come.  Last Thursday night, I dreamed of 
being in the trailer with Gerry Shnauz, being so close to a 
lobotomy, except, in my dream, Mulder didn't rescue me at the 
last second.  I screamed in my dream for him, knowing he was 
close, but not close enough.  I screamed in my tiny, echoing 
hotel room, and he heard me.  He came through the connecting 
door, shook me awake, and held me at arms length until I became 
aware of what had happened.  He brushed the damp hair off of my 
forehead and away from the nape of my neck.  His hands were cool, 
but his body was warm, and I was shivering from fear and cold.  
He pulled me into his chest, wrapped his strong arms around my 
back, and told me that I was safe, that everything was fine, that 
he was here.  He rocked me and murmured to me until my sobs 
quieted and my heart rate slowed, until I wasn't shaking anymore.  
I felt like a child, but it felt so good to finally have someone 
to hold me and keep me safe that I let myself enjoy it for just a 
few minutes.

"Does this happen often, Scully?"  he whispered after a while.  I 
nodded.  "How often?"  I shook my head.  If he knew how often, 
he'd camp out on my couch every night.

After I'd finally stopped shaking, he'd asked if I would be able 
to go back to sleep.  I pulled myself away from him then, and 
realized that he was still in his work shirt and trousers from 
earlier.  He'd said that he was going over some notes before he 
went to sleep, and that, if I wanted him to, he'd sit with me 
until I fell asleep again.  I nodded and he disappeared into his 
room, then came back with file folders, papers, and photographs.  
He put them on the table, then asked me if I wanted something to 
drink.  I nodded again, and he went to the sink and came back 
with plastic cup full of cool water.  I drank half of it and he 
set the cup on the bedside table.  He gently pushed me into the 
bed and pulled the covers around my shoulders, bent down, and 
kissed my forehead.  "I'll be right here," he'd said and sat down 
at the table, opening a folder.  I closed my eyes, knowing I was 
safe, and was asleep again within minutes.

That was so nice, having someone to hold me and comfort me after 
a nightmare.  I almost wanted to have a nightmare the next night 
so we could repeat our little scene, but I hadn't.  Not until 
tonight.

I get back to my bedroom and lay down.  I didn't find anyone 
lurking in the shadows, but I'm still not convinced of my 
complete safety.  After a few ineffectual minutes of trying to 
calm myself down, I turn on my lamp and check my gun.  I get up 
again and walk to my thermostat, turning on the air so that my 
apartment will be cool.  It's only seventy degrees tonight, and 
its only May.  By the end of summer, I'll be miserable in the 
heat and humidity, and my electricity bill will be outrageous 
from running my AC non-stop.  As I pass, I glance at the kitchen 
floor, covered with glass.  I should sweep it up, but I don't 
want to.  I turn around and my eyes fall on my luggage, sitting 
just where I'd left it earlier.  But I don't want to do laundry 
right now.

I go into my bathroom and open my shower stall.  I don't want to 
take a shower, either.

I stand in my hallway, not wanting to go back to bed, not wanting 
to do anything else.  Mulder had given me water the other night 
and I had fallen asleep almost immediately; maybe that was the 
key.  I start to walk towards my kitchen again and notice the 
blinking number on my answering machine: two.  Wow, a record!

I get excited suddenly, and nearly run to the machine.  I take a 
deep breath and push the play button.  It's probably Mulder, 
calling to ask if I was okay, saying he'd see me at work 
tomorrow.  He's so predictable.

The first message is a hang-up, probably a tele-marketer.  The 
second isn't Mulder, though.  It's Ethan.

"Hi, Dana, it's me...I was just calling to see how you were, tell 
you that I miss you, and that I can't wait to see you 
again...Emma's excited too...I've told her all about you...she 
gets out of school on the twenty-sixth, so I was thinking maybe 
we could come up about the middle of June...it's up to you...uh, 
I guess you can call me when you get a chance, okay?  Bye."

The machine tells me that the message is from last Friday, almost 
a week after we'd left for Vermont, a week since the last time 
I'd spoken to him.  He probably thinks that I intentionally 
didn't return his call, that I'd changed my mind about 
this...whatever this is.  Maybe I should call him right now to 
tell him that I've been out of town.  It's almost ten thirty, and 
I'd probably wake Emma...but I want to talk to him.  I need to 
talk to him.

