DISCLAIMERS: So, I hear CC's leaving X-Files...I 

guess Mulder and Scully don't belong to him anymore, 

do they? Hahahaha...I guess they only belong to FOX 

now, and God knows we'd better rescue them before it 

turns into "X-Files 90210," right?  By the way, are 

you leaving UberVince in charge (we hope)?

SPOILER: "Elegy." References to "Never Again," 

"Beyond the Sea," and "Syzygy." 

RATING: PG

CLASSIFICATION: S/A.  Bucketsful of angst.  Can you 

tell I'm having a bad week? No romance this time, 

just friendship.

SUMMARY: Was anyone else left with an incomplete 

feeling at the end of this episode?  Was anyone else 

waiting for Mulder to come walking up and tap on her 

car window?  Did anyone else get annoyed at his 

little tirade about how if Scully doesn't tell him 

the truth she's working against him? (I personally 

was ready to shove his gun someplace where he'll 

never *ever* lose it again.)  If you answered yes to 

these questions, you're in the right place.

COMMENTS: Send me some or I'll be forced to release 

this package of angry bees... jenbird@earthlink.net





HIDDEN PAIN 1/1

By: Jennifer Maurer



"Don't tell me to stop crying 

please just hold me while I do

Soothe me with your silence 

and just cradle me to you

Don't push me for my reasons 

or expect me to explain

How can I in five minutes 

shift a lifetime's hidden pain"

	---Julia Fordham





"Harold Spueller wasn't dying, Mulder.  He was 

killed as a result of what that woman took away from 

him."



"Is that your medical opinion?"



I pause the merest fraction of a second before 

answering him.  I had long ago ceased to try and 

formulate a medical opinion in this case.  Not after 

seeing that---girl?  ghost?---in the bathroom.  It 

had been all I could do to keep myself together.  He 

didn't have to ask me like that.  I am more than a 

scientist.



"I saw something, Mulder."



His eyes grow sharp and watchful.  "What?"



"The fourth victim.  I saw her in the bathroom 

before you came to tell me."  Mulder was going to 

*love* this one.  He always harped on me to be more 

open-minded, accepting of extreme possibilities.  

The last time I was, he'd dismissed me, claimed my 

grief for my father was clouding my mind.  I 

wondered what he'd say this time.



"Why didn't you tell me?"



Why?  You really don't know, Mulder?  Isn't it 

obvious?  



"Because I didn't want to believe it.  Because I 

*don't* want to believe it."



"Is that why you came down here, to prove that it 

wasn't true?"



Goddamn him!  Has he forgotten so quickly that I 

came down here to help *him*?  When have I ever 

worked on a case only to prove it's not true?  I 

told Mulder from the beginning that I was here to 

*solve* our cases, just like he was, even if my 

methods differed from his.  



"No, I came down here because you asked me to."



"Why can't you be honest with me?"



"What do you want me to say?  That you're right, 

that I believe it even if I don't?  I mean, is that 

what you want?"



"Is that what you think I want to hear?"



I pause, break eye contact.  Mulder had only ever 

asked me to *try* and believe.  He may disagree with 

me sometimes but he has never tried to actually 

change me.  I think if I suddenly started believing 

in his wild theories he'd worry about me more than 

he already does.



"No."



"You can believe what you want to believe, Scully.  

But you can't hide the truth from me because if you 

do, then you're working *against* me...and 

yourself."  He pauses, and his harsh expression 

softens slightly.  "I know what you're afraid of.  

I'm afraid of the same thing."



Oh, really, Mulder?  You *know*?  You can't 

*possibly* know.  There is no way in hell that you 

can understand what this is like for me, despite all 

your concern and good intentions.  And please get 

off your soapbox about people hiding the truth and 

working against you.  Just because I choose not to 

confide everything in you does *not* make me your 

enemy.  I'd think after four years you'd know that.  

I may not spill my guts but I don't lie to you, 

either.  Was he listening when I told him that not 

everything is about him?



"The doctor said I was fine."  God, I hate that 

tremble I'm hearing in my voice more often these 

days.



"I hope that's the truth."



It takes all my self-control not to smack him for 

that pointed little remark.  The implication that 

I'm lying screams louder than any outright 

accusation could.  He was the first person I told 

about my cancer, the one my instincts led me to lean 

on most.  I may not be able to admit it to him but I 

can admit it to myself, and to Agent Kosseff: I rely 

on Mulder.  Not something I like to admit, 

especially at a time like this, but there it is.  I 

still have the strength of his beliefs, even if I 

wish sometimes I didn't need it.

  

"I'm going home."  



I brush past him and walk on down the ramp.  Just 

try and stop me, I silently dare him, even as I 

half-hope he will.  I strain my ears for the sound 

of his footfalls behind me as I push open the door 

and walk out into the night.  Nothing.  Silence.  

