Focus Sequel to PhaHks

by GVBW

Mulder continues to recover from his ordeal during his abduction and find new life again.

4. Chapter 4

TITLE: "FOCUS" (Sequel to "PhaHks")- Part IV/IV.

AUTHOR: GeeLady (GenieVB)

RATING: NC-17. MT/ScSkR/MScR/MOR/MAJOR ANGST!, language,

violence, sexually explicit scenes, Slash-violent rape, adult situations.

SPOILERS: "PhaHks" by GeeLady (GenieVB). Various X-Files

episodes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I'd like to see him."

Scully made it passed all the doors and locks and meaty men

with keys to Mulder's private room. She was glad. There was a

camera but no one listening in and no other patients to curiously

stare.

Mulder was seated against the wall on his sleeping mat, elbows

resting on bent knees.

Scully recognized a patchwork quilt. It was her mothers hand. Mom

had sent it to him without telling her. Mulder probably didn't know who

it had come from but Scully was glad it was there. It brought color

to the drab pastels. A reminder, too, that he was in the thoughts

of others. People who cared. Scully smiled. For all her protestations of:

"Dear, suppose Fox doesn't get well?" her mom was a sucker for Fox

and always had been. She was also quite an actress.

"Hi." she greeted him and sat down on the other end of the mattress.

"Hi." his voice was soft. Hoarse from all the shouting of yesterday.

"I have to go back to work tomorrow. I'm behind so I won't be

seeing you for a few days."

He nodded.

"I wish you were coming with me."

He sucked breath, quickly. Bit his lip. Nodded.

Scully reached out her left hand. One finger, she dared touch him

with one finger lightly on his forearm.

He didn't flinch.

But crumpled. Crumpled forward and over to her and she brought his

head to her lap and held him there. "Me, too." He whispered.

"I want to re-emphasize the reason for the hypnosis.

We're trying to reach information that we know is there,

but things you're blocking out."

"I thought you disagreed with hypno-regression therapy?"

Scully asked the question because Doctor Petrillo had

previously indicated that he did not trust hypnosis at

the best of times, any kind of hypnosis. He and Mulder

had argued about it frequently during their sessions

together. But in this case, things had changed.

"I don't agree with trying to reached so-called "repressed

memories", the facts of False Memory Syndrome...well, Mulder

knows what I think about it...but in Mulder's case, we're

trying to access more details of what he does remember. Things

he has consciously told me of the night he disappeared."

Scully looked to her left where Mulder sat slouched forward

on the doctor's worn couch. "You've been remembering things?"

Mulder nodded once. "Sketchy, though, just images I can't make

much sense of."

"That's why I wanted you here today, Doctor Scully, I want you,

if you're willing, to join in on this part your partners therapy as well.

From here on in, in all his therapy, in fact, as long as Mulder is agreeable

to that. I believe your presence may be a calming influence. You will

be figuring in his long term recovery at any rate. If that's acceptable to

you, we can begin."

Scully had flushed a bit, warming at Doctor Petrillo's misuse

of the word "partner". They weren't, she and Mulder, partners

anymore. But was that hope inside her? Her heart was beating

a trifle faster. She had agreed to coming here today and future

sessions because she wanted that hope. Needed it. After so long,

maybe, just maybe, they could be joined again somehow.

Scully said:

"What made you agree to having me here?" To Mulder.

His face drained of it's color. "I...need to learn to trust..." Looked

at Petrillo who nodded encouragingly. "I have a problem with trust,

a big problem I guess. For lots of reasons. And...someone reminded

me that this isn't only my problem...it's been yours." He whispered so

softly Scully had to strain to hear him. "But I guess mostly trust."

She nodded. Smiled just enough to show she accepted, understood

and that she was here as requested willingly. Wanted to wrap her

arms around him. Stayed where she was.

Petrillo opened his notepad, reading his scribbles from a few

sessions back. "To start, Mulder, would you please tell Dana

what you have remembered so far, I mean about the dark place."

Scully felt ice form in her stomach. /"That cold, dark place."/. Where

Mulder would never end up. Another picture of Mulder unconscious on

an emergency room table, blood pouring from his shattered femur...

Scully forced her attention away from the stark images. They were still

there in living colour, whenever fear triggered them.

Mulder was speaking. "...but all I can remember is light and pain.

Being cold. I start throwing up if I try to go farther than that."

Mulder was talking to her. She zoned back into present events,

nodding as if she had heard everything he had just said.

"That's when you're awake. I'm hoping, through hypnosis, we'll

discover a few more details. Maybe it'll help with the investigation

on your disappearance. In any case, it is the area of your

subconscious memories that we've been unable to breach, I think it resists

because of the distress it causes. Okay? Everyone ready? Let's see

what we can find out." Petrillo said.

Scully, her attention fully focused now, "Excuse me, but you indicated

Mulder's had other sessions. May I ask what happened during those attempts,

I mean, at digging out these memories?"

Mulder answered, a little reluctantly at disclosing his continuing

difficulties. "Petrillo put me under once or twice before..."

Scully glanced at Petrillo, who held up four fingers.

"...then he'd ask me about the bright light, and, I guess, I,..I always

just start screaming and screaming."

"And other things." Petrillo added.

Mulder looked uncomfortable and was sweating a bit. The thought of

going under again making him anxious. "And he said I claw at the air,

and...lash out."

Scully shuddered, thankful she'd missed that particular sight. Yet

Petrillo had requested her here to lend Mulder strength. Even Petrillo

didn't know what might occur this time.

"Well, this time it may be no different but we could get lucky. I

had to bring Fox out of it during the previous attempts because it

became impossible for him to distance himself from it, even in the

hypnotic state."

"Do you remember any more of it now, though?" Scully asked.

"No, except for bits and pieces, images of monsters, feelings.

Stuff which no one believes." Mulder looked knowingly at Petrillo,

"Not sure now if I want to actually."

"Today we'll record it again. It may stimulate memories later, when

you're awake." Petrillo said.

"Bring on the crystal ball, doc." Mulder was getting restless.

Petrillo scooted his chair closer to Mulder and had his patient

relax back against the cushions. After a few moments of soothing

words, Mulder appeared to be under.

"Mulder, can you hear me?"

"Umm huh."

"I want you to remember the night you were on your way to your mother's

house. I want you to remain calm but tell me everything that happened,

in as much detail as you can. But I want you to remember that you are

an observer. An outside observer. You'll be quite safe. All right? Do

you understand me?"

"Uh huh." Scully watched Mulder's eyebrows scrunch together as memories

surfaced. "It's late, I'm driving. I feel stiff, I need to stretch."

The doctor frowned at the first person pronouns in Mulder's narrative.

"What are you doing, what's happening right now?" Petrillo asked him,

then scribbling a quick note to Scully and handing it to her.

She took it and read:

I HAVE NOT YET BEEN ABLE TO KEEP HIM DISTANT FROM THE EVENTS. LIKE

PREVIOUS SESSIONS, HE HAS ALREADY REVERTED TO FIRST PERSON.

"My back's sore. I'm gonna park off the road for a few minutes,...I'm

really tired..."

Petrillo and Scully waited but Mulder didn't continue.

"What are you doing Mulder?"

"Sitting on the grass."

"Please keep telling me everything that's happening, it's okay, you're

safe. Nothing is going to harm you."

"It's nice here," Scully assumed he was talking about the grass and not

Petrillo's office. "I like the breeze. I don't...don't get to do much

relaxing on the job. Always on the go. Really tired,..." Mulder's right

hand fumbled a bit at his side. "Scully,.."

Surprised, she stared. An impulse to go and sit beside him and hold his

hand struck her. But wherever it was he was, his hand relaxed.

"..Scully put a sandwich in my coat pocket." He sounded surprised. "That

was nice of her...I wonder...she does things sometimes, takes care of

me. I didn't think to bring anything. She's...she's...I'm such an idiot."

Scully closed her eyes, remembering a small gesture long forgotten. He'd

been in a hurry to leave work that evening and hadn't thought of eating, as

usual. It was nearly an six hour drive to Chilmark and he hadn't, she'd

guessed, planned on stopping on the way either. So she'd ducked out,

bought something at a nearby Cafeteria and slipped it into his coat pocket

before he left. A cellophane wrapped roast beef sandwich, heavy on the mayo.

Such a small thing. But it had surprised and pleased him and had turned his

thoughts to her while he sat at peace on a grassy September slope. Looking

up at the stars maybe.

In the horror of his disappearance, that small gesture of concern and affection

had been lost. In the hundreds of phone calls, police tape, evidence bags and the

call to his mother, that small gift had been wiped out of existence. She hadn't

even been present for the initial discovery of his abandoned car, the door wide

open, keys still in the ignition. Wallet, phone, gun, I.D. still tucked in the

glove compartment...

Mulder. Wiped out of existence.

She'd been at her godson's, the visit there being more to spend time with her

longtime friend than the kid who, since he'd turned sixteen, decided that visits

from his godmother were seriously uncool.

She bit back a moan of things lost. Willed her eyes to stay dry because what

was happening in Petrillo's office was in the here and now and important.

Suddenly Mulder tilted his head back all the way and screamed bloody murder.

Everything alive in the room jumped as his tenor strained to make them understand

what his shut eyes were seeing. It was a horrible, terrifying sound. What he

knew and saw was funneling through his voice box and pounding their brains

but giving no understanding. The scream of a angry horse would have offered

equal insight.

Oh, Christ. Scully's heart fluttered in her chest.

Seeing her wide eyed shock and fear for Mulder, Petrillo held up a palm to her.

"Mulder, can you hear me?"

Mulder shook his head back and forth. His whole body shook. Strangled

wheezes from trembling lips and a whimper.

"I want you, to relax, Fox. I want you to relax and remember that what's

happening cannot hurt you. Do you understand?"

"Y-y-e-e-s...but it can hurt. It does."

Petrillo frowned, shook his head. "Tell me what you see."

Mulder's eyes flew open. "LIGHT. HURTS! ITHURTS! ITFUCKINGHURTS. STOP IT,

STOP IT..." He moaned. Weakly, "..fuck...!" Tears soaked his lashes.

"Where is this light?"

"Everywhere. Oh fuck - HELP ME!" The chords in his neck looked strained to

the point of snapping. "...hurts so bad..." He groaned, swallowed, calmed. Yet

he shook, wide-eyed, not seeing the room or them. Present and not present,

experiencing things to which they had no access.

