Title: In Veritate (1 of 1)
Author: Diana Battis
Distribution: OK for Gossamer, Xemplary and Spookys. Anywhere else, just ask. 
I usually say yes.  
Classification: MSR, S, V, Angst 
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Yes. That's it -- just yes.  
Summary: Truth has consequences.
Note -- This is the third story in the Interminabilis Vitae series, but you 
don't need to read those for this one to make sense.  If you are interested 
in reading the others, they're archived at my website. See below for the URL.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never have, never will, damn it!
Author's Comments:  I owe thanks to so many -- To Kristy, for the critical 
but entertaining story sessions;  to Char for the Mulder insight;  to Lisa, 
Queen of the Hyphens <g>, for the encouragement, polish, and help with the 
hands. 
Music may be the food of love, but I live for feedback! E-mail me -- 
All4Mulder@aol.com
My fanfiction can be found at: 
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Vault/4090/TheXFilesFic.html

********

He'd always known it would end someday.  Not with a bang, or even the 
proverbial whimper, but with cool, logical words, uttered in the precise tone 
of reason that was Scully. 

And now it seemed that day was here. 

Mulder pushed through the door to the coffee shop.  Its interior was cool 
after the heat of the morning, and he paused for a moment to allow his eyes 
to become adjusted to the dimness.  Scully wanted to meet here.  To talk, she 
said.  There was an undercurrent to her words, swift and treacherous, that 
spoke of something ominous.  Yet it was hard to imagine a less threatening 
setting than this one, with its dark paneling, overstuffed chairs, book-lined 
walls, and quiet atmosphere. 

He bought his usual, a large Colombian, and took it to the back, settling his 
casually dressed form into a wing-backed chair.  They'd certainly spent 
enough time in this quiet corner, discussing cases, bouncing around theories, 
finishing paperwork.  If they were less mature individuals, this would be 
'their place'.  

Springs in the green upholstered seat groaned slightly beneath his weight as 
he shifted nervously, searching for a comfortable position.  This was where 
it had started, and now, maybe, this was where it would end.  The irony of 
the situation didn't escape him.

Taking a sip of his coffee, he grimaced at the strength before setting the 
cup on the table next to him.  The empty maroon armchair angled across from 
him seemed to taunt him.  Where was she?  

Glancing at his watch he was surprised to find it was only eleven thirty.  A 
look at the clock on the far wall confirmed it.  He was early -- half an hour 
early -- and he sighed in exasperation as he contemplated the wait. It left 
him with too much time to think.

It was amazing how much time he spent thinking about her.  Physically, Scully 
was small, yet that tiny form had the power to fill his thoughts.  He'd spent 
hours analyzing her, trying to figure out what made her tick.  Not that he'd 
ever succeeded.  The only thing he'd ever had to show for those sessions was 
a headache.

Like the one he had now.

He cradled his head in his hands, pressing cool fingers against burning eyes. 
 This slight ache was more the result of too much scotch and too little sleep 
than anything else.  Stupid, that was.  Drinking and acting like a jealous, 
lovesick teen.  What the hell had gotten into him?

Sighing, he dropped his hands and reached over to pull a book from the shelf, 
glancing without interest at the title.  Though not particularly old, the red 
cloth binding was frayed.  His fingers absently pulled at the threads, 
further shredding the fragile cover.

What had happened?  How could everything change so quickly?  He remembered 
the past week and her coolness.  She'd been preoccupied with work, more so 
than usual, and yet, for all her concentration, her work had been unfocused.  
Inferior.  Very unScully-like.

He could see her face -- pinched and white and unsmiling.  And that overheard 
phone call. . . His face hardened as he remembered her voice, low and 
frantic, asking the unknown 'Chris' not to call her at the office.

He stripped another thread from the book's binding, laying it on the table.  
The faded red cloth felt cool beneath his fingers as he pulled loose a third 
one.  His thumb rubbed along the spine as though smoothing away the rough 
edge his fidgeting had produced.

Where's your proof, Mulder?  He could hear those words, uttered in Scully's 
precise and rational voice.  You're building your whole case on what is 
basically circumstantial evidence.  Rather slim circumstantial evidence, he 
admitted to himself.  A phone call, her preoccupation and less than perfect 
work -- what the hell does all that mean, anyway?  It certainly doesn't add 
up to the end of a relationship.  Maybe Frohike was right.  Maybe she was 
just having a bad week.

