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Title: What I Want 3: Up, Up And Away From Me Author's Note: This is a continuation of my "What I Want" universe which chronicles events in Scully's romantic relationship with a fellow FBI agent named Michael Anzotti. I think you may want to read the first two stories initially to see how Scully came to be involved with someone besides Mulder ("What I Want" deals with this in detail and begins after "Two Fathers/One Son," all that tension between Mulder and Scully being a catalyst) being she is now engaged to that man (which is dealt with in "What I Want 2: Coming Together.") The stories so far: Again I'm a shipper, but Michael is the result of my desire to give Scully a significant (not to mention hot) love interest, one that was a fully realized character in his own right, not just used as a way to make Mulder jealous and bring Mulder and Scully together. While that's fine and I enjoy those fics, it's been done a hundred times. In writing these three stories so far, I've tried to be true to the character of Scully and make it clear why she chose Michael over Mulder despite her long, storied history with Mulder. That said, I think I've accomplished what I set out to do with Michael and Scully and hope someone is enjoying them as much as I am. Summary: An engaged Scully and Michael seem to have everything going for them until he starts acting strangely and irrationally. Are his (too good to be true) true colors finally showing or is something severely wrong with him? Can Scully stand by him or is their relationship (and Michael himself) doomed? So much has happened. So much we've gone through. These weird, scattered images of Dana and I flash through my mind at the most inappropriate time. This time is dangerous, this bust important enough for me to keep my head in the game yet I can't seem to do it. It's been like this a lot of late, and I'm beginning to seriously wonder is something is wrong with me. . . I eye the unfolding scene with an unparalleled trepidation. I don't know why, I just do though it's not unlike many situations we've faced before. The deal is going down. Shit. There's five of them--two dealers and three buyers. And no backup. Fuck! Where is the god damn backup?! How the fuck are my partner and I supposed to bust five of them? Screw it. If we want to bust anyone, we have to do it now. We'll go after the dealers; it's the best alternative. The less of these pricks and their stolen guns hitting the streets the better. Damn. Still no fuckin' backup. It's now or never. My partner and I nod at each other and identify ourselves as FBI agents ordering everyone to freeze and drop their weapons. The suspects do as instructed but they're nervous and twitchy. This is not good. This is not going to work out good at all. I can feel it in my fucking bones. Unexpectedly, the crate of guns crashes from the hood of the buyers' car to the ground creating a diversion with everyone scattering like the vermin they are. But we know who we're after, and I want to nail these fuckers bad. I take off running after the dealer that's farther ahead while my partner, Brian Anderson, takes care of the other one back behind me. He's got his man. I just have to make sure I get mine. This guy's fast, and I'm big; so speed is not my forte. I realize he's getting much too far ahead of me and that I'm not going to catch him unless I do something. So, I leap at him, successfully tackling him to the ground. Unfortunately, my mind is not fully focused on what I'm doing as it should be; I'm concerned about my partner and take a glance behind me to see if he's all right. Just then, the perp seizes the opportunity and head butts me hard in the face. I fall back off of him, momentarily disoriented, trying to shake the cobwebs from my brain while the suspect pulls a knife. Within seconds, he's upon me, attempting to stab me while I react the only way I can, defensively putting my arm up to meet his knife hand. We struggle for control of the knife; and with my head still foggy from the head butt, I wonder for a moment if I'm going to make it. Where the fuck is my partner? I could really use his help right about now. Fuck. My head is starting to pound. I'm sweating like a mother. My vision seems...unfocused. Again, I better do something, or I'm fucked. I gather all of my strength. All in one motion, I push back at him and nail him hard in the groin with my knee. And then he's down for the count, wincing in agony. I cuff the scumbag and drag him along with me to find my partner. Hopefully, he had an easier time of it than I did. And he must have--said partner is standing around smoking a butt! You've got to be fucking kidding me. I look at him in disbelief, wondering what in the hell is going on. "Where's your suspect?" I demand. "I lost him." "You lost him? Brian, you were right on him. You had him." "I fucked up. What can I say?" Yeah, you fucked up. Royally. I look around and realize the evidence that had fallen all over the ground is conveniently gone. "Where are the guns?" "Collected and in the car." "In the car?" I repeat as a question, my voice exasperated. "Yeah, all taken care of, Mike." I'm fucking fuming. How the hell? I shove our handcuffed suspect towards him. "Here, take care of this fucker. I need a minute." I walk away from Brian and almost of its own volition, my upper body is hunched over, hands on knees, trying to draw oxygen-rich air into my lungs. I feel like I'm going to vomit. Stay calm I tell myself. Don't lose it. Don't blow you're fucking cork. How is it my partner has the time to gather up the evidence while I'm struggling to avoid having a knife plunged in my chest? I wait for her, and I always will. Dana's flight from LA was due to land before I was through for the day, but she had been delayed a couple of hours now. She should arrive here any minute, and I can't wait much longer. I need her. I need her like I need air. I need that connection after the week I've had, that botched weapons bust weighing heavy on my mind. God, she's been gone too damn long. I jump up from the couch at the sound of a car door. It's her and I pause in the doorway just to take in the sight of her. She looks so good it hurts. "Hey," I call with a smile I can't contain tugging at my lips. "Hey," she answers sweetly, a smile tugging at her own mouth. She's already got her luggage out of the trunk, and I meet her half way down the walk. "Here, let me get that," I offer, taking her suitcase in one hand and threading my other hand through hers, pulling her inside to the warmth of our home. We hold each other for a long time without words. Finally, the truth falls from my lips, and I look at her, caressing the softness of her face with the back of my hand. "I missed you. A lot." "Me, too. And I see you've missed my TLC. That's some shiner you've got." Ah, I was wondering how long it would take for her to mention my black eye courtesy of that fucker's head butt. Actually, it took longer than I thought. "It's nothing. Looks worse than it is." "Why didn't you tell me?" "Because when we're 3,000 miles apart, I want to talk about you and me, not work." She holds my face gently within her hands. "This," she says and punctuates the word with a gentle kiss to my eye "is not work. This is...you. You should have told me." "Next time," I reply, telling a little white lie. My fiancé makes this pouty face that's sexy and sweet at the same time, conveying to me that she knows I'm lying and that there better not be a next time. I make a face back at her along with a suggestion. "Why don't you go sit down and relax. You want something? Something to eat?" "Just you and something to drink." I kiss her before I go, a quick peck on the mouth that slowly deepens of its own accord. I've missed her like I've missed a piece of myself, and I have to tear myself away because we've still got stuff to discuss before making up for lost time. I hand Dana a glass of lemonade, our fingers brushing, causing my heart to speed up and sultry looks to pass between us. She's made herself comfortable, her shoes removed, her legs outstretched on the couch. I start to massage her stocking feet and make small talk. "How was your flight?" "Okay, I guess. I managed to doze through most of it. You know how much I love to fly," she states sarcastically and winks. I can't help but smile. "Did you eat?" "Yeah, if you can call what they're serving food." She's quiet for a moment, her head falling back into the pillows she propped up, her eyes closed. I give her that moment before I continue. "Do you still want to go to Brian and Leigh's for dinner tomorrow night?" "I suppose. You told Brian we were coming, right?" "Yeah," I try to reply neutrally, not giving anything away. "How come I get the feeling you don't want to go? Something bothering you? Something about Brian?" "What, you reading my mind now?" "Baby, I know you. Something's up. Besides, the minute I get home from an extended trip you usually whisk me upstairs to make love." "Are you complaining?" I ask with amusement. "Never. On the contrary, I'm praying we can get this small talk done so you can have your way with me," she says with equal amusement. "Seriously, though, Michael, what is it?" "I don't know exactly. I can't put my finger on it. He just seems...different...weird. I don't know." "Look, I know this is not usually a guy thing to do but tomorrow when we go there, why don't you try to talk to him about it? Get it out in the open. There's no room for doubt with your partner." "I'll give it a shot I guess. See how he reacts." "Good. Now that that's settled, can we go upstairs so you can ravish me?" she asks, right eyebrow shooting to the sky. "Dana, I'll ravish you anywhere you want, right here, right now, upstairs, downstairs, on a table, against the wall. Wherever. Whenever." "You're on, Anzotti. C'mere." I obey and crawl beside her on the couch. Now, my love looks at me with a striking seriousness, all joking banished from her face and eyes, the bright blueness of her eyes shining like a beacon to a lost man. That lost man was me until she graced my life with her astounding presence. "I love you," her voice rasps with emotion, and she wraps me in her arms. God. Hearing her words, her arms embracing me, I know there is no where else on earth I belong. "I love you, too, Dana. More than anything." Dinner at Brian and Leigh Anderson's is...nice. I don't know how else to describe it. They've got a nice house, a nice boat, two nice cars. All very nice and new I might add. Brian's wife, Leigh, is "friendly" I guess but not overly so. She even seems a bit cool towards Michael which is odd since he was there for her when she delivered her daughter, her husband conspicuously absent. I've only met her a few times so it's hard to make anything other than assumptions, but her personality seems...off. That may explain the bottle of prescription uppers I accidentally knocked over in the bathroom reaching for the soap. I try to make small talk with her, but it's awkward because she doesn't really try to add anything to the conversation. Maybe she feels out of place in the midst of three FBI agents. Michael's body language tells me he's uncomfortable, too. He halfheartedly laughs at some stale jokes and listens with barely a passing interest to Brian's FBI story over dinner, the first time Brian's said more than two words tonight. Michael's eyes are on me the entire evening telling me a multitude of things at once--he's bored, wanting to get the hell out of here so he can take me home and make love to me all night long. With my eyes, I tell him that that's fine by me as long as he talks to Brian first. In response, he playfully sticks his tongue out at me. C'mon, Michael. Go do what we came here to do. Then we'll go home, and I'll take you up on that offer to ravish me on the kitchen table. Dinner is over and thankfully this evening is coming to a close shortly. Leigh coos and fusses over her daughter with Dana standing nearby and my heart breaks for her and for us. For our being robbed of a chance to create a new life out of our love. I have to know that Dana is not uncomfortable with this situation, and when she tells me so, I then go to take care of business. I find Brian alone in his den smoking a cigarette and chugging a beer. I stick my head in the doorway first, not wanting to barge in unless invited. "Brian, you got a minute?" "Sure, Mike, take a load off. You want a beer?" "No, no. I'm fine." "C'mon . . ." "Uh, just some iced water or iced tea." Brian departs for the kitchen and returns a few moments later with iced tea in hand. "What's on your mind, Mike?" "The gunrunning case is bothering me. . . Is everything all right?" "Yeah, fine. Everything's good. Why are you asking?" "I just don't understand what happened with Rodriguez the other day. You had that scumbag nailed." "I told you I fucked up; I lost him. It's a simple as that. You keep asking what happened. What are you getting at?" "I feel like you're preoccupied, that we're not on the same page. I need to know that I can count on you to cover my back." "I don't think I like what you're implying. I made a mistake. Why the fuck are you making such a big deal about this case?" He's starting to get offended and that is not my intention. "Because I almost got my ass kicked," I seethe through clenched teeth. "Permanently. And you're standing around looking like your ready to pose for pictures when I need assistance." "Mike, I didn't realize you were in trouble. And for you to accuse me of not doing my job is bullshit! You've got some fucking nerve-" Methinks Brian doth protest too much. And I don't need this shit. I don't want to fight. "You know what, Brian, forget it. Forget I mentioned it. Dana and I thank you for dinner and a pleasant evening but we've got to get going." My tone is condescending but fuck him. I turn my back on him and depart to find Dana who's just as happy to be leaving as I am. We thank our hostess for her hospitality and take off into the night. When we leave Brian and Leigh's, Michael seems wired and doesn't want to go home right away. Though it's not really my thing, we head to a local sports bar for a couple of drinks. It so happens that the Yankees and Orioles are playing each other again, and most everyone's eyes in the bar are fixed on the TV. Even mine. It brings back a lot of wonderful memories of that weekend in Maryland when we first made love. Nearing 12 am this Friday night, I don't have the heart to tell Michael I've had my fill of the bar scene for the night as he obviously enjoys talkin' baseball with the bartender; but when I spy a young woman chatting up my man on my return trip from the bathroom, I promptly drag his hunky ass out of there. Once home, Michael is still full of energy and initiates lovemaking. But it's not love tonight. It's hurried, it's on the rough side, and it's the first time I don't really enjoy being with him. I never, ever thought I would feel this way. Don't get me wrong. Sometimes it's rough between us. There are times we make love, and there are times we fuck. Sometimes we barely make it to a private area before we're going at it with most of our clothes on, no time to waste removing them. Other times it's slow and sweet and extraordinarily moving so much so that tears well in my eyes. And the best thing about it is that we're almost always in sync. When I want it hard and fast, for example, that's just how he wants it and vice versa. We seem to know that about each other instinctively. But not tonight. I'm not sure why things seemed different. Maybe it's me. Maybe I just wasn't really in the mood. Afterwards, I lie in Michael's arms, but he's fidgety and restless. I turn away on my side to try to get some sleep because I'm still dead tired from this