Any Other Name					Part 3 – Chapters 6, 7, & 8A
by Louise Marin
mibosh@earthlink.net
www.angelfire.com/la/xspot


SIX:

Scully awoke slowly from an abysmal sleep.  She stretched, sliding her 
body against the sweet silk of her pajamas and the warmth of the 
sheets.  For a few moments, she knew only that whatever dreams may have 
occurred during the night had been forgotten.  She blinked the sleep 
from her eyes and then tilted her head toward the red glow of the alarm 
clock.  With a groan, she rolled toward the bed's edge, knowing she 
would be late for work and wondering why her morning alarm had failed.  
She was sliding from the bed, standing up when her feet hit the carpet, 
when she finally realized it was Saturday.

Deciding it was time to start the day anyway, Scully took exactly one 
step toward the bathroom before the memory hit her.  Mulder.  Her knees 
went weak, sending her stumbling back into bed.

Curling in on herself, she took deep breaths, trying to slow her 
rushing heart.  She had met the last five hundred and some mornings 
chased by nightmares that would not let her forget him.  But now there 
was no need to forget.  He was there.  He had spent the night just 
across the hall.  It was almost impossible to believe, and the need to 
see him pushed her suddenly from the bed.  She flew across the hall to 
his room to find him present but still asleep, curled up on his side 
with his back to her.

Ishy lay next to the bed.  He stood as Scully approached, trying to 
greet her.  She nudged the dog aside and sat gently on the edge of 
Mulder's bed.  The covers were tangled snugly around him, but part of 
them had slipped down to bare his naked right shoulder and a piece of 
his back.  Soft morning light poured in through the window to shine 
across his smooth, pale skin.  Scully watched the gentle rise and fall 
of his breathing as she silently thanked God for him. 

Leaning over just a bit, she looked at his face and suddenly realized 
that his sleep was not the peaceful one she would wish him.  His jaw 
was tense, the muscles taut and quivering, and his eyes were restless 
beneath their soft lids.  Scully wondered what demons his mind was 
fighting.  She was certain that the tortured face she looked at now was 
the same one he had worn most nights they had spent on the road.  She 
had been unable to go to him then, but she would listen to him call out 
in his sleep through the motel-room walls.  This was his face.

"Mulder."  The word was a tiny prayer riding on her breath.  She fought 
an old fight against familiar urges to run her fingers through his hair 
and to murmur words of comfort in his ear.  Her hands twitched, and she 
wished she could disown them before they could betray her.  

Mulder.  He was so close.

He rolled restlessly toward her, the blanket falling away from his 
chest.  Scully's heart sank when she noticed anew his perfect left 
shoulder, the skin smooth there where it should have been marred by 
scar tissue.  She turned away.

She found his clothes in a pile on the floor next to the bed.  They 
were dirty with sweat and blood, and she did not blame him for taking 
them off.  She scooped them up and quietly left him to sleep.

After putting the clothes in the washer and letting Ishy out for his 
pre-breakfast romp, Scully stepped into her shower.  She let the hot 
water massage the tension from her neck and back while she pondered 
what would happen when Mulder finally woke.


Scully stepped from her bathroom damp, clean, and wrapped in a towel.  
She had purposely left the door to her room open in case Mulder needed 
her.  He poked his head into the doorway now that she had appeared in 
the room.  

"Good morning, Mulder," she said.

"Dana Scully."  Smiling and looking a little relieved, he stepped into 
Scully's room.  He was unclothed, his body strong, beautiful, and 
somewhat bruised before her.  He looked at her with open and innocent 
interest, but Scully's gaze dropped quickly to the impressive erection 
that bobbed with each step he took in her direction.  

Scully tightened the towel around her body uncomfortably, and he 
immediately stopped moving toward her.  His face turned from happy to 
confused, but Scully could say nothing to assuage the awkward moment.  
She gaped at him, frozen by the very blood that rushed through her 
veins and pounded in her head.  She felt a sudden, uncomfortable 
giddiness bubble up from her stomach.  It was reminiscent of adolescent 
crushes and make-out parties and that first juvenile, bewildering 
contact with the mysterious essence of man.  She wanted nothing more 
than to touch him.

Mulder began to shuffle his feet under her silence and scrutiny and 
discomfort.  "I don't understand.  Did I…  Should I go?" he asked, 
looking away from her.

While Scully struggled to find herself amidst the intoxication his 
appearance brought, she watched him look down at himself as he tried to 
comprehend what about him could have caused her so much discomfort.  As 
her brain began to clear, she searched for a way to gently explain the 
nature of clothing without giving a lecture on original sin.  Her 
struggle, however, proved unnecessary.  When she tightened her towel 
again understanding washed over his face.  

As he backed out into the hallway, he tried to cover himself.  His arms 
and hands flew over his chest, stomach, and groin, and then came to 
rest again at his sides.  He had no idea which of his parts were 
causing offense.  He looked up at Scully with defeat and pleading in 
his eyes.

"The clothes were gone," he explained, shifting around nervously.  "I 
was going…  I was going to the…"  He pointed timidly toward the guest 
bathroom.  "And I heard you."

Scully pulled herself together, not sure whether to feel shame at her 
own embarrassment or amusement at his.  It was simply a natural morning 
erection, after all, and she was chagrined that it had disturbed her 
so.  "Go on to the bathroom, Mulder.  Your clothes are being washed.  
I'll find something else for you to wear."

Mulder nodded and moved off quickly down the hall and out of sight.  
Still fighting her own state of arousal, Scully went to her dresser and 
threw on sweat pants and a T-shirt.  Digging through her drawers, she 
found the biggest pair of boxer shorts she had and brought them down 
the hall to Mulder's bathroom.  

"Mulder?" she called, knocking on the door.  "You finished?"

"Yes."

Scully cracked the bathroom door open and shoved the boxers inside for 
Mulder to take.  "Put those on," she commanded and then went into his 
room to look for his treasured Knicks T-shirt.  Aside from the one that 
went with the suit she kept hanging in his closet, it was the only 
other shirt of his she could remember having kept. 

Minutes later, Mulder found her sitting on his bed.  He walked into the 
room with a lopsided, timid smile on his face and snug, plaid boxer 
shorts covering his middle.

"Okay?" he asked, looking down at the shorts.

"Yep.  Put this on too," Scully said as she handed him the T-shirt.

He pulled the shirt on and then looked at her expectantly.  "I'm sorry, 
Mulder," she said, looking down at her hands.  "I put your clothes in 
the wash while you were sleeping.  They were pretty dirty.  We don't 
usually walk around without any clothes on.  We'll get you some more 
clothes later so this doesn't happen again, okay?"

Scully looked up to see him nod.  When she looked into his eyes, he 
turned his gaze to the floor shyly.  With his mussed up bed hair, his 
T-shirt, the boxers, and the blush coloring his cheeks, he looked like 
a bashful little boy.  Scully swatted a stray tear from her eye as she 
wondered at this beautiful man-child.  He screamed of Mulder on almost 
every level, from his curiosity and drive to his sensitive, fragile, 
childlike underbelly.  But he was not really Mulder at all.  It was an 
amazing trick.  Or was it?  Scully feared it would be a long time 
before she could say with certainty who this man she had taken into her 
home and her life truly was.  

As the silence extended and they practiced looking at each other while 
not looking at each other, Scully could feel the discomfort between 
them building.  Before it had a chance to grow to an unmanageable 
level, she stood and herded him into the kitchen to make some 
breakfast.  

"Breakfast?" Mulder asked.

"Food, Mulder."

An unmistakable twinkle lit his eyes.  The look said 'feed me now, and 
I'll love you forever,' and Scully had seen it flashed at waitresses in 
roadside diners all across the country.  She was glad he was interested 
in eating now, but she also worried that he would be unable to keep the 
food down.  She despised the thought of him suffering through another 
round of vomiting and decided to try some bland scrambled eggs and 
toast.

He stood by the table and watched her as she fished around the kitchen 
for ingredients and utensils.  She glanced back at him after she took 
down a bowl for the eggs.  He smiled uncomfortably, his face full of 
reluctant curiosity.

"Do you want to help, Mulder?" Scully asked gently.

"I don't know what to do."

"I'll show you.  Come here."  Scully moved over so he could stand next 
to her at the stove.  He immediately began to touch everything on the 
counter.  He ran his palm over the sweaty milk carton, touched the 
spoons and ladles and griddles that hung over the stove, touched the 
buttons on the oven.  

Scully took a minute to explain the stove and oven to him, telling him 
they were for cooking, that they would get very hot, and not to touch.  
He nodded and picked up the loaf of bread.  It's softness seemed to be 
a surprise to him, and Scully asked him if he had ever eaten bread at 
the Clinic.

"I don't think so," he said quietly, carefully inspecting the bread and 
the clear plastic bag around it.  "Dana, I want…  I would like it 
better if I knew more things."

Scully's heart broke over his quiet words and desolate face.  She could 
not imagine how alone and ineffective he must have felt since he left 
the Clinic.  "You'll learn," she promised.  "I'll teach you, okay?"

"Okay."

"What about eggs?"  She held one up for him to see.  "Have you ever had 
eggs?"

He shook his head, and Scully placed the egg in his palm.  He handled 
it gently, as if he sensed that it was fragile.  Holding it up near his 
ear, he shook it.  "There's something inside," he mused.

"That's the part we eat."  Taking the egg from him, she showed him how 
to tap it on the counter until it cracked.  Then she returned it to him 
and explained how to hold it over the bowl and pull it open.

He looked at her nervously and then concentrated hard on the egg.  
Scully would never forget the look of delighted surprise on his face 
when he punched both his thumbs through the shell.  Albumen and yolk 
exploded into his hands.  He watched the yolk ooze through his fingers 
and onto the counter, amused curiosity on his face.

When he peered up at Scully cautiously, she smiled and then began to 
laugh with joy and uncontrollable emotion.  He laughed as well, despite 
the bit or worry he seemed to feel over his mistake.  The more they 
laughed, the more relaxed he appeared to become, and Scully watched the 
tension and confusion still lingering between them lift and begin to 
fade away.  When their giggles began to subside, she turned him toward 
the sink to wash his hands.

"I'm sorry," he said, still chuckling.  "That wasn't right, was it?"

"Not even close.  Here, let me show you how it's supposed to go."  
Scully took the rest of the eggs and cracked them into the bowl, Mulder 
looking on over her shoulder.

