feedback: Kits1013[at]aol.com
Title: Fate, Faith and Fortune
Author: Shelba
A response to Robin's "Fortune Cookie Challenge"
at BTT; dedicated to Char for her birthday, and to
sweet Sallie, whose original get-well fic is languishing
on my HD.
Keywords: Mulder, Scully, Cancer, MSR, UST.
Spoilers: Numerous; up through Season Four.
Archive: Sure, if you want it, just keep my name
and email with it.
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully were created
by Chris Carter, they are the 'property' of some
combination of Fox, CC, lawyers, and 1013.
Their hearts and souls sprang from David and Gillian,
but I like to think they belong to us.
Many thanks to Carol A for kick ass beta, and ass
kicking as needed.
And a special thanks to the kind and to talented Circe who
has created a home for my fic at www.invidiosa.com/shelba/
*It was ever thus with them: one stepped forward, the
other back; a parody of dance, their lives in balance.*
Dana Scully's Apartment
Georgetown, VA
Dana Scully stood in front of her mirror; green silk swirled
around her shoulders, draped over thin arms and breasts
flattened by weight loss. She took the too-large dress
and stuffed it into a bag destined for charity. It was
already filled near to bursting with suits, slacks, silk shells.
As her body mass was leached away by the cancer, the
trappings of her life seemed to be slipping away as well.
Even her shoes no longer fit right. She'd actually cried when
she'd had to replace her favorite pumps. A bright spot in all
this was that her favorite pair of white strappy sandals still
fit, but only because the tiny buckles were functional, as well
as decorative, and she could adjust them. Of all the losses to
mourn, she thought, it was silly that it was her shoes that
caused hot tears to break through the icy barrier she'd
thrown up around her soul.
Thank God, she'd had some time to rebuild the walls before
Mulder had to confront Modell's sister. Seeing his grief
stricken heart shining through his eyes had nearly opened
the breach again. She was afraid that if she started to cry
for the coming losses - of leaving Mulder; his grief--she would
never stop.
The cancer had, she knew, nearly run its course.
Some days she found that she hardly cared anymore;
that she wouldn't care at all, except for Mulder.
A week ago, she'd collapsed in his arms. A week ago,
she'd needed another transfusion to come back to him,
feeling washed out and looking more drawn, more beaten
down. Mulder rejoiced that she'd won again. Admittedly,
with the transfusion, her cheeks had a little more color,
her eyes were a bit brighter. The fact that she'd lost so
much blood as to be nearly translucent, didn't seem to
register with him. Mulder took these small victories and
ran with them, all the way to the conclusion that she would
survive this disease.
He looked at her as though she were not going to die;
not going to fade away to nothing; would always
be by his side. She thought he might be right, but
not in the way he hoped. If spirits truly stayed instead
of passing on due to unfinished business, she was certain
to remain. She had so many unfinished matters.
She pondered what kind of ghost she'd make. Would she
be ethereal and lovely, and float around Mulder and try to
protect him from harm, like a pining female Casper?
Or would she be a poltergeist who moved his coffee
cups; perhaps stole his ugly ties? Would his atheistic heart
refuse to believe that her soul couldn't leave him, and she
would only be able to visit him in dreams?
She couldn't talk about this with him though. Not even in a
philosophical "what if" kind of way. For Mulder, the Great
Believer, thought they would find the Truth and it would
heal her.
But Scully knew the truth already. She felt it in the vague
ache of her bones; in the way her energy flagged more
rapidly every day. She saw it in the Technicolor of the
MRI results and the stark black and white print detailing
blood tests.
The truth stared at her from her mirror, from racks holding
ever-smaller sizes of bras and panties, from the size
one jeans that she had to cinch tighter with belts. A bright-
eyed teenage clerk watching her shopping for shirts
had suggested she check the girl's department. The girl
bubbled with enthusiasm; the clerk truly thought any
woman would be pleased to be so tiny.
After all, isn't the saying "You can never be too rich
or too thin, right?" If people only knew...
Well, enough of that. She had to decide what to wear.
She'd acceded to Mulder's plea that he be allowed to take
her out for dinner. To celebrate, he said. They'd survived
yet another audit. He'd successfully explained a lost
car, he still had his cell phone privileges, and no auditors
had been injured or taken hostage to achieve this triumph
and next, by God, he was going to get some calories into
her.
Bless his spooky little heart, he thought he was being
deviously clever, but he was as subtle as a jack-hammer.
He was always enticing her with her favorites: Belgian
chocolates, fine French pastries. Tonight, he'd promised
her Chinese. As her sense of smell waned, she needed
stronger flavors to appreciate food.
