Date finished: 10/31/99
Rated: PG
Category: / Keywords: Unabashed MSR! Angst, angst, and more angst. Happy ending, though. :)
Archive: Archive freely. Tell me where, and receive a reciprocal link as your free gift!
Feedback: absolutely drooled over at foxsong@earthlink.net
Author's Notes: A big Thank-You! goes out to my usual cohorts -- my 'official' beta Char Chaffin, my 'de-facto' beta MaybeAmanda, and Alison, the president of my fan club. [g]
Disclaimer: The X-Files and the characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, et. al. are the property of Ten Thirteen and Fox, who may never have the guts to face the 'ship the way I am doing here. See? It's their fault. *They* made me do it. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: In the face of apparent death, Scully and Mulder confess their feelings. Is it possible to backtrack into denial after you've given it all up? And if it's not... then how do you live with it?

Mulder and I were waiting to board our flight from London back to Washington. We sat next to each other on those odd plastic seats that are indented in what someone supposed was the shape of human buttocks. For years I'd wondered every time we'd waited like this in some airport who they were modeled after. It sure wasn't either of us.

Mulder was absently, incessantly eating sunflower seeds. He dropped the empty shells into the little paper bag from the concession stand and reached in to fish out more from the cellophane bag. I didn't look over at him. I didn't have to. In my peripheral vision I watched the constant repetitive motion of his hand from the bag to his mouth and back again. It was familiar, almost soothing, like the refrain of an old, well-loved song playing in the background.

I mulled over again in my mind the events of the past three weeks. It had happened so quickly once it had been set into motion - as if we had finally nudged the right domino, and they had all tumbled down, one after another, till not one was left standing. Mulder and I were the only people who could have understood what was happening, the only ones with the background and the knowledge to make sense of the events as they unfolded. We were in precisely the right place at precisely the right time, and it all fell right into our hands.

It was, Mulder had said, enough to make a man believe in God. From the tone of his voice I knew that for once in his life he wasn't being even a little facetious.

I watched a young woman sitting across from us playing with her little boy, who was just learning to walk. She would hold his hands and steady him, letting him take a few precarious, wobbly steps, and she'd ease him down when he teetered, giggling, and sat down all at once on the floor. Then she would laugh with him, and set him on his little feet again, and begin all over.

I remembered once again all that this great quest, this crusade, had cost me. I would never have a child like that of my own. I had lost my sister... Mulder had lost his father. But now we had our answers. We had paid for them in blood, but even now the dust was settling over the last battlefield, and all the old secrets lay exposed in the blinding sunlight of the truth.

We were on our way back to Washington with C.G.B. Spender's body under heavily armed guard in the hold of the plane.

When our flight was called we boarded in silence, filing with the long row of passengers all the way back to the tail section of the plane. "Coach, Mulder?" I had asked disdainfully when he booked the flight. "I thought you might want to go first class to celebrate."

"After the reaming I took for our last expense account? No, Scully," he'd said, "I thought I'd rather prove that I can not only save the world, but I can do it in a cost-efficient manner. Your tax dollars at work."

I watched the young mother settle her little boy in just a few seats over from us. Once we were aloft, Mulder laid his head back against the seat with a great sigh, and closed his eyes. I watched the world fade away outside the window.

Perhaps an hour later Mulder shifted restlessly beside me and lifted his head. I saw the nervous way he looked around, and I said, "It's been very quiet, Mulder. Nothing's happened."

He smiled a little - the first time I'd seen him try to smile in days. "Poltergeists and liver-eating mutants are going to seem anticlimactic after this, Scully."

"I know," I nodded, and smiled with him. We were quiet again.

"I can't believe it's over - that we really have our answers now," he murmured after a moment.

I reached over and took his hand. "I'm sorry it wasn't the answer you wanted about Samantha," I said softly.

He looked down and swallowed hard before he replied. "But at least I know, now. ...At least I finally *know*." He squeezed my hand and then let it go, and we went back to our private thoughts.

At length I yawned, and Mulder turned toward me again. "You should try to take a nap," he said. "How many days has it been since you've really had enough sleep?"

"You know I hate to sleep on planes," I muttered. I knew he was right, but it was hard to let down my guard, even though I knew I could now. Mulder got a pillow for me from the flight attendant.

"Relax, Scully," he said gently, pushing the pillow around, trying to help me get comfortable. "It's over now."

"It *is* over," I agreed, closing my eyes. "We both saw it."

"We both saw it," he echoed, his voice wary, as if he expected me to take back my own words and contradict him. I just nodded my head against the pillow, and I heard him sigh. Ý

Ý ***** Ý

I startled awake with a gasp, jolted back to awareness by the sudden bouncing of the plane. "Turbulence, Scully. It's okay," Mulder said soothingly. It was over in just a moment. I let out a long breath and settled back against my pillow.

A few minutes later the plane shuddered again. This time I had the distinct impression that it hadn't felt like any ordinary turbulence. I told myself it was just my nerves, that I'd been through too much these past few weeks, that I'd been stretched too thin, but I sat up. There was no way I was going to be able to sleep through it.

With the third lurch, I heard people begin murmuring uneasily among themselves. The little boy I'd seen in the airport started to cry, and his mother gathered him up in her arms and hushed him. A man called the flight attendant over; I heard her say, "I'll go up and ask the captain about it right now, sir." She went briskly away up the aisle.

"No seasoned flyers back here, huh?" Mulder asked idly.

I shook my head. "I guess not," I said, and Mulder must have heard something in my tone, because he turned a searching gaze on me.

He leaned toward me and spoke in a low voice, so as not to be overheard. "Scully? ...Do *you* think something's wrong?"

I shook my head impatiently. "No. No. It's just my nerves, that's all. It's been a trying few weeks, you know."

He nodded. I could tell he didn't believe me. He was a person who trusted instincts, and he extended that trust to mine as well as his own. I think he was waiting for me to elaborate, but I didn't, and he turned and sat straight in his seat again.

I stared out the window at the darkening evening sky. I was sure I felt an odd, subtle vibration running through the plane. I did my best to ignore it.

The stewardess came back in another few minutes and made the typical announcement that we were experiencing a little turbulence, ladies and gentlemen, and that all passengers were advised to remain seated with their seat belts fastened until we'd come through it. So Mulder and I buckled our belts around our hips and lapsed back into silence.

The plane's jostling had leveled out, but I still couldn't help thinking something felt strange. It reminded me of the feeling of driving a car over gravel instead of pavement - I almost wanted to listen for the sound of the little stones crunching beneath our tires.

Perhaps another fifteen minutes passed uneventfully. Then, suddenly, the plane made a short, abrupt drop, bucked a little, and steadied; the lights flickered a few times and then dimmed noticeably. I was thoroughly unnerved by now, and I knew Mulder could tell, although I'd said nothing. He leaned closer to me and laid his hand on my shoulder.

"I'm going to go see if I can find out what's going on," he said near my ear, and squeezed my shoulder reassuringly. He unbuckled his seat belt and stood up and walked over to the flight attendant. He inclined his head; eight years of reading his body language told me he was asking her something. She eased away half a step, shaking her head, but Mulder pressed forward just that little bit more, reaching into his pocket and taking out his identification. I watched the woman waver and then give in. She turned and went up the aisle with Mulder at her heels.

He was gone for a long time. A full twenty-five minutes had passed when I saw him coming back down the aisle toward me. I thought his gait was a little odd, considering the momentary lull in the turbulence; he didn't quite seem to be looking where he was going. He found our row of seats and slipped in to sit beside me, and without a word reached out and took my hand, clasping it in both of his, staring fixedly down at it.

My unease was growing by the moment. "Mulder...?"

His mouth opened and closed again. On the second try, he faltered, "Scully - the plane is... There's something wrong with the plane."

"Mulder," I began, a little sharply. I was about to tell him to cut it out, that he knew I was a nervous flyer to begin with, that this was anything but funny. Then he looked up and met my eyes.

He meant it. Dear God, he meant it.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he whispered. "I'm so sorry." He dropped his gaze again, and I thought I felt the slightest trembling in his hands on mine.

I said the first thing that came into my head. "It's not your fault, Mulder. ...I mean - "

He nodded. "I know." He took a deep breath, and I saw him gathering himself; his voice was low and steady when he went on.

"We're losing altitude and losing power," he began. "They think it started in the electrical system, but they haven't been able to isolate it." He was calm again, and I had the eerie feeling he was just describing another case, but it was belied by the now-constant rumbling of the plane all around us.

"They've managed to get word ahead to Washington, and there are rescue and - " he stumbled - "recovery crews coming out on our trajectory. But we're still over an hour out, and they don't think they can keep us up that long. They're just trying to stay on course now, so - so that the other planes can..."

"...can find us after we've gone down," I breathed, finishing his sentence. He nodded dully, still absently stroking my hand.

I had no idea what to say, and neither, it seemed, did Mulder. I reached out and laid my other hand over his; I leaned toward him, and he leaned forward to meet me. We sat like that for a little while, our hands clasped, our foreheads together. The vibration of the airplane was noticeable now, and I heard a constant low murmur of voices as people became more concerned. At length the intercom came alive with a short whistle of feedback.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Simonson." The voices around us fell silent to listen.

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but it wouldn't be right not to let you know." The captain spoke with a gentle Southern accent, the sadness and regret in his voice almost palpable.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're having... mechanical problems with this aircraft. We're several thousand feet lower than we should be, but there's just not enough power left to bring her back up. We are heading straight for our destination, and we're in radio contact with... with the rescue craft which are heading our way."

There was a long pause, but everyone around us was silent. I leaned my head against Mulder's, and his hand crept up my forearm, patting soothingly.

"Folks..." the captain continued, his voice thick, "I want you to know we're doing everything we can to bring this bird home. But I wouldn't be telling you the truth if I told you it looked good. ...I'm sorry, and I'll keep you informed as we go." The intercom crackled and was still.

I raised my head to look around. The people seemed stunned into a strange kind of calmness; some were, as Mulder and I were, holding hands; many were staring, unseeing, straight ahead. The woman to Mulder's left had taken a rosary out of her purse and was fingering the beads, her lips moving in silent prayer. I looked up and saw that poor mother rocking her little sleeping child, cradling him against her breast, tears streaming down her face. I couldn't bear to watch her. I turned back to Mulder and pressed my face against his shoulder, and he laid his hand on my head, slowly stroking my hair.

