TITLE: Blood Ties 7: Gaining Some Perspective
(Blood Ties Series)
AUTHOR: Dawn
EMAIL: sunrise@avenew.com
ARCHIVE: MTA, Xemplary, Gossamer - others are fine, just let me know
SPOILERS: Various through season 7
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: SA, AU
KEYWORDS: MSR, 3rd Person POV
SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully's vacation, as seen through the eyes of three
very different observers.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, and Frohike belong to Chris Carter and 1013
Productions. Grey McKenzie and Rosa Olivares are my own creations.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story is for all of you who asked for a glimpse of
"the vacation that never was" from Blood Ties 6 - you know who you are.
Since I don't write smut, you'll just have to use your imaginations and
fill in the blanks. And I *know* you all have vivid imaginations! <VEG>
I promise the next installment in this series will be a nice, long,
angsty one. <g> As always, much gratitude to my wonderful betas: Donna,
Laurie, Nikki, and Vickie. Here you go, Vickie! I said I could do it in
three! 
FEEDBACK: I crave it. Please feed my addiction!



Blood Ties 7: Gaining Some Perspective (1 of 3)
By Dawn


Part 1: Grey
Georgetown


"Mulder, not the Knicks shirt! We're going on vacation, not grubbing
around the gym!"

"That's right, Scully, the operative word is *vacation*. As in a time
for relaxing. That shirt is the most comfortable one I own!"

I settle back into the overstuffed cushions on Dana's couch, nibble a
cinnamon raisin bagel, and enjoy the show. Listening to these two pack
is more entertaining than an episode of the Simpsons.

"No wonder it's comfortable -- there's so many holes you might as well
not wear anything!"

The leer is audible. "Not now, Scully. My brother's right in the next
room!"

An exasperated growl followed by the snap of a suitcase lid tells me
that this time my brother has gained the upper hand. When Dana emerges
from the bedroom, however, she doesn't give the appearance of someone
who's just lost an argument. Her blue eyes are soft, her lips curved in
just the hint of a smile. As Fox steps out behind her, carrying the
luggage, she tucks the smile away, along with a strand of auburn hair.

Fox sets down the suitcases and offers me one of his patented smartass
grins. "See to the bags, will you James? The missus and I will be along
directly." The accent, undoubtedly mastered during his Oxford years,
holds just the right level of snobbery.

"Sure thing, I know right where to put 'em," I drawl, offering him the
one-fingered salute.

His eyes light up, though he does his best to look insulted. The only
thing Fox appreciates more than delivering sarcasm is getting it back,
in spades. That razor-edged wit is always searching for a worthy
opponent, and I can't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction when I
manage to provide one.

He wanders around the apartment, checking that appliances are turned off
and nothing essential has been forgotten. I take the opportunity to
covertly observe him under the guise of reading the newspaper.

Fox is actually healthier than he's been in several months -- though
that isn't saying much. Barely recovered from a life-threatening bout
with an alien virus, then sustaining near-fatal injuries when caught in
the blast from a bomb. And right when we all thought he'd weathered that
crisis, less than a week before Christmas he contracts a nasty case of
Bronchitis that lands him back in the hospital for a couple days.
Fortunately some high-powered antibiotics and enforced bed rest put him
back on his feet and home for the holiday.

He's still not the man that showed up on my doorstep ten months ago.
What was once lean has become just plain thin, jeans riding low on his
hips and the belt a notch tighter to compensate. Skin still a little too
pale and an economy to his movements -- a natural reaction to offset
residual weakness that I don't think Fox realizes he's adopted. And he
still naps in the afternoon, though Dana discreetly warned me not to
mention it.

Though it's obvious he still has miles to travel on the road to complete
recovery, my eyes see only how very far he's come. Eating like a horse,
chafing under the medical restrictions, and generally driving us all
crazy -- glorious Technicolor compared to the monochrome man lying near
death in a hospital bed. I glance up and catch Dana watching Fox fiddle
with the computer, her eyes suspiciously bright. She senses my scrutiny,
but rather than evading it her eyes lock onto mine and the corners of
her mouth turn up as we share a conspiratorial grin.

In another time, another place, I could easily have shared my heart with
this woman. Instead we share a love for the always brilliant, frequently
troubled, and occasionally infuriating man who is currently pulling
files off the computer's hard drive and copying them on a disk. And I'm
content.

"Mulder, you are *not* bringing work on this vacation," Dana says
firmly, rolling her eyes and moving to peer over his shoulder. "I let
the disreputable tee shirt slide, but I'm not budging on this one. The
laptop stays right here."

Fox widens green eyes and juts out his lower lip in a pout designed to
turn Dana's iron backbone to jelly. "Scuh- leee." His voice is low and
husky, coaxing her to reconsider. "We're going to be stuck in the middle
of nowhere, just sand and water for miles. I grew up near a beach, so
believe me when I say I'll get bored. What do you expect me to do with
myself?"

Dana's annoyance morphs into a Mona Lisa smile. She slides her arms
around Fox's waist, slipping her hands into the back pockets of his
jeans so that she's essentially cupping his ass, and rises up on tiptoes
to whisper into his ear. Even from across the room I can see the abrupt
increase in his respiration, the flush that creeps up from his collar
and heats his face. The disk drops unnoticed onto the desktop, he pulls
her close, and I can only watch with bemusement and a touch of envy as
the world around them ceases to exist.

After several minutes I decide it's either speak up or they're going to
miss their plane. I clear my throat indelicately and endeavor to look
offended. "Please, y'all, show a little restraint. Not in front of the
hired help."

Fox breaks the kiss with visible reluctance, resting his forehead
against Dana's for a long moment before turning toward me with a sunny
smile.

"Let's go then. Suddenly all that sand and water is looking mighty
attractive."

