THE GHOST IN HER LIFE - Pt. 1
by - Joyce
June 1997

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and A.D. Skinner belong to CC and Fox Broadcasting.  I'm only borrowing them for a moment and will return them. All other characters belong to me and may not be used without my express permission.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: I would like to thank my two excellent and hardworking editors: Kathleen and Meredith who helped me navigate the treacherous waters of angst. I would also like to thank Vicki Moseley for a casual comment during our correspondence that sparked this idea. And, last but not least, a tip of the top hat to 'Topper'.

SUMMARY:An accident radically changes the partnership between Mulder and Scully while opening Scully up to extreme possibilities.

NOTE: Italics indicate thoughts.  Underlining is for emphasis.

FEEDBACK: mab49@earthlink.net.

 

July 1997
 

"YES!"

Dana Scully, normally the epitome of a reserved, scientific FBI agent, leaped to her feet screaming as her partner's bat slammed the ball deep into center field, past the lunging shortstop to drop just in front of the frantically diving outfielder.

"Way to go! Your fielders' can't catch!"

A grin of pure delight lit up her face as Mulder hit second base standing up and wisely decided to be satisfied with a double. Their last batter, a smart-ass junior agent from Violent Crimes, had foolishly tried to push a respectable single into a double and ended up caught in a murderous rundown between first and second base.

"Yeah, well we're still a run ahead, Dana. Taggert can take Ambercrombie with his pitching hand tied behind his back."

Agent Frank Haverscomb, computer whiz kid of Bank Fraud, grinned at her. A young Nordic geek by his own admission, Haverscomb nonetheless was agile enough to be a valued shortstop even if he couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a bat. They had been friends at the Academy and remained friends even after Scully's descent into the basement world of the X-Files. Haverscomb played for five innings before a sprained ankle banished him to the spectators' benches.

"Well, I would be willing to up that wager to twenty dollars if you think your pitcher is that hot," Scully challenged him with a grin of her own.

Scully had been engaging in a running bet with him since he had plopped down beside her somewhere in the middle of the fifth inning of the annual FBI charity baseball game between the Blues, agents and support staff from Bank Fraud and related white-collar crime divisions, and the Grays, staffed mainly by Violent Crimes along with anyone else they could rope onto their team.

"Hmmm, I might be willing to take your money, Dana, but come on now, do you really think Ambercrombie can actually lay a bat on that ball? He's struck out swinging the last three times at bat. He's worse than I am with a bat."

"The kid's just nervous. This is his first game with these sharks. Give him a chance. Mulder told me he used to play minor-league ball and was considered quite a power hitter. I think my money's safe." Scully laughed as she laid another five on the bench between them.

"You're on, but it's going to be like taking candy from a baby. You just remember, I did warn you."

Scully merely smiled and turned her attention back to the field and her partner. Mulder was dirty, sweaty and looked like he was having the time of his life. To no one's surprise but her own, 'Spooky' Mulder was the linchpin of the team with four hits, driving in two of his team's five runs, and a spectacular slide into home, which accounted for the dirt which now covered him from head to toe. There he was, dancing on and off second base, keeping the pitcher on edge, all the while grinning like a twelve-year-old kid.

The day was hot, but miracle of miracles, there was a breeze blowing which kept the July humidity down to a bearable 85 percent. The late afternoon sunlight sparkled playfully off AD Skinner's glasses and occasionally off his bald head whenever he took off his cap. Skinner had been roped into acting as first-base umpire and stood there enduring the July sun with a rather resigned look on his face. The assembled agents and their cheering sections were seizing the opportunity to berate the umpires with slightly more enthusiasm than he found comfortable. One too many 'kill the umpire' jokes, perhaps.

Scully had never seen Mulder quite so happy. For one afternoon, she saw the young boy he never got to be shine through. Not for the first time, she wondered what kind of man Fox Mulder would have been if Samantha had never been taken. She sometimes wished she could have known that man-who-never-was.

Mulder suddenly sprang off the base, looking for all the world as if he intended to steal third base right under the noses of the frantically screaming basemen.

"For God's sake, Mulder, be careful, I'm looking forward to that fourth day," Scully muttered, a bit louder than she meant to from the puzzled look Haverscomb gave her.

Scully screamed enthusiastically as the beleaguered pitcher spun wildly in response to the screams behind him, and threw a wild pitch in an effort to pick Mulder off. Mulder dove for the safety of second-base and grinned up at the frustrated baseman who had had to leap off the bag to prevent the ball from sailing over his head into the outfield.

Scully couldn't hear what Mulder said, but the man glared at him as he slowly got to his feet. Mulder carefully kept a hand, then a foot on the bag as he languidly resumed his poised stance. Disgusted, the agent threw the ball back to the pitcher. Meanwhile the young Ambercrombie stood patiently at the plate waiting for his chance to shine.

Mulder grinned at the crowd and waved to Scully. He impudently held up three fingers and then waggled a fourth indicating he fully intended on reaching home base.

"You better make that good or you get to do the damn paperwork," Scully yelled back. She knew Mulder couldn't hear her over the yelling crowd, but she wanted the threat on record.

"What was that about?" Haverscomb asked curiously.

"Oh, just reminding Mulder of the deal he made with Agent Cruger for his services to the team. Agent Cruger was moved to visit us in our basement domain. Quite frankly I was surprised that he even knew the way. Apparently he considered Mulder's talents in baseball were worth the trip."

"You mean Agent Mulder negotiated a deal? Hmmm, maybe I ought to remember that next year," Haverscomb laughed evilly. "I didn't think Agent Cruger liked your partner very much."

"He doesn't, but he wants to win badly enough he'll make a deal with the devil himself." Scully smiled wickedly. "As well as I know Mulder, I never realized he was hiding his talent as a baseball player under the proverbial bushel. You might want to take lessons in negotiation from Mulder, Frank. It was an absolute joy to listen to him beat Agent Cruger into submission."

"OK, give. What's the price for Mulder making me look like a fool out there," Haverscomb said with a definite laugh to show her he didn't hold a grudge. One of Mulder's grounders had taken a wicked hop just as Haverscomb had been ready to pounce and it bounced past him into the outfield, allowing a man to score. Haverscomb had taken a fair amount of abuse from his teammates for that error. Haverscomb merely reminded them of the twelve balls he had caught and suggested they start helping him win the game by getting more hits.

"Lets see now, dinner for two at Samuel's Bar and Grill plus the use of the VC secretarial staff for days equal to the number of runs Mulder was responsible for." Scully sighed contentedly as she recalled Mulder's deal.

Sitting here in the July sun, Scully contentedly counted three days of no paperwork with another day just waiting to streak in from second base. Totally aside from her natural love of baseball and watching her partner display his athletic talents, Scully was reveling in the luxury of anticipating four days of telling a secretary to transform a pile of disorganized notes into a respectable expense account report.

Returning her attention to the game, she saw Mulder once again tormenting the basemen by dancing farther and farther off the bag. Again Taggert swung around to pick him off and only to see Mulder standing innocently on the bag. Scully saw the pitcher's mouth work and wondered what curses were being flung in her partner's direction. Grumbling, Taggert turned away and began his windup, intent on removing Mulder's threat by obliterating the hapless Ambercrombie.

Mulder coiled like a spring and then burst away from the base as soon as the ball left the pitcher's hand. Intent on only one thing, reaching third base and then stretching whatever luck happened to be riding on his shoulders to aim for home.

The crack of the bat connecting to the ball rang in Scully's ears. From the sound of it this was a double at least. Another run and another chance for Mulder to prove once and for all how fast he could run. Ambercrombie smote the ball like a young Hercules and sent it hurtling low and fast towards left field, until Mulder ran directly into its path.

Later, Scully would swear she heard the ball hit his head with a sound grotesquely reminiscent of a brick hitting a grapefruit. She was too far away, logically she could not have heard the sound as the ball slammed into the side of Mulder's head, but the awful squelching sound haunted her.

"MULDER!"

Scully's scream trailed behind her as she clawed her way past the stunned spectators to where her partner, her friend, lay crumpled in the dirt.

"I'm a doctor. Get out of the way! Please, I'm a doctor, let me through, damn it!"

She shoved aside men twice her size without a thought to reach him. Even as she slid to her knees beside him, a part of her knew, a part of her cracked and shattered to lie in the dust beside him.

One hand was still outstretched as if reaching for the dusty white square lying just a foot away. His face was strangely peaceful, frozen in a mixture of exertion and concentration, his open eyes betraying a flash of surprise. He lay still, too still, in the swirling dust. The ball, clogged with matted dirt bound to the leather cover by a hideous red glue, lay a few feet away.

"Come on, Mulder. Don't do this to me."

Quickly her hands ran the checks. Her brain clinically noted the absence of breathing, the still pulse and above all the bloody concave dent in the side of his head, even while her heart screamed its silent protest.

"Breathe for me, Mulder," she whispered as she checked his airway and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. A desperate kiss willing him to live, to come back to her.

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - breathe.

