"Fade"

by Ann K

For summary, disclaimers, etc., see chapter one. Author's notes at the end of chapter six.

All chapters of "Fade" can be found at my website, Fanfiction by Ann K

Chapter Five (5/6)

I.

Her eyes were heavy still, even as the first edges of dawn made their way into the loft, rousing her from her sleep. Sometime during the night, she had found her discarded shirt and underwear. But her legs were bare, and she pulled them beneath the blanket, the chill of the morning air giving her pause. As she opened her eyes, with regret, hesitant to leave the peaceful world of sleep and dreams, and Mulder, she took stock of her surroundings.

Her legs ached only slightly, and her neck was a little stiff from falling asleep on Mulder's bare chest. She wasn't sure how long she slept there, but, when she awoke, the night was inky black, and she could barely make out the features on his face. He had been relaxed, his breathing slow and even, and she never wanted her eyes to close. He was beautiful, and she had found him, and something seemed right again.

Regretfully, she did roll off him, but, even in his sleep, he gave a small moan of protest, quickly encircling her with his arms and pulling her closer to him. So, she slept, with peace.

He wasn't there when she reached to her side. She panicked, sitting up straight. He wouldn't have left her, not again, not after everything that happened.

And he hadn't. Instead, he was standing by the open loft door, leaning against the aged wood, clad only in his worn jeans. One bare foot was propped over the other, and he had his hands slung low in his pockets. She admired him, her own Greek god, and with her eyes, lovingly traced the line of his back, the way his muscles stretched and tapered off into his jeans. She knew his body so well, and last night, she treasured discovering it all over again.

"Lyon?" she said softly, standing unsteadily to her feet and wrapping the blanket around her bare legs, unwilling to take the time to find her slacks. He didn't turn around. "Aren't you cold without your shirt?"

Again he was silent, and then he dropped his head, and she could hear a strange emotion in his voice, one she couldn't quite define. "I didn't want to take it off you," he finally answered.

Confused, she looked down, realizing that, in the black of night, she had slipped on his shirt, which now hung down to her knees.

She walked up, reaching her arms around him, draping the blanket over them both, and kissed him on the neck. He didn’t move, didn’t react, and after a long moment, she began to get worried. What if he was angry with her? What if he had regrets? What if he wished he could have left her asleep in the loft this morning, so that they both would have had a moment to regroup, to adjust to the accelerated pace of their relationship?

“Lyon?” she asked again, more tentatively, her lips brushing against his neck.

“Oh, Scully,” he said, and there was something different in the way he spoke her name. She recognized that he was trembling, and she panicked when she realized that they were sobs. Before she could speak, he turned quickly in her arms, nearly knocking her off her feet, and began to kiss her, worshipping her, showering her face with kisses. He brought both hands up to her face, and she could feel the wetness on his cheeks, his own tears.

He said her name, over and over again, chanting it with reverence and sadness and awe.

“Lyon? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” She thought of every possibility, and felt the cold fear grip her again. Please, God. Please don’t let this have been a mistake.

He finally slowed his kisses and simply held her in a loose embrace, her face pressed against his bare chest. “I saw you last night, Scully.”

She was confused. Of course, he saw her. She revealed herself to him with wanton abandon, and nothing had ever felt so right. But slowly the pieces came together. “You dreamt of me?” she asked him, unsure of why he was so upset, so emotional. Please, God, she prayed again, this time with more fervent despair. Don’t let him leave me again. It was a desperate plea.

And then he spoke the words, the words that changed everything, the words that frightened them both. “It wasn’t a dream, Scully,” he said in a low timbre, his breath teasing the hair on her neck. He spoke slowly and deliberately, trying to make her understand. “It wasn’t a dream, Scully,” he said again, pulling back to see her, tracing his fingers lovingly along her cheek. “It seemed almost like a memory.”

Memories.  

Her eyes widened, and she couldn’t think of anything to say. The delayed reaction hit her a second later, and the words rushed over her, her own tidal wave of awareness. He saw a vision of their previous life together. Somehow, he was remembering who she was, who he was. Oh, god.

“What did you see, Lyon?” She had no idea what to call him, and he winced at her uncertainty, pulling away from her, pacing along the piles of hay stacked against the wall. They were both raw, ultra sensitive to the words and emotions that anchored them together, to that moment in time. Whatever was happening, whatever happened to Mulder during the night, had changed everything for them both.

