Meditation 17

By Tara Avery
 

Rating: PG13

Spoilers: References to a few shows, nothing major.

Keywords: MS UST, MULDER ANGST (may even qualify as TORTURE),
Scully Angst

Category: S,A & hints of R

Distribution: You know I love having work posted... just let me
know where it's going.

Disclaimer: After all this time--they're STILL not mine.
CC&Friends.

Feedback: Makes my day. Really, truly, honestly. If you like this
story, PLEASE hit the reply button.

Notes: The title refers to John Donne's Meditation 17, although
knowledge of said Meditation is not necessary. Other notes about
this story will appear at the end.

*~*~*~*~*

Meditation 17

Tara Avery
tavery@ntonline.com

*~*~*~*~*

Nunc lento sonitu dicunt, morieris.

"Now this bell tolling softly for another, says to me, Thou must
die."

~*~*~*~*~*

It began as innocently as any other Friday afternoon had ever begun.

They sat in the basement office: she rifling through some files
in an attempt to find proof for Skinner in her latest report; he
rifling through some files in a desperate attempt to find
something appealing enough that she might be convinced to spend
the weekend with him, investigating *something*. The something
was the part Mulder was having difficulties with, and five
o'clock was lurking right around the corner.

"You going to stay late and finish up that report, Scully?"

She glanced up at him and frowned. "It's Friday, Mulder."

"Stranger things have happened. I guess that's a no, then."

"It's not due on Skinner's desk until Tuesday morning. Even if I
can't finish up on the weekend, I'll have Monday."

Mulder nodded sagely, casting surreptitious glances toward the
clock ticking on the wall. 4:18. Damnit.

"Well... do you want to grab a coffee or something at five? I
found this nice place right around the--"

"I would, Mulder, but Bill's down for the weekend and I promised
I'd head over for dinner at my Mom's as soon as I got off work."

He made a funny noise in the bottom of his throat that passed as
understanding, but should have been properly diagnosed as
something akin to jealousy. /Even if I *had* been able to find an
interesting case, she'd definitely have begged off to spend the
time with her family./

4:42.

"Well, how about Saturday, then?"

She gave him the patented 'you're asking too much, Mulder' look
and sighed. "Mulder, I honestly don't mean to sound cruel, but
I'd just prefer if you didn't... contact me this weekend unless
it's an *absolute* emergency. A real absolute emergency, too, not
an 'I found a haunted house' emergency. I know you and Bill just
don't get along, but I'd like to spend a peaceful weekend with
family. Is that too much to ask? I mean, really?"

He hung his head a little and glanced up at her, testing the
puppy dog look. She just sighed again and closed the filing
cabinet. "No, Mulder. I'll see you on Monday, all right?"

"It's only 4:52."

The smallest smile teased her lips. "By the time I get my laptop
and my briefcase from my office and sign out, it'll be five.
Monday, Mulder. Bright and early."

"You're coming in early?"

A third deep sigh and she shut the door behind her.

/I hate weekends./

Mulder took his own advice and headed to the coffee shop around
the corner. It was one of those new jazzy joints that seemed to
be springing up on every street corner, decorated in pine and
dark blue, with local artwork displayed on the walls. Miles Davis
played lowly in the background when he entered, quiet enough to
add to the ambience rather than detract from it. A tall, blonde
Barista smiled wisely when he caught her eye.

"You've been here three days in a row, now. Dare I call you a
regular?"

Mulder waggled his eyebrows at her and replied, "You've been
working the last three days in a row; dare I call you a
workaholic?"

"Poor student would be more accurate." She gestured to the back
shelf, where several texts lay sprawled, one on top of the other.

"Studying?"

"English literature, mostly. Honors program. How about you? Just
off work? Something creepy, I imagine. You've got that G-man look
perfected."

"I'm getting predictable in my old age, it seems. Or transparent.
I work with the FBI, small division called the X-Files."

"Paranormal, right? I remember seeing you on the news when you
were searching for that guy... the one who could use his will to
make people do things. Modette? Momen? Damn. Modell, right?"

"Yeah, Modell. I wasn't aware they'd mentioned the X-Files in
that report."

The girl shrugged. "I like the paranormal. I've heard a few
talks, gone to a few conferences. They held one at the university
two years ago where you spoke. It took me a while to recognize
you, I'll admit. I kept thinking that no man would voluntarily
weedwhack his hair like you've done. No offense. Fox Mulder,
right? Jill Markham."

Mulder smiled wryly, resisting the urge to self-consciously scrub
a hand through his hair. "Pleased to meet you, Jill. I'll get a
regular coffee, black."

"So predictable. No flavor shots? Nothing?"

"Just black."

She raised her eyebrows. "Real men drink black coffee?"

"So I'm told."

"Well, I'll give you the hazelnut coffee. You look like a
hazelnut kinda guy."

"Do I now? I like it, actually. My partner drinks the stuff down
like there's no tomorrow."

"Partner? I guess most FBI Agents have partners--you just seem
like such a lone dog. Especially after you gave that talk on
government conspiracies and not being able to trust anyone. Your
partner's the exception? What's he like? Quiet and lonely like
you?"

"She's the only one I trust."

Jill colored slightly. "And me in gender studies. I'm sorry."

"No offense taken--everyone knows the FBI and the CIA and the
government are all one big boys' playground. Scully's a tough
woman, and brilliant. She deserves a hell of a lot better than
she gets."

Jill slid the mug across the dark blue counter. "Here--it's on
the house."

Mulder opened his mouth to protest, but stopped when he saw the
determination in the young woman's eyes. "Thanks. Are you the
only one working?"

"Yeah."

"Then you won't have to share this." He dropped a couple of
folded bills into the tip jar. "Thanks for the conversation."

She shrugged. He liked it that she didn't peer curiously at the
money he'd given. It showed some strength of character on her
part. Fifty bucks was worth that. "Bring in your partner
sometime. I'd like to sit and have a good talk with a woman who's
made it in the boys' world."

"She'd like that, too."

Mulder lifted the cup and turned, attempting to spot an empty
table in the small, crowded shop. He wound between tables,
murmuring an apology when he nudged a woman's arm and caused a
drop of coffee to slosh onto her fingers. She fixed him with a
glare that softened as soon as she noticed his puppy-dog eyes and
good looks.

"Hey," an unfamiliar voice called. Mulder looked up sharply, but
didn't see anyone.

"Fox Mulder?"

This time he saw the owner of the voice: a slim, artistic looking
young man all in black. A long coat was slung over the back of
his chair haphazardly, and a half-empty mug of tea was held
between long fingers. The stranger's eyes were dark and smudged
with shadows. A stray lock of black hair hung in the young man's
face, giving him a child-like appearance.

"How do you know my name?" Mulder questioned sharply, keeping his
voice low. The woman he had nudged finally turned away when it
was apparent that he wasn't going to give her any more attention.

"I know a lot of things."

"Are you some kind of informant? Did smoking bastard CGB Spender
send you?"

The man grinned, a sudden flash of white teeth against his dark
goatee. "Nothing like that, I assure you. Although I do suppose
you could call me an informant. I have information for you. But
first, why don't you sit down? Stay a while. You're not going to
find a chair anywhere else in here."

Mulder sat, facing the man warily. The steaming cup of hazelnut
coffee was forgotten. "What is it? What do you know?"

"Something you don't. But I won't tell you straight away--I'd
like to have a little conversation with you first."

"All right," Mulder acquiesced, enunciating each syllable
carefully, slowly.

