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

The First Side of the Triangle
Dana Scully

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


I don't know when I first figured out that Mulder was gay.

I know it was a long time ago; several years, in fact. I just
don't remember exactly when. I do know that I strongly suspected
it not long after I met him.

By our fourth or fifth field assignment, I knew it for certain.

That was when Mulder finally worked up his nerve to leave our
hotel and go out looking for -- well, for someone to spend his
evening with. Seemingly throwing caution to the winds, he told me
where he would be, in case I needed to find him in a hurry. I
don't remember the name of the bar. It wasn't anything as obvious
as "The Pink Triangle," but it wasn't much more subtle than that,
either.

We hadn't been partners very long -- just a matter of months --
so of course we had never discussed anything so personal.
Somehow, though, he had already decided that not only did I know,
but that I would not condemn him or rat him out to our fellow FBI
agents, many of whom could and probably would have made his life
an even greater hell than it already was, had they known.

He had me figured correctly. No great surprise there: he is a
profiler, after all.

Yes, I knew, although I couldn't say how, exactly, but I can't
say that I cared, either. I mostly just shrugged it off. So he's
gay. So what? It had nothing to do with me. He was a brilliant
partner, fun if sometimes frustrating to work with, and I admired
his quick intellect about as often as I contemplated strangling
him for his crackpot theories. Who he slept with was of no
concern to me at all.

Well -- almost no concern. I am a medical doctor, and I know all
too well that there are some serious health risks associated with
male/male sex. So one night, when Mulder stopped by my room just
before he went out, I decided to risk a gentle query as to
whether he was protecting himself properly.

I was more than a little afraid that he'd be angry, but I must
have phrased the question just right, because he smiled at me,
almost fondly. 

"I'm always careful, Scully," he'd said. "I always have been.
Don't worry about me." 

Then he'd given me a quick, one-armed hug and a kiss on the
forehead and gone out.

And that was nice. I mean, really nice. The hug was warm and
affectionate, and it was lovely to have won his confidence -- and
besides, he just looked so damn good that night, dressed in
jeans, a heather-green sweater and his old leather jacket. He
always dressed well, whether for work or for pleasure.

Well, all right, he did dress like a slob when he was just
hanging around his apartment on the weekends; old, faded T-
shirts, ratty sweat pants, that kind of thing. I discovered that
the first time I came by his apartment after work. But whatever
he was wearing, I liked looking at him. He didn't pay much
attention to his looks, with his dates or with me, and that was,
paradoxically, one of the most attractive things about him.

And I soon decided that having a gay partner could be a real
advantage; it was nice to be able to be close to him, to
appreciate his good looks, even to express affection for him,
without having to worry about romantic complications.

There were complications sometimes, certainly, but not the kind
you might expect. For instance, I was amused, more than once,
when various women we encountered in our travels started making
overtures to him, only to meet with a polite rebuff.

If you only knew, sister, I would think. Now, get your slimy
little hands off my partner -- right NOW.

Yep. I was jealous, and hard as it might be to believe, I had
reason, because Mulder does like women; not sexually, of course,
but as friends. He really likes being with women, and he has a
lot of empathy for us. I wasn't about to give up my place in his
life to some bimbo he'd met on assignment; no way, no how.

But although the women made me jealous, the men he actually slept
with never did. They were here today, gone tomorrow. Mulder was
always ready to move on by morning.

Sometimes, if I thought about it, Mulder's footloose love life
did seem a little strange. He and I didn't socialize much outside
the office, but there were times when I'd drop by his apartment,
or when we'd be on an out-of-town assignment, and there he'd be
with one of his dates. I didn't go out of my way to meet them; it
usually happened by accident, when I was stepping outside my room
for ice or a soft drink. More often, he'd just nod or smile,
acknowledging my presence, then we'd go our separate ways. Some -- 
a very few -- he introduced to me; we'd exchange pleasantries,
and I would leave.

I don't think Mulder was deliberately keeping secrets from me. He
just didn't think I would be interested, and really, I wasn't.
But I must admit, I was curious as to why I never saw any of his
dates a second time. There were quite a few of them that I
thought he could easily have gotten serious about; very
attractive, very polite, well-spoken: the kind you'd think anyone
in their right mind would fall for. 

But he'd never, so far as I know, made a commitment to a lover.
No man, no matter how intelligent or attractive, had ever stayed
in Mulder's life for long. I told myself it was none of my
business, but in truth, I'm just conventional enough to find it
truly sad. 

Overall, though, we were comfortable with the situation, even on
those occasions when I chanced to walk by his room when he was
kissing someone good-bye at the door. He didn't seem disturbed by
it at all.

Certainly, I never tried to catch him kissing anyone. I never
wanted to violate his privacy. When I did see him, though, it
was ... interesting, even faintly erotic, to see Mulder's hunky
dates savoring the shape and texture of those full, soft lips,
and to see how much he liked what they were doing, too.

Probably the only really awkward time came about six months into
our partnership, while we were on a case out of town. There was a
ship coming into port shortly after midnight, and the master-at-
arms had two sailors in custody who were exhibiting very strange
and violent behavior. We -- or rather, Mulder -- thought this
might be the break we needed to find the source of the worms we'd
encountered in the Arctic.

Me? I thought what I always think: Wherever Mulder thinks the
investigation is going, he's going to follow it, and all I can do
is to hang on for dear life and try to restrain his wilder
impulses and unsupported leaps of logic.

The ship made port early, however; I got the call around 10 p.m.
I threw on my robe, walked down the hall to Mulder's room and
knocked on the door; after a few seconds, Mulder opened it,
wearing nothing but jeans. On the rumpled bed behind him, I saw a
very handsome, very naked young man, who was stretched out on his
stomach, sleeping peacefully.

I averted my eyes as quickly as I could and told Mulder about the
call. He thanked me, asked politely if I'd excuse him for a
moment, and then shut the door. Fifteen minutes later, we were
dressed and on our way. I apologized for waking him, and he
assured me that it was no problem. We never mentioned it again.

But as I said, once I knew he was keeping himself safe, Mulder's
sexual orientation wasn't on my list of things to worry about.

Not, that is, until my father died.

Mulder was just trying to comfort me, and that was lovely of him.
But then he had to go and touch my face.

