Bridges
by Elizabeth Rowandale

Feedback:  Email: bstrbabs@gmail.com
Rating:  Mature
Relationship:  Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Additional Tags:  Angst, Romance, An X-File Case, Mytharc

Summary: A family in a small town in New Mexico appears to 
be suffering the ill effects of an encounter with Black 
Eyed Children. While in the desert to search out the truth, 
Mulder and Scully find themselves confronting more than 
they bargained for, both in the investigation and in their 
personal relationship. Early Season 11, turns AU after 
"This." Past and eventual present MSR.

DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully and the search for the truth 
all belong to Chris Carter and Co. I'm just borrowing them. 
I promise to return them in no worse condition than Chris 
would.

Beta thanks to Annie, without whom I would probably still 
be sitting in a corner feeling sorry for myself and 
refusing to post, and to Erica who who makes me much more 
presentable to the world.

Come listen to me whine about the writing process-- I mean, 
join me for updates on the writing process on Twitter - 
@Rowan_D



Copyright (c) 2018

Chapter 9

The storm brought torrential rains. As the afternoon wore 
on and the weather app on Mulder's phone promised only more 
of the same, their prospects of staking out Miller's 
Clearing and glimpsing the local light show whittled down 
from slim toward none.

Around three o'clock, Mulder, who had been reduced to 
filling out online paperwork on which he was hopelessly 
behind, heard Scully's motel room door open and close. For 
an adrenaline-fueled moment, he thought (or hoped) she was 
coming over to talk, would be knocking on his door any 
second. But a minute later he heard a car rev to life in 
the parking lot. He glanced out the rain-fogged window in 
time to see Scully pulling away in their sleek rental.

Mulder took out his phone and texted her.

*Where you going?* 

Her reply took a few minutes. Probably she had waited until 
she hit a stoplight.

*Adoration. Basilica of San Albino, Mesilla. Text me if you 
need the car.* 

Responding to him was the only professional choice, and 
Scully was professional before all else. The honesty about 
where she was going was a little more intimate. She could 
have said "personal errand." Probably would have done so to 
another agent. There was a time long ago when she would 
have with him.

He was probably over-analyzing this.

He texted back *Okay* and left it at that.

Two hours, a lot of paperwork, and a bag of potato chips 
later, Mariela phoned Mulder. She wanted Scully and him to 
attend her father's funeral the next day. She said her 
mother was okay with it, that they would be welcome. Mulder 
took down the information, gave his condolences once again, 
and assured Mariela he and Scully would be in attendance.

He debated phoning Scully. He debated dropping by. She had 
returned to her room about twenty minutes earlier. Neither 
of them had had dinner, and he needed to tell her their new 
morning's plans. But he felt like she wanted her space. And 
some petulant part of him needed her to be the one to take 
the first step toward making amends this time.

He finally texted her with the update, including the 
details of the next day's service.

He opened her quick reply -- *Got it.*

Mulder flopped back onto the overly firm mattress and 
stared at the ceiling sprinkler. He swiped a hand over his 
tired eyes. *Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.*

*****

By 9:00am the next morning, Mulder started to suspect he 
had been sucked back into the 1990s. Scully had knocked on 
his door bright and early, dressed in a black suit and silk 
navy blouse, acting like nothing had happened between them 
the day before and asking if he wanted to walk over to the 
diner for breakfast. In a booth by the window, she showed 
him some research she had done on the history of strange 
sightings in Dona Ana County as well as the type of 
research and development being done at White Sands. At 
least the part that was public knowledge. She was leaning 
toward the radiation having something to do with government 
work. Apparently, she had spoken to Aster already and found 
out the police had closed off the contaminated area to the 
public but were no closer to understanding what had caused 
the problem. Aster was meeting with a military liaison that 
afternoon.

