This Her Fever - 2/3
SUMMARY: It is, she thinks, a fitting coda to her life that Mulder and Father McCue should cross paths in this room, both trying to offer her salvation.
RATING: Strong R verging on NC-17 for language and sexual content.
SPOILERS: Redux II and Detour
DISCLAIMER: Breaking seal constitutes acceptance of agreement. Proceed at your own risk. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. For recreational purposes only. Driver does not carry cash. And, as always, thank you for choosing Aloysia Airlines for your direct flight from 1013 to fanfic.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story was written for xf_is_love . It wasn't supposed to be nearly so long, but it just kind of snowballed and, well, here's what it turned into. Many, many thanks to dashakay , leucocrystal , andscarletbaldy for their amazing job on helping me to get this story written and edited in just four short weeks. You ladies are the best!
The story that Scully remembers about the Milky Way is from L.M. Montgomery's The Story Girl.
Author's notes continued at the end, spoilers contained therein.
***
Ellen rests her foot on the edge of the bathtub, balancing the phone against her shoulder. "Pick up, pick up, pick up," she mumbles to herself, painting her toenails with Cherries in the Snow.
"Hello?"
"Dana! How are you doing?"
"Ellen! I'm good, thanks. Much better than the last time you saw me. Actually, I was just about to call you and see if you wanted to have lunch tomorrow. I've been home for almost three full days and I haven't seen you yet."
"Sorry," Ellen says, wiping a red smear of polish from her tub. "No lunch. I'm booked. And so are you."
"Huh?"
"You're coming to the beach with me." She screws the lid back on the bottle and fans her toes.
"What?
"It's Andrew's first weekend at Colin's place since the separation," Ellen tells her. "The house feels too empty, and he's there all next week. Plus I want to get in as much time at the condo as I can before that little tramp gets her germs all over it."
"Oh, El, I'm sorry."
She sighs. "It's okay. I mean, hey. I lost forty pounds of Ellen, one hundred and ninety pounds of douchebag, and only gained, what? A hundred and ten pounds of whore. That still puts me like a hundred and twenty pounds ahead."
Dana laughs. "That's a very positive outlook."
"Thanks. Anyway. I want you to come with me. It's just for a few days. I know you're not working and I also know that your mom probably has you climbing the walls by this point."
"I wouldn't go that far."
"What, does she have your gun to the back of your head? I love your mom, Dana, but you know she's wound a little tight." She leaves the bathroom and opens her closet to remove the lone suitcase her worthless husband didn't take when he left.
"Maybe climbing them a little," Dana concedes.
"Ha! I knew it. Good. I have some errands to run today, and I'm planning to leave tomorrow around noon. I'll pick you up."
"I appreciate the invitation, but I don't know if I'm up for a trip to Ocean City."
"Yeah, I'm sure all of the relaxation is going to wear you out. It's too cold for the ocean. I'm thinking boardwalk, hot tub, and greasy food. You know you want to," she wheedles. She became an expert at coaxing Dana Scully into things when they were fifteen, and the skill has only improved.
There is a longish pause. "Well, other than work, I don't get away very often…"
"No. No, you don't. This will be our 'Brain Cancer and Cheaters Suck and We Are Done With Both of Them, Hallelujah' vacation." Ellen walks over to the mirror and turns sideways, pulling in her stomach. Not too bad, really. Maybe she'll bring a two piece for the hot tub.
Dana laughs again. "All right. I'll pack the Wild Turkey, Thelma."
"I'll see you tomorrow, Louise."
***
"Back here!" Scully calls when he comes in.
Mulder follows her voice to the bedroom, where she is sitting cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by stacks of neatly folded clothes. A half-filled suitcase is behind her.
"Wow," he says, sitting next to a pile of shirts. "How long are you going away for? Should I put in a request for a new unflappable skeptic?"
She smiles at him. "Four days. I'm not bringing all of this. I'm just organizing things. Getting rid of some stuff I don't wear anymore." She smoothes invisible wrinkles from a pair of jeans before putting them in the suitcase. "Thanks for stopping by."
Mulder is always thrown by the sight of her in jeans. It is akin to running into your teacher at the grocery store. Right person, wrong context. "Is your mom going too?" he asks innocently.
Scully's head snaps up. "You've got to be - oh." She trails off when she sees that he's kidding.
He smiles. "That bad?"
She flushes. "I know I seem terribly ungrateful, Mulder. But she's smothering me. I let her, mostly because of Missy, I guess, but I need a break before I lose my patience." She refolds a polo shirt and sighs. "She left some lamb in the fridge if you want any."
"No, I ate before I came over. But thanks." He touches her shoulder for a moment, then rests his hands in his lap. "And you don't sound ungrateful. You sound bored."
"I miss work. I want to go back."
"Scully, you haven't even been out of the hospital for a week. What does Dr. Zuckerman say?"
"He's very impressed by my progress," she says defensively. "And I've gained three pounds, since I know you were going to ask."
"Never crossed my mind," he lies, feeling relieved. He'd been pondering small acts of espionage, like replacing her milk with heavy cream or injecting all of her food with melted butter. He knows, however, that were any of these plans feasible, the wily Mrs. Scully would have beaten him to them.
Scully looks more disbelieving than usual. "Mmm-hmm," she says, contemplating two pairs of khakis. "So tell me what you're working on right now."
He shrugs, then lays back on her bed, his hands beneath his head. "Eh, nothing too interesting. The usual ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties."
"Nothing that goes bump in the night?"
"I dunno. Flashlight's busted."
"You have got to be more careful with your government-issued toys. How many cell phones have you been through now?" She gets up and walks to the dresser.
"Hey, our federal budget deficit isn't going to grow itself, you know."
She shakes her head, and he imagines that he can see her smiling. Mulder savors these times, little hammocks of quiet that stretch between the trees in the dark forest they've been stumbling through.
She selects a sweatshirt and comes back to the bed to continue packing. When she sits down next to him, she's closer than she was before. "Do you want anything from the beach?" she asks, putting the sweatshirt into her suitcase.
"Thrasher's fries."
"I don't think they'll travel well, but I'll try my best."
"I'd be obliged. And get me a hermit crab."
Scully laughs, then smiles down at him. "Are your fish getting lonely?"
She's pretty, he thinks, which is different from beautiful. At work she is often beautiful which, coupled with her increasingly severe tailoring and coiffure, makes her seem inaccessible. But right now she isn't wearing makeup and her hair is escaping from a ponytail, falling around her face like a mantilla. Her cotton pajamas look worn and comfortable, and her smile is ever so slightly goofy.
They don't… they don't just do it because she's your partner.
Scully turns sideways, tapping her lip as she peers into the suitcase again. He sees little ridges on the exposed area of her chest, just below the prominent pockets above her collarbones. He turns his head for a better view, making himself take in the havoc her illness has wrought. Reminding himself that distance is best for them both.
"This is ridiculous," she exclaims suddenly. She puts two stacks of clothes in her suitcase, tops them with her toiletry case, running shoes, and a bathing suit. "Done." She zips the lid and flops back on the bed next to Mulder.
"Scully," he says, still facing her. "I think you may be rushing into things. Have you devised an appropriate algorithm for your pants-to-shirts ratio to maximize your options?"
She rolls her eyes at the ceiling. "I'm not that bad and you know it."
"You're bad enough that jokes about it aren't uncalled for."
She looks over at him. "I've missed you," she says frankly. "I'm not used to not being around you all the time. You're not…" she pauses, appearing to search for the right word. "You don't hover. You've never acted like my being sick somehow diminished me. My mom, she… I just hope you'll come by more, Mulder."
He laughs, and hopes it doesn't sound broken. "And here I was just thinking it was best that you were taking some time to get away from everything."
She turns onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. "Everything?"
He shrugs, head still pillowed on his hands.
"You mean you. Mulder, please don't tell me you're holding yourself responsible for my illness. Which, may I remind you, is in remission so you're a little late with the self-flagellation anyway." She pokes him in the ribs.
He wishes she wouldn't be so cavalier. Does she really believe that Blevins shot himself out of remorse? That the chip is the period at the end of this chapter? For all that she sees with those sharp blue eyes, she's missing the big picture. He's given a lot of thought to his conversation with the Gunmen. Pushing her away isn't a perfect plan, but it's better than anything else he's got. At the very least, she'll probably resent him and then they can move towards active dislike. And, eventually, indifference. He is, he has discovered, exceptionally good at alienating people. But trying to do it is turning out far harder than he expected. She's too easy to talk to.
"I just think some time away from work will do you good." So I can get you reassigned, he doesn't say.
"I've been away from work for a while now. I feel useless. That's not good for me at all."
"You don't know what's good for you. Go to Ocean City with Ellen and play some drunken skee-ball. Eat at a disreputable establishment."
Scully smiles. "Sounds like Senior Week."
"That's your idea of Senior Week? Scully, tell me the truth. You were class president, weren't you?"
"Secretary."
"Aha. You and your little notes…"
She smiles again, and leans over to brush a fall of hair from his eyes. She smoothes her hand over his temple, down to his collar. "You need a haircut," she remarks, her mouth inches from his.
Mulder picks up the woody scent of rosemary on her breath.
It would be so simple to tell himself that she's confused, that this has to do with her remission, with the chip, with gathering her rosebuds while she may. But he knows it would be a lie. Just months ago, he saw her on her couch with a man she thought was him, lips inches apart as theirs are now. She was dying then.
It would be the easiest thing in the world to kiss her, he thinks, the gap between the top two buttons of her pajama top catching his eye. She's not wearing a bra. He wants to slide his arm down and pull her against him. To run his other hand over her waist, up the gentle rise of her hip and along her tapering thigh.
Her careful fingers are light on his skin, and he closes his eyes when they trail over his jaw.
"Scully," he begins, but she cuts him off.
"You need to shave, too," she murmurs, her breasts skimming his shirt. "You've really let yourself go since returning from the dead. It's unprofessional."
He's aching to push her onto her back, but he knows that if he does, he'll cover her like Greek fire and burn them both to ashes. "Scully," he says again, but she presses a finger to his lips.
"The world's not going end."
But it almost did.
And that thought gives him the final motivation he needs to push her hand gently - but firmly - from his face.
"Mulder - "
He ignores the wounded look in her eyes when he stands. "Have a good time on your vacation," he says.
"Mulder, wait."
He doesn't look back when he leaves her room.
***
Thomas McCue loves the way his church smells. Dry, ancient scents of brickwork and plaster. Lemony oil for rubbing over the oak pews, and the sweet, heavy scent of incense. It is a holy smell to him, the air enriched with the millions of prayers that have been offered over the nearly two centuries this building has stood. President Kennedy himself attended Mass here on a few occasions.
He fills his lungs with this sacred air as he walks down the nave to the slight figure in the second row. "Good morning, Dana," he says, resting a hand on her shoulder.
She turns slightly and smiles at him with her mother's tired blue eyes. "Good morning, Father."
"May I sit down? If I'm not interrupting…"
Dana slides over. "Of course. And no, you're not interrupting." She looks towards the tall lancet windows made of stained glass at the north transept. "I was just thinking. I probably do that too much anyway." She laughs a little and faces him again, picking at something shiny in her lap.
"Is that a chaplet of Saint Peregrine?" he asks.
She nods, drawing her thumb across the medal. "It's my mother's."
He turns towards her, resting his left elbow on the back of the pew in front of them. "It's very pretty. She used to have a chaplet of the Two Hearts with the same kind of stone. What is it?"
"Larimar. She still has the other."
"I didn't know that. I know she's committed to the Devotion of the Sacred Heart, but hadn't seen her with it for years. She's had it for a long time now, I guess."
