"Of Cabbages and Kings" by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
krasch3251@aol.com

I find myself fascinated with telephone calls these days.  I'm not sure
why.  
I guess it must have something to do with the fact that Mulder and
Scully 
have always given good phone, and I love writing dialogue almost better 
than anything.  I had started a piece of NC-17 fluff about three weeks 
ago, and discovered that with the revelations of the cancer arc
episodes, 
anything quite as light-hearted as I had in mind seemed grossly out of 
place.  I'm sure I'll return to that story line one day.  But in the
meantime, 
this is a little something that's been running around inside my head
since 
"Momento Mori."  I don't know if I've ever seen an episode that 
*screamed* for follow-up fanfic more than that fine hour of television.  
So, this is my contribution to what is shaping up to be a veritable
treasure 
trove of XF post-ep literature.  It's an SHA with a dash of UST.  PG 
for language.  Nothing more.  (My goal one day is to use every single
letter of the alphabet when categorizing my stories for the archives.
<g>)

As fond of them as I am, these characters aren't mine.  They belong
to CC, 1013, and Fox.  I'm indulging my fantasies for them without
hope of profit or gain.  If you pass this story around, please keep my
name on it.

By the way, I've been in e-mail hell for the past month or more. 
Suffice
it to say that if you've written to me and haven't heard back, chances 
are the reason why is that your letter got blown up or bounced back or
eaten alive--or whatever--in one of my many Delphi purges.  I'm 
terribly sorry.  I try to be a decent correspondent.  And all comments
are appreciated.  I've got two non-Delphi addys now (which are listed
above).  Perhaps I'll have better luck with these.  Thanks.

This is for my two best long distance XF buddies, Nic and Connie.  I 
love you both.

*********************************************************
SUMMARY:  Mulder gives Scully a late night jingle.  They talk of
many things.  Post Cancer Arc.
*********************************************************

              "Hello?"  The feminine voice murmuring its way down the 
telephone wire was soft.  Husky.  But untouched by sleep.  Good.  He 
had guessed right.
              "Scully?"
	"*Mulder*?  It's nearly 1:00 in the morning.  What are you 
still doing up?"
	Well, that was the question now, wasn't it.
	"Oh. . . .  Same old, same old.  Couldn't sleep.  And you know
what they say--misery loves company."
	Hearing her low answering chuckle, Mulder tipped his head 
back against the couch cushion and smiled in reply, the tension that had 
squeezed his heart since nightfall easing just a notch.  Funny how a
small
dose of innocuous banter between a certain redhead and himself tended 
to have that effect on him.  "I sometimes think that my internal clock 
must be set to a different time zone.  You know?  But hey--we get to
sleep 
in tomorrow morning, so this late-night thing is no big deal.  Of
course, I 
could ask the same of you."
	"What?"
	"Why are you still awake?"
	"Are you telling me that you called me in the middle of the 
night to make certain I was asleep?"
	"What--is there a problem with my logic?"
	She chuckled once more.  "I'd say that logic is the least of your 
problems."
	No arguing with that.
	"So why *are* you up?" he persisted, that niggling little fear 
that clung to his soul nowadays like a parasite urging him to press the 
issue.
	Scully paused for a moment, her hesitation fueling another 
surge of worry.  One that rose up Mulder's throat like sewer water.  In 
the end, however, she relented and answered, the words suspiciously
casual.  "No reason.  I was reading, that's all.  I got caught up and
lost 
track of the time."
	Now, it wasn't that he didn't trust his partner.  Not by a long
shot.  But Dana Katherine Scully had never been able to lie to him.
	Tonight was no exception.  
              Something had been left unsaid.  Mulder felt it as surely
as 
the ground beneath his feet.
	And thus, secure in that belief, he began to probe.  Like a 
surgeon cautiously examining a fresh wound.
	"So . . . reading, huh?  Anything good?"
	"Define 'good'."
	"Come on, Scully.  You know what I like."
	She laughed quietly yet again.  "This from a man who has 
Doctors Seuss =and= Freud on his bookshelf."
	"Yes.  But not side by side."
	"I'm sure Sigmund is relieved."
