TITLE: After Midnight
AUTHORS: Jenna Tooms and Kelly C.
EMAIL: jenna@exeter.simplenet.com
SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully move through the events of season six,
carefully changing from friends to lovers.
RATING: NC-17
KEYWORDS: post-episode, MSR
SPOILERS: season six post-One Son
DISCLAIMER: Not ours.


After Midnight

1. 3:33 A.M.

Mulder:

	Scully? All I'm asking is five minutes, Scully. I know it's late,
but I need to talk to you. Please. I brought a peace offering. C'mon.
Godiva Chocolates. You love these. Open the door, Scully, before your
neighbors call the police. Scully? Are you okay?

	Scully. Please, Scully. I just want to talk to you. I didn't mean
to scare you. I didn't mean to--to say those things. It was wrong,
and insensitive, and I'm a dope. I admit it. I can admit things like
that. Scully, I didn't mean to get angry, I didn't want to get angry.
I'm not angry now. I don't know what's with me--no, that's not true.
I know what's going on. It's the same thing with you, isn't it, we're
frustrated and tired and our hands are tied. We can't do what we need
to be doing so we take it out on each other. Scully? Are you
listening to me? I'm pouring my heart out, here, I'm just trying to
tell you--

	I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. And I just--I love you so much.
I don't want you to be angry with me. Just open the door for a
minute, okay? Tell me to get lost, tell me you hate me, tell me
anything, just let me know you're okay in there. Okay? Scully?

	You know when it all started, Scully? You want to know when I knew
you were the one for me? It was silly, really, I don't know why it
worked for me. But do you remember that case with the circus people?
And the guy offered you some bugs to eat? And you took one and put it
in your mouth--or pretended to, anyway. God, Scully. You were utterly
fearless. So calm. Not letting that guy intimidate you with his
weirdness. I was so proud of you, so amazed by you, I wanted to just
hug you right then and there and tell you how perfect you are.

	But it goes back further than that. When you were missing, oh, God,
Scully, I was in hell. I was so scared and lost. I wanted you so
much, I would have sold my soul just to see you smile at me again.
And when they brought you back I thought maybe it was another chance
for me, to protect you and cherish you the way you deserve, and I
tried, Scully, I've really tried. I've tried to keep you safe. I've
done everything in my power. You know that. You know that, Scully.

	And then when everything gets all tangled and confused you're there
to straighten it out again. Only I don't know how we can straighten
this one out. I just love you. I know it's not convenient and I know
it's probably not even comfortable, but it's real and it's there and
I can't hide it from you anymore. I don't want to hide it anymore. I
want to kiss you, Scully. I want to kiss your perfect mouth and your
pretty eyes and your sweet face. I want to hold you in my arms. I
want to touch you and love you and tell you how beautiful you are. I
want to make you laugh and I want to comfort you when you cry, and I
want to hold you when you're scared and I want to be held by you when
you're strong. I want to make you smile every day. There's so much
that I want to do with you and for you and to you, I don't even know
where to start.

	But Scully, if you can't, if you really can't love me or let me
love you, just tell me. I won't bring it up again. I promise. I swear
I won't do anything to make you feel uncomfortable or guilty or
whatever. I'll manage. I just need to know, Scully. Just tell me.

	I know this probably isn't the best time--actually, you know what,
this probably is the best time. If you can be angry with me and still
say you love me then it must be true, right? Look into your heart,
Scully. Ask it honestly what you fell about me. If, at this moment,
when you're pissed off and tired and everything and you can honestly
say that you love me, then it must be true. It must be real. Whatever
you're feeling right now, I'll accept it. But please, don't leave me
hanging out here. Tell me. Tell me yes or no. And whatever you say,
whatever you want, I'll do it. I'll go if you want me to. Or . . .
I'll stay. If you want me to.

	Scully? Are you listening to me? Please give me an answer. Just one
word, Scully. One word is all I need. Scully? Scully?

*****

Scully:

	"Scully?"

	Mulder.

	I glance at the clock on my bed table.

	3:33 A.M.

	I groan.

	"...five minutes, Scully. I know it's late...."

	Late? Not by Mulder standards, which have absolutely nothing to do
with the standards of most human beings. He sounds desperate, child-
like, too much like the lost little boy I left in Skinner's office
this morning who couldn't believe he'd gotten spanked for sleeping
with the enemy, or worse yet that Spender had stepped up to the plate
to save his butt.

	"...C'mon. Godiva Chocolates. You love these. Open the door,
Scully, before your neighbors call the police. Scully? Are you okay?"

	Am I okay? Were he standing in front of me at this moment instead
of behind my dead-bolted door, I'd tell him I'm fine. He'd know it
wasn't the truth and more power to him, because I'm not fine. I
haven't been fine. I'm as far from fine as a sane woman can get, and
I have no idea what to do about it.

	I roll over on my back, listening to the pounding going on in the
foyer and knowing that within five minutes the police will come to
haul him off. And I'll let them. Not that he deserves it,
particularly, since one night in a cold city cell isn't going to
change what he's done, or what's happened between us. Nothing will
ever change or correct that damage, but it's just as well.

	We've gone on now. There's no going back.

	Events of the past few days have pushed us beyond the status quo,
not that there's ever been much of a status quo between us. Still, we
had our comfort levels, our safe places and our boundaries. Some of
those I'll miss. But I'm a pragmatist at heart. I know the difference
between resistance and beating a dead horse. Seems the harder we try
to pretend nothing's there, the faster fate intervenes with Mulder's
famous whammy, and we get forced into facing things we'd both rather
deny.

	"...I'm pouring my heart out here, I'm just trying to tell you--I'm
sorry."

	So am I.

	"...so sorry. And I just--I love you so much."

	I love you, too, Mulder.

	"...the door for a minute, okay? Tell me to get lost, tell me you
hate me, tell me anything, just--"

	I can't talk to you right now, Mulder. Go home.

	But he doesn't. He just keeps on talking, like its his life's work
to keep me awake and thinking tonight. Going on and on as if I've
overdosed and his voice is the only thing keeping me from walking
into the light. I smile at the revelation. He has done that for me,
more than once. Kept me from going, and by sheer force of will, if
you ask me. His will is strong. Stronger than any I've ever known, at
least where I'm concerned.

	That is the problem, isn't it? That's why I can't answer him now,
while he's being sentimental and darling and talking to me about
knowing he loved me the minute I ate a bug. I think there's a car
salesman in northern California who offers to eat a bug if you buy a
car from him, so if that's the only attraction, Mulder--

	I smile again, knowing it isn't. Knowing the truth, even if it
hurts to know it. And it does hurt. Because that's Mulder out there,
and I'm in here, and I have absolutely no intention of opening that
door. Too many things that could and should be said between us bubble
up inside me like an emotional spring, cajoling voices threatening to
override my resolve. I cover my ears and bury my head under the
pillow, refusing to listen.

	Still, I hear him.

	"...don't want to hide it anymore. I want to kiss you, Scully. I
want to kiss your perfect mouth..."

	Oh, God.

	"...and your sweet face. I want to hold you in my arms..."

	Enough. Enough, already, Mulder. I get up from the bed clad in my
comfy pajamas, garish plaid leggings and a worn, thin tee shirt that
hangs to my knees. More from shiver factor than vanity, I grab my
terry robe off the closet hook and drag it on.

	"...touch you and love you and tell you how beautiful you are. I
want to make you laugh and I want to comfort you when you cry, and I
want to hold you when you're scared--"

	Good God, Mulder, get a hold of yourself. Every girl in Georgetown
is gonna be beating a path to this door if I don't get there first.
Damn him, anyway. Does he know what he's capable of with words like
that, whispered soft in that shameless, sexy, incredible voice of
his? He must. Manipulative bastard.

	But at the moment, I don't care. At the moment, a familiar warmth
squeezes my chest and the sensitive region directly south, just at
the sound of him. He's making promises with that voice and tone, and
God help me, I want to believe. I stumble into the foyer, snagging
the robe tight around my waist.

	"...angry with me and still say you love me then it must be true,
right?"

	Unfailing logic. My bare feet hit the icy tile in front of the
door. I hiss in a breath, wondering if he heard me.

	"...leave me hanging out here. Tell me. Tell me yes or no. And
whatever you say, whatever you want, I'll do it. I'll go if you want
me to. Or..."

