From: Foxie Meg To: Subject: [XFNC17ff] "She's Gone" by Foxie Meg Date: Saturday, October 27, 2001 11:28 AM TITLE: She's Gone AUTHOR: Foxie Meg RATING: NC-17 for 'consenting adults'... ;) CATEGORY: MSR SPOILERS: Not unless you count a little clumsy foreshadowing for S8. SUMMARY: "Nobody knows why she packed her trunk - a few old things - and is gone." DISCLAIMER: Muchos gracias to both Chris Carter and Carl Sandburg, from whom I pilfer shamelessly. Thanks are also a must to Eric Clapton, Lord Byron, Eddy Money, and a million-and-one classic artists whose lines are interspersed indiscriminately throughout. My love to all the poets - they are my language of choice. ARCHIVE: Already at Gossamer; everyone else, I'd be pleased to allow you to snitch it. But I'd also be more than obliged if you'd let me know you've got it, just so I can brag about it. FEEDBACK: I've read many elegant pleas for feedback. Unfortunately, this isn't going to be one of them. Just a simple 'please, sir, I want some more.' mrschatterly@hotmail.com AUTHOR'S NOTES (maybe) AT END. xXxXxXx SHE'S GONE I am Chick Lorimer. I am the wild girl keeping a hold on a dream she wants. I am leaving, and whether it be ten men or a hundred hunting Chick, whether it be five men or fifty with broken hearts, I am still packing my trunk, a few old things. And I'm gone, with my little chin thrust ahead of me, and soft hair blowing careless from under a wide hat. I wish I were Chick Lorimer. I wish I were a dancer, a singer, a passionate lover. Although I'm pretty sure I am one of the three, I won't say which one. One man knows I am not one, guesses I am not another, and had a chance to find out if I am the one I think I am. But I can't stay here ith him, not another minute. My bags are packed. "Don't stand so close to me," I whisper, hearing echoes of The Police as I leave him there. What am I going to do when I wake up and he isn't beside me? The same thing I've done for the last eternal segment of my life. The seven years that have lasted longer than that, and yet still haven't been long enough. "Be mine, as I am yours," I tell him as I leave, my lips tasting a kiss I've never gotten but have dreamed of forever. The door closes behind me with a soft snick sound and somehow I know I'll never see him again. That between the eternal spaces that are half silence and half something beyond sound, I have lost him, because I have lost myself. This is what I know in an instant, and what I wish I could forget. That's why I'm leaving; why I am the girl in Sandburg's poem; why I, like Chick Lorimer, am "Gone." *** She's gone. Like a ripple on a stream, like a shadow in the dark. A bubble on a fountain. My Lorelei is now no more than a memory in my faded, aching mind. I knew it would happen this way. Somehow I knew it would. But knowing doesn't make it any easier. Byron and I still agree, and Eric Clapton croons what I already know through the haze that constitutes the background of my consciousness. "She's gone." She left me, left me here like a beggar beside the road of her life. Except she wouldn't even leave a beggar like this, unless he had asked for something she couldn't give him. What did I ask her for that made her run from me like this? Some echo of a U2 song runs through my mind, reeling from the same question I am asking: "Did I ask too much - more than a lot?" But the next line isn't true: "You gave me nothing, now it's all I've got." She gave me everything, and I'm left with the impression of it – mas-relief in the plaster of my heart. It's negative on the nothing scale – the equation for the graph is empty to the infinite power. Because even though she gave me everything – she was everything to me – she took it back; took it all with her when she walked out the door of my life two days ago. Something in me knows – the same thing that knows when she's in trouble, or when she needs me – and tells me with relentless honesty that she's never coming back. She's gone forever. *** Carl Sandburg wrote about me a lot. I didn't realize that until earlier, when I realized that Chick Lorimer was me, and Mamie too. Mamie, who beat her head against the bars of a small town, and then a big one, "and wonders if there is a bigger place... where maybe there is romance, and big things, and real dreams that never go smash." My dreams are all smashed. My head is aching from beating against the bars of my own prison, the one I constructed for myself inside the rules and regulations I made myself follow. Don't look at him that way. Don't let yourself believe him. He's a liar – all men are liars. my fairness reminds me. No of course he didn't. He didn't have to – I lied to both of us so well that he never had to let deceit cross his beautiful mind. At least I have that satisfaction... the comfort of knowing that the mind of his that I love so dearly, the tender intelligence – and something more – that makes my life complete, never had to hide from me. But that makes me guilty. Guilty that I've hidden from it. That's why I'm leaving. I'm too afraid to stay here any longer. He wakes things inside me that have long been dead... a necromancy of corpses that I long ago dissected and locked carefully away in my own private morgue. The temperature is kept rigidly regulated, "cold as ice, willing to sacrifice our love" degrees below zero. But he came through and spoke his magic spell over them with one glance of those hazel eyes. His psychokinetic heat translated into the resurrection of my already-autopsied victims of passion. The feelings I had subjected to slow, painful executions so that I might be sure no drop of blood remained humming in their veins. But he slipped past my locks like a ghost. And a ghost he still is. I wonder if he knows that he fits his namesake song. That the Classics IV knew about him back in the sixties. One day I may sing it to him – "just like a ghost, you've been haunting my dreams." Except I can't sing. That's the one thing he knows I am not, that Chick Lorimer was – a singer. That leaves us with two possibilities. Can you guess which one I am? *** I don't know where she thinks she's going, and that makes me think that she doesn't know either. But it doesn't matter. Whether either of us ever know where she is or where she's going, it doesn't matter. I will look for her anyway, because she isn't coming back. So I will go. I will find her. I won't try to make her come back with me, but I will pray that she changes her mind, even though I don't believe in prayer like she does. It doesn't matter, because she believes enough for both of us. Everyone keeps asking me where she went. I can't answer that question. Finally, someone asks me why she left. That at least I can answer. I wonder if he sees anything beyond emptiness and tequila-dulled pain in my eyes when I tell him, "She ran away." He doesn't ask, doesn't want to know, what she was running from. I think he suspects anyway and doesn't want confirmation. He does ask if I want to search for her. I tell him yes, eventually. By myself, no search parties. And not right now. When the time is right. Somehow I will know when that time is. She will tell me. *** Carl Sandburg and I have been keeping company lately. It is he who tells me where to go, because I have no idea. At his voice, which is really the ink on a dog-eared page in a tattered book, I decide that I am going to Chicago -- "smoky, husky, brawling -- City of the Big Shoulders." I will miss his husky, brawling, big shoulders. I will miss his voice, like smoke on the water of my mind. Maybe Chicago will make me miss him less. Maybe I can exchange the warmth of his embrace for the cold steel fenced-in protection of smog and skyscrapers. Smoke on the water. That's what he is and I breathe him in, hoping the smoke isn't because his fire has died while I am furiously trying to stamp mine out. I have to get a job, but not one that he thinks I would take because I know he will follow me. I must do the one thing he would never expect me to do. I apply at the office. They look me over once and tell me my legs aren't long enough. I tell them the customers will never notice. They let me stay on trial. They ask me what my name is. I think for a moment, breathing in the heady ashwood scent that is his presence, and tell them "Flame." They laugh. They should. But the man behind the counter -- the man behind everything, apparently -- looks at my eyes a little closely and smiles, a smug contraction of facial muscles. "It works," he says finally and I wonder what changed his mind. "Your eyes are blue smoke. And your hair is the fire." He nods, satisfied. "Yeah, it works." And so here I am. In my own room, above the bar, above the stage. Pretty soon I'll be a rich little girl, because I know I can get the tips. I also know I'm safe. They can't touch me, and he'll never look for me here. But I'm just a little scared. This isn't where I would look for me, either. I wonder briefly if this romance, this Chick Lorimer thing, has gone to my head. But I smell the charred incense of an ashwood fire rising up from the gutter in the street below, and tell myself that it's where I am going to be for a little while, at least. <"Not a bad piece of ash."