From: Brandon Ray <publius@avalon.net>
Date: Sun, 27 Jun 1999 00:07:26 -0600
Subject: Subtext:  Year One (1/1)

SUBTEXT:  Year One

by Brandon D. Ray & Trixie (publius@avalon.net &
scullymulder1121@hotmail.com) 

Feedback:  Please.  We live for it. 

Category:  SRA

Content:  Angst, both Scully & Mulder.  UST & RST.  Some more angst.  Bad
language.  Did we mention the angst?  Don't think we've earned an "MSR"
yet though.  Oh ... and there's a dash of angst. 

Rating:  PG-13

Spoilers:  Numerous spoilers for episodes airing during U.S. Season 1. 

Summary:  A series of paired vignettes in which we attempt to track a
romantic relationship between Mulder & Scully, starting very early in
their partnership. 

Disclaimer:  We don't own Mulder, Scully, the X-Files or really much of
anything.  We worship the surfer dude, and have no wish to infringe on his
august majesty.  It's all for fun, guys.  If we wanted to be making money,
we'd be writing for the Weekly Wo rld News or something. 


================= =================

SUBTEXT:  Year One

by Brandon D. Ray & Trixie

================= =================


=================

Chapter One:  Ice

=================


Breaking the Ice


Dear God, what have I done? 

I'm sitting here curled in a ball on my living room sofa, not moving,
barely breathing.  I've wrapped a blanket around myself against the chill
November air that's seeping in around the cracks of my living room window,
but still I feel cold, so cold.  I d on't know if I'll ever be warm again. 
Not after the trip to Icy Cape. 

And not after what I've just done. 

I close my eyes and rock gently back and forth.  How could I have been so
stupid?  How *could* I have been so stupid?  How could I have fucked my
partner? 

God. 

It seemed so natural at the time; so obvious; so easy.  We finally got
back to Washington late last night, after that godawful case in Alaska. 
We arrived quite late, and since Mulder had given me a lift home from the
airport it seemed only natural to inv ite him in for a few minutes to have
a cup of decaf and unwind.  We were just two work partners spending a few
minutes decompressing before going off to bed.  Alone.  In our own
respective apartments. 

It was natural.  Obvious.  Easy. 

Easy. 

Oh, yeah.  Easy. 

The rest of it seemed natural, obvious and easy, too:  All it took was his
hand resting lightly on my shoulder as he reached over my head to retrieve
the sugar bowl from its place on the shelf -- and the next thing I knew I
was wrapped around him and he w as as deep inside me as it is possible for
a man to be -- physically, at any rate.  And thank God I still had a few
condoms left over from when I was seeing Ethan, because I don't think I
would have let it stop me if I hadn't. 

I'd like to believe this was simply brought on by the stress of the case
we just completed.  I'm still relatively new to fieldwork, after all, and
although I knew going into my assignment with Fox Mulder and the X-Files
that I'd have to make some adjustme nts, that doesn't change the fact that
it really has been more frightening and disturbing than I'd been
expecting.  So I'd like to blame what happened tonight on the stress I've
been under:  Something snapped, and before I could stop myself I'd blindly
re ached out to the nearest available comfort object, and it just happened
to be my partner. 

Yeah, right. 

The attraction has been there from the start, though, and there's no use
in trying to deny it, at least to myself.  From the moment I first walked
into that stuffy little basement office I've been drawn to this man, and
I'm at a complete loss to understan d why -- and God forbid I should have
to explain it to someone.  He's nothing like any of the other men who have
been in my life before, and he's certainly not someone I would want to
bring home to meet my father.  Ahab would shit a brick. 

And let's just not go there, shall we?  I'm not going to take Mulder home
to meet my parents, because this is not going to be a Relationship with a
capital "R" -- this is going to be a one night stand, a single lapse in
judgment which will not be repeated .  I've never had a one night stand
before, and so I can just add this to my collection of odd experiences and
move on.  Tomorrow -- later today -- we'll walk into that aforementioned
basement office and continue to build the professional relationship we' ve
been working on, and everything will be fine. 

Everything will be fine. 

Really. 

Except that I keep having these flashbacks.  I keep remembering how I felt
when I had to draw my gun on him.  God, I was scared.  I was so scared.  I
didn't know what to think, I didn't know what was going on, and the one
person in that miserable little o utpost at the edge of the world who I
thought I could trust -- suddenly I wasn't sure I could trust him.  I was
totally and completely alone for the first time in my life, hundreds of
miles from other people, hundreds of miles from anyplace warm, hundreds
 of miles from any possible source of help or support.  And the look on
his face ... 

No.  I am not going to think about that.  I am not going to *remember*
that.  It happened, and it's over, and it has nothing whatsoever to do
with anything else.  There was nothing personal there; it was all
professional -- just as it was all professional
 when I walked back into that storage compartment a short while later and
persuaded him to let me check him for infection.  I *had* to do that; he's
my partner and we're supposed to back each other up.  I couldn't just
leave him there, no matter what Hodg e said. 

It wasn't personal.  It just wasn't. 

It can't be. 

God.  I wish Mulder would wake up and go home, so I could go to bed.  I
realized as I was lying there next to him, before I'd even completely
caught my breath, that I could not allow myself to fall asleep with him. 
Sex is one thing, but sleeping with som eone -- that's different.  That's
a greater level of intimacy, and it is not something I'm willing to share
with this man.  Not now, and not ever. 

Better yet, I wish he could somehow be teleported out of my bed and into
his own, wherever the hell that is.  That way he wouldn't have to rummage
around in my bedroom to find his clothes, he wouldn't have to use my
bathroom, I wouldn't have to offer him a cup of coffee for the road --
that *is* how we got into this mess in the first place, after all -- and
most importantly I wouldn't have to face him while I'm sitting here
huddled on my living room sofa wrapped in a blanket and with not a stitch
on. 

So how about it, Agent Mulder?  Can you get your mind around this
particular extreme possibility?  If I close my eyes and wish hard enough,
like the audience in "Peter Pan" trying to believe in fairies, will you
disappear from my bed?  Will I wake up in t he morning serene in the
knowledge that tonight didn't happen -- or at least that we can act as if
it didn't? 

Because that's the way it's got to be.  That's the way it's *got* to be. 

Dear God, what have I done? 


=================


Shattered Ice


What did I just do? 

Well, I suppose I didn't =just= do it. I've had a few moments to rest. The
point is, unlike the two other one-night stand's I've had in my life, this
one might possibly be the stupidest thing I've ever done.  Stupider than
the drunken encounter I had in c ollege, where I forgot to put on a
condom. Stupider than the woman I picked up in a bar shortly after Diana
left me.

I just had sex with my partner. And she's not just any partner. She's the
only partner I've ever been able to put up with for longer than a few
weeks. She's the partner I originally believed was sent to spy on me. I
know about the little notes she takes a nd gives to them; it's not like
she tries to hide it. Over the last few months, I've grown to like her; to
trust her. And, God help me, I've even grown to love her. 

Until three hours and forty-two minutes ago, I hadn't believed that love
to be a romantic love.

This case scared me. Not a lot is capable of scaring me; fascinating me,
yes. Enthralling me, definitely. Giving me a moment of pause; on more than
one occasion. This was different though. I'd really love to blame what I
felt when Scully pulled that gun o n me on the extreme circumstance. It
would be so easy to chalk it up to the situation and go home happy.

But that would be dishonest. And because of what our relationship has
become, I force myself to admit that I have to be honest with Scully. 

When she pulled that gun, I felt betrayed. And as my psyche so helpfully
intoned, in order to feel betrayed, that means I had to have expected
better. I had an expectation of her - to be my partner, to watch my back -
and I actually TRUSTED that she'd liv e up to it. I'd trusted so much that
it had actually SURPRISED me when she turned on me.

I really felt like an idiot until she came into the storage room. 

The sheer fact that she came in restored my faith in her. She had just
been trying to please everyone, as I've noticed is her habit. She was just
trying to keep us ALL safe. I worked up a little profile on Scully after
our first few weeks together. She cr aves approval, especially from male
figures of authority, or male figures she respects in her life. This stems
either from her being 'Daddy's Little Girl', or from receiving little or
no response from her Father. I haven't decided yet, and Scully hasn't v
olunteered the information.

She closes herself off from affection. She doesn't like to be touched.
She's fine with having a close working relationship, but she doesn't want
anything more personal to confuse or complicate her situation. She isn't
offended by heavy sexual innuendo, no r does anyone having a differing
opinion from hers piss her off. She's perfectly willing to discuss her
point of view, but she gives as good as she gets.

She has the makings of one of the Bureau's finest, and I give her maybe
another six months down in the basement with Spooky Mulder before she runs
screaming to the brass to request a transfer.  Somewhere nice and safe,
like Violent Crimes. 

I roll on my side and feel the spot beside me in bed. It's still warm. She
left her own bed what seems like hours ago, but what in reality was
probably only a few minutes. I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose
between thumb and forefinger.

I'm not some idiot who falls in love with a woman after I fuck her. 

I'm the kind of idiot who falls in love with a woman BEFORE I fuck her.
Usually, that emotion isn't returned. I'm willing to bet some serious
money that Scully is about to fall cleanly into that category. In fact,
I'll bet my pension on it. (That is, assu ming I remain either in the
Bureau or alive long enough to EARN a pension.) 

Shaking my head slowly, I stare at her ceiling, noting absently that it's
a very nice ceiling. I fell in love with Phoebe the first time I saw her.
She was gorgeous and the most intelligent woman I'd ever known to date.
Unlike Diana, Phoebe actually prete nded to love me. I think I like
Diana's way better. It may have been cruel, but at least it was honest.
Phoebe let me worship her, all the while having no intention of ever
returning the emotion I held so strongly for her.

Before the thought 'I wonder if Scully could ever love me . . .?' forms in
my mind, I shut it down. She couldn't; she wouldn't let herself. From
everything I know about her, that fact screams at me.  She sees me as a
fucked up nut case with a fetish over finding his sister. My sense of
humor is kindly referred to as quirky, but is in actuality closer to
morbidly warped. I'm flippant and sarcastic, probably incapable of
expressing an honest, heartfelt emotion to her.  She'd need that, I can
tell. She has s uch a problem opening up, whoever decided to love her
would have to assume all the big firsts, emotionally speaking. First
declaration of love, first to suggest they see each other exclusively,
first to suggest they move in together, first to bring up the
 subject of children . . . 