Once the eggs were scrambled and cooking, Scully turned to put the 
bread in the toaster.  Suddenly, Mulder let out a terrified yelp from 
behind her.  Scully turned to find him sucking on his finger, tears 
streaming down his cheeks.  He shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably.

"Mulder!  I told you not to touch the stove.  What did you touch?"

He whimpered at her harsh tone and pointed timidly at the griddle where 
the eggs were cooking.  Scully turned off the stove, pulled Mulder's 
hand from his mouth, turned on the sink, and stuck his finger under the 
water.  "Stay there," she commanded.  Then she swept from the room to 
get the first aid kit, again.

When she returned to the kitchen, she found Mulder with his finger back 
in his mouth.  His body sagged, and he refused to look at her.  
"Mulder, you just have to learn everything the hard way, don't you?  I 
should have known," she said, shaking her head.  She sat him down at 
the table.  "Let me see."  She gently pulled the finger from his mouth.  
The burn was superficial, but would certainly hurt for a few days to 
come.  She covered it with soothing burn cream and a bandage.

"M'sorry," Mulder mumbled, hanging his head.

"It's okay, Mulder.  I'm sorry I yelled at you," Scully said, ruffling 
his hair affectionately.  His eyes brightened considerably at the 
touch, and Scully felt relieved.  He had withdrawn from her in response 
to her angry reprimand, and she wanted him back immediately.  

As she rubbed his hurt hand soothingly, his body seemed to relax, and 
Scully realized that he needed to feel connected to her.  It made 
perfect sense considering the isolation he had lived with at the Clinic 
and the trauma he was facing starting life in the real world.  Stupid, 
she told herself.  Stupid of her to make him think he should pull away.  
Scully resolved to touch him more, to give him her physical acceptance 
whenever possible despite whatever words might be falling from her 
mouth.  She did not want to see him withdraw again.  

"Now tell me what you're going to do next time I tell you something's 
hot and not to touch it?" she asked kindly.

"Don't touch."

"Good.  That goes for the stove itself and things on top of it, okay?"

He nodded.  Scully finished cooking the eggs and the toast, Mulder 
watching over her shoulder, mesmerized, and then they sat down at the 
table.  Mulder broke into an enormous grin after his first bite of egg 
and then began to eat like he had never seen food before.  Scully let 
him enjoy it for a moment but then asked him to slow down, worried that 
he would upset his stomach.  An ugly shadow fell over his face when he 
was reminded of the vomiting.  He slowed down some, but the shadow left 
quickly and his childish enthusiasm and relentlessness remained.  
Scully found herself smiling at him.

When he looked up at her, he smiled back, his twinkling eyes holding 
hers.  Then he glanced down at the table and shook his head, looking 
confused.  "I am…happy?  I don't know the words."

"Happy is right, Mulder.  I'm happy too.  Happy that you're here," 
Scully said softly, trying to get him to look back up at her.  When he 
did, he gave her a tiny smile.  Scully smiled back but also noticed how 
tired he looked.  His eyes were dark and droopy, and Scully had so many 
questions for him.  She would try to get some of them in before he 
needed to sleep again.  "Mulder, will you tell me what it was like at 
the Clinic?"

His smile vanished quickly, and Scully was so sorry to see it go.  She 
resolved to avoid talk of the Clinic when possible, but there were 
things now that she needed to know.  

"I don't understand what you want to know," he stated, looking down at 
the table.

"What did you do every day?  What were the people there like?  What 
were their names?  Anything you can think of to tell me would be 
helpful, Mulder.  I know you want me to look for the others, right?

He looked up now, hope in his eyes.  "You can find them?"

"I hope so.  I think so.  But you have to tell me anything you know 
about the Clinic that might help, okay?"

Mulder nodded and began to speak.  His voice was quiet and sounded 
detached.  He spoke of lessons and learning, teachers whose full names 
he did not know, and books they had made him read about the world and 
especially about topics important to Mulder.  He knew psychology, 
astronomy, and several other subjects, the real world application of 
which he did not understand at all.  He knew computers, but was never 
allowed access to the internet without supervision and was never 
allowed access to any of the Clinic's files.  

He said there were daily runs and exercises all done inside the Clinic.  
The clones were never ever allowed out.  Sometimes medical related 
tests were done on one or more of them.  He did not know what the tests 
were for.  He did not know exactly how long he had spent at the Clinic, 
but Scully guessed it was somewhere between six and nine months.  The 
Others had been created before him, had all been there and already 
learning when he came out of the thing he called the growing-tank.  He 
was the last.  He was the most perfect.  He was the most needed.

Scully was disappointed that he had virtually no names to give her.  
There was a Dr. Baker, but without a first name or initial, it did her 
very little good.  She had no idea what kind of doctor the man even 
was.  And that was assuming Baker was his real name to begin with.  

As Mulder spoke, Scully thought about what his life had been like, 
short as it had been so far.  She fought the urge to cry for him.  He 
had come into the world at thirty nine years old; he had missed half 
his life.  And his first nine months had been spent isolated and 
clinically cared for by doctors and scientists.  She shook her head, 
looking sadly down at her hands.

When Mulder had finished his account and they had both grown quiet, he 
tried to ask Scully what the world was like for her.  He fumbled the 
words, but she was growing adept at deciphering his meanings and his 
needs.  He wanted to know about her life.  Oh, God, what life?  Which 
life?  

"My life is work," she finally stated.  "I help people for a living.  
We find answers to questions and solutions to problems that other 
people can't seem to find.  And then there's home, when work is done.  
I have Ishy here.  You like Ishy, right?"

He listened to Scully with rapt attention, but his eyes crinkled in 
confusion at what she was saying.  She reached across the table and 
took his hand.  There was no real need to explain.  He would learn.  He 
would learn her.  This time.  "Now that you're going to be living here 
with me, you'll be part of my life.  You'll see what my life and work 
are like for yourself, Mulder," she said, smiling.  

He smiled back at her and then yawned again.  He scratched tiredly at 
the two day old beard appearing on his chin.  Scully realized they had 
some heavy duty shopping ahead of them.  He would need everything from 
the basic necessities like a razor and shaving cream to a warm jacket 
for the approaching winter.

"Mulder, do you want to go sleep for a bit more now?" she asked when he 
yawned again.

"No," he said emphatically.  "I don't want to sleep any more."

"Okay.  We need to go to the store and get you some things today, 
okay?"

"Store is like a shop.  Like the coffee shop?"

"Yes, but they sell different things at different stores.  Some sell 
clothes.  That's where we'll go first."

They put the dishes from breakfast into the dishwasher.  Then Mulder 
followed Scully to the laundry closet to retrieve his sweats.  

"Mulder?" Scully asked suddenly.

"Yes?"

"They brought you to that coffee shop so I would see you, didn't they?"

"Yes.  They told me to let you see me and then to leave."

"Do you know why they wanted me to see you?"

He thought for a moment and then spoke quietly.  "I heard Doctor baker 
say it was a test.  To see if I could be him.  They wanted you to 
believe."

"Oh."  Scully looked down at her hands.  She wanted to believe.  "Come 
on.  You need to get cleaned up."


It was almost noon before they left for the mall.  The day was again 
sunny and warm for November.  Mulder sat quietly in the passenger seat, 
looking out the window in perfect awe of the world.

Scully glanced over at him now and then as she drove.  His eyes would 
widen with curiosity as they passed people, buildings, busses, and a 
thousand other things she knew he had never seen or conceived of 
before.  For each thing, she saw a question form on his face, but he 
did not give the questions voice.  Scully knew that the men behind the 
Clinic could be supremely cunning.  They would have taught him to keep 
his curiosity to himself.  He would be much less of a threat to them 
that way.  She wondered not for the first time why they wanted him back 
at all.

Stopped at a red light, Scully turned to watch Mulder.  His eyes locked 
on something outside the car, and his curiosity suddenly intensified.  
He began to wiggle in his seat as he put one hand up to the window, 
rubbing his fingertips against the glass.  She leaned forward to get a 
look at what had caught his interest.  On the sidewalk, a woman walked 
a German Shepherd.  Scully could only guess at what Mulder was 
thinking.

"Mulder," Scully said, touching his arm to get his attention, "it's 
okay to ask me questions when you have them, all right?"

Relief flooded his face.  He smiled slightly at Scully before turning 
back to watch the woman and the dog.  "Are dogs…like me?  All the 
same?" he asked shyly.

"No, Mulder," Scully said softly as the light turned green.  "That dog 
looks like Ishy, but they aren't genetic clones.  Some dogs look really 
different.  You'll see one if you keep looking."

He was quiet for the rest of the ride.  Scully assumed he was looking 
for more dogs.  As they stepped into the mall, though, his face lit up 
and the questions exploded from him.

"Dana Scully, are all these people here to buy clothes?" he wanted to 
know, his eyes wide and his attention roaming over the entire mall.  
"What are those things those people are carrying?  Are those the shops?  
Is that one of the clothes stores?  Which shop will we get clothes for 
me?  How do they make all those colored lights?  How do they make the 
clothes?"

"Woah, slow down there, Mulder," Scully interrupted, laughing and 
taking his arm.  "Let's do this one question at a time."

He looked down at her, smiling sheepishly.  Scully  watched him think 
for a moment.  His jaw tense and his brow furrowed, he looked as if he 
was mentally listing his questions in order of importance.  "Are there 
others like me?" he finally asked.

"What?" Scully asked, surprised by his question and wishing he had 
asked something trivial like 'Which store sells socks and underwear?'

He blinked down at her, shaking his head slightly.  "That question is 
not allowed?"

"No. I mean, yes.  That was a fine question, Mulder," Scully said 
gently, afraid he would be upset by what she had to say.  "I wish I had 
an answer for you.  But I don't know.  I don't think that there are 
other clones like you and the others.  Not any real, human ones, 
anyway.  I just…  I don't know."

He nodded, but the corners of his lips turned down in either confusion 
or melancholy.  Scully was not sure which.  "Where will we get clothes 
for me?" he asked again quietly.

"Right over here, Mulder.  Come on."  Scully led him into The Gap, 
explaining that they would find shirts, pants, and a jacket for him 
there.  

As they began to browse the store, Mulder's eyes widened with 
bewilderment.  "The clothes are all different," he mused as he ran his 
fingers over a gray cable-knit sweater.  

"Were your clothes always the same?"

