Wonderland III
"More Than Nothing" (1/3)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
home.earthlink.net/~krasch

This is another installment in what I've decided to call my Wonderland 
series.  For those of you who aren't familiar with these stories, they 
are basically platonic MSRs focusing on the evolution of Scully and 
Mulder's relationship as they face together the threat of her cancer.  
The earlier tales in this universe are "Of Cabbages & Kings" and
"Impossible Things."  Both can be found at any of the Gossamer
Project archives.

CLASSIFICATION:  SRA

RATING:  PG (for language and theme)

SUMMARY:  Scully reaches out to Mulder.  Things are changing 
between them.  But are either of them ready for it?

DISCLAIMER:  Don't own 'em.  Never have.  Wish I did.  Not 
holding my breath.  ;)

As always, comments, questions, & criticism are welcome at krasch@
earthlink.net.  Archive & discuss, I promise I won't cry foul.

This is for all my on-line friends in transition.  You know who you are.

*********************************************************

	His telephone began ringing when Fox Mulder was two doors
down from the one leading to his apartment.  Digging in his sweat
pants pocket for his key, he urged his mutinous legs into an weary lope.
It was all he could do not to wince at what the increase in effort did to 
his thigh muscles.  Jesus, all that time on the road was wreaking havoc 
with his physical fitness.  Certainly, while running that morning, the 
crisp April air had tasted fresh as it had slipped past his lips and into 
his hungry lungs.  But by the end, his five mile jog had felt more like 
fifty.  It had taken every last ounce of energy he could muster just 
to make it across the imaginary finish line.  You're getting old, 
Mulder, he silently razzed himself as he struggled to open the portal 
separating him from his madly jangling phone.  Soon, the word 
'workout' will mean you scooting your walker ahead of you as you 
hobble to the corner for a paper.
	"Hang on, hang on, hang on," he chanted under his breath 
as he finally turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door, and
half shuffled, half trotted to his window-side desk.
	"Mulder," he barked as he brought the handset to his ear, 
beating his answering machine to the punch by the scarcest of margins.
	"Oh!  Mulder . . . I didn't think you were there."
	Scully.
	Mulder smiled into the mouthpiece and, pivoting, gingerly 
collapsed into the chair opposite his sofa.  "So naturally that's when 
you would choose to call me."
	She chuckled.  "No.  What I meant was it had rung so many 
times I'd expected your machine to pick up."
	"Yeah.  Well, it was touch and go there for a minute.  But in 
the end, man won out over technology," he retorted, toeing off his 
Nikes, and curling then flexing his aching feet.
	She chose not to laugh this time.  Yet even so, Mulder 
whimsically imagined he could detect amusement in her silence.
	"So, what are you doing?" she asked after a beat.
	He grimaced and looked down with a measure of distaste at
his distinctly moist running clothes.  "Sweating."
	Pause.
	"And that's taking all your concentration, is it, Mulder?"
	His lips curved upwards once more.  "Well, Scully, you know 
how I get when I focus."
	This time she did stoop to laugh quietly at his quip.  "Dare 
I ask what you did to work up this sweat?"
	"Dare away," he replied as, coming to a decision, he slipped 
first one arm, then the other free from his sweatshirt.  Holding the 
phone away from his face for just an instant, he tugged the garment 
over his head before continuing.  "The explanation is strictly G-rated."
	"Ah," Scully murmured into his ear.  "You were running."
	"You know me so well," he murmured in reply as he pressed 
his discarded piece of clothing into service as a towel and swabbed his 
chest and belly with it.
	"Lucky guess."
	"So, what's going on?" he asked, rolling the rumpled 
sweatshirt into a ball and tossing it with a high, curving arc so it 
landed in a heap on the far side of the couch.
	She hesitated for a quarter of a second.  "Well, that depends."
	"On what?" he queried, playing along.
	"On your answer to the following question."
	Mulder raised his brows in surprise.  Hmm.  What have we
here?  "Shoot."
	"How would you feel about driving out to the coast with me?"
Her voice sounded hesitant, almost shy.
	His eyebrows crept a bit higher.  "Which coast?"
	Some of the tension he had felt building between them, rising
like bread dough, dissipated just a touch.  "Well, seeing as we've only 
got the weekend, I thought it might be better to confine our travel to 
the eastern half of the nation," she muttered dryly.
	"Good idea," he said, still scrambling to figure out what 
might have prompted this decidedly un-Scullyish invitation.  "That 
cross-country stuff is murder on a car's chassis."
	"Not to mention the driver's."
	"There's not a thing in the world wrong with your chassis, 
Scully," he assured her, his voice strictly matter-of-fact.
	"You start rating my fenders and headlights, Mulder, and
you're going to wish you were road kill," she purred, the sound 
reverberating in the pit of his stomach.
	"Ouch!" he yelped in comic distress, his head tipped back 
against the cushion of the chair as if he had suffered a blow.  "Okay.  
No more car analogies.  I promise."
	"Thank you."
	"So where are we going?"
	"Is that a yes?"
	Mulder considered for less than a moment.  What other 
options were open to him that weekend?  Laundry, some Internet 
surfing, he was supposed to stop by and pick up those books he had 
loaned Frohike, the Knicks were playing the Magic . . . . .
	Or he could spend the day surf-side with the very pretty 
redhead on the other end of the telephone line.
	"Sure," he confirmed, wondering why he had even bothered 
hesitating at all, "I'll tag along."
	He thought he might have heard a small sigh of relief exhaled
softly into the receiver.  "Good."
	"So, now are you going to let me in on our destination?" he 
inquired, probing just a bit.
	"Would it affect your decision?" she parried in return.
	"No," Mulder admitted with a rueful lift of his lips.  He was 
way too intrigued by Scully's mysterious request to back out now.
	"Then, let's just leave it for the time being," she said evasively.
"I'd . . . . I'd like it to be a surprise."
	Perplexed by his partner's continued reticence, Mulder felt 
something niggle annoyingly at his peace of mind.  "Scully . . . 
everything is okay, isn't it?"
	"Everything is fine, Mulder," she said swiftly.  "Don't worry."
	Easier said than done, he silently groused.  Especially these
days.  "Okay, then," he said aloud, bowing to her wishes.  For the 
time being.  "You're the boss.  So, what's the plan?"
	"Well, it's what . . . nine?  How much time do you need to get 
ready?"
	He glanced at his watch.  "I don't know.  Forty-five minutes
. . . . an hour.  Can you pick me up at ten?"
	"No problem," she agreed smoothly.  "Oh, and . . um . . 
Mulder?  Wear something comfortable."
	"That sounds promising," he murmured in his very best 
Lounge Lizard voice.
	Scully ignored him.  "And hiking boots.  We're going to be
doing some walking."
	He nodded, considering.  Oh yippee.  Precisely what his 
tortured limbs needed.  What had he just agreed to?  "Thanks for the 
warning.  I'll see you in a bit."
	"I'll be there." 

