PhaHks Series by GenieVB She must have straightened the magazines on the coffee table a dozen times. She must have wiped the counter a hundred. But he was coming home for his first weekend and she wanted everything perfect. No, not perfect. Comfortable and homey. Relaxed. She wanted him to feel welcome and relaxed. She was still nervous and had bitten her nails off. A quick file and paint job and they looked passable. The door buzzer sounded and her heart sped up. He was here. She pressed the 'Talk': "Who is it?" "E.T.." The shit. Scully smiled just like that rainy night fifteen years ago and let him in. Mulder carried an overnight bag, setting it down just inside the door. He wore the black knit sweater and blue jeans she'd bought him for his first Christmas back (one year, two months and four days ago). His first non-institute issued clothes which they had refused to let him wear. The nurse who had taken the package had said "we'll deliver it", placed it on the counter and gone back to her novel. Scully wondered if Mulder had actually seen the clothes until this year. Scully wanted the hesitation she saw in him dealt with immediately and hugged him close and long with an extra squeeze just before releasing him. "Hi." He said and bent down to kiss her cheek. They ate in, watched a half hour comedy series called Don't Mind Me about, ironically enough, the goofy goings on in a mental institute. The Moral Majority's sensitivity meter must have dropped, Mulder thought. He'd noticed that, in 2008, almost nothing was off-limits on Satellite. Later, he seemed quiet and though assuring her he was fine, she wondered about the downcast eyes. It took him all evening to broach a subject he must have been wanting to talk about but until now was either unwilling or fearful of. "Scully,...tell me...about my mother." He looked at her now. Oh. She had expected the subject: She and Him and Here Together. This other one could be a plank-walk. "What do you want to know?" There was quite a bit. "Well, anything you can tell me, I mean after I was gone. Did she ever talk about me?" Scully settled into the couch, legs tucked up. Mulder sat leaning against the back of it, legs stretched out and crossed. He didn't seem to mind hard surfaces for hours at a time at all. "Sometimes. I went to see her a few times, especially after.. you were gone. I kept in contact with her sister as well. Because Teena, well, she was alone all the time." "Aunt Julia?" "Yes." "Mom shouldn't have had to be alone like that. She shouldn't have had to go through that." He said. "She was never angry with you. She knew, Mulder, that if you could have contacted her, you would have." He nodded but it was an unconvinced nod. "Sam never came back." Scully couldn't decide if that was a question or a statement and decided not to go there. "She, your mom, told me a few stories about you, you little hellion." "Did she ever tell you about the time I broke her Royal Albert china?" Glad he was following her lead onto lighter things, "No, but I'd like to hear what kind of Mulder-proofing I ought to be doing around here." Mulder craned his neck and looked back and up at her. She got excellent view of gorgeous throat. "Scully, I was _six_." "How did you break them?" "Eight dinner plates. Four cups, two saucers..." Scully rolled her eyes. Naturally the guy remembered exactly how many and what. Couldn't remember what happened for the last eight years but remembered _this_. CTMDS. Chronic Traumatic Memory Dysfunction Syndrome is what Petrillo had called it, then had added with his usual humor: //"It means when really bad shit happens, he blocks it out almost totally. Photographic memory isn't always an asset and I think that high functioning brain can't handle it. Usually when bad things happen, we tend to remember them more vividly than good things because they impact so many more cognitive areas and he does as well, of course. But when it's bad to the degree of driving one crazy, he has a defense that steps in to prevent that. It's not the first time for him and good thing too I would say." A self-depreciating quirk twisted his lip. "We took this brand new theory last year at the Johannesburg Conference. It sounds good."// "..the pattern was Buttercup. I was climbing on a chair to get at the china cabinet. I wasn't interested in the dishes, I just wanted to see what she'd hidden in that red, dragon- painted wooden box she had tucked in behind. I dislodged one of the shelves and crash! I tried to glue them all back together but she must have known. I did a terrible job with the glue. Got it all over myself and the plates and the rug." "What kind of glue?" "Super-Glue hadn't been invented yet - Elmer's." Scully laughed at that, throwing back her head. "Oh, I'm pretty sure she knew." "She was a good mother to me. Most of the time. I was a troublemaker back then." Back _then_?? He hadn't talked about his father at all. But then perhaps Mulder had laid those demons to rest. "What was in the box?" "Huh?" "What was in the wooden box?" "I never found out. I was so scared I just grabbed the glue and started piecing them and stacking them back together. They all stuck to one another so I ended up with one, big, thick, heavy, really sticky Buttercup Royal Albert plate." Scully laughed. "You brat." "I was just a kid. She never said anything anyway but after that I was too scared to go in the china cabinet again. Never did learn what she kept in that damn box." A lock of your hair and love from her heart, Scully mused. It was easy to love one's child. Teena may have been prim and distant during Fox's adulthood but, so Scully had learned from repeated visits with Teena Mulder where the woman would unashamedly pour out all the things she'd remembered and loved about him and all the grief over losing him a mother can hold, she had dearly loved her dark haired, hazel eyed little boy. Mulder suddenly asked very quietly. "How did she die?" Scully took a breath. Kept it basically informative but left out the most distressing aspects. It was difficult to read the back of his head, what to tell and what no to tell him. "She had another stroke. That's not unusual." she quickly added when she saw his sideways glance and the pain in it. "They often go that way. One and then a second and sometimes a third. This one affected the autonomic functions; breathing; heart. They had her on full support for a few weeks. But your aunt decided to disconnect life support..." She laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It only took a few minutes. She didn't suffer." Saw him nod. He rubbed fingers over his eyes, they came away wet. She leaned down and kissed his cheek, meaning to only give a little peck to let him know it was fine. It was perfectly okay to cry here. In front of her. About anything he had to. But Mulder's hand moved up to hold her head there, very gently, in place against his cheek. Then he turned and found her mouth and kissed it. He shifted around, kissed her once more. His lips rested briefly on cheek, ear, hair, neck. Back to cheek. All the time he was thanking her. He was whispering "thank-you, thank-you, Scully. Thank-you, thank-you.." in her ear. He didn't specify what it was he was thankful for but pulled himself up to the couch and lay on top of her, molding to her and touching her unreservedly, kissing her with a kind