By Ally
Ally112038@aol.com
 

DATE: 23 Mar 2000
RATING - PG 13 for some strong language
CLASSIFICATION - Character Angst.
SPOILERS - No specific although a couple of references to SUZ and Closure.
Also, the whole Cancer arc shebang.
SUMMERY - As Scully is caught in the cross fire of a failed bank robbery, both
Agents are to discover that injuries of the heart are far more painful.
ARCHIVE - Anywhere, but please let me know.
DISCLAIMER - All characters contained within are the property of FOX and Ten
thirteen productions.
FEEDBACK - Yes please.  Good, bad or indifferent I'll lap it up.  Comments to
Ally112038@aol.com
AUTHOR'S NOTES - *Huge* thanks to Pam for making time in her hectic real life
to hand hold me through the writing of this.  Without your constant support,
encouragement and a wonderful beta/edit, this would never have been finished,
it would have remained forever in the unfinished fic twilight zone that is my
wardrobe floor. ;o)
Also to Jina for patiently waiting for each part to be finished and for
stalking me mercilessly at every available opportunity and for calling me every
name under the sun in the interests of fic-dom.
Couldn't have done it without ya gal!

SECRETS

Prologue

 My Father once told me that secrets are like old wounds.  That no matter how
skilfully we hide the scars, they are still there, lingering beneath the
surface.  Invisible to the eye, but all too obvious if we take the time to
really *feel* them.
There are no *good* secrets.
Even the ones we hide in our hearts to protect the people we love will
eventually find a way to push themselves up through the layers of deception.

 I've discovered that we can never hope to protect through lies and after
all, isn't a secret just another name for a lie?

 *Semantics*
 
 Mulder would laugh if he could hear me now.  Arguing with myself as I lay,
eyes wide open, staring up at the patterns made by the street lamps refracted
through the rain that streams down my window.

 I'm not sure what time it is.  I don't seem to sleep much, which is
strange, because all I want to do at this moment is close my eyes and sink down
into it's welcoming arms.

 To escape from the accusatory voices in my head for a short while would be
wonderful, but I just can't seem to relax enough.
If I'm honest with myself though, I'm well aware of the reason for my
insomnia.

 It is guilt.  Pure and simple.

 I have a secret, and no matter how often I tell myself that I am keeping it
from him to *protect* him, I still feel it's presence every minute of every
day.  I keep it hidden because in doing so I am attempting to shield him from a truth
he is ready to either hear or accept.

 Every day I keep the truth from him is another day spent tiptoeing around him,
so afraid that he will look into my eyes and see my lies.

 It was easy in the beginning.
Mulder was still shattered over the death of his Mother and I was there for him
as he fell apart piece by harrowing piece, supporting him as he has supported
me throughout our partnership.
I watched over him like the proverbial mother hen as his quest threatened to
take him over the edge, ready to drag him back should the need have arisen.

 For once he didn't need me to catch him and as each day passed he learned
more facts behind his sister's disappearance and finally, *finally* I was
rewarded when he came back to me.
Not entirely at peace sure - we have seen and experienced too much for that
ever to happen - but I saw the stress literally roll off him as, in his own
words, he was set free.

 How can I take that sense of peace away from him now?

 I have remained silent, promising myself, as I promise myself now, that
*tomorrow* I will tell him.

 It's ironic in a way, because even I don't believe it anymore.

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

SECRETS 1/6

Washington DC

 Mulder is not in the sweetest of moods.  He tries his best to hide it, but it
was obvious from the moment he arrived flustered and dishevelled at my door
this morning.

 I'm not sure exactly why we started this whole car pool thing.  It certainly
wasn't out of any sense of environmental awareness, it just kind of
*happened*.

 I had offered Mulder a ride home one night when he was without his car - I
can't remember *why* he was without it - and he decided it was only right and
proper to return the favor.  It seems to have set a pattern now that neither of
us is willing to break, and it's strange really, but I kind of enjoy it.
I like the fact that his face is the first one that greets me every morning.

 *Usually* I like it that is.

 On days like today, when he is edgy and tense, I wish to hell I could just
make him stop the damn car so I can escape out in to the clogged Washington
streets and hail a cab.
We have hardly spoken during the ride in, just the barest early morning
pleasantries.  No small talk, no innuendo, no teasing glances.
In fact, so far all Mulder has given me is the charming view of his set profile
as he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead.

 We are running late for the office, which is never a good thing, especially
not today.
Today is the second Wednesday in the month.
Second Wednesdays mean inter-departmental meetings.  Which in turn usually mean
bureaucratic scrutiny of our recently submitted expense reports.
I hate the meetings *almost* as much as Mulder does.  The difference being,
that I don't tend to show it quite as blatantly.  We no longer have to suffer
the dubious pleasure of AD Kersch as we attempt to justify flying halfway
across the country on nothing more substantial than some redneck's sighting
of lights in his cow field.

 Mulder mutters something under his breath as the car in front slows down to a
virtual crawl.  I don't bother trying to figure out what it was.
The very fact that we are attempting to negotiate rush hour traffic pretty much
tells me that whatever it was, it wasn't pleasant and certainly has no need
for a response from me.
So instead, I just lean my head against the seat rest and close my eyes against
the headache that is beginning to pulse at the centre of my forehead.

 I think that the headaches were the first clear sign that something wasn't
right, although for a couple of weeks I was able to pretty much deny their
existence.  Self-denial is a powerful force, a bit like encasing a broken ankle
in a plaster cast.  The pain is gone, pushed in to the background, and it's
almost impossible to imagine that the broken bone ever happened at all.  Until
of course you walk on it at the wrong angle and the pain is back to remind you
to take more care.

 That's how it was with me.  Only my versions of the plaster cast were
non-prescription pain pills.
Until they weren't enough, even when foolishly, I was taking well over the
required dosage.

 And then came the day when I couldn't deny it any longer.
I remember it vividly.  A Saturday spent shopping with my Mother I was in so
much pain I could hardly stand.
She noticed of course and I remember making vague assurances that I was *fine*,
made my excuses and headed for home.
I made it through the door, watched as the room began to spin in that endearing
way I had come to recognise from back in the early manifestations of the
disease, and woke up three hours later on the floor, still clutching my house
keys in my hand.

 I wish now with all my heart that I had answered the basic need that pounded
incessantly in my head.

 *Call Mulder*.

 Instead I had called Dr Zuckerman.

 Every day since then, I have been trying to find the right words, the right
moment, to broach the subject with Mulder, and right along with it, I have
found a thousand excuses as to why now *isn't* the right time.

 Of course I realise that the *right* time is never going to happen, and that
the longer I keep putting it off, the harder it's going to get.

 Not to mention the fact that Mulder is neither stupid nor blind.
Eventually he will figure this thing out for himself, and deep down, I can't
help wondering if he already suspects something.
A paranoid little voice is whispering that *I* am the reason for his dark mood
this morning.
Which when I think about it is ridiculous.

 Oh yeah.  Guilt really sucks.

 Suddenly, I am catapulted from my musings and transported violently back in to
the here and now as Mulder curses loudly, swerving the car savagely to the left
even before the word is fully formed on his lips.

 "FUCK!"

 I'm not entirely sure what he has seen to provoke such a reaction.  Mulder
rarely, if ever curses aloud.
And then I hear it.  A sound I have become so attuned to over the years I could
recognise it in my sleep.
The sound of gunfire.
Close by.

 My senses hone in on the sound, and beside me Mulder is already moving,
unbuckling his Seat belt and reaching for the door handle in one fluid
movement.
Even as I automatically follow his lead I am still searching for answers as to
*why* exactly we have come to a halt in the middle of rush hour traffic.  But,
like pieces of a jigsaw the answers fall together as I finally see what he
sees.

