TITLE: The Letting Go (1/2) AUTHOR: Avalon EMAIL: avalon@fuse.net RATING: R for language and sexual content CATEGORY: S, MSR, A SPOILERS: Up through Season 7, but in my X-Files Universe, Doggett exists, but most of Season 8 does not. By my calculations, if Scully is pregnant, she would most definitely be showing by December! Sorry all you MEN at 1013! Cancer arc, wedding ring, baby, Emily...you name it, it's referenced. I'm warning you now. DISCLAIMERS:Not mine. Chris'. See the Author's Notes for other references to quoted pieces. No infringement intended. FEEDBACK: Always welcomed and answered, thanks. ARCHIVES: Ephemeral, Spooky's, Gossamer, anywhere, really, but if you are not one of those, please tell me where so I can visit. SUMMARY: "She can't help wondering if she will meet this same end, dying in a quicksand of her own making, drowning in her mind that won't allow her to forgive." AUTHOR'S NOTES: At the end, please. The Letting Go (Part 1) "The Feet, mechanical, go round-- Of Ground, or Air, or Ought-- A Wooden way Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone--" ***** "I see monsters around you, real monsters. But these monsters are the easy part of your life. The fear that accompanies these is fast and furious, then gone, an adreneline rush that culminates quickly. You have another fear that runs deep, like a hidden river within your soul. It cuts its path in you, and for some reason, you martyr yourself to it, like an offering to the Water Gods." ***** She remembered his face that morning in their basement office. She had sat behind Mulder's desk for as long as she could, hoping he would drift upstairs for coffee or a water- cooler discussion with his buddies. He had hammered away on his PC instead, typing God knows what, until her bladder had screamed for release and the baby had somersaulted impatiently. Gritting her teeth against the inevitable, she had finally pushed herself up and moved toward the door. She had felt Doggett's eyes follow her, those tiny chips of sapphire that made him look almost inhuman. From the corner of her eye she noted his face as he registered the changes in her body, shocked and angry and tired all at once, and she expelled a puff of indignant breath through her nose. Damn him for being here, she had thought viciously, and damn Mulder for not. But three weeks later, he was back, standing in the doorway to the office, coming forward on steady legs to shake hands with Doggett and reclaim his work. She had stood apart, watching them, knowing it would be Mulder and Doggett now, at least until after the baby was born and she could return. She was surprised to sense a tinge of regret. They hadn't discussed much concerning the aftermath of the birth. She didn't press him, knowing his distance came through a filter of anger and sorrow. His nightmares disturbed her, his voice dragging her up through her layers of sleep, hearing him shout her name until he was hoarse again. When she finally could awaken him, he would pull her to him so violently that her breath would momentarily be taken. He would rest his head on the round expanse of her abdomen, allowing her to stroke his bare back until his lashes lowered once more in sleep. Her life had become an endless routine of waiting: for Mulder's return, for Doggett's reassignment, for Mulder's recovery, for the birth of their child. She was reminded of a play she had seen once in college, where the characters waited for someone named Godot, who, of course, never showed up. It was not lost on her that this was an allegory for God. The absurdity of it all chewed at her. ***** "The Devil card indicates bondage to past issues and the need to move forward. If you don't bless them and let them go, they will continue to manifest in your life. The Judgement card concerns resurrection, calling forth talents and emotions latent within yourself to help resolve the issue. These two cards appearing next to each other indicate higher forces at work in your life right now, and these forces are trying to tell you that new beginnings are possible. Let go of your fear. Put the past away." ***** Mulder was much better at closing the doors to the past than she. He never spoke of it, except in water colored sentiments of his childhood and his sister. She knew next to nothing of his old relationships, pondering countless times what secrets he held locked inside his fragile heart. She didn't want to be the one who broke it again. She knew to be careful holding his heart in her hands, although it was slippery, like the viscera she extracted in the autopsy bays where she worked. She imagined holding it up to the light like a snowglobe, shaking it gently to watch the confetti inside swirl in a tornado of emotion. It pleased her tremendously that he allowed her to hold it; she would prove to him that she was worthy. Trust. It was a word he used often, yet she wasn't entirely sure he knew what it meant. She yearned for him to take out the pieces of himself, one by one, laying them at her feet for her to examine. She would stitch them back together using her gentle surgeon's hands, making him a whole person again. If he would do this, she would, too. She would make