Woah Mulder; back up boy. That guy is definitely not going to be me. It
can't be. I can barely take care of myself; how the hell could I possibly
even FATHOM taking care of Scully and a brood of little Scully-Mulder's .
. .

Did I mention I'm also neurotic? You want proof? 

I made love with a woman not an hour ago and I'm already having panic
attacks about our children's futures. 

I can't be in love with her. I just can't. I don't have the time or the
energy or the discipline to love Dana Katherine Scully. I repeat it over
and over again in my mind. She'll get so scared she'll end up ripping my
heart out and stomping on it. And in retaliation, I'll do it right back,
because once we get going, I'll know all the buttons to push, I'll be able
to hurt more than anyone else and I won't be able to stop myself . .

I am not in love with her. I care about her. She's my partner and I trust
and care for her. I protect her, just like she protects me. So we had sex.
That's all it was - just sex. Two people reacting to the stress of the
moment . . .

Lying here, in the midst of my internal denials, all I can feel is her
gentle, steady little hand moving over my neck and back. I should've been
terrified. Instead, all I could feel was a sort of repressed longing. I
was beginning to crave her touch in th at room. It got worse as soon as we
step foot back in DC. Once we were in the vicinity of her bedroom, all
hope of keeping things strictly professional flew right out the window.

I'm attracted to her. That's why this happened. I'm sure she's attracted
to me two. We're just two attractive people who were attracted to each
other. Now that we've quenched our mutual attraction, we'll be able to
conduct ourselves in a strictly professi onal matter. This is a good
thing, I tell myself firmly. No sexual tension; no longing looks; no
wondering what it would be like to press my body against her soft, hot
flesh . . . 

What the hell have I done? 


=================

Chapter Two:  Fire

=================


The Burning Zone


I can't believe I almost let her do it to me again. 

Almost Mulder? 

God I really hate that inner mocking voice. So maybe Phoebe did manage to
fuck me over again. At least it wasn't as traumatic as it was last time.
Last time, she made damn sure I stayed away from ANY woman for nearly a
year. Last time, she made damn sure it was years before I made any serious
attempts at a long-lasting romantic relationship. The fact that the
relationship was with Diana was just dumb luck on my part. 

Maybe I've grown as a human being. I must've, given the fact that Phoebe's
reappearance didn't phase me nearly as much as it should've. Despite
evidence to the contrary, my innate sense of fairness led me to believe
she might've grown too. Even confronted
 with the knowledge that she'd brought me in on a case she knew would
terrify me, I still had to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Maybe I =should= have SUCKER tattooed on my forehead. 

I know Scully thinks I should. 

Glancing at my watch, I congratulate myself. Nearly two whole minutes
without making a conscious ScullyThought. That fact alone would be news
worthy. However, it's doubly so, given that the woman herself is not two
feet in front of me, happily chowing dow n on her grilled chicken salad.
We are sharing another of our 'comfortable silences'.

I swear to God that we never had 'comfortable silences' before the
'incident that occurred when we returned from Icy Cape.'

I never referred to events during my life in quotations before the
'incident', either. Yet another of the wide and varied joys Special Agent
Dr. Dana Katherine Scully has brought into my life. 

That's not fair. I recognize it the moment the thought occurs to me. She
has brought a few joys into my life; not the least of which is a partner
whom I can trust. It's just that I can't seem to separate everything I
know to be true about her - her integr ity, her intelligence, her concern
for our fellow human being's - from the woman who calmly sat in her
apartment mere hours after we made love and rationally explained why,
exactly, it was a mistake. 

It's not that I didn't have doubts myself; hell, you could've filled a
room with them. I just would've rather not pretended the whole thing never
happened. Which, naturally, is precisely what she wants. I wonder
sometimes if she hasn't succeeded in convin cing herself it =didn't=
happen; that it was just some kind of weird dream, the result of too many
freezing nights and some bad Chinese. 

It's only sometimes when I catch her eye I know it actually happened; like
now, for instance. I know she knows. Just like I know she knows that I
know. It's unspoken between us. It lies under the surface, unassuming,
deceptively buried. It manifests itsel f in little ways. We don't share
facts about each other's lives the way that we once did; the mundane
oddities that make a person unique aren't shared as often, if ever. These
damnable silences grow in number the more time that passes. Unless you
count ca tching a bite at the local Grease Pit in whatever small town dump
we happen to be in, we don't share meals. 

I think that's the biggest reason why her request for my attendance at
lunch surprised me so much. Maybe she just felt sorry for me; it wouldn't
surprise me if her opinion of me drastically decreased the moment she
found out I'd allowed Phoebe to use me o nce, then actually considered
repeating the process anew. Or maybe she realized we couldn't pretend the
'incident' never happened if the patterns we developed within two weeks
together were shot to hell. 

Whatever the reason, I find myself grateful to her as she wipes a smear of
salad dressing off her cheek in a manner I find oddly endearing.

Jesus, I think the way she cleans her face is cute and I'm making up words
like ScullyThought to describe her in my mind, because normal words just
aren't good enough for her. Either Phoebe really fucked me up this time
and finally pushed me over the edge
 I've been clinging to, or I've got it bad for my partner. 

Given the current state of our relationship, I'm going to go with the
insanity plea for awhile longer.

Shaking off my thoughts, I focus on the positive emotion present; I'm
happy to be sharing lunch with Scully. I needed the human contact after
Phoebe left. I stared at the goodbye tape she left me for almost twenty
minutes before Scully came into the offic e. I weighed my decisions; to
listen or not to listen. Do I give it a chance, possibly hear something
that may once again endear Phoebe to me? Or do I assume it's classic
Inspector Green: A mind fuck for the road. I still stick to my original
story. 

Ten to one I couldn't dance to it. 

I wonder if I should be thankful to Scully for more than lunch. Perhaps,
somewhere in my subconscious, Phoebe didn't succeed this time because I
knew I had Scully now. Even though I don't really =have= her, not if you
ask Scully. I suppose it's just her p resence in my life that plants the
idea to begin with; there's someone sane who doesn't think I'm a total
lunatic. She isn't afraid to be with me and she even listens to my whacked
out theories. I sometimes think she actually trusts me. 

Maybe that's better than anything I ever thought I had with Phoebe to
begin with. Maybe I should just accept that what happened between Scully
and I happened. I don't have to be in love with her, I don't have to be
hurt because she 'rejected' me. I don't have to imagine her special
ScullyScent clings to my suits when I get home at night and I sure as hell
don't have to acknowledge how fucking adorable the way she falls asleep on
stakeouts is . . .

Yep; definitely going to have SUCKER tattooed to my forehead. 


=================


Melting Point


I wonder if inviting Mulder to lunch was a mistake? 

It seemed like a good idea at the time.  I know how taxing this case was
for him, and I thought maybe getting out of the office for an hour and
having lunch together would help him unwind.  We haven't really gone out
like this very much recently -- not si nce we got back from Icy Cape. 

That's at least partially my fault.  After I made one of the larger
mistakes of my life by having sex with my partner, I proceeded to make an
even bigger one by treating him like a stranger the next morning.  I sat
on my sofa wrapped in a blanket, and I c almly and logically explained to
him why this had been a mistake and could not be allowed to happen again. 
And then I dismissed him, as if he were hired help. 

I should have known better.  I've been dealing with men all my life --
first my father and brothers, and then as I grew older there were the boys
and men at school, at work and in social settings.  I *know* how fragile
the male ego is; I *know* how vulner able they are.  According to the
cliches women are the weaker sex, but that's true only physically.  On the
emotional plane it's a different story. 

So I should have known better.  I should have realized that Mulder would
be on pins and needles when he walked out of my bedroom, and I should have
found a nice, friendly face-saving way to let him down gently and talk him
through it.  Not, I will admit, while sitting bare-assed naked on my
living room sofa, still smelling of sex -- but I should have thought of
*something*. 

Unfortunately, I was so horrified at what I had allowed to happen that I
wasn't able to see past my own need to rebuild my defenses, and so I
pushed him away. 

I realized my error almost as soon as he had left, but of course by then
it was too late.  Going after him would just have made matters worse, and
by the time I saw him again at work later that same morning he had
completely shut me out. 

Not that I blame him. 

We drifted along for several weeks after that, and I don't believe I
thought about the matter more than 15 or 20 times a day.  I kept looking
for some chance, some opportunity to bring it up and talk it out with him,
but the time never seemed to be quite right.  And as more and more time
passed it started to seem less and less important -- although I couldn't
help but notice that as we drifted along we were also drifting apart, and
no longer sharing the sort of small, casual intimacies we'd shared before
the trip to Icy Cape. 

I even started to think that maybe that was for the best.  After all, I
reasoned, it was those casual intimacies that caused the problem in the
first place, wasn't it?  It was that level of personal involvement that
moved me to invite him in for coffee wh en we got back to D.C. that night,
and from there on it seemed almost inevitable, like a row of dominoes
going down one right after the other.  You don't knock over that initial
domino, and the rest of them stay standing, too. 

Right? 

But then I met Phoebe Green. 

I don't know if I can even find the words to describe how shocked and
appalled I was as I came to realize what sort of a person she is.  I have
known women in the past who were that exploitive and manipulative, but
I've never had the displeasure of seeing
 one in action this close up.  And as the case progressed and I came to
realize how thoroughly she still had her hooks into *my* partner, I found
that all the careful arguments I'd built up to rationalize the distance
between me and Mulder seemed less and
 less valid.  And the ice I'd started to encase myself in began melting
away. 

But it wasn't until I saw them kissing in the hotel ballroom that I
finally gave it up.  In that moment something snapped, and there's no use
in pretending that it wasn't at least partly personal.  Oh, I tried to
persuade myself that it was just professio nal concern, and that all I
really cared about was that Mulder not be distracted from the real
business at hand.  I even tried to be angry at him for necking with his
girlfriend when he was supposed to be working. 

For all of about two seconds I tried to feel those things, and they were
two of the longest seconds of my life.  Then the fire alarm went off, and
I was shocked to find myself actually taking pleasure in breaking up that
little scene.  I didn't really hav e time to examine my emotions right
then, but later, after the smoke had cleared, I went over the sequence of
events in my mind, and there was no denying it:  I was jealous of Phoebe
Green. 

