DISCLAIMER:  The characters herein are the property of Fox 
Broadcasting and 1013 Productions.  The situations into 
which I have placed them are of my own creation.  
 
CATEGORY:  V,R,A, M/S UST  
RATING:  PG-13  
ARCHIVAL:  My site only.  
SPOILERS:  "Amor Fati", "Hungry"  
SUMMARY:  Sunlight, biology, and fifteen seconds of bliss.  
 
A sequel to my story, "Verita e Verdi", which was set a 
few weeks post-Amor Fati.  

 
LA SCALA  
by alanna  
 
+++++  
 
When I was a child, my family lived in a house with a 
magical staircase.  Not magical in the supernatural sense, 
but because of all the secrets it held with each step.  
One of my earliest memories is teaching my baby brother 
Charlie to climb the stairs.  The house was only three 
bedrooms, so Bill's room was upstairs, and the baby's crib 
was in my parents' bedroom.  Melissa got her own up there 
too, but my training bed was in the dining room until my 
parents felt I was old enough to climb the stairs safely.  
 
I would stare up the staircase, imagining that all the 
secrets of the world would be revealed to me if I could 
only climb it by myself, without my big brother holding my 
hand or my mommy carrying me up.  One afternoon while my 
mother was in the kitchen fixing dinner, I coaxed Charlie 
away from his blanket in the living room and over to the 
staircase.  He looked up at me, trusting me as only an 
eighteen-month-old can, and grasped my chubby hand as I 
pulled him up the first few steps.  I used my other hand 
to balance, and ended up climbing more on my knees than my 
feet.  
 
About three steps up, Charlie started wailing and crawled 
down on his own, then toddled back to the living room.  I 
couldn't stop, though.  I kept climbing, the worn carpet 
scratching my bare knees.  The landing at the top was 
dark, but a light glowed in the bathroom like a beacon.  
Believing that if I could only make it to the top, I could 
reach out and touch that light, I continued to go, 
slipping down one step and feeling the fear, but 
continuing nonetheless.  
 
As my three-years-old hand touched the top step, I started 
giggling with excitement.  But then, the voice of God 
called up to me.  
 
"Dana, what on earth are you doing?"  Mom wasn't yelling, 
but it seemed like she was.  Determined, I crawled over 
that last step and scooted over until I felt safe at the 
top.  I turned around and scurried over to the slatted 
railing of the landing.  
 
"Mommy, I did it!" I gave a triumphant grin.  
 
She simply stared up at me.  I wasn't mature enough to 
read her emotions.  I thought she was mad, but then she 
said, "Dana, my little girl."  
 
I hadn't triumphed enough to be given that upstairs 
bedroom, but I had triumphed over my fears.  Too profound 
a concept for me to grasp, but a glorious feeling 
nonetheless.  
 
+++++  
 
I lean back slightly and feel Mulder's arms close around 
my shoulders, my hips nestled snugly between his legs.  My 
eyes are closed but the midday sunlight warms my face and 
I can see the reddish glow behind my eyelids.  I move my 
hands so that they rest on his legs, his gray suit pants 
absorbing the heat.  
 
It's a beautiful Southern California day.  Sounds of 
laughter, pets, and the roll of waves fill the air.  
Everything smells warm, even though the Los Angeles 
weather is a little cool for mid-November and sixty 
degrees of atmosphere lightly nips at my cheeks.  Ocean 
salt and a faint tinge of formaldehyde tease my nose.  
It's all so perfect, so normal.  
 
Mulder rescued me this afternoon, and our sitting here is 
my thanks to him, and his to me.  He came into the 
pathology lab as I was finishing Rob Roberts' autopsy, 
cataloguing my findings but itching to be somewhere 
without antibacterial soap and green scrubs.  To his 
credit, he waited patiently while I finished the 
paperwork, telling me that he'd finished most of the case 
paperwork and that all that was required was my signature 
on a couple of forms.  I discussed a few details with the 
M.E. and helped him wheel Roberts' body back over to the 
drawer, then stood and stretched.  Mulder watched me, and 
I saw his deliberate visual sweep of my body as I did so.  
I've never before felt so sexy in drab olive-green cotton.  
 
Then, after escorting me upstairs to put my John Hancock 
on those forms, my white knight led me away to his horse, 
a blue convertible he'd insisted on renting when we'd 
arrived at the airport.  I'd half-heartedly objected, 
insisting on a more practical sedan, but my protestations 
were forgotten when I felt the wind in my hair.  So this 
is what it means to be alive, I'd thought.  The sun on my 
face, the wind buffeting my skin, the man I love in the 
driver's seat.  I could love this "alive".  
 
And Mulder was alive beside me.  That was the greatest 
gift of all.  
 
My fingertips trace the outline of his shins beneath his 
pants, feeling the bone and muscle below.  Were my arms 
longer, I'd push his pants up and tangle my fingers in the 
sparse hair of his legs, feeling that "alive" against my 
skin.  He'd brought me to the ocean, to a place where the 
world demanded that we see how it lived, how the waves 
rolled like a heartbeat, their sound rushing through my 
ears like blood.  Mulder had led me over to the sand and 
sat, then pulled me down in front of him, bending his legs 
then letting me scoot back so that I sat between them, 
leaning back into his chest.  
 
I swear, I can feel his heartbeat against my back.  
 