> The memory comes to me unexpectedly and I think I am going to cry. That's why I must stay here... I wrote a poem tonight. Really I did. Maybe it's all the Sandburg I've been reading. I carve it into the soft wood of my windowsill for the next runaway to read when she lives here, because I know I won't stay here long. I run my fingers over the precise incisions of my pocketknife. "We're not always as good as we want to be -- The failures come and stay. We're rarely as strong as we think we are -- We push ourselves away." It's short. Like me. But it's mine. *** The tears are running down in a heated rush to hide themselves, maybe in the space between my lips where I can swallow them and they'll never have to admit they were cried. That's another thing I just can't stand. Crying. And he makes me cry all the time. It's his fault I'm crying now – I just heard about a mysterious ritualistic death that took place in the club three blocks down from mine. And I know he will be here before morning, trying to find out what killed the girl with legs that didn't end and hair of fine spun gold. And he will find the cause of her death, just like I know he will find me. But will he find the cause of my death? Will he know that it lies beneath his eyes? That he is responsible for the constriction of my throat that won't allow the oxygen to my aching lungs? Oh, God, I have to be on stage tonight. Tomorrow night I'm going to be conveniently sick. Somehow I know he will be here anyway, and that they will not let me be sick. Not me. Not Flame. I'm too valuable, and they already know about me. The only girl who doesn't have to have a week off once a month because that was already stolen from her. That's it. I'm Chick Lorimer again. I'm not Flame, not tonight, not tomorrow night, not ever again. My bags are easy to pack. They stay mostly packed. I think it's because I know I'll be leaving again soon. I always know I'll be leaving. I am on a train before the file hits his desk. *** She was in Chicago. She was a witness in the case that just came in. I won't tell anyone it was her. Won't tell anyone that Flame, Club Nine's best girl, was my partner. Was the best girl I ever met in my life. Who knew? The chick has a wild streak. I go to Chicago anyway, knowing she has already left. She told me. I heard it. I told her once before I never wanted to hear those words. Never want to hear her say goodbye. So she didn't. She just quoted it back at me. "And I say it's okay if you never say goodbye." It's not okay. It hasn't been okay for a month or more now. My eyes are blurry, cracking and red like an Arizona desert. I check the calendar, and feel the tears, gathering at the sandy edges without moistening the hazel wastelands that I know are my eyes. She's been gone for four months now. Living in Chicago. And I never knew. She doesn't want me there yet. She would have told me if she did. But I wonder... does she know she lives in my dreams? Does she know I can hear her when she talks to me? *** I don't know where I'm going. I've run out of places to go. Sandburg is silent and I silently curse him. He can't give me any more advice. I'm just like Mamie after all, beating my head against the bars of Chicago. But I'm not in Chicago anymore. The train passed the city limits hours ago. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm not worried. My tips are enough I could have bought a plane ticket to Australia. I should have. But I didn't. A train seems romantic, and after all, I'm looking for romance. And big things. And real dreams – the kind that never go smash. Remember? Yeah I remember. The rain is trickling down the outside of my window. The train is stopped. I stand up, stretching, feeling every muscle in my body creak and pop, and sigh with the release of it. I reach above my seat and grab hold of my bags. Not much. "Just a few old things." This is my exit. This is where I get off. Next town, next time, next step away from someone who is always three steps ahead of me anyway. But I know he won't hold me back. He'll follow me to the ends of the earth, but he won't try to own me if I don't want him to. Do I, though? *** I go to Club Nine, looking for Flame. They tell me they wish I would find her. I knew she would be gone. I ask to search her room, and they give me their happy permission. Five men or fifty with broken hearts, all hunting for this girl who makes the world her own, and then leaves it behind... a sea of shattered diamonds, crying for a shore of gold in her wake. Her room is bare; faded, peeling plaster walls and ratty old mattress on a steel frame bed. The floors are bare, hard wood. I smell the scent of an ashwood fire below in the street and go to the window to look out. How did I know they were burning ashwood? Why not oak, or pine? Somehow I know it is ash. The hardest wood to burn. Like her. But someone burned her, or she wouldn't have run away. Was it me? Was I the one whose heart was too full of fire? Did she know most of it was for her? Hell, all of it was for her! I kneel beside the window, my chin resting on the rotting sill. My fingers methodically stroke the cracking surface, aware of nothing. Then I feel it. Inscription, against the grains that have already split in the moist, crumbling wood. I read it, and know she wrote it. The inscription is old, already greyed with the weather. Below it, fresher, is one word. My old pocketknife is plunged deeply beside it. I know she took it. I remember the day I let her borrow it, and thought I'd never see it again. Somehow it comforts me to know that she took it with her. And it hurts to know she left it here, silently punctuating the word I never wanted to think of in conjunction with her name. "Goodbye." *** I woke up this morning and it hit me. I'm running toward him. He is standing at the end of my trail, waiting, with honest eyes that won't let me lie, even to myself. But, with a sigh, I realize it isn't over yet. I have a long way to go before I get there, and until I do, he is still behind me, still chasing me. Chasing me into his own arms. I saw him sleeping last night, curled up on the floor of my old room at Club Nine. I could hear the music pounding below him, and knew that Bunnie and Star were bearing the weight of my disappearance. I knew he could see me. He was only in my dream, but I knew I was in his. He broke my heart. I heard the song he was hearing. It wasn't the one Bunnie and Star were dancing to. "Swim to me, swim to me, let me enfold you – here I am, here I am, waiting to hold you." I shake my head. No matter how much he quotes Tim Buckley to me, I can't come yet. So I whisper back to him, "Touch me not, touch me not – come back tomorrow." I wake up in my dark room and realize with a start the name of the song we were singing in our dream. Am I really his Siren? Is that why he follows me relentlessly? And why I am determined to sit, untouchable, on my rock, looking over his ocean and breathing in his salt- scent, but never letting the spray touch me. *** I wake up, breathing hard. I fell asleep on the floor of her room. I feel the stickiness on my face from the remains of my tears mixed with Chicago's smog. I hear a song repeating in my head and wonder where it came from – it certainly isn't the one being played downstairs. I am distracted for a moment, wondering what she would have been like, as Flame. She must have been good. Really good. I can't imagine that. I never thought of her as a dancer, not that kind anyway. Not the kind that you know would be a passionate lover... although I think she would be that. I shake my head. I cannot rest on that thought. The song remains a mystery. I don't think I have ever heard it before. But it is us. <"Did I dream you dreamed about me?"