She didn't feel like eating; didn't really feel like going
anywhere, but he'd looked so hopeful. She'd started to
say no, but as her mouth was forming the words, she
must have telegraphed her refusal. His face had fallen,
his eyes dimmed. He'd simply sagged with disappointment,
and at the last second, even as she was speaking, her
"no" had morphed into "yes."
She wondered if she looked as startled as he had. She was
almost certain she'd *been* more startled, but he didn't
seem to notice or care, as his gloom swiftly changed to glee.
What a pair they made. Mr. and Mrs. Spooky and their magic
morphing emotions.
And so here she was, pacing back and forth, surveying the
new garments in her closet as though she were a general
reviewing the troops. Hardly festive, but at least some of
her old determination was mixed in there somewhere.
She settled for a soft golden silk Tee over a flowing white
skirt and donned a white sweater against the early evening
chill. Summer might be in full force outside, but a low
hemoglobin could cool a person down quicker than iced tea.
She sighed with relief at the warmth of the loose garment
and wondered what it would be like, to never be cold again.
She'd know soon enough. . .
She banished the morbid thought and eyed her reflection
and decided it would do. The outfit wasn't so large that it
made her look like she was a little girl playing dress up;
the softer lines helped disguise her terrible thinness
and the cashmere sweater helped stave off the chill
that seemed to be her constant companion these days.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The doorbell chimed at seven-thirty. Mulder was right
on time. She formed a smile on her face, checked the
hall mirror to see if it looked genuine, then opened the
door to find Mulder looking down at the floor with a
pensive look on his face.
She cocked her head and peered up at him. "So, what's up?
Did you change your mind, maybe thinking of taking off?"
She was trying to tease him, to make a stab at normalcy,
and hoped he didn't realize that she almost wished that
he would change his mind. It wasn't that she didn't want
to be with him. The truth of the matter was that a night in
her apartment, with a blanket and book, would probably be
easier than a night of "let's pretend Scully isn't dying," with
Mulder.
"No, not at all. I just kind of zoned out for a moment."
Mulder's eyes lifted to meet hers, and he smiled at her,
then his smile faded as his eyes swept over her. The
vision before him made his head swim. Scully wore a
cashmere sweater over a golden top that made her skin
glow. A skirt of some silky fabric flowed around her,
caressing her curves. Her feet were encased in delicate
looking high heeled sandals, and her tiny pink tipped
toes peeked out at him, almost begging to be kissed.
She'd turned off most of her apartment lights; a single
lamp next to her couch cast a warm light into the room.
It tipped her hair with fire, and gilded her curves and
spilled over the draped fabric of her clothes, like molten
caramel. Her face was in shadow, but her eyes flashed
at him like illuminated sapphires, full of warmth, burning
with life and intelligence.
His chest ached. His eyes drank her in, his voice was smoky
and soft. "You look lovely tonight, Miss Scully. Like ivory
washed in gold."
He'd taken to complimenting her more, and she wondered
sometimes, if the fiasco in Philadelphia had made Mulder
think she was seeking male attention. She couldn't tell
him what she was really thinking when she spent the
night in Ed Jerse's apartment. She didn't have the nerve
to tell him that Ed had meant exactly nothing, that the
only attention she wanted was Mulder's.
Whatever the reason, be it a true expression of his
feelings, or a campaign to boost her morale, Mulder
was constantly saying things like that, or bringing her
tidbits to eat, or novels by her favorite authors or
dragging her to comedy films or god-forbid, chick flicks.
She wondered at these changes, and Mulder seemed to
understand her uncertainty, but clearly, Fox Mulder was
a Man With a Mission: to convince Dana Scully that she was
beautiful in his eyes and appreciated in so many ways.
After all, if he told her enough times, she should believe
him, right?
Usually, even as she was warmed and heartened, she felt a
bit silly at this regard. She simply wasn't used to any man
treating her like this, especially not her alien chasing, mutant
catching, partner. But tonight, his compliment struck a
discordant tone. She was like ivory, she thought. Rigid.
Fragile. A substance taken from once vital, living things,
reshaped by men to suit their desires.
She managed a smile for him and he seemed to light up from
within as she murmured, "Thank you, Mulder." She stood and
just looked at him for a moment; took in his dark eyes, his
soft expression. He was such an enigma, such a paradox.
He could, without a doubt, be the most aggravating man
on the planet with all the sensitivity of a New York cabbie.
Other times, he could be thoughtful. Romantic. Sweet.
Even poetic.
At another time, she might have asked him if he thought
he was a reincarnated poet or just a wannabe in this life.
That would make him laugh and they'd argue the merits of
past-lives theory. She wondered what he'd think, if he knew
that she thought he must have been a poet in another life,
but she was tired this evening and not really up to playing.
