Any Other Name						Part 5 – Chapter 11
by Louise Marin
mibosh@earthlink.net
www.angelfire.com/la/xspot


ELEVEN:

He returned home on what he thought would be the most important day of 
his short life with a bag full of groceries and two golden fish.  The 
sun had not even begun to set behind the house, and Dana's car was not 
yet in the driveway.  It was early.  He would have plenty of time 
before she returned from work, time to get everything ready, including 
himself.

The house was quiet when he stepped inside, but the lights were all on 
and bright like he preferred.  Before he shut the door, Ishy slipped in 
behind him and trotted off into the kitchen, probably for a drink.

"Frohike," he called as he set his grocery bag on the coffee table in 
the deserted living room.  "I saw the van outside.  I know you're still 
here, Frohike."  There came no answer, and he wondered where his friend 
had gotten off to.  

Shrugging, he went back to the door and picked up a dart from the table 
in the entry.  It was his favorite, the one with the white and green 
feathers.  As he spun the dart's metal shaft between his fingers, 
letting the twirling feathers tickle his nose, thoughts of Frohike 
faded away.  The little man could wait.  There was ritual to attend to.

They had found the dartboard in one of the boxes containing the 
Original's things, and they had hung it on the wall behind the sofa.  
He had liked the game at first, although Dana had much better aim than 
he, and she always won.  Their contests had made them both laugh and 
were something fun they could do together.  Weeks later, though, he had 
tacked the list up on the board, and the game was no more.  He and Dana 
took a shot at the board every time they entered the house, but now 
they shot not for points, but for his future.

Still holding the plastic bag containing the swimming fish, he bit his 
lip and let the dart fly.  It pierced the paper that displayed the list 
and drove into the board with a satisfying thud just as Frohike emerged 
from Dana's bedroom.

"Hey, big guy, watch it with that thing," Frohike said as he put his 
metal detector and toolbox down next to the couch.  He moved up to the 
dartboard to inspect the most recent prediction.

"Sorry, Frohike.  Who'd I get?" he asked as he scooped his grocery bag 
up again from the coffee table.

"Mr. X.  Isn't he dead?"

"Dana said they never found his body."

Frohike pulled the dart from the board, dropped it on the table, and 
then turned to look him up and down contemplatively.  "Go figure.  So, 
what's with the goodies?  I thought you were going for a run."

"I stopped some places.  I decided to make a special dinner tonight.  
Remember the celebration dinner Maggie threw for me when I had been two 
weeks out of the Clinic?  That was fun, wasn't it?  And the cooking 
will keep my mind off…later.  Would you like to join us?"

"Nope.  I was just on my way out.  Got a date with a very special movie 
tonight.  Besides, I don't think you bought enough fish," Frohike said, 
smiling and gesturing to the plastic bag that dangled from his hand.

"These aren't for eating, Frohike!"  Appalled, he cradled the bag and 
the beautiful fish against his chest.  Dana had taken him to the pet 
shop several times to get food for Ishy; he knew there was an enormous 
difference between pets and food.

Frohike rolled his eyes and mumbled, "Jeez."

"Oh," he whispered, realizing he had made a mistake.  "Shoot."

"Guess you need to work on that humor thing some more, huh, Mulder?" 
Frohike asked gently. 

"Yeah, I do.  Dana said I will have less chance of giving myself away 
tonight if I don't make any jokes, even though the Original made them 
all the time."

"Yeah, well, his sense of humor was…unique.  Keep working, though.  
You'll get it."

He nodded.  "Sure."  He stepped past Frohike to bend over the glass 
tank he had set up next to Dana's desk that morning.  Very gently, he 
floated the bag holding the fish on the water in the tank.

"Mulder, do you even know what you're doing?" Frohike asked 
skeptically.

"The temperature of the water in the bag has to equalize with the 
temperature of the water in the tank so the fish won't suffer from 
shock when I pour them out," he explained, shrugging.  "The Original 
had a book, which I found with the tank."

"Think he ever read it?"

"Don't know.  Probably not."  He brushed his hair from his eyes and 
then turned back to Frohike.  "So, you're all finished?  Please tell me 
you behaved yourself in there," he said, glancing at Dana's room.

"Now that's a good one, Mulder.  Very wry, very you.  Good job."

"Thanks."  He smiled at his friend proudly, but then he began to 
picture Frohike going through Dana's private things, touching her 
bathrobe, her soap, her jewelry, thinking about how beautiful she 
was...  "You did behave yourself, though, didn't you?" he asked 
anxiously.

Frohike released an exaggerated sigh.  "Of course I did, Mulder.  I 
only went through her underwear drawer once, and that was strictly 
business."

He bit his lip and shook his head.  Even Dana's undergarments were not 
immune to Frohike's inspection of the house, necessary as it was.  "I 
wish that was a joke."

"Sorry.  She's got some pretty sexy stuff in there, too.  You ever seen 
her in any of it?"

"Shut up, Frohike," he said, squeezing the man's shoulder playfully.  
"I already know you think she's 'hot.'"

"Me-ow!  Don't you?"

Sighing, he looked down at the floor.  His face felt warm, and a tickle 
of embarrassment had suddenly filled his chest.  "I think a lot of 
things."

"I'll bet you do,"  Frohike muttered.

"We don't look at each other in our underwear, Frohike," he said 
solemnly.

"Riiight. That why you're blushing, Mulder?"

Sighing, he shook his head and then looked back up at his grinning 
friend.  "Please just tell me you found the camera, or at least the 
microphone, while you were in there."

Frohike's face turned serious, reluctant, and sad.  "I'm sorry, buddy.  
Still nothing.  I'll bring the boys over next week and we'll all look 
again, but I don't know, Mulder.  I think they may be using a satellite 
to watch you, in which case there isn't much we can do."

