Taming The Unicorn
by Imajiru
imajiru@mindspring.com

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I.    The Challenge
      In which a wager is made, and a secret is revealed.
II.   The Payback
      In which the terms of the wager are defined.
III.  The Holiday Spirit
      In which a holiday is celebrated, not according to 
      plan.
IV.   The Sundering
      In which bad things happen to good people.
V.    The Healing
      In which broken things are made whole.
VI.   The Definition Of Forever
      In which Mulder's bed is unearthed.
VII.  Friendship
      In which a relationship is redefined.
VIII. Love
      In which priorities are established.
IX.   Commitment
      In which the future is considered.
X.    Marriage
      In which a partnership is finalized.
XI.   The Taming Of The Unicorn
      In which something is lost, and much more is gained.
XII.  Happily Ever After
      In which we find out how the story ends.

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I. The Challenge

"You don't know what you're talking about," Scully 
ridiculed, taking another sip of her wine.

It was a very good wine, and she had ingested enough of it 
to feel pleasantly buzzed -- distortion of reality wasn't 
usually her 'thing', but this time it was all right; she was 
with Mulder, which meant that she felt about as safe as she 
could possibly feel, and it had been a stressful couple of 
days.  Couple of weeks.  Okay, so life was always 
stressful...

She glanced sideways at him and wondered why, after a solid 
week of working beside him, she always seemed to choose his 
continued presence over a change of scenery.  It didn't 
really make sense... but here it was, Friday night, and here 
he was, sprawled on her couch, and it felt as good and 
comfortable and right as anything ever could.

"Oh, c'mon, Scully," he protested -- slurring his words 
slightly; she hadn't been drinking alone -- "it only stands 
to reason.  With insufficient data..."

"Lack of experience is not the same as insufficient data," 
she parried.

"Sure it is.  In this case, there's no substitute for on-
the-job training."  Mulder shook his head, displaying honest 
puzzlement.  "I don't even know why you're arguing with me, 
Scully."

"Because you're *wrong*, that's why," she replied with total 
confidence, struggling to ignore the little surreptitious 
tingle of excitement that danced along her spinal cord.  
They were getting into interesting territory here, and she 
didn't dare let herself wonder where this might lead...

He shook his head again.  "No way, Scully," was his flat 
denial.  "I'm sorry, but there's no way you're going to get 
me to buy your argument."

Hmm.  Now this was *very* interesting.  "What if I could?" 
she said idly.

"Huh?"  Mulder finished the last of his wine, reached to 
pour himself another glass -- scowled at the empty bottle, 
picked up a fresh one and a corkscrew and began to wrestle 
with the task of opening it.

"What if I could persuade you that I'm right?"  The 
adrenaline tingle grew stronger, multiplying and 
intensifying into a butterfly-flutter of pleasant 
anticipation.  She'd contemplated this, exercised her 
formidable curiosity to envision and picture something like 
this, but had never actually foreseen it happening...

"Oh, sure, Scully."  He cursed under his breath at the 
recalcitrant cork, redoubled his efforts.  "How're you going 
to do that?"

She almost laughed, but that would have spoiled the set-up.  
"Never mind that," she said mildly.  "If I could prove to 
you that it's possible to have a sexually satisfying 
relationship with someone who's never experienced coitus..."

"Can't be done."

"...but if I *could*, what would be your side of the bet?"  
She settled back against the sofa cushions, awaiting his 
answer.

The wine bottle, it seemed, was actively fighting his 
attempts to uncork it; the sardonic edge to his voice 
strengthened with his reply.  "Scully, you call up Virgins-
R-Us and find me one who knows how to give a decent blowjob, 
and I'll be your slave for life."

She had to smile at that -- and inside her head, a part of 
her mind busily evaluated the situation at hand: worth it, 
or not worth it?  In a split-second decision, she realized 
that there was no way she could pass up this opportunity; 
the terms of the wager were unenforceable, of course, but it 
would be a delight to tease him about it afterwards.

//Okay, then,// she determined, and spoke up.

"I'm a virgin," Scully said quietly.

The cork chose that precise moment to relinquish its snug 
nest in the winebottle; the corkscrew flew out of suddenly 
slack fingers, and the bottle slipped to the ground and 
began spilling its contents over the rug.

He turned to her, eyes wide and dark, and she knew that he 
honestly hadn't seen it coming -- the dazed look on his face 
was a treasure.  "No..."

"Yes," she told him.

"Naaaaah...."  Sheer disbelief, utter stunned shock, as if 
she'd suddenly revealed that she was a Reticulan spy... she 
thought with amusement that he probably would have accepted 
such news with far more equanimity.

"Mulder," she said, very patiently, "there is expensive wine 
being wasted on the floor."

"Huh?  Oh."  He retrieved the bottle, righted it -- there 
was still some left inside; he studied the flask for a 
moment, then tilted it to his lips and downed a few quick 
gulps.

Looked at Scully, repeated, "Naaaah," and offered her the 
bottle.

She accepted it, feeling somehow touched by the gesture -- 
sipped, then handed it back, for it was clear that he needed 
it more than she did.  "Truly," she said.

"*How*?"  His tone was incredulous.  "I mean, you've had 
relationships..."

"As I keep telling you, it's perfectly possible to have a 
sexual relationship without engaging in intercourse," she 
informed him.

"But *why*?  I mean... I can't imagine anyone choosing not 
to..."

The laughter bubbled forth before she could stop it.  
"Mulder, you're such a *male*," she scolded him lightly.  
"Thank you for assuming that it was my choice, though."

"You didn't answer the question," he persisted; as the 
initial impact of her revelation faded, he was instinctively 
trying to unravel the inscrutable, tackling the matter as if 
it were an X-File.  Which she supposed it was, in a way.

"I'm waiting for the right man," she said simply, masking 
the twinge of pain that the statement evoked within her.  
Once, she would have said that she was waiting for her 
wedding night... but that was a hope she'd relinquished to 
the passage of time.  As the years had passed, her virginity 
had seemed less of a treasure and more of a curse... but 
that wasn't relevant to the issue at hand, and she was 
disinclined to allow him to pursue that course of inquiry.

He seemed about to, but then his attention shifted.  "So, 
you're a virgin," he said, his tone of voice indicating that 
he found this to be a very odd thing indeed.  "You still 
haven't proven the validity of your argument."

So very pleased with himself, she noted; he seemed to think 
that he had won.  Obviously, he wasn't expecting her to 
follow through -- she experienced a momentary pang of 
unease, wondering if maybe he didn't want her to?  No, more 
likely it was the typical blindness, his smug conviction 
that he knew her thoroughly enough to predict her responses.  
Evidently, he'd fallen prey to the common misconception that 
the no-nonsense-professional side of her was the only 
side... and of course, there was the whole virgin-equals-
prude fallacy that *every* man seemed to succumb to... she 
smiled.

"Mmm," she said noncommittally, looking him over.  Not bad, 
not bad at all.  Upon their first meeting, she had 
automatically and ruthlessly placed him in the category 
marked, "Colleague: Do Not Touch" -- not without qualms, but 
it had been the most sensible course.  But things were 
different now, they meant more to each other now... all that 
they had been through together, things that no one else 
could ever share, there *was* no one in her life but Mulder, 
and she liked it that way.  Liked having him in her life.  
Liked being a part of his, no matter how complicated that 
made things sometimes.

Just the thought of touching him was compelling.  And the 
idea of wiping that smug little grin off his face, well, 
that held its own appeal...

He shifted slightly, some of the complacency slipping away, 
as it began to dawn on him what she might have in mind.  
"Um, Scully..."

"Mmm."  She set down her wineglass, reached out with one 
hand and popped open the topmost button on his shirt.

Mulder flinched -- no, it was a tremor, a long shudder that 
raced through him with lightning speed.  Inexplicably, she 
felt a swift surge of desire flood her in response.

"Uhm... Scully..."  Language seemed to be failing him, she 
noted; not that this was surprising, considering that all 
the blood was leaving his skull and heading south.

She stretched out her arm again, popped open another button; 
he shifted position again, uncomfortably, and she was 
delighted to see that the simple act of unbuttoning his 
shirt was having such a notable effect on him.

"You don't have to do this."  His voice was strained, a 
hoarse whisper, and the very sound of it set her afire.  
Trust Mulder to give her an easy out, at a moment when any 
other man would be cajoling her to continue; that in itself 
was terribly arousing.

"Oh, but I want to."  And that much was true; it wasn't 
about the bet, or at least, not merely about the bet.  The 
prospect of teasing Mulder about his vow of eternal slavery 
was a peripheral matter... she didn't, wouldn't allow 
herself to contemplate the main issue, not at that moment.

Instead, she let her fingers trail down to the last few 
shirt buttons, undoing them nimbly, with a twitch of her 
hand -- brought her hand to a rest at the waistband of his 
trousers, just above the solid contours of his erection, and 
felt him shiver again as her fingertips brushed against his 
stomach.

"So," she said conversationally, toying with the button of 
his fly, "if I can make you scream in ecstasy, you'll be my 
slave for life; that's the deal, right?"

"Sounds like a fair trade to me."  Breathless, his voice, 
and tinged with humor -- anticipation mingled with 
apprehension, although it seemed to her at that moment that 
the thing he feared most was that she would change her mind.

"Mmm."  She unfastened the top button of his pants, and 
almost laughed as his hips moved involuntarily to meet her 
questing hand.  It had always amused her, how easily and 
completely men were motivated by their glands.  If she had 
been a different woman, she would have used that fact, as so 
many of her contemporaries did -- but the concept of 
screwing her way to the top of the heap was too alien for 
her to ever really comprehend; her soul wasn't hardwired 
that way.

But it was definitely amusing, how easy it was to undermine 
male bravado with a few caresses and kisses applied to the 
right bit of flesh.  She had acquired a certain skill 
through practice, and her studies of human anatomy had 
certainly helped -- and men who'd been certain that nothing 
less than intercourse could possibly satisfy them had been 
utterly mesmerized by her alternative.  A compromise, on her 
part, more than anything else; a way to ensure that her 
silent vow of celibacy wouldn't dry up her social life 
completely.  Even when she'd cared deeply for the man, she'd 
always felt a certain resentment that the compromise was 
necessary...

This time, it was different.

This time, it was Mulder, her partner, her friend.  The 
person with whom she shared a closeness, an intimacy, unlike 
anything she'd ever known before.  Sitting on her couch with 
his legs spread slightly, watching her to see what she would 
do next -- wanting her desperately, but perfectly willing to 
let her off the hook, because there was *trust* between 
them, and that trust was all that really mattered.

She moved off the couch and knelt between his legs, one 
smooth graceful motion, all the while gazing at him and 
watching his face change from tentative hope to eagerness... 
she stroked his crotch, feeling the flesh straining against 
the fabric, the heat emanating from him, and felt an 
answering heat swelling within herself.

His hand settled against the side of her head, and she 
stiffened against her will; she *hated* it when they grabbed 
her head and pulled her down -- but instead, his palm 
smoothed along her hair.  "You don't have to do this," he 
repeated, and if his voice held the trembling resonance of 
his longing, it also contained deep sincerity.  "Not to 
prove a point, Scully.  Not on a bet."

She blinked up at him, and all at once, it was all she could 
to keep from bursting into tears.

Instead, she rested her hands on his thighs, leaned forward 
and took the metal slide of his zipper between her teeth and 
very slowly, very carefully, pulled it down.

This elicited a sharp sound halfway between a gasp and a 
moan, and she knew that she had taken him well past the 
point of even token resistance -- wondered briefly how long 
it had been for him, as she ran her fingers along his 
erection to gauge his sensitivity.  A long time, she 
decided: that would have been evident from his reactions, 
even if she hadn't already known that his social life was as 
nonexistent as hers.  She'd have to be careful, or else it 
would be over far too soon -- and she found that she was 
anxious to ensure that it was done right.  Not to prove a 
point, not to demonstrate her skill to her skeptical 
partner, but because he deserved no less than the best she 
was capable of giving.

She had the feeling that he was going to be very surprised 
at just how good her best could be.

Very slowly at first, the barest gentle kisses, the 
slightest flicking of her tongue, and each small touch 
provoked what seemed to her to be an excessively strong 
reaction -- until she realized that her own body was 
responding just as fiercely.  Autoeroticism was fine, but it 
was no substitute for the presence, for the touch of 
another.  And all they had was each other, really, and 
suddenly in retrospect it made perfect sense that this 
should happen, that they should be together this way; for 
where else could either of them find a way to assuage the 
haunting loneliness that afflicted them both?

Hands and lips and tongue and (very carefully) teeth; her 
attention focused on him completely, on his responses, to 
discern what he liked and when and how -- holding herself 
back, holding him back, prolonging the pleasure and 
intensifying the buildup of passion.  His hands clamped down 
on her shoulders, fingertips digging into her skin -- there 
was an edge of desperation, growing stronger as she 
continued her ministrations. 

She had to admit (though only to herself) that she loved the 
feeling of power derived from this.  Even the most 
domineering and arrogant man could be reduced to quivering 
jelly by the withdrawal of a warm mouth at a difficult 
moment -- it was her secret weapon, one she'd used without 
hesitation when necessary, but never without cause.  
Kneeling between Mulder's legs in a posture of supposed 
subservience, she felt a certain wicked pleasure in the 
knowledge that she *owned* him, body and soul.  If she were 
to back away now, there would be nothing he wouldn't give 
her, nothing he wouldn't do to persuade her to finish the 
task...

...but that was something she wouldn't, couldn't do.  Not to 
him.

She did, however, ease off enough to bring him back from the 
point of no return, and secretly savored his soft whimper of 
frustration.  Oh, but she would make it up to him...

"Scully."  His ragged whisper caught her by surprise, though 
she didn't know quite why; her eyes flickered upward to 
survey his face.  Sweat-slicked, eyes heavy-lidded, 
completely lost in passion -- lost in her.  Amazing, how 
much of a turn-on that was.

Not wanting to spare a hand for herself, she adjusted her 
position a bit, squeezing her thighs together to create a 
certain pressure; she was as skilled at this as the other, 
had learned to find for herself the pleasure that so many 
men had been unwilling or unable to provide.  The rationale 
seemed to be that a virgin couldn't possibly have sexual 
needs... more resentment, stored and never expressed.

But again, this was different -- this time, she wanted it to 
be this way.  Wanted to give Mulder this gift, unalloyed and 
without distraction; wanted him to take it, to accept what 
she was giving him without compensation.  She didn't know 
quite why, but it was important to her somehow.  All she 
wanted was to feel him trembling at her touch, to hear his 
cries -- she liked his repertoire of sounds, particularly 
this one breathy half-sobbing moan that happened when 
everything was just right...

It was happening more frequently now, as she brought him 
ever closer to the precipice.  Such power she held over him, 
yet she would not be content with anything less than 
complete ownership -- and he seemed perfectly willing to 
surrender; she sensed his restraint, as he fought to keep 
from thrusting into her mouth, struggled with himself to 
allow her to set the pace.  Yet another manifestation of the 
trust they shared, and one that touched her deeply.  
However, it also meant that he still had some control left, 
and that was the last thing she wanted.

She wanted him to be so far gone that pleasure was almost 
painful, that every fragment of his being was wholly 
consumed in his imminent climax.  She wanted it to be the 
singular best sexual experience of his life, if possible: 
partly out of pride, to prove that she could, but mostly 
because she wanted... wanted... something inside her stopped 
her from taking it too far; there were depths that she 
wasn't prepared to probe.

She could no longer deny, though, that she wanted him.  More 
of him than this.

But she could think about that later.

Right now, she had Mulder right where she wanted him, 
completely at her mercy, and the effect was breathtaking -- 
sneaking glances upward, she thought that he was possibly 
the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen; she was almost 
sorry to bring it to an end, but the timing was right.  He 
was ready, more than ready, and any further delay would be a 
cruelty.

A little more pressure, a bit more suction, and something 
like a convulsion seized him; he cried out her name as the 
spasms began in earnest, and she rode it out with him, 
absently counting the contractions and congratulating 
herself for a job well done.

//If not *the* best,// she estimated, //I'm definitely in 
the top ten.//

She licked him dry, cradled his softening organ in a gentle 
hand as she sat back to check, and found her estimation 
confirmed -- he was sprawled on the couch, head thrown back, 
in an absolute languor; it looked as if he was trying to 
remember how to breathe.

"Well?" she asked him lightly, already knowing the answer, 
but wanting to hear him say it.

It took him a moment to gather the strength to speak, and 
when he did, it was in a whisper she could barely hear.  
"Point conceded..."

Scully smiled, rose somewhat unsteadily to her feet, and 
went to clean up.

The tension in her body was easily dissipated by practiced 
fingers; she imagined that they were his fingers, and it was 
a simple thing to induce release.  A few more minutes with 
toilet paper and warm water, and she was ready to face him -
- a frisson of anxiety seized her as she examined her 
reflection in the mirror, wondering *how* she could face 
him, after this -- then reality set in, and she remembered 
that it was Mulder, her friend, and it was an easy thing to 
leave the sanctuary of the bathroom behind.

She found him sitting on the couch where she'd left him, 
tucked in and buttoned up and looking almost respectable -- 
flushed, dazed, but otherwise normal.  "Bathroom's free," 
she offered, and he nodded and went in.

By the time he emerged, she was back on the couch, having 
opened a fresh bottle of wine and refreshed their glasses, 
and added a new bag of potato chips to the plethora of junk 
food adorning the coffee table.  "I was thinking," she said, 
before he could speak, "do you want to order a pizza or 
something?  I'm getting kind of hungry."  Best to avert any 
impending discomfort before it could form; best to get 
things back on stable ground.  Ordering pizza seemed like 
the perfect answer: something pedestrian, something 
familiar, that had absolutely nothing to do with virginity 
and blowjobs.

He hesitated.  "Sure," he said, watching her carefully.  
"I'll pay -- after all, I am your slave for life."  And he 
waited, to see (she realized) whether she would acknowledge 
it or not; whether she would try to pretend that nothing had 
happened.

She didn't have to think about her response.  "Right," she 
said.  "In that case, make it two pizzas.  And a side order 
of garlic bread."

Mulder's smile was like a sunbeam on a cloudy day, 
illuminating his whole face in a sudden warmth, and 
containing so much open affection that her breath caught in 
her throat.  "Whatever you say, Scully," he agreed, as he 
came to sit beside her on the sofa.

-------/end part I

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II.  The Payback

It was with him, every moment.  It haunted him, the 
knowledge remaining uppermost in his consciousness despite 
any and all efforts to push it back.

Scully, a virgin.  His Scully.  Scully of the amazingly 
talented tongue.  Was a virgin.  Pure and chaste and 
untouched... untouched... a delicate rosebud waiting to be 
lovingly coaxed to full flower; a luscious treasure ripe to 
be plundered.  *His* Scully.

It didn't compute.

And yet it computed too well, spawning endless possibilities 
that latched into his hungry soul and burst forth into 
detailed imagery, almost more vivid than he could bear.

They hadn't spoken of it since it had happened, though 
neither had there been any attempt to deny it -- and he had 
done his best to remain the mature, rational human being 
that Scully obviously expected him to be; but it was an 
uphill struggle all the way.

Take, for instance, now.  Driving a rental car, Scully 
sitting beside him -- he should have been listening to her, 
of course, paying attention to her summary of the case at 
hand, but instead all he could think about was her perfect 
mouth wrapped around him, and what it might be like to part 
her other lips and explore the untouched glory within...

"Mulder!"  Her voice sharpened enough to draw him out of his 
reverie; which was probably a good thing, he supposed, 
considering that it was already getting difficult to drive 
with the swelling between his legs.  "You didn't hear a word 
I said, did you?"

He sighed, and decided that the best defense was the truth.  
"No, I didn't, sorry," he said sheepishly.  "I was... 
somewhere else, for a minute."

She considered that briefly.  "Was it a good place?" she 
asked finally.

The sound of her voice, somehow innocent and sultry at once, 
brought him instantly to full arousal.  "Ohhh, Scully, it 
was a wonderful place," he murmured without thinking... 
realized what he had said, glanced sideways and was somehow 
gratified by the fact that she was blushing violently.

"Mul-derrr..." was her reply, striving to sound annoyed and 
only managing amusement.  "Is that all you ever think 
about?"

He considered honesty again, wondered if she was really 
ready to hear it.  No, not now, and not this way -- but 
maybe soon.  Maybe.  If he could ever manage to figure out 
what precisely he wanted to say to her.

"What do you think about, Scully?" he asked her, deflecting 
her question with his own.

"Besides the case, you mean? which is what we should be 
thinking about?" she chided gently.  "I think about... a lot 
of things."

He noted her discomfort with interest.  "Like what?" he 
probed.

"Like the fact that my feet hurt," she responded, rallying 
to conceal whatever-it-was she was really thinking, "and my 
legs ache from walking, and you can't even be bothered to 
discuss the thin threads of logic that led you to drag me up 
here in the first place."  But her heart wasn't in it, he 
sensed; she was more concerned with covering -- something.

Still, he supposed she had a point; he spent the rest of the 
drive making a valiant effort to keep his attention focused 
on their work, and nearly succeeded.

When they got back to the motel, however, he realized that 
Scully hadn't been exaggerating; she winced as she got out 
of the car, and he hurried to her side to assist.  "I'm 
fine," she said predictably, while every unsteady step 
belied her words, and he slung his arm around her shoulders 
and helped her inside anyway.

Easier and quicker to open his door than hers, and some of 
the color returned to her face when she was seated in the 
overstuffed chair, the weight off her abused feet.  "I knew 
I should have returned these shoes to the store.  They never 
did fit right," she muttered, by way of excuse -- so like 
her to fight against any semblance of weakness, to cover any 
small vulnerability.

"I've always wondered how you manage to run in those 
things," he said conversationally.  For the first time in 
weeks, the timing seemed right... a germ of an idea was 
taking hold in his mind, adapting itself to the plans he'd 
already formed for just such an occasion.  He snatched up a 
couple of washcloths from the bathroom countertop, noticed 
that the ice-bucket was three-quarters filled with half-
melted ice and cold water and took that with him, too.

"Well, I won't be running in these," she grumbled, and 
leaned over to undo the offending shoes.

"Scully."  He pitched his voice to match the sharp tone 
she'd used earlier -- it worked; she paused, looked up at 
him.  "Don't do that."

"What?  Why not?"  She was perplexed -- more so when he 
seated himself cross-legged on the floor in front of her.

Then it dawned on her; he could see it happening before he 
spoke the words.  "I'm your slave for life," Mulder said, 
"remember?"

Before she could decide to change her mind and release him 
from the promise, he slipped off her shoes, one by one; she 
was wearing stockings, and he removed those too, letting his 
hands trail along her legs longer than necessary.  Dipping a 
washcloth into the icy water, he took her left foot into his 
lap and began to bathe it, massaging gently.  He'd never 
been a foot-man, but Scully's were perfect -- //news 
flash,// he thought sardonically, because everything about 
Scully was perfect, and he was entranced, no, better make 
that obsessed...  He could see all the way up her skirt, all 
the way to a gleam that might have been satin panties, and 
that tiny glimpse of fabric was unbearably arousing.

She moved her foot slightly, wiggling her toes, rubbing 
against the bulge in his pants -- that small touch was 
enough to send a shudder of pleasure racing through him.  
With a strength of will he hadn't known he possessed, he 
moved her foot away, ignoring his body's urgent pleas.  
"It's your turn," he told her firmly, and looked up to see 
her startled expression, and the bright sparkle of unshed 
tears in her eyes.

There was no protest in her tone, only a vast tenderness.  
"You don't have to do this."

He remembered her response to those words, smiled up at her.  
"I want to do this," he told her, meaning it, and began 
working on her other foot.

When he was done, he hesitated for a moment, wondering if 
she would go along with what he had in mind -- decided to 
chance it.  He reached out toward her blouse, rested his 
hand against the topmost button and paused.  "If my mistress 
would allow," he said, very softly.

"Mulder..."  Her reply was equally hushed.

"Scully."  //I would never hurt you,// he thought.  //Would 
never take anything you were unwilling to give me.  Do you 
know that, Scully?  Do you believe it?//

Then he felt her hand settle against the side of his face.  
"I trust you," Scully said.

Something was constricting his throat; he couldn't answer. 

He turned his attention to her blouse instead.  //Focus,// 
he admonished himself sternly.  //One thing at a time.  
Buttons first, and be careful not to tear anything; she's 
not you, she *cares* about her clothes.  Slide it off her 
shoulders; yeah, Scully, lean forward a little bit, that's 
right.  Let me take this blouse off you, let me look down 
the front of your bra, oh, Scully, they're gorgeous...  
Steady, Mulder.  Focus.//

//The skirt next,// he decided, keeping up the internal 
running monologue as a way of distracting himself from the 
throbbing demands issuing forth from his groin.  //Now this 
presents some logistical difficulty.  Button at the back, 
then the zipper, okay, now Scully needs to lift her hips 
up... are you telepathic, Scully?  And if you are, do you 
know what this feels like for me, undressing you this way?  
I've dreamed of this, Scully, between the nightmares; woken 
up in the middle of the night with a need that just won't 
quit, no matter how much of a workout I give my right hand -
- but best not to think about that, not now.  Focus on 
Scully, Mulder.  Focus on her.//

//Look at her, sitting in that chair in just her bra and 
panties; look at how exquisite she is.  But the underwear 
will have to go -- not just yet; she looks a little nervous 
right now, as it is.  And you still have to prepare things; 
better go do that now... you can't leave her sitting here 
half-naked in a chair, though, can you?  Better do something 
about that.//

He stood up, not bothering to try to conceal his arousal, 
wincing at the pull of tight fabric against oversensitized 
skin.  //Don't think about that.  Think about Scully...//  
She let out an involuntary little squeak as he lifted her in 
his arms and carried her to the bed.  //Set her down gently, 
gently.  Yes.  And cover her with the bedspread so that she 
won't get chilled.  No, don't touch her breasts, no matter 
how much you want to.  Stick to the plan.//

"I'll be right back," he told her, and went into the 
bathroom, turned on the water in the tub and adjusted its 
temperature, testing the flow as cautiously as if he were 
preparing a baby's formula.  When he was satisfied, he 
jammed the plug in the drain and let the tub fill, emerged 
to find Scully lying on one side, head propped up on her 
hand, waiting for him.  "Do you have bubble bath?" he 
inquired.

She was beginning to get the idea; her lips curved into a 
sweet smile.  "In the green cosmetics case."

He found the pouch in question, sorted through it -- a 
veritable treasure trove of female accoutrements, he 
discovered: foaming bath gel and cleansers and lotions, 
everything he might need for the occasion.  //The perfect 
accessory for a willing slave,// he decided, and took the 
whole bag back with him.  The recommended capful of bath gel 
didn't produce nearly enough bubbles, so he added a few 
more; when he was satisfied with the profusion of foam, he 
went to fetch Scully.  "Your bath is ready, my lady," he 
told her, gently drawing aside the bedspread and savoring, 
for just an instant, the sight revealed.  //Time to take off 
the bra; reach around to the back -- can't you stop your 
hands from shaking?  There's the clasp; just a little tug... 
then ease the straps down....  ohhh, look at *that*.//  His 
equilibrium faltered; he struggled to regain it.  
//Luscious, round, ripe, little rosy-pink nipples just 
begging to be kissed... these pants are far too tight.  I 
should have changed into sweatpants before I started this.  
Twenty-twenty hindsight...//

//Don't touch her, don't touch them; don't even look at 
them.  Deal with the panties.  No, don't let yourself think 
about the way she's arching her hips up toward you.  Grasp 
waistband, slide down... look at that, she's a natural 
redhead.  All those little ringlets, glistening...  Focus, 
dammit.  Focus.//

He lifted her in his arms again; more prepared this time, 
she wrapped her arms around his neck and nestled into him in 
a way that made his heart and loins pound fiercely.  How 
easily she yielded to him, and how completely -- his guarded 
Scully, as close-mouthed about her secrets as he was, yet in 
this she apparently felt no compunctions about allowing him 
free rein.  She wasn't fighting him, wasn't helping him, was 
simply allowing him to do as he pleased... such trust, 
especially considering that there had to have been, in her 
life, at least one man who didn't want to take no for an 
answer.  She had so much trust in him...

The tub was two-thirds full, and as he set her down 
carefully in the hot water, bubbles spilled over and onto 
the floor.  "Is the temperature all right?" he asked.

"Perfect," and her sultry purr shot through him like an 
arrow, Cupid's arrow maybe, lodging in his groin and 
increasing the already unbearable ache.  His pants were cut 
in such a way as to allow him precious little room for 
expansion, and his swollen cock was begging to be touched, 
any touch -- yet he knew that, like scratching an itch, 
there would be no stopping once he was started.  And that 
would completely undermine the plan...

The bubbles flowed around her and over her, concealing her 
from his view -- a bit of a disappointment, but it certainly 
made it easier for him.  //First things first.//  He poured 
a little scented bath gel onto a washcloth, rubbed it into a 
lather and began smoothing it over her shoulders, down her 
arms, with gentle strokes.  She might not be as fragile as a 
china doll, but somehow he couldn't help but think of her 
that way.  At least in this, where she was -- if not fragile 
-- nevertheless rather more delicate than what he was used 
to.  //Scully, a virgin.//  It never seemed to quite sink 
in, startling him anew every time the thought crossed his 
mind.  And had anyone ever treated her to the kind of 
luxuriant pleasure that she had given him? had anyone ever 
striven to please her with the same single-minded intensity 
with which she'd favored him?  Possibly... but he was going 
to be even better than that hypothesized lover; he was 
utterly determined, in that regard.

Not that the experience wasn't as much of a treat for him: 
the image of her luscious nudity had been branded on his 
consciousness, implanted into permanent memory.  It was an 
image he knew he'd replay over and over, throughout a 
thousand lonely nights, as his hands struggled to emulate 
the ecstatic memories... an inadequate substitute for his 
true desire, but far better than nothing at all.

He let his hands wander, ostensibly washing her, in reality 
using the washcloth as a flimsy excuse to touch her 
anywhere, everywhere... working up his courage and 
ruthlessly suppressing his longings, he turned his attention 
to her breasts, rubbing the washcloth lightly over the pert 
pink nubs that poked through a thin film of white foam.  She 
gasped at the touch, and he filed away the information for 
future reference: in a little while, it would come in handy.  
Down, lower, reaching through the water to that lovely patch 
of auburn curls, making sure to devote the proper attention 
to every nook and cranny despite her involuntary 
squirming...  He wasn't trying especially hard to arouse 
Scully, not yet, but it was happening anyway; and he rather 
liked the implications of that.  Was it the experience of 
being pampered that she enjoyed? or was it simply the fact 
that *he* was the one doing it?  He would have preferred the 
latter, but either was acceptable, as long as she was having 
a good time.

The bubbles had dissipated by the time he finished with her 
legs and feet, and he dislodged the stopper to let some of 
the water out -- his shirtsleeves were soaked, bathwater 
wicking up past his elbows, so he shed his shirt and pitched 
it into a corner before continuing.  Filling the tub a 
second time, he rinsed away the soap, then began on her hair 
-- //the hair on her head,// his mind filled in helpfully -- 
shampoo, and rinse, and conditioner, and rinse again, then a 
bathtowel turban to absorb the excess water and keep the 
sodden strands out of the way.

One last warm-water rinse, and he lifted her in his arms, 
very very carefully because it would *not* do to lose his 
footing and drop her -- he was unprepared for the feel of 
her warm, wet skin against his bare chest, and the sudden 
wave of arousal left him weak-kneed and nearly made him drop 
her after all.

Somehow, he managed to make it from his bathroom into his 
room, through the connecting doors and into hers, to set her 
down on the bed.  "I'm going to get the bedspread all 
soggy," she protested mildly.

"No you won't," he answered, darted into her bathroom with a 
couple of long-legged strides and emerged with the small 
pile of pristine towels that the maid had left while they 
were out working... working: it seemed a completely 
different world, one that they had left a thousand miles 
away...

Toweling her off was almost as much fun as soaping her up 
had been; he discovered a couple of ticklish spots, and 
delighted in her giggles.  And then she was dry, and he 
pulled aside the bedspread and quilt (which had after all 
become rather damp) and watched with hungry eyes as she 
wriggled onto the dry sheets.

"Lie back," he said softly, and she did, stretching and 
settling into a comfortable pose -- so pale and perfect, 
displayed before him with a sort of innocent grace; she was 
gorgeous, and she had utter faith in him.  A more 
irresistible combination, he could not imagine.

//Where to start?  Slowly,// he decided, stroking a 
relatively safe section of her upper thigh.  Let his hand 
wander upward, over her hip, across her stomach... 
temptation overwhelmed him, and he cupped her breast in his 
hand and flicked his thumb across the nipple.  Her sigh of 
pleasure startled him; it was such a soft sound, like the 
flutter of an angel's wings.  So perfectly right for Scully.

It was almost easy, after that, to focus on her needs to the 
exclusion of his own.  To watch her lose control, little by 
little.  To feel her succumb to his caresses, and -- when he 
replaced fingers with lips -- to his kisses.  Positioning 
became a little awkward, after awhile, because he didn't 
want to move to cover her, or rest his weight atop her, or 
do anything that might make her feel restrained or helpless, 
not even a momentary twinge of anxiety to mar her pleasure.  
Besides, it was too exciting to watch her squirming and 
writhing, her pale skin growing flushed and sweaty, and to 
know that he was the one making her feel that way.

When he parted her legs and took his place between them, he 
felt a strange, breathless excitement seize him: as if he 
stood poised on the verge of some momentous discovery, some 
great revelation... again, it hit him, feeling (as always) 
as if it were the first time; //she's a virgin,// passed 
through his mind, and once more he experienced the same 
incredulous reaction.  Not because it was so uncommon to 
encounter thirty-plus-year-old virgins, not for any reason 
so pedestrian as that -- but because this was the woman he'd 
seen face down impossible opponents and unreasonable odds 
with a courage and a strength that he'd come to take for 
granted.  The thought that there was a part of her so pure 
and fragile and vulnerable, well, it was absolutely 
incomprehensible.

And there it was before him, virgin territory, glistening 
pink paradise... and for a moment, just a moment, he 
experienced a fierce urge to seize and conquer.  //Typical 
male,// he thought absently, hearing the echo of Scully's 
voice in his head, 

She tasted so sweet, and she was so sensitive -- he found 
her rhythm and settled into it, vaguely surprised by how 
much he was enjoying himself.  He'd never understood the 
antipathy that some men felt toward this act, but he'd never 
particularly sought out the experience, either -- it was 
just something to be done, a necessity of life, like the 
national anthem before a baseball game.

In this particular case, he'd been contemplating it for some 
time, imagining it, visualizing... he'd spent an inordinate 
amount of time looking for an opening, a plausible excuse to 
make it happen, and had anticipated no inherent difficulty 
on his part in making it a good experience all around.  What 
he hadn't expected was the realization that he would have 
been perfectly content to remain there indefinitely with his 
head buried between her legs, to the point where his own 
longings felt very remote.  Even as the taste and scent of 
her set his every nerve ending alight, all he could think 
about was her pleasure.

Her soft cry echoed in his ears, as her climax swept over 
her, a small helpless sound that pierced to the core of his 
soul.  He adjusted his technique to allow for a certain 
amount of hypersensitivity and kept at it, and swiftly 
brought her back to that peak... the second time, he almost 
came with her, so caught up in her ecstasy that direct 
stimulation was unnecessary, empathy was enough.  It took 
him a moment to recover from that, and to get a grip on his 
sudden desperate urgency -- and when he was certain he had 
regained control, he began all over again.  If the pitch and 
volume of her cries was any indication, the third one was 
the most intense.

Afterwards, he rested his head against her leg, his cheek 
pressed against her sweat-slicked thigh, savoring the 
lassitude in her, the satiated weariness.  //Only the best 
for you, Scully.//

And then he felt her hand settle on his head, stroking his 
hair gently.  "Mulder," she whispered, and the sound of her 
voice and the nearness of that which he most desired were 
all at once more than he could stand; he knew that he had to 
get out of there *right now*, before he did something stupid 
and impulsive and 'male' that they would both regret.

He scrambled out of bed and to his feet -- a flicker of hurt 
crossed her face, and he knew he'd been too abrupt.  
Carefully, he drew the covers up and over her, tucking them 
around her shoulders, pausing for a moment to let his hand 
wander along the side of her face in a gentle caress.  "I'll 
be right back," he told her.

"Mulder..."  He glanced back, and read the silent offer in 
her eyes: a return of services rendered -- and oh, how he 
wanted it -- but no.  This was for her, all for her.

"I'll be right back," he repeated, and got out of there 
before he could change his mind.

He made it into the bathroom somehow, closed and locked the 
door, reached down to unzip his fly -- but the need was too 
strong, and he couldn't take it anymore; he clutched at 
himself, pressing hard -- and the orgasm hit him like a 
sledgehammer, sending shudders through him, so intense that 
his knees nearly buckled under him, so powerful that he 
couldn't breathe.

As it subsided, he found himself leaning heavily against the 
tiled wall.  //Ah, Scully, what you do to me,// was his 
first coherent thought, filled with rueful wonderment.  Even 
in the fierce grip of an overactive teenage libido, he'd 
never been quite so precipitous.

But of course, since this was Scully, it was only natural.

//Kind of like virgin territory for both of us,// he 
thought, as he cleaned himself up as best he could.  A 
shower was definitely in order: a long cold shower, or 
better yet, a long hot shower, with visions of Scully's 
'sugarplums' dancing in his head the whole time.  Hmmm... 
the holidays were coming up soon, and these recent 
developments had the potential to completely redefine the 
concept of Christmas presents...

New ground for both of them, for he'd never felt such a 
combination of tenderness and ravening lust, especially 
considering that the former overruled the latter almost 
completely.  There had been that time in high school, where 
the girl had been upset, and all he'd been concerned with 
was whether or not he could use the situation to 'comfort' 
her -- and others since, episodes that in retrospect made 
him feel ashamed of his own selfishness.  But then, from 
childhood onwards he'd been so alone, as if he were the only 
person in the world... easy, with that attitude, to treat 
others as objects.  To disregard other people's feelings, 
because he was so wrapped up in his own.

But this was Scully.  And that made everything different.  
Everything.

Idly, he wondered if she'd let him do it again, and how 
soon...

He emerged from her bathroom, trying to ignore the 
discomfort of sticky underwear and a renewed hard-on, more 
concerned with checking on Scully -- and found her asleep, 
or almost; moonlight streamed through a small gap in the 
curtains, illuminating her sweet smiling face in an angelic 
glow.  As he knelt beside the bed, her eyes fluttered open, 
and he smiled back, reaching out to brush away an errant 
strand of still-damp hair.  "Get some rest," he told her, 
"you'll need it.  Busy day tomorrow."

Her hand wriggled free from the blankets, caught his and 
held it; her smile was radiant.  "Mulder," she said.  Just 
that, just his name, yet it conveyed so much.

"'Night, Scully," and he brought her hand to his lips and 
kissed it -- and only then did it register that for all the 
intimacy they'd shared, and despite the fact that he'd 
pretty much given her a tongue bath from the neck down, they 
had never kissed.  Not once, not ever.

The thought of kissing her excited him and terrified him: 
there were implications in a kiss that they had somehow so 
far avoided.  And if there had been a moment when it might 
have happened, it was gone an instant later, when her eyes 
drifted closed, succumbing to fatigue.  "'Night, Mulder," 
she murmured.