Somewhere in the 2000s, Mulder and Scully had stopped 
dealing with their personal problems by pretending they 
didn't exist, by going back to work and erecting walls that 
cordoned off messy emotions and sticky complications. 
Scully had stopped pretending she was fine when she had had 
only two hours of sleep and started admitting to the nausea 
and headaches. She had stopped saying she hadn't been 
crying when her pale skin made it abundantly clear she had. 
He had stopped giving her witty and meaningless replies 
when he was taking off on some wild tangent and started 
telling her where he was actually going. He had stopped 
saying he was fine to work when he was clearly running a 
fever or suffering from a migraine. And now here they were, 
comparing case notes and munching on diner toast, 
pretending they hadn't torn off all the bandages for a few 
minutes in a desert storm and left all their wounds exposed 
and raw.

1990s. Mulder's skin hurt.

At least she was still here.

When they were back at the car, Scully said, "Do you mind 
if I drive?"

He passed the keys to her, sliding his fingers over her 
palm as he did so. "Knock yourself out."

She was behind the wheel, focus straight ahead, when she 
said, "I hate going to funerals." It was the first real 
thing she had said all day.

"I think you've already done more than your share," he 
replied simply.

She gave the smallest nod and continued to drive.

*****

St. Xavier's Funeral Home of Las Cruces was a more modern 
structure than the church Scully had visited the day 
before. The building was low and long to combat the heat, 
but the exterior looked more like it belonged in an east 
coast strip mall than as part of the native landscape. The 
location wasn't far from the hospital where the man's son 
lay, missing his father's funeral. Scully hoped they had at 
least left a close friend or relative to keep the boy 
company. He was aware enough to understand what was going 
on this afternoon.

She was trying very hard to approach today's task as a 
purely professional one. To survey the event for 
information just as she would a crime scene. She would give 
proper courtesy and sympathy to the victim's family while 
remaining personally detached. She had found this part of 
the job increasingly difficult through the years; once she 
had attended her own father's funeral, her sister's, 
Emily's, even Mulder's -- and now her mother's. Maybe 
Mulder was right. She had already done her share.

The line to be greeted by the family stretched through the 
glass double doors onto the warm pavement, and Mulder and 
Scully worked their way forward in silence. She couldn't 
deny it felt good to have Mulder standing so close, a hand 
now and then at the small of her back. Yesterday had been 
rough, and her stomach was still in knots from the endless 
circles her brain had been traveling. She knew pretending 
nothing had happened wasn't the answer, but they had a job 
to do in a limited time frame, and this was a huge personal 
topic she had managed to rip open.

The crowd of mourners was impressive, and Scully credited 
this to Joseph Garcia's extensive involvement with the 
local community. As she and Mulder neared the front of the 
line, they could see the three women greeting each arrival 
-- Mariela, and two women in their late thirties or early 
forties. Presumably one was Donna Garcia, and the other was 
perhaps her sister? There was some resemblance. Both women 
were tall, attractive, and well-dressed, with long, wavy 
dark hair and striking eyes. The taller of the two appeared 
a little bit older and looked a little more care-worn, and 
Scully guessed this was Mariela's mother.

When their turn came, Mulder reached a hand out toward the 
taller woman, grasping her hand and placing his other hand 
lightly on top in a gesture of offered sympathy. "Mrs. 
Garcia? Fox Mulder, FBI. This is my partner, Dana Scully. 
We're so sorry for your loss."

Donna Garcia nodded. "Oh, yes." She turned to the woman 
beside her, "The agents Mariela spoke to."

Donna turned back toward Mulder and Scully. "This is my 
sister, Rachel. And, of course, you know Mariela."

Scully reached out for Rachel's hand. "Nice to meet you," 
she said softly. Then Scully touched a hand to Mariela's 
shoulder. "Good to see you, again. I wish it were under 
happier circumstances."

"Thanks," the girl said. Her long hair had been 
straightened and gathered into a low ponytail at the side 
of her head. She was dressed in an elegantly simple black 
dress with a short-sleeved bolero jacket. Scully couldn't 
help but admire the girl's poise and dignity amid the chaos 
that had become her life. She wasn't sure she herself would 
have had such strength at such a tender age. If she had 
lost her own father so young, she probably would have been 
clinging to Missy's hand and hovering behind her shoulder 
while her older sister handled the required social 
acknowledgments at their mother's side.

