A Dim Capacity For Wings (3/3) 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. *** The alarm goes off at 4:30 AM with a flat, irritating buzz that manages to piss him off every single morning. "Mmmrnff," he says, burying his face in the pillow and pushing the sides around his ears. "Turninoff." He hears Scully bat around for the off button and then, blessedly, there is silence. "I'm going to make some eggs," says Scully after a moment. "Do you want any?" He rubs his hands over his face and blinks experimentally. "Please. Those ones you do on toast where I can poke the egg and the runny part goes on the toast." She chuckles a little, running her fingers through his tumbled morning hair. "You'll never survive in the wild now. You've been fully domesticated." "Not fully," he protests. "I still drink things from the carton. And I bite." He growls a little and snaps at her palm, worrying it between his teeth. "But only on command." Scully frees her hand. She yawns loudly and then gets up, walking around the foot of the bed to the dresser. "I'm going to be testing your carpentry skills this morning," she says, pulling her pajamas off. "There's a wood joke in there, but I won't offend your delicate sensibilities by making it." Scully tosses him a contemptuous look over her bare shoulder as she steps into a pair of gray underwear. "Oh, you're such a wit." "Audrey thinks I'm funny." His stomach does a little flip at the thought of the post office. "Audrey thinks you're Grade A prime meat." The words are muffled as she pulls a yellow tank top over her head. "She just wants to get in your pants." "I have a way with government employees." He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and sits up, scratching his stomach. "Hey, are you working at the shelter today? I forgot to put your schedule on the fridge." "I am. I just have to get the horses turned out and then I'm headed there until four or so. I thought maybe we could see a movie afterwards, if there's anything good." She buttons her shorts, pulls her hair into a ponytail, then tugs her scuffed boots on. They come to the tops of her calves. He looks at the little hollows behind her knees, the way her coppery hair swishes against her back. "You look very hot in that getup. Just so you know." She laughs. "This has been my uniform for a while now. What's special about it today?" I'm probably never going to see you in it again. "I just want you to know I appreciate the little things." She smiles, something almost shy in her face. "Well, thank you. Now get up while I go make breakfast." She leaves the bedroom, and he hears her boots clomp heavily across the floorboards. Mulder dresses quickly in a t-shirt and jeans, makes the bed, then pads after her in his sock feet. The kitchen is full of warm smells and sounds of morning. Eggs sizzle on the stove, and he can hear the soft tickticktick of the toaster oven. The coffee pot gurgles promisingly. He watches her jerking the frying pan to make the eggs flip, her movements spare and efficient as ever. The timer dings and he walks over to the counter to butter the toast. She bumps her hip against his, then tips the contents of the pan onto their plates. Mulder leans down to kiss her and finds that she tastes of V8. His hands are around her waist when she pours them each a cup of coffee. He's terrified of losing this easy thing between them, unsure of how comfortable she'll be under the scrutiny of familiar eyes. "You look so sad," she remarks, carrying the plates to the table. "Still not feeling well?" Her tone is conversational, but he hears the trained interrogator skimming below the surface like a shark spying an exhausted swimmer. "Just sort of run down, I guess. Might call it a day after I help Harvey with those beehives." He takes the chair across from her and pokes his eggs with a fork, the yolks running rich and golden over the toast. He wonders if there's anywhere in DC to get eggs this fresh. "You should meet me for lunch," Scully says. "There's that little deli on the corner. You could get some chicken soup for your cold." "Where'd you go to med school again? The University of My Grandmother?" Scully takes a large swig of coffee. "Chicken soup suppresses inflammation, smartypants. Besides, I know damned well you're not sick. So why don't you tell me what's really going on?" He offers her the look of wounded innocence she expects. "So paranoid," he says. "Everything has to be a cover-up with you." He blows his nose pitifully into a napkin and resists the urge to fake a cough. She rolls her eyes and spears a bite of pineapple. "Okay then, don't tell me. As long as you don't develop pneumonia by noon, come on by." She checks her watch. "Running late. See you at lunchtime." She drops a kiss on the top of his head before leaving. Mulder uses Tabasco sauce to make a frowny face on his cold food, then finishes it without really tasting a bite. He grabs the phone to activate the credit cards. *** Mulder wanders down Amelia Street, sunglasses and a baseball