From: Rose Vanden Eynden <avalon@fuse.net>
Date: Thu, 19 Jul 2001 06:46:51 -0400
Subject: NEW: Waking the Dead (1/3) by Avalon and Marie Endres
Source: xff


TITLE:  	Waking the Dead
AUTHORS:        Avalon (avalon@fuse.net) and
                Marie Endres (joemimi@prodigy.net)
                A Blind Date partnership arranged by    
                IWTB, destined by Fate.
RATING: 	R to NC-17 (No kiddies allowed!)
SPOILERS:       Specifically all things, direct quotations
                from One Breath
CATEGORY:       SMSRA
KEYWORDS:       Mulder Scully Romance, post-ep all things,
                Angst
DISCLAIMER:     Mulder, Scully, and Colleen Azar are not 
                ours. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013
                Productions, and Fox Broadcasting.  No 
                infringement intended.
FEEDBACK:       Welcomed and answered, thanks.
ARCHIVES:       IWTB only for now.  Please ask before 
                archiving...we're really very nice.
SUMMARY:        After the events of all things, Scully 
                must make a decision.
AUTHORS'
NOTES:  	Marie and Avalon were matched up in a Blind
                Date writing challenge on the I Want to Believe
                fanfic list.  The purpose of this was to give
                any authors that wanted to participate the 
                chance to collaborate with another author.
                This is our answer to that challenge. More notes 
                at the end of the journey.



Waking the Dead (Part 1 of 3)


The ghostly children, painted silver in the brushstrokes of 
the moon, drift past me, etheric smiles touching their lips.  
My ears hum with the distortion of voices, the ebb and 
eddy of swirling vibrations, a song I have heard before in a 
waking dream.

// You're dreaming now, Fox. //

My mother's clipped words pierce the din.  I turn my head 
toward the sound of her voice and catch sight of her across 
the shadow-soaked field, her glasses eerily reflecting the 
glint of the moon.  I start toward her, my heart pounding 
suddenly in my chest, my throat constricting with unshed 
tears.  Someone brushes past my left side, a woman, a swirl 
of pale skin, flowing cotton, and long dark hair.  My eyes 
follow her, and she turns, her smile wide and knowing.  I 
start at the sight of her, my steps faltering.

// Diana? //

She doesn't pause, looking down instead at the child she 
leads by the hand, a small girl with a halo of golden hair 
and chubby cherub cheeks.  The girl grins up at her, her 
eyes brimming with innocence, eyes that I would recognize 
anywhere.  I swallow hard and take a stumbling step 
toward them, the tightness in my chest changing to a 
seeping feeling of dread.  I try to call to her.

// Emily! //

She doesn't acknowledge me, her face tilted to gaze up at 
Diana, whose smile has turned into something wholly 
different.  I lunge forward, intending to stop her, wanting to 
pull her tiny hand from the vice grip that holds it, but a tug 
on my jacket sleeve holds me back.  I tear my eyes away 
from the vampire smile that has split Diana's face and look 
instead into the fourteen-year-old face of my sister.

I gulp more oxygen into my lungs, forcing myself to 
breathe, and reach my hand out to her.

// Samantha! //

She is suddenly across the field, standing with my mother, 
each of them on either side of what looks like a mummy.  
The figure is bound in ancient wrappings, but it is 
obviously the shape of a woman.  Samantha reaches up and 
untwists a strand of gauze, pulling it from the head of the 
woman, unwrapping a grisly Christmas gift.  I try to move 
to them but find myself powerless, frozen among the 
undulating children of this nightmare vision.  

I know who it is before I can even see her face, and I am 
screaming her name, my throat raw with terror.

// Scully!  Scully, no!  Scully! //

"I'm here, Mulder.  I'm here."

My eyes fly open, flitting frantically before finally settling 
on hers.  Her face is close to mine, and I feel her hand, soft 
and cool, caress my cheek.  I gasp and shiver as a trickle of 
sweat rolls down between my shoulder blades and along 
my spine, finding a reservoir in the small of my back.  

Her voice is low and sweet, like an old familiar melody.  
"Mulder, it's me.  Are you awake?"

I nod almost imperceptibly and scramble in my brain for 
purchase on this rocky terrain.  I can hear the blinds on the 
windows slapping a metallic rhythm against the dormers as 
a spring storm blows outside.  I was having a nightmare, 
one that has been recurring ever since I returned from 
California with the fate of my sister sealed firmly in my 
mind.  I am in my bed
 
And Scully is lying next to me, under the sheet, turned on 
her side and propped on one elbow.  The misty light that 
filters through the blinds falls on her shoulders, bare and 
gleaming like polished silver, and I realize she is naked.  
My head slides sideways on the pillow toward her, my 
voice barely a whisper.

"Am I awake, Scully?"  My hand trembles slightly as I 
reach over and trace a finger along her collarbone.  "I think 
I must still be dreaming."

She chuckles at this, her face even closer to mine as she 
leans into me.  I can feel the barest movement of her lips 
against mine.  "You're not dreaming, Mulder.  I'm here.  
This is real.  This is now."  

And I believe her when she kisses me, and everything else 
melts into the reality that is Scully.

*****
  
Gray light, blanketing my vision. The ever-familiar light 
change that tells me that one more night has been 
transformed to day. Yet it has not been just another night, 
and I know it. The night that has passed has been as a thief, 
changing everything in the ransacking of what was, in the 
rearrangement of how things will be. I hesitate before 
opening my eyes to this new day.  If I stay, eyes closed, 
nothing changes; I can pretend it is not real, this revision of 
my body and soul. The roar of an early morning garbage 
truck causes me to flinch and unwittingly open my eyes.

Nothing has changed in my immediate surroundings, and 
yet everything is different. A bed, rumpled, yet 
accommodating. Lowered blinds, shutting out the rest of 
the light. My body, comfortably warm and naked beneath 
the soft cotton of the sheets. My partner, beside me. He has 
been beside me before, keeping watch, keeping an eye out 
for what will lead him in his search. Last night, all he kept 
was me.

I think he feared that I was drifting apart from him last 
night, that I was going down my own road, alone. I had 
found answers to the questions that I had feared asking, 
questions I didn't even know that I had. He didn't realize 
until after I slipped quietly into this bed that my newfound 
answers, about me, about my life, about my future, led me 
not away from him but rather toward him.

Daylight can be a cruel microscope. My sure direction from 
last night has faltered under its harsh brightness. It has 
illumined the surrounding brambles toward the left and 
right of a path that led me to him. My mind, once clear, is 
now a hazy, swirling cauldron filled to the brim with 
questions about what happens next. I know that I will not 
find answers lying here, wondering about today and 
tomorrow. I need * me *, as unsure and as alone as I ever 
was, to figure out if I can go forward in this intimate, new 
journey with another. I know I cannot do that here.

I shift my weight so as to leave his bed. As my feet touch 
the cool hardwood floor, I cannot help myself: I look back. 
I see him there, so quiet, as peaceful as one untouched by 
day. Does he believe that everything is settled now? That 
we just go on and dance the waltz of endless days? He can't 
possibly be that naove. Why did I jump at a chance to be 
that reckless last night? Why did everything seem so simple 
before he touched me?

I must put some distance between us. I have to leave; I can't 
stay here, when "here" is so far away from anything I have 
ever known.

I move toward his sparse and simple bathroom, a dripping 
accompaniment to my steps, which bring me further away 
from his bed. Each drop, a step. Each step, a sense of 
something familiar, a well-worn cloak of solitude. My 
clothes go on easily, except for the memory of their 
removal last night that haunts and taunts me, accusing, 
reminding me of how sure I once was.

I walk slowly out and through his bedroom, praying to no 
deity in particular for silent steps. As I pass the couch in the 
living room on my way out, I smile at the blanket that lays 
on the armrest. That's what finally clinched it for me last 
night. You'd think it would have been some profound event 
that made the wall of frozen resolve finally puddle and pool 
at our feet. You'd think it would have been one of any 
number of near-death experiences for either of us that made 
us finally cling to one another and never let go. But no. It 
was the wooly fabric of an old throw, alternating between 
rough and smooth, that finally covered and warmed my 
soul. He enveloped me with it, pulling up each edge, so that 
not one little part of me would be cold any longer. He cared 
for me; he took care of me, and I never wanted him to stop.

The door handle below my grip is as cold as my resolve, as 
opposite as his touch last night.  As I leave the four rooms 
of his home behind me, I know the memories will never 
depart.

The walk to my car seems endless, yet somehow I realize 
that I am suddenly sitting inside. The images that flash as 
paparazzi bulbs within my mind have been occupying my 
thoughts during the journey away from him, away from his 
touch.

His surprise, my wantonness. His hesitant, slow fingers, my 
urging him onward. His single-minded focus on my 
pleasure, my desire for all of him. His passion, my joy.

I start the car, knowing only one thing: that this morning, 
everything has changed, except for me.

*****

I come to her home as in a dream. I do not remember a 
conscious choice that has brought me once again to the 
home of this peaceful woman. I just know that she seems to 
be the opposite of me, and today, that is good.

My finger once more presses the buzzer, seemingly 
pushing me in on her world, shouting as a toddler for entry. 
I despise my neediness, yet I do not know how else to 
quench it.

The heavy door swings open easily and an even easier 
smiles spreads across Colleen Azar's face as she takes me 
in.

She surveys my countenance with a quick sweep of her 
eyes. A mental checklist of what she sees there must make 
her skip the formalities of a "hello," for she quickly ushers 
me in with a gentle hand that touches and holds mine.

Nothing is said as she brings me through the foyer and into 
the comfortable living room that is just now beginning to 
hold the light of the brand new day.

"Sit," she says in a gentle command. "I'll put the water on."

She pats my hand with care before taking leave. As she 
exits the room, I immediately feel the ever-familiar stealth 
of insecurity and fear fill the space that she just occupied. It 
sits beside me on this couch and makes me begin to judge 
myself and my actions of the evening that has just passed.