late night and my bout of jet lag. He tosses and turns for quite awhile and then finally rises from bed, quietly leaving the room. I wonder for a moment if I should go after him but ultimately decide to leave him be. I sigh heavily. This night has almost been a complete bust. To top it off, I'm not going to be able to sleep without Michael in bed, I'm so used to his presence, his warmth, his solidity. As it is, I only manage a couple of hours a night when we're away from one another. I sigh again and glance at the time on the alarm clock. I'm wide awake now with no chance of shutting my mind down. I'm thinking. Wondering. Playing all of it over and over in my head. What's going on with you, Michael? You don't seem like yourself . . . The following week, I'm out of town on a case for over seven days. Michael and I usually speak on the phone every night when one of us is away, but I've only been able to reach him three out of eight days. It kind of worries me that he's not home from work when I call him at 9 o'clock in the evening. Something is still troubling him, and he seems preoccupied with work. It's really not like him at all. I've been feeling guilty that the last time we made love I didn't enjoy it. Of all the amazing intimate encounters we've enjoyed, it's not the one I want imprinted in my memory; but of course, it's the only one I've thought about for the last week. I'm not sure why it bothers me so. Maybe it has to do with the distance I feel slowly building between us. It seemed to start that night and has continued since. Maybe he knew I wasn't into it either and that has something to do with his apparent indifference about whether he talks to me or not. He's always been big on communication, but I feel like he's putting up walls--my MO, not his. With this awkwardness between us, I suggest we go out for a quiet dinner on the night of my return. Even though things have been strange for only a week, I want us to nip it in the bud right away. Plans are to meet at the house at 6:30 pm sharp, leaving me plenty of time even with possible delays, my flight due at Dulles at 4:15 pm. After fighting some rush hour traffic, I arrive at the house close to 5:15 pm. I dial Michael's cell hoping he'll tell me he's on his way, but there's no answer. No answer at his desk either. I console myself with the fact that he should be here soon enough. I do a little straightening up, change into some fresh clothes, and re-apply a light coat of makeup. Then I wait, sitting tight as six-thirty comes and goes. And I wait, watching eight o'clock come and go. And I wait some more. God damn it, Michael. Where the hell are you? He doesn't call, so I try him again and again with still no answer on his cell or desk phone. Needless to say, I'm a wreck. If the phone should ring now, I think I may jump out of my skin; it can only mean bad news. If this is how it feels to be involved with someone in law enforcement, I can unequivocally say that it sucks big time. I mean, I already get a taste of it with Mulder. I worry about him, I have my heart in my mouth much of the time we work together. The big difference, though, is that Mulder and I are not romantically or sexually involved. That fact elevates the concern to a whole new, excruciating level. All, I can do is sit here and wait. And worry. And I do. When the phone finally rings at 8:28 pm, I find I cannot move--I'm scared stiff. Literally. While the ringing of the phone continues to reverberate in my ears, I stare after it praying I've pegged everything wrong. "Hello?" I ask hesitantly. "May I speak with Dana Scully?" "This is she." "This is Lieutenant McCarron with the DCPD." Oh, God. Just what I thought; Michael's in trouble. My heart starts pounding away fast and furious in my chest in nervous anticipation of what he has to tell me. "Yes, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?" "We picked up your fiance, Michael Anzotti, for excessive speeding. I'd like you to come down here to pick him up. I'd also like to talk to you for a moment when you get here." "Is it something we can discuss over the phone?" "Yes, but I'd prefer to do it in person." "All right, Lieutenant, I'm on my way." This is strange. So Michael was speeding. So what? Well, you know what I mean. A lot of people are guilty of that. Why would they pick him up for it? Unless it's alcohol-related. But that doesn't track, Michael never drinks and drives. At the police station, the clerk shows me to Lieutenant McCarron's office and has me wait there for him. It's quite spacious and comfortable and actually takes the edge off my nerves. McCarron arrives and greets me after I wait for about five minutes. "Ms. Scully, I know this is a little irregular and I apologize." I rise to greet him, and he shakes my hand with a firm grasp that I return. We both then sit down. "No, it's fine, Lieutenant. I'm just a little perplexed about why you picked Michael up. Don't you usually just ticket speeders and send them on their way?" "Yes, that's correct; but I didn't convey the whole story to you over the phone. Officer Piper pulled Mr. Anzotti over for doing 90 in a 60. My officer performed all the proper procedures--checking his ID and so forth. Mr. Anzotti was resistant throughout; and when the officer inquired about his being an FBI agent, Mr. Anzotti became combative, eventually taking a swing at the officer. My officer fended off the punch swiftly and without further incident." "Uh...I'm not sure what to say. I'm a little surprised, of course, but Michael has been under some pressure of late. You understand how it is--" McCarron waves off my explanation. "I do understand, believe me. Your fiance has an impeccable record with the FBI. The bottom line is we don't want to press any charges, and in answer to your question, we picked him up because we wanted to give him some time to cool off...I have one favor to ask of you though and that is to stress the seriousness of the situation to him." "I will do that, Lieutenant, and I want to thank you for appreciating the unique circumstances that us officers of the law find ourselves in. I'm sure Michael appreciates it, too." "Okay then, just follow me and I'll lead you to him." Lead away, Lieutenant. Lead away. Breathe I tell myself. Claustrophobia is probably setting in even though I'm not phobic. Yes, remember to breathe. I feel like crap, like I have a hangover or I'm coming down from a high; but I haven't had a drop of alcohol and I don't do drugs. Nothing like feeling all of the unpleasantness with none of the pleasure. This scenario I find myself in is all too familiar, it all coming back to me in an instant. The worst time of my life when I sat in a holding room in NY awaiting to be charged with attempted murder. Of my brother. Those feelings, those memories return to me with the force of a bullet, crushing skin and muscle and bone. Just as the bullet from my brother's own gun crushed in my chest so many years ago. Breathe. < Breathe. < Breathe. < I breathe. With the unpleasant memories assaulting me, I struggle to stay in the present, reminding myself that the situation I'm in now bears no resemblance to the past; the circumstances are not dire. I was only speeding this time. So, what the hell am I doing in a holding cell? McCarron getting his jollies while I sit here and stew? I'm an FBI agent for Christsakes. Then again, maybe that's his point I rue. My head lolls back, hitting the concrete wall with a mild thud. I close my eyes wishing and praying I could have the last few hours back to do all over again. Hell, I wish I could relive the entire week. I'm supposed to be home. I'm supposed to be having a nice dinner with Dana. She's been gone over a week, and I barely got a chance to speak to her, I've been so wrapped up in work. She's probably ready to kill me, worried sick or both. C'mon, McCarron. I have to get out of here sooner rather than later. After about two freaking hours, I hear footsteps headed my way. It better be McCarron springing me loose from this hole as I've had just about enough of his morality lesson. Sure enough I look and it is McCarron, plodding his way toward my cell slowly. He stops at the guard's desk to sign some papers, and I notice a flash of red appear from out behind him. Oh God. It's her. My heart starts flip flopping in nervous anticipation. What the hell is she doing here? For the first time in my life, I don't want her near me. Not here in this Godforsaken place. She nears my cell and looks at me with nothing but love and compassion. I have trouble meeting her eyes as I'm ashamed at the trouble I've managed to get into again. I need her, though, now and always; and I rise from the cot. "Baby, they shouldn't have called you down here," I say low and hushed with no time for pleasantries. "It's good to see you, too, Michael," Dana replies with a half smirk. She's trying to lighten the mood, but at the moment, I can't appreciate her efforts. I'm too pissed off at McCarron and turn my attention to him. "Lieutenant, there's no need for her to be here. You told me you weren't going to call her." "I reconsidered and thought it best under the circumstances." "Why? I really don't need my future wife to bear witness to my stupidity." "I thought it would be good for you to have her support. Now, there are no charges being filed against you and you're free to go. Don't make me change my mind." Dana caresses my left hand which is tightly wrapped around the cell bars. She speaks to me in a soft voice trying to calm me as her touch has. "Relax, Michael. It's okay. Everything's okay." I look at her beautiful face and in her tranquil eyes and for a split second I actually believe her. Finally, I'm sprung, and Dana and I make our way to her car since I've been instructed not to drive anymore today. She's been quiet the whole time, but now that we're alone she'll ask me my side of the story. I'm not in the mood to tell it, my anger with McCarron too fresh and raw; but I will because I love her with all that is in me. I have for a long time. I fall into the passenger seat muttering to myself more than to Dana. "I don't believe this night. McCarron shouldn't have called you." She inserts the key into the ignition but does not start the engine. Here we go. "You sound more angry that I know than about spending hours on end locked in a jail cell. So now that I, in fact, do know tell me what happened." She says it delicately, turning in the seat to face me. I switch on the radio to distract and dissuade her further questions, but she clicks off the device immediately. She will not be beaten. I want more than anything to look at her but I don't want to see the disappointment that surely must reside in her eyes. I look at everything but her. "You know what happened. I was speeding." "Where were you going in such a hurry?" "Home. I was working, and I lost track of time. I realized I was late for our dinner date, and I was trying to get home to you." There's a pause as she looks at me for a long while. Then she speaks again with a casual tone to her voice. "McCarron told me you tried to hit a police officer. What was that all about?" "I don't know...He was making a joke about the FBI, making some wise ass remark about how he'd look good nailing an FBI agent. I didn't think it was funny." "So you tried to punch his lights out? C'mon, Michael. That doesn't sound like you." "Dana, what do you want me to say? I made a mistake. I lost it. Aren't I entitled? I'm not perfect." "No, no one is but you're damn near close...You're the best person I know." "Are you trying to make me feel better or guilty?" "I'm just...I'm concerned. I was worried sick about you...I want to know what's going on. . . Since when are you so consumed by work that I barely get a chance talk to you while I'm away?" "Since you were gone and I didn't know what to do with myself. I had a lot of energy and threw myself into all the work I could get my hands on. I'm sorry about that...I'm sorry about tonight..... . about everything...I'mmsorry." Even to my own ears, I sound pitiful. "Michael, what is it?...Are you okay?" she asks with more warmth and love than anyone else could infuse in those words. No, I'm probably not. I don't want her to know the truth, but before I can stop myself I verbalize just that. "I'm not sure, Dana," I murmur and continue to look away from her out the passenger side window. She holds me lovingly and comfortingly but doesn't succeed in chasing away the fears that are haunting me. I'm not okay. The news of our engagement--when I finally decide to let my mother in on our little secret--has her ecstatic as expected. She and Michael get along like a house afire and have since the moment they met. The three of us try to get together for dinner a couple of times a month to catch up. The time we all spend together is important to me since Michael and I have no other family in the area, all of his relatives back in NY. He treats her with the love and respect he would his own mother, and it warms my heart that they're close. I often catch the two of them sharing stories about me and gushing over me when they think I cannot hear them. Due to work related circumstances, we hadn't gotten together for close to two months. Tonight, however, we have a firm date set for dinner at my mother's house as neither Michael nor myself are out of town on cases. Plans are to start discussing ideas for the wedding which leaves me both excited and petrified. And happy. Undeniably so. Until tonight. Long story short, I arrive a bit late to my mother's, Michael never showing his face. In her presence, I try to remain calm, not letting it show how concerned I am when my calls to him go unanswered. We wait for some time, the dinner my mother so graciously prepared long gone cold. To be polite, I choke down as much food as I can stomach and then make up some lame ass excuse about why I must leave as soon as possible. A myriad of emotions are warring within me. Anger, worry, disappointment, and fear top the list. I can't believe this is happening again. I drive home like a mad woman and when I arrive to see Michael's truck already in the driveway, I am livid. I get through the front door, and there he is on the couch surrounded by case files and photographs. He looks up at me, but I'm unable to read the expression on his face or in his eyes. I return his gaze but can barely contain my intense anger. "I don't fucking believe this!" He rises from the couch, knocking some files to the floor in his haste to get to me. "Dana, wait. Let me explain." I don't want to hear it; I don't want to hear a damn thing he has to say. No explanation he can offer will be good enough. "No, Michael. Don't explain. Let me explain how we waited for you and how I called you over and over again. How I was afraid for you. And you didn't even have the common decency to let me know that you were going to be late or couldn't make it. I would understand, you know that. All I wanted was one fucking phone call. I don't think that's too much to ask." "I agree with you. I screwed up, and I'm sorry." "You know, you've been screwing up and apologizing an awful lot lately. I'm getting tired of hearing it. What was so important I didn't even rate a phone call?" "I got wrapped up in work and lost track of time. I just got home a few minutes before you did." "If the fact that you just got home is supposed to make it better somehow, it doesn't." "I can't change what happened, Dana. I said I was sorry what else do you want from me?...What do you want me to do?" "You know what, I don't give a damn what you do," I growl. And I really don't at this moment though I'm sure I'll feel differently in a little while after I've cooled off. "I'm going to bed," I snarl, leaving him to fill in the blanks. I storm off and up the stairs, not granting him another