From: CantWaltz@aol.com

TITLE: Lux
AUTHOR: Liz Owens       
E-MAIL ADDRESS: cantwaltz@aol.com
FEEDBACK: Proudly hung on the refrigerator by cantwaltz@aol.com
DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere, as long as my name and such remain attached and you 
tell me where it's going.
SPOILER WARNING: Up through Season 6 including the movie, particularly the 
eps dealing with Scully's abduction and cancer (and a brief mention of that 
troubling gold band on Mulder's left hand). 
RATING: PG.  For names taken in vain and all that.
CLASSIFICATION: V, A
KEYWORDS: M, S, LGM, Sk; M&S UST
DISCLAIMER: No, these characters aren't mine, but I'd like to have them over 
to play cards sometime.  They belong to CC, the fine folks at Fox, and 1013 
Productions.  "Never for money, always for love...."
SUMMARY: Mulder discovers that Scully has gone for a follow-up with her 
oncologist and that he's been left out of the loop.  Some serious soul-
searching and a date with José Cuervo follow.

Lux

"We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession."
 - Wallace Stevens

Friday evening.  I'm off the clock.  In an ideal world, I would be home by 
now, flipping through the various ESPNs on my cable system in search of a hot 
game.  Or perusing one of Alexandria's many cable access and government 
channels, just in case I spy something out of the ordinary.  

Instead, I'm sitting in a hushed office in a mostly deserted building.  
Alone. Because I am hurt.  Frustrated.  Angry.  One big crazy emotion that 
has me tied up in enough knots that I don't know if my feelings can be 
detangled.

I am used to frustration.  I can ignore the bite of the hurt.  It's my 
anger I am having difficulty with.  And now that I think about it, I'm angry 
a lot.  Angry at myself, angry at the world, and sometimes even angry at 
Scully.

Ah, Scully.  The heart of the matter.

It's curious how empty this office is without her.  I usually like a quiet 
Friday afternoon, but today the room positively echoed.  No click of those 
ridiculous heels on the floor, no sharp questions, no "Mulder, do you expect 
me to believes."  It was almost enjoyable--almost--for an hour or so, but as 
the day wore on I felt half-complete.

I couldn't smell her perfume.  Then I found myself wishing for the hint of 
cinnamon and spice in the air from the tea she likes to drink sometimes.  
That soft "hmp" that is her laugh.  Even the rustle of papers that tells you 
someone else is in the room, working in a companionable silence.  I would 
have traded all 8 hours of peace for one questioning look, one pointed 
comment.

The truth of it is, I missed her all damn day.

I would have gone home missing her.  Spent all weekend missing her.  I 
must be the only putz in this goddamn building who looks forward to Monday 
morning.  

Instead, Skinner came in at 4:00 and made me want to throttle her.

I should have known something was up when he knocked and poked his head 
around the door.  It takes a lot to bring the big guy down to the basement. 

"Sir?"  I rose to my feet.

He pushed the door open in that hesitant way he has when he wants to bring 
up something uncomfortable.  "Agent Mulder, have you heard from Agent Scully 
today?"

"No, sir.  Should I have?" She had only told me she was taking a "well-
deserved day off."

He couldn't meet my eyes.  "I just wondered how her tests went."

"Tests?"

"Her routine follow-up for her, uh, cancer."  Now his eyes bored holes in 
mine.  "You didn't know?"

Tests.  She was having tests and didn't tell me.

I wanted to lie but I didn't.  For once, there was no reason to keep 
information to myself except my own pride.  "No."

Skinner looked surprised.  He was quiet for a minute and then he said, 
"Well, I'm sure she had her reasons, Mulder."

Now my eyes fell from his.  "I'm sure she did, too, sir."

Skinner mumbled some platitudes and beat a hasty retreat to the upper 
floors, probably because he knew I wanted to slam him up against the filing 
cabinets and demand some answers, answers which I knew he didn't have.

So I've been sitting here for two hours now, waiting.  As if sitting here 
will change anything.  I think back on the last few weeks and try to find any 
clues she might have given about today.  I eventually remember that I spent 
several hours in the library one day last week and when I came back down, she 
was gone.  At 2 in the afternoon.  Must have had some blood work done, then 
gone for more tests and results today.  

