From: "Fabulous Monster" <fabulousmonster@hotmail.com>
Date: Fri, 27 Oct 2000 17:04:31 EDT
Subject: Key Bridge (1 of 2)
Source: xff


TITLE: Key Bridge (1 of 2)
AUTHOR: FabulousMonster
EMAIL ADDRESS: fabulousmonster@hotmail.com
DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters. They are the
property of Ten-Thirteen, Chris Carter and Co. and FOX.
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Gossamer, Xemplary, and Spooky
Awards, yes. Anywhere else, just let me know.
SPOILER WARNING: Everything up to all things, with a tip
of the hat to Ice, Beyond the Sea, The Field Where I Died,
Two Fathers/One Son, and Orison.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATION: MSR, Mulder POV
SUMMARY: Mulder's musings on the evolution of his and
Scully's relationship.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: These series of vignettes are inspired by
my recent trip to Washington, DC. My apologies to
residents of that city or the surrounding area for any
incorrect geographic or landmark references.

Please see additional Author's Notes at the end of Part 1.

All thanks to my betas Hillary, Duke, KatyBlue, and Keleka
who provide me with straightforward and insightful
comments, and keep me honest. A note of appreciation to
Tiny Dancer's XF transcripts which always serve as an
excellent reference tool. Thanks also to my
CrystalShipmates--I couldn't ask for a better support
group for my X-Files addiction.

Feedback is always appreciated...hey, I live for it!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


Key Bridge (1 of 2)


Several bridges connect the bedroom communities of
Washington to the city and to each other. Probably the
most famous is Arlington Memorial Bridge. Its neoclassical
expanse over the Potomac is graced with majestic
equestrian sculptures, bas-relief eagles, and American
heroic figures. Driving into the city via the bridge, a
visitor is welcomed by the stately Lincoln Memorial; the
Arlington National Cemetery and Arlington House greet
those leaving the city.

I often drive the Memorial to and from work, but I've come
to realize that many of my significant life experiences
have begun as I crossed a smaller, nondescript bridge that
holds no historical or tourist allure.

Key Bridge quietly spans the northwest Potomac River. Open
to two-way automobile and pedestrian traffic, it is not
unusual to see more joggers, dog walkers, and bicyclists
than cars at certain times of the day. I can cross the
bridge in two minutes; or be delayed in traffic up
to a half hour during rush hour, weekend evenings, or
holidays. Gently arching ironwork painted pale blue spans
the length of each side of the bridge, presumably to
prevent accidental--or purposeful--falls.

Key Bridge is named after Francis Scott Key, the author of
the Star-Spangled Banner. With the assistance of one
Colonel John Skinner, he was also called on to negotiate
the release of several American prisoners during the War
of 1812. I find it fitting that in a city memorializing
powerful warriors and statesmen, I come to you via the
edifice of a simple lawyer and poet thrust into
extraordinary acts by extraordinary circumstances.

Key Bridge links Alexandria to Georgetown.

Key Bridge links you to me.

I first crossed the Key in the role of your partner, a
crackpot--albeit brilliant--colleague you inherited in
your bid to gain field experiences and further your
career. There were many trips as your partner, with a
myriad of experiences important in their own right, but
one of the first stands out in my mind for its
simplicity and significance.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The bridge was busy that Sunday in April. An unseasonably
warm spring had brought out the beautiful people of
Georgetown in full force.

"Scully, you've got to move, that bridge traffic is
killing me!" I'd only been to your apartment one other
time.

You threw me the eyebrow. I hadn't quite learned how to
duck yet. "Mulder, we can always meet at the office."

You had let me in the door, but it was obvious I was
intruding on your personal time. The smell of Pine-Sol
filled the apartment and a laundry basket was sitting on
the couch. You moved it so I could sit down.

"What's up, Mulder?" you asked, sitting down beside me and
adjusting the headband you were wearing. Your hair was
longer then.

"I just wanted to give you the lab results we salvaged
from the Arctic Ice Core Project. I thought you might need
to review them again before you presented your report to
Blevins tomorrow."

You looked at me patiently. You had the grace not to point
out that you were a magna cum laude, a doctor, and in
the Top Ten of your class at the Academy. You were a big
girl now, sitting at the grown-ups' table--you had already
reviewed the lab results.

My Ice Core Project cover was blown--it was time for Plan
B, the truth.

"Ah, I also wanted to give you these." I reached into my
windbreaker pocket and pulled out a set of keys.

"What are these?"

"Keys to my apartment." I noticed the frown developing
between your eyes and continued quickly. "I thought that
now that we're partners, it would make sense for you to
have keys to my place."

"Why?"

Why? Your question took me off guard. I had expected you
to accept them without question, to accept them even
with some modicum of a smile.

I had to scramble to shift gears. "Ah, so when I'm out of
town on a case, you can have access to my apartment if you
need it. To get case files, documents..."

The frown between your eyes deepened. "Mulder, if you're
out of town on a case, chances are I'll be out of town
with you--that's the whole point of our being partners."

And in the brief time we had been partners, I was again
reminded of your formidable logic. "Well, not always,
Scully. There may be times when we are separated, pursuing
different leads in a case." I was also reminded that I
could call on some formidable logic of my own when needed.

I could see you weren't convinced. "It's no big deal,
Scully. I give my keys to all my partners." Of course,
that was the coup de grace, the 'trust-me-as-the-senior-
agent-that's-what-partners-do-for-each-other' line that
closed the deal.

It was also a blatant lie, but you didn't know that then.

