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Title: Thirty Days Hath September Summary: Separation anxiety. Author's Notes: This is a sequel to my story Vulpecula. You should read that first to understand what's going on here, although there is a brief synopsis about halfway down that might fill you in. You can find "Vulpecula" and my other stories at http://members.aol.com/CantWaltz. This one is for Fred, who stops what she's doing to answer my seemingly innocent questions and always inspires me. And for Roxane, who sent me some wonderful letters, kept me in line and pushed me to finish.
I. Isolation "It's a terrible thing to be alone - yes it is - it is - but don't lower your mask until you have another mask prepared beneath - as terrible as you like - but a *mask.*" The first day, she slept. The limo driver had dropped her off at the front door of a small house, insisting that he carry her bags inside. She left the luggage in the hallway and wandered through the house, ticking off the rooms as she passed them. Living room, kitchen, bath. Three bedrooms, two of them small, one large enough to take up the width of the house at one end. There was a wide balcony on one side of the room with a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean. She stepped outside and marveled at the sea, the sharp rocks and the bold crash of the surf as it seemed to try to take back the land. The salty smell tickled her nose, made her remember other shores, happier times. For an instant, she felt like she was the only person on earth. After leaving the glass door open and sliding the screened one into its place, she returned to the front hall and picked up a black leather satchel. Carrying it back to the bedroom, she opened it and dug out a slim cell phone phone in a matching leather case, then a small address book. She thought about not using the phone. But affection and duty got the better of her. With a sigh, she flipped open the book and found the number she needed. "Hello?" At the sound of the warm, slightly accented voice, she felt her throat constrict. "Clare? It's Dana. I'm here." "Good. I'm glad you called." The older woman's voice was cautious. She immediately understood. "You're with him, aren't you?" "Yes. Just a minute." A pause, then she heard a door close. "I feel like a child - hiding in the bedroom so I can talk on the phone." She sat on the bed, kicked off her shoes. "How - how did he take it?" "About as well as can be expected." She felt an urge to laugh, but was afraid that, if she started, it would give way to hysteria. "Which means not well at all. If he didn't feel so lousy, I'm sure he'd be badgering you mercilessly to find out where I am." "He started making some noises about making a phone call to 'the boys,' so I took away both the phones, gave him a Darvocet and made him lie down on the sofa. I think he's asleep now." "Good." She peeled off her trouser socks, let them puddle on the floor. "But watch him - he's a very light sleeper." "Will do. Oh - just a minute." She heard a voice in the background - querulous, questioning, hopeful. "Is that her? Please, let me talk to her. Scully! Dammit, Clare - let me-" She took the phone from her ear and deliberately pressed the "end" button, then made sure that the phone was turned off before she dropped it onto the night stand. Then she stood up and stripped off her clothes, not caring where they fell. Naked, she crawled under the covers and was instantly, dreamlessly asleep. It was the first sleep she'd had in three days.
"My love she throws me like a rubber ball September 1 The first night, he didn't sleep. He stared at the ceiling, fighting the soporific effects of the painkillers that Clare had insisted he take. She had all but tucked him into bed like a baby before leaving him to go visit Grace at the hospital. Grace. He didn't understand what had happened to her. He'd asked questions, tried to found out if her coma was a result of their abduction. Clare had just looked at him with a kind of pity and had told him no. His memories had a hole in them. From the time he had left for lunch a week ago to the instant he woke up in the hospital almost 36 hours later was - gray. Not black - there were some snatches of voices, an impression of emotions - but nothing concrete. Grace could tell him what happened, but she was unable to do so. Scully could also tell him. He wasn't sure how he knew that, but he did. But she was lost to him, as lost as his new-found baby sister. Maybe even more so. Scully's had been the first face he had seen when he had opened his eyes in ICU. Porcelain pale and thin, as discomposed as he had ever seen her. He sorted through other memories in other hospitals. She was almost without exception poised, serene, neat and prim. Not this time. When he had opened his eyes and seen her there, her hand tucked in his, blue eyes locked on his face, he had been both happy and shocked. She looked as though she had been to hell and back. Quite literally. There was something in her eyes that he didn't want to think about, not even now. A terrible knowledge. Then she had smiled at him, brushed his bruised mouth with a promise of a kiss, and the moment had passed. For almost five days, Scully was at his side. Constantly, unfailingly, except for the few times that Clare had sat with him, insisting that she go home, change, eat. He remembered her standing in a shaft of sunlight, reading his chart. Cajoling him into eating one more bite of a bland meal. Holding his hand and absorbing his pain as they performed yet another test, even as the doctors marveled over his rapid recovery. No complaints, no thought of self. Last night she had been there until he had fallen asleep. All she told him was that she wouldn't be around in the morning, that she had to check in at the office, would see him later. It was later now, and she still hadn't come. He knew that if he called in the cavalry - Byers, Frohike and Langly - they could locate her in a heartbeat. There probably weren't more than a dozen souls on Earth who could hide from the Gunmen. But Scully didn't want to be found. And, for once in his life, he was going to do the honorable thing and respect her boundaries - not change them, trip over them, storm past them. Even if it killed him. It was dawn before he closed his eyes.
"The human heart dares not stay away too long from that which hurt it September 3 For two days, she cried. Cried until there were no more tears in her, then started all over again. First, she cried for Ahab. For Missy. For Emily. For all that her mother and brothers had gone through. For Clare, for Grace. For Samantha Mulder. And she cried a long time for Mulder himself. Even though he was blessed with the ability to cry, an ability she had envied until now. On her third day in California, she sat on the fog-shrouded balcony outside her bedroom, listening to a pounding surf that she could not see. This day, she cried for herself. It was an indulgence. It would solve nothing. Weeping for what could have been would never give her a child of her own body, return her missing time. Would never let her believe, finally and for certain, that the cancer would not strike again - silent, deadly, without warning. For six years, she had ignored her own feelings. Denied to any and all who asked that they existed. Denied them even to herself. Admitting them now would make no difference, no difference at all. Why, then, did it feel so good to grieve at last?
"A lonely man is a lonesome thing, a stone, a bone, a stick, a September 3 On the third day, he moved into her apartment. He was surprised that his key still worked the locks, that her furniture and most of her clothing were still there. He had almost begun to wonder if he had dreamed her, if she had never existed outside of his imagination. He wandered around the rooms, touching everything. Looking in drawers and in cabinets, peering into the closets. She would never have allowed him this freedom if she had been here. He almost felt like a criminal as he hung his clothes next to hers. That he was trespassing on sacred ground as he crawled into her bed, lay down on her side. But if he didn't do these things, didn't touch her belongings, sleep in her bed, he knew that he would go mad. Maybe he was there already. He slept for a while, a few short hours when he could forget that she was gone. When he awoke, he went into the kitchen for a glass of water. And found her cell phone on the dining table. Silent. Accusing. What had he done? Had he driven her away? Or was it sheer narcissism that made him think that this whole nightmare was his fault? No one had told him anything about the hours he was missing. He had pleaded with Clare, but she had claimed it wasn't her story to tell. Skinner had come to see him and had fed him back the information he already knew. He hadn't dared contact the Gunmen; he was afraid that he would break his own vow to let Scully contact him, come home, in her own time. His healing body made demands on him. Sleep, and lots of it. Regular meals. More sleep. He hated the weakness, even as he gave in to it. Lying in her bed, trying to capture her scent on the pillows, was scant comfort, but it was all that he had.
"What *do* girls do who haven't any mothers to help them through their troubles?" - Louisa May Alcott September 4 On the fourth day, she called her mother. Again she sat on the balcony, the sea raging just yards away. She wrapped herself up to carefully to protect her too-thin frame from the stiff coastal winds, ignoring the sting of the chill salt air on her chapped nose and eyelids. The phone at the other end rang once. Twice. Three - "Hello?" She had thought she was out of tears, but they clouded her eyes as soon as her mother spoke. "Mom, it's Dana," she said shakily. "Dana! My God! Honey, where are you?" She looked out over the water. "I - Mom - I'm safe. I'm at a friend's." Her mother paused. "By the ocean. I can hear it." "Yes," she admitted. "I don't suppose you want to tell me which ocean." "I want to, Mom, but I won't." Maggie Scully was silent for a moment, then chuckled reluctantly. "You *are* your father's daughter. As long as you're safe, I don't care where you are. Can you give me your phone number?" Scully rattled off the number. "It's a cell phone, so the area code is meaningless," she warned. "And - two things. One, please don't give this number to anyone. Not Bill and Charlie. Not - not even to Mulder. And two, I'm only going to turn the phone on between 9 and 10 p.m. At least for now." "All right." Her mother paused again, and Scully could tell she was trying to decide what to say next. "Honey...can you tell me what happened?" She pulled her wraps more tightly around her shoulders. "I - I needed a vacation." "From Fox?" No. Not from Mulder. "From - from everything. I felt like - everything was closing in on me. That Mulder would get out of the hospital and I would go back to work and pretend that everything was fine. And this time...this time I couldn't pretend. I saw some things, went to a place-" She broke off, her throat thick. "Mom, I don't know if I can explain." "Dana, if you don't feel you can tell me...." She brushed the tears from her cheeks. "No, I have to tell someone. Maybe then I can understand it, too." Her voice at first hushed, then stronger, she told the story. Of the discovery of Bill Mulder's diary. Meeting his lover and their teenaged daughter. Grace's unnerving powers. Calvin Minnick and his kidnapping of both Mulder and Grace Murray. The horrifying hour in the autopsy bay at Quantico when Scully had received Mulder's body. Grace's sudden appearance and their journey to the gray place where Mulder's spirit waited for them. His amazing return to life and Grace's subsequent lapse into a coma. By the time she had finished, Scully was sobbing. "Mom, I had to go. I couldn't - do you understand?" "Dana, I-" Maggie Scully wrestled with her composure. "Honey, if this is a matter of faith, then no, I don't. I'd think that this - experience - would make your faith stronger-" "It's not about faith!" she cried. "It's about everything else. My life. My choices. You, Daddy, Missy. What I've put you all through. Mom, I don't know if it's been worth it." There it was. Laid bare. The reason for her 3,000 mile flight from everyone and everything she loved. Did the benefits outweigh the costs? Were six years of sacrifice worth the meager payoff? Her mother was silent for a minute, the said softly, "Dana, I can't decide that for you. Only you can. But ask yourself this: what would you have done differently? Were there lives saved because of you? Children safe at home in bed tonight who wouldn't be if not for the cases you and Fox have solved?" She stopped, and Scully could almost hear the wheels turning in her mother's head. "Dana, why don't you want me to give Fox your number?" "Mom, I don't-" She had come this far. She might as well go the rest of the way. "Because he would talk me into coming back, and I'm not ready. I don't know how to - he's - I'm in love with him, Mom." "And he doesn't feel the same way." She almost laughed. "No. He loves me, too." "I see." A sigh. "Well, that would explain why he's walking up to the front door right now."