Dana tucks her hair behind her ears. "My grandmother gave it to her for her wedding, and she gave it to Missy for her First Communion. They found it in her things when she died and Mom keeps it in a drawer now."
A few awkward seconds tick by.
Father McCue clears his throat. "You've been here every day since you got home. I'm glad to see you returning to the Church, but I hope you're not overtaxing yourself." He cannot help but wonder if she is here to please or avoid her mother. Or both.
"No, Father. I come here in the morning, and then go to the hospital for a while. I sit, mostly. Visiting with the patients in the oncology ward."
"These visits to the hospital… do you regret leaving medicine?" He hopes she can't hear the hesitancy in his voice.
There is a faint, knowing smile on her lips. "No. I made the right choice on that. I still appreciate your guidance, Father. I go because I know what it feels like to be frightened of your own body. I just listen to people talk for the most part."
Feeling relieved, Father McCue pats her hand warmly. "You've always been compassionate, even when you were a tiny girl. I remember you helping Charles toddle to his seat after your older brother and sister had walked ahead. You couldn't have been more than four."
Dana shrugs, and he remembers that she is uncomfortable with praise.
He squeezes her hand, then lets it go. "I prayed for you while you were sick, Dana, and seeing you come through all of this has been such a blessing. I hope you continue to find peace within the Church." He stands up and is about to return to his office when she speaks again.
"Father McCue?" There's an anxious edge to the words.
"Yes?"
She closes her eyes for a moment, then reopens them before she speaks. "Never mind, Father." Dana checks her watch. "I'm leaving to head out of town in an hour or so. I'll be gone for about four days. Keep an eye on my mother. Don't let her worry too much."
He grins reassuringly. "I'll do my best."
Dana looks grateful as she gets to her feet. She leaves the pew and edges past him to walk back through the nave, pausing along the way to look at the elaborate windows. She leaves quietly, like a stray cat.
Father McCue heads to his office and pushes the door closed. He sits at the solid desk and opens a small drawer on the left-hand side. From it he withdraws a faded prayer card featuring Corrado Giaquinto's St. Margaret Mary Alacoque Contemplating the Sacred Heart of Jesus. He runs his finger over a ragged corner, then tucks it back into the drawer.
***
Thomas McCue was twenty-seven years old in August of 1958. He still came home to Chevy Chase in the summers, enjoying the freedom to travel around the nation's capital while helping out at his father's bike shop. In a few weeks he'd head back to start his final year of seminary. Or, at least he would be about to start it if he hadn't recently decided that he was going to forgo his calling to God to pursue a romantic interest.
He had known Maggie Gallagher her whole life, as her family lived two blocks away. She'd been a skinny freckled kid tagging behind her equally freckled sister Olive, who was his own age. But she was twenty two now, and he had felt something growing between them the past few summers. He and Maggie had spoken of things several months ago, very tentatively, when he was home for a visit. But he had been unable to make her any promises. His desire to serve Christ burned in him with a consuming flame, and he wasn't sure that Maggie wouldn't always be second best to that. He hadn't seen much of her in the month he'd been home.
His feelings for her were still strong when he went back to school, however. He prayed on it extensively, had spoken to his mentor, and, finally, come to the conclusion that the priesthood would not be appropriate given his thoughts about Maggie.
Anxiety made a hard knot in his stomach, and he felt again the weight of his decision. He wanted to talk to her about the future - their future - and try and restart his life as a man who would not be taking a vow of chastity. He had decided to ask her to dinner as a first date, feeling that a movie would be too impersonal. He'd already made reservations at an upscale restaurant for next Friday night.
He jumped when the telephone rang.
"Hello?" he asked, hoping his voice was steady.
"Tom? It's Maggie."
The knot in his stomach exploded into a flock of butterflies. "Maggie! I'm glad you called. I was just going to, that is… I wanted to speak to you about something."
There was a pause on the other end.
"Maggie?"
"I'm here, sorry. I wanted to talk to you about something as well. Something very important. Could you meet me somewhere?"
He thought fast. "How about the park? By that old red boathouse?" The park had a small lake - well, a large pond, really - but it would be romantic. An ideal spot to ask her to dinner.
"Yes," she agreed. "Yes, that would be good."
He tapped his hand nervously against his thigh. "Okay. I'll see you in ten minutes or so, I guess."
"I'll see you in ten." She hung up.
Thomas couldn't decide if time was dragging or flying, but it was certainly warped in some way. He made it to the park three minutes ahead of schedule, but she was already sitting on the bench when he got there. She wore a red dress with little white flowers.
"Hello, Tom," she said. "Sit down."
He did, feeling eager for a fresh start. "Maggie, about everything in March, I want you to know that
I - "
She shook her chestnut curls. "Tom, please. I need to get this out, okay?"
The knot reformed. "Okay."
"I'm leaving this evening. I'm…I'm staying at my aunt's for a while. Probably for a year, at least. I don't even know that I'll be coming back."
He felt punch-drunk. "What?" was all he could manage.
She picked at the stitching on her pocket. "I know it's sudden, and I'm sorry to be so abrupt. But I wanted to tell you in person."
"I don't understand. Why are you leaving?"
Maggie gazed at him, her eyes serious, and she pressed her open hand to her stomach.
Thomas McCue felt the earth fall away as he realized what she meant. "Maggie? Who -"
Her smile was sad. "Tom, after you left in March, I was so hurt. I didn't want you to realize how upsetting it all was because I know how much your faith means to you and I know it wasn't an easy choice. But Bill and I started spending more time together after you went back to the seminary and we…we became very close."
"Bill? Bill Scully? He did this to you?"
She looked at him sharply. "He didn't 'do' anything. It was a mistake we both made. I've made arrangements to have the baby given to a good family."
He stared at the ground. "Does Bill, uh…that is, have you told him your plans?" He had never had such trouble stringing together a simple sentence.
"He wants to get married immediately but I said no."
He didn't think he could be any more shocked, but that news left him gaping. "You said no?"
"He's going to be a doctor, Tom. I can't let him ruin his life over this. He wants to withdraw from medical school and join the Navy to support us. He says he could do more to help people that way anyhow."
"And you don't want that?" Just pretend she's any regular parishioner you'd talk to, he thought as the stunned feeling began to subside. You can do this.
She turned her attention to a hangnail on her thumb. "I don't know what I want. I don't know if I know him well enough to marry him. Marriage is forever. Forever's a long time."
"And you'd rather give the baby away?" he asked her gently, seeing tears slide down her face.
"No," she told him, dropping her head against his shoulder. "But I don't know what else to do."
He knew what he ought to say. Tell her to repent of her sins, get married immediately, and have her baby. But, somehow, he couldn't make himself say it. Her tears were soaking through his shirt and he could not tell her, in that vulnerable state, to commit her life to a man she admitted to hardly knowing. He'd make his peace with God later.
"How does your aunt feel about all of this?" he asked at length.
Maggie sat up. "She said that if I want to keep the baby, I can live with her. My…my parents won't have me back if I do." Her voice trembled only a little.
He smiled softly at her. "Then I think you should go stay with your aunt," he said. "And keep your baby. Give Bill a chance to change your mind. If he wants to join the Navy, it's his own decision to make. He must care a great deal about you to make such an offer when you gave him an easy opportunity to abandon you." The words made his stomach clench, but what else could he do? Bill Scully was willing to give up his calling for her. She deserved that. Her child deserved it.
Something changed in her face as she absorbed his words. "The Navy is a good career," she said quietly. "They put a satellite into space, you know. In March."
"I'm sure he'd give you time, Maggie. He'd understand. He's a good man."
She shook herself a little. "I'm sorry, Tom. I am. When you're a priest, come home and I'll confess it all to you properly." She handed him a prayer card emblazoned with a picture of Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque. "She's my favorite saint. I prayed a Chaplet of the Two Hearts before I phoned you. Maybe you'll think of me when you see her."
Maggie got to her feet and began to walk along the stone path that wound up the hill from the lake. After a few steps, she stopped and turned back to him. "You said you had something to talk to me about?"
The words clung to the insides of his throat like ivy, but he forced them out. "I just… I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry, but I'll be returning to finish seminary in the fall. I wish it could have been different."
She offered him a warm smile. "I know you do. But I'm so proud of you! I guess I'll have to get used to calling you Father McCue before long."
He smiled back like it didn't hurt. "I guess you will. I'll pray for you and Bill and the baby."
***
Scully walks slowly next to Ellen, listening to the ceaseless tumble and crash of the waves to her left. She's glad she came. It's hard to believe that six days ago she was lying in a hospital room, waiting to die. She tires easily and has to take advantage of the benches lining the boardwalk, but still, she's come a long way in less than a week. She runs her hand over the back of her neck.
The two women are alternately eating from an extra large container of French fries drowning in salt and vinegar (in Scully's hands) and an extra large plastic tub of caramel corn (in Ellen's hands). Scully is, if nothing else, enjoying the novelty of needing to put on weight instead of politely declining dessert.
"I can't believe how bad you beat me at skee-ball," Ellen says for the third time. "You had almost a hundred tickets."
"I am still the reigning champion!"
"You're not a very graceful winner," Ellen says reproachfully.
"You're jealous."
Ellen sticks her tongue out before eating a few fries. "Remember the first time we came to the beach together?" she asks, tossing out a handful of popcorn to the delight of several fat seagulls.
"Senior Week, 1981."
"It was epic."
"Thirty-six alcohol violations, wasn't it? We papered the walls with them." Scully feels only a distant connection to the girl who had come here that summer. Her younger self sometimes seems more like a relative she recognizes from photo albums than a person she actually was.
"Thirty-eight. You finally gave it up to the hapless Marcus that week. God, you're a fun drunk. And easy."
Scully feels herself blush. She suspects that's due in part to recently telling Mulder-who-wasn't-Mulder about Marcus. While drunk. And well on her way to being easy. "I felt guilty after the fire truck thing at prom, I guess. And I had this bizarre hang-up about going to college a virgin."
Ellen scatters more popcorn. "I felt that way about tenth grade," she says understandingly. "But that's before I knew you. You were a sobering influence."
Scully grins, then walks over to a souvenir shop with a display of hermit crabs in the window. She presses her nose to the glass and watches them lumber about.
"They're not really as cuddly as Queequeg," Ellen remarks doubtfully. "I mean, if you're in search of a new animal companion."
Scully takes a step back and eyes up a large bluish shell in the corner of the tank. "Not for me. Mulder said he wanted one."
"Ah," says Ellen. "Mulder."
Scully prickles at the tone in her voice. She is still coming to terms with what happened two nights ago, and the memory makes her squirm. "Is something wrong with that?"
Ellen rolls her eyes. "Oh, Dana. Come on. You've got it bad.”
Scully takes her eyes from the tank and starts walking again. "I asked if he wanted anything from the beach and he said a hermit crab," she informs Ellen. "He stopped by for a visit before I left."
"A naked visit?"
"Ellen!" She stops in her tracks, and Ellen catches up.
"Don't you 'Ellen!' me, Dana Scully. I have been here with you before." She points an accusing finger in Scully's face.
Scully sighs, and walks over to a bench. She sits down and figures that lying to Ellen of all people is a fairly pointless enterprise. "It was not a naked visit. But I had entertained the possibility." She nibbles at a soggy fry.
"Oh dear," Ellen says, sitting down and placing the plastic bucket to her side. "Tell me all about it. And I'll promise not to be pissed at you for holding out on me."
Scully closes her eyes and lets the story tumble out. When she finishes, she gives Ellen a sheepish look.