"Where are you now?" Petrillo wanted to take advantage of this unexpected

turn. He had never gotten this far with his client before.

"I don't know. God - oh God, I'm blind."

Petrillo scribbled another note to Scully:

ANY PHYSICAL EVIDENCE HE WAS IN SOME KIND OF EXPLOSION OR SIMILAR

TRAUMA?

She shook her head in the negative.

Petrillo continued. "Try to stay calm, Fox. You're safe, you're still

with us. Everything's going to be just fine. Nothing's going to hurt

you-"

"-Like FUCK! Where am I, What the hell is going on?? I can't SEE!"

Petrillo shook his head in awe at Scully. "Do you hear anything?"

he asked Mulder.

"Yeah. Weird...weird noises, I don't know...breathing? Grunts. Like,...

like...I..I don't know." His nose wrinkled up. "Smells bad." His chest

rose and fell more quickly. "Really bad. Hard to breath..."

"Take it easy now. You're safe, you can breath just fine. The air

is fresh, you're very safe. What else can you tell me?"

"Humming."

"Humming? Is it a voice or something else?"

"No, no voice...machine, far away." Mulder started moaning. He appeared

to be in pain, jerking his head left to right and back again. His respirations

deep and fast. Too fast.

"Get me the fuck out of here! I'm,...I'm..." He started wiping at his shirt

and pants. Jerky clutching movements, groaning and crying, his face twisting

up with some private disgust.

"What? Mulder, what is it? Tell me." Petrillo encouraged but kept his voice

gentle.

"I'm...c-c-covered in slime. It smells - I'm, I'm drowning. God - I'm going

to -" Mulder spit up a few tablespoons of Petrillo's decafe', soaking his shirt

in a mix of coffee, skim milk, sugar and bile.

"Oh, my god." Scully commented aloud. She scooped up the tissue box and

dabbed at Mulder's shirt and mouth with a handful of Scotties.

Petrillo quietly went and cranked open his office window a few inches to

dispel the odor.

Mulder had not awakened.

"Was it the smell, Mulder? Is that why you had to vomit?" Petrillo gently

asked.

"Jesus...I'm covered in it. Things...my own,...my own...we're all covered. I

want out of here...I want out of here...please,...please..."

Petrillo pushed a little, not wanting to waste this little bit of progress.

"Covered in what? Do you hear anything else? Can you tell me any more?"

He also wanted to distract Mulder from the panic he could see building

in his patients posture and gestures.

"Shit. Bile, like Tooms. All over...everything...my...piss...puke...I can't

help it..." A trickle of sour fluid dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Scully

dabbed and settled back again on the other side of the couch, trying to get away

from the images in her mind formed from his words. Cruel, nightmare pictures

that would not fade as she willed.

Mulder screamed again, this time a sharp, high yelp. He began clawing the air.

Scully watched, horrified, as his hands raked at nothing. Dug at nothing.

"Let me OUUUUUUUUUUUT!" He flailed and tried to get up. Unable to balance,

Mulder fell back.

Petrillo was there in a half second, ready to hold him down if necessary.

He was speaking calmly but firmly. "Mulder. You're okay. Everything's fine."

Loudly so Mulder would hear it over his own cries. "I want you to calm

down. I want you to relax."

Some of it must have gotten through. Mulder's motions slowed and then stopped.

Petrillo puffed out his cheeks in relief, exchanging glances with Scully.

Scully was braced with elbow on a knee and a hand covering her mouth, eyes

shut to what she'd just witnessed.

Jesus.

She felt like heaving.

Jesus Christ.

Petrillo was speaking soothing, calming words to Mulder, readying to bring him

out of it.

"Okay, Fox. You're perfectly relaxed and calm. You're safe and feel fine.

When I count to three, I want you to wake up. Okay? I want you to open your

eyes on the count of three...One. Two. Three."

Mulder opened his eyes and squinted. Blinked. Leaned forward and rubbed them.

"Wow. I'm really beat." He commented. Looked at Scully. She returned it with

a soft smile. Mulder pointedly addressed Petrillo. "So? Did we get anywhere?"

Petrillo kept his voice level, giving no hint that Mulder had just scared

both of them shit less. "Farther than before. Quite a bit farther, but it's hard

to know if it'll help us discover what happened."

"What's that mean?"

"I have it on tape. We'll all listen to it, including you, at our next session

and see if it'll trigger any waking memories. Maybe we can pick it apart and find

out what it means."

Mulder spread his hands and nodded. To Scully, "I'm dying for some food."

She nodded, thinking more along the lines of a vacation.

Petrillo walked them the few feet to his office door. "I think you're being here,

Doctor Scully, was a great help."

"I'm glad." Was all she could think of to say to the fright session she'd just

been party to.

"Petrillo thinks you'll be ready to come home in a few weeks."

Mulder gulped his coffee back, forcing it passed the gag. "He

said that?"

He seemed more shocked by her good news than glad. "Well, weekends

at first. Didn't he tell you?" Scully sipped her decaffeinated

coffee. After his one sip, Mulder had pushed his aside and opted

for something more stomach-settling second beverage ginger-ale.

"Must have slipped his mind." Mulder was, in fact, thrilled by

the notion of getting out of Greenlawn and back to some sort of

actual "life". But the reality also terrified him. At first,

he'd hated the walls and the locks and the doctors with their

note-pads on clipboards that they carried like badges of sanity

and authority. Then he had grown used to them and soon began

counting on them for the only stability he could turn to in life

while his mind played footsie with nuts.

"I don't know how ready I am or will be." He offered her. Shared

the fear like Petrillo counseled.

Scully made her own offering. "You won't be alone. You'll be with

me." She sipped her coffee. Made it a joke. "I mean, living with me

might be just as bad as here but - hey - better food, movie disks,..."

Mulder smiled. It felt good to do it and mean it. "I'm glad to be

coming home, Scully. I'm glad I have one to come to." His plastic

cup was empty. "But there's no way I can ever repay you for what

you've done..."

Scully cut it short before the conversation ended up a comparison

of deeds. "Come home and we'll call it even."

Mulder nodded. But the fear was there at the idea of survival on

the outside. He'd have to stand up and prove himself to the laughing

world and the thought made him shiver.

Petrillo waited. It was best to let the man cry. Lots

of crying was okay. More than okay, it was overdue. His

patient had a lot to cry about.

And the doctor had waited, too, for the anger. That had come,

along with the first tears, a few weeks ago. Finally.

Petrillo was certain that neither would have surfaced had

Dana Scully not agreed to participate in those first crucial

sessions of Mulder's therapy. Now she came or stayed away

whenever Mulder requested, some things he didn't want her

to see or hear. When Scully made purely social visits, she

and Mulder would sit in the Atrium or in the Cafeteria and

talk, about what Petrillo didn't know. The therapy maybe. Her

work...but he knew for those times, Mulder was together and

controlled and could even pretend at cheerfulness. He could

fake her out.

But in here, in this room, Mulder was vulnerable, naked,

exposed. Frightened. Out of control. In here, he was a victim

again.

"Do you still question who or what did these things to you?"

Mulder was distraught. He was sobbing. Rubbing his eyes and

temples, trying to figure it all out. He suffered under almost-

memories that refused him rest. Nothing had been concluded,

exactly, but at least he was trying.

"I don't know anymore. I just fucking don't know." Tried to

get full breaths. "I'm so tired of all this goddamn shit. Son

of a bitch, I hate this."

"Hate what? The therapy?"

"Yeah. No. The control crap. Genuflecting bull shit. Analysis

and talking, talking and all the fucking crying. I'm so goddamn

tired I can't think straight anymore. How am I suppose to know

what did it? Or who? I can't even be sure I'm real."

"It won't be that way for much longer, you know. Mulder? You're

getting very much better even if it seems like the things you've

come to trust...your memories, the truth of what happened as you

see it... seem to be crumbling around you. You are closer to being

well that you realize, to getting out of here, and I don't want

you to give up yet."

"Why?"

Petrillo knew that was coming. Mulder wanted, always he wanted,

more than just loose assurances based on opinion. "Because I'm

writing a paper on you and I'd like a good closure."

Mulder laughed, a little. "You're more fucked up than me, Petrillo.

I always knew that."

"Don't let it get around."

"I asked you why."

"Because you're fighting the darkness. You're trying to discover

the truth, you want all the answers. Pretty good, that desire for

light and understanding. All the skills of your profession are

still there. You have a strong survival instinct, Mulder, despite

yourself."

"That's not very scientific. Don't your colleagues sometimes wonder

at your methods?"

"They don't wonder when my patients walk out of here as sane as

they are. My methods work. So? Back to the wheel?"

Mulder nodded.

"Quite a while back, you mention someone. You said "Bitch." Do you

want to tell me more about her? I'm assuming a "her" here."

Petrillo was treading new and very tender ground. Gaping pits

with this. But it was time to move on from the generalities

he'd allowed Mulder to get cosy in and shoot for the specifics now.

First times. Lots of those these last few weeks and more to come.

Lots more.

Mulder looked like he was about to get sick. Petrillo had learned to

keep his wastepaper basket within easy reach. (He'd exchanged his wicker

one for a heavy duty plastic one soon after their first chat together).

Mulder didn't get sick, but his hands shook in his lap as he linked

fingers together. "U-u-m-m. Yeah. The female. The subject, um, yeah, it

was a...she b-broke my arm once."

Whew. Petrillo knew how hard just saying that much had been. "She

must have been extremely strong."

"In-human." Mulder corrected.

Petrillo let it pass. "Other injuries, other things she did?"

Mulder nodded, white as a sheet, trembling.

"Do you want to talk about this more tomorrow? A little at a

time?"

Shaking his head 'no', Mulder took a deep breath. "I don't know

why I can't get passed what she did to me. I don't know why it's

taking so long."

Petrillo poured them both a coffee from his pot. Decaffeinated.

Placed Mulder's on the coffee table and sat back down. "It's only

been eight months, Fox. you know it doesn't happen that fast."

"But I'm a psychologist. I know the steps, I know the route. It

should be different for me." He was crying again, a little, at his

failure to excel at getting well.

Petrillo sighed. He'd encountered this before. Always, those

in the profession believed somehow that they should be exempt

from the processes they themselves knew were necessary. "Even

a dentist, no matter how good he is, can't perform his own root

canal." Lousy analogy, Petrillo.

"I'm 46 years old."

