Title: Be My Valentine

Author: J. D. Rush

E-mail: yanksfan462@aol.com

Website: http:itak.slashcity.net

Category: Mushy Het Romance

Pairing: Frohike/Scully

Rating: PG for mild language

Summary: It's Valentine's Day, and Scully is stuck for a gift.

Disclaimer: Not mine.  Never mine, unless I can convince CC, 1013 and FOX to give them to me.  I'm not holding my breath.

Notes: Spoiler for one fleeting moment from "One Breath".  You fans will know what it is.

Be My Valentine

By: J. D. Rush

Thursday, February 14, 2001

DANA:

I tore into the kitchen like a bat out of hell and grabbed my lunch bag out of the fridge, barely taking notice of Frohike attempting to feed William his morning cereal, before I ran out of the room again.

"Hey, Dana--aren't you joining us for breakfast?" Mel called out.

"Breakfast?" I sniped, as I popped my head back around the corner.  "Mel--it's quarter-past eight!  I'm late.  I'm VERY late!  Why didn't you wake me up!?"

"Well, you were sleeping so well, and I know you've been tired lately and. . ."

"And now I'm late," I cut him off.  "Don't ever do that again."  Just the THOUGHT of the morning commute was giving me a headache.

He dropped his gaze towards the bowl of cereal and stirred it distractedly as he muttered, forlornly, "Sorry--thought I was doing something good."

Oh, yeah.  Serious headache coming on.  How can he make me feel so guilty over nothing?  Because it WAS over nothing.  And I had seriously overreacted. Sue me.  I'm not at my best before my first cup of coffee.

 "I'm sorry, too, Mel," I apologized.  "I didn't mean to snap at you like that.  Look, I don't have time right now--we'll talk tonight, okay?"

I didn't even wait for an answer--precious seconds were ticking away.  I snatched my coat off the rack in the hall, and just as I reached for my briefcase next to the telephone stand, I saw them:  a card and a small heart-shaped box of chocolates sitting on top of my attaché.  <Oh, God--no.  It's Valentine's Day.  SHIT!  I didn't think he went in for sappy, commercially produced romantic claptrap like this.>  "Frohike?" I asked, warily.  "What is this?"

He came around the corner, the baby on his hip, pretending to investigate.  "Don't know--but it looks like someone's sweet on you.  Why don't you read it and find out?"

Oh, jeez, I did NOT have time for this, but since I had already been a royal bitch to him, I really had no choice.  I opened the card--a silly little piece of fluff with teddy bears and hearts--and laughed when I saw whom it was from:  William F. Scully.  "Wow, he's got great penmanship for an infant," I commented.

"Must be one of those prodigies you hear about," he joked.

"Thank you.  Both of you."  I leaned over to give my son a kiss--or rather, I tried to.  William still wasn't very adept at eating his cereal, and both he and Mel were literally covered in it.  Frohike pointed to a spot on the baby's cheek and quipped, "Here's a clean spot."

I gave Will a kiss, and Mel one, too, while I was at it.  "See you boys tonight."  I turned to leave, getting halfway out the door when Frohike said, "Dana?"

I turned back.  "Mel--?  I. . ."

"I know--you're late," he finished.  "Here."  He handed me another Mylar sack, similar to my lunch bag.  "Danish and coffee."

If I hadn't been so late, I'd have hugged him, and never let go.  "Frohike, I owe you."

"Yeah, I'll add it to my tab.  Hey, Billy--wave bye-bye to mommy."  With Mel holding his little arm, and helping him out, he did, giving me a big two-toothed grin at the same time. 

It almost killed me to leave them like that.

* * * * * * * *

"Hey, Dana."

"Hi, Andie."  The cheerful blonde was sitting in the teacher's lounge when I entered, working on her daily New York Times crossword puzzle.  Andrea Sutton had been one my mentors when I first came to Quantico from med school, and she became almost like a sister to me.  We somehow managed to lose touch over the years, but one of the joys of this new job was the chance to be able to renew my friendship with her.

"We missed you at this morning's bull session.  Tomas brought in Krispy Kremes."

Damn.  I LOVE Krispy Kremes. (Well, the diet-fairy would be happy I missed out.) "Yeah, I was late.  Barely made it to class."

"Alarm didn't go off?"

"You could say that.  Mel didn't wake me up--said I needed my sleep.  Didn't even get a chance to eat breakfast and I'm STARVING!"  All I had put in my system so far was the coffee Frohike had packed for me, which I drank on the way to work over two hours ago.

"Well, there may be some donuts hanging around, but all the good gooey ones are gone."

"That's okay.  I just need a cup of coffee.  Mel packed me a Danish."

She just looked at me and smiled.  "That was sweet of him."

"Yeah, it was."  I went over to the microwave to warm up my pastry while Andie poured us some coffee.  "You wanna hear really sweet, though?  He got me a little candy heart and a card from my son."

"Now THAT is just too cute," she giggled.  "You're so lucky, Dana.  This Mel sounds like a great guy."

I felt a big smile crossing my face.  "I am.  And he is." 

The microwave 'pinged', and I grabbed my breakfast.  "You know, if we take this down to my office, we can go over those lecture notes I was telling you about."

"Works for me," Andie answered, already leading the way, mugs in hand.

We had no sooner gotten to my office and made ourselves comfortable when there was a knock on the cracked-open door.  A head poked into the gap--it was Dean, one of the security guards.  "Dr. Scully?  I hate to bother you, but these just arrived for you upstairs."  And with that, he walked into my office, holding a glass vase containing a dozen long-stemmed red roses.  I was too stunned to even say thank you as he turned and left.

Andie couldn't wait.  She pulled off the card and handed it to me.  "Who are they from?" she asked eagerly.

I held the little card between trembling fingers.  Who would send me roses for Valentine's Day?  Mulder?  Hardly.  He doesn't have a romantic bone in his body.  Skinner?  No.  Maybe for Mother's Day, but not for Valentine's Day.  And never roses.  I slipped the card from its little envelope, and stared incredulously at the inscription:

"To the classiest dame in town, from the luckiest man of them all."

                                                                                   --Frohike

"Well?  Who are they from?" Andie asked again, impatiently.

It took a moment for me to get my brain in gear and my mouth working.  "My. . . my husband," I finally managed to get out.

"Oh, my goodness!" Andie declared, obviously impressed.  "Dana, this one is a keeper!"

"But I. . .I didn't get him anything," I moaned in distress.  "I mean, I didn't think he went in for all this romantic nonsense."

"He never sent you flowers before?" she queried.

I thought back to when I was dying in the hospital. . .well, ONE of the times I was dying in the hospital.  Frohike had been the only person who had brought me flowers.  "Yes, he has," I admitted, "but I never thought he'd. . .oh, hell, what am I going to do?"

"Look, it's very simple," Andie told me, calmly.  "Just go down to Victoria Secrets and pick up a nice silk teddy."

"For my husband?" I yelped.

"No, silly--for you!  Hubby just gets to unwrap the gift, if you get my meaning," she said with a quick meaningful elbow jab to my ribs.

I gasped for air--and all I could think of is that I must've looked like a fish.  The thought that me and Frohike could. . . oh, God.  "Ahhh--maybe not.  I'll just pick up something on the way home for supper," I decided.  "That way he won't have to cook tonight."

"COOK!?!?  He COOKS for you, too?!?" she squealed, her voice going up a couple of octaves.

"Well, yeah.  He and the baby get home before I do," I explained.

"He picks up the child at day care for you?"  By now her voice was so shrill dogs could hear her a mile away.

"No--he, ah. . .he watches William during the day," I tried to clarify.  "He's in business for himself and. . ."

She stared at me for a beat, clearly thinking I was out of my mind, before she stated, slowly and deliberately, "Let me get this straight.  Your husband baby sits your child, cooks your meals, packs you breakfast because he lets you sleep late AND sends you a huge bouquet of roses for Valentine's Day? Oh, honey, forget the teddy. . ."

"Was planning to," I muttered.

"We're talking the whole Victoria Secret's line on this one--the bra, the panties, the stockings, the garters.  Should I cancel all your classes for tomorrow?  I have the feeling you might not make it in!" she chuckled as she gave me a knowing wink.

The thoughts running through my brain were shocking and exciting and thrilling and. . .oh, God!  My bubble bath dream immediately sprung to mind as I imagined it coming true.  Or maybe in the shower?  Or on the wet tiled floor?  Or maybe someplace normal, like a bed?  My bed?  Melvin Frohike in my bed?

Oh, yes.  On my frilly, feminine bed.  He'd take me and ravage me in an act of savage passion that would leave us both breathless and weak-kneed for a week. 

No, wait.  Not Mel.  He talks a good game, but if push came to shove--he'd make love to me.  Slow, gentle, tender love, unlike anything I'd ever felt before.  From the top of my head to the tips of my toes, he'd worship every inch of me as if I were a goddess.  He'd treat me like fine china, handling me with kid-gloves.  Gloves.  His gloves.  Yes.  He'd be wearing those little leather gloves.  Definitely the gloves.

"Dana, are you okay?"

"Huh?"

"You zoned out on me.  And you're so red, you look like you're going to pass out."

My hand flew up to my cheek to find it burning white-hot.  "Ah, Andie. . .I'll be right back."  Fleeing before she could ask me any further questions, I dashed out of the office and ran to the ladies' room.  The sink was beckoning to me, and I answered its call.  I turned on the cold water and splashed some into my face, trying to cool down, trying to control my hyper breathing.  <Get a grip, Dana.  It was just a dream, remember?>

But I didn't know if I wanted it to be just a dream any more.

What the hell was happening to me?  When had I started thinking of Frohike like this?  Having all these sexual thoughts about him?  It didn't start with the dream, although that was probably the first time I ever acknowledge my changing feelings for him.

Okay, so he wasn't handsome.  Since when did that ever mean anything to me?  I had dated men in the past that didn't fit the conventional definition of 'handsome'.  And there was something about Mel that was strangely alluring.  Maybe the way he carried himself, or his air of mystery.  Whatever it was, I had found myself more and more attracted to him in recent weeks.

And yes, he wasn't exactly the most cultured man around, but again, what does that matter in the long run?  It's what's inside someone that's important--and deep down, Mel is one of the most beautiful people I've ever known.  He may not be Oxford finished, but he was his own man, one who didn't compromise his beliefs for anyone.

Was it because he treated me like a queen, pampering me to within an inch of my life?  Maybe I was getting close.  All the little things he did for me, to make me happy, to make my life easier, to show how much he appreciated me--they really did go a long way. 

But I think what changed my image of Mel was the way he interacted with me on a daily level.  He treated me with kindness, devotion, and respect.  The vows of 'love, honor, and cherish' that he took weren't just words to him.  He made me feel special--not just by the things he bought me, but simply by the way he gave of himself, letting me know every day that I was the most important person in his life.  I've known for years how much he lusted after me, but until the day he proposed to me, I didn't know how much he truly loved me.

Now I did.  And trust me, nothing was sexier than that.

Somehow, someway, I made it through the rest of the day, but I'm still not sure how.  I was in a fog most of the afternoon, which probably explains why no one was surprised when I left after my last class at 2:00 --something I NEVER did.  I drove to the mall in a daze, parked the car in a daze, and walked into Victoria Secrets in a daze.  And all the time, the voices echoed in my head:

<I can't do this.  I can't seduce Frohike.  For a bunch of flowers?  It has to be more.  I mean, he's going to think I did it just to be nice, or because I got swept up in the day and maybe I have.  No.  I want him.  I most definitely want him, and this is the perfect opportunity.  No, it's not.  It can't happen because Hallmark tells us it should.  It has to be his decision, too. Oh, yeah, right, like he'd turn me down.  He's wanted me for nearly a decade.  Which means it should be special. . .>

All these thoughts ran through my head as I browsed through the slinky merchandise.  No matter what Andie said, it just didn't feel right.  With a sigh, I circled around--finding myself facing the store across the way.  A computer store.  THAT'S IT!!  Frohike would LOVE something for his computer.  But even as I was sprinting across the hall, I realized it was a stupid idea--I mean, how romantic can you get, Dana?  Computer stuff?  But still, I gave it a try. . .and I did finally find something I was sure he'd like.

* * * * * * * * *

I was sitting on the couch reading when Frohike walked through the door.  He saw me lounging in a pair of gray leggings and a sky-blue angora turtleneck sweater--definitely not the clothes I had left for work in this morning--and asked, anxiously, "Dana?  You're home already?  Is everything okay?" 

"Yeah, everything's fine," I quickly assured him.  "I just had a couple of errands to run, so I left after my last class."

"You shoulda just called me," he insisted.  "I'd have done them for you."

"I know.  But these were of a--personal nature," I responded vaguely.

"Oh.  A PERSONAL nature," he repeated, skeptically.  "Perhaps it's better that I don't know after all.  It might demystify some of that 'feminine mystique' of yours."

I laughed, even as I got up and went over to where he stood.  I took William's car carrier from him so he could remove his coat; a quick downward glance at my adorable child showed he was fast asleep.  I placed the carrier on the coffee table and gave him a quick kiss on his cold little cheek, deciding I'd change him out of his snowsuit when he woke up.  With William out of commission, I had the perfect chance to spring my surprise.  While Mel's back was turned to me, I pulled a wrapped rectangular box from behind one of the sofa cushions.  When he turned back to me, I held it out and exclaimed, "Happy Valentine's Day!"

He took the gift from me and stared at it for a moment.  "Aw, Dana--you didn't have to do that," he told me, clearly uncomfortable. 

"Well, I had to do SOMETHING to thank you for those beautiful flowers you sent me," I explained.  "You really surprised me--I didn't think you believed in this sappy manufactured holiday."

"Normally I don't," he agreed.  "But since it was our first one, I figured I should do something special."

"Oh, they were definitely special and very unexpected.  Thank you."

"So you liked them?" 

"Are you kidding me?  I was the envy of every woman in my department.  I better watch out or one of them might steal you away from me," I teased.

That got a hearty laugh.  "Not in THIS lifetime," he promised me as he unwrapped the thin box and lifted the lid.  He looked at what nestled inside, then looked up at me, his face showing his bafflement.  Then he looked back at the gift before stammering,  "Ah, Dana. . . it's . . .nice.  Thank you."  He again looked at me, his face still scrunched up in confusion.  "What, um, what exactly is it?" 

"It's a picture frame that you can attach to your computer monitor," I informed him, proudly. 

"Oh.  Okay.  Thank you," he said again, a little more convincingly now that he knew what it was, but still obviously perplexed by the gift.  After a pause, he asked, "Any chance I could have a nice picture of you and Billy to put in it?" 

I found myself practically bouncing with uncontained enthusiasm.  "Look under the tissue paper," I told him excitedly.  He was going to LOVE this! 

"What the. . .?"  He pulled out the small cardboard rectangle--if he was stumped before, he was totally flummoxed now.  "An appointment card?  For what?"

"A family portrait sitting.  For the three of us," I explained, broad grin on my face.  "We don't have a shot of the whole family and mom's been bugging me for one.  Plus we need one for the apartment, and I want one for my desk and. . ."

I watched in dismay as Frohike's eyes filled with tears and he whispered a husky, "Thank you, Dana."

"Mel, this wasn't supposed to make you cry," I told him, worried at how emotional he was getting.

"I'm not," he protested, even as he wiped the moisture from his cheek with the back of his hand.  Looking back down at the frame and the appointment card, he shook his head in amazement and smiled.   "How did you ever know?"

I shrugged my shoulders, trying to appear cavalier, but inwardly pleased that I had done such a good job.  "Lucky guess.  You like it?"

The smile got even bigger.  "I love it."

"So. . .I can return this?"  I pulled a skimpy little see-thru pink teddy, trimmed with fake ostrich feathers, from behind one of the other couch cushions.

His eyes almost bugged out of his head and he let out a nervous chuckle, "Yeah.  It's not really my color."  Shaking his head one more time, he murmured, "I don't know what to say."

"You'll be my Valentine?" I supplied helpfully.

"You have to ask?" He stepped forward, wrapped me in a loving embrace, and kissed me.  And it was like the first time he kissed me, and like the kiss under the mistletoe, and that blinding kiss at the New Year's party--all fireworks and sky rockets and sonic booms and as I felt his tongue lick across my lips I began to reconsider my decision not to drag him off into my bedroom after all. 

But whatever momentum we were building up came to a sudden halt when he gently pulled away from me.  And I could see it in his eyes, how much he wanted me, how much he desired me.  How much he wished he could make love to me.  But that wasn't part of the contract.  And Melvin Frohike was a man of his word.  So he pulled away, continuing to honor our agreement, continuing to suffer his frustration nobly. 

If he only knew he wasn't suffering alone.

"I. . .um. . .I better get dinner ready," he stammered, trying to hide his real feelings.

I swallowed hard, trying to gain some composure myself.  "No need.  I picked up some cheese steaks on the way home."

His eyes got as big as saucers and sparkled like a million stars.  "You didn't?!"

"Hmmm-mmm--they're warming in the oven," I answered smugly.  "And there's a six-pack of Bud Lite in the fridge."

"You are an angel!  I love you, Dana."  And with that, he scampered off to the kitchen.

"I love you, too, Frohike," I whispered to myself when he was out of earshot.  Maybe someday I'd be able to say it to his face.  I folded up the little negligee and placed it back in its bag, fully intending on returning it in the morning.  And then I thought differently of it. 

While Mel was busy getting dinner on the table, I slipped into my bedroom, and hid the nightie in the back of my dresser drawer.  Who knows--it may come in handy someday.

+++++++++++++++

Title: They Say It's Your Birthday

Author: J. D. Rush

E-mail: yanksfan462@aol.com

Website: http:itak.slashcity.net

Category: Het Romance

Pairing: Frohike/Scully

Rating: PG for mild language

Summary: It's a special day for Dana, and Frohike has a special gift for her.

Disclaimer: Not mine.  Never mine, unless I can convince CC, 1013 and FOX to give them to me.  I'm not holding my breath.

Notes:  I was not trying to make light of current world events in regards to the story the Gunmen are working on. . .well, except for the figure skating.  You'll see.  I am NOT implying anything--please don't sue me.  Also, small spoilers from E.B.E and some stuff stolen from 'Tango de los Pistoleros'.

Special Thanks:  To my trusty beta, Kylara.  Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule to help me out.  I know you didn't have much warning on this one, and I really appreciate it!

They Say It's Your Birthday

By: J. D. Rush

Saturday, February 23, 2002

FROHIKE:

"Looosie, I'm home," I announced as I walked through the front door.  I didn't need to see her to know she was rolling her eyes at the bad Ricky Ricardo imitation. 

"Did you wrap up what you had to at the Warehouse?" she called out as I was removing my coat and scarf.

I walked into the living room where she was busy at the computer, apparently surfin' the net.  "Yup.  Another issue in the bag."

She looked me up and down, and did her famous eyebrow quirk.  "Ummm. . . didn't you forget something, Mel?"

"Hmmm?  Oh yeah."  I snapped my fingers as I went back into the foyer and scooped up the bag I had left on the sideboard.  "Picked up the milk you asked for."

"No, I was thinking more along the lines of William?" she explained, patiently.

Slapping myself in the forehead, I groaned pitifully, "OH!  Billy!  Dammit, I KNEW I forgot something."

"Frohike. . ."  The patient tone was gone, replaced with that 'don't screw with me, flyboy' attitude that women always seem to be floating my way.

"Relax, I left him with the guys.  He and Langly were having such a good time that Ringo asked if he could sleep over.  I didn't see a problem with that."

That got a slight chuckle from her.  "You know, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes at the New Year's party, I never would've been able to picture Langly together with a baby.  They sure seem fond of each other."

"You're not kidding," I agreed.  "Langly's so crazy about William, he's pissed with me that HE didn't think of the idea of marrying you first."

"But a sleepover?" she pondered, dubiously.  "I'm not so sure about that.  I mean, what about his things. . .?"

"Not to worry," I cut her off.  "We've got more of his junk over there than here--diapers, food, clothes, toys.  Plus it's not like the guys are totally incompetent.  They've had a lot of experience with Billy.  And it's only one night--he'll be fine."

She clicked her mouse and logged off her system.  "Well, I wish you had asked first, " she chided, gently. 

"I know, and I'm sorry.  Guess I just thought it'd be nice if we could spend some time alone for your birthday."

That got her attention; her bright blue eyes grew large as she repeated, "My birthday. . .?"

"Bet you thought I forgot, huh?" I smirked.

"Actually, I didn't know you knew," she replied, clearly startled. 

"You'd be surprised what I know about you, my dear," I leered.

"No--I wouldn't be surprised in the least.  That's the scary part."  She shut down the computer and, crossing her arms over her chest, turned to me.  "So, while I know I'm probably going to regret asking this--what are your plans tonight?"

"Uh-uh. . .don't want to spoil it for you.  Let's just start with you getting dressed up and make yourself all pretty--not that you have much to do there."  I had to hold back a laugh as her cheeks blushed so sweetly.  "Then meet me at the front door in 30 minutes."

"Any clue where we're going?" she asked as she stood up and started for her bedroom.

"Nope.  None at all.  But I think you'll like it.  Now, get going--time's a-wasting."

* * * * * * * *

She was right on time, but then again, she's always so meticulous.  I was pleased to see she had chosen a midnight blue taffeta evening dress that really brought out the color of her eyes.  It was knee-length--to show off her sexy legs--and backless, with tiny spaghetti straps--to show off her creamy white skin.  She had pulled her hair up into a French-twist, leaving little whispy curls that spiraled around her ears.  For jewelry, all she bothered with were a simple pair of gold hoop earrings and her ever-present claddaugh necklace.

In a word, she was breathtaking.  I felt positively troll-like in my standard funeral suit, although I did add a couple of dapper touches, with one of those red cross-switch ties instead of a typical necktie, and a thin black silk ribbon bow around my ponytail instead of the usual elastics, going for that whole romantic/ foppish/Renaissance Man look.  (Hey, it worked for Mel Gibson in 'The Patriot', right?)

As she approached, I clasped my hands to my chest and pronounced, "Be still my heart, Dana.  You look. . ."

"Hot?" she finished.

"Tasty," I corrected her.

She brought her hand up to those forbidden bright-red lips and tittered, "You're sick, Frohike."

As I helped her on with her calf-length black cashmere coat, I joked, "I try my best."

"And you succeed on a grand scale."

I gave her a playful little tap on her backside and commanded, "Get going, party girl," as I locked up behind us. 

"Your car or mine?" she teased as we made our way out to the street, already knowing the answer.  There was no way on God's green earth I'd step foot in her Volvo.  "No self-respecting child of the 60's would be caught dead in a Volvo," I once told her.  A while back she had mentioned that she might trade it in for a mini-van. . .I didn't talk to her for three days.

I take my cars VERY seriously!

I just glared her as I led her to my classic cherry red 1965 Pontiac GTO.  "Get in, you brat."  She had to move the open package of Saltines and the almost empty boxes of animal crackers that were scattered on the passenger seat before sitting down.  She just looked up and gave me a knowing smile as I closed the door.

Okay, so now my secret was out.  She knew how much I loved Billy--enough to let him eat his snacks in my precious auto, even though he tended to leave sticky spit-covered crumbs all over the place.  You know, I had seen it happen to many good friends over the years, never dreaming it could ever happen to me.  But it did.

I had become domesticated.

It didn't happen overnight, and I'd be the first to say I still have a long way to go, but anyone who knew me would say I had come a long way already.  I've really cleaned up my act these last few months.  I'd cut down on my drinking and my cussing, wanting to set a good example to young Billy.  And I had shaped up somewhat in regards to my appearance.  I'm not saying that I'd ever be mistaken for Robert Redford, and I still had my own 'style' ("somewhere between leather daddy and skid-row bum", as Langly would say) but I was more concerned with shaving and making sure my hair looked half-way decent, and other such whatnots.  Hey, I finally had someone to look good for, a goddess who was my whole reason for being.  The least I could do was look presentable for her.  I didn't have much to work with, but I did the best I could.

Done with my musings, I wandered over to the driver's side and got in.  Slipping the key in the ignition, I tripped the starter, and the car was instantly flooded with the sounds of Ernie singing, "Rubber Duckie".  Dana burst into gales of laughter as I frantically fumbled for the eject button and flung the offending tape into the back seat.

"Real romantic there, Mel," she snorted in between guffaws.

Oh, yeah, I was just putty in Billy's hands.  Could be worse, I suppose--Dana was stuck with Raffi tapes in her car.

Once Dana was under control, and we were under way, things went more smoothly.  An easy silence surrounded us, the only sounds coming from the Sinatra Saturday show playing on the radio.  (MUCH easier on the ears than Sesame Street .)  I knew Dana was extremely curious about where we were going, but she bit her tongue--well, for a while at least.  Finally her curiosity got the best of her and she blurted out,  "Frohike, if you made me get all dressed up to go grab a couple of chili dogs and some strings of bowling, I'll have to kill you.  You do know that, right?"

"I could never do that, hon," I assured her with a wink.  "It's league night."  At her annoyed huff, I quickly added, "Don't worry. . .you'll like it.  I promise." 

My answer did little to satisfy her.  I could feel the tension radiating from her as she stewed in the passenger seat.  If there's one thing Dana hates, it's a mystery.  I think if she could have, she would've put a gun to my head and demanded the information.  Luckily, it didn't come to that as I pulled up in front of our destination.  "Frohike. . .what are you doing?" she asked, clearly bewildered.

"Taking you for dinner," I answered.  "Isn't that obvious?"

She practically squeaked, "This is Antonelli's Ristorante!"

"Yeah, I know."

"It's one of the most exclusive restaurants in DC--not to mention one of the most expensive," she expanded.

"Sure beats the bowling alley and a chili dog, huh?" I joked. 

"Mel, you can't afford this," she insisted.

I turned to look at her in the faint light of the car panel and asserted, "Dana.  It's your birthday.  I want to do something nice for you."  Then I added, "Besides, they're supposed to have great shrimp scampi."

"But. . ." she tried to argue.

"But. . .if you don't get your behind in gear, we're going to forfeit our reservation," I interrupted her, as the valet was approaching the car.  "And it took me three weeks to get it!"

* * * * * * * * *

Once I had checked our coats, the maître d' ushered us to a secluded table towards the back of the restaurant.   The whole place was dimly lit inside, as most of the light came from candles and a roaring fireplace.  It created a very romantic atmosphere, something that was further enhanced by the small live combo playing soft dinner jazz unobtrusively on a stage near the dance floor.  I felt as out of place as Jimmy at a MENSA meeting.

I noticed almost everyone watched us as we made our way to our table.  It was easy to sense their jealousy since I was escorting the most beautiful woman in the joint, and I could almost hear their thoughts:  'What in the world is SHE doing with HIM?'  Couldn't blame them really--I found myself thinking the same thing sometimes.

Hell, many of them probably thought Dana was my daughter.  I can't even count the number of times we've heard people refer to Billy as my 'adorable grandson'.  The first couple of times were kinda funny, and we had a good laugh about it when we got home.  Then the next few times we tried to correct the mistaken well-wishers, which just lead to embarrassment all the way around and made things worse for everyone.  Now we just grit out teeth, thank them, and clear out as quickly as possible.

But then I guess it beats the other obvious assumption--that Dana was rented arm candy, if you catch my drift.

Either way, I was determined not to let it ruin this special night.  I placed my hand at the base of Dana's back (subtly letting the spectators know she was at the very least my date) and helped steer her to our destination.

If Dana felt any of the anxiety within me, she didn't reveal it.  I think she was too busy taking in her surroundings (once an investigator, always an investigator) and probably counting off in her head how much this was going to end up costing me.  She gave me a grateful little smile as I pulled her chair out for her, and quietly thanked the maître d' when he left us alone with our menus.

Before I could even open it, though, the wine steward advanced on us.  I listened to his shtick, as he rattled off vintage wines that would cost more than a year at Harvard for Billy, then I ordered a bottle of Merlot I had read about on the 'net which had gotten pretty good reviews.  The cultured punk-ass gave us a snotty, "Excellent choice, sir," (read: "You cheap bastard!") then stalked off to fill my request.  I caught Dana watching the scene in amusement before going back to looking over her dinner choices; I picked up my own menu to do the same.

One look at it told me that my S.O. might have been right this time.  Man, the prices were so bad they weren't even listed!  Never a good sign.  (If you have to ask the price, you can't afford it.) But it was for Dana, and it was a special night, and the sky was the limit.