Ellen looks appalled. "Wow. He just left? Just like that?"
"Just like that." Somehow it's easier to bear now that she's shared it. "But I know why he left. He thinks he's protecting me. His plan is to be a jackass and make me hate him for my own good."
Ellen squeezes Scully's knee. "And you wanted to buy him a hermit crab? That's kind of sad, honey."
Scully can't help but laugh. "Yeah. It kind of is."
Ellen drums her fingers on her thighs. "When you told me you were planning to lose your virginity to Marcus Baxter at prom, I told you to go for it. And when Sylvia fucked it up and you decided to carry the thing out at Senior Week, I was very supportive."
"Yes, you were. You got a whole box of condoms for me."
"That's because Marcus was a man-slut, as you discovered shortly thereafter. But anyway. I was there for you in college, even when you fell hopelessly for bad boys and bummed their cigarettes and wore too much black eyeliner. And when you went off to Stanford and decided to have an affair with some hundred-year-old guy, I said, 'Dana, if he's bound and determined to cheat on his wife, it might as well be with you.'' Which is ironic, considering my own marriage…"
Scully cringes. "Ellen, please tell me you're going somewhere with this, because right now it feels like an R-rated version of This Is Your Life."
"Sorry. Okay, here's the thing. This Mulder guy? Don't do this. I'm telling you that I think it's a bad idea. I don't care how hot he is."
Scully tries not to sound defensive. "Why?"
"He's not your usual brand of thrill-seeker, Dana. I mean, Daniel was an adulterer and Justin was into scuba diving - "
"Skydiving. Your point?"
"My point is that your partner strikes me as a lot more intense than that. I only know a little bit about your work, but it's heavy stuff that he's gotten you involved in. International conspiracy stuff, right? And I just think bringing all of that into the bedroom is going to be a disaster. Plus, you know, you have to work together."
Scully wraps her arms around herself and is aware of itchy particles of sand against her scalp. Goddamned wind. "Ellen, I appreciate your honesty. I always have. But you're not telling me anything I haven't already thought of."
"I think he's going to get you killed," Ellen says sharply. "I don't want to lose you to this…this mission of his. I don't want it to swallow you up. And he doesn't even seem interested, Dana. I mean, an obvious come-on like that and he just leaves?"
Scully blinks away the tears that sting her eyes. "I told you, he - "
Ellen looks at her sadly. "I know what you told me. But are you sure? I mean, really sure? Or is it just what you want to believe? It's romantic, I know. This lone man on a quest, so noble and driven that he can't be distracted by love. Everyone wants to be the princess who wins the knight, Dana, but they always forget that there's never just one dragon."
Scully squeezes her eyes closed until she's certain she won't cry. She knows how she must look, playing Sancho Panza to Mulder's Don Quixote. Both of them existing in a parallel dimension where everything is shrouded in mystery and half-truths. She's aware of how stupid it would all sound here on this sunny beach. But when she's with him she knows things - things she could never articulate. She sees giants instead of windmills.
"I'm really sure, Ellen. I think it was just too soon. He's feeling incredibly guilty right now. I should have given him some more time." She smiles when Ellen leans over to give her a hug and kiss her cheek.
"Well, I'm here for you then, if this is what you want," her friend tells her. "But I wish to hell you'd just go out and buy a better vibrator, because you have really shitty taste in men."
***
Mulder lies on a twin-sized bed in what passes for a motel in this part of rural Pennsylvania, listening to the rain lash against the corrugated tin roof. He's gazing at a series of photographs with a glassy-eyed stare and lamenting the poor cell-phone reception that so often plagues him in the field.
He'd come to this bucolic one-horse town (well, actually, there are numerous horses and few cars) to investigate the alleged kidnapping of Myfanwy Bowen by a person or persons unknown. Or, according to the claims of Myfanwy's distraught family, fairies. When the police arrived to investigate the missing child report, the parents asserted that the baby in the cradle was not their own. DNA tests are still pending.
"A changeling, Mulder?" Skinner had asked dryly. "Does nothing stretch the bounds of credibility for you?"
"Kidnapping's still a federal crime even if the suspect is mythological," Mulder had replied.
"You don't even know that the baby's missing!"
"We don't know that she isn't. If she is, every hour that passes…"
A sigh. And then, "Don't call Scully if you can help it."
"I wouldn't consider it," Mulder assured him, being completely truthful.
He props himself up on his elbow and reads the file again, though he has it memorized, and wonders how you begin to search for a baby when you're not positive the baby's even gone. He sighs, glancing at the Bakelite phone on the dresser, and wills someone to call him with the results of the DNA test. The local authorities have been understandably reluctant to provide resources before finding out whether or not a crime has even been committed.
If he's honest with himself - and he generally is - he thinks the case is bogus. But it got him out of DC, away from the Scully-shaped hole in the office, and gave him something to focus on beyond the present clusterfuck of his life.
Scully's come-on the other night was… he doesn't even know what it was. He needs an elaborate portmanteau word for it that his current vocabulary lacks. He suspects the Germans have something appropriate but, as with most arcane knowledge he does not himself possess, German is firmly in the province of Scully.
What possessed her to choose that moment? What possessed her to choose any moment, actually? He still longs to know what happened between her and van Blundht before he interrupted them. Had she been toying with this idea all along and old Eddie just lucked out, or had the man's deception triggered something in her? Clearly it hadn't put her off the idea, at any rate.
Those cool, white hands along his face… does Scully have any idea what it took for him to leave? Mulder tries to imagine her sucking down a beer and discussing it all with Ellen in some sand-strewn bar at the beach. It seems improbable, but he has given up trying to figure her out. She once feigned eating an insect to impress a sideshow freak, and time has only made her less predictable.
Outside, branches whip against the roof and the lamp flickers. Mulder swings his feet over the edge of the bed, getting up in search of alternate light in case the power goes out. His new flashlight had not come in by the time he had left this morning.
Five minutes of searching turns up three half-melted candles and a book of matches from Big Jim's Bail Bonds. He returns to the bed and thinks back five years to a night as rainy as this one, Scully at his motel room door, addled by panic and a touch of embarrassment. He remembers her robe falling, her back as sinuous as a violin in the flickering candlelight. Glimpses of her firm breasts two nights prior, aureoles tight circles around her nipples…
Don't, he orders himself sternly. Her recent actions aren't permission for you to start mixing business and pleasure.
But he's already hard, and curses himself for even so brief an indulgence. Avoidance of such thoughts has been a strange point of pride with him up until now, as though it kept him elevated above those lesser mortals who ended up screwing their partners against flimsy simulated-wood paneling while on assignments.
As though it absolved him of the Diana fiasco.
A shower, Mulder decides, is in order. He could use one anyway and perhaps it will relax him to the point of not gritting his teeth. He strips quickly and pads across the dishwater-colored carpet to the bathroom, hoping the lightning doesn't start up again.
The pipes squeal and clank in protest when he turns the faucet on, but the clamor subsides after a moment and he gets in. The water pressure is surprisingly good, the spray hard enough to sting a little, and the ache in his cock starts to abate. He can get through this. In another life, where the stakes weren't so high, he could let himself give in to loving her.
In another life he wouldn't know her.
He closes his eyes against the memory of her in a Rhode Island hotel room, his faithful Beatrice come to lead him from his own private hell. Mulder leans against the tile and surrenders, hand sliding across his thigh, and he wishes he knew how to let the world demand less of him.
***
Skinner contemplates the best way to approach this. Mulder will be a pain in the ass about the entire thing no matter what, acting as though it's some denigration of his holy personal crusade. Scully, who will be eager for a fresh start after the note on which her leave began, will probably make a polite speech about what an excellent idea it is and how she looks forward to solidifying any skills that can help her instincts in the field. This will have the unintended consequence of pissing Mulder off and putting the two of them at odds from the get-go.
He's certain that Scully has no idea that she is the most earnest bullshit artist he has ever met. He's also fairly certain that Scully does not, in fact, have any idea that she even is a bullshit artist.
Skinner twirls his pen in his fingers and looks at the seminar information again. The trick, he decides, is to have them both pissed off at him for sending them, and thus unite them against a common enemy. He'd sensed something was amiss when Mulder left for Pennsylvania yesterday. He was edgy, even for Mulder, and experience has taught Skinner that such anxiety is usually Scully-related in some capacity. So he called his friend Charlotte Miller down in Tallahassee, and she was more than happy to shoehorn his luckless agents into her twelfth annual workshop on Developing Empowered Teams: People Power Promotes Productivity.
He's already spoken to Dr. Zuckerman about the conference, assuring the man that these events present no tactical simulations. The most strenuous thing Scully will likely have to do is help design packaging to send an egg unharmed through the mail, or whatever moronic crap they've devised this year. Dr. Zuckerman said he thought the idea of a teamwork seminar was a very good one, and was likely to help restore Scully's sense of normalcy. Skinner thanked the man and hoped he did not sound smug.
Mulder, whom Skinner is convinced will have him on blood pressure medication within the next decade, has his grudging sympathy. He knows what it is like to be consumed by something to the point where it blinds you to everything else. To the people who love you. He and Sharon had drifted apart so slowly he can't even pinpoint when it began.
Back in Vietnam, when there was nothing to do but listen to the rain fall and wonder whether you'd drown or burn, the talk would turn to what would happen if one were captured.
"Think about it this way," a private named Gutierrez had said. "They don't start with the real bad stuff right away. They work you up, you know? So maybe you can build up a tolerance. Like if there's a scale from one to a hundred, you probably wouldn't notice the difference from one to two. And two to three. Maybe you're up to a hundred and you don't even realize it."
Skinner, twenty and homesick, wanted desperately to believe this was possible. It seemed plausible, there in the steaming jungle where foot-rot and deadly snakes were minor obstacles. If nothing else, the fucking war had taught him you could get used to anything. It was a good day when you went to bed without anyone's brains splattered across your shirt.
He has no idea where he is on that imaginary scale these days, his point of reference having been completely skewed by entanglement with the most depraved people a society can produce. And Sharon, at least, had accepted it would be impossible for her to ever fully understand. She granted him the validity of his perspective, and that concession was enough to help him try and stay in check at times. And even then he'd eventually calved off like a glacier. But Mulder has only Scully as a counterpoint, and she's hardly the girl next door.
There is something fierce and lonely about her which makes Skinner worry that she'll go too far one day, snapping the cord that keeps her within acceptable boundaries. This stunt with Mulder and Ostelhoff came perilously close. Recalling the other night in the hospital still produces a brief adrenaline rush, and he is more certain than ever that her recovery was worth the price, paid in bees and blood. He has no regrets, and only prays that she never discovers the truth about his involvement. What Mulder thinks of that choice - and the underlying motives - is inconsequential.
He wonders what there is between them, what made her cross the Rubicon and leave her own aspirations on a distant shore. He wonders when she stopped following orders and started following Mulder.
***
Ellen reaches behind her to grab the pitcher of margaritas. She refills her large glass for the third time, feeling pleasantly woozy and stupid from the mixture of tequila and warm bubbling water. Across from her, Dana looks positively torpid, her black bathing suit giving her an odd, disembodied appearance in the dark. A small raft floats between them, bearing chips, guacamole, and grilled shrimp.
"You're allowed one more margarita," Ellen tells her, holding the pitcher out. "I'll pour it now because you look like you're going to fall asleep and I'd hate for you to miss your rations."
"My what?"
"Your liver has been working overtime with the chemo, I'm sure, and this stuff is pretty much tequila and maybe highlighter fluid or whatever makes it this color. I don't think we should tempt fate. Plus, what do you weigh? Ninety pounds?"
