Title: Searching for Ever After Author: Jaime Lyn Email: leiaj@bellsouth.net Rating: PG (mostly for a bit of angst) Category: S, R, A Keywords: MSR Disclaimer: I don't own Mulder, Scully, Bill Jr, Tara, their child Matthew, or Mrs. Scully. I'm only borrowing them. I promise to return them though-- relatively unharmed. Summary: Birthdays come and go, change is inevitable. But where, in a harsh world of broken fairy tales, lost smiles, can we find happiness? *** For all the friendships past and present, and the things that come and go. Sometimes I may not always know how to find my smile, but I always know who has it. She knows who she is, and I thank her. For being my best friend. May we both find our respective "Ever afters." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Can I handle the seasons of my life? Well… I don’t know. I’ve been afraid of changing, Because I’ve built my life around you. But time makes you bolder. Even Children get older. Well, I’m getting older too…. ------------------ Stevie Nicks ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Searching for Ever After By Jaime Lyn ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Once upon a time, far, far away in the land of normality and happiness, a perfectly happy man and a perfectly happy woman lived in perfect harmony. The man went to work everyday, of course, kissing his perfect wife goodbye as she left for her respective own job, and as their cars pulled away from their perfect house, in their perfect neighborhood, their perfect 2.5 children ran off to the bus stop, waving goodbye.----followed, of course, by their perfect golden retriever. And at the end of everyday of their perfect, harmonious lives, the man would walk through the door, happy. The woman would follow in suit, dropping her briefcase to the floor, leaning against the doorway in a moment of perfect wonder. The man would spot her, smile, and greet her eagerly, with soft kisses rained upon her cheeks. And the woman, secure that her wonderful husband was home, safe and sound, would then shuffle their wonderful children off to soccer practice, Ballet lessons, and friend’s houses. And only then, when in perfect silence, the perfect children away for the evening, would the man would take a moment to run his fingers through the woman’s short, coppery hair. The woman would kiss his brow, look into his soft gaze. The man would run gentle hands down the woman’s soft arms, and the woman would close her eyes. The perfect moment in a perfect world. "Scully," the man would whisper then, in a low, perfect voice, and the woman would smile. The smile would reach all the way to her light blue eyes, touching her soul, and the woman would reach for him, longingly, gratefully. Thankfully. "Mmmm... Mulder," the woman would sigh, contentedly, and her smile would widen, surrounding her heart. For it has been forever, it seems, since this particular woman has smiled... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Dana Scully's Apt. 5:30 am February 23rd ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "GOOOOODDD Morning, Georgetown! It’s Saturday! Yeah! Time to relax, to kick back, on this a most beautiful February 23rd, where it’s currently 35 degrees outside---BRRR----you’d better get those mittens folks. It’s COLD out there today. Not that’s it’s not cold EVERYDAY, but if it’s heat you’re worried about, then we’ve got some hot stuff on the way for you! We’re in the middle of back to back music, counting down your top 20 favorties-----" My tired hand reaches up from beneath a blanket, grasping, clawing, searching (my head buried in a pillow) desperately looking for the culprit who oh so rudely interrupted my quiet slumber and peaceful dream on a saturday. Always, I muse. ALWAYS when I’m dreaming. "We’ve got some Whiney Houston on the way, some new stuff from Jewel-" God damn it. Further groping finds me my glasses, a book, everything BUT my alarm clock, and I fear I may actually have to pick up my head to carry out the endeavor of regaining quiet in my bedroom. Damn. damn. damn. I don’t want to move yet. It’s way too early. The sun has not yet risen. The world has not yet woken up. And on that note, I’m not ready to get up yet, either. "But first, some words from---" AHA! There it is. "Footlocker, because---" SMACK! With barely controlled annoyance, I hit the offending ‘sleep’ button on my radio/alarm clock, and, against my better judgement, I glance up to stare at the time, bleary eyed and wiped out. Blue digits flash back at me clearly---5:30am. Oh for gods sakes! I must have been either drop dead exhausted last night, or else just incredibly stupid. What could I have been thinking, leaving the alarm on like that? To have not remembered that today is Saturday, it’s just... My god, it’s sad. That’s what it is. REALLY sad. When, I wonder, did I lose track of the days? My head flops back down, wearily, my eyes closing, my brain trying to again recall the dream that had me nearly humming contentedly in my sleep. Whatever it was, it’s already beginning to slip away from me, like sand in an hourglass. Damn. Why can’t I just remem--- Oh my god. What did that DJ say? What day is it again? One blue eye opens itself up and darts around the room, quickly, carefully, staring in shock. Yeah.As if monitoring the room will somehow grant me the power to wish today away. My eyebrow raises---at nobody in particular. An epiphany, much like, "Oh the sky is blue" cascades down over my brain. No. It can’t be. It just CAN’T… Careful consideration of the fact that, only yesterday, I was stamping expense reports with the words, 'ENTERED FEB 22' leads me to believe that this, then, could only be… No. Ohhhhhh noooo…. With a groan, I yank my pillow out from underneath me, shoving my face into the mattress, pulling the pillow down on top of my head. Briefly, I wonder whether it’s possible to indeed, smother one’s self. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Scully's Car 10:55 am ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “When there are clouds in the sky, you’ll get by…” The radio, I think, is taunting me… “Smile, when you feel like crying…” I roll my eyes and wonder who came up with such stupid, idiotic lyrics. I mean, “smile when you feel like crying?” What the hell is THAT going to do, besides make you look schitzoid? “Smile… when you feel like dying…” Oh lord. I stare out the window, fascinated by the turning signal of the truck in front of me. On, off, on, off… hypnotic, actually… Sometimes I wonder what makes people smile. Is it because there’s a special song on the radio that always them happy? Because they can’t help but tap the steering wheel and hum along, while they cruise down the interstate listening to their favorite tune? Do they smile because a friend cracks an especially funny joke? Because a colleague tells them that, "hey, you look really nice in that charcoal suit?" Or because they can’t help it when surrounded by so much beauty, so much happiness in the world, and they just have to let the corners of their mouths slide up? I wonder… My mother once said that a smile is like a phrase you don’t know how to say yet. And other times, she told me, a smile is the gift you give a person after saying exactly the right thing. A smile is a phenomenon. An event. A smile is not simply the curving of lips, or the flexing of cheek muscles. A smile is something that goes all the way up to your eyes and makes them sparkle with happiness. A smile is something that makes your cheeks glow, your skin richer, your heart content and benevolent. I Sigh. Yeah, right. And when is a cigar not just a cigar? “You’ll find that life is so worthwhile, if you just…” I’m sitting in my car now, waiting for a parking space, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. “Smile… when your heart is aching… Smile… Even though it’s breaking…” Damn it, I don’t want to listen to this sentimental crap anymore... With an angry flip of the knob the radio is silenced, and I am alone again with my thoughts. Such lonely, bitter thoughts… When did I become so bitter? I lean my head back against the cloth interior of the seat, and watch all the smiling people; walking, jogging, making their way to wherever it is that they’re going. I bet they’re not bitter, or thinking bitter thoughts. I bet they’re not angry. At themselves. At the world. At life, in general. I can tell too. It's obvious by the way that they laugh often and wave their hands animatedly, telling stories, making jokes, but most of all, smiling. Such shiny, happy faces they have, too. Men and women chatting, children laughing, teenagers bounding. Smiling. All smiling. How nice it must be, I think, to be that happy. To be that carefree…When was the last time I ever?… I watch them pass and sadly, my lips try to remember what it’s like to smile. To really smile. The look on my face, however, remains blank. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Georgetown Plaza Mall 11: 19 am ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I really hate shopping malls. I hate the lines, I hate the sales, I hate those perfume ladies who are always coming up to you and saying, "Try some of Estee Lauder’s new ‘Allure.’ It smells only slightly less terrible than that other stuff, and costs you ten times more…" Ok, well they don’t say THAT, but…. And then, of course, there are the hordes of people. The hundreds upon hundreds of them. Making lines longer, taking up tables in the food court; shuffling on their way to whichever store they really don’t need to go to anyways, dragging their kids, their spouses, their grandparents… Nowadays, you’d think that shopping downtown was like an event for them, rather than a chore. “Disney World? NOOOO… Let’s go to the MALL…” Whatever. At any rate, it always seems as if whenever I actually DO get the time to go (which isn’t often) the whole world gets the same idea also. Call it a conspiracy, call it divine irony, call it… well, you could even call it fate. It doesn’t matter. The point is, that whenever I DO get up and go, (to the mall, to the supermarket, to payless…) the rest of the world somehow follows me there- --and gets the better parking space. Sometimes, I even have a feeling that movie theatres, office buildings, and restaurants are all empty on these rare occasions (that I do go out) because everyone is really at the mall (or wherever I am, on that particular day). In front of me in line. Getting the last silk blouse on sale. Getting the last pair of shoes at half price. (Last time, they were these cute black leather thingies, and some woman practically mowed me down to snatch them up.) See, most of the time (and maybe it’s just ingrained federal training, or maybe it’s Mulder’s influence) I’m NOT a people person. I’m just… Not. Well, no, that’s not entirely true. I DO like some people. I happen to like my family (most of the time.) I like children. Babies. Toddlers and such. I like my doorman, Phil. I also have an especially soft spot for my partner, Mulder, on occasion, when he’s not driving me up a wall. Yes, I like Mulder. I like Mulder a LOT actually… So really, I DO like some people. Most, actually, when I’m in a generous mood. However, like I said before, I’m NOT a people person in the broad sense. I’m just not a social butterfly. I‘m not a rich conversationalist. And maybe that’s just because my life isn’t exactly the most conducive to friendship and giggly late nights but… well…let’s just say that my circle of friends is very limited: simply, to 1: Mulder. My partner Mulder, who basically, IS my life, as of the present. Thus, my social life is waning, (if not non-existent already) and frankly, as a direct result, I see no prospects for marriage ANYWHERE in the near future. (Well, none that are REALISTIC, but I’m not going to get into THAT right now…) But, getting back to the point here, I have about zero tolerance for most people; especially stupid ones on my weekends off. On MY days to relax or… do whatever. So, in conjunction, I also have virtually no patience when I’m shopping. I have no sufferance for "mall people," none at all. So is it any surprise that they are the ones I am nearly always approached by? the ones that make me want to grab my gun and take hostages? The stupid ones? (Like the woman I stood in line behind at Macy’s for half an hour, because she wanted to use her long distance calling card to charge an evening gown purchase. 