He waited until she was fully asleep before releasing her 
hand -- for a moment, he contemplated the idea of sitting 
there on the floor all night.  It wasn't as if he was going 
to sleep that night anyway... but he had the feeling it 
would take both hands to deal with the residual effects of 
the evening's events.  Both hands and a lot of hot water, or 
a lot of cold water, or very possibly both... but despite 
his anxiousness to get down to business, it was all he could 
do to force himself to leave.

Spending the night kneeling at her bedside, just to hold her 
hand and watch her sleep?  Not a problem.  More like a gift.

"Your slave for life," he whispered, very softly, so as not 
to disturb her slumber.

But tomorrow was another day, one in which they would have 
to face the world in their FBI-agent facades and deal with 
the real world; Scully wouldn't appreciate having to deal 
with a partner who was both sleep-deprived *and* desperately 
horny, and it wouldn't be much fun for him, either.

Trust.  She was trusting him to handle this right, to not 
screw up the delicate balance of the tightrope they were 
walking by daring such intimacy. 

Mulder sighed, and left her room as quietly as he could, 
closing the door soundlessly behind him.

-------/end part II

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

III. The Holiday Spirit

Where *was* he?!?

She should have called a cab.  What on earth had possessed 
her to call Mulder?  Somehow, she'd come to rely on him, and 
what a mistake *that* was.  Become too dependent on anyone, 
trust anyone too much, and they were bound to let you down 
sooner or later...

Scully blinked back tears, told herself firmly that they 
were due to the stinging winter wind, and stared out at the 
snowy road.

The tow truck had been and gone, taking her car with it; 
she'd stayed behind, shivering beside the pay phone, because 
she'd already called Mulder, and she didn't want him to come 
all the way out there for nothing, and for some inexplicable 
annoying reason he wasn't answering his cellphone AGAIN, and 
(she vowed to herself) she was never ever ever going to do 
anything as stupid as relying on Mulder in an emergency, 
never again...

Churning snow and the growl of an engine distracted her from 
her thoughts; she looked up, and there was his car, pulling 
over next to the pay phone.

She ran to the car, tugged the door open and hurled herself 
into the passenger seat, not caring that she was getting 
snow all over the place, not caring about anything but the 
fact that she was finally warm and out of the rapidly 
escalating snowstorm.  "Where the hell have you been?" she 
snapped.

"None of the major roadways have been plowed yet.  I had to 
navigate between the snowdrifts."  If there was a note of 
hurt in his voice, she refused to acknowledge it.

Something dropped onto her lap -- a big, fluffy towel; she 
took it and began to dry herself off as best she could, 
struggling to nurture her anger.

"Sorry to drag you away from the party," she lashed out at 
him, reminding herself forcibly why she was so angry.

"Oh, I wasn't at the party.  It wasn't much fun after you 
left."  He considered for a moment.  "Of course, it wasn't 
much fun before you left, either," and the edge to his voice 
told her that he was nurturing some resentment of his own.

But what did *he* have to be angry about?!?  "Sorry, but I'm 
not much for parties where the main entertainment is 
watching you flirt with the secretarial pool."

"Flirting with the secretarial pool is how I get our mail 
delivered in the morning, instead of midway through the 
afternoon," he replied, in a voice that seemed to her to be 
carefully neutral, "and how I get our requisitions pushed to 
the top of the heap in spite of all departmental policy, or 
hadn't you noticed?  Besides," and again there was that 
sharp edge of underlying anger in his voice, "I didn't think 
you cared."

She cursed herself for giving that much away.  "I didn't say 
I cared," she parried, even though it was a transparently 
obvious semi-lie.  //Score one for Mulder,// she thought 
bitterly.

"You know," he continued, not deigning to notice her feeble 
comeback, "I can drive you home, or we can sit here 
bickering until the snow piles up around the car and I 
*can't* drive you home.  Your choice."

"Take me home," she said sullenly, fighting back the tears 
that she could no longer blame on the wind.  She'd planned 
their Christmas Eve to be so different; instead, everything 
had gone wrong.  She'd thought she'd be saying those words 
to him in a completely different way, but instead...

He didn't notice her distress; he was busy starting the car 
and pulling it onto the road -- instantly, she realized how 
bad the weather had gotten since her car had broken down, 
and felt guilty for having attacked him for his lateness.  
//Damn it, why should *I* feel guilty?  At least I gave 
*him* a present!//

She'd left it on his desk, where he couldn't possibly miss 
it, neatly giftwrapped -- but when she'd come in later, to 
see his reaction, the box had been gone, and he'd acted as 
if he'd never even seen it.  //Even if he hated it, he could 
have at least *mentioned* it...//  And it began to make 
sense when five o'clock came and went and there was no sign 
that he'd bothered to get her anything.

And then, at the stupid party...

//How could he do this to me?// she thought, turning away 
from him to gaze blindly at the fogged-up passenger window 
so that he wouldn't see that she was on the verge of crying.  
//And why?//

It was true that officially, they had no relationship -- had 
not even discussed the possibility of a relationship at all 
-- that in fact all they'd really had was a matched set of 
sexual encounters; that certainly didn't count as a 
commitment of any sort.  But his behavior at the party had 
been so callous, so *hurtful*... it made no sense to her, 
why he would treat her that way; but the senselessness of it 
didn't mitigate the pain in the least.

She felt the car swerve, begin to skid -- quickly blinking 
back the tears, she turned to survey the road, to look at 
Mulder; but he was already pulling out of it, straightening 
the car and driving onward.  //This is terrible weather,// 
she thought dismally, //I shouldn't have dragged him out 
into it...//  Caring for him was such a habit, she supposed, 
that she couldn't stop doing it even when she was furious at 
him. 

"Like I said, I had a little trouble driving over," he said, 
without looking at her, and his voice was cool and detached 
and laced with the particular brand of sarcasm that he used 
to mask pain.

"You didn't have to come and get me," she muttered, feeling 
sorry now for her earlier jab at him, but too angry about 
everything else to apologize for it.

"Sure I did.  I'm your slave for life, remember?"  And the 
facade cracked as he spoke the words, revealing a depth of 
emotion that startled her: bitterness, slow-burning rage, 
and an anguish that easily matched her own.

She stared at him, and wanted to hug him, to make the pain 
go away: wanted to wrap her arms and legs around him and 
pull him close, feel the strength and warmth of his body 
against hers: wanted to slam her fists into him and scream 
at him, "Why did you hurt me?"

Instead, she did nothing at all, dividing her attention 
between the road and his driving, as the silence between 
them grew.

By the time he pulled into her parking spot, the snowstorm 
was so bad that it was obvious Mulder would be sleeping in 
his car, or on her couch.  "Come on in," she said 
ungraciously, resenting anew the fact that this homecoming 
was so radically different from the way she'd planned it, 
and made her way to the front door without looking behind to 
see if he was following her.

She didn't look at him as he trailed her to her apartment 
door, as she fumbled with the key, as she strode inside and 
stripped off her coat.  Only when she turned around did he 
come into her field of vision; and that was when she noticed 
that the walk from the parking lot had left him as soaked to 
the skin as she was, and that he was carrying a large bag.  
"What's *that*?"

Mulder reached into the plastic shopping bag, drew out two 
boxes -- first the one she'd given him, and then another 
brightly-wrapped gift, which he tossed onto the couch in 
turn.  "What do you think?" he shot back.  "Y'know, when I 
envisioned us opening our gifts together, I didn't foresee 
things turning out quite this way."

Scully stared at the gifts, resting haphazardly side-by-side 
on the sofa.  "You bought me a present," she said, as if to 
herself.

"Of course I bought you a present.  As if I wouldn't get you 
a present."  Then, all at once, the sarcasm left his voice, 
as if a light had suddenly dawned.  "You *didn't* think..."

She found herself unable to look at him.  "I'm going to go 
change," she said instead, and disappeared into her bedroom 
as quickly as she could.

Mechanically, she stripped off her clothes layer by layer.  
//He bought me a present.//  And how *could* she have 
thought he'd forget?  Not even at his most obsessive had he 
ever been *that* thoughtless...  //But that doesn't explain 
his behavior at the party.  Nothing could explain that.//  
Tears welled up in her eyes again.  //In front of 
*everyone*, like he couldn't even bear the *idea*...//

Clamping down on the emotion and sealing it away inside 
herself, she threw on an old pair of comfortable sweatpants 
and a loose shirt, ignoring the seductive outfit she'd laid 
out at the ready, and rummaged in the bottom drawer that 
contained Mulder's clothes -- contingency planning, the same 
reason why they had keys to each other's apartments, and 
copies of each other's eyeglass prescriptions in their 
respective wallets.  She dug out a change of clothing at 
random and carried it with her when she emerged from her 
room.  "Here," she said, and tossed the garments toward him; 
he caught everything except the shirt on the first try, 
scooped up the last item from the floor, and headed into the 
bathroom.

While he was changing, she put on the kettle to boil -- 
almost as an afterthought, she turned on the oven and threw 
in the dinner she'd prepared in advance, back when she'd 
thought this was going to be one of their 'special' 
evenings.  //Can't let perfectly good food go to waste.//  
By the time he returned, clad in fresh clothes and rubbing 
his hair dry with one of her towels, she was curled up on 
the couch beneath the crocheted afghan her grandmother had 
given her ("I suppose there's no sense leaving this in your 
hope chest," had been Nanna's words, a tart sentiment that 
had forever tainted her memory of receiving the gift) 
watching a weather-alert in lieu of another rerun of "A 
Christmas Carol" or "It's A Wonderful Night".  The presents 
he'd chucked onto the sofa had been moved, placed next to 
the tiny plastic Christmas tree on the end-table -- they 
would've been in the way anywhere else, according to 
Scully's rationalization.

"Tea's brewing, food's in the oven," she informed him 
tersely.

He stood there in front of her, deliberately blocking her 
view of the television screen.  "Is there room for me, or 
should I sit on the floor?" he inquired, matching her blunt 
tone, and she moved her legs fractionally to give him space.

It was as if there was a foot-thick steel wall between them, 
so impenetrable was the silence.  It felt unnatural to 
Scully; it *hurt*, and there was absolutely no doubt in her 
mind that it was hurting him too, even if he wasn't letting 
it show.  //Opening our gifts together,// she remembered him 
saying, and wondered for the first time what plans *he* 
might have had for their evening. He'd never been much for 
celebrating holidays; he'd once told her that the only 
reason he bothered to observe any of the winter festivities 
were because she did, because things like Christmas presents 
and parties mattered to her.  But if that were the case, 
then why...

The tea kettle began to whistle, and she started to get up; 
"I'll do it," said Mulder, sounding as if he was relieved 
for an excuse to escape her company.

"I don't like the way you make tea," she lashed out.

"Then I won't make you any," he snapped back, and stormed 
off.

He returned with two mugs, though -- hot chocolate, she 
noticed, when he set them down on the table; was that his 
idea of a compromise, an attempt to make peace?  If so, she 
couldn't tell by the way he scowled down at her.  "No 
marshmallows," he said.  "What kind of house has cocoa and 
no marshmallows?"

Something inside her snapped; abruptly, she had had enough 
of his attitude.  "Mine!" she shouted.  "You're damned lucky 
that I didn't leave you outside in the snow; so *shut up* 
before I change my mind!"

"Oh, you mean the same way you left me at the party?" he 
countered furiously.  "You're going to leave me sitting in 
my car the same way you left me sitting all alone at the bar 
like an idiot?"

"You left me standing under the mistletoe!" she yelled back, 
hating herself for being so upset, so helpless against the 
strength of her feelings.  "You couldn't even bring yourself 
to give me one little kiss..."

"Of course not,"  was his incredulous reply.  "Not in 
*public*."

Something in his voice made her look up, into his eyes -- 
and what she saw stunned her into silence; she couldn't 
define it, precisely, but it was deeper and stronger than 
anything she'd seen there before, and nothing like what 
she'd expected to find.

"I've waited for years for the chance to kiss you," he 
continued, in the same tone.  "Do you really think I could 
trust myself to do it in front of all those people, and make 
it look like we were just friends?  You think I wanted to 
share that first kiss with a crowd?  Especially *that* 
crowd?"

She stared at him for a long, long moment, and this time she 
made no effort to hide the tears forming in her eyes.

"I'm *sorry*," she whispered finally.  "I misunderstood... 
everything."

It was all beginning to sink in and make sense to him now, 
the same way it had come clear for her a moment earlier: the 
chain of events, one small communications-breakdown after 
another linking to form their disastrous evening, and how 
unnecessary and stupid it had all been.  She saw the 
realization melt away the last of the ice in his direct 
gaze, dissolving the final remnants of the barriers that had 
formed between them, and the relief she felt was so 
overwhelming that she could no longer keep herself from 
crying.

"Hey..."  His hands caught hers and tugged, and she let him 
pull her to her feet, and into his arms.  "I didn't mean to 
hurt you; I don't ever want to hurt you..."  She half-
expected him to try to kiss her then, but instead he just 
held her, stroking her hair, her shoulders, her back, slow 
soothing caresses.  So she rested her head against his chest 
and let the tears flow freely, just for a moment.  "Scully, 
please don't cry," she heard him say, and the distress in 
his voice dried up the tears in her eyes -- his fingertips 
brushed across her cheeks and wiped away the rest.  "I'm 
sorry..."

"Let's just forget it and try to start over, okay?"  It 
wouldn't be the same, of course, as if everything had gone 
smoothly from the start; but they could still manage to 
salvage the evening.  And later, maybe she would work her 
way back to her original plan... being close to him felt so 
good; she almost blurted it out right then, and barely 
managed to restrain herself.  //This is *not* the right 
timing,// she told herself firmly.

"Good idea," he agreed, and to her surprise, released her 
from the embrace -- the room felt colder, without his arms 
around her.  "You should drink your cocoa before it gets 
cold," he suggested.

She settled back on the sofa and sipped at the hot 
chocolate, and he got the box of Kleenex from the bathroom 
and brought it to her, even though she didn't need it any 
more; he retrieved the presents, too, and dropped both boxes 
in her lap.  "Open it," he urged her, sitting down beside 
her and claiming half the afghan for himself.

Scully looked at the box, picked it up, examined it.  The 
wrapping paper was decorated with orange and gold parrots, 
of all things, taped and folded just sloppily enough to make 
it clear that he'd done it himself... carefully, she slid 
her fingernail under the tape and began prying it off, and 
soon found herself staring at a nondescript brown box.

Opening it, she found -- eight little boxes lined up inside, 
each wrapped in a different colored and patterned paper, 
each with a different number, one through eight, written 
neatly on file-folder labels affixed to the top.

"When I was very young," Mulder said softly, almost as if he 
was talking to himself, "back in the days when my family 
used to celebrate the holidays, I liked Chanukah best.  I 
liked the menorah, and the food, and playing dreidel for 
chocolate... and the presents.  Every night after we lit the 
candles, we'd each get a present -- eight gifts, over eight 
days.  I always thought *that* sort of made up for the fact 
that our holidays didn't include trees with pretty lights on 
'em."  A trace of a smile appeared on his face, for just a 
moment.  "Anyway, I thought that this year, just for a 
change, I'd pick up an old, long-lost Mulder family 
tradition."

"I didn't know you were Jewish," she said, surprised.

"I haven't been much of anything for a long time.  Go on, 
Scully; I want to see you shredding paper," and he grinned 
at her, an utterly irresistible grin that was meant to take 
her mind off the subject.

She smiled back, letting him get away with it.  "Where do I 
start?" she asked him.

"At the beginning," he said, making her instantly curious as 
to the contents of box number eight.

Box number one had shiny silver hologram wrapping paper; 
inside, she found a tiny scrap of paper that said, 'To Mrs. 
Spooky'.  Removing it, she found a ring, one of the novelty 
pieces that was so popular nowadays: a neon-green plastic 
alien face stared up at her.

"When you press the button on the back, the eyes flash," 
Mulder said, straight-faced; she laughed, and tried it out -
- yes, they most certainly did.

Opening box number two was more difficult wearing the big 
clunky ring, but she managed.  This one was wrapped in 
purple-and-green striped paper, and when she opened it, she 
found what appeared to be a piece of paper folded into a 
very small bundle -- it turned out to be a gift certificate 
to one of her favorite stores.  "That's to replace the 
stockings I ruined for you in Keanesburg," he informed her.

The memory of that night sent a delicious shiver racing down 
her spine.  "You didn't have to do that," she said softly, 
sincerely -- the loss of a pair of stockings had been a 
ridiculously small price to pay for the incredible pleasure 
he'd given her.

"Sure I did," he said expansively, "this way, I don't have 
to feel guilty the next time I ruin a pair of your 
stockings.  Open the next one."

"I thought these were supposed to be opened one per 
night..."

"Chanukah ended a week ago.  Open it."

Box number three bore a bright polka-dotted pattern, and 
contained multicolored bath-oil beads that very nearly 
matched the wrapping.  Box number four was covered in happy-
smiley-face paper, and held a bottle of  scented bubble 
bath.  Box number five had pink, green and purple zigzag-
patterned paper  -- //where did he *find* this stuff?// -- 
and inside it was a little heart-shaped box filled with bath 
crystals.

"Subtle, Mulder."

"Yeah, isn't it?  Open the next one."

Box number six, ensconced in crimson and orange tissue 
paper, held a bottle of strawberry-flavored edible massage 
oil.

"*Real* subtle, Mulder.  What's next, glow-in-the-dark 
condoms?"

"Aww, you spoiled the surprise.  Keep going."

Reminding herself of the dangers of making invalid 
assumptions about her partner's behavior, she turned her 
attention apprehensively toward the seventh box; she pulled 
off the blue-and-white wrapping paper, and discovered what 
looked like more gift certificates: expecting to find a 
coupon for a sleazy sex shop, she was pleasantly surprised 
to find names like Blockbuster Videos and Loews Cinemas.  
"For when we hang out," Mulder said.

"Joe's Amusement Arcade?" she wondered, sorting through the 
small stack of papers -- //he must be planning on 'hanging 
out' a lot,// passed idly through her mind, and realization 
filled her with sudden warmth.

"Bet I can beat you at Pac-Man," he teased her.

"Bet you can't," she responded swiftly.  And found herself 
laughing.  "Only you, Mulder," she said, "only you would 
give me edible massage oil and a pass to a video arcade in 
the same box."

His returning smile was an enigma.  "Keep going," he said, 
very softly.

She stared at him for a moment, then picked up the last box.

It was covered in shimmering gold foil, and unlike the rest, 
seemed to have been wrapped by someone who knew what they 
were doing.  And like the first box, inside the eighth box, 
Scully found a ring.

This ring shone brilliantly in the room's dim light, 
although it was far from ostentatious: two small emeralds 
flanking a modest diamond, in a demure setting.  The kind of 
ring which she might wear with a business suit without 
drawing undue notice from colleagues, yet that would elicit 
all sorts of approving comments in any communal ladies' 
room.  The sort of ring she might admire in a jeweler's 
window, yet would never consider buying for herself, even if 
she could afford it.

Its design was almost -- not quite, but almost -- that of an 
engagement ring.

"Do you like it?"

"Mulder... how much..."

"Do you *like* it?" repeated with gentle insistence.

She gazed up at him, felt herself fall into his dark eyes.  
"It's beautiful," she whispered.

He nodded gravely, took her hand in his, and very 
deliberately slipped the ring onto the third finger of her 
left hand; brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.  "I'm 
yours, Scully," he said, almost casually.  "For life.  You 
know that."

As if in a dream, she felt herself raise her other hand to 
cover his.  "We belong to each other," she said, and knew 
that it was true.

//*Now* he's going to kiss me,// she thought.

And he didn't.

"So, now I get to open my present, right?" he asked her, 
eyes alight with a child's eagerness. 

She sighed, and smiled at him.  "Yes, you can open your 
present," she said, in a parent's patient, indulgent tone, 
and he grinned back at her and began tearing at the paper. 

Hard to read his expression as he opened the box, but she 
had the distinct sense that he was disappointed.  "It's... a 
bathrobe," was his reaction.   

"It's a nice bathrobe," he added quickly, and she smothered 
her laughter; it was obvious that he hadn't caught on yet. 

He took the robe out of the box -- "Actually, it's a very 
nice bathrobe," he said thoughtfully, after due 
consideration. 

"There's something else in there," she said, in a very 
carefully even voice. 

Sparing her only a brief, puzzled glance, he reached into 
the box and found it: an ordinary silver coat hook, the type 
found at any hardware store, hook on one side and screw on 
the other, to be installed with ease on any wooden surface. 

Mulder held it up, examined it for a moment, turned to 
Scully with a quizzical look.  "I don't get it," he said. 

"It's for the back of my bathroom door," she said, and 
indicated the other contents of the box with a wave of her 
hand.  "That's... for you to keep here."  And waited for it 
to sink in. 

Little by little, it did -- and she delighted in the way his 
face lit up.  "You mean, I get to sleep over?  On the 
*bed*?" 

"Or at the foot of it, slave-for-life," she teased, and he 
laughed and hugged her, hard -- //now he's *definitely* 
going to kiss me,// Scully thought, and was somehow 
unsurprised when once again, he failed to pick up on the 
cue. 

//Either he's extraordinarily dense,// she mused, //or he's 
got something up his sleeve; and either way, I might just 
have to shoot him before the night is over, if he keeps this 
up...// 

"This is perfect," he said into her hair, pulled back a 
little and pressed his lips briefly against her forehead.  
"Just one last thing..." 

He got up from the couch, went over to the chair he'd dumped 
his wet coat on -- //coat hooks, Mulder,// she thought 
ruefully -- and began digging through his pockets.  "You got 
tape?" he wanted to know. 

With a sigh, she got up and went to fetch the roll she kept 
in her desk drawer.  "What are you doing?" she asked him as 
she handed him the scotch tape. 

His hand opened, and she saw what he was holding: a sprig of 
mistletoe...  "I lifted it from the party," he informed her.  
"It's not as if they needed it; there were already plenty of 
drunken clerical workers on their way to doing something 
they'll regret in the morning.  Here, help me with this," 
and he handed the tape back to her.  "Besides, tomorrow it'd 
be thrown out, anyway.  Funny, isn't it?  Three hundred and 
sixty-four days a year, it's just another plant that only a 
handful of pagan practitioners could care less about.  Gimme 
a piece of tape, will you?" 

Recognizing his chatter as a sign of nervousness, she tore 
off a piece of tape and handed it to him; there were 
butterflies on maneuvers in her own stomach, as she realized 
the inevitability of what they were doing.  This was it: 
this was definitely leading up to The Kiss.  No ambiguity 
here, no subtlety, no question of will-he-or-won't-he -- 
Mulder was scotch-taping mistletoe to the threshold, and 
when he was finished, it was going to happen. 

The thought thrilled her, scared her, aroused her -- she 
felt as if she was sitting in the front seat of the 
rollercoaster, waiting for the ride to start, looking at 
that first big incline and thinking about the downslope on 
the other side. 

"More," he said, and she ripped off more pieces of tape, 
marveling at how her hands were shaking -- curiously, she 
glanced at his hands, saw that they were shaking even worse 
than hers were, and felt a wave of deep affection.  There 
was something wonderful about knowing that her partner was 
as nervous as she was; after years of feeling isolated, in a 
world where there were twelve-year-old children with more 
sexual experience, it was nice to not be the only one 
trembling. 

"How does that look?" he asked her finally. 

"It looks," she said honestly, "like a wad of scotch tape 
with a leaf sticking out of it." 

"Well, it's the thought that counts."  His eyes met hers.  
"So." 

"So," she echoed, as the butterflies began playing drum 
solos on the inside of her stomach. 

Mulder's hands rose, rested very lightly on her shoulders, 
one step away from being an embrace.  "Last chance to back 
out," he said, trying hard to sound casual and not making 
it. 

"Yeah..."  It wasn't too late, she realized.  Either or both 
of them could walk away -- there would be hurt feelings for 
a little while, maybe, lingering sexual frustration; but 
their friendship, their rapport, would still survive.  After 
this, though... it would be harder to repair any damage 
done, perhaps even impossible: even the smallest mistake 
could be their last, in so many ways.  So much easier to 
stop now, to walk away... 

"So," he said again, his steady voice managing (to her ears) 
to convey anxiety and anticipation and tenderness and 
terror, all at once.  "Still want me to kiss you under the 
mistletoe?" 

She gazed up and into his eyes, losing herself in their 
depths.  "If you don't," she said, "I'll shoot you again." 

Somehow, apparently, she had chanced upon exactly the right 
thing to say: his soft laugh defused some of the tension 
that had laced the air with electricity.  "If I don't shoot 
myself first," he added, and she smiled up at him, sharing 
the humor of it. 

Then his arms were sliding around her, pulling her closer -- 
she was acutely aware of his scent, aftershave and male 
sweat, and the heat that seemed to be emanating from his 
body -- or maybe it was hers; she couldn't tell anymore.  
His gaze was locked with hers, never wavering, searching her 
face for any trace of last-minute indecision right up until 
the last instant; //this is it,// she thought... 

The kiss began so slowly, just the barest brushing of his 
lips against hers, deepening gradually, inexorably -- and 
she felt herself yielding to that kiss, her body melting, 
molding itself to his.  It wasn't enough: she found herself 
clutching at him, needing desperately to be even closer, to 
submerge herself completely in the rising wave of passion.  
His arms tightened around her hips, lifting her off her 
feet, crushing her against him with a matching hunger; she 
could feel his cock through his jeans, so hard it must have 
hurt, pressed against her own throbbing need, force and 
friction in just the right place at exactly the right 
time... and she cried out in startled ecstasy as a sudden 
sharp paroxysm of pleasure seized her, blossoming into 
orgasm. 

It was so intense that she was helpless to do anything but 
hang on to him as the spasms peaked, thinking dazedly, 
//ohmigod, I can't believe that I...//  

...but any embarrassment she might have felt was instantly 
mitigated by the moan that wrenched itself from Mulder's 
throat as his body convulsed against hers. 

His shudders prolonged her own; she clung to him, feeling 
acutely exposed, and just as aware of his vulnerability.  
This was more intimate, somehow, than if they'd been naked 
together in bed as she'd originally planned.  To discover 
that she was *that* susceptible to him, *that* desperate for 
his touch -- to have him know it, too -- and then to find 
that he felt the same way...    She had never been so close 
to him, or to anyone. 

She rested her head against his chest, feeling his heart 
pounding fiercely, feeling as if her entire being was 
resonating in time with that rhythm... 

...for a moment, it was as if she were seeing the tableau 
from an external vantage point somewhere near the ceiling: 
Mulder leaning back against the wall, herself collapsed 
against him... a perfect moment frozen in time; a turning 
point.  Though where they might be going was anyone's guess 
--  she knew, suddenly and with perfect clarity, that this 
was a moment she would remember for the rest of her life as 
being the beginning of... something. 

Perversely, she felt the need to say something, to break the 
spell.  "I think," she murmured, "that privacy was probably 
a really good idea." 

"You think?"  Lazy contentment saturated his tone.  "Yeah, I 
think we would've raised a few eyebrows." 

"This... never happened to me before," she said hesitantly, 
feeling shy but wanting to say it, wanting him to hear it. 

"Me either."  He paused.  "Y'know," and his voice was 
studiously casual, "I usually have more staying power than 
that." 

She laughed, hugging him a little harder so that he would 
know she wasn't laughing at him, or any inadequacy on his 
part.  "I know," she said, "remember?" and he hugged her 
back, enfolding her in a feeling of warmth and security and 
utter bliss that she had ceased to believe existed outside 
fairy tales. 

"Scully," came the question finally, very quietly, "what're 
we going to do?" 

It was the very question she'd unconsciously been dreading -
- and yet, at that particular moment, it didn't frighten her 
as much as it had.  The problem was, she didn't have any 
answers.  Or rather, she had too many. 

Finally, she gave him the only response she could.  "I'm 
going to go check on the food in the oven," she murmured.  
"I think it's burning." 

"I think you're right," Mulder agreed. "Do I have other 
clothes here?" 

"Sweatpants," she told him, not bothering to list the rest 
of the inventory. 

"Good."  But it was a long time before either of them moved 
to let go of the other. 

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - 
* - * 

"Food's good." 

"It's burned." 

"Well, it's good burned." 

"I could feed you cardboard right now, and you wouldn't 
notice." 

"Probably not.  I'm always hungry, afterwards." 

The power had gone out while he was changing and she was 
salvaging their meal, so it was dinner by candlelight after 
all.  'Let's have a picnic,' had been Mulder's idea, so 
they'd spread out the food on the carpet, next to the wine 
stain that she'd never gotten around to cleaning, because 
she'd found to her chagrin that she liked looking at it and 
remembering how it had gotten there...  

It seemed that the storm was abating somewhat; the howling 
of the wind was calming, no longer rattling at the windows 
with such force.  "Hey," said her partner, reaching out to 
rest one hand on her knee.  "After we eat, let's go out and 
play in the snow." 

"We'll freeze," she said reflexively, smiling despite 
herself. 

"We still have heat and hot water.  We can warm up 
afterwards.  Warming up will be fun."  His eyes twinkled at 
her.  "We can try out your new bubble bath." 

"We could do *that* without freezing first..." 

"Aw, come on, Scully."  He took her hand and held it, 
fingertips stroking her palm lightly.  "I want to play in 
the snow with you." 

He looked beautiful in the candlelight, she thought: clad 
only in the worn sweatpants, his skin gleaming, making her 
want to set aside her dinner and begin on him instead, chest 
and shoulders and neck for starters... and with that 
irresistible little-boy smile, the bright happy sparkle in 
his eyes that she'd so rarely seen, he managed to look both 
adorable and sexy at once. 

"But you'd have to get dressed," she said reasonably.  "I 
like you better this way." 

She could tell that he was pleased by that remark.  "Well, 
what's this, then?" he asked, catching the hem of her shirt 
between his fingers.  "Equal rights, and all that..." 

"Equal rights, or equal opportunities?" 

"Both?  Either."  His hand slid under her shirt, up over her 
stomach; two fingertips stroked the underside of her breast 
unobtrusively.  "Why should you have all the fun?" 

"You've forgotten what I look like, so soon?"  Absently, she 
set her empty plate aside, out of the way with the rest. 

"Oh, I'll never forget *that*," and his eyes took on a 
faraway look, slightly glazed, the expression that came over 
him at work sometimes when he was imagining her naked (any 
time she'd confronted him, he'd always denied it, but she 
*knew* it was true).  "Scully, classic works of art should 
be displayed so that they can be appreciated." 

"So now you're putting me on a pedestal?"  she asked, 
raising her eyebrows at him, enjoying the conversation 
tremendously. 

"Well, if I want to see more than the top of your head..." 
and she slapped at him; he dodged, laughing. 

"Height wasn't a problem for you earlier," she pointed out, 
stretching out next to him on the afghan. 

"That's because I'm adaptable, and you're light."  He 
reached out, traced her cheekbone with one finger.  
"Everyone's the same height lying down, though.  And this is 
*so* much better for my back." 

"Gee, if you've strained your back, maybe you'd better not 
exert yourself any further tonight," she said, with 
exaggerated concern. 

"They say exercise is the best way to avoid repetitive 
stress injuries," he countered swiftly. 

"Really?  Who's saying that, d'you know?" 

"Well, somebody must be saying it -- Scully, don't confuse 
me." 

"But you make it so easy..." 

"We were talking," he overrode her, "about your shirt." 

"What about my shirt?" 

"Well, it's opaque." 

"Transparency isn't generally one of my criteria when I'm 
shopping for clothing." 

"I know," said so forlornly that for the barest moment, she 
felt guilty about it.  "But that's easy to fix.  From now 
on, I'll buy all your clothes for you." 

"Mulder, you would dress me in black lace and Saran Wrap," 
she scolded him mildly. 

"Saran Wrap," he repeated thoughtfully.  "You got any?" 

"No," she said quickly. 

"You're lying," spoken with certainty. 

"Mulder, listen to me.  There will be no utilization of 
kitchen supplies, do you understand?  There will be no 
plastic wrap, no tin foil, no wax paper.  There will be no 
jelly, marmalade, or syrup of any kind; there will be no 
whipped cream, sour cream, cottage cheese or Velveeta.  Is 
that clear?" 

He was grinning ear-to-ear by the time she finished.  
"Cottage cheese?" he repeated. 

"A girl's got to watch her weight," she replied, not missing 
a beat. 

"Velveeta?" he pursued. 

"You've never had nachos?" she said innocently, and he burst 
into laughter. 

"Please tell me you don't like jalapenos," was his next 
request, laced with trepidation. 

"Well, used *very* judiciously, the effects can be 
interesting...  No, really, you'd be surprised," in response 
to his obvious apprehension. 

"Scully, you've got a better imagination than I do.  I 
wouldn't have thought of the Velveeta.  And definitely not 
the hot peppers."  Casually, nonchalantly, he reached out 
and began to unbutton her shirt. 

She glanced down at his hand, thought about trying to stop 
him just for the sake of form, decided against it -- he 
might actually take her seriously.  Instead, she reached up 
and ran her fingertips along his forearm to his elbow, up to 
his shoulder -- "Actually, I prefer Cheez Whiz," she said. 

As her hand slid down his chest, his eyes shut briefly, 
involuntarily, and he shivered.  Inspired, she leaned 
forward and kissed him there, lips surrounding his nipple, 
tongue caressing the nub -- his body stiffened from head to 
toe in response, some parts considerably more than others.  
"Scul-ly," she heard him moan, voice rising on the last 
syllable, conveying an urgency that she found tremendously 
appealing. 

He hadn't been less than half-erect since their kiss under 
the mistletoe; she'd been enjoying the view, and had longed 
to explore the territory further.  Now, feeling his hard-on 
pressed insistently against her, it seemed only proper to 
reach between them and slide her hand over the cotton 
fabric, examining the contours...  

"How much do you like that shirt?" she heard Mulder ask, his 
voice distinctly unsteady. 

"Not very," she said. 

"Good," and his hand caught the front and pulled; the 
remaining buttons went flying off to random corners of her 
apartment.  "It looks much better on you now," and she 
laughed, then cried out softly as he applied his lips to her 
breast. 

It turned into something resembling a wrestling match, a 
mock-battle to see who could make the other moan the 
loudest, fought with hands and tongues, playful teasing and 
laughter punctuated by passionate cries and the occasional 
witty remark -- she'd never realized that sex could be less 
than serious; she'd never had so much *fun* before.  And 
then suddenly he was on top of her, in the classic position, 
and abruptly laughter was the furthest thing from her mind. 

The last remnants of their clothing was on the other side of 
the room: just his body against hers, skin against skin.  
His hard cock pressed into her swollen labia, and a sharp 
thrill of excitement shot through her -- //this is it, it's 
going to happen// -- coupled with a vague resentment, for 
she'd never actually gotten around to telling him about the 
last 'Christmas present' she'd planned, she'd never given 
him permission; and it seemed that he was going to take it 
anyway.  //This is what I wanted,// she reminded herself 
forcibly, determined to be flexible, to not beleaguer the 
finer points when she had, after all, planned this very 
occurrence. 

Instead, he surprised her yet again -- shocked the hell out 
of her, actually -- by shifting slightly, repositioning 
himself between her legs so that there was friction without 
penetration, angled to make accidental entry unlikely.  
"Okay?" he asked her, and moved a little, so that she could 
get a feel for what he was proposing; his shaft stroked her 
clitoris, eliciting a sharp gasp of startled pleasure.  "I 
told you," he continued, in the same breathless voice, "I 
don't ever want to hurt you." 

She gazed up at him, and felt a sudden burst of tenderness -
- //who else but Mulder?// -- and contemplated, for a 
moment, her original plan -- //no, it's all right, Mulder, 
go ahead, do it// -- then realized that she was being given 
a gift that she could not turn down.  The gift of choice, of 
time; of his acceptance, without requests or demands or 
ultimatums... and she pulled his head down into a kiss 
before he could see the tears in her eyes. 

They fell into a slow rhythm, and she felt herself slowly 
sinking into absolute bliss.  There had always been a 
certain tension involved, for her, waiting to see if the guy 
would take things further than she wanted to go; she'd never 
felt comfortable enough to be able to let down her guard.  
Certainly, she'd never allowed anyone else this close...  
Trust.  She'd had friends, a close and loving family, had 
never been prey to Mulder's brand of paranoia; she'd thought 
she'd known all about trust. 

And then she'd met Mulder, and found out about the kind of 
trust that placed lives and hearts and souls in the hands of 
another with utter confidence, and now everything was 
different. 

Bliss escalated into paradise -- it might have been a 
climax, or multiple orgasms, or simply a taste of heaven: it 
went on forever and consumed her totally, and Mulder was 
there with her, and if she had become lost there with him 
and never found her way home, she would have been more than 
content... 

...but eventually, reality faded back into focus, the soft 
scratchiness of the afghan under her, the weight of his body 
above her, the warm stickiness between her legs, and then 
his lips claiming hers in a long, slow, lazy kiss. 

"Damn, you're good," she sighed, completely without meaning 
to -- and would have been thoroughly embarrassed, except for 
the fact that Mulder was obviously delighted.   

"So 're you."  His arms and legs wrapped around her, and he 
pulled her sideways and over and half on top of him.  "Equal 
rights," he murmured, "you can lie on me for awhile if you 
want." 

"You make a good pillow," she said sleepily, making herself 
comfortable. 

"Mmm.  You make a good blanket."  Mulder yawned.  "'M 
hungry; is there any of that fettucini left?" 

"In the fridge." 

"Mmm."  And with that, he was asleep; she smiled, and 
followed him. 

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - 
* - * 

She woke up in her bed, with a distant memory of being 
carried there; she turned her head and saw an empty plate 
and fork, and surmised that he'd found his midnight snack.  
Dull grey daylight assailed her tired eyes, and Mulder was 
nowhere to be seen -- and nature called: she dragged herself 
out of bed and into her bathrobe, and went to answer. 

As she headed to the bathroom, she could hear the sound of 
the television in the other room.  //So,// she thought, 
//the power's back on,// and tried not to feel vaguely hurt 
by the fact that he hadn't been there when she woke up. 

But she emerged to find him standing outside, waiting for 
her with a mug of coffee; she took it and sipped and smiled 
up at him, and he kissed the top of her head. 

Following him into the living room, she caught a glimpse of 
the snowfall outside.  "Looks like I'm not going to make it 
to my mother's today," she said ruefully. 

"Looks like you're not going anywhere," he agreed, looking 
as if he was trying very hard to sympathize with her plight. 

"Looks like I'll just have to stay here with you, instead," 
she confirmed, and he grinned and hugged her. 

They drank coffee together, and ate leftover dinner for 
breakfast; and she kept catching the gleam of the ring on 
her finger, *his* ring, the one he'd given her.  It sparkled 
brilliantly, and it made her tingle all through to look at 
it, and still she didn't dare to think of what it might have 
meant, or worse, what it might *not* have meant. 

The one thing she *knew* it meant was that Mulder had gone 
to the trouble of selecting it, and the expense of buying 
it, to commemorate a holiday that meant nothing to him, 
without expecting or looking for anything in return -- and 
that made it the most precious gift anyone had ever given 
her, regardless of its price. 