"Right," he said, taking a deep breath and trying to keep control of 
his disappointment in front of the other man.  "Right."

Frohike took his tools and moved to the door.  He followed and gave his 
friend a strong hug goodbye.  "Thank you for trying, Frohike," he said.

"I'm really sorry we haven't found anything."

"I know.  I'm used to being watched, but it just upsets Dana so much."

"Sure it does.  Well, I better go so you can start on that dinner.  
Don't worry about tonight.  If it goes badly, we'll help you, and 
Scully."

He shook his head.  "I won't let them take me away from her."

"Good.  Did you press your suit?"

"Dana did.  She didn't want to take the chance that I might harm it, 
since we only have the one right now."

"Right.  Well, let us know what happens," Frohike commanded gently, 
shuffling his feet and frowning a little.  "We'll call you next week to 
go for those cheese steaks we told you about."

"Okay."

"You gonna be okay here?"

He chuckled at his friend's concern.  "I'm fine, Frohike.  I've been 
staying alone during the day for over a week.  Now get outta' here.  
I've got things to do."  Smiling, he hugged Frohike again and then 
shooed him out the door.

Finding himself alone in the quiet house with only Ishy and the new 
fish for company, he turned on the television and cycled through the 
different channels until he found a women's beach volleyball game.  He 
always enjoyed watching the women play, their bodies strong and 
fascinating, but none of them were nearly as beautiful as Dana.  
Despite his initial nervousness, he had found in the past week that he 
liked having some time to himself, though he still held tight to the 
hope that he would be able to go to work with her soon.  Maybe after 
tonight, he thought.  Maybe on Monday.

After turning the volume up so that he could hear the television from 
the kitchen, he went to unpack his groceries.  He planned to make 
chicken and steak shish kebobs and had even purchased long silver 
skewers with the last of the money Dana had left him.  He wanted the 
dinner to be special, wanted to mark the day in his memory in any way 
he could.  That night, for better or for worse, his transformation into 
the Original was to be completed, and he feared the changes it would 
bring for himself, and for Dana.  

As he washed and cut the steak, chicken, and vegetables, he took stock 
of all the people who cared about him.  There was Frohike, who was 
always teasing him but who also never stopped watching out for him.  
There were also Byers and Langly, who liked to teach him about 
treacherous men and government conspiracies, Maggie, who answered all 
his questions and never told him he was wrong to ask, Ishy, who never 
left his side, and his friends at the playground, who let him be 
Ishmael and never asked him why he did not know so many things.  And, 
of course, there was Dana, who was everything.

Turning to put his bowl of cut bell peppers and onions into the 
refrigerator, he looked around the comfortable kitchen.  It was empty, 
like the rest of the house.  Ishy had disappeared somewhere, and he was 
essentially alone.  But the most important people stayed in his mind 
and his heart, and even in their absence he still felt loved.  It was 
just like Dana had said the night they had attended Dr. Hiram's wake.  
He was amazed at the feeling and cherished it, wishing only that the 
Others would someday have the same freedom, friends, and happiness.  He 
hurt for them more than anything.  

He and Dana had found no further useful information on Dr. Hiram.  He 
was out of clues to give her, and any attempts she had made to gain 
information about the Clinic from legitimate biotechnology companies 
had led only to frustration.  He had promised he would never stop 
trying to find the Others, but he feared he would never succeed.  
Thinking about them, knowing that he had lost them, at least for now, 
he felt a certain kinship with the Original, a kinship that filled him 
with both confidence and discomfort.  He wondered if the Others would 
ever have the opportunity to know and love a woman, to have a partner 
and confidante in all things, as he did with Dana.  

Looking down at his empty hands, feeling desolation for the first time 
that day, he longed for Dana to come home so that he could touch her 
again.  Several weeks ago, he had tried to stop expressing the 
affection he felt for her.  He knew even then, before he had read the 
journal in its entirety, that the Original would never have touched her 
the way he did.  The Original had wanted to, but would not, could not.  
He himself had committed to becoming the Original, but he had found 
quickly that there were things he could not give up.  Holding her in 
his arms and caressing her cheek and her hair just felt too good.  She 
was everything.  Everything, everything.  Sometimes, when he found 
himself at his most unsure, he felt the urge to simply crawl up inside 
of her and disappear.  He would press himself as close to her as he 
could, wishing such a merger was possible.

After putting the chicken and steak in bowls and leaving them to 
marinate as Maggie had taught him, he returned to his new fish.  They 
were swimming against the plastic bag, bouncing off of it over and over 
as they tried to move into the rest of the tank.  Gently, he opened the 
bag and poured the fish and the water into the tank.  Then he put the 
lid on the tank and turned on the light.  

The orange and gold fish glistened brightly as they explored their new 
home.  Their color made him think of Dana's hair, and he smiled to 
himself.  His new pets remained close together wherever they swam.  For 
a moment, he found himself wondering what it would be like if he and 
Dana could trade places with the fish.  Things would be so much 
simpler, and he and Dana would never be apart.

Shaking his head, he left the fish to acclimate and sat down at the 
Original's computer.  He examined his reflection in the blank screen 
and then practiced taking the smile out of his face and eyes.  The task 
required him to think seriously, forced him to focus on important 
issues and to push any pictures of Dana and her own beautiful smile 
from his mind.  A poker face, he thought when he finally managed to 
lose his expression.  The gunmen had called it a poker face.  He 
reached up to click on the computer.