Dana eats a shrimp. "Ninety five, if you must know."
"My point still stands." She reaches over and tops Dana's glass off, only sloshing a little into the hot tub. "Pace yourself," she cautions, returning the pitcher to the deck.
"I may regret this tomorrow," Dana remarks, contemplating her beverage. "Even on short rations. I have no tolerance anymore."
"Well, you can sleep until two in the afternoon if you want to. And when you get up, you don't even have to use your brain. No cadavers. No fugitives. Just sand and sea."
"I'll drink to that," she laughs, raising her glass and then taking a long swallow. She rests the margarita on the ledge behind her head.
Ellen sets her own drink down. "So," she says. "I want to hear more about Mr. FBI. The cute, work-obsessed jerk."
Dana groans.
"What? That's how you described him, right?"
"That was years ago."
"Yeah, and you ditched a cute, non-obsessive, nice guy to go up to Jersey in your off time and - what was it you guys were looking for again?"
Dana slinks lower in the tub, glaring over the frothing water. "Cannibal killer. You and Missy kept calling my apartment and saying, 'Hello, Clarice.'"
Ellen grins, remembering. "Oh, yeah! You were so pissed. I forgot that was that time. I get your insane cases mixed up. Anyway, you can see where perhaps I'd want to know more about your partner's allure."
"The Clarice Starling jokes get old."
"No they don't. Eat some chips and tell me about Mulder. What are you going to do now? Show up to work without your drawers? I could see a fabulous Basic Instinct moment in your future."
Dana rolls her eyes. "That's great, Ellen. Very helpful. Besides, he'd probably have me committed."
"So you're saying you've considered it?" Ellen asks slyly.
Dana sniffs. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."
"Pfft. That means you have. Probably more than once. Didn't you tell me you and Jack Willis christened his desk once?"
"No!"
Ellen cocks her head thoughtfully. "Really? Hm. Maybe that's back when I was living vicariously through you and just thought it sounded hot. Please tell me I didn't make up the handcuff thing too…"
"You're seriously warped, Ellen."
"Moi? Who's planning to seduce her partner?" She retrieves her margarita and takes a hefty swig. "Which brings us back to my prior question. What happens now?"
Dana shrugs, and pulls the raft over to help herself to some guacamole. "I don't know, to tell you the truth. I haven't spoken to him since he left. If nothing else, I'll be back to work before long and things will just have to get back to normal. We're pretty good at pretending things never happened."
"Let's call him right now," Ellen says, feeling suddenly inspired. "Where's your phone?"
Dana does that thing with her eyebrow. "I am not drunk-dialing Mulder. And my phone's inside on the charger."
"If I were sober I'd go in there and get it."
"If you were sober, you'd never consider doing it."
"You'd better hope not, because I won't always be drunk," Ellen informs her haughtily. "So what about kids, Dana? You think maybe this is the guy? Pop out a few Junior Hoovers and take family vacations to Mount Rushmore?"
Something hardens in Dana's face. "I recently discovered that I can't have children," she says.
Ellen has the distinct impression that Dana is saying this for the first time, trying out the weight and rhythm of words in her mouth. "Oh, honey…I don't even know what to…is this because of the cancer? The radiation?"
"No, actually. I had spoken to my doctor about egg harvesting due to the possibility of infertility caused by the cancer treatments. But, um…" she taps her fingers against her lips. "There was nothing to harvest."
"What?"
Dana's laugh is sharp and raw around the edges, like the lid off a cheap tin can. "That's what I said. I assume it has to do with when I was, you know, taken."
Ellen wants to tell her that this is exactly the kind of shit she was thinking of when she told her to drop this thing with Mulder. Look at yourself, she wants to scream. You're a survivor, Dana, but you keep returning to us a little more broken. Soon there won't be anything left.
But they've been friends for almost twenty years, and, even intoxicated, she knows when to hold her tongue. "You could adopt," she suggests.
Dana snorts, gazing out at the inky water. "Come on, Ellen. Let's go out on a very long limb and stipulate that everything ends up wine and roses with Mulder and me. You really think two federal agents - particularly two with our personnel files - are going to be allowed to adopt a child? We'd be lucky to wind up with a hamster."
"You wouldn't give it all up for a family?"
Dana shakes her head slowly, her wide eyes still focused out to sea. "I'm not sure if I know how to walk away anymore," she whispers.
Ellen silently reaches for her friend's hand, hoping to keep her anchored in a harbor close to home.
***
Bill rolls over in bed to look at his wife's sleeping form. She's curled on her side, wrapped around the long body pillow that helps to keep her aching hips elevated. They've never reached this point in a pregnancy before, and the excitement of passing the twenty-week mark has Tara reveling in every new symptom, however uncomfortable. "The baby's getting so heavy it's putting pressure on my pelvic bones!" she announced happily, opening the bag to show him the pillow.
He sits up against the headboard, marveling at the curve of her belly, at the way it tugs her back forward and changes her whole bearing when she stands. He likes how her body has softened and spread, and he is endlessly fascinated by the fact that his growing child is causing all of this.
Bill slides his hand under her shirt, drawing circles on her back to wake her. "Time to get up," he says. "Doctor's appointment."
Tara shifts, then rolls heavily onto her back. "Mmf," she grumbles, sitting up next to him. "You know, you don't even have to come to all of these appointments. They're quite routine."
He shrugs, smiling at her. "I know that. But I like to." And I want to be there if we lose this one too, he thinks. Two pregnancies ago, at a routine four month checkup, they'd discovered the baby had died and Tara waited at the doctor's office for two hours until anyone could contact him. A quick glance reveals that she knows exactly what he's thinking.
She takes his hand and places it on her belly. "This one is going to be fine, Bill. I can feel it."
Her skin is warm and taut, restless with the small life unfolding inside. "Me too."
"So you still don't want to find out if it's a boy or a girl?" Tara asks. "You're not curious?"
"Extremely curious. But it just seems like too good of a surprise to ruin. Why, are you having second thoughts?"
His wife grins at him. "Only because I want to settle on a name. But other than that, no. I'm glad we're waiting."
They hadn't much discussed names yet, fearing it would tempt fate, but Bill is feeling optimistic. Even if Tara went into labor now, the baby would have a fair shot at survival. He taps his hands against his thighs, thinking for a moment. "What about Jordan for a boy and Hannah for a girl?"
Tara looks surprised. "I figured you'd suggest William and Melissa, to be honest."
"A boy should have his own name," Bill says, speaking from experience. "And Melissa… I don't think I could handle it. I know my mom couldn't."
Tara nods thoughtfully. "Hannah's pretty. It means grace. I'm so-so on Jordan, though."
"We'll come up with something. It'll be nice to have Mom and Dana here to help out at Christmas."
Tara pats her belly. "Yes, it will. I'm so glad Dana's coming. They still have no idea what sent her into remission?"
Bill hesitates briefly. "No," he says. "We just have to be thankful, I guess."
"Do you think she's back to the Church for good now?"
Bill knows his sister's distance from God has been of great concern to Tara - who leads a Bible study group - and that she has been praying daily for her. "She asked for Father McCue in the hospital, and Mom says she's been going to church every morning before visiting in the oncology ward. So maybe so."
"And He touched her hand, and the fever left her. And she arose, and ministered unto them," Tara recites.
"Dana mentioned the Book of Matthew when I asked her about coming to see the baby."
They look at each other for a moment, then at Tara's belly. "Matthew means gift of God," Tara informs him.
Bill nods slowly. "I like it," he says. "Let's say Hannah or Matthew." He knows Tara will change her mind approximately twenty times before the baby arrives, but simply having begun the decision-making process seems to please her enormously.
She gets out of bed and starts undressing for a shower. "Do you remember that woman Louisa who used to work with me? Her brother Sam just moved to College Park to do research on some kind of fungus or something. He's single, and I was thinking he and Dana might get along well. Should I call her?"
"Yes," he says too quickly.
Tara pauses and gives him an odd look. "You're awfully eager."
"It would just be nice to see Dana settled down with someone. Getting on with her life now that she's well."
Laughter at this. "Settled down? I'm talking about dinner, Bill."
"I mean eventually," he amends. "But a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, as they say."
Tara studies him for a moment. "She's dating someone you don't like, isn't she?"
Dammit. "I don't believe she's dating anyone."
"Hmm. That was a very carefully worded answer. Out with it."
Bill sighs. "I think she's having an affair with her partner."
"An affair? He's married? Oh, Dana."
"No, no. He's not married. But there's something definitely going on with them and I think it would be good if she had other options."
"What's wrong with him?" she asks, walking into the bathroom to weigh herself. She weighs herself at least twice a day.
Jesus, where to begin? "He's, well… he's weird, for starters. And he believes in aliens and just the stupidest mumbo-jumbo you ever heard of."
"Like what?"
"There was this chip thing he found or stole or who knows what, and he was convinced it would help Dana's cancer. So he had her doctor put it in her neck and -"
"I thought you said they didn't know what caused her remission," Tara cuts in, peering around the door.
"They don't! Her doctor had never seen anything like it! It could have been a chunk of tin foil off Mulder's hat for all anyone knows. The guy's delusional."
"Dana's not delusional. And she has a degree in physics. And medicine," Tara points out, pulling on her robe. "Bright girl, as I recall." She winks.
"Yeah, well. Love is blind. And frequently oblivious."
"But it's not suicidal. And she's in remission, isn't she?"
"It's a coincidence," Bill asserts. "Go get in the shower."
"Dana's a grown woman. She can make her own choices. She's not your kid sister anymore."
"He's crazy, Tara," Bill says stubbornly. "And the federal government has armed him."
She walks back over to the bed and smirks. "The federal government has armed you too. Maybe you should fly back to DC and solve this via pistols at dawn. I'm sure Dana would be really keen on the idea."
Bill looks sullen. "I am trying to be a good brother."
Tara kisses him on the top of the head. "No you're not. You're trying to be a good father. Which is not your responsibility in this case."
He puts his arms around his wife and presses his face to the layers of muscle and skin that separates him from the baby. "Tara, I lied. I want to find out the gender today," he says.
She strokes his cheek. "You realize I'm going to start driving your crazy with paint samples and questions about middle names, right?"
"I hope so," he replies. "I want everything to be perfect when this kid gets here."
"That's something you have got to let go of," she says gently. "Not everything can be the way you want it all the time. You get this picture in your head of How It Should Be, Bill, and you set yourself up for disappointment every time. Look at what happened with Dana and your father. I see that in you, and it worries me."
He holds her tighter, wishing she were wrong.
***
Scully wakes up just after ten, and sits up cautiously. Her mouth feels like the inside of a sock and her hair smells like bromine, but there seems to be no other damage from last night.
This is their last day at the beach, and she's both hesitant and eager to go home. She'd stayed up for a while after they got out of the tub last night, mulling over Ellen's question. What would happen now?
Mulder's not an idiot. He can't have been totally taken by surprise after seeing her on the couch with his doppelganger. (God, will the crawling mortification of that ever fully go away?) She knows it's not all in her head, this notion that he's trying to protect her by hurting her. She's seen him looking at her, a thousand little moments that she's saved up like pennies in a jar.
He hasn't called her once since leaving, and she doesn't know what she'd do if he had. There's a small part of her that wishes she had called him last night after all, letting the words skate out on drunken wheels. She's curious about what she would have said.
Scully gets out of bed and walks to the big picture window above the cedar chest. She draws the shade up, the late morning sun stabbing her eyes. She forces herself to stare out the window until she acclimates, blobs of color swimming across her vision like tropical fish.
