Derange and Disengage: One
 

I dreamed she was cutting my hair.

It was morning and I was sitting half-dressed in her
kitchen.  Sunlight streamed through the blinds like
melted butter and, even in my dream state, I'm sure I
could smell coffee brewing.

The scissors were a blur in her hands.  Little hairs
were flying everywhere like shards of marble from a
sculptor's chisel.  As if I were Michelangelo's
statue, trapped in stone, and she was setting me
free.

I don't know where I got so much hair, but she kept
on cutting and the hairs kept flying.  We were both
laughing.  It was our private joke, something only we
would understand.

It's hard to imagine how those images could seem
erotic, but somehow, in the dream world, that haircut
was just as good as foreplay.  I woke up wishing to
have her beside me, longing to roll over and wake her
with a kiss.

I'll never forget that morning.  It was the first day
I knew all she meant to me.
 

FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, DC  8:30 AM

"Scully!  I heard you broke the La Pierre case.  Nice
work out there..."

Dammit.  This is just what I need this morning: a pat
on the back from the star of the Bureau Boys' club.
I should have taken the stairs.

I shrug and check my watch.  "It was a hunch that
panned out."

"Always the modest one.  Hey, do you want to get a
drink sometime this week?"

"I'll have to get back to you on that, Morrison."

"Yeah, well, do that.  Whoops, here's my floor.  Have
a pleasant day, Agent Scully."

I nod to Stanley Morrison politely, but what I really
want to do is stamp my foot like a spoiled five-year-
old.  The entire workforce of the Bureau must have
decided to use this elevator today.  The basement
seems miles away.  It's maddening.

I have tried a dozen different ways of explaining it
to myself over the last hour.  His home phone ringing
and ringing and ringing.  No machine, no nothing.
His cell phone ringing, and ringing, and ringing.
After many, many tries, still no Mulder.  I have the
weirdest feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I shouldn't have left him alone.  So much has
happened.  His mother's suicide, discovering
Samantha's diary... to say that the events of the
last
few days have been overwhelming is to understate the
situation entirely.  Mulder doesn't know who or what
to believe.  Was his mother trying to tell him
something?  Was the diary we found real, or some kind
of elaborate fabrication?  We did find solid evidence
that Samantha disappeared out of a locked room in a
California hospital in 1979, but the trail ends
there.  That fact will never lead us to any concrete
answers.

Mulder thinks he knows what happened to his sister,
but I can't grasp it.  It's beyond me how he could
embrace all that talk about walk-in spirits and
starlight and divine intervention by old souls.
Even for Mulder, it's way, way out there.

I don't know what to believe, either.  I don't know
how to behave.  Especially after what he said to me
last night.

The elevator finally reaches the basement.  I pray
silently to find him sitting behind his desk like
it's just another day.

Given the circumstances, I know that is a completely
unreasonable request.
 

NATIONAL SEASHORE, HATTERAS ISLAND, NORTH CAROLINA
8:43 AM

A long bridge winds serpentine across the Oregon
Inlet.  My car is running on fumes and I've got the
first bottle from a six pack of Newcastle between my
knees.  God, it's beautiful here.  I'm glad I came.
I've always known I would be.

Once upon a time, Diana and I were supposed to come
here on vacation but instead she left me and I came
by myself.  I remember how right it felt to be here,
lost between the ocean and the sky, like there was
nothing more natural than being alone in the world.

I daydreamed about walking into the ocean without
looking back, laughing at the thought of some middle-
aged fisherman reeling in my corpse.  It's the
classic story: boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy
winds up as prizewinning catch in sport fishing
tournament.

Ever since then I have fantasized about finishing it
here.

I've been praying a lot lately, which is pretty funny
since I don't believe in God.  My prayer goes
something like this: Let me be dead or like the
dead...Let me be dead or like the dead... I've
murmured these words incessantly since my mother's
death, moving somnambulant through the events of the
past days, giving my attention to whatever required
it but all the while begging for my heart to be
frozen.

I tried to tell Scully, but it was no good, an ill-
considered decision.  When women find out how
crippled I am they always turn away. I thought things
would be different with her, but now I know better.
She will turn away; in fact, she already has.  I
don't know why I'm surprised.  She's known what I am
for years.

I arrive at my intended destination.  At this time of
day the parking lots are empty.  With no houses
nearby there is little danger of interruption by
joggers or old folks with dogs.  When I cut the motor
the sudden hush is almost like a caress.

I drain my beer. The breeze is fresh and salty,
rustling the grasses in the marsh across the highway.
I take a minute to listen to the birds.  Beyond the
dunes to my left I can hear the roaring of the sea.

There's a backpack full of emergency supplies in the
trunk of my car.  I dump its contents and replace
them with the rest of the Newcastles and my gun.  I
add my wallet to the heap of rubble in the trunk and
remove my shirt and shoes.  Even though it's late
September and the air is far from warm, I'm hot.
I've been hot for days.  Smothered.  Stifled and
defeated like the air in mid-summer.

She'll have to come south to identify my body.  I
wonder if I should leave her a note.  Yeah, right.  A
pathetic scrap of paper scrawled with lame
excuses...that's a fitting ending to eight years of
friendship.  There's nothing I could possibly say
that could make her understand.

I leave my keys on the front seat as a favor to the
cops.  The path through the dunes is hard work.  My
head aches.  It seems like ages since the last time I
slept or ate.

Somewhere inside me there is a voice shouting about
the effects of exhaustion on my judgment.  Screaming
desperately for me to question my perceptions, which
have obviously been co-opted by forces beyond my
control.  Take a break, it begs, think about this all
again after you've had a chance to rest.  She told me
to rest, too.  Scully did.  That seems like a long
time ago.  Maybe she was right.  Maybe I should re-
think this.

But I'm here now.  I've come this far.  I've never
been more ready.
 

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA  9:45 AM

The floor lamp is completely mangled, its base rammed
into the screen of the television.  There is a faint
smell of smoke in the air and I reach over and unplug
the set.  Who did this?  Was it Mulder?

I know the answer to that question.

His living room is a wreck.  Everything is shattered:
the windows, the picture frames, the fish tank... oh
god, the poor fish.  I really need to sit down but
there's nowhere to sit; a knife from the kitchen
protrudes like a signpost from the shredded guts of
the couch.  I kneel down for a closer look but I know
I shouldn't disturb it.  A smear of blood covers the
handle.  I close my eyes.  God, please don't let this
be a crime scene.

I follow a trail of blood droplets to the bedroom
door, which is closed.  "Mulder, it's me," I say.  My
voice echoes through the quiet, sounding strained and
bizarre.  "Are you in there?"  I knock gently,
fighting to breathe, struggling to swallow.  I draw
my gun out of habit; it's something to hide behind,
at least, something to make me brave.

I turn the knob.

His bedroom looks like the cleaning lady left five
minutes ago.  He has not slept in his bed.  The
bathroom door is ajar and I follow the trail of blood
closer and closer, feeling more faint by the moment.
My gun leads me forward, the hinges squeak slightly
as the door swings open...

"Mulder?"

He's not here.  There is blood, though, smeared on
the door frame and dried in drops on the floor and
the lavatory.  It's not much blood, I tell myself.
He cut himself when he was destroying his
furniture...oh god, where is he?

The holster from his service revolver lies empty on
his dresser.  He has placed his watch and his cell
phone beside it.  In contrast to the chaos in the
next room, these three objects are lined up with
perfect symmetry exactly in the center of the
rectangular surface, a still life of the despair I
glimpsed last night.  They speak to me, leaving no
doubt; Mulder does not plan to return.

Yesterday as we were leaving the airport I had a
strong feeling of foreboding.  Mulder looked more
tired than I had ever seen him, his face deeply lined
and slightly swollen.  During the flight from
Sacramento he had not spoken, choosing instead a
steady communion with the empty tray table before
him.  I had glanced his way from time to time, making
offhand comments that garnered no response.  He was
suffering intensely.  I'm sure I was the only one who
could tell.

On the ground at National I offered to buy him
dinner, but he turned me down.  He needed to be
alone, he said.  His voice was uncharacteristically
gentle, and he even put his arms around me to hug me
good-bye, but it was a meaningless embrace.  He was
cold and distant; I could have been hugging a piece
of granite wrapped in a trench coat.  He lingered
that way for a moment and I thought he might have
more to say, but then he released me abruptly,
grabbed his bag, and walked off in a hurry without
looking back.

When I got home yesterday afternoon, I tried to take
it easy.  I needed to rest.  I needed to escape.  It
was no use, though.  The memory of his bleak
expression would not leave my mind.

I finally gave up and drove to Alexandria.  Whether
he preferred to be alone or not, I really needed to
know he was okay.

When I arrived at his apartment, his front door was
ajar.  I looked in and he was sitting in the glow of
the fish tank, his face half-hidden in the
lengthening shadows.  He did not look up at me as I
came into the room and sat down next to him, so I
touched his knee lightly to get his attention.
"Mulder?  Are you alright?"

After a long time he spoke, but his voice sounded
small, like a child describing a nightmare in the
dark.

"Do you believe that we're never tested beyond what
we can endure?"

I didn't have an answer.

My thoughts raced back to Mulder sitting in a
deserted diner in Sacramento, his sister's diary
resting delicately in his large, trembling hands.  I
felt so helpless, watching him as he read Samantha's
last desperate words, his rigid expression barely
masking his anguish.

I wanted to put my arms around him, but that night it
wasn't an option.  His stubborn insistence on working
with that quack psychic, Harold Pillar, had put a
wall between us.  I know he thought I was closed-
minded and unsympathetic to his pain, and I, for my
part, was hurt that he couldn't see how much I cared,
how much I wanted to help him.

I had accompanied Mulder to California because I was
afraid for him.  I could see that his emotional
balance was listing dangerously and I wanted to keep
him safe.  The events of the trip, though, were a
runaway train.  I returned to Washington feeling
betrayed, knowing it was not possible to protect him
from whatever it was he sought.  Knowing beyond the
shadow of a doubt that he did not want to be
protected.

I came back because I had information he desperately
needed, but, in the end, Mulder wouldn't listen to
most of what I had to say.  He wouldn't trust my
judgment, even when his own was so terribly out of
kilter.

By the time he found Samantha's diary I felt like I
barely knew him.

The distance between us then was painful; a sharp
contrast to what we had shared so recently, on the
night I had to tell Mulder the truth about his
mother's suicide.  I have never felt closer to Mulder
than I did then.  He did not try to hide his rage and
grief as he did in Sacramento.  He opened himself to
me, accepting the physical comfort I offered him
without question or reservation.

As I sat with Mulder on his couch last night, it
occurred to me that I have always taken his strength
for granted.  He's been like a superhero to me:
meeting all challenges with ironic wit and nerves of
steel.  I had never seen him so defeated: sitting
stock-still with his body slumped inward, his voice
trembling with suppressed rage.

"It's all been a waste, Scully.  I don't know what to
do."

Maybe sometimes we *are* tested beyond what we can
endure.

He took my hand.  His skin was hot.  "This may not
make much sense but I'm just going to say it."

"It's okay, Mulder.  I'm listening."

"My life has been a lot of crap up to this point."

"You know that's not true."

His voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm sick of being
set up.  I don't belong to them.  Scully, listen.
It's coming to an end.  Now only one thing is real."

I waited for him to continue, but instead he sat
studying my hand, holding it gently, as if I was made
of expensive crystal.  I could see him laboring
inside his mind, chipping words loose from ancient
bedrock and dragging them to the surface.  After
several minutes of toil, he spoke softly.

"Scully, the only thing that's real is how I feel
about you."

"Mulder, you're exhausted," I suggested gently.

At first I could not understand.  Was this supposed
to be some sort of confession?  Did it mean what it
seemed to mean?

He was spent, a starving animal dying of exposure in
the climate of our harsh reality.  I knew that it was
possible to warm him, to give him sustenance as I
have so many times before.

I had to stop and think, though: were we different
now, because of the words he had just spoken?  Was
comfort still just comfort?  Or had it become
something more?

I knew that Mulder was saying he was in love with me.
It was typical of him not to confess his feelings
outright, couching them in what I sometimes think of
as Mulder-speak, an allusion to emotions that may or
may not exist, a riddle of the heart that always
leaves the ball in my court.

I will never, never forget what happened next.

I knew I should have been thinking more clearly, but
that moment was so rich with potential that the
literal world ceased to exist for me.  There was no
past to reconcile, no future to consider; in fact, it
seemed possible that actions would no longer have any
consequences at all.  It had never seemed more
simple; Mulder and I could be together, free from
grief, unhindered by the darkness of our
circumstances.  Unable to stop myself, I reached
toward Mulder's face, slowly tracing the line of his
jaw with a single finger.

He gathered my palm to his mouth, his eyes never
leaving my face.  The moment slowly unfolded; a
tremor ran through my body as his breath blossomed
upon my skin.

"Scully."  I felt myself floating as he pulled me
close.  I wanted to close my eyes and give myself to
him completely, as I have so often in fantasy, but
instead I could not help but watch him, a witness to
his agony as he brought his mouth to mine.  Something
was terribly wrong.