We studied the entrees for a few minutes until Dana finally settled on the Chicken Piccata with bow-tie pasta.  I had to give her credit--she didn't go with something cheap, like a salad, which would have made me look bad in front of the waiter (yup, he IS a cheap bastard!), nor did she go for the filet mignon or lobster, which would have put me in the poor-house. 

Dana Scully was all class.

By the time our waiter arrived, we were ready: chicken for Dana, shrimp scampi for me.  (Hey, if I was going to go broke on this meal, I was getting a taste of that famous scampi!)  When I placed the order in Italian, I saw the admiration on my wife's face and couldn't help but laugh, "Don't be so impressed--I coulda just ordered Chef Boyardee Beef-a-Roni for all I know."  The waiter thanked us for our order, and headed off to get our appetizers.  (Clams Casino. . .I figured what the hell?  I'd probably be filing for bankruptcy after tonight anyway.)

While we wouldn't know for a bit if I had messed up the dinner order, at least I got the wine right.  I'm no expert, but from the small sample the steward poured me to taste, I knew I had picked a winner--dark, rich, and strong, like a good wine should be.  He poured us each a glass, and left the bottle with us.  Dana took a lady-like sip from her glass and smiled, a look of surprised pleasure on her pretty face.

Chalk one up for the Fro-miester.

"So, what story were you so busy working on today?" she asked, taking another sip of wine.

"Front page exclusive," I confided.  "We have evidence that the collapse of Enron was because it had been channeling funds to the Al-Quida network in exchange for false stock tips, subsequently resulting in the current world-wide recession."

She just blinked those big blue eyes once, then twice, before commenting, "That sounds a little far-fetched, Frohike, even for you guys."

"Hey, don't be so sure.  Remember a little scandal in the 80's called Contra-gate?"

"I'm surprised you weren't able to work the Olympic figure skating scandal into it," she chuckled.

"What do you think Byers is working on right now?" I quipped.

She studied me for a moment, clearly trying to decide whether I was joking or not.  When she concluded (correctly) that I wasn't, she simply sighed, "You know, Mulder was right about you guys--your ideas ARE downright spooky."

"Coming from him, I'll take that as a compliment," I shot back.

"Well, just make sure you grab an extra issue for me--I might actually read it for a change."  I discreetly stuck out my tongue at her, which caused her to giggle--just as discreetly.  She covered it up by taking another small drink of her wine and gazing longingly the couples on the dance floor.  When she turned again to me, I knew the question before she even asked it:  "Do you want to dance, Mel?"

I had discovered New Year's Eve how much my wife loves to dance, but I also knew she probably never had much chance to in her life.  At least not much in recent years anyway.  "After dinner," I promised her.  "Our appetizers should be out any minute now, and besides, we already have our drinks."  At her blank look, I elaborated, "You shouldn't leave your glass unattended--you never know what could be slipped into it when you're not looking."

She nodded solemnly.  "You know, you're right.  It's been a while since I've had to be on 'full-systems alert'.  Guess I'm out of practice in regards to my survival instincts."

"Just second nature to me to constantly be on my toes."  I saw the smirk cross her full lips so I snipped, "And no, that wasn't an opening for any short jokes."

The smile I got that time was broad, full of blinding white teeth.  She took another sip of her wine and replaced the glass on the table; playing with the delicate crystal stem she replied more seriously, "It's so easy sometimes to forget the way things used to be--always looking over my shoulder, always feeling like I was in danger.  These last few months have been the calmest, most stable I can remember in a long time."  She reached out and took my hand in hers.  "You make me feel safe, Mel.  And I have to admit--it's a good feeling."

I felt my heart swell with pride and joy.  Bringing her hand up to my lips, I tenderly kissed it, saying, "Anything for you and William."

Her hand gently caressed my cheek and I found myself melting into her touch.  She opened her mouth to say something, but just then our waiter arrived with our clams, effectively cutting off whatever she was about to tell me.

* * * * * * * * * * *

We were each working on our second glass of wine when our dinners arrived.  I had to smile as Dana took a bite of her pasta and gave a tiny ecstatic moan.  "Good?" I asked, unnecessarily.

She nodded enthusiastically.  "Mmmm.  Wait 'til you try it."

Well, I didn't need to be told twice.  I dug into my own meal, and whole-heartedly agreed with her assessment.  This dinner might eventually cost more than my first car, but the food had more than lived up to the hype.

It was so good, in fact, that I had a hard time remembering where we had left off in our conversation.  Seeing Dana wasn't jumping in to pick up the thread, I started a new one in between bites.  "So, is the job getting any better?"  I knew she was having a hard time adjusting, but she didn't talk about it much.  I had the feeling she didn't want to burden me with her troubles.  If only she would understand that she could NEVER be a burden to me.

She swallowed her biteful of chicken before answering, "Somewhat.  I miss the excitement of being out in the field more than I thought I would."

"My wife--the adrenaline junkie," I teased.

"Well, I don't miss getting shot at," she corrected.  "And there are certainly cases I would just as soon forget."

"Like the flukeman?" I supplied.

"Definitely the flukeman," she agreed.  "Oh, and I can also live without some of those fleabag motels Mulder always used to find. . .not to mention all the greasy-spoons we'd end up eating in."  She pointed to her plate, "Now THIS is real food!"

"Well, just don't get used to it," I told her.  "I love ya, baby, but we'll probably be eating ketchup sandwiches for a month after tonight."

Popping a bow tie into her mouth, she gave me a big smile and said, "It'll be worth it."  After a moment, she put her fork down, and sighed, "You know, I think I miss the hands-on work the most.  There is so much I learned out there.  I got to see and experience things that I could have never dreamed of." 

She paused to take a drink of her wine before continuing, "The saneness of what I'm doing now is a nice change of pace, but I wish I had more students who were actually interested in pathology and forensics and not just curious about my work on the X-Files."

"Well, that's only natural," I noted.  "The nature of your past assignment makes it interesting and unique and open to questions."

"I know," she conceded.  "I guess I had hoped the novelty of it all would have worn out by now, but they just seem to be even nosier than ever.  And if one more person calls Mulder 'Spooky'. . ."  She stabbed viciously at some pasta on her plate, the gesture not lost on me.

"You should be flattered, actually," I commented.

That gave her pause, and she looked up at me.  "How so?"

"You two are legendary at the Bureau," I said, stating common knowledge.

She cast her eyes back downwards and shook her head modestly.  "Mulder, maybe.  But not me."

"Don't sell yourself short, Dana," making my point by shaking my fork at her.  "You were an exceptional agent.  And you're a fantastic mom.  And you're going to be a helluva teacher."

The right side of her mouth quirked in a half-smirk, "Aren't you just a bit prejudiced?"

"Maybe," I acquiesced, "but you know what they say:  some people are born great, others have greatness thrust upon them."  I paused before adding, softly, "You were definitely destined to be great."

Her gentle blue eyes alighted on me, and I felt my heart flip at the flush that hit her cheeks.  If she only knew how beautiful she is when she blushes like that.  To hide her embarrassment, she picked up her glass and took a sip of her wine.  Suddenly, out of nowhere, she asked me, "Do you really believe in destiny, Frohike?  That if I had never been teamed up with Mulder, I wouldn't be sitting here talking to you?  Or do you think we were fated--preordained, even--to meet one day?"

You know, that had never occurred to me--the utter randomness of our lives.  I mean, everything that I had become could be traced to that one odd day back in 1989 when Susanne Modeski had walked into that convention center.  Because of her, I met Byers. . .and because of them both we had first encountered Special Agent Fox Mulder.  And through Mulder, I had met, and fallen in love with one Agent Scully. 

Whew!  Now THAT's a head trip for you!

"What *I* think is that you have had enough wine for tonight," I kidded, not used to this philosophical side of my friend.  "But I have to say that if it was the work of higher powers, I'd like to thank the Big Man upstairs."  (And a shout out to Ms. Modeski, while I was at it.  Or Holly Coleman.  Or whatever her name was now.)

At that, she gave me a smile that lit up her whole face and shined in her eyes.  "Yeah, me, too," she whispered, and went back to her dinner.

* * * * * * * * * * *

When the time came, she refused dessert, but I ordered a slice of 'Mocha Mania' cake for myself.  She kept looking around the restaurant suspiciously, until she started giving me the creeps.  Finally I asked her, "Dana, are you okay?"  But she didn't answer me; she just continued to sweep those alert baby blues of hers across the room. 

She didn't calm down until the cake was brought to the table and placed in front of me with zero fanfare, along with a small carafe of coffee.  Only then did she inform me, "Sorry, I was afraid you were going to have the wait staff come out with a cupcake singing 'Happy Birthday'," she admitted, sheepishly.

"More like, For She's a Jolly Good Fella'," I informed her.  "There's still a copyright on 'Happy Birthday'.  But I'm sure if I slip 'em an extra fiver they'll be willing to. . ."

"Don't you dare!" she stated emphatically.  "Not unless you want to be sleeping in your car tonight."

I grinned.  "That's what I thought.  So how about this instead?"  I pulled a single candle out of my coat pocket, stuck it in the cake, and lit it.  Pushing the cake closer to her, I said, "Make a wish."  She thought hard about it for a few seconds, then puckered up and blew out the candle.  "So, what did you wish for?" I pressed.

Shaking her head, she smirked, "Oh, no--if I tell you, it won't come true."

"Fine.  Be that way," I baited playfully.  I really wanted to know, but if it would lessen the chances of it coming true, I could wait.  Brandishing the dessert fork, I handed it to her and declared, "Birthday girl gets the first taste."  Didn't even get an argument from her.  I took my coffee spoon and joined her; soon we had devoured the heavenly pastry.

As Dana was licking the last of the frosting from her fork, I announced, "Okay, so we've had the birthday dinner, the birthday cake, and the birthday wish. . . now all we need is a birthday gift." I reached into the other coat pocket, pulled out a little black velvet box, and slid it across the table to her.  

"Frohike. . ." she sighed dramatically, even as she reached for it.  "You shouldn't have."  She carefully flipped open the cover to reveal the diamond ring sitting inside.  It was something that had always been in the back of my mind since we had gotten hitched (diamonds ARE a girl's best friend, after all), and I've looked everywhere for the perfect one.  When I saw this one in a jeweler's window a couple of weeks earlier, I knew my search was over--all I had to do was wait for the perfect moment to give it to her. 

The setting was simple: a half-caret round diamond flanked by two smaller ones.   Nothing gaudy--just stunning and different and elegant.  Just like my Dana.  She stared at it, open-mouthed for a full minute.  "Frohike. . .?" she said again quietly, her voice catching on my name.

I quickly explained, "Well, we weren't engaged long enough to get you a ring before we got married, so…"

"I. . .I can't accept this," she declared definitively, closing the cover and pushing it back to me.  "It's too much money."

"But Dana. . ." I began before she cut me off.

"Look, Mel--I don't know what bank you robbed to afford tonight, and quite frankly, I don't WANT to know.  But whatever you did. . ."

I stopped her in mid-rant.  "Honey, it's okay.  I just decided to take your advice."

"About what?" she inquired, curiously.

Taking a deep breath, I revealed, "I. . .I sold one of my patents."

She gasped.  "Oh my God!  The diaper disk?"

"No, not that one.  An experimental car-tracking device I developed a while back.  I called it the Fro-jack."

"Do I want to know WHY you needed a car-tracking device?" she snidely asked.

"Probably not.  But I made a little bit of money off of it.  Enough for tonight, and some spare change in the bank."

"How much spare change, Frohike?" she inquired.

"If I tell you, I'm afraid you'll only love me for my bank account."  I took a sip of coffee and whispered, "$5000."

She almost choked on her own sip of coffee.  "Five thou. . ."

"Not so loud," I scolded, with a smile.  "They'll want a bigger tip."

"Oh my God!" she squealed, delightedly.  "Frohike, that's wonderful!"

"He, uh, the guy I sold it to, was quite happy with it.  Wants to look over some of my other stuff, too.  There's no guarantee, but maybe I can bring some extra money into the household." 

She sat stunned for a moment before stammering, "I. . .Mel. . .I don't know what to say."

Voicing my biggest anxiety, I queried, "Are you proud of me?"

She was absolutely glowing.  "Very proud."

"Then you'll keep the ring?" I asked, hopefully.

She looked down at the little box on the table and, nodding her head in the affirmative, gingerly reached out for it.  "I would be privileged."  She took the ring out of its box and handed it to me.  "Will you do the honors?" she asked, shyly.

My hands were shaking as I carefully slipped it on her finger; I brought her dainty hand up to my lips and gently kissed it, whispering, "Happy birthday, Dana."

"It certainly is," she beamed, unshed tears sparkling in her spell-binding eyes as she stared at the ring on her finger.  "It's so beautiful, Mel. . .just like something I would have chosen.  I don't know how to thank you."

"You already have, my dear," I told her.  "The day you said, 'I Do'."

She shot me 'The Look', and muttered, "Frohike--that was the most disgustingly sappy thing I think you've ever said."

"Sober, yeah," I agreed.

With a tolerant shake of her head, she remarked, "This is without doubt the best birthday I have ever had.  Of course now I'll have to try to outdo it for yours.  When is it anyway?"

I tried to brush her off, "Doesn't matter."

"Of course it is," she insisted.  "Please tell me."

Knowing she'd keep at it until she got the information she wanted I reluctantly answered, "November 9th."

"MEL!  Why didn't you tell me?" she admonished.

I just shrugged my shoulders.  "It's not important.  Really.  Don't even acknowledge it anymore."

"But. . .now I feel bad," she pouted.  "You went through all this and I didn't do anything for you."

<Oh, if she only knew.  Well, maybe it was time to enlighten her.>  "Do you remember the night 'The Godfather' was on TV, and I asked you to watch it with me?  You said you were busy, but you ended up making us a batch of microwave popcorn and joined me anyway?"

She gave me an puzzled look.  "You mean, that was. . .?"

"Uh-huh.  Now tell me. . .how could my birthday get better than that?"

"Like this."  And with that, she stood up, leaned over the table, and kissed me tenderly.  When we parted, she took my hand, pulling me up as well.  "C'mon, 'El Lobo'--you promised me a dance."

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

Needless to say, one dance turned into a dozen.  Oh man, you should have seen the envious looks I got for every guy in the place.  Well, eat yer hearts out, boys--she was all mine. In between spins around the dance floor, we sat and talked over a couple more cups of coffee and shared another slice of 'Mocha Mania' cake.  We both seemed to be relishing our time alone together--it was the first time we had been out just by ourselves since getting married.  Our first date, if you will.  And it didn't seem like either of us wanted it to end.

The night was wonderful, but it flew by far too fast.  Before I knew it, we were back home, and I was helping her off with her coat.  She turned to me in the vestibule and smiled shyly.  "Thank you, Mel.  This was one of the best nights of my life."  The next thing I knew she was in my arms, and I was kissing her.

We've never talked about the kiss at New Year's.  And likewise, the one on Valentine's Day.  Both times, I felt less resistance from her, more enthusiasm.  In fact, she had almost seemed surprised when I pulled away from her the last time, almost as if she expected, WANTED, it to continue.  I had been sure it was just my fevered imagination. . .

Until now.

This kiss was explosive.  That's the only word I have for it.  Dana's lips were unlike any I have ever kissed.  Hot and sweet and so soft as to be unreal--the passion behind them was pure and dynamic, yet almost tentative, almost as if she was afraid of unleashing her full potential.  Not even Mykita at her most volcanic could compare. 

Dana's kisses teleported me to a place even Paradise would envy. 

I felt her hands wrap around my neck, her fingers entangling themselves in my ponytail, as mine slid over her slim waist and down her shapely hips.  I wanted to pull away, determined to honor our agreement, but my lovely Dana was making my resolve dissolve, and when her tongue slipped between my lips, I was lost forever.

Not content to let her have the upper hand, I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her in closer; she pressed her body to me, molding herself to me, moaning softly into my mouth.  I felt myself harden as years of waiting and dreaming seemed on the verge of coming to an end.  Somewhere in the back of my mind I worried that she was doing this out of gratitude because she was thankful for the ring and for the nice birthday dinner.  It didn't mean to her what it meant to me--it never could.  But experiencing the fire that burned beneath the cool exterior of Dana Scully soon put those anxieties to rest.  If she was faking this, give the girl an Oscar.

We were still locked in our impassioned embrace when the phone started to ring.  I thanked the Powers Above when she decided to let the machine pick it up, but when we heard the panicked voice on the other end, the kiss, and the spell, were instantly broken:

"Scully?  Frohike?  It's Langly.  Pick up.  Oh, God. . .it's William. . ."

That's as far as he got when Dana practically hurdled the sofa to reach the phone.  "Langly?  It's me," she proclaimed breathlessly, due to a combination of our kiss and her athletics.  "What's going on?  What's wrong with William?"

I was pacing around as Dana listened to Ringo, frustrated that I couldn't hear his end of the conversation and having no idea what the hell was happening.  Suddenly I saw my wife's stiff shoulders slump a bit, the tension draining from her.  "What's his temperature, Langly?"  A beat, then, "Well, take it."  Another beat.  "There should be a rectal thermometer somewhere in his stuff."  Another pause.  "Yes, I said rectal."  One more pause before she huffed, "Put Byers on the line."

She went through the same spiel with John, then there was a long silence from her side, so I figured Abbott and Costello were following her directions.  I knew the moment they were back on the line because Dana's brow furled and she mumbled, "100.8?  Well, that's not good, but it's not bad, either.  He may have just eaten something that didn't agree with him, or maybe he picked up a small bug.  Give him some watered down juice--apple or grape, if you have it. . ."  She paused, obviously listening to a question they were asking, then continued, "No, it won't really stop the diarrhea, but he needs plenty of fluids to prevent dehydration." 

Again she was silent, and I couldn't help but feel some pride at how seriously my boys were taking the whole situation, to ask so many questions of Dana.  Finally she responded, "Well, Pedialyte is better, but I doubt you have any lying around the Warehouse.  Don't worry--we have some here."  Another moment of silence before she shook her head (even though they couldn't see that) and answered, "No, don't give him any baby Tylenol.  His fever's not that high.  Just make sure he has plenty to drink. . .  I'm on my way."  She finally looked up at me, and this time *I* was the one doing the head shaking.  Placing her hand over the phone she asked, "What's wrong?"

"You stay here--I'll go get him," I told her.  "You should be by the phone in case they need more help or if things get more serious."

"You sure?"

I was already grabbing my coat.  "No problem.  Tell them I'm coming."  She did, then hung up. 

"Mel?  I'm sorry about this," she apologized.  "What a way to end the evening."

Shooting her a rueful grin, I joked, "Hey, it was nice while it lasted."

"Yes, it certainly was," she replied, wistfully.  "Please drive carefully." 

I gave her one last quick kiss on the cheek and said, "Don't worry--I'll be home soon."  And I dashed out the door.

DANA:

+++++++++++++++++++

Title: Home Sweet Home

Author: J. D. Rush

E-mail: yanksfan462@aol.com

Website: http://itak.slashcity.net

Category: Het/gen

Pairing: Frohike/Scully

Rating: PG for mild language

Summary: Home is where the heart is. . .but maybe home should be someplace else.

Disclaimer: Not mine.  Never mine, unless I can convince CC, 1013 and FOX to give them to me.  I'm not holding my breath.

Notes: Um, I guess since it's been a while, maybe an update is in order.  This is an AU series where Scully is married to Frohike.  Stop making that face--it'll freeze that way.  It's a 'companionable' marriage. . .but there's no guarantee it'll stay that way.  Mulder is nowhere to be found. . .but there's no guarantee THAT'LL stay that way, either.  After being removed from The X-Files, Scully has taken a job teaching at Quantico ; Frohike continues to work with The Lone Gunmen, and plays 'Mr. Mom' to William.

Also, while I've stolen--ahhhh BORROWED--elements from the 9th season, I've pretty much abandoned canon at this point.  There are no super soldiers, Scully is not an uber-bitch, she still trusts both Skinner and Doggett, she and Mulder did NOT do 'the wild thing' (no matter WHAT CC and the shippers say), and William is NOT a psycho baby.  CC may be a considered a genius, but he's really out to lunch this year.

Now that we're on the same page, on with the show. 

Home Sweet Home

By: J. D. Rush

Tuesday March 5, 2002

"I can't believe they called you to come get me."

My husband leaned into the gurney and carefully brushed the hair away from my forehead.  "Huh--I don't suppose it has anything to do with this bump on your head?"

"Small bump," I grumbled.  God, I hated hospitals.   So glad I went to Quantico . . . I couldn't imagine having to spend every day of my life in one of these places.  I seemed to end up in them enough without trying. 

"It's still a bump, and they didn't want you driving.  Not that you have a car to drive," he added, not unkindly.

"Where IS my car anyway?" I asked, curiously.  The last I saw it had been pulled of the side of the road and was being hooked up to a tow truck.  Then the ambulance doors closed.

Mel stepped over to a chair in the corner and picked up my discarded jacket.  Holding it out to me, he said, "It was brought to a nearby gas station.  I got the name from AAA.  We'll check on it when we get home."

I hopped off the stretcher, disconcerted to discover my legs were more than a bit wobbly.  I tried to lie to myself and say it was just due to lack of use--I HAD been sitting here for nearly two hours, after all.  As Mel helped me on with my coat, I noticed something--or rather, someONE was missing.  "Frohike, where's William?"

"Safe," he quickly assured me.  "I dropped him off before I made the trek out here."

"That was probably a good move."

"Yeah, sometimes I'm on the ball.  Ready to go?"

I grabbed up my purse, and made a face as I looked around the tiny curtained-off ER stall.  "More that ready."

Placing a guiding hand around my waist, he chuckled, "Then let's roll."

* * * * * * * * * *

We had been on the road for a while when I finally asked, "Mel, where are we going?"

"I told you.  To pick up William."

"But this isn't the way to mom's house," I pointed out.

"Yeah, I know.  I couldn't reach her."

"Or the Warehouse."

He shrugged, "Well, the guys are out of town on a story."

"Then where are we going?"

"You'll see," he answered, cryptically.

So, I sat back and just enjoyed the ride, letting the fresh twilight air clear my head a bit, and trying to piece together what had gone wrong.  One minute I had been on my way home, stuck in standard bumper-to-bumper early evening rush-hour traffic--the next I knew I had been hit from behind and found myself involved in a four-car collision.  I guess it was a good thing my Volvo hit that Explorer in front of me, since it stopped the chain reaction.

We all exchanged insurance info once the highway patrol showed up, and the other three drivers drove off.  I was the only one who had been injured, albeit barely, and even though I protested, the responding officer had insisted on calling an ambulance.  I don't think he wanted to be held liable since it was a head injury.  I suppose if I had been in his position, I would have done the same thing--but it still pissed me off.  And since my car was leaking some kind of liquid (most likely coolant, according to the officer), a tow-truck was called as well. 

Over all, it hadn't been one of my better days.

I came out of my reminiscing long enough to take a look out the window, instantly recognizing where we were.  I should, after all.  I had only driven it for nine years.  "Frohike. . .this is the way to the Hoover ," I observed.

"Um. . .yeah. . .I guess it is," he replied, distractedly.

"Why are we going there?  I thought you said we were picking up Will. . ."  I paused and shook my head.  "No.  Don't tell me you. . ."

"Dana, I didn't have a choice," he insisted.

"You could have bought him along."

"I didn't know how long we'd be.  I figured it'd be better if he were safe.  You even said it was a good move, remember?"

"That was before I knew you dropped him off at the F.B.I. Building !"

"Honey, I swear to you, if I had another choice, I would have taken it."

"Fine."  I let it drop.  There wasn't anything I could do now that the damage was done anyhow. 

The rest of the trip was made in silence--I think Mel was afraid to say anything further and get his head bitten off again.  Once he parked in the visitor's parking lot, I led him into the building.  I greeted Sarah Dawson, who was manning the Security Desk.  We chatted for a few minutes, getting caught up on old times before she handed us the visitor's log to sign.  It felt weird being on this side of things.  This wasn't the first time I was delegated to 'visitor' status, but now that it was permanent, I wasn't sure I liked it all that much.

Once we were signed in, we were granted our passes, and together we walked over to the metal detector.  The young man on duty recognized not just me but Mel as well, and tried to wave us through.  But I knew Sarah was watching, and I didn't want him to get in trouble, so I dragged a protesting Frohike ("Those things screw up your DNA molecules!" he hissed) through the annoying machine. 

Finally, we made our way over to the bank of elevators.  First one down emptied its load of passengers, and Mel and I got on.  I went to press B for the Basement, but Frohike stilled my hand, and pressed '4' instead.  Thank goodness we were the only two on the elevator as I let out a huge groan, "Oh, Frohike, you didn't."

"Reyes and Doggett weren't answering their phone," he practically whined.  "My hands were tied!"

After the longest elevator ride of my life, we strolled down the endless corridor until we got to the AD's office.  I led Mel into the anteroom, only to discover Kim missing from her desk, and the door to Skinner's sanctum closed.  "Could he have gone home already?" I muttered distractedly.  "It's still early."

"Well, it's nearly 6:30 ," Mel pointed out.

"For Skinner, that's early," I countered.

I watched as Frohike moved over to the office door and pressed his ear to it.  After a few seconds, he announced, "No, someone's definitely still home."  With that, he knocked once and opened the door; I followed close behind.

The scene that greeted us was priceless: big, bad AD Skinner was sitting on the floor with his secretary.  They were both playing with my son, and all three of them were surrounded by a variety of colorful baby toys.  At the sound of the door opening, Kim looked up and gasped, "Sir, I think we've been busted."

Walter leaped up as if his pants had caught fire, and he stormed over to us, pretending to distance himself from the positively adorable scene we had interrupted.  I found myself trying to suppress a smile as he asked, in his gruffest no-nonsense voice, "Dana, how are you?"

I was able to compose myself long enough to tell him, "It's just a bump, si. . . Walter.  I've gotten worse on even the most routine X-File investigations."

He reached over to gently push up my bangs and observed, "This looks nasty."

"That's what *I've* been trying to tell her," concurred Dr. Frohike.

"Really, guys, I'm fine," I cut in quickly.  I was NOT about to let these lay-people diagnosis me.  "I've survived a lot worse.  I'd just like to get home and get some rest.  It's been a long day."

"Is that wise?" Walter asked, fretfully.  "I mean, if it's a concussion. . ."

"Walter, I appreciate your concern, but I'm the doctor, remember?  I think I know what I'm doing."

He studied me for a moment before relenting.  "Well, if you're sure. . .Kim?"

The young woman approached us, carrying a giggly William.  As she handed him over to me, she gushed, "You're so lucky, Dana.  He's an absolute joy."

William seemed happy to see me, if his excited 'Ma Ma Ma's" were any indication. "Thanks, Kim, for everything.  I really owe you and Walter big time for this."

"It was a pleasure," she assured me before turning to her boss.  "Sir?  If you're finished with me, I'm going to pack it in for the night."

"You do that, Kim.  We've both had a busy day," he said, with a nod towards William, which caused his pretty assistant to laugh.  "See you tomorrow morning."

"Yes, sir."  With that, she headed out to her desk and started to collect her things.  I've always liked Kim--she was friendly, professional, dedicated, and completely loyal to Skinner.  And in this town, that was the name of the game.

"I'll get him, hon.  You should take it easy," Frohike asserted, as he took William from me, getting a round of "Da Da Da's" in the bargain.  

Sheesh, it was just a bump!  "Mel. . ." I said, warningly, but I could tell from the look on his face I wasn't going to win the argument, so I backed off and sighed heavily, "Fine."

While we were busy with our little showdown, Walter went around gathering up all the scattered toys.  He threw them all into William's baby bag, which he flung over his shoulder before grabbing his briefcase and suit jacket.  "You know, I think I'm going to head out with you guys," he rumbled.

"BEFORE 7:00 ?  Walter, you're getting soft," I teased.

He shut off the lights and closed the door behind us.  "Maybe things are just easier for me around here without you and Mulder?  No more late nights trying to make sense of those reports, no more migraines over those creative 302's. . ."

"Aw, you had fun, Walter, and you know it," I chided him.

"I don't know, Dana.  Sleep has its appeal, too," he deadpanned.

Mel and I scampered after him, needed two steps each to match one of his long strides down the near-empty corridor.  As we all stood waiting for the elevator, an idea suddenly came to me.  "You know, I haven't had dinner yet.  We were going to stop off for Chinese on the way home--do you want to join us, Walter?"

Skinner just looked at me, a war of emotions playing out on his face.  I could see he wanted to accept, but something wouldn't let him.  "No, thank you.  I. . .that's kind of you, Dana, but I really should be getting home.  I have these folders that need looking over. . ."

