Title: Shocking Blue III 
Author: Manik
Rating: R for mature themes and really deplorable language. 
Classification: SRA Spoilers: Gethsemane Keywords: M/Sc/Sk
triangle (NOT threesome!) 
Summary: Mulder's back in all his angst-ridden glory,
Scully's torn in two directions and Skinner's hot under his
starched white collar. The heart-wrenching saga
continues...  
Disclaimer: Oops, sorry Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting and
Ten-Thirteen Productions -- my fingers slipped on the
keyboard and I accidentally wrote this story. No copyright
infringement is intended. 
Author's Notes: thanks to Stephanie, Queen Shipper and
irreplaceable pal; and Chantal (Rogue Editor), who's really
a blonde. 
And special thanks to my new writing partner and resident
'Nam expert, Tony. Hey Tone, will you do your SkinnerVoice
for me again....  
Feedback (please!): manik5@hotmail.com 



Shocking Blue III (A work in progress!)
by Manik


11:21, WEDNESDAY NIGHT

There's only one thing worse than being drunk and maudlin.
And that's sitting in a grimy bar getting a lecture from an
equally drunk and maudlin Frohike. 

"I don't get you, Muller," the little gnome slurs. "You
walk around with your pretty boy face and your GQ suits,
with that sexy little spitfire tagging at your heels, but
are you happy? Noooo...." 

Yeah, Frohike. Life is sweet. Everything I ever believed
in is a lie, including that 'sexy little spitfire's' love.
This is my life, and welcome to it. 

"I mean--" He's on a roll now, I don't even have to
respond. Good thing too. "You could have her in a second.
Like that." He attempts to snap his short, stubby fingers--
and fails. You the man, Frohike. "But instead, you go
gallivanting around the country without even telling her or
us--your friends--what the fuck's going on." 

"Frohike, give the man a break." Byers comes over to our
table, pool cue in hand. "If he wants to talk, he'll talk."
Byers holds the cue out toward me. "C'mon Mulder, Langly
needs an opponent who can actually play." 

"Yeah, Byers, you suck!" Langly yells across the smoky,
mostly empty bar. 

I shake my head. That wasn't a good idea, the room starts
to spin a little. "I can't...I'm too drunk." 

"Here, drink this." Byers pushes his club soda at me. "And
get up and play. Moving around will help your body
metabolize the alcohol." 

"Yes, Mom," I give in. Anything to get away from Frohike.
I didn't appreciate the 'you're so lucky' speech when I got
it from Eddie Van Blundht, I like it even less now. Byers
takes my seat across from Frohike, who's still shaking his
head like fucking Yoda, and I stumble over in Langly's
direction.
 
"Long time since I've seen you shitfaced, Mulder," Langly
says. "What's up? Oh, you break."
 
"Thanks." I lean over the table and try to focus. I break
and the balls go wild -- none of them near a pocket, of
course. "Nothing's up. Can't a man get drunk with his buds
every now and again?" 

Langly shrugs. "Nine in the corner." He makes the shot.
Langly isn't drinking, but he smells like a Rastafarian, as
usual. Apparently pot improves his game. "You talked to
Scully yet? 
Seven on the side." Success. 

"Nope. I'm still on vacation." 

"Yeah, sure. Four on the side." The balls crack together.
This time he misses. "Fuck!" 

I take a long pull on the club soda before I line up my
shot. It burns my throat. I'd forgotten how much I hated
it. Count on Byers to be a teetotaler. 

"You know she called us." I look up from the table.
Langly's face is impassive. "Said she didn't know where you
were. You two have a fight?" 

Oh no, Langly, nothing like that. I just caught her in bed
with someone else, and I couldn't really blame her, 'cause
I'd been dead all of 24 hours and how could I expect her to
stop living? And the fact that that someone else was our
boss, someone we have to see every fucking day, now why
should that bother me? 

"Nope. Three in the corner." I make the shot. Anger helps
me focus. Helps wipe away the cobwebs of booze. 

"I bet she'd be glad to know you're back in town." 

"You think so, do ya?" I thought so too. I drove across
country at breakneck speed to get back to her. I stopped at
my apartment to check the fish--all dead, thank you very
fucking much, Dr. Scully. And I checked my messages. 

"Hey Mulder--Langly here. Me and Byers and Frohike are
going out to shoot some stick." Frohike bellowed something
in the background. "Oh yeah--and cheese-steaks. You down
for that?" 

The message was from a Thursday, so it was at least a week
old. Maybe weeks old. Sorry I missed you, boys. 

"Mulder--please call me when you get in, we need to talk."
That one was Scully, from Sunday night. She'd probably just
gotten my message, telling her that I was coming back. I
smiled a little to hear her voice. God, I missed her. That
was why I came back. Even though I was still fucked up over
everything that had happened, from Kritchgau's revelations
to Scully's infidelity, if I can call it that, I thought,
maybe, maybe we can work things out. Then the next message
played. 

"Agent Mulder--I want to see you in my office as soon as
you drag your sorry ass back into town!" Skinner. His call
was from Monday morning. He sounded pretty pissed. Booming
into the phone so loud you almost couldn't hear the female
voice in the background, making protesting noises. 