Maybe.

But he knew it was more than that.

Scully had sounded so serious on the phone this morning.  He'd actually been 
frightened by her tone.  It was cool and controlled, like she was talking to 
a stranger and not the man she professed to love.  All his insecurities came 
rushing back.  With so much against them, how could he possibly think they 
could succeed in a relationship?

We can make this work, if *we* want it to.  But we both have to want the same 
thing, Mulder. Her voice again, gently rebuking him.  I thought we were both 
on the same page, he mused.  Do I expect too much of her?  Absently, his 
fingers flipped through the book.  Maybe I need to be more open with her.  
Maybe she doesn't understand how much she really means to me. . .

More maybes. 

Mulder shot a glance at the clock.  Still twenty minutes to go.  Time seemed 
to be standing still, everything moving in slow motion.  The minute hand of 
the clock was glued in place, prolonging the agony.  He hated this -- the 
waiting, the uncertainty.  Looking at the clock again, he suddenly wished he 
could control time, could push the minute hand forward.  Or backward.  Or 
freeze it on one perfect moment.

But nothing lasts forever.  He should have anticipated this day.  Or the 
possibility of it, he amended.  Their relationship had been a gamble from the 
beginning.  She was so practical, logical in all respects.  

He was more of a visionary, willing to believe in things unseen, to take 
chances.  Two people, different in so many ways, yet sharing a passion for 
the truth.  And for each other. . .?

That was the question, wasn't it?  Did she still feel the same about him?  

He reached for his coffee, taking a huge swallow of the now tepid brew.  
Everything cools off in due time, he thought angrily, slamming down his cup.  
The coffee splashed wildly, narrowly missing his gray tee shirt.  The liquid 
beaded up on the waxed surface of the table, and he grabbed a napkin to 
absorb the spill.  Crumpling the wet paper into a ball, he checked the clock.

Fifteen minutes left.

Mulder picked up the book again, turning it over to stroke across the frayed 
edges of the back.  He pulled another thread loose from the shabby cover, 
plucking it cleanly from the spine like a vulture picking at the bones of 
some long-dead prey.

Expect the worst and you'll never be disappointed.  He couldn't remember 
where he'd heard that, but it seemed to be true, at least in his experience.  
What was the worst case scenario?  She'll say it's over and she wants. . 
.what?  A new partner, a new life?

My work is here with you.  My life is with you.  I don't see a conflict, 
Mulder.  We both want the same things, don't we?  He suddenly remembered that 
conversation.  He'd been anxious about the changes in their relationship, 
though he'd been hesitant to voice his concerns.  But somehow, she'd known 
and had used her most persuasive manner to convince him.  And he'd been 
convinced, he remembered. . .for a while anyway.

Glancing back at the book, he finally took notice of the title -- 'In Pursuit 
of Happiness: Knowing What You Want, Getting What You Need'.  Dropping the 
book to the table he allowed a small, bitter smile to cross his face.

Want and need.  Two vastly different things.  He didn't need Scully.  His 
world wouldn't end without her.  Oh, it would be hard, at first.  So many 
parts of their lives were entwined that the line between their business and 
personal relationship was somewhat blurred.  But he'd make it alone.  The 
question was -- did he want that?

He shook his head.  No, what he wanted was Scully.  No doubt about that, 
either.  The idea of living his life alone held no appeal, now that she'd 
been a part of it.  Surviving without her was possible, but the prospect was 
less than tempting.  And signs of her presence were everywhere, especially 
here. 

He remembered one particular visit. . .

It had been a rough day.  Both were tired and frustrated by the lack of solid 
leads.  This place had been so inviting -- a quiet retreat from the world 
where they could discuss their work.  Mulder had been considering the more 
unusual aspects of the case, unwilling to accept the possibility that a child 
had been capable of the destruction they'd witnessed.  As usual, Scully 
disagreed.  She sat there, doggedly poking holes in his poltergeist theory.

Her eyes were sparkling, as they always did when his unorthodox explanations 
annoyed her.   As she got more into the argument, the faintest hint of color 
tinged her cheeks with heat.  He'd fired off a rebuttal or two, not so much 
because he disagreed -- more to see her react with all that fire and latent 
passion he knew she kept hidden.