And she didn't tell me.

God, I will wrap my hands around her little neck and--

No, I won't.

I would never do anything to intentionally hurt her.  Not Scully.

I've hurt her unintentionally plenty of times.  Maybe every day we've been 
together.  Hurt her enough that I sat in my apartment with my weapon in my 
hands and thought about giving myself a tattoo between the eyes.
That's just the kind of guy I am.  Good old Fox Mulder, whose areas of 
expertise include unearthing global conspiracies and screwing up people's 
lives.

No wonder she didn't tell me.

The first time she walked into this room, so young and eager and 
ambitious, so small and pretty, I knew I could destroy her.  So I sniped, I 
challenged, I ridiculed.  I would leave her behind while I went off and did 
the "real" work.  God knows how many hours she would pour over files, make 
phone calls, follow up leads, while I was off pursing my own agenda.  
But I would do anything to get rid of her before I dragged her down into 
my mud.

To my surprise, she stuck with it.  The lousy hours on the road, the just-
this-side-of-seedy motels in beautiful downtown Middle-of-Nowhere America, 
the tasteless takeout food, the grunt work.  She showed a core of strength 
and an unflappability that I never would have suspected in that fresh-faced 
woman-girl who was assigned to debunk my work.  And she even had the balls to 
tell me that she loved her job.

She not only stuck with the work, she stuck with me.  She challenged me 
every minute, and it got to the point that I couldn't imagine a day without 
her dry comments, her sharp questions, and the soft swish of nylon-clad legs 
against skirt.

In my world, rejection and ridicule are as much a part of the day as a hot 
shower and lukewarm, bitter Bureau coffee.  When she questioned, digging 
always deeper for something to hang her science on, she usually found a 
hundred good explanations to reject whatever theory I was expounding.  But I 
always saw that it was the truth of something beyond her reason she rejected, 
not me.  Never me.

I've always been the one who was cast off.  It all started with my sister, 
Samantha.  When she was taken, my family was destroyed.  I lost my father to 
my parents' divorce, and my mother to her own demons.  I think she was afraid 
to love me too much after Samantha was abducted, just in case of....  Just in 
case.  

At the back of my mind, the question:  Why my sister?  Why not me?  I know 
those answers now, or what "they" want me to know as the answers.  But as 
someone whose entire life circles back to one pivotal event, I cannot learn 
enough.  My course was set by events beyond my influence, with my success or 
failure having global impact.  I sometimes wonder if I've ever had much 
control over the direction of my life, from November 1973 through what I had 
for lunch today.  I have been told recently that I was chosen by my father to 
fight the future.  What could not have been anticipated was that I wouldn't 
have to fight alone.

Scully's assignment to the X-Files was no accident.  Cancer Man had his 
dirty little hands in that decision.  What he could not see, since his vision 
is so clouded by the filth he surround himself with, is the glow of her 
integrity.  She has seen through the tissue of lies and has made her own 
decisions.  True to herself.  And--a gift I never expected--true to me. 
But not today.

I get up and go over to the area Scully has made her own, as though 
touching her belongings will bring me the answers I crave.  As I look at the 
small space, I wonder if I have made her feel like an unwelcome tenant.  
Certainly my personality has exploded all over this room, and to a casual eye 
it appears to be my office alone.  

But here is the eye of the storm.  The few files are neatly stacked.  The 
coffee cup is one of mine (it says "Roswell UFO Museum" on the side), but 
it's clean.  No framed photos, no cards, no messy crayon drawings from her 
nephews.  She did take over a drawer, though, and I find myself opening it 
guiltily.

It's full of all those female mysteries that make me feel uncomfortable 
and turned on at the same time.  There's something about a woman's jumble of 
cosmetics and creams that is strangely erotic.  More so in Scully's case 
because these items are all so practical.

A box of latex gloves, open.  Toothpaste and a pink--pink!--toothbrush.  
That tea she likes.  Some crackers.  Lubriderm--unscented.  Some feminine 
hygiene products, which I sensibly avoid thinking about.  A small first aid 
kit.  Clear nail polish and an emery board.  A voice activated tape recorder 
and tapes.  A pad of yellow sticky notes.  A sewing kit.  Two extra pairs of 
hose, one pale and one black.  A Cross pen in a leather case.  Safety pins.  

