Disclaimer: The characters in this piece of fiction are not mine,
although I often wish they were. They belong to the Mother of All
Creators, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I like to think they
also belong to Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny.

Thanks to the angst that is Melissa Etheridge for the title and the song
that flowed from it.

Dance Without Sleeping
by Lydia Bower <[email protected]>
Classification: S, A, eventual MSR
Rating: Hmm... PG-13 for this part, anyway. That will no doubt change as
the series progresses.
Summary: Scully learns to live with her cancer and take back control of
her life.
 

Dance Without Sleeping
by Lydia Bower <[email protected]>
 
 

It has nothing to do with psychic ability. It's just that for as
mercurial and impulsive as he can be, Mulder has also become predictable.
And I know his ring.

"I'm home in one piece, Mulder," I speak into the phone--without
so much as a hello to proceed it.

"Spooky, Scully," is his reply.

"No, that's 'Spooky' Mulder."

He chuckles. There is a moment of silence and I can picture him
so clearly. Who needs telephones with video feeds? Certainly not Mulder
and I.

"Hey," he says, "I just picked up a pizza for supper. Plenty for
two. How 'bout if I swing by and share it with you?"

"Mulder, it'll be ice cold by the time you get here."

"No, it won't."

I cock an eyebrow. "How close are you?"

"Take a look," he tells me. I step to the front window and peer
through the blinds. Mulder's car is parked across the street and he's
leaning on the hood, phone to his ear, looking at me. I can see the white
pizza box on the hood of the car.

I smile at him and he must see it: he smiles back and I watch him
hit the button on the phone at the same time my end goes dead.

It has become the established pattern. In the two months since
Penny Northern died and I made the decision to come back to work, Mulder
and I have reached a silent agreement: his promise not to treat me any
differently at work in exchange for allowing him to spend time fussing
over me in our off-hours. It's been a hard bargain to keep--for both of
us. I can only speak for myself--and don't know if he could understand
it--but it's not that I don't value our extended time together away from
the work; I do--more than I like to admit even to myself. It's just that
there are nights when I want nothing more than to curl up in a ball and
contemplate my death, with tears and keening and utter self-absorption.
That's a hard thing to do with company. Especially when that company is
Fox Mulder.

I hear the knock on the door and my chin drops to my chest in
bemusement. I will have to tell him straight out--the hints haven't
worked. I unlock the door and let him in, walking away in front of him.

"Mulder, from now on just use your key. You don't have to knock."
I curl back up in the corner of the couch and look up at him. He keeps
his eyes on mine as he leans down and sets the pizza on the coffee table
and then slips off his coat.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Use your key. There's no sense in me getting up
when we both know it's you."

His eyes flick away from mine. "But what if.... I mean, you could
be in the bathroom or changing or something."

"I'll start closing the doors."

"I don't want to scare you."

"I'm not afraid of you, Mulder."

"That's not what I--" His words break off and his eyes lock onto
mine. I can see that once again Mulder has managed to read my mind; or at
least do a damn good job of interpreting the hidden meaning of my words.
And it strikes me at this moment how very true they are. Up until a short
time ago there were still many things about Mulder that scared me. There
aren't anymore. There is no reason to be afraid. My life has been reduced
to simple things; a tunnel vision of the soul. There is Mulder, me, the
work, and my cancer. I have put all my trust and all my faith into the
first three.

As for the cancer, I have become acquainted with my illness and
am slowly learning to come to terms with it. Where there was once fright,
there is now anger. With anger comes enpowerment.

I watch Mulder as he takes a few seconds to absorb this new piece
of me I've uncovered and presented to him. I've been doing that a lot
lately. I've always been straight-forward with him when it involves our
work. Now I find myself doing the same thing outside of it. I've
discovered that I don't have the time to invest in subterfuge.

I watch his eyes change shade, a subtle but remarkable shift from
hazel to green. He jerks up one corner of his mouth in a quick smile and
slowly nods. "That's good, Scully. I'm glad." He turns away towards the
kitchen and I hear him murmur, "That's good."

I hear the sound of tinkling glass. "Water, iced tea or juice?"
he calls out.

"Wine. There's a bottle in the bottom drawer of the fridge. The
corkscrew is--"

"I know," he calls back. "I got it. Glass of wine coming up."

I lean forward and fold back the lid on the pizza box. The warm,
steamy aroma of spicy cheese rises upward and I lift my chin for a good
sniff. My half is mushroom, onion and green pepper; Mulder's half has
added sausage.

Mrs. Bottenfield, my across-the-hall neighbor stopped me at the
mailboxes the other day and asked me if "that nice young man you work
with" had moved in with me. I can understand her thinking Mulder
might've. It probably looks that way. He's spent far more time here with
me than at his own place. He has his own space in the closet for a spare
suit or two, a drawer for his socks and underwear and garish ties.
Another for jeans and t-shirts and sweat pants. He has his own toothbrush
and razor; a ragged pair of sneakers in the front closet. His favorite
CDs and video tapes are stacked up next to mine. Each time, before
another piece of MulderStuff is brought in, he hesitantly and sheepishly
asks my permission. Lately he's been so considerate and polite that I'd
like to ring his neck. I miss the argumentative, arrogant son of a bitch
he can be sometimes. I'll have to tell him that.

He comes back from the kitchen with two wine glasses cradled in
the palm of one hand, the stems jammed between his fingers, and a wad of
napkins in the other. He hands me a glass and joins me on the couch. "You
got everything you need, Scully?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?" he asks me, already starting to rise. "Here, let
me get you a plate."

"Will you just *sit* down?" I snap. My voice comes out much
louder than I intended it to.

Mulder murmurs an almost silent "'Kay," and settles back in,
turned towards me. He studies me, his face blank.

"I'm sorry, Mulder. I didn't mean to snap at you." The words come
out automatically; a force of habit. But I don't mean them.

"No. You know what? I'm not sorry. You're driving me nuts,
Mulder."

There is a long silence. He scrubs his mouth and stands up,
looking around for his coat. "I, uh, I think this is the part where I say
good night."

 I wait for any hint of anger to cross his face or betray him by
manifesting itself in the form of body language. Mulder's body speaks
volumes; if you know how to look. I can sense nothing but resignation in
him and that saddens me.

I look up at him, exasperated. "I don't want you leave. That's
not what I mean."

"Then what do you want, Scully?" His voice is low, measured.
Controlled. Ah, there it is: in his voice. The anger.

"I want you to stop treating me like I'm dying."

That gets his attention. He swings around and stares at me,
stunned.

 "What?"

"You heard me." I set my wine glass on the table and pick up a
piece of pizza, bringing to my mouth and taking a huge bite; effectively
making it impossible to say more. His curiosity will get the best of
him--it always does. Only a few seconds pass before he sits back down and
watches me chew and swallow. "Have a piece of pizza, Mulder, before it
gets cold."

He makes a sound deep in his throat. I recognize it as confusion.
He squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger and
then reaches for the pizza. We each eat two slices in silence, trading
occasional glances. I can see that he's running out of patience.

I begin slowly, wanting to make the words right. "Mulder, we both
know what's wrong with me and we both know that this cancer may end up
killing me." Mulder picks up and then sets back down a third piece. He
absently wipes his fingers on a napkin, his glance focused somewhere
across the room. "But we also know that the latest MRI showed no growth
of the tumor. I haven't had a nosebleed in over two weeks. I'm sleeping
well, I'm eating," I wave at the pizza, "relatively well. I'm okay,
Mulder."

"What about the headaches?"

