A Brave New World
Humility (2 of 4)
by Vickie Moseley

Our Lady of Sorrows Hospital
4:05 pm

"Father Ybarra, there's a gentleman out here to see 
you," Mrs. Chadwick, the administrative office's 
receptionist said with a puzzled look.

"Not another drug rep," the good Father sighed.  

"No, sir.  He says -- he says he's Dr. Scully's 
partner, whatever that means," Mrs. Chadwick 
replied with a half shrug.

"Dr. Scully?" Ybarra repeated.  He looked at the 
paperwork he was trying to complete and sighed.  
"Please send him in."

The tall man with a serious expression wasn't 
exactly what Ybarra was expecting, but then he 
really didn't know what he was expecting after all.  
Dana Scully had been one of the quietest physicians 
on staff -- until recently.  She'd come with excellent 
recommendations, had completed a residency 
program to bring her credentials up to standards and 
had performed her duties.  Her only downfall was 
that she got much too attached to her young 
patients.  Ybarra had assumed it was to make up for 
a lonely existence, but this man standing before him 
gave lie to that assumption.

"Father Mike Ybarra," he said, holding out his hand 
over the pile of papers on his desk.

"Fox Mulder," said the tall man, taking the offered 
hand in a firm grasp.

"Please, have a seat," Father said, pointing to one of 
the matched chairs facing him.  "So, Mr. Mulder  . . 
. I wasn't aware that Dr. Scully was involved with 
anyone."

The other man didn't respond, simply stared down 
the priest.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Ybarra 
asked, feeling as if he were under a microscope.  
The man's piercing gaze was unnerving, to say the 
least.

"I'm curious why you would suspend one of your 
best physicians," Mulder said after a moment.

Ybarra nodded and sat back.  "I understand your 
concern for your . . . partner, Mr. Mulder.  But I 
really don't think it's my place to discuss this matter 
with you or anyone except Dr. Scully."

"I know about the patient, the young boy with 
Sandoff's.  I know she did everything in her power 
to save his life," Mulder said evenly.

"Yes, yes, she was very focused on finding a cure.  
Unfortunately, a cure for that particular disease is 
still outside our grasp.  The other doctors on staff 
knew this, the expert that Dr. Scully called in to 
consult told her as much.  If tenacity was all this job 
required, I dare say Dr. Scully would put this fine 
institution out of business in a week -- she would, 
quite frankly, cure anyone who walked through 
those doors."

"Yet instead of being here, treating patients, she's 
home, devastated that the job she loves is lost to 
her," Mulder said, sitting down in the chair and 
crossing his arms.  "That doesn't seem to match up."

"Since you seem intent to discuss this matter, may I 
ask you a question, Mr. Mulder?  How long have 
you and Dr. Scully . . . been together?"

Mulder looked away for a moment, and then stared 
back at Ybarra.  "Sixteen years," he said simply.

"Not married?"

Mulder blinked.  "We . . . no.  We're not married.  
We were partners in another line of work."

"I see.  Let me ask you something else, Mr. Mulder.  
Did that line of work include direct contact with 
patients?"

"I really don't see where this is going," Mulder 
huffed.  At Ybarra's continued scrutiny, he relented.  
"We were in law enforcement.  She was a forensic 
pathologist and an investigator.  She had very little 
contact with patients."

"Law enforcement," Ybarra repeated.  "There is 
very little gray in that line of work, am I correct?  A 
person either breaks the law or not."

"Basically," Mulder admitted.  "But our cases  . . . 
weren't always that simple."

"Ah, but you see, in a way it had to be.  If our laws 
where complicated, how would we know when we 
broke them," Ybarra insisted.  "Mr. Mulder, I will 
be blunt.  Dr. Scully is one of the best clinicians I 
have ever had the pleasure of supervising.  
However, she is one of the worst physicians I have 
ever met."  At Mulder's fierce look, he held up his 
hands to placate the other man.  "Hear me out."

Ybarra stood and looked out the window behind his 
desk.  "It's very hard for a doctor to distance herself, 
but it is necessary."  He turned back to look 
empathetically at Mulder.  "Dr. Scully . . . Dana, 
could not do that."

"Her professionalism has always been above 
reproach," Mulder objected.

