I'm home in the evenings, and she usually gets up an hour or two before she has to go to work. We have dinner together, maybe watch a little television. She finally puts on the hated orange uniform, dragging it on as if it pains her. I give her a ride to work. She can't walk anymore, it's too far away. I don't mind. I like the quiet times when we ride together. But she insists on taking the bus home each morning. "Too much trouble for you to get me, bring me home, then go to work." Sometimes she's back in time for us to have breakfast together, but often she's held over.

I don't like that, and I tell her so. I tell her that they're taking advantage of her. She shrugs sadly, and says it wouldn't be the first time. I'm beginning to resent those people.

I have to go out in the field with Mulder. It's a frantic two days away. When it's over with, we have a killer in jail, but there are still aspects of the case that aren't explained. Nothing unusual for the X Files, but Mulder can't let it alone, of course. On the long drive back he picks over it till I think I'm going to scream.

I'm surprised to find her at home when I finally get back around ten-thirty. "Shock, shock. I got a day off." She takes one look at me, and orders me to sit on the couch, then asks if I want hot tea or wine. She brings me a glass of red wine, and I drink it too fast. She brings me another, telling me to sip it. As I do, she says, frowning, "Dana, you're wound up tighter than a three day clock. You're a doctor. Don't you have something you can take to relax?"

"I don't like to resort to drugs unless I have to."

"But you need to relax, before you get a migraine or something."

"Just give me a few minutes." I lean my head back on the couch, sighing. I can hear her moving around. It's a soothing sound. I know what would help me relax. Feeling a little silly, but hopeful, I say, "Sing to me?"

She starts immediately, "Come to my window. Crawl inside and wait by the light of the moon. Come to my window, I'll be home soon..." The words of the Melissa Ethridge song move over me, soft and cool. I felt the tension start to ease. "Will that one be alright?"

"Yes. Please go on."

She's moves around behind me, and I hear her voice again. "I would dial the numbers, just to hear your breath. I would stand inside my hell and hold the hand of death." I flinch when she touches me. Her hands settle on my temples, cool and light. "You don't know how far I'd go to ease this precious ache. You don't know how much I need, or how much I can take." She's rubbing in slow, gentle circles. I feel the metal band around my skull start to loosen. "Just to reach you, just to reach you. Oh, I'll reach you..."

She sings the opening chorus. "Come to my window. Crawl inside and wait by the light of the moon." She slides her hands lightly through my hair, cupping the back of my skull, and I lift my head. "Come to my window. I'll be home soon." It sounds like the sweetest promise in the world. Coming home to someone who's waiting, just for you. Her hands settle on my neck, and begin to massage. Now her touch is warm.

"Keeping my eyes open I cannot afford to sleep. Giving away promises I know that I can't keep. Nothing fills this blackness that has seeped into my chest." Her hands are firm, the skin just a little rough. Just rough enough to stimulate. "I need you in my blood, I am forsaking all the rest. Just to reach you, just to reach you." Her voice is a sweet croon. "Oooh, I'll reach you." Yes, you will. You have. Like no one else.

Her fingers dig at my shoulders. Knots ease, melt. Heat is settling in my belly. "Come to my window. Crawl inside and wait by the light of the moon. Come to my window, I'll be home soon."

My head drops to the side, boneless. Her palm smooths against my cheek gently, lifting my head back up. Her voice is quieter, only a whisper. "I don't care what they think. I don't care what they say. What do they know about this love anyway?" I'm sinking deeper into the sofa. I wait, hoping that next I'll feel the touch of her lips on my neck, or my cheek. "Come to my window. I'll be home, I'll be home, I'll be home. I'm comin' home..."

Her hands stop moving. Her voice is gentle. "Dana? Is that better?"

"Yes." *Don't stop. Keep touching me.*

"Do you want dinner now?"

*Food isn't what I need.*

"You just rest. I'll fix something."

And before I have the courage to speak she's gone, and I hear her in the kitchen. Cabinets open, water runs. And she's singing again. Something plaintive and pretty, "If I should stay, well I'd only be in your way..." I just sit, and think, and listen.

*Does she know? Can't she tell? That song... It's too much of a coincidence. But she sings all the time, it doesn't necessarily mean anything. But the way she was touching me... Did I imagine anything more than a friendly neck rub? She was concerned, she's already shown how considerate she is. But those hands...*

I don't say anything. I don't do anything. Because when she calls me into the kitchen, her face is a little anxious, concerned. "Still okay? Headache didn't come back, did it? You're being really quiet."

"No, I'm fine." I sit down to the meal of macaroni and cheese ("Comfort food," she cheerfully informs me).

"Alright. But just let me know whenever you need a neck rub or massage. I'm not good at a lot of things, but I'm good at that. My brother used to get back spasms. I practiced, so he wouldn't have to blow cash on a masseur."

My hands shake at the image this calls up, my fork chattering on the china. She looks at me closely. "Dana? Are you sure..."

"I said I'm okay." My voice is rougher than I intended, and she looks hurt I sigh. No, it hadn't been anything but a neck rub. To her, anyway. "I'm sorry I snapped. Long hard day."

She nods, eyes brimming with sympathy. "I kinda understand. A little. I just have to deal with the craziness and nastiness that drifts in off the street. You have to go looking for it."

*Don't do this. Don't understand me when you don't understand me at all. Don't offer comfort if you aren't ready to give me what I really need. Just don't. No. Do.*

I eat, not really tasting the food. I eat because she made it for me, she wants me to eat, she'll be worried if I don't. She might touch me again in gentle concern, and if she does...

God help me, I don't know what I'll do.