~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Fifth Side of the Triangle
Josh Larrimore

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Where is my John Wayne? 
Where is my Prairie Son? 
Where is my happy ending? 
Where have all the cowboys gone?"

Paula Cole

~*~*~*~*~*~

Of all the ways I have ever risked my life as a federal agent,
there was one I never could have imagined in a million years, and
it was the one that, in the end, nearly killed me.

Perhaps the saddest thing about it is that it all began so
harmlessly, in a moment of the purest happiness I have ever
known.

I wonder if I will ever feel that happy again ... because I have
changed, forever. I am not the same person I was; I never will be
again. Others may be fooled, but I am through fooling myself.

Of course, I never fooled Mulder for a moment ...

Let me tell you what happened.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Mulder and I were going to investigate a string of homicides in
Miami that seemed to have a certain paranormal element to them:
The victims were all eviscerated, their heads turned almost
completely backward and pentagrams carved in their chests.

Mulder, for once, was skeptical of any paranormal content, and I
certainly agreed. Serial killers and their pathology, their modus
operandi, are his specialty, not mine, but there was nothing
about any of the bodies I examined that suggested anything beyond
the capability of a strong man, or men, to carry out. 

Even the head thing, we soon learned, was simply decapitation of
a kind; the heads weren't quite removed, just far enough to allow
them to be rotated nearly 180 degrees. Their clothing hid the
incisions until autopsy.

Mulder quickly reached the conclusion that the UNSUB wasn't
engaging in some diabolical variant of Wicca so much as he was
trying to make the killings look like what he imagined pagans
would do. 

The UNSUB wasn't doing a very good job of it, though; he was
mixing up his Satanic rituals with his Wicca with his anti-
vampire lore and winding up with something amateurish in the
extreme. So as an X File, it was a complete bust. As a violent
serial crime requiring FBI assistance, however, it was top of the
line. 

A field office as large as Miami would normally handle this kind
of thing without help from Washington, but this was Fox Mulder,
after all. There was no way the Miami police weren't going to
take advantage of the opportunity to have one of the Bureau's
best criminal profilers in on the case.

They got what they wanted. Mulder was ordered to stay in Miami
and render whatever assistance he could to the Miami-Dade police.
My services as a forensic pathologist specializing in violent
crime were also volunteered.

I didn't mind. It was cold and snowy back in D.C., and Miami, for
all its high crime rate and other troubles, remains a tropical
paradise. The weather was so nice, in fact, that I almost hoped
the case would take a while so I could go on soaking up sun and
warm breezes and blue water. 

Mulder wasn't anxious to hang around too long, though, and I
couldn't blame him for that. However Hollywood portrays it,
profiling is in reality a tedious job, although it is also an
exercise in extreme stress and psychological terror. 

But that wasn't his only reason -- he simply hated being away
from Daniel. 

I sympathized with him -- I mean, I missed Daniel, too. He's my
second dearest friend in the entire world, and anyway, Mulder --
who is my partner, my dearest friend and my soulmate -- was
miserable without him.

That's my guys; so smart, so dedicated and so much in love. I
feel privileged to know that they consider me almost a part of
their relationship. 

I'm Mulder's partner, and Daniel's friend, and I'm very much in
love with Mulder and much more than a little in love with Daniel,
but the real couple here is Mulder and Daniel. They've been
lovers for some time now, and they are deeply in love and very,
very good for each other.

I try my best not to be a fifth wheel. They always tell me I'm
not in their way, ever, but then they're both so polite and so
well brought up that I sometimes have a hard time believing them.

On our third evening in Miami, I felt so sorry for all of us that
I suggested to Mulder that he call Daniel and see if he couldn't
get the Navy to grant him a couple of days' leave to join us in
the sun.

Mulder's response was less enthusiastic than I'd expected.

"I don't know if I really want him around while I'm doing this,
Scully," he said as he stretched out on the spare bed in my hotel
room. "I mean, you know what I get like while I'm profiling. He's
never seen it; and I'm not sure I want him to."

I knew all too well. Mulder can get extremely scary while
submerging himself in the mind of a psychopathic killer. As he
gets further inside, he begins to take on many of the UNSUB's
characteristics -- the paranoia, the rage, the bloodlust -- and
it is a truly frightening thing to watch.

But he's proved over and over that no matter how bad it gets, no
matter how much terror he puts himself through, he can't hurt me.
Not when someone drugged his water supply, not when some mind-
bending psycho got inside his head and forced him to point a gun
at me, not even when he was all the way down into the mind of a
serial killer.

Mulder simply doesn't have it in him to hurt me, not ever. I am
safe with him, no matter how terrifying things became.

Right at that moment, though, he was anything but terrifying.
He'd shed his shirt, tie and shoes and was lying there in his
undershirt, socks and slacks, and he looks absolutely delectable
that way. I swear, if he were straight, I'd jump his bones in a
minute, partner or not.

Did I mention that I'm very much in love with him?

"I know what you're saying, Mulder," I said, "but Daniel's never
shown any inclination to throw up his hands in horror at anything
we've done, so I don't think he'll do it now. Besides, unless I
miss my guess, this killer isn't psychopathic, he's just plain
evil, and you're not likely to go all wiggy profiling him."

He shrugged. "You never know until you get into the killer's head
just exactly where he's going to take you," he said. 

I had to admit it: He was right. Who, for example, would ever
have thought that profiling a serial killer would lead Mulder
deep into the mind of the man who taught him to profile in the
first place?

But I persisted, and finally Mulder agreed that some time with
Daniel might help clear his head a bit and help him move on to
the next phase of this investigation, which was trying to figure
out where this sicko might strike next. 

He went back to his room to make the call; about 15 minutes
later, he poked his head through the connecting doors, grinning
sheepishly.

"He's flying down tomorrow," Mulder said. "He put me on hold and
called his commanding officer and got permission to take a few
days off."

"See, I knew it would work out," I said, smiling. "All you had to
do was ask."

"Yeah," Mulder said. He started to turn around and go back into
his own room, but he stopped. 

"Hey, Scully?" he said.

"Yes?"

He paused just for a moment. "Thanks," he said, with that look
that always makes me melt. 

I just half-smiled, and jerked my head in the direction of his
room. "Hit the sack, Mulder," I said. "I'll see you in the
morning."

"'Night, Scully," he said, and went to his room, closing the door
behind him.

For just a moment after he left, I thought about going out --
Miami was full of singles bars where I might find a companion for
the evening -- but in the end I decided against it. Listening to
Mulder's soft, slumberous breathing held much more appeal for me.
I stayed up for a while, reading over the autopsy reports and
making a few notes based on my own observations. 

A little after midnight, I went to bed.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When I picked Daniel up at the airport the next afternoon, he was
as excited and happy as a little kid. He had never before been
around us while we were working, and he was almost overwhelmed to
think that we would allow him into what he persisted in thinking
of as our private world.

I've tried to explain to him, with no success whatsoever, that
it's not that we want to exclude him; it's just that so much of
what we do goes to such extremes, from Paperwork Hell to Sheer
Life-Threatening Terror, that it would either bore him silly or
get him killed, because he's not trained for this. He's a
surgeon, not a cop.

Maintaining our usual pretense -- that Daniel was my lover, not
my partner's -- I drove him to the hotel and put his bags in my
room. I ordered him sternly to be careful if he wandered outside,
because Miami has a serious problem with violent crime. I just
can't help it -- I never really think civilians are prepared to
deal with that. Yes, I know Daniel's not a civilian, not in the
military sense, but to law-enforcement officers, anyone who's not
a cop is a civilian.

Daniel stopped his shirt-arranging and looked at me with wide-
eyed and totally false innocence.

"Dana, you wound me," he said. "I have no intention of going
anywhere any more dangerous than the hotel's kiddy wading pool. I
mean, what else would I do this close to the beach?"

"Oh, you are impossible," I said, rolling my eyes as I grabbed my
notes and prepared to leave. "Do whatever you like, Daniel, but
if you get killed, don't come running to me."

"That's my line," he said, mildly. "I always tell people with
multiple leg fractures that they can't come running to me."

"Orthopedists," I said, shaking my head. "You should stop by the
forensics lab sometime and I'll fill you in on all the latest
autopsy humor."

"I can't wait," he said, smiling, and then he put his arms around
me and kissed me, because he loves me and he knows how much I
like it when he does that. Mulder certainly doesn't mind; he
kisses me, too. 

This one was a nice kiss; one of Daniel's best, and I've had some
pretty damn good kisses from Daniel.

"Tell Fox I miss him, and I can't wait to see him tonight," he
whispered, and the look in his eyes was a joy and a hurt to me
all at the same time, as it always is at times like these: Joy to
see how deeply he and Mulder care for each other, painful to know
that they have no choice but to hide that from the rest of the
world.

And deep, deep gratitude that they don't feel they have to hide
it from me.

I would love to be loved the way they love each other … someday. 

"I'll tell him, Daniel," I said, almost whispering myself. "I
promise." I gave him one more hug and a little peck on the lips,
and I left.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When I got to the police department, I took Mulder aside and
delivered the message. After that, as you might expect, Mulder
could barely keep his mind on his work. He looked at his watch
roughly every five minutes; then he'd sigh and try to get back to
work, only to repeat the process five minutes later. 

We finally reached a good stopping point around 5 p.m., and
Mulder took off for the hotel without even a mention of getting a
bite to eat or of putting in some late hours -- which we normally
do when we're in the field.

But I didn't mind. I was expecting it. He hadn't seen Daniel for
almost a week, and I knew he was in a hurry to get back to him.

I left the police department about two hours later. I caught a
cab, had some dinner -- alone --and then went to a movie. I
wanted to be completely certain that the guys had all the privacy
they needed.

When I got back to the hotel, their room was dark, and it was
quiet. I brushed my teeth, put on my pajamas, said my prayers and
told myself that I could go cruising the bars tomorrow.

Then I went to bed, and I slept.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next day, Daniel prevailed upon me to take him to the
forensics lab, and he seemed to enjoy the trip thoroughly. 

I know, that sounds strange, but remember, an orthopedic surgeon
is hard to shock: Once you've seen bodies all smashed up, bones
poking through the flesh in six different places, the fragments
covered in blood, dirt, garbage, even vomit, nothing really
shakes you.

Anyway, Daniel's usual patients are alive, and usually in
terrible, sometimes intractable pain. My "patients," however
horribly they've been violated, are dead and past their pain, and
I truly believe, are safe in the loving hands of a merciful God.

No, the pitiful remains of the latest victim didn't especially
shock Daniel; they just made him sad. The woman had been
beautiful in life, to judge by the picture we got from her
family. 

What was left of her, however, was anything but beautiful. 

Daniel graciously assisted me in the autopsy, and that was really
fun -- if you know what I mean, not fun in the conventional
sense, just fun to get to be a doctor with my Daniel. He and I
have a lot in common, but few abiding passions other than
medicine and Fox Mulder, and medicine is the only one that is
ours alone.

I was proud to be able to show off my pathology skills to Daniel
because I knew he would appreciate what it took for me to develop
those skills, and he did. 

For my part, I was delighted to have an assistant who was not
only strong enough to help me lift and turn 140 pounds of
literally dead weight - most assistants can do that, of course --
but Daniel could also look at the body and tell me in an instant
just exactly how the UNSUB might have crushed the cervical
vertebrae of an otherwise healthy 21-year-old woman.

Daniel's surgical skills were also absolutely outstanding; thanks
to him, the autopsy was done in no time flat, and I genuinely
enjoyed watching him work. In fact, I extracted a promise that he
would let me scrub in with him sometime at Bethesda, and that
seemed to please him a great deal.

All in all, a very successful morning for us, I think.

Mulder came by around midmorning, just as we were stitching the
victim up and wrapping her for transport. He was delighted to
hear that Daniel's expertise had provided another clue to the
UNSUB's identity.

His undisguised pleasure made Daniel happy, too, happier than I
could remember having seen him. He was positively basking in
Mulder's admiration. 

In fact, they were both happy enough to risk a brief handclasp,
something they almost never did in public.

Mulder insisted that Daniel come with us back to Miami-Dade to
write up the report. I think he was feeling a little left out, to
tell the truth, and he wanted a chance to show off for Daniel
himself, to show what _he_ could do. It was such a switch from
his usual, "oh, shit," attitude toward profiling that I almost
had to laugh.

After the report was done and we'd all had some lunch, Daniel
headed back to the hotel and Mulder and I got down to some
serious computer checking with VICAP in an attempt to track down
similar cases, if there were any. It was tedious work, but
absolutely necessary if we were to catch this killer.

We ran checks on all the various details we'd uncovered. We
followed up on anything Mulder surmised, and after two hours, got
absolutely nowhere. It was making me a little crazy; I hate this
kind of thing, anyway, but not nearly as much as Mulder does, and
he was beginning to chew on his pencils just a bit more fiercely
than usual.

He was getting so annoyed, in fact, that I was mentally preparing
myself for the ever-popular Scully Ditch, when all at once he got
very quiet.

"Scully," he said, slowly. "What Daniel said about the technique
required to crush the vertebrae and let the head turn around that
way... who would know that kind of thing?"

"I don't know," I said, thinking. "Doctors ... nurses, probably.
Not all doctors or all nurses, or even most, but some would,
certainly."

"What about physical therapists?" he asked, more intently.

"Yes, of course," I said. "Physical therapists know a lot about
joints and the pressures they can bear, or can't bear. Why?"

"Because two of the victims here had received physical therapy in
the past," he said, and I could hear the excitement building in
his voice. "And now I've got a VICAP file which notes the similar
murders of two other people who were also undergoing physical
therapy."

"Mulder, forgive me, but what kind of connection is that?" I
said, a little annoyed. "Lots of people undergo physical
therapy."

"Let's just find out, shall we?" he said, grabbing his coat.
"Let's go check out the rehab center where our victims were being
treated."

Well, friends and neighbors, to my surprise -- but not to
Mulder's -- we found out that the victims had the same physical
therapist. The therapist had also lived and worked in the same
cities where Mulder's VICAP cases had taken place.

We found our suspect -- a burly, beefy man named Adam Longecker -
- at a Miami hospital that afternoon, and took him to Miami-Dade
for questioning. 

I read Longecker his Miranda rights, and he declined to have an
attorney present, which I will never in my life understand. I
can't tell you how many times I've seen that happen, and it
almost always comes back to haunt these people when they're
finally put on trial. They always think they're smart enough to
talk their way out of this, and they almost never are.

And if defense attorneys knew my partner as well as I do, they'd
insist on adding another paragraph to the standard Miranda
warning: If you're about to be questioned by Special Agent Fox
Mulder, then for God's sake shut up and get an attorney, because
if you don't, you are going _down_, pal.

I've seen it happen, over and over. And it happened again this
time.

Longecker signed the Miranda waiver,. I got him a glass of water
and then I sat down, and Mulder took over. At first, it was just
the standard stuff; where were you on such-and- such a date, do
you know this person, have you ever seen this shirt before, etc.,
etc. 

But then Mulder seemed to veer off on a complete tangent. He
started asking Longecker about college, about his clinical
training, and then about his emotional reactions when his
patients complained about how difficult and painful PT was.

Well, it wasn't a tangent, after all. As he was recalling all
those details for Mulder, Longecker lost his temper and began
shouting about "whiny babies" and "useless hulks of flesh."

In short order, Mulder had him confessing that he'd committed not
only the murders we were investigating, but several others where
the bodies hadn't even been found. It was a real confession, too,
not a copycat; Longecker knew too many details that hadn't been
made public.

Turned out, Longecker had been absolutely fascinated with dead
bodies, and in the most gruesome sense, which I shall not here
describe. He developed that appetite after killing one of his
"whinier" patients.

And Mulder zeroed right in on Longecker's motive. He took in all
the facts, applied his incredibly deep understanding of serial
murder and figured out exactly what questions he needed to ask to
get under Longecker's evil hide and make him confess.

In other words, no matter how many years he's spent chasing
aliens, exorcising ghosts and battling global conspiracies, Fox
William Mulder is still the best criminal personality profiler
alive, and I am a fool not to remember that.

After we got done with Longecker and turned him over to the local
authorities, we went back to the hotel, where Daniel was sunning
himself by the pool. I made him come inside the room, because I
knew what was going to happen when Mulder told him that it was
his observation that had led us to the UNSUB.

I was right. Daniel, usually so shy and reticent, was so excited
that he threw his arms around Mulder and kissed him really hard,
right there in front of me. 

Mulder was just beaming, he was so proud of Daniel, and Daniel,
for his part, seemed absolutely overwhelmed by how quickly Mulder
had taken that one clue and broken the case wide open. 

When I told Daniel how perfectly Mulder had handled the
interrogation, I thought he might just burst with pride, and
Mulder was smiling in a way I'd seldom seen him smile before,
almost bashfully. 

They were both so happy, and so pleased with each other. 

I started to leave discreetly, but they wouldn't hear of it.

"We're going out," Daniel announced. "We've got some celebrating
to do. And I know just the place."

~*~*~*~*~*~

You guessed it. Daniel's place was a dance club populated almost
entirely by gay men and a few lesbians. I spent the first part of
the evening sipping a Singapore Sling at the bar and politely
refusing come-ons from the ladies, while Mulder and Daniel sat in
a dark corner drinking beer, necking like teenagers and laughing
like idiots.

They didn't ignore me; they never do, even when I know perfectly
well that I'm in their way. It's just that this was their time,
their place, their all-too-rare chance to let go and be
themselves, and I was again the outsider. It reminded me -- as if
I needed reminding -- that no matter how much they love me or
enjoy my company, they are the couple and I am the friend.

I danced with each of them once, though, and they danced with
each other a few times; a very few, thank goodness. I love them,
but I have to tell you, Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly they're not. 

They were so happy together. 