Back to that. "And you'll be forty-seven by next year. Age will not

hinder you from getting well and it plays no part in the healing

process. Only time does. And hard work"

"My life's half over. More than half, I don't know what I'm

going to do with-" He doubled over, holding his breath, trying

not to cry. Needing to so badly as always.

"Mulder. You're angry that eight years of your life were taken

from you. And make no mistake, they were taken. You can't get

them back. But the rest of your good life does not have to be

spent in here. If we work together, you will leave here and

begin again. Now before you make 'beginning again' into something

hopeless, let me tell you that it's no shame." Sighed again. "Even

though I know you don't believe that." Not yet anyway. "And the only

ones who should be feeling shame are those who did this to you. You

didn't choose this. But you don't have to live with it like this."

"It seems impossible. Muh-my soul is gone. I don't f-feel..

..hu-u-m-man eh-eh-anymore."

"But you are. You are. Soon, you'll believe it."

"She raped me."

Petrillo went motionless. Careful not to get excited. "Yes." The

medical reports indicated that. Rape and a whole lot more.

"I let her."

Oh boy. "We've discussed this, Fox. You could not have prevented

what she did."

Mulder's face crumpled to a point of pain like Petrillo had hit

the com-fucking-pletely wrong button. "Later..." Mulder could only

get one word out with each lung-full.

The guy was really trying. He really wanted to get this one out.

.."later".. suck .."I".. gasp .."l-let..her-r." ..inhale..

"fuck me.." wheeze..."I"..snort.."asked"..sob.."f-f-for..

it." Mulder was squeezing his guts and sucking air like a beached

tuna. He was punishing himself for not being super-human.

Whew.

Rape survivor guilt. Misplaced, cockeyed, fucked-up guilt.

Let a human get beaten to within an inch of their life and there

are no guilty feelings. No self-blaming cry of "my fault, my fault!"

But let that same human get punched and slapped around by a parent

who says "I love you" first or a rapist who makes you get off and

the shame begins. Sometimes flourishing into self-hatred. Sometimes

into self-murder. So difficult to convince a survivor that the

bodies natural physical response to manipulation is as out of their

control as their beating heart is.

Perhaps, later on in his captive years, Mulder had chosen the

path of least resistance. Maybe to survive the loneliness or the

hopelessness. Maybe because it was the only form of tenderness

open to him. But not in the beginning. He hadn't asked for the

violent invasions of his body and certainly not the rapes at

Walburg.

Mulder blamed himself. But a human being can't control or

defeat all circumstance, even though most still learn from youth on

that one "should" be able to resist or conquer almost anything.

Technology and cell phones and success ruled the world, but people

were still just simple, breakable creatures. Fallible. There was

an innocence in that little truth we have forgotten, Petrillo

thought.

"I think this is going to kill me. I'm afraid I'm insane. She sees it."

Double whew. If he was afraid of going insane, it's a good chance

he wasn't or, at worst, not too crazy to get well.

Mulder thought he should have died. Deserved death. "I wish I

could say some words to make you believe you were an innocent in

what happened to you, and that you are merely human with only so

much power at your disposal, but I don't have those words. It's

something you'll just have to learn. For now accept it at face

value: You were not to blame. You will get well. We'll take

the rest from there."

"But it's a mistake."

Petrillo wasn't sure he understood. "What is?"

"All of this. I shouldn't be here."

"You deserve to get well. You are worthy. Scully believes

it, why can't you?" It was the wrong time for this conversation,

nothing Petrillo said could scale those self-incriminating

walls. Mulder didn't believe it.

"No. It doesn't matter, don't you see. Nothing matters."

Petrillo watched his patient quietly weep. Something had

changed in the tears. They weren't the 'I'm-so-fucked-up-

and-useless-and-worthless, I-can't-stand-myself-tears'

anymore. Mulder was grieving over something fresh. This was

new, raw sadness. Doctor Scully had been mentioned. That

might be it. Okay.

"I think I hear an "I'm not worth it" in there someplace. Is

that what you think?"

When Mulder didn't answer, he remembered something. Doctor

Scully's, on a recent visit, had been accompanied by a man. A stern,

balding individual. Petrillo had not met him, only seen him, but his

impression had been that this fellow would feel at home giving

orders to the president. What was the name he had heard? Skinner.

Skinner? As in director Skinner of the F.B.I.? If this was a

love triangle, he suddenly understood Mulder's feelings of not

measuring up.

"Do you think she thinks that?"

Silence except for sniffles.

"What do you think of Mister Skinner?"

Mulder's countenance slumped into resignation, defeat having

occurred without a battle even being waged.

In a small voice. "He's a good man." Microscopic whisper. "He'll

treat her right, the way she deserves."

Thus the nerdy genius hath been cast aside. Petrillo knew Mulder

hadn't even spoken to her about his fear that she was lost to him.

Petrillo was sure Doctor Scully had no idea Mulder still felt this way.

"And yet, she has done everything in her power to get you the care

you need. She visits almost daily-"

"She feels sorry for me."

So do you! It was a good sign. Some self-pity there. Some ego.

Nothing hopeless about Mulder at all.

"Have you asked her?" Knowing Fox would not have the courage

to take such a step at this stage. Fear of rejection had a strong

hold on him. Rejection meant worthlessness. Still... "You think

she's abandoned you, so what harm is there in asking to see if

that really is the case?" Was he afraid his fears would be confirmed?

Or that they be disproved? Love was a big responsibility. It meant

answering to another. Proving oneself. Being unselfish, forgiving.

It meant laughing and planning for a future. It was a lot of hard

work, sometimes with rewards at first unseen. It could be scary

as hell.

Mulder stared at the floor. Petrillo could almost see the

thoughts in his head battling for position.

After a moment, Petrillo suggested, "Would you like her to sit

in again next session? Maybe your fear of rejection is something

we need to discuss together? Would that be all right?"

Mulder actually asking this woman: Do you love me? was, Petrillo

knew, beyond Mulder's strength. He was too vulnerable. He was cracked

in a hundred places, the wrong pressure here, a tap there and pieces

could begin falling away...

Frightened beyond speech, Fox nodded..

"I don't...don't know where I am."

Petrillo had Mulder under his guiding voice once more

and Scully wondered for the second time whether her being

there was of any use. But one thing was certain, she

wanted to be in on Mulder's treatment; as often as possible;

what-ever it was; whoever it was; how ever it went.

Leaving him under the care of strangers (though she had to

admit, Petrillo was good), without her there to regularly

observe at least was no longer an option.

"It's okay, Fox. You're okay, you're all right. You're very

safe and nothing is going to harm you..." Petrillo droned.

He'd gotten Mulder to remember farther back this time.

That is, if the hypnosis could be trusted, Scully thought.

Whether or not it could, Mulder was trying to share his

nightmare.

"I'm so cold." Mulder shivered. "I can't see anything."

Petrillo was making quick notes and watching his client

carefully. "What about the noises? Last time, you told us

about noises. Can you describe them?"

"Uh...yeah...breathing,...I think. Someone's breathing,..

and...and strange grunts. Something's near me...something

big!" He arms twitched. "I can't see it. Some kind of

animal. I can smell it!" Mulder shook his head back and forth

as if to rid his nostrils of something rank.

Scully sat on the couch next to but not touching Mulder. She

held coffee in her hand. There were daisies in a vase on the

coffee table.

"I want you to relax, Fox. I want you to tell us about the

noises but I want you to remember that you're quite safe and

that nothing can harm you." Petrillo soothed.

"O-oh-k-kay." His eyes were closed but moved back and forth as

if experiencing REM sleep. "It's moving away." Mulder stiffened,

alert. "I smell something else. Strange. Sweet. Really strong

this time but I can't see where it comes from...dark. Oh."

Petrillo and Scully exchanged looks. This was new. "Describe

the smell." Petrillo encouraged.

"Same, sweet,..gross. Can't get away from it. Surrounded by it.

I hate that smell, hate it...sickening...makes me throw up."

Before the action suited the words as at the previous

session, Petrillo fired another question, "Have you smelled

it before?"

"Few times. It's happened before. Phuhg!.." He snorted out his

nose as if it were clogging with the dream stink.

Petrillo frowned, lost. "Where does it happen?"

"Here. All the time...so tired."

"Stay with me, Fox. Okay? Does the smell remind you of

anything?"

"Ummm,.."

They were losing him.

"...uh,..yeah, I guess so. Kind of like sugar, um..syrup.

Sorta like th-th-aaaaa..." Mulder let his head droop to one side and

he didn't respond to Petrillo's attempts to re-awaken him.

Petrillo raised his eyebrows to Scully and gestured for them

to move to his tiny adjacent business office. It was safe to

leave the patient where he was for the time being.

"Well." Petrillo could think of nothing else to say right

off.

Scully sat in the padded chair opposite his desk. "That was

...strange."

He puzzled a bit. "Hmm. I hope he doesn't go to sleep

every time we come to that corner or we'll never get anywhere.

But as for making sense of what we're hearing? - I don't know

at this point what we're hearing."

"So you think the hypnosis is going nowhere?"

"Well, no, I wouldn't say that. I'm just not sure it's going

to the truth. What happened to him is always going to be somewhat

a matter of conjecture because he remembers so little in the

waking state. We're getting information but how accurate is it?,

I guess is my point."

"I don't know what to suggest, I'm a pathologist. I can offer

you this: I know Mulder. He doesn't make things up. He has a genius

mind and the ability to make I suppose you could say incredible

connections - leaps of logic if you will - but he has no imagination

what-so-ever."

Petrillo thought for a moment. "If I had to guess, I'd say he was

kept confined in a very dark, dirty basement somewhere with animals

yet had connections with people." At Scully's amused look, "With some

very, very disturbed people. But he insists he lived on another world.

He seems to hold to that from his recollections, while awake anyway."

"Well. We know what he said. And we know he thinks we think he's

crazy for saying it never mind believing it."

"Scars." Petrillo recited aloud. "Broken bones. Torture. Rape.

Assorted assaults. Yet given medical aid, food, water. Conversation.

Does any of it make sense?" Petrillo shrugged his shoulders. "Slave

trade? Kept for work, sex, boredom, abuse..?"

Scully shuddered at the list as it always made her and wondered too.

Some criteria fit, some didn't. Like, if he'd been anywhere with the

technology to keep him alive after the damage those wounds must have

caused...Mulder would have found a way to contact them. If he could

have, he would have. But had he wanted to?

Scully sighed. The little circle of questions had been spinning

in her mind for months. And they were no closer to any real answer

than when the ride began. "Have you been playing the sessions back

to him?"