Had Mulder called, I would've called him back, we would've 
mutually apologized for whatever we'd done, and I would've told 
him about my nightmare.  He would've offered to come over and sit 
with me until I fell asleep again, and I would've told him no, 
that I was fine.  Or maybe I would've said yes this time.  But he 
hadn't called; Ethan had.  I guess Mulder really doesn't give a 
damn anymore.

I realize that Ethan hadn't even given me his phone number, so I 
call 411 and hope that he's the only Ethan Minette in Atlanta.  
The operator tells me that there is no Ethan Minette in Atlanta, 
and for a second, I wonder if it was all a lie, if he really has 
a daughter and lives in Atlanta and still loves me.  I ask her to 
check the surrounding suburbs and she does; yes, there is an 
Ethan Minette in Roswell, could that be the one?

It strikes me as ironic that he lives in Roswell of all places 
and I tell her yes, that's the one, and she dials the number for 
me.

The phone rings and I wonder if it is the one - the right one.  I 
wonder if he'll be angry with me for waking Emma - or what if he 
was asleep?  What if someone else is with -

"Hello?"

I don't say anything at first, elated that he's on the other end 
of the phone at all.  "Ethan?"  I finally whisper, relief and joy 
echoing in my voice.

"Dana?  Hey!  I wondered if you'd forgot about me."  He sounds 
relieved too; at least I still matter to someone.

I laugh softly.  "No...I've been out of town since last Monday 
and I just got your message."

"Oh."

"Did I wake Emma?"  I ask nervously.

"No, no.  She can sleep through anything."

"Good...I was afraid you'd be mad - " my breath hitches.

"Why would I be mad?"  His voice drops from friendly, casual 
conversation to serious concern.  "Dana...are you okay?"

"Mmmhmm...I just...I wanted to talk to you..."  I try and keep 
the sudden renegade sobs from escaping.  It's so good to hear his 
soft, loving voice on the other end of the phone.  It almost 
makes me feel safe.

"Well I'm glad you wanted to talk to me, but don't cry."

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't apologize...it's okay.  I'm here."

Oh, he's here, of course he's here, just when I need him.  I nod, 
though I know he can't see me.

"Hey," he says, startling me, "you said you were out of town.  
Were you one a case?"

"Yeah," I whisper thickly.

"What kinda case?"

"Murder.  Local PD thought it was Satanic..."  my breath hitches 
again.

"Was it?"  He's trying to keep me talking about something other 
than us, thinking that will keep me from crying.

"Mulder thought it was...we caught a man who is a Satanist but 
that wasn't why he was killing..."

"Oh," he breathes, not really understanding.  "How'd you get my 
number?  FBI files?"

I smile.  "You have a file at the FBI?"

"No, but don't they have that kind of information about 
everyone?"

"You could've just given it to me."

"Where's the challenge in that?  I guess this proves what a good 
investigator you really are."

"Not really.  I called 411."

He laughs then.  "Wow...your investigative abilities astound me," 
he says sarcastically.  I smile, reveling in his light teasing.  
He's cheered me up from a thousand miles away.  

"You live in Roswell...Mulder will be suspicious."

"Huh?  Oh, like in New Mexico...yeah, I never thought about that 
before.  Except down here, it's not Ros-WELL, it's ROS-wuhl."

"Still..."  I trail off as he continues to laugh.

"Maybe you can come down here and investigate the origins of the 
name, then."  We fall into silence and I realize how comforting 
it is just to hear him breathing.

"I wish you were here," I say suddenly.

"I wish I was there too, or you were here."

"I had a nightmare..."  I start, needing to tell someone.  He 
doesn't say anything, but I know he's listening.  "A few years 
ago, I was abducted by a man who killed women and mutilated their 
bodies.  Mulder almost didn't get there in time..."  My breath 
hitches again.  "A few months ago, the man escaped from prison 
and attacked me in my apartment...

"Oh, Dana..."

"I'm fine, but...I still have dreams about it."  I hesitate.  
"He's dead, though.  I shot him."  My voice is flat and lifeless 
as I say that last part.

He's quiet for a minute, then, "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah...you helped."

"Good."  We're quiet again, and I focus on the slow, steady 
breaths puffing over the phone.  After a moment of silence, he 
asks "You still with me?"

"Yeah."

"You sound tired."

"I was...I got home at three and went straight to bed."

"I wish I could do that sometimes...come home and go to bed with 
you,"  he sighs wistfully.

"What are you still doing up?"

