George Hale (6/17)
by invisiblefriends

Feedback: bettyteddyandray@gmail.com
Rating: PG-13
Summary: After IWTB, life goes on.


Chapter 6

It's not the shitty muffler of the truck that wakes him up, it is the
sound of human pounding on the front door, followed by human
voices.

Mulder has 'overslept' again; his new phrase for crawling back into
bed once he has seen Scully off to work with a smile and a wave.

On the way to the door, he passes George Hale who is behind the
couch, hiding from the noise.

Mulder's tumble down the front steps a few weeks ago has set their
relationship even further back. The limping and banging he had to
do to get from point A to B didn't help. Then, the crutches a fed up
Scully brought home made it even worse. He only stopped using
the crutches a few days ago and he thought the nerves in this dog
had finally settled down.

Two delivery truck men are standing in his doorway. One of them
is holding an envelope in his hand. The other is holding out a
signature form and pen.

"What the hell is this?" Mulder asks, taking the envelope. He stuffs
it in his pocket and signs for it. These aren't the usual delivery
people he deals with, from the order companies, who know his
name by now, and everything else about him. These two are
independent, and obviously not happy about having to drive this far
out into the wilderness for a 3x5 envelope with a cheque that likely
contains more than they will see in a year.

"By the looks of the envelope, I'd say - whoa, look at that killer-"

His head is peering around Mulder's shoulder.

George Hale is crouched behind the table now. There is a strange
look on his face. His tail is between his legs. Mulder isn't sure but
he thinks the dog's teeth may be showing.

"That's my dog," he replies, still staring at the envelope. He swings
the door behind him.

"Have a nice-" the man with the clipboard calls sarcastically

"Yeah, whatever." Mulder sighs and stares at the dog. "What?"

George Hale backs up, his eyes on Mulder. He is trembling.

"Those guys?"

A terrible feeling hits him that George Hale has a memory and these
two guys just triggered one of its highlights.

"Damn it, George Hale - tell me what to do and I'll do it and you
don't have to live here looking like I'm the monster..."

But the frustration in his voice just makes it worse and George Hale
shrinks his little body as small as he can and slinks out of the room.
He is still shaking an hour later.

"I told you, I don't know what set him off." Mulder adds
sarcastically, "He wouldn't *tell* me."

Scully has called to ask him about one of their bank accounts.
Mulder ignored the question and went right to the delivery men.

"I don't know what to tell you, Mulder. These dogs have histories
we'll never know about. My guess is that one or both of the men
reminds him of something that happened to him. The woman at the
shelter thought he might have been used for fighting, by the look of
the scar across his muzzle."

"He doesn't strike me as a fighter."

The line is silent. They are both thinking the same thing. Bait. This
idea makes both of their stomachs turn.

"Listen," Scully says, forcing reason back into her voice. "Keep an
eye on him. I'll take him out tonight when I get home, and we'll do
something normal with him."

"Great, he can ignore me outside *and* inside"

"It takes time, Mulder. He saw you protecting him from them by
closing the door. It's another step in the right direction."

"My optimistic little partner."

"So, what did you buy this time? Another toaster?"

He makes a face at the phone. "Yes. Pink. To match the blender."

Between a defeated dog and a battered box, Mulder spends the
rest of the morning trying to find a reason to shower and change for
the day. He knows what is in the envelope. - the return address of
G. Simpson Publishing is hint enough that it and he delays opening it
as long as he can.

Seven Thousand Dollars. The cheque is made out to *Fox William
Mulder for Seven Thousand Dollars for Advance for Services
Agreed to by G. Simpson Publishing.* In other words, money for
a book he is supposed to write; the book that Scully has no idea he
is working on.

"Christ," he says, dropping onto the couch. Nothing like three '0' s
and one '7' to get the old pressure going. For a moment, he
considers ripping the cheque into pieces.

"Hey, George Hale, you want seven grand?" he calls over to the
dog. There is only the sound of nails clicking further away in the
kitchen.

"Me neither."


