Title: An Interesting Work of Fiction

Author: Trixie

Email: scullymulder1121@hotmail.com

Category: SRA? I think? Romance is implied, rather than demonstrated. 
It's flickfic, with a twist, and just a dash of rum, for flavor.

Rating: No sex, some language, we've all used, and Scully becomes rather 
fond of, in her own head. :-)

Archive: Sure, fine, whatever.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Though, through a highly complicated plan of 
subterfuge, a few well placed spies at Fox, and a wire tap on Chris 
Carter's phones, I plan to. And if you try to sue me, using the above as 
reasoning, you've just sealed my insanity defense ;-)

Writer Will Write For Feedback!

~~~~
 
                     
"There's an interesting work of fiction on page 24. Mysteriously, our 
names have been omitted."

Dana Scully appraises her partner for a moment, listening to his words, 
preparing herself for what she must do. Taking a fortifying breath, she 
leads into it slowly. "I told OPR everything I know."

Fox Mulder throws down the paper, standing up quickly from the bench, 
and pacing in front of her. "They're getting away with it again Scully. 
Covering up evidence. Concealing the truth. They're doing it again," he 
repeats, eyes wild, haunted.

Scully swallows, knowing this will be the hardest thing she's ever had 
to say. Harder than in his apartment, in his hallway. In his apartment, 
in his hallway, he hadn't just trekked halfway across the world, and 
risked life, limb and sanity to save her life.  "They are Mulder." 
Licking her lips, she moves from foot to foot for a moment. "Mulder, I 
can't do this anymore."

Mulder's eyes are shadowed, concealing his emotions, his soul from her, 
as they so rarely do. "You're still quitting," he states, and she can 
tell he never would've intended it to be a question.

Nodding tightly, Scully folds her hands behind her back. "It's too much 
Mulder. The lies, the manipulations, the near deaths. . ." she licks her 
lips, tightening her hands behind her back. "I can't do this anymore," 
she repeats, convincing herself, as much as him.

He nods, looking at her through sad eyes. "I think," he says slowly, 
"it's for the best. Go be a Doctor Scully. Go be a Doctor while you 
still can."

Now or never. She licks her lips, moving her hand, taking his, 
squeezing. "Come with me Mulder," she implores softly. "Come with me, be 
a psychologist, or write a book, something." Eyes pleading, Scully 
threads her fingers through his. "It isn't worth it. No cause is worth 
dying for."

He opens his mouth once, then closes it, before speaking his mind. She 
can feel herself losing him, feel him pulling away. "I can't," he 
finally states. "It may be suicidal, the cause hollow, but. . . it's my 
cause. I can't just walk away from it Scully." His eyes hold hers for a 
long, heavy moment. "No matter how much I might want to," he murmurs 
hoarsely, giving her a look filled with such total adoration, it 
staggers her.

Blinking, Scully tightens her hold on his hand, unwilling, unable to let 
it go that easily. It wasn't supposed to work like this. Yes, she 
couldn't do this anymore. But he was supposed to agree, that it wasn't 
worth it, that he'd rather live out a semi-normal existence somewhere 
with her. He'd said he needed her. Didn't he mean it?

Looking into his eyes, Scully can see that he did. That he does.  God, 
how could she have been so nave as to believe Mulder could actually 
quit now? It would mean they won. And he can't let them win. Even with 
the knowledge that his sister almost definitely won't be at the end of 
whatever road he's traveling, he still can't let them win. He has to 
know. He has to learn the truth. His precious *fucking* truth.

Well, she can't do it anymore. Steadying herself, Scully gives it one 
more shot. "You sure, Mulder?" she asks in as teasing a voice as she can 
manage. "It could be fun. You, me, a psychiatric couch."

For a moment, the same teasing is in his eyes in return. "Oo, kinky 
Scully." He moves his head to the side. "And, a hell of a lot more 
appealing than a psychiatric ward." The teasing goes away, to be 
replaced by a kind of bittersweet sadness. He squeezes her hand once, 
tightly. "It's better this way. At least I'll know you're safe."

"Mulder," she begins, not even knowing what to say.

Mulder lets go of her hand, slowly walking away, backwards, from her. 
"It's okay Scully," he murmurs, a regretful look in his eye. "There's 
nothing to say."

And then he's gone, and she's left standing, alone, by the bench, 
watching the horizon he'd just disappeared beyond.

Like a God damn fucking hero, riding into the sunset.

Except Mulder wasn't a hero. Hero wasn't descriptive enough for him. He 
deserved better than such a clich term. He was a saver of souls, a 
saver of worlds. He was Don Quixote, Clark Kent and Bruce Fucking Wayne, 
all rolled into one.

And what did that make her? Sancho, Lois Lane, and Robin, the Boy 
Wonder, all rolled into one?

At the moment, it didn't make her anything. Because she'd just left him. 
Alone. Like everyone else in his life. She feels like Lex Luthor.  
Sighing, Scully turns from the horizon, walking back the same way she'd 
came before, pieces of Mulder's newspaper blowing, unheeded, into the 
fountain.

~~~~

November 8th 1998
Dana Scully's Lab

Scully replaces the sheet over the cadaver, removing her latex gloves, 
and tossing them in the basket marked 'toxic waste'. She washes her 
hands with anti-bacterial soap, blowing an irritated breath out at the 
hair stubbornly falling into her eyes. She jumps a foot when a hand 
touches her shoulder. She spins, letting out a breath of relief when she 
sees the face. "Jesus, Mulder," she mutters.

Mulder smiles, the sight mildly goofy. "Hey Scully," he mumbles, eyes 
scanning her from head to toe briefly, almost as though comparing her 
now, to some mental image he has of her. "Busy day?"

"Yes, actually. I just taught two back to back pathology classes." 
Shaking her head slightly, Scully forces her brain to wake up. "Mulder, 
what are you doing here? It's been. . . .nearly four months."

"Four months, twelve days, and," he looks at his watch, "seventeen 
hours."

Cracking the smallest smile, Scully pulls her hair free of the pony tail 
it had been confined in, raising an eyebrow at him. "I repeat," she says 
slowly, "what are you doing here, Mulder?"

"The X-Files have been re-opened, and I finally persuaded Cassidy to let 
me have them," he says, and Scully sees the excited little boy repressed 
behind his eyes.

Smiling, a genuine smile tinged with sadness, Scully turns from him. 
"I'm happy for you Mulder," she says sincerely.

He licks his lips, moving behind her, his breath fanning the back of her 
neck. "I was hoping you'd be more than happy for me," he murmurs slowly, 
tentatively. "I was hoping, maybe, you'd consider coming back. Being my 
partner again."

Scully turns, looking at him with wide eyes. He holds up a hand, as if 
to forestall whatever she's about to say. "I know. I know. You left 
because it wasn't worth it anymore. But that was partly because they'd 
taken away the X-Files, taken away our only real shot at finding the 
truth." He moves in closer, their foreheads nearly touching. "Don't you 
need to know Scully?" he asks, voice low, intense. "Don't you need to 
know what happened? What's happening?"

