AUTHOR'S COMMENTS:  Yes, it’s me again.  That crazy lady who posts a
fanfic every year or so and sends out a prayer that SOMEone in the world
of fanfic remembers her...:)  As you've already guessed, I'm a rather 
slow writer...(unfortunate, it being my profession and all...), 
so this is a post-ep story for an ep that most of you have 
probably forgotten by now.  This story picks up in the last 
moments of "Elegy".  When I did most of the work on the plot, we 
viewers were still uncertain as to whether Scully's cancer had in 
fact metastisized and she was lying to Mulder about the test 
being fine.  I thus attempted to write the piece leaving the 
question as open as the episode had, which might have been of 
some small signifigance had I posted it on time. Oh well.:)  
Anyhow, hope you enjoy.:)

I love feedback.:)

DISCLAIMER JAZZ:  "The X-Files" and its characters are the creations and 
property of the fabled Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox 
Broadcasting.  I am, of course, using them without permission.  No 
copyright infringement is intended.  All other concepts or ideas herein 
are mine.

SUMMARY: What the author would have liked to see happen immediately
        following "Elegy". 
Tricks of the Light - Elizabeth Rowandale - (PG)
Classifications - (SA)
Keywords - UST, Elegy Post-ep



TRICKS OF THE LIGHT
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 1998


     She walked briskly toward the refuge of her car, not 
checking for traffic, hearing only the hollow clicks of her high 
heels on the rain soaked blacktop.
     She didn't want to think.  Each thought that invaded her 
mind hurt, everything clenched her stomach like a raven's claw.  
She struggled to believe things weren't that bad.  She was just 
exhausted.  She had been drug out of her apartment after a 
strenuous day, forced to concentrate on work, engaged in a 
physical battle with a murderer and just barely come out on top.  
She had to believe if she could sleep until morning, things would 
be bearable once more.  For now the freedom of slumber would be 
enough.
     She dropped into the car seat and closed the door behind 
her.  She gripped the cold steering wheel with bare hands, as if 
the wheel could grant her control over her life or her thoughts 
and not just the dormant automobile.
     But the moment she was alone, safe in her own car, the pain 
and fear she had suppressed before Mulder and denied when she 
walked away from him, broke through her battered defenses, and 
she surrendered to a fresh wave of tears.
     An ambulance accelerated up the hill in the distance, the 
colored lights shimmered and blurred through her tears and the 
remaining raindrops on the windshield.  A horribly vivid and 
black premonition struck her and she squeezed her eyes tight, 
willing the image to retreat.  Visions of the INSIDE of the 
ambulance...the needle in her own arm...her family on the curb...
     She could be strong when she was alone.  She could hold the 
line, keep functioning, maintain status quo.  But when she spoke 
to Mulder...when Mulder looked at her...
     He was her weakness.
     Because somehow...he was her strength.
     I lied to Mulder.
     She opened her eyes, tried to draw an even breath, glanced 
at the rearview mirror--and her heart stopped.
     Clear as any physical entity she had ever perceived, Harold 
Spinter sat on the back seat of her car.
     Scully whirled around, her body tingling with adrenaline, 
her throat tight, eyes wide.  She should have ducked and rolled 
out the driver's door, at the very least she should have drawn 
her weapon.  She didn't want to know why she did neither of these 
things.
     There had been a greyness about the image.  A familiar 
electricity in the air...
     She saw only the empty back seat of her car, a cassette tape 
she had borrowed from her mother tossed in one corner of the 
cushion, the slight rip in the upholstery from QueeQuag's nails 
when she'd seen a rabbit dashing past the window.
     Scully forced a new breath, but the effort was superficial 
and shallow.  She gradually turned back toward the windshield, 
hardly aware of her movements.
     She wanted to comprehend, wanted to absorb what she had 
seen.  But she could only close her eyes and hold onto the 
steering wheel.  And let understanding gradually seep through her 
bones.
     