of desperate intensity. As she did him. **** "I don't think it really matters so much the way Fox remembers things as long as he is facing _this_ life, now. Here and now it is vital how he perceives things, how he feels and reacts. He lost his ability to cope. Prolonged, brutal incarceration has had that effect on others before now." Scully spoke to Petrillo via her cell while she drove the fifty minutes home. It was routine now that, even as she fired her engine and exited Greenlawn Recovery Center's parking lot, her fingers would be dialing Petrillo's pre-programmed private number and they would discuss Mulder: the session, what he said, what he did, what it meant. "When can he come home for good?" She heard Petrillo sigh at the other end. "Yes, I know. I ask the same question every damn week." "Not yet. I don't recommend it. But it's close, Doctor Scully. He's come so far but there's a way to go still. I know you are aware of it as well as I but we can't forget what it is that brought him here. Mulder was abused, brutally for eight years. Locked away although it's still unclear where and who and even why,...treated in all the worst ways it is possible for one human to treat another, and springing back from that just isn't so simple as one years therapy and then - TA-DAH! - well again. This will be with him for the rest of his life." Panic attacks. Post Traumatic Stress disorder. Incurable, both of them. But treatable. Hernia. Pills. Ulcer. Pills. Coping skills. "He's trying so hard." "I know and partly because he wants to please you. He is starting to live again. A good, strong life for him is just ahead with all its liberties , restrictions and complications. We want to be certain he is armored to deal with all that it encompasses. It'll be a daily fight, even to make decisions, never mind find some kind of focus, goals, career..." Scully recognized these things. "Do you think Mulder will try to go after those who did this to him? I mean, has he mentioned anything like that to you?" Petrillo sounded concerned. "No. No, he hasn't. Is that the impression he is giving you?" "No. But Mulder is..._Mulder_. He might." "Unless he knows where to look, it would be futile." Scully almost laughed. Like Samantha was futile. Like all the rest of the quest was futile, as it had appeared to everyone but Mulder. The Quest, the Quest! You make request, that I should rest my questing quest? I think you jest! I shall go East. I shall go West. Before I rest my questing Quest! Scully had never been much of a poet, (that had been Melissa's talent), but the silly rhyme had popped into her mind and she couldn't get rid of it. "Anyway," Petrillo said, "I would discourage that, I think. He has enough to do just getting back on track now. We may never discover who did this to him or why and he may never experience complete memory recovery. But the power to make or break his own life is in his hands once more. Do you know what he said to me when I mentioned that?" "What?" "He said "I hate it when shrinks make sense." When I asked him why, he answered: "Because it means now I have to try. I have no excuses not to." **** A few weeks later, Mulder had a birthday and for a present Petrillo had repainted the number on the wall to read "47". He told Mulder it was a reminder that he had reached that age without being nuts. Scully bought him his own color television for his room, satellite included. *** He looked peaceful. It was the brink of paradise, having him there, in her bed. Home. To touch him now all she had to do was move her arm across six inches of sheet. His warmth was the last best thing at the close of each day and the first of each sunrise. Even if it was only weekends. Watching him sleep - she did a lot of that lately - his movements and breathing, was a reward. Or a miracle. A wonderful gift to her from God; one to be thankful for. However the bestowal of him she would treasure and protect the gift as long as Destiny allowed. Scrumptious looking gift. Scully lightly ran her hand over the long line of his back and side, memorizing each muscle, each dip and rise from shoulder to the slight curve between rib-cage and hip. His bones were fleshed over again. Mulder stirred and turned to face her. "Hi." he mumbled still in half sleep. "Morning." "Been awake long?" "No. I'm used to waking up early." It was a half lie. The other reason for her early awakening that day was a seriously erotic dream in which a certain former F.B.I. man figured prominently. Day dreams too, all centering on a big, big bed and a naked, willing Mulder. He was of course willing now but just not able. It was not a subject they spoke much about. Petrillo had explained it to her behind Mulder's back. She was worried about touching him in that way. Was he all right now? Would he allow her to touch him? Petrillo had assured her it was not the touching, but it was his fear of that brand of intimacy. He wasn't ready, it was still messed up in his head. He still had terrors. But some nights she talked him into bed and as much as she wanted to hold him down and ride him like a spring bunny, she settled for kissing and hugging, or tangling herself up in those long legs of his and offering certain portions of the local man-life a specific caress or two. Those times would stave off the cavewoman cravings for another week. But no rise from "Basement Mulder" yet and Upstairs Mulder was horribly self conscious about it. She tread very, very carefully around the subject. Scully draped one shapely leg over his warmth, planting little kisses on his chest. She liked his back too, it was long and lean and muscled. She was a back woman. Today it was his chest though. She didn't even notice the scars anymore. "It's Sunday, Scully, go back to sleep." His eyes remained closed. She wanted to see them. "I'd rather go out for breakfast." "Can't we have it here?" "We always eat here." "Yeah but I was hoping..to spend the day with you...alone." "Sounds promising. Are you sure? We could try out that new pancake place....all you can eat..." "Crowds. Kids. Old people with dentures..." He grimaced. "Alone with me aaaaalll day...huh?" Scully liked the possibilities of it. That made him smile and he cracked an eye. "Behave." "I am woman, Mulder, hear me roar." His eyes closed again. "Sleep, then food, then talk." Scully snuggled and kissed him some more, pleased at his response. "And then?" "T.V." Covering his head with a pillow, she beat her palm on it then jumped out of bed before he could snatch her back. Her long T-Shirt twisted around her and rumpled, he caught sight of nude fanny before she threw on a housecoat and headed to the kitchen. "I'm making breakfast then. Now. So if you're inclined to eat this morning, get that attractive ass out here." Her voice was lilting and happy. It made him deliriously content. "Should have known taking up with an Irish woman would cause a war." He called after. In front of a movie neither payed much attention to, he settled in, comfortable leaning against the couch, his legs stretched out as usual. The comfortable silence settled in as well and he was enjoying it. He'd done entirely too much talking these past few months. His tongue was tired. His brain was tired. Sitting in front of a television that wasn't controlled by someone in a white, starched uniform was heaven. They only allowed him access