Which is impossible.  I can *not* be jealous -- not over Mulder.  All the
reasons for not becoming involved with him remain valid, and the fact that
he's my work partner and we have to depend on each other in the field is
actually the least of them.  I ju st can't afford to let it happen, for so
many different reasons, and that means I have to choose between
reestablishing our previous friendship, or requesting that they transfer
me away from this temptation. 

And I've never been a quitter. 

So here we are, sitting across from each other in this sub shop, trying to
rebuild ... something.  Neither of us has said a word since we left the
office, and the silence has been deafening, to say the least.  Mulder
keeps looking at me, and I can tell fr om the expression on his face that
he's thinking about that night.  Which is a step in the right direction, I
suppose, since it's the first time since it happened that he's allowed his
guard down even this far. 

I guess I have Phoebe to thank for that, but I'm going to have to take the
next step myself, because it's pretty clear Mulder isn't going to do it. 

If only I could figure out what that step should be. 


=================

Chapter Three:  Beyond the Sea

=================


Beyond Repair


I'm being driven slowly and systematically insane. 

I can't really blame my partner for what she's doing; after all, it isn't
her fault I find every word that comes out of her mouth maddening. She's
just trying to help me. And God knows I need the help. 

It's just something about having her in my apartment; having her touch my
things and fix me food once a day is starting to grate on my nerves. The
entire situation, her making sure I'm comfortable, pillows arranged behind
my back, Knicks' game on TV is fa r too . . . domestic for either my peace
of mind, or my emotional well-being. 

The kicker is, I can't even tell her to leave me alone. Losing her father
has affected her to a degree I can't even begin to fathom. He was very
important to her, I know. From what she's told me, I gather she was very
much Daddy's little girl. Boggs' abil ity to fuck with her mind as easily
as he did proves how desperately she wanted a connection with the man she
called Ahab. 

Scully's emotions have been raw and near the surface since her father
died. She tried being brave; tried burying herself so deeply in our work
that the pain and the grief wouldn't touch her. My attempts at sympathy
were shrugged off almost before I'd had a chance to offer them. I didn't
know how to react in the situation; I still don't, if I'm honest with
myself. I don't deal well with loss; my search for Samantha is proof
positive of that. As an Oxford educated psychologist, however, I =do= have
somewhat
 of a grasp on how to help others deal with loss. 

Of course, in order to help her deal with it, that would infer that Scully
would have to speak to me about anything that didn't have to do with work
or whether my leg was hurting too bad. 

God knows that can't happen; we might - =gasp= - connect on an emotional
level. 

I rub a hand over my face, scrubbing the weariness away as best I can. It
isn't fair of me to put this all on her shoulders. I was right there when
she was laying out her cool, calm, rational reasons why we couldn't be
more than partners. It isn't that I object to just being her partner,
either. It's a relationship that works incredibly well the way it is. I'd
just like to be more of a friend to her. Hell, we were more like friends
our first case than we have been recently. 

I don't necessarily want to have sex with her; I don't even want to
classify the one night stand we had after the hell we endured in Icy Cape
to be considered anything but a careless mistake. 

I'd just like to be able to =talk= to her about it. It's become this huge
elephant in the room we both studiously ignore all day long. We have to
stand up to talk to each other because we can't see over it sitting down,
and there are times when I can't ev en stand the smell in the room; Big
elephant equals big piles of elephant shit. 

I don't want our relationship - whatever shape it may take - to
deteriorate into big piles of shit. 

Keys jingle and scrape against my door. Forcing a sigh down, I flip open
the bottle of prescription pain killers on the table and close my eyes,
feigning a drug-induced sleep. Perhaps I won't have to see her, to talk to
her, to stare into those fathomless
 blue eyes today if she thinks I'm asleep. 

I hate myself for doing this to her. These little visits are made solely
under the guise that I need someone to heat some soup for me; freeze a
lasagna so I can heat it up when I hobble into the kitchen on one crutch.
Replenish my kitchen of its orange ju ice and iced tea I've sucked down
entire cartons of because the meds make me thirsty and I don't bother with
glasses, carrying the cartons back to my couch with me so I don't have to
get up again. 

She passes through the living room and I can't help but inhale the scent I
can't put name to, but instantly recognize as Scully. The guilt washes
over me anew as I feel her pause; she's staring at what she perceives to
be my sleeping form. I can tell. I c an feel her fucking eyes piercing my
heart. Not moving a muscle, not so much as twitching I keep my breathing
slow and even until I hear her poking in the kitchen. 

Under the pretense of caring for her poor, bullet-ridden partner, Scully
unburdens herself when she comes to see me. I have heard four different
stories about her childhood in the last few days; stories she'd all but
given up sharing with me since Icy Cap e. It was exhilarating at first. I
was hopeful that maybe our partnership, our budding friendship hadn't
suffered irreparable damage by our libidos. 

That theory was shot to shit when she told me a particular heart-wrenching
story about leaving behind her dog, Spunky, when her father was
transferred. To offer my sympathy, I'd tried to touch her cheek, much the
same way I had in our office what seems li ke forever ago, but in reality
has been but a week. She hadn't quite flinched at my touch; but I could
tell she didn't welcome it, either. She pulled back politely, asking if I
needed anything before she drove home. 

I - equally politely - declined and she was off. I stared at the ceiling
until the pain got too bad. I popped a pill and was out in a matter of
minutes. Ever since that day, however, I haven't been comfortable facing
her. It's something I know I'm going t o have to get over. And I think I
will - just as soon as I'm back to work and we can bury every
not-so-below-the-surface nuance in the files, like we have been for weeks. 

After all, if it ain't broke, don't fix it, right? 

I feel her enter the room again. She's done her penance, made sure I won't
be found starved to death in my little hole. She can leave with a clear
conscience. It takes all my considerable discipline not to startle when
her palm lands on my forehead. She's
 just checking for signs of fever, I assure myself. She's a Doctor; that's
what she does. Her hand lingers just a little too long for me to believe
myself. 

If only we weren't so God damn broken. 


=================


Damage Control


Mulder is pretending to be asleep again. 

I don't know why he does it, but about half the time when I've come over
here to check on him the last couple of weeks, he's pretended to be
asleep. 

I also don't know who he thinks he's kidding.  I grew up in a household
with two brothers and a sister, and I got to be pretty good at figuring
out when one of them was playing possum for one reason for another.  If
Melissa couldn't fool me when I was ten , I don't know why Mulder thinks
he can fool me now. 

Not that it really matters.  I'm just over here to make sure he has
everything he needs, after all.  If he wants to avoid any social contact,
or if he's embarrassed by needing someone to take care of him, I guess
that's his problem.  Although if he really
 doesn't want me here I wish he'd just say so -- then he could just hire a
fucking visiting nurse and I could have my evenings after work to myself
again. 

Hmmm.  Seems to be a little anger in there, Dana.  Wonder where that came
from? 

Nor does *that* really matter, either.  It isn't very rational for me to
be angry at Mulder; he never asked me to come over and do these things for
him, after all.  But I could see that he'd need some help after he got out
of the hospital, and so without ever really discussing it with him, I've
been trying to do what I could.  Doing the partner thing, I guess. 

I've also been trying to repair a little of the damage that was caused by
what happened after our trip to Icy Cape.  At the time I was pretty angry,
both with myself and with him -- but again, I've come to realize that this
wasn't very rational.  Sleeping
 with him after that trip was just one of those things that happens.  It
was a mistake, but now it's behind us, and it's time to move on.  I know I
didn't handle the situation very well the next morning, but it's been
nearly two months, for heaven's sake. 
  It's time and way past time to put all that behind us. 

So I've been doing what I could to try and set things right.  I came to
realize after the L'Ively case -- and our encounter with Phoebe Green --
just how screwed up Mulder really is, and just how much he needs someone
to take care of him and keep him on t he straight and narrow.  And while
there are definite limits to how far I'm willing to go in that department,
I can't just stand by and watch while my partner self-destructs.  If I
can't make things better for him -- and I know in my heart that I can't --
 at least I can try to prevent things from getting any worse. 

Ahab would call it damage control. 

No.  I am not going to think about my father -- and I am not going to
think about Luther Lee Boggs, either.  These are yet more feelings which
it is not rational to be having.  Ahab is dead, and Boggs was nothing but
a common criminal who got the punishme nt he so richly deserved.  I would
have gained nothing by attending his execution.  Nothing. 

I quickly thrust away thoughts of my father, and I realize I've been
standing here staring at Mulder while he pretends to be asleep for several
minutes.  I'm sure it's starting to be a bit of a strain on him; and
besides, I really did come here for a reas on.  And so I turn away and
head into the kitchen. 

Which is a mess, as usual.  I don't understand how one man, living alone
and spending most of his time on the sofa trying to recover from a gunshot
wound, can cause so much havoc in here in only 24 hours.  But Mulder seems
to have a gift for it, and so I sigh softly and get down to work. 

For a few minutes I simply let my thoughts drift as I work on cleaning the
kitchen.  And before long I find myself thinking about Mulder again. 

He really is a very unhappy person.  I've known that for awhile, since our
first case together, actually, when he told me about what happened -- or
what he thinks happened -- to his sister.  But there's so much more going
on than just that, and since I've
 been spending so much social time around him the last couple of weeks
I've been discovering ... things. 

First and foremost, he doesn't seem to have any friends.  At least, I
don't think anyone but me has come to visit him since he got out of the
hospital.  I never find any extra cups or glasses sitting out, and the
furniture and so forth is always just the way I left it.  Mulder seems to
be living on his sofa, just making short forays to the bathroom and the
kitchen, and if anyone else is in this apartment between my visits,
they're being extraordinarily careful to leave no sign of themselves. 

Another thing is that he doesn't seem to have any interests other than
work -- and his sister, of course, but his search for Samantha is so
entangled with his work on the X-Files that the two issues are really one
and the same. 

When he was first home from the hospital I tried bringing him things --
paperbacks and magazines and such -- and he was always very polite about
my offerings.  But I quickly came to realize that he wasn't really
interested, and so after a few days I stopp ed trying. 

The only entertainment he ever seems to want is the television, which is
*always* on whenever I get here, although he usually turns it off pretty
quickly when I arrive.  And there was one time when he actually was asleep
when I came in, and the movie he h ad been watching -- well, let's just
say that my coursework in human anatomy had led me to believe that what I
saw on that screen before I turned the TV off was impossible. 

I've also tried engaging him in conversation, but that didn't get
anywhere, either.  He seemed interested at first, but before long I
realized that I was making him uncomfortable (although I still don't
understand why), and so I gave up on that, too. 