Mulder's gentle touch was a shattering revelation: I knew, with
that one caress, what a terrible mistake I had made. I had let
down my guard with him, let him get past the barriers, because I
thought he could not possibly be a threat. 

I was wrong. 

You want to know what happened?

I trembled.  

That's all. I trembled when he touched me, and it wasn't from
grief. It was from desire. My body was simply responding to his touch;
his flesh was male flesh, whatever his orientation, and his touch
was merely doing to me all the things that a man's touch normally
does. 

That was what I told myself. I thought -- or maybe, I simply
hoped -- that it was purely physical. 

But I promise you, that thought didn't last long at all. I don't
respond very well sexually to men I don't love; I never have.
There was a good reason why this simple touch was sending my
sexual temperature soaring into fever range.

I had fallen in love with him.

And it hurt to realize that. Oh, God, it hurt. Because however
much he loves me -- and he does, he does -- his sexual
orientation is a line drawn between us that cannot be crossed. 

It shouldn't matter, really. This love we have for each other
goes far deeper than the love of one lover for another. The
intimate connection between us couldn't be much stronger than it
already is.

But however intimate it is, it will go no further. There is
nothing behind his caresses but love; strong love, compassionate,
understanding, wonderful love, but in the end only platonic love,
a love of the spirit, a love with need but without desire. 

Yes, I love him. I also want him. But he is what he is, and I
know that he will never want me.  

I told myself I could deal with that. I forced myself to lock my
feelings away in the darkest, most distant corner of my brain. I
refused to think about it. I kept it hidden and I promised myself
that I would never, ever let him know.

What more did I need, anyway? I got to look at him, I got to be
alone with him and talk to him, I got to touch him just about
anytime I liked, and I got to feel his touch, too. 

I told myself that I could live on that forever if I had to.

And I still could not stop myself from hoping, foolish as I knew
it to be. I knew he was not and never could be attracted to me;
in fact, I'd known it for some time. I had asked him once, when
we were in a particularly relaxed frame of mind, whether he'd
actually had an affair with Inspector Phoebe Green or ever
thought about it. 

I remember that night so well; he was stretched out on his
stomach on my living room floor, wearing his worn-out jeans and
white T-shirt, looking over the end-of-year report we were going
to file with AD Skinner. I remember how beautiful he was, and how
happy I was to be with him that night. 

That wasn't unusual. Mulder and I spent a lot of quiet evenings
together, although those evenings were entirely devoted to work.
He rarely dated when we were in D.C. Coming out, you see, is not
an intelligent option in the FBI -- which is pretty funny, when
you think about it. After all, we work in a building named for
one of the great closet drag queens of all time. That doesn't
mean that the agents who work there are any more tolerant than
any other sworn law-enforcement officers in the nation.  

I didn't mind spending time with him, although between travel
time and late-evening report time, my social life had dropped to
nothing. We spent so much time together that the Bureau was abuzz
with the rumor that we were lovers.

But the rumors helped him stay in the closet, and if that was
where he had to be, I was happy to help -- although it was a bit
of a problem that every other man I knew now thought I was spoken
for.

Mulder had made quite a few enemies because of the X Files
investigations, too, so he was even more vulnerable to
retribution than the average gay agent -- if there is such a
thing. He had to be extremely circumspect, and that meant no
dating where the bosses might see him.

When I asked him about Phoebe, he shook his head. 

"Nope," he said, still looking at the file. "Not with Phoebe or
any other woman." 

For a moment, he didn't say anything else, and I was afraid again
that I had offended him, but then he put down the file and looked
at me thoughtfully.

"I guess that is just a little unusual," he said reflectively, as
though we were discussing some aspect of a case and not his most
intimate self. "I know a lot of men who've made at least some
attempt at having a straight relationship. In fact, I'd guess
that most gay men have at one time or another."

"Didn't you, with Phoebe?" I asked. "Emotionally, at least?"

He shook his head again. 

"Phoebe's a fag hag," he said, with just a trace of contempt. "And
not in a good way, either. She's one of those who's always trying
to screw gay men. I think it represents the ultimate challenge
for her, the greatest possible proof of her attractiveness. She
wanted to try it with me, but it just wasn't going to happen." 

"But I saw you kiss her," I reminded him, maybe just a bit
archly. 

"Kissing isn't sex," he said, wrinkling his nose a little. "I
kiss women who are my friends all the time. I kind of like it; I
mean, it seems so completely normal and socially acceptable, but
really, it's almost kinky, given what I am. So there I am, being
kinky right in front of people, and they never even know it."

I laughed, as he had meant for me to, and he gave me that smile
he always gives me when he's made me happy. It has always touched
me to know how much that matters to him.

He rolled over onto his side, propping his head on his hand. 

"Sex with women was never an option for me, Scully," he said.
"I've always known what I am. It wasn't the most welcome
discovery I ever made; nobody wants to be hated for being what
they are, and I was already Jewish, for God's sake. Being gay as
well seemed kind of like double jeopardy."

I laughed a little at that, too, and he smiled again, but I
thought there was some real sadness behind his eyes, and that
worried me. 

"Are you happy with your life, Mulder?" I asked him, more
quietly.

He really smiled at me then, giving me that crooked smile that I
love so much. 

"Yeah," he said. "I'm okay with myself. Don't worry about me."

Yeah, that was me: His Mama Scully, always worrying about him.

"It's just that ... it must be hard to live with that fear, that
danger, from people who hate you for what you are," I said. "I
don't want anyone to hurt you."

"No one's going to hurt me, Scully. Don't forget, I carry a gun,"
he said, grinning wickedly and pointing his index finger at me.
"Bang."

I smiled again.

"But to get back to your original question," he went on, more
seriously, "I never had any thought that I could change, or that
I should try straight sex just once, you know, just to be sure.
It's just not me. And I think most of us, gay or straight, know 
deep down what we are. I mean, did you ever think to yourself, 
'You know, I should have sex with a woman, just once, just to 
make sure I'm really straight'?"

I shook my head. 

"No, but that doesn't mean there haven't been women who have ...
caught my eye," I said, feeling a little uneasy saying it, but
knowing he would understand. "It's never gone further than --
well, you know, imagination -- but it happens."

He shrugged one shoulder. 

"That's normal," he said, dismissively. "But it doesn't change
your perception of yourself as a heterosexual female, does it?"

