CATEGORY: SA, UST, MSR, Alternate Universe RATING: NC-17 ARCHIVAL: My site only, please. Feel free to link to it at http://alanna.net/fanfic/dark.html SPOILERS: Orison SUMMARY: Secrets and confessions in two worlds. DISCLAIMER: The characters herein are the property of Fox Broadcasting and 1013 Productions. The basic premise of this story is borrowed from the wonderful short story, "A Temporary Matter," in Jhumpa Lahiri's short story collection, "Interpreter of Maladies." No infringement is intended, and I urge all readers to read this exquisite book. Feedback is lovingly read by candlelight -- alanna@alanna.net Author's notes at end. READ IN THE DARK by alanna +++++ There's something wrong in my stars Could you look at my chart Help me heal these scars? Could you learn to read minds? And in the case of mine Do you read in the dark? --"Honey Don't Think", by Grant Lee Buffalo +++++ February 3, 2000 Alexandria, VA "The power lines on this street are ridiculously under-code," the grandmotherly woman had turned and said to him as they stood in line at the deli a few doors down the street. Mulder had smiled and nodded. "You live on this street?" she asked. Mulder told her yes, then gave her the name of his building. "Power's always on the fritz," she continued. "Those idiots at the electric company need to do something about it." The man behind the counter called Mulder's number and the old lady's words were quickly forgotten. Three days later, someone slipped a flyer under his door. "Due to recent winter storms weakening the power grid, Potomac Electric and Power Company (PEPCO) will be making essential repairs to the power lines on this street in order to prevent a failure in the event of another ice storm. Therefore, the electricity will be disconnected for necessary repairs in the 2500-3000 blocks of Hegal Place and Bentham Place from 9:00-10:00 P.M. on five consecutive nights beginning February 7, 2000." Two days later, he received a call from Marion, Illinois, saying that Donnie Pfaster had escaped. +++++ February 7, 2000 Alexandria, VA Seven miles from home, yet her feet still shuffled. Mulder watched her back as she walked into his apartment, her bag scraping along the floor because she refused to accede weakness and let him carry it. He reached around her and opened a door. "You take the bedroom, Scully. I can sleep on the sofa." As she looked into the room, he waited two seconds, then quipped, "See, I've cleaned up all the mess." Her laugh was a surprise. The tears in the laugh were even more of one. He wanted to tell her to talk to him about it, but said nothing. So he left her alone in the bedroom with the tears that he sensed had taken up residence in the space between her diaphragm and heart. A rectangular magnet with a pizza delivery number pinned the power outage flyer to his refrigerator. Mulder saw it as he went to pour Scully some orange juice. The week of shut-offs was scheduled to begin that night. He glanced at the clock: still only mid- afternoon. Skinner had told him to take the rest of the day off after the three of them had spent all morning at the police station. As he looked over to the closed bedroom door, Mulder couldn't help feeling a bit of apprehension at how the evening would proceed. His arms still trembled from the night's horror. He feared they were not strong enough to support her too. Five hours later, Scully sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa, the bed's comforter draped over her shoulders like a caftan. The darkness had come quietly, without fanfare: just a whisper of electricity in a room where the occupants' emotions were darker than the night outside. Mulder placed his two flashlights upright on the table, their beams two concentric circles on the ceiling. They reminded him of campfires and ghost stories. "It's too dark in here," Scully murmured. Eyes finally adjusted to the dark, he went back into the kitchen and pulled half a dozen utility candles out of the cupboard, along with matches and some coasters. When he returned, he could see Scully staring at his hands in the darkness. "No candles, Mulder. Please." He returned them to his cupboard and moved back to the living room to make friends with the flashlights. "The power used to go out in my grandmother's house all the time," Scully said, her voice gradually rising above a whisper. "Yeah?" Mulder replied, prompting her to keep talking. Scully shifted on the sofa; her hips moved inches closer to his, but her body turned away from him, toward the window. "Yeah. She lived on a farm on the Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake. Mom and Dad moved back to Annapolis to be near her, but she died only a few months after Dad retired. When we were kids, we used to spend summers out there. Bored us to tears." As she spoke, Mulder made all the appropriate sounds of listening, although he wasn't quite sure where she was going with the story. After glancing over at him so quickly that he almost missed it, she stared at the window again. "The power used to go out at least once a week. Whenever it did, Grandma made us sit around the kitchen table and tell secrets." "Secrets?" "Yeah," she replied, a hint of life creeping into her voice. "Not the kind of secrets on soap operas. Just little things about our lives that we thought nobody else at the table knew." Scully was turned away from him, but he could sense her wan smile. "Melissa always thought she had the most interesting secrets, but she was so horrible at keeping them that I knew them all anyway." Her hand rested next to her hip, barely an inch of black leather separating it from his thigh. He watched the way her fingers curled up as if they held diamonds. He wanted to touch them. Instead, he leaned over and picked up his coffee mug, already tepid in the quickly chilling room. Anything to tamp down the need to hold her hand. This was not the time. "Do you want to tell me a secret, Scully?" He spoke the words before he could predict her reaction. She turned and stared at him, the fuzzy beams of the flashlight ricocheting just-so off her eyes to make her look possessed, or else enlightened by the spirit of something greater than she. "You know all my secrets, Mulder." He held her gaze, feeling a slow tingle move from his toes to his face. "No, I don't, Scully. You have more secrets than I could ever know." Across her face spread a half-smile that said, 'You're right.' He wondered what secrets she thought he kept from her. He realized he had more than he'd ever imagined. Another sip of coffee soothed the immediate sense of guilt and regret. "So, do you want to do that, Scully? I tell you a secret, and you tell me one of yours?" "Not a secret, per se," she informed him, the half- smile disappearing as her face once again turned away from his. "Something about you that I don't already know." After a pause, she asked, "Do you want to go first?" "Okay." He sat still for a few moments, trying to find something simple and unthreatening to tell her. The room grew cooler. He glanced over and saw that the comforter had slipped from around her shoulder nearest him, its edges bunched up between the top of the sofa and the wall. The urge to scoot over and wrap himself in the blanket and curl into her body was almost too much to resist. A memory formed in his mind. "When you were missing all those years ago, Scully, I went to visit your father's memorial." The air in the room seemed to still with his words. He waited for her to respond, but she said nothing, her face turned toward the window. After a few moments, her low, hoarse voice said, "The gravestone at Arlington where we buried the rest of his ashes?" Mulder nodded, then after realizing she could not see him, murmured, "Yes." Her hand slowly clenched into a fist, like a flower curling back into a bud. "Why?" she asked. He considered his words carefully before speaking, trying to find a way to explain long-ago actions and motivations. "I'd spent some time with your mother. She told me about your relationship with your father and how you feared he wasn't proud of the choices you'd made in your life. I wanted him to know that I was proud of you and that you were living a life that would have brought him honor." Mulder took a deep breath. "That you were fighting for the same ideals he was, in your own way." Steady, refracted light made her face glow as she turned to look at him, tears staining the corners of her eyes. She opened her lips and licked them, drawing in breath as if she were about to speak. Then she closed her mouth and drew her lower lip between her teeth. Mulder could hear her desired words in his head: 'Thank you.' They stared at one another for a few moments, and he moved his fingers just a fraction of an inch, stretching them toward the blanket over her shoulder. "Are you cold?" she asked. He clenched his jaw but felt his teeth still chattering. "I'm fine." "That's my line, Mulder," she chided. Curious, he thought, this is the first time in twenty-four hours when I can almost believe that she is fine. So he picked up his hand from where it rested a few inches away from her own and hugged himself to get warm again. "Really, Scully," he stopped her expected protest, "I'm not cold. I'm just fine." She cocked an eyebrow at him. Changing the subject, he said, "Your turn." She shook her head. "I...." Her voice trailed away. He tried to imagine what she was thinking. He wondered if he had revealed too much, had scared her away with the weight of his confession. They sat together on the sofa as the minutes stretched out, the warmth of their just-ended conversation