So I'm really just about out of ideas.  I've been trying to reach out to
Mulder, just a little bit, in an effort to put us back on the track we
were on before Icy Cape, but nothing seems to work.  I either can't reach
him, or he doesn't want me to reach h im, and at this point I'm not quite
sure which it is.  Either way, I'm getting more than a little frustrated. 
He has to do *some* of the work, after all, or this relationship just is
not going to work. 

Oh, God.  I did *not* just use that word, did I?  Let's just say
"partnership" instead, shall we, Dana? 

The kitchen's clean now, and I really need to be going, because -- well,
because I do, that's all.  I've been feeling intermittently uncomfortable
in Mulder's apartment for several days now, and tonight is the worst yet. 

And so I dry my hands on the dishtowel and hang it neatly from the hook by
the sink, and I turn and walk back out into the living room.  Mulder is
still lying on the sofa, pretending to be asleep.  In fact, I don't think
he's moved a muscle, which is one sure sign that he's not really sleeping. 
*Nobody* holds that still without making a conscious effort. 

For a moment I'm tempted just to leave.  But I did come over here to check
on him, and my conscience won't let me just walk out.  So I move over to
the sofa and bend down and lay my hand on his forehead, to make sure he
isn't feverish.  His skin seems coo l and dry -- in other words, normal. 
I allow my hand to linger for just a moment -- and suddenly I'm having a
vivid flashback of touching his skin when it was hot and sweaty with
desire --

And I calmly and rationally push the memory away, lift my hand from my
partner's forehead, and put on my coat and turn to leave. 

I shut the door quietly on my way out. 


=================

Chapter Four:  Lazarus

=================


Amber


I wish Mulder would come back. 

More to the point, I wish he hadn't left in the first place.  I've been
sitting here alone in the bullpen on the third floor of the Hoover
Building for the past hour.  I've been sitting here alone, staring at this
stupid watch, the one I gave Jack on his 35th birthday, and wondering why
it decided to stop at the precise moment that his heart stopped beating in
the emergency room that day. 

Of course, there are a number of possible explanations for that
occurrence.  One obvious explanation is that Jack was of necessity being
treated very roughly at the moment his heart stopped, and that rough
treatment could have caused the watch to stop.  A nd if his watch was only
a little slow, the electric shocks he was given a few minutes later to
resuscitate him could also account for it. 

Or it could just be a coincidence. 

I sigh, and for the hundredth time I look down at the watch, its hands
frozen at 6:47.  I turn it over in my hands, and I look at the
inscription:  "Happy 35th, Love D."  And it occurs to me that this is also
frozen in time:  A moment in our history -- no w *my* history -- forever
suspended, like a fly caught in amber. 

Mulder, of course, has what he considers to be a straightforward
explanation, although he chose not to shove it at me today.  Mulder
believes -- I am quite sure -- that the watch stopped at that moment as a
result of the trauma of Jack's lifeforce leaving
 his body. 

Which is ridiculous.  Even if I believed that sort of unscientific
nonsense, Jack's lifeforce did *not* leave his body.  We successfully
resuscitated him, and he lived several days after that, until he finally
succumbed to diabetic shock. 

But I didn't get to argue the point with Mulder, because he never
presented his theory to me -- and I am just now coming to realize that
this is what has me so upset.  It isn't the loss of Jack, or my own brush
with death, or even the fact that this week for the first time in my life
I killed a man. 

No, what's really bothering me is that Mulder is not treating me like his
partner anymore; he's treating me like an outsider.  He's treating me so
much like an outsider that he doesn't even feel it appropriate or
necessary to tell me why he thinks this is
 an X-File. 

I even asked him about it; I asked him why he thought the watch had
stopped at that exact moment.  And for just an instant it seemed as if he
might tell me -- but then he just said, "It means whatever you want it to
mean."  And he turned and walked away, leaving me all alone in a crowded
room. 

He turned and walked away. 

Mulder has never done that to me before, not in all the months we've been
working together.  He has ditched me, yes.  He's gone charging off into
dangerous situations without telling me or giving me a chance to talk him
out of it -- or at least provide ba ckup.  But he's never failed to tell
me his mind when I asked him; he's never evaded a direct question and then
walked away, leaving me hanging. 

Dear God; why is he doing this to me?  To us? 

That's not a fair question, of course.  It's not all Mulder's doing; the
fault is at least partly mine.  I was a willing participant, both in the
initial act which disturbed our fragile but growing partnership, and in
the subsequent pretense that nothing had happened.  God, if only I could
turn back the clock; if only I could take back some of the things I said
to him that morning when he came out of my bedroom -- or at *least* find a
better way to have said them. 

Hell, as long as I'm wishing for the impossible, I may as well wish that
it never happened in the first place.  I may as well wish that we could be
back in my kitchen, exhausted both physically and emotionally after the
trip to Icy Cape.  Then I could jus t step to one side when he reached for
the damned sugar bowl, and none of this would have happened .... 

Except, of course, that I *am* wishing for the impossible.  That night
*did* happen, and I *did* say the things I said, and I *have* taken part
in the coverup.  And Mulder was telling me this afternoon, as clearly and
as openly as his poor, broken psyche will let him, that it's over, and
that it's time to call it a day. 

And I can't help but wonder if he might be right. 

No.  I will not accept that.  I rise from my chair at long last and I
begin to pace, ignoring the strange looks and whispers which I know my
behavior is drawing from the other agents in the room.  They've been
looking at me and whispering ever since Mulde r left me here; they can
just go on looking and whispering.  Six months ago I would have cared, but
now .... 

One thing Mulder does have right:  We can't go on like this.  Something
has got to give, and it's either going to be our partnership -- what's
left of it -- or it's going to be my pride. 

Yes, pride.  I realize as I continue to pace that it's been pride more
than anything else that has prevented me from addressing this issue with
Mulder.  I was unwilling to accept or acknowledge the fact that for the
second time in my FBI career I had allo wed myself to become involved with
an older, more senior agent. 

Which is the worst possible thing that a woman in a man's world can do, of
course.  I've seen what happens to the careers of women who do that, both
in medical school and now in the Bureau.  And I was unwilling to consider
the possibility that I might be the sort of woman who stumbles into that
sort of situation, even inadvertently. 

But Jack's reentry into my life has forced me to confront this fact about
myself, and now it's time to fish or cut bait.  Mulder has apparently just
written me off, and turned and walked away.  I have little doubt that if I
just let things ride it's only a matter of time -- probably only a matter
of days -- before I'm called to Blevins' office once again and informed
that I'm being transferred back to Quantico.  Which of course will be the
end of any hopes I had of a career as a field agent, but that's th e least
of my concerns at the moment.  There's also the small matter of my
self-respect .... 

But I don't have to let that happen.  I can take control of the situation,
and step up to the plate and accept responsibility for the things I've
done and said.  There's no guarantee that this approach would make things
all better between me and Mulder, b ut at least I'd know that I'd done my
best, and I'd be able to reclaim my own good opinion of myself.  It's what
my father would have expected of me. 

It's what I expect of myself. 

I realize that I've stopped pacing.  I'm standing now looking down at the
small box of Jack's personal effects.  A fly caught in amber, I think once
again.  That's what I've been the last couple of months, ever since we got
back from Icy Cape.  A fly caug ht in amber, unable to move either forward
or back, either up or down, caught in the slow, glacial movement of the
fossilized resin that surrounds me. 

But all that's about to change. 

I reach out and drop Jack's watch into the box of his effects, and then I
turn and head for the door. 

I want my partner back. 


=================


Cloaked


I want my partner back. 

Somehow, over the last few weeks I've spent analyzing, categorizing and
fretting over this =thing= Scully and I have together, I managed to miss
the most important, most singularly pertinent piece of information. 

I want my partner back. 

Reginald Brongsworth, my favorite psychology professor at Oxford, would be
thoroughly disgusted with me. Good old Reggie always had this theory - if
you couldn't figure out what was ailing your own life, you had no chance
of finding out what was ailing so meone else's. The man took the term
'physician, heal thyself' to a level I doubt it was ever intended to
reach. He was hard on me, but in a way I'm grateful for today. 

Using the most general of terms, I can satisfactorily explain to myself
what the major malfunctions in my life are. 

Missing sister. 

Tense working relationship with my partner for the last few months. 

A social life most inmates would find comical. 

Of course, all those examples are mere surface excuses, Professor
Brongsworth would lecture me were the old fart still among the living. 
Missing sister; sure, life's =just= that simple, isn't it Foxy boy?
Samantha's abduction is the single most significa nt event in my life.
It's shaped who I am and what I do each day when I pull my miserable ass
off the couch. Her abduction is, I believe, at the very heart of a
government conspiracy to conceal the truth about the existence of extra
terrestrial life on this planet. 

It doesn't get much more complicated than that. 

But just for shits and giggles, let's try. Tense working relationship with
my partner; there's the understatement of the decade.  Scully and I were
never tense; not in the first few weeks of our partnership. We were wary;
mistrustful, even. But we were ne ver tense. We flirted and baited and
danced around each other, nothing serious, nothing overt and certainly
nothing concrete until that moment in her kitchen when absolutely
everything shifted. 

The word irrevocable comes to mind, although I know it doesn't nearly do
what went on - what's going on - justice.  It has not yet affected the
professional dynamic that has wrapped itself around us, easy as breathing,
from the very beginning. It has, non etheless, destroyed something
infinitely fragile and precious between us; something I hadn't even
realized we had until it was gone. 

As I move on to examine my social life, I once again reflect ruefully that
all roads apparently do lead back to Scully. I haven't so much as
attempted casual flirtation, so long as you don't count Phoebe; which I
don't. The logical, rational part of my be ing tries to assure me it's of
my own choosing; I'm not with a woman right now because I'm devoting
myself to my work. I'm going to find my sister. I'm going to bring the big
bad house of cards down on top of all those bastards who lurk in the
shadows. 

Another, much more persuasive part of me rips the cloak of denial I've
lived under for the past few months away roughly. Apparently not even my
psyche will allow me my delusions any longer. 

Scully and I have a problem, and rather than focus on it, I choose instead
to reflect on the things that are actually =good= in my life. 

I've been walking without the aid of crutches or cane for two weeks now.
Scully stopped paying me little visits a week before that and I found
myself engaged in a healthy round of self-flagellation because I wasn't
anywhere near as relieved as I knew I sh ould've been. 