"Weren't you the one who was just crowing about how your workload is lighter now that I'm not here anymore?" I reminded him.  "It's JUST dinner."

"Yeah, c'mon, Walt.  It's the least we can do for bailing us out like you did," Mel added, and I could have hugged him for it.

"Guh Guh Guh ," William chimed in with his own happy two cents worth.

Walter's apprehension melted away as he gazed at my son, and with a smile he said, "How can I refuse an invitation like that?  I'd love to." 

* * * * * * * * * *

"So, how's Billy?"

I collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted.  Dealing with my hyperactive child was just the perfect ending to the perfect day.  "He's wound up like a top.  I don't think he'll go to sleep for hours."

"It's all Walter's fault," Frohike pronounced, as he walked into the living room.  "Billy was really taken with him."

"And he with William.  I never imagined my boss would be so good with children."

"Ex-boss.  Here."

I grasped the steaming mug that Mel handed to me and took a deep appreciative whiff.  "Mmmm. . .Swiss White Chocolate, my favorite.  Which one did you take?"

He sat down beside me on the sofa, a mug of his own in his hand.  "Café Vienna.  And if you tell the guys I'm drinking this floo-floo International Coffees shit, I'll get your gun and put us both out of our misery." 

"Aww, come on, Mel.  It'll do you good to get in touch with your 'feminine side'."

"I've been there.  It wasn't a pretty sight."  With that, he kicked off his shoes and rested his feet on the coffee table.

Normally, I'd scold him for doing something like that, but tonight, after the kind of day I had, I joined him.  Sighing contentedly, I said, "So, any luck with the garage?"

He took a drink from his cup and made a face that clearly said 'hey, this isn't so bad' before he answered, "Nah, they were already closed for the night.  But the answering machine had a pager number for emergencies.  I left a message to call us."

"Thank you, Mel."

"Hey, no problem.  You were busy with Billy and I was waiting for the water to boil anyway and. . ."

I interrupted him gently, "No, Mel, I meant, thank you for everything.  Not just for calling the garage and making me my drink.  But also for coming to get me at the hospital, making sure William was safe and sound, even though all our usual sitters were indisposed.  And especially for helping me to get Walter to that restaurant.  I think he had a good time."

"He certainly seemed to--couldn't shut him up there for a while."  I giggled as Mel started playfully nudging my feet with his own.  "He's really an okay guy once you get him out of the office."

"I know.  That's what I'm finding out."  I took a sip of my coffee--ooh, that hit the spot--and reflected, "I think he's lonely."

"Yeah, I got that impression, too."

"Maybe we should have him over sometime for dinner?" I suggested.  "Him and Kim."

"Kim?  His assistant?"

I drank deeply from my coffee.  "Well, they looked so cute playing with William.  I was just thinking that maybe, with the proper nudge in the right direction, maybe we could get something going OUTSIDE the office, too."

He scoffed, "Dana, no offense, but I don't think Kim is his type."

"Why not?  Don't you think she's pretty?

"Are you kidding?  She's totally hot," he amended.

I elbowed him in the ribs and kidded, "Should I be worried?"

"Not in the least," he replied, acting offended.  "I was just offering you my opinion, that's all.  I TOLD you I have a weakness for redheads."

"Right.  So if she's such a fox, why wouldn't she be Walter's type?"

"Funny you should use the word 'fox', he mumbled.

"I'm afraid I've lost you."

He turned to me and inquired, "Didn't you notice that Skinner spent a inordinate amount of time talking about Mulder this evening?"

"Not really--I mean, not for Walter.  He talks about Mulder a lot anyway."  I just stared at Mel for a moment.  "What are you implying?"

"Nothing.  It might be nothing.  I'm just pointing out what I saw. . .and heard."  He shook his head and muttered, "Forget I said anything," before he went back to his coffee.

As his words sunk in, *I* shook my head.  No.  Impossible.  He couldn't be suggesting that. . ."Frohike, are you saying Walter Skinner, Mr. By-The-Book-The-F.B.I.-Is-My-Life Walter Skinner, has the hots for Fox Mulder?!"

"All I know is every other sentence out of his mouth tonight was 'Mulder this' and 'Mulder that'.  I mean, I love the guy, too, but I can go a whole five minutes without saying his name."  He shrugged, "But then you know Skinner better than me.  If you say this is normal behavior for him, I won't call you on it."

"Mel, I'm sorry, but just the idea of Walter and Mulder together. . . that's too strange for even an X-File," I laughed.

"Hey, after hanging around with you and the G-man for over eight years, I've seen stranger things than that," he countered.

I quickly thought over the last few months, all the times I've been in Walter's presence, and Fro was right.  My ex-boss DID spend a lot of time talking about my ex-partner.  No matter what our topic of conversation, he always managed to steer talk back to Mulder, and we ended up reminiscing about our rogue friend, or discussing where he was now and what he could be doing.

And with that knowledge, I found myself rapidly flashing back over the last eight years.  All those times the two of us sat in Skinner's office while he grilled us--the tones in his voice, the looks in his eyes.  Not to mention all the times he went out of his way to pull Mulder's ass out of the fire.  My God, could I have been so BLIND?  Was it really possible?

No, it was just late, and I had had a bad day, and I was simply susceptible to suggestion, that's all.  There was nothing untoward going on between Skinner and Mulder, of that I was sure.

Just as I was coming to this conclusion, however, the phone rang.  Mel put his cup down on the coffee table and answered it while I leaned back and enjoyed my coffee.  He was only on a couple of minutes, his end of the conversation limited to basically grunts and 'Uh-huhs' and 'Yups'.  Once he hung up, he turned to me and announced, "Well, that was the garage.  They said your car should be ready in a couple of days."

"A couple of days?" I groused. 

"Seems some damage was done to the radiator when you hit the Explorer, plus they have to buff out those dents in the front and rear bumpers."

"How much?"

"Reasonable.  I wouldn't let him touch it if I thought he was ripping you off."

"You know, maybe I should just trade it in for that mini-. . ."

"Don't even finish that sentence, Dana," he growled, menacingly.

"A couple of days," I moaned.  "How will I get to work?"

He threw his arm over my shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze.  "Take some time off, sweetheart.  It'll give you a chance to heal."

"It's just a bump, Fro," I said for the hundredth time, "and I can't take some time off.  I have classes, exams. . ."

"Well, what about your friend, Andie?" he suggested.  "Couldn't she take your classes for you?"

"I can't ask her to do that," I insisted.  "She's already carrying a full load."  I paused to take a sip of my drink, a plan slowly forming in my head.  It was sneaky and underhanded, but I'm sure Mel would forgive me.  Leaning my head on his shoulder, I looked up at him through my eyelashes, and cooed, "I don't suppose I could borrow YOUR car?"

He just looked down at me and laughed.  "Dana, are you flirting with me?"

"Maybe," I whispered, batting my eyes at him.  "Is it working?"

That got him laughing harder.  "Honey, I'm really enjoying the show, but my answer's no.  You're not used to the way my car handles. . ."

"And you don't want anything to happen to it," I finished sulkily, sitting back upright.

With a put-upon sigh, he replied,  "No, Dana.  To YOU.  I could give a damn about the car.  I don't want anything to happen to YOU. " 

I dropped my eyes and quickly apologized, "I'm sorry, Mel," feeling ashamed of myself for thinking the worse of my friend.  "That was uncalled for."

One gloved hand slid lovingly down my face.  "It's okay, kiddo.  You had a rough day.  I understand."

"Yeah, but I seem to have a tendency to snap at you when I've had a bad day," I pointed out.

"As long as I'm providing a service," he joked.

"An indispensable service," I joked back.

He picked up his mug and took a sip; after a moment, he said, "I could always drive you in."

I shook my head.  "No.  That's sweet of you, Fro, but Quantico 's out of your way.  WAY out of your way," I emphasized.

"Yeah, I wish you worked closer."

"So do I," I agreed, wistfully.  I was used to a short commute to the F.B.I. Building .  Now it was over 70 miles one way. . .which seemed much longer during rush hour.

"It's too long," he stated.

That point was rather obvious: the 90 minutes I was stuck in traffic everyday had gotten stale rather quickly.  "Well, it's no more than anyone else in this country, and decidedly shorter than some people." 

"But Dana, you're exhausted.  And you barely get to see William anymore except in the morning and to tuck him in at night--IF you're lucky.  I thought this job was supposed to give you MORE time with him."

"At least I'm not being called out of town every other week," I grumbled.  <Talk about your small blessings.>

"Well, you know the saying:  if the mountain won't come to Mohammed. . ." he muttered, vaguely. 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Since we can't move Quantico closer to us--maybe it's time to think about moving closer to Quantico ," he explained.

"Are you serious?"

"You said it yourself.  The commute is hellish for both of us.  Maybe we could find something halfway between both of our jobs.  And it'll be good for William, too.  I mean, this is a nice place, Dana, but there's nowhere for the kid to play.  No backyard, a busy street with lots of cars. . ."

"You know, you've got a point there.  And this apartment IS small. . .maybe we can find a bigger one."

He took a sip from his mug before he replied, "Actually, I was thinking of a house."

"A HOUSE?" I squeaked, incredulously.  "You want to buy a house?"

"Yeah.  Something permanent to set down some roots.  Give William some stability."

"But what about the expense?" I bemoaned.  "Houses cost so much money."

He cut me off before I could go on any further.  "Actually, once you get past all the closing costs and stuff, there's really no difference between paying a monthly mortgage and a monthly rent.  And at the end of it, you have something you can call your own.  Plus the interest rates on mortgages right now are some of the best in years."

I had to admit he had a good point--several good points in fact.  This apartment was quite small for the three of us, and there really weren't any safe places for Will to play once he got older.  But a house?  "Mel, I. . .I hear what you're saying but this is a big step you're talking about.  A giant step.  I. . .I don't think I can make a decision that big in just one night.  I mean, we're not exactly talking about buying a toaster oven here."

"Honey, I know that.  This is a huge decision, and I don't expect you to make it just one night.  But now that the topic has been introduced, we can discuss it whenever you're ready."  He reached over and started massaging my neck and shoulders.  <God, this guy's got great hands!> After a few minutes of exquisite kneading, he crooned, "Now, what I think you should do is turn in early.  You had a pretty rough day."

"Mmmmmm," I sighed, even as I melted further into his touch.  "I think I like the sound of that." 

With a final pass of his hands and a kiss on my right cheek he let me go, asking, "Need any help?"

"No, I think I can find my bedroom on my own."  I stood up and stretched.  "Are you going to join me?"

"Why, Dana, I never thought you'd ask!" he purred with his patented leer.

It dawned on me what I said, and I know I blushed to my toes.  "Not that, you pervert," and I gave him a playful shove.  "I mean, are you turning in early, too?"

He sighed dramatically, "Well, since you've withdrawn the offer, I think I'll just hang out here for a while.  There are some online sites I've been wanting to check out, and I think there's a Lakers game scheduled later on tonight."

"Oh, okay."  I put my empty mug on the coffee table, and was just about to head off for bed when something occurred to me.  I leaned down and gave him a huge hug.

"Hey, what's this for?" he asked, puzzled, even while he wrapped his arms around me and returned my embrace.

"Just--thanks again for everything," I whispered, sincerely.  "Sometimes I think you're a godsend."

In a real bad John Wayne imitation, he replied, "Simply doin' my job, ma'am."  He gave me a kiss on the cheek and a playful little shove.  "Now, go get some sleep.  I'll see you in the morning."

But sleep didn't come easily for me, despite my exhaustion.  My brain just refused to shut down, as it played our conversation over and over again.  A house!  My goodness, we had been married less than six months and now we were contemplating buying a house together.  Okay, if we're being honest--*I* would be buying the house.  We lived on my salary, after all, so it was a pretty safe bet that I would be footing the bill for this expense, too.

But the more I thought about it, the more I warmed up to the idea.  I've always wanted a place to call my own, something with some security, something I could invest in for my old age.  A place in a quiet little community with good schools where William could grow up happy and healthy.  And Frohike WAS right--this apartment may have been nice while I was single, but it really wasn't designed for a family, as we had found out.

As I finally started to feel sleep claiming me, it was with images of real estate ads dancing in my head.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Hey, sweetie.  How'd you sleep?"

"Pretty good, actually."  I walked over to the counter, poured myself a cup of fresh coffee, and joined Mel and William at the kitchen table.  My baby looked decidedly droopy, as if hungover from his excesses of the night before, but he still managed a chirpy, "Ma Ma Ma," for me before he went back to playing in his oatmeal.

"Dana, if I were you, I'd drink that quick and get ready ASAP," Mel suggested, plowing through his own meal faster than usual.

"Ready for what?"

"Work.  You've got a long drive ahead of you."

"Mel, I don't have a car, remember?" I reminded him, sarcastically.

He swallowed his mouthful and proudly announced, "You do now."

I felt my eyebrows shoot up at that.  "You're loaning me the GTO after all?"

"Not quite.  I've made other arrangements."

Placing my head in my hands, I groaned, "Please don't tell me I have to drive that VW minibus of yours?"

He just laughed, "No, Jimmy won't let the mobile command unit out of his sight."

"Then how. . .?"

He finished off his cereal and pushed the bowl away.  "I called AVIS this morning, and just our luck--they have a Volvo for rent.  I can drop you off at their office on the way to the Warehouse, if you get your rear in gear."

"Frohike!  I was right.  You ARE a godsend.  Give me ten minutes."  I took another swig of coffee, then got up and placed the mug, along with his empty bowl, in the sink.

"Good.  That'll give me just enough time to clean this little guy up."  I watched in amusement as he got up himself and started the unenviable task of trying to remove William from his highchair.  Our son seemed to have gotten his second wind, as he started laughing and kicking out his little legs, making Mel's job that much harder.

Finally freed, they were heading off to the bathroom when I was broken out of my trance and I was able to call out, "By the way, Mel--yes."

Frohike turned back to me, a very sticky baby planted on his hip, and asked, "Yes, what?"

"I've given it some thought, and perhaps you're right about the house."

"Really?"  He seemed surprised that I was going along with him.

I gave my S.O. a big smile.  "Yeah.  You've made some very valid arguments and I've always wanted my own home.  It couldn't hurt to go look around and see what's out there, right?"

"Couldn't hurt at all," he eagerly agreed.

"Do you have any plans for Saturday?"

Adjusting William to get a better grip, he grinned, "Oh, I think I can clear out my extremely busy schedule for you."

"Then it's a date."  As I made my way back to my bedroom, I called out over my shoulder, "You know, Frohike, I think this is one of your better ideas."

ONE EXHAUSTING SATURDAY LATER:

"This was a bad idea, Frohike.  Maybe we should stay put."

"It was only one afternoon, Dana.  Heck, some people spend MONTHS looking for the right place."

"MONTHS!?  I can't even think about doing this for MONTHS!"  In one day, we had visited eight different homes, each worse than the one before.  At the memory of some of them, I started to laugh.  "Remember that first place they showed us?"

He burst into laughter himself.  "You mean the mayor's mansion?  Damn, it was bigger than the Warehouse!  Billy coulda played stickball in the foyer!"

"Oh, but the Olympic size indoor swimming pool was a nice touch," I praised, sardonically.  "Can you imagine how long it would take to CLEAN something like that?"

"Not to mention the monthly payments on a 30 year mortgage for that puppy."

"30 years?  Try 60!"

"Billy would be a grandfather before it was paid off," he joked.

"Well, if you want cheap, we can always go with the 'fixer-upper'," I countered.

"You mean the Addam's family house?  I'm a tinker-er, Dana, not freakin' Bob Vila.  I've seen condemned buildings that were in better shape than that place.  The best thing that monstrosity could hope for is to be blown off to Oz."

I flopped down on the couch with a huff.  "I just want something neat and simple, cute with a little flower garden and some place for William to run around.  Is that so difficult?" 

"We'll find it, Dana.  Just give it some time."

Leaning my head backwards against the soft cushions on the back of the sofa, I sighed, "I wish it could be like 'Miracle on 34th Street '."

He came and sat beside me.  "How so?"

"Well, the little girl found her dream house in a newspaper ad, and then Santa got it for her."  Looking over at my friend, I gave a little smirk, "That's the ONLY way to do it."

"Maybe not the only way, Dana."  He jumped off the couch and ran over to the desktop computer, mumbling, "Shoulda thought of this sooner."  I watched in fascination as he logged on and his fingers flew across the keyboard until found the web page he was looking for.  "Voila."

"What is it, Mel?" I asked, going to him and leaning over his shoulder.

"Real estate listings.  What do you want?  Colonial?  Ranch?  Town house?"

"Something we can afford," I joked.

"Okay, refrigerator box it is."

I punched him in the shoulder.  "Frohike!" I laughed.

"Hey!  Stop with the punching," he chuckled.  I watched as he entered our requirements--bathrooms, bedrooms, price range, location--and suddenly a page full of homes for sale popped up on the screen.  We both checked over the page, vetoed all of them and moved to the next page. . .and the next. . . and the next.  He changed the parameters, upped the maximum price, and still nothing.  It was so depressing, almost as bad as the afternoon had been.  But just as I turned away in disgust, I caught a vision out of the corner of my eye.

"THAT ONE!"  We both exclaimed at the same time, our fingers pointing to the same little house on the screen.  A total cliché of the American dream--it was a two-story pale beige Cape Cod, with dark brown shutters and a huge bay window in the front; a little white picket fence, a small flower garden, and a stone walkway completed the image.  All it needed was a dog and 2.5 kids in the front yard.

We immediately called the agent to set up a viewing.

The next day, we drove over to Lorton , Virginia .  (Talk about a time-saver. . . we'd each cut our commute times in nearly half!)  We rode down along the quiet tree-lined street until we came up to the house, which looked even better than in the picture, if that was possible.  Mel let out a low soft whistle, and muttered, " 'Miracle on 34th Street ', indeed."

The agent greeted us at the door; Frohike, wheeling a drowsy William in his stroller, followed her inside while I stepped around back.  The backyard was a nice size and flat (currently covered with a light layer of snow, but I imagined it'd be lush and grassy in season).  There was plenty of space for William to play in, and perhaps, someday, to put in a pool and a small garden; the two enormous oak trees that shaded the whole area pleased me greatly.

"Dana, get in here and check this out!" I heard Fro yell excitedly from out front, and I hurried back to see what there was to see.

30 Minutes Later:

"It's perfect," I sighed, looking out over the backyard again, this time from the confines of the sun porch.  I loved the kitchen, I loved the bathrooms, I loved the staircase.  In fact, I loved the whole design of the place.  There was almost nothing that needed to be done or changed, and I couldn't believe our luck that it was still on the market.  Frohike had commented that maybe it was haunted or perhaps a gristly murder had taken place there that was scaring the buyers away.  But as I told him, ghosts and dead bodies were nothing new to me--and if that's all that stood between me and this house, then I'd learn to live with them.

"So, our search is over already?" he asked.

"I think so.  We'd need to get the inspectors in and everything, but I think this is the one."

"Then Santa will get it for you."

"What about you, Mel?  Do YOU like it?"

"Dana, it doesn't matter.  As long as you and Billy are here, it'll be my home."  He broke out into a big grin.  "But yeah, I love it, too."

"Can we afford it?" I asked, concerned.  This house was a bit higher than we had wanted to go.  Money wasn't a major concern for us usually.  I got paid pretty well at Quantico , and what Frohike didn't bring to the bank account he contributed in other ways--as a daycare worker, a cook, a maid, a plumber, a mechanic.  He saved us a fortune with all his skills and talents.

He shrugged, and admitted, reluctantly, "Well, I . . I have some money stashed away."  I felt my eyebrow go up on that one.

"Really?  More sold patents I don't know about?" I tried for teasing but I knew my tone was slightly peeved.  I didn't like the fact that he had been holding out on me.  I mean, this was supposed to be 50/50, right?

"Not disposable funds," he amended.  "Some stocks, bonds--that kind of stuff.  I was saving them for something big.  And I guess it doesn't come bigger than this, huh?"

I shook my head, realizing what he saying.  "No way, Mel.  I won't take your nest egg.  That's for your golden years.  We'll just have to find someplace else."

He took my hand.  "What's mine is yours.  For better for worse.  For richer for poorer.  50/50 all the way, remember?"

"But. . ."  I weakly protested.

"Dana, I promised you that I'd take care of you and William.  I. . .I've never had a home as nice as this, never thought that I would.  And besides, what good is money anyway?  You can't take it with you, right?"

"Are you sure?"

He clasped my hands tighter in his, looked me straight in the eye, and asked simply, "Will this house make you happy?"

I looked behind us, through the porch door, into the living room.  I could SEE it: decorated, a fire going in the fireplace, William playing on the floor, Mel and I sitting on the couch sipping wine and watching TV.  It was everything I could want.  Turning to my husband with tears in my eyes, I whispered, "Yes. . .if you're in it with me."

Tears momentarily filled his eyes as well before I found myself wrapped in a huge bear hug.  "Then what are we waiting for?" his voice rough and scratchy all of a sudden.  "Let's go put in a bid."

We retrieved William, who was now sleeping soundly in his stroller in the corner, and went off to look for the agent.

+++++++++++++++++

Title: Confessions Part 3

Author: J. D. Rush

E-mail: yanksfan462@aol.com

Website: http://itak.slashcity.net

Category: Het/gen

Pairing: Frohike/Scully

Rating: PG for some bad language

Summary: Frohike is forced to do some funky sweet-talking.

Disclaimer: Not mine.  Never mine, unless I can convince CC, 1013 and FOX to give them to me.  I'm not holding my breath.

Notes: Special thanks goes out to Super Shamrock!  For her beta, her friendship, and her encouragement.

Confessions Part 3

By: J. D. Rush

Friday, March 22, 2002

I had almost made my silent escape, my hand turning the knob on the front door when I heard a throat clearing behind me.

Shit.  Busted.

I slowly turned around to face a very irate Dana Scully, hands on her hips, staring daggers at me with those ice blue eyes of hers.  "Ahhh. . .hi, Dana."  <Oh, THAT'S intelligent, Melvin!>

"Mel," she responded, her tone as cold as her eyes.

I let the knapsack I was holding slide to the floor.  "I. . .I thought you went to bed."

"I did, but I got up for a glass of water."  Nodding at the fallen knapsack, she inquired snottily, "Going somewhere?"

"Ohhh. . .ahhhh. . ." 

"It's 1:00 a.m. " she observed, needlessly.

"Ummm. . ." You know, it's much easier to bluff when your brain hasn't shut down completely.  Dammit, I haven't felt so cornered since my last major blow-up with Mykita.  This one was promising to rival it, if not leave it in the dust.

She brought her arms up and crossed them over her robe-covered chest; her eyebrow quirked as she observed, "Nice outfit.  Black pants, black turtleneck, black jacket, black ski-cap.  If I didn't know any better, I'd say those are your poaching clothes."

Oh, boy.  I was in deep shit now.  "Honey, I can explain. . ." <And don't think I haven't said THAT before.>

"Frohike, just answer me one thing.  Am I going to be busting your ass out of some secured government installment any time soon?"

"We're just going to be doing a bit of snooping, that's all," I answered, defensively.

She contemplated that for a moment before responding, "You know, Mulder used to snoop a lot.  He used to get SHOT a lot, too."

"Yeah, well, no offense, but Mulder didn't seem to understand the concept of 'duck'," I muttered.  "I've got a much better track record than him."

"Hmmm. . .as I recall, Skinner had do some pretty fancy footwork to get you guys out of the Fenix Atlantic building a few months back."

"Yeah, and without a single shot fired," I reminded her, proudly.

By the look on her face, she wasn't impressed with that fact.  "Have you done this before, Mel?  Sneak out like this in the middle of the night without telling me?"

"No, I swear on a stack of Bibles this is the first time."

"And that's suppose to make me feel better?" she queried. 

Okay.  Now I was starting to lose my patience.  "Look, Dana, this is my job.  This is what I do.  You knew that when you married me."

"You're breaking the law," she declared, forcefully.

"Gee, you didn't seem to mind when we'd do it for you and Mulder."  When I saw the stunned look on her face, I wished I could have bit my tongue off for that one.  "Awww, shit, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean. . ."

"No, no, you're right," she agreed, amiably, once she recovered her voice.  "It IS a double standard, isn't it?  Just answer me one question. . .were you going to tell me about this?"

I didn't even hesitate.  "No."

Her sharp intake of breath echoed in the quiet room.  "Well, at least that was honest," she laughed, mirthlessly.

"Dana, you gotta understand," I pleaded.  "I've blown off a lot of covert missions since we hooked up.  The guys really need me this time."

"Mel, William needs you," she explained, patiently.  "*I* need you."

"I know, honey."  And I DID.  But. . .this was important, too, even if I couldn't make her see that.

"The rules have changed, for both of us," she continued.  "We have other responsibilities now than to our friends and partners.  Have you ever thought about how it would look for an employee of the F.B.I. to have to bail her husband out of jail because he was caught breaking into an off-limits military site?"

"Well, I'd think they'd be used to it after all the times you had to bail out Mulder's ass for doing the same thing."  <Oh, man--why is my mouth always flapping before my brain kicks into gear?  No WONDER Mykita used to throw plates at me when we fought.  I freaking deserved it!>

She just glared at me.  "Not funny, Frohike."

"I'm sorry--I didn't mean to be so flippant," I answered, penitently. 

"I know you didn't."  She gave a huge sigh and dropped her arms, along with the hostile attitude.  "I know you're in a hurry, but can we sit and talk for a moment?"

The change was so quick and startling that I was momentarily knocked off balance.  "Uh, yeah, sure," I said, and followed her to the couch.

We sat in silence for a few moments before Dana finally turned to me, her pretty eyes sad and troubled.  "Frohike, when we first entered into this 'arrangement', we both had a lot to overcome--getting used to living with a new roommate, the pressures of parenthood, the anxiety of trying to keep our secret from our family and friends.  It hasn't always been easy, but I think it's been working out pretty good. . .much better than I even thought it would."

"I've never been happier," I confessed honestly.

Her face got softer as she gently took my hand in hers.  "Me, too, Mel.  You've made me very happy."  I felt my heart swell when she said that.  I had made Dana Scully happy. 

"And I hope to do so for a very long time," I pledged.

"I'm sure you will."  She went quiet again for a few more moments before she added, "I want you to know that I understand why you have to do what you're going to do tonight, and why you might have wanted to keep it a secret, but it still hurts that you didn't tell me your plans."

I squeezed her hand tightly.  "I never meant to hurt you, Dana," I stated emphatically.  "That is the last thing I'd ever do.  You must know that."

She gave me a quick little smile.  "Yes, I do know that."  Looking down at our entwined hands, she gave a squeeze of her own as she whispered, "I want this to work so badly, but I don't know if it can if we lie to each other. . ."

"I didn't lie," I protested.  "I just. . .didn't tell you, that's all."

Her eyebrow rose, questioningly.  "And WHY didn't you tell me?" she asked.

Shrugging my shoulders, I mumbled, "Because I didn't want you to worry."

"And that was the only reason, right?" she queried, sardonically.

"Well, no," I admitted, hesitantly.  "I figured you'd try to stop me."

"Then I did exactly what you thought I'd do."

"Truthfully, I anticipated more broken china when you found out."

That got a genuine laugh from her.  "Sounds like you're familiar with those types of 'discussions'."

"Let's just say I manage to bring out the inner-discus thrower in women."

That got an even heartier laugh.  "Something tells me I would have paid good money to see some of those fights."

"Shoulda put them on pay-per-view.  Lot better than that FOX celebrity boxing match." 

It took a while for the chuckles to die down; when they did, Dana picked up where she had left off.  "I know how important your job is to you, Mel, and that you have responsibilities to your partners, but I don't like being deceived, even when it's for my own good.  From now on, no more secrets, okay?"

Man, she didn't know what she was asking for.  My whole life revolved around secrets--secrets that could get me or my posse or even my loved ones killed.  Well, if anyone in power took me seriously enough, that is.  But one day, the bastards might, and it would just be safer for everyone--especially Dana and Billy-- if I took my secrets with me.  The less they knew, the better.  I knew Scully was going to be disappointed in me, but all I could promise her was, "I'll try my best, sweetheart."

She gave a wistful half-grin.  Dana is a smart woman, and has been around the block a few times.  She knew how these people worked and what we were up against--she also knew that as much as I loved her, I wouldn't think twice about breaking my promise if I thought sharing the information would put her in danger.  "That's all I can ask for, Mel."

