Her apartment, when she finally returned to it, was empty.

Empty and quiet, she amended. It was past two in the morning
now, and the other occupants of her apartment complex had long
ago settled in for the night, no doubt safe and warm in their beds,
snuggled up against significant others or faithful lap dogs or precious
kitty cats, perhaps clutching fluffy down pillows against their chests,
cheeks pressed against the clean linen and small smiles wreathing
their faces as they dreamed the dreams of the happy and content.

Scully turned on the nearest table lamp, noted with an inward sigh
that the wan light didn't make her environs seem any more inviting.
A sickly, pale yellow glow touched here and there on the harmoniously
placed pieces of furniture, but did little to disperse the shadows and
gloom.

There were no messages on her answering machine, and she was far
too exhausted and disoriented to check her e-mail. Queequeg was long
gone, her potted plants afforded little in the way of company, and it was
too late to call anyone.

She was, in short, alone. And she was determined not to bother Mulder
again that night.

The thought of him resurrected the feel of his body against hers, his
breath in her hair, his strong arms wrapped around her as she wept
against his shoulder. She recalled, with a clinical detachment born of
the exhaustion that follows a long-lost rush of adrenaline, how close
they had come to taking it further, how their hands had begun to venture
into the territory of heretofore unknown places before they had broken apart
awkwardly, the unabashed tenderness between them replaced by a muttered
argument over taking her to the hospital.

In the end, she had let him win, of course. She had been too rattled to offer
up much of a protest, and she had to admit she didn't mind the attention
he paid her as he solicitously helped her out of his building and into the car.

Later, when Mulder had peeked behind the privacy curtain the nurses had
erected around her temporary bed in the emergency room, telling her of the
discovery of Padgett's body in the cellar, his heart torn out of his chest, she
had merely breathed a prayer of thanks that he would no longer be bothering
her -- or anyone else for that matter. Mulder had perhaps expected more of
a reaction, as he hovered over her for a few moments, brushing her hand
with his, plumping her pillows, until he realized she was not about to break
down into tears again. With a relieved smile he told her he'd check in on her
later, after he'd arranged for someone else to do an autopsy on Padgett -
after all, the guy couldn't have pulled his own heart out of his chest, his
accomplice must still be at large, right?

Scully had just shaken her head, unwilling to be drawn into the dance with
him at that moment. Another soft hand squeeze, and he was gone, leaving
her time to think, her unhurried thoughts drifting in a sea of PA announcements,
beeping heart monitors, and barked doctors' orders.

She thought a lot about vulnerability, and loneliness, and hope. About the
tricks the heart likes to play, and about the things taken for granted in daily
existence. About death, and life, and the balancing act between the two.
And when her thoughts skirted too closely to Padgett's proclamation in the
hallway outside of his jail cell, her brain jumped tracks, focusing on something
that was easier to analyze and accept.

Mulder had been back in time for her release from the hospital, shuttling her
back to Georgetown and escorting her to the front door of her building despite
her half-hearted protests. And now she was back, here, at home. Her home.
Or was it? Even Padgett had noticed how little time she actually spent here.

She undressed slowly, wearily, at first placing her blood-stained blouse into
her dry cleaning pile, then changing her mind and throwing it in the wastebasket
next to her bed instead. A shower, she told herself. I need a hot shower,
and then I can go to sleep.

The spatter of the shower rain against the ceramic tile of the tub seemed to
echo into the emptiness of her apartment, underscoring her feeling of alienation
rather than providing the soothing comfort she was hoping to obtain underneath
the pounding spray. Shower, rinse, repeat, she thought mechanically. Wash
that blood right out of your hair. In spite of herself she felt her eyelids begin
to droop under the heat of the water.

...ever since I first noticed you...

She snapped awake and began scrubbing her body furiously with her shower
puff, washing him off of her, him and her attacker, banishing all evidence
of the mental and physical violations they had inflicted upon her. Her
skin tingled and her circulation had palpably increased by the time she
turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, the cool air in the
bathroom raising goosebumps on her skin.

After she had toweled off and changed into her most comforting pair of
cotton pajamas, she got into bed and just sat there for a while, staring into
space. She half-wished she had her own faithful dog or precious cat to bound
up onto the bed and lick her face, deluging her with undying devotion. But
she knew her lifestyle wasn't fair to a pet; she had learned that lesson the
hard way. And so instead she slid down under the covers and pulled the
blanket up to her chin, and waited for sleep to claim her.

She was still lying there wide-eyed when the phone rang. "Hello?" she
said tentatively, even though she knew full well who it was.

"Scully, it's me. Did I wake you?"

"Not really. Is something wrong?"

"No, I uh, I was just skimming the newspaper and came across this interesting
news item I wanted to run past you --"

"How stupid do you think I am, Mulder?" she said softly, letting the affection
color her voice so that he'd realize she was teasing him.

"I refuse to answer that question on the grounds it may incriminate me,"
he returned in kind, and she could hear the smile in his response.

A comfortable quiet stretched between them, until Mulder broke it. "For
once it's not my apartment that has yellow police tape spread across it," he
said. "I kind of like the change."

She tried to smile at his attempt at humor, but the expression wouldn't come.
Sitting up in bed, she looked out the doorway of her bedroom, into the empty
living room, dark now. She could barely make out her front door from where
she was sitting; the light from the hallway outside her apartment bled in through
the cracks surrounding the doorjamb, creating an eerie, haunted silhouette.
A faint, forlorn police siren sounded in the distance, and she shuddered.

"He led a lonely life," she said finally, intending it not as an excuse,
but as a testament to the depths a soul can reach.

Mulder caught her meaning. "It was the life he chose," he added.

She could hear him shifting on his couch, bedding down for the night.

Loneliness is a choice, she thought, remembering her own words from the
day before.

"Do you ever worry about being alone?" she asked suddenly. "About
dying alone?"

"Alone or lonely?" he pressed.

"Lonely," she said swiftly.

Silence.

"Is this about my goldfish dying last week?"

She laughed unexpectedly, her morbid mood lifting, letting in the light.
"Poor Goldfinger."

"Well, he lasted longer than Odd Job, anyway."

"I guess that's something." She smiled into the receiver. "I'm going to
go to sleep now, Mulder, okay?" she said gently.

"'Kay. Night, Scully. I'll see you tomorrow."

"You'll see me tomorrow," she promised, and hung up.

Loneliness is a choice, echoed the thought in her brain. Loneliness is
a choice and I'll see Mulder tomorrow. And the next day, and the day
after that. She curled up on the bed, taking one of the fluffy down pillows
and clutching it to her chest, pressing her cheek against the clean linen,
and was soon sound asleep.

end.