"Thank you for coming. I'm sorry I haven't had the chance 
to meet with you yet," Donna said. "I know Mariela said you 
would want to speak with me."

Mulder shook his head. "Don't worry about it. You have 
enough on your plate. We can speak whenever you're ready."

"I appreciate that you're trying to help. I'll contact you 
soon."

"Take your time," Scully said, knowing, of course, they 
wouldn't be able to stay in New Mexico indefinitely. But 
she had to put human kindness above travel requisitions and 
budget regulations. At least for the day.

Mulder moved to step away, to let the next guests come 
forward from behind them, and Scully was about to follow, 
when Rachel let out a startled gasp. Scully turned and to 
see a quick trail of red streaming from Donna Garcia's nose 
over her glossed lips.

"Oh, my God," Rachel cried.

"Dammit, not now," Donna whispered.

"Mom?" The alarm in Mariela's voice hurt Scully's stomach. 
This girl had lost so much, she was clearly terrified.

It took only a second for Mulder to grasp what was 
happening, and he pulled out a handkerchief from his inner 
coat pocket. Scully snatched the cloth from his fingers and 
took a step forward, trying to forget that Mulder had 
started carrying this handkerchief for her. She hadn't 
realized he had never stopped.

"Here, let me help. I'm a doctor," Scully said, lifting the 
handkerchief to Donna's nose as she cupped a steadying hand 
to the back of the taller woman's head. "Which way is the 
ladies' room?" Scully demanded of the surrounding women.

A nearby blonde in a dark blazer with "St. Xavier's" 
stitched on the pocket pointed down the hall toward the 
back of the building. "This way, first hall to the right."

 
Rachel still clung to her sister's fingers as Donna and 
Scully moved away, but the older woman squeezed her 
sister's hand and tried to nod. "No, you stay, talk to 
everyone for me."

"Mom?" Mariela asked again.

"I'll be fine, honey. I'll be back. You stay with Aunt 
Rachel."

Rachel reluctantly let go of Donna's hand and tossed an 
uncertain glance toward Scully. Scully offered a quick 
sympathetic smile, then focused all her attention on her 
patient as Rachel turned to attend to Mariela. The 
nosebleed was still going strong, Scully could feel the 
blood soaking through the cloth onto her fingers.

The ladies' room was elegant and clean, flatteringly lit 
and blessedly empty. Scully led Donna toward a cushioned 
seat to the left of the sinks.

"Here, you sit down." She took the rag from Donna's nose, 
keeping it close to protect the woman's dress as she guided 
Donna's hand into place. "Pinch your nose, right there. 
Then keep your head tilted a little forward," she 
instructed. "I'll get you cleaned up."

Scully snatched a couple of paper towels from a wicker 
basket on the counter and splashed a little water onto the 
end. With a tender hand, she started cleaning the other 
woman's face. "Keep pinching, don't let go," she said as 
she worked. "Are you feeling faint? Lightheaded?"

"No."

"Any nausea?"

"No."

"Your color's good. When did this start?" Scully pushed to 
standing and reached for a fresh bunch of towels. She 
tossed Mulder's handkerchief onto the counter until she 
could wash it out.

"A few weeks ago," Donna replied with a brief glance up at 
Scully. "Before Joe's accident."

"And you've been seen by a doctor?" Scully dropped again to 
a crouch in front of Donna, carefully cleaning the woman's 
skin while doing the least possible damage to her makeup.

"Yeah, I've been seen twice."

"What have they looked at? Have you had any scans done? An 
MRI? I assume you've had bloodwork?"

"I had some bloodwork. All normal. I had an MRI."

"High blood pressure?"

"No."

"Any injuries? To your face or head?"

"No, nothing. I'm waiting to see an ENT in a couple of 
weeks."

Scully sighed softly. She had contained the blood 
reasonably well. "Keep pinching," she said, cupping a 
steadying hand over Donna's for a moment.

"My daughter thinks it's the curse of the Black-Eyed 
Children," Donna said with a trace of a wry smile. Her 
words had just the slightest elegant accent.

