Title: 1013 (Part Eight of the Trefoil Series) Classification: SAR Keywords: S/O, MSR/UST, AU Rating: R, for language Distribution: anywhere, just let me know Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me; they belong to Mr. Chris Carter, lucky bastard. Spoilers: none Feedback: yes, to lil_gusty@hotmail.com Thanks: at the end Notes: This is the eighth part of my Trefoil Series. For missing parts, go to http://sciencex.tzo.com/xf/wips/trefoil.html Summary: In the state of Georgia, a 1013 is the code to legally hold someone against their will at a hospital, for example, after a suicide attempt. <><><><><><> One night, Missy and I were folding towels in our bedroom: spreading them out on the bed, smoothing out all the wrinkles, doubling them perfectly in half each time, then placing them neatly into boxes on the floor. Downstairs, we could hear Mom and Ahab fighting. I was probably eight, Missy was ten or eleven, maybe. Bill and Chaz were in their room, packing their clothes. We had already done that, and were given the chore of packing my mother's things next. Towels were part of that, though we had brought them in our room so that we could close the door and talk loudly, blocking out the screams and curses. We were leaving. My mother was taking all of us kids to her mother's, nearly an hour's drive away. We only had one car though, in my father's name. So, in a twist of dramatic irony, he would have to drive us. When the last of the boxes were stuffed into the trunk and under our feet in the back seat, Missy, Bill, and I sat with Chaz stretched out across our laps. He was six and clutching his stomach, moaning and thrashing around in pain. Instead of getting on the interstate to go to my Grandmother's, my father started driving towards the hospital. It turned out that Chaz's appendix was about to rupture and he would have most certainly died if we hadn't gotten there when we did. Nearly two weeks later, Chaz came home - to the base. My mother had taken his illness as a sign from God that she wasn't supposed to leave my father, no matter how bad things got. Although she threatened to do so after that, she never told Missy and me to go fold towels again. She learned her lesson. <><><><><><> The needles of hot water hit my skin, bouncing off and sliding down my cheeks, breasts, stomach, legs, to the ceramic floor of the tiny shower stall, swirling counter-clockwise around the shiny, metal drain and disappearing, carrying everything that I had been feeling for the past few hours with it. From Mulder's apartment, I had driven at frightening speed towards my mother's house, fat, hot tears streaming down my cheeks. When I pulled into the drive way at two thirty in the morning, it hit me that I didn't even have a key to get in. I dried my tears, rubbed the center of my forehead against the sinus headache developing there, and picked up my cell phone, dialing the number shakily. I just asked her if she could let me in, and she hung up without saying either way. Knowing her, she'd make me sleep in the car for punishment. Once inside, I'd gone to my room and packed, then called the airline, asking them when their next flight to Atlanta was. Nine fifteen, the woman said, and I booked myself for a ticket home immediately. I can't imagine what my poor mother thought. Struggling not to collapse into a weepy puddle of tears, I kissed her goodbye after loading my luggage into the car. She looked angry, but I could tell that she pitied me, too. Her gullible, indecisive daughter, so easily led and manipulated - where did she go wrong? She didn't ask any questions about why I was leaving so suddenly and I only offered the feeble "something's come up" explanation before I backed out of her driveway and rocketed towards the airport. Yes, something's come up, Mom. I just cheated on my husband, I think. What is infidelity, really? Is it thoughts of someone else? Is it a kiss? An intimate declaration? Does it matter that we didn't finish, or is it enough that we started? Is it so bad if I really love him? And I do, Mom. I really, really do love him. I just knew that I had to go back home, back to my perfect life. I had to go back where I belonged; there was nothing left for me in DC. There was nothing left for me with Mulder. He was too scarred from his past, too afraid of my betrayals and abandonments, for us to ever have any kind of romantic relationship together. He could never give me what Ethan gives me, just like my mother said. He could never be to me what Ethan is: husband, savior, and lover. I took a cab from the airport, knowing that Ethan was busy at work already, and then ran straight for the shower in our bathroom. I still smelled like Mulder, could still feel his hands on my skin. My lips were sore from his, as was my cervix. He was inside me, connected to me. Forever. It felt wonderful. It felt dirty. I watch him as he washes down the drain with the soap bubbles and tears. He's gone. For good this time. No running back to him. No desperate attempts to make him understand how much I love him. Loved him. How much I loved him. No more midnight phone calls, just to hear his voice on his answering machine. No more needing him. No more remembering him. No more Mulder. I belong to Ethan. I am his wife. I am Emma's mother. This is my life now and Mulder has no part of it. The sooner I realize that - the sooner I accept that - the better. The quicker I can move on, the happier I'll be. Why does it take so much sadness to be happy? <><><><><><> Warm hands on my shoulders, pulling me into him, stroking my cheek, his lips on my forehead. Cold...so cold. "Dana? Dana, wake up." No, don't want to. Want to sleep forever... In the air, in his arms. Picking me up, carrying me somewhere. Putting me down, trying to get me to stand. "Dana, I know you're awake, now open your eyes." "Mmm...." Soft cloth wrapped around me: warm. The hands kneed at my body roughly, rubbing over my limps, stomach, and back, squeezing my hair, drying me. Thumb brushes softly over my lips. "Dana, your lips are blue." "Cold." "Yeah, I'll bet. That water was freezing." In the air again, Ethan carrying me to bed. I loll in his arms, my head and arms limp like a doll. Under heavy covers, more chill before I can finally get warm. "You want to tell me what that was all about?" he asks, already accusing me of something. I shake my head and wiggle to the middle of the bed, pulling covers tighter around me and curling into a tight fetal position. "What are you doing home so soon?" I shake my head again. Shut up! "Dana...how did you get here? And why were you asleep in the shower?" I'm not telling you again, SHUT UP! "Fine." He gets up from his seat on the side of the bed, making the mattress jump and jiggling me nauseatingly. Just for good measure, in case I couldn't already tell he was angry, he slams the door on his way out, leaving me in blessed silence and midday sunshine. <><><><><><> The phone wakes me up later, and it hits me that Ethan was not supposed to be home in the middle of the day. When I can drag myself to my feet, find my pajamas, and amble unsteadily down the stairs several hours later, I find Emma tucked in on the couch, clutching her stuffed white whale and looking completely miserable. Ethan is in the kitchen, an empty can on Spaghetti- O's next to the almost ready to beep microwave. "Yeah, I don't think it's anything serious," he says into the phone, studiously stirring the steaming bowl as it comes out of the microwave. "Uh huh. Well, I'll ask Dana when she wakes up." A pause. "She was here when I got home earlier, asleep. I just let her stay that way. She looked exhausted. Yeah, I don't know either..."I lean on the counter hard, making it creak and Ethan notice me. "Oh, she's up now, if you want to talk to her. Okay, here she is." He hands me the phone. "Your Mom," he mouths. "Thanks," I mumble, but he's not listening. He goes back to the living room, feeling Emma's forehead and talking softly to her. She listlessly sits up and takes the bowl, her eyes drooping as she takes tiny bites. "Hi, Mom." "Dana," she says by way of a greeting. "I know I forgot to call you when I got home. I'm sorry," I say, exhaling steadily, wondering why else she would call. "Fox came by this morning." Well, I wasn't expecting that. "Wh-what?" I stammer. "Fox came by this morning after you left. He wanted to see you, and when I told him that you'd gone to the airport, he asked if I was lying to him," she says evenly, angrily. "Why would he ask that?" "I, uh, I d-don't know. Did he say anything else?" "Yes. He asked what time your flight left. I told him I didn't know." Not that she would've told him if she had known. Dammit, what the hell is he doing? Following me to my mother's house, wanting to follow me to the airport? Was he trying to stop me again? "Oh" is all I say. "Does any of this have to do with the reason you left in such a rush this morning?" she asks tensely, probably already knowing the answer. "N- I don't know," I lie through clenched teeth. She takes a deep breath and holds it, then lets it out slowly. "Well, I just wanted to make sure you got home safely." "Yep." "That's good, Dana." I nod, knowing she can't see me. "I'll, uh, talk to you later, Mom. I love you." "I love you, too, Dana. So much." I swallow dryly against the lump in my throat; how do mothers always know how to guilt you? When the silence gets uncomfortable, I hang up, and then wander into the living room in search of my beautiful, loving family. "What's the matter, Emma?" I ask the little girl in my best mother voice, wanting to be a part of this touching scene. "I don't feel good," she whispers, going back to eating. I look to Ethan to elaborate. "She had a fever and said her stomach hurt when I picked her up from school. The fever's come down, now, but she still looks pale." So that's why Ethan was home earlier: Emma was sick. I nod at him, wondering why she's downstairs on the couch instead of upstairs in bed. "You look a little pale too, Dana," he says conspiratorially, glancing up at me. I scrub my eyes with my hands, not answering, turning back towards the kitchen. After you don't eat for a while, you don't feel the hunger anymore. It's just emptiness, though you don't even feel it in your stomach, but you can feel your pulse there when you lay down at night. Since I ate at Mulder's, though, my stomach is growling and I feel the desperate, feral hunger and know that I must have food. 