She re-enters the room and takes her spot beside me. "I 
think I know why you're here; I'm just not sure about the 
particulars. If you want to tell me, that's fine. If not, that's 
OK, too; the main thing is that * you * know why you're 
here. Why do you think you've come back?" She leaves the 
question swaying in the air, making it so easy to want to 
respond and share.  Finding the words is another matter.

I begin that uphill climb, already desiring the end where 
she'll tell me just what to do to make things better, yet 
knowing all along that she won't and that she can't. "I was 
so sure yesterday. I thought I finally got it-- how all the 
signs along the way pointed not to a life as I once thought I 
was going to live it, but toward a life with my partner. It 
was to be a life that would begin last night, when we finally 
would admit the truth."

"So you slept with a man you love. Why do you think this 
clouds things, Dana?"

"I didn't tell you that I slept with him," I say with some 
constrained modesty.

She smiles a knowing smile. "Today, you're fearful. Sex 
seems to create one of two reactions: either security from 
its intimacy or fear of its intimacy. Am I on the right 
track?"

She's so completely on the right track that I can hear the 
train whistle from the kitchen; then again, it could be the 
teapot. "I'll be right back," she says to excuse herself.

Colleen returns with the warm, gray, low cups filled with 
steaming, fragrant tea, a guarantee that I'll keep talking. 
She hands one to me as she encourages me to go on with a 
small smile and nod.

"Yes, we made love," I say resignedly.

"Remember that we can't make something that was not 
already there," she says quietly.

"It's not that I doubt the love that we have, that we've made. 
It's that I wonder if it's enough," I blurt out, giving voice to 
my deepest fears.

"Enough for what?" she asks without challenge.

"To overcome. . . us," I say while swallowing the last word.

"Only the both of you can answer that question. I can't tell 
you. That, I think you already know," she says with a 
mother's wise voice.

"I was hoping you wouldn't say that," I reply with a hint of 
a smile. "Why do I feel like I want to run away?"

"Because you're afraid, afraid of how much this love will 
demand of you, will cost you."

I say nothing. I remember her saying how great the price of 
fear and shame. Am I willing to gain or am I ready to lose 
everything?

She's watching me, looking at me for some sign of 
understanding or recognition. "I don't think your instinct to 
get away is necessarily wrong. In nature, when a birth takes 
place, it almost always is apart from the fray. Just try to go 
for the right reasons: a birth, a beginning, rather than a slow 
death," she finishes with the tiniest of warnings her in 
voice.

Where do I go, I wonder to myself. Anywhere I can think 
of, he'll find me. And I don't want him to, not right now. I 
don't want to find me through him; I want to travel the path 
that leads to me, to this very moment, and that will take me 
forward.

Colleen stands, walking over to a desk by the window. 
Ruffling amongst the neatly stacked papers she retrieves 
what she is looking for. She writes something quickly on 
the back and then walks over and hands it to me.

The gray paper of the card holds dark green script that 
reads, "Camp Chesterfield: A Center for Rest, Relaxation, 
and Spiritual Rejuvenation, Chesterfield, Indiana."

Colleen says as she watches me reading the card, "I think 
it's just what the doctor, or in my case, the physicist 
ordered."

I sit, as if rising will force me to do the next thing, to do 
what I'm not ready for. Colleen must sense my hesitation.

"Trust, Dana. Go. You won't disappoint yourself. I know 
that," she says while offering me her hand to take as I 
stand. "And tell him that you're going."

How did she know that I so wanted to leave and not tell 
Mulder a thing? To perform the ditch, to save my heart? I 
unconsciously raise an eyebrow at my question.

"If you left his bed, you'll leave his life just as easily. 
Something in you tells me, though, that he's worth more 
than that. Your love for him tells me so. Let him know 
you're OK, Dana."

I nod and ask, "What did you write on the back?"

"It's the name of minister friend of mine that you should 
ask for when you arrive there. I'll phone ahead and let her 
know you're coming."

"Thank you, Colleen. You've done so much for me, and 
I've repaid you with my skepticism."

"No, I think you've given me your trust. Otherwise, you 
wouldn't be here," she says with a smile that lights up her 
eyes with a glow of kindness. "Now, go. Find out what you 
are meant to know."

And with that I walk to the door, eager to be on my way, 
eager to know what is still hidden.

*****

I aim another pencil at the ceiling, give it an expert flip, and 
watch as it spears itself into the panel above me.  The 'S' 
shape I am fashioning is nearly complete.  I have enough 
sharpened pencils in my desk drawer to spell out Scully's 
entire surname, and I find myself contemplating doing just 
this, in some sophomoric, warped attempt to impress her.   I 
steal another glance at the clock above the door and chew 
my lower lip.  Nearly ten o'clock, and she hasn't arrived 
yet.  It's not like Scully to be late for work.  It's not like 
Scully to be late at all.

It's also not like Scully to crawl into my bed and wake me 
from a nightmare with kisses and caresses.  With every 
passing sweep of the minute hand on that government-
issued timepiece, I am thinking more and more that we 
made a huge mistake last night.

Well, actually, I'm not thinking we made a mistake.  I'm 
thinking that Scully thinks we made a mistake, which is 
exactly why she hasn't come in to the office yet.  I 
should've known as soon as I woke up this morning and 
found her side of the bed empty.  I've had enough lovers in 
my life to know that only one-night stands bolt from the 
scene of the crime.

I close my eyes against that thought.  Oh please, Jesus, 
don't let this be just a one-night stand.

I drum my fingers on the desk blotter and eye the 
telephone.  She hasn't called.  I have already checked my 
machine and my cell phone voice mail.  I fight the urge to 
pick up the phone for a total of three seconds and then lift 
the receiver.  I dial her cell and try to frame what I will say 
to her when she answers.

I hear the click and open my mouth, but her voice mail 
comes on.  "This is Special Agent Dana Scully with the 
Federal Bureau of Investigations.  Please leave me a 
message and I will return your call as soon as possible."  
The beep sounds, and I try my voice, hoping I don't sound 
like a completely insecure oaf.  "Scully, it's me.  It's almost 
ten, and I'm just wondering where you are."  I pause.  "Call 
me when you get this.  I'm at the office."  I push down the 
button on the telephone, disconnecting.

I release the button and hit speed dial, waiting for the line 
to her apartment to connect.  Again, the machine clicks on.  
I listen to her voice, less professional than the cell phone 
message, imagining her leaning over from the couch, 
listening closely, screening her calls.  "Scully, it's me," I 
say when it's my turn.  "Come on, Scully, pick up if you're 
there."  I wait a moment and then push on.  "Scully, I'm 
starting to worry about you.  Please call me when you get 
this.  Scully, I" I stop, not knowing how to continue.  "I 
think we need to talk.  Call me."  I hang up before I can say 
anything stupid.  

The image of her lying next to me floats through my brain, 
her red hair moving in the darkness across the pillow, her 
eyes shining with what looked like happiness as she kissed 
me again and again.  She had seemed so sure, so obviously 
in control, unflinching in her desire and in her pursuit of 
what she wanted.

Dear God, she wanted *me*.  I still can't quite believe it's 
true.

She was methodical in her lovemaking, marking me 
everywhere with her lips, her fingers, her tongue.  It was 
unbelievable and intoxicating, like making love in a dream.  
I thought I was still dreaming, but the press of her body 
next to me, the tickle of her hair against my chin and the 
sweet brush of her nipples on my chest convinced me 
otherwise.  It lasted forever and not long enough, and when 
we were both sated and filled, she curled up in the crook of 
my arm, her head resting above my slowing heart, and we 
slept.  

I stand up suddenly, feeling my own need to move, to get 
away from the memory.  It is hot and palpable, and I can't 
bear the thought that it might not happen again.  

I grab my jacket and walk, taking the stairs up to the next 
floor, moving through the crowded hallway toward the 
break room.  I haven't had any coffee yet; I had wanted to 
wait until Scully came in so that we could make a trip to 
Starbuck's down the street, where I'd imagined we would 
linger over lattes and whisper knowingly to each other.  

God, am I really that hopelessly romantic?  

I grab a Styrofoam cup and drain the dregs of the coffee 
pot, grimacing slightly at the sludge that forms instantly 
across the top of the liquid.  Caffeine is caffeine, though, 
and I slug it back, hoping the kick will clear my mind a 
little.  I wince as I feel a slap on my shoulder.

"Hey there, Spooky.  How's life in the basement?"

My lip twitches involuntarily into a sneer.  Agent Dale 
Prescott, one of my old colleagues from Violent Crimes.  
I'd recognize the singsong of his voice anywhere.  Of all 
the people to run into today, it has to be him.  

God, I hate this bastard.

He is staring at me in that disconcerting way of his, rocking 
back and forth on the balls of his feet.  I am pleased to see 
that he has lost most of his hair over the years, and I reach 
up to scratch a patch of mine right above my ear, an old 
psych trick that calls his mind to it subconsciously.  I can 
tell it works; something flashes in his watery blue eyes, 
something jealous and ugly.  

"Prescott. You're looking well.  How is the BSU treating 
you?"

"Fine! Great!" he booms, just a little too enthusiastically.  
"Couldn't be better.  You know, it isn't the same, though, 
since Patterson went ape-shit."  His eyes glint again.  
"Heard you had something to do with that."

"Water under the bridge, my friend."  My tone is warning, 
and he backs off.  He always was a pussy, Prescott.

"Well, well, well, enough of all that."  He rubs his hands 
together as if he has just discovered a gold mine.  "Where's 
that pretty partner of yours, Mrs. Spooky?"

I feel my spine go rigid and berate myself for it instantly.  
Prescott picks it up right away.  I should know better than 
to react like this in front of another profiler, even a lousy 
one like Prescott, but it's a reflex.  I hate to hear anyone 
refer to Scully in a derogatory way, and my temper rises as 
if on cue.

"We hear a lot about the two of you, ya know.  Lots of 
interesting talk going around."  He wiggles his bushy 
eyebrows at me.  "I'm sure you know what I mean."