“I saw you, Scully, standing in long hallway. You looked so tired, and so frightened, and all I wanted to do was comfort you, to make you somehow whole again. But I knew that I was part of the problem, and how could I fix that? I couldn’t let you go.” His voice dropped a few octaves until she could hardly hear him, but she instantly knew what he was describing. 

Dear god. Mulder was recounting the moment in the hallway outside of his apartment, when he nearly kissed her, desperate for her not to leave for Salt Lake City. He remembered.

He couldn’t stop, the words gushing forth in a torrent of repressed fear and anger. “You and I were standing in front of each other, and you were crying, and I felt like the biggest bastard in the world because I knew I was the one who made you cry. I was so scared I was going to lose you again.”

He stopped, unsure, and she could only look at him, tears glistening in her eyes. He remembered. It wasn’t a dream. It was a memory, a clear memory of their life together, a memory of Fox Mulder, the man who, up until two days ago, was a stranger to Will Lyon. Now the unthinkable for him, that they were one and the same.

Mulder saw the fear in her eyes, and walked towards her, holding onto her free hand. His voice dropped a fraction, and she swore she saw the ghost of a smile float across his face. “Tell me about that moment, Scully, because I know it was real. I knew it last night, because I could smell your perfume, and felt your tears on my hands when I wiped them away." 

Her tears fell freely now. Mulder was recounting the night she almost left him behind, the night that set forth the dreadful course of events where he turned the world upside down to find her. It was the night she knew, with amazing clarity, just how much he meant to her. And he remembered. Oh, god, Mulder. 

She lost track of time, and then she was sitting in his lap, his chin resting on her head. “I don’t understand, Lyon,” she said, and she felt him shake his head. "I don’t either,” he answered, tightening his arms around her. “And I don’t even have to ask you if it was true, if you and Mulder shared that moment. I see it in your face.” Neither of them understood what was happening. You and Mulder, he said, and she realized he couldn’t put the pieces together, could not fathom the unthinkable. 

“It wasn’t a dream, Scully. It was a memory.” A long pause, and she wanted so badly to comfort him, to give him the answers he so desperately needed. She needed them, too. She needed to understand why he was taken from her, and how, in the course of a single day, she found him, and he remembered. It was a small moment, a fraction of the kaleidoscope of memories they shared, but for now, it was enough. 

“At first, I thought my mind was deceiving me, that I wanted so badly to be Mulder for you that I convinced myself I actually might be. I want to be enough for you. But it was so real. I lived it.” 

He lived it. Just as she did. When she first started working with Mulder, when she believed the lies that were told to her as truths, she kept a journal, a memoir of sorts about her experiences. As time progressed, those experiences became more bizarre, too terrifying to make real with words, so she only recorded them in her mind. 

She wanted to run through that list, day by day, to see if he remembered. But what was their truth? What happened to him? She could see the uncertainty in his eyes, and she had no answer, no weapon to fight the evil that lurked in the shadows, the evil that took Mulder away from her and made him another man. But they, whoever they were, couldn’t take away the memory of one fleetingly perfect moment.  

She only wanted to have Mulder and Will beside her, sitting near a gurgling Texas stream, watching the sunrise.

The sound of a car horn in the driveway caused them both to jump. Mulder got to his feet, walking a few steps to see who arrived at the Wilkins. She was embarrassed, sitting in a stranger’s barn without any pants on. She quickly changed shirts, lingering over Mulder’s soft cotton with regret, and found her slacks, crumpled beneath a blanket. She slid them on, brushing out the wrinkles and picking off the stray wisps of hay. Taking a deep breath, she mentally braced herself for the day, for whatever reality she and Mulder were to find outside of the loft. 

Mulder wore a confused expression as he walked back to her, slipping his shirt on and sliding on his boots. “It’s the county sheriff,” he explained as he took her hand, leading her over to the ladder. As he stepped aside to help her down, he said her name, and she looked up into his dark, expressive eyes. “I love you,” he simply said, and she nodded.  

“I know,” she answered him, and she did know. 

“Lyon,” the sheriff announced as they walked out of the barn. He was standing on the Wilkins’ front porch, one hand on his hip, his face shadowed by a large cowboy hat.  

“Sheriff Bensimon,” Mulder responded, holding her hand tightly as they walked up to the house. “Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins aren’t here, Sheriff. They went down to Austin for the weekend.” 

The sheriff gave her a curious glance, but said nothing. Instead, he took off his hat and walked down the steps, joining them in the front yard. Scully held onto Mulder’s hand tighter. The sheriff wore his law enforcement persona well. His holster hung low on his hips, and the badge on his chest glittered in the morning sunlight. She had a fleeting moment of fear, that somehow he was here to take Mulder away from her again. 