'Cause that's what happy people do: eat. I throw one of my Lean Cuisines into the microwave and press a few buttons as Ethan saunters into the kitchen behind me. He looks at me, then looks away, sighs heavily, and says, "Now, you gonna explain all this to me?" "What?" I ask, peeking in at my food, wondering what it's like to crawl inside someplace like that and be warm forever: microwave, oven, dryer... "I find you asleep in the shower, the water freezing, when you're supposed to be at your mother's. I didn't even know you were coming home so soon." What am I supposed to say to that? Well, see, I wasn't going to come home so soon, but I felt I needed to be as far away from Mulder as possible after we had sex? I just nod instead, hurrying my fetucinni alfredo along silently. He takes a deep breath, then sighs again, crossing his arms. "I don't like you not talking to me, Dana. If something's bothering you, I want to know about it." "Nothing's bothering me," I tell him. It's simpler than the truth. He nods like he expected my answer, but doesn't counter my argument. He's probably as sick of this game as I am. I wish we could just start over, from the moment he knocked on my apartment door a year ago. I would do so many things differently. I would throw myself into this relationship instead of resisting all of the changes it's wrought in me. I would devote myself to Ethan and Emma unquestionably. I would forget about my other life, my Mulder life, and we would all be so much happier. "Okay, then answer me this." "What?" I ask, lost in my reverie. "When did you get a tattoo? And what are those scars on your stomach and back?" I turn away from my irradiating food and stare at him agape. "We've been married almost a year and you're just now noticing these thing?" He glances down at his shoes and, for a moment, looks almost embarrassed. Ethan's a missionary-position-in-the-dark kind of Catholic. He probably confesses oral sex. "Yeah," he says quietly. I roll my eyes and check on my food: who knew four and a half minutes could be so long? "I got a tattoo a few years ago and the scars are from a gun shot wound," I answer simply. "You were shot?" "Yes." "By who?" "Another agent. It was an accident." "Was it Mulder?" He asks after a thick beat of silence. Now how can I forget about him if you won't? "No," I tell him angrily. How could he even think that Mulder would do something so stupid, so cocky as to shoot a fellow officer, let alone his partner, best friend, unrequited love? Like I did that time: shooting my fellow officer, partner, best friend, unrequited love. He nods, again as if he expected that answer, and changes the subject. "You think you could take Emma to the doctor tomorrow?" "I am a doctor." "A real doctor. A practicing doctor - a pediatrician," he quickly amends. The microwave beeps, letting me know that my food is nearly thawed. "Yea," I say quietly, not bothering to be offended. 'Cause good wives aren't offended by their husbands. Good mothers take their children to real doctors. He nods and disappears into the living room again, leaving me alone in the kitchen. "I forgot to tell you," he whispers later that night, running a hand suggestively over my pajama-clad hip, waking me in the process, "we have an appointment with the fertility specialist on Monday." "What fertility specialist?" "I told you: I did some checking. I want us to see a fertility specialist. I want to have another baby." I turn over onto my stomach and mumble into the pillow. "Oh. Okay." 'Cause that's what good wives do: what their husbands want. <><><><><><> Turns out Emma had a twenty-four hour stomach bug. Just rest, clear fluids, and lots of Disney movies were enough to get her feeling much better. She only missed one day of school. She loves school. Ethan gave me the name of the fertility specialist and I did some checking on him. As far as I could tell, he had no known connections to any secret government agencies and didn't have a criminal record. We went to see him and answered his perfunctory questions: how long have you been trying to conceive, why do you think you could be infertile, what would your best-case scenario be for treatment. When I told the balding, fatherly-looking man that I was infertile due to experiments performed on me, he looked at Ethan with wide, suspicious eyes. I used to be wary of telling people that story, knowing that no one would believe me, think I was insane, but now, I just don't care. I'll tell anyone who will listen about my experiences, however insane they sound. I'm almost proud of them; I wear them as a badge of honor. If I can survive months with scientists working to create alien- human hybrids, I can survive anything. As I lay on the table, my feet hanging from the stirrups, Ethan beside me, squeezing my hand, I tried to pretend that I was with the men in the bright, white place again. I tried to pretend that I wasn't alone, that Penny Northern was there somewhere and would hold me as I cried afterwards. I tried to pretend that people missed me and were looking for me. I tried to pretend that Mulder hadn't forgotten me, that he would be waiting beside my hospital bed when I finally woke up. The doctor poked and scrapped and assured me that it wouldn't hurt a bit. He lied. It felt like he was sucking my insides right out of my body with a little vacuum cleaner. In the end, he came to the conclusion that I needed estrogen and progesterone supplements to try and "kick-start" my ovulation. According to him, it was feasible that I had gone into menopause early, since I hadn't had a period in seven years. He handed the prescription for the supplements to Ethan who was beaming with anticipation and hope. On the way home, we stopped by the Publix and got the supplements. The side effects of the pills were moodiness, depression, severe menstrual cramps, increased menstrual flow, weight gain, insomnia, and water retention. Wonderful. It may not have been so bad if I had thought that there was any hope at all in these treatments. Not only was it expensive (and it wasn't covered under our insurance), it was emotionally stressful and draining. One night, Ethan came home with an ovulation detector. I began to feel like a brood mare, always taking my temperature to see if it was slightly elevated, ending up on my back five out of seven nights a week on the off chance that They had left a single ova left inside me. To appease Ethan, I lied to him and told him that I thought the pills could be working and that it was still worth a try. We weren't supposed to go back to the doctor for three months, but I threw away the pills after two weeks, telling Ethan that I was still taking them religiously. I thought of his disappointment if we failed to get pregnant - not only in his hopes, but in me as well. It would be frustrating and humiliating, and I had been through the silent berating of my body before. I didn't want to go through it again, not even to make him happy. Good wives don't have to worry about multi-governmental conspiracies to create alien-human hybrids stealing their ova, anyway, so I felt like I had an excuse not to be compliant. We never discussed adoption, either. In all honesty, I wouldn't have wanted to adopt anyway. Having a child with Ethan...for some reason just seems like a bad idea. Like I could never just leave him, forget about him, if I ever were to tell him the truth. I would always be bound to him by the child, be it ours by blood or legality. But if he had wanted to, I would've agreed. 