CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Butterfly Ice Cream Parlor
Los Angeles
July 30, 1985
Tuesday

Emily was glowing today.

Mulder smiled at the idea, feeling genuinely happy that his daughter's marriage had done more wonders than his own did for him. He's glad that she married the man she loved; that she experienced falling in love and being equally loved in return.

God. He was sounding like a bad romantic novel.

She straightened the banana clip that pinned the thick brunette hair away from her face. She noticed her father watching, so she stuck out her tongue playfully while digging her spoon back into her chocolate-chip sundae.

Mulder held onto his amused face until Emily pointed at his own strawberry swirl sundae. He grinned, combing the top of the scrumptious treat with his spoon, licking at the sprinkles first before tasting the ice cream.

"I swear, Dad," Emily said, her voice dampened by the remainders of the ice cream, "that when you eat ice cream, you're worse than a ten-year-old kid."

His daughter's musings weren't far from what Scully had been telling him. Spunk always scolded him for acting so unlike his age. She once told him that sometimes it was fun to have an adult act so young, but when he got messy and downright immature, it curled her blood to boiling point.

He smiled at the memory.

After another bite, Emily launched onto the details of her honeymoon with Jeff (the MAIN details, thank god). They spent the whole month of June in Hawaii: enjoying the prickly heat of the sun, laughing at each other as they gobbled up fresh coconuts, stumbling into the ocean as they learned to surf, and bickered on what to get when they shopped for their family. Emily handed him a plastic bag when they met in the Ice Cream Parlor, supposedly containing gifts from Hawaii. He's the big Summer Santa now: he had to hand presents for Dana, John and Monica's baby girl, Walter, and the three stooges.

When that was done, they were already half into their ice cream sundaes. Emily pointed a chocolate-coated spoon in his direction.

"What about you, Dad? How are you doing? How's Dana?"

Change the subject, please.

Mulder shifted in his seat, squirming until he felt that the blood that threatened a very obvious flush on his face calm down.

"Were fine; we've been getting along quite nicely for the past month."

"You've kissed and made up?" Emily joked, and he almost choked on the fresh strawberry bit embedded within the cream.

"Don't humor me, Honey."

"I'm not humoring you!" She winked at his direction, devaluing her statement. She licked her spoon off happily while Mulder breathed a sigh in relief. At least his daughter didn't mention anything about the sudden telltale redness on his neck.

"Dad, I have to tell you something important, by the way."

"How important? Should I put my spoon down? Should I drink some water first?"

Emily smiled, and it was her turn to blush. "All of the above."

It was a big one, Mulder knew by the twinkling of his daughter's eyes. Being the good father that he was, he finished his sundae faster than Emily could say "above," took a swig of lukewarm water, and intertwined his fingers in front of him.

Emily snorted her approval.

This snorting suddenly turned into ecstatic giggling, and Mulder swore BY all the gods and goddesses he learned in junior high that Emily glowed even more when she laughed.

"Oh, Daddy… I'm pregnant!"

Mulder stared at Emily, passive.

"Daddy, I'm pregnant. You know, after nine months you're going to have your first grandchild!"

Oh, Jesus Christ.

"What?" Mulder wanted to clear, his view suddenly fuzzy. Emily started sprouting seven heads, and they all giggled back at his shock.

"I'm pregnant! I didn't know until last week … I went to a doctor in Hawaii, and he confirmed it. Jeff's so happy, I mean, I'm ecstatic, Daddy! I'm going to have a baby!"

"Baby?"

"Oh, Daddy." Emily drew forward and placed a hand atop his on the table. She squeezed his clammy fingers tight. "This probably comes as a shock for you -"

Oh. Baby. Emily's pregnant. His precious, darling little Emily. She's pregnant.

Jesus H. Christ. He suddenly felt the urge to pray to a god he didn't believe in. What was that Catholic prayer he learned from his former girlfriend back in the day?

"Emily," Mulder started, gathering most of his breathing. The room was suddenly becoming claustrophobic. "I'm happ… happy for you, Hon."

"Thank you, Dad. I knew you would be." She stood up from her side of the table and hugged Mulder ferociously. He reflexively drew her in, his reflexes on the go. However, his brain was still muddled beyond frigging belief. His own daughter's pregnant? How was he going to react to THAT exactly? He wasn't through his own love life – he still wished to settle down eventually, of course; then, he was having problems of his own with the woman he wanted to settle down with because damn it, she couldn't know about how he felt for her; and now … he was going to be a grandfather?

He remembered it now: Hail Mary… Full of…

Emily tugged away from him, and he did too. They once again sat opposite each other, with Emily trying to contain the smiles on her face while Mulder tried to force more smiles on his own. Go figure the damn thing out.

"Dad, there's something else, too."