He hadn't been disappointed. 

She'd leaned forward, ready to strip a layer off his hide, when it happened.  
A single lock of hair had fallen forward, obscuring her face.  Without 
thinking he'd immediately reached out and tucked it behind her ear. Scully's 
voice faltered, and as her eyes met his, something hot and intense had passed 
between them.  His fingers had lingered in her hair, brushing through the 
soft strands. . .

Mulder sighed heavily, running his fingers through the spiky disarray of his 
own hair, the short strands prickling against his palm.  He could feel his 
nerves fraying, like the cover of the book in front of him.  His senses 
seemed heightened.  He felt each drop of perspiration.  Heard the rush of his 
blood as it traveled through his system.  Tasted the fear that warred with 
the bitter coffee for dominance, and it nearly overwhelmed him.

He took a deep breath, then another, striving for control, and failing.

There was anger now, joining the fear.  If that's what she wants, then it's 
fine with me, he raged inwardly.  I got along without her before and I can do 
it again.  We can go back to being just partners. . .can't we?

Finally, the biting ache of loneliness hit him.  His future, bleak and 
unpromising, stretched before him like an unexpected detour.  The road would 
be long and difficult, taking him to places unknown.  Dark, dangerous places. 
 He wanted to give up, to pull over to the shoulder and just stop.  But that 
wasn't his way.

Checking the clock, he noted another ten minutes had passed.  Only five more 
to go.  He felt like a condemned man, waiting for his sentence to be carried 
out.  There would be no last minute reprieve from the governor for him. . .

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't hear her approach.  He 
looked up, startled, as she slid into the armchair across from him, setting 
her cup and croissant on the table. 

"Sorry I'm late. I. . .I lost track of the time."  A nervous smile played 
across her features as she busied herself with her coffee. 

"Actually, you're right on time."  A brief glint of anger flashed in his 
eyes.  Averting them, he focused his attention on the book, his finger idly 
following the embossed letters of the title.

She sipped her brew, wincing slightly at its heat.  Tearing a small piece off 
the roll, she popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly.  Sip.  Tear.  Chew.  
Swallow.  

It seemed to Mulder that she was avoiding conversation, doing all she could 
to delay the inevitable.  Part of him rejoiced, knowing that she found the 
coming confrontation difficult.  But the rest of him wanted her to just say 
her piece so he could deal with it and try to get on with his life. 

He broke the silence.  "So, what's up?"  Mulder forced himself to speak 
calmly, struggling to keep his voice even.  "You're kind of quiet."

"Just thinking."  She wiped her fingers on a napkin, then twisted around to 
look over her shoulder at the rest of the coffee shop.  "I really like this 
place."  She turned back to face Mulder.  "It holds a lot of good memories."

He nodded, unsure of how to respond.  Scully sounded almost wistful, like a 
child longing for Christmas.  For an instant she looked like one, too.  Her 
body was dwarfed by the overstuffed armchair.  She was perched on the edge of 
the seat with her fingers clutching the chair's worn arms.  But that 
innocence seemed tainted somehow. Suddenly aware of his scrutiny, she reached
up, carefully smoothing her hair before dropping her hands into her lap.

"I used to think about this place when I was in the hospital.  I'd close my 
eyes and be transported here.  I'd remember the way the bell jingles every 
time the door is opened.  The smell of coffee mixed with the smell of the 
books.  I'd see you, Mulder, slouched in that chair like you owned it."  She 
took a deep, cleansing breath.  "It gave me something to focus on, and that 
helped, more than you'll ever know."

Mulder was startled by her words.  He didn't want to remember those days, the 
antiseptic smell of the hospital, the blinking array of machinery.  Of 
Scully, so full of spirit even as her body was ravaged by cancer.  Or of 
death, hovering so close he felt its cold presence waiting to snatch her 
away.  That was the past, and it had no business intruding on them.  Not 
here, and certainly not now.

He examined her furtively.  If looks were anything to go by, he hadn't been 
the only one apprehensive about this meeting.  Her face, always pale, now had 
the translucent look of alabaster, and deep shadows darkened the area beneath 
her eyes.