Ah, maybe not all so practical.  A Victoria's Secret catalog.  I have this 
one at home myself.  I decide not to open it, even though I notice some of 
the pages are dog-eared.  It's better fodder for my dreams if I speculate 
about her choices privately.

Next to the catalog, three tubes of lipstick.  Two pearl earrings.  
"And a partridge in a pear tree," I sing tunelessly.  I twist open one of 
the lipsticks. It's called "Cherry Blossom."  I can picture her putting it on 
and daydream about kissing it off.

Scully, you're killing me.

I put the lipstick back where I found it and throw myself back in my 
chair.  I find myself staring at the calendar and realize in horror that this 
is not the first checkup she would have had.  It has been only a year and a 
half since she went into remission.  She must have been to the doctor a 
number of times.

She never mentioned it.  And I never noticed.  It's one of those failings 
that I can add to my inability to remember her birthday.  Holidays don't have 
much meaning to me, but I know they do to her.  For all she's done for me, I 
should make a stronger effort.  But even as I make a mental note to do so, I 
know I will forget again.  And the realization saddens me.

God, I want a drink.  Not just a drink, a serious drunk.  A binge that 
will let me wake up tomorrow afternoon with a ringing head and enough 
distance that I will let this go before it eats me up.  But I don't want to 
drink alone and I don't want to drink with anyone else, either.  So I sit 
here and brood, which is another of my specialties.  I'm considering taking 
out a copyright on it.

I stare at the door and remember all the times she walked through it.  
Like my first sight of her, coming in that first day, all spit and polish and 
smiles.  And then I think of her on that first case together, scared shitless 
by a few little mosquito bites.  I still have fantasies about that simple 
cotton underwear.  Sometimes I think that fantasies are all I have.  

I didn't trust her then.  But I started to notice her.  I compared her 
honest care and attention to Phoebe's duplicity.  Hurt for her when her 
father died.  And began to ache for her to believe me.  Began to ache for 
her, period.  

Her light was blinding.  It still is.  Christ, how I came to look forward 
to seeing that little face in the morning.  I love watching that vertical 
line appear on her forehead as she tries to understand where I am going with 
some wild tangent.  And the arch of that one auburn eyebrow is maddening.  

So many times she has saved me.  From myself or from an outside force.  
Mostly from my own demons.  And I came to trust her.  Trust--something so 
rare, so perfect, that I still cannot believe my own good fortune.

And then she was taken from me.

There are still times, dark hours in lonely places, where I reach into my 
pocket only to find that her cross is no longer there to give me solace. But 
I don't mind because I know that it is hanging around her neck, cool against 
her very-much-alive skin.   What I do care about is that she was taken 
because she was involved with me.  Despite my efforts to protect her from the 
train wreck that is Fox Mulder, I failed.  Failed because I needed her too 
much.  Needed her coolness and her rationalism and her discipline to make 
some sense out of my life and my quest for the truth.  Needed to show her 
that I wasn't some wacko just because I believe in all the possibilities.

Those who want to stop my work know that she is the strongest weapon to 
use against me.  So they took her to destroy me, and nearly destroyed her in 
the process. But she came back stronger than ever--strengthened in part by 
the 
force of my beliefs, she said.  But she has so much power of her own that she 
is radiant with it.  She does not need me to imbue her with more.  

When I can think of something besides myself and my quest for the truth, I 
think of her.  The greater truth that is within her, integral to her makeup.  
Her shimmering knowledge of right and wrong.  The power of her smile--smiles 
that have become fewer and more precious as our six years together have gone 
on.  And my fear that one day I will take that simple ability from her, too, 
like I have taken so much else.  And she still does not blame me for any of 
it.  Her generous spirit is humbling, even to someone as self-absorbed as me.

I really want that drink now.  

I look at my watch and consider dialing her number.  Then I think about 
going to her apartment to confront her.  Sure, monster boy, that's a great 
idea--after a relaxing day in an MRI, the last thing in the world she needs 
to 
see is six feet of irate G-man on her doorstep.

