By Linda Phillips
rn500@usa.net
 

Date: 11 MAR 1998
RATING:  NC-17
CLASSIFICATION: V / R
KEYWORDS:  MSR
SUMMARY:  Not summarized at author's request
DISCLAIMER:  The X-Files and it's characters belong to Chris
Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Television. But, hey, I can
dream.

***************
Comments to Linda at rn500@ozline.net
***************

Alpha And Omega
By Linda Phillips
 

        I felt him watching me even before I opened my eyes.
I always can. But I'm never quite sure of what I'll see.
Sometimes his eyes are soft and reverent and so full of love
that my heart feels as if it will burst just looking at him.
Sometimes there is fear - childlike, unprotected, he searches
me for reassurance, and I do all that I can to make him
believe that I will never leave him. Other times I see raw
hunger. He will reach for me, and my body responds without
hesitation, even before my sleepy mind can follow.

        Then there are the moments when he is a flux of
emotions, with so many needs to fill. Like tonight.

        I am facing away as I awaken. I start to turn to him,
but he stops me with a gentle hand on my shoulder. I wait,
anticipation growing in my belly, gooseflesh spreading on my
skin. I soon feel a finger softly tracing the small hills of my
spine, from the base of my neck slowly downward. As his
hand meets my tail bone it spreads open wide and slides to
the right, smoothing over the roundness of my hip. He moves
closer to me, and I feel his warmth against my back, almost,
but not quite touching my skin. He reaches down along my
thigh as far as his long arm can extend, then back again. I
sigh. I love it when he touches me this way, as if I am new to
him, as if he has never before explored every inch of me. He
makes me feel young and beautiful and so sexy.

        Mulder and I have been physically intimate for
several months now. I still remember those last few weeks
before our first time. Tension building, both of us knowing
what was going to happen soon, what was inevitable. I think
we had known for some time. So intimate in every other way,
it was a natural progression to complete the circle of our
relationship. Yet, I balked. I was afraid. His passion frightened
me. I imagined being swallowed up by his neediness. It was
too much, I thought. I will suffocate.

        Little did I know all that I would acquire by
surrendering. Empty places within me, places I wasn't even
conscious of, were filled with him. Yes, he needs me. I have
found unexpected joy in that. But he also gives so much.

        I feel a kiss on my neck, right where the curve is that
becomes my shoulder. I shiver unexpectedly, and his arm
goes across my chest and holds me to him, to warm me. But
I'm not cold. My body is heating up by the minute.

        The hand in front of me begins to explore. He is so
gentle now. He can be rough, when his need for me is too
great. He can probe and clutch at me, his lips taking mine in
turbulent kisses, and he will enter me deep and thrusting. At
those times it is passion, but also pain, that I see in his eyes.
He needs me the most then, and somehow I understand that
he would crawl inside of me at that moment, if there was a
way. He will tell me that I am everything to him, his voice
nearly breaking, and I know that it's true. It's the very thing
that I was so fearful of in the beginning. But instead of feeling
apprehension, I am in awe of his trust in me, the security he
feels in my arms. It is sacred to me, and I guard it like a
treasure.

        His fingers fall on my lips, and follow a trail over my
chin and into the hollow of my throat. He is nestled behind me
so that I feel his breath on my neck, and I hear it become just
slightly more rapid as his fingertips continue downward. I bring
my hand behind me to rest against his hip and pull him into
me. His erection presses between the cheeks of my ass, and
a moan escapes me as I feel it throb there. But he will not be
hurried tonight, I can tell. He gently rubs his palm over one
nipple, teasing, until it is hard and my breasts feel swollen
with the want of him. He moves to the other, already erect
and firm, and pinches it gently between his fingers. I moan
again. I can't help it. The sound seems to further arouse him,
and he takes the mound of my breast in his hand and kneads
it softly, then the other, as his tongue moves across my
shoulder. He has told me before that he loves my breasts. I've
always felt a little self conscious of the fact that they aren't
larger, even as my intellectual mind recoiled from such a
ridiculous standard. But I must admit that I melt inside when
he tells me that they are perfect, round and firm like a young
girl's. I am Lolita, a first kiss, a newly explored sensuality, a
fantasy realized.

        His left arm slides under me, and the hand reaches
for the one I have tucked under my pillow. He enfolds my
hand in his and our fingers interlace. His right hand continues
to move down, over my taut abdomen, around my navel, in
maddeningly slow circles. My breathing is coming harder now,
matching his. His teeth come down gently on my earlobe,
nibbling, and then his whispered words crash through the
silence.