“Actually, I was here looking for you, Lyon. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.” At his words, the fear in Scully’s heart grew, and she vowed that Mulder would never be taken from her again. She simply wouldn’t allow it. 

Mulder showed no reaction to the Sheriff’s announcement. He stood very still, his expression bland and emotionless. She had not come all this way to lose Mulder again. Not just for the two of them, but for Will. He needed his father, and she swore she would give that to him. 

Oblivious to their quiet drama, the Sheriff watched them with a steady gaze. “It’s about the Wilkins, Lyon. They’re dead, killed in a car crash late last night near Austin.” 

Scully closed her eyes, somehow knowing that the proverbial other shoe had just dropped.

II.

It never rained this much in Texas, at least during this time of year. She learned this from the handful of farmhands who gathered at the Wilkins’ home that afternoon. Their faces were tired, and tanned, and they reminded her of Mulder, with their dusty Levis and well-worn boots. Or at least the new incarnation of Mulder.

Scully sat alone on the front porch swing, barefoot, tracing the worn outline of the cracked wood with her feet. It was afternoon, and the ominous clouds which were gathered near the treeline at noon had finally erupted, bringing forth a torrent of rain, the large drops slapping against the dirt driveway, quickly turning it into a river of mud.

Make it real, she willed silently. Make this moment real, the warm rain falling from the heavens, the summer breeze, the way the trees in the front yard swayed and danced in the wind, the rivulets of water streaming off the side of the porch. Make Mulder real.

She saw the truth falling together, although she knew that a certain element of the truth had died alongside a Texas highway to Austin, in the Wilkins’ truck. Even if they had no idea how Will Lyon came to be, they knew how he walked onto their ranch, how he worked their lands and tended to their herds. They knew, but they were gone, their answers silent, fading away.

Were they a part of the deception? Did it matter?

The swing swayed gently as Mulder sat down beside her, his eyes betraying his exhaustion and sadness.

“You okay?” she asked, not knowing what else to say. Their emotions were sensitive, and she wanted nothing more to walk out into the rain, into the surrounding pastures, and simply be alone. That would have meant leaving Mulder, however, and she wasn’t prepared to do that.

“I guess so,” he roughly replied, staring intently at the floor. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, Scully. In the past two days, my life has been completely turned upside down. I don’t understand anything anymore.”

She was angry at what had been done to them. Damn angry, and she wondered vaguely again if things would ever be the same. “The Wilkins were good people, Scully,” he continued. “They gave me a roof over my head, and respectability. And they helped you find me.”

But what part did they play in the deception? The morning she stood in the Wilkins’ driveway seemed a lifetime ago. She wasn’t even the same person as she was then, the hopeful, determined woman who was so focused on finding Mulder. Now, she found him, yet the world was a slippery landscape of jumbled emotions and words unsaid.

“They did help me find you, Lyon,” she finally answered. She wanted him to understand. How much should she say? She wanted to tell him that she believed their deaths to be no accident, that they died because she came to Texas, that they died because he remembered a fleeting moment in a hallway years ago. But he wouldn’t understand. Not yet, not this soon, not when he still lived and breathed life as Will Lyon.

He didn’t meet her eyes. “And now they’re gone,” he responded, and she winced at the barely contained anger in his voice. She had heard that tone from him countless times before, always when they had their backs against the wall, always when it seemed as if their last chance was gone. It was different now, she wanted to scream. We have a child, and we have a chance to build a life together, one that was taken from us.

Mulder wanted answers, and she had never been able to deny him his quest for the truth.

Before she could speak, the front door opened, and Scully saw one of the ranch hands emerge. She herself had been in the house earlier that day, when the sheriff first arrived. Walking into the shadowed foyer, she had crinkled her nose, the smell reminding her of the houses of older people. Cooked vegetables, and dust from rooms whose doors were rarely, if ever, opened. Mulder didn’t belong in this place.

The young man walked over to them, and she vaguely remembered his name as Mark, in the rush of introductions that had been made in the late morning as the Wilkins’ crew arrived and heard the news. “Lyon,” he said, his boots heavy on the wooden porch, “I finished up those phone calls. The herd is ready to ship out on Monday, and Mr. Wilkins’ son finally called back. He’s on his way down here.”

Mulder never moved, his face impassive, and Scully knew he was slipping away, away from the joyous cocoon in the loft this morning, away from the possibility that he was Mulder, that they shared a life together. In his grief, and anger, he shut down the realm of the impossible, instead focusing on inhaling and exhaling. 

