PASSAGES
By Maren
skeptic78@hotmail.com

********************
CLASSIFICATION~MSR, S/other
RATING~PG
SPOILERS~Er, nothing really...but it's set somewhere in Season 6
VIOLENCE~Hah!
SUMMARY~During a night on the town, Scully meets someone who makes
her rethink the inevitability of her and Mulder's relationship
(Scully gets some, okay???) =)

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

She didn't think anyone would have ever guessed her favor-
ite way of amusing herself. By day a restrained, detached pro-
fessional, by night a...well, one look at her closet would have
been enough to understand. To one side were the practical skirts
and pantsuits her coworkers probably couldn't imagine her out
of, the color beige predominating, and complementary sensible
heels lined up neatly below. As one would expect.

And the other side of her closet was jammed with outfits
of the wildest and most outrageous styles. Low-slung flared
pants, leather miniskirts, shirts whose only purpose was to dis-
play as much skin as possible, whether they had indecently low
v-necks, ended at the navel, or a combination of both. Thrown in
between were such items as tiny spaghetti-strap tank tops,
feather boas, and tight vinyl jackets. Everything was made from
equally extravagant fabrics, from thin black mesh to stretchy
crimson velvet to some sort of synthetic material which shone
silver one way and purple another. In a messy heap below were
the shoes to match-- red stilettos, leather boots a la Pretty
Woman, platforms worthy of Ginger Spice. Dana Scully was a se-
cret club girl.

She didn't go out every weekend, sometimes not even every
month. Often it was enough just to look at the outfits she'd as-
sembled, or try on five-inch heels and a halter top, to tease
her hair up into the auburn mane no one ever saw, to use the
bright, glittery makeup from the back of the drawer and look at
herself in front of the mirror and imagine their faces if they
knew. His face. And when it was all too much, when she grew
tired of looking into microscopes at blood which turned out to
be the dog's and interviewing idiotic people who "didn't see
nothing" and putting up with an endless barrage of insane theo-
ries and carelessly tossed off innuendoes which were never fol-
lowed by anything real, then it was time. Friday night she would
streak home, forgo the warm bath and mood music which often suf-
ficed, and be back in DC inside of a couple of hours.

It only took her twenty minutes, tops, to forget everything
once she was inside a club. The thudding beat of the techno-
eighties remixes she loved, the flashing lights and moving
colors and the sense of hundreds of other hot bodies moving
and gyrating and *living* all gave her enough stimulation to
destroy the mindset of quiet autopsy rooms and long dull
drives and hours spent poring over files and reports. She would
stop thinking, and start dancing.

There was yet another thing no one would have ever suspected about
Scully. Prior to entering medical school, she had seriously
considered a career in modern dance. Her teen years had been spent
in dance classes and practicing with friends, and in her freshman
year at the University of Maryland, she had even joined the
competing dance team. She had, of course, dropped out for more
serious pursuits, having been captured by the abstract
fascination of relative physics, but the love had stayed with
her. Taciturn and reserved in daily life, for her nothing else
ever quite matched the feeling of moving with the music, of tak-
ing everything inside her and expressing it with her body. Club-
bing was her escape, her release, her way of coping with another
life she had turned away from and maybe shouldn't have.

Tonight she wasn't tired at all. In one of her more conservative
outfits--a deep v-neck, black flared hip-huggers, and velvet
platforms--she had just found her groove in a crowded corner of the
floor. She closed her eyes, the flashing strobe lights cutting into
the red darkness, and moved along with Lenny Kravitz. She was aware
of nothing but lights and music and the pressure of nearby strangers,
and slowly it came upon her, that wonderful lost feeling which was
always her goal, the faraway high where she was entirely alone
and totally connected at the same time. The sensation wasn't
something she could ever explain to anyone, the clichéd descrip-
tion of "feeling at one with the world" being something straight
out of a sixties acid trip, but it was nevertheless the comple-
tion of herself. She was a scientist to the core, took intense
pleasure in her work of both helping others and unraveling com-
plicated problems, but she knew that her true self was there in
the music. Clubbing wasn't just an escapist tool, or even a se-
cret life, but a way of channeling the real Dana Scully, the
Dana who had gotten lost somewhere between bureaucratic shuf-
flings and grueling investigations and shadowy conspiracies and
the transference of her identity to her surname. At this moment,
if she thought about herself at all, the name "Scully" never en-
tered her mind. She was gone.

