Title: Need
Author: Toniann
E-Mail: ts19@cornell.edu
Category: MSR
Spoilers: This story is set in late sixth season, pre-
Biogenesis.
Keywords: M/S UST, Mulder POV and Scully POV, Angst, 
Sc/Sk/M friendship
Summary: Is love born out of need and, if so, does that 
make it any less valuable?

Author's Notes: "Need" is told in seven chapters, with 
alternating points of view per chapter-- first Mulder, then 
the next chapter Scully, then Mulder again, and so on. This 
is a character exploration piece-- long on development, 
short on action, but I hope you'll find this flight of 
introspection worthwhile.

Acknowledgments: I'd like to take a quick moment to thank 
two people. First, Shawne, for constant encouragement and 
tireless beta-reading. Without her, this story would never 
have seen the light of day. I'd also like to thank Brandon, 
for help and some specific medical information. 
Disclaimer: They're not mine. But don't let that stop you 
from reading.

_____________________________________________________

<~* CHAPTER ONE *~>

Consider this the hint of the century.
Consider this the slip that brought me to my knees, failed.
What if all these fantasies come flailing around?
Now I've said too much.
(R.E.M.)


Four snappish words, and I realize I've overdone it again.

"Mulder, cut it out."

"Sorry," I mumble, and my hand drops from her hair. I'd 
barely touched it-- how can she feel that, anyhow? After a 
second more of indecision, I lift my arm from the back of 
her seat as well, determined not to offend.

"For heaven's sake, don't sulk."

My arm freezes in mid-flight, and with a carefully casual 
shrug, I drop it back into place, equally careful not to 
touch her this time. Scully, who has not once glanced my 
way during this entire exchange, does not seem to notice 
either way-- though I know, from experience, that she 
notices everything-- and continues reading.

Though I should know better, though I do know better, than 
to disturb her, I'm bored and I want to talk. We've been 
waiting for our flight to start boarding for an hour and 
I've wandered the airport terminal here in Podunk, Middle-
of-Nowhere several times already. I could read the paper, 
but I don't feel like it. I would *love* to just doze off 
for a few minutes, but that's not happening. There's a TV 
up on the wall, but it's out of my control-- and 
permanently stationed, it seems, on "General Hospital". 
Sadly, I've been watching it for the past fifteen minutes-- 
I can't *believe* they broke Luke and Laura up. Damn, 
there's really no hope for anyone anymore.

Now that's a cheerful thought.

Scully coughs, subtly, very quietly, and I realize I've 
been drumming my fingers on the back of her chair. Whoops. 
I am just batting 1,000 today. Batting... now, what I 
wouldn't give to be back in that moment, with Scully all to 
myself, wrapped up in my arms, and no reading material 
anywhere.

"Hey, Scully, you know, it's never too late for spring 
training," I blurt out, without thinking what I mean by 
that.

Amazingly, the sun comes out from behind the clouds, and 
she smiles. Sure, she hasn't looked up from the agonizingly 
boring-looking medical journal she's so fascinated with, 
and it's only a small smile, but it's there. Victory. Well, 
maybe just dÈtente. "Are you suggesting I need more help 
with my swing, Mulder?"

"Why no, Miss Scully, not at all. Just hoping to further 
our acquaintance. Yours and Mr. Bat's, I mean," I add, 
smirking.

But this time, she sighs, finally puts down her pencil, and 
looks at me, a tolerant expression on her face. "Mulder."

"Yeah?"

"Not now."

"Why?"

"I'm reading."

"I can see that."

"You're distracting. Go play somewhere for awhile, okay?"

Nope, definitely do not want to do that. "I'll be good, 
Scully, don't mind me."

She smiles. "I never do." And with that, she's engrossed 
again, and I may as well not exist.

I swear I'll never understand this woman. She is absolutely 
immune to innuendo-- I can toss the most blatant bits of 
seduction out there at her, and she doesn't even blink. I 
mean, when words like that leave my mouth, where do they go 
in that brain of hers? Is there some section marked off, 
"Mulder--just ignore"? Because I have to tell you, clearly 
there's a corresponding section of *my* brain marked off, 
"Scully-- open mouth, insert foot". It's always about two-
tenths of a second after I say something stupid to her that 
I regret it, uselessly. And vow never to do it again. But 
then, when the moment comes, of course, I forget all of 
that, and I just want to try to make her smile. It always 
seems like a good idea at the time, anyway.

Actually, one could argue that "it seemed like a good idea 
at the time" should be engraved on my headstone.

Like right now. Scully definitely doesn't want me to bother 
her. She's warned me, verbally, twice. Let's not even get 
into all the nonverbal warnings I've cheerfully ignored. 
Suffice to say, her position is clear. She's reading, go 
away. And yet...

"Now boarding Flight 312 for Washington, DC."

Saved by the bell.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *

On the plane, I'm once again amazed at how crowded these 
things are. Thankfully this flight isn't full, but it's 
small. Scully and I have two seats on the right side of the 
plane-- she takes the window seat, leaving me the aisle, as 
always. What a woman. Then again, it might have something 
to do with the fact that I rarely stayed in my seat for an 
entire flight, and she got tired of my climbing over her. 
Which is kind of a shame, because it was sort of fun, 
elbows and knees cramming into each other, most 
inappropriately. Fun for me, anyhow.

What I really like about plane rides is that Scully can't 
read on them. Oh, she can, of course, but doing so always 
gives her a headache-- she's not the best flier in the 
first place, and the air pressure, she says, makes it hard 
for her to focus on the words. Or something like that. I 
don't care what it is, I just know that she can't bury her 
head in a medical journal and ignore me. Instead, she 
usually talks to me, or falls asleep. Which one depends, I 
guess, on just how interesting I manage to be.

Sometimes, I will admit, I don't know what to say to her. 
There are so many personal topics to avoid, it's like a 
minefield, and then all that leaves us with is work. So for 
six years or so, we've been talking about cases, and leads, 
and weird little items of nonsense I've read or heard 
about, ones that I want to talk about or ones I think she 
wants to hear. Rarely does Scully want to talk about 
anything personal, but when she does, I'm usually lost. She 
has this way of speaking to me suddenly, clearly in mid-
thought. I can tell by the sound of her voice that whatever 
it is, it's something she's been thinking about for awhile. 
And of course, therefore, it's important to her-- 
consequently, not a good time for me to be flippant, or to 
underestimate her level of seriousness. The pressure is on 
for me to figure out what she's thinking, and most of the 
time, I can pull it off. Most of the time.

Not today.

"Mulder, do I seem logical to you?"

I blink. Is the Pope Catholic? "Scully, you are, without a 
doubt, the most logical person I know. Quite possibly the 
most logical person on this planet, if you want to know the 
truth. Mind you, " I add hastily, "I say that with nothing 
but admiration for your ever-present rationale."

"Really." She seems, well, oddly disappointed with my 
answer.

"Absolutely. Where would I be without it?"

"Mulder, I hate when you define my worth in terms of 
yourself."

Wow. Didn't see that coming at all. Danger, Fox Mulder. 
"Scully, you know that's not what I meant. However, I can 
still appreciate your effect on my life, can't I? Or do I 
praise you too often, is that what you're saying?"

She smiles; again, I think, there's just no predicting her 
sometimes. "No, you've been sticking to your once-a-year 
schedule pretty well."

"So, what, then?"

Scully sighs and looks out the window. "I guess I'm just 
not sure I agree with you."

"You've got to be kidding me," I reply, incredulously.

"I don't know, Mulder, I don't think I am. Sometimes, when 
I take a step back and observe my own actions and 
motivations, I don't seem very logical to myself."

I'm confused. What the heck is she talking about?

"I mean, after all," she continues, "do I behave in a 
logical manner?"

"Yes, you do," I tell her hesitantly.

She shakes her head. "No. I go to med school, but I give up 
a career in medicine. I join the FBI, but I give up a 
career as a pathologist to work on the X-files. I profess 
to want a normal life, but I continuously refuse to seek 
one out, or accept one when it is presented to me. I work 
on the X-files, but I don't believe in hardly any of them. 
All I believe in is you, and that keeps me here. And that's 
not very logical."

"Scully, your faith in me is the only thing that keeps me 
going sometimes. Hell, most of the time, if not all the 
time," I more or less babble.

"I know that, Mulder. I just wonder why that's enough to 
make me stay, all logic to the contrary."

This is, for the record, my least favorite conversation in 
the world. I hate this topic of conversation. Because 
everything she's saying, and everything she's not saying, 
is true. She's given up everything to work with me, and for 
what? For a once-a-year compliment? For the ever-present 
opportunity to lose yet another of the few remaining things 
precious to her? To put up with me, to take care of me, to 
bail my ass out of the trouble it's always getting into? To 
feel that I doubt her, to doubt me herself, to sit up at 
night, wondering what the hell she's done to her life? More 
accurately, what I've done to her life?

And who knows? One of these days, something I've done could 
just possibly get her killed.

So. You see what I'm saying here. I hate this conversation. 
I don't deserve to have her here, working beside me. And 
she certainly deserves a hell of a lot better. And if I had 
a shred of decency in me, I'd find a way to make sure she 
got far, far away from me. But I don't do that, do I? I'm 
too much of a selfish bastard. And so I dread when she 
seems to wish I would.

"Are you trying to tell me maybe it's not enough anymore, 
Scully?" I ask, and I can hear the near-whimper of pleading 
in my own voice.

But Scully, on the other hand, doesn't seem to hear it that 
way. "Eager to get rid of me, Mulder?"

I look at her, once again disbelieving. "You can't possibly 
believe that."

"Why not? You constantly seem to believe that I have one 
foot out the door. Why is that? What have I done that makes 
you think I would desert you that quickly? Even when I was 
going to resign, I only did it because the alternative was 
transfer to Utah. But you didn't see it that way, Mulder, 
you only chose to see it as me leaving you. It's... 
insulting, Mulder. It's insulting that you have so little 
faith in me, after all this time, and after all the faith I 
put in you."

The wise man would, at this juncture, reassure his partner-
- in the most conciliatory and sincere manner-- of her 
worth in his eyes. I am not, however, that wise man, and 
instead I get angry. Hey, I make no claims to perfection.

"*I* have no faith in *you*? Are you kidding? Scully, 
sometimes you are all I believe in. Why is that so hard for 
you to understand? What more do I have to do, here?" I 
can't help asking, my voice rising at the end.

As much as my anger has increased, hers seems, rather 
suddenly, to have vanished-- replaced by a resigned sadness 
that is, in its own way, more frightening. My heart 
clenches and my mind screams the one thing I most fear her 
saying, in this moment: that, frankly, there *is* nothing 
more I can do.

"Mulder," she says in a soft but steady voice, "I would 
think the reasons for my doubt would be fairly obvious."

And I'm not, ladies and gentlemen, as stupid as I look. I 
know what she means. I've hurt her, from time to time, of 
late. I've... placed my faith elsewhere. I've given her 
cause to doubt. My anger fades, replaced by remorse.

"Scully, I've tried..."

She smiles, cutting me off. "I know you've tried, in your 
own way. But... that makes it all the more confusing for 
me, sometimes. It's hard to take those... better... moments 
at face value."

I'm confused. "What do you mean by that?"

"Mulder, I know you believe you need me here with you, 
working on the X-files. I just wonder, sometimes, how far 
you'll go to keep me here."

"I'd do anything to keep us working together, you know 
that."

Even the sad smile fades, leaving her face devoid of any 
emotion, closed off and inscrutable. "I do know that," she 
replies quietly, and turns to look out the window, leaving 
me with the sure knowledge that I've somehow missed 
something important.


*    *    *    *    *    *    *

I don't bother to turn the light on when I finally get home 
late that night. I can see well enough by the illumination 
of the fishtank. Or the television, for that matter. But 
slumped here on the couch, exhausted, I don't really feel 
up to turning it on, much less getting up and going into 
the bedroom. I may just stay here until morning. Though 
I've gotten used to sleeping in a bed again, sometimes I 
miss the couch. It's less... empty.

Once alone, I can't help but dwell on how often I misstep 
with Scully these days. I know she feels there's something 
wrong between us, and I know she's probably right. I know 
she feels angry at me, and I can't claim not to know why. 
What I don't know is why I behave the way I do sometimes. 
Why I can't stop wanting her, as much as ever, even when I 
can sense the rift between us growing. And wanting her like 
I do, I can't help but try to chip away at her walls the 
only way I know how, by teasing her and flirting with her, 
and touching her every chance I get. I know I shouldn't. I 
know it makes her uncomfortable, and what's more, it's 
embarrassing for me. In these moments, my feelings for her 
are ridiculously transparent. I know this is true. I know I 
am completely blowing my cool exterior, showing my hand, 
and making Scully nervous. It's not like she responds to my 
hitting on her, at least not in a positive way. All 
indications would tell me that it's time to cut this out, 
if I were inclined to pay any attention to indications. But 
I can't cut it out. I can't stop myself from wanting her, 
and from trying to get close to her any way I can.

// Mulder, I hate when you define my worth in terms of 
yourself. //

I really am a selfish bastard where she's concerned. 
Although there's definitely no one I admire more, she's 
right: I tend to think of her capabilities in relation to 
myself and our search for the truth. I think of her 
strengths as a partner, a doctor, an agent, a friend. Her 
unique position as someone I love. But how often, actually, 
do I stop to think of what she could mean to other people, 
to herself? Her worth as a daughter, a sister, a mother, a 
wife? What kind of person she was before we even met, and 
what kind of person she is now? The only time I truly think 
of what else her life could or should be, it is, yet again, 
in relation to myself, and in the most selfish way: I fear 
her fully embracing any of those roles, since doing so 
would take her away from me. I told you, I really am a 
selfish bastard sometimes.

She is, without a doubt, the most important person in my 
life. And yet, christ, I treat her like crap sometimes. For 
everything she gives me, I always want more. I can't lie 
about that, even to myself. It pisses me off, on a regular 
basis, how resistant her mind can be sometimes. It's never 
enough for her, all the things we see and hear. She still 
doesn't believe, no matter what I do. Sometimes I think 
that's what my search for the truth has become-- a search 
for some way to make Scully believe. And at times, I feel 
like the clock is ticking, and my time is running out. One 
day she'll just wake up and decide I've had my chance, and 
blown it.

// I would think the reasons for my doubt would be fairly 
obvious. //

They are, Scully. I know exactly why you doubt me. I only 
wonder how you live with it.

I can pinpoint each and every moment that something I said 
or did hurt her. I can recall, perfectly, every time I saw 
that look in her eyes, the one that showed her confusion 
and disbelief, then anger, and then acceptance and 
carefully constructed indifference. It's as if, each time, 
she can't quite believe I'm saying or doing something so 
bound to cause her pain. Then, for a brief moment, she's 
furious with me. It's in that moment I think I'll lose her, 
that she'll turn around and walk away, and never come back. 
That's the moment I watch for, every day we're together, 
every time we argue. And when it comes, I hold my breath, 
waiting... waiting to see if I've finally done it, if I've 
finally managed to break her faith in me.

But it never happens, and always, I see her eyes slide into 
opaque resignation. Her anger disappears, and with it the 
window into her emotions. I am, instead, presented with the 
calm, professional exterior she has perfected to an art 
form, and the same loyalty she has always given me. Her 
loyalty is the one constant in this universe I do not 
doubt, the one irrevocable fact I can never dispute. And I 
know this, because I have tried to strip it from her time 
and time again, with no effect. She will always be loyal to 
me, no matter what I do to try to convince her to be 
otherwise. And that loyalty is the very backbone of my 
existence. Of course, the unfortunate thing is that she 
cannot begin to say the same: I have given her no such 
proof of my own loyalty, though in the end, it will always 
be hers.