 My years on the job have taught me to assimilate information pretty quickly.
Headache or not, this is no exception.
In the space of a heartbeat my consciousness has thrown several words at me.

 Bank.
 Alarms.
 Guns.
 *Robbery*

 Great.  Just another fun day in the lives of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, where
even a ride to work has the capacity to become a fucked up nightmare.

 The shoes I chose to wear today are definitely not made for pounding the
pavement.
More blisters for me tonight.

 Mulder of course doesn't have quite the same fashion impairment and even
before I have fully cleared the car door he has taken off like a track star,
waving his gun around and cutting a swath through the early morning streets
like Moses parting the Red Sea.
He can move pretty fast for a guy approaching forty, and, whilst I am not
exactly a slug myself, an extra six inches of leg length makes all the
difference and I find myself trailing further and further behind.

 As I run, I can hear Mulder shouting something, but the wind is against me and
his words are lost in the slipstream making them almost unintelligible.
Instead, I concentrate on keeping him in sight.
The perp is somewhere ahead and by the pace Mulder is keeping, seems to have no
intention of giving up the fight easily.

 I'm not sure what happens next.

 A deafening sound that threatens to split my now pounding head in two,
Mulder's horrified scream.

 ^^SCULLLLLLLLLYYYYYYYYYY!^^

 A blow stops me in my tracks and slams me to the ground.

 It's funny actually, because even as I am aware of falling, I don't feel
anything other than a faint buzzing in my head as the pavement rushes up to
meet me.
No pain, no fear and certainly no understanding as to what has just happened.

 But through the white noise that surrounds me, I hear another gunshot.  And
then another.

 The sound seems to act as a catalyst for my own awareness and the dreamlike
quality I had wallowed in for maybe a couple of seconds is replaced by a
burning hot pain that seems to radiate through my whole body.

 Shit.  This *really* hurts.

 I am reminded of the time when I fell out of the tree house that my brother
Bill had spent the summer building with his cronies.
I had been mercilessly chased away every time I dared show my face.  A seven
year old younger sister - a *girl* - had not been welcome in that den of
pre-pubescent masculinity.
So, tomboy that I was, I had snuck over there one night and undertaken the
precarious climb through the twisted boughs to reach what was forbidden to me.
I'd made it up ok.  Getting down had been a different undertaking all
together and trees tend not to be very forgiving to seven year olds who don't
have the sense to realise when they are way out of their depth.
I nursed a broken wrist for the rest of the summer, and it had taken years for
me to forget the white hot pain I felt as that fragile bone snapped cleanly..
But, with typical childhood resilience I *had* forgotten.

 Until now that is.

 Flesh wounds hurt.
 Gunshot wounds hurt.
 Damaged bones hurt like a *bitch*.

 I'm unsure as to how much time has elapsed since I first heard Mulder shout
out my name although I suspect it is no more than a few seconds at most.

 *Mulder*

 Shit, where is he?

 Three shots Dana.  Count em.  *Three*.

 Oh Fuck.

 My eyes snap open, which in itself is futile really because I can't seem to
focus on anything other than the pavement which is tilting at an impossible
angle before me.  I can just make out a collection of colored blobs in the near
distance and although they are fuzzy around the edges I am able to recognise
them as being human.  From their size and shape I am also able to determine
that they are crouched down, hugging the ground as thought their lives depend
on it.

 But my only thought right now is for Mulder's well being.  Nothing else
matters to me and not for the first time I am aware that what I feel for him
goes way beyond the accepted boundaries of our friendship, because, had it been
anyone other than Mulder, I would just close my eyes and allow myself some
respite from the terrible pain that now overwhelms me.

 But sometimes, even the purest love cannot conquer the frailties of the human
body. As I shift my weight fractionally to the right in order to release the
arm that is trapped beneath me, I am engulfed in a wave of agony so intense
that despite myself I close my eyes and scream.
Maybe I screamed out his name.  I don't know.
But it doesn't matter anyway.  Nothing matters except the feeling of
Mulder's hands on my face, smoothing away the hair that is plastered against
my cheeks.
And I hear his voice from far away.
He is frightened.  I have frightened him.
Just like he's frightened me in the past.

 So much fear for two people to bear in a lifetime.

 "Sssshhhhhhh Scully, It's ok....don't try to move...it's gonna be ok.
Ssssshhhhhhh."

 Slowly the pain diminishes a fraction and I am able to open my eyes again.
Maybe a little of the initial shock has subsided, or perhaps a gnawing
desperation that needs me to know he's ok, allows me to finally focus enough
to look deep in to his eyes.

 Mulder has beautiful eyes, the most expressive eyes I have ever seen in my
life.  I could easily lose myself in their depths, which is why I don't allow
myself to stare in to them too often.
Right now he is fighting tears and not making a very fine job of it.
I know how he feels.  I've been there too.  I've watched him hurting far
more times than I care to remember and each and every time I have found myself
crying real tears for him when he has been unable to shed his own.

 Just like he is crying for *me* now.

 Despite the pain, I am able to shakily reach up a hand that feels like a dead
weight and catch that first tear as it escapes it's confines.  Watching as it
traces a crystalline trail down my finger.
I want to speak, to let him know I'm fine, but just that small movement has
left me as weak as a day old kitten snatched from it's Mother and I just want
to close my eyes and sleep.
Instead, I fix my gaze on his, attempting to communicate to him through sight
what I am unable to do with speech.

 *I'm so sorry I didn't tell you Mulder.  And now it's too late.*

 He is going to find out.

 My secret is no longer going to be mine alone and I need to hang on to
consciousness for as long as I can, because, I know that if I close my eyes
now, the next time I open them it will be to view hatred not love.

Continued chapter 2/6

SECRETS 2/6

Georgetown Memorial Hospital.  4:05a.m.

 Hospitals are strange places.  I should know.  It sometimes feels like I've
spent half my adult life in them.  They are probably one of the few places on
Earth where, regardless of time or circumstance, any number of people can be
relied upon to come running should you call for help.
And Hospitals never really sleep because although corridor lights are muted and
voices become softer in deference to the hour, there is never true silence.

 Usually I find that thought comforting, especially at night.  Listening to the
sounds that filter up through the corridors, reminding me I am not alone.  That
people *are* out there watching over me.

 But not this time.

 This time it wouldn't matter if there were a thousand people crammed in to
this tiny cubicle of a room all talking to me at once.  Because there is only
one person I really want to see and he's not here.

 I haven't seen him since this morning when he gently smoothed my hair off my
forehead and held my hand tightly when the jolting of the ambulance caused me
to cry out in pain from behind the oxygen mask covering my face.
I managed to stay conscious throughout that hellish journey to the ER and as
the morphine had kicked in had even managed to determine just what had happened
to me out there on the street.

 Of course, I hadn't exactly been capable of coherent conversation at that
point, but I had at least understood what the harried young Doctor was telling
me.

 Gunshot wound to the upper thigh.
Bone trauma.

 *Just peachy*.

 Bad enough that they had to dig yet another bullet out of me, without
complicating the issue with a broken leg.  The bone it seems, had stopped the
bullet in it's tracks - literally - and whilst I am told that the damage
isn't severe, it was deemed severe enough to warrant a trip down to the
operating theatre for a quick patch repair job.

 For some reason, which I still can't quite fathom, hearing those words had
reduced me to a gibbering wreck.  I've never been in the least bit afraid of
general anaesthetics and God knows I've been on the receiving end of enough
over the years, but this time I was gripped with the morbid fear that I would
never wake up again.