"Yes.  All the same," he said, turning toward Scully.  "You have many 
different clothes, Dana."

Scully chuckled at his sweet innocence.  "You will too, Mulder.  Why 
don't you go see if you like any of those shirts over there while I 
find some pants for you to try on," she suggested, giving him a little 
shove toward a table full of T-shirts.  

He shook his head, touching her arm with the tips of his first and 
middle fingers.  Since they had entered the mall, he had been giving 
her small, hesitant touches on her hands, arms, and shoulders.  She 
assumed he needed reassurance that she was there with him amidst the 
sea of shoppers.  Whenever she indicated that she had noticed him 
reaching out, though, he seemed to pull away.  Ignoring his touch this 
time, she let him follow her to The Gap's wall of jeans, where the 
pants were stacked up and neatly categorized according to waist, 
length, and style.

As she tried to guess his size, Scully felt his fingers move to the 
small of her back.  Every inch of her skin began to tingle.  She 
resisted the urge to close her eyes, afraid of getting lost in the 
memory the touch evoked and trying to hide her reaction lest he take 
his hand away.  She felt a terrible longing for the feel of his whole 
hand on her back.

The cheerful timbre of a woman's voice pulled Scully from her 
distraction.  "Can I help you find some jeans, Sir?" the woman asked.  
"My name is Cindy."

Scully turned to see a young sales clerk quite literally beaming up at 
Mulder.  Mulder blinked at the girl, confusion and curiosity on his 
face and a hint of fear in his eyes.  

"Sir, are you all right?" the girl asked, batting her eyelashes at him.  

When Cindy reached out to touch him on the arm, Scully felt his 
lingering hand slide fully onto her, his palm applying gentle pressure 
and warmth to the curve where her back met her buttocks. Again fighting 
to hide her reaction to his touch, to ignore the weakness in her knees 
and the flutter in her heart, Scully chuckled at Cindy's flirtation and 
Mulder's reaction.  The girl seemed harmless enough.

"It's okay, Mulder," Scully said gently and then addressed the girl.  
"Cindy, he needs several pair of regular style jeans and some khaki 
slacks, but we're not sure about the size."

"That's no problem," Cindy said with a smile.  

Scully watched with a smile of her own as Cindy sized Mulder up with 
her eyes.  He began to shift uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"He looks to be about a 34 waist and a 32 inseam, but we can try a few 
different sizes," the girl concluded.  She picked out five or six pair 
of jeans and several slacks, draping them all over her arm.  "If you'll 
just follow me, the dressing rooms are in the back."

"I don't understand," Mulder murmured in Scully's ear.

Ignoring the strange look Cindy threw them, Scully explained gently 
that he needed to put the clothes on to see if they would fit.  Mulder 
nodded, and they followed Cindy to the back of the store.

Scully scooted Mulder into the tiny dressing stall with the clothes.  
He gave her a worried look as she pulled the door closed behind him.  
"It's okay, Mulder," she said through the door.  "Try the pants.  I'll 
be right out here."

"Okay," came his quiet reply.

Turning to find Cindy hovering around the dressing area, Scully smiled 
and went out into the store to look for shirts and sweaters.  She was 
tickled that she had the chance to finally dress Mulder in whatever she 
wanted to see on him, but in the end she found herself drawn to the 
clothes that were reminiscent of the ones she had boxed up and given to 
Good Will two summers ago.  Carefully, she selected six pocketless T-
shirts and two sweaters all in black, gray, blue, and white.

As Scully was browsing the jackets, Cindy approached her.  "Dana 
Scully?" the girl asked, looking a little nervous.  "He's asking for 
you."

"Thank you," Scully said and swept into the dressing area, Cindy at her 
heels.

Scully found Mulder wandering around outside his stall, glancing up 
into the mirror at the end of the long room every few seconds.  He wore 
the jeans, which seemed to fit him perfectly, but he moved with great 
discomfort, wiggling his hips and pulling at the jeans' waist with 
every step.  Scully stifled a giggle, hiding her smile behind her hand.

"Mulder, what's wrong?" she asked gently.

He turned to her, relief on his face.  "The other pants, the soft ones, 
are okay," he said.  "But these blue ones are…heavy?"

Scully nodded.

"And scratchy," he continued, bending over to rub at his knees.  "And 
stiff."

Scully could not help feeling a little disappointed.  She had noticed 
that his muscles were slightly more developed than they had been 
before, and she thought he looked wonderful in the new jeans.  "Do you 
think you can get used to them?" she asked.  "You always liked these 
kind of pants before.  They get softer as you wear them."

"Okay," he said, but then he wiggled his bottom again.

Smiling and shaking her head, Scully sent him back into the dressing 
room to change.  Moments later, she heard a rustling through the door 
and then a small, frustrated grunt.  

"Mulder?"  She cracked the door open and slid into the tiny room to 
find him sitting on the bench up against the wall.  He was struggling 
hopelessly with his zipper.

"It won't…  It won't move," he said, looking up at Scully, his eyes 
pleading for help.

"It's just stuck, Mulder.  We'll fix it."  She dropped the bundle of 
clothes she had picked out onto the bench.  Standing between his legs, 
she then leaned over and nudged his hands out of the way.  "At least 
you figured out how to get the pants done up on your own.  Or did Cindy 
help you?"

"Cindy helped."

Scully rolled her eyes and continued to tug at his securely stuck 
zipper.  He had done a hell of a job on it.  While she worked, she 
could feel pleasant warmth diffusing from his belly and from the large 
hands he rested near hers in his lap.  She was surprised when he began 
to brush the soft pad of his index finger back and forth across the 
back of her busy hand.  She worked at the zipper for another moment, 
enjoying the feel of his innocent caress.  Then, wondering what was 
transpiring in his head, she looked up to his face.  

Mulder was staring down at their hands, his head bowed.  He seemed to 
be concentrating deeply on the gentle movement of his finger and the 
texture of Scully's skin, but the moment Scully forgot herself in the 
sensation and the movement of her own hands ceased, he drew his touch 
quickly away.  

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Oh, Mulder," Scully said, trying to catch his eyes.  He refused to 
look at her, so she took him by the chin and turned his face toward 
hers.  "It's okay to touch me, Mulder.  Okay?"  She slid her hand up to 
cup his stubbled cheek.  Every line of worry disappeared from his face, 
his muscles going slack under her touch.  A look of tremendous peace 
overcame him.  He closed his eyes.

Before Scully could speak, or move, or even think, he slipped an arm 
around her waist and pulled her to him.  He pressed his face into her 
chest, tucking his head beneath her chin, and held her tight.  Her 
heart beating wildly for him, Scully buried her mouth and nose in his 
hair and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, rubbing his back and 
the soft skin of his neck soothingly.  She felt him heave a huge sigh 
before he snuggled in even closer.

"You just need someone to love you, don't you?" she whispered into his 
hair.  "You always did, but I didn't know how or when to give it to you 
before."

"I don't understand," he mumbled into her chest.

"It's okay, Mulder.  It's okay now."  She pulled gently away to place a 
tender kiss on his forehead.

His hand moved instantly to the spot her lips had touched.  With his 
other hand, he wiped a renegade tear from the corner of his eye.  
Scully kissed him again, this time on the cheek, and ruffled his hair 
before going back to work on his zipper.  It finally came free, and she 
waited for him to change back into his sweats.  

They emerged from the dressing room hand in hand, piles of clothes 
draped over both their free arms.  Mulder hugged his pile close to his 
chest.  

After dropping the clothes off with Cindy, they browsed the store some 
more and then went to pay.  Mulder stood with his hand on Scully's 
shoulder while she used her Mastercard to pay for five T-shirts, two 
sweaters, a button down, two pair of jeans, one pair of khaki slacks, 
one pair of running shorts, a jacket, and some plaid pajamas.  

When she felt Mulder stir next to her, Scully saw that he had taken an 
interest in the large rack of shiny women's jewelry and accessories 
next to the counter.  "It's okay," Scully encouraged, scooting him 
toward the rack.  "Go see.  I'll be right here."

While Cindy ran her credit card, Scully watched Mulder inspect the 
jewelry curiously.  "Dana, what are all these things?" he called to 
her.

Scully smiled.  "They're jewelry, Mulder.  Women wear jewelry because 
it's pretty.  Men wear jewelry sometimes, too, but mostly women."

"Women like you?"

"Yes."

She watched him think for a minute.  "You wear one around your neck," 
he commented.  

"Yes, I do.  But I wear this one because it represents my faith."  
Scully pulled the gold cross from beneath her shirt and watched it 
shine under the store's florescent light.  "I lost it once, but you 
found it for me, Mulder."

"I don't think I understand faith."

"My belief.  In you."

"In me."  When Scully nodded, he smiled and turned back to inspect the 
other items on the rack.  She knew he had no idea what she had been 
talking about.

"He's beautiful," Scully heard Cindy say.  She turned to see the girl 
watching Mulder as she bagged their purchases.  "Is he, um, is he 
mentally challenged or something?"

"No," Scully said firmly, feeling irrationally offended but not 
surprised.  "There's nothing wrong with him.  He's just been…  He's 
just been away for a long time."

Cindy looked puzzled but was smart enough to keep quiet.  She handed 
Scully her bags.  Scully thanked her and went to collect Mulder.  She 
slid her hand into his as they left the store.

Scully fought with all the distractions of the cental part of the mall 
to explain that they would next go to a department store to get 
underwear, socks, and shoes.  As they walked, she looked up at her tall 
companion to see in him both her partner and a helplessly curious child 
who was entrusted solely to her care.  His eyes were alight and content 
and confident, watching everything around him, but his grip on Scully's 
hand was tight and relentless.  Looking at him, she also felt some kind 
of mixture of love and lust and affection that caused her both 
happiness and fear.  

When Mulder turned and smiled down at her, her fear began to dissipate.  
She resolved not to overanalyze, but to simply enjoy him.  She told 
herself it would be fine and acceptable for her to be whatever he 
needed of her.  In fact, her support would be necessary to his survival 
and sanity for some time to come.  Her own open trust and blind faith 
in their relationship frightened her anew.  But she surprised herself 
by controlling her urge to pull away.  Instead, she squeezed his hand a 
little tighter, and they walked on.



