A Dim Capacity For Wings (1/3) by Aloysia Virgata DISTRIBUTION/FEEDBACK: Just let me know first on distribution. Feedback always welcomed and appreciated at aloysia.virgata@yahoo.com RATING: R CLASSIFICATION: MSR SPOILERS: This is post The Truth, so anything is fair game. SUMMARY: This story is prequel to another one I wrote called Inhaling The Different Dawn is therefore AU. DISCLAIMER: Breaking seal constitutes acceptance of agreement. Proceed at your own risk. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. For recreational purposes only. Driver does not carry cash. And, as always, thank you for choosing Aloysia Airlines for your direct flight from 1013 to fanfic. AUTHOR'S NOTES: When the previews (and early spoilers) for IWTB first came out, I wrote a fic based on a conversation Scarlet Baldy and I had about how I things might have gone between The Truth and IWTB. In that story, I had them married because rumors were flying around about a band on Mulder's right ring finger. I thought it best to cover all my bases just in case. Really though, I never saw them as the marrying type and I decided to write a prequel to explore a situation in which I could see them getting married. So...I basically fanwanked my own fic. *laugh* Many, many thanks to Scarlet Baldy for patiently editing numerous drafts with such care, and to Amal Nahurriyeh for squeezing in a look-see of the final draft during a very busy time for her. The title is from Emily Dickinson's poem that begins My Cocoon tightens-Colors tease-. Reading the other story first will help this story make more sense in places, but it's not necessary to understand anything. You can find it here: http://undertherug.insatiable- mind.net/Aloysia/Aloysia_files/dawn.html Author's Notes continued at the end of Part 3. *** Lauren Atwater sits on the edge of the front stoop, drinking coffee out of a worn plastic travel mug she bought a year ago from a Dunkin' Donuts in Abilene. The coffee is from Revel's Feed Store and General Dry Goods up in town, and it's good as any Organic Fair Trade Limited Edition brew from Whole Foods. Mud streaks her cheeks, and her long, sweat-stiff hair's got hay tangled through it because she woke up at four-thirty to start mucking stalls for her landlord. A woman who, despite her Wicked Witch of the West features, turned out to be the kindhearted, grandmotherly sort. Vera had sweetened Lauren's under the table pay with rent-free lodging in a tiny four-room cottage on her property. But she is exacting about her horses and Lauren's arms hurt from all the shoveling and hauling. Her triceps are looking damn good after a month of this though. She smiles at the thought and takes another sip of coffee. When she'd gotten home a little while ago, Lauren had taken her clothes off in the postage stamp sized laundry/storage room, wadding the dirty t-shirt and shorts into the washing machine along with her socks, bra and underwear. Now she's wearing a pink bathrobe that clashes violently with her hair. It's a Pepto-Bismol colored chenille affair, soft as a new chick, with wide, deep pockets and a face-cradling lapel. The bathrobe's become a sort of joke now. She bought it for a dollar fifty at a revival tent flea market because, at the time, she didn't have a bathrobe or the money to be picky about what a new one might look like. Now it's traveled so far with her she can't bear to think of replacing it, though she pretends she only holds onto it because money's still scarce. She shields her eyes as a shadow ambles up the walk, ground up oyster shells crunching under a pair of work boots. "Goodness. You look a fright," he says. "I expect I do," she agrees. "But really, I didn't know there was a dress code for the porch. It's before five, so cocktail attire seemed a bit much." "It's five o'clock somewhere," he admonishes, then glances at her mug. "I don't suppose there's any more coffee, is there? Harvey ran out at the house and tried to buy me off with a second cinnamon bun, but I'll be damned if I can be had that cheap." He wipes sweat from his forehead and scowls. She smiles in return. "Did you happen to bring me this pastry which you so nobly disdained?" "I ate it," he admits. "But I made it clear that it was an unacceptable offering. I spent the whole morning out in that west pasture sawing up every single one of those trees by myself because that asshole nephew of his got too drunk to wake up on time." He sits on the step next to her, his left knee scabbed over after a run-in with the tractor on Wednesday. She'd been afraid he'd need stitches and that she'd