Chalk one up for Dana -- except Fox doesn't seem to view himself the
loser. He bats my hand away from their suitcases, growling that he's not
an invalid and we make our way down to my car.

"Whoops! Let me get that," I say, clearing Kristen's jacket and a couple
empty soda cans out of the back seat so that Dana can get in.

We didn't make it to Kristen's apartment until the wee hours of the
morning. Too tired to unload the car properly, we just stumbled in and
went to sleep. She was still out like a light when I left for Dana's
apartment.

Fox comes around the trunk, handing me one of their suitcases. As I
shove Kristen's aside to make room, he ducks his head so that he can see
my face.

"So, how did Kristen like Christmas with the McKenzie clan? I don't see
her -- she did make it back alive, didn't she?"

Did I mention my brother has a smart mouth?

"She's home, asleep. She was pretty worn out after the trip," I reply,
stowing the second case and shutting the trunk with a bang.

He waggles his eyebrows and gets a wicked grin. "I'll bet."

I give him a check to the ribs but I can't help laughing. "From the
drive, you pervert! We didn't leave Raleigh until ten last night, so it
was after midnight by the time we got to her place."

Fox turns to lean against the car, arms folded across his chest. In the
blink of an eye the lecherous look has vanished and he's studying me
with a ghost of a smile that overlays real affection.

"Seriously, Grey. I know this was your first Christmas with someone
other than Kate. Spending it with your family just ups the ante. How did
it go?"

When Fox wandered into my life ten months ago, my feelings were
ambivalent. Now I often find myself wondering how I lived 43 years
without him. He can be arrogant, insensitive, and hardheaded in the
extreme but it's tempered with an endearingly childlike gentleness and
vulnerability. Hard not to be drawn to someone so willing to question
the known and embrace the unknown.

I prop myself beside him and search for a response. "Christmas
was...good. That doesn't mean it was without the odd moment here and
there. Sometimes I'd look over at Kristen, helping Mom in the kitchen or
cutting up with Shannon and Kira, and suddenly..." My throat closes up
and my eyes burn.

Fox keeps his eyes on the passing traffic but leans subtly to the left
so that his shoulder brushes mine. "You saw Kate," he murmurs.

I nod, blinking hard. "Kate loved Christmas. She'd get down on the floor
and rip the paper off her presents like one of the kids. Seeing Kristen
in her place was...disconcerting."

Fox finally turns his gaze on me, and now I'm the one fascinated by the
activity on the street. "I don't really have to point out what's wrong
with that statement, do I?" The warmth in his eyes softens the words.

"I'd rather you didn't," I answer, my own tone considerably more frigid.

Fox releases me and turns back to watch an older woman tug an
apple-cheeked toddler down the sidewalk. "Sounds as if everyone liked
Kristen. I don't suppose just anyone could pass Shannon and Kira's
inspection."

I don't know if it's the psychologist or the profiler in him, but at
times he has a nearly psychic ability for saying just the right thing. I
feel the knot in my stomach loosen accompanied by a rush of gratitude.

"Oh, I don't know," I reply, pretending to mull it over. "They like
*you*."

He clutches his chest and feigns mortal injury just as Dana's door
cracks open and I see a flash of copper hair. "Ah, gentlemen? If you two
are just about done bonding, maybe we could catch that plane now?" she
suggests dryly.

There's not an ounce of real irritation in the jibe, and as Fox scoots
around to the passenger side of the car I see her following his movement
in the rear view mirror. Dana is ever the scientist, a keen observer. I
have no doubt she monitored our conversation in a similar manner,
allowing us space until we finished. I smile to myself -- a necessary
quality for keeping up with my impetuous, curiosity-driven brother. Fox
has met his match.

Our drive to the airport is quiet and uneventful. By this time most
people are at work, so traffic is light and we make good time. When
we're nearly to the terminal, Fox has a brief and relatively mild
coughing spell, something that's occurring with less frequency as his
lungs continue to heal from the bronchitis. He bends slightly forward,
smothering the hacking as much as possible with a handkerchief.

A flicker from the back seat catches my eye and I look into the mirror.
Dana is sitting rigidly upright, teeth worrying her lower lip and
fingers laced tightly together. When Fox sucks in a ragged breath of air
one hand makes a tiny, abortive movement toward his shoulder before the
other captures it and drags it back to her lap.

"You okay, Mulder?"

Her tone is smooth, casual -- a direct contradiction to body language.
He waves her off with a scowl directed more toward the coughing than the
polite question. The spell subsides and only I understand how much
effort that assumed indifference cost her.

No one enjoys being sick or injured, but Fox regards it as a personal
affront. He's completely intolerant of his own weakness, ignoring or
downright disparaging most doctors and continually pushing the envelope
on the recovery process. Thank God for Dr. Nick Brewer, whose
irreverent, "rebel without a cause" attitude and straight, pull no
punches style has managed to earn my brother's complete respect -- if
not complete cooperation. Without him, I don't know that any of us would
have survived the past few months.

I have a pretty good idea what made Fox this way. Like most abused
children, he tries to absorb the blame for our father's actions and
absolve Bill Mulder from guilt. He won't openly admit he's a victim, but
here and there small trickles have slipped past his defenses - a bitter
disclosure in the heat of anger, an unwitting confession after a few
beers -- and I've pieced together a frighteningly clear picture.

Bill Mulder was a man eaten up with a guilt, whose only outlet was his
sensitive, troubled son. The anger that he didn't dare vent on his
colleagues, the blame that he couldn't afford to place on himself, he
directed toward Fox -- young, nave, and very vulnerable. And Fox sucked
it all up like a sponge -- that he was to blame for our sister's
disappearance. That he would never quite measure up to our father's
expectations. That he was unworthy of love. And that he was powerless to
change any of the above.

