Chapter Two

**To Rome**

ON THE ROAD TO ROME
SATURDAY, MAY 30
9:05 HOURS

"I owe you an explanation."

She raised her head and looked at him. He'd been quiet for the better part of the drive.

Their eyes met, and there it was again. The pull that they both fought so hard to ignore. It was unavoidable now, intense and persistent in all its forbidden glory.

She suppressed the want rising in her body and looked in front of her. The winding road went on and on like a tireless meandering river. One never knew what lay ahead. It was a suitable metaphor for her life with Mulder.

Seeing her reaction, Nicola faltered.

"You think that, when you reach a certain age, things will fall in place. You are certain that life has dealt its fair share of anguish, heartaches, and failures," she spoke in a soft, resigned voice.

"Dana ...," he interrupted her, uncertain of what to say.

She looked at him. The clarity of her stare was frighteningly intense. What possibly could he have said to mend the proverbial drum?

"What?" she asked in a challenging tone.

He kept his eyes on the road and sped up.

"Nothing," he replied, a hint of anger in his voice.

"So now it's nothing," she pressed further.

"It'll always be nothing." He changed gear, slowed down a bit in front of another curve, and sped up again.

She closed her eyes. It already was something.

The car was rapidly gaining speed and only adding to the tension they both felt.

"Stop it," she whispered.

He looked abruptly at her. He sensed it clearly - the supplication behind the whispered words. She lied. She wasn't just affected.

"Look at me," he said when she tried her best to avoid his eyes.

She closed her eyes.

Mulder.

It was all about him all these years. His quest, his search, his sister, his wounds. And she knew she couldn't blame him for any of it because she was right there with him, willingly following and participating. It became her quest, her wounds.

"I can't," she whispered, seeing Mulder in her mind.

"You can't look at me?" he asked while peering at the road.

She shook her head. It wasn't intended for him.

"What?"

"I can't go on like this. It's like you said yesterday," she talked quietly. It was a personal defeat for her to recognize that. Liberating, but still a failure.

He slowed down the car. "Why don't you talk to him?"

She sighed heavily, bracing herself. Because it's not just about the search, she thought.

"Talk to me," he said gently.

How could she talk to him? Tell him that he got hold of her heart during these last seven months? That she wasn't sure, it was just a friendship they shared? She told him she was affected by him, but she could tell him how desperately she craved his presence. That was unacceptable.

"Just ... keep driving," she told him.

He sighed softly.

She never felt so confused emotionally. And she hated herself for it. Hated for not preventing it at the start. Hated that it felt so good to be able to talk to someone that understood her, other than Mulder. He became a cherished friend, and Mulder confided in him, which was a blessing and a curse on its own.

But it was also the beginning of their undoing. He left her often with Nicola, giving her a poor explanation of where he was going. Her voluntary work at the local hospital was a convenient excuse, first for Mulder and later for her to stay at Nicola's while Mulder went about in search of vague clues and leads. She knew he felt she was safe in Nicola's company. He was, in fact, very competent in everything he did.

But he was also infinitely compassionate, trustworthy, and supportive—something she needed desperately.

He could feel her soul getting more and more upset. "It'll pass," he whispered.

She burst into a silent cry.

He turned right on a gravel road. When he killed the engine, he leaned closer to her seat and readjusted the lock of auburn hair hiding her face.

Her tears fell quietly, the pain hidden behind closed eyes. She felt his feather touch caressing her hair, the tips of his fingers making an invisible trail down her neck and her left arm. It calmed her, made the pain disappear into sweet nothings.

"We meet only in passing, Dana," he spoke in his gentle tone.

"Quite a passing," she replied in a sobbing voice.

He smiled and nodded, reaching with his finger for her chin and turning her face towards him.

Her eyes met his reluctantly.

His lips parted as if trying to say something before changing one's mind.

"What?" she asked.

He shook his head and brushed her tears away. There was something upsettingly beautiful in her eyes.

She smiled weakly and covered his hands with hers. "We should go," she said.