Petrillo nodded. "But he tends to blank out. He gets...stony.

Wooden. And he doesn't talk for a whole day. It scares him pretty

badly."

Scully stood. "Um, will he wake up...?"

Petrillo nodded and followed her through the door to the

"client" office. Mulder was asleep but woke when Scully touched

his shoulder. He blinked a few times. "Whoops. Did I go ape-shit

Doc?"

Petrillo smiled. "No. You just fell asleep."

Mulder nervously rubbed his palms on his knees. "So, we listen

back to it?" Obviously not wanting to.

Petrillo looked at his clients face. Fox's eyes were on Scully

though he was trying to pretend they were on the far wall. "No.

Tomorrow if that's okay. I'm really backed up in paperwork."

Mulder jumped up, pleased with his reprieve and the bit of freedom

time Petrillo was granting. Scully took Mulder's hand and lead him

down to the cafeteria. They had a precious hour before she had to

go.

They took their drinks to the small atrium on the top floor and

sat looking up at the sky. This was a place for patients advanced

in their therapy and teetering on the brink of re-entry into

civilization. Scully held onto that like a life preserver.

Mulder pointed out star systems to her, his knowledge extensive.

Clearly he'd been reading up. They lay reclined on lawn chairs

that had seen better days. Scully let her head loll a bit to her

right so she could watch him. Availed herself of that joy as often

as possible.

He had managed to stay gorgeous. Then, men usually got better

looking as they aged. She used to think Mulder was cute. Now he

made her breathless. But it was a reaction to something deeper

than what was skin-deep. Crush on the new partner syndrome was a

decade gone.

A stronger disease had replaced it.

She must have straightened the magazines on the coffee

table a dozen times. She must have wiped the counter

a hundred.

But he was coming home for his first weekend and she

wanted everything perfect. No, not perfect. Comfortable

and homey. Relaxed. She wanted him to feel welcome

and relaxed.

She was still nervous and had bitten her nails off. A quick

file and paint job and they looked passable.

The door buzzer sounded and her heart sped up. He was here.

She pressed the 'Talk': "Who is it?"

"E.T.."

The shit. Scully smiled just like that rainy night fifteen years

ago and let him in.

Mulder carried an overnight bag, setting it down just inside

the door. He wore the black knit sweater and blue jeans she'd

bought him for his first Christmas back (one year, two months and

four days ago). His first non-institute issued clothes which

they had refused to let him wear. The nurse who had taken

the package had said "we'll deliver it", placed it on the counter

and gone back to her novel. Scully wondered if Mulder had

actually seen the clothes until this year.

Scully wanted the hesitation she saw in him dealt with

immediately and hugged him close and long with an extra

squeeze just before releasing him.

"Hi." He said and bent down to kiss her cheek.

They ate in, watched a half hour comedy series called

Don't Mind Me about, ironically enough, the goofy goings

on in a mental institute. The Moral Majority's sensitivity

meter must have dropped, Mulder thought. He'd noticed that,

in 2008, almost nothing was off-limits on Satellite.

Later, he seemed quiet and though assuring her he was fine,

she wondered about the downcast eyes.

It took him all evening to broach a subject he must have been

wanting to talk about but until now was either unwilling or

fearful of.

"Scully,...tell me...about my mother." He looked at her now.

Oh.

She had expected the subject: She and Him and Here Together.

This other one could be a plank-walk.

"What do you want to know?" There was quite a bit.

"Well, anything you can tell me, I mean after I was gone. Did

she ever talk about me?"

Scully settled into the couch, legs tucked up. Mulder sat leaning

against the back of it, legs stretched out and crossed. He didn't

seem to mind hard surfaces for hours at a time at all.

"Sometimes. I went to see her a few times, especially after..

you were gone. I kept in contact with her sister as well. Because

Teena, well, she was alone all the time."

"Aunt Julia?"

"Yes."

"Mom shouldn't have had to be alone like that. She shouldn't

have had to go through that." He said.

"She was never angry with you. She knew, Mulder, that if

you could have contacted her, you would have."

He nodded but it was an unconvinced nod. "Sam never came

back."

Scully couldn't decide if that was a question or a statement

and decided not to go there. "She, your mom, told me a few

stories about you, you little hellion."

"Did she ever tell you about the time I broke her Royal

Albert china?"

Glad he was following her lead onto lighter things, "No, but

I'd like to hear what kind of Mulder-proofing I ought to be

doing around here."

Mulder craned his neck and looked back and up at her. She got

excellent view of gorgeous throat. "Scully, I was six."

"How did you break them?"

"Eight dinner plates. Four cups, two saucers..."

Scully rolled her eyes. Naturally the guy remembered exactly

how many and what. Couldn't remember what happened for the

last eight years but remembered this.

CTMDS. Chronic Traumatic Memory Dysfunction Syndrome is

what Petrillo had called it, then had added with his usual humor:

/"It means when really bad shit happens, he blocks it out almost

totally. Photographic memory isn't always an asset and I think

that high functioning brain can't handle it. Usually when bad

things happen, we tend to remember them more vividly than good

things because they impact so many more cognitive areas and he

does as well, of course. But when it's bad to the degree of

driving one crazy, he has a defense that steps in to prevent that.

It's not the first time for him and good thing too I would say."

A self-depreciating quirk twisted his lip. "We took this brand new

theory last year at the Johannesburg Conference. It sounds good."/

"..the pattern was Buttercup. I was climbing on a chair to

get at the china cabinet. I wasn't interested in the dishes, I

just wanted to see what she'd hidden in that red, dragon-

painted wooden box she had tucked in behind. I dislodged

one of the shelves and crash! I tried to glue them all back

together but she must have known. I did a terrible job with

the glue. Got it all over myself and the plates and the rug."

"What kind of glue?"

"Super-Glue hadn't been invented yet - Elmer's."

Scully laughed at that, throwing back her head. "Oh, I'm pretty

sure she knew."

"She was a good mother to me. Most of the time. I was

a troublemaker back then."

Back then??

He hadn't talked about his father at all. But then perhaps

Mulder had laid those demons to rest.

"What was in the box?"

"Huh?"

"What was in the wooden box?"

"I never found out. I was so scared I just grabbed the glue

and started piecing them and stacking them back together.

They all stuck to one another so I ended up with one, big,

thick, heavy, really sticky Buttercup Royal Albert plate."

Scully laughed. "You brat."

"I was just a kid. She never said anything anyway but after

that I was too scared to go in the china cabinet again. Never

did learn what she kept in that damn box."

A lock of your hair and love from her heart, Scully mused.

It was easy to love one's child. Teena may have been prim and

distant during Fox's adulthood but, so Scully had learned from

repeated visits with Teena Mulder where the woman would

unashamedly pour out all the things she'd remembered and

loved about him and all the grief over losing him a mother can

hold, she had dearly loved her dark haired, hazel eyed little

boy.

Mulder suddenly asked very quietly. "How did she die?"

Scully took a breath. Kept it basically informative but left

out the most distressing aspects. It was difficult to read the

back of his head, what to tell and what no to tell him. "She

had another stroke. That's not unusual." she quickly added

when she saw his sideways glance and the pain in it. "They

often go that way. One and then a second and sometimes a

third. This one affected the autonomic functions; breathing; heart.

They had her on full support for a few weeks. But your aunt decided

to disconnect life support..." She laid a reassuring hand on his

shoulder. "It only took a few minutes. She didn't suffer."

Saw him nod. He rubbed fingers over his eyes, they came away

wet.

She leaned down and kissed his cheek, meaning to only give

a little peck to let him know it was fine. It was perfectly okay to

cry here. In front of her. About anything he had to.

But Mulder's hand moved up to hold her head there, very gently,

in place against his cheek. Then he turned and found her mouth

and kissed it. He shifted around, kissed her once more. His lips

rested briefly on cheek, ear, hair, neck. Back to cheek. All the

time he was thanking her. He was whispering "thank-you, thank-you,

Scully. Thank-you, thank-you.." in her ear.

He didn't specify what it was he was thankful for but pulled

himself up to the couch and lay on top of her, molding to her and

touching her unreservedly, kissing her with a kind of desperate

intensity.

As she did him.

"I don't think it really matters so much the way Fox remembers

things as long as he is facing this life, now. Here and now it

is vital how he perceives things, how he feels and reacts. He lost

his ability to cope. Prolonged, brutal incarceration has had that

effect on others before now."

Scully spoke to Petrillo via her cell while she drove the fifty

minutes home. It was routine now that, even as she fired her engine

and exited Greenlawn Recovery Center's parking lot, her fingers would

be dialing Petrillo's pre-programmed private number and they would

discuss Mulder: the session, what he said, what he did, what it meant.

"When can he come home for good?"

She heard Petrillo sigh at the other end. "Yes, I know. I ask

the same question every damn week."

"Not yet. I don't recommend it. But it's close, Doctor Scully. He's

come so far but there's a way to go still. I know you are aware of it

as well as I but we can't forget what it is that brought him here.

Mulder was abused, brutally for eight years. Locked away although it's

still unclear where and who and even why,...treated in all the worst

ways it is possible for one human to treat another, and springing back

from that just isn't so simple as one years therapy and then - TA-DAH! -

well again. This will be with him for the rest of his life."

Panic attacks. Post Traumatic Stress disorder. Incurable, both of

them. But treatable. Hernia. Pills. Ulcer. Pills. Coping skills. "He's

trying so hard."

"I know and partly because he wants to please you. He is starting to

live again. A good, strong life for him is just ahead with all its

liberties , restrictions and complications. We want to be certain

he is armored to deal with all that it encompasses. It'll be a daily

fight, even to make decisions, never mind find some kind of focus,

goals, career..."

Scully recognized these things. "Do you think Mulder will try

to go after those who did this to him? I mean, has he mentioned

anything like that to you?"

Petrillo sounded concerned. "No. No, he hasn't. Is that the

impression he is giving you?"

"No. But Mulder is...Mulder. He might."

"Unless he knows where to look, it would be futile."

Scully almost laughed. Like Samantha was futile. Like all the rest

of the quest was futile, as it had appeared to everyone but Mulder.

The Quest, the Quest!

You make request,

that I should rest

my questing quest?

I think you jest!

I shall go East.

I shall go West.

Before I rest

my questing Quest!

Scully had never been much of a poet, (that had been Melissa's talent),

but the silly rhyme had popped into her mind and she couldn't get rid of

it.