Enough. Please.

Mulder stopped projecting his happy image and rubbed his temples. "What's that, Em?"

Her face also lost its happiness, and the mood shifted to serious. "Aunt Sam wrote to me in Hawaii. It seems like she's there, Dad. She's been there after all."

Mulder clenched his teeth. He didn't care wherever part of the world Samantha landed in. "Honey, I don't think we should talk about…"

"Sh- She wants to see Grandma, Daddy. And you. And me and Jeff." Emily placed her two hands on her stomach, crossing them to hug herself. "I wanted to meet her somewhere in Hawaii, but I didn't want you to be angry at me."

"How did she find out about your honeymoon there?"

Emily blushed again, this time of embarrassment. "I write her once every year, remember? I still did, before my wedding. It was the first time she replied."

"Emily, please." Mulder resisted the overwhelming urge to pound his fists on the table. No need to create a scene in a public place. "I don't want you to have anything to do with your Aunt Sam. I told you about her violent past before - she's a dangerous woman, and I'm stressing that flat out. She got your Grandpa killed, and she almost got us killed!"

"Dad," she tried, but Mulder shook his head firmly no.

End of conversation.

Alleluia Amen.

August started with a reasonable bang: heavy rains filled the streets of Los Angeles, pattering over the rooftop during the solemn evenings, disrupting the comfortable silence of the neighborhood when twilight came. Even the yuppies who were usually out partying during midnight were stuck at home, mumbling Depeche Mode songs incoherently as they waited for the weather to even out. Everyone knew that it wasn't a good idea to drive out in the midnight rain.

Save for some as crazy as hell who actually dared.

Mulder was wide awake on his king-sized bed, staring deftly at the drifting shapes on the bare ceiling. At the corner of his ear, he heard a zooming car whiz by, followed by police sirens. He sneered in the dark, as memories of his drunk driving encounters back in Harvard knocked on his door. He was a mad man back then, one of those crazy-as-hell youngsters who would charge out in the roaring typhoon while riding his Harley. Doggett would also get on his own motorcycle, while Kryceck would protest their stupidity. They'd shrug him off with a swig of beer or two and headed off into the rain without any helmets.

Cost them good, one time. The storm was a certified cyclone and Mulder's motorcycle skidded right into a ditch. Seven stitches on his scalp were his trophy.

He felt for the former wound, remembering more idiosyncrasies as he smirked. Those were the good old days. If he wasn't just too busy with work lately, he'll still do it - without the helmet - all over again. Nothing else could match the adrenaline.

There was a soft rasp on his open door, despite having left it open if ever Scully needed him throughout the night. Mulder lifted his head from the pillow, finding the redhead Spunk standing at the frame. Her hair was combed neatly onto one side of her shoulder, the cotton robe shrugged on over the silky Teflon pajamas she always wore to sleep.

He quickly processed what was going on - and what was going to happen. Scully's bothered by the damn rain, and now she's here to ask for her share on his bed. No, not this time. Mulder stiffened as she shuffled towards him, her robe trailing behind her from the air conditioning's lukewarm gusts. Not this time. He couldn't do this anymore. He didn't want anything else but a clear head tonight.

"Scully," he heaved out, straining to prop himself up using his elbows.

To his remark, she paused in the middle of the room. Then, her voice filled the stagnant air. "You're awake?"

What did she expect? Her presence was too overwhelming for him. Even if he was asleep, he'd wake up if she was at the opposite end of his door.

He chose not to answer her question. "What are you doing, Scully?"

She started walking again, until she reached the foot of his bed. When she sat down an inch, he sat up in turn, watching her movements with panic.

It had been days since they last slept on one bed together - actually, the last time they slept together in one bed was back in the studio, when he had that fucking dream. That fucking shitty revealing dream. After that, he didn't want to do anything with Scully. Whenever she got nightmares, he would still be there, but only until she was calm. He wouldn't linger in her room anymore; he wouldn't even hold her hand until he himself fell asleep on the chair like he used to.

He had been angry with her, too. He would snap at her when she's asking for something, would shove her away when she would try to offer her help in any household chore, and oftentimes within one whole day, he would only bark three words at her. He half-expected the Spunk to smack him right on the kisser one time, but she had been incredibly patient with his attitude.

As if she had an insight on what he was feeling.

No. She'd never understand how he felt. There was only "need" attached to his moniker in her dictionary.

In his, there were a million things tagged to the name "Dana Scully."

And that's what he was afraid of.

"Can I sleep here? I don't really like storms." Scully-girl. That's who she had been while he had been pushing her away. He kind of wished that she'd slap him dead on the cheek so that he could somehow hate her with intensity. His hate for her was all on false pretences, no real fire - ignited only from his decapitating fear.