So it scared the hell out of her when she was abruptly
knocked to the floor by a hurtling would-be raver who launched
himself into the region of her knees. Jerked out of her higher
plane by this unexpectedly violent action, her first move, em-
barrassingly enough, was to reach for her gun. Finding nothing
at the small of her back but the floor, she lay there for a mo-
ment, stunned. She became aware first of the continuance of the
lights and music, next of the concerned circle forming around
her, and finally of her assailant, who was lying facedown on her
legs, his head in an indecent place, presumably in the same
stunned condition as she. After a minute, someone pulled him up
by the shoulders, a friend or girlfriend, she couldn't tell
which, and she caught a glimpse of his face, hanging slack in
the abandonment of being thoroughly wasted. Now someone was
crouched down next to her, helping her to sit up, feeling the
back of her head and neck with quick, gentle hands. "Are you
OK?" was shouted into her ear by a male voice, and she nodded,
feebly. "I'm a medical doctor" she tried to answer, but the
noise made her thin voice inaudible. The circle began to dis-
perse, there being no titillating promise of blood or death, and
the dancers closed in again. Her rescuer pulled her gently to
her feet, put her arm over his shoulder, and together they made
their way to a fashionable, ridiculously tiny plexiglass table
near the bar. Mounting the tall, slippery stool proved too much for
her, and somehow she found herself being guided to the front of the
club, and helped onto one of the blessedly comfortable leather
sofas in the coat room.

She sat with her head tilted back, eyes closed. The fall
had shaken her more than she wanted to admit, and the last
few minutes were still a noisy haze. Slowly her head cleared,
but she remained in the same position. She hadn't gotten a good
look at the man next to her, and she wasn't quite ready to deal
with strange men just yet. He held her right hand in his, a
natural and concerned gesture, and, after a moment, she decided
that there was no pressure of a ring. Not that it would matter,
of course. Probably some kid on the make, just barely past the
drinking age and hoping to score. Or some bald accountant.
Unintentionally, she became aware of the nearness of his thigh,
and the warmth of his dance-flushed body. A strange feeling crept
slowly over her, a tingling heat she had not experienced in years with
anyone but--She sat up and opened her eyes, roughly. She went to
clubs to get out of her life, not to remember its problems.

He was gorgeous. There was simply no other way to put it.
Sandy tousled hair which showed touches of grey just faintly,
warm brown eyes, flawless golden skin. His height on the small
side, so that he looked into her eyes rather than down at her,
but his build--christ, the man looked like Arnold. But an in-
telligent version, the scientist Arnold of "Junior," with the
goddamned wire rims to match. She sat stupefied for a moment,
glad of her injury to blame her speechlessness on. After a minute,
he spoke, mercifully.

"Are you all right now?"

"Yeah." Instinctive social courtesy kicked in, making her
speak the correct phrases and, thankfully, freeing the rest of
her mind to gawk at this wonder of a man sitting next to her. "I
mean--thank you. Thank you very much. I couldn't have gotten
out of there without your help. I don't--I don't know what the
hell happened. One second I was dancing, and the next, flat on
my back." She felt the blush, prayed to God he didn't see it.

"That intelligent young specimen of club boy had just mixed a few
too many types of illegal substances, I think." The voice. Smooth
and golden as his skin, with a touch of something foreign. Time
spent abroad, perhaps? A European education or mother or--Calm down,
Scully. No, damn it, Dana. She smiled.

"Probably." She looked desperately through the reserves of her mind,
usually so quick with a rational explanation or a witty comeback,
and found nothing. She smiled again.

"Did you say something out there about being a doctor?"

A subject at last. "Yes, I did. I'm a medical doctor."

"Where do you practice?"

"I don't--I'm an FBI agent."

She waited for the usual look, the usual joke--"So, do you
get a break from the IRS?"--but he only raised his eyebrows a
little.

"How do the two come together?"

"Well, my degree is in forensic pathology. I generally use
my medical expertise to perform autopsies, or examine biological
evidence." There they were at last, her normal speech patterns,
just when she didn't want them. She stopped thinking so care-
fully. "I don't do too much of that stuff lately, though."

"Hm." Did he care what she did? Did she care if he cared?
She thought about something else.

"I'm Dana, by the way. Dana Scully."

"I'm Liam Byrie." He put out his right hand to shake, and
realized he still held hers in his left. They smiled. He let go,
and they shook properly. "Pleased to meet you, Dr. Scully. Or is
it Agent Scully?"

"Just Dana. Please."

"Here to get away from the work world?"

"Something like that." A tiny pause. She willed herself
not to break it, but she did anyhow.

"So, what do you do?" So stupid. So modern dating game. So--
"Actually, never mind. It isn't that I don't care. I just--
you know the drill. Let's not play the usual statistics-swapping
game, all right?"

The smile he gave her told her that, for once, she had done exactly
the right thing.

"I was just going to mumble 'business', anyhow. I'm tired of the
game too." This pause was warmer, and she had no difficulty keeping
in keeping it. Silence gave her more time to study him, to realize
that in addition to being handsome and intelligent, he was also clearly
wealthy. His clothes were expensive and well-tailored, and she caught
a glimpse of a discreet silver watch on his wrist. She glanced up suddenly,
and saw that he was looking her over as well, and she had the feeling he
liked what he saw. They smiled together for what felt like the hundredth
time, and he spoke.