"Yes -- with other staff members, it was.  But with 
patients . . . Mr. Mulder, she wore her heart on her 
sleeve.  Every case was a battle -- and she gave each 
one her all.  But at times that blinded her to the 
realities, to the limitations of our field.  I have no 
doubt that she's suffered greatly for this inability to 
keep her distance.  It was as if . . . as if every child 
she treated was her very own."

Mulder bit down on his bottom lip.  

Ybarra noted his expression and softened his tone.  
It was obvious he'd hit a very large and still 
inflamed nerve.  "When did you lose the child?" he 
asked quietly.

Mulder silently answered his question by closing 
his eyes.  "It's really none of your business."

Ybarra gave him a sad smile.  "Ah, but it is, Mr. 
Mulder, if it affects the ability of one of my 
physicians.  Dr. Scully, for all her attributes, does 
not belong here treating patients.  Maybe . . . maybe 
she could return to the line of work you were both 
in before?" 

Mulder shook his head.  "I don't think that's what 
she wants to do," he said sadly.

"Maybe this is just a chance for her to reconsider 
her options," Ybarra replied.  He looked down at the 
papers on his desk and shuffled a few.  "The 
autopsy is later today, the formal inquest is day after 
tomorrow.  The matter will be resolved at that 
time."

Mulder sighed and rose from his chair.  "Thank 
you," he said and left the priest to his work.

Mulder and Scully's house
6:15 pm

She smelled chicken.  It made her stomach roil, but 
it was possible that was just hunger.  She hadn't 
eaten anything all day.  

Scully pushed her body off the bed and shuffled to 
the door.  It surprised her for a moment when she 
couldn't open it.  Then she remembered locking it 
again -- locking Mulder out.

Why did she continue to do that, a little voice asked 
her?  Hadn't he earned her trust?  But this wasn't 
about trust, this was about pain.  Mulder had 
enough pain to blanket the house, she wasn't going 
to burden him with hers.  Even if he wanted her to, 
the voice argued?  She closed her eyes as she turned 
the key and prepared to see him.  

She knew what she'd find as she walked into the 
kitchen.  The table would be set, a red and white 
striped box of the Colonel's finest chicken -- extra 
crispy and honey barbeque mixed -- would adorn 
the center like a vase of fresh flowers.  He would 
have picked up mashed potatoes and green beans 
for the side dishes.  Iced tea would be poured in 
matching tumblers, a contradiction to the sub-zero 
wind howling outside the kitchen windows.

When she got to the kitchen, all was exactly as she 
had imagined it would be -- except he'd picked up 
corn instead of green beans.  Mulder, the one 
constant in her life who always managed to keep 
her just a little off-kilter.

"Hi," he said shyly, placing the fork and knife by 
the plate at her seat.  "Dinner's ready."

"I see you cooked," she teased, but it was almost too 
much to even speak.  She was so undeniably tired 
and it hurt so much just to even stand there in their 
yet to be updated kitchen.  Hadn't Mulder wanted to 
get a new stove about a year ago?

"Well, me and KFC.  I personally helped the 
Colonel strangle this one out back of the store," he 
quipped but she could see the apprehension in his 
eyes.  He was looking at her as if she held a gun on 
him.  Maybe she did, metaphorically.

"It looks good," she noted and pulled out her chair 
to sit.  As she caught his eyes she was relieved to 
see him relax just a little.

She took some of the potatoes and then poured half 
the gravy over them.  Comfort food.  She knew that 
if she peeked into the freezer there would be a quart 
of Baskin-Robbins mint chocolate chip waiting for 
the dinner dishes to be cleared away.  He was trying 
so hard to do everything right.  Why did it make her 
want to rip his head off?

She tamped down those thoughts and took a bite of 
her potatoes.  They tasted like mud.  She dropped 
her fork to the plate and sighed.  "I'm just not very 
hungry," she apologized.

He nodded, looking lost.  "I think I saw a can of 
soup up in the cupboard.  Chicken noodle.  If that 
sounds appealing?"

She shook her head.  Slowly, she got up and scraped 
her plate into the garbage, then loaded it in the 
dishwasher.  Silently she walked out of the kitchen 
and into the darkened living room.  She sat down on 
the sofa and pulled a large overstuffed pillow onto 
her lap.

Mulder watched her from the kitchen table.  
Without saying a word, he cleaned up his own plate 
and the remaining food, putting the leftovers in the 
refrigerator.  Then he followed her out into the 
living room, but didn't bother to turn on any lights.