Dana had suggested that he reread the last two years' worth of journal 
entries so that he would be well versed in the Original's most recent 
manner.  It had been painful to read through the months of Dana's 
illness again, to hurt for the Original despite himself.  The Original 
was a passionate man, a heroic man.  But many of the Original's 
actions, especially in regards to Dana, upset him.  Even the passage he 
read now proved that Mulder was never quite able to be there for her in 
the best, most loving way, refusing to touch her or to tell her what 
was in his heart.  It was just after she had recovered from her 
illness:


"Oh my God, Sam.  Oh my God.  Sorry, but my male ego requires that 
I be as blunt as humanly possible in relaying this:  Two nights 
ago, I could have gotten laid.


Okay, now that it's out, that particular phrasing sounds even more 
Neanderthal than I had thought it would.  How about this:  Two 
nights ago, I could have made love to the leading lady, the hero, 
of all my dreams.  I'm almost certain Scully thinks I am the most 
clueless bastard ever to slither his way across this planet.  Which 
is fine.  That's what I was going for.  But, really, Sam, there is 
no breathing male in the universe so lost that he could have missed 
Scully's intentions two nights ago.  SHE threw an innuendo at ME, 
Sam.  Before I had even said a word.  She brought wine and cheese 
to my room.  She thought that I had latched onto the Mothmen case 
as an excuse to ditch that ridiculous teamwork seminar Skinner 
demanded we attend.  She thought we were going to share a quiet 
night together talking and...?  Finishing what we started that 
night in Oregon so many years ago, perhaps?  

You know I can't claim to know Scully's heart, Sam.  I don't know 
why she came to my room.  I mean, I know what she wanted, but I 
don't know why she wanted it.  I don't know if she loves me, that 
way.  Or if she simply felt that she had been given a second 
chance, returning from near death and all, and I was the closest 
warm body to celebrate with.  I didn't know.  I don't know.  But 
the worst thing, Sam, is that I don't think it would have mattered 
either way.  I still would have run like hell.   

As she reached out to hand me a glass of wine, I had a vision of 
myself touching her, kissing her, loving her, exploring her skin 
and her hair and her lips.  I saw us making each other very, very 
happy.  But instead of taking steps to realize that vision, I 
cracked four jokes in under a minute (a record even for me, I 
think) and then I took off to chase a much less dangerous unknown.  
I am a pathetic excuse for a man, aren't I, Sam?

Like that's a new thing.

Anyway, everything turned out as it should have.  We saved three 
people's lives, I got mauled by the not-so-elusive Mothman, and 
then we went home, missing the seminar entirely.  I don't think 
this...'thing' is going to come up between Scully and I again, at 
least not quite so obviously.  We'll go on as we always have.  
We'll reach another turning point or another impasse in our 
relationship and instead of dealing with it like adults, I'll run 
off to get holes drilled in my head, to look for you, to exact 
revenge, to kick some Consortium ass, to get my ass kicked myself.  
To chase a light in the sky.  Whatever.  I just had to tell 
someone.  I could have gotten laid."


He did not know what it meant to 'get laid.'  On his first reading, the 
week before, he had called Dana over to help him.  Her eyes had filled 
with tears as she read the entry.  "It means that we would have loved 
each other that night," she had explained.

"Like we do?" he had asked.

"Sort of.  Not really."

"I don't understand."

"I know."  And then she had left him, slipping into her bedroom and 
closing the door.  He would never forget the darkness in her eyes.

Dana would not explain to him why the Original would only tell 'Sam' 
his feelings and would only give himself completely to his work, hiding 
his heart from the people who loved him.  He admired the Original in 
all other things but this, and he was both awed and envious now knowing 
that Dana had cared for the Original above all else despite his keeping 
himself from her.  But he had read, too, that there were times when 
Dana had hid from Mulder as well, especially when she was ill or 
injured.  He wondered how they did it.  He wondered why.  Many times, 
he had contemplated asking the Gunmen the questions Dana refused to 
answer, but he felt uncomfortable describing to them the Original's 
thoughts and feelings, things no one, not even himself, was ever truly 
meant to know.

"I could have gotten laid," he said to his reflection in the computer 
screen.  He practiced keeping his voice deep and smooth and without 
inflection, as Dana had said Mulder would.  

Shaking his head at himself, he closed the journal file and connected 
to the Internet, visiting again the most intriguing web site he had 
found yet.  It explored the idea that quantum physics could be used to 
prove the existence of the soul.  Unfortunately, the mathematical 
concepts upon which the theory relied were beyond him, leaving him to 
debate whether or not he should ask Dana for help.  She had taken him 
to church several times, and he knew she wanted him to find some solace 
and identity in God.  But God and faith were confusing and 
dissatisfying.  He asked God every day whose soul resided in his body, 
but he never received an answer.  Quantum physics could be much more 
tangible, more certain, if he could only ask Dana to explain it to him 
without hurting her.

He struggled with the concepts on the web site for a while and then, 
noting the time, retreated to his bathroom for a quick shower.  When he 
was clean and wrapped up in a towel, he went into his bedroom, took a 
deep breath, and with a feeling of dread in his chest slipped the 
charcoal suit from his closet.  It was time.  Time to end, or time to 
begin.  He wished he knew which.

The suit was crisp and clean and ready for him.  It gave him a 
fluttery, nervous feeling in his stomach.  He ran his fingers over the 
jacket and the white dress shirt reverently and then brought them up to 
his nose, wondering if they still carried the Original's scent.  He 
could not discern a specific aroma, but he found the material soft and 
comforting, and as he rubbed it against his face he began to believe 
that the suit might not be so bad after all.  

Dropping his towel, he slipped into the suit piece by piece, deftly 
closing buttons and zipper, covering himself so that he might become 
another.  It all seemed to fit properly and comfortably, but the long 
piece of material called a tie stumped him.  He had not yet learned to 
tie it up properly, so he left it hanging loosely around his neck for 
Dana to fix later. 