5 minutes into it, and I had half a mind to pay for the damn thing myself.) Anyhow, I just can’t handle that… Ever. I also have no patience for rudeness. I have no patience for pushy salesgirls, for leering men, for any of it, really. So most of the time, I try to see it as a simple, quick, "in and out" procedure. Like a survelliance assignment. Like a field journal, but only with a food court and elevators. I see what I need, I find the shortest and easiest route possible to get to it, go in, and get out. Fast. Today is no exception. The only difference is that today is not like all the other irritating shopping days. Today is different. Yes, it’s irritating like always, true. I readily admit it. But today is not just simply, "today." Today is not simply, "Dana running errands at her least favorite place in the world." Today is so much more. Today, I’m actually braving the crowds, the bustle, the noise, the pains, and everything else, because I want to. Not because there’s actually something I need here. I’m here because today is my birthday, and I’d just as soon forget it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Samms and Littleton Art Gallery 12: 35 pm ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ When I was little, I used to want to live in New York City. It was a whim, really, something I craved for whenever I watched the ball drop, way past my bedtime, every new years eve. I wanted the noise, the crowds. I wanted the excitement. I wanted to be where things happened. Well, I was little after all, and I only wanted to be somewhere big. Besides, New York had always seemed like fun. Big toy stores, giant Christmas trees, parades, rockettes… Not that I knew about things like crime rates, housing costs, and pollution at the age of five, when all I wanted was to go and watch “The King And I” where all the famous stars went. Where I’d always be surrounded by lots of people, and never be alone… "Ma’am?" I don’t think I’ve realized just how long I’ve been standing here, until some guy with what looks like a dead animal for hair taps me on the shoulder, a big toothy grin on his face. The grin, I realize, looks like it’s either been plastered on or painted there----as if he’s been brainwashed to do it. So out of automation, more than anything else really, I smile slightly and say, "Just looking," so that I don’t have to listen to a whole shpiel about how wonderful this portrait is. How the artist incorporated blues and reds and… well, frankly, I don’t really care. It’s the Manhattan Skyline with some electric lights in it. Yes, I can see that. I don’t need some idiot to tell me. "Ok," the man says cheerfully. "But if, at any time you DO need something…" Big grin. I try not to wince. "Right," I manage, wearily. He walks away. With a loud sigh, I leave the store. a slight ringing from where I spy door chimes above me marks my departure. People pass me in drones, pushing their kids in strollers, holding hands with their loved ones, talking, living life in general…For some reason, seeing them, being surrounded by them... it only makes me think about my priorities, about days…things…the past. Knowing that life is going on without me, around me, whizzing past me, while here I am… a year older and still two steps behind where I was last year…It only reminds me that I can never go back and change that. I can never get back the past, the things that were, or rather, things that were NOT, not as hard as I wish it. I can never get back old New years Eves, watching the ball drop while Melissa lets me try on her lipstick. While I beg my mother to let us please, please, just once, go to New York and see the big Christmas tree. I can’t get back my father, patting me on the head, handing all us kids grape juice, singing “Auld Langs Ayne” while toasting to the new year with my mother and white wine. I can never get back the smiles. The big, toothy (or, in my case, toothLESS) smiles. I can’t get back the innocence. The sureness. The clarity. I knew who I was then. I KNEW, damn it… I don’t anymore. One year, I think. One whole, entire year has gone by. I pass "Bloomingdales" and refuse to think further about it. I pass "The Body Shop," and ORDER myself not to think about it. "The Gap," "Express," "Walden Books”" 5 stores and 15 minutes later, and my feet hurt, but it is not any less my birthday. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mall walkway 12:45 pm ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My mother tried calling me this morning, left a message on my machine at exactly 6:35am (happy official birthday to me) but I didn’t answer it. I didn’t want to. So instead, I burrowed under the pillows and pretended to be asleep, even though my mother went on and on and on… "Dana? Dana? Where are you? You always answer my birthday call. Sweetie? Dana? Are you on a case? Hello?" Needless to say, 5 excruciating minutes later, and she hung up, having said her "Happy Birthday," and her annual "be at the house by 6." (She’s making a cake.) Bill was next, his call clocking in at 9 am (or, as he says it, 9 hundred hours) telling me that he, Tara, and little Matt all wished me a happy Birthday. He also said something about "That partner of mine," and how, of course, if I wasn’t there to answer his call, it could only mean that Mulder "dragged me out on some damn alien hunt on my birthday." Then how "'that Mulder' had a lot of gall." Then that he didn’t understand why I put up with it… yada, yada, yada… Some of it was muffled though. The blanket was still over my head, at the time. Then, around 10 am, came the usual slew of calls. Quantico, wanting to know if I was at all available to sub for one of their pathology heads. The pest control people, wanting to let me know that they’d be spraying tomorrow. And then, of course, Mulder, telling me that "Cujo" was on, and the always ineviatable, "Scully, there’s this case I dug up that…” On and on… After THAT message, (or, actually, DURING—I never bothered to listen to all of it) I actually left the apartment (having gotten up and showered, pulling on an old cardigan and jeans) and slammed the door on half his ramblings. (So hard that I knocked over several picture frames.) Part of me was annoyed because he did this EVERY Saturday, without fail, and part of me was broken hearted that he had forgotten my birthday. Not that I care, of course... But at any rate, I'm not going to think about that, like I said. Today may be my birthday, but that doesn’t mean I have to acknowledge it. It doesn’t mean that I have to do ANYTHING ANYONE tells me. I don’t HAVE to go to my mothers. I don’t HAVE to have cake. I don’t HAVE to be pleasant, or pretend that I like walking through shopping malls… It’s MY party, after all, and I’ll cry if I want to… More kids, more parents, more happy couples… I sigh and settle down on a bench next to a lovely potted plant, a trash receptical, and several fathers holding bags and strollers, waiting, most likely, for their wives. I will never be somebody’s wife. Oh god… Suddenly, everything slows down—like time lapse photography, heavy and fogged, but only ten times worse. I see every child, every mother, every smile. I see life. I see happiness. I see all the things I’ve never really taken the time to see, in between chasing monsters and aliens and… I bite my lip so hard that I can almost taste blood. Something in me bursts then, my heart aching, my head pounding so hard I feel it in my feet, and I realize that I have to get up and find a bathroom quick---before I break down and lose it right here in front of the "Warner Brothers Store." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Outside the Mall Bathroom 1:15 pm ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In my experience, I’ve often noticed that epiphanies and nervous breakdowns rarely ever, as a rule of thumb, occur at the right place or at the right time. They just don’t. Life just doesn’t work that way. As a matter of fact, most commonly, they are very inconvenient. Happening in large crowded rooms usually, or at the dinner table with family, on line at the grocery store… Surrounded, almost always, by hordres of people. By probing eyes. By people who you wish would just… disappear. However, it was actually in the bathroom, the dirty mall bathroom, where I found myself lucky for the first time all day. And I say lucky, not because I found money or because I rediscovered myself, but because not a single soul popped in there to disturb me. Not a single mother, child, or chatty teenager pushed through the pale pink doorway. Nobody, not even one person, which I thought was odd for a packed mall, but grateful, just the same. At the time, it was almost like a gift from god. Solitude. Silence. it was a disgusting bathroom, yes, but in that moment, it was so much more. It was suddenly my safe haven to have a long overdue emotional breakdown. A good moment of shock, a moment of reckoning, to ease the burden of bursting floodgates hiding behind my normally cool exterior. So, slumping against the back of a door, tears springing to my eyes, I slid down to the repulsive washroom floor, my red hair squashing between the back of my head and the chipped paint. My eyes closed. My head throbbed. I couldn’t breathe. So, like I said, thank god nobody came in…I just needed the impromptu sanctuary. It was… well, It was quiet. Yes, most of all, it was quiet. And for that, I am eternally grateful. I just don’t know what I would have done, had someone witnessed me leaning against the back of the ladies room door, stifling tears that I tried to literally force back down my throat. Because all I could think of at the moment, was how confused I felt; how scared, and for no good reason. How had everything become so out of control?, I wondered. It drove me nuts, made me angry beyond reason. I didn't know what to do. I had LET things progress like this, I chastised myself. I LET it happen. It was MY fault--MINE-- and noone elses. So instead of letting the tears flow, letting them out, I shoved them back down, repeating in my mind, a mantra of reassurance: Special agent Dana Scully doesn’t cry. Special agent Dana Scully is a consummate professional. Always. She doesn’t react to her emotions, if she has any at all, and she certainly doesn’t act like... like any old common person. Losing it, in a bathroom, nonetheless… I tried so hard to convince myself of that too, to believe that, because Special agent Dana Scully is NOT a common person… But apparently, not only does Special Agent Dana Scully not cry, but she also TALKS about herself in third person as well… Probably, because Dana Scully, the person and not the federal agent, does not exist anymore. My god, when did I suddenly stop being human? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Outside AberCrombie and Finch Clothing Store 1:25pm ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Afterwards, I wanted to forget about the 'ladies room' incident. I just wanted to be alone, without feeling so sad. And it WAS easy to pretend I was ok (minus the slight puffiness around my eyes, and faint traces of mascara) But it was like I just didn’t care anymore. It’s just what happens, I guess, when you spend so much time forcing back sobs. When you’ve thought about something so much, that giving it any more thought only makes you so numb that you keep on walking. Past the colorful booths, and past the women and children. Past the old grandparents, and new sweethearts sharing Strawberry sodas on a bench. Mulder and I have never done that---Share strawberry sodas, that is. Of course though, Mulder and I aren’t sweethearts. Well, not technically, but that’s not the point. The point is that we’ve never shared a soda. We never tried it, and now I’m starting to wonder what it would be like. What it would feel like, to have Mulder sipping a drink, his face next to mine, his straw bitten off at the top-- like I’ve seen him so often do when he’s bored--my straw bent slightly, fitted by my teeth to get a better angle. What would it be like to see him looking at me, gazing at me, from above a frosted drinking glass? I know that if Mulder asked me to share a soda with him, if he came and gave me two straws, a goofy grin on his face, and a drink in his hands, I wouldn’t object. I might raise an eyebrow (Maybe---if just to keep up appearances) but I would accept and it would be nice. It would never happen, mind you, but it would be really nice, anyway. Aimlessly, I wander into another store, my shoulder brushing past racks of shorts, ties, socks, hats, and what is this? Oh, ok, collared shirts. "AberCrombie and Finch" has never been a favorite store of mine, but you know something? They make pretty nice mens shirts. I finger a soft gray one that I think would look good on Mulder, and then eye the price. But why I do that, I don’t really know. It’s not like I’m going to buy it for him or something. I’m not going to get it on impulse, purchase it, but I check the price anyhow. Damn. Why is it I’m always thinking of him? Another shirt to the left, uncollared, also gray… I touch the sleeve… We’re not involved--Mulder and I--that is, at least not in the traditional sense that one would categorize as romance. But you’d never know it from the way in which he somehow manages to monopolize my every other thought. You’d never know it from the way I look at him, at those times when I’m sure (or pretty sure) that he’s not looking back. You’d never know it if you saw the way we try to tiptoe around it. The way we walk on eggshells. The way he does, sometimes, around me… Not that I’m blaming him, because it’s not his fault, it’s just… Well, things between Mulder and I have never been simple, easily categorized or carefully referenced. If you asked me to tell you what he is to me, besides "partner," I don’t think I’d be able to answer. Our relationship has always been strong---touch and go for awhile, but strong, neverthless--unshakable--and built on mutual trusts. On mutual faith. But lately, it would seem, it’s becoming based on mutual attraction also. There’s another shirt here, a white one that would also look good on him. I check the price of that one too... Cotton. Good fit. Comfortable. Nice… Mulder and I kissed the other day. I stare off at a stack of "skipper" like hats and blink, thinking about that last random thought. Why it flitted through my head at such a moment, I’m not really sure. But I repeat it again, letting my brain wrap around the concept. Mulder and I kissed the other day. It sounds so blunt, so nonchalant, doesn’t it? Mulder and I kissed the other day. Like I’m ordering soup. Like I’m rattling off a list of groceries or something. I’d like some eggs, milk, gum, and oh yeah, Mulder and I kissed the other day. But maybe I just think that way because it doesn’t surprise me. Because it was inevitable, really. Because it was unavoidable. Or maybe I was expecting that such an event would happen at this point. Maybe both of us were. But it’s not like we sat there all day, fantasizing, thinking about it, staring at each other, or doing something equally goofy. We didn’t KNOW that it would happen… It just sort of… happened. I mean, there we were, one minute standing side by side, saying our goodnights, our "see you tomorrows" after a harrowing day, and then the next minute Mulder just… Well, to say he grabbed me would be a lie because he didn’t, but he did tug on my arm as I turned to get in my car---ironically, parked next to his, as it just so happened, on the fourth level of the Hoover building’s parking garage. I turned and looked at him then, questions in my eyes, but no words on my tongue. And now that I think about it… I think that maybe, just maybe, subconsciously, on some level, I knew what he was about to do. "Scully?" he asked then, and I murmured, "Hmmm?" But Mulder didn’t answer me. He just… just touched a hand to my cheek, smiled softly, then leaned down, like he had been doing it for years. Then he let our lips brush. Just like that. Simple, even chaste in a way. But his mouth lingered there for a moment, as if he had only meant it to be a soft peck, but realized that it was, suddenly, so much more. Then my hand caught his, my fingers cupping the larger ones that cupped my cheek. And we stood there, mouth to mouth, for another minute longer. I can also recall, at some point, that my other hand reached up to hold his opposite elbow. Neither one of us said anything when we broke away. We just stood there and stared. My lips parted slightly and my fingers touched them gently, as if to try and feel him still there. His chest heaved deeply with long breaths. It was still silent. We stayed that way, it seemed, forever, until Mulder finally had the guts to do something. He cleared his throat. And that’s when it hit me, I think, that he kissed me. That he ACTUALLY kissed me. That it happened and it was for real. And for some reason, the same reason, I’m thinking, that I have a MAJOR problem with my birthday, I freaked out. I got scared. I couldn’t breathe. So I left, as quickly as I could, getting in my car, leaving him there. I watched him walk slowly over to his Taurus, and I didn’t say a word. I fished my keys out, looked back at him, but I didn’t say a word. Neither did he. But as I got in the car, I swear to you, I SWEAR that I heard him say something. I’d swear on a stack of bibles, that if I didn’t know any better, I heard him mumble, "happy birthday, Scully," right before I closed my door. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mall Walkway 1:45pm ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "No… Mom, no. I don’t----" My mother rarely, if ever, takes no for an answer. And though the rational part of me tells me that it’s HER tenacity I have running through my blood, through my veins, right now, I wouldn’t mind that tenacity being pointed at someone else. I finger a small gold and diamond tennis bracelet, alternately checking the price as my mother continues, "But Dana, sweetie, why don’t you just come home and have lunch with me. I don’t understand. Are you meeting Fox or----" "No Mom," I sigh wearily, trying to figure out just when, exactly, I turned back into the seventh grader who was not allowed to stay late at a friend’s house. "I told you. I’m running errands today, I----" "Dana," she breathes, almost as if shocked I would say such a thing. "It’s your birthday." I lean my neck back and take a deep breath. Ok, how do I reply to that, honestly? ‘Your birthday, Dana… it’s your birthday…’ I close my eyes. ‘Birthday, Dana. Today is your birthday…’ My chest rises and falls. ‘Birthday…’ I bite my lip. ‘Today, Dana…’ God, if I hear or even think the word just ONE more time… "Dana?" my mom asks. "Are you there?" I shift my cell phone to the opposite ear. "Yeah," I say, dully. "I’m here mom." I hear rustling, clinking, and what sounds like mom doing dishes. If I close my eyes, I can almost see her hands dipping in the soapy bubbles, the clean plates piling up by the cabinet. "Sweetheart," she tells me, sounding graver than I know she should, "Please. I know you. Please don’t do this to yourself today, of all days. I know that you’re busy, but----" "I’m fine," I cut her off, setting a resoluteness in my jaw, a determination in my words that I don’t really feel. "I’m not doing anything to myself. I swear I’m not, ok? Ok?" Silence. "Look mom, I really have to go…" She sighs, but does not protest. Something inside of me feels guilty that I’m doing this. That I’m pushing her away. It’s not fair to her, I know, but it would be even less fair if I went home. If I met her for lunch. My heart just wouldn’t be in it, and we’d both know it. She takes a breath, and then says, "Alright, but please try and make it tonight, Dana. Everyone’s going to be there. You’re the guest of honor, you know. It’s a party for you…" I look down and stare, fascinated, at my feet. "I know," I manage, sadly. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Macy's Dept Store 2:15pm ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Long lines have never been my forte. Especially in dept stores, where nobody seems to know what’s going on, what they want, or how they’re going to pay for it. Not that lines are anyone’s forte, mind you, but it’s even more frustrating when you know you have a gun, a badge, and intent, but you can’t use it. And all I’m buying is a lousy pair of panty hose. Hanes her way---5.99 retail. Nothing really. But here I am, of course, stuck behind some chatterbox who, I think, is buying enough clothes to supply some exotic European country. "Oh dear," she rattles nervously, grasping a string of pearls around her neck. "I can’t seem to find my darn checkbook…" Oh of COURSE you can’t, I think. Why should you? There are only 12 people behind you who’d like to get out of here some time before the turn of the century… I hear a loud cough from behind me, and another woman grabs her wandering child from "wandering" too close to the jewelry case. Miss "can’t find her checkbook" starts to rustle through her bag, item by meticulous item, and I can only thank god that my cell phone rings before I have the chance to drop kick her to the floor. Several people turn to stare at me, eyebrow raised, like for some reason, I am some sort of oddity because my cell phone is ringing. Maybe they think it will hinder my purchasing ability and thus, hinder the line. Or, maybe they’re just mad because I now have something to do other than wish "checkbook lady" dead. Whatever. I push 'send' and say, "Scully." I turn my back to the onslaught of stares to hear, "Hey Scully, it’s me." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Still Macy's 2:16pm ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Frowning, I remember that this is the man who forgot the birthday I’m not acknowledging this year. This is also the man who forgets almost every year. The man who ditches me, time in and time out; the man who sometimes, goes out of his way to antagonize me. Then again, this man is also Mulder, the man who bent down to kiss me last night. The man who also took my breath away with that kiss. And besides, like I said, I like Mulder. I like Mulder a lot. More than a lot actually, MUCH more than a lot, god help me… So, for the first time all day, I manage a barely there half smile, and say, "Mulder?" A short laugh, then, "No, his evil twin." I sigh. Mulder never can go for long without cracking a joke. Staring in front of me, I see that "Check lady" has STILL not found her checkbook. So, still waiting, I shift weight from right foot to left, alternately tapping the package of hose against my thigh. "Oh really?" I ask, deciding to play along, which I usually don’t do. "Evil twin, huh?" Mulder replies, "Yes, actually. And not only that, but I am even more handsome and dashing than the real Fox Mulder, which is hard to---" "Right," I cut him off, rolling my eyes, but thankful for his apparently chipper mood. "So, what’s going on?" he asks, and I shift the phone to my left ear, trying to find a bit more privacy between the spanish couple behind me, and the bald man two steps behind them. A lock of my red hair falls onto the reciever and I try dipping my head, an alternative tactic to getting out of line altogether--- which is just not an option at this point. I’ve been standing here WAY too long to get out now. It is no longer a line to me---it’s a mission. "Buying hoisery," I tell him, honestly, with a sigh, and then ask the inevitable, "Mulder, is everything ok? Is something wrong? Something you need help with?" I ask him that because, with Mulder, something is ALWAYS wrong. Just, without fail, something always is. Either that, or something is going on that he needs my expertise on. My advice. A case, maybe? Sigh. One thing’s for sure, my knight in shining armor he’s definitely NOT. I think I can actually count on one finger, the number of times he’s called my cell phone, just to say "hi." But of course, like always, I know that if he says "yes, Scully I need your help," I will be out of this line and by his side faster than I can think. I want to be. I always have and I always will. And if he says "no, not really Scully," I’ll probably actually be even more disappointed, because I’d love for an excuse to get my mind off of... things... to leave this god forsaken mall. Something that will keep me from going home. From my family. From my cake, and my "happy birthdays," and the all the jolly things that go along with such an occasion. I want out of here, sure, but there’s nowhere else for me to go. And I don’t want to have to go home and think about anything that has anything to do with today. So here I am, actually hoping that Mulder saw a light in the sky. But, to my surprise, (and chagrin) he says, "no, actually. Not today." I blink for a moment, resigned, and then say a surprised, "no?" to which he responds with a repeated, definitive, "no." Ooooh kkkkk... Confused, I decide to ask why he’s calling. Usually Mulder doesn’t call unless he’s dying, Or I’m dying. Or one of us is about to be dying. Some relationship we have, huh? "Mulder," I say, suspiciously. "If something’s not wrong, and there’s no case, then why did you---" "Pick up a phone?" he finishes, sounding wounded. "Well," I start, "for lack of a better phrase..." A loud sigh, and then, "can’t a guy just call to say hi, Scully?" I actually laugh at that, bitterly almost, not meaning to hurt his feelings, but not able to help myself. "Not when that guy’s you, Mulder," I reply, taking a deep breath, then continuing with, "Seriously though Mulder, what’s up?" I can hear loud talking in the background. Speaking, a child whining, and what sounds like beeping. Heels clicking against tile. Rustling. I wonder if he’s in a restaurant or something. "Actually," he says, "I was just sitting here, wondering..." That statement piques my interest, and I reply, "Oh? And what’s that?" I hear him sigh, sadly, it sounds. Then, he responds in a voice I’ve rarely heard him use in the six years I’ve known him. He sounds lonely, yes--I’ve heard that one before, but THIS tone is a mixture of ‘Mulder-lonliness’ and something else. I recognize it though. It’s Mulder’s concerned voice. And that’s odd. Usually I’m the only one who uses that voice. Softly, I hear him say, "Well, see Scully, there’s this woman..." He pauses, and I automatically reply, "uh huh...", hoping that he doesn’t hear my trepidation and dismay at the words "this woman..." "And she looks... sad, Scully. So sad..." I try to hold in my irritation and stifle the urge to say ‘AND?’ Instead, I close my eyes and simply say, "Yeah, go on..." "Well," he continues. "She’s... she’s just standing there, with this... this little black cell phone under her ear, hoisery in her hands, tapping her foot, looking like she’s ready to fall apart..." That remark, taking me by complete surprise, causes my head to jerk upwards, my brow to furrow. No... I don’t think I could have possibly heard that correctly. My eyes snap back and forth, right to left, scanning, looking, not quite sure what it is I’m looking for yet. Hold on here... "Wearing old faded jeans and this cute little blue sweater--this button down, cotton, ah, thing..." I manuever my head around carefully, drawing strange stares, but not caring. I crane my neck above the man behind me, the woman behind him, above racks of bags and overpriced faux jewelry, above shoes… "She’s actually... she's pretty, Scully. I can tell from here. Very pretty-- really... Beautiful, in fact." My heart starts pounding, my cell phone crackling slightly in my ear. Blood starts rushing to my head, my cheeks, everywhere, and my mouth runs dry. God, I just know I must be blushing. "But she hardly ever smiles, Scully. It’s pretty sad, when you think about it. She’s so worn, so drained looking, that I think she’s forgotten how to smile. And she'd look so much nicer if she did..." Suddenly, like the force of a brick hitting me, the panty hose slips from my fingers, forgotten, falling, barely audibly, to the carpet. The people standing behind me watch it fall, watch it hit, then look up to watch me. My head starts bobbing around them, scanning the area for a certain individual I think is somewhere around here... "Do you know how I can tell?" his voice rumbles into my ear. "No," I breathe, distractedly, still searching, "How?" "I can see it. In her eyes, mostly. It’s written all over her face, but mostly, in her eyes. Pretty eyes, too---they match her blue sweater. Did I mention that?" My heart starts racing, pulse thundering in my ears. In a decisive moment, I step out of line---much to the relief I’m sure--of those behind me, eagerly awaiting to take my place. I chance one last glance at them, at the place where I was standing, and then I am off. Past manequinns, store clerks, past hangers of shirts and dresses, racks of expensive clothes. I start to scan aisles of hats and scarves, purses and makeup. Nothing. "No Mulder," I manage, moving faster, "No, I don’t think you ever have..." I trek through a rack of nine west bags, Esprit wallets on glass shelves, gaze darting back and forth, under things, over things... "Oh," he says, almost casually. "Well I should have." I’m walking even faster now, manueviering quickly through Jewelry cases, tie racks, people, children, strollers, displays, still nothing. Damn it, where IS he? "It’s her birthday, you know," he says now, and I stop in my tracks. Oh god... He hadn’t forgotten after all... "What?" I breathe, eyes troubled, standing smack in the middle of the store, people dodging me left and right. "Yeah, but see, she thinks I forgot about that," he tells me, casually. For the life of me, I still can’t figure out where the hell he is. Not behind me, not in front. Damn it. "But I didn’t, Scully," he continues, softly. "I swear. And something tells me that she’s actually the one who wants everyone to forget. I think she’s trying to hide something. Her feelings, maybe? I don't know. What do you think?" Numbly, I manage to find the common sense to yank myself from the middle of the store before somebody tramples me. I spy a ledge, atop which sits a mannequin wearing an evening gown, and I slowly settle myself next to the skinny plastic limbs. My left hand manages to find the edge of the box to hold me up, which is a good thing, because I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe properly. "What... what do I think?" I stutter, confused, thrown off balance. I silently curse myself at the awkwardness. "I ah, I don't... don't..." Confused, I clear my throat. I don't know what to say to that. "Well, you're the psychologist," I tell him, ashamed, knowing how 'cop-out' like it sounds. "Why do YOU think that...about HER, I mean. Why would you think that about her?" He pauses for a moment, and I use the angle from where I’m sitting to observe the escalator, the makeup counter, and the tie rack. I see a man in a navy suit, a woman wearing a hawaiian shirt and jeans. A family with twins. Rows of merchandise. But no Mulder. "Well, because it’s her birthday," he tells me, sadly, "And for whatever reason, I think she’s lost her smile." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Macy's Still 2:21pm ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ At first, I am only aware of him breathing. Excuse me? What did he say? I’ve lost my smile? Ha! Preposterous. I stiffen at that, annoyed that I’ve let him toy with me like this. Angered that he can tell me these things so absolutely, and that I can know, without a doubt in my mind, that they are all true---to an extent. (Not that I’m saying I lost my smile, because that’s just ridiculous but...) I want to kick myself for that--- for allowing him inside, for giving up that control---that knowledge to him. Who the hell is he to tell me that I’ve lost my smile? "Mulder," I say, my voice changing into a serious, carefully controlled tone. "Where are you?" More noise in the background. Walking, shoes scuffing, same beeping, but faint now, and someone’s cell phone ringing. I try to use the sounds as clues, tracking devices with which to homn in on his location by using my skills as an investigator. I WILL find him, by god, I decide. I WILL, if only because I refuse to play this "game" of his any longer. "Mulder," I repeat, this time more warningly, putting emphasis on each word. "Where. Are. You?" I look to the ceiling and crack my neck, squaring my jaw, ready to get up. "Nowhere in particular," he finally tells me, and I close my eyes in defeat. "I’m serious, damn it," I hiss into the mouthpiece. "No more games Mulder. Just tell me where you are." There. That sounded angry. Firm. It even sounded like I meant it. And I half meant it. I think. "Why?" he asks, not even remotely sounding as if he’s heard anything I’ve just said---or even the way I said it. I haughtily decide to ignore that last question. "You’ve been spying on me today, haven’t you?" I accuse, trying to get ahold of my hostility. I am so not in the mood for this now, there aren’t even words. "I wasn’t," he insists, almost casually. "I was just here, by myself, making some inferences, and I thought I’d share----" "Oh yeah?" I demand. "What gives you the right?" My voice is a notch louder than I’d like it to be, but I can't help it. I am also annoyed to discover that his tone is calmer, more controlled than mine. That, for whatever reason, pisses me off even more. "You know what gives me the right," he retorts softly, almost defensively, and I realize that I must have, in my protective stance, hurt his feelings. Damn it. What the hell is wrong with me? I'm not... angry with him... not really, anyways... Because it's not that I really mind him calling me but... Oh I don't know... I don't know why I'm so angry... Fuck. I hurt his feelings last night; when he kissed me. I wanted him to, I liked it, liked it A LOT, more than words can describe, but I just... I didn’t say anything. Not a word. I didn’t even smile, and it must have pained him immensely to even look at me; to watch me get in my car and leave. To leave HIM. To go, just like that. I hurt him by blocking him out. I hurt him by snapping at him. I hurt him when the person I really wanted to hurt was me. But I don't even know why I'd want to hurt me. I don’t know why or when I started hating myself. I don’t know how to make it go away. I don’t know how to undo things, this year, my pain, his pain, this lonliness. Come to think of it, there's a lot of fucking things I don't know. Things I'm too afraid to LET myself know... let myself FEEL... I don’t know how to make myself smile any more than I know how to make it stop being my birthday. "You’re not a bad person, you know," he says, as if reading my mind. "You’re not inhuman, or superhuman for that matter." "I know," I manage to sigh, forcing back tears I thought I had already shed. "No," he tells me, his voice a caress. "No Scully, I don’t think you do..." The phone crackles in my ear. My heels echo against the tile. I make my way mindlessly through the store, walking, moving, but not looking, not caring where I’m going. For whatever reason, I am only aware of Mulder’s voice now, and that alone, makes me feel as if I can find him. I need to homn in on it. I need to find it. Suddenly, I feel like need the strength that only Mulder can give me. I need him, his arms, his touch, even if I’m not sure I want him to hold me. And I'm seriously NOT sure that I want him too.. Because on the other hand, I also need my independence, my stoicism, my professionalism, and damn it, I won’t let him see me cry. I don’t want any pity. Not from him, and not from anyone. I am NOT, and will never be, his damsel in distress... even if all I want sometimes, is for him to whisper in my ear, to wake me from this nightmare reality with a loving kiss. But I am realistic, after all, and my life is not "Sleeping Beauty." There are no ‘ever afters’ for women like me. Carefully, I hold my tears in check. "Damn it," I force, my pace slowing down. "I’m fine. You...You’re wrong, Mulder. You’re just---" "Am I?" I pause for a moment, caught between a rock and a hard place. I want so badly to tell him how wrong he is, even though I know that he’s right. Even though he’s so right, the depths of his rightness are astounding. But I don’t want him to know that. "Yes," I reply, sounding surer than I feel. "I’m fine." My mantra. My self-help phrase: ‘I’m fine.’ Spoken after every case; every distaster. Every occasion the dam holding my emotions threatens to break: No, Mulder. Nothing’s ever wrong, everything’s always "fine." Fine, fine, fine... "Then why don't you tell me, Scully," he says suddenly, and I am taken aback. "Tell you what?" I ask. "Tell me who you are." I bite my lip. What does he mean by that? What does he mean by ‘who I am?’ I shift my phone and sigh. I straighten my neck and stiffen my back. I give him the only answer that I know: "I...I’m Dana Scully." And then I repeat it, for emphasis. "I'm Dana Scully, ok? Satisfied? Mulder, I know who---" "No," he says. "No, that’s not who you ARE, really." I run a hand, wearily, through my hair. The urge to find Mulder has not lessened in the past five minutes, but now the urge to kill him is slowly deluding that desire. My heart is beating against the resoluteness of his words. I hate that he knows me like this. I maze my way through shoe racks, display tables, propelled, as if by hypnosis. As if I know where he is, and I can find my way to him by heart. I need to. I need him. I need him----god, I need him so much it’s scary---and I am going to find him, even if that thought is terrifying to me. I WILL find him. There isn’t anything else I’m sure of right now. My brain fumbles for words it doesn’t know how to place. And from the depths of an ache I can’t describe, I repeat, "I’m Dana Scully. I know who I am... I’m Scully---" "I thought you said you were ‘Dana’ Scully," he says thoughtfully, putting emphasis on my first name. "So, which is it? Dana, Scully, or Dana Scully?" What?? Oh Jesus Christ, NOW I’m confused. After all, how do I answer such a question? I am Dana, and I am Scully. I am both, but I am neither. They are one, but they are not the same. I am shattered and I am whole. Oh god, Mulder.... "I ah..." Torn, I don’t know what to say now, except, "I'm Dana... Scully I mean, Dana Scully... I---" God DAMN IT! Why do I let him DO this to me?! Swiftly, I change my tone. "alright, Mulder. You got me. I'm completely lost as to what validity ANY of this---" "Oh, I think you know EXACTLY what I’m talking about," he tells me, resolutely, his voice a caress. "And I think you know that neither answer you could give me is correct." I close my eyes now, defeat rising within me. "NOW what are you talking about?" I query dully. "You know." I shake my head. "I don't." He sighs. "Why?" he asks. "Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you’re so much more than the sum of your parts..." he pauses (for effect, I think...) then finishes with "Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully?" I am silent. Why Mulder enjoys repeating my full name, every year, and usually on my birthday, I won’t ever know, but at least he has my attention. "No," I answer dryly. A pause, then his alto comeback, "Well, no time like the present, right?" My voice shakes slightly now, breaking on the words, "Why are you telling me this?" He sighs again. "Because I don’t think you remember how to recognize yourself anymore," he replies, and I make my way through crowds of shoppers. "And even though you might not know, I do. You know that, Scully? I know you. I know... Do you want to hear what I know?" I lean back against a wall for a moment, closing my eyes, hearing him, really hearing him. Mulder knows me better than any human being on this planet, but I don’t want to hear this, not now, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I don’t need to look deep within myself to see that he’s right. That I can’t admit it... Not to him, at least. "You don’t know anything," I manage, but only barely. "Ah, but I do. I know that you’re my partner," he says. "You’re Dana Katherine Scully, my friend, my colleague, but there’s so much more to you than that..." He clears his throat, then continues: "You...You like chocolate and M&Ms, and that, that horrible Campbell’s chicken soup---you know, the kind where you stir the water in with the noodle, ah... noodle things in them..." "Stars," I say, finishing his thought. "Chicken and stars..." "Yeah," he replies, sounding a little more enthusiastic. "And Barbeque ribs. You’re a disaster with barbeque ribs." I smile softly at that, just the barest hint of a glimmering smile. Then, all of a sudden, I’m walking faster. I feel warmth inside of me, like something lighting up. Something catching fire---something I had been wandering around, searching for all day. Or no----not all day. Maybe my whole life. Maybe forever. I just don't know what it is. "And your favorite nightclothes---those are your silk navy ones, right? The ones with the ah..." he pauses, and I can almost see him waving a hand around for emphasis. "The stripey thingies on the pant leg? The ones you always take with you on assignment?" I start breathing deeper, and I think I am almost there. Almost with him---I can feel it. Somehow, in a way I may never be equipped to describe, I can feel him. In someway, in a very real sense, I can hear his heart beat. I can hear it, and I can hear it getting louder and louder, as if calling me. And though I don’t know what I am going to say when I confront him, I still know that I need him. now. I need the scent of him. I need the feel of hands on the small of my back. I need his breath on my cheek. But especially, I need the piece of mind that always accompanies optical confirmation. I need to see him. I just don't know what I'm going to do when I find him. "And when you think nobody’s looking," he continues, "you’re soft. Good with kids, caring..." My brain repeats the word "kids" in my head like a broken record. The pain of knowing I can never have my own, that I won’t ever have a child call me "mommy" is a constant resonance inside me. Not that I ever tell anyone, or grieve for myself. Not that I’d ever stop to do that... "Loyal to your family," he goes on. "dependable to a fault---very unlike your scatterbrained partner..." That last part was meant as a quip, but my brain is still focused on the word "kids." The idea. The concept. The impossibility... A man and woman rush past me, pulling along two small cherubs, both with tiny faces and red hair and blue eyes. And when I turn to look, I see them. Really see them. With a clarity so harsh that it’s painful. And for the first time today, or perhaps for the first time in forever, I really let myself feel it. I let myself mourn it. The lonliness. The pain and confusion. The family is soon behind me within seconds, whizzing past, living their lives, but I still see them. In my mind, and in my soul, I see them. And in them, I see myself as a child. I see Melissa. I see hugs gone, and kisses past. I see my mother and my father, and I see who I was, coupled with who I’ve been. Who I’ve become. I see a hundred different birthdays, in a hundered different lifetimes. And suddenly, the man I see is Mulder, and the woman I see is me, and I want so desperately to hang onto that illusion. I want that pretend family in that pretend world so badly, it hurts. I hang on to a fantasy of what can never be. Of what was, when I was small, and can never be again. I see myself falling into a looking glass of unhappiness, and I hate what