	No, Mulder, I don't want you to. Still, I'm standing freezing my
ass off in my foyer with my hand on the knob and I can't make it
move. Why can't I make my hand move? It's such a simple thing to turn
a knob. Just inches to the right, an easy twist of my wrist. And yet-
-

	"...listening to me? Please give me an answer. Just one word,
Scully. One word is all I need. Scully? Scully?"

	"Wait," I say.

	One word was all he asked for.

	Right?

	Silence falls outside the door. The sound is deafening in the
foyer. Somewhere in the distance I hear a siren wail. I've got one of
two choices here, and less than a minute to decide.

	I close my eyes, my hand still on the knob, and lean my forehead
against the cool, solid wood, cursing this thing inside me. This
Mulder thing. I'm like a woman possessed. He has hurt me and filled
me and tested me and loved me more deeply than any person in my life,
yet I can't let him in. I can't let him out. Sometimes I feel like
I'm standing on the edge of any abyss, nothing but vast darkness
yawning out in front of me, but ready to take that leap of faith and
fall, if Mulder is falling with me. But is he? Will he?

	Only one way to find out.

	I draw a deep, centering breath. My wrist turns, the motor action
committing me before logic and better judgement have a chance to win
out. He's leaning against the door on the other side. I feel him.
Listening. Waiting. Watching the knob. I can hear him breathe. A
comforting sound.

	The door opens at my will, just a crack. To his credit he doesn't
push his way inside, simply waits with the slight pressure of his
palm against the wood. I stick my hand out into the cold night air to
issue my demand while steadfastly offering nothing.

	"Chocolate first, Mulder. Then we'll talk."

2. 4:02 A.M.

	Scully has chocolate on her lips. I'd be lying if I said she's
never been more beautiful, but she looks really good right now. Her
hair is mussed and her face is clean and scrubbed, and despite the
hour her eyes are bright. This is going in the top ten of memories,
at least. Maybe even the top five.

	And she has chocolate on her lips like a little girl on Easter
morning.

	It's taking all of my willpower not to lean over and kiss the
chocolate away. Scully has great lips. Beautiful lips, full and soft,
pink as a rosebud. I want to kiss her every day for the rest of her
life.

	But first I have to convince her it's a good idea.

	She spent a good fifteen minutes assuring the police I was not a
threat to her or her neighbors, this was not a domestic dispute, and
that I was not drunk or high. "At least," the love of my life said
while tossing me a disdainful glance, "I don't think he is."

	Once the police were gone I thought we'd talk, but she was true to
her word. Chocolate first. So for several minutes now we've sat in
silence on her couch while she ate chocolate. Just four rich,
delicate pieces, slowly, taking her time, savoring each piece. The
slurping on the tips of her fingers hasn't helped matters much. She
hasn't looked at me very often, either, mostly her eyes have been
closed in Godiva-induced ecstasy.

	Finally she fits the lid back onto the top of the box, and looks at
me. "So," she says. "You love me, eh?"

	That's my Scully. Getting right to the heart of things. "Yes," I
say, deciding to follow her lead. Bluntness seems to be the order of
the day.

	"You love me, but you don't trust me."

	"Scully, that's not true."

	"You don't believe in me. And that makes me less inclined to
believe in you. And *that* is not a good environment for a trusting,
healthy relationship."

	I have to absorb this for a moment. "You've thought about this," I
say at last.

	"Long and hard." She gives me a tiny smile, and then says briskly,
"It's not that I don't want to be in love with you, Mulder, it's just
very, very difficult."

	I could swear there's a good thing in what she just said, and I
snatch it up. "But you are in love with me."

	"Against my better judgement," she says mildly. "If I were a saner
person or this were a saner world I would run away from you so fast.
But I need you," she says, looking disgusted with herself. She sighs.
"It drives me absolutely crazy."

	"But at least it's out in the open now," I say cautiously. "And
that's good, right?"

	"I wonder."

	Touching her right now seems like a very bad idea. She's drawn up
in the corner of her couch, her arms folded over her stomach and her
legs curled up in front of her, another barrier between us. Even in
her flannel pajamas and ratty bathrobe, she's the sexiest woman I've
ever seen. I want to rub her tightly-clenched toes, kiss the bottoms
of her little feet. And she's still got chocolate on her lips. Just a
tiny brown smear, like she's been kissed by a dirty angel.

	I say, trying to choose my words carefully, "So what do you want me
to do, to make you believe in me again?"

	"I'm not sure there's anything you can do. I mean, bringing
chocolates to my door and waking up my neighbors at three in the
morning is an . . . interesting choice, but then on the other hand,
there's that whole Antarctica thing."

	Ah, yes. The Antarctica thing we don't talk about.

	"I can't dismiss that," Scully says. "I'm not sure how to interpret
it, either. You're very good at the grand gesture. It's the everyday
things that worry me."

	"Like . . ?"

	Her eyes drift aside and she says, "Oh, I don't know . . . I would
like to be sure you don't shut your feelings on and off depending on
how inconvenient they are."

	"I never do that."

	She raises her eyebrows at this and taps her chin thoughtfully.

	"Okay. Maybe I'm not very good at being in love from day to day.
But do you think it's any easier to love you?"

	Her eyebrows rise even further.

	"Sometimes you don't even like me very much."

	"Oh, Mulder . . . I do like you. Most of the time."

	"You're not the most forth-coming person, Scully."

	"I'm aware of that," she says softly, and her forefinger plays with
the ribbon on the box of chocolates.

	"Would it kill you to . . . to say it? To say that you love me?
Without qualification?"

	"It probably wouldn't kill me, no," she says even more softly.

	But she doesn't say anything more, and finally I sigh and say, "Do
you love me, Scully?"

	"We're not talking about me," she says quickly.

	"Yes, we are. We're talking about us, and you're half of that us."
Her chin sinks further into her chest, and I sigh and run my hand
over my face. I'm not sure how long it's been since I've slept. Days,
it seems like. "It's no fun being in love by yourself. I've done it.
It makes you ache everywhere, disturbs your dreams, ruins your
appetite. It's no fun, Scully."

	"I know, Mulder," she says, and the look she gives me breaks my
heart.

	"Do you love me?" I say again, more gently this time, but still she
closes her eyes like it hurts to think about it. Her hand is resting
on the back of the couch, and I put my hand beside it and lace my
fingers through hers. "One word, Scully. That's all I'm saying.
That's all I've been saying. Give me one word to live on."

	"What if it's not the word you want to hear?"

	"I'll live. Not happily, but I'll live."

	She looks at our joined hands, and frowns. "I don't know, Mulder,"
she whispers, and as stunned as I am by her words I'm even more
stunned to see that there's one perfect, crystalline tear running
down her cheek.

	Well, shit. Now I've made Scully cry.

	"Maybe I should go," I say, but she doesn't let go of my hand.

*****

	I feel so stupid. Pathetic stupid, in a way I haven't felt since I
was ten years old, and I have no one to blame but myself.

	Tears. How ridiculous. How utterly ridiculous. Still, I can't stop
them. Would it help if I could look at Mulder, mutter "it's your
fault" and let him leave with that thought on his mind? Sure it would.

	But I can't. Not only would I devastate him, but the words would be
a lie. This isn't his fault. The fault is mine entirely. I'm a grown
woman. In control. I have a choice here that is mine alone, and I
can't move on until I make it. I'm in some sort of weird limbo box,
four square walls and the ceiling seems to be collapsing like a
mime's worst nightmare. What the hell is the matter with me? I'm
tired. I'm afraid. I want my mother. I want Mulder to go away and
leave me alone, yet I can't seem to let go of his hand.

	He's warm. Alive. So vital and unafraid, and I'm clinging to him
for dear life. What else can I do? God, I want to scream. Should I
scream, or should I pray? Should I send him away or open my robe and
offer him my body, as if that would assuage this fierce fire in my
soul?

	Somehow I know it wouldn't, that it wouldn't be enough and that the
fire will never be quenched as long as Mulder is here to stoke it.
And the thought terrifies me. I think it terrifies me more than the
alternative, more than always, forever being alone.

	I look at Mulder. He's looking at me. Tense, worried, like he knows
he put the tears there and doesn't quite know how to take them. Of
course he doesn't know. How could he? I can't take them, for God's
sake, and this is me inside. I can hear my voices now, telling me to
calm down, get a grip, it doesn't have to be this way.