"You're a busy man, Mr. Mulder, aren't you? Chasing government
conspiracies and lights in the sky takes a lot out of a man. And
you're not exactly young anymore are you? Pushing forty,
high-stress job, family history of heart problems. Did you know
that married men are healthier than unmarried men? Do you ever
worry about cancer, Mr. Mulder? Do you ever worry about what
would happen if you couldn't finish your quest?"

Mulder pressed his anger into the pit of his stomach and looked
the man squarely in the eyes. "What kind of tactic is this? Are
you trying to scare me?"

"Trying--and succeeding it would seem. Your pulse is thready,
your heart pounding. You're probably wondering who I am that
knows so much about you. You're trying to sit on your anger so
you won't cause a scene, pull your gun and thoroughly embarrass
that nice waitress over there. Jill, right? A little more than
half your age, beautiful, pleasant, intelligent. Does she remind
you of all the things you can't have, that you've never had?
Think she might sleep with you if you asked real nice? If you
used those boyish good looks and those soulful eyes? Does it make
you wonder why your partner never falls for your tricks?"

"Leave Scully out of this," Mulder hissed, clenching and
unclenching his fists under the table. He could feel the color
rising in his face. "If you've got information, just tell me. I
don't need to play these games."

"Oh, but Mr. Mulder! This is such fun. You'd be thankful I was
here if you knew what I know."

"Thankful for what? Having my nose rubbed in my own inadequacies?
I don't know who you are to think you know so much--"

"Yes, well, that's part of the problem, isn't it? If you knew who
I was, you wouldn't be so harsh, let me tell you. How do you
think you'll die, Mr. Mulder?"

"I don't know," Mulder spat, dryly. "I hear auto-erotic
asphyxiation is all the rage. But for me? Bullet in the line of
fire. Something quick and painless."

"Everyone hopes for that, don't they? Quick and easy and
painless. Do you have any idea how many people die in agony
because of cancer in a year? Oh, but not you. When do you think
this bullet in the night will graze you? Next year? Ten years
from now? I'd say twenty, but they don't really keep FBI agents
in the field at sixty, do they? So some time in the next
ten-fifteen years you'll be killed in the field, hard blow,
sudden death?"

"Sure. Why the hell not." It wasn't a question.

"Think you'll still be partnered with Agent Scully? She's younger
than you, isn't she? Think she'll cry? Or just be shocked? If
she's there, do you think she'll try and staunch the flow of
blood? Can you see her little hands pressing down on a mortal
wound, fighting fate, trying to keep you alive by the sheer force
of her will alone? Sounds like her, doesn't it? Can't you just
see how she would blame herself if you died in her arms?"

The little caf with its blues and its calm decor was suddenly
too loud, too garish. The hazelnut coffee had ceased steaming.
All the conversations were suddenly cacophonous and crazy, like
the screaming of crows. Mulder squeezed his eyes shut and said
nothing.

"Would you die instantaneously, or would you have a few moments
to look into her eyes and see all the things there you had been
too afraid for years to see? Do you think, in those last few
moments, you would regret everything your life had become? Would
you die as unhappily as you'd lived? Would you die knowing she
was unhappy, too?"

"What--is--your--information?" Each word emerged as though torn
from Mulder's throat. He could practically taste blood. The
stranger only smiled wisely and shrugged.

"Just thought we could have a nice little conversation first."

"I've had enough conversation. You've got two minutes and I'm
leaving."

"Do you believe in Death, Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder slapped his palm down on the table, causing both mugs to
jump. Hazelnut coffee sloshed over the rim and onto the table. It
looked like a bloodstain in the dim light of the caf.

"I told you--I've had enough conversation."

The young stranger abandoned his tea, steepled his fingers, and
raised his eyebrow at the FBI agent. He suddenly looked much
older. His eyes were full of something Mulder couldn't name. A
shudder slid up his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck
rose.

"All right, then," the stranger continued. His voice was bright
and cheerful--an obscene counterpart to the darkness in his eyes.
"Not everyone gets the chance I'm giving you, Mr. Mulder. I'll
try and pretend that you've been civil. On a very few occasions
there are stories that touch me deeply--no easy task. And on a
very, very few occasions, I feel it necessary to warn. You, for
example. You struggle and struggle and rage against the skies and
the injustices of the world. You've spent a quarter of a century
looking for an eight-year-old. You've spent the better part of a
decade with a woman you trust in all ways except, perhaps, the
most important of them all. You're going to die on Monday, Fox
Mulder. It doesn't matter that I'm telling you *that*. You can
hide in your apartment, or in your office, or in a bomb shelter
for all I care--you can't escape me. But there are things you
should do before the weekend is over. There are things you should
say to your friends, your family. I'm giving you the chance to do
those things you will have wished you had done at the moment of
your death."

The cacophony in the background stopped. Time stopped. Mulder
stared at the smiling man sitting across from him at the table
but was unable to form words. A pall of sudden realization
dropped over his shoulders. It was no longer strange that this
slender, artistic man knew his name and Scully's name and the
details of his life. Mulder remembered the heavy feeling of
standing in the same room as Clyde Bruckman--and that feeling was
magnified ten thousand times in the presence of this graceful,
goateed entity. Mulder thought his heart was going to stop then
and there, and that he would fall dead, face-down in a puddle of
cooling coffee.

"Not now," the stranger whispered softly, touching the back of
Mulder's hand. The pale skin was as cold as one of Scully's
autopsy bays, and filled Mulder with the same sense of leery
revulsion. "You have until Monday."

"I don't believe you," Mulder finally gasped, fighting tears and
horror and anger all in the same breath. "No one knows the hour
of their death. Even Bruckman only knew how--never when."

"I didn't tell you the hour--only the day. We can't expect
everything, now can we? This is a gift, Mr. Mulder. Whether you
take advantage of it or not--you won't survive past Monday."

The younger man rose, gently folded himself into his jacket, and
dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table, face up. "Don't waste
such a precious gift, Mr. Mulder. Trust me--your smoking man has
never offered you anything as extravagant as what I am offering
you now."

"I don't believe you," Mulder breathed, staring down at his
shaking hands. He knit his fingers together in an effort to keep
them still. "I won't believe you."

"Your own loss, then."

When Mulder looked up, the other man was gone.

Mulder watched the second hand progress around the face of his
watch several times before someone tapped him on the shoulder.
His first instinct was to pull his gun and round on whomever it
was, but prudence stopped him. Instead, he turned his head and
saw the woman whose arm he had bumped earlier.

"Hi," she said, school-girl shy, her voice pleasantly British. He
was reminded uncomfortably of Phoebe--but Phoebe Green was the
least of his problems at the moment.

Mulder struggled to find polite words, and settled on, "Hello."

"I--uh--couldn't noticing that you and that young man seemed to
have a bit of a row over here. If you--uh--well, here's my
number. We could go for dinner sometime. We could talk."

"Thank you," Mulder replied gravely, folding the small piece of
pink paper and placing it in his pocket.

"Well. Anyway. It was nice meeting you, Mr.--"

"Mulder. Fox Mulder." He stuck out his hand automatically, moving
like a machine.

She giggled lightly. "Elizabeth Herrick."

"Pleased to meet you."

"The pleasure's mine, Fox Mulder."

He smiled--a mechanical smile. "And I'm--really sorry about
hitting your arm over there."

She smiled her forgiveness and nodded slightly before leaving.
When the door had shut behind her, Mulder lowered his head to his
hands and sighed. /Great timing, Elizabeth Herrick. Charming./ It
seemed so unreal to have had a conversation with a woman--to have
been asked out by a woman!--when he had two-three days to live.

Two or three days.

"Did you know that guy?" Jill murmured, unobtrusively mopping up
the spilled coffee.

"No. No, not really."

"What'd he say to make you so angry?"

Mulder met her eyes and was startled to see the compassion there.
"He said I have two days to live."