// It's... insulting, Mulder. It's insulting that you have 
so little faith in me, after all this time, and after all 
the faith I put in you. //

She's right. It's insulting, to put it mildly. Here I 
continually doubt her loyalty to me, and for no better 
reason than the fact that I'm a mass of insecurities, a 
basketfull of abandonment issues. She's right. As an added 
bonus, I've discovered yet another way I've made her life 
miserable.

I lie back on the couch, one hand flung over my eyes, 
exhausted. But I can't stop thinking about what Scully said 
to me on the plane, and what she meant by it. When we 
finally arrived in D.C., she gave no indication that 
anything was amiss-- said goodbye, see you on Monday, went 
to pick up her car from long-term parking. No different 
from any other trip. But it *had* been different, and I 
couldn't stop trying to figure out what she'd been trying 
to tell me. Not, as I'd feared, that she wanted to leave. 
Rather, it seemed, the opposite. And why? Why does she 
stay, then? When she emphatically does not believe, and, 
for the most part, does not *want* to believe? When 
everything in the X-files flies in the face of that which 
she has built her life around, her science, her faith? 
Maybe she's onto something after all, because come to think 
of it, the choices she has made are not entirely rational 
ones.

// I work on the X-files, but I don't believe in hardly any 
of them. All I believe in is you, and that keeps me here. 
And that's not very logical. //

And then it dawns on me, in a way it should have a long 
time ago. I jump up from the couch and grab my keys and 
jacket, out the door before another thought enters my head. 
In fact, my mind is entirely blank of everything but her, 
and me, and my own stupidity.

All I believe in is you, she said. And I didn't even stop 
to think what that meant.

__________________________________________________________


<~* CHAPTER TWO *~>



the only comfort is the moving of the river
you enter into me a lie upon your lips
offer what you can I'll take all that I can get
only a fool's here to stay
(Sarah McLachlan)


Regret is an uneasy bedfellow.

I am truly exhausted. I have no greater liking for cases 
and airports in the middle of nowhere than Mulder does. The 
promise of coming home to this apartment and this bed kept 
me going most of the day, but now that I'm here, it's hard 
to get to sleep. The bed feels a bit... crowded, what with 
me and my remorse.

What was I thinking, beginning that conversation with 
Mulder? Why on earth did I bring any of that up, when I 
already know the answers to my own questions? When I know 
that Mulder does not even understand what I'm asking? When, 
in truth, I don't really want to hear the answers he would 
give me, if he did comprehend?

I sigh and turn over once more, all but giving up on the 
oblivion of sleep I still long for. I have no answers for 
the way my mind has been working lately. I just know that 
something both inevitable and irrevocable is taking place 
within it, something that took over my heart long ago, and 
has now begun its invasion of the rest of my body. 
Something unfortunate, and something irreparable. Something 
easily predicted, with hindsight, and something impossible 
to ignore.

I've known for some time that I love Mulder, but I didn't 
acknowledge it. Or, if I did, I thought of that love as 
something for the future, something that would wait. 
Something I could set aside for the time being and, when 
this was all said and done, reexamine for validity. "We'll 
just see, when the time comes," was the general flavor of 
my thinking on the subject.

And then two things happened, seeming to contradict each 
other.

First, she showed up, and for some reason I was the only 
one thrown for a loop. Mulder didn't seem shocked or jolted 
by her reappearance in his life at all, certainly not in 
any way he revealed to me. Then again, Mulder and I have 
had only a few scattered conversations about his "ex-
chickadee", and none of those have gone well. And none of 
them addressed the issues most important to me: who was she 
to you, Mulder? What happened between you? Why did she 
leave? And what does she mean to you now?

It's not that I was... jealous, exactly. Well, I'm sure 
part of me was, but that's not the root of the problem. The 
real issue is that I suddenly felt as if there was a whole 
side of Mulder I didn't know. Up until the day she graced 
us with her presence once again, I would've sworn that I 
knew every twist and turn of Mulder, some of them 
significantly more frightening than the others, but all 
undeniably a part of him. I thought I was the one person 
Mulder shared his past, present, and hope for the future 
with. I thought he hid nothing from me. And though I knew 
this to be unfair since it was far from in my nature to 
reciprocate such disclosure, I still relied on it, trusted 
it, and expected it from him. But with her arrival on the 
scene, I was forced to face the hard reality that Mulder 
kept parts of himself even from me, and that perhaps I had 
been wrong about the bond between us all along.

But I said two things happened.

The second thing, the one that flew in the face of the 
other, is that Mulder rather abruptly began... making his 
intentions towards me clear. Flirting, and not the way he 
always has, jokingly, but now with a sort of nervous 
intent. Telling me he loves me, finding excuses to see me, 
touching me all the time. Mulder, quite simply, began 
acting like a man in love.

This should make me happy, right? This was what I wanted, 
someday. If that day was upon us, then so be it, right?

But how to justify the two things, how to balance this 
barely-recognizable romantic man with the partner who'd 
shut me out, and kept things from me? Why now, after all 
our years together, has Mulder decided to, as they say, 
make his move? Why in this moment, when we are farther 
apart than we have ever been, and when I have begun to 
doubt him in a way I never imagined possible?

The answer I have come to is less than appealing.

A glance at the clock next to my bed tells me that the 
night has hardly begun, and that at the rate I'm going, I 
will spend the rest of it tossing and turning, without any 
rest at all. At the very least I should go get a book, and 
with any luck the effort of focusing on the words will put 
me to sleep.

Before I can sit up, however, I hear the sound of a key 
turning, and my front door opens. My heart beats a little 
faster with fear; I've been a federal agent for too long 
and a victim too many times to not know what it is to feel 
unsafe in my own home. Still, there are only two people 
with a key to my apartment, one of them my mother. And it's 
a little late for Mom to be paying a visit.

I close my eyes and lie still, for some reason determined 
to wait here in the dark, still and silent. I know it's not 
what I should do. I know I should sit up, turn on the 
light, and ask him what he's doing here, sneaking into my 
house in the middle of the night. I should ask if 
something's wrong, if something has happened, if he's lost 
his mind. I should present him with the side of myself he 
is used to seeing, the professional, practical partner, the 
good and loyal friend, the businesslike demeanor, Agent 
Scully to the core, even in the wee hours of the morning.

But I wait in the dark, still and silent, knowing.

I know he is moving through the living room, carefully and 
quietly. I know his eyes are adjusting to the absence of 
light, and I know he knows his way around the furniture 
well enough not to stumble regardless. I know he's pausing 
now in my doorway, taking in the sight of me, seemingly 
sleeping, eyes closed, breathing regular, with only a light 
sheet for comfort. I know he is moving now, across the 
room, to stand beside me. And I know he is bending down, 
studying my face, watching me. I know he wants to touch me. 
I know he thinks I am asleep, and doesn't want to wake me. 
I know another part of him wants to wake me. I know that 
part of him, uncontrollable, has convinced him to lift his 
hand to my hair, smoothing it back so softly, lingering 
there on the pillow next to my head. I know what he wants. 
I know why he's here.

I know, as well, that the moment has come. I know that I 
have one last chance to stop this inevitable thing that has 
grown between us. I know what I need to do, what I must do, 
and how I must do it. I know that I have to stop this, 
though it will hurt him, because the alternative would hurt 
both of us in the end. I know, as I know my own name, 
without a doubt, that this will be the most difficult 
moment of my life. I know it will haunt me to my grave, 
that I will spend the rest of my days regretting this 
decision, and wondering what might have been.

Full of resolve, I prepare myself to face him, to enact the 
scene I have already played out in my mind. But the bed 
shifts beneath me, and his hand moves from my pillow. A 
rush of cool night air brushes against my body as the sheet 
is lifted, and Mulder settles himself beside me on the bed, 
so close, but not touching. I can see him, with my eyes 
closed, lying there, waiting. I know he's waiting. And, in 
a flash, I know he knows I'm not asleep. But as surely as I 
know all of this, I know now that he will not take the last 
and final step, will not force me to do the thing I dread 
most. He has left me, left us, an escape. If I lie here 
silently, he will get up and leave, and it will end. We 
will continue on as before. All I have to do is stay here 
in the dark, unmoving, and unmoved. All I have to do is 
nothing, and my inaction will save us both.

And I know I cannot do it.

I know that I love him. I know that I am in love with him. 
But it is in this moment that I know how much I want him.

I have fought demons and monsters, and won. I have faced my 
own deepest fears, and come out stronger on the other side. 
I have stared down the nightmares terrorizing the man 
beside me, and saved him again and again, just as he has 
saved me. But here in the darkness, faced with my secret 
want, I am forced to admit my own weakness. I cannot fight 
him in this. I cannot fight myself.

I open my eyes.

"Scully."

He is looking at me, his eyes cloudy and fog-filled like a 
dream. He is still waiting, still holding back, still 
leaving it up to me. But it is clear what he needs from me, 
as it has been since he climbed into my bed, walked through 
my door, came into my life. It's only me, and what I want, 
that is at issue here.

Wordlessly, I stare back into those eyes, drowning in them, 
wanting to remain there in them, as he sees me right now, 
forever. Never taking my eyes away from his, I bring my 
hand up between us, pressing my fingers to his lips. He 
shudders, softly, and lowers his eyelids, breaking our 
gaze, breathing in ragged sighs. I curl my hand around his 
face, moving to cup the nape of his neck, and for a moment 
I pause, treasuring what I hold there in a burst of 
possessiveness, all the stronger because of my heart's firm 
conviction that he cannot be mine. And in the wave of that 
emotion, I find myself leaning into him, closing the 
distance between us, between our bodies, between our lips.

For a moment the universe is narrowed down to the feel of 
his lips beneath my own, warm and pliant, as familiar as if 
I had been born touching them. And suddenly he truly seems 
to be mine, to be the version of Mulder that belongs only 
to me, and is known only to me, not even to himself. It is 
as if I have brought to life the one thing I ever dreamed 
of, created out of love that which should never have been 
born, and that which I have the power to destroy.

"Scully," he whispers again, against my lips, now warm and 
vibrating, melded to his so that the single word of my name 
seems to come from both of us. He is asking me, one final 
time, for the permission he seems to think is necessary. 
And although I fear the power of my own speech, I give it 
to him, because it is what he needs.

"Mulder," I reply, simply.

All at once he is in motion, sliding across the bed, 
gathering me up in his arms, and covering my body with his 
own. Burying his face in my neck, his hands begin a slow 
but frenzied exploration of my body. Shaking slightly, I 
rest my hands on his back, lightly pressing.

He snakes one hand beneath the long nightshirt I'm wearing, 
stealthily, and begins to trace slow, lazy circles over my 
stomach, sometimes straying to my sides, sometimes grazing 
the bottom of my breasts, sometimes dipping lower on my 
abdomen, testing, exploring. With his other hand, he 
swiftly undoes the tiny buttons and I shrug out of the 
shirt, tossing it aside. Steadily, he works in upward 
circles until his hand comes to rest around my breasts, and 
with that contact his mouth returns to mine, hungrily. We 
kiss for an eternity, and my eyelids slide down drowsily... 
I forget everything but the feel and taste of his mouth 
until his hand, still moving, comes to rest on my nipple-- 
circling, teasing. 

Startled, a soft moan escapes my lips, and I can feel 
Mulder grinning as I clutch him closer to me. His lips 
leave mine and trail a path down my neck and past my 
shoulders, until his warm, soft mouth is where his hand was 
a moment ago. I thread one hand in his hair, head tilted 
back into the pillows, the other hand moving restlessly 
over his back... and though I hate to move, hate to do 
anything to interrupt the electrifying jolts coursing 
through my body as he sucks from first one and then the 
other nipple, I want him. I want to feel him as he is 
feeling me. I am struck, once more, by a despairing need to 
possess all of him, here, tonight, in my bed. If only 
tonight, and if only here and now, I have to have 
everything that is part of him, everything that, 
rightfully, belongs to me.

My hands shift down to his waist and tug at his shirt, 
pulling it up insistently. With barely a pause, Mulder 
pulls away from me only long enough to pull it over his 
head, and moves to return where he left off. I'm not 
satisfied, though, and my hands are already tugging at the 
zipper of his jeans. Mulder takes the hint and moves away, 
getting rid of them himself, and moments later he is as I 
want him: here, in my bed, entirely free of clothes, and 
beautiful. Turned on my side, I wait for him to climb back 
under the sheet, watching, sweeping my eyes along his body 
and every inch of his skin, memorizing. Intent on my task, 
I fail to notice that Mulder is watching me as well, 
waiting until I am done, until he gently tilts my chin up 
and my eyes, unguarded, meet his.

I am unprepared for what I see there.

I have seen Mulder truly happy only a handful of times over 
the past six years. Once, when he thought he had the 
answers we'd been searching for, thought he held them in 
his hands, on a tape that turned out to be encrypted and 
dangerous. Once, in my hospital room, when the word 
"remission" left my doctor's lips. And more recently, 
Christmas morning, when I woke from dozing on his couch, 
for just a moment I caught a flicker of pure, gleeful joy 
on his face, peering down at mine. It was quickly replaced 
with friendly teasing, and certainly no small amount of 
pleasure at having me there. But the first, fleeting 
expression I glimpsed on his face that morning was much 
more than that: it was, frankly, bliss.

But all of that pales to the emotion I see before me. Those 
other moments I happened upon were brief and intense, 
powerful but swiftly gone, either taken from him by force 
or hidden away out of what he deemed necessity. This... 
this is joy of a different sort, a pure happiness at being 
allowed to be happy. Mulder's face is unguarded and free 
from worry, free from fear, and free from pain, for the 
first time since we've met. And I am, undeniably, filled 
with gratitude that I was able to give this to him.

And filled with disgust because it is my weakness that has 
allowed this moment, and the pain sure to follow, to come 
to pass.

Unbidden and unavoidable, a tear slips down my face, and he 
reaches up to wipe it away. "Are you... oh, God, Scully, 
please don't cry."

I can't help it; he is so needy, and so vulnerable, in this 
moment, that I will give him whatever he needs and whatever 
he asks for. I am through crying, through allowing my pain 
to ruin this moment for him. Shakily, I smile at him, 
trying to give him the reassurance he is looking for. 
Mulder smiles easily in return, pulling me close, softly 
kissing away the tears from my eyes, and nestling his face 
in my hair. I reach out for him, guiding him towards me, 
letting him know, wordlessly, that he does not need to ask 
any more questions, or seek further permission. What he 
needs, he can have.

I have failed us both, but as Mulder enters me, I finally 
truly admit to myself how inevitable this moment was, how 
impossible it has always been to avoid coming to this 
completion after our years of seeking answers together. He 
told me, once, that those answers are inside me. I should 
have known then that he would insist on looking for them 
there, would insist on claiming the one part of me that had 
been denied to him, hidden away and labeled forbidden.

He begins to rock slowly against me, in and out, deeper 
with each thrust, mumbling my name. A certain desperation 
comes over me and I lock my legs around his hips, burying 
my face in his neck, hiding my eyes away from him, blocking 
everything but the feel of him, urging him on. When he 
comes I feel my own release, all the more powerful because 
it has been waiting for his.

We lie together in the afterward, tangled and intertwined. 
In a final, fierce gesture, I run my hands through his damp 
hair and press my lips against his forehead, hard, 
squeezing shut my eyes. He sighs, raggedly, spent, and 
kisses my breast one last time before shifting us both, 
moving to stretch out behind me, wrapping me up in his 
arms.

We stay that way for some time, his breath slowing, my 
heart rate returning to some semblance of normal, our 
bodies relaxing into each other. Mulder clings to me, 
contentedly; I can feel him smiling into my hair, his hands 
still roaming aimlessly over my body.

I am glad, in this moment, that he cannot see my face. I 
lie in his arms, and I feel more regret than at any other 
moment of my life. Not regret for what we have done, but 
for what I have failed to do in the process.

