Fade, by Ann K

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

All chapters of "Fade" may be found at my website, 
www.geocities.com/annhkus.

5/6 

Chapter Five


I.

Her eyes were heavy still, even as the first edges of dawn made 
their way into the loft, rousing her from her sleep. Sometime 
during the night, she had found her discarded shirt and underwear. 
But her legs were bare, and she pulled them beneath the blanket, 
the chill of the morning air giving her pause. As she opened her 
eyes, with regret, hesitant to leave the peaceful world of sleep 
and dreams, and Mulder, she took stock of her surroundings.

Her legs ached only slightly, and her neck was a little stiff from 
falling asleep on Mulder's bare chest. She wasn't sure how long she 
slept there, but, when she awoke, the night was inky black, and she 
could barely make out the features on his face. He had been relaxed, 
his breathing slow and even, and she never wanted her eyes to close. 
He was beautiful, and she had found him, and something seemed right 
again.

Regretfully, she did roll off him, but, even in his sleep, he gave 
a small moan of protest, quickly encircling her with his arms and 
pulling her closer to him. So she slept, with peace.

He wasn't there when she reached to her side. She panicked, sitting 
up straight. He wouldn't have left her, not again, not after 
everything that happened.

And he hadn't. Instead, he was standing by the open loft door, 
leaning against the aged wood, clad only in his worn jeans. One 
bare foot was propped over the other, and he had his hands slung 
low in his pockets. She admired him, her own Greek god, and with 
her eyes, lovingly traced the line of his back, the way his muscles 
stretched and tapered off into his jeans. She knew his body so 
well, and last night she treasured discovering it all over again.

"Lyon?" she said softly, standing unsteadily to her feet and 
wrapping the blanket around her bare legs, unwilling to take 
the time to find her slacks. He didn't turn around. "Aren't 
you cold without your shirt?"

Again he was silent, and then he dropped his head, and she could 
hear a strange emotion in his voice, one she couldn't define. 
"I didn't want to take it off you," he finally answered. 

Confused, she looked down, realizing that, in the black of night, 
she had slipped on his shirt, which now hung down to her knees.

She walked up, reaching her arms around him, draping the blanket 
over them both, and kissed him on the neck. He didn't move, 
didn't react, and after a long moment, she began to get worried. 
What if he was angry with her? What if he had regrets? What if 
he wished he could have left her asleep in the loft this morning, 
so that they both would have had a moment to regroup, to adjust 
to the accelerated pace of their relationship?

"Lyon?" she asked again, more tentatively, her lips brushing against 
his neck.

"Oh, Scully," he said, and there was something different in the way 
he spoke her name. She recognized that he was trembling, and she 
panicked when she realized that they were sobs. Before she could 
speak, he turned quickly in her arms, nearly knocking her off her 
feet, and began to kiss her, worshipping her, showering her face 
with kisses. He brought both hands up to her face, and she could 
feel the wetness on his cheeks, his own tears.

He said her name, over and over again, chanting it with reverence 
and sadness and awe.

"Lyon? Are you okay? What's wrong?" She thought of every 
possibility, and felt the cold fear grip her again. Please, God. 
Please don't let this have been a mistake.

He finally slowed his kisses and simply held her in a loose embrace, 
her face pressed against his bare chest. "I saw you last night, 
Scully." 

She was confused. Of course, he saw her. She revealed herself to him 
with wanton abandon, and nothing had ever felt so right. But slowly 
the pieces came together. "You dreamt of me?" she asked him, unsure 
of why he was so upset, so emotional. Please, God, she prayed again, 
this time with more fervent despair. Don't let him leave me again. 
It was a desperate plea.

And then he spoke the words, the words that changed everything, the 
words that frightened them both. "It wasn't a dream, Scully," he 
said in a low timbre, his breath teasing the hair on her neck. He 
spoke slowly and deliberately, trying to make her understand. "It 
wasn't a dream, Scully," he said again, pulling back to see her, 
tracing his fingers lovingly along her cheek. "It seemed almost 
like a memory."

Memories.