I’ve become. I hate the uncertainty. I hate the isolation. I hate mourning for things that I can’t change. But most of all, I grieve for the silly triviality that Mulder claims I lost. I grieve for my smile. I grieve for the sparkle in my eyes. There is so much pain, so much lonliness inside my heart today... Yesterday... everyday...and I know that I need to get it out, to cry but... But I just can’t let it take me over, lest I should drown in my own tears. I can’t crack. I won’t---not in front of Mulder, and not in front of anyone. I just can’t. And maybe someday I’ll find the strength to cry----to let go, but not now. I’ll cry--sometime, someplace, but not on Mulder’s shoulder. No. Never there. I don’t want him to think that he needs to protect me. Besides, right now... Right now I just want to find my smile again. I want it to light me up---I want it to reach my eyes. I just wish I knew how to find it. In my ear, Mulder’s voice carries, holding me together: "The Scully that I know has read ‘Breakfast At Tiffany’s’ at least three times. She reads a lot, actually, but I think she wants me to believe that those harlequin romance novels I sometimes find in her desk, when looking for paperclips, aren’t really hers..." My voice breaks. "Mulder---" "The Scully that I know wears huge flannel shirts when she’s cold. As a matter of fact, i think there's one of mine in her drawer, although I don't know how or why..." A small blush attacks my cheeks. Oh god. I remember stealing that shirt while on assignment... "She also has an old, worn teddy bear that she hides under her bed...Not that I've ah, looked of course..." More blush, as I realize he knows about 'Suzie-bear.' God lord, how embarrasing. I've had the old stuffed creature since I was five, I think... Suddenly, the vaguest of clarity overtakes my heart. No, I think. No. It can’t be... He continues: "There’s also, and I say this with only the FAINTEST hint of vanity, a picture of you and me in the upper left hand drawer of your desk. Right next to this little alien, smiley face eraser thing that I think I gave to you... one year ago, was it?" But it IS. It IS true. An epiphany, much like discovering that hitting two rocks together creates fire, overcomes me: I need Mulder. Just... Mulder... I always have and always will. But of course, the realization of that is just as terrifying and confusing as that first touch of newly burning flames. "The Dana Scully that I know has healing power in her touch. Compassion...even if she doesn’t always think so." Somehow, without my even knowing it, I’ve made it to the entrance to Macy’s. "However, the Scully that I know doesn’t believe in aliens or UFOs, which only makes watching ET absolutely EXCRUCIATING if I’m with her..." And I can see him now, standing just outside the department store, a phone lodged against his ear, jeans and a casual t-shirt covering him. He is suddenly the most wonderful sight I’ve ever laid eyes on. "And," he adds, smiling at me as my pace quickens, "I DID mention the ratty teddy bear under the bed, didn't I?" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Entrance to Macy's 2:32pm ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Oh god, a part of me wants to just run to him. A part of me wants to sprint, as fast as I can, and leap into his arms. But, of course, I won’t do that. I can’t. there's a myraid of emotions raging war inside of me, and I won’t let myself do that. Not yet. So instead, I jab the off button of my phone and do the next best thing. I walk. Fast. More than fast, actually, ignoring the cries of "Watch it lady," and "Hey!" and I shove the Nokia in my pocket as I try to fit around throngs of shoppers, strollers, wheelchairs... Only faintly aware of what I’m doing. I push past people, men, women, teenagers, practically plowing them down to get to him. I finally slow down, about 5 feet away, briskly walking towards him and stopping short when I reach him. I try to make myself as professional looking as possible. "Hey," he says, softly, awkwardly. "Hey," I say back, just as softly. Just as awkwardly. I can smell his cologne, mixed with Suave shampoo, mixed with the heady smell that I always associate with him, and he is smiling at me, shyly. That in itself, is rare. Mulder is hardly EVER shy. I figit for a moment--My fingers play with my cardigan. Then, my eyes search his; looking, probing... He reaches a tentative hand to my shoulder, a silent entreaty, I realize, to see if I’m ok. "Scully?" he asks, not saying anything more than my name, and my face starts to scrunch up. I can’t describe it any more than simply, life killing me. Hurt, in itself, hurting me. Fear, sadness, anger. I don’t think I’ve realized how badly I needed to express them in some form, to another person, until this very minute. And yet... I'm still afraid to... He looks at me, and tips my chin up so he can meet my eyes. "It’s ok," he eases, gently. "I know. It hurts sometimes, I know..." I somehow choke out, "Mulder---" but he only shushes me. His hands cup my shoulders, pulling softly, and I gratefully step into his embrace. I don’t even realize that I’m crying until I feel that his shirt is wet, moistening my cheeks and my hair, moistening his shirt, and, underneath, his chest also. My arms wrap around his middle, tightly and securely, and it’s almost comical, the way I fit so snugly beneath his chin. His hands go around my waist, rubbing gently, trailing to the back of my head, soothing, caressing, and he kisses my forehead. He's wishing, I’m sure, that he could just erase things. That he could just make them go away. And for a moment, I pretend that he can. That he can kiss my tears away and jump start my soul. But moments aren’t lifetimes, and arms aren’t reality. And besides, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t do this. That I wouldn’t rely on him. No matter what he said or did. I SWORE to myself that I would NOT cry. That I would never reveal this vulnerable side to him...Damn it, damn it! "M-Mulder," I try, sobs intermingling with words. I want to tell him to let go----to leave me alone. I can’t cry if he’s here. I won’t LET myself... And yet... I can’t help the trickling of tears down my cheek. The words: "I...I..." Thoughts broken, sobs louder, I hiccup, my chest spasming briefly. "Lost...it...my..." is all I can manage, unwilling to let him go, but wanting to--NEEDING to--- all the same. "Lost...something... Mulder, I...lost..." I hiccup, gently. I can't even remember what it was that I lost, but I know that it was something I once knew so well. "God... Mulder...I---" Mulder pulls away slightly, staring down at me with concerned, hazel eyes. Taking in a breath, his hands cup my cheeks, thumbs stroking softly, index fingers futiley trying to erase tears I know he feels responsible for. Jesus, what am I doing? Mulder isn’t supposed to see me like this. He isn’t supposed to wrap me up in his cocoon like some ridiculous saintly white knight, just because I’m crying. NO! I am NOT his ailing princess, and his armor is too worn and tarnished to be my dashing knight. This is not a fairy tale, and it never will be. Even if I DO love him. It just doesn’t matter. I am NOT his victimized Cinder-Scully. Not now. Not EVER.I'm too strong to be. Things like crying and hurting just DON'T happen to me. Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully doesn't cry... doesn't cry... doesn't cry... I look closer at him, trying to stop myself from flooding over completely. "It’s OK to cry Scully," he says, but I back away. "No," I tell him, forcefully. My hands reach up and savagely scrub tears from my cheeks, leaving red marks and eyeliner smudges stark against my skin. My fingers ball into fists that shake slightly. I stare up at Mulder and shake my head, once, twice... horrified by my own weakness. God Damn it, I won’t give in to this. I won’t. "NO!" I repeat, more angrily, then again, and again, "no... no, no..." all the while, backing away. "Scully---" I stare at him, mortified, eyes red-rimmed. "NO!" He moves closer, and touches my arm. "Dana---" I shove him away. "No!" He advances, and I back away. Again, and again. "Please, Scully, let me---" I can’t deal with this anymore, can’t deal... "No!" I repeat, as if it’s the only word I know. "So what then?" he asks, sounding like a mixture of sadness and frustration. "Are you going to just shut me out, like you do with everyone else?" He advances, and I wince as his voice raises. "Are you going to hide it inside until you break, until you go crazy? Is that what you want, Scully?" I shake my head, violently, and press my hands to my ears. "Shut up!" I manage, trying to block him out. "Just shut up!" I back up another step, but he grabs my right upper arm, his eyes boring holes into mine. "No," he utters, vehemently. I shake my head again. "Damnit, let me help you," he hisses. "Jesus Scully, why won’t you let me help you? WHY? Is it that god damned hard? Is it? because let me tell you something--" He pauses, and I try to shrug him off. He grabs harder though, and I don’t know what to do to get away. He won’t LET me get away. His next words are passionate, feverent. "Before you, there wasn’t ANYTHING for me to live for Scully. Not a single thing. I no smile." He pauses, and I bite my lip so hard I can taste coppery metallic drops inside my mouth. I shake my head again. No, I think.. No... "Stop," I manage. "I don’t want to hear this, I---" "Well you’re GOING to hear it" he snaps back, loud, and I breathe deeply, nervously. People are starting to stare, I notice. But he doesn’t care. "I had nothing," he goes on, grabbing my other arm. "But then one day you were there and everything changed. I started categorizing time in the notion of ‘before Scully’ and ‘after Scully.’ I started CARING about something. I found my smile. I found you and you became my smile, Scully. Do you understand that?! I may not always know where it is, but it IS there. And it's there because of YOU!" Christ, why does he have to say such fucking beautiful things when I'm angry?? "Mulder,I---" "So for that alone, Scully, you are now going to let me help you," he orders. "And I don’t CARE if you kick and scream. I don't CARE! You are going to let me help you, if only because I’m so god damned afraid that if you don’t, you’ll destroy yourself!" He tries to pull me closer, and I wretch in his grasp, heart thumping, reeling from his words. Then I start to pound---furiously, relentlessly at his chest. But his grip on my forearms are strong, and damn it, he won't let me go!! I stare at him through a haze of tears. "I'm FINE!" I cry, struggling, shoving, hitting. He doesn't budge. More people turn to stare. But my vision is stunted, and all I see are blurred vestiges of color; one clinging to the other. My head hurts and my heart aches, and I need for him to let me go. I need to get away. I need... His eyes find mine. I need to get away from life. From pain. From what I feel for him. Everything. My arms wretch and turn, and he varies his grip so that I can't get away. "So how long do you plan to fight me Scully?" he demands. "Forever?" I look away. "Because I can last as long as you can." No no no no... My eyes find focus on his shirt; Yes. blue, blue, his shirt is blue. I need to fixate on that... I need to block him out. I can't hear this. I won't listen. I'm fine... fine fine fine... Mulder's shirt is blue... "Just tell me, Scully!" he blasts. "Or is it Special Agent Dana Scully? Just Dana Scully? How about Dana? Dana or Scully, Scully or----" "STOP!!" I am losing it now... losing it....My eyes are squeezed shut. I block him out. My breathing is shattered and broken. "Stop Mulder. Please stop..." My eyes begin to water. My arms pound feebily at his chest now, my struggle weakening. He is unphased. With a strong grip, he starts to pull me close. "Don't touch me!" I yell suddenly, surprising a crowd of elderly people close by. We turn our heads slightly, seeing them for a moment, and they walk away nervously. I lower my voice to an angry hiss. "Let. It. Go. Mulder. I'm fine.I don't want your damn sympathy or your psychoanalytic--" He shakes me. Hard. "When the fuck are you going to understand that this ISN'T sympathy Scully?" he asks. "When?" I glare at him. "I don't need this," I spit, angrily. His fingers are bruising my arms. "I don't need you or your god damn theories, Mulder, I AM *FINE*!!" "The hell you are," he retorts, vehemently. I shake my head, ferociociously. No, I AM fine... I am.... oh god... I'm not. "Let me help you!" A tear dances down my cheek. "No..." "Jesus, why can't you just say it?" His voice is a low fevered pitch, his head a bit lower. I scrunch my brows, my eyes glued to his, fighting a new onslaught of tears. "WHY?" He repeats, shaking me again. "God, Scully, you are killing yourself. don't you see that?? You are standing there with the proverbial gun pointed at your head and I AM sorry, but I'l be damned if I let you pull the trigger." I choke, "No, Mulder---" But he shakes his head. "Do you think I'm stupid?" he demands, twisting my upper arms in his grip. "Because I've been there Scully. I've BEEN down that rabbit hole before and I KNOW what it is. I KNOW where you are right now.I can SEE it.I can see it every time I look at you." No...I need him to leave, to leave me alone. I don't want him here. "Let me in," he rallies, hotly. "For once, let me be the strong one." We are silent for a moment, watching each other. Then, once again, I try to shove him away, hard. But Mulder is stronger. Emotionally now (for once), as well as physically. And I am so afraid--of him, of us, of everything, and I don't know how to hide it anymore. I don't know how NOT to let him in... "Don't you get it?" I manage morosely, choking on my own unshed bitterness. "I'm not fighting you Mulder. I can't. I don't...don't have any fight left in me." He shakes his head. "Yes you do." I yank my right arm, pulling it backwards, hard. "Damn it Mulder!" "You do." I yank harder, my eyes staring into his beseechingly. I try a different (granted, LOW) tactic. "Let go! Mulder, you're hurting me!" His eyes stare into mine as if challenging. "And yet you fought me a second ago, Scully. So I think... I think you ARE in there... somewhere." I grit my teeth and glare up at him. "NOW what the HELL are you talking about?" Static hovers between us, and he whispers, "The Dana Scully that I know and love. She's in there... somewhere... Let me help her..." Oh god. My chest hurts. My breathing passages seem to constrict, and colors start to dance behind my eyes. Fleetingly, I wonder if this is what it's like to go insane. "Yeah? And what are you going to do?" I retort.I am still fighting, protesting, futiley. "What do you THINK you can do?!" He does not answer, but his arms slowly come around me, his lips now silent. "What, Mulder? You think you can just heal it like that? That you can make me all better? That you can say 'I'll help you' and everything will be ok?! All the kings horses and all the kings men will just come and put Scully together again?" I hiccup, miserably. My frailty is undermining my harsh words. My hands no longer struggle as they once did. Tears are pouring down my face and Mulder is still silent. "because pain doesn't just go away," I insist. "It hovers there. It takes you inside of itself until there's nothing left. It eats away at you, meticulously, piece by shattered piece, Mulder." He is still silent, but his arms are pulling me closer. I no longer know how to stop him. "And it doesn't matter what you do or say." His fingers trace patterns on my upper arm, stoic and quiet. My chin quivers and my eyes close. "Because nothing," I hiccup, "nothing has any signifigance when you start to see it all in faded black and white, Mulder. When life festers until all you notice are...are...the ugly shades of gray. When loss and pain blend together, and suddenly you realize that you never smile anymore." My eyes, red-rimmed and lost, catch his. "But what does it matter?" I continue. "It's all just another candle on the cake. Another piece of that unending circle." His gaze has becomed sad now, hurt. ---Hurt for me, I realize. But I don't want him to hurt for me. Damn...too much... Said too much....My hands shake. My knees wobble. Suddenly, I start to pull away. I need to. But Mulder shakes his head, tries to stop me. I shake my head back. I want to get as far away from him as I can. I want my control back. I want my sanity back. I want my fucking smile back. "You can’t just make it all better, damn it!" I cry, tears pouring like a waterfall down my ivory cheeks. "You can’t just hold me and tell me that it’s going to be ok, because it’s NEVER going to be ok, Mulder. NEVER. It won’t ever be ok! You can’t turn back time, and you can’t give me back what I’ve lost, you---" He pulls me closer, and I suddenly stop struggling. I don’t want to fight him anymore. My hands fall flat against his chest, tears streaming onto his shirt. Oh jesus, I hurt so much, and just I don’t have any fight left. "No," he whispers, gently. "That’s not true..." His hands stroke my back, and I am too tired to protest. "I know Scully... I know...Believe me..." He pauses. "Things have always been so dark for me," he whispers. But I know that, i think. Yes Mulder, I've always known that. "But you..." He sighs, and I just stand there, my head against his chest, my fight having evaporated from me long ago. "WITH you... Suddenly there are all these...I don't know...dimensions, I guess. There's... there's this... amazing thing that..." I take a minute to look up at him, questioningly. He stares at me as if looking for words to quantify that which he doesn't fully understand. "I don't know Scully," he continues, "There's no trick to it, now way to ever really escape that grayness, once you've seen it. But there's another..." He stops again and looks for the right words. "There's another way..." I'm still staring at him, silent. he continues: "See, all I know is that whenever I'm... in that...that place you're in right now. That dark place, and I...I can't find my way out, you just...you... you come after me, calling my name, holding my hand... And then I don't... I don't see everything so black and white anymore. I see..." We're still staring at each other. "I see you," he finishes. "All I ever see is you." I close my eyes. "I’m fine, Mulder," I whisper, and I don’t know why. He brushes a hand over the back of my head, soothing. "Are you?" he asks softly, "Are you really?" Oh god, I know now that I can't lie to this man. "No," I admit, quietly. "No, I don't think I am..." "I know," he replies gently. "And so maybe you misplaced your smile, Scully..." He looks down at me and uses an index finger to erase a tear. "So what? It’s NOT gone. I’ll find it for you, somewhere..." With a longing sadness, I shake my head. No, I think. You can try, Mulder. You can look...But it's not there... I know it's not. I can't feel it anymore. His mouth dips slowly to kiss my cheek, to brush along a tear trail and wish it away. "It’s OK to cry, Scully... It is..." I suck in a breath. "I don’t want to cry," I manage, honestly. "I can’t...can’t cry..." Then I am silent. His nose nudges my cheek, barely. "Yes," he breathes onto my lips. "You can. You are." Oxygen shudders in my throat, and I utter words that have taken me five years to find the courage to express. "Help me...Mulder..." I close my eyes. Another tear sprints down my cheek, and I whipser, "Please. Help me... please..." His cheek touches mine. Electricity shoots through me. "I promise, Scully..." I hiccup, each intake of breath more painful than the last. "I'll always help you..." I bite my lip. "I promise you, your smile IS there..." Lips caress my upper jaw, almost at the corner where my upper and lower lip meet. "I’ve seen it...You just..." Then, the corner of my mouth, gently, as if the breeze is whispering... "Just, need to know---" Our noses graze and slide past each other. Him, left. Me, right. "Where to look..." I finish for him, and our lips brush, slowly, experimentally. His are soft and smooth. Textured slightly, larger than mine, and tugging, gently. We pull away, if only for a moment, and the corners of my mouth tug upward. I am still not whole, not yet, and not by a long-shot, but my god. The man can KISS. "Didn’t I say that to you once?" I ask, coyly, in a voice so unlike mine, I almost don’t believe that it is. Mulder nods, stupidly, his cheeks pink all the way up to his ears. He is grinning now, and staring at me too, arms still snaked around my middle, but neither one of us is paying much attention at this point. "Well, would you look at that," he whispers, and traces a finger around the lines of my lips. "I knew it was there...somewhere..." A brow furrowed, I look down, confused for a moment, and then I focus on what he’s saying. I touch a delicate finger to my lips, tears drying tracks on my cheeks. Oh god, I realize, suddenly. Oh god, I’m smiling! I’m smiling! I can FEEL it. In my eyes, in my cheeks... I can feel it inside, outside, all around me... I’m smiling... He pulls away, sheepishly, and reaches down to get something. I have a feeling that he’s a bit embarrassed with all this "affection" stuff, and wants to change the subject. Of course, I don’t blame him one bit. He and I are not good at all this, and we never will be. But right now, I don’t care. I am just so grateful that he had the strength to help me... help me cry. His left shoulder angles slightly, so that he can bend gently and grab whatever it is, without having to take his eyes off me. The realization that he’s doing this makes me blush, tremendously. "I ah," he holds out a hand to give me something. It’s a large plastic cup, filled with some sort of pink looking substance. "I was going to get you a birthday cupcake," he tries to explain, still holding the drink, "But there weren’t any left, guess the mall’s pretty crowded today huh..." I take it from him, this large cup with a pink, frothy drink in it, and stare at it, astonished. It’s cold against my hands, and moisture beads up around the sides. My heart still aches in places I won’t ever be equipped to describe, but for now, all I need is this. This man, and his menial birthday gift--- a strawberry soda because they were fresh out of cupcakes. And though it’s not what most women would want or expect---it’s not diamonds or rubies----For me, it’s