Date: December 18 2001
For Becky

Title: The Criminal and the Shadowboxer
Notes: Fiona Apple's cranked out another album
since I started this in winter '97. You think
I'd finish this by now. This is a good songfic,
really. No big fat tracks of song in this story.
Inspired by Fiona Apple and Edna St. Vincent
Millay and many of my most lovely girls.

Thanks: To Nate, for trying.

******************
1.   I would tell you 
     That I loved you 
     If I thought that you would stay 
     But I know that it's no use 
     That you've already 
     Gone away. 
     ~~~The Cure, "Boys Don't Cry"


Chilmark, Massachusetts
  
The screw-up ran. His long legs leading, flailing, his face straining
with fear.  He flashed through Mrs. Vandermeer's rose arbor, his hands
raised before his face against hidden thorns that stabbed at his
eyes -

"FOXMULDER!!!" yelled Mrs. Vandermeer as he ducked beneath 
an overhanging branch, licking his hand, gathered his legs beneatsh 
him thrust down, leapt -

"FOX - " 

- winced - 

   "WILLIAM"

     - cleared her cosmos -

        "MULDER!"

and knocked over her barrel planter, snapping the green stalks of her 
candy cane amaryllis when he touched ground. 
 
Normally, he would have flung himself back into her garden and set 
the mess to rights, but he was running interference against a mental 
locomotive and was way behind schedule.

Mrs. VanderMeer's dwindling, "Get back here!" tailed him as he reached 
the bounds of his property.  

He lurched up the stairs, kicking off his shoes as he went so that he 
went skidding onto the porch sockfooted.  He caught himself against 
the jamb, took a deep breath, and eased open the screen door.

He held it shut, avoiding the squeak-bang, then pushed off hard so 
that he slid across the waxed floor.  Grabbing the countertop edge, he 
braked to a stop in front of the right cabinet and caught his breath.  
Hating every moment of it, he hunched over the 
counter, unaware that self-loathing ate at his face while he gasped.

At fifteen, he had very old eyes.

He stole a look at the clock, and groaned.  She was awake.  She had
to be awake, and she must be in agony.  And this was all that his father 
had asked him to do when he'd left:  "Make sure you mother eats, and 
make sure she takes her medicine.  It's imperative.  D'you understand?"

He'd understood.
  
And his father had shoved his free hand into his pocket, jerked his
chin once and backed away. entered the long sedan and drove away to 
his new place in West Tisbury.

Mulder couldn't help but feel the weight of his father's dry eyed,
despairing stare as he dropped some crackers on a plate and laid
pills out on a napkin.
 
Dummy.

He made it to the bedroom, quickly and quietly.  Letting himself
into the darkened room with something akin to relief when he saw that 
she was still asleep.

Her dark, slightly wavy hair framed her sweet face.  The lines of
tension and worry that had deepened around her mouth and eyes in 
the last few months were much less visible.  

One of her small hands rested against the pillow by her face, the 
other nested atop her breast, her hand pale and white against the 
soft rose of the house coat she was never without.

He forgot the importance of what he was doing for a moment and fell
back into her chair.  She looked so peaceful lying there.  

Good, he thought, I beat the pain, but then frowned when he saw 
that the bottom drawer of her night stand was partially open.  It 
wouldn't do for her to hit her leg against that when she got up to use
the bathroom later.  

Laying the tray aside, he got up and went to shut the drawer.  
Thinking he saw the carapace-brown gleam of vermin within, 
he pulled it open completely.
 
Medicine bottle after medicine cluttered the bottom drawer, 
along with canceled checks, and crumpled liniment tubes and 
her heating pad. Making sure not to rattle the pills in the plastic, 
he read the prescription with a furrowed brow.
  
He repeated the action with the next five bottles.  All were for the
same prescription, all were current, all had been written by
different physicians.

He blinked.  

Making sure mom kept the loop, that the pain didn't hit before the 
drugs wore off was something he'd committed to ever since his dad 
had handed him the appointment book, the important telephone number 
list, and the first check and said, "I can't help her anymore.  She 
won't 
let me."

Unlike his dad, he could help her.  So Mulder had done what he was 
supposed to do.  But he wanted her not to need him to wake her and 
keep her company and make sure she made her appointments and 
write the checks on time, but most importantly, to not need the 
medicine -  no, the drugs - like this.

"Fox?" She was looking up at him with a sweet look, the one that was 
both drowsy and wise.  The one that came when she had no migraine 
at all.
 
He wanted to help her deal with her pains, but not like this.  He put 
down the bottle on the edge of the night table.

She opened her arms to him.  He sank in, and pillowed his head on her
soft shoulder.
 
She closed her arms around him and he went limp. 
 
"You miss her, don't you?" mom asked.
 
Fact of the matter was, no.  Not at all.  At least he didn't think he
missed The Baby.  What he felt, what he felt was so different. When 
Samantha left things finally got quiet.  Mom and Dad didn't 
fight anymore and because Dad moved to West Tisbury there was 
no need to hide out in The Baby's room.  And with that room empty,
Mulder always had one less place to search when something of his
went missing.  

But he would go into Sam's room anyway, stiff with hoping that his
book, or his goggles, or whatever he was missing was in there and 
that when the door swung open, she'd be sitting cross-legged in center 
of 
her bed, or kneeling in front of the doll house, looking unconvincingly 
innocent, stupid face and long braided pig tails and his things in her 
lap.

He and the butt-munch had hated each other.  

No, that wasn't true, Samantha had always wanted to be with him.  He'd
hated her presence.  She had this smart-ass, know-it-all air, like she
knew something no one else in the room did.  

In small doses, Sam was okay.  Sometimes more than okay.  On holiday, 
the last before she disappeared, he'd forgotten her present and gotten 
something for her at the last minute. 

She'd given him a cigar box that she'd covered with green construction 
paper and filled it with things that he liked.  His favorite things, as 
it
turned out, and he hadn't known they were favorites until he saw 
them all jumbled together in the box:  That pin he was always looking 
at and never bought, 'There is no gravity, the earth sucks'; the snake-
patterned 
shoelaces mom wouldn't buy him because she said they were 
ridiculous; the miniature eight-ball that glowed in the dark; the 
guitar pick which shone silver green and iridescent, which was 
great as a pointer for ouija boards; and the finger-cuffs.

He could lose himself in the weave of those things for hours.  Never
notice the slam of a door.  The shatter of an upended bottle of scotch.  
And they were great for resetting a finger that had been dislocated 
while
warding off an angry blow.

She was only eight and she was so smart.  She knew him so well.  He'd
felt so bad about the matching lunch-box and pencil case he'd picked up 
at the Woolworth's.  She'd squealed with delight when she opened up her 
package but he'd known that he hadn't given a thought to her reaction 
when he'd purchased them.  

His mother's gown was wet beneath his face.  Her hands stroked over 
his hair, drowsy and sweet.  "I miss her, too, Fox.  I miss her, too."




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
2.     I've waited hours for this,
       I've made myself so sick
       I wish I'd stayed---
       asleep today
       ~~~The Cure, "Close to Me"

The girl knelt in the dirt, tying her tennis shoe.

Her slightly grubby finger pulled too hard on the shoe lace and it
gave, the long end breaking off in her hand.