SEVEN:

Scully never understood what had possessed her to buy a two bedroom 
house.  She had known at the time that she would rarely, if ever, have 
visitors.  She remembered standing in the spare room shortly after she 
had moved in.  It had been just as sparsely furnished as it was now, 
with only the bed at one end and the little dresser up against the wall 
by the door, and the space had felt heartbreakingly empty.  Scully and 
the original Mulder had never come closer to cohabitation than the 
sharing of adjoining hotel rooms while on assignment.  But once she had 
stored his  boxes in the spare room, she had always thought of it as 
his.  A stew of feelings burned inside her over the new Mulder who was 
in the process of claiming the room for his own.

After shopping and dinner and a lot more talking and explaining and 
questions and answers, Scully and Mulder had retired to his room to 
organize his new, freshly washed wardrobe.  Scully pulled the clothes 
from the wicker laundry basket and folded them atop the dresser.  
Mulder watched over her shoulder, standing so close behind her that she 
could feel his warmth caressing her back as they brushed up against 
each other while she worked.  She swore he had not moved more than 
three feet from her side since they had left The Gap that afternoon.  

Mulder reached over her and plucked his pajama top from the basket.  
"Can I try?" he asked.

"Sure."  Scully moved aside, offering him the empty dresser top.  
"You've never done this before, right?"

He shook his head.  "There was never the need.  The men brought us 
fresh clothes after we showered, and they took the old ones away."

Scully instructed him in his folding, and he mastered the task quickly.  
"That shirt and the pants like it are for sleeping," Scully said as 
Mulder bent to store his pajama top in the drawer he had picked for his 
shirts.  "Do you want to put them in the drawer with your underwear so 
you don't forget?"

"Okay."  He slipped the shirt in with his underwear and then wrapped 
his arm around Scully's shoulders.  

Scully continued with her folding, afraid he might shy away if she 
stopped.  Exhausted as she was, she felt certain that she would never 
weary of his touches.  In the past, she had feared that allowing Mulder 
much physical contact would smother her, would steal her from herself.  
There was always so much of him everywhere in her life.  But not now.  
His touches were gentle and often necessary reminders that he was real, 
that he had corporeal substance and was not a product of her own lonely 
mind.  

A few seconds later, she felt him lean over and lay his cheek down on 
the top of her head.  His sigh whirled like a prayer above her.

"Are you okay, Mulder?" she asked, wishing she could look up at his 
face.

"I'm fine.  I was thinking that I'm happy that I learned so much today.  
I know it must all be…trivial?…to you.  You know so much, Dana.  And I 
want to know.  And I don't know…"

"Mulder, your curiosity is perfectly natural.  And you're doing great, 
okay?  You're right, you learned a lot today."  Scully hooked her arm 
around his waist and gave him a supportive little squeeze.  She felt 
him nod against her head, and then he pulled away.  

They fell into a comfortable silence.  Scully would forever remember 
this day as the day of a thousand questions, each of which she had 
tried to answer with the patience of a mother with a curious toddler.  
They had been through shopping, cooking, eating, cleaning, shaving with 
a real razor instead of an electric one, and an overwhelming amount of 
other mundane but necessary elements of everyday life.  She had made it 
through the exhausting day solely on the power of the light that 
appeared in his eyes every time he learned something new.  A few 
wonderfully quiet minutes now, though, allowed her mind to unwind some 
and gave Mulder time to absorb all that he had learned.

Finishing up the last of the folding, Scully turned to find him looking 
out the window.  His face had gone dark and distant.  "Mulder?"

"I just remembered something about the Clinic," he said quietly.

She went to him and put her hand on his arm, trying to get him to look 
at her.  His eyes never left the window, and she could not even guess 
at what he was seeing.  "Mulder, what is it?"

"I've been thinking all day for something that I might have overlooked.  
Dr. means doctor, right?"

Scully nodded.

"I saw the name of a doctor, then.  Dr. J. Hiram," he said quietly, 
spelling out Hiram for her.  "It was on a paper near the pictures of 
the markings.  The ones they were going to put on my skin.  I think, 
maybe, he was the doctor who came to draw the lines on me.  Before I 
escaped."  He finally turned to Scully, his eyes sad but hopeful.  
"Will that help us find the Others?"

Scully smiled softly up at him.  "Yes, Mulder.  I think it will be very 
helpful.  I'll look into it as soon as I go to the office."

"The office is where you work, right?"

"Yes.  Well, sort of.  The office is where I do my work inside the FBI 
building."

He nodded and then turned back to look out the window.  Scully slipped 
away from him, trying to give him some space.  She went to the bed and 
spread out the heavy comforter they had purchased for him.  When she 
looked up again, she saw that Mulder had taken an interest in the boxes 
she had closed and stacked neatly up against the wall.  Scully had been 
contemplating them since Mulder had arrived, unsure whether she wanted 
to give them to him or to hide them away in her closet.  They 
contained, after all, her last, secret, boxed away memories of the one 
she had lost.  Giving the boxes to him would mean opening them and 
living with the things that were inside, letting him have those things 
for his own.

She watched as Mulder ran his finger over the tape that held one of the 
boxes closed.  There was a question on the tip of his tongue, she knew.  
Scully could see it and dread it.  Was she ready to make a decision 
about the boxes?  She let her gaze wander over the deep darkness 
circling both his eyes.  Throughout the day, she had noticed his 
eyelids drooping every now and then.  But he would always fight his way 
out of his fatigue, obviously not wanting to miss anything or waste any 
time in his discovery of the world.  

"Mulder, do you want to go to sleep now?" she asked.  "You look so 
tired."

He looked up at her, his eyes turning a dark, determined green.  "No," 
he said steadily.  "I don't want to sleep."

"You didn't sleep well last night, did you?  Mulder, you have to sleep 
sometime."

"No!  Not sleep," he cried.  Scully saw a flash of fear in his eyes 
before he looked down at the ground shyly.  "I'm sorry."

Scully went to him, wrapping her fingers around his wrist and looking 
into his face.  "It's okay, Mulder.  Tell me what's wrong.  Why don't 
you want to sleep?"

"It's nothing," he mumbled.  He touched one of the boxes, running the 
tips of his fingers over the black lettering that spelled 'Mulder.'  
"Will you tell me what is in these boxes, Dana?  I remember they are 
where you got the shoes and clothes for me.  Why are they in this 
room?"

Scully looked down at the boxes.  She did not even want to touch them.  
"Mulder, let's go look some things up on my computer.  We might be able 
to find something about Dr. Hiram."  She tugged on his wrist, but he 
would not move.

"They're his things in the boxes. You kept his possessions," he stated.

"I packed up some of his most important things, yes.  I've been keeping 
them here."

"Why?"

"I don't know."  She dropped Mulder's wrist, afraid that he would feel 
her trembling.    

"Will you tell me about him?"

Scully sighed and closed her eyes.  She had known the request would 
come sooner or later.  But the foresight did nothing to stop the dread 
that squeezed her heart at the actual words.  "I don't want to talk 
about him."

"Why?"

"I don't think I can."

Scully felt him lace his fingers through hers.  "I don't understand," 
he whispered.  He tugged on her hand.  

She knew he wanted her to look up at him, to talk to him and accept 
him.  Her behavior probably frightened him.  But if she looked at him 
and spoke of Mulder, she would have to separate the two of them in her 
mind, and she was not sure she would ever be ready for that.  "Please, 
Mulder," she whispered.

"Dana, I don't understand.  Please tell me.  I need to know who he 
was…I could have been."

Scully shook her head.  She wanted to keep the memories hidden where 
she would not have to look at them.  She wished that he would be 
satisfied knowing that in many ways he already was Mulder.  He had his 
body, had his blood, and had his essence.  She found Mulder in every 
word he spoke, every step, every touch, in the way he toyed with his 
lips when he was thinking…  The curiosity that dawned on his face at 
the first sight of a new puzzle and the relentless pursuit that 
followed as he tried to solve it were all Mulder.  It should have been 
enough.  She could be saved if only blood and flesh and voice were 
enough.  But it was not to be.  She knew he was right, as much as it 
was breaking her heart.  He did need to know the original Mulder, 
especially if he was to someday return to work.

"At the bureau, they called him Spooky," she began, her eyes still 
closed, the world still black before her.  "He thought it was because 
they disliked him, but I always knew it was because of his brilliance.  
They were frightened and inspired by him.  He believed, and his belief 
led him to places where the others could not go.  It led him to gain 
information they could hardly begin to understand.  

"He could see inside a person, could know their heart and their mind 
like it was his own.  He always said to trust no one.  He was paranoid, 
but truly and though he would never admit it he wanted someone to 
trust.  In the end, he would trust everyone but who he should, though I 
believe that deep down he always trusted me.  His life was filled with 
loss, and he pushed people away before they had the chance to leave 
him.  He pushed me away.  But he also kept me near.  He wanted someone 
to have faith in him.

"He was driven.  He never stopped, never gave up on a chance to help 
someone.  His life was his quest, his quest to find Samantha."  Her 
voice cracked on Samantha.  She pinched her eyes shut tight and fought 
for control.  

When she felt him squeeze her hand, the gentle pressure finally pushed 
her to open her eyes.  She looked up at his worried face, and she 
wanted to cry for him, for herself, and for Mulder.  But she would not.

"Who is Samantha?" he asked, scooting closer to her.

"His sister.  She disappeared from his house when he was twelve.  Men 
took her.  Evil men like the ones who..."  She shook her head, not 
wanting to call his creators evil to his face, not wanting him to know 
how wrong his creation had been.  He had a right to exist, now that he 
did, and she could not take that away from him.

He ignored her near slip.  "Did he find Samantha?"  His voice was full 
of innocence and hope.  Scully did not want to be the one to tell him 
that hope was futile and that innocence no longer existed to her, or to 
Mulder.

"No," she whispered.  "We never found her."  She pulled her fingers 
from his and reached for one of the boxes.  She knew now that nothing 
could be more painful than the memories of their failures, both 
professional and personal.  She could not continue to speak of them.  
They would be her undoing.  "Come on, let's look in the boxes.  It 
might be easier for me."

Scully had forgotten how much Mulder-junk she had kept.  The first box 
they examined contained his sports equipment and paraphernalia.  As 
they pulled items from the box, Scully described Mulder's unquenchable 
reserve of energy.  He had burned it off running, or swimming, or 
playing basketball.  From day one, he had tried to cajole her into 
playing with him.  "How about a little one on one, Scully?" he used to 
say.  Regretfully, Scully had declined his offers, one after the next, 
saying sports had never been her thing.