Work, she decides. Work is neutral territory. I'll go in tomorrow and we will deal with this like adults.
***
Part 3
RATING: Strong R verging on NC-17 for language and sexual content.
SPOILERS: Redux II and Detour
DISCLAIMER: Breaking seal constitutes acceptance of agreement. Proceed at your own risk. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. For recreational purposes only. Driver does not carry cash. And, as always, thank you for choosing Aloysia Airlines for your direct flight from 1013 to fanfic.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story was written for xf_is_love . It wasn't supposed to be nearly so long, but it just kind of snowballed and, well, here's what it turned into. Many, many thanks to dashakay , leucocrystal , andscarletbaldy for their amazing job on helping me to get this story written and edited in just four short weeks. You ladies are the best!
The story that Scully remembers about the Milky Way is from L.M. Montgomery's The Story Girl.
Author's notes continued at the end, spoilers contained therein.
***
Ellen rests her foot on the edge of the bathtub, balancing the phone against her shoulder. "Pick up, pick up, pick up," she mumbles to herself, painting her toenails with Cherries in the Snow.
"Hello?"
"Dana! How are you doing?"
"Ellen! I'm good, thanks. Much better than the last time you saw me. Actually, I was just about to call you and see if you wanted to have lunch tomorrow. I've been home for almost three full days and I haven't seen you yet."
"Sorry," Ellen says, wiping a red smear of polish from her tub. "No lunch. I'm booked. And so are you."
"Huh?"
"You're coming to the beach with me." She screws the lid back on the bottle and fans her toes.
"What?
"It's Andrew's first weekend at Colin's place since the separation," Ellen tells her. "The house feels too empty, and he's there all next week. Plus I want to get in as much time at the condo as I can before that little tramp gets her germs all over it."
"Oh, El, I'm sorry."
She sighs. "It's okay. I mean, hey. I lost forty pounds of Ellen, one hundred and ninety pounds of douchebag, and only gained, what? A hundred and ten pounds of whore. That still puts me like a hundred and twenty pounds ahead."
Dana laughs. "That's a very positive outlook."
"Thanks. Anyway. I want you to come with me. It's just for a few days. I know you're not working and I also know that your mom probably has you climbing the walls by this point."
"I wouldn't go that far."
"What, does she have your gun to the back of your head? I love your mom, Dana, but you know she's wound a little tight." She leaves the bathroom and opens her closet to remove the lone suitcase her worthless husband didn't take when he left.
"Maybe climbing them a little," Dana concedes.
"Ha! I knew it. Good. I have some errands to run today, and I'm planning to leave tomorrow around noon. I'll pick you up."
"I appreciate the invitation, but I don't know if I'm up for a trip to Ocean City."
"Yeah, I'm sure all of the relaxation is going to wear you out. It's too cold for the ocean. I'm thinking boardwalk, hot tub, and greasy food. You know you want to," she wheedles. She became an expert at coaxing Dana Scully into things when they were fifteen, and the skill has only improved.
There is a longish pause. "Well, other than work, I don't get away very often…"
"No. No, you don't. This will be our 'Brain Cancer and Cheaters Suck and We Are Done With Both of Them, Hallelujah' vacation." Ellen walks over to the mirror and turns sideways, pulling in her stomach. Not too bad, really. Maybe she'll bring a two piece for the hot tub.
Dana laughs again. "All right. I'll pack the Wild Turkey, Thelma."
"I'll see you tomorrow, Louise."
***
"Back here!" Scully calls when he comes in.
Mulder follows her voice to the bedroom, where she is sitting cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by stacks of neatly folded clothes. A half-filled suitcase is behind her.
"Wow," he says, sitting next to a pile of shirts. "How long are you going away for? Should I put in a request for a new unflappable skeptic?"
She smiles at him. "Four days. I'm not bringing all of this. I'm just organizing things. Getting rid of some stuff I don't wear anymore." She smoothes invisible wrinkles from a pair of jeans before putting them in the suitcase. "Thanks for stopping by."
Mulder is always thrown by the sight of her in jeans. It is akin to running into your teacher at the grocery store. Right person, wrong context. "Is your mom going too?" he asks innocently.
Scully's head snaps up. "You've got to be - oh." She trails off when she sees that he's kidding.
He smiles. "That bad?"
She flushes. "I know I seem terribly ungrateful, Mulder. But she's smothering me. I let her, mostly because of Missy, I guess, but I need a break before I lose my patience." She refolds a polo shirt and sighs. "She left some lamb in the fridge if you want any."
"No, I ate before I came over. But thanks." He touches her shoulder for a moment, then rests his hands in his lap. "And you don't sound ungrateful. You sound bored."
"I miss work. I want to go back."
"Scully, you haven't even been out of the hospital for a week. What does Dr. Zuckerman say?"
"He's very impressed by my progress," she says defensively. "And I've gained three pounds, since I know you were going to ask."
"Never crossed my mind," he lies, feeling relieved. He'd been pondering small acts of espionage, like replacing her milk with heavy cream or injecting all of her food with melted butter. He knows, however, that were any of these plans feasible, the wily Mrs. Scully would have beaten him to them.
Scully looks more disbelieving than usual. "Mmm-hmm," she says, contemplating two pairs of khakis. "So tell me what you're working on right now."
He shrugs, then lays back on her bed, his hands beneath his head. "Eh, nothing too interesting. The usual ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties."
"Nothing that goes bump in the night?"
"I dunno. Flashlight's busted."
"You have got to be more careful with your government-issued toys. How many cell phones have you been through now?" She gets up and walks to the dresser.
"Hey, our federal budget deficit isn't going to grow itself, you know."
She shakes her head, and he imagines that he can see her smiling. Mulder savors these times, little hammocks of quiet that stretch between the trees in the dark forest they've been stumbling through.
She selects a sweatshirt and comes back to the bed to continue packing. When she sits down next to him, she's closer than she was before. "Do you want anything from the beach?" she asks, putting the sweatshirt into her suitcase.
"Thrasher's fries."
"I don't think they'll travel well, but I'll try my best."
"I'd be obliged. And get me a hermit crab."
Scully laughs, then smiles down at him. "Are your fish getting lonely?"
She's pretty, he thinks, which is different from beautiful. At work she is often beautiful which, coupled with her increasingly severe tailoring and coiffure, makes her seem inaccessible. But right now she isn't wearing makeup and her hair is escaping from a ponytail, falling around her face like a mantilla. Her cotton pajamas look worn and comfortable, and her smile is ever so slightly goofy.
They don't… they don't just do it because she's your partner.
Scully turns sideways, tapping her lip as she peers into the suitcase again. He sees little ridges on the exposed area of her chest, just below the prominent pockets above her collarbones. He turns his head for a better view, making himself take in the havoc her illness has wrought. Reminding himself that distance is best for them both.
"This is ridiculous," she exclaims suddenly. She puts two stacks of clothes in her suitcase, tops them with her toiletry case, running shoes, and a bathing suit. "Done." She zips the lid and flops back on the bed next to Mulder.
"Scully," he says, still facing her. "I think you may be rushing into things. Have you devised an appropriate algorithm for your pants-to-shirts ratio to maximize your options?"
She rolls her eyes at the ceiling. "I'm not that bad and you know it."
"You're bad enough that jokes about it aren't uncalled for."
She looks over at him. "I've missed you," she says frankly. "I'm not used to not being around you all the time. You're not…" she pauses, appearing to search for the right word. "You don't hover. You've never acted like my being sick somehow diminished me. My mom, she… I just hope you'll come by more, Mulder."
He laughs, and hopes it doesn't sound broken. "And here I was just thinking it was best that you were taking some time to get away from everything."
She turns onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. "Everything?"
He shrugs, head still pillowed on his hands.
"You mean you. Mulder, please don't tell me you're holding yourself responsible for my illness. Which, may I remind you, is in remission so you're a little late with the self-flagellation anyway." She pokes him in the ribs.
He wishes she wouldn't be so cavalier. Does she really believe that Blevins shot himself out of remorse? That the chip is the period at the end of this chapter? For all that she sees with those sharp blue eyes, she's missing the big picture. He's given a lot of thought to his conversation with the Gunmen. Pushing her away isn't a perfect plan, but it's better than anything else he's got. At the very least, she'll probably resent him and then they can move towards active dislike. And, eventually, indifference. He is, he has discovered, exceptionally good at alienating people. But trying to do it is turning out far harder than he expected. She's too easy to talk to.
"I just think some time away from work will do you good." So I can get you reassigned, he doesn't say.
"I've been away from work for a while now. I feel useless. That's not good for me at all."
"You don't know what's good for you. Go to Ocean City with Ellen and play some drunken skee-ball. Eat at a disreputable establishment."
Scully smiles. "Sounds like Senior Week."
"That's your idea of Senior Week? Scully, tell me the truth. You were class president, weren't you?"
"Secretary."
"Aha. You and your little notes…"
She smiles again, and leans over to brush a fall of hair from his eyes. She smoothes her hand over his temple, down to his collar. "You need a haircut," she remarks, her mouth inches from his.
Mulder picks up the woody scent of rosemary on her breath.
It would be so simple to tell himself that she's confused, that this has to do with her remission, with the chip, with gathering her rosebuds while she may. But he knows it would be a lie. Just months ago, he saw her on her couch with a man she thought was him, lips inches apart as theirs are now. She was dying then.
It would be the easiest thing in the world to kiss her, he thinks, the gap between the top two buttons of her pajama top catching his eye. She's not wearing a bra. He wants to slide his arm down and pull her against him. To run his other hand over her waist, up the gentle rise of her hip and along her tapering thigh.
Her careful fingers are light on his skin, and he closes his eyes when they trail over his jaw.
"Scully," he begins, but she cuts him off.
"You need to shave, too," she murmurs, her breasts skimming his shirt. "You've really let yourself go since returning from the dead. It's unprofessional."
He's aching to push her onto her back, but he knows that if he does, he'll cover her like Greek fire and burn them both to ashes. "Scully," he says again, but she presses a finger to his lips.
"The world's not going end."
But it almost did.
And that thought gives him the final motivation he needs to push her hand gently - but firmly - from his face.
"Mulder - "
He ignores the wounded look in her eyes when he stands. "Have a good time on your vacation," he says.
"Mulder, wait."
He doesn't look back when he leaves her room.
***
Thomas McCue loves the way his church smells. Dry, ancient scents of brickwork and plaster. Lemony oil for rubbing over the oak pews, and the sweet, heavy scent of incense. It is a holy smell to him, the air enriched with the millions of prayers that have been offered over the nearly two centuries this building has stood. President Kennedy himself attended Mass here on a few occasions.
He fills his lungs with this sacred air as he walks down the nave to the slight figure in the second row. "Good morning, Dana," he says, resting a hand on her shoulder.
She turns slightly and smiles at him with her mother's tired blue eyes. "Good morning, Father."
"May I sit down? If I'm not interrupting…"
Dana slides over. "Of course. And no, you're not interrupting." She looks towards the tall lancet windows made of stained glass at the north transept. "I was just thinking. I probably do that too much anyway." She laughs a little and faces him again, picking at something shiny in her lap.
"Is that a chaplet of Saint Peregrine?" he asks.
She nods, drawing her thumb across the medal. "It's my mother's."
He turns towards her, resting his left elbow on the back of the pew in front of them. "It's very pretty. She used to have a chaplet of the Two Hearts with the same kind of stone. What is it?"
"Larimar. She still has the other."
"I didn't know that. I know she's committed to the Devotion of the Sacred Heart, but hadn't seen her with it for years. She's had it for a long time now, I guess."