Amazingly, Mulder chuckled. I raised my head and he smiled sadly at me.

"We must have gotten it right this time," he mused, still smoothing my hair with his fingers.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he murmured, "think of all the times we should've both been dead. And we kept coming back. We must have had more work to do." His fingertips played along my cheek, infinitely tender. He smiled ruefully and shook his head. "Now the mystery is solved. Now the gods are finished with us."

I looked into those clear hazel eyes, wishing I'd spent more time looking into them over all these years. There were secrets there that now I'd never learn.

"Mulder... do you believe in God?"

He lowered his eyes. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I always wanted to. And I've tried. ... I envy your faith sometimes, but I just haven't been able to find my answers there. Faith by its very definition offers no proof." He sighed and shook his head. "And I needed proof. ... So, somehow, I've come to rely on your belief to have the power to carry us both."

I felt tears stinging my eyes. I twined one arm around his neck and pulled him closer; he laid his head down on my shoulder. I had never done this often enough, and now I was sorry.

"Scully," he said, "I wish I'd tried harder to talk you into taking that earlier flight, and getting the body back by yourself while I took care of the loose ends. Then it would only be me up here."

"Don't be silly," I said quickly. "I couldn't leave you alone there - not after what we'd done. Don't think that way. It doesn't matter now."

"But, Scully," he protested, raising his head, "I'm done. Look at me. I've got almost everything I've ever wanted - the thing I've spent my whole life trying to find. I can go. But this - this wasn't your quest. You have so much more to live for."

My heart was breaking. Without thinking, I blurted out, "No, I don't. Not without you."

His eyes widened.

"Mulder," I blundered on, "I love you. I should have said so. I'm so sorry." I was starting to cry. "I always told myself there'd be a time and a place to tell you, and this is no place, but there *is* no more time." I choked back a sob. I couldn't go on. "I love you..."

He pulled me into his arms; I clung to him, tucked my face into the hollow of his throat. "Scully," he murmured, his voice full of awe. "Oh, Scully, oh, my love - Scully..." He let go of me, took my face between his hands, kissed my forehead, kissed the tears from my cheeks. "Scully. Dana. I love you - I've loved you for so long. Oh, Scully..."

I closed my eyes as his mouth came down to cover mine. The kiss I'd dreamed of - the kisses I had promised myself, over and over, that I would have someday... The sweetest kiss I'd ever known, sweeter still for the knowledge that these first kisses were also the last.

When he lifted his head he was smiling. "Say it again," he whispered.

"I love you, Mulder. ... I've always loved you." I touched his face, caressing it, memorizing it. "I'll always love you. Always."

His smile broadened to a grin. "Now I have everything, Scully. *Everything*." He pulled me close again. "Let me hold you..."

I realized all at once that the plane was groaning and shuddering all around us now. The lights were dim and faltering; people were crying out, sobbing and screaming.

"Don't let go," I cried to Mulder over the din.

"I won't let go," he answered. "I'll never let go again."

The plane bucked violently one last time, and then pitched forward and rolled into a sickeningly steep descent. The lights flickered and died. The last thing I was aware of was Mulder's arm around my shoulders, holding me tight against him, and the way I clung to his other hand with both of my own.

2

There were no dreams where I was.

I drifted, languid and at ease, not even thinking. I never wondered where I was, or even *what* I was; none of these things mattered anymore. It was enough simply to be.

Sometimes I had a vague knowledge of how I'd come here; sometimes I remembered that I hadn't been alone, and although I had no eyes to see, no hands to reach out, I knew I wasn't alone now. There were others nearby, watching, guarding. I wasn't even curious. Time was meaningless, and I could wait.

I remembered, sometimes, and I wondered how long it would take to forget I'd ever had a body at all, now that I had no need of one. It didn't matter. I was content to drift...

There were sounds, finally, faraway sounds that might have been voices. I formed my first conscious thought: *They've come to meet me.* I waited; I could do nothing more.

They came closer; I recognized the pattern of the sounds and the pauses as speech. I wondered lazily whether it would be Missy, or Ahab... wondered who had come for me. And with a pang I realized the voice was my mother's.

This rush of sorrow was the first emotion I'd felt. Mom. Why was *she* here? What had happened to her?

She was saying my name. I heard my name. And then I heard her say, "I think she's waking up."

"I'll get the doctor," a stranger said, and I found that I still had eyes after all, and I opened them.

I had eyes - and they saw the hospital room. I felt the weight of my body on the bed, became aware of the dull ache that spread throughout it. I blinked at the light and tried to move my mouth, to speak, but could only let out a puff of breath.

"It's all right, Dana," my mother was saying, leaning over me, stroking my forehead. "It's okay. Don't try to talk yet, honey. It's okay." She was smiling, even though her eyes glistened with tears.

More voices. The lights grew brighter. Strangers' faces came into view; doctors and nurses. My mouth was dry, my throat sore; I couldn't speak. Suddenly I was so tired... I closed my eyes again, and this time I recognized the drift into sleep.

*****  

When I woke again, I turned my head on the pillow and saw my mother sitting, book in hand, in a chair beside my bed. "Mom," I breathed.

"Dana," she said, looking up. She hurriedly set down the book and rose to lean over me. "Dana. ...How do you feel, honey?" She reached out to caress my forehead.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out; I supposed I'd been intubated - my throat was certainly sore enough. So I nodded and tried to smile a little for her.

"Oh, Dana, we were so worried. First we heard about the plane, and then that a few people had been rescued - oh, Dana, I'm so glad..."

I wanted to bring my hand up to hold hers, but I couldn't move my arm. She must have seen the sudden fear in my eyes; she looked down at my arm, and then reached toward my wrist. I heard the tear of Velcro - and my arm was free. I sighed in relief and slowly flexed it.

"You were so restless, honey. They were afraid you'd hurt yourself." She sat down on the edge of the bed, holding my hand in hers.

I still couldn't form words well enough to ask the hundred questions that were boiling in my mind, but I managed to whisper one word to convey the most pressing: "Mulder."

The clasp of my mother's hand became tighter. "He saved you, Dana. He saved your life." Tears filled her eyes as she spoke.

"He was still conscious when they found you, Dana. Your seat was all the way under the water, but he must have gotten your seat belt off and pulled you out. He was holding your head above the water when they found him." The tears overflowed her eyes, and spilled down her cheeks; seeing this, I assumed the worst.

Oh, Mulder. My Mulder. As if I didn't owe you enough. I owe you this one last one, now.

Her tone became apologetic. "There was - they said there was a lot of fuel spilled, floating on the water, and it caught on fire... He was burned quite a lot worse than you were, honey."

Poor Mulder. Oh, poor Mulder. And you were afraid of fire... Maybe it would have been better if I'd never awakened. I closed my eyes again.

"So, honey," my mother went on, gently, "he's down in the burn unit, and the doctors say it's going to take a long time..."

My eyes flew open. Burn unit...! Then he was - I struggled to speak, and produced a rusty croak. "Want to see him."

"Oh, honey, you can't. Neither of you can be moved yet. I'm sorry." She stroked my hand soothingly. "I go to see him every day, Dana. I'll tell him anything you want to say to him."

I frowned. "I want... to talk to - his doctors," I gritted, and even through her tears, my mother began to laugh.

"Oh, Dana. I'll get them to come up as soon as I can. Oh, Dana, you're really back." She leaned down to kiss my forehead.

"Honey, you were the first one Fox asked for when he woke up. He was so happy when I told him you were going to be okay. I wish you could have seen how happy he was.

"He said to tell you he sends you his love."

***** 

As the weeks went by and I grew stronger, I learned more about what had happened to me. I was encased in casts from my hips to my toes; my pelvis was fractured, and my nearly-shattered lower legs were held together with a truly impressive array of pins and screws and plates.

When they brought the x-rays, I held them up, one by one, studying them. I let out a long, low whistle. "Nice work."

The surgeon chuckled. "Coming from another doctor, that's a compliment."

"How many hours did it take to put me back together?"

"Four," he said, "and only because you were in such excellent condition before you were injured, and we were lucky enough to be able to do it in that one shot. You may need more surgeries further down the line, but I expect that you'll be able to walk without too much difficulty when it's all done."

I'd had a pretty good concussion, which accounted for my lack of memory of the accident (as we came to call it) itself. I had mild second-degree burns across the back of my neck and down my left shoulder; a good deal of my hair had been singed and had been hacked off rather haphazardly when I'd been brought into the hospital. As soon as I could be propped up just a little in my bed, my mother made a few phone calls, and brought down Mary Anne, who always did my hair. She did the best she could, given what she had to work with - a short, layered, waifish cut, far too young for the haunted eyes that stared back from the mirror my mother held up for me.

I tried to be grateful. "My roots are starting to show," I said, attempting humor, and Mary Anne smiled.

"I can only do so much here, Dana," she said laughingly. "I don't think they'll appreciate it if I start whipping out the Miss Clairol."

*****  

My mother told me that, as near as they could figure, Mulder must have had my left arm thrown over his shoulder, holding me up out of the water, until the flames came; then he must have lowered me as far as he could below the surface, using his own body to shield me. He'd sustained second- and third-degree burns to his right shoulder and arm and hand, to the back of his neck - over nine percent of his body. I knew how serious it was, but his doctors assured me over and over that so far the signs were positive, that he was a cooperative patient, that he was a fighter.

Some piece of debris had struck his face and injured his right eye as well. The doctors had not been able to do all they would have liked for it; the burn wounds had necessarily been their most urgent priority. When Mulder's condition had been stabilized enough for them to turn back to his eye, they found the damage was more extensive than they had originally thought. Although they had saved the eye, they held out little hope that he would have sight in it.

I couldn't see him. I couldn't even talk to him on the phone - he was on so much morphine that he could only manage a few drowsy words every time we tried. My mother visited him every day. "After all, he has no family of his own anymore, Dana," she'd said, "and besides, if he hadn't - if he hadn't..." and she spread her hands apart helplessly, looking me up and down.

It works both ways, I thought, watching her. If he hadn't pulled me out of that plane seat, I wouldn't be here. But - and I hated myself for thinking it, but I couldn't help it - if he hadn't captured my imagination eight years earlier with his impossible tilting at windmills, I wouldn't be here, either. I might still have some semblance of a real life.