"Anyway," Petrillo said, "I would discourage that, I think. He has

enough to do just getting back on track now. We may never discover who did

this to him or why and he may never experience complete memory recovery.

But the power to make or break his own life is in his hands once more. Do

you know what he said to me when I mentioned that?"

"What?"

"He said "I hate it when shrinks make sense." When I asked him why,

he answered: "Because it means now I have to try. I have no excuses not

to."

A few weeks later, Mulder had a birthday and for a present Petrillo had

repainted the number on the wall to read "47". He told Mulder it was a

reminder that he had reached that age without being nuts.

Scully bought him his own color television for his room, satellite included.

He looked peaceful.

It was the brink of paradise, having him there, in her

bed.

Home.

To touch him now all she had to do was move her arm

across six inches of sheet. His warmth was the last best

thing at the close of each day and the first of each sunrise.

Even if it was only weekends.

Watching him sleep - she did a lot of that lately - his movements

and breathing, was a reward. Or a miracle. A wonderful gift to

her from God; one to be thankful for. However the bestowal of

him she would treasure and protect the gift as long as Destiny

allowed.

Scrumptious looking gift. Scully lightly ran her hand over the

long line of his back and side, memorizing each muscle, each dip

and rise from shoulder to the slight curve between rib-cage and hip.

His bones were fleshed over again.

Mulder stirred and turned to face her. "Hi." he mumbled still

in half sleep.

"Morning."

"Been awake long?"

"No. I'm used to waking up early." It was a half lie. The other reason

for her early awakening that day was a seriously erotic dream in which

a certain former F.B.I. man figured prominently.

Day dreams too, all centering on a big, big bed and a naked, willing

Mulder. He was of course willing now but just not able. It was not a

subject they spoke much about. Petrillo had explained it to her

behind Mulder's back. She was worried about touching him in that

way. Was he all right now? Would he allow her to touch him?

Petrillo had assured her it was not the touching, but it was his fear

of that brand of intimacy. He wasn't ready, it was still messed up

in his head. He still had terrors.

But some nights she talked him into bed and as much as she wanted

to hold him down and ride him like a spring bunny, she settled for

kissing and hugging, or tangling herself up in those long legs of his

and offering certain portions of the local man-life a specific caress or two.

Those times would stave off the cavewoman cravings for another

week. But no rise from "Basement Mulder" yet and Upstairs Mulder

was horribly self conscious about it. She tread very, very carefully

around the subject.

Scully draped one shapely leg over his warmth, planting little

kisses on his chest. She liked his back too, it was long and lean

and muscled. She was a back woman. Today it was his chest though.

She didn't even notice the scars anymore.

"It's Sunday, Scully, go back to sleep." His eyes remained closed.

She wanted to see them. "I'd rather go out for breakfast."

"Can't we have it here?"

"We always eat here."

"Yeah but I was hoping..to spend the day with you...alone."

"Sounds promising. Are you sure? We could try out that

new pancake place...all you can eat..."

"Crowds. Kids. Old people with dentures..." He grimaced.

"Alone with me aaaaalll day...huh?" Scully liked the possibilities of it.

That made him smile and he cracked an eye. "Behave."

"I am woman, Mulder, hear me roar."

His eyes closed again. "Sleep, then food, then talk."

Scully snuggled and kissed him some more, pleased at his

response. "And then?"

"T.V."

Covering his head with a pillow, she beat her palm on it then

jumped out of bed before he could snatch her back.

Her long T-Shirt twisted around her and rumpled, he caught sight

of nude fanny before she threw on a housecoat and headed

to the kitchen. "I'm making breakfast then. Now. So if you're

inclined to eat this morning, get that attractive ass out here."

Her voice was lilting and happy.

It made him deliriously content. "Should have known taking

up with an Irish woman would cause a war." He called after.

In front of a movie neither payed much attention to, he settled

in, comfortable leaning against the couch, his legs stretched

out as usual. The comfortable silence settled in as well and he was

enjoying it. He'd done entirely too much talking these past

few months. His tongue was tired. His brain was tired. Sitting

in front of a television that wasn't controlled by someone in

a white, starched uniform was heaven. They only allowed him

access to his own T.V. at Greenlawn between certain hours.

It wasn't a recent film they were watching. "Y2K." A movie

about millennium destruction and world anarchy. Well, 2000

had come and gone (while he'd been gone) and nothing

had ended. Some things had definitely gotten worse. Economics

of course, when did they ever improve? Nation still rose against

nation and kingdom against kingdom...no alien invasions to

speak of.

But then he was behind in his current events.

Saddam still undefeated in first place for Prize Ass hole

award.

Ireland finally had enough arguing with the Crown and signed

a tenuous peace treaty that thus far was holding. The New Freedom

IRA was still a problem but, then, when weren't they?

Economic strength was up in some countries and down in others.

People were still having babies and paying mortgages.

A woman was in the White House and he'd slid a few good

jokes Scully's way about that.

But no alien colonists.

Yet.

He may be older, the X-Files may be closed but that didn't mean

all that he'd seen and learned "back then" had been false.

Scully had left the work behind. That work.

He'd been thinking about it and, since being granted weekend

leaves, been thinking about it more and more. The problem was

he was no longer an Agent of the F.B.I. In fact, he had nowhere

to lay his briefcase. And he still had a month or two of sessions

with Petrillo to get through...

But things were still unanswered. Antarctic. How had "Their"

work progressed? Would he ever be able to pick up the threads and

unravel the tapestry of the concealed lies...

Mulder shook his head a bit. His feet were becoming impatient.

First things first.

"What's wrong?" Scully asked. She was seated behind him, her

knees on either side of his shoulders. He loved it when she did

that.

"Hmm?" She'd caught him staring at the coffee table instead of

the Television. "Oh, nothing, I guess I was just thinking..."

Scully shifted closer and put her arms around his neck, resting

her chin on his shoulder. He was thinking more and more, she knew.

And about what, she could make an educated guess: his future.

Not just their future but his. Job, career, purpose, life. All

those big questions he would soon have to explore and decide

on. Asked anyway. "What about?"

Same old Mulder. He tried to minimize his obvious pensiveness.

"Just, you know, when these sessions are over...things. "What next?""

...job..."

Scully ran fingers over chest hair. "What about applying to the

Bureau again,...your past record..."

Mulder turned sideways to look at her. He did that when he

was serious, looked her in the eye when he wanted her to listen

and understand that what he said was crucial. Also when he

suspected she wouldn't like what he had to say. "No one's

going to hire me here, Scully."

Gently - oh! - so gently said. He did not want those words to hurt.

"In two months or so," He explained still gently, still with that

pillow voice that wanted to keep her safe and happy, "Petrillo

figures I'll be upgraded to outpatient status."

"That's excellent." No one will hire me here, Scully. No. One.

Will. Hire. Me. Here.

"It means I'll need a place to stay for a while. Full time..."

He had no money of his own at all. Well, his mother's house was

still sitting there, paid for. It was his now but it was getting older

and the taxes on it had to be payed. He had less than no money.

Scully'd been paying all the bills for a long time and that was

unacceptable to him. That was going to change.

"With me, I hope." She said quickly. Even now, he asked permission,

she thought. Even yet, he harbored doubts.

"Are you sure? Twenty-four and seven?"

Doubts about her feelings for him. Doubts about his worth.

"Don't you want to?"

"Yeah, I do. I just don't want to be a burden or put you out

more than I already have."

She sighed. This was an old battle and she was tired of it.

"Put me out? I love having you here, Mulder. I look forward

to coming home every day, knowing you'll be here."

She saw him gulp. For some reason, it had been the wrong

answer.

"I'll be putting out resume's as soon as possible. Don't want

to be a bum forever."

She felt a tightness in her chest. He hadn't acknowledged her

last comment. "You're not a bum. You've just had bad luck. A

lot of it." She smiled at herself. Yeah. A Supertanker of oily-shit-

bad-luck. "If not the Bureau, what Agencies?"

"No one in D.C. would take me on, Scully." He said-almost-whispered.

The tight ache in her chest grew and was joined by a lump in her

throat that no amount of swallowing would dislodge. But she listened

as a good friend does.

"All they'd have to do is check where I've been for the last fourteen

months, the years prior to that, the work I - we - did before that.

Mulder the UFO chaser who claims abduction by said aliens and

ends up institutionalized...Spooky really is crazy. If you didn't know

me, Scully, wouldn't you think the same?"

She didn't answer because she didn't want to speak the truth:

Very probably, yes she would.

No one would hire a man with a record like that. He would find no

position of trust or responsibility no matter how sane now. I.Q.,

experience, eagerness, none of those would matter to an employer

with a reputation to protect. Find a new career outside law

enforcement? Mulder was pushing fifty. "So you're not going to try

here?'

"I've applied. I'm not...holding my breath."

She let one finger idly touch his left nipple. She felt it's

response to her gentle manipulations and let her hand explore

lower with tiny soft circles. Heard his breath catch. "Scully..."

She realized how hot and bothered she'd become. It was the thought

of him going away. That a day was coming where he would have

to leave. She would go with him, she decided. Chief Forensic

Pathologist? Her position and status? Let the dead dissect their dead.

"I'll be going with you."

He turned all the way around at that and took her hands. "No."

And before she had a chance to ask, he explained his reasons.

"Scully, I want this - us - to work. I have no right to ask you

this but I need some time to prove to myself that I can make it

on my own, out there, again." He pulled her off the couch

and into an embrace, wrapped himself around her and touched

her, letting his hands and arms land where they may. "I want

this, Scully..."

She relished the feel of his hands on her.

"...but not yet. I...can't. I'm sorry but it has to be right..."

Scully thought: How ironic. The old pervert I know and love

wants sex to be something right and pure. Beautiful and truthful

even.

Mulder was speaking softly into her ear. It was such a sexy

turn-on, she was afraid she might lose the control he was

advocating and try mounting him right there on the living room

rug.

"...because of what happened to me. For a long time, sex was

a substitute for everything, like a replacement for feeling and

even thinking." He pulled away and looked her in the eye. "I

don't want you to be a substitute."

Boy Scout all the way.

She wanted him so badly. Not just the sex, but the mind, the

emotions, the soul, everything labeled Fox Mulder that she

could get her hands and heart around. The whole damn thing!