	"I'm sorry," I hear myself say. My voice is husky, like cold
morning fog. Other words stick in my throat and I open my mouth to
speak them, thinking they'll pour out and Mulder will know beyond a
doubt what my struggle is. But nothing emerges, just the silent
working of my mouth. Mulder shifts his stare to my lips, as if he
might read them.

	He shakes his head. "I don't--I don't know what I'm supposed to
say."

	Honest to a fault. Somehow that releases me. "Nothing, Mulder," I
clearly state. "I've got a decision to make. That's all."

	"About--us. About--about what happens from here?" He looks
appropriately uncertain. Even insecure. An interesting first.

	"Yes."

	The man isn't stupid. He's aware and fragile, and emotionally
crippled in a way that's easy for me to understand. Look where he
came from. I have no such excuse, yet he can't know everything there
is to know about me. He doesn't know everything there is to know
about me. If he did, we wouldn't be here.

	"Scully, I'll go. I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't have forced
the issue tonight--not like this."
I nod. It's the only thing I can do. Hindsight is 20/20, Mulder, I
want to snap. That'd get rid of him in a hurry. But the words don't
come and he remains, and I'm still holding his hand like it's the
only thing keeping me tethered here, like he possesses the secret
balm for the emotions blistering me inside. I feel weak. I feel lost.
Mulder can't save me. Mulder can't cure me or enlighten me or even
make me whole. But he'll try.

	"I'm--do you know I'd do anything for you, Scully? Do you
understand that there isn't anything--I wouldn't do for you?"

	Of course I do. He's gone to battle for me more times than I can
count. He's defied the elements, the fates, the powers that be, he's
roamed the far corners of the earth and brought me back repeatedly
from the brink of hell. He's brought me Godiva chocolates at 3:33 in
the morning, risked rejection and a night in jail to pound on my door
and beg for a forgiveness that isn't forthcoming. Good at the grand
gesture, like I said.

	Almost too good. "I know you love me, Mulder," I whisper, feeling
like an ingrate for knowing that isn't the be all and end all for me.
Nowhere near. I give a shrug, not wanting to seem removed or
uninterested in his declarations, but feeling that way nevertheless.
"I wish I could say that's all that matters. I wish I could tell you
what you want to hear. But I can't. I'm not sure I even know how."

	He looks puzzled. "How what, Scully?"

	My lips twitch in a sad, weird smile. I'm thinking of that song
from "Jesus Christ Superstar"--what was it called? The one Mary
Magdalene sang about Jesus, how she didn't know how to love him.
That's it. The song was popular when I was seven or so, always on the
radio. I liked it and thought it was appropriate to learn, being
about Jesus and all. Something about the song touched me anyway.
After repeated scoldings my mom gave up trying to stop me from
singing it, and simply begged me not to sing it in church. Though I
didn't understand the logic of her plea, I obeyed.

	It wasn't until years later that I saw the play and understood what
I'd put my mom through. She wouldn't be pleased to know something
about the song still touches me tonight, even when I should know
better.
*I don't know how to love him, what to do, how to move him. I've
been changed, yes really changed. In these past few days when I've
seen myself, I seem like someone else--*

	Oh, brother. I remember the words. All of them. Worse yet is that
achingly tender tune, speaking of want and need and a love that
certainly is not meant to be. It's humming around in my head right
now-- *I don't know how to take this, I don't see why he moves me.
He's a man. He's just a man--*

	Come on, Dana. Focus here. Mulder is staring at you, waiting for an
answer and you're-
*Should I bring him down, should I scream and shout, should I speak
of love, let me feelings out? I never thought I'd come to this--
what's it all about?*

	Him. For God's sake. What else? And I had the nerve to tell him
once not everything was about him.... Nice try, G-woman. Better
rethink that philosophy.

	*Don't you think it's rather funny I should be in this position?
I'm the one who's always been so calm, so cool--no lover's fool--
running every show. He scares me so--*

	Running every show? Oh, please. Enough is enough, I tell myself,
but the damned song won't go away. It's sluicing my brain, reasoning,
rhyming. Some of the words actually ring true, and now I'm irritated.
I stare at Mulder--thinking love, thinking scared, and I know that
even if he could see inside me this minute he still wouldn't have one
damn clue.

	Poor guy. He should have left before I ever opened that door. But
maybe the song has served its purpose. Irritation gives me strength
as it always does, and I'm no longer crying. I let go of Mulder's
hand. Can he hear the music still buzzing through me? Maybe he'll
think I'm receiving it through the chip in my neck. I frown at the
thought and rub the back of my neck self-consciously.

	Still, Mulder doesn't move. We're side by side on the couch, inches
away but miles apart. I'm afraid he'll touch me again. That I'll
embarrass myself beyond tears and burst into song. So I stand.

	He knows. I'm certain of it. He draws a deep breath, looks down at
his now empty hands. Strong hands. Elegant hands. A surgeon's hands,
or a musician's. They've comforted me before, not with patronizing
pats but with soulful strokes. When he touches me I know the truth.
Not the one hidden in the song, or the truth that's out there--the
one we've been searching for the past six years. Those truths are
mutable. Nebulous.

	Mine is something different. Trite as it sounds, the truth I know
when our hands lace is the truth of existence. I don't need anything
when Mulder is touching me--not words, not rationale or explanations
or God help me the music of Andrew Lloyd Webber. Everything seems to
stop when Mulder and I touch--at least for one perfect, breathless
second. Before I start to think. Before analysis creeps in. Before
I'm aware of the need he awakens in me with every single beat of my
heart.

	God, enough. I'm wrung out. I feel twisted and scarred, wondering
when it was I decided I didn't need anything or anybody, and why if I
ever chose to change it would be such a bad thing. Why can't I accept
this? Why can't I give Mulder the simple answer he so desperately
wants to hear?

	I do love him. I don't know how or why, but I do. I need him, too.
Not the need of security or validation, or even of sex, but the need
of him. Of us. Of who we are together, what we are as one and the way
we instinctively sustain each other. It's energy balancing and energy
draining all at once, which is a good thing.

	I think.

	Mulder looks up at me, his hazel eyes green-amber in the low light.
"Why can't we do this, Scully?" he asks.

	Reading my thoughts. Reading me. God, can he hear me thinking?
Singing? I shake my head. "Mulder, it's late."

	He stands. But he doesn't go. He moves closer, into my space. I
bite my lip, so tempted to move backward but afraid if I do I'll jump
and run, and this thing will never be resolved between us. If I could
live without resolution, I'd do it. I'd run, damn straight, and by
God I'd never stop. But I can't. I won't. It's unfinished business
and that's just plain sloppy.

	I can't stand sloppy.

	Mulder swallows hard. Slowly, like the darkness that gives way with
peace to early morning light, he lowers his arms around me. I go
against his chest, my cheek resting over his heart. I listen to the
beat, feeling stiff and uncomfortable in my partner's arms. But I fit
there. I always have, even from the beginning, and what's worse is I
know it. Before long I'm easing like I always do, sinking soft into
the solid strength that is him. Maybe I am weak. Maybe I am lost.
Maybe Mulder will swallow me whole and I will disappear.

	"I won't hurt you," he whispers. His voice breaks. My heart dips.
"I would never hurt you."

	"I know, Mulder." I do. So go, Scully. Jump. The abyss is dark and
deep but Mulder is with you. I close my eyes, I hold my breath--

	"Mulder," I utter into the neutral span of his chest. Blaring
alarms go off in my head, warning me I'm too close to the edge. I
feel Mulder soak into me and me into him, I curse him, I bless him, I
pray for God to intervene. Skinner, Diana, Frohike--stop me!-- "I
love you."

	Oh, no.

	Oh, God, Mulder, wait.

	I take it back.

	Can I take it back?


3. 4:11 A.M.

	Oh. My. God.

	Did I just hear what I think I heard?

	I don't dare move, I don't dare look at her, I hardly even dare to
breathe. Maybe if I don't move or speak this magic will continue, and
I'll have one perfect moment to hang onto for the rest of my life.

	Scully has gone stiff in my arms, and her fingers grip my shirt
tightly. I should say something. Endless silence is not a good
response the first time someone tells you they love you. I'd know.

	I lick my lips, and press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "I
love you too, Scully," I say cautiously, and wait for her reaction.
She takes this funny little hitching breath, and still doesn't look
up. But her hands ease their grip a little on my shirt.