"No," I said. "It doesn't."

"There you have it," he said, easily, as he rolled back onto his
stomach and picked up the file again. "Hey, Scully, help me out
here -- if I say Eugene Tooms is a hepatophage, does that make
sense if what I'm trying to say is that he eats people's livers?"

And that was the end of that conversation. Looking back on it, I
can see that I was already beginning to fall for him, already
beginning to hope that there was a chance for me, but at the
time, I was convinced that it was pure scientific curiosity.

We didn't discuss it again. We didn't need to. We remained
entirely comfortable with each other, right up until the time I
knew I had fallen in love with him.

Early in the third year of our partnership, I began to notice
that Mulder wasn't going out at night anymore. At first I was
afraid that something bad had happened, like some overly rough
sex that had hurt him. After all, when we were in the field, I
quite often slept in the room next to his and -- well, not to put
too fine a point on it, but I knew he liked it a little rough.

I was most afraid that in spite of the care he took, he had come
down with something too terrible to contemplate, like hepatitis
or HIV.

But I soon realized that wasn't it; he seemed happy, happier than
I'd ever seen him, in fact. It was a puzzle.

The first clue to that puzzle came, naturally enough, while we
were on a field investigation.

We were staying in a rotten little side-of-the-road motel with
walls as thin as rice paper, and I heard Mulder in the next room,
talking on the telephone, laughing. Several times, I heard his
voice drop lower, to a more intimate register.

The conversation went on for hours. I hoped whoever he was
talking to had at least let him call collect; otherwise, we were
going to have a hell of a time explaining the phone bill when we
turned in our expense report.

From then on, every time we were in the field, Mulder followed
his new pattern. He seldom went out at night anymore, preferring
to stay in and talk on the phone. When he did go out, it was with
me, to a movie or out for dinner. It was nice being with him; we
hadn't spent much purely social time together before, and he was
always a charming companion, but on these evenings, he would
always be a little distant, a little sad.

By that time, I knew what was up. He was missing someone
terribly, someone who, for whatever reason, couldn't talk to him
on the phone that night.

Mulder was in love.

I said nothing. I waited for him to tell me.

But he didn't.

Mulder was always careful to keep a low profile, but as I have
said, he never hid anything from me -- until now. His silence was
a major clue that this was -- for him, at least -- the real
thing.

Time went by, and I still knew little about the man my partner
loved, until the day I heard Mulder murmuring a name as he slept
next to me on our flight home from an investigation in Butte,
Montana.

Daniel. 

His new lover's name was Daniel. That sent a bit of a shiver down
my spine.

Even then, with all the turmoil I was in over Mulder, I was still
sincerely glad to know that he had found someone. I had always
thought that he needed that kind of love; now, it seemed, he
thought so, too. I had no illusions that he could ever find it
with me. I had gotten very good at loving Mulder from my side of
that line that we could never cross together.

I told myself that whatever Daniel turned out to be like, I would
try my damnedest to like him because he clearly meant so much to
Mulder. I also promised myself that this Daniel, whoever he was,
was going to get his ass severely kicked if he ever broke my
partner's heart or hurt him in any way.

When I finally met Daniel, it was -- as usual -- more or less by
accident.

I had called Mulder that morning to tell him that I'd be late for
work -- my mother's next-door neighbor had died, and Mom wanted
me to pick up the neighbor's son at the airport. I told Mulder
that it might take me until early afternoon to do all the driving
I needed to do. He said that was fine.

But the airport transfer took less time than I had expected, and
I got to work when it was not quite lunchtime. I walked
downstairs to the X Files office, and opened the door. 

There was Mulder, seated behind his desk, smiling happily at a
man, and a very attractive man at that: tall, slender, with dark
brown hair, deep, dark blue eyes and creamy, Irish-looking skin,
who appeared to be about Mulder's age or maybe a few years older.
He was perched on the edge of the desk, looking down at Mulder.

They were terrifically shocked when I walked through the door, I
can tell you. They sat back quickly, but not quickly enough to
keep me from seeing, of course, and they clearly knew it.

"Sorry," I said, seeing their flustered faces. "Am I
interrupting?"

Mulder, of course, recovered quickly; after all, unlike Daniel,
he knew who this was bursting into the office, and knew they
weren't about to be outed. 

"No, Scully, come on in," he said, standing up. "I've been
wanting you two to meet. Dana Scully, this is ... "

"Daniel," I interrupted, and I almost had to laugh at the looks
on their faces. "Oh, come on, Mulder. Did you really think I
didn't know?" 

"No," he said, and his resigned sigh, as he sank back into his
chair, was almost comical. "I should have known you'd figure it
out."

"I _am_ a trained investigator," I said, reaching for Daniel's
hand as he rose. "Daniel, I'm delighted to finally meet you."

"Same here, Dana," Daniel said, smiling as he took my hand. "I've
heard a lot about you."

"I wish I could say the same," I said, with a reproving look at
Mulder, who groaned and rolled his eyes heavenward. "Were you two
going to lunch?" 

"Yes, but I hope you'll join us," Daniel said. "I'd love a chance
for us to get to know each other."

I looked up into Daniel's dark eyes, and although I obviously
didn't know him well enough read him, I saw no deception there.
He sincerely did want to get to know me, I thought, and that was
good, because I was sure as hell going to get to know him. He
wasn't going to date my partner without my knowing a little more
about him.

Old Mother Scully, the fag hag. How terribly attractive.

"Will you go with us, Scully?" Mulder was asking, and of course,
I could read him easily. Please, Scully, try to like him, he was
saying. Please. Just try. For my sake.

I hoped he could read what was in my eyes: I will, Mulder,
because you love him. And I love you. 

Maybe he did read it; he smiled at me with the smile that was
always mine alone.

The whole silent conversation was over in a split second; I
didn't even miss a beat before replying.