I crush my empty cup in my fist and toss it into the nearest 
trashcan.  "Actually, I don't, Prescott."  I push past him and 
head for the door.  "I've got work to do."

"Aw, c'mon, Fox."  Christ, I hate it even more when he 
uses my first name!   "You know, married men like me 
don't get much action.  We're old friends, right?  Tell me 
how you managed to melt Frosty the Snow Bitch."

I halt dead in my tracks and turn slowly to him.  He is 
smiling, an unpleasant, shit-eating grin, completely aware 
that he has just pushed every one of my buttons.  I can hear 
Scully's cool, rational voice in my head, telling me to 
ignore him, to just walk away without another word, but I 
silence her with a sharp nod, one that Prescott also sees.  
His smile widens.

"You'll want to watch how you talk about Agent Scully, 
Prescott," I tell him, my voice low and controlled.  "She's a 
better investigator than you could ever hope to be."

"I'm not talking about her investigative skills," he says 
pointedly.  "Everyone in the Bureau knows about Spooky's 
Ice Box."  Christ, did he really just call Scully that?  To my 
face?  I can feel the scarlet flush of rage race across my 
cheeks.  "I'm just curious how you managed to bed the Ice 
Queen without getting put in the deep freeze--"

My forearm coming to an abrupt rest under his chin cuts off 
the last part of his sentence.  He sputters as I shove him up 
against the far wall, his eyes wide and unbelieving.  "What 
the hell--?" he spits out, and I drive my arm deeper into his 
neck.

"I'm not having a very good day today, Prescott.   You 
don't want to mess with me today."  I give him one last 
press into the soft, fleshy part of his throat and release him, 
looking on in mild humor as he coughs and clutches at his 
neck.

"Fuck you, Mulder!  Can't you take a joke, you psycho?"  I 
turn on my heel and walk to the door of the lounge.  "Don't 
think I won't report you, you son of a bitch!  I'll just dial 
up old A.D. Skinner and "

"Don't bother," I toss over my shoulder.  "I'm on my way 
to see him now.  I'll tell him myself." 

I catch the elevator just as the doors are closing and push 
my way in, slapping the button for Skinner's floor and 
backing into the far corner.  The only other passenger, one 
of the women from the secretarial pool, glances at me 
suspiciously, but I turn my back to her and lay my forehead 
against the cool metal of the wall.  I can feel the anger start 
to drain away, receding like a tide away from the shore, and 
I think again of Scully, cuddled against me, her hand 
stroking my forearm lightly as I held her close, lulling me 
to sleep.  

How can she put up with all these assholes?  I have heard 
the names before, of course, just as she has.  I have 
marveled at her decorum and her inner strength time and 
time again.  I have watched her pointedly ignore snickers 
and hushed innuendoes in countless briefings, departmental 
meetings, and even on crime scenes.   She has never been 
anything but professional in the face of the sneers and the 
jokesand she has stuck with me.   God help her, she has 
stood by me, and the love that surges into my chest now as 
I think of her is so powerful I have to brace myself against 
the elevator wall.

I learned something in physics once.  I took the class when 
I was a senior in high school, and my teacher was a young 
man in his twenties, fresh out of college and eager to 
please.  He tried to make the class fun and interesting to a 
bunch of kids with a debilitating case of senioritis, and he 
realized about halfway through the school year that he was 
fighting a losing battle.  But I still remember a lesson he 
taught on the properties of water and how 
it changes from vapor to liquid to solid form.  I can hear his 
voice now in my head, this nameless man whose only 
legacy to me is a tiny bit of knowledge in a vast universe of 
possibilities:

"Ice will form at zero degrees Celsius only if the water is 
disturbed or contaminated with dust or other objects."

I think of all the cases that we have worked, all the horrors 
we have endured and survivedand I wonder how much of 
Scully has been soiled and tainted by the traumas of 
working with me.  She has never been a fragile woman, 
even when she first entered my life.  She proved that to me 
on our first case together; hell, on our first day together, 
when she stood up to my teasing and relentless baiting.  But 
she has changed, and I don't know if it has necessarily been 
for the better. 

How much of that cold veneer that she wears is my fault?  
And even though we finally melted together into one warm 
body after seven long years of stops and starts, have I 
somehow contaminated her again to make her freeze over 
once more?

Kimberly is closing the door to Skinner's office as I enter 
hers, and the look that she gives me is not encouraging.  
"Agent Mulder," she starts before I can even ask, "the 
Assistant Director is not taking appointments today.  He is 
extremely busy"

Her excuse is cut off when Skinner pops his head out the 
door, his eyes searching the room.  He spots me and gives a 
tight motion forward with his hand.  "Agent Mulder, I was 
just about to call you.  I need to speak with you."  I brush 
past him and stalk over to stand near his desk.

I don't even let him get the door shut all the way before I 
begin.  "I'm sure you just got a call from Special Agent 
Dale Prescott in the BSU."

Skinner crosses the room and sinks into his stuffed leather 
chair.  "Yeah, I did."  He stares at me, trying to assess 
exactly what level of mental stability I am working from 
today, and finally nods toward one of the chairs across 
from him.  "Why don't you sit down, Mulder?  You look 
terrible."

"I'd rather stand."  I put my hands on my hips and take a 
deep breath.  "Look, if you're going to reprimand me, sir, 
I'd rather you just go ahead and get it out of the way.  I've 
got bigger fish to fry."

He doesn't speak for another long moment, instead opting 
to remove his glasses and polish them with a handkerchief 
pulled from the pocket of his trousers.  "I'm not going to 
reprimand you, Agent," he tells me, fitting the glasses back 
over his ears and adjusting them on his nose.  "Agent 
Prescott is not one of my favorite people either.  However, 
if you have an axe to grind with him in the future, I would 
prefer that you did it on your own time, not in the Bureau's 
break room.  Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Good."  Another pause; another look like he's not sure 
how to read me.  This is getting really old, considering my 
level of patience is not exactly at its highest right now.  I 
sigh visibly, and he seems to get the message.  "I wanted to 
speak to you because I just received another phone call."

"From?"

"Agent Scully."  This is exactly what I was hoping to hear 
him say, but instead of feeling better, I feel instead like 
someone has just kicked me in the gut.   I remain silent.

"Is there something I need to know, Agent Mulder?"

"Why would you ask me that?"  It comes out sounding 
defensive, and I suppose it is.  

"Because Agent Scully called to ask me if she could take 
some personal time off.  She didn't tell me why, but she 
sounded"  His voice drifts off, as if he is unable to 
pinpoint what he is trying to describe.

My eyes close briefly, and I force the words out of my 
throat.  "How did she sound, sir?"  I open my eyes and drill 
my gaze into him.  "Tell me."

He sighs.  "Lost.  She sounded lost."  He shakes his head, 
and his voice falls almost to a whisper.  "I don't know how 
else to describe it."  I drop my hands from my hips and let 
them dangle uselessly at my sides.  He watches me.  "Are 
you sure there isn't something that you'd like to talk about, 
Mulder?  Is something wrong between you and Scully?"

I smile a little, a grin I am sure has absolutely no humor in 
it at all.  Sure, Walter, I think to myself.  Let me just pull 
up a chair.  Let me tell you about how hopelessly in love 
with my beautiful, brilliant partner I am.  Let me tell you 
how I have felt this way for oh so long, and oh, did I 
mention how I just fucked it all up royally by finally 
sleeping with her?  Let me tell you how I am sure my 
partner is running away from me, running away from us, 
and let me tell you how I am not altogether certain anymore 
that she is making a mistake in doing that.

If I were in Scully's shoes, I'd run away from me, too.

But all I say, in a very quiet voice, is, "I'm not sure, sir.  
But I will try to find out."  And I leave his office, heading 
for my own.


End Part 1

Waking the Dead Part 2 (Headers et al in Part 1)


I had plenty of time to change my mind during my journey 
to Camp Chesterfield. First the flight, then the rental, and 
then the drive. I must want this pretty badly, I keep telling 
myself over and over as I drive and drive some more. 
Finally, a small sign over on the right says that I'm within 
ten miles of Chesterfield, Indiana. The next town after that 
is only eleven miles from here. Chesterfield sounds like the 
sort of town in which no one could lose herself, even if she 
tried.

As the miles go by, I am reminded why I am coming to this 
remote and tiny place. Pictures fly through my mind, like 
leaflets in the breeze: Mulder, me, a kiss at midnight, a root 
beer in a car, china patterns more fragile than my heart, a 
drug-induced declaration of love, rainy night sleeping bags 
- a thousand images that mean nothing to those who have 
not lived and found breath in them. A million moments that 
led me here to find the truth, to find me, to find us.

I turn off the road at the sign that indicates the entrance to 
the camp. There are no gates, no place to pay an entrance 
fee, no guards to keep one out or in. It is a place that exudes 
freedom. As I drive further down the short road, I notice a 
small building to my right: the Tree of Life Bookstore, the 
sign says. I park in one of the few spots out front and gather 
my keys and purse to enter.

As my hand reaches toward the handle, I give myself one 
more chance to back out. "Get back in the car now," my 
scientific, logical, bound-with-chains mind screams at me. 
"If I quit now, my fears win," my recently-found intuitive 
self whispers back. I choose to listen to the softer sound.

I walk into a small store that has as many bookshelves as its 
square footage can hold. The tiles on the shelves speak 
volumes about where I have come: "The Power of Now." " 
A Course in Miracles." "Conversations with God: An 
Uncommon Dialogue."  These are books that have never 
found their way into  * my* cart. Mulder's, perhaps, but not 
mine. The skeptic has turned believer and all bets are off.

"Can I help you?" a cheery voice calls from behind the 
small counter up front.

The woman who belongs to the voice is not much older 
than myself. She is dressed comfortably in a long denim 
jumper, with her chestnut hair pulled back softly from her 
face in a loose ponytail. She wears little makeup and seems 
to have never worn three-inch heels.

"I'm looking for Reverend Desmond," I say, replacing a 
book that I had absently picked up.

"Don't put it back just yet. Maybe you're meant to find 
something in it," she offers with a smile.