	This could be a good sign. I decide to treat it like one, and run
one hand gently through her hair and kiss her temple. Still nothing,
neither a 'go' nor a 'go on', and I am truly at a loss as to what to
do next.
So I keep on with what seems to be working--I touch her and kiss her
gently and lightly. I kiss her forehead, her neck, her nose; I touch
her back, her hair, her arms. She doesn't open her eyes, but the more
I touch her the more she relaxes. And she lets out another funny
little breath again, one that shudders through her and ends in what
sounds wonderfully like a whimper. I go on stroking her back and her
hair, hand over hand, and soon she is whimpering softly, still
clinging to me, her eyes squeezed shut.

	This is really happening, I realize in a delirium of joy. I'm
touching her, in a moment I'm going to kiss her, really kiss her, and
soon I'm going to do what I've wanted to do for years: pick her up
and carry her to her bed, and make love to her. Oh, God, we're going
to make love.

	I kiss her forehead again, and she lifts her face enough for me to
kiss her eyes and her nose, and I plant soft gentle kisses on her
face. I pull back from her a little and study her, and her eyes
slowly open. I'm not going to do anything more until she says it's
okay, and I want her to know that. I'm not totally sure how to say
this, though.

	Her hands knead my back for a moment, and then they slide up my
back to my neck. She strokes my neck, and her hand twines into my
hair. She licks her lips slowly, and then she nods and brings my head
low enough for me to kiss her as she rises up on her toes.

	We kiss.

*****

	Kissing. We're kissing. Me and Mulder. Mulder and me. What's the
proper English? What the hell do I care? Good grammar has escaped me,
along with coherent thought. All I know is that we are kissing, his
lips are firm and full and--I don't know what word I'm looking for.
Luscious. Delectable. Masterful. Intense.

	God, he tastes good.

	"Mulder," I whisper against his mouth.

	He sighs, his lips lingering on mine, his breath becoming my
breath, the sweetest mingling of scents and flavor, mint and Godiva
chocolate. I swallow, and tremble a smile. Instinctively I lick my
lips, wanting a taste of us. The slip of Mulder's tongue against my
own startles me, then makes me groan.

	"Scully," he says.

	I feel his smile against my mouth. Sweet. Amazing. We've waited so
long I knew it would be like this--soft, hard, open, closed, gentle,
passionate--everything that we are and have always been to and for
each other. In a moment I'm smiling, too, no longer from
embarrassment or fear. I'm smiling because I like what we're doing. I
like it a lot.

	I think Mulder does, too.

	He's hard against me, hard everywhere--chest, abdomen, cock. God,
am I feeling that? I must be. He wants me to feel it. He's pushing
into me, rubbing and rhythmic. It feels good--too damn good, mixed
with soul and kissing and chocolate. My body aches for him, not a new
sensation, though his fine form cleaved to mine is. I run my hands up
his arms, feeling the tight strain of his forearms below the short
sleeves of his gray tee shirt. His skin is warm, his muscles smooth
and flexing under my caress. He leans full into me, his chest gently
crushing my breasts, an act of dominion I gladly succumb to.

	It feels so damn good. I want it. I really want it. More than
sanity, I guess, because by no stretch of the imagination can this be
considered sane.

	It isn't. We aren't. We're partners, for God's sake, with so much
at stake. This step, our friendship, the future, our jobs--precious
things we've fought so hard to forge and preserve. I should be
concerned. I should care. I arch my back instead, so natural a
posture I haven't indulged in for--I can't remember how long. My
nipples harden under my shirt and tease against him, physical,
irrefutable evidence that my body has come alive. For him. With him.
I never knew--

	"Jesus, Mulder, what--"

	Head bent, he's trailing kisses along the side of my neck, over my
throat, down to the place where my nipples peak against my shirt.
Instinctively my hands move up. I thread my fingers through his
tousled hair.

	He responds with sweet attention. His mouth covers the thin fabric
over my breasts, wet and warm, his teeth nipping at me until my tits
are hard and full, and aching to be touched.

	I breathe his breath, taste his essence, feel his lips on mine
again. His hand comes between us, up under my shirt, firm in its
assault. He palms my breast, kneads it with his fingers and mutters
something profound along with "Scully" into our kiss. He mutters it
again, and again. My name, and something else. Something I can't
quite make out.

	And then I hear him. Then I know.

	Perfect. He's saying perfect.

	And we are.

	Oh, God, how? I don't know! I can't think! All I know is I said-- I
know what I said, then I tried to take it back. I couldn't. But he
was so good with me. Silent, still, while he soared inside. I could
feel him. Blissful and light and full of future plans, like a little
kid at Christmas with his first red trike. I wasn't so sure. I'm
still not sure. But he didn't push. He just held me, said the words
softly back and let me lead the way. Is that how we got here? Because
of me? What the hell do I do now?

	My body tries to tell me--fuck. You need to fuck. Making love will
come later. Tonight, you fuck. You love him--so fuck him. Get it out
of your system, Dana, and then you can get down to business. Talking,
connecting, the whole damn thing. You'll find a way--the two of you
always have--only after, later--once you've f--

	No! my heart cries. It's too soon. I'm not ready!

	The hell you aren't, my baser self replies.

	Okay, I am. Where it throbs, I am. But everywhere else, where I
don't ache, I'm afraid. It occurs to me I should be. It occurs to me
I should stop this, and stop it now. A minute ago I would have. A
minute ago I could have stepped away, told him the kiss was nice but
that it was time for him to go.

	A minute ago he hadn't kissed my tits or touched me with reverence,
and we weren't standing like this, mouth to mouth, chest to chest,
hip to hip, practically merged--

	Stop, my brain insists, effectively ending the debate my heart was
about to lose. My fingers tighten on Mulder's arms. I try to step
away. He draws me back, kissing my mouth as though my lips are bread
and my tongue sweet wine. For the longest time he sweeps me along. I
can't help it. I want it. I want him, his kisses, his hands on my
body, his cock deep inside.

	Kill the mood! my logical brain counters. Look at him. Whenever I
look at a guy kissing me, I somehow manage to distance myself, or at
the very least I start to giggle. It's like a defense mechanism or
something, always preventing me from getting too close. Whatever the
psychology, it works every time. So I open my eyes to watch our
kissing.

	Oh, God. Oh, no. Don't watch. It's not working. This kissing feels
too good and looks so damn erotic, and Mulder-- Sweet Jesus, Mulder,
you're sexy. The simple fact banishes all thought of resistance,
sending a streak of heat straight to my-- "Oh, Mulder...." I moan.

	He touches me. Everywhere. His hands-- God, those hands. I've
fantasized about them too many times to count, imagined them on me as
they're on me now, stroking up my back, sometimes over my night
shirt, sometimes sliding underneath. He's teasing me and enjoying the
feel, enjoying my response. God, if he only knew....

	My hand slides down with a will of its own, leaving the safe sexy
zone of his arms for the danger of the heat at the front of his
jeans. I mold my hand around him, trying to take back the control I
have so completely lost. He moans as I cup his bulge with my fingers,
sliding my palm along the rigid length of his dick. Oh, God. Oh,
Mulder.

	"Scu--ully--"

	His ragged voice sends me. My lids flutter closed. His face presses
the curve between my neck and shoulder, his mouth moist and hot
against my skin. He's breathing fast, holding tight to me. Bliss. Oh,
Christ. I can't stop rubbing.

	"Scully-- Scully, I'm gonna--I'm gonna--" His hand covers mine. For
a minute his grip is tight and hard, his fingers digging into mine
like he'll hold on and press until it's done. Then slowly,
deliberately, he's moving my hand away. Holding it still, but holding
it down, near his thigh. I push a little, moving around and back to
squeeze his ass. He arches into me. I tighten inside and resist the
urge to arch back. If I do, I'll come. I swear. Right here, right
now--

	He hangs on. Barely. I feel him fight to, holding me tight but not
daring to move. I am, unfortunately, in the same position. My body
taunts me. I want to give in. We need to fuck. We both need to fuck.
Down on the floor, right here in my living room, and we both know it.

	But we don't move.


4. 4:15 A.M.

	It's good. It's so good. It's warm and wet and deep and sweet. She
still tastes like chocolate, and beneath that is a subtle, tender
flavor that is deliciously and simply Scully.

	And then there's her soft perfect breasts and her moans and her
little light caresses, and then there's the way her hands are
gripping my ass and the way her body arched into mine-and her perfect
little hand cupping my cock, the way she purred as she rubbed me--I
don't think she even realized it--

	"Scully," I rasp into her neck, and she shivers. "Tell me--you need
to tell me--" I have to clear my throat--"tell me what's next,
Scully." Please say it's sex, please say I can kiss your sweet skin,
please say I can taste you, please say I can come inside you, please
please please Scully--

	"Mulder." Her hand combs through my hair. She kisses my forehead
and strokes my neck. "I think . . . it's late . . ."

