Title: By Her Side 3: Talk of Changes
Author: Vickie Moseley
Summary: Bill and Mulder talk about Mulder's relationship with
Dana. And a six pack of beer gets involved.
Spoilers: I've been haunted by 'Never Again' and 'Emily' so I sort
of explain them, maybe. No movie or sixth season stuff (since it
hasn't started yet ;)
Rating: R (they're drinking, their inhibitions are lost in the fog)
Category: V, H, UST
Disclaimer: I still don't own any of these characters. I know, it's
unbelieveable, but it's true. So, until I can buy 10-13 Productions
(I'd keep CC on, honest I would), I won't infringe on their
copyright.
Archives: Yes
Note: This is the third in the series and it would help a lot if you
read the other two. It pretty much finishes Bill's side of the story.
I'm toying with seeing how Tara sees things. If that interests you,
let me know. 

By Her Side 3: Talk of Changes
by Vickie Moseley
vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com

It all came up so sudden. After all the running back and forth to the
hospital, and then when Mulder woke up, all that stopped. Our
lives, well, Tara, mine and Matty's, all went back to normal. Dana
stayed at the hospital, then gradually, started working out of the
San Diego Bureau office. She's been coming to our place to sleep,
and since she's up and gone at daybreak, we really haven't seen her
that much. Until last night.

She came home early last night, all a flush. Dr. Nelson had decided
that Mulder can be released. I think it's sort of nuts, I mean, the
guy was in a coma three days ago. Managed care, my ass.
Anyway, Dana came in and was starting to pack, trying to call the
airlines and get a flight. She hoped to get something direct to DC,
and they'd have to go first class, since Mulder was still pretty bad
off and would need the extra seat room.

I watched her for a minute and then felt my wife's danty size seven
and a half shoe come down firmly on my instep.

"Tell her they can stay here a day or two." Tara doesn't 'hiss' very
often, but it was as close to a 'hiss' as I'd ever heard.

OK, confession time. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I actually
believed that Mulder and my sister would go straight to the airport
from the hospital and I wouldn't have to face him again.

I don't hate him any more. I want that in the record. But that
doesn't mean I _like_ him. And it sure doesn't mean I want to
have to wait on him hand and foot. Or worse yet, have my _wife_
waiting on him hand a foot. I let him have my sister, I'll be damned
if he's getting his hands on Tara, or my house!

Pretty stupid feelings, I know, but they're mine and I'm sticking
with them.

Tara had other plans.

"Tara, where will we put him?" Good question, and even a
practical one since the bedrooms in this house are all upstairs, and
that's probably not on his 'to do' list yet.

"The bathroom is up there, too. We get him up the steps once and
we're set. He can eat his meals up there, and we can move the TV
from our bedroom into the guest room."

Guest room. Or, my study, as I more commonly refer to it.

"Then where is Dana gonna sleep?"

"In Matty's room. Or I could set the cot up in the guest room for
her."

Matty's room. Definitely Matty's room. I'm only allowing this
new found approval go so far.

"She probably wants to go home, Tara. They've been here almost
two weeks as it is."

And at that exact moment, God looked down at our happy little
home . . . and spit in my eye.

"DAMN IT!" The slam of the receiver almost sent the phone to the
floor. Tara ran in to see what the matter was, I sat with Matty on
the sofa and tried not to look like we were cowering.

"Of all the times for a damned airlines to go on STRIKE!"

Oh yeah. The airlines strike. We'd been joking about it in the
commissary. Can you say 'Gotcha'?

So here I am, sitting in our minivan at the hospital entrance, waiting
patiently while Dana and Tara bring Mulder down in a wheelchair.
Matty is gurgling, chewing one of those teething cracker things that
cover everything with goo that hardens immediately into concrete.
The air is on full blast because it's about 9,000 degrees outside.
And I've had to cancel out on a meeting with BuPers about an
assignment on a ship.

My life sucks and it's getting worse by the minute.

Finally, they are here. Dana is pushing the wheelchair and she's
shaking her head. Even though she's trying to look 'tough', she's
glowing. She's just happy to be bringing him home in one piece, I
can tell. She points to the minivan and Mulder nods, then sighs. I
know how you feel, pal.