This newest manifestation of my illness has plagued me for the
last two weeks. Dull, throbbing headaches centered in the middle of my
forehead, over the tumor itself. I haven't mentioned them to the doctor
yet. I hope Mulder doesn't ask me if I have. I will not lie to him; not
about the cancer. I owe him that much. And besides, he knows as much
about my illness as I do; I can't fool him anymore.

I've run out of fingers and toes to keep count of the nights he's
spent crouched over my laptop at the dining room table, searching the
internet for any and all information he can glean that might help. He's
had Byers hacking into every medical database in the United States and
more than a few overseas. The table is filled with printouts and medical
journals, MRIs and the results of my latest bloodwork. Mulder could
compile a reasonable medical chart for me if need be. He has latched onto
this quest the same way he does with anything close to his heart. Mulder
is like a dog with a bone--he won't give it up and he'll snap at anyone
who tries to makes him.

"They're tolerable," I tell him. "The Advil takes care of the
worst of it." I have to look away from his haunted eyes and take a deep
breath to control my impulse to comfort him. Comfort *him*. Isn't that
strange? I'm the one who's dying, but I'm more concerned with Mulder's
well-being than my own. I curl up and hug my knees to my chest.

"Mulder, I want you to know how much I appreciate everything
you've done for me these last months. No. Just be quiet and let me talk,
okay? I don't know how I'd do this without you. You've been here for me
whenever I've needed you. You've somehow managed to put your fears aside
on the job and let me do things the way I need to. But I'm tired, Mulder.
I'm tired of my life having begun to revolve around my cancer. That's all
we do, all we talk about, when we're not working a case--and sometimes
when we are. If it's not you tracking down a new lead on Scanlon, it's me
going over lists of the latest designer drugs for something that might
help me. Everything is about the cancer and I'm just damn tired of it.
Can you understand that?"

I honestly don't know if he can. Mulder has lived his life
consumed by one cause, has willingly given his life over to it. And now
he has taken up another. Has shouldered the burden of this added stress.
Once there was only Mulder and Samantha. But now there are three. I have
become Mulder's quest.

He surprises me with his answer. "Yeah, Scully. I understand what
you mean. You think it's easy to keep it up day after day? I've got
twenty-three years of tired stored up. You wanna trade?"

He makes no attempt to hide his bitterness. Perhaps because he
knows I won't take it personally. But he asked the question. It deserves
an answer.

"I'd be happy to take a few of those years, Mulder."

His brow wrinkles in sadness and he sighs, "Aw, Scully, I know
you would." And then he slides over and hugs me, pulling my curled up
body tightly against his chest, wrapping his arms around the whole of me.
I tip my head against him and feel his chin come to rest on the crown of
my head. There is something to be said for receiving hugs from Mulder. He
does it like no one else. There is no one else.

My mother's embraces are frightening in their intensity; and I
can feel her fear as though it seeps from her pores. Mulder's arms hold
me easily but fully. And there is a calming effect in his touch. He
restores me to myself; makes me strong again. I wish I had taken the
chance and discovered that years ago.

Mulder talked to me one night about walls of the mind and heart
and why we build them. I think it was the same night he brought me home
from the hospital in Allentown. He spoke of the need for them and how
they protected us. And he told me that when certain walls are no longer
needed, they will collapse from their own weight.

Often now, in the silence and the dark, lying in my bed, I think
of Mulder. And if I listen closely enough, I can hear the walls
crumbling.

When he speaks his voice is whispered and honey-warm. "So, what
do you want to do, Scully?"

I turn my face into his chest until my nose is buried just below
the knot in his tie. He smells so good. His heart beats against my cheek.
 

I pull away a little and his arms loosen to allow me free
movement. Mulder never holds too tightly. He always leaves me room to
maneuver. Sometimes I resent myself for taking the room he offers.
Sometimes I resent him for giving it.

"I want to live my life, Mulder. That's all. I want to be normal
again and do the things other people do. I want to do something that will
let me forget, even just for a little while, that this thing--these
things--are hanging over our heads. I want to be happy."

I look up and find him staring down at me, that damned expression
on his face. Like he doesn't deserve to be breathing the same air as me
and is just waiting for the killing blow he knows is coming. That face
tears at my heart. I lift my hand to his cheek, hoping to erase the pain
and guilt I see there. His eyes drift closed and he expels a long breath.
I drop my hand and look away. His intensity no longer frightens me, but
it still gives me pause. He would swallow me whole if I would let him. I
wonder why I continue to resist.

The walls are crumbling.

I can feel his eyes on me but I don't dare return the look.
"What'll it take to make you happy?" he asks me.

I smile in self-depreciation. "It'll sound silly."

"Impossible. Nothing you want could be silly."

That forces a chuckle from me. I uncurl from the ball I'm in and
leave his arms, sitting up and bracing my elbows on my knees. Mulder's
hand comes down on my back and begins to rub in tiny, slow circles up and
down my spine.

"I want.... I want to eat cotton candy and ride a ferris wheel. I
want to plant a garden and watch it grow. Tend to it and dig my fingers
in the earth. I want to hold a baby in my arms and listen to old people
tell me stories about their lives. I want to dress up in something long
and slinky and go to a fancy nightclub and slow dance the night away. I
want to have mind-blowing sex. Just once I want to stop ignoring the
whispers and the looks that follow you through the halls at the Bureau
and tell them all to fuck off and die. I want to eat a formal dinner with
nothing but my fingers and gorge myself on chocolate. I want to get my
hands on the people who took away months of my life and force them to
tell me why they did this to me! I want my life. I want back everything
they've taken from me!"

I am in tears now. They fall silently and burn hotly on my
cheeks. They are tears of rage.

I can sense Mulder beside and slightly behind me. His stillness
neither invites nor discourages my tears. I know how hard it is to let
myself weep. I also know how hard it is for Mulder to witness it. His
guilt and my tears are like acid to his soul, consuming him the way my
cancer may someday consume me.

His gentle touch on my back has stopped; and when he lifts his
hand my skin instantly misses its warmth. I don't have to wait long: his
hand moves to my hair, brushing the sodden strands from my cheek with a
touch so soft as to almost not be there.

"I'm sorry, Scully."

His voice cracks halfway through his words and I find my strength
in his weakness.

"So am I, Mulder. So am I."

I stand and retrieve both empty wine glasses from the table and
take them into the kitchen. I go about refilling them. The wine is pale
pink and I am startled by the clear image of Melissa's face and the blush
of her cheek. I brace my hands against the counter and lean into it,
squeezing my eyes shut and concentrating on the picture my mind has
painted of my sister. I think of how she died and wonder if that wouldn't
be the better way. Which would you choose, Dana Katherine? The quick
bullet or the slow desecration of your body? Was Melissa at all aware of
what had happened to her as she fought for her life in the hospital? Was
she visited by ethereal loved ones, as I was? Or was it all gone in an
instant? All awareness, all thought, all feeling?

"No." I start for a moment and then realize the whispered
declaration is my own. I will not surrender to my death. There is too
much life still in me. A vow is asked for and given. Again. It's a
constant battle I wage with myself--alternating between despair and hope.
I bless my father for passing his determination and stubbornness on to
me. I will not give up. I want too many things.

I want flowers and cotton candy and sunshine. I want candlelit
rooms and soft music and flowing wine. I want answers and solutions and
puzzles I can put together. I want to feel a man's arms around me, his
naked skin against mine, his hands blazing trails of fire on my body. I
want that man to be Mulder. I want to sleep in his arms and wake in them,
too. I want to laugh, to cry, to scream, to sing. I want to feel pain and
pleasure and every sensation in between. I want to feel my heart beating
and my lungs taking in each breath.

I want.
 