He was pulling socks onto his feet when he realized that there were no 
shoes to go with the suit, no shiny, formal ones like the shoes he had 
worn the day they had taken him out of the Clinic.  Distressed, he 
donned his tennis shoes, laced them up, and then went into Dana's room 
to find the other two items he still needed to complete his costume.  
He hoped that Dana would know what to do about the shoes.
In one of the boxes in Dana's closet he found the plastic bag 
containing the items that were on Mulder's body when he died, noticing 
that the bag held a watch exactly like the new one Dana had just 
purchased for him.  He took the Original's identification and gun from 
the bag and then closed the box and the closet.

The gun was black, darker than the night, deadly.  He hefted it in his 
hand, wondering what the little leather strap attached to it was for.  
Dana had taken him to the country to practice shooting.  He had shot 
well using her gun that day, and they had decided he would carry the 
weapon the Original had used as a spare to the meeting in case 
something went wrong and he was required to protect himself, or Dana.  
He found now that the Original's gun fit well in his hand, his fingers 
slipping into all the right places.  It had been made to be 
comfortable, but it was not.

Uneasy, he set the gun down on the bed and walked over to Dana's full 
length mirror.  The formally suited man he saw there both pleased and 
frightened him.  He knew the man, and he did not.  The man had purpose 
that was and was not his own.  He hoped Dana would be pleased when she 
saw him.

Practicing his poker face again, he flipped open the Original's 
identification, held it out like he had seen Dana do, and said, "Fox 
Mulder, FBI."  And then he closed his eyes.  When he opened them again, 
the strange, familiar, confused man was still there, as he always would 
be.

Sighing, he put the identification in his pocket and dragged himself 
into the kitchen.  He put the dessert he had purchased, an apple pie, 
in the oven and then went to check on his new fish.  "Hello there," he 
said, kneeling down in front of the tank and tracing his finger over 
glass and the animals' glittering, swimming forms.  They were so 
beautiful.

As he watched the fish, Ishy approached and sat next to him, turning to 
lick his ear.  "What do you think, Ishy?" he asked.  "Will you keep my 
pets company while I am away at work?"  

Ishy's only response was a yawn, and then the dog lay down beside him 
and went to sleep.  Frowning, he stood and pushed up his left shirt and 
jacket sleeves.  Then he reached down into the tank, wondering if the 
fish would let him pet them.  He chased them with his fingers, but they 
swam easily from his reach.  

"I promise not to kill you like the Original did," he told the fish.  
"I promise.  I promise."  Once or twice his searching fingers grazed 
one of the fish's tails, but that was all.  Before he knew it, he heard 
Dana's heels clicking on the walkway outside.  He pulled his arm from 
the water, rolled down his sleeve, and went quickly to hide.


Scully knew the ambush was coming.  She could have stopped it, but she 
lacked the desire.  Instead and to her own wonder, she looked forward 
to it, every single day.

Shifting her briefcase and bags in her arms, she unlocked her front 
door and pushed it open.  The entry hall before her was dark.  It was 
coming.  The tension between them, which would build even throughout 
the days they spent apart, demanded release.  Naturally, he felt it 
too, and by some divine instinct he knew how to give them both what 
they needed.  

And this evening, more than any before, Scully needed some relief.  Her 
tension ran the entire spectrum, from desire to dread.  She had spent 
the day at work fighting a sad irony.  Prom night.  The flutter in her 
belly, the tiny tremor in her hands, and the rushing here and there 
making sure everything, outfit, car, and man, was in place spoke 
strikingly of prom night.  She remembered it so well, even now, as one 
of the most surprisingly thrilling nights of her life.  There was 
expectation, anxiety, and this incredible possibility of losing one 
thing and gaining something else, something mysteriously wonderful.  
The entire day had meaning, impact on the future.  It was a day filled 
with preparation, just like today.  

She and Mulder had in fact been preparing for three weeks, busy every 
minute that passed.  She had been present for a million firsts: first 
swim, first haircut, first hot fudge sundae...  It was sickly fitting 
that the night's impending and supremely important meeting would feel 
like a first date, a date with the man of her dreams, with the man of 
her memories.  With her partner.  Unconventional and bizarre had always 
been their specialty.  So, for them, it was a date.  Smiling to 
herself, but also reminding herself that the man she wished for had not 
yet quite arrived, she stepped over the threshold and into the entry 
hall and the anticipated ambush.  

In a blur she was stripped of her burden and hauled by long arms to the 
couch.  She was thrown down onto her back and then he was straddling 
her and his hands were just about everywhere, his fingers raking her 
ribs and her belly and drawing a storm of giggles from her chest.  Her 
muscles were tight and her body writhing beneath him in rapture and 
emancipation, her lungs so busy she could hardly breathe.  All she 
could see were his glimmering eyes above her, filled with his own 
celebration and joy.

Seeking to retaliate, she reached down, fumbling for his knee, and 
squeezed.  He wiggled some but quickly captured her wrists with one 
hand, pressing them to the armrest above her head.

"Say it," he growled playfully as his freehand continued to pry at her 
sides and her belly.  

Scully shook her head, unable to speak through her laughter.  She 
glanced down at his rippling, frenzied arm and hand.  He was careful, 
always, not to touch her in the areas they had established as 'out of 
bounds,' but he attacked the rest of her thoroughly.  

"Say it, or I'll nibble your nose," he challenged again, dipping his 
head to impart an Eskimo kiss.  When Scully shook her head again, her 
own nose rubbed back against his.  He grinned.  "Say it, or I'll nibble 
your toes."

He poked a finger into her belly button, and Scully finally caved.  
"Monkey!" she giggled, gasping.  "Monkey!  You win!"