        "You'll never know how much I love you..."

        He's right. I probably never will. He experiences
emotions so deeply, he's so much more open to the extremes
of human passion than I can ever allow myself to be. I am
envious at times. When I open myself as fully as I can to him,
I feel naked, exposed. It has taken me a long time to let him
see inside of me, and there is still so much I keep locked
away. But he does not push. He can feel when I need to relax
my guard. Holding up the walls I have built sometimes makes
me so very weary. He will hold me tenderly as I unfold, and I
let him soothe me and whisper to me that I am safe no matter
what. I am child, demanding, troubled, making him prove his
love for me. He does so willingly.

        I gasp as his fingers brush the soft curls that mark the
perimeter of my sex. I wait for him to reach further and dip
into the wet center of me. But he doesn't. Not yet. He follows
a path of his own choosing, slowly. My heart pounds, and I
grip his ass tighter, my fingers digging into tender flesh.
Finally, I can stand it no longer, and I turn to my back and
look up at him. I frame his beautiful face in my hands, and
use my eyes to show him how very much I love him. I think
it's the only thing he truly trusts, for he's heard so many false
words, so many lies. He lowers his face to mine and brushes
his lips against my own again and again, until I finally capture
them and drink him in. He moans into my mouth, and falls
against me so that we are skin to skin along my entire length.
His mouth moves over my cheek, my eyes, down to my
throat, where he kisses my throbbing pulse. His tongue traces
along the dip between my breasts and leisurely encircles first
one nipple, then the other. I arch my back to urge him on, and
at last he ends one torture and begins another as he takes the
firm pink bud in his mouth. He suckles gently yet urgently, and
settles in against me. I wrap my arms around him and hold
him close, sweetly aroused. I am madonna, nurturer, life
giver.

        His erection pulses against my leg, wet and hot. Soon
I am dripping with my own intensity, and there is fire between
my legs that is precious torment. I open my thighs and guide
his hand there. He softly strokes my clit, eliciting a groan from
deep within me. He leaves my breast and moves up to watch
my face as I enjoy his magic touch. I close my eyes and
concentrate on what he's doing to me. I picture his fingers
moving, stroking, wet and slippery. Every nerve in my body is
humming. He brings me to the brink, then stops. It almost
brings tears to my eyes.

        "Not yet," he whispers, and kisses my whimpering
mouth.

        I open my eyes as he lies back on the bed. The look
on his face tells me what he wants. I rise to my knees and
swing my leg over, straddling him. His eyes never leave mine
now. I rest my swollen vulva against him, letting just the tip of
him enter me. He closes his eyes just for a moment, fighting
his own urge to thrust up against me. Slowly, I lower myself
onto him. He holds my gaze, his breath coming in ragged
gasps. My mouth opens, and I lick my dry lips in anticipation.
There is just enough light coming in from the street lamps
outside. I can see his face, the outline of his lean upper body.
He catches my hands in his and holds them up, keeping me
erect over him. As I move down the final inch, our bodies
meet, and he releases a sigh from his very soul.

        "Scully... oh, God..."

        I move rhythmically on him, and he meets me again
and again. We move together, and he releases my hands to
caress me everywhere. I feel fierce, I want him so much now.
I move faster, harder, leaning down over him to kiss him,
crude and rough. My tongue thrusts into his mouth and he
responds in kind. I pull it in, sucking, biting, feral sounds
escaping from somewhere deep inside of me. I am lover,
seductress, an earthly goddess. In this moment, with this
man, I am alpha and omega, his beginning and his end. It
carries me to heights unknown before. I bless it and I curse it
and I never want it to end.

        I am at the precipice, and I fervently push myself over
the edge, calling his name as I fall.

         A litany, over and over, a prayer to the living.

        I feel him explode before I reach the ground. He holds
me to him tightly, his mouth again on mine, his seed spilling
into me, he is at once vulnerable and Herculean. I lay against
him, spent, as he catches his breath. We stay like this a long
time. I don't want to give up the connection we have at this
moment, so complete of body and spirit. But at last I pull
away, and he settles me into the crook of his arm, where we
drift into that contented place between sleep and awake.
Before I am carried away into a dream, I reach up and caress
his cheek. He holds my palm to his face for a moment, and I
know that he feels all the love that I have. I cannot sleep until
I have made that bond with him.