"The angel of the Family is Woman.... In her there is treasure enough of consoling tenderness to allay every pain. " September 4 On the fourth day, he went to see her mother. He didn't call, didn't wangle an invitation. Just drove, ignoring the bite of the seatbelt against his ribs, the semi-constant throbbing in his skull. Clare would have his hide when she found out, but that was a risk he was more than willing to take. Margaret Scully met him at the door, her eyes rimmed in red. "You've talked to her," he said. "Yes. Come in, Fox." She held the door open wide. He entered the house, his tired feet suddenly too big, tripping over themselves. Mrs. Scully offered him a steadying arm and he almost took it. Almost. "I can't lean on anyone right now," he said. Somehow, she understood. If he didn't stay strong, apart, he would shatter. "Come into the kitchen," she invited. "We - we can talk." He watched her make coffee, put cookies on a plate. "My mother never baked," he blurted suddenly. "Not after my sister was abducted, anyway. It - it wasn't home after that. I never had a real home until- -" He swallowed the words with a mouthful of hot coffee. "Until you met my daughter." He nodded, the words stuck in his throat. He took another sip. "She was my rock, my anchor. She saved me. Every fucking day, she saved me. And I always let her down." "Fox." She picked up his hand, squeezed gently. "Don't say that." "Why not? It's true. And look at me. Look at what I am without her. It's only been four days, and I'm-" Lost. Broken. Less than half a man. "Lonely," he said finally. "Mrs. Scully, how is she?" She released his hand, picked up her coffee cup. "I don't know. I've never heard her sound so uncertain. But that's not surprising, considering what she's just been through. She's always insisted on being so strong, making herself put on a brave face even when she was scared to death. Just like her father." She took a cookie, nibbled delicately. "I never told the kids this, and Bill would have denied it, but he was terribly shy. He hid it behind a gruff exterior, but he was soft as a marshmallow. The hardest thing in the world for him to do was to pick us up and move us to a new base. He hated it. Oh, he loved to travel, loved the sea. But he hated having to meet new people, make new connections. And he hated most of all what it did to the kids, especially Dana. She was so sensitive. Introspective. Soft inside, just like her father." "And strong like you." She smiled a little. "And strong like me." She searched his face, noting the lines of pain, the fading bruises and cuts. "How are you feeling?" He rubbed his neck. "Aside from the headaches and the fact that it hurts to breathe? Like someone tried to kill me." "And succeeded, from what Dana tells me." He went still. "Wha - what did you say?"
"The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still. Like when they say, 'As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.'" September 5 She dodged fat raindrops as she jogged from the car to the door of the church. Ducking inside the vestibule, she shook the water from her hair. "It's a bit damp today," an elderly man said as he handed her a church bulletin. "Yes, it is," she replied, trying to smile. But her mouth was crooked, and she knew it. The man patted her shoulder awkwardly. "Leave the rain out here, my dear. Nothing but sunshine in there." He nodded his head toward the double doors that led inside the church. She smiled again, and this time it was genuine. "Thank you," she said, and stepped through the doors. She dipped her fingers in the cool font of Holy Water and made the Sign of the Cross, moving slowly up the aisle until she found a half-empty pew near the altar. She genuflected automatically, crossing herself again, and slipped onto the wooden bench. Then she flipped the kneeler from its resting place under the pew in front of her. She misjudged its weight and the distance, and it thumped against the tile floor. Church sounds. The thud of the feet of the kneelers, the scuffle of feet, muffled coughing, and one crying baby. Church smells. The sweet odor of wax and old incense, a hint of a woman's perfume. It was warm, quiet, and safe. She slid onto her knees and folded her hands. As always, her mind began to work overtime, despite the quiet. What to pray for? Of all the things she wanted, which would she ask for? And then that sensible voice, reminding her to offer thanks first, then lay her humble requests at God's feet. She had one thing above all others to be grateful for. The man she loved was alive, getting well, all due to a miracle born of love and faith. The thankfulness part of her prayer was easy. And now, what did she want? Not for the rest her life, but today, now, this instant? "Guide me," she whispered, burying her face in her cupped hands. "Show me the way. I'm lost." Then the music began, and there was no time to ask for more.
"What torments my soul is its loneliness." September 5 Clare found him in the hospital chapel. He was the only one there, a hunched figure in a back pew. His eyes were screwed shut, his teeth worrying his lower lip. When she slipped into the pew next to him, he didn't move. "Fox?" "I - I feel close to her here." He opened his eyes and looked at her then. "Do you - is she safe wherever she is?" "Yes, very safe." She answered the question he wasn't asking. "I think she'll find whatever she is looking for." He looked down at his hands. "Did she - do you think she left because of me?" She put a soft hand on his arm. "I think that, when she understands her reasons, she'll let us know what they are. But, no, I don't think it was because of anything you did." "I went to see her mother yesterday," he admitted. "Scully told her what happened. And Mrs. Scully told *me.*" Clare toyed with her pearl necklace. "I see. I was hoping you'd remember on your own. Although the doctors told us that, because of your concussion, you might not." He leaned back against the hard, wooded back of the pew. "I sat with Grace. Last night after you left and again this morning. She - she didn't have a head injury. There's no reason for her condition." "No." He stared at the large arrangement of white flowers on the altar. "A long time ago - five years now - Scully was abducted. It was - I never wanted to go through that again. I missed her." He laughed humorlessly. "Missed her, hell. I was lost. Adrift. When she was returned, she was in a coma for several days. They didn't - the doctor didn't expect her to live." His voice cracked, but he continued. "And one night, after they told me that she was slipping away, I sat with her. Talked to her. And the next day, she came back to me. I - it was like Christmas, you know? I knew that it was her own will to live that brought her out of it, but part of me was vain enough to think that maybe I made a difference. And I was hoping that, if I tried the same thing with Grace, that...." He shrugged. "Stupid, huh?" She patted his arm. "Not stupid. A very loving thing to do, especially since you're not supposed to be out of bed." He grimaced. "Well, Scully's bed is a very lonely place without her in it. It's only been a few weeks since we - but I still have a hard time sleeping without her." He remembered where he was, flushed. "She'd kill me for talking about this - and especially talking about it here." Clare gave his arm a last pat and stood up. "Well, then, we can talk about it later, if you like. I'm going to sit with Grace for a while." She paused at the door, then returned to his side. "There's no reason to keep her here any longer. I'm bringing her home tomorrow, hiring a nurse to care for her. If you want to come visit her there, you're welcome any time." She took a key ring from her pocket and placed it on the pew next to him. "Breakfast is at eight." He closed his hand around the warm metal. "Thank you. For everything." "We'll see you later, Fox." She closed the door, leaving him alone with his grief.
"Chaos often breeds life, when order breeds habit." Monterey, California The cramps began just before the Mass ended. She rubbed her belly absently as the priest said the final prayers. For a few minutes, the stroking kept her focused, lessened the pain. But as the parishioners filed out into the gray morning, her sorrow was almost more than she could bear. Her period still came like clockwork, despite what her body had endured. Since the chip had been replaced in her neck, it arrived every twenty-eight days, reminding her of what would never be. In the long months she had - not by choice - been celibate, it had always been bearable. A few minutes of melancholy, then on with life as usual. But this month, when there had been a man in her bed, it was piteous, heart-wrenching. She would never know the sweet, sharp pleasure of creating a new life, of seeing her parents' faces, the face of the man she loved, reflected in their child. Her heart, newly healing, splintered. Half-dazed, she made her way to the vestibule. The elderly man was there, peering out at the rain-soaked morning. "Nasty day. You be careful driving home, young lady," he said, starting out the door. "Please, sir - could you tell me where the ladies' room is?" she asked. He pointed. "Through that door and down the hall to the right." His creased face wrinkled in concern. "Are you feeling all right, missy?" "I - no," she said, turning away and almost running through the door. A few minutes later, she stepped back into the hallway. She knew she was pale, but she felt slightly more composed. Well enough to drive, anyway. As she strode down the linoleum-covered floor toward the exit, the only sound came from the hollow click of her heels hitting the tile and a murmur of voices in a meeting room. "Before we begin," a man said, "a short prayer. God, grant me..." A host of voices joined his. "...the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." An AA meeting, she thought, and kept walking. But when she reached the door, she stopped. The simple words began to echo in her head until they rang like a bell. She whispered them to herself, tried them on, saw them fit like they were made for her. Her sharp mind began to work for the first time in days. By the time she unlocked the car, she knew what she had to do.