Dana tucks her hair behind her ears. "My grandmother gave it to her for her wedding, and she gave it to Missy for her First Communion. They found it in her things when she died and Mom keeps it in a drawer now."
A few awkward seconds tick by.
Father McCue clears his throat. "You've been here every day since you got home. I'm glad to see you returning to the Church, but I hope you're not overtaxing yourself." He cannot help but wonder if she is here to please or avoid her mother. Or both.
"No, Father. I come here in the morning, and then go to the hospital for a while. I sit, mostly. Visiting with the patients in the oncology ward."
"These visits to the hospital… do you regret leaving medicine?" He hopes she can't hear the hesitancy in his voice.
There is a faint, knowing smile on her lips. "No. I made the right choice on that. I still appreciate your guidance, Father. I go because I know what it feels like to be frightened of your own body. I just listen to people talk for the most part."
Feeling relieved, Father McCue pats her hand warmly. "You've always been compassionate, even when you were a tiny girl. I remember you helping Charles toddle to his seat after your older brother and sister had walked ahead. You couldn't have been more than four."
Dana shrugs, and he remembers that she is uncomfortable with praise.
He squeezes her hand, then lets it go. "I prayed for you while you were sick, Dana, and seeing you come through all of this has been such a blessing. I hope you continue to find peace within the Church." He stands up and is about to return to his office when she speaks again.
"Father McCue?" There's an anxious edge to the words.
"Yes?"
She closes her eyes for a moment, then reopens them before she speaks. "Never mind, Father." Dana checks her watch. "I'm leaving to head out of town in an hour or so. I'll be gone for about four days. Keep an eye on my mother. Don't let her worry too much."
He grins reassuringly. "I'll do my best."
Dana looks grateful as she gets to her feet. She leaves the pew and edges past him to walk back through the nave, pausing along the way to look at the elaborate windows. She leaves quietly, like a stray cat.
Father McCue heads to his office and pushes the door closed. He sits at the solid desk and opens a small drawer on the left-hand side. From it he withdraws a faded prayer card featuring Corrado Giaquinto's St. Margaret Mary Alacoque Contemplating the Sacred Heart of Jesus. He runs his finger over a ragged corner, then tucks it back into the drawer.
***
Thomas McCue was twenty-seven years old in August of 1958. He still came home to Chevy Chase in the summers, enjoying the freedom to travel around the nation's capital while helping out at his father's bike shop. In a few weeks he'd head back to start his final year of seminary. Or, at least he would be about to start it if he hadn't recently decided that he was going to forgo his calling to God to pursue a romantic interest.
He had known Maggie Gallagher her whole life, as her family lived two blocks away. She'd been a skinny freckled kid tagging behind her equally freckled sister Olive, who was his own age. But she was twenty two now, and he had felt something growing between them the past few summers. He and Maggie had spoken of things several months ago, very tentatively, when he was home for a visit. But he had been unable to make her any promises. His desire to serve Christ burned in him with a consuming flame, and he wasn't sure that Maggie wouldn't always be second best to that. He hadn't seen much of her in the month he'd been home.
His feelings for her were still strong when he went back to school, however. He prayed on it extensively, had spoken to his mentor, and, finally, come to the conclusion that the priesthood would not be appropriate given his thoughts about Maggie.
Anxiety made a hard knot in his stomach, and he felt again the weight of his decision. He wanted to talk to her about the future - their future - and try and restart his life as a man who would not be taking a vow of chastity. He had decided to ask her to dinner as a first date, feeling that a movie would be too impersonal. He'd already made reservations at an upscale restaurant for next Friday night.
He jumped when the telephone rang.
"Hello?" he asked, hoping his voice was steady.
"Tom? It's Maggie."
The knot in his stomach exploded into a flock of butterflies. "Maggie! I'm glad you called. I was just going to, that is… I wanted to speak to you about something."
There was a pause on the other end.
"Maggie?"
"I'm here, sorry. I wanted to talk to you about something as well. Something very important. Could you meet me somewhere?"
He thought fast. "How about the park? By that old red boathouse?" The park had a small lake - well, a large pond, really - but it would be romantic. An ideal spot to ask her to dinner.
"Yes," she agreed. "Yes, that would be good."
He tapped his hand nervously against his thigh. "Okay. I'll see you in ten minutes or so, I guess."
"I'll see you in ten." She hung up.
Thomas couldn't decide if time was dragging or flying, but it was certainly warped in some way. He made it to the park three minutes ahead of schedule, but she was already sitting on the bench when he got there. She wore a red dress with little white flowers.
"Hello, Tom," she said. "Sit down."
He did, feeling eager for a fresh start. "Maggie, about everything in March, I want you to know that
I - "
She shook her chestnut curls. "Tom, please. I need to get this out, okay?"
The knot reformed. "Okay."
"I'm leaving this evening. I'm…I'm staying at my aunt's for a while. Probably for a year, at least. I don't even know that I'll be coming back."
He felt punch-drunk. "What?" was all he could manage.
She picked at the stitching on her pocket. "I know it's sudden, and I'm sorry to be so abrupt. But I wanted to tell you in person."
"I don't understand. Why are you leaving?"
Maggie gazed at him, her eyes serious, and she pressed her open hand to her stomach.
Thomas McCue felt the earth fall away as he realized what she meant. "Maggie? Who -"
Her smile was sad. "Tom, after you left in March, I was so hurt. I didn't want you to realize how upsetting it all was because I know how much your faith means to you and I know it wasn't an easy choice. But Bill and I started spending more time together after you went back to the seminary and we…we became very close."
"Bill? Bill Scully? He did this to you?"
She looked at him sharply. "He didn't 'do' anything. It was a mistake we both made. I've made arrangements to have the baby given to a good family."
He stared at the ground. "Does Bill, uh…that is, have you told him your plans?" He had never had such trouble stringing together a simple sentence.
"He wants to get married immediately but I said no."
He didn't think he could be any more shocked, but that news left him gaping. "You said no?"
"He's going to be a doctor, Tom. I can't let him ruin his life over this. He wants to withdraw from medical school and join the Navy to support us. He says he could do more to help people that way anyhow."
"And you don't want that?" Just pretend she's any regular parishioner you'd talk to, he thought as the stunned feeling began to subside. You can do this.
She turned her attention to a hangnail on her thumb. "I don't know what I want. I don't know if I know him well enough to marry him. Marriage is forever. Forever's a long time."
"And you'd rather give the baby away?" he asked her gently, seeing tears slide down her face.
"No," she told him, dropping her head against his shoulder. "But I don't know what else to do."
He knew what he ought to say. Tell her to repent of her sins, get married immediately, and have her baby. But, somehow, he couldn't make himself say it. Her tears were soaking through his shirt and he could not tell her, in that vulnerable state, to commit her life to a man she admitted to hardly knowing. He'd make his peace with God later.
"How does your aunt feel about all of this?" he asked at length.
Maggie sat up. "She said that if I want to keep the baby, I can live with her. My…my parents won't have me back if I do." Her voice trembled only a little.
He smiled softly at her. "Then I think you should go stay with your aunt," he said. "And keep your baby. Give Bill a chance to change your mind. If he wants to join the Navy, it's his own decision to make. He must care a great deal about you to make such an offer when you gave him an easy opportunity to abandon you." The words made his stomach clench, but what else could he do? Bill Scully was willing to give up his calling for her. She deserved that. Her child deserved it.
Something changed in her face as she absorbed his words. "The Navy is a good career," she said quietly. "They put a satellite into space, you know. In March."
"I'm sure he'd give you time, Maggie. He'd understand. He's a good man."
She shook herself a little. "I'm sorry, Tom. I am. When you're a priest, come home and I'll confess it all to you properly." She handed him a prayer card emblazoned with a picture of Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque. "She's my favorite saint. I prayed a Chaplet of the Two Hearts before I phoned you. Maybe you'll think of me when you see her."
Maggie got to her feet and began to walk along the stone path that wound up the hill from the lake. After a few steps, she stopped and turned back to him. "You said you had something to talk to me about?"
The words clung to the insides of his throat like ivy, but he forced them out. "I just… I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry, but I'll be returning to finish seminary in the fall. I wish it could have been different."
She offered him a warm smile. "I know you do. But I'm so proud of you! I guess I'll have to get used to calling you Father McCue before long."
He smiled back like it didn't hurt. "I guess you will. I'll pray for you and Bill and the baby."
***
Scully walks slowly next to Ellen, listening to the ceaseless tumble and crash of the waves to her left. She's glad she came. It's hard to believe that six days ago she was lying in a hospital room, waiting to die. She tires easily and has to take advantage of the benches lining the boardwalk, but still, she's come a long way in less than a week. She runs her hand over the back of her neck.
The two women are alternately eating from an extra large container of French fries drowning in salt and vinegar (in Scully's hands) and an extra large plastic tub of caramel corn (in Ellen's hands). Scully is, if nothing else, enjoying the novelty of needing to put on weight instead of politely declining dessert.
"I can't believe how bad you beat me at skee-ball," Ellen says for the third time. "You had almost a hundred tickets."
"I am still the reigning champion!"
"You're not a very graceful winner," Ellen says reproachfully.
"You're jealous."
Ellen sticks her tongue out before eating a few fries. "Remember the first time we came to the beach together?" she asks, tossing out a handful of popcorn to the delight of several fat seagulls.
"Senior Week, 1981."
"It was epic."
"Thirty-six alcohol violations, wasn't it? We papered the walls with them." Scully feels only a distant connection to the girl who had come here that summer. Her younger self sometimes seems more like a relative she recognizes from photo albums than a person she actually was.
"Thirty-eight. You finally gave it up to the hapless Marcus that week. God, you're a fun drunk. And easy."
Scully feels herself blush. She suspects that's due in part to recently telling Mulder-who-wasn't-Mulder about Marcus. While drunk. And well on her way to being easy. "I felt guilty after the fire truck thing at prom, I guess. And I had this bizarre hang-up about going to college a virgin."
Ellen scatters more popcorn. "I felt that way about tenth grade," she says understandingly. "But that's before I knew you. You were a sobering influence."
Scully grins, then walks over to a souvenir shop with a display of hermit crabs in the window. She presses her nose to the glass and watches them lumber about.
"They're not really as cuddly as Queequeg," Ellen remarks doubtfully. "I mean, if you're in search of a new animal companion."
Scully takes a step back and eyes up a large bluish shell in the corner of the tank. "Not for me. Mulder said he wanted one."
"Ah," says Ellen. "Mulder."
Scully prickles at the tone in her voice. She is still coming to terms with what happened two nights ago, and the memory makes her squirm. "Is something wrong with that?"
Ellen rolls her eyes. "Oh, Dana. Come on. You've got it bad.”
Scully takes her eyes from the tank and starts walking again. "I asked if he wanted anything from the beach and he said a hermit crab," she informs Ellen. "He stopped by for a visit before I left."
"A naked visit?"
"Ellen!" She stops in her tracks, and Ellen catches up.
"Don't you 'Ellen!' me, Dana Scully. I have been here with you before." She points an accusing finger in Scully's face.
Scully sighs, and walks over to a bench. She sits down and figures that lying to Ellen of all people is a fairly pointless enterprise. "It was not a naked visit. But I had entertained the possibility." She nibbles at a soggy fry.
"Oh dear," Ellen says, sitting down and placing the plastic bucket to her side. "Tell me all about it. And I'll promise not to be pissed at you for holding out on me."
Scully closes her eyes and lets the story tumble out. When she finishes, she gives Ellen a sheepish look.
Ellen looks appalled. "Wow. He just left? Just like that?"