The tickling ceased instantly.  A delicious radiance touched his face, 
spreading from his eyes to his mouth, his lips curling into the purest 
little smile.  Then, abruptly, he dropped her hands.  His eyes 
fluttered, and he collapsed over her, spent and breathing heavily, his 
temple pressed to hers.  She wrapped her arms loosely around his 
shoulders, enjoying the new slack in her muscles and the winding down 
of her racing heart.  As focused and as busy as everything had become, 
the last three weeks had been the most essentially content of Scully's 
life.

He had learned the tickling game from Scully's mother and from Matthew 
the first day he had stayed with them.  The weeks since then had been 
filled with sweetness and laughter, intense learning and fits of 
playfulness.  It was a time of caring and nurturing, for the both of 
them, but it had also been underscored with the growing desire for what 
was forbidden.  Scully spent her days now obsessing over the details of 
him, over the corners of his mouth and that irresistible ravine just 
behind his robust jaw, below his ear.  She had kissed that spot, once, 
a week or so ago.  Just a tiny peck was all it took to convince her 
never to do it again.  Next time, she would not be able to pull her 
lips away.

Her body craved him, but she could never take him.  There was still a 
boy behind the enticing man, and the boy was not simply the remnant of 
a child.  He was not there because the issues of his youth still went 
unresolved.  This was a true boy, still discovering the world for the 
first time.  Scully could not touch this boy, not in that way.  She was 
helping the boy to grow up, certainly.  But she was also helping the 
blurred amalgam of Mulder and...someone else converge into what he was 
born to be: her partner.  In just a few more hours, when he would take 
and pass the test required of him, the man breathing so innocently in 
her ear would become Mulder, and Mulder was always off limits, though 
Scully could hardly even remember why anymore.  She wanted him, had 
always wanted him, inappropriately, and she was sure that to some 
degree he knew; every evening he would give them this small release, 
this tickling, and then Scully would spend the night behaved, counting 
his eyelashes as he slept in her arms.

When they had caught their breath, he rolled them both onto their 
sides, his back against the couch and his arms wrapped loosely around 
her waist.  He gazed openly at her face with wonder and adoration. 

"Hello, Scully," he said, offering a crooked smile and then kissing her 
cheek.

"Hey, Scully," she corrected.

"Hey, Scully.  Good day?"

"I suppose.  Honestly, I couldn't stop thinking about tonight," Scully 
said, sliding her hand over the front of his shoulder and rubbing his 
chest.  Her heart fluttered as she realized that the soft cotton 
beneath her palm was a charcoal-colored lapel.  He was wearing the 
suit; he was coming into focus.  "You got dressed."

"I wanted to get ready.  For you…  So that we would have time for 
dinner.  I'm cooking something special."

"Sounds good, Mulder.  Stand up," Scully commanded, rolling off the 
couch and pulling him up with her.  She straightened his jacket and 
then looked him over, chuckling when he began to shuffle under her 
scrutiny.  "Stop it, Mulder.  You look terrific.  Okay?"

"Okay," he said, smiling softly down at her and stroking the tips of 
his fingers through her hair.  "You're home early."

Scully shook her head, raking her eyes down and up his suit-covered 
form again.  "He never smiled at me that way," she whispered.  "You 
can't smile at me that way tonight."

"Sorry," he said, and his face straightened instantly, his blissful 
expression simply gone.  He had learned well.  He looked more right, 
more like the proper Mulder, with each passing day, but Scully could 
not help missing the smile and the levity when he wiped them from his 
face.  Confusion wracked her always, her heart breaking hourly over the 
sweet boy she was soon to lose but at the same time soaring higher than 
it had ever been over the man she stood to gain.

"Don't be sorry," she said quietly.  Looking away, Scully pulled him 
into a hug, sliding her arms beneath his jacket and around his waist.  

He was tense at first, but then with a sigh he relaxed into her 
embrace.  "I'm supposed to be like him," he said into her hair.  "I'm 
so confused, Scully."

"I know.  It'll be okay," she told him, hoping she spoke the truth.  
Pulling back a little, she looked him over one more time to make sure 
the suit was done up properly.

"My shoes are wrong," he said.

"I bought you some on the way home.  Let's get this tied up."  She 
tugged lightly on the tie around his neck.  "Watch what I do."

Scully worked slowly, explaining what she was doing, until she felt his 
hand on her cheek.  He stroked her gently with his fingers and his 
thumb, and when she glanced up at his face, she found that he was not 
paying attention to his tie at all.  His eyes were not filled with 
hunger, but they were serious and focused on her mouth.

"Did you get the gun out?" she asked as she finished up his tie.  She 
would teach him to tie it another time.  Soon.  He would be ready to 
return to work as soon as Scully could conjure up an explanation for 
his disappearance, reappearance, and his total recovery from the 
gravest of injuries.  Soon.

After a moment, he registered her question and blinked, pulled back 
from wherever he had been while she was tying his tie.  "I found the 
gun, but it made me uncomfortable, and I left it in the bedroom.  And 
it had a funny strap."

"That's just the ankle strap.  I don't think you'll have to use the gun 
tonight, but you should bring it, okay, Mulder?" she said, patting his 
chest.

He nodded, flicking his eyes from her face to her neck and letting 
tremulous fingers play over the cross that hung there.  He was always 
touchy, but he seemed more needy than usual this evening, his caresses 
more anxious.

"Are you all right, Mulder?"

"I'm fine," he said with a little sigh.  He moved his hand up to trace 
Scully's hairline.  "Just worried, I think.  That tonight things will 
change, whether we succeed in convincing the contact or not.  Am I 
being too…smothery?"