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	And true to her word, she was.
	At ten sharp, Dana Scully rapped on his door, dressed in faded
jeans, low boots, and a bulky wheat-colored fisherman's sweater.  
	"This all right?" Mulder queried in greeting, gesturing at his 
jeans, T-shirt and chocolate brown v-neck.
	She made a show of giving him the once over.  "Yeah.  You
should be okay like that.  Although you may want to bring a jacket.  
The wind can get pretty brutal." 
	He grimaced.  "I'm going to be hiking in brutal winds?"
	She shook her head, indulgent good humor softening her 
features.  "You're going to be *walking* along the ocean.  Wind goes 
with the territory."
	"Should I be worried about chapping?"
	She glared at him with mock annoyance, and folded her arms
firmly across her chest.
	"All right," he muttered, the amusement twinkling in his 
eyes belying his disgruntled tone.  "I'm goin', I'm goin'."  Catching a 
glimpse at what he thought might be an echo of that same amusement 
in his partner's gaze, he grabbed his leather jacket from the hall tree, 
and trailed after her into the corridor.
	And saying little else, they made their way to Scully's waiting
Taurus.
	"So now what?" Mulder asked dryly as he buckled himself 
into his seat.  "Are you going to blindfold me or something?"
	"Keep it up and I might consider gagging you," she retorted
with a threatening arch of her brow.
	"Who says dreams don't come true?" he mumbled, his face 
utterly deadpan.  
	She shook her head as, with a twist of her wrist, the car's 
engine rumbled to life.  "I always knew you were a fraud, Mulder."
	"I beg your pardon?"
	With a quick peek over her shoulder, she pulled the sedan 
away from the curb and smoothly merged into traffic.  "You can dish it 
out, but you can't take it."
	His forehead furrowed with confusion.  "All right.  I admit it.  
You've completely lost me."
	A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.  "You think 
nothing of dropping by in the middle of the night and driving *me* 
God only knows where.  You consider it perfectly natural for *me* to 
just follow along without having any idea where we're headed--"
	"I thought you liked Henry's place," he challenged, wishing 
as he did so that he had somehow managed to extract the wounded 
tone from his voice.  God.  He hadn't meant to sound quite so pathetic.  
It was just that the night they had spent stargazing on the hood of his 
car had meant something to him.  Something special.  And at the time, 
he could have sworn the woman beside him had felt the same.
	"I did, Mulder," she told him quietly, her eyes stealing a 
sideways glance at him.  "I liked it very much."
	He slowly nodded, gnawing absent-mindedly on the corner of 
his lower lip.  "So, then this--?"
	 "You shared that place with me . . . Henry's place," she 
explained as she pointed the Ford in the direction of the interstate, 
her gaze focused stubbornly on the road, her voice dipping low in its 
register.  "Well . . . now, it's my turn." 
	For a moment, Mulder sat there stunned.  It was so unlike this
woman to freely offer anything like this.  She was usually so guarded, 
so careful about what bits of her personality she allowed him to see.  
He knew, on the one hand, that he should feel grateful she wanted to 
spend this time with him.  Especially now, when they had both begun 
to recognize that their hours together weren't without limits.  But, by 
the same token, he couldn't help but question his supposed good fortune.  
Perhaps it was a lifetime of being set up for disappointment, but for 
some reason he couldn't escape the notion that Dana Scully had had 
something else in mind when she had called him that spring morning.  
Something besides a carefree stroll on a still anonymous beach.
	"So, am I going to like where we're headed?" he queried
softly after a time.
	Scully pondered for just an instant before answering.  "I 
hope so."
	He nodded once more.  All the while wondering why it felt 
as if he and Scully were talking about something far more important 
than the setting for that afternoon's outing.

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
	
	"Assateague Island?" Mulder murmured thoughtfully a little 
over three hours later.  "Isn't that where the wild horses are?"
	Smiling, Scully nodded as she pulled through the gates 
leading to Assateague Island National Seashore and began searching 
for a place to park.  "Yeah.  That's right.  Chincoteague may be slightly  
better known for them, but a couple small herds make their home on 
Assateague."
	"Is that why we're here?"
	"Partly."
	Chuckling ruefully at his partner's continued equivocation, 
Mulder watched as she expertly steered the Taurus towards the 
parking lot on Assateague State Park's northernmost edge.  Well, 
Scully had said she wanted their destination to be a surprise.  And she 
had certainly succeeded.  Having grown up on the east coast, he was 
vaguely familiar with this long narrow barrier island straddling the 
Maryland and Virginia state lines.  But he had never visited it.  
	First time for everything.
	With it being rather early in the season, the woman behind 
the wheel didn't have to work too hard to weave through traffic, both 
vehicular and pedestrian.  Folks milled about, true; fishermen, hikers, 
bird watchers and the like.  But the crush of humanity was nowhere 
near what he knew it undoubtedly would be during the height of 
summer.  It took them little time to find a parking space.  With a 
small smile of satisfaction,  Scully slid their Ford between a boxy 
four-wheeler and a rusting VW Bug.
	"Well, here we are," she said with a small, self-conscious
shrug as, turning the key, she killed the engine.
	He nodded, noting the sparkle of anticipation in her wide
blue eyes, the faintly nervous manner in which her hands tightened, 
then released on the steering wheel.
	Almost as if sensing his scrutiny, she dropped her gaze, 
and turned her attention instead to her seat belt.  "Come on," she 
murmured, slipping the buckle free.  And without checking to see if 
he would follow, Scully pushed open the driver side door and exited 
the car.
	His sore legs stiff after the long ride, Mulder found it difficult 
to move with the quickness shown by his companion.  She didn't seem 
to notice his sluggishness.  Indeed, after crossing around to the back 
of the auto, she had popped the trunk and had set about rummaging 
around its interior, seemingly uncaring that he had not yet joined her.  
So, as the woman leading their expedition appeared to be in no great 
rush, Mulder took his time as well, stretching out the kinks and 
considering both the place he had journeyed to and the friend who 
had brought him there.
	They were parked facing the ocean.  While the parking lot 
itself was gravel paved, a low, flat valley of sand stretched before 
them to the water.  Sprinkled with golden sea grass and studded with 
seashells, the pale beige expanse rolled like a carpet to the Atlantic, 
whose waves crashed noisily in greeting against the shore.  Green-gray 
in color, the ocean lapped and receded, bubbling white foam stretching 
towards the land-dwellers like fingers.
	Yet, opposite the sea view lie one far different.  The bay-side 
island coast looked to be rimmed with forest and marsh, with knobby 
pines and lush ferns budding with spring growth.  With nearly secluded 
mudflats the agent suspected were teeming with bird and animal life.
	Shaking his head with bemusement, Mulder wondered which
of the two worlds had called to Scully, drawing her as surely as a 
magnet attracts steel.
	Ambling around at last to the Taurus' rear bumper he glanced 
over his partner's shoulder.  She was pulling what he recognized was 
her blue nylon windbreaker from a battered canvas duffel bag.  The 
going wasn't easy, the small sack looked to be stuffed to capacity.
	"So now where to?" he asked mildly, slipping his hands into
his jeans' front pockets.
	With a final tug, the jacket popped free.  Shaking it out, she
quickly donned it, leaving its zipper undone.  Her lips stretched in a 
thin smile, Scully glanced up at him, her eyes squinting against 
the cloud bright sky.  "Well, most of the island lies in that direction," 
she said, pointing south, the way they had just come.  The way most 