a Y incision into her soul and pull back the scar tissue so that he could extract the cancer that she now carried, so different from the one in her sinuses, this one that had metastasized for countless years and had somehow frozen her heart. She could see him, lovingly turning each splinter of it over in his hands, breathing his sweetness and life onto each one, polishing them with the tail of his t-shirt, and fastening them back inside of her. She would be different when he was finished. She would be healed. They glided in and out of each other's orbits, lovers and strangers. They settled into a routine, and Mulder's health improved rapidly. He marveled at the size of her belly, genuinely pleased with the kicks his hands received and the appreciative glances they got when they moved as a couple out among the Christmas shoppers. Yet Scully could feel something coming, something of immense proportions, roiling and churning on the horizon. She dreamed again and again of the snowglobe shattering, spilling its precious contents down her arms and saturating the shirt pulled taut over her stomach. In the dream, it was Mulder's shirt, and it was Mulder's blood that ran, leaking out of the glass in screaming red Technicolor against the whiteness on her belly. She told herself she was just anxious about the baby, knowing it was a lie. He was cautious with her now, as if he didn't recall the passion and hunger that had often driven them to sex wearing half their clothes. Before his disappearance, they had fucked in dark corners and back seats like horny teenagers avoiding flashlight beams. She longed for that sometimes, but she took what she could get, chastising herself for not appreciating what he did give to her. Their lovemaking now was slow and languid, and her eyes would mist sometimes with the awestruck way he looked at her. He was reverent, whispering her name in a litany as he caressed her burgeoning body, pleasuring her with his hands, his tongue, his mouth, always seeking her face to gauge her reaction. And when they would ultimately merge together, she would smile to see him lose himself so completely in his orgasm. She would sigh as the baby inside her settled down to sleep, lulled by the rocking motion of its mother's climax. And they would move together into the center of the bed, fitting themselves into each other's nooks and crevices, tumbling easily into satiated, blissful slumber. Until the nightmares came, hers and his, throwing them cold back into the reality of the waking world. She waited for their holiday trip to San Diego, anticipating and fearing it at the same time. She had told her family that she was bringing Mulder, and though she was loathe to see Bill and to face his icy attitude, she was anxious to spend time with her nieces and nephews. This baby brought with it a longing for home and hearth that she had never experienced before, and she yearned to share that with Mulder. She thought it just the balm that they both needed. ***** "Wise men say, only fools rush in," Mulder deadpanned to her. She didn't realize that she had stopped in front of a jewelry store window, her eyes dazzled by the festive display of diamonds amidst ribbons of red and gold satin. She batted him playfully on the arm as he pushed his hands inside her long coat, rubbing his fingers under her abdomen. A few inches lower, and she would have had to arch her eyebrow at him in shock. He glanced through the plate glass and then back at her. "Do you want to marry me, Scully?" She chuckled, keenly aware of the crowd shoving past them, trying to hurry them along. "Is this a proposal, Mulder?" She noticed that she was suddenly nervous, and she surreptitiously wiped her sweaty palms on the sleeves of his wool overcoat. He brought his face close to hers, cheek to cheek, his Saturday stubble grazing her and filling her with delicious longing. "I think we could be happy," he murmured near her ear. "I haven't been happy for a long time." She puzzled over this, starting to ask, but he had pulled away, tugging her along the mall by her hand. She wanted to stop him, to talk to him, to help him articulate whatever it was that he needed to say, but the moment was gone like a scattering of snowflakes. ***** She shakes the snowglobe again. The white pieces swirl and condense, forming something that Scully doesn't recognize. It looks like a person, but the outline is dark, and she can't see the features. ***** Now, in San Diego, her mother fusses over Mulder incessantly, waiting on him just as she had Scully's father. Mulder catches her eye and widens his own in an unspoken question. Scully spreads her hands in a gesture of acquiescence. Margaret Scully is about to burst with happiness over her daughter's pregnancy, and Scully realizes that Maggie's expectations of Mulder are high. She hopes he can live up to them, not imagining that her mother expects any less of him than he does himself. ***** Tara drags her shopping, insisting that Mulder and Bill will be fine alone. "He wants to try, Dana," Tara explains, smoothing the billowing fabric of her own maternity dress. "They need to try to get along." Scully nods and allows her sister-in-law to lead