His mouth is close to my ear, and his voice there feels 
like a velvet rope, chaining me, forcing me to acknowledge 
the irrevocable change that has taken place between us.

"I love you."

Three little words, and ones I've heard before, even.

"Mulder--"

"I always have."

Unmoving, though hardly unmoved, I take a deep breath for 
what is to come.

"I was right, Mulder."

"Hmmm?"

"You really would do anything to keep me from leaving."



_________________________________________________________


<~* CHAPTER THREE *~>



you think I only think about you
when we're both in the same room
you think I'm only here to witness
the remains of love exhumed
you think we're here to play
the game of who loves more than who
(Barenaked Ladies)


She feels like everything I ever dreamed she would, lying 
here in my arms.

I didn't second guess my decision to come here tonight. I 
didn't question what I'd finally figured out, which was 
that Scully was trying to tell me how personal this all is 
for her. Trying to tell me that she believes, maybe not in 
the paranormal, but in me. Trying to tell me that she loves 
me, when a blind man should've been able to see that on his 
own. I didn't need to waste any more time dwelling on what 
a fool I'd been, letting her carry this alone, letting her 
wait for me to come around and see what was right before 
me. I'd been a coward all this time, thinking that it would 
be easier and safer to hide what I felt. In the meantime, 
as usual, Scully had been so much stronger. She'd never 
hidden anything from me. I'd just been too dense to notice.

She was awake when I came into her room tonight. She was 
lying there, waiting for me to do something, and for a 
brief moment I flirted with doubt. Maybe I was assuming too 
much, maybe I was reading between the lines to see 
something that wasn't there. Maybe she didn't want what I 
did, and maybe she had simply known all the time, and 
spared me the agony of rejection. Maybe. Or, on the other 
hand, maybe she was simply handing me the ball, and leaving 
our fate in my hands. Once again, she proved herself to be 
infinitely stronger than I could ever hope to be, and 
infinitely more courageous. For this woman to put herself 
in my inept hands, after all, surely constitutes the 
greatest leap of faith I have ever been lucky enough to 
witness.

And so I slid into bed beside her, and offered a silent 
apology for all that I have failed to do, all that I have 
failed to be for her. When she whispered my name, I felt 
every last fear I had ever suffered melt away. This *was* 
what she wanted. Me. This *was* what we were meant to be. 
The secret dream I had kept hidden inside for so long-- 
doing a rather poor job of that lately, I'll admit-- paled 
in comparison to the reality of her in my arms, beneath my 
body, whispering my name.

And now, lying here in the dark, I feel like a different 
man. I feel, for the first time, like I have some chance of 
being someone she deserves.

I can't stop touching her. Years of wanting to touch her, 
years of stepping away when I wanted to press close, and 
now, I can't get enough. I wrap my arms around her, hands 
roaming, trailing across her arms, stomach, breasts. Her 
hair rustles beneath my cheek and I tilt my head, lips 
searching for her ear.

After years of searching for the truth, I cannot begin to 
express what it feels like to finally share with her the 
one undeniable fact that has become the reason for my life.

"I love you."

She stirs. "Mulder--"

"I always have," I tell her, and the relief I feel is 
overwhelming. I have so longed to tell her this, and it is 
all the more frustrating to know that only my own blind 
stupidity has stood in my way.

For a moment she is silent, but I hardly notice. Scully 
tells me she loves me every day, and my declaration was not 
the kind that is made in expectation of a similar reply. I 
needed to tell her far more than I need to hear her say it 
back.

Finally, still without turning to face me, she takes a deep 
breath.

"I was right, Mulder."

"Hmmm?"

"You really would do anything to keep me from leaving."

What? She's kidding, right? She must be, and though it 
isn't like her to joke about something so important to us, 
that must be her intention. After all, this is the one side 
of Scully I don't know... yet. So I smile, and respond in 
kind. "Hey, you haven't seen anything yet, I'm just getting 
started. I have a whole twelve-step program."

I don't expect applause; it was, by no means, my wittiest 
quip ever. But I also don't expect her to move out of my 
arms and sit on the opposite side of the bed, her back 
turned towards me.

"Scully--"

"Mulder, you should go."

"What--"

"I would really prefer it if you left now."

My mind hasn't caught up with her yet, not completely, but 
even I am on to the fact that something is wrong, here. And 
whatever it is, she doesn't want to talk to me about it. 
Well, *that's* not going to happen. I reach out and take 
hold of her arm, gently trying to get her to turn around 
and look at me. She won't, though, and again, I know what 
that means: she's afraid to face me.

"I'm not going anywhere, Scully, until you tell me what's 
going on."

She sighs; she knows it's true. She knows I won't leave her 
alone until she's confessed all, every last bit of whatever 
it is she so very much doesn't want to say to me. Resigned, 
then, she turns back to me, legs still swung over the side 
of the bed as if to indicate that if I won't leave, she 
may. My hand is still lightly grasping her arm, and I start 
to slide it up to her shoulder, comfortingly, until she 
cuts me off.

"Don't, Mulder."

Damn. Fine. I move my hand away, slowly, and that's when it 
starts to hit me, now that I'm no longer touching her. 
While I could still feel her, could still move my hands 
over her body, none of it seemed real. Or, rather, none of 
it seemed like something that couldn't be fixed, as long as 
I held onto her.

"This shouldn't have happened," she says, looking down at 
her hands, twisted up in the sheet.

"You don't mean that," I say, slowly. Probably because I 
want it, so badly, to be true. Since when does Scully say 
things she doesn't mean?

She looks up at me, finally, her eyes wet with unshed 
tears, and confirms my fears. "Yes, I do."

I can't help it; I don't want to see her cry, certainly not 
because of something I've done. I reach out for her again, 
and this time she just shakes her head. "Don't."

"Why?" I blurt out, in frustration.

For a moment she doesn't answer, just looks down again at 
her hands. It takes every bit of effort I can muster not to 
say anything, not to just start talking, telling her what 
she means to me, how much I love her, what shit my life is 
without her. Does she know all of that? Does she understand 
that this means everything to me, that I would do 
anything... but that's what she said, isn't it, though I 
still don't know what she meant by it. So I wait, because 
that's what she wants me to do.

Finally, she starts talking, but without meeting my eyes. 
"It never should have happened, Mulder, but at the same 
time, it was bound to, sooner or later. So, please don't 
misunderstand me, I don't... regret it, not in that sense. 
I knew what I was doing, and so did you, and either one of 
us could have stopped it. I should've stopped it, stopped 
us. But I didn't, and I knew the consequences of that 
decision." She pauses, and straightens her shoulders, 
looking up at me. "I don't regret it, Mulder, but we need 
to put this behind us. It... can't happen again."

"I can't accept that," I tell her, breaking my silence.

She smiles, just a little. "I knew you'd say that. But you 
can. We both can. We have to."

"Why?" I repeat, beginning to feel a little desperate for 
an answer.

She searches my eyes for a moment, her expression pensive, 
and seems to come to a decision. "I want you to listen 
carefully, and try to understand what I want to say to you. 
You know that this... isn't easy for me."

I nod, and take her hand in mine. This time, she lets me do 
it, though the simple gesture makes her look somewhat 
sadder than before. Taking a deep breath, she begins.

"I love you," she tells me, and I can't help it, my heart 
leaps just a little and I have to hide a grin. She sees my 
reaction, and moves on with a sigh in her voice. "*I* 
always have. I won't deny that, not now or at any time in 
the future. Truth be told, Mulder, I don't think I ever 
would have denied it to anyone but myself. But it's not 
enough that I love you and want you. It's not enough to 
make this work, it's not enough for me."

My mind is swimming with confusion and information 
overload, but I try to make sense of what she's saying. 
There's a none-too-subtle implication to her words, one I 
find ludicrous. Still, I promised to try to understand. 
"What are you saying, Scully? Because that's enough for 
me."

Her eyes narrow slightly with the first sign of anger I've 
seen from her tonight. "I know it is."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She looks away, and slips her hand out of mine. Her answer 
is similarly elusive. "Being needed... it's addictive, I 
won't deny it. There is a part of me that has always known 
how much you need me. And that part of me likes the feeling 
of being indispensable to someone I love. I won't deny 
that, either. I think it's human nature, the desire to be 
essential to someone. But there's a dark side to need, 
Mulder. There's the fear it brings that one day that person 
will learn to live without you, and will discover that once 
the need is gone, there's nothing else left."

"That's insane," I tell her. Again, this makes her angry, 
and I suppose I could phrase my objections in a less 
offensive manner. Then again, she could frame her 
accusations a bit more sensitively as well. "It's 
completely inaccurate, and completely off-base. I will 
*always* need you in my life, *because* I love you. That's 
never going to change."

She looks at me, sadly. "Do you, really?"

This is what she has been getting at the whole time, I 
realize, and this is the part I can't accept. "Yes, Scully, 
really. I love you. I may be an emotional basket case at 
times, but even I can tell when I'm in love with someone. 
How can you doubt I'm telling you the truth?"

I watch her face, turned in profile, as she digests what I 
have just said. For a moment, just one, small moment, I can 
see how much she wants to believe me. At least, that's what 
I think I see written on her face so fleetingly, before she 
visibly hardens and her eyes flash fire once more. She 
turns to look at me, dead on, and her voice is like steel. 
"How can I doubt you, Mulder? Is that really what you're 
asking me? Didn't we go over this earlier, on the plane? 
And didn't I point out at the time that my reasons for 
doubting you should be obvious?"

I look away, caught slightly unprepared by her logic, and 
not wanting to concede the point. "Yes, but--"

"No, Mulder, there are no caveats to this one," she snaps 
back. "Not this time. Yes, I doubt you. And you have no 
idea how much that hurts me to say, to feel, after all 
these years of trusting you to have my best interests at 
heart."

Sighing, I figure we might as well put a name to this 
argument. I can't think of a topic I'd less like to 
address, in bed with Scully, after the first time we've 
made love. But the romantic atmosphere has already been 
quite a bit disrupted, after all. I take the plunge. "Is 
this really all about Diana?"

Her eyes narrow, and her entire body seems to tense. Too 
late, I realize how long it has been since Scully said 
Diana's name out loud-- not tonight, not on the plane, not 
for weeks, maybe months. "No, this is about me," she 
informs me coldly. "And you. Or at least, that's what it 
should be about."

"I only ask because--"

She gives me a look filled with disdain. "What, because you 
assume I must be jealous of her? You think I suspect you of 
still loving her?"

"I don't," I tell her, quickly. "I love you."

"And once again, it's insulting that you feel the need to 
reassure my non-existent jealousies. No, Mulder, I don't 
think you're in love with her. But I think you trust her. 
And I think you needed her, once, too."

I try to take a deep breath, and answer her calmly. "She 
doesn't have anything to do with us. Or you."

"But she does, Mulder, and you're the one who's made it 
that way. You're the one who shut me out, and was never 
willing to discuss her place in your life. You're the one 
who has chosen, several times, to trust her judgment over 
mine."

Without thinking, I let some of my anger get the better of 
me. "And you're not jealous, right, Scully?"

But she meets my taunt without flinching, shrugging it 
aside. "Okay, I'm jealous, sure; I'm human. I'm jealous of 
the trust you have in her. Why shouldn't I be? If our roles 
were reversed, and you had reason to believe I trusted 
someone over you, you'd react in a much less restrained 
manner, and we both know it."

"That's--"

"--irrelevant," she cuts in, "though, because I wouldn't do 
that."

The problem with this argument, I think to myself, is that 
she's... right about too many things. She's right: she has 
never trusted someone else's word over mine, and I can't 
imagine her ever doing so. And she's right to the extent 
that I did not trust her judgment regarding Diana. What she 
doesn't understand is that I didn't perceive that as a 
choice between the two of them. There is no choice to be 
made. I love Scully, whether she thinks Diana Fowley is the 
Antichrist or not. It'd be nice if we agreed on this issue, 
but for me, it's not essential that we do so. Clearly, 
however, it is to her.

"No, I admit, looking away. "You wouldn't. And that's not 
really what I did either. I didn't trust her more than I 
trust you, Scully. I just didn't agree with your assessment 
of the situation. That doesn't make me any less in love 
with you."

She looks away, still tense. She doesn't seem to like 
hearing me say that I love her, but it's the most important 
fact of my life, the one thing I am most sure of. Still, 
she remains silent, and I search for the right words to 
somehow bring this nightmare to an end and us back to where 
I thought we were. "If I had it to do over, I would do it 
differently. You need to believe that. Not because of any 
proof or evidence that you were right, but because I should 
have taken your evaluation of the situation more seriously. 
Because I *do* trust your judgment, and because I should 
know, by now, that you would never have made those 
accusations unless you were positive they were justified. I 
owed you that loyalty. That faith in your concerns. I 
thought I owed Diana something, too, and so I handled the 
situation poorly. But I owe my first and last loyalty to 
you, and no one else. And if for no other reason than that, 
I should've listened to you. And I'm sorry."

She looks at me, and I can tell my words mean something to 
her. I curse myself for not having said them sooner, for 
letting this... thing sit between us all this time. 
Priorities. When you think about it, this is all about 
priorities. Yes, I felt (and still do feel, though I won't 
go into that now) that I owed Diana my loyalty. But I owe 
everything to Scully, and what she needs comes first. I 
always knew that. I just didn't stop and think about what I 
was doing to her at the time. As usual.

"Thank you," she says, calmly. "I... I'm glad you said 
that. It means a lot to me to hear it."

This is definitely not the tone of voice I want to be 
hearing from her just now. This detached, distantly 
compassionate, utterly rational voice which always tells me 
something I don't want to hear. I said before that I most 
fear losing her in a moment of anger. But I'm starting to 
realize that *this* Scully is the one I should fear, the 
one who has harnessed her emotions and is capable of calmly 
and logically dissecting any situation. Scully actually is 
the most logical person I know, and there are times I wish 
she wasn't so good at proving her point.

"But," she continues, as I knew she would, "that really 
wasn't my point, Mulder." She pauses for a moment, as if 
considering her next line of reasoning. "Diana was once 
very important to you, wasn't she?"

I nod. "Once. Yes. Not now."

She waves my elaborations aside. "Stipulated. But yes, 
once, she was. How important? She was your partner, you 
relied on her, you shared this work with her?"

"Yes."

"So you trusted her, right? Logically, yes, you must have, 
or else how could you work with her?" she asks reasonably. 
I wait for her to continue. "At the time, you felt you 
needed her, correct?"

"I suppose so," I reply uneasily. I can sense this is going 
somewhere I won't like.

"Sure," Scully readily agrees. "Fine. Did you love her?"

"I thought so, at the time," I tell her.

"Now?"

I shake my head. "I... no, I don't know. No. I don't think 
so. I think she made me feel better about myself, I 
think... Scully, why--"

"And you don't see the parallel?" she snaps back at me, 
angrily, interrupting. "It isn't blindingly obvious? You 
needed her. She made you feel good about yourself, she 
believed in you. So you thought you loved her. But now? It 
turns out you just needed her, for awhile, and there wasn't 
any love there at all."

I stare at her, incredulous. "You think this is in the same 
ballpark as what I once *thought* I felt for Diana?"

"That's not the point, I'm simply elaborating on the 
similarities between Diana and myself."

I laugh, humorlessly. "Believe me, Scully, there are none."

Her face pales. "No, I suppose there aren't," she says in a 
small voice.

Confused, and not thinking, I move closer to her. "Scully--
"

"Never mind," she cuts me off, jerking away.

Damn it. "Wait a second, I didn't mean--"

"Enough, Mulder," she tells me, jumping up from the bed and 
heading for the bathroom, slamming it shut behind her.