The young woman dropped the mugs she had been carrying and sunk
into the chair opposite him. The sound of shattering ceramic made
Mulder cringe. "You're kidding. Is he some sort of doctor? I
mean, how could he *know*?"

"He was Death." Saying the words aloud made them real. "I think
he was the physical embodiment of Death itself."

"That's--not possible."

The stuttered words made him think of Scully, and he fought the
sudden urge to break down and weep in front of this beautiful
girl who had been too damned caring for her own good. When he
called Scully later... when he told Scully what had happened, he
knew she would react with the same blind disbelief.

/Well, this is a real emergency, at least. She has to see that./

"Should I even bother telling her?" He wasn't even aware he had
spoken the words aloud until Jill answered him.

"Your partner? Why wouldn't you tell her?"

"She won't believe it. For God's sake, *I* hardly believe it, and
I'm the one who chases goddamned aliens for a living! Maybe I
shouldn't tell her--I mean, there's always the possibility that
one of us will die prematurely, anyway. She's almost died half a
dozen times in the last year alone. I'll let her spend the
weekend with her family... and I... and I..."

A heavy blanket of silence fell over the both of them for several
long moments. Finally Jill asked, "She doesn't have any idea that
you're in love with her, does she?"

Mulder shook his head and shrugged at the same time, unable to
find words.

"You really believe this guy?"

He closed his eyes in sad resignation.

"You have to tell her then," the young woman sighed. "You can't
let it end like this. I mean--in the very least, you have to give
her something to go on after you're gone."

Through the apathy and silent shadows that had smothered his
emotion, there was some small part of him that recognized her
words and the truth they carried.

*~*~*~*~*

He drove past her mother's house three times before deciding that
the home of Margaret Scully was not the place for these final
moments he had to share with Scully. Scully's car was parked
against the curb, behind a rental he assumed belonged to Bill.

"Later," he said aloud, and turned around, heading back to
Alexandria and the warm, dark den he had called his home for so
long.

At twelve thirty-nine he called Scully and was startled when she
didn't answer the phone. /Must have decided to stay at her
mom's.../

"Scully, it's me. It's important. I promise I wouldn't bother you
unless it was really important. Please call when you get this
message. I'll be at home."

Nothing on the television could hold his attention for longer
than fifteen minutes, and he refrained from pacing, lest he work
himself up. Sorrow had set in after denial and anger. He thought
about calling the Lone Gunmen, but didn't know what he would say
to them. 'Hey guys I'm kicking the bucket on Monday and thought
I'd say goodbye' just didn't have the right ring. He thought
about calling his mother, but it was late, and he would only
worry her. Tomorrow, maybe.

He sat and watched the clock because he couldn't think of
anything else to do.

/Is this what my life is worth after all?/

*~*~*~*~*

He didn't realize until he was woken by the sharp sound of his
telephone that he had fallen asleep. He scrambled for the
receiver, and answered breathlessly, "Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me. I didn't get your message until this morning.
What's wrong?"

"Scully, I--"

And words left him. 'Scully, I'm dying'? 'Scully I have less than
forty-eight hours to live'? 'Scully, I met Death in a caf?' She
wouldn't believe any of that.

"How was dinner at your mom's?"

"Nice. We had roast beef. That's not the emergency is it? Mulder,
I thought we had some sort of agreement that you wouldn't bother
me this weekend unless it was really important!"

"It... was. But I guess I handled it okay on my own. What are you
doing today?"

The disappointment and annoyance in her voice was louder than the
words she spoke. "I don't know yet. I'm sorry, Mulder... I have
to go. I've got a call on the other line. I'll see you Monday
morning, all right?" And she hung up on him.

He listened to the silence on the other end of the line until the
piercing dial tone reappeared and forced him to set the receiver
back on its cradle. Even then, he did so unwillingly. Even the
shrill shriek of dial tone was better than the silence the rest
of the weekend promised.

He picked the receiver up again several moments later, dialed a
number and waited for the pick-up.

"Hello, Elizabeth? Fox Mulder. What are you doing tonight? How
about tomorrow? I'll pick you up at eight."

*~*~*~*~*

Continued in Part 2...

Disclaimers in Part One

*~*~*~*~*

Scully smiled as her brother opened the door to the restaurant,
ushering her in with a little bow from the waist. It had been a
good weekend--it let her remember that her brother did not always
live up to the insensitive prick reputation that he had fostered
with Mulder.

Mulder. The stray thought about her partner caused her smile to
falter slightly. He had sounded honestly... scared? unhappy? sad?
on the phone message left at her house. She had called expecting
to hear about a death in the family or a run-in with the
Cigarette-Smoking man. His behavior had been, well... down-right
*odd*. She had sat and stared at the phone for a good
five-minutes after hanging up, expecting him to call back with
some sort of flustered explanation for his weird behavior. But
nothing. More than twenty-four hours and no contact. She wondered
if this weekend was going to end with her pulling his ass out of
the fire. Twenty-four hours without contact from Mulder usually
meant he was up to no good.

/Maybe he's just taking me seriously for once./

"Dana?"

"Sorry, Bill. I was trying to remember if I turned the iron off
before I left, but I'm pretty sure I did. No worries."

Until, of course, she looked up and saw her partner sitting on
the opposite side of the restaurant, apparently locked in an
animated conversation with a young woman. She was bright-eyed and
brilliant, and her delicate fingers rested gently on his forearm.
Scully squashed down the immediate jealousy that flared up and
turned her head away from the disturbing scene. "Isn't that your
partner?" Bill growled, a little more loudly than she would have
liked."Mmm," she replied, with a noncommital shrug.

"Who's he with?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never met her." Scully placed her hand on
her brother's arm and manoeuvred him to the "Please Wait to be
Seated" sign.

Scully wavered between wishing that Mulder would glance her way,
and hoping he would keep from noticing her. The last thing she
wanted was a confrontation between her brother and her
partner--or between herself and Mulder's date, for that matter.
Thankfully, she and Bill were seated on the other side of the
restaurant. From their table, Scully had a clear view of Mulder
and his date, but a vase full of dried flowers would obscure his
view of her--if he ever bothered to look up from the apparently
riveting conversation he was engaged in. Scully could see the
profile of his face and of hers. She was wholesomely pretty,
Scully granted silently, with a beautiful mouth and a cascade of
brunette curls. And obscenely long eyelashes. /Those can't be
real. Women just don't have eyelashes that long that are *real*./

"Dana?"

She glanced up at her brother sharply, embarrassed to have been
caught daydreaming.

"Dana, I'm really sorry." The honest sorrow in his voice was
startling to say the least. "I know you care about him, and no
one--especially not *you*--deserves to find out like this."

"Bill." She sighed deeply, trying not to sound hard-done-by.
"Bill, I know what it looks like, but there is no understanding
between Mulder and I. And I know it's hard for you and Mom and
half the world to believe, but in hard, actual fact, Mulder and I
are just work partners. And friends. Platonically."

"By necessity or by choice? Are you honestly telling me you would
give up the chance to be the woman on the other side of the table
right now? You may be able to occasionally hide things from me,
Danes, but anyone who saw the way you're gazing over there now
sure wouldn't have any doubts."

"It's just not a possibility, Bill. We are professionals in a
very, very dangerous line of work. There are standards--there are
guidelines. And even if there were *nothing* else standing in the
way, the fact remains that I never know quite where I stand with
Mulder. We have a really... a really messed-up relationship, all
things considered."

"Oh, come on, Dana. You've never been someone prone to self-pity
as long as *I've* known you. Everyone has some aspect of their
relationship that is messed-up. It adds to the complexity.
There's no such thing as normal in any relationship. If you're
waiting for the perfect moment or the right time, it'll never
happen. You'll wake up one day twenty years from now and wonder
why you wasted the time you could have had."