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

Surprise! I finished this days before I thought I would! This is the
second piece in a series addressing Scully's cancer and her reaction to
it. You really should read the first part, though this could certainly be
seen as a stand-alone. If you can't find numero uno, email me and I'll
send it off to you. I want to thank everyone who's taken the time to
write and tell me how much they enjoyed the first part. It got to the
point where I had to choose between finishing this or replying to all the
feedback. If you've sent something and haven't gotten a reply yet, please
know that I've read it and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.
Feedback is always welcome. Enjoy! :)

Disclaimer: The characters in this piece of fiction are not mine,
although I often wish they were. They belong to the Mother of All
Creators, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I like to think they
also belong to Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny.

Dance Without Sleeping II
Flesh and Bone
by Lydia Bower <[email protected]>
Classification: S, A, eventual MSR
Rating: Mild R for language and content
Summary: Scully learns to live with her cancer and take back control of
her life.

Dance Without Sleeping II
Flesh and Bone
by Lydia Bower <[email protected]>
 
 

I had another nosebleed just a while ago. The worst one yet. And
of course it had to happen in the middle of questioning a witness on this
latest case. The questioning was more an exercise of habit than a
technique to uncover any truths. I already had a pretty good idea that we
weren't looking at an alien abduction, but a much more mundane kidnapping
for ransom. The abduction story was just a way to take the heat off the
nanny Carrie Russell, and her boyfriend. Even Mulder knew that the case
was going nowhere and that the FBI really had no jurisdiction yet.

I was sitting across from Carrie Russell's best friend when a
wave of dizziness hit me. Seconds later the blood started to flow. And it
was no slow trickling this time; it gushed out of me in a flood, staining
my blazer and white silk blouse and scaring the hell out of the girl
across from me.

Mulder was writing something in his notebook, less than half his
attention focused on what was going on until he heard the sharp gasp of
the witness. He looked up at me and his eyes went wide. He was out of his
seat and at my side as the girl pushed out of her chair and began backing
away from me. I don't blame her for being frightened.

I sat still as a stone, my hand cupped under my nose, trying to
catch the flow and thinking that my life was bleeding out of me. The girl
began making noises about getting help and I heard Mulder curtly dismiss
her from the room, telling her that someone would be in contact with her.
He bent over me and gently shoved my hand aside, replacing it with the
handkerchief he's begun carrying with him. Funny, but I don't carry any
tissue with me. I just don't think about it. Mulder does.

"Jesus, Scully," he muttered. He placed his other hand on the
nape of my neck and said "Here, tip your head back a little."

I did as he told me and seconds later was racked by a coughing
spell as the blood leaked down my throat and choked me. I tipped my head
upright as flecks of blood flew from my mouth and sprayed the table
before me.

I could hear Mulder saying "Shit. Shit. Shit," over and over and
I raised a hand; as much to stop his words as anything else. The coughing
finally stopped; ceasing as abruptly as the nosebleed. One second
gushing, the next like someone had turned off the faucet.

I began to clean myself up with the handkerchief and told Mulder
"It's okay, Mulder. It's stopped. I'm okay."

"Fuck that. You're going to the hospital."

"No, I'm not," I said, catching my breath. "I'm fine. There's no
reason--"

The door flew open and I recognized one of the detectives as he
stepped through the door. "Everything okay in here?" he asked as he
glanced at Mulder. "The girl you were questioning said...." And then his
eyes shifted from Mulder to me and he stopped and stared. God, I hate
that.

"Where's the closest emergency room?" Mulder barked.

"Uh...." The man stuttered, shifting his eyes between me and
Mulder as I tried to assure Mulder that there was no need.

"A hospital!" Mulder repeated, ignoring me; yelling this time.
"Where is the fucking hospital?"

The detective snapped out of his fog. "County General. About ten
miles from here. Should I call an ambulance?"

"No!"

They both looked at me. "I am not going to the hospital," I told
Mulder, each word clipped and distinct. "I'm fine."

Mulder and I waged a silent war with our eyes as the detective
stood by watching us, shifting his weight from side to side, waiting for
an answer. Mulder's eyes slipped shut and I knew I'd won this round. He
waved a hand at the detective, dismissing him. The man took one more look
at us before he stepped out the door and carefully shut it.
 

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
 

Mulder stands before me now, hands on his hips, not saying a
word. I venture a glance at him and find him looking upward, apparently
fascinated by the water-stained tiles of the ceiling. In one quick
movement he pulls the empty chair from the other side of the table and
sets it next to mine, straddling it as he sits, folding his arms on the
back. He clears his throat.

"How long since the last one?"

"I don't know." I cannot look at him. "A few weeks maybe."

"Maybe?" He's scared and angry. "How long?"

Why do I feel like a child about to be chewed out for some
infraction?

"I don't know, okay? I don't write it down every time I get a
nosebleed, Mulder!"

"Well, you should. Documentation, Agent Scully."

I lift my eyes to his and I know how cold they must look to him.
"I don't need a lecture. If you want to do something useful, you can find
a bathroom and bring me a wet paper towel or something. I'd like to get
cleaned up before I leave this room."

I drop my eyes and start plucking at my blouse. There is a vivid
red stain that I know will never come out. Another casualty.

Mulder stands up and with one hand lifts the chair so he can slam
it back down hard enough to make a satisfying noise. The glass in the
door rattles as he steps out and closes it more forcefully than is
necessary. At least he didn't try to put his fist through the wall. I've
seen him do that.

I wait for his return, absently twisting the bloodstained
handkerchief in my hands before I use it to ineffectively wipe the spots
of blood from the file before me. I know that I should be more concerned
than I am by the amount of blood, but all I can think about is the flash
of real anger I saw in Mulder. I'm relieved by it. It means he's coming
back to me, returning to the whole. It's a necessary step in his grieving
process and I'm glad to see it.

He comes back in with a warm, damp washcloth and silently hands
it to me, turning away and looking at anything but me while I run the
cloth over my mouth and nose and then wipe at my fingers. I don't even
try to erase the stains on my blouse and blazer. The blazer is black so I
needn't worry about drawing attention to myself before we can make it
back to the motel. Properly buttoned, it should hide the stain on the
blouse. I reach for my purse and compact and realize it's in the trunk of
the rental car. I push back from the table and stand, testing my legs
before I step away from it. The dizziness is gone.

"Mulder, I don't have my mirror. Did I get it all?"

He turns back to me, arms folded protectively across his chest. I
watch his eyes as they move over my face. "There's still some right
above...." He shakes his head and holds out a hand, stepping towards me.
I relinquish the cloth and study his face as he brings it against a spot
just above my lips. His eyes are fathomless pools of gray. There is a
muscle twitching in his tightly clenched jaw. He dabs gently at my skin,
two fingers tucked inside the cloth. Standing here, watching him do this,
feeling it, reminds me of the way my father would clean me up after I'd
made a mess of myself eating ice cream.

Mulder drops his hand and steps back, taking another look. "Good
as new," he declares as he tosses the cloth on the table.

I can't help but smile. He returns it, albeit sadly.

"If only it could be that easy," I tell him.

"Yeah." He begins to gather our things together, pausing only for
a second before he closes and picks up the file from the table. He shoves
it all into my briefcase and reaches for my coat. "C'mon, Scully. Let's
get outta here."

He helps me into my coat and grabs his own, opening the door and
leading me out, his hand on the small of my back.