like a big message from fate, staring at me in bold block letters. And I think for the first time today, I am realizing that I don’t need rings, sunset walks, or picket fences. He is truly, my 'Mulder in tarnished armor' and I don’t think that he’ll ever know just how much this means to me... He shrugs, and continues, "So this was the best I could do. I asked them, and they said that all they had left was this strawberry shake thing, and it didn’t look too bad, so I got them to write on the side----" I turn it around, amused and read out loud, letters written in black permanent marker, "Happy Birthday Scully." Looking back up at him, I smile another smile that reaches all the way to my eyes. Oh god, I want to kiss him again... SO badly...So badly, it almost hurts... "Mulder," I sigh, my skin feeling almost tingly, my lips putting a wry spin on the statement. "I’m touched, really..." He grins, and to my surprise, blushes also. I stare down at the cup and frown then, for only a moment. "Uh, Mulder?" I ask, and he looks at me, answering, "Yeah?" I use my free hand to point at the lid. "No straw," I say, turning the cup in my right hand. He bites his lip then, and produces from his pocket, two long paper wrapped straws, handing them to me unsurely. "Mind sharing?" he asks, shyly, and I am smiling all over again. I can’t even remember the last time I felt this giddy, this enchanted, by a dumb strawberry shake. My god, was this what I’ve been searching for all day? Was this what I was supposed to find? Resolutely, I set the drink back down on the bench behind him, my eyes sparkling from down inside the depths of my heart, my lips curving upwards becomingly. Ok, so I may still have demons to wrestle with, but this... This, I realize, is why people smile... My arms wrap around his waist, one hand finding its way into the back of his hair, and I pull him close. My mouth whispers into his, "Well, if you’re REALLY thirsty..." Then I brush his upper lip. "No, I don’t mind Mulder." And then I kiss him, again, gently, carefully, softly. His hands wind around my neck, my head, then back around my face again, wandering into my hair. I pull away slightly. He angles left, as I angle right. Again and again, our lips connect and fall away, slip into each other and sweep left, right, soft skin connecting with soft skin. Fingers trace circles near my jaw, my earlobe. Mulder kisses me one last time and pulls back, slightly, to see me...Really see me. "Happy birthday Scully," he says, and now I KNOW that he must have said it to me in the garage. His tone is unsure and soft, the exact way I remember it, and for the first time today, I allow myself to recognize the phrase that goes along with growing another year older. The well intended wish. I still don’t want it to be my birthday, but when Mulder says it... Well, it doesn’t sound so bad. Light flicks behind my eyes, and we stare at each other, knowingly, contentedly. A look of bewildering clarity streaks across my features as I answer, "At first it wasn’t..." My head falls against his chest, gratefully. "And I’m still not thrilled..." His hand rests against the back of my head. "But now I don’t think I mind it so much..." Soft rumbling vibrates against the side of my face, and I can feel him laughing at that. I think that if I wasn’t so comfortable, I’d probably look up at him and ask him just what in the world he thought was so funny about it. However, right now, I just don’t want to move... A slight tilt of my head, and my face is buried against his chest. I can feel his heart beating, his chest rising with each breath. Mulder’s hands trace tiny patterns on my back, and I can sense them tickling me through the fabric of my cardigan. God, I don’t want to let go... I am not healed, not by a long shot, but for the first time today, I am starting to feel whole----as if the pieces aren't as scattered and lost as I had once thought. A thought occurs to me then, and (with slight reluctance) I lift my face to gaze into his eyes. There’s something that I need to ask him. Something that I want to ask him... "Mulder?" I say softly, my fingers reaching to tenderly brush away an errant lock of brown hair. His hands, in turn, rise up to cup my cheeks and he smiles, almost dreamily. It’s not a look I’m used to seeing on him, I realize, but I could get used to it... So easily, I could get used to it... "Hmm?" he asks, tracing an index finger along the line of my jaw. I bite my lip and stare up at him with silent entreaty. I search his face, the question forming itself in my brain before I can even think about it. It’s just such an.. Odd thing to ask... At least---it's an odd thing to ask Mulder... But I ask it anyways, blurting out, "Mulder, what are your plans for around 6 this evening?" >From the look on his face, the question confuses him as much as it does me. But (To my intense relief) he smiles, anyway. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ February 24th ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ * * * ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ One Year Later: ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "GOOOOOODDDD Morning Georgetown!! It’s 5:30 am, a beautiful morning out---if not cold as ever! 33 degrees today folks, so don’t forget your-----" SMACK! The sound of a hand slapping the snooze button echoes reassuringly throughout the room. Lifting my head up just barely, imperceptibly, I smile in the satisfaction that Mr. annoying radio DJ has been silenced, yet again. A half opened eye reveals almost total darkness. It’s way too early, I think. Too early to wake up. It’s Sunday, and it’s waaayyy too early. I don’t feel like moving yet. I’m too comfortable to move. I sigh and burrow comfortably into the pillow, snuggling deeper into the bedsheets. Ahhh, yes, I decide. This feels nice. So early still, and I’m so tired... I let out a breath and close my eyes again. From my place on the left side of the mattress, I can hear a groan, movement and rustling on my right. Another groan, and then, "Oh come on, Scully..." I decide to leave my eyes closed, my head turned from him, so that he can’t see me smiling. It’s all over, I realize, the second he sees me smiling. Coyly, I tuck my knees up higher into my chest, grasping the sheets tightly around me. He tugs on them... hard... "Damn it. I’m cold," he mutters, yanking harder, "quit hogging the blanket..." Another tug on my side, and he tugs back in rebuttal. "Alright Ms FBI agent/medical doctor," he teases, yanking harder, "It’s 33 degress outside and your heater is not very reliable. Now, you’re smart. So tell me, in this particular situation, what, exactly, is the practical use of this blanket?" A harder tug from my side, and the retort "In this case, to keep my freezing body nice and warm Mulder,---Now let go!" A suppressed giggle, a harder tug, a ‘stubborn grunt’ later, and Mulder all but rolls nearly on top of me, both of us grasping a corner of the bedsheet, our faces inches apart, but neither one of us willing to let go during our playful tug of war. "I’m warning you Scully," he tells me, mock growling. "Give it up or die..." Oh... Isn’t that cute? He’s trying so hard to make me believe that he’s serious. I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Using both hands and a mishcheivous smile, one of many smiles that I’ve discovered I have, I grasp my blanket corner possessively, pulling it up to my chin. He stares at me dumbly, and I blink, trying to feign innocence. I think that I must now have just about the entire comforter wrapped around my tiny body. "Alright Scully," he tells me, squaring his jaw, inching forward. "That’s it. Out of fear of Frost bite and for the common good---for all the freezing men on this Earth who share their covers with a cover-hogger, I am just going to have to kill you..." I back up against the headboard, taking my comforter with me. "What’s that?" I ask, raising a speculative eyebrow, cupping a single hand over my right ear to mimmick deafness. "Is that a THREAT, I hear, Agent Mulder?" Determined now, he stares, predator-like, at my over-covered, blanket clad body. Then he prowls closer, grinning, tugging insistently on his end of the blanket. He takes a deep breath and, in his best impression of a ‘serious Mulder voice’ warns, "Oh, you just wait, Dana Scully." A bright smile reaches past my eyes and stumbles into his, and I grab the back of his head fiercely, pulling it downwards. "I was actually hoping I wouldn’t have to," I reply casually, my fingers splaying in his hair, hands running alongside a slightly stubbled cheek. With a small grin, his lips edge forward, to the left, and then down. Mmmm... he feels really good... Really good... And so, soon, many kisses (MANY kisses) and many tender teases later, I finally relent, giving him half a blanket-----a compromise really, in the understanding that he’ll just lie here and hold me until we fall asleep again. (Well, I gotta keep warm somehow, right?) Needless to say, he doesn’t have any objections to this. I can still feel him breathing now, here with me, his heart beating, his fingers tracing aimless circles on my arm, as I drift off... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Once upon a time, far, far away, in a not so normal land, and a not so normal life, a not so perfect man and a not so perfect woman lived in what wasn’t always harmony. The man was tall and gangly, obsessive and overbearing, but with a heart of gold that rarely showed itself, except to the woman that he loved more than life itself. The woman was tiny and intense, broken in so many ways and yet whole in so many others, but with a gentle wind about her---one that rarely showed itself, except to the man that she needed, the man that she loved; The man who kept the demons at bay. And in this not so normal land, in this not so normal life, there were no picket fences or magic candy castles to rise up into the painted sunset sky. There were no children and soccer practices, no ballet classes and no matching golden retrievers. But at the beginning of each day, the not so perfect man would gaze over at the not so perfect woman, and their hands would find each other, through the darkness of a not so perfect world. And their eyes would meet, their souls would brush, and the day would go on, as normally as a day could go on---in their not so perfect world. And at the end of each day, the not so perfect man would walk the not so perfect woman to her car, holding her hand until the last possible second. His fingers would find her coppery hair, her hands would clutch his shoulders, and in the middle of a not so perfect world, they would somehow find one perfect moment, suspended in their not so normal existence The man would cup her cheeks then, and in response, the woman would close her eyes. "I love you," they would breathe, as if in a union of spirit, and there they’d find their smiles, strong and whole, sparkling against the retreating shadows... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE END Thanx for reading!! Send all feedback (welcomed and always answered) to leiaj@bellsouth.net I'd love to hear from everyone! Feedback always makes the best birthday present! :o)