of the people in the car park were headed. 
	Mulder nodded, instinctively knowing that he and Scully 
would not be following the crowd.
	"But the best part," she continued, slamming the trunk lid 
shut, "the part I wanted to show you . . . . is that way."
	She turned and, with a little lift of  her chin, indicated the
far more barren stretch of beach to the north.
	The corner of his mouth raised just a fraction.  "The road 
less traveled, Scully?" he queried softly.
	"By most, I suppose," she allowed, her voice pitched as 
quietly as his.
	"Then it's a good thing I have with me an experienced guide,"
Mulder said, his smile broadening.  And they fell in step together, 
side by side.
	Returning his smile, she mumbled, "I doubt even you could
get lost on this island, Mulder."
	He shook his head as their feet left the parking lot's rocky 
foundation, and sunk into the sand beyond.  "Don't underestimate my 
determination."
	She chuckled.  But said nothing more.  Mulder mimicked her 
restraint.  For a long, lazy time, they tromped along, arms brushing, 
faces lifted to the cool April air, journeying in companionable silence.
	They had been doing a lot of that lately, Mulder realized, 
tramping beside the woman monopolizing his musings.  Spending 
time, each near the other, neither feeling the need to say a word.  It 
wasn't just today, in the car on the way there; but in the weeks 
previous, in the office and even on the road.  
	This admittedly odd behavior hadn't struck him before.  After 
all, since entering his life so many years before, this woman had 
seemingly been more by his side than away from it.  But nowadays, it 
felt as if they each looked for reasons to keep close to one another.  
Excuses to remain together rather than be drawn apart.  
	Recently, Scully had begun bringing more lab paperwork down 
to their basement office than she ever had before.  Of course, he had 
never taken offense when she had chosen to do otherwise in the past, 
reasoning it made sense for her to do whatever documenting necessary 
with the subject of her study nearby.  Still, he had to admit, he applauded 
the switch.  And during their out-of-town cases, had begun reciprocating 
with his own version of it.  Rather than winding down for the day in his 
own room, he had begun knocking on her door, junk food and case notes 
in hand.  At first, Scully had looked at him a trifle bewilderedly.  But 
she had never turned him away.  Instead, she had smiled that gentle, 
knowing smile of hers, and cleared a place for him atop what was 
invariably the room's only table.  Graciously making space for him in 
her lodgings just as she had in her life. 
	Try though he might, Mulder couldn't remember what had 
instigated such behavior on his part; why he had decided one day that 
he could get infinitely more work done sprawled in the table-side chair 
in Scully's room rather than in the one waiting for him in his own.
	And yet, he knew the true draw, the real reason why he had
left the relative comfort of his own accommodations and sought out 
hers instead.
	After all, their rooms might have been identical.  
	But his didn't have Scully in it.  
	He liked having her nearby.  Liked watching her work,
hunched over her laptop, her hair swinging forward to brush against 
her cheeks like bright auburn wings.  He enjoyed having her there to 
bounce a theory off of, or read back a passage to.  He didn't even care 
that more often than not she wound up shooting down his newest 
plausible yet decidedly unlikely explanation.  That, when all was said
and done, was half the fun.
	But, he lived for those times when he would feel her eyes on 
him, watching without judgment or censure.  When he would lift his 
own gaze and look back at her, memorizing the delicate curves of her 
face, the way her Maker had somehow managed to combine both 
strength and vulnerability when constructing her features.  He would 
admire the intelligence burning in her sky blue eyes, and wait for that 
comment, that zinger that would end their silent stalemate and thrust 
them both back to the world of Mulder and Scully, FBI.  Not that of a 
man and a woman alone together in a motel room miles and miles from 
home.  Both weary.  Both in need of comfort.  Both unwilling to look 
elsewhere for that solace than in the company of the person sitting 
across from them.  A well-used motel bed, the only thing separating 
them.
	And yet, that was a lie.  Wasn't it?
	So many other things stood in their way.
	"Here," Scully murmured at last, coming to a halt a step or two
ahead of him, and pointing to a huge slate gray rock perhaps a half a
city block away.  Poised half-in, half-out of the water, its size and color 
reminded Mulder of a beached baby whale.  "This is the place."
	"And what place would that be?" he inquired with a gentle,
quizzical smile.
	"My favorite," she replied, looking at him over her shoulder, 
the sea breeze whipping her hair into a froth, the overcast sky filtering 
the mid-afternoon sun so that her upturned face was bathed in soft, 
muted light.
	Her favorite place, he repeated silently to himself as they 
approached the locale in question.  In all the world, this was the spot 
Dana Scully preferred.  He looked around, searching for the reason for 
her fondness.  The first thing that impacted him was how truly isolated 
the promontory was.  He had already noted how few people they had 
encountered as they had trekked north.  A handful of folks had been 
enjoying the day when he and Scully had first set out; exploring the 
beach, dodging the shorebirds, and breathing in the tangy salt-tinged 
air.  But that number had dwindled the further they had ventured from 
their car.  Until now, at the foot of their destination, not another soul 
was in earshot.
	"Come on," Scully urged as she began clambering up the 
massive stone.  "But be careful, the spray can make some of the 
footholds slippery."
	He followed along closely after her, his aching legs protesting
this latest indignity.  Bent slightly at the waist as she stretched for 
purchase on the smooth, slick-looking rock, Scully moved with the 
assurance of one who had made many such climbs in the past.  Mulder 
couldn't boast such expertise.  Still, he didn't mind.  Their positions 
meant that his partner's rounded little bottom swayed enticingly inches 
from his face.
	Much to his disappointment, he couldn't long enjoy the view.  
Their climb just wasn't that challenging.  Within seconds they reached 
the summit.  
	For a moment, neither said anything.  Instead, they each 
stood, legs braced against the wind, and took in the panorama.  The 
hues surrounding them were as cool as the air; pale blues and grays 
and greens and beiges.  It seemed to Mulder a subtle palette.  Delicate 
in texture.  Dreamlike in atmosphere. 
	And yet, the watercolor backdrop was not without touches of
pure pigment.  The snowy white wings of the gulls circling overhead,
the deep emerald of the pines at their backs, the brilliant copper of
Scully's hair.  All of it accented the neutral canvas like exclamations 
of color.
	"You have everything here," Scully murmured, her hands at
her sides, her gaze trained on the roiling sea, her voice pitched so
intimately that Mulder wondered whether the words were even meant
for his ears.  "Wind and sea and earth and sky."
	He nodded, watching her rather than the scenery.  "It's nice.
Kinda wild."
	"Yeah," she quietly agreed, her eyes still focused out over the
water, although Mulder would have sworn her thoughts had turned 
inward.  "I like that.  You know?  The way this place feels removed.  
Out of time, almost."
	"Bet it doesn't feel that way come mid-June," he murmured 
dryly.  "This beach has got to be overrun with tourists once the weather
turns warmer."
	"I don't come here then.  Not anymore," she said quietly, her 
lips curved ever so slightly.  Then, she chuckled, the sound small and 
strangely sad.  "I don't come here very often at all."
	"Why are we here today?" he finally asked, the question 
having been echoing inside his head ever since they had arrived.
	She turned at last to look at him, her blue eyes clear and 
unflinching.  "I told you, Mulder.  I love this place.  And I wanted 
someone to know that about me before I die."