Grimacing, I mute the TV on 'Unsolved Mysteries' and try damned hard not
to think about my partner for five fucking minutes.  I use this time
constructively, pulling myself off my couch so I can wander into the
kitchen and grab another beer from the fridg e. I hate beer; I would much
rather be drinking something =much= stronger, but I have to be into work
early tomorrow for a meeting with Skinner, and I'd just as soon not have
to deal with the tight-ass while hung over. 

Meandering back to my sofa, I sink into it with a little sigh of pleasure,
something about being cocooned in my rat-hole of an apartment making me
feel safe.  I have this thing with being emotionally safe. I drift through
my life, secure in the notion tha t this invisible cloak that only I can
see surrounds me and keeps me from emotional harm. 

Just because the cloak isn't successful doesn't mean I should give the
damn thing up. Hell, I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have some mental
equivalent of a security blanket to wrap myself up in when the going gets
tough. 

It got really tough these last few days. 

>From the moment I heard the name Jack Willis, I have been deeply, deeply
conflicted. Part of me was glad; Scully wasn't around me constantly
because of this little bone the higher ups decided to throw her. I had
some breathing room. Yet, at the same time , I found myself missing the
very thing that had been tying me in knots for the better part of three
months. 

The fact that my Alpha-Male status was threatened by her ex held
absolutely no redeeming values to the situation whatsoever.  The fact that
I wasn't sure I had a right =to= my Alpha-Male status exacerbated things
further. And of course, the more I thought
 about it the more it pissed me off. I had no claim on Scully's life. I
wasn't even sure I =wanted= a claim on Scully's life; I just knew damn
good and well I hated the choice being taken away from me. 

I donned a very different cloak while I searched for her. 

This one wove around me like a second skin, so familiar I barely realized
I was wearing it. Scully was - and is - the most important person in my
life. I'm not very proud of that fact, especially given how distant our
relationship is at the moment, but it 's true. And, once again, it
appeared as though Spooky was going to lose another woman he . . .  cared
about. 

I tried really hard to wear my cloak of indifference around her. I think I
might've succeeded after I found her. 

I was so lost in terror, I realize, so totally consumed with the need to
find her, to make sure she was safe, to wrap my arms around her and
convince myself that she was okay, that she was ALIVE, I was totally
unprepared for her to not feel the same way. I felt something inside me
break and die as she continually called after 'Jack' once we found her.
Her fucking hands were still handcuffed to that God damn radiator and all
she could do was call after him, trying to see if he was all right. 

I know my anger in that regard is irrational. If our positions were
reversed, I can't say I'd be acting any different toward the likely death
of a former lover. Especially one who'd undergone such . . . personality
changes. 

Trying to be good around her is starting to choke me like my various
cloaks never have. I know how hard losing Jack is to her; I am attempting
to respect her boundaries and sensitivities in this situation. Rather than
engage her intellect in a battle of w its, challenging her to prove that
=wasn't= Warren Dupree in her late lover's skin, I backed away. I tried to
be as supportive as I knew how - as she'd let me be - and give her the
space she coldly told me she needed the morning after our . . . indiscreti
on. 

Indiscretion; I hate that fucking word. I hate it like I can't remember
hating a word before in my life. It makes what we did sound dirty and
wrong. It wasn't dirty. It was . . . nice. Nice; Jesus, sometimes I make
myself sick. 

It wasn't nice. It was life affirming. We were two very lost, very weary
souls who clung to each other for a night because we needed it. I am not
ashamed to need her, but for reasons I am just beginning to understand,
Scully is terrified to need me, or an yone else. Perhaps my fearlessness
toward her stems from the fact that I do trust her totally now, like I
never thought I'd be able to trust anyone. I know she doesn't feel the
same toward me. I wish to God it weren't so, but I suppose that's my cross
to bear. 

Glancing down at the five empty beer bottles on the table, I decide that
perhaps I am just the =teeniest= =tiniest= bit drunk. 

The psychologist in me that's sounding more and more like Reggie every
minute pipes up again and informs me that I'm attempting to mask some
feeling of inadequacy or pain under the haze of alcohol. To that
particular facet of my personality, I reply with a patented no shit
Sherlock and force my tired body up to get another beer. Might as well
polish off the six pack while I'm at it. 

Leaning a hip against my kitchen counter, I take a long, slow swig of this
newest bottle, staring at the stain on my tile. It's been there since I
moved in; I've never gotten around to even attempting to clean it, mostly
because I don't notice it half the
 time. I notice it now because it's marring what would otherwise be a
spotless kitchen floor. It's tainting perfection and it bugs me. I scrub
the back of my neck with the palm of my hand and try to ward off the
uncomfortable feeling running through my sy stem. 

Even alcohol can't keep the ghost of Reggie Brongsworth quiet for long. 

One of the rational, calm, and oh-so-cool reasons she gave me for our
=indiscretion= being better left forgotten, was that I was technically her
superior. She thought it unwise for us to enter into something that would
without a doubt affect our working r elationship. It's somewhere she
didn't think we ought to go and she would be very thankful for my god damn
fucking understanding. 

Okay, so she didn't curse; that was me. But damn it, I'm half-drunk and
I'm pissed off and I want to know why she can fuck Jack Willis on a
regular, exclusive basis, without a qualm of remorse, but the thought of
having even one night with Fox Mulder on t he record sends her screaming
into the hills. Am I really so weird, so freaky that even the idea that us
being more than just partners terrifies her this much? 

Once again, Reggie shakes me. More likely, she's once bitten twice shy;
more likely, she learned her lesson with Jack Willis and doesn't want to
risk jeopardizing a partnership that has every indication of being the
best of both our professional lives. Mo re likely, I'm being an
insensitive jackass who can't see past his own bruised ego, or battered
heart, either or at this point. 

Giving the stain a final glare, I stumble back to my couch, lining all six
bottles up neatly in a row on my coffee table. Lying back on my couch, I
let my eyes drift close and begin to pull the tattered remains of my
control back around me like the cloak that they are, preparing myself to
face her again tomorrow. 

I've really got to do something about that stain. 


=================

Chapter Five:  Darkness Falls

=================


Into the Light


He was the first thing I saw when I woke up. 

It was not what I had anticipated.  As my consciousness slipped away for
what I truly believed was the last time, I assumed I would soon either be
suffused with the Holy Spirit as the Church has taught me, or I would
suffer the complete lack of existence which science has lately led me to
expect.  Eternal life, or non-existence.  Perpetual light, or final
darkness. 

I certainly did not dare hope that I would ever see Fox Mulder again. 

Yet there he was when the darkness finally lifted, alive and whole and
looking just too good to be true, despite the burns on his face and the
oxygen tank he was carting around with him. 

Part of me, deep down inside, thinks I should be worried about how good it
felt to see him again, but I'm damned if I'm going to give in to that
again.  I've been down that road, thank you very much, and I'm just not
going to do it again.  Things have got ten so much better the last few
weeks, and I'm not going to let it get away from me a second time. 

I'm not going to let *him* get away from me a second time. 

God, I can't believe I'm thinking these things.  I can't believe I'm
*feeling* these things.  Most of all, I can't believe I'm *allowing*
myself to feel these things. 

But it feels good. 

It feels liberating. 

It started getting better right after the Dupre case -- the one where Jack
was killed.  I truly was on the brink of despair after that one.  Things
had not been right between Mulder and me since the trip to Icy Cape, and
as I sat there in the bullpen star ing at Jack's watch I was sure that it
was all over.  But somehow, in the aftermath of my father's death and
Jack's death and all the other heartaches and upsets, Mulder and I managed
to reverse the downward slide we'd been on ever since we'd slept togeth
er. 

There.  I can even use the words now without going into a tailspin.  I
still think it was a mistake, and I *know* it's something that should not
and can not and *will* not be repeated, but at least now I can think about
it and articulate the thought.  I c an accept it as part of my history, as
part of *our* history, and move onward and upward, into the light. 

And that's liberating, too. 

Then came the trip to Olympic National Forest -- Mulder's "nice trip to
the forest".  The "nice trip" which we are even now recuperating from in a
bio-isolation unit. 

The old me, the me of a month ago, would be doing a slow burn over what
this trip has cost me.  Not merely the fact that I very nearly lost my
life -- although that would have been bad enough.  No, what really would
have upset, shocked and disturbed me wa s the way I lost control when we
were trapped in that cabin in the middle of the night. 

I don't lose control.  It just doesn't happen.  And I *certainly* don't
lose control when there is anyone around to witness the event. 

Only this time I did.  When we were up there in the woods in the dark,
with nothing but a cranky old generator with an uncertain fuel supply
standing between us and a horrible death, I just lost it, right there in
front of Mulder and that Forest Ranger, L arry Moore.  Somehow, some way,
deep down inside, I knew that it would be okay to do so, and so I just
abandoned my self-control for a few minutes. 

And Mulder was there for me -- and what's even more remarkable is that I
*let* him be there for me. 

Which is something else I don't do.  I don't let people hold me and take
care of me and make me feel better.  I realized a long time ago, before I
even entered medical school, that it was going to be tough enough for me,
as a woman, to function as an equa l in the world.  I couldn't afford to
give any appearance of weakness -- not the slightest hint.  And so I just
don't let people get inside; I don't let them get that close. 

But I let Mulder in, that night in the cabin. 

And that felt good, too. 

Mulder has actually wandered away for a few minutes, which is fine.  He's
been sitting by my bedside every waking minute since I regained
consciousness two days ago -- and I suspect that he's been there while I
slept, as well.  Somehow I can feel his pres ence now, even when I'm
sleeping.  A few weeks ago I would have found this burdensome and
oppressive, but now I actually take comfort in this sign of his concern,
and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief and contentment everytime I open my
eyes and see him si tting there. 

He hasn't really said much, and neither have I.  But where long stretches
of silence would previously have been heavy and uncomfortable, now they
seem right and proper.  When I think of something to say, I say it.  And
when Mulder has a response, he says that, too.  And vice versa. But beyond
that we just stay quiet and enjoy each other's company. 

We've been smiling a lot, too. 

There are a pair of ironies here that are not lost on me.  The first is
the fact that it took the death of my former lover to shake us loose from
the trap we'd set for ourselves; the second is that it took our own
near-deaths before we were really able to
 be completely free.  These are two paradoxes which I suspect I will still
be pondering when I finally really do lay on my deathbed.  And perhaps if
the Church is right and my science is wrong, I will finally be allowed to
understand it. 