"Sure," I said, as gracefully as I could. "I'd love to."

~~~~~

Daniel's full name, it turned out, was Daniel Reilly. He, like
me, was as Irish as Paddy's pig. 

And it turned out that wasn't all he and I had in common. He was
a physician and a longtime federal employee, if you want to look
at it that way. At any rate, he was an orthopedic surgeon on the
house staff at Bethesda Naval Hospital.

In other words, Daniel was in the Navy.

No wonder Mulder had kept quiet about him. Daniel's military
career was in serious jeopardy because of their relationship. And
now I was in on the secret.

Still, knowing that Daniel was Navy did make me feel at bit
easier about being around him. It made him feel like family: Both
of us are from families that have a tradition of Naval service
going back for generations. His father was a captain, up for
promotion to rear admiral, and he had two siblings and two
brothers-in-law who were also in the Navy.

Daniel himself was a lieutenant commander, no less. With 15 years
in, he was up for promotion to full commander in the next year or
so if all went well. He was also a qualified flight surgeon, and
had served on several aircraft carriers before changing
specialties at the Navy's request. 

Daniel and I actually hit it off rather well after that. We 
compared notes not only about the Navy but about growing up 
in an Irish family, about Catholic school and med school, 
and we laughed a lot, and that was good. The one thing we 
were completely agreed on -- our love for Fox Mulder -- could 
have been the cause of an utter disaster if we had gotten into 
some kind of turf war.

But we got along very well at that first meeting, Daniel and I,
and I could see that Mulder was pleased. I could also see how
much in love they were. It was in Mulder's eyes, and his voice,
whenever he spoke to Daniel.

Once, when they thought I wasn't looking, I saw their hands clasp
briefly under the table, and I had to look away quickly so they
wouldn't see the tears in my eyes.

They were right for each other. There was no question about it.

Just as there was no question that this was killing me.

~~~~~

The toughest moment came when Mulder went to get the car, leaving
Daniel and me standing on the sidewalk waiting for him.

We stood there silently for a long time, both of us struck
completely dumb with fear by the terrifying task of sketching out
the boundaries and defining the limits of the space we each would
occupy in the life of this man we both loved so much.

Daniel broke the silence first.

"He really has told me a lot about you, Dana," Daniel said, as he
looked down the street, watching for his lover to return. "I know
how much he cares for you; and I know it's mutual."

"Yes, it is," I said, very softly. "I owe him my life, Daniel.
He's my best friend -- really, he's my only friend."

"There's no one else in your life?" he asked.

I shrugged. "There's my family, and there's my job, and between
the two of them, that's all the time I have," I said,
noncommittally. "That doesn't leave much time for romance."

"No," Daniel said, thoughtfully. "It doesn't."

I knew what he was getting at. And I knew what I had to do.

"Daniel, Mulder and I have spent a lot of time together in the
past two years," I said. "He's taken up most of my free time, one
way or the other, and no, there really isn't anyone else in my
life. But there's someone else in his life now, and as of today,
he isn't keeping you a secret anymore. I know that means he won't
be spending time with me the way he used to. And that's the way
it should be. He should be with you; that's where he belongs."

He smiled at me then, so kindly that I began to see why Mulder
loved him so much. "Even though he's all you've got?" he asked,
very gently.

I nodded my head, firmly.

"Even so," I said, and it surprised me to realize that I meant 
it. "I'll miss him, Daniel; but I love him, and I want him to 
be happy."

"That's just one more thing we've got in common, Dana," he said,
as he put one arm around my shoulder and pulled me close, just
the way Mulder would have done. 

His kindness undid me; I felt shaky, and there were tears in my
eyes, and I decided that I needed to accept the support I was
being offered. I put my arms around Daniel and rested my head on
his strong, comforting shoulder.