And I was so alone.

Maybe that was why he noticed me.

I was seated at the bar, sipping at my second disgustingly sweet
drink -- that's a trick of mine to keep from drinking too fast --
when he came and sat down beside me. 

He was tall and dark-haired, and he was incredibly good-looking,
but then so were a lot of the men in that place, and I wasn't
paying any more attention to him than I did to the others. There
didn't seem to be much future in it.

"You alone?" he said, smiling at me.

"Not really," I said, nodding toward Mulder and Daniel. "I'm here
with friends."

"Ah," he said, knowingly. "That's pretty much the same thing as
being alone in a place like this, isn't it?"

I shrugged. "That depends on how you look at it."

"I look at it that you appear to be straight," he said, mildly
enough. "Which, from what I can tell, makes two of us."

I really looked at him then for the first time. A straight man in
this place? What was he doing here?

My expression must have showed what I was thinking, because he
laughed. "Same thing you're doing here," he said, jerking his
head toward a woman in a blue satin dress who was dancing with
another woman in black jeans and a leather jacket. "That's my
sister."

"Oh," I said, and I felt my face flush for some reason I couldn't
explain. Then I smiled at him. 

"I'm Dana Scully," I said, holding out my hand.

"Josh Larrimore," he said, taking my hand in his own.

And then he smiled at me again. A crooked smile, a half smile, a
smile that showed off his beautiful, beautiful hazel eyes ...

"May I have this dance, Miss Scully?" he said, and I felt my
heart begin to melt.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Josh turned out to be a pretty good dancer, and while I don't
dance much, myself, he was a strong partner and easy to follow.
We danced until we were both exhausted. When we sat down to rest
for a while, I got another drink -- my third, which is over my
limit, but I reasoned that I had tomorrow off and I certainly
wasn't driving home.

Josh told jokes, told me about himself -- he was an ex-cop turned
martial arts instructor, which I found kind of interesting. I
told him what I do, which I don't usually at a first meeting. I
figured, though, that since he'd been on the job, he wouldn't be
put off by it. 

He wasn't, either, although he did refer to me, maybe a little
derisively, as a feebie. 

I don't usually put up with that kind of remark, but this time, I
just laughed.

Mulder and Daniel saw us, I know. I saw Daniel nudge Mulder, and
after that they were both watching, sometimes covertly, sometimes
blatantly, almost staring. Really, now: Did they think I was
trying to hook up with one of the gay guys?

"I think your boyfriends are jealous," Josh said, laughing.
"Don't they let you go out with straight guys?"

"It's not up to them who I go out with," I said, feeling a little
annoyed for some reason. Not at Josh -- at the guys. 

"I don't think they know that," Josh said, as he continued to
watch them watching me. He was right. Mulder and Daniel were
acting, for all the world, as though someone was poaching on
their private domain.

Josh might have found it funny, but I found it extremely
irritating. Every time he'd make another joke about their
possessive behavior, I'd get more and more annoyed; after an hour
or so of it, I was ready to go tell them both off.

Or just forget about them and go off on my own.

That was when I realized what was happening: for the first time,
I found myself wanting more than anything in the world to come
out of my own little closet.

In retrospect, I can see that I was very tired that night: tired
of blood and mutilations and death, tired from traveling, tired
from the multiple autopsies and the paperwork that went with them
and tired of the constant vigilance that my work demands. 

But more than that, I was tired of being left out, tired of being
loved and kissed and held but never wanted, tired of the
hopelessness of being so much in love with two gay men who might
care deeply for me but who could never be more to me than dear
friends.

None of that was their fault. As I've said, they both did all
they could to make me a part of their lives and to give me of
themselves whatever they could, but it just wasn't enough. 

For almost two years I had dealt with it in my own strange
fashion. At night, I had picked up strangers in bars, screwed
them and sent them on their way; in the daylight, I played the
Virgin Dana and pretended it had never happened. 

Always, I behaved around Daniel and Mulder as though sex was the
furthest thing from my mind.

Well, it wasn't.

And somehow, in that moment, under the influence of the night,
the music and the sloe gin, I decided that was all Mulder and
Daniel's fault. So I decided I would show them a thing or two. If
Mulder and Daniel were going to watch me, they were going to see
me in full sexual bloom. 

I wanted to act, for once, like a woman who just might get laid
by the man she was with.

So I flirted, I laughed out loud, I tossed my hair, I touched
Josh's arm, I made silly, girlish, flattering remarks and I moved
as seductively as I knew how when we were dancing, especially on
the slow dances. I was perspiring, breathing heavily, feeling
drunk on the liquor and on the even more intoxicating pleasure of
being openly, unabashedly sexual.

It was a giddy, almost mindless feeling.

When Mulder and Daniel got up to leave around midnight, I told
them I was staying. 

Mulder frowned at that.

"You really shouldn't let him drive you home," he said, taking me
aside for a moment. "I think maybe he's had more to drink than
is good for him, too."

"You know something, Mulder?" I said, slurring my words just a
little. "It's none of your business who I go out with. I already
know him better than I've known any of the other men I've fucked
in the past two years, and I know him one hell of a lot better
than you used to know those boys you picked up at the bars."

Well, that was low. I wasn't too drunk to realize that. Under
any other circumstances, I would have apologized and tried to
make it up to him, but tonight, I didn't care. But he was still
Mulder, and he still loved me, and he was going to give it one
more try.

"You're right, Scully," he said, more quietly. "Your sex life is
none of my business. But, he just… I don't know… a straight guy
in a gay bar. Just seems kind of odd."

"Mulder, I am every bit as qualified to evaluate a person's
character as you are, even if you are the big-shot profiler," I
said, carelessly. "You and Daniel just run along, and I'll see
you at the airport in the morning, okay?"

He started to say something else, but I wouldn't let him. I was
drunk, and I was tired of his eternal of suspicion of any man who
might come into my life. The fact that Josh had noticed was proof
positive that I wasn't imagining it.

"Just go, Mulder," I said, coldly. "Just go do whatever you're
going to do with Daniel, and I'll go do what I'm going to do with
Josh. I'll see you in the morning, all right?"

With that, I turned my back on him and walked back over to Josh.
Slowly, deliberately, so I was sure Mulder could see, I put my
arms around Josh's neck, pressed my body against him, slithered
into his lap and kissed him.

The kiss went on for a while, and I felt Josh's hands moving all
over me, lifting my sweater and sliding under it, and I was
getting so hot it's a wonder I didn't melt down. 

That kiss was public seduction, outright heterosexual foreplay
for the entertainment of anyone who wanted to watch, and I felt a
perverse pleasure in being so blatantly straight, so obviously my
own woman and not just Mulder's fag hag.

This is the real me, Mulder, I remember thinking; this is what I
look like when I'm getting ready to do it, when I'm being touched
by a man who wants me, who is hungry for me. What do you think of
that? 

I never found out. When I finally came up for air, Mulder was
gone.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Josh must have ditched his sister, too, because we left right
after that. We went to his apartment and I could scarcely get
under him fast enough.

God, he was good. It seemed to be a point of pride with him to
make me climax over and over, and he had incredible staying
power. I mean, it lasted so long that I finally had to beg him to
stop, which -- strangely enough -- seemed to please him.

I, for my part, was absolutely exhausted and more than a little
drunk. I fell asleep in Josh's bed. I slept so late I almost
missed my flight back to Washington the next morning. I couldn't
figure out how it had happened. It wasn't like Mulder to avoid me
like this. Certainly, I had pissed him off last night, but I was
surprised he hadn't called me to confirm our checkout. But when I
picked up my cell phone to call him, I noticed that it was off.

"Josh, did you turn off my phone?" I said, sticking my head into
the bathroom, where he was showering.

"Yeah," he called. "I didn't want us to be interrupted."

"Well, I didn't either," I said, blushing just a little. "But now
I've got to hurry or I'll miss my plane. 

"Oh, hell, I'm sorry," he said, stepping out of the shower. Damn,
he had a beautiful body. He reached for a towel and began drying
himself off. 

"I should have thought of that," he said, bending over to dry his
legs. I was watching him the whole time, like a cat contemplating
a particularly tasty mouse.

"It's all right," I said, moving toward him. I wrapped my arms
around him and wiggled around against him until I felt him
growing hard. "You know," I said, "I can always catch a later
flight." 

"You got something in mind to pass the time until then?" he
murmured, dropping the towel.

"Maybe," I said, and then he swept me into his kiss.

~*~*~*~*~*~

After Josh and I made love again, I called Mulder on his cell
phone and informed him, rather curtly, that I wouldn't be flying
back with him and that I would see him Monday. He didn't say
much; I don't suppose there was much he could say.

Josh drove me to the hotel to get my things and then to Miami
International that afternoon, and I caught a flight to Dulles. I
had to take a cab back to my apartment -- that was different,
since I usually rode to the airport with Mulder, but he, of
course, was already gone.

When I got home, the message light on my machine was blinking.
Mulder. It had to be. With a sigh, I pressed the button.

BEEEP.

"Scully, it's me," came Mulder's voice. "Give me a call when you
get in, okay?"

BEEEP.

"Hey, beautiful," came that sultry voice from last night. "You've
only been gone a few minutes and I miss you already. Please call
when you get home and let me know you're okay. I ... I just want
to know you're all right."

Oh, wow. This was beginning to sound serious. I picked up the
phone and dialed the number Josh had given me before I left.

"Hello?" he answered.

"Hi, Josh, it's Dana," I said. "I'm home. I'm fine."

"Shouldn't you have been home before this?" he said. "What took
you so long?"

"I had to change planes in Atlanta," I said. "You know how that
goes. Delays and more delays."

"I guess," he said. Then he paused. "I feel a little silly saying
this, Dana," he said, slowly, "but I think I'm falling for you.
Do you think that's possible, after such a short acquaintance?"

Oh, my God, my God, my God. This couldn't be happening to me.

"I don't know, Josh," I said. "I suppose almost anything is
possible."

"Almost?" he said, his voice going low and husky.

"Almost," I said, nodding although I knew he couldn't see. I
wasn't drunk now, and the practical side of me insisted on
asserting itself. 

"Josh, I think you're wonderful, and last night was great --more
than great," I said. "But you're in Miami and I'm here, so it's
hard to imagine that this will ever go anywhere."

He laughed at that. "Oh, Dana," he said, still laughing. "If I've
learned one thing from the Eastern masters, it's that where
there's a strong enough will, things can be made to happen. And I
have a very strong will." 

"Well," I said, pleased at his evident longing for me, "we'll
just wait and see how it goes. But I have to go now. I have to
call Mulder and let him know I got home okay."

"Is he your supervisor?" Josh asked.

"No," I said. "He's the senior agent, but he's really just my
partner. It's just that he called wanting to know where I am and
I don't want him to worry."

"Well, call him later," Josh said. "Right now, I want to talk to
you. I want to talk about a lot of things ... such as what I'm
going to do to you when I see you again."

Oh, my God. I knew that sound in his voice. That was my old,
nearly forgotten friend Desire. It had been a long time since I
had heard that in a man's voice; real desire, I mean, not just
lust.

I needed it. I had to have more.

Before we got off the phone, nearly an hour later, I had invited
Josh up to spend next weekend with me at my apartment.

Only when I undressed for bed did it occur to me that I had never
called Mulder back.

And he hadn't called me back, either. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Going to work Monday morning was just a little awkward, to say
the least. 

"I thought you might be still in Miami, Scully," Mulder said as I
came through the door. "Good to know you made it home OK."
Sarcasm didn't really suit Mulder, but I suppose he didn't really
know what to say to me.

"Mulder, I'm a big girl now; I can take care of myself," I said,
calmly. "You don't need to check up on me."

He didn't answer me. 

For the rest of the morning, our conversations were confined
entirely to business, and as little of that as possible.

I think Skinner knew something was wrong when we went to his
office to make our report, but being Skinner, he didn't say
anything, just congratulated us on a job well done and told us to
get back to work.

When lunchtime came, I rather pointedly didn't ask Mulder to
accompany me, and he didn't offer, either.

The afternoon might have passed in utter silence if the phone
hadn't rung. It was Josh, calling to talk to me.

I felt a nasty little thrill of triumph as I talked to Josh in
Mulder's presence. I flirted and giggled again, twirling the
phone cord around my finger like a silly teen-ager. I talked for
so long that Mulder actually began looking at his watch, and then
looking back at me meaningfully.

I ignored him for a while, but then my more serious self took
over and I regretfully told Josh I had to go. He promised to call
me that night.

Which, of course, he did. Twice.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next day, I got a call from a former colleague at Quantico
asking for my help with a complicated autopsy. I told Mulder I
was going, and he barely looked up as he nodded his acceptance.

When I got back to the office that afternoon, there was a pile of
pink phone-message slips on the edge of Mulder's desk.

"Your boyfriend called," Mulder said in answer to my questioning
look. "I told him you were out doing an autopsy. That seemed to
annoy him."

"Jealous, Mulder?" I said, more than a little flippantly.

"You ought to know me better than that," he said, and for just a
second, I felt ashamed. I did know him better than that; or, at
any rate, I used to think I knew him better than that. 

But the New, Sexy, Heterosexual Dana Scully was still in charge,
so I ignored his hurt look as I began flipping through the stack
of messages.

"How many times did he call?" I said, as I saw that the messages
were all from Josh.

"About six, I'd say," Mulder said. He paused for a minute, and I
could see him considering whether to say anything more. 

Finally, he spoke again.

"Scully, I told you your private life is none of my business, and
it's not," he said, and I could see the concern in his eyes. "But
when I told this guy you weren't in, he started calling every
thirty minutes, asking me why you weren't back yet. It seemed to
make him a little angry when I couldn't tell him."

"You're right, Mulder," I said, picking up the phone. "It's none
of your business."

~*~*~*~*~*~

I thought the weekend would never come. I got to the airport
almost an hour early on Friday evening, I was so eager to see
Josh again. When I saw him coming down the ramp toward me, I
forgot all my usual reserve and ran straight into his arms.

We spent almost the whole weekend in bed. I was exhausted and
sore by the time I took him back to the airport Sunday evening,
but he was so attentive, so thoughtful -- when I got back home,
there were flowers waiting for me on the doorstep.

The card with them bore only three little words.

Yep. Those words.

I hugged the vase to my bosom and cried. I hadn't even realized
how badly I had wanted to feel this way again.

I was in heaven.

And I was pretty sure I was falling in love.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next week at work was a drag, no pun intended. Mulder and I
were talking again, but the smooth work rhythm we'd developed had
become unfamiliar and uneven, keeping us both off balance and on
guard. I felt awkward around him, and I'm sure he felt the same
about me.

Our partnership and our friendship, I was sure, were still
intact, and always would be, but it was no longer the seamless
entity it had been.

We were going through ... an adjustment. A temporary setback.

That was all.

But we weren't talking; not really, not the way we should have
been. We were talking as co-workers, but we were most definitely
not talking as friends.

The only thing that kept me from feeling entirely alone at work
was the phone calls from Josh. He called me at least three times
a day, just to say he loved me and couldn't wait to see me again.


He was so eager to talk to me that if I wasn't in when he called,
he would call again and again until he got me.

I have to admit it -- the mean-spirited side of me was enjoying
Mulder's jealousy almost as much as the nice side of me was
enjoying Josh's attention.

I wasn't going to invite Josh to D.C. again, figuring he couldn't
afford the airfare, but he actually asked me if he could come,
and of course I said yes.

That Friday, after we'd made love, Josh asked me about my
relationship with Mulder. 

"We're friends, Josh," I told him. "Good friends, and partners.
Mulder has a lover; a male lover. There's nothing there for you
to be concerned about."

He laughed; he seemed a little embarrassed, to be honest. 

"I guess it's silly, being jealous of a gay man," he said,
twirling a lock of my hair in his fingers. "I just can't help it
-- he gets to be with you, and I don't. And it sounds like he
does take up a lot of your time."

"Not as much as he used to before he met Daniel," I said. "But we
do have to travel a lot -- we're federal agents, after all, and
the entire United States is in our jurisdiction. The kind of
cases we handle tend to be rather widely scattered."

"Are they dangerous cases?" Josh asked, suddenly looking worried.
I was touched by his concern for me, even though I knew it was
misplaced.

"No more dangerous than any other kind of police work," I told
him, leaning over to kiss him softly. "You know how it goes --
it's just a job, most of the time, but it's punctuated with
moments of sheer terror."

"I can't stand to think of you being in danger, Dana," Josh said,
holding me closer. "I job means a lot to you, but it worries me.
Don't you ever want to go back to medicine?"

"No," I said, firmly. "And don't worry about my job. I know how
to take care of myself, Josh. Mulder looks after me, too. He's
never been anything less than perfect backup, and he's a crack
shot, too. Please don't worry about me."

"I'll try," he said, and rolled me over onto my back again.

~*~*~*~*~*~

We went on like that for about four weeks, talking on the phone
all day, being together on the weekends. The fourth week, Josh
admitted, while talking to me on the phone, that the plane
tickets and phone calls were getting a little expensive.

I was a little upset. I thought he meant we would have to break
up, or see each other less often, although frankly, there were
times that seemed like the best course to take. I just didn't
have much time to think lately, it seemed -- but there were
times, late at night, that I began to feel just a little
smothered and wondered if it wasn't time to bail.

Josh, however, wasn't thinking along those lines at all. He had
decided that he was going to move to D.C. to be with me.

"It shouldn't take me long to find a job," he said, confidently.
"There's always a demand for martial arts instructors, and I can
always go back into police work or private detective work if I
have to."

"Josh, are you sure?" I asked him. "We haven't really known each
other that long, and it's a pretty big move, changing cities like
that."

"Positive," he said. "I don't want to be without you, Dana. I've
never known anyone quite like you; I fell in love with you almost
right away." 