"I know this," her companion said as he plucked Mulder's basketball 
from the box.  He expertly bounced the ball a few times on the carpet, 
his eyes bright despite the melancholy air that filled the room.

"You play?"

He stopped his dribbling and held the ball between his arm and his hip.  
"We all played.  We liked it.  Now I know why, right?"

Scully nodded, watching him.  His stance was so Mulder, relaxed and 
happy as he held the basketball.  The court was one of few places 
Mulder had ever found any bit of joy.  

"He would have liked to have seen that.  All of you playing together.  
A whole game made up entirely of him."  She smiled with a mixture of 
desolation and amusement.  When he said nothing, just stood there 
looking at her, she snatched the ball away and tossed it onto his bed.  
"You can keep that," she said.  "Maybe you can talk Langly into playing 
with you."

"You won't play?"

"No.  It's not for me."

His mouth drooped into what Scully was certain was the beginning of a 
very infamous and irresistible pout.  "Maybe you and I could play a 
different game together, sometime, then.  Maybe.  We played different 
games at the Clinic.  Sometimes thinking games.  Or games with words."

Scully nodded, wondering cynically how much the Clinic had shelled out 
for 'Hooked on Phonics.'  "Sure, Mulder.  Come on.  Let's see what else 
is in here.  I think there might be some board games."

They turned back to the box and Scully showed him the sports videos and 
the red speedo he wore to swim.  The next few boxes contained well-used 
books, papers, magazines that Mulder had written for, some childhood 
mementos, trophies, and his favorite childhood games.  Scully explained 
as much about each item as she could bear.  She told him that Stratego 
was the game Mulder and Samantha had played the night she had 
disappeared, though the tender knowledge seemed meaningless to him.  
When they looked through the box of alien and paranormal paraphernalia, 
Scully was as vague as possible, not wanting to confuse his view of the 
world any more than necessary.  That could come later.

In one box, she found his cherished black leather jacket.  She had 
forgotten she had even packed it, probably having blocked the memory 
out so it could not make her long for him any more than she already 
did.  The jacket had been such a part of him, and she had so loved him 
in it.  Now, despite herself, she cradled it in her arms and buried her 
nose in the worn leather.  It still carried the sweet, undeniable 
Mulder-smell, the same scent that had taken residence in her home when 
the other Mulder had arrived.  The scent confused her senses.  He was 
gone, but he was not.  Rubbing her cheek against the leather, Scully 
clenched her teeth and tried to hold herself in check.  She was going 
to cry.  Oh God, she was going to cry.

"You look pretty," she heard Mulder say.  His surprising words were 
just enough to pull her from her melancholy.

"Hmm?"  She lifted her face from the jacket to see him examining a 
framed photograph.  He turned the picture toward her so she could see 
her own face smiling inside the frame.  It was a good picture, and she 
had no idea where Mulder had obtained it.  She had been surprised and 
flooded with regret when she found it next to his bed while she was 
packing up his things.  Its presence had been a remorsefully small 
insight into strong feelings they had never had the chance to explore.  
She slipped the picture from his hands and returned it to its box.

"I'm sorry, Dana.  Did I do something wrong?" Mulder asked quietly, 
trying to catch her teary eyes.

"No," Scully whispered.

He nodded and went back to inspecting the boxes.  The next item that 
grabbed his interest was Mulder's FBI badge.  He flipped it open, 
reading the information inside.  "His work identification?" he asked.

"Yes."  Scully looked away from the badge.  It was an item she was not 
supposed to have, and it held more memories than anything else in the 
room.  It had been with him everyday, had accompanied him on every 
portion of their quest.  At the hospital, before the body had been 
taken, she had been given a bag containing his personal items.  She was 
required to return the badge to the bureau after the death, but without 
thinking she had slipped it into her own pocket, refusing to let it go.  
Skinner had asked about the badge, and she had lied to keep it, saying 
it had not been recovered from the scene of the accident.

"He used it to prove that his job was to help people and to enforce the 
laws, right?  Like Doctor Baker wore one to show that his job was to…to 
take care of me," he said, running his fingers over the picture printed 
on the badge.

"Yes.  Good call, Mulder."  Scully squeezed his arm, proud that he had 
learned so much that day.  

"Will you tell me about the work you did together?  What was it like?"

Again, Scully had known the question was coming, and she knew he needed 
to know.  But the words would not come, and she could not explain 
anything beyond the simple premise that they had investigated events 
that other agents had been unable to solve or explain.

Ignoring his pleas for more information, she fumbled with the boxes, 
moving the smaller ones aside so she could open the large box that 
contained Mulder's computer.  "He kept journals of all our work on this 
thing.  I know he wrote everyday, though I've never read any of the 
entries.  You should be able to get to know him and the work…  What?"

He was staring at her, not the computer, and was obviously not paying 
attention to her words.  His face was unreadable.  Slowly, he raised 
his arm and touched the tip of his finger to the corner of Scully's 
eye.  As he drew his finger down her cheek, Scully was surprised to 
feel the wet sting of the tear he had found there.  "You are different 
when you speak of him," he said.  "I don't understand."

Scully swallowed, finding her throat tight and dry.  "I miss him."  

He gave her a confused look but said nothing, gently caressing her 
cheek with the tip of his finger and the tear that it held.  

"It's like how you feel bad because the others disappeared from the 
Clinic," she tried to explain.  "But it's worse because I'll never see 
him again."

He frowned, his eyes still probing her.  "Am I him?"

Scully wrapped her hand around his wrist and pressed her face into his 
palm.  "I don't know," she whispered against his flesh.

Afraid more tears would fall, she inhaled his comforting scent and then 
abruptly dropped his hand.  She turned back to the boxes, beseeching 
him to pay attention as she explained again that the computer contained 
details of all the cases they worked, that through it he could know 
Mulder's thoughts, what he was like, everything.  She was so relieved 
that she had kept the computer.  He could gain second hand access to 
Mulder's world, and Scully could leave her own memories in the past.

While Mulder was lifting the computer from the box, they came across a 
framed picture of his parents.  It was one of the only ones Scully had 
found of just the two of them together.  

"They're his parents," Mulder stated, putting the computer down on the 
floor and taking the picture from Scully.  "Like we saw in the photo 
album.  You said they have become dead.  Dana, I have feelings about 
death that I don't understand."

"What feelings, Mulder?"

He looked down at the ground, thinking.  Scully could see him 
struggling to express himself.  "It makes me feel upset and…afraid," he 
finally said.  "Like I understand it, but also I don't.  They explained 
the science in the Clinic.  But I know that I am…something.  I feel 
that I am.  And I cannot imagine suddenly not being what I am anymore."

Scully was stunned by his innate sense of spirituality.  He seemed to 
be living proof that spirit truly was something every person carried 
inside them from birth, rather than something trained into them by 
society and childhood experience.  "Most people believe in a continuing 
existence after death.  Part of us lives on, and we are more than 
simply the sum total of our physicality and our living experience.  Can 
you feel that inside you, Mulder?  Is that what you feel?"

"Yes.  Can you?"

"Yes."  She stepped close to him and placed her palm on his chest.  She 
was seeing now that her spirituality, her belief in God and a greater 
plan, had stayed with her despite all the tragedy.  Its presence 
surprised her.  She had refused to look at it for so long.  But now it 
had been torn open inside of her by the miracle she was moving into her 
guest room.  How many times had she thanked God since he had arrived?

He stood still and quiet in front of her, letting her rub her hand in 
small, intimate circles over the hard muscles of his chest, over his 
heart.  She did not look up at him, but she was intoxicated by the 
swirl of his breath above her and his scent which enveloped her as she 
stood so close trying to know him.  For once in her life, she wished to 
be something beyond a regular, rational human being.  She wished for 
the ability to discern the soul.  He felt to her as much like Mulder as 
Mulder himself ever had.  But how could there be more than one of the 
same soul?  Where had he come from?  Had he and the others taken on the 
original Mulder's spirit just as they had taken his genetic makeup?  
Could it really be that simple?  Was there a DNA of the soul, a 
metaphysical blueprint to go with every singular version of the human 
genome?  She leaned her forehead against him next to her own searching 
hand and prayed for answers she knew would never come. 

"Dana?" he called softly into her hair as he slipped an arm around her 
waist.  "I don't understand.  If they live on, his parents, where are 
they now?  Where is he?"

"Oh Mulder.  You always did like to ask the hard questions, didn't you?  
There is a part of him inside me, and inside you.  But he has also gone 
to another place, a good place, where you and I are not ready to go 
yet.  People of different faiths have different names for this place.  
In my faith, the Catholic faith, we call it Heaven.  Did they teach you 
about religion at the Clinic?"

"Yes, a little.  It is a specific system of belief or worship of a 
creator or higher power and usually involves conduct, ritual, and a 
code of ethics."

Scully chuckled.  "There is more to it than that, you know, Mulder.  It 
means more to people than that."

"I know.  I want to understand."

"It's a big topic.  Let's save it for another day.  There's time."

"Okay."  He snaked his other arm around her and gently pulled her 
against him.  Scully was lulled by his contented sigh and his even 
breathing.  She turned her cheek to his chest and leaned into him. 

"Dana?"  His voice was hesitant, like a small child asking for a 
present he was afraid he would not receive.

"Hmm?"

"How did he become dead?"

Scully felt her whole body go weak, and even the support of his arms 
and sturdy frame were not enough.  She pulled from his embrace and 
moved to sit quietly on the bed.  

She looked down at her hands in her lap, fighting to reign in her 
emotions.  The bed shifted as he sat down next to her.  "I've upset 
you, Dana Scully," he quietly stated.

She shook her head.  "No.  It's not you, Mulder.  It's never you."

"I don't understand," he whispered.  Scully felt his fingers on her 
chin.  With gentle pressure, he turned her face up to look at him.  His 
own face was full of fear and pleading.  

"You need to know, don't you?"

"They gave me life because his was taken.  I do want to know how."  He 
slipped his hand up to cup her cheek.  His sad eyes said please a 
million times over.  He was perfecting Mulder's patented puppy dog 
face, the one that worked every time.  She knew that when it came down 
to it she could refuse him nothing.

"I was driving," she began. "Chasing a man who had committed a crime.  
Mulder was next to me.  He wasn't wearing his seat belt.  I don't know 
why.  He always wore his seat belt…"  Dreaded hysteria rose in her 
chest, tightening her throat and stealing her voice.  Images of twisted 
metal, a broken neck, and dying eyes flashed through her mind.  They 
were not the fuzzy, distorted images of her dreams, but the clear truth 
of events gone by.  