Even a simple verbal sparring session with Mulder could be
exhausting. Tonight, she just wanted to enjoy his company.
Tonight, she just wanted to *be.*
Something in his eyes showed he sensed her mood, and his
voice wavered, "Are you ok, Scully?"
Scully reached out and drew him into her apartment. "I'm fine,
Mulder." A little line developed between his eyes, and he
nodded slowly. She thought how easy it was to lie to him, to
this man who treasured the truth above all things, and how
easily he accepted these little white lies from her.
She knew he didn't believe her stream of *I'm Fines*. Not for
a moment. But Mulder understood that Scully needed for him
to participate in the lie; needed him to accept that some
truths were too difficult to face.
It was ironic, she mused, that a psychologist would knowingly
participate in such a co-dependent relationship, but there it
was. She needed the truth to be hidden; he needed for her
to be free to hide from him. She knew that he had his own
truths that he hid from her, from the world.
She wondered, if fate and death hadn't intervened, would
their truths have ever intersected?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Scully turned her face to the scenery passing beyond the car
window. Homes full of families, with kids chasing the gleam of
fire flies, riding skateboards and pretending they didn't hear
their parents calling them in for the night.
The residential district flashed past and gave way to an
industrial district; normalcy receding behind them, life thumping
along, accompanied by the thrum of tires on pavement.
Warehouses rose from asphalt lots like a carnivore's bones
from the Brea Tar Pits.
Her eyes fell on a burned out warehouse that she remembered
reading about in the Post. Not far from here was the warehouse
where she and Mulder had faced each other over drawn guns;
where a murderess had tried to force Mulder and her to kill one
another.
She thanked God that he hadn't pulled the trigger. Not for her
own life; she knew that was pretty much forfeit, and going out
in a rush of gunfire and blood might have been easier than what
lay ahead.
No, it wasn't her life that she had feared for, but his. She
knew with certainty that the next shot from his gun would
have taken his own life. She was afraid for him; she knew it
was probable that he wouldn't live past her funeral, anyway.
And she hadn't yet summoned the nerve to have The Talk
with him. Soon, she knew, she would have to tell him that
after she was gone, he had to continue. Not in a quest for
revenge, but to make a life for himself; to try to build a
future, to savor life, so that she could be at peace.
She glanced over at him. The summer evening was settling
around them, the air rich and heavy with moisture. The evening
was made darker by the heavy cloud cover and in contrast
to the blue black night, his face was softly lit; a bit of cobalt
from the speedometer, a bit of crimson from a turn signal.
She smiled. The person who wrote the song had phrased it
well. Mulder certainly looked like a bit of paradise in the
dashboard lights.
Well, Dana, your opportunities for make-out sessions at a
drive-in movie are fading fast. She wondered if there were
still any drive-ins around. She wondered what he'd say if she
asked him to find one. She sighed; yet another fantasy bites
the dust...
He felt her eyes on him and when he glanced at her, his
gaze was full of questions. "What are you thinking, Scully?"
"About drive-in movies. About baseball games and watching
fireworks on the Mall." //About fire flies gleaming as they
seek mates in the dark. About never seeing these things
again; about never sharing them with you.// She paused,
wanting to tell him what was in her heart, but her courage
failed her.
She sat back and listened to Mulder as he talked about his
childhood. Summers in Vineyard sandlots; sneaking into
drive-in theaters; skinny-dipping in the community pool;
firing bottle rockets over the bay. He bemoaned the fact
that if they had known one another as kids, she would
probably have wimped out if he'd tried to drag her along
on such adventures.
She archly informed him that Scullys *never* wimped out.
"Oooh, Scully. . . never?" She smacked his shoulder and
watched as his lower lip protruded. She could almost hear
the hamsters gallop as he imagined sharing such adventures
with her and plotted ways to make some of them come true.
She was almost tempted to dare him to come up with
something. She really couldn't imagine playing sandlot baseball,
but bottle rockets made such a satisfying pop and drive-in
movies could be fun. While skinny dipping with Mulder wasn't
an option, the idea of finally seeing Mulder in his legendary
red Speedo did have its appeal.
No, she decided, it wasn't cowardice that kept the subject of
The Talk tucked away for later. It was a flickering hope that
these things might yet come to pass, that Fate would not
casually cut her cord.
Tonight it was still summer, the nation's Capital was a
beautiful place to be, and Mulder was beside her.
~~~~~~~~~
Mulder maneuvered the car into a parking place in front
of Ching Lee's, and warm rain began to patter against the
windows. Mulder glanced at her white skirt and strappy
sandals. "Stay put Scully. I'll bring the umbrella around
and get you."