Continued in Part II

*********************************************************
	"Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very 
earnestly.
	"I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone:  
"so I can't take more."
	"You mean you can't take less," said the Hatter:  "it's very 
easy to take more than nothing."

--"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" by Lewis Carroll

Wonderland III
"More Than Nothing" (2/3)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
www.earthlink.net/~krasch

Check out chapter one for non-story stuff.

**********************************************************

	Mulder's heart surged upwards to lodge squarely in the back 
of his throat, choking him.  Dulling his words, his wits.  "Scully . . . ."
	Slipping her hands into her jeans pockets,  the woman in 
question ducked her head, a tiny moue of chagrin pursing her lips.  "I'm 
sorry.  I . . um . . . . I hadn't meant to tell you like that."
	"Tell me =what=?" he asked, the words shooting from his 
mouth more harshly than he had intended.
	Her lips twisted, her brow crinkled.  Mulder waited, the need 
to throttle the answer out of her warring with his desire to at long last 
enfold her in his arms and silence all questions between them.  Now 
and forever.  Finally, she peeked up at him through her lashes.  "You 
know how I first found this place, Mulder?"
	Utterly lost, he shook his head.
	She smiled softly and looked out once more at the ocean, 
returning to it time and again like a reference point.  "It was a long 
time ago.  Before I'd joined the FBI.  Before I'd graduated school even."
	He remained mute, intrigued as always by any glimpse into his 
partner's personal life, and hoping that by keeping his mouth shut he 
might encourage her to continue.
	She swung her eyes to his for a moment, as if questioning just 
how much she should divulge.  Then, apparently coming to a decision, 
she motioned slightly with her head, indicating that he should join her.  
Turning, she stepped to the seaside face of the rock, and eased herself 
down so that her derriere perched on its edge and her legs dangled 
over the side.  After a beat or two, Mulder responded to her wordless 
invitation.  And with the smallest of nods, he crossed to sit beside her.  
	Yet, even after they were both situated comfortably, she still 
didn't immediately speak.  He knew she had more to say, could see the 
gears turning inside her head.  However, in typical Scully fashion, the 
woman by his side didn't just blindly launch into her story.  Instead, 
she took her time, her focus on the waves cresting silver before and 
beneath them.  Mulder kept his eyes on her, waiting, willing his heart 
to settle back to its proper place and pace.
	"The first time I came to Assateague I was with a group of 
friends," she began quietly, her lips curving at the memory, her hair 
rippling in the wind like a scarlet pennant.  "It was the summer 
between my freshman and sophomore years at Maryland, and a bunch 
of us had gotten together to go coed camping."
	Mulder smiled gently at the wry tone of her voice.  He might 
not be certain where her story was headed, but he had a feeling it had 
one hell of a punchline.
	"My family was living in Annapolis at the time," she continued.  
"So the trip wouldn't have taken me all that far from home."
	She paused for dramatic effect, and shot him a sideways 
glance.
	"But there were boys involved," she murmured dryly.  "And 
beer.  And no chaperone.  So the chances of my getting permission from 
my father were about as great as my getting elected Homecoming Queen."
	"I would have voted for you, Scully," he teased.
	She smiled.  "Bearing this in mind, I did what any other red-
blooded American college girl would have done."
	Mulder raised his brows in silent query.
	"I lied," she muttered with a self-deprecating lift of her 
shoulders.  "I told my parents that I was spending the weekend at my 
best friend, Susan's, summerhouse with her and her family."
	He chuckled.
	"There were, of course, truths embedded in the lie," she 
drawled.  "Susan was indeed one of the people going.  And her parents
did own a summerhouse not all that far from Assateague."
	She took a long, slow breath before proceeding with her tale. 
"It was the first time I had ever done anything like that.  You know?  
The first time I had ever out and out lied to my parents.  It felt . . . 
weird.  It felt like . . in that moment I had somehow become someone 
else.  Like I wasn't my father and mother's little girl anymore.  Like 
for the first time I was really on my own."
	Mulder nodded his understanding.  "Sounds to me like your 
decision to sneak away for a wild weekend with your friends was a rite 
of passage.  Like puffing on your first cigarette or taking your first drink.  
All kids go through something similar."
	The corner of her mouth pulled up.  "I know.  I've thought 
of that."
	Once more, he waited.
	"But I wonder if most kids feel the way I did."
	"And how was that?"
	She thought about it for a moment, searching for the proper 
word.  "I don't know.  Bad?  Dishonorable?  Like I was betraying a 
sacred trust or something.  I mean . . . they never even really questioned 
me--my parents.  You know?  They just . . . let me go."
	He smiled.  Why did it not surprise him that this woman would
find it difficult to lie to someone she loved?  "Hey, go easy on yourself, 
Scully.  Although it may not have felt like it at the time, it sounds to me 
as if your lie was of the 'little and white' variety.  After all . . . it's not 
like you were dealing drugs or turning tricks."
	She shrugged, seemingly unconvinced.
	"You =weren't= turning tricks, were you?" he asked in mock 
concern.
	She bumped shoulders with him, her nose wrinkling with comic
disdain.
	His smile broadened.  "In fact, I'll bet what really turned up the
guilt for you was that not only did you get away with it, but you enjoyed
yourself.  And no one was ever the wiser."
	With that, she laughed.  Outright.  Although the sound was 
marbled with rue.  Mulder startled at her outburst, finding it welcome
but unexpected.  "Mulder, you have no career ahead of you as a psychic."		"What?  You were caught?"
	"I turned myself in."
	Now, he was confused.  "So, you ended up not going after all?"
	"No, no, no," she murmured, a smile pulling on her lips still.
"I went, all right.  The only thing was . . . I wound up wishing that I 
hadn't."
	"Spill," he demanded, leaning back to balance his weight on 
his palms while he listened.
	She turned slightly to better face him.  "Well, one of the reasons
I'd wanted to go so badly in the first place was Susan's cousin, Mark."
	"Mark?" he asked with exaggerated interest.
	"Mm-hmm," she confirmed with a small nod.  "I'd met him 
briefly at Susan's high school graduation party.  He'd been getting 
ready to enter law school at Harvard.  Tall, blond hair, blue eyes, Ivy 
League.  To say I developed a crush would be putting it mildly."
	Wondering why Scully's listing of Mark's physical attributes 
was leaving him vaguely depressed, Mulder nonetheless murmured his 
understanding.  "I see."
	"Anyway," she continued, glancing out once more at the sea,
"when we were planning this camping trip, Susan got the idea of 
inviting him, thinking this would be the perfect opportunity for the 
two of us to get to know one another."
	He grimaced with sympathy.  "And you guys didn't hit it off?"
	She laughed, the sound tinged with self-directed amusement.
"Oh, no.  We did."
	"So what was the problem?"
	"The problem was that Mark wouldn't take no for an answer."
	"Sounds like he has what it takes to make a terrific lawyer,"
Mulder ventured dryly.
	Scully tilted her head to the side in apparent agreement.  "I 
suppose.  We sort of lost touch after that weekend."
	He sat forward so that he and his partner were again side by
side.  "So, what exactly happened?"
	She tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear, and kept
her eyes trained away from his.  "There were eight of us total.  Four 
girls, four boys.  The other three couples had all been going out for 
awhile.  So, as odd man and woman out, Mark and I paired off as well."
	"As you and Susan had planned."
	"Right," she said with a small nod.  "He didn't seem to mind, 
and I . . . well, . . I was thrilled."  
	"Who wouldn't have been?" Mulder muttered darkly.
	Scully didn't appear to notice.  "We had driven up late 
afternoon on Friday, went straight to our campsite, pitched our tents, 
and settled in."
	"Settled in?" he echoed.
	"Started drinking," she clarified.
	His lips quirked.  
	"Everything was going great," she continued.  "We built a 
huge bonfire, roasted hot-dogs, the stars were out.  It was a gorgeous 
night."
	"Sounds like a scene out of 'Beach Blanket Bingo'," he
commented.
	She tossed a sideways glance in his direction. 
	He caught it and lobbed it right back at her.  "What can I say?
I've always had a thing for Annette."
	Seemingly against her better judgment, Scully cracked a small 
smile. 
	Mulder grinned back unabashedly.
	"Anyway," she murmured after a beat, "gradually, everyone 
began to sort of divide up into couples."
	"Per your plan."
	"Per our plan," Scully agreed.  "Mark and I were feeling a bit 
awkward at first, so we decided to take a walk along the beach.  We 
were camped south of here about a mile or two from the car park.  And 
in our . . . . quest for privacy . . we headed even further south along the 
island."
	He nodded.
	"We lost track of everyone else," she continued, her eyes 
narrowed against the light reflecting off the ocean.  "Not that I was 
worried.  I assumed that they were doing what we were doing."
	"Looking for a place to make out?" Mulder queried lightly.
	She chuckled.  "More or less."
	She then paused for a time, lifting her face skyward, a tiny 
smile tilting the corners of her lips.  "You know . . . in retrospect, 
I don't know what made me decide to call a halt to things.  I mean . . . 
our scheme had worked.  There I was, alone on a moonlit beach with 
this guy I had been interested in for over a year.  And yet, the minute 
he made a serious play for me, I stopped him."
	"You did?"
	"Yeah."
	He winced slightly.  "How did that go over?"
	She lifted a brow as if to say, 'How do you think?'
	He nodded once more.  "That well, huh?"
	She shook her head, her smile turning pained.  "It was awful. 
I was in over my head.  Mark's pride was wounded.  We both said 
some things we probably didn't mean.  And I didn't know what to do 
to make it all right."  
	"So--what happened?" Mulder queried gently.
	She shrugged.  "Well, at first I wasn't sure *what* to do.
I just sort of stood there.  Alone."
	"Alone?"
	"Yeah," she said.  "After realizing that no amount of sweet-
talking was going to get me to change my mind, Mark took off down 
the beach to blow off a little steam."
	"Sounds like a real prince," he muttered.
	"Oh, I don't know, Mulder" she murmured.  "I did lead him 
on.  I didn't mean to, but I did.  After all, he might have been a little 
more experienced than me, but we both knew what we were out there 
for." 
	Mulder just looked at her, wondering at her insistence in 
defending Mr. Harvard Law.
	"And so there I was.  On the beach.  It had to have been close 
to midnight.  Not knowing what I should say to Susan and the rest of 
my friends. . . "
	She trailed off for a moment, a bemused smile flitting across
her generous mouth.
	"And I just started walking."