Swearing under her breath she completely unlaced the shoe.  Head 
bobbing slightly atop her tensed neck, she tugged the laces through 
all eyes save the first two, her wrists dipping and rising like 
dragonflies 
as she pulled the lace ends even with one another.  Breathing quickly 
and quietly through her nose, she lay the unbroken end of the lace over 
the shoe's tongue.  She licked her thumb and forefinger, and twisted 
the frayed end of the broken lace into a point, and threaded it 
through the first eye.

She tied up her shoe with set lips and narrow eyes.  When finished she  
pressed her knuckles into the ground and pushed herself into a half-
crouch.  Stepping toe-to-heel she made her way around the rear of the 
barn to the side where the shade was thickest, and the thick good smell 
of the dirt with which she'd made mud-pies as a much younger child 
made her dizzy with deja vu.  She flattened herself against the green 
painted slats and pressed her short cropped hair against the wall, 
debating whether or not to inch her head from the wall and get a 
better look at the people chatting beneath the crabapple tree.  A
slight breeze carried the scent of the new one's perfume around the
corner to where she crouched, intruding on the the scent of wet earth
and crushed dandelions.

Her palms were sweating.  Frowning, she rubbed her hands against her 
shorts. 

"Where's Phoebe?" asked a voice.  A dulcet one.  Definitely not her 
mother's.  It belonged to that scary woman in the white linen and 
black patent leather heeled sandals.  

Phoebe poked her head around the corner, straining to get a better
look.  Her pulse thrummed in her throat.  Making it hard for her to
swallow back the dryness in her mouth.

She was so beautiful, the new one.  They all were, but this one --- 
even her arms were beautiful.  The white of her dress set off her deep 
olive skin to perfection, and her eyes, large and black, glowed, even 
from 
a distance.  Then there was her hair, also black, and thick, framing 
her face.  When she smiled, which was often, dimples sprang into 
existence on her high cheekboned face.  Standing next to Richard 
she looked more at home beside him than her mother did.

And smart, too.  Phoebe could tell.  Her uncles were laughing 
at something she'd said, and they only laughed at the intelligent and 
original.  

Phoebe frowned when she saw her mother was also laughing. 
Sometimes it was so embarrassing, the only thing her mother had in 
common with her uncles, was Phoebe herself, and yet mum insisted 
that she be treated as a relevant Green.

Phoebe's mum's laughter hit a peculiar register.  Phoebe winced, 
frowned, and shook her head.  It was obvious from where she stood 
that mum didn't get the joke.  Forgetting herself completely, Phoebe 
clenched her fists and tightened her entire body, miming frustration 
and disdain.

The new one noticed the unnatural play of shadows near the side 
of the barn where Phoebe hid.  She turned to Richard, reaching 
out for him.  Her hand, ringed and bracleted, lit upon Richard's 
arm as she drew attention to the motion in the shadows by the barn.

He looked towards the barn and called, "You there!"

Caught, Phoebe stepped away from the wall and into the clearing.  

"'Lo," she said tossing her head.  Then pouting as she remembered 
that she no longer had hair long enough to toss.  "Was wondering 
when you'd catch on that I'd been behind you all along."

"Where've you been?" asked Mrs. Green. 

"Behind you all along..." muttered Phoebe.

"We've been calling you for hours.  Come meet, your uncle's friend, 
Ismara Espinosa y Calches..." she turned to said woman "de Turon?"

"Yes," said Ismara with a slight lisp.  "You have such a wonderful
accent,  Mrs. Green."
 
Of course 'Mrs. Green' laughed in that affected way of hers.  Part
giggle, part gasp accompanied by a sliding forward chin jut.  

La vache qui rit, thought Phoebe as she swaggered over resisting 
the urge to pull at the tips of her mutilated hair.  She came to stand
before the adults, her chin up, her arms linked across the small of her 
back.  She wore red wool knee socks, and her soccer uniform.  Hay 
dotted her  hair and a long grass stain decorated her face.  "Oh," said 
Phoebe, allowing her gaze to settle on her favorite uncle, "you're 
here."

Richard's eyes, which could always be described as laughing, glinted 
at her, the fine lines at their corners dear and familiar.  His arm
lifted and curled around Ismara's tanned shoulder

"I want you to meet someone," he said.

Phoebe's eyes narrowed at him.  Was he laughing at her?  He rolled 
his eyes in her general direction.  His fine-cut lips curled in an
indulgent smile.  She raised an eyebrow at him in reply, chin jutting 
further than before.  

She had every reason to be touchy.  He hadn't returned any of her 
letters, 
hers or anybody's and when he did show up, he was towing some exotic 
bird. 

"You've grown taller, since I've seen you last," said her uncle.
 
Before she could respond the woman at his side stepped forward and 
cupped Phoebe's face in her dainty hands.  She looked from the golden 
haired man beside her to the bright haired adolescent in front of her.

"How charming, Richard," said Ismara, "you didn't tell me you had 
a nephew.  He looks so much like you!"

***

Phoebe's mother stood with the three middle-most fingers of her
left hand to her necklace.  His mother's ring glittered at him.  She
wore green baize, and her hair, a severe and secret auburn in the
purposely dim room, curved past the oval of her face, throwing 
her flawless skin into stark relief.

"You must speak to her, Richard," she was saying.  "You're the 
only person she'll listen to, now-a-days."

"What is she doing here?"

In a rare fit of vulnerability the one living Mrs. Greene ran her
fingers over her perfectly coifed hair, "Isn't it obvious?  She
was sent home."

"Again?" he laughed.

The skin of her forehead puckered slightly in annoyance, "Richard!
Don't laugh, it's gotten so that none of the better schools will have
anything to do with her." She punctuated her sentence with a handsome 
frown, and crossed over to the tea service.  "More tea?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you," Richard smiled at her.  She was such an
anachronism.
 
"Butter for your scone?"

"Yes, thank you."

She began to butter his scone.

"About Phoebe, what did she do?" he asked, holding back a smile.

Estella put down the knife.  "Apparently she set fire to the stables."

Richard propped his face in his hand, struck dumb.
 
"Don't look so surprised.  I had to make a considerable donation
to their Equestrian Center Fund in order to secure good 
recommendations for Phoebe.  Even so..."

"Has she denied it?" Richard asked.

"Of course she's denied it," replied Mrs. Greene, her posh accent
dropping away, her eyes flinty.  She got up and went to the liquor
cabinet.

Richard watched the woman his brother had married, she of the
delicate frame, impeccable taste and long hands.  The precision 
with which she poured herself a drink betrayed her.  She was 
enraged.

"But you don't believe her?" he asked with peculiar intensity.  

"Why should I?" Estella said, forgetting herself, "She'd slit her 
own throat to spite me."

***

Phoebe, like most children, adored Richard Greene, but at the 
moment she wanted nothing more than to be far away from his 
bright unreadable eyes.  She stood in front of him, eyes downcast, 
her gaze fixed on the third button of his shirt.

"You," he said, "owe Ismara an apology."

"Why?"

"'This nephew intends to grow breasts soon, thank you very much'?"

Phoebe's eyes skidded around in their sockets. 

"Look at me," Richard said.

She looked at up him.  Rapidly.  

"Why aren't you in school?" he asked, the beginnings of a severe 
frown set between his eyes.

She looked down again.  This time focusing on his shirt's collar.