And he was going to be leaving without her. She could feel the

redness appear in her eyes and knew it broke his heart to

see it. "Scully. I'm sorry. But I'm not even out of the hospital

yet. I don't have a job. I need those things...to establish a

future of some kind, one where I want you to be. Us, together."

He was so earnest. He just didn't clue that all she wanted out of

the future was him in the present. Right now. But she understood

his need for a certain amount of independance. Some things didn't

change, Fox Mulder still had trouble relying on anyone. "I don't

want that future if it won't include you."

Scully choked back the tears, kept them from falling by pure

will. God, he was such a gift. "Mulder, that's what I want too. You

never know though, something might turn up here." Please God.

He smiled indulgently, kissed her on the hand. Moved to her lips.

Scully felt a rush of desire from head to toe. A look, a laugh,

a touch did it. Amazing man. He'd wrapped up his heart

in tissue paper and handed it to her with trembling hands...

She would carry it with her because that gesture had proved

once and for all that he was no longer afraid of her.

He trusted her to love him no matter what.

One day Mulder came home from his forays into the job market

and after turning the key in the lock and locating her in the bedroom,

Scully found herself on the receiving end of a long, very intimate

hug. He seemed to want to enclose her in himself so they would

become a single being.

It set off warning signals and she braced herself.

"I found a job, Scully." He announced.

A rush went through her. Excitment and worry. "What job? Where?"

"In Washington. Kind of a psychologist/crime-victim/counselling/

consultant."

Her heart soared. "That's terrific." Big hope,"The Bureau?" Tiny hope,

"VCU?" Any hope would do.

"Scully,.." Mulder spoke softly and hope dived to dash itself on

the rocks. "Washington State. Seattle, Washington."

Scully wanted to say something supportive and meaningful but

words failed her. Her heart was spinning and wobbling on a pin-

point.

"Two weeks Monday." He finished. He had not ended the

embrace. He was rooted like an ancient tree to support

her in whatever way she choose to react.

Mulder was a steady strength she pulled herself into,

wrapping her arms around his waist, holding on for dear life.

He was being so strong for her. For so long he'd wanted to,

he still thought he had a debt to repay.

"I'm proud of you." She whispered. (I don't want you to go!)

"I tried to find something here, Scully."

"I know." The other side of the continent?

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay." All the way across five thousand lonely miles.

Nine hours by jet. Six days by train. Seconds by phone but phone

calls? Not acceptable. Not enough -not nearly enough!

"Are you okay?"

Two weeks and he would be gone. She cried then. Oh, those

gentle words. Always those three damn gentle words of his did

their magic and most especially when she was trying her hardest

not break down.

"No, I'm not. I'm not." Her mascara would stain this shirt too.

Another dry-cleaning bill.

"How was your weekend?" Petrillo asked.

"Real nice." Fox said, remembering. "It was

really nice."

Petrillo nodded, took a gulp his wife's spicy,

milky tea she'd packed in a thermos for him that

morning. It was pungent and sweet and hit the spot

better than coffee.

"Well, shall we begin?"

Mulder nodded.

"Any dreams?"

"No. But I was a good boy and took all my pills."

"Yes. I told Doctor Scully to watch and make sure

of that."

"Figured as much."

"What about your emotional state over the weekend.

How did that go? Any anxiety?"

"Always but not so bad this time. We talked a lot."

"About what?"

"What I'm going to do when I finally get out of here."

"What do you want to do?"

He had a job but didn't want to mention it to Petrillo.

He had an irrational fear that Petrillo would not approve.

Petrillo still had some clout over his patient status and could

veto any move out of state if he thought it a risk to his recovery.

But this job was his ticket back, he felt, and no one was going to

screw it up.

"To stop being a financial burden on Scully. To get a job

somewhere where I can use what I know, make some kind of

difference."

"You mentioned thinking about going into private practice

as a psychologist for UFO abductees. Private counseling,

hypnosis and related therapies. Are you still considering

it?"

Fox pursed his lips. "I've put out feelers for that and other

things. I'm not in a position to be choosey."

Petrillo thought Fox looked uncomfortable "I know you still

don't believe me. No one ever did."

"You'll have to forgive a skeptical society. But just

because there's no tangible proof doesn't mean abductions

don't happen. Regarding your own claim, you have nothing

to prove to me as a member of that society. But you do have

to work with me a little longer so you can get well."

"You keep contradicting yourself, Doc'."

"How's that?"

"That I can believe what I want to about what

happened to me - which is that I was abducted by

aliens and held against my will for eight years,

that I have nothing to prove to you or anyone. But,

getting well, doesn't that mean giving up that belief?

Don't you think I'm delusional for believing it?"

Petrillo leaned back in his chair. It creaked. "I'll

tell you what I think: I think something terrible happened

to you. I think you're trying to recover. You're getting

well means working hard as hell with me - which you have

been doing - to handle these panic attacks and violent,

diassociative episodes..."

"Could you drop the shrink-speak for a second and tell

me what you really think? Am I delusional to believe I was

abducted?"

"No. You're not delusional. I think your mind has coped

the best way it can with the trauma of those years."

"Doc! A straight answer. Do you think I was abducted?"

"Personally, no I don't think that. But it doesn't

matter."

"It doesn't? You're going to let me walk out of this

place believing absolutely in something that people think is

nuts?"

"Hindu's believe in Destiny and reincarnation. Are all

those millions of people crazy? Is it crazy to chant to

Buddha? Believe in the good will of one's ancestors? Is

it nuts to worship and dedicate one's life to an invisible

Yahweh? Is it insane to worship Mother Earth and consider

even the rocks living, feeling creatures? Is the whole world

demented, Fox?"

Mulder smiled ironically. "Point made."

"I'm a doctor - trained in the sciences - and the silliest

assertion science continues to make is that miraculous things

are impossible because they are miraculous! I have every belief

in the possibility of things beyond this realm, things outside

the physical, because as a physical creature tied to this realm

there is no way in hell I can ever prove otherwise."

"A philosopher too, huh?"

"It's not so much philosophy as common sense. You see. What's

important is how you see this life. That you're grounded in

reality and have the power to take or reject what it has to

offer. To make rational choices as a free moral agent. Your

choices will never be just one or the other. You can walk out

of here if you wish believing you were on an alien space craft

or sipping holy wine with the Queen of Heaven. As long as it's a

choice from a healthy man, a mentally sound one. I'm just here

to help you re-acquire the skills to survive - to live. In the end,

the decision what to accept is still yours to make."

"What if the panic attacks still happen?"

"They might. PTSD is not a curable condition, but it is

a treatable one. You will learn to live with it and live with it

out there with your fine lady and not in here with an ugly, old

man."

"You're methods are not very conventional, Doc'."

"But they work."

"How long have you been doing this?"

"After getting my degree I left India when I was twenty-seven.

My father, by the way was Italian and worked in Calcutta, where

he met and married my mother, hence the Italian name. I'm sixty-

one years old now. I transferred from place to place in Europe and

then here until I found a niche where I could be the most help. I think

I found it."

"Lucky for me."

"Maybe Destiny." Petrillo smiled.

Petrillo's encouraging words helped ease Scully's heartache somewhat.

"Twelve months of treatment here - believe me - it's miraculous how

far he's come in that time. He has a resilience I've not often seen in

my years. He's a healer and a fighter."

"I'm very proud of him. So you think he's...okay? He's not going back

to work too soon?"

"Uh,.." Over the phone, Petrillo's voice seemed a trifle confused. "That's

really impossible to say for sure. I can say that if I thought he was not at

all ready, that it was shaky, then I would tell him. But the decision is

ultimately up to him now that he's on his own cognisance. Uh, he's got

a job then?"

"Yes."

"I'll have to speak to him about some out-patient follow-up if he's

willing, that was fast." He wasn't surprised, really, that Mulder hadn't

told him.

Tell me about it. Scully hung up the phone. She would not cry or be

selfish about this. Would not hurt him.

Two people traveled to Ian Moss's residence in Boston,

Minnesota.

One got there an hour before the other (around 9 P.M.)

in a 1984 Ford Tempo in need of a tune-up. He parked around

the corner because of the engine's rumble and because he

didn't want the car noticed in particular though the street

out front was lined on both sides with vehicles. Visitor

number 1 walked down the back alley to the row of stacked

condos, his destination. But instead of going in, he waited

and watched the presently darkened windows.

He would do this same routine, parking his car in different

spots each time and varying where he stood to watch,

as long as it took until he knew the comings and goings

of dwelling number 3 on the fifth floor. Who was at home

and when and the times they arrived and left until he

learned them. Even if it took days.

But as luck would have it, only forty-five minutes after

standing in the chilly night air, the lights went on in what

he figured was the bedroom. Soon, the lights behind the

blinds on the balcony doors went on.

The cars and trucks belonging to the residents of the

middle class housing were all parked out back with

numbers painted on concrete blocks for each.

Another half hour went by and a big man emerged from

the back door accompanied by the little man whom he

himself had traveled a long way to keep company with.

Smaller man kissed bigger man and bigger man, in the

uniform of Boston's finest, walked to his unmarked police car,

got in and started it, back out of his stall and drove away down

the alley.

Visitor number 1 watched as Ian Moss retreated into the

building, letting the door swing shut behind him.

He quickly sprinted to the door before it could swing to

and caught it, then crept up the flight of carpeted

stairs after his intended.

Ian placed the key in the deadbolt and turned the lock.

Before he heard the telltale click of the bolt sliding back,

he heard another click.

A switchblade at his throat and a voice in his ear muffled

the bolt's sound.

"Hi, Ian. Long time no see."

Ian felt panic surge through him at Ross's angry baritone.

"What do you want?"

"Shut the fuck up and get your ass inside is what I want,

you snitching homo."

Ian had no doubts Ross meant to kill him but he had no recourse

in an argument with a knife. A teeny tingle at his throat and the

feel of wet underneath it proved Ross meant business.

Ross shoved him inside and kicked the door shut. He couldn't

take his hands off Ian to turn the bolt but it didn't matter, what

he had to do wouldn't take long.

Ian wondered how many minutes had gone by - it seemed an

eternity - and glanced at the clock hanging in the hallway.

The door of number 3 shut just as a traveler number 2 pulled

up in a cab out front.

"I'm expecting someone." Ian said, surprised at the steadiness

of his voice.

"You're a lying faggot."

"No, I'm not. I swear, I'm expecting him any second now."

"Oh, yeah? Who?"

"Fox Mulder."

Ross paused. "Who is that, your little queer for the night? Does

the cop know you're two-timing his ass? Hmmm?"