almost, but not quite, overcoming the chill of the room. Darkness had now swallowed his apartment; the two flashlights stretched toward the ceiling like stationary spotlights. He could almost see the bitter cold cutting into their beams. "I was terrified last night -- more scared than I've been in a very long time." Her voice was so quiet that he barely heard her words. Biting back the urge to follow up with a question, he waited for her to continue. "I think I just snapped, and while part of that was due to Pfaster's physical threat, an even bigger part of it was because I'd lost control over my emotions." Mulder held his breath, listening to her open up to him with a depth he'd never before experienced from her. "Ever since we got the call Sunday morning to go out to Marion, I'd been on edge and had tried so hard not to show it. You were treating me like I was about to break --" Mulder flinched and opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. "Yes, you were. I appreciate your concern, I really do. But when you do that, it makes me feel weaker and more determined to appear strong and unflappable." She began to slowly wring her hands. The movement appeared unconscious, and he looked away, not wanting to make her feel weak again. "I’m sorry that I make you feel that way, Scully." "No, it's okay." She reached out for his hand. "I mean, it's not okay, but...." She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not explaining myself very well, am I?" "I know what you mean." After a pause and a squeeze of his hand, she continued, "Last night I'd kept it bottled up for so long that I felt myself just snap. I started yelling, doing things I never did. I don't even remember most of it." She let go of his hand and turned to fully face him. "Then I opened my eyes and you were there." Outside, dogs barked and cars passed by his building, amplifying the silence within the apartment. "I don't know what I would've done if... well, if it had turned out differently." She murmured, "Me too. I never want to feel that way again, but maybe it's good that I did last night. Otherwise, I don't know what might have happened." He nodded, and she let go of his hand. "That wasn't much of a secret, was it? But I wanted you to know." "Thank you for telling me." Scully gathered the blanket to her body and stood. "I’m really tired, Mulder. Do you mind if I go to bed?" "Go, get some sleep. I'll be here in the morning." Giving him one last, long look, she nodded and said, "Thank you for being here for me," then shuffled through the living room and into his bedroom, shutting the door behind her. He stood and walked away on chill-trembling legs. Pressing his palm against the freezing window, he gazed down on the inky street below. +++++ February 6, 2000 Charlotte, NC Pressing his palm against the freezing window, he gazed out at the latticework of ice covering trees and power lines that effectively shut them off from the outside world. No electricity, no food -- all they could do was wait out the ice storm and hope the roads were sanded and power was restored in time for them to complete the investigation, or simply leave the hotel long enough to get something to eat. The forced inactivity was tolerable for the first two hours, but as they approached the sixth, the charm of downtime had worn thin. At least their first-floor room retained heat fairly well. Mulder shifted his cell phone from one hand to another, tilting his head in strange ways to keep the connection alive. The static disappeared once he turned his head nearly sideways, his neck bending at an uncomfortable ninety degree angle, and he had to twist his arm to punch the "2" button to save the voice mail message. "Were you able to hear the message this time?" Scully asked as he pushed "end" and dropped his hand to his side. He rolled his head in a circle, trying to work out kinks in his neck. "Yes, but not very clearly. Let me return this call first," he replied, wanting more specific information before letting her know what he'd heard. As he dialed the number he'd quickly memorized, anemic sunlight glinted off the ice and he blinked. After a ten-minute conversation that primarily consisted of "yes," and "thank you for letting us know," on his end, he disconnected the call and slipped the phone back into his coat pocket. Taking a deep breath that scraped against his suddenly-dry throat, he pushed both palms against the icy window, feeling biting shivers course up his arms. He watched a late-model sedan attempt to navigate the parking lot, skidding across the ice-slick pavement. "Mulder? What is it?" Worry echoed in her voice. The trees shifted in the wind, glinting light once again assaulting his eyes. He took a deep breath, then began. "I got a call from someone at the Chicago field office. Donnie Pfaster escaped from Marion on Saturday morning. We must not have heard about it because we've been out of town. The US Marshals Service conducted a massive search and he was found late last night. He resisted capture and was shot and killed." Her response was silence. The car in the parking lot gained traction and maneuvered onto the street, its brakes squealing. He wanted to turn around and see Scully's reaction, but continued to stare out the window. Avoidance was an old friend. After a few minutes, he felt the air shift around him. Glancing to the side, he watched her approach the window and stand beside him. With one long finger extended, she began to trace patterns on the glass that his breath had fogged. One circle, then a second, spiraling around each other. "Are you okay, Scully?" One of the rings trailed downward, like a question mark awaiting the period below it. She was not one to give subliminal clues, and he kept himself from imagining the symbol meant anything. "Yes, I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be?" The inflection of her voice did not rise; it remained flat and unwavering, leached of emotion. He did not believe her, but her voice told him not to press the issue right now. She shifted on her feet, the bedspread around her body slipping to reveal one bare shoulder. Because of the cold, they'd huddled together under the sheets until he'd pulled on some clothes to make the phone call. They'd spent quite a few nights together, naked, in the past month, since New Year's Day, when he'd kissed her and she'd taken him home. They'd emerged from her apartment thirty-six hours later, sexually satisfied and feeling a measure of long- neglected happiness. Of course, happiness couldn't last when old predators still existed in both their dreams and in the real world. The sex continued, but the satisfaction abated. This morning, they'd wrapped their bodies around each other, but he'd felt physical warmth, not intimacy, in the position. He wanted to touch her as they stood together at the window, but instead warmed his hands in his coat pockets. But he couldn’t help but wonder at her subdued reaction. "You're not upset by this news, Scully?" She paused for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. "No, why would I be?" Mulder had expected something more from her, though he knew not what. This innocuous reaction didn't fit her. Darkness lurked in her words, crawling away from his probing question. He stared out the window as she stood beside him, their bodies close but their minds worlds apart. Her fingers traced patterns on the glass, wondering what secrets she kept locked away in her beautiful, opaque mind. +++++ February 8, 2000 Alexandria, VA "I went over to my mother's house today," Scully said as he walked around the apartment, looking for another flashlight he was sure he'd stowed away somewhere. "Yeah?" he called from the kitchen. The elusive flashlight in hand, he went back into the living room and retrieved extra batteries from his desk drawer. Scully emerged from his bedroom, comforter in her arms and wearing the sweats she’d bought that afternoon. She looked tired, but beautiful, her dignity showing through her fatigue. "I didn't tell her much about what has been going on. I never do. But I was glad to see her. It kept my mind off... things," she finished, her voice veiled by things unsaid. Mulder deliberately caught her eye across the still- lighted room, and said, "I'm glad." She nodded her reply. The word had come down from OPR by ten that morning: Scully would serve two weeks' administrative leave, a week longer than the standard policy for agents involved in a fatal shooting, but the circumstances of this case were such that a bureaucrat who knew nothing of Scully's personal strength determined that an extra week was necessary. When Scully had told him the news, he'd bristled at it., but she replied, "That's fine," though he didn't believe she agreed. Fortunately, the Bureau had decided the shooting was a clear case of self- defense, despite Scully's recounting of the situation. Even he didn't want to believe that she'd made a deliberate choice to shoot Pfaster. He'd seen the shock in her eyes. She couldn't have fully realized what she was doing. Bureau policy also stated that she was required to complete at least two visits with a staff psychologist to ensure she was fit for duty. Mulder wondered what she would tell the counselor, if she even treated it as more than a simple obligation. Perhaps she had decided that Mulder would be her confessor, even though they'd barely discussed the shooting since it had happened. Perhaps her "secrets" were her way of opening up to him. She sat down in the middle of the sofa, which gave him two choices: he could either sit very close to her or else in the large