After the Fall
by Foxsong
(10/31/99)
Rated PG
Category / Keywords: Unabashed MSR! Angst, angst, and more angst. Happy ending, though. :)
Archive freely; just keep this link to my site at www.foxsongfiles.net.
Feedback to foxsong@foxsongfiles.net
Author's Notes: A big Thank-You! goes out to my usual cohorts -- my 'official' beta Char Chaffin, my 'de-facto' beta MaybeAmanda, and Alison, the president of my fan club. <g>
Disclaimer: The X-Files and the characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, et. al. are the property of Ten Thirteen and Fox, who may never have the guts to face the 'ship the way I am doing here. See? It's their fault. They made me do it. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: In the face of apparent death, Scully and Mulder confess their feelings. Is it possible to backtrack into denial after you've given it all up? And if it's not... then how do you live with it?
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- - - 1 - - -
What I had somehow never understood before then is that the day you die begins just like any other.
Mulder and I were waiting to board our flight from London back to Washington. We sat next to each other on those odd plastic seats that are indented in what someone supposed was the shape of human buttocks. For years I'd wondered every time we'd waited like this in some airport who they were modeled after. It sure wasn't either of us.
Mulder was absently, incessantly eating sunflower seeds. He dropped the empty shells into the little paper bag from the concession stand and reached in to fish out more from the cellophane bag. I didn't look over at him. I didn't have to. In my peripheral vision I watched the constant repetitive motion of his hand from the bag to his mouth and back again. It was familiar, almost soothing, like the refrain of an old, well-loved song playing in the background.
I mulled over again in my mind the events of the past three weeks. It had happened so quickly once it had been set into motion -- as if we had finally nudged the right domino, and they had all tumbled down, one after another, till not one was left standing. Mulder and I were the only people who could have understood what was happening, the only ones with the background and the knowledge to make sense of the events as they unfolded. We were in precisely the right place at precisely the right time, and it all fell right into our hands.
It was, Mulder had said, enough to make a man believe in God. From the tone of his voice I knew that for once in his life he wasn't being even a little facetious.
I watched a young woman sitting across from us playing with her little boy, who was just learning to walk. She would hold his hands and steady him, letting him take a few precarious, wobbly steps, and she'd ease him down when he teetered, giggling, and sat down all at once on the floor. Then she would laugh with him, and set him on his little feet again, and begin all over.
I remembered once again all that this great quest, this crusade, had cost me. I would never have a child like that of my own. I had lost my sister... Mulder had lost his father. But now we had our answers. We had paid for them in blood, but even now the dust was settling over the last battlefield, and all the old secrets lay exposed in the blinding sunlight of the truth.
We were on our way back to Washington with C.G.B. Spender's body under heavily armed guard in the hold of the plane.
When our flight was called we boarded in silence, filing with the long row of passengers all the way back to the tail section of the plane. "Coach, Mulder?" I had asked disdainfully when he booked the flight. "I thought you might want to go first class to celebrate."
"After the reaming I took for our last expense account? No, Scully," he'd said, "I thought I'd rather prove that I can not only save the world, but I can do it in a cost-efficient manner. Your tax dollars at work."
I watched the young mother settle her little boy in just a few seats over from us. Once we were aloft, Mulder laid his head back against the seat with a great sigh, and closed his eyes. I watched the world fade away outside the window.
Perhaps an hour later Mulder shifted restlessly beside me and lifted his head. I saw the nervous way he looked around, and I said, "It's been very quiet, Mulder. Nothing's happened."
He smiled a little -- the first time I'd seen him try to smile in days. "Poltergeists and liver-eating mutants are going to seem anticlimactic after this, Scully."
"I know," I nodded, and smiled with him. We were quiet again.
"I can't believe it's over -- that we really have our answers now," he murmured after a moment.
I reached over and took his hand. "I'm sorry it wasn't the answer you wanted about Samantha," I said softly.
He looked down and swallowed hard before he replied. "But at least I know, now. ...At least I finally know." He squeezed my hand and then let it go, and we went back to our private thoughts.
At length I yawned, and Mulder turned toward me again. "You should try to take a nap," he said. "How many days has it been since you've really had enough sleep?"