But until then I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

Mulder's coming back now, and so I push away the abstract thoughts and
philosophical musings which have preoccupied me for the last few minutes. 
For once I'm going to reach out to someone, and just experience what life
has to offer. 

Onward and upward. 

Into the light. 


=================


Willingly Confined


I really hate being confined. 

Not to mention the fact that my neck itches like crazy and every time I
reach behind me to scratch, Scully gives me that Look of hers. That 'you
know you're not supposed to be doing that because it's infected, so why
are you even trying with me right here ?' Look.  I've decided that look is
cute, and I will never, ever tell her so, because that would definitely be
met with an unenthusiastic response. 

The talk we had after Willis was killed has done our partnership the kind
of good I don't think either of us anticipated when she arrived at my
apartment that night.  It wasn't what either of us said, so much, as the
way we said it. We were open and hones t and neither of us was wary around
the other. We watched an old movie on AMC and she drove herself home just
a little after midnight. 

I admit it; I was tense that first day back to work together. I was scared
to death all the progress we made, the new, tenuous understanding between
us would be missing somehow. But when she'd walked into my office, she had
a warm, if not wry, smile on he r face. I gave her one in return and we
both seemed to relax; it was okay. We were okay, and we were back. 

I feel closer to her now; closer than I ever have before.  I kissed that
damned oxygen tank goodbye today and I couldn't be happier. It was a bitch
to drag it around with me wherever I went. Now, I can move freely - if not
a bit more slowly than usual - a bout these deluxe accommodations of ours.
They say we've got another week of quarantine; I think we're up to the
challenge. 

Glancing to the left, I see Scully, hands on her hips, arguing the fact
that she's =fine= and fully capable of moving about on her own. I contain
a grin; the Doctor in his biohazard suit doesn't know what he's up
against. He should just give up now; she's
 determined to walk around and he's sure as hell not going to stop her. 

I'm glad she was more determined than I was to make this partnership work.
Because left to my own devices, I most likely would've just let us -
whatever that is - slip away. I have always been a loner; it's something
that's familiar, something that's cons tant. =I= won't leave; I can depend
on myself, I can trust myself. It's a safe feeling, knowing you're
completely impervious to the rest of the world. 

Impervious, that is, until a redheaded dynamo strides into your life and
makes you question whom, exactly, you are. Scully is a force of nature; I
was foolish to ever believe I could move out of the path of her particular
storm. 

This elevation in moods I'm experiencing is beginning to distress me. Fox
Mulder just =isn't= happy on a regular basis. And he sure as hell doesn't
fight back grins while in quarantine after almost dying on a 'nice little
trip to the forest'. 

Jesus, it just keeps getting weirder and weirder. I bet Scully's ready to
throttle me after this one. We both thought aliens and liver-eating
mutants were about as weird as it got. Who knew killer glowing bugs were
around the next corner? Killer glowing b ugs who wrap you in a cocoon to
preserve your body . . . 

Sometimes, I wonder if the day will come when nothing seems odd or away
from the norm to us. 

The doctor's about to be exposed to a full on Scully-explosion; I can tell
by the tiny disapproving furrow between her brows. Scully can express a
thousand different emotions just by the way she moves her eyebrows.
There's the one-sided, incredulous sligh t lift of her brow; those I get
when I throw a theory at her she's heard before but still doesn't believe.
Then there's the creep up to her hairline 'are you looney-toons?' brow
that, if I'm honest with myself, is my favorite. 

Her skepticism can be trying at times; frustrating as hell. But it's also
endearing, in an irritating sort of way. The way she handles herself; the
way she handles others is inspiring. She has a way about her she doesn't
fully realize or acknowledge herse lf, I don't think. I find myself once
again updating the mental profile I have of her in my head; the fact that
I do this on almost a daily basis is not lost on me. 

My partner is beautiful; that is a given and something obvious to anyone
with a pulse. She is intelligent, which to me is also obvious, but some
feel the need to deny this fact to themselves until she has proven herself
beyond a reasonable doubt. My partn er is compassionate; she doesn't wear
her heart on her sleeve, by any means, but once you get to know her, you
can tell. Her eyes soften and I can read anguish there when something
moves her. In our work together so far, I have read sonnets and volumes of
 pain in Scully's eyes. 

She doesn't allow herself to wallow in her own misery. She accepts the
pain consuming her and sets it free. Whether by burying herself in work,
or going out to lunch with her mother, Scully confronts her pain and deals
with it, or buries it where it can't
 touch her. I wish she wouldn't bury it as much as she does, but it's how
she copes and I cannot begrudge anyone their coping mechanisms; God knows
I understand how vital they are to survival sometimes. 

There are simple truths about Scully; she is intelligent, beautiful and
professional. She misses her father, loves her family and wishes she could
spend more time with them. Our partnership is important to her, but not to
the exclusion of all else. She pu ts me first far more often than I'm
entirely comfortable with; I don't like depending on people; needing them.
My internal profile of myself immediately supplies the reason for this:
people leave. And when they leave, that means someone has to be the one
left. 

I'm so tired of being the one left. 

Deep down inside, I am afraid Scully will become essential to who I am; to
the work, to my life, to everything. While the rational, cynical part of
me denies this; denies anyone could ever be so all-consuming as to hinder
me with their absence, another, m uch more frightened part of me believes.
The part of me that believes does so with a ferocity usually reserved for
little gray men. Scully could become as important to me as air or water.
And should that happen, being left by Scully could potentially dest roy
me. 

Make no mistake, I know she'll leave eventually. I watch her wait until
the doctor walks away from her bed, then make a quick move to stand. He
spins around and while I can't see his face, the expression there must be
withering, for Scully sighs and lays back on the bed, tucking the covers
primly over her legs. She will leave; it will be the best thing for both
of us. She will most likely move onward and upward to become a bigwig
upstairs. When this happens, I will most likely gain a contact high up and
a n occasional lunch buddy to reminisce with. 

She will remain the best partner I've ever had; the only partner I've ever
respected and the only woman I've ever . . . something. I chuckle at
myself, at my own inner-morose musings. I hope I'm wrong, I realize. For
the first time I can remember I hope I 'm wrong; I hope that she won't
leave and that five years from now we'll be working together, in some
capacity or another. Hell, I just hope she'll be in my life five years
from now. Because whether I like it or not, Dana Scully =is= an essential
part of my life. 

Sighing at the inevitability of it all, I slide off my bed and grab the
deck of cards a nice doctor smuggled in for us. I watch as Scully's eyes
meet mine, her expression hopeful. I waggle the cards at her and move very
carefully across the room toward he r. 

I could get used to being confined. 


=================

Chapter Six:  Tooms

=================


Extra Bases


I can't believe this stupid radio will only pick up two stations.  It was
working fine this afternoon, but now the tuner knob seems to be broken,
leaving me the choice of the last FM station it was set to, which happens
at this moment to be playing Old Ti me Gospel Radio Hour, and the
aforementioned 790 AM with the Pete Rose talk radio program. 

Evangelical religion or sports?  What a choice.  Like there's really that
much difference between the two .... 

I finally decide on the talk show as the lesser of two evils, and settle
back to wait and watch. 

Unfortunately, I don't really know what I'm supposed to be watching for. 
Mulder is convinced that Eugene Tooms is a serial killer with a career
stretching back to the turn of the century.  Which is absurd, of course,
and I've told him that repeatedly.  N evertheless, here I am,
participating in an unauthorized stakeout in violation of Bureau policy. 
And I'm wondering just how I came to be here. 

"Mulder, I wouldn't put myself on the line for anybody but you." 

I've been mulling over those words ever since I said them.  There is no
doubt in my mind that they're true, even though I hadn't thought about my
... partnership with Mulder in that way until that very moment.  But the
words just seemed to come bubbling o ut from nowhere, seeming so tangible
and significant that I could almost *see* them hanging in the air between
us. 

Mulder, of course, had to up the ante.  Even in the short time I've known
him I've come to recognize him as a risk taker, and so I shouldn't have
been surprised when he replied, "If there's an iced tea in that bag, it
could be love." 

Love.  God.  I don't think either of us has ever spoken that word to the
other -- certainly not in a personal context, and most assuredly not since
the trip to Icy Cape.  But there it was; he'd said the word and I had to
respond somehow.  In any other sit uation -- if we didn't have this damned
history dragging us down -- it would have been a harmless comment, one I
would have been free to interpret as a joke, and then move on. 

But we do have that history, and there's no use in trying to deny it. 
Which means I have to consider the very strong possibility that Mulder was
trying to send me some sort of message when he said that word.  What that
message could be -- other than the obvious, which I'm really not ready to
deal with -- I'm not quite sure.  But there must be some meaning there,
because another thing I've learned about Fox Mulder is that he never says
or does anything without there being some purpose behind it. 

A small part of me can't help but wonder what would have happened if it
*had* been an iced tea in the bag -- but then I push the thought away. 
People don't actually make life-altering decisions based on things like
that.  Certainly *I* do not.  If there had been an iced tea in the bag, I
could have found some way around it, some way to laugh it off or otherwise
deflect the issue. 

Just as I could have found some way to take Mulder up on what may have
been a semi-serious overture, if that's what I had wanted to do.  Despite
the root beer. 

Dammit, how did we get to this point so quickly?  It was only a few weeks
ago that we were barely speaking to each other, barely tolerating each
other's presence.  Granted it was due to a misunderstanding, but still --
those walls we'd built up around our selves after we slept together have
come tumbling down so terribly, terribly fast.  It's been breathtaking,
and more than a little frightening. 

My attention is abruptly drawn back to the radio.  Pete Rose has been
chattering away with his callers, talking about the baseball strike,
arguing about whose fault it is, speculating about whether the Blue Jays
will win it all again this year once the se ason finally gets underway,
and so on.  I'd basically tuned it out; I only have the damned radio on in
the first place for background noise.  But something has attracted my
attention; something has made me start listening for real .... 

"I don't know if it's fair to place all the blame on the players," the
caller is saying.  "I mean, when you stop and think about it, the owners
are making a hell of a lot of money off the game.  Don't the players
deserve a cut of that?  Without them there
 wouldn't *be* any baseball." 

There's something familiar about the man's voice, but for a minute I can't
quite place it -- and then I have it. 

Mulder.  It has to be. 