> I hope it wasn't just my dream… because I think she was there too. I think she knows now. <"Were you hare when I was fox?"> I did chase her. I was the fox. The foxhound. <"Now my foolish boat is leaning, broken lovelore on your rocks... for you sing, 'touch me not, touch me not, come back tomorrow...' Oh my heart, oh my heart shies from the sorrow."> That needs no further admittance. I heard her say those words to me in my dream. Our dream. I, the foolish sailor, have fallen prey to that which Ulysses conquered. To that which Odysseus was wise enough to bind himself against. The call of the Siren. And I will not leave her alone on her rocks. She will come to me, in the end. I'll be waiting for her. *** Six months since she got up from my hotel room bed in Bellefleur, Oregon, and walked out the door. Six months since I gave up my search for that UFO and went back to DC. She didn't go to DC, though, and I was left to explain to Skinner and Mrs. Scully what had happened to the finest agent the Bureau had ever had – and to every mother's dream for a daughter. But I needed someone to explain to me what had happened to my perfect partner, the only fixed point in my turbulent existence. And the only person who could do that was gone, to Chicago, to a strip club, and was bringing in record tips as a girl called Flame. Two months since she left Chicago. I don't know where she is now. We haven't shared a dream since I cried myself to sleep in her empty room. <"Since you've gone, I've been lost without a trace... I dream at night, I can only see your face."> I wake up calling her name, feeling stinging pains in my face and hands as if her absence holds me down and tortures me. I've run off every partner they've tried to saddle me with since then. <"I look around but it's you I can't replace."> She'd better be ready to come home soon, or she'll have to visit me in the mental hospital. *** I'm addicted to the show, the cheers, the tips. I tried working at a department store last week, but the pace was too slow, the task too tedious, the pay too minimal. I know I could get a medical job, but that provides too much security, and I can't be tied down. If I stay in one place too long, he will find me. Every now and then I shiver with a deep chill that I can't identify except to say that it's just like that night six months ago when I went to his hotel room, scared and needing to get warm. <"I feel so cold and I long for your embrace."> The Police have been my oracle lately. I know Mulder speaks to me in that song – I know he is watching my every move, breath, and step... Omnipresent. Sometimes at night I can feel his arms around me. He is still a ghost in my dreams. Club Magic adores me. They should. They get requests for me all the time, but I'm the star, I set my own schedule. I tell them, "I'm sorry, but Roxanne isn't coming out tonight." When I do come out, I set my own pace. I may not take my trench coat off for a half-hour or more. But they don't mind. The men will sit for hours just for a flash of my ankles. They remind me, in a way, of Mulder – willing to wait for me until I'm ready. But Mulder does it out of love – these men, out of addiction. But their addiction feeds me. It keeps my mind busy. It makes me smile to see them so helpless there, at the mercy of my whim. Maybe I'm cruel. Maybe that's why I left Mulder. But I don't think that's true. I couldn't be cruel to him without reason. I left because I'm afraid. Because I need him more than the air I breathe and I've never needed anything that badly. I'm out to prove to myself that I can live without him, even though I don't think I can. I find suddenly that I cannot breathe. I know he is coming tonight. There is a message at the office, not the first of its kind. But I know it is from him. "Don't put on the red light tonight." Because I am Roxanne, I dance in a red light. It is my tribute to my latest oracle, who gave me my name. Many men realize this and leave such messages. "Put that dress away;" "My mind is made up." I know all those. But this is different. All those had "please" attached. I am their goddess; they dare not demand anything of me. But this is no plea. This is a command. Not a suggestion. He is the only one who loves me that much, to tell rather than ask. I have been dancing at Club Magic as Roxanne for a month and a half. He has found me already. I am not ready to be found. The tips I earned as Roxanne already double what I made as Flame. I gather them all together, and am gone, leaving only a note of apology for the owners of the club, and a little gift for Mulder under my mattress. I know he will find it. *** I suppose this is supposed to make feel better. This one-piece confection of fine black mesh and slick black leather. I suppose she expects me to be comforted by the scent of her that remains on it. And I am. But not enough. Her scent is not enough. I need her. All this serves to do is make me long for her, and wonder what she has become. I hold it up to the light, my mind racing as I imagine her tiny, perfect figure framed by this Cher-like outfit. I peer through the patches of gauzy mesh that would have covered her stomach, and wonder what happened to my Dana Scully. Wonder when she turned into Roxanne. She's written on the inside of the bra with a silver pen. All it says is "To: Mulder." Does she think that's going to make me feel better? That a few scribbles of silver ink on black leather are going to make up for these six months I've lived without her? How did she know I was coming? She knew. She just did. I have one encouragement. She wrote it in the left cup. Where her heart would be. I can only hope she did it on purpose. *** I'm taking a break from the business. I can't dance anymore; the dancing isn't in me. It was in me before because it was my rebellion. I never had a chance to rebel, like most girls. My parents think I did, but I didn't. I was dedicated to the idea of being a doctor. Even my affair with Daniel, which seemed so rebellious, was connected with that. They thought it happened when I joined the FBI. That wasn't a rebellion – that was a career choice. Now one man has lead the rebellion in my heart. One man has inspired me to revolt against myself. To push myself away and take a good look at myself at arm's length. He is the reason I am wandering here in the Arizona desert, kicking up dust with my once-shiny black leather boots. These aren't my performance boots; these have sensible, chunky heels, not the five-inch stilettos that belong back in Club Magic. It's frightening how the poet laureates of popular culture have become my guides. How Carl Sandburg sent me to Chicago. How The Police named me Roxanne and lit up my stage with a red glow. And now how America has sent me into the desert, where they tell me "you can remember your name." That would be nice. I'm not sure who I am anymore. So my "horse with no name" trots along beside and slightly behind me. I name him Shadow. He disappears when the sun goes down, and comes back in a wispy waver when the moon rises. Two days ago I found this place underneath the cracked surface of the desert. A