The usual barrier between us these days.  I walk 

steadily to my car, feeling my energy drain away as 

I leave other people behind.  The clicking of my 

pumps counts off the seconds I have to keep up a 

strong facade.  Once home, I can be whoever I want 

to be.  I don't have to maintain Special Agent 

Scully.  I can be simply Dana who is dying and 

scared, who kneels down beside her bed and tries to 

pray.  Dana who cries herself to sleep, hoping there 

will be no blood on her pillow when she wakes up.  

Dana who wants more than anything to lean on Fox 

Mulder but worries what the consequences will be if 

she does.  



I open my car door and slide inside, relieved to be 

sitting down.  Too often these days I start feeling 

like my legs are going to give out on me.  I don't 

know whether it's because I tire more easily or 

because I'm pushing myself harder.  Either way, it's 

just another weakness for me to chastise myself 

with.  I barely manage to keep the tears back, 

feeling my face contort with the effort.  I will not 

cry here, where someone could see me. Where Mulder 

could walk out and see me.  



Something flickers in my peripheral vision and my 

eyes go to the rearview mirror.  My breath freezes 

in my chest at what I see.  Harold Spueller sitting 

in the back seat of my car, regarding me with his 

sad grimace.  I know I locked the doors, how in the 

hell did he---and then it slams into me: Mulder told 

me Harold was dead.  I whip around in the seat, 

assuring myself that Mulder must have been mistaken-

--and find the seat empty.  No one there..  I crane 

backwards, perhaps Harold is hiding on the 

floor...but my car is, to all outward appearances, 

empty except for me.  



I slowly turn back around, clenching my hands on the 

steering wheel to stop the trembling that is 

traveling up my arms to engulf my body.  Two times, 

two times, you saw dead people two times, chants the 

voice in my head.  My breath comes in frantic little 

puffs and I know this time all the iron control in 

the world isn't going to help me.  I am not going to 

make it to the privacy of my apartment before I 

break down this time.  I am too worn out to care.  I 

put my head down on the steering wheel and give it 

up.  My sobs fill the car, torn out of me 

reluctantly.  I have never cried like this about my 

cancer.  My shoulders heave.  I wail with every 

breath I expel, my voice thin and reedy to my ears.  

All rational thought leaves me, my world narrows to 

block out everything but my grief.  I don't even 

hate myself for crying.



The car door opens without warning.  I know who it 

will be. I turn to see Mulder squatting beside me.  

He clenches his jaw at the sight of my blotchy face 

and swollen eyes.  He says nothing, most likely 

waiting for me to swipe away the tears and tell him 

I'm fine.  I shift sideways in the seat, tears still 

streaming down my face.  Mulder reaches up and wipes 

my face for me with his handkerchief. 



"If you tell me you're fine this time, I'm going to 

have you committed," he says.



I stare at him, my mouth open.  Then I start to 

laugh shrilly.  I'm still laughing when the tears 

start flowing down my face and then I'm crying 

again.  Mulder takes both my hands in his and rubs 

them gently.  Suddenly there is the coppery taste of 

blood in the back of my throat and I jerk my hands 

away, knowing what's coming.  Blood spurts between 

my fingers, rivulets trickling down the backs of my 

hands.  He grabs his handkerchief from my lap and 

starts blotting it up.  I press the cloth against my 

nose, closing my eyes against the pain in his face.  

I hear his voice from far away.



"I'm taking you to the hospital."



I shake my head, feeling the bleeding stop.  I 

warily pull the cloth away from my face.  There's 

more blood than usual this time but I think it's 

over for now.  I clear my throat, waiting for his 

argument.



"Don't tell me it's not necessary, because it is."  

He pries open my fist to see the ruin of his 

handkerchief.  "This was a bad one."



"Yes, it was.  But I'm not going to the hospital."



His face is like stone as he asks, "Why not?  

Because you're fine?"



"No, because I was just there and I don't want to go 

back.  Because I had a complete work-up yesterday 

and I got the same answer I always get.  I still 

have cancer.  I don't need the doctors to remind me 

again.  I spend too much time in hospitals as it is, 

and I'm sure I'll be spending more time there in the 

future.  For now, I just want to go home."



"Thank you," he says softly, squeezing my hand.  



I raise my eyes to his face and ask, "For what?"



"For being honest with me---and with yourself."



I sigh.  "It's hard sometimes, Mulder."



"I know," he replies, as he gets to his feet, "Now 

move over so I can drive you home."



"I can drive myself.  Really, Mulder, I'm---"



I shut my mouth with a snap at the warning look on 

his face.  I don't press it.  I probably could drive 

myself but I'm so weary it will be nice not to have 

to concentrate on the road.  I slide over to the 

passenger side and Mulder gets in.  I watch his face 

for any signs of satisfaction but there is only 

concern.



"It's not a contest, Scully," he says as if he'd 

read my thoughts, "I just want to be there for you 

sometimes.  It doesn't mean I think you're weak."