So Scully ran right to him to tell him I was coming back.
I sat down heavily on the couch and raked my hands through
my hair. 

Maybe he was there with her in her apartment when she got
the message. Maybe she was actually home when I called, but
didn't bother to get out of bed with that bastard to answer
the phone. 

Maybe I'm not ready to see her yet again, I thought. So I
called the boys.
 
"Too late for cheese-steaks?" 

"It's never too late for cheese-steaks, Mulder," Frohike
answered. 

***

2:39, THURSDAY MORNING 

"Fuck, you're heavy!" 

"Langly, has anyone ever told you what beautiful hair you
have?" 

"No." 

"Maybe they would if you washed it more often." 

"Geez, he's even more charming drunk, isn't he? Frohike,
have you got the door yet?"
 
"Gimme a second," Frohike mumbles, then drops my keys.
Byers would probably have better luck managing with them,
but he's currently serving as half of the Lone-Gunmen-hold-
up-Mulder team. His earlier attempts to sober me up failed
miserably. As soon as his back was turned I was back into
the mind-numbing arms of alcohol. 

Four heads, mine included, pop up in surprise as the door
opens on its own.
 
Well, it had a little help. From a little redhead. 

"Scully!" I bellow good-naturedly. "How the fuck are ya?" 

"Get him in here," she says tightly, "before he wakes all
the neighbors." 

The boys need no further encouragement, hauling me into my
apartment and dumping me unceremoniously on the black
leather couch. It feels good and I melt into it. The
ceiling starts doing the Macarena and my stomach lurches.
Ooh, now I remember why I stopped drinking.
 
Byers and Langly nod at Scully and leave without saying a
word. Frohike pauses, teetering on his heels as he tries
work his inebriated lips around a coherent sentence.
 
"D'ya want me t' stay fer awhile, I kin make coffee or
sumpin'--" 

"Frohike," Scully says gently, "I'll be fine. Thanks for
calling me." 

She touches his arm and graces him with an extra sweet
Scully-smile. Frohike actually blushes and fuck if he
doesn't look as if he's about to say, "Aw shucks, ma'am, it
t'weren't nothin'." But I interrupt the touching scene. 

"Stick around Frohike, we can party with Scully!" 

They both look at me like I've grown two heads. But I'm a
mean drunk and I don't stop until I've drawn blood. 

"Y'know you were right Melvin? She is *hot*." I accentuate
the last word, savouring it like melted caramel. "Too *hot*
for one man. I might need you to spell me off." 

For a moment, Scully's sharp intake of breath is the only
sound in the room. Frohike's expression of horrified
bewilderment finally fades into polite blandness. He makes
his excuses and scurries out of the apartment, the door
slamming behind him. 

"Was it something I said?" I throw my hands up in mock
confusion. 

Scully stands facing the door, watching it sadly. When she
turns to face me her look of silent anguish mixed up with
anger punches me in the gut. Ugh. That's not all that's
wrong with my gut. 

"'Scuse me," I mutter, stumbling past her for the
bathroom. Just in time I reach the porcelain god and start
praying for all I'm worth. Which really isn't a hell of a
lot, these days. 

Scully is behind me, rubbing my back. I let her. It's hard
to fight when you're chucking your guts.
 
"Oh Mulder," she croons. "Why are you always trying to
destroy yourself?" 

"Just tryin' to beat everybody else to the punch --"
Another heave interrupts my witty rejoinder. Hello, cheese-
steaks. Hello, beer. Long time no see. 

Finally empty, I fall back against the wall of my tiny
bathroom, cold sweat running down my face. Scully leans
over me to flush the toilet. She moistens a washcloth and
gently cleans my face. Then she leaves, quickly returning
with a glass of water. 

"Drink this." 

I comply wordlessly, wincing at the bad taste in my mouth. 

"I'll feel better once I have a shower." 

"Mulder, you can barely stand up --" 

"Scully, don't baby me, for *God's* sake. I know what I
need." 

She purses her lips tightly. I really don't mean to hurt
her with my every word, every action. It just works out
that way. I'm poison to her, to myself, to everyone around
me. Always have been. 

"All right," she replies thinly. "But leave the door
open." She retreats, leaving me alone to strip off my
clothes, stinking of booze and other people's cigarettes. I
climb awkwardly into the shower and turn on the water full
force, freezing cold. Blissful, numbing cold. I don't even
realize I'm crying until my throat seizes up and chokes on
a sob. I lean against the cool tile and let the spray wash
me clean. 

***

A long time later Mulder emerges from the bathroom,
clothed in the T-shirt and sweats I laid out for him. He
doesn't own a pair of pajamas or a bathrobe. Other than an
incredible collection of designer suits, Mulder doesn't own
much. 

He runs a hand through his slicked-back hair as he
shambles to the couch. 

"You still here?" He mumbles as he looks up to see me
standing by the window, arms crossed. 

"You're the one who leaves when things get rough, Mulder."
I can't resist the jab. Seeing him like this angers me,
even as it twists my heart. 