Dana and I are giving him that power, I hope. But it's baby steps. Bill
Mulder had years to instill this mentality in Fox. Neither Dana nor I
are foolish enough to think we can undo the damage overnight.

I pull into a parking spot and get out to help Fox with the luggage,
ignoring his protests that I don't need to see them off. When we get to
the metal detectors, Dana reaches reflexively for the small of her back,
then smiles sheepishly when she remembers that her service weapon is
locked safely in her desk. Fox leans over to mumble something and I hear
the words "frisk me, Scully?" She lifts an eyebrow and rallies with a
comment about "packing heat" that puts that delighted glint into my
brother's eyes. Her fingers trail down his arm and brush against his
palm until he curls his own around them, one corner of his mouth turning
up.

Baby steps.

"So y'all will be getting to Key West later this afternoon," I say,
making conversation as we walk to the gate.

After Fox was injured in the hospital bombing, and then fell ill, Doc
Brewer gently suggested that maybe they should keep their vacation
domestic. My brother's immune system is still weakened from the virus,
and I think the idea of Mexico made the doc extremely nervous. Before
Fox could become mulish, Elena saved the day. She'd been taking his
blood pressure at the time, and no doubt saw the way the wind was
blowing from the results she was getting. Fox had barely opened his
mouth to argue with Brewer when Elena offhandedly mentioned that she had
a great-aunt in Key West who ran a bed and breakfast. Would he and Dana
be interested?

Dana told me she could have kissed Elena right then and there. I
snickered and said I didn't think Walt would appreciate that.

"That's right. We fly into Miami, then take a puddle jumper to Key West.
Elena's aunt is named Rosa Olivares. My mom has contact information in
case of an emergency," Dana replies.

Fox cringes. "Don't even *say* emergency, Scully. We haven't exactly had
good luck at taking this vacation. I keep waiting for the other shoe to
drop."

I snort. "You mean like someone hijacking the plane?"

It's amazing how their heads can swivel at exactly the same time and
speed. "Bite your tongue," Dana growls with a shudder, while Fox adds,
"And don't even speak the B word."

Dana chuffs a little and squeezes the hand still linked with hers.
"Anyway, Mulder, I'm not worried about emergencies. I'm sure if Bill
falls and breaks a leg my mom and Tara can handle it."

"Aw, Scully. Stop trying to cheer me up," Fox smirks, earning a quelling
look.

"Speaking of which -- how's your arm, Dana?" I ask, realizing for the
first time that she's shed the cast.

"Some trained investigator," my brother wisecracks.

I didn't neglect to mention he's a smartass -- did I?

"Cast came off the day before Christmas Eve," Dana answers, ignoring
him. "It's a little stiff, but I'm doing my PT exercises." She flexes it
to demonstrate, wincing a little.

We've reached the gate and I can see they've already begun boarding the
plane. "Looks like this is it, y'all," I tell them, and wink. "Behave
yourselves. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Dana purses her lips. "That leaves things wide open."

I'm still grinning at her when Fox astonishes me by pulling me into a
hug. It's brief, over before I know it, but it's the first time he's
ever initiated such a physical expression of affection. For just a
moment I'm speechless, but I am a Mulder by blood -- it doesn't last
long.

"Take care of him," I say, embracing Dana and giving her a peck on the
cheek. "Sit on him if you have to."

And my brother, never one to miss an opportunity, leers. "Oooh, Scully.
Would you?"

"Shut up, Mulder."

The reply is automatic, but she winks at me when his back is turned. I
watch them until they disappear down the jetway, my brother shortening
his strides to match Dana's, the perpetual list to his posture as he
listens intently to something she's saying. Two people so physically
mismatched, yet somehow they fit together with seamless perfection.

I watch until they disappear, but I don't stay until the plane takes
off. Kristen's waiting, and suddenly I want very much to see her smile.


Continued in part 2

Reply To: sunrise@avenew.com

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>

Blood Ties 7: Gaining Some Perspective (2 of 3)
By Dawn


Part 2: Rosa
Key West


They aren't what I expected.

What *did* I expect? I suppose as soon as my 'Lena said the letters FBI
it tarnished the rest of her description. A couple, she said. Partners
on the job for seven years; partners after hours a much more recent
development. They investigate something called paranormal phenomena:
ghosts, aliens and dark things. He's recovering from a terrible illness;
she's exhausted from the resulting stress and worry. Both are worn down,
she tells me, in desperate need of a sanctuary where for just a little
while they can leave their troubles behind.

Though many miles separate us, our only connection electronic, I can see
the plea in my Elena's big brown eyes. "Please Tia Rosa. I know you
don't do this anymore, but just this once..."

I never could resist that child, and she knows it. So, in spite of my
reservations, regardless of the fact that having two government types in
my home makes me cringe, I tell her yes. Send the FBIs to me and I'll
put them up for a week. I'll be hospitable. I'll wash their bedding,
cook their meals, and share my beautiful beach. I will not, however,
enjoy it.

There was a time when nothing pleased me more than opening my home to
others. Waldo and I worked hard for forty years, scrimping and saving in
anticipation of the day we would retire to our dream house here on this
beach. He was an accountant, clever with numbers and finances; I was a
nurse, more concerned with the physical than the material. I like to
think that my 'Lena chose nursing because of the many visits she paid
her tia at the hospital.

Our first two years in this house were paradise. We survived on our
retirement, supplementing the income by converting the spare bedroom and
bath into lodgings for vacationing couples -- selected at our
discretion. We were living our dream, and thrilled to share it with
others. I have a guestbook tucked away in the attic with my
grandmother's wedding ring and a packet of Waldo's letters. Some day I
may be ready to read those written expressions of joy and contentment
without feeling the sharp sting of my loss.