My hand stays upon the book, trying to take in what she 
said. "Do you know where I can find him?"

With a gentle chuckle that tinkles like the wind chime 
hanging near the open window, she comes slowly around 
the counter with her hand outstretched. "I'm Talia 
Desmond. I'm pleased to meet you. . ."

Her voice trails off, waiting for me to fill in the blank. I'm 
stunned for a moment, but take her hand in mine. "Dana, 
Dana Scully," I respond.

"Oh, you're Colleen's friend. She phoned and said that you 
were coming. Welcome!"

My weak smile is my only response.

"What have you got there?" she says while giving a small 
nod in the direction of my hand. I still hold the book she 
instructed me not to put back.

As she's still holding my other hand, I turn over the slim 
volume that I hold in my left hand: "'The Mastery of Love: 
A Practical Guide to the Art of Relationships,' " I say aloud 
as I read the title.

"Does it mean anything to you?" Talia asks, looking at me 
in search of some "sign," I imagine.

How do I tell her that the "Practical" part does, that 
"Mastery" has a place in my life, but that the "Art" and 
"Love" words are lost to me?

She must sense my hesitation because she jumps in with a 
kind admonishment that maybe I'll understand in time. 
Maybe, I think.

"Now, you must want to rest for a little bit after your drive 
from Indianapolis. Let me just call someone up at the 
Administrative building and have them meet you there. 
She'll show you to the hotel where you'll be staying, and 
when I'm done here, around six, I'd like to meet with you. 
Is that OK?"

"Yes, that would be fine," I agree. With a hand placed 
gently between my shoulder blades, Talia walks with me to 
the door.

"I hope that I can help you find out why you came here. I 
know that it's something that is bothering you- the fact that 
this isn't your usual way of figuring things out," she says 
with knowledge.

"You really are psychic," I mutter.

"No, I just have a really good and perceptive friend in 
Colleen," she says with a little laugh.

"I'll see you later," I finish at the door.

*****

The familiar landscape shimmers like a mirage around me. 
The children pass me in opaque mixes of light and shadow, 
running at the speed of sound and in slow motion all at the 
same time.  Their echoing song hums in my ears, pressing 
in on me, causing my heart to beat quicker in time with 
their chanting.  It washes over me in waves, hammering at 
me as the relentless sea beats at an unaccomplished 
swimmer, threatening to engulf me and drag me down into 
its depths.

// I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. //

My mother's precise articulation, reading this time.  I can 
see her sitting nearby, a large boulder beneath her, the book 
of poetry open across her lap.  Her eyes are cast downward 
to the page, and she moves her finger beneath each line as 
she goes, just as she used to read to me when I was a little 
boy.  She does not acknowledge me, and I try to call to her, 
knowing that my voice is useless in this place.

// Mom! // 

Samantha is with her suddenly, appearing next to her, and 
she lays her hand on my mother's shoulder.  They look up 
at me then, their eyes like quarters in the perpetual 
moonlight that soaks the dreamscape.  

// I do not think that they will sing to me. //

On shaky legs I find myself stepping toward them, but the 
arms of the children abruptly encircle me.  They join hands 
around me and dance counter-clockwise, wide smiles on 
their innocent faces, their mouths moving in soundless 
words that blend together into the overwhelming chant that 
pulses around me.  Emily is with them, and she turns her 
head to look over her shoulder.  I follow her gaze with my 
own.

The sharp red of her hair is a frightening contrast to the 
negative print of the field.  This time, her back is to me, and 
her bare skin stands out starkly as my mother and sister 
hold each of her arms out at their sides.  She is slumped 
between them, her knees buckled, her weight anchored by 
nothing except the figures that hold her up.   The wrappings 
lay at her feet in a pile, and I watch in horror as another 
woman bends into the scene and pushes them aside.  As she 
straightens up to her full height, Diana steps in behind 
Scully, obscuring her from my view.

I put my hands out and try to push through the circle of 
children, but their arms are like steel girders fencing me in.  
I search their faces, frantically seeking Emily's blue eyes, 
the eyes she inherited from her mother.

// EmilyEmily, help me!  Let me help your mother! //

She laughs up into my face, nothing but joy and bliss.  

// Emily! //

Diana is touching her now, her hands on Scully's 
shoulders, and Samantha and my mother move closer to 
them both.  

// Scully!  Scully, get up! //

// Till human voices wake us, and we drown. // 

"Sir?  Are you alright, sir?"

The tone is quiet next to my ear, but I start anyway, feeling 
my heart thudding hard in my chest.  I blink and look at the 
young man leaning toward me.  He is dressed in a long-
sleeved, starched white shirt and a blue and red striped tie.  
The nametag above his left breast pocket gleams, and his 
name, Todd, is framed on either side by decorative wings.  

The steward.  I'm on a plane bound for Indiana, and I 
must've fallen asleep.

His eyes are concerned, and I wipe my dry mouth, feeling 
embarrassed.  "Sorry," I mumble, adjusting my position in 
the seat with a nervous glance at the woman sitting next to 
me.  She seems oblivious, her own eyes closed, the headset 
of her Walkman so loud I can identify the song that is 
blasting into her ears.  "I hope I didn't bother anyone."

"No sir.  It just seemed like you were having a bad dream."  
The steward stands up straight again, and I notice how 
impossibly young he looks.  I wonder briefly if I ever 
looked this young.

"I was.  Thanks for waking me up."

He smiles.  "It happens a lot."  He gestures to the cart 
parked in front of him.  "Can I get you something?"

I point to a can of soda.  "I guess if I drink that, I'll stay 
awake."

He grabs the Mountain Dew and pops the tab, pouring it 
into a clear plastic cup.  "You bet.  No more nightmares."  
He tops off the drink as I release the tray table and thank 
him as he sets it down.  He smiles once more and turns to 
the woman across the aisle from me.

The fizz of the soda slides into the knot in my throat, the 
one that I always seem to have after these dreams.  It 
begins to work its magic, bubbling against it, melting it, 
releasing it little by little.  I rub my forehead and take 
another gulp, wishing for the hundredth time today that 
Scully was with me.

Her phone call had finally come after my meeting with 
Skinner.  I was pushing through the sea of agents in the 
hallway outside his office when my cell phone chirped 
from my inside jacket pocket.  I clicked it on and 
automatically put the palm of my free hand over my other 
ear, praying feverishly that it was Scully on the other end.  
That time, someone must've been listening.

"Mulder, it's me."

Her voice sounded distant, and the connection was bad, but 
that didn't mar the sweet feeling of elation that rose 
instantly in me.  "Scully," I blurted, trying to maintain my 
balance in the current around me.  "Where are you?  What 
are you doing?"

A pause, and the silence seemed captured in an eternity.  
Finally she spoke.  "I'm going away for a few days.  I need 
some time to think."

I swallowed hard, struggling to comprehend, to be 
supportive.  "O-okay.  Tell me where you're going so I 
know how to reach you."

Her answer came much quicker then.  "No, Mulder.  I need 
to be alone.  I don't want you following me."

I could feel the anger blossoming then, all the worry and 
the fear and the need pushing up into my voice.  "Damnit, 
Scully, we need to talk about this.  Running away from it is 
not going to help."

"I'm not running away.  I justI need some time.  Can you 
please try to understand that?"

I glanced around, trying to spot a more private place to talk, 
away from all the other agents who wouldn't have been 
more delighted than to be able to announce at lunchtime 
how they had overheard Mr. and Mrs. Spooky having a spat 
in the middle of the hallway.  I lunged sideways, moving 
toward the wall.  "I am trying to understand," I answered, 
keeping my tone as controlled as I possibly could.  "I am 
trying like hell to understand."

"Then leave me alone for a few days, Mulder.  I'll call you 
when I get back."

"Scully, please" I couldn't hide the plaintive note in my 
voice.  "Please, Scully, we will do this on your terms.  Just 
don't" I made it to the wall and sagged against it, all my 
anger spent.  "Please don't do this.  Don't run away from 
me."

I waited, listening to the crackle of the connection, 
straining to hear her breathing.  I wanted her next to me, so 
badly that my chest actually ached and my head throbbed 
from the sheer force of my will.  I tried to push all that 
through the invisible waves that transmitted our 
conversation, to force her to feel the longing and the love 
that immersed me in its bittersweet embrace. 

And then she was speaking again, and I closed my eyes, her 
words tearing at my heart.  

"I just can't see you right now, Mulder.  Give me a few 
days."  And she hung up.

I stood with my back braced by the wall for a long time, 
staring forlornly at the phone in my hand.  I can't 
remember feeling anything for those long moments except 
an excruciating, paralyzing numbness.  

She was gone.  Scully was gone.  It was like a litany, the 
only phrase my overwhelmed brain could focus on, 
repeating it until I thought that this must be what insanity 
was truly like.

A few days.  She wanted a few days to sort things out.  
That was reasonable, wasn't it?  She was confused, and she 
needed time to think.  The rational part of my mind 
murmured reassuringly to me, like a parent soothing a fussy 
baby.  

But another part of me ignited suddenly, a fire swelling 
deep in my stomach, in the core of the heart of me.  And it 
whispered insidiously to me, a thought that sent me bolting 
for the stairs.  

// What if she doesn't come back? //

I was in my car before I knew it, my briefcase and an 
assortment of files scattered in the front seat next to me.  I 
threw the car in gear and peeled out of the parking garage, 
intent on getting to the airport.

I toyed with the idea of calling Scully's mother.  Maggie 
Scully was a wonderful woman, and I knew that she liked 
me.  I had seen the knowing looks that she had given her 
daughter and myself over the years, looks that were 
reserved for matchmakers and hopeless romantics.  And I 
knew that Scully was extremely close to her mom and 
would possibly have talked to her about this, even if it were 
six o'clock in the morning.  

But something just didn't feel right about calling her.  My 
intuition was telling me that Maggie didn't have a clue 
what was going on, and, if she did, she would've told her 
daughter to stay here and deal with it.  Maggie and Scully 
were a lot alike: they were not usually the type to back 
down from an issue.  I couldn't imagine Maggie telling 
Scully that a few days away would be a good idea. 

