Disclaimer:

These are not my characters, but Chris Carter's and a bunch of other people's, though these versions kind of are. I am reimagining the events /relationships starting somewhere in season nine, changing some of the plot and/or emotional implications of earlier seasons, keeping most, and definitely changing the character's futures ( even though I did enjoy season 9, 10, and 11, and even the second movie).

I actually have a number of visits/"visitations" (future chapters) planned out in my mind and an idea of the story beyond. I would appreciate reviews.

I am not a native speaker so excuse my errors ( or pm me so I can correct them).

Visitation, number 1

7.23 pm, August 4th 2001,

Bennett Avenue 67,

Washington, D.C.,

my apartment.

I wonder what she must be thinking: sitting as still and composed when her heart must still be aching; me rattling on about a not so x-file-y case that is not even hers, while a little over a week ago she gave her only son away. To keep him save, yes – but what does that change for a mother missing her son. It is amazing to me that she is here. It's the first time she has come to my new place. And it is simply amazing to me that she hasn't fallen apart on that new couch of mine, or hasn't yet. Instead she focuses on me, my chatter and the case at hand. So I keep on chatting about potential links to satanic ritual abuse, that might or might not have been the reason that John and I have been assigned to your run-of-the-mill bed-wetter serial killer scenario as we have a couple of days ago. Dana keeps her expression neutral, her questions on point and directed albeit a little reserved. She herself must wonder whether or not this is a job worthy of X-files agents, and only maybe, whether we, John and me, are worthy X-files agents. Of course, she would never say something like that. Instead she says: "I'm sure you're really helpful to Agent Frederick and the others, as they have no experience whatsoever in unusual cases, so I've heard." So she has heard.

"Thank you. And yes, it seems that way. Although I doubt that we should be getting every 'unusual' case on our desk. It seems like busy work, or maybe distraction." She agrees with me, nodding, while I have already continued my evaluation of who should be working on this case : "You know we could actually use someone with your experience. And I don't mean the X-files at all, but your medical skills." I would love to work with her. "Most of the symbols have been cut into the flesh and different places within the apparently surgically opened abdominal cavity, and quite frankly we are having problems just figuring them out." "Oh yeah?", she says encouraging me to speak, as I stand up and take both of our empty tea mugs to bring them to the kitchen to refill them or maybe get something else. Wine? "Yes some quite obviously resemble satanic symbols, even the cliché triple-six, and symbols associated with 20th century interpretations of witchcraft, y'know?". She knows. "And some quite obviously don't: a heart,.. a sun,.. lines. At this point in the investigation, it appears random really."

I look up at the kitchen clock and at Scully. Scully, Dana, heart-broken, strong, brave, sitting on my couch turned towards me, as I stand in my kitchen between couch and counter dangling the two empty cups from my hands as I ramble on about body-windings or whatnot. This is absurd. I put the cups down. "You know what?. I think I might actually have a good wine here, and it's getting too late for tea. Don't you think?" Why does she make me so nervous? It's such an innocent offer. "I mean, we could of course have another cup, maybe not green tea but something else, but I feel like opening up a bottle of wine, just to have a glass, y'know? It's a nice Merlot. What about you?" Her expression is unreadable "I'd like that". I breath in again and uncork the dusty bottle. It is a good wine - thank God/Goddess. Thank the Universe, Dana Scully deserves good wine today. Any day, really. I am rummaging through my lower cupboard looking for decent glasses. I pour two glasses of wine, fuller than I should. It's not that I want to get her drunk, but I do think we both deserve to treat ourselves, she does anyways – though I doubt she does very often, or knows how to for that matter. "Anyway the trouble is that the flesh apparently tears in very different ways depending on what …ehm...organ, or texture, it is carved into and the pathologist, Special Agent Surviet, who is doing the autopsy is in fact not very helpful. Of course he has no experience with such things. I mean, who does?". Except for, maybe, Dana Scully, the special Agent. I smile, and start to make may way back over to the couch, carefully, as I do not want to spill any of the wine I have given out so generously.

I extend my hand with the fuller glass to her, meeting her gaze at the same time and am surprised that she smiles back, a tiny smile, a polite smile, but a smile nonetheless. "Thank you", she says as her gaze moves towards the glass and our fingers touch. I find her amazing. Gracious. Graceful. "I could come by, if you want me to". First I am confused. Come by? You are here. At my place. You did come by. And then I understand she means come by the office to help with that not-so-x-fileish not-so-interesting case of mine. Amazing! Gracious. "Oh no!" I wince. "That is not at all, what I meant. I mean … we could use somebody to help us figure out those shapes and symbols. but not you! " Now she looks surprised, offended even. "It's not your case, but John's an mi…" I stop. Her shapely left eyebrow keeps rising. "I mean, you don't have to come by just to help us, a person in your… situation…" Shit, there it is. Small talk is over: it hits her that I am talking about William, might have been thinking, just like her, about him all this time. "I mean, I wouldn't want you to go through any trouble at all" I finish as my voice falls flat. She looks broken, the eye contact is broken, and everything else about her appears that way. Shit, Monica, you think of yourself as sensitive, in tune even, well, well done. Somehow I am still talking: "You must have so much on your mind right now." I know you do. Dana looks up again: "Well to be honest, I wouldn't mind, at all …. especially, in my situation." She sits slightly back and directs her body towards me slightly more. Physically she has been there all along, but verbally she acknowledges the situation – for, maybe, the first time right now. Her posture changes as if with that breath, with this last statement, that tenseness has left her body.