 The morphine hadn't exactly helped.  It had dulled the pain admirably, but
that, combined with the adrenaline still coursing through my body meant I
hadn't exactly been firing on all cylinders.
So I had done the only thing that had made sense at the time.
I cried.  *Hard*.

 I think Mulder was more than a little concerned to see his usually stoic
partner bawling like a baby when faced with the prospect of a little routine
surgery, but to his credit he had not batted one perfect eyelash.
Instead he quietly asked for a little time alone with me, perching carefully on
the edge of the gurney, ever aware of jarring my injured leg and took my hand
in his.

 I can still feel the way he traced circles in my palm with his thumb while he
had concentrated his other hand on the task of gently wiping the tears from my
face.
Just that simple gesture calmed me, reminded me for the thousandth time just
how much I rely on him to make everything *right* again.  In much the same way
as he relies on me to do the same for him.

 And right alongside that though came a stark realisation that this time,
nothing I do will ever make things right again.

 But there is no one on this Earth who can do what Mulder can do, and even as I
began to cry again, his touch began to calm me.  It's a skill born out of
years of painful practice and as my sobs had quieted he began to speak.
Soft words.  Calming words.
*Protective* words.
Nothing really specific, just gentle nonsense that stole away my fear and I had
grown so sleepy as I listened to him soothing me as a parent might soothe a
fretting child, feeling his hands on my skin, tracing patterns only he
understood.

 I'm not entirely sure whether I fell asleep or whether the morphine finally
kicked in fully, but the last thing I remember are his lips soft against my
forehead as he whispered an assurance that he would be waiting for me when I
woke up.

 Stupidly, senses dulled by pain, I allowed myself to believe him.  I had
forgotten what I had done.

 Forgotten that soon nothing between us would ever be the same again.

 Maybe I should have told him right there and then.  I should have struggled
against the pain and the fatigue and just *told* him.
But it was easier to just float away, to ignore it yet again.
So once again I took the coward's way out and did just that.

 I wasn't surprised to wake up alone.

 I'm not surprised that I have stayed that way.

 It wasn't so bad initially.  My battered system was still fighting the
anaesthetic and it was easy to just close my eyes against the hurt and drift
back to sleep.  But each time I awoke it was a little bit later in the day and
I was a little more aware of what was going on around me.

 Until, about an hour ago I eventually reached the point where I am now.  There
is a deep throbbing pain inside me that runs from my right shoulder all the way
to my toes and whilst the intravenous pain relief is tempering it slightly,
it's still sickening enough to keep my eyes open and fixed on the ceiling
above my bed.

 Moving is currently out of the question because the slightest twitch from the
waist down causes the throb to escalate rapidly in to an all out exercise in
torture.

 I am tempted to ask for stronger pain relief but I need to stay alert for when
Mulder comes back.  I need to be able to look deep in to his eyes and make him
understand why I didn't tell him about the Cancer.

 I don't expect him to forgive me though.  All I'm hoping at this point is
that he at least understands my motivation.  Beyond that I have no idea where
we'll go.

 In my wildest dreams I find myself hoping that he'll simply take me in his
arms and hold me.  That he'll forgive me in every way he needs to so we can
move past this.

 But deep down I know that it's not going to happen.
I know, because if our roles were reversed I would be mortified he hadn't
trusted me enough to confide in me.
Sure, Mulder has ditched me in the past.  He's ditched me more times than I
can recall.  But that has always been a physical action.  Not so much out of a
question of trust but more born from the need he has inside of him to keep me
safe.  It's misguided and impractical and it annoys the hell out of me, but
at least I can understand it.

 What I've done is different somehow.

  What I've done is *worse* and if I could take back the past six weeks and
do them over I would.  I know now how wrong I was not to tell him immediately.
I ignored the voice of reason inside of me and listened instead to my heart.  A
heart that has never wanted to hurt him.

 Ironic really because I've managed to achieve exactly the opposite.
And in doing so I'm terribly afraid that I've lost him forever.

 I close my eyes once again as I feel them begin to burn with unshed tears.  I
can't keep crying like this.  It won't solve anything.  I need to stay
strong enough to see this thing through.
Until that happens I'll be the Dana Scully I have so carefully constructed
over the years.

 Hard.
 Cold.
 Unfeeling.

 But not with him.  *Never* with him.  Because if he'll allow me too, I'm
finally going to tell him everything.

Continued in chapter 3/6

SECRETS 3/6

Georgetown Memorial Hospital.  11:20a.m.

 Somewhere in between making a thousand promises to myself and the breaking of
dawn, I must have fallen asleep again, because, as I lay here I can see the
brightness of the sun behind my closed lids.

 I have no idea what the time is, only that it is day where before it was
night.
But time doesn't really matter to me at the moment because, without even
opening my eyes I know he is here beside me.

 Call it my Mulder radar.

 To anyone who knows him as well as I do there are subtle but telling clues.
A hint of that spicy cologne he wears tickles my nostrils, able to permeate my
senses even through the sharp, antiseptic scent of the hospital sheets, sheets
which incidentally provide another clue.
Mulder has this *thing* about sheets and blankets, at least where I'm
concerned.  He is convinced that they should be pulled up almost to my chin and
I can't count the number of times I have fallen asleep on his battered couch,
only to awaken hours later almost suffocating from the heat.

 On the one hand I find it intensely annoying that he feels the need to mother
me in this way, but, another part of me secretly enjoys his concern.  I take
comfort from the fact that he cares enough about me to tuck blankets around me
when I'm sleeping.

 But Hospital rooms are temperature regulated and right now I am feeling
uncomfortably hot.  The sun streaming through the window isn't helping much
either.

 I can also hear him breathing and the sound and cadence tells me whether he is
awake or not.

 I suppose we all have different breathing patterns, but, in all honesty I had
never really thought about it much in my pre Mulder existence.  Certainly I had
never given any credence to the notion that a person could be recognisable by
that alone.

 But then, I have never really taken the time to find out with anyone else and
not for the first time I wonder just *when* I got to know this man so well.

 When did I allow myself to accept him in to my life so completely?

 I can no longer imagine a time when Mulder wasn't working beside me and yet
it has only been seven years.  When did seven years turn in to a lifetime?

 Hearing a creak as he shifts position slightly in the chair beside me, I
strain to keep my eyes closed for just a little while longer.  The longer I can
keep them closed, the longer I can stall the inevitable confrontation that is
surely going to come.

 I'm not ready to face him.
I'm not ready to see the hurt in his face that I am responsible for creating.

 But, a need to affirm that he *is* really here beside me outweighs any self
imposed guilt and slowly I shrug off the last lingering vestiges of sleep and
raise my eyes to meet his.

 He looks tired.
Wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday, rumpled, dishevelled as though
he's slept in them.
If he's slept at all that is.
His strong jaw is darkened by stubble and it's presence lends him a dangerous
air.

 I like Mulder with stubble.  I always have done, although it would take a
thousand armies to drag *that* particular snippet of information out of me.
And, finally I reach the part of him I most need to see.  The only piece of him
that will tell me what I need to know and as china blue meets hazel I finally
find the answer to the question that has been gnawing at me.

 *He knows*.

 I don't need words to tell me.  Just his expression is enough to affirm my
greatest fears and I know he is shattered inside.

 Disappointment.
 Rejection.
 Confusion.
 *Hurt*.

 They radiate off him in waves and suddenly my throat feels so tight I am
unable to breathe.
I have no idea what to say to him.
How do I even start?
Because a simple apology isn't going to undo this kind of damage.

 Just by looking at him I realise how stupid I have been.
I thought I was protecting him by not telling him.  Allowing him the time he
needed to process his Mother's death, the revelations about his Sister.
Persuading myself that he deserved this chance at peace however brief it might
have been.
But now I understand that I wasn't doing it to protect only him.
I was also trying to protect myself.
Protect myself from a man who I know would willingly lay down his life for me.