"Trying to arrange these stories for tomorrow.  This is an early 
night for me.  By the time Emma and I finish her homework, eat, 
and I give her a bath and put her to bed, it's usually after 
nine.  I try and get some work done then, and stay up until 
eleven or twelve."

"You're such a good father," I breathe.

"Thanks.  I try...to be a good father and mother."

"If you love her, that's enough."

"God, I hope so.  I know she's missing out on a lot, not having 
her mother around.  And she's so excited about meeting you.  At 
first, I was afraid she wouldn't want to, but she can't wait to 
go visit you."  

"Neither can I."

"Are you nervous?"

"No...should I be?"

"No.  You'd be a great mother."  His words sting in my freshly 
re-healed wounds, and he quickly apologizes.

"It's okay," I tell him.

"I'm excited about seeing you too, you know."  I grin stupidly 
and he continues, "You think Mulder will baby-sit for a few hours 
while we...visit?"

I laugh a little, then, feeling bold, I taunt him.  "You know, I 
just realized that my blinds are open and I'm standing in front 
of my window in nothing but my underwear..."

"Mmm...keep going..." he moans.

"Thinking about how much I miss you..."

"How much do you miss me?"  He asks breathlessly.

"A lot," I say, all traces of seduction vanishing, replaced by 
tears yet again.

"Dana...I miss you too.  Now go close your blinds before someone 
sees you."

I obey, thinking of another time that I approached these windows 
while holding a phone to my ear.  I screamed for Mulder then, but 
he still didn't come.  I shutter involuntarily and change the 
subject to hear vocalized warmth, safety, and comfort.

"So...Emma gets out of school soon?"

"Yeah, so I was thinking maybe June 19th  we'd come up and stay 
for a few days.  Is that okay?"

"Yeah...fine."

"Good.  Her mother gets a week sometime this summer and I'm sure 
she won't be happy about this, but - "

"I don't want to cause any problems."

"It's no problem."  He hesitates, then says, "I don't know how I 
did this for eight years."

"What?"

"Live without you."

Oh.  I don't know what to say, so I say nothing.

"Dana?  You didn't fall asleep on me, did you?"

I'm feeling playful again.  "Fall asleep...*on* you?"

He laughs, "No, you're still awake."

"Yeah,"  I breathe, stifling a yawn.

He heard it.  "Oh, am I boring you?"

"No...no, I'm just exhausted."

"Well, why don't you go back to sleep then."

I shake my head.  "Not yet."

"Scared?"  he asks seriously.

"No."  I'm not...not really.  Not anymore.

"Well, why don't you try and get some sleep, and if you have 
another nightmare, you can call me back."

"I'll wake Emma..."

"No, you won't.  Don't worry about that.  And don't worry about 
what time it is.  If you need me, I'll be here."

"I wish you were really here,"  I say, feeling tears threaten 
again.

"I will be soon."

I take a deep breath and yawn again.  "Go to sleep," he says.

"Okay...goodnight."

"'Night," he whispers.  Then, "I love you."

"I love you, too," I say without hesitation.  I hang up the phone 
and float to my bed, falling asleep almost immediately, 
pretending that he is here with me, his arms wrapped around me,
keeping me safe and warm. 

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

I think I'm dreaming again: I hear slow, quiet footsteps coming 
down my hall.  They stop right outside my partially closed 
bedroom door and wait.  Just a dream, I think.  

I hear a soft knock and a hushed "Scully?" as the door creaks 
open.  What's Mulder doing in my dream?

I hear a loud exhale and the footsteps start again across the 
carpet to my bed.  The mattress dips under his weight as he sits 
down next to my hip.  My back is to him, and his arm settles in 
front of my stomach as he leans over me.  Mmm...dreamMulder...

His breath tickles my ear as he again whispers, "Scully...you 
awake?"  I sigh contentedly and snuggle back against him.  This 
dream looks promising.

"Scully, you scared the hell out of me.  It's after 10:30."

What?  What's dreamMulder talking about?  I struggle up through 
the last barriers between asleep and awake and open my eyes.  
It's daylight, and this isn't a dream.

I sit up hurriedly and find myself blocked by his arm draping 
possessively across my abdomen.  I lean back against the 
headboard.  "What are you doing here?"  I slur out, rubbing my 
dry, itchy eyes.

"It's after 10:30.  You didn't call and you wouldn't answer 
either of your phones.  I got worried."

I lift my chin slightly and recognize the fact that, in my haze 
of alternating depression and elation, I forgot to set my alarm.  