"Most of us are about as eager to be changed as we were to be born, and September 5 He stopped by his apartment to pick up a couple of things he'd forgotten. As he went from room to room, tossing items into a bag, a slow burn began. He was sick of the roller coaster. Just when he thought his life had settled into an even keel, something always came along to upset it, start the whole desperate chase for answers over again. He was reminded of Sisyphus, condemned to push the same damn rock up the same damn mountain, only to watch it roll down to the bottom over and over. "I hate that fucking rock," he muttered, not paying attention to where he was going. His hip bumped against a haphazard stack of CDs. He gasped in pain as he watched them tumble to the floor. Carefully, he levered himself down to the floor and began scooping them up. He put the last one back on the stack and got unsteadily to his feet, turned to go. And stopped. He took up the last CD and stared at the smiling face on the cover. He flipped it over and read the list of songs, then stuffed it into his bag. He sorted through the stack, selecting a few more CDs and taking them as well. When he walked out of the apartment, he was whistling.
"And none will hear the postman's knock Carmel, California She sealed the last envelope and licked the last stamp, then eyed the neat pile of letters with a deep satisfaction. It had taken her five days, but she was accomplishing something that she had begun to think was impossible. She was starting to take back control of her life. It was funny. She had thought herself in complete control. Making choices every day that seemed to be the best for everyone involved. Putting others first. Putting the work first. She had done what she thought was right, what she still thought was right. But now, with some time and distance between her and her so-called everyday life, she could see what she had neglected when she was following Mulder as he dragged her from pillar to post. She had forgotten herself. At some time in the past six years - maybe as long ago as when she was standing in a jail cell with Luther Lee Boggs - she had started to leave Dana Scully behind. Oh, she surfaced from time to time. But less and less often as the years with the Bureau had worn on. Other things, other lives, were more important. Her mother had asked her a few days ago what she would have done differently. The search for an answer had kept her up for the last few nights until the dawn light filtered in the window over her bed. And the answer she had arrived at was, "No, but...." Imprecise, ambiguous, vague. Like so much of what she had seen and experienced in the last few years. No, she would not have done anything differently. But, now she had to make some changes, some choices. Starting with the letters. They were for old friends she cut herself off from when the change in her became so material that she felt that they no longer walked on common ground. Finding the proper words had been difficult, painful even, but she had done it. She wanted to rebuild those connections if it was possible, to lessen her isolation from the rest of the world. She was still working on accepting what she could not change, but she had taken steps to change what she could. And now, there was one more thing she needed to do. Sighing softly, she stepped out onto the balcony. The early morning light tinted the sea with a hint of pink, a stroke of aqua. It was beautiful here, peaceful. For the first time in ten days, she felt some of that peace seep into her bones. Before her hard-won courage deserted her, she dialed the phone.
II. Communication "Let us speak, though we show all our faults and weaknesses, - for it is September 10 "Elvis has entered the building," Clare Murray mumbled to herself. She could have shouted the words and it would have made no difference. She still would not have been heard. Four mornings ago Fox Mulder had shown up at the front door looking inordinately pleased with himself. All he would tell her was that he had a plan. If she'd known then what his plan was, she would have driven him home herself and taken away his CDs. But he had looked so - She counted to ten, then ten again, before pushing open the door of her daughter's room. "Fox," she called. When he didn't respond, she shouted his name and he looked up at her. "Turn it down, please - I can't hear myself think!" He complied. "I think that one works very well as a wake-up call, don't you?" he asked, grinning. "Come on, Clare, it's inspired." He held up a jewel case. "Elvis. 'Little Sister.' Work with me here. I only play one song." "Yes, dear, but I'm sure she can hear the music if you play it at a lower volume," she said gently. "But she's moving around more now. Admit it." He pointed to Grace's hand as it clenched the sheets. Clare shook her head. She could see how Dana had become so charmed by him. "Oh, all right. Just keep it a little lower tomorrow, hmm?" "OK," he agreed. "If you insist." But from the way he looked at her, she knew that tomorrow's song would be just as loud as today's. His cell phone trilled and he bit back a curse. "Dammit. This is the fourth time today. I don't know who gave out my number, but they're going to pay for it." He pressed a button on the phone and snapped, There was a pause, then a light alto voice asked, "Well, then, sir, could I interest you in a new long distance service?" His hands began to shake. "Scully," he whispered. "Scully." He sank into a chair next to Grace's bed. "How are you feeling?" she asked. He ran a hand through his hair. There was no way to answer that question truthfully. "Well, the spirit's somewhat willing but the body's still weak. Better, I suppose. How - how are you?" "Better, too. More relaxed." "Can you - can you tell me where you are?" He heard her sigh. "Someplace beautiful." He smiled in spite of his churning emotions. "I don't suppose you could be a bit more specific." "Not - not today." His patience thinned. "Can you at least tell me why you left?" "Mulder, when I've got that completely figured out, you'll be the first person I call." He picked up a framed photograph of a younger Grace and their father. "I don't even want to know how you knew that there was anything missing from that drawer." "Oh, you know me - never could resist delving into a mystery." He looked into his father's smiling eyes and felt that there was something he was supposed to see but wasn't. "I got to wondering if-" "If I was ever coming back?" she asked softly. "Something like that, yeah." "Oh, Mulder.... When - when I left, I thought it would be easier for me if I took everything with me. So I wouldn't have to go back if I-" Her voice trailed off. His heart raced in panic. "Are you *quitting*?" "I - There's still a lot of unfinished business, don't you think? And I'm not letting you take all the credit when the truth comes out, Mulder." He took the phone from his ear and shook it, then tucked it back under his chin. "I don't know what they're feeding you there, Scully, but whatever it is, it's made you awfully sassy." She laughed then - a full-bodied, rich laugh that startled him. He could count six years of those laughs on two hands. "Well, you know, I think I'm starting to feel pretty sassy. Sassy Scully and Spooky Mulder. I like that." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Damn, woman, I miss you." "I miss you, too." He closed his eyes. "But not enough to tell me where you are." When she spoke, her voice held an ache, a longing, that was so deep that it stung. "I miss you too *much* to tell you where I am," she whispered. "I'm not ready." Not ready. He had a sudden flash of memory - a dark place where the only light seemed to come from the faces of Scully and his sister. A place where all the love he'd ever hoped to know was contained in their slim hands. And something else - something he was supposed to remember, but that still fluttered outside his consciousness. "Mulder? Are you still there?" He struggled to clear his head. "Yeah - yeah. I guess I just don't understand it all, Scully. What difference does me knowing where you are make?" She made a noise that was half laugh, half sob. "Mulder, you actually have to ask me that? This is *me.* I've done everything you've ever asked of me and more. Don't you get it? Of all the people in the world, you're the only one who can influence my decisions." "Scully, when have I *ever* influenced your decisions?" She made a tsking sound. "Mulder, I need you to be serious for a minute. Please." He heard a heavy sliding sound - a patio door, maybe- He could envision her there, wrapped around him so tightly that they were one body, one heartbeat. The rush of desire was unexpected, tight, almost painful. He had to struggle to focus on what she was saying. "But I can't be there. Not until I understand it. Not until I regain control of my life. And, until then, it's best that I stay here, and you stay there." He needed to ask the question that had haunted him for days. "Scully, did I do anything to...drive you off? Or, is this the part where you tell me again that it's *your* life and not everything is about me?" She laughed again, low and short. "I know that's hard for you to believe. But, in this case, you're partially correct. It is about you. *And* me. Because it *was* something you did that made me decide to go, Mulder. I - I just didn't figure it out until now." He sucked in a deep breath, his ribs protesting. "What was it?" "You died."
