Fade, by Ann K

For summary, disclaimers, etc., see chapter one. Author's 
notes at the end of chapter 6.

www.geocities.com/annhkus



Chapter Three (3/6)

I.

The rain fell steadily against the window, a comforting sound, 
one that brought with it so many memories. She was still, her 
eyes closed, listening to the steady rhythm of the rain. It 
was soothing, and gently melodic, and she pulled the covers 
closer to her chin. It was not morning yet, she could tell, 
even without opening her eyes. Darkness permeated the room, 
without a hint of dawn.

She knew she was not alone. She could hear his steady 
breathing, but could not summon the energy to open her eyes 
and seek him out in the darkness. Instead, she imagined him, 
just as she saw him last night, after so long apart. His hair 
was longer, traces of gray at the temples. He was thinner, 
which was remarkable given that he had always possessed a 
leanness about him, which she assumed came from the fact that 
his body devoured whatever energy he produced.

When she saw him, sitting on the bar stool, shouting at 
someone walking out the door, she knew it was Mulder before he 
even turned back around. It was the curve of his ear beneath 
his overgrown hair, and the way he sat on the stool, one boot 
hiked over the side, ready to pounce at the slightest notice. 
She catalogued her memories of him, trying to recall a time 
when he was truly relaxed, and she was not surprised to 
realize they were few. He was always looking over his 
shoulder, always waiting. For something, for someone. 

She wondered if he had been waiting on that bar stool for her 
for the past nine years, while she had been raising their son 
alone, never knowing what happened to him.

Scully finally gave in, opening her eyes, and was greeted with 
the sight of Mulder sprawled in the chair by the window, the 
dim of the streetlights coating him in a soft glow, patterned 
by the steady rain. His long legs stretched under the desk 
nearby, and his head rested to the side, on the worn back of 
the chair. She sat up so she could see him better, pulling the 
pillow close to her chest.

He looked older, more tired, even when his face was slack from 
sleep. But he was Mulder. She knew every detail of his face 
better than her own, even after all their time apart.

She did not question why he was here with her in this motel 
room. She knew, somehow, that he figured out to bring her here 
after she fainted at Joe's, just as she knew he would stay 
with her until he was sure she was alright. But what truly 
frightened her was the memory of his face when she said his 
name. Later, it would haunt her nightmares, and dance in her 
daydreams.

He didn't know her.

He wasn't evasive, or ashamed, or happy, or frightened to see 
her. Instead, he was curious, but looked back at her blankly 
when she called to him. It was her worst fear, which now 
stared back at her in six-foot-one reality, sleeping in a 
dingy chair in yet another godforsaken motel room.

She moved toward him, drawn to him, as the rain continued to 
fall. She knelt at his feet and gazed up at him, unable to 
draw her eyes from his face. The room was silent, except for 
rain and the sound of her heartbeat. It was just she and 
Mulder, again, locked away from the insanity of the world 
outside. Despite everything, he was still the most beautiful 
sight she could ever have hoped to see.

"Are you okay?" His voice was gruff from sleep, but she was 
not startled to see him staring back at her, earnestly, his 
eyes clear and shining in the darkness.

"I am. Thank you for bringing me back to my room. I am sorry I 
fainted." She couldn't remember the last time she fainted, not 
counting the moments when she was pregnant with Will. She 
couldn't have picked a worse time, hazily remembering with 
chagrin Mulder's surprise as she fell into his arms. Come to 
think of it, maybe she couldn't have picked a better time.

He only nodded, sitting up to look at her better. "Not a 
problem. You seemed really tired, and I found the motel room 
key in your pocket. I hope it's not a problem that I stayed. I 
wanted to make sure you were feeling okay."

She expected nothing less from him. She nodded, "Of course 
it's okay, Mulder. I have so many questions to ask you."

At the sound of his name, he shook his head. "You called me 
that before, in the pool hall. I was trying to tell you then, 
but that's not my name. You must have me mistaken with someone 
else."

She was not mistaken. It was Mulder, but she bit her lower lip 
uncertainly and asked anyway. "What is your name?"