He's not looking that much different than when we last saw each
other. He's still pale, still way too thin. He has to have help
getting up out of the wheelchair and I can tell it's hurting him to
move that little bit. Getting into the car will be torture. I can't
stand it anymore, and put on the parking brake, then get out of the
car.

"Let me give you a hand." I move in front of him, get my arms
around him and hear him moan into my shirt. "Sorry," I remember
too late not to touch the left side of his body more than necessary.
After some unique dance steps, I ease him into the middle seat in
the car. Dana shoots me a wink, Tara is looking at me like I might
get _very_ lucky tonight and I run around to get this show on the
road.

Getting Mulder out of the car is a little more tricky than getting him
in there. For one thing, Matty has managed to pretty much encase
his left arm with teething mortar, but Mulder doesn't seem to mind.
He looks relieved just to be away from people with sharp objects. I
take point, again, and together, we ease him out on to the curb. I
can tell he wants to get to the front door by himself, but after a
step, he's more pale than he was a minute ago, and Dana makes a
grab for him.

Surprisingly enough, that's all the support he needs to get the rest
of the way in the door. I get Matty out, only getting a smudge of
the cookie goop on my sleeve and Tara takes him while I get the
bags out of the back.

Mulder didn't have that much of his own luggage at the hospital.
Dana brought him his shaving kit and a change of clothes. The suit
he'd been wearing at the time of the shooting was either evidence
or garbage, so it no longer belonged to him. The rest of the stuff is
medicine and all that crap that they send you home with, even if you
just end up staying over night.

As I enter the front door, I see my sister, desparately clinging to a
very tall person who is about to go over my staircase railing, head
first.

"Let me up there, Danie," I yell before the railing breaks and they
both die from the fall. I grab Mulder, this time careful of his left
side, and all but carry him the rest of the way up.

"You should have waited," I tell her when she makes it to the top
after us.

"I thought I could make it," Mulder tells me with an embarrassed
shrug. "I think I need to lie down, now." He's almost a dead
weight in my arms.

"Sure thing. We made up the guest room for you." Tara in
control, with Matty on her hip, pushes past us and opens the guest
room door.

I get him to the bed, Tara has the sheets pulled back and I help him
lie back. He's rigid until he settles, then he sort of collapses against
the pillows. Tara fusses with the covers a little, then straightens.

"I'll have lunch ready in about half an hour. Mulder, would you
like something to drink, anything?"

He looks like he needs to go back to the hospital, if you ask me.
But he shakes his head. "I'm fine, Tara. Thank you. I think I'll
just rest until lunch."

I take that as our cue to leave. I put my arm around Tara and
Matty and guide them out into the hallway. I say nothing as I pull
the door shut behind us.

Tara is a whiz at cooking. She loves being in the kitchen, and I
love just watching her work. Today, since we have 'company',
she's knocked herself out. She started minestrone before I left for
work, but that's for tonight's dinner. For lunch, she's made
chicken salad sandwiches and I make sure she doesn't notice when
I sneak a chunk for myself and a little for Matty in his high chair.

Matty is a good baby. Especially when in a 'covert operation', like
stealing a popscicle when we know 'Mom' isn't looking. Tara has
this thing about food and one year olds. It comes from reading too
many baby magazines. Mom, my Mom, used to let us eat anything.
I've watched Charlie finish off a bag of barbeque potato chips at the
ripe old age of 2. So Matty and I have become quite the operatives
in the kitchen.

Today, however, in all the excitement, Matty slipped up. While I
was reaching for another forkful of the bowl of chicken, he figured
he'd help me along by grabbing the napkin it was sitting on and
pulling it toward us.

Chicken salad a la lap. My clean blue uniform lap.

I'm not happy running up the stairs to get a clean suit. I have
meetings this afternoon, and I don't need this shit. As I pass the
'guest room' door, I can't help but over hear them talking.

"I hate imposing, Scully. You know how Bill feels about me. I
don't know why we couldn't just go to the motel."

Ungrateful little shit.