//Merry Christmas,// she thought to herself, gazing across 
the table and watching him shovel noodles into his mouth.  
//The best one ever.// 

After breakfast, they tried out her new bubblebath, and his 
new bathrobe, which (with uncanny foresight) she had 
selected precisely because it was big enough to enfold both 
of them at once. 

And then they got dressed, and went out to play in the snow. 

-------/end part III

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

IV.  The Sundering

He awoke to the dull light of near-dawn, and the growl and 
whine of traffic speeding past on the highway; the cold had 
seeped into his bones, and his joints ached as he struggled 
to his feet.  He had no memory of having fallen asleep, but 
the last time he'd been aware of his surroundings it had 
been dark, so sleep was the only explanation... either that, 
or he'd blacked out.  Whatever.  Unconsciousness was 
unconsciousness, after all, and at least he hadn't 
*dreamed*.

His eyes hurt; it was an effort to blink them open, and keep 
them that way long enough to get a picture of his 
surroundings.

It was the same highway he'd hiked along for hours last 
night, until fatigue and stress had finally taken their 
toll; until he could no longer shut out the voices in his 
head, the echoes of what had transpired earlier that 
evening.  He had become an expert at repressing his pain, 
but this was a pain beyond endurance.

***Mulder, we need to talk...***

His car was totaled, a ruined wreck overturned on the 
shoulder, several miles back; "And they say gas tanks only 
go up like that in the movies," he'd said aloud, to nobody 
in particular, as he'd watched it burn.  "Guess there was no 
point in locking the door behind me."  His insurance rates 
were going to skyrocket, and he couldn't bring himself to 
care... the 'good samaritan' who'd ostensibly stopped to 
help had instead taken his wallet at knifepoint, and he 
couldn't bring himself to care about that, either.

***I've been thinking about this... about us.***

He'd walked down the side of the highway for miles, with no 
particular destination, nothing except the vague compulsion 
to keep going, as if by doing so he could somehow escape the 
truth of what had happened.  It was no use: he kept hearing 
her voice in his head, over and over, saying the same awful 
things.

***I think we're making a terrible mistake...***

He hadn't understood, at first; it had been 
incomprehensible.  Lying in bed beside her, his body wrapped 
around hers, lazy and satiated -- worse, somehow, that she'd 
waited until afterwards to tell him.  Had she allowed him 
that one last time out of pity?

***We're friends... good friends.  I think we should keep it 
that way.***

And then it had begun to sink in, like a lead weight, 
settling in the pit of his stomach: the heavy, sick feeling 
that he knew too, too well.  The sensation of loss: it was 
an old companion, one that had been with him for as long as 
he could remember.

How masterful his Scully was with an autopsy, that she could 
rip out a man's intestines without so much as a scalpel in 
her hand.

***You understand, don't you, Mulder?***

Of course.  It was the same old story, after all, wasn't it?  
Just another betrayal of trust.  Except that this one was 
the worst of all.

***Mulder?  Listen to me...***  

But what else had there been to say, really?

"Stop it," he muttered, through clenched teeth, "stop it, 
stop it..."  His old mantra, from childhood on: repeated 
over and over in his head, a nonstop litany of mindless 
thought to keep the painful ones away.  He recognized that 
it was a sign of how far gone he was, that he was actually 
speaking the words aloud, but it didn't matter.  Nothing 
mattered, now.

***I don't want our partnership to suffer...***  How could 
he ever work beside her again?  Hard enough to be with her 
and not touch her, not reach out to her, when they'd been 
almost-lovers.  Now... how could he ever look at her, hear 
her voice, without feeling that terrible, suffocating ache?  
***Mulder, wait a minute, don't go...***  Had she expected 
him to *stay*?  Had she expected him to simply agree with 
her verdict, and spend the rest of the night on the couch?

For him, it had been magic; how could she not feel the same 
way?

He didn't understand.

He couldn't understand.

His eyes hurt.

His head hurt, too, the mother of all headaches; it had 
begun while he was dressing, throwing on clothes so hastily 
he'd nearly gotten his underwear caught in his zipper.  It 
had gotten worse after his collision with and pole-vault 
over the guardrail: seatbelt or no, the bruise on his head 
was a clear indication that he'd made at least superficial 
contact with the windshield.  The hours he'd spent crouched 
at the side of the highway hadn't helped...  //Concussion,// 
he estimated, judging from his dizziness and double-vision; 
for a moment, he had a brief, clear, tactile memory of 
Scully's small hand on his forehead, and that made the pain 
even worse.

He wanted to be home, so badly he could taste it: home, in 
his rathole of an apartment, among the clutter and mess, 
lying on the couch with the lumpy pillows and the broken 
spring that always caught him in the hip, eating leftover 
pizza and watching some second-rate porno flick... no, 
scratch that last.  But something safe and familiar and 
comfortable, something that had existed in his life before 
Scully had torn his heart to shreds, something in which he 
could bury himself and perhaps forget, for a little while, 
the agony of her last words to him.

***Mulder, this is for the best... trust me?***

Trust.  Yeah.

He passed a pay phone, and had no thoughts of calling anyone 
for assistance; who was there?  Only *her*.  She'd helped 
him enough, thanks very much; she'd given him a brief taste 
of bliss, of the most incredible happiness he'd ever known, 
then snatched it away so cruelly...  //Does she know?// he 
wondered.  //How could she not know?// And he didn't know 
which was worse: the possibility that she hadn't known how 
deeply he cared for her, how much her decree would hurt him 
-- or the concept that she'd known, but hadn't cared.

Either way, the results were the same.  She'd ended their 
relationship, and by extension their partnership, no matter 
how strenuously she might object against the latter, because 
there was just no way he could continue to deal with her 
after this.

And he would miss her, oh god, would he miss her: backing 
him up in dangerous situations, being the voice of reason in 
the face of his flights of fancy, or the sole dissenting 
spark of faith against his relentless cynicism, the one 
factor that he could rely on completely... he missed her 
already, mourned for their partnership.  As he walked, he 
alternated between mentally composing his request for 
reassignment, and his resignation; he wasn't sure yet which 
he would write.

His vision blurred again, and he cursed under his breath and 
reached up to rub at his sore, swollen eyes.

//Enough,// he thought, //last night was enough,// and 
cringed inwardly at the memory of his own loss of control.  
Of the moment when it had all become more than he could 
tolerate, when the tears had begun to flow, had become sobs, 
had become howls.  Of the moment when his legs had crumpled 
beneath him, when he'd fallen to the ground, screaming 
unheard over the roar of the cars on the highway, crying 
helplessly, unable to stop.  No relief, no release, only the 
endless pain -- until, finally, the numb darkness of 
unconsciousness had overcome him.

Awareness had brought back the pain: he struggled to hang on 
to the last vestiges of numbness.

Somehow, he managed to keep his feet moving, one step after 
another... after an eternity, the off-ramp loomed ahead, 
signifying that he was finally almost home; trudging 
steadily, he managed to make it to his destination.

As dawn moved into morning, the traffic had steadily 
increased... that's right, it was Monday morning, wasn't it?  
//Guess who's not going to work today...//  Scully would be 
there, though, he was sure, securely swaddled in her 
confidence that she was 'doing the right thing' by shutting 
him out of her heart.  Even if he had been in any shape to 
consider making an appearance, he couldn't have faced her.  
He could just picture her, pretending that nothing had ever 
happened between them...  

He'd thought that losing her had been bad.  Having her walk 
away was worse than he ever could have imagined.

He was all the way upstairs before it dawned on him that 
he'd lost his door key, along with his wallet and badge and 
everything else; he didn't feel like hunting down the super, 
so he kicked the door in.  //Not as if it hasn't happened 
before,// he thought distantly -- his security deposit was 
four times the size of anyone else's, for just that reason -
- and it felt good to lash out at something, to release some 
of the emotion that lurked, simmering, just beneath the thin 
veneer of sanity.

"Hold it right there," said a voice, *that voice*, and he 
turned to find Scully standing there, her gun trained on 
him.

It hurt to look at her, it hurt to listen to her; her 
presence *hurt*, and it was more than he could bear.  "What 
are you doing here?" he demanded angrily.

She shook her head slightly, as if not understanding.  "Tell 
me who you are," she said, "prove to me that it's really 
you."

"What the hell are you talking about?"  It dawned on him, 
slowly, that she was trembling; that her mascara was 
streaked over her face in raccoon-bands; that her eyes were 
wide with shock.  He supposed that this should matter to 
him, but just enough of the blessed numbness remained: 
everything seemed to be occurring at arm's length, as if he 
weren't really there at all.  Even the pain of Scully's 
presence was somehow remote... //Concussion,// came to mind, 
//or else I caught cold or something,// but either way, it 
didn't make a difference.

He had the distinct feeling that if it had felt truly real, 
if her presence had been more vivid to him, he would have 
been crying again -- and was glad of the sensation of 
distance that prevented it from happening.  Bad enough that 
she had the power to destroy him with a few words; she 
didn't need to *know* it.

"Fox Mulder is missing, presumed dead," said Scully, her 
voice shaking, "his car was found on the side of Route 36, 
along with a body burned beyond recognition, now *tell me 
who you are!*"  The last was nearly a scream; it vaguely 
startled him that she should be screaming, for it was a 
sound he'd rarely heard.

Then it sank in, what she was saying; and he heard himself 
laugh.

"Go ahead," he said, "finish the job.  You're already 
halfway there."

She blinked at him, lowered the weapon fractionally.  
"Mulder," she whispered.

"Go on," he remarked.  "Shoot me.  You know how," and he 
moved past her, toward the couch, disregarding the gun 
entirely.

The safety clicked into place, and he experienced a pang of 
regret that she wasn't going to follow through, even though 
he'd known she wouldn't.  "What *happened*?" she cried out.

"You mean, after you knifed me in the gut?"  Couch, blessed 
couch; his knees buckled under him and he fell -- something 
hard and solid smacked him in the side, //oops, missed,// he 
thought blurrily.

He thought about trying again, but getting up was too much 
of an effort -- then her hand was touching his forehead, 
checking the pulse along the side of his neck, and he nearly 
strained a muscle trying to squirm away.  "Spare me your 
damned medical concern!"  It was too much to endure; her 
touch drove the numbness away and brought the emotions back 
to the surface, and he didn't have the strength to fight the 
demons, not this time.

"Mulder, you're sick," and the caring in her voice shattered 
the last of his restraint.

"What do you care?  You don't care!"  Backing away from her, 
his blindly questing hand found the couch, and he levered 
himself off the floor and onto the sofa, sinking into the 
lumpy cushions that felt feather-soft in his current state 
of fatigue.  "You don't care how I feel.  You don't even 
*know* how I feel.  I trusted you, and you..."  A wave of 
nausea washed over him; he fought it back, but the world was 
slipping further and further out of focus with every passing 
moment.

Why was everything so strange and fuzzy all of a sudden?  In 
his disorientation, his first instinct was to reach out 
toward Scully; then the little voice popped up in the back 
of his mind and reminded him, //you can't do that, she's not 
there anymore; no one's there, remember?//  "Get out," he 
mumbled instead.  "Get outta here..." and the blackness 
overcame him, and the world winked out of existence.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - 
* - * 

Something cold and wet on his forehead.  It felt good.

The rest of him didn't feel so bad either, as long as he 
didn't try to move.  Moving felt like falling, the world 
tilting at crazy angles, and he knew he would slide right 
off the edge into oblivion if he actually tried going 
anywhere.

Darkness.  A shadow.  Her face, gazing down at him.  Her 
voice, soft and clear against the pounding rhythm that 
seemed to permeate the world.  "You're very sick," came the 
syllables, distinct and yet meaningless; he couldn't seem to 
make sense of them.  "You need to rest.  You can kick me out 
later," and the music of her voice changed, dropped into a 
minor key.

He set aside the puzzle of her words as a challenge too 
difficult to attempt.  There was only one thought he was 
capable of thinking, more essential than even his awareness 
of his own physical discomfort.  "You left me," he heard 
himself say faintly.

The shadow altered as her face changed; he couldn't see 
clearly enough to decipher the changes, nor could he think 
coherently enough to do so.  "Mulder, no, I..."

"You did," he confirmed.  "S'alright.  I knew you would.  
They all do."

It seemed that she said something then, but he couldn't 
tell; the darkness had thickened, veiling the shadows of her 
face, veiling everything.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - 
* - * 

Consciousness returned abruptly, along with a desperate 
fiery clenching in his stomach; "Here," said Scully's voice, 
and her hand was on his shoulder guiding him, and he leaned 
over and vomited into the green plastic wastebasket she'd 
placed at the side of the couch.

She held his head as he threw up, brought him tissues and 
cold water when it was over; she had to help him to the 
bathroom afterwards, and he was just lucid enough to be 
embarrassed as hell about it.  Grateful that she was there, 
because he couldn't have managed himself -- resentful that 
he should need her, and worse yet, that she should 
condescend to be there for him.  Better if she hadn't been.  
Better that he should know where he stood.  Better to be 
alone than to trust and be betrayed...

The hypodermic slid into his arm and out again, and it 
occurred to him belatedly that he didn't know what or why -- 
apparently, trusting Scully was too strong a habit to break.  
But he still didn't have his answer, and it bothered him.  
"Why?" he moaned.  "How could you do that to me, Scully?"

And again he was denied the answer, as the darkness swept in 
again and dragged him under.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - 
* - * 

His next awakening was relatively mild, accompanied by 
headache and stomachache, but not that horrible pounding 
disorientation -- silently, she helped him to a sitting 
position, held the glass as he took a few sips of cold 
water.

"It was the sex," Scully said, very quietly; and he looked 
at her, and waited.

"It's always become the central issue," she continued, after 
a long moment, "every relationship I've ever had; in the 
end, it always comes down to sex, and something always goes 
wrong."

What little control he had was precarious at best; he would 
have preferred to postpone the conversation, but obviously 
that wasn't going to happen.  "So you tried to preserve our 
relationship by ending our relationship," he said slowly.

She blinked, hard.  "I was afraid," she murmured.  "I was 
afraid, and I panicked," and this made a certain amount of 
sense to him, that Scully should panic in such a methodical 
manner, with such cool clean precision. ***Mulder, we need 
to talk...***

"Aren't you afraid?"  Her anxious query caught his 
attention, and he found himself suddenly immersed in her 
intent gaze.

There was only one possible answer.  "The only thing that's 
ever scared me was losing you."  

Her breath caught in her throat; she blinked again, and this 
time was unsuccessful in holding back the tears.

"It keeps happening, though."  Some distant, vengeful part 
of him was pleased to see Scully cry; it suited him that she 
should feel some fraction of his own pain.  Another part of 
him was heartsick over her distress, but that too seemed 
disconnected from the rest of his mind -- mostly, he just 
felt tired, so tired.

"I thought I was doing the right thing," she whispered.  
"I'd convinced myself that it was the right thing to do, and 
that you would agree with me.  And then I saw your face, and 
I knew I'd made a terrible mistake... I tried to tell you, 
but you wouldn't listen."  He could see her shudder, hear a 
sound like a sob wrenched from her tiny frame.  "Then I got 
the call from the highway police, and I thought..." and the 
tears began in earnest; she covered her face with her hands.

"You thought I was dead."  She was crying, his Scully, 
crying, and he was sitting an arm's length away from her, 
doing nothing -- but he couldn't reach out to her; he 
*couldn't*.  Defenses developed over a lifetime had operated 
automatically, sealing over his wounds and his aching 
loneliness with a hard protective shell, separating him from 
the source of his pain.

"I thought I'd lost you.  Again."  With an effort, she 
managed to pull herself together; her tears slowed to a 
trickle.

"But you'd already left me," he said, pleased by how calm 
and reasonable his voice sounded to his own ears.

"Mulder, I love you!"  It seemed to take her a minute to 
realize what she'd said; her cheeks flared red, and her eyes 
widened anxiously, awaiting his reply.

As he absorbed her words, he realized that he had known it 
all along -- and it saddened him to realize that it no 
longer mattered.  "How can you love me if you don't want me 
anymore?"

She tried to answer, but instead began to cry again; she 
reached out to touch his face, but -- he couldn't help 
himself -- his instinctive reaction was to evade her hand.

"I'm sorry," she whispered through her tears, and he closed 
his eyes and let the darkness carry him away again.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - 
* - * 

"So basically, what, I wasn't good enough?" he heard himself 
saying, before awareness had really even set in; she jumped, 
startled, at the sound of his voice.  "Did I not lick you 
the right way or something?"

"Mulder, you were wonderful.  You were *fantastic*.  That 
was never a problem."  She was wiping his face with a cool, 
wet washcloth, and he didn't bother to fight the inevitable 
-- besides, it felt good.  "You're the first man I've ever 
wanted to have intercourse with," she continued, very 
softly.

He considered this for a moment.  "Scully, if you're going 
to use someone for sex, that's not how you go about it," and 
she almost smiled.

She had such beautiful eyes, and they were so unhappy...  
"You don't know, do you?" he wondered aloud.  "You really 
have no idea what you did to me."

Her first impulse was to deny it, but she reconsidered.  
"Maybe I don't," she admitted, and he nodded; somehow, her 
acknowledgment eased the ache fractionally.

"I hope you never know," he told her.  "I hope you never 
have to know the pain I feel."  It was true, he discovered; 
he didn't want her ever to have to suffer the way he did, 
she didn't deserve it.  And not for the first time, he 
wondered, //does that mean I *do* deserve this?  Samantha, 
Scully, everything and everyone I've lost -- I have a degree 
in psychology; I know better -- but sometimes I wonder...//

"You're all I've got, Scully, you're the only one... but 
that's not fair to you, is it?"  How had he come to depend 
on her so deeply?  How could he have let himself be so 
vulnerable?  "Why should you have to bear the burden of my 
trust?"

"It was never a burden..."

"Wasn't it?  'Mrs. Spooky'."  The dim gleam of her ring 
caught his eye, and for a second, just an instant, he 
regretted it -- the payments on the ring hadn't been a 
problem before, but now, with the inevitable increase in his 
insurance, not to mention car payments...  "Is that what 
this is about?  You're afraid people will find out you're 
porking ol' Spooky Mulder -- oh, no, wait, you never 
actually 'porked' me, did you?  So you don't have to worry 
about cooties."  //How mature,// evaluated the psychologist 
in him dryly, while the rest of his mind lashed out blindly, 
the violent thrashing of a wounded animal, not caring about 
unfairness or childishness or anything else.

"Mulder..."  She drew in a long, deep breath, steadying her 
voice, herself.  "I made a mistake, a stupid, thoughtless, 
cruel mistake, and I'm *sorry*; can't you forgive me?"

Her words gave him pause, and he considered: there was 
undeniably a part of him that wanted to forgive and forget 
and go back to the way things had been, but mostly there was 
just a big chunk of ice occupying his soul, freezing him 
solid.  "You don't understand," he said.  "It's not about 
forgiveness.  It's about trust."

It seemed that she had nothing to say to that, and the room 
grew quiet.

"How do I fix it?" she whispered finally.

He shrugged.  "Maybe you shouldn't," and she didn't seem to 
have anything to say to that, either.

Darkness claimed him again, and he welcomed the oblivion.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - 
* - * 

He awoke, feeling normal.  The drifting languor of illness 
had passed, leaving him with only the remnants of his 
emotional pain.

Absently, as if it was a morning ritual (it was), he tucked 
the pain away into the box at the back of his mind where he 
kept all such things.  It was a big box that shook and 
rattled and emitted odd noises as if something large and 
ominous were contained within; he'd developed the habit of 
making careful spot-checks, to ensure that the thing never 
slithered out of its cage.  It had almost caught him -- for 
awhile, on the side of the highway, it *had* overcome him, 
but now it was restrained once more.  For the time being.

Scully was asleep in a chair; he spared her only the 
briefest glance, enough to know that she was there, as he 
headed to the bathroom.

A shower cleared away the last of the cobwebs; unwillingly, 
he found himself reliving the events that had transpired 
during his illness, recalling what had been said and 
revealed.  //Scully...//  Everything was okay; she hadn't 
meant what she'd said, it had all been a mistake.  She loved 
him -- she'd said so.

Yet all he could feel was the slow encroachment of the 
iceberg on his soul, no spark of warmth whatsoever.

Tears slipped from his eyes and mingled with the shower 
water, and he didn't even feel them.  //Scully...//  She 
loved him, and she wanted him -- wanted all of him, wanted 
him inside her, the very thing that had motivated and 
inspired his wet dreams and fantasies for years.  It should 
have mattered to him, and it didn't -- and the fact that it 
didn't matter was somehow more hurtful than the pain itself.

He emerged from the shower, finally, toweled off and slipped 
into his bathrobe -- a quick flash of memory assailed him, 
of showering with Scully, sliding into the robe she'd bought 
him, her wet naked body against his, the sound of her merry 
laughter... the sheer power of the image nearly thawed his 
frozen heart.

Almost.

She was standing in the living room when he came out, 
waiting for him.  "You're feeling better," she said.

"Yeah."  He moved past her, wondering dimly if there was 
anything in the refrigerator that he might feel like eating; 
he was hungry.

"I had some Chinese food delivered," she called after him, 
"there's egg-drop soup, you should stick to liquids for 
awhile."

"I'll be fine."  The concern in her voice was unsettling 
him, undermining him, in ways he didn't want to define.

"I guess... I should leave, then," she said hesitantly, 
following him into the kitchen, standing in the doorway 
watching him.  "If you want me to..."

And there it was, the decision.  His choice, whether to give 
in to the tiny voice that screamed silently to love and be 
loved, or let the indifference chill his soul completely.  
His choice, whether to dare to trust again.

There was only one choice he could make.

"I think you were right," he heard himself say, the words 
falling from his lips like knives, severing the last of the 
connection between them.  "I think that it's a mistake for 
us to be too close."

She hadn't been expecting it; her eyes widened and filled 
with tears.

"We can try to maintain a working relationship," he added, 
"but anything more... just wouldn't be wise."  It was the 
right thing to do, he knew, the safe thing to do.  The walls 
slammed shut around him, sealing him in with the ice, 
numbing him so that he hardly noticed the emptiness.

Scully bit her lip and nodded; a tear slipped down her 
cheek, and where once he would have reached out to wipe it 
away, it didn't even occur to him to try to touch her.

"If you don't mind, I, um, I have some things to do... 
should call my insurance company, for starters..."  It was a 
dismissal: out of sight, out of mind, or so the saying went 
-- he hoped that it was true.

"Yeah.  Yeah, sure."  She turned away quickly, hiding her 
face behind her hair, hiding her tears from him.  Which was 
fine, because he really didn't want to know about her pain; 
he was too preoccupied with his own.

She retrieved her purse, her coat, and he wandered out to 
the living room while the soup was heating, to see her go... 
a lump formed in his throat, for he knew that it was the 
last time, the last separation; the final sundering of 
everything that had been precious to them.  Sorrow washed 
over him, a grief so huge that it dwarfed him, crushed him, 
drove away the color and the life in the room and rendered 
everything dull and grey...

At the door, she paused.  "'Bye, Mulder," she murmured, and 
the sound of it shattered what little was left of his broken 
heart -- he nearly called her back.  Almost.

"'Bye, Scully," he said inaudibly, and watched the last 
spark of hope in her eyes die.

Then the door closed behind her, and she was gone.

Alone at last, he dug a clean spoon from the depths of the 
silverware drawer, fumbled with the remote until he'd found 
a college basketball game, settled down on the couch to 
watch.  The silence in the apartment thickened around the 
low drone of the TV announcers and the vague sounds of his 
upstairs neighbors moving around, forming an additional 
barrier around him, like cotton wool to soften any blows 
that might still reach him.  It was oddly reassuring, this 
silence, this aloneness: it was what he was most accustomed 
to.  He'd allowed himself to become distracted for a little 
while, but he'd come to his senses; he was alone again, 
which meant that he was safe.

The pain would fade, and he would lock it away into the box, 
never again to be seen.  That was the way it always 
happened.  That was the way life worked.  He'd survive.

He'd survive.

Alone.

On the screen, the underdog-team scored a point, and he 
dragged his attention back to the game, and tried to care 
who won.

end part IV

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

V. The Healing

Mulder was having a nightmare.  She could hear him, through 
the paper-thin motel walls.  Another nightmare; the third in 
a single night.  If this was representative of how he'd 
spent his evenings since their breakup, it made his chronic 
fatigue comprehensible.

She'd expected something like this, of course, but the 
reality was quite a bit worse than the expectation had been.

Her first impulse, her overwhelming instinct, was to go to 
him -- but they had barely begun to repair the damage to 
their rapport; they had only just gotten back to the point 
where he'd dropped the prefix "Agent" from her surname, and 
she thought that forcing the issue might only make things 
worse.

On the other hand, he was hurting, and it was terrible for 
her to witness his pain and be helpless to stop it.

The only thing that had made any of it at all bearable was 
her absolute certainty that he still wanted her.  The 
request-for-transfer form that had lain in his desk, 
completed but as-yet-unsubmitted, since his return to the 
office.  The fact that he'd grudgingly accepted her offer of 
rides to and from work, instead of renting or leasing 
another car to replace his old one.  The myriad ways in 
which he could have shut her out, yet hadn't... he still 
wanted her, she was sure of it; but his pride or his pain or 
some combination of both was keeping him from reaching out 
to her.

So it was up to her to repair the damage she'd done, because 
Mulder wasn't going to do it.  Left to his own devices, 
Mulder would remain withdrawn, a turtle hiding in his shell 
indefinitely.  She owed him more than that: she owed him a 
way out, a helping hand back to daylight, especially since 
she'd been the one to drive him into the darkness.

//I fucked up,// she thought bluntly, not flinching from the 
harshness of the epithet, or her own responsibility for the 
state of affairs that made it the *only* applicable term.  
//I thought I was doing the right thing, and instead I 
fucked up.  Oh, Mulder.  I'm sorry.//  She hadn't realized -
- how had she failed to realize?  How could she have *not* 
known how deeply her words would hurt him?

Because she hadn't realized what she was saying.  She'd 
wanted some breathing room, a bit more space to reflect on 
what was happening, a chance for them to both really 
consider what they were doing and why.  She'd wanted a 
return to the safe contentment of friendship, of 
partnership, while she pondered the strange new feelings 
that were assailing her, and how she might assimilate them 
into her worldview.  She'd wanted to take a step back, take 
a deep breath, and come to terms with her newfound knowledge 
that he was *the one*...  to put everything into 
perspective, so that she could deal with it properly.

Instead, she'd broken his heart.

In retrospect, it was all so clear...  //I told him it was a 
mistake,// she thought dismally.  //Why did I say that?  But 
maybe I was right after all... look at us now,// as the 
faint sounds of his night terror filtered through the 
plaster, bringing tears to her eyes.  //There was less 
distance between us on the first day we met.//

And then she heard him cry out her name, almost a scream, 
and that galvanized her; she was up on her feet and moving 
before she was even aware of it.

His body was huddled into a fetal position, blankets and 
sheets tangled around him; he was clutching his pillow and 
sobbing in his sleep, and the sight of him hurt as if 
someone had shoved a knife into her stomach.  She recalled 
his comment about having been knifed in the gut, and 
empathized... and without thinking twice, she climbed into 
bed and curled herself around him, holding him as tightly as 
she could.  "Mulder," she whispered into his ear, kissed his 
cheek, hoping that he would feel her presence through the 
nightmare, that she could draw him out of it.

She realized, suddenly, that to Mulder, the truth might well 
be as bad as the nightmare...

"Wake up," she murmured, "wake up, Mulder," and kissed him 
again, smoothing sweaty hair away from his face, and all at 
once he awoke; startled eyes assimilated the reality around 
himself, ascertaining what was fact and what had been the 
fiction created by his troubled mind.

It hurt that his first waking action was to move away from 
her, to put as much physical distance between them as 
possible.

"What're you doing here?" he growled, sitting on the edge of 
the bed furthest from her, rubbing at tired eyes with one 
fist.

"You called my name," she said steadily, determined not to 
let her own anguish rise to the surface.

"Well, I'm fine.  Leave me alone," was his next statement, 
delivered in a curt tone; unsteadily, he rose and stumbled 
off to the bathroom.

She thought about it, while he was in there, whether to stay 
or go... but this was the first opening of any kind, the 
first small break in the wall of tension between them, and 
she couldn't let the opportunity pass.  Who knew when there 
might be another? and whether it might be too late?

So she was still there when he emerged; and she braced 
herself against his narrowed gaze.  "Thought I told you to 
leave," he said, with as much open hostility as she'd ever 
heard in his voice.

It almost caused her to react, but she held firm against her 
own impulse to run from the confrontation.  "I didn't think 
that would be wise."

"You've been wrong before."  He glanced at her, then quickly 
looked away, and she remembered what she was wearing -- lace 
and satin, a totally impractical nightgown that she would 
never have packed for a field assignment, had it not been 
for her distant hope that she could use it as a visual aid, 
to lure Mulder back to his senses.

She'd underestimated his resolve, it seemed; he seated 
himself in the chair at the opposite side of the room, the 
message clear: //stay back, no closer// -- and she sighed.

"Don't you think this has gone on long enough?" she asked.

"Thought this was what you wanted," and there was a faint 
note of triumph in his voice: //what *you* wanted, Scully; 
what's the matter, don't you like it?//

"I didn't know what I wanted!" she cried, frustrated with 
his refusal to listen, with her own inability to make him 
understand.

"Oh, and now you do?"

His statement stopped her cold; she had no reply ready, and 
after a moment of her silence, he laughed -- a bitter sound, 
acid, the very antithesis of laughter.  "That's what I 
thought."

"I miss you," she said plaintively, not knowing what else to 
say.

"Yeah, I'll bet; me, or my tongue.  Do us all a favor, 
Scully; buy yourself a vibrator before someone else gets 
caught in the crossfire."

In the first instant, she was stunned; in the second, a 
bright spark of fury ignited inside her -- she grabbed the 
first thing that brushed against her outstretched hand and 
threw it at him, as hard as she could.

It turned out to be an ashtray, sharp-cornered and heavy; he 
didn't even try to dodge as the missile connected with his 
shoulder forcefully.  A small gasp of pain, at the moment of 
impact -- his hand reached up to the gashed spot, came away 
stained with blood.  "How much more do I have to bleed for 
you?" he wondered aloud.  "And my gun arm, too; and us out 
on a case.  Nice work, partner."

She stared at him, not liking what she was seeing, but with 
the dismal feeling that she deserved exactly what she was 
getting.  "You're doing this on purpose," she accused him, 
"you're going out of your way to hurt me, aren't you?"

He shrugged -- one-sided, the shoulder she hadn't damaged.  
"Yeah," he said mildly, and the admission caught her 
completely off-guard.

"*Why?*"  His pain, she could understand; his paranoia, his 
desperate terror of betrayal, all of that made sense to her.  
What she couldn't comprehend was his viciousness, his intent 
insistence on vengeance.  "Do you really want to break me?  
Is that what you need?"

Her words seemed to strike a chord; his face softened 
marginally.  "Maybe that's all I've got left," he murmured.

Taking advantage of the lull, she got up and went to him -- 
"Leave me alone," he muttered, as she tried to examine the 
wound she'd inflicted.

"Let me see..."

"Back off, Scully!"  His voice rose almost to a shout, anger 
growing...

"Shut up!" she shouted back, right in his face, and 
sullenly, he allowed her to check the gash.

Nothing too major, a small laceration, and probably a bruise 
by morning -- enough to restrict the movement of his arm, 
though, enough to make drawing his weapon difficult and 
painful, possibly endangering them both.  She damned herself 
silently for her lapse of control: she should have known 
better, should have been more professional, no matter what 
he'd said to provoke her.  She'd faced down leering requests 
for blowjobs with more restraint... but this was Mulder; 
this was the person who could hurt her more deeply than 
anyone else ever could.  "I'm sorry," she said, reaching for 
a Kleenex to wipe away some of the blood.

Another sound that might have been a laugh but wasn't.  "It 
doesn't matter," said Mulder.

She abandoned the conversation for a moment, long enough to 
duck into her own room and retrieve first-aid essentials.  
When she returned, she saw that he hadn't moved, that he was 
still sitting there staring at the far wall as if it held 
some great secret.

"It matters," she said conversationally, pouring antiseptic 
solution over his wounded shoulder.  "Of course it matters."

His teeth set against the inevitable sting of alcohol 
against raw flesh.  "Not anymore."

"It matters," she repeated, gentle fingers cleaning the 
area, bandaging it.  "You can't pretend it doesn't."

"Why not?"  It was a challenge, but there was less anger in 
his tone, now, than defeat; she took that as an encouraging 
sign.

"Because it hurts more that way," she informed him.

"Right.  Like you would know."  His casual disdain 
infuriated her; she struggled to keep a rein on her temper.

"Do you really think you're the only person in the world who 
knows anything about pain?" she countered.  "Do you truly 
believe that this isn't hurting me, too?"

He sighed.  "Scully, you have no idea what you did to me," 
and his voice was so forlorn, so miserable, that she 
couldn't stop herself from embracing him.

His body stiffened in her arms, resistant, as if her touch 
was more than he could bear, but she held on, feeling that 
if she let go of him now, they'd drift so far apart that 
she'd never reach him again... and after awhile, very 
gradually, she felt him relax.  

She settled her hip on the arm of the chair, felt him rest 
his head against her chest, and only when the first warm 
droplet splashed against her skin did she realize that he 
was crying.

In retrospect, it was easy to see how badly she'd misjudged 
him, how severely she'd underestimated his capacity for fear 
and pain.  She'd let the atmosphere of easy affection lull 
her into a false sense of complacency; she'd mistaken 
arrogance for confidence, determination for strength.  She'd 
assumed that he had as much faith in her as she'd had in him 
-- she'd forgotten that this was, after all, Mulder, for 
whom nothing had ever been a certainty.  Mulder, who was on 
intimate terms with loneliness, who was gradually learning 
the concept of unity with her assistance, but who had only 
the vaguest comprehension of any possible shade of grey 
between the two.  Mulder, one of the most intelligent men 
she'd ever known, who somehow couldn't quite emotionally 
grasp the difference between a mistake and a betrayal...

Nor had she realized how completely she held his soul in her 
hands.

It came to her in that moment: //you're going to spend the 
rest of your life doing this, Dana, if you stay with him 
it'll always be like this; there's a fracture running the 
length of his psyche that's maybe too deep to ever be 
healed.  You'll be his support, holding him together: is 
that really what you want, to spend your life tending to his 
wounds?  Is it worth it?//

She rested her palm against the side of his face, meaning to 
brush the stray droplets from his cheek, and his hand came 
up to rest lightly on her wrist, holding it there -- he was 
fighting the tears, struggling and losing.  For a moment, 
she wanted to tell him to stop fighting, to let it all 
out... but this was Mulder: if he did, would he ever be able 
to stop crying? or was there too much pain in him to ever be 
released?

Not to mention, she was afraid that if she called attention 
to his tears, he'd become self-conscious and walk away -- 
too much of a chance to take -- and in the end, she simply 
held him, and let herself cry with him.

Her own sadness had been so close to the surface, ever since 
the night it had happened; it seemed that she was constantly 
struggling to hold her pain at bay.  There'd been times at 
work, listening to his too-formal phrasing of her name, when 
she'd been sure she was about to burst into tears, and the 
only thing that had stopped her was her conviction that it 
would push him right over the edge and out of her life for 
good.  That, and her fear that he would simply sit there and 
watch her crying and do nothing; that her misery would be 
meaningless to him.  She didn't think she could bear that.

But now he was too absorbed in his own anguish to notice, 
and she cried for him, and for herself; for what she'd done 
to him inadvertently, and for the soul that had been scarred 
so badly that even the lightest blow could constitute a 
mortal wound.

Then she felt him shift position -- fear surged up within 
her, and she was certain that he was going to push her away 
-- but instead his arm snaked around her waist and latched 
on tightly, and she started crying all over again from sheer 
relief.  If he could still reach out to her, they hadn't 
lost everything; it wasn't all gone.  They could recapture 
lost ground.  They could rebuild what had been destroyed.  
It didn't *have* to be over.

"I love you," she told him, striving to keep her voice 
comprehensible despite the sobs that shook her.  "I love you 
so much, and I'm so sorry."  The Truth, as simple and pure 
as she could make it.  She could only hope that they'd 
reached the point where he could accept it.

He didn't reply, but it seemed to her -- it might have been 
wishful thinking, but it felt as if his grip tightened, just 
a little.

She held him, long past the point when her own tears had 
stopped, when her rear end had gone numb from her ridiculous 
balancing act on the arm of the chair; she held him until he 
stopped shuddering, until his tears slowed and dried, 
stroked his hair as he rested against her relearning how to 
breathe -- and felt something in her shatter when 
resolutely, he disentangled himself from her embrace and 
stood up, albeit unsteadily.  "Um, I gotta get some sleep," 
he said, not looking at her.

//Oh, no, you don't.  I'm not letting go of you now!//  
"I'll help," she said, rising and following him.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," and he turned 
away from her, doing his best to block her out.

"You'd prefer to be alone?" she asked him.

"It's better that way," was his reply, delivered in a tone 
of finality.

"No.  It's not."  She took his hand, felt his fingers curl 
around hers -- an involuntary response, perhaps, but one 
that heartened her.

"Scully... go to bed, will you?"  There was more than a hint 
of tenderness in his voice along with the weariness, 
reinforcing her conviction that this time, she *was* doing 
the right thing.

"Sure," she said, pulling him toward his bed.  "That's what 
I had in mind."

"I meant *your* bed."  But he didn't resist, sat down on the 
edge of the bed beside her.

"We can sleep in my bed, if you prefer," she told him.

"Scully..."  A long, heavy sigh.  "I'm not going to get rid 
of you, am I?"

"Is that really what you want?"  She didn't wait for him to 
answer; she had the feeling that he didn't know what he 
wanted.

Instead, she moved so that she was sitting cross-legged 
behind him, and began to rub his shoulders, being careful of 
the one she'd injured.  A nice, non-threatening massage: 
something he could accept without having to give too much of 
himself away.  Her fingers dug into tense muscles, trying to 
loosen the knots... she wasn't surprised that her efforts 
were largely unsuccessful.

Apparently, though, something was working; she felt him 
leaning into her hands, felt him swaying slightly in time 
with her caresses in slow surrender.

"Lie down, will you?" she said softly, and he obeyed, 
stretching out on his back with his eyes closed; he still 
couldn't quite meet her gaze without evident discomfort, but 
he was letting her touch him, and that was a helluva good 
place to start, in her estimation.  

She let her hands wander over his chest, applying enough 
pressure that he could justify it as a continuation of the 
backrub if he needed to, making sure to nudge all the 
sensitive spots she'd discovered on previous reconnaissance 
missions.  Her fingertips strayed across his nipples, and 
she felt him shiver, and knew that she'd won this round.  
Tomorrow might be another story, but he wouldn't be 
struggling against her any more tonight...

Small soft strokes, little wet kisses, starting at his 
collarbone and working down slowly: it was imperative that 
she proceed with the utmost care.  His arousal was a 
delightful side effect, but not the main purpose of the 
exercise -- what he needed most was comfort, and company, to 
counter the weight of his self-imposed exile.  The wrong 
move, the wrong word, any mistake right now could be 
disastrous; he was so vulnerable...

But that vulnerability also added an extraordinary 
sensitivity, so that even the mildest caress sent a tremor 
through him; she could sense in him the desperate need for 
contact, and for the first time realized that it had very 
little to do with passion.  Strange, that a man with a 
drawerful of porn-on-video should invest the act of sex with 
such deep emotional significance, but that was Mulder: one 
contradiction after another, infuriating and wonderful.