"Touche, Scully." He falls down onto the couch heavily,
peering up at me with eyes much gentler than they were 20
minutes ago. "Don't you have work in the morning?" 

"Mulder, do you want me to leave?" 

"I never asked you to come over here." His tone is matter-
of-fact, not accusing. 

"No, and you never called to tell me you were back." 

"I figured you were busy." 

I pause, waiting for an explanation. When Mulder gets like
this I inevitably end up feeling like a schoolteacher. And
he acts like a sullen child. 

"I got Skinner's message," he spits out, as though the
name had a bad taste. 

"And?" 

"And I heard you...you were with him." 

I wince inwardly, remembering that scene in the office.
Walter trying to bully me into staying away from Mulder--
trying to keep me from being hurt again. Trying--and
failing--to hide his own pain beneath a gruff exterior. 

Somehow, I keep my voice level. "I work for the man,
Mulder. So do you."
 
"You ran right to him--to tell him I was coming back." 

"Mulder, he's covered for you while you were gone. I had
to tell him." That much is true. Mulder doesn't need to
know the rest of it--not right now. 

"I'll be sure to send him a thank-you card." 

Mulder slumps back onto the couch, laying his head on the
battered old pillow and arranging his long legs on its
length. Tall, single men do tend to buy long couches, I
think inanely.
 
"Scully, I'm tired. I really don't want to fight with you
right now. I just wanna sleep." 
I approach cautiously. His eyes are closed. I reach over
him for the blanket laid atop the couch. He touches my
wrist, fingers snaking hesitantly around it.
 
"Scully?" He blinks up at me, soul bared in those
eternally beautiful hazel eyes. 

"Yes, Mulder?" 

"Are you going to leave?" 

"No. I'll clear a space on your bed and climb in there. I
don't think you should be left alone right now." 

"Don't." 

Don't what? Don't stay? 

Gently, he pulls me down on top of him. 

"Stay with me. Here." 

Despite myself, despite the anger that still boils in my
brain, despite the nagging memories of being so recently in
another man's arms, I am glad--so intensely glad that he
doesn't want me to go. And his touch is so familiar--it
feels so natural to be here with him like this, even after
everything that's happened. I stroke his arms reassuringly.
He feels cold and he looks frightened. His eyes are red,
maybe from more than the effects of alcohol. 

I think again of Walter. So angry when I last saw him, so
afraid that I would run to Mulder. And I did. I haven't a
clue what I should be doing at this point. My heart is
twisted around the lives of two men, and my every move
seems to betray one or the other of them.
 
But right now Mulder needs me. And I've never been able to
turn away from that need. I nod, and he smiles, his eyes
fluttering closed. He's asleep in moments. I pull the
blanket on top of us and rest my head on his chest,
listening to his heart. Sleep doesn't come for a long time. 

***

10:41, THURSDAY MORNING 

Where is she? She's eleven minutes late for the trumped-up
excuse for a meeting I ordered yesterday. I said we needed
to go over some old expense reports. But I really just need
to see her--I *need* to see her. We were getting so close
this weekend, emotionally close--and now she's back to
avoiding me like the plague.
 
Ever since Monday morning. She walked in unannounced.
Kimberly must have been away from her desk. I smiled when I
saw her--something I almost never do in this office. I put
on my hardass persona each morning with glasses and suit.
But she unsettles me--pleasantly so. When she spoke my
smile fled. 

"Mulder's coming back." 

The hardass slipped back into place to protect me. 

"When?" 

She looked startled at the cold steel in my voice. Did you
expect me to dance for joy, Dana?
 
"I -- I don't know. Soon, I think. A few days. Walter,
please--" 

"Sit down." I jerked my head toward one of two chairs
before my desk, where she and her partner have sat so often. 

"Why are you being like this? Yesterday--" 

"I came to work. Now sit down." 

"No." She shook her head, mouth tightening. She didn't
like my taking that tone with her. Too fucking bad, I'm
still her boss. 

"*Sit*--*down*!" 

Her eyes flashed as she finally obeyed my order, sitting
primly on the edge of her seat. I reached for the phone and
the rolodex, stamping out the number with my pen. The phone
rang twice before that lazy, smug drawl kicked in. 

"This is Fox Mulder. Leave a message." 

"Agent Mulder -- I want to see you in my office as soon as
you drag your sorry ass back into town!" 

"Please, don't!" She cried out, looking stricken. 

I slammed down the phone. I'm surprised smoke wasn't
coming out my ears. Maybe it was. "He's lucky this isn't
the Marine Corps, I'd have him court-martialed." 

"But this *isn't* the Marines, Walter." A note of anger
was beginning to creep into her voice. 

I held up one hand, jabbing my index finger at her for
emphasis. "*Not* Walter--not here--not now." I don't know
why I said that. Trying to keep *myself* in line more than
her, I suspect.
 
She bristled. "This isn't easy for me either, *sir*!
Pulling rank is not helping things." 

I leapt out of my chair and stalked around my desk to her.
For a moment, I just glared down at her. She returned my
gaze unflinchingly, waiting, it seemed, for the man from
yesterday to reappear. 