"At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, September 12 It was disconcerting to type the label, to affix the sticky sliver of paper to the folder. To read it there, in bold black letters. He was an X-File. A short stack of files were on the desk in front of him, and he glanced at each of the covers. Two slim files on each of his sisters and one thicker file for Scully. She was a key player in other cases, of course - Phillip Padgett, Donnie Pfaster, Ed Jerse and Alfred Fellig, to name a few - but this one file, dating from 1994, was the only one which had her name on it alone. It wasn't complete anymore, of course - the original had been destroyed in last year's fire - but it had been one of the first that he had painstakingly rebuilt from the ashes of his office. He didn't want to forget. But he still did, when whatever fleeting obsession that held his interest this week took control. After six years, he never realized how much she meant to him until she wasn't there. Why was that? Maybe it was habit. He had become so used to having her there, that other part of himself, attached by an invisible thread. She had become part of him. Or maybe it was something else, something that should have become clear to him with all of his psychological training, with the therapy he had undergone as part of that training. Something that only now he was beginning to admit. He had - issues - with abandonment. Which was a polite way of saying that the people he loved left him. From Samantha to his father, Phoebe to Diana - they walked out on him. Maybe he and Diana had left each other, but the fact remained that there had come a day when he was back to eating canned soup at a table set for one, was waking up alone in his bed. And now there was Scully. Scully, who had saved him in every way a person could be saved. Scully, who had endured more than any human being should ever have to suffer, simply because she had become a part of him. Scully, who had shown him every day that she loved him. She had to - he knew he was difficult at the best of times. It was impossible for her to remain with him if she didn't care for him. The work itself was not enough, as much as she adored what she did. Why did he simply expect her to be there? Know that where he went, she would follow? And yet, why did he sometimes treat her with such callowness? He knew he took her for granted. Because - maybe because he trusted her. Trusted her above anyone else. Trusted her to be there, depended on it. Wasn't she part of him, after all? His conscience, his soul, the best portion of him. Sometimes I think you *are* what's good in me.> His head snapped up, and he looked around the room. The voice was so clear, he was surprised to see that he was still alone. Slowly it dawned on him that it had been his own voice he had heard, in one of those maddening flashes of memory that were coming more and more frequently. Especially since Scully had called him the day before yesterday. As his memories slowly returned, Grace was becoming more active. She was waking up, he was sure of it. He refused to let her sleep the rest of her life away because of some foolish sacrifice she had made. For him, a virtual stranger, but someone she lo - Someone she loved. He picked up her file and flipped open the cover, finding the color portrait that had been taken when she had finished prep school in Ireland. He ran his fingers over her eyes, the eyes that were so like his own, and he felt enlightenment begin to seep in. He felt, for the first time, that he had found common ground with this girl, the sister whose existence he had both welcomed and rejected. She was so different from him, but alike in one very important way: she never gave up on someone she loved. Her reasons weren't the same as his, of course. Grace had grown up with love, thrived on it. Security and acceptance were part of who she was. She trusted because she had only known trust. But he - he loved because he had *not* known love, and thus he craved it. Needed acceptance and security more than air and water. So he gave his heart easily, not because he took for granted that it would be taken and cherished, but because he hoped that *this* time would be different. That he wouldn't be rejected, that he would finally find that home he had lost as a boy and had never stopped trying to replace. Work filled many of the gaps. But work, no matter how fulfilling, didn't replace the intense pleasure of human contact. Didn't heal him when he was hurting, didn't make love with him in the middle of the night to brush away the sharp claws of a nightmare. So he kept looking. Hung on to every connection, no matter how damaging, because he could not bear to be discarded once more. He knew that the relationship he had with Scully was unhealthy in many ways, especially for her. She was forever chasing after him, mothering him when he needed to be mothered, constantly coaxing him back from the edge of those cliffs he liked to walk on. All she asked in return were compassion and respect, and he doled those items out like they were water in the desert. Why? Maybe he was testing her. Trying her to see if what she offered him with both hands was real. Because this time, the stakes were too high. He might love other people, but Scully was the only one he needed. Everything he needed to continue living was wrapped up in a neat little red-haired package. She was Christmas, New Year's Eve, the Fourth of July, food and drink, art and science, fire and air. Without her, he would be, well.... Dead. He picked up the folders and filed them away carefully, then let himself out of the Sunday quiet of the office. As he drove toward her apartment, he though about how pathetic he was at the moment. Hurrying home to wait by the phone - a cell phone that he could answer anywhere -
"There is no such thing as conversation. It is an illusion. There are September 12 Making margaritas had been a whim. But now, as she sipped her second, she thought the idea had been a pretty good one. It was warm today, and the tart frostiness felt wonderful slipping down her throat. She dipped a salty chip - baked, of course - into a bowl of salsa and munched contentedly as she perused the ads in the San Francisco Chronicle that she'd picked up on her way home from church. Shopping seemed like a good idea, too. She was actually beginning to get tired of her own company. Introvert that she was, she always felt sucked dry by the crowds and bustle that were a natural part of big city life. But she accepted them as the price she had to pay for all the advantages that living in a place like Washington afforded her. "But even introverts need new shoes," she said aloud. "Hmm. Sale at Nordstrom's." By the time she had finished half the salsa and the rest of the newspaper, the sun had dipped low enough in the sky that it was glaring off the water. Tired of squinting, she gathered up the paper and her dishes, then went into the kitchen. After she rinsed the smudges of ink off her hands, she went into the living room. Television didn't interest her, she didn't think a novel would hold her attention, and she was too full of chips and salsa to think about starting dinner. There was only one thing she wanted to do, and that involved the telephone. She punched in a string of numbers and waited for the call to connect. "Mulder." She smiled at the brusqueness of his tone. "Telemarketers get you again?" A sharp breath, a pause. "No, I was - just watching a little TV. Shark Week on the Discovery Channel. Since Skinner won't let me come back to work yet, I've had to develop some new interests." She walked down the hall to the kitchen and considered having a third margarita. "Sorry to interrupt. Should I call back?" "Uh, no, that's all right. I'm, uh, taping it." She frowned; he seemed unusually curt. "How are you feeling?" "Oh, like a million. You ever have your nose broken, Scully? You get these great black eyes. I look like a raccoon." Suddenly another drink seemed like a necessity. She took ice from the freezer and dumped it into the blender. "I didn't realize you were so vain." "Oh, yeah. This is putting a real crimp in my social life." Her brows knotted. "Mulder, what's wrong?" "Nothing. Everything's peachy. My sister's in a coma, you're God- She leaned limply against the counter, not understanding his heavy- Silence. Then, "I created an X-File on myself today, Scully." She heard fatigue and confusion creep into his voice. "And it got me thinking. About you, Grace, myself. Mostly about me, of course, because, after all, it's all about me." He sighed. "I took a good hard look at myself, Scully, and I didn't like what I saw. I don't understand it. Why do I remember *nothing?* Why am I still here when everything I love has been taken away from me - *again?* What's the point, Scully?" He became louder, harsher. "And here I sit, taking it out on you, when I should be on my knees thanking you for every thing you've ever done for me. The really pathetic part, Scully, is that I'm never going to do that. I'm always going to be an egotistical ass who takes you for granted. And that's what you have to realize before you decide if you're coming home. I'm not going to change. But there's one more thing you need to know, too." His voice dropped to a whisper. "No one on earth will ever need you or love you as much as I do, if that's worth anything." She closed her eyes. "No, that's not worth anything, Mulder - that's worth *everything.*" He drew a deep, hitching breath. "Say you're coming home, Scully. Tell me I'll see you again." She caressed the mouthpiece of the phone as though she were touching his lips. "You'll see me again, Mulder." His voice was so intense it shook. "No, Scully, tell me you're *coming home.* Tell me that I'm not going to wake up in your bed alone for the rest of my life. Why won't you give me a straight answer?" "I - in *my* bed? Mulder, where *are* you?" When he didn't answer, she understood. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't know." He cleared his throat. "How have the mighty fallen, right? Just don't let the word get out - I have a reputation to maintain." She heard water running in the background and then him swallowing greedily. "I promise you I haven't wrecked the place. Although it might be a little more - lived in - than you usually like it." "I trust you, Mulder," she said quietly. "But not enough to tell me that you're coming home. And not enough to give me your fucking phone number. Jesus!" She heard a crash and knew that he had thrown the glass. When he spoke again, he was breathing heavily. "Well, I guess you were wrong to *trust* me, Scully, because it looks like I might wreck the place after all. Ouch - dammit! Son of a bitch! Where the hell's your broom? I suppose I should be glad you're a doctor - I'm sure you've got Band-Aids." "Medicine chest," she said automatically. "How bad's the damage?" "Well - ow! - the glass is a total loss, but I believe my big toe will make a full recovery. Listen, could you give me a few minutes to take care of this? I don't want to get - shit! - blood all over your apartment. Call me back?" "202-555-1633." "What?" He sounded stunned. She repeated the number, even as she rethought her decision. "Fifteen minutes. Any more and I'm calling 911." "Fifteen minutes. Sure. You - you *will* answer the phone, right, Scully?" His need was palpable, even from 3,000 miles. "I'll be waiting, I promise." When he hung up, she put the phone on the counter with a sigh. "And now, I really need that drink," she mumbled, pouring the tequila with a liberal hand.
"Every flower is a soul blossoming in Nature." September 13 The lawnmower woke her from a fretful sleep. Its constant drone followed her into the kitchen as she stumbled to the coffeemaker. A few minutes later, a steaming cup in one hand and a toasted bagel in the other, she felt slightly more human. Uncaring of her sleep-tossed hair and bathrobe-clad figure, she stepped onto the balcony off the living room. The gardener noticed her and raised a hand, and she waved in response before dropping into a lounge chair. Mulder had kept her on the phone until midnight - three in the morning his time, for God's sake. She had sensed his unwillingness to break the connection, so she didn't have the heart to tell him to go to bed until his yawns became more frequent than his words. After that, she had fallen into bed, her head aching from the stress of talking to him for so many hours. Although she was used to short conversations with him, she had discovered that he possessed a garrulous side that was overwhelming. His sheer energy wore her out in person; on the telephone, he was twice as vibrant. Sleep should have helped. But the dreams had startled her awake before she had slept an hour. Constantly, all night, the same dream. Flowers. A field of them, as high as her hipbone. She had wandered through them, picking them randomly, until her arms overflowed. Cradling them in her arms like she would hold an infant, she kept walking, walking, with the sun high overhead. In the middle of the field, Mulder was waiting. "Where is it?" he asked. "I don't know," she replied. "They're all here. All but that one." He looked over his shoulder to where Grace was standing, a single bloom in her hands. "Do you think she knows?" he asked. "Yes. Why don't we know, too?" He took half of the flowers that she held and turned toward his sister, but she just shook her head and turned away without uttering a word, her face twisted with disappointment. And then Scully awoke, her heart pounding in unison with her head. She didn't understand why the dream held such terror for her. Couldn't even begin to comprehend its meaning. But its power was enough to keep her staring at the ceiling for hours, long after dawn broke, nodding off just before she heard the lawnmower begin to buzz outside. The drone of the engine stopped, and then she heard a knock at the front door. She jumped up and went to answer the summons, pulling her robe more tightly around her frame. The gardener stood at the door, a look of apology on his face. "I'm sorry to wake you up," he said in a curiously flat voice. "I just got the part for the mower this morning." She looked at him more closely and noticed the pair of hearing aids in his ears. "That's all right," she said clearly, making sure she faced him as she spoke. "Do you want some coffee?" He smiled, showing straight, white teeth. "Thank you. Maybe when I finish?" She heard the cell phone trill and nodded, making a gesture with her hand to show that the phone was ringing. "I'll see you in a while," she said, then shut the door and went to the bedroom. The ringing stopped before she got there, then started again almost immediately. "Hello?" she asked, dropping onto the bed. "Hi, it's me." Mulder's voice was thick and scratchy. She shrugged off her robe. "Are you all right? You sound sick." He coughed a couple of times. "No, just tired. I had the damnedest dreams last night." Her hand, reaching for a glass of water on the nightstand, froze. He sighed. "Scully, this is going to sound weird, but what do you know about flowers?"