Left unspoken in my offer was my friendship, my apology
for treating you with suspicion at first, and my trust. It
was a gesture of appreciation for the honesty of your
reports to Blevins, and the look of fierce determination
on your face as you stared down Mossinger to claim me from
Ellens Air Base.

However, you really didn't know me then, and you didn't
know that my offer of small tokens like keys masked deeper
emotions.

You studied me intently for a moment and then shrugged in
acceptance and went to put the keys on your own key ring.
I sat on the couch and waited for you to return. As I
glanced around your apartment, my gaze was drawn to the
table behind the couch that housed an array of family
photographs. Your father, ramrod straight in his naval
uniform, stared back at me sternly.

My discomfort at his scrutiny ended as I heard you move
back into the living room. I assumed that you were
returning with a set of your keys for me. After all,
turnabout was fair play.

You returned empty-handed.

My surprise must have shown, but you didn't acknowledge
it. Instead, you asked me if I'd like a drink. As we sat
drinking bottled water that you poured into glasses--
because you didn't believe in drinking out of bottles or
cans then--I was overcome with an uncomfortable
realization that I was not likely to get your keys now, or
in the near future.

At the earliest acceptable moment, I made my excuses and
moved towards the door. As I stood in the doorway, still
wondering how I'd lost control over this phase of our
partnership, you leaned against the open door and smiled
softly at me.

"You know, Mulder, if you ever need to get into my
apartment, you can always contact my landlord. He loves
anything to do with the FBI." A small smile, playing about
your lips as if in response to a private joke, further
unnerved me.

I mimicked your shrug of acceptance from earlier. "Hey,
Scully, you're probably right, neither one of us will ever
need access to the other's apartment."

My tone might have been harsher than I intended because I
saw the frown between your--your father's--eyes again.

It was time to school you in my habit of using humor as a
mask for stronger emotions. "Hey, you're going to
regret accepting my keys. Now it means you have to look
after my fish when I'm gone." Everything was a joke to
Good-times Mulder. Nothing to worry about.

"Your fish?"

"Yeah, especially Kang, he's the boss goldfish in the
tank."

"Kang, the goldfish?" Your voice was tinged with
laughter.

"Named after the biggest, baddest Klingon on Star Trek."

You laughed outright then and I joined you, and I thought
that maybe I was right to trust you after all.

You gave me your keys two months later.

We were returning from North Carolina after the business
with Luther Lee Boggs. I drove you home from the airport,
even though we'd had a standoff in the parking lot
over who should drive. It was my car, my leg was feeling
better, and I was the guy--I thought that way then--so I
did the driving. You'd been very quiet since we left the
airport; actually, you'd said virtually nothing since we
left North Carolina.

Key Bridge was backed up into Arlington. As we waited, I
tried to draw you into conversation. "Scully, you wouldn't
happen to have the file folder with you on the Eve case?"
Before you could protest that I needed to rest, I
continued: "Since I'm still going to be laid up for a few
days, I thought I'd do some 'light' reading."

Reluctantly, you reached into the battered briefcase you
always carried in our first couple of years together. At
that moment, the traffic cleared slightly, and I pressed
on the
accelerator to move forward. Unfortunately, my leg injury
was still giving me a bit of a problem, and I hit it too
strongly. The car lurched forward, sending your briefcase
and its contents to the floor.

"Sorry," I said sheepishly in response to your I-told-you-
I-should-drive glare.

As you wrestled getting your papers back into the
briefcase, the sun caught a metallic glint on the floor.
You noticed it too. "Oh, Mulder, I've been meaning to give
you something," you said, as you continued to collect the
spilled papers.

A set of keys jingled in your hands. "My house key is the
one with the blue tag; my car key has the red." You smiled
shyly at me.

The psychologist in me kicked into high gear. I didn't
want your keys out of a sense of obligation or as an
afterthought. I didn't want them as a symbolic offering of
appeasement to a male for the disappointment you thought
your father felt in you. I saw guilt for pulling the gun
on me at the Ice Base. I saw vulnerability after the loss
of your Dad.

"Scully, you don't need...I don't want..."

Your hand rested against my arm, stilling my thoughts.
Your eyes locked with mine. "Mulder, I've had these with
me for awhile. I just forgot to give them to you before
now."

Then, because you had recently enrolled in the Fox-Mulder-
humor-for-emotion relationship school: "It's no big deal,
Mulder. I give my keys to all my partners."

Unfortunately, you must have missed the class when we
discussed appropriate timing for such humor. Besides, I
was your first true partner. You weren't ready for the
game, and I called you on it.

"Why now?"

You looked out the window and sighed wearily. "Like I
said, Mulder, I've been meaning to give you my keys--it
was just an oversight on my part."

Your gaze turned from the window to me again, and your
eyes entreated me not to read anything more into your
offer than what you said.

Of course, you were lying. Dr. Dana Scully--magna cum
laude, in the Top Ten of her class at the Academy, and the
big girl sitting at the grown-ups' table--didn't 'forget'
things.

But I didn't know you well enough to see it then.

Or maybe your motives took a backseat to my own need for
your acceptance of our partnership and of me.

Whatever the reason, I took your keys and shoved them into
my pocket. Theoretically, we were partners the day the FBI
paired us together. In my mind, however, we became
partners that day on the bridge. You had my keys and I had
yours. We had access to each other's life.

We had trust.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

My next significant passage over Key Bridge didn't occur
until almost three years later. Of course, I'd crossed
over before then, but that summer evening years ago
carried our friendship to a new level.

Since returning from the Temple of the Seven Stars, I had
been restless and irritable. The cases we were working on
didn't interest me, running wasn't helping, and Skinner's
coolness didn't improve matters.