cap concealing most of his somewhat disoriented expression. He's got two velvet boxes jammed into his pocket, souvenirs from the forty minute drive to the mall where he took his new credit card for a spin. "That's pretty, isn't it?" said the girl behind the counter, showing him a band studded with tiny pink diamonds. "It's very sparkly," he said evasively. "But I'll take the plain ones." The girl sighed, popped her gum, and put the other back in the case. She boxed up the rings Mulder had selected, and asked how he'd be paying. "American Express," he said, sliding the card onto the counter with no small amount of trepidation. He watched her swipe it, his muscles tensed as if a SWAT team was about to descend from the ceiling as soon as the transaction went through. Mulder signed the receipt and felt like he'd come through a gauntlet. He resisted the urge to pump his fist in the air. "Have a nice day, Mr. Mulder," the girl said, handing him his card and paper bag. "And congratulations." Mr. Mulder. He drove back to town on autopilot. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tony Robbins is telling this is the first day of the rest of his life. He's gazing at familiar storefronts, all of them suddenly containing Things He Can Buy. No more itchy Wal-Mart sheets. No more crinkly toilet paper and Goodwill clothes. He wonders what Scully will do when he takes her at her word. //I didn't promise I'd say yes,// she'd told him. Well, he'll burn that bridge when he comes to it. Just ahead of him, Dwight emerges from the liquor store carrying two brown paper bags. "Goddammit Andrew," Dwight says. "That hat sure better not say what I think it does." Mulder grins. He'd put on the Knicks hat Scully bought him for his birthday last year, feeling as though it were some signpost to the Rubicon he was about to cross. Once you publicly support the Knicks this far south, there's no going back. "'Fraid so," he replies. "Harvey sees that hat, he'll kick your ass up between your teeth." Harvey. He's going to miss Harvey. "Yeah, he might." "Well, we all have our peculiarities. Y'all want to come by for dinner tonight? We're having ribs." Dwight hefts the bags. "And beer." He does. He really, really does. "I'd like to, but we're already booked tonight." "Well, we'll have to take a raincheck," Dwight says. "Maybe next week." Maybe next lifetime. *** Mulder drives to the shelter in a fugue, unaware of the staccato his fingers play on the console, directed by some innate autopilot as his conscious mind roams far afield. He parks in front of the squat gray building where the county animal shelter is located, then sits as though waiting for a burning bush to order him inside. He draws a deep breath and there's the blink of a memory. He's going after Modell, got his carapace of Kevlar on, antennaed with AV gear, and Scully is sitting with her stubborn chin tipped up and her eyes full of worry. I'm going to kill you if you come back here dead, her eyes say, and he knows right then that he's got it bad, that she does too, and that from here on out it's them against everything. He squeezes her hand and tells her to smile. He opens the door and gets out of the car. *** Scully's back hurts. She and a coworker have been hauling industrial sized bags of animal food around, finding places to shove them as Rebecca hauls them off the delivery truck, and being hunched over like this is murder on her spine. It's been a bad day all around. Mulder is acting peculiar and she has a sinking feeling that it's linked to her relative contentment. She has betrayed him with her adaptability, broken up their aloof little team with Vera's book club and drinks with Lorelei. Maybe she shouldn't have pushed him on the house, but she was ready to fall apart. She had been leaving too many pieces of herself behind in mildewed motel rooms. In addition to the greater drama, Black Cadillac - the temperamental new stallion - chewed a big hole in her yellow tank top and now she's got on a John Deere t-shirt with a pair of ragged cutoffs. She feels like a reject from a country music video, though she suspects Mulder has a fantasy that starts with her in this outfit and ends on a tractor. And he still owes her a cat, dammit. She grunts in generalized annoyance as she heaves another bag into place. "Lauren!" Rebecca hollers from across the room. "Just five more bags. You okay, girl?" "Yeah," Scully lies, and rubs a sore spot on her neck before grabbing another bag of Alpo. The storage room is stiflingly hot, the air so wet it's practically a liquid. She hears a door bang open behind her and a swirl of fresh air wafts in, tempting her with freedom. She sighs and moves a box of flea dip to make more space. There are heavy footsteps from the doorway, and then Mulder's voice crows, "Agent Scully!" She whirls around and feels her eyes widen cartoonishly, mouth gaping in utter astonishment. He's finally lost his damned mind, she thinks, and panic chases itself through her thorax. There's a wild impulse to run, but she