By Elsie
elsiel@sprint.ca

DATE: September 2002
RATING: PG-13
CATEGORY: SRA, MSR
DISTRIBUTION: anywhere
SPOILERS: The Truth
SUMMARY: She can't withhold anything from him except that
which is important.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: My warmest thanks to Georgia for the
encouragement and beta help.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully aren't mine.  No infringement
is intended.

She buys a coil scribbler at a dollar store somewhere in
New Mexico on the third day of what she calls Life With
Mulder--because there is no one else now, only Mulder.  She
waits until he has fallen asleep on the lumpy motel
mattress beside her later that night to start writing,
transcribing the thoughts that have been struggling to free
themselves from inside her head for the past 72 hours.  She
doesn't use any names--knowing that a day might come when
she'll have to leave the notebook behind--but feels silly
for being so paranoid.

<What happens now?  I wonder if I didn't think this through
enough.  There was no time to think.  But it's too late for
second thoughts now.

What was I thinking?  Was I hoping for redemption, thinking
I'd found my salvation in him?  What have I done?

I chose him.  I can't take it back.  I won't.  But what
will happen now?

I don't know if we're still the same people we used to be.
I know that I can't live without him, but can I live with
him?  We never had a chance to learn how to be together
completely, and now I've run away with him.  Why do I feel
like I'm seventeen again?

I don't know what I expected, but I know that this wasn't
it.  All I cared about was staying together.  I couldn't
lose him again.  But maybe I already have.  Maybe I lost
him over a year ago.  Am I trying to rewrite us when our
story was already overwritten without my knowledge?

It was like a dare to myself: I dare you to leave--to leave
everyone and everything behind.  For him.  I told myself to
listen to nothing but my heart.  I was leaving for love.
But is that what he and I share?  Love?

We've never needed words; our actions spoke what was in our
hearts.  But now, after our time apart, I need to hear how
he feels, and I can't ask him, can't let him know I'm no
longer as sure of us as I used to be.  I don't know how to
tell him.  I don't want to litter the peace we have in our
relationship with my mixed emotions.  What would I say?
I'm worried that my love for him isn't strong enough to
carry us through this.  I thought of him as my only hope
left after William when I should have been thinking
logically.  He'd be safer alone, but I let my fear lead me.
I didn't think.  It would kill him if I left him now.  It's
too late.>

-----

She is starting to get annoyed with him.  They'd never
lived together for any long period of time before, and now
she feels like she's moved in with a man she dated for only
a week.  They worked together for eight years, she's known
him for almost a decade, they have been friends for most of
that time and they even share a son together, but they had
only been lovers for less than three months before his
abduction.  Things were never the same after that.  They
hadn't been a couple long enough to consider co-habitation,
and now knowing that she's committed herself forever scares
her.  For this is it for her, it's 'til death do us part at
this point.  She won't leave him.

It's not his fault he doesn't know her as well as she
thinks he should.  They have been apart and people change.
They just have to relearn each other.  She feels guilty.
He had been so proud of himself, coming back from the
grocery store with soymilk for her, and she'd questioned
why he bought white bread instead of flax.  She wonders why
she's being so selfish, not thinking of his preferences,
what he wants.  Is her recent lack of compromising, a
subconscious desire to ruin what they have?  Which is what?
She no longer knows.

She can't withhold anything from him except that which is
important, how she feels.  She shows her irritation by
keeping quiet, but the silent treatment doesn't work on
him.  They've never relied on speech.  When she does speak
to him, all she seems to do is scold, nag, and complain,
but it doesn't faze him.  She won't withhold sex from him.
She needs it as much as he does, tells herself that their
reconnecting in this physical way reminds her that she's
alive, but worries that she's relying on it too much in
place of verbal apologies to him.  The only thing that
might hurt him is withholding her presence from him, but
she won't leave him.  She'd like to think that it's love
keeping them together, but she wonders if it's more comfort
level and taking each other for granted.

And there's another thing she doesn't know how to ask him
about.  She's always been independent, and hasn't needed to
rely on anyone else financially since she started working
full-time soon after graduation.  The Bureau paid her
school loan off, her car was bought with cash, she always
paid her bills on time, and she had never had to worry
about making ends meet.

But they'd escaped with only the clothes on their backs.
They have had to start from scratch, so to speak.  She only
had twenty dollars in her pocket, and now it's gone, spent
on trivial items such as coffee, gum, and a coil scribbler.