<SHIT!  How can I do this to the woman I love--put her through so much distress?  How can I even THINK about putting her second, if only for one night?  Am I outta my mind?>  The phone was in my hand before I could talk myself out of it.  "Fro, whom are you calling at this time of night?" she asked, curiously.

"The guys.  I'm going to tell them I can't make it."

"Why not?"

"Because--I can't do it, okay?  I'll make up some excuse.  I'll tell them Billy's sick."

She reached over and broke the connection.  "Mel, you are NOT going to use our son as your alibi," she informed me, resolutely.

"Fine!  I'll say *I'm* sick.  I'll say I twisted my ankle.  I broke my leg.  SOMETHING!"

"You know, I think they're going to figure out you were fibbing when you don't show up at the Warehouse Monday with a cast," she teased.  "What happened to your 'no more lies' pledge?"

"That promise was between us, babe, not the guys.  They'll just have to make it on their own tonight."

She shook her head.  "I've seen the Keystone Kops in action--they need you, Mel."

"But Dana. . ."

Gesturing to the front door with her chin, she announced, "You better hurry--you don't want to be late."

I stared at her, incredulously.  "You're not going to stop me?"

"I wish I could," she sighed.  "I'm really afraid for you.  But it wouldn't be fair to the guys--or to the American people.  They have a right to know, remember?"

<Oh, God, how I love this woman!>  "You know, one day we're gonna break the big one," I assured her.  "It's just a matter of time now.  And you can tell everyone you knew me when I was a nobody."

"I'm looking forward to it.  Now go, before I change my mind."

I leaned over, cupped her precious face in my hands, and tenderly kissed her.  "Do you have a clue how much I love you?"

She smiled affectionately.  "I have some idea."

With a final small peck, I stood up and headed for the door.  Just as I was picking up my knapsack I felt a tap on my shoulder.  "Don't forget this," and Dana handed me my cell phone.  "In case you need to reach me for bail money."

"Thanks, hon.  And don't worry.  I'll be okay."

"Frohike, I'm a mom.  All I DO now is worry." 

I gave a chuckle.  "And you do it so well." 

As I reached out for the doorknob, there was another tap on my shoulder.  "Mel, promise me one thing."

Turning to my lovely spouse, I queried, "What's that?"

She lowered her eyes and bit her lip so endearingly before she whispered, "Be careful.  And come home.  Please.  I refuse to bring William to visit his daddy behind bars."

Her concern touched me deeply.  "I promise," I whispered back.  "But, honey?"

Lifting her bright eyes, she said, "Yes?"

I gave her my best wise-ass smile.  "That was TWO things."

She just rolled her eyes and pondered, "Why the hell did I ever marry you?"

"Because you realized how suave and dashingly handsome I was and you couldn’t live one more day without me?" I ventured.

"I was thinking more along the lines of temporary insanity," she answered, dryly.

"Six of one, half a dozen of the other--either way you get egg rolls."  I chuckled as she shook her head ruefully.  "Look, honey, I'll be home by morning.  Don't wait up for me."  I gave her another quick kiss on the cheek, then ran off to save the world once more.

DANA:

I stayed by the door for a moment before locking up and making my way back to the sofa.  Grabbing a nearby blanket, I curled up with a book I've wanted to read for some time, and began the long wait until Frohike was home again, safe and sound.  Only then would I get back to sleep.

++++++++++++++++++++++

Title: Florence Nightingale

Author: J.D. Rush and Shamrock

E-mail: yanksfan462@aol.com

Website: http://itak.slashcity.net

Category: Het/gen

Pairing: Frohike/Scully

Rating: PG for mild language

Summary: Following the events of Confessions Part 3--Frohike is feeling icky-poo.

Disclaimer: Not mine.  Never mine, unless I can convince CC, 1013 and FOX to give them to me.  I'm not holding my breath.

Notes:  Special thanks goes out to dear sweet Shamrock.  She came through big for me on this, and indeed, without her help, I couldn't have gotten this one to come out the way I wanted it.  She re-worked much of Frohike's dialog for me, and I think she deserves a writing credit for that.  Thanks, honey!

Florence Nightingale

By: J. D. Rush

Sunday, March 24, 2002

"AAAACCHHHOOOOOOO!!"

The sound greets me as I walk through the door.  I find it strangely reassuring--at least nothing has changed in the couple of hours I've been gone.  Dropping off my bundles in the kitchen, I then make my way to Mel's bedroom.  I knock once and poke my head into the door.  Poor Mel--lying there under a mound of covers, his quilt pulled up almost over his head, a huge pile of used Kleenex decorating his night table.  As I stand there he lets loose with another loud sneeze, followed by a coughing fit.

My guy was a hurting cowpoke.

"Hi, Mel--I'm home," I say cheerfully as I enter his room and sit down carefully on the side of his bed.  "How are you doing?"

"How do you DINK I'm doing?" he snarls--or attempts to snarl.  It doesn't have quite the same impact since his voice is barely a whisper due to the laryngitis.  "I'm DYIN' over 'ere."

A VERY hurting cowpoke.

"It's just a cold, Frohike.  Stop being so melodramatic."

"I've HAD codes before," he informs me.  "Dis is not a code.  Dis is the Pervuvian Deth Fuu."

"I doubt it's the Peruvian Death Flu, Mel," I sigh, dramatically.

"So's you what kinda doctor YOU are," he grouses.

"Well, whatever it is, maybe it'll teach you to wear a coat when you go out snooping in the middle of winter," I can't help rubbing in. 

"Doh, ha-ha.  You're do fubby, Dana."

"They DO say laughter is the best medicine.  By the way, have you checked your temperature lately?"

"Doh."  I grab up the digital thermometer from the little table and aim it for his mouth.  "Dat bedder not be Billy's rectal therm. . ." and while his mouth is open in full rant, I shove it on home.  I may have shut him up momentarily, but his flashing hazel eyes speak volumes--specifically, once he can get out of that bed, I'm a dead woman.

I leave it in a couple of minutes longer than necessary (I'm sure the AMA would forgive me this abuse of power) then pull it out.  101.7.  Crap.

A SERIOUSLY hurting cowpoke.

"You do dat on purpose," he accuses me, then nods at the device.  "Doh what's da damage?"

"Bad enough," I answer, vaguely.  "We need to get your fever down."

"How can I habe a feber?" he protests.  "I'm freezing."

"Exactly.  Look, I'm going to get you something to drink.  You have to ingest plenty of fluids."

"I don't tubbose Old Granddad is on list of abbroved fluids?"

I chuckle at his sickly little joke.  "I'll see what I can do for you."  I walk out, with him still grumbling in the background, and head back to the kitchen.  I dig out a bottle of Gatorade from one of the shopping bags I brought home, and pour a glass for him before putting the rest away in the fridge, along with the other groceries I had picked up.  From another bag, I pull out the large Tupperware container Mom gave me.  Lifting the cover, I get an instant whiff of the delicious aroma as it escapes.  Mom's homemade chicken soup.  <If this doesn't make Mel feel better, nothing will.>  I spoon some into a mug and put it into the microwave to heat up before returning to his room.

By now, he's managed to push himself up in the bed a bit, but he looks like he could collapse at any moment.  I again sit on the side of his bed and hold out the glass to him.  His eyes twinkle when he sees what I've got.  Taking the glass from me, swallows a healthy gulp before asking, "So, where were you?"

Pointing to the glass, I answer, "Well, I had to lay in some supplies.  And I also took Billy to mom's house for a couple of days to get him away from Typhoid Frohike."

"Doh, you're just a laugh riot today, Dana," he grumbles.  I'm just about to tease him some more when I hear the microwave 'beep'.  "What's dat?" he asks, curiously.

"Lunch."

"Dot hungry," he mumbles, draining the rest of his drink.

"You have to eat, Frohike," I sigh.  "You have to keep your strength up."

He hands me back his empty glass.  "Only if I can habe dome more of this.  With maybe a cubble of ice cubes?"

Seeing an opportunity for more teasing, I purr, "What's the magic word, Mel?"

The first hint of a smile in nearly 24 hours crosses his face.  "Please?"

I smile back as I tell him, "I think I can handle that order.  Be right back."  With that, I hightail it back to the kitchen to get everything ready.  First, a nice tall glass of Gatorade (with a couple of ice cubes), bottles of Vitamin C and Tylenol, and a box of Nyquil Liqui-caps.  Then, the hot mug of chicken soup, a couple of chicken salad sandwiches (also courtesy of Mom), and a small bag of potato chips join the feast.  I place everything onto a serving tray, along with a can of Diet Coke for myself, and balancing it carefully, I carry it back his room.  I note he must be feeling a BIT better--his TV is now on and he's watching 'Meet the Press'.  (Although, without his glasses, I wonder how much of it he can actually see.)

I carefully place the tray over his lap and once more take my seat on the bed next to him.  Spying his glasses on the edge of the nightstand, I retrieve them for him; he utters a grateful, 'Dank 'ou', as he slips them on.  Once he can see again, he gets a clear view of the generous spread before him.  "Where'd you get all dis?" he questions, clearly stunned.

"Mom.  She's been cooking like a demon since she found out you were sick.  I think she likes you, Mel."  I shake out a couple of Tylenol for him, which he takes without complaint. 

"She's a bery special lady."

"Yes, she is."  And I hand him a couple of vitamins.

Once he has swallowed them, he asks, "She doesn't bind taking care of Billy today?"

I open the box of liqui-caps and hand two of the pills to Mel.  "Actually, she's going to keep him for a couple of days, just to be on the safe side."

He gets them down, then inquires, "But what about her job?"

I pull open the bag of chips and add a few to the plate with my sandwich.  "She's taking a couple of personal days."

Almost shrinking into himself, he sighs, "I'm doh dorry, Dana.  I didn't mean to be duch a bodder."

"Mel, it happens," I tell him, gently, patting his hand for good measure.  "Don't worry about it.  Just get better, okay?"

"I really hate being tick," he grumbles.

"I know."

He puts his glass back on the tray as he proclaims, "I'm tubbosed to be the strong one, the prodector.  The one DOING the comfording."

"And you do all three very well, Frohike," I reassure him.  "But sometimes, it's someone else's turn to do those things.  It's been so long since I've had the opportunity--I was afraid I was out of practice."

"Doh way.  You've got a great bedtide banner," he leered.

"You sweet-talker.  Now eat up before it gets cold."

He sips at a spoonful of soup and moans happily.  "Dis is delicious."

"Yeah, Mom used to make it for us whenever we'd get sick.  We actually used to

look forward to cold and flu season."  I pick up his TV remote.  "So, anything on?"

"Don't know.  Haben't checked yet."  He then adds, shyly, "Are you joining be?"

I smile at him warmly.  "If you want the company.  If not, I'll take my sandwich and leave you alone."

"Doh I. . .I'd really like dat, Dana."  He gives me a brave smile in return as he takes the remote from me and starts flipping around.  "Basketball?"

"Knicks?"

"You too?"

"What can I say. . . Mulder corrupted me."

"Dope--it's The Heat verses the Mabs."

"The Mavericks?  I'll pass."

"Auto racink?"

"Mel, driving around in a circle for three hours doesn't impress me."

"Well, excuuuussseee be.  Golf?"

"Is that even a sport?"

"Ban, and I thought LANGLY was bicky.  Movie?"

"If you can find a good one."

"I don't do Lifedime movies, Dana."

"Good.  Neither do I."

"Hey, dook, 'Cabbyshack'."

"Not on a dare.  Try again."

"What about 'Men In Black'?"

"Do you know how many times Mulder dragged me to that one?"

"Prob'ly as many dimes as I dragged Byers.  There's always 'Hunt For Red October'."

"Oooh, Sean Connery.  Alec Baldwin.  Sam Neill.  Tim Curry.  AND James Earl Jones?  I think we have a winner."

"Dure, Dana--kick be when I'm down."

"Sorry, Mel." 

So we sit and eat and joke and watch the movie and somewhere along the line, Mel's head drops onto my shoulder, softly snoring in his slumber.  Poor guy--this cold's really wiped him out.  I think about getting rid of the tray, but that would mean disturbing him, and he really needs his rest.  Instead, I carefully remove his glasses and replace them on the nightstand.

Knowing I'm stuck there as his pillow for the time being, I kick off my shoes and make myself comfortable on his bed.  I can't help myself brushing his hair out of his face--my fingers gliding over his still warm forehead reminds me we have a ways to go before this bug is through with him and his fever breaks.  But it's not so bad playing Florence Nightingale--Frohike deserved some pampering for a change.  I kiss him lovingly on the cheek and whisper, "Sleep tight, sweet prince," before turning my attention back to the movie.

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Title: Lean On Me

Author: J. D. Rush

E-mail: yanksfan462@aol.com

Website: http://itak.slashcity.net

Category: Het Romance

Pairing: Byers/Reyes

Rating: PG/PG-13 for disturbing visuals from the TV series.

Summary: Reyes comes home from a case, but can't leave it behind.

Disclaimer: Not mine.  Never mine, unless I can convince CC, 1013 and FOX to give them to me.  I'm not holding my breath.

Notes: Contains spoilers for "Hellbound"; minor mention from 'The Field Where I Died'.  And special thanks to the one and only, Kylara, for another great beta job.  (I still haven't forgiven you for pointing out the LGM telephone thing, though.)

Continuality Note: Okay, I'm veering off the path again.  This is the second Byers/Reyes story that takes place within the Big Things Universe.  I know I've said I abandoned the 9th season canon, and to an extent I have, but this episode still haunts me--as I'm sure it does Agent Reyes.  This is my vision of what may have happened after the last 'i' was dotted and the last 't' crossed.  I will admit I only saw this episode once--I found it just too disturbing to watch it again.  So any mistakes or inconsistencies, well, I apologize in advance.

However, in order to make this episode fit in with my universe, I've had to change the timeline from the television series.  (Since I've changed so much at this point in the game, what's a little thing like this between friends, right?) 

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By: J. D. Rush

March 27/28, 2002

MONICA:

"I don't think you should be alone, Mo.   Want me to stay over?"

"No, no. . .I'll be fine."

"Maybe you should call Dana to come stay with you tonight?  I'm sure Frohike can handle the kid alone for a few hours."

I gave my partner (and best friend) a small, reassuring smile.  "I said I was fine."

"Well what about Byers?" he continued, unfazed, as if he never even heard me.  "Maybe you could call him to come on over for awhile."

"Really, Jackie.  Everything's cool.  Don't worry about me."

"I hate when you call me Jackie," he grumbled, and I had to smile in spite of myself.

"But it's the only way to keep you and John separate," I explained patiently for the tenth time.

He huffed, "Well, how come HE can't be Jackie instead?"

"Because it's YOUR nickname," I reminded him.

He paused for a moment before muttering, "Bad enough my mom calls me that."

"But it fits you, agent," I teased.  "It's. . .cute."

Oh, the look he gave me then.  "You're really pushin' your luck, lady," he snarled, the sting of his tone muted by the little twinkle in his eye. 

I couldn't help but laugh, and I knew that was part of the reason he acted the curmudgeon so often.  Doggett can always cheer me up, even when I don't want to be.  And his concern about me was quite touching.  It really was.  I liked knowing he was there, watching out for me, not more than a phone call away.  It was a good feeling.  A secure feeling.  But as much as I loved Jackie, not even he could help me this time.

I reached over and squeezed his right hand as it gripped the steering wheel.  He looked over at me, and I could tell from the look in his eyes he knew I wasn't fine, but he also knew enough not to press.  It still fascinated me that we could say so much with just a look or a nod or a simple touch. 

I saw the sadness and disappointment in his face and kind blue eyes.  He wanted to help me get through this but it was just something I had to work through on my own.  There were simply too many things I couldn't tell him about this case; well, nothing that he would believe at any rate.  I knew Agent Doggett too well.  He'd pretend to believe me and humor my outlandish beliefs.  It wasn't done maliciously--he just wasn't a believer.  Unlike Dana, who was afraid to believe, Jackie just DIDN'T believe.  If it didn't fit into his precise and ordered structure of the world, then it was dismissed without another thought. 

Don't get me wrong.  John Doggett is a good man--a great man.  He has his own way of solving cases, and he's had an impressive solve rate, both with the NYPD and here at the F.B.I.  His instincts serve him well, and I can't knock him for that. 

It'd just be nice if he could occasionally push 'The Book' aside and embrace some extreme possibilities.

Turning his attention back to the road, his wiggled the fingers of his right hand until he was clasping mine tightly.  He didn't need to speak the words, 'I'm here if you need me'--I heard them loud and clear. 

There was no finer friend than John Doggett.

1:30 A.M.

"Lone Gunmen."

Shit!  Oh, shit!  I had flown out of bed and dialed the number before I had even realized what I was doing.  What the hell WAS I doing?  It was the middle of the night.  But I just had to. . .

"Hello, Monica?  That you?"

<How the hell did he know it was me?  Oh, yeah, that's right.  They have more tracking devices set up than the F.B.I. and the C.I.A. put together.>  "Langly, is. . . is John awake?"  SHIT!  Could my voice get any shakier?

"Yeah, he's right here.  Wanna talk to him?"  Before I could answer, I heard a muffled, "John, it's for you."

<John's there.  He's right near Langly.  Everything is okay.  Obviously.  I could just hang up now.  No harm no foul.  Just put the receiver down, Mo.   But. . .I need to hear his voice.  I need to hear it for myself that everything's. . .>

"This is John."

<His voice.  Oh, God.  I've never heard anything so beautiful in my life.  He's okay.  Everything's okay.  Get a grip, Monica.  Things are okay.>

"Hello?  Monica?  Are you still there?"

"John."  It was the only word I could get out, even though it was little more than a whispered sigh.  Anything else and I was afraid I'd break down. 

Apparently that was all he needed, though.  "Mo?  Are you okay?"  His voice was so full of concern it brought tears to my eyes.

<He's asking *ME* if *I'm* okay?  Doesn't he understand?  Didn't he see?>  "I. . .I. . . yeah, John.  I'm. . .fine," I stammered.

"When did you get back?"

<That's it.  Perfect.  That's just the opening I needed.  Now I can bluff my way out of this.>  "A couple of minutes ago," I lied.  "Just wanted to hear your voice."  <NEEDED to hear your voice,> I didn't add.

"It's good to hear your voice, too," he said, a smile clearly heard in his tone.

<Oh, God.  If I stay on the line any longer, I'm going to start bawling like a baby.>  "Well, it's late.  Just. . .just wanted to tell you I was back and. . ."

"Mo?  Are you sure you're okay?"  The smile was gone and the concern was back.

"Sure.  Why wouldn't I be?" I tried to be flippant.  I know I failed.

"You just sound. . .different.  How was the case?"

<No.  You don't want to go there, John.  *I* don't want to go there.>  "Long, difficult.  It's too late to talk about it.  Maybe this weekend?  Are you free?"  <PLEASE say you're free!>

"Sure.  What's playing?"

"Don't know.  We'll find something."  <As long as it's not a horror movie with lots of killings and blood and skinned bodies. . .>

"Sounds great."  Concern gone, smile back.  I could practically see his handsome smiling face.  It was almost enough to block out the other images, the nightmarish images. . .<Don't go there, Mo.   It was just a dream.>

"Well, it's late, and I'm keeping you from bed. . ."

He cut me off, "Actually, I was working on the paper.  The deadline's tomorrow.  Frohike's here and. . ."

"Oh, well, then I'll let you go back to work.  See ya' Saturday."

"I'll call you to make plans."

"I'd like that.  Goodnight, John."

"Night, Mo.   Pleasant dreams."

<Yeah, right.  PLEASANT dreams.  Not freaking likely.  I was up for the night--would probably never sleep again.>  I hung up the phone and all but collapsed onto the couch, trying to catch my breath, trying to slow my racing thoughts.  John was okay.  I kept repeating it over and over.  John was okay.  <God, what I wouldn't give for a cigarette right now.  What the hell had I been thinking when I quit!?>

After some time, I couldn't take it anymore.  I had to get up, I had to move around. . .I had to get a cup of cocoa.  Comfort food, or drink, as the case may be.  If it wasn't so late I could've thrown on some clothes and gone down to Jay's place.  No, some cocoa would do fine.

I had just put the kettle on the stove (why bother with a microwave? I wasn't in a hurry) when I heard tapping at my front door.  I took a quick look at the digital readout on the clock/radio sitting on my counter-- 2:13 .  Who the hell would be knocking on my door at freaking 2:13 in the morning?  Remembering my gun was still lying on my nightstand, I made my way back into the bedroom and slipped it out of its holster.  In the time it took me to do all that, the tapping had grown louder, until it was almost a full-fledged knock.  Tiptoeing up to the door, gun at the ready, I glanced through the peephole, and almost sobbed in relief.

Throwing the door open, I simply stood there and stared at my visitor until he started to speak.  " Mo-- ?"

"John.  What are you doing here?"

"You sounded odd on the phone.  I know you said you were okay, but. . .you didn't sound like yourself.  I was concerned.  Is everything all right?"

"It is now," and I flung myself at him.  He wrapped his arms around me and just held me close as I started shaking.  "You didn't have to come, John, but I'm so glad you did."  I slipped my arms around his waist and held on for dear life.

He chuckled nervously,  "Gee, Mo--is that a gun pressed into my back, or are you just happy to see me?"

"Oh, John. . .I. . ."  I pulled back from him, and looked at the offending weapon in my right hand.  Giving him a sheepish grin, I confessed, "I guess I'm just a little jumpy." 

"Are you sure you're okay?"  He held my eyes as he said it.  I couldn't tear my gaze away from him.  He looked so. . .alive.  I felt my eyes welling up with tears again.

"Yeah.  I'm fine," I lied.  "Just a really rough case, that's all."

"You want to talk about it?" he asked, gently.

<No, not really.  I'm trying to forget it, actually.>  But he had driven all this way in the middle of the night, not even taking the time bother with his usual business suit.  Instead he wore a simple beige cable-knit sweater with his dark brown suit pants, and I couldn't help noticing it was a nice look for him.  It'd be rude not to at least invite him in for a few minutes and . . .who was I kidding?  I could barely keep the words from bursting out.  I HAD to talk to someone, and I knew Doggett wouldn't have--he just wouldn't have understood.  I had known him long enough to realize that.

"Yes, I mean. . .yes, I'd like to talk. . ."  Before I could finish the sentence, I heard the kettle whistling from the kitchen.  At John's puzzled look, I murmured, "I was just about to make some hot chocolate."

He smiled and I felt my heart start beating double time--he's got a gorgeous smile.  "My favorite.  Why don't you go sit down and I'll whip it up for us?"  He didn't give me much choice in the matter--he turned me towards the couch and gave me a gentle push.

"I have some little marshmallows on the counter," I tossed out over my shoulder.

"Gotcha.  Where's the, um, stuff?"

"First cupboard on the left."  I heard the opening and closing of said cupboard door as I made my way to the couch.  Placing the gun on one of the end tables, I stared at it for a minute or two, not believing how wrecked I was feeling inside. 

John came over a couple of minutes later, holding two full mugs, and an open box of Girl Scout shortbread cookies I had lying around the kitchen.  Handing one of the mugs to me, he took a seat to my right, and placed the box of cookies on the coffee table.  I thanked him softly and took a tiny sip of my drink, a smile spreading across my face.  "You put Bailey's in my cocoa, John?"

"Well, I saw it up in the cupboard next to the chocolate mix and I figured it might help you relax a little," he explained, modestly.

"Thanks, John," I said again, touched by his thoughtfulness.

After taking a sip of from his own mug he turned to me and asked point blank, "Now--what's going on, Mo?"

I didn't want to.  I REALLY didn't want to.  I knew it was going to upset him.  But I needed to talk to someone, someone who wasn't there.  Someone who wouldn't think I was crazy.  And John was so easy to talk to.  He was a great listener.  So, once I took a long drink of my spiked cocoa for courage, I told him all about the case.  I saw his face draining of color as my narrative progressed.  I tried not to go into too much detail, but not much was needed to get the point across. 

"Skinned alive?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.  I just nodded.  "Oh my God."

"You can say that again."

"Well, no wonder you're shaken up," he concluded.

"That's sort of an understatement, John."

"So, did you catch the killer?"

I nodded once.  "In a way.  He's dead."

"Well, that's a good thing, isn't it?"

"Not really."

"Why?"

I sighed heavily.  "Because he'll be back.  In 40 years time.  Him, his victims, his pursuer.  We'll all be back."

His brow furled in confusion.  "Mo, I'm not sure I follow you.  Do you mean he has followers that will continue his crimes?  Is this some kind of cult thing?"

<How could I ever get him to understand THIS?>  "No.  I mean, Van Allen will come back. . . as someone else.  His SOUL will come back and he'll kill the same men--the same SOULS--again, in the same way." 

His eyebrows shot up, and he blinked those big blue eyes at me.  "You mean he'll be reincarnated?" he asked, his voice filled with trepidation.

"That's what he claims."

"And you believe him?"

I nodded and gave a self-depreciating laugh that wasn't a laugh at all.  "Crazy, huh?"

He sat thoughtfully for a moment before responding, "Not necessarily.  Mulder claimed it had happened to him, that he experienced scenes from a previous life, but I've never personally experienced the phenomenon."

I reached for one of the Girl Scout cookies.  "You're lucky, you know."

"You have?"  I didn't answer him right away, content just to munch on my cookie and avoid the question altogether.  But John Byers isn't put off easily, so he pressed, " Mo.   You said, 'we all come back.'  Are you implying this--phenomena--has happened to you?  That you have previous ties with these murders?"

<Didn't I tell you he was a good listener?>  I swallowed the rest of my cookie, hoping it wouldn't come back up again, then told him, "Van Allen said I never catch him--that I'm always too late to stop him.  It seems my lot in every lifetime is to get close to solving the crimes but I always end up failing.  And he always keeps killing" 

"But Mo, even if you believe in reincarnation, you don't honestly believe what he told you, do you?"

I shrugged.  When John said it, I must admit it sounded foolish.  Maybe I'd be better served to take Mulder's "Trust No One" philosophy to heart.  But there was still too much to this case that gave me the creeps--too much that I couldn't explain. 

"John, I knew things about this case I shouldn't have known, saw things before they happened.  I had these dreams--I could foresee what would happen next, almost as if I was re-watching a movie in my head.  As if I were reliving it.  The condition of the bodies was bad enough, but the dreams I had were even worse.  I gotta be honest--it freaked me out.  And not much does."

"And that's why you called me?"

I shook my head.  "Doggett. . .he had suggested I call someone to stay with me tonight.  He was worried about me.  I told him I was fine, and I thought I was. . ."

"But you weren't," he finished for me.  When I didn't respond to his comment, he sighed sadly and stated, "Mo--talk to me.  Obviously something happened that caused you to pick up that phone.  I want to help but I can't until you tell me what's wrong." 

He was right, of course. And since talking about the case had make me feel a little better, maybe it'd do me good to get this off my chest as well.  I took a deep breath and said, "I had another dream.  Not like the others.  It was a stupid scary dream that jolted me awake and before I knew what I was doing, I had the phone in my hand and I had dialed your number. . ."  I paused, not sure where to go with this little confession.

John sensed my apprehension and filled in the awkward silence.  "Must've been a helluva dream," he pointed out.

"You could say that."

"About Van Allen?"

I nodded.  "Yeah.  He wasn't dead.  He. . . he. . .oh, God."  I could see it as clear as day, the images from my dream as real as any I had encountered on the case.  "He got to you, John.  He. . .I found you. . .you had been. . ."

He stopped me before I could finish the sentence.  "Mo, it's okay.  I get the picture."  Well, it wasn't very hard to conclude what I was about to say--if I had been John, I wouldn't have wanted to hear it, either.  He put his mug down on the table and pulled me in tightly to him, until I was practically crushed against his strong chest.  Strong.  Safe.  Sheltered.

It felt so good.

Steady hands started rubbing soothing little circles over my shoulders and over my back, and I heard a small whimper of appreciation slip past my lips.  He held me in silence for a few minutes before he drew away from me and spoke again.  "Monica--I want you to do me a favor."  Tipping my mug to my mouth, he pleaded, "Here.  Take a sip."  Once I did, he asked, "What do you taste?"

"Warm.  Chocolaty.  Sweet."

He took my mug from me and put in on the coffee table next to his, then leaned in and kissed me.  Tenderly.  His lips pressed against mine, his soft beard tickling my cheek in a familiar and reassuring way.  Pulling back, he asked, "What about that?"

I smiled.  "Warm.  Chocolaty.  Sweet."