We were still standing like that when Mulder drove up. The
gratitude and the happiness in his eyes when he saw us together
were payment enough for what I'd just given up.

~~~~~

Things went along fairly well for the next few months, although
Mulder didn't come by at night anymore and he seemed much less
eager to do any field work. At first, I was glad of it. I had been
getting a bit weary of living out of a suitcase.

As time went by, the novelty paled, and I found myself spending
more and more nights alone with the ever-increasing paperwork
that it seemed Mulder no longer had time for. 

I found myself beginning to look forward to field work in a way I
never had before; it was the only time I had Mulder to myself
anymore.

But it wasn't the same. Instead of coming to my hotel room and
talking to me, Mulder spent every evening that he possibly could
talking to Daniel on the phone. Our evenings of pleasant dinners
and long movies were over. When the job was over, he was always
anxious to get back home as quickly as possible. More often than
not, we would part company at the airport, and he would tell me
that I could reach him at Daniel's apartment if I needed him.

I did need him. I needed him more than I could ever have believed
I would, and now I couldn't have him. 

But I told myself that I was adjusting to it just fine.

And I believed it -- sort of.

That was before our lives were struck by the thunderbolt that was
Robert Patrick Modell. 

I've told that story before, in part, but I've never told anyone
the whole truth of what happened that day at Fairfax Mercy
Hospital.

Mulder was completely under Modell's power, ready to shoot
himself, ready -- almost -- to shoot me. He has always said it
was my quick thinking that stopped him, but that isn't true.
Mulder summoned up the strength of will to resist Modell all by
himself. 

"Scully, run," he'd said, barely able to get the words out, but
he gave me the time I needed; just enough time to run into the
hallway and pull the fire alarm, breaking Modell's concentration.

That gave Mulder all the time _he_ needed to point that gun at
Modell's head and fire.

And then the room was full of SWAT officers and medical
personnel, all clustering around Modell. It was chaos. In the
middle of it was my partner, slumped into the chair he'd been
sitting in throughout Modell's ghastly Russian roulette game. 

Mulder gave me the gun, and covered his face with his hands.

Later, as we stood by Modell's hospital bed, I took Mulder's hand
briefly to comfort him.

Then it was all over, and I went home alone, while Mulder took
off for Baltimore, running as fast as he could to the warmth and
comfort of his lover's arms.

I unlocked my front door that night with more dread than I could
ever remember. My footsteps echoed in the empty apartment; even
the clink of my keys as I hung them by the door seemed louder and
colder than ever.

I took a long, hot bath and went to bed, but it didn't help. I
couldn't sleep. I kept replaying the whole horrific day over and
over and over. I could still hear the sound of a hammer falling
on an empty chamber, and the sound of the next round moving into
place, and the deafening explosion of the live round as it went
off, blowing a large, bloody chunk of Modell's head off and
splattering his blood all over me, Mulder and the wall.

But it wasn't the horrible memories that tortured me that night.
It was the good ones.

I remembered the look in Mulder's eyes as he'd handed me his own
gun, leaving himself unprotected as he went in to try to catch
Modell; the feeling of his hands against mine as he sought to
reassure me without words; the look in his eyes as he tried to
show me his love for one last time.

We stayed like that for only a moment, but for me it was a lovely
moment, at once sweet and terrifying, seeing the love in Mulder's
eyes and facing the very real possibility that this was good-bye.

It was also a painful memory, because only I knew the real secret
behind those beautiful eyes. I knew that while he was silently
saying good-bye to me, he was in agony because he couldn't say
good-bye to Daniel. Because of the SWAT officer's presence, he
couldn't even ask me to take Daniel a message. But I knew what he
wanted to say. And if it had been necessary, I would have told
Daniel with a clear conscience that Mulder's last thoughts were
of him. It would have been true, too.

And yet ... 

Modell hadn't died of his injuries immediately, but in my medical
opinion, it was only a matter of time until he did. With a single
shot, Mulder had killed him, just as surely as if Modell had died
there in that hospital room. 

True, the FBI shooting board later ruled it a justifiable use of
deadly force, a shooting that went down right by the book. But it
wasn't, and Mulder knew it. And so did I.

That's what I have never told anyone.

The truth is that Mulder -- under his own power -- broke free of
Modell's spell long enough to speak only one complete sentence:
"I'm gonna kill you, Modell."

And so he did. 

Mulder shot him down deliberately, shot an apparently unarmed man
in cold blood, with no legal justification that I could see.
Modell, whatever else he may have been, was terminally ill and
physically exhausted; Mulder could have taken him without firing
a shot. But he didn't.

Where I come from, they call that willful, felonious and
premeditated murder. And he had done it to protect me. 

All the stern self-control that had carried me through that awful
day failed me that night. I lay on my couch and I began to cry.

I cried my heart out, cried out all the tears I'd kept inside for
more than two years. I cried for Mulder and for what he'd been
forced to do, for myself because my partner had almost killed me,
and for Daniel because if Mulder hadn't made it out alive, he
wouldn't even have had the comfort of a final message.

Most of all, I cried because I wanted Mulder, right then. I
wanted him to leave Daniel at home and come take care of me, to
love me -- if only for that one night -- more than he loved
Daniel.

That could never be. Mulder loved Daniel more than his own life,
and with a love that was fortified and strengthened and nourished
by the physical passion they shared.

And that was the problem, because in spite of all my efforts, I
still wanted that for myself. I wanted Mulder to express his love
for me the way he did with Daniel. I wanted to lie in bed with
him and touch him and give him pleasure; I wanted to see his face
alight with passion; I wanted to hear him call out my name in a
moment of ecstasy.

I wanted him to be my lover, even though I knew that it was
absolutely impossible, that it would never happen no matter how
much I wanted it or how many tears I cried. 

But even though Mulder might never be my lover, when it came to
the ultimate showdown between Daniel and me, I knew that I held
the trump card: Mulder was my partner, and I was his. There was
nothing and no one that could keep Mulder away if he thought I
really needed him; not even Daniel.

I also knew, to my shame, that tonight I was going to play that
card for what still seemed to me to be extremely selfish reasons.
I needed Mulder, and by God, I was going to have him.

I picked up the phone and dialed his cell phone. Mulder answered,
and when I heard his voice, I began to cry again. I could barely
speak, I was crying so hard, harder than I would ever have
believed I might cry.

In less than an hour, Mulder was there, sitting on the sofa with
his arms around me, comforting me, whispering in my ear -- and
let me tell you, no matter how upsetting the day had been, for
that moment, I was in heaven. For the first time in months, I had
him all to myself, and he was holding me, kissing my cheek,
telling me that he loved me, that it was all going to be all
right.

If he had shot me then, I would have died happy.

When I stopped crying, Mulder made me a cup of tea -- with a good
shot of rum in it -- and brought it to me. I sipped it as we sat
there together, saying nothing, but that didn't matter. I was
content.