Mulder studied her face closely, watching how her eyes glittered from the successive lightning. "Scully, I don't think that's a great idea. Why don't you sleep on the bed and I can sleep on the floor?"

"I want to sleep beside... you. Please," she pushed, licking her lips worriedly.

Mulder controlled himself from groaning. God. She's too beautiful when she did that.

"What if I stay with you in your room until you fall asleep, huh? How's that sound?" Keep pitching until she couldn't hit any more balls. Keep pitching until he tired her out. That's how this should be. This was how the ballgame should work.

She drifted her eyes from him when he saw it waver like a melting candle.

"Mulder," Scully played with the loose ends of her robe, scratching at the fur. "Could you at least tell me why?" More scratching on the threads. "You've been mad at me the past days. Could you at least tell me why you so? I can't decipher this on my own."

Trust Spunk to read him perfectly. When her eyes wavered, it meant that she saw something wrong.

Resisting to answer, Mulder forced himself to watch her hands play with her robe. If the hitter still persisted hitting the lightning speed balls - let her hit ghost balls instead.

"If I've done something wrong, let me correct it. I can't live with you every day if you treat me like … you treat me … you treat me as I have treated you back…" She didn't continue it, dropping her hands on the bed.

He pieced it together in his mind:

He was treating her as she had treated him after Las Vegas. After he had kissed her.

That hit something in him and he had to speak up.

"No, Scully. I have a lot on my mind lately. I'm sorry." It was too quick for a heartfelt apology, but judging from the relief in the way she shrugged her shoulders, it was enough for now.

He had to prove it to her - that he still was her friend, her great protector, her Superman - so he threw the blankets open and welcomed her to his bed.

Scully removed her robe, folding it neatly on the foot of the bed, kicked off her slippers, and crawled to him on the bed. She laid back on her side, her face away from him, and he was thankful for that. At least he could stop worrying about her reading his emotions. The only thing he had to worry about tonight was the persistent part of his anatomy.

He made sure that there was a pillow covering his pelvis before molding his upper torso to her back. Scully sighed contentedly, further pushing towards him and grabbing his arm to snake it around her waist. Mulder closed his eyes in the sheer rapture of feeling her warmth against him, of surrendering to something he hadn't ever felt before in his life.

Protesting his thought, the heavens themselves darted a lightning that crackled offensively in his ear. Mulder snapped himself from the bliss he was feeling, willing himself to stay awake. He couldn't sleep beside her tonight. No, not tonight. Not ever again.

To further assure her - and to please himself too - Mulder kissed the side of her cheek slowly, prolonging the pleasurable feel of her soft skin on his lips.
An image in his subconscious flashed, particularly the one wherein he was kissing Scully in front of that pond filled with yellow lilies.

This made him end his kiss.

He laid there for long minutes, wide awake, listening to her ragged breathing slow down evenly, her arm over his sliding down towards the mattress. He listened to her womanly sounds, loving each one of them, hoping that he could drink them in through his mouth - each syllable, each drop, each gurgle.

She was too beautiful. Too beautiful for what he was feeling and too beautiful for him.

When he was sure that Scully was already asleep, Mulder gently slipped out of the bed. He glanced at her once in a while to make sure that she was still in Lala Land before proceeding towards the bathroom, where he needed to take a cold, really cold, shower to shut his libido up.

Then he'd set a makeshift bed on the floor and sleep there.

Morning had started bad enough for Mulder. His back ached from not padding the floor enough, Scully woke him up to tell him that Byers was downstairs waiting for him - and even if she was courteous enough not to mention what he had done (or prevented, in his own secret opinion), he could see pained confusion in her eyes. Yes, all in the life of Mr. Fox Mulder, Superman extraordinaire.

And since his friend had been waiting for a dead total of thirty minutes for him already, he didn't have time to shampoo his hair - which didn't really matter, the hot water was more cold than hot - or shave the one day growth stubble.

Yipee.

Byers offered to use his car and to drive for his pissed off friend that day. The tie-and-suit man was waiting for him at the wheel when Mulder bounded out of the house, fighting against the cascading winds from the still very active storm plaguing LA.

He hopped into the passenger seat, closing the umbrella in one swoop, also wetting himself and Byers partially with his action.

"Shit," he cursed, tossing the umbrella to the back of the car. He winced when he saw where his umbrella landed. Byers and the rest of the stooges weren't the kind who cared for their car's upholstery. Underneath the black leather seats were remains of nachos, tortillas, and Whopper burger wrappers.

Mulder wasn't the kind who was clean himself when it came to these things, but he prided himself in keeping his car spick and span. Made him wonder sometimes how he was able to sit through almost three hours of traffic with these guys when he would hitch a ride with them towards a party. Ah, maybe the shots of brandy at home helped back then.