Forcing a resolve into her tone she doesn't entirely feel, Scully steps 
away from him. "No Mulder," she says slowly, firmly. "This is your 
quest. Your Holy Grail. I can't be responsible for it anymore, Mulder. I 
can't sacrifice my entire life at the alter of the sacred truth 
anymore."

He sighs, his entire body seeming to deflate before her very eyes. "But 
Scully," he whispers, "I need you. I need you to do this with me. To 
help me, to stand by my side, to help me defeat the most unspeakable of 
evils."

Scully shakes her head. "I can't stop evil anymore Mulder. I never 
could. I deluded myself into thinking we could make a difference. We 
can't."

"Don't say that Scully," he says firmly, grabbing her arm, forcing her 
to look at him. "We can do this. I believe in us, in what we can 
accomplish together."

"Then leave," she tells him firmly. "Leave the Bureau, take my advice, 
become a psychologist, or a writer, or even a free lance criminal 
psychologist." Scully's eyes beg him to say yes, even as her posture 
remains hostile.

Once again, his mouth moves, and she can feel him wanting to agree. "I 
can't," he says finally, helplessly.

"Then we don't have anything else to discuss," she tells him flatly, 
forcing a harshness into her voice.

"I can't abandon this. I want to. God Damnit Scully, I want to, more 
every day. And even though I can't do it alone, can't do it without you, 
I can't stop, even if it means going it alone." He looks her in the eye, 
telling her things he still can't say out loud. "Please Scully. Come 
with me. Help me."

"Mulder," she tells him harshly, "helping you has caused me to lose 
nearly everything in my life." She lays a hand on his arm, and he 
flinches. "I'm not saying this to blame you, or to make you feel guilty 
Mulder. It was my own choice. But, Jesus, Mulder, my sister is dead,  my 
dog is dead, because of those choices. And now, I have to choose to 
leave Mulder. To live a life that doesn't include Flukemen, deeply 
rooted government conspiracies, and extra terrestrial crafts flying 
above my half frozen ass."

This causes an eyebrow of his to raise. "You saw the spaceship, Scully?" 
he asks, and his voice almost sounds amused.

She smiles slightly, feeling tears come to her eyes, refusing to cry 
them. "I was hazy, Mulder," she answers, knowing she couldn't answer him 
any other way. Knowing this was the way they had to say goodbye.

He looks down, taking a deep breath, and, she believes, fighting back 
tears of his own. "I've uh. . . I've got a meeting with Skinner. 
Officially accepting the X-Files, and all that shit," he mumbles, still 
not meeting her eyes. He turns, showing his back to her once more. 
Making her watch him walk away, one more time. She turns away, unable to 
do it again, gripping the autopsy table tightly to keep herself from 
reaching for him, from promising never to leave him. She hears it then. 
Softly spoken, barely a whisper, the most agonized, haunted voice Dana 
Scully would ever hear in her life. "I love you, Scully."

She doesn't turn around, yet feels it when he leaves, anyway. "Goodbye, 
Mulder," she whispers raggedly, clutching the table so tightly her 
fingers turn white, still refusing to shed a tear.

~~~~

Scully wearily trudges down the hallway of her new Virginia apartment, 
her entire body aching. She had spent too much time on her feet today, 
teaching too many classes. She'd thought that job with the university 
sounded good at the time. Placing a hand at her back, Scully ruefully 
concedes that the encounter with Mulder today *might've* added to the 
stress she's already under.

Jesus, had she really just said goodbye to Mulder? Forever? No more 
Mulder in her life seemed so. . . 

Unthinkable.

Scully freezes as she reaches her door, looking down to find a tiny pair 
of beady little eyes staring up at her. The eyes belong to a small, 
reddish/brown Pomeranian. Picking him up, untying the leash from her 
doorknob, Scully opens the apartment up, clutching the little dog to her 
as she heads to the couch. A note is waiting on her coffee table, and 
she picks it up, flopping onto the couch. Her fingers find the dog's 
tags, twisting his collar around until she can read it.

Que-Quag II. 

Placing a hand over her face, Scully scratches the little dog's head, 
staring at the note warily, not wanting to read it, but also unable to 
think of anything but reading it. Sighing with a measure of disgust at 
herself, Scully snatches up the note, opening it, and reading the single 
line written on it. Her face crumples, and she reads it again, the 
finality of it absolutely breaking her heart.

Have a good life, Scully.

Mulder's familiar scrawl. Mulder's final farewell to her. The only way 
he knows how to say goodbye - by not really saying it. By leaving it 
open, in the hopes she'd come back. Yet still wishing her well, telling 
her it's okay if she never does come back, he just has to leave himself 
the capacity for hope.

Steadfastly refusing to cry, fearing if she started, she might never 
stop, Scully clutches the little do  Que-Quag II  to her chest, 
stroking his fluffy fur, and flipping the TV on to an old 'I Love Lucy' 
episode.

Goodbye Mulder. I miss you already.

~~~~

End 1/4
An Interesting Work of Fiction 2/4


Tall Oaks Cemetery 
October 17th 2017

Dirt against coffin. Such a distinct sound. A sound Dana Scully is very 
familiar with.

She's buried enough friends to know.

But this time. . . it's different. This isn't just the burial of a 
friend. This is the burial of her last friend. The last person on Earth 
she loves, the last person who'll ever love her back.

*Jesus, Dana, he was just a dog*.

Shaking her head at her own internal thoughts, Scully kneels beside 
Que-Quag II's fresh grave, gently tracing his name on the marble. He was 
the last of her. Now, the only thing left of her life, is Scully 
herself. There was no Dad, no Mom. No sister, no brothers. Bill and 
Charlie had both perished, their chosen career the death of them during 
the war. Their wives had never been that close to Scully, and they, too, 
had drifted apart. Her nephews were scattered across the country, and 
she hadn't gotten more than a Christmas card from any of them in ten 
years.

But of all those absent from her life, none stands out to Scully more at 
this moment, than Mulder.

No more Mulder.

Ever again.

Sighing, Scully gives Que-Quag's gravestone a final pat. "See you later, 
little buddy," she whispers, standing, groaning slightly as her aging 
muscles protest. 

She admits to being a little disappointed in herself. She really 
should've kept up her physique better. But, with no mutants to chase, no 
mad dash wily nily escapes from secret government facilities, there 
really hadn't been a reason. The most strenuous thing she'd done in 
years was run after Que-Quag the numerous times he'd tried to escape 
from her during a walk in the park, or a trip to the vet. 

Arriving at her car, Scully climbs behind the wheel, starting it up, and 
pulling out onto the main highway. Since she's in this part of town 
anyway, she might as well pay a visit to the human cemetery. She hasn't 
been in far too long, and her conscience is beginning to weigh on her.  
After stopping to buy a few long stem roses, Scully pulls her car into 
the parking lot, heading for the place her family is buried.

"Hey Ahab," she whispers, kneeling before William Scully Sr.'s 
gravestone, and placing a single white rose on it.  "The sails are 
getting kind of low, and I'm afraid I don't have that long left." She 
smiles slightly, sadly. "Give Mom my love."