chair across the room. He chose the couch. He'd set the thermostat several degrees higher than normal so the apartment would remain warm longer, and as he sat down, his bare arms stuck to the leather of the sofa. Mulder wondered how Scully could wear a sweatshirt in this heat, but said nothing. The only thing betraying her warmth was a faint sheen of sweat on her brow. The clock on the wall said 8:00, but the lights remained on. Leaning over, he turned on the flashlights and stood them on the coffee table. "Mulder?" she said. He turned to look at Scully. "Yeah?" She pursed her lips. "It was too dark last night." Mild annoyance flared in him. He fought the urge to say, 'well, what do you want me to do about it? Hook up a portable generator?' He said nothing. "I think..." she paused, "you can light some candles tonight, if you want." Irritation slithered away. He nodded and went into the kitchen to retrieve the candles and matches. The electric lights flickered and disappeared on his way back to the living room. He found the sofa by flashlight. Their weak beams kept Scully's face in near darkness. Setting the candles on the table, he fumbled with the box of matches. "Let me do it, Mulder," she said in an even voice, and he handed her the matchbox, intrigued to see her reaction after the terrible altar of candles Pfaster had created in her apartment. She struck the match quickly and began to light the votives with a faintly trembling hand. He watched her bite her lip as she lit the last candle, its glow undulating over her face. "There," she said with a surety he didn't think was true. Then she glanced at him with a look on her face telling him not to ask if she was okay, because she'd only reply that she was just fine. He reminded himself that she would have to be the one to approach him instead of the other way around. They sat in silence for a while. His worldly possessions seemed to shift and settle in the coruscating light, but that which mattered most to him sat next to him on the sofa, her thigh nearly touching his own. "I was just thinking about what you told me last night, Mulder," she said, her voice flickering with the candlelight. "I'm really touched that you went to my father's grave. It means a lot to me." She shivered, but the air around them was still warm. "You're welcome," he simply replied. "I told you that I'd seen him the night he died. Sometimes I still wonder what he was trying to say to me. Maybe he was trying to tell me that he was proud of me, like you said you told him when you visited his gravestone." She took a deep breath. "My mother told me during his funeral that he was proud of me, but I never quite believed it until this afternoon, when I thought about what you said. I mentioned it to my mother at lunch today. She wanted me to thank you." He didn't know what to say, so he smiled his response. The candles' flames wavered for a moment and cast them both in darkness; he hoped she could see his expression. "I don't know why I had such a hard time believing that it was really him sitting in my chair all those years ago. Logically, I knew it wasn't him, but I wanted to believe that he could reach out to me that one last time. Perhaps I needed time to expiate our distance before he died. And maybe I needed to see everything that you and I have experienced over the past seven years in order to fully believe that I could have a vision of him -- if that's even the best way to put it." She chuckled. "Imagine that. I'm talking to you about me having visions." "Scully?" "Mmm?" "I am so glad to hear you say that." Soft, sad laughter echoed in the room. "I never told you, Mulder, but over the past few years I've been remembering a few things from my abduction." As he processed her words, she continued, "That must be my secret for tonight." Silence filled their shared space as he carefully constructed his response. Too much might push her away. Before he could do so, she said, "It started when I was in the hospital in Allentown, beginning those cancer treatments with Dr. Scanlon. I met Penny that night and suddenly I began to remember things from my abduction. At the time I assumed they were simply hallucinations, but given what I've learned since then, I'm starting to wonder if perhaps they were indeed memories." "What do you remember?" Mulder took her silence to be contemplation, not reluctance. The room grew cooler and he shivered in his t-shirt, but he couldn't leave her now, no matter how much he wanted a sweater. "I remember being on a cold metal exam table, with some strange medical instrument coming toward me. And I remember seeing people around me, though I don't recognize their faces. I remember being scared, but determined not to show it, and kind voices telling me not to worry. I didn't believe them. I remember you sitting next to me, holding my hand and telling me to stay alive, to hold on." She shifted on the sofa, turning away from him. Mulder stared at her in the flickering candlelight. He had so much to say to her, but lacked the adequate vocabulary to express it all. He felt a need to reassure her, even though her words didn't necessarily want for reassurance. He wanted to gather her close to him and tell her that everything would be all right. He wanted her to keep talking, to tell him all the secrets she kept deep within. But he knew she had to do this on her own time, in her own way. Supporting her and focusing entirely on her in this dark time was the greatest gift he could give her, but also the biggest challenge he could present himself. He had too much he wanted to say, but this was her time, not his. Faint sirens wailed in the distance. A car's low hum echoed down the street below, reminding him that this strange darkness was local, not universal, and temporary. Brighter than the flashlights, the candlelight's glow moved over her profile as she stared at the opposite wall. "Your turn, Mulder." He had forgotten that he had a turn -- that this was an odd parlor game of sorts. "Well...." His voice faded away. "You don't want to share anything tonight?" she asked in an uncertain voice. He flinched, though her words hadn't caused him any pain. They brought him back to the reality of the construct they'd created for these nights. "No, I do," he quickly said. "I'm just trying to think of what to tell you." She shifted her body toward him again, her knee resting up on the sofa. It brushed against his thigh, and he shivered. "It's okay, Mulder. Really. You don't have to say anything." "I want to, Scully. And isn't that what you'd proposed last night -- that we'd each tell a secret?" She raised her hand, unfurling her fingers and extending her arm slightly toward him, as if she wanted to touch him. Instead, she brought her elbow up to rest on the back of the sofa, her fingers curling in a soft curve, like a seashell. "True, but I didn't tell you a secret of my own last night." He saw her eyes close in the now-steady candle glow. "That's okay. We don't have to play by any specific rules." "Do we ever?" He heard the soft sough of her breath, a near-laugh. He realized something he'd wanted to tell her, but the opportunity -- circumstantial or emotional -- had never presented itself. "I... I didn't play by the rules last fall." "Oh?" He heard reserve in her voice. "When you came to visit me in the hospital right after you got back from Africa, I listened to your thoughts." He could sense her stiffening next to him, though her body's only betrayal of that was the clenching of her fingers into a fist. She said nothing in reply. He continued, "A little while before you came in, Diana had come to visit me. She told me that she loved me and that she was doing this for me. I could hear her thoughts. She was questioning her role in the Consortium, but at that point I still hadn't realized she was working with them. For the first time in all the years I'd known her, I could actually see that she was lying to me. I hadn't believed you when you told me the same thing a year ago." He paused, wanting to take her hand in reassurance of her place in his life, but he kept his hands at his side. "That devastated me -- I'd still wanted so deeply to trust her. My mind was going in a thousand directions at once, spinning like the arrow of a compass. I was feeling very defensive and confused, like I didn't know who was lying and who was telling me the truth. And then you came to visit me. I never doubted you -- I promise that, Scully. But my mind wouldn't believe my heart, and I had to hear what you were thinking, to reassure myself that you were on my side. That you believed in me like she never had." Scully licked her lips and closed her eyes. "How could you have doubted me, Mulder?" "I didn't doubt you, Scully," he replied with as much vehemence as his voice would allow. "I wasn't myself that night -- you have to know that. I couldn't move, couldn't see, could barely even hear. I was just so goddamned confused and hurt, and I needed to comfort myself by knowing that you loved me...." He caught himself; though his telling her that he loved her was nothing new, such a statement still felt strange to say aloud. "That you were with me, on my side." "I'm always on your side," she replied, but he could hear hurt in her voice. The faint sound of a short-wave radio filtered up the four stories to his apartment; the repairs must have been moved to the power lines outside his building. Though he still had no way of knowing how much time had passed since the lights had gone off, the air around them crackled and the apartment slowly filled with electricity, lamps humming and VCR