She surprised herself when she started talking.  "I 
just thought . . . if I didn't give up . . . " her voice 
caught on the word and she swallowed the tears that 
threatened to fall.  "I didn't give up . . . " she 
repeated.  She couldn't stop the sob that broke from 
her throat and she folded over the pillow, clutching 
it to her stomach as if it were a life preserver.

She felt his arms around her, drawing her close.  A 
part of her wanted to resist, but that part had been 
dormant for so long that it was easily shoved aside 
by the larger part that yearned for his strong 
embrace.  She burrowed her head in his shoulder 
and allowed the tears to fall freely.  He stroked her 
back and head, and she let him because she needed 
him to do that, needed to feel him -- needed to feel.

"I want to feel alive, Mulder," she sobbed.  She 
turned her face up to his.  "Please.  Make me feel 
something other than dead."

He smiled down at her tenderly.  He shifted her in 
his arms and stood, carrying her up the steps and 
into their bedroom.

Setting her on her feet, he straightened the sheets 
and blankets from her nap, folding them over just as 
she liked them.  He then went about slowly 
unbuttoning her pajama top, the deep hunter green 
satin sliding off her pale shoulders.  He picked up 
the top and folded it, placing it on the dresser.  
Turning back to her, he hooked his fingers in the 
elastic waistband of the matching pants and tugged 
them over her hips and to the floor.  She stepped out 
them, one foot at a time.  He took the same care 
with the bottoms as he had with the top and placed 
it on the dresser.

She watched him as he moved back to her, taking 
her in his arms.  "You're still dressed," she told him.  

"Let me make you feel alive," he replied, his eyes 
hooded, his voice drifting over her as fog over a 
spring meadow.

He lowered her to the bed and starting at her lips, 
worshipped her as only a man who had known her 
for decades could.  He kissed her deep and hard, 
then tender and gentle, blessing her eyelids and her 
cheeks, her ears and her jaw and her neck.  When he 
moved down to press open mouth kisses to her 
breasts, her hands came up and tangled in his hair.  
All thoughts of the hospital, all thoughts of the boy 
and her inability to defeat a faceless nemesis flew 
from her mind.  All she knew was Mulder's mouth, 
his lips, his tongue, his hands on her body.  

He had always been a breast man -- she found that 
out on their first night together.  She did nothing to 
discourage the attention he paid to his particular 
fascination.  She moaned as his teeth grazed the 
sensitive nipple of her left breast while his fingers 
rolled her other nipple with just enough pressure to 
be on the edge of painful.  His mouth and his hands 
-- Mulder's two greatest assets -- north of his belt 
buckle, a tiny voice reminded her.  But even 
without taking off a stitch of his clothing and never 
venturing south of her navel he had taken her over 
the edge of sanity on more than one occasion.

Just when she thought that might be his intention, 
he started kissing his way down her ribs, circling 
her taut stomach as he always did.  She asked him 
once why he kissed her there.  His reply was to 
simply look at her, his eyes filled with longing and 
sadness.  She knew immediately that it was his way 
of remembering the child she'd once carried there.  
She'd never given him the opportunity to touch the 
tight skin stretched over her swollen womb.  He'd 
been so distant, so damaged upon his return that she 
didn't want to force him and likewise was almost 
afraid of the dark cloud that seemed to follow his 
every step.  Now, years later, she'd grown to regret 
not letting him touch their son through her skin.

The moment her thoughts turned maudlin, he 
shifted down and gently spread her legs.  She closed 
her eyes, not out of modesty but out of anticipation.  
Mulder did such things to her and she was never 
sure what was coming next from that incredible 
brain of his.  Where most men were sexy with the 
distinctly male parts of the physiology, Mulder was 
sexiest with his mind.  Not that she'd ever toss out 
any of his other attributes, of course.

This time it was fingers and mouth, tongue and 
nose, moving, sliding, flicking and licking her to the 
point of madness.  Her breasts missed his attention 
and she brought her hands up only to find that he'd 
anticipated her need and was already massaging the 
nipples, tweaking and pulling in rhythm to what his 
tongue was doing down below.  She was flying so 
high that when suddenly two fingers entered her 
core she almost launched off the bed.  He angled his 
hand so that his thumb was toying farther back and 
his mouth latched onto her clit and she was a rocket 
breaking free of earth's thin atmosphere, jumping 
off into space --

When she came back to herself, he had gathered her 
in his arms and was stroking her hair away from her 
face.  