III. Decision "A dream is a scripture, and many scriptures are nothing but dreams." September 17 She got out of the car slowly, stretching her cramped muscles. Sliding a hand over the sleek finish, she admired the powerful little vehicle. It was a BMW roadster - a convertible - painted a bright, cheery red. Driving it was a wet dream. "Someday," she promised, reaching into the trunk and pulling out several shopping bags. She'd spent a very productive day in San Jose. It had been a long time since she had indulged herself like this. A haircut, a facial, and a couple of hours in Nordstrom Rack made her feel like a new woman. It felt good to take care of herself for a change. Pamper herself. Even the simple act of trying on new clothes was oddly liberating. She let herself into the house and went into the bedroom, then dumped out her purchases onto the bed. She sorted them carefully, then took a step back and looked at the clothes with a critical eye. Pajamas - soft satin, cotton and silk. Filmy bras and panties. Pretty shoes with chunky heels. Simple sweater sets. And suits. Brightly colored fabrics, but still suits. And it wasn't until now that she fully acknowledged what her unconscious had known for a long time. She was going back to work. Back to Mulder. Not just yet, but soon. Very soon. The knowledge weighed on her as she shredded lettuce for a salad, ate, did the few dishes. Finally, curled up in a chair in front of a television program that she wasn't watching, she threw her hands up in the air and groaned. "I'm not ready," she ranted to the air. "I haven't dealt with half the things I need to. I'm just not ready, dammit." Not ready. Mulder's words, now made her own. She began to wonder if there *was* such a thing as being ready. For life. For death. For love when it came, stealing your heart like a soft-footed thief. Maybe...maybe being ready was the least of your worries. Maybe it was how you reacted to life, to death, to love. Did you accept the events as they unfolded and respond accordingly, or did you deny that they had ever taken place, scurrying around like an animal to find a place to hide? She knew that she hid, even as she dealt with the consequences of how life unfolded around her. Did what she needed to, what was expected of her - what she expected of herself - even as her heart and spirit went to ground, emerging from cover only weeks, months, even years later. As a coping mechanism, it worked. But every time life smacked her in the face, it took longer for her to recover. And, little by little, less and less of Dana Scully surfaced from the ruins. If she hadn't taken the drastic steps she had, in the face of Mulder's death and return, this time she knew she would have been lost forever. Knowing that she loved him had been trial enough. Her inner resources had been pitifully thin - she saw that now. He wore her out, physically, emotionally, psychologically. It wasn't that she wasn't strong enough to handle their burgeoning relationship - she *was* - but only to a point. To fully commit to him, the work, to give herself to him body and soul, was too much. Mulder demanded nothing less than everything from her, and she would have disappointed him. Disappointed herself. If Clare and Grace had not entered their lives, if the horrible ordeal with Calvin Minnick had never touched them, things would have played out so very differently. Somberly, she put away her new clothes, except for a pair of soft red cotton pajamas, and took a long shower. Then she buttoned herself into the pajamas, picked up the cell phone, and went out on the deck off the bedroom. This had become her private refuge, and she was going to miss it terribly when she returned to Washington. Clare had known what she was doing when she had sent Scully here. The wild blue grandeur of the sea calmed her, let her relax and focus. She stretched out on a chaise and tugged a throw over her legs, then settled back to watch the stars wink at her over the water, their dance the only clue as to where the ocean ended and the sky began. With the rush of the water echoing in her ears, her head drooped toward her chest and she slept. The dream took her almost instantly. Again she was in a field of flowers, but this time she was on her hands and knees, pushing stems and leaves aside as she searched for something. Again she met Mulder, who was also crouched close to the ground. "Do you see it?" she asked him. "No, but it must be here." He helped her to her feet. Grace stood apart from them, as always, but a little closer this time. As they watched, she plucked a white rose and tore the petals off the bloom, one by one, letting them drift to the ground in a snowy heap. Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged. When it became clear that they didn't understand her, a tear slipped down her face and she turned away. Then the phone rang, and Scully jerked awake, stifling a scream.
"Mystery has its own mysteries, and there are gods above gods. We have ours, they have theirs. That is what's known as infinity." September 18 It was just past midnight when he had the dream. When he woke, he reached for Scully in panic. Then his hand banged painfully against the coffee table and he remembered that he was alone, that he had fallen asleep on her overstuffed sofa in the middle of a scoreless, pointless baseball game. With a frustrated groan, he groped for his cell phone and dialed. "He-hello?" she gasped as she answered. "Mulder?" "Did you have the dream, Scully? The field, the white rose?" he asked urgently. "Yes, yes." She sounded like her teeth were chattering. "What the *hell* is going on here, Mulder?" He swung his long legs off the side of the sofa and groaned as he sat up. "I don't know. But I think that it has to do with Grace. She's back in the hospital, Scully. They think it's the flu, but they're worried about pneumonia. I would have called you earlier, but I was at the hospital until ten, and then I closed my eyes for what was supposed to be just a minute." He took a swallow of his beer. It was lukewarm, and he grimaced. "I'm sorry if I woke you. I know it's late." "Not that late," she murmured. "Don't worry about it." He heard a rushing, staticky noise in the background. "Can you hear that? Is that the connection?" She sighed. "No. It's water. The ocean." At last, a clue. "Which ocean?" She gave a low laugh. "Oh, no. My mother tried that one, too, and it didn't work." He looked down at the floor. "Well, you can't blame me for trying." "No, I can't. But when I get home, I'll tell you all about it." He remembered what Clare had told him - how a month's vacation for her had turned into fifteen years on the Vineyard. "Uh, Scully, you're not in Massachusetts, by any chance?" She sounded surprised. "No, why?" "Nothing." He picked up the beer bottle and poured the rest down the sink. "So, since you brought it up - when *are* you coming home?" "Well, it's - what day is this?" He looked at his watch. "It's 12:16 a.m. on September 18. Eastern daylight time." "Twelve days." "Twel-" He stumbled over the edge of the rug, stunned. "Do you mean that?" "Well, I bought three new suits today, so I need somewhere to wear them," she said lightly. He flopped onto the couch. "Thank God," he whispered, closing his suddenly stinging eyes. "Thank God." He cleared his throat. "It's about time, G-woman," he said gruffly. "Well, I'll be back in the office on Monday, so I'll make sure the old homestead is ready for you." "Already? How are you feeling?" Ecstatic, he thought. Elated. "Better," was all he said. "I still don't remember very much. But the doctor told me that, with a head injury, that's not unusual. I might not ever recall what happened." "A *head* injury? Mulder, you had more than a head injury." Uncomfortable, he stood up again and began pacing. "Well, Scully, I've been thinking about that. Couldn't you have been...I mean, you were the only one at Quantico...." She groaned, her exasperation clear even over the phone. "Mulder, it may have escaped your notice in the last six years, but I'm a doctor. One of the first things they teach you in medical school is the difference between alive and dead. You. Were. Dead. And if you don't believe *me*, the Maryland State Police took photos of the crime scene. Have you bothered to look at them?" His eyes went to a slim file on the table. The contents had disturbed him so much that he could barely look at it. "I, uh, have a copy of the report," he said. "But we know, Scully, that evidence can be faked, and-" She drew in a breath. "You just can't accept it, can you? That there was a miracle. That that little girl saved your life with nothing but her love for you and the touch of her hands." Her voice grew in volume even as it began to wobble. "You have no idea, do you? What we went through for you. The things I saw - I can't even begin to describe it." A memory surfaced again - a gray place, Grace's and Scully's small, frightened faces holding the only light. "I - Clare didn't tell me anything. She said I had to remember on my own. I've tried, but... Scully, this is pointless." "Mulder - Mulder, listen to me. It's very important that you remember. I know you don't want to, but you have to." Her intensity shook him. "I don't understand, Scully. I - after what your abduction, I never-" "That was *different,* Mulder. There's something more at work here. You have to remember. Accept those memories. Because if you don't, something will happen. Something you don't want to have on your conscience." Her voice. Something was wrong with her voice. "Scully, are you OK?" he asked. "I'm fine now, Fox. But if you don't accept the truth., I will die." He began to shout. "Grace? Grace? Jesus-" The phone went dead. When it shrilled a few seconds later, he almost screamed. It took three tries to press the send button. "Sorry about that, Mulder," Scully said. "There must be a short in the battery - the phone went dead and I had to find the spare. Sorry it took so long. Now, what were you saying about going back to work on Monday?"