	"Walking?" he echoed.  "Walking where?"
	"Nowhere really," she said, stealing a glance in his direction.  
"I had no particular destination in mind.  I just knew I wanted to put 
as much sand between Mark and I as possible."
	He nodded, approving of that particular decision.
	"He had headed further south, so I started walking back the 
way we had come."
	"Didn't you run in to any of your friends?" he asked.
	She shook her head.  "No.  It was late.  I didn't have a 
flashlight.  And besides, I really don't think any of my friends *wanted* 
to be found.  You know?"
	He chuckled.  She smiled at the sound.
	"I marched right past our campsite without seeing anyone I 
knew."
	"You walked *past* your campsite?" Mulder queried, his brow
wrinkled in confusion.  "Well, then where did you . . . ."
	Scully looked at him.
	"You wound up here," he said with sudden surety.
	She nodded.  "I did.  I just walked and walked until I got tired.
Which conveniently enough happened to be when I reached this place.  
So, I climbed up on this rock, looked out at the moon shining on the 
water, and took stock of my life."
	Try though he might to banish it from his mind, all Fox 
Mulder could think of when imagining the scene his partner had 
described was mermaids.
	But then he had always considered Scully a bit of a siren.
	"And did you come to any great conclusions?" he asked, 
attempting to shake off his whimsy.
	She hesitated again, a faintly sheepish cast to her eyes.  "Yeah.  
I concluded that I needed to listen more closely to that little voice." 
	He frowned.  "What little voice?"
	"The one some people call intuition," she said with a small 
shrug.  "Or conscience maybe.  Instinct.  It goes by a lot of different 
names."
	He nodded a bit uncertainly.
	Their eyes held for a moment before Scully turned away.
	Her lips stretched tight, her expression more grimace than 
smile.  "You know . . . I feel kind of silly telling you this."
	"Why?" he asked, all at once fearing she might somehow have
become privy to his mermaid musings. 
	Her eyebrow bounced skyward.  "I don't know.  It's just . . . 
you and I have certain roles we play, Mulder."
	"Roles?"
	"You're determined to argue semantics with me today, aren't 
you?" she murmured.
	"I'm just trying to understand here, Scully," he said, protesting
his innocence.  "Help me out."
	"The point I'm trying to make is that 'feelings', whether they
be about a criminal's motive or whether Patrick Ewing is going to make 
his free throw, have always been more your area of expertise than mine."
	"You get hunches," he argued.
	"Not like yours," she countered dryly.
	Mulder pondered that for a time.
	"Sometimes, I get jealous of you.  You know?  Jealous of how 
well you listen to that voice inside your head," she admitted quietly.
	He chuckled, the sound rusty with rue.  "Jealous of a man who
hears voices in his head?  Oh, come on, Scully.  Aim a little higher than
that."
	"I'm serious, Mulder," she said, her voice lifting in tandem 
with her chin.  "I mean . . . . I knew before I had ever set foot on this 
beach, that our camping trip was going to be a bust."
	"You did?" he asked in surprise.
	"Yes," she said firmly.
	"But, Scully . . . .," he began a trifle hesitantly, not wanting 
to offend her, but feeling it necessary to point out something.  "If what 
you told me is true, your weekend only wound up being a bust because 
you chose to make it one."
	Gently, she smiled.  "No, I didn't."
	"You didn't?" he challenged.
	She shook her head.  "I didn't choose to ruin our trip, Mulder.  
I just finally chose to listen to the voice."
	Mulder stared at her, befuddled.
	His scrutiny seemed to amuse her.  "I gave it my best shot, 
but I just couldn't enjoy something I had to lie to get." 
	He inclined his head just a touch, her reasoning slowly 
beginning to come clear.
	"My looking my father and mother in the eye and telling them 
one thing while having every intention of doing something else . . . ."
she trailed off once more, her mouth pursed as she struggled to explain.
"That tainted it.  The weekend.  Do you understand?"
	He nodded.  Yes, he did understand.  Ethics sometimes seemed 
more trouble than they were worth.  "Okay, Scully.  I guess I can see
that.  But what about what happened with that Mark guy?  I mean . . . 
you didn't need to lie to get him interested in you."
	"He wasn't interested in me."
	"You know that for a fact?"
	"I know that I was handy," she said dryly.  "Convenient.  That 
the only reason he and I had ended up together because I'd made the 
mistake of mentioning to his cousin that I thought he had nice eyes."
	He cocked a brow at her admission.
	"It's true.  Believe me, it wasn't because we really had much of 
anything in common," she continued, oblivious to his reaction, "or even 
because Mark himself was particularly attracted to me."
	"He didn't have to be there," Mulder reminded her.
	"Maybe not," she allowed with a shrug.  "Maybe we would 
have had a good time if I had just gone with the flow."
	He nodded in agreement.
	"But that's all it would have been, Mulder.  A good time."
	He chuckled.  "A lot of guys will tell you that's all they hope 
for, Scully."
	She dipped her head in wry acknowledgment.  "A lot of 
women will too."
	 They simply looked at each other for a moment or two.
	"But not me," she said quietly at last.  "I don't . . . I'm not 
good with 'casual'."
	He gravely regarded her, no surprise registering at her 
confession.
	In the end, he smiled fondly at her.  "So, what did that voice
of yours tell you to do?"
	"That night?" she asked.
	"Yeah.  That night," he confirmed, wondering what else she
thought he might be referring to.
	"Well, first it told me to just sit and enjoy the evening," she
said with a grin.  "It was beautiful out.  Warm, with a breeze off the
ocean.  The stars were so bright.  Almost like that night you took me 
out to Henry's.  I felt as if I could almost reach out my hand and pluck 
one from the sky."
	He smiled.
	"So, for the longest time, I didn't do anything.  I knew that 
sooner or later I was going to have to face Mark and the others.  But 
there wasn't any rush.  They would all still be there when the sun came 
up."
	She paused again, and took in a great big lung full of sea air.  
"I think sunrises are always most beautiful when they appear over
the ocean.  There's just something about that light shimmering against
the water."
	Mulder nodded, enjoying the way Scully's face came to life
at the mere mention of such a thing, the corner of his mouth raised.  
"So, what--are you telling me you sat here all night?" 
	"Pretty much.  And, in the morning--after I had watched the
sun come up--I climbed down, went back to camp to get my things, 
and called my dad to pick me up."
	He chuckled a tad incredulously.  "You called your =dad=?"
	With a shadow of a smile adding dimension to her lips, Scully 
nodded.  "I don't think I was allowed to set foot outside the house until 
it was time for me to go back to school in August."
	"Harsh."
	She smiled.  "Yeah.  Ahab was tough."
	They were quiet for a time, sitting shoulder to shoulder.
	"After that weekend I would come back here every once and 
awhile," she said quietly after a bit, keeping her gaze averted from his. 
"Not very often.  Maybe every couple of years or so."
	She turned to look at him, her face suddenly rather close to 
his own.  "I'd always come alone.  You know?  I mean . . . I know this
probably sounds strange, especially as this whole island is like a 
national park or something, but I've always thought of this as my place."
	He nodded his understanding.
	Her eyes dipped for a beat.  "And even though I know it's 
selfish, I've always had trouble sharing the things I consider mine."
	Scully lifted her eyes again to his.  Their gazes locked.  And 
Mulder felt her claim as surely as if he had been branded.
	He cleared his suddenly cottony throat.  "Well, in that case, . . . 
I guess I should thank you again for bringing me here."
	"You're welcome."
	 Then, because he could hear that little voice Scully had talked
about earlier screaming in his ear, he went ahead and asked once more 
the question he had asked earlier.
	The one whose answer had seemingly rearranged his bodily 
organs and deadened his reason.
	"I'm still not sure I understand why you chose today though, 
Scully," he admitted quietly.  "Why, after all the years we've been 
together, you decided to bring me here now.  I don't . . .  I'm not 
complaining.  I just . . .  I wonder.  That's all."
	She regarded him thoughtfully, her head cocked, her lips 
curved ever so slightly.  They simply looked at each other for a time, 
for the span of a minute or so.  Then, at last, she spoke.  "Usually 
when I come here, it's because I need to do some thinking."
	He briefly nodded.
	"It's a good place for that," she said.
	"It is," he agreed.
	"That little voice seems to speak more loudly here."
	"It does?"
	"To me, it does."	
	He gazed at her, trying to read the currents eddying in the  
sea blue depths of her eyes.  And failing.  Scully was being stingy with 
her secrets.  He would have to be direct.  "So, what's it telling you
this time, Scully?"
	She sighed, and sat forward a bit so that her elbows rested on 
her thighs and her hands hung limply between her legs.  From this 
angle, all Mulder could see of her face was her cheek's pale curve.  
That bothered him.  It seemed to him as if the woman beside him were 
curled over in almost a defensive posture.  He wondered what had made 
her feel threatened.  
	Then he found out.
	"It's reminding me that time is short."
	Shit.  "Scully--"
	"It's advising me to quit thinking so much."
	She chuckled softly at the notion, but refrained from looking 
at him to see if he were similarly amused.  "To stop worrying about 
things like control and pride and appearances."
	"It thinks I should be honest," she continued quietly, her eyes
now studying her hands.  "As honest as I was when I called my dad 
that day and asked him to come take me home."
	Mulder just sat there, shaking his head.
	"Because you and I can talk all day about 'hanging on' and 
'keeping strong'.  But in the end . . . . in the end, it doesn't mean 
anything, Mulder."
	She looked over her shoulder at him then.  "It doesn't leave 
you anything to hold on to when I'm gone."
	Fuck.
	Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
	"And it doesn't let me be for you the person I want to be.
The person I know I can be."
	She twisted slightly and laid her slender hand on his 
forearm.  He stared at it dumbly, as if he had never seen it before.	
	"It's telling me that I shouldn't be afraid.  That I can't afford 
to be.  I don't have that luxury anymore."
	Afraid?  Scully, afraid?  Stupid voice.  Didn't it know that 
she was the most courageous person he had ever known?
	"I came here today . . . with you . . . because I needed to 
figure out a way to be brave, Mulder," she whispered, her voice nearly 
too fragile to carry over the ocean wind, her fingers tightening on his 
jacket.  "Honesty is hard.  If that ridiculous camping trip taught me 
nothing else, it taught me that."
	She lifted her eyes to his, and smiled a small, bittersweet smile.
	"And that's what I would like to be," she told him simply.
"For you.  What I need to be.  While I'm still able to tell you--"
	"Scully, you don't have to say--"
	"Yes, I do," she said, cutting him off.  "I do have some things 
I have to say to you.  And you, Mulder, . . . you have got to listen to me."