        For this night, our world is here, in this bed. Soon the
dawn will come and life will intrude once again. But as sure as
the sun will rise, it will also set, and we will meet in our safe
world once again.

****************
 Part II

***************
 

        I love to watch her sleep.

        Her face is soft, unguarded. I imagine what she
looked like as a girl, and what I hope to be there to see her
look like as an old woman. I see her mother in her, her sister,
her child. I see so many unshed tears and neglected smiles. I
see a face that I've been looking for all my life.

        I remember the first time she woke and caught me
watching her. She opened her eyes and said, "Mulder, what
are you doing?"

        I couldn't answer.

        I felt a lump in my throat and I was afraid to speak. I
just looked at her, hoping she that wouldn't see the depth of
my need for her, hoping that she wouldn't be frightened away.
She looked into my eyes for a long moment. Then she lay her
palm against my cheek, and she smiled. I squeezed my eyes
tight and tried to turn away, praying she wouldn't notice the
tears that threatened. But she pulled me back to face her.

        "Look at me, Mulder."

        I did.

        In her eyes I realized a truth that I'll never understand.
She knows me like no one else, the best and the worst of me.
And she still loves me. She stays. It's the greatest miracle of
my life.

        Her back is to me now, and I watch the gentle rise
and fall of her ribcage as she breathes. I carefully pull the
covers back just enough so that I can see the curve of her
shoulder and her slender neck. Her hair is spread across the

pillow, and I touch it, marveling in it's softness and color. It
falls away from her neck, and in the soft glow from the street
lamps outside I can just see the tiny scar that is usually
hidden. I want to touch it, but I won't, I don't want to wake her.
My hand is often drawn to that small bump of scar tissue, I
don't even realize it sometimes until she pulls away and gives
me that look. She gets so annoyed with me, because she
knows what I'm thinking: what if? What if she hadn't listened
to me, and to herself? What if I'd never found the chip? What
if she'd never been abducted in the first place? What if they'd
never brought her back? It's been over three years, and I still
can hear her voice calling me - "Mulder! I need your help!"

        She doesn't like to dwell on the past. We are so
different that way. Before I met her, my life was about nothing
*but*  the past. I was certain that what I needed to find was
there, the answers buried behind me somewhere. My search
has brought me many questions and few answers. There's
been no closure for me, and no end in sight. I'm tired, and I've
longed for a safe place to rest. Somewhere warm, and
comforting, and accepting. I didn't think I'd ever find such a
place. Then this woman held me in her arms.

        At times it's a struggle to maintain our professionalism
at work. Or perhaps I should say, it is for me. She doesn't
seem to have as much trouble with that as I do. We still work
perfectly together, with the same give and take, balancing yin
and yang. When things get intense or dangerous, we are still
a seamless dyad, sensing the other's next move, watchful of
the other's safety but not afraid. The adrenaline pumps and
we do what we have to do to get the job done. It's the quiet
times that are difficult for me. The times when we are sitting
side by side studying pictures and files. My eyes will stray
from the work in front of me and settle on that soft place on
her neck where it pulsates from the beating of her heart. I
remember what that spot felt like last night, what it does to her
when I kiss her there... Or when we are walking down the halls
at the Bureau, side by side. People turn their heads to look at
her as she walks by. She claims not to notice it, and says I'm
exaggerating when I mention it. But I'm not. She is a woman
who draws attention. She doesn't think she's beautiful, and
when I tell her that she is, she looks away, she doesn't want to
hear it. But the rest of the world knows. And sometimes I'd
like nothing better than to put my arm around her as we pass
those turned heads and shout, "she's mine!"  But, for now, the
work is still too important to us to jeopardize it with actions
that others take for granted. Someday, that will change. It has
to.

        Sometimes during these late nights awake, I think
back to the first time we made love. It hasn't been that long, a
few months now. I still remember everything about that night.
We'd just apprehended a particularly disgusting sicko, a man
who'd been preying on young single women for over a year.
He would follow them, learn their routines, and using a variety
of tricks he would gain their trust, along with entrance to their
homes. Once there, he held them captive for three days,
never more, never less. They would be bound and gagged,
and over that period of time he carved words and symbols
into their skin that meant nothing to anyone but him. On the
third day, he slit their throats. There were never any prints, no
witnesses. Until his last intended victim got lucky, so to speak,
and managed to throw herself out of a second story window
on day two. She broke her leg and dislocated her shoulder,
but she was alive and conscious and was able to give a
detailed description that helped us find him a few days later.
She kept saying over and over again, "he seemed so
harmless."