He makes me lie down when we get back to our adjoining rooms. I
protest that I'm not tired, that there's no need, but he won't hear it. I
change my clothes and wash my face before I settle down on the bed,
turning my back to him, my eyes focusing on the drawn curtains covering
the window. I can hear the faint sound of the TV coming from his room.
Despite my protests, it's not long before my eyes grow heavy and I slip
into that shimmery state that's not quite awake and not quite asleep. My
ears register the soft sounds of Mulder moving back and forth between our
rooms, doing whatever it is he's doing. I catch fragments of a one-sided
conversation and realize he's making travel arrangements. He will want to
get me out of Iowa and back to DC as soon as possible. I count myself
lucky that this case doesn't necessitate our involvement. I wonder how
he'll deal with it the first time we're in the field on a legitimate
X-File and this happens. Will he insist that I return home? Will I be
alone or will he come with me? Will he stay to work it on his own--as he
did before I came along? I wonder.

 And then I wonder no more; I sleep.
 

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
 
 

I come awake slowly and the first thing I sense is the greasy
smell of fried chicken. Night has fallen and the room is filled with the
soft glow of a single lamp. I roll over on my back and enjoy a long
stretch. Turning my head, I see Mulder sitting at the small table on the
other side of the room. The round surface is covered with red and white
KFC bags, soda cans, and the ever-present bag of seeds. Mulder is hunched
over my laptop, furiously pounding at the keys in his untrained but
speedy hunt-and-peck method. His glasses are perched on his nose and his
hair is falling onto his brow. The suit is gone, replaced by jeans and a
t-shirt. His big feet are encased in bulky white socks. He abruptly stops
typing and looks over at me before I've had my fill of him.

"Hey, Scully." He takes off his glasses and gives me a big,
beautiful smile and my heart speeds up. The pendulum has swung the other
way. Looks like I get to spend the evening with happy Mulder. It's nice,
but I can't help but wonder at the cause.
 
"How ya feelin'?"

I push myself up and lean back against the headboard, taking
stock. "Good," I tell him, "I feel really good." And I do. "How long was
I asleep?"

He glances at his watch. "Close to four hours. You were zonked,
Scully. I don't think you moved once--unless it was while I was gone."

I get up from the bed and come to stand beside him. "What're you
doing?"

He turns to look up at me and I can see the sparkle in his eyes.
He looks about twelve. "Just finishing up some notes on our
non-abduction. We've got a flight out at 7:15 tomorrow morning. I brought
you a grilled chicken sandwich and some cole slaw. If you're lucky, the
sandwich will still be warm. I had them double wrap it in foil--I didn't
know how long you'd be out. Sit down. Eat." He reaches over the computer
and clears a spot for me.

I lift my hand and ruffle his hair, the act completely
spontaneous. He smiles at me as I take a seat beside him and unwrap the
sandwich he digs out of the bag. The cole slaw comes next, and he pops
off the lid and rips open the wrapper on the spork, laying it beside the
styrofoam container. Not exactly a gourmet meal, but I'm so hungry I
couldn't care less. He grabs a can of Diet Coke from the ice bucket and
pulls back the tab, setting it in front of me. A napkin comes next. I
drop my head and smile, knowing my hair will conceal it.

"What?" he asks me, instantly on guard.

"Thank you, Mulder." I lift my eyes to his.

"For what?"

I gesture at the table and my simple meal. "For this. For taking
such good care of me. They say that doctors make the worst patients. I
don't know about anyone else, but I know it's true for me. You don't have
to do this, any of it, and I--"

I stop when his hand drops down and covers mine. "Yes, I do," he
tells me very earnestly. "I do have to. Not because I have to, but
because I want to. So I have to."

It's a good thing I'm fluent in MulderSpeak.

We trade smiles. Mulder puts the final touches on his field notes
and saves the file, closing the laptop and pushing it away. He braces a
bent elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand, watching me eat
while telling me a ridiculous story about a family in Kansas who claim to
have been visited by little gray men who decided to sit down and share
the family's meal. He goes on about fingerprints that weren't really
fingerprints--at least not human--and strange burn patterns in the grassy
field where they supposedly landed, and how there were reports that night
about lights in the sky. I am too content to argue with him and too
charmed by his enthusiasm to do more than make the appropriate faces at
his varied comments and speculations.

I love this man.

I decide to indulge in a long soak in the tub after supper. I
shower first and then fill the tub. I sink down until the water reaches
my chin and do a slow inspection of my body. My feet are small and
well-shaped <"I was just never sure your little feet could reach the
pedals.">, my calves a tad too heavy, but they sit atop slim ankles. My
thighs are lean and well-muscled though there's really no reason for them
to be. The only exercise I get these days is chasing after Mulder. My
hips are softly flared, my stomach flat, my waist tiny enough that I take
pride in it. My breasts are small but nicely shaped and still sit high
enough on my chest to draw a man's eye. My arms are lean and softly
rounded, my hands small but strong. All in all, I count myself lucky.

The tears come unexpectedly when reality again slaps me in the
face. Because beneath the skin and muscle, I know there is an invader
that makes certain its presence is felt each and every day. My body does
not yet betray the reality of my cancer, but I know that day may come. I
think of slack muscles and sunken cheeks and eyes; dull and brittle hair
that comes out by the handful; pain and suffering; a gradual lessening of
my grasp on reality and a slow fading away of the sharp and questioning
mind I am so proud of.

I don't want to die--but that's not what frightens me. I'm not
afraid of death. What scares me is the unknown that lies before me now,
in the immediate future. I don't want to be sick and be forced to depend
on others to care for me. I don't want to lose my iron-fisted control
over my life.

I open the drain in the tub and stay inside until all the water
has drained out around me, enjoying the sensation of the cool air against
my skin as more and more of me is uncovered. My nipples grow hard and
goosebumps break out on my skin. I savor every moment.

Mulder is sprawled out on my bed when I come out dried and combed
and dressed for bed. He has his hands locked behind his head and his
attention focused on the TV. I glance at it and recognize John
Carpenter's version of 'The Thing.'

"The original's better," I inform Mulder.

"Yeah, but the gross-out factor in this one is higher," he quips.
I remember a time when Mulder would visibly blanch at some of the corpses
we've examined--as have I from time to time. He doesn't do that much
anymore. He's becoming immune to the ugly realities of the fragility of
flesh and bone, muscle and blood. In many ways, Mulder has lost much of
his innocence. That saddens me.

He turns over on his side and props himself up on an elbow, his
attention pulling away from the movie to zero in on me. He lifts his hand
and chews on the corner of his thumbnail. His eyes are soft and warm and
he gives me one of his unique gazes that I can only describe as a "come
fuck me" look. I feel the slow smile spread across my face and he seems
satisfied to have captured my full attention for a few seconds. He grins
and asks "You still full from supper, Scully?"

"Why? Did you stash some ice cream somewhere?"

"Nope," he tells me and hops off the bed. "Got something better."
He disappears into his room and comes back seconds later, his right arm
hidden behind his back.

"Mulder..." My tone is somewhere between amusement and
trepidation.

"I, uh..." He starts to say more but ends up shrugging instead.
He brings his arm around and holds out my dessert.

Somehow, in late winter in a small town in Iowa, Mulder has
managed to find cotton candy.  It's even blue--my favorite.

"Mulder, where on earth...?"

"It's amazing what you can find in your friendly neighborhood
Wal-Mart these days." As I take the cotton candy by the long, rolled
stick and begin to take off the plastic wrap surrounding it, he goes on.
"I'm sorry I couldn't come up with a ferris wheel, Scully, but it's kinda
hard to find a county fair in March."

I can't help it. My eyes well over with tears. Mulder sees them
and reaches out to touch my arm.

"Hey? You okay? Jeez, Scully, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make
you cry. I thought you'd get a kick out of it. I--"

I stop his unnecessary apology by placing my fingers over his
lips.
"Hush. It's wonderful, Mulder. Thank you."