attract attention by stitching him up, but once the blood had been mopped away, the cut wasn't as bad as she'd feared. "There's always more coffee," she tells him. "But you'd better make another pot. I have to be out to the shelter by two and I need to shower without falling asleep and drowning myself." He sniffs her. "I'd certainly hate to interfere with your hygiene. You smell like a right-wing militia bomb factory, Scully," he tells her, with the air of a sommelier ferreting out the blackcurrant notes of a good Bordeaux. She pinches his arm. "Don't call me that," she admonishes. "You know better." He rolls his eyes and scratches a mosquito bite on his neck. "Nobody's around." "Still, it's a bad habit." "Bad habits are the only kind I ever managed to cultivate," he informs her. "I see you've pulled out the Muppet skin again despite the oppressive heat. Wouldn't you rather go naked than wear fur?" Scully hunkers down into the silky, synthetic fibers of her robe. "Shut up," she says amiably. "And, by the way, you don't smell like a rose yourself." "It's becoming on me. It's the manly smell of a man who has engaged in a hard morning of lone, manly labor." He pounds his chest and steals her coffee cup. "You'll go blind if you spend all your mornings engaged in hard, lone, manly labor." "Keep me company more often, then. That west pasture's awfully isolated..." She grins at him and takes her mug back. She turns it slowly in her hands, her thumbnail flicking at the places where the letters are worn away. "I drove by the house again," she says, watching him sidelong. "I pulled around back and walked over to that stream by the woods. There were some huge crayfish in it. They need their ranks thinned. I could plant some grapes out by the woodshed." She knows he doesn't want the house. He doesn't want to settle here or, it would seem, anywhere. But Christ, she's tired of running, and heartsick for someplace to call home. This is the longest they've stayed anywhere, and she's getting attached. They've got five sets of identification that will hold up to the scrutiny of a home loan, Lauren Atwater and Andrew Zeller among them. He smiles at her, his eyes crinkled up at the corners. She's been looking at his eyes for over a decade and still can't make out what color they are. "Grapes sound good," he tells her. "What about chickens? There's something so pastoral about a rooster. I may take to wearing overalls if we ever acquire one." "God forbid. There's a fox-in-the-henhouse joke in there somewhere, but I can't find it," she muses. "Don't. Besides, my name's Andrew now, remember?" "You could be an Andrew," she remarks. "I've come a long was since Rob Petrielikethedish, yes? But you don't look like a Lauren. I think you should be Abigail next time. I always liked the name Abigail." She sighs a little. "It means 'my father is joy.' But I'd rather stay here and just be Lauren and Andrew until whatever's coming comes." It's as close as she'll get to any mention of 2012. 2012 makes her think of William, and thinking of William makes her hands ache with barely contained anxiety. "What else do you want at the house, Lauren?" She can tell he knows what she's thinking and is trying to redirect her thoughts. But even knowing that doesn't prevent her from feeling soothed. She remembers a question he'd asked her years ago. //Can you name me one drug that loses its effect once the user realizes it's in his system?// She still couldn't. The tension in her hands is receding. She settles back against the step, resting her elbows on the gapped wooden treads. "I want to have a big garden. I'd like to grow some heirloom tomatoes. Those bright-colored ones that are all misshapen and striped, do you know the ones? Maybe an orchard. Peaches, plums..." she trails off and shakes her head. "What is it?" She shrugs. "All the education I have, and I couldn't tell you the first thing about planting an orchard. It's just funny I guess. How life turns out." She doesn't really think it's funny at all, but she'd gotten into the car with him time after time and this was the road they'd ended up taking. She's okay with it now. Mostly. Scully misses her baby and her mother and her various skin creams, but Lauren can rebuild a transmission and field dress a deer. She can certainly grow a damn orchard if he'd just stay somewhere long enough to let her plant one. "You'll figure it out. You always do." He doesn't specify whether he means the orchard in particular or life in general. Pleased in either case, she smiles at him. However unwillingly, he's indulged her house