What was once lost was now found, though, and she could never bear the pain of that loss again.

Mark was looking at them expectedly, as if waiting for some sort of response. She glanced at Mulder, who sat staring out into the afternoon drizzle. “Thank you,” she murmured, unsure of exactly what to say. “I know the Wilkins would have appreciated it.” Mark looked at her curiously, as if trying to place her face, and then smiled tightly before walking off. 

The remainder of the men said their goodbyes, murmuring words of half-hearted comfort to each other. They seemed to Scully to be expressions people thought they should say at a moment like this, when casual conversation seemed inappropriate and no one wanted to seem insensitive.

Death seemed to bring out the most basic of human emotions. She supposed she had become immune to it, to the lifeless eyes staring back at her during countless autopsies. But when she saw it through the eyes of others, she was aware that it frightened people, the great unknown, the mysterious stranger who could come to call at any time. These men, for all their strength, were frightened to be associated, even through indirect proximity, with the one thing they could never defeat.

Her cell phone rang, the sound jarring amidst the drizzle of rain and perfunctory gestures. Mulder watched her curiously as she searched for the phone in the pocket of her slacks. Looking down, she saw it was Walter, her reminder of the outside world, of the way things were just a week ago. Dana Scully, single mother and former FBI agent. Somehow, she didn’t feel like the same person, much as she imagined Mulder felt.

The world would forever be different for the both of them.

“Walter,” she said as she answered the phone, and she watched Mulder’s eyes when he heard Walter’s name. Nothing. No moment of recognition. She felt her stomach twist, and realized it was all too soon for Mulder, too fast. Their intimacy had brought forth one memory, but she refused to believe the rest of those memories were not still there, behind the floodgates of another man’s life.

“I was worried, Dana,” Walter said. “I tried to call you a few times last night, but you didn’t answer. Did you find out anything? Did you find Mulder?”

“Yes,” was her only response, because she didn’t know where to begin. There was no possible way she could begin to describe the past two days to anyone. What she and Mulder had experienced was something that had changed them both.

The static in the background was the only sound for what seemed like minutes, neither she nor Walter knowing what to say. Mulder only watched her, quiet, his eyes shadowed. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him to say something, anything, so she would know what he was thinking. It saddened her, to realize that she could no longer read his thoughts, that the instinctual reaction to his emotions was gone.

“You found him,” Walter finally said. It was surreal to hear the words, and she knew Walter was disbelieving. “Is he alright? Is everything okay? Where the hell has he been?”

“Things are complicated right now,” she offered, not wanting Walter to think ill of Mulder. That was all she would say, knowing the rest would gradually emerge over time. “I’m fine. Right now, that’s all I can tell you.”

Walter was immediately concerned. “Do you need me to come down there, Dana?” The protectiveness in her voice brought unexpected tears to his eyes.

“No,” she responded immediately, wiping away the wetness as Mulder got to his feet, walking away from her, leaning against the railing on his elbows. “And don’t tell William,” she whispered. She wasn’t ready for Will to know. She wasn’t ready because she didn’t know what was going to happen in the next hour, the next day, the next week. “I’ll call him myself,” she asserted, not giving Walter a chance to protest. “I have to go,” she said, getting up to stand near Mulder, holding onto his hand.

His hand was intensely warm, and she savored the sensation. It was life, and it reminded her that he was here with her. She wasn’t doing this alone. Disconnecting the phone, she stood in silence. The rain was finally beginning to slack off, the large drops diminishing to a steady haze. The air smelled clear, fresh, dancing over her face with the afternoon breeze. The grass, though still damp with rain, glistened beneath the emerging sun, and she relished the sight, the fact that Mulder was standing beside her to see it.

“I hope everything’s okay,” he said, nodding vaguely in the direction of the phone. If you only knew, she thought, shrugging her shoulders in response.

“Things between us will never be simple, will they?” It was Mulder’s question, but he already knew the answer. She knew the connection that brought them together. She knew that Will was his child. She knew that the death of the couple who he cared for was part of a larger plan, something he could not yet process. Something she could not understand herself.

“I need to have things arranged here,” he said, “for when Jerry gets into town. He’s the Wilkins’ son. I don’t know what he’s going to want to do. The cattle have to be shipped out, the men have to be paid –”

When he paused, she wanted to scream at him about the insignificance of the damn cattle, when they were so close to the truth. And then she realized she sounded exactly like him, back in the days when he was driven by a force even he could not define.