Scully drew a slow breath, then said, "I think maybe we 
should eliminate things like understandable stress and thin 
nasal passage linings first."

She pushed up from her crouch once more and settled 
gingerly onto the cushioned bench beside Donna. The two 
women were quiet for a few moments.

"Can I let go yet?" Donna asked.

"Give it another minute."

Scully debated the lines of presumptuous familiarity for a 
moment, then rested a hand on Donna Garcia's slightly 
hunched back as they waited. Her touch did not seem 
unwelcome.

A minute later, Donna cautiously released her pinch on her 
nose, and the stream of blood seemed to have stopped.

"Okay. That looks better," Scully said. "Here." She 
moistened one last towel and passed it to Donna.

Donna rose cautiously to her feet and stepped up to the 
sink. "Dear God, I look horrible." She dabbed lightly at 
the last of the blood stains around her nose.

"You look exhausted, not horrible," Scully said.

"Do you think I'm dying of something yet to be identified?" 
Mrs. Garcia's expression held just a hint of dry humor 
mixed with near undetectable fear as she met Scully's gaze 
in the mirror. Scully couldn't help but admire the woman's 
strength of spirit.

"Professionally, I can't rule out any diagnosis without 
further testing, no matter how unlikely." She stepped 
forward and began rinsing out Mulder's handkerchief in the 
adjoining sink. "But personally, I'm a big believer in 
Occam's razor. The simplest explanation is usually the 
correct one. You've been under an unreasonable amount of 
stress these past few weeks. You're in a dry environment at 
nearly 5,000 feet of elevation. Most likely this is your 
body's natural reaction to these taxing circumstances."

Donna nodded, turned off the water, and shifted to sit back 
against the edge of the counter. She tossed her paper towel 
into the trash, folded her arms across her chest, and drew 
a deep breath. "Thank you. For your help. Dana is it?"

Scully nodded. "Dana Scully. Just doing my job." She wrung 
out the handkerchief, then wrapped it in a paper towel and 
stuffed it in her pocket.

Donna gave a soft chuckle. "No, I don't think this is in 
your job description. I think you're a kind person."

Scully didn't reply. She could hardly say she had been the 
one with the handkerchief more times than she cared to 
recall. The last thing she wanted to do in the name of 
"help" was compare this woman's current situation to her 
own early symptoms of inoperable cancer. She said simply, 
"I'd say you deserve some kindness right now. I can only 
imagine what you must be going through."

The taller woman shook her head and stared down at her 
crossed ankles for a long moment. "I'm not sure I 
understand what I'm going through. It all still seems like 
a bad dream."

Scully nodded. "I understand how that feels."

"Veronica was my husband's mother, but...I've known her 
since I was seventeen. And after I lost my own mother in 
2008, Veronica kind of stepped in and became a second 
mother to me. I never imagined I would wake up one morning, 
and all the parental figures in my life *and* my husband 
would have vanished in nearly one swipe. It seems I am the 
head of the household, now."

"I'm so sorry. I know it's not at all like what you're 
going through, but I lost my own mother just over a year 
ago. And I had already lost my father a long time ago. 
So...I know what a strange feeling that is, when you 
suddenly find yourself the oldest generation."

"Were you close? You and your mother?" Donna seemed eager 
to talk and less eager to return to the greeting line. 
Scully was more than willing to indulge the woman. She 
didn't want to see her patient jump back into the fray 
until she was certain the bleeding was firmly stopped.

"Yes, we were close," she replied honestly. "We didn't 
always agree or understand one another, but...we were 
close. I loved her very much. So you were close to your 
mother-in-law?"

Donna nodded. "We did not always see eye to eye, either. 
She could be a stubborn old bruja. But I loved her very 
much, as well."

They stood in sympathetic silence for a few moments.

Then Donna asked, "Have you ever been in love, Dana?"

Scully sucked in a breath and swallowed against a suddenly 
dry throat, but she found herself replying simply, "Yes."

"More than once?"

Scully rested her fingertips on the counter top. "I think 
so, but once...more so than any other."

