Continued from part one...

***

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.


***

Mulder sits hunched at his desk, his motivation for work at a record low. Last night he'd drafted a letter to Skinner about Scully's reassignment and left it with Kimberly when he arrived this morning. Scully will be furious when she finds out, and the thought brings him a miserable kind of pleasure.

He opens his bottom drawer in search of a box of yellow pencils, and finds one half-full. He empties the pencils onto his desk and is about to begin sharpening them when the door opens.

Scully walks in. "Good morning," she says, taking off her trench and hanging it on the coat rack.

Mulder stares. Her suit is hanging funny and is at least a size too big. When she turns back to face him, her skin still has the sheer, papery look of fine vellum. He is at once pained and infuriated by the sight of her. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demands.

She stiffens. "Thanks for the warm welcome."

"Scully, I'm not kidding. I do not want you here. Go home."

She draws a deep breath. "Look, Mulder. I realize that things are probably awkward between us right now, and I accept the blame for that. My actions were inexcusably unprofessional, and it was an unfair position to put you in. But I'm hoping we can move past it."

Mulder wonders how long she spent practicing that in front of the mirror. "Fine, yes. It's in the past. Now leave."

"I don't take orders from you," she says, crossing her arms.

"That's true, you don't. Maybe I should write you up for insubordination. This is technically my division."

The expression on her face is one of absolute incredulity. "Who do you think you're talking to here?"

He assumes a thoughtful air, tapping his chin with one finger as he props his feet up on his desk. "Oh, goodness me! I don't know. Could it be… the woman who had one foot in the grave last week and who is supposed to be medically cleared before she comes back to work?"

"I have a medical degree," she snaps. "I can make a qualified assessment."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, you're really forthright when things aren't as they should be. How were you feeling before you keeled over at that hearing?"

"Watch it," she hisses.

He swivels his chair around and stands up. "No. I will not 'watch it.' If you can't handle having your fitness questioned, you shouldn't be here." He's hoping to push her buttons, but can't deny some genuine righteous anger as well. How can she be so careless when he's doing his damnedest to keep her safe?

She gives him a contemptuous look. "You're not questioning my fitness. You're being deliberately cruel because you have a martyr complex of unfathomable proportions."

Mulder would give anything for her to stop being so fucking rational and start taking things personally. "Actually, I'm trying to cover my own ass. Maybe you've forgotten in your absence, but our line of work isn't conducive to your fainting spells. Your current state makes you a hazard in the field." He takes a few steps until they're about eight inches apart and she has to crane her neck to see him. Which puts him at an advantage.

"The field?" she scoffs. "You're not going anywhere today. And as for my 'fainting spells,' as you call them, I don't have cancer anymore." Her voice rises slightly at the end.

"No, you don't. You have a microchip in your neck, because that's what passes for oncology among intergalactic test subjects."

She flinches. "You think that validates your entire cosmology, right? You should be swooning at the sight of me, Mulder. I'm your goddamned poster girl." She turns sharply and walks to the other side of the desk. She settles into the chair and crosses her legs. "I'm back. Get used to it."

He rests his hands on the desk and leans forward. "I have formally requested to have you transferred from this division," he says in a low voice.

Her jaw drops. "You can't be serious."

"Now that Blevins is dead, it shouldn't be hard to have it arranged. I left the paperwork with Skinner this morning."

The fight seems to go out of her. "Mulder, no."

He hates doing this, but hates even more that it's necessary, and so he presses on. "I feel that you have become a liability to the work carried out by this division due to your personal involvement."

Scully's eyes narrow, and Mulder realizes that he has overplayed his hand. She stands and leans forward, hands on her hips, nose inches from his. "May I remind you that personal involvement on your part is what got this whole thing started? That's we're here right now because of that?" Her voice is harsh and bitter, the anger is back in full force.

"Mulder, what is this nonsense about a reassignment? I just - oh." Skinner stops in the doorway, Mulder's letter hanging from his fingertips. "What is going on in here?"