her along the pier, questing for unusual gifts. The day is sunny but windy, and her hair whips around her head, the moisture of the sea air teasing it into curls. She hates her hair curly and then wonders what Mulder will think of it when she returns. She becomes aware that Tara is babbling excitedly, and she sees that they are standing by a purple door splattered with silver stars. Stenciled letters spell out the information: Psychic Sabra Clairvoyant Readings Tarot - Palms - Runes Walk-ins Welcome "Let's do this, Dana!" Tara is already opening the door. Scully puts out her hand, pulling the other woman back toward her. Tara teeters, off-balance, and a little gasp escapes her lips. "No, Tara," she says, hoping it is not a whine. "I...I just don't believe..." Tara puts her hands somewhere near her hips and looks at her hard. "It's just for fun, silly." She pushes the door open again. "I'll pay." ***** Tara chatters to Bill, informing him that she now knows for sure that their baby is a girl. Mulder steps over to Scully, exhausted from playing nice, and twirls a curl around his pinkie. "Come to bed," he growls. Bill smiles indulgently at his wife, and Scully senses his eyes on her as she hooks a finger through Mulder's belt loop and follows him upstairs. When she looks back at her brother, his face is blank. ***** She is in the bathroom washing when her cell phone rings. She feels tired and cranky, longing to fall into bed for a lengthy afternoon nap. Maggie has cajoled Mulder into Christmas shopping with her, leaving Scully with a wink as she tucked her arm into Mulder's and disappeared with him out the door. She swipes at her face with a reindeer towel and gropes in her make-up case for her phone. She expects to hear Doggett's gruff New York twang and is surprised instead by the nasally tone that greets her. "Langley?" She raises her voice over the static, moving to the door to coax out better reception. "That's right. I can barely hear you, Scully." She walks into the bedroom, and the line clears a bit. "Langley, what's up?" She is mildly annoyed, not even remotely interested in shooting the shit with one of the Gunmen. "I'm calling with some info that you requested a while back. I finally nailed down a reliable source that confirms a lot of your suspicions." Scully frowns, first at the smug tone in his voice, her face deepening into it when she realizes she doesn't remember what she asked the Gunmen for. Her irritation creeps into the conversation. "Langley, what suspicions? What the hell are you talking about?" "I'm talking about Diana Fowley," he hisses in her ear, and she blinks, memory rushing back to her. "You asked us a while ago to find out everything we could about any connections she might have had to C.G.B. Spender. It took me awhile to get it, but I did." She sighs and switches the phone to her other ear. "It doesn't matter any more, Langley. She's dead. The conspiracy is dead. I'm no longer interested in anything that has to do with Diana Fowley." "But this goes way back, Scully," Langley insists, his volume increasing with his excitement. "Her connections to Spender go way back, to before Mulder found the X- Files, to before Diana and Mulder were marri---" There is a thud on his end of the line, and she hears a muffled howl of pain. She realizes that Langley has dropped the phone, and she waits, her mind churning like a mill pushing river water, until she hears Frohike's voice in her ear. "Agent Scully? Sorry. Langley had to excuse himself for a moment--" "Let me talk to Byers." Her mouth feels dry, but her tone remains neutral. She is still in control. "Agent Scully--" "Let me talk to Byers!" She screams it at him, scaring herself with the rawness it produces in her throat and her gut. Byers will tell her the truth, even though she somehow knows that Langley has fucked up and told her already. Byers' voice is humble and soft. "I'm here, Agent Scully." "They were...married, Byers?" The word sticks in her throat, but she manages to cough it out, like the blood she had sometimes spit up after her few rounds of chemotherapy. "Tell me the truth." An eternity of time stretches out before her in the tiny pause he takes. "Yes," he tells her quietly, and she closes her eyes, watching the snowglobe shiver and explode, sending shards stabbing into her hands, her eyes, her heart. The figure inside falls away into blackness, and she sinks down and cries. ***** "You are a child of water, born under the sign of Pisces. You hide your emotions well, but they run deep inside you, and they frighten you sometimes with their intensity. You are in love with the idea of being in love, but you are unsure how to proceed in matters of the heart. If you don't stop running away, or pushing your lovers away, you will never be fulfilled in your relationships." ***** She watches the sea undulate, stroking the shoreline with damp caresses, foaming and frothing like a luxurious bath. She has always loved the water, whatever its form, be it lake, river, ocean, or her own tub at home. She removes her sandals and wades into the surf, holding the shoes up as she walks deeper into its wet warmth. She wills the waves to wash her clean and