From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Tue, 14 Apr 2009 15:09:38 -0500 (CDT)
Subject: This Her Fever - 1/3 by Aloysia Virgata
Source: direct

Reply To: aloysia.virgata@yahoo.com


TITLE: This Her Fever

AUTHOR: Aloysia Virgata

DISTRIBUTION/FEEDBACK: aloysia.virgata@yahoo.com. Please ask 
before archiving.

RATING: Strong R verging on NC-17 for language and sexual 
content.

CLASSIFICATION: Mulder/Scully Romance, Angst

SPOILERS: Redux II and Detour

SUMMARY: It is, she thinks, a fitting coda to her life that 
Mulder and Father McCue should cross paths in this room, both 
trying to offer her salvation. 
 
DISCLAIMER: Breaking seal constitutes acceptance of agreement. 
Proceed at your own risk. Do not use while operating a motor 
vehicle or heavy equipment. For recreational purposes only. 
Driver does not carry cash. And, as always, thank you for 
choosing Aloysia Airlines for your direct flight from 1013 to 
fanfic. 
 
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story was written for the xf_is_love 
community at LiveJournal. 
http://community.livejournal.com/xf_is_love

It wasn't supposed to be nearly so long, but it just kind of 
snowballed and, well, here's what it turned into. Many, many 
thanks to Dasha, Zellie, and Scarlet for their amazing job on 
helping me to get this story written and edited in just four 
short weeks, in time for my assigned posting date. You ladies 
are the best!  
 
The story that Scully remembers about the Milky Way is from L.M. 
Montgomery's The Story Girl. 
 
Author's notes continued at the end, spoilers contained therein. 
 
 
*** 
 
O wrangling schools, that search what fire 
Shall burn this world, had none the wit 
Unto this knowledge to aspire, 
That this her fever might be it? 
 
And yet she cannot waste by this, 
Nor long bear this torturing wrong, 
For more corruption needful is, 
To fuel such a fever long. 
 
John Donne, A Fever

 
*** 

 
His Eminence, James Cardinal Hickey, D.D. 
 
Your Eminence: 
 
I am writing to tell you about a woman in my parish in the hope 
that you can guide me in my attempts to minister to her. She is 
currently being treated for a very serious - possibly terminal - 
type of cancer, and is also experiencing what can only be termed 
as a crisis of faith. The woman is a doctor and it seems to me 
that she feels a need to choose between her vocation and her 
faith.  
 
Her mother is a very dear friend of mine from years back, and 
approached me in hopes that I could help her daughter come back 
to the Church during this dark time. She is extremely anxious 
that her daughter should be reconciled with her faith. I am 
always grateful for a chance to help minister to those who have 
strayed, though I have made it clear to the mother that too much 
pressure can turn a troubled soul even further from the path of 
righteousness. To this end, I have done my best to approach the 
woman in a non-aggressive manner. 
 
However, she has so far been quite resistant to what I have had 
to say, and seems almost offended by my presence. I don't want 
to push her away, but as you surely know, Your Eminence, these 
are the times in life when having one's heart open to the love 
and healing of Our Savior is most critical. I feel I must press 
on to be true to my calling, but I do not wish to alienate her 
from the Church.  
 
I thank you for taking the time to read this. I await your 
guidance, and know that through Jesus all things are possible. I 
continue to pray on the matter. 
 
I remain your humble servant in Christ, 
 
Thomas McCue 
 
 
*** 

 
When Melissa was killed, Maggie Scully thought it only natural 
that the world should stop and grieve with her. She was 
bewildered that horns should beep and people should laugh and 
babies should try and play peek-a-boo with her in the following 
days.  
 
Her sons came home. Charlie, whose cell phone kept ringing with 
calls from cities she'd never heard of, and Bill, who guided her 
about town like a seeing eye dog; helping her do things like 
pick out a coffin and flowers. Tara had just suffered another 
miscarriage and couldn't travel, but she called twice a day to 
listen to stories about when the Scully children were small. 
Maggie wondered if it was harder to lose a baby you never even 
got to hold or a woman you thought had made it well past the 
danger zone.  
 
She wondered too what her other daughter - for whom death was 
her bread and butter - thought of it all. She knew Dana had a 
clear picture in her head of what had been done to Melissa's 
body by the cold hands of the medical examiner. Dana heard the 
kinds of jokes police officers tell at crime scenes. Maybe she 
had even told them sometimes. Maggie wasn't sure what Dana did 
anymore. She wasn't even sure who Dana was anymore. 
 
On the day of the funeral, Maggie watched them lower her little 
girl into a dark grave and bit her tongue against crying out 
that Melissa was scared of small spaces, that she had hated them 
as a child, and that someone had to get her out of that awful 
box.  
 
Her husband's earthly remains were scattered across the wide sea 
he had loved and the knowledge comforted her. The world was 
waterlogged and when she missed him, as she often did, she 
imagined his essence scattered through raindrops, soaked up by 
trees, and swirling through the waves that buoyed the ships he 
had sailed on.  
 
But Melissa was contained and finite, held in place by satin and 
oak. She would have hated the stiff formality and the dam of 
Maggie's grief broke for a moment to admit a wash of regret. Her 
sons made a wall behind her (in case she fainted?) and Dana 
squeezed her hand when the earth thumped against the hard wooden 
lid. It was too late now. Melissa's soul was with her Maker and 
ashes to ashes and dust to dust and we exalt Your name in the 
highest Thy kingdom come Thy will be done forever and ever, 
Amen. 
 
Maggie couldn't be sure if it was simple logic or merely to 
preserve her own sanity, but she didn't blame Dana for Melissa's 
death. To do so would be akin to admitting she would have traded 
one for the other, and all Maggie knew was that watching Dana 
peer into a grave that could have been her own made the blood 
freeze in her veins. 
 
Blink forward a few years. Charlie couldn't make it, but Tara's 
pregnant again, Bill's in town, and Maggie's sitting with Dana 
and discovering that having your child unexpectedly killed and 
watching your child die with agonizing slowness are two very 
different - though equally horrific - experiences. She finds 
herself thinking how these deaths suit her girls. Melissa, with 
her rash impulsivity and Dana, who measures everything thrice 
and still cuts with marked deliberateness. 
 
Dark thoughts, but these are dark days. 
 
And then there's Fox. Fox who is there even when he isn't there 
because his absence makes Dana anxious and distracted. Maggie 
wants to take her pretty, clever daughter by her bony shoulders 
and shake her until she can come up with some explanation for 
this absurd infatuation. Maggie has seen the way he touches her 
and - more significantly - the way she lets him.  
 
They're sleeping together. They have to be. She knows Dana, 
knows her weakness for men in positions of authority. ("Paging 
Dr. Freud!" as her sister Olive would say.) Maggie remembers the 
interlude with a married professor in med school (she only 
discovered that by very accidentally overhearing a phone call 
between Dana and Melissa because she picked up the phone and 
obviously she couldn't just hang up because the girls would hear 
the click and it would just be so awkward, really), and there 
was that obnoxious Jack Willis when Dana broke her father's 
heart and joined the FBI. 
 
But neither of those two had ever had a hold on her like this. 
Fox Mulder talked her daughter into putting a microchip in her 
neck. And this doctor, this Zuckerman fellow, hadn't batted an 
eyelash at it. Just sliced Dana's neck open and stuck God knows 
what in there. She is infuriated by her sense of helplessness, 
reduced to fetching ice chips and blankets because she has no 
miracle cures to offer like the man who holds her daughter in 
thrall. 
 
"Mom," says Dana, whose voice is still stuffy. She's been 
chewing the ragged edge of a hangnail on one of her spidery 
fingers since crying in her mother's arms. 
 
"What is it, honey?" Maggie twirls a lock of Dana's brittle 
hair, thinking about malpractice attorneys. 
 
"I'd like it if you could call Father McCue." 
 
Maggie snaps to attention like one of the middies her husband 
used to parade past the family. "Dana?" 
 
"I believe that, based on the PET scan and my cessation of 
conventional treatments, it would be best if I were in a state 
of grace." Dana's voice is returning to its (often infuriating) 
cool neutrality.  
 
Maggie closes her eyes for a moment, then looks at her 
daughter's hollow face. "I'll call him right now," she says, 
trying to keep the panic from creeping around the words. 
 
"I'll be okay until morning. Right now I'd just like to rest, 
but if you could have him come when I get up in the morning..." 
She trails off casually, but the implication is unmistakable. 
 
Maggie wants the priest there now, and she wants to keep her 
daughter awake until he arrives. She doesn't like the way Dana's 
eyes are burning too bright against her translucent skin. It 
makes her think of the frosted glass votives she sets out at 
Christmastime. Fragile shells full of fire, ringing out the 
year. 
 
"It's afternoon. I'm sure it's no trouble for him to come out. I 
could just go ahead and -" 
 
Dana's smile is genuine, if exhausted. "I'm not going anywhere 
just yet." She reaches for her mother's hand. "I promise. I just 
don't think I have the emotional energy left today. But if you 
could ask him to come first thing tomorrow, I'd be very 
grateful, Mom."  
 
"Okay," Maggie says, ashamed of having needed to be reassured. 
"First thing tomorrow."  
 
"I'd like to go outside for a bit. Do you think you could get 
the wheelchair, Mom?" 
 
Maggie sighs. "You know Dr. Zuckerman likes you to wait at least 
forty-eight hours before going out into the sun after chemo." 
 
"I haven't really seen the sky in ten days. I'll carry an 
umbrella." 
 
"Your immune sys- " 
 
"Never mind." Dana turns onto her side, her strangely luminous 
eyes fixed on the window. "I just want to get out of here," she 
mumbles against the pillow.  
 
"You will." She arranges the blanket around her daughter's 
shoulders like she did when all her children were young enough 
to let her tuck them in. "Get some rest, Dana."  
 
"Mom?" 
 
"Yes?" 
 
"I'm sorry I never told you things." She is already more than 
half asleep.  
 
Maggie bites back a sob at the past tense. "It's who you've 
always been. Please don't apologize." 
 
Please don't die. 
 
 
*** 
 
 
Scully has her own ideas about absolution, and she curses Mulder 
for being too stubborn to let her take the blame for the 
shooting. Why had he come this morning with his mind made up, 
full of riddles and determination? She absently touches her hand 
to her cheek, in the place where he had kissed her. It is, she 
thinks, a fitting coda to her life that Mulder and Father McCue 
should cross paths in this room, both trying to offer her 
salvation. 
 
Since Mulder left she has been unbearably anxious over the 
thought that he is, even now, on his way to federal prison. She 
knows he'll call when he can. Still, she was grateful when 
Father McCue arrived, if only at first for the distraction.  
 
Receiving Last Rites had been surreal. Her mind kept slipping 
back to her sister's hospital room, imagining the same priest 
going through the same motions. The Scully girls were not long 
for this world, apparently.  
 
Her mother's careworn face had implored her, appealed to her 
desire to give of herself, and Scully had bowed her head and 
clutched the rosary. The rhythm and cadence of the familiar 
words was hypnotic, all of it coming back to her in the presence 
of Father McCue the way tidbits of medical knowledge were 
resurfacing during her tenure as a cancer patient. 
 
//Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known 
that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or 
sought thine intercession was left unaided.// 
 
//Oncologic mutations on p53 typically occur in the central DNA-
binding core domain.// 
 
Now sanctified, Scully fidgets against the coarse sheets and her 
longing to leave the hospital - either dead, dying or cured - 
has nearly become an obsession. She asked the nurse about the 
possibility of getting out for some fresh air. But the nurse - 
like Bill and her mother - toed Dr. Zuckerman's line, though 
Scully knows damned well her care is more palliative than 
curative at this point. She's been keeping the curtains drawn, 
as the view out the window torments her; a fly against the 
glass.  
 
Scully glances over at the phone, itching to call Mulder and 
find out what happened at the hearing. Why doesn't he believe 
it's Skinner? Mulder and his damned hunches. But she trusts his 
hunches enough to have put a microchip into her neck, so why 
resist this? Fine. Skinner's not dirty. Mulder will tell her 
everything. 
 
Provided he's not in custody. 
 
She grimaces when a fist of nausea punches her in the stomach. 
She received her last round of chemo thirty-six hours ago, but 
the deleterious effects on her system are still lingering. She's 
grateful, at least, that the alopecia hasn't been pronounced, 
though the GI symptoms seemed to be doing their best to make up 
for the follicular shortcomings. She wonders what side effects 
Mulder's magical shrapnel will present. 
 
As awful as the chemo has been, it was the radiation that had 
truly terrified her. Something about using radioactive materials 
to treat mutated cells seemed inherently flawed, and she'd 
shuddered through the procedure each time. Though it is a 
testament to the current perverseness of her life that her 
interstitial radiation therapy was applied via a device known as 
an implant. She had meant make a joke about it to Mulder, but 
the right opportunity had never presented itself.  
 
A thump against the window startles Scully and, cautiously, she 
gets to her feet. She shuffles across the chilly floor and draws 
the blind up, looking around the courtyard. A movement on the 
ground catches her eye. There's a sparrow with a broken neck 
lying among the chrysanthemums. She blanches, willing it to die 
quickly. 
 
"What are you doing out of bed?" 
 
Scully turns at the sound of her brother's voice. "Bill, I 
didn't hear you come in." 
 
He pushes the door closed, offering his sister a stern look 
tempered by a slight smile. "I was trying to catch you 
misbehaving." 
 
"I was looking out the window, not running a marathon." A quick 
check reveals that the bird has gone still. She closes the 
blinds and turns, leaning against the radiator. 
 
"How's your, uh...I mean, how are you feeling?" Bill scratches 
his elbow, looking self-conscious. 
 
Scully is annoyed at her brother for dancing around like this. 
Bill, for all his faults, is scrupulously honest and prides 
himself on straightforwardness. Scully resents the patronization 
implicit in his avoidance. "Dr. Zuckerman has been monitoring me 
since the chip was put in and nothing worrisome has happened." 
 
"But no improvement either." 
 
"No." 
 
Bill walks further into the room and sits on her bed. Scully 
watches the mattress sink, blankets and sheets settling around 
him. This bed, she thinks, is used to acclimating itself to new 
visitors. She wonders who will come to die in it when she's 
gone, then immediately chastises herself for being morbid and 
self-pitying. 
 
"Dana, are you having some kind of relationship with your 
partner?" 
 
*That's* the Bill she knows. "Some kind of relationship? That's 
a little vague, Bill. I suppose humans have 'some kind of 
relationship' with nearly everyone, haven't they?" She's not so 
far gone she can't needle him. 
 
"You know what I mean." 
 
Scully crosses her arms. "Yes, I do. And if I were having 'some 
kind of relationship' with Mulder, would that affect what you 
think of my decision to try out his treatment option?" 
 
He sighs. "I don't know, Dana. I really don't. I just know that 
you've changed a great deal in the past few years and I'm 
worried about you." 
 
"And you think that's because I'm having an affair with my 
partner?" Scully wonders briefly why the hell she hasn't 
bristled and denied things yet, instead of stringing Bill along. 
 
"For crying out loud, Dana, I'm trying to figure out what's 
going on in your increasingly bizarre existence." Bill's on his 
feet at this point, his voice raised. "But you know what? You're 
right. It doesn't matter. What matters is that you, a doctor, 
have abandoned conventional medical treatment in favor of 
sticking a Cracker Jack prize in your neck!"  
 
Scully finds herself oddly calmed by his loss of control and 
walks to the bed, sitting next to the place recently occupied by 
her brother. "Father McCue came by this morning." 
 
"Mom told me." 
 
"And what if I had decided to abandon conventional medical 
treatment - which isn't working anyway - and put my healing in 
God's hands? What then? Would we still be having this 
conversation?" 
 
Bill runs his tongue over his top lip in the same way as his 
sister, then sits back down. "That's not the point. That's not 
what you did." 
 
"But it's a fair question, don't you think?" 
 
He laughs. "I always thought you'd have done better in law 
school than med school. You could have been anything you wanted, 
Dana." 
 
She stiffens. "I am." 
 
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean -" 
 
"I know." She leans against his arm, which he raises to put 
around her shoulders. 
 
Moments pass in the silent room. "I wanted to meet the baby," 
she says at length.  
 
"You will," he assures her, though Scully can hear the tears in 
his voice. "I prom-." 
 
"Doesn't the Bible say something about not making promises? 
Swear not at all; neither by heaven or the Earth or Jerusalem 
or...I can't remember." 
 
"Close enough for government work. Book of Matthew. Did you 
study up for Father McCue?" 
 
"I used to be a nice Catholic girl. Or have you forgotten?" 
 
He watches her in a way that makes her stomach squirm, and she 
can't for the life of her decide whether it's pity or kindness. 
"Take us the little foxes that spoil the vines, for our vines 
put forth tender grapes," he murmurs. 
 
Scully flinches and looks away. 
 
"Are you in love with him, Dana?" 
 
"We're not sleeping together."  
 
"That's not what I asked you." He touches the edge of the gauze 
on her neck. "Come visit Tara and me for Christmas. The baby 
will be here by then." 
 
She looks up at her brother, feeling exhausted down to her 
oxygen-deprived marrow. "Bill, I can't make any plans that far 
away." 
 
"Just say you'll come." His eyes are pleading. 
 
She nods, and doesn't turn away when the hot tears drip down 
onto the faded cotton of the hospital gown. 
 
 
***
 
 
Mulder's sitting on his couch, alternately bouncing his 
basketball against the floor and the wall. Chesapeake Crime 
Cleaners removed the bloodstains from the floor and carpet, and 
the minute particles of bone, hair, and gray matter from the 
rest of the vicinity. On the street below his window, a noisy 
construction crew is busting up the asphalt to repair a broken 
water main. Life is mostly back to normal. His brand of normal, 
anyway.  
 