"*Don't* you see what you're doing?" I growled. "He's not
even back yet and you're already trying to protect him. You
*don't* have to spend your life doing that. You *know*
you're worth more than that." 

"Walter," she said sadly, "don't you see what *you're*
doing? You can't *order* me to stop caring about him. Two
days ago he was my whole world--and had been for nearly
five years. I have to work this out in my head--" 

"You're not listening to me--" 

"No. You're not listening to *me*." She stood stiffly,
walked past me to the door and paused, turning to face me.
 
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, her shoulders slumped in
resignation. "But I need--" 

"You're dismissed, Agent Scully." My voice sounded
unrecognizable to my own ears.
 
She left. And I haven't seen her since. Haven't tried.
Haven't tried to call Mulder again, either. Whatever is
going to happen--I feel powerless to prevent it. 

***

Fuck, my head is pounding like a sonofabitch, my mouth
tastes like shit and this blanket is lumpy as hell. It's
also moving. I peel open my eyes and look straight into
Scully's, sky-blue and devilish. 

"Still alive?" Her eyebrow inquires.
 
"Barely." I groan, stretching underneath her. Mmm, that
feels nice. "What time is it?" 
Scully reaches over to the coffee table and retrieves her
watch. She glances at it and turns pale. 

"What?" 

"Oh my God, it's almost 11:00! I had an appointment." She
levers herself off me. I resist the impulse to pull her
back. I've always found her so damn appealing with bedhead.
Whereas mine, more often than not, set her off into gales
of laughter. I miss that laugh.
 
"I have to go," she says. "Mind if I use your shower?" 

I know there's no point in arguing with her, though I
cringe inwardly at the thought of her leaving. Yesterday, I
couldn't bear the thought of being in the same room with
her. But now, after waking up with her in my arms--how
exactly did she get here, anyway? Seems it's not so easy to
stop loving someone. 

"Sure," I answer amiably. "You still have a suit here." 

When Scully and I were together we spent most nights at
her place. But occasionally we'd come here. I'd feed the
fish, we'd curl up on the couch and watch bad late-night
TV. She kept some clothes here for those infrequent sleep-
overs at Casa del Mulder. 

"I know. Thanks." She pats my arm absently and then
hurries off to the bathroom. Soon, the reassuring patter of
the shower drifts to my ears. 

I drape an arm over my eyes, blocking out the torturous
sunlight filtering through the gap in the curtains. My head
is fuzzy but not enough to dispel the lurking fear that I
did something stupid last night. Maybe it's just post-binge
blues. But I see Scully's face, fallen and desolate. Did I
say something? 

*Brr-ing!!!* 

Fuck! I nearly jump out of my skin. Goddamn, that phone is
loud. I've got to turn down the ringer. I reach above my
head for the side table, fumbling the phone off its cradle
and bringing it to my ear. 

"Mulder." 

At first I just hear breathing. An obscene phone call at
11:00 in the morning? Ooh, maybe it's Chantal... She left a
number of messages in the months I was with Scully, telling
me how much she *longed* to hear my voice and that the
rates had gone down to an all-time low. They don't let good
customers like me go without a fight.
 
"Agent Mulder?" 

Chantal's either got one hell of a cold or she's gone on
testosterone treatments. Too bad she sounds like Skinner.
Yech, I hope she doesn't look like him, that would really
spoil my fantasy image of a tall, leggy brunette with
breasts the size of my head-- 

"Agent Mulder!" 

"Yes?" I groan, wishing Skinner would tone down the AD
bark. Is there no respect for the dead? 

"When do you plan on gracing us with your presence, Agent
Mulder?" 

"Actually..." I pause, considering my words. What tack to
take with a pissed-off boss -- and rival? A good dose of
disrespect seems in order. "I hadn't really thought about
it yet. I've been busy." 

Another pause, harsh breathing. "Is Agent Scully there?" 

Shit. That's not the sound of an AD asking for a wayward
agent. Mounting apprehension at just what went on in my
absence wars with malicious appreciation of the irony of
this moment. How does the shoe feel on the other foot, you
fucker? 

"She's in the shower. Do you want me to pass on a message?
I was just about to join her." 

Dead silence for about five heartbeats. And then it comes,
his command voice, a deliberate whisper through clenched
teeth. "Monday morning, 9 a.m., I'll either have you in
here in front of me or I'll have your badge. Is that clear?" 

"Perfectly, sir," I answer blandly.
 
I hear him struggling for control. I can almost see him,
thin lips curling back, nostrils flaring like a bull's. 

"And tell Agent Scully I expect to see her in here on the
double," he growls. 

My temper flares at his tone. Godammit, I don't care if he
fucks my career on a personal vendetta but Scully's is
something else.

"Down, boy," I say, straining to keep my voice even. "Dana
doesn't take too well to the Neanderthal approach." 

This time his voice is so soft I almost can't hear him.
And what he says makes my blood run cold. 

"You'd be surprised, Mulder." The line goes dead. 

Minutes pass. Scully strolls into the livingroom in a pair
of my sweats, arms and legs rolled up, drying her hair with
one of the ratty old towels I've had since university days. 
"Who was on the phone?" 