is pinned in place by shock. Mulder, wearing the Knicks hat she bought for his fortieth birthday, strides over and gets down on one knee. He's grinning like he's just found a colony of Reticulans living next door, and there's a gold ring dangling from his little finger. "Well, what do you say?" he inquires of her. She swallows hard, her vision swimming, ambient sounds jangling in her ears. "I say you're out of your mind," she finally manages, her eyes fixed on the ring as though it is a hypnotist's pocket watch. He laughs and slides the ring down over the first joint of his finger before standing. She is too dazed to do anything but wrap her arms around his neck when he lifts her up. Her knees bump against his thighs and he kisses her, holding her tight about the waist. She savors the rich coffee taste of his mouth and breathes him in, soaking herself in the moment against the terrible fear that she is about to wake up. "Kersh says we're clear," he murmurs into her neck, his bad boy stubble making her shiver in the sultry room. Scully is dimly aware of Rebecca and the other employees watching the scene unfold, but they've all faded to a washed-out backdrop. "When?" she whispers into his hair. "How?" Mulder bends forward and returns her to earth, her legs shaky as a colt's. "Got a letter in the mail yesterday. Certified, from Kersh. He sent our IDs. The real ones. We can go back to the FBI, you can be a doctor, whatever you want." He kisses her again and smoothes the hair back from her face. She wonders if her overloaded brain is generating static electricity. His recent oddness suddenly makes sense. She wants to be angry at him for not telling her immediately, but thinks of that ring on his pinkie. Of him going to a store and buying it to bring here and surprise her, and has to will herself not to cry. She drops her head against his chest and closes her eyes, listening to the steady tidal rhythm of his lungs. His shirt is clutched tightly in her fingers Mulder's hands plane her neck and shoulders, rubbing circles on her back. "It's over," he says quietly, and she can hear the words catch in his throat. "So I'm asking you again." She takes a half step back and looks up at him. "You don't-" "Say yes!" Rebecca yells. Scully blushes darker than her sunbleached hair and Mulder's goofy grin returns. She ducks her head to keep her own at bay. "Outside," she says sternly. Turning to her boss, she asks, "Rebecca, do you mind if I...?" "Only if you promise to say yes," Rebecca replies, apparently unfazed by details of nomenclature. "And I'd better not see you here for the rest of the day, miss." Mulder tips his hat as Scully shoves him towards the door. Once outside, she crosses her arms, slouching against the wall of the shelter. "You're serious," she says, the shock starting to wear off. "We can really go back?" He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and offers it to her. She reads it quickly, then looks up at him. "And you're okay with this?" He leans against the truck. "I just want to go home." Home. The mental image conjured up isn't just her polished apartment anymore. There's a distinct overlap with a small blue house full of modular furniture and carefully chosen secondhand items. Her mother's face and Vera's run together. All the places she and William used to go are so safely far away. "Andr - Mulder, they're asking us to be complicit in another layer of obfuscation. They're *bribing* us," she says, stalling. He sighs. "I know. It's, well, it's why I couldn't bring myself to tell you right away. But think about it, Scully. What else can they do? They screwed up and the only way to undo it is wipe the slate clean. It's a bribe, yeah, but I think we've earned it. All the misery we've been through, all the nights sleeping in the van and hours working for slave wages...fuck it, Scully. They owe us." There's something hard and determined in his face, and she gets the distinct impression he's trying to sell himself on this as much as her. "They want to know if we learned anything in the desert," she says. "They're worried. They'll make us work with them on the vaccine, Mulder. It's why they wanted William, because you and I are both immune..." She hears something shrill in her voice and hates it. "They can't make us do anything. They could have coerced us years before if they just wanted complicity in their research. And hell, there's probably enough of our DNA floating around to clone us both and not have to bother with the real deal. I think...I think this is what it sounds like." "But what if it's not?" she asks. He sighs. "I don't know. I don't have an answer. But if we want to stop running, we're going to have to start trusting people at some point. This may be the only chance we get." Scully looks at him for a moment, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat. He's run so far and he looks so tired. And she's sick of faking her way through every minute of every day. Returning to life as Dana Scully will hurt - she knows that - but