I meet his level gaze and nod once.  I have made it 

a contest, fighting with myself to determine how 

much I can show, especially where Mulder is 

concerned.  Only letting my control slip when I'm 

alone, curling up in a corner with my fear and 

sadness.  Now that Mulder has seen me break down, I 

wonder why I tried so hard to avoid it before.  The 

world has not ended, he still respects me.  There is 

even an unexpected bonus: I feel less alone.  



I lean my head against the window and close my eyes, 

a silent signal that I am ready to go now.  There 

are soft rustling sounds and then a metallic *chunk* 

as he reaches down and adjusts the driver's seat.  I 

smile.



"That's so my little feet can reach the pedals," I 

comment without looking at him.  Silence.  I open my 

eyes and turn to see him staring at me, a stricken 

look on his face.



"Mulder, I'm sorry, I was only kidding," I say 

hastily, holding out a hand to him.  He takes it and 

I can feel the sweat on his palm.



"I know, it's just...I was so mean to you then."



"And what, you're regretting it now that I'm dying?  

I was plenty mean myself, Mulder.  I told you once I 

wouldn't change a moment of our partnership."



"Except for flukeman," he says quietly.



I chuckle.  "Right.  Except for that.  Mulder, 

please don't beat yourself up about every little 

thing we've ever disagreed on just because I have 

cancer.  Just treat me like you always would, okay?"



"I try," he answers, pulling his hand reluctantly 

from my grasp to turn the key.  The engine roars to 

life and he pause before shifting into drive.  "But 

guilt and I have a long association."



I close my eyes and sigh, giving him no answer.  I 

feel the car start to move as he pulls out into 

traffic.  I doze lightly, lulled by the swaying 

motion as we round the corners.  Oddly enough, it is 

the silence in the car that keeps me from real 

sleep.  I lose track of time, coming back to myself 

at a red light.  I look over at Mulder.



"Where are we?"



"DC," he answers.



"Yeah, but where?  Are you taking me home?"



"I guess so."



"You guess so?"



He finally turns to meet my questioning look.  

"Would you be really annoyed if I said I didn't want 

to leave you by yourself tonight?"



I smile.  "No, I wouldn't be annoyed.  I'd welcome 

the company."



Mulder gives me a look of such astonishment that my 

heart aches a little.  He *is* good company, when he 

wants to be.  My mind travels back over various 

times we've spent on cases, joking around during 

meals or plane rides.  



"What's wrong, Mulder, hasn't anyone ever..." My 

voice trails off at the answer I read in his face.



"Not lately," he mutters, turning his eyes back to 

the road as the light changes.  I remain silent for 

the rest of the ride.



We pull up in front of my apartment building and he 

shuts the car off.  Neither of us moves for a 

moment.  



"I can go if you're tired..." he says, clearly not 

wanting me to agree.



"No, I don't sleep much these days," I say lightly, 

"Come on up."



In the elevator he says to me, "Then what were you 

doing when I showed up tonight?"



I hesitate before answering.  Mulder picks up on 

this.



"I'm sorry, it's none of my---"



I silence him with a gentle hand on his arm.  "It's 

okay.  I was praying.  Or trying to, at any rate."



He doesn't answer.  We get off the elevator and walk 

down the hall to my apartment in silence.  I wonder 

what it is about my little revelation that has 

shocked him so greatly.  He knows I'm Catholic, 

however lapsed, he sees my gold cross every day.  We 

walk in the door together, I take his coat.  He 

plops dejectedly down on the couch and after getting 

us each a drink, I join him.



"I never thought I'd see the day."



He finally turns and looks at me.  "What day?"



"The day I render Fox Mulder completely speechless," 

I tease, trying to coax a smile out of him, "Here I 

thought it would have to be some revelation of 

shocking depravity..."



The joke falls flat.  Mulder just continues to 

regard me with a sad look on his face.  



"Have you been praying all along?" he asks me.



I consider the question before answering.  "No, not 

really.  It's not like I've suddenly run back to the 

church, either.  It's been a long time since I 

believed."



"But you still wear this," he says, reaching over to 

flick my necklace with a fingertip.



"Yes, I still wear this."



"Why?"



"Because my mother gave it to me, out of love.  

Because you kept it safe for me, out of faith.  I 

never told you how much that meant to me, Mulder.  

That you would hang onto it, fully expecting to be 

able to give it back to me one day.  No one else had 

that kind of strength."



"My beliefs brought you back," he says quietly.



I nod.  "Yes, they did."



Mulder reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing it 

tightly.  "I hope they can save you again."



I don't answer him right away.  Part of me wants to 

agree wholeheartedly, assure him that yes, of 

course, we will beat this cancer together, fueled by 

his insatiable quest for answers.  Another part of 

me wants to tell him to wake up, that dreams aren't 

going to cure my cancer.  Science has let me down, 

and the best we can hope for is an easy death.  



In the end I say none of these things.  I only clasp 

his hand in both of mine.



**********

End 1/1

No witty author's note this time, just a plea for 

comments: *new* email address: jenbird@earthlink.net