Oh, yes - I chose to follow. I never once failed to acknowledge that I walked this path of my own free will. And yet... and yet... Still, somewhere inside, I carefully nurtured a little nugget of resentment. And I had never been able to tell whether it was directed at Mulder, or at myself.

*****

Skinner was very thorough, if very discreet, in his investigation of the accident. He made sure that what was left of Spender's body was recovered from the wreckage, and brought me the dental x-rays so that I could double-check them myself. It was a testament to my faith in the work that Mulder and I had done that, when he asked me whether I thought the plane might have been sabotaged by someone we'd missed, my only reaction was a blank stare of disbelief - almost of scorn.

Still, the question stayed with me, and when Frohike and Byers and Langly came to see me, I asked them what they had heard.

"In truth, Agent Scully, that was the first thing we thought of," Frohike said earnestly, leaning still further toward me until I thought he might topple right off the front edge of his chair. I glanced again at the absurdly large floral arrangement he'd brought me.

"But we couldn't find a thing - not a thing," Byers interjected, "and, believe me, we looked everywhere, from the minute we knew it was your plane that was about to go down."

My eyes narrowed. "How did you know we were on that flight?"

"Oh, come on, Scully," Langly smiled. " 'George Hale'? And 'Katherine Melville'? We do keep tabs on you, you know. And those weren't very original aliases. You should ask us for a few the next time you're traveling incognito."

I shook my head and sighed in something between amazement and annoyance. "I won't be going anywhere for a while. But I'll keep it in mind."

*****

  Apparently, Flight 404 had been brought down by nothing more sinister than good old-fashioned mechanical failure. I asked the Lone Gunmen for newspaper clippings about it; I couldn't bring myself to ask my family to do it.

Of the four hundred and fifteen passengers and fourteen crew, thirty people had been pulled alive from the wreckage, all from the tail section. It had been the only part of the plane not to break up, and the last to sink into the ocean; Mulder's attempt to economize had saved both our lives. Of those thirty, eleven had survived.

One of the survivors was a little child, who'd come through without even a scratch, with only a few bruises. The media quickly dubbed him the "miracle baby" and told how he had been returned to his waiting father. I hoped fervently that he was the toddler I'd seen at the airport and on the flight, and immediately felt guilty for perhaps wishing death upon some other child.

  *****

Three weeks after the accident, Mulder was transferred to the National Rehabilitation Hospital's excellent burn unit to begin the skin grafts and reconstructive surgery he needed. At the same time, I was sent home to my mother's and, when I had been there two weeks, the first of my casts came off. I went to physical therapy every day; I was taught to use a walker. Mulder and I had still not laid eyes on each other since the accident.

3

It would have gone very differently, I think, if we'd been able to see each other right away after the accident. As it was, it was almost a month before Mulder could even manage the phone, and then he went to National Rehab; by then, I was at my mother's, as I couldn't take care of myself yet. A month and a half after that, when I began using a walker instead of the wheelchair, she and I both moved into my apartment, and I began working half-days, squaring away the last loose ends of what had been the X-Files. Eight weeks had gone by when I finally hobbled out on the walker and got into the car with my mother to visit Mulder for the first time.

I stared out the window, watching the scenery, listening to the radio, lost in my thoughts. At length my mother reached out and turned the radio down.

"You're awfully quiet, Dana," she said. "You're not nervous, are you?"

"To see Mulder?" I said dismissively, smiling. "Of course not." I was lying. My stomach was already a tight knot below my breastbone. I hadn't even been this nervous the very first time I raised my hand to knock at the door of his office.

What would I say to him? What in the world would I say? Our phone conversations hadn't been exactly scintillating - we'd stuck to the safe topics. Who'd had the most recent surgery. Whose rehab was going better. The latest outlook from the doctors. We'd been able to skirt the subject of the accident almost completely; the closest we'd come to talking about it was when I told him how careful Skinner had been to recover and identify Spender's remains. A real conversation was a scary thought - especially in light of the way he'd taken to calling me 'Dana' as often as he did 'Scully' the last few times we'd spoken.

He was waiting for us, and he came out of the front doors and met us halfway down the sunny walkway. His right arm was swathed in bandages and held in a sling. He reached out first to my mother and gave her a hug. "Margaret," he said warmly. "It's so good to see you."

"You too, Fox," she returned, hugging him as if he'd been one of my brothers. I blinked. Since when did he call my mother by her first name? But I had no time to wonder, because he was turning to me, reaching out with his good arm . The expression that suffused his features was one of pure joy.

"Scully," he said, as if he could hardly believe it. I fumbled my walker to the side, and he stepped up to me and pulled me close against him. I wrapped my arms around him. Mulder... How could I have been nervous? This was perfect. This was where I belonged. This was home.

His hand stroked my back; he bent his head, and his lips grazed my temple and then my ear. "Dana," he whispered, and all at once it was too much - he was too close; I felt constrained, confined. He must have felt me stiffen in his embrace, for he lifted his head and looked questioningly down at me.

"Mulder, I..."

His smile returned, and he nodded. "It's okay," he said gently. "Here. Can you lean on me?" He turned back toward the hospital doors, his arm still around my shoulders.

"I think so. Yes." I wound one arm around his waist, and we went slowly up the path together. My mother had sized up the situation, and folded up my walker, and was carrying it as she walked beside us.

Mulder wisely steered me toward the wheelchair ramp rather than trying the steps. We made our way to a courtyard garden, where I gratefully sank down onto a chair. He pulled another chair up close to mine and sat down. I looked over at him and found myself tongue-tied.

He looked at me - just looked at me, with that funny little smile on his face, for what felt like the longest time. "Your hair's so short," he said at last.

I wrinkled my nose in distaste. "This was about all that was left of it, after the - " ...fire, I thought. I couldn't say it.

"Now, Dana, I think it's flattering," my mother chided. "Don't you, Fox?"

"It's cute," he agreed, lifting his hand and ruffling it good-naturedly with his fingers. "But I think it's shorter than mine."

This non-conversation was excruciating. "How's your eye?" I asked him.

He shrugged. "As good as it's going to get, they say." I leaned forward, and he turned his face to me so that I could see. I hesitated a moment before I took his chin in my hand and looked carefully at the eye. I saw the little scar over his right eyebrow.

"How much can you see?"

"Light. Shadow. On a sunny day like this, anyway - inside, or at night, nothing." The tone of his voice was light, belying the gravity of the words.

"You don't even sound like you mind," I marveled, and he smiled again, and took my hand.

"Mind?" he asked. "I have my life. I have the answers I would have thrown it away to find. ...I have *you,* Dana." He raised my hand to his lips and placed the very softest kiss on the back of it. "I don't think this is much of a price to pay."

I was speechless. I knew I was blushing. Mercifully, my mother stepped into the awkward pause. "Fox, have you spoken to Mr. Skinner yet about going back to work?"

I sat back in my chair and let out a long breath as he released my hand and turned toward her. Work. Work was safe. I could talk about work.

"I just spoke with him this morning, in fact," Mulder said. "We were discussing the possibility of my going back to Behavioral Sciences and profiling again. I mean..." and he looked meaningfully at me, "there aren't any X-Files anymore. And I can't go out into the field, like... this."

I nodded. "I'm going to end up back in Forensics."

"Teaching again?" he asked. "Going back to Quantico?"

"No... no, there's an opening for a pathologist. Apparently somebody's retiring in the fall."

He broke into that grin again. "We'll still be in the same building."

"And you'll feel right at home, because you'll still be in the basement." His smile was infectious; I was beginning to smile myself.

"We can have lunch together in the always-elegant Bureau cafeteria." He reached for my hand again, and this time I held it out to him.

"And I can continue to nag you about your execrable eating habits." I chucked in relief. The banter made me feel normal again; for a moment I almost forgot...

My mother smiled and shook her head. "You two," she laughed. "You haven't changed, either of you."

Oh, but she was wrong. Even sitting out there in the warm sunshine, her words sent a chill through me. Did I actually shiver? Perhaps I did - Mulder squeezed my hand, and a shadow fleeted across his features as he watched me.

She was so very wrong. I had hardly begun to find out how wrong she was.

4

The folk tales are true: the wronged dead do speak to us, crying out for justice. The forensic pathologist is the interpreter who understands their speech, who gives them voices so that they may bear witness from beyond the grave against those who have committed this final crime against them.

I fell naturally back into this role, remembering afresh every time I pulled on a pair of examination gloves why it had fascinated me in the first place. The human body maps its travels, records the experiences of living in its very flesh and bone. The story of its life - and of its death - is written eloquently there, waiting only to be read by someone who has learned the language.

I hadn't forgotten that language, but at first I felt rusty, as if from the long dearth of these constant conversations with the dead. Day by day I stretched and strengthened my mind in the lab, just as I stretched and strengthened my body in the physical therapy at the clinic.

I had been strong before the accident, and now I was consumed by the need to be stronger still. My therapists didn't say it often, but I could see on their faces how surprised they were at the rapidity of my progress. I worked incessantly - sometimes far into the evening, there in my old bedroom in my mother's home, while I was still staying there. Even when I knew I had already done enough, I went on. It was easier to still my mind in the familiar, comforting ache of the exercises than it was to let my thoughts wander. Whenever I let my mind roam, sooner or later it came back to him. Sooner or later I would remember that I had laid my last card on the table. I would remember that he knew.

I had to think hard to remember a time when I hadn't known he was in love with me. Over the years he had told me every day, although he had only spoken the words once. He had held that door open and given me every opportunity to step through it, but I had balked. He poured himself so completely into everything he did, and I knew that he would be no different with me. I was frightened to think of having that intensity turned on me. I knew he would teach me things about myself that I wasn't sure I wanted to learn. I swallowed my feelings and did my best to turn an indifferent shoulder toward him, but I don't think he was ever really fooled.

I came to simply expect him to be there, knowing there was nothing I could do to lose him, nothing I need do to keep him. I took him for granted in the worst way. He became part of my territory -a feature on the landscape, part of the scenery; that big rock down by the pond, the hundred-year-old tree out behind the shed... just another thing I'd never notice until something happened, and it was gone. On that falling plane I'd seen the tree uprooted, the great stone shifted; seeing it, I had cried out... and now he knew.