He hears Sa-man-tha over and over in the rhythmic bouncing of 
the ball. Could it really have been his sister, after all this 
time? Mulder, while open-minded, is not naive. He'd chosen 
Scully over Samantha once before, and, yesterday, he'd been 
prepared to choose Scully over himself. But he'd realized the 
lie was deeper than both of their lives, and that if he had to, 
he'd sacrifice them both for it. 
 
Blevins. The pieces had come together in a flash so sudden that 
he'd made the accusation before the thoughts had finished 
forming. Rumor is that Blevins had swallowed nine millimeters of 
regret, though Mulder has his suspicions over how voluntary that 
decision was. He suspects it would be in poor taste to recommend 
Chesapeake Crime Cleaners to the higher ups at the Bureau. 
 
He turns onto his back, cradling the basketball on his chest. 
His thoughts turn to Scully and the chance she has taken on his 
say-so. He wonders if her brother will kill him if she dies. 
 
He wonders if he'll put up a fight.  
 
Mulder pushes the thought of losing her from his mind. His head 
lolls back against the couch, and the stress of the past few 
days finally hits him full force. Mulder falls into a sleep so 
deep that he is oblivious to the jackhammers and shouting on the 
sidewalk below. The ball rolls from his hands and bounces a few 
times. Dreamless hours pass. 
 
 
*** 

 
A muffled chirp interrupts his slumber. Mulder's eyelids drag 
open like a pair of iron portcullises. The chirp comes again, 
and, after a brief search, he retrieves his phone from between 
the couch cushions. "Mulnrf," he mumbles into it. 
 
"Mulder, thank goodness! I've been calling all evening and 
didn't want to check in with Skinner until I heard from you. 
What happened at the hearing? Are you in trouble?"  
 
He sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Scully, I'm sorry. I fell asleep. 
No, I named Blevins and all of the interest in Scott Ostelhoff 
has mysteriously vanished. Skinner's got nothing to do with any 
of it." 
 
"Blevins?! Mulder, the day he assigned me to you, the Smoking 
Man was in his office. How could I have been so stupid not to 
see it?"  
 
He imagines the infuriated look on her face. "Don't beat 
yourself up, Scully. I didn't figure it out until I was in there 
talking, and even then I wasn't positive. Just a hunch." 
 
"Well, it was quite a hunch. Listen, can you come to the 
hospital tonight? I know it's past visiting hours, but I spoke 
to Dr. Zuckerman and he said it would be fine." 
 
His stomach knots. "Scully, what's going on?" 
 
"Everything is okay, Mulder. I want to talk to you about 
something and I'd prefer it to be in person." 
 
"I'm on my way." Mulder hangs up and sticks his phone back in 
his pocket. Scully's idea of what constitutes everything being 
okay is enough to make him grab a roll of Tums off the desk as 
he heads out. He pops a few into his mouth, crunching them as he 
runs downstairs and summons a cab. 
 
The ride to the hospital is a short one. He tosses cash over the 
seat to the cabbie, shuts the door, and is on his way to 
Scully's room when he is stopped at the nurses' station by a 
cranky looking woman in dog-print scrubs. 
 
"Visiting hours ended over two hours ago," she informs him 
flatly. 
 
"I know. But I spoke to my friend and she told me her doctor 
said it would be okay. Scully. Dana Scully." 
 
"We don't have a Dr. Scully here." 
 
Mulder bites his cheek to keep his temper in check. "She's the 
patient." 
 
The nurse scans a chart. "Oh, yeah. Uh-huh. Let me see some ID, 
okay?" 
 
Mulder hands the woman his badge and tries to smile in an 
agreeable fashion as she jots his information down with 
agonizing slowness. He takes the badge back a bit too snappily 
when she holds it out. 
 
The nurse gives him a hard look, and then hands him a Visitor 
pass. "Don't make trouble," she warns him in a stern tone. 
"These people are sick." 
 
Mulder half-runs down the hallway, stopping at Scully's door. He 
twists the knob and enters the room. 
 
Scully is sitting up in bed, looking expectant and composed. The 
feverish sheen has gone out of her eyes, and something very like 
a smile is twitching the corners of her dry lips. "Mulder." Her 
voice is warm. 
 
Mulder pushes the door closed. He feels like a Labrador 
retriever at a bridal shower in this space full of delicate 
objects and flowers. And, of course, there is the woman at 
center stage. He walks to her, then sits tentatively at the edge 
of the bed, taking her hand. "Scully, what's going on?" 
 
"Dr. Zuckerman came by a few hours ago to make sure that there 
was no inflammation or anything at the incision site in my neck. 
And when he leaned over, I could smell his cologne." Scully 
looks up, searching Mulder's face to see if he understands what 
she's saying. 
 
Mulder, still muzzy from exhaustion, looks blank for a moment 
before the pieces fall together. "You can smell things again? 
Scully, that's fantastic! Does he think it means you're 
improving?" 
 
"It's more than that, Mulder. I had them do another PET scan, 
and there's nothing there." 
 
"What do you mean there's nothing there? You mean the chip? Did 
it dissolve or something?" 
 
Scully shakes her head, appearing to savor his puzzlement. 
"Mulder, I mean there's nothing there. No tumor. It's gone. I 
can smell because there's nothing compromising my olfactory 
nerves." She pulls a large manila folder off of the bedside 
table and opens it up to pages full of cranial images. "Look," 
she says.  
 
Mulder stares at her, his mouth hanging open. He wants it to be 
true so badly that the ache is a palpable lump in his throat. He 
wants to believe she's unharmed and alive, and that he will not 
have to watch her go into the cold ground before the closing of 
the year. But he's seen too much. Samanthas, Crawfords, Gregors, 
Eves, shapeshifters...she could be anyone. Or anything.  
 
Scully must sense his hesitation. She unbends her arm and picks 
at a scab on the inside of her elbow. "Red," she whispers when 
blood runs down over her skin. 
 
He stares at the drops falling into the bed. "I don't...it 
isn't..." 
 
She's beaming now. "I know. *Really*, I know. Dr. Zuckerman did 
several other scans and there's nothing. No visible trace of the 
tumor. He ran some bloodwork and the tumor antigens are gone 
too. It's like...well, I don't know what it's like, actually. 
I've never heard of anything like it." She laughs a giddy laugh, 
running her thumb over her fingertips in an unconscious gesture 
which immediately identifies Scully as Scully. 
 
Mulder feels his throat constrict and he lunges forward to 
engulf her in his arms. He holds her close, breathing in the 
flat chemical scent of the hospital toiletries and laundry 
detergent, sifting past them for the familiar base note of her 
skin. He presses his nose to her hair as she tucks her head 
under his chin. Her prominent ribs curve like boomerangs, 
winging their way back.  
 
Scully's half-laughing, half-crying, holding him so tight that 
her fingers dig painfully into his back.  
 
//She lied because I asked her to.// 
 
He wouldn't ask her to loosen her grip for the world. 
 
After a few more moments she pulls away, wiping at her cheeks. 
She still appears well past the point of exhaustion, dark 
shadows bracketing her bloodshot eyes. But her smile is radiant, 
and he touches her face.  
 
Scully's eyes slide closed as his fingers curve against her jaw 
line, tracing the indentation below her earlobe. They open when 
he takes her hand again. 
 
"Where's your mother?" he asks, finally trusting himself to 
speak. "And Bill?"  
 
"You're the only one I've called." The words are rough around 
the edges, the smooth polish of her voice gone ragged and husky. 
"You were the first one I called when I got sick. I wanted to 
tell you this first too."  
 
Mulder watches her eyes fill up and he swallows, letting go of 
her hand. He reaches over to take her cross gently between his 
thumb and forefinger, brushing lightly against the slim white 
column of her throat. "Father McCue must have put in an awfully 
good word for you with his boss, Scully." 
 
She smiles. "We'll probably never know what happened." 
 
He drops the necklace, resting his hand on her thigh without 
realizing it. "And you're okay with that? With not knowing?" 
Mulder's voice is infinitely gentle. "Because I think what's 
happened to you represents the very core of what we've been 
working against. But it's up to you, of course." 
 
"I didn't want to die," she says frankly. "It terrified me, 
knowing that, statistically, I had no chance of survival. I was 
afraid to go to sleep. I don't know if it was Dr. Zuckerman or 
God or this chip or what, but I just want to walk away and never 
look back." She lifts her chin up a little, as though daring him 
to challenge her. 
 
"Okay," he says, feeling awkward. She has never discussed her 
fears so openly before and he isn't sure how to respond. He 
pulls at a loose thread on the blanket. "Scully, whatever you 
need, that's fine. That's what we'll do." He looks at her again, 
then down at the pages scattered across her lap. He tries not to 
wonder at what price this comes. 
 
"Mulder?" 
 
"Yes?" 
 
"Take me outside." 
 
He looks up, confused. "What?" 
 
"Outside. I've been cooped up in this room for a week and a half 
except for when they cart me around for tests. This is a 
momentous evening. Don't make me spend all of it in here."  
 
There is something faintly shrill in her voice, as she widens 
her eyes in an obvious attempt to look appealing, but the effect 
in her too-thin, too-white face is, instead, simply 
heartbreaking. If he saw her on television as the face of a 
charity, he'd send money immediately, whatever the cause.  
 
"It's past ten o'clock and you may not have cancer anymore, Dr. 
Scully, but you're not quite back to yourself." He points at her 
dinner tray. "Look at this. Half a sandwich. *Unfinished Jell-
O.* What kind of an invalid are you?"  
 
"I'm not anymore. That's the point. Come on, Mulder. It's still 
summer. Technically." Scully gives the wheelchair in the corner 
a soulful gaze. 
 
"It's September. Not exactly the dog days. When did Dr. 
Zuckerman say you could go home?" 
 
"He just wants to do a few more tests." 
 
"Fine, don't answer. He doesn't think you should be going 
outside until tomorrow at least though, does he? I'm guessing no 
one else would spirit you away from here, or you wouldn't have 
asked me." 
 
Scully looks uncomfortable. 
 
Mulder watches her for a moment. He considers that she came in 
here to die, and has been granted a reprieve. He also secretly 
likes the idea of her goading him into rule-breaking. "You have 
to wear a robe." 
 
"Okay," she says quickly. 
 
"And a blanket." 
 
"Yes." 
 
"Socks. And slippers. And you have to bring the rest of the 
sandwich and you have to eat it." 
 
"Fine, fine. Whatever."  
 
"And you have to speak in iambic pentameter." 
 
"What?" She looks at him incredulously. 
 
"Just making sure you were actually listening." Mulder gets up 
and walks to the wheelchair. He pushes it over to the bed, where 
Scully is putting slippers on over her little white ankle socks. 
He grabs her robe off of the chair and hands it to her. 
 
He watches Scully tug the robe on, making a square knot of the 
belt at her waist. He holds the wheelchair steady as she climbs 
into it, then passes her a blanket  
 
Scully tucks it around herself. "Thank you," she says. 
 
"Don't thank me yet," he says, handing her and the remains of 
her sandwich. "That nurse out front seems to think I'm some kind 
of troublemaker." 
 
"Imagine that," Scully says dryly. 
 
"Be quiet and eat, Agent Provocateur." He wheels her out into 
the hall, peering around in the way that only a near-decade of 
sneaking in and out of covert government facilities can teach. 
 
"There's a service elevator that way," Scully says, pointing to 
the left. "I bet we can take it down to the basement and come 
back up the main elevator to the lobby. Or there's probably a 
delivery entrance." 
 
Mulder is amused by these James Bond shenanigans. She's a grown 
woman and can check herself out of the hospital any time she 
wants, much less go outside for some air on a temperate 
September night. But he's glad to see this playfulness at work 
in her; a spark he thought had gone out. 
 
"Should I knock out an orderly and steal his uniform? Disguise 
you as a sack of laundry?" 
 
"Mulder, shut up." 
 
"Sandwich," he says warningly.  
 
Scully takes a bite and gives him a baleful look. "It tastes 
terrible." 
 
"That's how you know it's good for you. Where's the elevator?" 
 
"See the wall on the other side of that vending - yeah. Turn 
right here." 
 
Mulder follows the hallway to an elevator covered with lumpy 
green paint. He presses the down button and the doors slide open 
right away. He pushes the wheelchair in and selects the basement 
level. They ride down in silence, Scully nibbling at the gluey 
white bread. 
 
They exit into a dimly lit hallway. Mulder follows signs on the 
wall to a delivery bay, and pushes the wheelchair up a ramp and 
out into the night air. He smiles at the exultant look on 
Scully's face.  
 
She drinks in long drafts of air, craning her neck around the 
building. "There's a walkway to the courtyard past that tree, 
Mulder. Do you mind...?" 
 
He turns sharply towards the walkway. "As long as you promise 
not to give me any grief when I make you go back in and call 
your mother in the next half hour or so, okay?" 
 
"Scout's honor." 
 
They pass under a narrow awning of elm and oak, emerging in a 
small courtyard bordered by the hospital on four of five sides. 
Scully looks up at the sky and sighs. "It's good to be outside," 
she says. 
 
"Mind the mosquitoes," Mulder advises, smacking at his arm. 
"They're still afoot. Awing. Whatever." He enjoys the sight of 
her looking so relaxed. 
 
"I doubt I have enough blood to tempt one after today," she 
laughs. "They were making pretty free with my samples down in 
the lab." 
 
"It's good to see you like this, Scully." He wants to say more, 
to tell her that he now has a resurrection to pin his own faith 
to, but it feels cheap and clumsy against the simplicity of the 
moment.  
 
"You brought me that chip." 
 
"So you *do* believe that's what cured you?" He hadn?t meant to 
press her, but the words left his mouth without his full 
consent. 
 
She smiles at him. "You love having all the answers." 
 
He rests his hands on her shoulders, her collarbones an anchor 
under his fingers "No, that's your job. I just like asking the 
questions. We're a good team, I guess. Yin and yang, or 
something equally transcendent. It's undoubtedly cosmic." 
 
Scully reaches one hand up, resting it on top of his. "I regret 
to inform you that my sister once told me that we do not share 
astrological compatibility, Mulder." 
 
He squeezes her shoulder. "Say it ain't so." 
 
"It's true. Pisces and Libra do not go well together. You are, 
apparently, capricious, dreamy, and loquacious. I am given to 
introspection, and can feel neglected by your ethereal 
tendencies. I am also given to whining and scolding." 
 
He smiles broadly. "Why do I put up with you then?" 
 
She doesn't answer, and Mulder cocks his head to see her 
blushing. "Aha," he says. "There is some measure of non-
professional compatibility somewhere." 
 
"The entire concept is absurd, Mulder," she informs him in a 
clipped tone. 
 
He lowers his face to her seashell ear. "You don't believe in 
fate?" 
 
"I don't believe our lives are preordained by the stars." 
 
He straightens up, gesturing at the sky. "You believe in heaven, 
in the intercession of saints. There's a theory that starlight 
contains the souls of those who were taken up to avoid pain and 
suffering. Maybe they're all variants on the same kernel of 
truth."  
 
Scully pats his hand, then drops her own to her lap. "When I was 
a kid, I read a story about how the Milky Way was formed. There 
were two archangels who loved each other so intensely that God 
had to separate them, because they loved each other more than 
they loved Him. He banished them each to opposite sides of the 
universe as a punishment. But, over eons, their yearning for one 
another crossed the space between them and built a bridge of 
light. Eventually, the two halves joined in the middle, and the 
archangels crossed the bridge and were reunited. And God let the 
bridge stand, because even He cannot destroy a thing built by 
love."  
 
Mulder blinks a few times, having been lulled by her calming 
voice. "You've got me sold. A bridge of undying devotion across 
space and time is far less prosaic than billions of enormous 
nuclear reactors." From the corner of his eye, he sees her 
twisting in the wheelchair to follow his gaze. She leans 
sideways against the back of the seat, the armrest at her waist. 
 
"They're just old light," she says, drawing her knees up and 
wrapping her arms around them under the blanket. 
 
"Don't be so dismissive,'" he chides, facing her again. "We're 
looking back in time, Scully. That's its own kind of magic."  
 
Scully tips her head back until she's staring straight upwards, 
and he imagines the stale hospital air being purged from her and 
replaced with something finer. Dr. Zuckerman doesn't know 
everything. 
 
"Scully, you have to go call your family." 
 
"I know." She drops her head, chewing on her thumb. 
 
He wonders why the idea of the phone call makes her anxious. 
Mulder gets to his knees on the flagstone walkway, crossing his 
arms on the back of her seat and resting his chin on them. "Your 
mother's going to want to stay with you, isn't she?" he asks. 
 
Scully nods gloomily. 
 
"Are you feeling guilty for calling me first?" 
 
"No. I'd feel guilty if I hadn't. But maybe you should make 
yourself scarce when they come. Bill is...well. You've seen." 
Scully leans forward to kiss him on the cheek. She's far too 
close to his mouth for propriety, but they've never been 
particularly concerned with conventional personal boundaries. 
Still, he is faintly surprised. 
 
Mulder thinks of binary stars - two bodies orbiting a common 
center of mass - and watches Scully as she yawns under a fall of 
silver light.  
 
 
*** 
 
 
Bill leans against the wall as his mother clutches Dana like she 
just dragged her from a burning building. Dana's smiling 
awkwardly, patting her back, and saying the kind of reassuring 
nonsense that has never come easily to her. He notes with dark 
pleasure that his sister's partner is nowhere to be seen. He's 
firmly convinced she's mistaken codependency for love.  
 
Maggie finally sits back and wipes her face with her sleeve. 
"Dana, this is simply a miracle. Isn't it, Father McCue?"  
 
"It most certainly is, Margaret. I'll be writing the Archbishop 
in the morning." The priest is looking at Dana like she's a 
sacred relic. 
 
Dr. Zuckerman, who hasn't stopped grinning since he came in, 
adds, "It's definitely one for the books. I've never seen such a 
rapid recovery in my thirty-two years of medical practice." 
 