"You already know why . . . taking tea with Mummy. . ." she said
sounding peevish.  Richard smiled down at her.  Phoebe continued, 
"She's filled you in on her version of things I'm sure..."

He resisted the urge to pull her into a reassuring hug.   He wet his
lips.  His mouth twisted into a wry grin, "Assume I don't know."

"They think I set fire to the stables."

"They being?"

"Queen Ethelburga's.  Mummy.  Your brothers, 'cepting Dad."

The eldest Green being incommunicado: as per usual.

"Did you?" he asked.

Her eyes raced up to meet his.  It was hard to tell if he were amused
or angry.  He could be both.  Amused that she was in trouble.  Angry
that she'd gotten caught.  Or vice versa, or anything.  She never could
tell with him.  For all she knew he might take umbrage on her behalf
and defend her innocence to mummy and Queen Ethelburga's and
everybody if it suited him.  Even Dad.  She grabbed his arms, right 
near the shoulders.  "No.  NO."

His hands dropped to her slight waist.  "Did you have _anything_ to 
do with setting fire to the stables?"

She slid out his embrace.

"Phoebe."

"Define anything?" she said, trying to shift her weight from one
leg to another as unobtrusively as possible.

"Do you know how the fire to the stables may have been set?"

"Not with a hundred percent accuracy, no."

"No?"

"No!" she said with a pleading note.  "Not with a hundred percent
accuracy.  Or fifty."

Richard sighed in relief.  "So you're saying that you weren't in 
anyway responsible for setting fire to the stable?"

Phoebe brightened, relieved that somebody at least, didn't think
she'd torched the buildings.  She took a deep breath, "Setting fire 
to the stable would by nature, be, irresponsible---" Richard smiled, 
"and any person who would do such a thing would be incapable of 
being responsible."

He smiled at her, close-mouthed.  Trust Phoebe to dodge a direct 
question so shamelessly.  So he asked, "Are you sorry that the stables 
caught on fire?"

"Of course I am!  I'm terribly, horribly, inconceivably--" Richard's 
eyebrows rose at that, "sorry."

"Well," Richard said. "That should satisfy you're mother.  I'll report
--- the gist of this conversation to her, of course."  He gifted her 
with 
a conspiratol smile, fine lines radiating from the corners of his
sparkling eyes, "How sorry are you, again?"

"'I'm sorry to have distressed mummy in this way, I'm so sorry.' 
But none of this would've happened if she'd let me take my exams 
and go to Oxford."

He looked at her.  Really looked at her and was completely unreadable
as he did so, though his eyes held hers with all the urgency of a solid
hug, "Don't be in such a hurry to outgrow your friends."

"But I--I don't have any friends, Uncle Richard."  She meant to be
hard when she said it.  She almost succeeded, but her eyes were too 
flat and the tender skin around her mouth was drawn too taut---and 
she wasn't breathing.

"Phoebe," he couldn't look at her.  Which was just as well because
she couldn't look at him.  Her pretty face was full of sorrow, and 
courage, and stubborn pride.  He sighed inwardly.  So little had 
changed in the months since he'd seen her last.  He reached for her 
hand, hit her forearm.  "Phoebe, darling..."

"I try, uncle---"

"Richard..." he insisted..

"Richard, I really do."  She scowled and shook what little hair 
that curled over her brow out of her face.  "It just doesn't --- I
don't fit."  Her jaw clenched, "Don't care to, either." Her voice 
was soft.  "Damn them all."

"Phoebe," he exhaled through his mouth.  "Maybe if you---"

"Maybe.  If.  I.  What?"

He let go of her arm.  "In any case, your mother thinks that you're 
too young."

"What do you think?"

"I don't think you've given us reason to trust you."

She ignored that and plunged into a well worn track,  "I can do it!  
People younger than I have gone.  And I've the intelligence, and 
the discipline, and it's not as if I can learn anything at the level 
their teaching anymore, anyway.  It's a colossal waste of my time 
and I'll be damned before I go back!"

Times like this, nostrils flaring, cheeks hot and beautiful eyes
flinty she scared him --- on several levels.

"Phoebe," said her uncle gently, "You haven't given us reason to
trust you.  You're too young."
 
"I am not too young and if it's a question of maturity I was ready
to go to Oxford years ago."  Her fists were clenched.  He saw that 
thin scabs covered her knuckles.  She'd pulled her skin so tight 
that beads of blood, bright as her lips, now jeweled her hand.

"What happened to your hair?"

That shut her up.

"You're not going to tell me what happened to your hair?"

Her mouth opened.  Then closed, then she opened it again.
 
"Well?"

She exhaled shakily and frowned.  "Promise not to tell anyone?"

"Promise."

"I lost a wager." 

"Of what sort?"  

"Rather not say, thanks."

"My niece the gamester.  Expensive habit gaming."

Phoebe snorted, "You would know."

Richard's head pulled up, his clean lined jaw developing
several chins in reaction to her well-aimed strike.  "Touch‚.  
But there are always resources.  You on the other hand, are 
at a definite loss when it comes to hair."

She rubbed the nape of her neck, "Don't I know it."  

"Pity, that." said Richard, seemingly off hand.  "You had interesting
hair."  Then he grinned, teeth axe blade bright against his tanned skin, 
eyes all pupil, "Ravishing."

Phoebe said nothing.  Without long hair her she was plain.  Homely 
even.  Her eyes freakishly large, her chin nonexistent, and every 
imperfection of her complexion made glaringly apparent.  And then 
there was her nose, sitting like a misshapen lump of potato on the 
end of her long chubby face.  Tears pricked the corner of her eyes.  
She sniffed.

"Phoebe?" 

"I told mummy that I wanted a change.  She shrieked when she saw 
it."

"Understandable.  I, too, am appalled."

Her face crumpled.  

He took hold of her chin.  His fingers cool against her hot face, and 
tilted her head towards him.  The index finger of his left hand traced 
her brow, caressed the side of her cheek, and tapped the tip of her 
nose.

"At how absolutely beautiful you are."