He's grinning at me stupidly, like he's incredibly glad I'm so 
disoriented or he knows I'd yell at him for waking me.  I look 
down at my lap, partially obscured by the large, brown arm that 
won't budge.  I remember that I'm wearing a nearly shear 
camisole, and the slight morning chill is having an undesired 
physical effect.  I glance up at Mulder and see his eyes riveted 
to said physical effect, still grinning.  I raise my head and 
clear my throat; I'm technically still mad at him.

"Sorry..."  he says, turning a delightful shade of red.  Serves 
him right.

"So, you came to check on me?"  I ask, a little annoyed at his 
intrusion, although I know I'd have done the exact same thing 
should our roles have been reversed.

"Yeah.  After I dropped you off, I got kinda worried - "

"Why?"

"Cause you were mad at me and I didn't know why.  I just wondered 
if anything was wrong...if I did anything."

He put extra emphasis on the last "I," wordlessly asking if 
anyone else pissed me off...anyone named Ethan, maybe?

"Yes, I was angry with you."

"What did I do?"  He gives me that damn kicked puppy look.  He's 
ready to apologize for whatever it is, even if he doesn't think 
he needs to.  He hates it when I'm angry with him.

I shake my head before answering, "Nothing...I don't know.  
Nothing specific."  He keeps staring at me with those sad eyes, 
and I want to tell him that his face might freeze like that.  It 
wouldn't be so bad, though.  It's his most adorable face, which 
is why I'm a sucker for it.  "That case...I just hate it when I'm 
stuck in an autopsy bay the whole time."

"I know."  He neatly folds the covers down over my thighs and 
smoothes them with his hands.  "But I needed you there.  You know 
I wouldn't ask you to do it unless it was necessary."

As much as I want to argue with him, I don't.  I'm not in the 
mood.  "I know.  I was just exhausted by the time we got back and 
needed to yell at something.  I'm sorry."

He nods.  "You can always yell at me if you need to, Scully."

I smile at him and his hands slips off the covers to my silk-clad 
hip.  He doesn't immediately pull away and, deciding his hand is 
warm and my hip isn't, neither do I.  He looks me in my eyes, 
then, and the grin vanishes from his face as he keeps rubbing.

All at once, he looks away and pulls his hand back, folding his 
hands in his lap.  "Did you know there's glass all over your 
kitchen floor?"

"Yeah.  I dropped a glass last night and didn't feel like 
cleaning it up."

He nods, but doesn't look up.  "I almost broke my leg tripping 
over your luggage."

"Sorry...I didn't feel like doing that either."

He nods again and twists his hands nervously in his lap.  He's 
staring intently at the floor and I follow his eyes, noticing 
that he's staring at my discarded bra.  I smile and throw back 
the covers, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and landing 
my bare feet beside his.  "I guess I should get up, huh?"

He nods again.  "I'll give you a ride, if you want."

"Okay.  I'll hurry."

"Don't worry about it,"  he says quietly, still staring at my 
bra.  Just who does he thinking he's fooling?

I stand up and bend down to retrieve the object of Mulder's 
musings.  He looks at me, his eyes nearly bulging out of their 
sockets at my particular state of undress.  I feel them follow me 
to my dresser, where I retrieve clean lingerie and then out my 
bedroom door and into the bathroom.  I slam the door and smile.  
Looks like someone else got to enjoy them after all.

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

I emerge from the bathroom twenty minutes later.  Mulder's not in 
my bedroom and I don't go looking for him; he's had enough of a 
show for one day.  In twenty more minutes, I leave my bedroom 
fully clothed and walk down the hall putting on my shoes and 
earrings.

When I get to the end of the hall, I stop in shock.  The luggage 
has been pushed out of the way, next to the armoire beside the 
door.  Mulder's in the kitchen with a broom, sweeping the floor.  
His back is to me and he apparently doesn't hear me as I approach 
him.  I just stare at him for a minute, trying to decide how to 
handle this most unique situation.

He bends down and sweeps the glass into the dustpan, then empties 
it into the trash.  He puts the broom and dustpan away, then 
washes his hands, wetting the dishrag and wiping off the counter 
before turning off the water.  When he finally notices me, he 
grins shyly.  "It's almost lunch time."

I nod.  "You didn't have to do that."

"I know...I didn't know where to put your luggage, so I just - "  
He gestures towards where it sits now.

"It's fine, Mulder.  You didn't have to do any of it."

He nods and briefly looks down, then back up at my face, still 
grinning.  "You hungry?  My treat..."