He knew. I felt naked before him when he looked at me - when I read the knowledge in his eyes. He had stopped speaking aloud about it, but his eyes told me he had not forgotten, would not forget. He knew, and I had nowhere at all to hide.

*****

When Mulder was released from the hospital, my mother insisted that we pick him up and drive him home.

I protested briefly. "Mom, they have a transportation service. Besides, it's a long drive. I'm not sure I can sit in the car all that time."

"You've sat for it every weekend with me, honey. You can stretch your legs when we get there. It's not *that* much farther to where Fox lives, and it'll really make it a nice homecoming for him."

I couldn't tell her that what was bothering me more was the idea that, when we got there, we would probably go into his apartment and stay a little while. The hallway outside his apartment was haunted now, after we'd... after I'd kissed him on the plane. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to hobble down that hallway fast enough to evade the ghosts.

On the way to the hospital, I stared glumly out the window. That kiss just wouldn't go away. I couldn't remember the accident itself, which I thought was just as well, but I couldn't get over the way his lips had felt against mine. More often than I wanted to admit, I startled awake at night, and turned on the light, and pressed my hand to my mouth, trying to forget.

Mulder didn't have much to bring home. An orderly was nice enough to put his suitcase into the car trunk, and then, after he'd said a long and fond goodbye to the nurses and therapists who had come to see him off, we got into the car and headed for Arlington.

I had given Mulder the front seat, preferring to sit behind him and stretch my legs out along the back seat. He and my mother chatted companionably for a few miles; I wasn't paying much attention to what they were saying - I found myself studying his profile whenever he turned to look out the window, knowing I could stare as long as I wanted, because I was on his blind side, and he wouldn't know.

His blind side. My poor Mulder...

"Mulder," I said, just to stop thinking that way, "what do you have set up in the way of home care? You can't change those bandages by yourself..."

"It's all taken care of," he said with a chuckle.

The tone of his voice puzzled me. "Who do you have? Did you check out the Visiting Nurses, like I told you to?"

He just shook his head and laughed a little again. "I won't spoil the surprise, Scully. You'll see when we get there."

I frowned to myself. I couldn't see the humor in home nursing care. I had been lucky enough to have my mother, but Mulder was all alone now, and... I quelled the unbidden thought that he didn't *have* to be, if I could - if I could just...

When we pulled up in front of Mulder's building I saw the derelict VW bus a few parking places ahead of us. "Oh, no, Mulder," I said, understanding. "You can't mean... *This* is your home health care?"

He laughed aloud. "There they are, Dana." And, sure enough, there they were - all three of the Lone Gunmen, coming out to meet us.

The door opened next to me. "May I assist you, Agent Scully?"

"Thank you, Frohike," I sighed, swinging my legs out and taking his proffered hand. Langly had already retrieved my walker from the trunk and unfolded it, and Frohike set it in front of me. Byers had Mulder's suitcase. Our unlikely group slowly made its way up the sidewalk toward the front steps.

"Here, Scully," said Mulder. "Frohike, can you take the...?"

"Certainly, certainly." He took the walker from my hands. I put my arm around Mulder's waist and he helped me up the stairs. Langly held the front door open.

Mulder didn't seem to want to relinquish his hold on me. His arm remained firmly around my shoulder. When the elevator doors opened at the fourth floor, the rest of the group walked ahead of us down the hallway. The hallway - oh, God, the hallway, and his warmth, pressed against me...

He bent his head to kiss my hair - softly, just once. "I've missed you, Dana. It's good to be back."

I should have told him I'd missed him, too. "It'll be good to get back to normal," I said instead. I glanced up at him and thought I saw a faint shadow of hurt in his eyes.

"Welcome home!" Byers was calling from the open doorway. "All neat, clean, grocery-stocked, and guaranteed free of bugs both wired and *insectidae,* courtesy of the Lone Gunmen electronics, housekeeping, and home health care divisions."

"We didn't even kill any of your fish," Langly added.

"I don't know what to say," Mulder replied awkwardly. "I really appreciate everything. Thank you."

"Well, you did save the world. I suppose we can help you out till you can manage by yourself," Langly said dryly.

"I couldn't have done it without Scully here." He gave my shoulders a squeeze.

"Hear, hear!" Frohike chimed in.

My mother cleared her throat, and we all turned to look at her. "I think we should all sit down," she said, "and have some tea. I'll go put on the water."

Mulder set me carefully down on the sofa. "I'll come too, Margaret. I have to start learning to do things for myself, as much as I can." He glanced back at me and grinned. "Until your lovely daughter can get around well enough to wait on me, that is." And everyone laughed but me.

5

Mulder was able to come back to work as soon as he was released from National Rehab. One of the Gunmen dropped him off every morning, and another picked him up after work. He explained to me that they were taking turns spending the night, helping him with his complicated bandages and with whatever else he couldn't yet manage alone.

"Mulder, don't tell me you're making them sleep on your sofa!"

"They're driving my car, Scully," he said, laughing. "I think they've got a pretty good deal, considering. They're in no hurry to see me pass the vision test and get my driver's license back."

We did fall into the habit of having lunch together. At first, Mulder used to meet me - by chance, he said, but I knew better - and over the course of a few weeks it became routine, almost a ritual. I often found myself wondering, later in the afternoon, how it was that I should be so comfortable when I was with him, only to find that the thought of him knotted my stomach with anxiety when he wasn't there.

I knew it was partly because I never felt 'handicapped' with him, as I sometimes did with other people. "You don't have to rush, Scully," he would say, shortening his long stride to keep pace with me as I leaned on my cane. "We'll get there."

He seemed to feel the same way with me. "Can you get that? ... Wait - I'll do it," I would say over lunch when something required more dexterity than he had, still wrapped up as he was in those elaborate pressure bandages that were meant to prevent the worst of the scarring. He would watch patiently as I reached over and cut up the meat, or buttered the roll, or did whatever it was that had presented the problem.

"Thanks, Dana." It was never 'Scully' when I performed these little ministrations.

I always just shook my head. "Don't mention it."

I was amazed at what a good patient Mulder was. I never heard him express the least impatience with the bandages or the physical therapy. The Mulder of old would have been fidgeting and chafing at the restrictions placed on him, but this Mulder seemed almost serene.

I used to study him as he came down the long corridor toward me every day at lunchtime. He carried himself so differently now that I could no longer instantly pick him out of the crowd at a distance. There was a liveliness to his step, a lightness about him that I had never seen before. Was it just that the burdens he had carried for so long had finally been lifted? Weighed down as I found myself, I had no answer.

He smiled a lot. He laughed easily and often. The stories he told over lunch made me painfully aware that he had even acquired a social life - there were tales of parties with his new friends from the BSU, there were his opinions on the movies he'd seen; there was the impromptu Sunday softball game when he'd laughingly taken a left-handed glove and stationed himself out in right field - and luckily caught the one ball that came his way. He couldn't stop grinning as he told me about it on Monday.

'Aw, Scully, I felt like a kid again. I wish you'd been there." He ducked his head and shook it slowly, chuckling. "I even thought about it last night, waiting to fall asleep. ... It's such a simple thing, but I feel like it stands for something. Like another beginning. Like something bad is really, finally over."

I took my fork and pushed a stray piece of lettuce across my plate. "I'm happy for you, Mulder." The lettuce left a little trail of salad dressing behind it.

"You don't look happy, Scully."

"I - I'm fine, Mulder." It didn't come out as smoothly as I'd meant it to. I coughed a little to cover the catch in my voice, but when I looked up from my plate I could see that he wasn't buying it.

"Are you?" he asked quietly. "Are you really?"

I steeled myself and squarely met his gaze. "What makes you think I'm not?"

He licked his lips slowly. I could see him gathering his thoughts, weighing the words. A shaft of sunlight from the window caught the scar in his right eye and made it look all cloudy.

"You've changed, Scully," he finally said.

"And you haven't?" My heart began to beat faster. I felt the color rising in my cheeks. "Look in the mirror one day and see."

"On the inside." He was unshaken. Damn him and his profiling. I fixed him with my eyes, challenging him, mentally daring him to look away.

"Have you let yourself cry since the accident? ... Even once?"

Damn you, Mulder. *Damn* you. I was startled at his tactic, but I wasn't about to show him that. "What good does crying do?" I asked. "What would it change?" My voice sounded eerily calm, but there was a hard edge just below the surface.

"Look at it through my eyes," I went on. "You found Samantha. You vindicated your father in ways you couldn't even have dreamed of, and you gave your mother that peace of mind before she died. You have everything you wanted. You have every answer that you almost killed us both a hundred times over to find." I saw him wince as the shot went home.

"This wasn't my quest. I followed your Holy Grail. I was drawn in. I rested on your convictions, I took my strength from your beliefs. And now it's over - it's used me up and thrown me away." I gestured at my cane. "They tell me I'll be half-crippled like this for the rest of my life. *My* sister *died* for me, Mulder. And I'll never even have a daughter I can give her name to."

Had I expected sympathy? His eyes burned. "We saved. The fucking. *Planet,* Scully," he ground out through clenched teeth.

I snorted derisively. "The planet doesn't even know it got saved."

The muscles in his jaw clenched and loosened again. "What did you think - you'd get a medal?" he growled.

All of a sudden all the fight went out of me. I sagged back in my chair and sighed.

"No, Mulder," I said resignedly. I dropped my gaze at last. "This just isn't the life I wanted to live on the planet I saved. That's all."

We were quiet for a few minutes.

"Scully," he said. "Scully." I could hear him struggling to control the anguish in his voice. "You saw - "

"What?" I cut him off wearily. "What did I see, Mulder? The more time goes by, the less I understand the things I've seen."

"But don't you believe...?"

"Mulder." I pushed my plate away. I turned from him and reached for my cane. "That time is over. Please don't ask me that anymore."

There was a long silence while I gathered myself to stand. From the corner of my eye I saw him reach toward me, and hesitate, and draw back his hand.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he said softly.

"So am I." I rose, supporting myself against the edge of the table, and he didn't follow me as I limped away.

    6

It was a Friday night, and Mulder and I had, on the spur of the moment, gone to dinner after work; I was dropping him off at his apartment. I let out the yawn I had been holding back as we came up the block toward his building.