I shake my head in disbelief, and I can't help but wonder if he told me to
listen to this station specifically because he intended to call in
tonight.  If so, it's just plain dumb luck that the tuner on my radio is
broken, because otherwise there's no way
 I'd have this program on.  Now I just have to figure out *why* he wanted
me to listen. 

Because Fox Mulder never says or does anything without there being some
purpose behind it. 

I turn my attention back to the radio.  Mulder and Rose have finished
dissecting the strike, and for a second I think maybe the call is over. 
But no, Mulder apparently has something else on his mind. 

"Pete, can I ask you a question?" he says -- and if I wasn't sure before,
I am now.  That is definitely Fox Mulder's voice. 

"Sure, Bill, go ahead," Rose replies easily.  Bill.  Funny.  I guess
Mulder really *doesn't* like his first name.  I'd thought at the time he
was just putting me on, maybe trying to push me away.  But apparently he
was telling me the truth. 

"How do you know when it's time to take a chance?" Mulder asks.  "I mean,
when you're out there on the base paths, maybe you've just hit one to deep
right.  How do you know when to take a chance, and try to stretch it for
extra bases?  Instead of playing it safe and settling for the single?" 

Rose chuckles.  "I guess it's just something you get an instinct for after
awhile," he says.  "Of course you pay attention to the first base coach;
he may have a better view of the situation than you do.  But the bottom
line is instinct.  You just have to
 know in your gut that it's time to take a chance and go for that extra
base.  It's not really a conscious decision at all; there isn't time for
that.  It's instinct." 

"Instinct," Mulder says doubtfully -- and I can almost *see* his brow
wrinkling in concentration.  "Okay, I guess I can see that.  But still --
you make mistakes sometimes, right?  Sometimes you take that chance and
you try to stretch that hit, and you ge t caught.  Right?" 

"Of course," Rose replies.  "That's part of the game.  You think you can
do it, and the other guy thinks you can't, and you both do the best you
can.  And if you're better than he is -- if your *judgment* is better than
his is -- then you come out on top.  " 

"So you just go for it?" Mulder asks. 

"That's right," Rose says.  "You just go for it.  And if you screw up --
well, that's part of the game, too.  That's part of life.  But you don't
let it get you down; you try to learn from the mistake, and you try to do
better next time." 

"One last question, Pete?" 

"Sure.  But make it quick; we have to go to a commercial in a few seconds. 
Gotta pay those bills, you know." 

"Okay," Mulder replies -- and now he sounds *nervous*.  I don't think I've
ever heard Mulder sound this nervous before -- and it suddenly dawns on me
that this isn't about baseball at all.  It's about us -- about Mulder and
me, and our partnership.  Our * relationship*, whatever the hell it may be
at this particular moment.  Why Mulder has chosen this venue to talk to me
I have no clue, but that's exactly what he's doing.  And now he's speaking
again .... 

"Pete," he says -- and no, I have *never* heard my partner sound this
diffident.  Not even that horrible morning after we slept together; not
even then.  "Pete, which do you prefer?" he continues.  "All other things
being equal would you rather take a cha nce, or play it safe?  Would you
rather try for the extra base, or settle for the single?" 

I reach out hastily and turn off the radio.  I don't need to know what
Pete Rose thinks about that, and I think I already know Mulder's answer --
he is the risk taker in this relationship, after all. 

Which leaves me needing to figure out what *I* think.  Do I want to try
for the extra base?  Or settle for the single? 

I can see this is going to be a long night. 


=================


Leaps of Faith


Contrary to popular opinion, I really am such an idiot. 

I don't know what else you'd call me.  I've spent the last few months
bemoaning the state of my relationship with my partner; I've whined, I've
raged, on occasion I've even pouted. Things were tense between us; she
refused to acknowledge what happened aft er we got back from Icy Cape.
Then finally - =finally= - we begin to break down our collective walls.
Hers mine and ours cracked and crumbled until we could see each other over
the rubble. 

And what do I do? Me, the genius, the Oxford educated profiler and student
of human relations' balks when she tries to call me by my first name. 

Smooth move, Ex-Lax. 

Sighing, I carefully navigate my Bureau issued automobile through DC
traffic; it's the middle of the night; do you know where your liver-eating
mutant is? That's my excuse; what are the rest of these people doing up at
this time of night? 

Maybe there are children going to visit their parents in the hospital;
lovers meeting for a tryst somewhere they aren't likely to be discovered.
People who went to a midnight showing down at the theater around the
corner from my apartment. I always mean t o go in there some Saturday
night when I have nothing to do. The problem is, I never seem to have a
free Saturday night. The work consumes me and it's begun to consume
Scully, as well. 

I have my rare moments when I think that maybe I should feel some guilt
over her obvious loyalty toward me. But more often, there is the
overwhelming feeling of gratitude towards her. I've never really had
someone on my side before; someone I knew would s tick up for me, no
matter what anyone else said. And more and more each day, I'm beginning to
trust that Scully will always be there, by my side. Even my more
pessimistic nature has to admit she doesn't seem to have any inclination
to leave. 

This, of course, does nothing to assuage my neurosis; they're still
convinced I'll come into work one morning and find a note taped to my
office door that reads 'it's been real, but I've been promoted to head of
Forensic Pathology, try not to get yourself
 killed, Scully'. 

Or you know, something like that. 

As I'm stopped at the fifth red light in five minutes, I allow myself to
think about what happened. 

Why couldn't I let her call me Fox? 

My entire being had snapped to attention when she spoke my first name out
loud. Something had recoiled and rebelled at the notion and I couldn't
possibly move fast enough to correct her. Maybe it was because I couldn't
handle it; couldn't handle an intima te relationship with a woman who's
made it abundantly clear her devotion doesn't extend beyond the
professional. Which isn't being fair to Scully. She just doesn't want to
have sex with me. That's fair, I guess; I can't be the easiest guy in the
world to work with; the thought of taking me home at night must be
downright daunting. 

Maybe I should stop psychoanalyzing and stick with the fact that I
=really= don't like my first name and she's the only person on this earth
who I know would actually respect my wishes. 

And I'll be damned if something inside me doesn't keep whispering that
Scully doesn't become daunted so easily . . . 

Scully made a leap of faith toward me tonight and I rejected it one
minute, then returned her parry with a thrusting leap of faith all my own,
another. Does that make me a jerk or fiercely brave? 

I wonder if she's actually listening to the radio; if she's actually
taking me up on my suggestion. I planted a seed with her as I left; the
way she pulled out that root beer; her comment about fate; it caused an
idea to take root in my brain. The fact th at she made me go home just
cemented the notion. She's not listening; there's really no reason to put
myself through it. 

But what if she is, a little voice whispers to me. What if she knows you
well enough to know there's always a method to your madness; what if by
=not= going through with it, you screw everything up? Besides, it's not
like you're getting home any time soon ; the damn traffic will see to
that. I eye my cell phone in the seat beside me; tempting. And even if she
=isn't= listening . . . 

Jesus has it really been three days since I last slept? I glance at the
date on my watch and cringe. She was right to send me home; I need to shut
down for awhile. It's just hard for me to rest while Tooms is still out
there. Some unsuspecting soul with a
 healthy liver is in a lot of danger and it's up to Scully and I to
protect that person; no one else is going to do it apparently. No one else
believes me . . . 

Woah; maybe I should deprive myself of sleep more often. Because I just
had the most amazing, tremendous, fascinating epiphany. 

Scully believes me. 

She actually believes something I do. She's sitting in a cold car in the
middle of the night after I just rejected . . . something from her,
waiting for a liver-eating mutant to show because =she= believes =me=. 
Yet another leap of faith on her part. 

If that doesn't give a guy a buzz, nothing will. 

What to do with this new information? How to assimilate it, to blend it
with the facts I already have? Scully is rigid; she strictly adheres to
her science and her rationalism. However, Scully also has faith in one of
the most insubstantial, implausible t hings in existence: God. Scully
believes in the existence of a benevolent God, without question. Her faith
is as strong as mine in my search for Samantha. 

Maybe it's simpler than that though; maybe it isn't that she believes me
so much as she believes =in= me. Jesus, can I actually allow myself to
consider this most extreme of possibilities? No one has ever believed in
me; ever. 

I'm just tired, that's all. I smack the radio and I wince as something
called Old Time Gospel Radio Hour plays. I try to change the station, but
it refuses to budge. Groaning in agony, I smack the radio off with a
resounding slap of my hand. I hadn't real ized I have a headache until it
got worse. I need to sleep; I'll feel much better once I've crashed on my
couch for a day or two. Maybe there's something good on TV; an old
B-Science Fiction perhaps . . . 

My hand moves to the radio without conscious thought on my part. I turn it
to Pete Rose's Late Night Sports Talk Radio Show and listen. He's talking
about the strike; blaming the players. I can use this; I can work this.
All I have to do is call . . . 

All I have to do is give her one more leap of faith. 

I'm dialing before I can talk myself out of it. It's ringing and I'm on
hold. I explain my opinion to the nice woman screening calls and am
informed she'll put me through to Pete; Woo-hoo. 

"Hello Caller, what's your name?" Pete's voice echoes in my ear and on my
radio. 

"Bill," I answer as I turn past that old theater by my apartment; it has a
little extra charm tonight for some reason. Maybe it's fate, maybe it's
love, maybe it's faith; maybe it's a combination of the three. 

I wonder if Scully likes to go to midnight shows. 


=================

Chapter Seven:  The Erlenmeyer Flask

=================


Waiting


"They're shutting us down, Scully." 

That's what he said on the phone when he called me two hours ago. 
"They're shutting us down, Scully." 

I still can't quite believe it.  In such a short time, in less than a
year, the X-Files went from being a fringe project, something I was barely
aware of from casual Bureau gossip, to being such a central part of my
life.  I'm going to miss the work, stra nge as it was; at the same time, I
feel a little bit as if I'm about to re-enter the real world after a
year-long sabbatical.  It's been a strange trip -- in some ways a
wonderful one.  But I think I'm glad it's over. 

I told Mulder he should fight the closure, of course.  I told him to lodge
a protest.  I don't know whether he will though.  He seemed so ... placid
on the telephone.  So calm.  So resigned.  So tired.  Even as he said that
he isn't going to give up, that
 he's going to continue to pursue the truth, he seemed flat and without
affect.  And that worried me. 