In a sort of daze, I climb out of bed and begin pulling on 
my clothes. There seems to be no way for me to get through 
to her, and everything I say, eventually, makes it worse. I 
don't understand how I could have been so wrong before, how 
I could've thought she wanted this to happen, that she was 
trying to tell me as much on the plane. Although Scully is 
as complex as they come, and although I am all-too-often 
blind to her train of thought, I am not usually so wrong 
with her.

But... when she turned to me tonight, and whispered my 
name, I wasn't wrong then. 

I know I love her. I know she loves me. But she seems to 
think my love for her is an illusion, something she can see 
but can't believe in. Something she has no proof of, 
something she can only verify with my say-so. In our work, 
she has acted on that basis alone a thousand times-- risked 
her career, her happiness, her life, all for the sake of 
this quest of mine, this journey I've set us upon. But she 
can't do that now, when it is, in fact, entirely personal. 
And I'm the asshole that's made it that way.

And yet, all that aside, the fact is that I *do* love her. 
I may be forced to see the reasons for her doubt, but I 
can't fit my emotions around the logical path she has laid 
out for them. As right as she is about so many other 
things, in this, Scully has never been more wrong.

When she comes out of the bedroom, dressed in a t-shirt and 
pajama bottoms, she finds me sitting on the edge of her 
bed, confused and waiting. She asked me to go, and though 
it's the very last thing in the world I want to do, I have 
to respect her wishes. It hasn't hit me yet, how hard a 
blow this is-- but it will. Better for both of us if she's 
not there to see it, anyhow.

"Mulder, I'm sorry, I overreacted just now, that was 
childish," she says softly. "I know you didn't..."

"Of course I didn't mean anything like that, Scully. I 
meant there are no similarities between our relationship 
and anything I ever had with Diana. You are... more 
beautiful to me, right at this minute, than she or anyone 
else has ever been. And you always will be."

"Thank you," she mumbles, and looks away.

"Scully, look at me," I ask her, and after a moment, she 
does. Once again, her walls are up, and she is much too 
calm for me to break through them. Still, I have to try. 
"Do you really think I would do this to you? That I would 
come over here, make love to you, and tell you how much I 
love you, just to make sure you stay here with me? That I 
would use you that way, manipulate your feelings, just to 
serve my own needs?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. I don't think you're that 
calculating. I don't think you would ever do anything so 
bound to cause me hurt, something so deliberate," she 
concedes.

"What, then?"

She shakes her head. "I... just think that your... 
subconscious reasons for coming here tonight were largely 
fueled by need. And I don't want us to be here one night 
when you decide that need is gone."

"It never will be," I tell her, mirroring her calm. "What I 
said before still holds true. I will always need you, 
because I love you. They aren't... two separate feelings, 
Scully. It's not as cut and dried as you're making it out 
to be."

"It is to me, I'm afraid," she states sadly. "And I'm 
not... doing this, Mulder. I'm not 'making this out' to be 
anything. Things are as we have created them, nothing more 
and nothing less."

Neither one of us has anything else to say. For a moment I 
find myself just standing there, waiting for her to tell me 
everything is going to work out okay in the end. Slow as 
usual, it finally dawns on me that she isn't going to say 
that. She isn't going to make me any promises she isn't 
sure we can keep.

And that's when I really begin to accept it, that she means 
it, and I can't change her mind. This is it for us. This is 
how it's going to be. I am never going to touch her again, 
never going to kiss her, never going to hold her through 
the night. She loves me, she says, but she is never going 
to let me love her back.

And that realization is what it takes to get me out her 
door and into the night, without looking back.



_________________________________________________________


<~* CHAPTER FOUR *~>



I've been a bad bad girl
I've been careless with a delicate man
(Fiona Apple)


"Damn," I mutter under my breath as the doors to the 
elevator close several feet in front of me. With a weary 
sigh, I push the down button and wait, resigned.

The past few days have been... tense.

The weekend passed in a frenzy of activity: cleaning, 
grocery shopping, spending time at Mom's. Barely a moment 
to myself, thank God. Monday, I'd taken the coward's route 
and jumped at the chance to fill in for a colleague at 
Quantico. Leaving a quick message on Mulder's voice mail 
had been my only obstacle, and I'd weathered that easily 
enough. 

But yesterday, Tuesday, was spent in the annual budget and 
planning meetings. That was much harder. The pressure of 
possible conversation was lifted, at least, but it took 
some private preparation to walk into the room, knowing 
he'd be there. As a result, I was uncharacteristically 
late, an event that earned me a quizzical look from 
Skinner, which I ignored.

Mulder... he appeared engrossed, not even looking up as the 
door clicked shut behind me. Truthfully, I've never seen 
Mulder so attentive at a departmental meeting. Honestly, I 
hardly heard a word of it myself, since so much of my 
attention was diverted to gauging the palpable tension in 
the air.

At the end of the morning session, I was approached by 
another agent requesting information about a possible 
suspect. When the conversation was finished, Mulder was 
nowhere to be found. He later slipped back into the room 
just as the afternoon session began, and I started to 
wonder just how long we could keep up this avoidance game 
before it attracted attention.

I needn't have wondered. Whatever was going on between us, 
at the moment, we were still united by the X-files, and by 
our separation from the FBI mainstream. Meandering through 
the rest of the session, I felt the bond between us still, 
even as I avoided looking at him directly. When questions 
were asked, we answered them as a team; when explanations 
were needed, we reinforced each other's commentaries, all 
without a moment's pause. It should have been heartening, 
this show of solidarity. 

It should have been, but it wasn't. Not when I knew it for 
what it was, merely the superior claim of our commitment to 
finding the truth, rather than anything more personal.

At the meeting's long-awaited close, I rose, tiredly, and 
headed for the door, Mulder a few steps behind me. We 
passed into the open hallway, walking in silent accord 
towards the building exit. Outside, I found myself pausing, 
still speechless, and still unable to chance more than a 
glancing look in his direction.

"Scully..." Mulder began, standing awkwardly a few feet 
away from me. And I tried, really tried, to think of 
something to say to him. Something... that would send us, 
somehow or other, back to where we'd been, before. I tried, 
racking my brain, and I failed. He shifted away from me, 
finally, and moved to go. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," I repeated, feeling lost, and feeling defeated.

This morning I woke up disoriented, confused by the sound 
of my alarm clock, sure that what I was hearing was the 
ringing of my phone. I went so far as to pick up the 
receiver and listen to the droning of a dial tone for 
several seconds before realizing my mistake. I'd slept 
through the night but didn't feel very rested, as if I'd 
been troubled by disjointed dreams I could no longer 
recall.

The elevator arrives with an over-enthusiastic ding and I 
quickly step inside. A few moments later, the other 
occupants get off on the ground floor; I continue down to 
the basement alone, filled with trepidation. I meant to get 
here earlier, and at the same time, I dragged my feet all 
morning, futilely putting off the inevitable. Finally, I 
reach my destination and walk into our office, filled with 
much more apprehension than I had that day six years ago, 
blissfully unaware of how such a simple act would change my 
life.

Once again, however, the light is dim and, in an ironic 
replication, Mulder is looking at slides. I drop my coat 
and briefcase onto a chair, moving forward hesitantly.

"How does a nice trip to the forest sound to you this 
morning?" he says without preamble.

"Can't be any worse than the last trip," I reply weakly.

The projector whirs as Mulder advances to the next slide. 
"Got a package from some Park Ranger this morning, says 
he's noticing a strange moss developing on some of the 
trees. Thought I might be interested."

"You making a name for yourself with the Boy Scouts or 
something?" I ask, in spite of myself.

Mulder grimaces before answering. "No, I think this guy 
remembers me from that Jersey Devil case way back when I 
was a young and eager little agent, searching for monsters 
in the forest." He pauses, but I already know what he's 
going to say next. "I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd 
already found some, a lot closer to home."

He sounds so defeated, and in another time, and another 
place, I might have tried to reassure him. But not right 
now. The most I can do for him, for both of us, is to 
create as much of a business-as-usual atmosphere as 
possible. "I don't really get it, Mulder. Why are you the 
obvious choice, here? Why not a botanist, or an 
environmentalist, or someone from the university? How does 
this relate to the X-files?"

"I don't know yet."

I sigh in exasperation. "Mulder--"

"Scully, for a scientist, you're amazingly narrow-minded," 
he tells me, in a tired tone.

"I'm just pointing out that there are several logical 
avenues of investigation that should be taken *before* we 
start searching for the paranormal."

Mulder turns off the projector and begins dismantling the 
screen. "There's a professor from the Smithsonian meeting 
us on site. The Parks department has already contacted 
their own people to come out and take a look. All of the 
safe, regular bases are covered, Scully. Rest assured."

"So, why not let them do their job, and wait to tell us 
what they find?"

He doesn't answer for a long time. In the moments of 
silence that follow, I realize I'm pushing too far, acting 
shrewish. Certainly making a mountain out of a molehill, as 
they say. It's not as if, after all, I relish the idea of 
sitting in this office with him all day, with the clock 
ticking and the papers shuffling and his every movement 
driving me crazy. What the hell. If Mulder wants to go look 
at some trees, why not? It's the least I can do for him, 
when I have refused him the thing he really wants.

Mulder has retreated to the desk, head in his hands. Taking 
a deep breath, I intentionally lower my voice from its 
earlier near-harangue. "Mulder, I'm sorry, I--"

"Scully, stop it."

Confused, I stutter for a moment. "But--"

He looks up at me suddenly, eyes heavy and dark. I realize, 
with a start, that he has not looked at me since I walked 
in the door. Or yesterday, in the parking garage. Or all 
day, in that meeting. He hasn't looked at me since he 
walked out of my apartment that night, leaving me unfairly 
surprised. I... hadn't been sure, to tell you the truth, 
that he would go. I hadn't been sure, moreover, that in the 
end I would be able to force myself to make him go. Unfair 
of me, after all that, to watch him leave and hope he'd 
return, when I was the one closing the door behind him. 
Unfair, but still, I'd stood there with my heart breaking 
as he walked away without a second glance, and he'd 
steadfastly refused to look at me since then. But now, with 
his hollow, deadened eyes focused in my direction, I want 
to run away, out the door, out of the building, anywhere I 
can go to escape that gaze, so filled with anger. But I 
wait, frozen in place, until he speaks.

"Don't do that," he tells me quietly. "Don't back down that 
way."

"I was being unfair," I tell him, and my voice sounds 
pitifully small.

"You were being yourself," he replies simply. "Until you 
started to feel sorry for me. And if there's one thing I 
don't want from you, Scully, it's your pity."

And what can I say to him, what argument can I make, what 
excuse can I offer, when he is the one speaking truth here 
today, and I am the one edging away from it. I made the 
rules, but I don't want to play by them. This is why, I 
tell myself. This is why I knew it should never have 
happened. Because we'd come to this, and I would be the one 
unable to handle it.

But I owe it to him to try.

"You don't deserve it, Mulder, I know that," I tell him. 
"If there's anyone deserving of contempt, it's me."

He shakes his head, still piercing me with his too-
discerning gaze. "For a Catholic girl, guilt doesn't become 
you, either."

I sink into a chair, too exhausted, mentally, to continue 
standing. "I don't know what to do, here, Mulder," I 
confess.

He looks away, then, to stare down at the random files 
littering his desk. I am relieved, in a way, and yet again, 
unfairly and illogically, I feel deserted and lost. 
"Finally, the truth," he mutters. "I was wondering how long 
it would take for you to admit that you don't have the 
rules and regs for this kind of situation committed to 
memory in that flawlessly ordered little brain of yours."

I flush at his unexpected sarcasm-- but I can't exactly 
fault him for it. "This is just as hard for me as it is for 
you, Mulder."

"I doubt that very much."

And I want to tell him differently; you wouldn't believe 
how much I want to, I can taste the words rising up in my 
mouth. I want to prove to him that this is killing me, 
possibly even more than it is him. I want to yell and 
scream at him that I love him too much, that it *would* 
kill me to let myself love him and then watch him slip 
away. That it is *because* I love him this much that it 
hurts me so terribly to fear, deep down, that he will one 
day walk away from me, seeing me as something once 
important, now old.

I want to tell him how much I long to say, for just once in 
my life, fuck the consequences. I want to admit to him that 
I am weak where he is concerned, and that he is easily 
capable of overturning my better judgment. I want to tell 
him that part of me wants him to keep trying, no matter how 
impenetrable I seem, and no matter that the answer will 
still be no.
 
I want to tell him how I feel like I am all but dead 
without him. But if I tell him that, I will only hurt us 
both more. And so he will not hear any of those things from 
me.

Deep breath.

"I can understand why you'd think that, Mulder," I tell 
him, and my voice sounds almost cold and clinical, 
detached. "There's not much point in my trying to convince 
you otherwise. But believe me when I tell you that I want 
to work through this, somehow. I don't want to ruin what we 
do have."

He laughs, and it's not a pretty sound. "What we have, 
Scully? And what is that?"

"You're still my best friend," I tell him quietly. "And 
you're still my partner."

That gives him some pause, and he seems to consider a 
moment before responding. "I have to admit to you, if we're 
telling the truth here this morning, that I find myself 
wondering if you're being a little overly optimistic."

I'm confused; that's hardly a word I would choose to 
describe how I feel at this moment. "I don't see what you 
mean."

He gets up and takes his suit jacket from a nearby chair, 
shrugging into it. "Or maybe you're paying me a compliment, 
in your methodical way, by crediting me... a priori, as it 
were... with the maturity to get over this without too much 
mess. Like you are." 

I flush, feeling the edge of his hurt and anger cut through 
me. "I'm not saying anything like that."

"No, of course you're not," he sighs, dripping sarcasm. 
"But it would be much neater and easier if I would just get 
over it, wouldn't it?"

"That's--"

He cuts me off quickly, shaking his head. "I don't have the 
time or energy for this right now, Scully. And moreover, I 
don't have anything to tell you that either of us really 
wants to hear. I suspect you could say the same." Unable to 
deny the truth of his words, I nod and look away, and with 
my grudging assent, he continues. "Then I think we'd work 
more efficiently today if we split up. I'm going to check 
out the site; maybe you could look over the materials they 
sent and do some background research."

It's a perfectly reasonable request, and we've often 
operated this way in the past. As partners, on the same 
mission, working towards the same resolution. But that's a 
rationalization, a convenient way to explain away the fact 
that at this moment, we can't stand to be around each 
other. Not without ripping ourselves and each other to 
shreds, it seems, in our own unique ways.

"That's... fine," I agree, and he leaves.

As the door closes I feel a momentary tug of sick nausea, 
thinking that this is far too familiar, far too reminiscent 
of the other night. It is becoming all too possible that I 
will have to accustom myself to seeing him this way, 
walking away from me, leaving me behind. But I shove it 
aside, ruthlessly, and turn to the solace of work. Work. A 
dubious distraction, when this entire office, every single 
file and every single case, forms the part of Fox Mulder I 
have always been closest to. There's nothing here that 
isn't part of him. Including me.

But fine, sure, work it is. Research. Trees. Moss. I'm 
right on it, Mulder.


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*


Several hours and several forests later, the phone rings. I 
answer it, grateful for the interruption. "Scully."

"Dana, the bloodwork you requested on that John Doe is 
ready. I know you were eager to see the results, so I 
thought I'd let you know."

"Thanks, Susan. I'll be right there."

The lab is busy and far from quiet. Too much of the FBI's 
forensic evidence passes through here for there to be any 
of the peace and solitude that I often relish in my own 
line of work. But the desolate emptiness of an autopsy bay 
or a basement office is, right now, the last thing I need. 
So for the rest of the afternoon, I work amidst the noise 
and the chatter, the whir of machines and the shuffling of 
papers. I go over the findings with Susan and willingly 
lend a hand with her current project, taking my strength 
from the comfortingly familiar words and procedures, the 
regularity of our methods, the soothing normality of our 
results. 