"I know, Mulder, I know. But Bill has been trying so hard this last
week. He was with me all night the first night. And he was there
everynight you were in the coma."

That's my Danie, sticking up for me.

"Besides, it serves him right to have to put up with us. He _has_
been a shit to you in the past, and it's time to rub his nose in it a
little."

_Two_ ungrateful little shits.

I'm about to knock on the door and let them both have a piece of
my mind when I hear Tara calling us down for lunch. I beat it into
our bedroom and change before Dana comes out into the hall.

Maybe they're right. Maybe I have been shitty to Mulder. I've
gone over my reasons. Mom was always telling me I was too hard
on the guy. It was pretty unreasonable to assume that he was
personally to blame for _all_ the tragedy that has befallen our family
in the last five years. But I have to point out that if Dana had never
joined the FBI in the first place, none of this would have happened.
And if she'd joined, but hadn't stayed partnered with Mulder,
maybe a lot of the horrible things could have been avoided, too.

Why am I such a creep for wanting to protect my family?

When I get back down to the kitchen, our little munch mouth is
chomping down on his chicken salad. Dana is right about one
thing, this kid can eat! Dana looks at the iced tea in front of her
like she's wishing it was a vodka martini, and she's yapping it up
with Tara over Mulder's stubbornness.

"He's like a little kid, sometimes, Tara. I mean, he needs to eat and
he absolutely needs to rest. But the minute my back is turned, he'll
be sneaking down those stairs, trying to figure out a way to get
back home so he can go to work three weeks early. There have
been times I've just wanted to . . ."

"Shoot him?" my gentle wife teases.

Dana gets a funny look on her face. "Nah, been there, done that. I
just want him to do what he's told for change. I just don't want to
have to worry about him having a relapse or injuring himself until
he's well enough to handle it."

I grab a sandwich and hit the door. I'm late for the office, and the
last thing I want to hear is how my baby sister intends to keep
Mulder in bed for the next three weeks.

The afternoon drags by, mostly because I'm writing reports, kissing
ass, and trying to get that ship assignment out of BuPers. By 5:30,
I'm ready to call it quits.

I pull into the driveway, and I'm met at the door by my wife. A
nice little homecoming, except she's carrying the baby in one arm
and the diaper bag in the other.

"Dana needs to get out a while. She's absolutely obsessing and I
think Mulder is ready to duct tape her and throw her in the closet.
Mind if you guys have the house to yourselves while we take
ShortStuff to Mickey D's?" She doesn't even wait for an answer,
just reaches up and kisses my cheek. "I owe you big time, Billy.
And if you're real good, you can collect tonight." That is thrown
over her shoulder in a decidedly 'Mae West-Lana Turner-Lauren
Bacall' sort of smoky voice.

Geez, she would use sex to get her way. It always works.

"What are _we_ having for dinner?" I really don't whine, but Tara
is always accusing me of it. I think she's probably going to do it
again.

"The minestrone is in the crock pot, there's Italian bread sticks in
the oven. And I made a salad, it's in the frig. Beers in the garage,
Mulder does _not_ get one, he's still on painkillers. Dana made
him some iced tea, it's next to the salad. We'll be home in a couple
of hours. I love you." Another kiss, this time blown at me through
the air, and she's piling Matty in the car.

The screen door slams and Dana is beside me. "Tara just needs a
little time out. I volunteered to take her and Matty to McDonald's
and the mall for a little bit. Now, Mulder needs to take his
antibiotic one hour before he eats, so make sure he does before you
feed him anything. And absolutely _no_ alcohol for him. For that
matter, don't even drink it in front of him, he'll only try to talk you
out of a beer if he sees you with one. And he'll need to take his
painkiller an hour after he eats. I've written it all out, it's on the
frig. And I left my cell phone number. Mulder knows it, but in
case he can't speak or is in too much pain . . ." She's getting this
look and turning to stare at the door a little too long.

I grab her arm. "Hey, I think it's really great that you girls are
getting out for a while. Tara needs to get a dress for a Halloween
party we're invited to, why don't you see if you can find one."

That drags her attention back for a moment, but she's still
wavering.