He smiles beneath my fingers and I leave them there longer than I
should. Mulder doesn't seem to mind.

I finish unwrapping the cotton candy and look back up at him.
"Want some?"

"No, that's okay. I bought it for you."

"Have some." I pull off a thick strand and offer it to him.
Instead of reaching for it he leans forward and takes my fingers in his
mouth, wrapping his hand around my wrist. I go very still as he sucks the
cotton candy from them, his tongue soft and warm as it curls around my
skin. He lifts his eyes to mine and I can see the mischievous glint
there--along with a healthy dose of arousal. It flares and burns between
us for a few endless moments before he drops his eyes and pulls back. My
tongue snakes out to wet my lips and he studies my mouth. The moment ends
when he pulls a hand over his face.

"I, um, I'm gonna," he nods in the direction of his room, "I'm
gonna try to get some sleep. You enjoy your cotton candy."

My only response is to nod at him. I watch as he steps into the
doorway connecting our rooms and begins to pull the door closed. "'Night,
Scully."

"Good night, Mulder."

He gives me another soft smile and closes the door. I sit down at
the table and eat every last bit of the candy, counting my many
blessings.
 

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
 
 

To be continued....

Okey-dokey, here's the next chunk. Number four may be a little longer in
coming--I'm actually going to have to do some of the dreaded R word
(research) for that one. Thanks again for all the feedback and please
keep it coming! Re Kelsy's request, all the pieces in this series will be
archived at Stef's place until it is completed.
The ULR is: http://web.ukonline.co.uk/xfilesfanficarchive.d/serial.htm
Enjoy! :)
 

Disclaimer: The characters in this piece of fiction are not mine. They
belong to the Master of Yuppie Morbidity, 1013 Productions and Fox
Broadcasting. I like to think they also belong to Gillian Anderson and
David Duchovny.

Dance Without Sleeping III
Peeling Back the Layers
by Lydia Bower <[email protected]>
Classification: S, A, MSR
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Scully learns to live with her cancer and take back control of
her life.

Dance Without Sleeping III
Peeling Back the Layers
by Lydia Bower <[email protected]>
 

Mulder and I have been at odds with each other for the past week.
It began the morning we flew back to DC from Iowa and has been keeping
company with us ever since. The nosebleed was a graphic reminder of my
cancer and I think it hit Mulder pretty hard.

This latest rift started with his sullen silences and quickly
progressed to snide remarks and rude behavior--on both our parts. I know
that I'm goading him and it's a terrible thing to do, but I can't help
it. It pisses me off when he isolates himself from me. I've learned to
deal with the silences and the hostility when I know their cause is
Samantha--and their result one of Mulder's frequent bouts of depression
and despair. It is a private and very personal pain that I believe no one
but Mulder will ever understand. And so I leave him alone. I shove aside
my own feelings and understand as best I can that he means nothing
personal by his actions. The acidic humor and biting sarcasm is Mulder's
way of defending himself from further pain. He goes round after round
with his psyche--and may the best man win. It's a no-holds-barred bloody
battle he wages from time to time.

But this is different.

This is Mulder fighting back the demons that the reality of my
cancer have created and nurtured in him. He is not angry at unseen,
unknown forces who conspired to steal his sister and, with her, all his
childhood innocence--as well as the chance for any kind of normal life.
This time he is angry at what has happened to me. He hates the cancer
within me. He can't lash out at it and so he does the next best thing: he
lashes out at me.

I share his anger. I have turned my hatred inward many times
since I first heard my diagnoses. It's a sort of internal
sado-masochistic "why me?" game. I know why I play it. What I haven't
quite figured out yet is why Mulder is doing it. What aspect of my
possible untimely death strikes him the hardest? What seems the most
unfair? What are his fears? He has yet to share them with me. I have been
baring my soul and he has been adding layer upon layer to his. Mulder's
soul is dressed for the winter. Mine, on the other hand, is practically
naked. I think I have been as honest and forthcoming with him as I can
be. Now I guess I want that in return.

And so I goad him. I play along with his childish games. I feed
his need. I make myself a target, hoping that some of the barbs will
sting me with the truth. I give as good as I get. There is an adversarial
air that hangs around us in the office.

I don't know if the same would be true at home. Mulder has not
slept on my couch in five days. Nor has he visited. I get a phone call
every night instead. Blunt and simple; a request for facts, not feelings.
How am I? Have I eaten? Do I need anything? Should he pick me up in the
morning?

The phone calls contain large chunks of silence. We both wait for
the other to grow uncomfortable and break it. It's another aspect of the
battle. Who will hold out longest? Mulder is on a winning streak.

I remember a time not so long ago when we played this same
game--only in reverse. I never want to step foot in Philadelphia again.
Nor hear the name Edward Jerse. The only good thing that came out of that
debacle is the tattoo on my back. It is the only thing I don't regret
doing. I will forever have the mark of immortality on me, even if the
body that is its canvas will wither away.

I treated Mulder so badly. I spoke in riddles and metaphors. I
forced his hand. I was also terrified--though that doesn't excuse what I
did. I didn't know anything for certain. All I knew, all I could
remember, were Leonard Betts' words to me. I'd  known in an instant what
they'd meant, and known that he was right. My time had run out.

And so I rebelled. Against Betts' claim; against Mulder. Against
my life as it was and as it is. Foolish but understandable.

Mulder has never pushed me for any further clarification of what
happened in Philadelphia, or the reasons behind the temporary stand-off
that followed it. He's never asked to see the tattoo, either.

He walks through the door with a handful of files and papers. I
look up at him and wait to see if he'll meet my eyes. He doesn't. But he
does walk to the table I'm working at and slowly set some papers on it,
all his attention centered on the file he's begun reading. I set the new
papers aside and watch as he perches a hip on the corner of the table and
settles in. He is invading my space for a reason. Now I just have to
figure out what it is.

"Mulder...?"

He mumbles something and then turns to me--as if he's just now
noticing I'm sitting here. "You still here, Scully?"

"No. I'm a figment of your imagination."

"Well, my figment needs to go home and pack her bags. We're
flying to Colorado in the morning."

"But you said.... I thought we were going to spend the rest of
the month catching up on things around here."

"I've changed my mind. I need to get out in the field." He's
turned back to the file.

"Well, I can't," I tell him.

He swings around, surprised; vacillating between anger and
concern. "Why not?"

"Because I have some tests scheduled for tomorrow. I meant to
tell you earlier. I've already cleared it with Skinner; I'm taking a
personal day."

He slowly closes the file. He is looking at a spot across the
room--anywhere but at me. "Anything I need to know?"

"No. They're just tests." I consider my options and offer, "If
you want to wait until day after tomorrow, or book a late flight tomorrow
night...?"

"No. I'll go by myself." His reply is immediate and his tone
brooks no argument.

I pull my lower lip into my mouth and knead it with my teeth.
Don't do this to me, Mulder. Don't cut me off completely.

"Is it that important that it can't wait another day?"

He leaves the table and slumps down in his chair. "Probably not
to you, Scully--but it is to me."

 Mulder at his petulant best. I almost expect to see his lower
lip jut out in a childish pout.

I tamp down my irritation. "May I see the file?"

He comes so close to refusing that I can actually see the words
forming on his lips. But he clamps them together and then settles his
face into a smooth mask. "Sure."

He holds out the file, making no move to meet me halfway. He
forces me to leave my chair and fetch it from his hand. He holds onto it
even after I've tried to pull it away, forcing me to fight him for it.
Our eyes meet and then simultaneously flick away. The brief contact is
electric with tensions of various shapes and flavors.