I've known for the longest time that he loves me.

 What I didn't realise until now is that he is *In* love with me.

 This beautiful, complex, irritating, brilliant, vulnerable man is actually in
love with me.

 And that realisation scares me more than I can even comprehend, because it
will make all this so much harder to deal with.
I don't even *want* to deal with it right now.
I'm hurting, I'm tired and all I really want him to do is to put his arms
around me and whisper soothing words in my ear.

 But he doesn't of course.
He just sits there making no attempt to move towards me as he keeps his eyes on
mine.  Unblinking, unwavering as the silence stretches between us, widening the
gap that separates us in to a ravine.
It's so quiet I can actually hear my own heartbeat inside my chest and for a
second I marvel at the fact that a human heart can bear so much pain and still
carry on.

 I want to speak to him, to beg for his forgiveness.  Needing so desperately to
make him understand why I did what I did, but I just can't open my mouth.  If
I speak now, the words will be lost in a stream of self pitying tears.  Tears
which are hovering dangerously close to the surface and which I refuse to
subject him to.
I've done quite enough damage to him already.

 In fact, it is Mulder who chooses to speak first.
Maybe he sees the pleading in my expression.  I don't know.  But I silently
send up a prayer of thanks as he opts to stick to *safe* territory.

 "Hey Scully.  How're you feeling?"

 I shrug non commitally.  In truth I feel like I"ve been tossed off a very
high building and run down a few times by an over enthusiastic truck driver.
But to admit that would be weakness, and Dana Scully doesn't show weakness.
No Siree.

 "I'm fine.  A little sore that's all."

 Mulder smirks at my response.  I'm sure that after seven years in my company
he expects nothing more from me because, after all, it's the only response he
ever gets.

 Gunshot wound?  *I'm fine*.
 Death of a loved one?  *I'm fine*.
 Terminal Cancer?  *Fine*.
 Emotional breakdown?  *Fine*.

 Doesn't make a difference as to what I'm really feeling when he asks,
because the wall around me dictates that I'm always fucking *Fine*.
I hate this part of myself, but I just don't know how to change it.

 "Good." he ventures uncertainly, reaching forwards to pour water in to the
plastic tumbler beside my bed.
I haven't asked him for water, hadn't even been aware that my throat feels
scratchy and uncomfortable before now.  But as he gently places a hand to the
back of my neck, drawing me forwards enough to put my lips against the plastic,
my thirst is suddenly raging.
He is careful as always though.  Tipping his other hand just enough to allow me
small sips of the deliciousely cool liquid.  Mulder knows all too well the
effests of taking too much water after a general anaesthetic.  We both do.

"I spoke to your Doctor.  He seems to think you'll be out of here in a few
days.  You might need some help when you get out though.  Might be a good idea
to stay with your Mom for a while."

 I know he means well, but to be honest, as much as I love my Mother, the
thought of being around her twenty four hours a day fills me with horror.
I don't need mothering right now.  What I need is space to come to terms
with everything in my own way.

 I drop my eyes from Mulder's and busy my hands by plucking at the rough
hospital issue blanket.

 "I think I'd just rather go home.  I'll be fine."

 He doesn't answer me.  I don't expect him to I suppose.  Because we both
know that if there's anything in this world I'm *not* going to be, *fine*
ranks pretty high on the list.

 My fingers tease harder and I am rewarded when a thread comes loose.  Finally
I have something to focus on other than Mulder's presence beside me.
I watch numbly as I wrap the thin piece of white cotton around my index finger,
releasing it to scrutinise the fine, white lines that have appeared in it's
wake disappear as blood once again flows to the area.
Within a couple of seconds it is impossible to even determine where the welts
were.

 If only life was that simple.

 Mulder shifts position again.  He has to be uncomfortable.  I have no idea how
long he has sat there but hospital chairs tend not to be kind to a person's
posture, and especially to someone with legs the length of his.

 The silence is killing me.  I want him to say something.
*Anything*.
Because avoiding the issue isn't going to make it go away.
I want him to rant and rave at me if that's what he needs to do.
And if he hates me now I need to hear it.  I know he is holding back for fear
of hurting me.  That even now he is trying to protect me and I really have no
reason to question his motives because, after all, haven't I been doing the
exact same thing to him?

 *Talk to him!* A voice inside me screams.  *Make him understand.*
But I can't.
I can't bring myself to even look at him now.

 I'm not surprised when I hear him rise from the chair.  Him being here is
making both of us uncomfortable and he has the good sense to know it's time
for him to leave.

 "You're tired.  I'll come back later."  He ventures and I close my
eyes, knowing that for now there is nothing more for us to say to each other.

 I've blown it.  Again.

 He leans down towards me and for a second, I am sure he is going to kiss me.
I don't think I could bear that right now and almost against my will, I turn
my head slightly away from him.  Giving him a clearer message than I intended
with that simple act of denial.

 *Don't*.

 He understands my silent plea and so instead, settles for hooking one long
finger around an errant strand of my hair which he smoothes gently away from my
face.
It's a gesture he has performed a hundred times before, but one which now
threatens to make me shatter in to tiny pieces in front of him.

 Feeling his touch reminds me yet again of just how lucky  am to have him.  He
would never intentionally seek to hurt me and despite the things I have done,
today is no exception.
I don't deserve him.  I don't believe I ever have.

 And then he is gone, leaving only the memory of his touch against my skin
which tingles slightly as if charged with low voltage electricity.

 He heads for the door without looking back, and I am surprised when, at the
doorway, he turns slowly, showing me an unguarded view of his desperation.

 "How long have you known?"

 I'm tempted to lie to him.  Lying would be so easy at this point.  Because
although I am fully aware that he could, if he wanted, gain access to my
personal medical records, I know he would never abuse my trust in that way.
But I *could* lie.  Or at least absolve some of the blame from myself by
stretching the truth a little.  But he deserves so much more than that and it
is with this knowledge that I swallow heavily and give him the answer he so
desperately needs from me.

"A little over six weeks."

 I swear I see him physically react to my words.  He seems to recoil slightly
as the full meaning of my admission sinks in.

 Six weeks of sharing time and space with him.
 Six weeks of laughing and joking and crying.
 Six weeks of lying.

 *Six weeks*.

 It might as well be a lifetime.

 I wait for him to speak, to cross back over to the bed.  To ask me *why*.
But he does none of those things.
Instead he just nods curtly.

"Thank you."

 And then he is gone.  Leaving me once again alone.

 And I know I deserve it.

Continued in chapter 4/6

Secrets 4/6

Georgetown Washington DC

 It's nice to be home.
Surrounded by the only things in my life that actually seem real.
I think I almost surprised myself when I was able to return here after the
horrors of my second encounter with Donnie Pfaster.  I had wondered whether I
would ever feel truly safe here ever again.
And for a few days the rooms had seemed as though they still hung on to his
presence.  Every time I closed my eyes I could see him and the expression of
serene acceptance on his face when I had pulled that trigger and ended his
life.  Almost as if I had behaved exactly as he expected me to.

 It took me a considerable length of time to let those images go, to
rationalise my actions, to release the guilt that gnawed inside of me.

 But, slowly, the ghosts settled, allowing me once again to walk the rooms of
my own little fortress and not feel the need to constantly look over my
shoulder.

 Mulder helped of course.  Staying here with me after I had insisted on
returning a scant forty eight hours later, when, the forensics team had finally
gathered enough evidence from my home to pack up and leave.
And despite my protests to the contrary, I had been relieved at his suggestion
that I maybe shouldn't be alone.