At the end of the day, Susan collapses in a chair, 
exhausted. "That's enough for one day. I need to get the 
hell out of here and forget what I do for a living, for at 
least twelve hours."

I smile but don't respond, since I'm not exactly able to 
relate. I never do, really, forget what I do for a living. 
And it's the twelve or so hours away from here that weigh 
heaviest on my soul.

My cell phone has been on all day, nestled in the left 
pocket of my lab coat. But I never actually believed it 
would ring, to tell you the truth, so any disappointment 
I'm feeling right now is as illogical as much else I've 
done of late.

"Dana." Susan's voice cuts through my mental wanderings, 
and I realize she's been talking to me for some time, 
waiting for an overdue response. "You in there?"

"I'm sorry, Susan," I tell her, hastily. "Just tired."

She frowns, and hesitates before speaking again. "We've 
worked together a number of years now, right?"

I give her a grateful smile. "Susan, without you, I'd be 
drowning in test tubes and petri dishes."

"Then, using the knowledge I've gained from our long 
association, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say 
that you're having a shit day."

I stare back at her, finally too tired for the denial I 
have perfected to an art form. "It actually shows?"

"Dana, it screams."

Again, I cannot find the energy for a rebuttal. And when 
all is said and done, why bother? She's right, this has 
certainly been a shit day. I was never under the 
impression, though, that it had the potential to be 
anything else. I'm not, deep down, as optimistic as Mulder 
accused me of being. I know just how much worse things are 
bound to get. And yet... when did I become so transparent? 
And how the hell am I going to get through this, if I can 
no longer rely on the ability to create an impenetrable 
emotional shield to hide behind?

Finally, when it becomes clear I have no response, Susan 
picks up her purse and moves towards the door. "I'm not 
going to pry because, as I said, I've known you too long to 
think that would actually help make your life any easier. 
Just take care of yourself. That's all."

These days, unexpected kindness hits me like a ton of 
bricks. I think I've gotten a little too cynical over the 
years of lies and betrayals I have been forced to witness. 
And then, of course, there are the bitter truths I have 
swallowed, as well. "Thank you," I whisper.

She nods, and waits for me to gather my things. Neither one 
of us says much as we leave the building together. Susan's 
calm and rational advice is just enough to get me through 
the halls, into the parking garage, and behind the wheel of 
my car. We bid tired farewells and I drive home on 
autopilot, eager to find the refuge of home.

Wearily, I step inside my apartment and shut the door with 
a grateful thud. Tossing my things into an undignified heap 
by the door, I cross to the sofa, mindless of the dimness 
of the room.

I am, unavoidably, finally alone. Away from distraction, 
and away from prying eyes. Alone, with no one but myself to 
impress or to convince. Alone, then, I am forced to realize 
that those shields and defenses were never truly about 
other people and the outside world. They were, more 
accurately, created for my own use-- a vain attempt to keep 
my heart intact by protecting it, by locking it away, by 
not allowing it to feel. At some point, the effort of 
appearing outwardly calm and collected in the face of 
adversity began to include a greater effort to keep myself 
from *feeling* anything but calm and collected, in control, 
smoothly efficient, and untroubled. My emotions are, after 
all, my own greatest enemy, the biggest threat imaginable 
to the decisions my much wiser mind comes to. And so I 
learned, along the way, to close off my heart, to wall it 
in, to create defenses for those times when it threatened 
to break out.

Now, though, those defenses have proven themselves woefully 
inadequate. Accepting the futility of my efforts, I sink 
down onto the sofa, bury my face in my hands, and allow my 
heart the breathing room it demands.



_________________________________________________________


<~* CHAPTER FIVE *~>



Oh, you're in my blood like holy wine
taste so bitter, and so sweet.
I could drink a case of you
and still I'd be on my feet,
I would still be on my feet.
(Joni Mitchell)


"Over here, Agent Mulder."

Leaves shuffle beneath my feet as I cross to where the 
friendly neighborhood Park Ranger, a good ol' boy named 
Braxton, is standing. I slip momentarily on a slick patch 
of mud, thankfully catching myself in time. Now, that 
would've been rich, on top of everything else. First I 
bumped into Danny and ended up talking to him for much 
longer than I should have; the morning was half-gone by the 
time I even left the building. Then the traffic out of DC 
was, predictably, insane. Then-- through no fault of my 
own-- I took a wrong turn on my way here. For a Ranger, 
Braxton gives lousy directions. So here I am, having pissed 
away most of the day, following Ranger Rick through the 
forest.

Really, though, the problem is, I'm a thousand miles away. 
No, actually, a lot fewer. I'm a much shorter distance 
away, in a Georgetown apartment in the wee hours of the 
morning, feeling the cold creep over me as Scully voices 
the doubts she's been harboring against me for quite some 
time now. Oh, and did I mention we're both naked in this 
little scenario? Kind of a contradiction. Or at least, it 
sure as hell felt that way at the time.

I left her apartment that night feeling mostly numb, of 
course. But if I have to describe my mood at that time, I'd 
call it tragic. I'd gotten caught up in her fatalistic 
words and her sure pronouncement of doom, and I'd begun to 
think we were irrevocably ruined. I felt as if we'd been 
cheated of something, robbed of a life we should have had 
together. I blamed myself for fucking up, somewhere, 
somehow-- fucking up badly enough to make that kind of a 
future impossible for us. I accepted our miserable fate, 
and felt the millstone of failure settle around me like a 
comfortable old friend.

That's how I spent the weekend-- miserable, dejected, and 
downtrodden. Kind of fitting, then, that I'd gone into the 
office on Saturday, read some files, hacked into some 
databases, written some crap report. Working on the X-
files, miserable, dejected, and downtrodden. It felt pretty 
natural. Sometime late in the evening I left, stopped at a 
bar, and drank more than I should have. No late night visit 
to Scully's apartment this time, though; when it started to 
approach dawn, I took a cab home and passed out on the 
couch. Oblivion never looked so good.

I was lucky-- I slept until early afternoon. Lucky because 
when I woke up, I had the hangover of the decade. So, 
Sunday, I did next to nothing. I cradled my aching head, I 
took aspirin, I stood in the shower, eventually I ate. I 
watched a few movies on the VCR... but, you know, just for 
background noise. And I thought some more, about Scully, 
and what she'd said, and about that night.

So when I went into work Monday morning, I was prepared to 
see her. I was ready to face the music and deal with 
whatever it was going to be like, now, between us, at work. 
Oh, I felt like shit about the whole thing, don't get me 
wrong, but I was *ready* to handle it. And I'll even admit 
it-- I wanted to see her again. I wanted to see how she was 
doing with all of this, and I wanted to connect with her, 
on a working level if nothing else.

But she really surprised me. They say there's a first time 
for everything, right? Because in all the years I have 
known her, Scully has never been a coward. She has met 
every obstacle, every hardship, every terror head-on, with 
her eyes wide open, unflinching. Of course she's been 
scared shitless, from time to time, but her fears never 
stopped her from doing what needed to be done, what was 
right, or what she wanted. I have never seen her back down 
from a challenge, or from the unpleasant truth. Until 
Monday morning, that is, when she left a quick, impersonal 
message on my voicemail saying that she was filling in at 
Quantico for the day, all day, see you tomorrow.

Please. Filling in at Quantico? What, do they have an 
influx of cadavers they don't know what to do with?

And so on Monday, I got mad.

I started reevaluating our conversation that night, 
rethinking everything she'd said, everything I'd felt, 
everything we'd done. And I started to come to the 
conclusion that Scully was, essentially, full of shit. 
We're not "doomed" in some written-in-the-stars, fatalistic 
sense. This isn't about our differences, or our problems 
together. This is about fear. Her fear, to be specific. Her 
unacknowledged fear, of course.

And I can almost accept that, I can almost understand that. 
But what I can't accept are her accusations and her 
recriminations, tossed so heavily in my direction. I am 
hardly surprised that Scully is afraid of us, of what we 
could become, and the risks we would have to take in 
getting there. I have no complaints about her hesitancy, 
her doubts. I've earned them, after all; I deserve them. 
But what I do take issue with, what I very much take 
fucking issue with, is that she not only refuses to address 
those concerns, she denies them. She will not confess to 
their existence. But since her analytical mind requires 
that every effect have a cause, she must identify another 
that better suits her purposes. Enter the "You Don't Really 
Love Me Theory", as written by Dana Katherine Scully, M.D.

I never did come up with a good response to that one, I 
realize. How do you prove that you love someone, when they 
won't believe the words? I always thought the answer was 
that you showed them, but I gather not. Because I've done 
just about everything I can think of to show her how I 
feel, and it doesn't seem to have had much effect. She 
thinks I need her. I do. But she thinks I *just* need her, 
and that the feelings I have towards her are nothing more 
than by-products of that necessity.

Did I mention she's full of shit?

Braxton beckons from a clearing, watching my progress. "I 
really appreciate your coming out here, Agent Mulder."

I shrug it aside. "I was in the neighborhood anyhow." 
Braxton stares at me and at the surrounding forest, 
perplexed. "Just kidding," I tell him, with a sigh. "Why 
don't you show me what you've got?"

"Sure thing," he says, relieved, and leads the way.

I'll tell you one thing that doesn't make sense in this 
theory of hers. If she's so sure that I don't love her, if 
she's so sure we're not meant to be together, if she's so 
goddamned sure the other night was the Mother of All 
Mistakes, then what the hell did she do it for? I'm the one 
who went over to her apartment in the middle of the night, 
fine. I got into her bed, I wanted her, I'll give you that 
and more. But I didn't notice her protesting any. Quite the 
fucking contrary, she was pretty emphatic in her positive 
response. What the hell was that? One for the road? One 
little fling for her, so that she could get what she wanted 
and then tell me I can't have the same? Happy to have been 
of service, Agent Scully. Better me than some psycho, after 
all, but you knew that already, right?

Then that meeting, yesterday, that was pure joy. I was 
settling comfortably into "angry" by that point, and in a 
weird way I was ready to see her again-- for different 
reasons, this time around. We weren't as finished as she 
thought we were. I wasn't going to leave things in the 
neat, tidy package she'd arranged them in, to suit herself. 
I had a few things *I* wanted to say, whether she wanted to 
hear them or not. And so I was actually early to the budget 
meeting, shocking just about everyone present. 

Skinner pulled me aside, brow wrinkled, expression stern-- 
you know, how he always looks. "I must admit I'm a bit 
surprised by your punctuality this morning, Agent Mulder."

I shrugged, turning away. "Just trying to beat the rush," I 
told him, gesturing to the obligatory box of doughnuts. 
"Glazed or creme-filled, sir?"

Skinner ignored me and continued, seriously. "Where is 
Agent Scully?"

"In the little girl agents' room?" I offered helpfully.

He stared at me for a moment, and I expected him to ask the 
obvious. But he just shook his head and moved away. I was 
only briefly disappointed. It's not as if I could have 
explained anything to him: "Well, sir, when last I saw 
Agent Scully, she was kicking me out of her bed. Bagel?"

Scully finally arrived as the meeting began, rushed, 
mumbling apologies as she slipped into the room. Skinner 
gave her the same look I'd gotten. I know this, because 
that's where I was looking-- at Skinner, at the guys from 
Budget & Finance, at my notes... basically, anywhere but 
where she sat, nervous, glancing at me. It turns out I was 
wrong. I wasn't ready to see her after all.

I dodged her for lunch-- two can play at that game-- and 
slipped back into the meeting room just as the afternoon 
session began. That budget crap was, truthfully, boring the 
hell out of me. But I paid attention (or at least seemed 
to), answered questions, and presented the short list of 
suggestions (all sure to be denied) I had for next year's 
budget. For her part, Scully spoke clearly and 
professionally, supported my suggestions, defended our 
expenditures when questioned, and gave a completely 
efficient and flawless supplement to my recommendations. If 
I didn't know her better, I'd have thought that she had 
nothing at all on her mind but spreadsheets, line items, 
and inflation. But I do. Know her better, that is. And I 
hadn't really, to be honest, expected anything less. Scully 
will never desert me, professionally.

At the day's close, we walked out of the building together, 
silent. I was still angry, but I didn't want to talk to her 
anymore. I still didn't want to look at her. I could never 
hate her, but in that moment, I didn't want to be around 
her, didn't want to let her affect me as she was bound to 
do, one way or another. When we reached the parking garage, 
she paused, obviously trying to think of something to say. 
And I knew I had to stop her, so I did, and walked away. 
Again.

Braxton finally stops at a large tree, waiting for me to 
catch up. "Here it is, Agent Mulder. Started noticing this 
moss a few weeks ago, and thought it was pretty peculiar. 
We got our scientist types taking a look at it, but I heard 
about your interest in such things from a buddy of mine, 
and I figured I'd just give you a call. What do you make of 
it?"

I step forward to get a closer look, wishing, for about the 
thousandth time, that I could remember to bring a pair of 
goddamn latex gloves for reach-out-and-touch-something 
moments like this one. But before I have to brave it out 
once more, a voice behind us states, "Lecanora 
thysanophora."

Turning, I am presented with a small, serious man who 
reminds me uncomfortably of Frohike. "That can't be your 
name."

Nothing from this guy, not the remotest hint of a smile. 
"Lecanora thysanophora," he repeats, "a lichen not uncommon 
to this part of the country."

Braxton looks uncomfortable, to say the least. What the 
hell. "I'm Agent Mulder," I say, offering my hand.

The Frohike clone takes it readily enough. "Steve 
McWilliams, I work for the National Park Service. I'm 
writing my doctoral dissertation on northeastern lichens."

"Of course," I reply, wondering just how much there is to 
say about moss... but hell, what do I know?

The same can be said for Ranger Braxton over here, who 
clearly feels like a fool right about now. I sympathize; 
been there, buddy.

"McWilliams, are you sure? We've never seen anything like 
this out here before," he sputters, hopefully.

"Positive. We have it listed in our database. Nothing at 
all to worry about." He glances over at me, curious. "Are 
you a botanist, Agent Mulder?"

I shake my head. "Just some amateur horticultural attempts 
in college, nothing to write home about." I can tell 
McWilliams is still curious as to why I'm here, but I don't 
want to embarrass Braxton any further. "Time for me to hit 
the road, boys. Thanks for the call, regardless, Braxton."

He shrugs and mumbles an apology. I head back to my car; 
this was a completely wasted trip, but I've already put it 
behind me. After all these years, I've gotten used to false 
leads. This one didn't exactly look that promising in the 
first place, to tell you the truth; I just wanted to get 
out of the office.

This morning I'd been waiting for her to arrive, ready to 
spring my plan on her. I thought if we got out in the field 
and went to investigate something, we could keep from 
tearing into each other. Maybe we could avoid her apologies 
and my bitter refusal to accept them. Maybe we could get 
caught up in work, and slip back into a routine. But as it 
turns out, I think *I* was the one being a little overly-
optimistic.

I wasn't ready to see her or look at her this morning, no 
more ready than I have been since I left her apartment the 
other night. But when she stood there in front of me, 
taking pity on me and nursing her guilty conscience, I 
found I had to face her. I had to look at her. I couldn't 
keep pretending the way she wanted to, or put the whole 
thing behind us as she so clearly wished we could. To be 
honest, I didn't want it to be that easy for her. I wanted 
her to see just how much this hurt me. I wanted her to know 
what she'd done. Moreover, I wanted to burst this romantic 
picture she probably had of me pining away and crying in my 
beer for her. No, I was pissed off, and I wanted her fully 
aware of that.