"It's Will. Will Lyon. But everyone calls me Lyon."

Oh, god. Fate laughed at her, daring her to put together the 
tantalizing pieces. She stared, her eyes wide, at Mulder, who 
said he was not Mulder, but Will, but insisted he be called by 
his last name. She angrily wiped away a wayward tear, refusing 
to lose her composure again. She nodded her head curtly, not 
sure of what to say.

Before she could speak, he slipped down on the floor next to 
her. It was so natural, his lanky frame settling next to her 
body. He was warm, and she instinctively closed her eyes to 
savor his touch. "I'm sorry. I really am. You seemed so 
certain I was this Mulder you were looking for. To be honest, 
I wouldn't mind being that man, if he was that important to 
you. But I'm not. My name is Lyon, not Mulder."

He reached over to touch her chin lightly, turning her face to 
his. His touch crumbled what was left of her resolve, the 
dogged tenacity she was somehow holding together since she 
drove away from Washington now falling apart. To their mutual 
horrors, she began to weep, softly at first, then loud sobs 
which seemed to echo around the room. 

He never flinched. Instead, he gathered her into his strong 
arms and rocked her gently back and forth. She was reminded of 
how she would comfort Will when he awoke from a nightmare, and 
how strange it was to be in his arms again. Her memory served 
her well, but the reality was so much better. And, in that 
instant, her face pressed against the hollow of his neck, the 
pulse of his heartbeat steady beneath her tears, she didn't 
care what he said his name was. She knew who he was.

Scully drew back from him, and, without hesitation, leaned 
forward to kiss him, his lips wet from her tears. He sat very 
still, not moving, accepting her touch, as she deepened the 
kiss, tasting him, the familiar warmth comforting her. She had 
never forgotten. She traced the outline of his face with her 
fingertips, and ran her hands down his neck to rest of his 
chest. He groaned, and then pulled away from her.

"Stop it." It was his voice, but it was not spoken with anger. 
It was tinged with frustration, and regret.

"Mu-," she began, stopping herself. "Lyon," she said instead, 
simply, the strange name feeling foreign on her tongue.

"I am not who you think I am, and I am sorry for that. You are 
beautiful, so beautiful, and I want nothing more than to take 
you into my arms and make you forget this Mulder, whoever he 
is. But it wouldn't be fair to you, or to me." 

She grasped for the words, trying to make him understand. 
"Lyon, you are this man. He has been gone a very long time, 
but I would know you, him, anywhere. Someone gave me your 
picture, and I knew it was you. I never forgot your face, or 
your voice, never-"

He jumped to his feet, abruptly, and she looked up the long 
distance to his shadowed face. "I don't even know your name," 
he said. 

He could have said nothing less to break her heart, and she 
felt his words as a physical pain in her chest.

The rain measured the seconds before she spoke. "It's Dana, 
Lyon. Dana Scully." Another long moment, and then, "Following 
our penchant for last names here, you called me Scully." He 
had to remember. Mulder had spoken her name a million times, 
in anguish, humor, frustration and passion. He spoke it 
uniquely, in his own way, a soft emphasis on the first 
syllable. "Tell me you remember my name."

She walked over to him where he stood by the window, silent. 
"Tell me that you remember my name," she said again, urgently, 
willing him to say the words that would make this all okay, 
that would bring back what she was so frantically searching 
for. He wanted to. She could tell by the deep shadows of his 
eyes, and the way he paused before he answered.

"I'm sorry, Scully. I want so damn badly to say yes, to make 
you happy, but I can't. I never saw you before last tonight, 
before you walked into Joe's."

She was stonewalled, staring at an impasse that she dreaded, 
but never fully expected to materialize. And then he spoke 
again, trying to make things better, but making them that much 
worse. "You know, Scully, had you given me the chance, I might 
have asked you to dance with me last night. I don't normally 
ask women to dance, but there was something about you." He was 
sincere, the slight flush on his cheeks physical evidence of 
what his admission cost him. "I am attracted to you. You have 
to know that," he added. But she couldn't accept his words, 
not when there was so much more at stake here.