it will be an honest hurt and that counts for a great deal with her. She runs her forefinger along Mulder's scratchy cheek. "Mr. Trust No One," she muses, and he smiles a little. "I'm okay with it too," she tells him. "They do owe us. And I want to go home." "We don't have to stay in DC or Virginia," he points out. "We just have to go back to sort out the...details. Hell, we can move back here if you want." "No we can't," she replies softly. "You know we can't come back here." "Whatever you want. Pick a place. We can start somewhere new." Scully shakes her head. "No. I don't want to be a stranger again. Whatever's waiting back there, that's home to me, Mulder. Let's do it. Let's go back." She smiles at him. He brightens and wiggles his finger at her, making the sun bounce off the gold band "So...?" She laughs a little, embarrassed by the nervous sound in it. "You don't really have to marry me," she tells him, walking around to the passenger's door. "You get to go back to the FBI, Mulder. You don't want a civilian ball and chain dragging you down while you're shooting for the stars." She opens the door and hitches herself across the vinyl seat, which sticks to her thighs. "Literally." He gets in on the driver's side and starts the engine. "Pediatricians don't hunt alien invaders, right?" he asks rhetorically, pulling out of the lot. "That's strictly pathologist work." For an instant she hates the letter in his pocket. Things were going so well. "I'm done with the FBI," she says. "I'm sorry." He shakes his head and turns onto the road. "Nothing to be sorry about. I get it, believe me. I wish I were as certain as you." Moments slide by as they drive towards their house. "So you're going to be an agent again?" she asks, willing him to say no. "I don't know. I'm still processing everything." Scully takes his tight jaw, his white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel and wants to slap herself. "Mulder, turn up ahead. Turn left, okay?" He looks puzzled. "Scully what's-" "Turn!" Mulder swings the steering wheel hard to the left and they squeal onto Mariposa Street. "What's on...oh," he says as a grand white house comes into view. He gives her an uncertain look. "He's always at his home office after lunch," she says. "I'm sure he has all the necessary paperwork. You said Kersh sent ID, right?" He reaches over and opens the glove compartment. Scully sees her driver's license sitting inside and scarcely recognizes the pale woman in the photograph. She takes it in her hand, tapping the hard plastic against her nails. The woman in the photograph wouldn't recognize her either. "There's a passport too," Mulder tells her as he parallel parks. She feels around and withdraws the small vinyl booklet. She doesn't open it, but slides her license between the pages. "All set," she tells him. "Scully, you don't have to do this." She turns to look at him and reaches for his hand. His large, familiar fingers feel good in hers. "I do. I want to. Unless you've changed your mind, Mulder, I want to." He runs his thumb over her knuckles. "You don't want to have a big church to-do?" he asks. "Your family, your priest..." She shakes her head hard as though it will dislodge the lump in her throat. "No," she whispers. "None of that matters." She discovers as she says it that it's true. She'll leave behind her house, her boat, all the lies that are her life. But what she has with him is the grit at the center of this strange pearl, and she can take that with her when the rest erodes. Mulder, who once let her talk him out of wishing for world peace, had smiled then to know he had at least made her happy. He smiles at her that way again and there is joy in it, the light sparking behind his eyes. "Okay," he says, straightening his hat. "Let's get this show on the road, then." Scully pulls his identification from the glove compartment. They get out and walk up to the house. She knocks on the massive front door, Mulder's hand firm against her waist. She can't believe they are going to do this. The knock is answered by an attractive woman of a certain age who takes in their disheveled appearance with a faint and puzzled smile. "Hello," she says. "Can I help you?" "I'm sorry to interrupt," Scully says in the voice of the nervous teenager who used to swipe her mother's cigarettes, "but we, um, were hoping that-" "Oh, you've come to get married, have you?" the woman says, grinning broadly. "Come on in!" She turns and walks down through the elegant front hall. Mulder leans down as they follow their hostess. "Sure you don't want to fly to Vegas?" he asks in a stage whisper. "Elvis, slot machines, a hot tub shaped like a champagne glass..." She all but shudders at the thought. "No, this is good. I want to do it like this." He smiles at her as the three of them enter a large, airy room papered in blue and yellow stripes. At a large cherry desk sits Ted Cavanaugh, the mayor/justice of the peace. His steely gray hair is stylishly cut, swept back from his face. He is finishing up a cold