She softens and says "It is good for me to get out and do something at the moment actually, it takes my mind off things, off …him, off William." Both struck by the name, she finishes her thought calmly: "Off of things I cannot change… So, thank you,.. and thank you for the wine", she smiles teary-eyed. I am again amazed and nod. I have to keep her talking. Dana might finally be opening up. To me.

I have seen her a couple of times since that day she came to the decision to give William up for adoption: I have called her about a case, seen her in hallways, elevators, and offices as always, but I have since then made it a point to come by and check in on her, as if she needed me. The last week I have called her every day to "just say hi", mumbling stupidly like most of tonight and this afternoon. And I have even visited her in her apartment. My visits there were surprising to me. Unfathomable really. Just as with my phone calls, I didn't know what to do, how to be a friend. To Dana Scully, my colleague. A woman I admire greatly, but do not know at all. Not much at least. I have heard the term "Ice Queen" before, but have never thought too much about it - actually, I have... But I have never considered it a very useful evaluation, that might give me any insight in how to be her friend, or colleague, or whatever. I know she appears distant, and obviously royally so, but in the short time I have known her I was allowed to see a full range of her emotions, beginning obviously with anger, or impatience – directed in part towards me, and then desperation, grief, but also eventually some joy when William was born and Mulder with us and alive. Though mostly she was sad, and brave, and determined, and honestly quite frank and open with me. The days I visited mostly after or before work were sad days, maybe her most desperate. I mostly came in, sat next to her as she handed me coffee, tea, or water, and she cried, wordlessly with closed eyes. Then we exchanged a few words and after the second day already I would leave with the word's "I'll call you later" and she would nod. Sometimes I would say, "You should come by for lunch, if you feel like going out" or "Come by my place later tonight (if you don't)"

And nine days later, here she is, at my place, on a Friday evening, sitting on my couch. She is so small. And she is talking, finally talking for real: "I haven't really felt like going out, other than for work. Mostly I have been sinking into that feeling." She looks up at me to verify. Her eyes are huge, and pupils exceptionally bright blue. Or maybe exceptionally framed by red. "As you know". she looks down again, setting down her barely touched glass of wine on my coffee table, as my eyes follow every movement. "Looking at that crib in my place, it is hard to… move on…or not to dwell on it. To look forward and think about the happy,… the normal,… the safe life my son will be leading, if there is always the reminder that this life will be without me. And selfishly, I…could cry everyday… for the rest of it that mine will be without him, my son…" Her voice breaks a little. And I notice that she has started to cry. Her eyes are as open and big as before and just as blue. But tears have started to quietly run down her cheeks, dropping from her cheek unto the cuffs of her blazer. I cannot look at her eyes. I look down. She is taking off her blazer, she has certainly noticed the tears wetting it too.

Her hands are so beautiful. Even as they are shaking, they are so purposeful. Just like her. And like her, they are both endearingly small and delicate, but strong. So obviously strong. You just have to admire their movements, their direction. "This is way I am so thankful to you Monica, for your … friendship. I really do appreciate, though I haven't said it yet…" I shake my head. No need. "That you have come to visit me, so that… I am not alone in my apartment, with that damn empty crib in it. For your calls… But mostly that I can be here tonight, and not think about him all the goddamn time. That I can leave that apartment just for a cup of tea,… or a glass of wine" and she smiles through tears. "Of course, Age-..," she looks up. What am I thinking: "…Dana". Her hands are folded in front of her, her knuckles touching, but their grasp on each other is loose. Her fingernails are short and manicured, the perfect fit for her blazer and her blouse, her line of work. Her hands are graceful, and it must cost her so much strength, I think, to keep them calm, to keep them unclutched, just softly resting in each other. I have never admired her more than this moment.