Before she could respond, he was out the door. The sky
seemed to choose that moment to open, and the pattering
became a deluge. Her breath steamed the window, and the
car shifted as Mulder fumbled in the trunk. A moment later,
he had her door open and was beside the car with his umbrella
perched precariously over him, the ribs resting on his head
and the roof of the car.
Scully started to swing her legs out, then looked down.
The car wasn't far from the curb, but was just far enough.
A muddy torrent rushed toward a storm grate, carrying
leaves and cigarette butts with it. There was no way she
was going to get from the car to the sidewalk and keep
her feet out of the muck, much less dry. She was
contemplating a dismal evening with wet feet, when
her very own Sir Walter Raleigh came to the rescue.
"Scully, put your arm around my neck and grab the umbrella
so it won't catch on the car door."
"What?" Her eyes widened. "The curb isn't that far. I can
reach it." He was *not* picking her up like a four year old.
Having wet feet wasn't a pleasant prospect, but she wasn't
fragile. She wouldn't melt.
She didn't want to think about how to hide her reaction, should
she find his solid body pressed against hers.
"Come on, Scully," he growled, "while you're thinking about
ripping my throat out for suggesting that you aren't capable
of jumping over this little river, the rain is running down my
back. Grab my neck with one arm, this damned umbrella with
the other, and I'll just swing you over to the sidewalk. "
She bit her lip and frowned. She knew he wasn't trying to cop
a feel; this was Mulder, after all, and this was a simple case of
chivalry; it was no more than that.
He frowned back. "Have a heart, will you? I don't want to walk
in to Ching Lee's with my ass any wetter than it already is."
She pondered Wet Mulder and his ass, nodded meekly and put
an arm around his neck. He eyed this compliant Scully
suspiciously, then angled his head so she could reach the
umbrella handle.
"Ok, now, on three, we'll go. Ok?"
"Ok." Scully braced her feet against the floorboard, ready to
hop up and jump for the curb.
"One, two..." He slipped a very large, very warm hand under
her thighs and she gasped as his intent became clear.". .
.three."
She was barely able to emit a squeak before she found herself
pressed snugly against her partner's chest and being hauled
through the rain. She was still trying to sputter out a protest,
when she was deposited under the circus striped awning of Ching
Lee's restaurant. He plucked the umbrella from her suddenly
nerveless fingers and ushered her into the paper lantern
bedecked interior.
"Mulder!" She folded her arms and glared at him. "What
happened to 'swinging me over to the sidewalk'?"
Mulder's hair stood up from a brisk finger-combing and the
shadow of his sparse chest hair made an enticing pattern
under his damp blue dress shirt. Scully's eyes widened as
she realized he'd not worn a tee shirt. She made herself
look away before he could catch her checking out the
topography of his chest.
"What's the problem, Scully?" He handed the dripping
umbrella to a smiling coat check girl. He pocketed his claim
ticket and wiped his face clear of rain water and eyed her.
Mulder shook off a brief chill and blinked moisture from his
lashes. He'd brought a tweed jacket along, but when the deluge
started, he'd opted to leave it in the car. He wasn't sure if
the restaurant required jackets, but he wasn't about to get
his favorite English sport coat soaked. One leg of his khakis
was wet below the knee, and he shook his leg to get the wet
fabric away from his skin. The summer weight twill would dry
quickly. He was glad he hadn't worn denim.
"You didn't get wet, did you?" He inspected her for water
damage, and seemed satisfied that he'd gotten her to the
restaurant without a soaking. She had a few spots along
the side of her skirt that had not been shielded by his body,
and a bit of dampness on her sweater sleeve from where it
had been wrapped around his wet neck, but other than that,
she looked pretty dry.
"No. No, I didn't." She puffed out a long breath, but the
arrival of the hostess forestalled any further comment.
He looked down at Scully and smiled. "Good."
The young hostess smiled up at Mulder, and he grinned when
Scully rolled her eyes. It was amazing, how quickly wait staff
appeared when Mulder walked into a restaurant.
She motioned for them to follow, then she handed them off
to a young man in black trousers and a snowy white shirt. He
led them to one of a series of private dining rooms and
seated them in a booth. The table was black enamel,
surrounded on three sides with high backed benches
upholstered in soft red leather. Bamboo place mats and a
red and gold runner glowed in candlelight emanating from a
tiny pagoda shaped lantern. The effect was serene, and
Scully felt some of her tension drain away.
The waiter stood, pen poised over his pad and nodded when
Mulder ordered iced tea for himself. "Do you want tea, Scully?"
She nodded. "Yes, but I'd like hot green tea, please."