I look down stupidly at the receiver still in my hand. "No
one," I answer, hanging it back up. I don't like lying to
Scully, but in this case it's for her own good--for our own
good. She cocks her head, questioning. A million thoughts
run through my head. I came back here for her--I thought
long and hard and I came back. And now, no matter what
Scully may or may have not done while I was gone, I can't
abandon her to that...that shark. "I was, um, just getting
the weather report." 

"You could try looking out the window," she suggests
dryly, reaching over me to pull the curtains apart
decisively. 

"Aaiiee! Bright light!" I shriek, covering my eyes and
writhing on the couch. 

She cracks up. No one can make Scully laugh like I do. 

"Mulder, you really ought to get out in that today. For a
man who just got back from California you look pale as a
ghost. Sunlight deprivation can lead to depression, you
know." 
I turn onto my side and reach up to pull her down beside
me. "Yeah," I whisper. "I miss my sunshine." 

She purses her lips on a smile, embarrassed but, I think,
pleased. 

"Mulder --" she falters. 

"Scully...did I say something last night?" 

Her eyes pierce mine, searching. Then they soften. She
looks away. "Forget it, Mulder." 

"I don't want to." I touch her chin, turning her face back
to mine. "We need to talk." 

"Yes." 

"Tonight?" 

"Yes." 

"Here?" I'm not ready to go back to her apartment, scene
of her betrayal and the beginning and gradual
disintegration of our own fledgling relationship. 

She nods gravely, almost as if she knows my reservations.
"Okay. I'll bring Thai." 

"Deal, partner." I lean up and tentatively brush my lips
against hers. She smiles but her eyes are sad. I put that
sadness there. "Now get to work before all the bad guys get
away," I joke weakly. 

"Right. I'll go get dressed." She heads for the bedroom
and the armour of her wool suit. Right now, all I can do is
pray she doesn't lay down her arms. 

***

Shepherd's pie again. Christ, I hate that stuff. I'd have
the cook flogged if it was within my power. Between the
carbo-heavy tasteless slop I just choked down and the
anxiety of my morning I can feel a nice case of heartburn
building. 

Leaving the commissary in a fouler mood than I entered it,
I head for the elevators. I'm still mentally chastising
myself for letting Mulder goad me into making that smart-
ass remark when I see a flash of red out of the corner of
my eye. Dana. Head down, taking the stairs to avoid me.
Seething, I follow her down, catching her on the landing
between the two flights to the basement. 

"Ever hear of phones, Agent Scully?" 

Her eyes are wild, trapped. She looks down at my hand,
gripping her by the elbow. "What--" 

"Phones. Those things you use to let work know you're
going to be late."
 
"I'm sorry, I--I had a rough night." 

"I'll just bet you did," I say acidly. "Did Agent Mulder
tell you I called?" 

She blinks up at me in the dim light of the stairwell,
rosebud lips opening in surprise.

"No." 

"Now there's a surprise. We need to talk." I try to herd
her downstairs, out of this public place where anyone could
come upon us. 

"No," she whispers, standing her ground. 

"What?" I hiss. 

"I am sorry--*so* sorry...about everything." Her voice is
thick with emotion, heavy with unshed tears. "But--I think
it's best...if we keep our distance from each other for
now." 
Her words hit me like a blow. She can't meet my eyes, and
that is most definitely the capper on what has become one
helluva bad day. And it's only early afternoon. 

"Don't--" My voice is gutteral and before I can stop
myself my free hand has come up to cup her cheek, thumb
stroking the velvety skin it finds there. Her lips part
slowly and she turns her face into my hand, soft exhale
feathering my palm. "Don't do this..." I plead, cursing
myself for my weakness, cursing her for evoking it.
Fighting the urge to take back my power by pressing her
into the wall, to feel the fine, delicious thrill of her
quivering against me. 

Eyes closed, she shivers, so close to me I only have to
move an inch to take her. Then she looks up into my eyes,
the crystal blue of her own shimmering like a pond
disturbed by a floating leaf. Time stops. 

"I--" She falters, averting her gaze from mine with a
sharp intake of breath. "You--you're stronger than he is. I
can't...can't just leave him. He needs me...I have to
figure out what to do..."
 
I want to tell her that *I* need her, but the words won't
come. They wouldn't come when Sharon needed to hear them,
either. Silence is strength. 

Silence is stone cold lonely. 

Instead, my hand slides into the hair at the nape of her
neck, gripping her so tightly that her eyes snap open
again, latching onto mine. 

"Please," she gasps, a shudder passing through her. My
fingers are digging into her--am I hurting her? Christ,
what's happening to me? 

I wrench my hands away, stepping back as the blood roars
through my brain, a malignant storm. She leans against the
wall for a moment, then regains her composure, slowly
descending the stairs to disappear behind the door
labelled, 'Fox Mulder.' The symbolism is not lost on me. 
Reeling, my breath hitches in my chest. I swallow
convulsively and then begin vaulting the stairs two at a
time, all the way up to my office. I grab my coat, give
Kimberly a curt nod-- "Emergency outside meeting. Rearrange
my afternoon"--and get the bloody blue blazes out of the J.
Edgar Hoover. 

