When This is Over
by Keleka
Email: keleka@keleka.net
Distribution: Gossamer, Spookys, Xemplary,
etc.
Rating: PG 
Spoiler Warning: Tunguska, Terma, Avatar, Pusher,
Wetwired, The Field Where I Died, El Mundo Gira,
Kaddish, Never Again, Leonard Betts, Memento
Mori, Zero Sum, Gethsemane, Redux, Redux2.
This is the final story in the "Rubicon Series."  The
three previous stories in the series can be found on
my website at http://www.keleka.net/keleka/
Classification: VR
Keywords: Skinner/Scully angst, Skinner/Scully
romance, Skinner and Scully POV
Summary: Love dies, is reborn, and is unrequited.

Archive: Sure! Please tell me where so I can visit.
Disclaimer: Get real!  If I owned this cash
cow, do you really think I'd be living in
Mississippi? 
Feedback:  It's welcome in my house!
Author's Note: Profound thanks to a great pair of
betas, Fabulous Monster and Shoshana, who set
aside their MSR convictions and help me dabble in
SSR from time to time, and to Astroqueen who
kindly gave me the Skinnerist point of view.
Please see additional notes at end of story.




When This Is Over
by Keleka


I'm not sure exactly when it all started to go to hell. 
Sometimes I think it was when I handed Dana the
photos on the flight back from North Carolina. 
Maybe it was when we got off the plane in D.C. and
the first chill wind whipped off the Potomac,
slapping her with the reality of what we had done,
and what might be done to us.  Maybe it was when
she learned about Sharon, or the night I told her
about my involvement with the Consortium.  

Maybe it was when that bastard Modell made
Mulder pull a gun on her.  Or maybe she never fully
recovered from being brainwashed and nearly
murdering Mulder in a fit of extreme paranoia.  I
often wonder whether she would have pulled the
trigger had I--not her sainted mother--stepped in
front of Mulder that night.  That she went to her
mother in the first place--rather than to me--told me
where I stood.
 
Sometimes I think it's all in my imagination and
everything is fine.  But when I wake in the middle of
the night and find myself sleeping alone, I know
better.  Not a lonely night goes by that I don't try to
pinpoint the moment we went from the warm glow
of new lovers to the chilly demeanor of two adults
who made a dreadful mistake becoming involved
with each other. 

One measure of the deterioration in our relationship
was the number of times Dana called me 'Sir' in any
given day.  The more often she said it, the less likely
I was to see her that evening.  It got so I could tell
whether I'd be cooking for one or for two just by
saying hello to her in the hallway.  One 'Sir' and a
smile meant I'd be cooking dinner for two; two or
more 'Sirs' meant I'd be dining alone. 

Whenever the rocky slide downhill started, I know
exactly when our relationship plunged over the
precipice.  It was the night we returned from
Tennessee and the whole Ephesian fiasco.  It was
the last night she came for dinner.  It was the last
time we made love.  I made the mistake of saying
that her heart hadn't seemed to be in it, and then I
exacerbated my crime by voicing thoughts that she
was acting jealous over Mulder and his so-called
'soul mate.'  The words were barely out of my mouth
when she climbed out of bed and dressed to leave. 
I've tried several times since then to patch things up,
but she'll have none of it.  Our relationship now is
very professional, and very cold.  Even Mulder has
noticed the change.

Mulder.  Thanks to him, I've had police crawling all
over my condo building for two days asking why a
man was thrown off my balcony and another was
seen hanging from the railing.  He's also the reason
Dana is cooling her heels in a federal courthouse
holding cell in contempt of Congress for refusing to
reveal his whereabouts.

As I check my weapon with the guard, I feel a tinge
of guilt about what I'm planning.  Yes, first I'll deal
with the immediate issues, but then I'm going to
make her talk to me.  She's incarcerated.  She can't
escape.  By the time I'm finished, she'll either hate
me and I can get on with my life--such as it is--or
we'll be on the road to healing or closure.

The guard admits me to Dana's cell and I flinch at
the sound of the heavy metal door clanging shut
behind me.  She's reading a book about variola
viruses and sets it aside when I enter.  She stands,
obviously uncomfortable at having me see her like.

"You holding up?" I ask.