"Dana's an over-achiever," Bill says, feeling buoyant. He's just 
gotten off the phone with Tara, who burst into tears of relief 
at the news. "Now you have to make good on that plane ticket." 
 
His mother looks around, puzzled. "What plane ticket?" 
 
Dana takes her hand. "Bill made me promise to come visit over 
Christmas. To see the baby."  
 
A concerned crease appears in Maggie's forehead. "And what does 
Dr. Zuckerman say about that?" 
 
Dr. Zuckerman smiles reassuringly. "Mrs. Scully, she'll be back 
to herself well before then. As long as she takes it easy now," 
he adds, waving a stern finger at Dana. 
 
"When can I go back to work?" 
 
Maggie looks horrified. "You need to concentrate on getting 
better. The FBI can do without you for a while."  
 
Bill is unsurprised by the question. Dana made it to the ninth 
grade science fair - and won - with the flu. Still, he shakes 
his head in dismay. "You had untreatable brain cancer when you 
woke up two days ago. Let's give it some time, huh?" 
 
"I just wanted an idea," she says defensively. "I've been gone a 
while." 
 
Father McCue laughs. "You haven't changed since you were a 
little girl, have you?" 
 
Dr. Zuckerman smiles. "A step at a time, okay? By all 
indications, the tumor is gone, but you still have a lot of 
recovering to do. And being in remission isn't the same as being 
cured." He checks the chart he's holding. "I'd particularly like 
it if you could at least get back up to a hundred pounds before 
returning to work." 
 
"Okay," Dana agrees, looking faintly embarrassed. 
 
Bill glances at his sister. He realized she'd lost a lot of 
weight, but the shapeless hospital gown disguises it to some 
extent. He was five years old when his parents brought her home 
from the hospital. He was allowed to hold her carefully on his 
lap while Melissa looked on enviously. He suspects she wouldn't 
feel much heavier in his arms if he went to pick her up now. 
 
"It would also be good if there were someone who could help you 
with day-to-day things while you get your strength back. Your 
depleted bone marrow needs some time to reestablish itself, and 
you body's going to be devoting many of its resources to 
regaining equilibrium." 
 
"I'll be staying with her," Maggie says quickly, as Bill knew 
she would. She's beaming at his sister, patting her hand 
comfortingly.  
 
Dana offers a wan smile. "Mom, that really isn't necessary. I've 
got someone to come by and do all the cleaning, and I can handle 
the cooking. The grocery store delivers and really, there's not 
much else to do since my dog got eaten."  
 
Dr. Zuckerman and Father McCue both look like they want to ask 
for the details of this story, but say nothing.  
 
Bill suspects that Dana, even in her weakened condition, will 
prevail on this one, but his mother has a firmness to her face 
that should make it a hard-fought victory. He's not entirely 
regretful that he lives three thousand miles away from the pair 
of them. 
 
"I won't hear another word about it, Dana. You need looking 
after. You let yourself get too run down." 
 
"I appreciate your concern, Mom, but if there's some kind of 
crisis, you can walk from Cathedral Heights in fifteen minutes. 
There's no need to stay with me." Dana's voice is still 
friendly, but there's a subtle hardness in there too. 
 
"I am not going to -" 
 
"Margaret." Father McCue reaches across the bed to rest a hand 
on Maggie's shoulder. "This has to be Dana's choice." 
 
She drops her head for a moment, then looks up. "You?re the 
doctor. I?m sure you know what?s best.? 
 
Bill catches Dana's eye and sees the flicker of a smile in them. 
 
"Thank you, Mom," she says. "I'd prefer to stay by myself, but I 
would love it if you'd come over to keep me company. I'm going 
to have a lot of hours to fill." 
 
"But you'll be resting, of course, won't you? Taking naps when 
you get too exhausted?" 
 
"*Mom.*" 
 
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She smoothes Dana's hair off of her 
forehead, a doting look on her face. "You just never stop 
worrying." 
 
Bill thinks about his unborn child, and as sympathetic as he is 
towards his sister's independence, he already knows he'd be 
acting exactly as his mother is if he were in her position. 
 
They all turn when the door creaks open and a tall, bald man 
walks in. He looks uncomfortable and somewhat stern, but his 
face softens at the sight of Dana, who offers him a tentative 
smile. The man inclines his head a fraction in the briefest of 
nods, and a look of relief settles over Dana's face. 
 
Bill wonders who he is, and what they have just forgiven one 
another for. 
 
 
***
 
 
Mulder is now *officially* officially among the undead. Which, 
in his case, means he's back at work now that the federal 
government has decided that Scott Ostelhoff most definitely was 
attempting to use deadly force, necessitating Agent Mulder to 
discharge his weapon. No mandatory leave. Nothing. Mulder has 
been brooding over these facts for most of the day. It's getting 
late afternoon and all he has to show for himself is two paper 
cuts and a stapler fort made of binder clips.  
 
His phone rings and he's pleased by the distraction, though he 
hadn't been doing much anyway. He draws little devil horns on a 
photograph of an allegedly psychic lobster as he answers the 
phone.  
 
"Jed's Taxidermy Service. You snuff 'em, we stuff 'em." 
 
"That's really more my forte, isn't it? I just wanted to let you 
know I am homeward bound in about two hours." 
 
He sits up, smiling. "You are? Scully, that's excellent news." 
 
"You have no idea. One more day in here and I think I would have 
gone crazy." 
 
Scully does not take well to confinement, though her ingrained 
doctor's horror of non-compliance generally makes her follow 
medical orders. "Have you managed to avoid having your mother 
move in?" 
 
"The results on that were what I had hoped, yes." 
 
"She standing right there?" 
 
"You bet." 
 
"You're not going to do anything desperate, are you, Scully? 
Because sometimes you shoot people and  
it-" 
 
"I'm sorry, but I don't have any advice for you on that, Mulder. 
You should really see a specialist about an anti-fungal cream. 
I'll call you tomorrow. Have a nice evening." The line goes 
dead.  
 
Mulder closes his phone and laughs. He wants very much to go and 
visit her at home later on, but doesn't think deliberately 
baiting her irascible brother is the best idea for her 
recuperation. Now that there won't be a funeral, Bill should be 
on his way home to his pregnant wife before long. And Mulder can 
generally charm Mrs. Scully enough for his purposes. 
 
There's a knock at the door. Merely a formality, apparently, 
since Skinner comes into the office before Mulder can even ask 
who's there. "Any word on Scully?" 
 
Mulder parks his stapler in its new shelter. "Just got off the 
phone with her, actually. She's headed home shortly." 
 
"It's incredible. After that hearing, I really thought..." 
Skinner shakes his head in amazement. 
 
"Sir, the men behind this -" 
 
"The men behind this are dying at an expeditious rate. Scully's 
in remission. Let it go." There's a distinct warning note in his 
voice. 
 
"Is that advice from you personally?" 
 
"You're so paranoid. What more do you want? What better ending 
could there have been to this whole affair?" 
 
Mulder remembers seeing her in the ICU, the way he felt as 
though the wind had been knocked out of him. She still doesn't 
know about the ova. His stomach clenches at the thought of 
having to one day tell her. Or worse, having her discover she's 
been the unwitting egg donor for a clutch of Crawfords or 
Samanthas.  
 
"You're right," he says quietly. "She's okay. That's good 
enough." 
 
Skinner looks sympathetic. "Go home and get some rest, Mulder. I 
don't even know why you came in today." 
 
Mulder shrugs and gets to his feet. He grabs a newspaper 
clipping from his desk and glances down at Raphael the Psychic 
Lobster as he and Skinner walk to the hall. "Someone has to ask 
the tough questions, I guess." 
 
 
*** 

 
Scully wakes up at nine-thirteen to the smell of bacon. Waking 
up to the smell of anything is still a novelty, but since she 
rarely ingests anything other than coffee and sarcasm before 
noon, the bacon is particularly noteworthy. It means her mother 
is here, getting into things. Moving them. Disorganizing her 
life. The next two weeks (she has already decided that is her 
maximum level of tolerance) are going to be very long.  
 
She rubs her eyes, luxuriating in the feel of her own linens. 
Last night she'd talked her mother into letting her walk 
upstairs alone, slithered into her pajamas, and crashed into 
bed, too exhausted to properly savor being out of the hospital. 
 
Dr. Zuckerman spent the day prior running every test he could 
think of, then released her with a heartfelt hug and an inch of 
paperwork. Scully climbed into her mother's car like it was the 
last helicopter out of Saigon, slamming the door with great 
satisfaction. She would have rather had Mulder see her home, 
because he's quiet and lacks her mother's nerve-wracking control 
freak tendencies, but Scully had more sense than to indulge that 
desire. 
 
She sits up, the cool slide of silk pajamas feeling delicious, 
and swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Nothing clicks or 
beeps or winds treacherously around her ankle when she stands. 
Scully yawns widely, lacing her fingers together as she 
stretches and cracks her back. She tightens the drawstring on 
her pajama bottoms and pads to the bathroom door. 
 
Cleansers, creams, and scrubs, all in pretty bottles on the 
shelf. Scully lingers over them, sniffing things and becoming 
reacquainted with her skincare regimen. She brushes her teeth 
with toothpaste that doesn't taste like it's been stored in a 
tin can. She laughs at herself for delighting in toilet paper 
that is white and fluffy instead of crinkly and grayish. Feeling 
fragrant and human, Scully is now prepared to face life as a 
convalescent. 
 
She walks through her bedroom door, and sees that the flowers 
from the hospital are in vases on various surfaces. She moves 
farther into the living area and observes that her mother, who 
is emerging from the kitchen, has set the table for three. There 
are little napkin pockets for the silverware. 
 
"Good morning, Mom." 
 
Maggie nearly drops the tray of toast. "Dana! You startled me. 
Good morning. Here, let me just..." She sets the platter down, 
then kisses Scully's cheek. "Bill should be here any minute. He 
ran out for some orange juice. How did you sleep?" 
 
Scully eyes the food. There is a lot of it. A whole lot. "Good. 
Great. You didn't have to make breakfast." 
 
"You have eight pounds to gain." 
 
She laughs. "Not all in one sitting." Scully pulls out a chair 
and settles into it. "But thanks, Mom. Everything looks 
delicious." 
 
The front door opens and her brother comes in holding a plastic 
bag and a cup of coffee. "I didn't know if you liked pulp or 
not, so I got both kinds." He shuts the door with his hip, then 
walks to the table and sets the orange juice down. Bill leans 
forward to drop a kiss on the crown of Scully's head before 
sitting next to her. "Welcome home." 
 
"Thanks Bill." Scully helps herself to a piece of toast and 
spreads it with strawberry jam. 
 
"There's butter," Maggie says helpfully, as she reaches over to 
slide bacon onto Scully's plate. "I left it out to soften." 
 
"I don't care for butter, but thanks." 
 
Maggie sits across from her children. "Have some eggs then. And 
cheese."  
 
"Wouldn't it be ironic to survive cancer only to die from heart 
disease?" Scully wonders aloud. She feels faintly guilty, but 
the temptation was irresistible.  
 
"Dana!" Maggie is aghast. 
 
Bill coughs, and Scully suspects he's trying to muffle a laugh. 
 
"Sorry," she says, crunching on a slice of bacon. It has 
occurred to her that every calorie she ingests brings her a 
little bit closer to returning to work. 
 
"Bill, what time is your flight?" Maggie asks, gesturing with a 
section of orange. 
 
"Three-forty." 
 
Maggie gets up when the tea kettle whistles from the stove. 
"We'll leave for the airport at two," she says over her 
shoulder. "Dana, after that I'm going to go out and get some all 
natural cleaning supplies because I don't think you should 
exposed to all of those chemicals even if you're not doing the 
cleaning yourself."  
 
Scully opens her mouth to protest, but Bill pinches her elbow. 
 
"Ow, dammit," she hisses. 
 
"Just shut up and let her," he hisses back. 
 
"She's going to take over my life." 
 
"Be a good girl, get better, and then you can go back to work 
and risk your neck, all right?" 
 
Scully glares, but says nothing when her mother returns with the 
kettle. 
 
Maggie drops a teabag into Scully's mug, then fills it with 
steaming water. "This has peppercorns and mint and things in it. 
It's supposed to improve your appetite." She then fills her own 
mug. 
 
"Sounds intriguing. I want to go to church later, Mom." 
 
Maggie sits back down. "Oh?" she says, sipping at her tea. 
 
Scully is not fooled by her casual tone. "Whatever happened to 
me, it didn't happen to all of the other people in that oncology 
ward. Who's the patron saint of cancer patients?" she asks. 
 
"Saint Peregrine. I have a chaplet. " 
 
"Of course you do." And you've probably worn the polish off the 
beads, Scully thinks. She feels ungrateful and it makes her 
waspish. 
 
"We'll go after the airport, then. I have to say this is a 
surprise, Dana." 
 
"No atheists in foxholes," Bill says, smirking around a mouthful 
of egg. 
 
"That's incredibly condescending, Bill," Scully snaps. "I'm sure 
atheists are just as certain of their beliefs as you are of 
yours." 
 
"The point of being an atheist is that you don't believe in 
anything." 
 
"No, they just don't believe in God. That's not the same as 
'anything.'" 
 
He washes his eggs down with coffee. "Do they believe in 
aliens?" 
 
"Unlike you, I don't presume to know what people believe." She 
takes a dainty bite of toast.  
 
"Bill, Dana." Maggie scolds, as though they aren't in their 
thirties. "Let's try and be pleasant." 
 
"Honestly. I mean, I'm really sick here, Bill." Scully coughs on 
her brother's shirt. 
 
"Dana's getting germs on me. Make her stop." 
 
"Tattletale." 
 
"Midget." 
 
Maggie shakes her head when they cackle at one another. 
 
Scully pushes her chair from the table, dabbing at her mouth 
with a napkin as she stands. "Everything was great, Mom, thanks. 
I'm going to go hop in the shower and get dressed." She doesn't 
want to admit that this short visit has already left her so 
fatigued she suspects she could easily sleep for the rest of the 
day. The long bones in her arms and legs feel bruised and 
throbbing. 
 
She walks to her bedroom, uncomfortable in the knowledge that 
her mother and brother will be talking about her once she's out 
of earshot. Scully takes her pajamas and underwear off, tossing 
them in the hamper. She sits down on her bed, holding her head 
for a moment when her vision starts to swim. 
 
Finally feeling steady enough to get up, she takes small steps 
to the bathroom, guiding herself along the wall to the shower. 
The water gets cranked to as hot as she can stand it before she 
climbs in. Scully works her shampoo into a lather, then rinses 
it out and covers her hair in rich conditioner. She stands there 
until her knees start to buckle and she slides down the tile. 
 
Scully sits in the bottom of the tub and cries, letting the 
steamy water sluice over her aching body.
 
 
*** 

 
Frohike glances in the mirror and straightens his collar. He is 
eager to see Scully, though not eager enough to have broken out 
the tux again. He's willing to admit that was overkill, even if 
she does have an obvious weakness for a man in a suit. His new 
approach will be subtle and suave.  
 
The doorbell rings. He, Langly, and Byers exchange excited 
glances. Frohike goes to the wall to admit the visitors, but his 
face falls when the security camera reveals only Mulder and two 
large paper bags in the hallway. Sorely disappointed, he buzzes 
the door open. 
 
"Why isn't Scully here?" he demands as the taller man edges past 
him to the table. 
 
Mulder plunks the bags down and looks annoyed. "Nice to see you 
too, honey."  
 
Frohike glares, crossing his arms. He feels cheated and 
cantankerous. "Can it, princess. I can look at your ugly mug any 
old time." 
 
"Yeah, where's our favorite medical miracle?" Langly asks as he 
lopes over, presumably in search of his wonton soup. 
 
Mulder flops into a chair. "Mrs. Scully wouldn't let her come 
out and play." 
 
Frohike gapes, trying to imagine the fearsomeness that must be 
embodied by Scully's mother. They've only met briefly. "You 
can't be serious." 
 
Mulder opens a package of chopsticks and uses them to pick up a 
broken transistor. "In essence, yes, I am." 
 
Langly look incredulous. "Does she know about the advance copy 
of An American Werewolf in Paris? Because that won't even be in 
theaters 'til next month." 
 
"I did my best, boys. Sorry."  
 
Byers sits down next to Mulder with a carton of lo mein. "How's 
she been since she got home? We haven't seen her since one visit 
to the hospital and she didn't look very well then. She dozed 
off after we were there for five minutes." 
 
Mulder sighs, and abandons the transistor for a chunk of 
broccoli. "She's good." He chews his food dispiritedly. 
 
This lack of exuberance is unsettling. The world has twice come 
perilously close to existing without Scully in it, and both 
experiences left Frohike rattled and heartsick. He cannot accept 
the possibility that she is once more in the valley of the 
shadow. "She *is* okay, isn't she Mulder?" he asks, anxiety 
churning his stomach like a whirlpool.  
 
"Stellar." Mulder throws his chopsticks at the sink. 
 
Frohike isn't sure what's going on, but he's certain that he 
doesn't like it. He's known Mulder for a long time now. Long 
enough to see him fraying at the edges the way he does when he's 
cornered. "But the chip worked, right?" 
 
"Oh, yeah, it worked. It worked great," Mulder says bitterly. He 
gets to his feet and paces the room. "You guys wouldn't believe 
it. It's practically like she was never abducted, returned in a 
coma, and given cancer. It's a fucking fairytale." He slams his 
hand against the wall. 
 
Frohike winces. Langly and Byers look shocked. 
 
"Isn't it though?" Byers says softly after a moment. "Isn't this 
a happy ending?"  
 
Frohike is, once more, grateful for Byers' background in public 
affairs. 
 
Mulder stares at him. "This isn't magic. This is a chip, 
engineered to cure an engineered disease. You think this was 
benevolence? Why is everyone acting like it's all over now? If 
anything, something new is cooking here. The three of you should 
know that better than anyone."  
 
