CHAPTER EIGHTEEN/EPILOGUE TO BOOK ONE:

Mulder Manor
Beverly Hills, Los Angeles
June 16, 1985
Sunday

Mulder was hugging something. It definitely wasn't a pillow, it was something more tender, not a blanket too, something firmer, not Scully ...

Red lights blinked in Mulder's head.

Not Scully?!

He opened his eyes to the expanse of soft white flesh peeking in between cotton shorts and a thick wool shirt. That layer of white flesh was where his nose was currently situated, as if he were a puppy searching for something delicious. This was delicious, no doubt, and through his

sluggish state, Mulder had conveniently tightened his arm around wherever it was around on. The red lights in his mind mellowed down to greens.

A voice above him wheezed out, "Fuck, Mulder, if you hug me any tighter, you're going to kill me."

His grip around Scully relaxed, but he didn't let go. It felt too good, to hold her like that, to have his face buried in her lower back and to feel her flat stomach heaving in and out under his bicep. "Whatcha doin'?" he slurred, his breath on her bare skin sending goose bumps across the skin he was holding against his face.

"I'm ... I'm filing your expense report for the month of June, sifting through stuff ... I've called in sick for both of us this morning."

"Filing my expense reports? This morning? Scully ... on the bed?"

What he really wanted to tell her was that she should still be resting (thanks to his still muddled brain, it didn't come out that way). Last night wasn't just a normal nightmare for her. That certainly had to be traumatic, as a former student of psychology, he knew something was wrong. That was certainly the first time she spit Welsh at him and thought him to be another figure.

A rustling of papers, being tacked to a neat bundle, reached his ear. "Yes, this morning. I need to get my mind back on track ... and at least when the end of June comes, there wouldn't be much to be knackered about, don't you think?" She was sifting through many pages as she conversed with him, incredibly patient with his physical contact. "I didn't really want to leave you here this

Morning ... so umm, I decided to do this right here... and you've certainly made yourself comfortable."

True, he appeared comfy against her skin, hugging her like a discontented lover hungry for more of her flesh.

Mulder shifted, suddenly uneasy. He didn't want Scully noticing his morning erection, right?

He pulled his hand and head away from her enticing warmth, and instead dropped his head on the silky pillows where it should be. He made also sure that there was a pillow ready to rest in between his legs when he pulled away.

Scully seemed alarmed by his reaction. She followed his body with a careful eye while absently moving the papers and ball pen in her grasp.

"Hey, I wasn't really complaining. It's all right," she said softly, just enough for him to hear it and consider it as an invitation.

"Nah, I'm fine, Scully. Who did you talk to in WB?"

Seeing that there wasn't a chance in hell that Mulder would return to her, she slowly sifted through the papers again, once in a while stopping to underline paragraphs with her red marker. "Walter... he said it was okay, we should drink a lot of water to ease the indigestion and be back tomorrow."

"You know it's a Sunday, right?"

"Yeah, it is. We do work on a Sunday anyway."

"Yeah, we do. But ... do you want to go somewhere today? Church?"

A snicker and more underlining with that red pen. "Mulder, I'm warning you."

"Sorry," he apologized, digging his heels into the bed. He stretched out his long limbs, hearing bones cracking as he did so. Ah, that was heavenly. The small exercise made his head clearer and sheathed last night's woes away - temporarily, that was, but it would do.

"How are you doing? Your lip?"

Scully turned to him and pointed to her mouth. The wound, now forming a scab, was pooled in glistening petroleum jelly; that was also the first time Mulder noticed that Scully was wearing a green turtleneck to hide the marks on her neck.

Sitting up, Mulder pushed the thick cotton down until he could see her clavicle, until the nasty red marks were visible to him. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, so he turned her slightly once again so he could see the biggest graze of all - where the chain broke, just below her the end of roots.

Scully sat patiently as he inspected her, occasionally rolling her eyes when he winced at what he was seeing. He was overreacting, of course, what harm could a necklace do? Sure, a little blood and a few scratches - nothing that wouldn't heal in a few days.
He wanted to pull at her strings, truth out.

