**************************************************************************** This author's web site has changed to: http://home.teleport.com/~punkm/index.html **************************************************************************** --Venture Forth--(5/8) Posted: 15. January 1998 Punk Maneuverability -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- I leave my window up on the drive to my place, but my fingers itch to reach out and tilt the mirror just a little to the left. Some part of me is convinced this will restore the mirror to its once perfect state. I catch Fox throwing me amused glances. "Shut up," I tell him. "I wasn't saying anything." "You're thinking so loudly I can almost hear it." "That's the radio," Fox explains helpfully. "So you weren't trying to sell me a new mattress?" "No, I was the one thinking that I've stumbled upon your greatest weakness." I laugh. "You're nowhere near close. This is only mildly annoying." Fox gives me a frightened look. "Run away! Run away!" I shout. "Are you going to be okay?" he asks, still looking worried. "I'm going to be just fine," I say, hoping I'm telling the truth. The rain makes it a little harder to park than usual--not that parallel parking is ever easy. I get my BMW wedged in its space, and then Fox and I sprint for my front door. There's a green flyer stuck between the doorknob and the frame. "Need a tree surgeon?" I ask Fox, handing him the flyer so that I can unlock the door. "I live in an apartment," Fox says. "Where would I keep a tree surgeon?" I toe my soggy sneakers off, wring my hair out and then step inside. "He could sleep on the couch," I suggest, putting my purse down on the kitchen counter. "*I* sleep on the couch," he says. I can't tell if he's joking or not. "Why don't you get started on your sandwich. I have to put on some dry pants." "What about me?" he asks, gesturing to his wet jacket and pants. "I don't think my jeans would fit you," I say, backing out of the room before I have to deal with his comeback. I turn on the floor lamp in the corner of my bedroom and cast around for some jeans. Strangely enough it appears I don't have any. I peel off my wet pants and hang them on the towel rack in the bathroom. About to make what I consider a moral sacrifice, I open my hamper. No jeans in there. I suddenly remember where my jeans are--in my laundry basket. In the trunk of my car. Uh huh. Perfect place for them. I put on a pair of black corduroy pants that have always been too big for me. They slump around my hips like sulky child in a chair. I put on my wool slippers and shuffle back out into the kitchen. "Doctor," the General calls. "Did you know you have a message?" Fox asks, hovering over my answering machine. His trenchcoat and jacket hang off the brass hook by the entranceway, dripping water onto the rug. "No," I say, "but it does remind me that I need a secretary." "Are you saying I'm nosy?" Pressing the play button, I decide not to answer him. I open the carton of Greek Salad and pick out an olive with my fingers. "Hi, honey, just calling to see if you're okay. Your father was ranting about something tonight, and I, um. . .just wanted to know if everything's all right." My mother speaks in whispers, always afraid my father will hear her. She's like a mouse--twitchy and quick. "Great," I mutter. "The blind leading the dumb." "Doctor," says the General again. I get a fork out of the drawer and start impaling tomatoes and cucumbers and crumbles of feta cheese. Leaning against the counter, I eat my salad, accidentally biting down a little too hard on my fork. I cringe and put the fork down on the counter, looking over to where Fox sits at my table. "Did you already eat that sandwich?" I ask him, not quite believing anyone could eat so quickly. "Inhale might be more accurate," he says sheepishly. I narrow my eyes at him. "Did you eat lunch today?" "No," he answers quietly. "Sorry," I say, refusing to be more specific than that. "Doctor. Doctor," General Lee calls from his corner of the room. "Doctor." "Is he going to keep that up?" Fox asks me, drawing attention to the General's misbehavior. "He just wants attention. I usually say hi to him after I've been home for this long." "Doctor. Doctor." "So why haven't you?" Because I'm punishing myself. It's not the General's fault that my father yelled at me today. He depends on me to take care of him. All the General knows is that when all hell had broken loose, I had shown up and lashed it back down. "Doctor." I take the General out of his cage, but I don't say anything to him. I just let him stand on my hand while I watch him. He is like a child, all dependence and hardly any comfort. "Special agent," the General says. This wakes me up a bit as I try to recall where he might have learned that. "That evening I came over before we went to dinner," Fox reminds me, suddenly standing at my side. But then I think he must have been there all along. How could my father do this to me? Make me question all I am. Make me want to give up on what I have. Make me ashamed. It is too late to do what my father wants. It has always been too late. So this is my punishment. He makes me doubt myself. General Lee is getting restless. He digs his claws into my hand. He can sense my unease. So can Fox. "Can I hold him?" he asks, nodding toward the General, who stands uncertainly on my hand. "Sure. You can try. He might not like it, but you can try." "You can always try," Fox says to me. "Doctor," the General says. He uses Felix's voice. It's like being spoken to by the dead. I know that Felix would never have put up with me acting like this. He'd bully me into a few beers until I had enough liquid courage to denounce my father--loudly. Because of this I am well known in more than a couple Georgetown bars. But that courage never lasted the night, and the mornings after were always too blurry to remember. "Doctor." This time it is Fox's voice. I try to escape from the haze I've lulled myself into. I clear my throat, a sound that aggravates General Lee because he cannot duplicate it. "Here, General, do you want to talk to Fox?" The bird books always suggest you give the bird an option. "He's very gentle. He'd never hurt you." "You can trust him. . ." I trail off. What am I saying, and why does it feel like it has nothing to do with bird handling? I look from the parrot on my hand to Fox. He reaches a hand out, but it's not to my bird, it's to me. I can feel my face getting ready to slip. "Nerissa, what's wrong?" He puts a hand on my shoulder. I can feel his fingers through the cotton of my shirt. "Doctor." It's Felix's voice again, warning me. In my head, I hear Felix from another time: "Don't play hard to get, Nerissa. It never was your style." General Lee has a good grip on my hand. It's starting to become a dull pain. He's frightened. "Good bird," I say, resorting to soothing tones. I can feel my throat closing up. I put him back in his cage rather quickly. "Good bird." I close the door and drape the blanket over him. "Awful formal around here," he says from under the blanket, even though he knows he shouldn't be talking when I've put him to bed. Being a bird though, he can't resist one-liners. Fox looks vaguely startled to hear his voice coming from a bird. I smile halfheartedly and slip out from under his hand. Felix is going to be disappointed in me. I wash my hands at the kitchen sink. There are tiny red dots where the General's toes dug into the skin. I wipe my hands off on a dishtowel and then cover my face with them. My eyes are already sore, as if I'd been crying these last few hours instead of slowing drowning inside. "Does this have something to do with your father?" Fox asks. I turn around, my back against the sink. "Fox," I say, still not crying. I stopped being able to cry after Felix died. Now I only cry when I'm angry. It seems backwards to me--to cry in the middle of battle--but the angrier I get, the more I weep. Fox reaches out for me again. I step forward, into him and wrap my arms around him. I need someone else. I need not to be me. "You can tell me, Nerissa," he says, holding me. He's so real, standing here in my kitchen, heart beating, lungs moving. So real. And for once I feel like crying. I wonder how gentle tears might feel as they fell to trace my cheeks. But I have cried too much for Felix, if it is possible to cry too much, and now I only have hot, stinging tears left for myself. I press my cheek against Fox's shirt. He's still wearing his tie, and its silk rasps in my ear. "My father called me today at work," I say quietly, barely louder than the beating of Fox's heart. "I haven't talked to him on the phone since I moved here almost six years ago. He called to tell me--" I stop. What had that been about? "He called to tell me I wasn't his daughter." Fox's arms tighten around me. "My father hates his lack of control over me. He hates not being in control. I'm beginning to think he hates me too." "You've got to believe he loves you," Fox says. One of his hands moves on the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my wet hair. "Why?" I ask, my eyes foggy. I close them. "He's your father." "No. No." I shake my head a little. "He doesn't," I say, answering some other, older question. I shrink, pull away. "I think he loves what I could have been. He's loving a me that never was, that never will be. Like an older sister I can never compete with. 'Why can't you be more like Nerissa?' . . ." It's true. I don't exist. Nerissa is a lawyer. She still lives in Chicago, close to her family. She's brilliant, wonderful. And her father's so proud. I move away from Fox and go sit on the couch. I curl up in the corner against the armrest, lay my forehead on the cushioned back. "He doesn't know what he's missing then." Right here, next to me again--sitting. Why won't he leave? I don't want him to leave. I don't want to talk about this anymore. There is a blanket lying across the back of the couch. I pull it down, cover myself, offer to share. He gives me a look as if perhaps to say blankets are for babies, but he accepts. I hesitantly lean my head against his shoulder. "I'm sorry your pants are all wet," I say, not sorry at all but wanting to change the subject. "It's just the cuffs," he insists, pretending to be tough. "It's just a flesh wound," I say in a horrible British accent. "That is the second Monty Python reference out of you tonight," he says, catching on. "You're counting?" I ask. "I'm listening," he corrects. Don't go. Don't ever go. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- When I wake up at five in the morning, Fox is gone. The lights are off, but morning light trickles through the windows, turning the room a gentle orange. I'm lying on the couch, the blanket pulled up around me. I wonder when he left. I don't see a note. I want to get up and go sleep in my bed, but the ache and the weariness that comes from hating my father keeps me on the couch. I go back to sleep. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- My phone doesn't ring for a day. No calls from my father or mother or Sean. No Fox either. I realize I don't have his phone number. I never asked for it--he always seems to show up before I need him. Calling him has never occurred to me, but now that it has, I don't know what to do. I'm sitting behind my desk, tapping a pencil against my glasses when a shadow briefly darkens the glass window in my door. Before I have a chance to figure out what's going on, Fox is standing in front of my desk. I think back to our first conversation: "You look like trouble." And standing there, with his wild grin, Fox Mulder looks like trouble on wheels. I'm almost afraid to ask him what he's doing here. "It's Friday," he announces. True enough; I nod grudgingly. "Let's play hooky," he goes on to suggest. "I am the Assistant Curator of the Citizen's Civil War department of the National Museum of American History," I say with some amount of dignity and also manage not to smile at how ridiculously pompous I sound. "I'll write you a note," Fox offers. He pulls a pen out from a stack of inventory forms, and I hand him a piece of paper before he starts writing on something important. He leans over my desk, "Please excuse Dr. Malinowski," he composes aloud. ". . .Mal-in-ow-ski," he sounds out. I look over his shoulder. He spelled it right, which isn't too big of a surprise. My name is on the door he had just come through. He wraps his arm around what he's writing so that I can't see. I watch him and the small grin on his face. The smallest things make him impossibly happy. "Please excuse Dr. Malinowski from work today--as she is suspected of being a great risk to national security and must be taken into immediate custody," he reads. "How am I a risk to national security?" I ask, taking the paper from his hands. I go over the note, appreciating the bold block letters of his script. "It's a beautiful day outside, and I can't concentrate on my work while I'm tormented by the thought of you stuck up here." "Tormented," I repeat, letting wonder seep into my voice. "I might miss an important clue that would let some dangerous criminal escape," he says, nodding. "How insidious of me," I remark, toying with the note. "How is it that I have managed to escape your notice before? I must be exceedingly cunning." "Poor timing," he says sadly, suddenly becoming serious. Timing. I've never thought of it that way before. Was this all just a result of timing? I slip Fox's note into my desk drawer-- evidence that this is not a dream. "So what's the rest of your story?" I ask. Fox doesn't seem like the type to shrug off work, and I know I'm not. "Scully's visiting her brother, and Skinner gave me the day off," he mumbles sheepishly. "Now that sounds a bit more believable. I'll see what I can do." At this, Fox spreads his arms wide as if to embrace the whole world. For the first time I realize he's wearing jeans, tennis shoes and a grey T-shirt. I narrow my eyes at him. "Interesting wardrobe choice, Fox. Get a lot of respect from those dangerous criminal types while wearing. . ." I lean down in my chair to get a better look at his shoes. "Reeboks?" "They tremble at the mere thought of my air-cushioned soles." "I'm sure. What else aren't you telling me?" "You sound just like my partner." I suddenly get the impression that this is not a good thing. I stand up and get my bag out from under my desk. I open its flap and shove some papers into it. Digging my keys out from the front pocket, I say, "Okay--but I've got to clear it with Philippe first." Fox knows he has won. And so do I. Philippe is easily charmed. If for some reason he insists I stay, Fox could probably persuade him otherwise. I lock my office door and walk through the work room to Philippe's office. "He's the curator," I whisper to Fox, knocking softly at the door. "Entrez!" Philippe yells, an embarrassment to all of France. "Philippe?" I say cautiously, opening the door partway. I can feel Fox craning to look over my head. Philippe is sitting at his desk, playing chess with himself. "Have you noticed this place is woefully empty?" he asks me, moving a pawn sideways. I stare, shocked. I should have expected Philippe to have no respect for other people's rules. I look behind me. "Where are all the interns? Where are the employees?" "You now understand my dilemma," Philippe says, concentrating on the board in front of him. "You're saying they just didn't show up? The entire staff?" "Oh, I expect they're around," he says vaguely, picking up a rook and executing an L-shaped maneuver with it, knocking over the white king--no, it can't be the king. There are two of them, and there is a pile of what appears to be queens at Philippe's elbow. Fox nudges me gently aside and goes to sit in front of Philippe's immaculately tidy desk. "There's something going on in the museum proper that we were all invited to," he says, waving a dismissive hand. Now that he mentions it, I did notice some new banners up out front. Not that I ever bothered to read them. "A new exhibit featuring religious cults in the 1800's is on loan," Fox says absently, watching my boss move his pawn back to its original square. "That's it," Philippe says, pointing in my general direction. "Was there a memo I missed or something?" I ask. Neither of them are listening to me. I throw my hands up. "May I?" Fox asks Philippe, gesturing at the side of the board closest to him. Philippe looks up for the first time since I opened the door. "Nerissa?" he asks me. "He's with me," I say, bewildered. "Well then, feel free to make a move." I step into the room to stand at Fox's side. He leans forward and picks up the black bishop and moves it four squares ahead to stand diagonally to the white pawn. "Checkmate," the Oxford scholar says. I massage my temples. Am I in some sort of an alternate universe where pawns are important and bishops move sideways? "Nerissa, where did you find this one? He's much smarter than your last," Philippe exclaims, obviously pleased. "Nathaniel had his good points," I mumble. "Unfortunately none of them involved his IQ," Philippe confides in a very interested Fox. "He was good with his hands," I insist, defending my poor taste in men. Two male heads swivel around to look at me in shock. My mouth drops open, and I start laughing uncontrollably. "He. . .he makes--" I say with an uncharacteristic stutter. "He makes. . .furniture," I finally spit out. Both Philippe and Fox get a comically relieved look on their faces. I stumble over to the other chair and collapse into it. "Good with his hands," I repeat, starting to laugh again. Fox reaches over and pats my knee. I swat at his hand, and he catches it with his own. Leaning into me, he whispers, "He was good with his hands?" He runs a thumb down across my palm. "So, are you going to introduce me to your new beau, Nerissa?" Philippe asks, breaking apart whatever coma I was falling into. "Philippe," I growl, suddenly aware it is almost impossible to growl in French. But from Philippe's amused expression I can tell I was at least partially successful. With one more scorching sweep of his thumb, Fox drops my hand and extends his to Philippe. "Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI." Philippe studies Fox, obviously trying to find some evidence of this. "I've come here today to take Ms. Malinowski in," Fox says. "Nerissa?" Philippe questions. I can tell he finds certain elements to this story believable--I just can't tell which ones. "I've fallen into a bad crowd, sir," I say, playing along. "So I've heard," Philippe comments innocently, clearing his chess board. "What have you heard?" I ask, glaring at him. "I was talking with Oliver the other--" "Oliver!" I say, interrupting him. "That little gossip puppy." "Whatever you two were doing in the hall last week really made an impression on him." I frown. "We weren't *doing* anything." "I think that's what impressed him," Philippe explains. I sigh, frustrated, and change the subject. "What's with your wacked-out game of chess there, Phil?" Philippe refuses to break so much as a frown, and he's always hated being called Phil. He must be in a really good mood today. "I switched the pieces around. Same rules, different symbols. It confuses people, and they don't try to offer suggestions. Your Fox here is the first person in history to catch on." I notice Fox's slight wince at the use of his first name. "Not afraid of strange things?" Philippe says to Fox. "You could say I specialize in the strange," Fox tells him. I hope he's not talking about me. "So you're taking off?" Philippe asks us. "I, uh, thought maybe--" "Yes," Fox says. "Have fun, kids," Philippe says, setting up the chess board again--two lines of stately queens where the pawns usually stand. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- "So, what do you want to do?" Fox asks me once we're standing outside. I can't help it; I laugh. "Whoops," Fox says. "I fell right into that one. Classic male behavior." "Have you been reading 'Cosmo'?" I ask, pretending to be afraid. "Actually," he says, looking vaguely ashamed, "I've been known to read Scully's magazines while on stakeouts." Now I really am afraid. "How could she have allowed that! Now you know all our secrets. She'll get kicked out of the Secret Sisterhood for sure, now." I shift my eyes from side to side and back away, intending to make a run for it. "Wait!" Fox calls. I turn and run down the sidewalk. "They were mostly medical magazines," he shouts, chasing after me down the mall. "Only the occasional 'Cosmo.' Come back." He's laughing. Everyone is staring at us, and on a busy Friday that's a lot of people. "I wasn't even really paying attention," he yells. "We hand you our secrets, and you *laugh* at them?" I dodge a baby carriage and a garbage can and turn a corner. I twist around to look behind me and catch Fox flashing his badge at some poor tourist. She'll have a story to tell when she gets home; that much is for sure. "Our guy showed up before I had a chance to read the orgasm article!" he calls. I trip in surprise and stumble to a halt in front of a box planter. Fox shows up at my side. He's not even breathing hard. "You do realize what you just screamed in front of a good portion of DC?" I ask, grimacing. "Who cares?" I can see that he does not. I find myself wondering if he is prone to outbursts of such behavior. "You're embarrassed," he says, circling me as I try to turn away. My face feels hot, but my olive skin has a high tolerance for blushing. I'm sure it doesn't show. This alone gives me the courage to lie. "No," I say. "Just. . ." I search for a suitable word. I settle on, "Surprised." Now as he circles me, I turn to face him. I reach out suddenly and catch his hand. "Let's go," I say. "Where?" he asks in an almost whisper. I smile, knowing three thousand dollars worth of orthodontist bills have made it a beautiful one. "Where we end up," I answer. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- --to be continued in part 6-- --Venture Forth--(6/8) Posted: 15. January 1998 Punk Maneuverability -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- We are at the gardens in Dumbarton Oaks, sitting on a bench underneath the shade of a bower. It's late afternoon and cool here in the shade of the gardens. We played tourist today. We chased each other through the National Art Gallery's maze-like interior, eliciting frowns from the uniformed guards. We counted the steps in the Washington Monument. We went through the White House, gawking and pointing like people who'd never before seen the inside of a house. We even went through the guided tour at the Hoover building, Fox asking the guide all sorts of annoying questions she couldn't answer. "How many toilets are there in this building?" "Do the elevators have security cameras in them?" "Does the assistant director wear boxers or briefs?" "What about a bra?" "His middle name is Sergei," Fox had whispered to me. Now I am sitting next to him, looking out on the gardens. I love Dumbarton Oaks. It is like another world. I had thought Fox would appreciate that. He doesn't seem very attached to this one. Behind us, the small fountain drips into the pool of water under it. I am talking about something. It seems I'm *always* talking about something. At the beginning, I remember hoping he didn't mind, but lately I've realized that often I'm talking simply to fill the silence he creates by not talking. Today it probably doesn't matter either way because I don't know if he is listening to me or not. All I know is that he is watching me intently. I have my elbows resting behind me on the back of the bench. I'm spinning one of the silver rings on my right hand when I feel Fox's hand curling around my bare wrist. I stop talking instantly. And although I haven't moved an inch, I feel like I've been knocked out of the ballpark, soaring and spinning and never hitting the ground. I watch as he gently turns my wrist so that my hand is palm up. He raises my arm toward him and touches his lips to the inside of my wrist. All I can see is the way he is looking at me. And all I can feel is the way his lips have seared my lonely skin. I would do anything for him. Fox Mulder seduced me with a kiss. That small spot on my arm becomes my entire world, and I study it with all the single-mindedness of a dedicated scholar. My pulse races. My head spins. I shiver in the heat. All because of one small kiss on the inside of my wrist. He didn't ask permission. He didn't drop any hints. He just kissed me, and now I am completely his. In turn, I don't ask permission, I don't hint. I blink and lean in to kiss this man whom I had met on another DC bench only a few weeks ago. I wrap my right arm, which he still holds lightly, around his head. I curl my fingers in dark brown hair that feels like cashmere. My last boyfriend had had a crewcut. I put my left hand on his thigh so that when I lean in further I won't lose my balance, won't tumble from this seat and fall. I am so close to him that I can see exactly what color his eyes are until he closes them. On the edge of my vision I catch sight of two ladies in straw hats so large domed cities could be built inside them. The women are coming toward us. I move my hand from the top of Fox's thigh to the inside of it. His eyes snap open. I shift my lips from where they almost balance on his own and whisper in his ear, "Busted." I rest my cheek against his for a moment and then stand up. I offer him my hand as the two ladies come chattering around the corner. "Oh, it's so hot!" one of them remarks needlessly. Tourists. Fox sees what almost happened and gives me a shy smile. I'm sure he could imagine the incident. He takes my hand and stands up. We tour the rest of the garden holding hands like teenagers. It really is too hot for the hand-holding business, but I think we are both afraid of what will happen if either of us lets go. We might forget--forget what is happening between us. Of course a certain spot on my wrist still feels like it is floating inches above the rest of me. . .so I'm nowhere near forgetting. Not even close. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- My car is air-conditioned and helps to reduce the heat outside to only a bad memory. My half of the silence is a comfortable one. I have a feeling Fox's half might not be so. I take time away from the crazed bicyclist messenger nipping at my tailpipe to glance over at Fox. He's staring out the window. A tall woman about my age stands out on her porch, watering her hanging basket. She stretches up onto tiptoe to reach the watering can's spout over her head. She's wearing jeans and a white cotton tunic. I watch as she leans down to set the can by her bare feet, her dark brown braid falling over her shoulder. She's not showing much skin. I wonder briefly why she's caught his attention--I return mine to the road. I turn onto my street. A large white van is blocking the way, so I don't have much room to maneuver into my spot. I twist myself into contortions, trying to angle my small car into my even smaller parking space. I reach out to steady myself by grabbing a hold of the passenger seat, but my hand accidentally lands on Fox's shoulder instead. My eyes catch his, and he smiles. I move my hand to his seat, slightly embarrassed for no reason at all. I manage to park without groping him further, and after locking the car I sprint up the steps to my door. Leaving it open for Fox, I dump my things on the floor by my hall table--dropping my keys into the black ceramic bowl there specifically for that purpose. I take a wine glass down from the cupboards and fill it with bottled water from the fridge. The glass instantly turns foggy. Holding the goblet to my cheek for an instant, I jump a little when the door finally closes. It's so quiet I can hear the dead bolt snick home. There's something very serious about the sound of a door locking. I take a sip of the water. I'm suddenly very thirsty. Fox comes into view. I realize I'm wedged into the corner between the sink and the refrigerator. I clutch the glass to my chest. "It's hot out there," I say, not thinking about the weather. Fox doesn't answer. I immediately recognize this game. It's the game where one person talks and the other just stares. I give up my role and stand silent, refusing to play. He slips one hand around my neck--his thumb resting on my cheek. He takes the wine glass from my fingers, which is a good thing because they suddenly feel very itchy, a strange wanderlust taking hold of them. I watch him as he drinks greedily, his eyes on mine over the rim of the glass, his hand still resting on my face. He sets the glass down behind me on the counter. I'm in thrall. I can't remember where I've put my hands. Once again my world has shrunk to the universe of his face. Fox's fingers roam into my hair, wrapping themselves around my curls. He leans in closer to me, closer. My vision starts to blur. I close my eyes. I find my hands. They're burrowing under the hem of his T- shirt like hungry and curious chipmunks searching for food. They find nothing but the smooth, warm skin of his back and stomach. I feel his lips dancing up the curve of my neck. He noses my ear with its three silver hoops. They click against his teeth. I trace the curve of his ribs with my fingertips, finding a rough streak on his left side like an old scar. He darts back from me. I open my eyes and look out the window over the sink. Someone jogs by with a dog. "Old tennis injury," he says in my ear. "Has anyone ever told you it's okay to be serious sometimes?" I recognize the jogger as Meryl from across the street. She doesn't stop at her house but continues on, her small white running shoes snapping against the sidewalk, her big yellow dog at her heels. "No," Fox says, "they tell me to laugh more. They tell me not to be so serious." "What else do they tell you?" I ask, still looking out the window, my chin