Their waiter deposited two menus on the table and hustled
off in search of tea, and Mulder fell to studying the menu as
though it were the Rosette Stone, with the key to every
question he'd ever posed.
The waiter moved with the silent grace of a ninja as he
deposited Mulder's glass, and carefully poured Scully's first
cup of tea for her, then asked if they were ready to order.
Scully barely glanced at the menu; her dietary preferences
were pretty narrow these days, so it didn't take long to
choose. He gave Mulder a little time, then jotted their
selections on his pad, bowed and trotted off to place their
order.
Scully sipped her tea and listened to the soft chime of the
background music. She idly wondered what the instruments
were but didn't care enough to ask her dinner companion,
aka, Mulder, the walking encyclopedia, if he knew. Between
his formidable intelligence, relentless curiosity and eidetic
memory, the man was a virtual font of useful and useless
information.
She watched as he ran his fingers along the heavy silk runner
that stretched along the center of their secluded table. As he
admired the sinuous dragon artwork of the wall coverings, he
regaled her with facts about dragons. He told her that the
dragons of the Far East and those of Medieval Europe didn't
look alike, that the legends of both version may have sprung
from travelers' stories of the Komodo Dragons of Indonesia.
"There was even a really lousy movie made about these things,
Scully." She considered asking him if he thought dragons
existed, and smiled as she imagined B-movie fan Mulder
munching artery clogging popcorn and watching an abysmal
film about lizards. She laughed softly as he grinned a self-
satisfied look at her.
Mulder was such a tactile person; he experienced his world
through touch, as much as by sight. She'd tried, time and
again, to break him of this 'touch first, ask later' approach to
life. She feared that one day, he'd touch the wrong thing,
and she would lose him to his curiosity. Even though she
wished he would be more careful, she had to admit that she
enjoyed watching the play of smooth skin and supple muscle
of his elegant hands as he explored the world.
Soft music and the clink and rustle of other diners all seemed
far away. She felt cocooned within the curtained alcove,
safe from intrusion. Finally, she asked, "Mulder, what were
you thinking?"
"I'm not thinking about anything in particular." He suddenly
became interested in the beverage menu, began reading the
description of different ones aloud. "Have you ever heard
of a chocolate martini?" He wrinkled his nose. "It seems an
odd thing to find on a Chinese menu, but the combination
does sound interesting." Uh huh. Sure, he thought it was
interesting. She'd believe that, when she saw his lips
wrapped around the flared glass rim.
Her partner was primarily a beer or ale drinker, with an
occasional glass of wine with a meal. After all, most
upper crust Vineyard families weaned their kids on the
stuff. However, unlike other Vineyard families, along
with an Oxford education, the expected old world values
and proper table manners, the Mulders had instilled an
appreciation for firearms and a healthy paranoia into
their firstborn.
Mulder had taken his psychology training about alcoholic
tendencies in families to heart and avoided drinking in
most situations, but he had been known to indulge in hard
liquor on occasion. It was possible that he was considering
trying one of the novelty drinks. This was a Survived-the-
Audit celebration, after all.
She sipped her tea and soup as they awaited the main
course. Mulder had made short work of his Hot and
Sour soup, and was fiddling with the menu again. Scully
wondered how long he'd use the drink menu to stall. He
soon bypassed the limited menu of mixed drinks and
turned the page to the wine section.
Yep, an avoidance tactic, to be sure. Mulder didn't like
wine with Oriental food. He claimed to have had a bad
experience with a spicy eggplant dish, some green noodles
and plum wine, and as a result, couldn't stomach the sweet
oriental wines. He also disliked Sake. Another bad
experience, she supposed.
"No, Mulder. I meant what were you thinking, earlier?"
She knew Mulder understood what she was referring to.
He just didn't want to deal with her objections to his
impulsive action.
The waiter brought their entrees, and she waited for him
to bow out of their cubicle, carrying Mulder's empty bowl,
and her nearly untouched one, before continuing. "Why did
you think you needed to carry me, Mulder?" She cocked a
brow at him, and began to eat the spicy vegetable dish in
front of her. "I won't melt in the rain. You do know that,
don't you, Toto?"
"I resent that; I am much taller -- and smarter -- than Toto.
Besides, Scully, everyone knows that only bad witches melt
in the rain." He flashed a smile at her, then busied himself
with adding soy sauce to his meal, then focused his attention
on spearing bits of steak with his chopsticks.
She laughed, "Taller anyway." She eyed him. "Well, you're
not actually hairy enough to be Toto, so does this mean that
I'm a good witch, Tin Man?"
"Ha, ha." He actually flushed, whether from embarrassment,
or amused annoyance, she couldn't tell. He shifted under her
scrutiny. "Did you get a look at that sidewalk? It seems that
someone else must have had a bad plum wine experience.