	I tighten my arms around her. I don't like the sound of this.

	"We need to sleep. Before we make an irrevokable-"

	I jerk up my head. "Mistake?"

	"Decision," she says quietly, looking into my eyes. She rubs my
chest with her palms and leans her cheek against my chest. I take a
deep breath, trying to calm down.

	I should go. It's not going to happen tonight, and I want to get
out of here before I embarrass myself further. But I don't want to
let her go, either. She smells so good--she smells like soap and
chocolate, and her eyes are the brightest thing in this dark
apartment.

	I should go. I really should go. But how can I leave this? I
forget, most of the time, that's she's really a teeny tiny little
thing, but when I hold her she seems so fragile, so easily broken. I
don't want to leave her like this, not with everything so unsettled
and unresolved.

	"We'll talk in the morning," she whispers, but her head is still
pressed against my chest.

	"I guess I should leave, then," I say, and kiss the top of her
head. We stay there, caressing each other lightly, for a long time,
neither of us moving away from where we've been standing since she
said she loves me. I feel like if we move, it will end, we'll go back
to who we were this morning and we'll never be who we are now again.

	"Mulder?" she says softly. "Mulder, this is going to sound really
strange."

	I chuckle. "I don't think anything could shock me tonight, Scully."

	"I want you to stay."

	Well. I was wrong. I cup her cheek in my hand and she smiles at me
tremulously. "I want you to stay with me," she whispers, and turns
her head a little to kiss my hand. Her eyes stay on mine. "I want you
to stay, Mulder."

	I feel breathless, almost light-headed. "Are you sure?" I whisper,
rubbing her cheek.

	"I think so. Yes. I want you to stay."

	"Okay." Sure, I can spend the night with the woman I love and not
do anything else to screw this up. Sure, I can do this. We've shared
a hotel room, slept beside each other in a parked car. I've fallen
asleep on her couch a hundred times.

	"And I want you to sleep with me," Scully says, and all my fine
thoughts go flying out the window. "I want you to hold me, okay? Is
that okay, Mulder?"

	Somehow I find the mental capacity to nod. "That's okay."

	"I want you nearby but I just . . . I'm not up to anything more.
Especially no more talking. Okay?"

	"Okay." Hold you. I can do that.

	"It's not too much to ask?"

	I smile at her. "No. It's not too much to ask."

	She nods, relieved. We stand there for a moment more, holding each
other, and then she leads me by the hand back to her bedroom, and
takes off her bathrobe. I try not to stare as she gets into bed,
where she seems as fragile and perfect as an egg. A Fabrege egg, I
think, smiling, and take off my shirt and shoes.

	Scully has no compunction about staring, though, and watches me as
I strip down to my jeans. That seems far enough, and I get into bed
beside her. We settle together side-by-side, her head on my shoulder
and her hand resting lightly in the center of my chest, as natural as
if we do this every night.

	"Mulder?"

	"Hm?"

	"Thanks for the chocolate."

	I smile and kiss her forehead. "Anything for you, Scully," I
whisper, and get a slight pressure from her hand on my chest in
answer.

	Okay. Sleep. Sure. Time to sleep. I close my eyes and listen to
Scully breathe, and I have to wonder how she can sleep so quickly and
so soundly while I lie here awake and aching for her.

	Here's a plan. I'll lie here for the next two hours or so and when
she wakes up I'll take a cold shower and go home. I'll nap for an
hour or so and get up in time to get our first meeting in the
morning. So for now I'll lie here and hold her, and one of us will
get a good night's sleep, anyway.

	I start reciting poems from English lit classes of long ago to pass
the time. I'm testing the theory that any of Emily Dickenson's poems
can be sung to "The Yellow Rose of Texas" yet again when Scully stirs
and says softly, "Mulder, are you still awake?"

	"Yeah."

	"Can't sleep?" She props herself up on her elbow and gently runs
her other hand down my face.

	"I'm okay, Scully."

	"No, you're not. You're not okay." Her hand continues its journey
down my body, and lingers over my stomach.

	"Is there anything I can do?" she whispers.

	I grab her hand. "I'm okay, Scully. Go back to sleep."

	"Mulder . . ." She moves again, so that she's draped over my body,
and she starts kissing my chest. "Just let me take care of you,
Mulder."

	"But you said--I thought--"

	She presses her fingers to my lips to shush me, and I kiss them and
shush. Well, now that you've twisted my arm, Scully . . .

	She kisses my stomach as she unbuttons my jeans, and she eases my
jeans and my boxers down my hips. I run my hand through her hair and
caress her cheek, and she pauses for a moment to smile at me, before
moving to kneel between my sprawled legs. She takes a deep breath and
lets it out slowly, and her breath wafts over my cock. My own breath
comes out in a woosh at the feeling, and my cock, already much abused
this evening, throbs almost to the point of pain.

	Anything, Scully, anything, your hands, your mouth, between your
breasts, do anything you want, just please--

	The tip of her tongue dances around the head of my cock and I try
not to whimper. She leans on her hands, planted on either side of my
body, and opens her mouth to take me slowly in, caressing me with her
tongue as she goes.

	"Ohhhhh . . . gawwwwd," I moan, or something like it, and press my
hands to my eyes. It's been a long time--a really long time--since
another person has touched me, and longer still when someone has
touched me with this kind of tenderness. I move my hands from my eyes
and flail my arm at the side of the bed to turn on the light. She
looks up at me for a moment, and I whisper, "I want to see you. Is
that okay?"

	She smiles around her mouthful of flesh and lowers her head
further. I run my hand over her face again, and she moves her head so
that I'm rubbing her cheek as her mouth bobs on my cock. God . . .
deep-throating. Scully is actually deep-throating me. She plays with
my balls with one hand, drawing her fingernails delicately over my
skin.

	Don't thrust, I chant silently, can't push, don't thrust, just let
her do it, but my back arches and my hips rise and I moan again, "Oh,
god . . . Scully . . . god . . ." And she rides each thrust with me,
increasing her pace with me. She's got me so deep I can feel her
throat around me, she's moaning and humming in such a way I can feel
it all the way through my spine.

	"Scuh-lee . . . gonna come, Scuh-scuhleee . . ." I let go of her
face so she can move away. But she doesn't, she just sucks on me
harder, riding each thrust of my hips as if we are the same body. I
try again anyway: "Scully--Scuh--gonna--can't--"

	She pulls back but doesn't let my cock out of her mouth, and her
tongue circles and laves over the head, and though I try not jerk I
can't stop, I hold onto her shoulders and groan and thrust and come
for what feels like an hour.

	Scully lifts her head and smiles at me, and crawls up my body and
kisses the tip of my nose. "Feel better?"

	"Uh, yeah," I say, and manage to not chortle moronically. Scully
kisses me again and reaches over me turn off the light, and settles
down on top of me, her head in the crook of my neck and her hand over
my heart again. It's a strange sensation, being completely naked in
bed with a completely dressed woman, but it's not unpleasant. Nope.
Not unpleasant at all. "Are you okay?"

	"I'm fine, Mulder. Go to sleep."

	"Are you sure? There isn't anything I can do for you?"

	"Mulder, I have to get up in an hour. Go to sleep."

	I kiss her hair, holding her tight. I close my eyes. Sleep sounds
good. Sleep . . . yes . . .

*****

	His soft snore and slow, even breathing warn me even before his
kiss leaves my hair. I've given him an order and he's obeyed. Mulder
is asleep. He's asleep.

	Already.

	Lying on my back in bed in that strange dark hour between night and
daylight, Mulder's arms around me and mine loose around him, I want
to laugh. I almost do, but there's no humor in my body at the moment.
There isn't a lot of anything, except an overwhelming tiredness, and
a glimmer of frustration deep in my abdomen. Mulder, I want to
whisper, in the hopes that he will hear and--

	And what? I don't know. He would have released this tension, had I
asked, using his mouth or his fingers, whatever it took. I'm as sure
of that as I am of anything. He isn't selfish that way, I've learned
that tonight. Even now he's doing what he can for me, giving what he
can, or at least all that I'll allow him. His hold on me is tight
even in sleep, his long, lean body cleaved to mine, traveling and
surpassing the length of me. He shelters me somehow.