"Yeah, shit," Byers deadpanned, backing the car from his driveway. "You look like shit, Mulder."

Wasn't that the line of the month?

"Thanks." And wasn't that his answer of the month?

"No, really, Mulder." The car skidded to a stop, and then charged onto the raging storm, towards the mall. "You look - and I'm sure that you feel - like shit, too."

Mulder braced himself by rolling his eyes and biting his lip. There it was.

One.

"You know, I've noticed something back at your …"

Two.

"House. Something about …"

Three.

"Spunk."

Bingo!

"What about Spunk?"

The nickname 'Spunk' was almost foreign to his tongue. He promised to Scully months ago that he'd never call her Spunk, and since he spent his time with her all 24/7, there wasn't an opportunity that he got to use that nick to call her or describe her.

He didn't want his balls tied behind his waist, mind you.

"She seems troubled. She was tense when she went down to meet me, as if she was shocked by something."

Mulder cringed. Scully obviously took her time to calm herself before waking him up. No wonder Byers waited thirty minutes for him.

"Did she sleep with you again?" Byers retorted, braking as light traffic met them on the boulevard. He mumbled something under his breath while waiting for Mulder's answer.

From the time when he and Scully had been sharing one bed almost once or twice a month, Mulder had to get an outlet for this weird relationship. Since Byers was the person next to Scully who could read him well, he had told the soft- spoken man everything. From her nightmares to her constant need of his physical presence. To make sure that Scully wouldn't get offended, he had sworn his friend to secrecy.

There was no initial diagnosis for his problem then, but currently, Mulder knew that there will be something to diagnose soon. He could actually make the diagnosis himself, but he wasn't even really sure if he was feeling what he was feeling.

"Yeah. She came to the room last night. Storms scare her. And… you know, I just wasn't up to it."

"Up to it?" The tone was incredulous. Mulder couldn't blame him. Anyone who resisted to share a bed with a woman as beautiful as Scully would be legally insane in at least thirty states.

"Fuck, how do I say this? I feel like I'm relieving a bad dream or something … but I slept down on the floor."

"Floor?" Much more incredulous.

Was that really hard to believe? That he actually resisted Scully?

"Yeah, floor. I think she wasn't happy about that."

Byers shook his head disapprovingly, reminding Mulder of his own father's reaction when he confessed that he believed Samantha was involved with a powerful drug syndicate.

"C'mon, Mulder. Wake up! NOT happy? I'd say she was insulted. You know how she feels for you."

The traffic lightened and they began to move at a steady pace.

Mulder clenched a fist where Byers couldn't see it, controlling his emotions. "No, I don't know how she feels for me. You see who we are to each other, Byers. You see that we're not exactly bordering friendship and …" he paused to catch his breath. The hitch in his statement made Byers slow his driving down. "Hey, tell me about Susanne."

The words had their desired effect. Mulder couldn't help his obvious delight when the car almost hit a truck that was aimlessly passing by. Byers cursed out loud, beeping incessantly at the innocent truck. He cut through the vehicle, and as they passed by the driver, he gave them a piece of his own thoughts.

"Fuck you bastard!" the driver shouted, with his middle finger raised up.

Mulder still kept chuckling, to the annoyance of his comrade. Byers accelerated the car to a close 60 when the traffic lightened, and they found themselves on Sunset Boulevard.

"That's back at you, man." Byers' voice was shaking as he slowed the car down to a reasonable speed.

Mulder bit the inner sides of his cheeks to stop himself from bursting out. Whenever he made one of his uptight friends lose all it, that's major entertainment for Fox Mulder.

"C'mon, Byers, tell me about Susanne."

"What about Susanne?"

"Why did you ask her to marry you?"

"Which part, Mulder?" The brown- haired man was getting intolerant now. He ran a hand through his dry hair, obviously annoyed. Mulder had admitted that he acted like a child sometimes, but this was serious stuff. He did want to know about Susanne.

"Which part of 'marry me' do you want to hear about? The part where she dumped me or the part where I was sobbing like a fucking hic?"

"All of 'em. C'mon, tell me. You're one of my closest friends and you've never told me anything about Susanne. You still love her; I know you do. Why? Why love her like that?"

"What is this? An ambush? Are you absurd, Mulder?"

"Tell me. I want to know."

"Fine," Byers said, too quickly - too compliant even for the usually reserved man. Even Mulder was surprised by his agreement.

John Byers met Susanne Modeski way back time, even before Mulder was friends with the three guys - even before Byers himself was friends with the Kung-fu heroes.

