BrokenPlaces.html*

Title: Broken Places
Author: supernova
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit being made, don't sue.
Category: MSR/A/S
Rating: R
Spoilers: Everything up to and including Season 7.
Summary: Good 'ole Ernest sums it up better than me. <see
quote below>
Feedback: Welcomed at supernova818@aol.com
Archive: Ask and ye shall receive.
Author's notes: At the end.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

"The world breaks us all. Afterward, some are
stronger at the broken places."

~Ernest Hemingway, 'A Farewell to Arms'~

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

I'm sitting at my window, watching as the rain pelts the
asphalt ground unmercifully. The full moon is suspended in
the night sky, like a beacon for lost souls. How many
others are looking to this same beacon for answers? How
many others will find none. It's strange how life can
change in the blink of an eye, with a phone call, or a
simple sentence.

She invaded my soul in such a subtle way, unassuming, and
unknowingly. It was the little things; the way she tried
not to laugh at my jokes, the scientific way in which she
disagreed with me, the lost little girl look in her eyes
when we happened upon something she couldn't explain away.
Her understated beauty captivated me, mesmerized me. Her
loyalty and strength confounded me, but left me breathless
and thankful in their wake. I was a lost, tired, thirsty
man in the desert of my life, and she was the mirage my
mind had wished for. Only she was real, all too real. The
intensity of our relationship has been invigorating,
intoxicating, and sometimes infuriating. My love for her is
endless, and all consuming. I was a drifter, searching,
always searching for something, and although my quest gave
me purpose, I was still lost. Somehow, this drifter, found
a home. To say she was everything, wouldn't be saying
nearly enough, the simplicity of that statement belying her
meaning in my life. Perhaps there are no words to define
her, or our relationship.

To borrow a phrase from Charles Dickens, "it was the best
of times, it was the worst of times." Somewhere, in the
middle of the best and worst, I discovered I loved her
beyond all reason; more than the elusive truth, more than
Samantha, more than life. As simple as that sounds, it's
the only truth I care to know; she makes life worth living.
Her ways are still subtle, although the details have
changed. I love her now because she wakes me up in the
morning with soft kisses, rubbing her cold feet along my
calf. She's more open with me, although still in her own
independent way. We now share a common sense of truth,
after years of seeing its various incarnations. She tells
me she loves me, and isn't shy or fearful of the
consequences of her revelation. And it's always a
revelation. The road to where we are has been paved with
lies, injuries, loss, abductions, and painful truths; it is
an unending list of unpleasant memories. Yet loving each
other has been so very easy.

The rain has stopped for now, the moon still shining
brightly with no answers to give. I close my eyes, and
dream of her.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

-Previous Day-

I arrive at the office and Scully is nowhere to be found. I
call her cell phone, and I get the polite automated message
telling me that "the cellular customer you are trying to
reach is not available, please leave a message at the
tone."

I really don't have the fucking time. Scully knew we were
supposed to meet this morning before we caught our flight
to New York. She didn't spend the night with me last night,
going home on the pretense of packing for our trip. We
agreed that we would meet here, promptly at 8:00 a.m., grab
our notes and research, and then ride to the airport
together. I'm here, I've got the files I needed, so where
is Scully? I sit down at my desk and decide to review our
latest case, hoping Scully will decide to make an
appearance before I'm finished skimming the details.

Someone has been kidnapping, torturing, and murdering
young women in Manhattan. This wouldn't normally fall under
our jurisdiction save for when the pathologist went to
perform the autopsy there was nothing inside to autopsy.
While the bodies themselves were badly mangled, and the
women had obviously been tortured, there were no incisions
on the body. No one could surmise how anyone could remove
all the internal organs without making an incision, and so
Mr. and Mrs. Spooky were called in to investigate.

There had been five women so far, all single, mid 20's to
mid 30's, all fairly attractive. Other than that, there
didn't seem to be a common link.

I look down at my watch and realize that it's 8:40 a.m.,
and still no word from Scully. I call her house, and get
the answering machine. I call her cell phone and get the
polite automated voice-again. I can't decide if I'm more
worried or pissed off. I can't sit here doing nothing, so
I decide to go talk to Skinner.

XxXxXx

"Agent Mulder, I thought you would be on your way to New
York by now," Skinner says, surprised to see me in the
office today.

"Well, I should be, but I can't seem to locate Agent
Scully," I reply, obviously irritated by Scully's absence.
"Has she called in today, Sir? Have you heard from her
today?"

"No, I haven't. Have you tried her at home, or on her cell
phone?"

"Yes, to both. She's not picking up at home or on her
cell." I'm starting to panic a little bit; this isn't like
Scully at all. She's rarely late, and if she is, she always
calls.

"Well-" Skinner starts, but before he can finish, my cell
phone chirps in my pocket.

"Mulder," I say, hoping it's Scully.

"Hey Mulder, it's me," she says, seemingly unaware that we
are supposed to be on a plane in 45 minutes.

"Scully, where are you?"

"Mulder, I'm sorry about this morning, I would have called
sooner, but we're going to have to cancel our trip to New
York. Or you could go alone, but I'm not going to be able
to accompany you on this one."

Something is wrong. Scully just doesn't call and say she
can't go with me on a case. Ever. I give Skinner a thumbs-
up, he smiles non-commitally, and I turn to leave his
office in search of some privacy.

"Scully, what is it? What's going on?"

"I can't talk about it right now, but I'm okay, I guess. I
have something I have to do today, but I'd like to-to come
over tonight and talk, if that's okay with you?"

Scully does not come over to "just talk." Something serious
is going on. Shit. Shit. Shit. A familiar insecurity where
all things Scully are concerned rears its ugly head, and I
struggle to ignore the presumptuous beast in an effort to
answer her.

"Do you need me, Scully? Is there anything I can help you
with? What's going on? Talk to me, Scully." I'm trying to
quell the panic in my voice; I'm not all that successful.

"No, Mulder. This is something, well, something rather
personal. I'd prefer to talk about it tonight."

Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Okay, Scully. I'll call the field office in New York, and
tell them we'll be up later this week. I'll be home around
six, I'll see you then."

"See you then, love you, bye."

"You too," is all I manage to say, worry evident in those
simple words.

XxXxXx

This has got to be the longest fucking day of my life. With
Scully's earlier cryptic, and disturbing phone call, I am
not able to concentrate on anything. Years ago, I would
have said 'okay,' and run off to investigate the case
alone. However, things are different now. So many things
have changed; I've changed. I think of Scully, and wonder
where she is, and what the hell is going on. I can't stay
here another minute. It's 4:30; I'll pick up some dinner on
the way home, and then wait for Scully there. It's obvious
I'm not going to get anything done today.

I decide to pick up some Chinese food and beer. A tingle up
my spine and intuition tells me I'll need the beer tonight.
Hell, I'm getting two six-packs.

I unlock my apartment carrying Mr. Chin's Chinese take-out,
two plastic grocery bags with a six-pack in each, and a few
files from the office tucked underneath my arm. I push the
door shut with my foot, and it slams loudly. I make my way
to the kitchen, with a muttered "shit, damn, fuck" as the
files decide they don't like the comfort of my armpit
anymore and fall in a glorious heap to the floor. That's
just great.