******************
******************



******************
BOOK 2
******************
******************

1.
 	What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, 
	I have forgotten, and what arms have lain 
	Under my head till morning; but the rain 
	Is full of ghosts tonight.... 
	~~~Edna St. Vincent Millay 


The Paisley Duck 

Felix, The barkeep stood over her, glass laden tray in 
hand, as she fished the letter out of her satchel. "Yes," she 
said without looking up, thinking that he had come to take 
her order. "Pint Guinness, please," and he thrust a pint glass 
of her usual beneath her nose. 

She looked up then, brushing her hair away from her deeply 
furrowed brow which, upon meeting his vaguely disapproving 
look, smoothed as her flexing mouth dimpled her cheeks. 

They both knew she hadn't bought herself a drink in years. 

With a twist of his thick neck he pointed out a young man who 
stood at the bar, radiating hope. Ah, yes, she thought, Ethe 
Spaulding. 

She smirked and looked away.  Give some men an orgasm and 
they never left you alone. 

The barkeep shook his head. "Your young man was looking for 
you earlier," he said, wiping his hand on his apron. "Said I should 
ask you to give him a ring --- if I saw you." 

"You haven't seen me." 

The man nodded. "Quite. Which is what I told him. I'm a barkeep, 
not a secretary." 

She grinned up at him, her teeth flashing bright in her face as 
she reached for the pint.  He grunted and eased his way back to 
the bar.  She drank with relish.  The bitter wash seeped into her 
gut, warming her.  Fortified, she reached with long ink-stained 
hands for the letter. 

Pale blue stationary, familiar and hated, lay cool and crisp in her 
hands. She turned it over, and tapped at the seal, lips pursed 
thoughtfully. 

Wax, she thought, and glared at the anachronism. 

She ought to be less sober for this.

She wet her lips and pinched the bridge of her nose, then reached 
behind her neck and pulled free the tortoiseshell comb from her 
massed hair.  She slid the tip of one it's long teeth into the tiny gap 
in the seal, and with a swift motion ripped it open.

A flat length of folded paper fell from the envelope, rustling open
like a fan when it hit the table top.

"Clever, clever," she said, her doll's mouth grim, and unfolded 
the thick sheets of paper. 

Dearest girl, she read. I doubt you realize that it has been a 
good ten months since I've seen you last, and I know your 
mother misses you despite her failure to write. Imagine our 
joy when I shared with her the news that your holiday began 
a full two weeks earlier than we had anticipated. Despite 
having to rearrange our schedules to accommodate this happy 
accident, the considerable inconvenience incurred by reneging 
on prior commitments will be more than compensated for by 
the pleasure of your company. I went to the liberty of making 
your travel arrangements ---" 

As if in a dream, her long cool fingers clenched, crumpling the 
paper against the grain.  Face solemn, she unfolded the paper,
turning it written side down.  She smoothed it flat against the
table, sliding her hand against the dips and ripples of the 
rumpled page.  Thumb and forefinger met at the upper right 
hand corner of the page and with long deliberate strokes she 
tore a thin continuous strip.  She continued to tear the letter
into strips, her palm holding the paper secure the table, her
thumb and forefinger pinching the outer most edge of the 
right border.  The shushing sound made the paper ripping free 
of paper centered her.  When she had reduced the letter to
a mess of loose curls, she brushed it into the center of the table
with the palms of her hands.  

That done, she looked over her shoulder, and saw that she was 
indeed alone in that part of the pub.  She moved around the 
circular booth, so that a thick pillar partially concealed her.
She then brought out an old pewter lighter and with practiced ease 
spun the wheel, striking a spark and producing a strong blue flame.
 
She smiled.  The first real smile she'd produced since sitting at 
the table, and proceeded to reduce the remains of the letter to 
ash, careful to catch it all in the ashtray, careful not to set the 
table aflame even as she blistered her fingers. She drank as she 
burned, in slow controlled sips, emptying the glass in steady 
increments until both the letter, and the emblem of Spaulding's 
hope was gone. 

"Care for another?" said a voice near her ear, neither familiar 
nor unknown. 

She cocked her head. Ethe, she guessed and turned, locking eyes 
with him, "If the offer comes with a fag and some company, yes." 





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
2.
 	Oh, you creep up like the clouds. 
	And you set my soul to ease. 
	Then you let your love abound. 
	And you bring me to my knees. 
	~~~Fiona Apple, "Shadowboxer" 


After almost an hour of waiting with heavy lidded eyes he 
had succumbed to his fatigue, leaning back onto the mounded 
cushions and drifting off into the realm of sleep. 

His struggle to stay awake showed in his hands which were 
doubled up into fists on either side of him, twisted tight in the 
sheet rucked low across his hips. 

He'd been thinking of her, and his thinking had turned into 
dreaming. 

He wept as he dreamt, tears leaking pale silver past his temples, 
his face upturned to the faint light that streamed through the 
apartment's windows. 

Patterns, both pale and deep cast by the pas-de-deux of city 
lights and dark night clustered around his long, palely gleaming
body.  Many-layered shadows draped across the length of him, 
drifting tighter and tighter around his sleeping form, which shone 
palely where illuminated by reflected city lights. 

(I know it's purple, but if you knew how I struggled to get that
exact shade! )

In his dream she walked towards him as she did so often in her 
waking hours, long after the sun had set and her day's business 
done, shadows flickering like ocean waves across her face and 
body, and his dream-self smiled, for his day's business had 
bruised his heart, and strength would come through her laughing 
eyes and eloquent hands. Only, in his dream, she came ever 
towards him, forever out of reach: and the darkness, rather than 
bearing her safely to the island that was their bed, reared up 
between them and swallowed them both.  Sadness engulfed 
him, and not long after he tumbled into the deepest part of 
slumber the front door to his flat opened, and a tall women let 
herself into the room. 

She made her way to where he lay with sure and graceful 
movements, thinking grave thoughts as she pondered how 
best to approach him. She had no reason for lateness that he 
would care to hear, and she did not believe in excuses. 

Her long skirt swished quietly as she sank to her knees 
beside him. 

The dried traces of his tears stood out like scars on his face. 

She sighed. 

He cried so easily. 

He thought everything was his fault. 

Everything. 

Even her failures. 

So, so tenderhearted, you are, she thought of him to herself, 
grinning a little as she brought up a cupped hand to brush off 
a tangle of hair from his forehead. Her privilege and delight 
came in wiping those tears away and replacing them with the 
smiling knowledge of his importance to her (she slipped out 
of her jacket and blouse) and in her. 

She untied the waist of her wrap around skirt, and allowed the 
nubby material to slide past her hips to the floor as she examined. 

His eyes were puffy, she noticed with more than a little 
satisfaction. He must have cried for a very long time before 
sleeping. 

His day might have been as bad as hers, and this realization 
made her reconsider her impulse to dip her finger into his 
heart and swirl. 

It would take no effort to eradicate all traces of her latest 
betrayal. 

But he sighed and turned in his sleep, his grief worn face, 
softening into child like contentedness. She knew he felt her 
near, and she drew closer, entranced by the change in emotion 
of his face and the play of light and dark against his features. 

"I'll never leave you, Fox. Never." she said quietly. 

Her warm hands stole out into the darkness and found the 
sleep-cool contours and planes of him with easy familiarity.  
They traced the foremost line of his shoulders and the limits 
of his hips with languorous movements. She bent her head to 
his throat and kissed him savoring the feel of his pulse beneath 
her lips. 

She called him her foxhole in more whimsical moments, naming 
his importance to her truer than she knew. 

The hands that caressed him moved with some desperation and 
the kisses she rained on his throat had a bitter aftertaste. Even if 
her conscious mind failed to understand her need, her tired heart 
and body did. 

The scent of her hair stole through his nostrils and into his dreams 
and he stirred under her touch. 

In his dreams he saw his waker's ember dark hair, soft-lipped 
mouth and glorious eyes. His dream-self hesitated before 
embracing her because her gorgeous aroma bore a foreign tang. 

Her mouthed touch his in reality and he moaned her name, as 
she caught his dreaming self and brought him into the dim light 
of night. 

Heartened by her familiar touch his arms rose up beside her, his 
eyes still shut. 

Automatically, he shifted away from her and she flowed onto the 
bed and over him. 

"Phoebe," breathed the man, coming awake beneath her hands. 
His eyes opened, soft and welcoming to her. The sheets parted 
between them with a loud rasp. 

To his sleepy eyes she seemed a glowing thing, the divine breaker 
of a shadowy wave. 