Byers had a hidden passion for clubbing. He used to go through downtown New York for a fix: he danced until morning came, and ate, slept, got drunk clubbing. That was all his life was about back then. He earned some money as a DJ himself, working part time in a club called "The Magic Bullet." That was his salvation: music, dancing, and drinks.
Susanne came out of the blue. He was happily squishing some tapes into the jukebox when she came up to him. She had short-cropped blonde hair that hugged the thin frame of her face, the "I'm your sexy Mama" attitude going on, and her body's nothing to faint at. She immediately caught his eye, and she later on admitted that she had been interested in him, too.
But for the night, she only requested a song, pressed a flirty kiss on Byers' cheek, and proceeded to dance the night away.

They met week after week, but not until they have known each other for a month did they decide to try dating. So they dated, one thing led to another and then poof! They were living in.

That was the part when Mulder decided that he should interject. "Moved in? You actually lived in with Susanne?"

The story started when they were in the car and it seemed that it wouldn't end right there in the mall. Byers had always been crudely detailed when he told stories. The two men shoved the Cindy Lauper teenage fans aside with their elbows as they proceeded towards the second floor.

Mulder silently thanked the heavens when he realized that Byers wasn't as detailed about his sex life with Susanne. The director wouldn't want to hear about that. Not now.

"Yeah, I lived in with her. We were together for three years. Then we moved to Los Angeles." Byers had a knowing grin on his lips, and Mulder remembered. When the man moved into Los Angeles, that was when they met. But Mulder never knew Susanne -

"She didn't come with me. She visited me once every week, when we guys don't hang out in the clubs. Specifically, every Saturday. Susanne never liked LA. She told me that she was always a New Yorker… she lived on the streets until she got a stable job -"

"Yeah," Mulder cut off. He didn't want to know what Susanne's job was. Though he had a good idea.

They turned a sharp right towards a jewelry shop. There were too many people jam packed in the rectangular space, so they hung outside the shop first, resting their bodies on the concrete wall.

A trail of questions passed through Mulder's brain, and the director had to raise his eyebrows to stop them from bursting out on his tongue. He had to take it easy. The subject was a sensitive one for his friend. He didn't want Byers to burst an artery somewhere.

"If you knew that LA would be the cause of your breakup… then why bother? Why bother moving here?"

"I don't know, Mulder." Byers loosened the tie around his neck, almost undoing the knot until his chest. "I never thought it was LA."

"Then what was it?"

"I thought she was seeing another guy."

Ouch. Mulder didn't know how to react to that one. The depth of Byers' love for Susanne had surpassed a lot of things … and sometimes, he himself had to wonder why Byers still loved her even if she screwed his whole damn life up. He saw how his friend reacted to their break up. He was there when Byers threw the 45k diamond ring straight in the garbage pit while bawling like a fucking hyena (Frohike fished it out an hour later after Langley had given their friend a good hot chocolate remedy).

Mulder wanted to know something, so he decided to go for broke. He was not quitting right now. Well, he never did, so anyway…

"Why do you still love her? How did you know that she was the one?"

Byers scratched his chin, wiggling his nose and the little moustache under it. "You believe in soul mates, Mulder?"

He almost laughed. Funny question. He once was asked that same question by his philosophy teacher back in Harvard, and during those days, having just known that he was going be tied to Diana forcefully - he did laugh. A few bets came after that, but nothing that he couldn't easily win.

"C'mon Byers… that's fictional, man."

"Well, I believed it. I still do. I felt it within Susanne. Every breath I took with her was for her, every beat of my heart my body pumped back then was for her… still is for her. I still believe that she'll come back to me."

Shit. The man was still in love with the girl. Mulder shuddered. What a scary thought.

The people inside the shop dissipated, carrying Jewel Links dinky bags on one hand while giggling ecstatically at each other. It was an unassuming group of nine-to-five middle aged women who were mingling in the mall. Mulder and Byers let them pass first, both their cheeks turning instant red when the floppy-haired women visibly checked them out. To avoid further embarrassment, Mulder lead the way into the now-sullen store. Byers followed him closely behind.

Mr. Tennyson was Mulder's personal "jewelry man." Ever since he had learned that women prefer jewelry to negligees, he had been coming back to the trustworthy businessman ever since. Emily had developed a love for the authentic designs as she grew up, and the rest of his friends - Walter, Byers, and his comrades - had found themselves attracted to Mr. Tennyson's sparkling stones.

When Tennyson caught Mulder and Byers entering his humble abode, he immediately waved at them, and then left the counter, barking strict orders at his attendants.

Byers found something that interested him at the far right of the shop, while Mulder waited patiently for Tennyson to return with his purpose. He leaned on the glass case before him, studying the extensive displays of diamonds linked with bracelets, necklaces, and rings. Mulder trailed his eyes all over them, until a particular piece caught his eye: a golden ring that had a humongous diamond on it, cradled within a lily setting. He smiled when it bought images of Scully to his brain. Good, good images.