Contact.  Her hands gliding over him, every part of him, 
leaving not an inch of skin untouched.  Sliding the 
sweatpants over his hips, his knees, his ankles, and off: 
shedding her nightgown in the space of a heartbeat and 
pressing the length of her body against his.  More kisses, 
more and more and more, moving slowly downward; taking him 
into her mouth, hearing his soft plaintive cry and feeling 
his sudden urgency, knowing that he couldn't wait -- she 
held off long enough to make it intense, not long enough for 
it to hurt, brought him over the edge and down the other 
side.

Before he'd had time to recover, while his resistance was 
still at its lowest, she snuggled into his side, wrapping 
herself around him... and nearly burst into tears all over 
again when he rolled over and slid his arms around her in 
return.

"This isn't gonna work."  His voice was sleep-slurred, and 
held little conviction -- in this, he didn't want to 
believe; but he needed convincing that any other outcome was 
possible.

That was all right -- she would convince him.

He was asleep before she could dispute his claim, and she 
held him and listened to his snores for awhile.  How 
irritatingly typical, that the man who believed a dozen 
impossible things before breakfast every day would no doubt 
wake up in the morning fully confident that their 
relationship was doomed to fail.  How ironic, that she was 
fated to find herself in the position of demonstrating what 
couldn't be scientifically proven: that the bond they shared 
was stronger than any detracting influence, even that of 
their own fears.

//So I'll keep the faith for both of us,// she decided, and 
spent her last few minutes of wakefulness trying to figure 
out what the morning might bring.  The exercise proved more 
soporific than counting sheep; before she could even come 
close to an answer, she was fast asleep.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - 
* - * 

She awoke to find herself alone in his bed, to the sound of 
the shower running, and she was willing to bet anything that 
he'd locked the door-- testing her hypothesis, she found it 
correct.  //About what I expected,// she thought to herself 
philosophically, as she trudged wearily through the 
connecting door to her own room and bathroom.

She didn't see him again until after she'd showered and 
dressed and headed to the motel office for a cup of the 
ubiquitous sludge that masqueraded as complimentary coffee; 
he'd already found his way there, was sitting on the shabby 
sofa reading a newspaper through dark sunglasses -- or was 
pretending to; from what she could see of his face, she had 
the feeling that he was barely keeping his eyes open, let 
alone managing to focus on the words.

"I'll drive today," she said conversationally, settling in 
beside him.

His head turned fractionally toward her, a sidelong glance.  
"Good idea," he conceded, and that in itself was a sign of 
his fatigue.

She picked up another of the daily newspapers strewn over 
the coffee table, sipped at her own coffee, carefully not 
making conversation.  Best to let things settle for a while.  
He was still hurting too badly to think clearly, let alone 
dare to believe in happy endings.  But she had demonstrated 
that she loved him, that she was there for him, and he had 
quite inadvertently shown her that there was still hope for 
them... now, the only treatment left to be administered was 
the same one used for the common cold: rest, and time.

After a few moments, she felt the tension in him dissipate; 
the couch shifted as he tossed the newspaper aside and 
leaned back, closing his eyes briefly.  "I feel like hell," 
he murmured -- then shot her another small sideways look.  
"No offense."

"None taken," she replied, smiling because his last two 
words had said far more than he'd meant them to.

"So, what's first; we question the last of the witnesses 
from the QuickieMart?"

"Think you can stay awake long enough?"

"I'll manage."  With a sigh, he levered himself upright -- 
and his hand brushed ever so lightly against her arm, too 
gently to be construed as an actual caress, but too 
deliberate to be anything but intentional.  "Might as well 
get started."

"Might as well," she agreed, still smiling, and followed him 
out into the too-bright sunlight.

end part V

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

VI.  The Definition of Forever

"Scully..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

She shrugged, went back to the paperwork she was doing; he 
tried to tear his eyes away from her, and couldn't.

It had become patently obvious that she was waiting for him 
to make the first move, that she was giving him every 
opportunity to do so, that she would welcome any pathetic, 
feeble attempt on his part -- he missed her desperately, 
missed her smiles and her kisses with an intensity that 
consumed nearly every waking moment -- and yet somehow, he 
couldn't seem to take the single step that would bring them 
back to their old unity.

He'd tried to write her a letter, had wasted several hours 
staring at a computer screen, typing and then deleting his 
efforts; intelligent, eloquent, he'd never had a problem 
stringing sentences together in ways that suited his needs, 
but when it came to telling Scully how he was feeling, he 
just couldn't find the words.

Roses were sterile, impersonal; singing telegrams, too 
flashy for her subdued tastes; there was no way he could 
afford another expensive present, like the ring that she'd 
never stopped wearing -- and the simplest forms of 
communication were the ones giving him the most difficulty.  
He couldn't figure out what to say, what to do...

And all he could think about was touching her, what it felt 
like when she touched him... but he couldn't very well tell 
her that, could he?

The situation was getting ridiculous; it was all so 
*stupid*!  It hadn't been this difficult the first time 
she'd gone down on him, or the first time he'd lavished his 
attentions on her... but then, this meant more.  Those first 
times, they'd been able to pretend it was just a dare, only 
the terms of a wager, but now...

She'd said that she loved him.  Not just the affection he'd 
come to take for granted, never again merely the deep caring 
of a close friend.  Even in the face of his rejection, even 
as he'd pushed her away, she'd stood her ground with firm 
resolve and told him that she loved him.  Now, she was 
sitting only a few feet away, her eyes flickering in his 
direction every few minutes, waiting for him to say 
something, anything, and he *couldn't*.

He felt incredibly awkward, like the twelve-year-old boy 
who'd had the most outrageous crush on his teacher... and 
then it came to him, in a wave of inspiration; he didn't 
know if it was the most brilliant idea he'd ever had, or the 
most unfortunate, but at least it was something.

Grabbing a pen, he scribbled a few words on a sheet of 
paper, then began folding it before he could lose his nerve, 
flattening each fold to razor sharpness with careful 
precision -- a triangular shape formed from the flat page; 
and when the paper airplane was finished, he aimed with 
trembling fingers and threw, watching as the projectile 
sailed across the office and lodged in her sleekly shining 
hair.

Startled, she plucked it from her hair; sparing him the 
briefest glance, she unfolded the paper, smoothed it out 
flat on the desk -- and he waited, feeling the weight of the 
lump in his throat approaching nausea, his stomach turning 
somersaults in anticipation of her reaction.  

Her brow furrowed slightly, and his heart stopped beating -- 
//it's wrong, it's all wrong, I should have said more than 
just, 'I love you'...//

...and then she looked up at him, and smiled.

Warmth in that smile, sunny sweetness; limitless patience, 
complete acceptance; affectionate amusement and silent 
sympathy, and the pale shimmer of unshed tears sparkling in 
her bright eyes.  "So," Scully said, her voice soaked 
through with tenderness.  "You want to stop for pizza on the 
way home?"

And all he could do was nod: something had come undone 
inside him, some vital restraint, and he knew, he just 
*knew* that if he tried to speak, he was going to break down 
completely.  Crying, laughing maybe, and at least a fifty 
percent chance that he'd start kissing her and not be able 
to stop...

She nodded back, and returned to her work; and Mulder closed 
his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - 
* - * 

The walk to Scully's car seemed endless, eternal, one step 
after another stretching into infinity, just like the hours 
and minutes and seconds had been, all leading up to this -- 
he followed her, close enough to touch and not daring, not 
trusting his own control, his ability to stop with one small 
caress.  Carpooling, a convenient excuse, a way to avoid 
relinquishing that last bit of contact with her, which he 
could not survive without... now, she was so close, they 
were so close to being close again, and the tension of 
waiting was fraying his nerves to shreds.

Once inside, he buckled up the seatbelt, strapping himself 
securely into the passenger seat so that he couldn't give in 
to his longings and reach out... he snuck a quick look 
sideways at her, found her looking at him at him, and 
wondered if he was wearing the same expression of forthright 
desire that graced her lovely face.

"I think," said Scully, slowly and evenly, "that we can 
safely forget about the pizza."

He tried, he really tried to dredge up something witty and 
snappy in return, but all he could manage was, "How much do 
you like that shirt?"

The rich sound of her merry laughter surprised him, 
delighted him, caused a shiver of pure lust to course down 
his spine and settle in the usual locale; her voice, when 
she spoke, was a low purr that finished the job her laughter 
had begun, leaving him hard and aching.  "How much do you 
like yours?"

//Breathe, Mulder, breathe.//  "Y'know," he murmured, trying 
to sound casual and not even managing to approach it, "my 
place is closer."

"Mmm."  She inserted the key in the ignition with deliberate 
care, turned it; the engine growled to life.  "Close is 
good," she remarked.

Their commute was much shorter than it would have been, had 
they headed north and east toward her apartment; and with 
every passing mile, the nervousness and desire built tension 
inside him, until his stomach felt as if it was tied into 
knots -- a not unfamiliar feeling where she was concerned.  
Things were so much the same, so much different than before.  
Distance between them, yet he was acutely aware of her every 
breath, the almost imperceptible tremor in her hands, the 
taut anticipation that lived inside her own soul.  So close, 
and so far... the dichotomy tugged at him, magnified the 
faint shred of fear that he could never quite escape.  How 
was it possible?  How was any of this possible?

Scully.  His partner, his friend, a doctor and scientist... 
a goddess, a mysterious and magical creature who could grant 
his every wish save one, fill all but the single corner of 
his soul reserved for his lost sister... that one spot was 
reserved for Samantha: everything else inside him, 
everything else he was belonged to Scully.  How, in this day 
and age, could such a thing occur?  She was an independent 
woman, and he was a relatively liberated and reasonable man, 
and this was the stuff of fairy tales -- as if she were the 
princess who might kiss a frog and break the spell that held 
the prince bound; as if he were the valiant knight who might 
defend his lady from the fearsome ogre that lurked beyond 
the castle moat.  Ridiculous...  Scully was perfectly 
capable of defending herself, and he'd managed to survive 
over three decades without ever once finding himself 
croaking from an enchanted lilypad, and the feelings that 
lurked in his heart were archaic and idiotic, unworthy of 
note.

//Except, maybe, for one basic truth,// he realized, as she 
stopped for a red light.

"I love you," Mulder said softly.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she blinked hard.  "I 
can't drive while I'm crying," Scully responded, her voice 
completely level, very calm.

His fingers curled around her hand, lifted it from the 
steering wheel and brought it to his lips; he kissed her 
palm, then replaced her hand on the wheel where it had been, 
all without a word.

Five blocks later, they hit another red light.  "Love you 
too, y'know," came the murmur from the driver's seat.

"I know," said Mulder, and that was the best part: he really 
did.  Could feel it, warm and vividly real inside himself, 
with a certainty he'd never quite possessed before.

"I'm sorry," he added, a little while later, after they'd 
cleared the bridge and entered Alexandria.

Scully shook her head.  "We both made mistakes," she 
reminded him.  "It happens.  We'll survive," and it made him 
smile, because for the first time he actually found himself 
believing it.

As they neared his apartment, he let his hand edge 
tentatively toward her, until his fingertips touched her 
thigh; and she slid her own hand from the wheel and twined 
her fingers with his, even though it meant she had to 
navigate the last turn with difficulty.

She had to let go of his hand, in order to park; and he 
nearly sprained his fingers in his anxious rush to unfasten 
his seatbelt; //can't do that, I'll need those later,// was 
the dim thought that passed through his distracted mind as 
he followed her to the door.

Then they were inside, alone, apartment door shut and locked 
and sealing them together; he gazed down at her, some part 
of him marveling at the accuracy and texture of his dream, 
knowing that it was too good to possibly be true.

Her lips parted, shaped his name, aided by the low slow 
sultry growl that emerged from her throat -- her arms 
encircled his hips, drawing him to her, and abruptly it was 
unbearably real, and more than he could stand.  The feeling 
rushed through him, *that* feeling, the same sudden swift 
escalation of passion, the same sweet sharp loss of control, 
and he seized her, lifted her off her feet... suppressed his 
imminent climax by the barest margin; it had been far too 
long, he'd been far too lonely, to settle for anything so 
brief and superficial.

Instead, he held her, exulting in the fervent strength of 
her arms around him, savoring the intensity of their mutual 
passion.  "Scully," he whispered in her ear, and her lips 
and teeth took hold of a section of his neck and sucked 
hard, branding him with what would surely be a notable 
hickey in the morning.  The feeling of immediacy receded, 
just a little, just enough to allow him to breathe -- what 
*was* it about her that provoked him this way? 

"I love you," he told her, and she blinked up at him and 
smiled that so-lovely smile, echoed his words back to him.  
//That would be the reason, yes... ah, Scully.//

One small hand settled at the nape of his neck and pulled 
him down firmly; he yielded happily to her insistence, where 
he could not quite allow himself to give in to his own.  
"So," she said, after the kiss.  "Do you actually *own* a 
bed?"

It made him laugh.  "Of course I do," he affirmed.  "But, 
um, there's some stuff on it..."

She took his hand and entwined her fingers with his, set off 
toward the bedroom as he trailed behind her.  "You're not 
kidding," she said, as she surveyed the situation.

"I usually sleep on the couch," he explained unnecessarily, 
feeling a hot flush of embarrassment rushing to his face.

"When you sleep at all, right?"  She hugged him briefly, 
then set to work clearing the bed: moving the piles of 
laundry, stacks of papers, relocating them to the nearest 
possible site, and he hastened to help her.

Library books ("September 1991?" Scully noted in disbelief) 
that he'd never gotten around to returning, newspapers 
containing relevant articles that he'd never gotten around 
to clipping, the odd videotape here and there, migrating 
from the bottom-drawer collection in the living room -- one 
tape he'd been missing for some time, which he could have 
cared less about at that moment, since 'the real thing' was 
obligingly working on clearing some space for them to share; 
he chucked it into the garbage, heard the plastic case crack 
with the impact, and didn't dare look up to claim his 
partner's small, approving smile.

There was enough accumulated debris to have shielded the 
wrinkled bedspread from having gathered too much dust; he 
stripped it off, and studied the sheets he'd put on the bed 
the last time he'd actually bothered to prepare it for 
sleeping -- which had been when? how many years ago?  They 
were still clean, not too musty-smelling; he would have 
preferred silk or satin for his beloved goddess's delicate 
skin, but he had the uncomfortable feeling that he didn't 
even own another set of bedsheets.

"Now I know why we always sleep over at my place," she 
commented, moving to her side of the bed -- funny, the way 
beds didn't have sides when she wasn't sharing them -- and 
beginning to matter-of-factly unbutton her blouse, the way 
she always did when she didn't quite trust him to take the 
proper care removing her garments.

And suddenly he was nervous all over again; was it really 
going to be this easy?  Just... climb into bed with her as 
if nothing had ever happened to separate them?

"Scully... um, we should talk," he began.

"You want to *talk*?  Now?  Mulder, you never cease to amaze 
me."  She kicked off her shoes and sat down on the bed 
cross-legged, tilted her head slightly to one side as she 
gazed up at him.  "What's the matter?"

He followed her example, sat down facing her; he took her 
hand, trying to ignore her half-unbuttoned blouse and the 
luscious curves revealed.  "I don't know, I just...  there 
should be more to it than this.  Shouldn't there?"

"More than love?"  She shook her head.  "What more is 
there?"

"How do we know this won't happen again?" he asked her.

"We don't know anything, Mulder."  Her words were stark; her 
voice was warm and caring, sinking into his soul and 
saturating him with her concern.  "We don't know that one or 
both of us won't be abducted or killed tomorrow, and we 
don't know that we won't inadvertently hurt each other.  We 
don't know, Mulder; we *can't*."  Her hands wrapped around 
both of his, massaging, caressing, reminding him of how 
skilled they were at other forms of pleasure.  "All I know," 
she said, with quiet resolve, "is that I'm not willing to 
lose you, not for any reason; and anyone and anything that 
tries to separate us again is in for a fight."  Her eyebrows 
lifted eloquently, punctuating her words.  "Even you.  Even 
me."

He freed one hand from her grasp, reached out to rest his 
palm alongside her cheek.  "I agree," he murmured.

She turned her head slightly and kissed his hand, reached 
out to loosen and remove his tie.  "Is that what you needed 
said?" she inquired, with the startling honesty he so 
treasured.

"Almost," he said, after a moment's thought.  Very 
carefully, with utmost restraint, he began to complete the 
job she'd started, undoing her blouse button by button, more 
for something to do while he was talking than for lascivious 
purposes.  "You know," he continued, almost casually, "you 
mean a lot to me.  A lot more than I think you know."

"I think I know," she said softly.  "Now... I think I know."

"Maybe."  He caught her hands as they strayed to the buttons 
of his shirt, the left one in particular.  "I meant what I 
said," and his fingertips brushed over the ring he'd bought 
her.  "Forever.  That's what I want with you."

All at once, there was a stillness about her, as if time had 
ceased to move.  "Mulder," she said slowly, "tell me, what -
- exactly -- does 'forever' mean to you?"

"Forever is forever, Scully," he responded simply.  "As long 
as we have."

She glanced away from him, down at their clasped hands, or 
perhaps at her ring.  "That... wasn't quite what I meant."

"Yeah, I know."  The salesman at the jewelry store had 
congratulated him on his choice, wishing him luck with the 
impending engagement; he'd known exactly what the ring might 
be construed to imply.  He'd bought it anyway, without 
bothering to question his motives.  Now, finally, she was 
wondering -- and he hadn't the faintest idea what to tell 
her.

Her eyes met his, and he realized that she wasn't going to 
press him... "Forever is forever," she repeated, smiling 
slightly.  "Not a bad deal."

He smiled back, relieved and vaguely disappointed at once, 
and finished unbuttoning her blouse.

After the frantic urgency he'd felt at the door, he was 
surprised to find himself undressing her slowly, prolonging 
the small ritual, savoring it -- too many nights, lying 
alone on his couch trying valiantly to sleep, he'd found 
himself remembering the little things: tactile memories of 
sliding her bra straps down her shoulders, following the 
line of the garment to the clasp at the back.  The big 
important memories had been easy to block, but the tiny 
details of their relationship had snuck in under his 
defenses and undermined his resolve, time and time again.  
Now, every moment was unbearably precious to him, each touch 
a stark reminder of the solitude he'd endured; he wanted it 
to last, as long as possible.

She reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck, and he 
pulled her close and held her, delighting in the feel of her 
breasts against his chest, skin against skin... not just sex 
but intimacy, closeness and trust beyond anything he'd ever 
known, so immense and intense that physical desire paled in 
comparison.  How could he have ever imagined resisting 
something so wonderful?  Might as well try to stop the sun 
from rising.  In his world, Scully had become a force of 
nature, something like a tornado or tsunami: a wondrous 
upheaval, shattering the complacency of his pain, 
rearranging the landscape into something brand-new, and 
leaving a rainbow in its wake.

The imagery made him laugh; and Scully stopped nuzzling him 
long enough to shoot him an inquiring glance.  "What?"

"Oh, I was just thinking..." and he related the sequence of 
thought, so that by the end of the tale she was laughing as 
well.

"You think too much," she scolded him lightly.  "'Hurricane 
Scully', indeed."

"You're too little to be a hurricane," he informed her, in 
the same airy tone.  "A tropical storm, maybe."

"I think I've been insulted."  She leaned forward and nipped 
his shoulder with her teeth playfully.

"Ouch," he said, with mild sarcasm, pretending to react.  
"Hurt me, baby..."

"Yeah?"  She responded to his challenge by leaning further 
forward and seizing his left nipple ever so gently between 
her teeth, not biting, just barely grazing... and this time 
he didn't have to pretend; a fierce electric shudder raced 
through him at the sudden stimulation.

//Breathe,// he reminded himself, through the bright haze of 
passion.

"Hey," and the note of concern in her voice brought him back 
to earth, "are you okay?"

He blinked, focused, grinned at her.  "Oh, I'm just *fine*."

"Mmm."  Her hands explored the terrain.  "Yeah, you are, 
aren't you?" she observed, and began to remove the rest of 
his clothes.

"And I suppose I'm the only one?"  He let his fingers do 
some walking of their own, along her leg, up to her thigh 
and beyond.  "Right through the pantyhose, huh?"

"Don't sound so smug.  You might want to take them off while 
you're there," she suggested.

"Keep doing that thing with your hand, and I might just chew 
'em off."  Her skirt surrendered to his insistence, and she 
wriggled out of the garment, squirming delightfully.  
"Skirt, slip, pantyhose; what is it with all the layers?"

"How can you properly appreciate something if you don't have 
to work for it?" was her prompt reply, delivered in a 
teasing tone.

Abandoning his efforts to undress her, he cupped her face in 
both of his hands.  "Believe me," he whispered, "I 
appreciate you, Scully."

Her hands covered his; her eyes shone up at him.  "I believe 
you," she said.  "I believe in you, Mulder."

She couldn't have said anything more perfectly right at that 
moment; he kissed her, very gently, very thoroughly, so that 
by the time they came up for air, both of them were 
trembling.

The last remnants of clothing disappeared quickly, until 
they were lying together naked on the not-too-musty sheets, 
on the bed that he'd used so rarely that he could remember 
each and every time; and he thought, //memories like this, 
and I might just start sleeping here...//  For a time, he 
was content to simply hold her, to relish the feel of her 
body his own, to nestle close and snuggle; passion simmered 
on the back burner, while tenderness reigned.

Then her lips brushed against his earlobe, and she spoke 
directly into his ear, her voice soft and clear and steady.  
"I want you to make love to me," she said.  "I want... all 
of you.  Inside me."

It took a few moments to sink in -- even though she'd 
already told him as much: that had been purely theoretical.  
This was real, this was the opportunity he'd been waiting 
for, this was... this was...

This was Scully, who he loved; and he drew a deep, deep 
breath and forced himself to speak, though they were the 
last words he wanted to say.  "I wouldn't be your friend if 
I didn't ask you... are you absolutely sure about this?"

Her expression radiated serene confidence.  "I'm sure," she 
said simply.  "You're the one."

Every dream, every fantasy he'd ever had about her, all 
culminating in this moment of exquisite promise... his 
erection pressed firmly against her, straining toward the 
virgin territory, aching for the long-imagined sensation of 
plunging into that hot, tight, wet heaven...

"No," he heard himself say; and it was an open question as 
to which of them was more stunned by his pronouncement.

Her wide-eyed shock began to mutate into hurt; and he rushed 
to explain.  "Not now, not here, not like this...  Scully, 
you've waited so long; you deserve better than this.  You 
should have moonlight and roses, champagne, candlelight, 
romance... something special, something planned."  A sudden 
burst of shyness struck him, bringing a wave of heat to his 
face, but he struggled valiantly to complete the thought.  
"I can't let you give me such a precious gift, not unless 
you let me give you something in return."

Tears sparkled in her eyes; she began to speak, choked up, 
tried again.  "Y'know what?" she said unsteadily.  "You 
never cease to amaze me."

"I hope I never do."  He kissed her forehead, ignoring the 
tiny indignant voice that spoke up from within his 
midsection somewhere, demanding to know if he was insane for 
turning down such a chance: it was the right thing to do, he 
knew it.  It was the only thing he could do -- this was 
Scully, after all.

"All I want is you," she murmured, "and I want you so 
much..."

"Oh, believe me, I feel the same way," he said fervently, 
with deep sincerity, "but more than anything else, I want it 
to be *right*.  We've made mistakes... I don't want this to 
be one of them.  I want it to be perfect for you."  Her body 
shifted against his ever so slightly, creating friction, and 
another sharp tremor raced through him -- "I must be crazy," 
he muttered.

"You're noble," she corrected, punctuating her statement 
with a kiss.  "And gallant."  Her hand moved between them, 
wrapped around his hard-on; more friction, carefully 
applied, exactly the way he liked it best.  "You're Mulder," 
said Scully, as if that explained everything, "and I love 
you."

With that, she kissed him in earnest, and he abandoned 
himself to the feeling, and to her.

Somewhere in the middle of things, with her on top of him 
setting the pace, he realized that she could have her way at 
any time -- he had so little self-control where she was 
concerned, and most of his resistance had been based on her 
preferences.  But she seemed content with his decision; it 
was the same old routine, if ecstasy could ever become 
routine through repetition, which he doubted... in the end, 
it didn't matter what procedure they chose.  Paradise by any 
other name was still the best thing that had ever happened 
in his life.

And afterwards, resting in each other's arms and letting the 
sweat dry, he reminded her: "You really have won the bet, 
you know."

"Hmm?"  Lost in her pleasant languor, it took her a while to 
make the connection.  "You're convinced, then."

"Thoroughly."  It had been her contention that it was 
possible to have a satisfying sexual relationship without 
intercourse, and he had disbelieved.  "It's official: I'm 
your slave for life."

"Ah, I see.  So *this* is your idea of forever."  Her 
fingers ruffled through his hair, trailed down his neck to 
his shoulders, playing connect-the-dots with the love bites 
she'd left there.  "My devoted slave.  One last task," she 
teased, "and I'll release you from your bonds."

"Is that supposed to be a chore?" he asked, tracing the ones 
he'd inflicted on her porcelain skin.  "I'd consider it a 
reward for faithful service.  And don't ever..." a spot 
along her collarbone beckoned to him, and he bent to place a 
kiss there "...don't ever release me, okay?"

"Promise," she whispered into his ear, running her tongue 
along the edge to the lobe, tickling him in more ways than 
one.

"Hey, boss... wanna go again?"  Not the most romantic 
proposal, but she would understand.

Merry laughter was her response.  "Sure," she said.  "And 
then we can order that pizza.  Your treat."

"Yes, ma'am," he said obediently, grinning from ear to ear, 
and headed down for another taste of heaven.

end part VI

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

VII.  Friendship

They were chasing her.

She feinted left, dodged right, dashed quickly around a 
curve, then raced down the corridor, running for her very 
life; this was her last chance...  Faster, faster, gaining 
speed on the straightaway -- finally, ahead, she glimpsed 
salvation.

Scully reached her goal and claimed it, with a small, 
breathless cry of triumph.

And the maze froze, and began to blink.

The teenagers who'd gathered to watch were cheering her 
success; she stepped back from the vintage Pac-Man game, 
wiped her sweating palms on her blue jeans and took a deep 
breath while Inky, Pinky, Blinky and Clyde cavorted on the 
screen with a little yellow ball...  A fountain Coke with 
ice appeared in her hand: she blinked in surprise, then 
sipped from the straw gratefully.

"Way to go, Scully; you *rock*," said the familiar voice, 
the sound of someone grinning from ear to ear.  She turned 
her head, and there he was -- and yes, he was, seemingly 
more pleased by her success than she was.  "I told you that 
you'd like your present," he added, taking the paper cup 
from her hand, and she laughed and returned her attention to 
the game, which was starting up again.

It had been years since she'd played Pac-Man, but her 
reflexes were sound, and the old moves and patterns had come 
back to her as if it had been yesterday...  Mulder had 
soundly beaten her at Centipede and Missile Command, the 
trak-ball games, but Scully and Pac-Man had an intimate and 
long-standing friendship; she'd been nursing the same game 
now for over an hour.

Another man might've gone off sulking and nursing his 
bruised ego -- in the past, many had -- but here was Mulder, 
keeping her supplied with sodas and cheering her success 
more loudly than any of the kids gathered around watching.

She'd taken it for a gag gift, that part of her holiday 
present; but no, Mulder had been serious.  "You need to play 
more," he'd said, "we both do," and so they'd gone down to 
the arcade.  She had to admit, he'd been right -- she'd 
needed this, for more reasons than he knew.

On their last case, he'd been particularly annoying: 
charging in with his own peculiar brand of naivete and 
paranoia, ignoring her advice along with all common sense, 
ordering her around *and* insisting on driving... for 
awhile, she'd felt like strangling him, until it had come 
down to crunch time and she was staring into a gun pointed 
at her face and trying not to look or be afraid: and then 
suddenly she was free and safe again, and Mulder was 
standing there bleeding and bruised and about a half inch 
away from killing her assailant.

"What did you do at work today, Dana?"  "Nothing, Mom."

Now here they were, on something that neither of them had 
dared refer to as a 'date', unlike any evening Scully had 
spent since high school... and she was content.  And that 
was something she couldn't explain, either; no one would 
understand.  Her single friends rated their dates based on 
the lavish luxury of the restaurants they were taken to, the 
expense of the theater tickets -- how could she tell them 
that her evenings out were spent at video arcades, discount 
movie theaters and Denny's?  Or that she wouldn't have 
wanted it any other way?

Besides, that wasn't *all* she did with her evenings...

"Go for the grapes, Scully," said his voice in her ear, and 
she pulled her attention back to the game, gratified to have 
discovered that she could still play Pac-Man while 
completely distracted -- she'd memorized the monsters' 
movements long before the cheat books had come out, had in 
fact discovered patterns that no one else had ever found.  
Now she moved to capture the bonus-points fruit, resumed the 
methodical flight, efficiently gobbling dots, evading her 
pursuers, and causing a gasp to arise from the spectators 
when she utilized a little-known glitch of the game to go 
*through* one of the monsters as if it didn't exist; she 
finished the maze easily, began on the next, all the while 
very aware of Mulder standing just behind her, eagerly 
watching her beat the game.

"Whoa!" said several voices at once, and "Excellent!" and 
"Way to go!" and Scully glanced at the top of the maze to 
see two sets of numbers spinning in unison: her own score 
and the High Score... she truly *had* beaten the game, 
though the ancient game had no place for her to enter her 
initials to prove it.  Not that it mattered -- the crowd 
around her knew what she'd done, and more importantly, 
Mulder knew.  It wasn't as if she needed to prove herself to 
him, not any more, but she still enjoyed it.

And *he* liked it, that was the best part; he treasured her 
skills and talents, delighted in the fact that she was smart 
and strong and unwilling to repress those things in order to 
seem more 'feminine'.

She didn't really want to be playing Pac-Man at all, she 
realized; what she wanted was to be in Mulder's bed, or with 
him in hers, or hell, even in the back seat of her car...  
Scully smiled to herself, continued piloting the munching 
yellow ball through the maze, wokka-wokka-wokka-gulp; she 
finished out the maze, then feigned an elaborate yawn and 
stepped back from the machine.  "I'm bored," she said, and 
gestured one of her teenaged spectators to take over the 
game.

Mulder slipped his arm around her shoulders as they strolled 
away; behind them, she heard the sound of a wilting Pac-Man, 
as the hapless teenage boy failed to keep her game going.  
"That was *great*," her partner said, smiling, and she 
grinned up at him.  "You up for more, or you want to get 
something to eat?"

"I think ice-cream sodas would be in keeping with the theme 
of the evening," she said, after a moment's consideration, 
and he laughed and acquiesced.

The Suzy-Q's in the strip mall was the perfect image of the 
archetypal fifties diner, right down to the jukebox; this 
meant that their prices were exorbitant, of course, but they 
did make an excellent chocolate malt.  It also meant that 
the teenage date-crowd that permeated most of the shopping 
center was noticeably absent, driven away by the ten-dollar 
hamburgers and the Fats Domino music.  They had the huge 
corner booth to themselves -- lots of extra space they 
didn't need, since they were sitting as close as if they 
were connected at the hip.

Scully almost laughed aloud at the thought, for they were so 
much closer than that.

"What you need," Mulder said, after a long, thoughtful 
perusal of the menu, "is an ice-cream sundae."

"No," she retorted pleasantly, "I don't," and let herself 
lean into him, just a little, enjoying his steadiness and 
his warmth.

"Sure you do.  You had a rough day," and reality swam before 
her eyes, wavered and reformed into an image of that gun 
staring her straight in the face...  His arm tightened 
around her, banishing the nightmare.  "Ice cream sundaes are 
good for erasing rough days."

"You're fairly good at it yourself," she said, very softly, 
and rested her head against his shoulder.

She felt his hand smooth along her upper arm, a reassuring 
caress; and she was so happily drifting in the gentle 
comfort of his closeness that the sound of his voice, when 
he spoke, was a dismaying shock.  "I'm sorry, Scully," in a 
tone that was as lost, as desolate, as she'd ever heard from 
him.

"Sorry for what?"  She pulled away from him, stared up at 
him, completely at a loss...

"If I had listened to you in the first place, you never 
would have been in danger..."  He turned away, staring out 
the window at nothing.  "I wanted so badly to believe 
Mariano's story that I ignored you and disregarded all 
common sense, and it was almost Duane Barry all over 
again...  You deserved better than that, especially from me; 
and I'm sorry."

She already knew it, of course; had seen it his face in the 
moment when he'd realized the truth of the situation.  The 
contrition, the regret... not to mention the fear for her 
safety, and the fury that had caused him to use what the 
manuals tactfully referred to as 'unnecessary force' in 
subduing her assailant.  Twenty-twenty hindsight, of the 
sort that Mulder was so good at -- she was accustomed to it, 
was well used to the blind spot formed by his willingness, 
his *need* to believe in the unbelievable -- and she knew he 
was sorry, she didn't need to be told; but it was nice to 
hear it anyway.

Her hands enfolded his, and she opened her mouth to tell him 
so -- then she saw his body tense.  "Damn it!"

"What?" and she leaned across him to follow his gaze out the 
window.

"Someone's breaking into your car," and Mulder was sliding 
around the booth and dashing out of the diner at the speed 
of light; she followed him unquestioningly, prepared for 
action.

Not that any was necessary, or possible.  As the diner's 
door swung shut behind her, she saw the taillights of her 
car disappearing out of the parking lot, the car fishtailing 
wildly, roaring away into the night.

And Mulder was standing there, a few yards away from her, 
shaking from the adrenaline burst, cursing a blue streak, 
and looking like he was one small step away from a nervous 
breakdown.

She went to him, took his hand, squeezed it hard enough for 
him to feel it.  "It wasn't your fault," she said quietly, 
firmly, not talking about the car theft at all.

"If you had never met me, none of this would have happened!" 
was his anguished reply -- one that would have been a total 
non-sequitur to anyone who didn't know him as well as she 
did.  

"If I had never met you, I wouldn't be as happy as I am 
now," she told him, moving to stand in front of him and 
challenging him silently to meet her eyes, to believe the 
truth of what she said.  

"Happy?"  Disbelief saturated his voice.  "You've had your 
car stolen, you were almost killed today..."

"And between the two incidents, I had a wonderful evening at 
the video arcade with the man I love," Scully responded, 
with perfect dignity.  "What more could any woman ask for?"

He stared at her incredulously, and she returned his gaze 
evenly; she wrapped her arms around him, and felt him grab 
hold of her, clinging to her fiercely; the tension drained 
out of him in the space of one long, shuddering sigh.

"I'm still sorry," he said, into her hair.

"I know," she murmured into his chest, "and you should be; 
but don't worry about it, okay?" and she heard him laugh, 
just the barest breath of mirth.  A good sign: when he was 
truly immersed in one of his moods, it required intensive 
effort to bring him out of it.  Being with Mulder was a 
full-time job, in and of itself -- but then, she'd come to 
terms with that a long time ago; had decided that she 
wouldn't have it any other way.

Scully pulled her head back just far enough to look up at 
him.  "I think," she said, "that we should go inside, call 
the police and report the robbery, and order the biggest, 
most fattening ice-cream sundaes on the menu."

"I concur," said Mulder, and let her lead him inside.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - 
* - * 

The first thing she did when the cab let them off at her 
apartment was to strip off her jeans -- they were snug-
fitting, and unforgiving to such things as a waistline 
distended by too much ice cream and syrup.  The second thing 
she did was wash her face -- Mulder had taken a positive 
delight in dabbing whipped cream on her nose, over and over 
and over again, until she'd been giggling so hard she'd 
thought she might vomit.

She thought she might, anyway; she hadn't eaten that much 
ice cream at one sitting since childhood.

Clad in sweatshirt and panties, she trudged through her 
apartment to the kitchen, where Mulder was -- she blinked, 
in astonishment -- doing the dishes that had been sitting in 
the sink since that morning's breakfast.  "You'd make a good 
housewife, Mulder," she commented approvingly.

"Does that mean you're going to make an honest woman of me?" 
he teased, and she smiled.

"Sure," she said, playing along.  "If I can ever get you to 
make a *dis*honest woman of me, maybe..."

"Is that a prerequisite?  I thought you were saving yourself 
for marriage," said Mulder; she couldn't see his face, so 
she couldn't quite be sure if it was a jest or not.

"I gave up on that a long time ago, you know that," she 
answered, hoping that she'd managed to keep the bitterness 
from her voice; she tore a paper towel off the roll and 
wiped the countertop dry.

"Saving yourself, or marriage?" he wondered.

"Both, maybe," she answered honestly, and this time she 
heard the disillusionment in her own voice and cursed 
herself for it.

She expected him to offer some comforting platitude; typical 
of Mulder, that he did no such thing.  "I never actually 
expected to marry," he mused.  "It just never fit into my 
worldview.  All that mattered was finding Samantha, finding 
the truth.  I didn't think anything would ever matter to me 
as much as that."

"And now something does?" she queried, knowing the answer, 
wanting to hear him say it.

Preoccupied with rubbing a coffeestain from the counter, she 
didn't sense him approaching, and let out a small surprised 
squeak when his hands slid around her waist.  "My best 
friend matters," he said.  "My very best friend in the whole 
world."

"Ah.  I see."  Scully leaned back, into him.  This was 
comfortable, this was *perfect*.  This was the way it was 
supposed to be between them.

"Mm-hmm.  In fact," and Mulder's voice dropped, to a 
conspiratorial tone, "she's such a good friend that even 
though I let her down all the time, she still loves me."

She opened her mouth to protest at that -- thought about 
what she'd been ready to say, reconsidered, and began again.  
"You do let me down," she agreed.  "You ask me for my input 
and then ignore it, you take me for granted, you're careless 
and you're annoying.  All very true."

"And you still love me."  It wasn't, Scully thought, quite a 
question; but it was close enough.  The eternal question: 
the one he'd never gotten past asking.

"I do," she affirmed.  "Because despite all your irritating 
superficial qualities, you are also the very best friend 
that I have ever had.  More than that, you are my one 
certainty."  She reached for the hands that embraced her, 
held those hands tightly.  "Don't forget that, Mulder.  
Because I don't.  Not even when you piss me off."

Again, that soft laughter, sign that his mood was breaking.  
"I'll try to do better," he promised, fingers twining around 
hers.

"I wouldn't recognize you," she disputed, and was rewarded 
by another small breath of laughter.

He released her -- not without a certain reluctance -- and 
returned to his self-appointed task, while Scully began to 
dry and put away the dishes he'd washed.  "You do realize," 
she remarked, conversationally, "that you're blowing this 
way out of proportion.  There was no way either of us could 
have foreseen or prevented that confrontation," and again, 
briefly, she was looking down the gun barrel...  Scully took 
a deep breath and blinked hard; she was accustomed to these 
flashbacks after the fact, the moments of terror that 
mercifully usually only happened after it was all over.  
She'd never gotten used to the danger, had often had 
nightmares after some particularly stressful or traumatic 
episode.  At least now, when she fell asleep, it would be in 
the comforting haven of his embrace.  She wouldn't be 
alone... would never be alone again.  Not as long as they 
both lived.