He cupped my face between his large gentle hands and whispered, "This isn't a dream, Mo.   This is real.  I'm okay.  I'm alive.  And so are you."  And with that, he pulled me against him, where I had a good long cleansing cry. 

After a while, the water works slowed down, and I started to calm down somewhat.  From above me, I heard a soft, playful, "Feeling better?"

A small smile I didn't want to appear did anyway.  "Actually, I am.  Thank you."

"Anytime, honey."

<Honey.  Isn't that cute?  He really is the sweetest guy. >  He gave me a quick little kiss and continued to hold me close, rocking me carefully.  I couldn't remember the last time I had felt this protected, this secure, this. . .loved?  Was it too early to be thinking along those lines?  I mean, we'd only been dating about four months now, and we hadn't even. . .we hadn't even slept together yet. 

Definitely unknown territory for me. 

I just wasn't used to this.  If I had to choose a word, I'd have to say John was courting me.  It was different.  It was nice.  I liked not being pressured to move forward in the relationship before I was ready.  John was letting me take everything at my own pace, very conscious of my feelings.  I felt like I mattered to John, that he respected me.  He was such a special man.  No, it wasn't too early to be thinking about love.  In fact, it was probably too late. 

I think I was already in love.

"Mo?" my knight in shining armor whispered.  "Are you still awake?"

"Hmmm. . .?  Yeah."

"You got so quiet. . .is everything okay?"

<I'm laying here in your arms.  Everything's perfect.>  "Yeah, I'm fine.  I was just thinking."

"About what?"

I couldn't tell him.  Now wasn't the time to be telling him how crazy I was about him.  Besides, it may in fact still be too early to be making confessions like that.  The last thing I'd want to do is scare John off by getting too serious too quickly.  Instead, I said the first thing that came to me, "I guess I just can't get over the fact you believed me.  As long as Doggett's known me--well, he tries.  He really does.  But he just can't take that final leap of faith."

"Or maybe he's afraid to," John replied, sagely.  "I've got to tell you, Mo--being friends with Mulder and Scully--I've seen things that I can't explain.  I'm not afraid anymore."  And suddenly, without warning, he started to chuckle.

"John, what is it?"  But instead of answering me, his chuckles grew louder.  "Hey, c'mon.  Spill it.  I could use a good laugh right now."

"Well, I was just thinking," he got out in between guffaws, "that if your theory is right, and we keep meeting the same people over and over again, then I get to spend the rest of my lives with Langly and Frohike.  What the hell did I ever do to deserve THAT?"

And just like my Jackie, John was able to break through my blues.  I joined in his laughter, enjoying his quirky sense of humor.  As the giggles tapered off, I was stunned to hear him say, "Of course, I guess it'll all be worth it, if I get to meet up with you again, too."

I took me a moment to get my voice back--I was so afraid I would start crying again, this time with joy.  "John. . .I. . .I can't believe you just did that."

"What?"

"Turned one of the worse nights of my life into something. . ." I trailed off, not sure how to finish my thought.

"Something. . .what?" John inquired, teasingly.

"Something. . .not quite so bad," I finished, lamely.  "I don't know how you found the silver lining in that cloud, but I'm glad you did."

He shrugged, the barest hint of a blush hitting his cheeks.  "Just speaking from the heart."  With that, he leaned again the armrest of the couch, and pulled me to him. 

As I rested my head on his chest, I inquired,  "Are you going to stay tonight?" wanting nothing more than to stay in his arms all night.

"Where else would I be?" he answered, softly.

"You sure?"

He pulled down the blanket I had on the back of the couch and draped it over me.  "Just get some sleep, Mo. "

"I think I like that idea," I whispered into his chest.  And, snuggling close to him, I quickly dropped off.

BYERS:

I heard her breathing even out and gave a heartfelt sigh.  The poor kid.  She shouldn't have had to go through something like that alone.  Even if I didn't believe her, I still would have been here, supporting her.  Too bad the images she described ensured I wouldn't be joining her in slumber tonight. 

Her body felt so good next to mine.  This was the closest we had gotten since we started dated four months ago.  We didn't get to see each other half as much as we would have liked--our respective schedules continually conspired to keep us apart.  When she called tonight, I had no idea what I was walking into.  All I knew was that she sounded distressed, and she was reaching out to me for help.  Then, when she answered the door, wearing an over-sized F.B.I. T-shirt flannel shorts, and little white ankle socks, I though my heart was going to burst right out of my chest. 

I let my hands drift over her once more, softly, as not to wake her, and sighed in pleasure.  I liked holding her.  I liked smelling her.  I liked listening to her gentle snoring.  I liked. . . I liked her.  I knew I was falling for her--had been since the first moment I saw her.  The first time I talked to her.  Our first dance.  Our first date.  Our first kiss.  The first time we. . .well, that hasn't happened yet, except in my dreams.   Monica had been burned--badly--in past relationships, and I was NOT going to be lumped in with the rest of 'them'.  I wanted her to know that I was attracted to more than just her body, that I wanted more from this relationship than just a quick roll in the hay.  So, we've spent our time together just getting to know each other better, and when the time was right to move forward, we'd know it.

And what I've learned so far is Monica is a very special woman, so caring and warm, intelligent and funny.  She's a woman I could see myself spending the rest of life with, a woman I wanted to grow old with.  A house, a family--I could see it all when I looked at her.  She could be the one.

<John, I think you're getting a bit ahead of yourself, big guy.>

She shifted a bit in her sleep, and started to moan softly.  Another nightmare, perhaps.  Well, that wouldn't do.  I was here to protect her tonight, and guard her from those horrible dreams.  Rubbing soothing circles over her back and shoulders, I placed a tiny kiss on her forehead.  Magically, it worked.  She sighed contentedly and instantly calmed down as she snuggled closer to me.  Once more I was the responsible one--but I didn't mind it so much this time.  John Byers: Slayer of Sleep Demons.  It had a nice ring to it.

Oh, yeah.  I had fallen for Monica Reyes hard.  And it felt so good.

THE END

 "Evil returns as evil, but love... love. Souls mate eternal."

Mulder/Jewish Woman: 'The Field Where I Died'

Author: J. D. Rush

E-mail: yanksfan462@aol.com

Website: http://itak.slashcity.net

Category: Het Romance

Pairing: Frohike/Scully

Rating: R, for sexual situations

Summary: It takes two to tango, after all.

Disclaimer: Not mine.  Never mine, unless I can convince CC, 1013 and FOX to give them to me.  I'm not holding my breath.

Notes: I know nothing about the Tango, except what I picked up from the LGM episode, "Tango de los Pistoleros", and from a website.  Any mistakes or misinterpretation is all mine.  I did what I needed to do to tell the story.  I apologize in advance.

Dedication:  To Vel~, for her tireless encouragement.  This one's for you, kiddo.

Can I Have This Dance?

By: J. D. Rush

Sunday, April 7, 2002

"EEEEK!!!!"

The very unScully-like girlie-scream had me off and running.  Standing outside the bathroom where the noise had come from, I pounded on the door and cried out, "Scully, are you okay in there?"

"NO!  I'm not okay!" came the distressed answer.

Trying the doorknob and finding it locked, I asked, "What's wrong?" even though I was scared of hearing the answer.

"Get in here and look at this!" Dana wailed, as the door suddenly unlocked from inside. 

I didn't need to be told twice.  I pushed the door open and rushed into the room, only to find Dana standing on the bathroom scale.  She was dressed in just a large bath towel, a matching one wrapped around her still-wet hair.  After taking a moment to enjoy the view, I cleared my throat and questioned, "What is it?"

She just stared at me, even as she gestured towards the scale.  "Frohike!  I'm up to 116 pounds.

That puzzled me.  "Is that a problem?"

"I've gained six pounds since I married you!" she squealed.  "That's nearly a pound a month!"

I looked her up and down.  Wherever she was hiding it, I couldn't tell.  "Are you sure?" 

Gesturing towards the scale, she stated, "The scale doesn't lie."

"Well, maybe it's just baby fat," I tried to reason.

Her eyebrow shot up.  "You think I'm fat?" 

I backpedaled quickly, "No, that's not what I meant.  All I'm saying is, well, you DID gain some weight when you were pregnant with Billy and perhaps. . ."

She cut me off before I could finish my thought.  "And I lost it all.  Mel, I've been 110 since the day I graduated from the Academy." 

Trailing my eyes over her once more, I said, "Dana, honey, I don't know what you're so upset about.  I can't even see it.  You look great.  Incredible, even."

"But. . ." she started to protest, but I put up my hand to stop her.

"So it's a couple of pounds.  Who cares?"

With a heavy sigh, she informed me, "*I* care.  If I let myself go. . ."

"I'd still love you," I insisted.

She tilted her head and gave me a indulging smiled.  "I know you would, Mel, but I don't know how I'd feel about myself." 

"That sounds like something from a Richard Simmons infomercial," I joked.

Stepping off the scale, she sat down, ladylike, on the small step stool sitting in the corner.  She fixed me with her piercing blue eyes and said, "I know this is going to sound silly, Mel, but when I look good I feel good.  Knowing I'm in shape lets me do my job efficiently, without any doubts as to my ability.  I'm not doing it for vanity's sake – I'm doing it for my own piece of mind." 

"I'm sorry, Dana," I replied, penitently.  "I shouldn't have teased you.  I didn't realize how important this was to you."

She stood up, took another glance at the scale and whined, "Looks like diet time.  And I'll have to find a few minutes to get to the gym.  I've really been slacking off lately."

"You could exercise here, you know," I commented, offhandedly.

"What do you mean?"

Leaning against the doorframe, I crossed my arms over my chest and explained, "Well, you've been asking me to teach you how to tango, and dancing is an excellent form of exercise."

Her eyes got big and bright and hopeful.  "Really?  You'd do that?"

Patting my own tummy, I snickered, "Hey, I've put on a couple of pounds these last few years myself.  I wanna stay buff for you."

"When can we start?" she asked, excitedly.

Slipping my hands into my pants pockets, I said, "Right now, if you want."

Her smile positively beamed.  "Sounds great.  Let's go."

Nodding at her towel-clad figure, I chuckled, "Like that?"

She looked down at herself and blushed sweetly.  "Oh, I guess not.  Give me a couple of minutes to change, okay?"

"Sure thing, sweetie.  I'll go get things set for us."  With that, I left her to her privacy and headed to the living room to get everything ready.

As she wandered off to her bedroom to get dressed, I busied myself with moving the sofa back and getting the coffee table out of the way to make room a slapdash dance floor.  Next, I went through our CD's, looking for some appropriate music – something with a good rhythm and beat.  I finally found a Marc Anthony disk of Dana's that I had heard her play before, and figured it would do until I could get my hands on some real tango music. 

I placed the CD in the player, then headed into my bedroom to change my own outfit--you can't dance the tango in combat boots, after all.  I dug out my old costume, disturbed to see it was a bit tight (man, must've gained more weight than I thought), slipped on my dancin' shoes, and threw on my Fedora while I was at it.  Taking one last look in the full-length mirror, <Yup, clothes certainly make the man!>, I made my way back to the living room. 

Dana was already waiting for me on the couch.  She jumped up as I entered and announced, "Okay, I'm ready."

Yeah, that's what SHE thought!  She was decked out in her standard weekend gear:  sweats, a baggy T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers.  One look and I immediately vetoed the entire fashion disaster.  "Not in THAT outfit," I informed her.

"What's wrong with the outfit?" she demanded.  "It's what I'd wear to the gym."

"The tango is a sensual dance executed on the balls of your feet," I explained.  "It's almost impossible to do it barefooted or in sneakers.  High heels work best.  And you don't want anything that will be restricting – I'd suggest a dress or a skirt." 

Her mouth quirked into a half-smile.  "I'm sure you would.  You're a leg man, aren't you, Mel?"

"I'm a Dana-man," I retorted with a leer.  "But seriously, the right outfit will go a long way in establishing the right mood and the right attitude."  And I gestured to my own outfit as proof.

"And those are important?"

"Very."

It was obvious she wasn't completely convinced, but she finally shrugged her shoulders and huffed, "Fine.  I'll go change."

She returned a few minutes later as I was stretching and limbering up.  (Hey, I'm not a young turk anymore, okay?)  "Will THIS do?" she asked, sarcastically.  I looked up and got a gander at her get-up.

"Gack!" or something equally intelligent was my only response to the vision standing in front of me.  The sloppy casuals were gone, replaced with a slinky low-plunging red dress that clung to every curve she had.  It was highlighted by a thigh-high slit that showed off her shapely right leg, decorated with a lacy red garter.  <I don't care what she thinks – those extra coupla pounds looked GREAT on her!> The ensemble was completed with a matching pair of 4-inch high-heel shoes, their slim straps lovingly encircling her delicate ankles.  When I got my mouth (and my brain) working again, I managed to wheeze, "Dana!  Where'd you get that dress?  I've never seen you wear it before!"

"For obvious reasons.  It's very – unprofessional.  I bought it in a moment of weakness."  She paused, seemingly embarrassed by her impulsive purchase before asking, "So . . . what do I do first?"

Tearing my eyes away from that attention-grabbing outfit, I cleared my throat and told her, "I thought we'd start with some basic holds and steps, then we can try it with some music.  And later on, I'll show you some of the more advanced stuff.  Is that all right with you?"

"Whatever you say, Frohike.  I'm in your hands."

That decided, I stepped forward, grabbed her around the waist with my right arm, and jerked her close.  <Man, with those heels, she towers over me!>  She gave a little yelp of surprise, then dissolved into a fit of giggles.  "Dana, honey, this isn't gonna work if you can't control yourself," I growled, even though I couldn't help smiling myself.

"Sorry, Mel," she apologized through her sniggles, and I almost started laughing at her efforts to curb her amusement.  She finally settled down, took a deep breath and announced, "Okay, I'm ready now."

"All right – first thing to remember is the tango is slow and sensual, romantic and seductive.  And above all, it's tragic."

"Tragic?" she asked, baffled.

"It's a love story, one that's doomed from the start," I explained as I held her.  "The man pursues the woman, chases her, declaring his love, only to be spurned again and again."  And I gave a small smile, thinking of how the dance paralleled our relationship.

"Then why does he do it?" she inquired, inquisitively.

"He can't help himself," I continue, weaving the legend.  "She's an enchantress who has captured his heart, his soul.  He has no choice but to pursue and hope that some day . ."

"Some day?"

I paused a moment before whispering, dramatically, "Some day. . .he'll be the conqueror."  <If only. . .>

"And that's all told through the dance?" she pondered.

"When it's done right," I assured her.  "Still interested?"

Her eyes sparkled with curiosity and intrigue.  "More than ever.  Let's go for it."

We spent the next few minutes going through the warm-up exercises and basic footwork.  I showed her the straight-line and serpentine walking exercises to get the hang of the specialized intricate movements, especially the way the ankles and knees should brush each other with each step.  I reminded her not to lift her feet too high, that they should skim the floor, and that her head and back should be straight at all times.  Dana quickly mastered the skills, and I felt she was ready to attempt the eight basic steps that compromise the dance.

My lovely partner did remarkably well, only stepping on my toes a couple of times before she was quite proficient.  She proved to be such an excellent student that we soon moved onto the more advanced Ochos figure-eights and the Arrastre sweeps.  With each new challenge, Dana more than exceeded my expectations, and, in fact, it was hard to tell who was having more fun – I hadn't enjoyed dancing this much in years.

Finally, I knew she was ready to try stringing all the lessons together, and I turned on the music.  Instantly the slow rhythmic guitar strains that open the CD filled the room.  I grabbed her passively around the waist once more. . .and the dance began.

"I have been in love and been alone,

I have traveled over many miles to find a home,

There's that little place inside of me,

That I never thought could take control of everything." 1

"Dana," I marveled, as she executed a perfect figure-eight, "you're magnificent.  Are you sure you never did this before?"

She giggled, "Nope.  I just had a great teacher."

"'Cause I only feel alive,

When I dream at night,

Even though she's not real it's all right.

'Cause I only feel alive,

When I dream at night,

Every move that she makes holds my eyes,

And I fall for her every time." 1

She was light on her feet, lighter than air, and Lord, did she feel good pressed up against me.  Her technique was impeccable, as if she had been dancing the tango all her life.  She exuded sex appeal and attitude, and I found myself falling deeper in love with this exquisite goddess I held in my arms.

"I've so many things I want to say,

I'll be ready when the perfect moment comes my way,

I had never known what's right for me,

Till the night she opened up my heart and set it free." 1

I released her in order to perform a Calesita spin. . .and then suddenly I was no longer falling in love.  I was just plain falling, as Dana's heel got caught in the carpet.  She stumbled into my arms and the momentum toppled me over backwards.  We crashed to the floor together, my hat flying from my head.  Luckily I was able to break her fall, landing on my back, but the impact knocked the wind from me.  I closed my eyes and groaned loudly.

When I opened my eyes again, I found myself staring into Dana's big blue ones.  "Mel, are you okay?" Dana asked, concerned, from her prone position above me.

"Yeah, I think I'll live," I wheezed.

"Good, because if I don't laugh, I'm going to explode," and she broke out into hysterical laughter. 

"Glad you can get your jollies at my expense."  I tried to sound gruff, but soon I was joining her, as we were both overcome by a case of the giggles.

She gulped a couple of times, trying to get herself under control, and said, "Crap, I was doing so good too."

"You were doing great, kiddo."  And it occurred to me that she hadn't moved – she still lay full-out flat on top of me, breathing hard from our activities.  She smelled heavenly, and she looked – she looked like an angel.  An ethereal red-haired angel.  Her sweet bow lips, just centimeters from mine, parted slightly, and then. . .

She was kissing me--tenderly at first, but quickly building in heat and intensity.  A shiver went down my back as her tongue timidly licked against my lower lip, shyly asking to be admitted; I parted my lips and gladly allowed her to enter.  A flash fire shot through me as her mouth plundered mine, her tongue wrapping itself around my own.

While her lips were busy, so were her hands.  They nimbly unbuttoned my shirt and opened it wide.  I felt her fingers slide over my nipples, stopping only long enough to pinch them playfully, and I moaned into her mouth. 

With a final nip at my lower lip, she pulled away from me, and I groaned in disappointment and frustration.  "Did you like that?" she asked, coyly, as she once again pinched my tender nubs.  When I let loose with another loud groan, she smirked and informed me, "Then you'll REALLY like this."

Before I knew what she was doing, she had pushed herself upright, straddling my waist, her shapely behind resting against my rapidly hardening cock.  She wiggled a bit to get comfortable (or drive me crazy – not sure which) then bent over me, and began leaving a trail of kisses along my neck and across my pecs (what there is of them).  When she got to my right nipple, she lapped at it like a kitten, and the little mewling sounds she was making only enhanced the image.  I threw my head back and grunted as she scraped the sensitive flesh with her perfect teeth, laving it with her tongue to take the sting away.  Soon I was squirming beneath her, whimpering under her ministrations.  Content with her work on the right nub, she started in on the left. 

Once she had reduced me to a jabbering incoherent lump, she abandoned my now raw and well-loved nipples and resumed her journey downward.  "Mmmmm . . .I like this," she sighed, running her fingers through my abundant chest hair.  "So soft and furry."  Her lips soon joined her hands and the tiny vibrations from her satisfied humming tickled my hypersensitive skin.

"Oh, Dana. . ." I moaned, deliriously. 

I watched with growing fascination (pun intended) as she doggedly began to unbuckle my belt and unzip my pants over my straining erection.  As her hand fondled my hard-on through my boxers, she asked, "Was I really?"

"Really what?"  By now all the blood had gone south and I was having a hard time thinking clearly. 

"My dancing," she explained.  "You said I was doing great."

"Best partner I ever had," I told her honestly, and it had nothing to do with what her fingers were doing to my naughty bits.

"Better than Mykita?" she purred.

I sighed, deeply, "There's no comparison, Angel."

She gave me a huge smile and whispered, huskily, "Good answer, Mel."  With that, she leaned down until her hot breath caressed me through the thin cotton material.  I felt her kissing, then licking, a sensitive spot right below my belly-button as she hooked her fingers through the waistband of my shorts and started dragging them down over my hips.  Her breath was even hotter now, as it struck naked skin. 

She looked up at me, a twinkle in her eye, and a smirk playing on her lips.  "Ready to tango, lover?" she cooed, as she leaned over my rock-hard cock. 

"Ohhhh, Daaaana. . ." I moaned in ecstasy, closing my eyes as I awaited a trip to Nirvana.

But instead of feeling her warm mouth on my flesh, I felt a sharp 'slap' across my face.  Then a couple more, followed by a stern command:  "MEL!  Wake up!"

"Hunauh?"

"Are you okay?" she demanded.

"Did you say something, Angel?" I slurred, groggily.

A loud sigh rang throughout the room, and I risked opening my eyes.  Dana was kneeling beside me, her hand now gently caressing the same cheek she was just slapping seconds earlier.  "Thank God you're okay.  You had me worried."

"Wha' happened?" I asked, as I tried to sit up.  Bad move.

Pressing her hand against my chest, she pushed me back down.  "Just lay there a moment," she responded in her 'Dr. Scully' tone.  "You bumped your head on the floor when you fell.  You've been unconscious for a couple of minutes.  I was starting to get nervous when you weren't responding.  By the way, what's with this 'Angel' stuff?"

I cut in, "Unconscious?  Then you mean you didn't. . .?"  I let the sentence trail off, as the meaning of her words finally registered to me.  <It was nothing but a dream? SHIT!>

"Didn't do. . .what?" she posed, curiously.

I just shook my head--another bad move.  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Don't be so sure.  I did work with Mulder all those years," she laughed.

"Yeah, right."  I pretended to laugh along, happy to drop the whole line of conversation.  I mean, there was no way in hell I was going to confess what I was fantasying while I was out cold.  With Dana's help, I was able to sit up, resting against the sofa.  She carefully ran her hand over the back of my head, and content that my brain was no more scrambled than it was before, she sat down next to me.  I took the opportunity to ask her, "So--what'd you think of your first lesson?"

"First--and last," she informed me.  "This dance is far too dangerous.  I'm heading back to the gym, where it's safe."

"Awww, Dana.  Don't let one little mishap put you off.  You were doing really good."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really.  I think you have a lot of potential."

She beamed at me, visibly pleased by my words.  "Thanks, Mel.  But I think you just want to see me in this dress again."

I gave her the requisite leer and wink.  "You know me too well, my dear."

"Potential, huh?"  It was obvious she was mulling it over.

"You were amazing, Dana.  Truly amazing.  I can't remember the last time I enjoyed the tango so much."

Her eyes sparkled like a thousand stars.  "I had a lot of fun, too, Mel.  I'd. . .I'd like to try it again.  If you'd be willing to try."

"It'd be a pleasure.  Just give me a couple of days to recuperate, okay?  This dance really sucks the energy right outta me."

Patting my shoulder, she assured me, "No problem.  I think I need a couple of days to recover myself."  She gracefully stood up and added, "I don't know about you, but I'm starving.  What say I wake William and we go out for dinner tonight?  I could really go for Italian."

"What about your diet?" I commented.

"Party-pooper.  You HAD to remind me, didn't you?" she pouted.  "Fine.  I'll have a salad and watch YOU eat Italian, okay?"

I reached up and grasped her hand in mine.  "I'll make a deal with you.  We'll BOTH have salads, and watch BILLY eat Italian."

"Oh no.  That child's not eating spaghetti again until he's in high school."  And we both laughed at the memories of Billy's first encounter with pasta--a week later I was STILL cleaning up tomato sauce.  As the laughter petered out, Dana leaned down and kissed me on the cheek.  "Thanks for the lesson, Mel.  You're such a great teacher."  And with that, she headed off towards her room.

I sat there on the floor a moment, my fingers retracing over the burn mark her lips had made on my cheek.  <Oh, Dana--if you only knew all the lessons I wanted to teach you. . .>

THE END

1) "When I Dream at Night" by Marc Anthony.  Written by Dan Shea and Robin Thicke.

+++++++++++++++++

Title: Lullaby and Goodnight

Author: J.D. Rush

E-mail: yanksfan462@aol.com

Website: http://itak.slashcity.net

Category: Gen

Rating: G

Summary: Billy is cranky and Frohike sets out to remedy it.

Disclaimer: Not mine.  Never mine, unless I can convince CC, 1013 and FOX to give them to me.  I'm not holding my breath.

Notes: Special thanks to Kylara, for her continued help and encouragement.  And Shamrock, once more, for her beta skills.  You girls are the best.

Lullaby and Goodnight

By: J. D. Rush

Saturday, April 20, 2002

"Ohhhh, yeah. . .come to Papa. . ."

Melvin Frohike was excited.  All his diligence was finally paying off.  After hours of trying, he had finally hacked into a particularly secure site, one even Langly had given up on.  <Eat MY Kung Foo, you amateur>, he gleefully thought. 

He had no sooner started reaping the rewards of his hard work when he heard a sudden series of cries erupt from William's playpen set up in the corner of the living room.  "Damn," he muttered under his breath, and with one final wistful glance at the computer monitor, he heaved himself up and hustled over to his son. 

"Hey, little man," he said softly as he lifted the howling infant.  "What's going on?"  He automatically checked the diaper, and finding it dry, next inquired, "Are you thirsty?  Want some juice?  C'mon."  Hefting the child onto his hip, he headed for the kitchen.

Opening the fridge door, he ran down the inventory, "Okay, you've got grape and apple and that white cranberry and peach stuff you really like.  Want some of that?"  Taking the small baby bottle of juice from the rack, he tried to share it with the distressed child, but William simply pushed the bottle away and continued to cry.

"Allrighty, THAT'S not it.  Are you hungry, maybe?"  Seeing a box of animal crackers on the counter, he shook a few out and tried to tempt the cranky child.  Again, his hand was unceremoniously pushed away, and the blubbering went on unabated.

Sighing heavily, Mel dropped the cookie, and turned his total attention to his son.  "So you're not hungry.  You're not thirsty.  You don't need to be changed.  What IS the problem, Billy-boy?"  Just once Frohike wished he'd get an actual answer--he hated playing this guessing game until he could figure out what the child wanted.  But no answering was forthcoming--the only response William gave was to cry some more.

"Hey, hey, Billy--keep it down to a low roar.  Your mommy's trying to take a nap."  Dana had been up half the night grading exams, and had retired a short time earlier for a mid-day siesta.  Frohike had assured her he'd keep an eye on Billy and would awaken her in time for dinner.  But if he had known their son would be in this kind of mood, he might not have offered at all.

Completely at his wit's end, Frohike wandered back into the living room and sat down in the rocking chair he had gotten his wife for Christmas.  Cradling the still- wailing child in his arms, he began to gently rock.

"What can I do for you, eh, Billy?  Did you have a bad dream maybe, kiddo?"  Frohike noticed that the gentle rhythm of the rocking and the soft voice he was using seemed to be getting to the child, as William began to calm down.  "I bet that's what it was, huh?" Frohike continued, softly.  "A nasty dream.  And you're just cranky 'cause your nap was interrupted.  You need to go back to sleep, and I think a little Chairman of the Board will do the trick nicely."

Having said that, Mel reached over and turned on the CD player near his computer station; the Sinatra disk that was already in the machine started to play.  He lowered the volume, and let the melodious music flow around them.  William almost instantly quieted down and snuggled against his father, a soft contented gurgling issuing from his tiny mouth.

Frohike continued to rock his now-sleeping son as he hummed along to Ol' Blue Eyes.  This was his favorite album, and he knew it by heart.  When ' Nancy ' came on, Mel started singing along, changing the words without even realizing it:

"If I don't see her each day I miss her

Gee, what a thrill each time I kiss her,

Believe me, I've got a case,

On Dana, with the laughing face.

"She takes winter and makes it summer,

And summer could take some lessons from her,

Picture a tomboy in lace,

That's Dana with the laughing face.

Have you ever heard mission bells ringing?

Well she'll give you the very same glow,

When she speaks you would think it was singing,

Just hear her say hello.

I swear to goodness I can't resist her,

She's mighty sweet--and so was her sister,

No angel can replace,

My Dana with the laughing face."

And from the opposite corner of the room, Dana Scully spied, unobserved, on the two most special and beloved men in her life.  Brushing a tear from her eye, she smiled and headed back to bed.

Words and music by Silvers/Van Heusen.  (words altered to fit story.)

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

Title: Gimme Three Steps

Author: J.D. Rush

E-mail: yanksfan462@aol.com

Website: http://itak.slashcity.net

Category: Het Romance

Pairing: Frohike/Scully

Rating: Maybe PG for language

Summary: On an ordinary day, Dana experiences something extraordinary.