"Our memories are card indexes consulted and then returned in disorder by authorities whom we do not control." September 19 He sat in the back row of the church, a non-believer among believers. The irony was not lost on him. The people around him stood, knelt, sat and spoke in unison. He remained motionless, observing, listening. Waiting. He didn't know what he was waiting for. A sign? Now that would make Scully laugh. The whole idea of him in a church - when no crime had taken place - would make her - Actually, he thought she would understand. There were answers to be found, and maybe - just maybe - this was the place to find them. He had told Scully about the strange telephone conversation. He'd expected her to question him vigorously, but she had been surprisingly quiet. Accepting, almost. And somehow a little sad. He'd tried to keep her on the phone, but she became uncommunicative, responding to him in short sentences. Last night she hadn't answered the phone at all. When the Mass ended, he remained in his seat, taking his time to admire the stained glass, the wood. When you removed the subject matter from the equation, a church could be a beautiful place. When he lived in England, he'd been charmed by the centuries of history of Westminster, awed by the clean architecture of St. Paul's. One window caught his eye and he moved closer. The saint's face was milky-white glass, her hair a vibrant auburn. She was clad in shimmering armor, a sword in her hands. "Jeanne d'Arc - Joan of Arc," a voice said behind him. Mulder turned to see the wizened priest who had conducted the service. The tiny old man smiled. "She's quite extraordinary, isn't she? St. Joan's not traditionally shown as a redhead, but I understand the artist's wife had red hair. That's his wife's face, too, so I understand." Mulder let his eyes wander over the sweet face with its strong bones. While she wasn't a perfect match for Scully, she was close enough. "She looks like my - girlfriend," he said, hating the word but finding no other that would fit. "She's - we're both with the FBI. I think she'd appreciate the resemblance. She's my St. Joan. All heart and steel." The priest patted him on the shoulder. "Well, you're a lucky man, then. Have a good day, son," he started to move away, but suddenly Mulder tugged on the sleeve of his cassock. "Father, could I ask you a question?" The need in his own voice surprised him. "Of course." The elderly priest gestured to a pew. "If you don't mind - my knees are not what they once were." When they were seated, Mulder folded his hands and looked down at the floor. "Father," he said finally, " I - I need to tell you first off that I don't believe in God. But I had an experience recently. I don't know how to explain it. In fact, I have very few memories of it. Anyway, my - my sister saved my life. And some people would call it a miracle." He glanced up at the priest, noted the sympathy in the old man's faded blue eyes. "Father, what - how would you define a miracle?" The priest looked up at the window of Joan of Arc. "I would define a miracle as an event whose outcome holds no other possible explanation except the intervention of a higher power. But if you do not believe in a higher power, then miracles cannot exist. You can't have one without the other." Mulder closed his eyes in frustration. "Then, how can I begin to understand what happened to me?" The old priest patted Mulder's knee as he stood up. "Son, maybe you have to start at the beginning. If, as you say, your sister saved your life, ask yourself why. Once you know the answer to that, then look for how." He walked slowly toward the front of the church. Mulder went toward the door of the church. Suddenly a thought struck him and he turned around. "Father?" he called. The priest turned around. "Yes?" "What - what about love? Is that a higher power?" The old man smiled. "If you mean love in the best sense, the poetic sense, then yes, love is a higher power. Much higher than many of us ever dream of." Mulder watched the man go. Then he stared at the image of St. Joan for a long time before stepping out into the late Summer afternoon.
"You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life." September 19 "Can I top that off for you?" the waitress asked, gesturing broadly with a steaming coffee pot. Scully never looked up from the paper she held. "Thank you," she said. "And some more cream, please." When she finished reading, she smoothed the pink-edged paper with her hands, smiling a little. Although she had written the letters to her old friends, she had been afraid that she would get no responses. When she had opened the mailbox on her way to church this morning, she had been shocked and pleased by the slim stack of mail addressed to her. While the contents were varied, Ellen's letter had been exceptionally heartwarming. She had enclosed pictures of Trent, Scully's godson, and their whole family. Trent was close to being a teenager now, and despite his braces, he showed real promise of becoming a heartbreaker. "Just like his mom," she whispered, blinking back tears. Although she had missed a lot of time - birthdays, Christmases - she now knew that she could take up the friendship again. Begin to open her heart and her life a little wider. It was both frightening and satisfying. She had begun to right what was wrong, to make amends. To change what she could in her life. She had allowed herself to grieve for what would never happen, to turn toward acceptance of the harsh truths that she had denied for too long. It had been almost three weeks - long, painful, illuminating days and nights. And now there was one more task ahead of her, one that she feared would be the most difficult. She had to decide what to do about Mulder. As she sipped her coffee, she admitted to herself that going back to a purely platonic relationship would be impossible. Not that she wanted that. But going ahead with things as they were wasn't the optimal situation, either. She loved him, needed his wildness and emotion to keep her from becoming staid, stale. Certainly she stabilized him in turn. But she needed something from him that she wasn't sure he could give. In the last three weeks, she had relearned something that she never should have lost sight of. That she was a person. An individual, with needs and fears and a deep core of strength. She could depend on herself. Whatever happened, she could get through it. Because, when you stripped away the oath and the badge and the science, there was still Dana Scully. She wasn't lost anymore, and she was never going to be lost again. Individual, independent - and no longer isolated. One. When she and Mulder were together, there was an undeniable chemistry. A synergy. The whole was greater than the sum of its parts. His inquisitive, intuitive mind and her methodical logic made them a combination that had to be reckoned with. A unit. One. But Mulder - Mulder was many. And none. Everyman. For their partnership to work on a heightened emotional level, he needed to find a center of balance within himself. She could be his anchor, his partner, his lover - but she could no longer be his soul. It was just wrong - and the responsibility was far too great. She wasn't asking for him to believe in something that was beyond his ability, although she prayed for that, too. She was too much a child of the Church not to. But she could ask for him to accept what happened to him after his horrible ordeal and to search for the meaning behind it. When she and Grace had found him in that strange gray place, she had thought that they were there merely to help his soul find its way home. When he had returned to this world, she had been shocked at first. To be honest with herself, she would most likely always be stunned by that event. All she asked now was that he be able to understand what had happened to him, accept it, and to find the reasons behind it. Nothing happened without a reason, she was sure of it, no matter how random and brutal life could seem sometimes. And the reason behind this...there had to be a greater purpose at work. One that involved him, her, Grace. One that required each of them to be strong in every way they could be - as individuals or as a team. Something that only a self-actualized Fox Mulder could resolve. She paid the check and walked out to the car, lost in thought. The dreams continued to trouble her. But maybe, as she took this last figurative step back, their meaning would become clearer. She accepted that she could not change Fox Mulder - only he could do that. The only life she could alter was her own. Although he could influence and cajole her, she had retaken the power that had been hers all along, although she had perhaps been too blind to see it. She had the power to make her own happiness. And, as she drove back to the little house by the sea, she thought that maybe, since she had stopped looking for joy, she had actually found it.
"If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time." September 20 She was wandering through a field of flowers. The sun was warm on her face, the breeze just the perfect cooling temperature. The full skirt of her white dress swirled around her ankles, tickling her calves and shins in a delicious sensation. She came upon a huge weeping willow tree next to a low stone wall, and she stopped for a moment under its shade. The day, the field, the tree - they were all perfect. But something was missing in the picture postcard spread out before her. She looked down at her bare toes, trying to focus on what was wrong. And then she saw it. Tiny, unassuming, fragrant. Her fingers reached out and grasped the slender green stalk. She brought the bloom to her nose and inhaled deeply. A sense of peace drifted over her, wrapped her in a gentle embrace. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she found Grace standing beside her, smiling sweetly. "I found it," Scully said simply, displaying the small stem on her palm. Grace took the flower and added it to the one she already held. "Thank you, Dana," she said softly. Then she looked away, her face clouding. "But Fox is still looking." Scully followed the girl's extended hand and saw Mulder crawling on the ground, his expression tense, sad. He was frantically hunting through the overgrown field, pushing flowers and plants aside with dirty hands. "He doesn't know what he's looking for, does he?" Scully asked. Grace shook her head, then slipped an arm around Scully's waist. "Fox, please!" she called to him. He looked up and saw them, his jaw falling open as he understood. "Scully? Scully, please help me," he said, standing up and walking over to them. "Not this time, Mulder," she whispered. His eyes went blank. "Scully, I can't hear you, " he said, his voice cracked in despair. "Please, don't do this to me. Don't leave me." Unbidden, a tear slid down her cheek. "I'm not leaving you, Mulder," she said. "I never left you. You have to find it on your own, just like I did." He shook his head, bewildered. "Why can't I hear you?" he asked plaintively. "Scully, you said you were coming home. You promised me." As one, she and Grace turned away. Then Scully woke with a start, her body drenched in sweat. Sighing, she got out of bed and shucked her damp pajamas, then pulled on a clean pair. As she slipped the last button through the top buttonhole, the phone rang. She looked at it for a long time before she decided not to answer it.