fantasy for a time, and she's grateful. "This robe looks ridiculous with my hair," she observes, apropos of nothing. "I was thinking I might get rid of it. Buy something less obnoxious." "I'm all for it. I heard on the radio that they're having a twofer down at Mr. Ray's Hair Weave. You go pick out something blonde and sexy, and I'll see if they can help a brother out with some dreds." Scully smiles a little. "I was thinking just a regular old white robe, as in days of yore." He scoots closer and strokes her sleeve. "Don't. I've found I like you in pink fluff. There's something whimsical and unexpected about it." "Well, you know me. I'm the Unexpected Whimsy poster girl." "Oh, there's no stopping you. I remember the time you ordered your grilled chicken salad with lemon-poppy dressing instead of fat-free ranch and I said to myself, 'Fox Mulder, you'd better watch that one because there is no telling what outlandish tricks she'll think up.'" "Sometimes I'd shock myself and go for the zesty Italian." She checks her watch. "I'd better get cleaned up. Some guy trapped 14 feral kittens out by his chicken house and, more than likely, I'll be spending my afternoon picking ticks off of them. What are you up to for the rest of the day?" "Taking some hay over to Lorelei's and maybe playing baseball with Dwight and his buddies depending on how long it all takes. I'll probably be home before you though. I'll get dinner going." She stands, then walks up the creaky steps to the front door. "I like it here," she says. "I'm tired all the time, but it's a good kind of tired." She rubs the tip of her sunburned nose. "I really want you to think about staying." "I like your freckles," he says. The screen door snaps shut when she goes into the house. *** "Well shit, son," Harvey says. "I'm sorry he didn't show up. I'd-a gone out there with you myself if I'd known." He's tall and lanky, half-sitting on a bar stool, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up his forearms. His skin is almost the color of the good leather saddles in the barn. "I know you would have," Mulder replies, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. "But it wasn't any trouble." Harvey makes a harrumphing sound, but says nothing further on the matter. "You taking that truck over to Lorelei's here shortly?" He squints out the window towards the front barn, his clear gray eyes as sharp as they were in his sniper days. "Yes sir. That's the plan." "I'll ride along too. I haven't seen the baby since Saturday. How's your knee?" "Knee's fine." This isn't strictly true, but it's mostly fine. Good enough for government work, as they say. Besides, Harvey had the first two fingers of his right hand lopped off with a bolt cutter while he was a POW in Korea. Mulder's hardly going to whine about his boo-boo in the presence of such an injury. "And how's that cute little girlfriend of yours? I always like a girl with red hair." Mulder smiles at the idea of Scully being called a cute little anything. "She's fine too, thanks." "You both getting along with everbody all right?" "Yes sir." They generally work and go home and mind their own business, which is as well as they've ever gotten along with anybody. Although, for Scully's sake, he is making moves towards being a more social animal. He plays baseball once a week. "Y'all are real quiet. People are still adjusting to that, I expect. People in small towns always talk a lot, you know, even if they cain't be bothered to say much." Mulder takes a long drink of orange juice, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I hope no one's offended. I guess we just don't have much interesting to say and don't want to bother anyone." He laughs in a self- deprecating way, and imagines discussing the finer points of cryptozoology over at Arlene's Bar, where Arlene plays both kinds of music: Country and Western. Harvey laughs too and claps him on the shoulder. "Well, you just get along however you need. I talked to Miss Rebecca over to the shelter. Said everbody likes Lauren real well and she's good with the animals." "I'll be sure to tell her that, Harvey. Thank you." Harvey nods, looking pleased at having passed on good news. "Sure thing. Listen, Vera told me Lauren likes that nice little blue house out on Black Dog Lane. I cain't make any promises, but I do know that Everly Tate is mighty keen to sell it. I expect he'll take ninety for it." Mulder swallows another mouthful of juice. "Ninety? He's asking one-thirty, isn't he?" They can afford a down payment on ninety thousand now, but he doesn't want the house. He doesn't