     
     *          *          *           *          *
     

     Mulder finally strained his neck muscles and lifted his head 
from the wall.  Now that Scully had walked away, the white, 
sterile surroundings seemed oppressive and cold.  How did the 
residents ever find comfort in this place?  How did the workers 
remain optimistic and supportive.  He wanted out of there and 
into the shelter of the shadowy night.
     He was helpless every moment he was with her.
     His first reaction to her withholding her experience had 
been anger, resentment.  The anger was quick to ignite, it 
hovered beneath the surface of their partnership all the time.  
He opened himself to her every day, laid himself up for ridicule 
at every turn.  But with Scully, there was always a point where 
she simply shut him out.  Simply withdrew from him and omitted 
anything that didn't fit her plan or her view of the world or of 
herself.  Every once in a while he had to wonder just how much 
more there was to know.  How many more hours had been omitted for 
his benefit, not factored into their reasoning of the case, not 
influencing their conclusions, or those of the superiors who 
judged his work.
     He could understand her reserve about her personal life.  He 
might wish she wanted to share more with him, but he could and 
would respect her privacy on that level.  But when she withheld 
things that affected her performance on the job, affected his 
work--no, their work--But that was just it, wasn't it?  Not just 
a slip of the tongue...It was exactly moments like this that made 
him feel it was just his work...and she wasn't entirely with him.
     But when his anger flared, when she came to him and finally 
admitted something so difficult for her, and his resentment 
reared its ugly head, he was always torn between his righteous 
anger, and the hurt and vulnerability so apparent on her pale 
face.
     She had looked so young tonight.  Her make-up had faded, she 
had dressed hurriedly, come at his request after an exhausting 
day.  Her softened features, her straightened hair...something in 
her expression as they stood in the hall tonight had reminded him 
of the Scully he had first known.  The young and ambitious field 
agent who had walked so confidently into his office four years 
ago.  With her shoulder length hair and her pony tails and tennis 
shoes after hours--shifting his solitary quest forever.
     Her facade had slipped just slightly tonight.  Her 
expression had been like a hurt deer when he had challenged her 
behavior.  And when he had spoken in kindness, tried to 
sympathize with the pain he knew she was masking, she had nearly 
melted.  The quaver in her voice had made his stomach burn.  Then 
she had walked away.  And he had felt more alone than he could 
remember.
     
     
     *          *          *           *          *
     
     
     
     She got out of the car, slammed the door and backed away.  
She stared into the empty recesses of the vehicle, still 
trembling, feeling the uncomfortable distance between her and the 
nearest warm human being, barely aware of the mild drizzle 
beginning to soak her hair and trench coat.
     She couldn't get back in the car.  She couldn't drive home 
safely and keep her eyes away from the rearview mirror.
     Scully dropped her keys in her coat pocket and looked up the 
side of the street for a parking restriction sign.  She took a 
few steps and squinted at the fading print through the growing 
raindrops, suddenly becoming aware of their presence.  No parking 
from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m.  She could be back for the car by then.
     And she needed to find Mulder...
     