        I could tell that Scully was particularly disturbed by
this case, but she wouldn't talk about it. The night we took the
guy in, she was positively stone-faced. We finished up the
paperwork at the precinct, and headed home. In silence. After
about twenty minutes of this, I pulled into a small honky tonk
bar out in the middle of nowhere. There were about three cars
in the small dirt parking lot, and the neon sign promised
'Cold B er'.  She didn't say a word until I had turned off the
ignition.

        "Mulder, what are we doing here?"

         She sounded drained. I was hoping she wouldn't put
up much of a fight. I told her I needed a drink, and I thought
she could use one too. She sighed and followed me into the
bar. We took a table in a far corner and ordered chicken
wings and two cold drafts. The waitress brought four glasses.

        "Two for one tonight," she said, snapping her gum
between what remained of her teeth.

        We quickly drained two glasses. Scully was absently
gnawing on a chicken bone and licking the sauce off of her
fingers. I reached across the table and lay my hand on hers.
Our eyes met. She gave me a sad little smile and sighed
again.

        "Scully, we did a good thing today."

        She nodded and looked down at the table. "I know.
Too bad we couldn't have done it a little sooner though, eh?"

        The juke box suddenly kicked into life, and Johnny
Cash drowned out the baseball game on the TV up at the bar.
A middle aged woman in jeans that were too tight walked
away from the juke box and cajoled her gray haired
companion into joining her on the tiny dance floor. We both
watched them as we sipped our second beer, and I saw a
smile flicker across Scully's face. I was about to bite into
another chicken wing when I heard Elvis calling me. I looked
up at Scully, and after wiping off my greasy hand, I offered it
to her.

        "Dance with me, Scully."

        She gave me a quizzical look.  "Mulder..."

        "C'mon... please?"

        Tentatively, she took my hand. We moved slowly on
the dance floor, my hand around her waist.

        "Love me tender, love me dear..."

        She didn't look at me, but settled her cheek against
my shoulder. I pulled her closer, and I felt her hand slide from
my shoulder to rest behind my neck. God, it felt so good. So
right. I'd loved her for so long by then. I  really can't
remember when I didn't love her. There was never a time
when I thought, yes, this is it, she's the one. I guess I never
really thought that there was *one* for me. I couldn't imagine
someone wanting my baggage, my past, my strange life. But I
knew that I was closer to her than I'd ever been with anyone, I
trusted her more than anyone, and I couldn't conceive of a life
without her in it. Often when I was alone, and the night
stretched out like an endless dark ocean before me, I would
think about her, imagine her with me. I  wanted her so badly...
not just sex, but *her* - I wanted to hear her and touch her and
see her, I wanted to hold her and tell her it was going to be all
right even when I knew it wasn't. Especially then.

        The song was ending, and I glanced up to see the
woman in the tight jeans watching us. She smiled at me, then
hurried over to the juke box and put in some more quarters.
As the last strains of Elvis drifted away, Scully stopped
dancing and looked up at me. I thought my heart was going to
stop. The look in her eyes... I can't describe it. She held on to
me, with her gaze as well as her hands. I was afraid to speak,
to move, anything. I didn't want to break away from that
moment. The music started again, and that nice lady had so
kindly chosen another slow song, a country tune that I didn't
recognize. Scully put her head down against me and we
started to move again, slowly, swaying just enough to shuffle
our feet. I closed my eyes. We could have been in a gilded
ballroom and I would not have felt more incredible than I did
at that moment.

        She turned her face up to me again, and this time I
couldn't stay still. I leaned down and kissed her, gently, slowly,
wanting to savor every second. Her lips were so soft, like I
had imagined them to be. I was so afraid she would pull away,
but she didn't. The hand on the back of my neck pulled me
forward, tighter against her. Finally, we separated just a bit,
and I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against hers. I
swear to God I felt dizzy.

        "Scully..." My voice was barely a whisper.

        "Shhh," was all she said.

        We finished the dance and looked at each other. She
was the first to speak.

        "We should go." She didn't sound very convincing.

        "Yeah."  Somebody could have asked me if I was
Napoleon at that moment and I would have said the same
thing.