 I hadn't needed him here for long though.  Two days of me watching him
trying in vain to stretch the sofa-induced kinks out of his neck had been
enough for me and I had sent him on his way.
Back to his own apartment.
Back to his life.
Such as it is.

 I kid myself that I am happier being alone.  Just another one of those
self-imposed defence mechanisms that I have become so adept at hiding behind,
but I've told myself so many times I actually almost believe it.

 Only now, as I listen to the sound of my Mother's retreating footsteps on
the hard wooden floor of the corridor outside, I know for sure that I have been
lying to myself all along.
I *hate* being alone.
Especially right now.

 Mom didn't want to leave.  She doesn't understand why I am refusing her
help.  I finally told her about the Cancer three days ago.  Without a hint of self
pity I spelled out the grim realities of just what the return of the disease
meant for me.
I didn't hold anything back, recounting the details with as much detachment
as I could muster.
It makes me cringe to think about it now because, for all the emotion I showed,
I might as well have been transcribing the details of a recently performed
autopsy.  Even when I saw the look of abject horror on her face as the true
meaning of my words sank in I never wavered.

 She cried of course.  I expected nothing less and I had allowed her to envelop
me in her embrace as she clung to me.  As though by the strength of her touch
alone, she could make me well.

 I hated myself afterwards.
But then, I'm getting used to that particular feeling so I didn't waste
time dwelling on it.

 It's now nine days since that morning on the pavement.
Nine days since Mulder shot and killed a nineteen year old kid who had the
audacity to actually hurt his partner.
I know that questions have been asked as to the validity of Mulder's actions
and he has apparently been questioned at length by OPR regarding the events
that took place that day.
But, I can't see why there should be any cause for concern.

 Because, while Mulder's methods have been questionable in the past, the fact
remains that the kid fired two shots, indiscriminately, during a running
pursuit through a crowded street.  Mulder simply acted in a way any sane
law enforcement officer would have done given the circumstances.

 He *removed the threat*.

 The fact that eye witnesses have since come forward and implied that Mulder
may have acted improperly, that he did not identify himself in the proper
manner to allow the kid to release his weapon, have all but been dismissed.
And from what I can gather, he has been exonerated of all charges of
professional misconduct.

 I would like to question him myself on this.  Unfortunately, I haven't had
the opportunity since I have neither seen nor heard from him in over a week.

 Eight days have passed since he walked out of that hospital room, and to all
intents and purposes, out of my life.

 I heard about the OPR hearings through Skinner.  He visited once, bearing a
bouquet of white roses that invoked such painful memories in me that I actually
felt a physical pain inside my heart for a second.

 It was an awkward meeting to say the least.
Mulder had obviously brought him up to speed on my *condition* and he spent the
next forty-five minutes trying to say all the right things to me.
What he actually managed to say was absolutely nothing at all and after giving
me mumbled assurances that I was to take as much time as I needed, he left.

 I immediately summoned a nurse and asked her to remove the white roses from
the room.  She gave me an odd look but professionalism prevented her from
questioning me on it and she did as I requested.
She patently didn't understand.  But then I didn't expect her to.
No one understands.

 Except Mulder that is.  But he's not here.

I've tried calling him.
Several times in fact.

 I've tried to convince myself that I'm calling out of a need to know that
he's ok, out of concern for *him*.
But in reality I am just answering the selfish need inside myself to hear the
sound of his voice again.

 I miss him.  It's that simple.

 And yes, I'm also slightly worried about him, especially since I have no
idea where he is or what he's doing.
I didn't let it bother me for the first few days.  I tempered my worry by
telling myself he was just off somewhere nursing his Scully-inflicted wounds,
expecting foolishly, for him to return at least *one* of my messages.
When he didn't, I swallowed my pride and called Frohike to beg for
information as to his whereabouts.

Frohike was concerned.
Courteous.
Supportive.

And of absolutely no help whatsoever.
Either he doesn't know or he isn't saying, which of course help me not one
iota.

 All Skinner will tell me is that Mulder is on leave.  That after the
culmination of the OPR hearing he put in a request for some time off.
Time off Skinner apparently approved.
He professes to have no idea as to Mulder's whereabouts or what he is doing.
And that would be ok but for one small detail.

 He's lying.

 Skinner isn't a good liar.  He never has been.
But for all his inadequacies in that regard, he *is* highly skilled in the art
of protecting the agents under his command.
And right now he's protecting Mulder.
Or me.
Maybe both of us.  I don't know anymore.
And right now I am just too tired to think about it.
I feel like I have thought of nothing else for the past week and that, together
with a headache that has been pretty much constant since the shooting, has left
me feeling weak and shaky and totally unlike my usual self.

 But at least I'm home.
And that's a start I guess.

 I finally lift my forehead from where I rested it against the door and survey
my surroundings.  Mom has been here whilst I was in the hospital.
The place is spotless.  Not that I'm a particularly untidy person but, my
Mother brings new levels to the art of cleaning house.
Every surface gleams like new while vases of freshly cut flowers brighten
the room.  I love flowers although I rarely take the time to buy them.
My work with Mulder dictates that we travel a lot and I have found through
painful experience that returning from a gruelling case file to a home full of
wilting plant life is depressing to say the least.

 Oh yeah.  I stopped buying flowers a *long* time ago.

 I'm not as happy to be here as I thought I would be.
I've thought of little else other than to leave that stuffy, antiseptic room
in which I was incarcerated and I think my assurances to my Doctor that I would
be able to manage alone went a long way towards him agreeing to discharge me so
soon.

 But now, as I balance precariously on crutches that I am going to need for
quite some time to support my injured leg, I wish fleetingly to be back in that
uncomfortably hard bed surrounded by people whose only apparent purpose in life
was to get me well again.

 *Post operative depression* my Doctor^^s mind supplies helpfully, but I know
that isn't really the truth.

 I'm depressed, sure.
But not because of the injury.
I'm *depressed* because Mulder isn't here.
And I find myself needing him at this moment more than I have ever done since
the day we met.

 Why can't he see that?

 Does he really believe that by staying away he will achieve anything?

I shake my head in an effort to just stop torturing myself like this.
I promised myself I wasn't going to think about it anymore.

I'm tired and I need to let myself escape from all this, if only for a few
hours.  Briefly I consider the door that leads to my bedroom because the
thought of sinking in to my own bed is tempting to say the least.  But my leg
hurts and the few feet that separate me from it's entrance might as well be miles.

 So, instead I opt for the couch.

 It's not easy to find a comfortable position, but this is one of the few
times in my life when my small stature is a definite advantage and I am finally
able to ease my aching leg to rest before me along the full length of the
cushioned surface.

It's not ideal, but it will suffice for now.
Hopefully, if I can grab a couple of hours of sleep, I will be able to summon
up the energy to eat, or read or watch TV.  To do something, *anything* other
than wallow in this pit of self-pity that I myself have dug.

 My head is pounding and a sudden draught of cold air makes me shiver slightly
despite myself.  I briefly consider reaching up to grab the soft woollen blanket I
leave draped permanently over the back of the couch, but even that small action
seems too much like hard work right now.  So, instead, I cross my arms across
my chest for warmth and close my eyes.

 Later though, when I awaken, I am covered in a soft, sweet smelling familiar
warmth and I feel the edge of the blanket tickling my chin pleasantly, making
me rejoice.  Because without even opening my eyes I know.
No one else covers me with blankets whilst I am sleeping.

*He's here*.

Continued in chapter 5/6

Secrets 5/6

Georgetown Washington DC

 The apartment is shaded with that peculiar half-light that signifies the
beginning of night.  Not dark exactly, because even though there are no lights
lit, I have no trouble in making out Mulder's form, stretched out on the
chair opposite me.  Nevertheless, the shadows are enough to make me squint my
eyes to better focus on him.