They both straighten up. "Sir, Agent Scully was just leaving," Mulder says, giving her a pointed look.

Scully crosses her arms again and glares back, still appearing as though she's thinking of dismembering him.

"Sit down. Both of you."

They obey.

Skinner walks over to the desk, looking sternly down at the two of them. "Mulder, there is no earthly reason for Agent Scully to be reassigned on the flimsy evidence you have provided."

He isn't surprised by the response, but hadn't planned on having this argument with Skinner in front of her. "Sir, it is my personal opinion that -"

"Your personal opinion has no bearing on the situation. This is a professional matter."

"I really think she -"

"That's enough."

Mulder chews a pencil, and plans to continue things later.

Skinner directs his attention to Scully. "Agent Scully, you are on medical leave at present, are you not? That means you are supposed to be home."

"Yes, sir." She shifts uncomfortably in her chair.

"And this office is not your permanent residence, is it?"

"No, sir."

"Then perhaps you will understand my puzzlement in finding you here."

She looks away. "Sir, I've been -"

"Extremely ill? Yes, that's my concern as well. You are excused from your duties until such time as I hear otherwise from your physician."

Scully closes her eyes.

Mulder is, as ever, impressed by Skinner's steely command, even when it inconveniences him.

"And Agents?"

They both look up, and Mulder has the unpleasant sensation that Skinner is trying very hard not to smirk.

"I feel that this separation, combined with the extreme emotional duress you've both been under, has put a serious strain on your partnership," Skinner says. "Next Monday, the FBI is conducting a team-building seminar in Tallahassee. Registration ended a month ago, but I'm going to pull a few strings and have you both attend."

Mulder gapes. "Scully's on medical leave," he finally manages.

"I'm on medical leave," Scully echoes.

"I'm sure it won't be a problem. There's no danger, and the event will not be physically demanding. You do seem to have improved a great deal, Agent Scully. You did feel well enough to come in today, after all."

Scully looks faintly stunned at being outmaneuvered like this. "Uh, yes, I don't think that should be any… um, that will be good and I'm sure Dr. Zuckerman will be fine with it," she babbles.

"Good," Skinner says. "Scully, go home and rest. We want to make sure you're in good health for this seminar. Mulder, I am, obviously, rejecting this request." He hands the letter back, and Mulder numbly accepts it, amazed by Skinner's deft manipulation.


***


He hasn't felt this nervous about talking to a member of the opposite sex since asking Rachel Andrews to ninth grade homecoming. And Rachel wasn't armed and pissed off at him.

"What?" Scully snaps by way of a greeting when she answers her door. She's traded this morning's suit for jeans and gray sweater.

"May I come in?" he inquires politely.

She steps aside to let him enter, then shuts the door behind him. She eyes him up coldly.

Mulder stands in the living room and attempts to look casual. "What are you doing for dinner?"

"Eating. It's my customary practice."

He will tolerate her up to a point. "You can drop the attitude. We're both getting shafted on this."

She sighs. "What's up, Mulder? Why didn't you call?"

Her hostility broken, he decides to sit on the couch. "I was thinking we should grab a bite together. This seminar thing is obviously stupid, but Skinner may have stumbled upon a kernel of truth. We have been under a lot of duress, Scully, and I'd hate for our partnership to suffer for a disturbance in the Force."

He spent four minutes debating among partnership, friendship, and relationship before he came over. He also theorized that showing up in person was more likely to get her to agree to his invitation. Really putting that psych degree to work, Fox, he thinks wryly.

Scully smiles a little. "I appreciate the gesture, but I think I'll take a rain check."

He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "I'm serious about this, Scully. This morning was ugly and I don't want to sweep it under the rug."

She shakes her head. "Forget about it. We were both out of line and said some things we didn't mean -"

"Did we?"

She looks at him intently for a moment. "I'll get my jacket," she says.


***


They're sitting across from one another at the twenty-four hour diner a couple of blocks from her apartment, waiting for their food to arrive. Mulder has found a package of crayons behind the ketchup, and is using them to complete the word search on the kids' menu. He circles "macaroni" just as the waitress thumps a plate down in front of him.