Scully felt Mulder's body quiver with the sudden onset of CPR. Someone was applying the steady count and compressions on Mulder's chest, trying to persuade his heart to beat on its own. Her mind was too focused on breathing life back into Mulder to identify her assistant.

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - breathe.

"Come on Mulder, breathe for me," Scully whispered into his still face. His empty startled eyes stared blankly at her, looking deep into a nothingness that terrified her.

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - breathe.

The count and the dual effort went on and on, neither participant willing to surrender Mulder to death's waiting arms.

"Breathe, damn it," she pleaded. Her tears streaked the dust that covered his face, mottling it with her grief.

This is a nightmare.

I'm going to wake up and find this is all a very twisted dream.

This cannot be happening, damn it.

Her thoughts raged with disbelief in between the breaths she poured into him. She gave him her breath until she had no more to give. Refusing to accept that he was not coming back to her, refusing to believe that he was gone where she could not follow.

With a shriek of sirens, the EMTs arrived and began their own grim examination. She paid them no mind. When had she ever trusted anyone but herself to bring him back? He would come for her, he had never let death take him from her before, this time would be no different. A medic replaced the agent at her side. Scully hissed at the miniscule break in the rhythm. Her entire mind and soul were focused on breathing life back into Mulder's lungs.

"Ma'am, we need you to move back now. We have him."

"I'm a doctor, damn it," Scully snapped as she suddenly lost the rhythm.

"Then you can best help now by letting us do our job and by giving us the precise details of his condition. How long have you been doing CPR? Has there been any response?" Cold clinical questions that tore at her heart.

The medics knelt by Mulder's body, quickly inserting a breathing tube and attaching EKG monitors to his chest with practiced ease. Her world narrowed down to Mulder and the efforts to bring him back, nothing else mattered, nothing else existed for her at this moment. Barred from assisting, she defied death to take him, challenging him for possession of the life that had come to mean so much to her.

"Agents Scully and Taggert have been applying CPR for approximately fifteen minutes," Skinner's clipped tone came from behind Scully. "Agent Mulder has been unresponsive since the accident."

"Breathe, Mulder. Come on. Breathe," Scully whispered, never taking her eyes off Mulder's face.

The senior EMT watched his team work fruitlessly to gain some response as he radioed the situation into the emergency room doctor. He listened for a moment, then nodded and with a curt gesture, ordered his team to begin prepping the stimulator. Too much time, no response to CPR, a steady flat line on the EKG monitor, he was not hopeful, but they had to at least try. They always tried.

Numbly Scully watched the EMTs prep Mulder's chest for the paddles. Following instructions from the ER doctor, the medics sent the electrical surges into his unresponsive body. Three times she watched Mulder's body arch and fall back to earth from the powerful jolts. The medics worked silently and smoothly, fighting death in a desperate rear-guard battle. The crowd of agents stood as silent witnesses to their determination.

After the third shock, the senior EMT spoke at length to the doctor, nodded sadly and gestured for his team to cease their efforts. When the medics sighed and sat back on their heels, ending the forceful coercion of the still heart, giving Mulder up to death, Scully fell to her knees beside him and began to apply the strenuous CPR rhythm by herself.

"Don't do this to me, Mulder. Breathe, damn it. Breathe!" she pleaded breathlessly. Her own lungs and heart straining against the ruthless task of giving everything she had to Mulder.

"Ma'am . . . Doctor Scully, it's over. I'm afraid there is nothing more we can do. I'm sorry."

She ignored the looks of grim pity on the faces of the medics as they shook their heads in silent response to the questioning crowd. She shook off their hands as they tried to prise her away from her task; as they dared to interfere with her. He would come back, he was just being a bit more stubborn this time. All he needed was some encouragement, just a couple more breaths . . ..

"Agent Scully." AD Walter Skinner bent down and, gently at first, then more firmly, pulled her away from her partner's body. The crowd around them stood silent, stunned by the sudden tragedy, shocked by the dark horror of death intruding on a dusty ballfield on a pleasant sunny July afternoon.

"Noooo," Scully pleaded as she fought the restraining arms of her boss.

"Agent Scully," Skinner snapped, commanding her attention, reminding her that she was an agent under his command.

Scully shuddered, stretched out a hand towards Mulder's body, then stood silent and still.

"Agent Scully, I'm sorry. There's nothing more you can do. Let them take him. You did all you could, all anyone could do." Walter Skinner looked into Scully's eyes and prayed to whatever god was listening to help her. Her eyes were burning with grief and a rage that had no one, nothing to focus on.

He saw one of the medics gently close Mulder's eyes, erasing the startled look that had stared back at them, as if Mulder wanted to know by what right death had come for him in such a mundane way. He had survived conspiracies, death by fire and by ice. He had even clawed his way out of the hell of a Russian gulag. This brilliant, erratic and Quixotic agent of his was destined for a hero's death, not clubbed down by a fucking baseball in a fucking Saturday afternoon game. At that moment, Walter Skinner began to doubt that God was even paying attention any more to what was going on in the world He created.

"I'm fine, sir. I . . . his mother . . .." Her voice tried to steady then shook apart as the sobs rose up in her throat and choked any further attempt at speech. Unwilling to break down for the amusement of the onlookers, she twisted free of Skinner's hands and stared into the sunlit western sky.

The creak of the metal stretcher sent a shudder through the wreckage of her heart. Without looking, she knew the medics were preparing to carry Mulder away into her world of cold steel tables and questions answered by dissecting the dead. This time he hadn't come back for her, this time death had not given him up and, for that, she was not prepared to forgive God anytime soon.

I'll come with you, partner. You won't be alone. Not yet, anyway.

She knelt beside him one last time, brushing aside the medics as she straightened his limbs and body until he merely looked as if he had chosen the dusty infield as a convenient place to take a nap. The medics waited patiently, no doubt used to this scene played out for them so often, willing to give a little of their time to allow for the grief of the ones left behind.

"Agent Scully, let them take him now. There's nothing more you can do here." Skinner raged at the inadequacy of his words. How do you tell the survivor in a partnership like the one these two shared to let strangers take the other half of your soul away to a cold dark place?

Silently Scully stood up and let the medics lift Mulder onto the stretcher. In the distance she heard the sound of a man retching his soul out onto the dust. Brushing aside Skinner's offer of help, she walked to the ambulance, rigid as a soldier on parade. Pain and grief rode on her shoulders as she marched as honor guard to her fallen comrade. Unconsciously Skinner straightened up, squaring his own shoulders until he stood at attention, joining her in her silent salute. Gradually the other agents were drawn up to attention as Mulder's body was carefully loaded into the ambulance. Without a backward glance, Scully climbed in with her partner and let them shut the door behind them. For the last time, she and Mulder would be together, alone against the world and none dared interfere.

8=8=8=8=8=8=8=8

Thursday, one week later

The funeral was just the latest in a series of tortures seemingly devised for the sole purpose of driving her mad. She sat through the simple service in a daze. For some reason she kept hearing Mulder's ironic comments on the glowing eulogies spoken by agents who had barely bothered to restrain their contempt for him when he was alive, but now found him noble and dedicated.

I'm going mad, she thought more than once as she heard his voice whisper in her ear. Twice only did the ironic sarcasm cease. Once when Skinner rose to speak in quiet reserved tones about passion and commitment to a cause greater than self. Scully felt the whispers change to awed confusion, even embarrassment. They changed again, afterwards, when she stood in unbending solitude enduring the nattering platitudes of the assembled agents. Ambercrombie shuffled up to her, barely able to raise his eyes to hers, his own pain branded in his dark eyes, trying somehow to find the words he needed to say for the sake of his own soul, if not for hers. The whispers were almost anguished in their effort to convey comfort that could not reach the comfortless.

"Agent Scully--I'm so sorry--I--" Words barely begun before they faded, his speech halting, Ambercrombie labored not to sink to his knees before this stoic woman and beg her forgiveness.

Prompted by the whispers, Scully focused on the instrument of her solitude. Ambercrombie's despair matched her own. She felt the other agents flinch as he approached her, waiting for her wrath to destroy him.

Scully flinched as the tone of the whispers changed to anger, not against the hapless Ambercrombie, but against the hypocrisy of the agents who praised the dead while cheerfully maligning the living.

"It's--it's OK, Agent Ambercrombie. Agent Mulder would not have blamed you." Scully hesitated, fighting to get the next words out and mean them. "I don't blame you." Stilted words, grudgingly given, but ultimately meant. She felt the whispers soften with an affectionate approval. I am definitely going mad, she thought with a certain satisfaction.

To her horror, Ambercrombie collapsed in tears at her feet. The other agents withdrew slightly, whispering among themselves.

No doubt starting a betting pool on the exact number of days until his forced retirement, the bastards, she thought with a slight surge of anger, the first real emotion she remembered feeling since seeing Mulder crumple in the dust six days ago.

To her surprise, AD Skinner came up and helped Ambercrombie to his feet. She didn't hear what he said, but a look of surprise and gratitude flashed across Ambercrombie's face before he nodded and withdrew. A stern glare from the AD scattered the hovering agents.