"You want to go somewhere?" Her look told him, and he took her hand again
to help her up.

Over coffee, the most conspicuous thing about their life
stories was their absence. Instead, they told the trivia of
their daily existence, her car troubles and his recent interest
in art collecting, her love of John Irving novels and his search
for a vet for his alsatian. There were the usual strange coinci-
dences--their mothers were both named Margaret, their favorite
musician was Tom Petty and he took his coffee with cream, no
sugar--but nothing that leaped out as an omen or a sign. In-
stead, she felt the melting comfort of being with someone she
had known her whole life. They rarely broke their gaze, and sat
in their intimate corner table long after their untouched third
cups had cooled. Once she brushed a piece of fluff from his arm,
half-consciously, and later he reached across to tuck a strand
of hair behind her ear, with no sense of obvious flirtation. She
could have stayed here forever. Slowly he began to open up a
little more, to talk about his youth. Both his mother and his
education had been European, the former originating in Denmark,
the latter occurring in Germany. Wealth was a given factor of
his life. He had been orphaned early. She responded in kind,
briefly detailing her childhood, the constant uprooting, and her
tangled feelings about her father. With a sense of dejá vú, she
told him, "I've always seemed to be trailing after a father fig-
ure", and then she knew she would have to tell him about Mulder.

It wasn't as difficult or as disruptive as she would have
imagined, mainly because she left the important parts out. He
listened as she described their differing view points, their
unspoken communication, and her frequent frustration. Then he
cut straight to the heart of the matter.

"So, what exactly is it that you investigate?" She frowned
a little. Explaining everything was unthinkable, had always been
so. She settled for the official definition.

"The paranormal," she told him, with a straight face and a
blank voice. For once, she managed to surprise him.

"Are you...? You are." He thought it over. "You mean, ESP
and poltergeists and aliens?"

"Pretty much. In addition to voodoo, mutants, and demon
fetal harvests." She knew she sounded flippant, but she cringed
inside at the mention of "aliens", and instinctively her hand
moved to the back of her neck.

"How--how do you quantify that?"

"I don't. Which is one of my main problems in life."

"And your partner?"

"Doesn't believe in quantifying the supernatural." She
cringed again at the familiar words, and banished the memory of
a particular face.

"So that's where you get the 'subjective vs. objective' debate you
were talking about. He believes what he believes, and that's the
truth, no matter what anyone tries to tell him. Whereas you need just
a little bit of scientific support."

"Remind me to never let you meet him. He doesn't like
hearing the truth about himself very much. I should know." She
heard the sudden raw edge come into her voice, and realized that
she was letting just a little too much show. In a moment she
would be babbling stories of government conspiracies and pouring
out the tale of seven years of banter verging on flirtation,
jealousy over old lovers, and so many near-misses she had for-
gotten most of them.

"But," she told him, looking straight into his eyes, "Mulder is one
of the many reasons I was at the club tonight. And I don't really
want to talk about those reasons."

"This morning."

"What?"

"It's two o'clock in the morning."

She jumped at this, looking around in confusion. The café
was as crowded as ever, the waitresses showing no sign of the
exhaustion that should have staggered them by now. He smiled at
her distress.

"It's an all-night place. For us night owls."

She looked back at him. "I'm afraid I'm not exactly a night owl.
I--well, I hate to say it, but I really do have to work tomorrow.
Nothing official, but, well...I was going to go to the lab at
Quantico and run some samples..." She trailed off, horrified at
the way her job had inexplicably crept into the conversation. Some
things just couldn't be gotten away from, she supposed. And in fact,
the magical spell of the evening was nearly broken. Her club girl
getup was beginning to feel ridiculous for someone her age. God,
she hadn't stayed out all night with a man since--well, not since
her undergraduate years. And her head hurt.

"I understand," he told her. "Not to mention the fact that
you had your little accident tonight. In fact, I should really
apologize for having--" She put up her hand to stop him. Hand-
some, rich, intelligent, completely understanding and sympa-
thetic--she couldn't bear thoughtful as well. Every moment with
this man just showed up even more sharply the differences be-
tween him and...other men.

"Not your fault. Not at all. All the same, I'll just--" she stopped,
remembering that she had taken the train, not wanting to hassle over
parking. She hadn't been planning to stay out all night either, and
now the last train was certainly gone.

Liam's perfection displayed itself in a new way, this time
in the form of psychic abilities.

"No car? It's all right. I'll take you." Her glance flicked down,
and she thought about that for a moment. The night had gone so
beautifully. The last thing she wanted to do was have sex when she
didn't feel like it, simply to ensure another such evening with this
man. Liam's clairvoyance struck again.

"I understand," he said, taking her hand. "I'm not in the mood tonight
either. I just want to make sure you get home safely." She looked up
into his smiling green eyes, and wondered if she was so tired after all.