That should have pleased me, but it actually made me a little
uneasy. This had started out as a fling, and now -- with very
little input on my part -- Josh was elevating it to a full-
fledged exclusive relationship.

Josh must have sensed my discomfort; his voice grew softer. 

"Of course, if you don't want me there," he said, "I'll
understand. I guess I'm not the greatest prize on earth."

"Of course I want you here," I said, quickly. "But I hate to ask
you to give up your job and all your friends for me."

"Hey, if I have you, what do I need with anybody else?" he said.
"And anyway, you're not asking --I'm offering. I've got enough
money saved up to stay in a hotel for at least a couple of weeks
while I job-hunt."

"You don't need money," I said. "You can stay with me until you
get a job and a place of your own."

"Did I ever tell you that you're wonderful?" Josh asked, softly.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When Josh arrived on Friday, I was in ecstasy. We spent the
weekend in bed, as usual; Josh insisted on turning off the
telephones, saying he wanted the maximum alone-time with me
before he started looking for work.

On Monday, he asked if he could take me to work and borrow my car
so he could go put in applications, and of course I said yes. He
could hardly go job-hunting without transportation, and he'd sold
his car in Miami and flown up here.

He called me twice that morning to report progress, and at noon
we met for lunch outside the Hoover building. I offered to take
him on the grand tour, let him and Mulder get to know each other
a little better, but he declined.

"I shouldn't be this way, since my own sister is gay," he
admitted, "but there's something about gay men that I just can't
really deal with well. No offense to your partner, Dana. It's
just me."

"You'll feel different when you get to know Mulder," I told him.
"He's really a good agent, brilliant, even. He used to be a
behavioral profiler."

"Psycho squad, huh?" Josh said, and there was no mistaking his
contempt. I'd forgotten there were still cops out there who
looked on profiling as -- well, spooky.

"It's Behavioral Sciences," I said, trying to be tactful. "They
really don't like to be called the psycho squad."

"Well, then, they ought to stay away from psychos," Josh said,
and laughed. He cuffed me on the upper arm, a little too hard
actually, and I winced. 

"Oh, sorry," he said, and rubbed the sore spot gently. "You're
such a tough little feebie that I forget sometimes you're just my
little girl underneath it all."

"I'm not a little girl, Josh," I said, a little nettled now. "I'm
a grown woman, and I don't like to be hit like that."

"I said I was sorry, Dana," he said, and I could hear the
contrition in his voice. He was genuinely apologizing, and I felt
bad about snapping at him that way.

"It's all right," I said, and I snuggled under his arm. "I know
you didn't mean it."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Six weeks went by, and the distance between Mulder and me was
growing by the day. Our conversations now were almost entirely
work-related; personal matters had become, by tacit agreement,
verboten.

Well, not entirely; sometimes I'd ask him how Daniel was doing,
and he would say fine, that Daniel had asked about me, too, and
that he missed me.

I missed him, too. And even more, I missed Mulder, if you know
what I mean. Our social times together had grown fewer since
Daniel came into his life, but we'd always managed to eat lunch
together several days a week, and to have dinner at least once a
week; usually with Daniel, although sometimes, it was just the
two of us. And of course, when we were in the field, we spent a
lot of time together. 

But we hadn't been in the field lately, for reasons I couldn't
comprehend.

I had little time to wonder about it, though. I was either with
Josh, or I was talking to Josh on the phone. He called often,
three or four times a day, but I tried to keep the calls short 

I didn't even get to see my mom as much as I had formerly. She
would call now and then, but unless she called my cell phone
while I was at work, it was difficult to get to talk to her; Josh
was forever forgetting to turn the telephone ringer back on, on
my cell phone and on the landline at home. Even when the ringer
was on, he couldn't remember to give me a telephone message to
save his life.

Mom was always understanding about it, and would always ask me to
give Josh her best, which made me feel even guiltier.

I told her a lot about Josh -- about how particular he was about
some things, how definite his ideas were -- and she laughed, and
said he sounded a lot like my father.

I suppose I thought so too. In a way, it was comforting to have a
man around who took charge so completely, the way my father
always did, but there were differences ... differences I couldn't
quite put my finger on.

But Josh was good to me, in every way he knew how, so it was easy
to ignore these little thrills of fear and concentrate on what
was good about us.

Mom invited us to dinner a couple of times, but Josh always
begged off, saying he was too tired to drive all the way to
Baltimore, and too stressed from job-hunting for an evening with
"a bunch of strangers" to hold much appeal for him.

So we didn't go. 

After a while, Mom stopped asking.

As much as I loved Josh, I was beginning to feel that I was
neglecting Mom, and I hated the chill that had come over my
partnership with Mulder.

I _really_ hated never seeing Daniel at all. 

After three or four weeks of not seeing Daniel, I had asked
Mulder if Daniel could join us for lunch sometime soon. 

Mulder told me, very gently, that Daniel really couldn't come by
the office anymore. It was just too risky, he said.

That made me sad, although I had to admit that it was only
sensible. Everyone in the Bureau now knew I was dating Josh,
which meant someone might figure out who Daniel had really been
dropping by to see for the past two years. That could have put
both Mulder's job and Daniel's Navy career in serious jeopardy.

Mulder, to give him credit, was trying to heal the gap between
us. Like Mom, he invited me -- and, of course, Josh -- to come
over for dinner some night, but I wasn't able to accept, much as
I wanted to. Josh was still uncomfortable around them, which even
he admitted was unfair, but he said he just couldn't handle
spending the evening with two gay men.

So our evenings were reserved just for the two of us, and since
Josh had given up so much to be with me, I didn't really feel I
could complain about it. 

I mean, I didn't really mind, I suppose. Every couple tends to go
through that phase of counting the world well lost for love. I
just got over it quicker than he did.

This relationship did call for some major adaptations on my part,
however. For one thing, I had to learn to get by without
transportation. Josh almost always had my car while he job-
hunted. He took me to work every morning, and every evening at 5
p.m. sharp, he was outside the Hoover building, ready to take me
home.

I used to work late practically every evening. Now I couldn't,
because Josh was waiting, and it wasn't fair to make him sit in
the car for hours waiting for me. 

Mulder didn't say much, but he always looked at his watch when I
got up to leave.

I tried not to think about what that meant, just as I tried not
to think about how much I missed the conversations Mulder and I
used to have when we were working late, when the building grew
quiet and fatigue let us open up to each other. Our little
basement office was dark, and private, and sometimes we would
talk for hours, on into the night.

Those were some of my favorite times, when it was just he and I,
alone together in the only place in the world that could fairly
be said to be ours and ours alone. 

When it was time to go home, Mulder would always take my hand,
kiss me and tell me he loved me. 

Now, I couldn't remember the last time Mulder had held my hand or
kissed me. I couldn't even remember the last time we had really
talked, at work or anywhere else. 

Of course, these days, work was the only place I ever saw Mulder.
And he was clearly unhappy about the changed situation; he didn't
have to say anything for me to know that. But as Josh reminded me
one morning as we sat in my kitchen eating breakfast, if Mulder
couldn't adapt to my having a lover, he wasn't being much of a
friend to me. 

I had learned to live with Daniel's presence in Mulder's life, he
pointed out; too bad Mulder couldn't seem to do the same for me.

"Strange that he could be so jealous, when he doesn't really want
you for himself," Josh said.

"That's not really fair, Josh," I said. "Mulder's never tried to
mislead me into thinking he was anything other than what he is.
It's just that we've been partners for more than four years now,
and he's come to rely on me a lot."

"Well, I rely on you, too," Josh said, rising and standing behind
me, stroking my arms. "And I like to think I have more right to.
Don't I?"

"Of course you do," I said, putting my hand over his, although
privately I wondered whether he really did. But then, he was my
"significant other," wasn't he? Of course his rights were
greater than Mulder's, just as Daniel's were greater than mine.

But just because I acknowledged Josh's point didn't mean I wanted
Mulder hurt, though.

"Josh," I said, "try to go easy on Mulder, please? He still
hasn't had much chance to get used to this."

"I'll try," Josh said. He walked over to the counter and poured
another cup of coffee and took a slug. He made a face. 

"The coffee's cold again, Dana," he said, tossing the liquid into
the sink. "Make another pot."

Then he went into the living room to peruse the classified ads in
the Washington Post, leaving me to clean up the kitchen.

~*~*~*~*~*~

That breakfast was pleasant enough, but pleasant moments were a
little rarer than I'd hoped they'd be. While Josh was as
attentive to me as ever, he wasn't making any progress in finding
a job, and it was making him just a bit short-tempered at times. 

Just a few nights earlier, when I'd mentioned to him an opening
for a martial-arts instructor at Quantico, he'd lost his temper
completely and yelled at me that he didn't need me to find work
for him.

I tried to reassure him, tell him that it was just a matter of
time until he was working again. I told him that I had more than
enough income for us to get by until he got a job, but I only
succeeded in making him angrier. 

"Let me tell you something, Dana," he said, gripping my upper
arms so hard that it hurt. "If I ever decide that I can't find a
job for myself without your help, I'll just go back to Miami and
get my old job back. I can do this, whether you think I can or
not."

Then he gave me one final shove and left. A few minutes later, I
heard the front door slam.

He came home six hours later, roaring drunk. I was already
asleep, but he woke me up anyway and insisted on making love. 

It wasn't exactly what I had in mind -- it was nearly 3 a.m., he
was reeking of beer, and I had to work the next day -- but he was
all over me, touching, kissing, murmuring, "please, baby,
please," I finally decided it would be easier just to go ahead
and do it, because he seemed to need that to heal the breach
between us.

When I got up the next morning, there were bruises all over my
arms where his fingertips had dug into me. The days were getting
warmer, but I decided I'd better wear long sleeves anyway; I
didn't want anyone thinking Josh had hurt me on purpose. 

Just after noon Josh met me for lunch. We walked down 10th
Street, crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and just before we reached
the mall, we bought hot dogs from a vendor. When I tried to pay
for our lunch, I realized that Josh had taken all the cash out of
my wallet to buy his drinks -- and, apparently, drinks for
several other guys he'd met at the bar.

"Won't he cuff you?" Josh said, indicating the hot-dog vendor.
That's cop slang; we call it roast-beefing in the FBI. Either way
it means the same thing: getting a free meal by showing your
badge. It's unethical, and I don't do it.

"Josh, you know I can't do that," I whispered as I continued to
dig through my purse, trying to come up with enough money. 

No use. I asked the vendor to take a check, and he looked at me
as though I'd suddenly developed a third eye or something.

"Cash," he said, looking at me contemptuously.

Finally, at Josh's suggestion, I flashed my FBI credentials and
persuaded the hot-dog vendor to let me give him a check. 

My face was burning with shame as I walked away. I'd never done
anything like that; it's against regulations, and I would have
been in a world of trouble if I had been caught.

"I'm sorry, Dana," Josh said. "I was just out of cash and didn't
want to risk going to the ATM that late at night. I'll pay you
back, I promise."

"Josh, I don't mind if you borrow money from me when you're short
of cash," I said, as we walked toward a park bench. "I just wish
you'd asked me first."

"I thought we were closer than that," he said, giving me that
tentative sort of half smile that made me fall for him in the
first place. 

It made me feel ashamed of myself. 

"I'm really sorry," he said, and I could tell that he meant it.

"No, I'm sorry," I said, and I kissed him, even though we were in
public. "It's not that I don't feel close to you; it's just that
I can be called out of town on a moment's notice, and I might not
realize until I was trying to book a room in some one-horse town
where they never heard of American Express that I didn't have any
cash. You just need to tell me."

He frowned at that. "You haven't been out of town lately," he
said. "I was sort of hoping you wouldn't have to do that
anymore."

"We haven't been in the field much lately, that's true, but it's
a constant possibility," I said. "You know that. We both have to
be ready for it."

"I wish I didn't," he said, with that sad little smile again. "I
hate being without you, Dana. I already miss you so much just
when you're gone to your regular work day. I don't know what I'm
going to do if you have to leave me for longer than that."

That made me feel so good, knowing how much he needed me, but on
the other hand, it worried me. Inevitably, I would have to leave
town on a case, and I wasn't sure how Josh might fare, given his
current, somewhat fragile condition.

I would just have to cross that bridge when I got to it. 

It turned out to be a bridge too far, if you'll pardon the
expression.

~*~*~*~*~*~

About three weeks after Josh and I had talked about my traveling,
Skinner called Mulder and me into his office and told us he'd
approved our 302. We would leave in the morning.

I was a little puzzled; I didn't know anything about a 302, but
of course that was because Mulder had submitted it. He wanted to
launch an X Files investigation into the mysterious disappearance
of five Satan-worshipping teen-aged girls from a shopping mall in
Denver, Colorado.

Denver. My heart sank. What with travel time, it would take at
least three days, even if we solved the case the day we arrived,
and I was pretty sure that wasn't going to happen.

Josh wasn't going to like this.

But Mulder looked so happy as we walked down the stairs to the X
Files office that I couldn't help but think that this might be a
good chance to mend some fences and restore some of the old trust
and camaraderie we used to share.

Josh called later that morning. When I told him I was going to
have to go to Denver for three or four days, he begged to be
allowed to come along.

"I'll miss you so much, Dana," he said. "I've almost forgotten
how to get along without you. Anyway, I could stand a break from
job-hunting."

He sounded so tired and unhappy that I agreed to book a third
plane ticket and put it on my personal credit card. He probably
did need a vacation, after all; I'm sure job-hunting is a very
tiring and stressful process, although I've never done it,
actually. The FBI recruited me right out of medical school, and
I've been there ever since.

Mulder was sitting at his desk with his feet up, listening to the
whole exchange, and if I didn't know better, I'd have sworn his
face fell when I agreed to Josh's request. He didn't say
anything, though, until I'd hung up the phone.

"Scully, I doubt there's going to be much time for you and Josh
to spend together," he said, mildly. "With any luck, we'll wind
up this case in a day or two, and you'll have spent a lot of
money just to be crammed into an airline seat next to him."

"It's better than nothing," I said, trying to smile, but in
reality, the whole thing was making me uncomfortable.

Now that I was off the phone, I realized that there really wasn't
any reason for Josh to go along. The skiing season was over, and
while Denver is a beautiful city, he wasn't much of a sight-seer.
He'd never taken any of my suggestions for visiting the sights in
the District, anyway.

I knew, deep down, that if he came with us he'd wind up sitting
in a hotel room, or worse, in the bar; his deepening depression
was leading him to drink more and more lately. 

But of course, that would get better once he found a job.

"I don't know that it is better than nothing," Mulder said,
breaking in on my thoughts.

"That's not your decision," I said, feeling irritated. This
sounded like it was going to be more of his jealousy, and I'd
already decided, after talking it over with Josh, that I would
just have to make it clear to Mulder that I wasn't going to
tolerate it.

I took a deep breath and started.

"Mulder, it's time you realized that I don't belong exclusively
to you anymore," I said, in my firmest tone. "If I choose to
bring Josh along and pay his expenses, and he's not in the way of
the investigation, then I can't see what business it is of
yours."

"So you agree that if he does get in the way, it becomes my
business?" Mulder said, and I couldn't miss the challenge in his
voice.

"That's a big if," I said, coldly. "Josh was a police officer; he
knows better than to get in the way of what could turn out to be
a multiple homicide investigation."

"Let's hope he does," Mulder said, and despite the edge in his
voice, I could see something in his eyes ... something darker,
more worrisome.

"Mulder, if you have something to say to me, I wish you'd say
it," I snapped at him.

"All right, I will," he said, putting his feet on the floor and
rising from the chair. He walked around and sat on the edge of
his desk, folding his arms across his chest.

"Say it then," I said, likewise folding my arms across my chest.
He looked at me for a minute, almost as though he were doing a
threat assessment, and that irritated me.

"Scully, I'm worried about you," he said, finally. "If I thought
Josh was making you happy, I'd keep my mouth shut no matter what
I thought of him personally, but you're not happy. Not one bit."

"And just exactly how do you reach that unwarranted conclusion,
Agent Mulder?" I said, angrily, putting my hands on my hips.
"Josh is good to me. He's very good to me. He's paid more
attention to me in the past three months than any other man's
paid to me in the past four years, because in case you hadn't
noticed, I was too busy being your beard to go out and find a man
of my own. But _you_ weren't too busy, were you? You managed to
find Daniel while I sat at home doing your paperwork and
protecting your secret."

Even I knew that was a low blow, but Mulder didn't respond as I'd
expected him to.

"Scully," he said, quietly, taking my hand, "I admit I've been a
selfish bastard where you're concerned. But your being alone for
so long isn't just a matter of free time, or of your -- very
generously -- covering for me and Daniel."

"Oh, really?" I said, jerking my hand away. "I would love to hear
what you think the problem is, if it's not that I have had no
free time whatsoever for four years."

"That's part of it," Mulder said, with a grimace that said he
acknowledged the truth of what I was saying. "I'm not saying it's
not. But it's not everything, Scully. It's not even the biggest
thing."

"And what, pray tell, is the biggest thing, Mulder?" I demanded.
"I can't wait to hear this one."

Mulder almost smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile at all; it was
the sad smile, the one I used to see all the time before Daniel
came along. 

"You and me," he said, very quietly. "All these complicated
feelings that we have for each other, feelings that neither of us
really knows what to do with." 

He looked up at me then. "I can't help thinking that what you've
done," he said, almost as though he didn't want to say it, "is
find a straight man who looks enough like me so that you can try
to transfer some of those feelings to him."

Oh, really now, this was too much. His jealousy and self-
centeredness had reached new levels of absurdity, and I had had
enough.