She keeps on talking about William, and all those reminders of him at her place, the rattle with the sound she hates, the ridiculous alien-face onesie Mulder gave her, and everything really; says that she is sure of her decision, rationally, but emotionally it is soo much harder to bear. If it was just about her, she would have kept him. But it's not – and actually, honestly, it has never been, about just her and what she wants. And of course it cannot be, with so much on the line. The entire human race apparently, she chuckles. She says that she has been through a lot – and I believe her. Oh, do I believe her. I can see it in her every gesture, and so strongly in her eyes. But that this might very well be the hardest: Losing Mulder, when she believed him to be dead, was simply devastating, a disillusionment of a special kind, having him go for the sake of safety was not easy and complicated and impractical too. She lost her father, and her sister, apparently because they actually wanted to kill her, mistook her, in fact, and shot. She has been abducted, lost another child – who ? and whose? – that wasn't really hers – what?, and had cancer. Her list simply breaks my heart: there is so much that I did not know and makes me cry. How the hell is she still standing? or sitting here with me. But the hardest thing is this, she says. She tells me that it is true what they say, there is no love like that of a mother to her child. You have no idea what your heart is capable of until you have had a child. You hold him in your arms in some godforsaken place, we both smile, and know it, feel it. I have never had a child, but I can see what she is capable of, I see it with her here, talking to me. I must have seen it when she walks our basement halls. I must have, in fact, seen it on that fateful hill in Montana.

I notice that I have been holding both her hands in mine, apparently for a while. I wonder for how long and why…she lets me. And she tells me, that what other people might not realize is, that it is terrible when a child dies, but that it is another pain altogether to let your child go and know that you won't be by his side. That whatever the world will deal him, or some other unknown world might, that no matter how strong you are, how strong you have learned to be, you will not be there for him or with him. And that quite frankly this might still be… for his best. She cries a little more now. And I let go of her hands and take her into my arms. I almost forget to be thankful that she lets me, because I myself feel so…sad, no that doesn't do. I feel so… something, something grand, that it just happens. I hold her close, while I get lost in her thoughts. She doesn't fight my embrace but falls into it. She is so strong. And we sit like this. Me going through her list, she definitely thinking, about what I do not know, and crying quietly, but less and less. Her hair is just beneath my nose. Can one smell strong? Or is this citrus of some kind.

Her touch softens, the embrace softens, and while I still stroke her hair, the atmosphere changes. Her beautiful and soft hands are on my back, then on my shoulders, then my neck. I am struck. I tremble a little bit. What is happening here? My senses focusing in on her hands. So soft. Touching … me… tenderly. She is still so close that I cannot search her eyes. Her head in the nook between my neck and my should. There is some trace of wetness on my collarbone, but she has definitely stopped crying. My touch changes to, though I feel like an observer more than in control. One hand is still in her hair. My body seems to think that this is right, but my brain has no idea what to do with this situation. I wonder if she knows what she is doing. Or whether this is just part of a long overdue minor emotional break-down. But it does feel good. And while I lean into this new way of touching her, she strokes her cheek, she rubs her skin to my neck and I can feel her breath. She has been holding it, and released it just now. This is so intimate! Dana Scully breathing into my neck. Dana Scully so close. And then she leans back. And I am just as astonished. My eyes dart back and forth between hers. Looking for a sign, any sign really, to tell me what this is about. What her leaning back from me is about and, more importantly what the …. her leaning into me like that is about. And I find none. Instead her eyes close. And her face approaches mine. Her closed eyes, her half-opened perfect lips, that seems so strange now. It must be only a second but feels so much longer. Until our lips touch.

I do not think for some seconds, but feel. Dana's lips. Moving against mine. Then my thinking kicks in, thank goddess, and I stop, and break the kiss. And she must register the bewilderment in my stare. I cannot for the life of me decipher what is in her eyes. But thank the Universe, she speaks: "I just need to feel - something. Monica. Just tonight". There is no thought required to take her face into my hands and kiss her again. Open-mouthed this time and she seems pleased. I suck her in.

She is asking me to make her feel. Dana is asking me to make her feel something tonight. And I want to. I would give her whatever she wants from me a foot massage, all the money and furniture I own. The shirt on my back. Especially that. Whatever she wants really, whatever she asks. And how I do want to make her feel, to make her feel good, or better. How I'd love to make her feel, to feel her. Tongue, body, lips, hands, those hands. But I have to be sure. I cannot, will not fuck this up: "Are you sure?". I ask and lean back again, away from her lips, away from her touch. Her intoxicating smell, her wonderful lips. I need to stand up. She sits for a second and then gets up, swiftly, deliberately. Her soft "Yes, Monica. Please." contrasts with her movements. But her eyes do plead. They do. I am not sure what else I see in them but it might just be the saddest I've seen her. And I need to make her feel something, maybe better, maybe just something for a moment. I kiss her hopefully as determinedly as she rose. I need to show her…what? I need to make her feel. And she feels heavenly when she kisses me back. And the way she leans in. Dana Scully tastes divine, feels amazing. For the record. In case you were wondering.