It was a new feeling, and yet it was also an old familiar 
feeling, because it had been that way... just about since 
the beginning of their partnership.  In that sense, despite 
all the changes in their relationship, nothing had really 
changed at all.

"I know," Mulder answered, scrubbing a stubborn bit of food 
from a bowl.  "I can't help it.  Call me crazy, but I have 
this little philosophical objection to losing people I 
love."

"That's not a failing, Mulder; but you don't need to go 
overboard.  We face danger, we protect each other; that's 
what partners do."  She felt herself smile.  "And best 
friends."

"Yeah, but..." and he fell silent, devoting (she noted) far 
too much attention to the simple task of dishwashing, 
staring steadfastly at the plate he was washing so that he 
wouldn't have to meet her eyes.  "I just want to protect 
you," he continued, after a moment -- surprising her; she'd 
thought she would have to drag it out of him, the way she 
usually did.  "I don't want you to be hurt, not ever.  
Sometimes I wish I could lock you up in an ivory tower 
somewhere, like a princess in some fairy tale, so that I'd 
know you were safe, and that no one could ever take you away 
from me.  Even though I know it's impossible.  And that 
you'd hate it, even if I could."

Scully put down the dishtowel she was holding and stared at 
him, for a long moment -- he knew he was being scrutinized, 
and his face reddened with embarrassment, yet still he 
refused to look at her, scouring a saucepan as if it was the 
most important thing in the world.  *His* nightmare, one 
that remained with him constantly; and it tore him apart to 
confess it -- even to her, even though she already knew.  As 
if speaking it aloud might make it come true.

And there was no way she could reassure him, not really, 
because it had happened before, and might happen again...

"I feel the same way about you, you know," she said finally.

This earned her a quick sidelong glance.  "Do you?"

"Of course I do.  You think you have some sort of monopoly 
on fear and insecurity?  I worry about you all the time.  
And you, you go off chasing rainbows into bottomless chasms, 
and leave me sitting in the passenger seat of some rental 
car wondering if I'll ever see you again..."  She snatched 
up the dishtowel and thwacked him on the arm with it; 
inexplicably, this brought a smile to his face.  "And I try 
to protect you, or at least to temper your belief with 
reason, and more often than not, you refuse to listen..."

"I listen," he protested.  "I just... don't always heed your 
advice.  I have to follow my own instincts..."

"As do I," she said quietly.

"I know that."  He washed off the last dish, set it in the 
drainer, and turned to face her finally, abandoning pretense 
for directness.  "Scully, I wouldn't change you, not for 
anything; that's not what I'm saying..."

"I know what you're saying," she told him.

"Do you?"

"Yes."  She took his hands in her own; they were wet, a 
little soapy, but as strong and as warm as always.  "And as 
I said, I feel the same way.  I would like to protect you, 
too... even though I know that I can't."

He nodded once, slowly.  "Yeah," and his tone was wistful.  
"But there's never going to be any real safety for us, is 
there?"

"Not as long as we're doing what we're doing," she said, 
very softly.

"Yeah."  And then there was silence, a stillness that seemed 
to stretch forever.

After an eternity, Mulder drew a deep breath, and broached 
the subject that neither of them had ever dared speak of.  
"It would be safer," he said, in an unsteady voice, "if we 
left the Bureau.  Or at least, the X-Files."

//We,// Scully thought, wondering what exactly that meant.  
"Do you think we really could?" she asked him, placing the 
slightest emphasis on the 'we'.

"I don't know," he said bleakly.  "But if it meant that you 
would be safe..." and his voice trailed off.  "Sometimes... 
sometimes, I think..." and again, he didn't -- couldn't -- 
finish the sentence.

She contemplated him thoughtfully, amazed by what he'd said, 
and what he'd left unsaid.  It was true enough that there 
were times she wanted nothing more than to be done with the 
X-Files; to leave it all behind, the endless uncertainty, 
the chasing of rainbows and the scurrying away from the 
faceless shadows that wanted their secrets kept... and then 
there were the times when the need for the Truth burned 
within her ferociously, a fire that he'd kindled, but which 
her own nature kept alight.  His fight had become hers; and 
yet there were times when she wanted to leave the struggle 
far, far behind...

Somehow, though, she'd never imagined that he might have 
become ambivalent about his Holy Grail.  She'd certainly 
never dreamed that *she* might be at the heart of the 
ambivalence.

"Could you?" he asked her finally, his eyes meeting hers 
tentatively, as if he feared what she might say, but had to 
know the answer anyway.

"I could never work with anyone but you, not now," she said 
at once, not having to think about that part of it; their 
partnership ran so deep, with or without the romantic 
aspects, that the thought of being paired with any other 
agent was unnatural, even repugnant.

That seemed to reassure him; but he persisted: "What if... 
what if I left the X-Files?"

Despite his earlier words, the statement stunned her; she'd 
never imagined hearing him say such a thing...  "I can't 
imagine you doing that," she said, feeling slightly dazed, 
as if she were in a dream.

He thought about it for a moment.  "I can't imagine living 
without you," he said at last.  And fell silent again, as if 
he couldn't bear to say anything more.

"I feel the same way," Scully whispered, and left it at 
that; she hugged him, hard enough to drive such troublesome 
thoughts far, far into the distance, and felt his arms 
tighten around her, grateful for the distraction.

Leave the X-Files?  What about the Truth?  What about 
*Samantha*?  Unbelievable, that he would even consider it...  
And what would become of them, if they did?  The X-Files 
were at the heart of their partnership -- yet that union had 
become so much more.  The very idea, that she had somehow 
come to mean more to him than his life's quest... 
inconceivable.

It scared her, even as it warmed her.  And after the 
tumultuous events of the past day, she didn't even want to 
think about it.  She didn't think she could handle any more 
instability, not at the moment.  She didn't think *he* 
could, either.

"Let's go to bed," she said, and he agreed silently, 
signaling affirmation with a gentle kiss on the top of her 
head.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - 
* - * 

They were chasing her.

Faceless demons, and ones with all-too-familiar faces.  
Duane Barry.  Mariano.  The darkness of impending death, 
looming up on her inexorably.  She raced through the maze, 
eerily similar to that of the Pac-Man game she'd beaten; but 
this was no game, this was her life... and worst of all, she 
was alone.

It seemed to her that it was wrong, this aloneness; it was 
*wrong*, in the sense that a two-headed baby would be wrong 
-- impossible, implausible, something that should not be -- 
but she couldn't remember quite why.

She ran, and ran, knowing that there was no way out, until 
finally a clawed hand snatched her and dragged her down...

...soft kisses on her face, her neck, warm strong hands 
caressing her, easing her from the falseness of dreams into 
blessed reality, chasing away the demon fears of her 
sleeping mind with the comforting knowledge that the 
nightmare had denied her -- that she was *not* alone; never 
alone.

"Mulder," she whispered, and let herself sink into his 
embrace.

"Scully," came her name, a soft murmur, as his arms wrapped 
around her and drew her even closer, one hand rising to 
smooth her tousled hair...  He knew all about nightmares, of 
course; he'd had enough of his own.  She'd witnessed many of 
them, especially recently, and had become adept at soothing 
away the residual horror that lingered after the dream had 
been dispelled.  Apparently, he'd learned a thing or two 
along the way.

Or else it came naturally, this capacity for nurturing and 
tenderness; a latent tendency, rarely expressed.  Whatever.  
It didn't matter.  Nothing mattered.  Only that he was 
there, as (it seemed, now) he'd always been.

She cried a little, and he held her until the tears stopped; 
they seemed to wash away the last of the nightmare, left her 
feeling calmer and less unsteady.  Resting her head on his 
chest, listening to the slow beat of his heart, it occurred 
to her that nothing in her life had ever felt so right...  
"I think," she said, "that you are quite probably the best 
thing that has ever happened to me."

A soft chuckle.  "I'm glad you feel that way," said her 
partner,  "because I *know* you're the best thing that ever 
happened to me.  How'd I ever get so lucky?" and there was 
wonder in his voice, awe, at the machinations of a universe 
that had once seemed so cruel and uncaring, and yet had 
presented him so unexpectedly with the prospect of a bright 
and shining future.

Scully knew the feeling.  Shared it.  How was it that her 
inexplicable (and at the time, undesired) pairing with the 
FBI's arguably *strangest* agent had led to this?

"I don't know," she said, "sounds like a case for the X-
Files," and he laughed.

Theirs had never been a relationship built on merriment.  
They'd built a fragile foundation of trust amidst a gnarled 
tangle of conspiracy and lies, strengthened that bond over 
years of shared experience, until their faith in each other 
had become something that they'd come to rely on utterly -- 
but smiles and laughter had been rare, few and far between.  
They'd been a part of each other, yet had never been truly 
close... until that one fateful night, when a dare had 
become so much more.  Within that new intimacy, they'd begun 
to build a new rapport, integrated with the old, solid bond 
to form something even stronger -- and Scully was beginning 
to discover something amazing and wondrous: that Mulder was 
an entirely different person when he was happy.

She wriggled free from his grasp and straddled him, still 
shaking slightly with the giggles that wouldn't quite go 
away.  "You're gorgeous when you smile," she told him, and 
bent down to kiss the tip of his nose.

He liked that, she could tell; and so she worked her way 
down, her hair brushing against his skin as her lips trailed 
kisses...  As she passed his belly button, his hips arched 
up to meet her, presenting evidence of his desire that poked 
her in the jaw; she grinned and applied kisses there, too, 
feeling a long, ferocious tremor consume him as her lips 
slid along heated flesh.  She knew what he liked, how he 
liked it, well enough to predict his every response to her 
every move: and in this case, familiarity didn't breed 
contempt, only a delicious intimacy that just got better and 
better each time they were together.  Like riding a roller 
coaster, over and over -- no less exhilarating on the tenth, 
the hundredth journey, no matter how well one knew the 
course of the track: the long slow ascents were just as 
fraught with tense anticipation, the sheer coasting drops 
just as likely to provoke wild screams of pleasure -- Scully 
had never been overly fond of roller coasters, actually; but 
this particular ride was one she loved dearly.

And it was as easy now as it had been the first time, to 
bring him to the peak of that ascent... as easy, and as much 
fun: to hold such complete power over him, as he lay 
whimpering and writhing beneath her, his hands clutching at 
the sheets, digging furrows into the mattress, so aroused 
that the smallest flick of her tongue could provoke near-
convulsions... she held him there, on the edge of 
culmination, loving the feeling of power, of mastery, of 
owning him: *her* Mulder, hers and hers alone, for no one 
else could do to him what she did -- she knew this; he'd 
told her so, in more than words -- held him there until he 
could stand it no longer, then drew his throbbing erection 
all the way into her mouth, as deeply as she could, with one 
long hard application of suction, lips and tongue conspiring 
to draw him over the edge.

She was sure that her neighbors could hear him howl, not 
merely the next-door tenants but the entire apartment 
complex, as his orgasm seized him and consumed him; she 
suckled gently, enhancing the spasms, swallowed without 
thinking about it, and smiled to herself, pleased with her 
work.  Loving him this way was as good as being the 
recipient of similar attentions: a trite old cliche, but 
absolutely true in this case.  Maybe because he was so 
contained that it was a delight to see him lose control so 
thoroughly, to provoke him to such extreme responses.  Maybe 
just because he was *her* Mulder, and she loved him with all 
her soul.

For a long time, his breathing was ragged and hoarse, as he 
struggled to recover -- his muscles were as limp and lax as 
a rag-doll marionette who'd had its strings severed; he lay 
motionless, as if the effort of respiration were all he 
could manage -- and she inched her way up the bed to lie 
beside him, snuggling into her familiar, comfortable place 
against his side, placing her hand palm-flat against his 
chest to feel it rise and fall in that irregular pattern, to 
feel the hard pounding of his heart.  Watching drops of 
sweat slide down his face, she saw his lips move silently in 
a well-used pattern; she waited the space of a breath and 
heard him add sound to it: "Scully," in a whisper that 
barely qualified as a vocalization.  Her name, the only one 
he'd ever used for her, a name that belonged to him and him 
only.  Her surname, an impersonal appellation -- except when 
it came from his lips; and then, it was an endearment.

Then he smiled, that wonderful, sated, contented, happy, 
*gorgeous* smile that she so enjoyed seeing, and said it 
again in a stronger voice:  "Scully," the paired syllables 
conveying so much more than her identity.  His respiration 
was stabilizing, now; and he turned, rolling over and 
capturing her in his arms, holding her close enough that she 
could feel his heart thumping in syncopated rhythm with her 
own.  Lips forming a kiss on her forehead, another on her 
eyebrow:  "Scully," once more, in a voice saturated with 
love, and she smiled and kissed him back.

And then he pushed her gently back against the mattress, 
rallying his strength, and began to return the favor.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - 
* - * 

Morning arrived with the annoying, persistent buzz of an 
alarm, piercing her consciousness and nagging her to 
alertness despite her fatigue; she wriggled out from beneath 
the arm that held her immobile, and stumbled into the 
bathroom.

She didn't shut off the alarm, knowing that if she did, he 
would never awaken... she was in the shower when she heard 
the bathroom door open, heard the unmistakable sounds of the 
usual morning routine; and shortly afterwards, the shower 
curtain slid back, and he stepped in with her.

Her shower wasn't built for two, but there wasn't any 
choice; there was neither enough hot water nor enough time 
for them to shower separately and still make it to work on 
time.  A neat little gadget from an airplane SkyMall 
catalogue had remedied the logistical problem: a shower-head 
extender that created two simultaneous sprays, so that 
neither of them had to shiver at the cold end of the tub -- 
he reached around her to position the gadget, then reached 
further for the soap, pulled her into his arms and began to 
wash her back.  She reciprocated, letting herself rest 
against him for one long lazy moment, luxuriating in the 
feel of warm wet skin against hers.  Shared showers might 
have been practical, but they were also delicious, even when 
there wasn't time for anything more than getting clean.

Ritual: he exited the shower first, so that when she 
emerged, there was a huge fluffy towel being wrapped around 
her before the cooler air could touch her skin and make her 
shiver; another towel deposited itself upon her head, and 
gentle strong hands rubbed her hair briskly.  She plugged in 
the dryer, picked up a comb and began to style her barely 
damp hair; a long arm stretched across her field of vision, 
blocking her view of the mirror, as he plugged in his razor, 
and side by side they shared the bathroom mirror.  There 
wasn't really enough room in the little bathroom, but they 
managed, as always.

He finished shaving before she was through drying her hair, 
left the bathroom -- not long after, she smelled the 
drifting aroma of coffee brewing, and headed to the kitchen 
to claim her cup as soon as she'd finished coaxing her hair 
into its usual professional 'do.  It was waiting for her, 
black coffee steaming in her mug, sitting on the countertop; 
and Mulder was making breakfast, the usual pot of oatmeal, 
made with a dash of vanilla and a bit of heavy cream, a 
liberal helping of cinnamon and entirely too much brown 
sugar, one of the few meals he could prepare without 
destroying half the kitchen. 

The toaster popped, and she plucked the protruding slices 
from the slots, got out the spread and began to butter the 
toast, slid each piece onto a paper towel and took them to 
the table along with her coffee; a moment later, Mulder was 
there, bringing two bowls with him.  She traded him a slice 
of toast for a bowl of oatmeal, and they sat side by side, 
eating their breakfast.

It wasn't until he spoke that Scully realized that neither 
of them had said a word since waking: that all their morning 
preparations had been conducted in a silence as comfortable 
as their conversations.  But then, words weren't necessary; 
not between *them*, not anymore.

"I don't think I could," he said slowly.  "I wish I could, 
sometimes, but I can't."

She was momentarily confused, wondering what he was talking 
about; an instant later, it was clear.  "I didn't think you 
could," she agreed.  "I don't think I could, either."

His eyes met hers: still sleep-fogged, but intense.  "I love 
you," he said, and she had no doubt that he meant it.  "How 
could I put anything else before you?"

It was clear to her that he felt guilty about that -- yet 
she felt no resentment; and she searched her mind to figure 
out why.  "It's not a question of who or what you care more 
deeply about," she said at last.  "It's a matter of what you 
believe, and who you are.  And who I am."  Her hand snaked 
across the table, fingers intertwining with his.  "It isn't 
merely your quest anymore," she reminded him.  "It's mine, 
too."

"Because I forced it on you..."

"You did no such thing."  //Sometimes,// Scully thought, 
with mingled fondness and annoyance, //he can be so 
*blind*...//  "You showed me things I had never seen 
before," she continued, "opened my eyes to new 
possibilities, opened my mind to questions I hadn't 
considered.  Do you think I blame you for that?  I'm 
*thankful* for that."

"Really?" and it was clear that he'd never considered that 
angle before.

"Really," she confirmed.  "To be perfectly frank, if you 
were to tell me that you were giving up the X-Files for me, 
I would have to insist that you seek immediate counseling.  
Because that's not *you*, Mulder."

Finally, a smile -- how she loved to see him smile.  "You 
amaze me, Scully."

"Good," she said, and watched the smile widen.

They finished breakfast, took their dishes to the sink.  
"We're late," she said, with a cursory glance at the clock, 
"again.  And we still have to dress, and call a cab..."

"Yeah."  He turned toward the trash.  "Guess I might as well 
take this out when we leave; you're too pretty to spend the 
day smelling like yesterday's garbage."

"My hero," she said, grinning.  "Don't forget, the blue bag 
goes in the container on the left..."

"I know, I know, you recycle."  Mulder reached for her hand, 
and she reached back automatically -- suddenly, belatedly 
realized that he wasn't being affectionate... 

"Hey!" she yelped involuntarily, snatching at the hand that 
had stripped the ring from her finger.  

Mulder caught her hand and held it immobile.  "You *said* 
you recycle," he said reasonably.  "And I think we ought to 
save our money for a new car; personally, I'm not expecting 
the local authorities to find anything except possibly a 
burned-out wreck."  His eyes met hers, gazing at her with 
such love, it took her breath away.  "Scully... will you 
marry me?"

It took her a moment to realize what he'd said.  It took 
another moment for it to sink in.

"But Mulder, we're *already* married," she heard herself 
say, and knew in that instant that it was true.

His smile was a treasure.  "We are," he agreed.  "So maybe 
we should walk down the aisle and make it official?"

She didn't have to pause to think about it.  "We should," 
she affirmed.

Very carefully, very tenderly, he slipped the ring back onto 
her finger, drew her hand up to his lips and kissed it.

That was when the tears began, and the laughter that bubbled 
up through the tears and coexisted with them; he wiped away 
her tears with the corner of a paper towel, paying no heed 
to his own, both of them laughing and crying at once, 
sharing an emotion that was too big for words or laughter or 
tears or even the kisses that followed.

And they never did get to work that day.

end part VII

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

VIII. Love

//She's mad at me,// Mulder thought.  //Really, really 
mad.//

The tirade had begun with, "You stupid, thoughtless, 
reckless son of a bitch!" and had escalated from there to a 
level of profanity of which he had never imagined Scully was 
capable.  It would have been interesting, even entertaining, 
if it hadn't been directed at him.

And it had continued all the way to the hospital emergency 
room, and for the thirty-five minutes that it had taken 
until the triage nurse on duty had deemed her injury worthy 
of note; even as the wheelchair bearing his beloved had 
disappeared into the treatment area, he'd still heard her 
cursing him and his lineage, utilizing her formidable 
vocabulary for maximum disparagement.

Now she was silent, and that was worse: withdrawn, cold and 
still on the passenger side of the car as he drove her back 
to the motel.  A few times, he dared glance over at her, but 
each time his eyes darted quickly back to the road, fearful 
of what she might say if she did return his gaze.

//I think I'm in real trouble,// Mulder mused.

After he'd parked, he hurried around to open her door, to 
help her out -- she shoved him back, hard, with the crutches 
the hospital had so thoughtfully provided, and made her own 
way to her room.  He hovered behind her, close enough to 
catch her if she stumbled, yet far enough that she wouldn't 
use it as an opportunity to renew the verbal barrage; he 
stayed there while she fumbled with her key, attempted to 
follow her into the room -- and was caught by surprise when 
she attempted to shove the door closed, nearly catching his 
fingers in the jamb.

"Scully, I'm, uh, I'm sorry?" he tried.

"SHUT UP!" she screamed in his face, and slammed the door.

With a sigh, he went to his own room, noted upon entering 
that she'd closed the connecting door -- he tested the knob: 
locked, as he'd expected.  Mulder cast a glance at Scully's 
luggage, still sitting where she'd left it, in the corner of 
his room, and wondered just how angry she was... 
tentatively, he knocked on the door.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" came the same furious shout, only barely 
attenuated by the intervening wood.

"You, uh, you left your stuff in here," he reminded her.  
The renting of two rooms had become a mere formality long 
ago; it had been ages since they'd actually *slept* in 
separate rooms.  He could hardly remember what it was like 
to sleep alone...

He had the dismal feeling that he'd be becoming reacquainted 
with that sensation tonight.

From the adjoining room, he heard the cursing begin again, a 
steady stream of epithets, growing louder along with the ka-
THUMP, ka-THUMP of her crutches as she made her way toward 
the door -- "That's quite a vocabulary you've got there," he 
said conversationally, as she opened it, and was instantly 
struck silent by the vicious gaze she turned upon him.

He stood by the door and watched her struggle with suitcase 
and crutches until he couldn't stand it any longer, then 
went over and took the bag out of her hands and carried it 
into her room for her -- not looking at her, lest her angry 
eyes turn him to stone.

And of course, once he'd set foot in her room, he wasn't 
about to leave; "Get out," she commanded, and he ignored 
her, settling himself into the single battered easy chair in 
the corner.

"Look," he began, "I realize that I screwed up..."

"I don't want to hear it," she cut him off, rummaging 
furiously through the suitcase he'd placed carefully on the 
bed.

"I should have listened to you," Mulder continued, with the 
uncomfortable awareness that he'd said those words too many 
times recently, without really paying attention to them, or 
modifying his behavior.  "I shouldn't have been so quick to 
leave..."

"YOU RAN OVER MY FOOT!" she raged.  "You were in such a 
GODDAMN HURRY to listen to a confirmed drug addict spin her 
hallucinatory fantasies of alien abduction that you nearly 
ran me over!"

"Yeah," he mumbled.  "Scully, I really am sorry..."

"I DON'T CARE!" she shouted, snatching up a garment and 
storming off to the bathroom: an undignified retreat, ka-
THUMP, ka-THUMP, all the way.

It took an unnaturally long time for her to emerge, so long 
that he knew it wasn't just the difficulty of her injured 
foot delaying her; he wondered if she was mad enough to 
sleep in there, rather than face him again... but eventually 
she came out, wearing a nightgown that was very definitely 
not meant for intimate nights: high-necked, shapeless and 
unflattering.

"You look beautiful," he said involuntarily, meaning it; and 
she glared at him again.

She pulled back the covers and flopped down onto the bed, 
wincing.  "Get the lights on your way out," she directed, 
quite obviously a command, and he hesitated; would it be 
better to obey, and let her simmer, or to try to make 
amends...?  With a sigh, he got up, moved toward the door -- 
then discovered that he couldn't leave; his legs wouldn't 
take him through the door.

"Scully," he said helplessly, not knowing what else to say, 
not knowing how to make it right.

"Mulder," she said, not looking at him, "go away."

"For how long?  For now, for tonight..." and he couldn't 
finish the sentence, struck by sudden fear: just how angry 
was she?  Angry enough to dissolve their partnership?  Angry 
enough to call off the wedding?

Of their own accord, his eyes searched her hand, looking for 
the ring that she never, ever took off -- and the anxiety 
within him suddenly exploded into full-fledged terror, 
because *she wasn't wearing it*.

And suddenly it hit home, what he'd done to her, in a way 
that it hadn't, quite, before...

He wasn't aware of moving, but suddenly he was kneeling at 
her bedside, reaching for her hand, the unnaturally bare 
hand that wore no ring, babbling desperately: "Scully, I'm 
sorry, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to, I'll never do it 
again, I swear to you; Scully, *please*..."

And she rolled over toward him, so that for just a moment he 
thought that she was going to forgive him; but there was 
blazing fury in her eyes, and the volume of her voice 
deafened him:  "LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Stunned beyond rational thought, he did as he'd been told; 
retreating into his own room by instinct alone, since his 
eyes wouldn't focus well enough to see where he was going -- 
ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP behind him, bringing the faintest ghost 
of hope to his despairing soul, until the final indictment 
as the door clicked 'locked' behind him.

His heart was hammering in his chest, and his eyes burned as 
if with tears, but the pain was too great for so simple a 
release.  //This is it,// came to him, with dreadful 
clarity, //this is it, this is the end, I've finally pushed 
her too far...//

The quest, always the same damned quest for the Truth; and 
in the end, it was as he'd always known it would be -- the 
only Truth was that he was alone.  Would always be alone, 
because of the damned quest.  Always searching for the 
answer to the old pain... and was there ever an answer?  No.

Why had he been in such a hurry, anyway?  Because this 
abduction story seemed like such a promising lead?  
Bullshit: not with medical records like those, of chronic 
drug abuse and pathological lying.  His own instincts told 
him that this was a dead end, but still he'd been so anxious 
to check it out... And of course it would lead him to 
another brick wall, just like they all did; it seemed to be 
his destiny to be eternally stymied.

And this time, oh, this time he'd screwed up royally, all 
because he'd been so wrapped up in the Quest that he hadn't 
bothered to check the rear-view mirror.  No... because he 
hadn't bothered to wait ten whole seconds for Scully to get 
into the car.  A moment's more thought, and it never would 
have happened -- but he'd been in such a hurry, he'd 
forgotten about her.  About *her* -- the woman who was a 
part of his soul, the way no one had ever been.  About *her* 
-- his partner, his best friend, his fiancee.

No, he couldn't blame this one on his Quest: this one was 
his fault, HIS fault, for being more self-centered than any 
being had a right to be and still exist.

//She deserves better,// he thought miserably.  //If this 
*is* the end... maybe it's for the best.  Not for me, 
certainly, but for Scully...//

Automatically, he stripped down to underwear and slid into 
bed, knowing that there would be no pleasant dreams for him 
that night; wondering why he bothered.  //Maybe things will 
be better in the morning,// he thought, but didn't believe 
it.  Not this time... 

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - 
* - * 

It was a long night.

Every time he managed to drift off, after a prolonged period 
of wakefulness, there was another nightmare; every time he 
managed to shake off the nightmare, there was the bleakness 
of the empty room, the empty bed, reminding him of what he'd 
done.  Sometime around dawn, he gave up entirely, threw on 
clothes and went out for a run.

The morning was cold, mist and frost forming a haze over the 
world -- kind of like the ice he felt encroaching on his 
soul.  What would it be like for him, living in a world 
without Scully?  He didn't want to think about it, and yet 
he couldn't help himself -- like probing an abscessed tooth 
with one's tongue, there was something in him that couldn't 
leave the painful spot alone.

Cold.  It would be cold, like the chill air that seemed to 
spread a layer of frost over his throat on its way to his 
lungs.  Hard and unyielding, like the pavement under his 
feet.  An endless, pointless journey to nowhere, like 
jogging in a giant circle around a motel...

Running was too damn depressing; he headed back to his room.

And noticed the light on next door, in Scully's window.

He knocked hesitantly on her door, hoping against hope that 
he might find the words, this time, to eradicate the fury in 
her eyes... but something in him died when he noticed that 
she was dressed, and appeared to be packing.

"You're leaving," he said, not as a question.

"Yes," she said, her voice too measured, far too even.

"Why?"  It hurt, it hurt beyond belief; she was leaving, 
leaving *him*...

"There isn't much I can do here with a broken foot," she 
responded, in that so-logical voice that infuriated him 
sometimes.

Now, though, all he could find was despondence.  "I'm 
sorry," he said, almost a moan, almost a plea.

"It doesn't make much difference right now whether you're 
sorry or not," said Scully, "in any case, I'm incapable of 
doing my job."

That was true enough, he had to admit, but still...  "Don't 
go," he heard himself say, and this time he *was* pleading; 
"don't go, Scully, don't leave me..."

She sighed softly, turned away from the suitcase she was 
packing to face him.  "I'm not leaving you, Mulder," she 
said.  "I'm going back to D.C. so that I won't leave you."

He tried to make sense of that, failed.  "I don't get it."

"It's going to take me awhile to forget how angry I am with 
you, Mulder," she told him, in a patient tone like one she 
might use toward a child.  "If I stay here, with you, I 
won't have the chance to forget; because you'll just keep on 
doing the same stupid things that make me so angry.  I don't 
like you very much right now, Mulder -- but I do love you, 
and I don't want anything to damage that."

//She loves me.  She still loves me.//  The news should have 
elated him, left him with a feeling of relief.  Somehow... 
it didn't.

"But I don't want you to forget," he heard himself say, and 
wondered why he was saying such a foolish thing.

Scully just looked at him, perplexed.

"*I* don't want to forget," he amended, beginning to sort 
out the tangle of conflicting feelings that were assaulting 
him.

She stared at him for another moment, shook her head.  
"Explain," she said softly.

"Why should the same things keep happening again and again?" 
Mulder asked her, asked himself, not certain where his train 
of thought was going, but willing to follow it to the end of 
the track.  "Why should you have to *leave* me, just so that 
you can continue to love me?  It isn't right, Scully.  This 
isn't the way things should be between us."

"Agreed," she murmured, "but I know better than to think I 
can change you, Mulder."

"Maybe you should," he mused.  "Maybe I need to change."  An 
old, old psychiatrist's joke came to him, the one about the 
burned-out lightbulb -- //One, but it has to *want* to 
change.//

"Maybe I want to change," he whispered.

Scully's gaze lingered on him; then she sat down on the edge 
of the bed, and -- miracle! -- patted the space beside her, 
inviting him to occupy it.  So he sat beside her, let her 
take his hand, saw the gleam of diamonds and emeralds on her 
left hand and felt something within him unclench and 
relax...  "I ran over your foot, Scully," he said, "and I 
feel like total human garbage."

Almost, she laughed.  "Don't," she told him, "it'll just 
make it harder for you the *next* time you do something 
stupid and hurtful to me."

"I don't want there to *be* a next time!" in a voice that 
was nearly a shout.  "But I don't know how to prevent it..."  
He slumped forward, defeated; his free hand rose to rub at 
his forehead, for he had the beginning of a headache that 
promised to be the mother of all headaches; //not enough 
sleep and too much misery can do that,// he thought bleakly.  
"I get caught up in these things, and I lose sight of 
everything else.  Even you.  And I don't ever want to lose 
sight of you, Scully!"

"So don't," she said reasonably.

"How?"  //Addictive behavior,// he realized, //addictive and 
obsessive,// but all his knowledge of psychology couldn't 
help him, because breaking the patterns of behavior meant 
giving up his quest for the Truth -- for Samantha -- and how 
could he do that?

"Come back to D.C. with me," Scully said.

His turn to stare at her, now.  "Now?  When there's a 
potential alien abductee who might hold the key to 
Samantha's disappearance and whereabouts; you want me to 
leave without even investigating..." and his voice trailed 
off.  //Oh.//

"Or stay, if you want," she added, without the slightest 
trace of recrimination in her voice.  "I won't be upset with 
you."

//But I will have done it again,// Mulder thought.

It wasn't even that good a lead, he knew.  All signs pointed 
to a drug-induced hallucination; the woman wasn't what you 
would term a reliable witness.  Logic told him so, and his 
instincts agreed -- but still...

//Oh, *hell*,// he thought miserably.  //I really am 
hopeless, am I?//

"I know who you are, Mulder," said Scully -- his partner, 
his lover, his fiancee -- "I knew who you were when I fell 
in love with you.  I don't expect you to change," and was 
there the slightest trace of sadness in her voice?  "I need 
to go back," she continued.  "I'm not any use to you here, 
and besides that, my foot hurts.  What you do... is up to 
you; and I won't think less of you, no matter what you 
choose."

He gazed at her, and wanted to embrace her, to kiss her, to 
tell her how much he loved her, how much he cherished her 
and valued her -- and he couldn't.  Didn't feel that he had 
the right.

A horn beeped outside; "That's my taxi," she said, "do me a 
favor, go outside and tell him I'll be out in a few minutes?  
I need to finish packing," and Mulder swallowed and nodded.

He didn't go back to her room afterwards, went to his own 
instead, sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed staring 
at the wall.  Images of Samantha swam before his vision -- 
Samantha as a little girl; he'd been shown what she might 
have looked like as an adult, but he didn't know, not 
*really*.  Images of Scully: laughing Scully, grim-faced 
serious Scully; Scully bruised and bleeding, Scully-the-FBI-
agent with her gun and badge, Scully in wisps of lace and 
satin beckoning him closer... Scully as she had looked in 
that terrible moment after the car's tire had rolled over 
her foot, startled and shocked, as the scream wrenched 
itself from her throat...

//What matters most?// he wondered.  //What is the Truth, 
exactly?//

It had always seemed to him that his search for the Truth 
was a higher purpose; now, suddenly, it seemed like a cop-
out.  //Devote your life to unraveling the inexplicable, and 
you can ignore the mundane realities around you.  Spend your 
time chasing rainbows, and you can safely disregard the pot 
of gold sitting on your doorstep.  Become engrossed in a 
quest for some unknown goal, and you can avoid getting 
entangled in anything more personal -- you have an excuse 
not to care, not to get involved, so what if you hurt the 
one you love; you have a higher purpose, and that makes 
everything all right.  Doesn't it?//

//Samantha,// cried one part of his mind, and, //Scully,// 
howled another, and he wondered how it had happened that it 
had come to a choice between them.  Certainly, Scully hadn't 
forced the issue; Scully understood, no matter how much 
effort she devoted to shooting holes in his single-minded 
intensity on the subject.  That was just her way of 
injecting reason into his flights of fancy; he relied on her 
for that, unconsciously and instinctively.  Above and beyond 
that, she understood what it meant to him, to find an answer 
if not Samantha herself: to have that eternal question 
resolved.

But now he had a choice to make, because he knew -- he 
*knew* -- that no matter how well Scully understood, sooner 
or later he would drive her away, if he continued on this 
course.  //Not because of what I believe.  Because I don't 
know *when* to believe... and when to believe in Scully.//

He heard a door open and close, heard a car engine race, 
heard it retreat... it took him a moment to understand what 
he'd heard, what it meant; and he sprang to his feet, 
stunned and shocked, flung open the connecting door and tore 
into her room... empty, now, save for a hastily scrawled 
note awaiting him on the dresser.

     I thought I'd spare you the necessity of saying the 
words.       It's all right.  I love you, and I'll see you 
when you get      back.  Good luck.

Mulder stared at the note, feeling the emptiness of the room 
like a void in his heart.  //She knew what I'd do,// and the 
knowledge brought no comfort, only a slow, deep ache like 
the morning chill seeping into his bones.

* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - 
* - * 

For so many years that he'd lost track, the X-Files had 
consumed his life.  A natural progression from the endless 
questioning, the eternal 'why?' of his lonely childhood, 
until finally he'd been old enough to *do* something about 
it: to find the answers.  He'd tried to find happiness 
elsewhere, tried to build a normal life, but that search had 
been futile, and in the end he'd settled for the quest; it 
was his life's work, the only thing he'd ever really cared 
enough about to actively pursue...

Until now.

He left the rental car half-parked at the side of the curb, 
snatched up his bag and tossed the car keys onto the seat, 
and raced into the terminal, desperately scanning the 
departure listing... there it was: Scully's flight.  
Boarding.  And only a few minutes from leaving.

Silently, Mulder thanked the gods for electronic ticketing, 
and sprinted for the gate.

He was the last one aboard, and he moved up the aisle, eyes 
rapidly flickering from one side to the other along the rows 
-- //is this the wrong flight? did I make a mistake? where 
is she???//

And then he saw her, huddled into a window seat, her face 
showing the pain and the sadness she hadn't let him see... 
and he thanked the gods again, for giving him the one 
instant's worth of wisdom it had taken him to realize that 
there was a Truth more important to him than alien abduction 
or government conspiracy or anything else.

The Truth was out there... just a few rows back, with tired 
eyes and tousled red hair, more beautiful in her fatigue and 
rumpled suit than any porn-star had ever been to him.

He ignored the number on his boarding pass and plopped down 
in the empty seat beside her; she glanced at him sideways, 
the sort of casual brief look that one would direct toward a 
stranger who happened to be sitting in an adjacent seat -- 
then registered his identity, and *stared*.

"Hi," he said, trying not to sound too breathless from his 
sprint for the plane.

"Hi," she returned automatically; then, "What are you doing 
here?"

Mulder shrugged, shoved his bag underneath the seat in front 
of him, kicked at it until it fit.

"What about the case?" and her eyes were perplexed, 
confused.  "Did you... you couldn't have wrapped it up, not 
so soon..."

Again, he shrugged, feeling curiously lighthearted.  "It'll 
still be there in a couple of weeks," he said.  "Or not.  
Whatever."  For the first time in memory, it didn't matter 
to him.

Samantha mattered, would always matter -- but as for the 
rest... no.  Not in the same way.  Never again.

"Mulder..." she began, and he placed one fingertip on her 
lips gently, silencing her.

For so long, he'd struggled with this, but now he *knew*; 
and the certainty lifted a burden from his soul that he 
hadn't known was there, until after it was gone.  "This is 
where I want to be," he said.  "Right here.  With you."

At first, she didn't believe it; he gazed into her startled 
eyes and willed her to believe, until finally he saw the 
glimmering of hope dawning...  Scully blinked, hard.  "Damn 
it, Mulder, you're messing up my makeup," she complained, in 
a voice that only trembled a little bit.

Very carefully, he drew a fingertip along the tender skin 
under her tired eyes, wiping away the teardrops and errant 
eyeliner.  "I love you, Scully," he said, as if that 
explained everything.

Which it did, really.

She pulled his head down and kissed him, as passionately as 
if they were in bed together, and joy spiraled through him 
in an endless, dizzying torrent, as all-consuming as an 
orgasm but purely emotional; and in that moment, he *knew* 
that he'd done the right thing.  He'd stood at a crossroads, 
unaware, and somehow he'd chosen the right path... the one 
that would lead to a future worth living.

Everything would be all right now, everything.  He knew it, 
as surely as he'd ever known anything.

"I'm glad you're here," she said, when she'd finished 
kissing him -- which wasn't for some time.

"I know," said Mulder, and yawned -- his own fatigue was 
catching up to him, now; the adrenaline rush that had 
propelled him at top speed to the airport was fading, and 
the effects of his sleepless, troubled night were beginning 
to set in with a vengeance.  "Me, too."

"We can come back later and finish the investigation," 
Scully added, snuggling against him, as the plane began to 
move away from the gate.

"When you're feeling better," was his answer, as he settled 
into the embrace, rested his cheek against the top of her 
head.

He couldn't see her face, but he could feel her smile.  "I 
feel better already," she said.

A roar of engines, as the plane taxied toward the runway, 
not yet airborne -- but Mulder was already flying: soaring, 
propelled by a wonderful new certainty.

The Truth *was* out there -- and the Truth was love; a truth 
that nothing could ever touch, or destroy.

He took that knowledge with him into his dreams.

end part VIII

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

IX. Commitment

In the parlance of her profession, it was a fracture of the 
medial phalanx of the second metatarsal, accompanied by 
various contusions of muscles and tendons and a nasty sub-
carpal hematoma.  In practical terms, it was her ticket to 
extended sick leave... she could have simply accepted a 
temporary desk-job assignment; but Scully was more in a mood 
to take some time off.