Our lips came together, and my body responded
instantly to the pleasure of his kiss.  I pressed
against him, breathless, but even as I felt my body
mold to his, even as his arm circled my back to draw
me closer, misgivings clamored for my attention.
Suddenly I willed my lips not to part.  I needed time
to think things through.  But my lips weren't
listening to the doubts in my mind.  There was
nothing I could do.  His tongue dived into my mouth,
filling it, filling me.

My god, he tasted good...

He murmured, hushed, his mouth brushing mine.
"Scully, stay with me.  Be with me tonight."

My nerve endings were standing on end.  Yes, Mulder.
Oh, yes.

Last night slowly vanishes from my mind and I am
standing in the rubble of Mulder's apartment
wondering what to do.

Last night I tore away from him and moved quickly to
the other side of the room.  The raw passion in his
kiss was what drove me away.  All at once, I realized
just how hot and cold our relationship has always
been.  As recently as yesterday afternoon he had been
closed and remote, like a total stranger, but last
night, when I went to check on him, the unexpected
fervency of his desire took my breath away.  What
would it be next?

It was almost impossible to deny my body what it had
wanted for so long.  My blood raced in my veins and
pounded in my head as I held myself back from him.
In my rational mind, I knew I was doing the right
thing, but I felt like I was having a heart attack.

"Scully, what's wrong?" Mulder had asked hoarsely.
He spoke with his eyes cast downward; I think he
already knew what my answer would be.

"I don't know if we should do this," I gasped.

Mulder spun on his heel and stalked to a window,
flinging it open, sucking in the cool air of evening.
He stood with his back to me, bloodless fingers
wrapped around the windowsill, ready to rip it right
out of the wall.

I wanted to reassure him, but I didn't know how.  His
need was like a vortex and I was terrified to step
too close.  I wish I could have put my arms around
him.  If only I could have felt him relaxing into me,
then I could have mustered the clarity of mind to
speak without hurting him again.  But he didn't want
to be held, not for comfort, anyway, that much was
clear.

"Mulder, try to understand.  Tonight...the last few
days...you're in shock.  You're not yourself and that
scares me.  I need some time to think.  I need to
know that we're doing this for the right reasons."

My words shot through him like venom.  His voice was
choked and savage.  "I can't believe you said that.
God, Scully, what is there to think about?"

I went to him despite my uncertainty, laying my hands
on his shoulders.

He shuddered with rage and moaned when I touched him,
"Dammit, Scully.  Goddammit.  You have no idea...Why
can't you just..." He pulled from me roughly and
paced across the room, his body drawn up tight, his
breathing convulsive and ragged.

"Maybe I should go.  Mulder, you need to get some
rest.  I do want to talk about this tomorrow."

He did not answer.

"I'll call you in the morning."

He nodded almost imperceptibly, staring at the floor,
pale as death.  Then his hand brushed against a
framed picture on his desk.  Without looking to see
what it was, he snatched it up and hurled it against
the wall.

The superhero façade splintered before my eyes last
night and I did not recognize the person who stood
behind it.  It was shocking to sense so much violence
in someone I thought I knew so well.

I wish I hadn't left him alone, but I did.  I had to.
It was not safe to stay.

NATIONAL SEASHORE, HATTERAS ISLAND  10:02 AM

I drop the empty bottle from my third beer into my
backpack.  I've got a good seat near the waterline,
perfect for watching the waves as they begin to creep
into shore.  The steady wind erodes my soul.  It's
lonely here.  I'm grateful for that.

For some reason, I'm remembering the way my mother's
hands looked when I was a child.  When I was little I
thought all women's hands must be like hers: slender
and smooth with creamy pastel pink nails... hands
that are meant to look nice, hands that never get
dirty, not the kind of hands that you hold.  Once
when I was about four she sat down with me and played
a game with green army men.  That's one of my lasting
childhood memories, pink fingernails and little green
men and my mother sitting with me on the floor,
pregnant and smiling, just before
Samantha was born.

I've done everything in my power to help my sister,
but everything has failed.  I feel her absence as
keenly now as I did when I was twelve.  The ache is
familiar, the pain jealously hoarded, as much a part
of me as my limbs or my face.  It's driven me.  It's
made me what I am.

Grief is a relentless trickle that leaks through my
arms and legs, seeping into my fingers and toes,
solidifying my insides by increments.  I know I will
never lose this feeling.  It gnaws at my heart like a
rat in a trap.

I am watching myself, as if I was a bird circling in
the sky above my body.  I am watching myself take the
safety off my gun.

Nothing matters now.  This is easy, it's a piece of
cake, one quick squeeze and I'll fly.

I raise my gun and place the barrel inside my mouth.

"You shouldn't put that in your mouth 'cause you
don't know where it's been."

I drop the gun hastily into the backpack.

Looking at me with a toothy grin is a little girl,
long eyelashes framing large brown eyes, wispy white
blond hair framing a round golden face.  I think she
must be four or five.
Her eyes are intensely bright.  She stands near my
shoulder, close enough to touch, smelling of
sunscreen and fresh strawberries.

How the hell did this happen?  Down the beach I see a
blanket, chairs, and a red cooler.  A man and two
women are settling in, pulling off unnecessary
clothing, putting on sunscreen.  I must have walked
far enough to travel from one beach access to the
next.

If she hadn't come I would have shot myself in front
of them.  Some day at the beach.

The little girl puts her hand on my shoulder and
regards me gravely.  Her presence is so warm I can
hardly bear it.  "If you wanna learn to fly, I can
show you, 'cause I know how."  For a moment we say
nothing, then she sticks out her tongue at me and
runs off down the beach.

Jesus Christ, what am I doing here?  Shit, was I
going to shoot myself?  Is that really what I want?

I open another beer and cradle my head.  This is
unbearable.  It always has been.

"Excuse me, did a little girl come by here?"

The girl's mother looks panicked.  She is about
thirty, tall and lithe in a rose colored string
bikini. For a few seconds I can't organize my
thoughts enough to speak.  "Uh, yeah...maybe five
minutes ago.  I didn't see which way she went."

"God, I can't turn my back on her for a minute.
Every time I do I end up regretting it."

She is gone again, headed toward the water, calling
her daughter's name into the wind.  Her fear is well-
justified...the beach is big and empty and as I look
up and down I see no sign whatever of the child who
was here such a short time ago.

"Gabriel!  Gabriel!"  The woman's shouts grow
increasingly urgent and she wades helplessly into the
water, clearly believing her child has been pulled
under the waves.

I was the last to speak with the girl, though, and
her parting words are still fresh in my mind.  I rise
from the sand and look around.  Where would I go if I
wanted to fly?  I am watching myself walking trance-
like toward the high dunes that separate the beach
from the highway beyond.  Effortlessly, I follow the
path of least resistance until the dunes surround me
on all sides like the walls of a maze.  I loved sand
dunes when I was a kid.  They seemed like miniature
mountains, made just for me.
 

"I will jump from a good high spot and fly up, up,
up!  I will be going too fast to look at things, so I
will shut my eyes."  She sounds close by.  I move in
the direction of her childish soprano, faint over the
din of the ocean but getting louder by the moment.

"Little Bear climbed to the top of a little hill, and
climbed to the top of a little tree, a very little
tree on the little hill, and shut his eyes and
jumped!" I round the bend in time to see her tumbling
down a high dune.  She lands near my feet and looks
up at me with a smile so artless and full of life it
takes my breath away.  She is helpless with giggles,
obviously very pleased with herself as she continues
her recitation, "My, my, he said, here I am on the
moon.  The moon looks just like the earth."

I remember that book.  "Hi," I say.  "Are you a bear
from earth?"

She nods, delighted.  I squat down next to her.  "Is
your name Gabriel?"

She nods again, face suddenly serious.  "That's a boy
name but I'm not a boy."

"I can see that.  Listen, Gabriel, my name is Fox,
and I came to look for you because your mom is very
worried."

Gabriel laughs and scrambles back up the dune.  "Me
and Daddy play hide and seek at the beach."

"I don't know if your Mom knows that.  She's looking
for you and she's really sad.  She thinks you got
lost.  Do you want to go with me, back to the beach?"

She perches at the top of her dune, digging her pink
sandals into the sand.  "I'm not apposta play with a
stranger.  I have to ask my mom first."

"That's good.  I'm glad you have that rule.  That's
really smart."

"Gabriel!  Answer me!  Gabriel!"  I can hear the
mother near the edge of the dunes.

"Here!" I shout as loudly as I can.  "She's here!"

In a few moments Gabriel's mother appears, struggling
to run in the deep sand, completely out of breath.

"Mama, I was being Little Bear flying to the moon!
Watch!"  Gabriel shuts her eyes and jumps, rolling
down to her mother's embrace.

"Gabriel Anne Cahill, running off is not okay."
Wiping tears away with the back of her hand,
Gabriel's mother hugs her daughter tighter.  "I
thought you went under the water."

Gabriel touches her mother's tears with fascination.
"I'm okay, Mama.  I'm not under the water."

"I know, and I'm really glad.  But next time you want
to play up here you have to come with me.  You're not
allowed to come by yourself.  Okay?"

"Okay, Mama."

This reunion is almost more than I can take. There is
nothing sinister in this situation, no hint of a
threat, just a small child who wandered away for a
few minutes and was quickly tracked down;
nevertheless, its deeper significance is not lost on
me.

Gabriel's mother stands up and her daughter heads
straight up the dune to continue her game.  "God,
thank you so much," she tells me.  "When I realized
she was gone I jumped to the worst possible
conclusion.  You were smart to think of looking up
here."

"When I saw her on the beach she said she wanted to
fly."

I want to fly.

She offers a hand.  "I'm Joy."

My heart is racing; I watch from the sky as I take it
in my own.  It is warm and alive.  "Fox Mulder."

"Wow.  Cool name." She is open and friendly; I can't
escape the feeling I've met her somewhere before.
There's a certain familiarity to the way she regards
me, like she's waiting for me to guess a secret.

"Yeah.  Uh, I've got to get back..."

"What, to the beach?"

"To my car.  I've got to go."  I need to get back to
my gun.  I need to finish it now.

"Well, thanks again for your help."

"No problem."  I take a few steps backwards and turn
to leave them but somehow my brain isn't talking to
my legs anymore; I'm so fucking hot; I can feel the
earth turning...all the energy drains out of my body
and the ground comes up to meet me fast.

"Hey, are you okay?"  She kneels beside me.

"Yeah, I think so...what happened?" I roll onto my
side and try to sit up.

"You passed out, that's what.  Hey, you better lie
still for a minute."

"I'm fine..."

"Are you sick?  God, your hand looks awful."

"It's fine...looks worse than it is."

Joy reaches out and lays her hand against my
forehead. "So you say.  It looks infected to me.
What'd you do to split it open like that?"

"I don't really remember."

"Are you sure?  Because you might need a tetanus
shot.  God, you don't want to fuck around with stuff
like this. You could get blood poisoning or gangrene
or that flesh eating bacteria..."

"You take this mother thing really seriously, don't
you?"

"Very funny, Mister Tough Guy.  I could pretend like
I don't give a shit and let you lie in the sand if
you want.  But then the crabs might get you."

"I'm fine.  It's just I haven't eaten."  When was my
last meal?  A dry and tasteless turkey sandwich on
the plane from Sacramento, I think.  That was over 24
hours ago.  Since then it's been nothing but alcohol.

I wanted it that way.  I was supposed to be dead by
now.

She puts her arm around me, helping me sit.  Her skin
is smooth against the flesh of my shoulders. "You
haven't eaten?  Damn, buddy, no wonder you passed
out.  You had a lot to drink last night.  Let me
guess; you didn't sleep, either."

"No...I think I was walking all night..." Wait a
minute.  How the hell does she know how much I drank
last night?  "Excuse me, have we met?"

"Ah, the light goes on.  I was wondering if you would
remember."

"Well, when I first saw you, you seemed familiar, but
no, I don't remember."

Suddenly I get a flash.  A dive in Nags Head.  A
friendly blonde behind the bar.

"Wait.  Were you the bartender..."

"Yep.  So see, I've earned the right to mother you
'cause it's partially my fault." She smiles brightly
and sits down next to me in the sand.

"Shit."

Gabriel piles into Joy's lap and puts a small hand on
mine. "You fell down.  Did you get hurt?"

"No, I'm fine.  I just needed to rest."

Joy gives me a mockingly significant stare.  "Any
other details coming back?"

"What kind of details?"

She grins in response to my look of surprise.

This is getting weirder and weirder.  "This isn't
funny.  What kind of details?"

"I'm sorry.  I'm not trying to be mysterious.  It was
my ex.  He was hanging around the bar at closing time
being really drunk and obnoxious and you offered to
shut him up."

"No way."

"You got a really big round of applause from the
bar."

Another flash.  A heavy male face, angry, Nordic,
like a Viking on acid.

"Wait.  Was he a big guy?"

"He's built like a rhinoceros.  They were taking bets
on how quick he was going to kick your ass."

"Anybody make any money?"

"Well, they probably would have, but we called the
cops."

I do remember some sort of a scuffle.  I could have
dreamed it, though, for all the details my head will
cough up.

"Was it...I remember...did I help the bouncer take
him outside or something?"