Continued in Part III
*********************************************************
	"Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very 
earnestly.
	"I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone:  
"so I can't take more."
	"You mean you can't take less," said the Hatter:  "it's very 
easy to take more than nothing."

--"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" by Lewis Carroll

Wonderland III
"More Than Nothing" (3/3)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
www.earthlink.net/~krasch

All non-story related info can be found prior to chapter one.

**********************************************************

	Fox Mulder didn't know why his partner's announcement 
frightened him so.  After all, he had a pretty good idea what she was 
going to say.   Or at least he flattered himself that he did.  Yet ego 
notwithstanding, he honestly believed that his chances at being right 
were better than even money.  And not just because of that voice 
Scully supposedly envied him hearing.  
	Rather, he could see it, sense it.  
	In her eyes.  In the husky, intimate timbre of her voice.  In 
the way she was touching him; worrying his coat between her slim 
fingers, sitting flush against him, the slight roundness of her hip 
pressing firmly against his. 
	Christ.  Scully didn't need to tell him her feelings.
	He already knew them.
	And was humbled by the knowledge.
	"Mulder, way back when--when Blevins first told me I was 
to be assigned to the X-Files--I didn't know what to think," she began 
quietly, her hand lifting from his arm to push back a few strands of
wind-tossed auburn hair.
	"What--the words 'what did I do to deserve this' never crossed
your mind?" he murmured dryly in reply, his eyes focusing on the 
horizon rather than on her face.
	She ignored his feeble attempt at humor.  "On the one hand, 
I liked the fact that I would finally be allowed to put into practice some 
of what I had learned at the Academy."
	He said nothing this time, dwelling instead on the manic 
butterfly that had taken to fluttering in the pit of his stomach.  Wildly, 
the imaginary creature seemed to flap, as if desperate to escape.
	Mulder could sympathize with the urge.
	"On the other hand, I had visions of being swallowed whole 
by the mad genius in the basement," the woman seated next to him 
continued, oblivious to his musings.
	He grunted out a laugh.  
	Mad genius.  
	Shit.  
	Scully made him sound like he should be living in the Hoover 
Building's catacombs and warbling out Andrew Lloyd Webber.
	Hmm.
	Good thing he couldn't carry a tune.
	"Then I met you," she said, the tiniest hint of a smile curling 
the edges of her mouth.  "And while you weren't mad, you =were= 
arrogant . . . and condescending, and I could see you laughing at me--"
	"I never laughed at you," he argued, his gaze flying to meet
hers.
	"I amused the hell out of you, Mulder" she stated flatly, no 
rancor accompanying the declaration.  "It was all you could do to 
keep a straight face."
	He pondered that, his eyes averted once more, striving to 
remember if there had actually been a time when he had looked at the 
woman he worked beside with anything other than respect and 
affection.
	And ruefully recognized that there had indeed been a period
when he had been that dense.
	"I suppose I should have taken offense," she said lightly, her
head cocked to the side as she eyed his profile.  "Should have told you 
what you could do with your UFOs and your extraterrestrials and 
your conspiracies."
	Yes, you should have, Mulder solemnly, yet silently, 
acknowledged.  You really should have, Scully.  You would have 
been a whole hell of a lot better off.
	She paused just half a second, then gave a small apologetic 
shrug.  "But I couldn't."
	He looked at her then.  Turned to regard her fully.  Her face 
had drawn so near to his that their breath now mingled, the gentle 
heated air sliding from her lips into his lungs and back again.  Her 
hair teased his cheek, tangled in his lashes, caressed his skin like 
silken fingertips.  It felt good.  So very, very good.  He wanted nothing 
more than to simply close his eyes and lean into her, relax against her 
strong, soft frame.  Absorb the smell of her, the feel of her.  Rub his 
chin against her fragrant hair.  Drag his hungry mouth across her 
brow, down the slim column of her throat.  Open his arms and enfold 
her within, pulling her closer and closer to him until their bodies 
merged, became one, and she came to rest inside him.  Safe.  Secure.  
Living forever in his heart, where she had already dwelt for years.  
	But he did none of this.  Old habits were hard to break.
Instead, he asked the question he had longed to ask from the start.
	"Why?"
	Why stay?  Why care?  Why me?
	Her eyes traveled his face, lingering longest on his own hazel
orbs before drifting down to zero in on his lips.  "You needed me."
	He nodded, having made his peace with that particular 
revelation eons ago.
	"And somewhere along the line, I began to need you too."
	He nodded again, yet with far less surety.
	"I needed to be there with you, searching for the truth," she
told him quietly, her mouth floating inches from his ear.
	Mulder felt a shiver trickle down his spine.  The chilly ocean 
breeze was not to blame.
	"I needed to see you every morning.  To walk into that damp, 
dark office and know that you would be waiting for me."
	He tried to swallow, only to discover that his mouth had gone 
absurdly dry.
	"I needed to talk with you," she said, her eyes pointed down 
and away from his face.  "It didn't even matter to me what the subject 
was, Mulder.  I just . . . . I wanted to hear your voice."
	With that, Scully touched him.  Tentatively.  Her cool fingers 
settling on the back of his hand.  Not gripping.  Instead, they simply 
laid there, as if she were unsure of her welcome.
	"It was your voice that brought me back that time," she 
whispered, her words puffing like tiny little explosions against his 
suddenly fiery cheek.  And as he sat there, listening, Mulder was
positive those same miniature firecrackers were going off inside him 
as well.  Good.  With any luck they'd kill that damn butterfly.  "In the 
hospital.  You know that, don't you?"
	He couldn't be certain, but he thought he might be blushing.
"Scully--"
	"It's true, Mulder," she insisted quietly.  "I don't know how 
exactly.  But, I heard you.  That night.  And it was you I came back 
for."
	He had known that.  Well, maybe not known.  Suspected.  
After all, when he had first visited her in the hospital after she had 
awakened, she had parroted his words back to him.  'I had the strength 
of your beliefs,' she had told him.  
	Still . . . .
	Pushing unsteadily to his feet, he stood.  And turning, strode 
a bit drunkenly away from her, battling the wind and his oddly 
wobbly legs for balance.
	"Mulder?"
	He heard her shift; cloth scraped against stone, pebbles 
ground beneath her boots, bounced down from atop their rocky perch.  
Judging by the sounds, he guessed his partner now also stood.  But 
he did not check to see if he had surmised correctly.	  
	"What's wrong?"
	What could he say?  How could he answer her?
	When he didn't even know himself?
	"Are you thinking that maybe it would have been better if
I hadn't made the trip back?"
	That wheeled him around to face her, the movement graceless 
and violent in its execution.
	"God, Scully . . . ," he gasped, swaying as if with vertigo.
Or maybe nausea.  The thought of her never having awakened from 
her coma was threatening to make him physically ill.
	Yet Scully didn't seem especially sensitive to his distress.  She 
stood, small and pale, her legs stiffened against the sea wind, her hands
dug deep into her jacket pockets.
	"It might have been easier if I had never regained 
consciousness," she offered calmly, her eyes unblinking and 
blindingly blue.  Mulder tried, but could not look away.
	"You see . . . I don't think you loved me then."
	His mouth was moving, but no sound--not a word in his 
defense--issued forth.
	"But I believe you do now," she said, the simple honesty with 
which she phrased her statement erasing from his mind any comment, 
any protest he might have made.
	Then, almost as if she feared she might have somehow 
assumed incorrectly, she gave him an out.  "Am I wrong?"
	He looked at her, his heart thudding wildly, a fine, almost
invisible trembling coursing through his tall, lean form.  He wet his 
lips, and whispered, "No."
	She nodded ever so slightly, no triumph evidenced in her 
expression, no gloating.  Just acknowledgment of a truth long 
suspected.  "Need and love are a lot alike."
	"Oh, I don't know, Scully" he protested weakly, cringing 
inwardly, but unable to stop himself from attempting to lighten the 
mood.  "I've gotta have mustard on my chili-dogs, but that doesn't 