"Let's go. I'm parked down the street."

x*x*x

Anticipation. Expectation. Waiting until Tuesday night was
the sweetest thing she'd ever done. She sat at her new desk, pen
poised over a case file, staring up thoughtfully at a heater
vent. Liam Byrie. The name was so musical, the syllables lilting and
sweet. Beautiful, but not as beautiful as the man who went with it.
Although beautiful wasn't what she would have called him. No, more
like handsome, gorgeous, perfection... She smiled a little at her
superlatives. And the way he said her name. She heard it spoken so
rarely, just the sound of it was a pleasure to her. And Liam seemed
to have a special way of saying it, in that soft, sweet foreign voice
of his, emphasizing the separate syllables, so that it came out "Day-na."
As if he wanted to linger over it. Liam and Dana...

"Scully!"

She started violently, dropping her pen on top of the case file she was
reading. Mulder was staring curiously at her from across the room, with
a look of puzzled amusement. She collected her scattered thoughts, and
took a deep breath.

"Yeah. What?"

"Where are you?"

"Pardon?"

"You've been staring at that vent for the past five minutes. Anything
up there relative to case file X20425?"

"Ah, no. Just spacing out, I guess. Sorry."

"Well, don't apologize. You've just been a little 'spacey' all day.
Anything going on?"

"No. Forget about it." Her answer was too quick and sharp,
she knew, but she really had no interest in discussing Liam with
Mulder. None whatsoever.

She looked back down at the file again before she could
catch his hurt look at her unwarranted irritability, and tried
desperately to concentrate. Dear God, did happiness come upon
her so seldom that she had to behave like a schoolgirl when it
did? Sitting around daydreaming, neglecting her work, and sniping at
Mulder. She had given that last one up a long time ago, deciding
it was a hopeless attempt to fight back. Let him rattle off
those theories, disappear out of cellular range with his ex-
lover, mumble drugged declarations of love...She shook herself
suddenly. Christ, if she had to daydream at work, at least let
it be about Liam. And then she was off and gone again...

Monday passed with a mixture of pleasure and pain. She
tried to make up for her earlier sharpness by not making a sin-
gle snide remark or even raising that eyebrow--tried. (Ident-
ifying a mysterious green substance as ectoplasm left by a
vengeful ghost really was a bit too much, especially when the
tests showed that it was almost certainly human mucus.) Still,
by the end of the day they had hardly exchanged more than the
necessary phrases for their work. At eight o'clock they finally
decided to call it quits. She was packing her things slowly,
still lingering over a bit of conversation from Friday night,
when she looked up suddenly. He was holding the door for her,
with an expression she knew she'd seen before. She managed to
place it as the one he generally reserved for her hospital bed-
side, a mixture of concern and tenderness.

Then, with a start, she saw it again--on Liam's face as she
opened her eyes on the leather couch in the club. She wondered
despairingly if she would see Mulder in every man she was ever
interested in, or, conversely, if she would only be interested
in the men she saw Mulder in. Then she realized that they had
been staring at each other for several minutes, and that his
expression had changed to one she had only seen once before...

Before he could cross the room as she knew he would, she
looked down quickly, knowing this time that her blush was visi-
ble. Damn him. Goddamn the bastard to hell. Inner swearing had
never done anything for her before, and it did nothing now, but
at least it fixed her attention somewhere else as she gathered
coat, purse and briefcase and swept out the door, never looking
up. Because she didn't know if he really would have done it, or
if she had imagined everything.

That was always the problem--never knowing. There were times
when she was absolutely certain that he was in love with her,
that he must feel the same heat as she did whenever they were
near each other. And then there were other times, when he
contented himself merely with those stupid lewd jokes, when she
watched him disappear alone on one of his wild hunches, when
she saw him holding hands or dancing with...she shook her head
with a strange sort of heartache, as she reached her car door and
unlocked it. She had never considered jealousy to be one of her
more prominent traits; but then she had discovered many things about
herself lately. Over the years, Mulder had managed to bring out
qualities in her she had never realized she possessed--intense
loyalty, maternal protectiveness, and at last a sort of tender
melting love which she had always deemed to be the sole province of
silly, sentimental girls.

Unfortunately, the person upon whom she had chosen to focus
this entirely unexpected aspect of her personality also seemed
wholly oblivious to it. Too proud to express her feelings without
just a little bit of encouragement, she currently languished in a
maddening state of uncertainty--catching her breath when he came near,
lying awake at night composing pathetic beginnings of absurd
confessions, and trying desperately to puzzle out the feelings of
her enigmatic partner.

But now...despite the fact that she had known Liam for such
a short time, something small and long-ignored inside of her
whispered that perhaps she might finally be able to forget seven
years of insanity, that there was still the possibility of happiness
for her. As she pulled out of the FBI parking garage, and headed
towards the interstate, she let herself drift again into hazy daydreams
of the handsome man who was more than an acquaintance but not yet a
friend, of his smile, the security she felt with him, the sweet easy
rapport which they had forged in just a few hours. And put her partner
out of her mind.