word or glance. When I reach the bedroom, I slam the door closed behind me, the house shaking mildly in my wake. If Michael hasn't guessed already, I am not a happy camper. Maybe I'm spending too much time here at the house. I probably shouldn't say that since Michael and are engaged now, but I'm at a loss to explain the friction between us. Though we aren't living together per se, we only spend one or two weeknights apart unless of course we're away on cases. Surprisingly, our two separate lives seamlessly melded into one, and the results had been amazing. He was patient and easygoing, giving me space when I needed it and time to adjust to the changes our lives were undergoing as we came together. I figured for sure that two thirty- something year olds set in their ways and living alone most of their adult lives could never make it work. But we have, much of it to Michael's credit. At least until now. A run in with the cops and a missed dinner date aside, he has been distant, agitated, and argumentative for the past few weeks. The only thing I can attribute it to is stress which in our line of work is practically a job requirement. But he had always handled the stress well in the past and used that energy constructively. Now, he's turning away from me instead of toward me, we're not communicating, and he's obsessed with work. I used to be his only "obsession." Other problems have cropped up as well. Our schedules have almost always conflicted, but before, we used to have some semblance of a meal in the evening, spend some quality time, and go to bed, all of it together. No more since he's been getting in very late and crashing on the couch; I'm usually in bed by the time he arrives home. This past week he was in Seattle on a case. Though we were physically separated, things actually seem a little better between us as we spoke on a regular basis, and he was more like his old self--loving, charming, funny etc. He was focused on the work but not consumed by it. I was very hopeful that we had passed that rough patch and that things were returning to normal. How wrong I turn out to be. Michael returned from Seattle two days ago, and I have not yet seen or heard from him. The only reason I know he's home is that I saw his luggage deposited in the living room. How can we practically live in the same house and not see one another? How can he not care if we do or not? Why doesn't he call me? What the fuck is going on with him? Needless to say, I'm beyond angry; I could barely see straight yesterday. Today, a calm has settled over me. I know that I have to confront him about his behavior, but my being upset will only make matters worse. I decide that my only course of action is to wait up for him tonight and confront him come hell or high water. We cannot go on this way. With this in mind, I return from work and drop my briefcase and laptop near the closet. I've brought home enough takeout Chinese for two for dinner even though I'm certain that I will be the only one indulging. I eat with the news blaring from the TV as company though I've got no interest in it whatsoever; my only concern is my wayward fiance. He occupies my every thought now that I can allow it, so much so that I take only a few small bites of my broccoli with garlic sauce before pushing the plate away. After eating, I go down to the basement to put on a load of wash. As I sort through the colored clothes, I can't help but be distracted by the feel and the smell of Michael's clothes, especially his shirts. I rub the softness of one of them against my cheek and then take in the mixture of Michael's essence and cologne which permeates the fabric. It stirs in me a longing for him that has simmered just below the surface since this mess began. I've tamped down the ache as best I can, but I wonder how long I can do without, do without him. We haven't made love since the night of Brian and Leigh's dinner party, and I wonder how long he can do without. If the past is any indication, it's a day or two at most. That realization brings on a deep feeling of sadness as I wonder for a moment if he has found pleasure in another woman's arms. I then dismiss the thought as ridiculous. Michael would never do that to me or to us. I'm as sure of this as I am of my own name. I busy myself with some other chores; and by 9:08 pm, I'm in the bedroom hanging up some of my work suits that I've just picked up from the cleaners. When I come across one of Michael's suits in the batch, I'm lost again in a daydream. Then, lo and behold the object of my thoughts is speaking to me. At first, I believe I'm imagining it, but then it comes again. "...Baby--are you listening to me? I've missed you." Turning around, I glance at Michael, in the flesh, standing in the doorway. Basically, he looks good although a few pounds slimmer. Though I'm elated by his presence, the look on my face remains neutral as I really don't want him to have a clue how happy I am to see him. I turn back to my work casual and composed. "I've missed you, too, but who's fault is that?" I'm still upset with him after all. "Dana, c'mon. Don't start." Is he kidding me? "Don't start--that's rich. You've been home from Seattle for two days, and I haven't seen or heard from you, and I'm not supposed to be angry or upset. . . You know, you haven't come home at a halfway decent hour in weeks." "I realize that, and I'm sorry. I don't know what it is...I just feel like I have a million things to do...I want to do it all, and I can't slow down." "Well, you better try to slow down, Michael. Otherwise, you're going to crash and burn, and I can't bear to watch. I'm really worried about you," I inform him and turn towards him in the doorway. "There's nothing to worry about," he replies with a confidence that irritates me. "Nothing to worry about? How can you say that? Where have you been for two days? What the hell has been going on with you for the past few weeks?" My voice starts to rise uncontrollably, and I curse myself because this is not the way I wanted to handle this. He's become annoyed as well. "I've just been working," he shrugs. "That's it? That's your explanation? What about your behavior?" "What about it?" he asks defensively. "Its been erratic of late to say the least. You're stressed out, agitated, forgetful, experiencing extreme mood swings...Then there's your run in with the DCPD. Shall I go on?" "No, spare me. You're making mountains out of molehills." "Am I? I wish I was, but somehow I don't think so. I'm tired of worrying, Michael. I'm tired...tired of all this . . ." I admit. Finished putting away my clothes, I plop down wearily onto the side of the bed to remove the pumps from my aching feet. Michael finally moves from the doorway and kneels down in front of me to assist in the removal of my other shoe. He looks up at me with an apology written on his face while his hand massages my foot. His strong hands linger there for a moment and then begin to travel upwards, caressing my calf, then higher to my thigh. We're caught in a smoldering gaze, and I lose track of all previous thought as his hand on my body burns and excites me to no end. He can probably feel how wet I am through both my panties and pantyhose. I can't help it; I've wanted this for what feels like forever. He rises and looms over me, his delectable mouth headed for the weakness of my neck, placing hot, wet kisses there that ignite my core as does his hand stroking me between my legs. When he speaks, his voice drips desire. "Dana, let me make you happy again. Let me love you." His touch leaves me without the capacity for speech. Oh, God. I want and need to feel his hardness inside of me, filling me, healing me, healing us. Making us one again. We fall back onto the bed together, petting and necking. It's as intense as everything we do but not out of control, which suits me just fine. As much as my body cries out for him to take me and fuck me right now, my mind screams no. NO; it cannot be like that again. At least not this time. I spent too much time agonizing over our last encounter. I want, I need warmth and tenderness and love, not some anonymous fucking session. Michael easily tears apart my pantyhose, pushes down my underwear, and unzips his pants. All foreplay then comes to an abrupt halt as he slams into me. His pace is brutally fast and unrelenting, his eyes closed in a mindless, unfeeling, in, out motion. There's no kissing or touching or fevered terms of endearment. I'm just a body there for the fucking. Exactly what I feared most. My hands move to the sides of his face in an effort to get us to connect again on some level. He opens his eyes and meets mine, but his eyes are dead, black and lifeless, his body continuing to slam into me unrelentingly. That tactic having failed, I then hope that my voice will affect him in some way. "Slow down, baby, slow down. We're not in any hurry." "What, Dana, I can't even make love to you the right way now?!" "No, that's not it. I just want us to take our time. Enjoy ourselves. Enjoy each other." "I am enjoying myself. You're not?" Rather than answer, I turn my head to the side, not able to look at him any longer. Tears start to sting my eyes, my throat feeling dry and constricted. His body's movement within mine then stills. "Dana, tell me...Look at me," he insists, turning my face to his. "Am I hurting you?...You're not enjoying this?...Dana, for God's sake--" "No, I'm not enjoying this," I murmur low, on the verge of tears, the emotional pain evident in my voice and on my face. Michael, his face now sweaty and flushed red from exertion, pulls out of me and zips up his pants, muttering out loud. "I don't fucking believe this! Apparently, I can't do anything right by you anymore." Without another word, he departs my side and the bedroom in a huff. I readjust the clothes I still have on but don't feel like moving from the bed. And I certainly don't feel like going after him. Why should I? So I can comfort him? Shouldn't he be the one comforting me? I'm cold and lonely now, turning on my side, holding myself. Tears again build in my eyes and roll down my face shamelessly. Questions relentlessly plague my mind, and I can't shake them no matter how I try. What is wrong with him? Why is he acting like this? What do I do about it? Time to face facts. My relationship with Michael seems to be coming apart at the seams, and I'm afraid I don't mend things very well. It's the same old story regarding his behavior, lateness, and absence from important events. When I did see him in the days after our botched attempt at lovemaking, he barely spoke to me. I'm at my wits end. I spend less and less time at the house though he doesn't seem to mind or notice for that matter. My apartment offers me the comfort and warmth that Michael used to provide. While my personal life is falling apart around me, my work, my crutch, is also taking a toll. Mulder and I come across a case involving Donnie Pfaster, and Pfaster's presence unnerves me more than I care to admit. For a long time now, I have had Michael to lean on, to talk to, to get me through the horrors of my work and vice versa; but for whatever reason, he's not really there anymore. And I don't know if he ever will be again. The reality of this pains me more than I thought possible. When the Pfaster case is completed, I return to my apartment only to have Pfaster lying in wait for me there. He savagely attacks me in an effort to play out the horrors he craves, the horrors that sustain his sick mind. He would take my dignity, my control, my mind, my body, and my soul if I let him, and I have not and never will be anyone's victim. When I shoot him in my living room, I am unaware of anything other than the fact that Pfaster will kill me unless I kill him first. And I do. Mulder vows to support "my version of events," but it wasn't until after the shooting that I even realized he was there at the time, gun in hand. I think I was in a different state of consciousness that no one but myself can understand. After the incident, I secretly entertained the possibility that something was inside me, controlling me, compelling me to shoot Pfaster. However, with an introspection into my own fears concerning all the monsters we've come up against during the course of our investigations (which I seldom want to acknowledge or examine), I realized this was unlikely and came to terms with the fact that Pfaster incites in me a level of fear and panic that I have never experienced before. I face a review of my actions, but I will face it head on with no regrets or remorse. Pfaster was the devil in disguise. Probably a bit selfishly, I take what comfort Mulder offers because I can't get it from the person I long to receive it from. I know I should try. But I can't bear to be heartbroken again, I can't take that right now, not when the nightmares come roaring back. I'll be drenched in my own sweat, left to muddle through on my own like I used to. I'm not as strong as I used to be though. Once you start depending on someone to help give you strength to face the demons, it's damn near impossible to do without. On the day of my hearing regarding the Pfaster case, I arrive extra early in order to calm my nerves. I then delay going in until the last possible moment to wait for Michael, hoping to God he'll show up. No matter what is going on between us, I made it clear that I needed him to be here for this. That I needed him period. When he doesn't show, I feel my heart sink to a depth I've never known until now. All I want to do is turn around and go back home. But I have a review to face that will effect the rest of my life whether Michael is a part of it or not. I have to go in there with my head held high, push my fears aside, stand tall and strong, and relate the story just as I saw it, just as I know it to be true. I force myself to do just that even with a broken heart and a broken spirit. The hearing is long and drawn out, lasting much of the day. Afterwards, I return to my apartment alone although Mulder offers to accompany me. He's been very supportive, but I don't want him here, not now. Not when he'll attempt to give voice to all those unasked questions that have formed in his head over the course of the day. I cannot stomach answering any more questions concerning this fucked up day, and the fact that he cannot figure out for himself why I remain stoic in the face of "victory" irks me. Yeah, some victory it's been being subjected to the nameless, faceless, merciless suits daring me to justify every single action and reaction for hours on end. I mean Pfaster was only about to defile me in the most inhuman and unimaginable way possible. I know this with certainty, and they're worried about his fucking rights. It's a hollow victory, and it stinks to high heaven. And so does my life right about now. The trouble is I don't know what is causing this feeling, this complete and utter distress I seem to be experiencing at the moment. Is it the contempt for the system that has made me the criminal or Michael's conspicuous absence and the reasons attributed to it? I try to relax but find that an impossibility. I call my mother to let her know how it went, and she informs me she sent some flowers to the house. She's surprised that I haven't received them yet and wants to check with the florist. I insist on doing it for her since I don't want her to know I haven't been staying there too often these days. Though I don't feel like leaving the serenity of my apartment, I figure the flowers might cheer me up a bit so I head on over to the house. When I see Michael's truck parked in the driveway, I freeze momentarily, not sure of what to do. Should I go inside or turn back? Do I really want to face him right about now? Despite the fact I've done nothing wrong, who is going to feel more awkward, him or me? Unfortunately, it's probably me. After taking a deep breath, I proceed forward to the front door. Not feeling as if I truly belong here anymore, I ring the bell instead of letting myself in. I'm left waiting quite a few moments until Michael appears shirtless and wet from a fresh shower. I take him in and curse my misfortune for I certainly don't need this distraction and temptation now, his hot, muscular body glistening beautifully with rivulets of water. I close my eyes briefly and bite at my lip to get my bearings, to concentrate precisely on why I came here, not on his exquisite upper body. "Dana--" he says, a look of hunger evident on his face which makes me a tad uncomfortable. "H-hi," I stutter mildly. "Can I come in?" "Sure. Why didn't you use your key?" he asks, moving aside to allow my entrance. "I didn't have it on me," I lie. He begins to towel dry his hair, leaving the strands standing up every which way and endearing himself to me for the hundredth time in our relationship. But I push the feeling aside and explain why I came by. "I, uh, just needed to pick up a few things," I say without looking at him and heading for the stairs to the bedroom, Michael on my heel, following close behind. "Oh, and my mother sent some flowers. Did they arrive?" "Yep--on the kitchen counter." Once in our bedroom, I head for the closet, scrounging around for a specific work suit or two I want to take to my apartment. Michael, meanwhile, hovers in the doorway, watching me. Even without looking at him, I feel it, feel his intense eyes burning into me as I'm always acutely aware of his presence. Yet, I don't speak--I didn't come here for that and I'm not going to encourage a conversation that will most likely lead to an argument. And anyway, there's no energy left in my weary body--it's been one hell of a day. As I do my thing, the room remains quiet, disturbingly so. When Michael finally speaks, I'm slightly startled, his attempt at an apology most likely sincere but ultimately meaningless. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. For year hearing. I was wrapped up--" "I know. You were wrapped up in work...a case...It's okay. I've come to expect that of you." He's quiet for a long while, ignoring my last barb, true as it is. Then, "How did it go?" "Well, I didn't lose my job. I guess that's something. It's the only thing I have now." "Just what you think it means. I'm not sure why we even bother anymore. I can't count on you." Michael's behind me now, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, smell the smell that is uniquely his. "Yes, you can or you will be able to again. Dana, I love you so much and I know you still love me no matter how much I've hurt you of late. I don't mean to. I torture myself in my head at what I'm doing to you, but I can't help it. I can't seem to control what I'm doing. I don't know what's wrong with me." "But there is something wrong, Michael. I don't know what it is either or if it's physical or mental; but you've changed...You're a different man than the one I fell in love with. I think you should see someone, see a doctor." "Dana, I think I'm just trying to do too much. I'm going to be fine," he declares, laying a hand on my shoulder that's meant to be reassuring. It's not and I shrug it off just as I shrug off his assurances. "I don't want to hear that. You haven't been fine in weeks, and you're not going to be," I cry, my voice quivering slightly. "Shh," he soothes, wrapping his arm around my middle, rubbing softly. "I will. You'll see. Just trust me." He's getting too close, hands traveling slowly and seductively between the layers of my clothing, down...down between my legs and up...up to the swell of my breast. I don't want him this close. Really, I don't, I try to convince the both of us. "Why don't you go put some clothes on," I suggest without much conviction, a sigh in my voice. Both his hands have found their goals, working their magic which I find I'm enjoying far too much. "Michael,...s t o p," I cry on a moan, my head thrown back, eyes closed in ecstasy. "Stop what? Stop this? Stop touching you the way I know you ache to be touched?" His marvelous hands work my labia and breast in synchrony with just the right amount of pressure. "Yesss," I hiss on the brink of losing my control, and, at the same time, realizing, in some distant part of my brain, the mixed signals I'm emitting. I fight mightily to regain my composure, regain some sense in this insanity; Michael is my priority here, not the fabulous feel of his fingers fucking me. I wriggle free, turning to him, nearly out of breath at his ministrations, my hands up in apparent surrender. But I will not be surrendering to his body or his touch tonight no matter how hot, aroused and flustered he has made me. "Stop it. . . Stop...We are not going to do this!" "WHY? I LOVE YOU, DAMN IT!" "Because it's not going to work...We're not going to end up in bed like we did the last time." "You really hate me, hate my touching you? Don't you?" "No, Michael. That's not it. You just don't get it--sex will not solve anything here. You need to face the fact that something is severely wrong--" Before I can finish explaining my reasoning, he turns and bolts from the room. I chase after him, yelling as I go. "MICHAEL, WAIT!...WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!...WILL YOU JUST STOP AND LISTEN FOR A--" He ignores me completely, and I watch as he careens down the street in his truck, the sound of tires squealing sickeningly against pavement echoing in my ears. NEXT DAY--DUSK He's a god damn federal agent. I don't know what makes him think he can get over on me. I could kill him if what I suspect is true. Who the fuck does he think he is? I hate to say it but I've never trusted him enough. Does he really think I won't turn him in? Splintered thoughts flood my brain all at once, and I feel like I can't think straight. I feel like this a lot of the time lately, and some times I think my heart is going to pound right out of my chest. I try to keep myself calm, keep things straight in my head so that I'll make some sense. Still, my thoughts seem jumbled and unclear. At Brian's house, I stab the doorbell 2-3 times. When he doesn't answer immediately, I start pounding on the wood door with my fist as I don't have any patience left. I notice my hand trembling just the slightest bit and shove it into the pocket of my dress pants. "Let me in, Brian...C'mon, answer the damn door!" Finally, he comes to the door with an expression that is none too pleased. "What are you doing? You're gonna wake the baby," he says in a low, irritated voice, ushering me inside. I file in, making my way to his private den. "I don't give a shit. I want to know where they are." "Keep your voice down." He fixes me a drink which I accept gratefully despite how his words come out sounding like he's speaking to a child. "Here, drink this. It'll calm you down." "What?" "The guns." "The guns?" he repeats as a question, perplexed. "Yeah, the guns from today's bust and the Rodriguez bust." "What the hell are you talking about?" "I checked. I checked the log. I checked the evidence room. And guess what? No fucking guns!" "You must be mistaken. I logged them into evidence myself. You must've missed them." "Brian, how fucking stupid do you think I am?" "You're wrong, Mike. The evidence is there. . . Maybe you've been hanging around Dana too long; her fucking paranoia is rubbing off on you." "I'm not paranoid." "Well, you've definitely got a problem then. Do you know what your fucking problem is, Mike? You're too concerned about what I'm doing. Maybe if you concentrated less on me and more on your own life, your girlfriend wouldn't be screwing her partner behind your back." Jesus. Where the hell did that come from? He has struck a nerve that runs within me soul deep. Whether I admit it or not, my concern about Dana and Mulder's relationship is always present and lurking within the back of my mind despite Dana's assurances. I don't believe Brian's accusation, mind you, but this sore subject almost tore Dana and I apart already; therefore, I'm careful not to acknowledge it openly. That said, I can't seem to help reacting with more emotion than I ever should reveal in this instance. "No, my fucking problem is you, you lying cocksucker," I sneer. "Keep telling yourself that, Mike. But I know. I know what you can't face. The rumors about Mulder and Dana exist for a reason, and I have proof." "What proof could you possibly have?" Brian retrieves a manila envelope from his desk and flings it at me. The envelope falls to the floor, pictures of Dana and Mulder spilling out through the unfastened clasp. Once I gather them together and take a gander, I practically fall down into the nearby sofa, my knees growing weak at what's suggested in the photographs. There they are holding hands in one picture and hugging in another. Dana kisses Mulder's cheek in yet another one, and Brian points out that the fourth picture of a disheveled Dana was taken in the early morning hours after she'd spent the night at Mulder's apartment in Alexandria. Perfect. Just fucking perfect. I place the evidence of Dana's purported deception back in the envelope and stuff it into the inside pocket of my jacket. My head starts to pound, and I rub at my temples to soothe the pain. I cannot give anything more away to him, so I'm careful to keep my raging anger and suspicions in check, turning it on him. "What the fuck have you been doing? Watching her? Following her around? Where the hell do you get off?!" I accuse and leap up at him. "Hey, I'm just looking out for you. Somebody has to." "Do me a favor. Look out for me when it's your job to. OTHERWISE, MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS, AND STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM DANA! You got that, partner?" I growl. I'm in his face, towering over the little shit, staring him down. I leave without so much as another word, not sure I accomplished what I set out to but knowing there was no way I could outwardly accuse Brian of anything until I figured out what the hell was going on. I still have to work with the man, trust him enough to cover my back, trust him just enough to not get me killed. If Brian is up to something, maybe he accomplished what he set out to by showing me those pictures. That thought troubles me to no end. Terribly dejected, I fall into the seat of my car, seemingly unable to stop torturing myself by peering at the photographs yet again. Though I realize that at least three of them were taken at an innocent gathering for the death of Mulder's mother (which I attended with Dana), I still wonder when they stole those moments together. Where was I? How could I be so foolish to allow them any time alone? My stupidity and the images of Dana and Mulder together tear me apart. I can't bear to think about this any longer and return the pictures to the envelope. My head continues to pound and my hands smashing repeatedly into the dashboard in extreme sorrow and devastation does nothing to alleviate the pain. Why, Dana? Why can't you love me more than him? Why can't I be enough? What the hell have you done to us? Mulder and I have been doing so much traveling of late that I don't know which end is up. I've taken to having not one but two bags packed and ready to go at a moment's notice which helps a great deal when you're partnered with someone as spontaneous as he. Anyway, it's been another five plus day trip away, and I couldn't wait to return home. Why I'm not so sure since there's not much waiting for me anymore. That last scene with Michael reminds me acutely of this. With the way he had taken off, I was worried sick and even resorted to asking Brian to look after him while I was gone. Despite it all, I've finally decided I'm not just going to stand by and be a spectator as my relationship with him crumbles into nothing. I'm going to fight for it as hard as I've fought for everything else in my life. I've known this love, this wonderful man for sometime now. I know who he is, what he's been through, what we are together. And I know what we can continue to be. I just have to ascertain what's wrong since I'm positive that there's something; something is going on. I've played the last two months over and over in my head, and Michael has not been the man I fell in love with. The drastic changes I've witnessed in his behavior don't just occur without reason, and I'm convinced it's way beyond stress. When Michael left a message suggesting that we meet at the house to talk upon my return, I anticipated the meeting eagerly, hoping to finally get his problems out in the open and this relationship moving in the right direction again. I didn't, however, anticipate what I would find and what would follow. I arrive on time at the house which is completely dark (odd in and of itself) though Michael's truck sits in the driveway. Not sure of what to make of it, I fish the keys out of my bag and let myself in. When I flip on the lightswitch, an angry voice shouts out to me. "TURN OFF THE FUCKING LIGHT!" Startled, I jump back in surprise and then eye Michael sitting Indian style on the couch in the living room. His face is cradled in his hands, and he rocks back and forth furiously. There's more shouting. "I SAID TURN IT OFF!" I flinch at the harshness of Michael's voice but oblige in switching off the light in hopes of calming him. I then draw the drapes to the bay window open to allow the moonlight to settle in so that I can see. So that I can see him. See if I can gauge why he's acting like this. "Why are you sitting all alone in the dark?" When he replies, his voice is monotone and detached, so much so that if I hadn't seen him with my own eyes I'd have trouble believing it was really him. "Just trying to think. Trying to figure out who I can trust. Certainly not Brian and more importantly, not you." "What the hell are you talking about?" I ask, defense creeping into my voice. "You spent the night with him." "What? Who?" "Mulder." The name escapes his mouth hatefully through clenched teeth. "You're mistaken, Michael." "Everybody keeps saying that. Tell me you didn't spend the night with him when his mother died." I hesitate with my answer but will not lie. "I did but--" "Yeah, now the fucking truth comes out." "Michael, you have to understand. Mulder was a wreck. His mother committed suicide. He was devastated, and I couldn't just leave him alone. He needed someone." "Why does that someone always have to be you? And when I think back, you lied to me. You told me you were home when you were really in Virginia with him. Do you even remember telling me that? Why did you lie?" "I'm not going to get into this with you. We've already been through your jealousy of Mulder ad nauseum, and there's nothing else left to discuss." "Dana, you lied to me! You spent the night with him!" "I consoled him. I comforted him. I was there for him. I was his friend. That is all." "Oh, c'mon, Dana. I'm sure a condolence fuck would have served him well. I can just see how it went: 'Scully, I've lost everything. There's nothing left but you. Scully, I need you--'" "Stop it," I snap. "I'm not going to stand here and listen to this." Again, he shouts. "THEN GET YOUR STUFF, GET THE FUCK OUT, AND DON'T COME BACK!" "How can you say that? Michael--" I plead, my eyes filling with hot tears at the pain his words have inflicted. "Don't. I don't want to hear it. Just go." I stand in place, not quite believing or wanting to believe all that he has said. Again, I attempt to explain. "You're wrong. You are so wrong, Michael. . ." "I know what I saw, Dana. I know that you lied. Now, get the fuck out," he says low with no hint of regret. I keep looking at him and waiting, waiting for him to announce that this is some cruel