*"I used to call myself when I felt that anonymity was a
necessity. Now, I am D. Lumer because I worry that nobody
will care who F. Mulder is or was. I should have said no the
minute Skinner conveyed the message that someone was
interested in paranormal real cases - folklore, I think I heard
Skinner quote. It was fine with the bureau, he said, as long as
they have a look before it goes to press. Just don't write
anything derogatory about the bureau. Why did I take this
offer? For myself? Scully? When she was pleading for me to
see reason, to let go of the past, she told me to write it down;
my history, my baggage - all of it. Stop trying to chase it and
just archive it. Skinner's offer came along and I have trying to
do just that. Trying - as if the act itself is enough of an effort. I
don't kid myself that it is. The arrival of this advance - special
delivery, no less and all that runs through my mind is, what the
hell was I thinking and what the hell are they expecting; every
chapter I write sounds like another dry, ordinary paranormal
detail. When I first wrote of these cases, these histories,
centuries ago, the reports were detailed and complete. They
rivaled Scully's in terms of accuracy and scope. Now, looking
back, these same cases and histories lack any kind of
animation and I was desperate enough to think I might be able
to bring them to life again." FWM*

Mulder steps outside twice that day; once only because George
Hale made whining noises. Other than that, his ass is numb from
sitting on this chair and trying to come up with a reason to finish the
paragraph he began two days ago. The advance he got for
promising this crap is growing on his conscience and he isn't even
halfway through the day yet.

At three o'clock he wanders outside again and makes a decision.
He is going to go for a run because if he doesn't get out of here
right now, he may go well and truly crazy. He used to go running all
the time, when they first moved in; he couldn't stay still in this house.
He ran hard, trying not to feel so restless and suspicious; waiting for
something to settle inside.

His foot is still sore but it will take him where he needs to go
because that's what feet do. He won't bother to offer the leash to
the dog. Mulder isn't in the mood for any more rejection.

Until he changes his mind, Mulder kills as much time as possible
changing into an old pair of sweats. He sits down on the front chair
and continues the charade, one shoe at a time. He thinks about
what he is about to do. With any luck, he will still be out when
Scully comes home and she will know that he has at least made an
effort to stay outside for longer than it takes a nervous dog to pee.
He may even start up the truck and leave it running long enough to
make her think he has used it. Maybe back it up to the fence and
back, make some convincing tire tracks. If the ground is too cold
or dry for tracks, he can take a bucket of water with him and soak
the ground before driving over it.

"For godsakes," he hisses, fed up with the him who is who is now
coming up with stupid ideas to keep his partner's peace of mind
where it should be. Disinformation used to be his greatest enemy,
but if Scully doesn't get that look of worry off her face, it is going to
become his best friend. He hates worrying her. She has spent years
worrying about him physically, emotionally, mentally and she
doesn't need to be doing it here, in the safest place, the land least
likely to take his life or his mind, or his mental faculties. But she is.

He holds on to the banister and takes careful steps down the porch
steps. His foot still hurts and ever since tripping over the damn dog
a month ago, he has had a slight phobia about doing it again. He
never used to feel this vulnerable when he was vulnerable to all
kinds of danger. Now, three wooden steps and a solid banister
have him practically on tippy-toes. Times have changed.

Mulder isn't sure exactly why he can't bring himself to do this
anymore. Maybe because he is no longer in the city and he can only
run on properly paved cement. That's crap, though. He's got
running shoes, he can handle any terrain. No, it is him, it is his issue
with leaving the property. Scully is right. He has a big problem.

The number on the display is familiar - one she used to see when
they were on the road.

"Sir." She can't break this habit when Skinner calls. She doubts she
ever will. This man, who was their lifeline for a year will always be
deserving of that title.

"Do you have a minute, Scully?"

"Of course," She carefully leans over and closes the door to her
office. "You're calling from your other line?"

"Don't I always?"

"Yes - no - I guess I forget you don't need to use the - never mind."

Skinner, as he always does, gets right to the point. "Why isn't
Mulder returning my calls? The many I've placed to your house and
left on your answering machine."

Scully is drawing a blank. "When did you - I wasn't aware you'd
left any messages."

"Well I did. Plenty of them. Is he all right?"

Truly baffled, Scully nods. "As far as I know. He was hobbling
around last month with a bad foot but there's no reason he wouldn't
have answered the phone."

"He knows I need him to get back to me - could you have him call
me by end of day."

"Yes. Of course. Is there anything I should know?"

"Best leave that up to him. Apart from that, is everything all right? Is
there anything you need?"

"We're fine, thank you. "

There is a pause on the line. The waiting kind. Finally, he asks,
"What's wrong, Scully?"

She has become that transparent to someone other than Mulder
and her mother. She isn't sure if this is a good thing or a bad one.

"Mulder?"