'Cause that's what good wives do: agree. <><><><><><> Being that it's Easter, the neighborhood holiday get-together is at our house. I've been cleaning all week in anticipation and know that I'll spend all of next week doing so as well. The wine is in the fridge chilling, the meat is thawing, and I'm trying to carve one of those cute baskets in a hollowed out watermelon. It's not working too well. I thought I could do this, mainly because I'm so handy with a scalpel - I was handy with a scalpel. Was. - but it's much harder than it looks. I'm ready to throw the whole thing against the wall in frustration when the phone rings and I send a silent prayer to a fading God for my reprieve. "Hello?" "Hi, Dana," my mother's warm voice greets me. "Mom, hi." She usually doesn't just call for no reason. Something must be up. "Is Ethan around?" She asks quietly, like there's someone around to hear her on her end. "No, he's outside. Why?" She sighs heavily. "Dana...Fox just called me." My mouth goes dry and I squeeze the dish towel in my hand so tightly my knuckles turn white. "H-he did?" I manage, not sounding as casual as I intended. "Yes, he did." I look down, clear my throat, and avoid her question. "What did he want?" "He wanted to talk about you." "Me?" I squeak. "Yes. He asked me about you: if I thought you were happy, if everything was okay with Ethan." "What did you tell him?" "I told him that everything was fine. That you and Ethan were very happy," she answers, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Oh," I breathe, wondering when my mother became so good at lying. "Have you talked to him?" "No." "He didn't call you?" "No." She sighs again. "Dana, I want you to tell me what happened." After a few false starts, I stutter out, "Nothing." "Don't lie to me, Dana Katherine," she says in her warning tone. "I'm not," I lie again. She doesn't say anything in response to that. Neither do I. "Dana," Ethan says from behind me, poking his head through the French doors and into the kitchen. "Guests are here." "Mom, I have to go." Silence. "Mom...I have to go." Silence. I hang up the phone slowly, imagining all the things my mother imagines went on at Mulder's apartment that night. She's always had a good imagination. Shrill voices from outside float through the open doors - Emma and the other girls playing. Their parents talking happily, smiling and laughing. Everything looks so perfect, so inviting and comfortable. I want to be a part of that. I swallow against the tears in my throat and pick up my knife again. I wonder how sharp this thing is. If it's sharp enough, it won't hurt. No. I continue carving at my watermelon until I get something resembling a lopsided basket with a flattened handle. It'll do. I get the rest of the fruit out of the fridge and dump it into the basket, just like I saw in Woman's World, and carry it outside to the party. Since St. Patrick's Day, everyone has been tip-toeing around me, never knowing what will set me off again. Of course Ethan assuring all of them that my crazy story was just the result of too much alcohol and an over active imagination, but they're still afraid of what else my imagination may come up with and Ethan is keeping the wine away from me to make them all feel a little more comfortable. 'Cause good wives and mothers don't get drunk and talk about space aliens. As we sit down at the picnic table, Ethan keeps his arms around me and kisses my cheek every chance he gets. Someone makes an idle comment about newlyweds and everyone laughs. Someone else teases the men about the overly crisp hot dogs. Another offers to let the women grill next time. It's easy and scripted. Everyone has a place, a role, and certain lines to contribute. My contribution is to push my food around on my plate and giggle when Ethan tells a joke, to smile at the children and offer to clean all this mess up by myself. I wonder what Mulder really wanted when he called my mother. Did he think that I was lying to him when I told him that everything was fine at home? Maybe he thinks that Ethan is abusing me, but nothing could be further from the truth. Even if he was, Mulder knows that the last person I would tell would be my mother. And why did he go see her the day that I left? To tell me that he was sorry for what happened? To try and convince me not to go back home? I watched for him at the airport and I never saw him. Had he been there this time, I might not have gotten on that plane. "Dana?" A hand shakes my shoulder; from the tone of the voice, it's been calling me for a while. "What?" I ask, still lost in my reverie. "Ethan said that y'all went to see a fertility doctor," Penny says softly, eyeing Matthew closely as he follows the girls around, desperate to be a part of their fun. "He did?" This was supposed to be a secret. "Yeah, he said the doctor gave you hormone pills to take. Do you think it's helping?" I stare at her for a minute, wanting to scream at her to mind her own damn business. "No. Not really." She seems shocked at my level of optimism. "We tried for years to get pregnant with Stephanie," she begins, thinking that her story may give me hope. "It took a while, but we finally got pregnant." She looks at her children wistfully and I feel an intense stab of jealously slice through me. Why can't things just be simple for me? Why does all of this sacrifice and loss have to be mine? Why can't I just have what I want for a change? "Well, in this case," I say slowly, trying not to sound as bitter and hateful as I feel, "I don't think 'we' will get pregnant." She blinks at me, saying nothing, telling me with her eyes how much she pities me. I don't need her goddamn pity. "I'm going back to the house," I snap and rise from my lounge chair. I need to get a head start on cleaning up and washing dishes anyway. God knows Ethan won't help. <><><><><><> I slam the door when I get back to the house, blocking out the roaring laughter and lilting conversations between too many yuppies that've had too much to drink. They've been here for hours already; I want them to leave. Now. "Dana? What's the matter?" Ethan asks, closing the same door I slammed just minutes before behind him. "Are they going to spend the night or what?" I ask sharply, yanking the dishwasher door open and unloading it, clattering the dishes against each other as loudly as I can while I put them away. "We're talking. It's a party, people are allowed to have fun." I slam a cabinet door before I explode at him. "Why did you tell everyone about this fertility thing?" "Wh -" "It's not supposed to be public knowledge, Ethan! I don't want the whole neighborhood to know when I have a period!" "Dana -" "This is an personal thing, a very intimate thing! Why did you tell everyone?" He crosses his arms and leans against the counter, cocking his head like I'm interfering with some kind of plans he has. "Are you finished?" He asks condescendingly. I narrow my eyes at him. "I want answers from you!" I scream. "Why is it such a secret that we're trying to have a baby?" "Because! I told you! We can't! We can't have a baby, Ethan, and no amount of hormones or money or fancy doctors will change that! And I don't want everyone to blame me when you finally realize that!" He walks over to me slowly a puts his hands on my shoulders, looking down into my eyes. "Dana," he says softly. "No one is going to blame you. You're just tired and overly emotional from the pills -" "I stopped taking those pills two weeks ago," I snap, then bite my tongue at my stupidity. He takes a deep breath and his eyes go out of focus over the top of my head. "Why?" I enunciate my words very precisely, in case that was the problem before. "How many times do I have to explain this to you? It won't help. This is a pointless waste of money. I have no ova and I cannot get pregnant." "You can't get pregnant if you don't let the doctors help you, Dana," he says simply, and then turns to go back outside, where the people are friendly and explain to them that poor Dana just had a mood swing from her hormone supplements. I'm sure all the women will be giving me advice before they leave about how to increase the odds of fertilization and implantation. The phone rings just as I start to pick up a heavy crystal bowl and contemplate the ear-splitting sound it will make as it crashes into the French doors and shatters them into millions of tiny pieces. "Hello," I say as a statement instead of a question. A beat of silence. Then, "Scully?" I nearly melt into a puddle on the floor at his warm tone of concern in his voice. Guilt and shame come a half-second later, coursing through my veins behind the relief that he's still speaking to me. "Mulder," I moan in response, pressing the phone against my ear. "What's wrong?" he asks urgently. "Nothing, is everything okay with you?" Another beat of silence while he processes my lie. "Yeah, everything's fine. I just thought I'd call, say hi," he says as if the last time I talked to him, I didn't rip out his heart, throw it against the wall, then grind it under my foot after it slowly slid to the floor. "My Mom said you called her this morning." "Yeah, I did," he says in a petulant voice like a little boy caught sneaking cookies out of the pantry. I can see in my mind the little crease in his forehead: two vertical lines from the end of each eyebrow, a horizontal line connecting them. "Why?" "I wondered if you had told her everything you told me." "What do you mean?" I ask, fear and unease rising at what he may have told her. "I wondered if she knew how unhappy you are." When I don't respond to that, he keeps going. "She doesn't. According to her, you and Ethan are the perfect picture of wedded bliss." "Yeah," I agree, knowing that, according to my mother, that's true. "Scully, are