Bound by Faith II: Each to the Other 
March 1998
Category: V, A, R
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: none
Keywords: MSR

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the X-Files are the
property of 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement
is intended.

Note: This will make more sense if you've read Bound by Faith.

My thanks to Meredith, who provides more help than she even knows.

Feedback gratefully accepted



I'm almost there.

A few more miles to travel and then the longest distance of all --
to her front door.

I know, somehow, that she will be waiting for me. Beyond that I
don't quite know what I will find. What we will find.

I only know that I have been called back here. Called back now.
I, who never thought I would have a home, am racing toward a
destination that could hold the answer to nearly every question I
ever sought to ask. Or that may undo me entirely.

But I have no choices left.

I'm almost home.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

God, Scully, how do you do it?

How do you reach across the miles, across time itself, to grab hold
of my soul, to bring me home? How do you do it, when I know I lost
my soul years ago?

How can you, with a few pages of a letter, make me drop everything
and think of nothing but finding the fastest way back to you? How
do you manage to turn my quest so topsy-turvy with a single
sentence?

That's not fair. It's not you. I don't think you were trying to
_make_ me do anything. You were just being you. You are not
responsible for my reactions.

I suppose the question from your perspective has to be how could I
have left you? And in all honesty, I have no answers for you. With
your characteristic patience and restraint, you've never actually
asked me that. Never once in all those letters. Never once in all
these months have you asked me the question I ask myself a
thousand times a day.

How could I have left you that morning?

I still don't know.

Have you never asked me why I left because somewhere, deep in the
complex stillness you carry so well, you already know? Would you
tell me if you did?

You know, I sometimes think you let me go because you wanted me to
find the answer on my own. Did you think it would take this long?
Would have let me go anyway? Do I really want to know the answer
to that? Probably not. I remain a coward about certain things.

Do you know how crazy you make me sometimes with that quietness
of yours? You have this calm, contained quality that can almost be
mistaken for arrogance. But I know it's not. It's simply that you
know so deeply and surely who you are. I count on that, I need it.
I need you to know who you are and who I am.

Your letters, Scully, have carried me. Have reminded me of...of
what? I don't even have words to tell you that you are my lifeline,
my anchor, my dictionary--defining all meaning. I can only say
'thank you,' and hope that somehow you can hear the many other
things I mean by that.

You have given me so much already, and I know that I will ask for
more. I have no choice, and I think somehow, somewhere along the
line, I stole your choices as well. But I won't apologize for
that. I can't.

That night -- our one night -- is, as you have already guessed, an
inextricable part of my memory. It is my only hope and my greatest
despair.

I came to you and you accepted me with everything that you are, with
everything that we can be, and then I left you, and you let me leave.

Why? How?

Your words draw me back now. Am I nothing but your puppet? Do you
send me away, and draw me back merely at your whim?

I'm sorry. That's not fair, either. It's simply that here and now,
reading your letter, I am a man torn asunder by his own devices.

I have my quest, which has driven me for so long. I am always
forsaking shelter, always hurling myself into storms of all kinds.
I have almost deliberately shunned shelter -- avoided it as the
coward's answer, but now I have to wonder what real courage is.
I am torn between my need to find the answers that have eluded me
and the answers I have discovered I already posses, and that terrify
me. The answers that are us.

I must decide on my direction. I must decide what voice I will
listen to: the voice of my quest, or the voice of my memory.

I hear the ache in your voice, in this letter. I can hear you saying
these words.

I miss you, too, Scully.

I have missed you every step of this journey, the purpose of which
you have undoubtedly guessed. That this trip ends in yet another sort
of failure is all too inevitable, I suppose. Equally inevitable is
the feeling that this is not my last such trip. Will you let me go
again? Do I hope you will, or do I fear it?

Nothing else in my life is this ambivalent.

You are so dangerous, Dana Scully. You hold half my soul, maybe more.
But that's not what I fear.

Do you know which part of your letter is bringing me back to you?

Not the memories of our night of union -- as much as that night
shakes my soul in memory, I know it is only prelude.

Not your threats of eventually forcing Skinner to tell you
everything -- although I'd pay good money to see that showdown.

Not even the fact that you miss me -- I have lived with separation
of one sort or another for so long that I know it is survivable, and
I know your strength.

No. What brought me to my knees and what is bringing me back to
your door is this terrifying declaration that you make so quietly:

"Now half of my soul is wandering the world without me."

Jesus, Scully. How could you trust me like that? I couldn't breathe
when I read those words. I was afraid to move, afraid to believe.
It's one thing for you to carry my soul for me -- I trust you. That
you have given over the care of half your soul to me seems nearly
incomprehensible.

And look at how I have treated that trust. How can I return to you
after this long absence? How can I not return?

But you know, you understand my terror, don't you? You know me so
well.

Who was I before I met you?

I was someone else, I think. I can remember that far back. It seems
hazy, at times, and other times crystal clear. But always, in my
memory, I know that the day you first entered my office, our office,
was a turning point. I think I knew it at the time.

You changed me almost from the beginning. But there was a moment,
a single point in time...

In your letter to me, you recounted our night together. I want to
tell you about the memory that haunts me, that warms me, that
sustains me.