Tuesday managed to be worse. As soon as she walked in the door,
Mulder announced that today should be an office day, as they had
no current active cases. So they spent it in their cramped basement
hole, jostling elbows and bumping into each other, completing forms
and clearing out drawers, and the air grew almost visibly thick
with the tension of such close quarters. She found as many reasons
as possible to leave, whether it was to make photocopies or get
information which she could just as easily have telephoned for.
Every time she reentered the office he looked up, and his expression
managed to simultaneously to give her feelings of intense maternal
tenderness, and absolutely infuriate her. What right did he have
to be acting so possessive and hurt? He didn't tell her every-
thing in his life, as had been made painfully obvious
(Dianadianadiana), so what was wrong with a secret of her own?

They were meeting at a truly "nice" restaurant, the kind with a
dress code and menu prices which approached her weekly salary,
but she would have been just as happy at McDonald's, as long as
she could see him again. His face had occupied her mind for the
past four days, and she had begun to worry about herself.
Infatuation or obsession? It had been so long since she'd felt
this way, her perspective was distorted. She decided on infatuation.

Everything went so slowly. The pile of papers in front of
her stubbornly refused to disappear, the filing drawers were
bottomless, and if they brushed hands reaching for the same case
folder once more she was going to scream. Did this office have
to be so damn small? Did they have to have so many damn papers
and files and printouts and copies? Did they have to sit here in
this charged silence which she had learned to ignore over the
years, and which was now pushing her to the point of insanity?
 

She pushed her chair away from the desk abruptly, and
looked up at the clock with a sharp sigh. To her absolute amaze-
ment, it was five-thirty--the time she had set for her departure.
Muttering thanks to the goddess of time, who had at last come
through for her, she rose quickly and gathered her usual baggage.
She was just reaching the door when he spoke.

"Whoa, wait. Where are you going?"

"I--I'm leaving now. Didn't I tell you I was leaving at
five-thirty?" Her words were eager and jumbled together,
betraying her desperation.

"No, you didn't. Why so early?"

"I--have to be somewhere."

"Where?"

That did it. She wasn't going to sit here all day, putting
up with his silent martyr routine, and then endure questioning
as well.

"That is none of your goddamn business, Mulder, and I re-
sent your asking me."

She almost wanted him to get angry, so that she could apologize
and clear the air, then leave with a clear conscience, but
instead he went for innocent hurt.

"What, do you have a date you don't want me to know
about?"

"Why the hell wouldn't I want you to know that I had a
date?"

He shrugged, maddeningly. It suddenly occurred to her that
she had nothing to hide. Maybe telling him would shock him into
cutting it out, into quitting this stupid stupid game of arousing
her feelings but never giving her enough to risk it, always
leaving things just at the point of a joke or boredom-induced
flirtation.

"Yes, I do have a date," she said suddenly, calmly. "His name is
Liam, he's extremely rich and handsome, and I'm meeting him in
two and half hours."

She wished she'd tried this years before. The look on his
face was worth a thousand lousy dates. He tried flippancy again
after a moment, but it came off hollow and lost.

"Oh, right. Then he'll fly you in his private helicopter
to a resort in Fiji for cocktails. Have fun."

"I fully intend to. And I will see you tomorrow morning."

She went out. As she closed the door, she caught one last
glimpse of him, and wished she hadn't. The bantering look was
gone, and the naked emotion on his face broke her heart. She
stopped for a moment, and leaned against the wall, closing her
eyes. What if she went back in right then? What if she finally
took the chance, put her arms around him, and told him all the
things she could hardly put into words? Two things came into her
mind at the same time. The first was the image of him pulling
away, frowning at her and asking her not to ruin their partner-
ship, and didn't she realize he'd only been joking? And the sec-
ond was Liam's face as she told him about losing her father, so
sweet and open and caring. She opened her eyes and went up-
stairs.

x*x*x

Taking the extra time for her nails had been worth it. She
loved the way they looked, the French manicure giving just the
right touch of sophistication to her small hands as she picked
up various utensils and glasses, wiped her mouth with her nap-
kin. Worth it because nothing else about tonight had gone right.

She had been unable to find the restaurant for twenty minutes.
Once she had arrived, she found that Liam had already been
seated, so it took an additional ten minutes to convince the
maitre d' to allow her to enter the dining area. Then it turned
out that he'd already ordered for them both, heavy steak dinners
when all she wanted was a nice simple piece of fish. Her clothes
were all wrong, of course. She'd tried to combine several looks,
something in between her sensible career look and the girlish
club clothes he'd met her in, and had ended up with an ensemble
of garments which she neither wore often nor particularly liked.
It was the kind of outfit she'd used to wear to go visit her
grandmother in--practical, with flat heels and a midlength
skirt, yet feminine, with a pink twinset. She hated pink. She'd
even left off wearing her cross tonight, for fear of alienating
him, and felt not only underdressed and frumpy, but naked as
well.