you sure everything's okay?" I take a deep breath and say softly, "Ethan and I had a fight." "A fight?" He echoes. "About what?" Hesitating a little, I try and decide if I should tell him everything. "Just...it's nothing." "You fought about nothing?" He asks suspiciously. I groan inwardly, remembering why I can never lie to him. "It was stupid." "Uh-huh," he intones, sounding thoughtful. I take a deep breath, calculating my words. "Mulder -" The French door slams as Ethan walks in carrying an empty plate that has residual bar-b-que sauce stains on it from ribs. He eyes me cautiously, wondering who could be important enough to talk to on the phone when we have droves of company in our backyard, wondering where their hostess is. "It's nothing," I reiterate more confidently. Mulder doesn't respond, though I can hear him breathing heavily on the other end of the phone. He must've heard someone come in and probably suspects that my abrupt attitude change means it was Ethan. "Everything's fine." "Uh-huh," he repeats, far away. "I appreciate your concern, though, but everything's fine. Really." "Okay," he says softly. "Sorry to bother you, then." Before I can respond, he hangs up. I carefully place the phone back in the receiver, then I glance outside, watching the happy parents, the shrieking children. All of them safe, secure, care-free. "Who was that?" Ethan asks, setting the plate on the counter beside me. I shake my head. "Nothing important." He nods at me, then holds the door open as I step through and into the beaming circle of people, taking my place in the choreographed production. We smile and play the happy couple. Just a mood swing, Ethan. <><><><><><> An unseasonably warm spring - actually, it's probably normal, around here - led the neighborhood to agree to open the pool early this year, just in time for Spring Break. Emma and I have spent every daylight hour of every day that week at the pool and I'm sick of it. Maybe it's part of that mood swing thing. Monday, Ethan got my hormone prescription refilled and now, he wakes me up when he gets home from work to give me one, then wakes me up before he leaves so that he knows I take them. It's his money and I'm tired of arguing with him, so I dutifully swallow the pills he offers. I've yet to even have a period, but I know it's coming and I dread it: the look of disappointment on his face, the silent recriminations, the hopeful, optimistic promises of next time. I've just finished Emma lunch - a turkey sandwich, mustard, extra pickles, no crust - when she bounds down the stairs in her new bathing suit and cotton shorts, flip flops smacking loudly against her heels. "Dana, I wanted to go to McDondald's for lunch!" She huffs, putting her little hands on her hips and jutting her lower lip out the same way she does to Ethan to get anything she wants. It doesn't even phase me. I'm not in the mood for negotiation today. "Too late, Emma. I already made your lunch. The sooner you eat, the sooner we go to the pool." She stomps over to her chair at the table and plops down, crossing her arms defiantly over her chest. "I don't like turkey," she declares. "Yes, you do. It's your favorite." "I don't like mustard." "Emma, listen, you eat it or you go hungry. It's your choice," I tell her as I start thawing my Lean Cuisine. I have to eat because of the pills - they make me nauseous if I don't. "I don't like pickles." I ignore her. She can be sweet and loving but, at times, she acts like what she is: a spoiled little brat. She shoves the plate to the side of the table, then sets her elbows in front of her looking hilariously pathetic in her pouting. I don't know if she meant to or not, but the paper plate goes sliding to the floor, the sandwich opening and landing, of course, mustard side down on my newly mopped kitchen floor. Hearing the "plop" sounds, she looks at it and giggle. "Oops," she says unconvincingly, smiling and batting her eyelashes. "Pick it up," I tell her. She doesn't move. "Emma, pick it up." Still nothing. "If you don't pick it up, we're not going to the pool." She looks down at the sandwich again like telekinesis would make it move, so I try something I learned from Sonya. "One...two...three..." she knows that if I get to five, that means big trouble, though usually she manages to charm her way out of the big punishment. When I get to four, she finally speaks. "I didn't mean to," she tells the back of the chair unconvincingly. I take a deep breath, seething. "Emma, I don't care if you meant to or not. Pick. It. Up." She blinks at me. She fucking blinks at me, looking back and forth between the floor and me. "GODDAMMIT EMMA! PICK IT UP!" I scream at her, pointing a finger savagely at the soggy bread. Her hands fly to her mouth to cover her gapping expression. Yes, I've just sinned, used the Lord's name in vain. I'm surely going to hell now. "Daddy said -" "I DON'T CARE WHAT DADDY SAID!" At a loss for anything else to say, I try the one thing that always got me when I was her age. "GO TO YOUR ROOM!" Of course, I had to share a room with a sister who had a phone growing from her ear as a permanent appendage, so it was much worse for me. Tears fill her round, scared eyes as she hops down from her chair and runs, sobbing, to the stairs. A few seconds later, her bedroom door slams. Well, that was a nice way to handle that situation. Must be those pills. Dejected, I sigh and bend to pick up the mess, wetting a paper towel and wiping the mustard off the floor. As I drop the ruined food into the trash, I remember something my mother used to tell us: "Starving kids in Africa would love to have that." I used to tell her to send it to them, whatever it was. For months, I did what ever Emma wanted, gave into her every request, just so she would like me. Then I figured out that she was taking advantage of that, so I tried being stricter, saying no to her and disciplining her as needed. I'm still terrified that she won't like me. I can't stand it that I've hurt her feelings. My lunch forgotten, I slowly walk up the stairs to stand just outside her bedroom door. From here, I can hear her crying into her pillow, ready to tell Ethan what a horrible mother I am and how much she hates me as he walks in the door tonight. "Emma?" I call softly, tapping on the door with one finger. At my voice, she just sobs harder, sounding like a wounded animal. I wonder what she would sound like if I spanked her. "Emma, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you." She sniffs, listening. "Can I come in and talk to you?" "Yeah," she says weakly, her voice trembling. I push her door open, peek inside, and see her sitting Indian style on her bed, her white whale clutched tightly in her arms, wet from her tears. Sitting beside her, I smooth her hair over her shoulders. "I'm sorry I yelled at you." She nods, her lower lip still trembling. "But you did make me angry. When I ask you to do something, I expect you to do it, especially if it's something as easy as cleaning up a mess you made." "But I didn't mean to," she counters. "That doesn't matter, Emma. You were being," Obnoxious? Bratty? A royal pain in the ass? "difficult before that. Even if you did want McDonald's you didn't have to order me around like that, right?" "I guess." Close enough, I suppose. "Do you have anything you want to say to me?" Searching my eyes, she realizes what I'm expecting. "I'm sorry." "Thank you." "Can we still go to the pool?" She asks hopefully. "Sure, but we need to eat first." I just can't say no to her. Her eyes light up. "McDonald's?" I sigh and look away, telling myself that I'm doing this because I don't want to make another sandwich and we're almost out of bread anyway. I would be such a horrible mother. "Yeah, McDonald's." <><><><><><> Sonya and Penny are having an intense discussion about one of the other women in the neighborhood who, apparently, wore last year's fashion to church last Sunday, when Emma leaps out of the pool and runs towards the fence. "Mulder!" She shouts gleefully and my heart stops. She catches him at the gate, showing him how to unlock the child- proof lock and letting him in, jumping up and down on her bare feet, raising her arms for a hug. "Hey, Emma!" He says, grabbing her and pulling her tightly against him. Yep, that's Mulder all right. Tight jeans, gray T- shirt, cocky grin, eyes that can make you melt from across the room. All of him, hugging my sopping wet stepdaughter at our neighborhood pool. She takes him by the hand and leads him to the pool, shrieking for him to watch her dive off of the diving board. My mouth hangs open, my eyes decidedly moist, my feet and hands concrete. I can't speak, can't move, can't believe that he's here. Why is he here? "Hey, Scully," he says softly, making me feel I'm the only person in the world as he ambles towards me. By the time he's towering over me, squinting at the sun, my vocal cords unfreeze themselves. "Hi," I say weakly. "Nice pool." He gestures behind him casually, as if the last time I saw him, I didn't beg him to help me cheat on my husband. "What are you doing here?" He avoids the question. "These mailboxes don't have numbers on them, so I stopped to ask for directions. Guess I found you, huh?" I just nod, dumbstruck, then