Scully arched an eyebrow, attempting to deflect some of the truth
from her brother's words. "You don't even *like* him, Bill."

He shrugged. "Certainly not right now. No one messes with my
little sister and gets away with it."

"Bill--"

"I don't want you to be unhappy, Dana, and that's the bottom
line. I've struggled and fought and wondered what the hell was
wrong with you, but basically it comes down to this: you're my
sister, my only sister now, and I love you. I want you to be
happy. I may not think highly of him, but I swear to God I'll
kiss the man if he finds a way to resurrect your smile.
You've--you've been so sad for too long, Danes."

Scully nodded, suddenly weary beyond her years. She'd been
fighting so long, too long, and for what? To find her partner
eating dinner without her with another of the tall brunettes he
seemed to favor? To find alien corpses and dead babies and a
million monsters--of the human and non-human varieties? "Your
support is kind, Bill, and overdue, but the fact is--Mulder is
over there with a pretty woman who is not me."

Bill grunted and said nothing, while Scully hunted for chunks of
cucumber in her tossed salad, appetite fled.

Before she could stop him, Bill stood, brushed the wrinkles out
of his pants, and started crossing the distance between their
table and Mulder's. Scully hissed his name, but he pretended not
to hear her.

She watched in mute horror as Bill stepped up to Mulder's table.
She was too far away to hear the conversation, but she saw Mulder
half-rise from his chair, flushed and puppy-dog confused. He
shook Bill's proffered hand and scanned the restaurant--looking
for her, she imagined. She thanked God for small mercies and this
particular restaurant's penchant for dried flowers, because her
partner didn't spot her. Bill then offered his hand to the other
woman, who looked completely annoyed at being disturbed. Scully
didn't feel sorry for her.

Barely a minute passed before Bill returned. Mulder and his date
sat as silent as stones until Mulder got up and headed for the
bathroom. Seconds later, her cell phone rang, shrill amidst the
quiet conversations and candlelight.

An older couple at the next table gave her a dirty look when she
flipped her phone open and barked, "Scully."

"It's not what you think, Scully."

"Isn't it?"

"We're just friends--acquaintances, really."

"I'm neither your mother nor your wife. You don't need my
permission to go out for dinner."

Bill rolled his eyes.

"Scully--"

"Your date is getting lonely."

"I need to talk to you." If she'd been any less annoyed, she
might have heard the terror and the sorrow in his voice.

"Monday."

There was a brief pause. "Monday is too late."

"What's that supposed to mean? Monday is tomorrow, for God's
sake."

"Just what I said! Look, can I meet you later? Please, Scully?"

"No. And just don't make a scene at the restaurant. It wouldn't
be fair to any of us."

Scully hit the end button and effectively terminated the
conversation with only the smallest tremble of guilt. She thought
of his strange behavior on the phone this morning, combined with
his odd mannerisms now, and sighed. When she glanced up, Bill was
staring at her.

"I think I'm starting to understand," he said cryptically, and
then refused to elaborate.

She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and watched as
Mulder, defeated, slunk back to his table. The woman attempted to
lure him into further conversation, but his replies were short,
terse--she soon gave up interest and glared menacingly at
whatever was on her plate.

Scully, with a sudden loss of appetite, grimaced down at her own
chicken cordon bleu. When the waitress returned, Scully had her
pack up the untouched meal.

Mulder and his now thoroughly-disgruntled date left before Scully
and her brother, Mulder's hand fluttering weakly as though he
wanted to place his fingertips against the small of her back--or
perhaps that she be the woman whose back he touched so casually a
dozen times a day. Scully shook her head, frowning at her fancy.

Mulder never looked back.

She didn't know if it made her happy or sad.

*~*~*~*~*

Scully seriously considered staying at her mother's place, if
only to escape the possibility that Mulder might follow her to
her own home. She thought he might have enough respect for her
mother to hold his peace. But she found the closer she came, the
less she wanted to spend another vapid, happy evening with her
family, talking about babies she would never have and families
she could never really be a part of. It wasn't that she begrudged
them their happiness, or that she was bitter about her own
physical state, or even that she was unhappy. She just wasn't
really a part of that white-picket fence, four smiling children,
pot-roast on Sundays family unit any longer.

She drove past the Bureau, cold and dark and ugly against the
night sky. It was never a particularly beautiful building, but
night added nothing. White lights glared on the cement, showing
pockmarks and ugly seams.

She turned a corner and saw a little coffee bar. It looked quiet
and welcoming, despite the typical Saturday night crowds
elsewhere. She drove until she found parking and made her way
back to the coffee-shop, wondering if this was the little place
Mulder had wanted to take her to after work yesterday.

The place was not crowded, and a woman's soft voice crooned from
the overhead speakers, but it was not someone Scully recognized.
Two young women smiled from behind the smooth pine counter, and
the taller greeted her with a pleasant hello. Scully wondered if
Mulder would find her attractive, this tall blonde girl with the
beautiful smile.

"Can I help you?"

Scully glanced up at the chalked on menu and ordered a hazelnut
coffee, cream no sugar.

The young woman smiled and poured the coffee. "$1.18, please."

Scully rifled through her purse and swore when she remembered
giving the last of her change to Bill to cover the tip at dinner.
"I'm sorry--you take debit, right? I hate to use it for such a
little bit, but I'm out of cash."

"No problem."

Scully handed over her card and the girl glanced at it before
swiping. "I'm sorry--I notice your last name is Scully. Do you
know a Fox Mulder?"

Startled, Scully raised an eyebrow. "He's my partner. We work
together. You know him?"

A look of concern replaced the young woman's smile. "He started
coming in last week; I've seen one of his talks on the paranormal
and current conspiracy theories." Her voice lowered slightly.
"How is he doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, when... he left here yesterday... he had some bad news.
He, ah, you haven't spoken with him?"

"Briefly, but he didn't mention anything. Is there something
wrong?" Scully pushed the sudden terror into her gut and
attempted to concentrate on the misty shadows in the young
Barista's eyes.

The girl looked confused and shrugged. "I can't--I can't really
tell you, I... he was upset, that's all."

Scully frowned. "Thank you. Mulder and I--we have difficulties
telling each other when there's something wrong. I appreciate
your telling me. I'm sorry--could I get that coffee to go?"

*~*~*~*~*

The rain fell in ungodly torrents, hissing as it hit the ground,
splashing violently against the cement.

Scully circled around her apartment building, searching in vain
for a parking spot that wouldn't entail walking in the rain and
getting completely drenched. Mulder's apartment had been dark and
empty, without even the pale blue light of a television to serve
as a beacon. Hoping that her original fear of having Mulder
follow her home might be recognized, she turned the car around
and headed for Georgetown. She didn't see his car, but he might
have had to park farther away.

She wondered for the ten thousandth time what might have occurred
to make the young woman in the coffee shop so concerned about her
partner. A death in the family? A run in with the Smoking Man?
Her earlier surmises rang false, and she forced her imagination
to shut down. Anything serious would be classified as an
emergency, and he certainly would have told her.

/Monday is too late./

Scully cursed and slammed her foot onto the breaks to avoid
killing a sad, drowned rat cat who was slinking across the wet
pavement. The car skidded, but the cat was missed. She attempted
to focus on parking and driving rather than Mulder's strange
behavior, but it was nearly impossible.

/Scully, it's me. It's important. I promise I wouldn't bother you
unless it was really important. Please call when you get this
message. I'll be at home./

She clenched her hands around the wheel until her fingers hurt.
Finally, she saw the tail-lights of a car flash red and start to
back out. She started pulling into the space before the car was
completely out and was met with the finger and an expletive loud
enough to be heard through two closed car windows.