"Fox Mulder was my partner," she said, turning to face the 
wall so she would not have to look at him as she spoke. She 
studied the print on the wall, a landscape portrait of the 
Texas hills, probably mass-produced somewhere in China. "We 
worked at the FBI together for seven years, and then he 
disappeared. He was taken while investigating a case in 
Oregon. He's been gone for almost nine years." He walked up 
behind her, so close she could feel his breath on her skin.

Tell me you remember, she silently chanted. Remember me, she 
willed, remember our time together. Remember how much I love 
you. "Right after he disappeared, I found out I was pregnant." 
The sharp inhale of breath was his. 

"His son?" he asked, although he already knew the answer. She 
whirled around, angry, pounding her fists against his chest. 
"You are Mulder. I am not wrong. I have looked for you for 
years, and I can't let you walk out that door. I can't lose 
you again."

It was a stalemate, a no-win situation for them both. His 
tortured eyes reflected his pity, his empathy, his desire for 
her, yet they showed his confusion, his genuine bewilderment 
at her ultimate certainty that he was Mulder. "Will Lyon," she 
finally said, her last defense crumbling, her desire 
extinguished. She felt hollow, an empty shell. "Yes," he 
managed, holding onto her hand as the rain slowed to a drizzle 
and the first hint of dawn emerged. "My name is Lyon, Scully. 
And I am so sorry I couldn't make it what you want. I sure as 
hell have never worked for the FBI. I've never even known 
anyone named Mulder."

She couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. She couldn't process a 
thought beyond the fact that she had finally found Mulder, and 
she was about to lose him again. He was walking out the door, 
and she couldn't do a thing to stop him. 

"I have to go," he said, his voice heavy with regret and an 
emotion she couldn't identify. She nodded dumbly. She knew she 
should say something, anything to make him stay, but she felt 
lost, paralyzed with defeat. He handed her the folder and the 
bag sitting by the door. "You had these with you last night. 
They seemed important to you." He leaned over, his hands 
tracing the outline of her jaw, wiping away the tears she 
didn't even know she was crying. Hesitating, he kissed her, 
and it was Mulder, and something else. Something new.

As he walked away from her, out into the drizzle, she managed 
to speak the words that were pounding in her head. "Don't go, 
Mulder," she whispered. "Don't go." But he was too far away to 
hear her, and he did not turn around. 

He sat in his truck for some time before he drove away, yet 
Scully remained, standing in the open door, staring as the 
photograph of Mulder, of Lyon, slipped from the folder in her 
hands and fell onto the sidewalk, into the last of the rain.  

II.

Lyon didn't drive to the ranch that gray Friday morning. He 
didn't join the other men for their ritualistic Friday 
breakfast at the town restaurant, nor did he stop in at the 
station for a hot cup of coffee. Instead, he drove, away 
from town, away from the ranch, away from the redheaded 
woman in the motel room whose tears haunted him. She called 
him Mulder, and she was convinced he was that man. 

His life had been simple enough. He was an only child, born 
late in life to older parents. While they were both dead and 
had been for years, they had given him a stable upbringing. 
They instilled in him an appreciation for the land, of hard, 
honest work. His father insisted the entire family was at 
church every Sunday. Lyon still detested wearing a tie and 
sitting still for long periods of time, a remnant of his 
childhood. But he admired his father for his principles and 
his beliefs, and was grateful to be his son.

Adolescence was a blur, flashes of basketball games and 
awkward Friday night socials and drinking beer with the guys 
in the cemetery on the edges of town. He spent most of his 
adult life traveling, working on one ranch or another, until 
he ended up with the Wilkins. It was a small, family ranch, 
but he found the stability he needed. The memories of the last 
few months of his life were the most clear, but he supposed 
that was because, for the first time since the death of his 
parents, he found a comfortable environment, one where he was 
respected. He did his job, and that was always enough for him.

But the death of his parents, while so long ago that the once 
sharp edges had dulled, left him teetering on a dangerous 
abyss. He had no family. He didn't trust himself, so he 
suppressed his emotions. He was withdrawn and reclusive 
because he was frightened of what he could become if he 
wasn't. He was frightened of unleashing his anger because he 
didn't know if he could control it. He was frightened of 
loving someone, anyone, because they might ultimately leave 
him. 