mean I love the stuff."
	"I love you," she told him softly.
	Mulder could do nothing but stare back at her in amazement.
	Leave it to Scully to profess her love directly after he had 
mentioned the same emotion in conjunction with condiments.
	His heart plummeted to just about even with his anklebones,  
the sensations assaulting him not unlike what he had always imagined 
skydivers must experience.  Surely the heady combination of terror and 
exhilaration must be comparable, he supposed a trifle dazedly.
	"I wanted you to know that, Mulder," she continued, blessedly
unaware that thoughts of free fall and ripcords were careening around
inside his head.  "I wanted to be able to tell you while I'm still healthy.  
While I'm still . . . . me.  I didn't want you to hear it as some sort of 
deathbed confession."
	And all at once, it was as if Mulder's chute had jammed, 
leaving him to plunge mercilessly to Earth with the speed of Icarus 
dropping before the sun.
	"Don't", he muttered harshly, pacing away from her, his arms 
folded protectively across his middle.
	"Don't what?" she queried from somewhere behind him.
	"Don't . . ." he began hoarsely, shifting his weight from hip 
to hip as he looked down longingly at the sand.  Damn it.  What he 
wouldn't give to be on the beach below.  There just wasn't enough 
room on that fucking rock.  "Just stop talking like that, okay?"
	"Like what?"
	He whirled on her.  "Like you're going to die."
	A fragile smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.  "But I am."
	"Scully--"
	"Months have gone by.  And we've got nothing.  We're no
closer to understanding how I became sick than we were at the start."
	In three quick strides, he stood before her.  Without conscious
thought, his hands wrapped themselves around her upper arms, their 
hold tight, but not bruising.  Looming over the woman before him, 
Mulder thrust his countenance close to hers, forcing her to look him 
in the eye.  "Don't you give up on me," he ordered, giving her a little 
shake for emphasis.  "Don't you dare give up on me, Scully."
	She gazed up at him, utterly unafraid in the face of his 
aggression.  If anything, her expression was gentle, almost serene.
Softly, she lifted her hand and brushed her fingertips against his cheek.
"Mulder, the tumor has started to metastasize."
	At first, he didn't move, didn't speak.  Then, slowly his hands
fell away from her.  "What?" he whispered numbly.
	"It's moving," she said, her voice low, yet not quite as 
controlled as before.  "Spreading to other organs, to my bloodstream.  
It's begun, Mulder." 
	Stumbling just a bit, he pivoted away from her and shuffled
yet again to the edge of the rock, unable to discern at that point 
whether the infirmity he detected in his limbs had developed as a 
result of exertion or emotion.
	"And you can't even look at me."
	Moving deliberately, he turned to regard her once more.  She 
stood, buffeted by the wind, her hands at her sides, her coppery hair 
dancing with abandon about her pinkened cheeks.  She gazed back at 
him, her lips parted just a fraction, her eyes large and glistening in the 
fading afternoon light, waiting.  Daring him to prove her wrong.
	"I can look at you, Scully," he murmured hoarsely, accepting 
her challenge.  "I could look at you all day."
	 "Then do it," she entreated, her hands rising ever so slightly, 
as if she thought to reach out to him.  "Face me.  Be there for me.  
Don't turn away."
	"You know I'm there for you," he countered almost angrily, 
trying and failing not to be hurt by her demands.  "You know that."
	She nodded.  "Yes, you are."
	He nodded in reply, still vaguely bothered by something he 
thought he saw in her gaze.
	"To a point," she finished quietly.
	"=What=?" he rasped in disbelief.
	She didn't flinch.  "You're there for me, Mulder.  You are.  
I haven't forgotten all those late night phone calls.  Or the times 
you've gone easy on me because you saw I was tired or hurting."  
	She gained strength as she spoke, her voice rose in volume, 
deepened in tone.  "I know that you're willing to hack into top secret 
mainframes for me, to break into armed government installations.  
My God, you . . . you drilled =holes= in your head because you thought 
the procedure might somehow help bring to light information that 
would make sense of this thing."
	"Enough, Scully," he muttered, ducking his head and running 
his hand through his unruly hair.
	"It's true," she said, taking a step towards him.  "You know 
it as well as I do.  You're terrific when it comes to the grand heroic 
gesture, Mulder.  There's no one better.  But that's not what I need 
from you now."
	"Fine," he spat, panic and embarrassment and a half a dozen
similarly unsettling emotions driving him to stalk like a caged animal 
once more.  "Great.  Well then, =tell me= what you need.  'Cause, you 
know, Scully--I haven't been getting a whole hell of a lot guidance in 
that area.  I've been trying, but you aren't exactly what I'd call easy to 
read.  I've been flying blind now for months.  So maybe . . . =maybe= 
it would be easier on the both of us if you just came right out and told 
me what it is you want from me."
	She took a moment to consider before answering, her eyes
never straying from his.  Then, slicking her lips with her tongue, she 
softly confessed, "I don't want to go to my grave wondering what might 
have been."
	Mulder rubbed his hand over the lower half of his face, feeling
the faint stubble he encountered there prickling against his palm like 
sandpaper.  Oh God, much more of this and he'd be the one headed six 
feet under.  He couldn't do this.  This calm and reasonable discussion 
of Dana Scully's impending death.  Not if he thought to hold it all 
together.
	Not if he had any hope in heaven of clinging to his sanity.
	And yet, this wasn't about him, was it? that nagging little voice 
inside his head reminded him.  What had Scully said after the whole 
talking tattoo debacle?  'Not everything is about you, Mulder.  This is 
my life.'  She had known even then, he had realized not long afterwards.  
She had understood that her life would in all probability fail to run its 
full course.
	Because of him.  And his quest.
	And so, for the first time since he had known her, she had 
looked elsewhere for companionship, for comfort.  She had turned her 
back on him and the X-Files, and searched for something outside of 
their often stifling confines.  Something that would give the time she 
had left meaning and substance.  Yet, in the end, she had discovered 
what he had already learned.  What had been driven ruthlessly home 
for him when she had been taken that first time.
	There was no life for her outside of that which she shared 
with him.
	Just as without her, his life had lost all purpose.
	Poor Scully.
	Mulder wouldn't have wished such a fate on his most despised 
enemy.  Certainly not on her.  Definitely not with him. 
	But at the same time, he couldn't help but rejoice over 
her plight.  To be thankful that she had by some miracle grown as 
dependent on him as he was on her.  As needy.  As committed to 
the partnership, in all its forms and incarnations.
	And if Scully was the only woman in the world for him, if he
loved her more than his life, his soul, why wouldn't he want what she
now asked of him?  Why was he so afraid to at last achieve his heart's
desire?
	"I want more from you, Mulder," she told him, her velvety 
alto intruding upon his reverie.  "You admit that you love me, and I 
tell you the same.  Yet . . . we've never even done so much as kiss."
	He swallowed hard and, looking around, noted with surprise 
that they had once again drawn close.  That stupid rock must be even 
smaller than he had thought.  "And that would make a difference?"
	She hesitated for a breath, then nodded.
	"Scully, . . . I couldn't possibly love you anymore than I do 
already," he confided haltingly, his shoulders rising and falling with 
a helpless sort of shrug.
	She smiled at that, only the corners of her lips engaged. 
"Show me."
	Still he waited, wondering at the nameless, faceless fear yet 
holding him back.
	Scully's brow creased with confusion.  "What is it?"
	He shook his head.
	"Don't you want to, Mulder?"
	He glanced at her lush mouth, at the lips that promised to be 
as warm and soft as summer roses.  "I want to."
	God, did he want to.
	She tilted her head to the side, and gave a little shrug.  "Then 
what are we waiting for?"
	Well that was the question now, wasn't it.  After all, in this 
time and in this place the usual arguments just didn't apply.  Who 
cared what their enemies might do to them if they should learn of 
their transgression?  What did it matter what Skinner might think?  
Or their families.  Or even heaven above.  At this moment, the only 
thing that counted was them.  The two of them, together.  With no 