"I've got plenty to read."  Her attempt at humor falls
flat.  The rest of our conversation is strained as we
discuss Mulder and the committee proceedings. 
When she tells me she doesn't trust her own
judgment and plans to follow Mulder's, I know there
is no use discussing it further.  She has already made
up her mind about who and what is more important
to her.  Meanwhile, I am left to twist in the wind as
the investigation continues into the man who was
thrown off my balcony.

I lose my resolve to discuss our relationship,
knowing that her allegiance to Mulder is stronger
than any feelings she may still have for me.  When I
reach the door, something stops me.  I can't let it
end this way.  I have to try and this may be the only
chance I get.  I turn back and lock eyes with her but
say nothing.  After a few moments I can see in her
eyes that she knows what is on my mind.

"What happened to us?" I say softly.  "What went
wrong?"

She continues to hold my gaze for a moment before
turning away.  "Walter...."  Her voice trails off and
it's obvious she's not about to offer any answers.

"I need to know, dammit," I say, my voice becoming
more demanding as my temper rises.  "I need to
know what I did wrong."  Her face softens and I see
affection tinged with sadness in her eyes as she
realizes I blame myself for what has happened to us. 
Mulder hasn't cornered the market on
self-flagellation.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Walter.  It just
isn't...it wasn't--"

"Do you still love me?"  I ask, the ultimate question
of the desperate man.  I have enough pride not to
ask what I most what to know: if you love me, how
can you do this to me?

Her eyes tear and she looks away, unable to meet
my gaze.  I can see her inner turmoil as she tries to
decide how to answer.  "I can't do this, Walter.  Not
now.  Not here."  I look at her, waiting, my eyes
boring into hers, searching for an answer in their
blue depths.  "When this is over," she says, finally. 
"I promise."

Frustrated and confused, I leave without another
word.


               * * *


Damn him!

I don't know whether I'm angrier at Skinner for
cornering me in this godforsaken place or at myself
for driving him to it.  Under ordinary circumstances
I know he'd never do something like this to me.  Not
with Mulder missing and me facing career-ending
contempt of Congress charges.

"I can't do this, Walter," I say, unable to meet his
eyes.  "Not now.  Not here."  I look at him finally
and I can see the pain and hurt hidden deep inside. 
I've pushed him too far.  He won't back down on
this--not without some sort of explanation.  "When
this is over.  I promise."

He doesn't react, and for a moment I fear that my
promise isn't enough; that he will force me to
confront our personal issues in this bleak holding
cell.  Finally, he nods stiffly and leaves.  The cold
metallic sound of the cell door slamming shut sends
a stab of pain through my heart.

I turn back to my cot and pick up the book on
variola viruses.  I try to pick up where I left off, but
I can't concentrate.  All I can think about is what we
had and how quickly we lost it.  

Part of me wants to blame that son-of-a-bitch who
stinks up the Hoover Building with his Morley
cigarettes.  All I wanted was a weekend away from
the pressure-cooker of D.C. so we could finally
move our relationship forward.  Instead, we naively
handed the Consortium one more piece of
ammunition to use against us.  Whatever made me
think I could have a normal life?

How many times have I said, 'be careful what you
wish for'?  Why in hell didn't I say it to myself the
night I went to Walter's apartment after learning that
the Consortium had murdered Luis Cardinale?  What
in hell was I thinking?  In love with my boss?  Any
idiot would have known better.

And while I know our relationship can't continue, I
can't end it now. It's too soon; my emotions are too
raw. In a perverse way, I am almost thankful for my
current circumstances--it provides me with the
excuse I need to delay the inevitable.

But the future will not be denied, and I know my
respite will be brief.


                    *  *  *


It is all I can do to keep my hands from shaking as I
review the report. Mulder, as usual, does most of
the talking, although it is not lost on me that his
voice has a strained, gravelly quality. It seems that I
am not the only one affected by this incident in
Philadelphia.

Strangely, the object of the report sits
impassionately across from me. She is in the room in
body only; her mind is elsewhere. Mulder notices it,
too. Several times, he looks over at her, expecting
her to add to his narrative, but she says nothing. 
Her silence weighs heavily in the room. Finally, at
the end of Mulder's report, I can stand it no longer.

"Do you have anything else to add, Agent Scully?" I
ask roughly, looking pointedly at her.