"You know I hate to sleep on planes," I muttered. I knew he was right, but it was hard to let down my guard, even though I knew I could now. Mulder got a pillow for me from the flight attendant.
"Relax, Scully," he said gently, pushing the pillow around, trying to help me get comfortable. "It's over now."
"It is over," I agreed, closing my eyes. "We both saw it."
"We both saw it," he echoed, his voice wary, as if he expected me to take back my own words and contradict him. I just nodded my head against the pillow, and I heard him sigh.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
I startled awake with a gasp, jolted back to awareness by the sudden bouncing of the plane. "Turbulence, Scully. It's okay," Mulder said soothingly. It was over in just a moment. I let out a long breath and settled back against my pillow.
A few minutes later the plane shuddered again. This time I had the distinct impression that it hadn't felt like any ordinary turbulence. I told myself it was just my nerves, that I'd been through too much these past few weeks, that I'd been stretched too thin, but I sat up. There was no way I was going to be able to sleep through it.
With the third lurch, I heard people begin murmuring uneasily among themselves. The little boy I'd seen in the airport started to cry, and his mother gathered him up in her arms and hushed him. A man called the flight attendant over; I heard her say, "I'll go up and ask the captain about it right now, sir." She went briskly away up the aisle.
"No seasoned flyers back here, huh?" Mulder asked idly.
I shook my head. "I guess not," I said, and Mulder must have heard something in my tone, because he turned a searching gaze on me.
He leaned toward me and spoke in a low voice, so as not to be overheard. "Scully? ...Do you think something's wrong?"
I shook my head impatiently. "No. No. It's just my nerves, that's all. It's been a trying few weeks, you know."
He nodded. I could tell he didn't believe me. He was a person who trusted instincts, and he extended that trust to mine as well as his own. I think he was waiting for me to elaborate, but I didn't, and he turned and sat straight in his seat again.
I stared out the window at the darkening evening sky. I was sure I felt an odd, subtle vibration running through the plane. I did my best to ignore it.
The stewardess came back in another few minutes and made the typical announcement that we were experiencing a little turbulence, ladies and gentlemen, and that all passengers were advised to remain seated with their seat belts fastened until we'd come through it. So Mulder and I buckled our belts around our hips and lapsed back into silence.
The plane's jostling had leveled out, but I still couldn't help thinking something felt strange. It reminded me of the feeling of driving a car over gravel instead of pavement -- I almost wanted to listen for the sound of the little stones crunching beneath our tires.
Perhaps another fifteen minutes passed uneventfully. Then, suddenly, the plane made a short, abrupt drop, bucked a little, and steadied; the lights flickered a few times and then dimmed noticeably. I was thoroughly unnerved by now, and I knew Mulder could tell, although I'd said nothing. He leaned closer to me and laid his hand on my shoulder.
"I'm going to go see if I can find out what's going on," he said near my ear, and squeezed my shoulder reassuringly. He unbuckled his seat belt and stood up and walked over to the flight attendant. He inclined his head; eight years of reading his body language told me he was asking her something. She eased away half a step, shaking her head, but Mulder pressed forward just that little bit more, reaching into his pocket and taking out his identification. I watched the woman waver and then give in. She turned and went up the aisle with Mulder at her heels.
He was gone for a long time. A full twenty-five minutes had passed when I saw him coming back down the aisle toward me. I thought his gait was a little odd, considering the momentary lull in the turbulence; he didn't quite seem to be looking where he was going. He found our row of seats and slipped in to sit beside me, and without a word reached out and took my hand, clasping it in both of his, staring fixedly down at it.
My unease was growing by the moment. "Mulder...?"
His mouth opened and closed again. On the second try, he faltered, "Scully -- the plane is... There's something wrong with the plane."
"Mulder," I began, a little sharply. I was about to tell him to cut it out, that he knew I was a nervous flyer to begin with, that this was anything but funny. Then he looked up and met my eyes.
He meant it. Dear God, he meant it.
"I'm sorry, Scully," he whispered. "I'm so sorry." He dropped his gaze again, and I thought I felt the slightest trembling in his hands on mine.
I said the first thing that came into my head. "It's not your fault, Mulder. ...I mean -- "
He nodded. "I know." He took a deep breath, and I saw him gathering himself; his voice was low and steady when he went on.