Her eyes widened, and she couldn't think of anything to say. The 
delayed reaction hit her a second later, and the words rushed over 
her, her own tidal wave of awareness. He saw a vision of their 
previous life together. Somehow, he was remembering who she was, 
who he was. Oh, god. 

"What did you see, Lyon?" She had no idea what to call him, and he 
winced at her uncertainty, pulling away from her, pacing along the 
piles of hay stacked against the wall. They were both raw, ultra 
sensitive to the words and emotions that anchored them together, to 
that moment in time. Whatever was happening, whatever happened to 
Mulder during the night, had changed everything for them both.

"I saw you, Scully, standing in long hallway. You looked so tired, 
and so frightened, and all I wanted to do was comfort you, to make 
you somehow whole again. But I knew that I was part of the problem, 
and how could I fix that? I couldn't let you go." His voice dropped 
a few octaves until she could hardly hear him, but she instantly 
knew what he was describing.

Dear god. Mulder was recounting the moment in the hallway outside 
of his apartment, when he nearly kissed her, desperate for her not 
to leave for Salt Lake City. He remembered.

He couldn't stop, the words gushing forth in a torrent of repressed 
fear and anger. "You and I were standing in front of each other, 
and you were crying, and I felt like the biggest bastard in the 
world because I knew I was the one who made you cry. I was so 
scared I was going to lose you again."

He stopped, unsure, and she could only look at him, tears glistening 
in her eyes. He remembered. It wasn't a dream. It was a memory, a 
clear memory of their life together, a memory of Fox Mulder, the man 
who, up until two days ago, was a stranger to Will Lyon. Now the 
unthinkable for him, that they were one and the same.

Mulder saw the fear in her eyes, and walked towards her, holding 
onto her free hand. His voice dropped a fraction, and she swore 
she saw the ghost of a smile float across his face. "Tell me about 
that moment, Scully, because I know it was real. I knew it last 
night, because I could smell your perfume, and felt your tears 
on my hands when I wiped them away."

Her tears fell freely now. Mulder was recounting the night she 
almost left him behind, the night that set forth the dreadful 
course of events where he turned the world upside down to find her. 
It was the night she knew, with amazing clarity, just how much 
he meant to her. And he remembered. Oh, god, Mulder.

She lost track of time, and then she was sitting in his lap, 
his chin resting on her head. "I don't understand, Lyon," she 
said, and she felt him shake his head. 

"I don't either," he answered, tightening his arms around her. "And 
I don't even have to ask you if it was true, if you and Mulder 
shared that moment. I see it in your face." Neither of them 
understood what was happening. You and Mulder, he said, and she 
realized he couldn't put the pieces together, could not fathom 
the unthinkable.

"It wasn't a dream, Scully. It was a memory." A long pause, and she 
wanted so badly to comfort him, to give him the answers he so 
desperately needed. She needed them, too. She needed to understand 
why he was taken from her, and how, in the course of a single day, 
she found him, and he remembered. It was a small moment, a fraction 
of the kaleidoscope of memories they shared, but for now, it was 
enough.

"At first, I thought my mind was deceiving me, that I wanted so 
badly to be Mulder for you that I convinced myself I actually might 
be. I want to be enough for you. But it was so real. I lived it."

He lived it. Just as she did. When she first started working with 
Mulder, when she believed the lies that were told to her as truths, 
she kept a journal, a memoir of sorts about her experiences. As time 
progressed, those experiences became more bizarre, too terrifying to 
make real with words, so she only recorded them in her mind.

She wanted to run through that list, day by day, to see if he 
remembered. But what was their truth? What happened to him? She 
could see the uncertainty in his eyes, and she had no answer, no 
weapon to fight the evil that lurked in the shadows, the evil that 
took Mulder away from her and made him another man. But they, 
whoever they were, couldn't take away the memory of one 
fleetingly perfect moment. 

She only wanted to have Mulder and Will beside her, sitting near a 
gurgling Texas stream, watching the sunrise.