I set the grocery bags and take-out on the kitchen counter,
and grab my crotch in an effort not to piss myself. I'm
unbuckling my belt and unzipping my pants while running for
the bathroom. I think that eighth cup of coffee is finally
catching up to me. I am finally able to relieve myself and
I sigh audibly at the dwindling pressure on my bladder. I
flush the toilet, wash my hands and strip to my boxers and
t-shirt. I think I'll change before Scully comes over. I
turn to go into my bedroom and realize that Scully is
already here, asleep in my bed, wearing one of my
undershirts, looking cutely rumpled, and decidedly edible.

I walk over to her, and run my fingers through a few
strands of wayward hair that have fallen onto her face. I
can see that she's been crying, her face is slightly puffy
and a little bit pink. I wonder for the millionth time
today what the hell is going on.

I let her sleep while I put my work clothes in the hamper,
and pull some jeans from my closet to wear. I go to the
kitchen, put the beer in the refrigerator, and pick up the
papers on the floor, piling them on the kitchen table. I'll
have to organize them later.

I decide that I'll go ahead and put some food on plates for
Scully and I, and then I'll wake her and we can have "the
talk" over dinner. I'm in the middle of transferring
chicken and fried rice from the cartons to paper plates
when I feel her warm body press against mine. She hugs me
from the back, and brings her hands to rest on my chest. I
love times like this, when we do normal things; I love the
feel of her so close to me.

"You brought dinner, Mulder." She sounds pleased; I hope
this is a point in my favor when she finally decides to
tell me what's on her mind.

"Yeah, I thought we could talk over dinner," I say
casually, not wanting to pressure her.

"We'll talk later, Mulder. For now, let's enjoy dinner, and
see what's on TV. I'm in no hurry to talk, I just want to
enjoy being with you."

"Okay." I'm not going to argue with her. If she wants to
wait, that's fine by me, and if she wants to spend time
with me, then that's a pretty good indicator that the talk
isn't about us.

She goes to put on some pants, while I finish putting
dinner on our plates. I grab two beers in one hand, balance
two plates in the other, and make my way to the living room
successfully avoiding dropping and/or spilling anything.

We eat dinner in relative silence, and put our empty plates
and beer bottles on the floor. She lays her head in my lap,
and I stroke her hair gently, while we watch 'Plan 9 From
Outer Space,' for what has to be the tenth time since our
coupling two months ago. As bizarre as it may sound, it's a
comfort to us. Our own little ritual when one or the other
of us is down about something. We can laugh, and for that
short time forget whatever worries we may have. It was her
idea to watch it tonight.

The movie ends, and I begin to gather our dishes from the
floor in an effort to take them to the kitchen. She reaches
out and grabs my hand, pulling me back down onto the couch.
She looks at me, and tears well up in her eyes. I want to
ask her 'what makes you so sad, Scully,' but I don't. She
leans towards me and kisses me. It's a sweet kiss, not
devoid of passion, but more chaste than I'm used to from
her. Scully is very passionate, surprisingly passionate.
She breaks the kiss and lays her head on my shoulder; my
hands rest on her hips. She's wearing my undershirt, and
her cotton, drawstring pajama pants. I know she wants to
have a serious talk, but this domesticated and relaxed
Scully really turns me on.

She takes several deep breaths, and suddenly I realize how
nervous I am. She hasn't been this anxious about telling me
anything since she crawled into my bed that first time and
asked me to make love to her. I have a feeling that the end
result of what she said then, and what she's going to say
now isn't going to be nearly as pleasurable.

I kiss the top of her head, waiting for her to find the
words, waiting for her to tell me whatever it is she needs
to tell me. The sound of thunder in the distance makes her
jump, and then she laughs at her skittishness. I pull her
closer to me, wanting her to feel safe. She's sitting in an
almost fetal position between my legs; her knees are drawn
tightly against her stomach, one of her arms is around my
back, the other rests lightly on my chest. I'm stroking her
back with one hand, and her hair with the other, trying to
reassure her.

She lifts her head and kisses me ever so gently on the
lips, and then lays her head down on my shoulder. I begin
to wonder how long we're going to sit here, repeating this
process, when she clears her throat and let's me know she's
ready to talk.

"My cancer has gone out of remission," she whispers.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

There are crucial moments in life when you are gifted with
the precise words you need in order to convey all the
emotions you feel. This is not one of those moments. How
can it be that my entire world has shifted off its axis in
the blink of an eye?

There is no histrionic behavior; Scully does not bolt off
the couch beating her hands against her breasts shouting to
the heavens, "why me?" I do not scream and curse our
situation or every god my eidetic memory can recall. We sit
quietly, unmoving, as I let the weight of her words take
residence inside of me. There have been times in my life,
when I could feel my heart actually ache from the cruelty
of the goings on around me, when I felt it contract so
tightly in my chest, I wasn't sure it would ever resume a
normal rhythm. Her words are like fists clenching around my
heart and lungs, refusing to let go, suffocating me with
nearly unbearable pain.

If I were a poet, I'd write her a sonnet. If I were a
prophet, I'd tell her everything is going to be fine. If I
were a god, I'd heal her.

"Scully-" Her words have left me speechless. I close my
eyes and rest my chin on the top of her head, not knowing
what to say. She shifts in my arms and moves to get up from
the couch; my hands fall away from her and settle in my
lap. I don't move when she is gone from my embrace, I feel
numb. I don't lift my head to look at her either; that
might very well be my undoing. This feels like a dream; it
cannot be real. Not again.

"Mulder," her voice is calm, so soothing. I look up and
meet her gaze; she smiles wistfully, her eyes convey the
all-encompassing love that words cannot express. It is then
that the tears escape and run down my face, for her and all
the world to see. I put my head in my hands, ashamed that I
do not share her strength.

"I'm sorry, Scully. Its just-I love you. I don't know how
you can be so strong. I don't want you to be sick again, I
don't want you to be in pain. I don't want to lose you." I
struggle to remain calm, but my voice is strained, an
underlying desperation almost palpable.

"When I had the first nosebleed, I didn't-"

"When did you have a nosebleed?" I ask, angry that she's
kept this from me.

"About a month ago. I brushed it off, not wanting to think
about the implications. It was harder after the fourth and
fifth one though, so I made an appointment with Dr. Snow
last Wednesday. I got the preliminary test results back
yesterday, but I couldn't bring myself to tell you. I
didn't want to believe it."

"Is it the same as before?" I ask, knowing what the answer
will be.

"Yes, it is. I'd planned to go to New York and deal with
everything when we got back, but when I went home last
night there was a message on my answering machine from Dr.
Snow asking me to come in today, so he could run more
tests. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, Mulder."

I'm angry, but not at her. With an unseen adversary
attacking her body, I understand her need to have some
semblance of control. I hate this disease. Rage builds
within me, starting slowly in the pit of my stomach,
traveling alongside the blood in my veins, until I feel it
settle in the tips of my fingers and the soles of my feet.
If cancer were a tangible thing or person, I'd rise calmly
from where I sit, escort it into the alley and execute it
with no remorse. However, it is not something I can touch,
or kill, so I sit with barely concealed rage, and watch
while her body slowly dies at the hands of an elusive
killer, while I am helpless to protect her.

"No more talking tonight, Mulder." She shakes her head
almost imperceptibly, and looks down at her socked feet,
wanting a reprieve from reality.

I don't want to talk about it anymore either. I want her
to take it back, and tell me that the Doctor made a
mistake. I want to go back five years and be there when
Duane Barry breaks into her apartment, so I can stop him
from taking her. I want to find her before they do. Even
though I love her, I want to travel back in time, and tell
that young, beautiful redhead whose eyes reflected naive
innocence, a promising career, and a carefree life to cut
her losses and go back to teaching at Quantico. I want to
save her; I want to save myself.