to his own T.V. at Greenlawn between certain hours. It wasn't a recent film they were watching. "Y2K." A movie about millennium destruction and world anarchy. Well, 2000 had come and gone (while _he'd_ been gone) and nothing had ended. Some things had definitely gotten worse. Economics of course, when did they ever improve? Nation still rose against nation and kingdom against kingdom...no alien invasions to speak of. But then he was behind in his current events. Saddam still undefeated in first place for Prize Ass hole award. Ireland finally had enough arguing with the Crown and signed a tenuous peace treaty that thus far was holding. The New Freedom IRA was still a problem but, then, when weren't they? Economic strength was up in some countries and down in others. People were still having babies and paying mortgages. A woman was in the White House and he'd slid a few good jokes Scully's way about that. But no alien colonists. Yet. He may be older, the X-Files may be closed but that didn't mean all that he'd seen and learned "back then" had been false. Scully had left the work behind. _That_ work. He'd been thinking about it and, since being granted weekend leaves, been thinking about it more and more. The problem was he was no longer an Agent of the F.B.I. In fact, he had nowhere to lay his briefcase. And he still had a month or two of sessions with Petrillo to get through... But things were still unanswered. Antarctic. How had "Their" work progressed? Would he ever be able to pick up the threads and unravel the tapestry of the concealed lies... Mulder shook his head a bit. His feet were becoming impatient. First things first. "What's wrong?" Scully asked. She was seated behind him, her knees on either side of his shoulders. He loved it when she did that. "Hmm?" She'd caught him staring at the coffee table instead of the Television. "Oh, nothing, I guess I was just thinking..." Scully shifted closer and put her arms around his neck, resting her chin on his shoulder. He was thinking more and more, she knew. And about what, she could make an educated guess: his future. Not just their future but his. Job, career, purpose, life. All those big questions he would soon have to explore and decide on. Asked anyway. "What about?" Same old Mulder. He tried to minimize his obvious pensiveness. "Just, you know, when these sessions are over....things. "What next?"" ...job..." Scully ran fingers over chest hair. "What about applying to the Bureau again,...your past record..." Mulder turned sideways to look at her. He did that when he was serious, looked her in the eye when he wanted her to listen and understand that what he said was crucial. Also when he suspected she wouldn't like what he had to say. "No one's going to hire me here, Scully." Gently - oh! - so gently said. He did not want those words to hurt. "In two months or so," He explained still gently, still with that pillow voice that wanted to keep her safe and happy, "Petrillo figures I'll be upgraded to outpatient status." "That's excellent." *No one will hire me here, Scully*. No. One. Will. Hire. Me. _Here._ "It means I'll need a place to stay for a while. Full time..." He had no money of his own at all. Well, his mother's house was still sitting there, paid for. It was his now but it was getting older and the taxes on it had to be payed. He had less than no money. Scully'd been paying all the bills for a long time and _that_ was unacceptable to him. _That_ was going to change. "With me, I hope." She said quickly. Even now, he asked permission, she thought. Even yet, he harbored doubts. "Are you sure? Twenty-four and seven?" Doubts about her feelings for him. Doubts about his worth. "Don't you want to?" "Yeah, I do. I just don't want to be a burden or put you out more than I already have." She sighed. This was an old battle and she was tired of it. "Put me out? I love having you here, Mulder. I look forward to coming home every day, knowing you'll be here." She saw him gulp. For some reason, it had been the wrong answer. "I'll be putting out resume's as soon as possible. Don't want to be a bum forever." She felt a tightness in her chest. He hadn't acknowledged her last comment. "You're not a bum. You've just had bad luck. A lot of it." She smiled at herself. Yeah. A Supertanker of oily-shit- bad-luck. "If not the Bureau, what Agencies?" "No one in D.C. would take me on, Scully." He said-almost-whispered. The tight ache in her chest grew and was joined by a lump in her throat that no amount of swallowing would dislodge. But she listened as a good friend does. "All they'd have to do is check where I've been for the last fourteen months, the years prior to that, the work I - we - did before that. Mulder the UFO chaser who claims abduction by said aliens and ends up institutionalized...Spooky really is crazy. If you didn't know me, Scully, wouldn't you think the same?" She didn't answer because she didn't want to speak the truth: Very probably, yes she would. No one would hire a man with a record like that. He would find no position of trust or responsibility no matter how sane now. I.Q., experience, eagerness, none of those would matter to an employer with a reputation to protect. Find a new career outside law enforcement? Mulder was pushing fifty. "So you're not going to try here?' "I've applied. I'm not...holding my breath." She let one finger idly touch his left nipple. She felt it's response to her gentle manipulations and let her hand explore lower with tiny soft circles. Heard his breath catch. "Scully..." She realized how hot and bothered she'd become. It was the thought of him going away. That a day was coming where he would have to leave. She would go with him, she decided. Chief Forensic Pathologist? Her position and status? Let the dead dissect their dead. "I'll be going with you." He turned all the way around at that and took her hands. "No." And before she had a chance to ask, he explained his reasons. "Scully, I want this - us - to work. I have no right to ask you this but I need some time to prove to myself that I can make it on my own, out there, again." He pulled her off the couch and into an embrace, wrapped himself around her and touched her, letting his hands and arms land where they may. "I _want_ this, Scully..." She relished the feel of his hands on her. "...but not yet. I...can't. I'm sorry but it has to be _right_..." Scully thought: How ironic. The old pervert I know and love wants sex to be something right and pure. Beautiful and truthful even. Mulder was speaking softly into her ear. It was such a sexy turn-on, she was afraid she might lose the control he was advocating and try mounting him right there on the living room rug. "...because of what happened to me. For a long time, sex was a substitute for everything, like a replacement for feeling and even thinking." He pulled away and looked her in the eye. "I don't want you to be a substitute." Boy Scout all the way. She wanted him so badly. Not just the sex, but the mind, the emotions, the soul, everything labeled Fox Mulder that she could get her hands and heart around. The whole damn thing! And he was going to be leaving without her. She could feel the redness appear in her eyes and knew it broke his heart to see it. "Scully. I'm sorry. But I'm not even out of the hospital yet. I don't have a job. I need those things....to establish