     
     *           *           *          *          *
     
     
     He stretched his legs in long strides as if stretching his 
body would clear his mind.
     Why had Scully been so unaccepting of the vision?  The fear 
that she too was dying, the fear that this was the source of her 
link with the others on this case...that made perfect sense to 
him, not to mention made him sick to his stomach.  But she had 
chosen to hide the vision from him before they had made that 
ominous connection.  Scully had seen her own father at the time 
of his death, for God's sake.  Mulder had felt strange even 
explaining the phenomenon to her as they stood in the bowling 
alley at the start of the case.  Yet she had let him do so as if 
the concept were entirely foreign to her.  Had she deleted that 
incident from her frame of reference as well?  There had been a 
time when she had been willing to talk about it with him.  A time 
when she had even admitted to the fear behind her unwillingness 
to trust her own senses.
     He turned down the side hallway leading to the main parking 
lot, pushing through the heavy swinging doors to the stairs.  The 
hallways were neat and polished if not new or well decorated.  
But the closed off stairwell showed the building's true 
condition.  The tiles on the steps were chipping, the narrow 
window was smudged with dirt and grime both inside and out.  And 
the walls were scuffed and waterstained.  Mulder closed his eyes 
and hurried down the steps and out into the fresh night air.
     The raindrops felt good on his face, like a splash of cold 
water to stimulate his circulation.
     Another case closed.  Another case yielding no solid proof 
of the extraordinary, another example to him of the vast wonders 
that lay beyond the documented world.  He scanned the parking lot 
for his car, not entirely certain where he had parked.  His mind 
had been on other things when he had arrived.  There, at the edge 
of the lot, his own car, badly parked over one and a half parking 
spaces.  Spaces closer to the building had opened while he was 
inside.
     The rain was lessening as he walked across the shiny 
blacktop, but the showers would no doubt start again soon.  He 
looked up at the grey sky, thought he saw a faint lightness to 
the clouds that might have marked the location of the moon.  He 
wasn't certain enough of the directions from here to know where 
the moon should be.
     "Mulder?"
     A clear voice broke through the shadows.
     He turned around, nearly dropping his keys.  A familiar 
figure stood near the building, silhouetted by the parking lot 
lights.
     "Yeah?" he called back.  He took a step toward her, and 
Scully quickened her pace in his direction.
     They met in an open place in the silent parking lot.
     She looked up at him, but didn't speak.
     "What's going on?" he asked casually.
     Scully's gaze dropped<lowered> slightly, shifting her focus 
to his mouth or perhaps his chin.  As she always did when she was 
hesitant to meet his gaze.
     "I need a ride home," she said simply.
     He watched her wait for his response, felt the tension in 
her carriage.
     "What's the matter, your car wouldn't start?  Did you leave 
the headlights on or something?" he asked with a hint of a smile.
     But she didn't react to the humor.  Her focus moved away 
slightly, and she tightened her mouth as if struggling to find 
the right words.  "My car's just...," she sighed softly, then 
shook her head in a brisk, dismissive motion, "I just need a ride 
home.  Do you mind?"  It was a formal inquiry, yet not at all 
sarcastic.
     And it left him with no option but a friendly response.  
"No, of course not.  Come on."
     She smiled in thanks as she turned to walk toward the far 
side of his car.  A cursory, almost sad little smile.  The smile 
he had seen more often these days than the rare glow of warmth 
that could so light up her normally composed countenance.
     Mulder unlocked the car and without a word they sank into 
their seats, fastened their seatbelts.
     As Mulder pulled the car out of the hospital's tree-lined 
drive and onto the main road, Scully leaned against the head rest 
and closed her eyes.  Mulder couldn't keep his attention away 
from her.  It could have been any one of a hundred times they had 
been on the road together.  Scully catching a nap while he took 
his shift behind the wheel.  He wanted to let himself slip into 
that mentality, free the knot in his empty stomach.  But he 
couldn't, this wasn't "any night".  It was a night when Scully 
had cancer, a night when she had nearly cried in front of him, a 
night when she had asked him to drive her home for no obvious 