I stand before him and open the file. Cattle mutilations. I want
to laugh at him but I don't dare. Because that's what he wants me to do.
He wants me to chide him. He wants me to lay out a rational, factual
argument against his not going--or at least waiting until I'm able to go
with him.

He wants me to ask him to stay.

I can't. Because I don't know why he wants that.

I make a neutral sound deep in my throat and hand the file back
to him, keeping my face relaxed and calm. "So, how long will you be
gone?"

There is a tinge of disappointment in his voice. "I dunno. Two or
three days."

"Staying through the weekend?"

"Rocky Mountains, Scully. Horses. Ranches. Dead cows. What more
could a guy want? Maybe I'll buy myself a cowboy hat and some spurs and
hook up with a pretty young filly or two."

"Practice safe sex, Mulder."

That gets me just a hint of a smile. "Always. Nothing safer than
all by myself."

"I hope you're not trying to gain my sympathy."

"Why would I want to do that?"

He looks up at me and his eyes are the color of amber. They give
me no quarter. "I'm going home now, Mulder. You have fun."

As I am slipping on my coat and heading for the door he calls
out, "I'll keep in touch."

He didn't have to say that. He's earned at least a smile. I shoot
him one and step out the door, not looking back to see if it's been
returned.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
 

The phone call comes at 3:15 in the morning. There is no question
who it is. He didn't call earlier--a break in the pattern of the last
week.

"'Lo."

"Hey, Scully. It's me."

"This better be good, Mulder." I am greeted with nothing more
than the faint sound of his ragged breathing. "Mulder? Is everything
okay?"

"What? Oh. Yeah. I just... I couldn't sleep."

"Nightmare?" He hasn't had one in a long time; at least as far as
I know. I don't think he's ever told anyone else about them and I can't
picture him calling anyone but me at this hour. I am the slayer of
Mulder's middle-of-the-night dragons.

"Uh, no; not this time. This one came to me wide awake."

I sit up in the bed and swing my legs over the edge. Mulder's
voice doesn't take on this quality unless it's something really bad or
really profound.

"Mulder, what's wrong?"

There is a long silence before I hear an intake of breath. He
says, "I'm sorry I've been such a prick, Scully."

"Mulder, you--"

He cuts me off and the words pour out of him. "No, it's just that
I know I have been, and I can't seem to stop myself even though I know
why I'm doing it and I know it's not right." He stops long enough to take
a deep breath. "But it's just that.... Goddammit, Scully, I'm scared for
you. And for me. I just feel that no matter what I do, it's not going to
be enough and that I'm letting you down. And I just.... I don't wanna
lose you, Dana. That's all."

"Come over, Mulder." My heart is breaking and rejoicing at the
same time. Mulder is facing his worst fears; and more than that, he's
sharing them with me. I don't want him to be alone right now. I need to
be with him, to see him, to touch him.

"No, Scully, I can't.'

"Then I'll come over there." I've already left the bed and I'm
searching for clothes.

"No. No, I don't want you to do that. It's the middle of the
night."

"I don't care," I tell him. "I can be there in half an hour."

"No!"

I freeze in the middle of pulling on pants and let my silence ask
the question.

"That would be a bad idea, Scully. I'm not sure I could keep from
doing something really stupid and I don't want to mess things up even
more."

"I told you, Mulder; I'm not afraid of you."

I don't think our conversation would make much sense to anyone
else;  it's too richly layered with unspoken meaning--and what we don't
say is more important than any words we trade.

His sharp laughter rings in my ear. "Don't you get it, Scully?
It's the other way around. You terrify me."

That stops me dead in my tracks. My unbuttoned jeans slip down my
hips. I feel around behind me and find the chair, sinking into it.

Have I been the only real barrier standing between us? Have I
always been?

"Scully, you still there?"
 

"Yeah.... Just a minute, Mulder." I can't talk right now--I'm
busy having an epiphany.

I've never been very physically demonstrative. I find it hard to
allow myself to touch people or to be touched; it's just the way I am.
And I never really took the time to learn how to flirt properly. I was
too busy with other things--goals and ambitions. I've always prided
myself on my ability to not let Mulder get to me too much. I try not to
laugh at his Mulderisms or toss too many innuendoes back his way. It
keeps us focused on the job at hand.

Is it possible that Mulder really has no idea how much I love
him?

Gee, Scully, what took you so long? The little voice in my head
is vicious. Okay, I can't change who I am, but I can change what I do.

Tick, tick, Scully. Time is running out.

"Mulder?" My voice is slow and a little hesitant. "What time is
your flight?"

He chuckles--but it's a bewildered one. "Nine-thirty. Why?"

"My first test isn't until eleven. I'm going to give you a ride
to the airport."

Perhaps because it was statement instead of a question, he
doesn't give me a hard time about it. "Okay, Scully." There is a moment
of silence. "But you know, I really don't have to go. We can wait a day
or two."

"No. I want you to go, Mulder. You need to go. You need some
time."

He doesn't argue about this either. He knows I'm right.

"So... I'll see you around eight-thirty?"

"I'll be there. Have a cup of coffee waiting for me."

"I'll even share my Captain Crunch with you."

I smile for the first time tonight. "I'll pass."

"G'night, Scully."

"'Night, Mulder."
 

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
 

Mulder is running late. He opens the door and I'm greeted by bare
feet, an unbuckled belt, and no shirt. He has pillow-hair and the stubble
is dark on his cheeks.

He looks wonderful. I've never had any trouble imagining him as
the rumpled, boyish professor type--the kind I was attracted to in
college.

"I'm late," he tosses at me and heads back in the direction of
the bathroom. "Coffee's in the pot."

Fifteen minutes and a cup of coffee later, we're out the door and
headed for the airport. Mulder doesn't say much and I am too preoccupied
by my own thoughts to fill in the blanks, so the trip is quiet and
uneventful. If you don't count the fact that every time my right hand is
not busy with the steering wheel, it's being touched by Mulder. Glancing
touches. Gentle, easy.

The airport is crowded and it takes forever to get through
security; it always does. They are announcing the boarding of Mulder's
flight as we race  through the airport to his gate. We stop just a few
yards from the ramp leading down to the plane and Mulder digs out his
ticket.

We stand facing each other, looking at each other. This is harder
than I thought it would be. The loudspeakers remind us of the final
boarding call.

Mulder reaches out and touches my arm. "If you need anything, if
something comes up that I should know about, you call me."

"I'll be fine, Mulder."

"Promise me."

I smile up at him. I want to throw my arms around him. "I
promise."

He nods. He's happy now. "I'll call you tonight."

"Okay."

He hesitates for a second or two and then sets down his bag and
opens his arms--just enough to be seen as an invitation. I move into them
and hold him tightly. He nuzzles my hair and whispers, "Bye."

"Bye."

Mulder picks up his bag and takes two long steps backward before
he turns away and heads down the ramp.

"Mulder." My voice is sharp and instantly grabs his attention. He
turns back to me, a questioning look on his face.

The words tumble out of me. "I just want you to know that I love
you."

My heart is racing and my knees are weak. My mouth is dry.

He gapes at me, his mouth hanging open. I see it in his eyes
first and then watch, mesmerized, as the smile moves down to his mouth
and spreads it in a wide, toothy grin. He drops his bag, crossing the
distance separating us in four long strides, grabs my face in his hands
and quite soundly kisses me.

It is both fulfilling and tantalizing, and it doesn't last nearly
long enough. He pulls his mouth from mine and then bestows another quick
kiss on my lips, whispering against them, "Me, too."

He turns and is gone, his stride jaunty and light.

I am left standing in the middle of a crowded airport surrounded
by people and yet strangely alone.

I miss him already.
 

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
 

To be continued....
 