joke. But I guess the joke's on me--the announcement doesn't come, and he holds the front door open to ensure my exodus. Our eyes lock on one another, and I find I still cannot move until he lays a firm grasp on my arm, pulling me towards the door. He lightly pushes me out, and as I turn to face him, our eyes catch again. "Michael, don't do this. This is wrong--" I plead again until the door is slammed soundly in my face. My right fist pounds hard on the door in an automatic act of frustration. Horribly pained, my entire body trembles. The tears that had welled up in my eyes finally break their boundaries, and I allow them to slide down my face freely. The release is almost comforting. Wearily, I make the drive to Georgetown totally lost in my thoughts of Michael. Sleep will not come as I clearly recall his cold, dead eyes and how they scared the hell out of me tonight. For the second time in as many weeks, I could not reach him, and I feel like I'm going to need a miracle to reach him ever again. Please, God, give me that miracle. Please. Our work is too dangerous for the slightest distraction or uncertainty. While I'm working, I have always tried to keep my personal life and my personal problems from intruding on my thoughts. I've usually been successful in that regard with the exception of the time I was fighting my cancer. Then, I had let depression and just enough self-pity affect my job performance, my short-sighted and impatient attitude sometimes being a stumbling block in our investigations. That accompanied with my growing weakness and fatigability worried Mulder, I'm sure. Not only because my condition was deteriorating but because what I was going through affected his safety. He had to have doubts about my ability to cover his back. It sounds callous in light of what was happening to me, but it was only natural for him to feel that way. As I told Michael recently, there is never any room for doubt or uncertainty when you depend on someone else for your life. But, again, today, I find myself losing all concentration on the task at hand, this case report I'm trying to complete. For the umpteenth time, I'm staring into space, wondering and worrying about Michael. His harsh words last night had cut me to the bone, and I ponder what is to become of us. Right before our confrontation, I was determined to keep us together, but I wonder if there is a reason to bother anymore. Just as I finally succeed in getting Michael out of my head for a total of five minutes, my attention is rudely drawn back there with a disturbing phone call. Brian calmly informs me that Michael has been shot in the line of duty. In a state of shock, I pepper him with a succession of questions that he succeeds in turning aside, urging me to remain calm as Michael was only grazed. Only. I guess that's supposed to make me feel better. It most certainly doesn't for it's another unexpected blow in a series of such, one that leaves me thanking my lucky stars yet again. Pretty soon those lucky stars are going to burn out. Eyes closed, I lean back in my chair, breathing a sigh of relief that he's essentially okay. Without another moment to spare, I rush over to Holy Cross Memorial's emergency room. The employees there inform me that he's been patched up but moved to a room on one of the floors. When I reach the nurse's station on his floor, I'm told Michael's doctor is in with him now and will be with me shortly. The sooner the better as I have a very important request to make. Impatient, I pace outside Michael's room, making a beeline for the good doctor when she exits. "Dr. Leiter? I'm Dana Scully, Michael's fiance. May we talk a minute?" I ask, extending my hand. "Yes, Dr. Scully," she says, returning my handshake. "My office is nearby so why don't we talk there." We proceed down and around a long corridor and then sit in her pleasant, ergonomically correct office. "Michael's been telling me all about you, he's anxious to see you." I grin mildly but don't respond, the night before still vivid in my head. "How is he?" "Well, a bullet grazed the left side of the upper abdominal area. We cleaned it up, and aside from some soreness and minor bleeding he should be fine." "Why is he in a room then? I assume you're keeping him overnight." "Yes, I decided I wanted to run a few tests. He's a young man in excellent physical condition, but I found his heart rate to be somewhat accelerated. Also, when he came in, he appeared haggard, like he hadn't slept for some time. Can you shed some light on this?" "I don't think he's been sleeping much. He...he hasn't really been himself...he's aggressive, overanxious . . ." "Is he on any medications?" "No." "Substance abuse problems?" "No," I shake my head emphatically. "Steroids?" "Definitely not. . . Do you think his rapid heart rate could be an arrhythmia?" "It's unlikely, but I ordered a 24-hour holter monitor stat which will reveal any rhythm anomalies. The main reason I wanted to keep him overnight is so that he gets some decent rest." "Doctor, if possible, I'd like a urinalysis and a complete hematology work up done." "We took blood of course but what would we be looking for?" "I don't know exactly. As I said, he hasn't been himself, and I'm at a loss to explain it. I asked him to see a doctor, but he refused. He refuses to believe that anything is wrong. There's got to be some- thing going on, and I'm hoping his blood or urine might give us some answers." "Fair enough. I'll order them today, but we probably won't have any results until after he's released as I don't expect to find any abnormalities on the holter." "That's fine, doctor. Thank you. Can I give you my card, and when you have the results, could you please call me?" I ask, handing her my card. She nods and I excuse myself, making sure to thank her again. I return to Michael's room even though I'm wary of seeing him after what happened last night. Upsetting him further is the last thing I want, and I'm afraid that that's the only thing my presence will accomplish. I do need to see him, however, and even if it's for just a moment, even if I just look in on him for a moment, I want to convince myself that he's really in one piece. Outside his room, Brian is waiting around and explains that a technician is inside connecting the holter. Brian's a curious sort. He regards me somewhat warily, and I'm unsure how to act with him. About a month or so ago, Michael mentioned that he and Brian weren't seeing eye to eye. They had talked about it with no real resolution, Michael said nothing further, and I assumed it had worked itself out. But I'm not sure it ever did. I pin Brian with a hard, almost accusatory gaze that I can't seem to contain. "What happened?" He shrugs. "Maybe you should ask Mike. I'm still not sure." "I will, but I want your take on it." "Mike was acting reckless. Managed to get the both of us shot at." "What makes you say that he was acting reckless?" "Because we had this arms bust planned for days but he couldn't seem to keep it together. He was anxious and nervous, unwittingly giving up our location too soon." "And?" "As you can guess, it all went to hell, and a gunfight ensued. We're lucky we both didn't get killed. He's got to get his shit together." Considering Brian's last statement, I'm almost afraid to pose my next question. Michael screwing up our relationship is one thing but endangering himself and his partner while on the job is another one entirely. "Have you noticed any other instances in which...he didn't have it 'together'?" He ponders my question for a moment and replies, "No, none that I can think of." My cell phone then chirps to life, disturbing our conversation. I take the call, the lab informing me that the autopsy bay I've been waiting on is ready. I have to leave immediately, asking Brian to do a favor for me in the mean time. "Brian, I have to go, I have an autopsy to perform. Please just let Michael know I was here and that I'll be back to see him as soon as possible." "Will do," he assures me. I then linger outside Michael's room, granting myself that one last look before I depart. I can't believe I'm stuck in the hospital overnight. I'm annoyed by the entire situation, this holter monitor with its clumsy leads and wires only serving to annoy me further. The doctor told me my heart rate is a little accelerated, but I know I'm in excellent physical condition. There is no reason for me to be here. Aside from being sore from the gunshot, I'm fine. Maybe Dana set this whole thing up since she's been bugging me to see a doctor. Oh, Dana, where are you? I love you, and I need you. When I think back on it, I'm completely ashamed at how I treated you last night; my stupidity and cruelness weighs heavy on my heart and on yours, too, I know. I told you once that if you slept with Mulder I wouldn't leave you, and I meant it. You could tell me you did and, yes, I would be extremely hurt and disappointed, but I wouldn't end our relationship. I basically knew the situation I was getting into when I pursued you and I accepted it in order to have the honor of loving you and receiving your love. When my fears of you loving Mulder came to fruition, I accepted the consequences then, too, and we went on. So for me to discover that you and Mulder slept together now or in the future, would not and should not surprise me. It wouldn't change a thing between us unless you wanted it to. After I saw those photographs, I jumped to conclusions and accused you without even explaining why. You proclaimed your innocence and I believe you now, now that my head seems clearer. Though you lied about your whereabouts that night, I am certain you would never lie to me about something as important as having sex with Mulder. You know you could tell me. By God, I wouldn't like it but I would understand. I understand the longing and temptation you still feel. Sometimes, I don't know what I'm doing or what I'm saying, like I'm not in control of my own words or actions. Some of the things I've said and done I know are wrong on some level; but it's like it's not really me. Maybe I'm going crazy, something I've actually considered of late. Even to this day, my heart pounds away in nervous delight and anticipation of seeing you. Again, though I treated you horribly, I know you will come to me. You'll be here. When the door to my hospital room creaks open, I practically jump out of bed, raising up on my elbow in anticipation of your visit. My face falls in complete disappointment because it's not you; it's Brian, and I don't know why the hell he's still hanging around. I settle back down in bed, wondering where you are and when this motherfucker of a partner is leaving. "Hey, man," he greets. "Brian," I mutter, an edge to my voice as we speak. My growing contempt for him has to be evident. "How long have you got to wear that contraption?" he asks, waving at the holter. "Twenty-four hours." "How's your side?" "Sore." Naturally, you dumbass. "I bet." Jesus, help me. I can't stand not seeing Dana and carrying on this pointless conversation. "Is Dana outside?" I ask with barely contained need and frustration. "No." "You called her, right?" "Yeah, I was just going to tell you she was here. She was here earlier but had to leave." "Why?" I ask with urgency. Brian delivers the blow to my world, to my entire being. "Mulder called, and she ran out." Fuck. No, Dana. With no desire to see the pity or the "I told you so" on Brian's face, I turn away. A lump the size of a softball forms in my throat, my chest constricted. There's a long, awkward silence before Brian speaks again. "I'll catch you tomorrow." When I don't acknowledge him, he quietly goes. How could she do this to me again? Dana was always the one I could count on; now there's no one I can rely on or trust. The only thing I wanted was to see her and apologize for hurting her, but it always comes down to Mulder. One day, I'll be on my deathbed and she'll still be off somewhere with him. I can't take it. There's no possible way I can stay here, stuck with nothing to think of but Dana and Mulder and those damn photographs Brian so conveniently provided. It will drive me to the brink of madness if I'm not there already. At this point, the only thing I'm certain of is that the hospital coats are through poking and prodding me. The autopsy takes longer than I anticipated, the visiting hours at the hospital long since over. Guilt at not getting there to see Michael spreads through me and will last a long time, especially when I call his room to talk to him and he doesn't answer. Forty minutes later, I call back and still, he doesn't pick up. I decide not to call back again since it's late and I don't want to disturb him or the other patient that may be in the room. I wonder when work will stop taking precedence over my personal life. I mean, what's more important--Michael's health and well being or the stiff I rushed to the lab to autopsy? Actually, I've gotten better at making Michael and myself a priority, much more so than I thought possible. Most likely if things between us hadn't been so rocky and uncertain of late, I probably would have gone about things differently. It's not that I love him any less. I'm just not sure I know him anymore. I resolve to visit him early the next morning before work but unfortunately, the best laid plans really do go awry. When I arrive at the hospital, I'm shocked to learn that he signed himself out early yesterday evening. As always, I make it my business to locate him but run into a dead cell phone and news that Michael has been put on forced leave for a couple of days while his part in the shooting incident is investigated. The bottom line is he's nowhere to be found, and needless to say, I'm on edge all day over it. I beat it out of work at 5 p.m. on the dot, headed for the house, hoping I'll unearth some clue to his whereabouts. Pretty sure I know where he's gone, my first instinct is to check for the keys to the boat. Sure enough, they're not hanging in their rightful place on the key rack. Fishing poles and various crab and lobster traps are also missing. It makes sense--the boat and the water are his haven, where he'd go if he was hurting or in trouble. Fuck. Michael's long gone with no possible way of my contacting him. No matter what he's going through, the way he's taken off without a word is utterly unconscionable. Once again, good, old, reliable Dana Scully is left to hold it together as I have yet to see or speak to Michael. I don't know how much more of this I can take. The afternoon he is due to return to work I receive that phone call I've been waiting on concerning his blood and urinalysis results. I had hoped there would be nothing much to report but what his doctor has to tell me is alarming. "Doctor Leiter, thank you for calling. Did you find anything?" Her voice is slow, cautious. "Surprisingly, yes. We found evidence of amphetamine use when we tested a sample of urine in a standard drug test." The heavy Mount Blanc pen I've been holding collapses from my hand, my mind whirling. Ups, pep pills, jollies... "Doctor Scully?...Are you there?" I continue to breathe although I feel as if I've been kicked in the gut. ". . . Yes, I'm here. You said amphetamines? Are you sure?" "Quite sure. This may help to explain his uncharacteristic behavior." No, this cannot be. I know this cannot be and tell her so. "That's impossible, Dr.Leiter. Michael doesn't take amphetamines or any drug for that matter. Prescription or otherwise." "Are you sure he hasn't been depressed or something of that nature and received a prescription that you just aren't aware of." "No, I would know," I aver. "Well, there are conditions that could cause a false positive. I have his history in front of me which is unremarkable, however. Is there anything that we might have missed?" "No, he's