IV. Reconciliation "Death destroys a man: the idea of Death saves him." September 20 It was almost 7:00 - shift change. Nurses bustled, doctors flipped through charts, orderlies pushed rumbling carts. But in Grace Murray's room, the only sound was the slow rasp of her breathing. A nurse pushed open the door and went to the blinds to close them against the blinding early morning sun. She almost jumped out of her skin when a man spoke behind her. "No. She likes the sunshine," he said, his words slow and thick with fatigue. "Mr. Mulder, you scared me," the nurse said, a hand pressed to her throat. He tried to smile. "Sorry. I figured the staff was used to me being here by now." She straightened Grace's blankets. "Yes, but not so early in the morning. Couldn't sleep?" "What's that?" he asked, only half joking. "Actually, I'm going back to work today, so I wanted to stop by before I went to the office." He brushed a hand over Grace's damp forehead. "She seems a little better. I think her fever's broken." "Mm," the nurse said noncommittally. "I'm going to take her vitals before the doctor comes in." He recognized her words as a dismissal and stood up, then kissed Grace's forehead. "Can you tell - my stepmother - that I was here?" It was a small fiction he'd settled on as the easiest explanation of their relationship. With that and the occasional flashing of his badge, he'd managed to gain access to Grace's room at almost any hour of the day. "Sure," the nurse said, checking an IV bag. "See you in the morning, Mr. Mulder." He nodded to her and went out to the garage. He tried not to think as he drove to the Hoover Building, but it was impossible to shut his brain off. In the space of six weeks, his entire life had been turned inside out, upside down. He and Scully had become lovers. Before they could find a level of comfort, a balance between their personal and professional relationships, Clare and Grace Murray had come into their lives. The repercussions of these events were still echoing. And he - Mr. Follow- He hadn't spoken to Scully since early - very early - Saturday morning. She wasn't answering the phone, and he thought he knew why. Last night's dream was confirmation. She had found whatever it was that she was looking for. She had her answers; now she was waiting for him to find his. And this time, she wasn't going to help him. Oddly, he wasn't discouraged. Once he shook the aftereffects of the dream, he had taken a hard look at himself. Whatever Scully was going through was separate from his own experience. He had made a pact with himself that he would not interfere with her journey. What he hadn't seen until now was that this was an opportunity to make one of his own. He parked his car and made his way into the basement office. It was quiet, stuffy in that way that unused spaces are. He got a cup of coffee and settled in at his desk, then retrieved a file from his computer bag. The photos were gruesome, painful to look at. Black and white, color. A gun pointed at his head. "I'm going to enjoy this." Two different bodies. One, clearly dead from a gunshot wound to the head. "She's gone! They're both gone! What the hell did you do?" The other, bruised and battered. Equally dead, but from one of the most brutal beatings he'd ever seen. experienced The bruises on the man's body were so numerous as to almost be one solid mass of blue and purple. But standing out on his ribcage was one curved mark. It was clearly the imprint of the toe of a shoe. Mulder's hand rubbed his side. The mark was still there, just as clear as it had been almost four weeks ago, while most of the other bruises and scrapes were faded to almost nothing. He really couldn't keep denying the truth before his eyes, despite his lack of firm memories. But the pictures didn't convince him. Even Scully's assurances didn't. He just knew. It was bitter, that knowledge. But he swallowed it down anyway, because to refuse to do so would never allow him to heal. To find the truth of what happened that night. He had to know why he had been saved. He was surprised to discover that he didn't even care how Grace had brought him back. Maybe she was just an instrument. And Scully - this had to do with her, too. She had been there, too. Had had her own part in his salvation. Just like always. But this time, it had nearly destroyed her. And that was another bitter pill. Again and again she was his rescuer, an unlikely knight in shining armor. St. Joan, armed with faith and sword. All she asked of him was trust, patience, understanding. And he failed her, time and again. But not this time. He knew what he had to do.
"The kiss of the sun for pardon, The song of the birds for mirth, One is nearer God's Heart in a garden Than anywhere else on earth." September 21 Hank was back. Scully was flattered, actually. The gardener - make that landscape architect - clearly liked her. His one-day-a-week contract had become three days. He'd made an excuse - that he was readying the place for fall and winter, for the blustery storms that would blow in off the Pacific - but she could tell that there was something more behind his frequent visits. In another place, another time, she would have thought about flirting with him, taking him up on what he offered. Instead, she gave him what she could - her friendship. She sensed the loneliness in him, the same loneliness that welled up in her when she wasn't expecting it. But he had accepted her decision with equanimity, and they had become easy companions. She poured two mugs of coffee and stepped out onto the deck. When he came around the side of the house, she waved at him and held up a cup. He loped over to the deck and mounted the stairs two at a time, grinning. "Thanks," he said, taking the cup. "I didn't have time to make it this morning." "I can't make it without that first cup," she admitted, tucking her hair behind one ear. "My dad was always up early, and the smell always woke me up. I'd sneak downstairs before the rest of the kids were up and steal a little quality time with him. He wasn't home much, so those times were really - special." "Businessman?" he asked. "Navy. Months at sea." He cocked his head. "Really? I was Navy, too. A SEAL." He pointed to his ear. "Until this. Car accident." She frowned in sympathy. "I'm sorry," she murmured. He looked out over the water. "I can't even go out on the water anymore. There was damage to my inner ear. Not a lot, but enough that I get sick as a dog when I'm on a boat. My sense of balance goes all to hell." Then he turned to her and smiled. "But at least I can be near the ocean, and that's enough for now." She said something appropriate and leaned over the railing, watching the play of sunshine on the water. He joined her, standing close enough that she could smell his aftershave. It was the same one that Mulder used, and she was surprised by the rush of memory, the tightening of her body. "You miss him, don't you?" Hank asked quietly. She nodded. "Is it that obvious?" "Yeah." He sipped from the warm mug. "He's lucky. Or stupid. I can't decide which one." She laughed then. "Stupid? How?" "He's there, you're here. Maybe he doesn't know a good thing when he's got it." Her lips curved. "Oh, he knows. He just - never seems to know what to do about it." He tossed back the last of his coffee. "You still interested in hitting the movies this week? I think there's some new stuff opening tomorrow." She took the empty cup. "I'm going up to San Francisco this afternoon, and I won't be back until Friday. Do you want to rent a movie and have dinner here? Trixie brings enough food for an army, and I hate to see it go to waste." He grinned in pleasure, and she wished again that things were different. "Six o'clock all right?" At her nod, he snapped her a salute and said, "See you then." She watched him cross the lawn on long legs, then went into the bedroom to pack. Once she finished, she picked up the phone and dialed Clare's number. There was no answer, so she waited impatiently for the voice mail system to kick in. "Hi, Clare, it's Dana. I'm going up to San Francisco for a couple of days. My mother is coming out to see me. I - needed not to be alone anymore, you know? I'll be back on Friday afternoon. We're staying at a little B&B, and I wanted to leave the number with you." She read the information off a scrap of paper. "Anyway, I was hoping that you could do me a favor. It may sound strange, but here it is. If Mulder tells you about his dreams..."
"It is not known precisely where angels dwell - whether in the air, the void, or the planets. It has not been God's pleasure that we should be informed of their abode." September 22 The board-up crew had done a piss-poor job. Either that, or someone else had been here before him. The alley was dark, but with the penlight he clutched in his teeth, he could see enough to pry a few nails out of the plywood over the back door of Job's House. Easing the heavy panel out of the way, he fished a lock pick out of his jeans and went to work on the door. It opened at once. It wasn't locked. He slipped inside the building on soft-soled shoes, his gun drawn, using the flashlight to guide him to the staircase, then up to the second floor. He paused at the door to the chapel, his heart pounding. His answers had to be here. They had to. He pushed open the door and closed it silently. He swept the flashlight around the room as a precaution. Although the room had no windows, he didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to his activities. He was about to turn the flashlight off when he spotted a pile of blankets in one corner. A pile of blankets with a human shape. Seconds later, he was standing over the lump of bedding, his weapon cocked. He jerked the heavy fabric back. "Federal agent!" he shouted. "Get up!" The man turned over, and Mulder's mouth dropped open in shock. It was Larry Mancuso, the last member of the unholy trinity who had kidnapped his sister. Who had murdered him. "I'm going to enjoy this, you sack of shit," Mulder said. "Get up. Slowly. Hands behind your head." Larry complied. Mulder gestured with his gun. "Sit in a pew. Keep your hands behind your head. I have no problem killing you, you son of a bitch. Do you understand?" The big man was shaking. "I understand." Mulder slapped cuffs on him, then went to the back of the chapel to turn on the lights. The stunning angel mural calmed him enough to keep his finger from twitching on the trigger of his weapon. "Kind of stupid to hide here, Larry. Right in plain sight. We've had people making sweeps on this building. They were even here earlier today." Larry nodded, his breath coming in short gasps. "I know - I was watching. But once they sweep, they don't come back for a couple of days, and I'm only here for the nights." He looked up at Mulder, terror written on his rough features. "You - you're dead." "Yeah, I seem to spend a lot of time as a dead man," Mulder said, his words clipped. "But, lucky for me and not so lucky for you, *Reverend,* it just wasn't my time to go. I think we're gonna take a little ride. Get up and start walking toward the door. You look like you're taking one step out of order, I'll shoot you in the fucking head and not think twice about it. Got that?" Larry eased his bulk upright. "I got it." He shuffled toward the door, then paused at the back wall. "Calvin painted you, you know. He wanted to show us what would happen if something went wrong. It was - Mulder looked at the wall carefully. Yes, there he was. A figure dressed in black - a dark angel. Falling from the heavens. And two smaller, radiant angels waited to catch him, hands linked, arms outstretched. One with brown hair, one with red. Standing in a field of flowers. The image was frozen forever, but the man wasn't. And as he looked at the exquisite painting that had come from the mind of murderer, the memories that he thought were lost to him came flooding back. The touch of Scully's fingers, when logic said that the dead and the living should have no congress. Her life flooding into him. And then Grace's hands over both of theirs. An awareness of something else in that dark place, working through her small fingers. Something beyond all of them. His head began to pound, but he shook it off. Later. Right now, he had a case to close.