My question seems to pull her from her reverie.
"Mulder, will you excuse us? I need to talk to AD
Skinner alone."

I'm not sure who is more surprised, me or Mulder. I
do know that he looks like she just slapped him.
Slowly, he rises from his chair and looks directly at
her. She doesn't return his gaze. Even though it's my
office, I can't help but feel I'm intruding. His anger
and frustration are almost palpable.

He shoots a glance at me. "Do you need me for
anything else, sir?" 'To hell with it' his expression
tells me: it's my job to dismiss him, not hers.

"That'll be all." I hope he picks up the note of
empathy in my voice.  I turn my eyes back to the
report in my hands.  I lay it on my desk and smooth
it with my hands while Mulder makes his way to the
door.  When I hear the door close behind him I lift
my eyes to Scully.  Her head is lowered, her hands
clasped primly in her lap.

It's been three weeks since she promised we would
talk.  A very long three weeks.  She was barely back
from Terma with Mulder before he whisked her off
to California and that crazy El Chupacabra case, and
barely back from that before I had to send them to
New York on that Jewish hate crimes case. 

For a week after that I waited for her to make good
on her promise, sitting at home each night on pins
and needles, wondering when the knock on the door
would come.  I could have called her or gone to her
apartment, but I was afraid to risk crossing the line
into sexual harassment, and afraid that I might not
be able to restrain my anger.

After that week passed and Dana still hadn't kept her
promise, I did something bordering on unethical. 
After Mulder and Scully returned from a case in
Pittsburgh, I called in a favor from Human
Resources and had Mulder sent off on a mandatory
vacation.  With him out of the picture, I would
corner Dana into the conversation she had promised
me.  But Mulder ruined that plan when he sent her
to Philadelphia to keep an eye on an informant while
he was gone.  Dana ended up in the hospital again
and is damned lucky she wasn't incinerated.

It's their report about the Philadelphia incident that
we're meeting this morning to review.  What I read
was shocking, but even more shocking was what I
read between the lines in Mulder's report.

I wait for Dana to speak.  She must have something
to say or she wouldn't have asked Mulder to leave. 
However, she makes no move to initiate
conversation.  If she won't, I will.

"Did you fuck him?" I ask with no mercy in my
voice.  Her head snaps up at this and her eyes bore
into mine.

"Jesus, Walter.  How can you ask me that?"

"Did...you...fuck...him?"  She asked for this private
audience.  If she doesn't like it, too damned bad. 
She doesn't take her eyes from mine, signaling that
she's not going to run from me this time.

"I don't think this is the place--"

"Answer the damned question, Agent Scully."

She looks beyond me, out into the dismal grey
Washington sky and I can see the confusion and hurt
she feels reflected in her eyes.  Finally she looks
back to me with a hint of defiance.  "Yes," she says
firmly.  "I did."

When will I learn not to ask questions when I really
don't want to know the answer?  I thought I wanted
to know.  I needed to know that Mulder's
suspicions--so firmly revealed in the cutting
comments in his report--were wrong.  I needed to
know that Dana wasn't capable of such betrayal.

"Then I don't think there's anything else for us to say
to each other," I say, averting my eyes while I gather
up the paperwork from the case and carefully return
it to the file folder.  When I sense no movement
from her chair I add, "You're dismissed, Agent."

There's still no movement.  I look up and am
surprised to see her studying me curiously.  She
seems remarkably calm and I feel remarkably
unsettled.  She's always had this way of turning the
tables on me.  An eternity of silence passes before
she rises and walks slowly to the door.  She turns to
look at me again.

"I'll be over tonight, Walter.  We'll talk."  Before I
can tell her not to bother, she's gone.


                    * * *


This isn't going exactly the way I planned.  First I
had to spend the rest of the morning with Fox
'I'm-not-speaking-to-you' Mulder.  By lunch I'd had
enough of his petulance and went to the employee
cafeteria alone.  I spent the rest of the afternoon in
the library doing some research for a journal article.

At 6:00 I packed up my things and headed back to
the basement.  Mr. Work-a-holic was still there, of
course, and still seething.  He thinks the whole Ed
Jerse thing was about him.  He'd really have a cow if
he knew the truth.  Mulder was the last thing on my
mind when I was in bed with Ed Jerse.