"Something is off." Scully picks up a pencil and begins filling in a
round doodle she started last week. "He is spending more time in
his office, more newspapers are piling up, spread about the floor.
He has become so quiet."

There is a strange hesitation in Skinner's voice. "What has he been
working on?"

"I don't think he's working on anything. He said he was finishing up
an article but I think that's just to keep me off the scent. I don't
remember the last time he finished or even started anything. "

"Maybe he has hit a dry spell."

"No, then he becomes restless. He used to go for long walks.
Now, the only time he goes outside is to the end of the drive to
pick up the mail and his daily newspaper. The only people he talks
to are the delivery men who bring what he orders from the
internet..." She digs the nib of the pen deeper into the paper. "I've
seen him lose his family, through cases that turned him inside out,
when he was moved from the X-files onto mind numbing desk jobs.
He has very strong sense of self that he has always possessed to
pull himself up. He found what he needed to keep going through
what happened to his sister, to his family. But I don't see that now.
He's living a life where nothing happens and the darkest enemy is
himself.

"He once told me in a parking garage that he didn't even trust his
own instincts any more. He had given up. And as he said this, I
watched him slide down a concrete wall to the floor without even
realize it, giving up without realizing it."

Scully snaps the end of the pencil and realizes she has been talking
non-stop, embarrassed at the unexpected monologue. But she
knows Skinner is listening. Even with so many years away from
their work together, he still manages to look over their shoulders
and listen when necessary.

"He's just being typical Mulder," Scully concludes. "I'll have him call
you tonight."

"You call me too, if you think I need to know anything. I'm not that
far away."

And, damned if he isn't.

Skinner hangs up and stares at the phone for a long moment. He
picks it up and dials slowly. "Hi, it's me....."


There is a path through the back of the property that will take him
to a side road that at least has half decent paving. The one that goes
past their house is full of pot holes, the occasional road-kill and lots
and lots of ways to hurt yourself if you aren't paying attention,
which he isn't these days. So he'll take the safe route.

He sets out for the fresh air. The property is overgrown, goes for a
mile or so and is so depressing, he thinks he should turn around and
just go home. Trees are sticks pointing out of the grown, a few of
them promising leaves and colour, but none of them living up to this
hope. It rained a few days ago and there is still mud where there
was no sunshine to dry it up.

Mulder keeps an even pace as he dodges low, sharp branches. So
far so good on the foot. A bit of ache, but nothing debilitating. He
keeps his eyes on the ground for the next step is amazed each time
that he completes it without suddenly dropping down through the
ground. The ground is soft and dangerous. Branches are hidden
under mud, leaves are wet and sneaky and waiting to cause trouble.

Mulder thinks about the book and quickly shuts it out of his mind.
He thinks about George Hale and puts that out of his mind. He
thinks about Scully and would like to put her out of his mind but this
isn't as easy. She is in every careful step he takes, every left or right
turn he decides to make, Do you really want to go that way? Do
you really think you will get anywhere taking this path? Do you
really think you are fine? What if he can't see this book through?
What if Scully finds out? What if she doesn't?

"Shit!"

His bad leg has just made contact with a rock and sent Mulder
flying into the air with a good thud landing on his side. Mulder sits
up and considers never getting up ever again. Why bother, he
thinks. Why the hell bother. For the next fifteen minutes, he will sit
where he is and tries to come up with an answer. And when he
thinks he can face his world again - the house-prison, the dog who
hates him, the book that will never be finished because it will never
be started, the life he used to have - when he thinks this is
manageable, he pulls himself up with a tree branch, and limps home.


*Remember to talk in simple terms to your new family member.
He is in a new place, with new smells and new sounds - your
voice and words are his link. Don't use too many words when
one or two will do. If you say, 'Come and Sit'. This will confuse
them. You have issued two commands in one and the dog may
be unsure as to which to follow. Let him know what you need
from him in simple words. Success in this relationship will
depend on clear communication of both of your wants and
needs. - You &Your Rescue Dog"*

Mulder beats Scully home by twenty minutes. In that time, he has
jammed his filthy clothes into the washing machine and jumped into
the shower. If she asks why he is washing his running clothes, he
will say he is freshening them up, preparing for the first run of the
season or some other such bullshit which she might be too tired to
question.

From the shower, he can hear the front door open, and then slam
shut. Then he hears her march into the bathroom, yelling, "Mulder".
He knows she is angry when she calls for him, knowing damn well
where he is. A running shower is a dead giveaway to a former FBI
agent.