Waldo died of a heart attack two years after we moved here. Two years. I
spent forty preparing for the golden time when we could simply be
together, enjoying the tranquility of this place and each other. His
death was quick and relatively painless. A blessing, some might say, to
live 72 full years and then leave this earth still whole in mind and
body. But I don't feel blessed. 

I feel cheated.

I stopped taking in couples after that. I couldn't bear being reduced to
catching the crumbs of happiness that fell from their plates when once I
feasted on it. Two years have passed since I last aired out the spare
room, smoothed fresh sheets onto the large four-poster bed, and filled
the cut-glass vase with flowers. I face each task as a chore to be
finished, telling myself that in a week the FBIs will be gone.

They arrive late in the afternoon, barely making it through my door
before the sky opens up with one of our daily rain showers. I urge them
to drop their bags and come into the kitchen for a cold drink. Once they
are seated in the breakfast nook, admiring the view of the water, I'm
able to secretly observe them.

At first glance they appear woefully mismatched. He's tall and thin, a
head of thick, dark hair, a larger than average nose and full mouth
tempering mere good looks into character. His eyes intrigue me -- first
hazel when I greeted them at the door, by the light from the window
they've turned a deep, mossy green. She's absurdly tiny by comparison.
The top of her head doesn't even reach his shoulder and laced up in
white Keds, her feet look as small as a child's. Her hair is the color
of bright copper and though she pretends to be enjoying the waves
crashing onto the beach, I notice that her blue eyes are watching him as
discreetly as I'm watching her.

"Don't worry about the rain," I tell them as I set tall, moisture-beaded
glasses in front of them. "We have showers every day about this time. It
will clear off within the hour and the sunset will be muy bonita."

She takes a sip of the juice, then a long draught, and I'm pleased by
the way her eyes slip shut in bliss. "That's delicious, Mrs. Olivares. I
can't recall the last time I had fresh-squeezed lemonade."

"It's the only kind worth drinking," I reply. "And you may call me
Rosa."

"Thanks, Rosa. I'm Dana, and this is Mulder."

I nod at her, then give him the look that used to make Elena tremble.
"Hmm. Elena said that you would want me to use your last name. I told
her that I won't call a guest under my roof by his last name, no matter
how much he hates his first."

His eyes dart to Dana's face and they talk to each other without
speaking a word. She raises both eyebrows and purses her lips.  His
forehead crinkles and he gnaws on his lower lip, then lifts one shoulder
in a little shrug. Her lips relax into a grin and her eyes sparkle. He
rolls his own before turning to me.

"I think I see where Elena got her spunk," he says, sounding both amused
and irritated at the same time. Then he smiles ruefully. "Please call me
Fox."

Something about that lopsided smile automatically coaxes one onto my own
lips. "Gracias, Fox. Can I get you some more lemonade?"

"No thank you, Rosa."

I can see why 'Lena is so taken with this one, those eyes could soften a
heart of stone. My nurse's training can spot aftereffects of illness in
the ashen tone of his skin, the smudges under his eyes, and the slight
tremor in his hands. It's clear the stress of traveling has exhausted
him, and I can tell from the way Dana keeps stealing glances at him that
she sees it too. Her lips part as if she's about to speak, but she
frowns, then presses her hand to her mouth as if hiding a yawn. She
massages the back of her neck and blows out a long puff of air.

Fox is instantly alert, examining her as if she screamed rather than
sighed. "You okay, Scully? You have a headache?" he asks, voice soft
with concern.

She rolls her head, then her shoulders. "No. Just tired and a little
stiff from the plane."

I wasn't married for forty-one years to the most stubborn man on earth
without learning a trick or two. I sense what Dana is up to and decide
to give her a little help.

"Dinner won't be for another two hours. Why don't you two get settled in
your room, maybe rest for a bit? Not much to do right now since it's
raining."

Fox pops to his feet and extends a hand to help her up, pushing aside
his own weariness. "Sounds like a plan, G- woman."

"Just head down the hall and turn left," I add, collecting their glasses
and taking them to the sink. "Last room on the right is yours."

Dana lets him pull her to her feet and usher her out of the kitchen, his
hand pressed to the small of her back. When they reach the doorway, she
tilts her head back and sends me a look of thanks.

I surprise myself by winking.

************************************************

Dana and Fox are model houseguests, quiet and unassuming, and the next
few days slip by in a comfortable rhythm. They spend the mornings
exploring our little island -- visiting the aquarium and the Audubon
House and Gardens, browsing the shops -- and the afternoons soaking up
sun on the beach, where Fox inevitably falls asleep. I'm happy to see
the tense, frayed expression fade from Dana's face, though her milky
skin can do little more than adopt a rosy glow. Fox, on the other hand,
quickly turns a uniform bronze, the sickly pallor fading overnight.

I find a great deal of pleasure watching these two, and I've become
shameless about it. The funny part is, I've never been a busybody --
quite the opposite. And I've never felt more than a passing interest in
any of the couples who have stayed here. Perhaps the difference is that
Fox and Dana remind me so much of Waldo and myself.

They are consumed with each other. He delights in her laugh, something I
sense she does all too rarely. Fox, therefore, goes out of his way to
provoke it, even if it comes at his own expense. One afternoon he set
about constructing something that looked like a flying saucer out of
sand. Unfortunately, he built this odd creation too close to the rising
tide line. I thought Dana was going to hurt herself, she laughed so hard
at his frantic attempts to stop the water from ruining his masterpiece.
He pretended to pout when the waves turned his space ship back to a
shapeless pile of sand, but I wasn't fooled, and neither was Dana.

My mama, rest her soul, always said that still waters run deep. That's
Dana. Compared to Fox, who broadcasts his feelings and emotions in
letters ten feet tall, she is reserved, almost aloof. Her eyes, however,
give her away.