"Danie, he'll be fine. I will make sure he's fine. Believe me, if
anything goes wrong, I will call you first and 911 second. It will be
all right. Go. Have a good time and relax for Cripes sakes."

"Is that an order, Commander?" She has a smart-aleck grin
plastered on her face and she always was a mouthy kid.

"Yes, that's an order. Now, get going. You know how much
trouble you can get into standing between Matty and a meal." I
give her a swat on the backside for good measure.

And they are gone. I'm still standing on my front porch, wondering
how in the hell I just ended up alone with my sister's partner for the
evening. Not that daunting a challenge, I've done it a couple of
times just recently.

Trouble is, this time the son of a bitch is conscious.

I open the door and go upstairs, changing into shorts and a tee
shirt. I think about going down to get a beer, but decide to check
on my charge first. I walk down the hall and knock on the partially
closed door.

"Is she gone?"

Interesting greeting.

I push the rest of the way into the room. "Yeah, they're gone. I
think I got rid of them for a couple of hours. Told 'em to find Tara
a dress."

"Remind me to pay you, generously." It's a relieved smile that he
gives me.

"So, my sister's driving you crazy?" I didn't mean it to sound so
much like an accusation, but I guess it came out that way.

"Bill, please understand. She's only trying to look out for me. I
know that. It's just that she gets a little . . . forceful, when she's in
'doctor mode' and I just get to the point where I can't handle it
anymore. Usually, by this time, I'm home and I can call your mom.
This time, I had to ask Tara. Scully means well, I know she does,
but . . ."

He looks sort of pathetic, sitting on a bunch of pillows. He's not
wearing a hospital gown anymore, just jeans and a loose shirt. He
doesn't look at death's door any longer, but he doesn't look up to
playing a quick game of 21, either. I'm sure if it was me in that
bed, I'd be climbing the walls, too.

"She always was too bossy for her own good," I tell him. "And if
you think you've got it bad, you should have seen her when she
was a kid. If you tried to hide something from Mom or Dad -"

"She'd nark you out, right? I knew it from the first time I met her.
But she's not that bad anymore. Sometimes, she even . . ." He
stops and just stares at the blankets on the bed.

I take that as an opportunity to break for the kitchen. I'm at the
door when I remember. "Um, did you take your antibiotic?"

He sighs, not a happy camper. "Yes, I took my antibiotic. Exactly
47 minutes ago, according to my watch. That means I can offically
eat in 13 minutes."

Sheez, what a pain. "Well, it's gonna take me at least that long to
find the salad dressing," I tell him and the poor sap grins at me.

I take my time in the kitchen, just in case Mulder will burst into
flame if he eats two minutes before the hour is up. I take the time
to down a beer, find both bottles of salad dressing - white and red,
and fill two glasses with iced tea. Then I dig in the cabinet above
the stove for the fancy wooden bed tray that Tara's sister got us for
a wedding present and we've yet to use. It's been getting a work
out these days, thanks to our houseguest. There is barely enough
room for the two soup bowls, the bread from the oven, the two
salad bowls and the iced tea. I stick the salad dressings and table
ware in my pants pockets and head back up the stairs.

He's got the tv on, watching sports. Cubs and Braves. And I
thought it would be the end of the world before the Cubs would
make it to post season play. Mulder looks up and then checks his
watch.

"I can start chewing, but I have to wait 45 seconds before I can
swallow," he informs me, reaching for the tray.

"Not much to chew, it's soup. So swallow real slow," I warn him
with a smile. God, I'd really hate to be laid up like he is. It has to
be a monumental pain in the ass.

We eat in silence, both watching the game. He's wincing and I
would get concerned, but then I notice it's just the runs being
racked up by Atlanta.

"God, I hate seeing Ted Turner win," he tells me, chugging down
half the iced tea. He holds the glass out and gives it a hard look.
"And I'd kill for a beer."

"Dana would kill me if I gave you one. And Tara would help."

He sighs again, but nods his head in agreement.

The soup goes down pretty well, I clear the dishes and put them on
the tray to take down later. The game has become such a blow out
that it's gotten painful to watch.