other witness to this long anticipated act than the sea.
	Mulder took a step closer to her.  Stretching out his hand,
he tried to tame the renegade bits of hair fluttering at the edges of 
her face.  But they refused to cooperate, to bow to his will.  Just like
Scully, he mused with a touch of whimsy.  People might wonder at 
times why she seemingly followed him without question.  Why she
apparently went along with every outlandish theory he concocted.
But they didn't know.  Didn't understand.  She may have supported 
him through what looked to the casual observer to be an endless series 
of ill-advised investigations, stood by his side as together they 
ventured into realms that were probably best left unexplored.  But she 
never did so blindly, or without due consideration.  She never lost her 
integrity, never compromised her values or her sense of honor.
	Never hesitated to remind him just how flaky he was 
being.
	Which was one of the things he loved most about her.  How 
ridiculous was that?
	He smiled as he stood before her, cradling her face in his 
palms, amused by the notion.
	"What's so funny?" she asked quietly, her eyes searching his
as she gazed up at him, her hands setting lightly on his forearms.
	His thumbs moved gently over her cheekbones' graceful lines. 
Had their arch always been that pronounced? he silently wondered.  
They seemed sharp to him, almost slashed into the delicate oval of 
her face.  Or was this something new?  Some subtle yet insidious 
indication of her illness' progression.  Slowly, his smile died, his 
eyes darkened.  "Nothing.  It's nothing."
	She didn't believe him.  He could see it in her expression.  
But she let the lie go unchallenged.  She simply held his gaze.  And 
waited.  Mulder took a deep breath.
	And lowered his mouth to hers.
	Her lips were tender, yet firm.  Cool from the swirling air 
around them, they warmed quickly, drawing heat from his own.  
	At its birth, their kiss was innocent.  Passionless.  The sort 
of sweet buss relatives or even casual friends might exchange.
	Then Scully pulled back just a bit and sighed; a soft, wistful 
rush of air that bathed his mouth in moist fire.  Her eyes were shut, 
when he opened his to look at her, her lashes resting like feathery 
crescent moons upon her cheeks.  By contrast, her lips were open 
ever so slightly as if inviting him inside.
	Mulder decided to take her up on the offer.
	Tilting her head in his hands, he fit his mouth to hers once
more, deepening the contact.  Clinging, then reluctantly releasing.  
Only to connect once more, drinking from her delicious lips.  Sipping.  
Nipping.  Moving against her with increasing urgency until the only 
thing left to do was explore the interior of her mouth as thoroughly 
as he had its entrance.
	Scully seemed to agree with his course of action.  Her small
hands gripped the front of his leather jacket fiercely, as if she feared 
something or someone might dare try to tear them apart.  Leaning in 
to him, she rubbed her tongue along his in greeting, welcoming him 
into her mouth, her body.  
	In response, Mulder groaned deeply in the back of his throat.   
God.  He had never before fully appreciated the erotic aspects of this 
sort of kissing; how the gentle thrusts of his tongue, moving slowly  
yet steadily within the hot, damp cavern of her mouth was not unlike 
intercourse.  How both involved the same kind of friction, the same 
measured advance and withdrawal.
	The same indescribable pleasure humming through his 
veins, thickening his groin.
	Expanding his heart.
	Until he thought he might burst from it.
	Both above and below.
	Whimpering with a kind of regret as he dragged his mouth 
from hers, he yanked her into his arms, pulling her so abruptly that 
she stumbled into him, grabbing at his jacket for balance.  Somehow, 
he found the strength to hold them both upright.
	"Mulder?" she whispered against his chest, her arms twined 
about his waist, her head tucked beneath his chin.
	He didn't answer her.  Instead he hugged her tightly, one arm
locked across her slender back, one hand buried in her hair.  She rested
against him from his collarbone to his knees, her body soft and pliant,
like a living, breathing blanket.  He knew she must be able to feel his 
erection pushing insistently against her belly, a part of him vaguely 
embarrassed that his physiology would so readily betray his need.
	Yet he didn't draw back.  Couldn't.  Not now.  
	Not ever.  
	And so he held her, rocked her tenderly in his embrace.  
Gradually, with his body enfolding hers as it was, he grew aware of 
her pulse, of her heartbeat throbbing against his torso, its rhythm 
strong and steady.  Like her.  
	In the beginning, its faint thump soothed him, assured him 
of her presence, her vitality.  But the longer they stood there, wrapped 
in each other's arms, the more apparent it became to him just how 
simple it would be to silence that gentle beat.  How eventually, despite 
all efforts to the contrary, her heart would one day cease to do its job.  
It might not happen tomorrow.  But given what he now knew of her
condition, it seemed likely that her time would come sooner rather 
than later.
	Struggling to control the sudden tremors rippling through
him, Mulder bent his head so that his face was hidden in Scully's 
tousled hair.  Searching for some small measure of her calm, of her
acceptance, he closed his eyes and burrowed against her, his cheek 
to hers, his fingers flexing against her flesh.  God, she smelled so 
good.  Clean and fresh.  Honest.  Not perfumed.  She didn't need that 
stuff.  She was beautiful all on her own.  
	And that was what he didn't understand.
	How could anyone so lovely be so terribly ill?
	Clutching at her now with a despair he could no longer 
entirely mask, he pressed his lips to the top of her head, kissed her 
ear.  Then her temple, her brow.
	"Mulder, what's wrong?"
	It was comical.  Even without looking at him, Scully could 
distinguish distress from passion.  He would have chuckled at the 
acuity of her intuition, but at that moment he didn't trust that his 
laughter wouldn't dissolve into tears.
	"It's nothing," he mumbled into her hair.
	"No.  Not this time.  It's more than that.  I can tell."
	He took a slow, deep breath and tried again.  "It's just . . . 
this is real, Scully.  You know?"
	And much to his surprise, upon hearing his observation, she 
was the one who laughed.  Her amusement rumbled soft and low, her 
chest vibrating with it against his rib cage.  "Well, it's about time.  
Don't you think?"
	He nodded, not trusting his voice.  Not just then, when the 
landscape of his soul seemed not unlike Scully's beloved beach.  
Windswept and rocky, fecund and rich.  How this duality could 
exist simultaneously he didn't entirely understand.  Perhaps it was 
just a function of life.
	Of reality.
	And maybe that's what he had feared from the start.
	The actuality of it all.
	Because to have what Scully and he felt for one another
acknowledged, made real, he had to accept what came with it.  What
had brought their shared revelations to light.
	He had to pay the price.
	Things weren't as they had been.  He had permission now to
embrace the woman he loved, to mold his lips to hers, to tell her how 
beautiful she was, how much he wanted her.  He knew without asking
that at last she would allow him to take her to his bed, to unravel in her 
arms.  To stare into her eyes as his body ignited hers, as she caught 
flame around him; blazed, all control lost.  That she would consent to
let him hold her as that fire ebbed, as she smoldered, burned down, to 
at last lie still and sated, her pale skin glowing like embers.
	He had been granted leave to do that now, to indulge every 
greedy fantasy he had ever held.
	Because she was dying.
	That was real too.
	He could no longer deny it.
	And as he crushed the woman before him to his chest,  
Mulder wished with everything he had that he had somehow, some 
way held on to even a scrap of his innocence.  Unlikely, he knew, 
given his childhood.  Still, Mad Hatters and Cheshire Cats came in 
handy every once and awhile.
	When a person needed to escape.  To believe in make-believe
and the fantastic.  And miracles.  Miracles, most of all.
	Since, at that moment, a miracle was what he needed.  What 
Scully and he both needed.  Desperately.  And Fox Mulder had never 
wanted to believe in anything more.

THE END
*********************************************************
	"Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very 
earnestly.
	"I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone:  
"so I can't take more."
	"You mean you can't take less," said the Hatter:  "it's very 
easy to take more than nothing."

--"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" by Lewis Carroll