restarting itself. He looked over at Scully as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. Her face was in profile, lines etched along her forehead and her coloring sallow and tired. Pained. "Are you upset that I listened to your thoughts, Scully?" She waited a long time before replying. "Yes... no.... I don't know, Mulder. I really don't know." As she stood, he saw the faint tremble of her legs, the defeated set of her shoulders. "I'm going to go to bed, okay?" She paused, then finally looked him in the eye. "I'll set the alarm for six so that you'll have enough time to get ready for work tomorrow. Goodnight." With that, she walked into the bedroom, the bedspread trailing behind her like a dowager's cape. His own legs trembling from disuse and tension, he slowly walked into the kitchen, drawing himself a glass of water that he drank in long draughts that scratched his parched throat. Once the glass was empty, he returned to the living room and picked up the blankets and pillow he'd stacked on the floor next the sofa and began to make up his bed for the night. Sleep was a long time in coming. He wondered if the morning would bring her forgiveness, or if he'd asked too much of her. +++++ February 6, 2000 Charlotte, NC Sleep was a very easy escape. When he slept, he could ignore the sleet pinging against the windows and the chilled air filling the room. The power had been out for eight hours so far, and although the room had been quite warm for the first few hours, the cold now prevailed to an almost unbearable extent. A front desk clerk had knocked on their door a couple of hours ago, offering blankets from unused upstairs rooms and news that the local electric company was predicting that the power lines wouldn't be restored for at least another twelve hours. "Nearly a quarter million people in the city are without power," she'd said, her tone almost boastful. Scully had asked her if the hotel had any candles, but the clerk only made a feeble offer of a few flashlights and some shrink-wrapped muffins from the complimentary continental breakfast. After the other woman had left, his partner said, "I suppose asking for a refund on our rooms would be a fruitless enterprise." He'd laughed and replied, "We should at least get a refund for the unused other room." She'd smiled and began spreading the blankets over the bed. "Too bad about the candles, though. Having you alone in a cold room filled with candles would have been something for the scrapbook." But any fantasies of a candlelit room were negated when the chill began to seep through the thin pane of glass, and they'd sighed and rummaged through their luggage for more layers of clothing. A few minutes later, his voicemail notification had beeped and he'd called in for his messages. The room had grown darker while he slept, even though a glance at his watch told him he'd been out for only a little over two hours, and that it was still mid- afternoon. He raised his head just enough to see out the window, and noticed that it was now coated with a thin layer of ice, distorting his view of the winter storm outside. Even though he'd kept his moves to a minimum, they were enough to awaken Scully, who had curled her body into his as they slept. This surprised him; before they'd gone back to bed she'd almost deliberately kept her distance. Now, her arms clutched his chest, giving him more warmth than the three layers of blankets could provide. He felt her exhale on his chin; in another hour, he would be able to see her breath. The chill made his muscles tighten, and he slipped out of the bed and put on his shoes, then walked over to the window. "Are you okay, Mulder?" she asked him in a sleepy voice. "Yeah," he replied, his breath making a circle of mist on the window. He raised a finger and wrote 'no' in the fog. He wasn't okay. He'd dreamt of Pfaster. Five years had made the man's face fade in his memory, and in his dream Mulder had seen a shadowy man in Scully's apartment, turning away from him and walking toward Scully, his shoulders squared and a threatening growl in his throat. The deafening report of a gunshot echoed in the room, and he'd awakened from his nightmare, the sweat on his brow chilled in the freezing air. He'd watched Scully as she slept, her face slack, with an uncharacteristic innocence in the cool room. A dozen nights of watching her sleep beside him had mapped her patterns in his memory, but she had become even more of a mystery. When they'd first begun to make love, he'd thought he would finally have the key to all her quirks and secrets. Now, her voice took on a softer, more tender tone when she spoke to him, but she seemed to reveal even less of herself than she had in the days before. Sometimes he wished he could slip into her mind, that his ability to hear thoughts hadn't faded away after that surgery -- after whatever had been done to him during that awful time last autumn. In the handful of days that he'd had the ability, he steadfastly kept himself from listening to her thoughts, seeing that as an ineffable violation of trust. He'd allowed himself to do so only once, lost in fear and paranoia after Diana's visit and needing mental reassurances from Scully since he could not speak to her. When he regained full lucidity, he'd hated himself having done it, and had vowed to never tell her he had listened that once, and that he would never do it again were he to regain the ability. He hated keeping that secret, but feared her potential reaction even more. And so he remained silent, but couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking as she stared at him across the room, her small frame propped on one elbow and her eyes straining in the dim light. "It's too cold in here, Mulder. Come back to bed," Scully said. Any other woman would have made the words sound plaintive; in her voice they were matter-of-fact. He wiped the 'no' from the window and returned to bed, slipping off the layers of clothing down to his long sleeved t-shirt and boxers. The blankets were still warm from his and Scully's body heat. She pulled him close to her, slipping her hot hands under his shirt and tracing the muscles of his back. Although the sudden shift of her mood surprised him, his moan was the result of the juxtaposition of chill and the feel of her hot skin on his. He closed his eyes and hoped his dreams of Pfaster would not return. Did she dream of Pfaster too, or were her dreams of other grave and frightening experiences from her past? Did shadowy men perform tests on her in her dreams, masking years-old memories that she refused to let come to the surface? If she had nightmares, she never let him know. He could watch her sleep, but the corridors of her slumbering mind remained a mystery. "Something's wrong, Mulder," she murmured, her mouth close to his ear. "Are you keeping secrets from me?" +++++ February 9, 2000 Alexandria, VA The lights went off, but Scully was not home. He walked around the apartment in shorts and a t-shirt, sweating in the high furnace heat that would slowly dissipate as the hour progressed. The half-melted votive candles still stood on the coffee table, but he didn’t bother to light them, choosing instead to flip on a sole flashlight. Though he did wish Scully were here, he had to admit he rather appreciated having the apartment to himself. A loner of the best -- or worst -- sort, he preferred being alone at the end of the day. Pulling a book out of his briefcase, he fumbled with the flashlight until it was perched behind him on the back of the sofa, providing just enough light for reading. Being able to stretch out full-length on the sofa was quite welcome; the solitude was familiar. He'd read two and a half chapters of his novel when he heard Scully's knock at the door. After slipping a piece of paper in the book, he set it on the floor then used the flashlight to navigate the way to the door. She walked into the room, quiet as the night outside, out of breath from the climb upstairs and with a flashlight and two small shopping bags in her hand. He waited for her to take the lead in telling him what she'd been up to that evening, and she was settled on the sofa before she spoke. He picked up some matches and began to light the candles, trying to forget how good lying full-length on the couch had felt. "I went out and did some shopping." "Did you get anything good?" he asked. He was tempted to make a flirtatious comment about the lingerie store bag she'd carried, but such a remark seemed out of place, given the mood. She raised her arms above her head and stretched, her back arched and her long-sleeved t-shirt showing a sliver of stomach. The candlelight flickered over her skin in a wonderful way. He ordered his brain not to notice. "Just some clothes." One sneakered foot pushed at the bag in front of her, nudging it toward the coffee table. "I spent a few hours looking at furniture." He remembered the way her apartment had looked as they'd escorted the police officers on a tour, pointing out the damage Pfaster had wrought. And he remembered her excitement one night a few months ago as they drove through some anonymous town, telling him all about the great bedroom furniture she'd found the weekend before. Now that bed and bureau were splintered and blood-splattered. She'd been so pleased to learn that her building was going co-op in a few months, with the option to buy her apartment at a lower rate as a long-term resident. He'd assumed she'd stay there for years to come. In his more fanciful moments, he'd thought that perhaps one day they'd become lovers, and it would be his home too. "Do you