Or not, he thought.

He nodded, admonishing his thoughts. "To Rome, then," he announced and turned the key in the ignition.

But the car wouldn't start.

"You've got to be kidding me," he murmured.

He tried another time, but nothing happened.

"It worked just fine a few minutes ago," he sounded irritated.

She tried not to laugh but couldn't hide the glittered in her eyes.

He looked at her exasperated.

"Let me try," she offered.

"You think I don't know how to start a car?" he asked, evidently hurt.

"No," she smiled, "I would just like to try."

He shook his head and raised his hands. "It's all yours."

She sat behind the wheel, adjusted the seat with slight amusement, and turned the key.

It worked like a charm.

"You can't be serious," he muttered.

"See? It just needed a woman's touch," she said playfully.

His lips curled slightly. "Imagine that."

ON THE ROAD TO ROME
SATURDAY, MAY 30
09:55 HOURS

"You never told me why you left medicine," he said while looking intently at the road.

She lifted her brows but kept her eyes on the road as well.

"Of course I did," she replied after thinking of it for a moment.

He looked at her questioningly.

She sensed his eyes. "I told you I joined the FBI to make a difference."

"Yes, that you did, but that's not what I asked." He was trying not to push it, but there were some gaps in her story.

"What do you -," and then it hit her. He was asking about medicine and not the FBI. She never saw that coming.

She swallowed, feeling embarrassingly exposed. Daniel, she thought, it was about Daniel.

"It was connected," she replied shortly.

"What was?" he asked, distracted for a moment.

"Leaving medicine and joining the FBI." She hoped he would leave it there.

"You mean you left medicine to make a difference at the FBI?"

No, he would not leave it there.

Kind of, she thought. "Why do you ask?"

"It just came into my mind," he replied, his voice even.

She hated lying to him. "Right," she remarked.

They were driving through a farming area. Fields of corn were moving in the breeze on both sides of the road. The sky, bluer than ever, shone in the afternoon light.

He turned on the radio and listened to the local news. Nothing about a dead monk in Rome.

And then a song began to play. Even though she didn't understand the lyrics, she knew it had to be about a long-lost love. It made her think of all the unnecessary things. Her affair with Daniel, her relationship with Jack, and her journey with Mulder.

She knew why she left medicine.

"I needed something different," she interrupted the silence that settled between them.

He looked at her with his eyebrow raised.

"You asked me why I left a career in medicine," she reminded him.

He nodded.

"I needed a change," she repeated, locking her eyes on the road.

"A change from what?" he asked when she wouldn't go on.

"The life I was leaving," she felt a knot forming in her throat.

She wanted badly to tell him all of it, but a feeling of betrayal grazed her heart. She had told only Mulder about her affair.

"It's like the Ouroboros," he said, interrupting her train of thought.

Her brow creased.

"This life," he explained, looking at the houses they left behind.

She looked at him.

"The repeating cycle. We live, we die, giving place to others, we love, and we hate, only to forgive or seek forgiveness," he turned to her. "And we love and hate again. It never ends."

She met his eyes. And she saw it, the unmistakable love he felt for her. He was letting her see it, the light of day making it radiant and honest.

"Nicola," she whispered.

"No," he shook his head. He didn't want her to say anything. Love needed no apprehension, no judgment in his mind to be real.

"No?" she asked and looked back at the road. An old couple was crossing the street.

She slowed down and stopped the car in front of them. The old man was holding the woman's elbow. She was helping him walk.

Her lips curled slightly then, and she closed her eyes. "You know already, don't you? Why I left medicine?"

He looked at her and nodded. "It wasn't that hard to figure out."

She sighed. Maybe, maybe not, she thought.

"I was very young, very stubborn, and extremely naive," she said while watching the old woman reach the other part of the street, letting the man set the pace.

"And incredibly proud," he added, eying her with the corner of his eye.

She gave him an astonished look, hiding her hurt. "Feel free to say anything."