So Will Lyon was a man with acquaintances, not friends. 
Colleagues, not family. One night stands with women whose 
names he soon forgot, not the accepting embrace of a woman who 
truly loved him. 

How could this woman, who seemed to Lyon to be a perfectly 
rational and reasonable human being, be so convinced he was 
someone else? He couldn't come up with an answer for that. 
When he saw her at the bar, it was lust that attracted him, 
for she was beautiful. She was also a strange combination of 
strength and fragility, and he wanted nothing more than to 
protect her. He had sat in his truck in the motel parking lot 
for sometime, watching her figure silhouetted in the door, and 
tried to shake the feeling that leaving her was a mistake. She 
was exquisite, and he wanted her, but her heart obviously 
belonged to someone else. 

He blinked, seeing the familiar pasture rise on his left, 
trying to figure out how he ended up at the ranch. He 
remembered driving away from town, and then shook his head, 
attempting to clear the hazy cobwebs away. Too many memories, 
and those only got you into trouble. He preferred to keep the 
past where it belonged, behind him. Lyon supposed driving to 
the ranch was instinct. It was home, for the time being. Then 
why were all his instincts calling him back to the motel on 
Main Street?

Larry Wilkins' figure appeared from the barn as he drove down 
the driveway. He flagged him over, and Lyon got out of the 
truck, his legs stiff from an awkward night's sleep. In all 
honesty, he didn't think he got much sleep at all. Most of the 
night he spent staring at Scully, the rain-streaked moonlight 
through the blinds casting delicious shadows over her face.

"Morning, Mr. Wilkins," he offered, smoothing out his shirt as 
he walked over to the older man. "Lyon," Wilkins responded, 
throwing a large bag into the back of his pickup truck. Lyon 
frowned, and asked, "Are you leaving for the day?" It was not 
an incredibly busy time on the ranch, the branding and weaning 
seasons in the spring and fall causing them the biggest 
headaches, but it was still unusual for Wilkins to leave 
during the week.

"I am. I am headed down to Austin for the weekend, to take 
care of some business. I was hoping you would be able to bring 
the rest of the herd in from the back field so we can ship 
them out on Monday." He nodded, accustomed to being in charge 
when Mr. Wilkins left town. While most men at the small ranch 
lived a transient lifestyle, one he himself had lived for 
years, Lyon served as a quasi-foreman, living on the ranch 
even during the off season. The stability was a change for 
him. But he was still unsure as to why the boss was leaving in 
the first place.

The screen door slammed shut, and Lyon looked up to see Mrs. 
Wilkins walking down the stairs, a small bag held in her right 
hand. She reminded Lyon of the grandmother he never knew, and 
he felt protective of her. The guys knew not to speak bad 
about the boss' wife when Lyon was around. There was something 
about her, a genuine sweetness that drew Lyon to her. He 
trusted her, and that was saying a lot.

"Good morning, Lyon," she said as she walked up to the truck, 
handing her husband her bag, her slight Southern accent 
charming to Lyon's ears. "I've got to get a few more things 
from the house, Ellen, and then we'll be ready to leave." She 
shooed her husband away. "Fine, fine, Larry. I'll just be 
talking to Lyon."

The humid breeze picked up slightly as they stood by the 
truck, and Lyon was somewhat taken aback by the serious gaze 
he saw in Mrs. Wilkins' eye. "So, Lyon," she asked, "any 
excitement at Joe's last night?" He wrinkled his brow, 
confused as why she would be asking him. They all knew what 
went on at Joe's every Thursday: drinking, dancing, and 
brawling. "The same," he finally offered somewhat tentatively, 
unsure of why she was asking.

"How about you?" she persisted. "Did you meet anyone special?"