I didn't want to you to have to walk through that muck."
"Don't you think I could have walked around that, and if not,
so what?" She had, after all, lost shoes to worse things
than human emesis.
He chewed carefully and swallowed, then waited for her to do
the same. "Not to give too much information, but does the
phrase "big pieces' mean anything to you?"
"Uh, yeah." She wrinkled her nose. "Big pieces, huh?"
"And copious amounts of the aforementioned chunks. I
could barely step over it, and my legs are a lot longer than
yours." He winced when he thought about the last time he'd
referred to her height. It had taken Scully a long time to quit
steaming over that 'little legs' comment. He forged ahead
and thanked the partner-harmony gods for smiling on him
when she didn't reprise the argument, but simply let him
continue.
"Come on, Scully, I only carried you this far." He spread his
arms to illustrate. "I didn't want you to mess up your pretty
shoes or skirt, or get that gunk on your feet. If we'd stopped
to discuss it, we'd still be out there." He speared a bamboo
shoot and pointed it at her in emphasis. "You'd have said 'no',
we'd have argued for a while. I'm stubborn, but I'd eventually
lose, then you'd be miserable with wet feet. My ass would be
wetter than it is now; I'd feel guilty about your ruined shoes,
so I'd be honor bound to go with you to replace them."
He intoned, "Shoe shopping would have ensued, Scully. You'd
glare at the clerks. You wouldn't find a pair of shoes you like as
much as these. You'd glare at *me,* and I'd suffer in silence.
It wouldn't have been pretty, Scully."
She rolled her eyes. "You are so full of it."
"Full of it?" He set his chopsticks on his plate and swirled
an egg roll through hot mustard.
She swiped a fried wonton from his plate of hors d'oeuvres
and considered him. "Yep. "
"Am not."
She snorted. "Are too."
"Scully, you wound me." He clamped a hand over his chest as
though protecting his poor injured heart.
"I don't glare at clerks." She thought back to the teeny
bopper who'd suggested she look for clothing in the girl's
department, and how pale the girl had become, when Scully
snarled that her holster wouldn't fit under a DKNY for Kids
jacket. "Well, I wouldn't call it glaring. Not exactly."
"Yes, you do. You *exactly* glare. That or you nail them with
the Brow." He stole a piece of her sesame chicken and dodged
her effort to stab the offending hand with a chop stick. "You
always glare at shoe clerks."
"Well, ok. I might sort of glare. I didn't say you were completely
off base about that." She ignored his eye rolling and stole a
bamboo shoot loaded with hot mustard, and quickly took a sip
of her tea. "You said you'd suffer in silence." She arched a
brow. "We both know you wouldn't 'suffer in silence.' You'd
let everyone know. You'd whine, Mulder."
That wasn't exactly true either. Every day, Mulder suffered
silently due to a myriad of things, most notably her cancer.
She knew he wanted to talk about it; wanted to pamper her
and hover over her, but refrained out of deference to her
wishes. Thankfully, he never mentioned the elephant in the
room. Every day, she loved him a little more for it.
True to form, he ignored the moisture that was welling in her
eyes, but she noticed he swallowed a sip of tea rather hard,
then waved a hand in denial of her accusation. He said loftily,
"I don't whine. Much. But anyway, that's beside the point.
The point is, we'd both have been miserable. I got you over
the slimy stuff and back on your feet in about ten seconds
and we both escaped a shoe shopping ordeal. So really, Scully,
what's the big deal?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Actually, if she thought
about it, there was no 'big deal.' She handed him a fortune
cookie and began to crinkle the wrapper of another. She smiled
at him, and found that she was truly glad she'd come with him
tonight. "Thank you, Mulder."
He caught her hand between his palms and to her delighted
shock, pressed a kiss to the back of her fingers. She shivered
slightly when his lips lingered and his warm breath made every
hair on her arm, and all the way to her neck, stand on end.
"You're welcome, Scully." He cradled her hand in one of his
and began to play with his own wrapped cookie with the other.
Mulder waved his cookie at her and waggled his brows. "I'll
show you mine, if you show me yours."
"Ok, you're on." She ignored his innuendo, and to his delight,
she blushed and played along. "You first."
He pulled the strip from his cookie and read it aloud, "One
learns through the heart, not the eyes or the intellect."
He smirked her. "Confucius say, superior to inductive
reasoning, intuition is."
"Confucius say, Agent Mulder is channeling Yoda, and
inductive reasoning will kick him in the intuition."