I hear thunder outside.  Make that six feet of wet irate G-man.  I don't 
have an umbrella.

So I wait some more.  It's so quiet in here that I can hear the ticking of 
my watch.  Then it starts to rain in earnest, so I lose myself in the 
pattering sound.

I talk to her in my head, so clearly that I am surprised she cannot hear 
me.  Scully,  I ask her, are you at home?  Are you watching the rain through 
your windows?  Are you as lonely as I am right now?  If you are, you should 
have told me.  I could have been there keeping you company instead of in this 
limbo of not knowing.  I hate it when you do an impression of me and keep 
information to yourself.  

And I am often guilty of sins of omission.  I am my father's son, after 
all.  As much of me as I leave hanging out there for all the world to see, 
there is so much more I keep to myself.  I can't reveal all of me to her 
because to do so would be to invite disappointment.  I do not want to see her 
face fall as she realizes the truth of who I really am.  And who I am not.

Part of me is certain that she already knows.

But just in case....  Just in case.

I imagine that all of my secrets will come out in the course of one case 
or another, as though there were files on Fox Mulder labeled "Eyes Only." 
Like: 

Scully, do you know that I've spent just about every day of the last six 
years wanting you?  Wishing my life was different, that I was a better man?  
That I was some nine-to-five paper pusher who could give you a house and a 
dog and 2.7 kids? 

Scully, did you know that I was married once?  And that I wish I had 
waited for you?

Scully, do you know how much I want to give you children?  To give you 
back what I have taken from you?

Scully, do you know how much I love you?

Scully, do you know you are my light?

And our office is dark.  

I can't hear the rain anymore.  

A man with one good friend is supposed to be rich indeed. Well, right now 
I am feeling a little poverty-stricken.  Oh, it's not that I think that 
Scully is no longer my friend.  It's just that there are times in a guy's 
life when he can use a little companionship.  Male companionship.  That 
buddy-buddy bonding can be very relaxing.  And distracting. 

I swore to myself a long time ago that I would not take this next step.  
That it was too pathetic even for me.  But even as I think it, I am fumbling 
in my pocket for my car keys and heading for the garage.

An hour later I am standing in front of a lock-studded door.  A dozen 
latch-turns later, Byers is standing before me.  "Mulder." 

He does not look surprised to see me, and I do not ask him why.  This is, 
after all, what male companionship is all about.  No questions, just action.
I hand him a 12-pack of beer.  "Hey, Byers.  You guys up for a little 
poker?"

Frohike appears behind Byers.  "Mulder.  Too bad you missed dinner.  
Langly made lamb chops á la Hoover."

Langly joins us.  "Yeah, they had little pink panties on."

I suppress a shudder.  "That's OK, I'm not hungry." I slap a second 12-
pack into his hands and shove a bag at Frohike.  "Cards, cigars, and a bottle 
of Cuervo Gold for yours truly," I explain, moving into the room.  "Deuces 
wild, jacks or better to open, and I'm dealing the first hand."

If they kick me out, I don't know where I'm going to go.  But they must 
feel sorry for me because they scramble to clear a table.

And so we play.  After my first cigar, Byers slides a plate of sandwiches 
next to my elbow.  Roast beef.   I eat them because if I don't I will have to 
watch him make sad eyes at me all night.  I have a fleeting impression of 
Scully's presence in the room.  My guardian angel, making sure someone cares 
for me when I do not care for myself.

By the time I light my second cigar, I'm down over a hundred bucks.  Not 
surprising considering my constantly refilled glass and my state of mind.  
There are those who say I have a poker face, but they have nothing on these 
guys, who are cleaning up at my expense. Even though, despite the amount of 
liquor in my system, I feel unexpectedly clear-headed.

I lose to Frohike on the first decent hand I've had in an hour--my full 
house of aces over queens to his four threes.  I begin to shuffle for another 
hand when Langly stops me.  

"I'm sure she's OK, Mulder."

For an instant I see blinding red.  I'm standing before I realize it, 
cards flying from my shaking hands. "Jesus Christ, she told YOU guys before 
she told me?  What did she do, sell tickets?  Jesus!"