/What the hell has he gotten himself into now? Goddamnit,
Mulder!/ She thought of her own brittle commands to leave her
alone this weekend and was filled with sudden regret for every
word. /It can't be anything too bad. He would tell me if it were
something bad./ Even as she thought it, though, she knew that it
wasn't true. Mulder only told her *bad* things when he was
slightly incapacitated. She thought of his crumpled, bloody body
hunched in a bathtub and shuddered. It worked the same way in
reverse. She remembered the look in his eyes when she had said
first said the word "cancer" but she had been so alone then,
without anyone else. She had wanted Mulder to tell her it was all
better. She had wanted his idealism to declare "this is not
really happening," and it had. He had. That's what he was good
at. Denial.

They were both good at denial.

She got out of the car and was soaked instantly. Her hair hung
into her face, clinging and uncomfortable. She cursed the lack of
foresight and the lack of an umbrella.

"Scully!"

She whirled around and saw Mulder behind her, drenched and
shivering. "Scully, wait!"

"Mulder--"

"Scully... don't send me away. I need to talk to you."

"Mulder, I--"

"No," he growled, in a voice hard and harsh with barely
controlled anger. "Your brother isn't here now to bully me into
silence." He rarely used his size to intimidate her, but both
were aware that intimidation was precisely what he was attempting
to do now. His fingers clenched around her wrist in a death grip,
preventing her from turning. There was something unfathomable and
lost behind the angry sparkle of his eyes, and rain ran tracks
down his face like tears. "I *need* to talk to you."

"I'm not arguing with you, Mulder. I was looking for you."

"Why'd you shut me down so forcibly at the restaurant then?"

"Because you were there with someone else, Mulder. You were on a
date, and neither you nor I had any right to disrupt the meals of
others. But I have some questions that need to be answered, and
you're the only one who can do that. What is it that has you so
upset? I spoke to a young woman working in a coffee shop down by
the Bureau and she asked me if you were okay. Is there something
you're not telling me?"

"Do you remember that night when we were out in the woods, and
you sang to me?"

Scully blushed and nodded curtly. Raindrops sprayed from her hair
like a thousand tiny globes of glass. The effect was strangely
beautiful under the yellow-gold street lamps. The color reminded
her of the fire she could not start that night. They had been so
cold, and her voice so weak against the encompassing darkness.
"Of course."

"You asked me about dying, and I made a flippant remark. I'm not
so flippant now. I'm sorry I ever was."

The rain continued to pelt down, cold and uncomfortable. They
faced each other in complete silence.

"I'm not so close to death," Scully finally said.

"How do you know? How do you know a car isn't going to swerve
around this corner and kill us both?"

"Mulder!"

The intensity in his eyes frightened her as he leaned in, close.
Too close. "How do you know, Scully? You don't. You don't ever
know. Didn't we learn that when you were diagnosed with cancer?
Don't we ever learn anything, you and I?"

"Mulder." She disliked the uncertainty in her voice. Pulling away
from him as much as his grip would allow, she attempted to brush
some of the water out of her eyes. She felt like she was crying.
She felt like she was weak. "We learn to live each day as it
happens. There's nothing else we *can* do."

"Carpe diem," he muttered, in the same caustic tone. "But do we,
Scully? Do we really live as we could? I think we're both
cowards."

"Is that was this is about? The unmentionable *us*?" Concern and
anger battled for control over her words. "Some of us don't
appear to have a problem reconciling work and a social life,
Mulder."

Mulder's eyes narrowed--the only outward sign he gave of being
hurt by her words.

"Why does it always come down to this, Mulder?" She shook her
wrist and his grip eased up a little, but he didn't let her go.
She didn't push him. The feel of his fingers hanging loose around
her fragile bones was strangely reassuring. "Why does it come
down to accusations and hurt feelings? I don't like hurting
you--I don't. But I don't like being kept in the dark, either.
Just when I think we've come to some... to some *conclusion*,
some *definition*, one of us changes the rules. We resort to
games and childish rebukes, cruel words and wounds that take so
long to heal. It's sick. It's wrong."

"I know." His words were so soft the sound of rainfall nearly
drowned them out. "Scully, I need to talk to you."

"I know," she returned, equally soft, suddenly shy. "But can we
take it inside?"

A shadow of his trademark grin fluttered across his face. "Yeah.
It's a little wet out here." He dropped her wrist, shamefully
tucking his hands into his coat pockets. "I'm sorry about that."

"We're like animals when we're cornered or when we're wounded. We
fight dirty and we lick our wounds in silence." It was the only
offering she gave of forgiveness. He accepted it without words.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued in Part Three....

Disclaimer in Part One

*~*~*~*~*

He paused at the threshold of her apartment, struck by the sudden
knowledge that this was the last time he would enter. The
normalcy of the event--entering Scully's apartment--was rendered
strange and ethereal. He felt like a ghost already, hovering
between this world and the next. He wondered if he could work a
deal so that he might be allowed to look in on her like this...
after.

Scully's monochromatic color scheme was broken by a vase of
stargazer lilies sitting on the coffee table in her living room.
The pink looked violent rather than beautiful against beige and
white. He remembered his first impressions of Scully's
housekeeping and decor so many years ago, amazed that other
people didn't live in little apartment-dens like his. Once, just
after her abduction, and long before her return, he had let
himself into her apartment and had curled up around a pillow on
the couch, sobbing. He remembered that her smell and her presence
had been so alive in her apartment that he had felt safe... he
had felt like it was impossible for her to be dead. You couldn't
just die and leave an apartment so obviously lived in.

He wondered what others would think of his apartment when he was
gone. He wondered what Scully would think.

"Come in, Mulder," Scully called, returning from the linen closet
with a pile of soft towels. "Pull up a towel."

He found himself smiling at her comment, and was drawn inward. It
seemed unreal. It was unreal. Everything had the hazy quality of
a dream, and he hoped that he would wake up and find that it was
all a dream. No death, no coffee shop, no Elizabeth Herrick, no
angry Scully. He would go to work, make a smart-ass comment about
too much junk food before bed, and everything would go back to
normal.

"Cocoa?"

"Sure," he replied, toweling his hair and spraying fine water
droplets all over the medical journals resting on her coffee
table. "Scully?"

"Mm?"

"Do you have marshmallows?"

A surprised giggle from the kitchen. "Yes, Mulder. I have
marshmallows."

He felt like he had a time bomb ticking away in his head. It
reminded him of being shut up in the building with the bomb in
the soda machine in Dallas... only worse, because he couldn't
watch the digital red numbers counting backwards. Monday. Monday.

And yet, at the same time, he felt so calm.

"Scully? When... when you... when the cancer metastasized... did
you feel calm?"

Scully poked her head around the corner and frowned at him. He
knew she was attempting to reason out why he would say those
words, ask those questions. He could practically see the wheels
turning behind her eyes.

"Yes," she finally said. "There was no more fighting. It was
beyond my control. All the violent strength that I had expended
in fighting the disease was gone, seeped away. I wasn't even sad.
I remember thinking, 'It's all over now, Dana. There's nothing
else you can do. Just lie back and relax. You don't have to be so
strong anymore.' And I didn't feel like I was giving up... I just
felt calm. Prepared."

"Were you prepared? Had you done everything you wanted to do?
Said everything you wanted to say?"

She shook her head and carried the mugs of hot cocoa to the
table. "Not at all. I felt like there were a million things left
to be said and done, but there was some peace knowing that there
was no way in hell I would ever be able to do them. I suppose I
felt regret, but my body was turning against me at a rapid rate.
I just said good-bye."