	"No more so than Theodor."
	All right.  This banter stuff is all well and good, Mulder
silently fumed, but there comes a time, Scully, when a guy appreciates 
a direct answer.  
              Like now. 
	And yet, despite that need, that concern that was fast blossoming
into something entirely out of proportion to what had prompted it in the
first place, he said nothing.  Instead he sat, cool black leather
pillowing
his back, his lips thinned in frustration, absolutely stymied as to how
he 
should proceed.
	He didn't mean to intrude upon her privacy like one of those
tabloid reporters.  Honestly, he didn't.  It was only that he was
worried. 
Had been since just after dinner.  Eerie though he acknowledged it was, 
he had somehow felt that evening a certain wrongness when his thoughts 
had drifted in the direction of his partner.  All through the loads of 
laundry he had hefted from his apartment to the basement and back again, 
all during that truly wretched cable film he had watched because there 
hadn't been anything else on television, he had for some reason gotten 
the impression that something wasn't quite as it should be in the world 
of Dana Scully.  
              Something besides the obvious.  
              An indefinable longing or need had seemed to emanate from 
her throughout that lonely Saturday night, calling out to him.  A kind
of 
disquiet so potent, so vivid, that he had finally been forced to
answer.  
              Or rather, return the call.
	 "So come on, Scully.  Give," Mulder said, doing his damnedest 
to mask his escalating alarm as he stretched out his legs before him on
his 
coffee table and crossed his ankles.  "What are you so afraid of? 
Unless . . . 
Don't tell me it's one of those paperbacks with a guy on the cover whose 
chest is more developed than the book's plot."
	He could almost hear her eyebrow raise.
	"Since when is a romance hero's chest of more interest to you
than the heroine's, Mulder?" Scully purred.
	 He threw as much wounded dignity into his voice as he could
manage.  "Anything else would sexist."
	"The feminists of the world thank you."
	He smiled in spite of himself, and quickly changed gears to full 
leer mode.  "Oooh.  *How* exactly?"
	She sighed.  The sound so overdone that Mulder knew without
question her annoyance was feigned.
	He grinned once more into the receiver in appreciation of her
tolerance.
	Yes.  Despite his misgivings, there was definitely still comfort 
to be found in so simple a thing as a phone call.  Still pleasure to be
had 
just by listening to the sound of her voice; fond amusement in the 
way this woman managed, as she always did, to return his quips as 
effortlessly as Steffi Graf returns serve.  It was funny.  Every once
and 
awhile, the ease of their relationship made him feel strangely guilty.  
As if the lack of exertion somehow made the happiness he received from 
their interaction unearned.  Without merit.
	Then he would remember where they stood.  What it had taken 
to get them to that point.
	And what they had each given up along the way.
	And he knew that whatever tenuous joy they managed to steal 
for themselves every so often had been bought and paid for many times 
over.
	"Well?" he prodded at last.  "Exactly how do you foresee this 
as yet unnamed feminist thanking me, Scully?  And please--don't be 
afraid to be specific."
	Inappropriate though he knew it was, he couldn't help but
muse over how he would like one particular feminist physician to show 
her gratitude.  
	Even if he were hard-pressed to come up with something for
which she ought to be thanking him.
	"Use your imagination."
	"I'm going to *have* to.  If not for that, then at least for coming 
up with the name of that damned book you're pulling an all-nighter to 
finish."  Oh God, Mulder, you're pathetic, he silently groaned not an 
instant after replaying his words inside his head.  Would you like a 
little cheese with that whine, sir?
	And yet, Scully didn't call him on it.  Instead, it seemed as if 
perhaps his dogged determination had finally paid off.  She hesitated
for 
an instant.  Then spoke, a touch of embarrassment creeping into her
voice.  
"Well, I wouldn't exactly say that I'm willing to forego sleep over
these 
books, Mulder. . . ."
	What do you know?
	Scully was a sucker for the aural equivalent of his patented puppy-
dog face.
	He would do well to file that information away for future reference.
	"Books =plural=?" Mulder queried in a carefully neutral voice, not 
wanting to spook her now that he was so very close to at long last
getting 
the answer to his question.  