She watches him. Not when he'd notice, of course. Behind dark glasses as
she suns herself while he's swimming and splashing in the surf. From the
corner of her eye when she's supposed to be reading a book as he wanders
along the beach hunting shells. Only when he's sleeping, sprawled out on
his towel like a little boy worn out from play, does she indulge herself
in observing him openly. Her eyes go soft and liquid, her mouth curves,
and she lets her fingers smooth the tousled hair from his eyes.

And that's when I can no longer watch, my throat clogged with tears and
the hollow feeling in my heart nearly unbearable. A love like that comes
along once in a lifetime, if you're very lucky. Dios mio, I miss you,
Waldo.

The fourth night of Fox and Dana's stay, I am torn from a sound sleep by
a blood-curdling scream.

"Sculleee! Nooo!"

I throw on my robe and race down the hallway, pulse hammering and nerves
jangling. Scrambled images go through my head -- an intruder, an
accident...surely not a fight. By the time I reach their door the
screams have stopped and I can hear the murmur of Dana's voice.

"It's okay, Mulder, it was only a dream."

His voice is barely recognizable, high and fast with panic. "Scully, he
took you, he took you and I couldn't stop him, I tried but I couldn't
move, I couldn't reach you and my gun was gone and all I could do was
watch."

"Shhh. I know, but I'm right here, love. It was a *dream*. Slow down,
take deep breaths."

I hesitate, then knock softly. There's a rustle of sheets and Dana
appears in the doorway, her hair tangled from sleep but her eyes alert.
Over her shoulder I can see Fox, hunched over with his forehead resting
on bent knees.

"Can I get you anything?" I ask her, not meaning to intrude, but wanting
her to know I'm willing to help.

She responds with a small smile, strain mixed with gratitude. "No
thanks, Rosa. It was a nightmare; he'll be fine. I'm sorry to disturb
you."

I wave my hand and shake my head. "Don't be silly. I'm glad he's all
right. If you need anything, just call."

She gives my arm a grateful squeeze and shuts the door. I hear the creak
of bedsprings and then her voice again, much lower and softer than when
she spoke to me.

"Come on, Mulder, lay down. That's it, close your eyes, love. You need
to sleep."

I start back to my room, then detour to the kitchen. At the moment sleep
feels beyond my grasp, but a cup of warm milk should put it within
reach.

I try not to think about what kind of nightmare can reduce a grown man
to that kind of terror.

My Waldo used to swear I had The Sight, to which I would tartly reply
that I didn't need ESP when living with a man so predictable. Still,
something prompts me to add an extra helping of milk to the saucepan.
And I'm not really surprised when Dana hesitantly steps into the
kitchen.

"There's milk on the stove -- mugs in the cupboard over the sink," I say
in welcome.

She prepares her cup and sinks into the chair opposite me, sipping and
gazing out at the play of moonlight on water. I'm sad to see that a
little of the tension has crept back into her face.

"How is Fox?"

Her eyes never leave the water. "Sleeping."

"Bueno. That's the best thing for him," I say approvingly. "There's no
substitution for a good night's sleep."

Her eyes dart to my face and I see the apology forming. "Rosa, once
again I'm..."

"Hush. I already told you not to worry, chiquita. I'll finish this milk
and be fast asleep in no time." I shake my head. "No one should have to
experience a nightmare like that."

Dana looks thoughtfully into her mug, swirling the milk. "Mulder doesn't
sleep well, and he's suffered from nightmares for most of his life.
Something..." She falters as if considering whether to continue, then
does. "Something terrible happened to him when he was a child. Add that
to the horrors we've come across in the course of our work, and I guess
an occasional nightmare is inevitable." She releases a laugh that is no
more than a puff of air. "I experience them myself, though not as
intensely as Mulder does."

"He's been sleeping quite well until now," I observe. "He already looks
much stronger than the day you arrived."

A little of the tightness leaves her and she smiles. "Yes. He's looking
much more like his old self. Ironically, this nightmare is a sign he's
improving. When he's sick or injured he's too exhausted to dream."

While I ponder what Fox's health history must be for her to make that
statement, Dana drains the last of her milk and stands.

"Thank you, Rosa. Not just for the milk, but for allowing us to stay
here this week. Elena told us that you don't normally accept guests
anymore, and we appreciate your generosity." 

"It's my pleasure," I tell her warmly.

I'm a little disconcerted but very glad to realize that I mean it.

************************************************

In the blink of an eye, the week has come to an end. On the day they're
to fly home, Dana heads out right after breakfast for some last minute
shopping -- something about a gift for her mother. Fox groans and begs
off in favor of a final run along the beach. They argue good naturedly
for a few minutes before Dana admits defeat and lets him go with a stern
warning about moderation. He tugs on her purse with a smirk and parrots
the advice.

Odd how his gentle teasing feels more intimate than a look of smoldering
passion and her "Shut up, Mulder" communicates more affection than
flowery words of love.

A little bit later, as I sit on the patio sipping a cup of coffee and
reading the headlines, he returns. In a pair of shorts and a cropped off
tee shirt his thinness is still evident, but he's tanned, flushed with
exertion, and bright-eyed -- a world of difference from the wan, frail
man who stood on my porch a week ago. Our little haven has helped to
nurture a wounded fox, Waldo, and now he's ready to return to his
natural habitat. I feel both pride and sadness at that fact.

"Sit," I tell him as I watch the sweat roll off his fingertips. "I'll
get you a cool drink."

"Water, please," he replies, mopping his face with the hem of his shirt.

I come back with a tall glass of water and a towel, which he accepts
with a grin. He downs half the glass in one long gulp, then uses the
towel on his face, neck and arms.

"I hope you didn't overdo," I tell him, looking for signs of guilt. As I
said, this one wears his emotions on his sleeve, I can spot them a mile
away. "You were gone a long time."