	I should be satisfied with that. I want to be. He's resting
peacefully for probably the first time in a great while. I want him
to have that. I don't want to resent it. I told him to sleep, and he
did. He is. Why can't I let go and do the same?

	Something shivers inside me, an emotion I can't define. I feel
alone lying here next to him, ridiculously abandoned. There is no
logic in this feeling and I tell myself that, but more emotion wells
in response, like all the things I told Mulder I was too tired to
talk about suddenly want to be discussed. Now. This instant.

	Damn it, anyway. This is one hell of a time. It's an hour before
dawn and I've got a long day ahead of me. I don't want to be thinking
about this right now. I want to be sleeping. Peaceful.

	Like Mulder.

	His breath is soft, a minty rhythm in my ear and against my cheek.
I treasure that. I do. Sentimental goof that I am, no matter how I
fight to hide it. I have always fought to hide it, even from my mom,
especially from my dad. I've erected huge walls, impenetrable, I
thought. But Mulder slides through. He always has--always will. I
think that's what I love the most about him.

	I know that's what I fear.

	My eyes drift closed. I don't want to think about this. Not now.
Not after what I've--we've--just done here on my bed. Images wash
over me. The hard, muscled plane of his chest, the fine dark hair I
traced with my finger, and then with my tongue, down from his chest
to the waistband of his jeans. The fly of those jeans, unbuttoned
slowly and drawn down off his narrow hips. His hand in my hair as I
knelt between his legs....

	Breathe, Dana. In three hours we'll be sitting side by side in the
bull pen, dressed in our business attire, Mulder in suit jacket and
shirt, funky tie, and crisply pleated pants, and me in my--I'll wear
my navy suit with the skirt he likes. We'll see how he does with that.

	I look down at Mulder, sleeping solid and naked in my arms, sweet
and sexy and tangled in my cool, white sheets. I imagine him removing
the suit jacket and getting down to business, sleeves rolled up,
glasses on. My turn to keep functioning. Make calls. File reports.
Business as usual.

	Yeah, right.

	We'll spend the first part of the morning dealing with our "jag-off
shoeshine tip" background checks until our meeting with Spender at
ten, where we'll find out what happens next. Where we go from here. I
want to know, but I don't. I want to think of myself facing the
unknown with Mulder, receiving good news about the X-Files and our
bid to fight the future. I want to think of myself calm and in
control, capable of separating my professional life from the private
way I think about my partner. Exuding a sophisticated, typically
reserved exterior.

	While I think about unzipping his crisply pleated pants and sucking
his cock.

	His gorgeous cock. His engorged, gorgeous cock, thick and hot and
rigid as bone. For me. For my tongue, for my fingers, for the moist
squeeze of my mouth. I don't know exactly what I'd planned when I
took his boxers down tonight, maybe a quick hand job to relieve the
tension, or taking him hard between my tits. But I started licking. I
started sucking. And God help me, I couldn't stop.

	I didn't want to stop. I wanted him to groan and buck and surge and
come, and I wanted to be the one to make him do it. He did. I was.
I'm glad. I guess the fact that I can't sleep now is a small price to
pay, but I'm not sure. The cost may be high indeed if I lose my
composure in our ten o'clock meeting due to lack of sleep and over-
stimulation and go down on him in front of Spender.

	Sleep, Dana. You had your chance to fuck.

	I sure as hell did.

	Am I some kind of masochist, or what?

	I let go of Mulder and slip a hand down between us, feeling the
soft flesh of his cock against my knuckles as I touch the place where
I still burn. Even over my thin leggings and panties, I'm hot. Damp.
I close my eyes, curl my legs around my hand and feel the throbbing
against my fingers. I could do it. Here. Now. Fast. Really fast.

	Mulder's breath fans my face. I open my eyes and look at him, his
rugged features so beloved. So trusting. No demons haunt this sleep.
At the moment I've got demons enough for the both of us, most of them
of the baser kind. Do it, they tell me. You'll feel better.

	No doubt.
But I
	don't want it like this. I move my hand back up, smell a trace of
my scent on my fingers, and gently touch his full, perfect mouth. A
slight smile grazes his lips.

	I smile, too. I may jerk my skirt up and straddle him at our ten
o'clock meeting with Spender, but when this ache in me goes away,
Mulder will be the one to send it.

	I lean forward and kiss him. He sighs and I turn in his arms,
lacing my hands in his, molding my back against his front, thinking
how perfect we fit. In the dark, in my bed, under my cool, white
sheets. Will we still fit in the morning, at the office, at our
desks, at our meeting with Spender in our professional suits? I don't
know. I don't know....

	"Mulder," I whisper, feeling myself drift. "What the hell have we
done?"

5. 6:00 a.m.

	I awake to a gentle chiming. It takes me a moment to figure out
where I am, what day this is, that the alarm clock is closer to her
than it is to me . . . and to remember exactly whose alarm clock this
is.

	Scully. My eyes widen as I remember exactly everything that
happened last night--this morning--the chocolate and the kisses and
the sheer pleasure of Scully's mouth. And she's still in my arms,
warm and soft, her back pressed to my chest and her hand laced
through mine that rests on her stomach. This is her hair tickling my
face, her skin that smells of that minty stuff she uses to wash her
face, her feet between my knees to keep them warm.

	She's still sleeping deeply, too. Poor kid. I shouldn't have come
over in the middle of the night last night--I should have waited
until a civilized hour, so we could talk like adults instead of
clinging and crying and in the end being really too tired to talk.

	But if I'd waited, I would have lost my nerve. And we'd never talk.
And I wouldn't be lying naked in Scully's bed right now, holding her
and debating whether to kiss her neck first or her ear.

	Finally her arm snakes out and her hand slams on top of the alarm
clock, silencing it. She burrows back against me, making a
complaining "mmm" that says it's too early and too cold and she's not
going to get up until she's good and ready.

	I'm fully awake, though, and I have a debt to repay. I move
carefully behind her, up a little onto my elbow so I can look at her
face. I smooth back her hair, and ease my arm around her waist again.
She makes another "mmm", a happier-sounding one this time, and I have
to smile.

	She's pretty. She's so pretty. I love her every freckle, the beauty
spot above her mouth, her auburn brows and lashes, the blue veins in
her eyelids, the way her hair curls at the back of her neck--I love
her like this, natural and unguarded, as much as I love her put-
together and smooth, professional, her hair tamed and her face made
up. I love her awake and I love her sleeping, I love her sick and I
love her healthy, I love her laughter and I love her tears. And now I
know that kissing her is the sweetest thing in the world, and I want
to do it more, every day.

	I don't know how to prove this to her, though, that I can and do
love her no matter what happens, no matter what she's feeling. She
let me stay, I'm sure, only because it was easier than making me go,
and there's no guarantee that when she wakes up she's going to be
happy to see I'm still here.

	Well, there's only one thing for me to do about that, isn't there.

	I lick behind her ear and gently tug on her earlobe with my teeth.
"Scully," I croon softly, "Scully, wake up. Wake up, sweetheart. It's
morning-time. Wakey-wakey, Scully."

	She gives a low chuckle and says softly, "Mm, Mulder . . ." Then
abruptly she sits up and whirls, as well as you can whirl in a bed
with someone's arms around you, exclaiming, "Mulder!"

	"Hi," I say as mildly as I can. I play with a lock of hair by her
face as she stares at me, and she shakes her head slowly.

	"Sorry. I forgot you were here. I mean, I didn't forget, I just
thought--I mean--"

	"You thought you dreamed it."

	"Something like that." She looks down at me with an unreadable
expression, then says, "I'm going to start some coffee. You should
probably get going, you don't want to be late."

	"Scully . . ." She makes no move to get out of bed, and when I draw
her back down against me she comes willingly. "Let's play hooky," I
whisper, and kiss her forehead.

	"Mulder . . . we need to start getting our office ready . . . we
have that meeting with Spender . . . "

	"That's not until ten. We can stay here a while. Whaddya say, wanna
fool around?"

	"Mulderrrr . . ."

	Oh, when she says my name like that it goes straight to my cock,
and I shift my hips away from her a little. This isn't about me, this
is for her. I can tend to myself later, if it comes to that.

	"I want to make you feel good, Scully," I whisper. "Anything you
want me to do. Let me make you feel good."