Byers and Frohike stand on either side of me and push me back down into my 
chair.  

"Relax, Mulder.  We've been--" Byers looks to the others, who nod for him 
to continue.  "We've been keeping a special eye on you and Scully for the 
last year or so.  Especially since Antarctica.  Just in case you...."

"Just in case."  I lock on Frohike.  "Please tell me this does not involve 
a lipstick cam in Scully's bathroom."

His lips twitch.  "No, but that is a tasty thought."

"Shut up, Melvin."  Langly leans closer.  "I don't want to go into the 
details, but we keep pretty close tabs on the hospitals, and when Scully's 
name came up..."

"...we thought you might be around tonight," Byers finishes.  "Even though 
you weren't here for the last couple of checkups, but we figured you would 
eventually catch on."

I look at him closely.  "How did you know that she wouldn't tell me?"

The three of them exchange glances.  "Because we figured she wouldn't want 
you to worry," Byers says.  "She keeps a lot to herself."

I look at the ceiling.  "She does indeed."  

A pause.  Then I ask the question they are waiting for.  "You said you're 
sure she's fine.  Does that mean you have the results?"

Frohike shakes his head.  "Nothing was entered into the system except to 
log her in at the oncology clinic at 9:25 this morning.  Probably because 
it's Friday."

Langly looks at the clock.  "Well, it WAS Friday."

I follow his glance.  It's 1:15.  

"Well, I suppose it's a bit late to be calling her to ask," I joke weakly. 

"It's late, period, Mulder," Langly says.  "Come on, let us get you a 
cab."

I reach for my keys.  "I feel fine.  I can drive."  

Frohike takes my keys as he holds up a half-empty bottle of tequila.  "No 
dice, hot shot."  He pulls the car keys off the ring and hands the others 
back to me.  "Byers, go flag down a cab."

Langly scoops a couple of bills off the table.  "In case you don't have 
enough cash left."

I don't.  I thank him and pocket the cash.  I look at their familiar faces 
and suddenly feel shame.  Shame with how I've acted and with how I felt.  

"You guys are real friends," I say finally.  They look embarrassed but 
pleased, I think.

I'm so tired, I'm not sure anymore.

A few minutes later they pour me into a cab and give my address.  

A minute after that I give the driver a Georgetown address instead.

And now I find myself standing across the street from her building.  The 
windows are dark.  I somehow expected light to be spilling from every pane 
despite the hour.

I stand here for a long time.  Then my feet begin to move and I am at the 
door.  I debate ringing her bell.  I hate how often I have dragged her out of 
sleep to follow me somewhere, and tonight is no different.  I am afraid I 
will pull her farther down my dark path.  And I am more afraid that I will 
continue on this path alone if I do not act now.

I wait.

Then I find her key and let myself into the building.

I stand outside her door and listen for the slightest rustle.  Maybe she's 
up and sitting in the dark, wishing for someone to share her pain. 

Maybe she's not even home.  Maybe they kept her at the hospital.  Just in 
case.

I have to know.  

I jam the key into the lock and turn it as quietly as I can.

My eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness.  When I can see again, I 
move to her bedroom door.

Thank God.

She's curled up on her side, sound asleep.  The covers are still neatly 
tucked in at her feet, so her sleep has been untroubled.  That's good.
Or maybe they gave her some pills that have knocked her cold.  

I have to know.

I begin to call her name, whispering at first, trying not to startle her 
awake.  After a minute or two, she stirs.  Instead of waking up, she mumbles 
and flops onto her stomach.  

I decide to escalate the situation.

I sit on the bed next to her and lay my hand carefully on her back.  
Nothing.  Then I begin to rub her back softly with the flat of my hand.  I 
say nothing.

She moves a little.  "Hmm, that feels nice," she purrs, her voice deeper 
from sleep.  "Don't stop, Mulder."

I grin, knowing she is more asleep than awake.  And feel a little male 
pride that her first thought is of me.  "OK, Scully," I answer her.  At the 
sound of my voice, she moves her head like a turtle.