Moving to Margaret's grave, Scully places a red rose there. "A present 
for Dad," she murmurs, in way of explanation. "I haven't killed your 
roses yet Mom, though I'm still amazed."

Two white roses for Bill and Charlie, nothing to say, there had never 
really been words when they were alive, and Scully didn't see why that 
should change now that they're dead. She moves to Melissa's grave, and 
places a yellow rose there. "Hey Missy," she whispers. "I actually took 
one of your crystals to church with me last time I went. I think it 
helped me with clarity, or something."

Moving once more, Scully comes to kneel before the grave she's been most 
dreading, and most needing to visit today. "Hey Mulder," she whispers, 
bringing a hand up to gently trace first his name, then the inscription 
written below it.

            'Fox William Mulder 
October 13th 1961 - January 1 2001
   Beloved Son Brother and Friend
      The Truth Has Set Him Free'

Licking her lips, Scully places a rose bud, a hybrid, yellow, red and 
white, on his grave. "I bought that because it reminded me so much of 
you, Mulder," she murmurs, beginning to pull away some of the weeds 
growing around his tombstone. "A little bit of everything. My friend, my 
partner, so pure, even as you were so disillusioned." She licks her lips 
quickly, tossing some of the weeds aside. "The man I love," she 
whispers,  blinking tears back rapidly. "I feel, Mulder, that I may not 
have much time left in this world," she confesses, as though he were 
standing before her, ready to refute her claim, or simply hold her after 
she says the words. "I feel so many years older than I actually am."

Bowing her head, Scully sighs, pushing her tired body up, bones cracking 
as she does. Turning, she nearly knocks over a woman standing directly 
behind her. "Sorry," she mumbles, moving to go around her.

The woman moves with her, still blocking her path. Feeling annoyed, 
Scully raises her head, a pointed 'excuse me' dying on her lips as she 
locks eyes with the woman. "Yes, you are," she replies, referring to 
Scully's earlier 'sorry' comment. "But there's nothing to be done about 
it now, is there? You've made your bed, and you'd just as well *lie* in 
it."

The woman was African American,  old, though her appearance suggested 
fifty or sixty, her eyes said two or three hundred. She is shorter than 
Scully, but made Scully feel small, insignificant.  "I beg your pardon?" 
Scully finally manages to get out, her rarely used detective's eye 
taking in the tattered clothing, unwashed hair and slightly maniacal 
gleam in the older woman's eyes.

"You, Dana Scully, beggin' my pardon?" The old woman laughs, as though 
genuinely amused. "Now that's something to write home about. Why, you 
don't beg anyone's pardon. In fact, you're always right, aren't you?"

"How did you know my name?" Scully asks, backing away, unconsciously 
moving closer to Mulder's headstone, as though, even in death, he could 
still watch her back. 

"Oh, he can't help you now," the woman informs her smugly, obviously 
reading her mind. "No one can. You've seen to that. Tell me, Dana 
Katherine, was it worth it? Was your entire, safe little life worth 
everything that was missin' from it?"

Mouth opening slowly, then closing, Scully can only stare for a moment. 
Finally, shaking herself, reminding herself she doesn't believe in this 
sort of thing, Scully licks her lips. "I don't know what you want," she 
says slowly, "but whatever it is, you're not going to get it from me."

The woman laughs again, low in her belly. "Oh Dana," she mumbles, "you 
certainly are the most amusing woman I've met in years." Shaking her 
head, she sets her purse down on Mulder's headstone.

"Hey," Scully begins, automatically defending Mulder, even if it is only 
a slab of cold marble. 

"Hush," the woman says, with such authority, that Scully actually stops 
speaking. Nodding her head in satisfaction, the woman opens up the bag, 
producing a small bottle of liquid. "You were born in February, right?"

Scully nods slowly, not fully understanding. A splash of liquid hits 
her, and Scully gasps, the sensation freezing and burning, all at once. 
"What the hell. . . . ?!"

"Ah, it's just a little magic Dana," the woman moves her hand, waving it 
off. "Don't worry about it. You'll thank me later." She pauses for a 
moment. "If you remember me, that is."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Dana Scully, that I have just given you a gift most people 
don't get," she tells her succinctly. She makes a shooing motion with 
her hands. "Now go. Get home. Mourn your dog, and your life. Sleep. And 
in the morning, do things *right*, child."