Which is why I'm sitting in my car outside his apartment building at 1:30
in the morning, trying to get up my courage to knock on his door. 

I know he's awake; if there was any doubt in my mind on that score, the
slight movement I saw in the window a few minutes ago has laid that
uncertainty to rest.  I have a funny feeling he knows I'm out here, too. 
I don't know *why* I think that, but I do . 

I also have a strong feeling that this is not the last I've seen of Fox
Mulder.  If this had happened a few weeks ago, it might have been
different.  It probably *would* have been different.  But now -- well,
we've been forming a bond which I like to thin k is stronger than that
between two co-workers.  We've been becoming friends, and I've been
thinking lately that perhaps I'd like to get to know him a little better
outside of working hours, but somehow the time never seemed to be quite
right. 

Maybe now I'll get that chance. 

So if I really do feel this way, why am I just sitting here in my car
watching his apartment window, instead of going on inside and checking to
see that he's okay? 

Part of the answer is easy, of course.  The last time Mulder and I were in
a situation like this -- alone together, late at night, under stress --
things happened.  And although we've pretty well worked past that mistake
at long, long last, there's still some residual tension between us because
of it.  Once burned, twice shy, and all that.  Neither one of us wants to
repeat that error, because this time it would probably destroy the trust
we've been building these past few weeks. 

Not that I'm necessarily opposed to pursuing that sort of relationship
with Mulder.  I've come to realize since our second encounter with Eugene
Tooms that perhaps there is room in my life for more than just a
professional partnership with this man -- eve n more than just a platonic
friendship.  I'm still not sure that he feels the same way, but there have
been certain indications .... 

Another reason I'm not going up there is a little less pleasant:  Guilt. 
Guilt over whatever part I've played in the chain of events which finally
led to the X-Files being closed.  I know it hasn't been all my fault, but
Mulder and I both know why I was assigned to work with him.  I was
supposed to spy on him, to debunk his work, and ultimately give the Bureau
higher-ups the ammunition they needed to close the project for good.  And
I think I may have done my job just a little bit too well. 

The irony of it is that I never did really accept that assignment -- not
in the way that Section Chief Blevins and the others wanted, and probably
not in the way that Mulder expected.  I did not embark on a seek and
destroy mission, or set out with the de liberate intention of bringing
down this man and his work.  Even when our personal relationship was at
its absolute nadir, after the trip to Icy Cape, I didn't sink that low. 

But I couldn't just give Mulder a pass, either, and I don't know if he
ever really understood that.  I had to remain fair and objective; I had to
stay true to my conception of the scientific method and be rigorous in my
analyses. 

I had to be true to myself. 

I *did* write the reports Blevins wanted -- I had little choice about
that; it was an explicit part of my assignment.  And even though I bent
over backwards to be open-minded without sacrificing my objectivity, I'm
afraid that my reports probably had a pr ominent role in the decision to
shut down the X-Files. 

So I guess the real reason I'm sitting down here by myself watching
Mulder's window, instead of going on upstairs to try to, well, to try to
comfort him, is that I'm not sure how I'd be received.  And even if Mulder
*did* accept my presence, I'm not sure I would deserve it.  I may not be
Judas; I never accepted the thirty pieces of silver in exchange for
conscious betrayal.  But I feel uncomfortably like Peter, having been
forced by circumstance to utter a damaging denial of someone I care about. 

Again I see motion at the window, and this time I'm almost certain I see
Mulder's face, if only for an instant.  He *does* know I'm down here; he
has to know.  I'm parked right across the street from his building, and he
can't possibly have missed seeing my car, even if he can't see me sitting
inside it. 

I shift restlessly in my seat.  I should just go up there.  I should just
set aside my fears and go to this man and make sure he's doing okay, and
let whatever develops, develop.  He did call, after all.  He did reach out
to me, for the first time, really , since Icy Cape.  He wouldn't have
called if he was holding me responsible for what's happened -- or if he
had, the conversation would have been very different from what it was. 
But he didn't call to accuse me; he called to commiserate.  He called for
c omfort. 

But somehow I can't quite make myself get out of the car; I can't take
that final step.  I don't know what would happen if I went up there; I
don't know where that path would take us.  Everytime I think about doing
it I feel myself flinch internally, and I'm just not strong enough to grit
my teeth and do it anyway. 

But I can't quite make myself start the engine and drive away, either.  I
can't abandon Mulder and leave him completely alone in his agony.  Even if
I don't go up there he knows I'm down here, and surely that must count for
something.  Just knowing that s omeone else cares must ease the pain, at
least a little. 

I hope it does, anyway, because right now that seems to be all I have to
offer. 


=================


Wild Things


When I was little, my mother used to read me 'Where the Wild Things Are'
(story and pictures by Maurice Sendak, originally published in 1963, thank
you very much) every single night. That was the first thing I ever did
with Samantha after she was born; be fore I held her, before I messed with
her, before I talked to her, I read 'Where the Wild Things Are' to her. It
wasn't my best job of storytelling, but it was the first time I'd tried to
read a book out loud to anyone but myself and I was proud.  As soon
 as the last line was read, I'd peered at her through the bars of her crib
and whispered a greeting to her.

Her tiny eyes had opened as though she heard me; as though she understood
me. A rare bond was formed between my sister and I that night; a bond I
don't think all siblings share. Yes, we fought like cats and dogs. Yes,
there were times I told her to get lo st. Yes, there were times I even
meant it. But no matter what, I always loved my sister; I treasured her, I
found joy in her exuberance. I was a reserved child; Samantha was not. She
was, for want of a better term, audacious.

And so while I had always pictured myself as Max, after reading it aloud
to Samantha for the hundredth time, I began to realize she was more Max
than I could ever be. She was a wild thing, free and untamable with a will
of her own and the ambition to be a nything she wanted to be. Queen of the
Wild Things, if you will. 

I really wasn't an odd child until after Sam was taken. I watched Star
Trek, but that was where my fascination with the unknown ended. I wasn't
the chemistry set, magnifying glass, ask why the sky was blue kind of kid.
When I wanted to know something, I r ead a book; or I watched others
interact. Samantha leapt right into the thick of things and demanded her
curiosity be satisfied =immediately=.

I believe that when Sam was taken; when I lost her influence in my life, I
adopted many of her characteristics. I became bolder; less willing to
settle. I was more inquisitive and easily fascinated by life's little
wonders. The sadness of losing my sister
 weighed heavily on my soul, but I effectively blocked it from my mind. I
wasn't driven to find her until Dr. Werber helped me recover my memories.

After those memories returned, however, I became something more than I was
before. Joining the FBI had already satisfied the curiosity in my nature,
the need to help people. I was on the verge of quitting when I stumbled
upon the X-files. Those files brou ght new purpose into my life; gave me
hope, no matter how slim, that I might actually someday find Samantha. I
was content to work alone on them, to dedicate my life in the pursuit of
the truth. I didn't need or want a partner.

But then you came into my life; Scully, you came into my life and I
resisted you. You amused the hell out of me at first; you were so young,
so green. But in very short order, you proved yourself more than worthy of
my respect; of my trust. I gave you eve rything without even realizing it.
I think I might've even given you my heart.

We almost ruined what had morphed into the best partnership I'd ever
witnessed, let alone been a part of. Whether it was the night we spent
together, or our refusal to acknowledge it that put the wedge between us,
I can't be sure. I only know that for mon ths I couldn't reach you,
couldn't touch you, could barely talk to you. It hurt; it hurt more than I
realized then, more than I'm willing to admit to now.

Yet out of that pain, came an understanding; we understood each other.  We
understood what we were, what we are, and what we could be to each other.
The air between us has been clear for weeks now; we've grown closer,
strengthened the bond we formed at th e very beginning, I believe, beyond
reproach. You are my partner Scully; but they have done something I knew
they would do. They have forced you to leave me. 

By shutting down the X-files, they have done more to me than closing down
a division. They haven't just changed my job; they've changed my life.
They are stealing my hope and my faith in everything; in you, in us, in my
dreams to find my sister. For reaso ns that are entirely their own, they
do not want us in contact. And, for once, I believe they may be right. 

I can't lose you the way I lost her; I can't devote my life to another
search. I can't abandon my search for Samantha to search for you. I needed
you here tonight Scully; I needed to hold your hand and hear your voice
and look into your eyes. It grounded me and it gave me a reason to
continue hoping; at least for now. Whatever happens in the future;
whatever we decide between us, you will always be my partner Scully; they
can't take that away from me. 

Her car finally pulls away; I peer at her through a slit in my curtains as
she disappears into the night. I told her everything tonight; everything I
had kept in the confines of my soul for thirty-some odd years. I tried to
explain to her exactly why I wa s deconstructing; why I was unable to let
her in, even though I wanted to. Reflecting back on the words I spoke
aloud to her, I don't think I adequately conveyed my point, but I do feel
better having tried.

I watched her car for almost an hour before I came to the conclusion that
she either wouldn't - or couldn't - come up. So, I went to her. I slid
into the passenger seat of her car and we let the silence envelope us for
a few, precious minutes. It was nice ; I'd forgotten how good it felt to
share silences with someone.  In fact, I can't really remember a time when
I'd ever shared silence with someone; other than Scully, that is.

There are things I have still not told her; things I am afraid to tell
her. For instance, I did not explain that, to me, she is a wild thing all
her own. Most people don't see it; she hides it well. But I see it;
dancing behind her eyes; in the crook of h er brow; a certain way she
quirks her lips. She has a wild thing inside her, Scully does. I had hoped
I would be allowed to see it one day; to really experience it. The one
night we shared gave me a taste and I find myself hungry for more; more
smiles, mo re laughs, more moans on both our parts. 

For now, though, I can't allow that to happen. As hard as it will be,
Ibelieve distance is best for us now. They have already separated us; shut
us down. While I cannot give name to the feeling, an uneasiness surrounds
me when I consider Scully too much. I worry for her; I worry for the
innocence I can still see in her eyes; innocence they stole from me a long
time ago. 

My soul would not bear the loss of another wild thing. And the fact that
Scully was so unwilling to come up to my apartment sends a simple truth
home to me; she cannot trust herself around me. While this knowledge gives
me a certain rush, it does nothing to falsify another simple truth; I
cannot trust myself around her, either. Dana Scully is addictive and I
can't allow myself to indulge.

At least, not yet; that's the thing about wild things, though. 

No matter how hard you try, you can't control them. 



===========THE END OF THE FIRST YEAR===========