And now they were eating awkwardly, with none of the
spontaneous magic which had sprung up between them four nights
ago, and she could hardly choke down the thick meat and its rich
sauce. She kept having to take sips of water, but every time she
picked up the glass her ring clinked awkwardly, and her napkin
fell off her lap three times, and the waiter had to replace her
fork after she dropped it on his foot, and now Liam was asking
her about dessert...

He looked wonderful, of course, and perfectly at home in
the muted elegance around him. He cut his food with continental
flair, and seemed not at all disconcerted by the fact that they
had hardly spoken to each other all evening. She was crying in-
side. No, that wasn't it, she was dying, and this is what you
get, you silly girl, for having fantasized about a handsome
stranger all weekend, and she wondered how Mulder was getting on
with all the work she'd left him...

"Dana, look at me." She did, and realized what had been
wrong with the evening, that she had scarcely looked into his
eyes all night. One glance, and she was home.

"I know you think something is wrong," he told her. "But
believe me, everything's fine." He reached across the table and
took her hand. "Different surroundings, a different atmosphere,
and we haven't seen each other for four days. Give us a chance,
Dana. Things don't have to happen overnight." He smiled at her.
She found it ironic that he should say that, about things not
happening overnight. No one in the world knew that better than
she.

"I know that," she said, smiling back. "And I'm sorry if
I've seemed a little too--expectant tonight. I've just been
looking forward to this very much." He squeezed her hand a lit-
tle. "Do you want dessert?" she asked.

He looked down at her plate, still covered with most of a
steak dinner, and smiled.

"I think we can pass, sweetheart. I'm sorry about the
steak. Next time I'll know."

"I prefer fish," she told him, lightheaded. Sweetheart.
Next time.

He flagged a passing waiter and asked for the check, then
turned back. "So...where shall we go? A movie? A walk?" She
merely smiled, and said nothing. A glow crossed his face, and he
matched her smile. "Right. I have a place--very close by, actu-
ally. Is that all right?"

He really wants to know if it's all right, she thought
dazedly. He's asking me. And once again she just smiled.

x*x*x

Liam's apartment was indeed very close by, and she under-
stood his choice of restaurant with only the slightest feeling
of resentment at his presumptuousness. He led her by the hand up
two flights of stairs, disdaining the elevator, and then stopped
in front of a modest door. There he fumbled with a huge ring of
keys for a minute while she looked around, shivering a little.
Ever the observer, she noticed that the building seemed a bit
shabby for someone of his social position, the carpet a little
threadbare and the paint on the walls somewhat discolored. Then
she stopped thinking about it, because Liam had the door open
and was drawing her inside.

When he first kissed her, she nearly began to cry. It had
been so long since she'd touched a man this way, she'd forgotten
the sweetness of it, the intensity of being wrapped in his arms
while he told her without words how much he wanted her...He had
to take off her shirt and sweater for her. She was so lost in
the feel of his mouth against hers that she hardly noticed as
her clothes melted away. Then she responded in kind, undoing his
tie, unbuttoning his shirt, fumbling with cufflinks and belt. It
took both of them to undress him, and then they went down the
hall into his bedroom. She scarcely had time to look around as
he fumbled for the light switch, finally finding it behind an
armoire, and then they drew together again...They were naked to-
gether now, lying on the bed, and yes, she'd been right about
that build. She wanted to touch and kiss every inch of it, and
at the same time could hardly wait for the completion she knew
lay ahead. Clearly Liam had opted for the former choice, as his
hands slowly began running over her body, followed by his mouth.

It took a maddeningly long time for him to get to it. She
loved the feel of his caresses, his mouth on her breasts, fin-
gers tracing the curve of neck and chest and stomach, running
down further...but she couldn't wait for it. So many years of
being alone, and now that she had found the perfect, most tender
lover, all she wanted was a good old-fashioned lay. At last the
idea occurred to him as well. He moved into the timeless position,
and she closed her eyes and held his shoulders, and oh God, how
could she have forgotten about this...And things progressed from
there as they generally did, she heard her own gasps and moans
from far away, and as it happened she thought of Mulder all
alone in his apartment...

He wasn't finished, but she was. He'd come twice, but was
still touching her, trying to make her come again, confused as
to why she wasn't responding. And she lay there, stricken, ice
water in her veins as she realized that she couldn't even sleep
with goddamn Prince Charming in the flesh without thinking about
Mulder. Finally Liam kissed her firmly on the mouth, and she
knew that this was exactly how she wanted it, hard and fast, and
then he lay down next to her and went to sleep.