The sound of a car horn in the driveway caused them both to jump. 
Mulder got to his feet, walking a few steps to see who arrived at 
the Wilkins. She was embarrassed, sitting in a stranger's barn 
without any pants on. She quickly changed shirts, lingering over 
Mulder's soft cotton with regret, and found her slacks, crumpled 
beneath a blanket. She slid them on, brushing out the wrinkles and 
picking off the stray wisps of hay. Taking a deep breath, she 
mentally braced herself for the day, for whatever reality she and 
Mulder were to find outside of the loft.

Mulder wore a confused expression as he walked back to her, slipping 
his shirt on and sliding on his boots. "It's the county sheriff," he 
explained as he took her hand, leading her over to the ladder. As he 
stepped aside to help her down, he said her name, and she looked up 
into his dark, expressive eyes. "I love you," he simply said, and 
she nodded. 

"I know," she answered him, and she did know.

"Lyon," the sheriff announced as they walked out of the barn. He was 
standing on the Wilkins' front porch, one hand on his hip, his face 
shadowed by a large cowboy hat. 

"Sheriff Bensimon," Mulder responded, holding her hand tightly as 
they walked up to the house. "Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins aren't here, 
Sheriff. They went down to Austin for the weekend."

The sheriff gave her a curious glance, but said nothing. Instead, 
he took off his hat and walked down the steps, joining them in the 
front yard. Scully held onto Mulder's hand tighter. The sheriff wore 
his law enforcement persona well. His holster hung low on his hips, 
and the badge on his chest glittered in the morning sunlight. She 
had a fleeting moment of fear, that somehow he was here to take 
Mulder away again.

"Actually, I was here looking for you, Lyon. I'm afraid I have some 
bad news for you." At his words, the fear in Scully's heart grew, 
and she vowed that Mulder would never be taken from her again. She 
simply wouldn't allow it.

Mulder showed no reaction to the Sheriff's announcement. He stood 
very still, his expression bland and emotionless. She had not come 
all this way to lose Mulder again. Not just for the two of them, 
but for Will. He needed his father, and she swore she would give 
that to him.

Oblivious to their quiet drama, the Sheriff watched them with a 
steady gaze. "It's about the Wilkins, Lyon. They're dead, killed 
in a car crash late last night near Austin."

Scully closed her eyes, somehow knowing that the proverbial other 
shoe had just dropped.


II.

It never rained this much in Texas, at least during this time 
of year. She learned this from the handful of farmhands who 
gathered at the Wilkins' home that afternoon. Their faces were 
tired, and tanned, and they reminded her of Mulder, with their 
dusty Levis and well-worn boots. Or at least the new incarnation 
of Mulder.

Scully sat alone on the front porch swing, barefoot, tracing the 
worn outline of the cracked wood with her feet. It was afternoon, 
and the ominous clouds which were gathered near the treeline at 
noon had finally erupted, bringing forth a torrent of rain, the 
large drops slapping against the dirt driveway, quickly turning 
it into a river of mud.

Make it real, she willed silently. Make this moment real, the warm 
rain falling from the heavens, the summer breeze, the way the 
trees in the front yard swayed and danced in the wind, the 
rivulets of water streaming off the side of the porch. Make 
Mulder real.

She saw the truth falling together, although she knew that a certain 
element of the truth had died alongside a Texas highway to Austin, 
in the Wilkins' truck. Even if they had no idea how Will Lyon came 
to be, they knew how he walked onto their ranch, how he worked their 
lands and tended to their herds. They knew, but they were gone, 
their answers silent, fading away.

Were they a part of the deception? Did it matter?

The swing swayed gently as Mulder sat down beside her, his eyes 
betraying his exhaustion and sadness.

"You okay?" she asked, not knowing what else to say. Their emotions 
were sensitive, and she wanted nothing more to walk out into the 
rain, into the surrounding pastures, and simply be alone. That would 
have meant leaving Mulder, however, and she wasn't prepared to 
do that.

"I guess so," he roughly replied, staring intently at the floor. 
"I don't know what the hell is going on, Scully. In the past two 
days, my life has been completely turned upside down. I don't 
understand anything anymore." 