She kneels down in front of me, pulls me into her arms, and
holds me tightly against her. Warmth and longing spread
through me, the familiarity reassuring. I am reminded of
how she held me after my Mother's death, and wonder how
many times over the years she has put aside her own fears
in an effort to comfort me. I should have been more
appreciative, I shouldn't have taken for granted all the
times she put my needs ahead of her own.

She puts her small hand in mine, and I am reminded again
what an enigma she is. These small, almost fragile hands,
have taken down men twice her size. These hands have in the
same night embraced death and love. It doesn't seem like
someone with such a commanding presence, such an enormous
spirit, should have hands this small. But that's Scully;
she'll always keep you guessing.

I rise from the couch, holding her hand, as we walk towards
the bedroom. She makes her way to the bed, and sits down on
the edge. I stand in between her legs, and she lays her
head on my stomach, while I drop feather light kisses onto
her hair.

"I need a day or two, Mulder. There isn't much to know
right now, but I promise, as soon as all the test results
come back, I won't keep anything from you." She sounds
tired, and resigned to this fate.

"I want to be there for you as much as I can, as much as
you want me to be."

"I want to spend the night with you, but I'm not going to
the office tomorrow. I have an appointment with my
Oncologist in the morning. This has been such a shock, I
think a day or two will help me prepare for whatever the
future holds."

"I'll go with you, Scully. I don't want you to go alone." I
want to be with her, as much for her as myself.

"No, I want there to be a sense of normalcy. I want you to
go into the office tomorrow and keep working; get
everything ready for us to go to New York on Thursday," she
says stoically, and there is something in her voice that is
pleading with me not to argue with her.

Before I can answer, she lifts my t-shirt and kisses my
stomach tenderly, almost reverently. She unbuttons my jeans
then pauses and removes her own clothes. She tosses them
carelessly to the floor and lies down on the bed, waiting
for me to love her. I discard my jeans and t-shirt and
crawl into bed, laying down beside her with one arm resting
protectively over her stomach and our legs tangled
together. I move my free hand to her cheek and caress her
soft skin, using my finger to trace her lips. She kisses
the tip of my finger before resting her head in the palm of
my hand.

"I love you, Scully."

"I know."

XxXxXx

The bed is cold when I wake up, and I know Mulder has gone
to work already. Neediness takes precedence over
independence, and suddenly I regret asking him to live as
if nothing has changed. Nothing will be normal in the
coming months. I need him, I need his reassurance, and I
need that feeling of safety only he can provide.

I sit up and let my legs dangle over the side of the bed,
taking a deep breath in an effort to prepare myself for the
long day ahead of me. I ease down off the bed and walk the
short distance to the bathroom, looking forward to a hot
shower. Entering the bathroom, I see that Mulder has left a
note taped to the mirror.

Scully,

I don't know what to say or do right now. I do
know I love you, and will do anything in my power
to keep you safe and happy.

After you fell asleep last night, I sat by the window
watching the storm, reliving old memories, and
part of a poem by Cummings came to mind.
Don't laugh Scully, I attended Oxford, I'm an
edumacated man. It reminded me of you. Call me.

"I do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands."

-M

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Dr. Snow's Office
10:48 a.m.

"We will start your treatment with Cisplatin administered
intravenously once a week every three weeks for the next
six months. Some side effects include nausea, vomiting,
diarrhea, temporary hair loss, dizziness, fatigue, and a
reduction in bone marrow function. It can and probably will
affect your appetite, so you need to have a dietary regimen
in place, possibly even written down, to make certain that
you continue to eat properly. You will need to come in at
least once a week for blood tests in order to determine
whether or not you are responding to the chemotherapy. Do
you have any questions, Dana?" Dr. Snow is busy scribbling
notes in my chart, and doesn't bother to look up. Yeah, I
have a question you prick, why am I wearing a paper napkin
you people call a "gown," while you sit there in your
thousand-dollar suit? God, I want to be anywhere but here.

"No, I don't have any questions." I know your litany of
medical jargon means that chemo, in no uncertain terms, is
going to make me wish I were dead.

"Okay, I'm going to write you a prescription for Phenergan
that will help with the nausea you will experience once you
start treatment. You will need to avoid prolonged exposure
to sunlight, and it is not advisable to drive while taking
this medication. If you experience any side effects other
than drowsiness, call my office and I will lower the
dosage, or prescribe another drug. Also, when taking this
medication, you need to avoid alcohol all together," he
states matter-of-factly.

I guess that means no more beer when Mulder and I watch
'Plan 9 From Outer Space,' or any other comfort movies.
Damn this disease.

"I want to start your treatment as soon as possible. Think
about what day would be best for you, keeping in mind that
after a round of chemotherapy you will be exhausted, and
more than likely nauseated. Once you decide on a day, call
my office so we can get the ball rolling." He finally looks
up at me, his bushy eyebrows remind me of Groucho Marx, and
I can't help but laugh. What day of the week is best? There
isn't a best day of the week. He puts his hand on my
shoulder giving it a gentle squeeze, and smiles pitifully.
He mentions that I should pick up some good vitamins, then
turns and exits the room, leaving me alone.

I need to get out of here; the walls are closing in on me.
Why is it so hard to breathe? I see my cell phone lying on
top of my neatly folded clothes and nearly fall off the
examining table when I reach for it. Speed dial #1- come on
Mulder, pick up.

"Mulder," he answers expectantly.

Suddenly I am unable to speak, a knot is lodged in my
throat and I feel the sweat beading at my hairline.
Thoughts flit across my brain, 'I need you, I don't want to
do this alone, Help me, Mulder,' but I am unable to voice
those feelings.

"Scully?"

"Mulder, it's me."

"Hey Scully, is everything okay?" his voice is full of
nervous concern, typical.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah, Scully?"

"Let's get drunk." Rebellious Dana is coming to the
surface. Tell me I can't have something, and that's the
first thing I want.

"Scully?" he's thoroughly befuddled by my "let's get drunk"
request. I close my eyes and visualize him holding the
phone away from his ear, looking at it in disbelief. Sure,
we have a few beers every now and then, but I don't think
we've ever gotten truly hammered.

"Meet me at Caroline's in an hour." He doesn't comment on
the fact that it's not even lunchtime; he doesn't try to
tell me I shouldn't look for an escape through alcohol. He
mumbles a simple "okay," we exchange goodbyes, and hang up.

I arrive at my apartment, taking a moment before exiting my
car, trying to reclaim the control that seems to be
slipping through my fingers. When I was six years old, one
of my favorite things to do on a hot summer day was blow
bubbles. It was a simple thing, nonetheless amusing in the
eyes of a child. I remember submerging the stick in the
viscous liquid, pulling it out, and blowing softly until
the air around me was filled with bubbles. Sometimes they
would come to rest on my nose, or in my hair, other times
I'd reach out to grab them, sticky hands my only reward.
Frustrated by my inability to grasp these precious bubbles,
I asked my mother why they always popped when I tried to
touch them. She smiled and said, "some things aren't meant
to be held, Dana." Control is like those bubbles, the
harder you try to hold it in your hand the quicker it
disappears.

I change clothes then wait outside for my cab. I ponder the
events of my childhood in contrast to the life I live
today. I see a dead firefly in the palm of my hand, sticky
wet spots on the pavement from bubbles exploding on contact,
babies with mysterious green eyes like their father, and a
cancer that owns my much sought after control. I sigh, and
grieve for things I was never meant to hold.