"And that one...are you still in love?"

Scully cleared her throat, but her voice remained hoarse. 
"Yes."

"Are you still together?"

She stared at the silver faucet, the gold-edged ceramic 
soap dispenser. "Not exactly, no. It's..." She searched for 
words, tried to speak a couple of times, and finally gave 
an embarrassed laugh and went with the painfully obvious 
cliche, "It's complicated."

"Except it's really not," Donna said simply.

Scully lifted her eyebrows, begging elaboration.

Donna tilted her head with a slight narrowing of her kind 
eyes. "If you truly love each other, it's not complicated."

Scully allowed a trace of a wry smile. "Well...I wish that 
were true."

"It is. When you go through something like this, you know 
that it is. Since you and your beloved separated, has 
either of you been in an accident? Sick? In the hospital? 
Was your life in danger? Or his? Or hers?" she finished 
with a flash of smile.

"His," Scully confirmed. "And...yes. All of the above, 
actually."

Donna frowned, gaze conveying genuine sympathy. "I'm sorry 
to hear that. But when those things happened, when you were 
watching him in the hospital, or you were waking up sick or 
hurt to find him by your side or on your phone...did it 
seem 'complicated' then?"

Scully allowed a slow breath in and out through her nose. 
Then she said softly, "No. No, it didn't."

Donna gave her a sad smile. "I should attend my husband's 
funeral now," she said.

Scully sighed and held the woman's gaze. "You should. But 
you won't be alone. There are people out there who love 
you."

"There are. In that I am lucky." Still showing no sign of 
movement, Donna gestured toward the bit of gold at Scully's 
throat. "You're a believer?"

Scully glanced down at her chest, resisted the impulse to 
finger her cross. "In my way, yes. I consider myself 
Catholic."

Mrs. Garcia stared somewhere around Scully's knees for a 
long moment, then asked, "Do you think my family is 
cursed?"

Scully immediately shook her head. "No. No, Mrs. Garcia, I 
don't believe your family is cursed."

"Then what do you think is happening?"

"I'm not sure, yet. That's what we're here to try to find 
out. But it might yet all be explained by nothing more than 
tragic coincidence."

Donna gave a mirthless chuckle. "I should probably think 
that's better. Less frightening. But I find I want 
something or someone to blame."

"I think we all do, when bad things happen. Maybe that's 
why we need the Devil. Then there's always someone to 
blame."

"You may be right about that."

Scully stood in quiet support, with this woman she had only 
just met, for a few moments longer. Then she held out a 
hand and said, "Come on. I'll walk you back."

By the time Scully and Donna emerged from the restroom, the 
majority of the attendees had gathered in the small 
sanctuary for the service. Scully handed Donna off to her 
sister at the entrance to the sanctuary, and the two women 
exchanged a small smile of acknowledgment. Scully turned 
and scanned the crowd and caught Mulder giving her a low-
key wave from a seat at the far side of the room. She 
looped around the benches at the back and slipped into the 
vacant seat beside him on which he had tossed their copies 
of the memorial program.

As Scully settled into her chair, Mulder leaned into her 
ear and whispered, "Is Mrs. Garcia okay?"

Scully gave a quick nod and whispered back, "I think so. 
Medically, at least. But she needs to get checked out."

Mulder nodded. He looked like he would have said more, but 
a man at the podium called for their attention.

Several speakers came forward during the service. 
Relatives, co-workers, former students. The tragedy of the 
premature loss was made all the more poignant by the clear 
display of the many lives this man's talents and kindness 
had touched.

Joseph Garcia's younger brother was halfway through a 
predictable but sincere speech, when Scully reached into 
Mulder's lap and grasped his hand. Because he was alive, 
and he was there, and this funeral wasn't his or hers, and 
she didn't want to ever take these moments for granted, no 
matter how fucked up it all was between them. Mulder was 
here, letting her retreat and be cryptic and distant, 
letting her work things out at whatever pace she needed, 
staying by her side no matter what. Neither of them had 
apologized, they hadn't resolved or fixed anything. The 
argument or discussion or whatever it had been yesterday 
would have to continue if they wanted to move forward. But 
right now, right this second, she took Mulder's hand, and 
he let her, and with a subtle but deeply concerned glance 
at her profile, he squeezed back hard.