resting on his shoulder, my arms wrapped around his waist. His fingers thread themselves through the belt loops on the back of my jeans, pulling me closer to him. "They say I need to be more trusting. They say I could be happy. . .if I let myself." I wonder where this sudden sadness has come from. Such a sadness in both of us. I feel like I've lost something. "Will you let yourself?" I ask, feeling so far away. I'm not standing in this kitchen. That's not me pressed up against that man. This is something else. Someone else. A black and white snapshot in a scrapbook at a garage sale. He stirs then. We have been standing so still. "I don't know." I said that to him once. "Will you let yourself?" I ask again. I don't want to hear his answer. Either way it will be defeat. I think I know that much about him. "I am happy." He draws back to look at me. "I'm happy." His bright eyes try to smooth over the worry in my own. "You don't look happy, Reynard," I say gently, wishing I could lie. He smiles a little. One of his hands brushes against my cheek. "I--" He stops. "Kiss me, Nerissa." His eyes have changed, turned a strange green. I think I could slip into them and forget to come out. Live there forever. Forget. His lips are soft and easy under my own. He makes a noise like a baby just waking up, and I feel his thumbs following the arch of my hip bone on either side. . .down. "You," he says, and I don't mind at all that he doesn't finish the thought. Yes, me. One of us takes a step. Forwards or backwards. I'm pulling; he's pushing. We circle, moving separately. . .and end up in my bedroom--together. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- I wake up with a lurch, feeling misplaced, as if part of myself is still dreaming somewhere. My stomach surges, and I run for the bathroom, ripping the sheets off of me. I get there, and I realize I'm not going to throw up. It is simply fear down there. I'm cold. There's a sweatshirt lying on top of the closed hamper. I pull it on and sit on the edge of the tub. "Nerissa?" I look up. It's Fox, standing in the doorway. Alive, in one piece and wearing only boxer shorts. I wonder what time he had come in. I put one hand to my mouth, slip off the tub to sit on the floor. "I had a dream," I say. A bad one. Only a month and a half has passed since I first saw him sitting on that bench, and I'm already wondering what I'd do if he. . .left. He kneels down next to me. "Do you remember it?" Wet leaves. I could feel the rain but couldn't see it. Felix dead. Fox dead. "No," I say. Felix's sister standing there in the hallway. Dana Scully hugging a black trenchcoat in her arms. A phone ringing and ringing. The hospital tiles covered with wet leaves. I'm crying. "You're dead. You and Felix. Dead." "I'm right here. I'm not dead." So many leaves. He hugs me. "Nerissa, I'm here." His voice is low. He turns my face toward him. "Right here." My eyes fix on the bullet wound in his left shoulder. He kisses me on the temple. "You're okay," he tells me over and over. All I can see are the leaves. "Nerissa." He's almost pleading. I've scared him. I blink my hot eyes, wondering where these tears have come from. He's looking at me with his green gaze. I'm so glad his eyes aren't brown. Felix had had brown eyes. Brown like dead leaves. "Sorry," I say, pushing my face into Fox's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he answers. Neither of us say what we're apologizing for. The pain, I suppose. He stands up, and I follow, too tired to resist. His arms are tight around me, as if his only thought is to hold on for as long as he is able. I watch him in the mirror above the sink. His eyes are closed while he smoothes my hair. He's so very beautiful. I want to tell him the truth. I love you, I tell his reflection. My lips barely move. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- The first thing I hear when I wake up is a buzzing. A twangingly horrible buzzing like that of a demonic alarm clock. "I don wanna go to work," I mumble into somebody's chest. The chest chuckles. "Lucky for you it's Saturday." I rub my eyes and clear my throat. "What are you doing here? I thought you said you'd be in Boston all weekend." "Scully stayed. They didn't need both of us. I got back late last night. . ." He trails off, obviously waiting to see how much I remember before he says anything more. "Right," I say, appreciating his consideration. "You had a rose between your teeth and a pizza." "No." "Then you must be the guy with the walk-a-thon." "No, I'm the tree surgeon." "You sure?" "Why else--" He's interrupted by a screeching howl. "slag pit stag shit honey bring it close to my lips yes" "Phone," I say, slapping at the covers. I can't reach it; Fox is closer. He picks it up off the night stand and hands it to me. I dial the number upstairs. It rings for a while. "don't blow those brains yet we gotta be big boy we gotta be--" The music drastically reduces in volume as someone picks up at the other end. "Sharon and Justine's House of Whips." I groan. "You've come to the right place, sir or madam." "Sharon, why is your music so loud?" "Spring cleaning, Nissa." There's a tugging on my hair. I look up. Fox is braiding it--in tiny minuscule braids. They'll never come out. "Great," I mutter. "It's August," I say to Sharon. "Your point?" "Could you keep it down? Some people aren't--" "Is Mulder there?" Sharon asks eagerly. "No," I say. Fox's hands stop moving. I realize he can hear the entire conversation. Sharon's talking quite loudly, and I'm still lying on his chest. "Who was that getting out of the taxi last night then?" "Do you not have a life of your own?" I ask, feeling only slightly invaded. "Why were you even up that late?" "We were studying. So who was that?" "That was Fox," I say. Beneath me I can feel Fox relax. I hadn't realized how tense he had gotten. "Fox?" "Yes," I say firmly, "he's Mulder's replacement." "Can I talk to him?" Fox laughs. "No, he's not wearing any pants." For some reason this makes sense to her. "Okay," she says agreeably. "Promise to keep the music down?" She sighs. "I sup-POSE." "Thanks, Sharon." I turn the phone off before she can say anything further and settle back against Fox. "So now that you've secured your role as alpha female, what are you planning on doing today?" "Nothing," I say lazily, closing my eyes. "I worked late last night." "Sure I couldn't convince you otherwise?" Fox wheedles. "Sure," I say, already falling back asleep. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- The next time I wake up it's completely silent, and I'm alone. It's also a little past noon. I jump out of bed and land on a huge wingtip. "Fjord," I grunt, kicking it across the room. I stumble into the bathroom and peer in the mirror. There are three tiny braids on the top of my head. I squint at them, then start digging around in one of my many bathroom junk drawers. I find a couple of small red rubber bands and wrap them around the ends of the braids. Laughing at myself, I step in the shower to find it quite cold. That's what I get for sleeping so late. After the quickest shower possible, I get dressed and go out into the living room. Fox is sitting on the couch watching television. I flop down next to him. He's drinking Diet Coke and eating potato chips. "I'm bored," I say, watching as a double play is instantly replayed four times from four different angles. A Budweiser commercial comes on. "You just woke up," Fox says in an accusing tone. "I didn't expect to sleep this long. Sharon always ends up forgetting why her music's so low, and she turns it back up. When I went back to sleep I thought I'd wake up again in only a half an hour or so." "I gave her and Justine some money to go get ice cream." He turns to smile at me. I stare at him, perplexed and overcome with wonder. "Nice braids," he says, flicking at one. "But. . .when'd they leave?" I ask. "A couple of hours ago." He shrugs. The game comes back on. "Where'd you send them?" I poke him to get his attention. "Vermont?" I joke. "However far they can get on thirty bucks." "Jesus," I exclaim. I pull the bag of potato chips off his lap and sit there instead. "Did you do that for me?" "Couldn't hear the game," he mutters. I kiss him under his ear. "Did you do that for me?" "Yeah," he says, fighting a smile. I smooth his bangs back from his forehead. He's used my shampoo again, and his hair smells like roses. I watch as his eyes dart back and forth, catching the movement on the TV screen. His eyes are a faded hazel today. I've found that in the morning, when he first wakes up, they're pure green. They make him look a little startled. I don't see those eyes during the day. They seem to fade away after he's taken his shower and strapped that gun to his hip. Tough guys don't have green eyes. "You're very special," I tell him seriously, hoping he won't make a joke. He looks at me as if I've broken his heart. He fingers the braids in my hair and runs a thumb across one of my eyebrows. Thank you, his eyes tell me. I kiss him primly on the cheek, then hop off his lap. "I'm going to make you an apple pie," I say. Fox makes a grab for my arm but misses; I'm already sliding out of reach. "It's a million degrees outside," he protests, maybe only then remembering how to talk. "Then what's a couple more?" I argue. "We can put vanilla ice cream on the top and go out and eat it on the steps when it's just getting dark. It'll be like heaven." I pretend to get weak-kneed. "I imagine that's just what it'll be like," he says, his smile threatening to make my knees go weak for real. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- Chewing on a piece of bitter apple skin, I run the peeler around the last green apple. The skin coils into a perfect spiral. I make one more turn around the apple, managing to keep the peel intact. One perfect twist. I've never been able to do that. My grandmother once tried to teach me, but I was impatient and unlucky in my youth. Still am. I glance behind me into the living room. The couch is vacant, the television pandering to an absent audience. I hear water running in the bathroom. Without letting myself wonder why, I toss the apple peel over my left shoulder. I hear a strangled laugh from the hallway behind me. I jump guiltily. "*What*. . .was that?" Fox asks me. "Umm. . ." I stall for time, looking at the peel that lies on the white tile floor of the kitchen. "Nerissa," Fox says in a chiding tone. He's clearly amused with me. He walks over to where I'm standing and rests his chin on my shoulder. I sigh. "I have a Polish grandmother who swears, *swears,* that if you throw an entire apple peel over your left shoulder it will spell out the initials of your future husband." Fox chuckles. "But there's a catch--you've got to peel it yourself. And this was the first time I've ever peeled an entire apple in one go without breaking the peel. So you see, I had to try." I smile, getting to see the absurdity of the situation. "So what's it say?" Fox asks, peering down at the floor with me. We stare at the twisted green ribbon. I nudge it with the flour-covered toe of my penny loafer. "Oh, this is bad. Real bad," I say. "Ooohhhhhhh, what do the gods have in store for you, great Madame Malinowski?" Fox says, chanting like a Gregorian monk. He slips one hand under my T-shirt and places it on my stomach. His hand is warm and soft and slightly wet. "It's a sign! Tragedy awaits me!" I declare. Fox gasps playfully. "It could be wrong." "But the peel never lies!" I exclaim, enjoying myself. "What does it say?" he cries dramatically. "No. I can't," I say, placing the back of my hand to my forehead and striking a pose. "You must!" he insists. I hang my head. "The Artist Formerly Known As Prince." Fox pulls me back into him, laughing. "You are brilliant, funny, mildly attractive, and you're mine." I choose to ignore the mildly qualifier and say, "You forgot about the apple pie I'm making you." "That can wait." Fox snags the bowl I used for the apple peels and pulls me down to the floor. He leans his back against the cupboards and places me in the V of his legs, my back resting against his chest. His hand is still under my shirt. He picks up an apple peel with his other hand and sticks it in my mouth. His fingertips brush against my teeth, making them ache like the touch of an ice cube might. "You're beautiful," he whispers in my ear. "I want you to know that. No matter what I say." "What will you say?" I ask, suddenly afraid of everything we haven't said yet. I can feel him shaking his head. "You shouldn't become so dependent on words," he says, his hand sliding up the skin of my stomach. "They lie." I feel like I should protest this last statement of his, but our touching skin is more honest than any declaration, and it leaves me momentarily without words. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- --to be continued in part 7-- --Venture Forth--(7/8) Posted: 15. January 1998 Punk Maneuverability -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- The sky is a blank smoky purple. Fox and I sit out on the porch. Plates with flakes of pie crust and smears of vanilla ice cream rest behind us. He's been quiet, but then he usually is. I stare at the fireflies that blink among the shrubs at the side of the house. They disappear only to reappear three feet away. I wonder what the lights mean. Are they for communication? Hello. Are they pick-up lights? Come here often? Fox sits one step up and to my right. I wrap my arms around his legs and rest my head against his knee. His hand comes down to play with my hair. Something more? I love you. "What are you thinking?" I ask, being brave. He sighs. "I have to leave tomorrow." "Leave?" I question, not sure what this means. I pull away from his legs to look him in the eye. "We've got a case. Scully and I are going out of town for the next three or four days." "Okay," I say slowly, "where?" "Delaware." His hand's still in my hair, but his face is in shadow. "So, what's so special about this?" I feel some hesitation in him; it seems oddly out of place. "You were just up in Boston." "That was for a conference." He shrugs. "This will be the first time I've gone away on a case since we got together. It's just. . .I know this will feel different--for both of us." I frown slightly. "I'll be fine," I say, "as long as you don't take off for good." Suddenly I'm thinking of Felix. "It's just a missing persons case. It shouldn't be too dangerous." He stops talking and pulls me up next to him. A bright twinkle hovers on the horizon. "Look, it's Venus," he tells me, pointing. The goddess of love. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- It's Tuesday night. There's a baseball game on. I watch it because that is what he would do. I put the General on my leg. I decide to explain baseball to him. "There are these two teams of men. One team stands in the field. One of the team members throws this ball at a player from the opposite team. He tries to hit it with this stick--" I'm cut off when the phone rings. "Excuse me," I say to him. I reach over and pick up my cordless phone from the coffee table. "Hello?" "Nerissa?" "Fox!" "Hi," he says, laughing. "Hi," I say a little more demurely. "Scully and I just got back from dinner, and I thought I'd give you a--WHAT?" I hear a cheering in the background. I look at my own television set where the umpire is waving his hands. I make an assumption. "Oh, come on," I say, "he was clearly out, even the General could see that." "Smarter than a dog," the General says. "You're watching the game?" he asks me. "With your bird?" he says a beat later. "Actually he prefers public television, but I've got the remote." Fox laughs. It's a good sound. I smile. "So how are you doing without me?" he asks. "Things were rough for the first few hours, but after I rent my sleeve and shaved my head, I felt much better. I even made the General a little black armband. Justine sent us down a casserole." I sniff loudly. "We're getting by," I say in a strained voice. "My condolences for your loss. Do you know if the deceased happened to have left any running shoes behind. . .say, by your desk?" he asks nonchalantly. I look over my shoulder to see Fox's shoes lounging around under my desk chair. "Yes," I say. "They were his most treasured possession." I pretend to get choked up. "They had air-cushioned soles." I press a fisted hand to my mouth, though my audience consists solely of one bird. "What a schmuck that he left them behind then," Fox jokes. "Wait a sec--" A swish of a door opening over carpet. Fox: "No, I'm not. I already called him. Nerissa. Okay, but he's got your number too. I said *okay.*" "Okay," he says, talking to me this time. "Um, I've got to go. I just wanted to let you know that I was all right. Bye." I hear him call out to Dana before the connection is cut--"Scully--" "It's his job," I say to the General, though I'm really the one that needs convincing. "It's not her; it's his job." "Doctor," General Lee says. She's a doctor. I suddenly feel very restless. I decide to call upstairs and ask Justine if she wants to go for a run. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- Trying to fall asleep that first night without Fox is strange. He was right. This is different. Though probably not in the way he imagined it would be--or is this what he really had in mind? I can't stop thinking about him and his partner and the way they can hold entire conversations with just their eyes. Are they doing that now? The connecting door between their hotel rooms stands open in my mind's eye. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- The next morning I burn my toast, pull an earring out while brushing my hair and ram my elbow into a corner on my dresser. I'm amazed that I didn't somehow accidentally drown in the shower, but I manage to get dressed and into my car without further injury. I go to work and try to act like a normal person who isn't dating an FBI agent who is out of town with his stunning partner. I eat lunch at my desk with the door locked. I come home to find a postcard from a mushroom museum. It's postmarked Elsmere, Delaware. It says "Miss me? Fox" in his blocky writing. I run inside and pretend I'm not crying. That night I regale myself with horror stories. I know Fox has been shot more than once. It would be just my luck if he got shot a third time. I wonder if the funeral of an FBI agent is as elaborate as that of a police officer. I fall asleep. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- The third day I come to an understanding and stop worrying. I find I am able to get on with the portion of my life that is still unrelated to Fox. I just decide that even when he is in town he is still chasing after criminals. His life is in danger every day whether he is within reach or not. It doesn't make me feel better overall, but for the remainder of his absence, I worry less. And the next time he tells me he'll be leaving, I make plans to go out to dinner with friends. I go shopping. I do laundry. I don't worry. . .too much. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- The leaves are getting a wistful look about them, and a few are already dancing along the sidewalk under my feet. Fall is approaching. One year without Felix. One year later. Last September Felix was alive, complaining about his students, the faculty, his book. This September I miss him. I have Fox now, though, and he's filled in a few of the gaps, added some decoration of his own. I'm meeting him for lunch at the Post Office. He hasn't been around much lately, sleeping at his own apartment rather than mine. I miss him. I find myself almost running to our meeting place. The autumn will not take another one from me; after all, it's winter that's supposed to be the harsh one. Fox isn't here. I check my watch. I'm on time. He's late, something that I've come to expect from him lately. I wait ten minutes. . .fifteen. No. Did I sense this approaching? His disinterest, his withdrawal? Panic explodes inside of me, and I stomp one foot against the shiny tile. God damn him. My hands clench. I spin away from the warmth the building offers and leave into the September chill. The sun is hidden behind a tangle of dim grey clouds. I won't let the fall kill me again. I cross the street to the Hoover Building and walk inside. I fist my hands in a strange version of crossed fingers--for good luck. Let him be downstairs. Let him be busy. Let him have forgotten. Anything. Let him be alive. I let go of my fists and press my hands flat to the marble of the front desk. "Is there anyway I can get in touch--" "Your name?" the guard asks. "I'm Nerissa Malinowski, but I don't think I'm on the list, you see--" He interrupts me again. "You're on here for Agent Mulder. Picture ID please? Sign here, Dr. Malinowski." His boredom only makes me more furious. I show my driver's license to him then tuck it back into my purse. I sign the clipboard, but I'm not sure if I even spell my name right in my hurry. "The basement--" the guard begins, but this time I'm the one interrupting. "I know the way," I say, going through the gates and heading for the elevator. The basement looks more than a little forlorn today. There are a few more stacks of cardboard boxes, and one of the overhead lights is flickering indifferently. I stop in front of his office door. If I left right now, later I could say I had forgotten our plans for lunch. I could lie. I knock. "Mulder?" a voice calls out. It's his partner. The door opens to show me her worried face, but the worry disappears, and is quickly replaced with a composed detachment once she sees it's me. She returns to her desk, but leaves the door open. I walk in, leaving the door slightly open behind me. I know the answer before I ask. Even so, I have to try. "Have you seen Fox today?" It's the wrong question. I'm supposed to ask if she's seen him lately, or if he said anything about meeting me for lunch. But I already know the answer, so asking the wrong question isn't going to protect me. "Mulder didn't come into work today," Dana says calmly, looking at me from across the desk. The nameplate on it reads Fox Mulder. "He's not answering his phone." "I was supposed to meet Fox for--" I break off and give a weak laugh. "It sounds like we're talking about two different people." "I think perhaps we are." She's staring at a framed photograph that I can't see from here. "I was supposed to meet him for lunch. He didn't show, so I came over here to see if he'd gotten held up. My name was on the list though," I say, tugging self-consciously at my visitor's pass. "There was no reason for it to be. We weren't planning on me coming in." At this, Dana looks up at me. "A pass?" She looks back to the photo and whispers to herself, almost as if addressing the picture, "Mulder, what are you thinking--" She breaks off. "Why don't you take a seat?" she says to me. I sit down in one of the visitors' chairs in front of the desk. Dana picks up the phone. "Yes, this is Agent Scully, I need you to look at the visitor's list. . . . Agent Mulder called to put--. . . .yes, Nerissa Malinowski. When did he request that pass?" She takes some notes on a piece of paper. "This morning. . . .Yesterday?" She sounds vaguely startled. "Thank you. . . .No." "Has he done this to you before?" she asks out of nowhere, hanging up the phone with a heavy clunk. "No," I say indignantly. He wouldn't have lived to do it a second time. I had told him about Felix. He knew about the dreams. "He left that message at the desk last night, probably calling from home--his apartment," she says. I can't tell if it's a revision or a clarification. "Why?" I ask, confused. "We were going to meet at the Post Office." "Why'd you come here then?" Dana asks, folding the note in her hands in half, in half again--like a child preparing to make a snowflake. "It's right across the street. I was going to check if he was still here," I say, feeling like I'm being accused of something. "I think that's what he was planning on. He knew he was leaving last night. This is his way of telling us." She crumples the note and throws it into a corner of the office. "Leaving for where?" I ask, not understanding. "Doesn't matter, as long as I'm not with him," she says, tense. "Mulder has. . .interests he feels compelled to follow--alone." "When will he be back?" I'm desperate for some reassurance, something I fear only Fox's partner can give me right now. "I don't know." She smiles to herself. "I never know." -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- Tears are coating my face. My losses seem to be playing with my privilege to cry--alternately taking and giving. So I can cry again. Thank you, Fox Mulder. I sit on the bench where we met this summer. It's a Friday afternoon, but a cold one and most people are staying inside. I have a limited audience; still, no one's paying any attention to the well- dressed woman, crying on a street bench. I suppose I should be thankful, but all I feel is alone. I don't go back to work. There's no way that I can. I get in my car and drive home. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- All I feel is a blank numbness. I wonder which stage of the Kubler-Ross this falls under. He may not be dead, but this is still mourning--the death of hope. Denial? No. I understand what's happened here. Acceptance, then. Who would have thought it would feel so dull? So lifeless--so like death itself. I was not angry with Felix for dying. That was not his choice, to die, to leave me. But Fox. . .I am sure once the numbness burns off I will be angry. But this is no comfort to me. The numbness overtakes me, and I dream. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- The leaves are plastered wetly to my windshield. I can't see where I'm going. They press themselves tighter against the glass, unwilling to be ripped off by the wind that knots my hair and throws cold rain down my collar. The window is open, and the curtains flail helplessly. I can hear the cell phone in Dana Scully's pocket ringing, ringing with no regard for the death in the air. One leaf drifts down to rest by her feet, high heels smudged with mud. There's a little girl on the corner, eating cookies out of a box. The ribbons in her hair twirl in the wind. She says she's sorry. I wake up. The phone is ringing. I don't know what time it is. I don't know what day it is. The window is open and cold rain is landing on my face. The phone stops ringing. I sit up, notice I'm wearing the same clothes. . .the same clothes as yesterday? I check my watch. Five in the morning on Saturday. Yesterday. What does Paul McCartney know about yesterday? But then, what do I know? Five in the morning on a Saturday. I have to do something. I get out of bed, take a shower, get dressed and go to work. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- There are a few people in the workroom. They give me strange looks. I ignore them. I'm making up for lost time, I tell myself as I sit down at my desk. I don't usually work on Saturdays, but I left early yesterday. Yesterday. That word keeps ringing in my head. There's a chance it's there for good. Yesterday Felix died. Yesterday I didn't become a lawyer. Yesterday Fox left. The thought clenches my stomach and my jaw, and I refuse to think about it further. Work. I hunch over my desk, one hand holding my head, the other holding a pen. I work. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- There's a tapping at my door. I'm immediately reminded of Poe's "The Raven." Nevermore. "Come in," I call. The door opens, and Philippe stands framed in the doorway. He doesn't come in. "Haven't seen you in here on a Saturday since. . . ." Since Felix died. Don't say it, Philippe. "For a year at least," he says, turning his head away. I want to laugh at his discomfort. I want this to be funny. Philippe doesn't know what to say. That makes two of us. "I have some things to catch up with," I say, gesturing to my desk. "Some unfinished. . .things." Philippe nods, still not looking at me. Who we're fooling, I don't know. "Do you want the door closed?" he asks, backing away. "Yes," I say softly. The door closes. I go back to pretending it's yesterday. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- --to be continued in part 8-- --Venture Forth--(8/8) Posted: 15. January 1998 Punk Maneuverability -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- Yesterday. . .oh, I believe in yesterday. . . The song is stuck in my head now, not just the word. Now there's music and rhythm, repeating and repeating in a strange string of endless nonsense. There's a shadow hanging over me. . .oh, yesterday came suddenly. . . After working myself stupid on Saturday I came back home to find an invitation to dinner written on the back of an old water bill wedged in my mailbox. Justine and Sharon. I had looked up to see Sharon watching me from the window, and I waved and shook my head no. . . .now I long for yesterday. . . Today I realize I should have forced myself to go. Should have stepped back into that life without Fox because I can't let him return after what he's done, and the sooner I accept that. . .the sooner I can start living without him. God, it's an ugly prospect. Now it looks as though they're here to stay. . .oh, I believe in yesterday. If I could just get this song out of my head. Those three syllables of longing, the way they linger, it's driving me crazy. Yesterday. There is a knock at my door. I trudge to answer it. I'm slow, weighted down with all these yesterdays. I want them to go away--I don't want to believe in them. I open my door to find Fox's partner standing out on my front porch. My numbness muffles my surprise, but when I look at her face and any numbness I entertained vanishes. They found him. I put one hand to my mouth, wrap my other arm around my stomach. God no. They found him somewhere. His car forced off the road. Someone's bullet in