I finished my tea and set the cup back on the saucer.

"Come on now, Scully," Mulder said, gently, as he took the cup
away. "You need to get to bed. You're exhausted."

"So are you," I said, suddenly feeling quite gracious. "You ought
to get some sleep, too, Mulder. Go home to Daniel. I've kept you
away for too long." 

"Actually," he said, with a rueful smile, "I don't think I'll be
seeing Daniel tonight after all. Maybe I'll just sleep here on
your couch."

Right away, I knew something wasn't right. No matter how much he
cared for me, Mulder wasn't going to pass up a chance to spend
the night with Daniel unless something was seriously amiss. They
didn't live together, obviously, and between Mulder's job and
Daniel's hospital on-call schedule, nights alone together were
rare things for them.

"Mulder," I said, feeling a little sick inside, "tell me what's
wrong."

And he told me.

It seems that when I called, he was at Daniel's apartment. They
were just leaving, on their way out for a drink, then out to
dinner and back to Daniel's apartment for ... well, it was none
of my business what for, and I didn't ask, but I was sure I knew.

The evening was Daniel's idea; he'd gotten another doctor to take
his calls so he could try to ease Mulder's tormented mind. Being
seen in public with his lover wasn't without risk, but it was no
doubt worth it to him, given Mulder's emotional state.

And then I had called, and Mulder had come running. Obviously,
Daniel hadn't liked being ditched, most of all on a night when he
had gone out of his way to be with and to comfort his lover. I
doubt he could ever have envisioned such a thing happening.

I, of course, knew just exactly how loyal and impulsive and
stubborn Mulder could be. My plea for help had proved nothing of
consequence except that Fox Mulder was capable of ditching
anyone, at any time, if he got an idea in his head.

The idea tonight, it seemed, was Comfort Scully.

It made me feel bad; it made me feel good. It made me feel
wicked, and horrible and infinitely loved.

Mostly, though, it made me feel selfish, thoughtless and even
cruel.

"I'm sorry, Mulder," I whispered. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have
called."

He shook his head. "Yes, you should," he said, firmly. "You're my
partner. This is one of the reasons people have partners, Scully
-- so they don't have to face these things alone."

"Its also one of the reasons they have lovers," I said, still
whispering.

"Maybe," he said, and his voice was softer. "But you don't have a
lover, Scully; and I know that part of the reason is that there
isn't time for you to meet anyone. And that's my fault."

"No," I began, but he interrupted me.

"Yes," he said. "Yes. You spend all your time working or running
around the country with me, chasing aliens, or you're at home
keeping up with the paperwork. You haven't had a chance to meet
anyone. And I know you, Scully -- you're not a one-night stand.
You need time to develop a relationship, and I haven't given you
that time."

"I'm not complaining," I said, but that didn't make him smile as
I'd hoped it would.

"Well, you should complain," was all he said, quietly, looking
down at his hands. 

I reached over, took one of his hands in mine and held it
tightly; after a minute, he raised my fingers to his lips and
gave me a gentle kiss.

Then we just sat there for a moment holding hands; we didn't
talk. "Mulder," I said at last, breaking the silence, "I am glad
you're here. It means more to me than I can tell you. But I don't
want to cause trouble between you and Daniel. I am so, so very
sorry that I did. It was wrong of me -- very wrong."

Mulder was silent for a moment, thinking.

"Scully, I love Daniel," he said, finally. "You know that. He's
the first man I've ever had any kind of long-term relationship
with. But I'm still your partner, and if I need to be here with
you, I'll be here with you. Daniel's not a kid; he'll deal with
it. He knows you, and he likes you a lot; he knows you've never
abused the privilege."

I did tonight, I thought, but when I tried to tell him that, I
just burst into tears again. 

Mulder put his arms around me and held me until I stopped crying,
and then he kissed me. Not on the cheek, you understand. He
really kissed me -- very softly, very briefly, but also very,
very sweetly, and with so much love ... 

And I moaned. God help me, I moaned ... 

And Mulder jumped away from me as though I'd suddenly burned him.
His eyes were wide with shock, and with comprehension ... and
growing horror. 

Oh, God, if I had it to do over again, I would not make a sound.

No, that's not true. The truth is that if I had it to do over a
thousand times, I would still make that soft sound of desire when
his lips met mine, and he would still be just as horrified by it.

Mulder was looking at me as though I'd suddenly turned into
something straight out of an X File. I don't believe I've ever
seen him look so -- dumbfounded, flabbergasted, thunderstruck, I
don't know -- there are no words for how he looked.

"Jesus," was all he could say.

And I started crying all over again, harder than before. My
carefully guarded secret was out in the open now; he knew. He
knew, and he was revolted. 

I hoped he would just get up and walk out so I could go to bed,
get up in the morning and go straight to Skinner's office and
request an immediate transfer to Fargo, North Dakota or some such
place and never, ever have to look up and see the disgust that I
was certain had replaced the love in Mulder's eyes.

Fag hag. The words seemed to hang in the air between us.

And then I felt his arms around me again, felt his hand at the
back of my neck, pulling my head toward his shoulder, and I
collapsed against him. I was sobbing. There is no other word for
it.

There were far more tears bottled up inside me than I could ever
have imagined, tears that had been bottled up for so long I
thought they would never be shed. There were tears for my father,
and for Jack, and Melissa, and for another Daniel whom I still
couldn't bring myself to tell anyone about... on that night, they
all came pouring out.  

Mulder just held me tenderly, letting me cry and cry and cry
until I could not imagine how any more tears could possibly fall,
and yet they did, and he continued to hold me, whispering to me
that it was all right, he was here, he wasn't going anywhere.

I don't know how long it was before I stopped crying. Little by
little, the sobs got further apart and trailed away to sniffles
and hitching breaths, and it was then that I realized that we
were lying on my couch, and that I was in Mulder's arms, lying
full length on top of him.

Time seemed to stop; I felt almost as though I were dreaming,
everything was moving so slowly. I lay there quietly, listening
to his heart beating, steady and regular, feeling his chest rise
and fall with his breathing. I put my hand on his neck, just
below his ear; I felt his arms tighten around me, just slightly.
I wanted to stay like that forever; I wanted to memorize
everything about it quickly, because I felt absolutely certain
that nothing like it would ever happen again.

It could have been hours before he spoke; it might have been only
a few minutes. I swear I do not know. All I know is that he spoke
first.

"Scully," he said, very, very quietly, "Let's get you to bed.
We'll talk about this later."

I couldn't answer him; I just nodded, swallowing hard to keep the
tears from starting again. I felt heavy as lead as I pushed
myself off him and struggled to my feet. I was exhausted. I
couldn't remember having ever felt this tired, this wiped-out, in
my entire life.

And then he got up, and took my hand in his, so carefully, and
led me to my bedroom. He helped me out of my clothes, and I just
stood there, naked, as he found my pajamas and helped me into
them. He buttoned up the top for me and led me to my bed; I
climbed in, and he sat down on the edge of the bed beside me and
took my hand.

"I'm sorry, Mulder," was all I could say.

He shook his head. "You don't have anything to be sorry about,