XxXxXx

Caroline's Bar and Grill
4:08 p.m.

Scully is falling down drunk, literally. She's fallen off
the barstool three times, and been felt up by a businessman
in a three-piece suit once. He said he was reaching for
napkin, and no, he didn't find it on her breast. She told
him where he could go, which included the words "straight"
and "hell." I was off my barstool in record time- had him
pinned against the wall and properly threatened within the
span of about ten seconds. I told him to take a good look
at her, memorize her face, because if he ever put his hands
on her again, I'd kill him no questions asked. He
sauntered out of the bar with his tail between his legs,
mumbling something about crazy and overprotective.

Yes, that would be me, Fox Mulder. I'm not a caveman, but
you do not put your hands on Dana Scully. She's mine; it's
as simple as that.

I've got my own buzz going, and by my fifth scotch, I
pretend to fall off my barstool-face first into Scully's
lap. She laughs and says, "Oh Mulder, let me help you up."
I don't tell her I'm already up, painfully so. After a few
minutes of what might be considered indecent behavior, I
lift my head from her lap and reposition myself on my own
stool. All is well with the world, except for the fact that
she has a terminal illness. She hasn't mentioned it since
we arrived four hours ago; I haven't mentioned it either. I
think that was the point of this little excursion.

"Hey Scully?"

"Yeah Mulder?"

"What's the difference between Bigfoot and an intelligent
blonde?" This will cheer her up; she needs to laugh a
little.

"What Mulder?"

"There have actually been sightings of Bigfoot," I laugh.
She doesn't.

"Hey Scully?" My speech is slurred; I have that 'I'm-
pretending-to-be-serious' tone that usually follows five
glasses of Lagavulin and lewd acts committed in public.

"Yeah Mulder?" She lays her head down on the bar, looking
up at me through a veil of long lashes, her eyes only half
open.

"Are you still planning to go to New York with me on
Thursday?"

"Don't talk about work, Mulder. And yes, I'm going with
you." She's coming down off the high into the 'let's-
analyze-everything' phase of drunkenness.

"Hey Scully?" That earns me the infamous eyebrow. I have a
tendency to chatter incessantly when I'm inebriated.

"Yes Mulder?" She's annoyed, she sighs and purses her lips
in a way that makes me want to devour her right here in
front of Bob the bartender. "I've been thinking about
reincarnation lately, and I think we were geese in our
previous life." She's intrigued now, she lifts her head off
the edge of the bar and I glimpse a bit of milky white
cleavage. She's wearing that tight, v-neck, blue shirt that
matches the color of her eyes. She knows what I like.

"Did you know that when a goose is injured and falls away
from the V formation, two other geese leave the group to go
and watch over the injured goose until it is well enough to
fly, or it dies?" I should have left the 'dies' part out.

"Yes, Mulder. I am familiar with geese. Was there some
other random bit of information
you wanted to impart to me today?" She doesn't try to hide
the sarcasm in her tone of voice, and the eyebrow is in the
middle of her forehead. Wait, there are three eyebrows. I
give her a sly smile and shrug my shoulders, pretending to
ignore her.

"Do tell, Mulder. What leads you to believe that we were
geese in our previous existence?"

"Because they mate for life," and with that I take another
swig of scotch.

XxXxXx

Thursday
12:06 p.m.

After taking yesterday off to recover from our drunken
stupor, Scully and I got up early this morning to catch our
8 a.m. flight to New York. After landing at LaGuardia and
renting a car, we received word that there had been another
victim in our serial murder case, all evidence pointing
thus far to the same perp. We've been examining the newest
crime scene for about thirty minutes, but so far it's not
yielding any helpful information. Same scenario as the
other women: Tammy Larson, 32 years old, single,
attractive, found dead in an alley. No preliminary evidence
suggests sexual assault, although she'd obviously been
tortured. You can't tell for certain from the outside, but
the sunken in quality of her chest indicates that her
internal organs have been removed, reminiscent of the five
women before her. What I find puzzling is that there are no
restraint marks on her wrists or ankles. No rope burns, no
cuff marks, nothing to suggest she was tied with wire, or
anything else.

"The coroner is taking her to the city morgue, I'm going to
catch a ride with one of the locals, and start on the
autopsy. Why don't you go ahead and question friends and
family, we'll compare notes later today." Scully is very
good at pretending nothing is wrong, the consummate
professional.

"Scully?" She doesn't realize it yet; she doesn't feel it.

"What is it Mulder?" Her eyes are wide; the look on my face
must concern her. Without saying a word I pull out my cloth
handkerchief and put it in her hand. I kick some gravel
around with my shoe, avoiding her gaze, avoiding the truth.
Suddenly blood pours from her nose, and I can't help the
muttered "shit" that escapes my mouth. Scully bends
forward, and a boy in blue approaches us after noticing the
commotion. I wave him off, telling him to give her a
minute.

"You okay, Scully?" Obviously she's not, she's doubled over
in front of me, my handkerchief saturated with blood.

"Just give me a minute, Mulder." I guide her out of the
alley and back towards our rental car. Making my way around
to the passenger side, I open the door and ease her down
onto the seat. I kneel down in front of her, the rough
asphalt digging in to the tender flesh on my knees. She
hasn't looked at me yet. I've always sensed that Scully
thought having cancer somehow disappointed me, or made me
think she was weak. It was the opposite; I was humbled by
her strength. The first time she had cancer, she never
complained, although I knew there were times she was beyond
exhausted. Actually, our drunken romp the other night was
the closest she'd ever gotten to a pity party. Even then,
she didn't complain, just found a way to escape for a
while.

"Is there anything I can do?" I ask, feeling helpless as
usual.

"No, not really," she answers somberly.

"Maybe we should go back to D.C., Scully." She doesn't need
to be in the field right now, she needs to be home, taking
care of herself.

"No, Mulder. I need this, I need to continue working." She
looks straight into my eyes, leaving no doubt as to how
serious she is.

"Okay, Scully, okay." I rub her thigh gently, needing the
physical contact.

We used our free time yesterday to discuss all that her
treatment would entail. She'll have chemo on Fridays,
allowing her time over the weekend to recover. She wants to
stay in the field as long as possible; I didn't voice my
concerns about that. I tried to be supportive, but I know
she is expecting too much from herself. There will come a
time when she has to slow down, whether she wants to or
not. Her nose finally stops bleeding and she looks at me
sheepishly. The guilty look in her eyes breaks my heart, I
don't want her to be embarrassed or ashamed, this isn't her
fault.

"Scully, why don't we grab some lunch before you slice and
dice, okay?" I expect her to argue, but she doesn't. She
nods her head in agreement, her eyes never leaving the
bloodied cloth in her hands.

"I'm sorry about this, Mulder," she says, motioning to the
soiled linen.

"Don't be." I take the bloodied handkerchief from her, and
look for somewhere to dispose of it.