There was that edge in her voice that was telling him to take the challenge and back off at the same time.

He suppressed a smile and said, "Drive. The road is clear."

She proceeded and clutched the brakes instantly. A kid ran across the road, smiling and waving at the old couple on the other side.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath, earning another astonished look from her.

"You have to be a new breed of a priest with all the touching and swearing," she remarked, her tone intentionally mordant.

"No," he replied calmly, "you make me behave ungodlily." He smiled broadly but avoided her stare.

She pursed her lips and proceeded down the road. She will give him "incredibly proud."

"I should confess to someone for being such a sinner," her voice felt like the touch of a temptingly warm palm.

His lips dropped open. "You don't mean that."

"Pride, anger, lust," she insisted. "Isn't that more than enough?"

He stared at her, unable to voice his disbelief.

"What?" she asked, feeling in absolute control. "As any good Catholic knows, confession is..."

"Enough," he hissed.

"Yes," she hissed back, "enough."

It caught him unprepared—the look in her eyes, the stare on her face.

She didn't care that she could hurt him. It was getting too comfortable to joke with him, talk to him, touch him.

He pressed into his seat and closed up.

They drove without talking for another hour. But it started to feel weird and tense.

He turned on the radio and searched for a frequency. When he found it, soft angelic voices filled the small space of the vehicle.

She let herself enjoy the melodic intertwining of young voices, backed by the deep humming of monks. The tune touched her deeply.

She breathed out the tension and glanced furtively at him. His head was leaning towards her, his face seemed calm, his eyes closed. He looked like a beautiful creature, coming from a faraway place.

He moved, and she quickly looked away.

Why, she thought, why didn't I stop it when I had the chance?

"Would you be okay if we move to an old couple's house in the town?" Mulder asked her their third month at Nicola's house.

She felt taken by surprise, "I thought this was a permanent arrangement."

"Yeah, but I thought you would feel more comfortable if we had our place."

"Yes, I mean, there would be nothing wrong with that. There's enough money from the sale of your parents' house, but ..." she paused.

"But what?" he asked, confused.

"I got accustomed to this place," she replied, fully aware that she got accustomed to Nicola as well.

"So you're fine with this? Being a guest at a priest's home?" his tone was more than inquiring.

"Look, Mulder, it's not that I don't like the idea of the two of us living alone," she reassured him.

But what was it exactly, she wondered at that moment.

"Okay, okay," he nodded and smiled contentedly, not noticing her slightly perturbed expression.

She didn't think of it much back then. They were mere guests at a priest's home that happened to be very welcoming. That was all, she told herself.

So, why didn't she stop it right there and then?

"Because you couldn't," he replied, his voice low and grave.

She winced.

"And neither could I," he added in a softer tone.

Her hands trembled slightly. "Dammit, Nicola, you need to stop doing this."

He straightened in his seat. "I thought you didn't mind," he replied, not caring where the conversation would go.

She didn't, in fact, mind for so many reasons. It was exciting at first.

"So you know my thoughts?" she asked him one evening in late October when they were sitting in his kitchen.

He raised his brows, lips slightly curled in amusement. "I know many things, but a woman's thoughts ... never."

She smiled broadly, making him blush lightly.

"I do, yes, but not the way you imagine it," he explained.

She put her cup of tea down. "And how do I imagine it?"

Shadows hid his features in the dimly lit space. They made him look enigmatic, softened only by the candlelight on the table.

"It's not mind-reading, Dana," his voice bore a warning that had to do more with his past experiences than her question, but it did hit the spot with her.

"It's not?" she asked, surprised and trying hard not to show how uncomfortable she felt that she got it all wrong.

"No, it's not," he assured her.

"What then?"

He sighed. "More sporadic, sometimes emotionally driven, mostly uncalled for. It's a sense of things."

"A sense of things," she repeated, thinking of it. "Was it always ..."

"Present?" he offered. "Yes, since I was a child. Made me do some stupid things, too."

She wanted to know about those stupid things. "Such as?" she asked, taking another seep.