his head. Those brilliant eyes of his blank. They must have found him. Because I have a feeling that that would be the only way to find Fox Mulder. Dead. Don't tell me he's dead, I beg her with my eyes. "Nerissa," Dana chokes out. I shake my head in answer to her unspoken question and bite my lip. Suddenly I know what's going on. Dana had convinced herself that he would be here. We're two extremists, each at one end of the spectrum. The truth must lie between us. "He's--he's not here," I stutter. She shakes her head. He is not there either. I don't know what to do. Fox calls us his better halves. I've never asked where that left him. "He's been so happy lately. I. . .didn't think he'd do this, again," Dana says, still standing on my doorstep. I'm too weak from my own distress; I can't let her grief in my house as well. Something penetrates the worry. "Again? He's done this before?" Why would a man think himself so invincible from the love of others, so exempt from their concern? Dana tries to laugh, but it only chokes her. "I can't count the times; he's done it so often. I--" "Come inside," I say, deciding we should share our pain. It is a similar one, after all. She steps across the threshold. It's Sunday afternoon, but she's dressed in a fitted maroon pants suit. She must have been working. In all of the litanies of yesterdays, I forgot she was left behind as well. We sit down at the kitchen table. I realize it's freezing in here. Or maybe it's just me, cold hands, cold heart. "Would you like something hot to drink?" I ask. "I think it's cold in here." "I think it's cold everywhere," Dana says softly. I get up and plug in my electric kettle. "He's done this before," I repeat. I lean against the counter and look at the floor. "Townsend, Wisconsin; Arecibo, Puerto Rico; Deadhorse, Alaska; Hong Kong; Canada," she recites, staring out the window over the sink. It reads like a travel itinerary for a cheap travel agency. See the world--fly steerage. "He does it while we're on cases too," she continues. "Leaves me behind. I don't think he realizes that I'd be willing to go with him. I think I'm the last thing on his mind at that point. Now it looks like we're tied for last place," she says, finally looking over at me. We're equals now? Is that what she's saying? "He never should have done this to me," I insist, accidentally stressing the "me" and watching as Dana turns her head away again. The steam escaping from the spout of the electric kettle is condensing on the window. It reminds me of holidays back at home where all the cooking made the windows fog up, and room was lit with white candles, glowing softly in centerpieces made of pine. I turn and stare blindly out the window. I want to go home. I want a home. I unplug the kettle and bring it over to the table with two mugs and a tin of tea bags. "Did Mulder say anything to you last week? Anything about what he was up to?" So she has no idea where he is either. "No," I say. "I guess I didn't talk to him much last week. He never talked to me about his work, anyway." Past tense. Never talked. So I can speak the words even if I don't believe in them. "Have his nightmares been getting worse? They make it hard for him to sleep sometimes," Dana says. "He has nightmares?" I ask. I never saw one. He sometimes mumbled in his sleep or pushed his pillow to the floor, but he never had a nightmare. Not in my bed. Dana looks at me, startled, as if she has betrayed him, betrayed herself. She clears her throat. "I just assumed you knew." Something is happening here. One of us isn't being told the whole story. I have a feeling it's me. "No," I say slowly. "Maybe he was getting better," Dana says, biting at her lower lip. "From what?" I ask, tired of being on the outside. What she says next does nothing to improve this. "From the past." Oh, Fox. "Is something wrong?" "Nothing is wrong really." "Are you sure?" "Nothing new at least." "Those things are often the worst. . .sitting in the dark never fixes anything." "This can't be fixed." "An even better reason not to sit in the dark." The possibility that I ignored his pain by not even seeing it puts a sickness in my stomach. But he never told me. We are both to blame--if there is such a thing as blame here. I force myself to swallow past the thickness in my throat. The door to my townhouse rattles. Dana jumps, startled. I see how her hand trails down near her side. I've seen Fox do that when he's nervous or feels threatened. When someone is ramming their car up my tailpipe. In line at the movies. Funny noises outside. A squirrel climbing the tree by the window. They're going for their guns. It's a gut reaction. They no longer stop to consider the more mundane excuses. Guns are the answer to everything that threatens them. The door opens. Fox stands there in half of a three-day-old suit. He's missing the jacket and most of the buttons on his white dress shirt. Across from me, Dana stares. "Mulder," she whispers, but it's more a breath than a word. She reaches out blindly for her mug and wraps her hands around it. She can't look away from him standing like death in the doorway. I stand up. Fox comes into the house and closes the door behind him. He's limping and cradling his right arm. He looks okay. He looks alive. I never thought I'd be so desperately angry to see someone in my life. I attack him quietly, "Where the hell have you been?" Don't they say that on TV? My head hurts--when had I become an actress? "Aren't you going to ask me if I'm okay?" he asks weakly. "You're here aren't you? As opposed to lying dead in some foreign country where they'd have to wrap you up in a box in order to send you home. So you must be okay." Fox looks at Dana and then back to me, pleading his case without words. "What? Not in front of *Scully*? Dana feels the same way I do, only she won't say anything because she's trying to act professional--a quality her partner seems to lack." "This is my job, Nerissa. You knew that from the first day we met." Out of the corner of my eye I can see Dana shaking her head. "This isn't your job, Fox. This is you defying your job. If this was your job, Dana would have gone with you," I say, pointing behind me. "I had to go." "And I have to do this." Fox stares at me blankly. "Do you think this is okay? Am I supposed to get used to this? Is this supposed to be fun for me?" Fox shrugs, then winces from the pain. "You disappear for three days and then return with a broken arm and a few new battle scars. Do you think I wouldn't notice you were gone? Or do you think I just don't care? You're wrong. Do you hear me? You are *wrong,* Fox. You have people that care about you, and this is *not* the way you treat them." I swipe my hand in front of me in a violent slashing motion. "Felix did this to me. He left me--forever--without telling me. I'm not going to let that happen to me again. I love you, but I'm not going to let you do that to me." It is so easy to say "I love you" when angry--to make it sound like an accusation, a threat. I love you, but-- I love you, but. . . . . .but you're killing me. Fox's jaw tenses even as his eyes soften. I am using love as ammunition. His only option is to take it as a hit. "I'm not even going to ask how you got here. I don't care. I'll take you to Georgetown Medical, and then I'm taking you home," I finish. This has been much harder than I expected. But he doesn't argue with me, and I could have stood for it to be just that much harder. Instead it is somewhat easy. Fox's eyes have darkened. Before he had left, he was practically living out of my house. He knows what this means. "You can't," he says. "What do you mean, I can't? I will." "My apartment is. . ." He clears his throat. "Destroyed." "Oh. I see," I say, his confession not having the desired effect on me. "Besides, I can't really move my right arm. I think it might be broken. . . ." Dana's still sitting behind me. She hasn't said a word. I know what she's thinking though. She's thinking Fox can stay with her. I don't like her thinking that. "Do you want to change before we go?" I ask, not looking at him. I don't want to see how mangled he looks. He looks like hell. I wonder what monsters he was chasing after this time. One of these days he's going to catch up to them, and they're not going to like it. "I'd like to change," Fox says like a sleepy child. My head snaps up, but he's already on his way to the bedroom. Sensing something, he turns back to look at me. I beg myself not to plead with him. I have to be the strong one here. I have to be the one to let go. I can't. Not right now. Fox turns back to the bedroom, pulling the door shut only partway. Dana is staring at me. "Nerissa?" "How do you excuse his behavior? How do you rationalize this to yourself?" I ask, turning away and hugging myself. "I wait." "Until he does it again?" I ask bitterly. "Yes," Dana says, inadvertently reminding me that there is much I don't know about that man in the other room, reminding me that she does know. This is becoming Fox and Dana understanding each other. But then why did he come here? Why didn't he go to Dana's instead? "Nerissa," Fox's weak voice trails out from behind the door hesitantly. I glance at Dana before I go to him. Before I came along this would have been her job. Not for the first time I wonder if she resents me, even slightly. Today I can't tell; all I can see in her eyes is worry. I push the door open the rest of the way and then close it behind me. "Could you help me with my shirt?" he almost begs. Despite missing most of its buttons, the shirt clings to him stubbornly. I unbutton the cuffs, carefully watching out for his right wrist, and, as he winces, I pay special attention to that shoulder as well. I throw down the shirt to the floor and look up at him. His right arm is bruised and scraped, and there's an ugly redness spreading from his lower ribs to his hip and under the waistband of his pants. He looks down at me. "What did they do to you?" I ask, biting my