bomb shelter of sorts in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by tumbleweeds and short, stubby cacti. I sit on the couch and kick my feet up and stare at the ceiling. I hear poems in my head. Some I vaguely remember from college and high school, others I think I made up myself. And then some are a combination. I've taken to talking about myself in the third person, as if one part of me is consulting about another part with Shadow. But I forgot. Shadow doesn't come under- ground with me. I am certain by now I am going mad... I dream at night. I am tortured with nightmares. I see Mulder, tortured by needles and drills and stryker saws. I hear him screaming, then whimpering my name as his life blood is extracted in a million different ways. I constantly wake up in a cold sweat, wondering what I am seeing. It inspired another poem of mine. One that has been writing itself for a week now. I call it "Fever." *** She's sick. Somehow I know it. At night, in my dreams, I hear her voice. I've heard it for a week, and every week there's a little bit more. She is always repeating the same poem, adding a line or two, or sometimes more. I've never heard this poem before. It frightens me. I know it by heart now. "The fever rages on into the morning, Pulling at her eyes, tugging at the edges of her mind, Burning in the corner of her skull." Where is she? Is this a real fever, or is this a desert mirage? "Sanity doesn't exist for her – Life becomes a blur of superego 'Thou shalt (not)'s and a primal Empty craving for a cup of cold Sleep." As a psychologist, I know what she is talking about, and I think I finally know why she ran away. "Superego 'thou shalt (not)'s..." yeah I know what those are. Every time she reminds me of procedure to be followed. Every time she covers for me when I'm late for a meeting because I don't listen to my superego. Being such a superb psychologist [I say with utmost sarcasm] I learned long ago to expertly squelch its commandments. That is what she is doing, I realize with certain clarity. She isn't really running from me anymore. She's running from herself, and her ideas of what she should be. I sigh, leaning back against the headboard of my bed, and reach under my pillow for the neatly folded bundle of mesh and leather. One more piece of evidence that she's running away from her responsible, business-suited self. I gaze at the now-faded silver dedication. "To: Mulder." What is she trying to tell me? That she owes her time of reckoning to me? That this revolt against Agent Dana Scully, M.D., is in some twisted way a tribute to me? If that's so, I don't know when she'll come home. And she won't let me see her until she's ready. So I will stop going after her until she asks me to. I finally understand. She's doing this for me. *** I can feel the pinpricks of madness at the base of my brain. Welling up inside me, "like a freshwater stream." It will come gushing out any moment, and, like Ophelia, I will take a swim in it. I have been reading a book lately that I found between the cushions of the couch. It is a book of stage monologues, but there is one I keep coming back to. Don Nigro took Shakespeare's Ophelia and wrote her story, told from her point of view. Today I felt I was Ophelia. I could feel the water coming up to embrace me... but I cry that I cannot share the entire experience with her. She writes of feeling the water seep into her body to embrace her unborn child as well... I cannot dwell on that. We get along quite well, Hamlet's mad girl and I. I shake my head at a memory... of my own Hamlet gone mad with unintentionally saving the world... I was his savior then, not a fragile lover suffering from insanity. Will he be my savior, now that I'm the one who's mad? *** I got an envelope in the mail today. A small one. Like a letter. I recognized the handwriting, and for some reason was strangely touched that it was address to Fox Mulder. Not just Mulder; not Special Agent Mulder... but Fox. To me. To the me that nobody is allowed to call. Nobody but her. She could call me anything right now and I'd just be glad to hear her voice. It is lying on my desk when I wake up. The mail has come while I slept, my head on my arms, leaned over on the hard surface of the desk that I am so used to seeing her on the other side of. I sleep now only when sleep finds me. I do not go looking for sleep. My fingers tremble as I tug the flap away from the sticky glue, and I pause, wondering if she licked the glue strip to seal it. Wondering if I am touching the surface those beautiful lips touched. Have I ever told her how much I love her? I shake the thought and return to my violent ripping of paper, jerking in sudden pain when the edge of the flap slices through my index finger, spotting the envelope with deep crimson. I look at the jagged cut with a sort of curious stupor, then stare blankly as the blood falls to the glue strip. The surface her tongue ran over in order to keep the contents of this envelope safe from all eyes but mine. The blood stains it, mingling its salty redness with the bitter-sweetness of the glue. Like the cut on my heart from the pocket knife she left in the windowsill at Club Nine. Like the slice on my soul from the strokes of her silver pen leaving her farewell dedication on the leather from Club Magic. All this blood stains the sacred surface of her kiss. *** I sit up, trembling, having just dreamed of his hands pulling me from under the water of the pond where my auburn hair had streamed out into the waves like Ophelia's. The fronds of the weeping willow clung to my face, entwining into my long tresses. They are longer than mine... they must be Ophelia's. But he saved me. I prop myself against the cushions of the couch, running my tongue nervously over my lips. I taste the metallic salt of blood there and reach for the lamp on the table. Flipping it on, I run my fingertips over my mouth and pull them away, expecting to see traces of red there, guessing that I have bitten my lip in my sleep. There is nothing there but the silvery clear gleam of my own saliva. I lick my lips again, expecting the taste to be gone, but it still there. I realize it is not my blood. It is his. I cry out in fear, afraid for his life. Why am I tasting his blood? Have I drawn it with the teeth of my own foolishness? I draw deep, quick breaths. My moratorium is over. I smile to myself thinking how much he would love to hear me speaking in his terms. A psychologist's terms. "Moratorium: period of questioning and searching, usually on the way to achievement." I am on my way to achievement. I stand up and brush myself off. I know how I will tell him I am coming home. I also know he will know long before I tell him. *** I am sucking the tip of my finger as I extract the worn, tattered paper from the envelope. Only one sheet. It looks as if it was torn from a book. A well-read book. There is a poem called "Mamie" on one side. I skim it. I flip it over and the title on the other side has been underlined. I assume this is what she wanted me to read. I skip the title. It's a thing I have about poems; I read them first, and then see if I like the title. I read it aloud, and imagine her sweet voice mixing with mine. "Everybody loved Chick Lorimer in our town. Far off Everybody loved her. So we all love a wild girl keeping a hold On a dream she wants. Nobody knows where Chick Lorimer went. Nobody knows why she packed her trunk... a few old things And is gone, Gone with her little chin Thrust ahead of her And her soft hair blowing careless From under a wide hat, Dancer, singer, a laughing passionate lover. Were there ten men or a hundred hunting Chick? Were there five men or fifty with broken hearts? Everybody loved Chick Lorimer. Nobody knows where she's gone." My broken heart is in my throat, the shards choking me. I look at the title at the top of the page. "Gone." I can't wait any longer. I can't let her go any longer. I must go after her. I won't let her be gone. I collapse into my chair and look at the