After throwing the handkerchief away in the bathroom of a
nearby restaurant, I tell the local P.D. not to worry about
giving Scully a ride uptown, boy in blue number two looks
vaguely disappointed. We exchange pleasantries, and I make
my way back to Scully who is waiting patiently in the car.
She smiles at me, and I stand there for a moment watching
her, memorizing every minute detail. Two months from now
when I find her hovering over the toilet exhausted and sick
from fighting the good fight, dank hair shrouding an
unrecognizable face, I'll close my eyes and recall this
moment, reminding myself there was a time when her skin
glowed. When she struggles to breathe and I hold her frail
body in my arms, it will be images like this that remind me
she wasn't always sharp edges. If by some cruel twist of
fate, there are nights when an angel with peach-tinted skin
and ocean blue eyes haunts my dreams, a thousand memories
will remind me of how desperately I loved her, and how I
was loved in return.

XxXxXx

Jack's
1:12 p.m.

We chose a quaint Irish pub off 40th and Broadway for lunch.
The tables are covered in soft white tablecloths, accented
by small candles and vases of freshly cut flowers. It's
cozy, the dim lighting adding to the ambience, much nicer
than most of the diners Mulder and I have frequented over
the years. Our waitress comes to take our order, hamburger
for Mulder, and salad for me.

"I don't have a handle on this guy at all, Scully," I can
hear the frustration in his voice, he wants to catch this
one, he needs to feel useful.

"I'm just wondering how he does it, removes their internal
organs without making an incision," I offer, genuinely
perplexed by the strange details of this case.

"Yeah, that's been bothering me as well," he adds,
obviously as flustered as I am. "I can't see his motive; I
have no idea why he's doing this to these women. The
similarities between them are vague things, all around the
same age, attractive, and single. Other than that, they
couldn't be more different. The hair and eye color varies
from victim to victim, as does physical build. All had
different levels of education, as far as I know none of
them sharing the same chosen profession. Social standing
also varies, four of them were middle class, the other two,
including Tammy Larson, were upper middle class." He's not
really talking to me, just thinking out loud, trying to
work out the details. The waitress brings our food, and by
tacit agreement, we cease all talk about the case while we
eat lunch.

"Mulder, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure Scully," he says, as he wipes his mouth on the cloth
napkin.

"Do you think we'll always be together?" I ask hesitantly.
He contemplates the unspoken question. I'm not asking if
we'll always be together alive and well. It's more than
that, something I've felt since the first moment I met him.
We've grown and changed over the years as have our feelings
for each other, but that base element has always been the
same. It's that feeling of being completely whole when I'm
with him, that I have literally found my other half.

"Yes, Scully. We'll always be together." He holds my gaze a
moment longer, then picks up his hamburger and looks over
my shoulder through the glass front of the restaurant,
seeing nothing, seeing everything.

XxXxXx

Larson Residence
820 Fifth Avenue
2:19 p.m.

Mr. and Mrs. Larson live on the Upper East Side of
Manhattan, at 63rd and 5th to be exact. This address is
widely hailed as one of the most expensive addresses in the
world. So much for Tammy being upper middle class, leave
out the middle and you'd have a more accurate description.
A serigraph of mountainous landscape complete with
waterfalls hangs above the stacked stone fireplace; a few
pictures of Tammy throughout her life decorate the mantle.
An antique bookcase stands proudly on the wall opposite the
fireplace. I cross the room to peruse the titles, hoping it
will give me insight into Tammy's life. The usual classics
line the shelves, several first editions. My investigative
efforts provide no information except that they have good
taste in literature. I sigh and sit on the soft leather
couch, waiting for the maid to inform Mr. and Mrs. Larson
that I need to speak with them. I wonder if Scully is
making in progress with her autopsy, and consider calling
her, ultimately deciding against it. It would probably be
considered uncouth for Scully to relay autopsy information
to me while the parents of that same victim serve me
lemonade.

"Mr. Mulder?" A surly man in his mid-fifties inquires.

"Hello, Mr. Larson, I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder," I answer
while rising from the couch. "I'm here about the murder of
your daughter. I have a few questions I'd like to ask you,
it shouldn't take long." I offer my hand and he gives it a
firm shake, then gestures for me to sit down.

"Good to meet you Mr. Mulder, I'm Thomas Larson," he tries
to smile, but isn't successful. "I don't care how long it
takes, I just want to find out what happened to my
daughter. It's so wrong what happened to her, Tammy was
already dying-" he starts, before I interrupt him.

"She was dying? Of what?" I've had a bad feeling about this
case from the beginning, this latest information making me
even more wary of what the conclusion may be.

"Breast cancer, the cancer had spread to her lungs and
liver. She knew she was going to die, she'd planned to
spend the next few months with family and friends, until
that bastard murdered her, stealing what little life she
had left." He's bitter, angry that anyone could do this to
his child. He's going to feel that bitterness for a long
time.

I'm about to launch into another series of questions when
my cell phone chirps in the pocket of my trench coat. I
reach in and pull it out, answering with a tired, "Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me." Scully sounds out of breath, her words
emanating fear.

"What's wrong?" I don't bother to play our ignore-the-
elephant-in-the-room-game, that was her no nonsense
'Mulder, I'm scared to death' voice. I've only heard it
twice before today.

"They were dying, Mulder. The victims, they were already
dying."

"How many of the victims were dying, Scully?"

"All of them," she says, panic hanging on every word.

"How?" I already know the answer; I'm just waiting for her
to confirm it.

"Cancer." The mention of cancer combined with this case
reminds me of a case we had years ago, just before Scully
found out she had cancer that first time. It was a guy who
fed on tumors. Leonard Betts, that was his name. I feel
sick to my stomach at the obvious connection we are both
drawing. I'm about to order her to 'stay put' when I hear
an unfamiliar voice on the phone.

"I can take away your pain with a kiss, Dana. All you have
to do is ask." Whoever he is, he sounds calm, his voice
hypnotic.

"Who the fuck is this? Scully, are you there? Who's with
you? Do you have your gun? Scully, answer me!" I'm
screaming into the phone, already halfway to my car when I
hear a thud and what sounds like a tray full of medical
instruments crashing to the ground.

"Don't be afraid, Dana. I know you're tired of living this
way. All you have to do is ask."

"Stay the hell away from her, you fucking bastard! You lay
one hand on her and I'll kill you! Scully? Scully, can you
hear me? Answer me Scully!" I shove the key into the
ignition and pull out onto Fifth Avenue, every nerve ending
in my body on fire.

"Please, help me-" is the last thing I hear before the
phone cuts off, not knowing whether she meant him or me.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

His breath is cold, an icy breeze on my neck, whistling
through my hair. A hand on my arm, sympathetic eyes, and I
am paralyzed with fear. He's smiling at me, and I step
backward knocking over a metal tray that sends medical
equipment crashing to the ground.

"Please, help me-" Mulder. The phone cuts off, my
connection to him gone.

"Who are you?" His eyes are gray, his hair white silk. He
is not a man; there is something ethereal about him, yet he
is not a ghost.

"You may call me, Palti. There is no need to be afraid," he
replies, an eerie calm permeating the room.

"Did you murder those women?" I backpedal away from him
putting distance between the two of us, hoping I can locate
my gun, or any other object that could be used as a weapon.

"No Dana, I did not murder them." His gaze pierces my soul.

"How do you know my name?" I ask, not sure I want to know
the answer.

"I have known you longer than you have known yourself."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Gun, Dana, get your gun.

"There are some things you are not meant to know."

I back up into the wall, nowhere else to go, no place to
run. Hail Mary full of Grace the Lord is with thee. Blessed
are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb
Jesus. Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and
at the hour of our death Amen. "What the hell is this, who
are you?"

"Someone who wants to help."

"What do you want from me?" My heartbeat echoes in my ears,
the intensity almost deafening.