He swallows some more water, rolling his eyes. "Please, Rosa. Don't go
getting Scully on me."

I deliberately lift one eyebrow, an expression I've seen her use time
and again, and he chuckles appreciatively. "What does this mean, getting
Scully on you?" I ask.

"Worrying too much," he replies simply. "I'm fine. And no, I didn't
overdo it. I just stopped and walked for a while." He makes a face. "I'm
out of shape."

I tap one finger on my cup. "We worry about those we love. My Waldo has
been gone two years and sometimes I still have dreams of those final
hours in the hospital. My head knows he's well and safe now, but my
heart still worries."

He looks uncomfortable. "Rosa, I'm sorry about the other night. I didn't
want..."

"Ay!" I groan, holding up a hand to cut him off. "Not you too! I already
told Dana to forget it."

His face smoothes and he sips more water, turning his gaze to the ocean.
I should leave well enough alone, but I never have before, so why start
now?

"You're afraid of losing her."

He looks back at me sharply, but whatever he sees takes the fire out of
his eyes. "Yes. I'm afraid that... The work Dana and I do is dangerous.
There are powerful people who would like to shut us down. They've used
Scully against me before, and it's very possible they would try again."

I have no understanding of the world he and Dana live in, filled with
danger and evil men. But I do know more than a little about losing
someone dearer to you than your life.

"Fox, whether sooner or later, one day she will be taken from you.
Worrying will not stop it, and it will only poison the time you have
now," I say quietly.

He searches my face, and though I want to pick up my cup and flee into
the house, I remain. I regret to see my own sorrow reflected in his gray
eyes.

"How do you bear it?"

The pain is sharp, but I feel it cut cleanly through the callus that has
surrounded my heart. And suddenly I know -- I *know*, Waldo, that
somehow you sent these FBIs to me. Fox is not the only one who has begun
to heal this week.

"I bear it by holding tight to my memories without regrets," I tell him,
and I could swear I feel your hand on my shoulder. "And by knowing that
although I ache for him every day, I wouldn't trade a single minute of
our time together to lessen the pain."

He looks sober. When he speaks, his voice is hardly more than a whisper.
"Sometimes, I don't think I deserve her...deserve happiness." His eyes
jerk back to the water and I can see he's shocked that he spoke the
words aloud. I'm sure they are constant companions in his thoughts.

I reach out to touch his hand and smile. "Mi hijo, everyone deserves
happiness. Some just don't know how to reach for it."

He sucks in his lower lip and chews on it, and though his gaze remains
fixed on the surf I can tell he isn't really seeing it. Dana chooses
this moment to return, her arms laden with packages. She wrinkles her
nose at Fox's sweat- stained clothing and shoos him toward the shower
without seeming to notice his thoughtful mood, perhaps distracted by
eagerness to show me her purchases.

An hour later they're on my porch again, this time packed and headed for
the airport. I dreaded their arrival, but how sad I am to see them go.

Dana takes my hand in that formal way she has, but her eyes tell me
everything I need to know -- warmth, affection, and deep gratitude.

"Thank you so much, Rosa. You have a lovely home, and it's been a
wonderful week."

I drop that cool hand and grasp her shoulders, placing a kiss on her
cheek. "Come back anytime," I tell her. "You are always welcome."

Fox leans down to drop a kiss on my cheek, giving my hand a slight
squeeze. "Thanks for making an exception," he says. "This was just what
Scully and I needed."

"Not an exception -- a new rule," I answer with a smile. "I've decided
it's selfish to keep this place to myself. I'm going to start accepting
guests again."

Dana makes a small sound of appreciation, but Fox pins me with those
changeable eyes. "No regrets?" he murmurs.

"Nada," I reply, and mean it.

He walks her to the car with his hand at the small of her back, and I
realize that rather than appearing mismatched, they fit like hand in
glove. Love has a way of balancing the scales.

They weren't what I expected, but they were exactly what I needed.
*Waldo, mi corazon,* I think fondly. *One day you and I are going to
have a long talk.*

I would swear I hear you laughing.


Concluded in part 3

Reply To: sunrise@avenew.com

From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>

Blood Ties 7: Gaining Some Perspective (3 of 3)
By Dawn


Part 3: Frohike
Dulles Airport


I'm not quite sure how I got roped into doing this. Navigating a crowded
airport terminal is number seven on my top ten list of paranoia
inspiring activities, and as for playing chauffeur...well, let's face
it, Byers is a natural for the part. Since he's off on what I suspect is
a hot date, and Langly absolutely refuses to pass through a metal
detector (he says they scan and record your genetic code as part of a
covert government experiment), yours truly won the honor by process of
elimination.

Don't get me wrong -- Mulder and Scully are my friends and I'd willingly
break into a top-secret research facility or hack into the Pentagon if
they needed me to. I just don't see why they couldn't take a cab.

Then I remember Mulder as I last saw him, fresh out of the hospital
after bronchitis, and mentally kick my own butt.

I step onto a moving walkway and lean back, checking for any suspicious
characters on my tail. You can never be too careful, after all. Mulder
and Scully's flight should be arriving at the gate within the next few
minutes, but there's no sense letting haste make me sloppy. Vacationing
or not, those two attract trouble like steel to a magnet.

Mulder vacationing. Voluntarily. Talk about a concept that's tough to
wrap your mind around. I've known the guy nearly ten years now, and
obsessive is actually one of the kinder adjectives I could use to
describe his personality.

I know, I know. People who live in glass houses...

Don't misunderstand me, I have the highest respect for Fox Mulder. I
once described him as a redwood among mere sprouts, and I wasn't just
saying it because I thought he'd died. He's sufficiently intelligent and
quick-witted to keep up with the three of us when we're on a tear - no
small feat, let me tell you. And he's blessed with both an insatiable
curiosity and a fierce hunger for the truth -- often a painful
combination. But what gives Mulder redwood status is simply that he has
a good soul. I may be a paranoid geek, but I'm wise enough to know what
a truly rare commodity that is.