He smiled, looked at the table, and raised his head again, "Told my best friend his girl was cheating on him. She denied it; he didn't believe me. We never spoke again."

"Oh, my God," she commented. "A real drama."

"Nah, it was a long time ago. We were only thirteen." His smile broadened.

She laughed back. Heartily.

And just like that, his secret became known to her. He read other people in a frighteningly accurate way. Just like Mulder could profile serial killers, he could read into the hearts and minds of all around him.

But it was fun only to a point. And now it was getting too intense.

"I need a break," she said and took the exit to the gas station.

She stepped out of the car and walked to the nearby tables, placed there for travelers. Thankful he didn't follow her, she sat down and closed her eyes.

She wasn't going to be a victim or a coward. She had feelings for this complicated, beautiful individual who happened in her life without any warning. Still, she could never reconcile it with what she felt for that stubborn, unpredictable, and obsessive man that rocked her world twenty years ago and kept it rocking since then.

"Oh, God, don't let me do something stupid," she whispered to herself.

She felt a light breeze and opened her eyes. Mulder was in front of her, offering her his hand.

"Mulder?" she asked, confused to see him there. "What ...?"

His mouth was moving, but she couldn't hear what he was saying. She listened hard, trying to make out the words.

"Are you alright?" she heard him say, but it wasn't Mulder's voice.

She gasped and snapped out of her reverie.

Nicola was standing in front of her, gently shaking her shoulder.

"Yes," she replied, a little out of breath, and straightened up, "I'm fine."

"I'm sorry, I got a little worried when I saw you were talking to yourself," he apologized.

"No, it's fine," she insisted, not wanting to explain herself.

"Okay," he replied stoically.

She fell silent. There wasn't much to say.

He bit his lip, his mental effort to make it right more than evident.

"Oh, screw it," he said and sat beside her.

She raised her head, her eyes tired.

He put his arm around her shoulders, holding her close to him.

She sighed heavily, feeling conflicted on so many levels.

"I want you to stop," he whispered, his lips almost touching the sensitive skin of her ear. "Whatever you feel, it's not here to haunt you." His voice was soothing her soul so gently and convincingly.

She inhaled deeply and wiped away a treacherous tear, falling down her cheek like a raindrop on barren land.

He leaned his head against hers and found her hand. He held it like a precious gift and squeezed it gently. His fingers caressed hers lightly, afraid to spark unwelcomed feelings.

"Nicola ..." she whispered, raising her head to meet his eyes. The purest of green.

He looked at her, a myriad of emotions crossing his face.

"Why?" she asked, her eyes full of conflicting emotions.

"Oh, Dana, it doesn't matter why," he said and fought back his weak tears.

"How can you say that?" her voice was almost accusing.

"Because loving doesn't mean having," he whispered and looked in the distance. He learned that a long time ago, and it helped him go through some of the darkest moments of his life.

She closed her eyes, swallowing a bitter truth. She loved, but what did she have? A straying partner?

He held her hand, his left arm around her shoulders, and murmured gently, "It hurts so bad, but I know that love always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."

She closed her eyes. "Don't," she shook her head, "don't say these things to me."

He sighed softly and squeezed her hand in response.

"We should go," he said after a few moments.

APPROACHING ROME
SATURDAY, MAY 30
10:39 HOURS

"Tell me what you know," she said when she saw Rome in the distance.

"I'm supposed to keep it a secret," he began, feeling very uncomfortable to divulge a secret he kept for more than 15 years. Concern showed in his eyes.

She didn't react to that.

"I was 28 years old when I arrived in Rome. My life was a mess. My fiancé left me for a much older and richer man, my mother died unexpectedly, and I started to question things."

She knew bits of his previous life, but he never told her why he came to Rome. She observed his expression, tired but unrelenting.

"I visited some relatives on my mother's side, and having nothing to return to in England, besides my job, I decided to prolong my stay and visit Rome."

He changed gear and sped up.