And I just gotta ask.

"So, Mulder, you humpin' my sister?"

Poor guy, I'm sure it's not good for him to cough like that. How
am I supposed to know that questions like that make him choke,
and on iced tea for God's sakes! I know better than to pound on
his back, he's got a shit load of stitches there and plenty more
inside and on his chest. So I just sort of stand there and hope he
recovers because Dana will have my balls on a platter if I killed him
asking him a simple question.

"Jesus H. Christ, Bill!" he finally chokes out. "You trying to kill
me here?"

"It's a valid question, Mulder." At least, I sure think it is.

"Well, the answer to your valid question is NO!" He leans back on
his little pile of pillows and I think he may be needing the pain pill
sooner than one hour after dinner.

"Why not? Are you gay?"

That gets me a look that could cook my liver.

"No, Bill, I'm not gay," Mulder says through clenched teeth. Same
look Dana gave me that first night. Like I just crawled out from
under a rock.

"Is she gay?"

"Christ, Bill, if you have questions about your sister's fucking
sexuality, you fucking need to direct them to _her_!"

"So neither of you are gay?"

He's staring holes in me. Too bad you don't have 'x-ray- eyes, Mr.
FBI, or I would be dead. Cooked liver, cooked goose.

"No, Bill. To the best of my knowledge, and where it concerns
your sister, that is limited, neither of us are gay."

"Then how the hell did you have a kid?"

He closes his eyes and sighs again. I would almost feel sorry for
the bastard, but I've been dying to know this for months.

"Emily wasn't . . . she wasn't 'ours'. She was Scully's child." He
chews on his lip for a moment and then swallows again. "And if
you want any more information, you need to ask your sister."

"So who is the bastard? Or have you already taken care of him."
This last I say with no malice. I've seen them together now, I have
no doubt that if some fucker raped my sister and she had a baby
because of religion or something, Mulder would put a bullet right
between the guy's eyes. The only real problem with that scenario is
that she didn't remember any of it, if it happened. And when she
was gone, she was only gone for a month. I might not know a lot
of obstestrics, but Matty taught me, babies take forever to come
out. It's not something you forget and somebody would have
noticed.

"They didn't . . . Bill, it's more complicated than that." But from
the look in his eyes, he'd do anything he could to 'take care of' the
bastard.

"More complicated than rape?" Yeah, Mulder, tell me how it can
get more complicated than rape. Then it dawns on me. Maybe she
loved the guy once. Oh shit. That would explain why Mulder
hasn't killed him. But why can't she remember? Or is that a lie to
protect the son of a bitch?

"She didn't love the bastard, did she? This isn't some weird ass
'repression memory' shit that is going to come back in ten years
and she'll end up in some nut house?"

"It's not something I want to talk about, Bill. And please, respect
your sister and don't go asking her. It's . . . it's still a very sore
subject. But believe me, I'm working on it. And when I get the
opportunity, regardless of what it costs me personally, I will 'take
care' of it."

I believe him. I look at his eyes and boy, I'd sure hate to be the
asshole who did that to Dana. His days are numbered. That's a
relief. I turn my attention back to the game. Seven to nothing,
Braves. Shit.

"So, back to my original question. Why aren't you humpin' my
sister?"

"Bill, go get me a beer."

end of part one

By Her Side 3: Talk of changes, 2/2
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net

"Bill, go get me a beer," he repeats.

I must look a little nervous because Mulder's sighing sort of
impatiently at me. "I haven't taken my after dinner medicine. And
if I'm gonna have to sit through this kind of interrogation, I need
_something_ to insulate me from the discomfort."

How can you argue with that kind of logic?

"Better bring back a six pack," he tosses out to me as I head for the
door. "And grab a couple for yourself, too."

OK, I gotta say it. I'm starting to like the guy.

I decide to limit our consumption to one six pack _between_ the
two of us, and in a jiffy, I'm back with six Miller Genuine Drafts. I
hand him one out of the ring, he pops the top and chugs down a
good mouthful.

"To the patron saint of brewers," he says, looking at me and
holding his can aloft.

"Salute!" I respond and join him in another good belt. Ahhh, that's
nice.