Maybe he thought the funeral was just hard for her. And it 
was, but this wasn't about that. Gaze still on the man 
speaking at the podium, Scully moved her other hand to wrap 
over the top of Mulder's, making the gesture as much about 
him as possible. He cupped her fingers with his free hand. 
They held on like that in silence, not caring if it looked 
strange or unprofessional or confusing, just needing the 
contact and the affirmation, until the service was 
complete.

*****

They chose not to follow the procession to the grave site. 
Mulder promised Mariela they would speak soon and followed 
Scully back across the parking lot.

As their steps slowed beside their car, out of earshot of 
the majority of the crowd, Mulder gave a weighted sigh and 
swiped a hand down his face. He stretched his shoulders, 
rubbed the back of his neck. His muscles were still more 
sensitive to tension after the accident. "Well, that was 
kinda brutal," he said.

Scully gave a soft hum of acknowledgment and leaned back 
against the passenger door, staring down at her heeled 
shoes. "Did you get to ask anyone how Christian's doing? I 
didn't want to bring it up...."

Mulder nodded. "Oh, yeah, I didn't get to tell you. When 
you were in the bathroom, Mariela said they were able to 
take him off the breathing tube last night and he's doing 
well on his own. Awake and hungry."

"Oh, that's wonderful. This family could certainly use some 
good news."

"And then some."

Scully narrowed her eyes and gazed up at him. "We still 
haven't heard back from Veronica Garcia's doctor. I think 
maybe we need to push that, again. And this morning when I 
spoke to Sheriff Aster, he was rushed and only had a moment 
to update me on the radiation, I didn't get to ask for 
details on Ed Monroe's recent domestic disturbances."

Mulder shrugged out of his suit jacket and hooked it by a 
finger over his shoulder. He loosened his tie. "Yeah, I'd 
definitely like to follow up on that. I don't know why it 
feels like it's connected, but it does. Maybe we can drop 
by and talk to the sheriff this afternoon."

Scully nodded her agreement but didn't speak. She returned 
to staring at her shoes for a moment, then without preamble 
or warning, she said, "Don't stop touching me." Her words 
were clear and strong, but her tone was so uncharacteristically 
shy, almost embarrassed, that Mulder felt his heart rise in 
his throat. "That's not what I want," she continued. "I didn't 
mean to..."

Mulder closed his eyes and drew a slow breath. Then he 
reached out tender fingers and smoothed back Scully's fiery 
hair in the desert wind. "I wasn't planning on it."

Scully gave a soft laugh, and it was bittersweet and laced 
with a deep ache, but it was real and it was warm. They 
hadn't fixed anything, and the argument would ultimately 
continue. But for this moment he felt like he knew she was 
still in there, they were still connected. And that made 
his world stand still, again.



//////////

She wakes in the hospital and everything from her chest to 
her thighs aches and burns like fire despite the morphine. 
Now she understands why they say a bullet to the abdomen is 
about the most painful a person can feel. 

Mulder tangles his fingers with hers and she thinks 
everything will be okay. Even if she knows it will not. 

"Hey, Supergirl," he says, and she closes her eyes on a 
smile. She doesn't know how long it's been or when Mulder 
flew to New York or if maybe he drove all night. She is 
high on pain meds, and she tries to speak, but she utters 
something unintelligible and falls back asleep with his 
fingers caught in her own. 

Dana Scully does not mind living alone. She enjoys it most 
of the time. She is not lonely per se, she doesn't require 
constant companionship. But what she misses, what she can 
never quite talk her way around, is human touch. Dana has 
tried hard in her life to be okay without constant physical 
contact. It is unbecoming an independent, career-minded 
professional. Meeting sexual needs is one thing, that can 
be framed as cosmopolitan and forward and admirable. But 
simple affection, warmth, connection...those things are 
more often overlooked or even seen as neediness or 
weakness. 