"What!" he calls over the shower stall.

He hears her bark something at him and reluctantly, he turns off the
water. Mulder pokes his head out and snaps, *"What?"* louder.

Her face tightens. She still has her coat on - she means business.
"When did you last take him out!"

"Who?"

"Who the hell do you think I mean? The dog. When did you last
take him out?"

"I don't remember. A while ago." And it hits him. 'A while ago' -
meaning this morning. Shit. The dog must have had an accident
while Mulder was out feeling sorry for himself, having his own
accidents.

"The smell of urine can sink right into the floors if you don't clean it
up right away. And according to the book, if any scent lingers, he
might go to the spot and think that peeing or pooping there is
allowed."

"Since when do you care about stains?"

She is only contained enough to glare at him. *Since you resumed
being an asshole!* 

"Is that what that look is, Scully? So you would like me to run and
clean up his pee?"

Scully is in a filthy mood. After Skinner's call, the memories of
thoseAfter-The-Bureau-& On-the-Run and After-the-Rundays
paid a rare visit and too many of them still sting. Mulder becoming
isolated, Mulder not talking, Mulder slipping further away from
both of them into a darkness he could never tell her about. And
now, according to Skinner, Mulder is keeping secrets.

"Fine," he spits out. "I'm sorry, I'll go clean it up."

She stands there, in the middle of the bathroom staring at him.
"Why the hell are you showering *now?*"

"I don't know, Scully, it just seemed like the best thing I could think
of to *really* piss you off when you got home. I've been in here
shivering for the last half hour, just *waiting* for you to walk
through that door."

Scully leaves. Over her shoulder she calls, "You have to let the dog
out, Mulder, he doesn't know how to use the door handle or the
toilette. Without opposable thumbs, these tasks are difficult for a
dog. And when a dog is forced to go in the house or someplace it
shouldn't, that resonates with him."

He shames himself, is what she is saying. Well, Scully can't Mulder
any worse than he has shamed himself. Mulder had spent twenty
minutes sitting in mud, and she is lecturing him on how to let a dog
go to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, he emerges from the bathroom with a towel
around his waist. She is sitting on the bed, her coat lying next to
her. George Hale is on the floor. When he sees Mulder, he crawls
out of the room.

"I'm sorry," Mulder says. "I was working in my office and I lost
track of time. It won't happen again."

"Why do we even have a dog if you can't remember to take him
out."

It's too easy. He tosses back, "You're the one who got him, you
answer that," without a thought. And when he sees her hesitate, he
realizes he has just asked The Question. And there is no going
back. "Why did you get him, Scully?"

She is about to stand up - his question sits her down again. "I beg
your pardon?"

"I been clamping my tongue not asking you this but I'm asking now.
What is the real reason you got this dog?"

"I've already told you my reasons."

"And those were your real reasons?"

She is getting closer to losing it. "What other reasons would there
be?"

The washing machine burps its last gasp to tell him it has finished. "I
wonder - I've wondered if part of the reason - part of the attraction
of having a dog to look after is in some way a connection to
William."

She isn't sure if she should be horrified or just plain insulted. William
is a subject she and Mulder stay away from. They know how the
other feels, and they do what they can when them of them begins to
sink towards the plug hole. But they don't talk about him. They
can't. It hurts too much.

"George Hale is about George Hale. My world does extend
beyond my son, you know."

"I didn't say that it didn't -"

"You, whom I once accused of letting his sister's disappearance
defining who you were and what you did. And I was wrong."

"Okay, I'm sorry, Scully. I was wrong."

Scully is willing to let this be, to take the branch and leave this
subject forever. Until she hears Mulder think aloud, "I wonder if
William has a dog."

She gets up and quietly storms away from this man.

In a second he is following her into the living room ready to jump
into the opening he has just created for himself. "Why can't I talk
about him?"

But she is beyond huge elephants disguised as simple questions.
"Leave it Mulder."

"We can barely say his name, we don't display any pictures of him.
Why the hell can't I at least mention him?"

She whirls around. "Because I can't!"

He takes a breath and tries again. "I realize that you don't want to
talk about certain things - people... him. I respect that, but at the
same time, *I* want to talk about him. There are things I want to
ask - about what things he did, what made him laugh - that's all I
want to say. That's all I will say. I just wanted you to know where I
am coming from." Mulder waits through the silence. He knows she
won't be the one to end it. "Fine," he finally says. "It's done."