a future of some kind, one where I want you to be. Us, together." He was so earnest. He just didn't clue that all she wanted out of the future was him in the present. Right now. But she understood his need for a certain amount of independance. Some things didn't change, Fox Mulder still had trouble relying on anyone. "I don't want that future if it won't include you." Scully choked back the tears, kept them from falling by pure will. God, he was such a gift. "Mulder, that's what I want too. You never know though, something might turn up here." Please God. He smiled indulgently, kissed her on the hand. Moved to her lips. Scully felt a rush of desire from head to toe. A look, a laugh, a touch did it. Amazing man. He'd wrapped up his heart in tissue paper and handed it to her with trembling hands... She would carry it with her because that gesture had proved once and for all that he was no longer afraid of her. He trusted her to love him no matter what. ********* One day Mulder came home from his forays into the job market and after turning the key in the lock and locating her in the bedroom, Scully found herself on the receiving end of a long, very intimate hug. He seemed to want to enclose her in himself so they would become a single being. It set off warning signals and she braced herself. "I found a job, Scully." He announced. A rush went through her. Excitment and worry. "What job? Where?" "In Washington. Kind of a psychologist/crime-victim/counselling/ consultant." Her heart soared. "That's terrific." Big hope,"The Bureau?" Tiny hope, "VCU?" Any hope would do. "Scully,.." Mulder spoke softly and hope dived to dash itself on the rocks. "Washington State. _Seattle_, Washington." Scully wanted to say something supportive and meaningful but words failed her. Her heart was spinning and wobbling on a pin- point. "Two weeks Monday." He finished. He had not ended the embrace. He was rooted like an ancient tree to support her in whatever way she choose to react. Mulder was a steady strength she pulled herself into, wrapping her arms around his waist, holding on for dear life. He was being so strong for her. For so long he'd wanted to, he still thought he had a debt to repay. "I'm proud of you." She whispered. (I don't want you to go!) "I tried to find something here, Scully." "I know." The other side of the continent? "I'm sorry." "It's okay." All the way across five thousand lonely miles. Nine hours by jet. Six days by train. Seconds by phone but phone calls? Not acceptable. Not enough -not nearly enough! "Are you okay?" Two weeks and he would be gone. She cried then. Oh, those gentle words. Always those three damn gentle words of his did their magic and most especially when she was trying her hardest not break down. "No, I'm not. I'm not." Her mascara would stain this shirt too. Another dry-cleaning bill. *** **** "How was your weekend?" Petrillo asked. "Real nice." Fox said, remembering. "It was really nice." Petrillo nodded, took a gulp his wife's spicy, milky tea she'd packed in a thermos for him that morning. It was pungent and sweet and hit the spot better than coffee. "Well, shall we begin?" Mulder nodded. "Any dreams?" "No. But I was a good boy and took all my pills." "Yes. I told Doctor Scully to watch and make sure of that." "Figured as much." "What about your emotional state over the weekend. How did that go? Any anxiety?" "Always but not so bad this time. We talked a lot." "About what?" "What I'm going to do when I finally get out of here." "What do you want to do?" He had a job but didn't want to mention it to Petrillo. He had an irrational fear that Petrillo would not approve. Petrillo still had some clout over his patient status and could veto any move out of state if he thought it a risk to his recovery. But this job was his ticket back, he felt, and no one was going to screw it up. "To stop being a financial burden on Scully. To get a job somewhere where I can use what I know, make some kind of difference." "You mentioned thinking about going into private practice as a psychologist for UFO abductees. Private counseling, hypnosis and related therapies. Are you still considering it?" Fox pursed his lips. "I've put out feelers for that and other things. I'm not in a position to be choosey." Petrillo thought Fox looked uncomfortable "I know you still don't believe me. No one ever did." "You'll have to forgive a skeptical society. But just because there's no tangible proof doesn't mean abductions don't happen. Regarding your own claim, you have nothing to prove to me as a member of that society. But you do have to work with me a little longer so you can get well." "You keep contradicting yourself, Doc'." "How's that?" "That I can believe what I want to about what happened to me - which is that I was abducted by aliens and held against my will for eight years, that I have nothing to prove to you or anyone. But, getting well, doesn't that mean giving up that belief? Don't you think I'm delusional for believing it?" Petrillo leaned back in his chair. It creaked. "I'll tell you what I think: I think something terrible happened to you. I think you're trying to recover. You're getting well means working hard as hell with me - which you have been doing - to handle these panic attacks and violent, diassociative episodes..." "Could you drop the shrink-speak for a second and tell me what you really think? Am I delusional to believe I was abducted?" "No. You're not delusional. I think your mind has coped the best way it can with the trauma of those years." "Doc! A straight answer. Do you think I was abducted?" "Personally, no I don't think that. But it doesn't matter." "It doesn't? You're going to let me walk out of this place believing absolutely in something that people think is nuts?" "Hindu's believe in Destiny and reincarnation. Are all those millions of people crazy? Is it crazy to chant to Buddha? Believe in the good will of one's ancestors? Is it nuts to worship and dedicate one's life to an invisible Yahweh? Is it insane to worship Mother Earth and consider even the rocks living, feeling creatures? Is the whole world demented, Fox?" Mulder smiled ironically. "Point made." "I'm a doctor - trained in the sciences - and the silliest assertion science continues to make is that miraculous things are impossible because they are miraculous! I have every belief in the possibility of things beyond this realm, things outside the physical, because as a physical creature tied to this realm there is no way in hell I can ever prove otherwise." "A philosopher too, huh?" "It's not so much philosophy as common sense. You see. What's important is how you see _this_ life. That you're grounded in reality and have the power to take or reject what it has to offer. To make rational choices as a free moral agent. Your choices will never be just one or the other. You can walk out of here if you wish believing you were on an alien space craft or sipping holy wine with the Queen of Heaven. As long as it's a choice from a healthy man, a mentally sound one. I'm just here to help you re-acquire the skills to survive - to live. In the end, the decision what to accept is still yours to make." "What if the panic attacks still happen?" "They might. PTSD is not a curable condition, but it is a treatable one. You will learn to live with it and live with it out there with your fine