Disclaimer: Not mine.  Never mine, unless I can convince CC, 1013 and FOX to give them to me.  I'm not holding my breath.

Notes: The webpage that is mentioned in here is completely fictional.  It does not exist, and it's not meant to step on any toes over at 1013.  (We've seen what those guys are capable of.)

Special Thanks: Kylara.  Beta.  Need I say more?  Thanks again, honey!

Gimme Three Steps

By: J. D. Rush

Wednesday, May 1, 2002

"Okay, class, the first step in any forensic examination is to . . ."

"Excuse me, Dr. Scully?" 

I turn away from my attentive class to face the young security man standing in the doorway.  "Yes?  Can I help you?"

He steps timidly into the autopsy bay, resolutely not looking at the body – indeed, it's obvious he wishes he didn't have this particular assignment.  (I halfway wonder if he was 'set-up' by the older security staff as a practical joke.)  "Um, I hate to bother you, Dr. Scully, but this call just came in for you."  He hands me a folded note, adding, "The man asked to please call him back as soon as possible.  It was very important."  And, having completed his task, he all but runs from the room, noticeably green around the gills. 

Feeling every eye in the room on me, I open the note – my concern grows as I see it's a message from Frohike.  <What was so urgent that it couldn't wait until the end of my class?  Was there be something wrong with William?  Or mom?  Or Walter?  Or one of the Gunmen?  Or. . .maybe Mulder?>

My interest seriously piqued (and my anxiety level high), I turn to my class, issue a hasty apology, and quickly step outside.  Once in the hallway, I dig out my cell phone from my lab-coat pocket, and hit Mel's speed dial. 

"Frohike," he answers on the first ring.

"Mel, it's me."  I try to hide the nervousness from my voice but I'm not sure how well I succeed.  "I just got your note and. . ."

He doesn't let me finish my sentence.  "Where are you?"

"I was in class.  Listen, Mel, I was just about to start. . ."

Again he cuts me off.  "Dana, get back to your office right now."

"Mel, didn't you hear what I said?  I'm in class and. . ."

"Look, Dana, this is really important," he interrupts me once more, and I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever finish a sentence.   "You need to get to a computer right now." 

"Mel, if this is some kind of April Fool's joke, you're off by one month."  <Hey!  I finished a whole sentence that time!>

"This isn't a joke, Dana," he insists.  "Just get to a computer and get on-line ASAP!"

The serious tone of his voice is the only thing that keeps me from arguing further.  Without hanging up, I take off at a fast jog down the corridor.  <Of course I'd be halfway across the complex from my office today, right?>  As I round the corner, I skid to a stop.  Andrea's office door is wide open . . . and she's sitting at her desk.

"Andie, are you using your computer by any chance?" I pant, slightly winded.

She looks up at me standing in her doorway and smiles.  "Hey, Dana!  As a matter of fact, I am.  I just found the most fascinating articles on the AMA site that I really think you'll. . ."

"I need to use it," I interrupt, bursting into the room like the Tasmanian Devil.

"What?"

By now, I'm on her side of the desk, invading her personal space by pulling up a spare chair right next to her.  "I'm commandeering your computer for a few minutes."

She looks at me strangely – I'm really not surprised.  This is VERY unlike me.  "Don't you have a class right now?" she queries.

"HAD a class," I mutter, as I make myself comfortable behind her monitor.

"Dana, have you lost your mind?" she asks, bluntly.

"The jury's still out on that one," I answer her, honestly.  Pressing my still-connected cell phone to my ear, I say, "Okay, Mel, I'm at a computer.  What do you want me to do?"

"Hey, that was fast," he marvels.

"Yeah, well, I'm borrowing a friend's."

"Hi, Mel," Andie shouts out towards the phone.

"Who's that?" Frohike asks.

"A very irate woman who wants to get back to her research," I inform him.

"She doesn't SOUND irate," Mel disputes.  "She seems kinda friendly, actually."

"Mel, I'm losing my patience.  In fact, I've lost it already.  What is so important that you dragged me out of my class?"

Clearly sensing I'm rapidly becoming a woman on the verge, he quickly commands, "Okay.  I want you to go to www.lgmwebcam.com.  Let me know when you've got it."

I do as instructed and am soon greeted with a full-screen shot of someone's butt.  <This BETTER not have been what was so life-shattering!>  "Fro, I thought we agreed this wasn't some stupid April Fool's joke," I remind him, sternly. 

Suddenly, the butt on the screen turns around and the person it's attached to faces the camera – it's Mel.  "Jimmy, dammit!  I told you to stop playing with the equipment," he growls.

"Sorry, Frohike," I hear the youngest Gunman mumble in the background. 

I watch with escalating frustration as Fro makes some adjustments to the mounted camera until I finally get a full live view of the Warehouse.  "Frohike, please tell me what the hell is going on?" I snap in irritation.  "I left my class hanging."

"Just a second, my dear, and all will be revealed."  The camera is jostled again, and this time, I get a shot of Langly sitting on the floor with William, who's decked out in his favorite red Sesame Street overalls.  Byers, I notice, is crouching nearby, aiming a hand-held camcorder at the pair.  "How does this look?" he calls out to someone. 

"Picture perfect."  It's Jimmy again.  <He must be sitting in front of the monitor, out of camera range.>

"Hey, who's the cute guy with the beard?" Angie inquires, with great interest.

"Sorry, Charlie--he's already taken," I inform her.

"Pity," she sighs, wistfully.  "He's a hottie."

"What was that?" Fro asks.

"Nothing, Frohike.  Look, can you speed this up?"

"Just hang on, Dana.  This is going to be great," Mel speaks into the phone as he walks over to Langly and kneels down a few feet away from him.  "Is everyone set?" he calls out to his gang.

"All systems go," Jimmy proclaims.

"Camera's rolling," Byers says with a grin.

"Ready to rock and roll," Langly declares.  And with that announcement, he stands up, holding William's tiny hands in his. 

My breath catches in my throat as I watch my son get up on his wobbly little legs . . .and take his first step.  "Oh my God," I gasp.

"C'mon, little man," Frohike cheers him on.  "Come to daddy."

"Da Da Da!" William's giggles can be clearly heard over the phone as he takes another step towards Frohike, then another – all the time, Langly helping to guide him.  I can feel myself choking up and tears of happiness well in my eyes.  My little boy is growing up. . .and Mel is sharing the moment with me.  I bring my hand up to my mouth to stem the sobs of joy I fear are imminent.

After another step, Ringo says, "Wanna try it on your own, kiddo?"  The words are no sooner out of his mouth than William crashes to the floor.  I jump and give a little shriek of surprise, but it doesn't even faze William.  Indeed, if this setback bothers him, you'd never know it.  He simply sits there, laughing those infectious childish peals of laughter of his, before crawling up on his hands and knees and attempting to stand once more.  Langly is right there, of course, helping him up, and soon he is resuming his trek.

"C'mon, Billy-boy, you can do it!" Mel continues to encourage.  A halting step, then another.  <This has got to be the longest 10 feet in history!>  He wobbles a bit but he stays on his feet this time as he moves one step closer to Mel.

"That is the cutest thing I've ever seen!" Andie squeals from beside me, and if it weren't for the tears that have completely disabled me, I would eagerly concur with her.

We watch, spellbound, as William takes one final step and falls into Frohike's waiting arms, to a resounding round of applause from the Gunmen.  Mel hugs our son tightly and exclaims, "That's my little man.  I KNEW you could do it!"  Turning to Byers, he then asks, "You getting all this, John?"

"Tape's still rolling," comes the animated reply.

"Cool."  He looks back at me, puts the phone up to his ear and says, "So, Dana – whaddya think?"

"I love you both so much," I blubber, not realizing I've spoken the *L* word aloud for the first time until it's already past my lips.

But it doesn't slide by Mel's radar system.  A stunned look crosses over his face before his features dissolve into the most peaceful smile, one that touches his gentle hazel eyes.  Even with the less than stellar clarity of the video image, I can see that I've made him very happy with my words, almost as happy as he's made me with his deeds.  "We love you too, Dana.  Don't we, Billy?"  At the sound of his name, our little boy starts clapping his hands happily and babbling a string of nonsense.  "Guess the feeling's mutual," Mel jokes. 

"I guess so," I laugh between my tears, then add, "how would you guys like to go out and celebrate tonight?"

"All of us?" Mel inquires curiously, looking over at his fellow Gunmen.

"No, no – just you and me and William," I correct him.

"What'd you have in mind?"

"Oh, I thought we could grab a bite at Box Seats, and maybe ice cream from Dottie's Creamery?"

He grins.  "That sounds like an excellent plan, sweetheart.  I'll meet you back at the apartment around six?"

I know I'm blushing at the thought that his whole gang has just heard that mushy endearment.  "Works for me," I tell him.

"See ya' then."  His thumb is poised over the disconnect button when I cry out, "Wait, Mel?"

"Yeah?"

I feel myself choking up again, but I'm still able to stammer, "Thank you – all of you.  If you only knew. . .if you only had any idea what this has meant to me."

"I think I have some idea," Fro answers rather smugly.  "Now, you better run along back to class."  And with those final words, he cuts the connection on his phone – a moment later, the live feed is gone as well.

We sit there, astounded, for a moment before Andie snickers, "Well, that was certainly more entertaining that any old medical journal."

"Definitely," I agree to what is the understatement of the decade.

"I know I've said this before, Dana, but it deserves repeating – that man is a keeper."

"Yes, I know."  My tears have all but stopped and I'm slowly getting myself back under control.  I reach over and grab a couple of tissues from the box on Andie's desk to wipe my eyes.  When I see the amount of eye shadow and mascara on the tissue I moan, "Oh, no – my makeup!  I'm going to look like a raccoon for the rest of the day!  Do you have anything I can borrow?"

My friend just clasps my shoulder and replies, "Dana, honey – skip the class."

I look at her as if SHE'S lost her mind.  "What?"

"Face it, you're in no shape to go back in there," she explains, reasonably.  "And besides, you should be with your family right now."

"But. . ."

"But – nothing.  I'll take your last two classes today."  Giving my shoulder a squeeze, she adds, "Go be with your boys."

I'm so touched by her kindness and generosity that I fear the waterworks will start up again at any second.  "Andie. . .I owe you so big for this," I sniffle.

"And don't think I won't be collecting, either," she teases.

I lean over and give her a big hug, exclaiming, "You're the best," before I stand up to make my escape.

Just as I reach the office door, Andie giggles, "Give Mel a kiss for me."

"Andie, honey – get in line!" I toss back over my shoulder as I all but skip out to the parking garage.

LATER THAT NIGHT:

I get William to sleep with barely a struggle – the poor child is exhausted.  Well, he had quite an exciting day after all.  With one final kiss on his cheek, I pull his blanket up and head out of the room.

Mel is still puttering in the kitchen, finishing up the breakfast dishes we had left in the sink that morning.  I notice that he's already laid out all the fixings for tomorrow's lunches.  While he's busy drying and putting plates away, I make my way over to the table and start preparing our sandwiches. 

It amazes me how easy it all is, how comfortable we've become around one another – sometimes we almost move in synch, like now.  Our tasks are done in silence, but it's a friendly, relaxed silence.  It's nice doing something together, even something as mundane as this.  I'm just screwing the cover back on the mayonnaise jar when Mel places the last of the silverware in the drawer.  We both look at each other and start to laugh.

Who ever thought housework could actually be fun when it's shared?

Dishes done, he comes over and helps me return all the stuff to the fridge.  He's standing so close to me – I can smell his faded aftershave and that unique warm scent I've come to associate with Mel.  I feel my mouth go dry and I have this overwhelming urge to. . .

"Dana, are you okay?" he inquires, suddenly concerned.

"Huh?"

Touching my cheek with the back of his hand, he observes, "You – you look a little flushed."

Thankful he can't read my mind, I bluff, "Oh.  Must just be all the excitement of the day."

He smiles at me.  "Yeah, it was kinda special, huh?"

"You can say that again."  But before he can say anything at all, I lean forward and press my lips to his.  Cupping his face in my hands, my grateful chaste kiss quickly turns hot and passionate.  I feel his arms encircle my waist, pulling me closer, and I mold my body to his.  Soon, I'm attacking him hungrily as he greedily devours my lips, my tongue, my mouth.  I back him up against the kitchen table as my desire overwhelms me, and only the severe need for oxygen brings our fervent clench to an end. 

We stand there stunned for a few seconds, overcome by our momentary lapse of control, before Frohike is finally composed enough to gasp, breathlessly,  "Hey, what was that for?  Not that I'm complainin', mind you." 

I take a deep breath to calm my racing heart, then explain, "For being the sweetest, most thoughtful, most considerate man on the planet."

It's fun to see Mel turn red for a change.  "Awwww, I just did what any other guy woulda done," he murmurs, humbly.

My mind instantly flashes to my ex-partner.  Mulder was a wonderful man, but to do what Frohike did this afternoon?  Not in a million years.  "Not every guy," I assure him, stoking his cheeks, my thumb brushing over his lips.  "You're one of a kind, Mel."

He lets loose an embarrassed guffaw.  "Dana, stop!  You're turning my head."

"Well, then turn it this way so I can kiss you again," I demand.

He's still laughing but complies readily.  Just as I lean in to give him a smooch, however, I'm overcome by a humongous yawn, which of course only makes Frohike laugh harder.  "Gee, I guess Billy's not the only one who had a big day, huh?" he jokes.

I feel myself blushing even as I yawn again.  "Just a little exciting."

Tenderly brushing my bangs out of my eyes, he whispers, "You should get to bed, honey."

<Only if you join me,> I want to say so badly.  If he only knew how much I want to feel him holding me, caressing me, possessing me.  I want it so bad it's become a constant ache within my heart, and certain other places as well.  But. . .the timing just wasn't right.  I really am rather tired, and when, if, WHEN, we take that final journey together, I want to enjoy it to the fullest – not fall asleep in the middle of it.

Knowing I don't have the courage to say what I'm thinking, I pat him gently on the cheek and turn to head off for bed.  I get only a couple of steps before I find myself turning back.  I stride back over to him, look him dead in the eye, and softly avow, "I meant what I said earlier on the phone.  I do love you, Frohike."

Again, that peaceful easy smile crosses his face, even as he gives a self-depreciating chuckle.  "Hey, it was just a matter of time, right? I figured if I stalked you long enough, it was bound to happen." 

I just shake my head in amusement.  "Night, Mel," I sigh, giving him one last kiss on the cheek before turning in for the evening.

And only as I'm lying in bed that night does it occur to me that William wasn't the only one taking his first baby steps today. 

+++++++++++++

Title: The Prodigal Son Returns

Author: J.D. Rush

E-mail: yanksfan462@aol.com

Website: http://itak.slashcity.net

Category: Gen; Het Romance

Pairing: Frohike/Scully

Rating: PG-13 for some bad language

Summary: Mulder returns and causes his usual amount of chaos.

Disclaimer: As if you don't now by now.  CC, 1013, FOX--yadda, yadda, yadda.

Author's Note:  Lots of little spoilers for lots of different episodes, including "Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose".  HOWEVER, there is a big one from season 8's episode, "Per Manum".  This was the episode where CC disclosed that Scully's baby was conceived through artificial insemination. . .or at least that's how I took it to be, even at the end when Scully says it didn't work and Mulder tells her not to give up, that miracles can still happen.  So, as far as I'm concerned, this is the canon of William's existence--not the crap CC threw at us in season 9 (which, in this series, didn't happen anyway.)

.

Author's Note Deux: I'm not exactly sure how the academic schedule works at Quantico.  For my story model, I checked Google, and used as an example their 'Counter terrorism Lecture Series', which started January 15, and went until April 30.  Under this kind of scheduling, I'm assuming that Scully is now on break from her forensics classes, at least for a few weeks until the next 'semester' begins.  If I'm wrong about this, I apologize.

Special Thanks: Once more to Shamrock, for a fab beta and some kick-ass suggestions. 

The Prodigal Son Returns

By: J. D. Rush

Thursday, May 16, 2002

LGM Headquarters

8:11 A.M.

SCULLY

*Knock, Knock*

"Hold yer horses--I'm coming."  A moment later, I hear the numerous locks unlocking, and I'm facing a very sleepy, very disheveled Ringo Langly.  Rubbing his eyes and yawning, he mumbles, "Scully?  What are you doing. . .?"

"I need to talk to Frohike," I cut him off in mid-sentence, already shouldering my way into the Warehouse.

"He's not here," he tells me, his eyes instantly lighting up when he sees William in my arms.  He snatches the child from me and gives him a big hug.  "Hey, little dude!"

"Don't cover for him, Langly," I shoot back brusquely.  "Where is he?"

"I don't know," he insists in his petulant whine, still more interested in playing with my son than with my inquiry.

I'm seconds from reaching for his neck to wring the information out of him when Byers strolls out of his bedroom.  "What's going on?" he asks, innocently.

"She's looking for Frohike," Langly informs him.  "I tried to tell her he's not here, but she won't believe me."

"I'm not in the mood for this bullshit, guys," I snarl.  "Just get Frohike out here, NOW!"

"He's telling the truth, Dana," Byers says calmly, tying the sash on his bathrobe.  "I haven't seen Frohike since he left here yesterday afternoon.  He was going to pick up a small cake for William's birthday."  Suddenly he stops.  "Didn't he make it home?" he asks, concerned.

<Christ Almighty!  They're telling me the truth.  Frohike isn't here.  But if he's not here, then where is he?>  "Yes, he made it home," I answer, " but when I got up this morning, this was on the kitchen table."  From out of my jacket pocket, I hand Byers the short note that had been propped up against the sugar bowl.

He studies for a moment then looks back at me, his eyebrow shooting up in bafflement.  But before he can say anything, Mulder wanders out from another room.   He takes one look at me and asks, "Scully. . .what's going on?"

"It appears that Frohike has, um, left," Byers explains quietly.

"What do you mean, 'left'?" Mulder demands.  Even Langly's finally taking notice of the situation.

Byers hands Mulder the note.  "See for yourself."  As Mulder reads it, Langly sneaks a peek over his shoulder.  After a few seconds, they both look up at me with identical compassionate expressions. 

"It's definitely his handwriting," Langly proclaims.

"So I guess we can rule out foul play," Mulder concludes, thoughtfully. 

I want to scream.  I want to cry.  I want to punch something.  I want to know what the hell is going on.

"Maybe he just went out early on a story?" Langly suggests.  "A clandestine meeting?"

I don't even bother responding to it.  We all know the theory is crap.  I mean, the damn note says:

            "Dana,

            I'm sorry, but I have to leave.  It's for the best.  Please don't look for me. 

            Have a happy life.  Tell Billy I love him and give him a kiss for me.

            I'll always treasure the time we had together.

            I love you.

            Frohike."

Does that honestly sound like something he jotted down because he was meeting a story contact?  And I haven't even dropped the big bombshell on them. . . yet.  "Then how do you explain the bankbook and the car title?" I challenge them.

"Bankbook?" Byers repeats.

"Car title?" Mulder asks, intrigued.

"Next to the note, I found the title and the car keys to his GTO, along with his savings book and some life-insurance papers."

I'm sure Langly's mouth is going to hit the floor.  "The keys AND the title?" he echoes, clearly puzzled.  "But. . .but that car is his pride and joy.  Why would he leave that stuff behind?"  <Whoop-de-do!  Wake the neighbors!  I do believe Langly's finally gotten it!>

"Sounds like he wanted to make sure you had money and a way to make more," Mulder deduces.  "He was providing for you before he left."

<Gee, no shit, Sherlock!>  "I figured that out, Mulder," I huff.  "What I want to know is WHY he left and where the hell he is!"

"Did you check the hospitals?" Mulder inquires.

"Yeah, I called all the emergency rooms in the area right after I found the note," I inform them.  "No one matching Frohike's description was admitted in the last few hours."

It's quiet for a moment before Byers works up the courage to ask me, "Did you two have a fight?"

"No, nothing like that," I assure them.  "We've had a few little spats, mostly about the upcoming move, but nothing major.  We've been getting along great."  Byers just looks at me, his eyebrow arced accusingly.  I can almost see the wheels turning, and believe me, it's the first thought that crossed my mind this morning.  He's thinking that this has some connection to my agreement with Frohike, our 'no-sex' pact.  But as soon as the idea had come to me, I dismissed it.  Frohike has never indicated there was any problem with our arrangement, and he's never asked me to renege on our deal--although I'd be quite willing to consider it.  No, there had to be some other reason for his sudden vanishing act.

Just then, Jimmy Bond wanders out of the bathroom.  He obviously has just showered; he's in a terrycloth robe and he's towel-drying his hair.  Giving me a big smile, he greets us all, "Hey guys, Agent Scully--what's going on?"

"It appears we have a problem," Byers explains in his usual diplomatic way.

"What kind of problem?" Jimmy wants to know.

"Frohike flew the coop," Langly announces in his usual undiplomatic way.

Mulder groans painfully.  "Real tactful, Langly."

By now I'm reaching the end of my rope and snap at the four of them, "Look guys, is it possible to carry on this silly 'Seinfeld' routine some other time?  Frohike is out there somewhere and the clock's ticking."

"She's right," Mulder agrees with me.  "We need a plan if we're going to track him down."

Langly flops into a nearby chair, still cuddling William.  "Well, he doesn't have that much of a head start.  And without his car he couldn't have gotten far."

Byers nods.  "That's a good point, Ringo."  Turning to me, he queries, "Was anything missing that you noticed?"

I know little things can add up to a lot in a situation like this, so I quickly think back to the apartment.  Everything looked like it was still in place--nothing was missing as far as I could remember.  "No, he didn't take anything."

"Clothes, underwear, nothing?" Mulder prompts.

Oh, they meant HIS stuff--I thought they were implying he had stolen some things from me.  "His knapsack, some of his wardrobe.  Not much," I tell them, going over in my mind what his room had looked like when I investigated it after finding the note.  "The bathroom was clean--razor, toothbrush were gone.  And of course, his laptop." 

I hesitate for a moment, unsure whether I should mention that the die-cast model car Mom gave him for Christmas is gone, too.  He left the base, but the car was missing.  Somehow that scared me more than the note or the bankbook or anything else.  He loved that model.  If he took it with him. . .better not to think about it. 

"What about credit cards?" Mulder presses.

Langly, Byers, and myself all just shoot him 'The Look'.  "Mulder, none of us own any credit cards," Byers explains, patiently.

"Yeah, dude--too easy for Big Brother to track you," Langly continues.

"He refused to even use a Stop & Shop supersaver card," I finish.  "Said he didn't want the world to know what kind of peanut butter we buy."

"Geez, there's no reason to get snippy," Mulder pouts.  "I'm only thinking out loud here."

"Maybe he took his checkbook?" Jimmy suggests.

I shake my head, "No, the checking account is in my name only.  It's the way he wanted it.  But a good idea, Jimmy."  He beams at my compliment.

"Okay, so he probably only has the cash that was on him," Mulder analyzes.  "That leaves out taxis.  Too expensive."

"And airports," Jimmy pipes up.

"That means we're looking at bus stations," Byers comments.

"Or trains," Mulder adds, already reaching for the phone on the workstation.

"Guys, this is Frohike we're talking about," I remind them.  "Do you really think he'd do something so obvious as take a bus or a train?"  Mulder pauses for a second before returning the receiver.

"Then what do you suggest, Scul?" he asks.  "What do you think he did?"

The truth is I have no idea what he may have done or why he did it, and I certainly have no clue where to begin looking.  I'd been so sure he would be here at HQ, or at least would have stopped by and told the guys where he was going.  Now we were left with virtually no clues and no place to even begin looking.  At this point, he might have as much as a six-hour head start on us.  The thought that he may have just hitched a ride to somewhere springs to mind and I immediately shove it right back out again--the idea is just too scary to dwell on.  A man like Frohike, with no ties and no destination will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.  Finding myself near tears, I whisper, "All I know for certain is if Mel wants to get lost, he will.  He knows how to do it.  No one will be able to find him."

Mulder steps over to me and give me a big supportive hug.  "Scully, don't worry--we'll find him," he promises.

"I know a few of his hang-outs," Byers announces.  "I can check them out, see if he's been around."

"I know some of his old hippie buddies," Langly reveals.  "Maybe he's hanging with one of them or something."

"And I know some haunts of my own," Mulder admits, running a gentling hand down my back.  "He won't escape our net."

"I wish I could believe you," I mumble, my voice hitching as it sinks in that he's really gone, and even his best friends don't have any idea where he might be.

Mulder just flashes me his playful grin.  "That's always been your problem, Scully. . . you won't believe," he jokes, trying to lighten my mood.  Usually it works--today it doesn't.

"So, what do you guys want me to do?"

We all turn to face Jimmy--truthfully, I had forgotten he was there.  Langly's the one who finds his tongue first and says, "Stay here, in case he shows up."

"But I want to help," the young man protests.

"You will be helping," Mulder tells him.  "You'll be our dispatcher."

"What's a dispatcher?" Jimmy asks us.

"We'll call in periodically, let you know how the search is going, and you can relay any information the others have uncovered," Mulder explains.

Byers adds, "It's a very important job, Jimmy, but I know you can handle it."

He flashes us all a big smile.  It's obvious how pleased he is that the guys are putting so much faith in him.  "You can count on me!" he replies, proudly.

"What about reinforcements?" Mulder questions.  "Maybe we should call in Skinner."

I shake my head emphatically.  "No.  We shouldn't bother him with this.  Not yet, at least."

"But he has access to better resources," Byers reasons.  "It may be a good idea."

"It doesn't matter, John.  This isn't a missing persons case or a kidnapping--as Mulder pointed out, there's no evidence of foul play at all.  There's nothing Skinner would be able to do.  The F.B.I. doesn't go out looking for 50 year-old runaways."

"Well, what about Doggett and Reyes?" Langly suggests.

"They're out of town this week and won't be back until Saturday at the earliest," Byers informs us, the slightest touch of disappointment in his voice; it sounds like he really misses Monica.

"Well, I'm sure the three of us will be fine," Mulder declares.

"Four," I correct him, decisively.

Mulder places his hands on my shoulders and gives them a little squeeze.  Looking deep into my eyes, he commands gently, "Scully, go home."

"But. . ."

"Dana, he's right," Byers says, putting in his two cents.  "It'd be a good idea to have someone there, in case Frohike changes his mind and comes back."

Dammit, I know it makes sense, but I can't help feeling like I'm being pandered to, like I'm just a silly girl who can't handle the chase.  Leave it up to 'the real men'.  God, I HATE that feeling.  Been dealing with it my whole life.  I was a special field agent for the fucking F.B.I. . .I think I can handle this. 

Still, as much as I hate to admit it, they ARE right.  If we're going to have someone here at the Warehouse, it only makes sense to have someone at the apartment, too, just in case.  So, swallowing my pride, I mutter, "Okay."

Mulder smiles at me.  He knows how hard that concession was for me to make.  "Do you have any suggestions of your own where we could look?" he asks.

I'm not sure whether to mention the name that has been niggling in the back of my mind all morning, but if anyone would know, it'd be the Gunmen.  So, summoning up my courage, I propose, "Could he have gone back to Mykita?"

"Moldinado?" Byers squeaks.  "You know about her?"

I nod.  "Yeah, and I know they were. . .close."

"Married, you mean," Langly cuts in.

"Right, married," I repeat through gritted teeth.  "Anyway, he said you guys met up with her about a year ago."  Three of the four heads bob up and down.  "Is it possible he still has feelings for her, that he'd go back to her?"

At that, Byers looks over at Langly who looks over at Jimmy who looks back over at Byers.  <Nothing like that ol' geek-telepathy.>  With a resigned sigh, John finally states, "Well, while it appeared that he was still--fond--of her, I think that's as far as it went.  Still, it might be a good place to check out."

"Any other ideas we may not think of, Scul?" Mulder asks again.

This time, I shake my head no.  Except for here and home, he doesn't really go anywhere else, unless he's with me or William.  That's what is making this so hard to deal with.  He seemed really happy being a family man.  He was so proud of William, and we truly enjoyed each other's company.  With the exception of the sex, we had a perfect relationship.  It just didn't make any sense that he would leave so suddenly.

Wait.  There IS one other place he could go.  A long shot, even more so than Mykita, but a possibility nonetheless.  "Long Beach," I blurt out.

Mulder gives me a look like I usually give him when he starts in on one of his more outlandish UFO cover-up conspiracy theories.  "Why Long Beach?"