With that, she turns, and heads into the night. Shaking off a sort of 
self paralysis, Scully attempts to follow her, losing her in the fog she 
hadn't been aware Virginia had this time of year. Sighing, she makes a 
final pass by the gravestones, running her hand over Mulder's fondly, 
before returning to her car, and heading home to her tiny, lonely little 
apartment.

~~~~

Entering her apartment, Scully shuts the door behind her, not really 
caring whether it's locked or not. Let them come and kill her in the 
night. She doesn't care. It'd only put an end to a life that should've 
faded away years ago. The Cancer could've taken her. She could've 
withered away years ago, never having seen Mulder's death, her mother's 
death, the war. She could've been blissfully ignorant of it all, living 
on some cloud, playing poker with Missy and Ahab, waiting for Mulder to 
show up.

Mulder.

That's the crux of the matter, isn't it? The reason she's glad she 
didn't go a long time ago. Because, then Mulder would've had to live 
through this. This agony, this emptiness that's consumed her being since 
his death. Before, if she was honest with herself. She's been lost 
without him for so long.  Since that day by the fountain, that day she 
told him she was leaving. Why had she done that again? Normalcy, or the 
delusion that such a thing actually existed? Because it didn't. One 
man's normal, was another mans' freak show.

She misses her freak show.

The mutants, the Flukemen, the government conspiracies, the small town 
madness, she misses it all. And she'd do anything, trade anything to 
have another day with Mulder, another murder in a small town, anything. 
The war had shown her the error of her ways. Of thinking she could 
remove herself from everything she and Mulder had fought for, had 
exposed. It was a part of all of them, every man, woman and child, and 
that fateful Christmas, when all hell broke loose proved it to her. The 
world has never been the same again. Maybe, had she stayed with him, had 
she been there to watch his back, he would've survived, maybe they 
could've stopped the war. 

Maybe they could've fought the unstoppable, unthinkable evils. 

But it didn't happen. They didn't happen. Their life didn't work out the 
way it was supposed to, the way it could've if she hadn't been so 
monumentally stupid, so afraid. Damnit, he never would've left. He 
would've laid down his life for her. Had, in fact, on numerous 
occasions. How many women can say that? 

Collapsing onto her sofa, Scully looks beneath her coffee table, eyes 
settling on the small, antique photo album she organized nearly fifteen 
years ago, and never looked at since. Hand shaking, she reaches down, 
placing it on her lap, unsure why she's doing it, even as it opens, as 
though of its own volition.  Her eyes settle on the first picture, and a 
small smile tugs at Scully's lips. Melissa, sitting on top of Bill's 
chest, the first time she'd ever pinned them when they were wrestling. 
After that, he never got the best of her again. 

The next picture, a shot of Margaret, with her Captain, dancing at their 
twentieth wedding anniversary. Scully smiles, watching the background of 
the shot, seeing herself, dancing with her junior high school crush. 
She'd been so thrilled at the time. Completely enamored with him, her 
thirteen year old heart had stammered uncontrollably when he'd actually 
asked her to dance. And then, he'd tossed her off for a fourteen year 
old who'd already developed. Jerk. Shaking her head, Scully focuses on 
her parents once more, looking at the looks in their eyes they'd always 
held for one another. ~Like me and Mulder~, she thinks absently, 
flipping the page again.

Her eyes rest on a rare picture, one she'd found in Mulder's many albums 
after his death. Mulder, Teena Mulder, and Samantha, taken just before 
Samantha disappeared. Scully takes a long, hard look into Mrs. Mulder's 
eyes, trying to see the same cold, distant woman who'd told Scully to 
have her son buried wherever she liked, that it didn't really matter to 
her anymore. And so Scully'd had him buried along with the rest of her 
family, with the Scully's, where he belonged. Eyes shutting tightly, 
Scully clenches the edges of the album, forcing herself to turn the 
page. He'd belonged with her, and she'd left him.

The guilt fresh, agonizing, assaults her once more, as it always does at 
the oddest times. While she's giving a lecture, and some smart ass in 
the audience contradicts a theory, in just the right way, challenging 
her belief system. Walking down the street, catching a pair of hazel 
eyes that don't have just enough green in them, or don't hold anywhere 
near the passion, but still, are familiar. And it deconstructs her, this 
guilt, this love she still feels for a dead man. She shouldn't have left 
him. She never should've left. It accomplished nothing, and cost them 
both so much.

Her eyes fall upon the next picture, one of her and Mulder, taken at a 
crime scene, she remembers. They're crouched next to a white sheet 
covered body, and she's poking, prodding the side of it with one latex 
covered finger.

*Always did like slapping on the latex, didn't you Scully?*

His voice, inside her head, causes an almost hysterical laugh to bubble 
free of her mouth. Turning the page, she finds the office Christmas 
party, thirty drunk agents standing in the VCS office, laughing, passing 
out, dancing to the loud, obnoxious juke box someone high up had thought 
would give the party spice. Mulder, his mouth against her ear, his body 
bent to speak to her, whispering something she can't quite remember 
anymore, but something that had been infinitely important at the time, 
had been her sole concern when he'd first whispered it. 

*I think it's remotely plausible someone might think you're hot.*

She turns the page again, eyes falling on Emily, the only picture of her 
daughter Scully ever had, ever will have. She traces her face gently, 
looking into her eyes, trying to see something of herself in the child 
physically, failing to, as she always had. It wasn't a physical 
resemblance she had shared with her daughter. It was a spirit, a 
likeness of souls. Scully laughs again, thinking Mulder would've loved 
to hear her say that.

*Go girl.*

Not bothering to wonder when Mulder's voice had taken up permanent 
residence in the back of her head, Scully flips through the album, 
finding more of the same pictures, of her family, of Mulder, of them 
together. One of the Lone Gunmen, one of Skinner, Dearly departed 
friends that are missed. Her brothers, their children, their wives, the 
only pictures she has of them. Slowly, she comes to the last picture in 
the album. Mulder. The only picture she'd ever taken of him, unaware. 
They'd been investigating some kind of weird disturbance she can't quite 
remember now, along the coast of Northern California. He'd been sitting 
on the beach, thinking, trying to piece together all the puzzle pieces 
in that incredible mind of his, and she'd taken out a camera, one of 
those disposable ones she'd just bought from a vendor, and she'd gotten 
this perfect picture of his profile.

Tracing her fingertips over it gently, she can actually see the wheels 
turning inside his head, the stubble that'd grown on his cheek, the 
tension coiled inside his body, ready to be unleashed as soon as 
everything clicked into place. She could remember walking over to him, 
after she'd taken the picture, and just sitting there with him, staring 
out at the water, waiting for something to happen.

Funny. She can't remember what the case was about, even what they were 
trying to figure out. Yet she can remember exactly what he smelled like, 
exactly what it sounded like every time he munched on a sunflower seed, 
the exact rhythm the waves took up, crashing against the shore.

*Scully, are you coming onto me?*

She laughs again, almost startled to realize there are tears streaming 
down her cheeks. Wiping at them, she realizes they've been there for 
awhile now. ~What do you know, Mulder~, she thinks to herself, ~I 
finally let myself cry.~

Closing her eyes, Scully slowly stands, heading into her bedroom, 
shedding her clothes as she goes. She'd started dressing matronly a few 
years back. It wasn't like the men were beating down her door, or 
anything, but she'd still wanted to discourage anyone. The few aborted 
attempts she'd made at dating weren't worth remembering.  Men so often 
got compared to Mulder, and, ultimately, were found lacking. There was 
only one Fox Mulder, thank God, and he was gone.

Here comes the guilt again.

After all, she could've prevented it. Or, at the very least, went with 
him. But no. She'd sent him away. Again. Claiming peace and contentment 
with her current life. And he'd went, left her alone as he'd always done 
when she asked him to. He'd went off on the last great mission of his 
grand crusade, and died, alone, without anyone to pay witness to what he 
found.  

Turning down the covers of her bed, Scully climbs between them, naked, 
not even bothering to turn a light on. She stares up into the darkness, 
breathing evenly, wanting sleep to claim her. Maybe even death. Was she 
too young to die in her sleep? She isn't sure. All Scully knows, is that 
this existence has to stop. Soon. Her life seems to be filled with an 
endless parade of guilt and loneliness, topped off with a whopping 
dollop of heart sickness. 

She misses Mulder.

Has missed him, for far too long now. It was too long, too much. 

Scully turns, tossing around on the bed, her turbulent thoughts causing 
her to fall into a kind of suspended dream-like state.

And she remembers.

~~~~

End 2/4
An Interesting Work of Fiction 3/4


December 25th 2000
Dana Scully's apartment

"Ho-ho-ho." The laconic tones reach Scully before she even leans up to 
look through the peep hole.

Opening the door, she steps back, a small little smile crossing her 
face. "Mulder," she says, surprised to see him.

"Hey Scully," Mulder greets, stepping from foot to foot. "Can I come 
in?" he asks after a moment of silence.

"Oh. Oh, yea, come in," Scully mumbles, stepping away from the door 
enough for him to enter. "So," she begins, shutting the door, letting 
the sentence hang.

"So," Mulder parrots, pulling his lower lip between his teeth, shuffling 
his arms back and forth. 

"What are you doing here Mulder?" she finally asks, her tone harsher 
than she'd of liked.

"Bringing good tidings of comfort and joy?" he asks, raising both 
eyebrows, wandering around her apartment, picking up the photograph of 
her mother with Melissa, brushing his finger over the small bit of 
garland she'd spread across the mantle. 