The results of my regression therapy were constantly on my
mind. Had I really existed in a previous life? Was I
destined to be haunted by the evil of Cancer Man? In my
empty apartment, the questions became too much to bear,
and I fled to my car.

Without thinking, I found myself crossing Key Bridge to
your apartment. I sat in the car for several minutes
debating whether I should inflict my restlessness on you.
You'd lived with it firsthand all week; the weekend should
be as much your downtime as mine. Besides, our trip to
Tennessee hadn't seemed to affect you. You'd given me your
little 'I-wouldn't-change-a-day' pep talk and then carried
on as professionally as usual.

Entering your building, I berated myself briefly for my
selfishness, but it didn't prevent me from ringing your
doorbell. I had no plan, no Arctic Ice Project case file--
I just wanted your company.

"Mulder, is everything alright?"

Even then, I was chagrined that you assumed my appearance
at your doorway was the sign of impending doom. "Sure,
everything's fine...why do you ask?"

"Because it's 1:00 AM." When had it gotten so late? It was
then that I noticed you were dressed in lavender short-
sleeve silk pajamas. Your hair was tousled; your eyes were
tired, but clear.

You noticed me looking at you, and moved behind the door.
"Well, come in, I'll make some coffee."

"No, Scully, I didn't realize it was so late...I'll go."

"Mulder..." Your voice grasped me gently by the shoulder
and steered me into your apartment. I knew better than to
resist.

"Let me just grab my robe, okay?"

I wanted to tell you not to bother, that what you were
wearing was totally unrevealing and not the least bit
distracting, but I knew you'd know I was lying, so I kept
quiet.

While you were gone, I wandered aimlessly about your
apartment, reacquainting myself with your family photos.
But it was another set of photographs, strewn across your
dining room table that froze me in my tracks for a moment.
As I heard the water run in your bathroom, I moved quietly
over to table for a closer look.

Staring back at me were the photographs of Sullivan Biddle
and Sarah Kavanaugh. Not just photographs, but a thick
file folder of papers from the Hamilton County Hall of
Records. Perhaps I wasn't the only one who was having
sleepless nights over this case after all.

In my reverie, I didn't notice you standing at the
entrance to your bedroom. I didn't see you, but I felt
your presence.

"I thought these had been returned to the archive," I said
gruffly, without looking up. Sullivan's picture was
unsettling; Sarah's torn photograph reminded me of Melissa
Ephesian's wasted life. The unease I felt before entering
your apartment intensified.

You moved purposefully to the table and began to gather
everything together. "You weren't supposed to see these,"
you muttered angrily. I wasn't sure if you meant to say
this aloud. The abruptness of your actions startled me,
and I backed away from you.

You suddenly stilled, and leaned against the table. "I
didn't feel I could return them in the condition they
were in, especially Sarah's. I thought I'd try to fix it,"
you said softly. You brushed furtively at your eyes.

For the first time, I noticed the tape dispenser. You
focused on it as well. A frown creased your forehead.
And again to yourself, more than me: "What was I thinking?
I can't fix this...I can't fix any of it."

"I didn't realize you had so much invested in this case,"
I said coldly. I would later attribute this comment to
lack of sleep, post-regression therapy stress disorder,
and an unfavorable alignment of the planets. But, that was
an analysis for later. To hell with your self-flagellation
right now: this case had obviously affected you, but you'd
let me believe otherwise. I'd stewed over it for a week--
and you'd left me alone to do so.

Blue eyes widened in surprise. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, you aren't the curator of the archive--it's up to
them to handle these things." And just in case you hadn't
realized that this case had me off balance: "Besides, it's
an improper handling of evidence...you should know
better."

Blue eyes narrowed with anger. "I didn't realize you were
such a proponent of rules and regulations." The air
crackled. "You're welcome to censure me with
Skinner if that's what you want."

No, I didn't want that. I wanted you to tell me that this
case had crept into your very being and was taking up
residence. I wanted you to feel like I was feeling.

I didn't want to be alone.

"I haven't been sleeping," I said quietly.

I expected you to say 'what else is new?', but instead you
looked closely at me. Your expression softened. "You've
got to let this go."

"I can't. Scully, I know you don't believe in this
regression therapy, but I've been thinking." I sat down
heavily at the table. You took the chair beside me.

"Scully, why were we all different?"

"What do you mean?"

The thoughts swirling around in my mind that week took
hold. I grabbed the photograph of Sullivan.
"I mean, why was I a soldier in one life; a young Jewish
woman in another?" I picked up a section of Sarah's
damaged picture. Why was Melissa my fiancée during the
Civil War, but Sidney another time?" Why were you...?"

"Mulder." You tried to cut through my turmoil. I felt you
grip my arms, and shake me ever so slightly. "Mulder, I am
Dana Katherine Scully. That's who I am--that's who I've
always been."

I ignored your attempt. "But Scully, if you were my
sergeant and later my father, then that must say something
about this whole idea of soul mates."

"What, that they don't exist?"

Your question made me pause. "You don't believe in soul
mates at all? Even if they are just limited to one life?"

Your gaze, locked on me a moment ago, dropped to the
floor. You measured your words carefully. "I think there
are too many people in this world to say that there is
only one person for another. I think within a person's
circle, there are people who play a variety of significant
but different roles. And people move in and out of that
circle all the time."

I considered your theory. "And maybe those roles change,
not just in one life, but over several." My thoughts began
to coalesce. I could feel my excitement mounting.

"Scully, what if there are different types and levels of
soul mates, and you can move from one to another? Maybe
you even have to prove yourself to better your position
from one life to the next--like moving from an
acquaintance in one to a husband or wife in another--or
you can even regress and drop back." I searched for a
parable. "Maybe it's like a board game, or a video game."
I didn't say the theory was perfect.