She was angry at what had been done to them. Damn angry, and she 
wondered vaguely again if things would ever be the same. "The 
Wilkins were good people, Scully," he continued. "They gave me 
a roof over my head, and respectability. And they helped you 
find me." 

But what part did they play in the deception? The morning she 
stood in the Wilkins' driveway seemed a lifetime ago. She wasn't 
even the same person as she was then, the hopeful, determined 
woman who was so focused on finding Mulder. Now, she found him, 
yet the world was a slippery landscape of jumbled emotions 
and words unsaid.

"They did help me find you, Lyon," she finally answered. She 
wanted him to understand. How much should she say? She wanted 
to tell him that she believed their deaths to be no accident, 
that they died because she came to Texas, that they died because 
he remembered a fleeting moment in a hallway years ago. But he 
wouldn't understand. Not yet, not this soon, not when he still 
lived and breathed life as Will Lyon. 

He didn't meet her eyes. "And now they're gone," he responded, 
and she winced at the barely contained anger in his voice. She 
had heard that tone from him countless times before, always when 
they had their backs against the wall, always when it seemed as 
if their last chance was gone. It was different now, she wanted 
to scream. We have a child, and we have a chance to build a life 
together, one that was taken from us.

Mulder wanted answers, and she had never been able to deny him 
his quest for the truth.

Before she could speak, the front door opened, and Scully saw 
one of the ranch hands emerge. She herself had been in the house 
earlier that day, when the sheriff first arrived. Walking into the 
shadowed foyer, she had crinkled her nose, the smell reminding her 
of the houses of older people. Cooked vegetables, and dust from 
rooms whose doors were rarely, if ever, opened. Mulder didn't 
belong in this place.

The young man walked over to them, and she vaguely remembered his 
name as Mark, in the rush of introductions that had been made in 
the late morning as the Wilkins' crew arrived and heard the news. 
"Lyon," he said, his boots heavy on the wooden porch, "I finished 
up those phone calls. The herd is ready to ship out on Monday, 
and Mr. Wilkins' son finally called back. He's on his way 
down here."

Mulder never moved, his face impassive, and Scully knew he was 
slipping away, away from the joyous cocoon in the loft this 
morning, away from the possibility that he was Mulder, that 
they shared a life together. In his grief, and anger, he shut 
down the realm of the impossible, instead focusing on inhaling 
and exhaling.  

What was once lost was now found, and she could never bear the 
pain of that loss again.

Mark was looking at them expectedly, as if waiting for some 
sort of response. She glanced at Mulder, who sat staring out 
into the afternoon drizzle. "Thank you," she murmured, unsure 
of exactly what to say. "I know the Wilkins would have appreciated 
it." Mark looked at her curiously, as if trying to place her 
face, and then smiled tightly before walking off.

The remainder of the men said their goodbyes, murmuring words 
of half-hearted comfort to each other. They seemed to Scully to 
be expressions people thought they should say at a moment like 
this, when casual conversation seemed inappropriate and no one 
wanted to seem insensitive. 

Her cell phone rang, the sound jarring amidst the drizzle of 
rain and perfunctory gestures. Mulder watched her curiously as 
she searched for the phone in the pocket of her slacks. It was 
Walter, her reminder of the outside world, of the way things 
were just a week ago. Dana Scully, single mother and former FBI 
agent. Somehow, she didn't feel like the same person, much as 
she imagined Mulder felt.

The world would forever be different for the both of them.

"Walter," she said as she answered the phone, and she watched 
Mulder's eyes when he heard Walter's name. Nothing. No moment 
of recognition. She felt her stomach twist, and realized it was 
all too soon for Mulder, too fast. Their intimacy had brought 
forth one memory, but she refused to believe the rest of those 
memories were not still there, behind the floodgates of another 
man's life.

"I was worried, Dana," Walter said. "I tried to call you a few 
times last night, but you didn't answer. Did you find out 
anything? Did you find Mulder?" 

"Yes," was her only response, because she didn't know where to
 begin. There was no possible way she could begin to describe 
the past two days to anyone. What she and Mulder had experienced 
was something that had changed them both.