	"Books plural," she confirmed, her voice just as neutral as his.
	He whistled, striving hard to keep up the pretense of nonchalance.  
"Scully, I'm impressed.  And exactly when did you find time to earn 
your diploma from Evelyn Woods?"
	That urged from her a weak chuckle.  "It's easy when what 
you're reading is more pictures than anything else."
	"So what are we talking here--the collected works of Gary
Larson?"
	Scully sighed, her smoke screen finally dissipating.  "If you 
really must know, Mulder, I was looking at my high school yearbooks."
	She couldn't have surprised him more if she had told him she
had been perusing that month's issue of "Hustler."
	Which would have been his next guess.
	"Your yearbooks?"
	"Yes."
	"Um . . . *why*?"
	Her tone bordered on disgruntled.  "No reason really.  I had
been doing a little cleaning this afternoon.  You know?  Rummaged
through my closets.  And I found them.  They were in a box, buried
under some sweaters."
	Okay.  So, perhaps his little Scully radar had been on the fritz.  
It wouldn't be the first time.  Especially not lately.  Mulder was among 
the first to admit that, where his partner was concerned, his protective 
instincts had been operating on full throttle the past several months.  
Maybe tonight he had merely been overreacting.  He certainly had to 
concede that he had been expecting something far more dire.  After all, 
what harm could there be in a box full of memories?
	"Reliving past glories?" he asked mildly.
	Her little snort of laughter sounded oddly devoid of humor.
"I don't recall those years as being particularly glorious."
	He could sympathize.  "Not exactly Beverly Hills 90210, huh?"
	"Not exactly."
	They both fell silent for a second or two.
	"Mulder, did you know that I have yearbooks from three 
different schools?" she murmured at last.
	Now they were getting somewhere.
*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

Continued in Part II

From krasch@earthlink.net Thu Feb 27 01:56:57 1997
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW*  "Of Cabbages & Kings" (2/2) by K. Rasch
From: Karen Rasch <krasch@earthlink.net>
Date: Thu, 27 Feb 1997 01:56:57 -0600
--------
"Of Cabbages and Kings" (2/2)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
krasch3251@aol.com

Please see Part I for all intro stuff.  Thanks! 
*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	"The family was moving around a lot back then?" he asked
in as offhanded a tone as he could muster.
	"Yeah."
	He knew she didn't mean for him to hear it, but he could detect
a subtle note of melancholy underlying that simple word.  Her gentle 
sadness prompted a similar response in him.
	"Well, if it makes you feel any better, Scully, my yearbooks all
came from the same place," he offered softly.  "But believe me, that
whole 'familiarity breeds contempt' thing--it ain't all talk."
	"Not a lot of fond memories?"
	"Not particularly."
	They each sat quietly for a time.
	"What were you into, Mulder?"
	"Into?"
	"Yeah.  I mean . . . did you just go to class and come home?
Or were you a joiner?"
	"A joiner?"
	"Yeah.  You know--clubs, teams.  That kind of thing."
	He grimaced, and ran a hand over his stubbled cheek.  Oh
God, Scully.  Why are you feeling the urge to pick at old wounds?  Well,
'wounds' was probably a bit strong.  And yet, he hadn't been straying 
too far into melodrama when he had stated that high school hadn't 
exactly been what he'd call a barrel of laughs.  After all, Chilmark
wasn't 
especially large.  People had known him.  Known his family.  Known 
about Samantha.  And what had happened to her.  Or what *might* 
have happened to her.
	Hell, he had grown up surrounded by the gossip, the theories, 
the speculation.  
              The accusations.
	Not that he had really blamed the curious.  He had understood 
the attraction.  Domestic tragedy is juicy stuff.
	He had just =really= hated being at the heart of the whole thing.
	No, his formative years hadn't been like Beverly Hills 90210.
More like Unsolved Mysteries.
	Or the Fall of the House of Atreus.
	But, he had wanted Scully to talk.  And she was.  Finally.  Of
course, at present the discourse more closely resembled Meet the Press
than anything else.  With him as that week's featured guest.  And yet, 
if spending a few minutes in the hot seat was what it was going to take 
to lend his partner ease he figured he could bear it easily enough.