"So, back to the question, why aren't you two doin' it like rabbits?
Isn't my baby sister good enough for you?"

He blows a breath out through his mouth. "It isn't like that. She's
too good for me, if you want to know the truth."

"She loves you. I can see that everytime she even mentions your
name. You should have seen her the other night, man. She was
losing it big time when you were in surgery." I see a guilty look
cross his face and if it were anyone else, I'd probably regret
bringing up the subject.

"I know that. I feel the same about her. We're . . . we're beyond
close."

"But no sex?"

"No sex." He chugs again to drive home his point.

"So what do you do? Cat around on her?"

"NO!" He swigs at the beer again, and I realize he's beaten me to
the bottom. He reaches out a hand and I give him the rest of the
ring. Popping another one, he stares glumly at the rugby game he
found to replace the sad performance of Chicago. "No, I do _not_
cat around on her. I don't do anything. Period. Besides, Bill, truth
be told, our line of work doesn't give us much time for that sort of
thing."

I ponder that for a moment. I've been at sea, I know what being
faithful is like. But six years? And I knew that when the cruise
ended, Tara and I would be under the covers for a couple of days
without food or water. It just doesn't seem healthy at all to keep
that much 'tension' going for that long. Then, a name pops into my
head.

"So who is Ed Jerse?"

I can tell I'm hitting all the right buttons, now. He turns purple and
I'm sure I'm gonna be calling 911 in about three seconds.

"Where in the hell did you hear that name?!" I have a feeling that if
he could, he'd reach out and grab for my neck to wring the answer
out of me.

"Dana mentioned it. The other night. When you were . . . when
they had you in surgery. She said she threatened you by telling you
that if you died on her, she'd find this Jerse asshole and, quote, let
him fuck my eyes out this time, end quote and that this time her
tattoo would read 'fuck you, Fox Mulder'. She scared the shit out
of me telling me fucking shit like that."

"She _was_ losing it," he mutters and chews on his lower lip. "I
thought all that was a dream."

"So, who is this bastard?"

"Nobody," he says a little too quickly.

"I'm not buying that. She's my sister, I deserve to know."

He's getting red in the face now and I don't really give a shit. It's
the truth. She is my sister, and I _do_ deserve to know what she's
been getting herself into. Maybe this 'beyond love' thing is making
her do stupid stuff, like run off and jump into bed with every two
bit asshole who looks twice at her. I remember when Missy went
through a period like that right after high school. I don't want
Dana going through that. It's too fucking dangerous.

"She's a grown woman, Bill."

Shit, can this guy read minds?

"Ed Jerse . . . Jerse was a nobody. A mistake. We don't talk about
it. And for Christ's sake, don't say a word to Maggie! It's was
before . . . before we knew about the cancer. It was a shitty time,
and neither one of us want to remember it. I'm surprised she
mentioned it to you. She hasn't brought the subject up since it
happened. She must have been really at the end of her rope to let it
slip like that."

"It's not like she meant for me to hear, really. She was just talking,
she was scared to death. I don't think she even knew she was
saying it out loud."

Mulder stops talking, just looks at the screen. I never could
understand the rules to this stupid ass game.

"It was over a desk."

I sputter my beer across the room.

"No, not like that," he says kinda disgusted. "Not _on_ a desk,
'about' a desk."

I'm NOT saying a word.

"She'd never had a desk. In my office. I mean, she had a desk, a
nice desk, in an office upstairs. And a filing cabinet. She used to
keep my birthday present and her medical journals up there. But
most of the time, we're down in my office, our office, really. And I
just sort of figured if she didn't like something, she'd do something
about it. I mean, for Christ's sakes, she orders the pencils, she
orders the printer paper, she orders the file folder tabs. She could
damn well have ordered a desk if she wanted one. You'd think that
would be obvious, right?"

I grab for another beer. This is certainly turning out to be more
than I'd bargained for.

"And I really didn't want to go on that fucking vacation. I just
wanted to work. How the hell was I to know that she had cancer?
_She_ didn't even know she had it yet. She goes out, stays the
night at the guy's apartment, gets a fucking snake on her ass, and
then tells me it's not about _me_! It's not about the desk at all.
What the hell is a guy supposed to think?"