"What's the occasion?"  I ask teasingly.

"I need an occasion to take my best friend out to lunch?"  He 
asks a little too seriously.  He's never referred to me as his 
best friend before.  I've always been his partner, but never his 
best friend.

We walk to the door and he opens it for me.  I lean back and look 
into his eyes, silently questioning his strange behavior.  "After 
you,"  he softly says.

"Thank you."  He closes the door behind him and locks it with his 
keys.

As we walk down the hall, his hand comes up and rests at its 
reserved place between my shoulders - not guiding, just hovering.  
We stop in front of the elevator and I look back at him again.  
He's still grinning and, feeling better than I have in days, I 
grin back.

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

He let me choose where to eat, so I chose our favorite all-you-
can-eat Chinese Buffet.  We haven't talked much since we left my 
apartment, and I suddenly announce, "Ethan lives in Roswell."

"Roswell?  I though he lived in Atlanta."

"He does.  It's a suburb, but he says its not pronounced like the 
one in New Mexico.  I told him you'd be suspicious."  I eat my 
egg roll, thinking this is just friendly conversation.

"Roswell, Georgia?"  He asks incredulously.

"Yeah...he said that maybe we could investigate the origins of 
the name."  I look up at him, thinking that the irony of this is 
too funny.  Mulder's not getting it, though.

"He said that?"  He sounds offended.

"Yeah."  I wrinkle my forehead in curiosity; why isn't he 
laughing?

He looks away, out the window, then sadly says into his plate,  
"I don't do aliens anymore."

"What?"

"I don't do aliens anymore.  I don't care about the origins of 
the name of some town in Georgia."  His last words are clipped 
like he's suddenly angry.

"He was just joking, Mulder."

"Well, I don't appreciate his joke."  He shoves his plate away in 
disgust - the first of what's usually four or five.  The petite 
non-English-speaking waitress comes and touches it delicately, 
wordlessly asking if he's done.  He nods and she disappears with 
his half-full plate.

I don't know what to say, so I keep eating, watching my food in 
case it tries to get away.

"Is that all he thinks I do?"  Mulder asks abruptly.  "Chase 
little green men and shake my fist at the sky?"

I shake my head and put down my fork.  "First of all, no, that's 
not all he thinks *we* do, and second of all, I'm the one who 
thought it was ironic that he lives in Roswell.  He didn't even 
notice the significance until I pointed it out."

He looks at me sharply and icily says, "Is that all you think of 
me?  That I have nothing better to do that investigate weird city 
names?"

"No, Mulder, of course not.  I just though it was ironic!"

"News flash, Scully, Roswell is a common name.  So is 
Springfield, but you don't see me running off to see if the 
Simpsons live there!"

I gape at him; where the hell is this coming from?  "Fine, I'm 
sorry.  Forget it."

He leans back heavily in his seat and watches me as I pick my 
fork up and play with my food.  After a minute, he speaks.  "I'm 
sorry, Scully."

I shake my head.  Apology isn't necessary, I don't think.

"No, I am.  I'm sorry.  I just...everyone thinks that's all *we* 
do: investigate aliens.  But that's not it.  That's not even half 
of it.  I don't even care about that stuff anymore..."  He fades 
out and silently begs me to probe him.

"What do you mean?"

He heaves a sigh.  "The only reason I cared about aliens was 
because I though they took Samantha.  I thought that if I found 
my little green men, I'd find her."  He stops and grins self-
deppreciatingly, looking me straight in the eye.  "But I didn't, 
did I?  She probably wasn't even taken by aliens.  All our 
work...all of the stuff that happened to us...to you...was for 
nothing."

"You don't know that.  I thought we understood that she was 
abducted by..."  I hesitate - it still sounds unbelievable 
"...extraterrestirals.  But she was returned - "

"I don't want to talk about it,"  he interrupts, standing quickly 
and making a bee-line towards the restroom.  Well, that was odd.

He comes back after a few minutes and sits down, crossing his 
arms and looking like a child threatening a tantrum.  I don't say 
anything and neither does he, for a few minutes.

"So, Ethan called again?"

"Yeah.  He called while we were gone and I called him back last 
night."

"Hmm..."

"He and Emma are coming June 19th."  He glances at me with those 
sad eyes.  "You know more about all these monuments and museums 
than I do.  Maybe you could join us on our tour of DC, help me 
not look like a moron."

