TITLE: Power of Attorney (1/1)
AUTHOR: Shoshana
EMAIL ADDRESS: shoshana1013@excite.com
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Gossamer, Spookys site, Xemplary, etc.
SPOILER WARNING: Seventh season episodes through Requiem.
RATING: PG
CONTENT STATEMENT: MSR
CLASSIFICATION: VRA
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully Romance
SUMMARY:  Post ep for Requiem.
DISCLAIMER: These characters do not belong to me.    
NOTE:  Thanks to my great beta readers Char, Keleka and Teresa.

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Power of Attorney
By Shoshana

January 2001

Mulder is a wealthy man.  And I will be a wealthy woman.  If he
never returns.

I found this out yesterday when I called his lawyer, inquiring about
a method to maintain his apartment while he is missing.  

His lawyer knew who I was, was well aware I might be contacting him
someday, somehow, in the future.  Mulder had advised him as much,
filled him on the dangerous lives we led, the possibility he might
die unexpectedly, without a blood relative to inherit his estate.

It had all been taken care of last March, shortly after his mother
died.  Without my knowledge, he had authorized his attorney to grant
me complete power of attorney over his estate.  If he was not
deceased, but merely incapacitated in any way, I was empowered to act
as his agent, making any and all decisions concerning his health and
welfare.

It didn't surprise me he had some money squirreled away.  We had
dipped into his funds before, whenever it was inconvenient to apprise
the government just how enormous our rescue and recovery bills were. 
Like Antarctica.  And Bermuda.  And a few other mishaps that didn't
cost anywhere near as much, but added up in the long run.

It did surprise me how much there was in the estate.  His portfolio
had been steadily growing in value and it was creaking toward a
million dollars.  The profits from the sale of his dad's house, his
mom's investments, all got put into one kitty, gradually increasing
in worth.

I really didn't want to know about this.  I really wanted the guy to
shut up, to stop telling me about all the money and all the
arrangements Mulder had made for me in the event of his death.  

Or his inability to function as a sentient adult for an extended 
period of time.  In a sense, this had already happened once, when
he was committed over a year ago.  At that time though, I had no
reason to handle his affairs.  He was on sick leave and continued 
to receive his salary every two weeks.

But this time was different.  This time they were cutting off his
paychecks.  It would completely disrupt the automatic payment 
of his rent, his credit cards, his utility bills.  Skinner tried to
save them, but he couldn't.  The government auditors are suspicious
of Mulder's motives-- why did he leave so soon after the X-Files 
division was threatened with cutbacks?  

The other powers that be haven't been any friendlier, and the gossip
around the water cooler hasn't helped one bit.  I'm being to show. 
People wonder if Mulder has abandoned me and I'm covering for him
with some crazy abduction story.

I'm Mulder's sole beneficiary, but I don't want the government
declaring him missing in action just so I can receive survivor's 
benefits.  I haven't applied for them.  I can't do it. I just can't.

So, three months after his disappearance... I finally made the phone
call, finally discovered how well he had provided for my future,
without my knowledge or explicit approval.

I guess he wasn't optimistic about surviving our hazardous
lifestyle.  God knows we've endured enough close calls the last
seven, close to eight, years we've known one another.

And I still believe we'll pull through this crisis.  I know he's not
dead.  He's out there somewhere and he's coming home soon.  

He has to.  He has a child to meet, a child within my womb, growing,
moving, posing for blurry black and white photographs every time I
have an ultrasound.

I had no trouble explaining my reasons for needing additional funds
to the lawyer.  Apparently, Mulder had found a kindred spirit, an
advocate who believed in extreme possibilities as strongly as he did.
The man's voice exhibited no trace of skepticism, even after I
elaborated on the circumstances of Mulder's disappearance.

It was unnerving.  Mulder had prepared this guy, a virtual stranger,
for any eventuality, any catastrophic setback in his life.  He'd made
it very clear what could happen to him and why.  And who would need
to be taken care of afterward.

I guess it would be out of character for him to have told me a whit
of this.  I guess he was always planning on keeping me close,
protecting me, especially after we changed the nature of our
relationship in February.

We didn't sleep together right away.  But we both knew things had
changed a lot since January and even more since he discovered the
truth about his sister.  We were closer than ever, but I held back,
allowing only so much touching, so much kissing, even in the privacy
of our own homes.

He was unresistant, complying with my wishes.  I knew I was hurting
him.  I was hurting myself.  But I had to have more time, had to
shake some of my past off my shoulders before I could get totally
involved with a man, this man.

I wanted things to be foolproof.  I couldn't hack destroying our
friendship, our love, over sex.  If things didn't work out, we'd have
some fond memories of some truly adolescent behavior on our couches,
and we'd still have each other.  We didn't need to push the limits of
our bond; it would always be there, with unerring strength and
sincerity.

Fortunately, Daniel Waterston re-entered my existence in April,
changing my perspective on where I had been and where I was bound.
I was not the same woman he'd known ten years ago, the one who had
idolized her professor, considered a lifelong commitment to him.

I realized how tethered I was to Mulder... how much more we could
be... if I took the initiative, took that first tentative step toward
something better for both of us.

The night I told him about Daniel, the night I fell asleep on his
couch, will always be precious to me.  More so, now.  Now that I'm
deprived of him, now that I can only recall the movement of our
hands, the leisurely joining of our bodies, the fateful meshing of
our souls into one.

And somehow, some way, our love for one another has been blessed
with a miracle.  The doctors have found no evidence I was completely
infertile.  They have done every safe test they can and they still
marvel at the body's regenerative powers.

I still worry that something was done to me by Cancer Man, all those
months ago.  I can't ask the son-of-a-bitch, anyhow.  He's presumed
dead.  Yeah, sure.  I'll believe that when I kill him myself.  

I've gone over the DNA results, the many other test results, looking
for some flaw, some clue, as to why this happened, why it was allowed
to happen.  Nothing. There's nothing there.  I can only wait, wait 
till we can get more information about the baby's health and 
well-being.  

I'm pretty good at waiting these days.  I wait in doctors' offices, 
somewhat embarrassed that my husband never accompanies me to my 
pre-natal checkups.  

I wait on phone lines, while emergency room personnel check records
for a tall, thin brown-haired John Doe with hazel eyes.  

And I wait for that one telephone call, a call which will release 
me from this hell of waiting.

So, I write out a check for his rent, knowing there will be
sufficient funds in my account by tomorrow morning, funds I wish I'd
never heard about, never needed in the first place.

It's only been three months, my mother told me.  You were gone that
long, she said last night.  And he didn't give up hope, didn't give
up on my return.  Yes, mother, I replied, but he also most likely
gave up eating and sleeping too, so guilt-ridden he denied himself
the most basic of creature comforts.  

I don't have to quiz my Mom about the particulars; I can already
imagine them all too well.  Because I know what it's like for me.
I know what it's like not to want to eat or sleep or even rest in one
place-- till you're too exhausted to do any more searching that day.

And I can't afford not to eat or sleep.  I have a life inside me to
consider.  I have reined in my workaholic impulses, forced myself to
eat, forced myself to sleep at night.  

Our hunt for Mulder is all-consuming, it taxes me, drains me of 
all my energy reserves until I'm obliged to go to bed early.  My 
mind constantly swirls with data, bits and pieces of information
which will someday lead to me to his side.

Mulder is a wealthy man.  I never want to be a wealthy woman.  I
just want him back.

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fin

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