I am _real_ confused now, but I'm still not saying a word.

"A week later, I'm called to the hospital and she tells me she has
cancer. It felt like somebody had shot me in the gut. I couldn't
breath, I couldn't think. I didn't want to believe it. She told me
before she called her mom. And she was trying to be so brave, I
saw that. She's the strongest person I know, but she was working
so hard to put up this stone front. She was gonna work. She
wasn't going to give up. She was gonna beat it." He stops again,
and grabs for another beer, his third to my second. "Those fucking
bastards. I will see them dead. Someday, we're gonna dance on
their graves."

"That's what that chip was all about? How did you get it? Did
they give it to you?" I've been wondering about _that_ for almost
a year.

"I stole it out of the Pentagon," he says, like it's something he does
every day. "But if you want to know what I really think, I think
they let me steal it. I think it was part of their plan. They didn't
want her to die, they just wanted me to know that they can take her
at any time. Which is why we aren't fucking like bunnies, Bill," he
sort of slurs with a smile. "It would be expected. And it would just
give them one more thing to use against us."

"Wait a minute, there, Mulder. The Pentagon? _The_ Pentagon?
Are you telling me . . ."

"I'm not telling you anything, Billy Boy," he grins. "Just forget you
heard that. It's the MGD talkin', that's all."

Now, I'm really confused. "I don't see how caring about each
other, giving each other some comfort, could possibly be used
against you."

Mulder shakes his head with a smart assed smile. "You don't know
what we're up against. And you know what?"

I look over at him.

"I'm gonna _keep_ it that way." He belches a good one and downs
the third beer.

"If she's in danger, if the military or the government is involved, I
_want_ to know, goddammit!"

He's shaking his head again. "Leave it alone, Billy. Leave it to the
professionals." He finds that comment extremely funny but not for
long. "Christ, that hurts worse than choking," he winces and grabs
for his chest.

"You all right?"

"Nothing another beer won't fix." He reaches for a fourth and I
hold on to the can for a second. "Scully, I might not look it, but I
can whip your ass," he glares at me.

"HAH! You and what army?" I belt right back.

"I'll get your sister to hold you while I beat the shit out of you,
swabbie."

I'd respond to that, but I figure he's probably right. I let go of the
beer. "Are you sure you should be drinking that many, Mulder? I
mean, you just got out of the hospital today."

"So?"

"So, I don't want you getting hurt. I don't want to mess up your
medicine."

"Like you give a shit what happens to me," he huffs and drains half
the can in one gulp.

"Dana does. So I do."

He stares at me. But by now, I figure he ain't seeing that good.
I'm probably the guy in the middle.

"You mean that?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Cos, if my sister were around and she got mixed up with a pathetic
loser like me, I'd want the guy dead. I'd figure I could help her
over the grief, but she'd be better off in the long run."

Well, that feels like a kick in the stomach to me. Nothing like
having your own thoughts recited back to you to really humilate the
hell out of a guy.

"Yeah, well, I'm just a more 'sensitive' kind of guy," I tell him with
a smirk.

"Yeah. I could tell that about you when you were telling me not to
'bring work' into Scully's hospital room. Something about letting
her die with dignity. That was _real_ sensitive of you."

Ouch. OK, maybe I deserved that.

"I didn't know you then. I thought you were there to . . . Hell,
Mulder, I was scared shitless that I was losing my only living sister.
You can't hold me responsible for that and you know it!"

"I'd never hurt her, Bill. You gotta believe me, I'd never hurt her."
His voice has gotten so damned tight it makes my throat hurt
listening to him. I think the son of a bitch is gonna start crying.
But I believe him. I fucking believe him.

"I know you wouldn't, Mulder. Not if you could help it. But damn
it, why did you step in front of that goddam bullet the other day?
Couldn't you just shove her out of range? You both could have
walked away!"

"I didn't think of myself. I just was not going to let her get hurt. It
just happened." He winces and rubs his left side. I can see the
bandages under the tee shirt he's wearing. "Pain and I are old
buddies. I don't mind it. As long as she's all right."