been in perfect health that I know of. Doctor, I' m curious. Does there seem to be a steady amount of the drug in his system consistent with a prescription dosage?" "Actually, no. It varies significantly over a four to five day period which is as far back as a standard drug test with urine accurately measures. As you probably know, the most accurate drug test is performed with blood but that would take longer, and I got the impression you didn't want to wait." "There is some urgency to this, yes." "Doctor Scully, I have to say I'm a little surprised by your initial reaction. When we spoke the other day, I thought this might be what you were alluding to, what you expected to find when you requested these tests." "To be honest, I don't know what I expected but it wasn't this. You haven't contacted him about it, have you?" There is no way she could have if I couldn't reach him, but I want to be sure. "No, since you were the one that was concerned and requested the tests, I wanted to speak with you." "Then, I'll talk with him about it. Maybe it's like you said, maybe he got a prescription for some reason, that I'm just not aware of it." Fat chance. I say this only to appease her, cover any tracks. I know I would know. "I'm sure you realize this but if he's having adverse reactions or side effects, it's imperative he contact his regular physician. And since he signed himself out, the holter monitoring was not complete. I suggest he get it re-attached on an outpatient basis." "I'll be sure to clarify all of that with him. Thanks again for calling, Doctor Leiter." I disconnect, my mind still whirling with the possibilities, nicknames for the drug still flicking through my mind for some reason. Speed, bennies, dexies, wake ups, uppers... UPPERS. I remember seeing a bottle of those somewhere recently. Where, damn it? Where? Where was it? Think. Concentrate. Then it hits me. The night of Brian and Leigh's dinner party, I knocked a bottle of them over while reaching for the soap in the bathroom. I remember wondering about Leigh, wondering what they were doing out in plain sight but placed the prescription bottle back in the exact spot I'd found it in. Christ. Brian's been drugging him. The realization actually makes me physically ill, a case of the dry heaves overtaking me. After I recover, the revelation starts to make a sick kind of sense--Michael confronting a perceived problem between he and Brian that night and then the steady, swift decline of his behavior afterward over a period of weeks, Michael changing into someone unrecognizable. Even to me. God help you, Brian. And God save you. God save you from me if you've done what I suspect. After the conclusion I'd come to, I frantically try to reach Michael; but as usual, there's no answer via cell or at his desk. Desperate, I do the only thing I can think of, stomping up to his and Brian's section in the Hoover building. I'm not really surprised to find Brian at his desk, nose buried in paperwork while Michael is nowhere to be found. All I know is, I feel so many things right now--fear, desperation, anger, betrayal (with regard to Brian)--and I'm wound so tight that nobody better fuck with me. Again, I'm desperate to discover Michael's whereabouts, having no time for polite greetings as I approach Brian, the click of my heels on the floor tile announcing my presence. "Did Michael show up for work this morning?" "I would think you of all people would know." "Just answer the question." "Yeah," he replies in an annoyed tone without looking up from his work. "I've been trying to reach him, but he's not answering his phone. Is he around here?" "No, I haven't seen him." "When was the last time you saw him or spoke to him?" "This morning." "What time?" "Nine-fifteen." "Let me get this straight. You haven't seen or spoken to your partner for approximately seven hours, and that works for you? What were the two of you working on?" "We had some separate interviews to conduct in DC for a case. We were supposed to meet back up to grab a bite to eat for lunch, but he didn't show. I figured he got wrapped up in what he was doing and would just come back here when he was through." "Do you have a list of the people he was going to interview?" "What?" he asks distracted, breaking the point to his pencil and then rummaging through his desk drawer for a sharpened one. "Brian, I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you; but I'd appreciate it if you'd look at me when I'm speaking to you. I want the names and addresses of the people Michael was to interview." He's still searching his desk drawer for something to write with. "Just a minute. Just let me finish--" "No. I want it now," I demand, my hands braced on either side of his desk, our faces now level. Like laser beams, my eyes burn into him with barely suppressed hatred, and he looks up at me with a similar sentiment. "Fine. I'll get it for you," he seethes and rises from his chair in an exaggerated, angry response, the chair slamming into the file cabinet behind him. After he roots through the cabinet for the information, he slams the drawer closed and slaps the file into my waiting, outstretched hand. "Thank you. So very much," I offer, my voice dripping sarcasm, my eyes still reducing him to ashes. I stalk away with the information in tow, my hands itchy and slick with nervousness. Michael's list consists of names and addresses in a quarter mile radius of a rundown section of DC. Glancing quickly at it, a feeling of hopelessness juts through me--there's so much to do and not enough time to do it in. And time is of the essence. I realize I must: Go door-to-door to quickly re-interview some of these same people while placing calls to Michael's cell in between each. Make sure he got to where he was supposed to be going. Gauge where he was at what time. Ascertain that he was okay, that he was himself. All the while, I pray that I'm wrong, that this feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach is over nothing. As it turns out, I'm not making much headway. Most of the people I interview are cooperative but not all that helpful. Their memories are either lax and/or they're inattentive to time, which is unacceptable. There is no room for failure here; Michael's life may depend on it. For a fleeting moment, I start to doubt myself and my abilities. Maybe I'm too close to this, and I'm not asking the right questions. I mean Michael is supposed to be my future husband. Up until recently, he's been my everything, the most amazing man I've ever known or could hope to know. Can I really do what needs to be done when it concerns someone I love? I tamp down the nagging doubts and think yes. Yes, I can. How many times did I not let my concern and affection for Mulder hinder my job? How many times did I find him when his life depended on it? How many times did I save his life when it was the least likely but the only imaginable outcome? I've done it for Mulder countless times. I can do it for Michael now. Confident once again, I realize that his first interview was indeed conducted around 10 am which matches what Brian had said. But maybe Brian had lied about what had happened afterward. Maybe they had met up around lunch time after all. I mean there were no reports of anything unusual or of Michael acting strangely. He did is job plain and simple. Taking this into account, I skip down the list to a Mrs. Gordon. Thankfully, she provides the tips I've been desperately searching for. I knock on Ruthie Gordon's door with urgency. She peeks out the window and then undoes the deadbolt. She leaves the security chain in place, opening the door up a quarter of the way. "I already spoke to you people," she complains. I stick my badge into the door opening so that she can see it clearly. "I realize that, Ma'am. Please open the door. I need to speak with you about a colleague of mine who came to see you today. Please, it's very important." "Which one?" she asks, closing the door to undo the chain lock. "Mrs. Gordon, there was an agent here today named Michael Anzotti and it's very important that you try to remember. Do you recall speaking with him?" "Uh, I spoke to someone at length. I'm afraid I'm not good with names anymore." "He's tall, dark . . ." I catch myself describing Michael in that old cliché and I have to stop myself. "He has dark hair, brown eyes, a mustache, is broad--" "Oh, yes. And handsome. Don't forget that. Very handsome." I smile slightly in agreement. "So you remember him?" "Of course. He would be hard to forget. Even at my age." I smile again lightly. "Now, he asked you some questions. Do you remember around what time that was?" "1:40 this afternoon." "You sound so sure, Mrs. Gordon. Why is that?" "I'm sure because I was annoyed that he came here so close to the start of my story. My soap opera," she elaborates at my questioning look. "I see. Now, you seemed to indicate that there was more than one agent here." "Yes, I talked to your friend for awhile and then another man showed up. They knew each other." Oh, Brian. You're in this up to your fucking eyeballs, aren't you? "Did my friend introduce the new man, say, as his "partner?" "Yes. That's the exact word he used." "My friend's partner was blond and short in stature, right?" "Right." "Thank you, Mrs. Gordon. You're doing great." "Did anything they say stick out in your mind? Anything at all, no matter how small it may seem." "No, not really...Though I must say there seemed to be some tension...They seemed ill at ease with one another. Then they surprised me by asking where they could go to get something decent to eat for lunch in the neighborhood." "And what did you tell them?" "I suggested they try that diner about five blocks down. It looks like a dive but the food isn't half bad." "Did it sound like they might go there?" "Yeah, I think so. Your friend said it sounded good and thanked me for the suggestion. Such a nice and polite young man." "Yes, he is," I say with more feeling and longing than I intend, my emotions bubbling up and betraying me. I'm lost for a moment in my own thoughts until I feel Mrs. Gordon's eyes on me, bringing me back to the important matter at hand. "Um, so you'd say they left your house around 2 pm? Would that be accurate?" "I'd say so...Pardon me for saying but this friend of yours is more than that, eh?" At first, I hesitate to answer but realize there's really no reason to. "Yes. Much more. How--" "Love like that, Miss, it's as plain as day on your face. Is he all right?" "I'm afraid I don't know. I haven't heard from him in a little while, and I'm starting to worry." "Well, I'm sure he'll be okay, but I'll say a prayer for the two of you." She clasps my hand in reassurance. I look down at her hand covering mine and am truly touched by her gesture. "Thank you, Mrs. Gordon. Thank you," I pledge sincerely. I squeeze her hand and manage a smile which she returns, her eyes twinkling with faith and hope. In a hurry, I take off down the road with fierce determination. The diner is just as Mrs. Gordon described. Looks to be a dive on the outside but appears homey, comfortable and clean inside. The heavy, middle-aged man "guarding" the cash register is the boss or manager, I presume. I approach with my badge already in hand wearing my serious FBI face, hoping to keep my personal feelings tucked away tightly. "Hi, I'm Special Agent Dana Scully with the FBI. I just wanted to ask a few questions if I may. I believe two federal agents were here earlier today, say around 2 p.m. I was wondering if you could tell me if you remember seeing them. One--" "Yeah, I saw them. Stuck out like a sore thumb; we don't get too many suits here in this part of town." "Right," I agree with a small smile. "Do you have any idea how long they were here?" "No. But you might want to talk to Trisha over there. She served them and was making goo goo eyes at one of them, too." He points to the young waitress hanging out behind the counter smoking a cigarette. I make my way over to her, badge still in hand which I hold up immediately. "I'm Agent Scully with the FBI. Your boss over there told me that you served lunch to two FBI colleagues of mine. I just wanted to ask you some questions if I may." "Sure," her voice creaks, her nervousness obvious. "You do know to whom I'm referring?" She nods. "Al says that you were interested in one of the men--maybe you watched them while they were here," I suggest. ". . . Yeah. . . I did. . . The one with the dark hair and mustache...he was really cute. . . I smiled at him but he didn't seem to notice...I even wrote my phone number down on the back of his check . . ." Trisha is starting to ramble, so I cut her short. "Did anything happen, anything strange that you can think of? Were the two men arguing for instance?" "No, not really but when they left--" "What time was that?" "I'd say about 3 o'clockish." "Now, when they left, what happened?" "The cute one. . . he didn't look good. . . he looked sick, pale. . . weak. I don't remember him looking like that when he came in...The other man seemed to be helping him walk out, supporting his weight. . . he just didn't look right." My stomach lurches at Trisha's words, and my throat goes tight, the words coming out painful and slow. "So, one minute the man seemed fine, and the next he seemed like he'd fallen ill," I conclude. "Yes, it was weird. I never saw anything like it. Maybe he caught a virus or something. There's been a lot of that going around." Yeah, a virus. Or something. Something very much like a lying, disloyal, heartless partner. I don't say anything else, my thoughts going off in a hundred different directions, trying to figure out what to do next. I feel weak in the knees and I think... I think I may fall. Trisha catches me by the arm, holding me steady. "Miss, are you all right?" "Yeah," I whisper after a moment, rubbing at my forehead. "Yeah, I'm fine," I say a little louder and stronger. Apparently, she doesn't believe me because she's pushing me down into the nearest chair. "Here, why don't you sit a minute. I'll get you a glass of water." Thanks, Trisha, but there's no time. Immediately after Trisha leaves my side, I'm up and on my feet, out the door, my black trenchcoat swirling around me like a cape in the early evening breeze. Trisha's last words--"I hope I helped" waft out the door as it closes behind me. You did, Trisha. You did. But I still don't know what the hell to do next. Glaring up at the DIEING sun as I dial Michael's cell yet again, I'm struck by the irony of it, praying that this isn't some sign. I hear ringing. In the diner's parking lot, I sit half in and half out of my FBI issued car trying to concentrate on my phone call. But the ringing I continue to hear is distracting me, drawing my attention. And it seems like the source of the sound is a phone coming from right here in this small parking lot. Without disconnecting the line, I remove my phone from my ear and toss it gently on the car seat, the ringing still loud and steady in my ears. Where could it be coming from? Strangely enough, there's no one else on the streets or sidewalks at the moment and only two or three cars parked in the lot near mine. I look around and notice a big, green dumpster in the far corner of the parking lot. Jesus Christ. Is it possible? Could it be? Could Michael be in that dumpster? Panic and adrenaline surge through me as I run top speed towards the dumpster trying to follow the source of the sound. Throwing open the heavy lid with some difficulty and scraping my hand in the process, I come up empty, but the continued ringing of the phone, louder now, urges me forward. Behind the dumpster, layers of corrugated cardboard and assorted plastic bags and garbage litter the ground. God, in between the pile of cardboard and bags, there's a big bulge apparent. I swallow