It was Thursday of that same week. We'd just wrapped up the case in
Charlottesville, and were driving back home. As usual, we were
arguing our respective conclusions about the case. Less usually,
the argument had the ring of banter to it, with no underlying anger
or stubbornness. And it came to me that we were _playing_. I
remember being astonished that we had come so far that we could
joke about what used to be such life-and-death positions for us.

And then you said something, and for once my memory fails me, because
I didn't hear the words. I only heard the tone in your voice. You
were turned toward me briefly -- you were driving -- and the
setting sun illuminated you in what I can only describe as an aura.
You were almost laughing, and the warmth of the light around you, the
warmth in your voice and the unbelievable light and acceptance in
your eyes undid me.

I know I stuttered some reply and you laughed at me again, and
turned back to the road. It's a good thing I wasn't driving, I
would have undoubtedly crashed the car.

Such a small moment and I wonder if you even remember it. But it
was the instant when I became who I am now.

My heart was hammering; I couldn't breathe. My world changed utterly
in that moment. I knew with a sudden, terrible certainty that I
belonged to you heart and soul, and somehow I knew that you loved
me, too. It took me more than 24 hours to find the courage to come
to you. You'll never know what it cost me to ask you if I could
come in.

But you let me cross your threshold and I forever left the old Mulder
on the other side. So, it no longer matters who I was. It matters
only that I am journeying back to the rest of my soul, and I know you
wait for me.

Wait for me, Scully. It will not be much longer.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And now I am at her door.

It is late, of course, and raining. It must be an X-File all its own
that these monumental events in our lives are always marked by rain
and dark.

She is not waiting for me in her doorway this time. I can't help
but feel a little heartache at that.

I do believe she can feel me. I want to believe that so much. I
guess it's why I expected her to be waiting -- hoping against hope
that somehow her internal radar would be so finely tuned she would
feel my approach and be waiting with open arms.

That seems improbable on a number of levels, though. I think I will
owe her more than a few explanations before I deserve a hero's
welcome, or any kind of welcome at all.

But it is late, and I cannot stand here forever. I need to see her.
I need to see her face, her eyes, her smile. Dear god, let her smile
when she sees me. I can take anything as long as she smiles, as long
as she wants to see me.

I knock.

There is quick movement to the door -- she was not sleeping.

"Who is it?" Her voice sounds odd, and it occurs to me that she has
looked through the peephole, yet she asked anyway. My chest aches.

"It's me, Scully."

There is a small, endless pause, and the door opens. It is her.
And me.

She looks weary and wraith-ridden, but she has not changed a bit.
She is the most beautiful woman in the world.

Her hand flies to her mouth and I think I see tears in her eyes, but
it is so hard to see past my own tears.

"Mulder?" Still she hesitates and then I remember that she
encountered my counterfeit so many times before.

I search to find the words that will reassure her, reconnect us.

Then everything is made right, because she reaches for me, her hands
blindly stretching out, and I am in her arms once more.

I pull her as close as I can; there is room for neither thought nor
breath between us. One or both of us is trembling. I cannot, for
the moment, tell where she ends and I begin, and I cannot bring
myself to think of anything but that I am home, and I never want to
leave again.

Somehow we are inside her apartment, leaning against her closed door,
still bound to each other, hanging on as though to life rafts on a
storm-tossed sea. I wonder vaguely if it would be possible to simply
spend the rest of my life holding Scully. It seems a worthy goal.

Suddenly she begins to shake. Alarmed, I pull back a little, trying
to see her face, her eyes. What? What is wrong?

She is laughing. She is laughing and crying and shaking, and I know
just how she feels.

"Jesus, Mulder. You've always had the most ridiculously dramatic
sense of timing." Her tone, though, is soft, almost affectionate.
And her eyes are warm and welcoming and everything I don't deserve.

The tightness in my chest is transformed into a different ache.
ThankyouThankyouThankyou.

I dare now to finally drop my head and brush my lips across hers.
She is salt and water and warmth. Oh god, the warmth. I have been
cold for so many months. No more. No more.

There is no hesitation in her reply. Her breath mingles with mine,
and her lips are soft and open beneath mine. She is here and I am
tasting Scully again, feeling Scully again, kissing Scully again.

I will never know how I could have left.

Her tongue slides across my teeth, plundering my mouth, claiming me.
But I have been hers for so long. I surrender to her, allowing
myself the luxury of being conquered.

We kiss until we are breathless and then pause only long enough to
draw what oxygen we need into our starved lungs before plunging
heedlessly back into our embrace, a joining that feeds a deeper
hunger. We are caught in the maelstrom of our long-denied passions,
tumbled heedless in the directionless winds. I can feel sanity and
reason slipping away. I do not care.

More. I must have more. I am struck through by a need that cannot
be satisfied by any kiss, no matter how shattering. I need to see
all of her, touch all of her, taste all of her, possess all of her.
All.

My partner in this, as in everything, she has already moved to tug
off my jacket, and suddenly we are in a reckless race to discard
each other's clothing. We are like children unfamiliar with the
intricacies of zippers and buttons and snaps. Fumbling and
laughing, we stumble to her bedroom, trailing clothes through her
tidy apartment.