I stopped at a red light and turned my head to the side, my 
cheek against the steering wheel.  The throb of a headache 
worked its way behind my eyes, and it felt good to rest 
there for a second.  My gaze fell on the file folders that had 
slid open, and I sat up sharply.

Crop circles.  These were the photos and information that 
Scully had picked up for me a few days ago, the ones that I 
had wanted for my trip to England.  She had brought the 
hard copies to my apartment last night, handing them to me 
before we settled on the couch with our tea.  She watched 
as I glanced at them, a bemused, tiny smile on her lips.

"I thought you should have these."

I grinned back at her.  "Why?  I don't need them anymore."

She shrugged.  "Well, you never knowmaybe there's 
something to them after all."

I widened my eyes in mock surprise.  "Why, Scully!  I 
can't believe what I am hearing."

She put her hand out, resting it on my shoulder to steady 
herself as she toed off her heels.  "Well, I met the woman 
that you contacted about these, and"  Her voice trailed 
off.  

"And what?"

"And I guess she convinced me."  She blinked up at me, a 
good three inches shorter than she was the moment before, 
her eyes serious and sky-blue.  "She was pretty remarkable, 
and she made quite an impression on me.  I liked her."

Scully liked her.  And she had told me how she had gone 
back to her house again, seeking answers after her 
encounter with Daniel, and how this woman had helped her 
find an energy healer to work on him, to try to restore his 
health.  

Scully liked her.  I scrambled through the sheets of paper 
on the passenger seat, ignoring the horn blasts behind me as 
the light turned green.  I snagged one sheet with a post-it 
note attached to the top.  An address was scrawled there in 
my own sloppy handwriting.

I made an illegal u-turn and headed to Colleen Azar's 
house.

She answered her doorbell immediately, and she smiled.  
"You must be Agent Mulder."  She stuck her hand out to 
shake.  "It's nice to finally meet you in person."

I wrapped my fingers around hers, not at all surprised by 
her firm grip.  "It's nice to meet you too, Dr. Azar.  Were 
you expecting me?"

Her smile softened a bit.  "When Dana came by this 
morning, I had a feeling you might stop by, too."  She 
opened the door wider.  "Won't you come in and sit 
down?"

I stiffened at the mention of Scully's name.  "So she has 
been here?"

"Please, Agent Mulder."  She gestured toward the hallway 
behind her.  "Can't we talk about this inside?"

"I'm not trying to be rude.  I'm in a hurry."  I looked at her 
pointedly.  "I think you know why."

"The first time Dana came here, to get the reports you 
requested, she was in a hurry, too."  Her eyes snapped at 
me, something dancing in them, something halfway 
between anger and amusement.  "She needed to slow down, 
to pay attention to the things that were happening in her 
life.  Perhaps you need to do that, too."

I sighed, exasperated by all of her psych babble.  "I know 
what has happened in my life.  Now I need to find Scully.  
Do you know where she is?"

Her silence was thoughtful, but I held her gaze.  "Yes," she 
replied, and I exhaled the breath that I seemed to have been 
holding all day.

"Tell me."

"I don't know if I should, Agent Mulder.  She needs some 
time right now."  

"Jesus Christ!" I snarled.  I slammed my fist against the 
doorframe, feeling the tremor right down into my bones.  
Colleen Azar just stood there, unfazed by my outburst, 
which only infuriated me more.  "Why is everyone so 
fucking concerned about what she needs?  What about what 
I need?"  I pressed my throbbing hand to my mouth, willing 
it to stop shaking, looking up at the woman in front of me 
with naked, imploring eyes.  "I love her.  I have to make 
her understand that."

She stepped up to me then, taking my injured hand in her 
own.  Her face was compassionate, her voice gentle.  "You 
can't make her understand anything.  You have to let her 
discover it for herself."

"I can't just let her go.  I have to go after her."

She patted my hand reassuringly.  "Then go for the right 
reasons.  Don't go bent on convincing her."

I could feel my brow furrow.  "That's the only reason to 
go."

"No, it isn't.  Go to be there for her when she makes her 
choice."

I sigh now, feeling the vibration of the airplane underneath 
me, hoping I can do what I promised Colleen Azar I would 
do.  Hoping like hell that I can love Scully still, no matter 
what choice she makes. 

*****

The time passed way too quickly from the time I left the 
bookstore until now, shortly before six, when I am to meet 
with Talia. Why do I feel like I want to bolt? My hand is 
already on the knob when a short rap on the outside causes 
me to jump slightly back.

I open it and see Talia standing there with an eager smile. 
"C'mon. Let's take a walk," she offers.

I close the door and  leave the hotel room behind me to 
walk beside her.

She doesn't speak as she leads me toward a trail that's a 
short walk from my hotel called "The Trail of Religions."

There I see signs, symbols of all the great belief systems: 
Buddhism, Christianity, Judaism, Islam, others. The 
symbols are powerful reminders of truth, many truths, one 
truth. We walk slowly, pausing at each one, as Talia lifts 
her gaze upward each time. I am reminded of the Stations 
of the Cross from my Catholic youth. I am beginning to 
feel the familiar peace of belief once more, a peace that had 
never left, but which I had abandoned.

She takes my hand as we come to the end of the path. 
"We'll go to my cottage where we can talk, OK, Dana?" 
She finishes her sentence with a tiny knitting of her 
eyebrows.

I can't help but catch the only sign of disturbance that has 
spread across the face of this woman in the short time I've 
known her. "What?" I question.

"It's just that I get the feeling that there's another name by 
which you're known. A name that only someone important 
calls you. Do you have a middle name that you're called 
sometimes?" she says, still not convinced that she's getting 
it right.

I drop my gaze and sigh deeply. "Scully. My partner calls 
me 'Scully'," I say haltingly, not wanting to go into 
everything here.

She gives a definitive nod and turns in the direction of the 
cottages. We walk together, silent, yet listening to the call 
of the birds in the trees that fully surrounds us. All too 
soon, we're in front of a cottage that has a wreath of pink 
flowers and eucalyptus on the door. A small banner across 
the wreath reads, "Peace To All Who Enter Here." Indeed.

Talia opens the door and allows me to enter ahead of her. 
As she closes the door behind me, I take in the small room 
in which I stand. There's a round table with only two chairs 
in front of a fireplace, the hearth holding a basket of 
flowers rather than a fire. On the table is a candle lamp, 
which Talia goes to and lights with a match from a small 
bronze box that rests next to it. A soft glow fills the room 
as she invites me with a gesture to sit across from her at the 
table.

"May I take your hands?" she asks with her palms 
outstretched.

I place my hands in hers as my response. Her warmth is so 
soothing that I feel myself begin to relax at her first touch. I 
inhale automatically.

"That's it. Take some relaxing breaths to calm yourself. I 
will, too. Breathe along with me, and close your eyes," she 
says with a sweet authority.

"Come Spirit and enlighten our minds," she prays in quiet 
reverence. "We are open to whatever it is that you wish to 
share with us. We long to hear your voice."

The silence envelops me as a calming blanket, covering 
me, making me feel the same safety that Mulder's Navajo 
blanket insured me.

Talia's voice breaks the peaceful quiet. "Yes, yes, she's 
here. Dana's here," she says with eagerness. "I welcome 
you, Spirit."

I open my eyes to see Talia with a wide smile, encouraging 
whoever or whatever it is to speak more just by the 
enthusiasm communicated in her posture.

Her eyes still closed, she begins: "'I can't believe you're 
here, Dana. Me, maybe, but * you*, never!'  Why is this 
Spirit questioning your presence here?" Talia asks.

"Because I have trouble believing, believing what I cannot 
see," I say with a hint of sadness in my voice, a sadness I 
didn't even know that I carried.

"This Spirit is finding this quite amusing. It's a woman who 
can't seem to stop laughing. It's a good -natured laugh, a 
sort of busting laugh that an older sibling may have. Any 
ideas who finds your being here so funny?" Talia says with 
mirth.

I laugh a little to myself, too. "Yes, I think I do. It's my 
sister."

"I sense a peace now. She wants you to know that it's her. 
That's good. It means that she feels welcome enough to stay 
and that she'll have a lot to tell you."

A pause.

"I'm getting the letter 'M' in connection with her name, 
Missy, Melis-"

"Melissa," I respond in quiet awe.

"Yes, that's it. She's nodding. She wants you to know that 
she is here, with you. That she is with you quite often. She's 
saying 'No guilt.'  Do you know why?"

"Yes," I strangle out, my words caught somewhere between 
my heart and my throat. "She was killed in my apartment. I 
was the target; she just happened to be there."

"She says that there are no accidents. She's wanted to tell 
you things for so long. She's happy that you are willing to 
listen. She kept trying to get your attention lately. Have you 
seen anything that you could say reminded you of her?"

The girl, the full-of-life, Mona Lisa smile, blond ponytail 
girl who just kept appearing everywhere. The almost 
"accident." The dropping of everything I held in my hands. 
"Ohhh."  The breath I didn't realize I was holding is 
released.

"Sometimes, Spirit doesn't always look as we expect. Spirit 
shows us what we're ready to handle," Talia soothes me.

I nod in silent agreement, because words have left me.

"Melissa says that you are at a critical time, a crossroads, if 
you will. What you decide will change everything. A life 
depends on it. All of your lives will be affected by your 
decision, she says."

I want to leave again. It's too much. Lives depending on 
me?

"She meant one life," Talia interjects without me speaking 
my question aloud. "But each of your lives will be 
changed."

"Is Mulder in danger?" I ask without even explaining who 
he is.

"Not yet, Melissa says. There will be a time, but you will 
not be alone and it will not be as things seem. Now, you 
must do what you fear most in order to hold that one 
potential life within your hands. You will hold life, Dana, 
even though you look within and see aridness."

I shake my head in denial of the smallest shred of hope.

"No, don't push away the possibility. It's still just that. If 
you push it away now, in thought, you may not get another 
chance. That's why you need to leave him in; let him love 
you, Dana. It all depends on you saying 'yes'."