"You come bringing comfort and joy, Mulder?" she asks, eyebrow hitting 
her hairline. 

Quirking his lips slightly, Mulder shakes his head, circling around her 
sofa, once again standing before her. "No," he answers finally. "In 
fact, I come baring an offer, Scully. An offer and a plea."

The eyebrow climbs again. "What sort of offer and plea, Mulder?"

"I've got something big going on," he says slowly, and she can tell he's 
leading into something. The way he always used to. Using that style, 
that finesse, that utter insanity to his full advantage. She'd willingly 
followed him into hell so many times, her reasoning based on nothing 
more than the raw passion for his beliefs she'd seen in his eyes.

She'd given up her own belief system, because she'd had so much trust in 
his.

"Define big, Mulder," she challenges, voice wary.

"Huge," he quantifies. "Beyond belief, Scully." He licks his lips, 
looking around the apartment, almost scanning for unseen forces. "This 
is it," he whispers, and the way he says it makes her believe in Tinker 
Bell and the Boogie Man all rolled into one.

"This is what?" she asks slowly, refusing to let herself get interested, 
to care.

"Everything, Scully," he whispers, almost frantically. "Something's 
happening on the Millennium. The real Millennium, Scully, not the 
bullshit the rest of the world celebrated, sweated out, and cheered with 
relief at last year. It's. .. Scully, the date is set. Step one is 
today, on Christmas. It's. . ." he smiles slightly, no more than a quirk 
of his lips. "The end of the world, as we know it."

"And I feel fine?" she asks, the eyebrow going where no facial hair has 
ever gone before. "Mulder," she half whines.

"Scully, it's the real thing this time. No decoys. No ploys. This is it. 
Come with me, Scully. One last time. I need your help on this one. I 
can't do it on my own."

"No Mulder," she says, her tone hard, edged.  "I told you before, I 
can't--"

"Do this anymore," he finishes, his tone almost mocking. "Yea Scully, I 
remember, I was there. I'm not asking you to 'do this anymore' as a 
regular thing. It's one last time. A final adventure, if you will," he 
entices, his tone making it sound like some grand, romantic quest.

Yea, well, if he thought she was going to swallow that, all over again, 
like she did every other time he'd presented it, he really was 
certifiable. "I had my final adventure, Mulder," she explains, her voice 
tired, bordering on annoyance. "I ended up in the belly of some. . . 
alien spacecraft, in the middle of Antarctica, inside a cryo-pod, my 
body being used *again* as some kind of experiment. I nearly froze to 
death with you, waiting for that damn rescue party to show up. Tell me, 
Mulder, is that the sort of adventure awaiting us this time?" she asks, 
the sarcasm evident in her voice.

Mulder stares at her for a moment, in total silence. "You finally 
admitting you were inside an alien spacecraft, Scully?" he asks, his 
tone a little awed. 

Blinking at him a few times, Scully shakes her head. "I can't. . . . I 
can't believe you Mulder," she mutters, turning her entire body from 
him, then back again. "Did you not hear a single word I just said?"

"I heard every syllable, Scully," he informs her calmly. "I just don't 
buy it. Any of it. Truly, I haven't for years. I know I agreed with you, 
said you should live your life, and I meant it. I truly thought it'd be 
best for you to get as far away from me as possible. But Scully," he 
murmurs helplessly, "you're not happy."

"Yes I am," she denies quickly. Too quickly. 

"Liar," he softly contradicts. "You're bored, Scully," he challenges. 
"You teach hopeful young people how to slice and dice the already dearly 
departed six days a week, twelve hours a day. You work yourself until 
you can't think anymore, numb yourself, so that when you get home, maybe 
it won't hit you just meaningless your life is," he argues, that passion 
in his voice.

"And how is that different from the sixteen hour, five days a week time 
I gave you on the X-Files?" she asks, her voice full of icy calm rage. 

"You were interested in your own life, then," Mulder informs her, as 
though it were the most natural thing in the world. "You're not anymore. 
You're bored, you're dissatisfied, completely cut off from anything that 
makes you happy, that makes your blood sing." He leans forward, leaning 
down, invading her personal space like he hasn't in years, his hands on 
her shoulders. "When was the last time your blood *sang,* Scully?" he 
whispers, imploring her with his eyes.

She licks her lips a few times, staring up into those deep, hazel pools 
he calls eyes for an unfathomable amount of time, breathing, feeling 
every exhale of breath he takes hit her mouth. God she wants to tell him 
the truth. It'd be so easy. ~Just open your mouth, Scully~, she silently 
implores herself. ~Tell him, Mulder, the last time my blood sang, it was 
when you were about to kiss me. Your lips brushed over mine, and for a 
brief, perfect moment, my entire body seemed at harmony with the rest of 
the world.~

Shaking herself, Scully blinks a few times, her eyes slowly falling 
shut. "The last time my blood sang, Mulder," she begins, forcing a cold 
tone to her voice, "I was nearly frozen solid, holding your nearly 
frozen solid body in my lap, as a rescue team came over the mountain." 
Eyes opening, she stares at him, watching something behind his eyes die. 
Scully swallows deeply, her own heart clenching at that sight. Oh, God, 
what has she done to him?

"I shouldn't have come here tonight," he says after a few moments of 
silence, his voice mechanical, dead.

~Oh my God,~ she thinks, ~I've killed Mulder.~

"Maybe you shouldn't have," she finds herself agreeing, even as most of 
her body screams to go to him, throw her arms around him, hold him, tell 
him it'll be okay, that yes, of course she'll follow him into the pits 
of hell. She'll help him survive it, at that. She'll follow him 
anywhere.

Except she won't. Not anymore. She can't. Jesus, her entire life was 
being sacrificed at the alter of the truth. And he didn't even need her, 
not really. That desperate declaration in his hallway had been just 
that. The last act of a desperate man, trying to hold on to something 
familiar, something trustworthy. He didn't really need her. He never 
did. If he had, he would've left when she did. But he didn't. He 
continued on. He kept fighting the good fight, on into that long, cold, 
dark, sleepless night.

Do you sleep, Mulder? she wonders. God knows she hasn't had a decent 
night's sleep in years. Oh, sure, she *sleeps.* For hours. She just 
doesn't dream. It's as though she lost the ability. Being away from 
Mulder had taken away her ability to dream. ~Jesus, Dana,~ she chastises 
herself, ~stop being so maudlin in your own head.~

"I'll go then," Mulder says quietly, breaking into her own thoughts.

Scully's eyes snap up to his again. ~Go? You can't go. I can't lose you 
again. Stay here. I'll take care of you, Mulder, always. Just let it go. 
Let them win, if you have to look at it like that. Just stay with me, 
please.~ Her eyes plead with him, beg him. "That would be for the best," 
she says, even as every other fiber of her being contradicts the 
statement.

Mulder sees it. His eyes tell her something too. Quite simply, they tell 
her, I'm sorry, Scully. "Mulder," she says, forestalling him at the 
door.