And then even laughter is beyond me, as she stands naked before me.
There is nothing left but awe and love. And Scully. My Scully.

I am shaking under the force of her gaze, under the weight of my
longing, and the sure knowledge that our waiting is at an end. She
strips back the covers of her bed, and turns to look at me, her
eyebrow arched in an achingly familiar challenge. No, Scully, I
have no idea what I'm waiting for.

I step back into her embrace, and she tightens her hold on me,
pressing her body against the full length of mine. Her lithe curves
fit to my frame so well. Her breasts are pressed to my chest, and
my hardness pressing against her belly seems welcome. She rocks
gently against me, the pressure on my engorged penis causing me to
gasp, almost breathless.

She rubs her cheek against my chest; her hair brushing against my
skin is an erotic softness that is superior to any silk. I want
each of these moments to last a lifetime, so that I can remember
each touch, each smell, each sensation. But I am also so impatient
to devour her now.

Slow. I will savor this. Keeping a tight rein on myself, I let
my hands begin to trail across her body. I am relearning her, letting
my fingertips read her carefully, precisely. I will learn each
millimeter of her, catalog it. I can feel a wave of electric
awareness running from my fingers to her skin and back to my body
as she trembles and sways against me. I can feel myself growing
impossibly harder and hotter, and still I try to wait, to let this
unfold slowly.

Her hands too begin to rove. Gently, firmly tracing my body -- the
scars and skin and sinew that belong to her and her alone. I am lost
in her touch and the feel of our mutual exploration and
connection.

Then I feel her lips and tongue and teeth trailing across my chest,
smoothing over the hairs, until she reaches my nipple. Gentle
nipping, soothing, rubbing, tasting. And I think I may fall apart
from this simple and complicated thing she is doing.

Impatience wins.

With a growl that surprises both of us, I sweep her onto the bed.
Her eyes, in the dim light reflected from the hall, sparkle with
mystery and humor and something that it frightens me to try to name.
I cannot stop myself. My hands move with less precision now, less
gentleness, but she arches up into my touch with a wantonness and
eagerness that undoes all my restraint.

My lips follow the path of my hands, to her breasts, her belly, her
thighs, the crisp hair at the junction of her thighs. Her quiet
moans of pleasure are the harmony to my harsh breathing and groans.

At her apex, I stop for a moment, inhaling the elusive smoky musk
that is Scully. It nearly makes me dizzy this smell. I have to
taste her. Gently parting her thighs wider, I slowly sweep my
tongue across her core, reveling in the molten honey-salt. Then I
linger to place a kiss on her swelling clitoris. I hear my name
being torn from her throat and look up to meet her eyes. They are
so dilated that they are nothing but the black of the sky between
the stars.

"Mulder... God. Just come here. Come here." I need no further
urging.

And then she is beneath me, around me, and I am within her again,
and it is exactly the perfection that I remember. She thrusts up
to meet me, and I pull back and away and then sink into her again
and immediately we find a rhythm that is driven neither by her nor
me, but by some mysterious force that is us. Only us.

I want to tell her that she is so hot and wet and tight, and that
I love her, and that I am sorry, and that I will never leave again,
and that this is all I ever need, but I can't find breath or reason
to speak. I can only continue to drive us ever further outward,
past all earthly constraints. My body must tell her all that my
missing words cannot.

Even if I could speak I know that nothing I could say would be
adequate to tell her the whole truth. But I have to try anyway.

"Scully." My voice is raw and wild -- she is not frightened.

Her eyes have never left mine, and I am afraid to look away. Afraid
that if I lose contact with her that I will be cast adrift among the
stars, to wander forever without a home or shelter. But she
does not look away, she does not allow me to be swept away alone.

"Yes." Her voice is almost unrecognizable in its intensity. I am
shaken to my bones by the raw honesty and openness I hear. "I
know, Mulder, I know."

And of course, she does know. I think she has always known.

I bend down and take her mouth in a rough kiss. I am no longer
capable of finesse and must communicate with the only things I have
left -- my body, my passion, my love. I must count on her to hear
me, and understand me.

She does.

With a muffled cry, she begins to clench around me, the sharp
spasms sending flares and sparks out along the length of me buried
in her. I feel my own orgasm begin to overtake me, and I am hurtled
out through the vast reaches of space and time, until there is
nothing left but infinity, and the answers in Scully's eyes.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I have come home.

I have traveled the world looking for answers from the skies. I have
demanded the truth from all I encountered, forgetting to ask it of
myself.

In an imperfect and unjust world, I have found a faith that I neither
hoped to find nor deserved. But I will not refuse to accept it, or
what I have found with Scully.

We are bound. To our quest for answers that may be forever beyond
our grasp, but that we will never cease to seek. And to each other.
Only in those bonds are we free.

I am home.

END


Author's note: I had absolutely no intention of writing a sequel
to Bound by Faith, despite pleas from several kind readers for one.
But the idea got planted by your lovely letters and suddenly
Mulder wanted to tell his side of things. Thank you for reading.
I'd love to know what you thought.

All comments welcomed