"I can't," she croaked.  "No more."  The sob that hid at the back of 
her throat squeaked out with her words, and that was enough to make her 
shut everything down.

Mulder reached for her, fear in his eyes.  But he was offering comfort 
she could not accept.  Scully pressed her hands to his chest and firmly 
pushed him away.  Taken by surprise, he toppled back onto his elbows, 
and Scully was certain his face could not have fallen more if she had 
slapped him.  

She turned her gaze quickly to the ground, unable to look at him 
anymore without seeing the hurt she had just caused mixed with the 
memory of Mulder's broken face.  How can he be here? her mind screamed.  
He's gone.  He's gone.  But he's here, and he's gone…  Shut it down, 
Scully.  Now.

"Dana Scully, please tell me what is wrong," he requested in the 
smallest voice she had ever heard.

"You haunt me," she whispered.  Looking everywhere but at him, she 
stood and moved to the door.

"I don't understand."

"You can set up his computer in the living room," she said as she 
walked away.

His words came once more: "I don't understand."  They followed her down 
the hall and then faded away as she entered her room.

She went straight into the bathroom.  In the mirror above the sink, she 
saw her own suffering, and she hated it.  Her skin was red and her eyes 
were dark like the death she could not allow herself to recall.  She 
bent over to wash her face with the hottest water, trying to clear away 
the tears and weakness. 

After sobbing a few times into her hands, she forced herself to calm 
down and lock the feelings away where they belonged.  The events of the 
past two days had finally caught up with her, but she was pleased to 
find that she could get control of herself even now.  She would be 
fine.  Everything would be fine.

Feeling numb in her newly won composure, she dried her face, donned her 
pajamas, and curled up on her bed.  Her muscles were tight, but she 
could feel exhaustion taking its toll.  She let her eyes droop and 
slipped into sleep chased by no thoughts at all.


After an hour of sleep, Scully was still exhausted.  She wanted only to 
stay under the covers forever, but she forced herself to roll from the 
bed to go check on Mulder.

She found him sitting at her desk in the living room.  He had Mulder's 
computer up and running, and his attention was focused on the screen.  
When she leaned against the doorway, watching him, he turned his head 
in her direction.  He would not meet her eyes, and his face was 
unreadable.  He had withdrawn from her.  When he had offered her 
comfort and love, she had refused him without explanation.  The damage 
she had done made Scully ache, but she did not feel stable enough yet 
to reach out to heal him.

"Are you all right?" she asked weakly.

He nodded but then closed his eyes, his shoulders slumped.  His mouth 
moved like he had words to speak, but they did not surface and he 
stopped moving altogether.  His exhaustion seemed to mirror her own.

"You should go to bed now," Scully suggested.  "It's getting late."

He nodded but did not move, just sat there with his eyes closed.  
Scully thought she saw his shoulders trembling.  A war raged inside her 
between her need for distance and her concern for him.  The stoic in 
her won, and she managed to convince herself that they both needed some 
space and a good night's sleep.  Leaving him there, she went back to 
bed to find that sleep had left her to rot in her own guilt and shame.

Long minutes later, Mulder appeared in her doorway.  He was the image 
of a lost little boy who desperately needed to sleep.  He had changed 
into his plaid pajamas, and he clutched his pillow at his side.  He was 
still reluctant to meet Scully's eyes.

"Can't sleep, Mulder?" she asked, leaning up on her elbow. 

He shook his head.  "The Others were always there."

Scully ached for him and with him.  "You didn't sleep last night, did 
you?  Because you were alone."

"No."

"Oh, Mulder.  Come here."  When he crossed the room to stand beside her 
bed, she lifted the covers for him to climb in.  "It's okay," she said 
at his hesitation.  He nodded and slipped into bed next to her, still 
avoiding her eyes.  When he curled up on his side, his back to her, she 
tucked the blankets around him and then settled back down and watched 
his back and his breathing.  

"He was everything to you," came his soft voice out of the darkness. 

Surrounded by his Mulderness, his smell, his breath, his voice, Scully 
silently agreed.  He did mean everything to her.  Finding him in the 
darkness, Scully tugged on his arm and his shoulder until he rolled 
over.  Lying on her back, she pulled him to her, guiding his head to 
her chest.  He curled himself around her, and she wrapped him in her 
arms.  She dropped a kiss into his hair and then fell asleep wondering 
what he had read in the journals.



EIGHT:

She knew it was a dream, but it felt so true.  It felt like the memory 
of a grand event she knew she never attended.  They were in her bed in 
her old apartment.  The lights were dim and warm, and he was inside 
her, everywhere around her, hovering above her, thrusting.  His face 
was screwed up in torture and exaltation, his eyes wild and determined 
and locked with her own.  Sweat beaded at the tip of his chin, and she 
yearned to lift up and suck it away.  But she had only enough strength 
to continue clutching him around his bare shoulders as if letting go 
would end her life.  She was more certain than anything that if she 
released him she would start to fall, backward through the bed, through 
the building, through the earth, into nothingness.  And she would fall 
forever.

"I'm everything to you, Scully," he growled over his thrusting.  Her 
stomach sang each time his flesh came to fill her, and the brush of his 
hair against her center felt like the tickling of angels. 

"Everything," she moaned, clenching her legs more tightly around his 
waist.

He leaned down to press his forehead against hers.  His eyes were the 
only things she could see.  "I don't want to do this without you, 
Scully.  I don't even think that I can."

"Mulder."  Intense pleasure pulsed through her.  It was the only thing 
she could feel.

"Hips before hands, Scully."

"Mulder."

He turned his head to the side, and Scully followed his gaze.  The 
clone lay next to them, close, watching.  His face was blank and his 
naked body long, beautiful, and scar-less.  She could feel his breath 
on her face, and the hair on his chest tickled her elbow.  Without 
warning, he slipped his hand between her body and Mulder's to trace a 
single fingertip around and around her puckered nipple.  The pleasure 
Scully was feeling quadrupled.  She bucked up into Mulder, her belly 
fluttering on the verge of release.

Mulder turned his face back to her.  His thrusting staggered, his 
rhythm lost.  She could feel his rear tighten between her thighs.  He 
was so close.  Even closer than she.  "Everything," he whispered 
against her lips, and then he withdrew from her and rolled her into the 
waiting arms of the clone.


Scully awoke with a start and then a moan.  She was pressed up against 
a breathing wall of warmth and flesh; for the first time in years, 
Scully awoke wrapped around a man.  The dream that had left her hanging 
now on the verge of orgasm began to fade, and the two men in it blended 
into one.  This real man felt so good in her arms that her drowsy mind 
and her needy body cared only that he felt familiar, as if a long lost 
piece of her had returned and attached itself again to her side.  His 
face was close to hers on the pillow, his breathing deep and steady 
against her cheeks, and the weight of his arm around her was complete.  
Without thinking at all, she tightened her own arm around his waist, 
snuggled in closer to his chest, and pressed herself to the erection 
she could feel against her thigh where their legs were tangled.

She knew somewhere that she should pull herself into full awareness.  
She should run from this strange but dreamy comfort and pleasure.  Her 
sleep-addled mind, however, told her not to think, but to enjoy.  And 
she did.  She delighted in the feel of bone and muscle pressed against 
her, of strong legs tangled around hers.  She let her hand slip beneath 
his shirt to gently play at the skin of his lower back.  He was warm 
and silky and unlike anything she had ever felt, despite how familiar 
he seemed.  She longed for him to awaken and to take her as he had done 
in the dream.

When he stirred in his sleep, a thrill rose in her chest and shot 
straight to the heat between her legs.  She noticed for the first time 
that his hand was between their bodies, pressed to her breast.  His 
long fingers curved up over the front of her shoulder, and he began to 
knead her tender flesh with his palm as he shifted again.  The arm 
around her back pulled her more tightly against him.  Stifling another 
moan, she looked from his hand up to his lips.  

They were familiar lips, real lips, pink, full, and soft with the peace 
of sleep.  They were lips she had desired for years but had never 
kissed.  They were Mulder's.  It was all Mulder, she realized.  It was 
his muscle against her, his scent around her, his skin beneath her 
fingers.  She knew she should pull away, but God how she wanted to 
stay.  Letting her eyes rove his face, she beheld a beauty that she 
thought had been lost forever.  Mulder.

Suddenly, as if he was just reaching the lighter phases of sleep, his 
hand slipped from Scully's back up into her hair.  He leaned into her 
and nuzzled at her cheek.  Soft lips and rough stubble seared her skin.

"Dana Scully," he murmured against her face.

At his words, Scully snapped to the sudden awareness that this man was 
not what he seemed.  This was the other Mulder, but Scully was 
surprised to find that just then she did not care.  His lips, Mulder's 
lips, were not on another plane of reality.  And they were not six feet 
under.  They were right there, brushing against her cheek.  She told 
herself she should kiss him, whoever he was.  She should kiss him now, 
before he could be lost again.  Now, while she had the chance that she 
had not known how to take in the past.  All she had to do was tilt her 
mouth to his and she could capture his latent sexual energy for her 
very own.  All she had to do was turn her face to his and she could 
complicate their relationship beyond control, beyond sanity, beyond 
reason, and certainly beyond her own moral standards.  This man needed 
a mother and a teacher, not a lover.

Gently, she moved his hands from her body and slipped from the bed.  
She watched him roll onto his stomach and snuggle down into the 
pillows.  Glad for a few moments to collect herself, she began her 
morning routine while he continued to sleep.

She told herself to ignore the throbbing between her legs as she 
stepped into the shower.  She told herself her breasts were not still 
tingling as she stepped out.  She told herself she wanted him close but 
not too close, as he had always been, while she slipped on a clean bra 
and panties and brushed her silky, wet hair.  She forced herself to 
concentrate on her wardrobe rather than on the beautiful, soft, warm, 
sleeping body in her bed as she chose black jeans and a baby blue 
sweater from her closet.  She slid into her clothes and shoes without 
looking at him and then went into the kitchen to start breakfast.  She 
should have known he would not stay without her for long.

It would be French Toast that morning, and Scully was cracking eggs 
into a bowl at the counter when she heard a shuffling behind her.  She 
turned to find Mulder hovering in the kitchen doorway.  Tufts of hair 
whorled up from his head, and his pajamas were crooked from sleep.  
Scully was frozen, unable take her eyes from him.  He gave her a sweet 
but goofy grin.