He laughed. His smile was infectious. It was wonderful to see
him smile; to laugh with him. The innocuous slip of paper had
pegged her partner. It was almost as though someone who
knew Mulder had chosen this fortune; someone who knew
where his greatest strengths lay: His honor, his gentle
goodness; his compassion, and his intuition; all driven by
his great heart.
She smiled at him, enjoying his pleasure at his 'fortune.'
That child-like wonder was another attribute of the heart,
the pure joy he found in the universe; a universe that had
not always treated him gently.
"Your turn, Scully." He munched on a bit of broken cookie, and
nodded at the cookie that lay forgotten in her hand.
"Okay, here goes." She extricated the thin strip of paper, but
the words stilled in her mouth. Wordlessly, she handed it
to Mulder.
Mulder's eyes skimmed the paper, and he read it aloud to her,
as though she hadn't already seen it. "Man can cure disease,
but not fate."
Her laugh was short, dry as dust. "Well, someone seems to
have gotten this one backwards. My disease is beyond man,
while my fate was fashioned by men."
"No, Scully." He shook his head. Sensing that she was about
to flee, he grasped her hands and pressed them both to his
lips so she couldn't bolt. "The things that man did caused
this, and man can cure you, as well; I'm sure of it. And fate
can be changed."
"How can you say that, Mulder?" She blinked angry tears away.
Good, he thought. As long as she was angry, she wasn't giving
up. His fear that she was giving up had been growing for some
time. "Because of us," he said, "I'm still here, because of you. I
am one hundred percent certain that without you in my life, I
would be dead. You changed my fate, Scully. You saved me a
dozen times over. I think you'll be around for a long time to
continue to save me.
"I swear to you, we're going to find the men who did this to
you. I can't promise that they'll ever come to justice, but we
*will* find them. And we *will* find a cure for your cancer. We're
not letting anyone else control our fate."
She read the determination in his eyes. His use of the plural,
the joining of their fates, of sharing responsibility and risk,
didn't escape her. Suddenly, she felt hopeful and more
connected to him at that moment than she'd ever felt before.
His eyes glowed with determination; the sheer force of his
faith washed over her. He had the strength of his beliefs and
was giving it to her. Her smile was tinged with tears, but her
eyes were bright when she looked at him; Mulder, her own true
believer.
She tugged on his hands and drew him around the table to her.
Silently, she moved into his arms and cuddled against his
chest. He tucked her under his chin and bent, curling his body
around hers, as though to shield her from the world. His breath
was warm against her skin as he sighed and kissed her forehead.
His eyes closed in contentment, then opened suddenly when
she moved.
Certain she was moving away from the intimacy, he sighed and
let her go, wishing for her to stay, but not preventing her
attempt to go free. It was ever thus with them: one stepped
forward, the other back; a parody of dance, their lives in balance.
Always moving toward the same goal; moving in step, but
independently. The emotion in his eyes changed to surprise as
she moved closer; her breath warmed his face, her hand stroked
the back of his neck. For the first time, Fox Mulder felt Dana
Scully's warm lips on his. He was stunned, reeling with joyful shock.
He gazed down at her in wonder, his voice conveying all his
questions, his hope, his love, in the syllables of her name:
"Scully. . .?"
Her whispered response answered all his questions, quelled his
fears and held a promise of a shared future. "I do believe,
Mulder."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Epilogue
It had been raining for hours and the air was heavy. Rain
poured down the window, streaking the dirty glass. Headlights
from an occasional passing car flashed briefly across the wall,
barely registering on the old man's peripheral vision, before
vanishing.
The trill of his telephone was muted by the dull air. The tall,
stoop shouldered man rose from his seat in front of the old
typewriter and rubbed his neck. He'd been wrestling with this
new part of his document for several hours. He was in a
quandary, didn't know how he wanted things to develop. He
needed to decide so he could proceed. He was ready for a
break. The phone call would be as good a reason as any to
stop for a while.
He eyed the phone as he lit a cigarette. He was in no real
hurry to pick it up. Anyone who had this number would let it ring
until he deigned to answer it.
He liked to keep people waiting; it made them anxious, nervous,
and nervous people were more likely to tell you what you needed
to hear. After several more rings, he picked up the receiver
and breathed "Yes?" through a puff of smoke. "What news do you
have for me?"
He strolled to the window and watched the rain thrumming
against the glass as he listened. "They are together?" His face
cracked in a smile. "You're certain? Agent Mulder has finally
worked up his courage?"
Miles across town, a lone figure watched two figures next to a
nondescript sedan in the restaurant's parking area. A tall dark
haired man had a petite red haired woman pulled up against
his chest. His head was bent to her, his lips brushing against
the side of her throat, one arm tightly around her waist, his
fingertips brushing the underside of a breast. His red haired
companion's eyes were closed in bliss, her hands clenching
and opening as she gripped the sleeve of the man's blue shirt.