"Agent Scully, that was a very kind thing to do. Agent Ambercrombie has been devastated by the accident. Like Agent Mulder, he seems to regard guilt as his personal domain."

"Sir, I . . . can we talk about this later? I just want to go home before I tell those bastards what I really think about them and their damned eulogies."

Skinner stood aside. Scully was not ready for comfort, except from the one source that could never be there again. He gave her the respect and honor he would give any soldier suffering the loss of a comrade. A military background might, in many ways, be stifling emotionally, but the military understood loss. Scully had retreated behind her barriers and he would not force her out until she was ready. Soon she would remember she was alive and resume living, but Mulder's death was still too raw, too much in the present.

"Take all the time you need. When you feel ready to return to work, we can talk about what the future holds. You are a fine agent and I know of several openings which you could fill most competently." Skinner was adamant on this point. He would make the Bureau recognize her abilities as a field agent if he had to storm the director's office himself. She deserved respect and a chance to prove herself in the mainstream after so many years shunted off with Mulder and his quixotic quests.

"Thank you, sir."

Then she was gone, another soldier bent under the load of loss and the severance of a bond closer than life itself. Bent, not broken, he reminded himself. God help the conspiracy if she decides to carry on with Mulder's work. In place of a crusader, they will face an avenging angel, he whispered quietly to himself.

8=8=8=8=8=8=8=8

Dana Scully gratefully shut the door of her apartment on the world outside and retreated into the dim coolness. Blinds drawn shut against the sun, her living room resembled a den of shadows. The sunlight hurt her eyes these days, eyes aching from unshed tears, hooded against the memories of a bright sunny afternoon when her world had shattered apart in the dust.

Now, here in her own place, Scully could relax into the grief she had held at bay for so long. Even with her mother, wracked with her own grief, she did not cry, did not break down. Watching them lower Mulder's casket into the dark earth cracked the shell she had built around her heart, but with a will as strong as steel, she held the crack together until she could reach her shadowed sanctuary.

"Oh, God, Mulder!" she cried as she sank to her knees on the carpet, bowed in half with grief. "Why?"

Clumsily she rose and stumbled towards the bedroom. Through the tears, she carefully removed the dark suit she had worn for the funeral. The brightly patterned scarf that resembled a tropical nightmare, so typically Mulder in its riot of garish colors, fell across her hands. Silently, sensually she stroked the silk, feeling his presence hovering beside her. The scarf had been a birthday gift from him last year. Pulling on jeans and Mulder's Knicks T-shirt, she wrapped the scarf around her neck, trying to hold on to this feeling of connection that lingered between them.

"It's dark in here. To hell with the sun being over the yardarm or not," Scully muttered as she dug out the bottle of Glenlivet she had been saving for a special occasion. She carried the bottle and a large glass into the living room.

She knew the Gunmen had held their own version of a wake for Mulder. Byers showed up at her door this time, trying to express his own grief and that of his friends, inviting her to join them. She refused, knowing that if she once relaxed her armor of restraint she would never make it through the funeral. The Ice Queen lived, if only to keep what she and Mulder shared away from prying curious eyes.

Two glasses of blended Scotch whiskey later and the Ice Queen was only a distant memory. Scully allowed herself the luxury of collapsing in tears, fighting the frantic whispers of concern and comfort that droned in her mind. She wanted to feel the grief, she didn't want to be comforted by some insane illusion fostered by her memories. She didn't want to hear Mulder's voice whispering to her, pleading with her to let him in. Madness lay in listening to that voice, she feared. A madness that, however alluring, would ultimately betray her to loneliness and despair.

"Damn it, Mulder. Of all the cockeyed stupid ways to die . . .," she raged. Suddenly he felt near. She wanted to beat the hell out of him for doing this to her and then hold him in her arms until he agreed to come back to her.

"Well it certainly wasn't very pleasant on my end of it, Scully."

"What the hell?" Scully was shocked almost sober when Mulder's voice came out of the shadows beside her. This was no whisper echoing in the darkness of her mind, illuminating her descent into madness. This voice rang in her ears, filling the air with its familiar tone.

"You know, you are a very stubborn woman. Apparently it takes plying you with Scotch to loosen you up enough to realize you can hear me. Either you're going to have to open yourself up to extreme possibilities or you're going to go through the rest of your life slightly sloshed, Scully."

The ironic humor in this phantom voice clawed at her heart. So very Mulder, yet it only served to remind her of what she had lost.

"Sorry, Scully. I tried to do this more gently, but you just weren't listening."

"Who's there? Why are you doing this to me?" she screamed at the madness she felt closing in around her. "Just let me go mad in peace, damn it! Leave me the hell alone."

"Scully, it's me. I won't hurt you." Mulder kept his voice steady despite an urge to howl his grief and fury over his fate to the high heavens. Scully needed him calm and in control if she was ever to acknowledge his reappearance.

"Just open your mind, just a little bit more, please."

Mulder ached with the need to wrap his arms around her and rest his head on hers while assuring her that it was all right. Her grief tore at him, shredding his heart and soul. Beyond the shock of seeing how his death had shaken her, Mulder was dismayed by the realization that she might retreat behind her scientific rationality and refuse to believe in him.

Shaking her head, Scully downed her third glass of Scotch in a single long gulp before gingerly pouring herself a fourth glass. There, in the shadows, was a familiar form, standing awkwardly beside her computer looking for all the world like Mulder. He was wearing the light gray baseball jersey and white jeans he had worn the day he died. The only difference was that these were clean, not begrimed with dust and sweat.

"I'm drunk. I'm drunk and I'm seeing things," she announced ponderously to this newest facet of her impending insanity. Still, if insanity brought Mulder back to her, perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing after all.

"You're drunk. That I can agree with, but you are not going insane. I'm really here, more or less."

The Mulder illusion grinned at her. Tentatively she smiled back while the rational corner of her mind wondered how many psychiatric sessions it was going to take to recover from this fantasy.

"Scully, I am here and yes, I am a ghost. Believe me it's not a career option I would have chosen."

"How?" Scully managed to croak as she stared blearily at this strange apparition standing in her living room.

"Do the words 'bureaucratic fuck-up' have any meaning for you?"

"Huh?"

"I wasn't supposed to die, Scully. Get banged up, spend a week in the hospital with a broken shoulder, but dying wasn't on the agenda. Somebody fouled up somewhere and to everyone's surprise out there, I showed up. By the time the mistake was caught, there wasn't much use in sending me back. Believe me, Scully, you really don't ever want to see what the inside of a brain looks like after it's been smushed into pate. Yuck."

"So why are you here, presuming that I really believe you are here of course," Scully said trying not to confuse herself with the slightly convoluted phrasing. This had to be the most heart-rending alcohol-induced illusion a demented universe could have inflicted on her.

"To put it simply, which is more than I can say for Gordon, the angel or caretaker or whatever that explained the situation to me, I wasn't finished here. Too many other agendas would get screwed up and the entire future time-line would require readjusting if I just disappeared so I was sent back." Mulder paused, his eyes filled with sorrow and a chilling loneliness.

He was trying to keep this conversation light, to help Scully over the initial hump of skepticism. Talking with her like this however, was bringing back his own grief, his despair when he realized he had died and the painful sad realization that whatever the potentials of his relationship with Scully had been up to now, they were shattered beyond redemption. He was no incubus to take his pleasure with the living, but he now understood what could drive the dead to desperate communion with the living.

"Miss me?" he asked with a wry smile betrayed by the aching wistful tone of his voice. "You could say I got lonely out there without you and decided not to ditch you this time," he added still trying for a light touch but unable to conceal the bitter truth behind the words. He was lonely. Bitterly, utterly and devastatingly lonely floating in that gray nothingness without her.

"Mulder, damn it you can't be Mulder, but what the hell else do I call you?"

"Well, Mulder always worked. Why don't you just stick with that and we'll debate the philosophical intricacies of my existence later."

Scully carefully considered that statement, reluctant to agree yet unable to discern any traps. Oh hell, it's just a fucking dream, why not?

"Sure, fine, whatever."

"Not exactly the most ringing endorsement I've ever had, but it will do for now," Mulder quipped giving her a strange look that combined mischief and inconsolable sadness.

"OK, Mulder, what do you want from me?" Scully asked wearily. The alcohol was hitting her system. She felt the neurons of her brain sinking in an Scotch-drenched tidal wave. Suddenly it no longer seemed strange to be sitting in her living-room talking with the ghost of her dead partner.

"Right now, just to believe I'm not an alcohol-induced hallucination," Mulder answered with a touch of amusement in his voice.

"But you are, you know - a nalcohol hallcination. Not that I mind. You're a very nice hallcination," Scully slurred seriously as she hastened to assure this apparition that she meant no offense. She upended the glass, downed the remaining Scotch in a single gasping swallow then reached for the bottle.

To her dismay, the half-empty bottle floated away from her hand and hovered in midair about five feet away. She blinked once and made a grab for the elusive bottle. Mulder faded back into sight shaking his head.