want any house. He gets anxious when they stay still too long, even though he knows it's killing Scully. "Mmm. As I said, no promises. But if I were a betting man - which, as it happens, I am, - I'd lay money on the fact that you could have it for ninety without a lick of trouble. Naturally, this information did not come to you from me." "I'll take the secret to my grave," Mulder vows. Which, in his case, provides less than the usual degree of assurance, but Harvey doesn't know that and Mulder wouldn't say a word to Everly anyhow. Harvey glances at the clock on the microwave, then pulls a John Deere hat over his thick silver hair. "Well, let's get along then. Vera's got a bunch of hens coming over to cluck later. Having one of them vendor parties she likes so well, and I need to get back in time so as she can make a production of shooing me out." Mulder laughs. He likes Harvey and Vera and their sprawling, comfortable house. He likes the easy way they talk, their vast, rolling acreage dotted with obscenely expensive horses, and their utter lack of pretension. His mother would have disdained them. Completely NOCD. Not our class, dear. They walk out through the sunroom and down to where the loaded hay truck's parked. Harvey and Vera's daughter Lorelei keeps two cows, several goats, and a half-dozen horses and they bestow truckloads of their sweet-smelling hay upon her at regular intervals. "Hard to believe I got six grandkids now," Harvey says as they climb in. "Don't know how the kids managed to grow up when I never got any older. Y'all ever think about having some babies?" Mulder smiles faintly over the painful acid surge in his stomach. "You never know," he says, buckling his seatbelt. "You never do." Silence for a time, the back country road jostling them on the sun-warmed seat. Mulder remembers the father of the little girl who wasn't Samantha. Roche's victim. //I used to think that missing was worse than dead because you never knew what happened.// He suddenly aches to tell Harvey about William, to make his son real in this new life he's living, but he steps down hard on the feeling. "Y'all aren't from around here. I mean, not within a five hundred mile radius," Harvey states. Mulder doesn't deny it. "Sometimes you have to go a long way to leave a thing behind." It's the closest he can come to being honest. Harvey nods thoughtfully, then holds up his right hand. "Sometimes you do. But sometimes it follows you anyhow and you have to learn to live with it. You look tired, boy. I think you've gone far enough." Mulder looks out the window at the sunlight filtering through the cottonwood and pine. He can hear jays and mourning doves calling to each other, and the lowing of cows out in Jerry Tisdale's pasture. Long white chicken houses stretch across the horizon, and the big grain elevator out in Skipton rises above the landscape. Raspberry bushes jeweled with ripe red fruits cluster around the split rail fences beside the road. He knows that she'll leave him if he can't promise her more than this fly-by-night existence. The loneliness is diffusing through her like ink in water, and there's hardly a clear patch left. "I think you're right, Harvey," Mulder says, watching bees drone in the clover. "I think we've gone far enough." *** The first time Scully disappeared was three months after they'd gone on the run. They were living in a motel about fifty miles outside of Moab, Utah. She wrote a note on a paper towel and left it wrapped around his toothbrush. //Back in two days. No need for your panic face.// The handwriting was undoubtedly hers, but it didn't stop him from panicking. Mulder punched the wall until a crack spiderwebbed up and plaster started raining down from the ceiling like ashes. He couldn't call the police, he had no neighbors or friends, and hated that a civilian life meant no badge and gun allowing him to make demands of the populace. He filled the sink with ice water and dunked his head into it, the shock leaving him gasping for breath. From that reboot, he calmed himself down, rationalizing that if someone had taken her, there would be (a) signs of a struggle and (b) a more ominous note. He forced himself not to do anything rash and, instead, went through her belongings. The red duffel bag, one pair of shorts, underwear, and a gray t-shirt were missing. The little wooden box full of heartache - the item she always packed first when they moved - was still in a dark corner of the closet. He made himself wait. He ate little and slept less. Forty-two hours later, he was outside changing a flat on their van