"Permission, to save you, to spare you."

"I don't need you to save me from anything," I protest.

"I know you are dying."

"I'm not dying."

"Denial is not something you wear well, Dana. We both know
that you are."

"They are treating me," I counter defensively.

"And they will fail you," conviction in his voice.

"What did you do to those women?" I ask, steering the
conversation away from me.

"I saved them."

"How?"

"With a kiss," he says evenly.

"They were tortured. You tortured and killed them!"

"No, I did not torture them."

"I saw them, they were beaten, cut, burned; their internal
organs had been removed!" renewed defiance in my voice.

"Everything is not as it seems. You have a choice to make,
Dana. This disease will claim you, it will ravage your body
with a fervor you cannot begin to imagine, but your Mulder
will never leave you. He will watch day by day as you slip
away from him, losing bits and pieces of himself along the
way. When you take your last breath and leave him behind,
his face awash in tears as he holds your lifeless body, it
will destroy him. If you let me take you, he will not rest
until he finds me. I may seize whatever meager time you
have left, but in doing so I will give him renewed purpose.
Revenge is a powerful incentive to live."

"This is insane," but I believe him.

"But you believe, in here," his voice melodious as he
places his hand above my heart. " I must go now. When the
time draws near, call out to me and I will come for you,"
he says, turning to leave.

"Wait!"

"Yes, sweet Dana?" He turns around, a knowing look
illuminating soft features.

I think of Mulder devastated and alone. I see my dead body
in his arms, a loaded gun on the table, and I feel his
temptation. I have to ask. I have to know, just in case.
"Does it hurt? The kiss?"

"Yes, but only for a moment," his voice gentle, and then he
is gone. Betrayal encircles me, and I fall comfortably into
its embrace.

XxXxXx

"Scully!" I see her in the hallway just outside of what
must be the morgue, various medical professionals swarming
around her. After our phone call was disconnected, I called
the NYPD and told them to get "every fucking officer you
have over to Bellevue Hospital right now!" It looks like
someone was listening. There are at least ten police
officers milling about, and groups of hospital personnel
standing uselessly along the corridor.

"It's okay, Mulder. I'm fine," she answers tiredly as I
approach her.

Ignoring the watchful eyes surrounding us, I scoop her up
into my arms and breathe for the first time in thirty-two
minutes.

"Did he hurt you, Scully? Did they catch him?"

"No, he didn't hurt me, and no they didn't catch him. No
one is going to catch him, Mulder."

I pull back from her, and there is no fear in her eyes,
only an impenetrable sadness.

"What do you mean no one is going to catch him?" I ask,
utterly bewildered by the turn of events in this case.

"I don't know, Mulder. He's smart, he's not going to be
caught," is her agitated reply.

"What else did he say to you? What did he mean that you
were tired, that he could take away your pain?"

"Nothing Mulder, he's delusional. That's all he said, and
then he ran off when I tripped over a tray stand. I think
he was afraid the commotion would attract unwanted
attention. I assume he was trying to rattle us, or
whatever. In any case, I don't think we're going to find
him, certainly not tonight, and I need to get back to D.C.
Take me home." It is not a request. Ignoring
professionalism, I slip my arm around her waist and we
begin walking down the narrow hallway. My brain is buzzing
with a myriad of thoughts; the most prevalent being that
Scully is a terrible liar.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

It didn't happen all at once. It was a gradual process, a
slow and arduous fall into an unavoidable downward spiral.
It started that day in the morgue, when I lied to Mulder
about Palti, and all that had transpired between the two of
us. I flew home from New York that same night, leaving
Mulder to investigate what he thought was a murderer.
Conveniently, I forgot to mention that I had rescheduled my
first cycle of chemo for the next day; that was the second
notable offense. It was the beginning of the end. The end
of us. The past few weeks it has been little white
lies as opposed to the more obvious transgressions. There
has been a noticeable decline in time spent together,
excuses made resulting in nights spent alone. Making love
has been less than passionate, considering there are
thousands of miles between us, even though his skin burns
my own as he fills me with his release.

The problem with deception is not deception in and of
itself. Lying to Mulder was easier than I ever thought
possible, it's living with it that is gut wrenching and
unbearable. Guilt has a way of creeping in and distorting
everything that was at once precious and beautiful, it
reminds you ad infinitum of your sins, and it is
unrelenting in its punishment. Deception builds walls where
truth builds a bridge.

It's not just the dishonesty, or the growing distance
between us; there is that part of me that wants to protect
Mulder from what I consider to be the inevitable. I don't
want his last memories of me to be a bald shell of who I
once was, struggling make it to the bathroom, and unable to
feed myself. I want to spare him the experience of waking
up one day only to realize the cancer has crippled my mind in
such a way that I no longer know who he is.

It would have been our movie night tonight, but instead of
Mulder spooned comfortably around me, I am warmed
by a chenille throw and a cup of peppermint tea. 'Plan 9
From Outer Space' drones in the background. I am left
wondering where Mulder is, and if he's as lonely as I am.

XxXxXx

"Dana, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you here
today?" she asks with a cautious smile.

"Hey Mom, I just came by to talk to you for a while," I
explain, as she ushers me inside with a brief hug and a
kiss on my cheek.

"Is everything okay, sweetheart?" I know what she really
wants to ask is, 'what's wrong now?'

"Well, Mom, that's why I came by today. I had some things I
wanted to talk to you about."

"What is it, Dana?" she asks nervously as she gestures for
me to sit down.

I stare at my hands and push a cuticle back, trying to
decide how best to break this to her. "I'm sick again,
Mom," I state bluntly. No use beating around the bush, she
knows something is wrong anyway.

"What do you mean sick? Cancer?"

"Yes, I found out a few weeks ago. I would have come by
sooner, but Mulder and I were called out of town on a case,
and I've spent the last few weeks trying to get my
bearings. I have a favor to ask, actually," I offer
hesitantly.

"What is it sweetheart?" She brushes the tears out of her
eyes, and looks at me with that same stoicism I see
reflected every morning in the mirror.

"I have my second round of chemotherapy today, and I was
hoping you could pick me up after my treatment." It's
strange to ask my Mother for help, but there's less
humiliation knowing she will be the one to see me weak and
sick from treatment as opposed to Mulder.

"Of course I will, Dana. I'm so sorry about this," she
says, pulling me into her embrace. I feel safe, like I did
when I was a little girl and she would comfort me after a
bad dream. I wish this were a bad dream, and that she would
push the hair out of my eyes and tell me everything is
going to be okay.

"Don't be, Mom. I was shocked when my oncologist showed me
the results of my blood test and CT scan. I think I'm still
in shock," I say, fidgeting with a string on the hem of my
coat.

"Do you want me to drive you to the hospital," she asks,
her eyes downcast and filled with tears.

"No, Mom. Thanks, but I need to go home and do a few things
before my appointment. You can pick me up from Georgetown
Medical at five."

"Okay, Dana. I'll be there at five," she mumbles, not
really looking at me. "Dana, where is Fox?"

"He's busy," I reply tersely.

"Yes, but-" she trails off, staring thoughtfully out the
window. "I guess I'm surprised that he isn't here. He's
always by your side when something like this is going on,"
she says, motioning vaguely in my direction.

"He doesn't know my second round of chemo is today. I
didn't tell him," I explain, unable to meet her eyes.

"Dana-"

"Well, I need to get home," I hedge pathetically. I get up
from the couch and walk to the door, not wanting to answer
any more questions about Mulder.