I have never hyperventilated in my life and I'm not about
to start now. Bracing myself against the February chill, I
concentrate on slowing my ragged breathing, on stamping
down the fire in my belly. 

Eventually, I find myself where I've come so often before--
always alone. Standing before the black granite wall as
though it could tell me something about myself. Like why I
lived. Like how the hell I'm supposed to go on living when
my insides have been turned to stone as hard as this wall.
Staring at one name among thousands. The same name I always
stare at. 

Mitchell C. Mills. 

Cocky little bastard was all of 19 when he died. As
innocent as an Iowa farm boy, which he sure as hell wasn't.
Poor fucker had never even seen a farm before he came to
Vietnam. New York City boy, born and bred. He liked R&B and
he liked reefer. In that order. Stood five foot four in his
stocking feet, weighed 120 pounds soaking wet. Had a year
of college and a mouth on him that could make hardened
veterans blush. 

He was my friend. 

Sometimes, when I come here, I talk to him. And sometimes,
I swear, he talks back. 

Like now. 

"Semper fi, Walter!" Frenetic voice, still that of an
adolescent. "You look grim, Corporal, who died?" You did,
Mitch. You and the rest of Team Roadhouse. 

"Aw, Walter, you're not feeling guilty, are ya?" 

Survivor guilt. Not team leader guilt. They're different.
And I've learned to deal with it.
 
"Good for you, my friend. Life goes on, ya know? It's
gotta. I was gettin' short, Blackjax had his R&R comin' up,
those two F.N.G.s were cherry, but comin' along nicely.
Maybe between us someone fucked up. Or maybe it was just
our turn to get hit. When your time's up, it's up. It don't
mean nothin.'" 

Blackjax. So excited about going to Malaysia. 

"Oh yeah, we were so impressed by the high time you had in
Penang with that rent-a-girl, what was her name...Lin?" 

I haven't thought about Lin in years. Tiny little thing
with glossy black hair. She showed me the sights--but
mostly we just saw the inside of my hotel room. Grateful
doesn't begin to describe what I felt for her by the end of
that blissful week. God, now there was the perfect
relationship. Short but intense, both of us knew what was
expected of the other. 

"Well, you know what we used to say, Walter. Love is a
motherfucker." 

We were 19 years old and it was Vietnam, Mitchell.
Everything was a motherfucker. 

"Pretty strong words from Mr. John Wayne! I remember when
I first came to Force-Recon, being warned about this team
leader who could cut diamonds with his ass." 

None of us wanted to be there, Mitch. But you were
different. You thought America shouldn't have been there. I
can't believe a Goddamn draft-dodger wannabe with a year of
college came to be in the Marines, let alone in an elite
outfit like Force-Recon. You must've been trashed when you
missed your bus to Nova Scotia. 

"I figured, hey, at least I'll see some of the world this
way. Somehow I made it through boot camp and got into Recon
for the same reason you did. I wanted to survive. I wanted
to survive and I figured my best chance was with guys who
knew what they were doin.'" 

You may have hated it, Mitch, but you always pulled your
weight. We could always depend on you. 

"Just like we could always depend on you, Corporal. You
may have been a hardass, but we always knew you were tryin'
to take care of us--even if you did think that Wilson
Pickett was the lead singer for the Union Gap. Y'know, we
were starting to get worried about you before Lin. You
never even came along with us to Mama-San's Bath-house for
a steam and cream. And I know you were smart enough to
recognize the stories about the dreaded black-clap and the
intrauterine razorblades as the bullshit they were." 

It was a war zone, Mitchell. I didn't want to
feel...vulnerable. 

"Yeah, well...maybe some of us never left the war zone,
huh Walter?" 

I suppose you think you just made a point. 

"How could I, Walter? I don't exist. I died 28 years ago." 

The voice fades and I come back to myself, standing alone
before a long black wall with wetness on my cheeks. 

***

"Hey." 

"Hey," I answer, looking up from my sprawl on the couch to
see Scully's little head peeking around my front door. 

"I come bearing gifts." A brown paper bag snakes around
the edge of the door, waggling in her hand. 

"In that case, come on in." 

She enters, smiling eyes beneath a wryly arched eyebrow.
The suit has been replaced by comfortable clothes, loose,
almost shapeless. But that's okay, I know what's
underneath. And I've got a great imagination. 

"Have you moved since I left?" 

"No more than I had to." 

She drops the bag on the coffee table and comes over to
me, laying the back of her hand over my brow. Cool and
soft. I take it in my own hands and kiss the palm, looking
up at her slyly. 
"I'm fine, Doc. Been up, had a shower, changed my sweats." 

"So you're clean, at least." 

"In body, if not in mind." 

Gently, but deliberately, she draws her hand away, her
eyes hooded. 

"I'll get us some plates." She moves to the kitchen. 

Okay, so I guess we're not going to jump right back in
where we left off. What could I expect? 

"How was your day?" 

"Fine." I hear the clatter of cutlery. She comes back in,
hands me a plate, chopsticks and a glass of water. 