reason.  He wanted to maintain his anger at her withholding of 
information.  He wanted to stand his ground.  But he felt the 
anger within him dissipating each time he looked at her pale skin 
in the fluorescent street lamps and watched the tense grip of her 
fingers as she clasped her hands in her lap.
     Was she not feeling well?  Was that why she hadn't wanted to 
drive?  She was resting now, which backed up that theory.  But 
Mulder wasn't satisfied, and he felt certain it was something 
more than an aversion to all thoughts of Scully in ill health 
which directed his hunch.  Besides, he had drug her out in the 
middle of the night, right?  Of course she was resting...
     Something had happened between the moment she left him in 
the hospital hallway and their meeting in the parking lot.  Had 
she remembered something?  Did she want to tell him something 
more she had held back?  She seemed reluctant to speak at all, as 
though she might have taken a cab if one had been available.
     He was probably overanalyzing.  A simple explanation was the 
most likely.  Wasn't that what they had taught at the Academy?  
But if the explanation was so damned simple, why couldn't he 
figure it out?
     Scully sniffed sharply and brushed her nose with her gloved 
finger as she lifted her head and opened her eyes.  Mulder 
glanced across at her, surreptitiously checking to see if her 
nose was bleeding again.  But she was all right, just reacting to 
the cold weather as he was, too.
     She still did not look at him, just gazed steadily out the 
corner of the windshield.  He wondered if she was really seeing 
the trees and lampposts that whipped past in the darkness.  
Scully could seem a million miles away, yet be absorbing every 
detail of her surroundings.  It was a handy trick when 
interviewing a manipulative suspect.  She gave them false 
confidence.  She gave Mulder a headache.
     "You warm enough?" Mulder asked, reaching for the heat 
control.
     "I could use some heat," Scully said, her voice even, yet 
distant.  She watched him turn the temperature dial, click on the 
fan.  Scully was always more sensitive to the cold than he, 
though she seldom admitted it.  He would turn on the heat for 
her, or she would reach over and do it herself, but she would 
never complain to him.  Her apartment was always cozy, her 
fireplace often blazing when he intruded upon her evenings at 
home.  She wore gloves early in the autumn, when he had not yet 
ventured to the bottom of the great and mysterious cavern that 
was his coat closet, on a mission to emerge with two matching 
gloves and a hat that didn't give him hat hair.
     They were turning onto Scully's street before Mulder settled 
upon anything else to say.  He braced himself for the 
anti-climax.  Scully would thank him politely, say goodnight, and 
vanish through her apartment door, leaving him in silence and 
ignorance.
     As he slowed the car to a halt, Scully unlocked her 
seatbelt.  He shifted into park, expecting her to pop open the 
door.  But her slender gloved hand merely rested noncommittally 
on the silver handle.
     "You look tired," she said, turning toward him.
     The comment caught him completely off guard.  He cleared his 
throat, realizing he was just coming out of a yawn.  "Yeah, well, 
you know me.  Couple hours with a remote and a couch and I'll be 
fine."  He flashed a brief smile.
     "Are you sure you're awake enough for the drive home?"
     He nodded, "Sure."  Though the more he thought about the 
endless pavement and hypnotic lines of streetlamps without the 
company to keep him alert, the more he wondered if Scully was 
more aware of his present condition than he was.
     Scully lifted an eyebrow.  "If you want, you can come up for 
a cup of coffee first, plenty of caffeine."
     "Got any *Jolt*?"
     He thought she almost reacted to that comment.  Almost.  
God, she was infuriating.  So why was he more comfortable sitting 
next to her, than anyone else?
     "You want the coffee, Mulder?" she said.  But her edge of 
tolerant sarcasm was more life than he'd seen out of her in a 
while; and much preferable to the air of quiet dignity and silent 
injury.
     "How can I say no to free coffee?"
     Without a word, she pushed out of the car.
     They walked in silence up the narrow stairs to the front 
door, down the hall to number five.  Scully fished in her coat 
pocket for her keys.  She almost never carried a purse.  Mulder 
wondered if she carried one in her private life, shopping on the 
weekends, visiting her friends, having lunch with her mother.  Or 
if she had been broken of the habit by too much time in the 