"Mulder, no leaning!" Tennyson warned good-naturedly. In response, Mulder took a step back from the display, raising his hands to humor his jeweler. Tennyson chuckled, a sound that suspiciously was familiar as Santa Clause's chuckle. Ho ho ho.

The old man certainly looked like THE St. Nick too, if you asked Mulder.

Tennyson's giddy façade turned serious as he opened the velvet black box, revealing to the director Scully's cross necklace, now sparkling twice as it did before. Mulder's was overjoyed, and he took the necklace into his hands, lifting it up to his eyes so that he could see the difference. Every shine was as abundant as glitter now. It was new again, a new lease on life for the necklace.

"I polished it good for you, Mulder." Tennyson grinned smugly, watching his satisfied customer. "One thing though," the jeweler retrieved the necklace from Mulder and asked him to come closer. Mr. Tennyson turned the necklace over, pointing at a mark behind the cross pendant.

"Could you read that manufacturer?"

Mulder squinted his eyes at the squiggly writing. "Yeah. Cadsburr."

"This necklace is very rare, Mr. Mulder." Tennyson lifted his bushy eyebrows, pointing at the embossed signature. "There are a very few heirloom pieces of this around the world - but most commonly, you could find this within the UK."

"I might have an inkling," Mulder said, opening his palm to accept the dainty necklace. "Wales? Right?"

Tennyson rubbed his cheery red nose. "Yes. This particular brand - 'Cadsburr'- was only handed to very prominent families in Wales. I'd say the owner of this necklace is pretty lucky. He should take care of it."

"He?" Mulder retorted. "I'm sorry, it's a she, Mr. Tennyson. You should have known that I only come here for special women," he kidded, jabbing his jeweler on the left arm.

The Santa Clause look-alike scratched at his scalp in amazement, darting his eyes around the shop, as if looking for an assailant of some sorts that would dispute the necklace's secret. "But 'Cadsburr' is a royal brand that's only reserved for men. If a man chooses to give his piece to a woman, it means the most intimate of relationships in Wales. The most intimate of intimate relationships."

"You make it sound as if it's in a war-epic movie." Mulder dug at his back pocket, snatching his wallet and taking from it his credit card. "Here, charge it."

Mr. Tennyson accepted the plastic money gratefully. "The history lesson's for free."

"But of course."

The jeweler signaled a "be back in a minute" at him, disappearing behind the counter. He noticed one of his purple-headed saleslady checking on her dinky red lipstick at the counter, and started giving her a hell of a scolding.

Mulder bit back a smile from the commotion, turning his attention back to the "heirloom." He lifted the tiny cross once again to his eyes, studying its delicate likeness and the beauty of its construction.

"You are in love with her, aren't you?"

If it came from a different person - from Emily, Walter, or Frohike - it would've rendered him helplessly shaking in catatonia. But it was from Byers, someone who had the guts to know him inside and out, almost acting as a surrogate Mother during the times he needed guidance the most. So it wasn't much of a shock when he felt his friend's presence near him, asking him a question he hoped he never had to answer again.

Mulder wiggled his fingers, watching intensely as the cross wiggled back fine strands of glittering gold. "I keep having these dreams. They are all like one continuous film, threading from one part of my subconscious. It scares me that through the last one, I found out that what I feel for her is more than what I should be feeling for her."

"What DO you feel for her?" Byers inquired, tone assuring that there's no wrong answer. Mulder trapped the necklace within his fist, wanting to feel the metal's coolness against his skin.

"Byers, you know me. I've never had a real earth-shattering relationship with women. Emily doesn't count."

"You have no idea … on what you are feeling for Spunk?"

"I don't know if the feelings are right. That's just it." Mulder laid the cross back to its new velvet box, and he closed the lid with a lustful snap.

"Well, I've heard one wise quote say that dreams are answers to questions we haven't learned how to ask yet."

Mulder smeared an evil grin on his face. "How wise?"

"Television wise. Wise enough."

"Sure, and Frohike's Kung- fu is better than Langley's."

"Mulder, be serious for a moment." Byers rested an elbow on the glass casing, looking at the director with hooded eyes. "I am no psychic. I just happen to understand your mind well, and I know why you wanted me to come here today: so that I could help you clarify your feelings for her. But I can't do that. No one else can do that except you."

"I'm approaching the fucking situation like chicken shit."

"Yeah, you can say that again. You're torturing her. I am not at liberty to concur that she has the same degree of feelings you have for her, but I could see that she respects you, she cares for you, and yes, maybe she even loves you."

"I just," Mulder ran both hands through his coarse hair, wincing when he was reminded once more of its condition, "am overwhelmed beyond fucking belief. I haven't felt this way before. Scully's so different - she makes me do things that I never do. She makes me feel real. She makes me want to look at my life in a new way and change all the wrong… for her. She's a breath of fresh air."