Mulder hasn't given finances a thought, she knows.  He has
who-knows-how-many bank accounts secreted away, under who-
knows-how-many aliases.  He pays for everything most of the
time, not checking with her if it's all right first.  And
it isn't all right with her.  She is uncomfortable with the
thought of having to rely on him to provide for her, but
can't do anything about it; she only has two dimes and a
penny in her pocket.

She can't ask him about it because she knows he'll think
she's crazy.  He had been saving up for something like
this, only living off his bi-weekly paychecks.  He expected
to be supporting her, and will throw a fit if he learns
that she has money issues now.  So she remains silent,
willing herself to accept how things are.

"What's this?" he asks as they're packing to leave another
motel on the sixteenth day of Life With Mulder.  He's
holding up the coil scribbler she's been using as a
journal.  She must've left it in the bedside drawer, she
thinks, the panic delayed.

"It's my journal," she answers simply.  He hands it to her
before returning to his packing, and she realizes that he
didn't read it.  She is almost disappointed.  Maybe if he
read it, he'd understand what I'm feeling, she thinks.  But
she knows that if she leaves it out now, he won't read it,
wanting to respect her privacy.  She wishes he could read
her mind; she'd never tell him right out that she wanted
him to read her journal.  She wants to laugh out loud.  She
can't talk to Mulder, so she wants him to violate her
privacy and read her journal?  Has she gone crazy?

-----

<Why doesn't he just ask me what's wrong?> she writes on
the nineteenth day.  <He looks at me like he wants to ask
all the time, but maybe he already knows the answer and
doesn't want to hear it.  Is he scared of what I'll say?

He's changed.  He was always distant, but now he might as
well not be sleeping beside me.  We've both changed.  Have
we moved too far apart to reclaim the lost distance?  I
haven't talked to him about it.  I don't want to know if he
hates me, blames me, or no longer loves me.  I can't ask
him, so why doesn't he ask me?  If he can pretend that
nothing's wrong, so can I.

I don't know if I even understand myself what's wrong.  Do
I regret choosing him over everything else?  Is it a
delayed reaction to giving up our son?  Am I lost without a
job?  Surely I am more than what I did for a living?  Do I
have too much free time being unemployed?  Am I tired of
waiting for happily ever after?  Is that what I want?

I've never been invested in only one thing before.  Now I
have everything invested in him, in our relationship.
There's no career left to worry about, I'm healthy--at
least physically, I'm being supported financially, and
there's no one depending on me.  He is my family now, and
he's all I've got.  Everything has to be for him, for us.
Why am I making it harder than it should be?

He caves a lot faster than he used to.  I don't know if I
like it or not.  It's like he's scared of losing me, but at
the same time, he knows that I wouldn't leave him, so his
actions just end up pushing me farther away from him.  When
he laughed at me because I needed to step on the running
board to get into the new truck we traded for last week, I
thought that maybe he'd finally got out of the let-her-
have-her-way-no-matter-what phase.  But I still won what
we'd listened to on the radio, where we'd stopped for
lunch, what motel we'd stayed at.  At least I get to drive
whenever I want to now.  But I wish that he'd stop being
such a wuss and not let me drive once in a while!

He's a lot quieter than he used to be, too.  Does he think
that not speaking will mean no disagreements?  Because I
can attest to the fact that not fighting out loud doesn't
mean that everything's hunky-dory.  My parents never fought
out loud, but their silent treatments to each other spoke
volumes.  Are we going to end up angry hypocrites, seething
internally while smiling at each other?

I don't like thinking about what will become of us.  I'm
sick of being so contemplative lately.  I wish things would
work out on their own.  Why can't I just live?>

-----

"I'm going for a walk," she tells him, standing up from the
picnic table at their campsite on the thirty-second day.
It was his idea to go camping--mingle with the summer
tourists, hide among the vacationing families, save some
money--and she knows it was a good idea.  She loved camping
trips with her family when she was a little girl, and
enjoyed going with friends when she was older.  She can't
say she's been having fun with Mulder, just that she's a
little less tense here.

"I'll come with you," Mulder replies, beginning to gather
up the playing cards on the table.  She doesn't say
anything, but starts off without him.

He catches up to her easily at the fourth campsite she's
passed.  They walk silently on one of the hiking trails
beside the lake, Mulder not quite beside her, slightly
behind.  She walks at a leisurely pace, but a bit faster
than her usual relaxed speed.  They pass children on their
bicycles, teenagers in their swimsuits, and couples holding
hands on the trail.  Does he not touch her because she's
giving him the hands-off vibe? she questions.  He hasn't
made any effort to take her hand, but she's unsure whether
she wants to hold hands with him anyway.