Frohike looks at his friend, who appears sleep-deprived and 
hollowed-out. "Mulder, you may be right, but what can we do? 
They have to move first, and then we'll get the bastards who did 
this to her." 
 
"We'll go Mortal Kombat on their asses," Langly asserts.  
 
Mulder shakes his head. "No. It can't continue like this. She 
can't keep being bait for them to use. I need to make her leave 
the X-Files." 
 
Can he really be so oblivious? "Mulder -" 
 
"Frohike, they gave her *cancer* for Christ's sake. What comes 
next, huh? How do you up the ante after that? Ebola? I'm getting 
Skinner to reassign her." 
 
Frohike walks over to Mulder and puts a sympathetic hand on his 
arm. "Mulder," he says quietly, wishing he didn't have to do 
this. "That won't stop them from using her against you if they 
have to. They don't... they don't just do it because she's your 
partner." He clears his throat, feeling uncomfortable, and sees 
Byers look away. 
 
Mulder closes his eyes for a moment. "I know." The words sound 
as though they?ve been pulled reluctantly from a place deep 
inside of him, somewhere he thought they'd be safe from prying 
eyes and ears. "But what else can I do?" he continues. "How can 
I ask her to stay after all she's been through?" He sits on the 
floor, looking weary.  
 
"How can you ask her to *leave* after all she's been through?" 
Byers asks. 
 
Mulder looks at him, uncertainly at first, and then as though he 
hates him a little for the validity of the question. His face 
falls and he draws his knees up, resting his head on his arms.  
 
Melvin Frohike was once a champion tango dancer, and he knows 
when to leave the stage. 
 


*** 


TITLE: This Her Fever 2/3

AUTHOR: Aloysia Virgata

It wasn't supposed to be nearly so long, but it just kind of 
snowballed and, well, here's what it turned into. Many, many 
thanks to Dasha, Zellie, and Scarlet for their amazing job on 
helping me to get this story written and edited in just four 
short weeks, in time for my assigned posting date. You ladies 
are the best!  
 
The story that Scully remembers about the Milky Way is from L.M. 
Montgomery's The Story Girl. 
 
Author's notes continued at the end, spoilers contained therein. 
 
 
*** 
 
Ellen rests her foot on the edge of the bathtub, balancing the 
phone against her shoulder. "Pick up, pick up, pick up," she 
mumbles to herself, painting her toenails with Cherries in the 
Snow.  
 
"Hello?" 
 
"Dana! How are you doing?"  
 
"Ellen! I'm good, thanks. Much better than the last time you saw 
me. Actually, I was just about to call you and see if you wanted 
to have lunch tomorrow. I've been home for almost three full 
days and I haven't seen you yet." 
 
"Sorry," Ellen says, wiping a red smear of polish from her tub. 
"No lunch. I'm booked. And so are you." 
 
"Huh?" 
 
"You're coming to the beach with me." She screws the lid back on 
the bottle and fans her toes. 
 
"What? 
 
"It's Andrew's first weekend at Colin's place since the 
separation," Ellen tells her. "The house feels too empty, and 
he's there all next week. Plus I want to get in as much time at 
the condo as I can before that little tramp gets her germs all 
over it." 
 
"Oh, El, I'm sorry." 
 
She sighs. "It's okay. I mean, hey. I lost forty pounds of 
Ellen, one hundred and ninety pounds of douchebag, and only 
gained, what? A hundred and ten pounds of whore. That still puts 
me like a hundred and twenty pounds ahead."  
 
Dana laughs. "That's a very positive outlook." 
 
"Thanks. Anyway. I want you to come with me. It's just for a few 
days. I know you're not working and I also know that your mom 
probably has you climbing the walls by this point."  
 
"I wouldn't go *that* far."  
 
"What, does she have your gun to the back of your head? I love 
your mom, Dana, but you know she's wound a little tight." She 
leaves the bathroom and opens her closet to remove the lone 
suitcase her worthless husband didn't take when he left. 
 
"Maybe climbing them a little," Dana concedes. 
 
"Ha! I knew it. Good. I have some errands to run today, and I'm 
planning to leave tomorrow around noon. I'll pick you up."  
 
"I appreciate the invitation, but I don't know if I'm up for a 
trip to Ocean City." 
 
"Yeah, I'm sure all of the relaxation is going to wear you out. 
It's too cold for the ocean. I'm thinking boardwalk, hot tub, 
and greasy food. You know you want to," she wheedles. She became 
an expert at coaxing Dana Scully into things when they were 
fifteen, and the skill has only improved. 
 
There is a longish pause. "Well, other than work, I don't get 
away very often..." 
 
"No. No, you don't. This will be our 'Brain Cancer and Cheaters 
Suck and We Are Done With Both of Them, Hallelujah' vacation." 
Ellen walks over to the mirror and turns sideways, pulling in 
her stomach. Not too bad, really. Maybe she'll bring a two piece 
for the hot tub. 
 
Dana laughs again. "All right. I'll pack the Wild Turkey, 
Thelma." 
 
"I'll see you tomorrow, Louise." 
 
 
***
 
 
"Back here!" Scully calls when he comes in. 
 
Mulder follows her voice to the bedroom, where she is sitting 
cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by stacks of neatly folded 
clothes. A half-filled suitcase is behind her. 
 
"Wow," he says, sitting next to a pile of shirts. "How long are 
you going away for? Should I put in a request for a new 
unflappable skeptic?" 
 
She smiles at him. "Four days. I'm not bringing all of this. I'm 
just organizing things. Getting rid of some stuff I don't wear 
anymore." She smoothes invisible wrinkles from a pair of jeans 
before putting them in the suitcase. "Thanks for stopping by." 
 
Mulder is always thrown by the sight of her in jeans. It is akin 
to running into your teacher at the grocery store. Right person, 
wrong context. "Is your mom going too?" he asks innocently. 
 
Scully's head snaps up. "You've got to be - oh." She trails off 
when she sees that he's kidding.  
 
He smiles. "That bad?" 
 
She flushes. "I know I seem terribly ungrateful, Mulder. But 
she's smothering me. I let her, mostly because of Missy, I 
guess, but I need a break before I lose my patience." She 
refolds a polo shirt and sighs. "She left some lamb in the 
fridge if you want any." 
 
"No, I ate before I came over. But thanks." He touches her 
shoulder for a moment, then rests his hands in his lap. "And you 
don't sound ungrateful. You sound bored." 
 
"I miss work. I want to go back."  
 
"Scully, you haven't even been out of the hospital for a week. 
What does Dr. Zuckerman say?" 
 
"He's very impressed by my progress," she says defensively. "And 
I've gained three pounds, since I know you were going to ask." 
 
"Never crossed my mind," he lies, feeling relieved. He'd been 
pondering small acts of espionage, like replacing her milk with 
heavy cream or injecting all of her food with melted butter. He 
knows, however, that were any of these plans feasible, the wily 
Mrs. Scully would have beaten him to them. 
 
Scully looks more disbelieving than usual. "Mmm-hmm," she says, 
contemplating two pairs of khakis. "So tell me what you're 
working on right now." 
 
He shrugs, then lays back on her bed, his hands beneath his 
head. "Eh, nothing too interesting. The usual ghosties and 
ghoulies and long-legged beasties." 
 
"Nothing that goes bump in the night?" 
 
"I dunno. Flashlight's busted."  
 
"You have got to be more careful with your government-issued 
toys. How many cell phones have you been through now?" She gets 
up and walks to the dresser. 
 
"Hey, our federal budget deficit isn't going to grow itself, you 
know." 
 
She shakes her head, and he imagines that he can see her 
smiling. Mulder savors these times, little hammocks of quiet 
that stretch between the trees in the dark forest they've been 
stumbling through. 
 
She selects a sweatshirt and comes back to the bed to continue 
packing. When she sits down next to him, she's closer than she 
was before. "Do you want anything from the beach?" she asks, 
putting the sweatshirt into her suitcase. 
 
"Thrasher's fries." 
 
"I don't think they'll travel well, but I'll try my best." 
 
"I'd be obliged. And get me a hermit crab." 
 
Scully laughs, then smiles down at him. "Are your fish getting 
lonely?" 
 
She's pretty, he thinks, which is different from beautiful. At 
work she is often beautiful which, coupled with her increasingly 
severe tailoring and coiffure, makes her seem inaccessible. But 
right now she isn't wearing makeup and her hair is escaping from 
a ponytail, falling around her face like a mantilla. Her cotton 
pajamas look worn and comfortable, and her smile is ever so 
slightly goofy. 
 
//They don't... they don't just do it because she's your 
partner.// 
 
Scully turns sideways, tapping her lip as she peers into the 
suitcase again. He sees little ridges on the exposed area of her 
chest, just below the prominent pockets above her collarbones. 
He turns his head for a better view, making himself take in the 
havoc her illness has wrought. Reminding himself that distance 
is best for them both. 
 
"This is ridiculous," she exclaims suddenly. She puts two stacks 
of clothes in her suitcase, tops them with her toiletry case, 
running shoes, and a bathing suit. "Done." She zips the lid and 
flops back on the bed next to Mulder. 
 
"Scully," he says, still facing her. "I think you may be rushing 
into things. Have you devised an appropriate algorithm for your 
pants-to-shirts ratio to maximize your options?" 
 
She rolls her eyes at the ceiling. "I'm not that bad and you 
know it." 
 
"You're bad enough that jokes about it aren't uncalled for." 
 
She looks over at him. "I've missed you," she says frankly. "I'm 
not used to not being around you all the time. You're not..." 
she pauses, appearing to search for the right word. "You don't 
hover. You've never acted like my being sick somehow diminished 
me. My mom, she... I just hope you'll come by more, Mulder." 
 
He laughs, and hopes it doesn't sound broken. "And here I was 
just thinking it was best that you were taking some time to get 
away from everything." 
 
She turns onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. 
"Everything?" 
 
He shrugs, head still pillowed on his hands. 
 
"You mean you. Mulder, please don't tell me you're holding 
yourself responsible for my illness. Which, may I remind you, is 
in remission so you're a little late with the self-flagellation 
anyway." She pokes him in the ribs. 
 
He wishes she wouldn't be so cavalier. Does she really believe 
that Blevins shot himself out of remorse? That the chip is the 
period at the end of this chapter? For all that she sees with 
those sharp blue eyes, she's missing the big picture. He's given 
a lot of thought to his conversation with the Gunmen. Pushing 
her away isn't a perfect plan, but it's better than anything 
else he's got. At the very least, she'll probably resent him and 
then they can move towards active dislike. And, eventually, 
indifference. He is, he has discovered, exceptionally good at 
alienating people. But *trying* to do it is turning out far 
harder than he expected. She's too easy to talk to. 
 
"I just think some time away from work will do you good." So I 
can get you reassigned, he doesn't say. 
 
"I've been away from work for a while now. I feel useless. 
That's not good for me at all." 
 
"You don't know what's good for you. Go to Ocean City with Ellen 
and play some drunken skee-ball. Eat at a disreputable 
establishment." 
 
Scully smiles. "Sounds like Senior Week." 
 
"That's your idea of Senior Week? Scully, tell me the truth. You 
were class president, weren't you?" 
 
"Secretary." 
 
"Aha. You and your little notes..."  
 
She smiles again, and leans over to brush a fall of hair from 
his eyes. She smoothes her hand over his temple, down to his 
collar. "You need a haircut," she remarks, her mouth inches from 
his. 
 
Mulder picks up the woody scent of rosemary on her breath.  
 
It would be so simple to tell himself that she's confused, that 
this has to do with her remission, with the chip, with gathering 
her rosebuds while she may. But he knows it would be a lie. Just 
months ago, he saw her on her couch with a man she thought was 
him, lips inches apart as theirs are now. She was dying then. 
 
It would be the easiest thing in the world to kiss her, he 
thinks, the gap between the top two buttons of her pajama top 
catching his eye. She's not wearing a bra. He wants to slide his 
arm down and pull her against him. To run his other hand over 
her waist, up the gentle rise of her hip and along her tapering 
thigh.  
 
Her careful fingers are light on his skin, and he closes his 
eyes when they trail over his jaw.  
 
"Scully," he begins, but she cuts him off. 
 
"You need to shave, too," she murmurs, her breasts skimming his 
shirt. "You've really let yourself go since returning from the 
dead. It's unprofessional." 
 
He's aching to push her onto her back, but he knows that if he 
does, he'll cover her like Greek fire and burn them both to 
ashes. "Scully," he says again, but she presses a finger to his 
lips. 
 
"The world's not going end."  
 
But it almost did. 
 
And that thought gives him the final motivation he needs to push 
her hand gently - but firmly - from his face. 
 
"Mulder - "  
 
He ignores the wounded look in her eyes when he stands. "Have a 
good time on your vacation," he says. 
 
"Mulder, wait." 
 
He doesn't look back when he leaves her room. 
 
 
*** 

 
Thomas McCue loves the way his church smells. Dry, ancient 
scents of brickwork and plaster. Lemony oil for rubbing over the 
oak pews, and the sweet, heavy scent of incense. It is a holy 
smell to him, the air enriched with the millions of prayers that 
have been offered over the nearly two centuries this building 
has stood. President Kennedy himself attended Mass here on a few 
occasions. 
 
He fills his lungs with this sacred air as he walks down the 
nave to the slight figure in the second row. "Good morning, 
Dana," he says, resting a hand on her shoulder. 
 
She turns slightly and smiles at him with her mother's tired 
blue eyes. "Good morning, Father." 
 
"May I sit down? If I'm not interrupting..." 
 
Dana slides over. "Of course. And no, you're not interrupting." 
She looks towards the tall lancet windows made of stained glass 
at the north transept. "I was just thinking. I probably do that 
too much anyway." She laughs a little and faces him again, 
picking at something shiny in her lap. 
 
"Is that a chaplet of Saint Peregrine?" he asks. 
 
She nods, drawing her thumb across the medal. "It's my 
mother's." 
 
He turns towards her, resting his left elbow on the back of the 
pew in front of them. "It's very pretty. She used to have a 
chaplet of the Two Hearts with the same kind of stone. What is 
it?" 
 
"Larimar. She still has the other." 
 
"I didn't know that. I know she's committed to the Devotion of 
the Sacred Heart, but hadn't seen her with it for years. She's 
had it for a long time now, I guess." 
 
Dana tucks her hair behind her ears. "My grandmother gave it to 
her for her wedding, and she gave it to Missy for her First 
Communion. They found it in her things when she died and Mom 
keeps it in a drawer now." 
 
A few awkward seconds tick by. 
 
Father McCue clears his throat. "You've been here every day 
since you got home. I'm glad to see you returning to the Church, 
but I hope you're not overtaxing yourself." He cannot help but 
wonder if she is here to please or avoid her mother. Or both. 
 
"No, Father. I come here in the morning, and then go to the 
hospital for a while. I sit, mostly. Visiting with the patients 
in the oncology ward."  
 
"These visits to the hospital... do you regret leaving 
medicine?" He hopes she can't hear the hesitancy in his voice. 
 
There is a faint, knowing smile on her lips. "No. I made the 
right choice on that. I still appreciate your guidance, Father. 
I go because I know what it feels like to be frightened of your 
own body. I just listen to people talk for the most part." 
 
Feeling relieved, Father McCue pats her hand warmly. "You've 
always been compassionate, even when you were a tiny girl. I 
remember you helping Charles toddle to his seat after your older 
brother and sister had walked ahead. You couldn't have been more 
than four." 
 
Dana shrugs, and he remembers that she is uncomfortable with 
praise. 
 
He squeezes her hand, then lets it go. "I prayed for you while 
you were sick, Dana, and seeing you come through all of this has 
been such a blessing. I hope you continue to find peace within 
the Church." He stands up and is about to return to his office 
when she speaks again. 
 
"Father McCue?" There's an anxious edge to the words. 
 
"Yes?" 
 
She closes her eyes for a moment, then reopens them before she 
speaks. "Never mind, Father." Dana checks her watch. "I'm 
leaving to head out of town in an hour or so. I'll be gone for 
about four days. Keep an eye on my mother. Don't let her worry 
too much." 
 
He grins reassuringly. "I'll do my best." 
 
Dana looks grateful as she gets to her feet. She leaves the pew 
and edges past him to walk back through the nave, pausing along 
the way to look at the elaborate windows. She leaves quietly, 
like a stray cat. 
 
Father McCue heads to his office and pushes the door closed. He 
sits at the solid desk and opens a small drawer on the left-hand 
side. From it he withdraws a faded prayer card featuring Corrado 
Giaquinto's St. Margaret Mary Alacoque Contemplating the Sacred 
Heart of Jesus. He runs his finger over a ragged corner, then 
tucks it back into the drawer. 
 
 
*** 
 
 
Thomas McCue was twenty-seven years old in August of 1958. He 
still came home to Chevy Chase in the summers, enjoying the 
freedom to travel around the nation's capital while helping out 
at his father's bike shop. In a few weeks he'd head back to 
start his final year of seminary. Or, at least he would be about 
to start it if he hadn't recently decided that he was going to 
forgo his calling to God to pursue a romantic interest. 
 
He had known Maggie Gallagher her whole life, as her family 
lived two blocks away. She'd been a skinny freckled kid tagging 
behind her equally freckled sister Olive, who was his own age. 
But she was twenty two now, and he had felt something growing 
between them the past few summers. He and Maggie had spoken of 
things several months ago, very tentatively, when he was home 
for a visit. But he had been unable to make her any promises. 
His desire to serve Christ burned in him with a consuming flame, 
and he wasn't sure that Maggie wouldn't always be second best to 
that. He hadn't seen much of her in the month he'd been home. 
 
His feelings for her were still strong when he went back to 
school, however. He prayed on it extensively, had spoken to his 
mentor, and, finally, come to the conclusion that the priesthood 
would not be appropriate given his thoughts about Maggie. 
 