And wonder of wonders, Mulder had taken some of his 
accumulated vacation time to stay home and nurse her back to 
health.  Part of his sense of guilt, she supposed, for 
having caused the injury in the first place -- well-deserved 
guilt, at that, for if she hadn't been standing on extremely 
soft ground at the time, the car tire would likely have 
crushed the bones beyond repair.

//He ran over my *foot*,// she thought, and stifled her 
incipient giggles; for now that the pain was fading, the 
entire situation was nothing if not hilarious.

Absently, she shook a couple of pills into her palm from the 
prescription container on the nightstand, gulped them down 
with a swallow of wine -- Mulder had nearly had a fit, the 
first time he'd witnessed her taking the pain medication 
with liquor; Scully had had to very patiently explain the 
enhancing effect of the latter upon the former, and reassure 
him that it was perfectly safe, as long as she wasn't 
operating heavy machinery.  She still wasn't sure he was 
convinced -- which was why she generally waited for him to 
leave the room before doing it.

At the moment, her partner (//fiance,// she corrected 
herself, still not used to the idea) was busy making her 
breakfast -- eggs over easy, bacon and hash-browns, toast 
and juice and coffee.  In the past couple of weeks, he'd 
become quite proficient in the kitchen; all she had to do 
was let the slightest expression of distaste cross her face 
for the barest instant.  Then it would be, "I'll fix you 
another one," as the plate was whisked away, to be replaced 
by another plate of food, more correctly cooked.

She'd always known that guilt was a powerful motivator, to 
Mulder; however, she'd never had the chance to apply that 
knowledge to their relationship before.  Scully was almost 
ashamed of herself, sometimes, for letting him run himself 
ragged on her behalf -- *almost* ashamed, until the pain 
meds began to wear off, and she was forced to remember the 
severity of his offense.

//He ran over my foot,// she thought darkly; then, //but 
he's sure working overtime to make up for it.//

The bedroom door opened.  "Coffee," said Mulder, sleepy-eyed 
and tousled and adorable, setting a steaming mug on the 
nightstand.  "Breakfast in a few."

She smiled at him and touched his cheek in a silent thank-
you; "Don't burn the bacon this time?" she requested, and he 
nodded and headed back to the kitchen.

"Good boy," said Scully, when the door was safely closed, 
letting her smile broaden into the wicked grin she fought to 
keep under wraps.

The first twenty-four hours after the injury had been 
deceptively mild; by the time their plane had landed in 
D.C., the full force of the pain had set in, and she had 
barely been able to bear being vertical.  The blood rushing 
to her foot had been agony, and Mulder had had to 
requisition a wheelchair to get her to the cab stand.  For 
the first week or so afterwards, she'd sincerely needed his 
help... but now, fifteen days after he'd run over her foot, 
she was simply savoring being pampered.  Not that he'd ever 
neglected her, within the parameters of their romantic 
relationship -- but when they weren't going out on dates or 
in bed together, Mulder could be so self-absorbed, so damned 
distant...

Not now, though.  For the past two weeks, it seemed that his 
whole universe had been shaped by her wants and needs -- and 
Scully was enjoying the experience immensely.  //It's about 
time!// she told herself fiercely.  //I deserve this,// and 
the small nagging voice of conscience retreated into the 
back of her mind.

By the time she'd finished her coffee, Mulder had returned 
with her meal and a refill -- breakfast was delicious, and 
she told him so; watched his face light up in response to 
her approval.  "Aren't you eating?" she queried.

"Nah, I snacked on the stuff I burned," was the reply, and 
Scully wondered how many eggs, and what percentage of the 
package of bacon, had been destroyed during the preparation 
of her meal.  Not that it was her problem.  Since her 
injury, Mulder had been buying the groceries, and handling 
the bills.

"You're sweet," she said affectionately, placing one hand on 
his thigh -- and was intrigued by the sharp frisson that 
raced through his body in response to the touch.

Their sexual relationship had been effectively quenched, for 
the time being; the pain of her injury had left Scully 
completely uninterested in such recreational activities.  
And Mulder, who was (she guessed) desperately grateful that 
she was even *speaking* to him, had not said one word about 
the subject -- no requests, no invitations, not even the 
slightest joking innuendo.  He'd spent the first week 
sleeping on the floor beside her bed, lest she awaken in the 
night and need his assistance; since then, he'd been 
sleeping on her couch.  To all outward appearances, the 
sudden absence of sexual activity wasn't affecting him one 
bit.

But Scully knew him better than that, and had for some time 
been noting the increased tension, the nervous energy, that 
she had long associated with accumulated sexual frustration.  
Moreover, she'd been keeping an eye on the temperature 
control of the shower she couldn't use, and every day it had 
moved a little bit further to the right -- for the last 
week, it had hovered solidly in the ice-cold range.  The 
conclusion was inescapable, and unsurprising: Mulder was as 
horny as a three-balled tomcat.

A week ago, she would have been in too much pain to care.  
Now, though... she was feeling well enough to find the 
situation interesting.

She let her palm linger on his thigh, relaxed the muscles of 
her arm so that her hand seemed to slide closer to his groin 
of its own accord... Mulder's breath caught in his throat, 
and a quick sideways glance told her that even that slight 
caress had affected him strongly.  "Uhhhh, I think I left 
the stove on," he stammered, leapt to his feet and dashed 
out of the room -- walking with difficulty.

Unseen, Scully grinned.  //He's got it bad,// she thought.  
//Wow.//  And then, //Hmmm... what can I do with this?// as 
she contemplated how she might capitalize on the situation.

Like all the men she'd been intimate with, Mulder was fairly 
well governed by his hormones, but that was the only 
similarity.  Some of her ex-boyfriends had gotten mean when 
they wanted it and couldn't get it; some of them had become 
sullen and sulky, as if sex was something they were entitled 
to, that she was obliged to provide.  Mulder, on the other 
hand, seemed almost embarrassed by his own sex drive -- for 
all that he could joke about it in the abstract, on a 
personal level he was far more shy and self-conscious.  
Which meant that he was *cute* when he was horny, instead of 
being annoying or sulky.

Or else she just found it appealing because she was in love 
with him.  Whatever.

//He's been so good to me,// she thought fondly; then, 
//He's never pushed me, not once.  He's never tried to force 
me, or persuade me, to go further than I wanted to go.//  
For all the stupid, selfish, annoying things he'd ever done 
in the course of their partnership, *that* was a side of him 
that she treasured.  The *true* Mulder, she felt, the person 
he'd have been if childhood trauma hadn't twisted him ninety 
degrees away from so-called normality and left him with a 
psyche full of unanswered questions and unalloyed solitude.

//I love him,// Scully thought.  It wasn't often that she 
phrased it to herself that way: it was something she *knew*, 
soul-deep, without needing to analyze or contemplate the 
fact.  He was her partner, her lover, her friend, and she 
took him for granted in the same sort of absent-minded way 
that she accepted the presence of her arms, her legs, her 
eyes.  Mulder was essential, and so much a part of her that 
voluntary separation was unthinkable.  They *were* already 
married, as she'd told him: legal vows would be redundant.

But now, there it was, the stark fact: //I love him,// 
Scully thought.  //I love him, and he loves me.//  What a 
miracle that was; what a miracle *he* was, somehow all the 
more perfect for his imperfections.  What a wondrous 
blessing, that they had the sort of relationship that could 
withstand everything they'd been through, everything they'd 
put each other through, and still thrive.

//I love him,// Scully thought, //and he's horny,// and a 
slow grin crossed her face and refused to go away.  //Oh, I 
think I can do something about that.//

"Did you burn anything?" she asked him innocently when he 
returned.

"Huh?  Oh.  No," as he sat down on the edge of her bed, as 
usual.  Scully nodded, and winced; she reached up to rub at 
her forehead.  "Are you okay?" he asked, with concern.

"It's nothing," she said, "it's just a headache," and Mulder 
reached out and took her in his arms, held her close.

Scully rested her head on his shoulder, and wrapped her arms 
around his waist, letting her hands slide beneath the 
waistband of the sweatpants he wore in lieu of pajamas.  
"That feels good," she said, as he stroked her hair -- 
allowed her voice to deepen into a slow purr, the type she 
generally used when he was stroking her elsewhere -- and 
felt him shiver.

She snuggled close, and her hands drifted lower, to his 
hip... he was nearly fully aroused, already, and starting to 
sweat; with her ear pressed against his bare chest, she 
could hear a strangled sound in his throat like a moan being 
choked back at the source.  "Umm," he managed to say, after 
a few unsuccessful tries, "Scully, I think... I think maybe 
you should get some rest."

"I am resting," she answered contentedly, letting her hands 
wander a bit more.

"Scully," and now his voice was breathless, "ummm... don't 
you think you'd be more comfortable lying down?  I can get 
you some more pillows..."

//How far is he going to go to keep from admitting it?// she 
wondered.  "I'm more comfortable with you holding me," she 
said, letting the faintest note of pleading seep into her 
voice.

Mulder sighed.  "Okay," he said, sounding defeated, and 
settled into the embrace.

For maybe a minute and a half, she rested in his arms, 
feeling the tension in his body as he struggled to restrain 
his own responses... knew, with sudden certainty, that he'd 
sit there holding her for as long as he thought she needed 
him, no matter how strongly her proximity was affecting him, 
without ever letting his own desires take control of the 
situation.  That was Mulder, *her* Mulder; when he was 
annoying, he could be thoroughly obnoxious to deal with, but 
when he was being noble, he was every bit the knight-in-
shining-armor of her girlhood fantasies.

She reached down, wrapped her hand around his erection -- 
and felt his body shudder fiercely as something 
approximating a whimper was wrung from his throat.

"Scully, *don't*," he said in a hoarse whisper, much to her 
surprise.  "You don't know what you're doing to me..."

"Yes I do," she whispered back, "and I think you've suffered 
long enough, don't you?"

"Thought you had a headache...", then, "You set me up, 
didn't you?" and she grinned up at him.

Her fingers traced the length of him with a feather touch, 
then increased pressure for a second stroke -- and that was 
all it took to set him off.  "*Damn,*" he cursed, before the 
spasms had even begun to subside, then, "I can get seconds, 
right?"

She laughed.  "Yes, you can get seconds," she confirmed, 
"and thirds, even," and reached over him to the nightstand 
for a tissue to wipe her hand with.

"Damn," he muttered again, chagrined, "I hate it when that 
happens..."

"It's been two weeks," she reminded him, kissing his 
reddened cheek in an attempt to eradicate his embarrassment.

"Two weeks," he repeated, "two weeks is nothing; I've gone 
so much longer than that..."

"Not recently."  The tissue wasn't doing the job, so she 
gave up and wiped her hand on the bedsheet -- which would 
probably need to be changed anyway, by the time they were 
finished. 

"No, not recently," and he kissed her forehead.  "You're so 
good to me, Scully; I don't deserve you."

"Yes, you do.  You're a good man, Mulder; and I love you."  
She shifted position, studied his face: //and you don't 
believe a word of it, do you?//

"Not good enough to find Samantha," he murmured darkly, 
confirming her thought, "or to keep you safe; and as for the 
rest, I wish I understood why.  Scully, you could do so much 
better..."

"Define 'better'," she challenged him.

"Someone stronger, someone stable, someone who doesn't drag 
you off into strange places with no warning for his own 
selfish reasons, or drive over your *feet*..."

"I've forgiven you for that, Mulder," she said patiently, 
"when are you going to learn to forgive yourself?"

He shrugged self-consciously, and didn't answer.

"You really need to do something about this self-image 
problem of yours," Scully told him.

"I know.  You don't deserve *that*, either," and she sighed; 
glanced up and caught his sheepish grin.  "Hey, maybe when 
we've been married thirty or forty years and raised a half-
dozen kids, I'll get used to the idea that you love me.  
Until then, I'm afraid you're just going to have to cope 
with my belief that you're far too good for me."

She smiled, nuzzled closer -- then it hit her.  "A *half-
dozen* kids?" she squeaked.  "Tell me, Mulder, are *you* 
planning to give birth to these half-dozen children...?"

He considered.  "Not a good number?"

"Here's a clue, Mulder: childbirth *hurts*."  But even as 
she said it, she was contemplating it -- children, hers and 
his.  It was a new image, one she hadn't let herself 
envision before... *their* children, the ones they would 
conceive and raise together.

His hand found hers, curled around her still-sticky fingers.  
"I'll help," said Mulder.  "I'll change diapers and 
everything."

"Oh, I *know* you will," she replied archly, "whether we 
have one or a flock; I'm not letting you off the hook."  And 
smiled up at him.  "You're going to make a great father."

"You think so?  Sometimes I think I'm still too much of a 
kid myself..."

"You are," she confirmed, "and that's why."  She found that 
she could picture it, so easily: Mulder and his children, 
*their* children -- playing with them in the back yard of 
the house they didn't yet have, reading bed-time stories, 
checking homework at the kitchen table, the whole nine 
yards.

"Wow," she said involuntarily, and he glanced at her 
inquiringly.  "Kids," she answered his silent query, 
"marriage... it's all so new to me..."

He turned sideways a little, finding a more comfortable 
position; she moved with him, adjusting her pose to his.  
"Really?  I've been thinking about it since the day we met."

This was a revelation; "Since the day we met?" she said, 
surprised.

And again, a faint crimson blush crept over his face.  
"Before I knew what hit me," he said, softly, "the first 
moment I set eyes on you.  You've never heard of love at 
first sight, Scully?"

"I stopped believing in it, a long time ago," she said 
slowly, turning the thought over in her mind.  "You've loved 
me for that long...?  You never said anything..."

"I didn't want to take the chance of losing my best friend," 
said Mulder simply.

There it was again, that nobility...  She pulled his head 
down and kissed him deeply, catching him off-guard; his 
startlement passed quickly, and he sank into the kiss the 
way he always did, with one hundred percent of his attention 
focused on it, on her.  No such thing as halfway measures, 
with Mulder: when he kissed her, nothing else existed except 
the kiss, and them.

Scully's mind, however, was elsewhere.  Thinking about the 
earliest days of their partnership, and the rapport they'd 
established over the years.  How difficult it would have 
been for her to trust him, in the early days, if she'd 
realized how deeply he was attracted to her.  How their 
partnership would never have become so close, so *intimate*, 
if she had held that knowledge from the beginning.

And what a wondrous thing it was for her to have that 
knowledge now.

"I love you," she said, when they came up for air.  "Never 
doubt that."

He shook his head slowly.  "I don't," he said.  "Not 
usually, not really."

"Not ever," she told him, sliding her hand along his hip.  
"Ready for 'seconds' yet?"  A rhetorical question; she was 
well aware of his renewed arousal.

But again, he shook his head.  "Not just yet," he demurred, 
as his hand slipped under her t-shirt, cupped her breast, 
fingertip flicking across the nipple... and abruptly, Scully 
became aware that two weeks was a *long* time.

"Mulder, I'm fine," she said anyway.

"Uh-huh," said Mulder, in a tone of disbelief, "liar," and 
did something else to her nipple with his fingertips... the 
sensation rippled through her and set her afire with a 
thoroughness that astonished her.  "On your back, woman, and 
don't argue," he said playfully, in a tone of mock severity.

He eased her t-shirt over her head first, then carefully 
propped up her foot with pillows -- and then he was kissing 
her, slow soft kisses from her lips on down, knowing exactly 
where and how.  And she understood what it had been like for 
Mulder, because her orgasm began with shocking suddenness, 
uncontrollable: his tongue touched her clitoris and she felt 
herself go off, hair-trigger, like a match igniting a 
fireworks factory, a climax that built and built and spread 
through her, so intense it was almost unbearable.

"Those were new sounds," Mulder said reflectively, 
afterwards.  "I liked them.  Especially that last one -- I 
think my ears are still ringing."

Scully grinned sheepishly, for *her* ears were still ringing 
from that last frenzied cry.  "My throat hurts," she 
admitted, and he laughed.  "Mulder, explain to me why some 
woman hasn't already chained you to her bed, and kept you as 
her personal sex slave...?"

He considered.  "I don't think I was this good before you," 
he said, finally.  "I like the way you taste," and she felt 
his lips plant a light kiss on her stomach, about halfway 
between her navel and her groin.

She tangled her hand in his hair affectionately.  "You think 
you can keep up the good work for the next thirty or forty 
years?"

"For you, Scully?  Anything."  Such absolute conviction in 
that statement; it warmed her straight through.

"Anything?" she wondered aloud.

"Anything."

"Would you... walk barefoot through hot coals for me?"

A moment's thought.  "I could learn how to do that," he said 
finally, "sure."

"Would you... climb the highest mountain for me?"

"Do I get rappelling gear?"

"No."

Again, he took a moment to consider it.  "Yeah, okay, I 
could do that, too," was his decision.

Scully smiled.  "Would you get me another cup of coffee?"

"No," said Mulder, straight-faced; he planted another soft 
kiss on her stomach before levering himself off the bed.

She drank the coffee he brought her, even though he'd 
microwaved it to within an inch of toxicity; and then she 
set her mug aside and reached for him, pulled him down atop 
her.  "Time for seconds," she said, delighting in his 
smile.* - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * 
- * - * - * 

"Go left."

"No, that'll take us back to the schoolroom."

"No it won't.  Go left."

Mulder had relocated the desktop computer to her bedside, 
and presented her with a gift at the beginning of her 
convalescence... one that dated back to a time before their 
partnership had become a romance.  'You've never played 
Myst?' she could remember him saying, an eternity ago, in an 
incredulous voice; the next day he'd brought it to work with 
him, and they'd spent the better part of a week working 
their way through it, neglecting X-files and paperwork and 
everything else.  Well, *she* had -- Mulder had already 
beaten the game, months before.

Now the sequel was out, and they were playing it together, 
puzzling out the game's enigmas, and arguing merrily about 
every detail -- it was like working on a case, only less 
demanding and dangerous; and Scully was having a wonderful 
time.  "I told you that was the wrong way..."

"So I got turned around, so sue me.  Let's go play with the 
snapping fish while we're here."

"Is that your cellphone?" she said suddenly, distracted.

He muted the sound on the computer and listened... "Yeah," 
he said, sprang to his feet, and headed for the living room 
where he'd left it.  Shortly, he returned, immersed in an 
animated conversation; after a few minutes of terse 
discussion, he ended the phone call, turned to her: "The 
boys have turned up something interesting that they want us 
to look at," he said, "I can't get anything out of 'em over 
the phone; but it sounds like it might have to do with that 
string of abductions in Nevada.  We should..." and abruptly 
fell silent, glancing first at her foot and then at her 
face.

His expression was one of agonized indecision, and Scully 
made a split-second decision; the only one she *could* make.  
"Go," she said.

"It's not *that* important -- I don't have to..." he began.

"Yes you do.  You *need* to do this."  She knew it, with 
certainty; knew *him*.

Mulder blinked back at her, not moving, gazing into her 
eyes: //are you sure?// the look seemed to say.

"Go," Scully repeated.  "It could be something important.  
You can tell me about it when you get back," and ruthlessly 
suppressed the small irrational voice of terror within her 
that cried out: //*if* you get back, if something awful 
doesn't happen to you while I'm not there to guard your 
back...//

But Mulder was Mulder, and if she tried to stop him from 
being who he was, doing what he did best, it would destroy 
their relationship... maybe even destroy him.  He'd been 
there for her when she'd needed him to be, the way she'd 
needed him to be; now it was time to return the favor.  
"Go," she said softly.

He hesitated -- then shook his head, decisively.  "Come with 
me," he said.

She sighed.  "Mulder, I can barely walk; and I haven't been 
able to bathe properly for weeks now, I look terrible..."

"Frohike won't care, and the others won't notice.  And you 
can walk well enough to make to the car and back; and if you 
can't, I'll carry you."  Mulder paused suddenly, as if 
searching for words.  "I need to do this," he agreed, very 
quietly.  "And I need you with me."

Dana Scully looked at her fiance, for the first time seeing 
him as such: not her partner or her friend or her annoying 
distraction, but the man she would marry, and spend the rest 
of her life with.  How handsome he was, not merely for the 
cut of his hair or the angles of his face, but for the 
earnest sincerity that emanated from him, for the love that 
shone in his eyes.  Once upon a time, she had dreamed of 
this man -- the one man who would love her utterly and 
completely: who would know all the sides of her, serious and 
silly and sarcastic, who would value her for her strengths 
and her weaknesses, for everything she was.  She had 
discarded the dream in favor of pragmatism, had scorned the 
idea that such foolish fantasies could come true, had 
refused to believe in fairytales.

And then this man had come along, and taught her to believe 
in, oh, so many things.  //I, Dana Scully, take thee, Fox 
Mulder...//

She reached out to him, and he reached back; their fingers 
entwined.  "I need to be with you," she said, past the lump 
in her throat.

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.  "I'll get 
you some clothes," he said, his voice roughened as hers was, 
"and a hairbrush."

But he kissed her first, a long slow kiss that took her 
breath away; and she kissed him, thinking about the next 
thirty or forty years, and how wonderful they would be.

And then they got dressed, one of them armed and the other 
one limping, and went to see three men about an X-File.

end part IX

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

X. Marriage

How many times had he done this?  How many times had he 
waited, lost in his own misery, to find out his partner's 
fate?  This time, it wasn't so bad -- just a flesh wound; 
painful, but not life-threatening.  This time, it was just a 
matter of waiting for her to be treated and released.

This time.

"Mulder?" and there she was, cradling her bandaged arm and 
looking weary; he jumped up from his seat and went to her, 
sliding one arm around her back, coming perilously close to 
embracing her.  They had an unspoken agreement, to keep 
their personal involvement separate from their professional 
lives -- but it was all he could do to keep from showering 
her with kisses.

"It barely qualifies as an abrasion," she murmured, "I'm 
fine, Mulder," and he didn't believe it, any more than he 
ever believed it when she uttered those words -- he accepted 
it, because she needed him to, but he never believed it; he 
knew better.

A few last bits of paperwork, and then he was helping her to 
the car, as if she were made of porcelain and in danger of 
shattering; got her inside, buckled safely in, and strode 
around to the driver's side.

He moved to start the car, and couldn't; his hand was 
shaking too badly to fit the key into the ignition.

"Mulder?" and he glanced sideways at her, and remembered: 
the stake-out, the shooting, her cry of pain, and the terror 
that had seized him at that sound...

"I'm fine, Scully," he said, knowing that she wouldn't 
believe it, either.

Her good hand snaked across the seat of the rental car, took 
his; the feel of her fingers twining with his helped still 
the tremors.  "It's over, Mulder," she said gently, "and I'm 
fine, truly."

"It's never over," he murmured.  "It's never over."

He drew a deep, deep breath, and managed to regain control, 
the only way he knew how: by withdrawing, closing himself 
off from everything and everyone, folding inwards until 
there was nothing of himself showing through the 
impenetrable barriers.  It meant shutting himself off from 
Scully, which he disliked -- but someone had to drive them 
back to the motel, after all, and it was the only way he 
could manage that simple task.

And she was silent for the ride back, allowing him his space 
and his self-imposed isolation, understanding him well 
enough to know what he needed, and why.

It wasn't a long drive.  Just a little ways down Charleston 
Boulevard, past the local FBI headquarters to the Las Vegas 
'Strip'.  Theirs was one of the dirt-cheap motels on the 
north end, far from the glitz and neon of the large casinos 
where the tourists gathered.  Scully had disparaged the 
flashiness of Vegas at length, upon their arrival, but he 
found himself wishing fervently that he had someplace more 
congenial to take her than the squalid little motel where 
they were staying.

He was just helping her through the door when his cell-phone 
rang; "I'm going to go take a bath," Scully said, and he 
nodded absently, answering the phone with the usual curt 
utterance of his surname.

"Skinner," said the voice at the other end, just as 
succinctly.  "I just got a call from ASAC Lambert --"  his 
old friend, and the reason why they'd been sent across the 
country to help handle the situation.  It had been a long 
time since Skinner had ceased to be merely a boss, and had 
become an ally.  Usually, this meant that he allowed a 
certain bending of regulations on their behalf; sometimes, 
it meant that he asked favors of them.  This had been one of 
the latter times.  "She said that your work was instrumental 
in closing the case."

"Did she also mention that Scully was wounded?"  He had to 
fight to keep the anger from his voice; some irrational part 
of him wanted to rail at Skinner for sending them in, wanted 
desperately to have someone upon whom to lay the blame, even 
though he knew on an intellectual level that it wasn't their 
boss's fault.  //Occupational hazard; just part of the 
job...//

"No, she didn't," and the concern in the AD's voice drained 
away the last of Mulder's anger.  "Is she all right?"

"She's fine," he muttered, thinking, //or so she says...//  
"Just a scrape."

"That's good to hear."  A slight pause.  "You did an 
excellent job, both of you.  Please convey that to Agent 
Scully -- and tell her that I hope she recovers swiftly."  
Another brief pause.  "Why don't the two of you take a few 
days off, while you're there... assuming that Agent Scully 
feels up to it.  I'll sign off on the expense reports when 
you get back."

It was an unexpected kindness; Mulder didn't know quite what 
to say, finally settling on, "Thank you, sir."

He ended the conversation as soon as he could -- the sound 
of water tumbling into the tub seemed to call to him.  He 
knocked lightly on the bathroom door, waited for her 
response before entering.  She was immersed up to her neck, 
bubbles covering all but her head, her knees, and the 
bandaged arm which rested carefully on the edge of the tub; 
he gazed at her, and thought how tired she looked, and how 
lucky he was that she was still alive...

"That was Skinner," he informed her, "he called to say 
thanks.  Told me we could take a couple of days off, if we 
wanted."

Her nose wrinkled in distaste.  "In Vegas?  What are we 
going to do, besides lose money in slot machines?"

"There are a couple of good shows," he said idly, "or we 
could do a grand tour of the buffet circuit, and see who can 
gain the most weight in the least time," striving for a 
light tone, and not quite making it.

And felt her eyes raking over him, scrutinizing him.  
"Mulder," she said softly, "talk to me."

He knelt beside the tub, reaching out to touch her injured 
arm gently -- it could have been so much worse.  Just a few 
more inches, and she could have been dead...

Her other arm rose from the bubbles, reached over and peeled 
back the bandage.  "Look," she commanded, and he did; she 
was right, it was just a scratch, barely worthy of the gauze 
pad that had covered it.  "I'm fine, Mulder..."

"This time," he interrupted, and couldn't bring himself to 
say more.

Scully's hand moved, took his, held it tightly.  "Mulder," 
she said, "*talk* to me."

He brought his other hand to cover hers, so that he held her 
hand in both of his.  The base of his palm pressed against 
her wrist, and he could feel her pulse, the rhythm of her 
heart...  "I almost lost you today," he said.

She sighed.  "We've been through worse," she reminded him.

It was supposed to be consolation; it wasn't.  "Yes," he 
muttered darkly, "I know."

Her eyes were compassionate as they met his.  "There's not 
much we can do about it," she murmured, "not while we're 
with the Bureau; and neither of us are ready to resign, not 
yet."

"I know..."  Though at times like this, he felt as if it 
would be easy.  Times like this were more than he could bear 
-- he could turn his back on the questions, on the Truth, 
far more easily than he could stand even the idea of losing 
Scully.

"So what can I tell you that you don't know?" she inquired 
softly, and the caring in her voice struck at his heart like 
a physical blow.

A gleam caught his eye, sparkling through the bubbles -- the 
diamond-and-emerald ring she wore on the third finger of her 
left hand: the one that symbolized his commitment to her.  A 
commitment as yet unfulfilled... and suddenly everything 
seemed crystal-clear to him.

"I don't know what it's like to be married to you," he said, 
hearing the faint echo of his voice bouncing off the tiled 
walls.

It seemed that her breath caught in her throat for a moment; 
she didn't respond.

"Life is too short," he said slowly, struggling for words to 
convey the sudden welling of emotion within him, "and too 
damn uncertain.  At least, it is for us.  We can't count on 
tomorrows; we can only hope for them -- and if something 
goes wrong, if one of us... dies... I don't want to lose you 
without ever having known what it means to truly love you."

He gazed into her eyes, seeing in them the glitter of unshed 
tears.  "Marry me, Scully," he whispered.  "Now.  Here.  I 
don't want to wait any longer... I don't want to take that 
chance."

She drew a deep breath, opened her mouth to reply, and he 
prepared himself for an onslaught of rational protests -- 
there's no time to prepare, I want a church wedding, what 
about my family, Mulder-you're-crazy -- but she didn't speak 
right away; and in her eyes, he saw her own emotion fight 
down every one of those silent complaints, until only one 
answer was left.  "Okay," Scully said, finally.  "Yes."

For a moment, he couldn't breathe.

"But we are *not* getting married at the 24-Hour Church of 
Elvis," she added, with the utmost dignity, and the tension 
drained away from him in a great rush; he laughed.

"You won't regret this," he promised her.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll regret this wedding idea of yours," she 
responded archly -- then, in a wholly different tone, "but 
not marrying you.  Not that, not ever."

He kissed her hand, not bothering to try to hide the tears 
forming in his own eyes.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"Mom?  It's Dana... no, I'm fine.  Everything's fine.  I 
know it's late; I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."  She 
hesitated.  "Um, listen -- your friend Rosalie, the travel 
agent?  Well, do you think she could get you a last-minute 
flight to Las Vegas?  Say, by the day after tomorrow?"  
Another pause.  "No, Mom, nothing's wrong.  Actually... I'm 
getting married."

Even on the other side of the room, he could hear Scully's 
mother shriek with delight.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"Mom?  It's me, M... Fox.  Uh... d'you remember the woman I 
work with, Agent Scully?  --Yeah, I like her too.  Actually, 
um, I like her a lot.  In fact, I'm marrying her.  --The day 
after tomorrow.  Think you can come?  --Las Vegas.  --No, 
it's not a job requirement, Mom; I love her.  --Yeah, she 
loves me, too.  --No, Mom, she's not Jewish.  --Yeah, the 
pink dress is fine; whatever you want to wear is fine.  --
No, she's not pregnant, Mom!  I just want to marry her, 
that's all.  --Okay, Mom.  I will.  --Okay, Mom.  --Okay, 
Mom.  --Fine, Mom.  I gotta go, Mom, seeya soon, 'bye."

He hung up the phone and sighed heavily.  "Mothers," he 
grumbled, at no one in particular.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"Billy?  It's me...  --Your sister.  --*Dana.*  --No, it's 
not an emergency.  I'm sorry I woke the baby.  Listen, what 
are you doing over the next couple of days?  --Oh, Mom 
called already?  So why are you blaming the baby's crying on 
me, huh?  --Well, then, it's a good thing *you're* not 
marrying him, isn't it?  --Look, come to the wedding, or 
don't come; it's up to you.  But don't think you're going to 
lecture me on who I should or shouldn't marry.  You're my 
brother, not my keeper.  --Sure.  Fine.  Whatever."

She hung up the phone, and he heard her sigh.  "Brothers," 
she muttered, and he reached out and squeezed her hand in 
silent sympathy.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"This is Agent Mulder, I'm sorry to wake you... no, Scully's 
fine.  I just need to ask you a question."  He paused, 
wondering how exactly to phrase it.  "This may come as a bit 
of a surprise..."

Despite the distance, the voice at the other end of the line 
was clear and strong, if a touch sleepy.  "Agent Mulder," 
Skinner said, "I doubt very highly that you are capable of 
surprising me at this point.  I'm not blind, nor am I 
stupid; and I keep a close eye on the agents under my 
command.  The two of you are subtle, but not that subtle.  
I've known for some time that the two of you were involved 
in certain extracurricular activities not falling under the 
Bureau's jurisdiction.   I granted you the time off because 
I believed that you needed some time together, away from the 
Bureau; and if I am any judge of character whatsoever, I 
would estimate that you are calling to tell me that you have 
either gotten married, or are planning to marry, while you 
are in Las Vegas.  Am I correct in that assumption?"

Taken completely off-guard, he couldn't help but laugh.  
"You are, sir," he confirmed, "but that's only partially the 
reason for this call."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, well, um... Agent Scully wants to know if you would 
consent to give away the bride."

A long, long pause.  "*Now* I'm surprised," Skinner said.  
"Tell her that I agree, and that I'll fly in tomorrow," and 
hung up.

Mulder grinned, flashed a thumbs-up to Scully across the 
room, and dialed another number.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"Hey, it's me.  Who's there?  --Oh yeah?  Fine.  Put me on 
speaker, then."  A flicking of a switch, and then the sounds 
of two additional voices joining Langly's.  "Listen, I've 
got an announcement that's gonna break Frohike's heart..."

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"Scully.  --Bill, I am *not* going to reconsider!  I'm in 
love, and it's none of your damn business!  --Don't even 
start.  I'm hanging up now, Bill.  Goodbye."

It seemed to him that she hit the 'disconnect' button with 
unnecessary force.  "I'm starting to hope that he doesn't 
show up," she grumbled.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"Mulder.  --Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier.  --
Because we were trying to keep it quiet, that's why.  --You 
had a BET?  How much?  --Only fifty?  So what are you 
complaining about?  --No, we are NOT going to postpone the 
wedding so that you don't have to pay Langly.  --Tough shit.  
That's your problem.  --So don't get us a wedding present; 
see if I care.  --Fine.  Bye."

He shut off his cell-phone.  "They had a *bet*," he said to 
his fiancee, his voice incredulous.

She smiled.  "Let me guess.  You never knew about the office 
pool, did you?"

"*What* office pool?"

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"Hello, is this the Graceland Wedding Chapel?  Listen, in 
your ad, it says you feature 'Ceremonies With The 
'King'...'"

"Hang up the phone, Mulder."

"Yes, dear."

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"Bill, if you call me *one* more time tonight, I'm going to 
take that baby picture of you sitting on the potty, and I'm 
going to post it on the Internet..."

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"No, Frohike, I am *not* lending you fifty dollars!"

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"I'm shutting off my cell-phone," he said to Scully.

She glanced up at him.  "Good idea," she agreed wearily.

"Your brother really hates me, doesn't he?" Mulder mused, 
having a sudden dark premonition of stormy family 
gatherings, and wondering if it would be a social faux pas 
if he were to show up armed.

"He doesn't *hate* you, he just... he's not fond of my 
career in the first place, and he thinks I'd be better off 
with a different partner, and..."  Scully sighed.  "Okay, 
yeah, maybe he *does* hate you.  But that's his problem, not 
mine."

"Are you sure?" he queried.  Scully was close to her family; 
it mattered to her what they thought...

"I'm sure," she said firmly.  "Mulder, I have never been 
involved with anyone that Bill approved of.  I'm not sure 
he'd think anyone was good enough for me."  She smiled.  
"Mom loves you, though; she couldn't be happier.  If he does 
show up, she'll handle it."

"Okay," he said, and put the matter out of his mind as best 
he could.  

It wasn't a difficult task, for Scully was sliding out of 
her bathrobe... amazing, how she could turn the pedestrian 
act of undressing into a seductive striptease without even 
trying.  Or maybe it just seemed that way because he was so 
madly in love with her.  It didn't matter which; the result 
was the same.

"Hey," he said softly, and she paused -- noted his 
appreciative gaze and shifted her stance subtly, to a come-
on position as sultry as any stripper could have managed.  
"Hold that pose," he told her, rising from his chair and 
crossing the room toward her.

He dropped to his knees in front of her, which placed him 
more or less at eye-level with a mound of auburn curls; an 
as-yet-unexplored mystery, but one that he would unravel 
shortly.  //Soon,// he thought, and the realization sent a 
sudden jolt through him.  //If we keep to schedule, the day 
after tomorrow...//

She shifted position slightly, spread her legs a bit, and 
the scent of her lit a fire within him that sizzled straight 
to his groin; he placed his hands on her thighs and leaned 
forward, sliding his tongue between her labia in a 
particularly intimate kiss... moved his hands a bit, using 
his thumbs to part her lips and allow him better access to 
the sensitive folds of skin within, especially the 
glistening rosebud-nub that fairly begged for his attention.  
A soft, breathy moan was his signal that he was doing it 
right; he applied his full concentration to her desires, 
doing his best to ignore his own growing arousal, and the 
suddenly-tight fit of his suit pants.

Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, leaning more 
heavily as her knees weakened; he let his teeth graze her 
clitoris, ever so lightly, and delighted in her cry of 
pleasure.  But she was getting to the point where she needed 
a steady rhythm -- he knew her body by now, almost as well 
as his own -- and so he provided it, knowing by the sound of 
her cries what tempo to pick, and when to increase the 
pressure and speed.

Involuntarily, it seemed, her pelvis thrust forward, 
silently begging: //more, more...//  He slid his hands 
around to the backs of her thighs, giving her added support, 
since she was leaning back so far that he was afraid she'd 
fall backward.  Immersed in his task, he couldn't see her 
stance, but his mind painted a picture; Scully in the throes 
of passion, eyes closed, lips parted, arched backward in a 
catlike pose...  And the scent of her, the taste of her, was 
driving him crazy: pheromones provoking hormones, making him 
so hard that the need to touch himself was all but 
unbearable.  But his hands were otherwise occupied, and 
Scully was so close that he couldn't break the rhythm now, 
he couldn't do that to her...

He almost came when she did: her sharp cry was an 
aphrodisiac, and the throbbing of her flesh against his 
tongue was nearly enough to bring him over the edge -- 
nearly, but not quite; just enough to increase his arousal 
to the point of desperation.  "Mulder," she sighed, and the 
sound of her satiated voice raced along his nervous system 
like liquid flame, wrenching a hoarse cry from his throat.

One hand stroked the back of his head in a silent thank-you; 
then she was kneeling before him, her eyes fastened on his, 
as her hands reached for the zipper of his fly.  "It's that 
kind of night, hmm?" was her soft appraisal of the 
situation.

"I want you so bad," he managed, though he was very nearly 
beyond coherent speech -- moaned as her hands drew his hard-
on from the confining fabric.  "Oh, god, Scully..."

"Shh," she said, "lie back," and he fell back against the 
thin carpet, helpless against the force of his desire.

She knew him as well as he knew her, knew when to tease and 
when not to; one hand wrapped around his balls, gently 
caressing him, as she took him into her mouth -- hot and wet 
and tight, not what he wanted most but so damn good, so 
*damn* good.  Gauging the strength of his need with her 
usual skill, she skipped over foreplay and arousal and cut 
straight to the chase, bringing him swiftly to the point of 
no return and beyond, to a wonderfully intense orgasm. 

And it wasn't enough.  Not this time.

"Two days," he murmured.  "I don't know if I can wait two 
days."

She stretched out beside him, propping herself up on one 
elbow.  "Mulder, we've come this far..."

"Don't say 'come'," he interrupted.

"We've managed to avoid intercourse for this long..." she 
continued patiently.

"Don't say 'intercourse'," he cut her off.

Scully sighed.  "Mulder, it was *your* decision to wait..."

"Don't *remind* me," he groaned.

"...and if you've changed your mind, well..."

"Don't say it."  He drew a deep breath, expelled it in a 
sigh.  "You're right, we've waited this long, we might as 
well wait a little longer.  It's only two days -- a hellish 
eternity, but I'll manage."

"Can you?" she wondered aloud.

"No.  But I will anyway."  His erection had barely faded, 
and now it was coming to life again, demanding more...  
"Damn," he grumbled.