"Actually, the bouncer is my brother.  And 'take him
outside' is a pretty polite way of putting it."

I touch a bruise on the side of my head.  "I wondered
where this came from."

"It's funny.  I never laid eyes on you before last
night and somehow you end up coming to my rescue two
separate times in the same twelve hour period.  Isn't
that nuts?  I mean, what are the odds of that
happening?  Anyhow, my hat is off to you.  You must
be, like, some kind of professional hero or
something."

"Well, you're welcome, I think.  Sorry I didn't
remember what happened."

"Maybe it's better that way."

"At the rate I'm going, I may not remember meeting
you *this* time, either."

"Beer for breakfast, huh?  Well, listen, Fox, I think
I've got a sandwich with your name on it."

"What?"

"Come eat lunch with us.  My roommate packed way too
much food and I'd love it if you'd help us out."

"And we've got chocolate cookies," Gabriel adds, "And
you can help me build a princess castle."

It is impossible for me to figure out how, having set
out to blow my head off, I could have ended up
sitting here amidst the sand dunes with this
beautiful woman and her child.  But maybe
Joy gave me the answer a few moments ago.  Maybe this
is meant to be, somehow.

One thing is certain.  If I stay with them, I'll stay
alive.  If I don't I'm certainly dead.
 

FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, DC 10:56 AM

"I need to see A.D. Skinner.  Is he in?"

Skinner's assistant, Kimberly, has never been very
good at hiding her feelings.  Sometimes I think she
must be the most easily annoyed person in Washington.
The most sour, as well.  "Mr. Skinner is on a
conference call and can't be disturbed."

"Well, when can he be disturbed?"

"They'll be breaking for lunch in an hour.  I would
be happy to give him a message."

Happy?  I seriously doubt that.  Aloud, I say,
"Please have him call me in my office.  It's
extremely urgent."

Fighting the urge to commit violence, I watch as
Kimberly's perfectly manicured fingers slowly pick up
a pen, languidly locate a message pad, and carefully
take down my message.  "Your extension?"

"2680."

"Okay," she says primly, putting a neat check in the
box marked "urgent" on the message pad.  "I'll have
him call."

"Thank you."

Freak.  I spin on my heel and head for the door.

"Agent Scully..."

"Yes?" Turning back, I half-expect to be met with a
put down or some kind of abuse.

"This wouldn't be about Agent Mulder, would it?"

"Why?"  Something in Kimberly's tone gives me the
creeping horrors.  What does she know that I don't
know?

"Well, it's just that there was a message from Agent
Mulder in Mr. Skinner's voice mail this morning...Mr.
Skinner came in late and I haven't met with him yet
to give him his messages...um, is there something
wrong that we should know about?"

Everything is wrong.

My mouth goes dry.  "What did Agent Mulder say?"

"Well, not much, just that he was going to take a few
days off.  He said that he would be going out of town
but didn't say where or leave a contact number.  He
sounded, well, funny."

"Funny how?"

"Well, just not normal, you know?  I've still got the
message.  I always save them in case Mr. Skinner
wants to hear them.  Do you want to hear it?"

In the future, I must remember to be nicer to
Kimberly.  "Yes, I really would.  Thanks."

She picks up the phone and punches in a series of
numbers.  Then she holds the receiver out to me.

Mulder sounds incredibly tired.  It is easy to hear
he's not telling the truth.

I hand the receiver back to Ellen.  "Thanks.  That
was...helpful.  The truth is, Kimberly, I'm not sure
where Agent Mulder has gone but I need to find him.
He's had a big shock in the last few days, a personal
matter.  I need Skinner's help.  Please make sure he
calls me."

"I'll see if I can hurry Mr. Skinner along."

"I'll be in my office."

I begin to feel lost as I step from Skinner's office
into the hallway.  Now what?  Mulder has been missing
twelve, maybe fourteen hours at the outside.  My
conviction that he is bent on harming himself,
however deep-seated, will not be enough to garner the
help of any law enforcement agency.  It is remotely
possible that Walter Skinner can help me through
unofficial channels, but in a situation like this his
hands may be tied.

In reality, my only option is to search for Mulder
myself.
 

BUXTON, NORTH CAROLINA SURF MOTEL PARKING LOT 2:55 PM

When I asked for her phone number she gave it to me
without hesitation.  It's hard not to smile as I look
down at the page she tore from Gabriel's coloring
book.  The name and number appear in red crayon,
right above the purple Mickey Mouse Gabriel colored
for me and just below a smear of peanut butter.

I stick my gun under the front seat of my car.  I
don't know if I'm going to use it or not.

I wonder if I have a toothbrush.  I sort through the
pile of crap in the trunk of my car.  I have my
wallet, of course; it contains a credit card, some
cash and my Bureau ID.   I have a toothbrush, but no
razor, a spare pair of jeans, but no clean shirt.
And thermal underwear.  Well, that should be very
useful.

I pay for a beachfront room.  It sports all the usual
beach-theme crap and is chilled to sub-zero by a
musty smelling air conditioner.  This I turn off,
opening the sliding glass door to let in fresh air
and the sound of the ocean.  I am sunburned and
dehydrated.  My body is throbbing and I am covered in
sand.  I leave my clothes on the terrace railing to
dry.

Rinsing the beach from my hair and my pores, I find
myself wishing a lot of things. I wish I was still
building castles with Gabriel, or lying on my back
drinking beer in the sun.  I wish I knew what I was
doing here.  I wish I could go home.

I wish I could think about Scully without feeling
this knot in the pit of my stomach.  I wish I could
hear her voice; it has always been what keeps me
grounded.

I have a decision to make.  I wish she were here to
help me figure it out.

I'm watching myself sitting in the middle of a
seashell print bedspread with the phone on the bed
before me.  I'm trying to get to her cell phone...so
many numbers to dial.  My arms hurt,
I'm so tired.  Why is her phone ringing so many
times?

When I was fifteen, I had a recurring nightmare of
being pursued by a faceless enemy.  In the dream, I
find myself in front of a pay phone and stop running
long enough to call my father, knowing this gives my
pursuer time to catch up to me.  I realize with
terror that this is it, my only chance to get help.
My father answers, "Hello?"

"Dad it's Fox.  Help me."

"Hello?  Who is this?"

"Dad, it's me.  Help me."

"I can't hear you...who is this?"

The enemy is coming closer.  "Dad, help me.  Please
Dad, please help me."

"Hello?  Hello?"

Wrenching terror.  Scully's  voice on the line.
"This is Scully."

I try to say it.  "Scully, it's me."

Nothing is coming out.  My voice has gone dry.

"Hello?"

Scully, it's me.  Help me.

"Hello?  Who is this?"

I cannot speak.

"Mulder, please don't hang up.  Tell me where you
are."

I need air.  Why am I so hot?

I set the receiver back in the cradle.

After a few minutes the phone rings.  I let it and
let it and let it.

I unfold the picture that Gabriel Anne made for me
and lie it flat on the bed.  Gabriel saved my life
this morning; she wasn't afraid to speak up.  I
admire her - so much courage for such a small person.
I admire her mother, her generosity of spirit.
Shit, as far as Joy knew I was nothing more than a
random guy who came to the beach with no swimsuit and
a six-pack of beer.  But she took me in.  She chose
to trust me.

If I were half as brave as they are, I would pick up
the phone right now.

I'm watching myself sitting.  Sitting motionless on
this bed while the wheel of the world turns afternoon
to evening, turns me to stone, turns me cold as snow.
I'm watching the rolling of icy tears down my cheeks,
listening to the rolling of breakers that polish me
until I'm smooth as marble.

There is nothing else.  This cold is all that's left.

I'm watching myself getting dressed, going down the
hall to the ice machine.  I need ice.  I don't
remember why.  I think it's a promise I made.  I'm
watching myself lie down on the bed with the ice
bucket next to me.  I plunge my hand into the ice.

Jesus, it hurts.

Why am I surprised?
 

FBI HEADQUARTERS, 3:49 PM

There is no one else it could have been.

When the cell phone rang I was sitting at Mulder's
desk, fruitlessly searching hospitals, police
departments, and highway patrols in every state
between the District and Massachusetts.
The unfamiliar area code on the caller ID was the
real tip off, but even before I noticed that,
something told me who was calling.

Please let it not be a payphone.

"Good afternoon, Surf Motel."

Surf Motel.  My circulatory system resumes normal
operations.  "Hello, where are you located, please?"

"We're on Highway 12, ma'am, in Buxton."

"What state, please?"

There is a pause while the desk clerk processes my
question.  "Uh, Buxton, North Carolina, ma'am.  We're
located on the Outer Banks...Hatteras Island."

So Mulder has gone to the beach.  Should I take that
as a good sign or a bad one?

"Can you connect me with Fox Mulder's room, please?"

"One moment, please."  There is a click, a pause, and
then ringing.  Mulder does not answer.

"Mulder, in a minute I'm going to start smashing
things, too."  I say this a little too loudly,
slamming the phone down.  Don't panic, Dana.  Keep it
together.  At least you know where to start looking.

"Agent Scully."

Skinner.  I whirl to face him.

"Sir."

How weird for Skinner to come down here.  He knows
something's up.

"Kimberly said you needed to see me.  I'm sorry I
couldn't come sooner."

How to tell him?  How much to tell him?

"Sir, I need to take some time off.  I need to go to
North Carolina."

"Agent Mulder asked for time off himself, just this
morning."

Skinner's eyebrows are lifted, silently questioning.
As if Mulder and I had been plotting to ditch work
together or something.  If only it was that harmless.

"I'm aware of that.  Sir, I'd like to keep this off
the record."

"Go ahead."

"Without going into too much detail about Agent
Mulder's personal affairs... I'm afraid.... Sir, I
feel very strongly that Mulder has suffered some kind
of nervous collapse...I think he may intend to hurt
himself."

Skinner's jaw muscles work overtime as he turns the
information over in his mind.  After a long moment he
says quietly, "Agent Scully, it goes without saying
that I trust your judgment completely...if you
believe that Mulder is a danger to himself
that's enough for me.  You can't tell me anything
further, though, if you want me to keep this
unofficial."

"I know, sir.  It's a conflict of interest...you'll
have to send him for evaluation."  I feel like Judas,
but I find myself saying, "That may not be a bad
thing."

"Bad or good, his career could sit in the balance.  I
can't help you with this.  But I can cover your ass
while you deal with it."

"I'll keep in touch."

Skinner stalks out of my office, unable to hide his
vexation.  I watch him go with a sinking feeling.

I don't want to do this alone.

Nevertheless, I need to find Mulder now.  I want to
see his face so badly I think I could beam myself to
North Carolina by the sheer force of my will.  I take
the 6:00 flight to Norfolk, my psyche teeming with
doubts and uncertainties that pursue me like an angry
mob as I rent a car and drive toward Nags Head.

In my work at the FBI, I have learned that sometimes,
like it or not, you have to accept the indefinable.
In personal matters, however, I've stuck my head in
the sand, so to speak, and ignored that lesson
whenever possible.  In my relationships, I need a
degree of control.  I can't tolerate the kind of gray
areas that have become the routine in my professional
life.

Fox Mulder is one hell of a gray area.

What do you want from me, Mulder?  Do you need me to
say I'm in love with you?  I wish it could be that
simple between us.  It's not simple, though, and we
both know it.

I do have strong feelings for you, feelings I've
expressed to you in the past.  It is telling, though,
that these revelations always seem to come spilling
out at the worst possible times, always in situations
where our words cannot lead to physical intimacy.
That's my way of holding back from you, of avoiding
what you have clearly wanted for so long.  Last night
you tried to force my hand.  It's hard to admit, but
I'm glad you did that.  I couldn't handle it, though.
I wish I knew why.

I have always wanted to believe that our relationship
is one that transcends the quagmire of normal human
relations.  Being in love, making love, making a
life, having a home and children...I have fantasized
about doing all those things with you, but those
fantasies don't make me happy.  I can't escape the
feeling that that reality is not meant for us.  It's
for people who live in the daylight, people who are
not consumed by darkness.

So instead of exploring the possibilities, I nourish
myself with unspoken feelings.  It's far from a
feast, but it keeps me going.

You think I don't know how much pain you're in.  You
may even think I don't care.  But Mulder, you reached
for me and even though I let my fear get the best of
me, I wanted to reach back.

I should have stayed with you.  I realize now that we
can't run away.  We've got to let this unfold.

I'm ready to accept what has never been definable.
I'm ready to acknowledge the truth I have denied.

We'll figure out the rest when I know you are safe.

BUXTON, NORTH CAROLINA  10:51 PM

Jesus Fucking Christ.  My jeans are soaked and the
bed is soaked.  It's the ice bucket, now melted,
which turned over when I did.  Thank god the fun
never ends.

The room is dark.  I find the TV remote and flip to
the program guide.  It's almost eleven.

Maybe I could get someone else to shoot me.

I've got one of those four-star headaches that you
can only get by mixing excessive drinking with way
too much sun.  When I sit up, the bed revolves
slowly.

Maybe I'll just die of thirst.

I can't bring myself to turn on the bathroom light so
I fumble in the darkness to unwrap a flimsy plastic
cup.  I gulp tap water greedily, tasting sulphur.