"Hey, come back here!"

"I don't think so, partner. You've had enough. Any more and you'll be spending the night on the couch." Mulder's shoulders moved as if he had sighed. "You're too heavy for me."

"Excuse me?" Scully began to feel that this conversation was rapidly going downhill. Bad enough she lost her partner to a fucking little white ball, now his ghost was insulting her.

"Scully, can we wait until you're sober before we discuss the physics of being a ghost? I don't even understand most of it. But I do know I can't lift you . . . I've tried," he added in a whisper of a voice, so low Scully wasn't even sure she heard it. For some reason, those two words carried a weight of grief and pain that matched her own.

"Mulder?" she asked, trying to focus on him and finding concentrating on anything difficult. "You keep fading in and out, like a bad TV connection."

"Great, now I'm a lousy TV set. OK, Scully that does it. You are going to have to be sober before we talk any more. Learning to be a ghost has me confused enough, I don't need your help getting more confused."

Mulder or, at least, the alcohol-induced image of him sounded exasperated to Scully's expert ears. She held a graduate degree in deciphering Mulder-emotions.

"You don't need my help?" She latched onto the few words that made any sense and felt like crying again. This dream definitely sucked. "Why can't I dream a nice Mulder?" she cried.

"Because you're still stuck with the original model. OK, now let's try to make it to the bedroom, shall we?" Mulder stretched out his hands and gestured to Scully to get up. Letting his fingertips barely touch her hands he started to walk backwards towards her bedroom. Scully shivered once when her hands first touched his, then got up, swayed uncertainly for a moment, and followed him. Trying to maneuver around a chair, she stumbled and fought for balance. Caught off guard, Mulder grabbed for her and to her horror his hands went right through her arms.

"Noooo!"

Without another thought she bolted through him into her bedroom and locked the door. Trembling with shock she flung herself into bed and lay there shaking and crying.

Mulder stood outside her door, barely visible in the darkened apartment. Finally giving up the effort to remain visible, he faded into nothingness. This was living up to his worst fears. Scully veered between not believing in him at all or running from him in horror. Right now rattling chains and moaning in some dank basement seemed damned attractive compared to convincing Dr. Dana Scully that she was saddled with a ghost for God-only-knows-how-long.

Listening to his partner's muffled sobs, Mulder wondered if Gordon had lied to him; maybe this was Hell, his own personal version of Hell. Eventually the sobs turned into sodden snores and Mulder allowed himself the luxury of drifting into her room. As he had done every night since he came back, he perched on the end of the bed and watched her sleep: a silent guardian of her dreams.

Now, he dared to lightly brush the hair out of her eyes, letting his phantom fingers trail their feather-touches along her face. She moaned as if she felt his presence and began to twist into his touch. Startled, afraid of disturbing her sleep, Mulder withdrew his hand. Scully moaned again, blindly seeking the comfort of his touch.

"Sleep, Scully. I'll be here if you need me." Mulder whispered softly. He began to hum a low soothing lullaby he remembered his mother crooning to him in his cradle. Gradually Scully settled down into a dreamless sleep clutching the silk scarf tightly in her fist.

8=8=8=8=8=8=8=8

Exhausted by grief and numbed by the Scotch, Scully slept through the remainder of the afternoon and far into the night before she awoke, blindly stumbled into the bathroom and then collapsed back into bed without ever really waking up. Mulder watched her silently and made no effort to make his presence known. She needed the sleep, even a drugged sleep was better than the fitful snatches of rest she had taken the past week. Hell, he had slept better on his worst nights when he was alive than she had this past week.

When the rising sun began to pour through the windows, Mulder carefully pulled the curtains closed before the light should wake her. He rationalized this protective urge by reminding himself that he needed the practice in manipulating physical objects. The sheer pleasure he derived from watching Scully sleep couldn't possibly be the reason he shielded her against any interruption, he assured himself. For just a little while longer he could pretend he was alive, could imagine future possibilities and dream of pleasures now irretrievably stolen from him with his life.

He vividly recalled the previous night when he almost let her fall because he couldn't concentrate fast enough to make his arms solid. The memory burned and he spent the next hour or so moving small to medium objects around. It was easier to move things when he didn't take the energy to materialize, but the practice was still tiring. I'll probably have to work up to chains, he thought wryly.

As he practiced moving objects around, he gradually learned he could lift and move heavier objects when invisible, but had greater dexterity and eye-hand coordination when he could see himself in relation to the object. He also discovered he could change what he was wearing from the comfortable uniform to his familiar dress suits to his favorite Speedo, but this feat required expending more energy than he felt was worthwhile.

Out of consideration for Scully's sensibilities, he usually materialized looking solid, but unless he concentrated and spent a little energy he lacked any substance to manipulate physical objects. It took a tremendous amount of energy to fully materialize, becoming as solid as he looked. He wasn't sure where the energy he was using came from but he quickly discovered he did not have an unlimited supply on tap. Use too much and he flickered out like a dead light bulb until he recovered. If he wasn't concentrating while materialized he found he reverted to a quasi-transparent shadow - a traditional ghostly apparition.

He froze when a china figurine of a sailor skidded across the dresser top, his gentle push turning out to be stronger than he intended. The fragile piece went hurtling off the edge towards the wooden floor. Horrified, Mulder made a frantic dive through the dresser, throwing all his concentration into becoming solid enough to catch it before it smashed into a thousand pieces. In his panic, he also materialized. There he was, his head and arms poking through the dresser with his feet stuck out the other side. For a moment he panicked, feeling the pressure of each individual atom of the wood and clothes and assorted whatnots that occupied the physical space he had intruded upon.

Please, Scully, this is not the time to wake up. If there is a God in my fucked-up universe right now, please let her stay asleep.

Very, very carefully he let the tiny figurine settle down on the floor. Limp with relief Mulder let himself fade from view as he extricated himself from the dresser. It took him a good ten minutes before he felt strong enough to attempt to pick up the tiny statue. Finally, with great care, he picked up the figurine and gently replaced it on the dresser.

After that near disaster, Mulder avoided small breakable objects and simply explored the apartment and the surrounding area, popping back in to check on Scully about every five minutes. He discovered that dogs could sense his presence even when he was completely invisible. As he recuperated from the shock of this discovery he wondered who had been the most surprised, the dog to encounter something supernatural in its backyard or him when the dog began howling hysterically. Old habits were hard to break and Mulder sprinted back into the safety of Scully's bedroom. He could still hear the dog howling its protest and alarm accompanied by the shouts of its bewildered and irritated owner.

As she slowly emerged from the dense fog of sleep, Scully tried to remember why she had gone to bed fully clothed. Her mouth felt cottony and tasted faintly of Scotch. Vague memories swam up from the fog, memories of consuming a vast amount of Scotch along with a heartachingly vivid memory of seeing Mulder's ghost. This memory woke her up completely, her eyes already brimming with more tears. She swatted wearily at them and stumbled towards the bathroom.

Cold water seemed to help, but she felt the tears lurking just behind her eyes, waiting for another chance to drown her self-control. Returning to her bedroom a few minutes later, still toweling her face dry she looked up to see a semi-transparent Mulder sitting cross-legged on the end of her bed.

"Morning Scully," the apparition said warily, giving her one of Mulder's half-smiles: part cheerful, part apprehensive.

"My God! You weren't a dream," Scully moaned.

"Sorry, but I'm real," Mulder answered calmly, concentrating slightly to solidify his appearance. So far this seems to be going well, he thought optimistically. It has to go well.

As long as she could see him, she remained willing to admit he existed. If she decided he was merely an illusion, he could do a strip-tease in front of her and she would never know he was there.

"Or I'm still dreaming," Scully supplied hopefully.

"Nope. You're awake. I'm a ghost. I think that pretty well covers the essential points of the situation," Mulder countered with a slight smile.

"Or I've gone insane," Scully shot back, feeling her back up against the wall in this strange debate.

"Now you're grasping at straws. You are one of the sanest people I know - er - knew - whatever," Mulder said with growing frustration.

Scully shook her head and fled the room. "Coffee. I need coffee."

Mulder was waiting for her in the kitchen, seated on the countertop, legs dangling, grinning mischievously.

"Scully, I can chase you all over this place, but eventually we're going to talk, so get the coffee started and join me in the living-room." With that, he disappeared. From the other room she heard the sound of the TV running through the channels.

Scully took her time measuring the coffee and starting the percolator. This could not be happening to her. Ghosts did not exist. Wrapping this comforting thought around her shaken scientific world view, she went into the living-room. Whatever comfort she had gleaned from her denial fled when she saw the TV remote hovering in mid-air.

"Mulder!"

The remote fell to the floor with a dull clatter. A moment later a shaken Mulder began to fade into view.

"Oops. Sorry, Scully," he apologized as he finished materializing.

"All right, Mulder, we'll talk, but you're going to answer some questions first," Scully snapped. Her irritation with the situation was, by now, completely overshadowing any residual fear.