“Yes,” she finally said. “There will be a lot to do.”

He kissed her suddenly, an unexpected ferocity to his embrace. “I haven’t forgotten this morning, Scully. I haven’t forgotten that memory, that feeling.” Oh, Mulder. Don’t forget, because it’s all we have for the time being. 

“I’ll drive you back to the motel,” he announced, pulling away from her, turning his face so she would not see his tears. “I imagine we would both like a hot shower, a chance to get cleaned up.”

“Okay,” she whispered. They were leaving this place, this spot of discovery and heartache and deception, and she was glad. They needed time to heal, to lick the wounds of their latest escapade.

He kissed her lightly on the lips, murmuring, “It’ll be okay, Scully.” And she believed him, for what other choice did she have?

She should call her mother, who was doubtless worried over her impromptu drive to Texas. She should call her son, to let him know she was okay and that she was thinking of him. But she simply stood there, motionless on a dead man’s porch, and watched Mulder walk to the barn, through the last of the storm.

III.

He flipped through the telephone book, passing through the Albertsons and the Criglers and the Hollidays and the Joneses. He stopped at Lyon, recognizing the first entry as that of Larry Lyon, who lived in a small house off Main Street. His wife had passed away a few months ago, and the handful of times he saw Mr. Lyon in the streets, his eyes were rimmed with red and his breath smelled distinctly of bourbon.

Lyon wondered what it would be like to love someone so much that, when they were taken from you, life simply didn’t seem worth living. Reality paled in comparison to the dull numbness of alcohol. He thought of Scully, how she searched for Mulder, her strength never wavering, and he wondered how this woman, this invincible woman, came to be. 

And then there was his name. Will Lyon, Rural Route 26. That was the Wilkins’ address. He never got any mail there, except for the odd solicitation or the revival announcement from the local Baptist Church. He never cared much, to be honest. Mail and phone calls and visits were inconsequential when you didn’t give a damn about anyone but yourself.

But now he did, a redheaded woman who silently believed he was another man, and who loved him beneath the Texas stars. Now there was a reason to give a damn, he thought, a shiver dancing down his spine, because he was sure the moment he told Scully she was everything, that she saved him, was real. He lived it. In that moment, he was Mulder.

The door to the room opened, and Scully entered, balancing a drink in each hand and a bag of chips under her chin. She shut the door with her foot, pushing it extra hard. Lyon wondered absently how old the door was, and how many more years it would take for the frame to warp completely in the warm Texas humidity. Like so many things in this town, time was wearing them away, reshaping them into a new form.

He should have gotten up to help her. But he couldn’t move from his position on the bed, where his legs were stretched out on the old bedspread and the town phone book lay open in his lap. He couldn’t take his eyes from her, savoring every detail, like a man dying of thirst who spots a clear stream in the distance.

Leaving her would kill him, but he had to leave her to save them both.

She wordlessly handed him his iced tea and they unwrapped their sandwiches. “Are you going to be okay, Lyon?” she finally asked him. He wanted to laugh at her, to tell her he really had no idea if he would ever be okay again. That he wasn’t sure who he really was, that the couple he once trusted were dead, that he felt he was somehow indirectly involved, that he loved her so goddamned much it hurt.

But that wouldn’t be fair, so he gave her a semblance of a smile before he replied. “I think so. You are here, and for the moment, that is enough.” He was proud of himself for speaking the truth, for the right words brought an answering smile from Scully. He noticed how the wrinkles near her eyes became more prominent as she smiled, and how the weariness, which haunted her expression since she came into town, now seemed more noticeable.

“What did you do, Scully, when you found out Mulder was gone?” He tortured himself with conjectures about that time, what she went through, finding out she was pregnant with a new life when she had no idea if Mulder was dead or alive. But he needed to know. The desire in him pulsated, twisted through his body, demanded satisfaction. He couldn’t explain it, but the thought of Scully alone, pregnant and desperate, blinded him.

“I looked for him,” she said simply, blinking, as if not understanding the question, and it was enough. He loved her so impossibly much that it nearly crippled him.

Which is why he had come to decision, as they drove the once familiar road back to Scully’s motel room. The town taunted him, laughing in the face of his confusion. He knew every stoplight, every business lining the dusty two-lane. But he wasn’t sure what was real. The memories of his forty-odd years were twisted, confused. He tried to understand if it was the normal wear of time, the way the wood of the motel creaked and the Wilkins’ front porch sagged, or if it was something more. If everything was fading for a reason. 