Mental note: even the Black Oil tastes better than
the water at the coast.

The night air is cool as I cross the highway.  The
village seems deserted; tourist season has been over
for weeks.  The fluorescent light in the Handy Mart
is painfully bright, but I locate what I need,
pausing in the aisle to open a box of painkillers and
drain a bottle of water.

The guy behind the counter looks up from his
magazine. "Dude...do you think you could pay for
those first?"

"Too late."  I medicate myself and toss the empty
Advil box and my credit card on the counter with some
bottles of water.  My stomach lurches dangerously.
"You got any real food around here?"

"Hot dogs and nachos back there."

"Just what a body needs."

I contemplate the glistening red wieners as they
slowly revolve in their warmer.  Normally, I'll eat
anything without complaining.  There's no use being
picky in my line of work.  I really have to wonder,
though, if this is a good idea.

"I've got just one word for you," a voice says
softly, right in my ear.  "Sal-mo-nel-la."

Joy is standing next to me holding a twelve-pack of
Budweiser under her arm.  Her presence is like a
magic tonic; I can feel my shoulders drop an inch
just looking at her face.

"I think I was deciding against it."

"You're fried."  She reaches out and pokes me in the
bicep.

"In more ways than one."

"Did you get a room?"

Our eyes meet.  It takes a moment to find my voice.
"Uh, yeah, I took your advice."  I point across the
highway.  "You were right, it is very clean."

Joy looks like she's about to burst out laughing.  I
can tell she hates small talk as much as I do.  My
desire to end this lame conversation gets the better
of my shyness and I find myself saying, "Um, I was
going to call you but I fell asleep...I guess I was
kind of drunk.  Again."

"Yeah, you were."  She's still smiling like the cat
with the canary so I just keep rolling before I have
a chance to stop myself.  "I was going to ask if you
wanted to have a drink with me."
 

She doesn't attempt to hide her pleasure at my
proposal.  "I'd love to.  But I can't."

I don't answer so she continues, "Tessa and I have
got some friends over tonight.  Monday's our night
off and we usually play poker.  We just live a couple
of blocks from here...walking distance."

"Okay..."

"Do you like shrimp?"

"Sure.  To tell the truth, right now I like anything
that's not still moving."

"Me and Tess cooked.  Once you get to know me you'll
see what a miracle that is.  You wouldn't want to
miss it cause it may be a one time event.  Want to
come over?"

Okay, let me puzzle this one out.  Should I return to
the immaculately decorated Surf Motel to sit in the
gloom resisting the lure of the gun in my car, or
should I follow this lovely creature home and spend a
few hours getting to know her? "Sure," I say, feeling
lighter by the instant, "But I've got just one word
for you."

"What's that?"

"Pisswater."  I take the case of Budweiser and put it
back in the cooler.

"That was two words."

"Not necessarily."

I pull out two sixes of an expensive micro-brew.  "Do
you drink stuff like this?"

"Sure, I'll drink it."  She frowns at me sternly.
"But let me tell you, son, at my house we don't go in
for all that high-brow crap."

There's a gleam in her eye and a teasing grin; I
wonder if Joy is ever serious about anything.  "I'll
try to keep that in mind."

"You're in the south now, yankee boy."

"Yes ma'am.  I hear you."

"If you don't look out you might go all native and
actually drink beer from a can."
 

SOMEWHERE ON NC 12, HATTERAS ISLAND 10:57 PM

I know everyone loves the Outer Banks, but tonight I
can't imagine any place being beautiful enough to
justify what I have just been through.

Getting out of Norfolk was hell and navigating
through Newport News was hell, but the highway from
Newport News to Kitty Hawk was more like purgatory,
with multiple slowdowns and a traffic jam that went
on for what seemed like hours.  A drive I expected to
make in two hours stretched out to three.  When I
arrived in Kitty Hawk, sleepy and hungry and ready to
kill someone, I found out that Buxton, on the next
island south, was at least thirty minutes further on.
Fortunately, the traffic through Nags Head wasn't
bad, thinning to almost nothing once I crossed the
bridge to Hatteras.

The tiny coastal villages consist of small businesses
and scattered houses.  They tend to roll by without
making much of an impression, so I have to consider
it a lucky break when I notice the small sign that
tells me I have arrived in Buxton.

I can't keep my eyes open any longer.  About five
miles back I had a bona fide hallucination: a herd of
butterflies crossed the highway in the darkness ahead
of me. The illusion lasted only a split second, but
the effect was realistic enough to make me slam on my
brakes, leaving me feeling slightly idiotic.  I need
coffee.  I slow down to pull into a convenience store
and then something makes me glance to the left,
instead.

Surf Motel.

I can feel him.  He's near.  The coffee can wait.

A middle-aged woman sits behind the desk in the
lobby.  She is watching a news program and I have to
speak to get her attention.  "Excuse me."

"Oh, gosh, I'm sorry."  The woman's face is friendly
as she swings around in her chair.  "Do you have a
reservation?"

"No, actually, I'm looking for someone.  Can you tell
me which room is Fox Mulder's?"

"Well, now, let me see.  109.  That's just down that
hall there."

The worn beige walls with their many doors are a blur
and I am trying hard not to run.  I knock on the
door. I am willing him to be inside, unharmed.  I
knock again, refusing to believe that he is not
within.  By the third knock I feel deflated.

It's going to be a long night.

Back at the front desk, I try despite my
disappointment to seem nonchalant.  "My friend didn't
answer, but his car is in the parking lot.  You
haven't seen him in the last hour or so, have you?"

"What is his name again?"

"Fox Mulder.  He's tall, with bbrown hair.  The Honda
in the parking lot is his."

"Oh, he was that nice looking young man that came in
this afternoon.  I remember him very clearly,
interesting name.  But I've been busy in the office.
I haven't seen him since I checked him in.  He's
probably taking a walk on the beach."

I can't afford to assume anything like that.  I flip
out my FBI credentials.  "Ma'am, I need to ask you to
open the door to room 109."

"Oh my.  Is the fellow dangerous?  Should we call the
sheriff?"

"No, it's not anything like that.  He's my partner
and he's been missing.  I need to make sure that he's
not in that room."

Looking disturbed, the woman takes a key ring and I
follow her back down the hall.  A quick check of room
109 reveals nothing but Mulder's dirty laundry and
rumpled bed.  On the off chance that he may have left
his gun for safe keeping, I open drawers and check
under the bed, but I come up empty, of course.  I
don't know why I thought I would find it.  I push
open the door to the terrace and slog toward the
beach, my shoes filling with sand.

The beach seems enormous; the sky even bigger.  The
water is dark and full of foreboding.  I could walk
for hours and have no chance of finding him.  Why did
I feel his presence so urgently?

All at once I'm paper-thin and the wind rustles my
bones like dry leaves.  I *can* feel him.  I can.  I
see his form phosphorescent near the water, which
isn't really water but a suggestion of water, ghostly
in this place of shipwrecks and tragedy.  I see his
form translucent, stepping into a bright light and
disappearing.

I know something now in my bones, my
Bones, which have become so fragile...he can't wait
anymore, he's got to have the answer he has sought so
long.  Nothing else matters to him now.

Mulder is a seeker and so I have become a seeker,
too.  The trail has gone cold here on the earth.  He
wants to look for it somewhere else.  I want to
follow him, as I always have.  I want to follow.

End of Part One
 

Title - Dreaming Omega (2/3)
Author - Spookey247 (Spookey247@msn.com)
Archive - at Gossamer, anywhere else, please ask
first!
Rating - NC-17 for profanity and adult content.  If
you are under the age of 18, please, please go read
something else.
(See previous sections for the rest!)
 

Straw Dogs and Static

17-B BUXTON COVE DRIVE 1:30 AM

"Okay, this one is five card draw, ante up."

I dig in my pocket but my quarters are long gone.
"I'm busted.  Where's the change machine?"

Emily is a vixen, around twenty-five with a
Mediterranean complexion, jet-black hair, and exotic
almond shaped eyes. "It's your lucky day, Fox," she
tells me in a lascivious stage whisper. "I'm winning,
so I'll help you out.  But it's gonna cost you
later."  She slides me four quarters and winks.

It's hard to keep my mind on my cards.  She's sitting
so close we're sharing body heat.  "I think my luck
is improving."

"You think she's kidding.  In another hour you'll
have to beat her off with a stick."  This comes from
Pete, who I met on the beach earlier today.  He is a
small, shifty man in his early thirties, slight of
build, with a dark beard and a ponytail.

"Pete."  Pete's girlfriend, Tessa, with a body as
round as Pete's is lean, kicks him under the table.
"That was *so* uncalled-for."

"Yeah, Pete."  Emily pretends to be hurt.  She turns
to me with a sarcastic smirk.  "Pete's a little
bitter, can you tell?"

Joy holds the deck and now she snorts with
impatience.  "Are you guys finished?  Leave Fox
alone.  Like he would even be interested in your
little squabble.  This is five-card draw unless we've
decided on group therapy instead of poker."

I am sitting at a big, square table with a bunch of
total strangers.  The table occupies much of the
available space in the living room of an upstairs
apartment near the Pamlico Sound.  Since I got here
two hours ago, I've been fleeced to the tune of ten
bucks, this amount lost bit by bit in nickels, dimes,
and quarters.  It's humiliating, in a way, but then I
haven't done this since college.  I'm also drunk.
Third time today.  Unprecedented.

My hostess for the evening is the ringleader in this
shakedown.  It's embarrassing, but once again I catch
myself staring at Joy - it's been happening all
night.  It started in the Handy Mart, when I kept
getting lost in her wide, honest face with its large
green eyes and expression of perpetual wonder.  All
evening I've been sitting just to her left at the
table, which means I have to invent excuses to look
her way.  I've tried to seem nonchalant, not to
broadcast my admiration of the conspicuous lack of
make-up on her gold-brown skin, of her hair in braids
the color of honey and the way her faded cotton dress
moves with the curves of her long body.

Her mind is bright and open, and I find that I crave
her attention; I am shut inside myself and with every
glance she pulls me out into fresh air, challenging
me to wake up, pay attention, and enjoy.  Now she
catches my eye as she deals the last of the hand and
gives me a smile.  She's amazing.  God, she really
is.

Joy's friends are a lot like her, easygoing and
funny, kind and unassuming.   No one seems interested
in who I am or what I'm doing at this party.  They
all work together at a bar in Nags Head, so I guess
they're used to drinking with strangers.  Maybe when
your town is always full of tourists you just give up
worrying about who people are.

It's hard to believe I could be sitting here,
completely wasted, soaking in scatological humor and
speculation about the sex lives of people I don't
know, when it was only last night that I chose to
forsake the depravity, deceit, and inhumanity of my
dark and twisted life.  It's a stunning reality
check: while I was clawing through webs of lies in
full expectation of a violent death, others were
enjoying regular hours, the comfort of friends and
family, and night after night of sound sleep.
Surrounded by the steady, gentle energy of this
humble card game, to have lived such a life now seems
both absurd and unfair.  How could I not have seen
that?

Looking around me, I realize that these people aren't
thinking beyond their next beer.  I have never been
able to choose this, the simple enjoyment of a
moment.  I lost that choice the night they took
Samantha.

This revelation is like a kick in the guts.  I wash
down the pain with another swallow of beer.

"Fives and nines takes the hand.  Looks like it's
you, Mulder."

I rake in my first pot of the evening and push four
quarters across the table to Emily.  "Here ya go."

"No, you keep 'em."

Pete speaks up, "Em would always rather take it out
in trade.  Holy Fuck, stop it, Tess."

"I need a cigarette."  Speaking now is Joy's younger
brother, CJ.  He is tall and broad-shouldered,bearing
a strong resemblance to his sister in both appearance
and temperament.

Everyone gets up, stretching their legs, finding
their cigarettes.  "What time is it?" asks Tessa.

CJ checks his watch.  "Twenty 'til two."

"Do we need more beer?"

"Always."

Tessa grabs her bag.  "C'mon Pete."

When I go to the kitchen for another beer, Joy and
Emily are huddled over the kitchen sink in an
animated conversation that stops abruptly as I come
through the door.

"Caught us."  Emily says brightly.

"Doing what?"

"Talkin' boutcha."  Emily heads for the living room,
pausing in the kitchen door and brazenly running her
finger down the center of my chest.  For a moment her
dark eyes stare into mine, then she smiles like it's
all a joke and sticks her head into the living room.
"Hey, where'd everybody go?"

"I think they went for more beer."

"More beer?  God, Fox is gonna think we're a bunch of
fucking lushes."  She exchanges a look with Joy and
leaves the room.

"Think we're a bunch of drunks, Fox?"

I open the refrigerator and get a beer.  "Cheers."

"Get me one, too."

"So you were talking about me, huh?"

"Mm-hmm."

"All good, I hope."  I open the beers and hand her
one.  "Emily seems to be a very friendly person."  I
say this with an ironic lift of my eyebrow, and Joy
bursts out laughing.

"Yes, she's very friendly."

"I don't know what she's after."

"Oh, c'mon, Fox." She punches me playfully.  "All the
usual things, I bet.  She thinks you're sweet.
You've got a brain in your head and a real life,
unlike most of the male population around here."