"French toast," she says flatly, then sets another plate in front of Scully. "Meat loaf." She walks off on squeaky shoes as Mulder switches the plates.

"Mmm," he says, poking at his mashed potatoes. "Just like Mom used to order from the caterer."

Scully grins and eats a bite of her toast. "So," she says.

"So."

She looks puzzled. "This was your idea, Mulder. I figured you had something to get off your chest."

"Like a speech? Sorry to disappoint. I just thought being out in the wild was a good idea."

She spears a chunk of melon with her fork. "You lured me here under false pretenses," she says accusingly, punctuating with the fruit.

He scratches his ear thoughtfully. "It's possible I have a martyr complex," he offers.

Scully looks openly surprised. "Oh?"

"It's also possible that when it comes to your health, you have the common sense of a doorknob."

She starts to look indignant, and then her face softens. "Yes," she says. "That could be possible."

This is good, he thinks. We can do this. He is particularly motivated to get things back to normal, because the idea of going to a touchy-feely teamwork seminar where some idiot with capped teeth will make him and Scully into Examples has his skin crawling.

"But even so, Mulder," she continues, "you have got to stop trying to push me away. I know what you're doing. I'll admit I was stupid to come in this morning, but trying to have me reassigned? How is that different than these people you think you're protecting me from? Your motivations aren't the same, but you're still trying to control my life and relieve me of my right to make my own decisions."

He chews the inside of his cheek as he gathers his thoughts. "The difference is that you wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for me. I'm trying to correct things, not compound them."

She looks at him with a sad smile on her face. "It's not your choice."

Mulder eats a forkful of meat loaf. "Well, you've been saved from reassignment by the Great and Powerful Oz, anyway."

"That's not good enough."

"What?"

"It's not good enough that it's only not happening because of Skinner. I need you to understand why you had no right to do it."

And I need you to understand what it's like knowing I've almost killed you by proxy, he thinks. But instead he looks her in the eye and says, "I do understand." Because it's all there is to say.

"Thank you," she says.

"Scully," he says. "About the other night."

She blushes, but doesn't avert her eyes. "Mulder, I already apologized for that. I was completely in the wrong."

He shakes his head. "Hear me out. I didn't… I didn't leave because I wasn't interested."

"Okay," she mumbles, fidgeting with the pepper shaker and looking like she wishes he'd shut up.

He sort of wishes he'd shut up, but he needs to get this out. "I left because your timing sucked."

Her bark of laughter surprises them both, and she coughs, half-choking on a mouthful of toast. She manages to swallow it and starts to reply, but Mulder cuts her off.

"I can't give you what it would take to make things work right now.” He reaches forward and takes the pepper shaker from her hand, his fingers sliding against hers. "But it doesn't mean I can't ever. Give me time, Scully."

Scully gently pulls her hand away and looks at him again, her blue eyes unreadable. She acknowledges his words with a small nod. Then she returns her attention to her plate, cutting up a slice of melon with surgical precision.

Her eyes are cast downwards, though he can see she's lost in thought rather than actually contemplating her food. The cheap fluorescent lights over-illuminate her skin and hair to create the effect of a postmodern Rossetti. He tucks the moment into his memory and holds her there, dignified and graceful, bearing his request with all the yielding strength of a willow in the wind.


***

Maggie wanders aimlessly through the aisles at Babies 'R' Us, baffled by the vast array of gear available. Now that she knows the baby's sex, the longing to shop has become irresistible.

She stops by the display of strollers. There must be twenty different models. Her own children, like every other child in the neighborhood, were pushed about in a sensible blue pram that did not feature "an extra-large basket for storing your diaper bag" or "a compact size designed for handling city sidewalks." How on earth do you know which features are most important? Are you supposed to take these things for a test drive? She is annoyed at being overwhelmed by something so stupid.

A young man sidles up to her. "Can I help you with something?"