Talia finishes the last sentence with a sense of exhaustion. 
A long stretch of silence follows, seemingly hanging in the 
air between us that just recently was so filled with words. 
Words from my deceased sister. Words that I think will 
take me days, a lifetime, to figure out.

I have opened my eyes to seek grounding.

My breathing is quiet, almost shallow.  I sit in front of 
Talia, not knowing what to say. My hands are still in hers 
as she smiles at me.

"I think you're feeling a little overwhelmed. Am I correct?" 
she asks with concern.

"Yeah, you could say that," I say as I look away to avoid 
her gaze. I feel exposed, naked now, after this stranger has 
given me such intimate knowledge.

"It's OK to feel as you do. Just don't stay there," she 
advises.

"Why?" I counter.

She take a deep breath before answering. "When we are 
given a message such as this one, where we are warned or 
given an imperative to act, it is a sacred trust with Spirit. 
Spirit has come through time and history to offer guidance. 
You are now given a gift, an opportunity to make a choice 
in the purest sense. Action is requested of you. The 
decision of what that action will be is up to you. Spirit 
obviously trusts you to make the right one, or the truth 
would not have been revealed to you. Make sense?"

"Yes, I think it does," I say with as much certainty as I can 
muster.

"Good. I think it would be best for you to take some time 
tonight and tomorrow to think about this message from 
your sister. She's a very powerful guide for you. Perhaps 
now that she knows that you're open to listening, she'll 
reveal more to you."

I do not allow myself the luxury of thinking that I will 
continue to be in contact with my sister, but I do want to 
take time to think about what I heard tonight. "Yes, I think 
I'll take some time alone to process this, Talia. And thank 
you," I say as I begin to stand.

Her hands are still holding mine, tethering me to this place 
outside of time. "Dana, remember that truth revealed 
touches us all; choose wisely as you walk."

With that, Talia gives my hands one last squeeze, almost as 
a sending gesture. She remains seated as I walk toward the 
door.

"Go with God, Dana," she calls after me.

And as I exit into the night air, I know that I do.

*****

My sleep is fitful and peaceful all at once. Just as I am 
about to enjoy the welcome of rest after a day which 
brought me from DC to eternity, I am jolted from my sleep 
by a snippet of the message from Melissa.

A crossroads. A decision. A life. Danger ahead. Not as it 
seems. A life. Not alone. Look within. A life. Over and 
over, they rush through my mind with blinding speed, these 
messages crowding out any rational thought.

That's it. That's it.

I rise quickly from my bed and slip on my shoes, which I 
had abandoned just hours before. I grab my robe from the 
end of the bed and head toward the door. I know I need to 
be up and outside. It's not rational, but then again, who said 
anything about life being that way?

As I leave the building, the ideas and patterns keep falling 
into place. I run through the darkness, unaware and 
unafraid of where I may be going. It's a good run, one of 
freedom rather than flight. I keep going, knowing that I'll 
know when I am to stop.

And then I do. I stand here, in the Trail of Religions, in 
front of all of these symbols of the world's great truths. In 
each one, I see the same message: Say yes. The world 
changed when each of these said "Yes," despite the ill logic 
of it all. There is little that is rational about "yes."  It opens 
us, places us naked before wolves who would take our very 
essence. But despite the fear, these who changed the world 
still said "Yes" to the possibilities of a world transformed 
by peace, by intimate care, by love. Shall I consider myself 
above these?

The moon shows brightly in all of its ancient brilliance. It 
shines softly down on me, here in this solitary place, 
blessing, anointing, sending me to finally love the one who 
has been given to me.

That is, if he's been listening, too.


End Part 2
-- 

Waking the Dead Part 3 (Headers et al in Part 1)


The spring humidity of the Midwest cloys at me as I step 
out of my rental car in front of the Tree of Life bookstore.  
The sign on the window reads 'Closed,' and I glance at my 
wristwatch in annoyance.  Nearly nine o'clock, and I 
remind myself that Indiana is an hour behind the East 
Coast.  I'll be lucky if anything on the grounds of this 
Spiritualist camp is open.  

In the distance, down a paved footpath, I spot the colorful 
clothes of several people exiting a large, rectangular 
building.  I hurry toward them, intent on finding the 
minister that Colleen Azar recommended to Scully.  Find 
her, and I am sure I will find my partner.

The knot of people stop outside a small, white church, 
something that looks like it was taken from a quaint New 
England town and dropped into the middle of Indiana.  
They are chatting and smoking cigarettes, obviously trying 
to finish before entering the chapel beside them.  As I 
approach, they turn their attention to me expectantly, and I 
feel a strange sensation wash over me. 

"I'm looking for Reverend Talia Desmond," I say to no one 
in particular.  "Can someone tell me where I can find her?"

A tall, broad woman with the black, straight hair of a 
Native American stubs out her cigarette carefully in the 
sandy tray next to a trashcan.  "She may be inside at the 
Healing Service," she tells me, her smile as soft as her 
voice.  "You can go in, but you need to be quiet."

"The Spirit Message Service starts in about ten minutes," 
interjects a middle-aged man with a long, gray ponytail.  
"You might be able to get a healing before that if you go in 
now."

I force a smile onto my face.  "I'm not here for a healing."

The Native American woman laughs, a sound like toasting 
champagne glasses.  "Yes, you are.  You just don't know it 
yet."  The others gathered around her chuckle knowingly.

My sarcastic nature rises momentarily, trying to make a 
snide comment, but it dies in my throat.  There is a peace 
here, a sacredness that I have rarely confronted, and I 
cannot get past the feeling that I was meant to come here, 
to find somethingsomething that is beyond Scully, and 
beyond myself.

I turn away from them and jog up the steps to the chapel, 
easing open the door and stepping into the cool hallway.  

A woman turns to me from the inner door to the sanctuary.  
She is dressed in a long skirted suit that matches her gray 
eyes and hair.  She smiles and leans in to whisper to me.  
"Are you here for a healing?  We have a healer available 
for you now."

I shake my head.  "Actually, I'm looking for Reverend 
Desmond.  Is she in the chapel this evening?"

"No, but she may be here for the Message Service in a few 
minutes.  Why don't you stay and see?"

"Thank you."  I take a seat in the last pew, pushing my 
back up straight against the hard wood.  I scan the 
congregation scattered throughout the chapel, thinking 
fleetingly that perhaps Scully will be here, but she is not.  I 
watch as two men and two women, all dressed in suits, 
move around several people seated in folding chairs near 
the altar.  The healers hold their hands above them, and I 
am reminded suddenly of Melissa Scully and the way she 
had held her hand and my own over her sister's body in a 
hospital bed.  

// Her soul is here. //

I close my eyes against the memory, sinking into the 
wooden bench, trying to relax as the sound of ocean waves 
and sweet music drifts to me from the portable CD player 
at the front of the church.

// Dana's choosing whetherwhether to remain or move 
on. // 

The notes swell around me, mixing in a symphony of 
sounds, transiting into something familiar, the chant that 
seems to be on an endless loop in my mind.

She holds my hand as we walk, my feet feeling as if they 
are made of lead, our steps on the pathway slow and 
methodical.  She is washed in moonlight, and it catches the 
crystal worn on the ribbon choker around her neck.  The 
children play around us, their games of hopscotch and jump 
rope and tag strange counterpoints to our stately gait.  
Melissa stops, and I halt next to her, turning to look at her 
face.

She is staring straight ahead, but I cannot seem to turn to 
see.  I am frozen again, and the inertia makes me angry.  I 
try to get her attention.

// Melissa! //

Her eyes move to mine, compassionate and strange in the 
shadows, and her countenance is serious.  I can hear her 
voice in my head, just as I heard my mother's.

// You can feel her.  Here. //

She lays her hand over my heart, and a searing heat flows 
into my chest.  It burns through me, and as she turns her 
head to look forward again, I find that I can move my own.  

The children have lined the path in front of us, their song 
abruptly silent as they watch us.  They stand on either side, 
and at the end, I can see my mother and sister standing 
shoulder to shoulder.  Diana and Emily stand next to them, 
and all of their eyes are trained on me.  

The silence is unnerving, and I feel the fear rise up inside 
me.  I call to them with my mind, my voice sounding 
frantic.

// Where is she?  Where is Scully? //

And then her voice is in my head, filling my senses, 
rocking me backward.

// I'm here, Mulder.  I'm here. //

The four spirits before me part, and she steps through them, 
her hair glowing crimson, the only color visible in this land 
of grays and blacks.  She is dressed in a long gown that 
shimmers white and silver, and her bare feet peek from the 
hem as it sweeps across the path.  She walks to me, her face 
glowing, her eyes turned up to me.  They are shining with 
the same bright light I saw when she came to my bed last 
night, and I feel the relief and the overwhelming 
emotion rush through me.

// Am I awake, Scully? // The words tumble out of my 
mind, and I realize that she can understand me.  // I think I 
must still be dreaming. //

// You are dreaming, Mulder.  But this is real.  This is now. 
// Her smile is brilliant, and I feel my own break, like the 
sun's first rays shooting out from behind a mountain.  She 
is next to me, and her hand reaches out to touch my cheek, 
her fingers warm and smooth against my skin.  

// Wake up, Mulder.  I'm right here, and I'm ready now. //

My eyelids flutter, and I can see a woman bending over me, 
a pretty woman with light brown hair pulled back in a 
ponytail.  Her hand is on my cheek, and her eyes are 
concerned.

"Agent Mulder?"  Her whisper is urgent.  "Agent Mulder, 
can you hear me?"

"Yeah," I answer throatily.  I focus on her, shaking my 
head slightly to clear it.  

She takes her hand away and sighs, a small smile 
appearing.  "I thought for a moment the Spirit People had 
taken you far, far away."

"What?"

"You were having a vision, weren't you?"

I sit up a little straighter in my seat, my back starting to 
ache from the hard wood of the pew.  "I think I fell asleep."