Right now, the man who WAS on my mind is in his
kitchen putting together dinner.  I arrived at Walter's
condo at 7:00 on the dot.  He let me in and has
barely said ten words to me since then.  Normally I
would help him with dinner, but when I tried to help,
he made it clear I wasn't welcome.

I'm getting really sick of the silent treatment. 
There's something inherently unfair about the
standard I'm being held to.  Other than my brothers
and my Priest, there are only two men in my life.  I
love them both, and though neither has ever said he
loves me, I know they both do.  They're acting like
jilted lovers, but only one of them has any right to
feel that way.

I'm too antsy to sit quietly in the living room while
Walter cooks.  I roam around, taking note of all the
little touches that speak of Walter's late wife,
Sharon.  He had moved out of this condo when
Sharon asked for a divorce, and moved back a few
weeks after her death.  It surprises me that he wants
to live surrounded by so many things that surely
remind him of her.  But then, maybe he finds it
comforting.  She DID love him, afterall; even while
she sought a divorce it was obvious that her love for
him had never died.

His home is an impressive, two-story condo on the
seventeenth and eighteenth floor of a security
building in the Crystal City part of Arlington.
Assistant Directors make a good salary, and Skinner
obviously hadn't hesitated to spend it on his and
Sharon's comfort.  I've been here before, of course. 
It wasn't really until after he'd moved back here that
our relationship began to crumble.

Slowly, I ascend the stairs to the second floor.  I feel
a need to see everything one last time; to imprint the
happy times on my memory for the cold, lonely
nights I know lie ahead.  In the master bedroom I
stop beside the king-sized platform bed.  This was
where we made love the last time, the night we got
back from that damned Temple of the Seven Stars
case in Tennessee.  My mind was not on Walter that
night; it was on Mulder and his belief that Melissa
Riedal-Ephesian was his soul mate; that his soul and
mine were tied together through eternity as friends. 
Merely friends.  Walter had commented on my
distraction and when he said I was acting jealous
over Mulder, I left in a huff.  It really wasn't fair of
me to abandon him that night simply for telling the
truth.

I hear footsteps behind me.  I turn to see Walter
standing in the doorway.  When our eyes meet, he
dips his head and averts his eyes.  "Walter," I begin,
but he raises a hand to silence me.  He takes several
steps until he is standing just in front of me, so close
I can practically feel the tension that grips him.

"I love you, Dana," he says softly.  "I don't want to
lose you."

I look up at him, stunned.  "Do you realize that's the
first time you've ever said you love me?"  He nods
and his eyes fill quickly with tears.  Jesus.  Don't cry. 
Please don't cry.  I don't think I could handle seeing
him cry.  He has always been a rock; the one person
I could always count on to be strong.

"I should have said it a long time ago," he says, his
voice strained and tight.

I close the distance between us, slipping my arms
around his waist and resting my head against his
chest.  It seems an eternity since the last time I
enjoyed this closeness with him.  Ed Jerse was a
poor substitute.  "It was a mistake for us to become
involved, Walter," I say.  "I accept the blame for
that.  I should never have--"

"You seduced me."  Beneath the hurt, I can hear his
anger and bitterness.  "You found my weakness and
made me act against my better judgment.  You stole
my heart and then you left me without any
explanation."

Now I am the one verging on tears.  How right can
the man be?  I tighten my grip on him, remembering
how I had waged a deliberate campaign to overcome
his reluctance to becoming involved with a
subordinate.  I'm not proud of my selfishness.

Until now, his arms have stayed at his sides, his
hands balled up into fists.  But now I feel their first
gentle, tentative touch as he puts his arms around
me.  God, I feel so safe when I'm in his strong arms,
and yet, it is the most dangerous place I can be.  The
Consortium OWNS him, and now it owns a small
piece of me.

When I don't pull away, he lifts one hand, tangling
his fingers with my hair, tilting my head up.  He
leans down and kisses me, gently at first, then more
passionately.  His other hand pulls me tightly against
him and I can feel him growing hard.  I lift my hands
to his chest and try to push away, but my resistence
only makes him hold me more firmly.  He feasts on
my mouth and I feel his hand slip under my shirt,
pushing my bra above my breasts.  His hands are
rough as he pinches and squeezes me.