envelope, spotted with my own blood. I hope she can taste it. I hope she knows she has made me bleed. There is one more slip of paper in the envelope. I don't know how I missed it the first time. I see it peeking out from under the flap. Carefully, I extract it. She has gone mad, giving me cryptic riddles that would not be out of place at a tea party in Wonderland. "America's anonymous equine came to the mythical green bird. They both went up in flames, but the fox found an ember in the ashes." My mind rushing back to the prattling of the March Hare, I mutter under my breath, "How is a raven like a writing desk?" and slam my door shut on the way out. *** I search frantically through my underground shelter, looking for the riddle I wrote. It was vague, and I have intentions of revising it before I send it to him. I cannot find it anywhere, and there aren't that many places here it could be. There is only one place it can be. In D.C., on his desk. I must've accidentally sent it with the poem. I grin madly (maybe in more ways than one), realizing I'm going to have to get to town as soon as I possibly can. He'll be on the next flight out. I am giddy with the possibility of seeing him now, and giggling at what I know will be the biggest surprise he's gotten in a long time. *** She knows I know mythology. My God, all the times I've quoted something to her about the pagan rituals dating back to Baldur and Huginn and Muninn, not to mention the more familiar Zeus and Jupiter... she ought to know that I know it. Therefore I can see no reason for her to mention one of my favorite mythological creatures unless she wanted me to go to Phoenix. That incredible bird that rises from its own ashes... and the fox finding an ember there? Her riddle was mad, but how much more obvious can it get? America's anonymous equine is the desert of course. I know she doesn't think I don't ever listen to the radio. Two clues to put me out in Arizona. So that's where I am. There's a search running right now on Langly's computer to find her name, or a Chick Lorimer, in this state. It keeps coming up dry. Like me. Dry is not a good thing, not in a desert. Fuzzy-minded with despair and some unnamed torment that claws at the inside of my chest, I stumble into a ratty little club on the outskirts of Phoenix, barely seeing the neon sign stuttering its name. I suppose it used to be called "Slap Happy's," but the "S" from "Slap" is burned out, as well as the apostrophe and "s" on the end of "Happy's". It gives it a strange appearance. Not inappropriate, I realize as I walk in and see the seedy little bar swarming with the girls who work there. I see more than a couple of guys who make it seem as if the neon sign found "Lap Happy" to be a more fitting moniker. I slump at the bar, looking around for the barkeep. She is down at the other end, flirting with a handsome young customer. "Hey, Lady!" I shout, not being in the politest of moods. She graces me with a coldly lifted eyebrow and calls over her shoulder, "Yo, Meg, set this gentleman up with a drink!" I am surprised by the clink of the glass on the counter before I actually see her. This must be Meg. "What's your poison?" she asks pointedly. She apparently is ready for her shift to be over. I don't blame her. Morose drunks aren't the best company. "Tequila." She reaches under the counter. "Double." Her eyebrows rise, but she fills the shot glass as I ask. "I'm not gonna give you many more of these," she mutters. Damn, one of those bartenders with a conscience. "What are you here for?" "Looking for a girl," I growl under my breath, no more fond of her prying into my business than she seems to be of the way I toss back the drink. "Another." She shakes her head. "No way. Not for about a minute. If you don't pass out in..." she glances at her watch. "Forty-five seconds, I'll give you another. Until then I'll tell you to stay slightly sober and you might be able to land one of our girls." She leans over the counter and murmurs, "Like me." Before I can tell her I'm looking for one girl in particular, the other girl at the other end of the counter hears this, although I don't know how she possibly could have over the raucous noise of the jukebox. "Meg, leave the customers alone," she calls over in an authoritative voice. She comes walking over, with a practiced seductive sway. "Besides. If he takes home a bartender, it'll be me." She turns a brilliant smile to me. "Fancy a lap dance?" "No, thanks..." I trail off pointedly, and she picks up the hint with a sexy laugh. "First thing you called me was fine," she grins. "I don't mind bein' called Lady. Don't happen too often 'round here." The music starts and Lady and Meg look at each other. "I'm putting money on Nik," Lady challenges. "Foxy." Meg throws back with a shake of her head, refilling my shot glass as promised, although a little late by my watch. My eyes narrow. "What?" I demand. The casual use of my first name – or at least, a variant of it – has put me on my guard. She puts the tequila back under the counter and regards me curiously. "We're placing bets on which dancer you'll go for." She tilts her head toward Lady. "*Lady* here," she stresses the nickname with dripping sarcasm, "is favoring Nikki. I'm saying it'll be Foxy." "Foxy's a girl here?" I ask, confused. It must be this tequila-buzz I'm getting that's making my brain so fuzzy. Lady's smile gleams in the low light as she nudges Meg over toward another customer. "Angel's kiss," I hear him order. I watch Meg pull out the ingredients as Lady continues. "Calls herself Desert Fox. She came in a few days ago. Sassy and Bunnie – they own this place – hired her on the spot. Bunnie remembered her from another club awhile back." *** I am trembling with trepidation. "But, Nik," I whisper, shoving my foot into my familiar shiny black leather knee boots. The ones with the five-inch spiked heels. "I never danced with a pole before..." She laughs, tipping back a shot of bourbon. "Nothing to it, Foxy," she tells me confidently. Bunnie, my friend from Club Nine in Chicago, hears and comes closer. "Come with me," she grins. "I'll give you a crash course." She gives me a sudden strange look. "Why do you want to?" I know what she means, and swallow hard. "There's a... man... coming to town soon..." "Not my Koskie?" she demands edgily. "No, not Steven," I laugh. "But, this guy... it's important that I... well..." "Impress him?" Her smile is knowing. I nod in response. It's all I have to do. At first I am daunted by the skill required to swing around a pole seductively, but the thought of Mulder's expression when he sees me gives me a sudden adrenal motivation, and within minutes I have mastered the skill. Nikki smiles from the corner, where she is still nipping her bourbon. "Told you," she says as a gorgeous husky dog looks up and whines from where she has left the bourbon dripping onto her nose. "Sorry, Wolfie," she mutters, and I laugh with drunken abandon, even though I have not had anything to drink. The entire situation is too absurd. Then I hear Laura and Stef, whispering in the corner. Nik is more curious than I, and asks what it is about. "This guy!" Stef exclaims, fastening the buckle on her red sandals. "At the bar! Meg and Miche have him cornered... and boy is he hot!" Laura and Eris confirm her story, and Bunnie is immediately at the edge of the curtain, peering out. "They'd better not be talking about my Steven," she mutters under her breath. "Oh for God's sake, Bunnie, get over it," Nik hiccups. "Nobody wants your Steven 'cept you. We're all too scared of you to think otherwise." But Bunnie doesn't hear her. "Fox," she calls me in a stage whisper. I shiver at the thrill that runs through me when she calls me by his name. It makes me want him to be here now, this minute. I join her at the curtain, peeking through. My breath catches in my throat, and Bunnie knows with one look at my eyes. "It's him." *** The man down the counter from me reaches over the bar to grab Meg's shirt collar. "I meant a kiss from you, Angel," he