"We're losing altitude and losing power," he began. "They think it started in the electrical system, but they haven't been able to isolate it." He was calm again, and I had the eerie feeling he was just describing another case, but it was belied by the now-constant rumbling of the plane all around us.
"They've managed to get word ahead to Washington, and there are rescue and -- " he stumbled -- "recovery crews coming out on our trajectory. But we're still over an hour out, and they don't think they can keep us up that long. They're just trying to stay on course now, so -- so that the other planes can..."
"...can find us after we've gone down," I breathed, finishing his sentence. He nodded dully, still absently stroking my hand.
I had no idea what to say, and neither, it seemed, did Mulder. I reached out and laid my other hand over his; I leaned toward him, and he leaned forward to meet me. We sat like that for a little while, our hands clasped, our foreheads together. The vibration of the airplane was noticeable now, and I heard a constant low murmur of voices as people became more concerned. At length the intercom came alive with a short whistle of feedback.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Simonson." The voices around us fell silent to listen.
"I'm sorry to tell you this, but it wouldn't be right not to let you know." The captain spoke with a gentle Southern accent, the sadness and regret in his voice almost palpable.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we're having... mechanical problems with this aircraft. We're several thousand feet lower than we should be, but there's just not enough power left to bring her back up. We are heading straight for our destination, and we're in radio contact with... with the rescue craft which are heading our way."
There was a long pause, but everyone around us was silent. I leaned my head against Mulder's, and his hand crept up my forearm, patting soothingly.
"Folks..." the captain continued, his voice thick, "I want you to know we're doing everything we can to bring this bird home. But I wouldn't be telling you the truth if I told you it looked good. ...I'm sorry, and I'll keep you informed as we go." The intercom crackled and was still.
I raised my head to look around. The people seemed stunned into a strange kind of calmness; some were, as Mulder and I were, holding hands; many were staring, unseeing, straight ahead. The woman to Mulder's left had taken a rosary out of her purse and was fingering the beads, her lips moving in silent prayer. I looked up and saw that poor mother rocking her little sleeping child, cradling him against her breast, tears streaming down her face. I couldn't bear to watch her. I turned back to Mulder and pressed my face against his shoulder, and he laid his hand on my head, slowly stroking my hair.
Amazingly, Mulder chuckled. I raised my head and he smiled sadly at me.
"We must have gotten it right this time," he mused, still smoothing my hair with his fingers.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," he murmured, "think of all the times we should've both been dead. And we kept coming back. We must have had more work to do." His fingertips played along my cheek, infinitely tender. He smiled ruefully and shook his head. "Now the mystery is solved. Now the gods are finished with us."
I looked into those clear hazel eyes, wishing I'd spent more time looking into them over all these years. There were secrets there that now I'd never learn.
"Mulder... do you believe in God?"
He lowered his eyes. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I always wanted to. And I've tried. ... I envy your faith sometimes, but I just haven't been able to find my answers there. Faith by its very definition offers no proof." He sighed and shook his head. "And I needed proof. ... So, somehow, I've come to rely on your belief to have the power to carry us both."
I felt tears stinging my eyes. I twined one arm around his neck and pulled him closer; he laid his head down on my shoulder. I had never done this often enough, and now I was sorry.
"Scully," he said, "I wish I'd tried harder to talk you into taking that earlier flight, and getting the body back by yourself while I took care of the loose ends. Then it would only be me up here."
"Don't be silly," I said quickly. "I couldn't leave you alone there - not after what we'd done. Don't think that way. It doesn't matter now."
"But, Scully," he protested, raising his head, "I'm done. Look at me. I've got almost everything I've ever wanted -- the thing I've spent my whole life trying to find. I can go. But this -- this wasn't your quest. You have so much more to live for."
My heart was breaking. Without thinking, I blurted out, "No, I don't. Not without you."
His eyes widened.
"Mulder," I blundered on, "I love you. I should have said so. I'm so sorry." I was starting to cry. "I always told myself there'd be a time and a place to tell you, and this is no place, but there is no more time." I choked back a sob. I couldn't go on. "I love you..."