"Watcha put on them?"

"Iodine; antiseptic. It'll heal in at most three days, Mulder."

"Do you want me to call a doctor to give you his professional advice?"

"No, I don't need a doctor. I'm fine, better than ever, actually." She smiled to prove her statement, only wincing when her wounded lip was stretched. Mulder raised an eyebrow of disapproval.

To change the subject from last night, Scully bounded off the bed. The papers moved in the direction of her body's wake, but he reflexively caught them with one hand. Scully searched for her slippers, finding them half-hidden under the bed. " I've made us breakfast. Do you want to eat? I could bring your food here."

She was probably only coaxing him to forget about calling a doctor, but he's an easily coaxed man: he would fall for it. The offer was too fucking good to be ignored. "I'm getting royal treatment. I'm not going to argue with that. Sure."

Before he knew it, Scully was out of the room, skidding through the stairs ... with her fluffy slippers making squeaky sounds on the fine wood.

Now alone, Mulder yawned heavily, scratching his stomach. His attention fixated on the mountains of papers Scully had deposited on the bed while he was asleep, grimacing at the enormous amount he had spent for The Four Queens hotel back in Las Vegas, and also taking note of the doctor's fee. That was when he got a little enthusiastic with the gin and was bonked by the damn glass.

He had to admit that the apartment he had gotten for him and Scully was more or less a steal, and she wasn't at all splurging when he allowed her to buy a new set of clothes. If she was Diana, she would've wiped out Versace's stock without feeling guilty. Scully was able to make herself pretty within budget. Gracias to Monica, too.

Through the mountain of receipts, Mulder spotted a yellowing piece of paper. He picked it up gently, wary that the brittle threads could break anytime. There was writing on it, scripted and captioned "Danced Yesterday." The words suddenly hit him like a brick.
It was stapled to a photograph, and with piqued interest, Mulder squinted his eyes to see through the sepia. It was a picture of Scully … or was it Scully?

The photograph had old smudges from fingerprints, water, and other unnamed things. Scratched at one side; yellowing from old age. If it was Scully in the picture - the woman was an exact carbon copy of her - and she appeared so innocent in it ... so beautiful, with sun-kissed lilies rolling in her red hair. Her stare at the camera was so intense that Mulder felt a pull, felt a beckoning to give in to something his emotions were plunging into

There were also some writing at one corner, but it was too smeared off for him to read ...

"Mulder, w- what are you doing with that?"

Scully's voice shattered his resolve and he dropped the paper to his knees. Lifting his head up to meet her eyes, he found Scully holding his tray of breakfast - stance steady, but her face a mask of confusion. Immediately, he understood that she was nervous about his discovery.

"I'm so sorry, Scully... I saw it lying there and I wasn't thinking -"

She neared him on the bed, resting the tray of food on Diana's former vanity table. She sat down beside him, touching his shoulder lightly to assure him that there was no trouble, and picked up the paper and photograph. She cradled them on one palm, touching the seared ends with much affection.

"This is my mother. Her name's Margaret Scully."

Mulder didn't know what to say. The woman in the photograph looked so much like Scully - almost a photocopy of the Spunk.

If he didn't know better, he would say that Dana Scully was created solely from the genes of her own mother.

His silence allowed Scully the courage to continue. "They say that she is so much like me. My Mother also loved dancing. She took dancing classes over and over again every year, improving with every movement, with every twirl, with every step."

"She is literally so much like you, Scully... hell, I thought she was you."

Spunk smiled at his comment, still not tearing her eyes from the photograph. "She spoke Welsh with so much charisma, with so much love. She inherited grandmother's and grandfather's love for the language and she used Welsh like no one else. I believed that I was born to an ethereal creature. I thought I was born from an angel." Her tongue reflexively snaked out to lick the hardening blood on her wound. "You know how kids are, believing that their parents are some kind of a greater god. I was like that."

"That's normal, Scully."