"Shh," she whispered, and quieted him, stroking his lips with the 
curve of her cheek and reveling in the soft sensation of his mouth, 
tender and sleep swollen against her face. Moving on him, above 
him and around him she brought him into full wakefulness, 
annihilating his sorrow with her flowing embrace. 

Afterwards he caged her face with his hands and palmed past the 
curtain of her hair bringing her face into view. "Where have you 
been?" he asked. "I looked all over for you. I waited up.  Where 
were you?" 

"Out. And about," she replied gracing his mouth with hers. 

"Phoebe," Mulder sighed in protest, "You should at least . . . 
I worry." 

She ignored his words and with mouth and hands followed his 
breath to its source. 

He succumbed to her onslaught and banished his doubts into the 
outer darkness surrounding their bed. 

*	*	*

When she could breathe again, and his soft cries were a sweet 
memory lighting her face, she laced her fingers through his sweat 
damp hair, and stroked her fingertips down his cheeks as if to ask, 
'What happened?' 

He shrugged, remembering the cause of his earlier sorrow. It 
seemed a long time removed from their pleasant now. 

"There was this old man, at the clinic today," he began, his chin
pressed into the crease where arm met breast, "Sweetest old man 
I ever met. Kinda had this glow to him . . . "Really neat 
old guy. Cops ---"

"How long have you been in England, Mulder?"

"Bobbies brought him in cause they'd dragged him out of a gas 
fire.  He was covered in soot. Smelled a little like you do now. 
Wanted us to make sure he was all right upstairs before they 
questioned him.  Turns out his daughter had set the fire because 
she'd found out he'd been raping her kids.  It'd been going on for 
years." 

"That's a terrible story." 

Mulder sighed, "Yeah."

Phoebe kneaded his nearest shoulder.  

Disappointed, he continued, "well, there are a million worse. I 
don't even know why I give a damn. It's not like something like 
it's not gonna happen again. Isn't happening right now." 

"Mulder," she began then stopped, unsure of where to begin. 
"They'll most likely recover. It's not a killing blow.  Children 
are very resilient." 

"But will they ever be happy?" 

"...American construct," Phoebe muttered in dismissal. 

Mulder slid off her and placed his hand flat on her stomach, 
pulling her close to his side.  "I don't make you happy?" 

"That's not the point." 

"Why can't you just admit it?" 

"That you give me great pleasure?" 

He groaned. 

"Especially," she said, reaching between them, "with this particular 
American construct?" 

He groaned differently, "Not again." 

"And why not?" 

"You had your chance when I was 18.  It's your own damn fault 
I'm too old now." 

She laughed. 

"See," he said poking her with a lazy finger, "I do make you 
happy." 

Hugging him, she laughed harder. 

"And those poor kids, if they'll ever let another man near them ---" 

"There's much to be said for old wives' tales.  Suffering builds 
character.  And they're most likely too young for that old lecher 
to have had a profound impact on their development." 

"You really think so?" he asked, his voice troubled.

She rubbed his back, smoothing the unhappiness out of his 
body.  "I do.  All cocaine addicts' psychological theories aside, 
childhood doesn't determine everything.  You of all people don't
need to be convinced of that." 

"Suffering builds character, hunh?" 

"Yes." 

"Explains why you're a degenerate," he said around a yawn. 

"Promise, Mulder.  They'll more than cope."