He pulled me into his arms; I clung to him, tucked my face into the hollow of his throat. "Scully," he murmured, his voice full of awe. "Oh, Scully, oh, my love - Scully..." He let go of me, took my face between his hands, kissed my forehead, kissed the tears from my cheeks. "Scully. Dana. I love you - I've loved you for so long. Oh, Scully..."
I closed my eyes as his mouth came down to cover mine. The kiss I'd dreamed of -- the kisses I had promised myself, over and over, that I would have someday... The sweetest kiss I'd ever known, sweeter still for the knowledge that these first kisses were also the last.
When he lifted his head he was smiling. "Say it again," he whispered.
"I love you, Mulder. ... I've always loved you." I touched his face, caressing it, memorizing it. "I'll always love you. Always."
His smile broadened to a grin. "Now I have everything, Scully. Everything." He pulled me close again. "Let me hold you..."
I realized all at once that the plane was groaning and shuddering all around us now. The lights were dim and faltering; people were crying out, sobbing and screaming.
"Don't let go," I cried to Mulder over the din.
"I won't let go," he answered. "I'll never let go again."
The plane bucked violently one last time, and then pitched forward and rolled into a sickeningly steep descent. The lights flickered and died. The last thing I was aware of was Mulder's arm around my shoulders, holding me tight against him, and the way I clung to his other hand with both of my own.
- - - 2 - - -
There were no dreams where I was.
I drifted, languid and at ease, not even thinking. I never wondered where I was, or even what I was; none of these things mattered anymore. It was enough simply to be.
Sometimes I had a vague knowledge of how I'd come here; sometimes I remembered that I hadn't been alone, and although I had no eyes to see, no hands to reach out, I knew I wasn't alone now. There were others nearby, watching, guarding. I wasn't even curious. Time was meaningless, and I could wait.
I remembered, sometimes, and I wondered how long it would take to forget I'd ever had a body at all, now that I had no need of one. It didn't matter. I was content to drift...
There were sounds, finally, faraway sounds that might have been voices. I formed my first conscious thought: They've come to meet me. I waited; I could do nothing more.
They came closer; I recognized the pattern of the sounds and the pauses as speech. I wondered lazily whether it would be Missy, or Ahab... wondered who had come for me. And with a pang I realized the voice was my mother's.
This rush of sorrow was the first emotion I'd felt. Mom. Why was she here? What had happened to her?
She was saying my name. I heard my name. And then I heard her say, "I think she's waking up."
"I'll get the doctor," a stranger said, and I found that I still had eyes after all, and I opened them.
I had eyes -- and they saw the hospital room. I felt the weight of my body on the bed, became aware of the dull ache that spread throughout it. I blinked at the light and tried to move my mouth, to speak, but could only let out a puff of breath.
"It's all right, Dana," my mother was saying, leaning over me, stroking my forehead. "It's okay. Don't try to talk yet, honey. It's okay." She was smiling, even though her eyes glistened with tears.
More voices. The lights grew brighter. Strangers' faces came into view; doctors and nurses. My mouth was dry, my throat sore; I couldn't speak. Suddenly I was so tired... I closed my eyes again, and this time I recognized the drift into sleep.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
When I woke again, I turned my head on the pillow and saw my mother sitting, book in hand, in a chair beside my bed. "Mom," I breathed.
"Dana," she said, looking up. She hurriedly set down the book and rose to lean over me. "Dana. ...How do you feel, honey?" She reached out to caress my forehead.
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out; I supposed I'd been intubated - my throat was certainly sore enough. So I nodded and tried to smile a little for her.
"Oh, Dana, we were so worried. First we heard about the plane, and then that a few people had been rescued -- oh, Dana, I'm so glad..."
I wanted to bring my hand up to hold hers, but I couldn't move my arm. She must have seen the sudden fear in my eyes; she looked down at my arm, and then reached toward my wrist. I heard the tear of Velcro -- and my arm was free. I sighed in relief and slowly flexed it.
"You were so restless, honey. They were afraid you'd hurt yourself." She sat down on the edge of the bed, holding my hand in hers.
I still couldn't form words well enough to ask the hundred questions that were boiling in my mind, but I managed to whisper one word to convey the most pressing: "Mulder."