"I know," she sighed, this time turning to the attached yellowing piece of pad paper. "Everyone alive in Milford Haven thought I was her. They call me 'Margaret' on the

streets, and when I don't turn they would grab me by the shoulder and ask me where I have been. I would laugh and introduce myself as Dana. They would be disappointed and then tell me how much I look like her."

"What's that?" He pointed at the paper. Scully held it up for him to see the words written on it.

"Unlike me, my Mother was more patient with the guitar. This is a song she wrote ... for a special someone. I tore it from her diary before I left Wales."

"Stealing, Scully?" Mulder teased to lighten the mood. She shook her head with a small wispy grin.

"No, not really. Here, read it."

She offered it to him. Mulder accepted the paper, and in the process, also pulling Scully into his body. He missed her warmth already and he was going to resolve that problem himself.

She laughed at his attempt, struggling against his stronger grip, but to no avail. She landed on his lap, her head pillowing on the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

There was still a reasonable amount of twisting and to settle her down, Mulder held her stomach close to him. She loosened in his grip, taking slow breaths as she sank into his arms, eyes closing. Mulder kissed the tip of her nose, and then stuck his cheek to her forehead as he read the song.

"Tell me what you are thinking this very moment, tell me why your eyes twinkle for every other laughter that drives over your lips, tell me why you cry whenever you look at the shiny surface of that broken glass, tell me why a million people dance in front of you, but you only dance with one, tell me why you are you?

"You tip-toe on physical touches, double-over body heat, cross your fingers on success, sway through my kisses, you dance your life away ... you dance and forget that you stood yester ..."

Scully moved her head so that she could see his expression, but their present position - her eyes hidden under his chin - made it impossible for her. So she asked, instead. "Why are you stopping?"

Mulder rested his lips on her forehead, thinking hard. The words were so familiar, so damn fucking familiar that each word in the song was striking a chord in his heart. He knew those phrases - those very, very familiar phrases.

"I don't know, Scully. This is so familiar to me."

"Familiar?" If she wasn't tucked under his chin, he would be seeing that crooked auburn eyebrow again.

"Yeah... I don't really know. Maybe I'm imagining, but ... do you remember the chords of this song, Scully?"

"I could play it on the guitar. Do you have one?"

"Yes, I do," Mulder said, scanning the rest of the song. It was so strange: the words were stirring something within him, as if further beckoning him, telling him that there was something more beneath these words.

A hand found the creases on his forehead. "You think too much, Mulder," Scully remarked, gently easing the crevices on his skin.

Then it hit him.

The dream. He was laughing about a joke he couldn't remember. Scully appeared before him and she was so beautiful that it hurt to look at her. She said those same words, that he thought too much, he could remember it. He could remember everything …

"We both stood yesterday, on separate stages. There's no one stopping us from dancing together today."

"Mulder?" A more alarmed voice now. Scully disentangled herself from his limbs and sat on her ankles to face him. He snapped out of his oblivion, staring straight into her crystal blue eyes. She reached over to caress his rough cheek.

"You know what?" he pronounced slowly, unsure of what was running through his mind.

"What?"

"I... think we stumbled upon the perfect title and theme song for our movie!"

Scully let out a startled giggle, girly and childish in nature, and it quickly loosened him, too. This shitty situation was as absurd as it got and here he was, finding the perfect title for the movie. He laughed together with her, flying quilts and pillows, diving to envelop Scully in a big bear hug. She didn't resist, landing on top of him, her legs splayed on the edges of his torso. Still laughing, she bent down and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

It should take him by surprise, really, he just received his first kiss from Spunk, but it didn't. And he laughed even more, turning around so he could pin Scully and tickle her.

Shit, he was so fucking happy like this, like this with her.

And he had no idea why.

END OF CHAPTER EIGHTEEN/BOOK ONE

A/N: In order to keep the whole story in one place, I'm continuing BOOK II in this same link and as CHAPTER NINETEEN and so on. Are we ready for that? (wink, wink) Thank you so much for your R&Rs!