"This is just as hard for me as it is for you, Mulder," she 
said, and at the time, I wanted to laugh. I'm sure it is 
hard for her. Not that you can really tell. She's been 
calling every single one of the shots, and I've followed 
along. And now she's slapping me on the wrist, telling me 
I've gone too far, violated some Golden Rule of our 
relationship.

So I left, again. That's all I seem to be doing these days, 
walking away from her, fleeing the scene. I don't have the 
answers she wants to hear. I can't smile and tell her I 
understand, that she's right, that we can go back to being 
the same partners we were before. I can't tell her that 
upon further reflection, I've come to the same conclusions 
she has, that her scientific rationale has finally defeated 
my gut instincts.

That reminds me, though; Scully was right about this case. 
I should've just waited for the local guys to check it out 
and get back to me. Most partners-- heck, most people in 
general-- would have a big fat "I told you so" waiting for 
me on this one. But that's the thing about Scully: she 
won't even mention it. Even though she probably spent the 
whole morning researching goddamned moss for me, she'll 
just drop it. She never rubs my nose in my failures, 
plentiful though they may be. Even now, with things so 
strained between us, she won't do that to me. I still know 
that.

You know, to tell you the truth, the last thing I need 
right now is to be trapped in this car with my own 
miserable thoughts for company. Not that it really matters 
where I am, though. I haven't stopped thinking about her 
since that night, and I'm not likely to be able to stop 
anytime soon. Even when I'm working on something else, or 
talking to someone, it's still there, in the back of my 
head. And mostly I've been able to concentrate on the anger 
and the frustration. Mostly I've been able to argue with 
her, in my head, and tell her how wrong she is, how 
misguided, how insane. How, as I mentioned before, full of 
shit.

I have to focus. Because when I don't concentrate on my 
anger, I start thinking of that night... before she told me 
to leave, before everything came crashing down. Before I 
knew it wasn't going to last. I start thinking of how it 
felt so completely right to climb into her bed that night, 
and wait. How even the waiting was wonderful, how I almost 
would've been content to just lie there next to her in the 
dark, not touching but surrounded by so much of her that 
she filled every one of my senses. I start thinking of how, 
when I finally did touch her, she smiled, just a little, 
awake all along. And how when she said my name, in a 
whisper, I stopped thinking entirely. I start remembering 
how she felt and tasted and moved, and how much I never 
wanted it to end. And how, when it did, I felt whole for 
the first time in my life. And I remember how when I told 
her I loved her, they were the truest words I've ever 
spoken, so completely from the core of my being that saying 
them out loud almost seemed redundant.

So I try to stay angry. If I think of her sighing beneath 
me, I'll go crazy. But the fact of the matter is, I can't 
help it. I want her still. And if I can't have her, at 
least I can have that one night. It should, I know, make me 
angrier at her, make me blame her more, make me lash out at 
her for giving me a taste of her and then snatching it all 
away. It should. I almost wish it did. But then I remember 
how she cried, at one point, and I know she was telling the 
truth: this is as hard for her as it is for me. I just wish 
I understood why, then, she's so determined it has to be 
this way.

The traffic isn't all that bad, now. I'm almost home. If 
you can call that basement office a home, and when you're 
as miserable, dejected, and downtrodden as I am, you can. 
It's late; I know she's left work by now. Yet another day 
ends with us cut off from each other, bruised and 
unhealing.

I slow for a red light, tapping my fingers against the 
steering wheel. And before I can talk myself out of it, I 
swerve over into the left turn lane and wait to enter the 
fray once more. Only this time, just for novelty, I think 
I'll be honest with myself, and with her.

Because the fact is, I understood from the beginning what 
Scully couldn't bring herself to say out loud. I understood 
that she was scared, of course, but I got angry and 
indignant and refused to see what she was afraid of: not 
me, but herself. She is afraid of the side of herself that 
wants us to be together, that has always wanted it, and 
that has already gone to great lengths to make it so. She's 
afraid of letting herself love me, and not being able to 
stop, even if I hurt her as it is possible I will do. I 
don't want to, God knows, but that's never stopped me 
before. She's afraid of how much more she will allow 
herself to be hurt, and how much more she will  be willing 
to stand, losing herself in the process. She's terribly 
afraid, though erroneously, that I don't love her the way 
she loves me. She's afraid, most of all, of needing me the 
way she knows I need her. And when all is said and done, 
she's afraid of admitting any of this to me.

All I believe in is you, and that's not very logical, she 
said to me. No, Scully, it's not. And I know how she hates 
that, how the part of her that is reasonable and rational 
refuses to believe that she can't stop loving me any more 
than I can stop loving her. But I'm a damn lucky man that 
she can't, and that's what I seem to have forgotten over 
the past couple of days. I need to tell her, now, that it 
won't happen again. And I need to find a way to make her 
see that I'm just as scared as she is. But I'm even more 
afraid of losing her, and so if I have to try a hundred 
times a day to make her let me back in, I will. And there's 
no time like the present to begin.

Finally the light turns green. I shoot forward into the 
intersection, waiting for a break in the oncoming traffic 
to make the turn. And so it's only out of the corner of my 
eye that I see the lights coming straight towards me, 
barreling through from the opposite direction, only a few 
feet away, only a moment too late.



_________________________________________________________


<~* CHAPTER SIX *~>



all the things I should've said that I never said
all the things we should've done that we never did
all those things that you needed from me
all those things that you wanted from me
all those things I should've given that I didn't
(Kate Bush)



That's my alarm clock, right? Can't fool me twice. I'm 
getting my act together, I know it's not the phone this 
time. Though I don't remember moving my alarm clock to the 
living room. Why am I sleeping in the living room?  Wait, 
it's not morning. It's dark outside. I... fell asleep out 
here. And that actually is the phone.

I scramble for the receiver, knowing it must be on the 
seventh or eighth ring already. "Scully."

"Is this Dana Scully?" It's a woman's voice, brusque but 
not entirely unpleasant.

"Yes," I reply sharply. I just said that. "Can I help you?"

"Ms. Scully, I'm calling from the Georgetown University 
Medical Center. Are you listed as next of kin for a Fox 
Mulder?"

I'm sure that I answer her immediately, automatically. But 
it doesn't feel that way. It feels as though everything 
freeze frames around me, and the sound of my heart 
finishing one thump and pausing for another is slow and 
loud in my empty apartment. And then I mentally begin to 
goad myself: you've heard that question before. You handled 
it then, you can handle it now. Answer her. Find out where 
he is. Get there. It's simple, just say what you have to 
say and do what you have to do. Now.

"Yes, I am," I say, calmly. "What happened?"

"He was in a car accident, Ms. Scully, and brought into the 
ER."

Car accident. "Is he conscious?"

"No, I'm afraid he isn't, which is why we needed to speak 
with you."

Unconscious. "I'll be there," I tell her, and hang up. 
Fine. He had an accident. He's still alive. He's 
unconscious. Get there. Now.

*	*	*	*	*	*

I remember doing a rotation here, as a med student, in the 
ER. It wasn't as exciting as the TV shows claim. Most of 
the time, you see kids with broken arms and guys who need 
stitches. Elderly people, found in their homes, with a 
stroke or just indigestion. And car accidents.

The girl at the desk took my name and went to look for 
Mulder's doctor. It's quiet. Across the room there's an 
older woman in a neck brace, sitting with her daughter, 
arguing quietly. The TV is on, low. And there are a couple 
of orderlies outside smoking. That's it, at least as far as 
I can see. I sit calmly in the hard plastic chair, legs 
crossed, playing with my car keys. I should put them away 
in my purse.

"Ms. Scully?" The doctor is young and slight, sandy-haired 
and polite. He probably gets mistaken for an orderly all 
the time. He gestures at the empty space next to me, and I 
shift slightly to indicate he is welcome to sit down. 
"Thank you for getting here so quickly. I'm Dr. Lofton. I 
was on call when Mr. Mulder was brought in."

I nod, exuding patience. Fine. "What happened?"

"Car accident," he tells me. "He was making a left turn, 
and another vehicle went through a red light at high speed. 
Or so the police report said."

"Where?" I ask, sharply. Lofton looks confused. "Where did 
the accident take place?"

"Oh. Here in Georgetown, I'm not sure of the exact..."

"That's fine," I interrupt him. What was Mulder doing in 
Georgetown? That's obvious, I scold myself. He was coming 
to see you. Why is another question entirely, and one this 
guy isn't going to have the answer to. "What's his 
condition?"
 
Lofton glances down at a chart in his hands. "Mr. Mulder 
had multiple contusions and lacerations when he was brought 
in. Luckily there seem to have been no serious fractures. 
However, he hasn't regained consciousness as of yet, and 
there is some indication of head trauma-- including a brief 
seizure en route to the hospital. We're about to prep him 
for a head CT and an MRI. I was, however, hoping he would 
regain consciousness so that we could learn as much as 
possible from the tests."

Okay. Head injury. "Otherwise, he's uninjured?"

"We're waiting for the results from a CBC to come back from 
the lab, but I don't expect any surprises there. No broken 
bones, a nasty cut on his forehead, some bruising. In that 
sense, Mr. Mulder was lucky. We just need to determine the 
extent of his brain injury," he cautions.

Got it. "I'd like to see him."

"Of course."

The desk nurse removes the phone from her ear as we pass 
and reminds me to come back and fill out the usual 
paperwork after I've seen Mulder. I nod, and move slowly 
down the hallway. Why is it he's always put in the room 
farthest in the back? Do they keep patient behavior files 
on us or something? Lofton finally stops at the last room 
on the right and politely gestures for me to enter. "I'm 
going to see if they're ready for him upstairs," he tells 
me. "If you have any further questions, let me know."

Mulder's head is turned the other way, so I can't see his 
face as I enter the room. Setting my purse down on a chair 
near the door, I walk to the other side of the bed, eyes 
glued to him the entire time. The gash on his forehead 
isn't as bad as I expected. That's something. His eyes are 
closed, of course. I glance at the monitor; his pulse is 
steady, his breathing appears regular. Pulling up a chair, 
I sink down next to him, head bowed, the strength 
momentarily gone from my legs. I can't look up at him. I 
want to just sit here, waiting, until he says something. 
Until I know what to say back. 

But that could be a long wait, in both cases.

I tunnel my hand through the guardrail and find his, limp 
and warm. The nail on his thumb is jagged, ripped down to 
the quick. I rub the ball of my own thumb against it, over 
and over, as if I can somehow smooth the roughness away. My 
other hand joins the first, holding his between them in a 
cocoon, moving restlessly, feeling his skin slide across 
mine. I don't know how long we sit this way, the whirs and 
beeps of machinery, voices from the hallway drifting by in 
snatches, my own breathing much louder than his, the feel 
of his jagged thumbnail harsh and comforting against my 
hands. I just know that we remain in a frozen tableau for 
as long as it takes for my heart to stop pounding so loudly 
and painfully in my chest. Finally, then, I look up at him.

His hair is standing up in spikes, brushed away from the 
cut on his forehead, which has received a few stitches. Not 
many. Even if it leaves a scar, I think irreverently, it 
certainly won't harm his appearance any. He'll probably 
secretly enjoy the slightly rakish, dangerous air it gives 
him. Probably. He's wearing the standard issue hospital 
gown, the sheet awkwardly slanted across his chest. I reach 
over to straighten it, tucking the edges around him more 
securely. It's cold in here, I think. Or maybe that's just 
me. Finished, my hands rest lightly across his chest, 
rising and falling as he breathes, comforted beyond belief 
by the strong, soothing rhythm.

I want to hold him. I want to get out of this chair, lower 
that guardrail, gather him up in my arms, and wrap myself 
around him. I want to so much it's almost overwhelming, but 
I can't, of course. So I sit there and press my palms 
against his chest, just feeling him, just knowing him. I 
know this man. I know everything there is to know about 
him. Whatever earlier thoughts I had about secrets and 
things he'd kept from me, that's all nothing compared to 
the complete and total understanding I have of him now. We 
have always had this connection, this unseen and 
unconsummated bond that keeps us together through the worst 
of times. I have always had a sense of the ties that link 
us together, have always been able to read the shift and 
change of his thoughts, his emotions, his fears. And now, I 
realize, I also know his body, the feel of him, every inch 
of his skin. My hands rest heavily on the chest that I have 
felt beneath my lips and tasted. My eyes drift to hair I 
have combed my fingers through, lips I have kissed, 
shoulders I have clutched and caressed. I foolishly thought 
sex would drive us apart, and for awhile, it has, 
emotionally. I've let it. But now, with him lying before me 
this way, I admit that what we did simply cemented the 
final bond between us, broke the only barrier in our 
partnership. I know this man, completely. And he knows me, 
and has for much longer than I've been willing to concede.

A discreet cough at the door catches my attention; the 
doctor is back, and with him transport to take Mulder away 
from me, at least for now. "Ms. Scully, we're going to take 
Mr. Mulder for those tests now. After you finish filling 
out the paperwork, someone can show you where to wait."

I nod. "Thank you, Dr. Lofton, for everything you've done."

"We'll know more when the tests are done," he tells me, 
cautious. I understand.

I stand reluctantly, trailing one hand to Mulder's cheek, 
smoothing back the unruly hair. Leaning down, I carefully 
kiss the uninjured side of his forehead, whispering, "I 
won't be far, Mulder. I'll be waiting when you get back." 
Determinedly, then, I straighten and pull away, turning for 
the door.

"Sc..."

I whirl around, sure I must have misheard, sure it was 
nothing. But Mulder's eyes are half-open,  half-closed, and 
he's trying to move around. I lunge for the bed before the 
surprised doctor can get there and immobilize his head 
between my hands.

"Mulder, don't. It's me. Scully. You're okay, relax," I 
tell him, again and again, wanting him to hear me, or at 
least the sound of my voice.

He stills his movements, but his eyes flutter erratically. 
"Scully," he breathes, and that's all. He's just barely 
conscious, and I have no way of knowing if he's aware of 
anything, of where he is or what happened, or even that I'm 
here with him. Dr. Lofton has moved forward to the other 
side of the bed, and he quickly does a cursory examination.

"Well, Ms. Scully, this is a good development," he tells 
me. "Mr. Mulder is not, it seems to me, completely aware of 
his surroundings, but now that he's regained consciousness 
we'll be able to get even more accurate and informative 
results. We need to get him up there right away and begin."

I acquiesce readily, knowing the truth of his words, and 
certainly every bit as eager as he is to determine what 
we're looking at here. It's just so hard, with a serious 
head injury, to know when you're out of the woods. The head 
CT and MRI are only going to show us so much, but it's the 
best we can do right now. And I'm so incredibly relieved, 
frankly, that Mulder has regained some sort of 
consciousness, I'm ready to agree to anything. I step away, 
then, and watch the orderlies wheel him away, my heart 
beating loudly once more-- but this time with hope.

Determinedly, I head back up the long hallway to the 
nurses' station. The desk nurse, Rita, hands me a clipboard 
and smiles encouragingly. "If you have any questions, feel 
free to ask me. Otherwise, just bring this back as soon as 
you're finished."

I smile back and reclaim my seat in the waiting area. 
Quickly I fill in the necessary blanks, basically by rote. 
Little does she know, I could recite these forms for her. 
Still, Rita ranks up there as one of the nicest desk nurses 
we've ever come across. Though Mulder, I'm told, annoys 
them more than I do. I keep telling him he just needs to 
turn on the charm a little, and he'll have them in the palm 
of his hand. Then again, maybe that's not such a good idea. 
A moot point, though, because when I'm in the hospital he's 
sullen and uncommunicative. And when he's in the hospital, 
he sulks.

Rita is on the phone when I'm finished, so I hand her the 
clipboard silently and motion towards the door. She nods, 
understanding; I'll be right back.