New grandmothers are an easy mark, she suspects. "Um, I'm not sure, really. My son and daughter in law are having a little boy, so I wanted to pick up a few things."

"Congratulations! Do they have a registry?"

"I don't know. I think I'll just look around for now, but thanks."

"Okay. Let me know if I can do anything," he says, and walks off behind a display of infant bath seats.

She passes rows of high chairs, gas-reducing bottles, and an entire wall of toys to stimulate brain development in babies under six months. She counts twelve different brands of nursery monitor. Maggie shakes her head, watching a young couple look despairingly at the selection of cribs. This isn't how you get ready for a baby, she thinks. This is how you have a nervous breakdown. She leaves the store empty handed and drives home.

Maggie walks up to her bedroom and crouches down on the floor to peer under her bed. She reaches her arm as far as it can extend, and tugs out a wooden crate. She opens it and removes the large satin-covered box that contains the christening gown that each of her children wore. Then she gets up and, for the first time in years, she opens the drawer of her husband's night table. The rollers squeak and she has to tug to get it opened all the way. She catches a hint of his lime and bay rum aftershave, and her heart squeezes at so tangible a reminder. Carefully, she lifts out the goatskin-bound Bible that he always took to sea. The pages are fine as onion skin, marked with notes from his gold pen. Maggie breathes in the good, clean scents of leather and paper and ink, then rests the book on her bed.

She goes to her jewelry box, opening a small drawer at the very bottom. From it, she withdraws a Chaplet of the Two Hearts, made of a creamy blue-green stone. She had prayed with it on her wedding day, nine weeks along with her son, and every day after until she passed it on to her daughter. She hasn't been able to look at it since the funeral; unable to separate it from the image of Melissa dressed like a miniature bride, walking solemnly to Father McCue to receive her first communion. She tucks the chaplet, along with Bill's Bible, in with the christening gown.

Maggie sits on the bed for a time, tracing her fingers over the soft fabric of the box. This is what it means to get older, she thinks. You send your memories out into the world like messages in a bottle, and you trust other people to keep them safe.


***


Mulder is stretched across the couch, staring mournfully at his fish tank. "So did he pay your doctor off or what? I smell a conspiracy here."

Scully, sitting on the floor at his coffee table, rolls her eyes. At least, he assumes she does. He cannot actually see her face, but her scorn is easily imagined. "You'd smell a conspiracy at a county fair pie bake-off," she says.

"Some of those women will stoop to low and nefarious acts," he informs her, watching the filter launch endless silver bubbles into the water. "You think Martha Stewart built her empire by playing fair? I'm from New England, and I have seen things. They're savages, Scully."

"Well, conspiracy or no, there's no way to get out of going. And you never know, it might be fun."

Mulder flips over so as to more effectively display his horror. "You didn't just say that, did you? Please tell me I'm having ketamine flashbacks again."

"It says things about you, Mulder, that you find that to be the preferable alternative. Frightening things."

"I'm sure we can explore it further as we promote our productivity through people power. Try saying that one five times fast."

"She sells seashells by the seashore."

"I'm not the fig plucker, nor the fig plucker's son, but I'll pluck figs 'til the fig plucker comes."

Scully grins at him, shaking her head. She checks her watch. "I'm going to run to the deli and grab something to eat. Can I get you anything?"

"The key to unlocking the global conspiracy that has been cloaking the truth about the existence of extraterrestrials for the past fifty years," he replies, sitting up. "With a pickle on the side."

"How about a roast beef sandwich instead?"

"Sandwich is good too. You want me to come along?"

She gets to her feet. "Thanks, but I'm good. Lettuce, tomato, no onions?"

"And a pickle."

"And a pickle. I'll be back in fifteen." Scully leans across him to take her coat from the sofa.

Mulder notices that she no longer hesitates at being in his space; that her movements are without self-awareness even as her waist is millimeters from his arm. She straightens up, pivoting to go as she does up her buttons. She doesn't say anything else, just slips her shoes on and disappears around the corner.