The static in the background was the only sound for what seemed 
like minutes, neither she nor Walter knowing what to say. Mulder 
only watched her, quiet, his eyes shadowed. She wanted to scream 
at him, to tell him to say something, anything, so she would 
know what he was thinking. It saddened her, to realize that she 
could no longer read his thoughts, that the instinctual reaction 
to his emotions was gone.

"You found him," Walter finally said. It was surreal to hear 
the words, and she knew Walter was disbelieving. "Is he alright? 
Is everything okay? Where the hell has he been?"

"Things are complicated right now," she offered, not wanting 
Walter to think ill of Mulder. That was all she would say, 
knowing the rest would gradually emerge over time. "I'm fine. 
Right now, that's all I can tell you."

Walter was immediately concerned. "Do you need me to come down 
there, Dana?" The protectiveness in her voice brought unexpected 
tears to her eyes. 

"No," she responded immediately, wiping away the wetness as 
Mulder got to his feet, walking away from her, leaning against 
the railing on his elbows. "And don't tell Will," she whispered. 
She wasn't ready for Will to know. She wasn't ready because 
she didn't know what was going to happen in the next hour, 
the next day, the next week. "I'll call him myself," she asserted, 
not giving Walter a chance to protest. "I have to go," she 
said, getting up to stand near Mulder, holding onto his hand.

His hand was intensely warm, and she savored the sensation. It 
was life, and it reminded her that he was here with her. She 
wasn't doing this alone. Disconnecting the phone, she stood in 
silence. The rain was finally beginning to slack off, the 
large drops diminishing to a steady haze. The air smelled clear, 
fresh, dancing over her face with the afternoon breeze. The 
grass, though still damp with rain, glistened beneath the 
emerging sun, and she relished the sight, the fact that Mulder 
was standing beside her to see it.

"I hope everything's okay," he said, nodding vaguely in the 
direction of the phone. If you only knew, she thought, shrugging 
her shoulders in response.

"Things between us will never be simple, will they?" It was 
Mulder's question, but he already knew the answer. She knew 
the connection that brought them together. She knew that Will 
was his child. She knew that the death of the couple who he 
cared for was part of a larger plan, something he could not 
yet process. Something she could not understand herself.

"I need to have things arranged here," he said, "for when Jerry 
gets into town. He's the Wilkins' son. I don't know what he's 
going to want to do. The cattle have to be shipped out, the men 
have to be paid -"

When he paused, she wanted to scream at him about the 
insignificance of the damn cattle, when they were so close to 
the truth. And then she realized she sounded exactly like him, 
back in the days when he was driven by a force even he could 
not define.

"Yes," she finally said. "There will be a lot to do." 

He kissed her suddenly, an unexpected ferocity to his embrace. 
"I haven't forgotten this morning, Scully. I haven't forgotten 
that memory, that feeling." Oh, Mulder. Don't forget, because 
it's all we have for the time being.  

"I'll drive you back to the motel," he announced, pulling away 
from her, turning his face so she would not see his tears. "I 
imagine we would both like a hot shower, a chance to get 
cleaned up."

"Okay," she whispered. They were leaving this place, this spot 
of discovery and heartache and deception, and she was glad. 
They needed time to heal, to lick the wounds of their latest 
escapade. 

He kissed her lightly on the lips, murmuring, "It'll be okay, 
Scully." And she believed him, for what other choice did 
she have?

She should call her mother, who was doubtless worried over 
her impromptu drive to Texas. She should call her son, to let 
him know she was okay and that she was thinking of him. But 
she simply stood there, motionless on a dead man's porch, and 
watched Mulder walk to the barn, through the last of the storm.


III.

He flipped through the telephone book, passing through the 
Albertsons and the Criglers and the Hollidays and the Joneses. 
He stopped at Lyon, recognizing the first entry as that of Larry 
Lyon, who lived in a small house off Main Street. His wife had 
passed away a few months ago, and the handful of times he saw 
Mr. Lyon in the streets, his eyes were rimmed with red and his 
breath smelled distinctly of bourbon. 