"Fair enough." Mulder was content to let her take charge of the conversation. This was going to be hard enough for her, she might as well exert control where she could. Seeing that she preferred to remain standing, arms folded in her classic interrogator's stance, Mulder sat down on the arm of the couch about three feet in front of her. Concentrating just enough to be sure he remained visible, he turned the rest of his attention to Scully.

"OK, you claim to be Mulder's ghost . . .," she began. Mulder cocked an eyebrow and allowed himself to go semi-transparent.

"Stop that!" Scully's temper was fraying as the fear she had banished swelled, choking her.

"I'm sorry, Scully," Mulder apologized with voice and eyes. "Please don't be afraid of me," he pleaded softly. "I won't ever hurt you."

Mulder wished he could explain to Scully that being a ghost was at one and the same time intensely horrifying, confusing, frustrating and immensely fun. For the sake of his sanity, and hers, he was trying to concentrate on the fun aspect. If he even allowed a smidgen of his horror to leak out, Scully would summon an exorcist and he really didn't want to find out what an exorcism could do to him. Some truths are better left unknown in his opinion.

"I'm not afraid," she lied. "You just startled me." To her surprise, she felt the fear fade in the face of the apparition's obvious distress. Whoever or whatever this was had Mulder's mannerisms down pat. Unwillingly she felt a dawning conviction that, however impossible, this was Mulder.

"You had questions?" Mulder asked in an even tone, trying to ease the tension between them.

"How and why seem pretty good places to start." Stern, no-nonsense Agent Scully was back.

"'How' is rather complicated. I remember an instant of dull pain when the ball hit, then the bottom dropped out from under me. I fell for what seemed like forever. One hell of a roller coaster ride I have to admit," Mulder added with a grin. At Scully's glare he sobered up and continued.

"This time I didn't end up in the star-field. It looked like the inside of a cloud, all soft and gray and empty." Mulder paused as the coffee-maker buzzed. "Go on Scully, get some coffee. I won't go anywhere," he promised.

A few moments later Scully returned cradling a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. Mulder's expression turned wistful as the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the air. With a shrug of his shoulders he resumed his tale.

"I don't know how long I just floated around inside that cloud, but eventually Gordon showed up. He didn't give me a chance to ask the thousand and one questions I had. He told me there had been a mistake and I was going back. I was in too much shock, first dying then being told it was a mistake then being told I was coming back as a ghost, to ask for details. Plus, Gordon was really vague on the how's or how-to's of being a ghost. I am beginning to think it's sort of an on-the-job-training situation." Another Mulder grin.

"Anyway, next thing I know, I'm standing in the morgue watching some strange man peel open my head," Mulder looked almost greenish at the memory and his form quivered slightly around the edges. He remembered the horror he felt when he saw his body, the exact moment when he realized he was really and truly dead. Trapped by a macabre fascination he had stared at the damage the ball had done to his head until the pathologist began to drill through the skull. Unthinking flight for the safety of his apartment had remarkably landed him in that sanctuary which was thankfully still cluttered with his things and empty of anyone who might have seen his panicked arrival.

Scully hoped she didn't look as guilty as she felt. The autopsy had been her idea, in fact she had insisted on it, all evidence to the contrary. She had to be certain that the obvious cause of death wasn't masking a more insidious one.

"Believe me, I didn't stick around. I fled and by accident discovered that just by thinking of a place, I could be there. I jumped around a bit, fascinated by this trick. There are limitations, I have to know the place in order to be there. No jumping off to Paris. Anyway, I spent a while just randomly jumping around: my apartment, the office, here." Mulder suddenly looked sheepish, turning a strange smoky transparent shade. Thunderclouds formed in Scully's light blue eyes.

"Honest Scully, I didn't mean to peek. I was so lonely by this time I just wanted to see you. How was I to know you parade around in your all-together?"

"That was you?" The thunderclouds were now joined by fire and brimstone in her voice.

"Yeah, well, I think so, unless you have another ghost you're not telling me about." Mulder quipped trying to calm the storm brewing in Scully's eyes.

"Damn! I thought my air conditioner had gone crazy. You bastard."

"I said I was sorry. Scully this is just as confusing and scary to me as it must be for you. I popped in just in front of you. I was so embarrassed I couldn't move out of the way. You walked right through me. Hell, you got the shivers for a moment; I damn near had hysterics," Mulder confessed. He remembered the awful wrenching feeling as her body passed through his. The feel of her inside him, two bodies attempting to occupy the same space as he fought to maintain cohesion. Afterwards he felt shredded, as if pieces of him were scattered to the four winds. Still, there was a lingering sense of Scully left within him that faded far too quickly.

"Why?" Scully was curious. What did a ghost have to fear?

"I think you not seeing me then walking through me finally convinced me I was dead. That and how much grief you held clutched inside. I wanted to cry, to hold you and comfort you, but I couldn't," he said in an bereft tone.

"Mulder . . .." Scully felt a stab of pity. Mulder looked so sad, so inconsolable that her own grief began to fade.

"It's OK. I vowed then and there to start learning how to be a ghost. Gordon said I had unfinished business. So, unless I could communicate with someone, I didn't see how I was going to accomplish anything. It was a choice between you and Skinner. Can't you just see me trying to haunt Skinner?" Mulder looked almost scared at the prospect.

Scully chuckled despite her intent to remain sternly aloof, an impartial inquisitor.

"My point exactly," Mulder chuckled, sounding so normal that Scully felt the tears threaten her composure.

"Scully, you were . . . are . . . my partner, my friend. Who else could I turn to?"

"So, what you're telling me is that you are a permanent fixture in my life: my own personal ghost?" Anger, sadness mixed with incredulity flowed through Scully's question.

Mulder shrugged and nodded. This was the crux of the matter. If she refused to help he might as well consider taking up residence in the FBI's basement. He watched Scully wrestle with the problem of reconciling the incontrovertible evidence of a ghost sitting in front of her with the scientific refutation of the validity of supernatural phenomena.

"And if I say no?" Scully's tone was even, giving him no hint as to her intentions.

Mulder tried to keep his voice equally as even, not to betray the tremors of near panic her question aroused in him.

"Nothing bad. I'll drift around doing ghostly things until Gordon says I can leave. I won't bother you unless you call for me. I'll manage, Scully. You saying no won't condemn me to Hell or anything permanent like that." Mulder tried to smile reassuringly at her, but suspected she could sense his fear even now.

Scully carefully considered the problem as she wandered around the room. Absorbed in keeping his fears at bay and praying that Scully would take the leap of faith for him, Mulder let himself fade into a hazy transparent shadow. He wasn't aware of how absorbed Scully was in her own thoughts or how transparent he was until she accidentally started to walk through his outstretched legs. He abruptly vanished from his spot on the couch and reappeared a moment later sitting atop her computer table well out of range of her absent-minded ambling.

Finally Scully sighed, while shaking her head and glaring at him, through him, with an unreadable expression on her face. Mulder tensed, trying to contain the tight pressure of fear that was threatening to send him howling from the room. He didn't want to be a lonely ghost haunting his basement office, trying not to go mad without Scully in his life. Gordon had been adamant. Mulder wasn't going to be allowed back until his scheduled death, sometime in the far future from Gordon's tone of voice.

"If, and the operative word is 'if', I accept that you are Mulder's ghost, what is this arrangement going to involve? I mean, what do you expect me to do?"

Mulder tensed even more as he dropped the final bomb. He should have known Scully would want to know what the fine print said before agreeing to anything.

"I want you to take-over the X-Files," he said slowly, begging her with his eyes to agree, to continue what they had begun.

"Mulder, I don't have your passionate belief in the paranormal - I can't take your place. I believe in science, not the paranormal." Scully flung her hands up and began to stalk around the room, muttering to herself. Mulder flinched at the language she was using, though he knew she didn't mean for him to hear her. Sometime in the future, if they had a future, he really needed to point out that he could now hear a cat walk on cotton.

"Scully, you are standing in your living-room talking to a ghost. I'd say you've already begun to believe." A typical Mulder grin, part child, part leering male, with a dash of professor lit up his face. "You don't need to believe in everything, Scully. Just believe in the truth."

This time it was Mulder who flowed down from the tabletop and began walking around the room, too intent on what he was trying to say to notice that he was walking through the furniture. Scully's eyes grew wild and she paled, but she held her ground.

"The cases we handled were ones no one else believed in or ones no one else wanted. Tooms, Pfaster, all the others would have just gone on killing if we hadn't believed enough to stop them. We may not always have agreed about the solution, but we did solve most of them," Mulder spoke with the familiar passion of his beliefs.

"Presuming I agree," Scully tried to ignore the brilliant flash of hope in Mulder's eyes. "One, I'm not even sure Skinner will give me the X-Files. Your death does provide the government with the perfect excuse to shut them down, permanently. Two, if Skinner can keep them open and is willing to give them to me, he isn't going to allow me to handle cases without a partner. How do I know whether I can trust anyone willing to work on the X-Files with me? Remember Krycek? And don't even suggest I tell him I have a ghost as my partner," Scully added in a stern I'm-not-in-the-mood-for-a-joke tone to forestall the mischievous look dawning in Mulder's eyes.