"No, Mulder," Scully said, kissing the inside of his wrist.  "If 
anything does change tonight it can only be for the better.  We will 
convince this person, whoever it is, and no one will take you away.  
And then we'll see about bringing you back to work.  Got it?"

"Yeah."  He swallowed and then wrapped his arms around her waist again, 
squeezing her to him.

Scully hugged him back, placed a kiss over his heart, and then pulled 
away.  She ran her palm down his left arm, intending to take his hand 
but stopping when she reached the cuff of his jacket.  "Mulder, you're 
wet."

"Oh!  Scully, come see my pets."  He pulled her to the fish tank she 
had left him puzzling over that morning.  It was now the brightly lit 
home of two frisky goldfish.  "I wanted to see if they would play…  
Well, I knew they wouldn't, but…" he tried to explain about his wet 
sleeve.

"Oh, Mulder!"  Laughing, Scully put her hand on his wrist to quiet him.  
"Have you named them yet?"

"The little one is Dana.  She's the pretty one," he said proudly.

"Oh, Mulder.  And the big one?"

He shrugged, an odd look on his face.  "I don't know yet."  Abruptly, 
he left the tank and scooped up his green and white dart from the 
coffee table.  "You didn't take your shot, Scully," he said, holding 
the dart out to her.

"I don't want to."

"You don't want to get Diana Fowley again."

Scully shook her head, glancing up at the paper tacked to the dart 
board.  The gray-haired man had contacted them again two weeks ago with 
a time and a location for his 'test', but he had refused to provide a 
name.  She and Mulder had then spent days carefully compiling a list of 
all the people this mysterious 'contact' could possibly be.  It had 
been Mulder's idea to put the list up on the board, and now there were 
so many tiny holes through Diana's name Scully could hardly read it 
anymore.  The last thing Mulder needed was for Fowley to get her claws 
into him again.

"I think it's unlikely to be her, Scully.  She's been missing for 
almost two years," Mulder tried to reassure.  "Have you considered the 
possibility that your subconscious is guiding the arrow, and you get 
Diana every time because she is the one you least want it to be?"

"Mulder."

"What?"

Scully took the dart from his hand and dropped it back onto the table.  
"You sound just like him," she mused quietly.  "No.  No, you sound just 
like him, and me.  Rational, but…creative."

"I'm supposed to sound only like him," he said solemnly.

Scully nodded slightly.  "I wish I could tell you it was okay to be him 
and also not him, at the same time.  But I can't, Mulder."  I won't, 
she added to herself.  He was ready.  He had to be ready.  Swallowing 
hard against the lump in her throat, she looked around for any way to 
redirect the conversation.  His computer, still on and displaying a 
colorful web page, caught her eye.  "What did you find here, Mulder?"  

He was at her side in an instant, trying to switch off the monitor.  
She stopped his hand, batting it away.  "Quantum Physics of the Soul, 
Mulder?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I was… I thought maybe I could find…  But the math was difficult 
and I didn't know if I should ask you for help.  You did physics at, 
um, college, didn't you?" he stammered, refusing to look Scully in the 
eye.

Somewhat confused, Scully scanned the web page full of equations and 
pictures and metaphysical bullshit until she realized what he was 
searching for.  He was trying to find proof of his identity.  Physical, 
rational, solid proof of his own soul.  All wrong, she told herself.  
This was all wrong.  

"This is just theory, Mulder," she insisted.  "Ideas supported by some 
really iffy math.  You can't prove anything here."

"Oh.  Okay, Scully."  His face had fallen, and Scully wanted to 
apologize and to comfort him, as she always did, in his failures, and 
her own.  But this she could not give.  For the first time in her life, 
she found herself choosing ignorance over the possibility of a truth 
she could not live with.  He had a soul, she was certain, but she would 
not risk helping him prove that it was the wrong one.

Quickly, Scully closed the web page and the other programs that were 
open.  Mulder turned away, moving off toward the dart board.

After Scully shut the computer down, she glanced up, and that was when 
she saw him.  He stood there, straight and tall, face solemn, his suit 
hanging perfectly off his shoulders and hips, and his badge in his 
hand, open, stretching out toward her.  Mulder, alive.  Mulder, from 
the grave; she had felt but had never truly seen a miracle before.  In 
that moment there was no act, no performance, and in its place Scully 
found a shock of truth.  He had been wearing the suit and now held the 
badge, but it was the stance, the attitude, the sureness, that changed 
everything.  Her two men had transformed into one solid figure, the one 
in her memory, the one of her past, the one who had died.  She felt 
ripped, as if she had been hit by a car and tumbled down a ravine in 
the glow of a late, spring afternoon all over again.  Tears slipped 
down her cheeks before she even knew they were coming, and she began to 
shake, and she began to sway.  

And then it was over.  He was there, holding her up, holding her to 
him, blurred again.  "I'm sorry.  I'm sorry," he chanted as he rocked 
her and rubbed the back of her head.  "I'm sorry, Scully. I didn't want 
you to be upset with me.  I can be him.  I can.  But I scared you.  I'm 
sorry.  I'm sorry."

From inside his embrace, Scully swiped at her cheeks, trying to clear 
away the tears.  "Don't.  He hardly ever apologized to me," she stated.  
"For anything."

"I think he would have apologized for this."  He pressed his cheek to 
her head and cuddled her close, rubbing her back securely.  "Why won't 
you cry, Scully?  Why won't you just cry?"

Scully pulled back from him and shook her head, hiding her eyes behind 
her hand.  "I just need to sit, Mulder."

"Okay," he said quietly.  He took her to the couch and held her on his 
lap, her back to his chest, his arms around her waist.  He rested his 
chin on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, "I'll put the 
identification away.  I know I shouldn't have one yet.  Don't worry, 
Scully.  I'm sorry."