when Scully came down the sidewalk, the setting sun at her back. She looked tired, her shoulders slumped forward, strands of hair wrapped across her face. She straightened when she saw him, her chin tipping up as she hitched the duffel bag up on her shoulder. "Hi," she said, something like defiance in her voice. He tightened the nuts on the tire, then wiped his hands on his grease-stained jeans. "If I'd known you were coming, I'd've baked you a cake," he replied, too pissed to let her see his relief. "I left a note." "It brought me a great deal of comfort, thanks. Your penmanship is so elegant." He stood up to lean against the passenger's side door. She glared at him, then walked around to the walkway through the main building of the motel. Behind it was the broad ocean of desert that brought in just enough tourists to sustain the rattletrap establishment where they lodged. Mulder watched her vanish around the corner, then followed behind. He'd known her to stay out there for hours, lost in thoughts he was too afraid to ask about. Scully was sitting with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. Her small body cast a long shadow over the red sand and stone. She said nothing and did not stir when he took a seat beside her. She kept her empty gaze on the canyons to the south; a rust-colored hellscape, bloodied by the waning sun. He studied her for a moment. A summer of working outside in the blazing Southwest heat had turned her hair the same shade as the inside of a ripe peach. Her skin, while still smooth, was now golden and freckled instead of creamy. "Why'd you go?" he asked her cautiously. Fluid shrug of her shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe to see if I'm capable of walking away from you." She laughed darkly. "I'm still not, as it happens." He'd known this was coming. It had been looming for a season, but the stark bitterness of her words still punched him low in the gut. A beat, and then he spoke. "I know how-" She turned to stare at him with gas-flame eyes. "What, Mulder? What do you know? How hard this is for me? The hell you do." Count to three, crush the flash of temper between his molars. He tried again. "We both left -" "We?" Scully got to her knees, her face level with his, her voice tight with anger. "We? What did you leave? Your money? Your houses? A few graves? You left it all ages ago for-" She was pushing it. "You can't think I-" "For the truth, the fucking truth you couldn't even tell me when they were going to *kill* you for it! You left me for a desert full of mystical claptrap. For the rambling of a crazy old man. You left your son, you *asshole*!" She was shouting down at him by then, the bright rage in her exploding outwards like a supernova. "And I left everything because of it, God *damn* you. My mother, my brothers, my *child*." Her shoulders trembled with her voice, but she held her head up and stared at him. And she'd pushed far enough. He believed for the briefest, most awful instant that he could hit her, but instead he spoke in a low and steady voice. "Don't you dare put this all on me, Scully. You gave up our son, you gave him up and I never had a word to say on the matter. God forbid you should ask for help for once in your life; it might put a crimp in your fucking Joan of Arc routine." Tears breached the dam of anger, running down her cheeks to leave dark spots on her khaki shorts. "You have no idea what you're talking about," she choked out. "You don't know what it was like." Mulder watched her in silence. He hurt for her. Because of her. But he was also outraged that she should try and guilt him. He thought it beneath her. "Leave," he said flatly. She sat back on her heels at this. "What?" "Go back to DC. Trade them my last known address for immunity. Don't worry - I'll be long gone by then. Maybe you can go marry some regular Joe who will put a roof over your head until the fucking apocalypse comes in a decade or so." Mulder saw the dull shock in her eyes at this, saw that it stung her, and found - to his shame - that he liked it. "I don't...I wasn't..." She trailed off, the words falling limply from her cracked lips. "You do," he said. "And you were. Don't act like you don't imagine it all going differently for you. Imagining the life you should be having right now. And don't act like you didn't know what you were signing up for, Scully." He knew he was being unkind, that she hadn't really known. That he'd kept secrets from her. But for her to bring up William was low, considering what he'd come back to just a few months ago. There were shiny streaks