	The good Lord knew he would have withstood a great deal
more if she had required it of him.
	"I played basketball," he said all at once.
	She paused for just a split second before speaking, almost as
if his willingness to venture down this road with her had somehow
caught her by surprise.  "Basketball?"
	"Yeah.  Made the team my sophomore year and stayed with
it till graduation."
	"What position?"
	"Guard.  Too short for anything else."
	She chuckled ruefully.  And Mulder knew without asking that 
his casual remark about height had set her off.  He wondered if Scully's
two brothers had ever included their vertically challenged sibling in
their pick-up games.  
              "Were you any good?" she queried lightly.
	"Define good," he retorted, blithely echoing her earlier comment.
	She laughed softly once more.
	"I held my own," he drawled after a beat, remembering for the 
first time in a long time the hours spent dribbling and shooting.  The 
exhaustive drills and sprints.  The smell of the locker room.  The way
the 
shafts of sunlight pouring through the high gymnasium windows would 
catch the tiny specks of dust peppering the air so that they sparkled
like a 
miniature band of renegade angels.  The sense of exhilaration and pride
he 
would feel when the ball would catapult from his fingertips and swoosh 
through the basket.
	Nothing but net. 
	"What about the team as a whole--how good were they?"
	Mulder snapped out of his reverie.  "Scully, I lived on an 
=island=," he said with a certain dry humor.  "An island populated with 
pampered white rich kids.  Believe me, the talent pool wasn't very
deep." 
	"That bad, huh?"
	He grinned at the sympathy in his partner's voice.  "I'll have 
you know we broke .500 my senior year."
	"Way to go."
	His smile broadened.
	"What else?" she asked.
	"What else what?"
	"What else did you do when you weren't hitting the books?"
	How did she know, he mused.  How had she deduced that he
had been one of those kids just looking for an excuse to be out of the 
house?  Away from the silence, and the sorrow, and the questions that 
would never be answered.
	"I ran," he said quietly, well aware of the irony embedded in 
those words.  "Cross country.  Wasn't much good at it, though.  Did it 
more for myself than anything else."
	"You have to do that sometimes," she murmured in reply.
	"Yeah.  Yeah, you do," he agreed with a nod, wondering what
exactly his partner had once done only for herself.  "Oh, . . . and
debate.  
I was on the debate team for . . . a few weeks, junior year."
	"A few *weeks*?"
	"Yeah," he acknowledged with a wry quirk of his lips.  "I . .
um . . I had a disagreement with one of my teammates."
	"What kind of disagreement?" Scully asked in a decidedly 
curious voice.  
	Mulder grimaced once more.  "We were . . uh, doing mock
debates as practice.  And one of the other guys on the team . . .  well, 
he slugged me."
	"Why?"  It sounded as if she were trying valiantly to hide it, 
but he thought he could detect a faint tinge of laughter coloring her
question.
	"I disagreed with his opinion on the subject.  Kind of strongly.  
He didn't appreciate my point of view or . . . *me*.  And um . . . , he
got 
upset.  I guess he must have decided that the time for talk had come to 
an end."
	"I see."
	"Hey, all I was doing was speaking my mind, Scully," he said 
a tad defensively.  "Isn't that what you're supposed to do when you
debate?  But some people don't want to hear anything that contradicts
their cozy little world view.  That kid--his name was Jerry Westerphal--
he was like that.  A real jerk.  But to this day, I'm sure that at least
half 
the reason he'd gotten that way was because no one had ever bothered 
to stand up to him.  So, when he challenged me, I figured what the
hell.  
You know?  Maybe the time had come."
	Silence.
	"I just wish I had hit him back," he admitted ruefully at last.
	Scully chuckled.
              "What was your topic?" she queried softly after a time.
	"Gun control."
	"For or against?"
	"For."
	"Ironic that you make your living nowadays carrying a gun.
Don't you think?"
	"Life is full of ironies."
	"True."
	"So what about you?" Mulder asked at last, thankful to finally 
be edging out of the spotlight.
	"What about me?" 