lady and not in here with an ugly, old man." "You're methods are not very conventional, Doc'." "But they work." "How long have you been doing this?" "After getting my degree I left India when I was twenty-seven. My father, by the way was Italian and worked in Calcutta, where he met and married my mother, hence the Italian name. I'm sixty- one years old now. I transferred from place to place in Europe and then here until I found a niche where I could be the most help. I think I found it." "Lucky for me." "Maybe Destiny." Petrillo smiled. *** Petrillo's encouraging words helped ease Scully's heartache somewhat. "Twelve months of treatment here - believe me - it's miraculous how far he's come in that time. He has a resilience I've not often seen in my years. He's a healer and a fighter." "I'm very proud of him. So you think he's...okay? He's not going back to work too soon?" "Uh,.." Over the phone, Petrillo's voice seemed a trifle confused. "That's really impossible to say for sure. I can say that if I thought he was not at all ready, that it was shaky, then I would tell him. But the decision is ultimately up to him now that he's on his own cognisance. Uh, he's got a job then?" "Yes." "I'll have to speak to him about some out-patient follow-up if he's willing, that was fast." He wasn't surprised, really, that Mulder hadn't told him. Tell me about it. Scully hung up the phone. She would not cry or be selfish about this. Would not hurt him. **** Two people traveled to Ian Moss's residence in Boston, Minnesota. One got there an hour before the other (around 9 P.M.) in a 1984 Ford Tempo in need of a tune-up. He parked around the corner because of the engine's rumble and because he didn't want the car noticed in particular though the street out front was lined on both sides with vehicles. Visitor number 1 walked down the back alley to the row of stacked condos, his destination. But instead of going in, he waited and watched the presently darkened windows. He would do this same routine, parking his car in different spots each time and varying where he stood to watch, as long as it took until he knew the comings and goings of dwelling number 3 on the fifth floor. Who was at home and when and the times they arrived and left until he learned them. Even if it took days. But as luck would have it, only forty-five minutes after standing in the chilly night air, the lights went on in what he figured was the bedroom. Soon, the lights behind the blinds on the balcony doors went on. The cars and trucks belonging to the residents of the middle class housing were all parked out back with numbers painted on concrete blocks for each. Another half hour went by and a big man emerged from the back door accompanied by the little man whom he himself had traveled a long way to keep company with. Smaller man kissed bigger man and bigger man, in the uniform of Boston's finest, walked to his unmarked police car, got in and started it, back out of his stall and drove away down the alley. Visitor number 1 watched as Ian Moss retreated into the building, letting the door swing shut behind him. He quickly sprinted to the door before it could swing to and caught it, then crept up the flight of carpeted stairs after his intended. Ian placed the key in the deadbolt and turned the lock. Before he heard the telltale click of the bolt sliding back, he heard another click. A switchblade at his throat and a voice in his ear muffled the bolt's sound. "Hi, Ian. Long time no see." Ian felt panic surge through him at Ross's angry baritone. "What do you want?" "Shut the fuck up and get your ass inside is what I want, you snitching homo." Ian had no doubts Ross meant to kill him but he had no recourse in an argument with a knife. A teeny tingle at his throat and the feel of wet underneath it proved Ross meant business. Ross shoved him inside and kicked the door shut. He couldn't take his hands off Ian to turn the bolt but it didn't matter, what he had to do wouldn't take long. Ian wondered how many minutes had gone by - it seemed an eternity - and glanced at the clock hanging in the hallway. The door of number 3 shut just as a traveler number 2 pulled up in a cab out front. "I'm expecting someone." Ian said, surprised at the steadiness of his voice. "You're a lying faggot." "No, I'm not. I swear, I'm expecting him any second now." "Oh, yeah? Who?" "Fox Mulder." Ross paused. "Who is that, your little queer for the night? Does the cop know you're two-timing his ass? Hmmm?" Ian swallowed. Jesus, Ross didn't even know who he was talking about. But how often does a rapist even really look at the face of his victim or take the time to learn their name? Ross dragged Ian into the living room. "I got a network, faggot. Eyes on the back of my head. You think I wouldn't find out who turned me in?" Ian struggled to remain calm or to at least appear to. Ross (and his type) loved to terrorize before cutting or raping or whatever it was he'd previously been convicted of. Volumes had been written on the subject. Lot's of time to read on night shift. How the prick Ross had ever landed in Community Sentence work, he didn't know. Yes he did. Understaffed justice system. Overcrowded jails. "You scared, homo'? Why? I thought all you little boys liked it up the ass? You spent enough time with Candy man, you and he must have got it on now and then..." Ian felt Ross's arm go tighter around his throat with each sentence spoken, the knife pressed almost home. Ross was atoms from cutting him a second mouth. "...well, I'm not here to teach you a lesson like that pathetic loon I fucked the balls off of, I'm here to tag me a fag. How'd ya' like to be famous for a day, Ian? How'd you like to make the morning papers? You and your homo-cop-bum-buddy?" Ian saw the shadow before Ross did and as soon as he felt that first violent jerk and heard the fleshy thud and Ross's hand go limp, he twisted free. But the dive for freedom wasn't as crucial as it might have been. Because he turned and watched as Fox Mulder proceeded to take things in hand and beat Ross to within a half inch of his life. Stunned, Ian observed the floor show as the Fox he remembered and a Fox he had never seen plant his foot into Ross's gut, and then his crotch, again and again. Fox questioned the perpetrator with each swing of his polished David Collier size 12's. "Dump your maggot slime into me, will you? You piece of shit! You fuck!" Fox switched from crotch to face. "You goddamn raping scum-shit! How would you like to eat your own nose, you son-of-a-bitch!!?" Suddenly Fox stopped, breathing hard as Ross snorted red and green all over the carpet. Ian was fascinated at the transformation from murderous hate to calm exterior as Fox took out his cellular and dialed 911, speaking into it for a few moments. Then he actually took the time to bend down and see if Ross was still breathing and getting enough oxygen to keep alive until the EMT's arrived. Ian suspected that, if Ross were to then die en-route to Emergency, Fox would care less. Then Fox was at his side with a hanky, pressing it over the small cut on his throat. Ian took the opportunity to look at his former patient. Hair shiny and combed. Black suit, expensive and hung on his healthy - _very healthy_ - looking body like silk on marble. This was not the Fox he remembered. Not even close. This man was tall, sane, powerful