"Home From The War"   
   by Khyber   
   khyber@citizensofgravity.com   
      
   continued from 1/2   
      
   * * *   
      
   They talk in or on beds. Theirs, motels', Mulder's old couch as a   
   substitute. They'd established that on their first case together,   
   forgot about it, re-established it when beds took on a new   
   significance.  It put him at close range, where he was reassured   
   and less likely to pontificate or be cocky. She couldn't pose,   
   strut, cross her arms over her chest. It tied in with the single   
   piece of useful advice from either of their families, Dana's   
   mother's admonition to 'never go to bed mad.' That did, however,   
   occasionally mean going to bed at four in the morning.   
      
   "If you like that, you'll love this." The thick hardcover was lying   
   on the bed beside him; the jacket was stark, almost   
   official-looking. "When did I write this book?"   
      
   "What are you talking about?"   
      
   "When?" he shrugged. "I cranked out, like, 120,000 words sometime   
   in 1999, while working on the X-files, and it's been edited and   
   published already?"   
      
   "Well, it is pretty topical, the trial just finished last year and   
   it's been all over the media..."   
      
   "Yeah, but do you remember me writing it?" He stressed those last   
   two words.   
      
   "Of course. You were in here day and night... I think... I..." I   
   know what I want to say, she thought. You were in here day and   
   night. But that's just a saying, it's shorthand, a way to describe   
   something without thinking about it.   
      
   "That's about all I got, too, Scully. Do you remember reading over   
   my shoulder? Did I ask you for advice? I wrote over half my   
   dissertation in longhand on a legal pad, I can't think on a   
   computer or a typewriter. Do you remember that? Because I don't."   
   He picked up the volume, holding it in both hands in front of him.   
   "How about this? I know this is the first copy, so what did I do to   
   it?" He held it forward, leaned it against Scully's forehead as if   
   she would read it psychically. She brushed it aside with   
   good-natured irritation.   
      
   "Well, you signed it. I'm sure I remember you signing it."   
      
   "Uh-uh." He opened the book towards himself, to the frontispiece,   
   turned it around and placed it in her lap.   
      
   'Forever yours - Dana,' the neat, rounded, slightly girlish   
   longhand read.   
      
   "Oh, Mulder..."   
      
   Mulder's self-control seemed to loosen at her exclamation. His   
   speech became rapid.   
      
   "Someone's doing something to us... the cancerman, somehow, those   
   fucking papers he gave me, he's got people on the outside..." He   
   got up from the bed, as if to begin pacing the room, then darted to   
   the window and tugged open a space between two slats of the blinds,   
   the way one would look for stalking black sedans or helicopters.   
   She rose quickly, took his hand and turned him away from the   
   window.   
      
   "Mulder, stop. I need to say something." She tugged him back to the   
   bed. He sat down on the floor beside it-- close enough-- and   
   wrapped his arms around his knees.   
      
   "Okay."   
      
   "That's it," she said, gently pulling his hands into hers. "Maybe   
   we're... not okay."   
      
   "What do you mean?"   
      
   "We have been through a lot. Separately, together. And we've never   
   really... we've relied on each other for support. It's not in our   
   natures, either of us, to ask for help, or admit we might need it,   
   or even accept it when it's offered."   
      
   "What are you saying?" He uncurled himself, climbed onto the bed to   
   sit cross-legged.   
      
   "We're war veterans, Mulder. Both of us." Dana looked at the   
   careful, caring face of her husband, the tiny movements that marked   
   his emotion. She climbed across his lap, straddling him. The   
   difference in their sizes had become something that marked the way   
   they fit together, big and small losing relative meaning and   
   becoming a set of possibilities and familiarities. "Just because we   
   have closure doesn't mean that everything is better now. Maybe   
   we're suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress syndrome,   
   now, when things are changing and we have to adjust. And maybe by   
   turning to each other so much, we're making it worse."   
      
   Dana leaned forward into him, her arms stretching around his body.   
   She felt deep breaths, dissipating nerve.   
      
   "Is there a psychologist in the house?" he asked.   
      
   She chuckled into his shoulder.   
      
   "Physicians, heal thyselves."   
      
   "I'm a little out of practice, in terms of practicing anyway."   
   There's a jumble in her head, a clatter of recollection. Dana it's   
   Walter, should go home, Mulder, suspended, held a gun on New York   
   ASAC, fit for duty, counseling. "It's nice to know you think we're   
   both crazy this time."   
      
   "I think we're both something," she said very carefully. He   
   chuckled once, leaning down so their foreheads touched.   
      
   "Yeah. It's time to move on."   
      
   "Past time."   
      
   "Dana, what I was saying earlier, about Amsterdam..."   
      
   "Maybe we just need a little more time," she said.   
      
   "No, no, no. This isn't the consolation prize. I want this life.   
   We've been through this before. If I wanted to stay at the Bureau,   
   I would. I'd have found a way. We've earned this life, we've paid   
   for it. I mean, look, we're paying for it right now. I don't want   
   to wait, Dana. I want to see you... see you have what you want, not   
   have to wait for me to be ready."   
      
   A long silence followed. Mulder had often reflected that it was a   
   good thing he was relatively comfortable with his masculinity. When   
   it came to Having Serious Relationship Talks, Dana Scully and her   
   natural reserve wore the monosyllabic, wary male pants. He could   
   almost hear her trying to formulate what she wanted to say.   
      
   "Mulder... what if I said I wasn't so sure what I want anymore?"   
      
   * * *   
      
   "This is wrong, this is all wrong... how long has this been   
   happening?" A label across the top of the ruggedized laptop's   
   screen read BOB. Parvati Kushraj's  voice had a trace of an accent   
   that went with the long, straight black hair and dark skin. Her   
   dusky coloring and fine features spoke of breeding, careful   
   high-caste marriages. She had a straight, regal nose, elegant   
   cheekbones, slender fingers.   
      
   "What?" The young man who peered over her shoulder had shaved his   
   head the day his hairline started creeping back, but was still   
   short of thirty. Ian was white, not quite living-indoor-pale but   
   clearly of a technical mindset.   
      
   "This, here, and here. They're correlating." She tapped at the LCD.   
   Her nails were efficiently short.   
      
   "No they're not." Ian rolled his chair over a few feet, tapped at a   
   second laptop labeled ALICE. "They're on totally separate streams.   
   They're not on the same transceiver, they're airgapped." Parvati   
   rolled over beside him with a practiced little push off the floor   
   that spoke of deep geek DNA.   
      
   "That's crosstalk. There. Look." She leaned in close, tracing a   
   waveform on the screen.   
      
   "No way." They were joined in the LCD glow by a third young man,   
   standing behind them. Simon was Japanese, but his accent was pure   
   SoCal. He was compact, strong-looking, fidgety and quick. He didn't   
   roll chairs around, hopping between them instead.   
      
   "No, Parvi may be right." Ian rolled back to BOB. "This shit is   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)