"Good afternoon," an old man walking his dog says to them.
They reply in tandem, but she doesn't feel like they're
together.

Mulder's hand on her shoulder stops her in her tracks.
"Scully, we should head back to the site.  It looks like
it's going to rain."

She looks up at the sky and realizes that he is right.
When did it get cloudy?  No wonder people were heading in
the opposite direction.  She doesn't know why she answers
the way she does, "I'm gonna keep going.  You can go back
if you want."  She can't tell from his expression what he's
feeling.  Why can't he just be angry with her like she is
with herself?

"We'll keep going then," is all he says.

They walk silently, the only noise the crunching of the
gravel and her gasp upon seeing the decapitated squirrel on
the side of the path.  She shakes off the sadness she feels
at the shortened life of the furry brown animal, feeling
stupid for pitying roadkill when there's so many other
things to feel bad about.  Survival of the fittest, she
tells herself.  If he was intelligent enough, he wouldn't
have run out onto the path and gotten run over.

The rain starts soon after, a light spitting quickly
becoming a drenching downpour.  She runs off the path,
looking for cover, but there is nowhere to go.  Mulder
reaches out and takes her hand, pulling her towards a small
group of old evergreens.

The conifers are tall, but their lowest branches are not
higher than the two people seeking a temporary shelter are.
She and Mulder crouch below a large branch, the pine
needles pricking the top of her head.  She looks down and
realizes that she is soaked to the bone.  Her T-shirt and
jeans are sticking to her uncomfortably and her sneakers
are definitely a lost cause.  "I should've worn sandals,"
she tells Mulder.

"I did," he replies, pointing to his feet.

A wet jogger runs by the tree, smiling at Mulder and her
and their shared predicament.  "An umbrella would work
better!" he shouts back at them, continuing his run.

Before she knows what has happened, she finds herself
laughing.  Mulder is chuckling beside her, still holding
her hand.  Her laughter is cut short when he suddenly pulls
her to him and kisses her.  It is cold outside and she is
uncomfortable, but his action doesn't displease her.  She
returns his kiss before he can let her go.

"I think the rain's as light as it'll go.  We should head
back now before the flood starts up," he says when they
part.

Her happiness upon seeing his smile reassures her that
she's just in a slump, not a deep depression; it's
expected, after everything that's happened.  She nods her
head in agreement.  "Okay."  They run back the way they
came, side by side, holding hands.

By the time they get back to their campsite, the rain has
stopped completely, so she gets two towels from their bags
in the truck.    She throws one to Mulder before starting
to dry her own hair.  The sound of the wind gusting through
the trees reminds her how cold she is.  "We need to get out
of these wet clo--" she begins, but stops when she sees
that he's already pulling his shirt off.  She steals a long
glance at his revealed, firm upper body, lamenting the
scruffiness--he calls a beard--she encounters as she moves
her eyes up to his face.  A giggle from the next campsite
reveals two teenaged girls admiring shirtless Mulder, and
she feels a twang of jealousy.  "Come on, Mulder, no need
to corrupt any young minds," she tells him, pulling him
over to the tent and out of sight of his audience.

"Ooh, are they about to witness something they shouldn't?"
He leers at her before crawling inside the tent.  She tries
to whip his backside with her wet towel, but he manages to
avoid the slap just in time.  Shucking off her sneakers,
she follows him inside the tent.  She drops her towel and
turns around to close the opening.  Before she can finish
zipping up the flap, she feels his lips on the back of her
neck.

As she turns around to face him, she thinks, it's only
afternoon, what is he doing?  "Mulder, cut it out, I need
to change--" she tries to speak, but his mouth on hers
muzzles the words.

"I can help," he whispers when he lets her up for air.  He
presses his right index finger to her lips before she can
open her mouth to answer him.  When he's sure she'll stay
quiet, he removes his finger and his hands start working on
her clothes.

She raises her arms so he can pull her shirt off, feeling
slightly confused.  The urge to talk to him comes swiftly,
nearly sweeping her other thoughts off the table.  She's
ready.  She wants to tell him everything.  But the feel of
Mulder's hands on her body battles with her sudden need to
divulge hidden feelings and wins.  She bites her lip
fiercely, keeping the words inside.  It feels like her head
is swirling.  There are too many things going on at once.