He glanced up at the ceiling and down at his cocoa. "But wasn't
there some part of you that continued to hope?"

She gazed at him steadily, wheels still turning, eyes sparkling
with questions. "Yes, of course. If I had completely given up,
I'd never have let you put that chip back into my neck. I wanted
to be saved, Mulder, I just knew that--for once--I wasn't going
to be able to save myself."

"Do you ever think about Clyde Bruckman?"

Scully raised an eyebrow sharply. "Not often. Sometimes."

Mulder remained silent. Scully's fingers twitched uncomfortably
around the heated ceramic of her mug. Finally, when it appeared
he was not going to reply, she asked, "I can see something of a
theme in these questions, Mulder, but I've got to admit that your
intent is lost on me. The girl at the coffee shop said you'd had
some bad news. Is someone dying? Have you heard from your
mother?"

Mulder shook his head and watched the patterns of melting
marshmallow swirl across the top of his cocoa. The warm mug
reminded him of the untouched cup of hazelnut coffee that had sat
before him on *that* day. Was it only two days ago? But Scully
was not the artistic goateed man with too much knowledge in his
eyes. Scully didn't even know.

He didn't look up. "I'm dying, Dana."

A moment of silence was followed by the sound of her mug
shattering. Cocoa spread like blood across the white carpet, the
white sofa. He wondered if she was startled because of his
statement or because he had used her first name. He wanted her to
know how serious he was.

He forced himself to look up, to meet her eyes. There was
confusion there, and betrayal. The blue was colder, wetter. Her
lips were parted slightly, and the breaths she was taking were
long and slow. She didn't raise her eyebrows--she just stared,
unable to speak, or unwilling.

He knew she wanted to ask 'how? when? why didn't you tell me?' He
knew she wanted to scream at him. He knew she wanted to clean up
the spilled cocoa and pretend this evening had never happened. He
knew she was fighting denial, rage, tears. Her eyes told him what
her lips would not.

Neither spoke. The scent of cocoa and stargazer lilies was
cloying, sickening.

Scully took a deep breath, and he knew she was going to ask
whichever of the questions was plaguing her the most. "I don't
understand."

Mulder's eyes burned, filled with dry tears. "You're not going to
believe it..."

"I don't. I don't believe it. What's wrong with you? ... Cancer?"

"No--no--well, at least, I don't think so. I'm not really sure,
but--"

Her cheeks filled with color. "You tell me that you're *dying*
and you don't even know what's *wrong* with you? I'm a fucking
doctor, Mulder! You know you have to give me more than that!"

He could tell by the way she was clenching and unclenching her
fists that she wanted to hit something--hit him, most likely. And
probably with good reason.

"If you'll just listen to the whole story--"

"I'm listening," she snapped. In a way, he was glad that anger
had won out over clinical dispassion. He hated trying to reason
with Dr. Scully. At least angry Scully would own up to having
emotions in the first place.

"After work on Friday I went to the coffee shop. I talked with
Jill--she's the Barista you spoke with--and then I looked for a
place to sit down. A young man called me by name and asked me to
sit with him. At first I thought he was some kind of
informant--we've been somewhat ignored by CGB for a while, you
know. He started talking about death, asking about how I wanted
to die. I think I said something flippant about auto-erotic
asphyxiation, you know--"

"Clyde Bruckman, yes."

"Anyway, anyway... he... I said I wanted to die quick and easy in
the line of duty. He--started talking about you, asking how you
would like trying to keep death from claiming me. He said, 'Can
you see her little hands pressing down on a mortal wound,
fighting fate, trying to keep you alive by the sheer force of her
will alone?' I got angry. I thought--I don't know--I thought he
was pulling my leg, even though he knew my name and yours."

Scully frowned and picked up a shard of ceramic from the table.
"Mulder, what *happened*?"

"He told me he was Death, and that I had until Monday to live. He
said that I couldn't hide from him. He left. Jill talked to me; I
told her I didn't want to tell you; that you wouldn't believe me.
She said I had to tell you ... which is probably why she was
surprised that you didn't know. I tried to tell you--I tried to
call, but I couldn't get the words out. I was hoping it would be
something natural--something for which you wouldn't have any
reason to blame yourself."

"Mulder." Her voice was sad; most of the anger had been absorbed
by the fragment of ceramic she passed between her fingers. "I
don't know how to believe this... but I wouldn't ever want it to
be a surprise."

They were silent again, and the mug between Mulder's hands cooled
rapidly.

"Monday is tomorrow," she said.

He nodded.

"I'm sorry I didn't listen."

"I couldn't even tell you, Scully. How could you have known? What
was there for you to listen to?"

"I knew something was weird... weirder than usual. I should have
called you back. I thought about it. I just thought you were
having weekend separation anxiety, or something."

He smiled weakly. "It's all right. You had a good weekend with
your brother? He seemed well at the restaurant."

The pain in her voice was palpable. He wanted to soothe it all
away, but he was helpless, hands glued to the cool mug of cocoa.
"I will have a dozen--a hundred! weekends with my brother,
Mulder! This is the last--" she stopped herself, startled. Her
bottom lip quivered. "Goddamnit!" she hissed under her breath,
pushing herself up. She disappeared into the kitchen and returned
moments later with a cleaning brush and a bucket of soapy water.
Mulder watched in silence as she got down on her hands and knees
and began scrubbing the carpet for all she was worth. There was
something tortured in the sight of her there. It made him want to
cry.

He couldn't stand to watch the pain-etched shoulders. "It's okay,
Scully."

"No, it's not!" she shouted, throwing the useless brush down.
"It's not okay! I can't *believe* this!"

"But you do, don't you? And that's the problem."

"Yes." Tears fell, brightening the sharpness of her eyes. "And
that's the problem."

Mulder sighed and set the cold mug carefully on the table. He
drew Scully gently up beside him. Her clothes were still damp
from the rain, and she shivered slightly at his touch. He wasn't
sure if the shiver was cold-induced, or something else.

"This is crazy, Scully. I know. I feel like I'm trapped in a bad
undergraduate philosophy class. You know, the one where they say,
'If you had twenty-four hours to live, what would you do? If you
were diagnosed with a fatal disease, what would you want to say?
Who would you apologize to? What would you say to those you love?
And here I am--and I don't know what to do or what to say. I
don't know how to make the most of the time I have left."

She touched his face with a poignant tenderness that they both
knew she usually reserved for the dying, and he felt his heart
constrict painfully. She believed him on some level, he knew
suddenly. Now, now at the most critical time of his life; now
when it was almost too late; now she finally believed.

When she spoke, her voice was thick with unshed tears and
emotions he knew she would deny long ... long after. "I don't
want you to think that I pity you."

His intake of breath was sharp and pained and painful. The room
seemed much smaller; the old clock on the mantle was ticking a
staccato gun-shot loud in the dead silence. The nauseating scent
of stargazer lilies stung his nostrils. Roses are for weddings
and lilies for funerals, his mother said when cousin Anne had
calla lilies for her bouquet.

Roses weddings lilies funerals.

"Sc--"

"Shh..." she whispered, pressing two slender fingers against his
dry lips. "That's not what I meant. I don't want you to think
that my sympathy, that my love, are born out of pity for your
plight. There are things that need to be said between us and I...
want you to know that this is real, it's honest, and that these
are things I ought to have told you long ago. I'm only sorry--" a
few tears welled in her eyes; fell like gems to her soft cashmere
sweater "--I'm really so very sorry that now is the only time we
have."

"But, Scully..."

She shook her head. "I wish we could have learned to love each
other in times that weren't crises. I wish--"

"There's no more time for wishes, Scully."