"In this age, which believes that there is a short cut to everything, the greatest lesson to be learned is that the most difficult way is, in the long run, the easiest." September 23 He let himself into Scully's apartment, his head pulsing in time with his heartbeat. It was after one in the morning. He had to be back downtown in the afternoon for Larry's arraignment, but with Frank Simpson's testimony and Larry's own confession, the case was cut and dried. Especially now that he had his own memories back. He went into the bathroom and shucked his clothes. He took a couple of aspirin and then a hot shower, hoping that would relax him. By the time he made it to the bed, he was swaying on his feet with fatigue. Crawling under the soft comforter, he was almost instantly asleep. And then he was in a field. Under the shade of an enormous willow tree, lying on his back, looking up at a cloudless sky. The soft fragrance of flowers was all around him. He'd never been much for flowers, but the scent was so perfect that he breathed in great gulps. He pillowed his head on one hand and threw out the other arm, stretching luxuriously. And his fingers found a slender stalk. His fingertips traced the tiny, bell-shaped blooms. He tugged the stem from the ground and brought it to his nose. Ah, he knew this scent. His mother had always loved it. Lily of the valley. He'd bought her a little book for one birthday. A book on the romantic language of flowers - their meanings. This one he didn't remember, although he thought that he should. He sat up and looked at the tiny flower more closely. But before he could examine it thoroughly, a sweet voice spoke from behind him. "Hello, Fox," Grace said. He scrambled to his feet. "Grace." He looked around. "Where's Scully?" She came closer to him. "She doesn't need to be here now. Soon, neither will we." He handed her the flower. "Is this what I was supposed to find?" She took it from him. "Yes." "But - what does it mean?" She sniffed the blossom delicately. "The Victorians said that lilies of the valley symbolized the return of happiness. Lilies in general can mean many things. Death and rebirth, especially. But sometimes what we seek - when we find it, it's just the tip of the iceberg. Leading us to something more. You'll know soon." He frowned in frustration. "Grace, I - All my life, it seems, it's just one little clue leading to the next piece, then the next. Do I ever get to see the whole puzzle completed?" She hugged him fiercely. "Soon, Fox. Very soon." She stepped away from him reluctantly. "I'll see you later, big brother." He grabbed her arm as she started to walk away. "Grace - I just wanted you to know - I love you." She brushed a tear off his cheek. "Love is nothing to cry about, Fox. It's to be cherished and enjoyed." She turned away, stopped. "So, what are you waiting for? Go to her. I'll be all right." When he awoke, the scent of flowers was still in the air around him. He reached for the phone and started to dial, then changed his mind. Throwing on his clothes, he drove over to the hospital. He needed to see Grace, to know that it was real. And to tell her, even if she couldn't hear him, that this was over and that they could go on with their lives. When he got to the door of her room, he was startled to find Clare there, silently shuttling rosary beads through her hands. She looked up at him and smiled. "Come in, Fox." He sat down beside her and took her hand. "How is she?" She squeezed his hand tightly. "She opened her eyes about half an hour ago." "What?" She blinked away tears. "Yes. I'm sorry I didn't call you right away. They've called the doctor in, and he should be here soon. It may not mean anything, but...." He leaned forward and brushed a stray strand of hair off Grace's forehead. "Gracie, honey, are you coming back to us?" Her eyes opened slowly. She blinked once, her lips curving slightly, then closed her eyes again with a soft sigh. "Jesus." He recoiled automatically. "Did you see that?" Clare was crying openly. "Yes, I saw it. I saw it." She hugged him tightly. "Oh, Fox." "I - I arrested Larry Mancuso tonight. It's over, Clare." He looked over at Grace's sleeping face. "Do you think she knows?" "I think my daughter knows more than we can ever dream of," she said shakily. "Speaking of dreams.... Clare, I've been having these dreams. Scully and I - we shared the same dreams. Until a few days ago." He felt stupid, tongue-tied. Clare looked at him quizzically. "So, did you find it?" "Tonight. How did you-" "Dana told me. I'll call you later and tell you all about it. Now, go home and get some sleep. You look exhausted." He looked at Grace, saw her watching them. "Not that tired. Not now." He kissed Clare's cheek, then pressed his lips to his sister's forehead. "See you later, sunshine." Clare walked him to the door. "I'll call you. And, Fox? If you have any plans for the weekend, cancel them." He nodded, afraid to hope. And unable not to.
"Home is where I want to be September 24 After the car drove off, he carried his overnight bag around the side of the house, following the sound of the sea. Then he heard her laughter. Rich, glorious, unbridled, it drifted out of the back of the small gray house, hung in the air like perfume. "No, really, I don't mind. Tomorrow is good for me. It's not every day a man becomes an uncle." Her voice was light, airy. "I'll see you in the morning, Hank. Take lots of pictures. Pictures. Yes. Good night." Hank? Who the *hell* was Hank? Before his courage deserted him, he took the last few steps around the side of the house. And saw her there, standing on a deck that overlooked the crashing Pacific. The coastal wind had coaxed a lock of auburn hair from her small ponytail - a strand that waved around her face, ticking her nose. As she tried to brush it away, she turned her head. And saw him. Her soft lips parted in a gasp that could have been his name. For heartbeat, they stood frozen. Then he couldn't stand to be so close to her and not touch her. Looking around, he spotted the stairs and took them two at a time, stopping in front of her. "Hi there," he said uncertainly. "Hi, yourself," she said. The freckles across her nose winked at him in the afternoon light. She wore a red t-shirt and jeans, no makeup. She looked soft, young, and beautiful. "You know, every time I look at you, I think you're more beautiful than the last," he admitted, shoving his free hand into the pocket of his jeans. "But, Scully, I don't know how you could be more beautiful than you are right now." "Mulder." She blinked away unexpected tears. "Mulder. I - I can't believe you're here." "Well, sometimes I'm a slow learner, but eventually I catch on." He reached into the outer pocket of his bag and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in green tissue, then handed it to her. Her hands were shaking as she removed the paper from a tiny bouquet of lilies of the valley. Her eyes locked on his, questioning. "I found Larry Mancuso," he said. "There was an addition to the mural at Job's House, Scully. I don't know why, but it brought my memories back. And then, I...." "You had the dream. You found it." He shrugged. "I still don't know what the flowers are about. I understand that one meaning is return to happiness, and that's the one I'm hoping for today. That is, if I'm welcome here." He indicated his overnight bag. She took it from his hand. "Always." She stepped into the house and he followed her down a hallway into an enormous, airy bedroom. She placed the bag on the floor, then turned to him. "There's a quote I always liked. 'Home is any four walls that enclose the right person.' But I don't think I knew until now how true that really is." She opened her arms. "Welcome home." And then she enfolded him.
"We never stop investigating. We are never satisfied that we know enough to get by. Every question we answer leads on to another question. This has become the greatest survival trick of our species." September 25 He loved her bare back. The curves, the angles, the scars as well as the smooth, undamaged skin. He had even come to admire that tattoo. It reminded him of what he had, what he'd almost lost, and of the wild fire that always burned in her, even when she was at her buttoned-up, skeptical best. He pressed his mouth against the coiled snake, circling it with his tongue. She moaned a little, her thighs shifting, pressing together. His hand smoothed over the outside of her thigh, caressed her hipbone. Before he could press further, he heard a familiar noise. A truck pulling into the drive. He hitched his body up so that his head was even with hers. "Expecting company?" he asked, splaying long fingers across her belly. "Company?" She heard the sound of a vehicle door slam. "Oh. That's Hank." Oh, yeah. *Hank.* "Who's Hank?" he asked, nibbling the back of her shoulder. "Ohhh. Um. Hank. He's the - er - gardener. A friend. He's putting in some new flowers today, and then we were - oh, dammit." She struggled upright. "We were supposed to have lunch and watch a movie. What time is it?" "Elevenish." She got out of bed. "I need to explain to him, Mulder. He knew about you, but - I think finding you here is still going to be a bit of a shock." He looked at her wild hair and swollen mouth. "I think if you don't take a shower first, he's going to have a bit more than a shock, Scully." She touched her matted hair and grimaced. "You're right," she started into the bathroom, then paused in the doorway. "You coming?" He swung his legs over the side of the mattress. "Oh, yeah." He watched her back as she entered the bath, turned on the shower. Yes, he really loved her bare back. And now he had the opportunity to show her just how much. Forty minutes later, a satisfied grin on his face, Mulder slid two bagel halves into the toaster as Scully made coffee. "Are you sure you can handle that?" she asked, getting mugs from a cabinet. "Scully, if I couldn't make *toast,* I'd have starved to death long ago." He opened the refrigerator. "What do you want on it? We got cream cheese, butter, margarine, jelly, jam." "Hm. A little butter and some apricot jam." She reached past him for cream, and he stole a quick kiss. She swatted at his hands as he tried to pull her closer. "Stop it. Breakfast first." He grumbled, but then the bagel popped up and he had to scramble to butter it while it was still warm. He gave her the first one, then made another for himself. They carried plates and mugs out onto the deck, and Mulder was struck again by the wild energy of the sea. So much like the woman beside him. It could feed you, take you on a journey. Caress you or destroy you. So much power in the ocean. And so much power in Scully's two small hands. "Scully," he began. But his thought, whatever it was, was shattered by a scream. The unearthly scream, he would later discover, of a man who could barely hear the sound of his own voice. He reached for his weapon, then remembered that it was in his bag in the bedroom. "Wait here," he commanded her, leaping up. In seconds he was back, gun drawn. "Stay behind me," he said, pounding down the stairs and hitting the lawn at a dead run. He rounded the corner of the house and skidded to a stop, Scully just steps behind him. A man stood there, shaking, one hand covering his mouth. Scully brushed past Mulder and went over to the man, putting a gentle hand on his arm. "Hank? Hank, what is it?" When he didn't move, she followed his fixed gaze and gasped. Next to the house were a flat of plants, a bag of soil, and a discarded shovel. And, resting in the newly overturned earth and grass, was a tiny human skull. "Jesus," Mulder said. "I'll call the police." He ran back to the bedroom and picked up the cell phone on the night stand. Before he could dial, the phone shrilled in his hand, and he almost dropped it. "Hello?" he snapped. "Fox? It's Clare." "Clare, I'm sorry, I can't talk right now." "I'm sorry, but this is important. Grace is awake. She wanted me to give you a message. She says it's about Lily - that you have found Lily. Does that name mean anything to you?" He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. "It - it does now. Thank you. We'll call you back later, Clare." He hung up, then dialed 911.
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