repair the damage that has been done. She closes her eyes, her vision turning inward, seeing the baby floating contentedly in its amniotic sac, peaceful, oblivious to the storm that rages inside its mother. She wishes she could float, too, but the weight of her heart anchors her, even as she struggles for her release. She doesn't want to feel this way, not now, when they seemed to finally be progressing. But she can't just tuck it away, pretending her feelings don't matter. Pretending that he trusted her. Pretending that he didn't lie to her. There are lies in silence as well as in speech. He is waiting for her on the beach when she emerges from the water, just as she knew he would be. His shadow stretches behind him, somehow making him absurdly tall and thin. He wears his Yankees cap backwards, reminding her that she once told him that this was endearing. She stiffens and trudges past him, heavy and soaked and consumed with a fire the sea neglected to snuff. He follows her, his long legs keeping up easily. She knows she cannot outrun him. "Langley called me." She doesn't answer him, nor does she slow. Her brother's Jeep looks a long way off, parked beside the steps leading down to the sand. She tries to quicken her pace, slapping her sandals to her other fist. He catches her arm and pulls her to a halt. "C'mon, Scully, talk to me." She yanks away from him. "I don't have anything to say to you right now, Mulder. I just want to go home." "No." He moves closer. "We need to talk about this." She folds her arms, shivering a little. "Why talk about it now? It's in the past, right? Let's bury it and never have to face it. That's your solution, isn't it?" His face is stony. "There are things from your past that you have never shared, Scully. Don't act like there aren't." She steps up to him, her blue eyes blazing. "You were *married* to her, Mulder." She spits each word as if it is poison. "It's no wonder you trusted her more than me. You were obviously still in love with her." He shakes his head, his eyes darkening. "No, Scully. You know I love you." "I don't know anything any more, Mulder." She starts to walk away. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Scully. It's very unattractive." She spins in the sand, retorting, "And lies are very unattractive on you, Mulder. You, who are supposed to be so interested in the truth!" "I never lied to you!" "You lied every time you protected her, every time you defended her!" She is shouting now, her stomach roiling with the upheaval of her wrath. "If I didn't tell you, it's because I must have known that you would react like this!" His voice is raw now, and he knocks it back a notch, sighing. "Scully, I made a mistake with Diana. The biggest mistake of my life. I'm not proud of it. I'm sure you have some of your own regrets." "Yes," she replies, calmer. "I have Daniel. But I didn't commit to him and then pretend to you that it never happened." "No. You just let him keep you like an expensive whore and then left him when you finally came to your senses." The palm of her hand connects so quickly with his cheek that she doesn't even realize that she has moved. She shakes the sting off it and leaves him standing there, her chest aching and their child tumbling inside her like a circus acrobat. ***End Part 1*** The Letting Go (Part 2) "After great pain, a formal feeling comes-- The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs-- The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, And Yesterday, or Centuries before?" ***** "There is a time of great sorrow coming to you. The Three of Swords indicates heartache, again somehow connected to these past issues. The Eight of Cups points to a very emotional situation, a matter of the heart, which may also denote turning your back on this and walking away from it. This pain is necessary and important, like that which comes with a tooth extraction...it will hurt during the process, but ultimately, you will be better off for it." ***** She lingers in the shower, hypnotized by the water rushing over her body. As a child, she would stand directly under the spray with her hands over her ears, astounded by the crash of the water, pretending to be caught in a thunderstorm. She tries it now, a woman in her middle thirties, but all she can hear are his words raging at her. She shuts the tap off unceremoniously and steps out onto the fuzzy pink bathmat. The patter of soft rain against the window mirrors the shower's beat, and she towels off quickly, listening to the rhythm and allowing it to lull her frenzy. In the room next to the bath, Mulder is still in bed, his back to the door, feigning sleep. She could tell from his breathing when she arose that he was awake, yet she did not speak to him. She knows that he has not slept at all; no nightmare screams and clutches prodded her from her own shady dreamscapes. She knows that if they had been at home, he would have spent the night on the couch, in front of the television, coaxing himself to rest and eventually nodding off. It is obvious that he is upset, but she had no desire to appease him. She is content to allow him to suffer in his silence, and in hers. She dresses casually, knowing