"Shit, there's nothing sweet about me." I am loose,
like a poorly tied knot.  Joy is watching me with a
mixture of amusement and arousal that is truly
disconcerting.  Visions of wiping that smirk off her
face are cascading through my mind.  I could take her
right now.  I could take her for my own.

It might be a good idea to change the subject.

I look around the kitchen.  Hanging above the table
is a framed black and white photograph.  It shows a
nude woman with a shaved head sitting in profile
against a stark white background.  There is something
about the lighting, or maybe it's the shape of the
woman's head...it is a singular image, ominous and
grotesque.

"That's an interesting picture."

Joy smiles.  "That one?"

"Yeah...that woman looks like she just came down from
outer space."

"Hmm.  That's a new one on me.  I'll take it as a
compliment.  Thanks."

"You took that?"

"Yep.  Before I came here, I worked for an agency in
New York ... I've got stuff in a gallery in Soho,
too, but since I've now shunned the center of the
universe I'm sure it won't last.  Want to see some
more?"

"Yes, definitely."

We go to a computer in her bedroom and Joy begins
pulling up files. The tour through her portfolio is
like a window to her world-view; realities meet edge
to edge, perspectives purl like floodwater.  She
likes to work in black and white - the style
understated and surreal, even when the subject of the
photograph is a fashion model or a bottle of cologne.
She's drawn to things off-center and unspoken, things
from other worlds.

Sitting next to Joy at her desk, I look around her
bedroom with its jumble of worldly possessions.  The
bookshelf is crammed to bursting with worn-out
paperbacks, seashells, stones, and bird nests.  A
pink bicycle leans carelessly near the door.  About a
hundred shoes spill out of her closet like a pile of
treasure and origami birds fly near the ceiling
amidst Chinese paper lanterns.  A concrete statue of
the laughing Buddha sits at the foot of her bed,
decorated with dried flowers and quartz crystals; it
is accompanied by an inflatable green alien that
leans against it like a drunk posing for a snapshot.

I am nearly insensible, profoundly aroused by the
sweet smell hovering around her body.  I lean in
close, breathing deeply, resisting the urge to taste
her long neck.

"What kind of perfume are you wearing?"  I whisper,
my head close to hers.

The lines on the computer screen are getting blurry.
God, am I making a move on her?  I want to.  I really
do.

She turns to face me.  Her eyes, oh god.  That
smell...rich and spicy.  Her lips, full and soft,
moving to tell me, "That's Jasmine, Fox."

Whoa, Mulder, get a grip.  "I like it."

"Good."  Her hand on my knee.  It's almost impossible
to hold myself back.

The screen door slams.  Someone's come back inside.
I return my attention to the computer screen, forced
back into conversation when all I want to do is get
up and shut the bedroom door.
There's a photo on the computer screen of a naked man
in a city park.  It is riveting; he is pre-historic,
bestial, covered in leaves and mud, crouching wildly
while onlookers stare in disbelief. "You must have
had to do some fast talking to get that guy to pose
that way."

She laughs.  "It was cold that day, too.  But I
didn't really give him any choice."

"I don't see a gun to his head."

"That's my husband.  I believe you've been
introduced."

"Your ex-husband, right?"

"Yes.  Actually, the only reason I'm here is to get
away from him."

"But you didn't get away."

"Yeah, that's the pisser.  He can't take a hint.  But
then, he's neither stable nor smart."

"He's the best argument for mercy killing that I can
think of," a voice says behind us.  CJ's massive
frame fills the bedroom door.  He is staring down at
us with an appropriate degree of brotherly menace.

Joy looks at him fondly.  "You better smile when you
say that, Mister."

CJ shoves his hands in his pockets and leans against
the door.  "The motherfucker followed her here just
so he can keep hassling her.  We call the cops if we
even see him."

Joy nods, looking sad.  "Brian's a drummer, which if
you know any drummers, should explain a lot.  All his
friends are junkies and he's not strong enough to
just say no.  But he's not all bad.  He'll get it
together."

"I hate it when you stick up for him." CJ says
tightly, the corners of his mouth turning down. "Did
she tell you he beat her up?  Now he's stalking her.
She needs to get a restraining order but she won't."

"God, CJ.  Give it a rest.  This is *not* CNN."

"You trust people too much, Joy."

Joy shuts her eyes.  When she opens them, they have
become patient again.  "Can we please talk about
something else?"

"Okay."  The tone of her voice quells CJ's anger and
he drops into a chair near the bed.  "I think I might
go for a swim.  What about you guys?  Feel like a
swim?"

"Isn't it kind of cold tonight?"  Joy looks at me.
"What do you think?"

"I think I will not feel the cold," I answer,
feigning bravado to ease the tension and hoisting my
beer.  This gets a laugh, but they don't know.  I
really won't feel the cold.  I won't feel anything.

The smell of jasmine reminds me that's not true.

The phone rings and Joy goes into the living room to
pick up.  Emily comes in from the driveway with Kyle,
Tessa's sister, and they both recline on Joy's bed.
In the next room, we hear Joy's voice drop low.

"Who is this?"  She is silent for a moment, then
slams the receiver down.  "Goddamm.  Brian Cahill
could never fuck himself deep enough to suit me."

"Do you think that was him?"  CJ calls to her.  "I
picked up another call like that while you were at
the store."

Joy returns to the bedroom door, picking in
frustration at a scrap of loose paint on the frame.
"Yeah, I think he's been trying to call all day.  He
doesn't say anything.  He's just trying to fuck with
my head.  It's no big deal."

"That's it, Joy.  If he comes down here again I'm
gonna kick his ass."

The screen door slams again.  It's Pete and Tessa,
back from their beer run.  Tessa joins us in Joy's
bedroom.

"We're going swimming," Joy tells her.  "Want to go?"

"No way."  Tessa shivers.  "Jesus, it's windy
tonight.  You guys can freeze your ass if you want.
I'll stay here."

"Mama?" Gabriel squints in the light and runs to Joy,
whimpering.  Joy gathers her up and sits on the bed,
and in no time at all she is sound asleep again.

"I didn't know she was here.  She must be a very
heavy sleeper."

"Yeah," Joy answers with a sigh, "she's learned to
sleep through a lot of things."

Joy sits on the bed in half-lotus.  I cannot tear my
eyes away.
Her anger seems to have cooled as quickly as it came
and now she looks content and slightly sleepy.  She
regards me with tenderness while her daughter sleeps
in her arms.

What if I could take Gabriel from her mother and
carry her, like a doting father, to her bed?  What if
I could return to Joy, join my body to hers, and
sleep peacefully for hours in the warmth of her arms?

"I'll take her, Joy, if you still want to go," Tessa
offers.

"No, that's okay.  I think I'm kind of ready to wind
down." Joy is speaking to her roommate, but she's not
looking at Tessa or any of her friends.  She's
looking at me.  She is inviting me into that fantasy.
I ache to join her there.

CJ shakes me out of my reverie.  His voice is
intense.  "You coming, Mulder?"

I think he might not want me near his sister.  That's
understandable.

What the hell am I thinking, anyway?  Joy is an
innocent; she and her daughter are pure, like a pair
of angels.  Whatever hardships they have known pale
in comparison to the darkness that I could bring to
their lives. I don't know how to return what Joy is
offering me. I need to walk away from this.

"Dude."  CJ puts his hand on my shoulder. "You
coming?"

I get the message loud and clear.

"Yeah. Yeah, let's go."
 

SURF MOTEL PARKING LOT 1:50 AM
 

Mulder's car is locked and the windows are rolled up
tight.  Flashlight in hand, I am hoping for a glimpse
of anything that might give me a clue as to his
intentions.  The back seat is empty except for the
eternal pile of files and books that travels with
Mulder wherever he goes.  The front seat does not
contain so much as an empty coffee cup.  I play my
light down onto the floor of the passenger side, and
then onto the floor of the driver's side, craning my
neck for a better view.

What's that?

A dull gleam of metal is visible, jutting out from
under the driver's seat.

His gun.

The gun is here the gun is here the gun is here...

Wherever Mulder is, at least I know he's not shooting
himself.  I breathe out slowly.   Maybe I'm being a
little too paranoid.  Maybe it's going to be all
right.

I park my car where I can see both the entrance to
the lobby and the side entrance that leads out to the
beach.  He's bound to come back sooner or later.
The waiting is hard.

I make careful circles in my coffee with a
wooden stirrer.  There's no need to stir, but the
motion keeps the steam from the cup wafting towards
my face, the smell of the coffee reminding me to stay
awake.  Not that I could rest anyway.

My watch tells me that it's nearly 2:00.  A knot of
frustration that has been growing all day settles
painfully in the center of my chest.

He's not coming back here.

Where would Mulder go, on foot, in a little beach
town on a deserted weeknight?  There are only two
possibilities: He is either on the beach or in a bar.
If he's on the beach there is nothing I can do but
continue waiting.  To look for bars I'll have to
leave my post.  Is it worth it?

It's better than sitting here losing my mind.
 

SOMEWHERE NEAR THE CORNER OF NC 12 AND BUXTON COVE
DRIVE  2:05 AM

"Tessa's right.  It's windy tonight."

Faint stars show beyond security lights and street
lamps.  I feel like a teenager out past curfew,
skulking drunk down a tidy residential street while
the rest of the world sleeps.  Emily walks close
beside me.  CJ and Pete have gone ahead.
Occasionally we hear them laugh or shout into the
night.

I have a raging feeling in my loinss that won't leave
me alone. Normally alcohol has the opposite effect on
my libido, but god, I wanted her...my hormones are
working overtime.  Emily is not helping things much
either.  She keeps leaning close to me, making sure
her bare shoulder brushes mine as we walk along.

I couldn't feel less in control of myself.

"Joy says you're from DC."

"Yes, that's true."

"What do you do there?"

I'm getting the feeling that this small talk is just
a formality.  Emily sways as she walks, her hips and
her ass undulating like a ship at sea.

"What do I do?  Well ...I work for the government."

"Wow.  I never knew anybody with an actual
job...well, except for my dad, I guess."

There's a little ice water on the old sex drive.

She continues, "I lived in DC for a while about a
year ago.  I worked for a big club in Arlington.
Capone's, ever been there?"

Uh, waiter, hold the ice water.  I do remember that
bar.  It features entertainment of the topless
variety.

"I may have been there once or twice," I answer.

"Yeah?  Do you like the bar scene, Fox?"

"Uh, sure.  I guess."

"I've been dancing since I turned eighteen.  My
sister dances, too, and when I was like, sixteen, she
used to sneak me into the bar in Miami where she
worked...I loved it, the way the guys looked at her.
I mean, she'd put her body right in front of their
faces and there was nothing they could do about it,
you know?  They couldn't touch her.  All they could
do was dream.  And some of them hated that and acted
like bastards, but some of them loved it...mostly the
business class, the guys with lots of money.  I could
tell they liked giving it up for a beautiful
woman...letting her do the driving, so to speak.  I
think it's what lots of guys secretly want."

We stop walking for a moment.  She's looking at me
hungrily, her intentions transparent, her expression
loose and pliant from drinking.

"Are you one of those guys, Fox?"

I don't answer her.  I *am* one of those guys, of
course, trapped in my own dysfunction, substituting
voyeurism for human affection and helpless to do
anything about it, but I'll be goddammed if I'm going
to admit it to Emily.

A few minutes ago I was feeling ashamed of the
thoughts I was having.  Emily had come across as
nothing more than a very horny and very naive kid.
Now that we're alone, that image is rapidly going up
in smoke.  She's far more sophisticated than she
looks, and she's teasing me, playing a game.  She's
in her element; she thinks it's fun to taunt me.

Well, Mulder, you've spent your life beating off to
women like this, and now you've got your chance to
make good.  Isn't this what you've always wanted?

It's all that I deserve.

She lets her body brush against mine in that
maddening way.  "I work in a club near Norfolk on the
weekends.  It's a horrible drive, but I hate that
area and I don't want to live there, so I just stay
with one of the other dancers and come home Monday
morning.  You can't beat the money in Norfolk,
though.  There are sailors everywhere."

We cross the highway and start across the parking lot
of the Surf Motel.  I see Pete and CJ disappearing
around the corner of the motel's main building,
headed for the beach behind it.
Emily follows them slowly, but I find myself hanging
back, trailing behind her.  She stops; waits for me;
takes my arm when I catch up, red-tipped fingers
making trails on my shoulder.

"Fox, have you ever gone swimming in the ocean at
night?"  Her voice is sultry, the come-on impossible
to ignore.  "It's awesome, like when the tide is out
and the water's really calm..."

Suddenly I feel witless, like a steer being led to
slaughter.  "Yeah, yeah.  I grew up near the ocean."

I follow Emily onto the beach. "We have a spot where
we always swim late at night," she calls over the
wind. "No one will bother us."

No one will bother us.  That's a really good thing.

I can hear CJ and Pete.  The moon is nearly full
tonight and I can see their silhouettes far out in
the water.  We walk past them, though, until the
lights of the motel are remote, arriving at a bend in
the beach where the maritime forest dips close to the
water.  She leads me toward the trees, to a sheltered
spot, out of the wind, where she stops and turns
toward me, giving me a come-hither stare and pulling
her thin cotton dress over her head.  As she sheds
the white undershirt and panties that lie underneath,
my mouth drops open at the sight of her body.  She is
voluptuous, inviting, tanned skin glowing in the
moonlight as she holds a hand out to welcome me.