He turns, a questioning look on his face. She clears her throat, running 
a hand through her hair. "Why the hell is this so important, Mulder?" 
she finally asks, her voice agitated, eyes filling with tears for the 
first time. "Why is *this* case, so God damned important?"

"It's not a case, Scully," he explains slowly, as though speaking to a 
very slow child. "It's. . . ." he trails off, trying to find words, 
unable to.

"A mission from God?" she offers, her voice slightly mocking.

If he hears it, he chooses to ignore it. "Yes," he answers, nodding a 
little. "I suppose you could call it that. If one still believed in God, 
that is," he adds, ribbing her faith, knowing it'd get under her skin.

"Well, good luck Mulder," she mutters bitterly. "Good luck on another 
wild goose chase."

He closes the distance between them in three strides, his hand going 
around her arm. "After everything you've seen, Scully, *how* can you 
insist it's just a wild goose chase? How can you have such little faith 
in me?" he demands, his voice hard, angry, but at the same time, she 
sees something more, sees the anger hiding the intense hurt.

"I'm sorry," she finds herself saying softly, using tones she hasn't 
with him since before she can remember. And she lets her eyes speak for 
herself again. For her self defense mechanisms. She has to convince 
herself it's nonsense, that it doesn't mean anything to survive. ~I'm 
still afraid, Mulder,~ she reminds him. ~I'm still afraid to believe.~  
"I'm so sorry, Mulder," she repeats again, sorry for all the sins, real 
or imagined, she's committed against him. "Mulder," she whispers softly 
after a moment, "you're hurting my arm."

His eyes snap down to the iron grip he has on her arm, and immediately 
releases it. His hand creeps up to her face, cupping her cheek gently. 
"Sorry Scully," he whispers, his mouth an inch from hers, breath fanning 
her lips. 

"It's okay Mulder," she lies, knowing she'll have a bruise tomorrow, not 
willing to tell him for the world.

"No, it's not," he counters, trailing his hand down, to rest at her 
neck. "It hasn't been okay for a long time Scully," he whispers. "And I 
don't think it'll ever be okay again." He closes the distances, brushing 
his lips over hers once, softly, the contact barely more substantial 
than that long ago aborted kiss outside his apartment.

"Mulder," she whispers, half question, half pleading.

"Merry Christmas Scully," he whispers, his voice clogged with unshed 
tears, with a deeper, stronger emotion he intentionally keeps hidden. 

"Merry Christmas Mulder," she returns, dumbly, having no idea what else 
to say.

And then he pulls away from her, turning his back to her, walking to her 
door, opening it, disappearing from her view

And once again, she watches him go.

~~~~

Scully wakes up almost instantly as the dream ends, just as she always 
does. She refuses to open her eyes, refuses to face yet another day of 
life. Not just yet.

She hasn't had another dream in fourteen years. Just that one. Over and 
over, when she was lucky enough to dream. She'd always thought Mulder 
lucky to be blessed with an eidetic memory. But slowly, after years of 
dreaming the same perfect dream, she'd come to think otherwise. She's 
analyzed this dream, so many times, come to so many conclusions about 
the last time she'd seen Mulder.

He'd known he was going to die. He never would've kissed her, otherwise. 
He knew this was it. That he had no chance of doing it alone, without 
her, but that he still had to do it. Because if he didn't at least try, 
they would win.  And he couldn't let that happen, was willing to die to 
prevent it. And he had been right. No wild goose chase. They'd tried and 
failed over the course of five hellish years. Scully had been one of the 
spared ones, the Doctor's who stayed in a tiny little lab, and worked on 
vaccine upon vaccine sample, until finally, one day they'd come up with 
an answer.

Meanwhile, her mother, her brothers, everyone she'd ever known, 
perished. They'd built new cemeteries, there had been so many dead, and 
somehow, she just knew Mulder was somewhere, laughing his ass off at the 
irony. She hadn't been able to avoid it, she'd still had to do her part 
in the truth, even though he hadn't been there.  He should've been 
there. Would he have been there if she'd went with him that night? 
Abandoned her lonely Christmas, and just left with him? Or would it have 
ensured they both died?

At least they would've died together. And she would've been spared this 
life. This seemingly endless existence, filled with nothing but 
emptiness, and loneliness. 

Sighing, Scully throws back the covers, opening her eyes finally, and 
standing up, stretching, preparing her muscles for the normal ache of 
her body. But it isn't there. Her body hurts, but not like it normally 
does. It hurts like it always used to, when her body had been through 
the wringer during one of their cases. Not like it had been, the aches 
and pains of an old woman. Looking around the room, she takes it in. It 
isn't the bedroom she's inhabited for nearly seventeen years. It's the 
bedroom she used to sleep in every night, the one she'd tucked Mulder 
into bed in when he'd been so sick, drugged. 

Moving quickly, she goes to the mirror by the bed, nearly gasping at the 
sight that greets her eyes. She's seventeen years younger, her hair 
still bright, vibrant red, her body in shape. Almost experimentally, she 
touches one breast, smiling a little at the firmness. Blinking the 
thought away, her eyes focus on her cheeks. Freezer burn. Oh, Jesus this 
can't be. It can't have happened. There's no way this could be happ-

"Hey, Scully, you awake yet? We gotta get going if you want breakfast 
before the hearing."

Mulder?

Tearing through her bedroom, down her small hallway, Scully watches, 
hypnotically, as Mulder sits up from the place he'd slept all night on 
the couch. He gives her a sleepy little smile, waving slightly. Not 
thinking, just reacting, Scully practically runs to the couch, throwing 
her arms around his neck, and toppling him backwards, landing squarely 
on top of him. "Mulder," she whispers out loud, breathing against his 
neck, that familiar combination of musk, Mulder and peppermint soap 
filling her lungs, a smell she's only inhaled in her dreams for over 
fourteen years. She really didn't care how it was possible, didn't care 
if there was a scientific explanation for all this, because Jesus 
Christ, Mulder's alive.

"Hey Scully," he chuckles slightly, arms going around her waist 
automatically. "Miss me?" he teases, squeezing her.

"More than you'll ever know, Mulder," she mumbles, lips nestled against 
the crook of his neck. One arm moves down, tunneling underneath his 
lower back, the other going around his shoulders, holding him tightly, 
feeling him, convincing herself he's real, even if he isn't.

~Maybe I died,~ she thinks to herself. ~Maybe this is what heaven is 
like.~

"Scully, what happened?" he asks softly, stroking her back soothingly. 
"You have a nightmare or something?"

Wheels turning, Scully blinks a few times, deciding on her best course 
of action. Sitting up, separating her body from his, Scully runs a hand 
through her hair, pushing it back from her face. "Yea," she mumbles, 
placing a sufficiently embarrassed look on her face. "A nightmare," she 
agrees.

"You wanna tell me about it?" Mulder asks gently, one hand still rubbing 
her back in big, soothing circles.

"You were. . . . gone," she says slowly, her voice raw, hoarse sounding, 
even to her own ears. 

"I've had those," he murmurs, his eyes taking on an almost haunted look. 
"Pretty much. . . suck, right?"

"Yea," she agrees, clearing the rawness from her throat. She shakes her 
head, looking at him, barely believing he's really there. "So uh.  . 
Mulder," she says slowly, "what are we doing today?"

Mulder gives her a look that she reads clearly enough. 'Are you nuts?' 
Out loud, he merely gives her a small smile. "OPR. Telling them 
everything that's happened the last week. The hell, the mayhem, the 
frequent flyer mileage?" 

Right. The hearing. OPR. Just got back from Antarctica. It's seventeen 
years ago, and Mulder just saved her life.  Think Dana. Think. "Oh. 
Right," she mumbles, looking around her old apartment. She'd missed this 
place almost as much as she'd missed Mulder. 

"Scully, is everything okay?" Mulder asks, his voice, as well as his 
eyes, brimming with concern. 

"I'm fine Mulder," Scully answers him automatically, realizing, 
suddenly, that she means it. She is fine. She may have been thrown on a 
quantum leap through time and space, hurtled into her own past, but she 
was fine.

After all, Mulder was here. He was alive.

Maybe she really was dead. This could be heaven, she supposes, looking 
around again. Mulder would be in her version of heaven. But Ahab wasn't 
here. And neither was Mom, or Missy, or Charlie, or even Bill. 

Mom was alive.

The thought occurs to her, seemingly out of nowhere. Her eyes flash up 
to Mulder, filled with sudden tears. "Mulder," she whispers, "have I 
called my mother yet?"

"No," he answers slowly. "I did. Remember? While you were still 
sleeping, in the hospital, I called her, told her what was going on, in 
the sketchiest details possible? She drove up, sat on the other side of 
you, and we both waited for you to wake up." He smiles slightly. "She 
made me promise not to leave you for forty-eight hours after your 
release," he murmurs, looking down at the watch he still wore, despite 
having been asleep.

"How much time you got left on your sentence?" she asks, eyes twinkling. 

"About six hours," he answers, looking up at her, eyes connecting with 
hers again in that way only they can. "Although," he adds in a low 
voice, "I wouldn't mind extending that particular sentence."

She smiles, remembering this exchange. This is what happened before. Is 
happening again. Before, she'd rebuffed him. Been cold this morning, 
preparing to leave him later. But now. . .  "Is that the only thing you 
wouldn't mind extending?" she asks, raised eyebrow and near cynical 
quirk of her lips causing him to laugh out loud.

One hand clutching his ribs, Mulder shakes his head in total bemusement. 
"Scully," he murmurs, the name half question, half caress. 

"Later Mulder," she murmurs, reaching a hand up to gently run her 
fingertips over his jaw. "We've got time for this. . . for everything, 
later."

"Yes we do," he agrees, just staring at her with those 'fuck me' bedroom 
eyes he has, sometimes, when he looks at her, before he's completely 
woken up.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, knowing she has to meet with OPR, Scully 
lets her hand fall away from his face, standing up. She stands in front 
of him, moving her hand up, brushing it through his hair, ruffling it. 
"Just in case I haven't said it before, Mulder," she murmurs, pausing 
for a moment just to watch the play of emotions on his face. "Thank you, 
for saving my life," she finally says, her voice thready, emotional, 
conveying so much more than just the simple gratitude. 

Mulder's arm snakes out, grabbing her around the hip and pulling her to 
him. He rests his cheek lightly for a moment, against her stomach. 
Scully runs her hand through his hair while it's in reach, scratching 
his scalp gently with her nails. "You're welcome," he finally mumbles, 
pulling back, his tone obviously stating that it had been done for 
purely selfish motivations. His eyes are so clearly read by her. 'It's 
my life too, Scully. There is no me without you.'

Moving away, back toward her bedroom, Scully isn't sure whether she 
wants to laugh or cry.

In the end, she settles for letting a huge smile play across her lips, 
while her eyes fill with tears she doesn't feel the need, nor 
inclination, to shed. 