"Mulder, is that you?"  She is still groggy.  "What time is it?"  She 
turns her head enough that I can see her open her eyes.  "Oh.  It's still 
dark."  She sounds disappointed.

"I'm sorry to wake you, Scully."

She turns onto her side so she can see me.  I miss touching her  Then she 
sniffs the air.  Her voice regains its normal Scully edge.  "Mulder, you 
smell like a piano bar.  Where have you been?  And, more importantly, why are 
you in my bedroom in the middle of the night?"

Flustered, I start to stand, but she grabs my hand and, with surprising 
strength, pulls me back down next to her.  "Mulder?  What's the matter?"

The words pour out.  "Because I needed to know how you are."

She blinks.  A beat.  I feel her anger start to simmer.  "For that you 
woke me up?"

I struggle to keep my voice even.  "I talked to Skinner today.  He told me 
about the tests."

She sighs.  There is a painful silence.

"Oh, Mulder," she says finally.  "I'm so sorry."

I grasp her slender hand more tightly.  It's warm and soft, so soft.
  
"Scully, why didn't you tell me?"  Even as I say the words, I am embarrassed 
by the pain and need threaded through them.  And I know she hears it, too.

She pulls her hand away and reaches for the lamp.  I stop her.  Her 
presence is all the illumination I need.

She is quiet and I wait.  I almost expect her to say that her health is 
none of my business.  Instead she takes my hand again.  

"Because...because I didn't want you to worry, Mulder.  Not over nothing. 
I'm fine, absolutely fine."

I can't help but crack a smile, even as I feel my eyes moisten.  "Scully, 
if you were on fire you'd say you were fine."

She covers our hands with her free one.  "But I AM fine, Mulder.  Really.  
Not even a paper cut."  She looks at me with a plea.  "I knew you would be 
upset, and I wanted to spare you.  I didn't think to tell Skinner not to 
mention it to you."  Her small fingers suddenly touch my cheek and brush away 
a tear.  "If I had known that sparing you would have made you suffer, I would 
have been up-front from the beginning.  I am very sorry."

I turn over her palm and examine it like a fortune teller, drawing one 
finger from her palm to her pulse.  "So, Scully, what I'm seeing here is..."

"A long lifeline."  Her voice is husky.

I press a kiss into each of her hands.  "Thank God," I whisper.  My heart 
can go on beating for another day.

And then I stand, because I want her so much I think I could hurt her.  

"I'm sorry for waking you, Scully.  I just had to know."  I turn to go and 
get as far as the doorway when the liquor hits me and I sway.  

"Mulder?"

I turn carefully--it wouldn't do to fall down now--and look at her.  God, 
she is so beautiful, her hair haloed from sleep.  

"Let me take you home."  

I shake my head as she sits up.  I don't think I could handle being that 
close to her.  "I'm all right, Scully.  I'll get a cab."

She just looks at me for a moment.  Then she says, "Well, why don't you go 
take a shower?  It might sober you up a bit."

I catch a whiff of the cigar smoke on my clothes and the odor is 
nauseating.  "I think I'll take you up on that."  I stumble toward the 
bathroom.

I rummage up some towels and an extra toothbrush and take a long, hot 
shower.  Then a shorter cold one.  I try not to think of her, soft and 
sleepy, in the next room.  When I emerge from the bathroom a few minutes 
later, padding out in my undershirt and boxers and carrying the rest of my 
clothes, she is still in bed, her eyes closed.  When she hears me, her eyes 
flick open.

"Feel better?" she asks.

"I have a strong premonition that there will be a construction crew 
renovating my head in a couple of hours, but I'm OK at the moment."  Even in 
the reflected street light, I can see the shadows under her eyes.  "Go back 
to sleep, Scully.  I'll call you tomorrow."  I start to step into my pants.

Her eyes never falter from mine.  She pulls back the comforter on the 
other side of the bed and waits.

I feel like I've come home after all.  

In a moment I am settled in next to her healing warmth and I bury my head 
in her shoulder.  I do not deserve this.  I do not deserve her.

"Go to sleep, Mulder," she whispers, stroking my hair and ignoring the 
tears that dampen her shoulder.

I close my burning eyes.

It is enough for now.