We never did dance at a Cher concert.

I never had that slow waltz, rocking deep, looking into the surprised
eyes beneath me and watching them change to happiness.  Never held her
waist perfectly within the palm of my hand, feeling the sway and
motion of that single body...that only soul, the one was always
perfectly in sync with mine.

Never even got that version of "Walking In Memphis" I so wanted to hear.

All we ever did, Scully and I, was drive, drive to a station house and
wake the local cops up from their graveyard shift apathy, coffee and
donuts flying up toward the ceiling when they saw the face of our
suspect...or should I say the "faces" of our suspect, as sad and
miserable a creature as should never have been born.

Silently, they took him away, without the pair of handcuffs they
couldn't bear to put around his terrible wrists.

And that was it.

It was over.  The case was solved.

But it wasn't the ending that I wanted.

As we left, not willing to stay one more minute in that dark Indiana
town, I thought back to two weeks before, to the black night my sister
was returned to me, delivered by a man whom I hate more than lies.
How she cried when she saw me, but not from happiness.  More from
resentment and anger, angry that I even existed, a living, breathing
reminder of her past, one that she accepted as lost, the lie told to
her by this man, this demon, whom she cuddles and kisses and calls
"daddy".

This man that I cannot bear the sight of.

No, she didn't want to see me, or speak, or share, or talk or hug me
beside the menorah this holiday, with her children lighting the
candles, my youngest niece or maybe nephew beaming in the candlelight,
calling me uncle...Uncle Fox.

No, I'll call you, please don't call me, I need time. Ironic how she
probably thought that I was dead, when I swore, on my own life and on
the lives of so many others, that she was alive. Perhaps it's greedy
of me, and since I've only waited twenty-five years for her, I guess I
can wait twenty-five more.

Anyway, the mystery was solved, wasn't it?

It was over.  My sister had been returned to me.

But it wasn't the ending that I wanted.

We drive on, but finally we have to stop, Scully and I, we have no
choice on these endless roads covered with ice and the airport might
as well be a thousand miles away, even if only ten.  I can hear her
sigh at the sight of the motel I choose, its Christmas lights not
newly displayed, but no doubt a leftover from the year before, or
perhaps even the decade before that.

"Only the finest of accommodations for us," she says, her eyes half
shut, head against the seat rest.  "You know, Mulder, next time I say
we pick a case in Paris, how about it?"

"Oui," is all I reply and pull up in front of the Red Horse Motel,
triple-A approved, no pets, no pool, yes to vacancies and cable,
monthly and hourly rates available too.

It's started to rain, in freezing cold splashes, half snow, half ice,
all water, against the windshield and I see Scully bite her both her
lips, one after the other, lips that lost their lipstick hours before,
and are prettier for the loss.  Her makeup has long since faded, but
the paleness, that death-white mask that's covered her face for so
long has also vanished, and she is nothing but herself tonight,
glowing bright, even in the pitch black of a dark, storm-covered car.

"Toss to get the bags," she says, producing a very democratic-looking
quarter.

"I'll get them," I respond, and I watch her eyebrow rise, arching
mightily over her left brow.

But, then it lowers and she merely smiles, suddenly comfortable with
my offer.  "That's fine with me," she says and gracefully exits the
car and enters the office, seemingly side-stepping the downpour as she
goes.

I run to the trunk. It doesn't want to open, I don't want to be
patient and the combination of all of the above takes more time than
I'm willing to spare.  Finally, freezing fingers pop the lock and I
grab its contents, more wet than dry, more frozen than alive and
looking up, I see Scully wave to me from the porch of a room, number
1345, red door, five down from the office, and I run, feet slipping
through the soaked gravel, straps digging into tired shoulders and
heavy bags thumping into my thigh.

Huffing, with grey mist breath, I reach the room and Scully is already
shrugging and slapping her hands against her hips in agitation.

"One room," she says, annoyed or even something else.  "Is this a
problem, Mulder, because I really don't..."  She stop there and slaps
her hands a few more times, shrugs and doesn't continue.

But I need her to go on. "You really don't...?" I ask, honestly
wondering what she was going to say.  Don't want to...can't...get back
in the car and drive me on because I need to be alone, Mulder or...

"Care," she says, flipping off her left shoe in a way I've never seen
one flipped off before, a high air toss, rotating three times before
hitting the floor.  "I really don't care if we share the room.  Look,
*don't ask, don't tell* for the expense report, OK?"

"Fine by me, but does this mean I have to start putting up the Rainbow
flag on the Fourth of July?" I ask, glad to put the heavy, digging
bags down upon the floor.

"Yes, it does," she replies without inflection, and a second later
she's gone, gone into the bathroom and the water starts running,
running hot for her bath.

Women and their tubs.  If I had a relationship like that, I'd give up
women.  Conversely, if I had a woman like that, like the one who's in
there now, taking her bath, too tired to care and more beautiful than
life, I'd give up women.

And if she came out from that room, with wet hair, barely towel dried,
in a t-shirt and sweat pants, I'd try to move in for my turn in her
little heaven, but instead of letting me pass, she would take me by my
waist, and encircle her arms around me and start swaying against me,
as in my dream, I would also give up women.

All other women, for the one whose lips would reach up to mine as we
danced without any music at all, swaying instead to two hearts, hearts
that have always had their matching rhythm, whether it was slow or
pounding hot, sinking low, joyful or terrified.  I would feel that
heart in her lips, a tiny pulse against my own and it wouldn't be as
in my dreams, because it would be better than anything that I could
ever have imagined.

And we would fall together, on a bed turned from harsh and thin to
soft and inviting, perfect in its length and width, its comfort and
warmth, a secret place without flaw, an altar wonderful and peaceful,
with the sound of the rain against the windows only making us grateful
for the place where, joyful, we lay.

The night would be spent this way, with our silent music, our motion
and our heat, and finally her cries would sound from underneath me, as
we'd tumble as one down a single sweet river, a warm one, floating
down its endless and bloodless length.

And in the morning, I'd awake and her eyes would already be open and
I'd let them follow me as I kissed her fingers, one by one, only
because they were perfect, and I wouldn't be able to bear putting them
down without doing so.  Her heart would still be sounding next to
mine, and forever after that, it would be the most profound and
mysterious of songs, a song I would spend my life trying to comprehend.

And so it would be, so it should be, and when she exits the bathroom,
I notice that her hair is wet, barely towel dried and she is wearing a
t-shirt and sweatpants, loose and soft, and as I get up, to walk past
her to get my turn in her little part of heaven, I know...

That it isn't over.  It has just begun.

Tonight.

And I'll finally get the ending that I wanted.

~~~~~~~~~~~
The End.

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