Summary: They never talked about it, not after the first few days. Neither of them was inclined to open the barely healed wounds.

Notes: Please visit my other stories at:

http://members.aol.com/msrsmut/MichelleKiefer.htm Maintained by the wonderful Jennifer.

We never touch but at points -- Ralph Waldo Emerson Add the library at noon to the list of places to avoid. Earlier that day, they'd been standing at the periodical desk waiting for the clerk to bring the magazines they'd requested. He'd watched Scully's face change as the elevator doors opened, and the attendees of the toddler story hour bounded off, their exuberant noise slicing through the stuffy quiet of the media room.

He hated that little flash he caught before she composed her features back into the serene mask. That fleeting glimpse of something: pain, regret, shock--never failed to knot his stomach.

Mulder tossed aside the magazine he'd unsuccessfully attempted to read and rubbed his eyes. Folding his hands behind his head, he lay in bed listening to the hiss of the shower through the bedroom wall.

She'd been in there for a long time.

So, the library at noon joined daytime visits to the supermarket, the mall in late morning and, of course, family style restaurants. Soon, the only places they'd be able to visit safely would be biker bars.

They never talked about it, not after the first few days. Neither of them was inclined to open the barely healed wounds. But almost as if by mental telepathy, they knew which places to stay away from, which events to give a wide berth.

Everyone was so damned careful around them. Monica thought they should talk to a grief counselor. Maggie wanted Scully to talk to her priest. John Doggett didn't offer advice, saying little and watching them with eyes that knew too much sorrow.

Though months had passed, he still remembered the raw pain of returning home to find his son gone. Poor Skinner had the unenviable task of breaking the news to Mulder, undoubtedly an attempt to protect Scully from his initial reaction. He had to hand it to Skinner--years of crisis intervention paid off. To say that Mulder hadn't taken it well would be an understatement.

Anger and guilt and loss had swirled around in him like a tornado.

He'd rocketed between hating her for her unthinkable sacrifice and hating himself for not being there to protect his son. He could hardly look at her in those first days.

So he'd wander in the evenings, unable to watch a ghostly Scully move around an unnaturally quiet apartment. He would walk until he found a bar where nobody knew him. Rarely would he have more than a couple of beers, but that night, he'd been working toward a monumental hangover when Skinner found him. Mulder never found out if Skinner had been looking for him, or had merely stopped by to deaden his own pain.

Not pleased at having company, Mulder hailed the bartender for another drink as Skinner seemed to search for words. Mulder had hoped the other man would just drink and shut up, but finally, Skinner leaned forward and asked a question.

"Mulder, what would you have done..." Skinner paused, toying with his beer bottle. "I mean, if you'd been here, would you have made a different choice?"

Mulder had given the only answer he could. "I don't know." But slowly, the knot in his chest seemed to release just a little.

He'd always be grateful to Skinner for that.

Finally, the sound of running water stopped, bringing him back to the present. He was pretty sure she cried under the shower's spray. She never wept in his presence. If he hadn't known her so well, he might have thought she was unaffected. She entered the room, a fragrant steamy cloud behind her.

His old t-shirt clung to her still damp skin, her too prominent collarbones exposed by the stretched out neck. The tip of her nose was pink, her eyes red-rimmed. If he asked her, she'd say that the shampoo had stung her eyes.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, watching her finger comb her hair. If she got any thinner, he feared she would disappear altogether. He wondered if they could withstand the awful weight of this tragedy.

There was one truth that he was sure of. No matter what happened, no matter what he lost, he would be whole as long as Scully was in his life. He prayed that he was enough to fill that empty place in Scully's heart, but he didn't think he'd ever know for sure.

Slowly, cautiously, he opened his arms. She hesitated, and he closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch her rejection.

Seconds passed, and the air before him seemed to stir.

Gentle fingers skimmed along his jaw, stroked his hair. His eyes still closed, he pulled her to him. Her arms were tight around him, almost painfully so, but he welcomed the sensation. He would have taken her inside him, if that could have healed her. Instead, they held each other, rocking slightly in silence.

End.