"What, no beer?" 

There goes the eyebrow again.
 
"I think you've had enough for this week, Mulder." 

"Ever hear of hair of the dog, Scully?" 

"You're looking shaggy enough for now." She musses my hair
affectionately. Hmm, that's always a good sign. 

I open the bag and inhale deeply. "Ah, pad thai noodles.
Ooh, and spicy shrimp! Let's see what else we got in here." 

As I dive into the bag, Scully kicks back in the recliner,
toeing off her shoes and letting her eyelids drift shut. 

"Aren't you eating?" 

"Mmm, yeah, I'm just tired. Gimme a minute." 

"Stressful day?" 

One eye opens, pinning me in silent accusation. "Skinner
called here." Not a question. 

"Hm-mm," I answer non-commitally around a mouthful of
shrimp. 

"You didn't tell me." 

I shrug. "Wasn't important. He was just reaming me out." 

"And he didn't mention me?" 

"Should he have?" We're getting into dangerous territory
here. Not the evening I had in mind. 
The eye closes again. She inhales, purses her lips and
shakes her head slightly. Scully clearing her mind. Then
she sits up and rubs her hands together. 

"Food first. Talk later." 

"I'm already way ahead of you." 

"Hey -- leave some for me!" 

The meal passes in only slightly strained silence. Scully
picks at her noodles and sighs every once and again. That
will never do. We've got a shitload of stuff to work out
tonight, and I need her here with me. Not sitting halfway
across the room with her mind caught up in something--or
someone--else. 

"Hey," I say, patting the couch beside me. "C'mere." 

She pauses in the midst of bringing a peanut to her lips--
Scully is *damn* good with those chopsticks--before she
appears to come to a decision, laying down her plate and
joining me on the couch. I turn her slightly away from me
and begin kneading her shoulders. She stiffens slightly,
then relaxes into it.
 
"That feels good." 

"I keep telling you Scully," I whisper against her neck.
"I'm a man of many talents." 

She snorts. "Ain't *that* the truth. Able to sniff out a
conspiracy under a mountain of red tape, faster than a
shape-shifting alien...." 

"You're mocking me, aren't you?" 

She laughs -- a real laugh this time. Heaven to my ears,
balm to my wounds. I continue working out in the knots in
her neck and upper back as I talk. 

"I was wrong to leave." 

She says nothing. 

"I'm an asshole." 

Still nothing. 

"I realize now that...that what we have is worth working
on." 

Silence. 

"Can you forgive me?" 

Another sigh. "Yes--but I think we're past the point of
forgiveness, Mulder. Too much has happened--" 

"Shh," I soothe, leaning forward to kiss the top of her
head. She falls back into my arms, boneless. I shift and
lower her down so that her head is in my lap. She looks up
at me, eyes wet, face constricted. 

"Mulder, you don't understand, while you were gone...." 

I lay a finger across her lips, moving my other arm
underneath her head, cradling it.
 
"Lay your sleeping head, my love,/Human on my faithless
arm." W.H. Auden's "Lullaby" -- I used to recite this poem
in my head while Phoebe slept beside me -- it didn't help
then, but Lord, it feels right now. "Time and fevers burn
away/Individual beauty from/Thoughtful children, and the
grave/Proves the child ephemeral:/But in my arms till break
of day/Let the living creature lie,/Mortal, guilty, but to
me/The entirely beautiful." 

Her face twists tighter and a tear slips from her eye.
"Mulder, you left because you couldn't forgive me--because
you couldn't forget. Are you telling me now that it doesn't
matter?" 

"It matters. I've made mistakes, so have you. But you are
the sun in my sky, Scully. Without you, my world is dark." 

She groans and covers her eyes. "Oh Mulder, that's so
corny!" 

I move her arm away and gaze down at her. 

"Maybe so. But I need you." I bring one of her hands to my
lips and kiss it. "And if that's corny--well, so be it." 

"Mulder--" 

"You hurt me--and I hurt you. But we couldn't hurt each
other this much if we didn't love each other." 

"Love shouldn't hurt." She takes back her hand. 

"Now who's being corny?" 

"Mulder--"
 
"Scully, let me love you," I urge, framing her face in my
hands. "Let me hold you so close that nothing and no one
can ever get between us again." 

And then I kiss her, harder than I've ever kissed her
before, as if I could brand her with my lips. After a
moment's hesitation she responds, parting her lips and
granting me entrance. One hand leaves her face and trails
down her throat slowly, coming to rest on her breast. She
gasps and arches up. 

Then she's up and out of my arms, standing three feet
away, breath coming heavily. 

"What--" 

"Mulder, this isn't right. We can't just fuck this away." 

"Is that what you think I'm doing? Trying to *fuck* you? I
thought we loved each other--" 

"So did I." 

"And now what? You love him?" 

She says nothing and I feel the world drop out from under
me. 

"God," I whisper. "Cue Linda Ronstadt." 

"Mulder, stop it! This isn't about him. This is about you
and me--and the fact that maybe *we* don't work." 