Anxiety made a hard knot in his stomach, and he felt again the 
weight of his decision. He wanted to talk to her about the 
future - their future - and try and restart his life as a man 
who would not be taking a vow of chastity. He had decided to ask 
her to dinner as a first date, feeling that a movie would be too 
impersonal. He'd already made reservations at an upscale 
restaurant for next Friday night. 
 
He jumped when the telephone rang. 
 
"Hello?" he asked, hoping his voice was steady. 
 
"Tom? It's Maggie." 
 
The knot in his stomach exploded into a flock of butterflies. 
"Maggie! I'm glad you called. I was just going to, that is... I 
wanted to speak to you about something." 
 
There was a pause on the other end. 
 
"Maggie?" 
 
"I'm here, sorry. I wanted to talk to you about something as 
well. Something very important. Could you meet me somewhere?" 
 
He thought fast. "How about the park? By that old red 
boathouse?" The park had a small lake - well, a large pond, 
really - but it would be romantic. An ideal spot to ask her to 
dinner. 
 
"Yes," she agreed. "Yes, that would be good." 
 
He tapped his hand nervously against his thigh. "Okay. I'll see 
you in ten minutes or so, I guess." 
 
"I'll see you in ten." She hung up. 
 
Thomas couldn't decide if time was dragging or flying, but it 
was certainly warped in some way. He made it to the park three 
minutes ahead of schedule, but she was already sitting on the 
bench when he got there. She wore a red dress with little white 
flowers. 
 
"Hello, Tom," she said. "Sit down." 
 
He did, feeling eager for a fresh start. "Maggie, about 
everything in March, I want you to know that  
I - " 
 
She shook her chestnut curls. "Tom, please. I need to get this 
out, okay?" 
 
The knot reformed. "Okay." 
 
"I'm leaving this evening. I'm...I'm staying at my aunt's for a 
while. Probably for a year, at least. I don't even know that 
I'll be coming back." 
 
He felt punch-drunk. "What?" was all he could manage. 
 
She picked at the stitching on her pocket. "I know it's sudden, 
and I'm sorry to be so abrupt. But I wanted to tell you in 
person." 
 
"I don't understand. Why are you leaving?" 
 
Maggie gazed at him, her eyes serious, and she pressed her open 
hand to her stomach. 
 
Thomas McCue felt the earth fall away as he realized what she 
meant. "Maggie? Who -" 
 
Her smile was sad. "Tom, after you left in March, I was so hurt. 
I didn't want you to realize how upsetting it all was because I 
know how much your faith means to you and I know it wasn't an 
easy choice. But Bill and I started spending more time together 
after you went back to the seminary and we...we became very 
close."  
 
"Bill? Bill *Scully*? He did this to you?" 
 
She looked at him sharply. "He didn't 'do' anything. It was a 
mistake we both made. I've made arrangements to have the baby 
given to a good family." 
 
He stared at the ground. "Does Bill, uh...that is, have you told 
him your plans?" He had never had such trouble stringing 
together a simple sentence.  
 
"He wants to get married immediately but I said no." 
 
He didn't think he could be any more shocked, but that news left 
him gaping. "You said *no*?" 
 
"He's going to be a doctor, Tom. I can't let him ruin his life 
over this. He wants to withdraw from medical school and join the 
Navy to support us. He says he could do more to help people that 
way anyhow." 
 
"And you don't want that?" Just pretend she's any regular 
parishioner you'd talk to, he thought as the stunned feeling 
began to subside. You can do this. 
 
She turned her attention to a hangnail on her thumb. "I don't 
know what I want. I don't know if I know him well enough to 
marry him. Marriage is forever. Forever's a long time." 
 
"And you'd rather give the baby away?" he asked her gently, 
seeing tears slide down her face. 
 
"No," she told him, dropping her head against his shoulder. "But 
I don't know what else to do." 
 
He knew what he ought to say. Tell her to repent of her sins, 
get married immediately, and have her baby. But, somehow, he 
couldn't make himself say it. Her tears were soaking through his 
shirt and he could not tell her, in that vulnerable state, to 
commit her life to a man she admitted to hardly knowing. He'd 
make his peace with God later. 
 
"How does your aunt feel about all of this?" he asked at length. 
 
Maggie sat up. "She said that if I want to keep the baby, I can 
live with her. My...my parents won't have me back if I do." Her 
voice trembled only a little. 
 
He smiled softly at her. "Then I think you should go stay with 
your aunt," he said. "And keep your baby. Give Bill a chance to 
change your mind. If he wants to join the Navy, it's his own 
decision to make. He must care a great deal about you to make 
such an offer when you gave him an easy opportunity to abandon 
you." The words made his stomach clench, but what else could he 
do? Bill Scully was willing to give up his calling for her. She 
deserved that. Her child deserved it. 
 
Something changed in her face as she absorbed his words. "The 
Navy is a good career," she said quietly. "They put a satellite 
into space, you know. In March." 
 
"I'm sure he'd give you time, Maggie. He'd understand. He's a 
good man."  
 
She shook herself a little. "I'm sorry, Tom. I am. When you're a 
priest, come home and I'll confess it all to you properly." She 
handed him a prayer card emblazoned with a picture of Saint 
Margaret Mary Alacoque. "She's my favorite saint. I prayed a 
Chaplet of the Two Hearts before I phoned you. Maybe you'll 
think of me when you see her."  
 
Maggie got to her feet and began to walk along the stone path 
that wound up the hill from the lake. After a few steps, she 
stopped and turned back to him. "You said you had something to 
talk to me about?" 
 
The words clung to the insides of his throat like ivy, but he 
forced them out. "I just... I just wanted to tell you that I'm 
sorry, but I'll be returning to finish seminary in the fall. I 
wish it could have been different."  
 
She offered him a warm smile. "I know you do. But I'm so proud 
of you! I guess I'll have to get used to calling you Father 
McCue before long." 
 
He smiled back like it didn't hurt. "I guess you will. I'll pray 
for you and Bill and the baby." 
 
 
*** 
 
 
Scully walks slowly next to Ellen, listening to the ceaseless 
tumble and crash of the waves to her left. She's glad she came. 
It's hard to believe that six days ago she was lying in a 
hospital room, waiting to die. She tires easily and has to take 
advantage of the benches lining the boardwalk, but still, she's 
come a long way in less than a week. She runs her hand over the 
back of her neck.  
 
The two women are alternately eating from an extra large 
container of French fries drowning in salt and vinegar (in 
Scully's hands) and an extra large plastic tub of caramel corn 
(in Ellen's hands). Scully is, if nothing else, enjoying the 
novelty of needing to put on weight instead of politely 
declining dessert. 
 
"I can't believe how bad you beat me at skee-ball," Ellen says 
for the third time. "You had almost a hundred tickets." 
 
"I am *still* the reigning champion!" 
 
"You're not a very graceful winner," Ellen says reproachfully. 
 
"You're jealous." 
 
Ellen sticks her tongue out before eating a few fries. "Remember 
the first time we came to the beach together?" she asks, tossing 
out a handful of popcorn to the delight of several fat seagulls.  
 
"Senior Week, 1981." 
 
"It was epic." 
 
"Thirty-six alcohol violations, wasn't it? We papered the walls 
with them." Scully feels only a distant connection to the girl 
who had come here that summer. Her younger self sometimes seems 
more like a relative she recognizes from photo albums than a 
person she actually was. 
 
"Thirty-eight. You finally gave it up to the hapless Marcus that 
week. God, you're a fun drunk. And easy."  
 
Scully feels herself blush. She suspects that's due in part to 
recently telling Mulder-who-wasn't-Mulder about Marcus. While 
drunk. And well on her way to being easy. "I felt guilty after 
the fire truck thing at prom, I guess. And I had this bizarre 
hang-up about going to college a virgin." 
 
Ellen scatters more popcorn. "I felt that way about tenth 
grade," she says understandingly. "But that's before I knew you. 
You were a sobering influence." 
 
Scully grins, then walks over to a souvenir shop with a display 
of hermit crabs in the window. She presses her nose to the glass 
and watches them lumber about. 
 
"They're not really as cuddly as Queequeg," Ellen remarks 
doubtfully. "I mean, if you're in search of a new animal 
companion." 
 
Scully takes a step back and eyes up a large bluish shell in the 
corner of the tank. "Not for me. Mulder said he wanted one." 
 
"Ah," says Ellen. "Mulder." 
 
Scully prickles at the tone in her voice. She is still coming to 
terms with what happened two nights ago, and the memory makes 
her squirm. "Is something wrong with that?" 
 
Ellen rolls her eyes. "Oh, Dana. Come on. You've got it bad.? 
 
Scully takes her eyes from the tank and starts walking again. "I 
asked if he wanted anything from the beach and he said a hermit 
crab," she informs Ellen. "He stopped by for a visit before I 
left." 
 
"A naked visit?"  
 
"Ellen!" She stops in her tracks, and Ellen catches up. 
 
"Don't you 'Ellen!' me, Dana Scully. I have been here with you 
before." She points an accusing finger in Scully's face. 
 
Scully sighs, and walks over to a bench. She sits down and 
figures that lying to Ellen of all people is a fairly pointless 
enterprise. "It was not a naked visit. But I had entertained the 
possibility." She nibbles at a soggy fry. 
 
"Oh dear," Ellen says, sitting down and placing the plastic 
bucket to her side. "Tell me all about it. And I'll promise not 
to be pissed at you for holding out on me." 
 
Scully closes her eyes and lets the story tumble out. When she 
finishes, she gives Ellen a sheepish look. 
 
Ellen looks appalled. "Wow. He just left? Just like that?" 
 
"Just like that." Somehow it's easier to bear now that she's 
shared it. "But I know why he left. He thinks he's protecting 
me. His plan is to be a jackass and make me hate him for my own 
good." 
 
Ellen squeezes Scully's knee. "And you wanted to buy him a 
hermit crab? That's kind of sad, honey." 
 
Scully can't help but laugh. "Yeah. It kind of is." 
 
Ellen drums her fingers on her thighs. "When you told me you 
were planning to lose your virginity to Marcus Baxter at prom, I 
told you to go for it. And when Sylvia fucked it up and you 
decided to carry the thing out at Senior Week, I was very 
supportive." 
 
"Yes, you were. You got a whole box of condoms for me."  
 
"That's because Marcus was a man-slut, as you discovered shortly 
thereafter. But anyway. I was there for you in college, even 
when you fell hopelessly for bad boys and bummed their 
cigarettes and wore too much black eyeliner. And when you went 
off to Stanford and decided to have an affair with some hundred-
year-old guy, I said, 'Dana, if he's bound and determined to 
cheat on his wife, it might as well be with you.'' Which is 
ironic, considering my own marriage..." 
 
Scully cringes. "Ellen, please tell me you're going somewhere 
with this, because right now it feels like an R-rated version of 
This Is Your Life." 
 
"Sorry. Okay, here's the thing. This Mulder guy? Don't do this. 
I'm telling you that I think it's a bad idea. I don't care how 
hot he is." 
 
Scully tries not to sound defensive. "Why?" 
 
"He's not your usual brand of thrill-seeker, Dana. I mean, 
Daniel was an adulterer and Justin was into scuba diving - " 
 
"Skydiving. Your point?" 
 
"My point is that your partner strikes me as a lot more intense 
than that. I only know a little bit about your work, but it's 
heavy stuff that he's gotten you involved in. International 
conspiracy stuff, right? And I just think bringing all of that 
into the bedroom is going to be a disaster. Plus, you know, you 
have to work together." 
 
Scully wraps her arms around herself and is aware of itchy 
particles of sand against her scalp. Goddamned wind. "Ellen, I 
appreciate your honesty. I always have. But you're not telling 
me anything I haven't already thought of." 
 
"I think he's going to get you killed," Ellen says sharply. "I 
don't want to lose you to this...this mission of his. I don't 
want it to swallow you up. And he doesn't even seem interested, 
Dana. I mean, an obvious come-on like that and he just leaves?" 
 
Scully blinks away the tears that sting her eyes. "I told you, 
he - " 
 
Ellen looks at her sadly. "I know what you told me. But are you 
sure? I mean, really sure? Or is it just what you want to 
believe? It's romantic, I know. This lone man on a quest, so 
noble and driven that he can't be distracted by love. Everyone 
wants to be the princess who wins the knight, Dana, but they 
always forget that there's never just one dragon."  
 
Scully squeezes her eyes closed until she's certain she won't 
cry. She knows how she must look, playing Sancho Panza to 
Mulder's Don Quixote. Both of them existing in a parallel 
dimension where everything is shrouded in mystery and half-
truths. She's aware of how stupid it would all sound here on 
this sunny beach. But when she's with him she knows things - 
things she could never articulate. She sees giants instead of 
windmills.  
 
"I'm really sure, Ellen. I think it was just too soon. He's 
feeling incredibly guilty right now. I should have given him 
some more time." She smiles when Ellen leans over to give her a 
hug and kiss her cheek. 
 
"Well, I'm here for you then, if this is what you want," her 
friend tells her. "But I wish to hell you'd just go out and buy 
a better vibrator, because you have really shitty taste in men."  
 
 
*** 

 
Mulder lies on a twin-sized bed in what passes for a motel in 
this part of rural Pennsylvania, listening to the rain lash 
against the corrugated tin roof. He's gazing at a series of 
photographs with a glassy-eyed stare and lamenting the poor 
cell-phone reception that so often plagues him in the field. 
 
He'd come to this bucolic one-horse town (well, actually, there 
are numerous horses and few cars) to investigate the alleged 
kidnapping of Myfanwy Bowen by a person or persons unknown. Or, 
according to the claims of Myfanwy's distraught family, fairies. 
When the police arrived to investigate the missing child report, 
the parents asserted that the baby in the cradle was not their 
own. DNA tests are still pending. 
 
"A changeling, Mulder?" Skinner had asked dryly. "Does nothing 
stretch the bounds of credibility for you?" 
 
"Kidnapping's still a federal crime even if the suspect is 
mythological," Mulder had replied. 
 
"You don't even know that the baby's missing!" 
 
"We don't know that she isn't. If she is, every hour that 
passes..." 
 
A sigh. And then, "Don't call Scully if you can help it." 
 
"I wouldn't consider it," Mulder assured him, being completely 
truthful. 
 
He props himself up on his elbow and reads the file again, 
though he has it memorized, and wonders how you begin to search 
for a baby when you're not positive the baby's even gone. He 
sighs, glancing at the Bakelite phone on the dresser, and wills 
someone to call him the results of the DNA test. The local 
authorities have been understandably reluctant to provide 
resources before finding out whether or not a crime has even 
been committed. 
 
If he's honest with himself - and he generally is - he thinks 
the case is bogus. But it got him out of DC, away from the 
Scully-shaped hole in the office, and gave him something to 
focus on beyond the present clusterfuck of his life. 
 
Scully's come-on the other night was... he doesn't even know 
what it was. He needs an elaborate portmanteau word for it that 
his current vocabulary lacks. He suspects the Germans have 
something appropriate but, as with most arcane knowledge he does 
not himself possess, German is firmly in the province of Scully. 
 
What possessed her to choose that moment? What possessed her to 
choose any moment, actually? He still longs to know what 
happened between her and van Blundht before he interrupted them. 
Had she been toying with this idea all along and old Eddie just 
lucked out, or had the man's deception triggered something in 
her? Clearly it hadn't put her off the idea, at any rate.  
 
Those cool, white hands along his face... does Scully have any 
idea what it took for him to leave? Mulder tries to imagine her 
sucking down a beer and discussing it all with Ellen in some 
sand-strewn bar at the beach. It seems improbable, but he has 
given up trying to figure her out. She once feigned eating an 
insect to impress a sideshow freak, and time has only made her 
less predictable. 
 
Outside, branches whip against the roof and the lamp flickers. 
Mulder swings his feet over the edge of the bed, getting up in 
search of alternate light in case the power goes out. His new 
flashlight had not come in by the time he had left this morning.  
 
Five minutes of searching turns up three half-melted candles and 
a book of matches from Big Jim's Bail Bonds. He returns to the 
bed and thinks back five years to a night as rainy as this one, 
Scully at his motel room door, addled by panic and a touch of 
embarrassment. He remembers her robe falling, her back as 
sinuous as a violin in the flickering candlelight. Glimpses of 
her firm breasts two nights prior, aureoles tight circles around 
her nipples... 
 
Don't, he orders himself sternly. Her recent actions aren't 
permission for you to start mixing business and pleasure.  
 
But he's already hard, and curses himself for even so brief an 
indulgence. Avoidance of such thoughts has been a strange point 
of pride with him up until now, as though it kept him elevated 
above those lesser mortals who ended up screwing their partners 
against flimsy simulated-wood paneling while on assignments.  
 
As though it absolved him of the Diana fiasco.  
 
A shower, Mulder decides, is in order. He could use one anyway 
and perhaps it will relax him to the point of not gritting his 
teeth. He strips quickly and pads across the dishwater-colored 
carpet to the bathroom, hoping the lightning doesn't start up 
again.  
 
The pipes squeal and clank in protest when he turns the faucet 
on, but the clamor subsides after a moment and he gets in. The 
water pressure is surprisingly good, the spray hard enough to 
sting a little, and the ache in his cock starts to abate. He can 
get through this. In another life, where the stakes weren't so 
high, he could let himself give in to loving her. 
 
In another life he wouldn't know her. 
 
He closes his eyes against the memory of her in a Rhode Island 
hotel room, his faithful Beatrice come to lead him from his own 
private hell. Mulder leans against the tile and surrenders, hand 
sliding across his thigh, and he wishes he knew how to let the 
world demand less of him. 
 
 
*** 

 
Skinner contemplates the best way to approach this. Mulder will 
be a pain in the ass about the entire thing no matter what, 
acting as though it's some denigration of his holy personal 
crusade. Scully, who will be eager for a fresh start after the 
note on which her leave began, will probably make a polite 
speech about what an excellent idea it is and how she looks 
forward to solidifying any skills that can help her instincts in 
the field. This will have the unintended consequence of pissing 
Mulder off and putting the two of them at odds from the get-go. 
 