There is so much Scully longs to say and even more she longs to
never have to think about again. So she won't.

He makes the mistake of changing the subject by looking out the
front window towards the road and remarking stupidly, "You forgot
to close the fence."

"What the hell are you - That fence is a waste of my time, Mulder.
It's a useless collection of wood and screws that you think will
protect you from every power that might be hiding behind the trees."

"Actually, it is just a fence."

"For what? What purpose? I mean, who are you trying to keep out
Mulder? The conspiracy? The neighbours? The law? The
conspiracy is dead, we don't *have* any neighbours and we're not
sought by the law anymore. So what the hell is left to keep out?"

"You know as well as I do, we can't afford to just let things swing
open and shut. You've never considered simple caution?"

"The only purpose as far as I can tell that damn thing serves is to
give you a job to go to once a day so you can close it after I've
gone."

"Don't go there, Scully," he warns.

"No. Exactly. God forbid I go anywhere."

Mulder turns back to the bedroom and changes into a clean pair of
jeans. He isn't sure, but he thinks his legs may be trembling. He
can't believe he has just said what he has just said about William; he
didn't know it was all so tightly packed in there like that.

"Sorry, George Hale," Scully apologizes when she is in the comfort
of darkness, away from the house. She wonders if she will ever
trust herself to let the dog off the leash. She will wait for a time
when both she and Mulder are in better moods. A silent argument
about who should go and find the lost dog on a dark winter night is
not what is needed these days.

George Hale sniffs and wags his way along the path to the long
driveway. She didn't forget to close the fucking gate, she just didn't
bother. She never bothers anymore. This rickety, eighteen foot gate
of protection and security is Mulder's fantasy and if he wants to
open or shut it, that's his problem, not hers.

"Come on," she says when George Hale has sniffed enough. "Let's
go close it in case any of the neighbours are watching." Scully
smiles at her small joke. Neighbours are something George Hale
will never know if they stay here forever. *Forever.* A terrible
word.

At the sound of her voice, the dog's head turns, waiting for the next
words. He has become devoted to this human being. He was from
the first contact in the shelter when she put her hand out so carefully
so that she wouldn't startle him.

She suddenly wants to unload everything about William to this dog
but she can't. Even this is too hard. "I'm sorry if - I'm sorry about
the atmosphere in the house is ... When he brings up that damned
fence ..... The first thing he did when we moved here was fix it. We
finally stop running and can start a new life - and what`s the only
thing he cares about? That the fence was up and visible. This isn't
our usual life, George Hale. I don't know if Mulder and I even have
a 'usual' life to return to. Or begin. When we lived in DC our
relationship was ... We're not usually like this. Or maybe we are, I
don't know. We've been through so many turns in the last few
years, let alone the last fifteen   maybe this is how we really are... I
worry that this is as good as it will get - as we will get. And as for... 
him... I don't talk to Mulder about him. Actually, there is a lot we - 
I can never talk to him about it."

If sympathy is a sniff at a cracked brick in the grass, then George
Hale has just given her his all.

There is nice, companionable silence as they reach the top of the
drive. Scully grabs the fence and swings it shut.

"We actually separated for a while," she reluctantly admits, and
leans against the fence. "When we stopped running, and made this
our home, I took an apartment near the hospital because it seemed
logical for early and late shifts. The truth is, it was easier when I
was away from him. We had spent almost a year driving, running,
at the most only a motel room away from the other. I know it was
hard on Mulder when I moved out. I missed him terribly but it was
too soon to set-up house. We would meet for lunch, occasionally
dinner - sometimes he would stay over. He began to leave some of
his things in the bathroom drawer - toothbrush, shaving kit." She
smiles. "I didn't find his week's supply of underwear for a month.
And then I got the invitation from the FBI and when the helicopter
returned us to the property, Mulder asked me if I wanted to stay
over instead making the long drive back into town. I said yes. And
I moved back home the next day."

Even during the bitterest of times on the road, there was never ever
a question of one of them walking away from the other because
both of their lives depended on the other; and that security gave
them both extra fire power when the going got rough. And now,
standing still, the luxury of knowing the other cannot leave has
evaporated. Anything can happen. Anything is up for grabs, both of
them included.

"Come on," she gently says. "I bet he hasn't fed you yet."