He hears the soft click of the door being shut and smiles, enjoying the utter normalcy of the evening. There is no case to discuss, no tragedy to avert. Scully is getting food and she will bring it back and they will eat it together. He has been surprised to discover that letting himself think of her in an overtly sexual context has made things easier between them. The sky has not fallen, she hasn't been snatched in the night, and he has found that their relationship can, in fact, exist on a spectrum rather than in a series of pigeonholes. There is a sense of flexibility now, rather than the panicky confinement of a rigid matrix.

Despite this satisfying epiphany, he feels it's best not to mention masturbatory fantasies as a key to a successful partnership when they're Tallahassee.

He knows damned well what Skinner is up to with this teamwork seminar, that it is a tool rather than an end in itself. This knowledge has raised Skinner further in his estimation. It demonstrates a keen understanding of the agents in his command, and reinforces Mulder's trust in the man. He and Skinner share something now, in Scully, and he wonders which of them was the coin that bought her life back.

He tells himself that it doesn't matter, and the thought tunnels into his brain like a cicada, ready to emerge when it is more fully developed.

Mulder gets up and walks to the small cabinet where he keeps the movies that have been released in actual theaters. Animal House... The Jerk… Spaceballs… how the hell did he end up with a copy of Beaches? Mulder finally settles on something with no awkward romantic moments or overwhelmingly vulgar humor. He puts the movie in the VCR, then returns to the couch to wait for Scully.

She arrives about ten minutes later, bearing two brown paper bags. She sets them on the coffee table before taking her jacket off. "Dinner," she says, pointing at one bag.

"Excellent," he says, rubbing his hand together. "And the other?"

"Beer. And pie."

He looks up, grinning widely. "You got pie?"

"It sounded good when I mentioned it earlier, and they had just put a fresh lemon meringue in the dessert case." She sits down.

Mulder opens the bag and removes the pie, then helps himself to a beer. Oatmeal stout. "I need to party with you more often," he says. "This is very respectable."

"I'm so glad you approve," she replies, taking her sandwich from the other bag. "I really agonized over how to impress you with my selections."

"Well, you've succeeded admirably. I'll make a note of that in your file." He picks up the remote and turns the TV on.

"Is this something appropriate to share with a colleague, Mulder?" she asks, opening a beer for herself. "Or is it the one where things become extremely fortuitous for our hero, Unsuspecting Copy Machine Repair Guy?"

"Actually, this brilliant piece of cinema showcases approaches to theoretical physics and time travel that should greatly captivate you."

Scully perks up, looking interested. "Go on."

"A brilliant scientist, with the help of his young protégé, discovers great truths about the nature of fate, chance, and the driving forces that make us who we are. All set against the backdrop of a small American town in the fifties."

She stares at him for a moment. "Back to the Future?"

Mulder reaches over to turn out the light, delighted by her correct guess. "Scully," he says, "My density has bought me to you."

She laughs and takes a sip of beer. "Hit play, McFly."


***


Scully stares into her closet, trying to decide what to pack for the trip to Tallahassee. They don't leave for another two days, but she's bored and it promises to be a time-consuming project, as most of her clothes are still baggy enough to make her look like she's playing dress-up.

She's interrupted by her ringing phone. "Scully," she says into it, trying to figure out if her lavender suit can be pinned into functionality.

"What do you think about laryngitis?" Mulder asks.

"I'm generally opposed."

"No, I mean what if we acquire laryngitis by Monday? We can't go if we can't talk, right? There're a few lacrosse games at Georgetown Day School this weekend. I thought maybe we'd go cheer ourselves hoarse."

"Mulder, give it up."

"But look at all of the partnership this is fostering!" he points out. "We're having an exchange of constructive dialogue."

"Yes, it's very ironic. What time are you getting to the airport? I figure we can meet there, unless you want to split a cab." The lavender suit goes back into the closet, and she ponders a cream silk blouse.

"You actually want to do this, don't you?" he asks accusingly.