	"Hey, if we're playing High School Confidential here, Scully, I 
think it's time you 'fessed up," he said lightly, hoping she would
indeed
confide in him, but silently promising both the woman on the other end
of the line and himself that he wouldn't pry if she chose not to. 
"After all, 
I showed you mine.  Don't you think it's only fair you show me yours?"
	"Seems to me I showed you mine rather early in our partnership,
Mulder," Scully murmured dryly.
	A slight flush of heat swept over Mulder at the memory of his 
attractive partner dropping her robe before his astonished eyes on that 
stormy night in Oregon.
	Pale soft skin.
	Flickering candlelight.
	Gentle curves covered with little more than scraps of fabric.  
Cloth which, in the end, revealed far more than it concealed . . .
	"Trust me, Scully.  The moment is imprinted on my soul."
	He had meant the remark playfully.  As a tease.
	It hadn't quite come out that way.
	As a result, he sat wordlessly yet again, awkwardly awaiting 
her riposte.
	"I think about it too sometimes, you know," she whispered, her 
voice both smoky and shy.
	And Mulder wondered how in the world he was ever going to 
come up with a reply to that.
	Thankfully, he didn't need to.
	Because Scully spoke once more.
	"First impressions," she murmured after a beat.  "They're a 
bitch, Mulder."
	He cleared his throat, and somehow found his voice.  "I don't 
know, . . .  that night . . . in my hotel room . . that wasn't really a
*first* 
impression, per se."
	"Close enough," she said, the words sounding as if they might
have been accompanied by a small shrug.  "It was our first case, after
all.  
But, I'm not so sure I'm really even talking about that night
specifically."
	"What then?"
	"I don't know.  The stuff these yearbooks remind me of.  School.  
Moving around from place to place.  All of that."
	He smiled tenderly at the wistful quality of her words.  "Tough
going?"
	She sighed.  The sound more one of frustration than anything 
else.  "I guess.  I don't know.  In a way . . . I =liked= the
traveling.  You
know?  The variety.  The excitement.  I saw more of the country by 
the time I went away to college than most people ever do."
	"But . . .?" Mulder queried, instinctively knowing that his partner 
had more to say on the subject.
	"But it's hard to know who you are when you're always starting
over."
	His brow furrowed.  "What do you mean?"
	She hesitated again.  But this time, he sensed that her pause
was fueled more by a need to get her thoughts in order rather than any 
sort of reticence.  "It's like . . . it's like you're climbing a
mountain,
Mulder.  You start up.  But you only get a little ways, when someone
calls up to tell you that you're on the wrong mountain.  You know?  
You're not supposed to be hiking up Pike's Peak.  You're supposed to
be scaling Mount Rainier instead.  So, you head back down and you start 
from scratch.  The only thing is that the same thing happens again.  And 
again.  And pretty soon, you get really good with that first part of the 
climb.  You know it like the back of your hand.  It's comfortable.  It's
familiar.  And  somewhere along the line, you wonder if you were really 
ever even meant to make it all the way to the top.  If maybe instead
it's that first few hundred feet that define you."
	Mulder gnawed on his lower lip, considering her words.  "What 
are your first few hundred feet, Scully?"
	 To his surprise, she softly chuckled.  "You tell me, Mulder."
	"Tell you what?"
	"What was your initial impression of me?"
	"What--you mean when we first met?"
	"Yeah.  That day in your office.  What did you think of me?"
	Oh boy.  This was dangerous territory.  Just how honest could
he afford to be?  Did he admit to the secret satisfaction he had felt
upon
seeing that the woman responsible for a thesis challenging Einstein
looked far more like one of ol' Albert's students than one of his 
contemporaries?  Confess that after he had gotten a gander at the way 
her prim tailored suit had hugged her curves, had noted the way her 
curtain of auburn hair had slid along her cheekbone like silk over 
silk he had suddenly decided that his predilection for leggy brunettes 
had come to an end.
	Intense, brainy little redheads.
	Oh yes.  That was much more his type.
	Not that he could tell her that.
	"What did I think of you, Scully?" Mulder mused aloud,
fully acknowledging that he was about to take the coward's way out.  