and in total control of the situation. He was gorgeous. "Are you all right?" It was the first time he had ever heard Fox's voice and possibly the sexiest sound he had ever laid ears on. He supposed it had some- thing to do with the fact that Fox had just saved his life. "I could kiss you." Ian rattled, his throat hurting from Ross's unremitting tight hold on it. Fox smiled, showing a row of white if slightly uneven teeth. Still sexy. "Well, we'll just skip that part, 'kay?" Ian nodded and got to his feet. Sirens could be heard getting closer. "Is there someone you want me to call?" Fox asked as Ian sat on the sofa, a bit shocky. "Yeah. Precinct 22. Ask For Sargent Gary Bihlhaltz -Jesus." "What?" "This is gonna be hard on him. Worse than for me." "Why?" "Because he's in the closet." Fox nodded, understood. Greater men had been ruined for less. "If you need me for anything, character witness, whatever. Call my number or Scully's - you still have hers?" Ian nodded. Fox gave him one of his new cards. "I'm staying in this hotel tonight," he took the card back and wrote the hotel name on the back, "hopefully, the initial red tape for this won't keep me in Boston beyond tomorrow. I'm returning to D.C. and then moving to Seattle. I don't know for how long." Ian wondered what might have happened between him and his lady/doctor/friend that he was leaving the East coast. Fox put his hands on his hips. Ian tried not to stare up at his rescuer. "Listen, I requested to come and see you because I wanted... I mean you saved my life." Ian flushed. He couldn't help it. "You saved me. At Walburg..." it was still hard to even say the name of the place. "If it hadn't been for you, I might still be in there along with this pile of manure." Fox nodded once in the direction of the bloody pulp on the floor. There would be an investigation of this incident, statements, court, he'd have to fly back and testify on Ian's behalf and his own. "You saved mine tonight." Ian reminded him. "I'd call it even, wouldn't you?" He glanced at the human bruise called Ross. "I didn't see you kick a man who was already down. Ross came at you with the knife, too, didn't he?" Fox nodded, smiling just once. He remembered almost nothing except instant reaction. It came back to him though, as they waited for the officials. Fox had just walked in the building as another resident was walking out, no need to buzz the door. And when he'd heard the distinct waver of Ross's monster voice, he'd just acted without thinking. Suddenly he was F.B.I. again and all the old skills and training fell into place. Ross went down almost without any effort on his part. But then another part of himself surfaced. He saw his shoe bury itself in various parts of Ross, especially the hated face. He'd wanted that fat, mushy pig face to cave in and come out the back of his head. Along the way, the face turned into a creature nightmares are made of and instead of pink skin, a boney headed, sharp-toothed demon ready to tear him in half emerged and his foot had struck harder. Then he had stopped. Just like that. He wanted it to end this time. In justice. Witnesses. Proof! No more time behind bars and locks and spectacled doctors looking at him wondering why. The authorities would deal with Ross. Less satisfying on a personal level but better for his own health in the long run. It had taken enormous self-control not to kill that man. **** ***** **** "Gotta a joke for you." Mulder said as they sat and ate sandwiches and drank coffee. "Okay." "This guy gets a flat tire and pulls over to the side of the highway right next to a mental institute-" "Mulder-" "-Just wait, Scully, I said it was a joke, now you've ruined the build-up." "Sorry." "-he pulls up next to the nut house. He removes the hub cap and the bolts from the rim and puts them in the hub cap. But as he gets up to stretch, he accidently flips the hub cap into the air with his foot. The bolts land in the ditch water. So, he's standing there, wondering what the hell to do. Then along comes a mental patient and asks him what's wrong. The guy says: " I lost all the bolts to my tire and now I'm stuck here." So the kook thinks for a second and makes a suggestion: "Well, why don't you remove one bolt from each of the other three tires and use them to put your spare on?" The guy says: "Wow, that's brilliant. How in hell did you ever think of that?!" And the nut says: "Well, I may be crazy but I'm not stupid." Scully smiled. "A smile? That's it?" "Well, it was cute but not hilarious." "That's because it's build up was ruined." Now she laughed, a happy chuckle. She loved him. Mulder was here, sitting beside her in a park on a Friday, sane and free and hers and not a fucking white-coat in sight. Back from his quick trip to Boston where he'd, somehow on God's green earth, stumbled into trouble. Thankfully, it had turned out all right. Ross, rot his stinking hide, was sitting on his ass in a cell waiting for an his arraignment while his public defender bit his greenhorn nails. Mulder would have to return there for the actual trial which could be who knew when. Mulder had wanted to take the flight to Boston alone. Tough on her, acting unselfish and hugging him as he left in a cab for the airport. But it was his first time, out and away, without a net. Without anyone to drop the bread- crumbs and in his anxiety to depart he hadn't even kissed her goodbye. But he'd come home again and - God - she loved him. Scully saw Mulder in that context and no other. Because she had learned something about it over the span of a decade. Love encompassed so much and excluded so little. ******** Mulder had aged. A sprinkling of grey hair now. Crows feet and laugh lines. The man would soon be starting on the road to jowl-dom. Scully noticed, now, sitting next to him in the bright sunlight, an age spot or two on the backs of his scarred hands. She shud- dered at the image of him trying to claw his way through a wall, screaming in the dark. He drew on a Winston, smoke curling out his nostrils. He was up to a half pack a day but with all he'd been through, she certainly wasn't going to begrudge him a regular nicotine fix. //No one is ever going to harm you again, Mulder. I will not let them.// He swallowed, throat tight with nervousness. He'd wanted to talk he said. She was letting him take his time. He always wanted to say it just right. So she let him smoke and think about it while she studied his scars and clear eyes and teeny, sweet, clutchable love-handles. And what of them anyway? Forty-seven years and too, too many bumps on the long, hard road will do that to anyone. But - God in his elusive heaven - the man was beautiful. Inside and out. Still. To Scully. And - merciful angels looking down - he was _hers_! Those few extra marks and fat cells accumulated since his prime just made him more interesting, more vulnerable and human. And - yes - sexier. Her eyes came back to rest on his face just as they always did when the two of them made these little midday forays to the park. The September sun called people out of their cubby holes and they'd pour out en-mass when Twelve o'clock beeped on thousands of little timepieces throughout the office buildings of the Capital. She loved his face, one that was ready to forgive almost anything. Gentle, lovable man. Is that what she had seen that first time in the