~~~~
End 3/4

An Interesting Work of Fiction 4/4


"There's an interesting work of fiction on page 24. Mysteriously, our 
names have been omitted." Mulder looks up at her, eyes tortured, full of 
righteous anger. "They're burying this thing Scully. They're just gonna 
dig a new hole and cover it up."

"I told OPR everything I know," she begins, feeling a sense of deja vu. 
It won't happen like that again, she vows to herself. She won't let it. 
"What I experienced. The virus, how it's spread by the bees from pollen 
and trans-ingenic crops," she repeats, reciting facts that had suddenly 
come back to her, after seventeen years.

It couldn't have all been a dream, could it?

"You're wasting your time Scully," he mutters. "They'll never believe 
you. Not unless your story can be programmed, categorized, or easily 
referenced," he recites bitterly, tossing the paper down, pacing before 
her.

"Well then we'll go over their heads," she begins, decision made, 
deciding to fight with him, for him.

"No. No. How many times have we been here before Scully? Right here," he 
bites out. "So close to the truth. And now with what we've seen, and 
what we know, to be right back and the beginning, with nothing." He 
looks at her, eyes blazing, a hopelessness within the madness lurking 
there.

"This is different Mulder," she counters, tone calm, once again trying 
to be the voice of reason.

"No it isn't," he counters sharply. "You were right to wanna quite. You 
were right to wanna leave me. You should get as far away from me as you 
can. I'm not gonna watch you die Scully," he rasps out, voice tight, 
controlled, "because of some hollow personal cause of mine. Go be a 
Doctor. Go be a Doctor while you still can," he orders, actually 
ordering her.

"I can't. I won't." Been there, Mulder, done that. Can't do it again. 
Won't do it again.  "Mulder, I'll be a Doctor, but my work is here with 
you now. That virus that I was exposed to, whatever it is, it has a 
cure. You held it in your hand. How many other lives can we save," she 
implores him, feeling him still pulling away. She grabs his hand, 
holding him to her, using the physical hold to form an emotional one. 
She smiles slightly, still faintly amused at his trying to order her 
into doing something. "If I quit now, they win," she repeats, parroting 
his earlier words to her, declared in such a tender, desperate manner.

He returns a small, tentative smile, knowing he can't let her leave, 
that he needs her. ~Oh Mulder,~ she thinks to herself, ~if only you 
knew.~ They walk away, holding hands, dropping them after a moment. 
Scully raises her hand to Mulder's arm, getting his attention. "Mulder, 
we need to talk," she murmurs softly. 

He nods, leaning down toward her. "Yea, we do," he agrees.

"My place? I'm buying," she offers generously.

"Damn straight you are," he mumbles, giving her another small smile. 
"I'll meet you there Scully. I've a. . . got an errand to run first."

Giving him a nod, Scully turns, walking backward from him, keeping 
contact with his eyes. 'Don't try to run from me Mulder,' they silently 
communicate. 'I'll follow you to the ends of the Earth.'