Ian swallowed. Jesus, Ross didn't even know who he was talking

about. But how often does a rapist even really look at the face of

his victim or take the time to learn their name?

Ross dragged Ian into the living room. "I got a network, faggot.

Eyes on the back of my head. You think I wouldn't find out who

turned me in?"

Ian struggled to remain calm or to at least appear to. Ross (and his

type) loved to terrorize before cutting or raping or whatever it was

he'd previously been convicted of. Volumes had been written on

the subject. Lot's of time to read on night shift.

How the prick Ross had ever landed in Community Sentence work,

he didn't know. Yes he did. Understaffed justice system. Overcrowded

jails.

"You scared, homo'? Why? I thought all you little boys liked it up

the ass? You spent enough time with Candy man, you and he

must have got it on now and then..."

Ian felt Ross's arm go tighter around his throat with each sentence

spoken, the knife pressed almost home. Ross was atoms from

cutting him a second mouth.

"...well, I'm not here to teach you a lesson like that pathetic loon

I fucked the balls off of, I'm here to tag me a fag. How'd ya' like to

be famous for a day, Ian? How'd you like to make the morning papers?

You and your homo-cop-bum-buddy?"

Ian saw the shadow before Ross did and as soon as he felt that first

violent jerk and heard the fleshy thud and Ross's hand go limp, he

twisted free. But the dive for freedom wasn't as crucial as it might

have been.

Because he turned and watched as Fox Mulder proceeded to take things

in hand and beat Ross to within a half inch of his life.

Stunned, Ian observed the floor show as the Fox he remembered and

a Fox he had never seen plant his foot into Ross's gut, and then his

crotch, again and again.

Fox questioned the perpetrator with each swing of his polished David

Collier size 12's.

"Dump your maggot slime into me, will you? You piece of shit! You

fuck!" Fox switched from crotch to face. "You goddamn raping scum-shit!

How would you like to eat your own nose, you son-of-a-bitch!!"

Suddenly Fox stopped, breathing hard as Ross snorted red and green

all over the carpet.

Ian was fascinated at the transformation from murderous hate to calm

exterior as Fox took out his cellular and dialed 911, speaking into

it for a few moments. Then he actually took the time to bend down and

see if Ross was still breathing and getting enough oxygen to keep alive

until the EMT's arrived. Ian suspected that, if Ross were to then die

en-route to Emergency, Fox would care less.

Then Fox was at his side with a hanky, pressing it over the small cut

on his throat. Ian took the opportunity to look at his former patient.

Hair shiny and combed. Black suit, expensive and hung on his healthy

- very healthy - looking body like silk on marble. This was not the

Fox he remembered. Not even close.

This man was tall, sane, powerful and in total control of the

situation.

He was gorgeous.

"Are you all right?"

It was the first time he had ever heard Fox's voice and possibly the

sexiest sound he had ever laid ears on. He supposed it had some-

thing to do with the fact that Fox had just saved his life.

"I could kiss you." Ian rattled, his throat hurting from Ross's

unremitting tight hold on it.

Fox smiled, showing a row of white if slightly uneven teeth. Still sexy.

"Well, we'll just skip that part, 'kay?"

Ian nodded and got to his feet. Sirens could be heard getting closer.

"Is there someone you want me to call?" Fox asked as Ian sat on

the sofa, a bit shocky. "Yeah. Precinct 22. Ask For Sargent Gary

Bihlhaltz -Jesus."

"What?"

"This is gonna be hard on him. Worse than for me."

"Why?"

"Because he's in the closet."

Fox nodded, understood. Greater men had been ruined for less. "If

you need me for anything, character witness, whatever. Call my number

or Scully's - you still have hers?"

Ian nodded. Fox gave him one of his new cards. "I'm staying in

this hotel tonight," he took the card back and wrote the hotel name

on the back, "hopefully, the initial red tape for this won't keep me

in Boston beyond tomorrow. I'm returning to D.C. and then moving to

Seattle. I don't know for how long."

Ian wondered what might have happened between him and his

lady/doctor/friend that he was leaving the East coast.

Fox put his hands on his hips. Ian tried not to stare up at his

rescuer. "Listen, I requested to come and see you because I wanted...

I mean you saved my life."

Ian flushed. He couldn't help it.

"You saved me. At Walburg..." it was still hard to even say the

name of the place. "If it hadn't been for you, I might still be in

there along with this pile of manure." Fox nodded once in the direction

of the bloody pulp on the floor. There would be an investigation of this

incident, statements, court, he'd have to fly back and testify on Ian's

behalf and his own.

"You saved mine tonight." Ian reminded him. "I'd call it even, wouldn't

you?" He glanced at the human bruise called Ross. "I didn't see you kick

a man who was already down. Ross came at you with the knife, too, didn't

he?"

Fox nodded, smiling just once.

He remembered almost nothing except instant reaction. It came back to

him though, as they waited for the officials.

Fox had just walked in the building as another resident was walking

out, no need to buzz the door. And when he'd heard the distinct waver

of Ross's monster voice, he'd just acted without thinking. Suddenly

he was F.B.I. again and all the old skills and training fell into place.

Ross went down almost without any effort on his part. But then another

part of himself surfaced.

He saw his shoe bury itself in various parts of Ross, especially the hated

face. He'd wanted that fat, mushy pig face to cave in and come out the back

of his head. Along the way, the face turned into a creature nightmares are

made of and instead of pink skin, a boney headed, sharp-toothed demon ready

to tear him in half emerged and his foot had struck harder.

Then he had stopped. Just like that. He wanted it to end this time. In

justice. Witnesses. Proof! No more time behind bars and locks and

spectacled doctors looking at him wondering why.

The authorities would deal with Ross. Less satisfying on a personal

level but better for his own health in the long run.

It had taken enormous self-control not to kill that man.

"Gotta a joke for you." Mulder said as they sat

and ate sandwiches and drank coffee.

"Okay."

"This guy gets a flat tire and pulls over to the

side of the highway right next to a mental

institute-"

"Mulder-"

"-Just wait, Scully, I said it was a joke, now you've

ruined the build-up."

"Sorry."

"-he pulls up next to the nut house. He removes the

hub cap and the bolts from the rim and puts them in

the hub cap. But as he gets up to stretch, he accidently

flips the hub cap into the air with his foot. The bolts

land in the ditch water. So, he's standing there, wondering

what the hell to do. Then along comes a mental patient

and asks him what's wrong. The guy says: " I lost all the

bolts to my tire and now I'm stuck here." So the kook

thinks for a second and makes a suggestion: "Well,

why don't you remove one bolt from each of the other three

tires and use them to put your spare on?" The guy

says: "Wow, that's brilliant. How in hell did you ever think

of that?!" And the nut says: "Well, I may be crazy but I'm

not stupid."

Scully smiled.

"A smile? That's it?"

"Well, it was cute but not hilarious."

"That's because it's build up was ruined."

Now she laughed, a happy chuckle.

She loved him. Mulder was here, sitting beside her

in a park on a Friday, sane and free and hers and not a

fucking white-coat in sight.

Back from his quick trip to Boston where he'd,

somehow on God's green earth, stumbled into trouble.

Thankfully, it had turned out all right.

Ross, rot his stinking hide, was sitting on his

ass in a cell waiting for an his arraignment while

his public defender bit his greenhorn nails. Mulder

would have to return there for the actual trial

which could be who knew when.

Mulder had wanted to take the flight to Boston alone.

Tough on her, acting unselfish and hugging him as he left

in a cab for the airport. But it was his first time, out and

away, without a net. Without anyone to drop the bread-

crumbs and in his anxiety to depart he hadn't even kissed

her goodbye.

But he'd come home again and - God - she loved

him.

Scully saw Mulder in that context and no other.

Because she had learned something about it

over the span of a decade.

Love encompassed so much and excluded so little.

Mulder had aged. A sprinkling of grey hair

now. Crows feet and laugh lines. The man would

soon be starting on the road to jowl-dom.

Scully noticed, now, sitting next to him

in the bright sunlight, an age spot or two

on the backs of his scarred hands. She shud-

dered at the image of him trying to claw his

way through a wall, screaming in the dark.

He drew on a Winston, smoke curling out

his nostrils. He was up to a half pack a day

but with all he'd been through, she certainly

wasn't going to begrudge him a regular nicotine

fix.

/No one is ever going to harm you again,

Mulder. I will not let them./

He swallowed, throat tight with nervousness.

He'd wanted to talk he said.

She was letting him take his time. He always

wanted to say it just right.

So she let him smoke and think about it while

she studied his scars and clear eyes and teeny,

sweet, clutchable love-handles.

And what of them anyway?

Forty-seven years and too, too many bumps on

the long, hard road will do that to anyone.

But - God in his elusive heaven - the man

was beautiful. Inside and out.

Still.

To Scully.

And - merciful angels looking down - he was

hers!

Those few extra marks and fat cells accumulated

since his prime just made him more interesting,

more vulnerable and human. And - yes - sexier.

Her eyes came back to rest on his face just as they

always did when the two of them made these little

midday forays to the park. The September sun called

people out of their cubby holes and they'd pour out

en-mass when Twelve o'clock beeped on thousands of

little timepieces throughout the office buildings

of the Capital.

She loved his face, one that was ready to forgive

almost anything.

Gentle, lovable man.

Is that what she had seen that first time in the basement

all those years and years ago? She tried to remember.

First impressions.

Handsome?

Definitely.

Sexy?

Impossible to ignore.

Genius?

Rumored to be.

Impossible to work with? (That's what "they" - the gossip

mill - had told her).

Not if you were Irish.

Frivolous? A waste of the Bureau's time and resources?

No goddamn way.

Had he gotten on a few people's nerves during the years

the X-Files were active?

Frequently, including his boss's. Had Skinner a full head

of hair before Mulder showed up?

But through all of it, Mulder'd remained an honest, hard working

successful, case-closing agent. A pain in the ass, yes, and

Skinner'd gone over the line for him more than once, protecting

him from his own impulsiveness. So had she.

First impressions had also included Mulder's passion for truth

and his fierce devotion when it came to friendship, a quality

of his she had tasted very soon, in the first months of their

partnership.

Then she learned of his protectiveness. Yet he had never

compromised her dignity as an investigator or equal. Frequently

relying on her, in fact, first for her medical knowledge, then

for her insights - even if he knew they would probably go against

his own, still he had asked.