I never thought anything could be more important to Mulder than his work
and the search for his sister. Then the luscious Dana Scully walked into
his life and turned it upside down.

I can still remember how he moaned and groaned when he found out he'd
been assigned a partner. Mulder's a lone wolf who has trouble playing
well with others. It wasn't the fact that Scully was a woman that
frosted him. Male or female, a partner would invade his turf, defile the
sanctity of that basement office and his quest. He called her a spy,
convinced she'd been sent to discredit him, and to be fair I'm sure that
was just what Blevins and that cigarette smoking son of a bitch thought
she'd do. More fools they.

Scully sandbagged him. Found a crack in that cool, G-man exterior and
bypassed his defenses, beginning that very first case when she dropped
her robe and showed him territory I can only dream of exploring. God, I
wish I could've seen his face! And Mulder, all leer and innuendo but no
action, would probably have taken that story to his grave if I hadn't
been complaining about a bunch of mosquito bites one night after we'd
had a few too many beers. I honestly don't think he remembers telling
me, and my lips are sealed. Byers and Langly will never hear it from me.

That's right. I know come off like a dirty old man, but I have
integrity, too.

Anyway, Mulder started to give Scully his trust that night, and that's
not something he offers easily. They became partners, then friends, and
we watched with amazement as the enigmatic Dr. Scully gradually replaced
the X-Files and Samantha as the most important thing in Mulder's life.
The lone wolf had found a mate.

When did they realize they loved each other? I think Scully's abduction
forged a bond between them that surpassed mere friendship. But her
cancer cemented it. Did they behave like two intelligent adults and
admit their feelings for each other? Hell, no! Denial ain't just a river
in Egypt, and those two were the perfect example.

Way I hear it, the only reason they're together now is that Mulder got
stoned and spilled the beans. Thank God Mr. GQ can't hold his drugs and
liquor or they'd probably still be lusting after each other from afar.
And who knows? I might just have scraped up the nerve to make my move on
the lovely Agent Scully.

Don't laugh, I can ooze charm when I put my mind to it.

I finally reach the gate, and I can tell from the trickle of people
remaining that I've missed the plane's arrival by at least five minutes.
Cursing under my breath I backtrack to baggage claim. I check the
monitor for the correct carousel and weave through the crowd, keeping an
eye open for the blaze of Scully's hair.

I almost don't recognize them, literally blink and do a double take. A
week ago Mulder looked like an extra from The Night of the Living Dead.
The only spots of color on him were the purple shadows beneath his eyes,
and I swear I could've counted every bone in his body. It shook me up,
let me tell you. I mean, I'm used to seeing Mulder battered, but
never...frail. And as for Scully, she looked like a coiled spring, one
turn away from flying apart. I noticed she could barely take her eyes
off him, but the line between her eyebrows made it obvious that it was
worry and not lust.

Those two people are the photographer's negative of the couple I spot
standing by the circling luggage. Mulder's got the kind of tan people
pay money for, and even with blue jeans and navy pullover I can see a
softening of angles and planes that testifies to weight gain. He's got
his hands on her hips and is looking down at her with that smartass
grin. Scully's hands are on his forearms, head tilted back, and lips
slightly parted as she listens with visible amusement to whatever
outrageous remark he's spouting. The skin of her forehead is smooth, if
a little pink from the sun, and the looks she sends him are raising *my*
temperature -- and I'm not on the receiving end.

As I watch, she slides her hands up his arms until the fingers of one
tangle in the hair at the back of his neck and the other rests on his
shoulder. The kiss is short but intense, and ends with her teeth in his
lower lip. Scully then turns and strolls over to the carousel with a sly
little smile, leaving Mulder sporting a moony, lovestruck grin that I
would have sworn the muscles of his face were incapable of forming.

Pretty soon the guy's not even going to be paranoid any more and then
where will we all be?

By the time I weave my way over they've retrieved both bags.

"Mulder, Scully," I call, just to be sure they see me coming. You do
*not* want to surprise a Fed, especially if uncertain whether they're
packing a gun.

"Frohike! Right on time, as usual," Mulder greets me.

Ah, sarcasm. I knew he missed me.

"Bite me," I reply cheerfully. "I got held up in traffic. You two ready
to vamoose?"

They exchange one of those telepathic looks before Mulder picks up both
suitcases and inclines his head. "Lead on, McDuff."

I think I must be parked at the completely opposite end of the terminal,
and midway Mulder's puffing and looking decidedly worse for wear. I can
tell Scully's pissed he's pushing himself and wants to carry her own
bag, but the closed expression on his face warns against even an offer.
Her lips shut look as if they're welded shut and she stares straight
ahead, eyes narrowed.

"Hey, man, where's my manners? Let me get one of those," I say, keeping
the tone light and pretending not to notice the flash of relief that
crosses his face. And hers.

"Shoulda grown up to be a limo driver, Hickey," Mulder says to cover.
"You're a natural."

"And give up this carefree existence? No way," I reply
sarcastically.

We find the van easily (another reason not to send Langly -- he
inevitably forgets where he's parked) and toss the bags in back. I'm a
little surprised when Scully chooses to ride shotgun, leaving Mulder to
sprawl out on the back seat. Her nose wrinkles as she digs a partially
consumed candy bar and an empty bag of potato chips out of the cushion,
but she politely refrains from comment.

"So, how was Key West?" I ask conversationally as I pull out of the
garage and into line at the ticket booth.

Mulder thrusts a five-dollar bill into my hand and folds his arms when I
try to protest. I shrug and hand it to the terminally-bored woman in the
booth along with the card that tells how much I owe for parking. Once
she's given us her blessing by raising the little gate, Scully answers.