Your eyes crinkled with laughter. "Soul mates as a
function of Donkey Kong, Mulder?"

"Well, maybe more Snakes n' Ladders. I don't know Scully,
perhaps you have to answer the skill-testing question, or
grab the brass ring, or make the shot at the buzzer, or
whatever... But maybe what you were in a past life doesn't
mean you'll be the same in a present, or future life for
that matter."

The implications of my thoughts suddenly became clear.

To both of us.

For both of us.

I saw the fear in your eyes. I was challenging your sense
of well being. You could allow me my beliefs, support my
various quests, but your own sense of self demanded that
you keep your feet firmly planted in the scientific world.
Not for the first time, I wondered how working with me and
juggling such a paradox didn't leave you unbalanced or
feeling compromised.

Even through the fear, I saw the tenderness in your eyes,
and I thought I had my answer.

I could have pursued it. I could have pushed.

Instead, I let us both off the hook. Since you were now
in the process of obtaining your post-secondary degree in
the Fox-Mulder-humor-for-emotion relationship school, I
knew you would appreciate my attempt at levity. I placed
my hand gently on your shoulder.

"No matter what, Scully, I have a feeling that you're
gonna be my 'boss' in all my lives." My voice sounded
gravelly to my ears.

You smiled at the image, and the tension in the air
deflated. Your relief was almost palpable. You took the
photographs from my hands and placed them in the folder.
"Let's leave Sullivan and Sarah in peace, Mulder. C'mon, I
promised you some coffee." Then slyly, when I lingered
over the folder: "That's an order."

"Yes, ma'am."

We strolled to the kitchen, reinvested in the present. In
another time and place, had we walked--and would we walk--
together as friends? As if reading my thoughts, your
sparkling eyes peered over your coffee cup to meet mine.

I was certain of it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The leaves fell gently around us at the gravesite the day
I realized I had become your follower. Not a follower in
the traditional sense of the word--disciple, imitator,
attendant, or servant--but in the terminology of your
science: the part of a machine that receives motion from,
or follows the motion of another part.

It was quiet; the only sound was the distant traffic of
Key Bridge below. An aunt sobbed softly, still bewildered
by the sudden loss of her only sister and nephew. Diana
stood slightly removed from the group. Skinner and Kersh's
faces were set in granite.

You lingered afterwards offering condolences to the small
group of family and friends while I fidgeted in the
background. I had not wanted to attend, but you had
disregarded my reluctance: "Mulder, I'm going. Whether you
come or not is up to you."

You'd been talking to me like that a lot since we were
removed from the X-Files. Clipped, short sentences that
left dull ragged cuts on my soul.

I moved up the knoll to where Diana stood. She placed her
hand on my arm, dismissed me with a sympathetic smile, and
joined Kersh as he walked back to his car.

I turned back to the gravesite to collect you.

'You betrayed me.' I saw it in the indigo flint of your
eyes as they met with mine over the heads of the mourners.
All the anger, recrimination, and frustration of the past
few weeks crossed the distance between us in a scarlet
wave. I was almost pulled under by the undertow.

I walked down the knoll to where you stood. You put your
sunglasses on to protect yourself from the late afternoon
sun, and me from being further wounded by the anger in
your eyes. Quietly, we walked towards the car.

"We failed him. We failed her," you said flatly.

Already reeling from the emotionally charged atmosphere, I
snapped back at you. "I don't see it that way. Cassandra's
path had been chosen long before we came on the scene.
Spender's..." I paused, searching for the words. "Spender
just chose not to see."

"We didn't help him."

"What did you expect me to do, Scully?" I hissed, still
mindful of the few remaining mourners. "Tattoo the
evidence on his ass?"

I cringed inwardly when you stiffened at the unwelcome
image of Philadelphia and Ed Jerse.

You turned and looked up at me. I desperately wished I
could see your eyes.

"Mulder, we've had six years of conspiracies, abductions,
viruses, biological entities that may or may not have been
extraterrestrial...Jeffrey had nine months. He didn't
stand a chance. And we didn't make it easier for him."

We reached the parking lot. From our vantage point on the
hill, I could see the Key and its late afternoon
commuters. You leaned against the passenger side of the
car and swept your foot absently across the gravel.

"We didn't help each other either."

"Scully, we..."

"There was no 'we' during this case, Mulder."

I suddenly felt very tired. "Scully, if this is about
Diana again..."

You took your sunglasses off then and I braced myself for
more recriminations. Instead, I was taken aback by what I
saw.

Loneliness. Abandonment. Loss.

And like a freight train slamming into my chest, I
suddenly realized that--in your mind--this funeral might
have marked the passing of more than just the Spenders.

In my arrogant complacency, I'd always expected you to
support me, to be by my side, much as I expected my right
arm to be attached to my body everyday when I woke up.

For the first time in six years, I realized I might be
wrong.

Shaken, I took a few steps away from the car and looked
back out at the Key. Out of the corner of my eye, I
noticed you did the same. The bridge lights began to flick
on. You took it as a signal to walk back to the car, arms
crossed protectively against your chest, head bowed.

I was tempted to call on my studies at the Fox-Mulder-
humor-for-emotion relationship school and dazzle you with
some glib proclamation of my commitment to our
partnership--"C'mon, Scully, we've got bad guys to catch,"
or some such nonsense--but the sadness of your expression
made me swallow my words.