growls drunkenly, pulling her toward him. I am ready to leap to her defense like the gentleman I try to be, but she beats me to it. As her right fist connects with his chin in a swift, solid uppercut, I realize it is a good thing she can take care of herself, as I am already tottering. Lady catches me by a handful of my shirt as I am tipping backwards. "Whoa, there, big fella," she grins. "Sit down and watch the show. Laura, Eris, and Stef are on first. See how you like them." I move to obey, my hand going out to catch myself on the bar as I teeter forward on the stool. The bar surface is sweaty and my hand slips, knocking over the shot glass full of tequila. Lady catches the rolling glass expertly, and puts it back in the rack. Meg is moving to get me a new one when a sleek, shiny tabby cat jumps onto the counter and begins lapping at the spilled liquor. "Pravda!" Meg scolds, and the cat meows in response. "Get down!" she hisses, pushing the tabby back down to the floor behind the bar. I turn from the scene as I hear the relentless pounding of drums and bass as the first three dancers start a routine to "My Sharona" on the three-sided stage... They're good, but my mind aches only for the girl who left me behind. This is too much. As the first act ends, a long- legged blonde comes out, slowly peeling off bits of clothing to some sultry tune. I have had enough. What would she think if she found me here, entirely too drunk for only having had two double-shots of tequila? I get up to leave, and a hand falls on my shoulder, pushing me back down. "Hi," says a sweet-faced young girl. She is obviously a dancer here. Her style of dress seems incongruent with the innocence of her face. "Foxy wanted me to give you this." She hands me a thin sheet of paper and gets up to leave. I open the paper. It has only one word. "Stay." Against my better judgment, I do just that. *** On the advice of my colleagues, I choose Hendrix's "Foxy Lady" for my routine. But as I think about it again, I shake my head. "No, no," I say. "How about Eddie Money?" Bunnie gasps in mock horror, as does Sassy where she is downing another Corona – one of the ones she keeps in her own private stock under the bar. "No!" Sassy says playfully. "That man shall never sing in Slap's!" I merely glance out on the stage to where Lucky is gyrating to a Latin beat. "I'm wasted by the way she moves… no one ever looked so fine..." "Aw c'mon... I need him to," I say softly, and Bunnie's eyes show sudden understanding. "I take it you know who you want to go home with," she teases me, smiling. Sassy relents with a pout. "All right. But just this once." *** I don't know how many acts have gone by... nor how many of the dancers have tried to win my favors. I haven't even left the bar, but they still tease, cajole, and demand my tips. None of them have succeeded. The songs have run from the obscure to the overplayed, and one has broken my heart. The one playing right now. The girl has chosen Eric Clapton's "She's Gone," and I cannot help but remember hearing that on the way home from Oregon the day after she left. "She puts my heart in my mouth, my soul in its place... she can make me feel so good just by looking in my eyes... she takes me to the edge, takes me to the skies..." I call Lady over for another shot of tequila. Meg has refused to give me any more; she says I'm already too plastered to be of any good to any girl I happen to take a fancy to. Lady pours, and asks curiously, "Ya like that one?" I make a noncommittal noise somewhere deep in my throat and finger the shot glass. "That's Nik." I nod, in a stupor, staring dumbly at the glass full of tequila. "Foxy's next." Not too much later, I hear the opening strains of a song I swore I would forget as soon as the 80's made it past. Remembering Lady's words that this was the girl who calls herself Desert Fox, I raise my blurry vision to the stage, where Nik's pole is still set up. I am curious to see this girl who has my name. There is no girl there and I reach for my shot glass. When my eyes flick back over to the stage, what I see has an almost sobering effect on me, and I hope Meg was wrong about my drunkenness as it relates to being "useful." Her red hair is just past her shoulders now, and her creamy white skin is in cool contrast to the slick black leather she is wearing. I take in her appearance with disbelief. I start at the five-inch stiletto heels on her shiny black knee boots, up her bare legs to the unbelievably short leather miniskirt. Her pale- as-porcelain midriff is a slender curve up into the black leather halter-top, which is even now coming off to reveal a black lace bra. I toss back the shot to clear my head for a moment. "Ya like her, hm?" Meg grins, refilling my glass even though she has sworn that she would not serve me another drop. "Looks like I won, my friend," she tells Lady. I barely hear the girls behind the bar. I barely hear the music. All I am aware of are her eyes, her gaze, piercing me. She locks one leg around the pole and my mouth drops open as my straight-laced partner begins executing one of the finest performances I have seen in my life. As she spins, her legs entwined around the pole in the air, her hair dragging the floor, I suddenly hear the song that is playing and feel my heart burst into flames. "Take me home tonight... I don't wanna let you go 'til you see the light... take me home tonight... listen honey..." She's coming home to me. *** My dance is over, and I am slick with sweat. I scoop up my skirt and halter top from the floor, careful not to lose all the tips that are stuffed into my bra and thong. I am still close to the edge of the stage and am startled when a hand tucks a bill into my bra between my breasts and lingers there momentarily. "I'd like an encore sometime," a husky voice, like smoke on water, says softly and I close my eyes, feeling his fingers slip away. It is unprofessional to react here, in front of the customers, so I slip backstage, not letting myself look at him for fear I will melt in his arms then and there. I begin tugging out the bills, the usual tens, twenties, and the occasional fifty... I leave the one he put there for last, and smile as I tug it out. The other girls saw him – the gorgeous man from the bar -- tip me and are looking over my shoulder curiously as I unfold it. There is a collective gasp as I unfold it. "Foxy!" Nik says in a voice slightly tinged with jealousy. It is a five hundred dollar tip. "He just prepaid for his private encore," I whisper softly. *** She just walked away as if I were another customer. My face burns with the shame of it. Did I misinterpret everything? Did she not want me to come for her? I am going back to the bar, the hangover already beginning, to pay my tab. I hear whistles and catcalls behind me, but pay no attention. I am not in the mood to watch anyone else dance. As I am reaching for my money, a delicate hand slaps down a fifty dollar bill on the counter. "Set us up, Meg," comes a voice I know all too well, edged with a steel I'm not sure I recognize. "I'm going to drink him under the floor." I look at her in shock, seeing that she is in the halter top and mini skirt. "Hello," she says in a voice that sends tremors up my spine... and elsewhere. "I'm Foxy." I give in, playing along. "Well hello," I grin back. "I'm Fox." "What's your poison?" Meg asks, her eyes belying an eagerness to see this drinking contest. "Cuervo Gold," she says, not taking her eyes from my face. We're both going to be wasted. *** Sassy alerts me to the fact that he is gathering up his jacket and looks to be leaving. I can't let him leave. Yanking on my skirt and top, I saunter out into the bar, knowing I've put myself in danger. But no one dares touch me, though there are many lewd comments and howling propositions. I ignore them, reaching the bar as he is about to pay his tab. I do the first thing that comes to my mind. I slap down one of my tips, a fifty, and command Meg to set us up. My eyes lock onto his face, and my heartbeat