"Then what are you afraid of? Rejection? Your age gap?"

"No, even if those are part of my fears, it doesn't sum it up. I'm afraid that … I'm going to screw this up. She trusted me with her life, and I'm going to screw that trust up. I feel that I am falling down a bottomless pit and if I let her in, I might pull her down with me. I don't want that. For her. Or for us."

Byers realized the weight of Mulder's words and reciprocated them quietly. After a second, he spoke up.

"You can't keep pushing her away. You'll hurt both sides."

"It's the only way I know."

"There are other ways, Mulder," Byers firmly pushed, lacing his fingers together and resting them on his abdomen. "I don't want you hurt. You are my friend, and I've grown to like Spunk too. You are both my friends and I don't want either of you hurt."

"She won't get hurt. I'm only a friend to her. I still will be. I'll just… lessen the closeness. Lessen the complications of our relationship. I think I could still control this. I KNOW I can."

A silly smile took over Byers' face. Rather than setting Mulder at ease, it drew jolting sparks through his spine.

"No one could control love, Mulder. And you are probably the last person who could."

Once Mulder and Byers were out of the mall, the heavens started to garner up most of its frustrations on Los Angeles again. An angry drizzle that was accompanied by a humid breeze struck through the whole city, leaving the people dripping wet with both sweat and rain.

Mulder last night called in a one day break for the whole crew, until the rains subsided, and until LA could recover from the storm's threat of paralysis. According to Walter, they were scheduled to shoot an outdoor scene today and using his best judgment, he decided that they needed to postpone what's on the schedule. He also thought about substituting a production scene for today, unfortunately, when he was about to make that call - the clouds rolled in on the city and started groaning at his idea. So he gave everyone a free day off. Including himself - an idea that he hadn't entertained for a long time ever since production started - but now that he had, it served him better than he expected it to do.

This was also a blessing in a Lucifer-disguise, since he was able to call up Byers last night to accompany him to the mall. A small change of plans that led to something much, much more.

Specks of water were lingering on his shirt when he charged into the house. Without bothering to shake off his mud-splattered shoes, he stepped on the welcome mat (Jenny would have a fit later; so will Scully) and shrugged them off, leaving two horrendous shoe prints on the burgundy rug. Ignoring that, he also waved his black umbrella and closed it, flinging more specks of water on and around him.

It was then that his eyes wandered over to the living room, where the most magnificent sight of the century greeted his sore physical, emotional, and mental state:

Scully was perched on the couch, her hair tied into her usual messy bun, sprinkling golden red auburn flocks over her shining face. She was grinning impishly down at the magazine she was cradling in between her legs as she browsed through the pages, flicking her wire- rimmed reading glasses further up her nose. He can't see what she was reading, since her lower extremities were hidden behind the couch's backbone, but he speculated that it was something that included Aerosmith and Moonlighting, judging from her rapt fascination.

His mood shifted into great stages of euphoria at the sight of her so undaunted, carefree, and without thinking twice he walked over to her position, standing directly behind her.

Now he could see what she was reading. It was the latest issue of Rolling Stone, with John Travolta and Jamie Lee Curtis on the cover. And now, he could also see where her utter stimulation came from: the smallest of small Aerosmith article with a picture of Steve Tyler sprawled on one tiny corner.

"Look at this," she exclaimed, pointing a fingernail at the caption under Steve Tyler's picture. Mulder was slightly startled that Scully sensed his presence behind her, but not at all that shocked. If he was the one lounging on the couch, and Scully was standing behind him, he'd definitely sense her presence.

"They're naming Aerosmith the most promising band of the 1990's!" She jabbed another finger at Tyler's nose, sighing contentedly at this new fact. Mulder grinned.

"As if they could beat The Police at that chance," he retorted, earning for himself a well-deserved Scully glare.

"The Police are already on the edge of disbanding, Mr. Mulder."

Ah, the icy love of a fanatic. Reminded him of those Woodstock days, when he actively and courageously bickered with other fanatics who the best band was at the festivities.

Mulder chewed on his plump lower lip as he moved away from Scully, settling himself on the opposite sofa couch. He reached down and started massaging his toes, since they were badly abused by the leather's bite when he waded through the front lawn's mud.

The auburn Spunk settled her magazine beside her waist, and this action made him look up to see her outfit. She was wearing her casual house clothes - yellow mini-shorts that boasted the best of her porcelain legs, a light chocolate pudding brown shirt that was three sizes too big for her, but it was dipping slightly down to her neckline, giving him ample view of her cleavage. When his eyes reached that part, he tore them away from her and looked down at his feet.

Scully pushed a strand of hair off of her face. "Where have you been?"