Lyon wondered what it would be like to love someone so much that, 
when they were taken from you, life simply didn't seem worth 
living. Reality paled in comparison to the dull numbness of alcohol. 
He thought of Scully, how she searched for Mulder, her strength 
never wavering, and he wondered how this woman, this invincible 
woman, came to be.

And then there was his name. Will Lyon, Rural Route 26. That was 
the Wilkins' address. He never got any mail there, except for 
the odd solicitation or the revival announcement from the local 
Baptist Church. He never cared much, to be honest. Mail and phone 
calls and visits were inconsequential when you didn't give a damn 
about anyone but yourself.

But now he did, a redheaded woman who silently believed he was 
another man, and who loved him beneath the Texas stars. Now there 
was a reason to give a damn, he thought, a shiver dancing down his 
spine, because he was sure the moment he told Scully she was 
everything, that she saved him, was real. He lived it. In that 
moment, he was Mulder.

The door to the room opened, and Scully entered, balancing a drink 
In each hand and a bag of chips under her chin. She shut the door 
with her foot, pushing it extra hard. Lyon wondered absently how 
old the door was, and how many more years it would take for the 
frame to warp completely in the warm Texas humidity. Like so many 
things in this town, time was wearing them away, reshaping them 
into a new form.

He should have gotten up to help her. But he couldn't move from 
his position on the bed, where his legs were stretched out on the 
worn bedspread and the town phone book lay open in his lap. He 
couldn't take his eyes from her, savoring every detail, like a
man dying of thirst who spots a clear stream in the distance.

Leaving her would kill him, but he had to leave her to save 
them both.

She wordlessly handed him his iced tea and they unwrapped their 
sandwiches. "Are you going to be okay, Lyon?" she finally asked 
him. He wanted to laugh at her, to tell her he really had no 
idea if he would ever be okay again. That he wasn't sure who he 
really was, that the couple he once trusted were dead, that he 
felt he was somehow indirectly involved, that he loved her so 
goddamned much it hurt.

But that wouldn't be fair, so he gave her a semblance of a smile 
before he replied. "I think so. You are here, and for the moment, 
that is enough." He was proud of himself for speaking the truth, 
for the right words brought an answering smile from Scully. He 
noticed how the wrinkles near her eyes became more prominent as 
she smiled, and how the weariness, which haunted her expression 
since she came into town, now seemed more noticeable. 

"What did you do, Scully, when you found out Mulder was gone?" 
He tortured himself with conjectures about that time, what she 
went through, finding out she was pregnant with a new life when 
she had no idea if Mulder was dead or alive. But he needed to 
know. The desire in him pulsated, twisted through his body, 
demanded satisfaction. He couldn't explain it, but the thought 
of Scully alone, pregnant and desperate, blinded him.

"I looked for him," she said simply, blinking as if surprised 
by his question, and it was enough. He loved her so impossibly 
much that it nearly crippled him.

Which is why he had come to decision, as they drove the once 
familiar road back to Scully's motel room. The town taunted him, 
laughing in the face of his confusion. He knew every stoplight, 
every business lining the dusty two-lane. But he wasn't sure 
what was real. The memories of his forty-odd years were twisted, 
confused. He tried to understand if it was the normal wear of 
time, the way the wood of the motel creaked and the Wilkins' 
front porch sagged, or if it was something more. If everything 
was fading for a reason.

He had to know. He had to answer the questions for himself, for 
Scully and for Will. And he had to do it alone. 

Scully finished her sandwich, crinkling the paper in her hands, 
and he knew he was a bastard. He had to protect her. She had no 
idea that he was leaving her. That, in a few short hours, he 
would walk out that battered door into the evening darkness in 
a desperate attempt to find the truth. Nothing would be the 
same for them until he knew.

He had to know who he really was, and until then, he refused 
to put Scully and her son in danger, refused to taint their 
life with his uncertain presence. 

"I'm sorry about the Wilkins," she said, and he watched her 
face as she spoke. "I know you found a home there, Lyon, and 
I know how important that was for you."