Instead, I touched you gently on the arm as we moved to
either side of the car. I'd told you in my hallway when
the FBI was splitting us apart and you were leaving that I
didn't think I could continue without you; that I didn't
think I wanted to.

At that moment, it wasn't a question anymore.

"It's personal for me, too, Scully."

I met the full intensity of your gaze as we looked over
the hood at each other. You were in the driver's seat,
literally and figuratively. Slowly, you nodded and climbed
into the car. I followed suit.

"Don't make me question it, again, Mulder." Your voice was
barely above a whisper. It thundered in my head.

No smart-ass comeback. No banter. No argument.

We might continue our work relationship in the same rhythm
as always with you 'following the motion' of me, but in
our personal relationship, you would take the lead. I
could push, I could cajole, I could suggestively tease,
but any movement forward would be on your timetable.

And in my alpha, one-upmanship, 'how-often-have-I-been-
wrong?' world, I was quietly amazed to discover that that
was fine with me.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


AUTHOR'S NOTES FOR PART 1:

Col. John Skinner was an actual participant in the War of
1812. I don't know if CC used his name as an inspiration
for the Big Guy, but I'd like to think so.

IMHO, Kang from the original Star Trek episode, Day of the
Dove, is the consummate Klingon. Go to
http://www.startrek.com/library/episodes_tos_detail.asp?ID
=68792 This one's for all you original Trekkers.

The definition of a follower is paraphrased from The
Living Webster Encyclopedic Dictionary of the English
Language.


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


Key Bridge (2 of 2)

A cold Potomac wind blew across Key Bridge as I
assumed the mantle of your protector. Of course, as
partners and friends, we had each other's back for years.
But, with you setting the pace, we were slowly, inexorably
moving to a new stage in our relationship--and the
proprietary feelings it stirred within me swelled as we
drove from your apartment to your mother's house. You were
hurt, and it was my job to ensure that you not suffer
anymore.

"Mulder, I don't expect you to cover for me."

I felt my hands tighten on the wheel. When I didn't
respond, you continued.

"I don't expect you to cover for me, I don't expect
Skinner to look the other way, I don't expect The Gunmen
to clean up my apartment. I don't expect anything from
anyone."

Maybe it was the inhumanly cool professionalism you
exhibited in answering the DC cops' questions. Maybe it
was your insistence on going to your mother's home--"she's
in San Diego right now, Mulder"--instead of my apartment.
Maybe it was the illumination of the Key's bridge lights
through the windshield that revealed the bruising around
your neck.

But I think it was my own fear at the vacant, displaced
look in your eyes as you pulled the trigger that caused me
to slam my fist on the wheel. My voice sounded loud and
unnaturally pitched to my ears.

"Goddamn it, Scully, just once, why don't you let someone
help you? Why do you expect so much from yourself, and so
little from everyone else? Why don't you let people do for
you...?"

Of course, 'someone,' 'everyone', and 'people' referred to
me, but I wasn't sure if you heard my unspoken message. I
could barely see you in the darkness, but I knew you were
slipping away.

We pulled up to your mother's house, and I expected you to
slam out of the car without a glance back. Instead, you
sat quietly in your seat, folded into yourself, your head
bowed. Nothing was said.

I am not a believer in divine intervention, but something
guided me that night. I didn't over think my next move--I
just acted. I took over.

I got out of the car, collected your overnight bag, and
opened the car door for you. Blanket still wrapped around
you, you exited without a word.

As we got to your mother's door, I unlocked it with the
set of keys you gave me in our first years together.

I tentatively put my arm around your shoulder to steer you
through the door. When you flinched slightly, I found the
grace not to take offense but to understand that you had
been touched too much lately.

I settled you on your mother's couch, replaced the
bloodied blanket you were wearing with an afghan I found,
and went into the kitchen to make you some tea. When I
returned, you were ghostly pale and shivering
uncontrollably, and--while you assured me you were not in
shock--I recognized the symptoms of extreme emotional
duress.

You could barely hold the mug in your shaking hands. I had
to steady it so you could drink, and I saw a flash of
humiliation in your eyes.

The ague soon gave way to nausea. When you vomited in the
cramped downstairs powder room, I held a cool washcloth to
your forehead, and stayed with you as you emptied the
poison that was Donny Pfaster from your body. Exhausted,
you rested your head in my hand.

"Scully, let's get you up to bed."

"Mulder, I have to take a shower first."

We walked upstairs. As you undressed in the master
bathroom, I inadvertently caught a glimpse of your
reflection in the mirror through the door you left
slightly ajar. Your back was crisscrossed with scratches
and contusions. Even your implant scar bore the
unmistakable imprint of a thumb.

I closed the door quietly to give you some privacy, and
waited for you to turn on the shower.

When I heard the water running, I went downstairs to the
bathroom, stuck a towel in my mouth, and in muffled
impotence, purged the rage and fear that was Donny Pfaster
from my body.

Then I went back upstairs to take care of you.

The shower was still running when I returned. As I paced
back and forth, I thought I heard muffled sobs over the
running water, but to this day, I am not sure.

When you emerged wrapped in your mother's robe, I placed a
towel over your head in a gently playful attempt to
lighten the mood. "Your mother would hold me personally
responsible if you caught a cold."

And since you were now in graduate studies at the Fox-
Mulder-humor-for-emotion relationship school, you smiled
wanly and said, "You must have thought I'd drowned."

Without thinking, I placed my arm around you, but you
didn't flinch this time. Together, we walked to your
childhood bedroom. Two ceramic plaques with pink roses,
'Dana's Room', and 'Melissa's Room' graced the door. You
absently touched Melissa's plaque as you entered, and the
tenderness of the gesture made my chest tighten.