Coming from a big family, there was always someone around 
to touch her. Dana's mother had strict rules to manage her 
passel of children, could be a bit of a terror if those 
rules were broken, but Maggie never touched her children 
with anything but warm affection, and she touched her 
children often. 

Missy, for all her annoying arrogance and self-
righteousness, was an affectionate big sister. Sometimes 
Dana had pretended not to want it, but the truth was, her 
sister provided a level of security in her life she did not 
even understand until she lost her. 

College friends filled in when Dana left home. Med school 
blessedly provided a roommate who thrived on hugs and hand 
holds and couch cuddles for their occasional exhausted 
movie nights. But the FBI was hard. Dana suddenly found 
herself in a job that left little to no time to nurture the 
few local friendships she had and even less time to spend 
with her family. Her work environment was one where any 
sign of supposed feminine weakness could freeze her place 
in the Bureau for years to come. Dana did not believe the 
need for human connection and affection was a weakness, but 
the stereotype existed in her world nonetheless. 

And then she met Mulder. 

She wakes at 3am in tears from the pain and trauma of 
having a bullet rip through her flesh, and she finds Mulder 
still there, defying visiting hours, jerking awake with a 
cramped neck and rumpled clothes in the hard chair beside 
her bed. 

"Mulder? What are you doing here?" 

"Sshhh..." He strokes her hair and kisses her temple and he 
smells like cheap soap and sunflower seeds and she breathes 
that in over the death and antiseptic. 

"Where's Mom?" Her plea sounds more forlorn and childlike 
than she means. 

"I sent her to a hotel to get some sleep," Mulder says. "Do 
you want me to call her?" 

Scully shakes her head, embarrassed and aching and cold. 
"No, it's fine. I'm fine." 
He continues to stroke her hair. His flesh is warm. 

She worked with him only a few days before she threw 
herself in his arms for comfort after freaking out 
wondering if she had been abducted by aliens. Not her 
finest professional moment. But Mulder never seemed to 
mind. His hands found her even in those early days, guiding 
her through doorways, fixing her jewelry, catching her 
fingers to get her attention. He would wake her not by a 
socially proper nudge to her shoulder, but with a finger to 
her cheek or a hand nestled at the nape of her neck. 

By mutual agreement, they opened their bodies to one 
another many years before they defined their relationship 
to themselves or anyone else. Either of them could touch 
freely, and the other would not pull away. The rare times 
they did were counted on fingers and signified deep rifts 
or raw pain. 

Dana does not know if Mulder craves touch as much as she 
does, or if it is only she he wishes to touch. She is 
finding more and more that others are merely a substitute 
in her life for Mulder's affection. But she is grateful for 
what they have. She is grateful for those moments in his 
hallway, when he seemed to need her as much as she wanted 
to be needed. When he looked at her and asked her to stay. 
Not his partner, not his professional balance -- her. Even 
if he seemed to take it all back not long afterward.

"Here, take a drink." He holds the straw to her lips, 
cradles the back of her neck, and she sips the tepid water. 
The liquid feels good spreading through her throat and her 
chest. She needs sustenance and rest and sun. 

"Thatta girl," he whispers. "Now get some more sleep. I'll 
be right here." 

She knows that woman, Diana Fowley, is waiting in the 
wings. Scully knows that chapter has not ended in their 
lives. She feels a shadow descending, like a wedge between 
her and the man who has been virtually and literally 
pressed up against her side for five years. 

"Mulder, go home. I'll be fine." 

"Close your eyes, G-woman. I'm not going anywhere." The 
last sentence she hears sounds like, "I bribed the night 
nurse with Red Sox tickets, I know a guy." 

And she can forget the shadow for a moment. Because he's 
her Mulder and he's here and she doesn't know what the hell 
she would do if he were gone. This is what she is too 
scared to admit in the daylight and without the 
painkillers. She has fallen down the rabbit hole. But if 
she doesn't admit it, maybe it won't be true. Maybe she'll 
never have to face the loss. 

//////////


(End Chapter 9)