field.
     She aimed the key at the lock, but on her first try it 
didn't go in straight.  Mulder glanced down and watched her 
fingers working the key.  She straightened her hold on the cold 
metal, tried again and the key slipped into place.
     Mulder followed her inside, moving clear for her to close 
the door behind him.  She slipped out of her trench coat and hung 
it on the carved wood coat tree across from the entrance.  Mulder 
had been to this apartment so many times.  Yet so often he 
arrived with some imperative distraction monopolizing his senses; 
he had rarely *looked* at his surroundings.  The atmosphere was a 
world different from his own shadowy den.  The colors were light, 
the tabletops were covered with carefully placed photos, 
trinkets.  Did Scully spend the occasional Saturday, browsing 
furniture shops or craft shows, seeking the perfect pieces to 
compliment her decor?
     "Come on in.  I'll get the coffee."
     She slipped past him, switching on the ceiling light as she 
entered the kitchen.  Mulder took a few steps toward the living 
room.  He pulled off his gloves and dropped them onto the narrow 
glass table behind the sofa.  He stretched and flexed his long 
fingers, enjoying the warm air in the apartment.  His knuckles 
were chapped.  He couldn't remember where he'd last seen his hand 
lotion.
     "I assume instant's okay?" Scully called to him.
     "Is there another kind?"
     She didn't respond.  He heard the faucet running, water 
pouring into something.  The sound of the microwave.
     A moment later, Scully appeared, carrying a blue flowered 
mug, cradling it as if using its heat to warm her hands.
     "Here."  She held the mug out to him.  "Be careful, it's 
hot."
     "Afraid I might sue?"  Then in response to her silence, 
"Thanks."
     Scully stood a few steps from him, sheltered by the shadows 
of the foyer, almost shrinking from the circle of the living room 
light.
     They were silent for a long minute.  Mulder blew across the 
top of his coffee, took a test sip.  The warmth of the steam felt 
good on his cheeks.
     Scully stood before him, so controlled as always.  So aware 
of every inch of her body, never at a loss for where to put her 
hands, how to rest her arms.  So unlike his own gangly frame.
     "Mulder?"  Her voice was so soft, for a moment he thought he 
had imagined her it.
     He swallowed his sip of coffee.  "Yeah?"
     "I, uh...I didn't just ask you up here for coffee.  I asked 
you up here, because...I wanted to apologize for not telling you 
sooner about what I saw in the bathroom.  I'm sorry, Mulder."
     "It's okay, Scully."
     Scully winced.  Her left hand slid up to her hip, and she 
tilted her head ever so slightly away from him.  "No, it's not."
     Mulder's eyes narrowed as he felt the pull of her words, the 
depth of feeling behind them.  She hadn't once met his gaze since 
they'd entered the apartment.
     She spoke slowly, choosing her words with great care.  "I 
know, that...the core strength of our partnership has always been 
based in trust.  And I realize that when I'm not completely open 
with you regarding our cases, that I am...weakening that bond."
     She paused a moment.  She moved her head, shifting her hair 
from her face.  The glow from the living room lamp flashed across 
her features and for a moment he thought he saw the glimmer of 
tears in her eyes.  He set his coffee mug on the narrow glass 
table.
     "Scully, it's--"
     She shook her head and spoke over his words.  "I just..."  
She drew a gentle breath, and this time he was certain he heard 
the quaver in her voice, the gentle vulnerability.  "I just need 
to know that our partnership is...okay."  And at last she looked 
up at him, meeting his gaze in the semi-darkness.  "I 
just...right now...I...I need it to be okay."  Her final word 
slipped to a whisper as her brow tensed, struggling to hold her 
composure.
     "Scully..."  He leaned toward her as he spoke, sculpting his 
voice to as gentle a tone as he could manage, grasping for any 
small comfort he could offer her, feeling helpless before her 
fear.  "It's okay. I trust you, Scully..."  With this, he reached 
out and touched his fingers to her cheek.
     Scully's expression melted beneath his touch and she shifted 
away from him, too vulnerable for sympathy.  He let his hand fall 
away.  Instead, he gave her a gentle smile. "Scully, you've lied 
to your boss for me, you've followed me halfway across the 
country at all hours of the night because some hick farmer swore 
he saw little green men breakdancing in his cow pasture...you 
SHOT me and expected me to think nothing of it...you even feed my 