Again catching him staring, she gazed back thoughtfully.  "Mulder, are you 
feeling all right?  I know you were with Frohike last night and. . ."  Her 
voice faltered, and she bit her lip nervously, waiting for his reply.

"Yeah, well, I was at loose ends, and I had this great bottle of scotch, and. 
. ."  He grimaced, his actions of the previous night suddenly sounding 
foolish to him.  Unsteady fingers plucked at the raveled binding of the book.

A cool hand reached out to cover his.  "Destroying private property, Mulder?  
You know better than that."

He glanced up at her in surprise, then shrugged, pushing the book aside.  
"So, what other topic of conversation did you and the Mighty Midget indulge 
in?"

"We discussed a number of things," Scully replied, two spots of color 
appearing on her cheeks.  She reached for her coffee, her hand trembling 
slightly, and took a long sip.  Setting the cup back on the table carefully, 
she looked at him.  "You were just one of them."

"Should I feel flattered or worried?"  He couldn't help asking the question.

Scully shrugged, then looked down her hands, now clenched tightly together in 
her lap.  Her knuckles showed white from the pressure.  "Frohike's a good 
friend, Mulder, and he was worried about you."

"Yeah, that Frohike, he's some kind of guy."  His tone was bleak, and he 
blindly reached for his cup and swallowed the rest of the now cold coffee.  
"Anything else you want to share?"

"Actually, there is something you need to know."  Scully shifted in her 
chair, as though suddenly uncomfortable within its plush confines.  "I. . 
.I've been trying to find the right way to tell you, Mulder." 

Here it is, he thought.  You think you're prepared, yet when the time comes. 
. . He waited, steeling himself for the blow.

She sighed softly, raising her head to meet his eyes.  "I found a lump in my 
breast."

The words were delivered so quietly that his immediate reaction was one of 
relief.  She didn't want to end their relationship.  She still wanted him. . 
.but then the meaning of those unexpected words sunk in.  He felt it then, 
the figurative sucker punch to the gut, and he fought down the bile rising in 
his throat.

"When?" he finally managed to croak.

"A week ago yesterday."  Scully bit her lip, looking at him anxiously.  
"Chances are excellent that it's benign."  She hesitated, then continued in a 
rush, "I'll have the biopsy results on Monday." 

"Scully," he breathed hoarsely, shaking his head in denial.  This can't be 
happening, he railed inwardly.  Not again and not to her.  He reached out 
quickly, covering her tightly entwined hands with his own.  Cradling both of 
her hands in his trembling palm, he rubbed his thumb over them, trying to 
infuse the soft skin with some of his warmth.

Her fingers finally unwound and grasped his tightly. "It's going to be okay, 
Mulder," she comforted, blinking back tears.

He felt his pain intensify.  She didn't cry.  She was strong, could handle 
anything.  "Oh, Scully," he repeated, suddenly at a loss.

She squeezed his hand again.  "Frohike helped me realize something.  I've 
always been strong and able to stand on my own two feet."  Her eyes closed 
briefly.  "But I don't want to do that this time.  I don't want to be alone." 

Mulder dropped her hand, and stood on less-than-steady legs.  Sliding onto 
the arm of her chair, he pulled her close.  "I'm here, Scully," he whispered. 
 He pressed a brief kiss on her head, shuddering slightly when her arms wound 
around him.  "I'll always be here."

"I know."  Her voice was muffled.  "Mulder, there's so much I want to say to 
you. . ."

Mulder reached down to cup her chin, tilting her head until he could see her 
eyes.  "We definitely need to talk, but much as I like it here I think we 
should finish this in more private surroundings."  His thumb traced softly 
over her bottom lip.  "Your place or mine?"

"Mine is closer," she whispered, pressing a kiss against his thumb.

"Did you bring your car?"

Scully shook her head.  "Walked.  I wanted to feel the sun," she explained 
softly.

"Let's go then.  I'm parked around the corner."  He stood and gently pulled 
her up from the armchair.

As she started for the door, he picked up the book.  He surveyed the cloth of 
the spine, frayed and barely holding it together.  His fingers trailed over 
the letters of the word 'happiness' one last time, before carefully replacing 
the book on the shelf.  Turning, he followed her out of the shop.


********
End

Diana Battis
Feedback is appreciated -- All4Mulder@aol.com