"You know, I was right. You are a sorry son of a bitch!"

He stares at me, surprised by my outburst, but damn it, he's making
me mad!

"Look, you fucking idiot, my sister loves you. That is a gift,
goddam it. Do you honestly think she'd waste her life tagging after
you if she didn't love you with her whole heart? I may not like it, I
might not want to watch it, but it's her life and she deserves better
than a black dress and a grave to visit! If I hear that you've put
yourself in the line like this again, I'll fucking walk all the way to
DC and yank you out of that grave and fucking kick your dead ass
all the way across the country and back!"

He's silent. His face doesn't show any emotion at all. Then, he tips
back the beer, drains it and belches once more.

"Shit, Bill. I didn't know you cared that much."

"Bastard," I say with a grin.

"Asshole," he replies.

We're even. I reach for another, but Mulder drank the last one.
He's looking pretty bleary eyed.

"Give sex a chance, Mulder. Women need to be held, too."

"Voice of experience talking?"

"You've seen Tara. You think she's smilin' because of all the
laundry she has to do?"

"You are a fucking prick, Bill Scully. You are telling me to fuck
your sister."

"No. I'm telling you to _love_ my sister. And you already do that.
I'm just telling you, if you keep her satisfied, she won't go looking
for any fucking 'Ed Jerses' anymore."

"I might take that under advisement," he says, and sort of slumps
against the pillows. "I'm gonna really hate myself in the morning,"
he says, and he's out like a light.

I sit back and watch the last of the rugby game, then the soccer
game after that. Mulder is quietly sawing the rainforests next to
me.

I hear Tara when she hits the door. I realize with a start that I've
missed her. This house just seems empty when I can't hear her
voice. Even when she's mad.

Like now.

"Where in the hell did all these beer cans come from" Tara is
tapping her foot, but with Matty trying to shove his teething
cracker down her blouse, it really loses the impact.

Dana, on the other hand, is in rare form. "You better come up with
something very fast, William Dennis Scully."

She can't be too mad. She forgot to use my Confirmation name.

"William Dennis _Andrew_ Scully, did you drink all six of those
beers?" Dana demands as she stands up with the evidence in her
fists.

"Uhhhhh." Rock and a hard place. Yup, that's right where I am.
Between a rock and a hard place.

"Bill Scully, you answer your sister, or you will be spending the
night _alone_."

Shit, there goes my evening. Sorry, Mulder, I'm narking you out.

"Mulder had four of them."

"FOUR of them! My god, he could have lapsed into a coma with
that much alcohol in his system!" Dana has pried open an eyelid
and is shining a little flashlight into his eye. That would really hurt,
if the poor bastard could feel anything.

"Go 'WAY," he moans and swats at the flashlight. Well, at least
he's not in a coma.

"He's drunk!" Dana declares, like it's some Supreme Court
decision and spins on her heel toward me. "I told you specifically
_no alcohol_!"

"Look, Danie, he didn't take his after dinner pain killer. So he had
a couple of beers! Give the guy a fucking break!"

Matty takes the opportunity to shout "Bucking Break!" and grin
like a cheshire cat.

"Good work, Bill! I can't wait till he tells that to your mother next
time she calls!"

Mulder puts his finger up to his lips. "SHHHHHHHHhhhhh," he
hisses, finally running out of breath. "Can't you see when a guy
needs to rest?"

Dana is ready to blow a gasket. She glares at me, and I'm suddenly
aware that although Mulder and I are getting along fine now, I'm
back on my sister's very short shit list.

"Tara, I'm going to have to sleep in here tonight. With all that
alcohol, he might have an adverse reaction. I need to be close."

She's looking at me like I might have some objection to that.

"I'll go get you another pillow." I catch their shocked faces as I
head to the hall closet.

It probably won't happen tonight. Mulder is in _no_ condition to
perform up to standards. But that doesn't mean that down the line
. . .

Danie was right. He probably isn't that bad a guy. For a loser.

the end.

Vickie

"Politics is a character flaw."

George Brown, politician and former mayor.