goldfish every time I'm presumed dead.  And now you think taking 
a few extra hours to tell me something that freaked you out, is 
going to damage my sense of trust?"
     Scully nodded, but her thoughts weren't in the gesture.
     "It's okay," Mulder whispered, his voice once again soft and 
serious.
     "Your coffee's getting cold," Scully said.  She reached up 
and freed her hair from the collar of her blazer and stepped 
around him into the living room.  He thought he saw her wipe at 
her eyes as she moved, but her back was to him.
     He watched after her for a moment, then picked up his 
coffee.  Scully stooped down and took a starter log from a wicker 
basket beside the hearth.  When she had successfully caught the 
ends on fire, she stood and crossed to her answering machine.  
She punched the button and listened as she popped open the 
buttons of her blazer.  Mulder took another sip of the coffee, 
which was either really good for instant, or he was really numb.  
Her silk blouse was dotted with blood stains from her struggle 
with the crazed nurse.  A typical day at the office.  He wondered 
how much of her elegant wardrobe was trashed each month due to 
hazards of the job.
     The answering machine whirred and beeped, then played back:
     "Ms. Scully, this is Frank at Randall's Auto.  The part came 
in for your car, you can call to set up an appointment anytime."
     "Hi, Honey, it's Mom.  Just calling to say 'hi' and make 
sure we're still on for dinner this weekend.  I love you.  Call 
me.  Bye-bye."
     Mulder took a last sip of the coffee and set down the mug.
     "Thanks for the coffee, Scully."
     Scully gave him a cursory smile.  Then said softly, "Good 
night," as she turned her back to him and walked over to gaze at 
the fire.
     "Good night," he said, unable to think of anything else to 
say.  He switched off the overhead light, somehow sensing she no 
longer wanted it.
     He started to go, then said, "You want me to pick you up in 
the morning, give you a ride back to your car?"
     A moment of silence.  Then, "Yeah, I'd appreciate that."
     "Okay, see you in the morning, then.  Around seven?"
     Silence.
     Mulder turned the deadbolt and opened the door.  His hand 
still resting on the doorknob, he glanced once more toward 
Scully's unyielding back--and saw he had left his gloves on the 
glasstopped table.
     Mulder pushed the door closed, but he didn't take more than 
a step toward his gloves.  Scully had heard the door close and 
assumed he had gone out ahead of it.  Triggered by the slam of 
the door, she released a soft, pained breath. A moment later, she 
sank to the floor amid a soft cascade of quiet sobs.  One knee 
touched the floor, the other tucked up against her chest--The 
movement of the descent was so fluid, so delicate and graceful, 
he couldn't look away.  Yet he could hardly bear to watch.  Her 
pain struck him like a physical blow.
     In the electric silence that followed, Mulder became acutely 
aware of his dilemma.  He now could not get out of the apartment 
without making Scully aware he had never left.  The thought of 
her potential shame wrenched his gut.  But if he stayed, she 
would eventually notice him.  And the sooner he made his presence 
known, the less he would have intruded upon her privacy.  He 
closed his eyes and willed himself to speak before he could think 
through the repercussions.  "Scully?" he said softly, then opened 
his eyes.
     Scully jumped like a startled rabbit, shoving to her feet 
and pulling back.  In two long strides Mulder was around the sofa 
and facing her from a few steps away, his expression speaking an 
earnest and heartfelt apology before his lips could form the 
words.
     Scully winced and turned her face from his.  "Oh, God, 
Mulder, get the hell out of here..."  Her hands rested on her 
hips, embarrassment and disgust waved off of her like heat, 
keeping him his safe distance away.  She swiped quickly at her 
eyes, released a breath of injured exhaustion that pounded 
Mulder's brain, convincing him he had caused her yet another 
moment of pain to line up with the rest of her relentless day.
     "Scully, I'm sorry.  I just...I forgot my gloves and..."
     "Mulder just get out of here.  Now.  Just...go."
     The bitterness in her tone was almost too much for him.
     "Scully, what happened tonight?" he said softly.
     A moment of silence.  Scully drew a shallow breath, gaze 
locked upon the fire.  "Please go home, Mulder.  I'll see you in 
the morning."
     He stood for a moment, long arms dangling at his sides, 
words beyond him.  Then, "Scully, I don't want to pry into your 
private life."