"Long day, huh?" he asked sympathetically.

"Yeah. End of a long week, too," I sighed. "And I... I wear out earlier than I used to before the..."

From the corner of my eye I saw him nod in agreement. "Yeah, me too. I know."

In truth, I was always a little tired these days. I had become a light and nervous sleeper since the accident. At first I had written it off to the discomfort of my injuries, but I knew that wasn't the case anymore; now I had no explanation, no excuse. I simply bore it, and brewed my coffee stronger in the morning than I used to.

I put the car into reverse and parallel-parked it neatly in a small space. Mulder craned his neck to watch. "Maybe I can learn something from you. I wish you'd seen me trying to do that last week. I made Langly into a nervous wreck. My depth perception still isn't good enough."

"You're still learning to compensate. It's just a matter of relearning things." I hoped my tone was reassuring. "You can't expect it to be perfect yet."

I shifted the car into park, and Mulder said, "Come inside for a few minutes, Scully," and added mischeviously, "You can wait for Frohike with me. He asks about you every now and then. He'd love to see you."

"I'm sure he would," I said dryly, but I turned the engine off. When we got out of the car, Mulder wordlessly took my cane from my hand and offered me his arm instead, just as he'd done all through the earlier part of the evening. I leaned on him a little, and we walked into the building and went up to his apartment in a companionable silence.

When we had gone inside and taken off our coats, he took my hand and led me toward the sofa, and we sat down side by side, still holding hands. His other arm found its way around my shoulders again, as if it belonged there now.

I yawned again. "Sorry. I guess this *is* late for me."

One corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smile. "We're showing our age, Scully," he said. "Want me to go and make you some coffee?"

"I think you'd better," I answered. "I still have to drive home."

He looked down, and studied our clasped hands, and he said, "Or I could call Frohike and tell him to stay home tonight." I could tell he was trying for his old flippant tone, but I caught the undercurrent, and my heart did a strange little flutter down inside my chest.

He was waiting. I had to say *something.* When I finally found my voice I said softly, without looking up at him, "Coffee sounds good, Mulder."

He held my hand a moment longer, and then squeezed it, and let it go. "Coffee it is, then," he said, a little too brightly, and got up and headed toward the kitchen.

I was so tired that it actually hurt. If I could have left right then, I would have, but I knew that if I did he would think it was his fault. I drew a deep breath and leaned back against the sofa cushions, stretching my legs out in front of me, willing myself to relax. Yawning once more, I closed my eyes, telling myself it would only be for a moment...

  The next thing I heard was Mulder's voice, close to my ear, saying, "Scully. Dana. I'm right here. It's okay, Scully..."

I opened my eyes. My heart was racing; I was shaking all over. I was struggling against something that was -- Mulder's arms. Those were Mulder's arms around me, hugging me tight, and I realized the frantic whimpers I heard were my own. I caught a sobbing breath and sagged against him, limp with relief.

He cradled me against his chest, rocking me. "It's okay," he murmured again. "It was just a dream, Scully. It's okay now."

There were two steaming mugs of coffee on the table before us. I must have been out for a little while. My head began to clear; I could feel a blush rising to my cheeks. What had I said in my sleep - what had I done? I sat up, pulling away from him a little; I reached up with a trembling hand to smooth back my hair. Mulder's arm stayed around me, his hand slowly rubbing my back.

Mulder picked up one of the mugs and offered it to me. I wrapped both hands around it, and around his hand as well, for he didn't let go. I took a grateful sip and sighed as I felt the warmth of the coffee flow through me.

Mulder drew the mug away from me and set it back down on the table. He laid his hand on my knee. "Do you have that dream very often?"

"No," I answered shortly.

He leaned closer; his arm slipped around my shoulders again. "What *do* you dream, Scully?"

"I don't dream, Mulder." And it was true: how could I dream, when I hardly slept?

"Of course you do." His fingers gently, absently stroked the back of my neck, and I caught myself relaxing into the caress just in time to stop. "We all dream, Scully. Sometimes we don't remember it, that's all."

"Then I don't remember," I said, just a shade too sharply.

He waited, and when I remained silent, he went on. "Sometimes we don't remember because we don't want to." His voice was low, soothing, inviting my confidence. "Sometimes we're afraid to remember."

I wouldn't give in. It was true. I *didn't* remember.

"Are you sure you don't dream, Dana?"

No. No, damn it, I didn't. And I certainly didn't bolt awake in the middle of the night from the dreams I couldn't remember, my heart in my throat; I didn't jump out of my bed and hurry to the kitchen to put on water for tea. And I'd never sat on the sofa, restlessly, relentlessly pushing the channel button on the TV remote, over and over; I'd never stayed there, my head nodding, until I was so exhausted that when sleep took me, I wasn't even aware of it. And I was decidedly not the kind of person who would have had to start keeping an alarm clock out there near the sofa, who would have begun setting it every night, because it happened so frequently these days.

No - not me.

I wanted to tell him. I did. I knew he would understand. But the words froze within me, formed a lump in my throat; I could hardly swallow, couldn't speak past it. When I could catch my breath I slipped out from beneath his arm and got to my feet.

"It's late, Mulder," I said. I knew my voice was unsteady, and I avoided his eyes. "You said you have to get up in the morning."

"Scully..."

Don't. Please, Mulder, don't do this to me. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay?" I moved toward the door.

"Dana," he said, but I was already slipping my coat on; I already had my cane in my hand -- I was already turning the doorknob. I was already running away.

  *****

We were almost finished with lunch on Monday when I said, "You know, I called you on Saturday morning, but I couldn't get you."

He smiled a little. "That's because I wasn't home."

"I was calling your cell phone."

He shook his head. "It was turned off." He met my eyes thoughtfully. "I was... at Shul. At temple," he finally said. "I've been going for a couple of months - since I came home."

I didn't know what to say. "At temple...?" I echoed, and he nodded.

"My mother's side of the family," he explained. "I was never... It wasn't that we were - that I was brought up in one faith or the other. After Samantha was taken, we didn't go to any church, or temple, anymore." He reached across the table and took my hand, looking at me more intently.

"Dana, how can I explain it?... Since the accident, when I look up at the sky I've felt like there's someone there. That is - " his eyes twinkled - "someone other than aliens or members of a multinational governmental conspiracy. You understand, don't you?"

I nodded, because I did. He was describing the feeling I'd been missing since that plane fell from the sky. These days, when I looked up, a terrible, empty expanse yawned above me. I had told Mulder once that God has His reasons, but I couldn't bring myself to believe that anymore. I didn't know God anymore. I didn't even know if He was there.

I looked away from Mulder's face.

"I haven't set foot in a church since the accident, Mulder." He held my hand in his, stroking it gently. I could feel him waiting. "I don't... I just can't. It's not the same."

After a moment he asked, "Do you want to tell me about it?"

My mother had asked me that same question, and I hadn't known what to tell her. He was the only one I had even thought about telling. He was the only person I knew who might understand.

I shook my head. "No. I... can't. I'm sorry."

I could still feel him watching me. "When you're ready, Scully," he said softly, and let go of my hand.

*****

  That Friday afternoon I had to drop off an autopsy report on my way out of work, so I came toward the front lobby of the building from a different direction than I usually did. Ahead of me, I saw Mulder getting out of the elevator with two of his buddies from the BSU. I opened my mouth to call his name, but then thought it would be more fun to slip up behind him and surprise him.

The three of them were in no hurry; I could catch up. As I came closer, I heard one of them say, "Yeah, but you'd better not try any funny stuff, or she'll run to her big brother and he'll beat you up."

Mulder laughed aloud. "She won't have to wait for Ed to do it - she'll beat me up herself. Ed says she's already a brown belt, and she's working on her black belt too."

His friends thought this was very funny. "So on Monday morning," the other one said, "if you show up with your arm back in that sling, we'll all know you tried to get fresh with Sharon!"

"Give me some credit! I'll just turn on my - " here Mulder dropped his voice to an exaggerated drawl - "suave and sophisticated Special-Agent charm - " the others hooted - "and she'll melt, I tell you. It's that simple."

They had reached the front doors. One of them clapped Mulder on the shoulder. "Good luck, Fox," he said cheerfully.

"We'll expect a full report on our desks by ten on Monday morning," the second rejoined.

"That'll be the day!" Mulder laughed as they turned to go through the doors. "Have a good weekend."

I followed him out onto the front steps, where my curiosity finally outweighed my better judgement. "Mulder."

He stopped short and turned toward me, his eyes alight. That wonderful smile I had come to assume was only for me spread across his face. "Scully!" he exclaimed, reaching one hand toward me. I lifted my own and tucked it into his, and he leaned down and brushed my cheek with his lips.

"Don't you usually park around the side? - Here, let me help you with the stairs." His arm found its way around my waist, and we descended the steps. I wondered if he'd noticed that I still hadn't said anything more than his name.

When we got to the bottom I looked up at him. "What was all that about?"

He looked puzzled. "All what?"

"In the lobby, with Warner and Peltz." And the sister with the brown belt, I added inwardly.

He blanched as if he'd heard the unspoken words. "I... I'm going to dinner tomorrow night with Ed Koenig's sister."

"You have a... date?" I bit my tongue, but not soon enough. I could feel myself blushing, and turned my head so that he wouldn't see.

"I... Yes, I do," he answered, slowly and levelly. "Why shouldn't I have a date, Scully?" His tone was low, almost cautious. "It's not like I already have a girlfriend or anything."

"No, of... of course not. I don't know what I..." I stopped myself before I could babble. "Forget it, Mulder." And I turned and started to walk away before he could say anything else.

"Scully... Dana?" he called after me. He caught up with me and took hold of my arm.

"I'm sorry, Mulder. I have to leave. I have an appointment," I lied.

He studied me. I held his gaze until he nodded and let me go. "I guess I'll see you - "

"On Monday," I cut him off. I watched the slight flush rise in his cheeks. After a long moment, he sighed.

"Have a good weekend, Scully," he said, and turned and walked slowly toward where Langly stood leaning against the fender of the car, waiting.

7

We were just finishing our lunch on the following Thursday when he asked, "Scully, what are you doing this weekend?"

I looked up at him without raising my head. "Why?"

"Because we should have dinner one night," he said mildly.