She decides to give her mind a rest.  All she wants to do
is feel now; she's sick of thinking so much.  She forgets
about closing the tent, why they're not at work in the
middle of the afternoon, what her mother probably thinks
happened to her, what William might be doing now...  She
forgets everything except Mulder, closing her eyes against
any unwanted images.  The enticing smell of the fresh
rainfall air surrounds them.  She can feel the hard ground
through the sleeping bags they fall back on, but
concentrates hard on the way his lips feel, and the
scratchiness of his beard.  His weight on her is welcomed
with a kiss of her own.  She smiles in anticipation of
their love-making, pretending that everything is fine, and
that she is blissfully happy.

-----

Could he have left me? she wonders on the fifty-ninth day
when he goes out for a run and doesn't come back to their
trailer at a reasonable time.  They have been living in a
trailer park for almost two weeks now.  She doesn't even
remember which city they are in anymore; it is easier to
get lost in a big city than a small town, so they have been
living here and there, everywhere.

Were their companionable silences indicative of more?  She
had assumed that he was purposely avoiding her distant
behavior by ignoring it, but what if he was going through
something similar?  Had he been suffering in silence all
along?  She feels a pain in her stomach, as if she's been
punched.  It matches her fear of loneliness and abandonment
in its tenacity.  She lies down on their bed and wonders
how long he's thought about leaving her, where he'll go
without her.  She doesn't let herself think about what
she'll do without him.

After an hour, her tune changes.  She berates herself for
being a worrywart and decides to wash the dishes.  But
she'd forgotten all about them.  Now, as she looks up from
the pan she's frantically scrubbing, the tiny figures
standing along the windowsill call to her.  They remind her
of him in a sudden and heart-wrenching way and she drops
the pan into the sink, not noticing when the soapy water
splashes out and onto the front of her sweatshirt.  She
remembers each and every time he's gotten her a trinket
from one of the candy machines outside a gas station or
store.  Damn him and his toys!  He's gone and he's never
coming back!  Her anxiety comes back full force.

The panic she feels reminds her of her former self, before
Life With Mulder.  Her first thought is to call the
hospitals, but she doesn't know whom she'd ask about, and a
physical description would only mean false positives.  She
needs to know for sure.  She is putting her shoes on,
preparing to go out and look for him, when the phone rings.
She has never run so fast to answer a call before.

She picks up the receiver, praying that it's him.  "Hello?"

"Hello, may I speak to Mrs. Hale please?"

Oh God, something's happened to him!  She nearly drops the
phone.  "Speaking.  Where is he?" she asks immediately,
unable to keep the panic out of her voice.  Her heart is
beating so fast she barely hears the reply.  She is out of
the door and into the truck before she realizes she doesn't
know if she hung up the phone.  It doesn't matter.  She
needs to get to him.

-----

She sits beside his hospital bed, holding his hand.  The
relief in knowing that he is safe gives way to the comfort
she feels in this familiar situation.  She is reminded of
all the other times she's sat at Mulder's bedside, and
imagines that he's been injured yet again while they're on
a case.

She closes her eyes, concentrating only on the feel of his
hand in hers.  He will annoy the hospital staff to no end,
but when he's better, she'll come and pick him up, drive
him home and take care of him.  He'll complain about her
fussing over him, and to placate him she'll agree to type
up the report on their finished case.  A wave of
homesickness disturbs her welcome thoughts and she opens
her eyes.

There's no going back.  There's no case, no getting hurt
while on duty, no recuperation in either of their
apartments, no job, no home--she can pretend all she wants,
but she knows the truth.  She can wish that the past year
hadn't happened, and that she is sitting beside his
hospital bed because he hurt himself while they were
working, except that that isn't what has happened.

While jogging, he was hit by a cyclist who'd lost control
on a curve.  They're keeping him overnight since he lost
consciousness, but luckily, a bump on the head and a few
bruises are his only injuries.  She vents at his
unconscious form, half-wishing he was awake to hear her.
After cursing him for a few minutes, she only feels worse.

"I don't know if I can do this anymore, Mulder.  This isn't
what I signed up for," she admits finally, leaning back in
her soft-but-not-quite-comfortable chair.  Sighing, she
starts stroking his arm gently, a poor substitute for the
apology she feels she owes him after her tirade.

After a while, she asks aloud, "Why can't I be happy?  I'm
here with the man I love and all I can do is ruminate on
what doesn't fit in with my expectations!"

"I love you, too, Scully."