"You're certainly not short on ego, are you, Mulder?" I said, and
now I was positively dripping sarcasm. "Of course, I can see why
you might think that, because it's exactly what you've done
yourself. Or are you going to try to tell me that you haven't
ever noticed how much Daniel is like me? Even our names? Maybe
you're the one who went looking for a substitute for me."

Actually, that thought had never occurred to me until recently,
when Josh pointed it out, and I had to admit that it was true,
but I wasn't prepared for the effect I was having on Mulder by
saying it. I thought he'd be angry, but he wasn't. 

He was hurt -- very hurt.

Too bad. As Josh had pointed out, Mulder had brought it on
himself.

"Maybe you're right," Mulder said, after a pause, but he wasn't
looking at me. "Maybe I was attracted to Daniel at first because
he's so much like you. But he's like you inside, Scully, not in
the way he looks. He's smart, he's thoughtful, he's kind --all
the things I love about you, I love about him." 

That shook me, all right, as I'm sure he meant for it to; but I
couldn't back down yet. Josh had warned me that this would be
difficult, that Mulder would try to play on my guilt feelings. 

I felt terrible, but I tried to go on, finish this, so that
Mulder and I could get over it and go back to being friends.

"Mulder, this is a ridiculous conversation," I said, trying for a
tone of utter reason and failing completely. "And anyway, it's
none of your business."

"It is my business when it affects our work, right?" he asked,
and his voice was steady. He looked at me. "Well, it does. It
affects my ability to work with you when you stop talking to me,
when you can't even spare me a half-hour lunch to talk over our
cases or our plans."

He stopped for a moment and swallowed hard before he went on.
"And it sure as hell affects how I feel about going out in the
field," he said, "when I know that you don't even want to be
around me."

That astounded me. "Mulder, are you saying we haven't been doing
field investigations because you've been avoiding it?" I
demanded.

"Yes," he said. "I've turned down several cases, as a matter of
fact, because I know that not only do you not want to be away
from Josh, you also don't want to be alone with me. Shit, Scully,
you don't even trust me anymore. You wouldn't feel safe with me
at your back; not now, not like you used to."

Oh, that _really_ hurt. Not trust him? How could he ever dream
that I don't trust him? I trust him with my life. Doesn't he know
that?

But I couldn't tell him that. Once, I might have. But not now.

"It's not a matter of trust, Mulder," I said, but my voice wasn't
as steady as I would have liked. "It's a matter of not wanting
you to interfere in my private life."

"Normally, I wouldn't, Scully," he said, softly. "But I can't
turn my back on this any longer. First of all, you're not getting
your work done. You're not putting in the hours that it takes,
and you're spending way too much of the time that you _are_ here
talking on the telephone with Josh. Worst of all, you don't even
have the energy to do any serious work; you've never looked more
stressed out or unhappy in your life than you do right now."

That _really_ infuriated me. "I am _not_ unhappy and I have never
failed to put in a full week at work," I hissed at him. "You're
just looking for some excuse to interfere because you still want
to keep me all for yourself. You really are a selfish bastard,
Mulder."

"I'm not looking for an excuse," Mulder said, and it hurt to see
the pain in his eyes. "Actually, I've been looking for excuses to
go on keeping my mouth shut, but I've run out of them. You used
to be my partner _and_ my best friend, and now you're barely even
my partner. Even when you're here, you're not really here. And I
miss you, Scully. I miss you a lot. If that makes me a selfish
bastard, then I'm sorry." 

His voice broke on the last word.

And that, at last, opened my eyes, and I saw him, the real him,
not the jealous, insensitive creep I'd somehow created in my
mind. Whatever I might think about his motives, there could be no
question that the pain he was expressing -- the pain of losing me
-- was real.

Why was I standing there hurting him when he only wanted to help
me -- even if he was wrong in thinking that I needed help?

"Mulder, what are you suggesting that I do?" I said, whispering.
I felt shaky. 

"Leave Josh at home," he said, simply. "Let's go work this case
together, the way we used to. Let's fix what's gone wrong between
us and get back to being the most effective team in the entire
damn Bureau -- and back to being friends. I want you back,
Scully. So does Daniel. If Josh is part of that, well, then, he's
part of that."

I couldn't look at him; but I could feel him leaning toward me,
as though he wanted to move closer to me, or to touch me, but
didn't dare.

But I dared. I couldn't trust my voice, but I could close the
distance between us.

I took two steps forward and walked right into Mulder's open
arms, slipping my own arms under his suit coat the way I always
used to do and holding him tightly, feeling the strong muscles of
his back moving under his shirt as he held me close.

We stayed like that for a moment, moving together in a comforting
rhythm, then Mulder put his hand on my cheek, tipped my face up
to his and kissed me, twice, very gently.

Oh, God ... I didn't know how much I'd missed Mulder's kiss until
I felt it again.

Mulder's kisses are nothing like Josh's. Josh's kisses are hard,
passionate and almost brutal; they're designed to arouse me, to
make me lose control and give myself to him, and they demand my
response. 

Mulder's kisses are pure bliss, soft, sweet, and tender, and ask
for nothing in return except my love.

Which, of course, he already has -- and always will have.

I raised myself on tiptoe and kissed him again, just as softly as
before, but this time I let the kiss go on for a long time, until
I could feel myself relaxing against him, feel his steadfast love
flowing through every fiber of my being, and I felt safe again.

Then I laid my head on his shoulder, and let him hold me while I
cried.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When Josh picked me up that afternoon, I told him I was having
second thoughts.

"There really won't be anything for you to do in Denver," I said,
putting my hand on his arm so he would stay calm. "Mulder and I
put in long, long hours on field investigations, sometimes around
the clock, and you'd just be stuck waiting for me to get back."

Josh turned to look at me, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Let me get this straight," he said, slowly. "You think I should
sit here in Washington, D.C., cooling my heels for God knows how
long while you go off a thousand miles from here and spend 24/7
with some other guy?"

"Josh, it's my job," I said, helplessly. "You of all people
should understand that."

"Oh, I understand, all right," he said. "I gotta admit, Dana, you
had me fooled for a while. You almost had me believing your
partner didn't go that way."

"Josh, I don't know what you're talking about," I said, startled.
"There's nothing personal about any of this, and Mulder's sexual
orientation isn't the issue. I have a job to do and I'm going to
do it."

"And what about me?" he said, and he was getting really angry.
"Don't I have anything to say about this? Or is this just
something you and your boyfriend decided for me? I don't like
that, Dana. I don't like it one bit."

"Josh, be reasonable," I said. "Mulder and I are federal agents.
This is what we do. You knew that when you met me."

"When I met you, I didn't know what was going on between you
two," he said, and his tone was getting downright nasty now.

"There's nothing going on," I began, but he interrupted me.

"Don't give me that shit, Dana," he snapped. "I smelled his
cologne on you when you got in the car."

"He gave me a hug," I said, helplessly. "It doesn't mean
anything. Anyway, I hardly even notice it, he's done it so many
times before."

"He'd damn well better not do it again," Josh said, and he was
really furious now. "He has no business doing that. I don't know
what you're used to, but a real man doesn't put up with another
man pawing all over his woman that way."

"I am NOT your woman," I snapped back at him. I was getting
really angry now. "I am my own woman. And he wasn't pawing at me.
It was just a hug, Josh. A completely platonic, between-partners
hug. Nothing more." 

"I was a cop for 10 years and I never hugged my partner," Josh
said, and his voice was rising. His hands had tightened on the
steering wheel in a way that was making me very nervous, and he
was taking some serious chances in the heavy traffic.

I was frightened, and shocked. I hadn't seen this side of Josh
before, and for a minute, I wondered if he'd been drinking again;
if so, I needed to calm him down, fast, and get in the driver's
seat. We were in rush-hour traffic in Washington, D.C., and
that's dangerous, requiring full concentration from any driver.

"Josh, you probably never hugged your partner because your
partner wasn't a woman," I said, seeking a conciliatory tone.

"Oh, so now you're admitting that it was a sexual thing?" he
said, looking at me triumphantly.

"I'm not admitting anything," I said, bewildered. I couldn't keep
up with his logic, and I didn't quite know why. "I just said your
partner was probably not a woman, so you didn't hug him."

"Yeah, but your queer-boy partner supposedly doesn't care that
you're a girl, does he?" Josh said. "He's just one of the girls
himself, right? Go on, admit it, Dana; you're still hoping he'll
fuck you some day. That's what you really want, isn't it."

This was making me crazy; the argument was leaping from one topic
to another with lightning speed. Just as soon as I'd make my
point on one subject, we'd suddenly shift to another.

And what was that about "admitting" it? That seemed to imply that
we both knew the truth was something other than what I'd been
saying, which of course, wasn't the case at all. 

I was sure Josh knew it; he was just angry.

"Josh," I began, very carefully. "I think maybe we should just go
home, try to decompress a little before we finish this
discussion. I'm just making you angry right now, and we should
drop it for a while, okay?"

"Oh, no, lady," he said, shaking his head. "You're not going to
get away from it that easily. You may have been brought up to
pretend and cover up and make like everything's all right, but in
my family, we're honest about our feelings and we say what we
think. I'm not going to lie and say it's all right when it's
not."

"It's nothing to do with that," I said, and I was getting angrier
by the minute. "And there's no need to start bringing other
people into this. This is a discussion of whether it's a good
idea for you to go with me to Denver, and the further this
argument goes, the more I know I was right and that you should
stay home."

Suddenly the brakes were screeching, the tires were squealing and
the car was lurching as Josh pulled into the parking lot of a
convenience store ...

... and slapped me right in the face.

Hard.

Stars burst out in a red sky as my vision went blank, and I
tasted the bitter, coppery tang of blood in my mouth, while the
unheard noise of the blow reverberated through my skull,
deafening me. 

I was absolutely stunned by what was happening; too stunned to do
anything about it.

Anyway, what was I going to do? Pull my gun and shoot him?

"Josh, don't," I said, dazed, but my plea only seemed to enrage
him. He drew back his fist and punched me in the stomach; the
epigastric abdominal region, to be precise, but at that moment
the proper terminology wasn't my top concern.

I nearly doubled over; the only thing that held me up was the
safety belt. For a moment, I couldn't breathe; he'd literally
knocked the breath out of my lungs.

And then he hit me again, even harder.

"Josh, please, don't," I said, gasping for breath, but I heard
the abject pleading in my voice. "Please ... please stop. Don't
hit me again."

And he stopped. He just sat there, glaring at me, but there was a
gleam in his eyes of -- was it triumph?

I didn't care. I undid my seat belt and reached for the door
handle, blindly. 

"Where do you think you're going?" he said, and his voice was icy
calm.

"Anywhere," I said, crying openly now. I thought I might vomit.
"Anywhere. Away from you."

"Like hell," he said, and he floored the gas, nearly crashing
into a Lincoln Continental that was pulling into the parking lot.
I closed the door just in time to keep from being thrown to the
pavement. 

"We're going home," Josh said, still in that nasty, bullying
tone. "And you're not going to Denver or anywhere else, either."

"I have to go," I said, and I coughed. Drops of blood flew out
and landed on the windshield. I put my hand up to my face; my
nose was bleeding. 

My God -- he'd really hurt me. Josh, my lover, had actually hurt
me. I couldn't make sense of it; I was too stunned.

"Josh, for Christ's sake, you've bloodied my nose!" I said,
crying even harder. "Why did you do that? Why?"

I was sobbing, shuddering from the shock of the attack and even
more from the harsh, hateful words he'd said to me.

Josh looked at me, briefly, and there was nothing but contempt on
his face.

"You were asking for it, Dana," he said, shortly. He didn't speak
to me again.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When we got home, I went straight into the bathroom to clean up
and assess the damage -- and to get my toothbrush. 

No way was I staying here with him, not after this. I'd always
told myself no man would ever hit me twice.

But when I looked in the mirror, I knew I couldn't go anywhere --
not yet. My face was puffy and red where he'd hit me, and I could
see that I would have a black eye by tomorrow. Besides, my
stomach muscles were so sore and painful I could hardly walk. 

No. I would have to stay here until the bruises faded, which
meant I had to come up with a plausible reason why I couldn't go
to Denver tomorrow with Mulder.

Slowly, reluctantly, I went out to the kitchen. Josh was sitting
on the couch, a beer in his hand, watching television. 

He didn't even look at me. 

I took a couple of Tylenol III, which I keep around for my rare
migraines, and tiptoed back to the bedroom.

In a short while, the drugs took effect, and I slept. At some
point, Josh came and got into the bed next to me, just as though
nothing had happened.

~*~*~*~*~*~

As it turned out, I didn't have to come up with an excuse to give
Mulder. When I got up the next morning, I heard Josh on the
phone, telling Mulder that I wouldn't be going to Denver because
I was sick.

I couldn't hear Mulder's half of the conversation, of course, but
I could tell from what Josh was saying that Mulder didn't believe
him.

"I don't care what she looked like yesterday, Mr. Mulder," Josh
said. "She's sick today. She's been vomiting all morning." 

There was a pause. "No, you can't talk to her right now," Josh
said. "She's in the bathroom."

Well, that was a lie. I was in the kitchen, making Josh's
breakfast. He hated cold cereal, hated pastries; all he would
ever eat was bacon, eggs and toast, the bacon completely crisp,
the eggs over easy with the yolks intact, and the toast hot but
not burned.

Once, just for variety, I'd made him some blueberry muffins, but
he took one bite and told me that they weren't very good. 

Well, what he actually said was that I made them "the wrong way."

"You don't put all that crumbly stuff on them," he'd said. "And
you're supposed to use more berries. They're too sweet, too. I'll
write to my sister and get my mother's recipe. She knew how to
make them."

I hadn't tried any other recipe, of course; I'd just decided it
would be easier to make him what he liked, and save myself the
trouble. My mother always made breakfast for my father, when he
was home -- which he seldom was -- and she was very careful to
make things exactly the way he liked them. She taught me to do
the same.

I told myself this was no different.

Somehow, though, in a way I couldn't quite define, I knew that it
was -- very, very different.

But I never made blueberry muffins for breakfast anymore, and
that was too bad, because I really like them.

So now, I was carefully breaking the eggs into a pan with way too
much butter melted in it, because I couldn't figure out any other
way to keep from breaking the yolks. He wouldn't eat them if they
were broken, and then we'd have to drive to the Hoover building
in a tense silence because he was hungry, and it was my fault.

"She'll talk to you when she gets back to work," Josh was saying
into the phone as I ground the coffee beans, working on
autopilot. I felt calmer, somehow, having work to do with my
hands, but inside I still felt numb and dead.

And my face was a mass of bruises.

"Yeah, I'll be sure and give her the message," Josh said,
sarcastically, leaving me to wonder just what message Mulder
might have wanted to give me. I was pretty sure Josh wasn't going
to tell me. 

Josh hung up the phone, laughing.

But then he looked at me, and it was as though he'd never seen me
before.

"Oh, my God, Dana," he said, stricken. "Oh, Dana, sweetie, oh,
Jesus ..."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't think of anything to say.

"Oh, Dana, baby, did I do that to you?" he whispered, coming
closer to me. I shrank away from him, but he put out his hand and
touched the injured side of my face, very carefully, very gently,
and tears started up in his eyes.

"Oh, God, baby, I am so sorry," he said, and his voice was
shaking. "I never meant to hurt you. You have to believe that. I
can't believe I did that to you."

"You're the one who did it, Josh," I said, and I felt myself
starting to cry again. "You hit me. You said I had been asking
for it."

"Baby, you know I didn't mean that," he said, softly, still
caressing my face. "I love you. You know I love you. It's just
that ... well, everything's been so hard lately, and when I
smelled that cologne on you, and I heard you saying you were
leaving me, well ... I just snapped. I've never done anything
like that before. I don't know what came over me."

"Don't, Josh," I said, turning away from him. "Please don't."

"No, Dana, please, you've got to talk to me," he said, taking my
arm and pulling me back toward him. He sounded desperate.
"Please, baby, please talk to me. I can't stand it if you won't
talk to me. I can't even imagine living like that. Please, Dana."

He sounded so despondent, and his face was such a mask of misery
that I began to be ashamed of my hard-heartedness. Clearly, he
wasn't trying to pretend that I had deserved any of this, and he
wasn't in denial; he knew what he had done was wrong, and he was
absolutely horrified by it.

I felt so sorry for him right then, standing there looking as
though he'd lost his last friend ... which, I suppose, he had, if
I refused to forgive him.

And to refuse forgiveness when it had been sincerely asked for
was a sin. That's what I was taught as a child, and I still
believed it.

There was no other morally acceptable choice. I had to forgive
him.

"Josh," I began, slowly, and he looked at me, almost eagerly,
like a puppy that's been hit but returns again to its master,
full of hope. 

"Josh, I don't know if we can get over this and go on," I said.
"But I know you can't go on the way you are. You're falling apart
over being unemployed, and I hope you see now that you're hurting
both of us."

"I do see it, Dana, but I don't know what to do," he said,
helplessly. "I try and I try to find work; I want you to be proud
of me, and look up to me the way a woman is supposed to look up
to a man, but I just go on, week after week, living off you like
some parasite. I've never lived off a woman in my life, and I
can't stand it."

That touched me, although he was clearly going to need some
+consciousness-raising over his old-fashioned ideas about men and
women. For the first time, I gave him a little smile, ignoring
the pain in my face as I did so.

"You need counseling, Josh," I said, softly, taking his hand and
holding it. He looked at me gratefully. "If you want, I'll ask
the social worker at the Bureau to recommend someone."

"No," he said, quickly. "I don't want anyone there to know this
happened. They don't need to know, because it's not going to
happen again, Dana; I swear it's not. But I'll find a counselor
on my own, I promise. I'll find one before the end of the day,
and maybe we could go together."

That was an encouraging sign. Most men wouldn't have the
sensitivity to realize that couples' problems are best dealt with
as a couple. The fact that he wanted me included told me that he
was committed to making it work for us, as a couple.