Scully," he said, in a low voice. "It's my fault. I should have
realized ... "

"I didn't want you to," I interrupted him, shaking my head. "I
didn't want you to know."

He smiled, that soft, sad smile that I had hoped was gone
forever.

"You can't hide what you are or what you feel forever, Scully,"
he said, gently. "Sooner or later it comes out, remember? You
are what you are, and you can't change that even if you think
people are going to hate you for it."

"Do you hate me now?" I whispered.

"Jesus, no, Scully," he burst out. He sounded almost ...
exasperated. "That's not what I meant. What makes you think I
could ever hate you?"

"Because I'm in love with you," I said, and I could feel the
tears trying to come back. "I have been for a long time. And you
don't want me to be."

"Oh, God," he said, closing his eyes and shaking his head. He ran
his hand through his hair, which I recognized as a sign of how
completely flummoxed he was.

"What I want -- sexually, anyway -- has nothing to do with how I
feel about you, Scully," he said, earnestly, opening his eyes
again and letting his hand fall into his lap. "You know I love
you. You're my partner; you've been by my side and protected my
back through things that most people wouldn't dream up in their
worst nightmares, like today. You know I would do anything in the
world for you if I could. But what you want from me now is
something I can't give you. That doesn't make me angry, though,
just sad. I hate to hurt you this way."

"You didn't do it, Mulder," I said, my voice beginning to break
again. "I did this to myself."

"No, you didn't," he said, more quietly, taking my hand again. "I
told you, Scully; you can't stop being who and what you are. And
what you are is straight. I know that; I know you're attracted to
men. I just forgot that I'm included in that category. I don't
think of myself as attractive to women."

"Well, you are, you know," I said, smiling just a little. "You
can't help it."

He smiled back. "It's just my incredible good looks and
devastating charm," he said, and then turned serious again. 

"Scully, you've stood by me for almost three years, through some
of the worst times in my life," he said, quietly but firmly.
"You've given up -- I don't know how many evenings -- just
because I didn't want to be alone, and you've never asked for
anything in return."

"Until tonight," I said, feeling ashamed all over again. 

"Until tonight," Mulder said, nodding. "And you had a right to
ask. I owe you more than I can tell you, Scully, and I'll never
be able to repay you, so let me make you a promise: Not once in
all the time we've been partners have you let my sexual
orientation come between us, and I'm not going to let yours come
between us, either. Never."

"So what do we do?" I said, helplessly. "How do we go on together
after tonight?"

"I don't know," he said, "but I know we are going to deal with
this because I know I don't want to lose you. I want you in my
life, as my friend and as my partner. Can we still do that?"

I couldn't speak; all I could do was nod, mutely, and try not to
cry again. 

"All right, then," he said, very quietly, and bent to kiss my
forehead. "Go to sleep now; I'm going to crash on your couch."

"No," I said. "You can sleep here. You know my couch is too short
for you."

He looked at me keenly. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea," he
said, slowly.

"Why not?" I said. "It's not as if anything's going to happen."

"No," he said, still slowly. "But I'd hate to disappoint you
again, and anyway, I'm not entirely certain Daniel would
understand."

I closed my eyes. He was right, of course. Strange that it would
seem so important, when I'd barely noticed his undressing
me ... because he hadn't noticed it either. My nudity had touched
him not at all.

And never would.

I nodded, and opened my eyes again to look at him. "There's a
blanket in the linen closet," I said. 

He smiled. "I know that, Scully," he said. "It's not my first 
night on your couch, after all."

He bent over to kiss me one more time, and I was about to offer
him my cheek, when, to my surprise, he put one hand gently on my
face and kissed me on the lips again. His kiss was still sweet,
and still loving, and I still responded to it, but he had decided
he could live with that, I guess.

I hoped that I could.

 -----

Early the next morning, there was a knock on the door, and Mulder
got up to answer it. 

It was Daniel.

I couldn't face him, so I stayed in the bedroom while they talked.
I couldn't hear what they said, but it was quite clear from the
tone of their voices that neither of them wanted to keep the
argument going; both spoke quietly, with not a trace of anger.

Then there was a long silence, and I knew that they were in each
other's arms, sealing their forgiveness with a kiss.

I added that pain to all the others that I kept in my heart,
hidden -- until now -- even from myself.

After a while, Mulder stuck his head into my room and said
something about taking a shower and going home.

I got up, put my robe on and went out to make some coffee. I
thought Daniel had left, but I was wrong: He was sitting on the
couch, looking utterly lost and forlorn. As I looked at him, I
was stricken again with shame at the knowledge of how badly I had
hurt him, how selfishly I had treated him, when all he had done
to offend me was to love Mulder and try to make him happy.

I had told him once that that was all I wanted, and he had
believed me. 

On impulse -- an impulse that, for once, I did not suppress -- I
went over and sat beside him and took his hand. He looked at me
gratefully, and gently squeezed my hand in his.

"He's a complicated man, Dana," he said, shaking his head.

"Complicated but wonderful," I said, softly. "He's certainly not
hard to love."

"No," Daniel said. "No, he's not."

Then we were silent for a moment.

"You knew all along, didn't you?" I said, finally.

"That you're in love with him?" Daniel said. He nodded. "Yeah, it
wasn't hard to see that."

"How did you know?" I asked.

He shrugged. "The way you look at him; the way you talk to him
with your eyes. The way you trust him, and he trusts you."

"He trusts you, too," I said. "I know he does."

He laughed. "Not in the same way," he said, shaking his head
ruefully. "Do you know that I still don't know what exactly
happened with you two yesterday at Fairfax Mercy?"

That stunned me. "Daniel, I'm sure he was going to tell you," I
began, but he shook his head.

"No, he wasn't," he said. "He never tells me about his job. Oh, I
know when something's gone wrong; I can tell by the way he acts.
But I almost never know what it was. If that whole mess hadn't
been on live television yesterday, I doubt I'd ever have known
anything about it, ever. All I know now is that you were both
there and that someone got shot and that shortly afterward he
walked out the door with blood on his shirt and a face like
death."

"He looked worse than that," I whispered, and Daniel nodded.

"Dana, did he shoot that man?" he asked.

Oh, God, what a question. How in the world could I answer it?
Just thinking about it gave me a shiver I couldn't repress.

Daniel noticed it, of course. "I'm sorry," he said. "Please
forgive me. That's not a question anyone should ask."

"It's all right," I said. "You of all people have a right to
know; I'll tell you if you really want me to." 

In truth, I was not ready to relive that nightmare just yet, but
if that was what it took to restore Daniel's faith in Mulder --
and in me -- I knew that I would do it.

Once again, though, I had underestimated Daniel. He smiled at me
and shook his head. 

"No," he said. "Thank you, but I wouldn't want to put you through
it. Anyway, what I really want is for him to tell me. But that's
not going to happen, is it? The things you two go through -- you
never tell anyone else, do you?"

I thought about that for a moment. "No," I said, finally. "We
don't."

He nodded. That was the answer he was expecting. "Will you tell
me one thing, Dana?" he asked.