"Come here," she purrs.  "I want to show you
something."

I approach her, transfixed, and she takes both my
hands and puts them to her breasts, which are
obscenely round and firm. Both nipples are pierced
through with silver rings. "What do you think?" she
whispers.  I am speechless. "How about this?" she
breathes, sliding one of my hands toward her pubis
until I can feel how bare and smooth she
is...hairless flesh, naked under my touch.

Holy Shit.  I close my eyes and turn away, blood
boiling.

Emily's hands run up my back, coming to rest on my
shoulders.  She pulls at my shirt.  "Take it off."
That's funny.  She's giving orders now.  She thinks
she's in charge of this situation, but she doesn't
know what she's getting herself into.
I don't give a damn who she is or what she wants.
I'm inhuman with lust, ready to satisfy myself.

"These, too, big guy."  Her hands slide down to
unbutton my jeans.  "Let's see what's under those
501s."

Who the fuck does she think she is?  I spin toward
her, catching her by the wrists, ripping her hands
away from my body and holding them tight in the air.
"You know, Emily, Pete was right about you."

I'm expecting this to make her mad, but instead she
starts laughing.  "Pete is an asshole but he doesn't
lie.  Lighten up, Fox.  Did we come here to swim or
what?"

I remove my clothes.  Emily backs toward the water,
crooking her finger for me to follow, and I do,
wading in after her until the breakers are hitting my
knees.  She beckons me on and I move to take her,
reaching out to pull her body close to mine.

The next thing I know, I am laying on my back
spitting sea water.  Giggling, Emily throws herself
on top of me, pulling me to a sitting position and
wrapping her legs around my waist, sitting on my legs
and effectively pinning me to the sand below.
A whitecap breaks over our heads.

"Why the fuck did you push me like that?" I shout
over the din of the waves.

"You were getting cocky," she calls back, "You should
have been paying attention."

Who *is* doing the driving here? I force my mouth to
hers, but she's got the upper hand; she's on top.
I'm drunk and off-balance.  One wrong move and I'm
back under the water.  She grabs my wrists and pulls
my arms to my sides; now she is the only thing
holding me up.  Christ, she's going to drown me.

Her voice is a dream inside my head. "Be a good boy,
Fox, be still, let me touch you."

I submit.  I don't know what else to do.

Now her fingers wrap around my cock like steel bands.
With a smooth, brutal motion she strokes me from root
to tip, reaching with her other hand to pull my head
toward hers.  The kiss is forceful and urgent.  She
seizes my bottom lip between her teeth and holds me
captive as she strokes me up and down, taking me
roughly as if there is no question that I am hers,
like it's a done deal.

It's almost painful, the way she is touching me.  My
knees are locking and my legs are getting numb.  All
at once she shifts, upsetting my precarious balance
and forcing me under the water once more.  But I can
feel how shallow the water has become; there's sand
under my back; we've been washed into shore.  I crawl
backwards into the shallowest water, gasping for
breath.

She pursues.

What the hell am I doing, running from a woman this
way?  God, she looks incredible, like some kind of
moonlit Siren with streams of water running from her
body and her hair, and eyes that are commanding and
wild.  I am frozen in place and she is crawling
toward me, over me, the silver nipple rings cold
against my chest. Our kiss is coarse and savage.
It's all business, but the truth is I have never been
so aroused.

I am watching myself lie back in the sand, watching
how she pins my arms above my head as she kisses me.
I am watching as she descends, drinking the Atlantic
off my body, pushing my legs apart to nestle between
them, taking me in her mouth.

Jeeesuuuusssssss...

She devours me cruelly, pulling me into the back of
her throat, pausing to run her tongue up and down the
length of my cock, gliding to the tip to rub the head
back and forth across her lips and tongue.  She's
teasing me with her teeth, small sharp bites that
send ripples of pain down my legs and up my spine.  I
lose track of time; she owns me completely.  Now the
waves begin, I'm nearly there.  Oh shit, why is she
stopping?

I'm in pain; I need relief.  "Hey, I'm really close."

"I know.  Tell me what you want, Fox."

I can barely speak.  "Let me come in your mouth."

"Say 'please'."  She's stroking me
again...exasperating; infuriating; so fucking good.

"Please..."

"Please what?"

"Please let me come in your mouth."

"You like to say that, don't you, Fox."

"Yesssss."

"Say it again, then."

"Please let me come in your mouth..."

"In my mouth?"

"Yessss."

"I don't think so."

Her hand pumps faster, I can't quit moving, I'm
whimpering like a baby, out of control, out of
control...

She takes her hand away.

My body is on fire; my balls feel like grapefruits.
I double over with pain and frustration.  "Jesus
Christ, what are you doing?"

Emily stands up.  She stands over me like an exotic
Colossus.

Did I just hear her laugh? "*Suffer.*," she says with
contempt.

Holy shit, can this be happening?  What did I do to
piss her off?

"Get up," she orders, but I can't and she knows it.

Why does she think this is funny?  "I didn't think
you could," she sneers.  Something cold and wet
strikes my face.

It's sand.  She just kicked sand in my face.

When I get up that bitch is *dead.*

Suddenly, carried on the wind, we hear a voice.  A
thin and desperate voice coming from the direction of
the motel.  Coming closer as if the owner of the
voice was running.  "CJ!  CJ!  Pete!  Guys, where are
you?"

Voices answer.  I can see them come up out of the
surf a hundred feet or so down the beach.  A female
form, obviously excited, shouts to them.  It's Kyle,
Tessa's sister.  Something is wrong.

"What's wrong with Kyle?"  Emily asks, running for
her clothes.  I heave myself up off the sand with
difficulty and force my legs to function.  I pull on
my jeans, which is no small feat considering how wet
and sandy I am, grab my shoes and shirt and run
toward the commotion.

"...he's got a gun and he's threatening to take
Gabriel but Joy won't let him in the house.  They're
in the driveway...oh my god he's so drunk..." Kyle is
in tears.  CJ and Pete are dressing, pulling on their
shoes.

"What's going on?"

"It's Joy's husband.  Man, he's pulled some shit
before but never anything like this."  CJ looks
shaken.  "I didn't even know he had a gun..."

Pete finishes tying his shoelaces and hops up,
nervous, "What the fuck are we gonna do?"

"Kyle, call 911." I run toward the motel.  CJ and
Pete follow.  It's hard running in the sand and we
are all breathing hard by the time we reach the
parking lot.  There's something I need.  I unlock my
car and grab my gun from under the front seat.

I turn to find them openmouthed.

"Dude, if you kill his ass, you would be doing us all
a big favor."

COMFORT INN PARKING LOT, BUXTON, NC 2:11 AM

I now know that exactly two establishments serve alcohol in Buxton, NC
on a Monday night.  No bartender or waitress at either can claim to
have seen someone fitting Mulder's description during the evening.

Sitting in my car in the parking lot of the Comfort
Inn, I am confounded and tired and thoroughly miserable. I have no
idea where to go next.   My cell phone rings.  I check the number on
the caller ID.
Damn.  It's only Skinner.

"Having any luck, Agent Scully?"  Concern hides under the surface of
the nonchalance in Skinner's voice.  "Where are you?"

"I'm in Buxton, North Carolina, at the Outer Banks, and no, I'm not
having much luck."

I am pleased to have an opportunity to vent.  "Mulder checked into a
motel here...I've been to his room but he's not in it...his car is
there, though, and I can see that his gun is inside.  Sir, I just
can't figure out where he's gone.  There's no one here, the town's
pretty deserted.  It shouldn't be this hard to locate him."

"Is he on the beach somewhere?"

"There's no way to tell until the sun comes up...I..." I remember my
vision of Mulder disappearing into the sky and cannot help but
shudder, my mind filling with other images I'd rather not entertain.

"Have you contacted the local PD?"

"No...I was hoping to resolve this without setting off any alarms."

"Scully, I think you should take that step.  You can't be everywhere
at once.  They can at least keep an eye out for him."

"You're right."

"Keep me posted."

"I will, sir."  The local Police Department.  Well, the Sheriff's
office was not hard to miss.  The small municipal center was brightly
lit and shiny, obviously the newest building in town.

The office of the Dare County Sheriff is as deserted as the rest of
the village, almost totally silent.  A lone dispatcher sits behind a
desk reading a paperback.  She looks up with surprise when I enter.
"May I help you?"

I show my badge and explain myself.  As the
dispatcher gets the forms necessary to fill out a
missing persons report, the phone rings.  She takes
the 911 call about a domestic dispute and radios for
a car to check things out.  She then returns with a
smile.

"Sorry about that.  Big Monday night.  We only have
two Deputies on duty down this way and that's the
second call in half an hour.  Old lady with a heart
attack down in Frisco, guy threatening his wife up
here in Buxton.  And now you.  We hardly ever have
anything on Monday.  I'm missing my beauty rest.  Now
what's your friend's name?"

As I give out the information, I try hard not to
sound as stressed as I feel.  I hope Mulder will not
give the Dare County Sheriff any more business on
this busy Monday night.
 

BUXTON COVE DRIVE  3:09 AM

I can hear them arguing on the next block down.  The
angry clamor buzzes down the quiet street like a
swarm of bees, sounding more violent as we draw
closer.

Brian Cahill stands deadly still with his legs
planted wide in Joy's driveway, a handgun dangling
from a meaty fist.  I can't see his face, only a huge
maass of blond dreadlocks and atattooed back that
would not be out of place in pro wrestling.

Joy stands blocking the way to her apartment.  Her
expression is primitive and murderous, the skin of
her face stretched tight with fear and anger.  She is
shouting as if the force of her voice could be enough
to keep her husband at bay.

"I already told you, Brian.  Even if it wasn't the
goddamn middle of the night I wouldn't let you take
her anywhere."

It becomes clear just how drunk Cahill is when he
speaks.  "You wouldn't 'let me.'  That's really
funny, Joy," he slurs. "'Cause I got a gun and you
don't."

"You think you're a big man, now, don't you. You
spineless shit.  Get the fuck out of my driveway."

"Don't push me, Joy.  I want what's mine."

"You won't shoot me.  You can go straight to..."

The gun comes up.  Before I can tell Cahill to
freeze, CJ darts from behind me, slamming into his
brother-in-law, taking him off guard and very nearly
taking him down.  CJ's let his hatred get the best of
him, he means to make good on his promise to kick
this guy's ass.

I shout, "Dammit, man, I had him cold!"  But now
we've lost our chance for an easy end to the
situation. Pete dives into the fray, wrapping himself
around Cahill's legs, trying to pull him down.  CJ
has Cahill in a death grip, one arm wrapped around
Cahill's chest while the other grabs for the gun,
which swings wildly as they struggle.  That gun is
bound to be loaded.  Something's got to be done.  I stick my own gun
in the back of my jeans and lunge forward to break up the fight before
Cahill's gun has a chance to go off.

I hear Joy telling Tessa to go inside and lock the
door, then she's screaming, "Stop it, guys, c'mon!
Brian, goddammit this is so stupid, somebody's gonna
get hurt, will you all just stop it!"

I grab Cahill by the neck, trying to pull him down
into a headlock, but the guy is enraged, psychotic,
and even bigger than he looks.  His strength is
astonishing.  He reaches up and grabs my injured
hand, twisting hard.  A jolt of liquid agony shoots
up my arm, taking me to my knees, paralyzing my
entire body.  Pete loses his grip on Cahill, who
takes his opportunity and kicks me in the head.

I go down face first into the driveway.  For a few
seconds everything seems far away.  Joy is screaming,
screaming for her husband to give up, for someone to
get the gun before the cops show, for all of us to
please just stop it, stop it right now.

Cahill is wailing. "Joy...help me, honey, get them
off me.  Joy!"

He wants *her* to help him.  He wants *her* to save
him.  Something must be wrong with my ears.

"Don't let them fucking do this to me, Joy..."

He thinks she's just a shadow, existing to serve only
him.

The air is violet, indigo, amber.  My soul fades.  I
can't feel the rage but it fills my heart, cold as
rocket fuel.

He hurts her to show her she's nothing.  He rapes her
and calls it love.

I am a sledgehammer made of stone.  Joy is screaming.
She doesn't understand, but I know what I'm doing.
I'm setting her free.

I smash Cahill's wrist on my knee and fling the gun
aside.  CJ holds him fast; we are one in purpose.
It's a blur now, Cahill's body twitching under my
fists - I need to feel his life slide out into my
hands so that I can release it to the air like a
bird.  When it flies, she'll be free.  When he dies,
I'll be free.

"Fox, please."  Joy's voice is low and desperate.
Her hands beg me to stop as she lays them on my
shoulders, always hands on my shoulders, their hands
on my shoulders, obscene and ruthless - cajoling,
compelling, coercing...I spin to face her like a
vicious dog, ready to settle things once and for all.

"Fox, please, *stop*." Joy takes hold of the fist
that is poised to strike her.

My vision settles like heat over a desert highway.  I
can hear a siren in the distance.