cut sub, an electric green banana pepper dangling from his lip as he chews. "Hi!" he says, tucking the pepper into his mouth. He wipes his fingers on a paper napkin, then brushes crumbs from his snuff-colored trousers before getting to his feet. "What can I do you for?" "We need the quickie wedding package please," Mulder says. "Just the basics. No shotgun." The mayor laughs. "Do you have identification?" he asks, flipping through an accordion binder full of what Scully presumes are legal forms. He selects one and puts it on the blotter. They lay their IDs on his desk and he hands them the application. "No waiting period here, you know. Just fill this out and we can get you hitched on the double. It'll be sixty five dollars, please." He hums tunelessly while they complete the paperwork and pool their funds. "Do, um, do y'all want to change or anything?" Mrs. Cavanaugh asks delicately. "There's a washroom over there, if you have anything in the car..." "I'm afraid this is it," Scully replies, hoping she doesn't sound defensive. "It was a bit unplanned," Mulder adds as she watches Mayor Cavanaugh make photocopies of their documentation. Mrs. Cavanaugh smiles. "Well, that's real romantic. Hang on a second and let me at least get you a veil." She walks over to a closet next to the desk and opens it, rummaging briefly. "It's always more wedding-like when the bride's got a veil, and I keep mine around just in case." Scully cringes at the thought of pairing a stranger's veil with her current ensemble. "Oh, I couldn't, really..." but it's too late. Mrs. Cavanaugh is tugging the elastic band from her hair and positioning a hideous tulle and bugle bead concoction atop her head. "My! Look at all that red hair!" her impromptu stylist says admiringly, steering Scully before the mirror. She fluffs the enormous veil and pokes a few bobby pins into Scully's scalp. "You look just like a bride in a magazine now," she pronounces with great satisfaction. Scully, transfixed by the enormous frill of tulle encircling her head, thinks she looks like nothing so much as a startled cockatoo. "It's...I...thank you..." she stammers. She chances a peek at Mulder, who is smirking intolerably. But when he says, "You look great," she hears something so terribly sweet in his voice that she has to look away. "You look real pretty, honey," the mayor tells her. "So! Your paperwork is all filed, the bride's all fancied up, and I'm ready when y'all are." Mulder looks at her expectantly. "You ready?" he asks, and butterflies soar through her stomach. "Let's do it." The mayor tugs on a long black robe. "I always think it looks more official this way," he explains. Scully feels like they're in a play. Mulder should be wearing a top hat instead of that Knicks cap. They need a curtain made of bedsheets and some lemonade in little waxed paper cups. Animal crackers and raisins. "Do you have any vows prepared?" Scully offers her betrothed a questioning glance. "No," Mulder answers for them. "Whatever your standard boilerplate is will be just fine." She breathes a sigh of relief. "That's fine. So you'll just repeat after me, all right?" "Sounds good," Mulder replies. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law," he murmurs to Scully, brushing her wrist with his fingertips. "Are you sure you want to do this?" She laughs nervously, the veil prickling the back of her neck, and she takes his hand. "I'm positive." The mayor clears his throat and looks at Mulder. "You first," he says. "Repeat after me: I Fox take you Dana to be my lawfully wedded wife. I promise to love you, honor you, and to cherish you; in sickness and in health; for better or for worse; for as long as we both shall live." Mulder clears his own throat and looks embarrassed. Scully feels herself blush. This is stupid. This is so completely stupid and awkward. "Man and wife," she mutters to herself. "Say man and wife." Consummation, at least, will be enjoyable, she thinks as she looks up at Mulder with what she hopes is an expression of bridely rapture. "Go on, son," the mayor says encouragingly. Mulder shuffles his feet. "I...Fo-" "Mulder," she interjects. She can't marry Fox. It would be like marrying Andrew. He grins. "I Mulder. Take you Da- "Scully." "Scully. To be my lawfully wedded wife. I promise to...to track you across several continents, defrost you, and to subject you to untested vaccines; in underground fungal hallucinations or in, uh... "...chloral hydrate induced tributes to Isaac Hayes," she suggests, wondering if this performance will nullify the "sound mind" clause. "For official commendations or suspension without pay; for as long as we both shall fail to get killed," he finishes, beaming. Scully laughs. She leans against him and laughs until her sides ache because it is the most ridiculous thing she's ever done; getting married in a grimy t-shirt and ghastly veil in this nowhere backwater town, and Mulder has somehow made it wonderful. "What he said," she tells Mayor Cavanaugh when she finally catches her breath. "All