on her face. "Ten years, Mulder, and I still don't know what the hell I signed up for. Why does it have to be so black and white with you? I had to get some space. And then I came back. You can't be the only thing I need all the time. We can't live like that." She sounded tired, resigned. The fury had been spent, and her eyes were the same faded blue as Mulder's jeans. "Go home," he said. He drank in the familiar angles of her face, studying each new freckle and line in case she called his bluff and packed her few things. Mulder had learned to pre-package his memories. Scully drew her knees up to her chin, watching the horizon swallow up the sun like the great, glowing egg of a phoenix. She was crimson and gold as the landscape, a thing of contained fire. They stared out together into the desert, at the creosote and sandstone warped by wind and heat into shapes both strange and beautiful. He waited until her breathing slowed, until there seemed no further risk of immolation for either one of them. At length he slid closer and chanced resting his hand on her thigh. She remained folded in on herself, slim and still beneath the burning sky. "Do you know the story of Ruth?" she asked. "'Whither thou goest,' right? That one?" "Yeah," she said. "That's the one." "How'd things go for Ruth?" "She lived happily ever after," Scully told him. She relaxed her stiff posture when he put his arm around her, holding her like a basket of smoke. *** He'd called around six to say that the baseball game had gone into extra innings and he'd be much later than expected, so she fixed herself two poached eggs with toast and fruit salad. She ate them on the old cedar swing behind the house, then left her dishes there and went for a quiet walk as the purple twilight whispered down. Leonard's Pond lies silver and still as condensed moonlight, and Scully sits before it in a little clearing near the pine trees. The early September night is warm and sultry, and her body aches from too much work. She's off tomorrow, and is making plans about sleeping in until seven-thirty. Behind her comes a low crunching sound that startles the crickets into silence. Even after fifteen months, her hand still goes to her hip for the gun she left behind in her other life. Mulder emerges from the pine trees, ducking around the low boughs, but still bumping his forehead. He holds his thumb and forefinger at right angles, points them at her, and says, "Bang." Scully rolls her eyes, but smiles. "Watch where you point that thing." He waggles his eyebrows, which makes her toss her head in scorn. "Did you win?" she asks. He settles down beside her in a bed of dried pine needles and kisses the little dip at the top of her cheekbone. "It was a moral victory." "Ah." "I told Lorelei about the kittens you mentioned. She's interested in taking two or three when they're well enough." Scully turns to smile at him in the dusky light. "I'll call Rebecca tomorrow." He scratches his neck and, to Scully's dismay, looks anxious. In years previous, anxious looks meant he was about to pontificate on werewolves or merpeople, and she could exercise her brain with exasperated contradictions. But now they generally signify far more unpleasant topics of conversation. He wants to move again, she thinks, and feels preemptively defensive. "I thought maybe we could take one too," he says. "Mulder...?" "Andrew. I think you'd better get in the habit of calling me Andrew all the time, Lauren, because I plan to stick with it indefinitely." Before she can manage a reply, Mulder's talking again, the words coming fast and jittery. "I talked to Harvey today, which led me to call Everly Tate. We can afford the house if you still want it. So you know, I thought a cat would be good since we're going to stay here. Just keep it away from my rooster, all right?" She actually gapes at this, staring at him wide-eyed for a moment. "I have no idea what to say," she says, having recovered her powers of speech. It's hardly a brilliant reply, but it's honest, and therefore a reasonable starting point. Mulder rubs his hands over his face before dropping them to his lap. "You know Lorelei's baby is a month younger than William," he tells her softly. Scully closes her eyes. "Don't," she says, hearing the note of panic in her own voice. "Please don't." Her light dinner sits like lead in her stomach, and her skin is beginning to crawl. He's lured her into this conversation under false pretenses. Kittens indeed. "She's talking up a storm. Running all over the place. William was so little when I saw him, but I guess he's doing