"Fox, stop and think."  She lowers my arm to my side.
"You don't have to do this."

My breath is coming in spasms.  Cahill strains
against CJ's grip, threatening further mayhem despite
the blood streaming from his nose and lower lip.  I
whirl to face him, pulling my gun from my jeans and
my wallet from my hip pocket.  "Federal Agent.
You're under arrest."

"Oh my god," Joy murmurs.  This is a development I'm
sure she could not have foreseen.

CJ's eyes are huge.  "You're a cop?"

So I'm the fox in the hen house, it seems.

Suddenly all the energy goes out of Cahill's body.
He begins to weep like a child.

"What the fuck, Cahill..." CJ gives him a shake.

"Yeah, you pathetic motherfucker, be a man.  Shut
up."  Pete says, standing nearby.

Joy draws close to her husband, shaking noticeably.
"Whatever happens, Brian, I don't want to see you
again until you can act like a human being.  Go home,
pack your things, and go back to
New York."

"I need to see Gabe."

"You're no good to her.  She's better off without
you.  Now get out of here."  Joy turns to me, tears
in her eyes.  "Please let him go."

"Joy..." CJ's face twists in anger.  "This is not
smart.  Mulder, tell her."

"Joy, he's right.  He threatened your life."

"I love you, Joy, I love you, Joy, I love you, I love
you, I love you ..." Cahill blubbers drunkenly,
disintegrating into a mass of self-reproach, doubling
over and covering his face with his hands.

Joy's expression is penetrating and grim.  "Fox, if
you could please just look the other way on this, I'd
take it as a personal favor."

She doesn't want to be protected.  All she wants is
some control.  I have to respect that; I have to
respect her decision.

I lower my gun.  Suddenly, I'm shaking, too.  "Get a
restraining order."  I'm not asking.  This is my
condition.  "I'll let him go tonight.  Tomorrow
you'll get a restraining order."

"Okay.  I'll do it."

I turn to CJ, who looks utterly stricken.  I can
sympathize.  But this is Joy's game.  She's got to
call it the way she sees it.  "Let go of him, man."

CJ leans into Cahill's ear. "Give me another chance,
Cahill.  You're dead."

Face dripping, Cahill pulls away from his brother-in-
law and fixes his unfocused gaze on his wife.  "I
know you, Joy.  You're the other half of me.  I'm
gonna be with you, baby."

"Brian, please just go.  This is not helping." She
holds her hand out without explanation.  Like a
guilty teenager, Cahill sullenly surrenders his car
keys.  "Now go up to the corner and call a cab." He
grasps her hand for a moment but she shakes free,
turning away from him.  "Pete will drop your keys by
tomorrow.  Okay Pete?"

"Yeah, sure, Joy."

"You better go now, Brian."

We watch in silence as he stumbles away.
 

NC 12 3:34 AM

A gray patrol car, sirens blaring, blue lights
flashing, hangs a left up the side street that runs
by the Handy Mart.  I wait for it to pass so that I
can turn into the parking lot of the Surf
Motel, which is beginning to feel like my new home
away from home.

Oh yeah, a domestic dispute.  Well, they're Johnny-
on-the-spot, aren't they?

My head is full of white noise.  I've been this tired
many times before, but being used to exhaustion
doesn't make it any easier to take.  I'm going to
have to sleep.   There's no way around it.

I pull in next to Mulder's car.  It's comforting, in
a way, having this piece of his life, this tie to
him, nearby.  But something about it has changed.
The interior light is on.  Wide awake now, I scramble
out of my seat belt.  It's the driver's side door,
unlocked and ajar, which is triggering the light.

His gun is gone.

No, no, no, no...

Which direction to run...I race into the motel,
disregarding the desk clerk's inquiries, trying to
get to Mulder's room before the unthinkable can
happen.  Or has it already happened?  The room is
empty, as I left it earlier.  I head for the beach,
legs pumping, sand flying, my heart in my mouth.

Panic, which I have held down with an iron will ever
since Mulder's disappearance, now gets the upper
hand.  I scream his name into the night five times,
ten times, but the only answer that comes is the
sound of wind and surf.

You bastard, you bastard, you bastard...

Mulder, I am so fucking mad at you.  I'll never
forgive you for this.

I sit on the beach for a long time, cold in the wind.

This is just like Sacramento. The helplessness and
betrayal don't feel any different.  No matter how
desperate I may be to protect him from himself,
Mulder is out there making his own decisions, living
his life according to his own dictates, and there's
nothing I or anybody else can do about it.  In the
end, I am not, cannot be responsible for him.  I have
to let him go.

Maybe I should just go back to Washington.

To do what?  Wait for the phone call that confirms
his death?
 

17-B BUXTON COVE DRIVE  4:39 AM

"What the hell is wrong with you, Joy?  Don't you
care anything about your own safety?  What about
Gabriel, for Chrissakes?"

"CJ, please calm down, I know what I'm doing."

"I can't fucking calm down.  Your fucking husband
just tried to fucking kill you and you could have had
him arrested, but instead you let him walk.  It's
attempted murder, Joy.  You had witnesses.   Just say
the word and we'll go get him."

"I can't do that."

"Please, Joy.  It's not too late."

"I can't."

"Joy, he's right," Tessa says softly, sadly.  "You
can't let him get away with what he did.  We can call
the sheriff back right now.  They can go pick him
up."

"You guys, please calm down. He was just drunk,
trying to get attention.  He wasn't going to shoot
me.  He wouldn't shoot me."

"Oh, right.  There's no problem, he's completely
harmless.  He was so fucking harmless last spring
that you had to go to the hospital.  You must have
gotten brain damage from that, Joy."  CJ's face is
beet red and his large, square hands open and close
with pent-up fury.

"Could we please not wake Gabe up, okay?"

CJ slams his body into a chair and has nothing
further to say.  He slumps, staring at the floor.

Tessa sighs.  "Anybody want a shot?  I think we could
use one."

Pete speaks up from his perch on the back of the
sofa.  "I'll take one."

Joy takes a deep breath.  "Yeah, me, too.  C'mon, CJ.
Have a drink.  What about you, Fox?"

I look up.  "Sure."  I have not joined their
discussion.  It's not my place to speak.  I've wedged
myself into a corner of the sofa to rest my head
against a cushion.  I'm hot.  I rub my hand across my
face, discovering a whole new world of injuries left
over from my encounter with Cahill's boot and the
driveway.

CJ and Pete have their own injuries and seem nearly
as sore and stiff as I am.  Joy looks at us with a
brave smile.  "Look at you guys.  My white knights.
Anybody need a band-aid?"

Her joke floats through the gloom unappreciated.  She
stands up, eyes flashing.  "Look, everybody, cheer
up.  I'm really sorry for what Brian did.  I know you
think I'm crazy but you just don't know Brian like I
do.  He's Gabe's daddy, okay?  I'm not going to put
Gabe's daddy in jail.  Guys, c'mon.  You have to be
patient with the people you love."

"Are you saying you still love him?"  CJ mutters this
from between clenched teeth, a sob in his voice.

"No, no, that's not really what I mean."  Joy kneels
down next to him, touching his hand. "CJ, he's Gabe's
daddy.  *She* loves him.  I've got to work this out
some other way."

Their eyes lock in the kind of communion that can
only exist between siblings.  He leans his head
against hers, tears of frustration fresh on his face.

I close my eyes.  I cannot stand to watch them
together.   I had a sister once.  I would have a bond
like this, had it not been taken from me.

Tessa returns from the kitchen with Kyle, carrying a
bottle of Jim Beam and a couple of shot glasses.

Emily, who has been sitting silently near the front
door, stands up.  I sense that she would like to
escape an uncomfortable situation.  "Guys, I'm
gonna go home," she says. "Fox, ccan I give you a
ride back to your motel?"

Oh *right*, Emily.  Just let me get you alone.

Joy speaks up.  "Fox needs nursing care before he's
allowed to go anywhere."

Emily acknowledges this with a knowing look.  "Okay.
Hey, Fox.  It was really nice to...meet you.  Anybody
else want a ride back?"

Pete swallows a shot.  "Yeah, me.  Shit, I've gotta
check the beer in at noon.  What about you, Kyle?"

"I'm gonna stay here tonight."

"CJ, need a ride?"

He looks up with a frown.  "I'm not leaving."

Emily pokes him with her foot.  "Grump.  Good night,
everybody."

Tessa pours me a shot.  "Here ya go, Fox.  Drink up,
it's good for you."

I lean forward to take the shot glass from her.  A
stab of pain shoots through my body and my head
begins to spin.  I collapse back into the sofa with a
groan.  I'm ready to pass out now.  Nothing would be
nicer.

I am surrounded by the smell of jasmine as Joy sits
next to me.  I wish I could hide in that scent,
pulling it around me like a soft blanket.  Her hand
is on my forehead.  I'm so hot.  "You are a mess, Mr.
Federal Agent.  Lie down and I'll get something to
clean that scrape."

I sink into half-consciousness.  Someone tells me to
sit up and take these aspirin, and I do, falling back
onto a soft pillow that wasn't there before.  I can
feel the sting of alcohol, her soft hands gently
dabbing my face.

Someone covers me with a blanket.  I am vaguely
aware, as I pull it over my head and give in to
unconsciousness, of CJ and Joy nearby, arguing on and
on in low and earnest voices.

The next thing I know, gray daylight is soaking
through the curtains of the living room.  A small
face hovers above mine, looking concerned.

"Fox has an owie."  Gabriel proclaims in a very
serious voice.  "I'll kiss it."  She leans down and
plants a kiss on my cheek just below the scrape.

"Thanks, Doctor Gabriel."

"Gabey, don't wake Fox up, he's not feeling well."
Joy comes into the living room, fully dressed.  The
smell of coffee drifts in with her from the kitchen.

"It's okay." I mumble, feeling completely washed out.
I sit up, although I would like nothing better than
to go back to sleep.  "I should go back to my motel."

"No, stay here.  There's coffee, and some juice in
the fridge.  I have to take Gabe over to my mom's.
I'll be back in half an hour."  She leans down and
kisses me on the top of the head. "God, Fox.  Thanks
for all you did last night."

Shit.  What does she mean?  I guess she's referring
to the way I handled the Sheriff's Deputies who
showed up soon after Cahill's departure last night.
It was against my better judgment, but I did what Joy
wanted me to do: I identified myself as a friend of
the family, flashed my badge and told them we had the
situation under control.  I gave them Cahill's gun so
that they could dispose of it, and that was that.
They were satisfied and so was Joy.

CJ had stood at the bottom of the stairs fuming until
the deputies were gone, then laid into Joy with so
much fury I thought we would have to call them back.
There was nothing I could do about that, though.  It
was their argument, and CJ was right.  My current
state of sobriety makes me wonder if I should have
taken his side.

"Jesus, Joy, I hope you don't end up regretting the
way we handled things last night."

"No, Fox.  We did the right thing.  Thanks for
standing up for me.  Tell Fox 'bye', Gabey."

I get a hug almost sweet enough to ease the soreness
in my body.

I sit motionless on the couch for a long time after
they've gone.  CJ is rolled up in a sleeping bag on
the floor, snoring.  Outside, the sky is the color of
old dishwater and it looks like it's going to rain.

A perfect match for conditions inside my head.

I go to the bathroom and then creep to the kitchen,
wrapped in my blanket.  Two glasses of water slide
down my throat like a quart of old motor oil.  I pour
myself a cup of coffee.  There's a bedroom just off
the kitchen - Tessa and her sister are still sleeping
soundly.  It's totally quiet.  I lean against the
kitchen counter, staring down blearily at black and
white tiles that shift and weave in a most
disconcerting way.

For the last 36 hours, large quantities of alcohol
have enabled me to avoid thinking about Scully.  I'm
no more willing to think of her now, but it is still
and silent, and I am alone and stone cold sober.
Remembrance starts as a tight feeling in my throat
and quickly washes through my whole nervous system,
flooding my body with the pain I have been trying so
desperately to avoid.

What the hell am I doing here?  What kind of complete
asshole am I?  She must wonder where I am.  She's
probably worried sick about me.  I didn't show up for
work yesterday; I haven't called...after what
happened, I'm sure she would have wanted to talk.
Shit, she said as much.

After what happened.

I've dreamed about it for years, rehearsing in
fantasy every nuance of the moment I've been sure
would come one day.  In my imagination I take her in
my arms and kiss her so tenderly that there can be no
doubt in her mind of my intentions...our lips meet
and in an instant she knows how I want to spend the
rest of my life. Her face lights with one of those
rare Scully smiles, the ones I wait for and cherish
when they come.

I've been insane, all these years, to dream of her.
I'm as full of delusions about my relationship to
Scully as I have been about everything else in my
life.  I'll never be with her the way I've imagined,
because I am ineffectual as a human being, incapable
of connecting on an emotional level, incapable of the
tenderness to which I have aspired.  I'm cold as
stone.  There's nothing in me that's worth offering
to her.

When I kissed her the night before last, it wasn't
about showing her how much I loved her.  I don't want
to think of it, but I can't help remembering the look
of confusion on her face.  That kiss was nothing more
than my selfish attempt to make myself feel better.
And god help me, she knew it.  She tried to tell me.