The room was small, consisting of two single beds
separated by a nightstand, a desk and chair by the window,
a dresser, a bookcase, and a rocking chair. No 'girly'
white furniture for the Scully sisters: solid honey maple
was the hardwood of choice. Above the beds, a shelving
unit held assorted bric-a-brac, trophies, and family and
school photographs. A crucifix hung over the door. A small
crystal ball hung in the window. Throughout the room were
posters of Bob Marley, Einstein, James Dean, Maharishi
Mahesh Yogi, the Serenity Prayer, and Buzz Aldrin on the
moon.

I felt instantly at ease.

You noticed me examining the moon-landing poster. "During
the Apollo 11 mission, Melissa was convinced--as only a
seven-year old can be--that the astronauts could see her
from the moon. My Dad had just taught her Morse code for
'hello,' so each night she went outside with a flashlight
and said 'hello' to them." You smiled softly at the
memory. "Mel thought they wouldn't be lonely if they knew
someone was looking out for them," you added thoughtfully.
"She was always the 'moonwalker' in the family."

"She may have been the 'moonwalker,' Scully, but every
Buzz Aldrin or Neil Armstrong needs a Michael Collins to
bring them home safely."

For a moment, your smile warmed the room at my modest
tribute, then disappeared. An expression of aching sadness
replaced it.

Damn. You might have rescued me repeatedly, but
Melissa didn't make it 'home' the last time. I berated
myself silently at the thoughtlessness of my words.

Despairingly, you started to move some decorative pillows
from your bed before I stopped you. I had to break through
the melancholy that had spread like a heavy blanket over
the room.

So, I called on everything I taught at the Fox-Mulder-
humor-for-emotion relationship school. I assumed my most
animated personae. I was dynamic, I was charming.

I was Fox Mantle all over again.

With exaggerated theatrics, I had you stand beside the bed
while I made a great show of pulling down the covers.

"Mademoiselle, may I fluff your pillows?" I waggled my
eyebrows suggestively. A slight chuckle of appreciation
from you spurred my efforts.

"What's this?" In my housekeeping duties, a small doll
fell from the bed to the floor. I held it up for your
viewing.

"Mulder, you've seen a Raggedy Andy doll before."

"I thought all little girls had Raggedy Ann dolls."

"Check out the uniform on the doll, Mulder. Did you think
I'd have anything else?"

Oh.

You took the doll from my hand and smiled wistfully. "Andy
and I went through childhood, adolescence, and medical
school together. He's a good friend."

If I could have frozen time at that moment, I would have
captured the softness of your face, the warm glow in your
eyes. The horror of the past few days had disappeared--you
were a young girl again.

I put the doll up on the shelf, and motioned you into the
bed with dramatic joie de vivre. You settled in as I
pulled your flowered comforter up around your shoulders.
I turned off the light on the nightstand and sat down in
the rocking chair. The light from a street lamp outside
the house streamed through the crystal ball hanging in the
window. I looked up in quiet delight as the room was
bathed in a kaleidoscope of reflected light and rainbows.

"The Lord's face shining down on us," you said absently.

"What?"

"My Mom always said that these lights were God's way of
bringing us peace. A sort of benediction."

"Is that why you hung the crystal ball in the window?"

"It was Melissa's doing. She said that a crystal would
adjust the flow of energy in a room. It would create a
more positive current."

"Sounds like your Mom and Melissa were on the same
wavelength."

You considered my words. "I've never thought about it in
that way." You peered at me through the darkness. "I'm
surprised at you, Mulder. I didn't think you'd give much
credence to my Mom's interpretation. I thought God 'only
checked the box scores' as far as you were concerned."

I deserved that. And you deserved some peace, my beliefs
aside. "I'm not quite the heathen you think I am, Scout--
especially where you're concerned."

I heard your breath catch. Several minutes passed without
any conversation between us, and I thought you might have
fallen asleep. Then quietly: "Thank you, Mulder." Your
voice trembled slightly. "Thank you." You held your hand
out to me.

"Thank you for letting me help you, Scully." I grasped
your hand and placed a kiss on your open palm. "Go to
sleep. I think I'll hang out here for awhile."

"Mulder, you don't have to stay in here. Why don't you
take my brothers' room?" You stopped when you saw my
expression.

"I'm going to sleep now," you said apologetically. You
didn't let go of my hand.

Sometime later, when I was certain you were asleep, I got
up quietly and pulled your Raggedy Andy doll down from the
shelf. Gently, I placed it underneath your arm, and then
settled back into the rocking chair.

"I'll take the first watch, Andy." It was silly and
sentimental, but as I watched over you, I was thankful for
the insular, comfortable confines of a young girl's
bedroom--and the spirit of a loving family--that kept the
monsters at bay.

At least for one evening.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I had been your partner, friend, follower, and protector
during our seven years together. Our relationship had
evolved, but there were paths still to travel; choices
still to be made.

Bridges still to be crossed.

Was I to be your boyfriend? Visions of us as Frankie
Avalon and Annette Funichello cavorting on a beach seemed
superficial--and somewhat scary.

Was I to be your storybook lover? I saw Fabio and some
smitten vixen on a Harlequin Romance cover. Ah, no.

At least we were re-committed to each other
professionally; we had slowly worked our way back from our
blowout after the Spenders' deaths.

However, in our personal relationship, we still played
games. We traveled back and forth over Key Bridge,
spending more and more time with each other after hours,
but it was an unwritten rule that it had to come about as
an extension of work:

"Hey Scully, I'll buy the pizza if you take a look at this
report."

"Mulder, I can't look at another case file, let's
rent a movie."