the chore that lies ahead of her, and the wet weather pushes her even harder to be done with it. She quietly enters the bedroom once again to hang her robe on the back of the door, and he speaks without turning. "Do you want me to go with you?" She hesitates for a moment, the low throb of his voice inviting. The liquid pain inside her swishes and burns, like a cup spilling hot coffee onto the hand that holds it, and she grimaces, glad that he cannot see her face. She is unsure what she must look like, and she imagines that she wears her emotions pinned there, the unwanted award for her bravery and her strength. It would be nice to have him with her, to hold her hand and mutter restrained sentiments, but that would mean acknowledging that she needs him. At this moment, this is the last thing that she wants him to know. "I'd rather be alone right now." The words come out sounding hard, and she sees him flinch, the sheets rustling softly as he moves ever so slightly. She turns away from him and pulls the windbreaker over her sweater, wanting nothing but to be away from him and the ache that pulls her to him like a magnet. She drives the distance to the cemetery in a matter of minutes, the windshield wipers slapping their monotonous rhythm on the glass of Bill's Jeep. She considers the idea that it isn't supposed to rain in southern California and finds it cynically appropriate that it does now anyway. It fits her mood, the damp stickiness of the grief inside her that pools like the crimson blood she has witnessed at violent crime scenes. She thinks suddenly of Mulder and the morning she walked into his apartment, a body his size and coloring sheeted at the foot of his worn leather couch, the stain under its head still tacky and smelling like newly minted copper pennies. Even though she had known it was not Mulder, her heart and stomach had lurched in quick succession, her eyes watering with an emotion she couldn't quite place but that swept through her as a wave overpowers a weak ocean swimmer. She grips the steering wheel, overcome at once with a sick feeling of regret. Her life has been too full of death: her sister, her father, her child. And how many times has her partner come so close to it, only to slip back into life on a whisper of fate? She should be thankful, thankful that he has returned once more, thankful that they can begin again. Instead, the past haunts her, an old ghost in clanking chains, dragging her heart around in maddening circles in the attic of her brain. She remembers watching a bug on flypaper once, furiously trying to free itself from the sticky yellow gel, coating its wings even heavier with the substance until it finally gave up and died. She can't help wondering if she will meet this same end, dying in a quicksand of her own making, drowning in her mind that won't allow her to forgive. Emily's headstone shines wetly against the emerald grass. She steps out of the Jeep, zipping the jacket over the expanse of her belly but not bothering to pull up the hood. It is fitting that she stands here in the rain, allowing it to soak her hair and run its courses down her face, mingling with the tears she no longer holds back. Her mind flips through the scrapbook of her life again and falls open to her first case with Mulder, when they stood at an open grave in the pouring rain, laughing and freezing. He had exhilarated her then; he still did now. Why did she keep thinking of him? She shakes him off her like a dog coming out of a storm and bends to touch her daughter's marker. ***** Her mother chides her when she returns, rushing to dry her hair with a towel and nagging about her health. Mulder sits quietly in the corner chair, watching her, his eyes muddy and his face a dark pool of exhaustion. He does not speak to her, nor she to him, and she knows her mother notices this. Maggie Scully notices everything, and she glances at her daughter, her eyebrow a twin to the one Scully herself raises on occasion. Scully ignores the look and plods upstairs, leaving him to brood, his face turned into the light of the Christmas tree, his cheek bathed red in the glow. ***** The banter at dinner between her family surprises her, a lively juxtaposition to the crawling feeling of despair that envelops her. Mulder charms them all, Charlie and his wife and her nieces and nephews. Even Bill seems to be softening, grinning in spite of himself at Mulder's jokes and Maggie's playful palaver. She watches as her partner reaches over and carefully cuts the ham that Tara has placed on Matthew's plate into manageable pieces, wheedling the finicky child into eating it by trading bites with him from his own fork. She sees Tara and Charlie's wife Trudy exchange a smile, eyeing Mulder like proud parents, and then look over at her expectantly. She sighs and mumbles an excuse to leave the table, catching the concerned eyes that both Mulder and her mother turn to her. She goes upstairs and lies on the unmade bed in the room so like the one she and Melissa shared, thinking of Emily, Diana, and death. ***** "The Hanged Man indicates a time of stagnation, of waiting, that you are eager to see end. What you don't seem to realize is that only you