The proverbial light bulb went on, and he cocked his head 
slightly to one side, answering her slowly. "Actually, I did. 
A redheaded woman from out of town." That was a simplistic 
explanation, but it seemed to work for Mrs. Wilkins, who only 
nodded her head sagely in response. "You need someone to 
settle down with, Lyon. You need someone who will take care of 
you." He bristled, despite her good intentions, but she cut 
off his protests with a wave of her hand.

"Let me tell you something, Lyon. A piece of advice from a 
very old woman. Real love, true love, only comes along once in 
your lifetime, if you are truly lucky. Many people never get 
that chance at all. I found it with Larry. I know what it is, 
and how special it is. But don't waste it, Lyon. Because it 
won't come back again."

It won't come back again. Her words had an urgency that caught 
him off guard, and he stood, his mouth slightly agape, trying 
to process the moment, when Mr. Wilkins walked up beside them. 
"Did you do everything you needed to do, Ellen?" he asked. She 
nodded knowingly, and then gave Lyon a small squeeze on the 
arm. "I did," she answered, and he almost expected her to give 
him a conspiratorial wink as her husband turned to open the 
door for her. 

"You know how to reach me if you need, Lyon," Wilkins said as 
he slammed the door. Lyon nodded, returning Mrs. Wilkins' 
cheery wave as the truck sped away from him. 

He stood still for a very long time, watching the chickens 
amble down towards the barn, a squirrel try to open an acorn 
from the tree, the cats basking in the emerging sun. His 
awareness was painful, and he was uncertain as to what it 
meant. Scully was drawn to him at the bar because she thought 
he was someone she used to know, someone she loved. Why was he 
drawn to her? Why was he thinking about her, wondering if she 
were still standing in the motel room door, waiting for him to 
come back?

The morning work was a blur, and he performed his tasks with a 
routine, detached efficiency. He led the small group of men 
towards the pasture with an increasing urgency, desperate to 
finish the work for the day before mid-afternoon. The 
longhorns were slow, hesitant, as if they knew the fate that 
awaited them in a few days, so he rode his gelding even 
harder. The urgency was tinged with fear, with the knowledge 
that finding Scully again after she left town might prove 
impossible.

"Hey, Lyon. When is old man Wilkins coming back?" Mark had 
ridden up beside him, a slightly concerned look on his face. 
If Lyon could see himself at that moment, through the eyes of 
the men who rode with him, he would understand why. He had 
drifted away from them, and was there in body alone. He was 
cutting the herd with rote, detached efficiency. His spirit 
was elsewhere, and only Lyon knew where.

"Sunday evening," he answered briskly. "If you guys can handle 
the routine stuff for this weekend, I am going to be busy with 
the paperwork for the Monday shipment." Mark only nodded, and 
then asked, tentatively, "You alright, Lyon?"

He barely acknowledged the question, knowing that he would be, 
as soon as he could get the hell off this horse and back into 
town.

Cantering the horse ahead through the pasture, and watching 
his crew disperse and tackle the few odd jobs remaining for 
the day, he allowed his mind to wander, back to a moonlight 
motel room with a beautiful woman who called him Mulder. It 
won't come back again, Mrs. Wilkins told him, and he knew what 
she was telling him. Whoever this woman was, whatever she 
believed, don't let her leave. 

He didn't question how she knew about Scully, or how she was 
so sure they met at Joe's. It didn't seem particularly 
important. What was important, what was screaming at him in 
his veins, matching the rhythm of the horse's hooves against 
the black Texas soil, was that Scully somehow held the key to 
opening up his reclusive heart, and healing his battered soul.

He'd be a fool to let her go, and, although Will Lyon knew 
that he could be many unpleasant things, he had never been 
known to be a fool. 


III. 

At the age of ten, she began to harbor doubts about the 
existence of God. She told no one, frightened of what her 
parents might think of her, and frightened, if she gave voice 
to her doubts, that would make them all the more real. So she 
played the role of the dutiful Catholic daughter, at least on 
the days where the family celebrated Mass, and as she knelt 
before the priest with her sister beside her, Missy's perfume 
tickling her nose, she prayed to God for a sign she could 
believe in, for something to restore her faith.

She sat in her motel room on that gray Friday morning, 
somewhere in Texas, and prayed again for a sign, to restore 
her faith in life and love, for something to make her whole 
again.