O-tay. Here's part four. Don't bothering flaming me when you get to the
end and see where I've left you--it won't do any good. You have to stop
where the muse tells you to. <g> Look for part five within a few days. To
everyone who's written me with feedback and encouragement: Thank you so
much! You make it a real pleasure. :) I should probably state that any
and all inaccuracies in this story are entirely mine. Keep the feedback
coming!

The previous three parts of this series are available at Stef's archive:
The ULR is: http://web.ukonline.co.uk/xfilesfanficarchive.d/serial.htm
Enjoy! :)

This one is for Nicole, who gave me some great advice concerning
research.

Disclaimer: The characters in this piece of fiction are not mine. They
belong to the Master of Yuppie Morbidity, 1013 Productions and Fox
Broadcasting. I like to think they also belong to Gillian Anderson and
David Duchovny.

Dance Without Sleeping IV
Last Dance
by Lydia Bower <[email protected]>
Classification: S, A, MSR
Rating: mild R
Summary: Scully learns to live with her cancer and take back control of
her life.

Dance Without Sleeping IV
Last Dance
by Lydia Bower <[email protected]>
 
 

My apartment has become a chocolate warehouse. I don't know how
he's doing it--or when--but Mulder has managed to stash it in places both
understandable and odd. There are always two pints of Ben & Jerry's
Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream in my freezer--another one appearing as
soon as one is half gone. There are boxes of chocolates in my nightstand,
in the bathroom, on the coffee table and in the silverware drawer in the
kitchen. I've found chocolate kisses laid on the floor in a trail leading
to a bowl full of snack-sized Snickers. I find individually wrapped
truffles sitting on the bookshelf, placed atop the stereo, in the
medicine cabinet and, once, scattered over my bed. But my favorite is the
chocolate rose I found in my lingerie drawer.

He has never said a word about any of it. Neither have I. It's
almost like it will remain special only so long as it's not talked about.
 

There are other things we don't discuss, either--like the
conversation at the airport. I don't think it's because we don't want to,
but because we don't need to. I think the biggest hurdle was in allowing
ourselves to say the words, and hear them. It's enough.

There's been no repeat of the kiss. That will have to change.
 

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
 

I've begun radiation treatments for my cancer. The last scan
showed a minute but definite growth in the mass. I can't bury my head in
the sand forever. To do so could quite literally cost me my life.

I go for a forty-five minute treatment once a week, and will
continue for a period of six weeks. The doctors have been considerate of
the fact that our work often takes me out of the area and are allowing me
to come in for a treatment giving them only an hour's notice. After two
treatments I am noticing that I tire more easily and my appetite isn't
what it used to be. Mulder nudges me with comfort food. He's been very
quiet. Always there, but quiet. Our search for the truth, and the
answers, continues.
 

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

There are two boxes sitting on my bed when I get back from my
mother's. We spent a nice Saturday morning together, planning her garden
for this year and looking at the pictures the boys have sent of the kids.
They're growing up so quickly.

Mulder is nowhere to be found. The only evidence that he spent
the night here is the folded blanket and pillow at the end of the couch
and the boxes on my bed.

I open the biggest one and fold back the tissue paper, my breath
catching in my throat. I reach into the box and take the satiny fabric
between my fingers and lift the garment from the box. It's a floor-length
black slip dress, cut low in the back and held up with thin straps. The
bodice is cut in a deep vee. It's beautiful. And very, very sexy. I can
feel the blush rising in my cheeks as I carefully set the dress back in
the box and open the other one.

Black patent leather pumps with ankle straps and three inch
heels.

I think Mulder's trying to tell me something.

I notice the envelope tucked inside the shoe box and tear it
open. A black bow tie and a slip of paper fall out. I finger the bow tie
and unfold the paper.
 
 

Scully,
 

The ballroom at the Regency. Eight o'clock sharp.
 

Be there or be square. The tie is the key.
 
 

Mulder
 

I am at the hotel and standing in front the closed ballroom doors
at two minutes till eight. Mulder is nowhere to be seen. I lift my hand
and double-check that the simple silver clip is still holding the hair
I've piled up on my head. I can't remember being this nervous for many a
year. I don't do nervous well.

I look down at myself and I can't help but admire how nicely the
dress fits, how it hugs my curves without being too tight; the simple cut
accentuating  the smallness of my waist, the flare of my hips. This is
not the kind of dress a woman wears with a bra--not with the back cut as
low as it is. My nipples have been erect since I first slipped on the
dress; a result of the smooth fabric sliding over them with each movement
I make. It feels decidedly sinful. From the corner of my eye I catch
sight of a man walking towards me and I quickly pull my coat closed and
study my feet.

Even the shoes fit like I had picked them out myself. Mulder
never ceases to amaze me.

I wait for the man to pass me and then realize he's not going to.
He steps up to me and I turn to him.

"Miss Scully?"

"Yes?"

"Do you have the bow tie?"

Just go with it, Dana, I tell myself. I reach into my clutch
purse and show him the tie. He smiles at me and produces a key, handing
it to me, and begins walking away.

"Have a pleasant evening, Miss Scully."

I wet my lips and take a deep, cleansing breath before I slide
the key into the lock and open the door. I step in and close the door
behind me, hearing it lock.

The ballroom is huge and stretches out before me, bathed in deep
shadows. There are two candles burning on a table that sits in the middle
of the room, two chairs pulled up to it. The white tablecloth drapes down
onto the floor and I can see the gleam of dishes and crystal wineglasses.
Off to the side I notice a buffet table has been set up, steam escaping
from the covered dishes. I slip off my coat and lay it down on a chair
just inside the door. My purse comes to rest on top of it. There is a
dull whining noise and I look up to see an enormous chandelier being
lowered from the ceiling. As it slowly falls it begins to glow with soft
luminescence. I stand just outside the circle of light it casts--not
bright enough to cut through all the shadows, but enough that I can see
Mulder approaching me from the darkness on the other side.

I've forgotten how good he looks in a tux. Even without the bow
tie I hold in my hand.

He strides confidently towards me, a lop-sided grin on his face.
I wait until he's reached the table and then step out of the shadows and
into the light.  Mulder comes to an abrupt halt and I hold back my
nervous laughter. I watch his face as his eyes move slowly up and down my
body, lingering at the swell of my hips and the rise and fall of my
breasts and finally settling back on my face. A pleasant warmth flows
through me. It's been a long time since a man has looked at me that
way--even longer since I've dressed like this for a man. I'm glad that
man is Mulder.

I watch his full, mobile mouth move as if to speak, but nothing
comes out of it. Finally, just as I am about to drop my eyes, he takes
one more step towards me and murmurs, "Wow."

I smile. "Is that all you have to say, Mulder?"

He gives a slow shake of his head and a lock of hair falls over
his brow. "Damn, I'm good."

"Yes, you are," I concede. "I didn't know you had such good taste
in women's clothes; or that you were so good at guessing someone's size."

He grins and admits, "That's what labels are for, Scully"

"Snooping around in my drawers, Mulder?"

His eyes lock onto mine and I present him with a sly grin. I
mentally chalk up a point for myself. I haven't hung around Mulder for
four years without learning a thing or two about the snappy,
innuendo-laden come-back.

"Hey, Scully? Say a prayer for me, will you?"

"Why?"

"Because I've got this feeling I'm gonna need all the help I can
get tonight." He scrubs his mouth and runs a hand through his hair. He
shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He shoves his hands in his
pockets and rocks back on his feet, wetting his lips with the tip of his
tongue.

I've made Mulder fidget. There's something very satisfying in
that.

I ignore his admission. "If you don't feed me soon, Mulder, I'm
going to pass out." He steps to my side and takes my arm, quickly
shifting gears.