Finally he breaks his assault on my mouth and I gasp
for air.  "No, Walter.  Please....don't."

"Tell me you don't want me," he says harshly.  "Tell
me you don't want me and I'll stop."

I look him in the eyes but I can't tell him I don't want
him.  It isn't a question of what I want anymore. 
What matters is what is best for us both.  I push
away from him and straighten my clothing.  He
looks at me, smirking.  I take measured steps toward
the bathroom and shut the door behind me. 
Composing myself, I look in the mirror at my
swollen lips and disheveled hair.  I splash water over
my face and when I dry with his towel his scent
overwhelms me and I almost break down.  I remind
myself that one of us has to be strong, and it
obviously isn't going to be Walter.

I open the bathroom door slowly, closing my eyes
and hoping he's gone.  He isn't.  He hasn't even
moved.  The smirk is gone though, replaced with a
mask of regret.

"I'm sorry," he says softly.  When I don't answer, he
continues, "You never answered the question I
asked you three weeks ago."

I know what he means, of course.  It's the question
I've been avoiding for three weeks.  If I answer him
honestly, he'll never let me go.  He won't let the
Consortium win this part of our lives, even if it
eventually means our mutual destruction.  

"I don't love you anymore, Walter."  His eyes lock
on mine and I can see that he doesn't believe me.  

"Liar," he says softly.  He turns his back on me and
lowers his head.  For a moment I fear he may be
crying.  I want to comfort him but I can't, not
without giving up the lie.

"I never meant to hurt you."

"Just go.  Go, before I say something I'll regret."

I gather my things quickly and practically run to my
car.  I need so badly to talk to someone about this. 
But who?  I can't tell my mother, not without
revealing things that would endanger her.  And I
know she wouldn't react well to learning that I've
been sleeping with my boss.  I sure as hell can't talk
to Karen Kosseff at the FBI's Employee Assistance
Program.  That leaves Mulder, my best friend, and
he isn't speaking to me.  I feel so damned alone.


                    * * *

The visitor's section of the hospital parking garage is
almost empty when I pull in just before midnight. 
The only visitors allowed at this time of night are to
those who are dying.  After I park, I rest my
forehead against the steering wheel, trying to gather
the strength I know I'm going to need.

I've seen agents die before.  Hell, I sent many of
them to their deaths.  But watching Dana die a slow
and painful death from this disease has been harder
on me than anyone can imagine.  The weeks after
our final breakup had been miserable ones.  The hurt
had barely begun to dull when I learned that Dana
had inoperable cancer.  And then, as she and Mulder
grew closer to one another, Dana grew even more
distant from me.  The working relationship I had
hoped we could salvage seemed an unattainable goal
as her distrust in me increased.  

I blame it on the disease.  I'm sure as she lay awake
at night pondering her mortality, she kept coming
back to me and my role with the Consortium.  It's no
wonder she was willing to name me as the mole in
the FBI.  She had no way of knowing how I had
tried to deal with the Smoking bastard for a cure for
her, or how only Mulder's trust in me had saved me.

When I close my eyes, I can still see the look on her
face as she collapsed in my arms in the hearing
room.  "You," she had said, and that single,
accusatory word had said it all.  You are responsible
for this.  You are responsible for my pain.  You sold
out.  You.  You.  You.  I hear that word in my
nightmares every night.

Finally, I pull myself out of the car and head for the
cancer ward.  I hadn't even bothered to call ahead.  I
know that is where Mulder will be.  I also know that
when Dana dies, I will really be losing two agents. 
Mulder won't last long without her.  He blames
himself for her illness.  It will be only a matter of
weeks before he'll either kill himself for real or his
lack of sleep and food will make him careless and
he'll be killed in the line of duty.  I've got to find a
way to prevent that.  I've got to find a way to save
Mulder's life.  It's the least I can do for Dana.

As soon as I enter the hallway on the oncology
ward, I see Mulder sitting outside Dana's room.  He
looks like hell.  I doubt he's slept more than a few
hours all week.  I can tell from the amount of weight
he's lost that he's barely eaten.  I sit next to him,
trying to find the words that will get through to him.