slows to almost nothing. I introduce myself coyly, and he responds with a glint of hazel eyes and a wolfish grin. My heart stops, then bursts into action again as he says in what almost amounts to a low growl, "I'm Fox." I can see the sheen of liquor still on his lower lip, and lick my own lips in a nervous gesture, trying to keep myself from kissing him right then. I want to eat him alive. *** The drinks are set up, and we turn to face the bar, side by side. Her back is ramrod straight, and I find myself wanting to caress her spine with my hands, my lips, my teeth... I shake myself and get back to the business at hand. "What goes to the winner?" I ask her. She grins, catlike, and doesn't look at me. "If you win," she says in that low, sexy voice, "you get your private encore." She pauses to line her six shots up in front of her, a lime at the end of the row. Still organized, still methodical. Some things never change, even in a strip bar. "And if you win?" I press. She looks at me then, and my breath stops somewhere in the base of my throat. "If I win... I get anything I want." "Sounds like a deal," I say, my tongue suddenly thick. I hope she wants the same thing I do. *** He reaches for his shot glass, and I put my hand over his. I am startled to feel the intensity of his reaction as he jerks at my touch. I shake my head, and he gives me a questioning look. "Teeth and lips only," I tell him. This is my favorite game. My favorite way to play. I know I've surprised him, and it only makes me want to keep on surprising him. All night long, in fact. "All right," he says finally. He leans over and braces his arms on the counter. I am just a little too short, and climb up to kneel on a stool. I feel my skirt riding up in the back and, ironically, blush modestly at the noises from the men behind me. What is modesty now? I wonder, but I can't help blushing anyway. "Ready?" Michelle calls from where she has joined Meg behind the counter. Everyone is watching us – Desert Fox, the newest star at Slap Happy's, and this gorgeous man that every single girl has been drooling over since he walked in. And he's mine, I tell myself wickedly. All mine. "Set?" Meg continues, and the entire bar explodes with, "GO!" I grasp the first glass between my teeth and toss my head back with force. As the alcohol hits my stomach and my brain feels the effect almost immediately, I catch his movement in the corner of my eye. I drop the glass to the counter and continue. "Drink, drink, drink!" the crowd chants. And we do. I am one glass ahead of him. I finish just in time to see him grab his last glass and toss it back. He does it with such skill, such finesse, that I feel a shiver run down my spine that has nothing to do with the tartness of the lime I have just begun sucking on. He shakes his head forcefully, as if in reaction to the sting of the alcohol. "You win," he says in a quiet, husky voice that makes me want to take him right there, on the floor. Or on the bar. I take the lime I have been sucking on and offer it to him. He leans forward, sucking it without taking it from my hand. "Let's get out of here," he whispers as the bar, the girls, the alcohol and the entire world fades from view. I agree. *** When I have a half-moment to think clearly, as he is paying the taxi driver, I have a sudden surge of pity for the poor man for what he was forced to witness on the drive to Mulder's hotel room. I don't have time to dwell on this, however, as he is suddenly in front of me again, his mouth sweetly possessive of mine. After all, it has been exactly nine months since I saw him last. "Fox," I murmur around his kiss, smiling at the liberty of taking his first name. "Let's go inside." He seems to have not heard me for a moment, then abruptly pulls out of the kiss long enough to get us inside, to the elevator. Our kisses are frenzied, hurried, drunkenly sloppy. We barely make it to his room, and I'm glad he is only on the second floor instead of the eighth. We might not have made it off the elevator. As it is, the door to his room bangs open and he slams it shut with a violence that is slightly alarming. His fingers are pressed bruisingly into the skin of my lower back, and he is sucking and nipping at my lower lip as he backs me into the bedroom. He is steering me toward the bed, but I suddenly take over, pulling out of the kiss and pushing him away. His surprises aren't over yet. Not if I can help it. *** I am frightened for a split second as she pushes me back. Is she having second thoughts? I ignore my drunken desire long enough to ask her, "Are you sure about this, Scully? I mean... I don't want to take advantage of you..." She laughs at me, and I feel a thrill all through me at the sound. "I am more likely taking advantage of you," she says softly. "And I'm not apologizing for it." She puts her hands on my shoulders and pushes me down to my knees. My face is level with her stomach, and she leans over, putting her nose tip to tip with mine and giving me an excellent view of her cleavage, although I can't look away from her piercing blue eyes long enough to take advantage of it. "Scully," I stammer, not sure exactly what I am going to say, but feeling compelled to say something. "Quiet," she tells me. "I won. We do what I want." I shut my mouth obediently, but can't resist the smile that comes across my lips. She's either really changed, or really drunk. "Your wish is my command." Her eyes are hungry, as if she is going to eat me alive at any moment. She tugs my shirt over my head, and her voice is breathy with desire. I feel the flames of it all through my body as she rasps, "Kiss me, Mulder." *** He obliges me with force, and our movements bear no tenderness, no concession to the warmth and security of the love that has been building between us for years. The only thing we have now is the desperation of nine months' separation. Nine months I have had to watch men want me and imagine Mulder's desire instead of theirs. Nine months to imagine how I'll give myself to him, each passing week adding an infinite amount of desperation to the picture until tonight I know it will be almost painfully hard and cruelly fast. I've often known that pain can only be replaced by another pain – darkness by a deeper darkness. So it is that the ache of our souls seeks its death in the painful nips of his teeth on my breasts, the sharp pinch of my fingernails across his back; and the darkness of my soul sinks to its oblivion in the darkness of his eyes which are almost black in the half-light of the Phoenix skyline that filters through the window. It is unclear to me how we have managed to divest ourselves of clothing so quickly... right now, when he takes pause to stand up and I hook the heels of my boots around his back – rewarded to see a ferocious, delighted grin on his face – I have a vague recollection of his agile and talented tongue and teeth unfastening the front clasp of my leather halter top as his long fingers unerringly flipped open the back clasp of the barely- there lace bra I wore underneath. It almost makes me wonder how often he practiced with bra clasps... at least, it would if I had any energy left to wonder with. As it is, my leather miniskirt is bunched up around my waist – did I mention patience is not one of his strong suits? – and my thong panties are somewhere across the room, and I'm fairly certain they are no longer in one piece. My legs are crossed over his back, my body is pressed fully against his hot skin and my back is pressed in erotic contrast against the coldness of the wall. It is then that we realize belatedly that he has yet to take off his jeans. "Mul-deerrr..." I murmur in what was meant to be a giggle but comes out as more of a moan. "I know," he whispers raggedly, trying to figure out how to remedy this situation without losing the contact we already have, because that is not an option. "Let me," I purr, sliding my hands over his sculpted chest, not pausing for gentleness as I scrape my nails over his nipples, and pop open