We talk about the case, in the unique way we're able use 
details of an investigation to discuss ourselves.  
 
"I almost feel bad for killing Rob," he says in a strong 
but unsure voice.  
 
I don't open my eyes, but I let my head fall back to rest 
against his shoulder.  "You did what you had to do, 
Mulder.  He was going to kill you or be killed."  I pause 
for a moment, my mind drawing conclusions.  "He wanted to 
be killed, to be punished for what he'd done."  
 
"So you agree that he was our murderer?"  Mulder asks in a 
steady but intrigued voice.  
 
"The autopsy certainly supports it.  I did find a 
proboscis, just like you'd suggested earlier.  It was 
almost as if he was an animal-human hybrid, even though 
blood tests confirmed he was a hundred percent homo-
sapien."  It made no sense, but there it was.  Whereas I 
would once have disbelieved it, the accumulation of years 
and experiences have led me to grudgingly believe that 
yes, anything is possible.  
 
His voice takes on that lovely dreamy quality.  "Imagine 
that, Scully accepting the unscientific."  
 
I smile, and when I open my eyes, I gaze out at the blue, 
blue water.  "It is scientific, Mulder.  Some very unusual 
genetics and reconstructive plastic surgery combined to 
make him who he was.  He couldn't help who he was, but 
that doesn't mean it excuses what he did."  
 
"No, it doesn't.  He was trying to cope the only way he 
thought he could, but he knew what he was doing was 
wrong."  
 
I choose not to reply.  The peculiarities of the case and 
Rob Roberts' biology will be worked out when we write our 
case report.  This afternoon is about the two of us, not 
that man.  
 
Counting the waves as they roll in, I relax into Mulder 
and this little world around us. I'm not surprised when 
his voice turns softer, more contemplative.  
 
"Would you consider me a genetic abnormality?"  
 
Even with the quiet of his voice, his words startle me.  I 
pull away from him and turn to face him, then sun now at 
my back.  "What do you mean?"  
 
Whereas once he would have looked away, unwilling to face 
me with his worries, he now meets my steady gaze.  "If you 
accept that my brain makeup was altered in some way to 
make me telepathic, would that make me a scientific 
abberation?"  
 
I know what he wants to hear -- that he's completely 
normal.  But I can't say that, given my science and 
knowledge of medicine.  So I tell him the truth, hoping he 
will accept it in the spirit in which it is given.  
"Technically, yes.  What happened to you convolutes the 
laws of biology as we know them, so yes, it would be a 
genetic mutation of sorts."  
 
His chest rises and falls with a deep breath, but he says 
nothing.  
 
"But Mulder," I continue, wanting to give him that 
reassurance, "that doesn't make you a genetic mutation.  
It means that through some awful miracle, your brain 
changed itself in order to facilitate that new ability, be 
it through biology or something..."  I struggle to find 
the ability to say the words, "not known to this earth."  
 
"Scully..." he says in a voice that trails off.  
 
Before he can ask what I mean, I clarify myself, for both 
our sakes.  "Whatever I saw in Africa -- and I still don't 
know exactly what I did see -- I have to admit to myself 
that it wasn't anything known to this world.  The metals, 
the construction of that ship were nothing humans could 
have created.  I live my life based on facts, Mulder, and 
that is a fact."  
 
He says nothing.  He doesn't need to.  The amazement on 
his face expresses more than a sonnet of well-chosen or 
impassioned words.  
 
And I know exactly what he needs to hear.  
 
"But Mulder, you are normal.  Something terrible happened 
to you, and I say a prayer of thanks every morning that 
you are alive and here with me.  That despite what 
happened, your beautiful mind continued to live and to 
thrive."  
 
He smiles at me, but more than a simple smile, it is a 
revelation.  It is like a wave crashing over his face.  It 
is the awe of a man who has found what he always wanted, 
and needs to absorb it before he can revel in it.  
 
"Thank you, Scully."  His smile fades but its memory plays 
along the corners of his lips.  "I've prayed for you too, 
ever since this happened."  I feel my jaw physically drop, 
and he elaborates further.  "Not really to your God, or 
anything like that, but just thanking whatever or 
whoever's out there that you found me.  That you *saved* 
me."  
 
I stare at him and my heart seems to swell so fully that 
my chest can't contain it.  I want so badly to kiss him, 
to take him within my body and pull him inside my full 
heart.  But if we're on a grand staircase, taking each 
step slowly until we reach the top, I can settle for 
another few steps closer to the shining light which will 
come for us sometime very soon.  I can feel it.  
 
I turn around and settle myself once again between his 
legs, letting him pull me close to his chest, as if by 
facing away from him I can quell the urge to touch him 
everywhere, to kiss his lips and his body.  
 
But Mulder chooses for me.  His hand moves to my neck and 
pushes my hair aside, then I feel his breath along the 
curve of my neck and his lips pressed to my cheek.  They 
stay there for longer than necessary, and I count the 
seconds as if we're setting a new record.  Fifteen seconds 
of contact this time.  Fifteen seconds of bliss, of love.  
 
Perhaps someday very soon, we'll have fifteen minutes 
squared.  
 
And we can climb to the top of that staircase and find the 
glowing light bathing us, and making us whole, together.  
 
+++++  
 
END (1/1)  
 
Feedback would be wonderful --  alanna@alanna.net