She rises from the couch and walks over to me, then hugs me
fiercely. It's as if this is the last time she'll ever see
me. Maybe it is, perhaps cancer will change me into someone
wholly unrecognizable to her. "I love you, Dana," she
whispers without releasing her hold on me.

"I love you too, Mom." I walk slowly to my car enjoying the
crispness of the air, and the sunlight on my face. After
settling in my car, I turn and wave, she waves back, and I
can't believe how much she's aged in so short a time. I
drive away remembering the innocence my childhood, when
things were simple, and there was hope in tomorrow.

XxXxXx

"Scully? Are you here?" I walk into the kitchen and grab a
beer out of the refrigerator, pressing the cold bottle to
my forehead in an effort to relieve the pounding headache
I've had all day. Scully told me she was taking the day off
to let her Mother know what was going on, but she hasn't
called me at all today, so I decided to drop by and check
on her. She must still be at her Mom's house, because her
apartment is pitch black, the only noise coming from the
low hum of the refrigerator. I plop down on the couch and
twist the cap off my beer.

Indistinct noises echo in the apartment, and it takes a
minute for me to register what I'm hearing. The
unmistakable sound of vomiting reverberates down the hall.
Bolting off the couch, I drop my beer and it spills all
over the carpet, Scully is going to be royally pissed off.
I run down the hall and push the bathroom door open with
more force than necessary, and then I see her, only it's
not her. It is her. She's wearing one of my shirts and it
is splattered with a combination of blood and vomit. She
looks up at me with empty eyes and rests her head on the
toilet seat.

"Scully! What the hell is going on?" I kneel beside her and
put a hand to her forehead. Shit, she's burning up. She's
shaking. Her head sways from side to side and I catch
"sorry" on a whisper.

"Don't be sorry, Scully. What's happening?"

"Chemo," she replies, and closes her eyes.

"Chemo?" I ask, not comprehending what she's saying. Wait a
minute, wait a fucking minute.

"You had chemo today?" I will not be angry with her, not
right now. She's too weak for me to be angry with her.

"Yeah, sorry, don't be angry," she answers hoarsely.

"We'll talk about this later. I'm taking you to the
hospital right now." I move to pick her up and she jerks
violently, vomiting bile down the front of my shirt.

"Mulder, I'm sorry," she cries, and then vomits again.

"It's okay, Scully. Let me help you, please let me help
you."

"No, Mulder. I want you to leave, I don't want you to see
me this way."

"Scully, I am not leaving you like this. We are going to
the hospital right now," I state emphatically.

"No, Mulder. There's nothing they can do, this is a side
effect of chemotherapy," she sighs.

"I don't think so, Scully. I'm taking you to the hospital
right now!"

"No you are not," she replies, lifting her head off the
toilet seat.

"Scully-"

"This is part of it, Mulder. If it's too much for you then
maybe you should leave," a familiar authority in her tone,
and for a moment I see a glimpse of my Scully in her eyes.

"I'm not leaving," I murmur quietly.

"Then shut the hell up," she says tiredly, backing up
against the tub, resting her head on the edge.

"Fine." After removing my soiled shirt, I grab a washcloth
from the linen closet and wet it under the faucet. Moving
purposefully, I sit down beside her and carefully remove
her t-shirt. I run the cool washcloth across her forehead,
and along her cheek. She takes a deep breath, and settles
somewhat contentedly in my arms.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"I never thought I'd say this, but you smell bad," she says
mischievously.

I stifle a chuckle then help her to her feet, and we amble
down the hallway together. After helping her put on clean
pajamas, I strip to my boxers and crawl into bed.

"We have to talk tomorrow," I say quietly.

"I know," she whispers.

It's not long before her breathing is slow and deep.
Curling up behind her I rest my hand on her hip, noticing
for the first time that she's lost weight. I close my eyes
and recall images of Scully smiling and healthy, when her
skin glowed and her hair shone vibrantly.

XxXxXx

It's an appropriately dismal Saturday morning when I
finally awaken from a troubled sleep. Through the window I
see that the sky is gray, the sun hidden by dark storm
clouds. Scully is still curled up beside me, sleeping
soundly. Groaning softly I slip out of bed and stagger
sleepily towards the bathroom, hoping a shower will clear
my head and brighten my mood.

After toweling dry and slipping into a fresh pair of
boxers, I emerge from the bathroom feeling no better than I
did when I woke up. Scully isn't in bed when I enter the
bedroom, but the scent of coffee fills my nostrils
providing a sensory guide to where she is. I turn around
and make my way to the kitchen. Halfway through the living
room I see her fussing dutifully over scrambled eggs and
toast, pale blue pajamas hanging on her small frame. When
did her skin become so pale, and the sparkle in her eyes
dull? Why I have been rationalizing her excuses for pulling
away? "Fuck" I mumble quietly, and then continue on into
the kitchen. Entering silently, she tenses when I slide my
arms around her waist and pull her to me. I rest my cheek
on her shoulder and sigh audibly, while she continues
pushing eggs around in the skillet.

"Smells good," I say quietly.

"Thanks. I'm not hungry, but I thought you might like some
breakfast," she replies.

"You need to eat Scully," I implore, and she squirms out of
my embrace.

"I'm not up for you lecturing me today," she retorts as she
spins around to face me. "I was trying to do something nice
for you, please don't lecture me today, Mulder."

"I'm not lecturing you, it's a statement of fact. You've
been sick, and it's obvious that you've lost weight, you
need to eat to keep up your strength, and your immune
system." I'm trying to be helpful, but judging the look on
her face I know she isn't seeing it that way.

"I don't need this right now."

"Why didn't you tell me you were having chemo yesterday?" I
ask.

"It's not a big deal, my Mom picked me up. Everything is
fine,"

"It is not fine. Why didn't you tell me? Why are you
pushing me away?" I question angrily.

"I'm not pushing you away," she replies non-chalantly.

"Why are you lying to me?" I'm not going to play our all
too familiar game of avoidance.

"I'm not lying," she says, turning around to cut the stove
off.

"Yes you are, Scully. It started in New York when our perp
cornered you in the morgue. I know something happened that
you're not telling me. You have managed to avoid informing
me of when your last two chemo treatments were going to be.
There have been the headaches, and the I'm fines and I'm
tireds provided as excuses for me not to come over. I want
to know what's going on," a mixture of sadness and
irritation coloring my words.

"That's enough, Mulder." She throws the skillet into the
sink, eggs and all, suitably pissed off.

"No, I don't think it's nearly enough. Why are you doing
this?"

"What?" she asks, feigning ignorance.

"Stop acting like you don't know what I'm talking about!
We're falling apart and you know it," I reply shakily.

"Well, then maybe you should leave," she states evenly.

"I don't want to leave, Scully," I protest.

"What if I want you to?"

"Is that what this is about? You want me to leave?"

"I need some space," she sighs, moving to empty the
contents of the skillet into the trashcan.

"Why? Because you're sick?" I say, moving closer to her,
trying to make her stand still and look at me.

"No," she says somberly.

"What the hell is going on here, Scully?" I'm trying to
control the anger I feel bubbling inside me, but she is
frustrating the hell out of me.

"I need a break," she says, dropping the skillet noisily
into the sink.

"From what?" I shout.

"You," she says, and this time, she looks directly into my
eyes.

"What? What are you talking about?" a renewed trepidation
in my voice.

"You heard me, Mulder."