I can't believe I did that to Scully.  It was
disrespectful, a betrayal of all we've shared over
the years.  I've asked too much.  I've ruined
everything.  I don't know if she'll ever forgive me
for this.  I know I'll never forgive myself.

I don't want tears, but they're coming anyway.
There's nothing I can do about it anymore.  I've
smashed things and hurt people and wrecked my body
trying to deny this pain, but it's still here.  It's
still here.  It won't go away.

I could keep trying but I don't see the point.  My
gun sits on a high shelf above the television.  I
take it down and check the clip; it's ready, just
like yesterday.

I try not to wake CJ as I push the screen door open.
I step barefoot into the late September morning; the
stairs weave under my feet like the tiles in the
kitchen.  It's much cooler than yesterday, and the
salt air hangs leaden under a blanket of low clouds.
Nearby, marshy grasses that were hidden in darkness
last night stretch out to the banks of the Pamlico
Sound.  All I need is a quiet place, out of the way.
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, though, all the
blood drains out of my head.  Fuck, not again...the
siding is rough against my shoulder as I slide down
the wall, coming to rest on the bottom step.  Oh,
Christ, come on.  I just need to walk a few more
feet.  I can't fucking shoot myself on Joy's
doorstep.

"You all right?" Suddenly, Joy is next to me,
touching my arm, her voice barely audible.  Has it
really been half an hour since she left?
I didn't hear her come home.

She takes my gun gently, without comment.  "Can you
walk if I help you?"  She takes me by the arms and
guides me effortlessly up the stairs, through the
living room and into her bedroom.  I sit on her bed,
curling into myself, trying to make myself small.  I
have never felt so impotent. God, how I wish I could
just disappear.  Joy is holding me, her body warm
against mine, but I am alone, locked away, as always.

I don't deserve kindness.   It's too late now.

"Fox, why did you come here?"

My mouth is dry.  It's hard to speak.  "I lost my
mother last week."

Joy's tone is light and low.  "I'm sorry."

"She..." It's still so vivid. "There was a gas
oven...sleeping pills..."

I shudder in the ensuing silence.  Her next words
come in a hush.

"That's no reason for you to do it, too."

God, I'm choking.  Why can't I breathe?

"It's more than that, isn't it?"

Now I'm speaking in rapid gasps, forcing the words to
come. "God, you wouldn't even believe most of it.
The hardest thing is, I have a friend and I'm in love
with her."

I can't talk about this.  I can't.  I won't survive.

"She doesn't..." Oh fuck.  What the fuck.  How can
this hurt so much?

"Fox, I've been where you are.  I know it doesn't
seem like it, but there's a way out.  You're denying
yourself, denying the way you feel.  You can't do
that anymore.  Face it, Fox.  Touch it.  Make it
real."

"I don't think you know what you're asking, Joy."

My heart is swelling.  With each beat it grows
larger, taut with years of negation and despair.
Waves of pain crash against its doors, tightly locked
and barred against the surge.

"Fox, Fox, you're safe here..." Her hands are on my
face.

"Don't touch me."  I'm so hot; I can't breathe, so
alone, so alone...  "Please, take your hands off
me...god, you don't know..."

"Yeah, I do.  Fox, you're not alone."

"I am.  I always am."

"Not anymore.  I'm here.  I'll stay with you."

Gentle fingers turn my face toward hers.  I'm closing
my eyes.  I can't look in her eyes...

My voice is whispering.  It sounds far away.  "Let me
be dead or like the dead..."

"Fox, no."

"Let me be dead or like the dead..."

There is pleading in her voice. "You don't have to
choose this.  Be alive, Fox.  Be alive."

I am shattering like ice.  Falling like snow but I
can't find
the ground.  There's nowhere to rest, nowhere to
go...I can't
breathe, I need air.  I don't want this, oh god, oh
take it
away...

My body convulses and my heart bursts open.  The
deluge is thick and black, full of rocks and refuse
and bits of my guts.  It is a storm on the ocean,
growing more deadly by the minute, sucking heat from
the depths to fuel its violence.  At once I am rigid
with rage, sobbing into my hands as they tear at my
face. There is a keening sound, like a wounded
animal, suffering wordlessly, dying without
questioning.  That's me, I'm that animal.  It's me.

"You're not dying, Fox.  Shh, you're safe."

My grief is vast.  It creates its own energy, humming
at the core of my being, illuminating bones and
sinews, burning flesh away as I reach to touch it.
Embracing the heat, I am in flames.  This is what is
in me.  This is what I am.

Joy holds me close.  I feel her touch everywhere.

Time stops.  I am ashen, lifeless, spent.  I could
crumble to nothing at the slightest pressure.  I
listen to the air as it moves through the silence -
particles of matter and vibration pass through in
majestic promenade, discovering the hollow recesses
inside my soul, feather-dusting the raw nerves that
line those chasms.

And I am breathing.  Breathing, slowly.

When I open my eyes, she is near, her gaze
unfaltering and passionate.  She reaches up to wipe
tears from my face, and then, oh god, we are kissing.
I am dazed, falling, lost in the dusky feel of her
mouth, the sweet sensation of her lips enfolding
mine.  She breathes into me.  I feel her presence,
pure as mist, intrepid and soothing, venturing with
ease into places long denied.  I am flinging wide the
doors, opening every crevice of my self to let her
in.  I want her inside me.  I want to be filled with
her.

Now my hands are lifting to her face, my fingers are
tangled in her hair as I pull her to me, kissing her
with the fervor of the newly awakened.  She is on top
off me, her tongue buried in my mouth, thick and wet.
We are one motion, locked chest to chest, belly to
belly.

"Joy, I...shit." I interrupt myself with a hoarse
moan as she slowly licks my bottom lip, sighing with
pleasure.  "Joy, can we?  Do you want to?"

For an answer she leaves the bed and stands beside
it, unbuttoning her green flannel shirt.  She pulls
the shirt free and I move to the edge of the bed, my
hands roaming over her small, round breasts, so warm,
oh god...my lips brush pearly nipples and then I lick
them, one after the other.  They are ripe and
nourishing.  Her light gasps are like music, her
fingernails delightfully sharp as they dig into my
shoulders.

I've got to see all of her.  God, she's so beautiful.
My hands travel under her flimsy cotton skirt, up
long thighs like satin...no panties, oh shit, nothing
in my way.  We remove the skirt together.  Her body
is golden.  She is my star now, the light on my
horizon, my new beginning, my dawn.

I'm on my feet, pulling my shirt over my head,
shedding my jeans, reaching from behind her to stroke
her breasts again.   She grinds the curve of her ass
against my pelvis, reaching back to stroke my balls,
throwing her head against my shoulder.  I bury my
face in her hair, feeding on her, finding her ear,
her neck, her throat to devour.

She turns, wrapping her arms around my neck, and
pulls me back onto the bed.

Joy sits astride me, her face exquisite, her hands
massaging my chest and my arms, her fingers trailing
like rainwater down my belly... She touches her lips
to my ear.  "Fox, right now, in this instant, we only
belong to each other.  There's nothing else but right
now."

She lifts her hips, her fingers tight around my
cock. I feel her, slick and soft, and now, ohhhh
yessssssss...

I am memorizing this moment: her taste, her texture,
the feeling of being inside her, the feeling of being
joined to her.  I am memorizing myself, the man I am
in this instant.  I am human.  I am connected.   I am
capable of tenderness.

I'm not made of stone.  I'm alive.

I'm alive.

End of Part Two

Title - Dreaming Omega (3/3)
Author - Spookey247 (spookey247@msn.com)
Archive - at Gossamer, anywhere else, please ask
first!
Rating - NC-17 for profanity and adult content.  If
you are under the age of 18, please, please go read
something else.
Classification - TRA Adventure/Romance/Angst
(Mulder/Scully, Mulder/other)
Disclaimers - Mr. Carter, and folks at Fox, I'm just
borrowing, it's all just for fun so don't sue me!
Title for this section is borrowed from Ursula K.
LeGuin.
Spoilers - Big big spoiler for Sein Und Zeit/Closure.
Keywords - Mulder/Scully Romance,Mulder/other Romance
Summary - Sein Und Zeit/Closure post-episode.
Mulder's having a nervous breakdown and taking a road
trip to celebrate.  Scully's in pursuit, but she may
end up losing him forever (in more ways than one.)
Thanks - To Kim for Beta assistance and to sister
Sarah for editing and inspiration!
Author's Note: It will enhance your enjoyment to listen to Massive
Attack REALLY LOUD while you read this!
 

Part Three: To Bear and Not to Own
 

17-B BUXTON COVE DRIVE  10:20 AM

"Fox?"

"Yes?"

"Tell me her name."

Boy, I really don't want to go there.  A part of me
wants to leave that life behind and only exist in
this moment, the one that Joy and I have chosen
together.  We are a tangle of arms and legs, smelling
deliciously of sweat and semen and her sweet, sweet
juices.

"What happened to you and me and nothing else but
now?"

Her lips are on my forehead.  I lift my face to kiss
her, but the gravity in her expression stops me
short.  "Fox, I can't help it.  This is going to
sound nuts, but I can feel her.  It's so strong it's
almost like I could see her face.  I just...I want to
know her name."

There's a tight feeling in my throat.  To speak
Scully's name is to acknowledge all that brought me
here.  The pain is fresh and full...  I try not to
fight it.  I try to let my body be calm as I remember
Scully's face, beautiful, wise, a fractal echo inside
my body, pervading the cells that make me what I am.
I may be far from her, but Scully is with me, present
in this moment as surely as I am.  If Joy wants to
know me, then she is justified in wanting to know
Scully, too.  "Her name's Dana Scully. We've been
partners for years."

Joy closes her eyes, quiescent, processing the
information without seeming to judge its meaning.
Then her lips curl up in a contented smile.
"Thanks."

I trace my finger over the smile.  Why is it that I
go for such complicated women?  "Why thanks?"

"Because I know that was hard for you."

"God, Joy..." There is so much I need to say but I am
beyond words.  When I came here I was like my father:
childish and self-absorbed, consumed by a quest that
was insubstantial and destructive to my self and
those around me.  I loved no one and nothing.
Now...it's impossible to express what she has
awakened in me.

"Fox, what?"  She is raking her fingers across my
chest.  I'm getting hard again - I am so hungry for
her.  Her slightest motion arouses me.

"I need to be with you."

"Be with me, then."

Both of her hands circle my ass, and she grinds her
hips against mine.  Her hands travel up my back,
exploring, caressing, and come to rest in my hair.
"Be with me," she growls, her lips parting, sucking
greedily at my tongue as I slowly slip it inside her
mouth.

I'm reaching down to find the wet slit that I know is
waiting for my fingers. Her sharp gasp lets me know I
have found her.  Oh god, yes, it's hot, I'm a lucky
man, I can't believe I can touch her this way.  I run
a finger across the stiff point of flesh and she
groans as I begin to stroke her there.

"Here, oh baby, don't stop..." she reaches down to
guide my fingers to the perfect spot and I go to
work, my other hand sliding toward her breast,
pinching the nipple hard as I sink my fingers inside
her, first one, then two, now three, opening her wide
to my caress, pausing now and then to circle my thumb
in her juices.

We stare into each other's eyes and I thrill to the
flush on her cheeks, the way her eyelids flutter each
time my fingers delve more deeply, each time my thumb
strokes her just the right way.  I can give it back,
oh yes, I can give it back to her...her hips lift off
the bed as she moves against my hand and her
breathing is sharp and rapid.  It's beautiful.  I
love the way it sounds.

I know I need to taste her and I descend quickly,
kicking the sheets back, urged on by her hands, which
push at my shoulders, urged on by the sob of need in
her voice as she cries, "Yes, do it baby..." She is
delicious.  I explore the contours of her flesh with
my tongue, making the exhilarating journey from the
slippery depths to the smooth, salty heights time and
time again.

Her moans come stifled as she pulls a pillow over her
face...I love this, she is screaming, she can't
control herself ...suddenly she sits bolt upright and
she flings the pillow aside, pulling me to her,
licking at my lips, tasting herself, whispering
voraciously, "Inside me, oh god.  You've got to fuck
me now, now, now..."

I don't need to be told again.  I feel like I'm going
to pop as it is.  I throw myself on top of her and
before I know it, I am driving inside her, we are
bucking against each other, she is holding onto the
headboard, her legs wrapped around my back, moving
like a wild animal against me.

All at once her legs begin to shake.  Her face, oh
shit, her face...her mouth drops open as she comes,
forming a perfect O.  Her eyes roll back and her
sighs tear at my heart.  Memorize this moment, keep
this vision forever...my entire body goes rigid,
"Oh Joy, Joy, Joy..." This is paradise.  Our
paradise, together.

I dream she is cutting my hair.  It is morning and I
am sitting half-dressed in her kitchen with sunlight
streaming through the blinds like melted butter. The
scissors are a blur in her hands.
Little hairs are flying everywhere like shards of
marble from a sculptor's chisel.  I am Michelangelo's
statue, trapped in stone, and she is setting me free.
I float back to consciousness and oh, yes, she is
beside me, long arms wrapped tight and warm around my
body.

We are snuggled together like pupp