The room expanded again, the flowers were less funereal, and he
reached forward to pull her into the circle of his arms. They
rested there, foreheads touching in a way that was somehow more
intimate than any mere embrace. Scully whispered, "I know," into
his chest and looked up. There was a beautiful determination in
her eyes, and the expression on her face asked permission for
what she was about to do. The clock was still ticking on the
mantle, and there was nothing Mulder could say. She kissed him
tenderly, lips soft and firm and seeking and finding. He didn't
feel as though it was something born out of pity. It felt real.
It was the only thing that felt real.

The kiss lasted only a few bittersweet moments, and then they
returned to the same intimate embrace, forehead to forehead. They
shared tears instead of words, tears that were cleansing and
septic in the same instant. He traced his fingers down the curve
of her cheek, his touch as light as a breath. "I can't do this,"
he said, in a voice rough with unshed tears and unspoken emotion.
"It's too late." Tears filled his eyes then, tears he was
unashamed to weep. "Don't you know how much better you deserve?
Don't you know that you deserve so much more than the promise of
a few hours?"

"When does anyone know they'll have more than a few hours? Don't
you know how much I don't care? I love you, Fox Mulder, and if
this is all the time we have, so be it. I'm not going to waste
these moments, these precious memories on regret or sadness, or
even on hope. We have *this* moment, and we have the next."

"Scully, I don't want to fall asleep tonight. I know... I know
this is hard to believe, but... just in case--if this is the last
time I have to spend with you, I don't want to waste a minute."

"Then we won't sleep," she whispered, bringing his face to hers.

*~*~*~*~*

Mulder woke, but refrained from stretching, because he seemed to
be curved around something warm and soft and comfortable, and he
didn't want to let go. He didn't remember falling asleep, and he
certainly didn't recall falling asleep curled around his
partner--not that he was complaining. Scully's profile was tilted
upward a fraction--enough that he could see the curve of her
cheek, and the delicate, dark fan of her eyelashes. She smiled in
her sleep, and for some reason it gratified Mulder to know that
she didn't live in his world of perpetual nightmares.

It was only after he had spent a good five minutes examining and
memorizing each nuance of her partner's sleeping face that he
remembered--Monday. /But what is Monday? This all feels like a
bad dream. I'm an idiot to have worried her. It's Monday, I'm
alive, and--/ he glanced down at his watch. /--plenty of time to
get to work./

"Scully," he called softly, brushing the ivory shell of her ear
with his lips. Her smile widened in response.

"Mm-hmm?" she mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

"We have to get up and go to work. We've still got plenty of
time; I just thought we could stop and get breakfast. Come on,
sleepyhead."

Her eyes opened slowly, and rather than surprise or worry or
regret, he saw only love there. She touched the rough stubble on
his cheek and closed her eyes again, affirming the reality of his
presence. "You're awake," she finally said, and by that he knew
she meant, 'You're alive.'

He dropped his arm around her waist and rested his chin against
her shoulder. "I had an odd dream this weekend, Scully. I
hesitate to call it a bad dream, because there were some very
good parts, too. I think I was duped--but it's all right, because
this--" he squeezed her, "--needed to happen. And I'm glad it
did, regardless of the moment of crisis and regardless of the
details. This is the way the dream is supposed to end. Only, I
get to wake up and find it a reality. And the only thing
remaining to do that will make it perfect--"

She raised an eyebrow sharply, eyes still closed.

He laughed gently. "Is to get some breakfast. We have lots of
time for everything else, Scully."

Her eyes snapped open, and a haunted look marred the tranquillity
of her face, but she said nothing.

"Scully?"

"If it were Tuesday, I might share your enthusiasm. You said he
didn't give a time. He didn't say that if you woke Monday morning
you'd be okay. There are a lot of hours left in the day, Mulder."

Mulder sobered slightly, and his grin faltered. "We look death in
the eye every day, Scully. Perhaps the two of us even more so. I
lived this weekend alone and filled with terror--and I know
that's not how I want to die. Regardless of whether I die today
or forty years from now."

"I understand." A tiny smile crept back onto her face. "Well,
then. The sooner we get ready, the sooner we get breakfast."

*~*~*~*~*

Continued in Part Four....

Disclaimer in Part One...

*~*~*~*~*

Scully found it strangely comforting to eat a hot, home-cooked
meal. She treated herself to pancakes dripping with warm maple
syrup as Mulder sat across from her and dove into a plate of
greasy sausages and a ham and cheese omelet that could not have
been made with less than half a dozen eggs. She tried not to
think of it as a last meal. Unlike her partner, the feeling of
dread that had settled on her the night before had not abated
with the sunlight filtering through her gauzy curtains this
morning. There were parts of her body that the pancakes, for all
their glorious warmth, left cold and aching.

They walked to the Bureau, having chosen parking and a diner
close to work. Scully felt as though eyes were boring into her
neck, but every time she turned to face the perceived intruder,
no one was there. She put her hand on Mulder's forearm to hurry
him along, and felt nauseated every time he paused to look around
or expostulate about something he saw.

"We're going to be late," she urged, even as she knew it wasn't
exactly true. They still had a good fifteen minutes before they
were expected to clock in--and even then, Mulder and Scully's odd
office hours were notorious. Even Skinner didn't expect them to
keep strict 5-9 Monday to Friday shifts.

Mulder glanced down at his watch. "Nervous about finishing that
report, Scully?"

/What the hell is he talking about?/ flashed through her brain
before she recalled the report she had been working on the Friday
afternoon less than 72 hours, and more than a lifetime ago. "Yes.
I have a lot of work to do. Come on, Mulder." She added a little
pressure and felt like screaming when he stopped to retie his
shoelace.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you that you'd trip and fall and
break your skull open if you didn't tie your shoelaces?"

"Not in so many words, no." The pressure on the back of her neck
was stifling, pressing into her lungs and making it difficult to
breathe. She glanced around. Nothing.

They made it almost as far as the front door of the Bureau before
Mulder said, "Did you hear that, Scully?"

"Hear what?" she asked, attempting to sound natural. She looked
toward the door, viewing it as a portal, a mystical escape from
this long walk. Every step was taken in the fear that the next
would never come.

Mulder turned and looked over his shoulder. "I thought I heard
someone call my name."

"I didn't hear anything," she snapped, more cruelly than she
wished. She turned to look behind her anyway. She thought... but
then... and there he was, a thin, artistic man dressed all in
black, raising a gun, raising a gun and Mulder saw him at the
same moment, shouting "No!" Scully threw herself against her
partner's body at the same instant that the gun went off. She
felt him shudder, but she didn't know whether or not it was from
her hit, or from another. Mulder crumpled to his hands and knees,
and then onto his side, and she knew that her strength alone
would not have sent him sprawling. He fell in the opposite
direction of her shove, propelled by the superior force of a
near-range bullet. There was blood on her blouse, blood seeping
into the black of her suit. Mulder gave a little groan. She
couldn't make any sound at all. The shriek of a terrified child
pierced the sudden silence.

The autumn breeze was too cold. The leaves that clung fearfully
to their branches mocked her with their tenacity. For a split
second, time froze. /But time is a universal invariant/ she
thought, and her thought was as cold as the breeze.

She screamed. She screamed as loud as she could until agents ran
from the building behind her, streaming around Mulder and Scully
as though they were on their own individual island. She screamed
for someone to call paramedics. Other people were screaming, too.
A band of tourists about to start their tour of the J. Edgar
Hoover building watched in horror as a small, red-haired woman
screamed for help and pressed hands that were so very small
against a wound that was so very red. A man with a black goatee,
with a gun dangling limp in his hand, watched with dead eyes.

