TWILIGHT

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         Most of Eastern Europe remains bleak and plain, even a decade after the fall of the Soviet Union. Capitalism hasn't loosed its tawdry, boundless energy here yet; it's short on billboards, neon, spotlit window displays. Sometimes I find it depressing; other times, it's strangely soothing.
         Without those garish displays, my surroundings are less easily dated. I could easily pretend that I'm a half-century back in time, in 1951, with Joseph Stalin as the only blot on my hopes for the future.
         He doesn't seem that deadly, compared to what we're facing now.
         I won't think about that.
         I came here so I wouldn't have to think about that.
         "Dr. Scully!"
         Half-turning, I see Dr. Thereaux jogging toward me. She is, as always, smiling brilliantly; no matter how grave the situation we find ourselves in, Jeanne is lively, cheerful, undaunted. If I hadn't seen her passport, I'd never believe she was French.
         "I am hoping you will come by my rooms tonight. I am cooking dinner, so we can all spend some time together before we move on."
         I haven't been find much that's edible in the markets here, and certainly nothing presentable. But if I know Jeanne -- and, despite all my attempts at distance, I am coming to know her -- she'll have a gourmet meal ready, as if by magic.
         "Well, I have a lot to do --"
         Jeanne's smile, although still warm and wide, diminishes the slightest bit, as if the only force in the universe capable of undermining her boundless joy would be my absence tonight. I sigh, defeated. "What time?"
         "Eight o'clock. Bring your friend." She smiles and hurries away, a spring still in her step, before I can ask -- what friend?
         But of course: she attributes my frequent absences, my refusal to reach out to others, to the presence of another. She imagines a local lover -- some young, idealistic student perhaps, curious about the States, about the work we are doing here. Or someone older, a scholar and mentor, who gives me the support I must need, after seeing such suffering day in and day out.
         I will have to disappoint her.
         As I turn down the thin, winding street that leads to my apartment in town -- a handsome apartment by local standards, appalling by American reckoning -- I consider skipping the dinner after all. It's not Jeanne; she is as warm, intelligent, and dedicated a person as I've ever known. The other doctors I work with are, to a person, equally bright. Friendly. Idealists, and perhaps too given to self-congratulation -- but they've earned the right, after dedicating their lives to this work. Work so draining, so difficult, and so ultimately thankless that no one else will take it on. Anyone else would be proud to call these people their friends.
         But it's been a long time since I made friends so easily. Since I abandoned the old definitions of friendship for something rarer, more elusive. More valuable.
         More costly.
         It is at that moment that I catch sight of a brilliant line of color, here on this grey, rain-streaked street. Dark green jacket, dark blue jeans, the brilliant white tennis shoes that might as well be emblazoned with the word "American." Dark brown hair. Hazel eyes in the face turning toward me now.
         It isn't him -- I only thought that, for a moment, because I had been letting myself remember --
         But no. It is him.
         Mulder's face doesn't change as he looks at me, for the first time in over a year. He is much as he was when we parted so badly; his jaw is set, his eyebrows are lowered. Still angry?
         No. Just guarded. And if that's the best he can manage to welcome me, what must my face look like now?
         It's all I can do not to turn back around the corner. I fight the urge, though. This day was inevitable. Better to face it now.
         Get it over with.
         "Scully," he says, and the sound of his voice touches me in a way the sight of him did not. His words are gentler than his gaze. "I didn't know whether I'd be able to catch you."
         "You nearly didn't. We're headed into Poland tomorrow." I keep walking forward, coming to within a few feet of him. "Why did you come?"
         We used to be much more indirect with one another. Maddeningly so, most of the time. But that's behind us now.
         "I needed to see you. To talk to you."
         "Has anything changed?" Oh, God, please let it all have changed. Please let it all have been a mistake -- let Mulder have made a difference -- I'll do anything if only --
         But Mulder is shaking his head. "No. Nothing important. Only me." He half-smiles at his self-deprecating joke; it is this familiar gesture that gets me, in the end.
         "Come with me." I take his hand in mine; he grasps it tightly, grateful for the welcome he'd never thought to receive again.