hard, my heart pounding wildly inside my chest, the ringing of the phone driving me crazy now. I dig and dig through the pile furiously. Though I suspected it, I'm horrified just the same at what I find. For the second time today, I think I may lose the little bit of breakfast I was able to scarf down. I've finally found him. Unconscious. Amongst all the crap. Dumped like yesterday's garbage. I hope you said that prayer, Mrs. Gordon. The world is shaking. "Doctor Scully--... Doctor Scully? It's Donna Leiter." Actually, it's not the world. It's just me as someone is shaking me lightly on the shoulder. I look up to see Dr. Leiter hovering over me. "Oh... Doctor Leiter... I'm sorry. I was just... thinking...I guess." "Are you all right?" "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine," I sigh without much emotion, poking back some hair behind my ear. I'm totally numb and have been since I arrived in the ER over two hours ago. I sit up in the hard, plastic chair and glance at her expectantly, waiting for her to give me the news on Michael's condition. She seems somber but lays a hand on my shoulder reassuringly. "C'mon you look like you could use some coffee, something to eat. Why don't we go to the cafeteria, and we'll talk while you put something in your stomach." I don't have the energy to fight her even though I don't want to eat. And I don't want any coffee. I want answers, not some bogus pep talk. I know it's bad. I knew it when I saw Michael lying motionless on the ground, unconscious, drenched in sweat, as pale as a ghost. The risks due to amphetamine poisoning can be extremely serious and life threatening. I know this(though I had pushed much of it out of my head to concentrate on getting Michael the help he needed). Sometimes I think I know too much for my own good. My stride is slow but I only lag a step behind Dr. Leiter as I follow her to our destination; I think she's trying to politely keep pace with me. I also notice her glancing back in my direction, seemingly concerned. In the cafeteria, I'm not in any shape to make decisions about anything (even something as simple as food), so she seats me and then wanders off for sustenance. While she's gone, my mind plays back this horrible day in its entirety, including the ruckus we caused upon our arrival to the ER, the EMTs preparing the doctors and nurses about the drug overdose case being wheeled in. It was then that the serious ramifications of the situation hit me as much as I tried to deny it. Hearing the words drug overdose and addict used in reference to Michael really disturbed me and hit it all the way home. I don't notice Dr. Leiter has returned until I get a whiff of the coffee along with the turkey sandwich she's placed in front of me on the table. She speaks but for some reason, I'm not understanding her, so she tries once more. "Thinking again, huh?" My fingers press at my eyes, trying to contain the tears that have welled up. "Yeah, I can't seem to stop. Too many regrets." "Like blaming yourself?" She doesn't know the half of it, and I don't want to discuss it. I shake off her question and change the subject, trying to get to the real reason we're here. "So, when are you going to quit avoiding the inevitable?" "I beg your pardon?" "Michael's condition. He's in bad shape...I realize that." "Dana . . ." she stalls. "May I call you that?" "Only if I can call you Donna, Doctor Leiter," I joke with a smile. She smiles her assent, but gets back to the point quickly. "Dana, Michael's young and strong. You have to remember that." "God," I laugh in response to her statement, typical of a doctor trying to relay hope when there's really no hope at all. "I guess it's even worse than I imagined." "No, we don't know that. He was comatose when he was brought in, and he remains that way though the level of coma is not high. We've assessed his level of consciousness and it's very close to the deep sleep typical of amphetamine poisoning which can last from 24-48 hours." "You performed gastric lavage I assume?" "Yes, gastric lavage with tap water and activated charcoal. He's in intensive care though isolated to avoid sensory stimuli." "Will he need barbiturate therapy?" That is, if he wakes up at all. "We won't know until we've assessed any problems with the central nervous system or if he has withdrawal symptoms." I practically choke out my next question, so hateful and distasteful are the words due to the circumstances. "What about other risks- mental illness and such?" "It's a possibility but again, we won't know until he's awake and alert. Then we can assess any damage to the brain--" Brain damage. Mental illness. None of it makes any sense. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to figure out what God's purpose was in all this. "I should have done something. . . I knew something was very wrong." "Dana...From our past conversation, it seems that Michael was hiding what he was doing from you; there was nothing you could have done. Even if he was taking amphetamines for depression, there's no way to sugarcoat the fact that he's an addict and the two of you have to come to terms with that." Her words anger me because Michael had no choice in any of this. If you choose to take a drug, any drug, you accept the risks and consequences that go along with that choice. What happened to Michael is all the more sad and unacceptable because he didn't know what the fuck was happening to him. Pinning her with my hard gaze, I come to his defense, shaking my head. "No, Donna...You don't understand. Michael wasn't willingly taking anything. . . I believe someone was drugging him," I admit and feel immense relief that someone else now knows the truth. "What? Are you sure of that?" she asks, shocked. "Pretty damn sure, yeah." Donna Leiter's beeper then goes off, and she silences it quickly. "Listen, Dana. I have to go, but I want you to know that my colleague, my friend worked on Michael in the ER. He works with...addicts all the time, and he feels confident that Michael will recover completely. Ordinarily, I don't offer these opinions to relatives, but I think under the circumstances it might do you some good. Why don't you go see him, and I'll be by as soon as I can." I manage a weak smile in response to her words. "Thank you. Thank you for everything you've done." Usually I trust my own instincts and skills about matters such as this but something about Donna has sparked me to trust her. She smiles in return and departs to help someone else in need. I take a bite of my sandwich and a sip of coffee, feeling real hope and faith coursing through me. It courses through me for the first time in a long time over a situation that has gone on for far too many weeks. Some of that aforementioned hope has dissipated after watching over Michael tonight. The medical staff assesses his level of consciousness every couple of hours, and it remains at a level nearly consistent with amphetamine poisoning. However, he appears almost unrecognizable to me, too pale and lifeless for someone so strong and full of energy. I finally notice all the weight he's lost, kicking myself for not noticing it sooner, for not realizing he was in serious trouble; thank goodness he's muscular or he may have disappeared all together. The slight tremors that disturb his "sleep" disturb me as well though I'm told they're normal, whatever normal is at this point. Though I'm in no hurry to leave him and the staff has been very accommodating, Donna and the nurses on the floor convince me to go home--I'm dead on my feet and not doing either one of us any good. Feeling the need to be near him in some way, feel his presence, I decide to spend the night at the house. His energy and spirit saturates every inch of it; he's put a lot of his heart and soul into the place and has spent many long hours of labor crafting various pieces of wood into exquisite furniture with his love of carpentry. It's a quick drive there being the late hour, but it's almost as if I'mmoving in slow motion. I'm tired, depressed and holding much of my emotions in, it seeming to be only a matter of time before I implode. The house is like my mood--blacker than black. The front door is locked and I'm glad Michael at least remembered to lock it on his way out this morning assuming he stayed here last night; anyway, he has this annoying habit of leaving doors unlocked and I smile slightly, thinking of him fondly as I open the door. When I hang up my trench coat on the rack in the vestibule hallway, I notice Michael's leather jacket hanging there as well and have this overwhelming sense to touch it, to lay my hands on something that is intimately his. The leather is cool and rough to my fingers, and I touch it with a greedy need to feel him. As if I could feel him. God, I need to feel him. His smell permeates the inside lining of the jacket and when I inhale the scent, he invades my senses. I'm struck by the unfairness of it all, the complete and utter despair that I feel. I think I'm going to have a breakdown. And I'm going to have that break down now, right this very minute. Audible sobs begin to escape my throat until a gruff, unsympathetic voice accosts me in the dark. "Don't cry, Dana." Stunned by the sound, I whirl around to see Brian sitting on the sofa after I flip on the light. For so many obvious reasons, I'm outraged. "What the hell--what the hell are you doing here?!" "Just waiting. Waiting here to tie up some loose ends," he announces with an icy calm. "Loose ends?" My voice hits a high pitch as I dab at my wet eyes, trying to compose and transform myself into an FBI agent once more. "Don't play dumb, Dana. I know you figured it out." Despite the fact that he's on to me, I really should try to engage him in the game a little longer, "play dumb" as he said, but I can't contain my fury at what he's done to Michael and turn my wrath of ire on him. "Do you have any idea of what you've done, you bastard?!" "A little speed never killed anyone." I seethe. "A little? You gave him enough to kill a horse. Now your partner, your supposed friend is lying in a drug induced coma. If he wakes up and I do mean if, God knows what kind of permanent damage you've caused. Doesn't that mean anything to you?" I hiss. I've lost that composure I tried to summon moments ago, my face red hot with anger. "I never meant for it to go this far," he mutters with mild regret. "You didn't mean for it to go this far?" I laugh sarcastically. "Does that help clear your fucking conscience?" "I have nothing to feel guilty about." "Oh, no? Then you must be taking some of that shit you've been slipping Michael. What I want to know is why." "Does it even matter at this point?" "It matters to me." "Dana, you're being so melodramatic. Calm down." "Calm down? I'll calm down when you give me a sane explanation why you would do this to your partner, the man you swore to protect with your own life. The man who is your partner, your friend. A friend that helped bring your only child into the world when you were conspicuously absent." He barely considers my words before speaking. "Plain and simple, Dana. He got too close to my gunrunning scam, couldn't mind his own damn business. If he had, none of this would have happened." "You of all people should know that Michael would never turn a blind eye toward a dirty cop." "And look what he has to show for it." "And what do you have to show for it? What about your wife and child? You're disgracing your name and your family. Is it worth Leigh being left alone--left all alone to care for your daughter? What about your daughter? Is it worth her growing up without her father? Is it really worth all that?" "I did what I had to do. For them." "How fucking noble of you," I mutter with deep disdain. We seem to be at a stalemate as neither one of us says anything else. He just sits there sizing me up, and I return his gaze full on though I quickly tire of the game. I turn away towards the kitchen for a glass of water for my throat, which is dry and tight. My mind spins into overdrive trying to anticipate what the fuck Brian's got planned. There's no way he's just going to walk out of here to let me rat him out. I fill up a glass from the tap and chug half of it down. Too bad it's not liquor; I could use a stiff one right about now. I brace myself against the sink and inhale deeply trying to summon the strength and courage for my predicament. The gun at my back offers a measure of comfort, but am I supposed to shoot him? What he has done to Michael is unthinkable, but did he really mean to kill him? Is Brian really capable of the premeditated murder of Michael? Or me? I feel him close and glance over my shoulder to see him standing nearby. Watching me. I face forward immediately, not wanting to keep my back turned for any length of time. "Brian, if there's nothing else I can do for you, feel free to leave anytime," I suggest sarcastically but know he's not going anywhere. He approaches and comes to stand in front of me, his hand cupping the side of my face, his eyes searing into mine. I relay every ounce of hatred and disgust I feel for him and his touch, but he doesn't let go. "Agent Dana Scully,...so smart, so pretty, so...dead." Upon uttering his last word, he swiftly and unexpectedly reaches behind me and under my blazer to secure my gun, shoving it in my face and laughing and taunting me with it. "You kill me and my partner will stop at nothing to put you down. Put you down in the ground right next to me," I threaten with a venomous voice that sounds foreign to my own ears. "Spooky Mulder? That's funny. He's too busy running after his sister and lights in the sky to give a damn about anyone or anything else." When he pockets my gun, I'm surprised, wondering what he truly has in store for me. Though I recoil, he touches my face and the skin of my neck again and again. When I spit in his face, he becomes enraged, suddenly wrapping his hands firmly around my neck and squeezing. Squeezing so hard I can barely breathe or think. When I start to gasp for precious air, his hands only become tighter. I can't breathe. . . My mind is screaming. My hands flail around behind me, searching the countertop and stove desperately for something, anything to use as a weapon. I can't breathe. . . Finally, my fingers close around the handle of the tea kettle. I...can't...breathe . . . Without even knowing how I manage it, I slam the ceramic kettle into the side of his face, stunning him, his fingers finally loosening from around my throat. His hands are still on me though, and I can't bear it another second. Again, I slam the kettle into his head; and he falls to the ground, down for the count, out cold. While retrieving my gun from Brian's coat pocket, my throat constricts and I lapse into a coughing fit. My neck is sore and hot to the touch, surely sporting bruises from the latest attack perpetrated against me. Similarly frightening memories from the past and recent past regarding an alien bounty hunter and a millennial zombie surge to the forefront in my head, leaving me shaking like a leaf. When I finally get my bearings, I call the local police to haul this piece of shit out of my kitchen. And if all goes well, I'll see to it that Brian Anderson rots in hell. For as long as it's necessary, I take off from work to be at the hospital. Even if I didn't have tons of personal and vacation time coming to me, I'd have taken the time anyway. Mulder is not thrilled but understands what I'm doing. Mulder...Yes, what's happening to Michael even effects Mulder in a way as well since I'm not around. Since Michael and I have been together, he has tried to be genuinely happy for me. Sometimes his guard falters, and I catch flickers of his feelings in his face and eyes, wondering what might have been. Most likely, what Michael and I share is different(as