She waves her hand dismissively.  "It doesn't matter how 
you got there.  Did you see what you needed to see?"

I realize abruptly that I don't even know this woman.  "Are 
youare you Reverend Desmond?" I ask, somehow 
knowing what the answer will be.

"Yes, I am.  The usher at the door told me you were 
looking for me, although my conversation with Dana today 
pretty much told me to expect you, too."

"She knew I was coming?"  I imagine that Scully might be 
quite pissed that I followed her.  

"No.  I said *I* knew you were coming."  

I just stare at her a moment and then turn my head toward 
the front of the chapel.  The healers are gone, replaced by a 
woman standing on the raised dais, who is speaking to 
someone seated in the front of the church.  The woman is 
older, probably on the better side of sixty, but she is 
animated and smiling, wearing a floor-length gown that is 
studded with sequins.

"She's giving Spirit messages," Reverend Desmond tells 
me, her tone soft in my ear.  

"I have to find my partner," I whisper, rubbing my hands 
impatiently on the legs of my jeans.  "Do you know where 
she is?"

The minister lays her hand on my arm, stilling me.  "Wait," 
she says urgently, and I raise my eyes to see what she does.

The woman on the platform is staring right at me, and her 
eyes are bright and knowing.  "Sir," she calls, and her voice 
is strong and confident.  "May I speak with you?"

I glance at Reverend Desmond, and she nods 
encouragingly.  "Yes, ma'am," I answer, suddenly feeling 
like a schoolboy.

"I'm being told not to call you Fox.  Do you understand 
that?"  The medium's eyes twinkle, and I can't help but 
smile.  

"This is a mother vibration that wishes to speak," the 
medium continues, and I feel a shiver go through me.  I'm 
positive I must look like a fool, but this woman has most 
definitely gotten my attention.  

"Your motherTeena, is it?"  I nod, speechless.  "Your 
mother tells me that your sister is with her, as well as 
several other people that you know.   I hear the names 
Emily" The woman pauses, her head cocked to one side, 
as if she is listening.  "and Diane or Dianawell, you 
just have a whole bunch of people in Spirit!"  She laughs 
and the congregation joins her, but I say nothing.  I am too 
stunned to speak.

The medium paces for a moment and then stops.  "It is your 
mother that wishes to speak tonight.  She says that you 
came here looking for someone, another woman, a woman 
that you love.  Do you understand this?"  

"Yes," I whisper, knowing that she can't hear me from so 
far away, but unable to say it any louder.  

"Your mother says that you have been looking for someone 
your whole life, but you didn't realize that your search has 
always been to find the other half of yourself."  The woman 
on the platform leans forward, and for all her distance, it 
seems as if we are the only two people in the room.  "She 
says you need to understand that although it was your 
search for youryour sisterthat brought the two of you 
together, that the whole time, your quest has really been to 
find this woman that you seek.  This woman completes 
you.  She is part of your life lesson, and you need to find 
her and keep her close.  Do you understand what I am 
saying?"

I blink, my vision swimming.  "II think so."

"Good.  Because, honey, your mom wants you to find this 
woman.  She calls her your partner.  She says, 'Find your 
partner, and be happy.'  She wants you to be happy.  She 
tells me she tried to give you this message before, but you 
didn't receive it.  She is thrilled that you are receiving it 
now."  The medium stops and smiles at me, a grin that 
radiates goodness.  "That's all, honey.  God bless you."

"Thank you," I murmur, and I take a deep breath before 
burying my face in my hands.  It takes me a moment to 
realize that Reverend Desmond is rubbing my shoulder 
soothingly, and I lift my head to look at her.

"See?"  She smiles.  "I knew you needed to stay.  Now you 
can go to Dana, because you have learned what you needed 
to know."

I stand and slip out the chapel door, throwing a glance back 
at the people inside, the church wrapped in an energy that I 
can't even begin to describe.  But as I step out into the 
misty night, I realize that I have been changed somehow.

I start to walk, going nowhere in particular, following 
instead a pull that leads me down a stone path, into a small 
valley in the center of the grounds.  They were right, the 
group that stood outside the chapel.  I did need healing: 
healing in my heart, the place that still ached from the loss 
of my mother and sister.  And I understand that true healing 
is right within my reach

I see her across the darkened field, her robe gleaming as it 
ripples in the soft night breeze. She sits on a bench before a 
collection of stone statues, lit by nothing but the stars above 
us.  And as I watch, she turns her head toward me, and I am 
no longer afraid.  

I know she has learned the same thing I have learned: that 
all our lives, we have been moving toward each other, our 
joining as inevitable as the setting of the sun every day.  
We are two halves of a whole, incomplete without each 
other. 

 And we cannot deny who we are any longer. 

*****

"So Agent Scully, whom have you chosen as your date? 
Will it be Bachelor Number One, Two, or Three?"

The soft amusement and the familiar gravel of his voice do 
not startle me in this unfamiliar place.  I knew he would 
come. I knew he would find me here, even as I am, seated 
in front of busts depicting the originators of the world's 
great religions.

I chuckle softly without turning around. With the rustle of 
his clothing in this almost silent spot, I know that he has 
moved closer to me.

"Well, at the risk of sounding sacrilegious, they all are very 
good candidates. You have patience," I say as I gesture 
toward Buddha, "power," as I nod in the direction of 
Mohammed, "and, of course, perfection," I finish with the 
smallest lowering of my gaze toward the bust of Christ.

"Scully, you couldn't sound sacrilegious if you tried. You 
have too much faith. Look at how long you've been with 
me," he says with the smallest hint of playfulness.

"Yes, that's true. While my faith has been tested, it's never 
left me. . .or you," I finish in a near whisper.

"Then why did * you * leave?" he says, all levity gone.

"Because I was afraid," I say while still facing away from 
him.

"Doesn't perfect love cast out all fear?" he asks, quoting 
Scripture to me.

"You really must have dated a few Catholic girls, Mulder," 
I state for the record.

"I'd like to date one more." He speaks these last words right 
next to my ear, his breath skimming the delicate flesh of 
my neck.

His hands have found their way to my shoulders, and I 
reach mine up to lace our fingers together.

"Are you angry at me for coming here?" he asks, bending 
over to speak so close to my ear.

"Would it matter if I was?" I say with a little laugh.

"Well, yes. But I still wouldn't leave. Angry Scully I can 
take, as long as bullets aren't involved. Gone Scully, out- 
of- my- life- Scully. . ." He trails off. "No, that I can't 
handle. I'd be wishing you would shoot me again, then."

I shake my head at his declaration, knowing that I didn't 
want to be out of his life, ever, even if I thought that was 
possible. Still, I can't find the words to tell him, tell him 
what I've discovered here, about me, about him, about what 
may be ahead of us.

"So what's it going to be, girl, 'Yes' or, or 'No'?" he 
finishes in a slightly altered version of the Meatloaf song.

"Well, I'm not going to sleep on it, if that's what you're 
worried about, Mulder," I say, playing along with the Name 
That Tune game.

He walks around the bench that separates us and sits beside 
me. "Good, Scully, because I don't know if I can wait all 
night. It's been a loooong day," he says with tenderness and 
an appropriate yawn.

I pick up his hand that rests on the bench beside me, and 
clasping it in mine, I raise it to my lips. My mouth makes 
tender contact with the tips of each of his fingers. "The 
answer," kiss to his index finger tip, "Mulder," another to 
the middle one, "is," ring finger,  "yes." A finishing brush 
of my lips across the top of his pinkie brings a sigh from 
him. A sigh of relief, a sigh of pleasure as well.

I cup his whole open hand to the side of my face as I look 
up into his eyes in the moonlight. "I was afraid that all of 
the clarity that I had achieved before the night we were 
together was gone from me. When I woke up the next day, 
I didn't remember that I had learned that every event, every 
choice, brings us to the next moment, when all we're 
supposed to do is say 'yes.' "

"Yes to what, Scully?" he asks, almost afraid of what my 
answer will be.

"Yes to what we've been given, to what can be, to what will 
be," I say with an assurance that I never could have had 
before.

"And you won't be prayin' for the end of time?" he says, 
trying a little to deflect the
seriousness of the moment.

"I think we already faced that, Mulder, and the world didn't 
end." I smile up at him.

"No, no it didn't." He speaks just as his lips touch mine. 
Touching,
tasting, holding and trembling.

"C'mon, Mulder. Let's get go somewhere a little more 
private," I say with a little toss of my head in the direction 
of the spiritual giants.

"You know, the resurrected are everywhere, too," he says 
as he stands.

Yes, yes I do know that. And it fills me with peace as we 
walk away toward my hotel room, hand in hand.

We walk together as we have a thousand times before, but 
this time, a single word has transformed us. It is conscious; 
it is deliberate; it is "yes." We are not falling in love. We 
are taking each step, one at time, one totally normal, 
average foot in front of the other. We are real. Finally. 
Truly.

We are inside my hotel within minutes. The scent of about 
fifty summers comes wafting toward us in waves of 
citronella, pink lemonade, and musty, warm air. The 
common room through which we first enter is empty; 
everyone, someplace else. Mulder looks tentatively at me 
as I walk us toward the stairs.

"Mulder, there's no more turning back. Not for me, or for 
you, or forever." I stop to reach up and touch his face. "I'm 
sorry if my actions in the last twenty-four hours made you 
doubt me," I say earnestly.

"Scully, you know 'doubt' is not in my vocabulary," he says 
with a small smile.  He steps forward to take the lead as he 
holds my hand a little more tightly.

We climb the stairs together and arrive at my room on the 
second floor. The door opens easily, despite its age.

Mulder stops just inside the doorway. I turn to look at him. 
"Shall we try again for that carrying over the threshold 
thing?" he asks, taking me back to a time in which my 
foothold was not very sure.

"How about we leave that for those who need good luck?" I 
say with an ease, a belief that the best is yet to be.

With a few long legged strides, he is in front of me. Pulling 
me close to him, arms circling my waist and looking me 
straight in the eye, he says, "Good, that means I'll have 
more energy for the rest of the evening."