	"Mulder, no--we need--I have to--"

	"Do you want me to go down on you, Scully? Would you like that?
Would you like me to lick you, and taste you, and fuck you with my
tongue? Would that make you feel good?"

	"Mm, Mulder . . ."

	"Or would you like me to use my hands, Scully? I know you like my
hands. I catch you watching them, you know. I know when you're not
listening to me, and you're just imagining what it would feel like
for these hands to touch you, just like this." All this while I've
been stroking her back, slowly and gently, hand over hand like I did
last night--but now I move one hand to her front and stroke the side
of her breast. She shivers deeply and presses her face against my
neck.

	"Mulder, I told you, I'm not ready to have sex with you yet--"

	"Oh, honey, it's not having sex. When you were a kid and fooling
around with What'shisname--"

	"Marcus."

	"Marcus--did you consider that having sex?"

	"You're--making--assumptions," she gasps.

	"Did you let him touch you, Scully? I think you did. I think the
two of you necked your parents' couch, scared to death someone would
come downstairs and discover you, but so excited because kissing felt
so good. I bet he loved kissing you. I bet he loved touching you. I
bet the first time he touched you, you were sure you were just going
to die from the excitement of it. Was he gentle, Scully? Was he slow
with you, taking you one step at a time?"

	"He was--he was gentle."

	Ahh . . . I knew she'd play along. "Good," I whisper. "Good. He
should be. Anyone who touches you should be gentle. I'll always be
gentle, Scully." I pause, and whisper, "Except when you want me to be
rough."

	Now she just moans, gripping my shoulders tightly. Her eyes are
squeezed shut and she keeps licking her lips and breathing through
her mouth. She's panting and all I've done is touch her.

	"I bet at first you were a strictly above-the-neck girl, weren't
you, Scully," I whisper, stroking her neck and playing with her
earlobes. "You believed everything they told you, didn't you--only
sit on a boy's lap with a phone book between you, never dance closer
than six inches, no hands below the neck. And never *never* below the
waist. But he was cute, wasn't he, Scully, and so gentle and sweet,
you decided to let him go . . . lower." With this I close my hand
around her breast and she moans again. "Your heart is racing," I
whisper, and move to kiss her chest. "Any second now someone could
come in and catch you, but you'd rather die than have him stop,
wouldn't you. It feels so good, someone else's hands on your body.
And you want more. You want him to touch you more."

	"Mulder . . ."

	"Sh, baby, sh. You're okay. You're safe here." Her nipples are
erect, hard as nails, and she shivers when I pass my fingers over
them. "You want his hands on your skin, don't you, not just through
your clothes. Are you scared, Scully? Are you scared for him to touch
you like that?"

	"No."

	"That's my girl. My pretty, pretty girl." I slide my hand down her
chest to the hem of her t-shirt, and then up again, under her shirt
to her warm silky stomach, then--oh, god--to close around her breast
again. Her nipple is firm and her breast is soft, and it's getting
harder and harder for me to keep up my monologue. I say, my voice
ragged, "Do you let him kiss you, Scully? Do you let him kiss you on
your breast, suck on your nipple? Does he tell you how beautiful your
breasts are, how perfect? Do you let him suck on your breasts,
Scully?"

	"Yes," she almost sobs, her hands in my hair. "Yes."

	I shove up her t-shirt to her armpits and latch my mouth onto her
perfect pink nipple. Her entire body arches towards mine and she
cries out, almost a shout. She writhes beneath me as I suckle her,
lithe as a snake and as hard to hold, and she moans continuously and
tugs on my hair.

	I glance up at her--her head is thrown back and her lips are
parted, but her eyes are still closed, dammit. I tug on her breast
with my lips a few times more but when she still doesn't open her
eyes I let it fall out of my mouth. "Scully."

	"Don't stop--" She pulls on my hair. "Please don't stop-"

	"Say my name, Scully, open your eyes. Look at me, Scully."

	"Mulder," she says in a frustrated tone, but her eyes open and
focus reluctantly on me. "What is it?"

	"Just making sure we both know who's here, Scully."

	"You were talking about us the whole time, Mulder," she says,
pushing her breast against my mouth again.
"Nothing like this ever happened to me in high school."

	"I find that hard to believe."

	"I was a pudgy science geek," she says. "I was eighteen before I
even had my first kiss."

	"Oh, Scully . . ." I hold her face in my hands and kiss her.
"You're beautiful, my wonderful science geek."

	This has the effect I was hoping for, and she starts chuckling even
while I'm kissing her. "You never would have looked at me twice," she
mutters, pushing me onto my back. "I had friends you might have
dated, but you never would gone out with me."

	"How do you know that? Now you're the one making assumptions." A
bare-chested Scully grinding her hips on my crotch is not conducive
to cohesive thought. But that should be obvious.

	"I wasn't your type. It's iffy if I even am now."

	"Scully--sweetheart--" I try to grab her shoulders but only succeed
in grabbing her breasts. Well, it gets her attention, anyway. I knead
her breasts with my hands and she strokes my arms with her
fingertips. "I don't have a type. I love you. Period."

	"Phoebe and Diana could be sisters, you know."

	I sigh heavily and sit up, moving her to a less sensitive part of
my lap. "Or hadn't you noticed?" she says, looking up at me with her
big, honest eyes.

	"I hadn't noticed. I don't think about it. That's the past, Scully,
parts of my life that I'm not particularly proud of but that I had to
go through to be here, with you, now. Can't you be here now with me,
Scully, instead of being preoccupied with my past? I'm not
preoccupied with yours."

	"Except when it gets me naked," she says tartly, tugging down her t-
shirt to cover herself. Damn it. "I'm going to make some coffee. You
can stay for some if you want it but you'd probably better go if
you're going to get to work on time." She clambers out of bed, not
bothering with her bathrobe again, and pads down the hallway to her
kitchen.

	She felt something, she wanted me--I know she did--but she's
ignoring it. I, unfortunately, don't have quite the same option. I
don't want to walk out of here with a woody but I'm not too crazy
about the idea of jerking off in Scully's bathroom. Something tells
me she wouldn't like that very much, either.

	The lesser of the two evils appears to be getting home and taking
care of myself there. I get up and hunt around her bedroom for my
clothes. My jacket is still in the front room. I leave my shirt
untucked and go out into her living room.

	Oh, fuck. Oh, everlasting hell and damnation.

	Scully stands at her sink, her hands tightly gripping the counter
edge, and she's crying. Muffled, like she's trying to hide it from
me, and hard, like she can't stop herself.

	Okay. I can stay and try to comfort her, and probably make her more
upset than she is now. I can go, and she'll think I'm an insensitive
jerk who can't handle crying women. I know there's nothing I can say--
I'm not even entirely sure what's wrong--but I can't just stand here.

	I go into the kitchen. I take a deep breath. I step up behind her
and embrace her, tight.

*****

6. 6:15 a.m.

	I stiffen as his arms fold around me, and then I relax. I relax
back against him because this is what I want, this is what I need.
His chest is hard and curves around me, comforting, and I cry. I cry
because this is what I want, this is what I need--and I hate myself
for it.

	Want. Weakness. They start with the same letter, and mean the same
thing. At least they did when my father was alive, when he used to
tell me "Never compromise, Dana Katherine." Never let them see you
sweat. Never compromise? Never sweat? My father never met Mulder. In
retrospect, I suppose that's a good thing.

	But how do I do this? How do I get through this? How do I love
Mulder, and let him love me, without letting my fears get in the way?
I didn't seem to have a problem last night, except with the fucking
part. Is that an intimacy issue? I went down on him, didn't I? How
intimate is that?

	Yeah, you went down on him, but you lost it when he tried to do the
same to you this morning.

	Oh, God, why did I ask? I knew I would answer, and it wouldn't the
answer I wanted to hear. Because it's the truth, and where Mulder and
I are concerned right now I don't want the truth. I say I do, but I
don't. I can't handle the truth, not with his body pressed to mine
with love, concern, and the ever-present-in-this-position Mulder
erection.

	That part feels so good, snug and hard against my ass, letting me
know what I do to him even when I'm not doing anything at all.
Touching him-wise, I mean. I'm enjoying the warm, tight shelter of
his arms, but I'm crying, for God's sake. What the hell is attractive
about that? I know what my face looks like when I cry, all scrunched
up and pained-looking, and the tip of my nose turns red. I hate the
way I look when I cry.

	I hate the way I feel when I cry, vulnerable and afraid and in need
of--what? In need of this, of Mulder, of his strength and devotion
and unending idealism. We will be all right, he's telling me. We have
nothing to fear, nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of....