 His arms hang over the sides of the chair and relaxed as he is in sleep, he
appears even more handsome to me than he usually does.
Mulder is a good-looking man - not in the traditional sense maybe - but I have
always enjoyed looking at him.

 I used to think that if I were to dissect his features piece by piece, I would
find plenty of faults.  His nose is a little too big, his lips slightly too
full to belong to a man, he has a high forehead, geeky ears.  But put back all
together they lend a certain quality to Mulder that cannot be found in most
others.
 

 And right now, unlike during his waking hours, his face is not marred by lines
and tension.  He reminds me of when we first met.  Before we embarked on a
journey that has in ways I cannot fully comprehend, shattered our lives.  Way
back before all this,  when he could bestow on me the gift of a smile that
seemed to radiate from his very soul.

 It's a memory of a Mulder I have almost forgotten existed.

 A Mulder I miss with all my heart.

 My leg has cramped during my extended nap and I know that I am going to have
to shift position sooner rather than later in order to ease it.

But not yet.  Because I know that as soon as I do, Mulder's senses will alert him to the
sound and he will awaken.

 I don't want that.

 Just for a minute, I want to do what I am unable to do when I am with him.

 I want to look at him.

 I want to drink in the goodness of him.

 Because when he wakes up I am going to do some straight talking for once.
*We* are going to do some straight talking.

 But, for now, I just watch the lengthening shadows of dusk creep up to darken
his face.  Enjoying, despite the difficulties that are sure to come as soon as he opens
his eyes, this unguarded view of him.

The pain is beginning to worsen.  Escalating rapidly from an ache to all out
agony and I know that if I don't seek to ease it soon, I will pay for my
reluctance later.

Gingerly, I brace myself on my elbow and shuffle awkwardly up the couch until
I am at an angle where I am able to ease my injured leg to rest on the floor.
I try to achieve the manoeuvre as quietly as I possibly can, but my movements
are hampered by stiffness and that, coupled with the fact that I am biting my
lip from the pain, takes away much of my habitual grace.

 I quickly flick my eyes to rest on Mulder, holding my breath as I do so.
Hoping against hope that my small movement hasn't woken him.

 But I should know better by now.

Watching him awaken is always a painful experience because, while normal
people drift gently out of the arms of sleep in degrees, allowing themselves
the luxury of a minute of delicious slumber before opening their eyes to face
the day ahead, Mulder literally throws himself awake.

 I wonder if it has always been this way for him and certainly, I have soothed
him through enough nightmares to know that sleep doesn't come easily for this
man.  But I hold on to the hope that one day in the future, he will be allowed
to enjoy the kind of restful, healing slumber others take for granted.

 As always, there is a momentary flash of fear on his face before he quickly
evaluates his situation, assuring himself that everything is *indeed* normal.
That whatever monsters that plague him during dreams have not followed him back
through his subconscious and in to the real world.

 *Monsters*.

 It's funny in a strange way because I never used to believe in monsters.
Even as I child I was never unduly troubled by the Boogymen who, Bill assured
me, resided beneath my bed.

 Now though I know from bitter experience that monsters come in many forms.

 And the most frightening are the ones we don't see.

 But, as always, his fear passes quickly and I am heartened by the tentative
smile that tugs at the corners of Mulder's beautiful mouth, transforming his
features and slicing ten years off him in one simple stroke.

 "I let myself in." He ventures.  Stating the obvious, since, to my
knowledge, for all his talents Mulder has not yet mastered the art of walking
through walls.

"I knocked twice and when you didn't answer I got worried.  You were
sleeping."

 He sounds vaguely apologetic, as though he has done me a terrible wrong by
being concerned.  That I would have preferred it if he'd simply turned on his
heel and walked away without a second thought.

 But he wouldn't have been Mulder if he'd done that.

 The Mulder I know would have ripped that door apart with his bare hands if he
had felt I needed him.

 He's done it before.

 It's one of the reasons I eventually got around to giving him a key.

"It's ok."  I hear myself saying the words, but my voice sounds far
away.  Even to me.

"I'm glad you're here.  I...."

 I stumble then, unsure of how to proceed because he is gazing at me with such
understanding, such *yearning* that it takes my breath away.
I need to say the *right* things to him tonight.  Because I know that if I
fail, I might never get another chance.

He misunderstands though, because he is on his feet in a second.

"You're in pain."

I nod dumbly.  Refusing  to contradict him on this particular point.  And in
all honesty, I'm grateful for the time to gather my thoughts as Mulder heads
for the kitchen to bring me water.
He's back within seconds, having discovered the analgesics that my Mom
thoughtfully placed on the kitchen table before she left.
Placing two of the pills in my palm, Mulder hands me the glass before he sits
back down.  He scrutinises me carefully as I put them in my mouth, ensuring
that I actually take them.
Mulder hates to see me in pain.

Finally, after setting the glass down, I am able to carry on.
 
"I've been calling you.  I wondered where you were.  I've missed you
Mulder."

 There.

 I've said it.

 *I missed you*.

 It's not something I've ever really considered before now.  Whenever
we've been separated, I have buried any feelings I might have had beneath the
layers of self-deception that cloak my emotions.  To admit to myself or to him
that when we are apart I feel as though half of me is missing, would be to
admit my true feelings.

 Feelings I have tried so damn hard to keep hidden from him.

He shifts slightly in the chair and just by seeing the shadowed expression
that crosses his face I know he is surprised by my words.

 Surprised by my need.

But I have spent hours and hours this past week trying to get things straight
in my head.  Thinking harder than I have ever conceived possible.

 I accepted a long time ago that our relationship could never be categorised in
the traditional sense, that what binds us together cannot be explained in
simple terms.

He is not merely my partner.  Much more than that he is also my friend.  My
protector.  My *lover*.

 These words do not come close to describing what we share.  Our relationship
is none of these things, but at the same time it is *all* of them.

 Because Fox Mulder has become my lover in every sense of the word.

 We might not share a physical relationship as such, but despite this, our
hearts and minds have become intertwined in a way that transcends mere sexual
intimacy.

 We became lovers a long time ago.

 I shiver slightly, suddenly aware of the chill in the room and I wonder if
Mulder feels it too.

 As if he can read my mind, he rises slowly from his position opposite me and
pads across the carpeted floor until he is standing above me.

 For just a second, I find his proximity slightly unnerving because he seems so
much taller than usual.  Blocking out what little light is left in the room.
But then he crouches before me, resting one hand lightly on my exposed arm
while the other hand reaches up to gently caress my cheek.
I close my eyes, enjoying the light pressure as his thumb traces a line across
my face and down my neck before finally coming to rest on my shoulder which he
squeezes gently.

"Cold?"

 I shrug slightly, careful not to dislodge his hand which is warming me through
the thin cotton sweater I am wearing.

"A little." I admit quietly.

 In response to my words he reaches for the discarded blanket with his free
hand and uses the pressure on my shoulder to gently draw me forwards, bringing
the blanket around my back as I do so.  He pulls it's edges together so that it now
cocoons me.

 He is only inches away from me now and our faces are so close I can actually
feel the warm puffs of air on my skin as he breathes.  For some reason, this
close proximity makes my heart flutter painfully against my chest.  Which is
ridiculous really, since we have been as close as this on countless occasions.
But maybe it has more to do with the way he is looking at me.

 Sorrow, respect, concern.  And something else.

 Something that for all my understanding of this complex man, I can't seem to
put my finger on.

 He looks tired, used up.  And not for the first time I wonder just where
he's been for the past eight days.