They climb the front stairs, foot and paw steps making a familiar
sounds, the kind she remembers from her childhood, climbing the
pathway from the river to the house in the summers. Walking on
tips of toes; even, patient sound tap-tap-tap. When Mulder bought
the house, the steps were eaten away - he wanted to replace the
lumber with cement; she said no - wood.

Mulder has turned the lights on, that warm glow starting at the door
and reaching into every corner. These are the nights she loves to
come home to. Trust Mulder to give her a do-over; trust Mulder to
do it at the wrong time.

He is sitting on the couch pretending to read a magazine. He
doesn't know what to say, so he comes up with easy talk. He asks,
without taking his eyes from a 'Depends' ad, if George Hale did
number two.

"No." Scully unhooks the leash and hangs it up on the hook next to
the door.

"Oh."

They are reduced to talking about the dog's bowel movements.

"Where did all that mud on the porch come from?" Scully tugs at
one boot, then the other.

"I don't know," he lies. "Scully, I didn't mean the comment about ....
It just came out. Sorry about ..."

"That's *not* why I got George Hale and you know it."

"I know, I just said that." He shakes his head. "Bad day?"

"Yes. No. Just long."

Skinner's call took care of any peace of mind she had left.

He puts the magazine down and pats the cushion next to him. "Sit
down and tell Uncle Spooky about it." She knows that voice. She
has been hearing it for a long time now; Mulder trying to sound
natural. Now, he just sounds like a defeated man who had to limp
home.

She yawns and drops her head on his shoulder. "Dinner?"

"I just put it in. Should be done in ten or so."

"Thanks."

He watches her eyes close and wonders if she is going to drift off.
She often returns home exhausted and asleep on the couch by the
time dinner is ready. He should be used to it by now but he's not.
He has seen her running after three days, no sleep and never this
tired. Maybe it is just age catching up to them. He's not any
younger either. Mulder the night owl became Mulder the old man
when they stopped running and moved into this strange house.
Now, they are both asleep by ten o'clock.

"Mulder..."

"Mmm?"

"We have to talk."

He braces himself for the worst when words like these come out of
her mouth. *'I'm leaving you. I've met someone else. I think we
need another dog'.*

She opens her eyes and sits up tiredly. "Skinner called me at the
hospital today. Wanted to know why you haven't returned any of
his messages."

Mulder learns forward and scratches his foot. "Oh. Well. I'll call
him back then."

"When?"

"Tomorrow." Mulder hoists himself to his feet. "I'll go check on
dinner."

Standing at the oven, stirring their dinner with a ladle, Mulder can
hear Scully stop in the doorway.

"What's wrong?"

"I think I may have added too much salt."

"You know what I mean."

He stirs a few more safe moments, his back still to her.

"Don't make me stand here guessing."

A plea he once made to her. *Please don't make me go out of
my mind with worry.*

He turns around, puts the spoon on the wood table. Wood on
wood. Camouflage. He could do with a little of that right now. "He
wants to talk about a job."

Scully breathes again. "A job?"

"Yes. Job. It's one of those things you do and they give you money
for it..."

"Mulder, stop it. He's offered you a job? With the bureau?"

He looks down at his feet "Yes. It wouldn't be in DC. He wasn't
specific about where."

"That's - why didn't you say something?"

"I don't think it is a good idea, Scully."

She thought she knew what a *Good Idea* was; a *Good Idea* is
an opportunity to restart something of a normal life. In a place that
wasn't DC. "Why?"

"It's too soon. We need to keep a low profile for a while longer."

"Says who? Skinner wouldn't suggest this unless he knew we would
be safe. You know that as well as I do."

Mulder nods and turns back to the stove. The soup is ready and he
twists the knob to *off.*

"We need to talk about this," Scully says, pulling two bowls from
the upper cabinet.

"I was going to tell you."

"Were you? Really? When?" She puts the bowls down and waits
for the answer as guilt at this superior outburst takes over. Miss
Hypocrite, please step up.

"I just needed more time."

*For what,* she wants to know. *To come up with a half decent
story if he got caught? To come up with at least five decent
reasons why they should stay here for another year?*

"I have something I need to talk to you about, then," she puts the
bowls, and spoons on the table off the living room as the term
hypocrite dances through her mind.

"Oh, great."

"It's not bad - I probably should have talked to you about it sooner - 
I mean, I *should* have talked to you about it sooner - I didn't -
Never mind." They sit down at the table, an antique that Mulder
managed to include with the house. "I've been investigating other
job opportunities."