He's certain that Scully has no idea that she is the most 
earnest bullshit artist he has ever met. He's also fairly 
certain that Scully does not, in fact, have any idea that she 
even is a bullshit artist. 
 
Skinner twirls his pen in his fingers and looks at the seminar 
information again. The trick, he decides, is to have them both 
pissed off at him for sending them, and thus unite them against 
a common enemy. He'd sensed something was amiss when Mulder left 
for Pennsylvania yesterday. He was edgy, even for Mulder, and 
experience has taught Skinner that such anxiety is usually 
Scully-related in some capacity. So he called his friend 
Charlotte Miller down in Tallahassee, and she was more than 
happy to shoehorn his luckless agents into her twelfth annual 
workshop on Developing Empowered Teams: People Power Promotes 
Productivity. 
 
He's already spoken to Dr. Zuckerman about the conference, 
assuring the man that these events present no tactical 
simulations. The most strenuous thing Scully will likely have to 
do is help design packaging to send an egg unharmed through the 
mail, or whatever moronic crap they've devised this year. Dr. 
Zuckerman said he thought the idea of a teamwork seminar was a 
very good one, and was likely to help restore Scully's sense of 
normalcy. Skinner thanked the man and hoped he did not sound 
smug. 
 
Mulder, whom Skinner is convinced will have him on blood 
pressure medication within the next decade, has his grudging 
sympathy. He knows what it is like to be consumed by something 
to the point where it blinds you to everything else. To the 
people who love you. He and Sharon had drifted apart so slowly 
he can't even pinpoint when it began. 
 
Back in Vietnam, when there was nothing to do but listen to the 
rain fall and wonder whether you'd drown or burn, the talk would 
turn to what would happen if one were captured. 
 
"Think about it this way," a private named Gutierrez had said. 
"They don't start with the real bad stuff right away. They work 
you up, you know? So maybe you can build up a tolerance. Like if 
there's a scale from one to a hundred, you probably wouldn't 
notice the difference from one to two. And two to three. Maybe 
you're up to a hundred and you don't even realize it."  
 
Skinner, twenty and homesick, wanted desperately to believe this 
was possible. It seemed plausible, there in the steaming jungle 
where foot-rot and deadly snakes were minor obstacles. If 
nothing else, the fucking war had taught him you could get used 
to anything. It was a good day when you went to bed without 
anyone's brains splattered across your shirt. 
 
He has no idea where he is on that imaginary scale these days, 
his point of reference having been completely skewed by 
entanglement with the most depraved people a society can 
produce. And Sharon, at least, had accepted it would be 
impossible for her to ever fully understand. She granted him the 
validity of his perspective, and that concession was enough to 
help him try and stay in check at times. And even then he'd 
eventually calved off like a glacier. But Mulder has only Scully 
as a counterpoint, and she's hardly the girl next door.  
 
There is something fierce and lonely about her which makes 
Skinner worry that she'll go too far one day, snapping the cord 
that keeps her within acceptable boundaries. This stunt with 
Mulder and Ostelhoff came perilously close. Recalling the other 
night in the hospital still produces a brief adrenaline rush, 
and he is more certain than ever that her recovery was worth the 
price, paid in bees and blood. He has no regrets, and only prays 
that she never discovers the truth about his involvement. What 
Mulder thinks of that choice - and the underlying motives - is 
inconsequential. 
 
He wonders what there is between them, what made her cross the 
Rubicon and leave her own aspirations on a distant shore. He 
wonders when she stopped following orders and started following 
Mulder.  

 
*** 
 
 
Ellen reaches behind her to grab the pitcher of margaritas. She 
refills her large glass for the third time, feeling pleasantly 
woozy and stupid from the mixture of tequila and warm bubbling 
water. Across from her, Dana looks positively torpid, her black 
bathing suit giving her an odd, disembodied appearance in the 
dark. A small raft floats between them, bearing chips, 
guacamole, and grilled shrimp. 
 
"You're allowed one more margarita," Ellen tells her, holding 
the pitcher out. "I'll pour it now because you look like you're 
going to fall asleep and I'd hate for you to miss your rations." 
 
"My what?" 
 
"Your liver has been working overtime with the chemo, I'm sure, 
and this stuff is pretty much tequila and maybe highlighter 
fluid or whatever makes it this color. I don't think we should 
tempt fate. Plus, what do you weigh? Ninety pounds?" 
 
Dana eats a shrimp. "Ninety four, if you must know." 
 
"My point still stands." She reaches over and tops Dana's glass 
off, only sloshing a little into the hot tub. "Pace yourself," 
she cautions, returning the pitcher to the deck. 
 
"I may regret this tomorrow," Dana remarks, contemplating her 
beverage. "Even on short rations. I have no tolerance anymore." 
 
"Well, you can sleep until two in the afternoon if you want to. 
And when you get up, you don't even have to use your brain. No 
cadavers. No fugitives. Just sand and sea." 
 
"I'll drink to that," she laughs, raising her glass and then 
taking a long swallow. She rests the margarita on the ledge 
behind her head. 
 
Ellen sets her own drink down. "So," she says. "I want to hear 
more about Mr. FBI. The cute, work-obsessed jerk." 
 
Dana groans. 
 
"What? That's how you described him, right?" 
 
"That was years ago." 
 
"Yeah, and you ditched a cute, non-obsessive, nice guy to go up 
to Jersey in your off time and - what was it you guys were 
looking for again?" 
 
Dana slinks lower in the tub, glaring over the frothing water. 
"Cannibal killer. You and Missy kept calling my apartment and 
saying, 'Hello, Clarice.'" 
 
Ellen grins, remembering. "Oh, yeah! You were so pissed. I 
forgot that was that time. I get your insane cases mixed up. 
Anyway, you can see where perhaps I'd want to know more about 
your partner's allure." 
 
"The Clarice Starling jokes get old." 
 
"No they don't. Eat some chips and tell me about Mulder. What 
are you going to do now? Show up to work without your drawers? I 
could see a fabulous Basic Instinct moment in your future." 
 
Dana rolls her eyes. "That's great, Ellen. Very helpful. 
Besides, he'd probably have me committed." 
 
"So you're saying you've considered it?" Ellen asks slyly. 
 
Dana sniffs. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a 
response."  
 
"Pfft. That means you have. Probably more than once. Didn't you 
tell me you and Jack Willis christened his desk once?" 
 
"No!" 
 
Ellen cocks her head thoughtfully. "Really? Hm. Maybe that's 
back when I was living vicariously through you and just thought 
it sounded hot. Please tell me I didn't make up the handcuff 
thing too..." 
 
"You're seriously warped, Ellen." 
 
"Moi? Who's planning to seduce her partner?" She retrieves her 
margarita and takes a hefty swig. "Which brings us back to my 
prior question. What happens now?" 
 
Dana shrugs, and pulls the raft over to help herself to some 
guacamole. "I don't know, to tell you the truth. I haven't 
spoken to him since he left. If nothing else, I'll be back to 
work before long and things will just have to get back to 
normal. We're pretty good at pretending things never happened." 
 
"Let's call him right now," Ellen says, feeling suddenly 
inspired. "Where's your phone?" 
 
Dana does that thing with her eyebrow. "I am not drunk-dialing 
Mulder. And my phone's inside on the charger." 
 
"If I were sober I'd go in there and get it."  
 
"If you were sober, you'd never consider doing it." 
 
"You'd better hope not, because I won't always be drunk," Ellen 
informs her haughtily. "So what about kids, Dana? You think 
maybe this is the guy? Pop out a few Junior Hoovers and take 
family vacations to Mount Rushmore?" 
 
Something hardens in Dana's face. "I recently discovered that I 
can't have children," she says. 
 
Ellen has the distinct impression that Dana is saying this for 
the first time, trying out the weight and rhythm of words in her 
mouth. "Oh, honey...I don't even know what to...is this because 
of the cancer? The radiation?" 
 
"No, actually. I had spoken to my doctor about egg harvesting 
due to the possibility of infertility caused by the cancer 
treatments. But, um..." she taps her fingers against her lips. 
"There was nothing to harvest."  
 
"What?" 
 
Dana's laugh is sharp and raw around the edges, like the lid off 
a cheap tin can. "That's what I said. I assume it has to do with 
when I was, you know, *taken*." 
 
Ellen wants to tell her that this is exactly the kind of shit 
she was thinking of when she told her to drop this thing with 
Mulder. Look at yourself, she wants to scream. You're a 
survivor, Dana, but you keep returning to us a little more 
broken. Soon there won't be anything left. 
 
But they've been friends for almost twenty years, and, even 
intoxicated, she knows when to hold her tongue. "You could 
adopt," she suggests. 
 
Dana snorts, gazing out at the inky water. "Come on, Ellen. 
Let's go out on a very long limb and stipulate that everything 
ends up wine and roses with Mulder and me. You really think two 
federal agents - particularly two with our personnel files - are 
going to be allowed to adopt a child? We'd be lucky to wind up 
with a hamster." 
 
"You wouldn't give it all up for a family?" 
 
Dana shakes her head slowly, her wide eyes still focused out to 
sea. "I'm not sure if I know how to walk away anymore," she 
whispers. 
 
Ellen silently reaches for her friend's hand, hoping to keep her 
anchored in a harbor close to home. 
 
 
*** 
 
 
Bill rolls over in bed to look at his wife's sleeping form. 
She's curled on her side, wrapped around the long body pillow 
that helps to keep her aching hips elevated. They've never 
reached this point in a pregnancy before, and the excitement of 
passing the twenty-week mark has Tara reveling in every new 
symptom, however uncomfortable. "The baby's getting so heavy 
it's putting pressure on my pelvic bones!" she announced 
happily, opening the bag to show him the pillow. 
 
He sits up against the headboard, marveling at the curve of her 
belly, at the way it tugs her back forward and changes her whole 
bearing when she stands. He likes how her body has softened and 
spread, and he is endlessly fascinated by the fact that his 
growing child is causing all of this. 
 
Bill slides his hand under her shirt, drawing circles on her 
back to wake her. "Time to get up," he says. "Doctor's 
appointment." 
 
Tara shifts, then rolls heavily onto her back. "Mmf," she 
grumbles, sitting up next to him. "You know, you don't even have 
to come to all of these appointments. They're quite routine." 
 
He shrugs, smiling at her. "I know that. But I like to." And I 
want to be there if we lose this one too, he thinks. Two 
pregnancies ago, at a routine four month checkup, they'd 
discovered the baby had died and Tara waited at the doctor's 
office for two hours until anyone could contact him. A quick 
glance reveals that she knows exactly what he's thinking.  
 
She takes his hand and places it on her belly. "This one is 
going to be fine, Bill. I can feel it." 
 
Her skin is warm and taut, restless with the small life 
unfolding inside. "Me too." 
 
"So you still don't want to find out if it's a boy or a girl?" 
Tara asks. "You're not curious?" 
 
"Extremely curious. But it just seems like too good of a 
surprise to ruin. Why, are you having second thoughts?" 
 
His wife grins at him. "Only because I want to settle on a name. 
But other than that, no. I'm glad we're waiting." 
 
They hadn't much discussed names yet, fearing it would tempt 
fate, but Bill is feeling optimistic. Even if Tara went into 
labor now, the baby would have a fair shot at survival. He taps 
his hands against his thighs, thinking for a moment. "What about 
Jordan for a boy and Hannah for a girl?" 
 
Tara looks surprised. "I figured you'd suggest William and 
Melissa, to be honest." 
 
"A boy should have his own name," Bill says, speaking from 
experience. "And Melissa... I don't think I could handle it. I 
know my mom couldn't." 
 
Tara nods thoughtfully. "Hannah's pretty. It means grace. I'm 
so-so on Jordan, though." 
 
"We'll come up with something. It'll be nice to have Mom and 
Dana here to help out at Christmas." 
 
Tara pats her belly. "Yes, it will. I'm so glad Dana's coming. 
They still have no idea what sent her into remission?" 
 
Bill hesitates briefly. "No," he says. "We just have to be 
thankful, I guess." 
 
"Do you think she's back to the Church for good now?"  
 
Bill knows his sister's distance from God has been of great 
concern to Tara - who leads a Bible study group - and that she 
has been praying daily for her. "She asked for Father McCue in 
the hospital, and Mom says she's been going to church every 
morning before visiting in the oncology ward. So maybe so." 
 
"And He touched her hand, and the fever left her. And she arose, 
and ministered unto them," Tara recites.  
 
"Dana mentioned the Book of Matthew when I asked her about 
coming to see the baby." 
 
They look at each other for a moment, then at Tara's belly. 
"Matthew means gift of God," Tara informs him. 
 
Bill nods slowly. "I like it," he says. "Let's say Hannah or 
Matthew." He knows Tara will change her mind approximately 
twenty times before the baby arrives, but simply having begun 
the decision-making process seems to please her enormously. 
 
She gets out of bed and starts undressing for a shower. "Do you 
remember that woman Louisa who used to work with me? Her brother 
Sam just moved to College Park to do research on some kind of 
fungus or something. He's single, and I was thinking he and Dana 
might get along well. Should I call her?" 
 
"Yes," he says too quickly. 
 
Tara pauses and gives him an odd look. "You're awfully eager." 
 
"It would just be nice to see Dana settled down with someone. 
Getting on with her life now that she's well."  
 
Laughter at this. "Settled down? I'm talking about dinner, 
Bill." 
 
"I mean eventually," he amends. "But a journey of a thousand 
miles begins with one step, as they say." 
 
Tara studies him for a moment. "She's dating someone you don't 
like, isn't she?" 
 
Dammit. "I don't believe she's dating anyone." 
 
"Hmm. That was a very carefully worded answer. Out with it." 
 
Bill sighs. "I think she's having an affair with her partner." 
 
"An affair? He's married? Oh, Dana." 
 
"No, no. He's not married. But there's something definitely 
going on with them and I think it would be good if she had other 
options." 
 
"What's wrong with him?" she asks, walking into the bathroom to 
weigh herself. She weighs herself at least twice a day. 
 
Jesus, where to begin? "He's, well... he's weird, for starters. 
And he believes in aliens and just the stupidest mumbo-jumbo you 
ever heard of." 
 
"Like what?" 
 
"There was this chip thing he found or stole or who knows what, 
and he was convinced it would help Dana's cancer. So he had her 
doctor put it in her neck and -" 
 
"I thought you said they didn't know what caused her remission," 
Tara cuts in, peering around the door. 
 
"They don't! Her doctor had never seen anything like it! It 
could have been a chunk of tin foil off Mulder's hat for all 
anyone knows. The guy's delusional." 
 
"Dana's not delusional. And she has a degree in physics. And 
medicine," Tara points out, pulling on her robe. "Bright girl, 
as I recall." She winks. 
 
"Yeah, well. Love is blind. And frequently oblivious." 
 
"But it's not suicidal. And she's in remission, isn't she?" 
 
"It's a coincidence," Bill asserts. "Go get in the shower." 
 
"Dana's a grown woman. She can make her own choices. She's not 
your kid sister anymore." 
 
"He's crazy, Tara," Bill says stubbornly. "And the federal 
government has armed him." 
 
She walks back over to the bed and smirks. "The federal 
government has armed you too. Maybe you should fly back to DC 
and solve this via pistols at dawn. I'm sure Dana would be 
really keen on the idea." 
 
Bill looks sullen. "I am trying to be a good brother." 
 
Tara kisses him on the top of the head. "No you're not. You're 
trying to be a good father. Which is not your responsibility in 
this case."  
 
He puts his arms around his wife and presses his face to the 
layers of muscle and skin that separates him from the baby. 
"Tara, I lied. I want to find out the gender today," he says. 
 
She strokes his cheek. "You realize I'm going to start driving 
your crazy with paint samples and questions about middle names, 
right?" 
 
"I hope so," he replies. "I want everything to be perfect when 
this kid gets here." 
 
"That's something you have got to let go of," she says gently. 
"Not everything can be the way you want it all the time. You get 
this picture in your head of How It Should Be, Bill, and you set 
yourself up for disappointment every time. Look at what happened 
with Dana and your father. I see that in you, and it worries 
me." 
 
He holds her tighter, wishing she were wrong. 
 
 
*** 
 
 
Scully wakes up just after ten, and sits up cautiously. Her 
mouth feels like the inside of a sock and her hair smells like 
bromine, but there seems to be no other damage from last night.  
 
This is their last day at the beach, and she's both hesitant and 
eager to go home. She'd stayed up for a while after they got out 
of the tub last night, mulling over Ellen's question. What would 
happen now? 
 
Mulder's not an idiot. He can't have been totally taken by 
surprise after seeing her on the couch with his doppelganger. 
(God, will the crawling mortification of that ever fully go 
away?) She knows it's not all in her head, this notion that he's 
trying to protect her by hurting her. She's seen him looking at 
her, a thousand little moments that she's saved up like pennies 
in a jar. 
 
He hasn't called her once since leaving, and she doesn't know 
what she'd do if he had. There's a small part of her that wishes 
she had called him last night after all, letting the words skate 
out on drunken wheels. She's curious about what she would have 
said. 
 
Scully gets out of bed and walks to the big picture window above 
the cedar chest. She draws the shade up, the late morning sun 
stabbing her eyes. She forces herself to stare out the window 
until she acclimates, blobs of color swimming across her vision 
like tropical fish. 
 
Work, she decides. Work is neutral territory. I'll go in 
tomorrow and we will deal with this like adults. 


***


TITLE: This Her Fever 3/3

AUTHOR: Aloysia Virgata


It wasn't supposed to be nearly so long, but it just kind of 
snowballed and, well, here's what it turned into. Many, many 
thanks to Dasha, Zellie, and Scarlet for their amazing job on 
helping me to get this story written and edited in just four 
short weeks, in time for my assigned posting date. You ladies 
are the best!  
 