all that now." "*Please*. I'm not... We can talk about this another time." Her throat is so constricted that it hurts to speak and she wants Mulder to shut the fuck up and go away. He shakes his head. "No," he says. "This is all the time we'll ever have." She can barely see him in the drawn curtain of night, but stares at his face anyway. "What, then?" she whispers. There's no answer for a moment. When he finally replies, the words are choppy and ragged. "When I was in the...when Skinner told me that, um...about William. Jesus, Scully. I hated you. For weeks it, uh, it was hard to look at you sometimes." He laughs a little after this confession - a nervous, half-relieved sound. "But I want to tell you that I'm just...I'm so sorry you had to do it. I don't really think I ever told you that." She notices he doesn't say he understands or that he forgives her. Scully's certain she's too heartbroken to cry, but doesn't trust herself to say anything just the same. She risks a few words. "I'm sorry too. And I hated you for leaving." Mulder reaches up to take her hand, squeezing it. "I want..." He clears his throat. "I want to start with as clean a slate as possible, all right?" "What does that mean?" "Well, the house. Let's buy the house and have our own place. We'll subscribe to seed catalogues so you can grow improbable tomatoes. And you pick out whichever kitten looks the most pathetic and bring it home. And I was, um, I was thinking..." He rests her hand on his leg and draws little pictures on the back of it with his finger. "I was thinking you might want to get married, Lauren." She sighs deeply, breathing in air sweet with timothy and honeysuckle. Some part of her had known this was coming, and she wants nothing more than to say yes for both their sakes. "I can't," she tells him, grateful for the dark. He coughs. "Oh. Okay. I just, well, because you're *Catholic*, so I thought, you know, making you an honest woman or whatever..." His embarrassed rambling pinches at her heart and she remembers again why she followed him down all the dark alleys that led them here. "You can't make me honest with a lie." "A lie?" The hurt seems to have been replaced by confusion. "We're not Lauren and Andrew, Mulder. The house, that's one thing. But marriage is a promise to God and if I can't do it as myself, it's a lie." She hadn't known she felt so strongly about it until the words had been spoken, but she's sure of it now. She's as sure of it as she was of walking away from Daniel, of leaving behind medicine, of kissing William goodbye. "I understand," he murmurs. She wonders if he does, if his faith is analogous enough to hers to grant him that understanding. "Ask me again when this all over." "Aren't you the little optimist?" She strains for sounds of bitterness in his words, but there are none. Just something sad and fond and aching. "I refuse to believe we'll spend the rest of our lives in hiding," she asserts. "It might take years, but one day it'll be finished." "My God. You could be old by then. Who says I'll still want you?" Relief washes through her. He's making jokes, which means things are okay. She quietly pushes thoughts of William back into the forgetting place. "I didn't promise I'd say yes," she points out. "You may get a reprieve." "A man doesn't like being jilted," he says haughtily. "I'm going to have to think very seriously about all of this now. You practically threw my engagement kitten back in my face." "A gentleman should never ask his intended to provide her own engagement kitten." "I'm a poor man, and you have no dowry." Scully snorts. "You've got about five-point-two million dollars in assets, last time I checked. Your family certainly had a penchant for real estate." "Mulder's family left him plenty, but Andrew is not going to be needing a wealth management advisor any time soon." She slides over to rest her head against his shoulder. "I want the house," she says. "Will you live in sin there with me until such time as we can return to publicly addressing one another by our rightful surnames?" "Well, since you asked so nicely..." "We'll need furniture. There's an Ikea about 2 hours away. Will you buy FLERVIKS and SNAARFENS with me, Andrew?" He kisses her hair and skips a pebble across the pond. "Lauren, you're a hopeless romantic." She tucks her head beneath his chin. "No," she says. "I'm not hopeless." *** Thanks for reading! Feedback always appreciated at aloysia.virgata@yahoo.com Check out my site at http://undertherug.insatiable- mind.net/Aloysia.htm Or my LiveJournal at http://aloysiavirgata.livejournal.com