The clasp of my mother's hand became tighter. "He saved you, Dana. He saved your life." Tears filled her eyes as she spoke.
"He was still conscious when they found you, Dana. Your seat was all the way under the water, but he must have gotten your seat belt off and pulled you out. He was holding your head above the water when they found him." The tears overflowed her eyes, and spilled down her cheeks; seeing this, I assumed the worst.
Oh, Mulder. My Mulder. As if I didn't owe you enough. I owe you this one last one, now.
Her tone became apologetic. "There was -- they said there was a lot of fuel spilled, floating on the water, and it caught on fire... He was burned quite a lot worse than you were, honey."
Poor Mulder. Oh, poor Mulder. And you were afraid of fire... Maybe it would have been better if I'd never awakened. I closed my eyes again.
"So, honey," my mother went on, gently, "he's down in the burn unit, and the doctors say it's going to take a long time..."
My eyes flew open. Burn unit...! Then he was -- I struggled to speak, and produced a rusty croak. "Want to see him."
"Oh, honey, you can't. Neither of you can be moved yet. I'm sorry." She stroked my hand soothingly. "I go to see him every day, Dana. I'll tell him anything you want to say to him."
I frowned. "I want... to talk to -- his doctors," I gritted, and even through her tears, my mother began to laugh.
"Oh, Dana. I'll get them to come up as soon as I can. Oh, Dana, you're really back." She leaned down to kiss my forehead.
"Honey, you were the first one Fox asked for when he woke up. He was so happy when I told him you were going to be okay. I wish you could have seen how happy he was.
"He said to tell you he sends you his love."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
As the weeks went by and I grew stronger, I learned more about what had happened to me. I was encased in casts from my hips to my toes; my pelvis was fractured, and my nearly-shattered lower legs were held together with a truly impressive array of pins and screws and plates.
When they brought the x-rays, I held them up, one by one, studying them. I let out a long, low whistle. "Nice work."
The surgeon chuckled. "Coming from another doctor, that's a compliment."
"How many hours did it take to put me back together?"
"Four," he said, "and only because you were in such excellent condition before you were injured, and we were lucky enough to be able to do it in that one shot. You may need more surgeries further down the line, but I expect that you'll be able to walk without too much difficulty when it's all done."
I'd had a pretty good concussion, which accounted for my lack of memory of the accident (as we came to call it) itself. I had mild second-degree burns across the back of my neck and down my left shoulder; a good deal of my hair had been singed and had been hacked off rather haphazardly when I'd been brought into the hospital. As soon as I could be propped up just a little in my bed, my mother made a few phone calls, and brought down Mary Anne, who always did my hair. She did the best she could, given what she had to work with -- a short, layered, waifish cut, far too young for the haunted eyes that stared back from the mirror my mother held up for me.
I tried to be grateful. "My roots are starting to show," I said, attempting humor, and Mary Anne smiled.
"I can only do so much here, Dana," she said laughingly. "I don't think they'll appreciate it if I start whipping out the Miss Clairol."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
My mother told me that, as near as they could figure, Mulder must have had my left arm thrown over his shoulder, holding me up out of the water, until the flames came; then he must have lowered me as far as he could below the surface, using his own body to shield me. He'd sustained second- and third-degree burns to his right shoulder and arm and hand, to the back of his neck -- over nine percent of his body. I knew how serious it was, but his doctors assured me over and over that so far the signs were positive, that he was a cooperative patient, that he was a fighter.
Some piece of debris had struck his face and injured his right eye as well. The doctors had not been able to do all they would have liked for it; the burn wounds had necessarily been their most urgent priority. When Mulder's condition had been stabilized enough for them to turn back to his eye, they found the damage was more extensive than they had originally thought. Although they had saved the eye, they held out little hope that he would have sight in it.
I couldn't see him. I couldn't even talk to him on the phone -- he was on so much morphine that he could only manage a few drowsy words every time we tried. My mother visited him every day. "After all, he has no family of his own anymore, Dana," she'd said, "and besides, if he hadn't -- if he hadn't..." and she spread her hands apart helplessly, looking me up and down.
It works both ways, I thought, watching her. If he hadn't pulled me out of that plane seat, I wouldn't be here. But -- and I hated myself for thinking it, but I couldn't help it -- if he hadn't captured my imagination eight years earlier with his impossible tilting at windmills, I wouldn't be here, either. I might still have some semblance of a real life.