Death was not even an option. Because with her luck, she'd
become a fucking ghost, and haunt these two men for the rest of
eternity. Or would they haunt her? One of them certainly did.
And he wasn't the one asleep and naked on the bed next to her.
She dismissed suicide as an impractical notion, and moved to the
extreme opposite side of the bed. Sleeping was out of the ques-
tion.

She did anyhow, and woke up in that nasty time when it has
just gotten light, and you realize that you're supposed to be at
work, say, right now. She wondered about the exact time without
really caring, and picked up Liam's limp left hand to examine
his watch. Quarter to nine. About par for the course. Then she
dropped his hand again, and her veins were really getting the
workout lately, there was the ice water again, only this time
she thought she was going to be sick...She sat up quickly, try-
ing to remember where her clothes were. Awkward in her nudity,
she walked into the living room to retrieve them, feeling her
usual revulsion at putting on yesterday's clothes. Instead she
carried them with her into the bathroom, where she stepped into
the shower and turned it on full blast, insensitive to the burn-
ing heat of the water.

She stood there, not bothering with the small bottles of
hotel shampoo and conditioner scattered around her. A wedding
ring. Jesus fucking Christ. Of course. Of course. Of course. She
wondered if she would die or throw up, but she did neither, just
began to cry those tears you can only cry at the end of the
line, somewhere in between weeping and laughter. No, this was
laughter. She'd cry more later.

DC water supplies being what they were, she could only stay in
the shower so long. Then she had to get out, dry herself off as
slowly as possible, and put on those clothes which still
smelled like his cologne. She looked around his bathroom, won-
dering how she could have possibly been unaware of the fact that
no one lived here, that the furniture was rented and there was
none of the expensive decor a man like Liam would have in his
home. She opened the door, not wanting to leave the hot steam of
the room, but wanting even more to face what there was to face,
and get the hell out of here.

He was sitting at the cheap kitchen table, looking ridicu-
lously out of place in these shabby surroundings. High class,
that's what he was. A high class liar, a high class cheat. He
looked up as she entered the kitchen, putting on a smile that
even he couldn't think that she would believe.

"Good morning, Dana," he said, warmly, and she realized
that he did think she was that naive and innocent, that her club
girl disguise had worked after all.

"Who owns this apartment?" she asked, no expression to her
voice at all. Her clinical detachment had returned, and with it
all her usual poise. No more Dana, now. Just Agent Scully, col-
lecting information, tying up loose ends, finalizing the case.

His shock was apparent. "Well, the company does. We use it
for business trips. I have a home called Fairlies, in upstate
New York."

"And Marilyn and your three daughters live there?" Nothing
short of slapping him across the face could have produced that
effect, except perhaps the picture she'd found in the living
room, and which she now held up. He fumbled for a moment, then
went straight-faced, abandoning suavity and sophistication.

"Yes, along with my baby son. She's pregnant in that pic-
ture." She thanked him silently for displaying this one moment
of integrity.

"How nice for you. And speaking of nice, this has all been
very much so. I have to go to work now. A pleasure to meet you,
Liam Byrie." He opened his mouth, and looked as if he might want
to stop her, but he didn't get up. She advanced to the door,
then turned around.

"And Liam, next time, just keep your ring on. Makes it a
lot easier for those of us with morals. Both of us."

x*x*x

She would break down later. Now was not the time, not at
ten thirty in the morning, when she had returned home and gotten
dressed and cleaned up insanely fast, and was headed to the last
damn place in the world she wanted to be, a tiny room with no
one in it but Mulder. Did no one ever clean these stairs? She
nearly tripped on a half-empty bag of sunflower seeds, and got
that sickening lurch in her stomach as she realized whose they
must be. Breakfast, she had forgotten to eat this morning. Never
mind that now, here was the door and she wondered for the thou-
sandth time whether it was worth heckling the bureaucracy to get
her name on it, or whether she should just paint it on herself
one day, and then she turned the handle and walked in.

The office was empty. Lighted, but empty. Of course,
morning coffee break. Their own machine had recently broken
down, and for the past week they had been forced to seek
relief for their chemical addiction upstairs in the bullpen.
She saw him where they were every morning at this time,
crowded around the communal pot, and remembered how none of
the other agents ever talked to them, as though they were
lepers, or maybe the brightest children in a first-grade
classroom, people to be admired but alienated. The relief of
being alone for the time being was so great she just stood
there, purse over one shoulder and briefcase in hand, and
with this quiet moment her composure cracked, and everything
came down at once.

For the first time in her life, she didn't fight the
tears. Her only friend now was solitude, and she took full ad-
vantage of it. Silently, the frustration and despair of the past
few days ran down her cheeks in streams of liquid emotion.
Her shoulders shook, and she covered her face with her hands.
A sudden noisy sob took her off guard, and she was really crying
now, nothing was going to stop this, and she wanted to curl up
somewhere and die, and then his arms came around her from behind.

