Secrets 4 
Ally112038@aol.com 

Georgetown Washington DC

It's nice to be home. Surrounded by the only things in my life that actually seem real. I think I almost surprised myself when I was able to return here after the horrors of my second encounter with Donnie Pfaster. I had wondered whether I would ever feel truly safe here ever again. And for a few days the rooms had seemed as though they still hung on to his presence. Every time I closed my eyes I could see him and the expression of serene acceptance on his face when I had pulled that trigger and ended his life. Almost as if I had behaved exactly as he expected me to.

It took me a considerable length of time to let those images go, to rationalise my actions, to release the guilt that gnawed inside of me.

But, slowly, the ghosts settled, allowing me once again to walk the rooms of my own little fortress and not feel the need to constantly look over my shoulder.

Mulder helped of course. Staying here with me after I had insisted on returning a scant forty eight hours later, when, the forensics team had finally gathered enough evidence from my home to pack up and leave. And despite my protests to the contrary, I had been relieved at his suggestion that I maybe shouldn't be alone.

I hadn't needed him here for long though. Two days of me watching him trying in vain to stretch the sofa-induced kinks out of his neck had been enough for me and I had sent him on his way. Back to his own apartment. Back to his life. Such as it is.

I kid myself that I am happier being alone. Just another one of those self-imposed defence mechanisms that I have become so adept at hiding behind, but I've told myself so many times I actually almost believe it.

Only now, as I listen to the sound of my Mother's retreating footsteps on the hard wooden floor of the corridor outside, I know for sure that I have been lying to myself all along. I *hate* being alone. Especially right now.

Mom didn't want to leave. She doesn't understand why I am refusing her help. I finally told her about the Cancer three days ago. Without a hint of self pity I spelled out the grim realities of just what the return of the disease meant for me. I didn't hold anything back, recounting the details with as much detachment as I could muster. It makes me cringe to think about it now because, for all the emotion I showed, I might as well have been transcribing the details of a recently performed autopsy. Even when I saw the look of abject horror on her face as the true meaning of my words sank in I never wavered.

She cried of course. I expected nothing less and I had allowed her to envelop me in her embrace as she clung to me. As though by the strength of her touch alone, she could make me well.

I hated myself afterwards. But then, I'm getting used to that particular feeling so I didn't waste time dwelling on it.

It's now nine days since that morning on the pavement. Nine days since Mulder shot and killed a nineteen year old kid who had the audacity to actually hurt his partner. I know that questions have been asked as to the validity of Mulder's actions and he has apparently been questioned at length by OPR regarding the events that took place that day. But, I can't see why there should be any cause for concern.

Because, while Mulder's methods have been questionable in the past, the fact remains that the kid fired two shots, indiscriminately, during a running pursuit through a crowded street. Mulder simply acted in a way any sane law enforcement officer would have done given the circumstances.

He *removed the threat*.

The fact that eye witnesses have since come forward and implied that Mulder may have acted improperly, that he did not identify himself in the proper manner to allow the kid to release his weapon, have all but been dismissed. And from what I can gather, he has been exonerated of all charges of professional misconduct.

I would like to question him myself on this. Unfortunately, I haven't had the opportunity since I have neither seen nor heard from him in over a week.

Eight days have passed since he walked out of that hospital room, and to all intents and purposes, out of my life.

I heard about the OPR hearings through Skinner. He visited once, bearing a bouquet of white roses that invoked such painful memories in me that I actually felt a physical pain inside my heart for a second.

It was an awkward meeting to say the least. Mulder had obviously brought him up to speed on my *condition* and he spent the next forty-five minutes trying to say all the right things to me. What he actually managed to say was absolutely nothing at all and after giving me mumbled assurances that I was to take as much time as I needed, he left.

I immediately summoned a nurse and asked her to remove the white roses from the room. She gave me an odd look but professionalism prevented her from questioning me on it and she did as I requested. She patently didn't understand. But then I didn't expect her to. No one understands.

Except Mulder that is. But he's not here.

I've tried calling him. Several times in fact.