I lifted my head and arched an eyebrow sharply. "What, no second date?" I asked before I could stop myself.

Mulder ignored me. "Let's go on Saturday this time, so you'll be rested. There's a great little Indian place I've been to - You like Indian food, don't you, Scully?"

I picked up my napkin, patted my lips with it, and studied it carefully as I folded it up and put it on my plate. "Sure. I'd - I'd like that, Mulder." I glanced up guardedly and saw that he was watching me carefully.

"Good." He put his own napkin on his plate and pushed his chair back from the table a little. "You can decide what time you want to pick me up, and tell me tomorrow. Okay?"

"Fine," I nodded, and made a show of gathering up my sweater and my purse and my cane, so I could avoid meeting his eyes. He rose and came around the table and offered me his hand to help me up.

We walked in silence toward the elevator that would take him back down to the basement. When the doors opened, he said, "See you tomorrow, Scully," and stepped inside.

"See you tomorrow," I echoed, turning away.

"Scully?"

I looked over my shoulder. He was holding the door open with his good hand. "It'll be okay," he said quietly, and let the door go. It swept closed; the little light winked on above it.

I blinked rapidly a few times, and turned back down the hall toward my office.

*****

By Saturday evening I had actually worked up a little enthusiasm for this Indian restaurant Mulder wanted to take me to. "What made you pick this particular place, Mulder?" I asked as he put his coat on.

"The food's great. And, I don't know - it's... cozy. Intimate, Scully. It's... *dark*."

"Why, Mulder, I thought you were about to say 'romantic'," I teased, and he chuckled.

"Actually, I was thinking it's dark enough so that everyone in the place won't notice if I order something complicated and you have to feed me."

I smiled back at him. "They won't notice, Mulder. They'll just think it's cute. They'll think we're in love." I had said it offhandedly, but the expression that immediately passed across his face made me pause. I looked away quickly and drew my keys out of my coat pocket. "Let's go."

*****

We found a parking place about halfway down the block from the restaurant.

Mulder got out of the car, and closed the door, and came around to my side, offering me his hand. I reached back and pulled out my cane and held it out to him, but he didn't take it.

"Scully," he said, "why don't you leave that here, if it makes you feel so self-conscious? You can hold onto my arm - it's only half a block. No one will think twice about that when they see it."

"It doesn't make me - " I started to say, and just as quickly stopped. It did, of course; I was always sure people were watching me with it, but try as I might I couldn't remember having told Mulder that. I looked up at him and put the hated thing back into the car.

He took my hand and pulled me to my feet. "Thanks," I said, but he only smiled and steadied me on his arm as he reached over to close the car door. I put my arm through his and we walked together up the block toward the restaurant.

"You see?" he said, pausing in front of the plate-glass window of a store along the street. "We just look like a pair of lovers, out for a stroll."

The dark glass reflected our image back to me - a nice-looking, well-dressed couple, companionably arm-in-arm. We looked good together, it struck me, and I almost said so, but he spoke first.

"I like the way you look on my arm, Dana," he said softly, squeezing my hand. "I like the way you feel there, too." He met my reflection's eyes rather than my own, holding the gaze for a moment and then looking away. "Come on. I don't know about you, but I'm hungry."

*****  

"Scully," he finally said, over the coffee, "if you want to know about my date last weekend, why don't you just ask me?"

I almost dropped my spoon right back into the bowl of ice cream. "Who said I want to know?"

He dropped his gaze, but he was smiling. "Come on. It's all you've thought about for days. I'm amazed you held out for a whole week."

I studied him, trying to decide whether it was the profiling thing again, or whether I was just so damned transparent. He looked up and met my eyes.

"You're dying to know. You're just too stubborn to ask."

I took another sip of coffee to stall, aware of the way he was watching me. Glancing up, I saw that his eyes were serious. There was no hint of mockery.

"Well..." I allowed, "I did *wonder,* of course..."

One corner of his mouth turned up. "I can imagine you did."

"But I..."

He reached out and laid his hand over mine, and I fell silent. His fingers traced lazy circles on the back of my hand. His eyes focused there rather than on my face.

"It was fine," he said slowly. "It's been so long since I went on a date that I thought I'd forgotten how. But... We had dinner. We saw a movie. We talked." He shrugged and looked up at me. "She was nice. It was pleasant, I guess."

"You guess?"

He sighed and looked down at our hands again. "It just seemed like so much work. Most of the funny stories I thought of had something to do with our old cases, and by the time I explained them they weren't funny anymore. I mean, all I have to do is say 'flukeman' to you, and you crack up. Even if I could explain that, nobody else would think it was funny."

I smiled. "It wasn't funny to us at the time, either."

"No, but now - You know what I mean, don't you?" He looked up just long enough to see that I did, and dropped his eyes again. He seemed to hesitate. I waited.

"Scully, I felt... I know it's ridiculous. I felt like I was - cheating on you."

I swallowed hard. I wrapped my fingers around his and squeezed his hand, but he didn't look up. "Mulder..." I said softly.

We sat silently like that, our hands clasped across the table, for a few minutes. At length he stirred and met my eyes.

"Do you want to go?" he asked me.

I realized I had lost my appetite for the little bit of ice cream still left in the bowl. "Yeah. Let's go home," I answered.

  *****

We got out of the elevator and walked slowly, in silence, down the hall. Even though his arm was draped too-casually across my shoulders, I involuntarily shivered as we passed through the place where - From the corner of my eye I saw him glance quizzically at me; his hand gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

At the door, he took back his hand; he drew his keys from his pocket. He was still a little slow, opening the lock with his left hand, but I stood back and let him do it for himself. When the door swung open he stood aside to let me in.

I crossed the threshold, and he followed me; I put out my hand toward the light switch. I felt his hand on my arm. "Wait." The door swung shut behind us.

He turned me toward him in the near-dark. I couldn't really see his eyes in the half-light from the little lamp on the desk in the living room. And before I could even think to ask what he wanted, his arm was around me again, drawing me close to him, and when I looked up at him he bent his head down and simply kissed me.

It seemed that my lips parted before I could even will them to, seeking him of their own accord. I found myself reaching up, around his neck, twining my fingers through his hair, holding his mouth against mine as the kiss deepened. His good arm tightened around me, pulling my body even closer to his. When I felt him growing hard against me, the thrill that shuddered through me was a heady mixture of exultation and sheer terror.

He pressed his hips against me, and the panic triumphed. I drew back, somehow pulled my mouth away from his. "I can't," I gasped. "Mulder, I can't - "

He froze for only the briefest instant. Then he eased his hold on me, and softly drew my head down against his chest. I closed my eyes in relief as he gently stroked my hair.

"It's okay, Dana," he murmured. "It's okay." He took a deep, sharp breath, exhaling on a sigh. His hand trembled faintly against the back of my neck. I could sense something of what it cost him to hold back, but hold back he did.

"I'm sorry," I whispered against his chest. I could feel his heart still racing under my cheek. "Mulder, I'm sorry..."

He shook his head; his lips grazed my hair. "It doesn't matter," he said soothingly. "It's up to you, Dana. It's always up to you. I'd never ask you to..."

His voice trailed off. He sighed again. The rhythm of his heart was slow and steady once more beneath me. "Come here," he said, turning. He led me to the sofa and we sat down. He arranged me in his arms, against his side, still carefully avoiding his lap.

How many years had it been since anyone had held me? Since I had *let* anyone hold me? I was surprised at how much I wanted to let him. I craved it. I didn't know how to ask him, so I just tucked myself closer to him and laid my head on his chest again, right over his heart. I heard his breath catch in his throat when I slipped one tentative hand around his waist.

He sighed, and his arms tightened around me. I felt him bow his head until his chin rested lightly on my hair. I felt one of his hands slowly, gently, stroking my shoulder, over and over.

There were a hundred things I wanted to say to him, but I had no words, no voice. And then I realized that everything we had to say to each other was already being said; it was all there in his caress, in my arm wound around his waist, in the slow, steady beat of his heart under my ear. I wanted to listen to it forever.

We were quiet together like that for a long time.

"Scully," he murmured at length.

I shifted a little against him and opened my eyes. "Mulder."

"Scully, I - Don't move." His hand left my shoulder and he leaned over to the side. "I just have to reach the phone. I told the guys I'd call them by eleven, and it's five to."

I settled back under his arm and let my eyes slip shut again as he dialed the number.

"Langly? ... Hey. It's Mulder." He paused, listening. "Yeah. Which one of the Three Stooges gets to babysit tonight?" He chuckled, and the way I could feel his voice through my body made me feel warm and safe. It reminded me of when I'd been a very little girl, curled up on my father's lap.

"Okay. ... Yeah, that's fine. Thanks." He must have had the phone tucked against his shoulder; his fingers were slowly separating a strand of my hair, twirling it, laying it smooth again. "Oh? Then I'll see you tomorrow, Langly. ... You too. 'Night." His hand left my head. He leaned over and set the reciever back in the cradle, and wrapped his arm around me once more.

I was almost reluctant to break the silence. "So who is it tonight?"

"Byers," he said softly, his lips near my hair. I began to lift my head, and he said, "You don't have to go right away, Scully. It'll take him half an hour." There was a plaintive note in his voice that made something inside me ache.

As comfortable as it was there in his arms, I couldn't quell the growing feeling of unease that was nibbling away at my stomach. I didn't want to be found wrapped around him like this when Byers walked in. I was tired, too, and I wasn't about to risk another scene like the one two weeks ago, so finally I took a deep breath and sat up a little. Mulder's arm tightened briefly, as if to hold me there, and then let me go.

"It's late for me, too, Mulder," I said, extricating myself as gently as I could from his embrace. I stood up, stretching. "I'm sure you want to get ready for bed."

"I've got to wait for Byers for that anyway." He leaned toward me, catching my eyes, and suddenly my feet seemed bound to the floor. I held his gaze, helpless to do otherwise. "He has to peel me out of these bandages before I can do anything else."

I heard myself speaking. "I can help you with that." What in the world was I saying? "Before... before I go."

An expression of vague alarm crossed his face. "No, I - That's okay, Scully. You don't have to..."

I had to, now. I did. "Of course I will."