"You have?"

"Yes- Nothing specific..."

"Jobs... here?"

She avoids his eyes and says only, "No."

He feels as if she has just kicked him in the stomach while
confessing to an affair with every man who works at the hospital.
"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I need your permission to look at other jobs?"

But they both know this is not what she means. They both know,
that given any interest on her part, Scully could have her picks of
jobs in any city in any country in any universe she chose. -she wants
out of the nest and ambition isn't the reason.

"What kind of jobs?"

"It turns out that there is - there was an opportunity at the Boston
University for me to join the Toxicology Research Department."

Even though it is not an option, she won't mention Washington
General, the only one of the offers she actually wants. It's the
location that strikes it off the list.

Mulder sits back in the chair and tries not to show how anxious he
feels right now. One incredibly insecure part of him wants to ask if
she wants to include him. She might not. She didn't do it once
before, she may be ready to cut the cord now. The conversation
screams in his head.

"When did that come up?" he asks tightly

"A few months ago. Again last week. Boston called wanting to
know if I'd made any decisions."

"And had you?"

"I would have told you, Mulder."

He smiles dangerously and takes a sip of the soup. "I'm not the only
one full of surprises, am I?"

"No." Scully lowers her eyes. "I suppose not." Why the hell can't
she tell him how much she has been aching to leave this place and
start over any other place in the country.

"And what did you tell them?"

"That I hadn't decided yet."

"And was that the truth?"

She lets her spoon drop into the soup and tries not to take offence
at the question. "Yes, Mulder. It was the truth. I haven't decided
anything yet, nor would I without talking to you about it at length."
She knows how he gets when something unknown in her creeps his
way. Mulder being backed into a corner outside his comfort zone is
an insult waiting to happen.

"What do you think you'd like to do?"

*What would I like to do? Besides go home to DC, start over
and forget much of this lifetime even existed except for you
and -*

"They are just offers, Mulder. I don't know if I would even go to
the interviews at the preliminary stage."

"I thought you liked being a regular Doctor."

"I do. It's just ... not that black and white." She tries to sound
genuine as she picks reasons out of the air. "Everything at the
hospital is so tense right now. Nobody agrees with anybody. The
politics surrounding this Futility Policy - its making me think twice
about staying. I'm not sure how long I can put up with this
nonsensical back and forth with a man who clearly has no intention
of budging in his position; or a board of directors who show no
intention of backing off in their support of him."

His voice softens. "I didn't know work was that bad."

"It's not .... It is   but ... it's not all work related."

Life, she thinks. It's just life.

"Why didn't you say anything? This involves both of us, Scully."

"And your offer from Skinner doesn't? I'm like you, Mulder, scared
to death of the next step. Looking ahead seems so ... big."

What follows is the sound of two people who are both ashamed of
their silences and equally protective of them. It is a dangerous
combination.

"Tell me more about Skinner's offer."

He shrugs. "There's not much to tell. He was going to give me more
details when I call him back."

"I think we should go," she says, surprising both of them with this
announcement.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't mean specifically to the bureau." Scully looks directly
across the table at him. "I think we should leave *here.* You take
your offer, or I'll take mine or we'll find something else. Its time
Mulder. It's past time. For both of us. We need to move on or else
we are going to stay here forever."

The conversation Mulder has been dreading is now creeping up in
plain view. He should have seen this coming. "I don't agree. George
Hale - Scully, can you get him to stop pacing, its driving me crazy."

The dog has been nosing between their chairs, waiting for someone
to drop something.

"We've done this too long, Mulder. I want to move on."

"And what, in your opinion, constitutes moving on?"

She could kill him when he gets like this. Superior and defensive.
This trait hasn't changed since the day she met him.

"Going back to a real city with real people. Seeing people than
each other for long periods of times. Saying good morning to
strangers. Waiting in line for a coffee that's going to taste good
when you finally get it. Not having to watch you become more and
more isolated."

"I haven't been alone since you got George Hale." Bullshit. More
often than not, being avoided by a dog who should be used to him
by now has distanced him even more from the world.

She wants to give up. She is too tired to have this conversation right
now because she knows she will say something he will jump on,
either to his advantage or her detriment.

"Scully - I know you want what's best for me - for us."

"They why didn't you tell me about the job offer? Because you
knew I'd want you to take it?"

"Partly," he gives her.