The story that Scully remembers about the Milky Way is from L.M. 
Montgomery's The Story Girl. 
 
Author's notes continued at the end, spoilers contained therein. 
 
 
*** 
 
Mulder sits hunched at his desk, his motivation for work at a 
record low. Last night he'd drafted a letter to Skinner about 
Scully's reassignment and left it with Kimberly when he arrived 
this morning. Scully will be furious when she finds out, and the 
thought brings him a miserable kind of pleasure.  
 
He opens his bottom drawer in search of a box of yellow pencils, 
and finds one half-full. He empties the pencils onto his desk 
and is about to begin sharpening them when the door opens.  
 
Scully walks in. "Good morning," she says, taking off her trench 
and hanging it on the coat rack. 
 
Mulder stares. Her suit is hanging funny and is at least a size 
too big. When she turns back to face him, her skin still has the 
sheer, papery look of fine vellum. He is at once pained and 
infuriated by the sight of her. "What the hell are you doing 
here?" he demands. 
 
She stiffens. "Thanks for the warm welcome."  
 
"Scully, I'm not kidding. I do not want you here. Go home." 
 
She draws a deep breath. "Look, Mulder. I realize that things 
are probably awkward between us right now, and I accept the 
blame for that. My actions were inexcusably unprofessional, and 
it was an unfair position to put you in. But I'm hoping we can 
move past it." 
 
Mulder wonders how long she spent practicing that in front of 
the mirror. "Fine, yes. It's in the past. Now leave."  
 
"I don't take orders from you," she says, crossing her arms. 
 
"That's true, you don't. Maybe I should write you up for 
insubordination. This is technically my division." 
 
The expression on her face is one of absolute incredulity. "Who 
do you think you're talking to here?" 
 
He assumes a thoughtful air, tapping his chin with one finger as 
he props his feet up on his desk. "Oh, goodness me! I don't 
know. Could it be... the woman who had one foot in the grave 
last week and who is supposed to be medically cleared before she 
comes back to work?" 
 
"I have a medical degree," she snaps. "I can make a qualified 
assessment." 
 
He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, you're really forthright when things 
aren't as they should be. How were you feeling before you keeled 
over at that hearing?"  
 
"Watch it," she hisses. 
 
He swivels his chair around and stands up. "No. I will not 
'watch it.' If you can't handle having your fitness questioned, 
you shouldn't be here." He's hoping to push her buttons, but 
can't deny some genuine righteous anger as well. How can she be 
so careless when he's doing his damnedest to keep her safe? 
 
She gives him a contemptuous look. "You're not questioning my 
fitness. You're being deliberately cruel because you have a 
martyr complex of unfathomable proportions." 
 
Mulder would give anything for her to stop being so fucking 
rational and start taking things personally. "Actually, I'm 
trying to cover my own ass. Maybe you've forgotten in your 
absence, but our line of work isn't conducive to your fainting 
spells. Your current state makes you a hazard in the field." He 
takes a few steps until they're about eight inches apart and she 
has to crane her neck to see him. Which puts him at an 
advantage. 
 
"The field?" she scoffs. "You're not going anywhere today. And 
as for my 'fainting spells,' as you call them, I don't have 
cancer anymore." Her voice rises slightly at the end. 
 
"No, you don't. You have a microchip in your neck, because 
that's what passes for oncology among intergalactic test 
subjects." 
 
She flinches. "You think that validates your entire cosmology, 
right? You should be swooning at the sight of me, Mulder. I'm 
your goddamned poster girl." She turns sharply and walks to the 
other side of the desk. She settles into the chair and crosses 
her legs. "I'm back. Get used to it." 
 
He rests his hands on the desk and leans forward. "I have 
formally requested to have you transferred from this division," 
he says in a low voice.  
 
Her jaw drops. "You can't be serious."  
 
"Now that Blevins is dead, it shouldn't be hard to have it 
arranged. I left the paperwork with Skinner this morning." 
 
The fight seems to go out of her. "Mulder, no."  
 
He hates doing this, but hates even more that it's necessary, 
and so he presses on. "I feel that you have become a liability 
to the work carried out by this division due to your personal 
involvement." 
 
Scully's eyes narrow, and Mulder realizes that he has overplayed 
his hand. She stands and leans forward, hands on her hips, nose 
inches from his. "May I remind you that personal involvement on 
your part is what got this whole thing started? That's we're 
here right now because of that?" Her voice is harsh and bitter, 
the anger is back in full force. 
 
"Mulder, what is this nonsense about a reassignment? I just - 
oh." Skinner stops in the doorway, Mulder's letter hanging from 
his fingertips. "What is going on in here?" 
 
They both straighten up. "Sir, Agent Scully was just leaving," 
Mulder says, giving her a pointed look. 
 
Scully crosses her arms again and glares back, still appearing 
as though she's thinking of dismembering him. 
 
"Sit down. Both of you."  
 
They obey.  
 
Skinner walks over to the desk, looking sternly down at the two 
of them. "Mulder, there is no earthly reason for Agent Scully to 
be reassigned on the flimsy evidence you have provided." 
 
He isn't surprised by the response, but hadn't planned on having 
this argument with Skinner in front of her. "Sir, it is my 
personal opinion that -" 
 
"Your personal opinion has no bearing on the situation. This is 
a professional matter." 
 
"I really think she -" 
 
"That's enough." 
 
Mulder chews a pencil, and plans to continue things later.  
 
Skinner directs his attention to Scully. "Agent Scully, you are 
on medical leave at present, are you not? That means you are 
supposed to be home." 
 
"Yes, sir." She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. 
 
"And this office is not your permanent residence, is it?" 
 
"No, sir." 
 
"Then perhaps you will understand my puzzlement in finding you 
here."  
 
She looks away. "Sir, I've been -" 
 
"Extremely ill? Yes, that's my concern as well. You are excused 
from your duties until such time as I hear otherwise from your 
physician." 
 
Scully closes her eyes.  
 
Mulder is, as ever, impressed by Skinner's steely command, even 
when it inconveniences him. 
 
"And Agents?" 
 
They both look up, and Mulder has the unpleasant sensation that 
Skinner is trying very hard not to smirk. 
 
"I feel that this separation, combined with the extreme 
emotional duress you've both been under, has put a serious 
strain on your partnership," Skinner says. "Next Monday, the FBI 
is conducting a team-building seminar in Tallahassee. 
Registration ended a month ago, but I'm going to pull a few 
strings and have you both attend." 
 
Mulder gapes. "Scully's on medical leave," he finally manages. 
 
"I'm on medical leave," Scully echoes.  
 
"I'm sure it won't be a problem. There's no danger, and the 
event will not be physically demanding. You do seem to have 
improved a great deal, Agent Scully. You did feel well enough to 
come in today, after all." 
 
Scully looks faintly stunned at being outmaneuvered like this. 
"Uh, yes, I don't think that should be any... um, that will be 
good and I'm sure Dr. Zuckerman will be fine with it," she 
babbles. 
 
"Good," Skinner says. "Scully, go home and rest. We want to make 
sure you're in good health for this seminar. Mulder, I am, 
obviously, rejecting this request." He hands the letter back, 
and Mulder numbly accepts it, amazed by Skinner's deft 
manipulation. 
 
 
*** 
 
 
He hasn't felt this nervous about talking to a member of the 
opposite sex since asking Rachel Andrews to ninth grade 
homecoming. And Rachel wasn't armed and pissed off at him. 
 
"What?" Scully snaps by way of a greeting when she answers her 
door. She's traded this morning's suit for jeans and gray 
sweater. 
 
"May I come in?" he inquires politely. 
 
She steps aside to let him enter, then shuts the door behind 
him. She eyes him up coldly. 
 
Mulder stands in the living room and attempts to look casual. 
"What are you doing for dinner?" 
 
"Eating. It's my customary practice." 
 
He will tolerate her up to a point. "You can drop the attitude. 
We're both getting shafted on this." 
 
She sighs. "What's up, Mulder? Why didn't you call?" 
 
Her hostility broken, he decides to sit on the couch. "I was 
thinking we should grab a bite together. This seminar thing is 
obviously stupid, but Skinner may have stumbled upon a kernel of 
truth. We have been under a lot of duress, Scully, and I'd hate 
for our partnership to suffer for a disturbance in the Force."  
 
He spent four minutes debating among partnership, friendship, 
and relationship before he came over. He also theorized that 
showing up in person was more likely to get her to agree to his 
invitation. Really putting that psych degree to work, Fox, he 
thinks wryly. 
 
Scully smiles a little. "I appreciate the gesture, but I think 
I'll take a rain check." 
 
He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "I'm 
serious about this, Scully. This morning was ugly and I don't 
want to sweep it under the rug." 
 
She shakes her head. "Forget about it. We were both out of line 
and said some things we didn't mean -" 
 
"Did we?" 
 
She looks at him intently for a moment. "I'll get my jacket," 
she says. 
 
 
*** 
 
 
They're sitting across from one another at the twenty-four hour 
diner a couple of blocks from her apartment, waiting for their 
food to arrive. Mulder has found a package of crayons behind the 
ketchup, and is using them to complete the word search on the 
kids' menu. He circles "macaroni" just as the waitress thumps a 
plate down in front of him.  
 
"French toast," she says flatly, then sets another plate in 
front of Scully. "Meat loaf." She walks off on squeaky shoes as 
Mulder switches the plates. 
 
"Mmm," he says, poking at his mashed potatoes. "Just like Mom 
used to order from the caterer." 
 
Scully grins and eats a bite of her toast. "So," she says. 
 
"So." 
 
She looks puzzled. "This was your idea, Mulder. I figured you 
had something to get off your chest." 
 
"Like a speech? Sorry to disappoint. I just thought being out in 
the wild was a good idea." 
 
She spears a chunk of melon with her fork. "You lured me here 
under false pretenses," she says accusingly, punctuating with 
the fruit. 
 
He scratches his ear thoughtfully. "It's possible I have a 
martyr complex," he offers. 
 
Scully looks openly surprised. "Oh?" 
 
"It's also possible that when it comes to your health, you have 
the common sense of a doorknob."  
 
She starts to look indignant, and then her face softens. "Yes," 
she says. "That could be possible." 
 
This is good, he thinks. We can do this. He is particularly 
motivated to get things back to normal, because the idea of 
going to a touchy-feely teamwork seminar where some idiot with 
capped teeth will make him and Scully into Examples has his skin 
crawling. 
 
"But even so, Mulder," she continues, "you have got to stop 
trying to push me away. I know what you're doing. I'll admit I 
was stupid to come in this morning, but trying to have me 
reassigned? How is that different than these people you think 
you're protecting me from? Your motivations aren't the same, but 
you're still trying to control my life and relieve me of my 
right to make my own decisions." 
 
He chews the inside of his cheek as he gathers his thoughts. 
"The difference is that you wouldn't be in this situation if it 
weren't for me. I'm trying to correct things, not compound 
them." 
 
She looks at him with a sad smile on her face. "It's not your 
choice." 
 
Mulder eats a forkful of meat loaf. "Well, you've been saved 
from reassignment by the Great and Powerful Oz, anyway." 
 
"That's not good enough." 
 
"What?"  
 
"It's not good enough that it's only not happening because of 
Skinner. I need you to understand why you had no right to do 
it." 
 
And I need you to understand what it's like knowing I've almost 
killed you by proxy, he thinks. But instead he looks her in the 
eye and says, "I do understand." Because it's all there is to 
say.  
 
"Thank you," she says. 
 
"Scully," he says. "About the other night." 
 
She blushes, but doesn't avert her eyes. "Mulder, I already 
apologized for that. I was completely in the wrong." 
 
He shakes his head. "Hear me out. I didn't... I didn't leave 
because I wasn't interested." 
 
"Okay," she mumbles, fidgeting with the pepper shaker and 
looking like she wishes he'd shut up.  
 
He sort of wishes he'd shut up, but he needs to get this out. "I 
left because your timing sucked." 
 
Her bark of laughter surprises them both, and she coughs, half-
choking on a mouthful of toast. She manages to swallow it and 
starts to reply, but Mulder cuts her off. 
 
"I can't give you what it would take to make things work right 
now.? He reaches forward and takes the pepper shaker from her 
hand, his fingers sliding against hers. "But it doesn't mean I 
can't ever. Give me time, Scully." 
 
Scully gently pulls her hand away and looks at him again, her 
blue eyes unreadable. She acknowledges his words with a small 
nod. Then she returns her attention to her plate, cutting up a 
slice of melon with surgical precision.  
 
Her eyes are cast downwards, though he can see she's lost in 
thought rather than actually contemplating her food. The cheap 
fluorescent lights over-illuminate her skin and hair to create 
the effect of a postmodern Rossetti. He tucks the moment into 
his memory and holds her there, dignified and graceful, bearing 
his request with all the yielding strength of a willow in the 
wind. 
 
 
*** 

 
Maggie wanders aimlessly through the aisles at Babies 'R' Us, 
baffled by the vast array of gear available. Now that she knows 
the baby's sex, the longing to shop has become irresistible.  
 
She stops by the display of strollers. There must be twenty 
different models. Her own children, like every other child in 
the neighborhood, were pushed about in a sensible blue pram that 
did not feature "an extra-large basket for storing your diaper 
bag" or "a compact size designed for handling city sidewalks." 
How on earth do you know which features are most important? Are 
you supposed to take these things for a test drive? She is 
annoyed at being overwhelmed by something so stupid.  
 
A young man sidles up to her. "Can I help you with something?" 
 
New grandmothers are an easy mark, she suspects. "Um, I'm not 
sure, really. My son and daughter in law are having a little 
boy, so I wanted to pick up a few things." 
 
"Congratulations! Do they have a registry?" 
 
"I don't know. I think I'll just look around for now, but 
thanks." 
 
"Okay. Let me know if I can do anything," he says, and walks off 
behind a display of infant bath seats. 
 
She passes rows of high chairs, gas-reducing bottles, and an 
entire wall of toys to stimulate brain development in babies 
under six months. She counts twelve different brands of nursery 
monitor. Maggie shakes her head, watching a young couple look 
despairingly at the selection of cribs. This isn't how you get 
ready for a baby, she thinks. This is how you have a nervous 
breakdown. She leaves the store empty handed and drives home.  
 
Maggie walks up to her bedroom and crouches down on the floor to 
peer under her bed. She reaches her arm as far as it can extend, 
and tugs out a wooden crate. She opens it and removes the large 
satin-covered box that contains the christening gown that each 
of her children wore. Then she gets up and, for the first time 
in years, she opens the drawer of her husband's night table. The 
rollers squeak and she has to tug to get it opened all the way. 
She catches a hint of his lime and bay rum aftershave, and her 
heart squeezes at so tangible a reminder. Carefully, she lifts 
out the goatskin-bound Bible that he always took to sea. The 
pages are fine as onion skin, marked with notes from his gold 
pen. Maggie breathes in the good, clean scents of leather and 
paper and ink, then rests the book on her bed. 
 
She goes to her jewelry box, opening a small drawer at the very 
bottom. From it, she withdraws a Chaplet of the Two Hearts, made 
of a creamy blue-green stone. She had prayed with it on her 
wedding day, nine weeks along with her son, and every day after 
until she passed it on to her daughter. She hasn't been able to 
look at it since the funeral; unable to separate it from the 
image of Melissa dressed like a miniature bride, walking 
solemnly to Father McCue to receive her first communion. She 
tucks the chaplet, along with Bill's Bible, in with the 
christening gown.  
 
Maggie sits on the bed for a time, tracing her fingers over the 
soft fabric of the box. This is what it means to get older, she 
thinks. You send your memories out into the world like messages 
in a bottle, and you trust other people to keep them safe. 
 
 
*** 
 
 
Mulder is stretched across the couch, staring mournfully at his 
fish tank. "So did he pay your doctor off or what? I smell a 
conspiracy here." 
 
Scully, sitting on the floor at his coffee table, rolls her 
eyes. At least, he assumes she does. He cannot actually see her 
face, but her scorn is easily imagined. "You'd smell a 
conspiracy at a county fair pie bake-off," she says.  
 
"Some of those women will stoop to low and nefarious acts," he 
informs her, watching the filter launch endless silver bubbles 
into the water. "You think Martha Stewart built her empire by 
playing fair? I'm from New England, and I have seen things. 
They're savages, Scully."  
 
"Well, conspiracy or no, there's no way to get out of going. And 
you never know, it might be fun."  
 
Mulder flips over so as to more effectively display his horror. 
"You didn't just say that, did you? Please tell me I'm having 
ketamine flashbacks again." 
 
"It says things about you, Mulder, that you find that to be the 
preferable alternative. Frightening things." 
 
"I'm sure we can explore it further as we promote our 
productivity through people power. Try saying that one five 
times fast." 
 
"She sells seashells by the seashore." 
 
"I'm not the fig plucker, nor the fig plucker's son, but I'll 
pluck figs 'til the fig plucker comes."  
 
Scully grins at him, shaking her head. She checks her watch. 
"I'm going to run to the deli and grab something to eat. Can I 
get you anything?" 
 
"The key to unlocking the global conspiracy that has been 
cloaking the truth about the existence of extraterrestrials for 
the past fifty years," he replies, sitting up. "With a pickle on 
the side." 
 
"How about a roast beef sandwich instead?" 
 
"Sandwich is good too. You want me to come along?" 
 
She gets to her feet. "Thanks, but I'm good. Lettuce, tomato, no 
onions?" 
 
"And a pickle." 
 
"And a pickle. I'll be back in fifteen." Scully leans across him 
to take her coat from the sofa.  
 
Mulder notices that she no longer hesitates at being in his 
space; that her movements are without self-awareness even as her 
waist is millimeters from his arm. She straightens up, pivoting 
to go as she does up her buttons. She doesn't say anything else, 
just slips her shoes on and disappears around the corner. 
 