Her eyes, which have been staring into space, return to his
face at the familiar, welcome voice.  She suddenly feels
elated.  Was she waiting for some kind of reaffirmation of
love from him all this time?  The cloud hanging over her
head dissipates, and she is able to truly smile.

"How long have you been awake?" she asks softly, her hand
moving up to his face.

"Not long enough," he replies, placing his hand over hers
and pressing his lips to her palm.

-----

He finally breaks on the sixty-sixth day.

Mulder had deemed it too risky for them to find work in
their respective fields, so they looked for jobs that
wouldn't link them back to their old lives.  He found one
delivering pizza, while she has had no luck due to her lack
of motivation to apply for anything she's overqualified
for.

She has gotten used to unemployed life.  While Mulder is at
work, she sits in front of their fourteen-inch television,
watching her soaps.  She now knows what is going on on
"Days of Our Lives," "General Hospital," and "The Young and
the Restless."  She is looking forward to Oprah when he
comes home scowling.

"Pizza for supper again?" she asks half-jokingly, frowning
upon spying the box he has placed on the counter.

"Maybe it wouldn't be if you'd go grocery shopping."

"What is that supposed to mean?  Why do I have to be the
one to do the shopping?"

"Because I have to work."

"It's not my fault I haven't gotten any calls yet."  She
can feel herself becoming defensive, and doesn't want to go
there, but she can't stop the conversation now that it's
started.

"Don't give me that BS, Scully.  You complain that you
haven't found anything, but you've hardly looked.  You say
you hate doing nothing, but that's all I see you doing.
What are you so afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid--"

He cuts her off in a burst of anger, "Look at yourself,
Scully!  You're a mess.  You sit at home all day in front
of the TV.  You don't want to go anywhere.  You don't talk
to me.  What's wrong with you?"  She is silent.  She can't
believe he's finally asked her what she's been waiting for
him to ask for sixty-six days.  He sits down across from
her on the ratty, old recliner that is one of the poor
excuses for furniture in their "furnished" trailer.  "What
are you fighting?" he asks quietly.

"I don't know, Mulder," she says, although she has her
theories.  She doesn't feel like watching television
anymore.  She walks over to turn the power off and sees her
reflection on the blank, gray screen.  A woman with
uncombed hair, tired eyes, rumpled clothing.  She doesn't
recognize herself anymore.  She sits down heavily on the
shaggy carpet.  She's tired of fighting the truth, the fact
that she will never regain the life that she has lost by
running away with him.  She's tired of fighting Life With
Mulder.  She doesn't know the reason for her self-inflicted
torture anymore.

He steps behind her, bending down and wrapping his arms
around her shoulders.  "Do you regret leaving with me?" he
asks gently, without accusation.

"No," she answers honestly, with resignation.  "I want to
be with you.  I just..."

"Just what, Scully?"

"I just didn't know it would be like this.  I don't know if
I can do this, so I haven't tried.  Why can't things be
easy?"

"It wouldn't be life if it was."  He kisses the top of her
head.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.  She blinks her tears away, but
more return in their place, and before she knows it, she's
crying into her lap.  She feels enormous guilt.  She's been
feeling sorry for herself all along, waiting for him to
rescue her, pretending that the strength of their love
would render everything okay, when she hasn't put any
effort into their situation.

He leaves and returns a moment later with a tissue for her.
She blows her nose before thanking him.  "Sit down, Mulder.
We need to talk," she tells him after she's composed
herself.

They sit on the couch side-by-side and she releases the dam
to her feelings.  Slowly, she lets them out as she begins
to speak.

<I have been in mourning.> she scribbles in the early
morning.  <I resented him for making me love him so much
that I'd leave everything just to be with him.  I mourned
alone.  I cried for the life I lost alone, and that's why I
lost control of myself.  I couldn't adapt to this new life
carrying it all on my own, and I waited and waited for him
to notice that things were too heavy for me.  I should have
let him in sooner.  We've always been better together; I
don't know why I'd forgotten.  I won't forget again.>

-----

She never knew she wanted to get married until he asks her
on the seventy-fourth day.  They are in bed, and she is
seconds away from floating away in ecstasy.  "Marry me," he
says simply, as if he isn't mid-thrust.  She stills
underneath him upon hearing his words, but he doesn't seem
to notice.

<He asked me to marry him!> she will write in her journal
the next morning.

"Scully?"  Whether he is seeking an answer to his question
or just noticing her lack of movement, she doesn't know.
Before she can reply, she feels the wave rushing towards
the shore again, and instinctively arches up into him,
easily recapturing their rhythm.