"Better?" he asked.

"Yes, but not enough.  I want you, Mulder.  Inside 
me.  Now," she ordered, not even recognizing her 
voice.

He smiled wryly at her.  "I think I can handle that," 
he said, struggling out of his jeans and sweater.  He 
kicked the clothing free, the denim sailing over the 
foot of the bed, followed quickly by the sweater.

"You are going to pick those up," she told him 
firmly, encircling his neck with her arms.

"Yes, ma'am -- first thing in the morning."

He was more than ready and she found herself 
craving him more with each passing second.  When 
he started to stroke her, she batted his hand and 
reached for his erection.  "What about 'now' didn't 
you understand?" she growled.

"The immediacy of the order was somewhat 
ambiguous," he groaned as he rolled on top of her 
and in one motion, entered her, sliding home.  She 
shifted, bringing her legs up and hooking them 
behind his back.

"Better?" she asked.

"The best," he assured her, tucking his chin so he 
could kiss her nose.  Her short torso and his much 
longer one prevented touching lips in their current 
position.  "Happy down there?  Want to switch? 
You on top?"

She shook her head in the negative.  "You drive," 
she directed.

"You'll hurt me if I say anything about 'Miss Daisy' 
at this point -- right?" he quipped and then squeaked 
when she pinched his butt cheek.  "That's what I 
thought."

He started out slowly withdrawing only to slide 
back into her but her heels pressing against his 
kidneys soon alerted him that she wasn't in a slow 
and steady mood.  In just a few strokes he was 
hammering into her, the bed springs protesting no 
more than they usually did.  

When he was close, so close that he was losing his 
ability to think, he realized she wasn't there yet.  He 
shifted to one arm and reached down between them, 
finding her thick curls and burrowing one finger to 
press her bundle of nerves.  She screamed and 
clutched his forearms, her clipped nails digging into 
his flesh.  With a roar of his own, he was gone.

They were sweating under the blankets, but she was 
afraid to move.  She didn't want to break the quiet 
of her heart, the stillness of her mind.  She gathered 
him into her arms, he snuggled onto his back and 
drew her over to rest her head on his shoulder.

"No thinking," he warned, punctuating his 
command with a jaw-cracking yawn.  "Just sleep."

"As you wish," she whispered, kissing his stubbled 
chin.  "I love you," she added.

"I love you, too," he murmured.

The predictable beating of his heart finally lulled 
her off into a peaceful slumber.

Rural Virginia
7:15 am

The wind was rattling against the storm window and 
when she reached over, she found she was alone.  A 
brief flashback to a very dark time in her life 
brought her instantly up and blinking around, trying 
to orient herself.  She recognized the room 
immediately.  Not Georgetown, not even Arlington.  
Rural Virginia.  Their house for almost six years.  A 
whiff of coffee and Mulder's aftershave wafted past 
her nose.  

She spied her pajamas on the dresser, just where 
he'd left them.  The jeans and sweater were also still 
on the floor, where he'd kicked them.  Shaking her 
head, she slipped into her robe and stooped to pick 
up the jeans.

"I was just coming to get those," he said from the 
doorway.  "Coffee?"

She nodded sleepily and took the mug from his 
hand.  He scooped up his discarded clothing and 
shot a near perfect lay up into the bathroom hamper.  
"He shoots, he scores!"

"I thought that was last night," she quipped.  She 
padded into the bathroom, taking care of business 
and then silently followed him down to the kitchen.

"What's your pleasure?  Eggs?  Waffles?" he asked, 
filling a clean mug with coffee since she'd 
appropriated his.

"Mulder, it's not Sunday," she told him.  "Cold 
cereal is fine."  She reached into the cupboard and 
pulled down a box of her favorite, Kashi cinnamon 
harvest.  He nudged her aside and retrieved his own 
box of Kelloggs Frosted Flakes along with two 
bowls.

"Get the milk," he nodded toward the refrigerator.  
She complied and he got the spoons.  This time 
when she put the food in her mouth, it actually 
tasted pretty good.  She finished that bowl and filled 
it again.  She caught him smiling into his mug but 
he didn't say a word.