hear a not-so-subtle throat clearing beside me. "Dana? Aren't you going to introduce us?" Penny asks cattily. Down, woman. He's mine. "Uh, y-yeah. Penny, Sonya," I gesture in their general direction, "this is Mulder, my, uh... friend...from Washington. Mulder," I look up at him again. Big mistake. "T-t-this is Penny and Sonya." "Pleased to meet you, Mulder," Sonya drawls, sticking out her hand in a lady-like shaking gesture. "You, too, ladies." He grins that grin that turns my insides to jelly at them, then looks back at me, pinning me with his gaze. "To answer your question, Scully, I came to see you." "Me?" I squeak, figuring that he came all the way down here just to see if the mailboxes had numbers or not. "Yeah. I thought we could talk." "Talk?" I ask incredulously. "Mulder, you're not watching!" Emma shouts at him from across the pool. He turns. "I'm watching, Emma," he shouts back as she does another dive, doggie-paddles over to the side, jumps out, then dives again. "So, talk?" He asks me, turning again. I lick my lips, unconsciously aroused. "Yeah, sure. Sonya? W- would you mind?" I finally look at her. "Taking Emma for a few hours?" She grins. "No, of course not." Mulder cross his arms, waiting for me to stand up and looking like he expects me to fall over. Without his help, I make it to the inside of his rental car, feeling his eyes burn holes in the back of my skull. "It's the white house at the end of the cul-de-sac," I tell him absently. He drives, and then makes a joke about expecting a pink house instead of white. I'm not really listening. Being so close to him is nearly unbearable and I feel that the slightest move from either one of us would end with us in the backseat like a couple of teenagers. But other than a tightly clenched jaw, Mulder doesn't look like he feels the same, though. "So, this is domestic bliss?" He asks as we step into the foyer, looking around him and taking in every aspect of this new life without him. "Yeah," I breathe, thinking I should offer him something to drink. He walks up to one of the walls. "Not moving. That's a good sign," he says, grinning. "What?" His face falls and he looks away. "Cockroaches...never mind." Oh...moving walls, doctors named Bambi, girlie screams... I clear my throat, walking into the living room, him following closely at my heels. "Sit down," I offer him the plush armchair, but he chooses the couch, sitting beside me instead. "You wanted to talk?" "Yeah, I did." When he doesn't elaborate, I prompt him. "About?" "You, this." He gestures at the room around us, something in the backyard catching his eye. "What about it?" "I just wanted to see what it was like for you." "Why?" "I was curious," he pulls a thread at the back of the couch, not looking at my face. "If it was everything you expected it would be." I take a deep breath. He came to see if I was lying to him when I told him that I hated it here and that I loved him. "Sometimes it is. But sometimes it's harder than others." "What do you mean?" He asks, piercing my eyes with his. "J-j-just normal things, I guess. Things I didn't anticipate -" "You said that you weren't happy here, Scully. Is that true?" Shaking my head in frustration, I look away. "Sometimes." He leans closer to me, making my cushion dip towards his, sending me careening towards his warm body. "Then come back to DC with me. If you're not happy here, don't stay." "What?" "Scully...I want you to be happy. If you're not happy here, I don't want you to stay here. I won't let you," he says matter- of-factly. "You don't speak to me for nearly a year and then you expect me to just go back home with you?" I ask, my mouth agape. "That was different. I didn't know...I didn't know you were like this." He picks up my arm, wrapping his fingers around my wrist to emphasize how much weight I've lost. I snatch my arm away from him. "No." "No, what?" "No, I won't go back with you." "Why not? If you're unhappy -" "It's not like that all the time, Mulder. Ethan and I had a fight. That's the reason that I was visiting my mother: we needed some time apart. I was still angry at him when I went to see you -" He stands then, his voice lowering with his eyebrows. "So, what, you were just looking to seduce me to get back at him?" He asks angrily. "No! Mulder...things were complicated - things are complicated - but," I soften my voice to an almost secretive level, "I still love you." He sighs deeply and, when I look at him, his gaze is far away, his teeth worrying his lower lip. "We'll see," he says simply, then turns away. "Where are you going?" I ask him, rising to follow. "I need to find a motel." "You're staying?" "I'm not leaving until I find out what the truth is, Scully. Whether you're happy here with Ethan or whether you're miserable with him, I'm not going back to DC until I have some answers." Until I figure out if you really love me, he leaves out. It only takes a split second for the words to tumble out of my mouth. "No. Stay here." He turns around and fixes me with an incredulous stare. "Here?" I nod furiously "Yes. I want you to stay here." He cocks his head, thinking for a moment. "And how would Ethan feel about that?" It's a challenge. He wants to know just how I high I jump when Ethan says. "It doesn't matter. I want you to stay here." Mulder looks down, studying his shoes. "Okay. I'll go get my stuff," says, then turns and walks out the front door to his car. <><><><><><> The marinara sauce is simmering wildly; the water in the big pot boiling and ready for the noodles. Mulder and Emma are in the living room reading a book together. Once she came back from the pool, she attached herself to his hip and I haven't been able to pry her off. He doesn't seem to mind, though. He actually seems to enjoy spending time with her. He's a natural at this fatherhood thing. It's too bad he never had any children himself. Of course, it isn't too late for that. Aaron Burr, Thomas Jefferson's first Vice President, fathered an illegitimate child while he was in his eighties. He killed Alexander Hamilton in a dual, too, but men can father children until the day they die, unlike women, who are born with a limited number of ova. Once those ova are gone, usually when a woman is in her forties or fifties, she can't even have any more children. Then, there are those of us who has our ova stolen from us. I drop the noodles in the pot and stir it, then head for the living room to check on their progress. Emma is still sitting flush against Mulder's side, his arm around her holding her book, her little finger underlining the words as she slowly reads them. She comes to an unfamiliar one and Mulder patiently helps her sound it out, letting her figure it out for herself. Delighted with the new addition to her vocabulary, she looks up at him and grins; Mulder smiles back. Both happy. Leaning against the wall outside the kitchen, watching them like this, I feel happy too, for the first time in months. My little family, safe and content in our house together. It's perfect, just like I thought it would be. But then, it was Ethan instead of Mulder I imagined. "Need any help in there, Scully?" Mulder asks, turning his head to smile softly at me. "No. It's almost ready, though." I return his smile and our eyes meet, his holding mine for what seems like an eternity before he looks back at Emma and her book. Walking back into the kitchen, I'm not surprised to see Mulder follow me almost immediately. "Want me to set the table?" He asks, seeing me unloading the dishwasher. "Yeah, sure," I say, handing him the dishes, gesturing for him to wait while I retrieve another plate and fork from the cabinet and drawer. As Mulder's setting napkins at each of the place settings, we hear the garage door open. He looks at me, a quick look of fear in his eyes. "I wondered when he would be getting home. It's after seven thirty." "He works late, sometimes." Actually, this is an early night for Ethan. "Oh," he whispers, his eyes on the door leading to the garage. After the sound of a car door slamming and a few quick footsteps, the door opens, revealing a very tired, very rumpled-looking Ethan. "H-hi," he says, caught off guard by Mulder in attack mode meeting him at the door. "Dana?" He asks, searching for me. "In here. Dinner's almost ready." When I pick up the pan of sauce from the stove, Mulder intuitively reaches for a hot pad to put on the table. "Thanks," I tell him, knowing better than to look at his face. "Daddy!" Emma squeals from the living room, tackling her father's legs. "Mulder's here!" "I know, Em. I see," he says, less than gleefully, nearly glaring at me. After a tensely silent dinner, Ethan stands at the French doors, gazing into the night that covers the back yard. "So Mulder, what brings you to Atlanta? On a case?" "No," Mulder says, not looking away from his scrubbing of the counter, dutifully erasing all my cooking mishaps. "Just, uh...vacation." "Oh." Ethan draws the syllable out, disbelieving. "You know, Atlanta has some really nice hotels, like the one Dana and I stayed at during our honeymoon. Right, Dana?" I glare at him, noticing the slight shutter that runs through Mulder at his words. "Family doesn't stay in hotels when they come to visit, Ethan. Neither does Mulder." "So, now he's visiting? I thought he was on vacation." Mulder just ignores him while I seethe, turning scarlet with embarrassment and anger. It gets worse when Emma asks Mulder to read her bedtime story instead of me or Ethan. I really didn't mind and was content to watch Mulder's gentleness with her, but Ethan furiously paced up and down the hallway, certain that the minute he left his daughter alone with "Spooky," aliens would come and abduct her. "Is this gonna be okay?" I ask Mulder as he saunters into the guest bedroom, avoiding Ethan's stare. "It's fine, Scully. At least it's not a couch." He smiles that soft smile again, the one that barely crinkles the skin around his deep, warm eyes. "Don't worry about me." He looks over my shoulder at my husband, then says, "Night, Ethan." Out of the corner of my eye, Ethan nods tightly. "Night, Scully," Mulder says softer to me, leaning down a little so that I can hear. "Night," I whisper. Ethan waits until our bedroom door is closed before exploding. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" "What? He's my friend, Ethan, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn't act like a jealous, territorial ass while he's here!" He gets right in my face, breathing the words down onto my face. "I do not want that man around my daughter. Or you. Or in my house. He leaves tomorrow." "This is my house, too, Ethan, and he's my friend. I won't let you treat him like this." He glares harder at me. "I've had a long day, Dana, and this is the last thing I need right now. Let's go to bed. We'll deal with this in the morning." And, with that, he crawls in bed, hugging his side of the mattress. Longingly, I look at the bedroom door, through it, and into the hallway. Even if I could go sleep downstairs, away from Ethan, what would I tell Mulder? How would I explain that to him? Conceding defeat, I crawl into bed beside Ethan, curling up to his back in an effort to get warm on the outside. The inside, however, is a different story. <><><>End Part 1<><><> <><><>Begin Part 2<><><> Because of those Goddamned hormone pills, after I woke up at one in the morning, I couldn't go back to sleep. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to tell myself that Ethan wasn't breathing too loud, that I was just looking for excuses to go check on Mulder. He's not a child; he doesn't need to be checked on. But still, is he having trouble sleeping, too? Maybe he'd like to get up and watch some TV to help put him back to sleep. Maybe he's reading. Or maybe he's staring at the ceiling, wondering if I'm asleep and, if not, what I'm doing and thinking. I know Ethan is angry that Mulder is here, but I just don't care. Mulder is...Mulder is my best friend. My partner, in so many ways. He's also the man that I had an affair with and now, he's under the same roof as my husband, just down the hall from our bedroom. If Ethan knew that... ...but I just couldn't let Mulder go this afternoon. I wanted to keep him as close to me as possible, even if it meant making Ethan angry. I still want Mulder as close to me as possible. I want him in this bed with me. I want his arms around me. He wouldn't breath too loud. Since Ethan's schedule changed a couple of weeks ago, he's had to be at work by four, which means he has to get up at two thirty. Which also means that after Spring Break, I'll have to get up and take Emma to school. Too bad that private school doesn't have a bus. After tossing and turning for an hour and a half, the alarm clock finally goes off and wakes Ethan. He rises like a zombie, showers and dresses as quietly as possible. The last thing he does is fill a small glass of water and retrieve a pill, wake me, watch me swallow it, then kiss me goodbye. He announces that he should be home by four, which means he'll actually be home around seven. After he closes the door and leaves, I spread out in the big bed and will myself to stay there, not to go check on Mulder. If I walked into that room and saw him laying there, sleep warm and morning-adorable, I wouldn't be able to resist. A few minutes before five, I finally fall back to sleep, thinking of Mulder and burning with pleasure and shame from my first orgasm in months. <><><><><><> It's the laughter that wakes me up. The clock says it's nearly noon and the sun stealing through the blinds is inclined to agree. I guess I'll get up early today. Not bothering to put on a robe, I amble downstairs in my pajamas to find Mulder and Emma curled up on the couch together watching Dexter's Laboratory. I had never thought of it before, but Mulder and Dexter are a lot alike. Hearing me approaching, Mulder turns his head to say something sarcastic. "Morning, Sunshine," he says, grinning. His eyes briefly skate down to my breasts, linger, then leap back to my face, embarrassed and ashamed. "Morning." I sit in one of the big armchairs, not wanting to disturb the two of them on the couch. "I was beginning to think that you were gonna sleep all day." There's a hint of concern in his voice, begging me to tell him what kept me in bed so late. "Ethan woke me up when he left this morning and I couldn't get back to sleep until late." Well, it's not a lie. He nods above Emma's head which hasn't turned to notice me. "He left pretty early." "Yeah. CNN can't function without him." He nods again. "Well, get dressed. I want to take you and Emma out to lunch." Before I can counter that, she leaps into action, turning on his lap. "Where?" she asks, beaming. "Where ever you want to go." I roll my eyes, already knowing the answer to that: McDonald's or Chick-Fil-A. "Chick-Fil-A!" Mulder looks confused, a small, vertical crease appearing between his eyebrows. "You don't have to, Mulder. We can fix something here," I finally get to say. "No, I wanna go!" Emma pouts. "The child has spoken, Scully." He grins again. "How can you say no to that face?" he asks of Emma's slightly jutting lip and wide, sad eyes. I sigh. "We just went out yesterday. I -" I catch myself, almost saying that it's the end of the month, and my monthly allowance from Ethan has almost run out. "I don't think it would be a good idea." Mulder meets Emma's eyes and they silently converse. When he looks back at me, his already protruding lower lip hangs out even more sensually, his eyes mimicking Emma's. I can't say no to both of them. "Okay. Okay, fine." I twist my hands in my lap, feeling nervous. Contented, Emma settles back down in Mulder's lap, mesmerized by the TV again. He just grins, unconsciously glancing down at my breasts again before turning to see what Emma's laughing at. At a loss for anything else to say or do, I stand and walk slowly up the stairs to the shower, not wanting to emerge once I'm clean. <><><><><><> As we watch Emma play on the playground, Mulder turns to me, speaking softly. "So, is this what you do everyday?" I look down at my lap and wonder what's safer: the truth or a lie. "Sometimes. When Emma's not at school, we do things together, go to the park or spend the day at the pool." He nods, flicking his eyes over my shoulder to give the illusion that he's watching Emma show off for him. "And when she is at school?" he prompts. "Then I...do what ever needs to be done around the house." "Like what?" I take a deep breath and study my nails. "Cleaning, laundry -" "Which means you're just a convenient maid?" "No, Mulder, it's not like that at all." I raise my head to look into his eyes, wide, deep, and warm. He's not believing anything that comes out of my mouth right now. "Then explain it to me. Explain to me the differences." "I'm home anyway, so if it needs to be done, I do it." "Excepts maids get paid, right? Or does he give you money, too? A certain allowance each week for household expenses: groceries, what ever Emma needs, unexpected costs?" "Mulder -" I warn him. "I'm just trying to figure out the nature of this arrangement, Scully," he says innocently. I squint my eyes at him, telling myself it's because of the sun and not my anger. "It's not an arrangement. It's a marriage." "That's not what it looks like to me." "Mulder, you're not watching!" Emma yelps from behind me and he obediently turns towards her shrill voice. "I am, Em," he tells her, then turns back to me. "A marriage is a mutual relationship and, from everything I've seen, nothing in this relationship is mutual. He won't let you work, thereby making you financially dependent on him. He makes you feel guilty for wanting a life outside of his house and his daughter, which isolates you from the outside, making you socially dependent on him. He forces you to agree to his demands and to cater to his desires, taking away any control you have over your own life and stripping you of your identity. Is that what you call mutual, Scully?" I look down again, shame burning my cheeks and tears stinging my eyes. "You've misunderstood, Mulder. That's all you see because that's all you want to see. You refuse to acknowledge all of the positive things he's done for me." "Name one," he says sternly. Squeezing my eyes shut tightly, I stutter. "He's...he's given me a safe, stable life -" "And look what you've had to give up for that. You're not even the same person you were a year ago; you're just an empty shell of that strong, independent