"Good morning, Dana," he said confidently.

Scully cleared her dry throat.  "Good morning, Mulder."  She wanted to 
turn back to the stove, needed to, but could not.  She was capable only 
of staring and wanting.  He was adorable, like a puppy in plaid 
pajamas.  She had just begun to regain her sense of space, and he had 
taken it again by simply standing in the doorway and saying good 
morning.  As she fought the urge to go to him and take him in her arms, 
Scully felt panic rise up in her uncharacteristically delicate belly.  
He could become her truest weakness.  This new Mulder wanted to play 
with her.  He wanted to touch her and know her and to tell her every 
damn thought in his head.  This Mulder wanted to give her everything he 
had, and Scully was halfway to lost in him already.  She had little or 
no defenses against the novelty and the sweetness of his open smile, 
voice,  eyes, and touch, asleep or awake, dream or reality.  

He scanned her up and down for a few seconds and then seemed to come to 
a conclusion.  "I'm going to shower and dress," he stated.

"Okay, Mulder."  

Once he had disappeared from sight, Scully was able to return to her 
cooking.  She tried to push the panic down deep inside where it could 
not touch her, could not ruin her day, could not make her run from or 
lash out at the one who needed her most.  

She was frying the bread ten minutes later when she heard him approach.  
He stood so close behind her that she could feel his lips brush against 
the crown of her head when he spoke.  "What is that, Dana?" he asked.  
"Is that breakfast?"  She heard him sniffing the air around her ear.  
"It smells so…good."

"It's French Toast, Mulder."

"When is it ready?"

"Soon."

"Is it bread and…eggs?"

"Yes.  And cinnamon."

"What's cinnamon?"

Scully shook her head.  "You'll see."  She could not wait to see his 
face when he got his first taste of the cinnamon and the sweet maple 
syrup they had bought the day before.

"Okay."  

Scully stiffened when she felt the weight of his hands on her 
shoulders.  It took all her strength too keep from either melting into 
him or pushing him away.  She had to let him stay there; she could not 
push his touch away.  But she told herself she did it only for him.  
She did not want him.

When the French Toast was nearly done and Scully's hands had grown 
idle, he pulled her gently back against his chest.  He slid his hands 
slowly down her front, rubbing firmly over her breasts and then 
wrapping his arms around her belly.  Holding her tightly, he buried his 
face in her damp hair.  Scully was at a loss for words.  Part of her 
wanted to share her space with him forever, and part of her screamed to 
run like hell.  Either way, the intimacy itself brought tears 
shamefully to her eyes.

"Mulder…" she finally managed.

"Yes, Dana?" he asked, his voice gentle in her ear.

"I'm going to go to the office for a few hours to look for information 
on your Dr. Hiram, okay?"

"I'll come?"

"No," Scully said firmly.  She pulled from his arms and sat him down at 
the table.  "We can't let anyone see you at the office.  Not yet.  You 
stay here and eat."  The French Toast was ready, and she piled some 
slices on a plate and placed it in front of him.  "When you're done, 
you can read some more or play with Ishy, okay?  I think you should 
start the journals from the beginning.  I'll just be back in a couple 
of hours."

"But…  I don't…"

Scully gathered her purse and keys from the kitchen counter and headed 
for the front door.  He followed her, close on her heels.

"Dana, wait," he called, grabbing her arm.  "What if they come?  What 
if…  What if…"

Scully spun around and pulled from his grasp.  "Mulder, you're going to 
be fine.  The man on the phone said they weren't going to take you 
back, remember?  Now I'm going to set the alarm, and Ishy will be here 
to watch over you.  Don't go out, okay?  Don't open any doors, and 
don't let anyone in."

"But…"

Scully batted a tear from her eye and studied his face to make sure the 
panic she heard in his voice would be manageable for him.  He looked 
positively terrified.  There were tears glossing over his own eyes.  
Scully wanted to stay, but she knew that being with him one more minute 
would mean losing herself completely, and her control would be gone 
forever.  She did not want him.  Mother and teacher.  Mother and 
teacher.  "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Dana?"  He reached for her, and she pulled him down to place a kiss on 
his cheek.

"I just need a little space, Mulder.  I'll be back very soon.  I 
promise.  You remember how I showed you the phone?  If anything 
happens, use it to call my cell phone, okay?"

"I know…  I know the number," he said, nodding.  "Dana, I don't 
understand…"

"Just a little space," she whispered again.  She set the alarm and then 
slipped out the door before any tears could fall.


"I don't understand," he whispered to himself as he watched her drive 
away.  When her car disappeared from his limited view, he dropped the 
curtain back down over the front window and leaned his forehead against 
the wall.  What have I done? he asked himself.  What have I done?  Why 
did she leave?

His stomach felt tight but out of his control, and the wetness was 
forming in his eyes again.  He tried to make it stop, blinking and 
trying to breathe steadily.  To give in to the tears and the emotions 
behind them did not seem to be something people did.  At the Clinic 
they had told him not to, and Dana Scully certainly would not allow the 
tears to fall, though he felt that she needed to release them very 
badly.  

He sighed and closed his eyes.  More than anything, he wanted to 
understand Dana Scully.  She meant more to him than he thought he could 
ever try to explain.  She was kind, and patient, and a wonderful 
teacher.  Seeing her made him want to smile.  He had not smiled 
often…before.  She let him sleep in her bed and hold her close.  She 
smelled so wonderful all he wanted to do was bury his nose in her hair 
or her skin.  

But as much as she brought him joy, she also confused him deeply.  She 
would care for him one moment and then run from him the next.  The 
night before, he had believed her upset to be the result of his 
questions about the Original.  He understood that his presence was 
difficult for her, that the Original was sorely missed.  She had gone 
into her room, and he had spent several hours alone, reading and 
regretting that he had ever asked of the Original. 

But now her eyes had grown wet and her voice sharp for reasons he could 
not see.  It was him, he was sure.  But what had he done wrong?  Why 
did she leave?  If she would tell him his mistake, he would change his 
behavior.  He would do anything to please her, to make her stay with 
him.  But she had become increasingly upset and then had gone without 
explaining, and he felt like something was breaking inside of him.  He 
did not know what it was.

Ishy sat next to him, leaning against his thigh.  The dog pushed his 
nose into his hand and licked his palm.  It was a small comfort, but he 
was glad for it.  He slid down the wall to kneel beside the animal.  "I 
would like…  I wish you could explain her to me, Ishmael," he said, 
wrapping his arms around the dog's neck and burying his face in the 
thick fur.

The Original had devoted much of his journal writing to his own 
understanding of Dana Scully and his relations with her.  Entry after 
entry was dedicated to explaining how much she meant to him, and he to 
her.  Hoping that further reading would help him understand her as 
well, he released the dog and pushed up from the floor.  As he moved 
toward the computer, though, he was lured back into the kitchen by the 
sweet aroma of the French Toast.  His stomach was empty and sore with 
emotion and longing.  The meal would do him good, and Dana Scully had 
gone to the trouble of making it for him.  He could not refuse her 
kindness.  

The food was the best he had tasted yet.  It was sweet and spicy and 
wonderful, and it became impossibly better after he poured the sweet 
thing called Maple Syrup onto his plate.  The meal gave his senses some 
comfort, but he wished it would fill him and satisfy him the way Dana's 
presence did.  Its remarkable flavor led him to wonder and to hurt over 
her flight anew.  He could not understand what had gone so wrong that 
she would leave before she would share such a wonderful meal with him.  

When he had finished eating, he cleaned the dishes in the sink like 
Dana had taught him.  Then he went back into the living room to 
continue his reading.  Dana had wanted him to learn about the work she 
and the Original had done.  He was far more interested, though, in 
learning about Dana herself, about the Original, and about the 
relationship the two had shared.  

The journal contained entries for nearly every day.  Each entry spoke 
to Sam, Samantha, saying all the things he imagined the Original would 
want to tell his sister had she not been taken away.  

The writing began the day the Original and Dana Scully had first met.  
The night before, though, he had been compelled to scroll to the very 
last entry.  It was shorter than most of the others and described a 
happiness that the Original seemed surprised to have found.  He had 
been repeating it over in his head since he had read it:

"Samantha,

I lured Scully onto the baseball diamond today.  It wasn't hard, 
Sam.  I promised her a gift if she would meet me.  I hope that I 
managed to give her one.

Yesterday, a friend told me that the things we love should be 
shared with the people that mean the most to us.  Otherwise, those 
things will never live up to their full potential.  He was right.  

She was reluctant at first and stubborn as usual, my Scully.  But I 
got her up to the plate, and I taught her everything I love about 
baseball; the smell of the freshly cut grass, the heft of the bat 
in my hands, and in hers, the open expanse of field waiting to be 
conquered.  You remember the feeling, don't you, Sam?  

Anyway, I stepped up behind her and I did something I have done so 
very rarely over all these years.  I touched her.  And I did it 
simply because I wanted to.  And she let me.  There was no illness 
or death hovering over our shoulders.  It was all about want and 
fun and us.  The threat of impending alien invasion seemed very far 
away today.  I wrapped my arms around her waist, touched her arms 
and hands, smiled right into her face, and whispered in her ear.  
Once or twice my lips brushed her cheek.  I flirted outrageously, 
as usual.  She flirted subtly back.  We swung the bat together.

For a moment, I worried that she would take my flirtations as 
seriously as I meant them.  But I should know better and expect 
more from my Scully.  I know she will never let us cross that line, 
change our relationship from perfect partners and aloof friends to 
something more, unless the time is right.  I wish I could thank her 
for that, but you know the topic is taboo for us.  I am everything 
to her and she is everything to me just as we are.  And we both 
know, Scully and I, that I cannot give her what she needs.  I 
cannot give her my full attention.  I cannot give her all of 
myself.  Not now.  Maybe not ever.  And the thought of doing 
irreparable damage to our current relationship haunts me with every 
fantasy of loving her that I have the balls to entertain.  I can't 
lose her over something as trite as ill-timed sex.  I can't lose 
her, period.  I know she could go on.  She is the strong one.  But 
without her, I am lost.  For the most part, Sam, I'm happy the way 
we are, happier than I ever could have been without her.