     She gave a muted but sarcastic laugh.
     Mulder's thoughts raced, frantically composing words into 
sentences, calling upon his psychological training, structuring 
precisely what to say, struggling to account for all 
contingencies, to balance the delicate line.  Then without ever 
deciding to speak, he said simply, "Talk to me, Scully."
     She turned and firmly met his gaze.  The firelight flickered 
on her skin, tossing teasing shadows, masking her already 
deceptive expressions.
     "Mulder, I don't know what to say.  You understand?  I don't 
know...Until I figure out what I'm thinking I can't talk about 
it.  No, that's not true.  I can't talk to *you* about it.  Now 
please go home."
     It took all his strength to swallow that.  But he had come 
this far, he had to press forward.
     "Scully, I come to you all the time with half-assed theories 
and unprocessed impressions and whacked out hunches, for God's 
sake, and you call me a nutcase, yes, but then you talk it 
through with me, you don't make instant assumptions, you offer 
suggestions, you listen and you give me credit for just maybe 
having a valid point if we can work together to figure out what 
it is.  Don't you think I'd afford you the same respect and 
attention?  Or is your opinion of me so low?"
     She closed her eyes and released a weighted breath.  
"Mulder, this isn't about that...this is...Can we please talk 
about this in the morning?"
     "No."
     "Mulder--some things are personal, and can't be thrown open 
for analysis, when...  Mulder, I *work* with you.  In a kind of 
job where you have to be able to trust my strengths and my 
perceptions and the way I react in crisis situations.  And that 
means I can't always be comfortable talking to you when I--"
     "You're talking to me now."
     "That's because you won't go away!"
     After a tense beat of silence Mulder's cheek quivered just 
barely toward a smile, and the two agents fell together into a 
gentle and kind laughter that was music to Mulder's soul.  But in 
a second Scully's laughter turned to quiet tears, and Mulder's 
smile to profound concern.  In a rushed and liquid wave, Scully 
whispered.  "I saw Spinter again when I went to my car tonight.  
In the back seat, just sitting there, and then he was gone.  
Mulder, I...I'm afraid, it..."  Her lips quivered as she lifted 
trembling fingers to touch her cheek.  Her breath caught in a 
stifled sob.
     Mulder's heart pounded so he heard it echo through the room.
     In that single moment in the unsteady amber light, Mulder 
knew he had never seen Scully so vulnerable.  In a second all 
defenses had fallen.  Her pale skin, her quivering voice, her 
gently pleading eyes, shimmering behind her tears; All were 
burned in his mind for a lifetime.  Instantly, he was beside her, 
closing his arms around her and she did not pull away, but 
huddled into the warmth and security of his solid embrace.  He 
didn't know how long he held her.  Without movement, without 
words.  As long as he felt her trembling muscles, he could not 
bring himself to slacken his hold.  Her soft locks tickled his 
five o'clock shadow.  Her clothes were still damp from the rain.  
So were his.
     "It's all right, Scully.  We'll *make* it all right," he 
said at last.  "We'll make it all right."  He ventured to move 
his hand to smooth her hair.  She didn't move, didn't respond.
     He felt something unsaid, guessed there was more in her 
tears than in her words.  But for the moment perhaps that didn't 
matter.  All that mattered was warming her from the rain.
     Eventually she pulled away.
     She didn't meet his gaze.  She brushed aside her tears, 
briskly, efficiently.  The dried tracks reflected the firelight.
     He watched her breathe.
     "Go home, Mulder," she said at last.
     He nodded.
     Mulder reached out and ever so gently drew his hand down the 
side of her face.  For the briefest moment he thought she leaned 
into the gesture, wanted it to last.
     "I'll see you in the morning," he said softly.
     Scully sniffed sharply, nodded.  "Yeah.  See you in the 
morning."
     *Do you have nightmares, Scully?  Do you wish someone were 
with you on your dark journey?*
     Mulder backed slowly around the couch.  He picked up his 
gloves from the glass table.
     *Does your mother comfort you?  Or does she, too, need your 
strength?  Do you need a friend?  Do you want what I could offer?  
Am I capable of giving it?*
     He stood in the open doorway for a moment, watching her 
silent figure, watching the firelight dance across her closed 
lids.
     He closed the door and walked away.


THE END
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