She imagines him pouting. "No, I don't, but it's not the end of the world. It'll be stupid, but it beats filling out expense reports and avoiding my mother, so I figure I can make the best of it."

"You're such a Pollyanna."

Scully decides that this trip is the perfect occasion for a trial run of her new four-inch Via Spiga pumps. She tucks them into her suitcase. "Yeah, well, maybe you should try it sometime. You never know, Mulder. You may find that life is more than an endless series of horrifying, unexplainable cases whose crushing misery is broken up only by patches of stultifying paperwork. There's a whole other world out there."

"Pitcher plants lure insects by the use of nectar bribes, and the animals are then drowned and dissolved. To say nothing of the anglerfish."

"Enjoy your lacrosse games, Mulder."

"Go team." He hangs up.

She laughs softly to herself. Whatever else happens, she thinks, we'll always have pitcher plants.


***


He calls her the next night, sounding mournful. "Well, I gave it the old college try. I was a vocal athletic supporter. I played basketball and tried to induce a chill. I ate raw cookie dough. But now I'm packing."

"I'm sorry to hear it," she says, amused that he's genuinely disappointed to be in good health.

"Thanks. I may go out with wet hair later, though. Cross your fingers."

She smiles. "I appreciate the update, Mulder. I'm going to grab some dinner and head to bed. I'll see you at the airport tomorrow morning, right? Eight thirty at the concourse?"

"Be there or be square."

"Good night," she says.

"Hey, Scully?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad Skinner called me on the transfer. I wouldn't want to do this without you."

Her throat aches, and she swallows hard before answering. "I know why you did it."

"Good night, Scully." He hangs up and leaves her wishing it were morning.


***


Scully pulls her keys from her pocket and searches for the one to the office as she walks down the hall. She looks up when she gets to the end of the corridor, then stops, puzzled by the light coming from under the door. Cautiously, she turns the knob and enters the unlocked room.

"Mulder?" she calls tentatively.

He's sitting at the desk, placing stacks of papers into a briefcase. "Scully! I thought we were meeting at the airport."

She pushes the door shut. "So did I."

"I was just getting some reading material for the plane," Mulder tells her.

She grins. "Me too."

They look at one another sheepishly.

Mulder opens a file cabinet and rifles through some pictures. "I still can't believe he's making us do this, Scully. It's inhumane. I'm pretty sure the Eighth Amendment protects us from such treatment."

She smiles at him again, then heads to "her area" for a case study she'd requested from the CDC. "Just grin and bear it and it'll be over before you know it."

"Wasn't that Queen Victoria's advice?"

"Actually, it's attributed to Lady Hollingdon. But either way, the premise is the same. And a little good PR wouldn't hurt you."

He sighs theatrically, then walks behind her, peering over her shoulder as she sorts the papers on the fax machine tray. "You're supposed to be my good PR," he says against her hair. "You're the squeaky clean public face of our little division."

His proximity is distracting, but she staples her file as though his chin isn't grazing the top of her head and his jacket isn't ever-so-slightly touching her lower back. "I'm hardly squeaky clean, Mulder. My formerly spotless record is now greatly besmirched." She turns to walk to the file cabinet, but he's blocking her way. "Excuse me," she says to his tie.

"You're excused." He doesn't move, but, with a quick flick of his wrist, he relieves her of her file. He places it on top of a shelf above his head.

She glares up at him. "Mulder, give that back now. You're not fostering a great deal of team spirit right now."

"Rah, rah," he says flatly. "Go Scully. Yay." Then he leans down and kisses her. Hard. On the mouth.

She gasps and shoves him back. "What in the hell are you -"

"Oh, what? This is just your thing?" His eyes are wicked.

"First of all, you said you needed time, so pardon me for being a little taken aback by this change of heart. Secondly, we are at work, Mulder."

"Just think of this as a team-building exercise," he says, stepping forward to pin her to the cabinets with his hips. He rests his hands on the counter, his arms against her own.