of it. And then some." The mayor shakes his head, but he's smiling. "Can't say I've ever heard that variant before," he informs them. "The rings, please." She watches Mulder pull them from his pocket, and it's all suddenly quite real and serious and matrimonial. He passes the larger ring to her, the metal is solemn and heavy in her palm. Scully holds her left hand out, keeping it very steady, and bites her lip when he slips the small band over her ring finger. She stares at her new jewelry, marveling at the sheen of it. Mulder coughs and she looks up, startled. "Oh!" she says, fumbling with his ring for a second. She slides it over his knuckle and lets out a pent-up breath. Jesus Christ, they're married. She's officially Mrs. Spooky. She imagines Tom Colton's face when word filters through the Bureau, and likes the tableau. "I now pronounce you man and wife," the mayor says with relish. "You may kiss the bride." The bride - who feels as though she is in an alternate reality where any sort of madness might occur - tilts her face up and looks expectantly through half-lidded eyes. The groom, clearly pleased by her complacency, dips down to kiss her. The Cavanaughs, the room, and the veil all disappear down a crack in the space time continuum. She reaches up and curves a hand around his jaw, her fingertips touching the minky hair of his sideburns as her tongue runs over his bottom lip. Reminding herself that the faster they get out of here the faster they can have some privacy, she pulls gently away. Mulder's looking rapturous from under his blue hat and her own smile is making her cheeks ache. "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Mulder," gushes the mayor's wife. "Smile for the camera, now!" "Dr. and Mrs. Scully," Scully whispers to Mulder, but she's grinning like an idiot as the camera flashes and leaves starbursts before her eyes. The Cavanaughs press them to have coffee and chicken salad sandwiches before they go, then send them off with printouts of the wedding picture. They walk back to the truck; Mulder clutching the manila envelope of photographs and paperwork, Scully still in something of a daze. "Well," she says when they climb in, "this has been quite an afternoon. What are we going to do next?" She is falling in love with the way the sunlight bounces off her left ring finger. It looks so *right*. Mulder turns the key, shifts into drive, then makes an illegal u-turn on Mariposa Street. "You want to make that honeymoon video now?" he asks his wife. *** The ocean is the hue of liquid tourmaline, lapping at the topaz sky along the horizon. Picturesque cotton ball clouds drift lazily overhead, unhurried by the fragrant breeze that stirs the leaves of the coconut palms. Gazing beatifically at this paradise, Mulder is sprawled in an enormous hammock, moderately drunk on Balashi beer. Next to him, Scully lies quasi-boneless, a floppy straw hat shading her face from the Southern Caribbean sun. The rest of her outfit consists of a black two-piece scant enough to have made her blush when Mulder first presented it. On the table to her left is a turquoise beverage containing a half-dozen varieties of juice and alcohol. It is her third of the afternoon. "You know, I think the implication was that we go back to DC immediately upon accepting the terms of the agreement. Not run off for an impromptu wedding tour of Aruba on the government's dime," she observes in a languid voice. "They're probably unamused with us." He reaches down to grab a beer from the ice bucket in the sand. "Screw the bastards if they can't take a joke." She laughs, her warm body moving against his chest. "You have to admit, Mulder, that for all the times they jerked us around, the FBI really has afforded us many travel opportunities." Mulder chuckles, rocking the hammock a bit. "It was almost a challenge after a while. See how many new spots we could visit." "Mmm. Too bad you never learned how to pronounce Oregon though. We hit that one twice." He stares at her incredulously. "What the hell is wrong with how I say Oregon?" "Nothing." He takes a sullen swig of his beer. "Or-ih-gahn." Snickers from beneath the hat. "Fine. How do you pronounce it?" She draws her bare leg up against his thigh and kisses his neck. "Never mind. It's endearing." "You're a condescending drunk, Scully." "Say 'park the car in Harvard yard,'" she purrs, nuzzling his ear. "I know you've been suppressing that Locust Valley Lockjaw for yeeeahs." Her fingers trail over his hip. With one swift motion, Mulder flips her on top of him, dislodging her hat. She lands with her forearms pressed against his chest, her legs between his, and an impish expression on her face. He sleeks his hands over her hair, then runs a finger down the long, straight bridge of her nose. He traces the slight asymmetry of her full mouth. Her eyes are unfathomable as the Mariana Trench, made lovelier by the silken crinkle of laugh lines at the corners. "So you've got me all figured out, have you?" he inquires softly. "Not really," she