The night air is refreshingly cool; this sweltering heat 
has been making everyone miserable lately. There's air 
conditioning, of course. The office is air conditioned, the 
car, my apartment. Not Mulder's. But I get sick of the cool 
frigidity and the regulated air flow, regardless. I love 
nights like this. Usually.

An ambulance pulls away, slowly, clearly not in any 
particular hurry. The orderlies-- two impossibly tall, 
hulking young men and an older, much shorter one-- are 
similarly unoccupied and smile a cautious greeting as I 
step past. Pulling out my cell phone, I scan through the 
speed dial numbers and hit send. Several rings later, the 
expected voice picks up.

"Frohike, turn the tape off," I say quickly, stepping away 
from the brightly-lit ambulance bay and moving into the 
shadows.

*	*	*	*	*	*

I wish I had a book to read. I know that sounds horribly 
mundane, but it's true. When you're woken from a sound 
sleep with bad news and you rush to the ER in search of a 
loved one, somehow or other, it seems, you don't stop to 
think of the time you're going to spend there alone, and 
waiting. 

I suppose I shouldn't want a book. I should be so overcome 
with worry and stress that all I can do is sit here and 
stare at the wall in a near-catatonic state. I should be 
unresponsive to questions and numb with grief and concern. 
I should be unable to focus on anything, and I should sit 
perfectly still the entire time, frozen in shock.

Well, if those are the traditional symptoms of a panic-
stricken woman, the only one that I'm doing right is the 
one about staring at a wall. But that's just because 
there's nothing else to look at. All of the magazines are 
old and insipid. I can't seem to sit still for more than 
five minutes. I wish I had someone to talk to. And, barring 
that, I wish I had a book to read. Anything to give me 
something to do. I've got to remember, next time. Right. 
Remember to bring a book the next time Mulder's in the ER, 
sure. That makes a hell of a lot of sense.

"Agent Scully."

Startled, I look up to find Skinner standing a few feet 
away from me, looking concerned. Actually, I'm not so 
startled that he's here, as if he just happened to be 
passing by the hospital and thought he'd take a chance that 
one of us would be here. I'm more startled that I didn't 
expect him, or notice him come into the room.

I move to stand. "Sir---"

"No, I'll join you," he tells me, motioning me back down 
and sliding into a seat across from me. "I checked my 
messages. Thank you for keeping me informed of Agent 
Mulder's condition."

"You didn't have to come down here, Sir." But I'm glad you 
did, I add silently. There is something very reassuring 
about Walter Skinner, in moments like these. He keeps his 
head on straight. He helps with the details. Frankly, it 
wouldn't seem like a proper trip to the hospital without 
him. "I haven't heard anything since I called you. They 
haven't brought him back yet."

 "I don't mind waiting here with you," he replies. "I get a 
certain pleasure out of seeing Mulder pull himself out of 
one mess after another."

That brings the faint smile to my face it was meant to. He 
does have a point; there's nobody better than Mulder at 
getting out of impossibly terrible situations unscathed. I 
mean, he wasn't even wearing a seat belt. What was he 
thinking? What if he needs surgery, if they find 
intracerebral hemorrhaging, if he has tearing, or 
swelling... or worse, if he's suffered permanent damage 
that can't be fixed? How can he pull himself out of that? 
How can I?

Okay, that little boost from Skinner didn't really have the 
desired effect, I tell myself wryly, taking a deep breath. 
Calm down. He's alive. He regained some sort of 
consciousness. These are all good things. He's been in a 
lot worse shape, after all, and come through okay. But I'd 
be lying if I didn't admit that it's different now. It's 
not that I care about him more than I did a week ago. It's 
not that he means any more to me now than he did then. I 
loved him every bit as much before we made love as I do 
now. It's just that now, I know the difference and now, I 
know how much I stand to lose. Now, I can taste the 
bitterness I will feel if I never get the chance to make 
right all that has gone wrong between us, all that I 
mishandled, all that I was too afraid to believe.

"Sorry," I tell Skinner, realizing that I've been sitting 
here, silent, staring off into space, unresponsive, and in 
glassy-eyed shock for the past few minutes. See, I knew I 
could produce textbook panic if I waited long enough. I 
just needed a little help from a friend, I guess. Once 
again, unexpected kindness catches me by surprise.

He shrugs my apology aside. "Don't worry about it--"

My phone rings, interrupting anything else he was planning 
to add. A nurse starts towards me, but I gesture my 
understanding of her mission and quickly cross to the door. 
I know, I know, no cell phones in the building. "Scully."

As expected, it's Frohike. "How's our patient?"

"Nothing new," I tell him with a sigh. "What have you got 
for me?"

"We got our hands on the police report filed this evening. 
No surprises. Langly spoke to the guys who towed Mulder's 
car away-- nothing out of the ordinary there, either. And 
from what Byers could get from our source at the 
department, the guy who hit Mulder is something like 75 
years old and needs to have his license revoked. But that's 
all," he tells me, sounding oddly disappointed, and 
surprised.

I'm not. I needed to make sure this accident of Mulder's 
wasn't prearranged in some way, but I didn't expect that 
the Gunmen would find anything. No one could have 
predicted, after all, that Mulder would drive into 
Georgetown tonight. I certainly couldn't have predicted it.

"Thanks, Frohike," I say with as much warmth as I can 
muster. "I just... needed to know."

"So did we," he tells me in the same tone. "We'll be here. 
Call us."

"Okay," I assure him, turning my phone off and heading back 
into the hospital. Skinner is flipping through a magazine; 
I think it's "Vogue". He tosses it aside as I return to my 
chair but says nothing, too polite to inquire about the 
call.

"I had the Gunmen check it out," I tell him quietly. "I 
just had to be sure."

Skinner nods, understanding. "I don't blame you. Did they 
find anything?" I shake my head. "Good," he says, then 
looks confused when I do not immediately voice agreement. 
"Right?"

"Of course," I finally reply, somewhat half-heartedly.

Skinner runs a hand over his face, clearly tired. But as he 
always is whenever Mulder or I are in trouble, he's here. 
And in some ways, he's the only person I want here right 
now. He knows us pretty well, I think. He knows us as any 
sort of "us" better than anyone else does, if that makes 
any sense. Skinner has been witness to the growth of this 
partnership, perhaps the only witness whose main agenda 
didn't involve collaboration with little green men. As such 
he has a unique perspective into our lives. And yet for all 
that, he doesn't intrude. He doesn't presume, or ask 
questions that border on personal. At least he doesn't with 
me, and Mulder is an open book in any case. I, far more 
reserved and private with my emotions, deeply appreciate 
someone with Skinner's sensitivity. He's a terrific boss. 
He'd probably make a wonderful friend. In some senses he is 
a good friend. But he always maintains a respectful 
distance, and right now, I am grateful for his reserve. 
It's what I need to get through this waiting, what I need 
to be able to share some of what I'm feeling.

"I never thought of this," I tell him finally, answering 
the unspoken and unasked question. "I thought about 
everything else. I thought about one of us getting injured 
during an investigation, or taken hostage. I thought of him 
getting shot again. I thought they would take him, the way 
they took me, and I thought they would make him sick. I 
thought he would stumble onto something, without me, and 
that I'd be too late to help him. I thought of all those 
things, but I never stopped to think about the every day 
dangers. The... normal... ways he could be taken away from 
me. I should have. It's foolish of me to think we're immune 
to the whims of fate, just because of how dangerous and 
important our work is. I know better than that. I'm a 
doctor. I know that we're all at risk, every day. We can 
get sick, we can get hurt, and we can get in meaningless, 
stupid, goddamned accidents like this one."

Skinner reaches for a box of Kleenex on the table between 
us and offers me a tissue. How thoughtful, I think 
distractedly, of both Skinner and the hospital. All my 
life, I've never had a tissue when I needed one. My mother 
carried them, in her purse, well into my teens-- always 
prepared for a runny nose I wouldn't admit to or tears I 
denied shedding. Rarely tears. But I realize that slow, wet 
tracks have worked their way down my face, and I need one 
now. Gratefully, I wipe the evidence of my fears away.

"No one thinks of those things, Scully," he says quietly. 
"We push those fears aside because they're too horrible to 
contemplate, and because we want to enjoy what life we do 
have. In your work, you face death and loss on a continual 
basis. It's not too much to ask that you be allowed to live 
the rest of your life free from fear."

"But the risks are always there," I can't help protesting.

He gazes at me steadily. "And so are the rewards. You can't 
escape the risks, so why give up what makes it all 
worthwhile?" 

Dr. Lofton pauses in the doorway, quickly scanning the room 
with his eyes. He spots me and smiles, gesturing for me to 
join him. "Ms. Scully?"

I hastily rise from the chair, encouraged by that smile. 
I'm halfway across the room when I remember Skinner, and 
turn to look at him uncertainly. 

"You go ahead," he tells me. "I'll wait here."

"I'll fill you in as soon as I know what's going on," I 
assure him, giving his shoulder a grateful squeeze-- for 
the company and for the advice, which I just may get the 
chance to take.



_________________________________________________________


<~* CHAPTER SEVEN *~>



I would sacrifice anything, come what might
for the sake of having you near
in spite of a warning voice that comes in the night
and repeats, repeats in my ear:
Don't you know you fool, you never can win
Use your mentality, wake up to reality.
But each time I do, just the thought of you 
Makes me stop before I begin
'Cause I've got you under my skin
(Frank Sinatra)


I remember everything up to the moment of impact, and then 
it's a blank until I woke up here, in the hospital, getting 
prepped for a head CT. The doctors were all completely 
unfamiliar, and for a second I didn't understand, thought 
they'd taken me, thought they were getting ready to 
experiment on me, do something to me. I struggled and 
called out for Scully, and they told me she was nearby... 
And then I remembered her voice drifting over me, her hands 
caressing my head, telling me where I was, and what they 
were doing. She was there, and she would be there when I 
got done. And then I think I fell asleep again, at some 
point, because now I'm back in a regular room and Scully 
and Skinner are whispering over in a corner. I try to sit 
up, which draws their attention and Scully's quick cautions 
for me to lie back down.

She looks tired, but God, she's beautiful when she smiles.

"Congratulations, Agent Mulder, you've topped the Bureau 
record for hospitalizations," Skinner tells me.

"I'll take what's behind door number two, Monty," I mumble, 
and Scully laughs, a real laugh, one I haven't heard in a 
long time.

She slips her hand into mine and turns to Skinner, 
radiating warmth. "Thank you, sir, for waiting with me."

"Anytime, but hopefully not again any time soon," he says. 
"Mulder, I see more of you here than I do in my office."

I chuckle a little, unable to refute his words, and not 
really interested in trying. I'm glad Skinner's here, 
though not really for my sake. More for Scully's.

"The doctors want to keep you here overnight, just for 
observation. But you can go home tomorrow, you're going to 
be just fine," Scully reassures me. "No broken bones, no 
internal injuries, no head trauma."

"Yeah, I feel like a million bucks, here," I can't help but 
mutter, grimacing a little. Actually, I feel, quite 
frankly, like hell.

Skinner shakes his head, exasperated. "You got lucky, 
Mulder. Though I'll give you that, for once, you don't have 
yourself to blame for stumbling into harm's way."

"Is the other guy okay?" I ask, remembering.

Scully answers me, her tone unforgiving. "Perfectly fine. 
And a day older than God, and blind as a bat. He could 
barely see his dashboard, let alone oncoming traffic."

She really sounds angry; there's a shrill tone to her 
voice, and she won't look at me. But her hand still rests 
in mine, and I squeeze it lightly. She squeezes back and 
gives me a tired, tight-lipped smile.

"You should get some rest," I tell her, glancing at Skinner 
for back-up.

"He's right, Scully," he agrees, stopping any protestations 
she was about to make. "You heard the doctors, he's fine. 
You, on the other hand, haven't slept at all. Come on, I'll 
walk you to your car."

She looks ready to argue and I squeeze her hand again, but 
my grip is slipping and my eyelids are getting heavy. That 
seems to decide her. "You're falling asleep again, anyhow," 
she concedes softly. "I'll be back to pick you up."

I nod. "Just gotta get some sleep first."

"You and me both," she admits. "The nurses will be in 
periodically to check on your condition. You know they have 
to do it so don't give them a hard time when they wake you 
up."

"Okay," I mumble, and the last thing I hear before I drift 
off is her soft, surprised laughter at my uncharacteristic 
assent.

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

"Mulder, are you decent?" Scully's voice calls from the 
door.

I bite back a witty reply, just barely. See? I'm improving. 
"Yeah, come on in."

She peeks around the door cautiously and then slips into 
the room, a warm smile on her face. "You all set?"

"Yep." One more hospital stay under my belt, one more time 
I've beat the odds and walked away without a scratch. 
Actually, I have a number of scratches, the worst currently 
throbbing on my forehead. I'm told it won't scar, and I'm 
also told I shouldn't complain too much if it does. And I 
feel... okay, now. Much better than before. Physically, 
that is. Emotionally, as far as Scully is concerned, that's 
another matter entirely.

I feel awkward around her. I feel confused. There was so 
much I wanted to say to her, last night, so much I wanted 
to fix, make right, mend. I still want to say those things, 
but it doesn't seem right, now. We seem too... okay. We're 
smiling at each other, and talking like we used to, and she 
doesn't seem to hate me. We're like we were before, before 
the night that changed everything, before the night we 
spent together, before the night she told me it was over 
just when I thought it had begun. We're partners, again. 
And friends. Isn't this better, better than the past week 
of anger and hurt and fighting? Isn't this, then, how we're 
meant to be? Maybe she's been right all along, maybe this 
is for the best. Maybe I should take what we do have and be 
grateful for it. Living without her entirely is 
unacceptable. Living with her as my partner and my best 
friend, but nothing more... maybe it'll have to do.

Scully leads the way out into the hallway, and I'm all too 
happy to follow her. "Do the nurses hate you?" she asks, 
cheerfully.

I shrug. "I don't think so. Not here long enough to annoy 
anyone in particular, this round."

"Good. Then you'll be safe if I send you off alone to sign 
your discharge papers. I'll get the car and pull up at the 
ER bay, okay?" She's halfway down the hall by now, glancing 
back for my assent.

"You got a plan, go with it, Scully," I tell her, somewhat 
amused by her exuberance. She's all motion today, hardly 
standing still, here and off again before I can catch my 
breath. Or maybe I'm just moving slow, I don't know, I've 
never been hit by a pick-up before.

Papers signed, I make my way out of the hospital. Not only 
is Scully waiting for me by the door, she's leaning up 
against the car, talking to an orderly the size of 
Shaquille O'Neill. Seriously, it's dizzying just looking at 
them together-- he's got to be twice her height, 
practically, even with her in heels.

I notice, though, that Scully isn't wearing heels today; 
she has on Keds, a light blue top, and... jeans. Scully in 
jeans. This is unusual. A good unusual, but still. Her hair 
is flying around in the breeze, and she's got her head 
tipped back to talk to Michael Jordan, or whatever his name 
is. I can't see her eyes behind the sunglasses, but she's 
smiling and saying something about the night shift, and her 
residency. Since Scully does autopsies for a living, I'm 
not sure I want to hear the rest of that story.

She sees me, though, and climbs back in the car, waving 
goodbye to her new friend Kareem Abdul-Jabaar something or 
other. She's still smiling when I get in the car, though 
her expression turns somber as I fasten my seatbelt.

"Do I need to say it?" she asks, gesturing at the belt 
buckle.

I sigh. "No, but you have every right to, if you want. I 
know, I should've been wearing my seat belt. Scout's honor, 
I'll never forget again," I promise her.

She's quiet, for a moment. I miss her smile already.

"You have to take care of yourself, Mulder," she states 
calmly. "You have to. I can't always... you have to at 
least try, try not to let things like this happen."

"I promise," I tell her again, chastened by the lack of 
accusation in her tone. She has every right to be furious 
with me, for making her worry. But she's not. She never is.