And then he spotted something that knocked all thoughts of 
passion straight out of his mind.  "You're *bleeding*," he 
said, with alarm.

She glanced at her arm.  "Just a little.  It's nothing; I'll 
get a bandaid..."

"You get into bed.  I'll get a bandage," he told her 
sternly, and struggled to his feet -- paused to zip up his 
pants, then bent to help her up.

He went to the bathroom and retrieved a damp washcloth and 
her cosmetics case, pawed through it for the little zippered 
purse that held the first-aid essentials that Doctor Scully 
always carried.  Wiping the slight trickle of blood from her 
arm, he applied ointment and a gauze pad, taping it securely 
into place.  "Damn stupid idea, doing it standing up," he 
muttered, "I should have known better..."

"Are you blaming yourself for things again?  Mulder, we've 
discussed this."  Her free hand reached up to touch his 
face, a lingering caress that traced a path from his 
forehead, along his hairline and down, past his cheek and 
along his jawbone, fingertips brushing lightly against his 
lips.  "Besides, that was *great*."

"I'm glad," he said, smiling slightly, "but still..."

"Shut up, Mulder," she said, pressing her fingers against 
his lips to silence him.  "Now, about you..."

"I'm fine," he demurred.  "Seeing you injured has a tendency 
to dampen my libido."

"Mmm.  And knowing your libido, that'll last about five 
minutes."  She took the cosmetics case and set it on the 
nightstand.  "Turn out the lights, and come to bed."

"Scully..."

"Shut up, Mulder," she said softly, in the sultry tone that 
never failed to send the blood spiraling downward from his 
head to his groin -- it worked; he shut up, turned off the 
light, and slid into bed beside her.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The pounding at the door woke him up, long before he was 
ready; he squinted at the harsh sunlight penetrating the 
blinds, fumbled for his robe, drew his gun just in case, and 
went to the door.  "Whozzat?" he inquired, less than 
eloquently.

"Skinner," came the reply, and the arm that held the weapon 
relaxed somewhat.  "Let me guess: you're not dressed."

"We're not even *awake*," he protested.

"Well, get up and get dressed; I'm taking you to breakfast," 
was the response.

He sighed.  "Do we have to?"

"That's an order, Agent Mulder."  The voice was stern, but 
there was humor in it.

Helplessly, Mulder glanced at the bed, found Scully sitting 
up cross-legged, blinking back at him.  "He *is* our boss," 
she said.

Again, he sighed, and stumbled toward the bathroom.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

After a shower with Scully that was far too brief, in his 
estimation, they dressed and headed out.  The AD was waiting 
in the shabby motel office, reading the local paper.  "It's 
about time," he said, without preamble.  "Come on, we'll 
take my car.  How are you feeling, Agent Scully?"

"Fine, sir," she said, "where are we going?"

"Hotel buffets notwithstanding," Skinner told her, "there is 
only *one* place to eat breakfast in Las Vegas."

He drove west along Charleston, away from the Strip, past 
the FBI building, past the hospital where Scully had been 
treated; a left turn onto Decatur, a quick right into a 
parking lot, and found a space.  "This is it," Skinner said, 
with a brief glance in the rear-view mirror, "we're here; 
you can stop drooling on the back seat now."

"With all due respect, sir," Scully said, with great 
dignity, "we are not drooling."

"We're making goo-goo eyes at each other," Mulder added, 
straight-faced.

"There's a difference," his partner concluded, 
"scientifically speaking."

Skinner turned around to look at them, resting one arm on 
the back of the seat, and Mulder found himself witnessing a 
remarkable sight: the AD, grinning from ear to ear.  "Get 
out of the car," he said.

They walked up the ramp and into the restaurant; the place 
was crowded, and there were people waiting, silent testimony 
to its popularity.  "Skinner," the AD said to the hostess, 
"three, non-smoking; how long?"

"Maybe five minutes," was the reply, and they moved toward 
the bench seats lining one wall.

"Is this place really that good?" Mulder wondered, snagging 
a menu and studying it.

"Best damn eggs benedict you've ever tasted," Skinner 
responded.

"Eggs benedict," he mused.  "I guess that's why they call it 
the Original Pancake House..." as Scully leaned in to look 
at the menu.

Skinner turned toward her.  "Agent Scully," he said, "just 
out of idle curiosity, why are you marrying this smart-ass?"

She was startled, but only briefly.  "He's good in bed, 
sir," was her come-back, delivered with the same sober 
demeanor with which she might have described the results of 
an autopsy.

"Ah, I see," Skinner replied, nodding.

Glancing from one to the other, Mulder shook his head.  
"When did I lose control of this situation?" he muttered.

"You were under the impression that you *had* control of 
this situation?" Scully parried; her hand came to rest on 
his arm, squeezing slightly, in a silent loving signal that 
all was well.  Returning her attention to Skinner, she 
responded, "If you would satisfy *my* idle curiosity... is 
this purely a social visit, or is there some official 
business you wish to discuss?"

The AD shrugged, a dismissive gesture.  "'Giving away the 
bride' implies a certain degree of responsibility in this 
matter," he stated, "I have to make sure this joker is good 
enough for you, don't I?" and again, there was that 
startling grin: an expression which altered his whole face, 
from forbidding to friendly.  //Do I even know this man?// 
Mulder wondered briefly.  "Aside from that... no, no 
particular business.  Just thought I'd take you to 
breakfast, and wish you well.  I also thought you might need 
some assistance putting this thing together at the last 
minute -- I've spent some time in Vegas, and figured I might 
be able to help."

"Thanks," Mulder answered, still slightly stunned at the 
transition from AD Skinner to...  "Walter," he hazarded, 
testing the waters.

The other man nodded slightly, accepting the informality.  
"Not a problem."  The grin broadened.  "Especially 
considering that your impending nuptials just won me 
something like twelve hundred dollars in the office pool."

"*Twelve* hundred?" Scully said, astonished.  "The last time 
I checked, it was only up to six..."

"That was before Agent Morelli spotted the two of you at 
Umberto's Italian Restaurant after hours, nuzzling in the 
corner booth.  It drove up the betting considerably.  Not 
that I officially knew about any of this, of course; I had 
my secretary place the bet, and I'll be splitting the pot 
with her, once we collect."

"Twelve hundred dollars," she repeated, in a resigned tone.  
"Damn, I should have placed a bet myself."

"How come *I* never knew about any of this?" Mulder 
protested.

"I didn't have the heart to mention it.  You were both 
trying so hard to maintain the pretense."

"Skinner," called out the hostess, "party of three?" and 
they rose in unison, followed the woman to their newly-
vacated table.

"Were we really that transparent?" Mulder asked, holding 
Scully's chair for her.

"Actually, you've done quite well.  In fact, that may be the 
key factor in maintaining the current personnel complement 
of the X-Files division.  You're both well aware of Bureau 
guidelines in this matter," Skinner mentioned, seemingly 
casual.

Mulder exchanged a quick glance with his fiancee.  "We are," 
she acknowledged.

"We're prepared to fight the system, if we have to," he 
added, on the heels of her remark.

"Don't.  Save your energy for the fights that matter."  
Skinner set aside the menu, having apparently already chosen 
his meal.  "I'm fairly sure that I can pull enough strings 
to keep the two of you together, assuming that your job 
performance continues to adhere to the same high standards 
that it has so far."  Another quick grin.  "And assuming 
that you can refrain from 'making goo-goo eyes' at each 
other during working hours."

Under the table, he felt Scully's hand slip into his, 
squeeze gently.  "I think we can manage that," she affirmed, 
and Mulder nodded in agreement.

"Good.  Don't worry about it; I'll handle matters on your 
behalf.  Coffee all around," Skinner said to the waitress, 
who upended their cups and poured it for them.  "Now, to 
more important matters.  I certainly hope, Dana, that you've 
managed to keep him away from the Graceland Wedding 
Chapel...?"

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"So, Mulder," Frohike wanted to know, "once you've strapped 
on that ol' ball and chain... can I have your porno 
collection?"

Scully had gone off with both of their mothers, to select 
and purchase her wedding dress, since it was for some reason 
inconceivable to any of them that she might get married in a 
rented dress.  Skinner had gone along as well, to help pay 
for it; the least he could do, he'd said, considering the 
amount he'd won as a direct result of their marriage.  And 
so Mulder had been left alone, in the dingy little motel 
room -- at least, until the Lone Gunmen had shown up at the 
door.

He'd welcomed the company; without Scully, he'd felt oddly 
bereft.  Never mind that she wasn't far away, and wouldn't 
be gone for long: she was so much a part of him, now, that 
even such a minor separation felt like an amputation.

And now, here they were: Byers, as neatly groomed as ever -- 
Frohike, as scruffy and disreputable-looking -- Langly, 
looking like a refugee from a Grateful Dead concert -- 
sitting on the bed eating the pizza they'd ordered, and 
teasing him mercilessly about his upcoming wedding.

"Well?" Frohike prodded.

Mulder helped himself to a slice of pizza, picked off the 
anchovies and thought about it.  "Yeah, okay," he said, 
feeling uncommonly generous.

"No shit.  Really?"

"They're yours," he said, "the whole shebang; take 'em all."

"You're kidding," said Langly, disbelieving.  "You've got 
some *classics* in that collection...  Man, you'd better 
share," he said to his colleague.

"I'll rent 'em to ya," Frohike responded.  "Fifty bucks a 
night."

"I could get a hooker for fifty bucks a night," Langly 
grumbled.

"The kind of hookers *you* use, you could get two," Frohike 
shot back.

"I don't believe it, you're just *giving* 'em away -- and 
after all the shit we had to go through to get you to let us 
*borrow* 'em... Man, you are whipped," Langly opined.

Mulder grinned.  "With a woman like Scully," he said 
placidly, "who needs videos?"

Instantly, he had their full attention.  "She's as hot as 
she looks, huh?" Frohike wanted to know.

"Come on, share; we want details," the blond man prodded.

He pondered for a moment, torn between a desire to brag and 
his concern for Scully's privacy...  //Typical male,// said 
a voice in his head; Scully's voice.  "Let's just say that 
she is a goddess of love, in every sense of the word," he 
said, at last, "and that the details are none of your 
business."

"Yeah, yeah, sure, it's hot and heavy *now*, but I'll bet 
that all changes once you've been hitched for awhile," 
Langly said; and Frohike seconded the opinion.

"Think what you want," Mulder responded, "whatever will make 
you feel better," but inwardly he wondered: would it happen?  
Would their relationship become stale and boring with time?

Somehow, he couldn't imagine that happening.  Maybe to other 
people, but not to them... their relationship was based on 
so much more than just sex, or even love; theirs was a bond 
forged in fire and blood and absolute trust.  They were 
*friends*, and somehow he felt certain that no matter what 
else happened, that friendship, that bond, would stand up to 
the test of time.

After all, it had survived so much else already...

His eyes traveled across the room, to the spot where Scully 
had stood, moaning with passion as he'd brought her to 
orgasm; and he smiled.

"You're being awfully quiet," he said to Byers, who was 
sitting on the edge of the bed, finishing a slice of pizza 
and managing not to drip tomato sauce on his suit.

"That's because they're pigs, and I'm not," said the other 
man, with a slight smile.

"Oh, yeah, right," interjected Langly, "Mister Sensitive 
over there -- I seem to remember you and Frohike coming to 
blows over who was gonna borrow 'Pirate Wenches of the 
Caribbean' after I was done with it..."

"Hey, y'know, we're missing a trick, here," Frohike spoke up 
suddenly.  "This man over here is getting married tomorrow, 
and we're just sitting in a motel room eating pizza... tell 
me, what is wrong with this picture?"

He and Langly exchanged significant glances.  "Bachelor 
party," said the blond, and grinned.

"Exactly," Frohike confirmed.

"Wait a minute," Mulder protested, but Frohike grabbed him 
by one arm, and Langly seized the other, and together they 
propelled him out of the room before he could voice any 
further complaint.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The motel room was dark when he fumbled his key into the 
lock and staggered inside.  "Mulder?" said a sweet, familiar 
voice in a tone of concern, and the light flipped on...

"Ow," he mumbled.  "Turn it off, Scully, please."

She came to him, sniffed the air...  "How much have you had 
to drink?" and her voice was disapproving.

"Too much.  Not my idea.  The boys came by an' decided I 
needed a bachelor party."

"Nice of them," she muttered, in a voice that indicated she 
felt exactly the opposite.

"Yeah, well, boys will be boys.  I gotta lie down," and he 
staggered past her and fell onto the bed.

He felt her pulling off his shoes, unbuttoning his shirt; he 
tried to cooperate, but the effort was too much for him.  
"If you're going to throw up, tell me," she directed him, 
"and don't do it on the bed."

"I already threw up.  Twice."  Hazily, he debated with 
himself, on how much to tell her.  "Y'know, there's this 
place, over on the west side, I think... nice place, if you 
like strippers.  They had all kinds there: tall ones, small 
ones, big ones, little ones..." and his hands described the 
shape of the anatomy to which he was referring.

"Really," said Scully, in the cool voice she generally used 
to shoot holes in his wilder theories.

"Yeah.  And none of 'em as pretty as you."

"Liar," she disputed; but her voice was smiling.

"Truly.  I swear."  She was working on removing his jeans, 
now; his body was far too alcohol-sodden to respond to the 
provocation, and he felt a vague pang of regret at that 
fact.  "The boys thought it'd be a nice gesture to buy me a 
lap-dance.  And y'know what?  I must be 'way deep in love, 
'cause all I could think about was you."  He used every last 
bit of energy he had left to lever himself upright, enough 
to gaze blearily into her eyes.  "I love you, Dana Scully.  
I love you so much."

And he watched her face soften, the last traces of 
resentment fading away.  "I love you too," she responded.  
"Even when you're drunk and stupid."

"Oh, good," he said faintly, falling back again, "ow," at 
the impact of his head against the pillow, "'cause I don't 
know what I'd do without you."

"I don't know what you'd do without me, either."  She pulled 
the covers over him, turned off the light -- //ah, blessed 
darkness// -- and slid into bed beside him.  "God, Mulder, 
you reek of cheap liquor."

"'M sorry," he murmured.  "Does this mean we can't snuggle?"

A long, heavy sigh.  "Come here," she said, and he mustered 
the energy to slide closer to her. 

She was curled up on her side, facing away from him; and he 
nestled in behind her, fitting his body to hers, wrapping 
one arm around her waist, enjoying her warmth.  "Try not to 
be too hung-over in the morning?" she requested.

"Believe me, I'll do my best," he mumbled, burying his face 
in her hair.  "Scully, I'm sorry about this... can you 
forgive me?"

Her hand slipped into his, and held it.  "I'll forgive you 
by morning," she said, again with a smile in her voice.  "Go 
to sleep, Mulder."

"Yes, dear."

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

By the time he stepped out of the cab outside the chapel 
they'd chosen, his headache had just about faded; and his 
consolation was the sight of his three companions from the 
night before, all of whom looked like death warmed over in a 
microwave.  "Hi, guys," he said, in a deliberately loud 
voice, slapping Frohike hard on the back with one hand and 
Langly with the other, and had the satisfaction of seeing 
them nearly keel over.

"Don't look at me," Byers warned him, looking considerably 
more frayed around the edges than was normal, "I tried to 
keep them under control..."

"Yeah, I know.  Can I have my car keys back now?" he 
inquired, and Byers handed them over, grinning.

Skinner strolled over to him, wearing what Mulder could only 
describe as a 'just-got-laid' look on his face.  "Good 
morning," he said to the AD.  "I assume you had a pleasant 
evening with ASAC Lambert?"

"Oh, most definitely.  I understand you had a rather 
interesting evening yourself..."

"Interesting... is not the word I would use," Mulder 
muttered.  "'Disaster' would be a far more appropriate 
term."

"I see," observed Skinner.  "Well, congratulations on your 
big day," and a hand impacted against his back with stunning 
force, nearly causing him to lose his precarious balance.

He recovered, barely.  "That was cruel," he grumbled, and 
was treated to another one of Skinner's startling grins -- 
this one had a definite mischievous edge to it.

Just then, a limousine pulled up to the curb, and Mulder 
felt his heart skip a beat, knowing who was inside...  His 
mother emerged first, and he gave her a dutiful peck on the 
cheek, more preoccupied with the other occupants; then 
Scully's mother got out of the car, and then...

She was beautiful, absolutely beautiful.  The dress fitted 
her like a second skin, innocent and demure and somehow 
shockingly sexy all at once -- virginal white, of course; if 
anyone had the right to wear it, she did -- a simple garland 
of white flowers adorned her hair, matching the bouquet she 
carried, and her face was absolutely radiant.

"Scully," he breathed, and ran out of words.

"I guess you like the dress?" she murmured, blushing at his 
scrutiny.

He supposed that he ought to come up with a suitably snappy 
come-back, but his mind didn't seem to be working properly; 
all he could do was stare at her, and marvel.  Only one 
thought remained uppermost in his mind, and it was the only 
thing he could think of to say: "I love you *so* much."

Her eyes met his, and time stood still; the world went away, 
and all that existed was the two of them.  Scully, in that 
incredible white dress... Scully, his bride, soon to be his 
wife.  Time and time again, he'd wondered at the miracle of 
it, that someone so completely perfect for him should 
stumble into his life, and somehow not be deterred by his 
myriad faults: now, it seemed more of a miracle than ever.  
To love this woman, and be loved by her... nothing could be 
better than this.  Nothing.

"What time is it?" he heard Scully's mother say.

"Two o'clock, on the nose," responded Frohike.

"It's time," Langly added.

Mulder held out one hand to Scully, and she took it; and 
together, they walked into the chapel.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"So where is he?" his mother said, to the woman holding down 
the fort at the wedding chapel.

The brunette shrugged helplessly.  "The minister should be 
here any minute," she insisted, "he's never missed a wedding 
yet..."

Mulder abandoned his restless pacing, slid onto the bench 
where his bride-to-be was sitting.  "Tic-Tac?" he offered.

"Thanks."  She took the box from his hand and popped one 
into her mouth.

"Y'know," he mused quietly, "I knew it was too good to be 
true.  This guy's never going to show up, we're never gonna 
get married, I'm going to die a lonely, broken man..."

"Mul-derrr," Scully said patiently, "if he doesn't show up 
in another ten minutes, we'll find another chapel to get 
married in.  Maybe even the 24-Hour Church of Elvis."  She 
took his hand in both of hers.  "Are you even remotely 
capable of the slightest fragment of optimism?"

He shrugged.  "You're a dream come true, Scully," he said 
simply.  "I can't help it; I just keep expecting to wake 
up."

She brought his hand to her lips, kissed his fingers.  "Get 
used to the dream, Mulder," she said, "because I'm not going 
anywhere."

"Sorry," said a breathless voice from the doorway -- and 
there, standing before them in white sequined jumpsuit and 
long silk scarf and sideburned wig, was the minister who 
they'd spoken to the day before.  "I got held up at a gig on 
the Strip," he explained apologetically, "just give me half 
a minute to change, and I'll be right with you..."

Mulder glanced at Scully, and together they burst into 
laughter.

"Don't change," Scully said, through her giggles, to the 
minister.

"We like you just the way you are," Mulder seconded.

The minister shot them a quizzical look, then shrugged.  
"It's *your* wedding..."

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

And so it was that they stood together, side by side, before 
a minister dressed like Elvis, listening to the words of the 
brief ceremony delivered in a credible imitation of the King 
himself, and struggling not to laugh at the implausibility 
of it all.

Scully caught his eye with a sidelong glance; and suddenly 
all thoughts of laughter were far from his mind.  Elvis or 
no Elvis, it was the most serious moment of his life: 
'sacred bond' and 'lifelong commitment' were more than just 
words, they were the words that would define his life, from 
now on...

But then, what else was new?  It had been that way since 
she'd stepped into his basement office, and into his life.

He gazed at her, loving her, knowing that nothing could mar 
the perfection of this moment...

And just as the minister was getting to the part about 
'speak now or forever hold your peace', a voice echoed 
through the chapel: "Wait!"

Mulder turned, with a sudden sinking feeling in his gut, and 
there he was: Dana's brother Bill, sweaty and breathless, 
standing in the doorway.  "Thank God it's not too late!  
Dana, you can't marry this asshole..."

"Hey," said Langly helpfully, "she *loves* that asshole," 
and Byers elbowed him in the side, hard.

"He's all wrong for you, Dana!  You've had nothing but grief 
since you teamed up with him...  you'll never be happy with 
him, Dana, *don't do it...*"

Scully faced her brother, fire in her eyes and fury in her 
voice: "Bill, I swear to God, if you say *one more word*, I 
will SHOOT YOU!" reverberated through the small room with 
stunning force.

"Dana..." her brother protested.

And then Mrs. Scully stood up, turned to look at her eldest 
son.  "William," she said, in a voice that brooked no 
disobedience, "you always were too big for your britches.  
You've had your say; now sit down, and shut up."

"Ma..."

"NOW."

For a long moment, the man hesitated; then, sullenly, he 
stormed to a seat at the back of the chapel and sat down.

Silence reigned, broken finally by the minister's voice: 
"Can we get on with this?"

But Mulder found himself staring at the angry man seated at 
the back of the room.  In some part of his mind, he 
understood; how could he not understand?  If Samantha had 
been with him, and marrying some man he couldn't stand... 
who was to say what he might do, how he might react?  Of 
course he understood.

"I love her," he said quietly, in a voice that projected as 
clearly as Scully's shout had.

The room was still, as if no one dared to move.

"I would die for her," Mulder added.  "I would die without 
her.  She's everything to me..." wanting him to understand, 
to at least begin to understand.  //She's your little 
sister, but she's *everything* to me.//

Bill raised his head, stared back.  "Just take care of her!" 
he flung back, a challenge.

"I will," Mulder said.  "I do."  He glanced at Scully, was 
startled by the tears in her eyes; then she smiled up at 
him, and he knew that it was all right.  //I do.//

Her brother turned away, still angry but somehow placated; 
Mulder took Scully's hand, and they turned to face the 
minister together.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"...Do you, Dana Katherine Scully, take this man to be your 
lawfully wedded husband?"

//Say yes, please say yes...//

"I do," she responded, without a moment's pause.

"And do you, Fox William Mulder..."

//God, I hate that name.//

...take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

//Hell, yes!//

"I do," he said, through the lump in his throat.

"Then with the power vested in me by God, the State of 
Nevada, and the King himself..."

//This is it.  It's real.  It's happening.  It's not a 
dream...//

"...I now pronounce you husband and wife."

//It's real.  This is real.  We're *married*...//

"You may now kiss the bride."

//Just try to stop me.//

He took her in his arms, and she turned her face up to him, 
radiant and a little teary-eyed and impossibly, 
breathtakingly beautiful...

And in the moment that their lips met in the kiss that 
sealed their vows, he knew that forever could never be long 
enough, with Scully.

end part X-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
*-*-*-*-*-

XI. The Taming Of The Unicorn

"Okay, so... how are we supposed to do this?  Do I carry the 
luggage in first, or do I carry *you* in first, or what?"

"It doesn't matter, Mulder.  Just open the door."

Her first view of the honeymoon suite was of its ceiling; 
then he set her down, and she took a look around.  It was 
beautiful -- but then, considering the price they'd paid for 
it, she'd expected nothing less.

"Look, Scully; a sunken hot tub.  Just what I need for my 
back -- y'know, I think that dress of yours must weigh about 
fifty pounds, 'cause I don't remember you being that 
heavy..."  He placed their suitcases on the floor just 
inside the door, came to stand beside her.  "Well, this sure 
beats that expense-account motel we were staying in."

"Yeah."  She slipped one arm around him, settled into his 
side.  "It's nice," she added, feeling unaccountably tongue-
tied.

"It is," he confirmed, and there was a long, awkward 
silence.

"So," Mulder said, after awhile, "here we are."

Scully tilted her head upward to look at him.  "Are you as 
nervous as I am?" she asked him.

"Who, me?  Nervous?  Me?  Nervous?  Naaaah," he denied, and 
she laughed.

She turned to face him, wrapped her arms around his waist; 
his arms slid around her, holding her close, and he studied 
her face as if he'd never seen it before.  "You're my 
*wife*," he said, in a tone of wonder.

"Yeah," she agreed, looking at him and thinking, //husband, 
not just partner anymore, *husband*,// and feeling the 
weight and the importance of it.  "Weird, isn't it?"

"Really weird," he agreed fervently.  One hand rose, rested 
against her cheek.  "And, y'know, the best thing that ever 
happened to me."

"Me, too," Scully said, feeling her nervousness drain away: 
it was going to be all right.

She rested her head against his chest, just enjoying the 
embrace for a few minutes, letting his closeness settle her 
jangled nerves, allowing herself time to get used to the 
whole idea.  Married, she was married, they were married 
now... who would have thought, years ago, that walking into 
the basement office of the FBI's Most Unwanted would lead to 
this?

"And to think," she said softly, "it all started with a 
bet."

He chuckled.  "Best bet I ever lost."

"So, slave-for-life," she teased, "when are we getting you 
fitted for chains and a collar?"

"Gee, I thought that's what the wedding was for," was his 
response, innocently-voiced; and she hit him -- not too 
hard, just lightly enough to let him know that she didn't 
*really* mean it.

"Ow," he said, grinning -- and then the mischievous smile 
turned into something deeper, warmer; he took her hand, the 
one that bore the simple silver band, brought it to his lips 
and kissed it.  "Mrs. Mulder..." he began -- then paused, 
frowned.  "'Mrs. Mulder's my *mom*."

"Mrs. Scully-Mulder?" she suggested, feeling something 
within herself twinge at the sound of it.  //Mrs. Scully-
Mulder...//

"Okay.  Hey, d'you suppose I ought to call you Dana now?  
Since we're married and all..."

"Only if you want me to call you Fox," she told him, and 
watched his face crinkle into a look of distaste.

"Have I ever mentioned how much I hate that name?  
Seriously," he said, "it sounds better when you say it, but 
I still hate it."

"Mulder," she said patiently, "on the rare occasions when 
you have called me Dana, I have had to look around the room 
to ascertain who you are speaking to."

"So I should call you Scully, then...?"

"You always have," she reminded him, "why stop now?"

He smiled: the smile she so cherished, the wide, happy smile 
that she'd so rarely seen -- at least, until they'd begun 
their love affair.  "Scully," he said, "my sweet, sexy, 
smart-ass Scully.  I love you, y'know."

Her breath caught in her chest; it was an effort to speak.  
"I know," she murmured.  "I love you, too."

"I sure hope so; you married me, after all.  You should 
probably take off that dress," he mentioned, "we have 
champagne to drink, and..." his voice trailed off, 
expression altering subtly, to that look of wonderment she'd 
seen before.  "One day, one of our kids may want to walk 
down the aisle in that dress."

She knew what he was feeling: at his words, she found 
herself envisioning the future, *their* future.  Babies, 
growing to become children, and then adults; and she and 
Mulder helping them grow, watching them bring home stray 
animals and report cards and dates and someday, children of 
their own...

"Yeah," she agreed softly -- then added, "Let's just hope 
it's not one of the boys," and he roared with laughter.

Scully took her suitcase into the bathroom with her, 
carefully slithering out of the dress; a shame, she thought 
ruefully, that she'd never wear it again.  But someday, her 
daughter...  She hung it up carefully on the padded hanger 
and zipped it into the garment bag she'd brought for just 
that purpose.

She caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror, found 
herself gazing at her reflection.  Not as young as she'd 
used to be, that was for certain.  And there were scars: as 
much a part of her job as her badge or her gun.  Obvious, 
from the image in the glass, that she wasn't a girl 
anymore... 

...she was a woman.  A wife.  Mulder's wife.  And someday, 
the mother of his children...

The thought thrilled her, scared her, made her want to lock 
the bathroom door and hide even as another part of her 
wanted to run naked into the bedroom and fling herself into 
his arms...  She shook her head, silently scolding her 
reflection.  //You're being ridiculous, Scully.//

//I'm a newlywed.  I'm supposed to be ridiculous,// the 
reflection retorted, and she smiled at the absurdity of the 
internal dialogue.

Quickly, she freshened up her makeup, applied a quick spray 
of perfume to her hair -- a trick she'd learned long ago: a 
way to keep her skin from tasting unpleasantly of alcohol -- 
slipped into a silk robe, and emerged hesitantly from the 
bathroom, dress in one hand, suitcase in the other.  Mulder, 
she discovered, had changed from the rented suit into the 
bottom half of a pair of black silk pajamas; he was sitting 
in one of the easy chairs, staring at the television, 
restlessly flipping the remote control from channel to 
channel, click-click-click, not seeing any of what was 
flickering past on the screen.

"You *are* nervous," she said softly.

He glanced over at her.  "Damn straight I'm nervous," he 
said, setting the remote down on the small nearby table.  "I 
mean, talk about performance anxiety..."

"Why?"  She seated herself on the arm of the chair, let one 
hand ruffle his hair -- he usually kept it neatly combed; 
that was probably why she loved to tousle it into disarray.

"Why?" he echoed.  "Because I want this to be perfect for 
you, that's why."

"It *is* perfect, Mulder; it's already perfect."  Her other 
hand folded itself around his, fingers entwining.  "We're 
together, now and for the rest of our lives.  Everything 
else... is just icing on the cake."

"But icing is the best part of a cake," he responded, with 
logic so flawless that she wanted to smack him for it.  
"Hey, you didn't wait all this time to lose your virginity 
just so I could screw it up, right?"

Scully shook her head, exasperated; how was it that he could 
be so right, and so wrong, at the same time?  "Mulder," she 
sighed, "first of all, I waited so that I could be with the 
right man, which I am.  Second, I'm not losing anything, I'm 
gaining a soul-mate.  Third, wedding nights are 
traditionally *supposed* to be disastrous, so anything that 
doesn't send me to the emergency room screaming in pain will 
be fine by me.  Fourth, you're not being graded on this; I'm 
not going to hold up a card with a numerical score when it's 
done.  Finally... this isn't an ending, you know.  It's a 
*beginning*.  And if it isn't up to your standards of 
technical perfection, well, we have the rest of our lives to 
practice.  Okay?"

He gazed at her affectionately.  "Well, excuse me for 
wanting to be good in bed," he said mildly.

She laughed.  "Just don't *worry* about it."

"I want this to be right for you," he countered, 
insistently.

"It *is* right for me.  *You* are right for me," and he 
pulled her down, into his lap, into his arms.

For a while, they cuddled together, semi-watching TV.  "Why 
are we watching the Weather Channel?" Scully wondered, and 
he picked up the remote control and began flipping channels 
again.  "Not sports..."

"It's basketball," he protested.

"Mulder," she said, and he sighed and changed the channel.

"Casablanca?" he suggested, after an interval of channel-
surfing.

She thought about it, shook her head.  "Something with a 
happy ending."

"Oooh, look, Scully, alien abductions, hosted by Mike 
Farrell..."

"And no *work*," she scolded him lightly.

Click, click, click.  "Wanna learn how to re-shingle a 
roof?"

"Not today, Mulder."

More channels flashing past.  "Mating habits of elephants," 
she said thoughtfully.

"Anything but that.  The last thing I need right now is an 
inferiority complex," and she laughed.

Click, click, click.  "Here we go, Road-Runner cartoons.  We 
can't go wrong with Road-Runner cartoons."

"As long as nothing in this room was manufactured by the 
Acme company," she agreed.

The antics of the coyote and the road-runner occupied their 
attention for awhile; but Scully grew restless.  Idly, she 
let her hand drift across his chest, fingertips trailing 
through the sparse hair there, then brushing lightly over 
one nipple.

She felt him shiver, felt him plant a light kiss on the top 
of her head.  "You trying to seduce me, Agent Scully?"

"Now why would you think that?" she responded, and allowed 
her hand to drift lower, toward his stomach.

Another shiver, of a different sort.  "Don't *tickle*," 
Mulder warned.

"Oh," she said sweetly, "you mean, like this?" and he jumped 
half out of the chair.

"You want to play?  Okay, I'll play," and he set to work 
with a vengeance, until Scully was on the floor, giggling 
helplessly and vainly attempting to squirm away from his 
fingers.

"Stop!" she pleaded.

"Should I?  I don't know... I like to hear you laugh," but 
all at once his fingers stilled, stroking instead of 
tickling, as he stretched out beside her on the carpeted 
floor.  Her robe had fallen open, and he bent his head to 
kiss each breast in turn, so that neither would feel 
neglected.  "Hey, you wanna do it on the floor?"

"My back would never forgive me," she said, and he knelt 
beside her, offered her a hand and helped her up.

Once on her feet, she automatically pulled her robe closed -
- not knowing quite why; suddenly, she was nervous again.  
"What's wrong, Scully?" Mulder asked, picking up on her 
anxiety.

She shrugged.  "I suppose there's something to be said for 
spontaneity," she murmured.  "It would have been easier if 
this had just *happened*..."

"So I'm not the only one with performance anxiety, huh?  
C'mere," and he enfolded her in one of those wonderful, all-
encompassing Mulder-hugs that she so loved.  "Like you said: 
it's not the end, it's the beginning.  And it'll be all 
right."

She leaned into him, enjoying the feeling of resting against 
his strength, being held and protected.  Something she would 
never allow herself in the course of their work, where it 
was imperative that she rely on her own strength; but an 
infinite joy when they were alone together.  "It sounds 
awful, I know," she said at last, "but I just want to get 
this over with."

"Get it over with?  I think I'm wounded," he replied, in a 
joking voice; but she thought she discerned a trace of 
actual hurt beneath the light tone.

"It's just..." she struggled to explain, "it's an 
intimidating thing, you know?"

"An intimidating thing," he repeated.  "I didn't know I was 
*that* big," and she slapped at him, smiling.  "Well, now I 
know: I have an intimidating thing."

"Better intimidating than underwhelming," she retorted.

"As long as you think so."  The teasing tone slipped away, 
leaving only concern, and love.  "I'm not going to hurt you, 
y'know.  I mean, I'd rather cut my own throat than hurt 
you."

"I know.  I trust you, Mulder; you know that."  

"I know."  He was silent for a moment, absently stroking her 
hair, fingertips twining through the strands without ever 
tangling in them.  "You know what I think?  I think we 
should try out that hot tub, because y'know, you smell."

She stepped back, surveyed him with disbelief.  "You are 
just *sooo* romantic," she noted dryly.

"That's why you married me," he parried, grinning.  "I 
wonder what happens when you put bubble bath in a jacuzzi?"

"A vast proliferation of bubbles?" she hypothesized.

"Well, we don't have to clean it up, do we?" he countered 
mischievously; and she grinned wickedly back at him.

He poured half the bottle into the hot tub before she could 
stop him; and together they watched as the bubbles grew and 
overflowed onto the carpet.  "You know, they might make us 
pay for damages," she realized belatedly, and together they 
fetched towels from the bathroom to mop up the worst of the 
mess.

She turned her back on him before taking off her robe, 
feeling ridiculous about it, since it was nothing he hadn't 
already seen -- felt slightly better when she noticed that 
he was doing the same thing -- and finally they were in the 
tub together, staring at each other from opposite ends 
through the miasma of bubbles.  "Well," he said, "we're both 
naked; that's a good start."

Scully laughed, albeit a trifle self-consciously.  "This is 
so silly," she said, "for us to be nervous now, after 
everything we've been through together."

"You think it's silly?"  Again, his tone was light and 
playful, but with a deeper undertone.  "You think it's silly 
that I'm terrified out of my wits, that I won't be good 
enough, or last long enough, or be able to get it up at 
all?"

She moved her foot to nudge his, underwater.  "You really 
*are* nervous," she said, somehow surprised by the depths of 
his worry.

"Hey, you just have to lie there and spread your legs; I'm 
the one who has to be Mister Wonderful."

"Mulder..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know.  But I can't help how I feel.  You 
matter to me," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Well, you matter to me, too.  And this is not just for me, 
you know," she reminded him, "it's *our* wedding night."

"Our wedding night," he repeated.  "You know, I thought for 
some reason that saying the vows would be the hard part; I 
never expected that the honeymoon would be our main 
stumbling block.  I mean, it's not like we've never *been* 
together before... I'd even venture to say that we're pretty 
good at it."

"We are," she agreed.  "Well, except maybe for that one 
night, when we had the flu..."

"Yeah, that was pretty disastrous, wasn't it?  Let me tell 
you, if that had been our first time together, I would have 
crawled under a rock and stayed there, for the rest of my 
life," and she laughed.  "I don't even know why we bothered 
trying; we were both feeling so lousy..."

"We were in bed together," she said, "it was inevitable; we 
couldn't help it."  Remembering, she laughed again -- though 
it hadn't been funny at the time.  "At least you managed not 
to throw up on me."

"It was close, though.  Hey, Scully," he mentioned, "why are 
you on the other side of the tub?"

"Why are you?" she challenged.

"Come here."

"No, you come *here*."

They stared at each other for a moment.  "I'll meet you in 
the middle," he said at last, and she nodded.

He stood up, extended one hand to her; she took it, rose to 
her feet -- then she was in his arms, feeling his body 
against hers, warm and wet and slippery from the soap-
bubbles: skin against skin, deliciously intoxicating.  His 
eyes, dark with passion, seeming to gaze into her soul; his 
lips, seeking hers and finding them, seizing them gently, 
capturing her with his kiss.  A slow fire building within 
her, simmering heat that had nothing to do with the 
jacuzzi's hot water, consuming her little by little until 
her entire nervous system was: his manhood pressed against 
her, hard and insistent, signifying a longing that matched 
hers.

"Let's go to bed, Scully," he murmured huskily, in a voice 
roughened by desire.

She didn't trust her own voice; she simply nodded, and took 
his hand, let him help her out of the tub and lead her to 
the oversized bed.

The room was warm enough that she didn't feel chilled; the 
satin sheets were delightfully cool against her fevered 
skin.  She pulled them up, over herself, but his hand 
stopped her -- "Let me look at you," he coaxed, drawing the 
sheets aside.  "You're so beautiful," in a hushed voice.  
"Scully.  I love you so much."

Tears formed in her eyes, tears of joy, a happiness so deep 
that it could be expressed in no other way.  "Mulder," she 
said, trusting him to hear everything she felt in the single 
word, knowing that he would understand.

He knelt on the bed beside her, drew her into a sitting 
position, kissed her -- his hands roamed over her breasts, 
down to her hips, in almost a possessive motion; //mine,// 
they seemed to say, //my wife, my love,// and she yielded to 
him, letting the heat of his hands soak into her skin and 
melt away any lingering unease.  Suddenly, she needed to 
feel him close; and she pulled him to her, savoring the feel 
of hard muscles and soft skin and the tautness of arousal 
that coursed through him -- felt him tremble: "Scully," a 
soft sigh that sent shivers through her.

She leaned back, pulling him down with her, feeling his 
weight atop her, pressing her into the mattress even though 
he braced himself with one arm to keep from hurting her; oh, 
it was wonderful.  Everything was wonderful; and she 
marveled that she could ever have been afraid of this, could 
ever have felt nervousness, when every moment of 
togetherness between them was sheer perfection.  Even that 
time with the flu, even with chills and nausea as a 
deterrent, it had been wonderful to rest in his arms and 
know that she was loved: even with stringy hair and pasty-
pale skin and a runny nose, she had still been beautiful to 
him.

To him: Mulder, her husband.  "I love you," she whispered, 
and kissed the tip of his nose.