He stares blankly at me before answering.  "No.  I wouldn't want 
to impose."  He's not bitter or angry, just miserable.

"You wouldn't be imposing - I asked you.  I want you to come."

He chews his bottom lip.  "And how would Ethan feel about that?"

I keep my comment about him baby-sitting while Ethan and I 
"visit" to myself.  "He'll be fine with it."

He nods absently, but I know he's not yet convinced.  Maybe 
Mulder just doesn't want to meet Ethan.

Or maybe this is too soon.  Maybe Ethan won't want to meet 
Mulder.  Maybe he won't want Emma to meet Mulder.  

But I can see how our day together would go; Mulder amazing Emma 
with his seemingly endless array of pointless facts and rambling 
stories about the history and myths of DC.  He and Emma would 
pair off quickly and leave Ethan and me to ourselves, to follow 
and ruminate, to enjoy our guided tour.

Throughout our cases together, I've discovered that Mulder has a 
natural rapport with kids.  They seem to gravitate towards him 
and he, in turn, always has a joke, a silly story, or a funny 
face to amuse them with.  I remember that stupid Mr. PotatoHead 
face he made to Emily, how her face lit up as she smiled.  He's 
also much better at interrogating children than I am.  I quickly 
get frustrated with children, having to talk so that they can 
understand what I'm saying, having to tip-toe around delicate 
issues so that I don't scare them into not talking to me at all.  
Maybe Mulder is so good with kids because he's a psychologist, 
and that's what they teach you to do, talk to anyone about 
anything and make them comfortable in your presence.  Or maybe 
because, in many ways, Mulder is still a child himself.  

Mulder would be a wonderful father.  I wonder if he knows about 
his natural aptitude and if he has a desire to use it on his own 
children one day.

Or maybe Mulder and Ethan will have a rapport of their own.  
Maybe they'll become fast friends and will pair off between 
themselves, leaving me to amuse Emma.

Or maybe Ethan will hate Mulder; they really don't have that much 
in common, and Mulder is so difficult to get to know.  He doesn't 
let anyone in easily and wants to see an advantage to having a 
person in his life before he'll commit to knowing them.  Then, 
and most importantly, he has to trust someone in order to become 
friends with them.  Ethan will think Mulder is arrogant and 
condescending, when, in reality, Mulder is just shy and quiet, 
but always willing to impart his vast knowledge upon someone and 
correct them if they're wrong.

Mulder is my best friend, my partner, a part of my family, my 
everything for so many years; Ethan will just have to accept him 
and his place in my life.

I have no idea what Mulder will think of Ethan.  I know that he's 
suspicious of Ethan's motives, why he wants me in his life again 
after all these years.  Mulder is very protective of me and may 
see Ethan as intruding into our comfortable, indefinable 
relationship.  After Mulder meets Ethan, he will either 
strengthen his suspicions or destroy them.  I just hope it's the 
latter.

In the worst case scenario, Mulder and Ethan won't get along at 
all, and Ethan won't want Mulder around Emma.  Then, I will be 
torn between my best friend and my...lover and his daughter.  My 
constant companion for eight years versus my blossoming romantic 
relationship with someone I barely know anymore.

As I think about all of these possibilities, Mulder stares out 
the window, watching the cars zoom by, unfocused on any one 
object.  A million miles away.

No, Ethan won't mind, and it's not too soon for this.

Besides, Mulder and Ethan have to meet eventually.

<><><>End Part 3<><><>

Notes: The Varsity really is the world's largest drive in, 
located in Atlanta, Athens, Kennesaw, and Gwinnett.  It also 
happens to be my favorite place to eat.  Instead of saying, "can 
I take your order" they say "what'd ya have" and they call "a 
plain hot dog to go" a "nekkid dog a walkin'."  

The deli sandwiches described in Part 1 are based on sandwiches 
from the Publix deli (that's a grocery store, though I think we 
only have them in Georgia and Florida).

Roswell really is a suburb of Atlanta, and it really is correctly 
pronounced "ROS-wuhl."

The beginning of Part 3 is dedicated to RealB, who wanted some 
fightfics the other night and I had none to give.

Thanks: To my amazing Betas, RealB, Karri, and Liam.  I know I 
get annoying sometimes, writing and rewriting until I'm happy 
with something, but they've been supportive throughout this whole 
process and I couldn't have done it without them.

Have you sent feedback yet?  lil_gusty@hotmail.com.  Yes, 
Virginia, there will be a next part, but stalking helps me write 
faster!