But I digress.  Regardless of the status of our relationship, or 
the non-status, if you will, today was perfection.  I reached out 
and grabbed a tiny slice of the Heaven Scully believes in so 
relentlessly and unquestioningly.  I took it for my own, and it was 
perfect.  It could have been better only if I had finally managed 
to capture that kiss I have longed for from her these past months 
and years.  I do trust that Scully will know if and when we are 
ready, and I think that she will tell me, because I will have done 
the right thing to make her accept me and want me and know that I 
finally can be what she needs.  But I worry, sometimes, that the 
right time, the real right time, will never come, and I will wait 
for that kiss forever.  Part of me is afraid for us and what 
changing our relationship would bring, but another, quieter part 
wishes it had been today."  

The entry ended, "Love, Fox - April 11, 1999."  The Original had died 
the following day.  

So many things had confused him about the entry.  The Original 
obviously cared for Dana Scully.  But Mulder wrote that he had rarely 
touched her.  Why?  All he had wanted since he had met Dana Scully was 
to touch her.  The restraint must have made the Original miserable, and 
he was able to understand the happiness Mulder had felt when he did 
touch her that day at the place he called the baseball diamond.  He, 
himself, refused to show the Original's restraint.  He enjoyed the feel 
of her too much, and unless she was upset she did not seem to mind his 
touch.  She was to him like the balm she had spread across his 
injuries.  She took away loneliness and fear like the medicine took 
away pain.  He had spent the night wondering if the Original had known 
she would have enjoyed his touch had he been brave enough to give it.  
He wanted to touch her now, needed to.  He shook his head.  He longed 
so for her return and tried hard not to think of her absence.

He wondered instead about baseball.  He did not understand it, but he 
thought perhaps it was a beloved game like basketball.  He wanted Dana 
to teach him about baseball, to teach him the happiness it had brought 
to the Original, but he worried the memories it would bring of her last 
time with Fox William Mulder would upset her. 

He could not upset her, could not make her go away again.

He shook his head and then turned his attention back to the journal 
entry.  It was the names, he realized, that confused him most.  The 
Original had called Dana by the name Scully.  As he scrolled through 
some of the other entries now, he saw that she was always either 
"Scully" or the possessive "my Scully."  "My Scully" was used whenever 
the Original had felt particularly glad for knowing her.  Why, when she 
had a beautiful name like Dana, would he choose to call her always 
Scully?  And why did she call him Mulder even now rather than Fox or 
William?  He wanted to know.  He wanted to know everything about them, 
especially her.  He hoped reading the journal would help.

Dana had said he should start reading at the beginning.  Reluctantly, 
he scrolled back through hundreds of entries, scanning them for 
passages that referred to "Scully."  Occasionally, he stopped to read 
an entry at random.  He did this until he discovered a time in the 
Original's life that brought the tears back again to his eyes:


"Oh, Sam, Scully is so sick.  But you would never know it without 
talking to her doctors.  I admire her strength, as I always have.  
She has accepted her illness and its inevitable end calmly and 
rationally.  She never cries.  She never has.  I want to cry.  I 
want to cry with her.  But I know that she will die before that 
happens.  

You know that a while back she was ready to give up on our quest in 
order to concentrate on fighting for her own survival.  She wanted 
to rely on medicine and science to save her as it has so many times 
in the past.  You also know that she later rescinded that decision.  
She knew the science would do nothing but make her final weeks or 
months ones spent in a hell of pain and incoherence.  

She was determined to go on with our quest, Sam.  She has worked 
beside me as always all this time.  But she would not, will not, 
fight for her own life; she does not believe that there are truths 
out there beyond her science, ones that could be her salvation.  I 
told her before that the truth will save her.  I told her, and she 
just walked away.  I'm still looking for that truth, but I am 
starting to doubt it myself.  She is so sick, and she will die.  
Soon.  

Doesn't she know how much I need her, Sam?  She has to know.  She's 
like the air I breathe, like the molecules themselves, perfectly 
bonded, the right mixture.  The right everything.  And maybe that's 
the problem.  I take her, all I need.  I inhale her.  I use her up, 
and she is left with half of what she started with, split down the 
middle.  It's my fault.  The cancer is my fault.  And I think her 
broken spirit is my fault, too.  She wanted to stay with me, but 
she wouldn't fight the inevitable while she was here.  I wanted to 
fight.  I want to fight for her.  But I also want to curl up and 
die myself.  

Scully is going to die.  Sam, if you're not still here with us, if 
you're somewhere else, a better place, if that exists, I think 
Scully and I will be seeing you soon."


The entry had been written almost exactly three years ago.  Dana had 
tried to explain time to him, but he did not feel like he had a strong 
grasp on the concept.  His body was hot with the fear that Dana was 
still ill, that 'soon' really meant 'now' and he would lose her.  He 
thought of the Original and the struggle he had faced knowing she was 
nearing death without him.  She had been everything to the Original, 
and she was now everything to him.  He did not want to face her death 
as Mulder had.  Not now.  Not when he had just found her.

Suddenly, a high-pitched sound filled the room.  It was the telephone.  
Dana had said to just let it ring.  There was a machine that would 
answer it for her.  It rang now five times and then the machine on the 
table next to the couch clicked to life.  Moments later, Dana's voice 
came out of the speaker.

"Mulder, it's me.  Please pick up the phone like I showed you.  It's 
okay to do that now."  She sounded breathless and afraid.  He went 
quickly to the telephone and picked up the part he would speak into.  
It felt awkward against his ear and head, but he pushed those feelings 
aside to concentrate on his relief at the chance to speak to her and 
his worry over the distress in her voice.

"Dana Scully," he said.

"It's me Mulder.  It's okay.  I'm so sorry I left you alone.  I wasn't 
thinking.  I'm just calling to make sure you're okay."  Her voice 
sounded so tight with worry for him.

"I am fine, Dana.  No one has come to look for me.  I'm reading the 
journals.  Ishy is here.  We are fine."  He tried to hide the upset in 
his own voice, tried to reassure her, but he wanted to ask about her 
illness.  He needed to know if she was still going to die soon.  "Dana, 
I want to ask a question of you," he said timidly.

"Mulder, is it an emergency?  Can it wait till I come home?  I need to 
slip into the office unnoticed right now, so I need to hang up.  I'm 
going to look up Dr. Hiram real quick and then come home as fast as I 
can, okay?"

"Okay.  It will wait, I think.  You will be home?"

"In about an hour.  Maybe less.  Are you sure you're fine?"

"Yes."

"Okay.  I'll see you in an hour.  Be careful, Mulder."

"Okay."  He heard a click and realized she was gone.  He set the phone 
down in its cradle and sat back down at the desk.  It had felt good to 
hear her voice and her promise to return, but he could not release his 
worry over her health and over her puzzling need to run from him.  He 
continued to scroll the journal file back to the beginning, but the 
words that flashed before him had lost their meaning.  By the time he 
reached the very first entry, he was unable to go on.  

Standing, he began to inspect his new home, searching for clues about 
Dana.  Her desk held papers, almost all of which said FBI on them 
somewhere.  There was also a small picture inside a square box.  The 
picture had no color, but he could tell the people in it were very 
happy.  They smiled and hugged each other.  One was a boy and the other 
a girl, and they looked young like the children they had seen at the 
mall.  The girl was not Dana Scully.  She had long, dark hair and dark 
eyes.  The children's faces were similar, yet different.  The boy's 
face looked like the Others.  He could see them in the eyes and the 
smile.  The boy must have been the Original and the girl the sister, 
Samantha.  Wondering what it would be like to be so young and so small, 
he shook his head and moved over to the table in front of the sofa.  It 
held books, soft thin ones and thick hard ones.  The soft ones were all 
about science and medicine.  Dana had explained to him that she was a 
doctor, a doctor that was similar to but different from Dr. Baker.  He 
moved on to the thicker books.  They were not about science, but about 
people, real people with lives of their own.  He tried to read some, 
curious about these people, but he felt so alone and his mind wandered 
quickly.

He went into Dana's room.  She did not keep many possessions there.  
There was a table with drawers like the one in his room.  He opened the 
drawers and ran his fingers over her clothes.  They were soft, like 
her.  On top of the table, he noticed more pictures in square boxes.  
They all showed people he could not identify.  Looking closer, he 
realized that they all had either the same blue eyes as Dana or the 
same red hair.  Some had both the eyes and the hair.  Some were 
children while others were not.  He realized they must have been Dana's 
family.  They had taught him about family at the Clinic, but he did not 
understand how the family members would relate to each other in the 
real world.  These family members must have been important to Dana, 
important enough to keep their pictures in her sleeping room.  They all 
looked happy and kind.  He wondered if he would ever meet them and come 
to understand family himself.

Feeling so alone he could not imagine that there was another person or 
clone in existence, he turned to Dana's bed and slipped under the 
covers.  She had not yet changed or straightened the sheets.  He 
pressed his face to the pillow she had used and inhaled her wonderful 
scent.  He closed his eyes and felt some comfort, but it was small 
compared to the feeling of burying his nose in her soft hair. 

Rolling onto his back, he peered out over the covers.  The little world 
of the house began to feel confining to him, as if he had never left 
the Clinic at all.  As he turned his head to look out the window into 
the bright yard, Ishy approached and shoved a ball into his upturned 
hand.  He rose from the bed and went to the front door.  The alarm had 
to be turned off before they could go out to play.  He had seen Dana 
turn it on, but her hand had always blocked his view when she turned it 
off.  Ten had told him the alarms at the Clinic took the same code for 
on and off, and he assumed this one did as well.  He realized too late 
that he was wrong.  

The moment he entered the code Dana had used, the room filled with a 
shrill, frighteningly familiar ringing.  He fought the instinct to flee 
like he had run the night of his escape from the Clinic.  He pushed 
codes into the keypad, but the noise would not stop.  Minutes passed, 
and he decided he would call Dana on her cellular phone.  Before moving 
to the telephone, he glanced out the front window.  There was a car 
stopping in front of the house.  The car's doors opened and men 
emerged, large men in dark clothes like the ones the guards had worn at 
the Clinic.  They had come for him.  They had finally come to take him 
back.  He dropped the curtain and ran to the glass door that led to the 
yard.  He fumbled with the lock and the handle and managed to slide the 
door open.  He could hear the men at the front door as he slipped 
outside.  Without looking back, he ran across the yard and out the back 
gate, Ishmael trotting at his side.  The gate swung shut with a clatter 
behind them.



(End Chapter 8A – End Part 3)