If he felt the bite of her nails on his arm, he didn't seem to
notice or care.
"Quite certain, Sir." Alex Krycek wondered how long it would
take the agents to get across town to consummate this fledgling
love affair.
The familiar voice buzzed in the old man's ear; even over the
phone, his young caller was clearly amused. "Well, sir, let it
not be said that Mulder doesn't know how to take a firm grasp
on a situation. In fact, I'd say they're about two gropes and
one silk blouse away from a public indecency arrest. But as
to Mulder's initiative, according to my assistant in the
Chinese restaurant, it appears that Agent Scully actually
initiated things. Mulder as usual, was simply mooning over her
and kissing her forehead."
"Good, good." The smoking man paced back to his desk. "It
will make our task that much simpler, if he knows his desire for
her is truly reciprocated." He blew a ring of smoke and watched
it drift away.
Alex glanced at the small screen of his enhanced PDA and
watched the replay of the scene in the restaurant. He paused.
"I do, of course, have a tape for your files."
"Oh?" The smoker sounded bored, but even from his distant
location, Alex Krycek recognized the sound of a fellow voyeur's
interest. Spender's voice was cool, jaded. "Of course, you knew
I would require photographic confirmation. But I'm pleased
that you managed a tape on such short notice. How did you
accomplish this, Alex?"
"My agent placed a special candle holder on their table." Alex
smiled at the tiny pagoda on the car dashboard. He had
replaced the memory chip and its tiny lens was focused on
the scene before him.
"And your confederate, the young hostess, I believe it was?
What of her?" He waited for Alex's response. He nodded in
approval when Alex answered without missing a beat.
"Yes, Sir, it was the hostess." The younger man had no idea
how Spender knew this detail, but couldn't say he was really
surprised. "Awaiting your orders on her compensation." He
hoped the old man wouldn't order her termination. She had
proved useful, and could again.
The Smoker settled into a lounger, pretending to consider the
question. "The usual, I think."
Again, Alex didn't hesitate. "I'll handle it, Sir."
"Very good, Alex." He chuckled, then smiled as he imagined
the other man's surprise.
"Sir?" Alex was not sure he liked this new cheerful sounding
Spender and he wondered what the old man was up to.
"Alex, on second thought, pay the young lady what you promised,
then add another two thousand as a thank-you from me. We can
hope that young Mulder proves as sentimental as his father was.
If our love birds return to this branch, we'll have need of Miss
Lee's services again."
"Very well, Sir." He looked up from his phone to see a flushed
Mulder ushering a tremulous Dana Scully into the car. "Sir,
Mulder and Scully are leaving the parking area. Do you want
me to continue surveillance?" Alex thought of the video pickups;
one was in Scully's bedroom vent; the other in the ceiling above
Mulder's couch. The old pervert knew about the bedroom vent,
but not the one in Mulder's place. The old man seemed to have
a thing for the delectable Agent Scully, and monitored what went
into the files, but he exerted a fanatical control over what kind of
surveillance Mulder was subjected to.
"Yes, Alex. Continue. Photographs will be sufficient, but if audio
or video is available, that would be excellent."
Finally, Alex thought, something to watch other than paranoid
musings and solitary sexual release, as well as the old man's
permission to use the tapes. "I think we can get that covered,
Sir."
"Very good, Alex." He stubbed out his cigarette and sat back
in front of his typewriter. "Let the lovers get well accustomed
to being together; let Mulder become even more invested. Faced
with Agent Scully's demise, he'll be sure to come around."
"Do you have any other orders?"
"Not at present. Just be aware, we will proceed with phase
three in a few weeks." He terminated the call, and caressed
the keyboard of his old typewriter.
Tonight, perhaps he'd allow his tall, dark, handsome, strong,
silent hero a love interest. Perhaps, two. A delectable young
Chinese girl, who, of course would have to die. Perhaps a tragic
fall from a horse. Perhaps she would be mugged, fleeing from a
lovers' quarrel. Perhaps she would suicide after seeing photos
of her lover with another woman; a woman from his past, an
agent of a foreign power.
So many possibilities. He would have to choose best how to
make way for the hero's true love, the lovely auburn-tressed
Delia Sanders.
Spender began to type, wondering if there were a way to save
Delia; to leave her alive and with the hero, but then dismissed
it after some consideration. She must die, or be forever
alienated. He didn't know which way he'd take it yet; he knew
only that the love affair, if not the lover, was doomed. After all,
his tragic hero wouldn't be tragic, if he were lucky in life and
love.
~fin~