basement all those years and years ago? She tried to remember. First impressions. Handsome? Definitely. Sexy? Impossible to ignore. Genius? Rumored to be. Impossible to work with? (That's what "they" - the gossip mill - had told her). Not if you were Irish. Frivolous? A waste of the Bureau's time and resources? No goddamn way. Had he gotten on a few people's nerves during the years the X-Files were active? Frequently, including his boss's. Had Skinner a full head of hair before Mulder showed up? But through all of it, Mulder'd remained an honest, hard working successful, case-closing agent. A pain in the ass, yes, and Skinner'd gone over the line for him more than once, protecting him from his own impulsiveness. So had she. First impressions had also included Mulder's passion for truth and his fierce devotion when it came to friendship, a quality of his she had tasted very soon, in the first months of their partnership. Then she learned of his protectiveness. Yet he had never compromised her dignity as an investigator or equal. Frequently relying on her, in fact, first for her medical knowledge, then for her insights - even if he knew they would probably go against his own, still he had asked. And then before she realized it, he'd begun to depend upon her, confide in her, seek her out during troubled hours professionally and in his personal life. Among the gabbers of Spooky lore and his former partners sent packing, the latter was unheard of. Until that day, when she strolled confidently into his cluttered basement office and found a GQ four-eyed Freud, she had never in her life met such a complicated individual. He was handsome and smart and should have been on the highroad to the FBI Hall of Fame. But instead he'd locked himself away in a forgotten corner, pouring over cases bearing the names of places and people no-one else cared about. No one except Mulder, she soon found out. Where other agents spent their time trying to climb the ladder, he spent his trying to solve the previously unsolvable, forsaking bureaucratic ass-kissing and that great striving for high station most were trying to achieve before the day of reckoning. When one grows up in a family of status with a high brow father, sometimes fame can become a non-priority. No more looked-for than meatloaf at six or mediocre football. Rarely, but sometimes. Mulder, after his new partner had questioned him about it one day, asking him what in the FBI he expected to be doing in ten years, had first stared at her like she'd spoken Swahili; as if no one had ever asked him anything personal about himself let alone about his future. She wondered if he'd ever given it serious thought. Finally, with a shrug of his shoulders, he'd answered - "Working." She soon found out that for him it was the work and the fallible, frail human beings inside the cases that was important, not the ladder of success. She'd heard that he'd run for his life from Violent Crimes, where he certainly would have achieved all there was to attain in the hallowed halls of the Bureau. But only at the cost of his sanity. Scully had come to understand that people came first with him, in particular the innocent, and not the monsters that stalked them. And she'd learned a few other things. Like how his sister had disappeared and his family had fallen apart. How he had blamed himself, his father punishing him and his mother shutting him out. And how he'd coped with the terrible anguish of all of it for decades yet still found room to joke with his new skeptical partner. All that was a long time ago and nothing would hurt him now. Not today. Not ever again. Not as long as she occupied the same earth he did. Not as long as her shadow fell across his. Even Mulder's old nemesis left him in peace. She hadn't caught the whiff of Morley's for years. Someday, though, she really wanted to know who the hell that corrupt old prune had been, especially his connection to Mulder. Scully really wanted to know that part. "They" left him alone and in peace. It was a well earned rest. So much history packed into the man with the heartbreaking eyes and the hottest ass in Washington. Imperfections? Those just added to the whole and made it better. It wasn't a thing one could explain to the inexperienced in love. To those who admired the buffed, oiled-skinned heavyweights posing for the world at the checkout stand. Masculine ideal, their pasted grins said. Hardly. Perfection was a crashing bore. Uniqueness and genuine originality, for those qualities one had to work and work hard. Body beautiful was an older, looser Mulder whose lifetime collection of wounds and wear made her hunger all the more to touch him. Such battle trophies should be treasured and their carrier protected. That would be her honor someday. And her reward. Thus far, each had not shared of the others body. It was still her one regret and, she hoped, his as well. But he was correct when he stated they should wait. So hope. Hope to be with him and soothe the memory of the battle scars. Erase their occurrence in loving him though their very existence made him more lovely. Endowed him with the beauty of strength and passion because he'd taken them on and won. Mulder lived, despite everything. The ideal sat beside her, in the new suit she'd bought for him, picking at nervously bitten nails. Every-so-often the edge of that Styrofoam cup of coffee (he could drink caffeinated now without throwing it up), would disappear between those lips and remind her that he was the best kiss on the planet and he belonged to her. Her temporarily, unemployed, middle-aged man with the over bite. Suddenly, piled on top of the waves of sadness that were passing through the center of her heart, joy was there too and she chuckled. "What?" he asked. They'd been sitting in silence for several minutes. "Nothing. Really,.." shaking her head and taking his fidgity hand, "..nothing." Smiled a brave soldiers smile. She watched his lips part. These days when he spoke, he thought a lot about his words before he said them, not liking the waste of breath or precious time. He hated small talk with all the absolutism that most people reserved for lima-bean salad. "Scully. Are you sure you're okay with this?" She nodded, squeezed his hand tighter. Hands fleshed with color, warmth and life. Nothing death-like about them at all. He searched her eyes, making certain. He did not want to hurt her and could not live if she were damaged because of him. There was too much healing behind him and all because of her. She was too wonderful a thing to risk unless he was sure she would still be there. Scully read all that in his eyes and in the space of time during his next breath. "Because, if you're not, we can find another way. Maybe I could-" "-Mulder." She quieted him. He paused, mouth open, waiting for her to speak their course one way or another. She leaned over and kissed him, letting him understand that she was neither holding him there nor leaving him. But letting him know she loved him and nothing else in the world. When she set his mouth free, "I have to do this." He explained again for the hundreth time, appologetically, a bit sadly, a trifle anxiously. "I know." "It's been so long since I've been able to make a decision on my own. What to wear, where to go, whether or not to get drunk if I feel like it. I just need this time. Some