think you'll move?" he cautiously asked. She was silent for a few moments, perhaps weighing her answer. "No." Her voice was firm. "My love for that apartment exceeds my revulsion at what Pfaster did to it." Her answer set off a flash of relief inside him; it was the first time she seemed willing to fight for herself again. Since Tuesday morning, he'd tried his best to be patient and listen to whatever emotions she shared with him, but he'd earned his psychology degree too many years ago. "I was thinking about that this afternoon, after I left the Bureau psychologist's office," she began. "Until I joined the FBI, I'd always assumed that by this age, I'd be married and have a house somewhere. It was always such a given for me. Even though I never quite subscribed to the traditional notions of what a woman should do, I still assumed I'd live a fairly ordinary adulthood." Mulder leaned forward to light the votive candles on the coffee table. He had the feeling she was about to say something important about her future, and he wanted to see her face as she spoke. "I told you that the building is going co-op this summer, right?" He nodded. "I think I'm going to buy my place. Doing so feels strange, though, like by buying a one-bedroom apartment, I'm giving up on any hopes of having a lover or sharing my life with someone in that way." He stiffened next to her. Where did he fit into this future? He remembered those occasional fantasies of living with her and being her love. Yet she had just excluded him by omission. Perhaps she viewed their future together differently than he did. Perhaps she didn't see him as a future lover. Strange, he'd always known she would be his. "I don't think you're giving up on a future, Scully," he replied, tamping the frustration in his voice. "You're trying to make the best of the present, and I think you're doing an excellent job." "Do you?" She didn't seem to want a response, and he gave none. Sitting in the darkened apartment gave him a sense of comfort. Over the past two nights, the votive candles had melted into puddles of wax, their current light wan and disheartening. The flashlights continued to etch concentric circles on the ceiling, but even their dim light hurt his eyes when he glanced upward. He was tempted to turn them off; if they could sit in complete darkness, perhaps something inside them would open -- something they turned off when the lights were flicked on. Then again, she had given him these nights of secrets, and hoping for more seemed petty and greedy. He wondered what she would share tonight, if anything. Perhaps he should make the first step. Her earlier words had brought to mind something he'd thought about often but had never actually told her. He suspected she knew. "I was married to Diana, several years ago." She immediately responded, "I know," as if by reflex. Mulder's suspicions had been correct. "It was... one of those things." He suddenly found himself at a loss to explain just what their relationship had been like, or even be able to explain it to himself. Again, no response from Scully. She shifted on the sofa, her body turned away from his. Seconds stretched into minutes, and he tried to gauge how much longer before the power would be turned back on. Perhaps tonight was a lost cause, given Scully's reticence. He'd grown so accustomed to the silence that he almost didn't hear her when she spoke. "Do you remember me telling you about Ethan Minette, years ago?" "You two were living together when we first became partners, right?" He felt no twinge of jealousy; after all, it had happened years ago. She turned around again, facing him. Scully had spent so much of the evening turning toward and away from him that he inwardly smiled, imagining her as a pendulum. "Not living together, but we'd been going out for a few years at that point." The tenor of her voice changed; it became more contemplative and guarded. "I saw him again, about a year ago. He'd already been married and divorced since we broke up." She softly chuckled. "Can you imagine? Ethan had accomplished all that in just a few years." Body pushing forward, she stood and said, "I need some water, okay?" "Take a flashlight," Mulder said, holding one out to her. As she walked toward the kitchen, the lights came back on, but she made no move to stop her progress. Mulder sat back and watched her, wondering whether she would continue the conversation with the lights on. The darkness had become a comfort, a cloak, over the past few nights. He wasn’t sure they knew how to communicate with the same candor in halogen light. A minute later, she emerged from the kitchen, two tumblers of water in her hands. Her face was guarded, shy; she did not meet his gaze when he stared at her. He took the glass she offered him, setting it on the coffee table with an old magazine as a coaster. "You were saying?" "Anyway..." They spoke simultaneously, and he chuckled. "You first." He noticed she had moved a few more inches away from him, firmly ensconced on the other end of the sofa, her legs crossed and shoulders squared. She stared down at her glass, as if examining the water for impurities. "Ethan and I started dating again. Did so for a couple of months." "When?" "Um..." she hesitated, "Last winter, a couple of weeks after I was shot. Wow," she said with surprise, "You don't know how long it has taken for me to be able to talk about that without cringing." He understood completely, but wanted to chide her for changing the subject. Where was this conversation going, Mulder wondered. He could sense Scully on the verge of a big revelation, but as much as her hesitation was an integral part of her character, it was also a source of extreme frustration. "We began dating again after that. Having him around was nice. He was familiar and easy to get along with. He reminded me of who I had been all those years ago. I liked that," she said in a wistful tone. Mulder clearly remembered those months of insecurities, tension, and confusion about just where they stood with each other. She'd sniped at him about Diana; he'd lashed out at her for making things personal. Now he saw the secrets they'd both been keeping -- his had been a marriage; hers had been a social life, an escape that she couldn't reveal to him. He knew he should say something in response, but all the words in his head seemed inappropriate for the memories, the mood. "Ethan asked me to marry him." Mulder cursed the lights for coming back on; he wanted that cloak of darkness again. "I don't think he meant it, deep down. Maybe he was lonely. I certainly was. But I have to admit that it was very tempting. I hadn't had a man in my life cherish me like that for so long, nor had I had any sense of romance. I wanted that again. I liked Ethan, even still loved him as a very old, dear friend." Perhaps the sofa had melted away from under him -- that might explain the weightlessness Mulder felt at that moment. He wanted to turn to her, fire in his eyes, and ask her what the hell she thought he'd been doing for the past six years? Yet Scully was plain-spoken. She needed specific acknowledgment, not innuendo and veiled intimations of emotion. He'd told her he loved her, but his words apparently hadn't carried much weight in her memory. On an intellectual level, he knew he was as much to blame for not showing her his emotions as she was for wanting something she believed he couldn’t give her. But that didn't stop the pounding of his pulse. His voice steeled with a carefully attained calm, he asked, "Is this where you tell me you've been married for the past year?" She did not smile in response; he knew she saw right through the lame attempt at humor. "Why didn't you accept?" "I felt like I had too much left to do. I would've kept my job, yes, but marriage changes everything. I was too committed to the X-Files and I didn't want to go back to a more normal life. And...." Her voice trailed away, and she looked Mulder directly in the eye. "I guess I was holding out for something better." She licked her lips, tongue tracing the upper then drawing the lower into her mouth. Her unblinking gaze remained locked on his own. Finally, they both exhaled and she stared down at her hands, loosely wringing them. "I've never told anyone about that, not even my mother." "I’m glad you told me, Scully," he replied, but his heart wasn't in the words. Although they had never been romantically involved, Mulder felt a twinge of jealousy all the same. They sat together in well-lit silence, as if both afraid to make the first move. He'd been in the apartment since he got home from work; though he'd felt very cocooned earlier in his apartment, he suddenly needed to be alone again, to work off some of the energy and frustration of her revelation. Yes, he'd heard her last line and realized the promise it held for their relationship, yet he couldn’t shake off the confusion the night's conversation had brought. Standing on legs that had barely been exercised since Scully arrived, he gingerly walked around her and into the entryway. "I'm going for a run, okay? I'll be back in an hour." He could feel her gaze on his back as he walked out the door. +++++ February 6, 2000 Charlotte, NC Fingertips traced his back as Scully stared at his face. He was surprised she had begun to touch him; he still stung from her deliberate distance as they'd stood at the window. "Why would you think I'm keeping secrets from you?" he asked, shivering from both the chill and from her nails against his shoulder blades. Of course, their keeping secrets from one another wouldn't be unusual; all that remained unsaid