He hears the soft click of the door being shut and smiles, 
enjoying the utter normalcy of the evening. There is no case to 
discuss, no tragedy to avert. Scully is getting food and she 
will bring it back and they will eat it together. He has been 
surprised to discover that letting himself think of her in an 
overtly sexual context has made things easier between them. The 
sky has not fallen, she hasn't been snatched in the night, and 
he has found that their relationship can, in fact, exist on a 
spectrum rather than in a series of pigeonholes. There is a 
sense of flexibility now, rather than the panicky confinement of 
a rigid matrix. 
 
Despite this satisfying epiphany, he feels it's best not to 
mention masturbatory fantasies as a key to a successful 
partnership when they're Tallahassee. 
 
He knows damned well what Skinner is up to with this teamwork 
seminar, that it is a tool rather than an end in itself. This 
knowledge has raised Skinner further in his estimation. It 
demonstrates a keen understanding of the agents in his command, 
and reinforces Mulder's trust in the man. He and Skinner share 
something now, in Scully, and he wonders which of them was the 
coin that bought her life back. 
 
He tells himself that it doesn't matter, and the thought tunnels 
into his brain like a cicada, ready to emerge when it is more 
fully developed. 
 
Mulder gets up and walks to the small cabinet where he keeps the 
movies that have been released in actual theaters. Animal 
House... The Jerk... Spaceballs... how the hell did he end up 
with a copy of Beaches? Mulder finally settles on something with 
no awkward romantic moments or overwhelmingly vulgar humor. He 
puts the movie in the VCR, then returns to the couch to wait for 
Scully. 
 
She arrives about ten minutes later, bearing two brown paper 
bags. She sets them on the coffee table before taking her jacket 
off. "Dinner," she says, pointing at one bag. 
 
"Excellent," he says, rubbing his hand together. "And the 
other?" 
 
"Beer. And pie." 
 
He looks up, grinning widely. "You got pie?" 
 
"It sounded good when I mentioned it earlier, and they had just 
put a fresh lemon meringue in the dessert case." She sits down.  
 
Mulder opens the bag and removes the pie, then helps himself to 
a beer. Oatmeal stout. "I need to party with you more often," he 
says. "This is very respectable." 
 
"I'm so glad you approve," she replies, taking her sandwich from 
the other bag. "I really agonized over how to impress you with 
my selections." 
 
"Well, you've succeeded admirably. I'll make a note of that in 
your file." He picks up the remote and turns the TV on. 
 
"Is this something appropriate to share with a colleague, 
Mulder?" she asks, opening a beer for herself. "Or is it the one 
where things become extremely fortuitous for our hero, 
Unsuspecting Copy Machine Repair Guy?" 
 
"Actually, this brilliant piece of cinema showcases approaches 
to theoretical physics and time travel that should greatly 
captivate you." 
 
Scully perks up, looking interested. "Go on." 
 
"A brilliant scientist, with the help of his young prot,g,, 
discovers great truths about the nature of fate, chance, and the 
driving forces that make us who we are. All set against the 
backdrop of a small American town in the fifties." 
 
She stares at him for a moment. "Back to the Future?"  
 
Mulder reaches over to turn out the light, delighted by her 
correct guess. "Scully," he says, "My density has bought me to 
you." 
 
She laughs and takes a sip of beer. "Hit play, McFly." 
 
 
*** 
 
 
Scully stares into her closet, trying to decide what to pack for 
the trip to Tallahassee. They don't leave for another two days, 
but she's bored and it promises to be a time-consuming project, 
as most of her clothes are still baggy enough to make her look 
like she's playing dress-up. 
 
She's interrupted by her ringing phone. "Scully," she says into 
it, trying to figure out if her lavender suit can be pinned into 
functionality. 
 
"What do you think about laryngitis?" Mulder asks. 
 
"I'm generally opposed." 
 
"No, I mean what if we acquire laryngitis by Monday? We can't go 
if we can't talk, right? There're a few lacrosse games at 
Georgetown Day School this weekend. I thought maybe we'd go 
cheer ourselves hoarse." 
 
"Mulder, give it up." 
 
"But look at all of the partnership this is fostering!" he 
points out. "We're having an exchange of constructive dialogue." 
 
"Yes, it's very ironic. What time are you getting to the 
airport? I figure we can meet there, unless you want to split a 
cab." The lavender suit goes back into the closet, and she 
ponders a cream silk blouse.  
 
"You actually want to do this, don't you?" he asks accusingly.  
 
She imagines him pouting. "No, I don't, but it's not the end of 
the world. It'll be stupid, but it beats filling out expense 
reports and avoiding my mother, so I figure I can make the best 
of it." 
 
"You're such a Pollyanna." 
 
Scully decides that this trip is the perfect occasion for a 
trial run of her new four-inch Via Spiga pumps. She tucks them 
into her suitcase. "Yeah, well, maybe you should try it 
sometime. You never know, Mulder. You may find that life is more 
than an endless series of horrifying, unexplainable cases whose 
crushing misery is broken up only by patches of stultifying 
paperwork. There's a whole other world out there."  
 
"Pitcher plants lure insects by the use of nectar bribes, and 
the animals are then drowned and dissolved. To say nothing of 
the anglerfish."  
 
"Enjoy your lacrosse games, Mulder." 
 
"Go team." He hangs up. 
 
She laughs softly to herself. Whatever else happens, she thinks, 
we'll always have pitcher plants. 
 
 
*** 
 
 
He calls her the next night, sounding mournful. "Well, I gave it 
the old college try. I was a vocal athletic supporter. I played 
basketball and tried to induce a chill. I ate raw cookie dough. 
But now I'm packing." 
 
"I'm sorry to hear it," she says, amused that he's genuinely 
disappointed to be in good health. 
 
"Thanks. I may go out with wet hair later, though. Cross your 
fingers." 
 
She smiles. "I appreciate the update, Mulder. I'm going to grab 
some dinner and head to bed. I'll see you at the airport 
tomorrow morning, right? Eight thirty at the concourse?" 
 
"Be there or be square." 
 
"Good night," she says. 
 
"Hey, Scully?" 
 
"Yes?" 
 
"I'm glad Skinner called me on the transfer. I wouldn't want to 
do this without you." 
 
Her throat aches, and she swallows hard before answering. "I 
know why you did it." 
 
"Good night, Scully." He hangs up and leaves her wishing it were 
morning.  
 
 
*** 
 
 
Scully pulls her keys from her pocket and searches for the one 
to the office as she walks down the hall. She looks up when she 
gets to the end of the corridor, then stops, puzzled by the 
light coming from under the door. Cautiously, she turns the knob 
and enters the unlocked room. 
 
"Mulder?" she calls tentatively. 
 
He's sitting at the desk, placing stacks of papers into a 
briefcase. "Scully! I thought we were meeting at the airport." 
 
She pushes the door shut. "So did I." 
 
"I was just getting some reading material for the plane," Mulder 
tells her. 
 
She grins. "Me too." 
 
They look at one another sheepishly. 
 
Mulder opens a file cabinet and rifles through some pictures. "I 
still can't believe he's making us do this, Scully. It's 
inhumane. I'm pretty sure the Eighth Amendment protects us from 
such treatment." 
 
She smiles at him again, then heads to "her area" for a case 
study she'd requested from the CDC. "Just grin and bear it and 
it'll be over before you know it." 
 
"Wasn't that Queen Victoria's advice?" 
 
"Actually, it's attributed to Lady Hollingdon. But either way, 
the premise is the same. And a little good PR wouldn't hurt 
you." 
 
He sighs theatrically, then walks behind her, peering over her 
shoulder as she sorts the papers on the fax machine tray. 
"You're supposed to be my good PR," he says against her hair. 
"You're the squeaky clean public face of our little division." 
 
His proximity is distracting, but she staples her file as though 
his chin isn't grazing the top of her head and his jacket isn't 
ever-so-slightly touching her lower back. "I'm hardly squeaky 
clean, Mulder. My formerly spotless record is now greatly 
besmirched." She turns to walk to the file cabinet, but he's 
blocking her way. "Excuse me," she says to his tie. 
 
"You're excused." He doesn't move, but, with a quick flick of 
his wrist, he relieves her of her file. He places it on top of a 
shelf above his head. 
 
She glares up at him. "Mulder, give that back now. You're not 
fostering a great deal of team spirit right now." 
 
"Rah, rah," he says flatly. "Go Scully. Yay." Then he leans down 
and kisses her. Hard. On the mouth. 
 
She gasps and shoves him back. "What in the hell are you -" 
 
"Oh, what? This is just your thing?" His eyes are wicked. 
 
"First of all, you said you needed time, so pardon me for being 
a little taken aback by this change of heart. Secondly, we are 
at *work*, Mulder." 
 
"Just think of this as a team-building exercise," he says, 
stepping forward to pin her to the cabinets with his hips. He 
rests his hands on the counter, his arms against her own.  
 
Scully's flustered and her heart is pounding beneath her 
breasts, but she feels the need to at least make some kind of 
last-ditch effort before they both do something completely 
insane. "At least lock the door," she says, in another woman's 
voice. Possibly the voice of a woman who has sex at work. 
 
"No," he says, mouth soft against her neck. "We're not supposed 
to be here for a few days, remember? No one's going to come in." 
Mulder's hands go to her waist and he lifts her up onto the 
counter. His tongue follows her sternocleidomastoid up to her 
jaw, and she is done arguing with him. 
 
Scully protests only long enough to kick her shoes off and 
fidget out of her stockings, which she scrapes off into a gauzy 
tangle on the floor. They look like a discarded snakeskin. Oh, 
Dana, what the hell are you doing?  
 
Mulder gazes at her like a kid with the world's biggest 
Christmas present, and she is done arguing with herself. 
 
The edge of the counter is digging uncomfortably into the backs 
of her legs, but she doesn't care. This is due largely to the 
fact that Mulder's inching one hand up the outside of her right 
thigh and using the other to cup her left breast through her 
clothing. 
 
She cannot believe she is doing this.  
 
She cannot believe he is looking at her like that, his mercurial 
eyes fixed shamelessly on her body. She reaches up to grab his 
tie, winding it around her hand like a bell-pull, and tugging 
his mouth to hers. Scully doesn't think she'll ever get tired of 
the feeling of his lower lip between her teeth. 
 
Mulder slides his hand over the top of her leg and around her 
waist, drawing her against him as he lets go of her breast to 
work on her buttons of her blouse. He presses his thigh against 
her knees, nudging them apart and pulling her forward.  
 
She wraps her legs around his hips. 
 
"Jesus," he mumbles when she bats his hand off of her chest and 
guides it up under her skirt. 
 
Her head falls forward against his shoulder, her teeth grinding 
against his lapel when he pushes her underwear aside and slips 
two fingers into her. "Mulder," she says hoarsely, moving 
steadily against his hand.  
 
"Look up," he breathes, his other hand hard against her back. 
 
She doesn't want to look up. If she does, he'll be looking back 
and there is no way on God's green earth she can deal with that 
right now.  
 
He takes his hand from her back and uses it to tip her chin up. 
 
Scully believes she will spend the rest of her career seeing his 
eyes on her as her heels dig into his ass. When Mulder slides 
his thumb over her clitoris, it seems a reasonable tradeoff.  
 
She drops her legs from his sides so that she can reach for his 
fly, and tugs at the zipper. His nostrils flare, his eyes 
flicker, as she slides her open palm against his erection, his 
boxers a thin barrier between their bodies. She moistens her 
lips and feels him twitch against her hand. 
 
"Scully." 
 
The sound of her name - not even her name, really; just his name 
for her - leaves the back of her throat tingling. She deftly 
unbuckles his belt, then fumbles at the tab closure of his suit 
pants. "What is it?" she asks, wanting him to keep talking. His 
voice makes her feel bold and drunk. 
 
He leans forward, his tongue flicking against her ear. "I'll 
have more updates on the traffic situation in eleven minutes." 
 
"*What*?" 
 
"Thanks, Ted. And now, the latest single from Oasis off of their 
newest album."  
 
Scully sits bolt upright in bed, then looks at her alarm clock 
in abject mortification. "Oh, *fuck*," she whispers, her cheeks 
burning like they've been slapped. 
 
 
*** 
 
 
Mulder peers around a fichus tree and taps her on the shoulder. 
"Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" 
 
Scully nearly jumps out of her skin. "Mulder!" she exclaims, 
turning to face him.  
 
"A little on edge this morning, are we?" 
 
She doesn't meet his eyes. "I... I didn't sleep very well. I was 
just daydreaming, and you startled me."  
 
"Follow me. There's a Starbucks. We can't have you showing up to 
this seminar without being your usual perky self." 
 
She glares, hitching her laptop case higher on her shoulder.  
 
Mulder notices that her suit fits well, and wonders if she's 
been shopping or if it's simply the results of half a lemon 
meringue pie. Either way, she looks good. Good enough that he is 
going to have to be very careful not to screw things up. 
 
He tugs at her sleeve. "Come on, Sunshine. Let's get you 
properly caffeinated." 
 
Scully acquiesces, staying close to him as they weave through 
the throngs of harried travelers and excited loved ones coming 
to meet a plane. Despite the crush of people, they manage to 
stay together, propelled by the unconscious choreography that 
has led them through the years. Mulder becomes suddenly aware of 
how they've matched their uneven strides, of the way their 
bodies stay parallel - infinitesimally close without actually 
touching.  
 
He stops short as a woman darts between them to catch an errant 
toddler. Scully, without missing a beat, sidesteps all three, 
turning ninety degrees to avoid a luggage cart. He watches her 
slim body weave around obstacles until she's next to him again 
and decides that, when the time is right, he will ask her to 
dance.  
 
 
*** 
 
 
"Sing the next verse," Mulder orders, his voice muffled by her 
sleeve. 
 
"You're supposed to be sleeping," Scully reminds him, scanning 
the perimeter for glowing red eyes. 
 
"Sing it." 
 
"I don't know it," she lies.  
 
"Yes you do."  
 
"Mulder, shut up and get some rest." She longs to be in her 
hotel room right now, safe beneath a tacky bedspread. The 
morning would bring cheap pastry and terrible coffee. She can 
almost taste the artificial creamer. 
 
"You shouldn't have picked a song you weren't going to finish," 
Mulder says sulkily. "It's mean."  
 
Scully smiles down at him, feeling both exasperated and fond. 
She wonders if he was this argumentative as a child. She 
imagines he was a fairly snotty teenager. "Why do you even want 
me to sing? I'm practically tone deaf." 
 
"I have to say it was not the most stirring rendition ever 
done," he concedes. "It had a certain funereal quality. And 
yet..." 
 
"And yet?" 
 
"And yet I suspect that you rarely sing. I like that you did it 
for me."  
 
Scully thinks it is a very good thing they cannot see one 
another right now, because she could not have this conversation 
while looking at him. She clears her throat. "No, Mulder. I 
don't sing very often." 
 
He makes no reply, but briefly squeezes her thigh. His head is a 
solid, comforting weight in her lap, like a cat or a baby, and 
she strokes his hair idly for a time, feeling him relax. Her 
bedside manner is better than most people would suspect. 
Mulder's breathing slows to a somnolent pace, and it mingles 
with the swish of feeding owls and low insect hum of the 
nighttime forest. 
 
Scully looks down at the warm, heavy figure on her lap, his left 
shoulder torn and bloodied under the pearly glow of the moon. 
She wishes she had some water to clean it, both for fear of 
infection and because of what animals it could attract. She's 
wary but not frightened, though there is every cause to be. She 
knows what predators call this wilderness home, and she knows 
she'd be hard-pressed to defend herself against any of them. But 
there's nothing she can do, and she is too newly restored to 
life to borrow trouble. 
 
Mulder's body heat is a comfort against the damp chill. She 
thinks of sleeping bags, of his runner's body curved around 
hers, and smiles in the dark. Her thumb trails along his 
earlobe, the tissue fleshy and soft. Improbably, she is reminded 
of apricots. Mulder stirs, huddling closer in his sleep, and 
then is still again. 
 
She looks up at the stars, crisp pinpoints on so clear a night, 
and she can hardly believe it was less than two weeks ago that 
they stole out of her hospital room to sit beneath them. She 
wonders how she could have been so callous towards what Mulder 
rightfully called magic. The stars, the Moth Men and she, all 
begun of a singularity that echoes still in ancient light and 
the background radiation that pervades the known universe. 
Energy made matter, racing out into nothingness, and expanding 
still. The Earth spins on its crooked axis, orbiting a minor 
star in a distant arm of a slightly undersized galaxy. Scully is 
enchanted by the endless vault of the sky, and stares up until 
she is dizzy and has to look away. 
 
Around her, the loblolly pines and black walnuts soar upwards, 
interspersed with shorter trees and shrubs. She can feel the 
forest breathe around her, solemn and verdant, going about the 
quiet business of growing. She puts her arms around Mulder, 
singing softly so as not to wake him. 
 
//Give me time, Scully.// 
 
Yes, she thinks. What else is there to give? 
 
 
*** 
 
 
The End 
 
 
*** 
 
Yes, I know I'm a tease. I'm sorry if you hate me. I really did 
consider going ahead with actual sexytiems, but it felt wrong 
for this story.  
 
Bill's out-of-wedlock birth is pretty much supported be canon, 
as Scully was born in 1964 and Maggie says in Beyond the Sea 
that her husband proposed to her after his ship returned from 
the Cuban Blockade, which was 1962-ish. Bill, Melissa, and 
Scully all between '62 and very early '64 seems highly 
improbable. I had also wondered a lot about why a military man 
should be so opposed to his daughter becoming an FBI agent, and 
this is how that section developed. For those who don't recall, 
Frohike really was a champion tango dancer. And yes, I know 
Scully should have been bald since she had chemo. But she 
wasn't, so what can you do?

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