are most relationships), but it is no less loving, intense or complete. For one minute, I have not regretted the choice I made. The bottom line is I know the work Mulder and I do is important and I do as much as I can every day. But things are different now, and I'm prioritizing. I'm finally getting it right. Mom, many of Michael's friends and colleagues at the FBI, and even Mulder and Skinner as well as Leigh have come by to visit. Michael always claims he doesn't have many friends; but if the stream of FBI people in and out to see him is any indication, he is extremely well liked and highly regarded. Just as I always suspected. And there's no stopping his sister, Gina, from making the trek from her home in NY when I give her the news. I'm glad she's here--I like her and she's a source of comfort. In situations such as this, time passes in painfully slow increments. I rise with the sun and function as best I can with the helplessness till night falls and I attempt to get some rest. There's no sleep for me though. My bed and my heart are empty, my mind working overtime, my thoughts with Michael. Always with Michael. Thinking of what we've been through to get to where we are, what we have become together, the intimate moments I cherish, the romance, the teasing, the fun. I don't want to ever let him go, but I don't know if I'll have a choice. That bastard Brian has made the choice for all of us. The sorrow that accompanies death affects many of us differently. Some people go through the healthy grieving process by releasing the pain and sharing their grief with the ones they love. Others put up a good front, put on a good face, hide the distress, then suffer through their own private hell. Alone. That's what I do. And still others handle it somewhere in between the two. With what I do and what I've been through in the past seven years, I think about death a lot. And it seems to have effected aspects of my life that I never considered before, my appearance being one and my wardrobe, of all things, being the other. At the desk in my bedroom, I examine my reflection in a small vanity mirror. Hints of Crow's feet around my eyes and laugh lines around my mouth are evident on my 36-year-old face. I frown at what I see staring back at me, but in reality, I look pretty good for all the horrors I've witnessed against others and against myself. As I look through my closet for something to wear to the funeral, I notice that three-quarters of my wardrobe is black. I stand around for 20 minutes trying to decide what to wear even though there's not much of a choice to be made and it's almost time to go. I become disgusted with myself despite the fact that it's never been a conscience choice. Strong hands capture my shoulders from behind conveying love and support. "You ready?" the voice gently inquires. I nod in affirmation. En route to the funeral, I recall going to Mrs. Gordon's house a few days ago, wanting to visit with her and thank her for aiding in my search for Michael, her keen observations being my only clue to him. In the small amount of time I spent interviewing the elderly woman, something about her touched me in a way that very few people have. When I arrived at her home, there was no answer. A steady breeze rocked her porch swing back and forth slightly, the old metal creaking on its hinges. Since I could use some time to truly take in all that occurred today, I had decided to take a seat on the swing and wait for her. Hopefully, she'd return soon. As I waited, my mind reflected back on the scene earlier in the day: At the hospital, I do my best to keep Gina calm. She's getting restless (as are we all) for there's been no improvement in her brother's condition though he looks better today than he has in some time. The confidence Donna displayed days ago seems to have wavered a bit, but she has not expressed it directly to me. The doctors don't know what to expect at this point because he should have awaken by now. Gina's torn between being here for him and returning to the rest of her family in NY. I'm torn because I need to be doing something, something to help him; this sitting around and waiting is not what I do well. It's been five excruciating days already. Feeling sleepy, I lay my head down on the edge of the bed, my fingers entwined in Michael's. All of a sudden, the pressure on my fingers increases and I hear the sound of a chalky, dry mouth trying to form words for the first time in days. I look up with immense hope and am greeted by Michael's gorgeous brown eyes staring at me intently. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," he addresses me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. "Tell me about it," I beam and bring his hand to my lips for a kiss, beside myself with happiness, tears building in my eyes. It's awhile before I say anything else as I smile from ear to ear taking all of him in. I call out to Gina, sensing her presence in the doorway but can't tear my eyes away from her brother. "Hey, Gina--look who's finally decided to join us." I'm still smiling, holding his hand, smoothing the hair from his face, unable to stop touching him. Gina rushes over to join the celebration and wraps her arms around him. "Little brother, it's so good to see you. You scared the shit out of us." Reluctantly, I release his hand and edge away, giving them a moment to themselves and intent on finding Doctor Leiter. Immediately, I feel Michael's eyes on me, watching me from within his sister's embrace. "Don't go, Dana," he pleads, the sorrow in his voice stopping me cold. "I'll be right back. I promise. I just want to get your doctor," I assure him and smile broadly. One of the nurses kindly pages Donna, and it takes her only about five minutes to join me. I remind her that I don't want mention of what has led Michael to be here. At least not right away. Then we head to his room together. Donna attends to him immediately while greeting him with a certain affection. "Well, Mr. FBI, it's about time you woke up. You've kept these two beautiful women waiting long enough." "Not on purpose I assure you," Michael explains, his eyes on me again. "I should think not," Donna smiles, glancing at me for a moment. "How do you feel?" "Like I was hit by a truck. And very hungry. Starving in fact." "That's normal," Donna says, and I nod in agreement. "Same old Michael," Gina laughs and starts to engage her brother in idle conversation while Donna tends to him some more. While all this is going on, I marvel at him. I can't believe how good he looks and sounds. So much better than he had a few days ago now that he's awake. Better than he has a right to after his ordeal. I pray to God that everything will check out okay and that I'll be able to take him home soon. Gina's probing question to her brother then wakes me from my reverie. "What's the last thing you remember?" she asks and my stomach drops in response. I know where this is heading although I made it clear to her I didn't want to go there just yet. "Not much. Just...having lunch with my partner I think." "You don't remember anything else after that?" she persists. Michael's about to answer, but I cut in with a suggestion, eyeing her pointedly. "Gina, why don't we hold off on this for now." "Dana, I think we should get it out in the open," Gina declares and makes her way over to me, holding my gaze. "There's a time for that, Gina. And it's not now," I stress with a clear edge to my voice. "He has a right to know," she declares defiantly like a petulant child. Thankfully, Donna is still doctoring, questioning Michael, he preoccupied enough not to get the gist of what's going on. "I agree. But not until he's stronger." "Dana, I want people to know. I want people to know that my brother's not some drug addict!" she blurts out loudly. The room goes quiet, so quiet you can hear the proverbial pin drop. All eyes fall on me for whatever reason, the tension and anger in me and in the room palpable as I glare at Gina in disgust. Unfortunately, Michael hasn't missed the last exchange. "What was that?...What the hell is she saying?...Dana?...Why am I here?" Michael demands. Donna looks to me for guidance and I nod, giving her the okay to explain; there's no other choice now. "You were in a coma induced by an overdose of amphetamines." "No," he says vehemently, shaking his head. "That's not possible; I wasn't popping pills." When no one rushes to refute Donna's statement of fact, he appears to become confused and unsure of himself. "No. I remember feeling...feeling weird a lot of the time and sometimes...sometimes my hands would...tremble but I thought it was stress...It's not possible...Dana?" I make my way back to his side and grasp his hand tightly. "Take it easy. Just relax." "Then how? How is it possible?" Michael asks, looking to me and only me for answers. Blank stares plague all of our faces until Donna interrupts. "Listen, everyone, I know you have a lot of issues to discuss here, but I don't want Michael agitated or upset. Dana, I'm giving you and Gina another few minutes. Then, I want the two of you out of here so he can get some rest. Everything looks pretty good so far, but I want to order a couple of tests. If everything turns up negative, maybe we can get him out of here in a day or two. Okay?" "That's fine, Doctor Leiter," I agree. "Okay then. I'll be back in a little while to check in on you," Donna smiles, turning her attention back to Michael for a moment before she departs. I'm still very angry with Gina, the anger rolling off me in waves, my voice calm but curt when I address her. "Gina, I want to talk to your brother. Alone," I stress when she's about to open her mouth and add her two cents. "Dana, what can I say? I apologize. I didn't mean to...blurt it out like that." "I understand. Just give us a few minutes alone to talk." After some kind words to Michael, she acquiesces. Once we're finally alone, I take a seat on the side of the bed and entwine the fingers of my left hand with those of his right. He doesn't resist a bit, but I can see he's fighting to control his anger. Though he's probably angry with me, with all of us, I try to keep the mood somewhat light. "So, Mr. FBI. How are you doing? Really?" "Lousy. And what you're trying to hide from me is making me feel even worse. But I know what would make me feel a lot better." "What's that?" As if I didn't already know. "For someone to tell me what in the hell is going on...Dana, I need to know." "I understand that. I really do. But I think it would be best if you just concentrate on getting well and getting strong." "Dana, please. . . There's something more going on here. Just tell me what it is." He's looking at me in that pouty, sad way he knows will get to me and I call him on it. "Please stop looking at me like that. You know I can't resist when you do that," I say barely stifling a smile. He continues to do it, however. Then I relent. "Okay, okay. You win." He struggles for a moment to get his thoughts in order. "Was I drugged? That's the only thing I can think of." I nod confirmation. "By whom?" "I think you know," I reply low, sadness creeping into my voice. I don't want to reveal the truth; there's too much pain involved. Again, he struggles a bit to get his thoughts together and then it comes. "Brian?" My heart aches for him as his voice catches on his partner's name. ". . . I wish it wasn't so but yes. Brian." "No. I won't believe that. Is he around here?" "No," I replay instantly and bitterly, shaking my head. "How can you be so sure Brian did this?" I hang my head, not wanting to explain, staring down at our clasped hands. "I just am. Let's leave it at that right now." "I can't. Tell me," he implores. "Michael, you obviously knew something was up with Brian. You told me so yourself. It turns out he had his own agenda, did what he thought he had to do despite the consequences, and you were a victim of it for weeks, possibly months. He was the cause of all the problems you were having, that we were having." "I still can't believe Brian would do this to me." The fact that he wants to know but doesn't want to hear what I'm saying even after he's forced me to say it is natural but it still angers me. I can't hold back any longer, my voice wavering as I explain. "Michael, Brian pumped you full of drugs and left you for dead; I know this without doubt. I know this because I was the one that found you, saw how you had been dumped like somebody's garbage, saw you lifeless and gray. . . You were dying. If I hadn't found you when I did . . ." The tears build and mix with the anger, and I can't go on. "Hey, it's all right. It's okay. I'm sorry . . ." Michael pulls me into his arms, whispering soothing words, comforting me. How does he do it? How is he strong enough to cater to my needs after all that's happened to him? I bury my face in his shoulder, relishing the feel of him. So wonderful and strong and solid. One of his hands caresses the back of my neck while the other smoothes up and down my back soothingly. "You know, I'm the one that should be saying I'm sorry," I mutter truthfully. "What on earth do you have to be sorry for?" I release my hold on him and pull back, bringing us face to face. "For doubting you. For not being there when you needed me," I admit ashamedly. He gently takes hold of my face. "Baby, stop. I won't let you beat yourself up about this. Neither one of us knew what was happening other than my acting crazy . . .You saved me. You always do." "If that were only true. Then you wouldn't--" "Stop it. You are the only reason I'm still here at all. I don't even want to contemplate what you must have went through, what...Brian must have...There's something else I need to know...Tell me--tell me that Brian didn't hurt you." "No. I wouldn't let him. I wouldn't let him hurt us again." I see our gentle, loving kiss in my mind's eye, relishing the feel of his generous lips on mine until a woman disrupts the wonderful memory with an urgent voice. "Miss?...Miss? Can I help you with something?" Mildly startled, I rise up from the swing to meet the owner of the voice, an elderly woman who reminds me of Mrs. Gordon. "Hi, my name's Dana Scully. I just dropped by to say hello to Mrs. Gordon, but she wasn't home. I thought I'd wait--" "I'm afraid Ruthie passed on earlier this morning. I'm her neighbor, Mrs. Parker. We usually check in on each other every day, but when I came to see her this morning...I thought she was sleeping...but...she was gone . . ." "Oh, I'm so sorry," I murmur, grief brushing across my consciousness. She goes on to explain that the paramedics assured her that Ruthie had not suffered, that she had most likely died in her sleep. I'm thankful for that, hoping it was indeed the case. I try to comfort Mrs. Parker a little before returning to the hospital with a feeling of sadness and emptiness despite the miracle that had occurred earlier. When I later contemplated all that had happened, I realized how tragic it was that Mrs. Gordon should die the morning that Michael came back to me. Life is like that sometimes, kind and cruel at the exact same moment. It is a mystery and always has been, one I know I cannot solve with science but one I will attempt to solve by taking my time and giving my patience, respect and love. When Michael grasps my left hand in his as we drive to Mrs. Gordon's funeral, I remember the beautiful diamond engagement ring that adorns my ring finger. I smile at him when he glances my way, promising myself our happiness will be my priority; it will be if I have anything to say about it. And "I do." As soon as it is humanly possible, I will take Michael Joseph Anzotti to be my lawfully wedded husband. Life is too fragile to waste another minute. END Go onto What I Want 4: Our Weakness
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