Oh, yes -- I chose to follow. I never once failed to acknowledge that I walked this path of my own free will. And yet, and yet... Still, somewhere inside, I carefully nurtured a little nugget of resentment. And I had never been able to tell whether it was directed at Mulder, or at myself.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Skinner was very thorough, if very discreet, in his investigation of the accident. He made sure that what was left of Spender's body was recovered from the wreckage, and brought me the dental x-rays so that I could double-check them myself. It was a testament to my faith in the work that Mulder and I had done that, when he asked me whether I thought the plane might have been sabotaged by someone we'd missed, my only reaction was a blank stare of disbelief -- almost of scorn.
Still, the question stayed with me, and when Frohike and Byers and Langly came to see me, I asked them what they had heard.
"In truth, Agent Scully, that was the first thing we thought of," Frohike said earnestly, leaning still further toward me until I thought he might topple right off the front edge of his chair. I glanced again at the absurdly large floral arrangement he'd brought me.
"But we couldn't find a thing -- not a thing," Byers interjected, "and, believe me, we looked everywhere, from the minute we knew it was your plane that was about to go down."
My eyes narrowed. "How did you know we were on that flight?"
"Oh, come on, Scully," Langly smiled. " 'George Hale'? And 'Katherine Melville'? We do keep tabs on you, you know. And those weren't very original aliases. You should ask us for a few the next time you're traveling incognito."
I shook my head and sighed in something between amazement and annoyance. "I won't be going anywhere for a while. But I'll keep it in mind."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Apparently, Flight 404 had been brought down by nothing more sinister than good old-fashioned mechanical failure. I asked the Lone Gunmen for newspaper clippings about it; I couldn't bring myself to ask my family to do it.
Of the two hundred and fifteen passengers and fourteen crew, thirty people had been pulled alive from the wreckage, all from the tail section. It had been the only part of the plane not to break up, and the last to sink into the ocean; Mulder's attempt to economize had saved both our lives. Of those thirty, eleven had survived.
One of the survivors was a little child, who'd come through without even a scratch, with only a few bruises. The media quickly dubbed him the "miracle baby" and told how he had been returned to his waiting father. I hoped fervently that he was the toddler I'd seen at the airport and on the flight, and immediately felt guilty for perhaps wishing death upon some other child.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Three weeks after the accident, Mulder was transferred to the National Rehabilitation Hospital's excellent burn unit to begin the skin grafts and reconstructive surgery he needed. At the same time, I was sent home to my mother's and, when I had been there two weeks, the first of my casts came off. I went to physical therapy every day; I was taught to use a walker. Mulder and I had still not laid eyes on each other since the accident.
- - - 3 - - -
It would have gone very differently, I think, if we'd been able to see each other right away after the accident. As it was, it was almost a month before Mulder could even manage the phone, and then he went to National Rehab; by then, I was at my mother's, as I couldn't take care of myself yet. A month and a half after that, when I began using a walker instead of the wheelchair, she and I both moved into my apartment, and I began working half-days, squaring away the last loose ends of what had been the X-Files. Eight weeks had gone by when I finally hobbled out on the walker and got into the car with my mother to visit Mulder for the first time.
I stared out the window, watching the scenery, listening to the radio, lost in my thoughts. At length my mother reached out and turned the radio down.
"You're awfully quiet, Dana," she said. "You're not nervous, are you?"
"To see Mulder?" I said dismissively, smiling. "Of course not." I was lying. My stomach was already a tight knot below my breastbone. I hadn't even been this nervous the very first time I raised my hand to knock at the door of his office.
What would I say to him? What in the world would I say? Our phone conversations hadn't been exactly scintillating -- we'd stuck to the safe topics. Who'd had the most recent surgery. Whose rehab was going better. The latest outlook from the doctors. We'd been able to skirt the subject of the accident almost completely; the closest we'd come to talking about it was when I told him how careful Skinner had been to recover and identify Spender's remains. A real conversation was a scary thought - especially in light of the way he'd taken to calling me 'Dana' as often as he did 'Scully' the last few times we'd spoken.