the button of his jeans that rest just below me, allowing the heel of my hand to brush over my clit as I push the zipper down, taking care to let him in on the touch-sensations too. The look in his eyes tells me that some vague part of his mind wonders how often I have had the opportunity to practice this maneuver. I grin, cat-like. He ain't seen nothin' yet. With that pesky little problem of the clasp taken care of, I wrap my arms tightly around his neck, pulling all my weight onto my arms, and his arms slide around my back to help support me. Being careful not to mar his perfect skin with the sharp edges, I hook the stiletto heels of my boots into the waistline of his jeans and boxers and push them down slowly until my legs are fully extended and the clothing falls to the floor with the rasp of denim and the whisper of silk. My slowness is not meant for tenderness. It is meant to add to the sado-masochistic theme that has overtaken us, but the feral hungry gleam in his eyes has almost destroyed my self-control in this matter. Moving a little more quickly, I return my legs to their locked position behind his back. The heels lock together nicely, and I wonder if I'll ever be able to get untangled again. Then I lose my faculty for such hypothetical thoughts as I feel the sensation of his hands releasing me and hitting the wall on either side of me with vicious force. I was not prepared, and feel the bottom drop out from under me as I lose my support. Before I actually have the chance to follow gravity downwards, though, I am slammed into the wall by his mouth devouring mine, his torso crushing mine, and his hips crashing into mine with bone-jarring intensity. We stop to gasp for a moment, and in that moment I am met with a sensation I had missed in the earlier tidal wave of pleasured-pain. I manage to open my eyes and look at him, silently begging him to open his eyes and look at me. He does, and I smile as my gaze draws his soul inside of me to keep the rest of him company. He fills my spirit in the same way he fills my body; his emotions move through me like ocean water as he begins to thrust deeply. This is my romance. This is my big thing. This is my real dream... and I hope it never goes smash. *** We have ceased to become two separate "I"s. We are now only "we," as our bodies move together in flawless rhythm. Our voices mingle and blend in perfect harmony as our bodies shudder together in the joy of "sucking the nectar of being found." We have found ourselves in each other. Neither of us are now lost, for we are "one, but we're not the same... We get to carry each other" and let love "carry us through." *** I wake up, incredible sensations flooding through my body. I open my eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the pre-dawn darkness... and am incredibly disoriented. Where am I? This is not my hotel room in Phoenix, Arizona. This is my hotel room from nine months ago, in Bellefleur, Oregon. It was a dream. Every last bit of it was a dream. My heart breaks and I choke out a sob. At least she never ran away from me... but she also never came to me as Desert Fox, a laughing, passionate lover. As I close my eyes against the tears, I hear a rustling beside me, and she moves to embrace me. "Mulder?" she asks questioningly as she lays her head against my chest. My breath catches. Is that really her? I open my eyes. "Scully..." I rasp, tangling my hands in her hair. "Are you all right?" she asks, her voice hoarse with early morning disuse. "I..." what can I tell her? I certainly can't confess the way my dream ended. "I dreamed you left me." She laughs, nuzzling into my neck. "Oh Mulder," she sighs, and I am taken off-guard by her behavior. This is more in keeping with the Scully of my dream. "You didn't dream that." Her voice is lucid, liquid heat pouring over my body. "Although it was rather dreamy when I came back, wasn't it?" Bad puns aside, I want to believe her, but I can't help thinking it was a dream. I look around the room. "Scully... we're in Oregon." She tilts her head curiously. "What? No we're not. We're in Phoenix." She looks around suddenly, and startles. "What is it?" I ask, concerned. "My hair!" she breathes. "My hair was... much longer..." She fingers the short tresses and glances around the room. "Where... where are my boots?" I grab my watch. It confirms my suspicions. The events of the last nine months have all been a dream... but apparently it was one we both had. I show it to her, and she breathes deeply. She sits up, suddenly cold and shut off. "Scully," I entreat her, aware that she is embar- rassed at her behavior now that we haven't shared the passionate moments she thought we had. "I had the same dream you did. I suspect our dreams are not only identical, but that we were in the same dream, together." She looks at me, tears in her eyes. "And yes, it was very much like a dream when you came back." I find myself filled with sudden regret that it was just a dream. "I knew learning to pole-dance couldn't be that easy in real life." I can't help it. I laugh at her, and kiss her lips softly, more than halfway expecting to taste the remains of lime and tequila. We lie there for an hour or more, each of us going over the details of the dream. It confirms my theory – our dreams were connected. They were the same dream. Different parts, but the same one. She snuggles in close to me and smiles. "Mulder?" "Yeah?" "I gotta ask. Whose dream do you think this was?" I am confused. She senses this and clarifies. "I mean... was I in your dream, or were you in my dream?" I laugh. "I don't know," I tell her, kissing her hair. "I have to confess to having dreamed of you like that before..." She pulls back slightly, fixing me with what is supposed to be a reproving stare, but I see the laughter and flattery in her eyes. "Not as a stripper, although I wish I had thought of it before now," I tease, and she pushes ineffectually at my shoulder. "Well," she clears her throat. "I'm certain that would have never been my idea." She tries to pull away and I tighten my arms around her. She relaxes with a sigh and snuggles back in. I am so glad to have her home, even if she never really was gone. *** It feels so wonderful to be in Mulder's arms, after what I still feel like was nine months of separation. Even if it was only a dream, it seems to be reality since we both dreamed it. I have nearly fallen asleep with contentment when his whisper breaks into my consciousness. "I want you to know, if you did leave, there is nothing that would keep me away from you." He nuzzles my hair and takes a deep breath before continuing. "I would find you, at all costs. I can't stand losing you." I blink back tears, my heart on the bursting point with love for this man. I untuck my head from under his chin and pull back enough to look him in the eyes. "I would never leave you," I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. "I can't live without you." I bring a lingering kiss to his forehead and feel him relax into me. His breathing evens out, and I know he has fallen asleep. I cuddle back into his embrace, drowsy myself, and feel his arms contract around me in his sleep. Somehow I know, whatever we find when we go looking for that UFO in the Bellefleur forest in a few hours, we will always be together. Always. xXxXxXxXx THE END xXxXxXxXx AUTHOR'S NOTES: No, my pseudonym did not come from Desert Fox/the bartender Meg. This IS an old story, one written before I'd settled on a pseudonym (pretty sad, really, when you consider how obviously recent it is), but the two are completely unrelated. Sort of. Meg is meant to be me, but... whatever. :) Anyway, hope you liked it... write me and let me know what you thought. mrschatterly@hotmail.com _________________________________________________________________ Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp ------------------------ Yahoo! Groups Sponsor ---------------------~--> Terrorist Attacks on U.S. - How can you help? 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