"All right," I said. "We'll go together."

He beamed at me then, and took me in his arms.

"I swear before God, Dana," he whispered, holding me close. "I
swear, I'll never, ever let anything happen to you, not ever
again. I promise."

I wanted so badly to believe him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Mulder, as it turned out, was in Denver for more than a week. He
checked in with me regularly by e-mail and by phone, asking how I
was and what was up with the X Files investigations, but never
asked about Josh or anything connected to my personal life.

It was just as well that we didn't talk long. With Mulder gone,
Josh called me almost constantly, reasoning -- I suppose -- that
I could now spend almost the entire day on the phone.

As a result, I didn't have much to report to Mulder, work-wise.

At the end of the week, he called to say that he hadn't been able
to reach any conclusions on this case and would be back in D.C.
by Saturday, that he would see me Monday and in the meantime, I
could reach him at Daniel's apartment in Baltimore.

If I needed him.

That was all he said. I thanked him, and said I'd see him Monday.

After that, I went upstairs to the ladies' room and examined my
bruises carefully; they were fading. Thank goodness I'd been able
to stay hidden away all week in the basement office where no one
else would ever go; that was the only way I'd managed to escape
detection so far.

Mulder wouldn't know what had happened. 

I didn't want him to know; he wouldn't understand that this
wasn't the real Josh, that Josh had simply been pushed by stress
and fear and other circumstances into this terrible loss of
temper.

But Josh had been so sweet and so loving since that terrible
afternoon, and I was feeling good about my decision to stay with
him. Clearly, the violence had been an aberration; he'd been so
shocked at it, so apologetic, had taken the blame so completely,
and now he couldn't seem to do enough to show me how sorry he
was.

The counselor he'd consulted had seemed well-qualified, but
turned out not to be such a good choice, after all. Josh told me
that the counselor canceled two appointments in a row after the
first one, without giving Josh any notice at all, so that Josh
twice drove to the man's office only to find that he wouldn't be
seeing him after all.

But Josh took it with unusual good humor, just shrugged and said
he'd find another counselor and that I shouldn't worry about it. 

Then he used up the last of his savings to take me out to dinner
that night, and flowers had arrived at my office two mornings
ago, with a note attached saying how much he loved me.

Things were working out very well, indeed, and I was looking
forward to Mulder's return. It was time he and Josh got to know
each other, so this hostility between them could end, and they
could begin to become friends, the way Daniel and I had.

The thought of Daniel sent a pang through me. I hadn't laid eyes
on him since that night in Miami, and I missed him terribly. I
kept remembering Daniel's kindness to me, his laughter, his
compassion; I remembered, too, the comfort of his arms, the
warmth of his kiss, and the frank admiration in his eyes as I
dissected that poor, mutilated corpse and described, calmly and
in careful detail, just how the unfortunate girl had died.

"You're a good pathologist, Dana," he'd said, looking down at me
from his 6-foot-3 inch height, and putting his arm around me.
"Damn good."

That was so wonderful. Daniel is one of the Navy's foremost
surgeons, and he's never been the most emotionally open person on
earth -- neither am I, for that matter -- so praise from him
consequently means just that much more to me. 

I felt lonely without him, in a way I'd never thought I would. In
just two years, Daniel had become an essential part of my life,
and his absence left a huge, aching void.

But I wasn't unhappy, no matter what Mulder thought. I mean, how
could I be, when Josh loved and needed and worshipped me the way
he did?

Of course I was happy. 

Of course I was.

~*~*~*~*~*~

On Sunday night, as Josh watched the Lakers on television, I was
going through my closet, mentally selecting my outfits for the
work week ahead, when I heard a loud thud and Josh came into the
bedroom, looking gloomy.

"Did you drop something, Josh?" I said, holding up my favorite
beige suit. I should have had it cleaned, I thought, absently.
And the shoes I'd been wearing with it were beginning to look a
little run-down at the heels; I needed to replace them, as soon
as I could afford to, but the lack of overtime pay and the extra
expenses were forcing me to budget very carefully.

All right, I admit it. I wasn't really paying much attention to
Josh. I should have seen what a bad mood he was really in, but I
was distracted by the state of my work clothes.

That's why I wasn't prepared when Josh slammed his fist into a
wall and began screaming "Fuck!" over and over, at the top of his
lungs.

"Josh, for God's sake, what's wrong?" I said, dropping the suit
in shock. 

"Why don't you just shut your fucking mouth and leave me the fuck
alone?" he said, cradling his injured hand. There was blood
oozing from his knuckles.

"Josh, you're bleeding," I said, alarmed. "Let me look at that
hand; you may have broken a bone."

"I said leave me the fuck alone, Dana!" he snapped. "What part of
that didn't you understand?"

"I understood it just fine," I said, feeling my own anger rise,
but I immediately tamped it down. 

It wouldn't do to get angry; that would just make Josh even more
upset. 

"I'm sorry," I said. "I was just concerned that you'd hurt
yourself and I thought you might need my help."

"I don't need your help," he said, looking down at me
contemptuously. "And if I ever do need a doctor, I'll find a real
doctor, not a fucking feebie who likes to play doctor."

What did he mean by that? I am a doctor-not board certified, but
I do have a license. And besides, Josh is my boyfriend; treating
him would be unethical. 

"Josh, I'm not offering to treat you," I said. "I just want to
see your hand, or maybe we could have Daniel take a look." 

"It'll be a cold day in hell before I let some goddamn faggot
start feeling all over my hand," Josh said, his lip curling in
disgust. "I'm not about to let your queer friend get his jollies
off me or give me AIDS or something."

"That's ridiculous," I said, losing my temper in spite of myself.
"Daniel isn't infected, and anyway, you know you can't get HIV
from that kind of casual contact."

"All those queers are infected, and anyway, they really don't
know how it's spread," Josh said. "Go on, admit it. Nobody really
knows for sure that you can't get it from a doctor. What about
that dentist who infected all his patients?"

"All those patients had other risk factors," I began, but Josh
interrupted me.

"You just don't want to admit there's anything I know that you
don't, Dana," he said, triumphantly. "Go on, admit it: You know
I'm right. You just don't want to admit it."

Once again, I felt as though the earth had disappeared beneath me
and there was nowhere for me to stand. This discussion, like so
many we'd had, seemed to have no real topic, no internal logic,
no relation to the accepted facts. As far as he was concerned, he
knew the facts, and I didn't. 

That was so typical of our arguments: The way Josh saw it, Josh
always knew the truth, and you either acknowledged that or you
were just refusing to acknowledge it out of stubbornness. 

And stubbornness infuriated him.

Of course, this time, there was no question that he was the one
who didn't have the facts. This was my field of expertise, and I
knew what I was talking about. Certainly, he must eventually
realize that; I just needed to give him a careful explanation so
he could understand.

But first, I needed to calm him down and get that hand looked at.

"Josh, we don't have to go see Daniel," I said, but I felt my
heart sink as I said it. I hadn't realized how much I was hoping
Josh would agree. "We can go to the hospital here in Georgetown.
But you do need treatment, because the way that hand is swelling,
you could have a broken bone."

"Oh, so you've lost the argument and now you want to change the
subject, is that it?" Josh said, nastily. "You just won't admit
when you're wrong, will you?"

"Josh, for Christ's sake!" I exploded, forgetting all my
resolutions to keep my temper. "Will you just go to the emergency
department and get that hand X-rayed? I am so goddamn tired of
this argument!"

"So why did you start it in the first place?" he said, and a thin
smile was beginning at the corners of his mouth.

"I didn't fucking start it!" I said, really loud. I was
frustrated as hell at my inability to talk to him, and I was
getting angrier by the minute. "I didn't start anything. You're
the one who came in here and started banging his fist on the
wall!"

"Living with a crazy bitch like you is enough to make anybody
lose his cool," he said, and the smile was getting even more
noticeable, but it didn't reach all the way to his eyes. They
were cold, colder than I could have imagined his eyes could be. 

"No wonder you hang out with queers," he was saying. "No real man
would ever put up with you."

"Josh, please don't talk about my friends that way," I began, but
he interrupted me.

"I'll talk anyway I goddamn well please, lady," he said, leaning
against the wall, almost casually. "I'm a man, and you're not
going to tell me how to talk even if you are a feebie. You're
just going to have to get used to it; real men don't put up with
that shit. But you know that already, don't you? You just want to
try one more time to get your own way."

"That's not it!" I said, and I could hear how loud I was getting,
but this argument was driving me up the wall. "That's not what
I'm thinking."

"Yes, it is," he said. "I know what you're thinking."

"You do not," I said, frustrated. "I know what I'm thinking; you
don't."

"Maybe you're wrong about what you think you're thinking," he
said, and that smile was getting absolutely unbearable. "Maybe I
know what you think better than you do."

"That is absolutely impossible," I said, furiously. "I cannot be
wrong about what I think, because I'm the one thinking it. You
can't know what I think."

"Oh, yes, I do," he said, leaning into my face, his mouth curled
up in an almost animal snarl. "I know exactly what you're
thinking, even if you don't. You're just too stubborn to admit
it."

"Josh, don't do this, please," I said, and I was starting to cry.
I was so tired of all this; I couldn't take any more of this
Alice-in-Wonderland reasoning of his. 

I couldn't even think how to respond to someone who claimed that
_I_ didn't know what I was thinking. 

"Please, Josh," I whispered. "Please, let's just stop this,
please."

"Yeah, that's what you always say when you know I've got you,"
Josh said, and there was that note of triumph again. He was
getting more and more in my face, and his voice was rising with
each word. 

"You just don't have the guts to admit when you're wrong, do you,
Dana?" he said, his face only inches from mine. "Do you? Huh? Do
you? Come on, you fucking bitch, answer me!"

"Just shut up!" I screamed, and without thinking, I pounded my
fist on the wall -- something I've never done before, and it
terrified me. I had never in my life lost control that way. 

"Or what?" he said. "What're you gonna do, Dana? You gonna put me
under arrest? You know you can't do that. They'd laugh you right
out of the precinct house and report you to the FBI for false
arrest."

"GET OUT!!!" I screamed, so loudly that it hurt my throat. "JUST
GET OUT OF MY HOME!!!"

And that, unbelievably, made Josh smile. He backed away and
regarded me quite calmly.

"Damn, Dana, you'd better quiet down," he said, in an ordinary
tone. "Anybody who heard you yelling like that would think you'd
gone crazy. You've just gotten completely irrational lately; you
can't even seem to control yourself anymore."

"SHUT UP!!!!" I screamed again. "JUST SHUT UP!!!!!!!!! SHUT
UP!!!!!! SHUT UP!!!!!"

I screamed it over, and over, until my voice nearly gave out and
I was almost collapsing from exhaustion and emotional overload.
My legs were weak; I slid to the floor, unable to stand up any
longer. 

I lay there on the floor and cried, thinking that surely Josh
would understand now how badly this had hurt me, that surely he
would apologize and try to comfort me.

But he didn't. He just stood there and watched me cry, looking
like a man whose wife was about to make him late for an
appointment or something. No sympathy; no sorrow. Just annoyance.

And triumph. Nasty, cold triumph.

He had me where he wanted me.

And I knew then that I couldn't take it one more day.

"I want you to leave," I said, after a minute, when I could
finally speak, but I kept having to stop between words, I was
crying so hard. "Just leave, Josh. This is going nowhere. I can't
stand it anymore. I can't take it."

"You want to try to make me leave?" he said, raising one eyebrow.
"You want to put on another show for me with your little temper
tantrums? Come on, Dana -- why don't you threaten me again? Why
don't you scream and pound your little fist on the wall and let
everybody know just how out of control you really are?"

"No," I said, weakly, but somehow that only seemed to enrage him.
He grabbed my wrist and jerked me violently to my feet, sending a
shooting pain down my arm all the way to my back, and I screamed,
as much in fear as in pain.

"Josh, let me go, please," I pleaded, but all I got in return was
that cold, cold smile.

"No, Dana," he said, in a terrifyingly soft voice. "You need to
learn what happens when you raise your voice to me. You need to
learn what it means when you slam your little fists on the wall
and get pissy."

Josh curled his fingers around mine, in a gesture that would have
seemed almost loving had I not known better. I didn't know what
he was planning to do, though, until his hand clenched around
mine, forcing my fingers into a fist, and then he slammed my hand
against the wall, hard.

Again.

And again.

I was screaming, begging him to stop, begging him to let go of
me, struggling to get away from him, but he was just too strong
for me.

"Come on, you bitch," he said, almost under his breath. "Come on,
hit that wall again, show me how tough you are. You can do it --
just like THIS."

As he spoke the last word, Josh slammed my hand against the wall
once more, harder than before. I felt a sickening snap, and I
screamed again with the pain.

"You want me to leave, Dana?" he said, as I slid to the floor,
sobbing, cradling my injured hand. "You think you're big enough
to make me?"

No, I didn't think so. I'd just had an excellent object lesson in
that. But I did think I had a standard FBI-issue pistol nearby.
And I thought it might be time to bring it into this sick game.

I lurched for the night stand, but Josh was already on his feet
and got to it quicker. He had my gun, had it out of the holster
in a flash and had it pointed -

At his own head.

"You want to make me leave, Dana?" he said, and now I could hear
the despair in his voice. "You want me to go? Well, you know
what? I'd rather be dead. You want me to pull this trigger right
now and just end all this? Is that what you want?"

Once again, everything had turned upside down. Josh had gone from
violent anger to suicidal despondency in the blink of an eye,
leaving me with the feeling that there was no earth under my
feet, no sky above … only confusion and fear and insanity. How
had I not seen it coming to this? All this time I thought he was
being temperamental, when he was actually suicidally depressed.
Depression is often expressed as anger.

"Josh, please," I whispered. "Please, just put the gun down.
Don't do this."

"Why not?" he said, with a chilling laugh. "Why shouldn't I? If
you don't love me anymore, if you don't want me, then there's
nothing left for me anyway. I can't go on without you."

"No ..." I said, and I was shaking with terror. He was going to
need medical help; but first, I had to get the gun away from him.
"Josh, give me the gun, please," I whispered, getting up from the
floor slowly. 

It was hard to stand, and my right hand was practically useless,
but I couldn't let him do this. 

"Please," I said. "Please, Josh, give it to me. You don't need to
do this."

"I don't want to live without you, Dana," he said, and tears were
forming in his eyes. "I can't. I can't. I WON'T!!!!!!" He shouted
the last words, and the tears spilled over. "I won't go back to
living alone! Do you hear me, Dana? I'd rather be DEAD!"

"You don't have to," I said, and I was crying and shaking all
over, but still trying desperately to reach him. "You won't have
to live without me. Josh, you need help. We're going to get you
some help, and then we're going to get through this. Please,
Josh... please put the gun down."

His hand wavered, and for one terrifying moment, I thought he was
going to pull the trigger, but then his face crumpled, and he
lowered the gun, shaking in every part of his body, and collapsed
into my arms crying.

"I want to die," he sobbed. "Please, just leave me alone and let
me die."

"Shhh," I said, cradling him close, trying to support him
although I was near fainting myself. "It's going to be okay,
Josh. It's going to be okay."

"Don't leave me, Dana, please don't leave me," he said, still
sobbing. "Please."

"I won't, Josh," I whispered in his ear, holding him close. "I'll
never leave you. Never."

~*~*~*~*~*~

That night, after I got Josh calmed down and put him to sleep --
the way I always seemed to put him to sleep these days, by making
love until he was finally exhausted -- I went to the kitchen and
-- awkwardly, using my left hand -- made an ice pack for my hand,
which was hugely swollen and painful.

I knew I should have my hand x-rayed, but what would I say when I
got to the hospital? How could I explain my injury without
getting Josh into trouble that might leave him in even worse
shape?

No. I would just have to care for it myself. I wrapped a
dishtowel around my hand to hold the ice pack in place, then went
out to the living room to turn off the television.

The news was on; they were giving the sports report. I reached
for the remote control, but I couldn't find it.

Then I saw it, across the room, near the television set. It had
popped open, and the batteries had fallen out. I picked it up and
tried to put it back together, but it wouldn't work. The casing
was cracked, and nothing I could do would make it hold the
batteries in place so they would make good contact.

It was broken.

And there was a dent in the wall where it had hit.

Then the announcer came on with the results of today's Lakers
game: They'd lost to the Suns, 98 to 97, in overtime.

For a long time, I stood staring at the set, unable to comprehend
how so small an event could have so cataclysmically disrupted my
life.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Josh was still too shaken up to be left alone the next day, so I
called Skinner's office and left a message that I wouldn't be in
that day, that I was taking a personal day to take care of some
business. I asked Kimberly to pass the message along to Mulder
when he came in.

Josh was almost pathetically grateful for that. At his
suggestion, we drove to West Virginia and found a quiet little
restaurant in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains. 

We had lunch, then went out into the woods, spread out a blanket
and made love by the side of a little brook.

As we lay there afterward holding each other, Josh told me --for
the first time -- the horror story that was his childhood, the
story he said he could never tell anyone before.

His father had been an abusive alcoholic, he told me, and his
mother had refused to leave, saying that she had married her
husband for better or for worse.

"I can remember hiding under my bed at night, listening to him
rampage around," he'd said, as I ran my fingers through his hair,
trying to comfort him. "I remember hearing my mother's screams,
and then just lying there waiting for my turn. Sometimes he
couldn't find me ... sometimes he could." 

I cried as I listened to Josh's terrible memories, and I held him
closer and promised him that I would stand by him, whatever it
took, while he got help to work through all this. 

That meant a lot to him; I could tell.

"With you by my side, Dana, I feel like I could overcome
anything," he said, as he pulled me down beside him again. 