We don't talk much the rest of the way home; Scully 
concentrates on driving, and frankly, I don't know what to 
say. I'm lucky to have her in my life, in any capacity, I 
know that. I can't afford to lose her friendship. I know I 
need her with me, no matter what. And I know I need to 
resolve myself to the status quo, just as I always have, 
all these years.

But it's not the same, of course. Back then, I didn't know 
what it was like. Oh, I wondered. I thought about it. Just 
occasionally, at first, fleetingly, and I dismissed those 
thoughts of her as random, merely the consequence of long 
working hours and constant companionship. She was my 
partner, my best friend, the only person I trusted. She'd 
been taken from me, and brought back; she stayed by my side 
when anyone else would have run the other way. And hell, 
she's beautiful and smart and actually pretty funny, if you 
know her-- I'm human, you know, who wouldn't find all that 
attractive, from time to time?

And so the years went by and I almost lost her again, came 
so fucking close to losing her to cancer that I could taste 
how bitter it was. When she got better I couldn't stop 
watching her, seeing her, making sure she was still there. 
And I started wondering more and more what our life would 
be like, together. What my life would be like if we never 
were, and I lost her.

I've always needed Scully, almost from day one when she 
walked through my door and gave me that cool appraising 
look, daring me to prove myself to her. I've grown addicted 
to that challenge, and to the reassurance that she is 
always ready to give me when I fail. I've always needed 
her. But then I started wanting her. I wanted her beside me 
in the morning, I wanted her sleeping next to me at night. 
I wanted her on her bad days, and on my worse days, and I 
didn't want anyone else to have her. I fell in love with 
her, and I knew there was no stopping it, no matter how 
little chance there was I'd ever get what I wanted.

And still, it was easier then. Because I accepted it, 
accepted that my love for her was my own cross to bear. I 
didn't expect anything different. I just wanted her with 
me, any way I could have her, and if as a result I was 
never going to be able to love another woman again, so be 
it. She was worth it. She is worth it. Only now, I know 
what it would be like, after all. Us, together, the way I 
want. Now I know what she feels like, and the taste of her 
lips. Now I know how her voice sounds as she says my name, 
over and over, her breath uneven, her hands in my hair, her 
body shaking beneath mine. Now I know she loves me. Now I 
know exactly what we could have.

Finally, we pull up at my apartment building. There's a lot 
unsaid between us, though; I don't want her to leave yet. 
"Are you coming up?" I ask hopefully.

"Sure," she replies easily, her voice as light and relaxed 
as it was earlier, talking to what's-his-name Dennis Rodman 
out there. I've really got to stop obsessing every time she 
talks to another man, I tell myself, even if this one 
stood, as it were, head and shoulders above the rest.

My apartment is suspiciously tidy. Not clean, nothing so 
drastic as that. Just... straightened. "Scully, when did 
you find time to stop here?"

She laughs, dumping her purse in a chair and crossing to 
the couch. "Now, what makes you think I did?"

"The magazines on the coffee table are in a neat little 
pile. I never do that. I wouldn't know *how* to do that. If 
I tried, I'm sure they'd spontaneously combust in protest. 
With you, on the other hand, they know better than to 
argue," I tell her seriously.

Scully shrugs, undisturbed by my teasing. "I stopped here 
this morning, on my way home from the hospital--"

"Because it's so on the way it's in the other direction," I 
interject.

"--to bring you a few things from the store," she finishes, 
ignoring my interruption.

I can't help grinning; it's not just that she wants me to 
eat well and take care of myself, though I'm sure that's 
part of it. She's also thoroughly disgusted by the mere 
knowledge that there are, at times, things in my 
refrigerator that have reached a rather *ripe* old age. Not 
that anyone expects her to eat them, or anything. But she 
knows they're there, and that's enough. "Damn it, Scully, I 
had a whole little science experiment going on in there, 
and the school fair's coming up."

"You can bring in your fish tank for show and tell instead. 
By the way, I got you two new fish, so it wouldn't look so 
empty."

"Empty?" I ask, clutching my chest in mock horror. "Are you 
trying to tell me something has happened to Larry, Curly, 
and Moe?"

"May they rest in peace, Mulder. But I gave them a nice 
funeral, don't worry," she tells me, trying to look 
grieved.

I shake my head in mock-despair, inwardly touched. She got 
me new fish. That's... that's really amazing of her, to 
think to do something like that, probably going on about 
four or five hours of sleep, and with my sorry ass to run 
all over town after. Good thing she mentioned it, though, I 
think, peering into the tank. These fish look an awful lot 
like the last batch, it might've taken me awhile to notice. 
Of course, there are two now, not three, but who counts 
their fish every day? "Want to pick the names?"

"They're your fish," she protests.

"Yeah, but you got them for me, in addition to overseeing 
the unpleasant task of burying the Three Stooges at sea. I 
think you've earned the privilege," I tell her.

She sighs, and looks away, and it's like the sun has ducked 
behind a cloud. I still can't predict her, and I'm 
beginning to wonder if I ever will, or if I'll ever really 
want to.

"Mulder, why were you driving in Georgetown last night?" 
she finally asks, her voice soft and her eyes focused on 
the floor.

This is one of those moments, those crossroads we come to 
in our relationship, from time to time. Because I could lie 
to her. I could make up some excuse, some perfectly 
logical, perfectly impersonal reason why I was there. I 
could blame it on work, I could say I was meeting someone, 
I could claim to have gotten off on the wrong exit. I could 
say almost anything and she wouldn't question it, wouldn't 
call me on it, wouldn't press the issue. And then we would 
continue on the way we always have, dancing around the 
truth, lying to ourselves, and hiding our real motivations. 

I could do that. But as I said, things are different now, 
and if I leave the truth unsaid, it won't fade into the 
background as it always has. It'll fester, and one day it 
could grow into something unmanageable. We have avoided the 
truth between us, Scully and I, for years, but we've never 
lied to each other. I'm not willing to start now. 
Especially now.

"I was coming to see you," I tell her simply.

She nods, unsurprised. She knew the answer, of course, and 
she knew I wouldn't deny it. She trusts me still, and she 
can't conceive of a day I would lie to her.

"What for?" she asks in the same soft tone, and this time 
she meets my eyes: steadily, calmly, waiting.

I sigh and collapse on the other end of the couch, rubbing 
my hands over my face, then leaning forward, hunched over 
the coffee table. "We needed to talk."

"I agree."

I know she must have things to say to me, and part of me 
wishes she would take control of this conversation, let me 
off the hook, tell me what needs to be said. But she's too 
fair for that; she's had her say, after all, and she knows 
it's my turn. I've been trying to decide what to say to her 
for days now, drawing up sketches of conversations in my 
head, rejecting first one line of reasoning and then 
another. Right now I'm without a script, but it's past time 
for us to deal with what has changed between us. And so, 
ready or not, I take the plunge.

"You're afraid," I tell her, and I can't help but pause, 
expecting her to disagree. But she waits, silent, and I 
take a deep breath and continue. "I realized that, finally. 
I know it shouldn't have taken me so long, shouldn't have 
been so difficult to figure out. And part of it wasn't. It 
doesn't take a rocket scientist to hypothesize that you're 
afraid of changing our relationship, afraid of risking our 
partnership, afraid of letting me in. And I don't blame you 
for that. I don't blame you for being afraid of me, afraid 
to trust me not to hurt you. Because I'm afraid of those 
things too. I'm afraid of how we'll change, and how we'll 
adjust, and how I'll screw up. Believe me when I tell you 
that I'm even more afraid of that than you are, because I 
*know* I'll screw up. I know I'll hurt you, no matter how 
badly I don't want to. No matter how hard I try, I won't be 
able to change who I am that much."

"I wouldn't want you to," she tells me.

I laugh soundlessly. "No, you wouldn't. But I would. I'd 
want to be better for you, to be more like someone who 
deserves you. And I'd fail, over and over again."

She sighs, exasperated. "Mulder--"

"I know," I interrupt, "enough self-flagellation. We've 
been over this little aspect of our relationship enough. 
The point is, I still feel whatever fears you may have in 
that area are fully justified. But that's really not the 
problem, here, is it?"

I turn my head to look at her; she is still regarding me 
with that same unsurprised gaze, as if she already knows 
what I'm going to say, as if she thinks the same things 
herself. I expected argument, I expected denial. I didn't 
expect her to look at me this way, as if the words leaving 
my mouth are ones she has already conceived of.

"No, Mulder, it's not," she says finally, and stops again, 
waiting.

"It's not that you're afraid of me, or of us," I say 
quietly. "You're afraid of yourself."

Now that the words are out there, now that I've given voice 
to the idea that has been growing in my mind since I walked 
away that night, I can't resist gauging her reaction, 
watching her eyes, looking for clues. But I don't find any, 
at least any that make sense. She doesn't flinch, doesn't 
shy away, doesn't lower her shields and hide from my 
accusations. She just looks at me, calmly, and asks, "Do 
you know why?"

I hesitate, on shaky ground, but willing to forge ahead. 
"I... think so. I think you're afraid this isn't something 
you can handle, something you can do. I think you're 
worried about how you'll change, and how you won't be able 
to change. I think you're afraid there won't be any turning 
back, any way to take back what you've given me. And I 
think you're right about all of those things, right to be 
afraid, right to be concerned."

I pause, unsure how to continue. I didn't expect her to 
agree with me, to accede so readily to my theory. It's 
unfamiliar, and unsettling.

Scully clears her throat briefly before speaking. "Is this 
what you wanted to say to me last night?"

"In a way. I was coming over to do whatever it took to 
bring us back together, to keep us from falling apart. I 
won't deny that I need you, Scully. I can't afford to lose 
you this way. And if I need to accept your decision 
regarding our future in order to preserve our friendship, I 
will," I promise her, meaning every word. "That's the most 
important part of what I wanted to say to you."

She looks away, then, down at her shoes, her hands twisting 
together in her lap. For a moment the silence between us 
stretches, and when she finally speaks, it is in a tone I 
have never heard her use before, both soft and intense. "I 
was so scared last night, Mulder."

"At the hospital?"

She nods. "I was terrified. And angry at myself. I was so 
unprepared to lose you."

"Not possible," I tell her, quickly, wanting to drive the 
sadness from her voice, her eyes.

"But it is possible. I could lose you any time. It's not 
going to take a conspiracy or the government or little 
green men to do it, either. I could lose you at a crime 
scene, or to a disease, or in a car accident. It could 
happen, and it almost did happen, and I wasn't ready for 
it."

I can't argue with her; I know the truth of her words. Not 
a week goes by I don't have those same thoughts about her, 
and how easily I could be destroyed if she were gone. "No 
one ever is, Scully."

"No, they're not, but that's not what I mean. I mean 
everything you said, before. I mean that I've been afraid, 
all this time. I have been afraid of us. And I won't deny I 
have been afraid of you. But the hardest part to deal with 
is that I have been afraid of myself, just as you 
described. I've been afraid of letting you in because I 
knew I would never be able to shut you out again. I've been 
afraid of committing myself to you completely, because I 
might not be able to give you everything you need. But most 
of all, I've been afraid of admitting what you mean to me, 
because I'm not sure I could stand losing you."

She turns to me, then, her eyes filled with unshed tears, 
and moves to bridge the distance between us on the couch. 
Bringing one hand to my face, she brushes back a lock of 
hair, leaving her small, warm hand resting against my 
cheek. And when she speaks again, her voice shakes a 
little, and my heart aches at the sound. "I told you that 
love and need were two separate things, and that if love 
grew from need, it was somehow less valuable. But I was 
wrong, Mulder, so terribly wrong. Because I love you so 
much that I need you, and I need you so much that it scares 
me."

I reach for her blindly, pulling her head down to my chest. 
I know exactly what those words cost her. I know exactly 
how difficult it was for her to say them. And so I just let 
them wash over me, sinking in, as I bury my face in her 
hair. Of all the things I have ever learned about Scully, 
over the years, this is the most unexpected. And the most 
cherished.

We stay that way for some time, my hands smoothing back her 
hair, her arms wrapped around my waist. Unlike every other 
time I have held her this way, she doesn't pull away, 
doesn't bring her guard back up, doesn't stiffen and break 
off the moment. Finally, though, she lifts her head to meet 
my eyes, and all traces of her earlier tears are long gone. 
In fact, there's something looking suspiciously like a 
smile hovering in the vicinity of her mouth.

"What?" I ask her, intrigued by the mischievous glint in 
her eyes.

She tilts her head back and considers for a moment before 
answering. "I have another little tidbit of information to 
share, something I know you want to hear."

"Really?" I drawl, enjoying her teasing and genuinely 
curious. Whatever it is, the way she's trying not to smile, 
it must be good.

She sobers slightly, though, and looks a little hesitant. 
"Yes. It's something you already know, though."

I'm actually stumped, here. "Then why do you need to tell 
me?"

"Because you need to hear me say it, and I need to 
apologize for not believing it sooner."

I grin smugly. "Is this about little green men?"

"In your dreams."

"You're much more impressed than you let on by my hook 
shot?"

"I couldn't care less about your hook shot."

"That hurts, you know," I tell her. "Come on, Scully, spill 
it."

"You love me," she tells me, and she can't help but smile. 
"You've tried to tell me so many times, and I never let you 
say it. I never believed it. But I do now. You really love 
me."

Have I mentioned there's no predicting this woman?

Practically laughing with relief, I pull her into my arms 
and kiss her fiercely, joyously. Her lips curve around 
mine, still smiling, and her arms wind around my neck. If I 
thought she felt right in my arms before, I had no idea 
what I was talking about. This is the way I always dreamed 
us being together, the way I consoled myself, the way I 
imagined when I needed something to pull me out of the 
dark. Together, not as a refuge from pain, but as a 
celebration of everything good we are together, everything 
strong, everything bright. She brings warmth to my life no 
matter how cold our surroundings, and I swear to God I'm 
going to do my best to give her the same.

She breaks off, finally, laughing, catching her breath, but 
doesn't move away. And though the moment is as perfect as I 
could ever hope for, I'm a pessimistic bastard, and I've 
been here, or close enough to it, before.

"Scully..." I begin, and trail off, not sure what to say, 
not sure how to say it. She waits, serenely, and her 
confidence encourages me to continue. "I need to know. I 
need to be sure... what you want. What this means. Where 
we're going."

She leans back on the cushions and runs her hand through my 
hair idly. "I don't blame you. Once bitten, after all."

"It's not that--"

She laughs. "Sure it is. I knocked you on your ass once 
already, who could blame you?"

I can't help but grin sheepishly. There's no predicting 
her, but she really does have me pegged. "Well?"

"Mulder, I can't promise you things'll be easy from now on. 
I can't promise you I'll never be afraid or shut you out. 
Just as you can't promise me you'll never 'screw up' again, 
as you so aptly put it." She pauses, weighing her words, 
and smiles shyly. "But I love you, and I know that you love 
me. And that really is enough to make this work, don't you 
think?"

And I can't say anything, I just take her face between my 
hands and kiss her, her mouth opening like a flower beneath 
mine, her body pressed against me. 

I slide away from her mouth, finally, nuzzling softly at 
her neck, her hands drawing lazy circles through my hair. 
"George and Gracie," she says dreamily.

"Hmmm?"

"The fish. I want to name them George and Gracie."

I smile, tunneling my hands beneath her shirt, reveling in 
her gasp as I caress her breasts through thin, silky 
fabric. Trailing a line of kisses down her neck, I slowly 
begin to undo the tiny pearl buttons, staying just one step 
ahead of my lips. "Well, then," I breathe against her skin, 
"say goodnight, Gracie."

She laughs, dragging my mouth back to hers. "Mulder, I 
thought you'd never ask."


END