"The Smoking Man's dead," I say finally.  It isn't
much, but it's a place to start.  Somehow I have to
get Mulder to see this isn't his fault.  We talk for a
moment about the outcome of the hearing and then
Mulder drops a bombshell on me.

"Scully's cancer's gone into remission."

At first his words don't register and then it hits me. 
Her cancer is in remission.  Not a cure, but a
reprieve.  She's no longer at death's door.  An
incredible feeling of relief floods my senses.

"That's unbelievable news," I mutter, barely
cognizant of Mulder's presence as my brain tries to
make sense of this news.

"It's the best news I could have ever heard," Mulder
says.  I look at him for a moment, wondering
whether he has any clue how much I agree with him. 


"What turned it around?" I ask.  Was it the deal I
made with the Smoking Man?  Was it Mulder's
recovery of the implant?  Was it the miracle of
medical science?  Or did Scully's religious faith pay
off?  Hell, I don't really care what did it, I'm simply
grateful for the gift of life for the woman I love.

"I don't know.  I don't think we'll ever know."

I look at the door to her room, wondering whether I
dare enter.  Would she even want to see me, or is
her distrust of me too deep now?  "Can I see her?" I
ask, though I don't know why I'm asking Mulder's
permission.  Maybe because he, if anyone, will know
whether she would want to see me.

He gives me an understanding look.  "Yeah.  She's in
there with her family right now, but I'm sure she'd
love to see you."

I nod and pull myself to my feet, taking tentative
steps toward her room.  I knock and slowly open the
door.  Her mother, brother, and priest are in the
room and they all turn when I enter.  Dana smiles at
me cautiously--an apologetic smile.  I return it
sheepishly.  I'm at a loss for words.  What does one
say at a time like this?

"Would you all mind if I spoke to AD Skinner alone
for a minute?" Dana says after a moment.  Her
brother casts me a suspicious glance, as if to say
'don't upset her,' but he and the others quickly agree
and leave, shutting the door behind them.  I move
closer to her bed and she scoots her legs over a bit,
patting the side of her bed to invite me to sit.

She takes my hand and we say nothing for nearly a
minute, just happy in our knowledge that she's alive. 
It saddens me to see the terrible toll the cancer has
taken on her.  She's thin and pale, with dark circles
under her eyes.  It'll take her weeks to recuperate
fully.

"I'm sorry," she says finally.  "For everything."

I caress the back of her hand.  "You've done nothing
to apologize for, Dana."

"I doubted you.  I would have named you as the
mole."

"That's not important.  The only thing that matters is
that you're going to be better."

She's quiet again and I see tears fill her eyes. 
Dammit.  I don't want to upset her.  I struggle to
find words to make her feel better, but she shushes
me.

"Walter, you know I lied to you that night.  I *do*
love you.  I always will."

I nod.  "I know.  But...."

"But we can't--"

"I know, Dana.  I don't like it, but I understand."

She smiles weakly and her eyes drift shut for a
moment.  When she opens them she says, "I'm so
tired, Walter.  I can't...."

"It's okay.  You need your sleep."  I lean forward
and kiss her gently on the cheek.  When I stand,
she's already asleep.  "Goodnight, sweetheart," I
whisper before leaving quietly.

In the hallway, Mulder has his arms around Mrs.
Scully.  Tears stream down his face, and she
comforts him in calm, soothing tones.  Sometimes I
think she's more a mother to him than his own
mother is.  But then, Maggie Scully doesn't have the
baggage that Teena Mulder does, so it doesn't
surprise me.  What must it be like for Mulder
knowing that both his parents were connected to the
very evil that he has spent his adult life fighting? 
What must it be like not to be able to trust your own
mother?

I feel I'm intruding on a private moment so I move
down the hall to where Bill Scully and Father
McCue are talking.  Bill casts wary glances at the
embracing couple outside his sister's door.  I know
Bill Scully doesn't like Mulder, but that's because he
doesn't really know him, and unfairly blames him for
everything evil that happens to his family.  It must be
hard on him to see his mother treat Mulder like a
son.

Father McCue knows the tension that exists between
Bill Scully and the FBI and does a good job of
steering our conversation toward non-controversial
subjects.  After about five minutes, Mrs. Scully
approaches.  I glance back.  Mulder has resumed his
post outside Dana's door.