"Why? This doesn't make sense," I mumble.

"Sometimes things just don't work out, no matter how much
you want them to."

"Bullshit," I say louder than intended, and she flinches
when I reach out to touch her.

"I want you to leave now," she says, pulling away from me.

"I'm not leaving," I whisper softly, trying to regain some
modicum of control.

"Mulder-" she sighs quietly.

"I don't understand this. I know you love me, Scully. You
are my soul mate, my everything," I say, as tears run down
my cheeks.

"I do love you, Mulder. It's not about love, it's just
life. Like I said, sometimes things just don't work out, no
matter how much-" I turn away which causes her to stop
talking, and I stomp down the hall towards her bedroom.
While pulling on a faded pair of jeans and a soft green
sweater, I glance casually at the door, hoping she will
walk in and explain away the last ten minutes. She doesn't.
I put on my shoes, and don't bother to close the front door
when I leave.

XxXxXx

Caroline's Bar and Grill
1:30 p.m.

Bob the bartender pours my fourth vodka tonic; it must be a
record for me on a Saturday afternoon. I think back to the
last time Scully and I were here. A familiar sadness
envelops me, and I find no escape when the drink is gone. I
have the brilliant idea to call her, a sudden piece of
goose trivia swirling through my mind.

Four rings, five rings, answering machine. 'Hello, this is
Dana Scully. I can't take your call right now, but leave a
message at the beep and I'll call you back as soon as
possible.'

"Hey Scully, it's me. Pick up, please pick up. I'm at
Caroline's, and I was thinking about the last time we were
here. Remember the geese that mate for life, Scully? Do you
remember the story I told you about the geese mating for
life? What I didn't tell you is when something happens to
one of the geese, the widowed goose has been known to
remain alone for the rest of its life. Scully, please don't
do this-" the answering machine beeps again informing me
that I've run out of time, and I push the end button on my
cell phone as I slip it into my pocket. Bob pours me
another drink without me having to ask, and I laugh
mirthlessly when I see he's using Grey Goose vodka.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

"I am here, Dana," he says soothingly.

"Palti?" I ask.

"Yes, sweet Dana?"

"I don't know if I can do this," I say tearfully. His white
hair shines in sharp contrast to his olive complexion. His
expression is the epitome of cool, calm, and collected.
There is a shimmering blanket of light surrounding him; his
eyes resemble a kaleidoscope, subtle shifts captivating you
with new discoveries.

"That is what they all say," he replies mysteriously.

"Palti, I've changed my mind," I say.

"You cannot change your mind, Dana. The decision has been
made, you will be mine tonight." The colors of the
kaleidoscope shift to a deep red, with flecks of gold, and
a hint of indigo blue.

I struggle to move away from him, but something
indiscernible holds me to my bed. The mattress dips under
his weight, and he leans in to kiss me. I scream as he
moves closer, and shiver when I feel his breath on my ear.
"They all died screaming, Dana. No one is brave or elegant
in death, they cried for their mothers, they cursed their
fate, they made a prayer out of regrets. The pain will not
last long, sweet Dana."

His lips brush mine, and- I wake up gasping for breath, my
pajamas soaked with sweat, my heart pounding an irregular
rhythm inside my chest. It's the same dream I've had the
past three nights.

I think of calling Mulder, to hear his voice, to ask him to
forgive and forget the events of the past four days. As
much as I want him, as much as I need him, I can't burden
him with this illness. I know he's suffered over the things
I've said and done the last few days, but ultimately this
is for the best. He will never bear witness to the
dehumanization of Dana Scully, and I will not have to watch
my slow death break him, the world crumbling in a soft
shade of green.

I've decided I'll work as long as I appear outwardly
healthy, and when my body shows signs of giving out, I plan
to resign and spend my last days somewhere by the sea. I
want to be cremated and have my ashes scattered over an
abandoned baseball field, where I was alive, laughed, and
found love for the first time.

Tired and disturbed from my repetitive dream, I reach for
my journal. I open it and let my fingers drift over pages
that hold a record of happier times. Hoping I can sort out
the complexity of my emotions, I begin to write:

--It is a quiet enemy that secretly invades and destroys
everything in its path. For the physical body it decides to
wage war on, it is not merciful, or discriminating. It
leaves tragedy and heartache in its wake. It is a warrior,
unstoppable, and unforgiving. It is silent, invisible to a
passerby, and you hate it with unthinkable passion because
it cannot be defeated. Oftentimes you can divert, or delay,
but never truly defeat it. When you dare to defend yourself
against this insatiable killer, it laughs, scoffs, and
hides. Perhaps you are granted a reprieve from its evil
clutches, and as you sigh in relief, it attacks again when
you least expect it. For those who are forced to watch the
destruction it brings, they are left feeling helpless,
unable to defend their loved ones against this malevolent
taker of life, and all things beautiful. They are relegated
to a tag team of phone calls, prayers, and waiting. It
steals beauty, hope, the very life from all it touches, and
it laughs at our ignorance. It weaves from place to place,
having a string of common goals, to defeat, to maim, to
overtake, and ultimately to kill. It does not have to take
residence in your body to accomplish these objectives. Its
hands are far reaching, the more destruction it brings, the
more power it gains. And so, it trudges on its way,
stealing a little more each minute, each hour, each day.
When it realizes it has won, it does not let you go
peacefully into the dark night. No, it wraps its greedy
arms around your lungs, squeezing you from the inside out.
It makes you forget your family, yourself, and all those
things you once held most dear. It punishes you, and you
wonder why. It punishes those you love, and as they watch
you suffer, struggling for each ragged breath, the ultimate
victory is when they wish for it to claim you, so that the
suffering may end. The very thing they once hated so
desperately, they grant permission to take you on to the
better place. Finally, with one last cell, and one more
charge into the battlefield of your body, it eats away that
last bit of life. And as the mourning for the latest victim
begins, the demon that is cancer looks for a new place to
dwell.--

Closing my journal, I lay it on the table beside the bed,
and reach up to turn off the lamp. It's not that I'm
hopeless, merely realistic. Sleep takes its time finding
me, and when my consciousness is relieved of its burden, I
dream of Mulder hitting baseballs towards a star filled
sky, as I ride the wind to hold him.

XxXxXx

She took Monday and Tuesday off. She didn't inform me of
course, but was her usual responsible self, sending Skinner
an email stating she was taking two personal days and would
return to work on Wednesday. It's Wednesday. It's 8:02 a.m.
I'm going out of my fucking mind. I've called her twelve
times over the past four days, and left her eleven
messages. I finally gave up, and decided to confront her
when she comes in today.

Monday was an uneventful day from the pits of hell. Boredom
caused me to develop an eye twitch as a result of staring
up at a pencil filled ceiling, misdirected anger resulted
in the metal trashcan being much worse for wear.

Tuesday was less dramatic. I came in at seven, left by
eight, came back at ten, left at one, and proceeded to a
nondescript bar and drank myself into a comfortable stupor.
I then decided to ramble on about my troubles to a
cabdriver who thought I couldn't see him picking his nose
from the backseat.

Wednesday I arrived by six, focusing intently on my plan
for dealing with Scully. We are going to talk, and we are
going to lay it all out on the table. I am going to find
out why she is pushing me away, and I'm going to reassure
her that I love her. We will work things out, and then head
out early to pick up some Chinese food before going to her
place. We will watch the movie of her choice, and I will
fall asleep breathing in the scent of her hair, whispering
over and over again how much I love her.