 And although something tells me that he wasn't simply on leave as Skinner
suggested, I'm almost afraid to question further.  Because my every instinct
screams out to me that I am better off not knowing.  So, instead I just stare
back at him, drinking in his goodness, inhaling his scent as he hovers before me.

"Why didn't you tell me Scully?"

 There is such defeat in his tone and hearing him this way causes my heart to
almost crack in two.

 *Why didn't I tell him?*

 How can I put in to words something I barely understand myself?

 How do I make him see that I chose to tell him for all the right reasons?
Reasons I have since discovered were so *wrong*.

 And how can I hope to make him understand that this *isn't* his fault?

 Mulder has spent his adult life carrying the collective guilt of the world on
his shoulders.  It is mostly unfounded and I have watched it almost consume him
during the seven years I have known him.  Guilt over his Sister.  His Father's death.
Melissa's death.  My cancer.

 *My life*.

 A life he sees himself as being solely responsible for destroying.

 But he isn't responsible.

 We make our own choices and I made mine long ago.  My choice was to stay
with him because dying alongside him was always preferable to living in a world
without him.

 He is waiting for an answer from me.  Waiting patiently as I attempt to gather
my thoughts together enough to put in to words all the things I feel in my
heart.

 I *will* succeed.
I'll do it for *him*.

 I can't look at him though.  So I drop my eyes from his before taking a deep
breath and when I finally speak, my voice is so low it is almost inaudible.

"I didn't tell you because I'm not strong enough to watch you destroy
yourself for a second time.  Because I'm tired, so *tired* of seeing you
hurting and not being able to make it go away."

 His fingers tighten painfully on my shoulder for a second as my admission
sinks in, but I ignore it.

"I'm just so tired of it all Mulder.  Of the pain and the betrayal and the
*hurt*.  But I;m so sorry I didn't come to you.  Sorry because I was
wrong.....and I know now that I've never...."

 I feel the familiar tightness in my throat as it closes up, my eyes burning as
a week of unshed tears threaten to steal my words from me.  But despite this, I
swallow and force myself to carry on.  Raising my head to look at him.  Giving
myself the courage I need to finish what I have started.

"I've never been so wrong about anything in my life.  I thought I was
protecting you, when all the time I was just trying to protect myself.  And I
hate myself for it...."

 I stop then.  Unable to carry on as my chest hitches painfully as, suddenly I
am crying.

 *Shit*

 I promised myself I wouldn't do this.

 So much for promises.

 I don't want him to see me cry.  Not like this.  I wanted so much to be
strong for him and I realise I have failed once again.  Squeezing my eyes shut
as I turn away from him.

 Just as I've turned away from him so many times before.

 This time it's different though.  Because this time he refuses to allow me
to hide and before I have time to comprehend what is happening, Mulder is on
the sofa beside me, intercepting my movement and pulling me roughly towards
him.  Holding me so tightly I can feel his heart beating through the layers of
clothing that separate us.

 He buries his face in my hair and I feel him shaking as he finally breaks
down.  Crushing me against him as though he is afraid that at any moment I will
fly away.  That by holding on to me he will somehow keep me safe.

 This knowledge shatters me even more because I know with absolute certainty
that this time it won't matter how hard he fights or how much he loves me.

 This time there can be only one outcome.

 So I cry for everything that has been taken from us.

 For all the things we will never have.

 For all our hopes and dreams that will end before they have even begun to be
realised.  For a chance at true happiness most others take for granted.

 Because we can only ever expect pain.
So much pain to be borne by two people.

 But mainly I am crying because I know that my pain, compared to Mulder's,
will be brief.

 His will last a lifetime.

Continued in chapter 6/6

SECRETS 6/6
 

 We stay in each others arms for a long while.  Holding on to each other as if
for life itself.
 
 We've been close before, but never like this.
 
 Because this time, I feel as though I am one with him.  As though our hearts
and minds have succumbed to all that has gone before, both enduring many
painful separations  until finally we have reached this point.
 
 I am aware of nothing, and yet my every sense is awakened at the feel of him
against me
 
 His every movement, his every breath magnified in my consciousness a thousand
times until his presence succeeds in enveloping me completely.
 
 He is my blanket, my protection from the bitter chill and biting winds of
life. And I allow myself to sink in to this protective warmth, allowing myself,
maybe for the first time, to really *feel* him.

 This is where I am supposed to be.  I think I've always known that.  I've just
never allowed myself to admit it before now.  But while I'm not sure where we
go from here, I am sure of one thing.
 
 That this feels *right*.
 
 And I draw a small measure of comfort from the thought that through all the
misery and the hurting and the loss and the pain, we have at least finally
reached the place we are in now.
 
 I can't help but wonder what he is thinking, Is he holding me like this out
of a sense of friendship?
 
 Out of a sense of duty, in deference to all we have shared?  Will he pull away
from me?
 
 We've come so close before, so close to breaking down the barriers that
separate us.  But something has always held us back.
 
 Held *me* back.
 
 Maybe it is the feel of his hands in my hair, caressing gently as I sob in his
arms that allows me to remember all the times I have turned away from him.  Not
willing to take what he offered.  But, like my life flashing before my eyes,
every kiss, every caress, every teasing moment we have ever shared takes on a
whole new meaning.
 
 Why did I never see it before?
 
 Why am I being allowed to fully understand what he means to me now that it is
too late?
 
 Is it retribution for all my past indiscretions?  To be offered a glimpse of
all that might have been only to have it torn away from me before I have had a
chance to even fully understand it?
 
 My headache, miraculously has diminished, and I can almost imagine it's not
there at all, but the fact remains that I am dying.  Second by second, minute
by minute, hour by hour, I am dying in degrees.
 
 Every second that passes means the time I will have to say good bye to him is
getting closer.
 
 Not enough time.
 
 There could never be time enough for me to say to him all that I need to say.
 
 So many wasted years.
 
 And now it's too late.
 
 I know this man, possibly better than he knows himself.  We have walked side
by side through every imaginable horror,  drawing strength from each other when
everything has seemed hopeless, when the dark has threatened to envelop us, he
has always been there for me, allowing me to make it through to the other side.
 
 And while I have never really voiced it, I know it to be true.
 
 Because I *know* him, just as he knows me.
 
 The room has grown dark now, and only the soft glow of the street lamps
prevent the inky blackness of night from consuming us completely, but still we
don't move.
 
 My tears have begun to dry, tickling my face as my skin tightens beneath them,
but still we remain, locked together,  two lost souls who have begun to find
their way home, drawing comfort from each other in an attempt to face the
journey ahead.
 
 I keep my eyes closed, enjoying the feel of him against me.
 
 Enjoying the feel of his strong arms wrapped around me, the pressure of his
chin as it nuzzles the crown of my head, breathing me in, allowing our bodies
to relax against each other.
 
 We don't need words right now.
 
 Nothing we could say to each other will ever add to this moment.
 
 And I am conscious of my tears, once again spilling from the confines of my
closed lids as stark realization forces itself upon me.
 
 *How can I leave him to make the journey alone?*
 
 How will he find his way without me by his side?
 
 He once called me his touchstone, his guiding light.  I thought I understood
his sentiments when he whispered those words to me not so very long ago.
But now I know, when he allowed himself to admit them he was opening his
heart to me.
 
 As I have opened mine to him.
 
 But every heart can be broken.  Shattered in to a million pieces by our own
frailties, we carry on through life trying in vain to put them back together,
to repair a hurt so great that we forget about those around us who are hurting
too.
 
 And right now Mulder is hurting.
 
 I feel it in his every breath, and more than anything, I want to take that
hurt away from him, if only for a short while.
 
 I want him to be whole again.
 