He was waiting for us, and he came out of the front doors and met us halfway down the sunny walkway. His right arm was swathed in bandages and held in a sling. He reached out first to my mother and gave her a hug. "Margaret," he said warmly. "It's so good to see you."
"You too, Fox," she returned, hugging him as if he'd been one of my brothers. I blinked. Since when did he call my mother by her first name? But I had no time to wonder, because he was turning to me, reaching out with his good arm . The expression that suffused his features was one of pure joy.
"Scully," he said, as if he could hardly believe it. I fumbled my walker to the side, and he stepped up to me and pulled me close against him. I wrapped my arms around him. Mulder... How could I have been nervous? This was perfect. This was where I belonged. This was home.
His hand stroked my back; he bent his head, and his lips grazed my temple and then my ear. "Dana," he whispered, and all at once it was too much -- he was too close; I felt constrained, confined. He must have felt me stiffen in his embrace, for he lifted his head and looked questioningly down at me.
"Mulder, I..."
His smile returned, and he nodded. "It's okay," he said gently. "Here. Can you lean on me?" He turned back toward the hospital doors, his arm still around my shoulders.
"I think so. Yes." I wound one arm around his waist, and we went slowly up the path together. My mother had sized up the situation, and folded up my walker, and was carrying it as she walked beside us.
Mulder wisely steered me toward the wheelchair ramp rather than trying the steps. We made our way to a courtyard garden, where I gratefully sank down onto a chair. He pulled another chair up close to mine and sat down. I looked over at him and found myself tongue-tied.
He looked at me -- just looked at me, with that funny little smile on his face, for what felt like the longest time. "Your hair's so short," he said at last.
I wrinkled my nose in distaste. "This was about all that was left of it, after the -- " ...fire, I thought. I couldn't say it.
"Now, Dana, I think it's flattering," my mother chided. "Don't you, Fox?"
"It's cute," he agreed, lifting his hand and ruffling it good-naturedly with his fingers. "But I think it's shorter than mine."
This non-conversation was excruciating. "How's your eye?" I asked him.
He shrugged. "As good as it's going to get, they say." I leaned forward, and he turned his face to me so that I could see. I hesitated a moment before I took his chin in my hand and looked carefully at the eye. I saw the little scar over his right eyebrow.
"How much can you see?"
"Light. Shadow. On a sunny day like this, anyway -- inside, or at night, nothing." The tone of his voice was light, belying the gravity of the words.
"You don't even sound like you mind," I marveled, and he smiled again, and took my hand.
"Mind?" he asked. "I have my life. I have the answers I would have thrown it away to find. ...I have you, Dana." He raised my hand to his lips and placed the very softest kiss on the back of it. "I don't think this is much of a price to pay."
I was speechless. I knew I was blushing. Mercifully, my mother stepped into the awkward pause. "Fox, have you spoken to Mr. Skinner yet about going back to work?"
I sat back in my chair and let out a long breath as he released my hand and turned toward her. Work. Work was safe. I could talk about work.
"I just spoke with him this morning, in fact," Mulder said. "We were discussing the possibility of my going back to Behavioral Sciences and profiling again. I mean..." and he looked meaningfully at me, "there aren't any X-Files anymore. And I can't go out into the field, like... this."
I nodded. "I'm going to end up back in Forensics."
"Teaching again?" he asked. "Going back to Quantico?"
"No... no, there's an opening for a pathologist. Apparently somebody's retiring in the fall."
He broke into that grin again. "We'll still be in the same building."
"And you'll feel right at home, because you'll still be in the basement." His smile was infectious; I was beginning to smile myself.
"We can have lunch together in the always-elegant Bureau cafeteria." He reached for my hand again, and this time I held it out to him.
"And I can continue to nag you about your execrable eating habits." I chucked in relief. The banter made me feel normal again; for a moment I almost forgot...
My mother smiled and shook her head. "You two," she laughed. "You haven't changed, either of you."
Oh, but she was wrong. Even sitting out there in the warm sunshine, her words sent a chill through me. Did I actually shiver? Perhaps I did -- Mulder squeezed my hand, and a shadow fleeted across his features as he watched me.
She was so very wrong. I had hardly begun to find out how wrong she was.