He smiles, sending her a returning look. 'I'd expect nothing less, 
Scully.'

~~~~

A knock draws Scully from the bathroom, toweling down her hair, a long 
terry cloth robe swallowing her small frame. "Who is it?" she asks, 
knowing full well it's Mulder.

"Candy Gram," he offers, in his best 'land shark' voice.

"You got chocolate?" she asks, leaning her shoulder against the wall 
beside the door.

"Uh. . . flower delivery," he amends. 

"Roses?" she asks, entire face lighting up with false joy, letting it 
spread to her voice.

"Hey Scully, could you just let me in? He's getting restless," Mulder 
whines.

"He?" Scully asks, opening the door, and emitting a small gasp. 
"Mulder," she breathes.

"Was that a good Mulder, or a bad Mulder?" he asks, stepping over her 
threshold, a small Pomeranian in his arms. 

"Good Mulder," she replies, her voice like a little girl's.  "Is he for 
me?" she asks, biting her lip in the most adorable manner.

Mulder smiles down at her, shrugging. "If you want him, yep," he answers 
softly.

"Oh Mulder," she murmurs, leaning up, wrapping both arms around his 
neck, enfolding him and the dog in a hug. "Thank you," she whispers 
sincerely.

"You're welcome Scully," he murmurs back, the one arm not holding the 
dog going around her back.

Luxuriating in the feel of him, still not quite used to him being alive, 
to them having this glorious second chance, Scully clings to him, 
refusing to let go until the dog's whiskers tickle her beneath her chin. 
Stepping back, she sends him a wide smile, shutting the door behind him. 
"He doesn't have a name yet," Mulder begins, "but I was thinking--"

"Que-Quag II," Scully cuts in quickly. "His name, from now on, is 
Que-Quag II. It just. . . suits him," she murmurs, looking down, not 
wanting to give away her hand.

Nodding, Mulder gives her an odd little smile. "I agree," he murmurs 
watching her sit on the couch, holding Que-Quag II. "That was the idea I 
had."

"So Mulder, you hungry?"

They talk for a moment, eventually deciding on pizza. They have a giant 
one delivered, half vegetable, half meat lovers. Scully watches him, 
almost surprised by how easily she's accepted this. She should probably 
be questioning her own sanity, or, at the very least, questioning why 
she's alive. But she doesn't. She doesn't care. Mulder's feeding her 
pizza, for God's sake. He's laughing with her, he's laughing period. 
He's alive, they're both relatively young, and they've just survived the 
kind of ordeal that would've destroyed others. And, Mulder being Mulder, 
he's reveled in it. It's made something behind his eyes come alive, the 
survival.

"Hey Scully, you want another pepperoni?" Mulder asks, dangling the 
pepperoni in front of her face tantalizingly.

Popping it in her mouth before she can consent, Scully laughs, chewing. 
"Okay Mulder, Sci-Fi or Comedy?" she asks, reaching for the remote.

"Sci-Fi," he answers, without hesitation. 

Grinning, she flips on 'Mars Attacks!'. Sticking her tongue out at him, 
she starts giggling as he dives at her, going for the remote. "Come on 
Mulder, fair is fair," she gets out, between giggles. His hand brushes 
against the tip of the remote, and she tosses it across the room, 
listening as it slides down the hallway.

"Hey, no fair Scully. You know I'm too tired to move," he grumbles, a 
smile on his face as he sits back against the other side of the couch.

She shrugs, grinning impishly at him. "Then I guess we're watching Mars 
Attacks," she informs him primly. 

"Guess so," he murmurs, sitting back, taking up three quarters of the 
couch in the process.

Sending him a mock glare, Scully watches Que-Quag II make a little bed 
of Mulder's leather jacket in the corner, falling almost instantly 
asleep. "Furball," Mulder calls to him, though not unkindly. 

Shifting, Scully curls around the couch, laying her head against his 
chest, her legs along his. He looks down at her, seemingly startled for 
a moment to be holding her. ~Sorry Mulder,~ she thinks to herself. ~It's 
been too long without you.~ After a few seconds, his hands settle on her 
back, holding her to him, both their heads turned toward the television 
as the movie starts. "Hey Mulder," Scully begins slowly, not looking at 
him. "If I had something truly outrageous to tell you, would you believe 
me?" she asks, tentatively. 

"I always believe you Scully," he murmurs softly.

"Never mind," she mutters, deciding this is a bad idea. "You'll say I'm 
nuts."

"I won't. I swear," he promises, voice sincere.

Letting out a giant sigh, Scully lets one hand rest at his hip, the 
other against his shoulder. "I believe, Mulder," she begins slowly, 
"that I've traveled back in time. I've lived an entire lifetime, without 
you, where we were apart, where you died. And then, this morning, I woke 
up, and it was this morning again. And the OPR hearing went exactly as 
it had before, only this time, afterwards, instead of leaving you, I 
stayed, and we ended up here," she recites quietly, still not looking at 
him.

Silence descends, and the only thing she can hear is the sound of his 
heart, beating beneath her ear. "Mulder?" she asks slowly, raising her 
head to look him in the eye.

"You know what I think?" he finally asks, his eyes dancing, a slight 
smile behind them.

"No Mulder, that's why I asked," she says slowly, a smile of her own 
dancing.

"You're nuts, Scully," he informs her lightly, the most loving tone to 
his voice.

Nodding, she lays her head back down against his chest, listening to his 
heart beat again. "That's what I thought," she murmurs, watching the 
movie for awhile.

He almost believed her. Scully could tell. He was the type to believe 
everything, and anything. Besides, it was her telling him something. He 
just wasn't going to talk about it. Probably for the same reason she 
wasn't going to talk about it. Because she doesn't want to jinx it. She 
doesn't want to go back to where she was before. She wants to stay here, 
with Mulder, living a life with him. 

She still doesn't know why she was living a life with him. What presence 
of God, or fate, or something else had done this. Could she have really 
dreamed the seventeen years of loss, and loneliness? Perhaps a side 
effect of whatever they'd done to her in that cryo-pod? Or did it 
actually happen? Did she actually live an entire life, without Mulder, 
only to find herself with him once more?

Or was she dead? She could accept that. Easily. As long as she's with 
Mulder, she really doesn't care. Wherever she is, for whatever reason, 
she owes a giant thank you to whoever's responsible.

"For what?" Mulder murmurs from beneath her.

Startled, Scully realizes she must've said 'thank you' out loud. 
Smiling, a thought occurs to her. Maybe she really should be thanking 
Mulder, after all. If anyone was responsible for bending time and space 
to put things right, it was him. "For being here, for being you," she 
finally whispers, her voice raspy, her arms going around his waist. "For 
everything, Mulder."

Smiling a little, against the top of her head, Mulder waits. Waits until 
her breathing slows, until she hasn't spoken for nearly an hour, until 
he believes her to be asleep. "I love you, Scully," he whispers, 
quietly, breathing the words, against her hair, closing his eyes, 
finally, falling to sleep himself.

Opening her eyes, a few seconds later, a tiny, peaceful little smile 
tugs at her lips. Deciding to let him sleep, for now, Scully closes her 
eyes again, holding him, letting her mind compute how to wake him up, 
when the morning comes.

~~~~

End 4/4