woman that I know that you are. You were so desperate for this life that you thought you should have that you gave all of that up. This isn't you, Scully." "How would you know? You wouldn't even speak to me!" He slides closer to me on the smooth, plastic bench, reaching his arm around me so that I can feel his words. "I know you, Scully. I know what this has done to you and what it will continue to do to you. I didn't even recognize that woman that fell asleep in my bed because she was so exhausted and malnourished, and I certainly didn't recognize that woman that tried to seduce me because she was lonely and afraid." I slide away from him, putting as much distance between us as possible. "Why are you here, Mulder?" He sits back, turning his head to watch Emma from the corner of his eye. "I came to take you home. Back to DC. I'm not gonna let you self-destruct just because you're too proud or scared to leave and I'm not gonna let you kill yourself because of him." It takes me a minute to figure out how to answer that. "You can't do that. I won't go back. I can't. Not now." "Well, I'm not leaving without you," he declares. Fearing another outburst from Emma, he rises and walks to the plastic playground equipment and searches for her amongst the tunnels, leaving me to process and seethe. When Mulder finds Emma, he reaches for her at the end of tunnel, pulling her out and swinging her around, making her giggle and squeal with delight. He puts her down and she runs for the ladder again, wanting another round of hide and seek. Not really wanting to hide, he finds her with ease and the scene repeats. A quaint, touching family scene: a father and daughter playing together, mother looking on approvingly. Perfectly normal. I stand abruptly. "C'mon, Emma, we need to go," I say sternly, already walking towards the door. Her head pops out of the tunnel, a frown already gracing her face. "No!" She whines. "What's the matter, Scully, are we gonna be late for your favorite soap opera?" Mulder asks cynically. I grind my teeth together, my jaw aching from the friction. "Emma, we need to go," I repeat, yanking the door open and shivering at the bombardment of cool air from the restaurant. Behind me, Mulder sighs and shakes his head, then reaches for Emma, swinging her down from her perch and reluctantly following me. After settling Emma in the back seat of his rental car, he calls over the roof, "I'm sorry, Scully." Ignoring him, I climb into the passenger's seat, slamming the door after me. "Can Mulder come to practice tonight?" Emma asks as we sit in traffic. I glance up at her in the side view mirror, teeth still clenched tightly together. "No," I say simply. She leans up towards me, stretching her seat belt. "Why not?" she asks in the annoying as hell finger nails-on-chalkboard whine she has. "Because." I'm tempted to add "I said so" to that, but bite my tongue, remembering making a vow to myself that I'd never say that to my child. "What kind of practice?" Mulder wonders, turning around to face her. "Cheernastics!" Another small crease between his eyebrows; he looks to me for an explanation. "Cheernastics?" "Yeah," Emma elaborates. He nods slightly, trying to catch my eye. "It's like gymnastics and cheerleading together." "Oh. Sounds like fun." Emma is unfamiliar with sarcasm. "So, you'll come?" He takes a deep breath, exhales, then turns back to her. "Sure, yeah, I'd love to come." Turning my head and placing it against the window, I almost snort in disbelief. Mulder around a bunch of little girls... ...he'd be in Heaven. When we get home, Emma wrangles Mulder into taking her to the pool. He asks me to come with them, but I decline, knowing that not only do I have laundry to do, but I need a few hours away from him. He shrugs, gauging my emotional barometer, then ushers Emma out the door, promising to be back by five. After so much time spent trying to forget him, pretending I'd forgotten him, sharing such intimate contact with him nearly a year later, then seeing him again made it seem like nothing had changed. We still tiptoed around each other, mentally and physically. We still joked and acted like best friends, acting like the stolen gazes at each other were due to daydreams. We didn't outwardly treat each other any differently than we had before I had moved to Atlanta. Inwardly, though, we were hyperaware of the other's ever move, wondering at which point one would jump the other, devouring them. Just like nothing had changed. As promised, they returned just before five. I sent Emma upstairs to change, already microwaving her mac and cheese. Mulder made a disgusted face, then teased Emma about the pathetic excuse for pasta as she ate. All through her practice, he sat there, mesmerized by the girls, probably cataloguing how each of them resembled Samantha. At one point, as he fixated on one with long, dark braids, I slipped my fingers into his and squeezed, bringing him back to the present. He looked through me, smiled softly, and went back to watching. In the car on the way home, Emma fell asleep, stretched out on the back seat. "She's exhausted," I muse, glancing back at her. "We had a busy day," Mulder says softly, sharing my wistful look. I nod. "You fascinate her. I can't remember the last time she was so excited." "She fascinates me. It's just like being a kid again, only without the salty air and me being too big for the playground." His face spreads into a genuine smile, happy, and I smile back. We sit in a comfortable silence for a few more stoplights. "So, how'd you get the BSU to agree to giving you some time off?" I ask, not taking my eyes from the road. "The Bureau's still pretty strict about that forced vacation leave, so I just took it. The ASAC wasn't too happy, but at least I'll still get paid when I go back." "Any interesting cases?" "No, just your average, psychopathic, serial killer. Nothing too challenging or otherworldly." He looks over at me and I can feel his eyes searching for mine. "No X-Files?" "Nope. I miss it, though. I miss my basement, my bad coffee...I miss everything." Finally, I chance a look at him. "Me, too," I tell him quietly. He hesitates for half a second. "You can come back, Scully. You know Quantico will give you a job -" "No," is all I say, tired of telling him that. "When ever you're ready, Scully, you can come back." I just nod, focusing on the road ahead. <><><><><><> Ethan's car is in the garage, still cooling off, when we arrive. Mulder pulls Emma out and drapes her over his shoulder, careful not to wake her as we walk into the kitchen. "Just take her upstairs. She'll be fine for a little while," I tell him and he nods, looking at something over my shoulder, then starting up the steps. "So?" Ethan asks behind me. I turn around to face him as he drops a light kiss on my cheek. "Did he find a hotel?" "No. He's staying here." Ethan narrows his eyes and I look down, swallowing. "It won't be for long." He sighs, sounding tired and frustrated, as Mulder's footsteps cross the carpet to the kitchen. Seeing us, he stops, unsure of what to do. "Are you hungry?" I ask both of them, looking to break the silence. "I can heat up something." Neither of them answer, probably too absorbed in their glaring contest, but I open the refrigerator anyway. "You know, Mulder, it's too bad you weren't able to come down for the wedding," Ethan smarts, watching me. "It was really nice. Dana looked beautiful, of course." "I wasn't invited," Mulder tells him matter-of-factly. Ethan makes a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat, genuinely confused. "Dana sent out the invitations. I specifically remember her addressing one to you." "We have leftover chicken. I can make some rice," I add helpfully. Mulder shrugs, thinking Ethan is just trying to pick a fight. "It must've gotten lost in the mail." "Did you send that one, Dana? Surely it would've been returned if it didn't get to him." "Or Stovetop. I could make some of that." "Dana, I ate at work," Ethan almost yells. "Mulder, what do you want? Rice or Stovetop?" He shifts his eyes between Ethan's smug grin and my crisis face. "I'm not hungry," he decides. "None of the other invitations got lost, did they, Dana?" "I think I'll make Stovetop. Mulder, you like Stovetop." "Scully, I'm not hungry," he says, a little more understanding of why I'm so distant. I open the pantry. "Damn, we're out. I guess I'll fix rice instead." Mulder grabs my wrist, turning me towards him. "Scully, I'm not hungry," he repeats, holding my eyes with his. "Did you send it, Dana?" Ethan asks from somewhere. "Wh-what?" I ask, shaking. "Mulder's invitation. He said he didn't get it." I look down, feeling my knees buckle. "No. No, I didn't send it, Ethan." Mulder lets go of my wrist slowly, taking a step back. "Oh," Ethan says. "It's okay," Mulder says softly, not looking at him. "I probably wouldn't have been able to come anyway." "Too bad. Dana, my shirts are ready to be picked up at the cleaners tomorrow." Ethan turns to go into the living room, but Mulder catches him with his voice. "Do you always do that?" "What?" "Make her look like a fool in front of people, embarrass her and order her around like that?" Not facing Mulder, Ethan takes a step back into the kitchen. "What