"Two ways actually. First, I will be around and will be keeping a very close eye on anyone assigned to you. Trust me, Scully, I may not pack as much of a wallop as I used to, but I have ways of making someone's life extremely miserable, if not downright dangerous. I'll watch your back," Mulder promised.

"Second, I think I know who Skinner has in mind. He's young, he's green and, on the surface, he would appear to be the most unsuitable candidate in the entire FBI, but I think he would storm Hell to protect you." Mulder ended on a pensive note, his gaze fixed on some distant point far beyond Scully's comprehension.

"Are you going to enlighten me as to the identity of this potential partner?" Scully asked with rising impatience. Being a ghost certainly hadn't changed Mulder's propensity for oblique explanations.

"I think you've had enough shocks for one day, Scully. Let's quit while we're ahead." Mulder paused in mid-grin. "Are you game for this, Scully? Will you help me?"

"God help you if I live to regret this decision, Mulder, but yes, I'm game." Scully tried to maintain a stern expression but the sight of Mulder's boyish grin blew her self-control and she grinned back at him. For an instant Mulder looked like he was going to hug her, then let his arms drop with a resigned sigh.

"We can't . . .?" She looked perplexed. She treasured each time she remembered being held in his arms. They were the memories that kept her from falling into despair the past week.

"I didn't want to presume," Mulder replied sadly. "I can hold you, it's just that . . . well I think the idea still slightly scares you. Let's just ease up to that point, shall we?"

"OK, Mulder, but if you are going to haunt me, we are going to have to come to terms with each other."

"Fair enough, but right now I think it would probably be a good idea for you to call your mom. She's worried sick about you. Take her out to dinner or something. I'll make myself scarce. I'll be back later." Mulder made shooing gestures with his hands before giving her a big smile and fading away.

"Mulder, only you could end up as an X-File because some damn angelic clerk got his paperwork screwed up," Scully said as she went to the phone. Dinner with mom sounded awfully good suddenly. It was tempting to tell her mother about Mulder, but she wasn't sure her mother would believe her right now. Maybe later, when she had proven that she wasn't going mad with grief. Right now she felt better than she had felt all week. For the first time since the accident, she felt purpose return to her life. If this was insanity, she could very easily get used to it.

8=8=8=8=8=8=8=8

Saturday morning

Scully woke up slowly, stretching like a cat as she remembered the long chat with her mother capped off by dinner at their favorite restaurant. It was nice to just sit and talk and remember Mulder without fearing that each memory would bring a torrent of tears. Her mother looked so relieved when she had actually brought up Mulder's name that Scully wondered how she had ever believed she could hide her grief from her. Mulder had been right, damn him, her mother had been worried sick and spending the afternoon and evening with her had been the perfect solution.

Remembering Mulder reminded Scully that she was slightly pissed off at him. He had promised to return, but he had not been in evidence when she returned home. Of course, quickly following on the heels of that thought, was the rebellious thought that maybe the whole thing had been a demented dream. Glancing at the clock, Scully was startled to see it was almost noon.

"Damn it, I thought I set the alarm for 8 a.m."

"Sorry Scully, you looked like you could use the sleep," said a voice coming out of thin air just about at the end of her bed.

"Yeek!" Startled, Scully tried to sit up while covering her bare chest with the sheet and ended up tangling herself in the sheet until she resembled a thrashing mummy.

"Geez, Scully. You have got to stop doing that." Mulder's voice was shaking and he materialized with a definite wobble in his form. After a moment however he settled down into solidity. His expression looked faintly harried.

"Sorry Mulder. I'm not used to waking up to hear a man's voice coming from my bed. Besides, I was almost convinced you were a dream. Where were you last night?"

"Didn't we have this conversation yesterday?" Mulder asked plaintively. "Are we going to have to go through this every time I show up?" Mulder was beginning to sound a bit testy.

"Just let me get used to you popping in out of nowhere. It's not as if I've ever had to cope with that before," Scully snapped back. She sighed and glared at him.

Mulder looked puzzled for a moment then caught her meaning. He grinned wickedly as he began to slowly fade out.

"All the way out of the room, Mulder. I mean it."

"OK, Scully but you sure take all the fun out of this ghost business," Mulder pouted just as he disappeared completely. He made a point of opening the door and then closing it again as he left the room.

Scully stared suspiciously at the door for several more minutes. How could she actually know if Mulder was gone or not? Knowing Mulder he could slip back in anytime and she'd never know it. After a moment or two she untangled herself from the sheet and made a dash for the bathroom.

Half an hour later she emerged from her room dressed in a neat pants suit looking as he remembered her on so many cases. Ghosts can't cry, but Mulder had to fight for control of his own ectoplasm in order to materialize. He made the mental note to remember that strong emotions do not mix with materialization. So much was the same, yet he felt the great gaping chasm of the differences between them now.

"Mulder . . . oh there you are," Scully said brightly, considerably relieved to see him visible. "We need to talk about what I'm going to tell Skinner. I want to call him today and set up a meeting. If I am going to help you, I don't want to give the Smoking Man any chance to shut us down."

"Just tell him you feel ready to come back to work and that you want to keep the X-Files open. I think you can skip over why and just let him assume what he likes." Mulder resumed his perch on her computer table, apparently deciding that this gave Scully free room to move without running through him. "I'll go with you. I kind of miss Skinner reaming my butt. I miss a lot of things I never thought I would," Mulder said with a small sad smile that spoke of deeper longings than a lesson in verbal abuse from Skinner.

"I know, Mulder. I miss them too," Scully admitted. She shied away from putting into words her grief for the extreme possibilities her dreams had ceased exploring when Mulder died.

"Well, reminiscing over old times isn't getting the X-Files open or me back in the good graces of the celestial bookkeepers. Hang on a minute, I'll be right back," Mulder said as he quickly faded from view.

"Hey, wait . . . where are you going?" Scully yelled. "Damn the man, even as a ghost he is the most irritating . . .." She headed to the kitchen to make some coffee and toast a bagel, muttering all the while about Mulder's propensity for running off without warning. Wandering back into the living-room with the coffee she ran headlong into and through Mulder as he rematerialized.

"Yikes!"

Mulder made a visible effort to control his urge to retreat back into nothingness and held his form steady. He was actually beginning to get used to the squeak Scully gave whenever he suddenly materialized, but the awful sick feeling of her walking through him still threatened to send him into hysteria.

"Scully . . .." he complained plaintively.

"Sorry. Mulder can't you give a warning or something," Scully said with just a touch of irritation lingering in her voice.

"Nope. This model doesn't come with an early warning signal." Mulder grinned to let Scully know he was OK. "How about I just whistle before I materialize? You'll be the only one who can hear it."

"Sure, fine. Just give me some warning. Wait a minute, why can't anyone else hear you? For that matter, can anyone else see you?" Scully was curious. Having an invisible partner could be a very nice advantage in investigations, but God help her if she ever had to testify about how she got the information. /Yes, your honor, my invisible dead partner found the relevant evidence'. Right, sure, next stop St. Elizabeth's Home for the Mentally Disturbed.

"So far you're the only person who can hear me. I haven't tried moaning or groaning in dark hallways yet, but give me time, maybe it will come to me." Mulder grinned then turned serious. "I think it's because I only want you to hear me. Same thing for seeing me. I know it took me long enough to get you to see me. Still, I'm not going to take any chances. Whenever anyone else is around, I'm going to stay safely invisible. I know for a fact that I can direct my voice for your ears only, otherwise there would have been mass panic at my funeral. Very nice one by the way - amazing how many of my fellow agents like me better dead," Mulder ended with a sarcastic bite.

"Then that was you? You realize of course you damn near had me convinced I was going insane?" Scully glared at him. Mulder shrugged his shoulders and threw up his hands in mock surrender.

"The phone Scully. Skinner's in his office, I just checked." He picked up her cell-phone and handed it to her. His fingers were almost transparent against the dark leather of the casing.

Scully paled and bit her lip. This was going to take some major readjustment in her thinking. Right now however, she just wanted to take things one step at a time. Getting control of the X-Files without going into details with Skinner was all she felt like facing today.

Mulder played with the TV remote while Scully arranged to meet Skinner after lunch. She hoped any tremor in her voice would be put down to residual grief. She made a mental note to speak to Mulder about staying either solid or going completely invisible; this transparent wraith sitting in her living-room cheering enthusiastically at a basketball game was totally unacceptable.

8=8=8=8=8=8=8=8

Hoover Building
 

To Scully's surprise, returning to the FBI building felt like coming home. She had expected sharp bitter memories of loss to claw at her self-control, but instead felt a warm comforting sense of being where she belonged. Feeling the slight chill of Mulder's hand resting on the small of her back no doubt helped, but Scully realized that this was perhaps the one place where her loss was completely understood and respected.