"Just like that." Somehow it's easier to bear now that she's shared it. "But I know why he left. He thinks he's protecting me. His plan is to be a jackass and make me hate him for my own good."
Ellen squeezes Scully's knee. "And you wanted to buy him a hermit crab? That's kind of sad, honey."
Scully can't help but laugh. "Yeah. It kind of is."
Ellen drums her fingers on her thighs. "When you told me you were planning to lose your virginity to Marcus Baxter at prom, I told you to go for it. And when Sylvia fucked it up and you decided to carry the thing out at Senior Week, I was very supportive."
"Yes, you were. You got a whole box of condoms for me."
"That's because Marcus was a man-slut, as you discovered shortly thereafter. But anyway. I was there for you in college, even when you fell hopelessly for bad boys and bummed their cigarettes and wore too much black eyeliner. And when you went off to Stanford and decided to have an affair with some hundred-year-old guy, I said, 'Dana, if he's bound and determined to cheat on his wife, it might as well be with you.'' Which is ironic, considering my own marriage…"
Scully cringes. "Ellen, please tell me you're going somewhere with this, because right now it feels like an R-rated version of This Is Your Life."
"Sorry. Okay, here's the thing. This Mulder guy? Don't do this. I'm telling you that I think it's a bad idea. I don't care how hot he is."
Scully tries not to sound defensive. "Why?"
"He's not your usual brand of thrill-seeker, Dana. I mean, Daniel was an adulterer and Justin was into scuba diving - "
"Skydiving. Your point?"
"My point is that your partner strikes me as a lot more intense than that. I only know a little bit about your work, but it's heavy stuff that he's gotten you involved in. International conspiracy stuff, right? And I just think bringing all of that into the bedroom is going to be a disaster. Plus, you know, you have to work together."
Scully wraps her arms around herself and is aware of itchy particles of sand against her scalp. Goddamned wind. "Ellen, I appreciate your honesty. I always have. But you're not telling me anything I haven't already thought of."
"I think he's going to get you killed," Ellen says sharply. "I don't want to lose you to this…this mission of his. I don't want it to swallow you up. And he doesn't even seem interested, Dana. I mean, an obvious come-on like that and he just leaves?"
Scully blinks away the tears that sting her eyes. "I told you, he - "
Ellen looks at her sadly. "I know what you told me. But are you sure? I mean, really sure? Or is it just what you want to believe? It's romantic, I know. This lone man on a quest, so noble and driven that he can't be distracted by love. Everyone wants to be the princess who wins the knight, Dana, but they always forget that there's never just one dragon."
Scully squeezes her eyes closed until she's certain she won't cry. She knows how she must look, playing Sancho Panza to Mulder's Don Quixote. Both of them existing in a parallel dimension where everything is shrouded in mystery and half-truths. She's aware of how stupid it would all sound here on this sunny beach. But when she's with him she knows things - things she could never articulate. She sees giants instead of windmills.
"I'm really sure, Ellen. I think it was just too soon. He's feeling incredibly guilty right now. I should have given him some more time." She smiles when Ellen leans over to give her a hug and kiss her cheek.
"Well, I'm here for you then, if this is what you want," her friend tells her. "But I wish to hell you'd just go out and buy a better vibrator, because you have really shitty taste in men."
***
Mulder lies on a twin-sized bed in what passes for a motel in this part of rural Pennsylvania, listening to the rain lash against the corrugated tin roof. He's gazing at a series of photographs with a glassy-eyed stare and lamenting the poor cell-phone reception that so often plagues him in the field.
He'd come to this bucolic one-horse town (well, actually, there are numerous horses and few cars) to investigate the alleged kidnapping of Myfanwy Bowen by a person or persons unknown. Or, according to the claims of Myfanwy's distraught family, fairies. When the police arrived to investigate the missing child report, the parents asserted that the baby in the cradle was not their own. DNA tests are still pending.
"A changeling, Mulder?" Skinner had asked dryly. "Does nothing stretch the bounds of credibility for you?"
"Kidnapping's still a federal crime even if the suspect is mythological," Mulder had replied.
"You don't even know that the baby's missing!"
"We don't know that she isn't. If she is, every hour that passes…"
A sigh. And then, "Don't call Scully if you can help it."
"I wouldn't consider it," Mulder assured him, being completely truthful.
He props himself up on his elbow and reads the file again, though he has it memorized, and wonders how you begin to search for a baby when you're not positive the baby's even gone. He sighs, glancing at the Bakelite phone on the dresser, and wills someone to call him with the results of the DNA test. The local authorities have been understandably reluctant to provide resources before finding out whether or not a crime has even been committed.
If he's honest with himself - and he generally is - he thinks the case is bogus. But it got him out of DC, away from the Scully-shaped hole in the office, and gave him something to focus on beyond the present clusterfuck of his life.
Scully's come-on the other night was… he doesn't even know what it was. He needs an elaborate portmanteau word for it that his current vocabulary lacks. He suspects the Germans have something appropriate but, as with most arcane knowledge he does not himself possess, German is firmly in the province of Scully.
What possessed her to choose that moment? What possessed her to choose any moment, actually? He still longs to know what happened between her and van Blundht before he interrupted them. Had she been toying with this idea all along and old Eddie just lucked out, or had the man's deception triggered something in her? Clearly it hadn't put her off the idea, at any rate.
Those cool, white hands along his face… does Scully have any idea what it took for him to leave? Mulder tries to imagine her sucking down a beer and discussing it all with Ellen in some sand-strewn bar at the beach. It seems improbable, but he has given up trying to figure her out. She once feigned eating an insect to impress a sideshow freak, and time has only made her less predictable.
Outside, branches whip against the roof and the lamp flickers. Mulder swings his feet over the edge of the bed, getting up in search of alternate light in case the power goes out. His new flashlight had not come in by the time he had left this morning.
Five minutes of searching turns up three half-melted candles and a book of matches from Big Jim's Bail Bonds. He returns to the bed and thinks back five years to a night as rainy as this one, Scully at his motel room door, addled by panic and a touch of embarrassment. He remembers her robe falling, her back as sinuous as a violin in the flickering candlelight. Glimpses of her firm breasts two nights prior, aureoles tight circles around her nipples…
Don't, he orders himself sternly. Her recent actions aren't permission for you to start mixing business and pleasure.
But he's already hard, and curses himself for even so brief an indulgence. Avoidance of such thoughts has been a strange point of pride with him up until now, as though it kept him elevated above those lesser mortals who ended up screwing their partners against flimsy simulated-wood paneling while on assignments.
As though it absolved him of the Diana fiasco.
A shower, Mulder decides, is in order. He could use one anyway and perhaps it will relax him to the point of not gritting his teeth. He strips quickly and pads across the dishwater-colored carpet to the bathroom, hoping the lightning doesn't start up again.
The pipes squeal and clank in protest when he turns the faucet on, but the clamor subsides after a moment and he gets in. The water pressure is surprisingly good, the spray hard enough to sting a little, and the ache in his cock starts to abate. He can get through this. In another life, where the stakes weren't so high, he could let himself give in to loving her.
In another life he wouldn't know her.
He closes his eyes against the memory of her in a Rhode Island hotel room, his faithful Beatrice come to lead him from his own private hell. Mulder leans against the tile and surrenders, hand sliding across his thigh, and he wishes he knew how to let the world demand less of him.
***
Skinner contemplates the best way to approach this. Mulder will be a pain in the ass about the entire thing no matter what, acting as though it's some denigration of his holy personal crusade. Scully, who will be eager for a fresh start after the note on which her leave began, will probably make a polite speech about what an excellent idea it is and how she looks forward to solidifying any skills that can help her instincts in the field. This will have the unintended consequence of pissing Mulder off and putting the two of them at odds from the get-go.
He's certain that Scully has no idea that she is the most earnest bullshit artist he has ever met. He's also fairly certain that Scully does not, in fact, have any idea that she even is a bullshit artist.
Skinner twirls his pen in his fingers and looks at the seminar information again. The trick, he decides, is to have them both pissed off at him for sending them, and thus unite them against a common enemy. He'd sensed something was amiss when Mulder left for Pennsylvania yesterday. He was edgy, even for Mulder, and experience has taught Skinner that such anxiety is usually Scully-related in some capacity. So he called his friend Charlotte Miller down in Tallahassee, and she was more than happy to shoehorn his luckless agents into her twelfth annual workshop on Developing Empowered Teams: People Power Promotes Productivity.
He's already spoken to Dr. Zuckerman about the conference, assuring the man that these events present no tactical simulations. The most strenuous thing Scully will likely have to do is help design packaging to send an egg unharmed through the mail, or whatever moronic crap they've devised this year. Dr. Zuckerman said he thought the idea of a teamwork seminar was a very good one, and was likely to help restore Scully's sense of normalcy. Skinner thanked the man and hoped he did not sound smug.
Mulder, whom Skinner is convinced will have him on blood pressure medication within the next decade, has his grudging sympathy. He knows what it is like to be consumed by something to the point where it blinds you to everything else. To the people who love you. He and Sharon had drifted apart so slowly he can't even pinpoint when it began.
Back in Vietnam, when there was nothing to do but listen to the rain fall and wonder whether you'd drown or burn, the talk would turn to what would happen if one were captured.
"Think about it this way," a private named Gutierrez had said. "They don't start with the real bad stuff right away. They work you up, you know? So maybe you can build up a tolerance. Like if there's a scale from one to a hundred, you probably wouldn't notice the difference from one to two. And two to three. Maybe you're up to a hundred and you don't even realize it."
Skinner, twenty and homesick, wanted desperately to believe this was possible. It seemed plausible, there in the steaming jungle where foot-rot and deadly snakes were minor obstacles. If nothing else, the fucking war had taught him you could get used to anything. It was a good day when you went to bed without anyone's brains splattered across your shirt.
He has no idea where he is on that imaginary scale these days, his point of reference having been completely skewed by entanglement with the most depraved people a society can produce. And Sharon, at least, had accepted it would be impossible for her to ever fully understand. She granted him the validity of his perspective, and that concession was enough to help him try and stay in check at times. And even then he'd eventually calved off like a glacier. But Mulder has only Scully as a counterpoint, and she's hardly the girl next door.
There is something fierce and lonely about her which makes Skinner worry that she'll go too far one day, snapping the cord that keeps her within acceptable boundaries. This stunt with Mulder and Ostelhoff came perilously close. Recalling the other night in the hospital still produces a brief adrenaline rush, and he is more certain than ever that her recovery was worth the price, paid in bees and blood. He has no regrets, and only prays that she never discovers the truth about his involvement. What Mulder thinks of that choice - and the underlying motives - is inconsequential.
He wonders what there is between them, what made her cross the Rubicon and leave her own aspirations on a distant shore. He wonders when she stopped following orders and started following Mulder.
***
Ellen reaches behind her to grab the pitcher of margaritas. She refills her large glass for the third time, feeling pleasantly woozy and stupid from the mixture of tequila and warm bubbling water. Across from her, Dana looks positively torpid, her black bathing suit giving her an odd, disembodied appearance in the dark. A small raft floats between them, bearing chips, guacamole, and grilled shrimp.
"You're allowed one more margarita," Ellen tells her, holding the pitcher out. "I'll pour it now because you look like you're going to fall asleep and I'd hate for you to miss your rations."
"My what?"
"Your liver has been working overtime with the chemo, I'm sure, and this stuff is pretty much tequila and maybe highlighter fluid or whatever makes it this color. I don't think we should tempt fate. Plus, what do you weigh? Ninety pounds?"
Dana eats a shrimp. "Ninety five, if you must know."