time. A few months. Six months. I just need to prove to myself that I can make it alone. Even if it's only for a while. But..." Again, the anxious eyes. "...I don't want to lose you." Again, for the thousandth time. "I don't want to hurt you." It was killing her, seeing him go. He was still, in a way, seeking for her permission. Can I go? he was asking and if she requested it, he would stay and do his best to make her happy. But she wondered if he would learn to hate her for it, for the invisible cage that that would erect around him. God, she couldn't do that to him. Or to herself. Snap on the chains? Never, never. She told the truth. "You won't. You aren't." She lied. "I'll be okay, honestly." The naked soul. "But I want phone calls, okay? I'll need them. _I_ will, Mulder." The broken heart. "I love you so much..." Bit her lip, not wanting to go too far, say too much or make a guilt trip out of saying goodbye. But love. It was so easy to say now. And such a simple thing that she wondered why in the world she had ever had trouble speaking it. "...so if you think this is a see-ya-around-have-a-great-life goodbye, you are soooo wrong." she smiled at her own tease. Humor was better. It put them both at ease. Mulder looked down at her hand over his and at her. "I do too." Glad to be able to say it and mean it and not hang for it. And not be chained to it quite yet either. He kissed her cheek and stood to go but she caught his arm. "Wait." She gathered up her own briefcase. "Let me." Let me walk away because if I see you doing it I'll fall apart. Scully picked up her jacket, layed a hand on his shoulder and walked away without looking back. To work. Calls to make, deadlines to meet, classes to teach, reports to write. It was the hand of God or the pull of Destiny or some nameless guardian who layed a hand on her shoulder and made her slow and turn back around. Her name, she'd heard it. No. Mulder was just getting up. He must have stayed sitting there watching her walk away. Maybe testing himself. Maybe his ability to take it; to not run after; to not have the need. That he'd been watching after her filled her spirit and cracked it at the same time. Oh, God, what am I doing? Am I insane? Why am I letting him go? She was only two hundred feet distant and already she missed his nearness to the degree of crazy. Her throat ached from holding back the sobs. Six months. Was a lifetime. "Mulder!" she called. He had not seen her looking back and was walking away - so much farther away - from her but on hearing his name, looked around, waiting. "Call me!" He wouldn't be able to see her tears or know of her glass-walled and breaking heart. She kept the tremor out of her voice with a terrific effort. Practise. "YOU BETTER!" Two last gestures shared with him, a wave of her trembling hand, a smile to hide the pain. Under her breath, "You just better because I love you, you amazing son-of-a-bitch." He smiled, a promising and grateful grin, a truthful one accompanied by a nodding of his head. Mulder turned to face the other direction and where it might take him, walking away into the afternoon. Eventually she lost the definition of him as he merged into the crowds of lunchtime humanity. ***** NOVEMBER 21, 2006. 10:13 A.M. ( Two months post- F.M.'s return). It was not quiet, this place. The Old Man thought it was. Quiet and dark and a place where he was not known. He, the Helper heard and saw every creature that crawled through the branches and skittered along the damp soil beneath his feet. To him, it was a disorganized, noisey world. He trudged through the wet leaves to the small veranda of the cabin. A small house, really, with all the amenities. The place was unevenly heated due to the fire in the hearth that the Old Man seemed to like. As usual he gave little thought to it or to his own comfort. Old Man was his assignment and commander both and complaining had no place in the Work. The Old Man _was_ old now. And no longer breathed unless he had his tinny oxygen tank to pull around like a child with his toy. Old Man was sick and stayed in his cabin day and night in the forests of Agusta. Even the Others did not visit. They were all getting old and weak but younger ones would replace them and things would progress as they should. He entered, standing inside the door until Old Man invited him to sit which he did stiffly, the upright hard chairs not to his approval. The message he had to deliver this time was a simple one. "He is back." Old Man narrowed his wrinkled eyes and that was all. As always, nearly expressionless. No emotion to tell him if Old Man received the news as good or bad. "We must inform the Others." Old Man said. He nodded, his own stone-carved face betraying nothing of his personal feelings. Or thoughts even. "He is in a place." Told Old Man the name of it. "He is ill." Old Man took a long breath and the air flowing through the line from the tank to his nose bubbled. "Resiliance has always been his strength. We will of course need Watchers." "Why?.." It was rare he asked why or the reason for anything. It was not encouraged among the Helpers. "..If he is broken?" "I have explained why. The reasons have not altered." "Yes, but-" "-Do we know who took him?" He shook his granit cranium in the negative. "That gives cause for some alarm." Little puffs from his nose ventilator replaced smoke that used to rise. "Never-the-less, if indeed he's back..." Old Man chuckled softly, not in the manner of some evil incarnate of his Devil-god, but of an aged human who had seen much bordom of late and despised it. Breath in... "Well,.." The sick human finished, "nothing changes, really does it?" Breath out... "It just gets simpler." *** <<>> "The Old Ways" by Loreena McKinnet ***** END (watch for sequel FOLDBACK, coming Feb/March '99) AUTHOR'S NOTES: I wanted, in FOCUS, to present Mulder in a different light; that of an older, more worn out version. I myself am only thirty four years old, but already I see the lines increasing and the grey hairs popping up. Yet I wouldn't trade being this age for twenty again. Well maybe for a few million$$. But, as I watch my husbands body age, I find it a powerfully moving thing. Each year, a slight change, a new vulnerability that makes him, to me, sexier as the years pass. I wanted to mark that passage of time in Mulder and, to a lesser extent, in Scully. So many stories, excellent in themselves, portray Mulder as some eternal athletic stud who'll never see a liver spot. (In this I'm as guilty as hell!). With FOCUS, among other things, I wanted to underline the beauty of middle age and the longevity of the spirit. I hope I achieved this. I hope you enjoyed FOCUS. *~FOCUS was written to sooth my nerves following "PhaHks" (a very emotional and occassionally difficult piece to write). Now that I'm all soothed ;) I'm going to dive into FOLDBACK. With each new sequel, I'm hoping to achieve something a little different. With FOLDBACK, we return to more angsty and heart- wrenching themes and well, things I won't tell you at this point except that they're BOMBSHELLS! With DIVINITIES, it'll be more of the same but with a paranormal flavor. Oh, and a crossover thrown in. :) DIVINITIES will probably be my last novel-length piece. WATCH FOR "FOLDBACK" (Focus sequel) COMING END FEBRUARY '99!! *** GenieVB (email me!) avan@home.com or genyah@hotmail.com