between them could fill a volume of parchment. "You're being quieter than usual. I half expect you to say, 'I'm fine,'" she whispered in his ear, but her voice was serious, not teasing. "You don't have a monopoly on reticence, you know," he replied. She remained still, her fingers pressing into his back, waiting for him to say more. "I can't shake off the Pfaster thing." "Why? Is it because the past had the potential to come back and haunt us?" He shifted on the bed and she removed her hands from under his shirt, adopting a cautionary stance. "Well, it could have, Scully. What if we'd gotten that call the other day and been called out to help in the search? You would've wanted to go out there and help find him; I know I sure as hell would have." They spoke to one another the way they would have if they were still in the office; intimacy was in the physical situation, not their words or tones of voice. She raised herself on one elbow, looking down at him. A strand of hair fell over her face, and her shoulders looked strong under her pajamas. "You're letting yourself get too caught up in the 'what ifs', Mulder. We weren't there. Nothing happened. He's dead. Like I said earlier, he cannot hurt us." Each sentence was punctuated by her creased forehead. "And Scully," he persisted, "you're just brushing this aside as if it doesn't matter. But it does matter. We've already cheated death too many times. One of these days it's going to catch up with us." She sat up straight, her shoulders squared and her eyes alert. "Let it go, Mulder. Okay? We're stronger than this." Scully was the pragmatic one in their relationship; this uncharacteristic optimism caught him off-guard. "I used to think so," he said, setting his own shoulders as he raised himself on one elbow, the blanket falling away from his body. Shivering in the sudden chill, he could feel his body becoming tense and unsettled. "But sometimes I wonder about us -- whether we brush aside the danger of our lives. Whether we need to take these threats more seriously." He paused, watching the way her body seemed to shrink as if defending itself from attack. Did she consider him a threat? "Each time one of our lives is threatened, Scully -- hell, each time I hear that someone like Pfaster has escaped -- it reminds me of the thin line we walk every day, and how close I come sometimes to losing you." Her face softened, but he knew that she wouldn't let his words stand. "Mulder, I can take care of myself. I'm not fragile." "I know." But sometimes he forgets. "I just --" he found himself at a loss for words. "I just worry, that's all." She raised her hands to her face, rubbing her eyes then cupping her chin. "I worry too, but I don't let it get the best of me. If I did, I don't know how I'd be able to live with myself." Her eyes closed and a sad smile painted her face. "Ethan used to ask me how I got up in the morning, knowing what you and I might have to face that day." Her eyes flew open, as if realizing that she'd said too much. "Ethan?" he said, wondering about the man whose name slipped so effortlessly from Scully's lips. She pursed her mouth. "My old boyfriend. We... we've kept in touch over the years." He watched her face, seeing the process of changing the subject. Someday soon he'd ask her to tell him more about this other man, but right now his attention was focused on the present. "Do you ever think about leaving the Bureau, Scully?" he asked, afraid of her answer but also sincerely curious. She rolled over onto her back, once again creating distance between them and giving him the impression that she didn't want him to look at her as she answered. "Sometimes, yes. But I stay, don't I?" "Yes, you do." Her answer wasn't enough, and he continued, "But why do you stay?" Her reply took nearly a minute in coming. "I like my job. I have questions I need answered." She paused. "You." It was the answer he'd expected her to give, and this left him dissatisfied. He wanted her to say more, to show him the passion that he knew she must feel. But her words were perfunctory, without heart, as if she were reciting a party line. "Do you think you'll leave someday?" "I'm here now, Mulder." She sighed. "I'm exactly where I want to be." But for how much longer? he thought. He wished he could truly see her answer in her words, but the room was dark and though she lay next to him, she felt miles away. Fear and danger lurked outside, in the sleet pinging against the windows and the darkness of downed power lines. And it lurked inside, in words left unsaid. +++++ February 10, 2000 Alexandria, VA "Another night..." she hesitated, her voice rising with the question, as she settled her body onto the sofa on this, the coldest and darkest night so far. He held his breath as she curled her body into his, slipping an arm behind him and around his waist, then seeking out his hand and clenching it tightly. Her head resting on his shoulder, the blanket arranged around them. The world felt different in that moment -- better somehow, but also sadder, more contemplative and foreboding. She tucked her legs under her, and he felt her body soften. "Rough day?" he asked, then she stiffened and he realized how she had taken his words. Unable to think of suitable words to make it better, he remained silent. Speaking would only serve to assuage his guilt, anyway, and most likely would not help her. "I.... The therapist and I talked about..." Her speech came in fits and starts. "Well, more than I'd expected. He asked me how my work had affected my outlook on life." Her deep sigh traveled up his body as her hip pressed into his and her breath coursed over his chest. "As you can imagine, that was a difficult conversation." Mulder suppressed a shiver of fear. This conversation had threatened them so many times over the course of their partnership, and each time, he'd been afraid to hear her words. He had his own ideas of how it had affected her world-view, none of them positive. Even if she were to say something positive, he wasn't sure he could believe her. And although he knew that shared pain needed to be expressed, he wanted to live in his world of Scully- denial for a bit longer. Telling him of her pain would force him to recognize it, to comfort her when he knew neither of them could be comforted. "You don't have to tell me what you told your therapist, Scully. It's okay." She tilted her head up to look into his eyes, which he hoped didn't convey his fear of what she might say. "You don't want to hear it?" "I do," he quickly responded. "I just... I just want you to be comfortable." "I am." Under the blanket, her fingers traced his kneecap. "We're not good at conversations like this, are we?" Her laughter was sad. With his deep breath came the scent of her hair, so close to his face. "No, we're not. But we're getting better." "Yes, we are." She remained silent for several long heartbeats, her deep breaths echoing in the room. Each exhale seemed to make the candles flicker. "Thank you, Mulder, for letting me stay with you this week. Your support has meant a great deal to me." "Always," was his simple reply. He owed her everything, but his silence paid this debt. After a few minutes of companionable silence, she began to speak, her voice lilting and contemplative. "One thing these past seven years have done is make me into an adult. I felt so grown-up when I joined the Bureau, but looking back, I realize that I was living life on the surface. For better or worse, my experiences on the X-files have matured me, helped me to find my place in the world. I've found new obligations and purposes to my life -- things that might have passed me by if I had remained a simple forensic pathologist in a lab or morgue somewhere. My soul feels older and wiser now." "I'm glad," he replied. "But you do know, Scully, that if I could, I'd trade all our years together and the pain and fear they've brought, if you could regain some of your idealism and optimism." He stopped himself, realizing that he'd said things he didn't think she'd appreciate. She pulled away from him, turning to meet his gaze. "Do you think I'm no longer idealistic and optimistic, Mulder?" Her voice held concern and curiosity, not anger. "Sometimes those two qualities are all that keep me going." The corners of her mouth turned up in a sad smile. "I suppose I'm not very good at showing that, am I?" No, you're not, Scully. He did not tell her this, but her eyes showed that she knew. "But you are right. Sometimes pessimism gets the better of me, like when I had cancer...." Her voice trailed away. Blood sang in his veins, fear gripping him like the echo of police sirens in the rearview mirror as he sped down a road. Cancer. Such a simple word, a collection of six letters with the power to stop him dead in his tracks. Cancer. Loss. Devastation. The three words had long ago become irrevocably linked in his mind. He wanted to stop her, to steer her toward a different topic, to plead no, Scully, don't say that, don't make me feel the way I do when I think of those months three years ago. Please don't. "Did you know, Mulder," she continued, her eyes closed as if blotting out the emotions that must be clearly painted on his face, "that I was so close to giving up?" No, Scully. Stop. "The pain was unbearable, as was seeing the way it affected my family and my future." She paused, turning to stare at him. "And you. I wanted so badly to remain strong for everyone, but in those last days when I was in the hospital, death seemed so close. My oncologist told me my chemotherapy treatments were promising, you were out trying to find a way to