We made love again for hours before we finally, regretfully,
packed up and drove back to Georgetown.

The day was so wonderful that I was able to ignore almost completely
how badly my hand hurt.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When I got to work Tuesday, Mulder was there, and he seemed
really glad to see me. I could see how much he'd been worrying
about me.

Of course, there was no reason for him to worry. Josh had finally
gotten to the root of his problems, and he was going to seek
help. Mulder had no reason to fear for me.

That was harder to explain than I'd thought it would be, though,
especially after Mulder tried to take my hand. I cried out in
pain and jerked it back.

That was foolish. Mulder is too good an investigator to let
something like that go by, and he demanded that I show him my
hand.

Reluctantly, I did -- and as he looked at it, and I saw the shock
in his eyes, I realized that it actually did look pretty bad. The
fifth metacarpal -- the bone in the palm of my hand, connected to
the little finger -- was swollen and misshapen, and the flesh was
darkly bruised from my wrist to my knuckle.

Worst of all, there were bruises around my wrist in the
unmistakable shape of Josh's fingers.

"Oh, my God, Scully, what happened?" Mulder said, looking at me
in bewilderment. "What happened to your hand?"

"It's nothing, Mulder," I said, trying to sound casual -- and
trying, without success, to withdraw my hand.

"This is not nothing, Scully," he said, his eyes piercing mine
now. He was in full investigative mode, and that frightened me,
because I didn't want him reading me too closely. If he knew how
badly I'd lost it the other day, he probably _would- think I was
crazy, just as Josh had said. I had to come up with something,
fast.

"It's really nothing, I promise," I said, smiling, probably just
a little too brightly. "I was just walking through a doorway, and
I guess I was swinging my hands too wide, and I hit the doorway
with this hand. It really hurt."

Mulder shook his head. "Don't bullshit me, Scully," he said,
seriously. "You didn't do this on any doorway. This is the kind
of injury you get when you hit someone -- or something. Except
that's not what happened to you, is it?"

I didn't say anything.

"Scully," Mulder said. "Scully, talk to me. Tell me the truth. I
can see the bruises on your wrist. Did that bastard hurt you?"

"No," I said, quickly. "I told you, Mulder, I just bumped into a
doorway. It's nothing; it'll be fine in a day or two. Please,
let's just get to work, all right?"

He looked at me silently for a long, long time, and I could
almost see the wheels turning in his head, but then he apparently
decided to let the subject drop.

"If it hurts too much for you to work," he said, stroking my hand
gently before letting it go, "you tell me. All right?"

I nearly cried then, I was so touched by his gentleness and his
concern, but I knew I couldn't betray Josh's confidence, not even
to Mulder.

"I will, Mulder," I said. "Don't I always tell you when I'm
hurting?"

"I used to think so," he said, and turned away.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When Josh picked me up for lunch, I didn't tell him about
Mulder's noticing my injury; I knew it would make him angry, and
really, there was no reason to tell him. 

It was all going to be fine soon; Josh had actually made an
appointment with a psychologist who specialized in treating
abuse-related issues, he said.

"I'm going to see him this afternoon," he said, and he smiled
tentatively at me, melting my heart. "I told him I was in love
with the most beautiful lady in the world and that she deserves a
lot better than she's getting from me, so he agreed to see me
right away."

"Oh, Josh," I said, and put my arms around him and kissed him. "I
just know it's going to be okay. I know it. And I'll be with you,
right here with you, every step of the way."

"That's the only thing that keeps me going, Dana," he said, and
kissed me again.

~*~*~*~*~*~

I was still floating along on Cloud Nine as I walked back down
the stairs to the X Files office, which I suppose is why I didn't
immediately notice that there was someone there -- someone, I
mean, besides Mulder.

So it was a huge shock -- or, I should say, a wonderful surprise
-- to see a man sitting in my chair, wearing a naval officer's
dress uniform and looking even more handsome than I remembered. 

He rose when I came in -- he was always such a perfect gentleman.

"Hello, Dana," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face as
he held out his arms to me.

"Daniel," I said, "oh, Daniel." I ran to him and flung my arms
around his neck, and he hugged me tightly, lifting my feet off
the floor and kissing my cheek. "Oh, Daniel, I've missed you so
much," I said, laughing and crying all at once. "I don't think I
knew until just now just exactly how much I've missed you."

Oh, God, it was good to see him again after so long, so good to
be in his arms. I held him tighter; I didn't ever want to let him
go. 

"I've missed you, too," he said, "a lot." He gave me another
kiss, this time on the lips and then he set me back down on my
feet. "Let's sit down," he said. "I've been wanting to talk to
you."

"About what?" I said. "And where's Mulder?"

"He had an errand to run," Daniel said, perching on the edge of
Mulder's desk as I settled myself into my chair.

Suddenly, I had a bad feeling about all this.

"This isn't just a social call, is it, Daniel?" I said, a little
sarcastically, perhaps.

"No, it's not, Dana," Daniel said, quietly. "Fox is worried about
you. He asked me to come here and see you. He said your hand was
injured, and he was afraid that it was worse than you were
letting on."

So that was it. It was just more of Mulder trying to interfere
and run my life for me. But I could hardly be angry with Daniel.
Unlike his lover, Daniel had maintained a discreet, polite
silence where Josh and I were concerned. 

In other words, up until now, he'd been minding his own business.
Too bad Mulder couldn't.

"I have a small contusion on my hand," I said, reluctantly. "It's
nothing. I told him that."

"Well, why don't you let me be the judge of that?" Daniel said,
gently. "You're only supposed to diagnose dead people, Dana; I'm
the bone man, remember?" 

He held out his hand, and I knew he wasn't going to take no for
an answer. 

Slowly, unwillingly, I put my hand in his. 

Daniel's eyes widened, just slightly, as he saw the "small
contusion," which even I had to admit was pretty big, but he kept
his professional demeanor. 

Carefully, he turned my hand from one side to the other, pressing
gently against the bone but backing off immediately as I winced
in pain.

After he finished examining me, he just sat there, holding my
hand, and then at last he spoke.

"You know this is fractured, don't you?" he said, quietly. "It
should have been set and casted on the day it happened. Now the
muscles are in spasm, the tendons are contracting and there's
already some callus forming over the break. It's too late for a
closed reduction; without surgery; you're going to have some
lingering deformity in that metacarpal, Dana, maybe even some
loss of function."

I didn't say anything.

"Dana, I want you to tell me how this happened," Daniel said.
"How it really happened," he added as I started to speak. "I
don't want to hear that story you told Fox, because I've heard
that crap a thousand times and you and I both know that's not how
this kind of injury occurs."

"I don't know what you mean," I said, but I couldn't look him in
the eye.

"I mean this kind of fracture happens when someone slams his fist
-- or her fist -- against a solid object, in anger or
frustration," Daniel said. "But judging from these fingertip
bruises, you didn't do this -- someone else did. Someone held
your hand and slammed it down pretty damn hard." 

He was still holding my hand. I took it away; he didn't try to
stop me, and he didn't seem angry.

"That story you made up is one I've heard a hundred times,"
Daniel went on, speaking very gently, "but it's about as
convincing to me as it would be to you if I told you that a stab
wound was really a congenital anomaly. It just doesn't fit the
facts. You know that."

Once again, I said nothing.

"Dana," Daniel said, and for the first time I thought he might be
getting upset, "if things are getting bad between you and Josh,
you need to tell me. You can't fool an orthopedist about these
things; when I see an injury like this, and I hear that kind of
ridiculous explanation, I know that sooner or later one of the
parties will be back seeking treatment for a cigarette burn, or a
broken jaw -- or a gunshot wound."

"That's not what's happening here," I said, shaking my head.
"Josh has some ... issues, Daniel, but he's working on them. He's
in counseling, and he really wants to work things through. Yes,
he made me angry, and I slammed my fist against a wall, but
that's all. He didn't hurt me. I hurt myself."

"No one who really cared about you would keep going until you
were that upset, Dana," Daniel said, and he stood up. "Besides, I
can't imagine you doing that. You're not the slamming-fists-on-
the-wall type; even when you're angry, you don't do things like
that."

Once again, I had no answer. I was so ashamed; I didn't want
Daniel to know the truth, to know just how little self-control I
had these days.

"Dana," Daniel said, very quietly. "I want you to tell me the
absolute truth, as God is your witness -- has Josh ever hit you?"

"No, Daniel, of course not," I said, after a brief pause, trying
to smile.

But of course, I hadn't answered fast enough, and I knew it by
the anger that blazed up in Daniel's dark eyes.

"God DAMN it!" he said, through clenched teeth, leaning on
Mulder's desk as though he thought he might fall over.

Strangely enough, it didn't frighten me to see Daniel so angry. I
was afraid, don't get me wrong, but I wasn't afraid of Daniel;
whatever happened, however angry he became, I knew Daniel
wouldn't hurt me.

And he was, without question, extremely angry. His eyes were
closed, he was breathing hard and every muscle in his body was
tensed. He stood that way for a moment, collecting himself, then
whirled around to face me. 

"Does Fox know about this?" he demanded.

"Know what?" I said, as calmly as I could, but inside I was
shaking like a leaf. "There's nothing to know."

"Dana, don't try to bullshit me," Daniel said, and he really must
have been angry, because he almost never used that kind of
language -- not around me, anyway. "I've seen this too many
times, and I've patched up too many women who went back and got
the shit beat out of them again. I've had enough of that to last
me a lifetime."

He sat down on the edge of Mulder's desk again and took my
uninjured hand in his. 

"Dana," he said, urgently, "I don't mean to be angry, and I want
you to know that I'm not angry at you. But if there's one thing I
cannot and will not do, it's to stand by and watch you being
abused by your lover. Not you ..."

Daniel's voice trailed off, and I could see that he was trying
hard to calm down, for my sake. He was more upset than I've ever
seen him, and I didn't know what to do. I just sat there and said
nothing.

"When was the first time he hit you, Dana?" Daniel said, in a
dead, flat voice, looking down at my hand.

For a moment, I started to protest again, but there was something
in Daniel's voice that prevented me.

"Last week," I said, quietly. 

"Where?"

I bit my lip, and for a minute I thought I might just refuse to
answer. But this was Daniel, and he loved me, and somehow, deep
inside, I knew that telling him was the first step toward ...

Something. I didn't know what.

"Dana, where did he hit you?" Daniel was asking, looking me in
the eye now but still holding my hand.

"In the face," I said, hanging my head. Daniel didn't say
anything; he seemed to be waiting. After a moment, I gathered my
nerve and went on. "And in the abdomen."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Daniel said, through clenched teeth.
"And then he did that to your hand."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes," I said, barely above a whisper. I wasn't even sure Daniel
had heard me, because he didn't say anything.

"Tell me what happened last week," he said, finally, almost
whispering himself. He looked as though _he_ were bracing for a
punch in the stomach.

"I made him angry," I said, closing my eyes. "I had invited him
to go with us to Denver and then just as he was getting all
excited about the trip, I changed my mind and told him he
couldn't go. He was really disappointed, and he's been under a
lot of stress lately; he just snapped."

"That's no excuse for hitting you, Dana," Daniel said, very
quietly. "There is no excuse for that."

I opened my eyes then, and I tried to answer him, but instead I
astonished myself by bursting into tears. 

I covered my face with my hands; I felt so ashamed of myself for
losing control, ashamed that Daniel knew what had happened, and
ashamed that I hadn't protected Josh's secret better. It really
wasn't his fault, but no one was ever going to believe that.

I heard the rustle of wool, and felt Daniel's arms going around
me, surrounding me, protecting me, as he knelt beside me and
gently pulled my head down to his shoulder. His uniform was rough
against my skin; it reminded me so much of how it felt to hug my
father when he came home from the sea.

I took my hands away from my face and put my arms around Daniel's
neck, clinging to him for dear life, and he held me tighter,
patting my back soothingly until I calmed down a little.

"Don't tell Mulder," I whispered. "Please don't tell him."

"Don't ask me to do that, Dana," Daniel said, shaking his head,
moving back a little so he could look at me. "Don't ask me to
keep secrets from him. I can't; not this kind of secret, anyway,
and certainly not when it concerns you. He would never forgive
me."

"You have to keep it a secret," I said, groping in my pocket for
a tissue. Daniel saw, and reached into his own pocket and gave me
his handkerchief. 

"Thanks," I said, and wiped away what remained of my makeup, and
blew my nose, and crumpled the soggy handkerchief in my hand.
"You can keep this from him," I said, still sniffling. "Call it
doctor-patient privilege."

"You know better than that, Dana," Daniel said, gently. He got up
and sat back down on the edge of the desk, folding his arms
across his chest. "I'm not your doctor; I'm your friend, and as a
friend, I'm telling you that you need to get out of this
relationship before you get hurt even worse."

"I can't leave him now," I said, shaking my head. "He just
started therapy today, and he's suicidal. If I leave him, there's
no telling what might happen."

"I can tell you what might happen to you if you don't leave,"
Daniel said, but he was wavering; I could see it in his eyes. He
seemed to be thinking hard.

"Dana, if you won't break up with him, then make a deal with
him," he said, finally. "He goes to counseling, but you two live
apart until he's been in therapy and on medication for at least
six weeks. That should be enough time to know whether he's going
to make any real progress."

"He doesn't have any money, Daniel," I said, ashamed for reasons
I couldn't explain at having to admit that I was supporting Josh.
Surely I wasn't that old-fashioned. "He's been out of work since
he came to D.C. He can't afford to live on his own."

"Then maybe you should be the one to leave," Daniel said. "You
could stay with Fox, or with me, and let Josh have the apartment,
at least for a couple of weeks. If he's really going to confront
these issues, he may get worse before he gets better, and you
need to be safe. That's the first, most important thing."

For just a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to
live with Mulder, or with Daniel; to be with either of them, or
both, every single night, to have those quiet times we used to
have together, to feel calm instead of tense, to feel ...

To feel safe, and feel loved.

No. I shoved that thought aside. Josh loved me; he did. He had
just had too much pain in his life, and he couldn't express his
love properly. He needed me, now more than ever, if he was to
recover from all that.

I couldn't do it. Josh would never understand. It might push him
right over the edge.

I shook my head. "I'll talk to Josh," I said. "I'll tell him that
if I don't see some real progress over the next few weeks, we're
going to have to break up. But I can't leave him now, Daniel; as
much as I'd like to come stay with you, he wouldn't be able to
take it. He would see it as betrayal."

"And how do you suppose he sees the fact that he hit you?" Daniel
said, quietly.

How did he see it? I didn't have an answer for that. Somehow, I
just couldn't put into words all I felt about this, couldn't get
Daniel to understand. The old world, with its promises of quiet
and safety in the company of friends, didn't exist anymore, not
for me. I lived on the other side of the looking glass now, and
there was no going back: Josh needed me with him in his world, no
matter how hard it might be to live there.

Daniel was my friend, and he loved me; that, I could not doubt.
But Josh was a stranger to him, and I could hardly expect him to
understand that there might be another side to this story. 

I had to get out of there now, before I let Daniel talk me into
doing something that might destroy Josh forever.

I got up from my chair. I wouldn't meet Daniel's eyes. "Tell
Mulder I'll see him tomorrow," I said, and then I left quickly
before Daniel could do anything to stop me. 

I all but ran down the hallway, up the stairs, and out of the
building. Once outside, I caught a bus to Georgetown and walked
the rest of the way home.

Josh wasn't there. I supposed he was at therapy. Tired and
emotionally exhausted, I stripped off my work clothes and fell
across the bed, and cried myself to sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When I woke up, Josh was sitting on the bed beside me, stroking
my hair.

"Hey," he said, smiling at me. "You sick or something? Why aren't
you at work?"

"I ... I didn't feel well," I said, raising myself on one elbow.
That was true enough; my hand hurt terribly and my head ached
from crying. "What time is it?"

"About the time I usually go pick you up," Josh said, leaning
over to kiss me. "Why didn't you call me?"

"I thought you were at therapy," I said. I sat up, rubbing my
eyes. "How did it go?"

"Pretty good," he said, and he really did look pleased. "He said
he wants you to come with me next time, so we can start working
on some of our relationship problems."

"He does?" That surprised me. Mulder is the psychologist, not me,
but I had thought the counselor would want to get further with
Josh before starting with me. 

But then, what did I know about it?

"When are we supposed to see him?" I asked, as I reached for my
robe.

"Two days from now, same time, same channel," Josh said, putting
out his hand. "Don't, Dana."

"Don't what?" I asked.

"Don't get dressed," he said, and then his hands were at my
breasts. "I feel ... I feel alive again, like the world is full
of promise again ... I want to share that with you, I want to
make love with you."

I smiled, shook my head and tried to move away, but he wouldn't
let me. 

I tried again.

"Josh, I would love to make love with you, but as much of a
cliché as it is, my head hurts," I said, touching his face to
soften the blow. "Maybe later, after I've had a shower and a
couple of Advil?"

He shook his head. "Come on, Dana," he said. "Let's do it now.
Like the man said, I don't want to fuck your head."

"Oh, really, Josh!" I said, genuinely offended. "That's not the
most romantic line I've ever heard."

"Don't be a prude, Dana," Josh said, and he moved his left hand
down, between my legs, and began rubbing, just a little too hard
for it to feel good. "It was just a joke. Come on, you know I
don't mean to be ugly; I was just trying to make you laugh."

I started to tell him that it wasn't funny, that I really didn't
want to do this, but I didn't want to risk making him angry; not
when he was clearly trying so hard to make things better between
us.

"I really, really want to make love right now," he said, and his
voice grew deeper and huskier. "Come on, baby; please. For me.
Please," he said, as his mouth descended on mine and he pushed me
roughly back against the bed.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was another two hours before I got my shower, and by that time
my head -- and my hand -- hurt so badly that I reluctantly
decided I would have to resort to stronger medication than my
usual Advil.