His eyes still held mine. He opened his mouth a little, but said nothing; he closed it again. The silence that enveloped us went on, became awkward, went past that point to something else. The air fairly crackled around us. I listened to the trickling of the water recirculating in the fish tank. I listened to my own deafening heartbeat. I watched Mulder's hand rise, ever so slowly, and begin to pull at the knot of his tie; when the knot was undone I took the tie from his hand and laid it aside.

He opened the top button of his shirt. He opened the second. He fumbled with the third, and I wordlessly reached out and unbuttoned it. His hands fell away as I went on; he never looked away from my face as, one by one, I opened each button. I looked down at my hands in fascination, as if they belonged to someone else - as if it were another woman undressing him. He shifted his weight a little to let me pull the shirttail out of his pants. He let out a long trembling breath when I pushed the shirt back over his shoulders. I waited while he pulled his hands out of the sleeves.

I dropped my eyes to the bandage under his shirt. It was a one-sleeved, vest-like affair, fitting as tight as a wetsuit, fastened with an array of nylon zippers and Velcro panels. I leaned over Mulder and reached for what seemed to be the first tab of Velcro, and he turned his head to let his face brush my arm. My hands had begun to shake. It took me two tries to get hold of the tab and to pull it back.

Velcro attaching the sleeve to the body of the vest. A single zipper down the length of the sleeve. Another down the center of the back. Velcro panels at the bottom, near his waist. My ears were ringing. My breath was shallow and uneven. He dropped his head, and the edges of the zipper pulled apart just enough to let me see the patch of pale, unevenly mottled skin at the nape of his neck. I traced it with my fingertips. An image came to me, vivid, unbidden - my own head bowed, my lips pressed to the scar...

It would be acceptance. Absolution. It would seal what had begun, not even on that plane, but long ago, in the hallway outside. And I knew beyond any doubt that if I let my lips so much as graze his skin, I would not be able to stop at that.

I sucked in my breath and pulled away. His hand closed on my wrist; his eyes burned, searching mine. The aquarium light cast flickering, uneven shadows across his face.

I struggled to speak. My voice came out a whisper. "Can you... Can you get the rest of it...?"

He swallowed hard, and the spark in his eyes flared and died. He nodded. When I straightened up his fingers fell loosely from my wrist. I turned away and took an unsteady step toward the door.

"Dana...?"

I looked over and saw my coat and my cane and my purse on the floor near the door; they must have fallen there when we --

"Good night, Mulder," I faltered. I tried to move slowly. I didn't want him to think I was hurrying. "I'll... I'll see you on Monday." I picked up my purse; I snatched up the awful cane. I threw my coat over my arm. I knew it would take too long to find the sleeves and put it on.

"Dana, I'm sorry..."

I stopped, staring fixedly at my hand on the doorknob. If I looked back I wouldn't be able to leave. "It's not you, Mulder. It's me."

I was out in the hallway before he could answer.

I turned to my right, toward the elevator, and stopped short, staring at the place we had stood that day. It seemed so long ago, but it never left me now. I unconsciously lifted my hand to brush at the back of my neck, and shivered. I turned around, heading away from the haunted place, limping as quickly as I could manage toward the stairs.

8

One day late in the winter I took the old familiar elevator down to the basement of the Hoover Building. When the doors opened I turned away from the empty office that had been the home of the X-Files, away from the Behavioral Sciences Unit where Mulder worked now. I made my way down another corridor to a huge room full of old files, boxed in an orderly fashion and stored on workmanlike metal shelving, or archived in antediluvian cabinets.

Here was forty years' worth of information that had resisted or somehow simply escaped being committed to microfilm or to a hard drive - items of evidence, preserved tissue samples, bone fragments; antiquarian files that had never been deemed important enough to be brought into the latter part of the century. Occasionally, as today, some side road of research drove me down here to delve into the trove of information that waited here.

The murmur of voices and the occasional sound of file drawers being opened and closed told me I was not alone here today. I made my way down the rows of shelves, reading the neat labels, and eventually came to the right section. I leaned my cane against the shelves and pulled the box toward me. I lifted the cardboard lid and reached in for the paperwork and the jar with the tissue sample. Then, from the next aisle, I heard someone say my name.

Instead of turning toward the sound and answering like any normal person would, I held my breath, flattening myself along the row of cabinets behind me, and my hand went to my hip for a nonexistant gun. Eight years of being stalked and shot at takes its toll.

The voices across the aisle were coming closer. "Scully? Yeah. I've been working with her about five months." I recognized the voice - it was Ron Abrams, one of the senior pathologists in my department. "Why do you ask?"

"Well..." the reply seemed tentative. "I'd heard she can be a real bitch."

I tried to place the second voice. A metal file drawer opened on the other side of the shelves. Papers rustled. "She's not so bad, really," Abrams answered. "Sloppy work sets her off, sure, but if you dot your 'i's and cross your 't's you'll be okay."

"Uh-huh. I mean, I don't really know; that's just what I heard. I only met her that once." It had to be the new assistant who'd just come up from Quantico - Collery? Yes. That was his name. Collery.

The file drawer closed; another opened. "Well, she's been through a lot. She was in that God-awful plane crash last spring, did you know that?"

"Sure, sure," Collery said. "That's why she has the cane." I winced.

"And before that," Abrams continued, "she spent eight years on those X-Files with Spooky Mulder." He chuckled a little. "That might've done more damage than the plane crash."

" 'Spooky' - You mean Fox Mulder, in the BSU? I've met him a couple of times. He seems like a regular guy."

"Oh, he is, now. He's changed a lot since he got off that assignment. Used to be, you couldn't get near him. Nobody knows how Scully did it all those years. That alone tells me she's one tough broad - and maybe that's why some guys would think she's a bitch."

The file drawer clunked shut; I heard the sound of papers being gathered up. "Anyway," Abrams asked, "what was your take on the abrasions on the victim's legs in this case?"

Collery began to answer, but the two men were walking away now, and besides, I wasn't interested. I let out a sigh and stepped away from the cabinets I'd still been leaning against.

They thought I was a bitch. I wondered who 'they' were - who Collery had been talking to. Other people in Forensics? Had I snapped at some of the lab staff? When I needed things done, I always asked for them in no uncertain terms; I hadn't thought I was being rude. Was that why they were calling me a bitch? Just because I was strong?

I tried to read the papers in my hand, to see if I really needed to take the file back upstairs with me, but I found my hand was shaking. When a man is strong and overcomes the odds, I thought angrily, people admire him and call him a hero. When a woman acts just the same way they call her a bitch.

It was just that they didn't know me that well. That was all. Mulder knew me - he wouldn't make that mistake, wouldn't take my strength for bitchiness. Mulder knew me, and...

I hung my head in shame, alone there in the labyrinth of files. Mulder had more reason than anyone to think I was a bitch. After all I'd told him, promised him, on that accursed plane, I had done my level best to wall myself up again, to keep him at arm's length. And while I tried to shut him out, he waited, and waited. And what had he gotten for his patience? One kiss. Just one kiss...

Damn. I couldn't finish this down here. I was going to have to take the whole file upstairs. Maybe I'd make that Collery run it back down here when I was done. And he'd better put it back in the right place, too, or he'd hear about it - I'd make sure of that.

So what if they thought I was a bitch? I set my jaw stubbornly. I'd seen people shattered by the piddling little things *they* called crises, and I was stronger than that. I was stronger than all of them, and I could be proud of that.

I *was* proud of that. I lifted up my head and squared my shoulders, and I took my cane and my files and I marched back up the aisle toward the elevator.

9

"But, Scully, I still want to go."

It wasn't the first time we had discussed this. It wasn't the second time, or even the third. I must have told him a dozen times that I wasn't going next week to the one-year-anniversary service for the survivors and the victims' families. To get on some stupid barge, and be towed out on the bay so that we could stare morbidly out at the ocean where that damned plane had fallen? I didn't think so. I was sure the handful of survivors would be gawked at like a bunch of carnival freaks. I was not about to get involved with this mess, and I had said so until I was blue in the face, but he just wouldn't leave it alone.

I lifted one shoulder in what I hoped was a noncommittal gesture. "No one's stopping you, Mulder. If you want to go, then go." I pulled the lab report across the desk toward me and flipped the manila folder open.

He leaned further over my desk. "You *should* go with me. It would be..."

I trained my eyes on the tox-screen printout. I knew he was searching for the right words. I didn't want to encourage him.

"...Closure, Scully. I know the word is overused, but... "

"Mulder, I've told you. I don't know why you keep asking." I looked up at his face. "It's easy for you - if you wear a long-sleeved shirt, no one will see the scars. You can blend into the crowd. When I come dragging myself in on this cane, people notice. Somebody's going to ask me if I'm a survivor. And then everybody's going to want to talk to me, or just *look* at me. And there'll be a lot of media coverage of the damned thing, and some reporter is bound to find me. I just don't want to deal with it, okay?"

He let out a long breath and pursed his lips; he dropped his gaze and straightened up again. "I still think you need to go."

I pushed my glasses up on my nose and turned to the next page in the analysis. I picked up my pencil. Mulder made a slow circuit of my office and came back to stand in front of my desk again. I didn't look up from my work.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he finally said. "I didn't mean to try to force you, if it would be too hard for you. I just - "

"Oh! It's not *that*," my pride blurted out. I regretted it the moment it was said, but by then it was too late. I determinedly steadied my hand and kept taking my notes.

"Well... since you've said that... " He put his hands down on the desk and leaned over me again. "I wish... It'll be hard for *me,* Scully. I wish you'd come for my sake, if you can."

I felt every muscle in my body tighten. That sneaky bastard! If he was trying to bait me, I'd -- I looked up sharply and the mute plea in his eyes rendered me speechless. He wasn't lying this time. He really thought he needed me there.

...Hadn't I just been berating myself for being such a bitch to him? I ought to go - not for myself, no; for him. I could do this. After all, I was the strong one. I could hold up my head and get through this like I'd gotten through the rest of this mess...

I had been looking steadily at him as these thoughts ran through my mind, and I suppose he took my long pause as evidence of my refusal. He slowly lowered his gaze; his shoulders sagged. The defeat written in the gesture broke what was left of my heart. I dropped my pencil, impulsively reached out, and covered his hand with mine.

"I'll take you, Mulder. I'm sorry. I didn't know you needed..."

He looked up quickly. He didn't smile; I couldn't read his expression. "Thanks, Dana. I..." His voice trailed off and he just nodded. "Thanks," he repeated.