"You used to think we worked. You spent three months
trying to convince me that we could make it work--" 

"Yes, don't you see? Three months--three months spent
telling you I loved you and always, *always* seeing doubt
in your eyes. And now, everything's okay? It's *not* okay." 

She paces while I remain frozen on the couch. 

"So this is all *my* fault, is it?" 

"No, I'm not saying that!" She comes over to me, sitting
beside me and taking my hands in hers. "Mulder, I do love
you. I don't think I will ever, ever be able to stop loving
you. You're part of me, you're like the other half of my
soul--" 

"Then how can you say this can't work? We can *make* it
work!" 

"We can't shut out the rest of the world. Your work has
suffered. *Our* work has suffered. We consume each other.
At first, I thought that was romantic. Nothing else in the
world mattered. But we can't exist in a vacuum, and every
time the real world intruded, you drew back from me." 

"I admit that -- I do. But I think I know how we can fix
that." 

"How?" 

"We can leave here. Go away together. Go where nobody
knows us. Make a new life somewhere." 

"Mulder -- don't you see you're grasping at straws?" 

"Scully, I'm holding on for dear life." 

***
 
It begins as it always does, with the cloying heat and
stink of damp rot. I focus my eyes against the wall of
green jungle until I make out Blackjax on point, his M-16
slung over his shoulder and a beehive round in the sawed-
off thumper he always carried to break up ambushes. I'm
following two meters behind, Mitch Mills at my six o'clock
humping the PRC-25 radio set - always give the Prick-25 to
the smallest man, it makes for a smaller target. The two
cherries are 20 meters behind us and Manatee is riding
shotgun. 

It's September 2nd, 1970 and Team Roadhouse is half a
klick from the L-Z and like he's done a thousand times
before Jax gives me a half turn and a big grin and a
clenched-fist power salute and the command-detonated
claymore goes off and vaporizes the big Alabaman's body and
knocks me on my back with a dozen steel ball bearings in me
and the RDP on our left flank opens up and the staccato
crack of AK rounds fills the air and green tracers lance
throught the vegetation and the not too too solid flesh of
my men and I scream to Manny to put down suppressive fire
but he can't because he's dead and I scream to Mitch to
call for an air strike but he can't because he's dead and I
try to get up and return fire but I can't because I'm dead
or the next thing to it. 

And then it's quiet and I smell the stink of cordite and
rotten fish sauce and feel the hands pulling at my boots
and webbing and my weapon and pulling open my combat shirt
and ripping off my dog tags to make things harder for the
graves registration unit and ripping off the amulet that
Lin gave me. The little jade crone who was supposed to keep
me safe is now going to hang from the neck of some
Nathaniel Victor. Well, Xin Loi motherfucker. So Solly.
Hope it works for you as well as it did for me. 

I open my eyes and it's Lin straddling me, not the N.V.A
soldier and the amulet swinging from her bloody fingers
isn't the Djinn she bought for me in Penang but the little
jade elephant that I gave her. 

"War over, Walter." 

I start awake in my high-rise, high-price Crystal City
condo. Alone in the dark. Shaken from that new twist on an
old nightmare. Shivering, I rise naked from my bed. Still
barely awake, and without conscious thought, I pad into the
spare bedroom-cum-office and rifle though my desk. 

In the bottom drawer, at the back, I find it. Still in box
it came in. The present I bought for Lin, the one she gave
back to me at the airport, explaining that she normally
sold such gifts from her 'men' and sent the money to her
parents. 

I lift the lid. 

***

FRIDAY MORNING, 9:08 

Late again. Only eight minutes this time. At least Walter
isn't waiting to descend on me like a hawk. 

I can't keep running from him. But he doesn't understand,
and why should he? How can I explain that after five years
I'm hard-wired to make sure that Mulder will be okay? 
Sighing, I drop my briefcase and sit down at my 'work area.'
 
How am I supposed to get any work done with those two
whirling in my head? One angry, pushing me...the other
desperate, pulling me down. 

Mulder wants me to run away from my whole life. That isn't
the Mulder I know, the man I fell in love with. 

Walter wants to push me into line, and I'm tired of that.
I've had enough father-figures to last a lifetime, thank
you. 

I feel like I'm being ground underfoot by them. And the
fact that I have no one to blame but myself doesn't make it
any easier. 

They want an answer - but I'm fresh out. 

I'm numb. 

I glance over at my laptop, closed and shoved up against
the wall, out of the way. A small box sits atop it. 

I lift the lid. Inside is a small elephant, carved in what
looks to be jade. It's beautiful and delicate. A powerful,
noble beast captured in fragile stone. On the bottom of the
box is a note. 

"A woman I cared about very much gave this to me a long
time ago. She said I would know who to give it to. Whatever
you decide, I want you to have this. No strings attached.
W." 
A high, thin wail pierces the silence of the office. It's
me. I cover my mouth to stifle the inhuman sob. 

Not gentleness from him, not now. An angry Skinner I can
resist. I can push the door closed on him and tend to
Mulder, martyr-like. 

But this... 

I lay my head on the table and cry. 
___________ 
More soon -- tune in next week for the next installment of
"As the FBI Turns..."