can close this chapter of your life. The Hanged Man card mirrors the story of Odin, who hung on the Tree of Knowledge, asking for enlightenment. After he had proven himself worthy, he was given the Runestones to help him find his path. You have also been given knowledge during this time. How will you use it? Will you continue to deny the good things that have been given to you and run away from them, or will you move out of the mire and embrace your new life? The decision is yours, and yours alone." ***** "This is the Hour of Lead-- Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow-- First--Chill--then Stupor--then the letting go--" ***** She takes her place in line at the confessional, the church nearly deserted as people scramble for forgotten gifts on Christmas Eve. She feels the holy water that she touched to her forehead as she entered the sanctuary chill her skin, a counterpart to the hollow emptiness that engulfs her heart. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been about... four months since my last confession." A pause. Finally, the unknown priest on the other side of the screen speaks. "Do you have something you wish to confess, my daughter?" She considers, stirring the cauldron filled with her stew of thoughts. "I have a question for you, Father." "Go ahead, my child. You may ask it." "How do you find forgiveness, Father? How do you forgive someone else?" "Forgiveness is not mine to give. It is for God to forgive." "Yes, I understand that, but I mean...how do you as a person forgive someone that you feel has hurt you?" "Forgiveness is a decision, my child. You decide to no longer carry resentment and anger towards that person, and you forgive him." "But it's not really that easy, is it? Why is it so hard to find that within yourself? Why is it so hard to forgive?" A light chuckle comes through the screen. "When we don't forgive someone, it is because we are actually receiving some kind of reward from not forgiving him. Have you asked yourself what you are receiving from not forgiving?" She knits her brows together. "I don't understand. I am trying to forgive him, but I am still angry." "Why are you still angry? What are you gaining from the situation by being angry with him?" "I am angry because he wasn't truthful with me." Realization starts to flood into her head. "But...I think I haven't been truthful with him either, or with myself." "Often, my child, anger comes not from a situation, but from fear. What are you afraid of?" Her answer is a whisper, like the threads of a spider web. "I am afraid of losing him. He was gone for so long, and I was so afraid..." "So your fear really has nothing to do with what you are fighting about. You are unwilling to forgive him because your anger drives a wedge between the two of you. By continuing to be angry and refusing to forgive, you drive him away from you, because what you are truly afraid of is losing him again." There are tears now, cold damp trails that pull her into reality. "I don't want him to hurt me. I am tired of the pain." She shakes her head, her copper hair sticking to the wetness on her cheeks. "I think it is easier sometimes not to love." "But, my daughter, God did not put us here to suffer. Yes, there is pain in loving and losing. But wouldn't you rather have great pain from having loved rather than pain from never knowing it at all?" She doesn't answer, and she seems to see the priest, a benevolent smile on his lined face. "By not forgiving, you create the very thing you most fear. You drive him away from you. Don't lose him again, my child, especially when you are the one who can save him. And yourself." ***** The emptiness of the beach is inviting, the quiet and the solitude broken only by the occasional scream of the gulls on the nearby rocks and the pounding relentlessness of the restless ocean. The sky appears tarnished, slate and silver mixing with a midnight blue into a mesmerizing hue she has never seen before. The sun sets over it, dripping reds and oranges into the water, pooling colors that dance and delight her eyes. She is ready now to see these things, all the beauty that is before her. The baby kicks, and she rubs the spot, her eyes on the lone figure that shuffles toward her. His head is down, the light wind off the water ruffling his dark hair, picking it up and mussing it into playful disarray. It is longer than it was when he disappeared, and she thinks him even more handsome this way. She is suddenly struck by a longing for him so strong that it nearly knocks her over, and she struggles to sit, made awkward by the bulk of her body and the power of her emotion. Her movement catches his attention, and she is glad to see him pick up the pace of his walk. But he stops a short distance from her, his eyes clouded and his face blank, waiting for her, unsure of her for what must be the millionth time in their lives together. The rawness of his feeling, his hurt and his anger and his longing, vibrate across her skin, and she reaches out her hand to him. She smiles for the first time in many days, but her eyes shine with tears. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice husky, and he takes her hand, his larger one enveloping her small fingers in a fierce grip. He drops to his knees on the sand before her, and she sees that his eyes are wet, too, as he enfolds her in his embrace. "You shouldn't be sorry," he murmurs into her hair. "I should be. I wasn't truthful with you. I never realized how much I could hurt you until this happened." He moves back and looks at her, pain pinned on his face. "I don't ever want to hurt you, Scully. I'm so sorry I did." She entwines her fingers in his and kisses his knuckles, watching as a hopeful spark jumps in his eyes. "I was wrong to accuse you of not being truthful, Mulder, when I wasn't being truthful myself." He gives his head a slight shake, and she knows he doesn't understand. She pushes on. "This had nothing to do with Diana, or your relationship with her. It was all about my own anger and fear, and I just used that as an excuse. I realize now that I was so afraid of losing you again that I was trying to drive you away." She squeezes his hand before pressing it against her cheek. "I have always been afraid to love, Mulder, because I was afraid of losing the person I loved. And I know now that I have never loved anyone the way that I love you." "I love you, Scully." She can hear his shaky breathing as he kisses her gently, and she feels her heart surge, sure that it will break out of her chest and fly away. When their lips part, he reaches into the pocket of his windbreaker and pulls out a tiny dome. He flattens her hand with his and places it into her palm. "I didn't have time to wrap your gift," he says, and her throat catches at the sight of the dainty snowglobe. It is smaller than any she has ever seen before, and it houses a miniature couple standing on a sandy beach. She shakes it slightly, and hundreds of silver stars spin around them in a flurry of motion. She laughs delightedly, and he joins her, the sounds of their happiness mingling in a perfectly pitched melody. She reaches to kiss him again, and they move into each other effortlessly, finding their rhythms again, their passion for each other suddenly easy and ultimately right. ***** She read once that the cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea. She ponders the truth of this statement as Mulder dozes next to her on the sand, lying spent under the picnic blanket they found in Bill's Jeep. The roar of the ocean echoes in her ears as her heart slows its frantic beating, the tears of her joy and the perspiration of their exertion drying on her skin. His hand rests on her belly, their child calmed once again into its own dream state, and as Scully slips from consciousness, she knows that they will all sleep easily, the nightmares of the past permanently sealed away into the vault of yesterday. **End** Author's Notes: Well, this was supposed to be a Christmas story, but I couldn't get the ending right in enough time to get it done for Christmas. Oh well. Actually, it is a little (a little?!?) angsty for Christmas, so maybe we are all better off to say it is just set during the holiday season. I am sure many X-Philes think, as I do, that Mulder and Diana were married at some point. Although this has never been addressed on the show per se, I always wondered how Scully would react to this news. I personally think some feeling of betrayal would be appropriate for her, especially if she heard about it secondhand as she did here, instead of from Mulder himself. Poor Langley...he is my husband's favorite character, and I make him the bearer of bad news! Don't shoot the messenger! The poem that I used is by Emily Dickinson, and is written here in its entirety: After great pain, a formal feeling comes-- The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs-- The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, And Yesterday, or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round-- Of Ground, or Air, or Ought-- A Wooden way Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone-- This is the Hour of Lead-- Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow-- First--Chill--then Stupor--then the letting go-- --Emily Dickinson I, of course, spliced it up to fit the sections as I thought necessary. The quote at the end is from Isak Dinesen: "The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea." I also have to give credit to Dr. Phil McGraw, one of Oprah's favorite guests. I was really stuck about halfway through this piece, wondering where it was going to go, when I saw him on her show, speaking about forgiveness. Without his truthful words of wisdom, I don't think this story would have ever been finished. The reference to Psychic Sabra is for my very good friend, Michelle. Love you, Woogs! This story is for my wonderful husband, Keith. He understands everything about me and somehow still puts up with me. And he is a gifted writer who inspires me with his tremendous dedication and his profound insight. He is the ultimate. Thanks for reading. Feedback is always welcomed and answered: avalon@fuse.net. Hope to see you all again soon! -- "Modell psyched the guy out. He put the whammy on him!" "Please explain to me the scientific nature of the whammy." --Fox Mulder and Dana Scully The X-Files, "Pusher"