Part I Prologue The loud, ominous squeak behind him made him jump. He turned and glared at the closing gate, thinking that he should by now be accustomed to its familiar sound of metal scraping metal, but it continued to startle him every time. He cast a furtive glance through the trees around him before continuing down the path. He wasn't sure exactly why, but he didn't want anyone to see him here. It was partly his pride, his stubborn male ego hanging on to his insistance that the end, in this case, was for the best. To be seen in this vulnerable position would be to admit defeat, and Fox Mulder was not one who easily admitted to being wrong. On the other hand, he carried a particularly heavy load of guilt which may have increased his need for anonymity. He knew he had not been especially supportive of his partner over the last few months, and he also knew that she had needed him. But again, he was so *male*, so hardheaded....a poor excuse, he knew. What he couldn't admit, even to himself, was that it was his fear, terror actually, of reaching out to her. She was so important to him....what if she rejected his comfort? What if she pushed him away? Safer, by far, to keep his distance, at least until she was ready to approach him. Perhaps, though, it all came down to selfishness. He just didn't want to share this with anyone....not even Scully. That was wrong, of course; if anyone had the right to be here, with *or* without him, it was his partner. He was aware, however, that she had not yet visited the grave. It was simply too painful; the scars were not yet healed enough to start ripping new ones. So he came for her. For both of them; to do what they should be doing together. Until she was ready, he would be her heart, breaking himself with each visit, knowing somehow that it was the only way he would be made whole again. His eyes blurred as he reached his destination, and he kneeled blindly at the foot of the grave. Blinking, he brought the headstone into focus and stared at it with narrowed eyes. 'Emily Sim.' The name was cut deeply into the stone in large block letters as shocking as her life--and death--had been. His face took on a glazed expression as the monument faded and he lost himself in his favorite fantasy, the one that had haunted him since immediately after Scully told him about her daughter: Driving home from work, he reflected on how much his life had changed since the decision to leave the FBI. He was actually sleeping *and* eating in the same week now. It was nice, too, not to have to worry about Scully anymore; nice to know that she was safe from the monsters, both human and otherwise. The few things he missed about the job didn't begin to compare with what he had now; no, not even close. He pulled into the driveway with the windows down, and could already hear the shreaks and splashing in the back yard. He got out of the car, smiling at what he knew he would find when he turned the corner of the house. Stealing silently through the bushes--some of his old Bureau talents just wouldn't die--he snuck up behind his wife. She screamed as he grabbed her by the waist and spun her around. Her fright dissolved into giggles when she heard his laughter and saw his face. She hugged him hard, then stretched up on her toes and kissed him. He bent to plant a gentle kiss on the top of her crimson head and tilted her chin up to stare into her deep blue eyes. More splashing, and Emily was out of the pool and flying across the yard, shouting, "Daddy! Daddy!....." A cold splash on his arm snapped him out of his reverie, and he drew his hand roughly across his face, wiping away the tears. Sighing deeply, he stood and brushed the dirt from his knees. He stooped and retrieved the roses that lay across the foot of the grave. Fragile and faded, they were but ghosts of the brilliant orange buds they had been only a week earlier. He held them gently, afraid he would crumble them, but still managed to prick his thumb on an unforgiving thorn. Sucking the wound, he loped slowly toward the creek that marked the southern edge of the cemetery property. As had become his ritual, he dropped the skeletal flowers into the stream and watched as they traveled the line of the current away from him, gazing after them until the water swirled up and stole them from his sight. He returned to the grave and placed two fresh buds--irises this time--at the foot; as always, one for him, one for Scully. He stood a moment more, then turned and strode back to his car. ~End Part I~