I nodded. "If I can."

"This thing that happened yesterday -- this hostage situation --
was it bad enough to be worth all this to him?" Daniel asked. "I
mean, I look at it now in the cold light of day, and I can see
that you both must have been severely traumatized."

"You can't begin to imagine," I said. 

"Maybe I can," Daniel said, softly. "I've been in the Navy a long
time, Dana, and some of that time was spent in a war zone. It
wouldn't be the first time someone I loved has had to fire a shot
in anger. If that's what happened, then I can understand why you
had to be together last night, no matter what. But I guess I just
need to hear you say it. Is that the way it was?"

I knew what he was asking. Daniel needed to know that he was
still first in Mulder's heart, that his lover hadn't ditched him
or shut him out for anything less than a life-or-death matter. He
needed to hear me tell him that I didn't really hold that trump
card, or that if I did, I would never play it unless the stakes
were so high that I had no choice.

Here was my opportunity, if I'd wanted it, to drive a little
wedge between them, to plant a little doubt, perhaps to start a
series of events that could end with me and Mulder back together
again, the way we had been before.

Yes, I suppose I could have done it. And I'm sure you know now
that I didn't.

"It was worse than traumatic," I said. "He did have to shoot
someone, Daniel, but believe me, Robert Modell left him
absolutely no choice. Mulder saved my life yesterday, and several
other people's lives, too, at the risk of his own. It could so
easily have gone the other way; if he hadn't done what he did,
one of us would be dead now, maybe both of us. But you can be
proud of him, Daniel. It took all his strength, and all his
courage, but we made it out alive."

Daniel nodded. "Thank you," he said, very quietly. "I'm sorry
that it happened. I really am. But thank you for telling me." 

He looked down, lacing his fingers together in his lap, and for a
moment we just sat there in silence.

"Dana," he said, after a moment, speaking slowly, "I know you
love Fox; I know you're committed to him as your partner, and I
am grateful for that. I also know that there's a part of him you
can't have, however much you want it, and that's the part of him
that belongs to me."

He looked up at me then. "But I'm betting that you didn't know
until today that I feel the same way about you; that it hurts to
know that you share things with him that I'll never be part of."

"I had no idea at all," I said, trying to smile reassuringly.
"But I think I'm beginning to understand. It's like you said;
he's a complicated man. Neither of us will ever have all of him,
Daniel."

"No," he said, agreeing. "I see that now." He smiled back, just a
little. "So I guess we either learn to live with that, or we move
on."

"I don't want to move on," I said, softly. "I don't even want to
think about it."

"Neither do I," Daniel said, also very quietly. "And I'm not
going to. But it's always going to be difficult. I know what you
mean to him, and I know why, but that doesn't make it any easier
that he left me in the lurch and came running over here without
telling me why, just because you said you needed him. And I know
now that you really did. But he could at least have told me what
had happened. It would have helped me understand."

"That's just the way he is, Daniel," I said, taking his hand
again. "He's run off and left me without a single word of
explanation more times than I can count. At least once in every
major investigation, someone's going to hear me say, 'Mulder,
where are you going?' I don't usually get much of an answer,
either. He's going to run off sometimes, and he's going to keep
things from you -- and from me -- but it doesn't mean he doesn't
love you. "

He smiled, and pressed a kiss on the back of my hand. "Well," he
said, gently, "just because he doesn't sleep with you doesn't
mean he doesn't love you, either."

"I know," I said. "I know."

There was another silence. I was really struggling now; there was
one more thing I had to know. It was a pitiful scrap of what I
really wanted, but I was willing to take whatever I could have,
however small it was; and somehow, I knew that Daniel would
understand both what I was asking and why.

"Daniel?" I said, hesitantly. "Can I ask you just one thing
that's absolutely none of my business?"

He looked at me uncertainly. "I guess," he said, slowly. "What do
you want to know?"

I had to stop then and swallow hard, several times, before I
could get the question out. 

"Daniel, when you ... " I said, finally, looking down at the
floor, "when you ... make love with him, is he ... is he
beautiful?"

That was a strange way to phrase the question, but it seemed that
Daniel did understand. He held my hand a little more tightly. 

"Yes," he said, gently, with exquisite compassion. "Yes, he is.
Very beautiful."

I nodded. I could not speak. 

And that was that. I heard the shower stop running, and I let go
of Daniel's hand and went into the kitchen and made breakfast for
all three of us.

When the guys left, they both kissed me good-bye -- Daniel kissed
my cheek, and Mulder kissed my lips.

And then they went home together to finish making up. I hoped it
would be good for them both -- hoped it would heal their hearts
and bind them back together. I really did.

It will never be that way for me. I cannot, as I said, respond
that way to a man I don't love, and there is only one man I love.

About once a week, now, the three of us meet at Daniel's
apartment, or Mulder's, or mine, and we have dinner. We spend the
evening together, drinking wine, laughing, sharing the stories of
our lives. Mulder, with a little prodding from me, has relaxed
his rule of absolute silence and begun to talk a little more
about our work, but always emphasizing the funny stories and
downplaying the danger. 

There are still some things that neither of us will ever tell
anyone else.

Daniel, who -- like me -- has always been very reserved in front
of people, has relaxed a little bit, too. He now seems
comfortable sitting next to Mulder, holding hands, or letting
Mulder put an arm around his shoulders, or -- rarely -- kiss him,
even with me in the room.

And it is a balm to my soul to see them so happy together.

Mulder, of course, has always been more tactile. He gives
physical affection easily, comfortably. It is his soul he shares
with no one but me ... and, now, with Daniel.

More and more often now, Mulder will put his arms around me, hold
me for a moment and kiss me. He knows the effect it has on me,
but he hasn't let that keep him from showing me his love in any
way that he can. 

If he wonders what I do with all that pent-up sexual tension, he
hasn't asked. Let's just say that these days, when we're on a
field assignment, I can go out and size up a bar pretty quickly
and that I will zero in as fast as lightning if I find a tall,
dark-haired man with hazel eyes. I have learned for myself how to
be careful and discreet. 

I have only two rules for these men: Don't talk to me while we're
doing this, and be out of here before the sun rises. I don't ever
want to hear their voices or see their faces too clearly; if I
did, it would never work.

If Mulder knows, he hasn't said anything. I know he doesn't
condemn me. He tells me often now that he loves me, and I know
that he does. He tells me that he can't love me as much as he
knows I would like, but that he loves me as much as he can.

And I know that he does.

I'm quite sure that someone out there would look at this
situation and decree that I have, indeed, become a fag hag. I
imagine someone is already saying it, outside my hearing. That's
something else I have learned to live with.

I have learned to live with what I can have of Mulder's love, and
his friendship, and Daniel's, and with whatever Mulder can give
me of his touch ... his intimate, warm, welcomed, loving and
utterly non-sexual touch. The alternative would be to lose him
altogether.

And I couldn't live with that.