But believing, at that moment, that discretion was indeed the better
part 
of valor.  "I thought . . . that you were frighteningly intelligent."
	He heard a little puff of laughter bounce against the receiver.
	"That right?"
	"Absolutely," he confirmed fearlessly.  "A whole hell of a lot 
smarter than the men who had paired you up with me."
	"Then you prove my point."
	"Which is?"
	"Which is that for as long as I can remember I have been 
defined by my intelligence."
	Mulder pondered that for a moment.  "I would think that there
could be worse ways to be defined, Scully."
	"Oh, there =are=, Mulder.  Believe me, I know that there are," 
she hastened to agree.  "And the last thing I want to do is to have what
I 
know--my education, my background--belittled or undervalued."
	"I don't think you have to worry about that," he murmured,
thinking to himself that damned few women could lay claim to the kind
of knowledge Dana Scully possessed.
	Damned few men as well.
	"But at the same time, that very thing that I've worked so hard
to achieve is limiting."
	Now it was Mulder's turn to sigh in frustration.  "I'm not sure
I understand."
	"You establish yourself as something," she explained, her voice
low and calm.  "In my case--in school anyway--as a good student.  And
then, because that's now what you're known as, you feel the need to play
that role."
	"But why is that bad?"
	"It's not.  It's not," she quickly said, the words clipped, their
rhythm nearly staccato.  "But, you start to ask yourself questions. 
Almost
doubt yourself and what you want.  Especially when you're young.  You 
wonder . . . would someone on the honor roll break curfew?  Would 
someone who cared so much about grades ditch class on the first really 
nice day of spring?"
	Something about Scully as a rebel without a cause tickled
Mulder's fancy.  He smiled at the image forming in his head.  "Are
you telling me that you were a stereotypical bad girl waiting to happen, 
Scully?"
	She laughed, the sound doing his heart good.  "No.  Not really.  
I had too many other considerations that kind of threw a wrench into
that 
whole idea.  Mom and the Church.  Ahab and his expectations."
	"Hmm.  I don't know.  It seems to me that it could have gone
either way.  With that kind of pressure, you could either have opted for 
medical school or climbed on the back of a Harley with some guy 
named Deek."
	"Deek?"
	"It's late, Scully.  Cut me a break."
	They sat quietly for a breath or two, comfortable with the 
silence.  "No.  *Deek* was never really an option for me, Mulder,"
Scully murmured quietly at last.  "You know?  Maybe for Missy, but
never for me.  Every time we'd pack up for a new base, enroll in a new 
school, I'd play my part.  I'd go to class.  Study like crazy.  Get good 
grades.  Everyone was happy."
	"Everyone?" he queried gently.
	"Yeah.  I was," she replied just as softly.  "I really was.  I liked
the challenge.  I know it sounds . . well, kinda dorky, but I enjoyed 
school.  I always did.  Believe me, I would never have tackled medical 
school otherwise.  And besides, there's something to be said for knowing 
what's expected of you.  For understanding the rules and just exactly
how 
to follow them."
	"For having memorized the terrain on your part of the mountain?"
	"Yeah."
	Mulder chuckled ruefully.  "Bet you discovered some unexpected
twists in the trail the past few years then."
	Since you had signed on with the X-Files.
	"Oh, Mulder.  That's just it."
	What was?
	"What do you mean?"
	"Ever since I've been partnered with you, I've managed to climb 
a little bit higher up that mountain."
	"You have?"
	"Yeah.  I have.  All that other stuff--the stuff I know, the stuff 
I've learned--that's all still there.  Only now there's more.  More to
who
I am."
	Mulder found himself fascinated.  "More of what exactly?"
	Humor wrapped around her words like a cat's tail around its
owner's leg.  "Good question.  Um . . . I don't know really.  More 
challenge, I guess.  More things that make me ask questions.  Of
myself.  
Of life."
	"And you don't mind that?" he asked quietly, surprised by her
confession.
	"Why would I mind?" she queried back.
	He shook his head, even though he knew she couldn't see him
do so.  "I don't know.  It's just . . . does it make you happy, Scully?"
	"Does what make me happy?"
	"The questions," he said, frustrated that he couldn't quite word
his own question as succinctly as he would have liked.  "The climb."