The problem was, even as a child, she never got the sign she 
so desperately prayed for. Nothing came about that convinced 
her there was a benevolent God, one that cared for her and 
watched over her during her times of turmoil. Although she 
continued to practice her faith, the faith of her parents, 
even now, it was with a secret, half-hearted intent, the 
feeling that someone had disappointed her.

Maybe that was why she was sitting here, alone, she mused. 
Because her faith wasn't strong enough. Because, after 
everything she saw, she still couldn't bring herself to truly 
believe. If she truly believed Mulder was standing in her room 
mere hours ago, how could she ever have let him leave?

After he left, she stood in the open doorway for some time, 
seeing nothing, feeling nothing except the light mist of rain 
against her bare arms. When she finally blinked, the sun was 
out, and the last of the clouds had disappeared. She had no 
idea how long she stood there. But then she took a deep 
breath, and time started moving again.

She picked up the photograph from the asphalt, although, by 
now, it was limp at the edges and the black-and-white details 
of his face had begun to fade somewhat. How appropriate, she 
thought. I find him, in this photograph, only to have him 
drift away from me. She didn't look at the photograph again as 
she sat it on the desk to dry.

She was barely aware of turning on the shower, the warm spray 
stinging against her skin. She dried her hair and put on fresh 
clothes, adding the barest hint of makeup, and then sat on the 
edge of the bed, pulling her feet up beneath her. Through the 
open window, she saw the signs of life outside. Yet she 
preferred to remain there, in that moment, in that space where 
she was last with Mulder.

Mulder. Will Lyon. Of all the times she had ever stared in the 
face of question and uncertainty, she was as sure of this 
truth as she had ever been. The two men were the same. 

The melodic tones of her cell phone rang through the room, and 
she stared at it morosely, determined not to have this moment 
taken from her. She was desperate to preserve the tangible 
essence of Mulder that was still in this room, and letting 
anyone else in, even on the telephone, would intrude on that. 
But guilt began to rise a few seconds later, and she pictured 
Walter, or her mother, or William trying to reach her.

"Hello?" she finally answered, her voice raspy from tears.

There was laughter in the background, and she sensed William's 
breathing before she heard his words. "Mom? Can you hear me?"

It was her reminder that she was a good person, she was 
someone's mother, that everything might just turn out to be 
okay. "I can, Will," she shouted, covering her other ear with 
her free hand in an effort to hear him better. "Are you having 
fun? How are things going?"

His voice was rich and warm, and she felt a rush of love and 
affection for her son, the most solid evidence she had that 
Mulder existed. Her tears began anew as he spoke. "Things are 
fine, Mom. Billy and I have been swimming, and I've gotten to 
ride everyday."

She smiled. William could forgo any pleasure in life as long 
as there was a horse for him to ride. "That's wonderful, Will. 
Just be careful." The miles between them only sharpened her 
mothering instincts.

There was a long silence, filled with background chatter and 
what sounded to her like the clanging of a dinner bell, and 
then the question. "Mom? Have you found out anything about 
Dad?"

Of course he would ask. It was her sole purpose for being 
here. But she didn't know how to answer that question. She 
didn't know how to answer it for herself, and she couldn't 
even begin to describe it for her son. How Mulder was here, 
but he didn't remember her, or even what his name was, and 
that she had never felt as defeated or lost as she did when 
she let him walk out the door.

"Not yet," she answered, the lie bitter on her tongue. But it 
was better than the truth, which, in this case, was something 
she couldn't begin to comprehend. "I'm still looking though. I 
haven't given up." She was surprised to realize her last words 
were true, that she hadn't given up.

"Uncle Walter said it might take a few days," Will said. "It 
might," she answered, her voice barely above a whisper.

And then her son spoke the truest words of all, the ones that 
unleashed the barriers on her tears. "Maybe there's hope, 
Mom," he told her, and he was no longer an eight-year-old boy 
away for his first time at summer camp. He was her voice of 
reason and resolve and resiliency, and she muffled her sobs 
with her hand.