Scully's flustered and her heart is pounding beneath her breasts, but she feels the need to at least make some kind of last-ditch effort before they both do something completely insane. "At least lock the door," she says, in another woman's voice. Possibly the voice of a woman who has sex at work.

"No," he says, mouth soft against her neck. "We're not supposed to be here for a few days, remember? No one's going to come in." Mulder's hands go to her waist and he lifts her up onto the counter. His tongue follows her sternocleidomastoid up to her jaw, and she is done arguing with him.

Scully protests only long enough to kick her shoes off and fidget out of her stockings, which she scrapes off into a gauzy tangle on the floor. They look like a discarded snakeskin. Oh, Dana, what the hell are you doing?

Mulder gazes at her like a kid with the world's biggest Christmas present, and she is done arguing with herself.

The edge of the counter is digging uncomfortably into the backs of her legs, but she doesn't care. This is due largely to the fact that Mulder's inching one hand up the outside of her right thigh and using the other to cup her left breast through her clothing.

She cannot believe she is doing this.

She cannot believe he is looking at her like that, his mercurial eyes fixed shamelessly on her body. She reaches up to grab his tie, winding it around her hand like a bell-pull, and tugging his mouth to hers. Scully doesn't think she'll ever get tired of the feeling of his lower lip between her teeth.

Mulder slides his hand over the top of her leg and around her waist, drawing her against him as he lets go of her breast to work on her buttons of her blouse. He presses his thigh against her knees, nudging them apart and pulling her forward.

She wraps her legs around his hips.

"Jesus," he mumbles when she bats his hand off of her chest and guides it up under her skirt.

Her head falls forward against his shoulder, her teeth grinding against his lapel when he pushes her underwear aside and slips two fingers into her. "Mulder," she says hoarsely, moving steadily against his hand.

"Look up," he breathes, his other hand hard against her back.

She doesn't want to look up. If she does, he'll be looking back and there is no way on God's green earth she can deal with that right now.

He takes his hand from her back and uses it to tip her chin up.

Scully believes she will spend the rest of her career seeing his eyes on her as her heels dig into his ass. When Mulder slides his thumb over her clitoris, it seems a reasonable tradeoff.

She drops her legs from his sides so that she can reach for his fly, and tugs at the zipper. His nostrils flare, his eyes flicker, as she slides her open palm against his erection, his boxers a thin barrier between their bodies. She moistens her lips and feels him twitch against her hand.

"Scully."

The sound of her name - not even her name, really; just his name for her - leaves the back of her throat tingling. She deftly unbuckles his belt, then fumbles at the tab closure of his suit pants. "What is it?" she asks, wanting him to keep talking. His voice makes her feel bold and drunk.

He leans forward, his tongue flicking against her ear. "I'll have more updates on the traffic situation in eleven minutes."

"What?"

"Thanks, Ted. And now, the latest single from Oasis off of their newest album."

Scully sits bolt upright in bed, then looks at her alarm clock in abject mortification. "Oh, fuck," she whispers, her cheeks burning like they've been slapped.


***


Mulder peers around a fichus tree and taps her on the shoulder. "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?"

Scully nearly jumps out of her skin. "Mulder!" she exclaims, turning to face him.

"A little on edge this morning, are we?"

She doesn't meet his eyes. "I… I didn't sleep very well. I was just daydreaming, and you startled me."

"Follow me. There's a Starbucks. We can't have you showing up to this seminar without being your usual perky self."

She glares, hitching her laptop case higher on her shoulder.

Mulder notices that her suit fits well, and wonders if she's been shopping or if it's simply the results of half a lemon meringue pie. Either way, she looks good. Good enough that he is going to have to be very careful not to screw things up.

He tugs at her sleeve. "Come on, Sunshine. Let's get you properly caffeinated."

Scully acquiesces, staying close to him as they weave through the throngs of harried travelers and excited loved ones coming to meet a plane. Despite the crush of people, they manage to stay together, propelled by the unconscious choreography that has led them through the years. Mulder becomes suddenly aware of how they've matched their uneven strides, of the way their bodies stay parallel - infinitesimally close without actually touching.