"I want my life back, Mulder. I want my life, my mother, my
brothers.... My freedom. I need it. We both do."

He has no idea she felt like this. But he knows how much she needs
these things. He has always known this and never loses sight of
every single thing she has done for him from the first time she didn't
laugh at one of his theories to bringing home a dog who needed to
be saved. But he is not prepared for what she says next.

"And I want people to know who you are. That the mysterious
Mulder is this wonderful man whom I cherish more than anything on
this earth and not some mythical partner I've invented in my mind."

"Scully ...."

"I don't expect any of this to change, Mulder. I know things are
different from your perspective, I know how hard this last year has
been on you and that you're doing the best you can. I ... I just want
you to understand."

Her eyes are filling and she wishes to God he could not see this. It
doesn't happen often but when it does, she immediately feels
thrown under the pity light and is ten times weaker.

"I'm sorry - I didn't know you felt that way -"

"It doesn't matter."

Silence, which is usually companionable around this table, is louder.
Mulder clears his throat. "I found a couple of dog training books on
line. I might order them tomorrow."

"That's a good idea." And she means this. George Hale has been on
her mind, as with everything else that has been piled into the corner
of the overloaded space up there. She is worried he has not met
any people or dogs other than her and Mulder. Someone at the
hospital had a dog that went after a smaller dog because they had
not socialized it properly.

She is suddenly exhausted from the battles of the day. "I'm going to
shower and go to bed. There's a report I need to start."

He watches her push her chair back and take her bowl back into
the kitchen. As usual, George Hale gets to his feet and follows. His
collar makes a distinct rattle.

"Scully - " he calls after her. But he stays where he is. There is so
much he wants to tell her. The book, the advance, the way nothing
is coming out the way he wants it to. Why Skinner's offer has him
scared shitless.

She pokes her head around the door. "Yes?"

"Nothing. Get going, I'll clean up here."

George Hale is sound asleep on the floor sleeping next to her side
of bed on floor. He has been sleeping here for the last few weeks.

"Snow is starting to come down," Mulder says returning from his
shower. He flops down on his side of the bed and rests head on his
elbow. He traces his finger along her hair until he gets her attention
away from the laptop she has sought refuge in.

"We'll go back, Scully, wherever it is you need to be."

She gently puts the laptop lid down. The lights flicker, announcing
hibernation mode she hates so much. "I think we just need to start
thinking about our options. What Skinner has, what my options
might become ... let's start thinking about them."

"We start with your options," Mulder corrects "We go where you
want to go."

"No, we go where it's best for both of us."

"Scully, you've given up so much for me - the next place, step, it's
about you."

She knows better than to argue with him. He has that look on his
face, the one that is settled with himself.

He reaches over and, with one arm, lifts the laptop onto his
nightstand.

"I might need that," she protests.

"Not for what I have in mind. Well, unless you plan on keeping a
journal. *'Dear Diary, tonight Mulder was so..."*

She raises an eyebrow. "Forgetting about last time?"

It wasn't pretty. George Hale had wandered into the bedroom
when he heard unusual giggling and strange squeaking sounds. His
first instinct was to growl at Mulder with a stern warning. When he
realized it might not be his alpha at risk, he backed up. He was so
puzzled by what he saw that he didn't know which one of his
people he should be defending from the other. He began to prance
back and forth until his two humans - entwined in some kind of
ritual - stopped what they were doing and stared at him until it
dawned on them what his problem was. No, it wasn't pretty.

Mulder has the solution for this tonight. "George Hale," he coos
politely. *"Get out."*

But Scully has a funny look on her face. She lifts the laptop back
onto her lap. "Not right now."

This isn't something the other hasn't heard or said before - a year
on the road has taught them the art of blunt honesty - but it still feels
like shit to be on the receiving end.

Mulder gulps in semi-mock shock. "I'm being denied?"

"Two nights in a row isn't good enough? Not tonight, Mulder. I'm
tired and I need to get a start on this."

"Okay," he says, trying to sound like a good sport. He knows when
to follow her lead. He always has.

"Do you mind if I keep the light on?" she asks politely.

"No. Keep it on." But he does mind. He suddenly minds very much
that she wants to keep a light on; that she wants to work on a
report instead of having sex with him; that she tried to find a way
out of here and kept it a secret from him; that she wants to move on
and didn't tell him. Mostly, that she wants to move on and he
doesn't.

And, most of all, he minds how much this last detail is disturbing
him so much.