Her hands stroke my back and all along my torso, my sides. My hands are in her hair, around her neck, caressing her beautiful jaw line. I am not letting go of her face, maybe because I fear the spell might be broken, the magic gone as soon as it appeared. We kiss, and kiss. But instead the newness fades, the tenderness a little bit, the vagueness, and all my hesitation, for sure, when I push her into me she moans into my mouth. I feel where this is going. The direction of my bed, as she takes the first step forward and into me, her tongue still in my mouth, lips against mine, one hand in my hair. And her next step leads me. I feel where this is going as her other hand snakes beneath my waistband, at my sides for now. My rational thinking stops. Dana all over me and around me. Dana in my pants. We are undressing. I am tearing of her what I can and she is mostly feeling me up, her hands on my bare skin. I want to get her undressed but she is definitely directing us. She is more dominant than I would have figured – and more sensual. And does not taste like wine at all. My bare knees – where have my pants gone – hit the mattress and we fall.

I am capable of very little thought, but one is to place her on my bed squarely right in the center and take what she is offering, actually to devour her whole, starting with her mouth, the skin of her neck and then go south. We are skin against skin, hands reaching, fingers touching, lightly and then softly tearing, teasing. The wetness of her mouth, the softness of her tongue. her silkiness, her slickness of her heat and everywhere skin and flesh and a body, I both need to see and touch. And she is moaning quietly, breathy moans, but Dana's voice, in pleasure and because of my touch. It is almost too much. I am just touching her, but everything in me is friggin' high. High on Dana, and her body and her pleasure, and her moans, and eventually she soars as I cling to the image she leaves me with her face formed by pleasure, her hands gripping, her eyes closed shut, her beautiful pillowy lips open, some teeth glinting through, a deep moan, and waves through all her muscles. She is beautiful. And this is fucking amazing. I cannot get enough, though I know I have to stop. That she was asking me to make her feel, but that is all. And she clings to me with her beautiful hands, but less strength, damp skin against damp skin. I stroke her face, her hair.

Her eyes open and then just as suddenly she is on top of me. A second of a pause. Light from my kitchen showers her upper body, muscles, soft breast, collar bone, and she touches me. And I am hot as hell, for her, and wet. Soo wet for her. Her hands are heaven, actually. She is on me around me. I am wet and I am open. She is in me! It is my time for pleasure, pure as it could be. Blindingly. And it builds. And builds. Her mouth on mine. Tongues. I have not come down at all. From this high that is her. It really doesn't take much. I am shrieking. Into her ear – quietly, and gyrating freely. Against her hand.

I come down to lazy circles on my shoulder. This was crazy, crazy good. It must have been when there is so little thought involved. Dana is stroking me. Her forehead rests against my cheeks. She has let herself fall on me. Half on top, half next to me. And I carefully adjust. Her hands move to my back. I search for mine. One is pinned beneath her. Upper thigh. Good. The other is on her neck, clutching really. I move it to her hair. and close my eyes. Fingertips and circles attend me to sleep.

I wake. Maybe it is because of some sound outside. Or maybe it is because Dana is getting up, leaving the bed. When I open my eyes she has put on her panties already. For the mess we made she found them rather quickly. I wonder if she been eyeing them for some time while in my arms. She gathers her other items of clothing. The bra next to the bedside table, the blouse at the doorframe, the pantyhose, the pants, all in a bundle in her arms as she walks into the bathroom. She is getting dressed, in the bathroom, while I am still laying leisurely, sleepily, naked in my bed thinking of her. My arms still sprawled out next to me where Dana used to lie.

She is getting dressed and leaving. And I should have expected that. But still I don't know how I feel. I take my arm back, and place it underneath the the light covers. I listen to the sound of the water running, her footsteps. While she moves. I am searching for some stirring of feeling. One with a name preferably. But really all I can do is bath in that beautiful night. It was just one night, we both knew that, she said so herself. I hear the flush of the toilet, footsteps water running, the pause, and stare at the door. A really beautiful night. I hear her footsteps and avert my eyes. I wouldn't want her to see me stare at that door, or I panic, I don't know.

She walks into the room. I look over at her, slowly, carefully. As I assumed, she is fully dressed. No half-naked early-morning-Dana for me. Sleepy, cute and in only her bra. She looks at me, notices that I am awake. I look at her. Just one night. She seems to agree; she smiles, nods politely, knowingly. One night and then she'll leave. No "one morning" was discussed, but then again, we didn't talk much. I nod – hopefully in a similarly amicable fashion – and close my eyes. I sink back into my mattress and listen to her footsteps. When she closes the door, she is still here. Dana's smell in my sheets. While she is dressed and in the streets, on her way home, scenes from last night play in my mind. First her smell, then her white skin, open and shutting eyes, her hands, her smile, her moan, her moan (!), her touch, her kiss, her sigh, her taste. Just one night, but a hauntingly beautiful night. Tangerines are so strong, and soft. I fall asleep again.