tells him, her breath exotic and citrusy. "I've just picked things up over time. But I could never hope to have you all figured out, Mulder. You're inscrutable." He kisses her. "I don't mean to be. Consider me an open book to you." She smiles. "Once upon a time there was a boy named Fox..." "And he grew up and met Little Red Riding Hood walking through the forest. And she said, 'Oh! What a big-' " Scully presses a finger to his mouth. He nips it lightly. "What did you really think when you met me?" She eyes darken a shade, turning serious. "I thought...I thought you were different than anyone I'd ever met," she says. "You did brave, strange things even though they pissed off all the people I hoped to impress. I didn't understand you at all." "Yes you did; you just didn't realize it at first. You were looking for the truth too, Scully." She lays her head down and shakes it, the crown bumping against his chin. "No," she tells him. "For a while I just wanted explanations. I didn't care if they were true." Mulder doesn't buy this for a minute, but Scully's always been her own harshest critic. "You were afraid to believe," he says. "How could I hold that against you? I was afraid *not* to. You've always done what you think is right and I've always respected you for it, even when it made me want to strangle you." She stiffens and, with an awful twist in his stomach, he realizes that he has never given her absolution for William. "You did the best thing for him," he murmurs into her hair. "I believe that, too." Her tears are cool on his skin, but her muscles relax and she presses her cheek more tightly against him. "You've always forgiven me for everything," she observes, her voice catching like a silk stocking. "Even when you shouldn't." "You carry a lot of credit with me," he whispers, and she curls closer. They lay still for a time, skin on skin, the wind stroking them with gentle hands. "So what was *your* first impression?" she asks at length, her words muffled by his chest. He smiles to himself, looking down at the nearly-naked expanse of her back, thinking of the mosquito bites above her sensible cotton underwear. "I thought you looked like an interesting challenge," he muses. "You and your revamped Einstein. And I thought you dressed like my dad's La-Z- Boy." She punches him in the shoulder. "I thought you probably had a good sense of humor under that no-nonsense veneer," he continues. "That you were afraid your looks would undermine how seriously you hoped to be taken. The most important thing to you is being taken seriously and I bet you've been that way since you were little. All three of your siblings are of above average height, and I'm guessing those two factors have got something to do with that fancy footwear of yours." "My next husband's not going to be a profiler," she mutters. He laughs. "It's my only party trick. I can't sing classic rock or rotate my hand 360 degrees or anything." "I'll teach you," Scully says. "You'll be a one-man entertainment sensation." She turns on her side again and drapes her arm across his chest. Mulder closes his eyes and holds her like a security blanket, both of them drowsing in the afternoon heat. He runs his hands over the fine kidskin of her body, smooth as his infant son's, and finds the pain has gone out of the memory of William's tiny fingers curled around his. He thinks of his parents, his sister, and remembers birthday parties and cookouts at the Vineyard before it all went to hell. He remembers Scully, soaking wet and incredulous, laughing at him in an Oregon graveyard. Whatever strange elixirs course through their veins, whatever waits for them in DC, he can no longer muster up the urge to wade back into the fray. Someone else can save the world, he thinks, his finger idly circling the tiny scar at the back of Scully's neck. He is, for now, glad that they have managed to save themselves. As he drifts to sleep, his last conscious thought is of his partner crouched beneath the West Virginia sky, her nails crusted with the dirt of a child's grave. He will not go back alone, and he will not ask her to join him again. When he dreams, he dreams of starlight. *** The End *** Author's Notes continued: Writing this story was an incredibly weird experience in a way because I felt really, really guilty while doing the happy parts. When I wrote Inhaling The Different Dawn, I put in things that I didn't necessarily want to, but I was trying to weave together all the spoilers and snippets into something cohesive. I hated killing William off a whole lot. But it was right for the story and so I did it. Anyhow, I feel bad in a way for making them so happy in here because it doesn't exactly stay that way. But if it's any comfort, the way I envision things going after the end of Inhaling the Different Dawn is that they do live very happily ever after. I think Scully ends up at the Unremarkable House and Mulder consults for the FBI and Homer lives to a ripe old age. *** 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