lip, not really wanting to know. "Nothing I wasn't expecting," he answers. "Do you mind if I take a shower?" "A shower? How do you expect to take a shower when you can't even take your own shirt off?" "Well. . .I was thinking I might need some help. I don't want to have to do it alone in my apartment." He sounds so pathetic. He doesn't even bother to leer at me. Something is definitely wrong with my Fox. "You're not going back to your apartment. You're staying here," I grumble ungraciously. "You can take a *bath* after we get back from the hospital." "But you said--" "I *know* what I said. That was just big talk. You know me. . .always threatening to kick ass but never actually doing it." Here it is--the giving in. I knew it was coming. "I don't know. I'm feeling pretty whipped." I feel a faint smile creep across my face, but I don't think he sees it. "So does this mean I get a sponge bath?" he teases, trying to get my attention. I'm not listening. I don't know when I looked away from his face, but I find myself staring at his shoes. They're covered in red dust. "Nerissa?" he asks, putting his left hand on the back of my head, clumsily. I raise my head with his prompting and narrow my eyes at him. "Nerissa, I'm sorry I disappeared." "I could live with knowing you weren't going to be around for a couple of days, but you didn't even bother to tell me you were leaving. No excuses, okay? I'm reasonable, Fox. You obviously forgot to take that into account." I hope that if I openly declare my capacity for reason I'll start feeling more reasonable, maybe even *become* reasonable. I feel like a wobbly gyroscope just before it skids sideways and falls over. I do not feel reasonable. "Nerissa, I'm sorry I've hurt you." I don't want his cheap apologies. "What makes you think you hurt me, you bastard? Because I'm fine. I--" Fox stops my lies by pulling me to him with his good arm--his hand still resting on the back of my head. I'm standing a good two feet away from him and have to take a big step forward so he doesn't tip me over. He tucks me against his left side, my face resting on his chest. I put my left hand on his hip, and I put my other hand gently on his back, feeling the bunched muscles there. He is incredibly tense. I don't know where he found the energy. "You look like hell, Reynard. Your cunning plans must have fallen through." "Flatterer." And I know that nothing's going to be all right, but for this moment, it's easy to wish it will be. We fall silent. Our breathing slows and synchronizes. I tighten my arms around his waist. I know I have to let go; I just don't know why I have to. Stubbornness, pride. . .maybe, but maybe I'm afraid. I pull away from him, sit down on the edge of my bed. "What's wrong?" Fox asks me. I look up at him, ready to laugh, but the concern in his eyes stops me. "I'm afraid," I say, no longer able to laugh. "Of what?" I sigh. All that worrying I was doing about yesterday was actually misdirected. It's tomorrow I'm actually scared of--tomorrow and myself. "Nerissa?" Fox sits down next to me gingerly. I squeeze my eyes shut, shake my head. I stand up and start looking for one of his shirts. "Nerissa, look at me," Fox demands. I stop my search but don't look at him. "This doesn't have to--" he starts. "No, I think it does," I answer. "I'll love you, because I do, but that doesn't mean I can stay with you." The sound Fox makes can only be described as a stifled moan. I find a clean T-shirt on the chair in the corner and turn around to look at him. He's still sitting on the bed. I walk over to him and gently pull the shirt over his right arm and then tug the rest of it awkwardly over his head and other arm. It looks a bit stretched at the end, but it's better than what he had on--not so many tears, a lot less blood. I put on a brave face, a fake one. "Come on, G-man, let's get you patched up." I push open the bedroom door. Dana is still seated at the table, her tea sitting cold in front of her. She probably doesn't know what she's supposed to be doing. I'm sick of these two. I want them to leave. Alone I can handle either of them, but together they are unbearable. They're like twins or members of some secret society. I don't have the right handshake. I'm missing that shared womb time. I resent it. "I'm taking Fox to Georgetown," I say to Dana. I can feel him standing behind me. I'll miss him being so close--taking it for granted that I want him there. "I'll follow you," she says numbly. "Scully's my personal physician," Fox whispers in my ear just loud enough so that Dana can hear him. "I'm a pathologist," she says somewhat tersely. "Like I said. . . ." I turn around to find him smiling at her. "Time to go," I say, herding him toward the door. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- Dana and I sit in the waiting room. She's pretending to read a magazine--"Field and Stream." I'm yawning. It's late. I won't be going to work tomorrow. One more yawn encourages tears to form in my eyes. I rub them away. Down the hall I see a bandaged and prescription-carrying Fox limping our way. Dana must see him too; she puts down her magazine and turns to me. "Nerissa, if he needs you, if he wants you, you'll never get rid of him. Know what. . . ." She pauses, clearly asking herself if she wants to go on. "Know what you want from him before you give this another try. He's. . . ." She stands. "He never gives up." She nods to me in farewell and goes to meet Fox. I watch as they talk in the hallway. At one point he looks over her head at me for one intense second before his eyes drop back down to her face. He reaches out for her with his good arm and pulls her to him in a quick hug. She touches his cheek briefly. I look away, not jealous, just confused. Her high heels make quick tapping sounds as she walks away from him and down the hall. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- Fox lies in my bed on his left side. He has his right arm tucked in close to his body. I have put a couple pillows behind his back so that he won't forget and roll over onto his bad side. The doctor gave him some pretty strong pain-relievers because there was little else she could do for bruised ribs. Fox sports a girdle of medical tape around his abdomen, and I was instructed to keep him pretty drugged up so he could get some sleep and start healing. I sit in a chair next to the bed, watching the way his chest rises, hitches as it hits a sore place, then falls again. His eyes are closed. His eyelashes curl against his cheeks. I close my own eyes, feeling peaceful for some unknown reason. I'm ready to fall asleep in this chair when I hear him moving against the sheets. I open my eyes. "Nissa?" Fox mumbles. I smile at the abbreviation of my name. "What is it, Fox?" I ask gently. His eyes aren't even open. "Did you know I have," he pauses, confused, "had," he says a bit more forcefully, "a sister?" Both of us know the answer to that question. I know nothing about Fox's family. I somehow know that his father is dead, but I don't even know where his mother lives. His eyes open, and they glitter in the dark. "I had a sister named Samantha. She was taken from our house in Massachusetts when she was only eight years old. I was twelve and supposed to be watching her. I think we were sleeping, and she was just gone. I've never stopped looking for her. I never will," he says. I don't know what to say. I'm not sure there is anything to say. "Fox," I say softly, just that. I reach out and take his hand, wishing I had known this earlier. There are things I wouldn't have done, wouldn't have said if I had known. He must have known that too, planned it that way. "Go back to sleep," I say to him. "I'm here." He looks a little sorrowed as he smiles and closes his eyes again. I hold his hand, thinking that of all the people I've ever known, Fox Mulder is the most alone. And he seems to like it that way. The morning traffic starts up as a low hum, and I'm glad he's sleeping because I don't want him to see me crying. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- Set List: The song in part 6 is "Professional Widow" by Tori Amos, and of course the song Nerissa can't get out of her head is "Yesterday" by The Beatles. More Punk Notes: This is the longest story I have ever written, and there were a couple people who helped make sure that it was the longest story I ever *completed.* So additional thanks goes to: Charlotte and Luna because sometimes we're not sure exactly who we are, but we always know we're someone. To Lemon, whose suggestions made Sean realize his full potential for sleaze, and whose own writing makes me aspire to greater things. To Cathy for ranting her heart out, knowing about the magic of the ellipse and for sticking with me despite my temporal issues. (I've made a note of it in my report.) May the `o(|)- `o(|)- never get you. Bzzz. And a big thank you to Danielle for being the other half of the brain and a wonderful friend. (There's a reason why my computer has suddenly become my most prized possession.) On feedback: I want to hear from everyone. I realize Mulder/others aren't very popular, but hell, you got this far, *something* must have caught your interest. I'm planning sequels and also companion pieces in this Venture Forth universe. The sequels will go forward in this time line, and the companion pieces will fill in holes with the characters who didn't get to speak their minds the first time around. So tell me what you think of Nerissa. . .if this Mulder seemed plausible. . .if Scully was suitably icy or overly frozen. I will answer your feedback--especially if you have questions. This is your chance to tell me what you think--take it. -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- Lock the door on your way out Punk M -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- -:-:- all feedback to: punkm@earthling.net And check out The Underground, where everything's nailed down-- twice: http://members.tripod.com/~patterns/underground.html