The few agents she encountered nodded and gave her looks of support and sympathy but did not speak. What could be said that could lessen the grief of the one left behind? She passed through this gauntlet of silent respect feeling the bonds of brotherhood close in around her, supporting her, acknowledging her grief and offering their own in the loss of one of their own, however prodigal.

"Maybe I should have died a long time ago if this is what it took for them to realize you're one of them," Mulder whispered with only a trace of his usual sarcasm.

"Agent Scully, come in," Skinner responded as he opened the door to her knock. He waved her to her usual seat before sitting down behind his desk. Scully balked as she saw the two chairs in front of the desk, facing memories of so many meetings with Mulder at her side, trying to explain the unexplainable, listening to Skinner butt heads with Mulder's wild theories or, at times, wilder behavior.

"I'm still here, Scully." The voice at her side was soft with its own memories. Realizing she was not alone, Scully recovered and resumed her steady stride until she was sitting in her familiar place. A brief smile flitted across her face as she wondered how Skinner would react if he realized that his impossible pair of agents were still together.

"I wasn't expecting you back so soon. You are entitled to more leave time, Agent Scully. No one will think less of you if you take the time to mourn." Skinner's voice was gruffer than usual. His eyes held their own pain and loss, measured only by the stern demands of duty and the pressures of command.

"Thank you, sir, but I think I would prefer to be working. I need to work," Scully hesitated. There was more truth in her words than she had meant. She did need to work. Even without Mulder's ghost hovering beside her, she realized that returning to their work would be a validation of his life as well as hers.

Despite Mulder's re-appearance, her grief was still raw. He was part of her life again, but things could never be the same between them. She was alone. Ghost or not, her partner was dead and she had to carve out a new life without him. At least without his physical presence standing beside her against the world. She had to make a new life, her own life. His ghost was both a comfort and a constant reminder of what they had squandered in the time allotted to them

Skinner studied her in silence for several minutes, weighing the lingering signs of grief, measuring them against the sense of purpose and determination he saw in her eyes and in the way she walked. The woman bowed under an intolerable weight of grief he had seen at the funeral was gone. Agent Dana Scully was back. God help us all, he silently prayed. There was steel in those eyes and he felt a simmering apprehension that she was not going to retreat back to the safety of Quantico or allow him to assign her to the relative safety of a field agent's position. She was going to demand to return to the dangerous war with the shadows which had haunted her's and Agent Mulder's lives. He prayed she would not force his hand to place her in the line of fire.

"Agent Scully, I have the highest respect for your work with the X-Files," Skinner began.

"You damn well better," Mulder muttered. Scully flinched when she heard him, quickly covering it up by shifting position. Damn Mulder, shut up before I blow us out of the water.

"You have more than earned either of the two positions I would like you to consider. The Director of the Forensic Science Labs at Quantico has requested you to fill the position of Assistant Director of Forensic Pathology. This would mean a two-step jump in grade with commensurate salary increase."

"Oh shit," Mulder swore viciously at this unexpected flank attack on his carefully crafted plans. "Scully you're too good a field agent to disappear back into Quantico. Besides," Mulder added with a distinct note of desperate humor, "You'd hate a nine-to-five job with regular leave time and no mutating lifeforms to liven up your day."

This was not looking good. Skinner was upping the ante way beyond anything Mulder had anticipated. Scully was being offered recognition in her own field with a clear run at the directorship of the pathology section if she wanted it. Mulder was almost afraid to hear what the other option was.  Sure as hell not the X-Files from the looks of it.

"Sir," Scully began hesitantly. She was more than a little stunned by the offer. Assistant Director, in-line to be Director of the Forensic Pathology Labs was an open acknowledgment of her professional skills. She couldn't help but be honored and more than a little flustered. Dazzled by the offer, she motioned Mulder to quit whispering in her ear a half second before she realized he wasn't really there, at least as far as Skinner was concerned.

"Are you all right, Agent Scully?" Skinner asked, looking a bit puzzled. Scully froze, frantically hunting for an answer to explain her gesture.

"Mosquitoes, Scully," hissed Mulder.

"Just a mosquito, sir. You were saying." Scully flushed slightly, hoping Skinner would not pick up on her reaction to white lies. Whopping big lies she could tell with a straight face, little white lies tripped her up every time.

Skinner stared at her for a moment then looked back down at the papers on his desk. Scully allowed herself a brief sigh of relief. Sorting out the voices was beginning to give her a headache. She wanted to tell Mulder to shut up but really didn't want to convince Skinner she needed a visit to the staff psychologist. She had access to her very own personal psychologist; the fact that he was a ghost should not be cause for concern or discrimination.

"I also like you to consider a position as a field agent, specifically as ASAC of the Nashville office. I know it would require relocating, but a change of scenery might be good in this case. The director of the Nashville office is quite eager to have you. I went to the Academy with Gerald Jyrcouski. He is a fine man and a fair one. He is also one of the few senior agents who respected Agent Mulder's abilities, both as a profiler and as a field agent. Your work with Agent Mulder would be considered a bonus rather than a hindrance."

"Damn you Jyrcouski, don't do this to me. I could use a little less praise from you right now," Mulder growled. "Scully, you'd hate Nashville. No good barbecue closer than 200 miles," Mulder argued as he leaned over to her.

"Shush," Scully hissed as softly as she could manage.

Apparently not soft enough because Skinner's glare pinned her to her chair. Scully immediately began coughing and pointing at the water pitcher on Skinner's desk. With a very puzzled look on his face, Skinner poured her a glass of water and handed it to her. He started violently as his hand passed through Mulder's arm resting on the edge of the desk. Mulder gave a slight yelp and quickly retreated back to his chair. Scully's fake cough turned into a real one as she choked on the water she was drinking.

"Agent Scully, are you sure you're feeling well enough to return? These positions are being held for you with the understanding that you may take as much leave as you need before giving me an answer," Skinner assured her.

"I'm fine, sir. I think I must have swallowed that mosquito." Scully felt her cheeks turn red and cursed her inability to lie about the small things in life. Better get this interview over before Mulder gets me committed.

"Sir, I am deeply honored and flattered by the offers from Nashville as well as from Quantico." Scully sensed a wave of fear and dread oozing from the specter beside her. Mulder wasn't making a sound, but she could feel his presence.

She couldn't help but be attracted to the offers. Promotions, both of them, one within her scientific field of expertise, the other recognizing her work as a field agent. The Nashville offer tempted her the most. That Jyrcouski had respected Mulder would eliminate the one problem she had with moving into the mainstream of field duty - coping with the derision most agents had for Mulder. Suddenly what had seemed such a simple task now was tearing her in three different directions. Ultimately though, it was loyalty and, perhaps, a perverse desire to show the Bureau that the X-Files were a viable division in and of themselves, something beyond Mulder's obsessions, that showed her the way.

"Sir, I thank you for both of those options. However, I would like to keep the X-Files open. I realize that I may not believe in the same way as Agent Mulder did, but the X-Files served a vital and necessary function in handling cases no one else could. I believe our solve rate more than justifies keeping the division open and functioning."

"Score one for Agent Scully," Mulder cheered softly at her side. Scully barely restrained an urge to tell him to shut up. As it was she must have hissed a warning because Skinner was looking at her with a very odd concerned expression.

"I'm fine sir. I have grieved, I will continue to grieve for Agent Mulder, but I believe I can best serve his memory and the interests of justice by continuing what we began." Scully kept her voice firm and controlled. There must be no doubt in Skinner's mind that this is what she wanted and that she was more than capable enough to handle.

"Agent Scully, I have no doubt, should I decide to give you the X-Files division, that you will handle it with the same high standard of professional conduct evidenced in your work up to this point. I am just concerned that grief for your partner may be blinding you to the other career options open to you at this point."

Hoping that Skinner was not going to refuse her request out of a misguided effort to protect her, Mulder shifted nervously in his chair. It shifted slightly, making a small creak. Feeling the chair move, Mulder froze. He heard Scully swallow nervously as Skinner's attention shifted away from her. Skinner glared at the chair, obviously puzzled. Mulder felt like a deer caught in the headlights of an advancing truck. Think invisible. Just think invisible, he repeated over and over in his head like a mantra.

Skinner shook his head and returned his attention to Scully. Her barely audible sigh of relief did not escape him but he could discern no reason for it. Filing it away for future pondering, he returned to the matter at hand.

"Sorry, Scully. I didn't think I was concentrating enough to move anything," Mulder apologized when Skinner's attention was diverted. To forestall future accidents, Mulder got up and began pacing around the room. That should be safe enough and still be close enough to provide moral support for Scully should she need it. "Fat chance. She can handle Skinner ten times better than I ever could, even on my best days," he muttered to himself.

"Agent Scully, you realize that if I do give you the X-Files, I will also have to assign you a new partner." Skinner paused to let her consider his words. He saw her glance briefly at the chair on her right, then bring her eyes rigidly back to his.

There was something odd about her, something he couldn't quite put his finger on that smacked of deep waters and secrets. Probably nothing more than a reflex memory of four years of carrying on a conversation with Mulder that spoke volumes in a single glance. As well as he knew them both, he had never deciphered that silent language of theirs.