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
3.
	You made me a shadowboxer, baby 
	I wanna be ready for what you do 
	I been swinging all around me 
	'Cause I don't know when 
	you're gonna make your move. 
	~~~Fiona Apple "Shadowboxer"

0822 
The Paisely Duck
Oxford

Mulder hated breakfast at the Paisley Duck.  The food, like
the decor was both greasy and dark.  The food being burnt and
the pub being badly lit.  He ate to prove that he, at least, still 
had his appetite. 

"You want that?" he asked, pointing at her dish of beans.  

Her tea had gone lukewarm and of the two pieces of toast she'd 
ordered, half of one had been crumbled over the other.  Of late 
her diet had been of the liquid sort.  

She shook her head no.

He reached across the table to snag the food and dug into her 
beans methodically.  

Between bites he sucked the spoon clean, eating up all the rich
sauce.  Watching, she folded and refolded the same pleat in her 
skirt with thin fingers that had not seen the light of day in a long 
while.  

It was the first time in two weeks that she'd seen him.

He'd been early for their lunch date and had gone looking for her, 
knowing that she liked to wander. He'd found her behind the pub 
pressed up against the wall, her strong legs tangled around another 
man's body, her gleaming hair caught up in that other man's hands 
and her face gorgeous with a smile which up until that point he'd 
thought reserved especially for him. 

"Don't come home," he'd said shocking the sweating couple into 
stillness with a voice like a fist.  

He'd been within his rights.  She'd timed things badly. 

And she hadn't gone home.  At least not immediately.

She'd thought to sneak in after dark, as has been her habit they 
were undergraduates, and wake him with a kiss thus reminding 
him of their magic.  

He'd hadn't liked it.  He hadn't liked it at all.

He'd rolled away from her, his naked legs hitting the floor with 
a harsh slapping sound.  His voice had cut sleep thick into her 
heart, "Get the fuck away from me."

"But I love you," she'd said in desperation, playing her trump 
card.

Only to hear him reply, "Yeah.  But it hasn't been enough to keep 
your ass home."  

Now she sat across from him in the dark-lit pub uncomfortable 
under the veil of heavy silence that shrouded them both as he 
finished her beans. 

She could not know, sitting across from him, sweating under
the literal spotlight, that it was her unvoiced 'please' throbbing 
along the telephone wire that had bypassed his anger and brought 
him to the Duck.  She could not know that her eyes, her face
had him transfixed, though the anger that had led him to kick
her out of his flat still roiled below his conscious thoughts.

"Fox..."said the woman who had made it a point to call him 
Mulder from their very first meeting.

A sardonic look flashed across his features and was quickly 
replaced by an expressionless mask. 

"Fox." Mulder wiped his mouth. "Sure, Pheebs, why not? I'm 
sure it's as good as any other name as far as you're concerned." 

She flinched. 

To think, he'd once worn her love like a coat. 

She swallowed reflexively and looked to his lap, hoping that 
somewhere, some part of him was reacting to her presence. 

She leaned forward. 

He leaned back.

Breaking her forward motion, she dipped her gaze to his 
hands again, which rested lifeless against his lean legs, 
aching inwardly, remembering and re-experiencing their 
gentle touch upon her.  She looked up at him, memory 
smoldering in her gaze, her hope and remorse revealed 
in her glorious eyes. 

He looked away. 

Stung she dropped her gaze and found herself staring at his 
folded hands once again. She took no comfort in the sight.  
His fingers were like eyes, closed to her existence. 

She wondered if she looked as bad as she felt. Inwardly 
she frowned, frustrated that part of her was still detached 
enough to observe her reactions. Frightened at this, she 
forced herself to look up at him, willing steadiness into 
her voice. 

"I can't ever make up to you for what I've done," she began 
slowly. 

He pursed his lips, thoughtfully. 

Heartened, she continued, "But I have faith in our love 
and in your strength, even though the wrong I've done you is 
more grievous than..." she faltered under his still neutral stare, 
realizing that she sounded clich‚. 

"That's a pretty good opening, Phoebe" he said, "How long 
did it take you to come up with it?" 

Her eyes diminished in size, becoming both very dark and
very bright.  Their teariness was definitely not deliberate.
She sniffed, loudly, squaring her shoulders.  Willing the 
moisture to evaporate.  She stared at him, she should have
looked beseeching, but she did not.  She looked resolute,
hard.

Mulders toes curled within his shoes as he held his ground.

Eyes intent, face naked of guile she answered, "How can I 
speak as you taught me, from the heart, when you are my heart 
and you've shut yourself away from me?"

This time he did not look away, and part of her shrilled in
victory.  "Remember what you said about words and roses?"
she asked.

He did.  Only he hadn't been talking about roses.

He'd been dazzled by her then, and more than a little stoned 
and had managed to put some of what he was feeling into 
words.  The most beautiful of blooms have deep roots, he 
had told her. Let all our speech be as fragrant and as deep.

"Please," she said simply. "You are my love. As I am yours." 

That word again... it did not make him as happy to hear it as
he'd once thought it would.

His expression had softened, though it was still unreadable.  
He sat with his arms splayed out on either side of the table,
head slightly cocked.  

"Tell me something I don't know," he was looking away from
but his voice was soft.  "What do you want from me, Phoebe?" 

With the perfect touch of hesitation she covered his hand with 
her own.  "Whatever you want to give me," she pitching her
voice with consideration, "though I hope for all of you."

Where his stomach used to be he could feel a chill.  Which
was soon replaced by a warmth.  He brought his closed fist 
onto the table with a soft bang. "I can't do this anymore, Phoebe.  
I can't sit in that apartment---" 

Flat, she wanted to say. 

"---And wonder where the hell you are.  I can't.  I won't.  I 
can't haul my ass down to the fucking free clinic, every time 
I think you're having trouble sitting still.  And I can't sit at 
home, or in the library, or in the goddamn can, and wonder
where the fuck you are.  And after finding you in that alley, 
I can't stand to think of where you are, ever!  I'm not putting 
up with that kind of 'behavior' anymore.  I deserved better." 

"You're right.  More than anyone, you deserve the world,"
she was nodding, reaching across the table to take his 
hand in hers.  "My remorse goes deeper than the Channel," 
she continued, her head nodding.  A few more inches, and his 
elegant hand would be clasped in hers.

But he was already up.  His tight hips level with her eyes 
as he reached over her and plucked his jacket from the 
coat-hook.

"Where are you going?" she asked. 

His mouth was twisted to one side.  A muscle jumped in his 
luscious jaw which was framed by the thick jumper she'd 
brought him from Limerick.  He looked down at her, his glance
falling on her like a blow, "Are you even listening to me?!" he 
asked, his voice high.  

Her eyes flashed fire at him, "Don't make a scene, Mulder."

He leaned in close, "Me make a scene?"  His nostrils flaring,
eyes glinting with madness, color, like the coolest part of 
a flame seeping past the collar of his jumper, his voice 
suddenly, dangerously, soft, "Like what?  Like fucking some 
stranger by the dumpster?"

Her back stiffened, she lowered her hands to the table, "Well,
*Fox*.  You need not have agreed to meet me, to talk things
out, if my unhappiness was truly your heart's desire."  Her eyes 
were bright with anger and suppressed tears.  "I would happily 
submit to a more public humiliation.  If that would appease you.
You had only to be honest with me."

Mulder huffed through his nostrils, "Phoebe... when you can talk 
to me without sounding like some hack job Restoration comedy 
of manners, I'll listen."

And he was gone.  Phoebe looked around, grateful that the pub 
was all but empty and that there was no one about, no one who 
mattered at least, had been witness to this setback.

She covered her face with her hands, and gave a tremulous sigh.

She'd be damned before she burst into tears in the common room.

Outside, already a block and a half from the Duck, Fox William 
Mulder leveled a kick at a telephone station that left his ankle
throbbing and the booth shaking.

It did not satisfy.





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
4.   Through the years I've grown to love you,
      though your committment to most would offend.
      ~~~S. McLachlan, "Terms"

Garrisham Clinic,
Garrisham College, Oxford

In the soft light of the uncharacteristically golden morning,
the white painted bars on the windows of Garrisham clinic 
were almost invisible.

It almost looked homey today.

Nonetheless, Mulder knew he could not, absolutely could not
face interns and psychologists and the other crazies in that 