The tide comes in suddenly, dragging her away from the here
and now.  She has never been very vocal during sex, but the
physical pleasure combined with her delight over his
proposal is too intense.  "Yesssss!" she screams as she
floats away.
 
-----

Because Fox Mulder and Dana Scully died almost three months
ago, it is George Hale and Deirdre Mackenzie getting
married in Niagara Falls on the eighty-eighth day.  She
tries not to dwell on what could be, but what is.

Is this how Missy felt when she ran away with Darryl and
eloped? she wonders.  Melissa had said she'd been sick of
all the preparing, all the arguments about colors and place
settings; all she wanted to do was marry the man she was in
love with.  The wedding wouldn't have been for them, but
for their parents, anyway.  Missy didn't regret it one bit;
she had never wanted a big, lavish wedding in the first
place.  But maybe she would have if she and Darryl hadn't
divorced a year later.

She, on the other hand, had always secretly wished for the
wedding of her mother's dreams.  She'd thought about how
much money she'd want to spend, how many bridesmaids she'd
have, and where she'd register for gifts.  The plans always
changed--after Daniel, after her father's death, after
Melissa--but the expectation never left.

Getting married by a justice of the peace instead of a
priest isn't what pulls her dream apart; it is that her
family isn't there.  She always thought she'd be surrounded
by family when she got married.  But she is able to push
away the negative thoughts when Mulder calls her Mrs.
Mulder that night.  She's married to her soulmate.  Mulder
is her husband.  They have vowed to stay together forever.
Life With Mulder can't get any better.

-----

<I know that being married isn't a guarantee that we won't
be separated someday, but the ring on my finger tells me
that he will do everything he can to stay with me.  It is
stupid and petty, but I feel as if we are even now, that we
had been in competition before.

Whoever sacrifices the most wins because that means they
love the other more.  I think that that kind of thinking
almost destroyed us.  Love is not a competition; it's just
an emotion.  I don't know what I was so afraid of before.
It's the best feeling in the world.

I thought that love would keep us afloat, that it would
make everything work out.  I didn't count on having to put
anything in though.  I wanted to be buoyed along by the
strength of our past bond, instead of the one in the
present.  I wish I hadn't been so scared.  I wasted a lot
of days that way.

We actually talk now, and although it's new for us, it
hasn't been as hard as I thought it would be.  He didn't
need to marry me to crush my insecurities, but I'm glad he
did.  I couldn't ask for a better husband.  And I'll never
waste another day again.>  The sound of little paws running
disrupts her writing.  She looks up at the ceiling and
wonders again why they've rented such an old house.  She
closes her journal and replaces it on the nightstand.  Her
pen rolls off the table onto the carpet and she is picking
it up when she hears the front door close.  Mulder is back
from the hardware store.  She leaves the bedroom, heading
for the stairs.

"Hey, M--" she stops in her tracks upon seeing The Friendly
Neighbor standing beside Mulder.  Hoping her hesitation
isn't too noticeable, she resumes her descent down the
stairs to meet the two men in the foyer.

"Hi, Deirdre.  George and I were just talking about the
possibility of a neighborhood barbecue this weekend," Jim,
The Friendly Neighbor, says excitedly.  His high pitch
gives her the impression of a cartoon character she had
never liked.

"Sounds good, " she replies with the biggest fake-smile
ever.  She takes "George's" hand.  "Hey, Most Wonderful
Husband, I think we've got a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"I think we've got rats in the attic.  I can hear them
scurrying around up there."

"Oh no, it's not rats.  And they're not in the attic."

"Birds?" she questions.

"Guess again, Dee.  I saw them this morning."

She punches his arm playfully.  "Just tell me!"

"Squirrels," he answers.  "I saw one climbing up the side
of the house to the roof."

"Squirrels?"

"Yep.  It sure took him a long time, but that little guy
eventually made it up there.  He even gave me a little look
of victory once he got to the top!"

"It must've been a hard climb for him," she says quietly,
thinking of her own journey.  It's the hundredth day of
Life With Mulder, and she feels as if she's accomplished
something more than just surviving the ups and downs of
life.

"I knew he would make it," Mulder smiles knowingly.

"Do you wanna check if there's any damage to your
shingles?" Jim asks.

"I'm sure there's no permanent damage.  Let's go finish
fixing up that fence," Mulder replies.

"Sure."  Jim opens the door and steps outside.

"Later, Dee," Mulder tells her, kissing her hand before
releasing it.

"Always," she replies, watching him leave.

THE END

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