"Maybe he went to Milt's place," I speculate.

"Milt?" Byers repeats, perplexed.

"Who's Milt?" Langly queries.

"Milton Frohike," I elaborate.  "His brother."

I get four identical sets of blank looks.  As one, they all say, "He's got a brother?"

<Oooookay.  Cross THAT long shot off the list.>  "Guess not, huh?" I shrug sheepishly.

Mulder just shakes his head in the negative.  "Well, unless you have another suggestion, Scul, we should be heading out.  Tick-tock."  With that, Langly hands William back to me then all four of them head off towards their bedrooms to get dressed, but I stop Mulder as he passes.  He looks over his shoulder at me, a questioning look on his face.

Swallowing hard, I find myself pleading, "If you find him, please tell him to come home.  I don't know what the problem is, but whatever it is, we can fix it."  Feeling the tears prickling my eyes, I add, "And. . .tell him I love him."

Mulder cups my face tenderly and smiles, "WHEN we find him, you can tell him that yourself."  He gives William a kiss on the cheek, then dashes after the others.

Only when I'm alone with my son do I allow the tears to flow.

14 Hours Earlier

Wednesday May 15, 2002

6:07 P.M.

Scully Residence

*Knock, Knock*

"I'll get it," I call out to Mel as he continues to putter around the kitchen finishing up dinner.  Looking through the little peephole, my heart leaps into my throat.  No.  It can't be.  I look again to be sure.  He's tanner than the last time I saw him, and his hair is a little bit longer, but other than that, he looks great--really great--decked out in a pair of faded blue jeans and a new dark green Henley.  Flinging the door open, I cry out, "Mulder!"

He flashes me a huge toothy grin.  "Hey, Scul, didja miss me?"

I throw my arms around his neck and hug him to death, tears already streaming down my cheeks; he just chuckles and pulls me tightly to him. "Yeah, you could say that," I answer, my voice cracking slightly.  "What are you doing here?"

"Well, THAT'S some greeting!" he responds in his typical flippant Mulder-manner, even as he continues to hold me.

"I didn't mean it THAT way," I chide him.  "I just meant, well, YOU know what I meant!"

"Yeah, I know," he laughs, drawing away from me and prying my arms from around his neck.  He turns and steps back into the hallway--next thing I know, he's lugging a teddy bear as big as me into the apartment.  "You didn't think I'd miss William's birthday, did you?" he announces.

Shaking my head in disbelief at his choice of gift, I murmur, "I should have known."

"Hey, what's all the commotion out here. . .?"  Mel's question dies on his lips as he walks into the living room.  Taking one look at our visitor, he gasps, "Holy Mother of God."

If anything, Mulder's smile gets even bigger at the sight of his old friend.  "Nice to see you, too, Melvin," he exclaims, rushing towards a still-stunned Frohike to wrap him in a huge hug.  "I missed the hell out of you."

Mel just stands there for a moment, obviously as surprised as I am by Mulder's sudden appearance.  He quickly regroups, however, and is soon returning the embrace enthusiastically.  "Hey, guy, great to see you, too.  Can you get your hands off my ass now?"

"In your dreams," Mulder smirks, slapping said ass playfully.  Jerking his thumb back in my direction at me, he adds, "I guess congratulations are in order, eh, you sly dog?"

"Well, she could only resist my charm for so long," Mel jokes, shrugging his shoulders modestly.

"I gotta say when Scully first told me about you two, I didn't believe it," Mulder admits with a slight shake of his head.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I reply, "Well, you're the one who kept telling me I should believe in extreme possibilities, Mulder."

He practically rolls his eyes.  "Scully, there's extreme. . .and then there's this."

I step forward to wrap my arm around Frohike's waist, saying, "Well, love is unpredictable.  You never know when you're going to be hit by Cupid's arrow."

"Yeah, I know," he shoots back with an inscrutable smile

Meanwhile Mel is looking at me with an incredulous expression.  I think he's pieced it together that Mulder doesn't know about our special agreement.  I'll admit that his ignorance is completely my fault.  I had written Mulder a couple of weeks after Frohike and I got married, but I just couldn't bring myself to tell him the circumstances surrounding that decision.  As far as Mulder knew, our marriage was on the up-and-up. 

I'm not quite sure why I didn't tell Mulder the truth right away.  I guess mainly I didn't want to cast any doubts on Frohike's masculinity, as it were.  I wasn't ashamed of what we had done--in fact, I still think it was extremely chivalrous and generous and sweet that Mel offered to marry me and help raise my son.  And I'm continually amazed at how well the arrangement has worked out, how much fun we have together, how much I enjoy being with him, how my feelings for him grow stronger day by day.  And he's really been a fantastic father to William.  But I also know many people wouldn't understand such an unusual relationship, including my ex-partner.  If Frohike wanted to tell him the truth, that was Fro's business.  Myself, I was content to let Mulder continue to believe our marriage was for real.

"So, when did you get back?" Frohike asks, breaking into my ponderings.

"Last night," Mulder admits, and I'm momentarily upset that he didn't come see me immediately, or at least call.  "I'm crashing with the Gunmen for a few days until I can find a place of my own.  They seem to have a spare bedroom."  He gives us both a knowing wink.   "Hope you don't mind."

That's right--I had forgotten.  Mulder is homeless now.  He let the lease on his apartment lapse right before he left town, and all his stuff has been sent to a rented storage facility outside of D.C.  Well, except for the fish tank.  Skinner took possession of that from me last summer.  Good thing, too--I was having even less luck keeping the little guys alive than Mulder did.

"Nah, not at all," Frohike quickly assures him.  "But if you're looking for any good. . . health films. . .I gave them all to Langly."  I couldn't help chuckling.  I often wondered what had happened to his 'collection'.

Before we have a chance to continue our reunion, however, distressed cries ring throughout the apartment.  Frohike just looks at me and jokes, "Sounds like Master William's up from his nap.  I'll check on him if you check on dinner."

"Sure, Mel," I tell him, then turn to Mulder.  "You're joining us, right?"

Casting his eyes downward and shuffling his feet, he mutters a hesitant, "Well, I don't want to intrude. . ." 

I know my friend too well.  While his words are saying one thing, his whole body is saying 'Please let me stay!'.  "You're not intruding," I state resolutely.  "Frohike made his famous chicken noodle casserole tonight.  It's William's favorite.  And there's a ton of it."

He looks up with a smile that just lights up the whole place.  "Really?"

"Uh-huh," I smile back.

"Gee, never would've taken you for the next Julia Child, Frohike," Mulder teases his friend.

"Yeah, I'm not just a pretty face," Mel calls over his shoulder as he enters William's room.

Looping my arm through Mulder's, I lead him into the kitchen, praising Frohike's talents.  "He's actually a pretty good cook.  I really lucked out."  Craning my neck to look him in the eye, I add a snide, "Maybe he can give you lessons someday."

"Hey, I don't need lessons on how to dial up Chinese take-out," he fires back.  "I'm quite proficient at that."

"I'm sure you are," I giggle, grabbing a couple of potholders off the counter.  I carefully remove the hot dish from the oven and lift up the cover to show Mulder.  "See?"

Mulder takes a whiff of the perfectly browned casserole and sighs, "Mmmmm, that DOES smell good."  His stomach must agree as it rumbles loudly.  He just gives me an embarrassed hangdog look.  "Sorry about that."

"When was the last time you ate, Mulder?" I scold, renewing our long-standing feud.  Mulder would survive on sunflower seeds and black coffee for a week if I didn't remind him to eat once in a while.

"As a matter of fact, I grabbed a taco with Langly earlier," he announces smugly.  "Regardless of what you think, I CAN survive without all your fussing."  He pauses for a second then adds with a grin, "But it's great to hear it again."

"And you'll hear it often," I promise, opening the door to one of the overhead cupboards to get some plates."

"Hey, let me get that," Mulder offers, reaching over my head and pulling down some dishes.  "How many do we need?"

"Just you, me, and Mel," I say, going over to the fridge instead and getting a fresh pitcher of iced-tea.  I notice Mulder's eyes just light up when he sees the decanter; maybe it was Kismet that I decided to make it earlier.

"What about your mom?" he asks, placing the plates on the counter and reaching back up for some glasses.  "Isn't she coming over for the party?"

"We're not having a party tonight," I inform him, digging the ice cube tray out of the freezer. 

He stops in mid-retrieval, one glass in his hand.  Peering over at me, confusion written on his face, he questions, "But, isn't it William's birthday today?"

"Yeah, but he doesn't know that," I give a conspiratorial smirk.  "Actually, there's going to be a big shindig at Mom's house on Sunday.  Family, friends, hotdogs, hamburgers.  Lots of potato salad.  You WILL be there, right?"  My tone clearly implies that 'No' is not an option.

"Maybe," he answers warily, returning to his task and pulling down two more glasses.  "Is Bill going to be there?"

Ahhhh--the reason for his apprehension.  "No, he won't.  His ship is out on maneuvers in the Pacific somewhere.  Believe me, Frohike's just as happy about the situation."

He gives me a big grin as he sets the glasses on the table.  "Then I'll be there with bells on."

"That makes an interesting picture," I tease, adding some ice cubes to the glasses while he turns around to get the plates he had set on the counter.  "I can't wait to see the look on Skinner's face when you walk into the party."

I swear he almost drops the dishes at the sound of our ex-boss's name.  <Geez, I know the Big Guy is intimidating but to get THAT rattled just hearing his name?>  "Skinner's going to be there?" he asks, softly.

"Of course," I cluck, filling the glasses with tea.  "He was at the top of the guest list."

He gapes at that, stunned.  "You mean, you and he. . .?"

"A lot has changed since you left, Mulder," I inform him as I return the pitcher and ice cube tray to the fridge and pull out a large garden salad.  Placing it on the table, I take a seat before continuing, "You were right about Walter all along.  He was always on our side, and I did him a grave injustice for many years by not trusting him.  I've been trying to make up for it as best I can.  So we get together whenever possible.  In fact, we just had him over for dinner last week."  I smile broadly.  "He's a great guy--and a great friend."

"How is he doing?  Is he looking well?" my friend inquires anxiously, then, seemingly embarrassed by his enthusiasm, he turns his back on me and busies himself digging silverware out of the drawer.

"He's fine," I assure him, "and he looks fantastic.  Says he gets more sleep now that we're out of his hair. . .well, what's left of it." 

He gives a nervous chuckle at that before asking, "No more unexpected health problems?"

I know instantly what he's talking about.  A time-bomb that Walter lives with everyday, as I live with my neck-chip.  Those damn nanocytes had almost been the end of him on numerous occasions.  Each day that passes without another attack makes it easier to believe the nightmare is over for good, but he'll never be completely free.  Sometimes I wish I could dig up Krycek's body and kill him again for everything he put me and my friends through. . .Ratboy didn't suffer enough in my book. 

"None so far.  It seems that whatever control Krycek had over him died the day Alex did.  There's been no more nanocyte activity.  As far as we know, the damn things are no longer active."  I swear I can hear an audible sigh of relief.

As he works his way around the table, setting out the silverware, he nonchalantly says, "So he's happy, healthy. . .?"

"And lonely," I finish.  "He misses us and the thrill of the chase more than he thought he would, though he'll never admit it.  But now that you're back, I'm sure he'll have more adventure than he knows what to do with."  I find myself smirking, knowing that Skinner's life just got a whole lot more exciting.

"If I have anything to say about it," he agrees with a smirk of his own.  "So you and the big boss are homeboys now?"

"Mmm-hmmm.  In fact, he's even babysat for us a couple of times.  By the way, we need some salad bowls here."

Giving me an 'aye-aye, captain' salute, he goes over the cupboards, opening two before he finds the wooden salad bowls; he even remembers to get the salad thongs without any prompting.  The guy's learning.  Coming back to the table, he confides, "I'm really glad to hear you say that you've changed your mind about the Skinman, because there's something I really need to talk to you about. . ."

"Oh, you sure do, mister," I announce, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him into the chair beside me.  "I want to know where you've been these last nine months, what you've been doing, what the hell you were doing in Vancouver!?  Tell me everything."

"Everything?" he laughs.  "That could take a while."

"Well, we've got a while, don't we?  I mean, you ARE back to stay, aren't you?"  <PLEASE tell me you're back to stay!  I've missed you so much!>

"I sure hope so," he replies with a touch of melancholy.

"Hope so?"  I feel my heart grow heavy at the thought that his return is only temporary.  "You mean, you're going to leave again?"

"Not if I can help it," he smiles impishly, and I'm reminded how much I've missed his playfulness.  "I've got everything sorted out, wrapped up loose ends that were hanging, and now I think it's time to leave the past in the past, and concentrate on my future.  I'm finally ready to settle down."

"Oh, my," I gasp, my heart actually skipping a beat at the implication of what he has just said.  <Is it possible?  Has he really come back for me?  NOW what do I do?>  But before the conversation can continue any further, Frohike joins us, carrying William on his hip.

Mulder's eyes nearly pop out of his head.  "My God, is THAT William?" he exclaims, excitedly.  "He's gotten so big."

"Why does everybody say that?" Mel wonders aloud.

"Can I hold him?"  Mulder asks, holding out his arms.  When Mel hesitates uncertainly, Mulder quickly adds, "It's okay, Frohike.  I won't drop him."  With an almost resigned shrug, Frohike finally relents and hands the boy over to our friend.

"Hey, little guy," Mulder coos, tickling William under his chin, causing the child to grin and giggle, just as he always did whenever Mulder would do that.  While Mulder's not a natural around children, he always had a wonderful rapport with William.  He continues speaking in a very soothing, gentle voice that I very rarely hear him use except with his son, "I guess you don't remember me, huh?  But I sure remember you.  I thought about you all the time.  There's so much I missed and I'm sorry about that.  Maybe someday you can understand why I did what I did."  He pulls the child tightly against his body, hugging him close.   "If you only knew how much I love you, kid."  Glancing over at me, he pronounces, "He looks just like you, Scully."

"But he's got YOUR eyes, Mulder," I counter.

"You think so?" 

"Uh-huh. . .everyone does.  Skinner certainly thinks so.  He's mentioned it many times."

He looks back at William, cocking his head, a sparkle in his own bright hazel eyes at the notion.  "You know, I think you may be right," he grins.

"Everybody ready to eat?"  Frohike, who has somehow managed to serve up both the casserole and the salad unseen by us, startles both Mulder and me out of our discussion.  Reaching out, he takes William from a very reluctant Mulder, and places the child in his highchair.  After an iced-tea toast celebrating Mulder's return and another one for William's birthday, we all dig into our meals.

Thursday, May 16, 2002

11: 43 A.M.

Scully Residence

I can't take this anymore.  I'm going out of my mind.  I need to keep busy.  Try to keep my thoughts off of Frohike.  Wondering where he is, what he could be doing, if he's hurt or sick, why the hell he ran off.

Mom always said housework kept her mind busy in times of anxiety.  And speaking of my mom, I called her as soon as I got home from the Warehouse--well, after I called around to the ER's a second time.  I told her to be on the lookout for Mel, and if he showed up to give me a call.  As with Milton and Mykita, it was a long shot, but he likes Mom, and she adores him--he might seek her out if he was desperate enough for a place to stay.

I tried to be vague about the whole situation, but she grilled me until I sang like a bird.  To say she was upset is an understatement.  She wanted to go out and join in the search effort, but as the guys had done with me and Jimmy, I convinced her it would be better to wait and see if he made an appearance.  She also offered to take William for the day, but I assured her his presence was the only thing keeping me calm at the moment--well, if not calm, at least sane. 

Where was I?  Oh, yeah, housework.  On my way to the closet, I stop to check on my son.  He's fast asleep in his playpen, his hand clutching a stuffed Blue's Clues puppy that Frohike had gotten him for Easter.  William loves that show, even though it's a little advanced for him right now.  (Personally, I think he's just intrigued by the dog.) I stroke his head, choking back the tears the image in front of me is triggering.  Knowing I'll break down completely if I stay one more second, I continue on my way to the hall closet, and grab the mop and bucket.

But even as I'm filling the pail with soapy water, my mind wanders over the last few months, trying to figure out what went wrong, trying to see something that I may have been missed.  Trying to figure out why Frohike would leave me and William as he had.

Twelve hours earlier

Wednesday, May 15, 2002

11:43 P.M.

Scully Residence:

Dinner turned out to be an absolute delight.  Mulder kept us all entertained with anecdotes of his cross-country trip.  He's always been a fantastic storyteller--just ask Skinner.  Some of Mulder's field reports could have made the NY Times top-ten fiction list. 

He told us about the colorful people he met and the paranormal experiences he witnessed.  Fro and I enjoyed the tales he spun, but William was positively enthralled.  He never took his eyes off Mulder, completely enraptured by his voice and presence.  For his part, Mulder was just as smitten with the boy.  It was so satisfying to me to finally see them together again.  Mulder loved his son, and had always doted on the child, and I couldn't help but think that things were going to start getting interesting now that he was back in town.

After we finished eating, Frohike quickly cleaned off the table while I retrieved the small birthday cake from the fridge.  Nothing extravagant--as I had told Mulder, the big party would be Sunday--but just a little something to mark the day.  I lit the single candle in the middle of the cake and we sang 'Happy Birthday' to the delighted child before we all blew out the candle.  I don't know what Mulder and Frohike wished for--as for me, I couldn't think of a single thing.  I had a great husband, a beautiful little boy, wonderful friends, a job I loved, a fantastic house that we had closed on a few days earlier and would be moving into within the next couple of weeks. . .and my best friend had come back into my life.  I had everything anyone could ask for, and more.

Once we were settled with cups of coffee and pieces of cake, Mulder announced that he had another gift for us all and dropped a thin envelope on the table in front of me.  I opened it with some trepidation, almost afraid by what Mulder could have pulled out of his hat this time, but even I couldn't have prepared myself for what I found in that envelope.

A bank check for $100,000 made out to me and Frohike.

At first I thought it was a joke and commented to Mulder that he might want to change banks since this one put too many zeroes on the check.  But he quickly assured me that it wasn't a joke, simply a share of the profits from the sale of the three Mulder houses he had inherited after his parents' deaths.  I knew they held no sentimental value to him, but I was still startled that he sold them off and even more startled that he was giving me such a large portion of the money he reaped from them.  He then informed us that he had also set up a trust fund for William, which he could claim on his 21st birthday.  While he wouldn't reveal the amount, I had the feeling it was more than generous.

Frohike and I were beyond speechless.  My immediate response was to try to give the check back to Mulder, but he just shook me off.  He called it a 'belated wedding gift'.  "I'm independently wealthy now," he laughed, "and I want to share it with the people I love."  When I insisted it was too generous, he just responded seriously, "You deserve it--you all deserve it--for everything you've given up to stick by me all these years," and I got the feeling we weren't the only ones who were benefiting from his sudden windfall.

I truthfully didn't know what to say to that, and neither did Frohike.  Then again, he hadn't said much all night long--not that he could have gotten a word in edgewise with me and Mulder yakking away.  After a mumbled, "Thanks, Fox," he went back to helping William with his little piece of birthday cake.  (Our son tries real hard to use a spoon by himself, but he never quite seems to get the food to his mouth.) 

I was a bit more enthusiastic--maybe a bit too enthusiastic.  As I jumped up and leaned over to hug Mulder, I lost my footing and fell oh-so-gracefully into his lap.  We both burst into laughter at my utter clumsiness.  "I don't know how to thank you," I exclaimed, excitedly.

"Do something good with it--maybe use it towards that house you were telling me about.  Just be happy.  That'll be thanks enough."

"I already am happy," I blubbered in between the giggles, still clinging to my best friend.  "I'm so glad you're back."

He just wrapped his long arms around me tightly and sighed, "Me too, Scul--me too."

Our dessert over, we all retired into the living room with a bottle of wine to continue our reunion--all except for Frohike, that is.  He stayed behind to do the dishes and cleaning up.  I tried to tell him that stuff could wait until morning, but he just gave me a small smile and said he was fine.  "Besides, it'll give you some time alone with Mulder," he insisted.

Well, not QUITE alone.  William had made himself right at home in Mulder's lap, totally spellbound as my ex-partner recited 'Green Eggs and Ham' to him from memory.  I'm telling you, that guy never stops amazing me.  Handing him a glass of Merlot, I sat down beside him to enjoy the story, too.

By the time he had finished, William was fast asleep.  It was hard to know who looked more peaceful and content--my son or my friend.  As Mulder cuddled the sleeping child close to him, Frohike finally joined us in the parlor.  Taking one look at us he chuckled softly, "Guess the excitement was too much for the little guy," and gently removed William from Mulder's arms.  I asked if he needed help, but he again assured me he was fine and I should just relax and enjoy my visit with Mulder.

That was two hours ago now, and I haven't seen him since.  I can only think he must've gone off to bed after putting William down for the night.  It's odd that he didn't at least say 'good night' to Mulder--not to mention rather rude.  I make a mental note to myself to talk to him about it in the morning.

"More wine?" Mulder asks, interrupting my thoughts.  I smile at my friend and nod.  We broke into the second bottle about a half-hour ago, or rather *I* broke into it.  Mulder's had only a couple of glasses all night.  He's not big on wine, and besides, he has to drive home later.  Then again, I suppose if worse comes to worse, he can always crash here on my couch tonight--it's nothing he hasn't done in the past.

My goodness, I can't believe we've been talking non-stop for nearly five hours. . . just like in the old days.  We've talked about anything, everything, and nothing at all. . .just like in the old days.  In fact, we've hit every topic under the sun except for one, and with the evening quickly coming to a close, I can't contain my curiosity any longer.  And so, during one of the rare lulls in the conversation, I pose the question that's been in the back of my mind for months.  "Mulder, can I ask you something?"

"Sure.  Shoot."

Looking him straight in the eye, I stammer out an embarrassed, "If it wasn't for Frohike--I mean--if I wasn't married. . .that is. . .was there any chance you were ever going to come back for me and William?"

He studies me for a moment before replying, "Can I ask YOU something?  If I said yes, would you leave Frohike and run away with me?  Right now?  Tonight?"

His question catches me off guard.  Unprepared as I am, I blurt out the first thing that comes to my head, "I. . . I. . .no.  I wouldn't.  I. . .I couldn't.  I. . .no.  I love Mel."  And I think the proclamation surprises me more it does him.  It feels so good to admit it to Mulder, almost as if it finally drilled it home.  Yes, I love Frohike.  This is not some phony exercise for appearance's sake, not like on New Year's, when we had to pretend for our friends.  This time I speak only from the heart.   Hell, I want to scream it from the rooftops.  I know a silly grin is spreading across my face and I have no way to stop it.  I love Frohike, and he loves me.

Life is good.

Mulder just smiles at me and my reaction.  "Then I guess it's a good thing I didn't come back here to win your heart since it looks like I'm too late for that."  He pauses to take a sip of his wine before he admits, "You know, Scul, I had a lot of questions when you told me you had married Frohike--most of them about your sanity.  But seeing you two together, seeing him with William--he's been a good influence on you, and he's so good with that child."

The goofy smile gets bigger.  "I know.  He utterly adores that boy.  William couldn't have asked for a better father."  At his raised eyebrow, I quickly backpedal, "Present company excluded, of course."

"Of course."  He gets a wistful, faraway look in his eyes for a moment, then with a quick shake of his head, it's gone.  Clasping my free hand in his, he adds a chipper, "I'm so glad for you, Scul.  Both of you.  You guys seem so happy."  

All I can do is sigh, "I am, Mulder.  Very happy.  It's amazing what the love of a good man can do for you."

"That's what I hope to find out," he replies softly, taking another sip from his glass.

<Hmmm. . .that's an odd statement.>  "What do you mean by that?" I ask, curiously.

He lowers his eyes, and I swear he starts to blush. "Scully. . .can I tell you a secret?"

I'm thrown off by the non sequitur, but quickly recover, "You know you can."

Squeezing my hand in his, he insists, "You have to promise me not to tell anyone."

"Promise.  Now spill it."

Lifting his gaze, I see a rare twinkle in his eye.  "I'm in love," he whispers so softly I almost miss it.

Of the many surprising things Mulder has said to me over the years, that one shoots straight to the top of the list.  Apparently more was going on during his little leave of absence than just searching for crop circles and selling off real estate.  

I suppose I should feel a little jealous--I seem to get that way when Mulder gets too chummy with women--but for some reason, I just feel very happy for him.  I can only hope he's found someone as wonderful as I did. 

He's watching me, waiting for my response, and I wonder how long I've been sitting there not saying anything.  He must think I'm angry with him.  Giving him a big smile, I tell him, "I'm so happy for you, Mulder!" and the look of relief on his face tells me I said the right thing.  Jiggling the hand he's still holding, I urge, "So, come on--dish the dirt.  I want to know EVERYTHING.  We'll start with her name."

If possible, his voice gets even softer as he whispers, "Walter."

I blink once, twice, sure that I've misheard what he said.  "Pardon me?" I ask, cautiously.

A little louder, but not much, he repeats,  "I'm in love with Walter Skinner."

I wait for his patented lame 'Gotcha', but none appears to be forthcoming, so I help it along, "Good one, Mulder," I giggle uneasily.

"Scul, I'm serious."  And I can tell by his face and the tone of his voice that he is.

<Okay.  No problem.  I can handle this.>  After a moment or two, I inquire, "When did this happen?" wondering if I really want to know the answer.

He shrugs his shoulders and mutters, "I'm not sure.  A while ago."

"Oh."  So help me, I have no idea what else to say.

He drains the rest of his wine then places the glass on the coffee table.  Keeping his eyes on the empty goblet, he confesses, "I've. . .this isn't the first time I've had these feelings towards men.  There have been others in my past.  But not for a long time now, and never this strong."

"You're gay."  <And you never told me?  Damn you, Mulder!!  How dare you keep me in the dark?  I thought we shared everything?>

At my blunt statement, he looks over at me, seemingly surprised by my calm, steady tone.  I'm not sure if he was expecting outrage or venom or disgust, but honestly, I feel none of that.  Curiosity, definitely.  And maybe a little hurt that he never confided in me before.  It's little disconcerting to learn that I didn't know as much about my friend as I thought I did.  I was under the impression that we didn't keep secrets from each other--well, okay, so I didn't exactly tell him the truth about me and Frohike, but that was different. . .wasn't it?

Pulling my hand from mine, he quietly admits, "Sometimes, but I like women, too."

"Oh."  Yup, I've just turned into a regular chatterbox.  Geez, first he's straight, then he's gay, then he's bi.  All in the span of five minutes.  I'm almost afraid of what he'll come out with next. 

I don't have to wait long.  Placing his arm around my shoulder, he begins, "I want you to know I'll always love you, Dana.  And William will always be my most amazing accomplishment in an otherwise fucked up life."  I try to argue this point, but he silences me by pressing his index finger gently against my lips.  I get the hint and shut up, letting him continue.  "I. . . I'm hoping that you'll allow me to be part of his life now that I'm back.  Not as his dad," he's quick to clarify, "but as a rich eccentric uncle or something.  If you'd rather not, I understand but.  . ."

This time I do cut in, "Of COURSE you'll be part of William's life, Mulder.  We wouldn't have it any other way."

His mood instantly brightens.  "Really?"  I just nod.  "You don't think Frohike will mind?" he frets.

I laugh at that.  "Are you kidding?  Mel missed you as much as anyone.  He's thrilled you're back."

"You could have fooled me.  He barely spoke to me all night," he practically sulks.

"Oh, like we gave him a chance," I tease, jabbing him in the ribs with my elbow.  "We haven't stopped cackling since you got here."

He flashes me a big Mulder smile.  "Just like a couple of old biddies at the Bingo parlor, huh?"

That gets me laughing big time, and to my dismay, I find I can't stop.  By covering my mouth with my hands I'm able to muffle some of the sound, but it doesn't stop the guffaws.  And when Mulder joins me, I'm lost.  Just the thought of the two of us, forty years from now, sitting in a church hall enshrouded with crocheted shawls while arguing about the existence of a vast Bingo number-calling conspiracy is enough to make me totally lose it.

Finally, after my sides start hurting, I'm able to get myself under some sort of control and the laughter eventually tapers off--I just hope we haven't woken either Mel or William.  Laying my head on Mulder's shoulder, I prompt, "So, what did he say when you told him?"

"Skinner?  Nothing."  At my inquisitive look, he elaborates, "I haven't told him yet."

"Well, why not?"

"I'm not sure if I should," he confides.  "I mean, it seemed like a good idea when I was alone in some motel bed outside East Timbukfuck, Idaho, but now. . .I just don't know."