I tell them she's asleep.  The four of us part as Bill
and his mother go home to get some rest and Father
McCue returns to his church.  I return to sit beside
Mulder.  His face is tear-stained, and he's snuffling. 
Sometimes I envy his ability to show his emotions so
freely.  I hand him my handkerchief and he accepts
it, smiling sheepishly.

"I get a little carried away sometimes," he says.

"That's nothing to be ashamed of, Fox."  He seems
surprised by my use of his first name, but he doesn't
object.

"There's something I need to talk to you about," he
says.  "There's a bar down the street.  Can I buy you
a beer?"

We walk to the bar in silence.  Somehow the night
seems less gloomy than I remember and for the first
time in weeks, I feel some pleasure in the sights and
sounds of the city.  The bar isn't very busy.  It's
nearly one a.m. on a weeknight, so that's not
surprising.  I take an empty booth in the corner
while Mulder goes to the bar to get us two beers.  

We drink in silence for several minutes.  I smile
inwardly as I realize that beer even tastes better
now.  Mulder seems to be trying to work up the
courage to tell me something important.  Finally, he
reaches into his inside jacket pocket, pulls out a
letter-size envelope, sets it on the table in front of
me, and looks at me expectantly.

"I received this in the mail some time ago," he says.

The envelope is addressed to 'Special Agent Fox
Mulder' at the Hoover Building. There's no return
address.  It's postmarked January 5, nearly five
months ago.  I look at him and he nods as though
telling me to open it.

When I extract the contents of the envelope, some
photos fall out and land on the table.  My heart
nearly stops as I recognize the pictures taken of
Dana and me on our trip to North Carolina.  They're
all there.  Pictures of us kissing, embracing, holding
hands.  My hands shake as I open the sheets of
paper that enclosed them.  It's a copy of the
three-page police report from the Winston-Salem
Police Department.

I exhale a long breath, forcing myself to look at
Mulder.  "You've known since January," I say, in a
shaky voice, more a statement of fact than a
question.

He nods.

"Does she know you know?"

He shakes his head.  "She...it would have
embarassed her that I knew something so intimate
without her permission.  I...I kept hoping the two of
you would trust me enough to tell me."

I never realized that by keeping our relationship
secret from Mulder, we were sending a message that
we didn't trust him.  In our selfishness, we had
probably done more to hurt him than if we'd told
him from the beginning.

"Did you tell anyone else?" I ask.

"I had Frohike analyze two of the photos.  I needed
to be sure they weren't faked.  He promised to keep
it to himself."

I nod again.  I know Frohike.  A former Marine.  His
word--especially his word to Mulder--is his bond.

We drink silently for a moment.  I signal the
bartender for two more beers.  Mulder picks up the
photos and returns them to the envelope before the
barmaid comes to the table.  

"What happened?"  Mulder says after the barmaid
collects our empty mugs and leaves us two fresh
ones.  "What happened to the two of you?"  His
studied nonchalance doesn't fool me--this is painful
for him.

"Those pictures happened to us," I say, bitterly. 
"That smoking bastard happened to us."

"Then it's over now?"

"Yes."

"And you still love her."

I lower my eyes for a moment before looking at him. 
This isn't a question I'm going to answer.  He smiles
wryly, handing the envelope to me in a silent gesture
of good faith.

"Welcome to the club," he says.

I study him closely and wonder whether he envisions
taking my place in her heart.  The thought brings
about a mixture of jealousy and relief.  If I can't be
what she needs...maybe Mulder can.  Certainly he
will protect her--the future will demand it.

And so will I.

I raise my glass to Mulder.  "It's going to be a
bumpy ride...."  My politically incorrect 'passing of
the torch' is not lost on him.  He smiles softly.

"I wouldn't have it any other way."





*The End*

Author's Note:  This ends the "Rubicon Series," my
attempt at a Skinner-Scully romance.  I leave them
with a relationship that I think is believable and
consistent with the rest of the series.  I tried to set
this series in a brief window of episodes--between
"Piper Maru" and "Redux2"--when I think it's a
plausible subtext to the show.  At least there really
isn't anything in that time span that would make this
storyline impossible.  This was a challenge, given my
natural MSR bent, but it was great fun to do, except
for the constant nagging of my MSR betas.  :-)