 I know how to achieve it too.  And in a world that has become so complicated
for both of us, the simplicity is such that it prompts a physical ache deep
inside me.
 
 It's so quiet now, as though the world has ceased to exist around us, leaving
us alone to enjoy this newfound closeness, to listen to the sound of our hearts
beating as one.
 
 This is *our* time.
 
 No distractions, no sounds to take us away from this moment.  It is as though
we are the only two people left on Earth.
 
 I am aware of him as I have never before been.
 
 He is the only thing that matters to me now.
 
 And although a small voice inside of me is urging me to *think* about where
this might be heading, I refuse to acknowledge it.  Because deep down I know it
is time.  It is time for me to finally answer the burning need that has festered inside
of me for so many years.  To take the final step towards the barrier that has separated
us for so long, to *admit* to him and myself the very thing we have worked so hard
at denying.
 
 I need this.
 
 And although he would never admit it, Mulder needs it too.
 
 No more games.  No more teasing innuendo, this is real.  It might be the
only thing left to us that is.
 
 Slowly, I draw my face away from where it rests against his shoulder, and as I
do so, Mulder drops his eyes to meet mine.  Even in the darkness, I can see the
delicate golden flecks within them.
 
 How many times have I looked in to the myriad emotions swirling within the
depths of those chameleon eyes and refused to really see?
 
 But tonight I feel a million questions burning in my heart.  Voices inside my
head clamoring to be heard at last.
 
 And slowly, so slowly, I lightly trace my fingers across his shoulders, my
touch so light I can barely feel him, never allowing my gaze to waver as I
finally cup his beautiful face between the palms of my hands.
 
 "Scully?"
 
 He makes no attempt to escape my caress, although I see something in his
expression subtly alter as he voices that single word that speaks directly to
my heart,  brows dipping slightly in confusion.
 
 He is scared, I see it plainly in his eyes, scared of what I am about to do,
of the barriers I am demolishing piece by painful piece, barriers that he has
hidden behind all his life. But nonetheless, he remains in front of me, as
though frozen in time, watching me watching him.
 
 My heart is beating painfully, and deep down within myself I feel a fluttering
against my ribcage, as though a thousand butterflies are seeking escape.

 How long has it been since I've drawn a breath?  I'm not sure at this moment
whether I will ever be able to breath again.
 
I have never been this close to another Human Being in my life.
 
This closeness transcends the mere physical.
 
This is something else.
 
 Something so intrinsically wonderful that I wish with all my heart that I
could stay in this place for all eternity.
 
 I draw him towards me, gently coaxing him with the touch of my fingers against
his face,  reassuring him with both my voice and with my hands.
 
"Ssssssssshhhhhhhhh"
 
 And finally, as though in a dream, I bring my lips to his, closing my eyes to
better savor the sheer beauty of this moment, feeling Mulder shudder against me
as he brings his arms around me, encircling me so completely I feel I could
drown in him.
 
 Even as I am tasting him for the first time, I can't help remembering the last
kiss we shared.  Watching the rest of the world celebrating a new beginning,
oblivious to the horrors that might even now lay before them.
 
 Mulder and I hadn't celebrated.
 
 We were simply glad to be alive.
 
 This is different though, because this is *real*.
 
 This time we allow ourselves to feel each other, to savor this moment, which
even in the midst of such heartache, speaks of a new beginning, a new chapter
in our lives.
 
 We have both lost so much.  Almost too much to still be able to function in a
world that has long been hardened to the hopes, dreams and desires of the
people who inhabit it.

 But if I've learned anything during my time with Mulder, it's that hopes and
dreams go hand in hand.
 
 That even if we don't always prevail in our search for retribution, it is the
journey we take that is truly the most important thing.
 
 My Father used to tell me that where there's life there's hope.
 
 And as I feel Mulder's tears mingling with my own as we sink deeper in to each
other, I pray that he was right.
 
 Because at this moment I realize that even in the midst of dying I am finally
alive for the first time.
 
**********
 
 

Epilogue
 

I came here tonight to talk to her.

To tell her the truth.

And as I sat watching her sleep, I was sure that the decision I had made was
the right one.

The *only* one.

I'm not sure how long she slept, or which place or time she visited in her
dreams, or what prompted her to call out my name with such yearning it almost
tore me apart.

I had expected her to awaken, but she had merely groaned softly and shifted
position slightly, unconsciously hugging the soft woollen blanket I had tucked
around her, tighter to her chest.

Maybe it was a nightmare.

But then again, if I was in it could it have been anything less?

And now,  hours later, she is once again sleeping.  Nestled against me like an
over-sized kitten, head resting against my chest she is stretched out full
length on the sofa.

*Full length and still she doesn't come close to filling the space.*

I try not to think of Scully as anything less than an equal, but right now, she
seems tiny,  fragile china that will shatter with too much rough handling.
But appearances are deceptive, and inside this extraordinary woman is a network
of steel and fire unlike anything I have ever experienced before.

She is strong.  Far stronger than I could ever hope to be.

I came here tonight expecting an all out verbal assault from her.

Questions, anger, frustration that I had ditched her yet again.

And if she had remained true to her previous form, had battered me with her
demands for explanation, I have no doubts that I would have kept my promises
and told her everything.

But she didn't ask.

Once again, Scully had gazed at me with her incredible eyes and forgiven me.

Just as she's forgiven me in the past.

But still, I could have told her.

*Would have told her*

Even as I held her in my arms my mind was formulating a thousand different
openings.  Searching for ways to find a way to admit to her what I have done.
To make her understand the reasons why I had to do it.

The memory of that day in the ER is still fresh in my mind, an open wound that
refuses to heal, oozing a nauseating combination of guilt, betrayal and horror.

She lied to me.

I trust her more than anyone in the world, and yet she didn't trust me enough
to tell me.

My first instinct had been to run.  I'm skilled in the art of denial.  I've
spent my whole life denying my very existence, hiding behind thinly veiled lies
so as to protect myself from what was really important to me.  Building walls
so impenetrable that I had almost forgotten they existed.

Until that miraculous day when Scully walked in to my life.

I still hide sure, but now I know what's important and what isn't.

And that's why I have done what I've done.  To preserve what is most important
to me.  To allow a light to keep burning brightly in a world full of darkness.

Dana Scully.

My guiding light.

I can still feel the touch of her lips against mine, a combination of softness
and steel as she kissed me, a tentative promise of things to come.

And she has changed me forever.

In that instant, as the ground beneath us shifted subtly, placing us on a level
I never before knew existed, I knew that whatever happens in the future, she
must never know what I have done.  She will never forgive herself if she knows.

Because I have made a deal with the Devil for Scully's life.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth the bible tells us.
But this goes so much deeper.  Deeper than anything mortal men can control.

Gently I bring one of my hands from where it rests against her shoulder and
bring it up to gingerly touch the small ridge of puckered flesh at the nape of
my neck.  The scar is still fresh, but tiny enough to be almost unnoticeable
beneath my hair.  I insisted upon it.

But despite it's size, it burns beneath my fingers, a constant reminder of what
I have done.  A final gamble.

No going back.

No second chances.

*My secret*
 

END
 

Author's notes - Before you all flame me, I should tell you that this is the
first in a series of three that have been floating around my head for a long
time.  It will all make sense eventually, I promise!  :o)

Once again. my undying appreciation to Pam and Jina.  You both made writing
this thing *so* easy and so much fun.  The encouragement and support you both
gave made me carry on even when I felt like throwing the damn puter out the
window. Also, huge thanks to Peg who came in right at the last minute and added
a wonderful insight in to what I had written.   Your comments and suggestions
made for another night of editing <g> but the final result was worth it.
Thanks to you all!  :)