"I've got to go eat now, Mom." She managed something 
intelligible in response. "I love you," she told him, as he 
hung up the phone.

Maybe there's hope after all.

And then, her prayers were answered and hope was renewed as 
she looked up through the open window and saw Mulder standing 
there, looking at her with solemn eyes. He looked tired, and 
sweaty, his jeans worn and dirty. He took the hat off his head 
when their eyes met, and brushed his hair back uncertainly. He 
looked like a little boy, tentative and uncertain, so much 
like his son, and at that moment, she loved him more than she 
ever had.

She didn't remember getting up and opening the door, but then 
he was standing in front of her, and she reached up to put her 
arms around him and kissed him on the brow. He stood 
awkwardly, and then returned her embrace. "I wasn't sure you 
would still be here," he said, breaking the silence.

I couldn't leave you behind again, she thought. "I am," she 
answered instead. "To be honest, I wasn't quite sure where to 
go." The words sounded pitiful even to her own ears, but they 
were true. She could have left that morning for DC, but the 
thought of walking into her empty house was even worse than 
staying in the motel room.

He simply nodded, and she took him by the hand, pulling him 
into the room and closing the door behind them.

He stood there, turning his hat around in his hand. "I don't 
know why I came back here, Scully. I was honest with you when 
I told you I wasn't Mulder. But I have been thinking of you 
all day, and I just couldn't bear the thought of you leaving 
town without seeing you again."

She didn't trust her voice, so she stood silently. "I'm here 
as Will Lyon, and for right now, I hope that's enough for you. 
It's all I have to give you." She didn't let go of her hand, 
but urged him with her eyes to continue. "I've never been very 
good at this, Scully. I've always been too busy with my own 
problems or my work to ever be able to offer a woman what she 
deserves. I don't know that I can do that for you. But I want 
to try."

Oh, god. He was so like the Mulder of old, yet there was a new 
element she couldn't quite define. He was harder, more 
uncertain, more wary. But he had come back to her, for reasons 
neither of them could understand.

And she knew that was enough. She knew he was offering her so 
much more, something that his battered heart couldn't reveal, 
could never put into words. She was being offered the 
opportunity to love again, even if Mulder could not remember 
their first love. She would learn later what had happened, why 
he was so convinced he was someone else. For now, it was 
enough that he had come back to her.

"I'll take it," she said, a small smile on her face, echoing 
the look on his.

"Well, then," he said, clearing his throat, and shifting his 
feet uncertainly. "Not that there is much to do in town, but I 
would like to take you out somewhere, wherever you want to 
go."

He was so charming and endearing that her heart melted, and 
she was filled with love for this man. "Sounds good, Lyon. 
Wherever you want to take me." And it was true. She would 
likely follow him to the ends of the earth if he asked her. 
Indeed, she already had, so many times before, even if she was 
the only one who remembered.

"But I have one favor to ask of you," he added quickly. 
"I came right from work, and we probably would both like for 
me to take a shower first. Do you mind?"

She only nodded, and he went to get a small bag from his 
truck.

Scully sat on the bed, listening to the initial spray of the 
water from his shower, and then the changes as the water hit 
his body before landing on the tile. She imagined him, naked, 
his lean, muscular body standing beneath the water. While it 
was undeniably arousing, knowing he was so close to her, it 
was intimate in the simple act of trust. She breathed in, 
remembering their shower together after that first night, 
the way she tentatively parted the curtains, revealing his 
body, the one that she memorized so extensively the night 
before. The way he smiled at her, never hesitating as he 
extended his hand to pull her into the water, pressing their 
bodies together.

Her heart beat in her chest loudly as she stood, walking to 
the bathroom door. It was closed, the slightest amount of 
steam trickling underneath. She wanted so badly to open the 
door, to walk to him, to take him into her arms under the 
wetness. Instead, she put both her hands on the door, bowing 
her head, as if in prayer, and swore that she would never 
forget that moment. He was there, safe, and she could almost 
feel his essence through the cheap plywood, could feel all the 
wonderful qualities that made him the man she could never live 
without. For that moment, it was enough.

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