I've tried to convince myself that I'm calling out of a need to know that he's ok, out of concern for *him*. But in reality I am just answering the selfish need inside myself to hear the sound of his voice again.

I miss him. It's that simple.

And yes, I'm also slightly worried about him, especially since I have no idea where he is or what he's doing. I didn't let it bother me for the first few days. I tempered my worry by telling myself he was just off somewhere nursing his Scully-inflicted wounds, expecting foolishly, for him to return at least *one* of my messages. When he didn't, I swallowed my pride and called Frohike to beg for information as to his whereabouts.

Frohike was concerned. Courteous. Supportive.

And of absolutely no help whatsoever. Either he doesn't know or he isn't saying, which of course help me not one iota.

All Skinner will tell me is that Mulder is on leave. That after the culmination of the OPR hearing he put in a request for some time off. Time off Skinner apparently approved. He professes to have no idea as to Mulder's whereabouts or what he is doing. And that would be ok but for one small detail.

He's lying.

Skinner isn't a good liar. He never has been. But for all his inadequacies in that regard, he *is* highly skilled in the art of protecting the agents under his command. And right now he's protecting Mulder. Or me. Maybe both of us. I don't know anymore. And right now I am just too tired to think about it. I feel like I have thought of nothing else for the past week and that, together with a headache that has been pretty much constant since the shooting, has left me feeling weak and shaky and totally unlike my usual self.

But at least I'm home. And that's a start I guess.

I finally lift my forehead from where I rested it against the door and survey my surroundings. Mom has been here whilst I was in the hospital. The place is spotless. Not that I'm a particularly untidy person but, my Mother brings new levels to the art of cleaning house. Every surface gleams like new while vases of freshly cut flowers brighten the room. I love flowers although I rarely take the time to buy them. My work with Mulder dictates that we travel a lot and I have found through painful experience that returning from a gruelling case file to a home full of wilting plant life is depressing to say the least.

Oh yeah. I stopped buying flowers a *long* time ago.

I'm not as happy to be here as I thought I would be. I've thought of little else other than to leave that stuffy, antiseptic room in which I was incarcerated and I think my assurances to my Doctor that I would be able to manage alone went a long way towards him agreeing to discharge me so soon.

But now, as I balance precariously on crutches that I am going to need for quite some time to support my injured leg, I wish fleetingly to be back in that uncomfortably hard bed surrounded by people whose only apparent purpose in life was to get me well again.

*Post operative depression* my Doctor's mind supplies helpfully, but I know that isn't really the truth.

I'm depressed, sure. But not because of the injury. I'm *depressed* because Mulder isn't here. And I find myself needing him at this moment more than I have ever done since the day we met.

Why can't he see that?

Does he really believe that by staying away he will achieve anything?

I shake my head in an effort to just stop torturing myself like this. I promised myself I wasn't going to think about it anymore.

I'm tired and I need to let myself escape from all this, if only for a few hours. Briefly I consider the door that leads to my bedroom because the thought of sinking in to my own bed is tempting to say the least. But my leg hurts and the few feet that separate me from it's entrance might as well be miles.

So, instead I opt for the couch.

It's not easy to find a comfortable position, but this is one of the few times in my life when my small stature is a definite advantage and I am finally able to ease my aching leg to rest before me along the full length of the cushioned surface.

It's not ideal, but it will suffice for now. Hopefully, if I can grab a couple of hours of sleep, I will be able to summon up the energy to eat, or read or watch TV. To do something, *anything* other than wallow in this pit of self-pity that I myself have dug.

My head is pounding and a sudden draught of cold air makes me shiver slightly despite myself. I briefly consider reaching up to grab the soft woollen blanket I leave draped permanently over the back of the couch, but even that small action seems too much like hard work right now. So, instead, I cross my arms across my chest for warmth and close my eyes.

Later though, when I awaken, I am covered in a soft, sweet smelling familiar warmth and I feel the edge of the blanket tickling my chin pleasantly, making me rejoice. Because without even opening my eyes I know. No one else covers me with blankets whilst I am sleeping.

*He's here*.

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