She didn't even stop to think. Her purse and briefcase
fell, and she turned around and put her head on his chest and
her arms around him. She felt him hold her tighter, and still
she kept sobbing because, happy or sad, it was the only thing
she could do just then. It went on for an eternity, three or
four minutes, and then slowly she stopped shaking, her misery
spent. The silence in the room was almost complete, filled only
with the sound of their quiet breathing. His chest rose and fell,
and she moved her head slowly without thinking, rubbing her cheek
against the crisp cotton of his shirt, smelling the scent which she
should know after all these years, but which was still elusive and
mysterious to her. She imagined herself never moving again, holding
this moment perfect, half-believing it was possible. She wondered what
he was thinking, if he really did feel this intense haze of emotions
which held her, or if this was just another one of those times when
he realized her desperate need and loneliness, and would hold her
close and kiss her forehead and let her go.

And then she felt his lips on the top of her head, breathing in
her hair, kissing her ear and her neck. A beautiful feeling, slow
melting bliss, overtook her, and she found herself languid and heavy,
unable to move from the circle of his arms. She stood with her eyes
closed, completely calm. Then as his lips moved from the side of her
neck to her throat, parting a little as he ran the tip of his warm
tongue over the satin of her skin, she put her head back, with a sharp
intake of her breath. He kissed her there a moment longer, and then
drew upright. She looked up and into his dark eyes for one eternal
minute, as she debated a hundred things inside herself, and then she
gave in, knowing this time what he would do. He did it.

He looked at her a moment longer and then eyes were forgotten
as he bent swiftly, mouth to hers, no questions, no words.

How could she have imagined passion with Liam? Instantly
she forgot everything about him, because this was what she had
wanted for years, his lips so soft against hers, his hands tan-
gled in her hair, hers behind his head, and everything about
them fitting together perfectly. This was love, the sort of love
she hadn't experienced since she was a small child, or perhaps
ever. She could hardly get her breath, and yet this was only the
gentlest of kisses, her face covered with tears, his with scratchy
morning stubble, which bore witness to...what? She couldn't be
bothered to think about it.

Endless minutes, and yet nothing changed. Succumbing to
carnal passion in their office just then was out of the
question, as she was in no mood for the gymnastics involved
in desk sex. Instead, she let herself dwell on the sensations
of this moment, of the feeling of his hair between her fingers,
his hands holding her head close, his breath against her cheek
in soft, even wisps, and his lips...Silly words came unbidden into
her mind to describe him, ridiculous words out of a hundred romance
novels. She felt drowned in the myriad feelings surrounding her,
his obvious passion and eagerness which he held somehow in check,
instead kissing her with the sweetness and gentleness which this
earth-shattering moment deserved.

At last she came back to earth, her need to speak to him
overwhelming her desire to keep kissing him. Regretfully, she
pulled back, moving her hands down to his shoulders, caressing
them. She looked into his eyes, and saw her life in them, a part
of herself which she had given away and which had been retained
in this man. Her soulmate. She whispered the word to herself.

"That's right," he said, low, breathless. "Soulmates." He
held her face between his hands, stroked her cheeks with his
thumbs, kissed her on the forehead, and she saw the shine of
tears in his eyes. She closed hers, then looked up at him again.

"I..." And suddenly she couldn't tell him about Liam,
didn't want that sad stupid sordid thing to ruin this moment of
perfection. Because she had a feeling that this was as perfect
as it would ever get, that the road ahead would be close to im-
possible, and only moments like this would save them. She saw
the nights alone, the chafing of a forced clandestine relationship,
the fights that would become o much more terrible now that they
were about personal matters. She realized that, despite his strong
arms and loving protection, he still needed her desperately, that
if they were to let things take their inevitable course, she
would become the strong one, the center of his life. He
was already the center of hers. He was speaking to her.

"I went to your apartment last night around one. You
weren't there, and I just-- sat there on your couch, until it
got light out." She saw herself at one o'clock in the morning,
in bed with a man she did not love. "I was really-- worried
about you." His voice was husky, and he held her a little
tighter. "What happened?"

She took a deep breath, and shook her head. "I don't want
to talk about it at all. It doesn't matter."

"What does matter?"

"You know." He did.
 

************************
Awwww, isn't that sweet? Feel like brushing your teeth right
now? Well, go right ahead...but FIRST you better send me feedback
(even the nasty, sneering, derisive kind), or my homegirl the
Tooth Fairy will curse you with haliotosis so bad it would make
old Slowly Rotting My Lungs And Destroying My Sense of Smell With
Burning Leaves Man want to plam you. (Or force his son, the Diet
Coke of Evil, into doing it. In which case you have nothing to
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The Tooth Fairy and I can both be reached at skeptic78@hotmail.com
And no, you can't have your damn teeth back already! We've given
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