building.  Not today.  Today the wrong crazies might make 
sense to him.

What had he been thinking, agreeing to meet with her?  In the past, 
he'd ignored the incidents and when his anger had cooled, had let 
her know that he was aware of what she'd been doing --- if not
whom.

Otherwise, her ability to manufacture righteous indignation out
of any confrontation kicked in and turned the whole thing into
a freezing match.

She could be so easy to hate.

To be fair, it was not as if she pretended to be other than what she 
was.  If he asked her straight out, she always told him the truth. 
Sometimes, a brief grimace flashed its way across his face, more 
creatively than others.  

When he wasn't much younger, he'd loved her.  Loved in a way
so uncomplicated, so transparent, that he'd been embarrassed --- for
her.

She was so exciting, so unpredictable, yet so familiar --- the novelty 
of it thrilled him.  It was such a relief to be around her, be himself 
around her, the one person who didn't see him as a continuous 
source of surprise.

As a first year student, she'd been amazing.  Cutting a swath through 
the ranks, her slender form cunningly concealed by long, slim skirts 
and bulky sweaters that only partially hid the free sway of high
breasts, the silken curve of her ass, or the flash of delicate ankle 
bordering her stunning legs. 

Then there was her mouth.

When Phoebe spoke, her phrasing, despite her simple vocabulary,
betrayed the glory of her intellect, much like her movements, 
despite revealed her body as all things wonderful.

Phoebe kept a strange schedule, one stranger than his.  Mulder 
welcomed her occasional visits, which after a time gained the 
trappings of ritual.  Over the wall, through the court, up the stairs 
and into his room.  He never learned enough of the rhythms of her 
movements to anticipate her comings, so her hands on his body
were always a surprise, as was the variation of "boo!" aired into
his ear.
   
Hours of deep talking would ensue, and would end, more often 
than not, with them sprawled on his bed, idly poking holes in one 
another's theories regarding life, the universe, and everything.

The best times were when he'd fall asleep listening to her voice, 
quiet and low.  She claimed she couldn't sleep with anyone next 
to her, and to his knowledge, back then she never did.  She'd keep
watch over him, or at least stay close to him, sharing his warmth, 
sharing his bed.  Waking up to her face looking down at him, gentle 
with care, he thought the best of the best.  Moments like those
kept him high for days.

The morning he watched her blink herself awake from across 
his pillow marked a subtle change in their relationship.  

"I fell asleep, didn't I?" Phoebe had asked.  

He'd nodded, too cautious to breathe a word.

He was patient.  Not stupid.

Phoebe who upped the stakes.   Leaning across his leg to take hold 
of his wrist during a lecture by the American parapsychologist 
Derrek Lem, she'd inked onto his hand a limerick beginning, "There 
once was a ghost-chasing Yank..."

Figuring out which American Phoebe had been limericking about 
had been half the fun.  Knowing for sure made for the other.  

She made it so hard to hate her.

Mulder suspected he may have been more at fault than Phoebe was 
telling, but he was in no way certain.

Feebs was right:  he did want to punish her, make her hurt, almost 
as much as he wanted to find her, take her home --- show her --- all 
was forgiven.

Mulder sagged.  Not enough that  a passerby would notice, but 
to him, it felt as if his legs suddenly weighed another stone.  He 
grinned bitterly as he realized that he was using Britishisms.  
Phoebe would be pleased.

His stomach squelched.  A greasy lump of  partially digested 
breakfast settled with finality in his stomach.  A filip of gas
caught him by surprise and he burped, grimacing as acid tickled 
its way up the back  of his throat.  Bile scraped up his esophagus 
and slid past his teeth. 

Mulder spat.

He took consolation that Phoebe hadn't noticed how little of his
breakfast he had actually eaten.  But then, Phoebe rarely missed a 
thing.

In a sense, he owed her for the Garrisham internship.  Though
the remark that had spurred him to seek out the position at the 
college as part of his doctoral thesis had been made in passing, 
it had taken root.  
Here he was.  Miserable, quaking, missing her, and about to 
go back into the mouth of hell.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and entered
the clinic.


*	*	*

Pen ready, Mulder waited for Darren Winwood to answer the 
question.

The patient stared back at him.

"Well?" said Mulder.

"Well what?" asked the man, placing one nail bitten hand over 
his scorched and bloodied sleeve.

"Why do you think you're here?" 

"Why don't you tell me about myself?" said Darren Winwood.

"Oh, God," Mulder muttered, leaning his head against the clipboard.
His ball-point slipped from his fingers and into a fold of his jacket 
sleeve. 

He couldn't even manage an intake interview.  

Dr. Hremistitses, sitting in the rear of the room, cleared his throat.

"You're an expert," Darren enunciated.

"On what?" Mulder asked, even though he was mind-gamed
out.

"Everybody.  Me," his gazed twinkled coolly at the doctor, 
"him.  Everybody."

In a sense, Winwood spoke true.  Mulder did have a knack for 
figuring who was at Garrisham for what, and how likely were 
they to recover from whatever afflicted them, if at all.  If it was 
completely true, though, he would have noticed that Phoebe was 
going through a hard time, decomposing almost.  He'd known enough to 
find her 
in the alley; how had he not known enough to make it so
that catching her out there was not in the realm of possibility?

Worried, Dr. H cleared his throat again.

Ostensibly, Mulder was there as part of a research project on the 
contribution of patients to their psychiatric treatment but more and 
more he found himself taking part in intake interviews.

Dr. Hremististes liked him.  Told him he had the makings of a fine 
diagnostician.  Which was interesting, really, because psychiatrists 
and psychologists were notorious for contesting one another's 
diagnoses and Mulder was just a pissant graduate student.

Winwood stared at Mulder expectantly.

Again, and with more volume, Hremestistes cleared his throat.

Mulder sighed.

He really really should not have come in today.  "Doctor," said 
Mulder standing, his pen dropping from his sleeve to the floor.  
Breaking a cardinal rule he turned his back on Darren Winwood, 
"Will you excuse me?"

All hell broke loose.

*	*	*

Mulder pressed the cold washcloth to his head and shifted,
trying to relieve the pressure on the shoulder that didn't ache.

He groaned, "I shoulda just gone home when I had the chance."

"Well," replied Basil Benjamin in his liquid baritone, "you are 
here now, "- there was a wet sound - "and are extremely lucky 
that you are not confined to the medical wing."

"And serve me right for getting re-involved with that toxic
bitch, anyway," Mulder said in a less than passable imitation 
Basil's Crujan brogue.

"I did not say that," the medical resident replied, and crossed to 
the table where Mulder lay.  Basil pulled up a bench and sat down 
next to his friend.  "I would not have said it.  Though why you 
take her back every time she breaks up with you, I'll never 
understand."

"I broke up with her."

"Sure you did."  Basil made a face.  "Come, you, sit up.  Open 
your eyes.  Let me have a look at you."

Mulder complied, opening his eyes only when he was certain
that the room was no longer jouncing.

Basil's dark eyes were soft with concern.  With gentle fingers 
he touched the purpling skin on Mulder's cheek, clucking in 
disapproval.  "Winwood has made his mark on you.  Ballpoint?"

"Yeah," Mulder said.

"We'll have it dressed in no time," Basil, sitting on his stool,
turned to the tray containing the bandages and disinfectant.

Mulder sighed wistfully.

"What?" rumbled Basil, turning to face Mulder.

"Why couldn't you be a girl?"  Mulder asked.

Basil furrowed his brow in Mulder's direction.

"Not only do we get along great and you're an excellent cook,
but when I get my ass kicked you fix me up . . . I say something 
stupid, you look at me like you're looking at me now."

Basil scowled harder.

Mulder made a production out of closing his mouth.  Basil pulled 
out the ophtalmoscope and checked his eyes.

"Do I have a concussion?"  Mulder asked while Basil held his
eye open.

"No, pickny," Basil replied. "Though I ought to examine this thick
head a yours," he brought his finger centimeters from Mulder's head.  
Mulder winced in anticipation.  Basil pushed his finger against his 
temple, "for congenital defects --- turning your back on patient like 
that.  There are reasons mere graduate students are prohibited from 
studying here."

"I was distracted."

When it came to Phoebe, he was often distracted.

*	*	*


Michaelmas, 1982
Oxfordshire

They sat in an overgrown cul-de-sac, leaf washed light flickering 
over their seat on the aged bench, worn smooth by countless 
bottoms; a low moss-fuzzed wall curved round behind them and 
brush covered hills spread out before them in shocking green 