"What's changed?  You still love him, don't you?"

"Yeah," he sighs dreamily, and I'm startled once more by his behavior.  If I didn't know better, I'd say he was mooning over Skinner.  One thing's certain--I've NEVER seen Mulder acting like this before.  It's strangely endearing.  Fox Mulder playing the lovesick puppy--it's a good look for him.  "I feel it even more now that I'm closer to him here in Washington, but Jesus, Scul!  This is Walter 'I-Eat-Agents-Alive-For-Breakfast' Skinner we're talking about.  The most masculine alpha-male in the F.B.I.  Can you just imagine his reaction when I tell him how I feel about him?"

What I can't tell him is, yes, I could imagine Skinner's reaction. . .if Frohike's 'hunch' is right, then Mulder might be worrying over nothing.  "You should give it a try, Mulder," I tell him, gently.  "Skinner might surprise you."

"By breaking only one of my legs?" he jests.

"I'm serious, Mulder.  There's depths to Walter that may amaze you."

His eyebrows rise slightly.  "Do you know something I don't, Mrs. Bruckman?"

"Just. . .female intuition," I reply enigmatically.

He shakes his head in amusement.  "I think you've been hanging around me too long, Scul.  You're getting downright spooky."

We sit there quietly for a few minutes before I finally turn to him and ask, "Why didn't you tell me you were gay?"

"Bi," he corrects.

"Whatever.  Is that why we. . .well. . ."  I feel my cheeks flush hotly but I'm determined to finish the question.  "Is that why we never. . .*YOU know*?"

Snaking his right hand up, he tenderly strokes my burning cheek.  "Scul, I think there were a lot of reasons why we never *YOU know*.  F.B.I. protocol and fraternization taboos aside, I just didn't feel that way about you."

"Never?" I pout, disappointed to think that any attraction between us had only been one-sided all along.

He smiles fondly.  "In the beginning, perhaps.  You're a very beautiful woman, Dana.  Very smart.  Very sexy.  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't crazy about you."  I'll admit, my ego soars when he says that--it's always nice to hear a guy tell you you're attractive.  As he runs his fingers through my hair affectionately, he continues, "But in the end, I wanted your partnership more than I wanted your body.  It wasn't worth the chance that I could lose your friendship just for some nookie," adding with a leering smirk, "as good as it would have been."

I think about it for a moment or two, and realize he's right.  It WASN'T just the rules and regulations that kept us from expanding our relationship beyond partners and friends.  Maybe in the beginning I had romantic notions about Mulder, but if I was to be honest, those feelings hadn't manifested themselves in years.  I felt more protective, more sisterly towards him than anything else, and had for a long time now.  Skinner once called him my soul mate, and perhaps he was correct.  Mulder was everything I wasn't: outrageous, spontaneous, rebellious, self-confident, and above all else, fearless.  In return, I complemented him with my level-headedness, my practicality, my common sense, and my conservative nature.  I may be boring, but as he once said, I kept him honest.  Together, we made a great team.  Together, we made a whole person.

"And besides," he goes on with gentle smile, "now you have Frohike.  He'll be the husband I could never have been.  He'll give you the happy life you deserve."

"And how do you know that, *MR.* Bruckman?" I tease.

"Because he loves only you," he explains.  "There's nothing to distract him from that.  He'll give every moment of his life to making you happy, not driving you crazy, which is all I would have done."

"So now you're going to inflict that horror on Skinner instead?"

"Think he can handle it?"

"If anyone can keep you in line, Mulder, it's Walter," I predict.

It gets quiet between us, and I find myself melting against him as his fingers continue to stroke my hair.  It's been so long since we've shared moments of togetherness like this--too long.  Finally he breaks the silence by asking, "What about you, Scully?  Can YOU handle it?"

"That fact that you're bi?  Or the fact that you want to jump Skinner's bones?"

He snorts, "Well, if Walter doesn't kill me once I tell him--will you be able to deal with the two of us?  Together?  If it comes to that?"

I pause a moment before answering, "Well, my religion says no, that it's a sin.  But my religion has been wrong in the past."  A little light bulb goes on in the attic.  "That's why you never told me, isn't it?  Because you thought I'd chose my religion over you?"

He nods sadly.  "That was a big part of it.  I know how the Catholic Church feels about homosexuals.  I didn't want to cause you any grief, create any conflict between you and your faith." 

"And is that also why you left?  Because you were afraid I'd condemn you for your feelings?"

Closing his eyes briefly, as if trying to find the right wording, he slowly begins, "Not really, Scul--I just had to get away.  Being around you and William everyday was clouding my judgment.  I was afraid I'd make the wrong choice for all the right reasons, if that makes any sense."  He opens his big hazel eyes and stares right down into my soul.  "I really do love you and William, Dana.  You know that.  But it wasn't enough.  I wasn't what either of you needed.  I couldn't have been the man you wanted or needed me to be.  I know my shortcomings and my inadequacies, and every cell in my body tells me I am not cut out to be a family man.  If we had gotten married, maybe we would have been happy for awhile, but chances are we would have ended up friends instead of lovers."  And I almost laugh aloud at the irony, considering that's exactly what I had with Frohike.

Shaking my head tolerantly, I assure him,  "Mulder, my religion is a part of me, but it isn't the only part of me.  Blind faith is just as dangerous as no faith at all.  Sometimes it's good to question what you know--you taught me that."  He gives me a big beaming smile as I continue, "And as for the rest of it, I just want you happy, Mulder.  You and Skinner both.  That's all that matters to me.  The rest will work itself out.  Just give me some time with this, okay?"

Giving my shoulder another squeeze, he states, "Scully, you're the best, you know that?"

Curling up against him as he pours me another glass of Merlot, I tell him, "Yeah, well, don't be upset if you get the cold shoulder from Mom once she finds out."

"She's prejudiced against gays?" he exclaims, startled.  "Maggie never struck me as the type."

"She's not, but I think she had an eye on Walter for herself," I kid, causing him to chuckle softly.  I take another sip of my wine before asking, "So-o-o-o, when are you going to tell him?"

"Tomorrow, if I can get through security at the Hoover.  Wish me luck?"

I give him a quick, supportive kiss on the cheek.  "All the luck in the world, Mulder.  You're going to need it."

Thursday, May 16, 2002

3: 37 P.M.

Scully Residence

Well, I've cleaned the house, top to bottom.  Vacuuming, dusting, woodwork--you name it.  I take a look around my immaculate apartment before collapsing, exhausted, on the couch.  Without conscious thought, I find my eyes scanning the room again, this time landing on my phone--my very quiet phone--and it takes everything in me to hold back the frustrated scream that wants to erupt from my very core.  It's now been over six hours since my trip to the Warehouse, and still no word from Mulder or the guys on Frohike's whereabouts. 

I continue to stare at the phone, willing it to ring, daring it not to.  After a few minutes of that futile activity, I snatch the damn receiver off the stand and dial Gunmen headquarters.

"Did you find him?" a frantic male voice rings through the earpiece.

<Well, that answers my question.>  "Hi, Jimmy, it's just me," I sigh dejectedly. 

"Oh, hi, Agent Scully.  I thought you might be one of the guys."

"I take it there's been no word?"  I already know the answer, but I still have to ask, just to be sure.

"No, nothing yet," he replies, sadly.

I sigh again.  I seem to be doing that a lot.  "I thought as much, but I figured with the vacuum going, I may have missed the call," I explain, using my very lame excuse for bothering him.

"I'm sorry, Agent Scully," he apologizes, forlornly.  "I wish there was something I could do."

"I know, Jimmy, and I appreciate that."  He really is a nice kid, so anxious to please, and he truly admires the Gunmen--he'd do anything for those guys.  I can sense his frustration level is close to mine, though.  We both want to be out there looking for Mel instead of being cooped up waiting for results.  "But there's nothing we can do except wait," I tell him.

"Well, there's something else *I* can do," he suddenly announces dramatically.  "I'll keep in touch."

"WAIT!  JIMMY. . .!" I shout, but it's too late--all I have is a dial tone in my ear.  Great.  Now once the guys find Mel, they'll have to go track down Jimmy Bond.  With a final sigh, I replace the phone in its cradle.

<Goddamn you, Frohike--where ARE you?>

14 Hours earlier

Thursday, May 16, 2002

1:37 A.M.

FROHIKE:

I watch them through the crack in my bedroom door--thank God he's finally leaving.  They've been talking for nearly six straight hours since I left them alone.  And not just talking, but giggling and cuddling and hugging and kissing.  They don't know I've been spying on them, but then again, I doubt they would have noticed if I was standing in the middle of the living room taking flash photographs.  They were so engrossed in each other no one else existed.  Especially me.

He leans down to give her a goodnight kiss.  It's only on the cheek, but that doesn't matter.  I can still see the love in his eyes, even from this distance.  I can see the love in hers, too.  They look gorgeous together, wrapped in each other's arms.  It's so obvious they belong together--and there's no way *Mulder* would ever be mistaken as Dana's father.

Hell, I knew it was just a matter of time before the great Fox Mulder came back and exercised his ownership claims on Dana and Billy.  I was nothing more than a substitute until he could return.  Shit, if I was honest with myself, I wasn't even that much.  Just a convenient babysitter.  I knew that, and I've always known this day would come.  The handsome prince would ride into town and sweep the beautiful princess off her feet and they'd ride off into the sunset to live happily ever after while the frog returned to his swamp.  I wasn't delusional enough to think my arrangement with Dana was going to last forever.  Okay, maybe I was delusional, for a while.  Maybe I fooled myself. 

Oh, yeah, I had definitely fooled myself.  But no more.  I knew what I had to do.

I hear her moving around the living room, cleaning up the glasses and snack bowls.  I take that time to start packing.  I don't need much.  Some clothes, underwear, socks, the toiletries I snagged from the bathroom earlier in anticipation of this.  A couple of sentimental books.  My laptop.  The die-cast model car that Maggie gave me for Christmas.  The framed 8x10 picture of our little family, the one we had posed for with the coupon Scully gave me for Valentine's Day--that gets wrapped up in a towel and placed carefully in my knapsack.

By the time I finish, Dana's headed off to bed.  I wait a few more minutes, just to be sure.  I keep myself busy looking for some important papers--our marriage license, my life-insurance folder, the title for my car, my passport savings book.  I know it's silly.  After the more than generous gift Mulder gave her--shit, I don't think I've earned $100,000 in all the years I've been working--she doesn't need my piddling little savings account.  But I'm not going to do to her what I did to Mykita.  I promised to provide for her and William, and that's what I plan to do.

I push my door open and check.  All the lights are out, including the one in her bedroom.  I inch my way out of my room, flinging my two backpacks over my shoulder.  I place them quietly by the front door-- I have one more thing to do before I can leave. 

I go into Billy's room and discover him sleeping soundly, hanging on to that little stuffed puppy I got him a while back.  I place his birthday gift on the nightstand near his crib.  Just a couple of Blue's Clues videos I picked up downtown--he loves that blue dog.  Nothing too big or expensive.  Dana and I had purchased a few things together for his birthday, but this gift is just from me.

I turn to go, but find myself being pulled back to his crib.  Leaning down, I whisper, "I have to go, Billy.  I don't want to, but it's for the best.  For you and for your mommy.  But I want you to know I love you very much, more than I ever thought I could love anyone."  Taking a moment to angrily brush a tear from my eye, I continue, "I wish I could be here and watch you grow up.  I know you're going to be a great man.  Your real dad's a great man--it's in your genes.  And he'll make sure you grow up right.  You couldn't ask for better parents.  Be good for them.  And make me proud."  After brushing away another tear, I kiss him one last time on the cheek.  I like to think I see him smile, but it's probably just a trick of the light coming through the window or something. 

As I leave his room, I hesitate for a second, then follow the hallway to *her* room.  Peeking through the crack in her door, I see her lying in bed sound asleep, the moonlight washing over her, setting her hair aglow, almost like a reddish halo.  My beautiful angel.  I feel a lump forming in my throat that this is the last image I'll have of my lovely Dana.  "Goodbye, sweetheart," I mouth, terrified that if I say it out loud I may wake her.  "I'll always love you."  Taking a deep breath, I silently step away from her door.

One last stop.  The kitchen.  I place a note, along with my bankbook, the important papers, the title and the keys to my car on the table.  It's a classic, and I keep it in mint condition so I know it's worth a pretty penny.  I figure she can always sell the car if she has to.  I grab a soda and a couple of peaches out of the fridge, then I go back out to the foyer.  Picking up my knapsacks, I quietly open the front door, and I'm gone.

Thursday, May 16, 2002

8: 13 P.M.

Al's Bar and Grill

YVES:

Ignoring all the stares I receive from the questionable patrons of Al's Bar and Grill, (the title being a serious misnomer as there isn't a grill in sight) I make my way towards the back of the room.  I take in the train wreck of a man sitting in the booth and purr, "My, my--look what the cat dragged in."

The drunken sot lifts his head off the table and glares at me with one half-opened eye.  "Oh dear God, PLEASE tell me this is just a bad alcoholic hallucination," he groans miserably before dropping his head back on the table.

"You wish," I scoff as I lean my left hip against his table.

"What the hell do you want, Yves?" he snarls, not even bothering to look up at me as he speaks.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I sigh wistfully, "I want Orlando Bloom handcuffed to my bed for a fortnight, but since that's not likely to happen anytime soon, I'd be happy just to haul your sorry ass back home."

This time he does look up, his eyes tired and bloodshot behind his cheap Lens Crafters glasses.  "I don't have a home, Yves, except for this lovely beer-stained booth.  Now, if you would be so kind as to turn on your pretty little high heel and get the fuck out of here, I can get back to my drinking in peace."  With that, he picks up his shot glass of rat gut and gulps it down with barely a grimace.

If he only knew how SO not in the mood I am for this right now, he wouldn't be testing me.  Lowering my voice, I growl menacingly, "Melvin, I'm slowly losing my patience, and you don't want to see me when I've lost it completely.  Now, let's go."

But he behaves as if he hasn't even heard me.  Twirling the glass around his less-than-nimble fingers, he ruminates, "Have you ever been in love, Yves?  Madly and truly and hopelessly in love. . . only to have your heart ripped out and stomped on?"

I swear to God I'm going to make Jimmy pay DEARLY for this the next time our paths cross.  When he asked for my help tracking Toadboy down, I didn't know I'd be expected to play Agony Aunt.  "No, I'm the one who does all the stomping," I inform him.

He snorts.  "Yeah, that's right.  You're a woman.  You broads are good at that."

I uncross my arms and put my hands on my hips.  "Broads!?" I echo, my timbre going up along with an eyebrow.  "I'm going to forgive you for that, as I'm sure you presently have no control over your tongue, however. . ."

My thought is interrupted at that moment by some balding potbellied yahoo in a plaid shirt and stinking of Old Milwaukee, who uses his last sober braincell to leer,  "Hey, baby, choo wanna dance with me?"  His comment is accompanied by a grab at his crotch, which gets all his tanked brethren laughing uproariously.

You know, it never fails to amaze me how dumb men are.  Truly.  Like he'd know what to do with me if he ever got me alone.  If I weren't on such an important mission, I'd be halfway tempted to take him up on his offer and teach him a lesson in good manners and respecting the fairer sex that he wouldn't soon forget.  As it is, I have more pressing issues to deal with, so I simply reach out my right hand, grab him by his unshaven flabby neck, and drop him to his knees with a move I learned watching Jackie Chan movies.  Before he can complain, I shove the pearl-handle snub nose .38 I'm holding in my left hand into his fat ugly face, and patiently explain, "I've got PMS and I know how to use this.  Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, yes, I understand perfectly," he blubbers.  Sometimes it's just WAY too easy.

"Apologize," I command, tightening my hold on his sweaty flesh.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry.  Please don't kill me!" he's sobbing now, and only my fear that he might wet himself prompts me to let him go.  Stumbling to his feet, he runs out of the bar.  A simple glare around the room guarantees that I won't be bothered any more that evening, and I return the gun to my hip holster.

Turning back to Frohike, I inquire, "Now, where were we?"

But I'm doubtful if he's heard me, or if he's even aware of the altercation that just took place less than two feet away from him.  Instead, he's busy trying to pour another shot of Wild Turkey from the bottle on his table.  He's doing a pretty good job of it--only spilling about twice as much as he manages to get into the glass.  He sits there for a moment, mesmerized by the amber liquid before he mutters, mournfully, "This is almost the same color as Dana's hair."

Now I know he's totally wasted.  "I certainly hope not, Melvin, or I'd get another hairdresser if I were her."

"I had it all, Yves," he continues as if I haven't even spoken.  "A beautiful wife, a beautiful baby.  And you shoulda seen the house we bought.  We were gonna move in a couple of weeks, in fact.  It was perfect.  I had the perfect life," he stops and sneers, "until HE came back."

"He?" I ask distractedly, strumming my fingers on the table, not able to disguise my boredom any longer.

"Mulder."  He practically spits out the name, then throws back his drink, angrily slamming the tiny shot glass on the table."

"Mulder?  You mean Fox Mulder?" I say, looking for clarification. 

"Is there ANOTHER Mulder you know of?"

"Well, actually there IS a pitcher for the Oakland A's," I elucidate.  "He's got a wicked curveball."

He rolls his eyes.  "No, you were right the first time.  Fox is back in town."

I slide into the booth opposite him, hoping that five-year old Bud Lite won't ruin my leather pants.  "What does Mulder have to do with this?"

"Didn't you know?  He's Billy's real father.  And Scully's true love."  He shakes his head ruefully, "I can't believe I lost everything.  In one minute.  Poof."

"Melvin, what are you talking about?" I demand, quite tired of this nonsense.

"Mulder's back, so now Scully can be with the man she really loves," he proclaims, dejectedly.

For a moment I'm struck speechless--this isn't quite what I expected to hear--but I quickly cover it up and ask, "She told you this?"

He shrugs his shoulders and mumbles, "She didn't have to.  I just know, okay?"  Looking right at me he adds bitterly, "Why would she want the frog when she can have the prince?" 

Leaning back into the booth, I remark, "Well, I will admit that I don't quite understand the appeal myself, but you must do SOMETHING for her, otherwise she wouldn't have married you in the first place."

"She only married me to have a father for William."  At that point, he attempts to pour himself another shot, but before he can, I grab the bottle from him with one hand, the glass with the other.  "HEY!" he protests, "give those back!"

"Not until you tell me what the hell is going on here, Mel," I command, "because I don't believe what you're telling me.  Not for one minute."  According to Jimmy, Dana Scully was at her wit's end over Frohike's disappearance.  Why was he under the assumption she didn't give a damn about him anymore?  And how the hell did Fox Mulder fit into all this?

"It's true.  We haven't even. . .I mean. . .we've never. . ."  He pauses in his stammering before finally confessing, "It's a marriage of convenience, that's all."  With a mirthless laugh, he grimaces, "My God, I MUST be drunk if I just admitted that to you."

"And you think this is news to me?"  I chuckle at his startled look.  "Really, Melvin.  You boys have GOT to learn how to sweep for bugs more efficiently.  I've known about you and Dana since you told Byers back in November, right before you moved out of the Warehouse."

"But. . .but at the New Year's party. . .?" he sputters.  "You. . .when Dana told you off. . ."

"Yes, I must admit that really puzzled me at the time.  But I just figured you two had finally let nature take its course and. . .well. . .let's just say the picture of you naked put me off my feed for a week."

"Very funny, Yves," he grouses.

"I did lose two pounds, so it wasn't a total disaster," I shoot back.

Dropping his head into his hands, he groans, "No, I can assure you nature never paid a visit to our abode.  We're nothing but friends, just as we've always been."

"Friends?" I repeat, disbelievingly.  "Are you really that naïve?"  I shake my head in amusement.  "Oh, Melvin, have you got a lot to learn about women."

"No thank you.  I've been trying for half a century now.  I give up.  Don't wanna know a freaking thing about them."

"Too bad.  You're going to get a lesson whether you want one or not."  Folding my arms on the table, I lean forward until I'm practically in his face, then announce, "For your information, Dana is frantic right now.  She has the Gunmen AND Mulder out looking for you, and she's one step away from calling in reinforcements at the F.B.I.  She's desperate for you to come home.  Now does that sound like someone who's getting ready to kick you out?"

"But. . ."

I swiftly cut him off, "No buts, Melvin.  She loves you, and she wants you back.  She thinks she did something wrong, something to drive you away."

"She loves me?" he repeats, in disbelief.  "Who told you that?"

"Jimmy.  Apparently she made quite a ruckus this morning at Headquarters looking for you."

"But. . .I left so she could be with the man of her dreams," he mutters, miserably.

Leaning back again in the booth, I exhale sharply and propose, "Did you ever stop to think that maybe, as odd as it seems, YOU could be the man of her dreams?"

Tired, wary eyes study me for a moment before he issues a soft, unbelieving, "How. . .?"

"People change, Frohike.  Their feelings change, too.  Your relationship may have started out as simple friendship, but it's obviously grown since then."

"But. . .Mulder. . .," he utters, clinging to his old argument.

"She didn't marry Mulder," I remind him.  "She married you."

"But that's because she COULDN'T marry Mulder," he argues.  "He left town."

"And you stayed," I quickly point out.  "You were there when she needed you, Melvin.  You came to her when she had nowhere else to turn.  You've been by her side, helping her, keeping her company, bringing her happiness.  You've been a wonderful companion for her and an excellent father to her child.  How can you think she would just throw you over for Mulder now?"

He thinks for a minute, then two.  "Because. . ." he begins, then just as quickly goes quiet.  "Because. . ." he tries again, and once more falls silent.

"Because. . .you don't have an answer, do you, Frohike?" I declare, triumphantly.  "Because you know I'm right.  Because you let your insecurity and fear of commitment get in the way of the best thing that's ever happened to you." 

"Please, Yves, the last thing I need right now is rehashed Oprah, okay?" he jeers, disgustedly.

 "Actually, it was Star Jones, but we won't go into that.  The fact is, the greatest, most enduring loves are the ones that grow from friendship."

"Exactly my point," he contends.  "Mulder and Scully have been friends for nearly a decade now.  They have a baby together.  They BELONG together.  And he'll be able to provide for her better than I ever could."  He takes a deep breath and exhales, "My God, the guy's loaded.  His bank account has more zeroes than in Bush's cabinet."

"So now's she's a gold digger?  I don't think you give Dana much credit."

"It's not that--it's just. . ."

"It's just you've decided to run away like a coward with your tail between your legs?  You're just going to let Mulder step in and take over your territory?"  I tut-tut in my most condescending manner, "I expected more from you, Melvin.  If you love Dana half as much as you claim to, you'd fight to the death for her."

"Look at me, Yves," he implores.  "Look at Mulder.  The war was won before it began."

"There's more to a man besides his looks."  I pause, not able to stop the smirk I know is crossing my face, "Although in your case, I can see your point."

"Thanks, Yves," he snarls.  "I can always rely on you to kick me when I'm down."

"Just doing my job, Melvin," I reply, smugly.

He scowls.  "I really hate that name."

"I know, but it fits you so well."

"Why are you so anxious to get me to stay anyway?" he asks, curiously.  "I woulda thought you'd be thrilled to get rid of me."

"Nonsense.  I enjoy having you around, Frohike.  Who else would I have to torture?"

"Langly?" he volunteers.

I just laugh at that.  "He's too easy a mark.  I prefer a challenge.  And YOU, my dear boy, are as challenging at they come."

"I'm glad I keep you entertained," he grumbles.

"Like you wouldn't believe," I coo.  "And as for why I'm trying to keep your marriage together, I'm doing it for Dana and the child.  She's a good woman--she doesn't deserve what you're putting her through right now."

"Yves, you haven't been listening to me," he exclaims, exasperated.  "I'm doing this FOR Dana, for her happiness.  With me gone, she can marry the man she loves."

No question about it--Melvin Frohike is going to be the death of me, of that I'm sure.  I give him my best stare-down as I divulge, "I've got news for you, Melvin.  I saw that kiss you two shared at that party, remember?  And I'm here to tell you that I don't care what kind of act you two were pulling New Year's Eve, that kiss was not part of it.  There is no way Dana was faking that.  She loves you, deeply, not as a friend or a companion or a substitute father for her child.  I don't know why you can't see that, or won't see it, but it's the truth."

His eyes get as big as saucers behind his glasses.  "But. . ." he starts, until I quickly silence him.

"No more buts, Frohike," I huff.  "I'm sick of this game."  Sensing the time was right to drag out the heavy artillery, I dig an envelope out of my jacket pocket.   I remove the photos it contains and slap them on the table in front of him.  "What kind of man can just walk away from this?" I taunt.
 
I watch as he picks up the photos one by one, staring at them in stunned disbelief.  They're copies of the pictures Maggie Scully took at the New Year's party, pictures showing Frohike and Scully laughing and dancing and just basking in each other's company.  There's even a picture of 'The Kiss'. 

But it's the last photo that catches his attention--the one she took of William, dressed in his little Star Trek uniform, sleeping on Langly's stomach.  Running his stubby thumb over the face of his precious child, tears start to roll down his cheeks.  "Damn you, Yves," he curses, his voice husky with raw emotion, as he clutches the photo in his hand.  "Why'd you have to show me this?"

"I fight dirty.  You should know that about me by now."  I scoop up the pictures and place them back in the envelope, then hand it to him.

"Thanks," he sniffles, wiping the tears away with the back of his black-gloved hand.

"You're quite welcome."  With that, I stand up and say to him in my most compassionate voice (yes, I am capable of it when I want to), "Come on, I'll take you home."

Sitting there, staring at his packet of photos, he sighs dejectedly, "How can I go home and face Dana after what I've done?  After I've hurt her so much?"

"A real man owns up to his mistakes.  And that's all this was, Frohike--a mistake, made with the best of intentions.  You'll apologize.  She'll forgive you.  And you'll both be okay."

He's actually trembling he's so nervous, and for not the first time, my heart goes out to him.  With all of his faults, he really is a good person.  After all, it's not every man who would simply give up the family he loves more than anything just because he thinks his wife might be happier with someone else.  It's quite sweet in its own twisted way.  "I'm scared, Yves," he whispers, as more tears roll down his face.  "I don't want to lose her.  She's my life."

"And she's waiting for you."  Holding out my hand, I ask gently, "Are you ready to go, Mel?"

He slowly nods once as he reaches into his pants pocket and throws some bills on the table to cover his binge.  Then, after retrieving his knapsacks from underneath the table, he attempts to stand up on whiskey-soaked legs.  He's less than successful and falls back into the booth.  Heaving an annoyed sigh, I grasp him by the arm, ease him up, and help escort him out of the charming establishment.  With some difficulty, I finally get him seated in the passenger side of my car, hoping like hell that he won't ralph all over the upholstery.  As I fire up the engine, I can't help smiling to myself.

<Yves, old girl, you did it again!>

Thursday, May 16, 2002

10: 42 P.M.

Scully Residence

SCULLY

*Knock, Knock*

The knocking at the front door startles me out of a very restless nap.  I'm not even sure when I fell asleep, but I'm curled up on the couch and slightly groggy, so I must've dropped off sometime during the last hour or so.  Another knock brings me fully awake and I stumble to the door, not even caring that all I'm wearing is a nightshirt, flannel boxers, and a pair of fuzzy socks.  Only one thought is running through my head in those brief seconds: Please God, let it be Frohike.

Well, I guess God's not taking requests today because as I peer through the peephole, I'm surprised by who is standing in the hallway--it sure as hell is not Frohike.  I unlock the door and open it cautiously.  "Yves?  What are you doing here?" 

She smiles that all-knowing, condescending smirk that I remember so well from the New Year's party and purrs, "I found a stray pet and I thought you might want him."  With that, she reaches out with her left hand and yanks Frohike towards her into the doorframe.  "Or do you want me to call the pound instead?"

I'm too stunned to respond to her insults.  All day long I've been wondering what I would do when--if--WHEN Mel walked through the door.  'Kiss him' or 'kill him' were the two at the top of my list.  But when I see his face, all I can do is charge him and crush him in a huge bear hug, figuring he strangulation can wait for later.  "Oh, God, Frohike!" I sob in relief.  "Are you okay?  Where have you been?  I've been so worried about. . ."

I never get to finish.  He breaks out of my grasp and groans, "Dana. . .gonna be sick!"  Pushing past me, he runs for the bathroom; moments later, the sounds of someone kissing the porcelain god can be heard.  Even Yves looks away, seemingly embarrassed by the display.