"Are you okay, Scully? Come here, sit down."

"I'm fine, Mulder. I'm just hungry. Oh, wait." I pull him back
around to face me and dangle his bow tie in front of him. "Let's get you
properly dressed for dinner."

I slip the tie around his neck and tuck it under his collar, the
tips of my fingers brushing against the back of his neck. He shivers
almost imperceptibly and I feel his hands slowly settle at my waist. I
concentrate on the task at hand; not an easy thing when Mulder is rubbing
his thumbs against the fabric of my dress. I peek up at him and find him
looking down at me, watching me. His eyes close in a slow blink.

"All done," I tell him.

He releases me and pulls back one of the chairs, inviting me to
sit. He scoots me up to the table and pours us each a glass of wine. "May
I serve you, Agent Scully?"

"Please do, Agent Mulder."

He grabs both my salad and dinner plate and takes them to the
buffet table. Each dish he uncovers emits a wonderful cloud of fragrant
steam. I'm amused by the little growl my stomach issues. He comes back
with the small plate, piled high with Caesar salad, sets it in front of
me and goes back. The dinner plate is next and I do a quick inventory as
Mulder fills his own plate.

On mine is a Cornish hen, stuffed with what looks like wild rice
and mushrooms. A pile of thin, delicate looking asparagus. Beside that is
a mound of tiny new potatoes, their bright red skin intact. Next to them
are two perfectly formed oysters on the half shell, prepared Rockefeller
style. I can't possibly eat all this food--but I'll have fun trying.

And then I notice we have no silverware. I look up at Mulder as
he returns with his plate full to brimming. "Mulder, we have no
silverware."

He sets his plate down and leers at me. He comes around to my
side of the table and makes a production of grabbing my perfectly folded
napkin and snapping it open.

"We don't need no stinkin' silverware."

"Mulder, you don't expect me to eat this with my fingers."

One look at him tells me he does. He grins and moves behind me,
draping the napkin around my neck and tying it in a loose knot. I can
feel his breath at my ear as he bends lows and says, "Whatever it takes
to make you happy, Scully."

How can I resist?

There is something very sensual about using nothing but my
fingers to eat. Of course the bites of food that Mulder and I feed each
other across the table may have something to do with that.

It feels good to laugh with him and just be a little silly and
wild. This is what I should have done instead of my Philadelphia
experiment. Live and learn, Dana.

It's nice to know it's not too late to do that.

I am scooping out the last of the white chocolate mousse with my
finger when Mulder announces, "It's time to go."

"Go where?"

"You'll see. Trust me, Scully."

Fifteen minutes later he's leading me into a dark bar filled with
smoke and the aroma of too many bodies crammed into one place. He guides
me to a table tucked back into a corner and takes the chair next to me.

"Mulder, what is this place?"

"It's a bar, Scully. Has it been that long?"

I shoot him a withering look.

"Sorry. Couldn't resist." He's scanning the room as he talks.
"Actually, it was Frohicke who suggested this place."

"Oh God, Mulder. Please don't tell me our waitress is going to
offer to do a table dance."

He chuckles and takes my hand. "You don't give Frohicke enough
credit, Scully. He knows what a classy dame you are. He wouldn't suggest
any place tacky. We're just here for the music."

"Music?"

Mulder starts to answer me when our waitress approaches the
table. No, I don't think she'll be doing any table dances. She is a huge
black woman who has to be at least four inches taller and a hundred
pounds heavier than Mulder. He flashes her a hundred watt smile and
orders a glass of wine for me and a bottle of Samuel Adams for himself as
I look around the bar. I finally spot the stage and small dance floor on
the other side of the low-ceilinged room. There are speakers and
microphones and instruments piled there and, as I watch, several men and
a woman step onto it and take their places.

I am pleasantly surprised as I sip my wine and listen to the band
launch into their set. They play a variety of music--from blues to jazz
to old standards and show tunes--and do it very well. After a few songs
the dance floor begins to fill with couples. Mulder tips back his bottle
and drains it, grabbing my hand and pulling me to the dance floor as they
launch into 'Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.'

Mulder can dance, too. But I guess that shouldn't come as a big
surprise. When he sets out to do something, he always gives it everything
he's got.

 We move well together; as if we've been dancing with each other
all our lives and have learned all the tiny nuances that comprise a
flawless partnership. I guess maybe we have.

He holds me close, my hand tucked in his and resting over his
heart as his other hand settles on the small of my back--its favorite
place. I have snaked my arm beneath his jacket and it's draped low around
his waist, my fingers curved around the lean muscles of his back. I rest
my head against his chest as the song ends and another begins. Another
slow one. I feel Mulder press his mouth against the top of my head and my
eyes slip shut. He dips his head until it's resting on mine.

"Happy, Scully?"

"Mmmm. Dance with me, Mulder."

"I am." His lips touch my forehead and I can feel them curve in a
smile.

"Don't stop." I am warm from the wine and the food and the man I
hold in my arms. I want to freeze this moment and bottle it and give it
to Mulder. A keepsake. A remembrance.

"Ever?" he asks.

"Ever."

"Okay, Scully." I hear the rumble in his chest and lift my head
to look up at him.

"What?"

He grins. "I was just imaging the look on Skinner's face the
first time we literally waltz into his office."

I smile back. "Not very practical, is it?"

"Not for the practical Agent Scully, no."

"I'm more than just her, Mulder." It's important that he
understand this.

"I know that."

"Do you?" I look him straight in the eye.

He looks down at me, his eyes dark and sleepy. Mulder sighs. A
deep, shuddery sigh, and pulls me tighter against him. "Scully, if you
had any idea what you mean to me..." his voice drops to a gravely whisper
"...you wouldn't have to ask."

The walls are crumbling.

The band picks up the tempo for the next song and I can see the
couples around us picking up their steps and adjusting to the new rhythm.
Mulder and I are barely moving. We dance slow, steady circles--around and
around. My universe has narrowed to this moment, this man.

I don't know what lies beyond death. My faith teaches me of
everlasting life and I want to believe. If there is a heaven and if we
grieve for those we leave behind, it is Mulder I will think of most
often.

I'm not ready to die. I don't want to die.

A spotlight flares and focuses on a mirrored ball suspended from
the ceiling, catching splintered shards of light and throwing them around
the room like a giant strobe. I lift my head from Mulder's chest and look
up at it at the ball as it spins frantically. I am both repelled and
fascinated by it. There is something in the way it flickers and flares
that makes my head ache and my ears pound. I am aware of leaning back
into Mulder's arm as it becomes hard to take a breath.

Images flicker like silent movies in my head. Faces surrounding
me, looking down at me. Blurry, no real features. Except for one. I
recognize him and gasp in terror.

Strange sounds. Alarms going off. Something mechanical and
screaming in a high-pitched whir.

Voices. In my head. Telling me not to be afraid. But I am. Oh,
God, I'm so scared.

My eyes fly open and I watch, paralyzed, as the drill comes down,
down, down....

I silently scream.

"Scully?"

No, please, don't hurt me! Why are you doing this to me?

My belly is distended and heavy.

Probing. Cutting. They are sucking the life out of me.

"Scully? Can you hear me?"

There is a hand touching my face, my neck. I slap it away.

Mul-der! Make them stop!

Penny is holding my hand.

It's over now. You're all right, Dana. It's over.

They were doing bad things to me.

Unimaginable things.

"Scully? Oh, Jesus, no! Scuh-leee!"

Don't. Please. Don't take any more.

No!

"Hang on, Dana. Hang on, baby. Help's coming."

Mulder, I think this is the last dance.
 

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
 

To be continued....