He stops short as a woman darts between them to catch an errant toddler. Scully, without missing a beat, sidesteps all three, turning ninety degrees to avoid a luggage cart. He watches her slim body weave around obstacles until she's next to him again and decides that, when the time is right, he will ask her to dance.


***


"Sing the next verse," Mulder orders, his voice muffled by her sleeve.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," Scully reminds him, scanning the perimeter for glowing red eyes.

"Sing it."

"I don't know it," she lies.

"Yes, you do."

"Mulder, shut up and get some rest." She longs to be in her hotel room right now, safe beneath a tacky bedspread. The morning would bring cheap pastry and terrible coffee. She can almost taste the artificial creamer.

"You shouldn't have picked a song you weren't going to finish," Mulder says sulkily. "It's mean."

Scully smiles down at him, feeling both exasperated and fond. She wonders if he was this argumentative as a child. She imagines he was a fairly snotty teenager. "Why do you even want me to sing? I'm practically tone deaf."

"I have to say it was not the most stirring rendition ever done," he concedes. "It had a certain funereal quality. And yet…"

"And yet?"

"And yet I suspect that you rarely sing. I like that you did it for me."

Scully thinks it is a very good thing they cannot see one another right now, because she could not have this conversation while looking at him. She clears her throat. "No, Mulder. I don't sing very often."

He makes no reply, but briefly squeezes her thigh. His head is a solid, comforting weight in her lap, like a cat or a baby, and she strokes his hair idly for a time, feeling him relax. Her bedside manner is better than most people would suspect. Mulder's breathing slows to a somnolent pace, and it mingles with the swish of feeding owls and low insect hum of the nighttime forest.

Scully looks down at the warm, heavy figure on her lap, his left shoulder torn and bloodied under the pearly glow of the moon. She wishes she had some water to clean it, both for fear of infection and because of what animals it could attract. She's wary but not frightened, though there is every cause to be. She knows what predators call this wilderness home, and she knows she'd be hard-pressed to defend herself against any of them. But there's nothing she can do, and she is too newly restored to life to borrow trouble.

Mulder's body heat is a comfort against the damp chill. She thinks of sleeping bags, of his runner's body curved around hers, and smiles in the dark. Her thumb trails along his earlobe, the tissue fleshy and soft. Improbably, she is reminded of apricots. Mulder stirs, huddling closer in his sleep, and then is still again.

She looks up at the stars, crisp pinpoints on so clear a night, and she can hardly believe it was less than two weeks ago that they stole out of her hospital room to sit beneath them. She wonders how she could have been so callous towards what Mulder rightfully called magic. The stars, the Moth Men and she, all begun of a singularity that echoes still in ancient light and the background radiation that pervades the known universe. Energy made matter, racing out into nothingness, and expanding still. The Earth spins on its crooked axis, orbiting a minor star in a distant arm of a slightly undersized galaxy. Scully is enchanted by the endless vault of the sky, and stares up until she is dizzy and has to look away.

Around her, the loblolly pines and black walnuts soar upwards, interspersed with shorter trees and shrubs. She can feel the forest breathe around her, solemn and verdant, going about the quiet business of growing. She puts her arms around Mulder, singing softly so as not to wake him.

Give me time, Scully.

Yes, she thinks. What else is there to give?


***


The End.


***

Yes, I know I'm a tease. I'm sorry if you hate me. I really did consider going ahead with actual sexytiems, but it felt wrong for this story.

Bill's out-of-wedlock birth is pretty much supported be canon, as Scully was born in 1964 and Maggie says in Beyond the Sea that her husband proposed to her after his ship returned from the Cuban Blockade, which was 1962-ish. Bill, Melissa, and Scully all between '62 and very early '64 seems highly improbable. I had also wondered a lot about why a military man should be so opposed to his daughter becoming an FBI agent, and this is how that section developed. For those who don't recall, Frohike really was a champion tango dancer. And yes, I know Scully should have been bald since she had chemo. But she wasn't, so what can you do?