I went to the kitchen to get some Tylenol III, but the bottle was
missing.

"Josh, have you seen my Tylenol?" I called out, wincing as the
sound of my own voice made the pain spike higher. He was still
lounging around in bed, watching the TV I'd bought for him after
he told me how much he liked to watch TV in bed.

"Yeah, I took a couple of them, I hurt my leg working out," he
called.

A couple? I thought there were about 20 left in that bottle. Of
course, it had been a while since I'd taken any; most likely, I'd
been mistaken.

Or Josh had taken a lot more of them than he was letting on.

That was a worrisome thought. Tylenol III isn't the strongest
narcotic on the market, not by a long shot, but it is addictive.
People with the kinds of emotional problems Josh has are at high
risk of abusing codeine and other narcotics, especially if
there's a family history of drug or alcohol abuse.

But I didn't really want to confront Josh right now. This
migraine was promising to be one for the record books, and I
needed to take something while I could still walk. Still, I
couldn't go to an emergency room for an injection without raising
a lot of questions about my hand.

It would have to be over-the-counter medication. I went to the
bedroom and started putting on my clothes.

"Where are you going?" Josh said, frowning at me.

"To get some Excedrin," I said, pulling on my jeans. They seemed
a little loose; I hadn't realized I was losing weight. "I seem to
be out of Tylenol III." 

"Can't you get some more?" he said, looking puzzled. 

"You need a prescription for that," I said, as I pulled my
sweater over my head.

"Yeah, but you're a doctor," Josh said. "Can't you write a
prescription?"

"I can write prescriptions," I said, nodding, as I sat down and
began putting on my shoes. It wasn't easy; my hand still didn't
work right. "But I don't write prescriptions for myself, ever,
and the DEA frowns on doctors who write narcotic prescriptions
for themselves."

"So write it for me, and I'll go pick it up," he said, getting up
from the bed. "Where's the pad?"

"In my briefcase, in the closet," I said, without thinking. "But
I can't do that, Josh. I could put my medical license in jeopardy
doing that."

"Nobody has to know, Dana," he said, putting on his own shoes.
"We'll go to a drugstore in Maryland or something. It'll be okay.
Get out your pad and start writing."

"Josh, I can't," I said, shaking my head firmly, but inside I was
terrified. I could never be sure how Josh would react to anything
these days, and if he had been taking my medicine, if he had
become habituated to it, my refusal to get more could make him
angry enough to ... just make him really angry. 

But, thank heaven, it didn't -- which, I realized with relief,
was just one more sign of how hard Josh was working to improve
his impulse control. He just shrugged, and laughed.

"If you're sure," he said, grabbing the car keys from his side of
the dresser. "Come on, I'll drive you to the drugstore."

~*~*~*~*~*~

I was late to work the next morning, partly because I hadn't
slept well the night before and partly because -- for the first
time ever -- I was afraid to face Mulder. I knew Daniel would
have told him about our conversation yesterday, and I dreaded the
confrontation that I was sure was coming.

I'd never even imagined such a thing could be, but it was. I
didn't want to see my partner.

But when I got to our office, Mulder wasn't even there. 

There was a note on the desk saying that I should go home and
pack, and he would pick me up at my apartment at 10:30 because we
were flying to Miami this afternoon.

"The state attorney's office in Dade County called," the note
said. "One of the witnesses in the Longecker case is ill and may
not live much longer; he wants to bring the case before a grand
jury as soon as possible, and he's asked that we make ourselves
available to testify first thing tomorrow. FWM."

Well. That wasn't what I had expected at all, although of course
I had always known that I would have to testify in the case if it
ever went to trial. 

But should I? Could I leave Josh alone, miss our first joint
counseling session? Could I trust that he would be all right?
Daniel had mentioned Josh's needing medication, and I was sure
that he did, but the counselor Josh was seeing wasn't a
psychiatrist and couldn't prescribe the anti-depressants that
might save his life.

Maybe I should just write the prescription myself. There was no
question that I had to testify. I had autopsied the victims, and
I had read Longecker his rights, so my testimony was crucial to
the prosecution's case; without it, nothing Mulder had to say
would be admissible at trial.

And without the confession, we didn't have much of a case. We
couldn't use any of the evidence we'd collected on the base of
that confession if the confession itself was ruled involuntary --
defense lawyers call that kind of tainted evidence "fruit of the
poisoned tree," and they are very good at keeping it out of
court.

No, of course, I would have to go ...

I looked at my watch. It was 9:45. I practically ran outside and
hailed a cab.

~*~*~*~*~*

When I got to my apartment, Josh wasn't there.

I walked into the bedroom, opened the closet and took out the
already-packed bag that had been sitting there, unmolested and
gathering dust, for months now. I opened it, glancing inside to
make sure I had everything I needed, then I took two extra suits
and zipped them into a lightweight garment bag.

My hand was still throbbing, so I went into the kitchen to take
the Excedrin I'd bought the other night.

"What are you doing home, Dana?" came a dangerously soft voice
behind me. 

"Josh, you startled me," I said, putting my hand over my racing
heart. "I didn't hear you come in. What are you doing home? I
thought you had a job interview today."

"I asked you a question, Dana," Josh said again, and I recognized
the tone. But I could handle this. I'd gotten pretty good at
handling Josh, and it was too soon since the last blow-up for him
to get violent. But I forgot the suitcase and garment bag
sitting on the bed.

I was going somewhere, and he knew it. There was no point in
pretending.

"I have to go to Miami," I said, my heart still thumping. I was
surprised he didn't hear it. "I have to testify in that case we
were investigating when you and I met."

"I don't think so," Josh said, shaking his head, his upper lip
curling. "I think you're planning to leave. Are you leaving me,
Dana?"

"No, Josh, of course not," I said, with a nervous laugh. "This is
just a brief appearance before the grand jury."

"Just put the suitcase away, Dana," Josh said, so quietly that I
was really frightened. I actually began to think about drawing my
weapon, but that seemed so melodramatic. All I needed to do was
to stall him until Mulder got there, and then I could leave. "I
was going to call you and see if you wanted to come with us," I
said, brightly. "We won't be there long, but it'll give you a
chance to see some old friends, visit with your sister ..." 

"I'm not going to Miami, Dana, and neither are you," Josh
interrupted, but he sounded almost ... patient. He sounded as
though he was explaining something to a small child for the
umpteenth time.

"Josh, I have to go," I said, nervously. "I have to testify. I
Mirandized the suspect, and I did the autopsies. You know what
that means."

"I don't give a fuck what it means," Josh said, casually. "You're
not going. That's final."

"I am going, Josh," I said, trying to steel myself for what was
about to come. Maybe I did need my gun. "I have to go. I am under
subpoena. This is not optional."

But I had forgotten Josh's police-officer instincts. 

"I said you're not going, Dana," Josh said, and then his hand
shot out, too fast for me to react, and he grabbed my wrist,
twisted my arm up behind my back, forcing me to my knees, then
reached into my holster and took my gun. He jerked me to my feet,
and I cried out in pain, but he paid no attention. 

"Now," he said, pushing me toward the bedroom, "let's just go in
there and put that stuff away, and then we'll go for a walk or
something."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," I said, then I cried out again
as he jerked upward on my wrist.

"Dana, let's don't make this any worse than it already is, okay?"
he said, in a perfectly calm tone. "Just do what I tell you, and
we can end this little spat right now."

"I can't," I said, and tears came up in my eyes -- partly because
of the pain, but mostly because I felt so stupid for letting this
happen, and so helpless to stop it. "I can't, Josh. I have to go.
They'll cite me for contempt if I don't; they might even take my
badge."

"So what if they do?" he said, at last letting go of my wrist,
shoving me down onto the bed. My head hit the headboard hard, and
my rear end landed in the open suitcase; the latch ripped my
pantyhose and left a huge scratch on my leg.

"I've been thinking, Dana," Josh said, sitting down next to me as
though we weren't in the middle of another violent argument. "You
really ought to get out of the FBI. It seems to bring out all the
worst in you; so does that fag you work with. If you got a job at
a hospital somewhere, we'd have plenty of money."

"I am not quitting the FBI," I said, growing angry in spite of my
fear. "Just forget that." I struggled to sit up, but he pushed me
back down. I started to get up again, but then I saw my gun stuck
in the waistband of his jeans and I decided to stay where I was.

"Dana, be reasonable," he said. "I don't want to fight with you.
But we've got to think about our future, and we can't have a real
future if we don't have any money."

If I'd been thinking clearly, I never would have said what I said
next.

"I'm not sure we have a future together, Josh," I said.

I never even saw the blow coming. Josh's hard right hand rocketed
down on my face, slamming my head back against the headboard
again.

Then he hit me again, and I felt the blood running from my nose.

I tried to crawl away, but Josh grabbed my ankle. I kicked out at
him, and hit him squarely in the nose, knocking him backwards.

I heard him howl in anger and pain, and for just a moment I was
terrified, but then I got control of myself. Josh might beat the
life out of me, but this time, I was going down swinging.
Somehow, by telling me to quit, Josh had only reminded me that I
am an FBI agent and I'm capable of fighting back. 

I didn't wait to see what damage I had inflicted. I shook my foot
loose and crawled off the bed, running for the door. 

I almost made it, too. I was at the front door -- actually had
the door open -- when Josh came running up behind me and slammed
the door ... on my fingers.

I screamed as the heavy wooden door cut into the flesh; I thought
I might have more broken bones, but I was in no condition to
assess that right now. Josh was kicking me, slamming his fists
into me, cursing me with the foulest language imaginable ... all
I could do was curl up into a ball and cover my head as the blows
continued to fall.

Then, nothing.

~*~*~*~*~*~

I awoke, some time later, in the dark. There was a plastic
drinking straw shoved in my mouth, which was securely closed with
duct tape. My hands were taped together behind my back, and my
ankles were taped, too. 

I was, in essence, hog-tied -- and locked in my own closet.

I didn't know how long I had been unconscious; I don't know how
long I lay there, struggling -- to no avail -- against the
bindings. It couldn't have been very long, because I soon heard a
knock at my front door, then Mulder's voice, calling my name.

"Scully?" he called. "Scully, are you in there?"

I tried to make some noise that Mulder could hear, but nothing
was coming out, and it was hard to breathe. My nose was swollen
shut and I couldn't get air in or out; the straw, I suppose, was
Josh's way of trying to insure that I didn't asphyxiate.

It wasn't doing much good.

I thrashed around as much as possible, hoping Mulder would hear.
Finally, with no other way to make a sound, I beat my head
against the door. I saw stars, and the pain was nearly
unbearable, but finally, Mulder heard me.

And I heard him, very clearly, through the transom.

"Stand over there, Daniel," he was saying, very quietly. "Don't
move until I tell you to." I heard the familiar sound as he
chambered a round in his service weapon, readying it for firing. 

There was a sudden loud noise as Mulder kicked the door in, then
a brief silence. I could almost see him, his weapon at the ready,
scanning the room quickly.

"Scully?" he called out, and somehow I summoned the nerve to hit
the closet door with my head one last, painful time. Almost
immediately, I heard the doorknob rattling, then the scratching
sound of a lock pick, and at last, the door was open.

"Oh, Jesus," Mulder said. 

The way I was facing, I couldn't see him, but I could hear him.
He was terrified; he was also furious. 

"What is it?" Daniel said, from the hallway.

"Daniel, stay where you are," Mulder ordered, kneeling beside me,
pulling the tape from my mouth. I spit out the straw on my own.

"Scully?" he said, and I could hear the fear in his voice.
"Scully, are you all right?"

"No," I said, and I burst into tears.

I know he wanted to stay and comfort me, but he still had his
weapon out, and I knew he had to make sure Josh was gone before
he could finish freeing me, or let Daniel in to examine me.

"Hang on just a minute, Scully, okay?" he said, rising again. I
nodded that I understood.

A scant minute later, he was back. 

"Come on in, Daniel," he said, kneeling behind me. I heard the
snick of his pocketknife opening and felt the pressure on my
hands and feet ease as he cut through the tape.

When I looked up, Daniel was standing over me. "Oh, God, Dana,"
he said, shaking his head. He looked positively ill.

"I'm all right, Daniel," I said, trying to sit up, but Daniel
shook his head.

"Don't move yet, Dana," he said, kneeling beside the open door.
"Just lie down for a minute and let me look you over." He looked
up at Mulder, who was standing next to him, watching the door,
holding his gun. 

"Call 911, Fox," Daniel said, quietly, "We have to get her to a
hospital."

"No!" I begged. "No, please, Daniel, no hospital. I don't want
this reported to the police."

"Too late," Mulder said, tightly, as he holstered his gun, then
took out his cell phone and dialed the three numbers. 

"What do you mean?" I said, confused, but Mulder didn't answer
me. He was talking to the operator, telling her who he was and
that there was an officer in trouble. 

"Dana, look at me," Daniel said, holding up a finger. "You know
the drill. Track my finger without moving your head."

I complied, and the results must have been good, because I could
see some of the tension leave Daniel's face. He reached into his
pocket for a penlight and checked my pupils. All good. What was
bad was that the circulation was restored to my hand, and it was
beginning to hurt like hell. In my foggy, post-concussion state,
I couldn't quite remember why.

I was still lying in the dark closet with my back to the wall. I
rolled over and held my battered right hand up in front of my
face to see what was wrong, and I heard a gasp of horror. 

I don't know if it came from Mulder, from Daniel or from me. It
could have been all three.

The hand was covered in blood and swollen to about twice its
normal size. The flesh over the medial phalanges of all four
fingers -- the bones between the first and second knuckles -- was
lacerated and contused, and I was sure the bones were fractured.

On the middle and index fingers, the cuts were so deep that I
could see the bones themselves. 

They were shattered.

Looking back on it, I know I not only had a concussion, but I
must have been getting shocky; I was trembling, furiously, and I
couldn't speak coherently. 

Nothing was making much sense.

I looked up at Daniel, unable to fully comprehend what had
happened. But I knew that he would know what to do.

"Daniel, can you fix my hand?" I asked, holding it up to him.

"Oh, _God_," Mulder said, his jaw clenched tight. "I'm gonna
_kill_ that motherfucker for this."

Daniel, to judge by his expression, was equally angry, but as
always, he was completely professional. He took my injured hand
and looked at it carefully.

"Dana, do you have a medical bag?" he asked me. 

I shook my head.

"There's a first-aid kit in the bathroom," Mulder said.

"Get it," Daniel said, interrupting him. "Quick."

Mulder ran.

~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time the ambulance got there, Daniel had cleaned, splinted
and dressed all four fingers and had wrapped my hand in several
protective layers of sterile gauze. He did an excellent job of
it, too, which I am forced to admit, a lot of doctors wouldn't
have. We tend to leave the dressings to nurses or medical
students, and as a result, we're not very good at it when it's
our turn.

When the paramedics came in, Daniel identified himself and told
them he needed a blood pressure, stat. It must have been low; he
ordered a vasopressor to boost my blood pressure, and an
antibiotic added to the IV they'd started.

They took me to Georgetown Medical Center, and although Daniel
didn't have privileges there, I refused to consent to the surgery
until the chief of staff agreed that he could scrub in. 

It wasn't actually much of a sales job; Daniel is a highly
regarded orthopedic surgeon, and the chief was clearly in awe of
his reputation.

Daniel also had them call in a hand specialist he knows, for
which I was very grateful. I was recovering enough to know that I
was in grave danger of losing some of the function in that hand,
and a lot of surgeons -- especially surgeons with Daniel's
reputation -- might have tried to do the repairs themselves. But
the hand is a complex structure, and a vital one, and a
specialist is always best.

The whole thing took several hours, and they kept having to
inject more anesthetic, but finally, they were done. Daniel
didn't do the surgery himself -- he wouldn't have, even if we
were at Bethesda, because we are simply too close for that to be
ethical -- but he assisted, and he talked to me, told me
everything that was happening, and I felt better just knowing
that it was he who was caring for me.

While I was in recovery, I had a visit from a neurologist Daniel
had also called in. This doctor examined me, ordered a CT scan
and then pronounced that I had closed-head trauma; in other
words, a concussion, which I already knew.

After the neurologist okayed it, I at last got an injection of
Demerol for pain, and I drifted off to sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~

I awoke in a hospital bed, with Mulder sitting beside me.

"Hey, sleepyhead," he said, trying to smile.

"Hey, yourself," I said groggily. "What time is it?"

"Late," Mulder said, and his face turned grim again. "Too late
for us to go to Miami."

Miami. In the midst of all the medical and surgical procedures, I
had almost pushed from my mind the nightmare that brought me here
in the first place.

"Scully," Mulder said quietly, "I need you to tell me something.
Did Josh hit you because he knew you were going to Miami?"

I nodded, numbly. I knew what Mulder was getting at. Josh hadn't
just beaten his girlfriend; he had assaulted a federal agent with
the intent to prevent her from doing her duty. That was a federal
offense, and it meant that this case was in the FBI's
jurisdiction -- exactly where I didn't want it.

"I understand that this wasn't the first time," Mulder said
gently. 

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. "Did Daniel tell you?" I
asked, keeping my voice very low in case anyone was walking by.

"Yes, he told me. I'm sorry, Scully."

"Sorry for what?" I said, surprised. That wasn't what I had
expected to hear. "None of this is your fault."

"I don't believe that," he said, shaking his head. "And even if I
did, I'm still sorry -- sorry you've been hurt by someone you
love, sorry that you thought you had to lie to me, and sorry most
of all that I don't know what the hell to do about it." 

"You don't have to do anything," I said, trying to sound
confident. "Josh is in counseling; he's getting help. Please
believe me, Mulder, I wouldn't stay if I didn't think he meant it
when he says he wants things to be different."