We were standing on the precipice--and while I was ready
to leap--you were still fighting through the vertigo. I
think the ambiguity of our relationship disturbed you, and
I sometimes felt that you were unconsciously looking to me
to push us over the edge:

"Mulder, it is such a gorgeous day outside. Have you ever
entertained the idea of trying to find life on this
planet?"

"Don't you ever just want to stop? Get out of the damn
car? Settle down and live something approaching a normal
life?"

But I'd resolved to let you set the pace. I think it
left you frustrated and angry as much with yourself as
with me: you were sometimes withdrawn, other times
brusque. You were struggling with your emotions, and only
extreme situations like my mother's death or the
resolution of my sister's disappearance, seemed to allow
you to acknowledge the changing fault line in our
relationship.

That was until last week.

We had met by chance outside Washington National Hospital
following my return from England. You seemed eager to
speak to me, but we both had some errands to run, so we
agreed to meet later that evening.

A sharp rap on my door announced your arrival.

"Mulder, you've got to move, that bridge traffic is
killing me."

I smiled to myself as you repeated the greeting I gave you
when I first offered you my keys. To complete the picture,
I tried to throw an eyebrow at you without hurting myself.

"Scully, we can always meet at the office."

A devilish twinkle in your eye to my response told me you
remembered that day, too.

I was somewhat taken aback by our easy banter, given the
edginess of our conversation before I left for England.
But, as I quickly discovered, your arrival at my doorstep
that early spring evening would bring other surprises to
our relationship.

I listened in quiet amazement as you told me about Daniel,
your Buddhist visions, and the apparent insights you
gained into your life. I have to confess to a certain
degree of skepticism: to undergo such a life-changing
event in such a short period of time--and without me--
seemed somewhat contrived. But my skepticism was
overshadowed by your passion. I wasn't sure what pleased
me more: the fact that you appeared to have achieved a
level of peace, or that you were sharing your experience
with me.

On the other hand, maybe it was your stocking feet on my
coffee table, and the quiet familiarity that it bred.

No matter the reason, you were animated and expressive,
and I thanked whatever deity responsible for the
mysterious blond woman who led you to me again.

I was excited for you--I was also exhausted. Jet lag and
the late hour were claiming me, and I had to fight to stay
focused.

The emotion of the day seemed to creep up on you
as well--your voice had taken on a drowsy quality. "What
if there was only one choice and all the other ones
were wrong? And there were signs along the way to pay
attention to."

Your question was like a splash of cold water. Only one
right choice? What were you saying? Did you feel that you
had missed a sign? I made sure that the unease I felt
didn't reflect on my face. Oh-so casually, I tentatively
explored your meaning.

"Mmm. And all the... choices would then lead to this very
moment. One wrong turn, and...we wouldn't be sitting here
together. Well, that says a lot. That says a lot, a lot, a
lot. That's probably more than we should be getting into
at this late hour."

When I turned to see your reaction, you were asleep.

My Sleeping Beauty. My Mom used to read that story to
Samantha all the time: 'But they say if you dream a thing
more than once, it's sure to come true.' As I gently moved
a stray piece of hair from your face, I hoped it was true.
You stirred slightly and settled deeper into the couch.
For a moment, I debated moving you to the bedroom, but the
image of a disapproving eyebrow eliminated that option. I
placed my Navaho blanket over you instead, and considered
my next choice.

Choice made: I fed my fish.

I moved slowly from the couch and stretched, trying to
work the kinks out of my back. The fish food was beside
the tank. I began to sprinkle it along its length as the
fish bobbed near the surface in anticipation.

"Mulder, why do you keep fish?"

Your soft voice startled me and I turned to look at you.
The light from the kitchen shone behind you, making it
almost impossible to see your face.

"What, and leave Kang VI to fend for himself in some other
person's tank? I don't think so." Even at this stage in
our relationship, I relied on the Fox-Mulder-humor-for-
emotion relationship school when the atmosphere between us
became too charged.

Your silence told me you were not looking for that reply.
I cleared my throat and tried again.

"One of my roommates at Oxford was a student of religious
studies. He always kept fish."

"I don't see the connection."

I sighed. "Our second year, he introduced a tiger barb
into the tank. From the moment this fish was brought in,
he bullied the other fish for food. He nipped at their
fins and generally wreaked havoc in the tank. When he
wasn't fighting, he'd spend hours and hours bumping up
against the glass of the tank. Bump, bump, bump."

A sudden vision of the fish striking against the tank
unnerved me. "He never seemed to get the idea that he was
fighting an immovable object. My roommate said the fish
reminded him of the Buddhist Giddy Fish--consumed by his
secular passions."

I didn't mention that my roommate called the fish, Fox.

I hated that damn fish.

Your eyes narrowed at the mention of a Buddhist fish, and
I panicked briefly, afraid you might think I was mocking
your visions from the weekend. I watched closely as you
processed this information. My words became a mathematical
equation in your mind: aggressive fish plus roommate of
religious studies plus present-day fish tank
equals...what? A variable was missing.

"Were you consumed by your passions back then?" you asked
gently.

It was very still in my apartment. The only sounds were
the gurgle of the tank's filter and the buzz of the
refrigerator.

And the hushed echo of your voice in my head.

"Were you talking to my old roommate?" I joked weakly. I
became absorbed with putting the fish food away and
skimming up a small amount of algae that had formed in a
corner of the tank.

"Mulder?"

So much for tank maintenance. I turned to look at you. You
were perched on the end of the couch staring intently at
me.

"I was 'without a compass' for awhile." The unease I felt
earlier was growing. "Surely, that doesn't surprise you."