He didn't want to talk about where he had been, it only reminding him of his earlier conversation with Byers, so he reached over his back pocket and revealed the velvet Jewel Link box. Handing out to Scully, she stood up from the couch to take it from him.

Opening the lid, he watched closely as her eyes softened with his small offering, and she lifted the necklace out of the box delicately, cradling it close to her face like he did a while ago. The cross pendant shined twice it did now that it was in its owner's hands, as if it had wanted to impress Scully, too.

Mulder felt a surge of pride burst in him. He was proud of his efforts in getting the necklace fixed and bringing it back to Scully better than it was.

"The owner gave me a little History 101 lesson with that particular heirloom."

Scully removed her fixed gaze from her necklace. "Heirloom?"

"He told me that your jewelry is a Welsh 'heirloom.' Only the highly regarded families of Wales are fortunate enough to accept a necklace as priceless as that."

No answer. Scully still stood before him, studying the necklace, while he wiggled his toes on the damn carpet to keep himself from standing up, taking the necklace from her, and placing it on her neck. Then he'd breathe in her wonderful scent, he'd kiss her neck lightly, teasing her, teasing him - and then he'd…

He'd go to fucking hell.

Mulder rested his head on the couch's soft silky covering, letting his gaze wander over the soft brown paint of the ceiling. He's tired; feeling shitty and fucked up. He wanted a break from her, to clear his mind and to stop himself from loving her. It's insane and absurd and he'd one day toss a gun in front of his face and shoot.

He focused once again at the ceiling, not realizing that Scully was moving towards him.

The chandelier's glittering diamonds. The large squares of lilting sunlight the rain's finally allowing to shine through. Scully's face directly over his.

Wonderful.

Just mother fucking wonderful.

"Mulder, tell me what's wrong, please. Last night you went out of the bed and slept on the floor. Is it me? Did I do something wrong? Are you… angry about something I did on the job? Or did I clean your room wrong last Sunday?" Her eyes were pleading, asking permission so that she could read his emotions, to gain some understanding on what's happening to them.

He chose not to answer, shutting his eyes tight.

Mother. Fucking. Wonderful.

Scully stifled a choking sob, pressing her forehead to his. It was her last vain attempt to recede herself from breaking down right in front of him.

Mulder stopped himself from recoiling, and then allowed himself to feel the coolness of her skin against his heating systems.

She's so cold. He's so warm.

Cold. Warm.

She didn't want him to see her reaction. He didn't want to see what it would do to her face, too.

"God, Mulder… you're killing me. I probably deserve what you're doing, but all the same… you should say something."

His mind started working, and he swore that with the rate that it was going, she could feel the wheels turning against her forehead. The whirring sounds, the hissing pauses, and the heartbreaking dilemma that were threatening to undo him … and both of them in the process.

No. His silent self whispered. You don't deserve it, Scully. I DO.

That was when he felt her hand gang up on his chest, her head falling down to his shoulder, her knees hitting the carpeted floor, her hand finding his breast pocket, and something falling into it. Her breath was on the crook of his neck, tantalizing, stroking, killing. She was surrendering. Surrendering to his torture and to herself.

What was he doing to both of them?

"I- I want you to keep that. Until you could tell me what's wrong. Until you could be honest with me. Don't you fucking dare attempt to return that to me or else I would never talk to you, ever. Only return it when you feel that you could open up to me. Until you could admit that you lied to me last night when you said that everything was okay." Her words were cold, her persona resuming back to Spunk: that angry, twenty-year-old lady who wanted nothing of his crap.

Now, this was his breaking point. He knew her shifting personality all too well: if he wouldn't budge, she wouldn't push.

Ironically, that's what he's afraid of, too. For her to set back into this confining box, just as he had found her back in Lone Glitter eight months ago, tied up with dainty nylon and sloppily stuck together by packaging tape. He liked to think that he helped her break free of those confines, that he was one of the factors why she had changed over the few months they had been together.

And now that she was freed, he was afraid that she'd drop right back into that box and padlock herself in. All thanks to him, of course.

Too many fears involving this shit. And it was all his fault. If he didn't start falling for her in the first place, none of these would be happening.

Scully walked away from the living room and into her room, shutting the door with a frightful bang that made Jenny run from the kitchen. His housekeeper checked on him, asking what's going on. Mulder denied anything serious, and when assured, Jenny returned to her cooking.

All things cleared, Mulder groped into his breast pocket, clasping his tongue backwards when he felt the object Scully gave back to him.

Her cross necklace.

He lifted it in the open air, dangling it from his fingertips, letting the crisp monsoon winds blow through the jewelry, before tucking it back into his breast pocket.

Spunk Rule #1 should've been to never fall in love with her.

He never should've.

END OF CHAPTER TWENTY ONE