        We drove home the remaining forty five minutes with
only the radio making any sound. She sat far on the
passenger side of the car, watching the dark shadows go by
and thinking who knew what. As for me, my head was
swimming. What do I do? Ignore the whole thing? Pretend it
never happened? Make her talk about it? Just grab her and
kiss her again? I was completely dumbfounded.

        I pulled up to her door and put the car in park. She sat
there for a minute, her head down. I looked at my hands and
cracked my knuckles like an idiot. Then she turned to me. Her
voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

        "Why don't you come in, Mulder?"

        I thought she'd never ask.

        Inside, she went to the kitchen and started making
coffee. I couldn't stand it any more. I walked up behind her
and put my hands on her arms. She stood perfectly still. I slid
my hands down her arms and folded her small hands in my
own. She leaned back into me with a sigh, bringing our joined
hands across her chest and up under her chin. I wasn't about
to rush anything. It was her call.

        She turned to face me. Her eyes searched mine. For
what, I  wasn't sure. Doubt? I had none. Fear? Plenty.

        "Scully, I love you."  It was a warning, a plea.

        "I know that, Mulder."  Her eyes never left mine.

        "I don't want this to be just... I mean, I can't..." Be
sure, Scully, I thought. Be damn sure.

        "I know, Mulder. I don't want it to be that either."

        She lifted herself on her toes and kissed me. My arms
went around her and I held on for dear life. I felt her body
pressing into mine, and I was instantly aroused. Her mouth
probed my own, wet and hungry, her hands on my face. I
pulled away, and looked at her. I wanted her so much, but I
was so afraid.

        "Please, Scully..." Every insecurity I had came
rushing to the surface. Don't hurt me, I wanted to say. Don't
do this unless you know what it means to me. But the words
wouldn't come.

        She still held my face in her hands, and she studied
me for a second, her eyes thoughtful and soft.

        "Trust me, Mulder. Please trust me."

        I closed my eyes. "I do."

        "Then make love to me."

        In one motion I leaned down and picked her up in my
arms. She wrapped her arms tightly around my neck as I
carried her to her bedroom. I had imagined this a hundred
times, what her skin would feel like, taste, smell. But nothing
in my imagination could have compared with reality. She
stood before me and removed her jacket, revealing a lacy,
feminine garment underneath. A camisole, I think she calls it.
I'd fantasized about that, wondering what she wore under
those oh-so-professional suits of hers. She unzipped her skirt,
and it fell to the floor with her slip. She sat on the edge of the
bed, watching me watch her, as she slowly slid her hose down
and off each lovely little foot. I took her hands and brought her
back to her feet, holding her out a bit in front of me. I couldn't
stop staring at her, all of her. Her skin shone in the dim light,
almost as silky smooth as the peach colored camisole and
panties she wore. Finally, I let go of her hands to unbutton my
shirt, having long ago lost my tie and jacket. She reached up
and pushed my hands away.

        "Let me do that," she whispered.

        Oh my God. I had to hold myself back from just
grabbing her and fucking the hell out of her right then and
there. That may have been what my body wanted, but not the
rest of me. I was not going to hurry this. I wanted to touch
every inch of her, kiss her and taste her everywhere. I wanted
to make her moan and cry out for me and never forget this
night.

        Her nimble fingers undid the buttons on my shirt and
cuffs. She lay her hands across my chest and pushed the shirt
down over my arms, her hands spreading fire as they went.
Then she moved to my pants, and a groan escaped me as
she unzipped them. They quickly joined the growing pile of
discarded clothing on the floor. She looked at me again with
those eyes. Sweet Jesus, those eyes! They told me
everything, all that she couldn't yet say.

        She opened herself to me, slowly at first, shyly, then
trustingly and completely. Oh, God, we made love for hours,
at turns gentle and passionate, exploring every inch of one
another. Nothing could have prepared me for the feeling I had
when I finally entered her, her exquisite welcoming softness
against me . Tears came to my eyes, and she kissed them
away.  She told me that night that she loved me, and I
treasure that moment. She doesn't say it often. Putting her
heart into words is difficult for her. But she shows me in so
many ways.

        There's a slight movement in the bed next to me. I
hold very still, not wanting to wake her, but at the same time
hoping that she will turn to me with half sleepy eyes and take
me in her arms. There's nowhere I would rather be than safe
inside of her.