Scully used all the pressure she could manage, keeping her hands
pressed over the heavily bleeding wound in Mulder's shoulder. A
pool of blood spread out from underneath him. The soft velvet
feel of a living human being's blood suffocated her, intoxicated
her. She felt tipsy and giddy, drunk on the terror of losing her
partner.

Only a few seconds had passed since the gun had gone off. Scully
didn't have time to look up and see the goateed man arrested,
arms violently pulled into cuffs, gun confiscated as evidence.
Spooky Mulder or not, the FBI were notorious defenders of their
own. The suspect didn't even struggle. He seemed as shocked by
the events as the tourists and the beautiful red-haired agent
kneeling over her partner's inert body.

Mulder's eyes were out of focus. She could tell that he was
looking for her, and that he couldn't find her. "Mulder, I'm
here." His eyes followed the sound of her voice, and they watched
each other carefully for a few breathless seconds, trapped in the
mutual understanding their eyes held.

"Scully?" His voice was weak. He sounded incredulous. "This isn't
the way it's supposed to end."

His eyes closed. She wanted to shake him, but she knew she
couldn't. Blood welled, a silent accusation between her
inadequate fingers, staining her. "Don't you dare, Mulder! Don't
you dare say your goodbyes! Don't you dare give up on me!" She
was struck by the memory of herself as a little girl with a
broken hourglass in her hands. She told her father she wanted to
see how time moved. Rather than the anger she had expected, he
had tousled her hair and murmured something about his little
curious scientist baby. He had picked tiny fragments of glass out
of her fingers, and washed the sands of time down the drain.

The blood continued to flow around her fingers, and Mulder didn't
answer. Her wail of frustration was matched by the wail of the
ambulances in the distance.

A voice in Scully's head whispered, "Think she'll cry? Or just be
shocked? If she's there, do you think she'll try and staunch the
flow of blood? Can you see her little hands pressing down on a
mortal wound, fighting fate, trying to keep you alive by the
sheer force of her will alone? Sounds like her, doesn't it? Can't
you just see how she would blame herself if you died in her
arms?"

In response, a single red leaf fluttered downward, carried by a
crisp, cruel wind. The leaf was not as red as the blood Scully
attempted to keep inside her partner's body.

*~*~*~*~*

The decisive, resounding click of Scully's heels against the
smooth, polished floor reverberated down the hallway. She
stopped, turned toward the room bearing the number she had been
given, and opened the door. A cowed, broken figure hunched over
the table, devoid of the grace and poise Mulder had been
entranced with in the coffee shop. His goatee was still present,
although the rest of his jaw bore patches of uneven stubble.

"I need some answers from you," she said clearly, her voice as
strident as the sound of her heels had been in the hallway.

"I told the police everything I could think of." His voice was
weak. There was no power; certainly nothing to compare to the
controlled anger and authority hers held.

"I'm not the police. I need answers. I want answers. You shot a
man in cold blood in front of the Headquarters of the Federal
Bureau of Investigation. You shot a man, a Federal Agent, whom
you had taunted with threats of death the Friday previous. I want
to know what the hell was going on inside your head."

"I don't remember!" His eyes beseeched her to be forgiving; hers
held nothing but a veiled contempt. "I want to plead insanity.
Temporary insanity. I can do that, can't I?"

"I'm not a fucking lawyer, either!" He cringed away from her as
she whipped out her credentials and threw them down in front of
him. "My name is Dana Scully, and I'm a Special Agent with the
Federal Bureau of Investigation. You shot my partner."

His mouth opened and closed several times, and he stared at the
picture next to the blue letters spelling FBI with a lack of
recognition. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "You're the one who was
next to him, you're the one who had blood on her hands. I
remember seeing you. You were holding him together, with the
force of your hands and your will. I remember seeing the look on
your face, and thinking 'how could I cause that?' I wanted to
know who you were. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was."

Her eyes burned with the effort of not weeping. "I need some
answers," she repeated. "I don't need an apology. Where were you
during the weekend? Were you watching him, stalking him? What
made you single him out? How did you know the things he claimed
you knew?"

"I don't remember meeting him. I don't remember the weekend. I
think I went to the art gallery. I think I went out for dinner. I
don't remember meeting him. I don't even remember his name."

"Fox Mulder," her words were cold, and the suspect's head jerked
back as though slapped, even though she made no move toward him.
"It's a hard name to forget."

The man pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and took a
few deep, wavering breaths. "I don't remember anything. I don't
know where the gun came from. I don't remember getting downtown
on Monday morning. I'm very sorry, Agent Scully."

She took a deep breath, a strong one. "Sometimes sorry doesn't
cut it. You're as good as convicted. We've got witnesses,
testimonies, your fingerprints all over an illegally possessed
weapon. And I've a good reason to believe that a plea of
temporary insanity just isn't going to go over well with the
judge or the jury. Perhaps I should be giving you *my*
condolences." She said the words in a way that left her meaning
completely clear. Condolences of any kind were the farthest thing
from her mind. The look on his face said he knew it as well as
she did.

She turned on her heel and snapped, "We don't need a confession,
anyway."

The door was partially closed behind her when he called, "Did he
die? Is he all right?"

Her eyes were steely as they fixed on his. "If he had died, no
force on earth could have stopped me from coming in here and
demanding your head on a silver platter. As it stands, I'll let
the courts have their way."

Mulder met her outside, his shoulder still bandaged quite
heavily, and his arm up in a sling. "How did it go?"

"As well as we expected. He really doesn't remember anything. He
said he was sorry. He asked if you were all right. He'll still go
down in the courts on attempted murder, assault, illegal
possession of a firearm--anything we can pull up on him."

Mulder shook his head a little and gazed thoughtfully at the blue
skies. "I think he's telling the truth, Scully. I've read his
testimony and I've seen the recording of the police
interrogation. I think he's telling the truth. The young man
talking to the police is not the same young man that spoke with
me in the coffee shop. Physically he's the same... but there's
something different."

"Something different that shooting a man wasn't the cause of?"

"Yeah."

They walked on in silence.

"So, what?" Scully finally asked. "You think Thomas Smith was
honestly possessed by the spirit of Death?"

"Something like that."

"Mulder."

"Scully." He shrugged his unwounded shoulder. "I know what I saw,
what I witnessed, what I heard. There is something different
about that man now. I don't think he meant to miss, but you got
in the way. There are only so many times you can cheat death and
win, Scully. We both know that. We've both done it before."

"You're going to fight this at trial?"

He shook his head. "There's nothing to fight. Everyone in the
courtyard saw Thomas Smith shoot me. I saw it, you saw it, half
the FBI saw it. He'll go down." Mulder looked thoughtful again,
and a sad smile formed on his lips. "Come on, Scully. Let's take
the day off. Let's go for coffee. There's someone who wants to
meet you and learn about life inside the boy's club. We've got
life to celebrate."

His words said what he could not say aloud. 'What's done is done.'

He slipped his unwounded arm around her shoulders, kissed the top
of her head, and together they walked into the coffee shop.

*~*~*~*~*

The End!

Notes:  This story has taken a long time, not helped by the fact
that my computer was broken for almost three weeks (fate worse
than death!)  Plus I just dealt with massive formatting errors,
so my apologies if everything didn't come out perfectly.  I'd
just like to give a heartfelt thank you to everyone who has read
this story.  I would really appreciate any feedback you have to
give: tavery@ntonline.com

Thank you again!
 

Tara Avery
taraavery@gmail.com
for X-Files fanfic:
http://www.angelfire.com/bc/TaraAvery/fanfic.html
"Cowards die many times before their deaths -- the valiant never
taste of death but once." ~Shakespeare