You regarded me thoughtfully. "What happened to that fish,
Mulder?" You were the one asking the questions, here. Just
the facts, sir.

I rejoined you on the couch, sitting down heavily. "We
found him dead one morning. There were scales floating
throughout the tank. It wasn't surprising--stupid fish. He
tired himself out smacking up against the tank walls, and
fighting, and--and that's when the others turned on him."

I wondered why I suddenly wanted to grieve for a fish that
I hated.

"You weren't...aren't...that fish, Mulder."

My short strained laugh caused you to stir uncomfortably
beside me. "You didn't know me then, Scully. And I think
we both know I'm one maraschino cherry shy of a fruit cake
from it happening again. As if it hasn't already."

Your fingers twined with mine. I smiled at the gesture,
and squeezed your hand. "Don't worry, Scully." I gestured
towards the tank, now an eerie blue glow in the gloom of
my apartment. "The fish tank is just a reminder of things
past. It makes me feel connected to who I once was--the
good, the bad, and the ugly."

"Maybe you should name your next fish, Dirty Harry."

You beamed at me. Equation complete. Game, set, and match,
Ms. Scully.

I had to laugh. "Dirty Harry it is, then."

We sat in comfortable silence, fingers still laced
together. My agitation from earlier was gone. I leaned my
head against the back of the couch as my eyelids began to
droop. You shifted against me, tucking one leg under you.
I felt your hand leave mine to feather lightly through my
hair.

"You know, Mulder, you shouldn't be afraid of your
passions--it's who you are." Your voice mimicked the
caress of your hand.

Agent Mulder, Line 2: Destiny's calling.

I opened my eyes slowly and looked over at you. Your gaze
seemed to be captured by the UFO ornament bobbing
hypnotically in the tank.

I didn't move. You continued to stroke my hair absently.

"Mulder, in some ways, I envy you. I've never been a
passionate person. My Dad used to call me an 'old soul.' I
always hated being labeled that way--but I guess he was
right."

"You're the most passionate person I know, Scully."

You looked at me in amazement.

But it was true. I saw it in your singular pursuit of the
science behind our cases; your devotion to your family and
friends; and your fidelity to your religion.

I saw it in your love for Emily. I saw it in your love for
Samantha.

I wanted to see it in your love for me.

"Sometimes, Scully, I wish you could see yourself as I
see..."

You leaned over and kissed me then, a fleeting brush
across my lips that hinted of orange pekoe tea, lipstick,
and New Year's Eve.

I reveled in the moment. "You see, Scully, only a
passionate person would throw caution to the wind and kiss
her partner..."

"Mulder, shut up and pay attention." Your voice was warm
and smoky.

"You have my undivided attention, Scully." In my mind's
eye, I saw an exchange of keys, a set of photographs, a
pair of sunglasses, a Raggedy Andy doll, a fish tank, and
a nondescript bridge.

Small steps. Signposts.

I was a traveler following a trail of breadcrumbs that had
led me to the right choice; the right path.

And as you moved to kiss me again, I knew that you
believed you were on the right path, too.


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


AUTHOR'S NOTES PART 2:

In my little XF world, I have assumed that the Scully
family stopped moving from base to base in her late teens
and settled down in the current family home.

For those of you who are unaware, a Raggedy Andy doll
wears a sailor suit.

The Maharishi Mahesh Yogi was the founder of
transcendental meditation and a spiritual advisor to the
Beatles. For more information, go to
http://tm.org/main_pages/maharishi.html
I think Melissa would have been a believer.

The Serenity Prayer reads: "God, grant me the Serenity to
accept the things I can not change/Courage to change the
things I can/and Wisdom to know the difference." I think
Scully would have been a believer.

Michael Collins was the Command Module Pilot for Apollo
11. He stayed in the Command Module, 'Columbia,' while the
Lunar Module, 'Eagle' with Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin,
landed on the moon. For more information on the Apollo 11
mission, go to
http://nssdc.gsfc.nasa.gov/planetary/lunar/apollo_11_30th.
html
To see the Buzz Aldrin poster on the Scully sisters' wall,
go to
http://nssdc.gsfc.nasa.gov/planetary/lunar/images/as11_40_
5903.jpg

"The Lord's face shining down on us" is paraphrased from
the Bible, Nu 6:24-35: "The Lord bless you and keep you;
the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to
you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you
peace."

The use of a crystal ball to create a positive energy flow
in a room comes from the practice of feng shui. For more
information, go to
http://www3.eu.spiritweb.org/Spirit/feng-shui.html

In 'all things,' Mulder and Scully appeared to go directly
to Mulder's apartment after meeting outside the hospital.
In my little XF world, they had an off-camera discussion
and agreed to run some errands separately first.

"But they say if you dream a thing more than once, it's
sure to come true," was said by Briar Rose to her woodland
friends in Sleeping Beauty. The second part of the quote--
"And I've seen him so many times"--is, IMHO, a very nice
tie-in to Scully's visions during 'all things.'

The parable of the Buddhist Giddy Fish can be found at
http://www.magna.com.au/~prfbrown/buddha/carus_66.htm

The reference to the good, the bad, and the ugly is a
play-on-words for a Clint Eastwood western.

Tiny Dancer's X-Files transcripts can be found at
http://www.fandom.com/x-
files/editorial.asp?obj_id=38680&action=page.

Please visit the CrystalShip at
http://members.xoom.com/Crystal_Ship.

If you would like to read some more of my X-Files fanfic,
please check out Fran58's excellent site:
http://www.atmosphere.be/media/fran58/fabmon/fabmon.html.

Thanks for reading!