"My point still stands." She reaches over and tops Dana's glass off, only sloshing a little into the hot tub. "Pace yourself," she cautions, returning the pitcher to the deck.
"I may regret this tomorrow," Dana remarks, contemplating her beverage. "Even on short rations. I have no tolerance anymore."
"Well, you can sleep until two in the afternoon if you want to. And when you get up, you don't even have to use your brain. No cadavers. No fugitives. Just sand and sea."
"I'll drink to that," she laughs, raising her glass and then taking a long swallow. She rests the margarita on the ledge behind her head.
Ellen sets her own drink down. "So," she says. "I want to hear more about Mr. FBI. The cute, work-obsessed jerk."
Dana groans.
"What? That's how you described him, right?"
"That was years ago."
"Yeah, and you ditched a cute, non-obsessive, nice guy to go up to Jersey in your off time and - what was it you guys were looking for again?"
Dana slinks lower in the tub, glaring over the frothing water. "Cannibal killer. You and Missy kept calling my apartment and saying, 'Hello, Clarice.'"
Ellen grins, remembering. "Oh, yeah! You were so pissed. I forgot that was that time. I get your insane cases mixed up. Anyway, you can see where perhaps I'd want to know more about your partner's allure."
"The Clarice Starling jokes get old."
"No they don't. Eat some chips and tell me about Mulder. What are you going to do now? Show up to work without your drawers? I could see a fabulous Basic Instinct moment in your future."
Dana rolls her eyes. "That's great, Ellen. Very helpful. Besides, he'd probably have me committed."
"So you're saying you've considered it?" Ellen asks slyly.
Dana sniffs. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."
"Pfft. That means you have. Probably more than once. Didn't you tell me you and Jack Willis christened his desk once?"
"No!"
Ellen cocks her head thoughtfully. "Really? Hm. Maybe that's back when I was living vicariously through you and just thought it sounded hot. Please tell me I didn't make up the handcuff thing too…"
"You're seriously warped, Ellen."
"Moi? Who's planning to seduce her partner?" She retrieves her margarita and takes a hefty swig. "Which brings us back to my prior question. What happens now?"
Dana shrugs, and pulls the raft over to help herself to some guacamole. "I don't know, to tell you the truth. I haven't spoken to him since he left. If nothing else, I'll be back to work before long and things will just have to get back to normal. We're pretty good at pretending things never happened."
"Let's call him right now," Ellen says, feeling suddenly inspired. "Where's your phone?"
Dana does that thing with her eyebrow. "I am not drunk-dialing Mulder. And my phone's inside on the charger."
"If I were sober I'd go in there and get it."
"If you were sober, you'd never consider doing it."
"You'd better hope not, because I won't always be drunk," Ellen informs her haughtily. "So what about kids, Dana? You think maybe this is the guy? Pop out a few Junior Hoovers and take family vacations to Mount Rushmore?"
Something hardens in Dana's face. "I recently discovered that I can't have children," she says.
Ellen has the distinct impression that Dana is saying this for the first time, trying out the weight and rhythm of words in her mouth. "Oh, honey…I don't even know what to…is this because of the cancer? The radiation?"
"No, actually. I had spoken to my doctor about egg harvesting due to the possibility of infertility caused by the cancer treatments. But, um…" she taps her fingers against her lips. "There was nothing to harvest."
"What?"
Dana's laugh is sharp and raw around the edges, like the lid off a cheap tin can. "That's what I said. I assume it has to do with when I was, you know, taken."
Ellen wants to tell her that this is exactly the kind of shit she was thinking of when she told her to drop this thing with Mulder. Look at yourself, she wants to scream. You're a survivor, Dana, but you keep returning to us a little more broken. Soon there won't be anything left.
But they've been friends for almost twenty years, and, even intoxicated, she knows when to hold her tongue. "You could adopt," she suggests.
Dana snorts, gazing out at the inky water. "Come on, Ellen. Let's go out on a very long limb and stipulate that everything ends up wine and roses with Mulder and me. You really think two federal agents - particularly two with our personnel files - are going to be allowed to adopt a child? We'd be lucky to wind up with a hamster."
"You wouldn't give it all up for a family?"
Dana shakes her head slowly, her wide eyes still focused out to sea. "I'm not sure if I know how to walk away anymore," she whispers.
Ellen silently reaches for her friend's hand, hoping to keep her anchored in a harbor close to home.
***
Bill rolls over in bed to look at his wife's sleeping form. She's curled on her side, wrapped around the long body pillow that helps to keep her aching hips elevated. They've never reached this point in a pregnancy before, and the excitement of passing the twenty-week mark has Tara reveling in every new symptom, however uncomfortable. "The baby's getting so heavy it's putting pressure on my pelvic bones!" she announced happily, opening the bag to show him the pillow.
He sits up against the headboard, marveling at the curve of her belly, at the way it tugs her back forward and changes her whole bearing when she stands. He likes how her body has softened and spread, and he is endlessly fascinated by the fact that his growing child is causing all of this.
Bill slides his hand under her shirt, drawing circles on her back to wake her. "Time to get up," he says. "Doctor's appointment."
Tara shifts, then rolls heavily onto her back. "Mmf," she grumbles, sitting up next to him. "You know, you don't even have to come to all of these appointments. They're quite routine."
He shrugs, smiling at her. "I know that. But I like to." And I want to be there if we lose this one too, he thinks. Two pregnancies ago, at a routine four month checkup, they'd discovered the baby had died and Tara waited at the doctor's office for two hours until anyone could contact him. A quick glance reveals that she knows exactly what he's thinking.
She takes his hand and places it on her belly. "This one is going to be fine, Bill. I can feel it."
Her skin is warm and taut, restless with the small life unfolding inside. "Me too."
"So you still don't want to find out if it's a boy or a girl?" Tara asks. "You're not curious?"
"Extremely curious. But it just seems like too good of a surprise to ruin. Why, are you having second thoughts?"
His wife grins at him. "Only because I want to settle on a name. But other than that, no. I'm glad we're waiting."
They hadn't much discussed names yet, fearing it would tempt fate, but Bill is feeling optimistic. Even if Tara went into labor now, the baby would have a fair shot at survival. He taps his hands against his thighs, thinking for a moment. "What about Jordan for a boy and Hannah for a girl?"
Tara looks surprised. "I figured you'd suggest William and Melissa, to be honest."
"A boy should have his own name," Bill says, speaking from experience. "And Melissa… I don't think I could handle it. I know my mom couldn't."
Tara nods thoughtfully. "Hannah's pretty. It means grace. I'm so-so on Jordan, though."
"We'll come up with something. It'll be nice to have Mom and Dana here to help out at Christmas."
Tara pats her belly. "Yes, it will. I'm so glad Dana's coming. They still have no idea what sent her into remission?"
Bill hesitates briefly. "No," he says. "We just have to be thankful, I guess."
"Do you think she's back to the Church for good now?"
Bill knows his sister's distance from God has been of great concern to Tara - who leads a Bible study group - and that she has been praying daily for her. "She asked for Father McCue in the hospital, and Mom says she's been going to church every morning before visiting in the oncology ward. So maybe so."
"And He touched her hand, and the fever left her. And she arose, and ministered unto them," Tara recites.
"Dana mentioned the Book of Matthew when I asked her about coming to see the baby."
They look at each other for a moment, then at Tara's belly. "Matthew means gift of God," Tara informs him.
Bill nods slowly. "I like it," he says. "Let's say Hannah or Matthew." He knows Tara will change her mind approximately twenty times before the baby arrives, but simply having begun the decision-making process seems to please her enormously.
She gets out of bed and starts undressing for a shower. "Do you remember that woman Louisa who used to work with me? Her brother Sam just moved to College Park to do research on some kind of fungus or something. He's single, and I was thinking he and Dana might get along well. Should I call her?"
"Yes," he says too quickly.
Tara pauses and gives him an odd look. "You're awfully eager."
"It would just be nice to see Dana settled down with someone. Getting on with her life now that she's well."
Laughter at this. "Settled down? I'm talking about dinner, Bill."
"I mean eventually," he amends. "But a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, as they say."
Tara studies him for a moment. "She's dating someone you don't like, isn't she?"
Dammit. "I don't believe she's dating anyone."
"Hmm. That was a very carefully worded answer. Out with it."
Bill sighs. "I think she's having an affair with her partner."
"An affair? He's married? Oh, Dana."
"No, no. He's not married. But there's something definitely going on with them and I think it would be good if she had other options."
"What's wrong with him?" she asks, walking into the bathroom to weigh herself. She weighs herself at least twice a day.
Jesus, where to begin? "He's, well… he's weird, for starters. And he believes in aliens and just the stupidest mumbo-jumbo you ever heard of."
"Like what?"
"There was this chip thing he found or stole or who knows what, and he was convinced it would help Dana's cancer. So he had her doctor put it in her neck and -"
"I thought you said they didn't know what caused her remission," Tara cuts in, peering around the door.
"They don't! Her doctor had never seen anything like it! It could have been a chunk of tin foil off Mulder's hat for all anyone knows. The guy's delusional."
"Dana's not delusional. And she has a degree in physics. And medicine," Tara points out, pulling on her robe. "Bright girl, as I recall." She winks.
"Yeah, well. Love is blind. And frequently oblivious."
"But it's not suicidal. And she's in remission, isn't she?"
"It's a coincidence," Bill asserts. "Go get in the shower."
"Dana's a grown woman. She can make her own choices. She's not your kid sister anymore."
"He's crazy, Tara," Bill says stubbornly. "And the federal government has armed him."
She walks back over to the bed and smirks. "The federal government has armed you too. Maybe you should fly back to DC and solve this via pistols at dawn. I'm sure Dana would be really keen on the idea."
Bill looks sullen. "I am trying to be a good brother."
Tara kisses him on the top of the head. "No you're not. You're trying to be a good father. Which is not your responsibility in this case."
He puts his arms around his wife and presses his face to the layers of muscle and skin that separates him from the baby. "Tara, I lied. I want to find out the gender today," he says.
She strokes his cheek. "You realize I'm going to start driving your crazy with paint samples and questions about middle names, right?"
"I hope so," he replies. "I want everything to be perfect when this kid gets here."
"That's something you have got to let go of," she says gently. "Not everything can be the way you want it all the time. You get this picture in your head of How It Should Be, Bill, and you set yourself up for disappointment every time. Look at what happened with Dana and your father. I see that in you, and it worries me."
He holds her tighter, wishing she were wrong.
***
Scully wakes up just after ten, and sits up cautiously. Her mouth feels like the inside of a sock and her hair smells like bromine, but there seems to be no other damage from last night.
This is their last day at the beach, and she's both hesitant and eager to go home. She'd stayed up for a while after they got out of the tub last night, mulling over Ellen's question. What would happen now?
Mulder's not an idiot. He can't have been totally taken by surprise after seeing her on the couch with his doppelganger. (God, will the crawling mortification of that ever fully go away?) She knows it's not all in her head, this notion that he's trying to protect her by hurting her. She's seen him looking at her, a thousand little moments that she's saved up like pennies in a jar.
He hasn't called her once since leaving, and she doesn't know what she'd do if he had. There's a small part of her that wishes she had called him last night after all, letting the words skate out on drunken wheels. She's curious about what she would have said.
Scully gets out of bed and walks to the big picture window above the cedar chest. She draws the shade up, the late morning sun stabbing her eyes. She forces herself to stare out the window until she acclimates, blobs of color swimming across her vision like tropical fish.
Work, she decides. Work is neutral territory. I'll go in tomorrow and we will deal with this like adults.
***
Part 3