"It was beautiful. Elena's aunt has a lovely home with a private beach,
very secluded."

Huh. At least four suggestive remarks regarding recreation possibilities
pop into my head, but I'd rather keep the ability to procreate. I'm
funny that way.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Hickey," Mulder growls from the back
seat.

I like to think I'm a complex person. I hate it when he shatters the
illusion. I lift my eyes to the mirror so that I can give him a colorful
response, but I see that his attention is on Scully. She's half-turned
in the seat, one perfect eyebrow arched and that sly smile back on her
lips. I'm just in time to see him give her a slow wink, then mouth
"later."

Lucky bastard.

We zoom down the highway, Mulder letting Scully field my questions about
the island and the sights. She seems so happy that I find myself paying
little attention to the details, focusing instead on the contentment in
her voice and occasionally stealing a glance at her face. I can't help
wondering what it would be like to be the lucky stiff who makes Dana
Scully this cheerful, and a slight feeling of jealousy that Mulder holds
the honor.

Still, if it can't be me, I'm glad it's Mulder. The guy's had an awful
lot of crap dished out to him over the years. 'Bout time the big guy
upstairs served up some happiness instead.

Speaking of Mulder, I suddenly realize that at least ten minutes have
passed without a sound from the back seat. No witty remarks, no innuendo
-- not even a comment on my driving ability, or lack thereof. I check
out the mirror, and my jaw drops open in surprise.

He's asleep.

Mulder. Mr. Insomnia. The guy who can quote every tacky infomercial word
for word and routinely watches the national anthem.

When I nearly rear-end the car in front of us, Scully catches me gaping
into the mirror. She looks over her shoulder, and her gaze turns from
annoyed to affectionate.

"He's asleep," I say, brilliantly and unnecessarily.

"Yes. And if you give him a hard time I will personally shoot you,"
Scully warns, her brows knitting together and her jaw clenching.

Jeez, she's gorgeous when she's pissed.

"I'm not going to rag on him. It was just a shock." I try to look hurt
but I obviously don't have Mulder's knack because she just chuckles.

"Can the puppy dog act, Frohike. Mulder's made it an art form and it
still doesn't work."

Yeah. Keep telling yourself that Scully.

"He went running this morning, and then the stubborn fool had to carry
both bags," she continues. "His stamina is still not up to par. He gets
very frustrated, so I'd prefer it if you pretended not to notice this
little nap."

"No problemo." I can't resist looking in the mirror one more time. "He's
drooling."

She actually grins. "I know. He does that when he's really zoned."

"He looks a lot better," I observe. Feeling daring, I add, "So do you."

The pink tinge to her skin deepens but she inclines her head. "Thanks.
He is much better, which is frightening in its own way. Skinner won't be
able to keep him down much longer."

I shrug. "I wouldn't worry. The way Mulder tells it, the head G-man has
been pretty good at putting him in his place up till now."

She graces me with a rare Scully laugh. "That may be true, but Mulder
manages to constantly provide a new challenge."

We drive a few more minutes in silence, until I realize a decision must
be made. When I look over, Scully is gazing out the window, but from her
expression I'd say she's not seeing the passing cars and trucks.

"Uh, Scully? Where am I going?"

For a moment she stares at me as if *I'm* the one drooling, then
understanding smoothes out her features. "Mulder's place, I think."

"What do you guys do, toss a coin?" I blurt, then feel like an idiot.

She's not offended. "We've decided to find a place together. Now if
Mulder will just stay well long enough..."

I guess I'm feeling sentimental. That's my only explanation for running
off at the mouth. "You know, I've never said anything and it's none of
my business. But for the record? I'm glad you two have finally admitted
what the rest of us knew all along."

There goes that eyebrow again. "I'm not quite sure how to take that,
Frohike. I guess I'll just say thank you."

We arrive in front of Mulder's building, and by some stroke of luck I
find a parking spot. Scully gets out and opens the back door while I
busy myself pulling out their bags. She leans in, but just looks at him
for a long moment with an expression that could be Webster's definition
of the word love. Then she runs the backs of her fingers down his cheek.
Mulder startles, then straightens guiltily and looks around, swiping at
the moisture on his chin. True to my word, I duck my head and act
absorbed in luggage duty.

"Hey," I hear Scully say softly. "Home sweet home."

Mulder climbs out and stretches. "My place, huh?"

She lifts one shoulder. "Would you have preferred mine?"

He smiles -- something I've noticed they both do a lot lately. "Nah.
Long as you're with me, babe, geography's irrelevant." He's kissing her
forehead when I walk up.

"I hate to bust up this tender moment, G-man, but it's time I hit the
road," I say, handing over the bags.

He takes them with a grin. "Thanks for the lift, Frohike. I owe you a
cheesesteak and at least one conspiracy theory."

"Deal. But the cheesesteaks have to be from Philly's and the theory has
to be substantiated."

Scully rolls her eyes with that "boys will be boys" look, then gives me
her own nod of thanks.

I get behind the wheel, but pause to watch them make their way up the
steps to the front door. Scully tugs insistently on one suitcase, and
they argue briefly before he grudgingly gives it up. That settled, both
reach for the front door, hands colliding before either can grasp the
handle. She squints up at him, then graciously allows him to pull open
the door and hold it for her.

That's always been the key to their relationship, I realize. Give and
take. Supernatural or Science. Logic or Intuition. My place or yours.
The dynamic remains the same, even if now they share a bed.

I shake my head and turn the ignition. *Melvin, you have got to get a
life*, I think ruefully. I spend the drive home cooking up a way to make
Langly believe the airport metal detector was really a government mind
probe designed to steal secrets to winning Doom.

Hey -- a guy's gotta have *some* fun.


The End