"It's okay.  I'll do it."  He still had the badge in his hand, and 
Scully took it from him, flipping it open and glancing at the picture 
inside.  Of course it was an exact likeness of the man behind her.  
Numbly, she slipped the badge into her jacket pocket and then twisted 
to look at Mulder.  His appearance itself, attitude or not, was right 
in just about every way.  Gently, she parted his damp hair down the 
middle so that his bangs framed his forehead.  "There.  Now."

"Better?"

Scully studied his face, tracing her fingers over his profile, 
searching for a glimpse of the man she had seen holding the badge.  He 
was in there, certainly, but he was still muddled, as hard as he had 
tried these past few weeks.  Hoping to see her partner clearly again 
soon, Scully pressed her forehead to his cheek so that he became a 
dark, unshaped wall of matter so close before her.  "Just right," she 
reassured, giving him what he needed to hear.  

After a long moment of breathing against his skin and struggling to 
relax and recompose herself, she kissed his cheek and then settled back 
into his embrace.  Though she could no longer see his face, she sensed 
that he had one eye on her and one on the television, which was showing 
an aged rerun of 'Mork and Mindy.'  It was one of the later episodes.  
Mork and Mindy were already married, and they had a two-hundred twenty-
five pound alien baby named Mearth, who was 'growing young.'

"I like this show, Scully," Mulder announced after a few minutes of 
quiet, settling companionship.

"Why am I not surprised?" Scully asked.  Mulder picked up on her 
sarcasm, and they both chuckled as they watched Mork lean in to kiss 
Mindy square and long on the mouth.

Suddenly, Mulder's grasp on her tightened.  "Scully, why are they…  Why 
are they doing that?" he asked, shaking her slightly.

"What?  Good Lord, Mulder, please tell me they explained the birds and 
the bees to you at the Clinic."

"The birds and the bees?"

"Sexual intercourse, Mulder.  It's another term for sexual intercourse.  
I know you know about that, right?"

"Oh.  Yes," he said, taking one of her hands in both of his and 
fumbling with her fingers.  "There were lessons which covered mating, 
but the teachers never discussed it involving lips and mouths."

Scully nodded but said nothing, hardly sure where to begin explaining 
the difference between a romantic kiss and an affectionate one.  Where 
was the line drawn, anyway?

"Please, Scully.  Why do people do...that to each other?" Mulder asked 
again.  "I have been wondering.  They do it all the time on the soap 
opera shows I watch with Maggie."

"And you didn't ask Mom?"

"She said to ask you."

"Of course," Scully said, rolling her eyes.  "What about the Gunmen?  
I'm sure they would have loved that one."

There was a long pause, and then he whispered very uncertainly in her 
ear, "I felt it was too…private.  They talk about women in ways that I 
don't…I don't understand."

"Oh.  Well, don't worry, Mulder, all the parts work the same no matter 
how one talks about them," she assured, trying not to imagine what the 
Gunmen would discuss in front of him.  After a moment of restless 
silence, Scully felt a ripple in her belly as he began to stroke her 
palm.  Unceremoniously, she withdrew her hand from his and slipped from 
his lap to sit next to him.

"Okay," she began, having finally collected her thoughts.  Mulder 
leaned toward her attentively.  "They were kissing, Mulder.  A 
different kind of kissing for people who have a romantic relationship, 
who feel a chemical, physical attraction to each other.  They feel an 
intense affection and passion for one another and want to be close and 
to please each other.  It's very important, I think, for people who 
might want to start a committed relationship and have intercourse at 
some point in the future.  They begin to explore each other by kissing 
in this way."

"A relationship committed to making a family?  Like us, and then with a 
baby?"

"Sometimes."

"Hmm."  He sat back, thinking.  "They enjoy it, don't they?  That's 
also why they do it."

"Enjoy the kissing?  Sure they do.  The human body was designed so that 
this special kind of physical contact would feel good, ensuring that 
humans would procreate and also binding the family unit together.  Does 
that make sense?"

Scully watched him think for a moment.  He worried his bottom lip as if 
he was not processing information but making some kind of difficult 
decision.  "The Original wrote many times that he wanted to kiss you," 
he finally said, his eyes on the television.  "I always thought he 
meant the other kind of kissing, but now I think I was wrong.  I should 
have known, Scully.  I have…often wanted to kiss you, this other way."

"You have?" she asked tonelessly.  He turned to her and nodded slowly, 
seeming reluctant to meet her eyes.  He wanted to kiss her, she 
thought.  He had always wanted to kiss her.  Scully looked away, 
feeling pathetically shy and overwhelmed.  "Why haven't you tried?"

"I thought it would be inappropriate, like touching out of bounds.  You 
never kissed me on the mouth before."  He paused and then asked softly, 
"Is what I feel wrong?"

"No."

"Scully, you're blushing," he said with relief and with an 
infuriatingly amused lilt to his voice.

She turned back to look at him, finding his face much closer than it 
had been a moment before.  "I'm not blushing."

"Yes, you are, Scully."  He smiled, sweet and deadly, as he leaned in 
even closer, his eyes wide and spotlight brilliant.  "Is it 
embarrassing that I want to kiss you?"

"No," Scully said again weakly.  He was so intoxicatingly close, 
although she found more curiosity than lust in his expression.

His head on the move again, his breath puffed across her face and then 
his lips made contact with her cheek.  He kissed her softly there.  
"Can I, Scully?  Just one time?"

Scully swallowed, finding her throat dry.  "I don't know, Mulder.  
There are so many implications here, and you said that you were afraid 
of things changing, and…"

"And you said things could only change for the better," he countered, 
his lips sliding, tickling, toward her mouth as he spoke.