spills, each deeper and greener than the last. It was quiet where 
they sat, one of those gray, humid days where the air was smoky 
with calm and warm with growth. A sleepy, heady self-indulgent 
sort of lushness surrounded them. 

Usually she teased him about his soft touch, even as she envied 
him it.  But today she sat silent, eyes fastened anywhere except 
his naked face, rubbing his neck, gentle and strong until he 
ducked his head away. 

"So," she said, serious for once, "lecture: it hit you hard." 

"Oh, yeah. Mack truck on the Autobahn.." 

Had their positions been reversed, Mulder would have done so, 
she asked, "Why?" 

A line appeared in his forehead, "..ask not for whom the bell
tolls..." 

"..it tolls for thee?" she asked glancing at Mulder sidelong and dry-
eyed. 

She looked away.  Until Mulder had spoken, the victims had only 
been interesting case studies. 

"What?" he asked. 

"Sometimes I think there's something wrong with me." 

Mulder took her hand, "Why?" 

What could she say? That it surprised her that Mulder cared? She 
did not understand his compassion, but his deep heart moved her. 
He moved her. The smallest of frowns tilted her eyebrows down 
towards her nose, and she spoke before weighing her words, "I 
don't think I can love." 

Mulder cast a significant look at their joined hands, "What do you 
call this?" 

"Affection," she said after a pause, eyeing him gently, her palm 
caressing his, "I care for you. . . respect you. . . admire you," and 
then she laughed, failing to dispel her somber mood, "but that may 
be nothing more than enlightened self-interest." 

Okay. That hurt. Mulder shifted in his seat. Tried not to pout. That 
really hurt. 

"I'm a nice guy," he said flatly. 

"The best." 

"I thought you were only interested in the best." 

"But I haven't the wit to fall in love with you," she said archly. 

"No?" 

I'll break your heart, she thought and said, "Yes." 

Yes, no; or yes, not no? Mulder leaned closer, closer than he'd
ever dared.  If he kissed her without her express permission, she
might very well kill him.

He leaned in closer, giving himself permission. 

The air passed through his nostrils, landing gentle on her skin. 

Her eyes widened, subsuming all other sensory input, becoming 
large and soft with wonder, courage breaking through the surface 
dread in her eyes, a beautiful sea which caught his leaping soul. 
Her mouth--- 

"What are we doing here?" Phoebe asked tightly, her face flushed, 
her eyes blinking, her chest heaving. 

Mulder pulled slowly out of her space, relaxing only when her tight 
panting breaths returned to normal. When he spoke, his voice was 
gentle and low, "I was upset and you came out to comfort me." 

"You make it sound so noble," she joked. 

He looked past her body and examined her frock. Bright yellow 
knee-length muslin with smocking.  Its only grace being that it 
exposed an alarming expanse of simply beautiful leg. 

"You wear that get-up to cheer me up?" Mulder asked, eyes dancing. 

"What?" Phoebe asked long lines flexing as she re-crossed her 
legs self-consciously. Her yellow frock, which the saleswoman 
had sworn was the nth degree of fashion, fell from her neck to 
her thighs like an ancient doily, starched and smocked within an 
inch of its life. 

"Cause that's a really ugly dress," he replied and fell off the bench 
sideways, clutching his sides as he broke into laughter. 

"Shut-up, Mulder." 

He only laughed harder. 

She scowled, "Philistine." 

His laugh dissolved into little yelps of sound. 

Her lips pursed. 

He whooped, dropping his head to the ground and going boneless 
with delight. He blinked up at her, "I feel much better." 

Phoebe's sea eyes narrowed. She really wanted to lie down beside 
him. Or better yet, on him.

"Thanks," Mulder continued brightly. "I really needed that." 

"You done, mocking me, Mulder?" 

He sat up, "I never laugh at you, Phoebe." 

She gave a maddening smile, ripe as a secret and unbearably sad. 

He wanted to ask her about the strange moment between them, 
when he'd almost kissed her but turned his attention to her solemnity 
and sought its root. "How's Trevor?" he guessed, naming the latest 
of her boyfriends. 

"Trevor. . . you're going to be disappointed again--- I don't think I 
could possibly care less. He wants to meet my family." 

Which meant she was getting ready to dump Trevor on his ass. He 
tried not to look pleased, and succeeded. 

"D'you think I'm bad, Mulder?" Phoebe asked in a tone of voice that 
implied, that at the least, she was very very naughty. 

Mulder resumed his seat beside her, "You're not any worse than 
me." 

Her smile began with a predatory, mischievous slant to her eyes, 
her cheeks plumping with the force of their good humor. She leaned 
in close, but the fear was back in her eyes. 

"What about Trevor?" Mulder squeaked, feeling dizzy. 

"Fuck Trevor," Phoebe said with profane delicacy. 

"But I hardly know the guy," Mulder replied. 

Phoebe dropped her head and kicked her heels, shaking her head 
with a smile. 

"Why him in the first place?" Mulder asked carefully. 

"You have to ask?" Phoebe asked with that same predatory gleam. 

Oh. Rowing. Money. Breeding. Broad shoulders in cashmere 
sweaters. And sex appeal. Lots and lots of sex appeal. 

I better not be blushing. 

"Is that all you ever think about?" Mulder questioned, releasing 
his hold on her to grab at a tree branch above him. He pulled it 
down them shaking loose bits of wood stuff. 

A beatific smile shone briefly in his direction. He shook the branch 
harder and concentrated on breathing. Phoebe had more smiles 
than she had men. Her voice snaked around him close and tight, 
making his shaking of the tree-branch much more difficult to 
manage, "It certainly wasn't his intellect." 

"Wasn't?" Mulder questioned her tense, stilling momentarily.

"Wasn't," insisted Phoebe, relegating Trevor firmly to her past. 
Then a curious look took over her features, "I've found the most 
interesting insects in this spot.  Gorgeous.  Feelered and antennaed.
Crawling, creeping, oozing.... some biting."

Mulder let go of the branch.  His movements slow.

"Now's not the season for the biting kind." she said, eyes twinkling.

"Where were we?"  Mulder asked, resisting the urge to do a mad
dance and shake off whatever he may have shaken onto himself.

"Wasn't?" she said, getting his intonation perfectly.

Mulder's spoke dry-throated, "Lucky for you I'm around to talk to, 
hunh?" 

"Oh, yes," Phoebe said, pinning him with her regard, "Very lucky 
for me." 

To Mulder's credit, his swallow was inaudible, but Phoebe caught 
it. "He's not bad, though --- Trevor; don't you think?  Perhaps, I'm 
being too hasty --- " her fingers crawled along the bench towards 
him. 

"He doesn't love you," Mulder was worrying the branches again. 
Her fingers left off their crawling. 

"Of course not. He's showing me off. Same as me him." 

"I." Mulder insisted. 

"Whatever," they said in unison. 

"He's been most --- useful and I enjoy being useful in return. 
There's much to be said for usefulness." 

Mulder let the branches go and fixed her with a hot look, his words 
coming in a rush, "That's not really you. I can't accept that from you. 
You're better than that. It's not who you really are." 

"It isn't?" 

"No." 

"No?" Phoebe said rolling the word in her mouth. 

"It doesn't have to be about 'usefulness'." 

"And you want to show me a better way?" 

The both knew the answer to that one. 

Phoebe got to her feet, turned around slowly, and clasped her hands 
behind her hips, "Mulder, the first two weeks are bliss. It's no fault
of mine that it all goes to hell from there. I try, but --- if only you
knew." 

Yeah. If only I did. Betcha I'd make it last more'n two weeks.  Mulder
looked at her, really looked at her.  "Phoebe, I--" 

"Shh," she said, and raised her long fingers to his face. She held 
her fingers curled back, barely brushing his jaw. Her wrist dipped, 
her middle finger flicked out, knocking a leaf off his shoulder. 

Mulder swallowed discretely. 

"We should get back, don't you think?" She got to her feet and began 
to gather up her sweater and the books piled at the entrance to their 
nook. 

That was a really short dress, especially for her --- 

"Mulder," she said over her shoulder. 

--- more a long shirt than anything else, and it seemed to end right 
about where Phoebe's --- 

"Mulder? You coming or not?" 

He considered several appropriately inappropriate responses.

"Mulder." 

"Sorry," he replied, leering happily, "blinded by that dress." 

She pushed a clutch of branches out of her way, "Scone." 

"Doof." 

She tossed her head, hair swirling up and past her shoulder as she 
cast him another queer look and said, "Plebeian yank." 

Leaves crunched beneath their feet. A branch snapped. 

"Limey poseur," 

"Please, Mulder," shoulders touched, "none of your hideous Franglais." 

"This from the francophile Englishwoman." 

Fingers grazed. 

"British, thank you." 

Thighs bumped. 

"With that accent?" 



******************
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More to come. 
Honest.

Last Updated:
11 Sept 2000
Send feedback to me at ebonbird@hotmail.com