He had to know. He had to answer the questions for himself, for Scully and for Will. And he had to do it alone.

Scully finished her sandwich, crinkling the paper in her hands, and he knew he was a bastard. He had to protect her. She had no idea that he was leaving her. That, in a few short hours, he would walk out that battered door into the evening darkness in a desperate attempt to find the truth. Nothing would be the same for them until he knew.

He had to know who he really was, and until then, he refused to put Scully and her son in danger, refused to taint their life with his uncertain presence.

“I’m sorry about the Wilkins,” she said, and he watched her face as she spoke. “I know you found a home there, Lyon, and I know how important that was for you." 

Home. When he was a child, he would come in from school, and his mother would always be there to welcome him, her apron sprinkled with flour from whatever project she had going on in the kitchen. She would make him a sandwich, and he would sit on the back porch. When his parents died, a certain love died with him.

He always believed that was why his emotions were a sparse landscape, where nothing would take root. He traveled once towards the border, to South Texas, picking up some cattle with Mr. Wilkins, and he was fascinated with the flat desert and the mountains in the background. He saw himself.

And now he wondered if any of it was real, if his barren heart was because something was taken from him, something that was his and his alone, something he had only chosen to share with this beautiful woman who believed he was someone else.

He wondered if he believed it, too. 

“I think I’m going to take a shower now,” Scully said, grabbing the trash from the bed as she stood. She walked over to him, kissing him on the head, and every breath he drew as she stood over him was painful. It was a reminder of what might have been taken from him. “Do you need anything else?” she asked, resting her chin on the top of his head.

I need so much, Scully. I need you, I need answers, I need to find the truth that will make everything okay. “I’m fine,” he lied, and she believed him, because she wanted to do so.

He listened as she took off her clothes in the small bathroom, the sound of her slacks and her blouse hitting the tile. Lyon heard the water turn on, and he swore he heard a sigh. He imagined Scully standing underneath the water, letting it cascade down her back, her hair becoming damp.

A pounding began near his temples as he remembered Scully standing in that long hallway, frustration and heartache on her face. He knew she never cried. What brought forth those tears? Why was she leaving him that day? He was determined to remember. He was determined to give her back what she lost. But he could only do that by leaving her again.

Before he could doubt himself, Lyon was standing in the bathroom, the steam from the shower already blanketing the small space. He unzipped his jeans, adding them to the messy pile of Scully’s clothes. And he pulled the curtain back, and stepped inside.

“I wondered what was taking you so long,” she said, and he smiled.

“I’m an old man, Scully,” he said, intending to tease her, but becoming distracted by the way the water ran down her back, tracing the curve of her legs before hitting the tile. “But I could never turn down an invitation from the woman I love.”

“I don’t remember inviting you,” she began to reply, but he cut off her words with his mouth, kissing her with an urgency he felt from the moment the Sheriff arrived at the ranch that morning, from the moment he realized that he could not rest, not yet. She sighed beneath him, bringing her arms around him, pulling him under the warm stream.

Scully’s hands were everywhere, slick from the remnants of soap and shampoo, and, as they caressed him, she whispered his name in his ear. “I found you,” she said, stopping only to kiss him again, her tongue flicking against his teeth. He knew what she meant, that he couldn’t leave her, that she wouldn’t allow him to leave her again.

Didn’t she understand? Couldn’t she see that he wanted her, no matter who he might be, no matter who he used to be? There was something about this woman that beat in time to the rhythm of his heart, so essential to every breath he drew.

The sex was desperate, tinged with unstated declarations of possession and control, of loss and betrayal. Even as he turned her around, her hands pressed up against the slick tile, her hair hanging wet around her face, and entered her from behind, the warmth that was her essence sending a shiver through his body, he knew what he must do.

And so, after the water ran cold and their bodies were exhausted, after he lay spooned behind her in bed, telling how much he loved her and how much he needed her in his life, she slept. It was a fitful sleep, Scully’s hands clutched tightly around a pillow pressed to her naked skin. As much as he wanted to go to her, to comfort her, he only watched for what seemed to be an eternity, staring at her in the little light that came through the blinds.

Who was he? His life as Lyon and Scully’s stories of Mulder were intertwined, and he couldn’t tell where one stopped and the other began. He could only hold onto one moment, one moment when he knew he told her how much he loved her, and that she had saved him.

And then he walked into the darkness, careful to pull the door shut, always aware that time causes even the most formidable objects to fade away.

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Chapter Six