Salvation at a Cost (3/3) by ElizabethAnn Email: elizabethannfanfic@yahoo.com Rating: PG Timeline: post-The Truth ~ ~ ~ Chapter Three She'd only been working for a few weeks when she began to notice the pile of newspapers beginning to grow by their front door. Half-chopped up and discarded papers from around the country and eventually from around the world in a jumbled heap, waiting to be taken out with the trash. He wasn't pacing the floors anymore. He'd done what he'd promised: he'd gotten a hobby--searching. She didn't ask what it was he was searching for. Aliens, mutants, unexplained phenomena, or maybe his sister. But, he was searching. He searched through publications with the eagerness of a pre-teen girl scanning *Tiger Beat* for a picture of her favorite non-threatening teen idol. And when something would catch his eye, he would clip it out and tape it to the wall. Scully had gone over the clips when he'd been absent from the room, and she caught herself holding her breath as she scanned the images. He was developing quite a shrine to his former life taped to the walls of their remote house. She wasn't sure what to make of it and she hadn't dared make any mention of his new hobby. She gamely took the newspapers out to the trash and said nothing as their subscription list grew by leaps and bounds. "How was work?" he called, his back to her as she entered the room where he sat pouring over something. She took a few steps forward to see what it was that was engrossing him so, and her heels crunched in the spat out sunflower seeds that littered the floor around him. She stopped short and stared down at them in disgust. They turned up everywhere. It was one thing for him to litter the Hoover Building, but quite another to have her home be the repository for his nasty habit. "I'll sweep them up," he said, still hunched over. She sighed and slipped off her trench coat, turning away. She could live with the fish tank in their bedroom. She could live with Mulder's Netflix picks. She could even live with his tendency to sprawl across their bed, leaving her little space of her own. She felt less tolerant of the sunflower seeds; she really hated those damn seeds. "I've got a new patient," she said, placing her coat on the table. "Uh huh." "A little boy. I spent the day trying to diagnose him. I'm no closer than I was eight hours ago." "You'll figure it out. You always do." He might have ultimate confidence in her abilities, but she didn't think he was truly being her cheerleader at the moment. He sounded distracted. It had already become something of a routine for them. She came home at whatever hour, he was busy devouring some random find, he mindlessly asked her questions about the hospital, and eventually she coaxed him away so they could eat or go to bed. She would have been more concerned about him, if she wasn't so relieved to have something of a routine for the first time in years. And she fully recognized that it was oppressively unfair. It would be nice once and awhile to come home and decide to go out for dinner together--ribs or Chinese. She knew he would probably like to go to a baseball game, rather than fight with the bunny ears trying to get one to come in clearly on the TV. He probably would want to visit his friends or his family, if he had had any left. She could join the real world, but she left him every day in order to do it. He'd been left behind by the world. "What are you reading?" she asked, coming over to glance over his shoulder. "Something ancient," he said, quickly shutting the magazine. Scully thought she saw "The Lone Gunmen" emblazoned on the cover as he flipped it over. She bit her lip and wondered how he had managed to get his hands on a back issue. Inexplicably, visual reminders of their past had begun to occupy their home: like the "I WANT TO BELIEVE" poster taped to the wall and a picture of the Flukeman that seemingly materialized out of thin air to be proudly displayed on Mulder's wall of freaks. She wondered if these things brought Mulder comfort or made him sad the way they did her. He spun in the chair, turning to face her, his hands on his knees. Still gazing at the mess he'd made, Scully rubbed at the knots in her tense shoulders with one hand. "Want some help with that?" he asked, standing up and placing his hands on her shoulders. Mulder's hands were always pleasantly warm. She'd known that for years, as she'd feel the warmth of his hand on the small of her back through her jacket. That warmth combined with the strength of his thenar muscles made for an excellent massage. He gave her his best smile as he began to knead her tight muscles. "Thanks," she said with a contented sigh, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, she regarded him for a second. She thought it had been at least two days since he had shaved and he was looking very scruffy. She didn't think it could be considered ruggedly handsome stubble anymore. "Mulder " "Yeah?" he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Don't you have time to shower and shave?" He let his hands slip and stepped back before her. "All I've got is time, doc," he said with an expansive gesture. "You sure? Because, you're looking a little rough." He stroked his face. "I showered like a good boy, Scully. Give it a chance: it's still coming in." "What are you talking about?" "My beard." She shook her head in bemusement. "You're not seriously growing a beard." "Yes, I am." She knit her brow and blinked quickly. She tried to think of various male acquaintances she'd known over the years: had they gone through mid-life crises that involved newspaper clipping and facial hair growth? No. Mulder was still an original. Of course, Mulder was the psychologist, but she knew well enough that lack of care in regards to personal hygiene could be a sign of depression. He still had trouble sleeping and sudden obsessive interest in work or hobbies was another indication of clinical depression. He certainly had enough to be depressed about; the second two were just the norm for Mulder, however. She glanced around at the walls around them. Maybe he was just searching for a meaning to his circumscribed life. "You don't like it?" he asked with a smirk, drawing her gaze back to him. "I thought it would help me out being *incognito*." "Have you considered that it's rather unlikely that a beard will throw anyone off that really wants to find you?" "All Clark Kent needed were glasses." "Are you amusing yourself, Mulder?" "I always do," he assured her, giving his face another rub. "So, this is part of your plan to elude capture?" "Sure is." "Even Richard Kimble was clean shaven, Mulder." "I'll take that into review." THE END For those of you too young to know "The Fugitive": Richard Kimble was the main character in a wildly popular 1960s TV series (and a movie in 1993 starring Harrison Ford) about a man wrongly accused of murder and on the run...all the while trying to solve the crime himself.