A small niggling of guilt began to worm itself into Mulder's relieved enthusiasm. Scully was turning down two excellent promotions to help him. By what right did he have to continue to blight her professional life? Absorbed in untangling guilt from his overwhelming need, he negligently walked right through the edge of Skinner's desk where the reports were stacked. He shoved the guilt aside, I'll deal with that later, and froze in place as he became one with the air, not even leaving the faintest shimmer of cohesion to his presence.

Skinner's attention was diverted by the soft rustling of the papers on his desk. A slight cold breeze swept past him and he shivered involuntarily. "I am going to have to talk to maintenance about the air conditioning," he muttered softly.

"Yes sir, but I presume I would have some say in who is chosen." Scully hastened to interrupt Skinner's obvious but bewildered reaction to Mulder's presence. She intended to stand firm on this point. No matter what assurances Mulder gave her about watching her back, she needed a partner she could trust. "I think we both remember what happened the last time a partner was assigned to the X-Files," she added with deadly calm, deliberately drawing Skinner's complete attention back to her.

Skinner shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Would he never be allowed to forget Krycek? Assigning that particular rogue agent was a command handed down from above and Skinner had gone along, too blind to the conspiracies swirling around Mulder to realize he was being used.

"You have my assurances, Agent Scully, that you will have a chance to review any choice I make. I have someone in mind, but I would like to review his qualifications and interview him specifically with the X-Files in mind before I pass his name on to you." Skinner looked pensive for a moment, his eyes sad as he stared at the empty space beside her. Then, returning to his usual brusqueness, he straightened up and let his expression resume its normal stern reserve.

"Meanwhile, you have the X-Files. I will recommend that you receive the appropriate promotion and increase in grade and salary, but until the paperwork is approved, you will be acting head. If you change your mind, I will hold these positions open until you are officially approved as division head of the X-Files," Skinner emphasized his willingness to accommodate a change of heart. Mulder winced as he saw the hesitation in Scully's eyes. He suspected she would have preferred to burn her bridges, not have them open and inviting behind her.

"Until your partner is approved and in place, I would ask you to confine yourself to office duties. Good luck, Agent Scully. I will be here if you need anything," Skinner assured her, letting his eyes express the deeper meaning behind the perfunctory phrase. She was entering the lions' den and he felt the weight of worry settle uncomfortably on his shoulders.

"Yes! Thank the nice man Scully," Mulder said a bit giddily. He was torn between relief, enthusiasm and uncertainty that this was the right thing for Scully. Attempting to re-connect with her physically, as in the old days, he squeezed her shoulder in congratulation and pride. His cold touch sent a shiver up her spine and Mulder drew back his hand as if he had been burned.

"Uhmm . . . We . . . I . . . thank you for letting me continue with the work Agent Mulder and I started. I'm sure if he were here, he'd thank you too," Scully finished confidently, shivering slightly. She smiled warmly at Skinner, recovering from the slip of the tongue.

Her eyes flashed with fire for a moment as she bit back an acid comment to Mulder. It wasn't his fault she was having a hard time sorting out the voices. He sounded so alive, so real that it was too easy to forget no one else could hear him or see him walking beside her. This arrangement began to look a little more complicated than it had yesterday. Still, she had the X-Files safely within her grasp, along with a promotion as a nice added bonus. Skinner must be feeling guilty, she mused as she got up and shook his hand.

"I know it will be difficult adjusting to a new partner. Agent Mulder, for all his eccentricities, was a fine agent. You two shared a once-in-a-lifetime partnership. I was proud to have known him. I will do my best to insure that your new partner measures up. Good luck, Agent Scully." Skinner took her hand and straightened up in the FBI equivalent of a military salute.

Scully merely nodded, anxious to get Mulder out of the room. He was making small embarrassed noises and she didn't trust him to not do something outrageous to relieve the somber atmosphere. As she headed for the door, the chill touch of his fingers on the small of her back sent a shiver up her spine yet she felt oddly comforted by the familiar presence at her back. Skinner could never know her partner was still there, making his presence known as he guarded her back.

8=8=8=8=8=8=8=8

X-Files Office
 

"Well, Scully, you got that desk you wanted," Mulder joked as he materialized inside their office. It's not the same. It will never be the same, he thought ruefully.

"Next time, just requisition one from Supply," Scully retorted with an edgy snap.

"Oh, is that how you do it?" Mulder quipped, trying to gage her mood. His own was a volcanic mixture of accomplishment and a shaky relief from the cold fear that Scully would leave him behind to pursue her own career goals and a guilty recognition that she was throwing away those goals for him. Right now he wasn't sure whether he wanted to cry (providing of course that he could still cry) or shout for joy. Being dead was a definite drag on emotional displays.

Scully wandered around the office, picking up files, slides, odds and ends randomly then putting them back down. The magnitude of what she had just done threatened to overwhelm her. This was her office, her division, her responsibility - a chance to shine or fail ignominiously. She felt a propriety flush of pleasure as she surveyed her new territory, then just as suddenly it flickered out and died when her restless gaze fell on Mulder standing by the file cabinets. Actually in the file cabinets, but her mind still veered away from making that precise a notation of his tendency to stand in objects.

Mulder watched the emotions play across her face. By the narrowing of her eyes, he knew immediately they had just hit one of the many rocky patches in this uncertain, complex new relationship of theirs. He had been so focused on the task of convincing Scully he was real and then convincing her to help him that he glossed over the myriad problems lying in wait for them. So much for resting on his laurels.

"Mulder?" Scully began, hesitant to express her reservations yet keenly aware that this issue needed to be addressed now.

"I know . . . or at least I guess I know." Mulder started to pace, caught the frazzled look in Scully's eyes and looked down to see he was midway through his desk. "Sorry."

Concentrating on avoiding the furniture, Mulder made his way over to the chair in the corner and perched on the back of the chair, letting his feet rest on the files cluttering up the seat. His desk and chair he left for her; stating in action what he hoped she understood - this was now her office.

"Scully, I can't promise I won't attempt to interfere, that I won't argue with your methods or conclusions - just as I've always done." Mulder gave her a shy smile that changed in an instant to a self-mocking grin.

"This isn't going to be easy for either of us. All I can promise is to try." Mulder's expression turned on a dime and became somber. "You can always tell me to go away, Scully, and I will, at least I'll shut up and go invisible."

"Why do I have the feeling I'm going to be working with both you and Skinner looking over my shoulder," Scully said beginning to feel boxed in and astonished to find she resented the feeling.

The lure of the two promotions, the chance to prove herself out from under anyone's shadow, was tempting. Even if she directed the X-Files for years, she would still be regarded as carrying on Mulder's legacy. The offer from Quantico, especially the offer from Nashville, would give her the chance to make her own name in the Bureau. Not as Mrs. Spooky, the heir to Spooky's kingdom, but as Dr. Dana Scully or Agent Dana Scully. She felt her resolve, her snap agreement to help Mulder, waver. Perhaps, after all, her scientific mind said in a soft reasonable voice, he is just a grief-spawned illusion. You would be destroying your future, your dreams, for the sake of an illusion that will pass as your grief does, leaving you with nothing but a basement office and sad pity from your fellow agents.

"Scully don't ever feel you have to justify a single decision to me. I may get pissed. Hell, I may get fucking furious, but you're the one calling the shots."

"And if I do something you don't agree with . . .."

"Then, knowing me, I'll get angry and storm around a bit, but ultimately what can I do? We've argued before and, God knows, we will probably argue again, but this time you're in control. You decide where we're going on a case. All I can do is argue and try to scrounge up enough evidence to change your mind."

Mulder pleaded his case trying to keep the desperation from his voice. If Scully balked now, then it was back to Plan B, haunting his basement office. Of course if that got too lonely, there was always Skinner. Wonder if Skinner has an opening for a ghost in his office? Mulder wondered, trying to cheer himself up with levity that felt as flat as it sounded. The fear was coming back, threefold as he fought his past mistakes in her eyes and these unexpected doubts from the strong, self-reliant Scully he had always known.

Scully remained unconvinced. Her body language screamed her lack of conviction that he wouldn't try to resume control of his X-Files. Mulder tried to banish his fear, but knowing his past failures weighed heavily against him in this argument made it hard to believe.

Scully, please, don't back out now. I need you, he prayed to whoever might be listening.

He wanted to walk over and hold her, to let her know he was there for her in whatever way, shape or form she needed. The limitations of his ectoplasmic form had never seemed so rigid. He could hold her, providing she wanted to be held by an iceberg. Wave after wave of nostalgia for the simple act of hugging another human being crashed into him. Desperately he tried to hold his form and his concentration under the assault of his memories of the few times he had allowed himself to hold her, to pull her against his chest, drawing comfort as he gave it.

"What do you want me to say, Scully? These are your files now, each and every one of them down to the one on Samantha." Grief for a sister he would never be able to hold in his arms again made his voice quiver.

Suddenly Mulder was figh