goes on in this house is none of your business, Mulder." "Maybe not, but when it concerns Scully, I make it my business," he nearly growls. "Her name isn't Scully anymore, but if you have to keep up this bizarre ritual of last names, you can call her Minette. And she's my wife and this is my house, so if you don't like what you see here, you can leave." I just stand there, watching them, afraid to say anything. "I'm not leaving without her," Mulder says slowly, looking Ethan directly in the eyes. Taking a deep breath, Ethan steps close to Mulder, having to look up at him slightly. "Then you'll be here for a while, but not in my house." Against his leg, Mulder's fist curls unconsciously. "Scully?" He's waiting for me to jump in and defend myself, to tell Ethan the truth about everything: why I'm here, why I've stayed, why I should leave, but I don't. My mouth hangs agape, silent. "Why should she leave with you, anyway?" Ethan asks, daring Mulder to escalate this so that he can have him legally thrown out. "Because you're killing her. This," he gestures around at the kitchen, the fancy house, the masquerading prison. "is killing her. You're suffocating her, trying to turn her into something she's not, forcing her to be what you want her to be, telling yourself she's happy. That this is what she wanted." "It's better than her life with you, always afraid of being abducted by aliens or...whatever it is you're chasing after this week. And if she's unhappy, she doesn't have to stay. She knows that." "Scully?" Mulder prompts again, turning his head to look at me. I shake my head, looking down. "Tell him what you told me that night. About how this isn't what you thought it would be. About how miserable you are." I shake my head harder, choking the sobs down my throat. "Scully. Tell. Him." Another shake. "Dana," Ethan says in a soothing, warm voice. "Is that true? Are you miserable here with me and Emma?" I heave a few shallow breaths, not trusting myself to look up, and shake my head again slowly. Mulder exhales and I feel his defeat. "See, Mulder? Dana and I are perfectly happy here. She doesn't need you anymore, so now you can go home." To punctuate this, Ethan walks over to me and puts his arms around my shoulders, pulling me against him. No words. Just footsteps on the stairs, overhead, then on the stairs again. A door opens. Then closes. A car in the driveway. Leaving. An hour later, I stand, mute, in the middle of our bedroom, waiting for Mulder to call and apologize, beg me to forgive him. I have a feeling I'll be waiting a long time. "Emma's still asleep," Ethan whispers, closing the bedroom door. "Are you okay?" I nod and climb into bed, shivering. He follows me and wraps his arms around my waist, kissing just above my collar bone. "I'm sorry, Dana, about Mulder. I really think you'll just be better off without him now." I love him, Ethan. I love him and I lied to him. And you. Tears slide silently from my eyes, slipping into my hair and soaking into the pillow beneath my head. "Ethan, I need to tell you something." A soft kiss on my temple. "What?" "When I was in Baltimore, visiting my mother, I went to see Mulder, too. Those things he said...that's when we talked for the first time since we got married. Ethan..." A kiss on the nape of my neck. "What, Dana?" "Mulder and I...we...we...slept together. That night." Behind me, Ethan goes still, holding his breath. "He didn't want to, but I did. I wanted to and he stopped, but it was too late. I love him, Ethan. I can't help it, but I do. I've tried not to, I've tried to forget about him, but I can't. I love him." Ethan lets out his breath in a long, slow stream. "Get up," he says tonelessly. I sniff, nearly sobbing. "What?" "Get up. Get dressed. Get out." He releases me from his arms, then gets out of bed himself, walking to the closet in the dark. I get up, following him. "Ethan, I'm not telling you this to hurt you. I'm telling you this because I want to start over. Maybe you're right. Maybe I will be better off without him in my life. I want to try, though. It wasn't fair to you or to Emma for me to try and hold onto him and I realize that now. And I want to start over. But I thought you should know. I wanted to be honest with you. I love you, too, Ethan, and I want this. I want this to work. I want to try again. To start over. Without him." "No. Get out," he repeats. I hear the harsh, quick opening of a zipper on a suitcase and then clothes being torn off their hangers, drawers being yanked open and their contents being thrown into the luggage. "Ethan -" "GET OUT!" "I don't want to! Ethan, I made a mistake and I'm sorry, but I want to start over! I'm sorry." "Sorry isn't good enough, Dana," he huffs into my face, closing the bulging suitcase. His voice is eerily calm, like the eye of a hurricane. "And what if I don't want to start over with you. What if I don't want to be your consolation prize." "You're not, you're...I love you," I whisper, not even remembering if it's true. "Too bad. Get out of my house, I'll have the divorce papers served tomorrow." He takes a deep breath, then adds hatefully, "Mulder's probably still at the airport, maybe you can catch him." "I don't...I don't think he'd speak to me. I think...I-I think he hates me now." "That makes two of us, then. So, now you have no one." Surprisingly, my eyes are dry, my throat free of sobs. "Yes." "You see what happens? I give you everything and you throw it away for one time with someone that will just abandon you afterwards. And now you're all alone." "You hate me?" I ask him in a clear, strong voice. "Get out, Dana." So I do. I get dressed, pick up my suitcase, and get in my - his - car, find the nearest motel, and check in, half hoping that Mulder will be there, too. That I can tell him all this and he'll hold me as I cry and promise me that everything will be okay now. That he loves me and everything will be fine. The motel is nearly abandoned, though. No rental cars like Mulder's in the parking lot. I rent a single for one night, figuring that I can find a nicer motel or hotel tomorrow. I certainly won't be going home. I pick up the motel's vintage 1975 rotary phone and dial Mulder's cell, tears finally starting to flow as I realize what I've done. He has to understand, though, why I couldn't tell Ethan that I wanted to leave him. And he'll understand everything once I tell him that, when I told Ethan the truth, he kicked me out. He'll understand that I need him, that I have no one else to turn to. And he's always been the one that I could turn to, my one in five billion. The phone rings and rings, but no one ever answers. After a while, the pre-recorded voice tells me that the cellular customer is not answering and I hang up the phone. Mulder's not here, now. I pushed him away, too, just like Ethan. I sit, hands folded in my lap, wondering just what the hell I should do now. The bed is hard and the sheets smell musty: I doubt I'll be able to sleep, even though I'm desperately tired. My mind is buzzing, a million thoughts swirling in my saturated brain. Mulder's gone. Ethan kicked me out. I've ruined this new life I worked so hard for. I'll never be able to get it back, never be the person I was with Ethan. I'll never be able to be that person I was with Mulder. In my overnight bag that I used to take out of town when we were on cases, there's a side pocket that I hide things in: a Ziplock bag with forty prescription pain pills, last filled right after I was diagnosed with cancer. Back then, when it would get so bad that the faintest light would shatter my skull into tiny shards, I would take a pill. They would let me sleep deeply for nearly twenty four hours, but no one ever knew that I took them. I pretended to be strong, to not need pain medication when really, I had almost become dependent on them to get a full night's sleep. It was my little secret. If I take a pill now, I'll sleep and, with no food in my stomach, it would be absorbed even faster. If I take two, I may sleep all night and into tomorrow. Then I won't have to deal with this: getting the divorce papers, having to tell my mother. Having to realize that Mulder is gone, really gone, for good this time. And if I take all of them, I'll sleep forever. And no one would ever know, just like last time. No one would care that I was gone. It would be my little secret. There's a minibar in the corner of the room with small bottles of whiskey, vodka, gin, rum, and tequila in it. I pour them all into one of the little plastic cups. Open the bag, count out all the pills and more than a cup of hard liquor. No one will ever know. Swallow them one at the time, the liquid burning my stomach as it hits the hydrochloric acid there. Dissolving the pills. I lay down in bed, pull the heavy covers over my shivering body, and close my eyes. No one will find me; no one cares. No one will even notice. Just before I fall asleep, the world shimmers, then goes white. My little secret. <><><>End<><><> Thanks: to the betas, RealB, Karri, and Liam, her Juiciness. And thanks to all of you for being patient with this part. I hope it's been worth the wait. Notes: No, really, if you've been 1013'd, you're being held against your will at a hospital. You can't make this stuff up!