Home. When he was a child, he would come in from school, and 
his mother would always be there to welcome him, her apron 
sprinkled with flour from whatever project she had going on 
in the kitchen. She would make him a sandwich, and he would 
sit on the back porch. When his parents died, a certain love 
died with him.

He always believed that was why his emotions were a sparse 
landscape, where nothing would take root. He traveled once 
towards the border, to South Texas, picking up some cattle 
with Mr. Wilkins, and he was fascinated with the flat desert 
and the mountains in the background. He saw himself.

And now he wondered if any of it was real, if his barren heart 
was because something was taken from him, something that was 
his and his alone, something he had only chosen to share with 
this beautiful woman who believed he was someone else.

He wondered if he believed it, too.  

"I think I'm going to take a shower now," Scully said, 
grabbing the trash from the bed as she stood. She walked over 
to him, kissing him on the head, and every breath he drew as 
she stood over him was painful. It was a reminder of what might 
have been taken from him. "Do you need anything else?" she 
asked, resting her chin on the top of his head.

I need so much, Scully. I need you, I need answers, I need to 
find the truth that will make everything okay. "I'm fine," he 
lied, and she believed him, because she wanted to do so.

He listened as she took off her clothes in the small bathroom, 
the sound of her slacks and her blouse hitting the tile. Lyon 
heard the water turn on, and he swore he heard a sigh. He 
imagined Scully standing underneath the water, letting it 
cascade down her back, her hair becoming damp. 

A pounding began near his temples as he remembered Scully 
standing in that long hallway, frustration and heartache on 
her face. He knew she never cried. What brought forth those 
tears? Why was she leaving him that day? He was determined to 
remember. He was determined to give her back what she lost. 
But he could only do that by leaving her again. 

Before he could doubt himself, Lyon was standing in the 
bathroom, the steam from the shower already blanketing the 
small space. He unzipped his jeans, adding them to the messy 
pile of Scully's clothes. And he pulled the curtain back, 
and stepped inside.

"I wondered what was taking you so long," she said, and he 
smiled.

"I'm an old man, Scully," he said, intending to tease her, 
but becoming distracted by the way the water ran down her 
back, tracing the curve of her legs before hitting the tile. 
"But I could never turn down an invitation from the woman 
I love." 

"I don't remember inviting you," she began to reply, but he 
cut off her words with his mouth, kissing her with an urgency 
he felt from the moment the Sheriff arrived at the ranch that 
morning, from the moment he realized that he could not rest, 
not yet. She sighed beneath him, bringing her arms around 
him, pulling him under the warm stream.

Scully's hands were everywhere, slick from the remnants of 
soap and shampoo, and, as they caressed him, she whispered 
his name in his ear. "I found you," she said, stopping only 
to kiss him again, her tongue flicking against his teeth. He 
knew what she meant, that he couldn't leave her, that she 
wouldn't allow him to leave her again.

Didn't she understand? Couldn't she see that he wanted her, 
no matter who he might be, no matter who he used to be? There 
was something about this woman that beat in time to the 
rhythm of his heart, so essential to every breath he drew. 

The sex was desperate, tinged with unstated declarations of 
possession and control, of loss and betrayal. Even as he 
turned her around, her hands pressed up against the slick tile, 
her hair hanging wet around her face, and entered her from 
behind, the warmth that was her essence sending a shiver 
through his body, he knew what he must do.

And so, after the water ran cold and their bodies were 
exhausted, after he lay spooned behind her in bed, telling 
how much he loved her and how much he needed her in his life, 
she slept. It was a fitful sleep, Scully's hands clutched 
tightly around a pillow pressed to her naked skin. As much 
as he wanted to go to her, to comfort her, he only watched 
for what seemed to be an eternity, staring at her in the 
little light that came through the blinds.

Who was he? His life as Lyon and Scully's stories of Mulder 
were intertwined, and he couldn't tell where one stopped and 
the other began. He could only hold onto one moment, one 
moment when he knew he told her how much he loved her, and 
that she had saved him.

And then he walked into the darkness, careful to pull the 
door shut, always aware that time causes even the most 
formidable objects to fade away.

Home