I withdrew my hand. "You'll let me know what time we have to leave?"

"Yes. Yes, I will." He stood up, still watching me, and I picked up my pencil again and wondered what I had really gotten myself into.

*****

  I had to admit that the barge had been a good idea after all. The organizers of this service had done a good job, had gone to great lengths to protect us from the journalists and the TV crews clustered around the police barricades at the entrance. Mulder and I showed our identification, and the guard at the entrance checked it against the list on his clipboard and admitted us. Mulder drove slowly through the gate into the parking lot.

When we got out of the car he didn't even ask if I wanted the cane; he just offered me his arm, and I took it. We made our way through the crowd toward the ramp at the end of the dock. The gaggle of journalists and media people were left at the dock, training their long lenses on our backs as we were towed out into the bay. There was a stiff breeze here on the water, even though it was May; I was glad for my long coat. I was glad for Mulder next to me. I only wished the evening sun would stay out, instead of vanishing behind the gathering clouds. I was invisible behind my sunglasses. I didn't want to take them off.

We were a quiet group, for being so large; people spoke in low tones, leaning toward each other to be heard. I felt safe enough to slip off my dark glasses and tuck them into my coat pocket. I looked down at the carnation I'd been handed as I boarded the barge - volunteers had given one to each person who got on. Mulder was holding his in the hand that was draped across my shoulders; from the corner of my eye I could see the motion of the white flower as he twirled the stem slowly between his fingers.

The gentle movement of the water beneath us brought me back to the times my father had taken us children down to the harbor to see the ships he was stationed on. Missy had always wanted to stand high on the bow, imagining the wind and the spray as the ship steamed majestically forward into some great adventure. I had gone toward the stern, forever fascinated by the ship's churning wake, by the way the water would tug things down into itself and take them away. Life had become like that for me - too many things, so many people, dragged down and drowned and lost. I leaned a little harder against Mulder and his arm tightened around me.

I heard a childish giggle and looked up, startled from my reverie. A little sandy-haired boy was perched on his father's shoulders, chortling gleefully as he tugged at the man's hair. "Brian - Brian - ow!" the man laughed, trying to disengage the child's tenacious fingers. "Leave Daddy's hair alone."

My heart leaped to my throat. I was certain it was the little boy I'd seen on the doomed plane, the toddler just taking his first steps in the airport. He was a year older, but it had to be him. Before I knew what I was doing I had wriggled out from under Mulder's arm and approached them.

"Excuse me." The man turned toward me. "Is this - I mean, I think I saw your little boy..."

"On the news? Yes - they called him the 'miracle baby'," the father smiled, extending his hand. "I'm Paul McEvoy."

"Dana Scully. I saw - I saw him on the plane, actually. We sat a few rows over from..."

"From my wife," Paul nodded. To my unspoken question he said, shaking his head, "No - Sandie didn't make it."

"I'm sorry," I said simply.

"Thank you." On his shoulders, his son squealed with laughter and took another double fistful of his father's hair. "I'm just grateful to still have Brian - ouch! Most of the time!"

I found myself smiling at Brian, and reached up a hand toward him. He let go of Paul's hair and slapped at my hand, playing pat-a-cake. "He's a beautiful boy," I said. "He must be a comfort to you."

"He is," Paul agreed. "Whenever think about Sandie and start to feel bitter about what was taken from me, I look at Brian and realize I'm more grateful for what I've been given." He swung the restless child down to the floor, where he immediately capered away.

"It was nice meeting you, Dana, but - "

I nodded. "Take care, Paul." He went off after the boy. I felt Mulder's hand on my head; he stroked my hair once and wordlessly settled his arm around my shoulders again.

A minister was stepping onto the raised platform at the front of the barge and beginning to speak, but I was too lost in my own thoughts to hear him. I saw again the children I would never have, remembered the aunt and the grandfather they'd never have known.

How much longer could I keep up this facade? How much longer could I hold up my head and pretend it didn't matter, that I was a rock, unmoved by the storms and by the sea? I looked up at the banks of clouds above us. Even now it seemed impossible that I should have fallen all the way from that sky to stand here and gaze back up at it.

The crowd began to move. A line formed; one by one we came to the front of the barge and dropped our white flowers into the sea. I tossed mine quickly, not waiting to see it hit the water. I turned away without watching Mulder drop his. I began to walk away, but Mulder's hand held me back.

I glanced back and saw Paul at the front of the line. He crouched down next to Brian, handing him the carnation; he held the little boy's hand, and together they dropped the flower into the bay. I looked away, and pulled at Mulder's hand, and this time he followed me back into the crowd.

Beside me Mulder bowed his head; he raised his free hand to brush at his eyes with his fingertips. I heard him sniffle softly. A rush of sympathy overwhelmed me, and I put my arm around his waist and hugged him. His arm squeezed my shoulders in response, and - and...

And something broke inside me. I wanted to turn to him, wanted to let him comfort me, but I didn't even know how anymore. I had held myself aloof for so many years, afraid that he would despise my weaknesses as much as I did. The price of this strength had become too great. I had nothing left to pay.

I tugged at Mulder's hand. He turned to me, and I looked up at his face, and quickly dropped my head again. He reached up, put his hand beneath my chin, turning my face up to his; I opened my mouth to speak, but I had no words. He put both arms around me, and I let him draw me close, and all at once I was crying, my face buried against his chest, my arms around him, my fingers clutching at him. I was crying for my family, for my children, for everything that this life had stolen from me. I was crying for what it had tried to give me, for what I had refused to accept - for the love this good, brave, loyal man had tried for so long to give me, and that I had never believed I deserved.

I clung to him, sobbing helplessly, and he cradled me in his arms, saying softly, "It's all right, Dana. It's all over now. ... It's finally over."

    10

Fox and I were married two years to the day after the accident. We didn't plan it that way - we sat down with Father McCue and Rabbi Hruska to find a date that was convenient for all of us and that would still leave my mother enough time to make the elaborate plans I knew she wouldn't be able to resist. As the two compared their appointment books and narrowed down the list of weekends, Fox and I realized what was coming, and shared a furtive look. I could see the mirth in his gaze, and I put my hand over my mouth to hide my smile.

Rabbi Hruska pushed the calendar across the table. "How about May third?"

I couldn't help it. I giggled. Fox's mouth twisted into a crooked grin. "Do you know what that date is?"

"Why, I - " He turned to look at Father McCue, who paled visibly. They both began to apologize at the same time, but Fox and I burst into hearty laughter.

"We'll do it," I said.

"Are you sure? I don't think - " Rabbi Hruska sputtered awkwardly.

"It's perfect." Fox held up one hand to silence them. "It'll redeem the date. It changed our lives, but this way we'll have the last laugh. Won't we, Dana?"

"We will. We really, really will," I said, and leaned over to kiss his cheek.

My mother was so happy that she almost forgot she wouldn't be getting the big church wedding she'd always wanted for me. In the end, we gathered beneath a huge white tent in Rock Creek Park, overlooking the Potomac River, on a beautiful, balmy May afternoon, and I stood under the little canopy before Father McCue and Rabbi Hruska, watching Fox wrap the wine glass in his handkerchief. After he put it on the ground I crushed it under the low heel of my sensible cream-colored shoe.

When he lifted the veil from my face and gazed down at me I wouldn't have changed so much as a day of the two years that had gone before. I reached up and wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him for such a long time that everyone began to laugh.

*****

  A scant month before our first anniversary, Fox and I took a deep breath and boarded a plane again for the first time. We were only taking the shuttle from DC to New York, but I knew it was a milestone, and I could tell from the way he clasped my hand in his that he knew it, too.

We touched down without incident, and right on time. Fox kept checking the paperwork again and again to make sure we were headed in the right direction.

"We've been to LaGuardia a hundred times, Fox," I reminded him. "We know where to meet Ms. Singworth."

"I know," he sighed. His hand sought out its familiar place at the small of my back. "I guess I'm just nervous, Dana. Aren't you?"

I smiled up at him. "I'm so nervous I'm numb. That's why I'm okay now."

Just then he froze, and I almost stumbled against him. "I think that's her - over there. In the green suit."

Following his gaze, I saw a woman a little older than me talking animatedly with a young couple; she was writing busily on a clipboard. I saw other couples, sitting, standing; milling around, waiting.

"Come on." I took Fox's hand and we made our way toward her. The other couple walked away as we approached, and the woman in green looked up from her clipboard and turned toward us, smiling.

"Ms. Singworth? ... We're Fox and Dana Mulder," Fox said, extending his hand.

"Good to meet you. Please - call me Lucille." She offered me her hand; she had a kindly, competent, no-nonsense air that appealed to me immediately.

It only took a few minutes to sign the last of the papers. Lucille tucked them away into her briefcase and gave us a reassuring smile. "It won't be long," she said. "They're checking the passports now. We have some rooms set up down the hall. I'll call you when it's time."

"Thank you," Fox said beside me, and I nodded. I was past speech by then. Fox led me to the row of chairs, and we sat down; we twined our fingers together and looked steadily, silently down the hall, waiting. Those last thirty minutes must have been the longest of all the year that had led up to them.

"Mr. and Mrs. Mulder?" Lucille came to the end of the hallway. "Please come this way." She showed us to a small office that might have been a conference room. "I'll just be a moment."

I clung tightly to Fox's arm, but he didn't seem to notice; he just kept gently patting my hand with his own. Lucille reappeared in the doorway, carrying a little pink-wrapped bundle. And I let go of Fox's arm, and I reached out to take the baby from her.

I lifted the corner of the pink blanket and found myself looking into a pair of luminous dark eyes. I was transfixed. I was breathless. Behind me, Fox put his arms around me, leaning his head over my shoulder. Our daughter turned her little head to gaze calmly from my face to Fox's and back.

Fox's chin dropped down to rest on my shoulder. He reached out to caress her head; a tiny hand emerged from the blanket and formed a determined fist around one scarred finger.

"All her paperwork says Hee Cho, of course," Lucille was saying, " but you said you had a name in mind for her...?"

I still couldn't take my eyes from her face. I nodded. "Samantha," I breathed.

"Samantha Melissa," Fox corrected me, his voice thick. I turned my head, finally, and kissed the tears from his cheek.

The End

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