        Outwardly, I don't know that I've changed much since
that night. But inside, I'm different. Every morning when I
wake up next to her, I feel so alive, and - dare I admit - so
damn happy. There aren't enough words to say what she
means to me, she is my heart, my soul, everything. She's
 opened a door for me, and I'm so tempted to walk through
it. There's a different life for me on the other side; an
optimism, a hope. I can see it, and she's there with
her hand stretched out to me.

        Wait for me, baby. I'm almost there.

****************************
Part III

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

        My eyes snap open for the third time tonight, and I
glance over at the clock. 4:13 a.m. With a sigh and a little
struggling, I push off the covers and make my way out of bed.
There's no sense just lying here. I know I won't be able to get
back to sleep for a while.

        I turn on a small light in the kitchen and put the teapot
on. Yes, I know. With all the new gadgets out there, why do I
still insist on using a teapot? Because I just do. The tea tastes
better, I don't care what anybody says. As I wait for the water
to boil, I head to the bathroom for one of my increasingly
frequent night time visits. I wouldn't mind getting old so much
if there weren't so many damn annoying tricks that your body
plays on you. As I wash my hands, my gaze is drawn upward
to my reflection in the mirror. It's strange, but sometimes it's
still a surprise to see myself as I know others do. In my mind,
there aren't near as many wrinkles as I see now, and my hair
is still vibrant and not streaked with gray. But I'm not bad for
an old broad, or so my friends tells me. Especially when
they're encouraging me to get out and "date". I can't help but
chuckle at that idea. A woman my age, "dating"! I wasn't any
good at it when I was young, I certainly can't imagine that I'd
be any better at it now. Besides, I could never marry again. I
can't even conceive of another man kissing me, holding my
hand, sleeping next to me. No.

        The whistle of the teapot disturbs my musings. A
steaming cup of herbal tea is just what I need. It's chilly
tonight, fall seems to be coming early this year. I turn up the
thermostat and the heat kicks on as I carry my mug to the
living room. I always used to sleep better when it was cool. I
piled warm quilts on top of me, and I could feel the heat from
his body warming mine. I don't know why we ever bought that
king size bed. We both always slept on my side anyway.

        Gathering my robe close around me, I settle into the
oak rocking chair. This chair and I, we've weathered many
storms together. My hand runs along the armrest, smoothed
from so many years of my sleeves rubbing against it. I
remember when we bought this chair, and a smile still comes
to my face. Those first few weeks, so full of hope, ripe with a
miracle that we thought could never happen. We brought this
chair home and rocked in it together, imagining what it would
be like in a few months, soothing a crying baby with it's gentle
sway. But it was not to be. That was a sad time for us. Yet
when I remember now, in my later years, it's not the grief that
I recall first. What I remember most is the joy at hearing the
news, the look in his eyes, the blissfulness we both felt for
those few short months. Suddenly my eyes are wet, and I dab
at them with the sleeve of my robe.

        Oh, Mulder. I miss you so much.

        Ten months. I finally stopped counting it in weeks and
days. I can't believe that soon I'll start counting it in years. It
seems at once raw and so distant. He's still here, in every
corner of this house. And yet the essence of him is gone. His
scent no longer lingers in our closet, on the towels in the
bathroom, the pillows on our bed. But sometimes I think I
detect it anyway,  just for a moment,  although I know it's only
my mind playing tricks on me. It's not a bad thing, actually.
Perhaps this is one of the benefits of old age. I forget what I
was doing an hour ago, but I remember perfectly how he
looked on the day we were married. I remember his face that
Christmas morning when I gave him the puppy, our sweet
Johnny, now gone at least fifteen years. I remember the last
night we danced together, two years ago at Nathan's wedding.
He was still so handsome, standing tall and strong, his dark
hair just lightly touched with gray. He told me how beautiful I
was, and I shushed him and laughed as I always did. Oh, but
my insides would melt every time he said it, even after all
those years.

        I rock gently as I sip my tea. From here I can look out
through the big bay window and across the yard to the lake.
The trees sway softly in the breeze, their branches outlined by
the moonlight. I knew as soon as I saw the view from this
window that I wanted this house. Twenty eight years we've
been here, and I never tire of taking time to sit and look out
this window. Sometimes deer will come up in the yard with
their babies, or rabbits or raccoons, foraging for food. It's a
beautiful sight, and I feel God when I see it. Mulder would
often sit with me, although he never could stay still for too
long. Except in those last few months. We spent a lot of time
here then, and I treasure those memories. He never was
angry, like I was. He took it so calmly. The doctor outlined a
plan for aggressive treatment of the cancer, but Mulder just
smiled and shook his head. He just wanted to come home,
and that's what he did. I understood. But I was angry. Oh, not
at him. At the unfairness of it. To think of how many times he
survived close calls while we were in the Bureau, only to have
his body turn on itself this way. And because I had always
planned to go first. It wasn't right. But right or not, that's what
happened, and he took it with more grace than I. He didn't get
very ill until the last few weeks, luckily. That would have been
the final insult, to see a man of his strength and passion
slowly dwindle away. But, though his body weakened, he
stayed with me till the end. I never had to face him looking
into my eyes and not really seeing me. That would have
broken my heart.