         I can't measure my own feelings at this moment; I am still in the bitter company of my old hopes, the optimism I had thought mercifully dead. My hope can still be resurrected, it seems.
         To no purpose beyond my own pain.
         We walk in silence to my apartment; Mulder raises an eyebrow at the sight of it. I sigh. "Believe me, the rest of town is even worse."
         "I believe you." He straddles the one chair, a spindly thing that probably predates the Communist era. There is no place left for me but the bed; I sit awkwardly on the edge, waiting to hear him out.
         But he wants to hear about me. "Are you happy?"
         Not the first question I would have expected from him. "As happy as I can be, considering."
         "Is it worthwhile -- knowing what you know?"
         I've asked myself this so many times. I wish I were more sure of my answer. "I always thought of joining Doctors Without Borders. I was impressed with them in medical school; I never thought I'd have the guts to actually do it. And I don't suppose I deserve full credit for finally joining now. Not considering --"
         My voice trails off. With everyone else I know, the truth we are skirting around is unspeakable. With Mulder, there is no need to speak of it.
         "We do make a difference, Mulder. People's lives are better because of the work we do. If those gifts are -- short-lived, they're no less appreciated. I want to do what I can. While I can."
         He nods and smiles, reaching out to touch my hand. The contact lasts only a moment, but sears me with the painful heat of fire and memory. "You're the smart one, Scully."
         "I'm glad to see you finally realize it," I reply, and we're laughing. I had thought never to laugh with him again -- never to be able to look at him with anything but anger. Or fear. And here we are, already finding our old pattern of give and take.
         I don't know whether to be happy or to cry. Both reactions are probably appropriate.
         "How are you?" I ask him, meeting his eyes, refusing to let him duck the question.
         He doesn't try; he has traveled a great distance to speak these words. "Better. After we found out -- I was so angry, Scully."
         "I remember."
         "I thought I didn't have anything left to live for but revenge. That revenge would somehow make it worthwhile. I was wrong."
         "Did you get your revenge?" I realize that I want him to say yes. Despite all my desperate counsel, urging sanity and calm, I want to hear him say he made those bastards pay, in some small measure, for what they've done.
         He answeres only indirectly. "There is no revenge, not for something like this. Nothing could ever balance out the horror of what's to come."
         "No," I agree. I wonder what led up to his realization; I wonder what pain he did mete out, how far he managed to tip the scales. I know what he was becoming when I left him. I suspect that, without me, he became something far darker for a long time. I could face the knowledge of anything he's done -- but I am grateful that he does not ask me to.
         "And I realized --" he pauses, studying my face before continuing, "that I still have reasons to keep going. Whatever time I have left, Scully --"
         I put my hand to his mouth, stilling his words and comforting him at the same time. I am not ready to hear that from him; I am not ready, not yet, to go into the ruins of what we had built together, to see what we can scavenge. All that remains are the broken shards of something beautiful, fragile, intricate, painstakingly crafted through our years together.
         I know, even without considering, that I will try. No matter how poor an imitation we construct of our former bond -- even that will be brighter, stronger, than anything most people ever have. Reflected light, but enough to steer by; bittersweet joy, but more than I had ever thought to know again.
         But I cannot face the task just yet. I need more time to get used to the idea -- to get used to him.
         He hasn't been taking care of himself; he is thinner, too thin. His hair is overlong, his skin is pale, his fingernails are bitten to the quick. I would be more dismayed by this if the same damage weren't evident on my body. We haven't been taking care of ourselves -- no point, really.
         Maybe we will be able to take care of one another.
         "At least I can give you a good dinner," I say, smiling, thinking that I will be able to satisfy Jeanne after all. He sees the glint of humor in my eyes; he doesn't understand it, but he's obviously grateful for the sight.
         My one tiny window shows the sunset, glinting through the gray tenements along the river. Red-gold light slips through the pane, illuminating us.
         There is so much we will never have. So much we will never do again. And yet, even in this bleak knowledge, there is reason for happiness.
         Never again will we be parted in anger and misery. Never again will we have to walk this tightrope, carefully finding our way back to one another.
         Coming together again is no less sweet for the understanding that it will be the last time.