"Scully, listen to what you're saying," he said, and I could hear
the first traces of anger in his voice. "You sound just like
every domestic abuse victim who ever lived: 'He's sorry, he won't
do it again.' It's bullshit."

"This is different ... " I began, but Mulder interrupted me.

"It is _not_ different," he said. "Not for most of these guys,
and certainly not for Josh." He broke off, suddenly, as though he
had said more than he meant to say, and I knew that, hard as he
was trying to be calm, in reality he was about as angry as he
ever gets. 

In fact, I was pretty sure he _had_ said more than he meant to.

"Mulder, what are you keeping from me?" I asked. I was afraid
that I already knew the answer, though.

Mulder didn't answer right away. He reached into his pocket and
took out a folded paper, unfolded it and then sat there, just
looking at it silently for long time.

I recognized the logo at the top: It was an NCIC check, the FBI's
record of all reported offenses and warrants for some person. I
was pretty sure I knew whose this one was.

And there was more than one page.

"Is that Josh's?" I asked, with so little inflection in my voice
that it almost alarmed me.

Mulder just nodded, looking at the paper. He didn't speak.

"May I see it?" I said, still calm -- or in shock, I wasn't sure
which. 

"If you want to," he said, but he didn't hand me the papers.

Now that I thought about it, I decided that I didn't actually
want to. 

"Just tell me what it says," I said.

"All of it, or just the part that pertains to this discussion?"
Mulder said, and then he was looking at me, looking at me with
that keen, assessing expression that I've come to know so well.

"You decide," I said, swallowing hard. My mouth was dry, and I
was beginning to feel light-headed. 

"Let me ask you something first," Mulder said. "Did Josh say what
he was doing in that club the night you met?"

"He was there with his sister," I said, puzzled. "Mulder, where
are you going with this?"

"Where I'm going is to tell you that Josh has been lying to you
from the start," Mulder said very gently. "Josh does have a
sister, but I'm pretty damn sure she wasn't in that bar that
night. She's a housewife with three kids and she lives in Topeka,
Kansas."

For a minute, I couldn't speak. I felt as though my lungs were
paralyzed. "Are you sure?" I said, at last, although I already
knew the answer.

"I'm sure," Mulder said softly. "I'm sorry, Scully." 

"Then what was he doing there?" I asked him. "What reason would
he have to hang out in a gay bar?"

Mulder shrugged, and looked out the window, as though the scenery
fascinated him. 

"The only reason I can see," he said slowly, "is that he goes to
places like that because he's figured out that there will
sometimes be straight women who are there with men they care for,
but who aren't much good to them, if you know what I mean. Men
like me."

"Mulder, don't say that," I said, feeling a stab of guilt. He
_was_ blaming himself. "I told you, this isn't your fault."

"Yeah, it is," he said, "in a way." Then he looked back at me and
smiled, or tried to. "Even so," he said, his voice dropping
lower, "I still don't think I want to let you out of my life."

I nodded, slowly, and moistened my lips, but Mulder didn't move
to get up, or hold my hand, or anything that might have signaled
that the discussion was over. 

There was more -- and it was in that NCIC report.

"What else did you find out about Josh?" I said, my voice
croaking.

"That Josh lived in Topeka himself until he moved to Miami 12
years ago," Mulder said, looking down at the printout as though
it was easier than looking at me. "He was indeed a police
officer, but he was dismissed from the Miami-Dade Police
Department six years ago when he was convicted of felony assault
on his wife, Maria Sanchez Larrimore."

His wife. Strange that Josh had never mentioned a wife. 

Or a felony conviction.

Or that he actually was a cop for six years, not ten, and that he
was fired rather than resigned.

Well, at least that explained why he didn't want to apply for a
job at the FBI Academy, I thought, amazed at how calmly I was
taking this.

"What did he do to her?" I asked, although I'm not really sure
why. Maybe I was dissociating, treating this as though it were
just another case Mulder and I were discussing, and that was the
next logical question.

"He nearly strangled her with an extension cord, which he had
also used as a whip," Mulder said. "He fractured her larynx."

He was trying to be as matter-of-fact as I was, but he was
failing. Of course he was -- he wasn't on Demerol and he wasn't
in shock. 

"She was a singer, Scully," he went on. "She taught voice
lessons. Think about it: She loves to sing, loves to teach
singing, so he fractures her larynx and she can't sing anymore."

He stopped for a moment. I knew what was next.

"And you're a surgeon," he said, finally. "A forensic
pathologist."

"I know," I whispered, looking -- for the first time -- at the
huge dressing wrapped around my right hand. I kept staring at my
hand, wondering if -- despite Daniel's quick, skilled care -- it
would ever work properly again.

Staring at it wouldn't help, of course. I just didn't know what
else to do.

"Did he do time?" I asked, not really caring anymore, but feeling
that I had to act out my part in this script right down to the
final curtain.

Mulder nodded. "He served two years of a four-year sentence and
was paroled."

I looked away again, swallowing hard. "How long have you known
this, Mulder?" I asked.

"I didn't know until this morning." He looked at me then, with
the sad smile. "Until Daniel told me what had happened, I'd been
able -- just barely -- to resist the temptation to run the NCIC
check."

"Thank you for that," I said, although I didn't know why. 

For a minute, I just lay there, looking at my hands, looking from
the dressing on my right hand to the bare fourth finger on my
left. 

For some reason, it suddenly seemed significant; in that moment,
I felt certain that the utter failure of this relationship had
ended forever any hope I might have had of marrying and having a
family of my own.

"Are you going to arrest him?" I said, finally, still looking at
my hands.

"No," Mulder said, and something in his tone made me look up. His
jaw was set in a grim line, but there was compassion in his eyes.

"Don't get me wrong," Mulder said, and for the first time, he
reached out his hand and touched me, just brushing his fingers
across my cheek. "The way I feel right now, I would happily take
that son of a bitch all the way down. But I know you still love
him, in spite of all this, so I'm not going to do that. I don't
want to be the person who takes him away from you."

Did I still love Josh? The question seemed important, but somehow
I wasn't sure I could face it right now. The protective numbness
that had enveloped me when I saw the NCIC sheet was fading away;
the pain was just beginning.

Josh had lied to me. He had lied to me from the start. He had
hurt me, and deceived me, isolated me and treated me so badly
that I had lost the ability to judge truth from lies, lost all
ability to resist his abuse. 

But did I still love him?

Yes. 

I still believed -- I had to believe -- that the childhood abuse
he had described was true. Knowing that he was a convicted felon
only made it easier for me to believe it.

But whatever the reason Josh was what he was, it didn't matter.
It didn't change the fact that I could not go on sharing my life
with the person that childhood had produced.

I knew I should say something to Mulder, but I didn't know what.
My life was coming apart, and I knew he would be there to put me
back together -- I knew that with a sureness that could not be
shaken -- but I also knew that it would be a while before I could
bring myself to admit how badly I had messed things up.

I couldn't ask for his love right now, or his friendship, or
Daniel's. I needed to be alone.

But there was something that still puzzled me.

"Mulder, why did you bring Daniel with you when you came to pick
me up?" I asked.

"Because Daniel assisted you in that autopsy," he said, with an
almost apologetic half-smile, "which means that he's a witness."

"He was going with us?" I asked.

"He was," Mulder said, nodding. "And he still will, when you're
well enough to go."

"I'm going eventually, I suppose," I said, and then I laughed --a
little hysterically, I think. "But I really don't think I ever
want to see Miami again. Do you, Mulder?" 

I had started out laughing, but now I was beginning to cry. "Do
you want to go back to Miami, Mulder?" I said, my voice breaking.
I felt dizzy; I turned my head away, hoping Mulder would leave,
but of course he wouldn't. I heard the bed rail lowering and then
I felt Mulder's arms around me, supporting me.

"Just breathe, Scully," he said, half sitting on the bed next to
me. "It'll pass in a moment."

"I'm the doctor, Mulder," I said, but my voice sounded distant in
my own ears, and I knew I was near fainting.

"You're the doctor," he said, and he pulled me closer. "But I'm
the psychologist, and I reserve the right to comment on emotional
reactions to stress."

He was trying to cheer me up, and I wanted him to, but we both
knew it wasn't going to work. Not yet, anyway. In time, after I
could feel again, after I had cried and raged and burned with
shame and learned to ...

Learned to live alone.

The roaring in my ears was quieting down now, and my vision was
clear. I knew the fainting spell was over, and I lifted my head
and -- without thinking -- laid it on Mulder's shoulder.

Which, really, was the only place I ever wanted it to be, right
from the start.

He didn't say anything. He just tightened his hold on me as the
last of the icy numbness melted away, and I began to sob like a
little girl.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Josh, to no one's surprise -- not even mine, really -- was
arrested two days later in Maryland, trying to buy Lortab with a
prescription he'd forged on my prescription pad. Pharmacists are
pretty good at spotting fakes, and this time was no exception.

I hadn't even thought that he might steal my pad, but as I said,
I wasn't surprised to learn that it was gone. And of course, he
had my service weapon in his possession, which added a robbery
charge and a possession-by-a-felon firearms charge to all his
other troubles.

Josh was looking at some hard federal time. I wanted to weep when
I realized that, but I could not have told you whether it was
from relief or sadness.

I couldn't tell you now.

When I was released from the hospital the next day, I went home
with Daniel.

I told Mulder that it was because Daniel would be better able to
care for me, and that was true as far as it went, but the real
truth was that I still couldn't quite bring myself to face Mulder
alone. I still had too much guilt, too many bad feelings left,
and too much anger -- and I didn't want to make him the victim of
any of that. With him, I could let go and let it all out, but I
don't want to.

He doesn't deserve it.

But I know that I will go and stay with him someday soon, when I
can be with him without hurting him, and that being with him will
be as lovely, warm and comforting as ever -- and that I will
still be just a little bit sad.

I am not sure the sadness will ever really leave me now. Yet from
the moment I stepped into Daniel's apartment, my heart felt
lighter, and I felt secure and calm in a way I'd almost forgotten
I could feel.

For the next several weeks, until I could use my hand again, it
was going to be just the three of us, just our little circle, the
circle that had been so strong and embracing until the night Josh
had lied and deceived his way into my life.

As I settled in with Daniel, I let myself feel again the power of
that circle. I let myself relax and allow him to care for me and
love me and protect me in a way I thought I could never again
allow from any man.

But as I have said before, I knew that I was safe with Daniel --
and with his love for me, real love, even if it was, in the
beginning, founded in the love that Daniel and I both had for the
same man.

I have never loved anyone the way I love Mulder; I know, with
absolute certainty that I never will. Nor, I think, will he ever
love anyone the way he loves me. 

His love for Daniel is different. That is the love of lovers, a
conjugal love; Daniel is the love of Mulder's life, without
question, but there is a corner in Mulder's soul that is mine,
forever and always. 

But Daniel -- my sweet, wonderful Daniel -- who had every right
in the world to resent me, accepted me and made room for me in
their lives almost from the start of their relationship. 

Josh, on the other hand, systematically cut me off from anyone
else who might want, need or deserve any of my love. It may have
masqueraded as jealousy, but it was isolation. He isolated me,
even from my own mother.

On Mulder's advice, I joined a support group for battered women,
where I came gradually to understand what had happened -- that
Josh had kept me, as much as possible, from contact with anyone
who might have helped me see what was happening to me. 

He couldn't keep me away from Mulder, but he did all he could to
damage the relationship, to try to kill the trust I had in
Mulder, so that when Mulder tried to warn me, I wouldn't listen 

Thank God I still have them--Mulder, and Daniel, and my mother.

For the first three nights that I was at Daniel's, I slept on the
couch and Daniel slept in the bed -- over Daniel's protests, but
he's 6-foot-3, as I said, and he can't sleep as comfortably on a
sofa as I can.

On the fourth night, Mulder came over, and stayed the night with
Daniel. It felt very much like old times, and if things weren't
back to normal, I at least had hope now that they soon would be. 

We all had breakfast together the next morning, and Mulder sat
and talked to me while Daniel showered and shaved, and kissed me
tenderly when he left.

Of course, he kissed Daniel, too -- and for once, I didn't
pretend that I wasn't watching.

The next night, I woke up in the grip of a nightmare, shrieking
and flailing my arms around, and then Daniel was there with me,
calming me, holding me, bringing me a glass of water.

When I woke up again later that same night, shivering with
fright, I didn't even think twice -- I crept into Daniel's
bedroom, crawled under the covers and curled up in his arms.

We didn't talk about it; there didn't really seem to be any need.
By tacit agreement, for the rest of the time I was there, I slept
with Daniel -- unless, of course, Mulder was there.

And if he was there, well, I stayed in the apartment, on the
couch. If I felt like watching television, I watched, but I
didn't flip on the tube just to drown out the sounds from the
bedroom, and I didn't go for walks I didn't want to take, either.


You see, one truth I have taken away from this whole horrible
mess -- one thing I hadn't wanted to face before -- is that it
wasn't just a lack of heterosexual relations that drove me into
Josh's arms, or into the arms of so many strangers before him.

It also wasn't just the constant physical stimulation of being
held and touched and kissed by my sweet boys. It's also not just
because they are gorgeous hunks and I could easily imagine myself
with either of them, although that's part of it. 

It's that what they do when they make love -- what I see, and
what I imagine -- seriously turns me on.

It has ever since the beginning. 

That shouldn't have surprised me: Heterosexual men are
notoriously fond of pornography featuring female/female
relations. I just never thought of it working the other way.

And I never thought that Mulder knew how I felt.

But he does know, and he is not bothered by it. I don't know how
I know that; I only know that our ability to communicate without
words has returned to us, and that he knows, and that he
understands.

It was only when I realized and accepted how I felt that I truly
began to understand what had happened to me, and what I needed to
do to regain my self-esteem and my emotional balance.

I began to stay home at night, comfortable and happy with myself
as I had been before.

Because now that I knew what I was really feeling, now that I'd
quit feeling like some kind of pervert, I felt much less driven
to prove that I was still heterosexual by going out and screwing
the first stranger I could find who looked like Mulder. 

Or -- more and more often -- the first stranger who looked like
Daniel. 

Now, I stay with them, and I don't worry about what it means.

And yet ... I am still, in the end, alone.

And I still love Josh, and I still miss him. As crazy as it
seems, I still cry some nights because he is not there.

You see, in spite of all the pain, there really were good times.
There were times when he made me laugh, and there were times when
he touched my heart. 

There were times when I was tired and needy and he took care of
me.

I know he didn't always do it for the reasons that I had hoped;
his motive, ultimately, was to make me so dependent on him that I
would never leave him, to control me in a way that guaranteed I
would always be around.

It might have worked, too, had it not been for the love of two
good men.

After three weeks, Daniel took me back to the hand specialist,
who examined my hand with great pleasure and pronounced my
recovery "spectacular." He ordered physical therapy -- I almost
laughed at that -- but said he saw no reason I couldn't go back
to performing autopsies as well as I ever had.

Of course, the scars are still there ... and always will be.

~*~*~*~*~*~

We are going to Miami next week to testify before the grand jury
-- Mulder, Daniel and I. I am almost looking forward to it.

The week after that, I have to give testimony in a preliminary
hearing against Josh. It will be the first time I have seen him
since that last, horrible battle. 

I will have to face him, and whether he is angry or he is hurt,
whether he is defiant or apologetic, it will hurt. He will be
"jail pale," and frightened, I know, because the word will get
out, if it hasn't already, that he was once a cop, and then he
will have to spend his jail time in protective isolation.

Which, I suppose, is what he thought he was giving me --
protective isolation.

It will hurt, seeing him that way. But I will get through it. I
will testify to all of it, and Josh will be bound over to a grand
jury and eventually convicted and sent away to a federal
penitentiary for a long, long time.

And that will hurt even more.

But whatever happens, however much it hurts, there is one thing I
know, now, with a certainty born of hard, painful experience.

My boys will be there with me.

And I will not be alone.

~*~*~*~*~*~



Contemplating


bitch
you bitch
you fucking bitch

dressed in brown corduroy and white linen I
wander slowly down the stairs to the window
of cracked paint and wet glass and
there I stand 
staring at the same world 
that was there when I left 
my bedroom

shit
shit I
shit I ain't dyin

there's nothing romantic about cracked paint it
smells of dust and 
days ago flies buzzed around it stirred
into life by the sun on the dumpster and
look you can see it from here and
lord can't you smell it

shit ain't I dyin

two hours now and 
the baby will cry and sweet child she
wants her mama's breast but 
mama ain't dyin fast enough so
baby sweet baby will drink milk
from a bottle
take it now darling and remember
mama loves you

bitch
you bitch
you fucking bitch

smile now sweetie because
here comes the bus and
sister will be home with her lunchbox her
little kindergarten mat tucked softly under one arm and
lord ain't I dyin fast enough to suit you 

touch the window one more time and
say farewell to the dumpster 
open the door and sweet girl don't you love me I
can feel it 
take this snack my love and sit
next to the others 
misterogers will love you 
when I am gone

shit I ain't dyin
ain't I dyin

there's dishes in the sink and 
flies would love to buzz here by my window but
I will take more dishes to the sink and there 
they will sit and make
a nice home for the flies
because lord I ain't dyin fast enough

somebody caulk this window for my babies
when I am gone
when daddy comes home and I shuffle off to the kitchen
to become
that fucking bitch again
and lord don't daddy love his fucking bitch

shit I ain't dyin 
why ain't I dyin
and lord don't you smell the death on me from here

kiss daddy goodnight sweet baby and 
don't wake when mama screams 
tomorrow it'll be over and 
my dust will settle on the window sweet baby
so hushabye and don't you cry and drink your milk 
alone

if the dumpster's gone tomorrow
I just don't know what I'll do
because shit I ain't dyin
fast enough for that man


JLH