"So, why are you up and dressed already?" she 
asked, eyeing him critically.  The deep cut on his 
forehead was healing -- she could take the stitches 
out if he'd stand still enough.  He'd shaved, so the 
scrapes weren't bothering him as much either.

"I . . . I wanted to talk to you about that.  I have a 
meeting -- in DC."

She raised an eyebrow, his signal to keep going.

"With Skinner.  About that possible consulting job."

Her stomach roiled again.  She picked up her empty 
bowl and mug and took them to the sink.  "I see."

"Scully, I'd just be a consultant.  And only when 
they needed someone with my . . . expertise."

"Monster boy?" she asked, hating how much his 
grimace pleased her.

"I did . . . manage this case all right," he said 
haltingly.

She pursed her lips and nodded.  "Assuming you 
completely ignore the wrecked car, the 9 stitches, 
the bruised ribs, the concussion . . ."

He sighed and closed his eyes.  After a moment he 
opened them and looked at her  "What do you want 
me to do?  If you want me to call Skinner and tell 
him the deal is off, I'll do that."

"You're a free man, Mulder.  You can do whatever 
you want," she told him, walking toward the stairs 
to their bedroom.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded 
angrily, trailing behind her.

"It means I can't tell you what to do."  She stepped 
into the bathroom and turned the taps on the 
shower.  When she reached for her toothbrush, he 
was leaning against the doorjamb, glaring at her.

"Oh, so that's the way it's going to be.  You get to 
be a doctor, you get to do what you want and I have 
to go along with it, but if I want to return to the real 
world, get some of my life back, I'm on my own?"

She untied the sash of her robe and let it slip from 
her shoulders.  "No, that's not what I mean," she 
said tiredly.  She stepped into the tub, adjusting the 
spray of the showerhead.  Letting the water hit her 
head, she squeezed shampoo into her palm and 
started washing her hair.

"Scully, I don't know what you want me to do.  Tell 
me what you expect of me?" he pleaded from the 
other side of the shower curtain.

She rinsed her hair and took her time washing the 
rest of her body.  When she turned off the taps and 
pushed the curtain aside, he was still standing there, 
glowering.

"I want you to be happy," she said quietly, drying 
off and then securing the towel around her.  "I want 
_us_ to be happy."

"Are you afraid I'll go off the deep end?" he asked 
as she encircled his waist with her damp arms and 
rested her head on his chest.

"I'm afraid -- I'm afraid that one of these times I'm 
going to be just a little late.  That one of these times 
I'll walk up to that barn and the axe will have 
already fallen and there will be nothing I can do.  
That's what I was afraid of the other night and it's 
what still scares me," she told him honestly.

"One, I was dumb to go out there without back up, 
but in my defense I was trying to call you when I 
got rammed by the snowplow," he said, holding up 
his index finger.

"Mulder, that is the weakest explanation you could 
possibly dream up," she told him, giving him a light 
shove and shaking her head.

"And two, I won't be doing this kind of work.  What 
Skinner is proposing is mostly reading files, making 
suggestions.  Desk work.  If, on the very rare 
occasion I might be in the field, I'd have tons of 
other agents there, too and I wouldn't be allowed to 
do squat."  He chewed on his lip.  "Look, the other 
day at the hospital I was pissed off because we'd 
had a fight and I took off on my own.  It was stupid 
and I'm sorry I scared you."

She sighed.  "I pushed you out," she admitted 
reluctantly.  "I could have been more supportive.  I 
knew you were on the hunt and all I did was show 
you the door."

He brought his hands up to cup her wet hair.  "You 
had other battles," he said, not wanting to remind 
her of the boy or her failed attempt to save him.

"I wish my battles were your battles," she said, 
leaning against his chest.

He kissed her head.  "I do too.  But that doesn't tell 
me what you want me to do."

She looked up at him.  "Go to DC.  Tell Skinner 
yes.  At least one of us will be gainfully employed."

"And you'll still be here when I get back?" he asked, 
his fear palatable in the chilly room.

"Always."  She leaned up to seal that promise with 
a kiss.

"Want to come with me?" he suggested.  "How long 
has it been since we had a road trip - just the two of 
us?"

"I really should -- " she started to say 'call the 
hospital' but she knew it was another day till the 
formal inquest.  Did she really want to stay here at 
the house by herself the whole day waiting for the 
phone to ring?  Maybe a road trip wasn't that bad of 
an idea.  "Just let me get dressed," she told him.