        That morning, the hospice aide came to help him
bathe. Mulder had insisted on that, although I would have
gladly done it. I had made some homemade vegetable soup
the day before, and I heated some up for his lunch. He only
ate a few spoonfuls before he leaned back on the sofa and
closed his eyes.

        "Want me to read to you, honey?" I asked. That had
become a favorite pastime for us both in the last few weeks of
his life. He opened his eyes and nodded. I sat down and
picked up "Treasure Island", opening it to the page we had left
off on the day before.

        "Come closer," he'd said. I moved my chair near
enough so that he could reach out and touch me, which he
did. His hand rested on my thigh, stroking it softly with his
thumb. I smiled at him. He just looked at me.

        "You're so beautiful, Dana."

        I chuckled. "Oh, hush! You don't even have your
glasses on."

        "I don't need my glasses to see how beautiful you
are."

        My eyes suddenly got watery, and I put my hand over
his. "Oh, Mulder. I love you."

        He smiled. "I love you too, and I always will. Don't
ever forget that."

        I sniffled and turned back to the book, blinking to
clear my sight. He closed his eyes again, and I began to read.
Jim had just given the slip to Long John Silver when a strange
chill came over me.

        I  knew even before I looked over at him. I could feel
it. For a moment I felt panic rise in my throat, and it was hard
to breathe. Then I forced air deep into my lungs and turned
my head. I watched his chest for a minute, waiting for it to
softly rise and fall. But it didn't. The book fell to the floor and I
dropped slowly to my knees. I ran my hands lightly over his
face, his arms, wanting to remember the feel of him before
death changed it. I lay my cheek over his heart and pulled
him close to me. The thing I remember most vividly is that I
couldn't believe that strong heart could stop, just like that.
There were no tears then, only that heaviness in my chest, the
dread of going on without him. I held him like that for a long
time.

        My nephew Matthew came up and helped me with the
funeral arrangements. He was so upset. He'd always loved
Mulder, much to my brother's chagrin. And Mulder doted on
him. Oh, Mulder was good with all the children in my family,
but he and Matthew always seemed to have a special rapport.
I was so glad to have him here. I don't like to think about the
day of the funeral, it was much more difficult than I imagined
it would be. Matthew didn't leave my side for a minute. I think
he needed me as much as I needed him. A few days
afterward, he tried to talk me into coming to California to live
with his family. But I won't ever leave this place. This is my
home,  *our*  home, and the memories are what keep me
going. His daughter Amy called me just a few weeks ago. She
wanted to come and live with me after she graduates from
high school next year. What about your plans for art school? I
asked. She told me that she'd decided to take some time off
before starting school again, and she was very convincing.
Always had a flair for the dramatic, that girl. I thanked her and
told her what a sweet child she was, which is true. But I don't
want anyone coming to take care of me. I don't want anyone
intruding on what little I have left with Mulder. Not that I sit
around talking to the walls all day. I putter in the garden,
read, go to lunch with my old lady friends. I make sure I take
my medicine and eat, although my heart isn't in it and nothing
really tastes good anymore. But I'm not a quitter. I'll keep
going until the good Lord tells me otherwise.

        My tea is finished, so I'll try to get a little more sleep.
My slippers make an echoing scuff-scuff sound as I wander
back to our bedroom. I think the same thought that I do
almost every time I step into the bedroom, that that bed is too
damn big and lonely and I ought to get rid of it and get a
smaller one. But even as I'm thinking it, I know I never could.

        My knees creak in protest as I drop down on the pillow
at the side of my bed, and I repeat the same prayer that I've
said each night for the past ten months.

        Thank You for giving him to me. And if it is Your will,
when my eyes open again let them see Mulder and my sweet
baby waiting for me. Amen.

*********************
End
Comments to Linda at rn500@usa.net