He kissed her back: her lips, her neck, her breasts, hands 
and lips and tongue teasing and caressing her everywhere -- 
she wondered hazily if her skin tasted of soap, but if it 
did, he obviously didn't care.  Lower, and lower, heading 
purposefully toward his favorite destination; his hands 
snaked around her hips as his lips found their target, and 
she laced her fingers through his hair and cried out softly 
as his tongue made contact with the center of her arousal, 
bringing simmering desire to the boiling point.

Closer and closer he brought her, to the pinnacle of 
pleasure, until she was so close that she could hardly bear 
it; and then he was moving, to rest atop her again, his 
hardness positioned between her thighs -- she wrapped her 
legs around him, and felt him tremble.  "Ready?" he 
whispered.

And now, at the moment when she should have felt the most 
nervous, all she could feel was love.  "Yes," she whispered 
back.

Slowly, so slowly, so carefully, she felt his cock ease into 
her, probing the tender aperture... she felt herself 
stretching to accommodate him, and it didn't hurt; no, not 
at all.  He pulled back a bit, then pushed forward a bit 
more forcefully, entering a little more deeply -- one more 
time, one last thrust, and he was inside her, all the way, 
filling her completely.

She lay still, adjusting herself to the feeling: a wild 
flurry of thought raced through her mind -- //this is it,// 
and //ohmigod, it's finally happening// and //now I am a 
woman//... the last, an archaic feeling straight from some 
old romance novel, an embarrassment to her modern-nineties-
liberated-female psychology; but at that moment, it was what 
she felt, and she couldn't bring herself to feel ashamed of 
the emotion.  //I'm so glad I waited.  I'm so glad I waited 
for *him*.//

"Scully," and she opened her eyes, looked up at his sweat-
slicked face.  "You okay?"

"Yeah," she breathed, unable to quite describe just how okay 
she was; and he kissed her, a swift soft kiss for 
reassurance.

And then he moved, withdrawing and thrusting again, and she 
let out a startled cry of pleasure, for no amount of 
clinical knowledge or research could possibly have prepared 
her for how *incredible* it felt.

Buried within her once more, he hesitated.  "You sure you're 
okay?"

"Stop again, and I'll kill you," she whispered, only 
partially joking.

A soft breath of laughter.  "I love you *so* much."

Then he was moving again, sweet hot friction against 
sensitive tissue, every stroke bringing her a whole new 
world of pleasure, totally unlike anything she'd ever known 
before, almost too good to bear.  She gazed at him, seeing 
in his face the strength of his arousal, and his control; 
how hard it was for him to keep it slow and gentle, when his 
body was screaming for more...  his eyes met hers, locked 
with hers, and through that connection it seemed as if their 
souls met and intertwined: as if she could see straight into 
his heart.

Feeling him inside her body, inside her soul, she knew with 
utter certainty that this was right; this was perfect; this 
was *home*.

So completely in tune, they were, that she knew when he just 
couldn't stand the slow pace anymore, because it was the 
same moment that her own body demanded more; harder, now, 
and faster, exactly as she needed it to be, speeding them 
both toward the point of no return.  And then it was upon 
her, pleasure upon pleasure, so incredibly strong that she 
didn't think she could survive the intensity of it -- a howl 
welled up in her throat, a long keening cry of passion, held 
back by the same slender thread that separated her from 
orgasm -- she felt the same sudden tension in him, knew he 
was there with her, so damn close that it *hurt*: tension 
building, and building, and building, until she thought that 
she would explode...

...and then she did: both of them, together, screaming cries 
of passion that should have deafened each other, endless 
rippling contractions that seemed to echo in time, spasms of 
ecstasy, of relief, of pure wondrous completion.

Reality returned slowly.  His weight upon her, his breathing 
hoarse and irregular in her ear, the pounding of his heart 
in rhythm with her own, and a sticky wetness between her 
legs that might've been uncomfortable at any other time, but 
felt at that moment like a badge of honor.  And still, even 
then, the small residual echoes of orgasm, little twinges of 
lingering pleasure penetrating and saturating her utter 
contentment.

He moved sideways, rolling off her, an effort that seemed to 
require every bit of what little energy he had left; his 
arms wrapped around her and took her with him, into a 
comfortable embrace.  She gazed at him, at his warm, pleased 
smile -- and all at once she was laughing, great 
uncontrollable peals of laughter: relief, and happiness, and 
absolute satisfaction with her life, and the world.

"Y'know," she heard him say, through her giggles, "it's not 
generally a good sign when they laugh, afterwards," but 
something in his tone told her that he understood; and she 
pulled him close and kissed him hard, just to be certain.

"Hey, Mulder," she said, still unable to quite stop 
laughing, "guess what?  We had sex, and we survived."

"Speak for yourself," he responded, "I'm still not sure I 
won't require CPR, after that."

"It *was* incredible, wasn't it?  See, you worried for 
nothing," she scolded him lightly.

"Well, I had to make up for that time with the flu," he 
reminded her.

Suddenly, the giggles were gone, leaving only a vast 
tenderness.  "It was *perfect*," she told him, fervently.  
"Thank you, 'Mister Wonderful'."

He met her smile with one of his own.  "Anything for you, 
Scully," he said.  "Anything."

And yawned.  "Wouldja mind too much if I took a little nap?" 
he queried.

"I'm halfway there myself," she informed him, yawning in 
return.

"Good.  I'll meet you in my dreams, then," settling himself 
into position, tugging at the pillow until he was 
comfortable; waiting for her to do the same, then wrapping 
one arm securely around her, just like always.

"See you there," she said sleepily, and he kissed her 
lightly as she drifted off.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

A full bladder awakened her from a sound sleep -- and Mulder 
was still holding her, dammit; she had to untangle herself 
from his embrace before she could get out of bed.

She swung herself upright, stood -- nearly fell over; //I 
thought it was just a cliche,// she thought hazily, //but my 
legs really *do* hurt.  Wow.//

Somehow she managed to stumble to the bathroom, and take 
care of necessary business.  She splashed her face with cold 
water, looked at her reflection in the mirror...  //I don't 
look any different,// she thought; and then, //Yes, I do,// 
though she couldn't pinpoint the difference, exactly.

//Now I am truly a woman,// she thought.  //Oh, God, that 
*is* a cliche.  Somebody shoot me before I start spouting 
love poems, and carving little hearts and initials into the 
furniture...//

But she couldn't quite stop smiling.

She turned on the shower, intending to soak away some of the 
unfamiliar aches in her legs and back -- paused; somehow it 
didn't seem right for Mulder to wake up alone in bed on 
their honeymoon night.  So she padded back into the room, 
bare feet moving soundlessly on carpeted floor, peered at 
his sleeping form to see if he was anywhere near 
consciousness.  "Mulder?" she inquired, resting one hand on 
his bare shoulder.

"Mmmmm?" came a bleary sound from the pillows.

"I'm gonna take a shower," she told him.

"Mmmmm," was the reply, just as incoherent; and she tugged 
the blankets up over him, and went back to the bathroom.

The hot water eased into her muscles, relaxed her -- and got 
rid of the dried sweat and other secretions, for which she 
was thankful; parts of her had been starting to itch.  She 
luxuriated in the heat, and the steam, remembering... felt 
the memory beginning to arouse her anew.

//Marriage.  Sex.  Mulder.  God, I've got to stop grinning 
like an idiot; my face is starting to ache.//  She laughed 
softly.  //I'm as giddy as a newlywed.  Hey, wait; I *am* a 
newlywed.  So I suppose it's permissible,// and laughed 
again.

After awhile, she heard the bathroom door open.  "Scully?" 
said a familiar voice, sleepily.

"Yeah," she responded.  //And who else would've snuck into 
the shower while you were sleeping, genius?//  But then, 
that was Mulder...

"Mmmm," came the acknowledgment, and she ducked her head 
under the spray to wash out the shampoo.

Shortly thereafter, the glass shower door slid open, 
bringing with it a burst of cold air.  "I ordered coffee 
from room service," she heard him say.  "And new sheets from 
housekeeping."

"Good move," she said, rubbed water out of her eyes and 
opened them.  "You look tired."

"I am tired.  Happy-tired.  S'okay," and he slipped his arms 
around her waist, drew her close.  "How about you, you okay?  
No regrets?"

"Regrets?" she said, keeping her voice absolutely sober.  
"Yes, I have regrets; you're too big, you're too good, and I 
want a divorce."

Expecting to see him smile, she glanced up instead to see 
his stricken face -- "I was *kidding*," she said hastily.

"I'm not awake yet; don't joke like that," he chided her, 
and she felt him relax.  "Seriously..."

"I feel wonderful," Scully told him, sincerely, "and I am 
*so* happy."

And there was the smile she'd been waiting for.  "Me too," 
he said.  "So you don't want a divorce, then."

"Mulder, there is no way in hell that I am ever letting you 
get away from me."  She hugged him, hard.  "Wash your back?" 
she offered.

"Sounds like heaven," he agreed.

And thus they began the rest of their lives together.

end part XI

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

XII. Happily Ever After

"...And that's the way it was for your father and I," Dana 
Scully said, gazing across the front seat of the car to the 
girl -- //no,// she thought, with mingled pride and sadness, 
//young woman// -- seated beside her.

She had her mother's bright, incisive eyes, highlighted by 
raccoon-dark eyeliner that her mother would never have worn; 
she had her father's dark hair, accented by a bold dyed-pink 
streak; she wore the uniform of her generation, regurgitated 
from the punk-rock 80s and reborn as a 'brand-new' trend -- 
and somehow managed to make the entire facade look stylish 
and mature.  "Wow," Lacy said thoughtfully.  "I knew Daddy 
was a saint, putting up with us kids, but I never knew he 
was *that* much of a saint."

"Your father," said Scully, "is a very special man," and a 
secret smile crossed her lips, remembering how it had been 
last night -- and myriad nights before that: over fifteen 
years' worth of days and nights, now.  And still, every time 
was like the first time, as miraculous and joyous as their 
honeymoon had been...

She banished those thoughts, to attend to the matter at 
hand; she met her daughter's eyes, with the same level 
honesty she'd always granted her children.  "You're a young 
woman, now," she said, "and old enough to make your own 
decisions, whether I like them or not.  I know you well 
enough to know that your decisions are your own, not 
prompted by peer pressure.  I also know that virginity isn't 
exactly fashionable these days, and hasn't been for a great 
many years.  If you feel you're ready for birth control, 
Lacy, I'll make sure that you have what you need.  But I 
want *you* to know how special it can be, when you wait for 
the right person.  When you know that the person you're with 
is the one you'll spend the rest of your life with.  It 
doesn't always work out that way for everyone," she said 
candidly, "but when it does, it's incredible."

"So you're glad you waited?" Lacy pressed.

"Yes," her mother answered, without hesitation; and again 
that faint, mysterious smile lit her face from within, for 
just a moment.

The younger woman considered, for a moment.  "You and Dad 
are still together," she mused, "after all this time; I 
don't know anyone else in my school who still have the same 
two parents they started with."

"Lifelong commitment isn't exactly fashionable these days, 
either," said Scully ruefully.  "Many people find it simpler 
to shop for a new mate than to make things work with the one 
they've got."  Days and nights of stress, transitions, 
adjustments, arguments and reconciliations...  two fiercely 
independent people, building a life together; it hadn't been 
an easy road, for either of them.

But it had been worth it.

"There were times," she said slowly, "that I felt left out, 
as if I was missing something; times when I felt as if I was 
waiting in vain, that I'd never find 'the right one'.  But 
in the end, I realized that if I hadn't waited, I would have 
missed out on far more."

Lacy nodded.  "I'll think about it, Mom," and though her 
tone held an edge of impatience, Scully knew her daughter 
well enough to know that it wasn't a dismissal, or an idle 
promise.  "But, y'know, Joey's supposed to call me, and I 
don't want to miss out on that... and I'll bet the ice 
cream's melting, too."

"You're probably right," Scully agreed.  "Let's get these 
groceries inside, shall we?"

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The family room was aglow when she stepped inside.  There 
was the Christmas tree, resplendent in its glory, decorated 
with fifteen years' worth of keepsake ornaments and at least 
two more strings of lights than were actually needed.  There 
was the array of stockings, 'hung by the chimney with care', 
over a dozen of them: one for each of the kids and their 
parents and the people who constituted their extended 
family, each one bearing a name in bright silver glitter.  
There was the heirloom menorah on the mantel, waiting for 
the time when its candles would be lit.  There was the 
solstice display that Lacy had fashioned, holly and 
mistletoe and a simplified altar; a yearly tradition ever 
since their eldest child had declared herself pagan on her 
eleventh birthday.  And there was the television, which was 
lit up and howling with the shoot-em-up game that the twins 
were avidly playing on the video-game system that they 
occasionally managed to wrench away from their father...

"Save your game and come help me with the shopping," Scully 
called out; and, "Right, Mom," came the chorused reply, in 
perfect unison, as the boys set aside their gamepads and 
scurried out the door to obey: two freckled redheads so 
alike that even their parents had trouble telling them 
apart.

"Hi, Mommy," piped up a small voice from the sofa; a little 
girl in a white nightgown, all but hidden beneath the 
crocheted afghan on which she'd been conceived, so many 
years ago.

"Hi, sweetie," Scully answered, kneeling beside the couch to 
hug her youngest child.  "Feeling better, now?"

"All better!" Emmy declared -- the effect was marred by her 
stuffed nose; but still, she looked far better than she had 
last night, when she'd awakened her parents with her hoarse 
cough.  Scully placed one hand on her daughter's forehead, 
and was satisfied by the reduction of the fever.

Sound of a basketball bouncing against the concrete patio, 
then the sliding door opening, and a voice laced with 
excitement: "Hi, Moms, guess what?  I got picked for first-
string!"

"Congratulations," said her mother, smiling, reaching out to 
tousle the short, shaggy dark-blonde hair of her second-
eldest.  "Does your father know?"

"Oh, yeah," said Thea, spinning the basketball effortlessly 
on one finger, then catching it, "Pop's stoked to the max, 
fit to bust!"

"I suppose that's a good thing," said Scully wryly.  "Could 
you go help your brothers with the groceries?"

"Sure, Ma," and Thea bounced out the door, propelled by the 
same relentless energy she'd always possessed.

Scully let her purse fall onto the easy chair next to her 
daughter's basketball, shed her coat and left that in a 
crumpled heap on the chair's arm, then picked up her 
shopping bags and headed for the kitchen.

The radio on top of the refrigerator was set to the same 
blues-rock station as always; 'Thou Shalt Not Meddle With 
Daddy's Radio' was one of the Fifteen Family Commandments, 
immortalized on a piece of orange construction paper taped 
to the wall.  A wonderful aroma filled the kitchen, as steam 
rose from a giant pot on the stove: a recipe of his own 
devising, involving meat and potatoes and vegetables and an 
array of spices that he steadfastly refused to divulge.  
Every Thursday night was Stew Night, and not coincidentally, 
the contingent of drop-in dinner guests on Thursdays was 
generally a large number.

He was standing by the stove, stirring the stew with a 
wooden spoon, humming along to the song on the radio; and 
for a moment she simply stood there, looking at him.  He'd 
aged, of course, as she had; not quite as slender as he'd 
been once, hair greying and thinning -- and he was every bit 
as handsome as he'd ever been, in her estimation, if not 
more so.

"Hey," she said finally, and he glanced up, startled; he 
hadn't heard her come in -- but then, his hearing wasn't as 
acute as it had once been, either: not since the unfortunate 
incident with the twins and the M-80 firecrackers, several 
Fourth-of-Julys ago.

But his smile hadn't changed: and she loved the way it lit 
up his whole face, eyes sparkling as brightly as any 
fireworks.  "Hey, Scully," he said, and held out one arm to 
her; she went to him, wrapped her arms around his waist and 
hugged him tight.

She felt her body react to his warmth, his strength, his 
scent, and reflected to herself that some things would never 
change.  Love, for example.  Friendship.  The intensity of 
their partnership: a unity that had begun with their first 
meeting, and had continued unabated through all the years 
since.  Desire...

"Good day at the office, Doctor Scully?" he murmured, into 
her hair.

"Not too bad, considering the season.  Colds, flu, viruses.  
The Henderson kid threw up on me.  Same old thing."  She 
tilted her head upward to look at him.  "You?"

"As per usual.  Finished up that article I was working on, 
and sent it off to the Journal; express-mail, so I should 
just make the deadline.  The twins' teacher sent another 
letter home -- we're supposed to go in for another meeting 
next Tuesday.  And I got a new recipe for meatloaf off one 
of the PBS cooking shows.  I think I'll try it out 
tomorrow."  His grin broadened.  "Thea made first-string, 
did she mention?"

"She did," Scully confirmed.  "You must be floating on air."

"Pretty much, yeah.  I don't think I've been this proud of 
our kids since they hacked into the Bureau's computers.  
Speaking of which, we're having guests for dinner..."

"I assumed as much.  After all, it *is* Stew Night."  She 
grinned.  "'Uncle Skinner' and who else?"

"Callahan and Rodriguez, probably; they rarely miss a 
Thursday, when they're in town.  And the Lone Gunclan, 
naturally."  In the intervening years, the 'boys' had 
increased their ranks, gaining two self-proclaimed 'Lone 
Gunchicks' -- the arrangement was more than simply a matter 
of shared interests and mutual paranoia; there was some sort 
of rotating sleeping arrangement that neither Scully nor 
Mulder had ever cared to delve into... for numerous reasons.

One of the Gunchicks called herself Sunflower; her dizzy-
blonde facade concealed a sharp mind and sharper intuition, 
and she had a knack for making computers sit up and beg... 
in addition to other, more mysterious talents, which 'the 
boys' occasionally alluded to with veiled innuendoes.  The 
other Gunchick was generally known by the name Kelly 
Leibowitz -- formerly an investigative journalist, she'd 
stumbled across one inconsistency too many, and had begun 
her own independent search for the Truth, one that had 
eventually led her to cross the Lone Gunmen's path.  Kelly 
had told them her own convoluted tale of woe: adopted, she'd 
been haunted for the duration of her youth by half-realized 
memories of another family, another life, another name, 
until finally she'd undergone hypnotic regression to try to 
remember her past...

And even with all the data right in front of them, even with 
all the clues staring them straight in the face, it had 
taken everyone a ridiculous length of time to realize that 
Kelly Leibowitz was in actuality Samantha Mulder.

It was a happy ending, of sorts; one of life's little 
ironies was the fact that Mulder and 'Kelly' didn't 
particularly get along -- and the very thought of his sister 
sleeping with *any* of the Lone Gunmen, let alone all of 
them in turns, tended to make him cringe.  But she was 
alive, and well, and close at hand -- and those facts had 
brought Mulder the inner peace he'd lacked, at long last. 

"I wonder who's sleeping with who *this* week," Scully 
speculated, straight-faced teasing; and felt her husband 
shudder.

"Don't take me there, sweetheart, 'cause I don't wanna go."  
She felt his lips plant a gentle kiss on the top of her 
head.  "I swear, if Kel starts snuggling with Frohike on our 
sofa, I'm going to vomit."

"Not on me, okay?  I've done that today, already," and he 
laughed and kissed her again: this time, on the lips, and 
more than casually.

"Ewww, mushy stuff," said one of the twins -- William or 
Walter; there was no telling which, not without closely 
checking the pattern of freckles.  The kids were bringing in 
the bags of groceries, now; and Scully moved to release her 
husband from the embrace... and discovered that she 
couldn't.  It was like that, sometimes; even now, after 
fifteen years of marriage, there were still moments when she 
was helpless before the intensity of her love for this man.  
And she liked it that way: other couples grew bored, 
discontented, the relationship becoming stale and colorless 
-- but not theirs; not them.

"Grow up," said Thea scornfully, to the boys; she set down 
the bags she was carrying, rummaged through one and withdrew 
a dripping carton.  "Ma, the ice cream's melting," she 
complained.

"If you don't like it," said her mother, finally 
disentangling herself from Mulder -- not without difficulty, 
because he didn't seem to want to let go, either -- "you do 
the shopping."

"I would, if you'd let me drive!" retorted the blonde.

"Thea, you're thirteen," Mulder pointed out reasonably, "and 
we've discussed this already."  He pointed to the orange 
construction paper taped to the wall.  "Thou Shalt Not Drive 
Without A License, remember?"

"It was only that once," she grumbled, stowing the ice cream 
in the freezer, and licking the melted stuff from her 
fingers.

"Only the once that I found out about, you mean," her father 
said mildly.  "You can get your permit when you're sixteen, 
and *then* we'll talk."

"I'll be in the NBA before you let me drive," Thea grumbled.

"Kewl!  Frosty Chocos!" exclaimed one of the twins, pulling 
a box of breakfast cereal from another grocery bag.

"I'm getting the prize, it's *my* turn," protested the other 
twin, struggling to extract the box from his brother's 
grasp, meeting resistance along the way.

"Cut it out, boys," said Scully, automatically, grabbing an 
armful of Noodle-Roni boxes and handing them to Thea.  "Put 
these in the pantry, please..."

The phone rang.  "That's for me!" Lacy shouted, dropping her 
grocery bags on the table unceremoniously as she raced for 
the receiver -- Scully winced at the sound of eggs cracking.

A small angelic shape in white padded into the kitchen, 
dragging her stuffed bunny rabbit by one foot.  "I'm 
thirsty," she murmured.

Her father picked her up, carried her over to one of the 
cabinets.  "Which one?" he asked her, and Emmy pointed at 
the bright yellow box that held the honey-lemon tea.  "Good 
choice," said Mulder approvingly, "it'll make that sore 
throat all better," kissing her too-warm forehead.

There was a tearing sound, as the box of sugared breakfast 
cereal split in two, showering the kitchen floor with Frosty 
Chocos; and all at once, the kitchen was silent.

"Uh-oh," Emmy said dolefully, from her daddy's arms.

"Now look what you've done," agreed their father.

"Clean that up, right *now*," their mother directed.

"And now *neither* of you is getting the prize," Mulder 
added, "so there."

"Awww, Dad...!" came the inevitable protest, in stereo.

Scully raised her voice to be heard over the whines.  "Clean 
it up!" she commanded, in her best 'don't-mess-with-me' tone 
left over from her days in the Bureau; and grumbling, the 
twins went to fetch broom and dustpan and mini-vac.

"Little brats," Thea muttered.

"Don't talk that way about the little brats," Mulder told 
her.  He leaned over and picked up the plastic-wrapped 
object of the twins' contention.  "Hey, look, Scully, it's a 
secret decoder ring."

"Decode *this*, Mulder," Scully said tiredly, carefully 
stepping around the Frosty Chocos strewn over the linoleum 
on her way to the fridge.

Lacy stomped into the kitchen, crushing breakfast cereal 
underfoot.  "It's for *you*," she said, thrusting the 
cordless phone at her mother.  "Don't stay on too long, 
'kay?  I'm expecting a call."  As she departed, her 
complaints lingered behind her:  "...don't see why we can't 
get another phone line in this crummy house..."

"Because we already have three modem lines, *that's* why," 
called her father after her.

"Teenagers," said Scully under her breath, as if it were an 
epithet; then, into the receiver: "Hello?"

"I'm on my way over," said the familiar voice on the other 
end of the line, "and I was wondering if you needed 
anything.  Pistachio ice cream, perhaps...?"

She laughed as she took a seat at the kitchen table.  "I 
just got back from the store," she told him, "and yes, if 
you don't mind; we could use a double carton of eggs," 
surveying the wet, soggy bag that had once contained twenty-
four intact ovoid units, before Lacy's mad dash for the 
phone.  "And a box of Frosty Chocos."  Her eyes strayed to 
the pair of red-headed boys crawling around on the kitchen 
floor.  "And a pair of leashes."

A soft chuckle met her statement.  "The boys are giving you 
trouble again," said their 'uncle', not as a question.  
"Want me to take them off your hands for the weekend?"

Scully hesitated, but only for a moment.  "If you don't 
mind," she said, mostly from reflex; he *never* minded.  
Since retirement, he'd had a lot of time on his hands -- and 
their family was the only family he had.

It had begun more or less by accident:  she'd been pregnant 
with Lacy, and overdue, and Mulder had just left for the 
QuickieMart to pick up the pistachio ice cream she craved, 
when Skinner had dropped by to say hello.  Of course, her 
contractions had begun; and of course, the electric company 
had picked that *exact* moment to have a systemwide 
blackout; and of course, they'd gotten stuck in a massive 
traffic jam on the highway...  Mulder had been stuck in the 
same traffic jam, about a mile behind them; after frantic 
coordination via cellphone, he'd raced down the highway 
shoulder to their location, had gotten there just as the 
baby crowned.  But it had been Skinner who'd delivered the 
baby, sweating rivers and managing to maintain a facade of 
calm control by the barest of threads, in the back seat of 
his car halfway between Exits 11 and 12.

One of Scully's most treasured memories: gazing at her 
newborn infant, wrapped in Skinner's suit jacket in lieu of 
a blanket, holding her for the first time, aching and happy; 
and Mulder standing atop the hood of the car shouting, "It's 
a GIRL!" at the top of his lungs, while all around them car 
horns blared congratulations; and Skinner half-collapsed in 
the passenger seat, leaning over the backrest and gazing at 
her, shaking his head and smiling.  "Only you two," he'd 
said, and hadn't bothered to finish the sentence, reaching 
out to touch one infinitesimal hand of the life he'd just 
helped bring into the world.

Since then, he'd been a part of the family, as much so as 
any blood relation might be; and it was a standing joke 
between them that he *always* called first to see if they 
needed anything from the store.

"I'll take them out to the cabin by the lake," said their 
old friend, "let them expend some of that energy playing in 
the snow, and keep them out of your hair for a few days."

"That would be... quite a holiday gift; thank you, Walter," 
she told him sincerely.  Mulder glanced at her inquiringly, 
and she made a vague hand-motion toward the kids and the 
door; he grinned, and pantomimed wiping sweat from his 
forehead with the back of his hand.

"Not a problem.  I *like* the little monsters.  They keep me 
on my toes.  Eggs and Frosty Chocos, is that all you need?"

There was a click, as the extension phone was lifted; 
"Mommmmm," moaned Lacy.

"Show some respect, young lady," warned her 'uncle', "you're 
not too old to spank."

"Oh, yeah, right," said Lacy affectionately, "as if you ever 
would.  You're coming over, right?"

"Sure am," said Skinner, "if I can finish up this 
conversation with your mother in peace."

"Yes, sir; but I'm expecting a call, okay? so hurry up, 
pleeeeease," and Lacy hung up the phone.

"Teenagers," muttered Scully.  "Don't linger at the store, 
Walter; I think dinner is almost ready," she estimated, from 
the aroma that filled the kitchen.

"It's been ready for the last half-hour, actually," Mulder 
said in the background, as the kettle began to whistle; he 
turned off the flame, poured Emmy's tea into the Winnie-The-
Pooh cup that Byers had given the girl for her last 
birthday.  "Tell him to get his ass over here before I feed 
his share to the garbage disposal."

"Tell him I heard that," Skinner said.  "See you in a few."

"Right," said Scully, and heard the telltale beep of the 
call being terminated from the other end.

One of the twins lifted his head curiously.  "We get to hang 
out with Uncle Skinner?"

"Kewl!" exclaimed the other, and they high-fived.

"Clean that up," Scully reminded them; and smiles turned 
into scowls as the boys returned to their labor.

Again, the phone rang.  "I'LL GET IT!" resounded through the 
house, as Lacy scrambled for the upstairs phone.  A moment 
later:  "THEA, IT'S FOR YOU, AND YOU'D BETTER KEEP IT 
*SHORT*, DWEEB!"

"Zark off, twitbreath!" Thea yelled back, taking the 
cordless unit from the kitchen table and disappearing with 
the phone.

"I see she's been reading Hitchhikers," Mulder observed.  He 
dipped a spoon into the bowl of stew, blew on it to cool it 
off, and brought it over to Scully.  "Here, taste this."

She eyed the spoon cautiously.  "You got *cooties* all over 
it," she said dryly.

"You like my cooties," he countered.

Scully grinned, tasted the stew.  "Last week's was better."

"You always say that," Mulder challenged.

"That's because the quality of your cooking is declining," 
she told him.

"Okay, then, *you* can make dinner from now on..."

"No, no, that's fine, the stew is wonderful, it's perfect, 
it's a chef's wet dream," Scully said quickly.

"Mommy, what's a wet dream?" Emmy piped up, from her seat at 
the table, where her father had deposited her some time 
before.

"It's when you dream about, um, rain, or snow," said her 
mother, thinking fast, "lots of snow, so you don't have to 
go to school; you know, a really *good* dream."

Mulder laughed.  "Nice save," he commented.  Rummaging 
through the freezer, he came up with an ice cube, which he 
dropped into the Pooh mug before setting the cup before 
Emmy.  "Watch it, sweetie, it might be hot," and the little 
girl nodded gravely.  "You want some?" he said to his wife.

She nodded.  "Chamomile, please," and reached out to take 
his hand; their fingers entwined for a moment, then Mulder 
went off to make her tea.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Dinner was the usual chaos: five children, and twice that 
many adults, crowded around the oversized table.  
Conversation flowed -- half of it the normal ramblings of 
kids and parents, school and such; and the other half 'shop 
talk', as the latest discoveries and theories were debated.  
Agents Callahan and Rodriguez had uncovered a few 
interesting new wrinkles in the course of their latest X-
Files investigation, and of course this was of interest to 
everyone else as well...

Scully and Mulder had left the Bureau well over a decade 
before, when Lacy was a little over a year old, and Thea was 
still a work-in-progress; the decision had been precipitated 
by a gunshot wound that should have crippled Mulder for life 
but miraculously hadn't ("...and I want to live long enough 
to see my kids grow up, Scully; let's get the hell out of 
this business before it kills us both...").  According to 
various sources, many many sighs of relief had been breathed 
when they'd resigned.  And yet, if anything, the Quest was 
progressing more strongly than ever; their hand-picked 
successors were carrying the torch with skill and style, and 
their circle of contacts had grown instead of decreasing.  

Once upon a time, they had worried about the safety of their 
children, lest the shadowy figures decide to exact 
retribution in their most vulnerable area.  But that had 
been before the memorable incident in which said children 
had displayed what they'd learned from their elders, 
extricating their parents and uncles and aunts from a life-
or-death situation and demonstrating quite effectively that 
even the youngest members of the Scully-Mulder clan were 
formidable, and not to be trifled with...  Since then, 
they'd carried on their work with relative impunity; even 
their most implacable foes left them alone.

To their neighbors, they were just another suburban couple: 
Scully, the family doctor to more than half the 
neighborhood, and Mulder, the house-husband who supplied 
much-coveted cookies for PTA bake sales and occasionally 
substitute-taught classes at the local elementary school.  
If they had only known how many government conspiracies and 
cover-ups were discussed at the dinner table, or how many 
secrets flowed through the desktop computer in the study...

The phone rang halfway through dinner; and although it was a 
long-standing family rule that Thou Shalt Not Interrupt 
Dinner For Anything Short Of Nuclear War, Lacy tensed, 
poised for flight.  "Daddy, please..." she implored.

Mulder paused in the midst of interrogating Rodriguez about 
the case file, glanced sternly at his daughter -- then 
relented.  "Just this once," and she dashed from the table, 
frantically diving for the phone.

Shortly thereafter, Lacy returned to the table -- floated, 
actually; her face was wreathed in blissful happiness.  "He 
asked me out!" she crowed.  "Finally, finally, *finally*, he 
asked me out!"

"Congratulations," said Agent Callahan, smiling; she and 
Lacy were close.  "He's cute, I bet."

"Oh, he is *so* cute; he's the coolest guy in my class!" 
exclaimed the girl happily, taking her seat at the table.

"And just who is this 'he'?" Skinner wanted to know.

"Joey McCann," Lacy answered, pronouncing the name as if it 
were a prayer; beside her, Thea made an ostentatious gagging 
noise.  "He's awesome..."

"He's bogus," countered her sister.  "Jeez, Lace, I thought 
you had better taste," and Lacy glared at her hotly.

Before it could deteriorate into an argument, Skinner spoke.  
"I want to meet this young man," he declared ominously.

Lacy's face fell.  "Oh, *no*," she groaned.  "Daddy..."

"Don't look to me for support," said her father mildly.  "I 
want to meet him, too."  His eyes met Skinner's across the 
table, in silent conspiracy.  "We have to make sure he's 
good enough for you, after all."

Caught between outrage and desperation, Lacy turned to her 
mother.  "Mom..."

"You can have him pick you up here," Scully said placidly, 
"and we'll put him through the usual third degree, and then 
you can go out."

"Oh, please, *please*, don't scare him off," their daughter 
begged.

"They won't do that," Byers consoled her.  "They'll just 
make sure he knows that both of your parents *and* your 
protective Uncle Skinner are licensed to carry concealed 
weapons, that's all."

Thea snickered; and Lacy moaned and buried her face in her 
hands.  "Laugh it up, Thea," Kelly said to her namesake, 
vastly amused, "you'll be dating, next."

"You're getting your hair in your stew, Lace," one of the 
twins pointed out.

"I don't *care*.  My life is ruined!" Lacy declared 
dramatically; she left the table and stormed off.

"Melissa!" her father called after her, annoyed; but Lacy 
was in one of her moods, and moments later, there came the 
sound of a bedroom door slamming ostentatiously.

"Why is Lacy mad?" Emmy wondered querulously.

"Because she's a teenager, honey," said Langly, wiping the 
little girl's mouth with the corner of a napkin.  As a baby, 
Emmy had been infinitely fascinated with his eyeglasses; and 
ever since then, they'd been fast friends.

"It's hormones," said the other twin, with a self-satisfied 
grin.  "Girls have too many *hormones*."

"You'll be glad of that, someday," Sunflower told him, with 
gleeful certainty.

"No way!" disputed one twin, and "Girls are *gross*," said 
the other, provoking smiles from the adults, who knew what 
sort of attitude-adjustments the years would bring.

"You want me to go talk to her?" Callahan asked, rising from 
the table.

"Well, someone should," Scully sighed, "and I'm tired," and 
the younger woman nodded and exited, in the same direction 
Lacy had gone.

She looked up, to find Mulder's eyes resting on hers.  "You 
had that little talk with her, I take it," he probed gently.

Scully nodded.  "I did," she said, "and I think she may have 
even listened."

"Good," said Mulder, who had *not* been happy to hear that 
his 'little girl' had asked to go on the Pill; no, not happy 
at all.

"What talk?" Thea wanted to know.

"You'll find out in a year or two," Scully told her.

"Or five, or ten," Mulder added, "I hope."

Dinner continued, marred only slightly by the soda one of 
the twins spilled on the table ("You clean that up, William, 
and you apologize," directed Skinner, who somehow could 
*always* tell them apart, even when no one else could) and 
Lacy and Callahan returned in time for dessert: a sinfully 
rich chocolate cake that the Gunclan had contributed to the 
feast.  Afterwards, it was homework time ("I can't wait for 
winter recess," was the general consensus among the younger 
set) and the kids clustered at the kitchen table while their 
elders headed off for the living room, and a semblance of 
peace and quiet.

Skinner settled comfortably into the easy chair that had 
been designated as his, and the Lone Gunclan took over the 
sofa, while the two FBI agents took the loveseat, resuming 
the dinner-table conversation -- and Mulder caught Scully's 
eye, snatched up the afghan from the arm of the couch, took 
his wife's hand with the other; and they slipped through the 
front door and outside, together.

It was cold out, but not too cold; tiny snowflakes fluttered 
through the air, though not enough to stick.  She waited 
while Mulder settled himself into the porch swing, then took 
her usual place in his arms, and snuggled close as he drew 
the afghan over both of them.  The porch swing had been a 
housewarming gift from her brother; she'd nursed all five of 
her kids in it, had spent evenings there waiting for Mulder 
to come home from one wild-goose-chase or another, had come 
home late to find him waiting there for her, and had spent 
uncountable hours just as she was now, enfolded in his 
arms...  It wasn't the most comfortable spot in the world, 
but it was one of her favorites.

His arm extended, pointed upwards.  "Look, Scully," he said, 
"it's a UFO."

She looked.  "Mulder," she said, in the second half of the 
longtime ritual, "it's a helicopter," and he grinned and 
kissed the top of her head.

"What're we having for Christmas dinner?" she murmured, idly 
curious; feeling the fatigue of her day washing over her, 
feeling the utter contentment that always swept over her 
whenever they were this close.

"The usual five-ton turkey, I think, and the usual 
trimmings.  Think I can impose on you to make that sweet-
potato thing with the marshmallows?"

"Sure," Scully said sleepily, "I can cook once in a while."  
She yawned, and felt his hand come up to stroke her hair 
soothingly.  "What about the Solstice?"

"It's Lacy's holiday; *she* can cook.  And Kel's volunteered 
to cook for us over Hanukkah, matzoh-ball soup and the whole 
deal."

"That means eight days of Gun-folk underfoot," she pointed 
out.

"Eight days of live-in babysitters," he countered.

"Just keep 'em out of my computer," Scully acceded, "they 
screwed up all my files, last time," and yawned again.

"Sleepy, love?" and she felt herself go all warm and fuzzy 
at the tenderness in his voice.  "You've had a long day; I 
should take you up to bed."

"You should," she agreed, letting her voice drop to a lower 
register, the sultry tone that never failed to turn him on.

She felt his lips brush against his forehead.  "You're 
tired..."

"Not that tired," Scully said, and felt him smile without 
having to look.

Fifteen years, and nothing had changed; nothing important, 
anyway.  Fifteen years, and it just kept getting better, 
with every passing day.  Fifteen years...  "I love you, 
Mulder," she said softly.

"I love you, Scully."  Such simple words, that meant so 
much.

The front door opened.  "Hate to intrude," Frohike's voice 
penetrated the darkness, "but I thought you might want to 
know that your boys just broke the cordless phone, and Lacy 
is threatening to rip out their intestines and strangle them 
with 'em.  Just in case you're interested."

Scully blinked up at her husband; their eyes met, with a 
mixture of amusement, dismay and resignation.  "Time to go 
back to work, partner," said Mulder.

"I guess so," she said, smiling despite herself.

And together, they went inside, to deal with their family.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
      ...and they lived happily ever after.  The End.
-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-



============================================================
The Fifteen Family Commandments of the Scully-Mulder 
Household
============================================================


Thou Shalt Not Enter Mommy And Daddy's Bedroom 
               Without Knocking, EVER.
Thou Shalt Not Meddle With Daddy's Radio
Thou Shalt Not Force-Feed Crayons To Thy Sibling
Thou Shalt Not Obtain Tattoos Before Thy Eighteenth Birthday
Thou Shalt Not Use Bladed Weapons In Food Fights
Thou Shalt Not Play "Lightsabers" With Lit Candles
Thou Shalt Not Use Mommy's Laptop Computer As A Hammer
Thou Shalt Not Cross State Lines When Running Away From Home
Thou Shalt Not Drive Without A License
Thou Shalt Not Utilize Matzoh Balls As Projectile Weapons
Thou Shalt Not Paint Thy Face With Indelible Ink
Thou Shalt Not Interrupt Dinner For Anything Short Of 
               Nuclear War
Thou Shalt Not Store Live Tadpoles In Mommy's Dress Shoes
Thou Shalt Not Cut Thy Sibling's Hair, 
               With Or Without Permission
Thou Shalt Not Perform Science Experiments 
               In The Toaster Oven