"Mulder…"  Flustered, Scully realized that her hand was on his thigh, 
squeezing him anxiously.  She did not knew when it had ended up there 
or whose brain had told it to go.  She tried to pull her hand away only 
to have him catch it and lace his fingers through hers.  

Slowly and deliberately, he placed a sweet, tiny kiss on the corner of 
her mouth.  Her lips parted and her breath quickened as she was 
overwhelmed with lust and fear and him, there, so close and wanting 
her.  Her flight instinct had always been strong, useful, but now it 
was powerless.  She knew she should refuse him, should give them both 
more time to grow and to consider, but she was frozen and clutching his 
hand as if she needed it to save her life.

"Please, Scully?" he asked quietly.  "I think it will feel good, we can 
make it feel good.  You and I.  I want to be close, like you said."  
Turning his head, he slid his lips further until they touched hers, 
their breaths puffing gently into each other's open mouths.

They gazed at one another for a moment, close.  It had come: a second 
ambush, far more devastating than the first.  She could not take him, 
but she could hardly stop him.  Slowly, he moved his mouth from side to 
side, their lips rubbing like the Eskimo kiss they had shared earlier.  
And then he smiled, sheepish and self-deprecating.  "I don't know what 
to do," he whispered, his lips fluttering against hers, stealing her 
breath, breaking her heart, and ruining whatever was left of her 
resolve.  "Tell me what to do, Scully."

Scully closed her eyes.  "Kiss me, Mulder.  Kiss my mouth."

"Now?"

"Now."

The kiss was tiny, soft, with closed lips.  It was not unlike the 
kisses he would place on her cheeks or her forehead each day.  But on 
her mouth, that kiss was sweet like stolen candy.  He pulled his head 
back after mere seconds, and Scully found herself abandoned and 
immediately needing more.

"Was that right?  Like that?" he asked uncertainly.

"Do it again."

Nodding slightly, he leaned toward her but gently bumped her nose with 
his.  "Sorry," he whispered.  "I have a big nose, don't I?"

"Yes, you do.  A beautiful big nose," Scully reassured, chuckling and 
already breathless.

He smiled at her comment, tilted his head slightly, and pressed his 
lips again to hers.  Quickly, Scully curved her hand around the back of 
his neck to keep him from pulling away this time.  It worked, and he 
stayed, fluttering tiny, wet, closed-mouthed kisses one after another 
onto her lips until she felt she was either going to explode or melt 
away, or both, impossible as that was.  After one of his sweet pecks, 
Scully darted her tongue out and flicked it over his lips.  He froze 
against her, blinking.

"Open your mouth, Mulder," she commanded, dry wantonness humming from 
her throat.

Mulder did as he was told, and the tips of their tongues met between 
their lips, tickling and sampling, the moisture they created together 
tasting like hot nectar.  With a moan, he reached up to cradle the base 
of Scully's skull.  His hands quivered as he held her, sending a shaft 
of fire and affection down her spine and into her center.

Reverently, he caressed her head and her hair as he dipped more deeply 
into her mouth, awkward at first but gathering confidence with each 
stroke of his tongue against hers.  When she felt him pull gently but 
insistently on her neck, Scully let her head fall back, giving him in 
all his innocence total control.  His mouth was a kiln, locked and 
burning, and Scully was glazing over inside of it.  Finally, finally 
she had lost herself, and there was no going back.  

She released a low moan and slipped her hand beneath his jacket to 
stroke his chest.  Seeming to misinterpret her, he dropped his hands to 
her waist and withdrew gently from the kiss, savoring a few final pecks 
to her lips and then bowing his head, his body heaving and breathless.  

"Mulder?" Scully asked when she found her voice.  "You okay?"

"Oh…" he half-whispered, still looking down at his lap.  "Oh."

Struggling to ignore the bulge in his slacks, Scully ran her fingers 
through his hair and then rubbed her palms over his shoulders.  He was 
shaking like a kicked puppy.  "Oh, Mulder.  Look at me.  What's wrong?"  
Taking his cheeks in her hands, she turned his face up, afraid she 
would find him crying.

His eyes were whirling with lust and anxiety, not tears.  "I don't 
know.  That felt...  Oh...  I don't know.  Maybe I'm just nervous about 
the meeting tonight," he offered weakly, his voice quivering along with 
the rest of him.

"You used that excuse already today, Mulder," Scully said, bringing his 
head to her shoulder and rubbing the back of his neck.

"I did?"

"Never mind, Mulder.  Listen to me.  I know you're anxious, but no 
matter what happens tonight, or ever, you'll always be my family.  
We'll always be together, even when we're physically apart.  Okay?  
It'll be okay."

Sighing, he snuffled his face in her neck.  "Thank you, Scully.  I 
have…  You give me faith in that."

"Good.  Tonight is going to be just fine.  There is no other option," 
she said with brash confidence.

"I know.  But you and…the Original were always so smart and so brave.  
And I…"

"Mulder, no," Scully said sharply.  She pushed him back up so she could 
look him in the eye.  "No.  You're the brave one, Mulder."  She ran her 
thumb over his rosy, wet lips.  "You're the brave one."

He smiled shyly and then kissed the meat of her thumb, his gaze fixed 
more than a little hungrily now on her lips.  She thought he would 
reach for her again, but his eyes suddenly went wide.  He looked up and 
sniffed, and Scully followed suit.

"Something's burning," she said.

"The dessert.  The dessert is burning.  I'll get it."  And with that he 
was off like a flash toward the kitchen, his suit jacket flapping 
behind him, his tennis shoes putting an extra bounce in his step.

Laughing and shaking her head, Scully stood and straightened her 
clothes and her hair.  Then she lifted the dart from the table and took 
her shot.



(End Chapter 11 – End Part 5)