My hands, which had been in a nice clasp at the back of his 
neck, pull him down to a kiss. I want my mouth to say 
everything to him, every word that I've not spoken about 
my love for him, each phrase about what he means to me.

He must hear what I'm not speaking, for he responds in 
kind, and I know he means every word. 'Have you known 
how long I've waited for this? My whole life,' he seems to 
yell through the adoration of his lips upon mine. His tongue 
skims my bottom lip in a soft request.

How can I refuse him? My mouth opens, allowing him in, 
allowing him to be where my heart has always known he is: 
inside me, completing me, picking up where I leave off.  
Now and forever, making * me* a whole person, too.

The backs of my knees touch the chenille spread that 
covers my bed. Through desperate kisses, he speaks 
breathlessly against my mouth. "These walls are pretty thin 
old and thin."

"Your point?" I counter in a raspy whisper.

"Well, I just hope that we're not loud enough to wake the 
dead," he says while his lips curl in a smile beneath my 
own.

"Mulder, I think the dead are already wide awake here," I 
reply with a little chuckle.

The moan that escapes from him is shortly followed by our 
laughter as we tumble onto the bed. Soft and giving 
beneath us, the bed shows signs of its age by the joyful 
creaking from its springs as I pull him on top of me.

His hands clutch me to him tightly, pressing me even 
deeper into his kiss and slightly off of the soft down 
pillows below my head. He raises himself up in order to 
reach around the front of me. He begins to undress me, 
undoing the knot on my robe, gently and slowly slipping it 
from my shoulders and off me as he helps me to sit up 
slightly.

We help each other remove the remaining clothing, and as 
each piece is shed, it takes us from what we present to the 
outside world to what is now reserved just for the other. 
That first night, I think we were both too shocked at the 
reality of the moment to enjoy each others' nakedness. As I 
take his hand in mine while he sits back on his heels, I ask 
him to lie down. Tonight, I intend to devote myself to those 
spots that were only his before. That small, sensitive patch 
of skin on his neck, right beyond the collar of a shirt. His 
nipples and chest. His waist-- is it ticklish?  I wonder. The 
softness of his underbelly, right where the hair of his body 
must turn darker and coarser. The utter masculinity of his 
rock-hard cock, straining and aching for the warmth and 
caress of my own sex.

I begin my explorations with my tongue as he moans in 
delight at my gentle strokes. Little nips, soon soothed, elicit 
deeper sighs as I work my way down his torso. I delight in 
the changing textures of his body under my lips, teeth and 
tongue.

"I love watching you, Scully," he says hoarsely.

"I love loving you," I reply as I take myself away from my 
precious task for just a moment to look into his eyes. I soon 
return to this most delightful of efforts, now with his hand 
gently stroking the back of my head.

Lower I go until I can feel him tense beneath my 
ministrations.

"Hey, Scully, come here," he says with a little hint of 
nervousness as my tongue begins to touch about an inch 
above his waist. My suspicions confirmed.

I don't stop. I merely say in between swipes of my tongue, 
"Why, Mulder? You wouldn't happen to be ticklish?" I 
can't help the little bit of laughter that escapes me.

His slight squirming puts me into sudden contact with the 
proof of his utter arousal. I take him into my mouth as I can 
hear him say in a choked whisper, "Who me? Ticklish? No, 
no, no, ohhhh..." He trails off in a moan. I take all of him, 
not wanting a single inch to escape the wetness and warmth 
of my mouth, knowing the pleasure it will give him.

"Please, Scully. I need you to, uh, you better stop," he says 
breathlessly.

I release him from my mouth and into my hand, caressing 
and stroking, but not too intensely. He raises himself up 
and off of the pillows and draws me into his arms. His 
kisses are deep and hungry. "Scully, now, please," he gasps 
in between kisses as he lays me down gently beneath him.

I let my knees fall open as he moves above me, holding 
himself up by his forearms as he captures my mouth once 
more with his. I kiss him with little, quick kisses, gasping 
between, "Mulder, all of you, I want, all of you, on me."

His forearms slowly lower himself onto me. His hands slide 
up my back to cradle my head. "You just let me know if 
you're getting crushed, OK?" he says while his mouth 
glides from my lips to my chin, my throat.

I would, if I minded. His weight is a delicious reminder that 
we are here, making love, about to be one, our bodies 
finally catching up with our souls.

*****

The sun is setting out across the Atlantic, bleeding the last 
of its rays over the churning waves below it.  I am standing 
on the beach, a beach familiar from my boyhood, a place of 
solitude and solace, a place I used to run to free myself 
from the oppressive silences of my home.  I turn, and I see 
my father's house looming above me, its long open porch 
beckoning to me in silent invitation.  It is wrong how close 
this house is to the beach, and I realize I am dreaming once 
more.  But the wind feels gentle on my face, and my heart 
is at peace, and so I walk toward the house, knowing who 
waits there for me.

My father sits on the porch.  He looks younger than I 
remember him ever looking, and he glances up at me as I 
mount the steps.  A sunflower seed is lodged in the crook 
of his jaw, and the familiar cracking sound that I recall 
from my childhood splinters the space between us.  He rolls 
the seed onto his tongue and spits the shell into his hand.   
His face breaks into an uncharacteristic grin.

// Son.  Have a seat. //

I do, and I move to pick up one of the seeds in the pile on 
the table before us.  He watches me as I tumble it over my 
fingers and into my palm, the black and white markings 
winking at me.

// Not everything is black and white, is it, Fox? //

I look at him, hearing the words in my head, not sure if he 
actually spoke them aloud.  He holds up his own seed, 
regarding it with great solemnity.

// Look at this tiny thing.  From such a small start, 
something as grand and as beautiful as a sunflower grows.  
Did you know that they always turn their blooms to face 
the sun?  That they are always seeking the light? //

I shake my head at him.

He turns his gaze from the seed to my face, and his eyes are 
bright and wise.  //You have begun something now, Fox.  
You have planted the seed.  Nourish it.  Let it grow, and it 
will make your life beautiful. //

He presses his seed into the palm of my hand, joining the 
other one nestled there, and I feel the sharpness of them as 
they prick my skin.  It hurts just a little, this gift, but the 
pain is brief, and I know that it is worthwhile.  

I can hear Scully calling my name, softly, from somewhere 
else.  I lift my eyes from my father's hand.

"Mulder, you need to move."
 
Something beneath me jostles my head, and I raise it, 
opening my eyes at the same time.  I blink at Scully's face 
above me.  Her eyes are amused behind her glasses, and 
she holds a paperback in one hand, her finger tucked inside, 
marking her place.  She is dressed in satin pajamas the 
color of butter, and in the hollow of her throat, her cross 
necklace catches the diffused light from the bedside lamp.  

"I'm sorry to wake you, Mulder, but you need to move.  
You're putting my legs to sleep."

I push myself up from my spot in the warmth of her lap.  I 
am lying across my bed, wearing nothing but a pair of 
flannel pajama pants, and I rub my eyes, trying to gather 
my thoughts.

"I'm sorry, Scully.  When did I fall asleep?"

"About halfway through Jeopardy.  You looked so sweet, I 
didn't want to wake you.  I just turned the TV off and 
picked up my book."

"What are you reading?"

She hands me the book as she removes her glasses, tucking 
them into their case and putting them on the nightstand.  I 
press my fingers into my eyes once more and read the title:  
'The Mastery of Love: A Practical Guide to the Art of 
Relationships.'  I chuckle low in my throat.

"Do you really think you need this, Scully?"

She shrugs, her face lit by a tiny smile.  "I don't see how it 
could hurt.  It was something I picked up out in Indiana.  I 
thought maybe it had a message for me."

I toss the book aside and gather her into my arms.  She is 
compact and silky and oh so warm, and I smile into her hair 
as she burrows her face into its favorite place under my 
chin.  "I think we received all our messages loud and 
clear," I tell her, breathing in the perfume that is hers alone.

She tilts her head up to look at me, and the blue of her eyes 
is hypnotic.  "I can't believe I almost let this go," she 
whispers.

I stroke her face with the pads of my thumbs and feel her 
give just a little bit more into my embrace.  "It doesn't 
matter now, Scully.  We've made a new start.  And it's 
going to be beautiful."

She smiles at me, and the light of it fills me up, pushing all 
the breath out of my chest in a delicious surge.  "It already 
is, Mulder."

She's right.  It's beautiful and a little scary, but it is right.  
We are where we are supposed to be, where we need to be, 
in the place within each other that we were always meant to 
fill. 

And now that we are together, we will never let go.


END

AVALON'S NOTES: Thanks for reading! I can't begin to describe
what a joy it was working with Marie.  She is one of the most
giving, loving, supportive people I have ever had the pleasure
of meeting.  And her lyrical writing is such an inspiration to 
me...it has been one fun ride!

The poem that Teena Mulder reads aloud in her son's dream is 
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," by the ultimate poet, 
T.S. Eliot.  

Camp Chesterfield is a real place, situated in the very real, 
albeit small, town of Chesterfield, Indiana.  Spiritualism is 
a real, vital religion...I should know.  I am a Spiritualist
minister, and I was trained at the Camp.  If you are interested
in learning more about after-death communication or Spiritualism,
you can hit my website, which links to my church.  Or you can 
check out Camp Chesterfield on the web:

www.campchesterfield.net

My web address, which houses all my fiction: 

http://home.fuse.net/ktvanden/index.html

MARIE'S NOTES:  Avalon, you had me at "Hello"! Truly, it has been 
an incredible joy to create this story along with you. Thank you 
for your spirit, in so many ways!


Feedback: More welcomed than a message from Beyond!
avalon@fuse.net
joemimi@prodigy.net

Many Thank You's to Georgia for her beta expertise and 
enduring kindness.
Also, to IWTB for arranging our Blind Date. We promise 
an invitation to the Wedding!
-- 

  "It is better to die on your feet than live on your knees." 
			--Delores Ibarruri



   Like the X-Files?  Check out my fanfiction page:
	http://home.fuse.net/ktvanden/index.html