keep me alive, and I prayed so many times I can still feel the rosary beads pressing into my palms. But despite my show of optimism, I was so ready to give up. To die on a high note, with my dignity and surrounded by those I loved. I'm nothing if not a realist, and remission was just too remote a possibility." He could feel the energy of her words filling the room like birds, picking up the pieces of his shattered heart as it melted on the cold wooden floor. "But somewhere in those dark hours," she reached out for his hand and he gave it to her, his cold, stiff fingers curling around her own, "I found a reason to live. I can't put a name to that reason, but it filled every cell in my body, killing the cancer that was trying to kill me. I'd like to think that it caused my remission, not the chip or the chemotherapy. That I'm alive today because I found a will to live." "I prayed for you, Scully." His voice ran ahead of his mind, speaking of its own volition. She arched her brow, but with gentle curiosity instead of derision. "Your doctor had pulled me aside and told me to prepare myself for the worst -- that you might not make it through the night." Mulder shivered with the memory. "I'd never felt so powerless before, even when Samantha was abducted. I thought about your utter faith in your God, and realized that despite my reservations, I had nothing left to lose. "So after standing by your bedside, watching your life seem to drain away as you slept, I went down to the chapel and prayed for you. I asked your God to take away your pain and give you back your life." Her hand clenched in his, and he heard the faint sound of her tears. "I don't know what I expected, but I couldn’t feel anything. I guess I thought that God's presence would fill me, or that I'd have some tangible proof of His response. When nothing seemed to happen, I couldn't let myself give up hope that easily, because that would betray my prayers. So I lit a candle for you. "And as the flame grew," Mulder's voice dropped to a whisper, and he felt tears smarting at the back of his throat, "it felt as if that fire was your life. Growing again." She leaned into him again, and he raised his free hand to tangle in her hair, the color of that flame three years ago. "The next day, you called me into your room and told me that you were in remission." She shivered, and neither made any pretense of holding back tears any longer. Her hand squeezed his, and she whispered, "Thank you." He pulled her close to him, fitting her body alongside his own, and stared at the candles on the table -- two lives flickering together. +++++ February 6, 2000 Charlotte, NC He pulled the bedspread over their bodies, Scully's hair tickling the edge of the blanket. Cold air continued to fill the room, but their combined body heat managed to keep them somewhat warm, at least for the time being. Yet, he could still feel tension filling the room. Although they lay together on the bed, words left unsaid remained between them. Mulder looked over at Scully's face, inches away from his own. Soft and unusually pale in the dark room, her face appeared drawn, tired. Not quite wizened, no. Wise. Full of secrets and perhaps the occasional lie about which he'd rather not know. She had said she was exactly where she wanted to be. At this moment, she didn't even seem to want to be touching him. But he had to touch her. He moved his hand under the blanket, seeking her hand but finding the curve of her hip, outlined by the edge of her underwear. Their physical chemistry was still strong, unchecked by the emotional distance between them. She shivered. "I'm glad you've stayed, Scully. Without you, I couldn't...." He let his voice trail away, unable to complete the thought. Turning to look at her, her gaze told him that she understood, but it was too veiled to tell him much else. "C'mon," she said, slipping out of the bed and holding out her hand in invitation. "Let's warm up." Sex taking the place of intimacy. Although they hadn't spent many nights together, this was something he had imagined she might do, even back in the days when sex with her was his fantasy instead of a reality. In the days before, she might have said, "I'm fine" to change the subject. Now she didn't even have to say any words, only take off her clothing. The flesh was willing but the spirit was weak. Mulder knew they shouldn’t do this -- that they should channel their energies into speaking to one another. But he was desperate, and afraid of spending however many more hours in a tension-filled room with her. If sex worked away some of the strain, he would take what he could get. He followed her into the small bathroom, watching her back move under her satin nightshirt. Her shoulders could lift mountains, but they weren't strong enough to be honest with him. Composing a thank-you note for water heaters powered by natural gas, Mulder shed layers of clothing and slipped into the shower spray with his partner. As scalding water chased away goosebumps and unsettled tension, he joked, "I can last as long as the hot water does." The quip did not fit the mood; a quiet Scully reached for the bar of soap and began to rub it over her chest. He leaned against the tile, watching the way her body functioned with calm surety. When she shifted under the spray to rinse herself off, he grasped her shoulder and pulled her close for a kiss. High heels helped to physically equalize them during the day, but in the shower she stood too far below him, forcing awkward positions. Rocking back on her heels, she moved out of his arms and rested a palm on his chest, her nails tangled in sparse hair. "Let me wash you first," she murmured, the sound swallowed by the pounding water. He held his breath as she rubbed the bar of cheap hotel soap over his shoulders and arms. Each nub of the ensuing washcloth scraped at his skin; Mulder felt alive in a way he hadn't in far too long. He was alive, she was alive, and their skin was quickly becoming warm in a wonderful way. But 'alive' does not last forever. He had to seize the moment and push away life's precariousness. Mulder held his breath as she finished rinsing away the soap. As the shower spray filled the space with humidity, he felt swollen, ripe. Blood surged through his body, making his penis hard and his cells sing. Raising a hand to his face, he cleared water from his eyes and looked down at Scully, her skin red and glowing. The washcloth in her hand fell to the porcelain below with a wet thud. As if dancing an old ballet, he curled one hand around her waist then pivoted her until she faced away from him, her back pressing into his chest. Closing his eyes, he drew their next fifteen minutes on a storyboard in his mind, then loosened his grip on her and stepped back, pulling aside the shower curtain and retrieving two towels from the bounty on the rack above the toilet. When he drew the curtain closed again, she stared at him with questions in her eyes. She stepped out of his way as he bent down to spread the towels along the bottom of the tub; porcelain did not forgive knees nearing middle-age, and the wet terry provided them a makeshift cushion. With a quick glance of confirmation, she turned her back and sank to her knees before him. He looked down at her water-darkened hair and the ruddiness of her neck, and knelt behind her, his knees on either side of hers, both sets pressing into the wet towel. Shifting back until their hips met, she sighed, a sough of air in the cacophony of noise. Although she'd lived her life as a woman of rationale, not instinct, his Scully seemed to know just what to do. He watched as she braced her hands on the edges of the tub and turned her head to the side, catching his gaze in a sidelong glance. He covered her hands with his own, feeling vigor in her every carpal bone. As he positioned himself and sank into her, he remembered her earlier words. She was not fragile. She was a goddess, with a Roman nose and dark, wet curls and a lean body, capable of love and fight and lifting mountains with a fingertip or a well-chosen smile. All these elements created the woman he loved, and as he moved within her, he believed he was all those things too. Together, making love, they were stronger than an army of warriors, or Pfasters, but perhaps weaker than their own fears and insecurities. If they could stay like this forever, they wouldn't have to face everything outside their room. One hand left its grasp of her own and curled around her belly, pulling her toward him with each thrust he made between her legs. Her hothouse flower clit warmed his balls as they slapped against it, and he scarcely noticed the needle-spray of the shower as it grew tepid. She may have said something -- her head turned toward his and he saw her lips move -- but the blood singing in his veins combined with the loud shower spray to swallow her voice. Water once again fell over his eyes, but as he closed them against its invasion, he saw her tongue move against her teeth, shaping an "L". He carried the sight into his mind's eye as his vision blackened with his approaching climax, and he imagined her tongue was forming either the first part of his name or simply her own orgasm. Mulder leaned into her as she threw her head back, and her wet hair wiped the water from his face, a tender caress in the midst of their furious bodies. He bit his lip and slowed his thrusts as she rode out her climax, giving her this ecstasy before resuming his own. And when he did, he felt her clench her thigh muscles and pull her other hand from under his, lacing their fingers together and unraveling her body into a smile. She was soft beneath him, but still so very strong. He came inside her, and the water blessed them with lukewarm kisses. As his pulse fell from an aria to a lullaby, he let himself believe that everything was right between them. That old opponents weren't still a threat, that they didn't keep secrets from one another, that the ice would never melt and draw them out into the real world. Life would be so much easier if they could just escape from it. But the water grew cold and she slipped out from under his body. He reached behind him and turned off the shower, then tried to stand on sex-weakened legs, his body's lassitude protesting the movement. Scully drew the curtain aside and stepped out onto the tile, pulling one of the remaining towels from the rack and quickly wrapping it around her; goosebumps appeared prominently on her skin. He followed her out and repeated her actions, wishing this were a luxury hotel with terry robes to make him dry and warm. Pulling her close, he tried to smother her body with his, but he felt her stiffen in his arms. His memory shifted back to five years ago, when he'd held her as Pfaster was taken away by the police. She'd cried, and he'd tried to make her feel safe again. So much had changed since then, but the fear remained. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Scully," he murmured. She craned her head around and gave him a serious smile. He backed away, wondering what had caused her change of heart and chased away the intimacy they'd just shared. Wrapping a towel around his waist and draping another over his upper body, he hurried into the room and over to their suitcases, pulling on a pair of jeans and the heavy sweater he'd had on earlier. He rummaged through her suitcase for clean underwear, and his hand brushed against her day-planner on top of her clothes. Glancing at it long enough to push it aside, his gaze caught the top page, labeled "To- Do List." The second entry stated, "Call Ethan, cancel lunch Thursday." He stared at the entry, remembering how she'd mentioned the name earlier. Mulder remembered that they'd been dating when he and Scully were first partnered, but didn't know they were still in contact. The rustle of bare feet on carpet caught his attention, and he looked up to see Scully staring at him as he held the organizer. She held his gaze for several long seconds, then turned toward the bed, pulling on her long shirt and holding out a hand for the underwear he'd procured for her. The loose fabric settled over her body, blurring the planes of her figure as if it were a suit of armor covering up their intimacy. She was Scully again, not his lover. Sometimes he thought that their lives were much easier before they'd begun to sleep together. Back then, they would have talked to each other instead of using sex to fill in the blanks. It was a pleasurable substitute, though sometimes it felt too easy. False. A low rumble filled the room, which suddenly filled with light. They both glanced up, startled, as the power shifted back on with a groan. He shivered, then looked at her. Scully's face was somber, all of its earlier ecstasy wiped away. She looked sad and tired. He turned away from her, not wanting to see her face that way, as if it negated all they'd shared in the bathroom. Walking over to the window, he placed his palms on the icy glass. The steam from the bathroom had warmed it, and he once again saw the "no" he had written earlier. Once again, he heard her footsteps, and felt her next to him before he saw her in his peripheral vision. They stood at the window, not touching one another, and stared at the melting world. +++++ February 11, 2000 Alexandria, VA Holding her hand as they walked home from dinner at an Italian place down the street was wonderful. Hearing her laugh at a silly joke he told was even better. And having her tell him that she'd rather stay at his home one more night despite the call saying that her apartment was ready for her to move back in, well, that made him truly happy for the first time in ages. "It's too late for me to go over there tonight," she'd said. "And I'd rather go back during the daylight. Is that okay with you?" "Whatever you need to do is fine, Scully," he'd replied. "How about I come with you tomorrow and help you get settled again?" "I'd like that. Thanks." A soft smile had played over her face. He began to believe that they just might make it through this all right. Scully's personal strength had once again helped her to save herself. And now they stood together in his kitchen, Mulder putting the leftovers in his refrigerator while Scully opened a bottle of wine. Opening the door, he noticed his fridge shelves stocked with groceries and a few foil-covered plastic containers. "I cooked, okay?" she said as he looked at her with curiosity. "I can't promise that it's any good, but it's a start." Yes, it was all a good start. He'd seen the way she'd shuffled around his apartment earlier in the week. The place was much cleaner than it had been before she took up temporary residence. He'd always kept a fairly clean house, but intriguing little Scully touches such as freshly washed sheets and polished wood peppered the apartment; he even suspected she'd thoroughly dusted the blinds and labeled all his videotapes. Her actions had a strange intimacy which he found he liked. When he'd asked her about it, she replied, "It gave me something to do during the day." Mulder wondered just what the days had been like for her while he was at work and she was on suspension. She'd dutifully reported that she'd made her two visits to the psychologist, and that she'd done a little shopping and spent quality time with her mother. But he knew that not being able to work must have eaten away at her, especially since she'd told him that morning that she'd finally made her peace with Pfaster's death by her hand. "I realize now that I acted on instinct, that I saw him as a threat to me and reacted the way I'd been trained to act. I was still disoriented and frightened from my struggle with Pfaster. My need for self-preservation took control of me, blotting out my rationale, and I fell back on the instincts I'd honed over the past seven years as a field agent." She'd glanced over at him, as if checking to see that he followed her train of thought. He nodded, and she continued, "If I could do it over again, I might have reacted differently. But Dr. Sampson helped me remember that I'm stronger than any threat posed to me. That when I let something like Monday evening overwhelm me, I let myself become fragile. Mulder," she said in a sure, strong voice. "I'm not fragile. I will never again let a man like Pfaster break me." He'd nodded his agreement, but he thought of his need to protect her despite his respect of her strength. She was not fragile, but life was, and he couldn't help but want to fight to keep her safe. He did not tell her this. Mulder glanced over at her shoulders as she reached up to take wine glasses from his cupboard. Her strength could lift mountains, and was powerful enough not to be overcome by Pfaster or even the weight of her own fears. Shaking himself out of his reverie, he wiped his hands on a dishcloth and glanced at the clock on the microwave. It read "9:23", and the fluorescent light overhead still shone brightly. "Hey, Scully?" "Mmm?" she replied, liberally filling the stemware. "The lights are still on." She looked around the room, as if disbelieving him despite the obvious evidence. This exasperated him so often, but tonight he was charmed. He walked into the entryway and picked up the slip of paper he'd only vaguely noticed as they'd entered the apartment. "Due to expedient PEPCO service," it read, "all repairs to the power lines on Hegal Place and Bentham Place have been completed ahead of schedule. Potomac Electric and Power Company thanks you for your patience and understanding." Footsteps along the wood floors echoed through the entryway. "What is it, Mulder?" He crumpled the flyer and tossed it into the trash bin in the living room. Three pointer -- he still had the touch. "Power line problems are fixed." "Ah." He heard disappointment in her voice, and discovered that he felt the same way. They would not have a confessional darkness tonight. The spell had been broken. She walked over to the window and stared out, her hands resting on the desk. He watched her toy with a pen, turning it end-over-end in her hands. When he moved to stand next to her, she shifted closer to him, her body fitting perfectly along his. "Would you like to know my secret for tonight, Mulder?" she whispered in his ear, standing on tiptoe and grasping his shoulder for balance. "Yes?" He pretended not to notice what an unusual action that was for her. "I feel stronger now than I have in months." She took her hand off his shoulder and put it around the other, drawing him close in a makeshift hug. "Thank you for this week." He smiled. "And thank you for letting me help." They stood together, arms around one another, looking out the window at the streetlights below. The world was light again. +++++ END, "Read in the Dark" My deepest thanks to Syntax6, Diana, Jintian and Alicia for throwing me a lifeline -- this is as much their story as mine -- and to Narida for top-notch grammar guidance. Jhumpa Lahiri's short story, "A Temporary Matter," gave me the idea for this story, along with being a breathtaking tale of secrets and loss. You can purchase the Pulitzer Prize-winning book, "Interpreter of Maladies," at Amazon.com. Thanks for reading, and I'd love to hear from you! cheers, alanna 1