	"Yes, Mulder.  It makes me very happy."
	Why did it suddenly feel as if their topic of conversation had
somehow shifted when he wasn't looking?
	And more importantly, why did her assurance make him want
to grin like an idiot?
	Yet, he wouldn't be her friend if he didn't point out the obvious.
	"Funny thing is, Scully . . . you just don't sound all that happy
to me."
	Silence.
	Try again, Mulder.
	"You want to tell me why?" he asked gently, nearly holding his
breath as he waited to see if she would indeed say more.
	It took some time, but finally she spoke, her voice low and 
gruff.  "It's just that I . . . I'm being called back down again."
	"What?"
	She sighed, the flow of her breath a trifle ragged.  "I won't . . . 
I'm not going to able finish, Mulder."
	His jaw clenched almost reflexively as her meaning became
clear.  "Says who?"
	Her voice was diminishing to little more than a whisper.  "Well
 . . . I guess you could say . . says me."
	Damn it.
	God damn it.
	"Say otherwise, Scully," he urged her, his tone crumpled like
a discarded tissue.
	"I would, Mulder," she told him gently.  "You know I would.
But I'm not certain I've been given a choice in the matter."
	He could feel the center of his chest clenching, tightening like 
a fist.  And his mouth had gone dry; so arid that he very nearly
couldn't 
find the moisture necessary to swallow at all.  It was almost as if his
body
was trying to physically protect him from his fears.  As if it thought
that 
it could actually hold back his pain by closing off his heart, erecting 
makeshift barricades; end this very conversation by simply holding back 
his words.
	Not a bad plan, he supposed.
	But Mulder still had one last thing to say.
	"I'll tell you what," he said, struggling to speak past the stinging
in his eyes, his nose, the back of his throat.  "When you hear that
voice
calling you back down, Scully, I want you to promise me something."
	"What?" she inquired softly.
	"I want you to take hold of my hand.  And no matter what the
voice says, no matter how loudly it yells, don't let go."
	"Mulder . . ."
	"Because you see, I'm up there with you, Scully," he told her 
quietly.  "I'm right there beside you."
	"I know that, Mulder.  I do," she said, her voice like frayed
velvet.
	But do you know the rest of it, Scully, he longed to ask her.
Can you make sense of all that stuff that always seems to get so tangled
up between us?  Do you understand it?  Recognize what it is.  What it
means.
	Do you know?  Really know.
	Or do you even want it?
	Want me.
	"Bet you don't know this," he challenged softly after they had
each taken a moment for themselves.
	"What?"
	"I've got a strong grip, Scully.  Maybe it's all those hours
handling a basketball.  I don't know.  But whatever it is, I don't let
go."
	"I don't want you to."
	"I won't," he said, the words a vow.  "I can't."
	"Why not?"
	He considered for less than a heartbeat.  "Because I'm no good
at mountains."
	She was smiling--in confusion, no doubt.  But smiling 
nonetheless.  He was certain of it.  "What do you mean?"
	"They're too big," he said.  "Too many trails.  Too many ways to
get lost."
	She didn't say anything.
	"And they're lonely."
	"Mountains are?"
	"Yeah.  They're kinda bleak.  Don't you think?"
	"They can be, I suppose," she allowed, the smile creeping through
again.  "But the view is something else."
	"Only if you have someone to share it with."
	Pause.
	"I'd like to share that with you, Mulder," she softly said.
	"Good," he murmured, fighting the urge to sigh with relief.
"So you see . . . I need you up there with me, Scully.  To show me the 
way.  Keep me on the trail."
	"Holding you hand?"
	"I'd hold hands with you anytime, Scully."
	"I'll remember that."
	He took a deep breath.  "You do that.  And I'll even make it 
easy for you.  You won't have to do a thing.  Nothing at all.  Just hang 
on."
	His partner hesitated only an instant.
	"I'm trying, Mulder.  I swear to God, I'm trying."
*********************************************************

THE END

"The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things:  Of shoes
--and ships--and sealing wax--of cabbages--and kings."

--"The Walrus and the Carpenter" by Lewis Carroll