She loves him but she is tired of being second to his quest for The Truth.
She would never forget the look on his face.
"I can't believe you took this job without even consulting me." He stared at her. "Berlin. You're transferring to Anti-terrorism." He set his fork down next to his untouched plate and left the table. She could hear the bedroom door slam closed. When he reappeared, he looked composed again. He had changed into an old Knicks teeshirt, running shorts and Nikes.
"This isn't easy for me either," she began.
"Stop it," he said. "You've already decided. You're leaving me."
Diana swallowed hard. "Yes."
"So there's nothing to discuss."
"Fox..."
"I'm going for a run." He closed the front door, more carefully this time. She put the rest of the food away, cleaned up the kitchen and went to lie down on their bed. Eventually she fell asleep waiting up for him, still in her blouse and skirt, the briefing materials for her new assignment stacked neatly by her side.
He came in late, after two in the morning, smelling like scotch. The mattress shifted as he moved closer, waking her with a start. She'd been dreaming. As he kissed her neck and massaged the tension from her shoulders, she moaned softly and turned over, opened to him. He made love to her carefully, tracing slow patterns with his hands and his tongue. His skin tasted like salt. His mouth tasted like ashes.
He was gone in the morning. Off to Texas, according to the note he left on top of her papers. Cow mutilations, lights in the sky. Little green men. What did it matter, now that she'd made her choice.
He didn't show up again until the day of her scheduled departure. Her bags had been packed for a week. She told him the truth and then she called a cab. He was too self-absorbed, too obsessed with his work, too consumed with his unofficial assignment—the X-Files. All of which was true, it just wasn't the only reason she was leaving him.
At the end, only she said the words. He shook his head. "This isn't the end. You'll be back, Diana." He stacked her matching luggage in a neat row by the curb, kissed her quickly, then walked back to the apartment.
No tears. You chose this. You knew what was at stake.
Was it self-deluding to have believed that given more time she could have recruited him to her cause? She stared at the eyes-only dossier on her lap. Perhaps so. Fox Mulder was a very--principled--man. Not that it mattered in the long run. His place in the Project was secured, thanks to his family connections.
"Consorting With the Enemy," Fox Mulder/Diana Fowley, PG-13
She would never forget the look on his face.
"I can't believe you took this job without even consulting me." He stared at her. "Berlin. You're transferring to Anti-terrorism." He set his fork down next to his untouched plate and left the table. She could hear the bedroom door slam closed. When he reappeared, he looked composed again. He had changed into an old Knicks teeshirt, running shorts and Nikes.
"This isn't easy for me either," she began.
"Stop it," he said. "You've already decided. You're leaving me."
Diana swallowed hard. "Yes."
"So there's nothing to discuss."
"Fox..."
"I'm going for a run." He closed the front door, more carefully this time. She put the rest of the food away, cleaned up the kitchen and went to lie down on their bed. Eventually she fell asleep waiting up for him, still in her blouse and skirt, the briefing materials for her new assignment stacked neatly by her side.
He came in late, after two in the morning, smelling like scotch. The mattress shifted as he moved closer, waking her with a start. She'd been dreaming. As he kissed her neck and massaged the tension from her shoulders, she moaned softly and turned over, opened to him. He made love to her carefully, tracing slow patterns with his hands and his tongue. His skin tasted like salt. His mouth tasted like ashes.
He was gone in the morning. Off to Texas, according to the note he left on top of her papers. Cow mutilations, lights in the sky. Little green men. What did it matter, now that she'd made her choice.
He didn't show up again until the day of her scheduled departure. Her bags had been packed for a week. She told him the truth and then she called a cab. He was too self-absorbed, too obsessed with his work, too consumed with his unofficial assignment—the X-Files. All of which was true, it just wasn't the only reason she was leaving him.
At the end, only she said the words. He shook his head. "This isn't the end. You'll be back, Diana." He stacked her matching luggage in a neat row by the curb, kissed her quickly, then walked back to the apartment.
No tears. You chose this. You knew what was at stake.
Was it self-deluding to have believed that given more time she could have recruited him to her cause? She stared at the eyes-only dossier on her lap. Perhaps so. Fox Mulder was a very--principled--man. Not that it mattered in the long run. His place in the Project was secured, thanks to his family connections.
Not so for her. Hers would have to be earned.