And then before she realized it, he'd begun to depend upon her,

confide in her, seek her out during troubled hours professionally

and in his personal life. Among the gabbers of Spooky lore and his

former partners sent packing, the latter was unheard of.

Until that day, when she strolled confidently into his cluttered

basement office and found a GQ four-eyed Freud, she had never

in her life met such a complicated individual.

He was handsome and smart and should have been on the highroad

to the FBI Hall of Fame. But instead he'd locked himself away in

a forgotten corner, pouring over cases bearing the names of

places and people no-one else cared about.

No one except Mulder, she soon found out.

Where other agents spent their time trying to climb the ladder,

he spent his trying to solve the previously unsolvable, forsaking

bureaucratic ass-kissing and that great striving for high station

most were trying to achieve before the day of reckoning.

When one grows up in a family of status with a high brow father,

sometimes fame can become a non-priority. No more looked-for than

meatloaf at six or mediocre football. Rarely, but sometimes.

Mulder, after his new partner had questioned him about it one day,

asking him what in the FBI he expected to be doing in ten years,

had first stared at her like she'd spoken Swahili; as if no one had

ever asked him anything personal about himself let alone about his

future. She wondered if he'd ever given it serious thought. Finally, with

a shrug of his shoulders, he'd answered - "Working."

She soon found out that for him it was the work and the fallible, frail

human beings inside the cases that was important, not the ladder of

success.

She'd heard that he'd run for his life from Violent Crimes, where

he certainly would have achieved all there was to attain in the

hallowed halls of the Bureau. But only at the cost of his sanity.

Scully had come to understand that people came first with him,

in particular the innocent, and not the monsters that stalked

them.

And she'd learned a few other things. Like how his sister

had disappeared and his family had fallen apart. How he had blamed

himself, his father punishing him and his mother shutting him out.

And how he'd coped with the terrible anguish of all of it for

decades yet still found room to joke with his new skeptical

partner.

All that was a long time ago and nothing would hurt him now. Not

today. Not ever again.

Not as long as she occupied the same earth he did. Not as long

as her shadow fell across his.

Even Mulder's old nemesis left him in peace. She hadn't

caught the whiff of Morley's for years.

Someday, though, she really wanted to know who the hell that

corrupt old prune had been, especially his connection to

Mulder. Scully really wanted to know that part.

"They" left him alone and in peace. It was a well earned rest.

So much history packed into the man with the heartbreaking

eyes and the hottest ass in Washington.

Imperfections?

Those just added to the whole and made it better. It

wasn't a thing one could explain to the inexperienced in

love. To those who admired the buffed, oiled-skinned

heavyweights posing for the world at the checkout stand.

Masculine ideal, their pasted grins said.

Hardly.

Perfection was a crashing bore.

Uniqueness and genuine originality, for those

qualities one had to work and work hard.

Body beautiful was an older, looser Mulder whose

lifetime collection of wounds and wear made her hunger

all the more to touch him. Such battle trophies should

be treasured and their carrier protected.

That would be her honor someday. And her reward.

Thus far, each had not shared of the others body.

It was still her one regret and, she hoped, his

as well.

But he was correct when he stated they should wait.

So hope.

Hope to be with him and soothe the memory of the

battle scars. Erase their occurrence in loving him

though their very existence made him more lovely.

Endowed him with the beauty of strength and passion

because he'd taken them on and won.

Mulder lived, despite everything.

The ideal sat beside her, in the new suit she'd bought

for him, picking at nervously bitten nails.

Every-so-often the edge of that Styrofoam cup of

coffee (he could drink caffeinated now without throwing it

up), would disappear between those lips and remind her

that he was the best kiss on the planet and he belonged

to her.

Her temporarily, unemployed, middle-aged man with

the over bite.

Suddenly, piled on top of the waves of sadness that

were passing through the center of her heart, joy was

there too and she chuckled.

"What?" he asked. They'd been sitting in silence for

several minutes.

"Nothing. Really,.." shaking her head and taking his

fidgity hand, "..nothing." Smiled a brave soldiers smile.

She watched his lips part. These days when he spoke, he

thought a lot about his words before he said them, not

liking the waste of breath or precious time. He hated

small talk with all the absolutism that most people

reserved for lima-bean salad.

"Scully. Are you sure you're okay with this?"

She nodded, squeezed his hand tighter. Hands fleshed

with color, warmth and life. Nothing death-like about

them at all.

He searched her eyes, making certain. He did not want

to hurt her and could not live if she were damaged

because of him. There was too much healing behind him

and all because of her. She was too wonderful a thing to

risk unless he was sure she would still be there.

Scully read all that in his eyes and in the space of

time during his next breath.

"Because, if you're not, we can find another way.

Maybe I could-"

"-Mulder." She quieted him. He paused, mouth open,

waiting for her to speak their course one way or another.

She leaned over and kissed him, letting him understand

that she was neither holding him there nor leaving him.

But letting him know she loved him and nothing else in

the world.

When she set his mouth free, "I have to do this." He

explained again for the hundreth time, appologetically,

a bit sadly, a trifle anxiously.

"I know."

"It's been so long since I've been able to make a decision

on my own. What to wear, where to go, whether or not to

get drunk if I feel like it. I just need this time. Some time.

A few months. Six months. I just need to prove to myself that

I can make it alone. Even if it's only for a while. But..."

Again, the anxious eyes. "...I don't want to lose you."

Again, for the thousandth time. "I don't want to hurt you."

It was killing her, seeing him go. He was still, in a way,

seeking for her permission. Can I go? he was asking and

if she requested it, he would stay and do his best to make

her happy. But she wondered if he would learn to hate

her for it, for the invisible cage that that would erect

around him.

God, she couldn't do that to him. Or to herself.

Snap on the chains? Never, never.

She told the truth. "You won't. You aren't." She lied. "I'll

be okay, honestly." The naked soul. "But I want phone calls,

okay? I'll need them. I will, Mulder." The broken heart.

"I love you so much..." Bit her lip, not wanting to go too

far, say too much or make a guilt trip out of saying goodbye.

But love. It was so easy to say now. And such a simple thing

that she wondered why in the world she had ever had trouble

speaking it.

"...so if you think this is a see-ya-around-have-a-great-life

goodbye, you are soooo wrong." she smiled at her own tease.

Humor was better. It put them both at ease.

Mulder looked down at her hand over his and at her. "I do too."

Glad to be able to say it and mean it and not hang for it. And

not be chained to it quite yet either.

He kissed her cheek and stood to go but she caught his arm.

"Wait." She gathered up her own briefcase. "Let me."

Let me walk away because if I see you doing it I'll

fall apart.

Scully picked up her jacket, layed a hand on his shoulder

and walked away without looking back.

To work. Calls to make, deadlines to meet, classes to teach,

reports to write.

It was the hand of God or the pull of Destiny or some

nameless guardian who layed a hand on her shoulder and

made her slow and turn back around.

Her name, she'd heard it.

No.

Mulder was just getting up.

He must have stayed sitting there watching her walk away.

Maybe testing himself. Maybe his ability to take it; to not

run after; to not have the need.

That he'd been watching after her filled her spirit and

cracked it at the same time.

Oh, God, what am I doing? Am I insane? Why am I letting

him go?

She was only two hundred feet distant and already she

missed his nearness to the degree of crazy. Her throat

ached from holding back the sobs.

Six months.

Was a lifetime.

"Mulder!" she called.

He had not seen her looking back and was walking

away - so much farther away - from her but on hearing

his name, looked around, waiting.

"Call me!"

He wouldn't be able to see her tears or know of her

glass-walled and breaking heart. She kept the tremor out

of her voice with a terrific effort. Practise.

"YOU BETTER!" Two last gestures shared with him, a

wave of her trembling hand, a smile to hide the pain.

Under her breath, "You just better because I love you,

you amazing son-of-a-bitch."

He smiled, a promising and grateful grin, a truthful one

accompanied by a nodding of his head. Mulder turned to

face the other direction and where it might take him,

walking away into the afternoon.

Eventually she lost the definition of him as he

merged into the crowds of lunchtime humanity.

NOVEMBER 21, 2006. 10:13 A.M. ( Two months post-

F.M.'s return).

It was not quiet, this place.

The Old Man thought it was. Quiet and dark and a

place where he was not known.

He, the Helper heard and saw every creature that

crawled through the branches and skittered along

the damp soil beneath his feet.

To him, it was a disorganized, noisey world.

He trudged through the wet leaves to the small veranda

of the cabin. A small house, really, with all the amenities.

The place was unevenly heated due to the fire in the

hearth that the Old Man seemed to like. As usual he gave

little thought to it or to his own comfort. Old Man was his

assignment and commander both and complaining had

no place in the Work.

The Old Man was old now. And no longer breathed

unless he had his tinny oxygen tank to pull around like

a child with his toy. Old Man was sick and stayed in

his cabin day and night in the forests of Agusta.

Even the Others did not visit. They were all getting old

and weak but younger ones would replace them and things

would progress as they should.

He entered, standing inside the door until Old Man invited

him to sit which he did stiffly, the upright hard chairs not to

his approval. The message he had to deliver this time was

a simple one. "He is back."

Old Man narrowed his wrinkled eyes and that was all. As

always, nearly expressionless. No emotion to tell him if Old

Man received the news as good or bad.

"We must inform the Others." Old Man said.

He nodded, his own stone-carved face betraying nothing of

his personal feelings. Or thoughts even. "He is in a place." Told

Old Man the name of it. "He is ill."

Old Man took a long breath and the air flowing through the

line from the tank to his nose bubbled. "Resiliance has always

been his strength. We will of course need Watchers."

"Why?.." It was rare he asked why or the reason for anything.

It was not encouraged among the Helpers. "..If he is broken?"

"I have explained why. The reasons have not altered."

"Yes, but-"

"-Do we know who took him?"

He shook his granit cranium in the negative.

"That gives cause for some alarm." Little puffs from his nose

ventilator replaced smoke that used to rise. "Never-the-less, if

indeed he's back..."

Old Man chuckled softly, not in the manner of some evil

incarnate of his Devil-god, but of an aged human who had seen

much bordom of late and despised it.

Breath in...

"Well,.." The sick human finished, "nothing changes, really

does it?"

Breath out...

"It just gets simpler."

Turning to go, thought I heard you call out my name

Like a bird in a cage, spreading its wings to fly.

"The old ways are lost" you sang as you flew.

And I wondered why...

"The Old Ways" by Loreena McKinnet

END