She was looking at him intently. He was an enigma, slowly unfolding in front of her eyes.

"I met Gino in Rome," he closed his eyes for a brief moment.

She knew this was hard for him. "Go on," she encouraged him gently, placing her hand on his knee and feeling the strong muscles tense involuntarily underneath it.

He looked at her for a brief moment, afraid to take his eyes off the road.

"We spent a lot of time together, talking, confiding, laughing," his eyes glimmered with tears.

"How did you meet?" she asked.

He shook his head lightly. "In a bar near Piazza San Pietro. I asked him for directions, and he asked me if I was Italian. The rest just happened."

She nodded and withdrew her hand.

"He was a Jesuit, highly educated. An erudite. He had answers to questions I was barely beginning to form in my head," his jaw tightened at the thought that he was killed so brutally. "He is ... was a dear friend."

He still didn't tell her how he became a priest, but she didn't want to push him for the time being.

"Mulder said he was hit in the head, right?" he asked her all of a sudden.

"Yes," her brow creased. Why was he so difficult about his past?

"I can't believe anyone would do this to him," he said more to himself than to her.

"You said he's the reason you became a priest," she wanted to sound casual, but there was that edge in her voice that betrayed her.

He turned to her. His face was grave and apprehensive. "That's correct."

"Why?"

He sighed. "It's a rather perplexing story."

"That won't calm my curiosity," she looked him straight in the eye.

He felt a knot in his throat.

"It's okay if you don't want to tell me," she reassured him.

He sighed deeply. "I witnessed miracles. Father Gino was special in many ways," he tried not to sound too dramatic.

"What exactly happened?" she asked directly.

"I saw how he cured terminal patients, made people walk again ... he prayed, placed his hands on people, chanted psalms and spoke Aramaic ... and it just happened," he turned to her and back to the road.

She looked at him in silence and then spoke, "He cured you, didn't he?"

He flinched and looked at her again. He couldn't lie to her. "Yes."

"Cancer?" she asked boldly.

He nodded in surprise. "As a result of radioactive contamination in North Korea. I found out just before coming to Rome. I was crushed. He saved me."

She remembered how he reacted when she told him about her trial with cancer.

"What?" he asked incredulously a few months ago.

"I fell ill when a doctor removed a chip from my neck. Cancer," she reaffirmed what she had just told him.

He couldn't even comment on it. Just nodded and left the kitchen. They never talked about it again.

"And then you decided to become a priest?" she pressed on.

"Oh, no, I went back to England, got stabbed on duty, almost died," he patted his chest where his scar lay, "quit my job after I recovered and returned to Rome."

Her eyes widened in disbelief.

"Father Gino was expecting me," he continued, eyes fixated on the road, "but I just wanted some peace of mind."

"What changed it?"

"I started having dreams ... a voice telling me not to be afraid. I dismissed them at first as a mere resonance of all the things that happened to me. But then, one day," he paused, "it just became clear. My gift, my whole life ... it all led me to that moment, that decision."

She listened to him calmly.

"You're not shocked by any of it, aren't you?" he asked.

"Did you expect me to be?" she asked back.

"Maybe. Just a little," he smiled.

She smiled back. "I had my share of miracles."

He nodded. "William?"

She closed her eyes.

"The most important one," she whispered.

He bit his lip. "Did you ever try to find him?"

She shook her head. "I was afraid of putting him in danger."

"Of course, I'm sorry." He felt silly for asking.

She sighed, "It's okay. Don't worry." She never really forgave herself for giving him into adoption, despite all the rational reasons. Mulder was right. It left them with a void that could not be filled.

"And the secret that you refuse to tell?" she reminded him.

"Right. I guess the circumstances demand I break father Gino's trust," he said.

She nodded, waiting for him.

He stretched his neck while looking at the road. Forgive me, Father.

"There's an organization," he started, but her smartphone cut him off.

She winced. "It's Mulder," she said, only half relieved.

TO BE CONTINUED.

"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul."
― Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."
― Holy Bible