	"Scully." His voice is low and soft, the sweetest of sighs on my
neck. "Talk to me," he says.

	My eyes closed, my head back against his chest, I whisper, "No."

	He doesn't press me. Not really. His arms tighten around me a
little, letting me know he's still here with me, even when my tears
and one-syllable response should have pushed him away. They would
have, if he were a lesser man. They would have if he didn't care, if
he didn't love me more than any woman on Earth has a right to be
loved.

	I'm ashamed of myself. I'm ashamed of this weakness that reduced me
to tears at my kitchen sink, even before I'd put the coffee on. Ahab
would be ashamed of me, too, wouldn't he? He always wanted the best
for me--best values, best discipline, best education, best career.
Perfection wasn't a goal, it was a pre-ordained right for the
offspring of William Scully.

	For the longest time I bought into that. Right up until the day I
walked into Fox Mulder's office and started living my own life,
making choices that no one understood but me. And maybe Mulder, but
even he didn't know everything there was to know about my being there.

	I had no clandestine agenda, of course he came to understand that,
but the path I'd chosen, going to work for the FBI, was only the
beginning of what would become my soul's journey. Not a career, as my
father would have preferred it, but a life lesson. Something I'd come
to this world with unknown purpose to achieve.

	We aren't there yet, Mulder and I. We still have a long way to go.
I don't know how I know that. I just do. I've never told Mulder
because Dana Scully admitting her intuition to her complete believer
partner almost seems too twisted for words. But I do feel things
about us. I do have ideas about fate and God and the way all things,
in the end, somehow come to fit.

	Like we do.

	I sigh against him, wishing I could share with him the turmoil
inside me. It has nothing to do with sex--or maybe it has everything
to do with sex, and I'm too Catholically inhibited to admit it. Sex
is about partnership, about joining, touching, and not just of the
physical. Especially not with me and Mulder. Especially not in light
of all that we don't know, and all that we will face beginning this
morning at ten.

	What can happen? I ask myself, looking down at the fold of Mulder's
hands under my breasts. I blink, staring at his strong, lean fingers.
His hands are so perfect. I trace the veins that show against the
back of his hand, wiring down from his knuckles in an intricate web,
carrying blood and life into his wrists, up his arms, through his
body, to his heart. Back again, around, a cosmic, life force circle.
Perfect, like I said.

	"Scully," he mutters, inclining his head a little to look at me. He
watches me touch him for a long moment, then draws a deep breath. I
feel the air go in him, filling his chest. I feel the air go out, and
pray I'll never stop feeling that rhythm in his body. "I know you're
afraid," he tells me. "I'm afraid, too, but not of this. Not of you.
Look at us, Scully. We were meant for this. This is our truth.
Partnership. Why can't you believe that?"

	The problem is, I do. In my nightmares we have been put here,
together, to save mankind. In my dreams, we have been put here,
together, to push and challenge and torture the hell out of each
other. See, it works for me on every level. Why can't I accept that?
Why can't I turn and face him, and just surrender?

	I turn and face him. His arms loosen to accommodate me. He looks a
little surprised. I rise on tiptoe, startling him further, and kiss
his mouth.

	"I love you, Mulder," I say, watching that wonderful spark light
his eyes, and his fine smile turn boyish and doofy. I kiss him again,
liking the doofy but wanting the pout back in his lips. I love the
pout. It returns, along with the deep, sensual forest green that
darkens his eyes. I watch his eyes slide closed and feel my body melt
against him. What a cliche. Melt. But that's what I do.

	His mouth moves over mine, soft and firm and oh, so sexy. Sheila in
Kansas was the one who told me this man could kiss, but Sheila in
Kansas never knew the half of it. A sigh parts my lips. He takes
smooth advantage, his tongue slipping into my mouth with the ease of
a morning hello. We kiss. And kiss. Oh, God, it's wonderful, and it
seems to go on forever.

	The fire builds inside me, not slow or fast, just there one moment
when before there had been nothing but confusion and fear. I shift
into him, feeling him hot and hard against me, but he doesn't make
any other move. My hands leave his muscled back and find his shirt
front, buttons to his chest that slowly come undone. I part the tails
of his shirt, exposing his chest to my wandering fingers. I angle
down, curve my hands around his sculpted abdomen, caress his hips,
cup his ass. He groans. His hands start up, toward my breasts. He
seems to hesitate, and squeezes his warm palms around my waist.

	Through the tears drying on my lashes and cheeks, I smile. Without
thought I take his hands and guide them up to me, over my breasts.
"Touch me, Mulder," I whisper into his mouth. His hands begin the
motion without further prompting, slow, achingly slow, with my
fingers a sinful accompaniment. I let go and resume exploring him,
touching him the way I touched him last night. Rubbing him. My
obsession. Aside from his hands.

	They're on me now, up inside my shirt until the shirt is off and on
the floor. Before I can process the expertise of that move he's
bending his head, laving the flesh of my tits with his tongue,
teasing my nipples into rigid peaks. He whispers as he suckles me,
sweet, sexual tongue-talk I can't quite make out but fully understand.

	And appreciate.

	I'm hot. So damn fucking hot, like he had me in bed a few minutes
ago. Before I got mad. Or scared. Or both. I'm not mad, now. I'm hot.
Fuck me, Mulder, my body cries, rubbing up against him. I feel his
cock through his jeans and want to feel it against my skin. Breathing
heavy, panting like a pirate, actually, I jerk at his fly. The
buttons pop in symphony and his dick springs free. I shove his Levi's
and his boxers down to his knees, then touch him, hold him, his
perfect cock like velvet bone inside my hand.

	He groans and goes with it a moment, maybe two, before he gently
pushes my hand away. He looks into my eyes, stares into my soul, then
gives me a sultry smile. He kisses my mouth, then my chin. He kisses
my throat, my breasts, my stomach, and I feel myself begin to writhe.
He continues slowly down, pressing kisses as he goes, taking my
leggings and panties with him. I spread my legs at his command, feel
his breath against my most intimate place, my center, my heat, my
pulsing, wet--

	"My turn, Scully," he utters as his tongue glides inside.

	My knees buckle. He catches me around the waist. I lean my head
back, unable to think beyond what he's doing, what he's done--

	"Mmmmm," he says, part yummy sound, part growl.

	"Oh--oh, Mulder-- Oh, God, I'm--"

	"Sweet," he whispers, licking and smiling. "Perfect, love. Perfect."

	I'm gone. The me inside I know so well, the heart of me who
questions everything cannot question this. My body surrenders to his
mouth, his words, to the love and intimacy he is offering without
expectation of return. I can't do this, I know it, but I'm doing it
anyway. Fear and tears and the unknown will have to wait. Right now,
I'm about to come.

	Everything in me presses down to that point, until I am throbbing
and full, and ready to explode. I'm up against my kitchen counter,
breasts bared, legs spread, hot and undignified and free as I've ever
been. His tongue pierces me, brands me, makes me tight and loose,
chilled and blanketed all at the same time. I shiver uncontrollably,
tangling my fingers in his hair.

	His tongue teases my ridges and folds, instinctual, anticipating,
knowing what I need even before I do. Of course he can't, I tell
myself. But he does. He does. He mutters against me, urging me on.

	"Come for me, Scully," he breathes into my heat. "Come, baby.
Come...."

	Pounding. I'm--My--Oh, God, Mulder. I want--I want you to--

	He knows. He breathes into me, slides his fingers inside. One, then
two, and he's standing in front of me with his kees half-bent, his
shirt open wide, his raging cock pressed into my abdomen. My hand
closes around him, smooth, tight caress. Yes. Now, Mulder. Now. He
raises his knee against me, stroking up between my legs, driving his
fingers deeper. He is into me, so far into me, his face and hair
caressing my neck, so close my nipples roughen against his chest. I
stroke harder. He sinks his teeth into my skin. Now. Now--

	His thumb flicks my swollen clit, once, twice-- "Mulder!" I gasp,
and I'm shattering, shattering and stroking, feeling him build even
as I combust. "Oh, God-- Oh, Mulder...." Release. Bliss. I feel like
I'm flying, and slowly float down.

	"Scuh--" he grunts. His body tightens. He goes still, still in my
hands with one arm gripping my waist, his fingers buried inside me.
"Uh--" He jerks and shudders, and he is coming. Hard. Quiet. Intense.
I won't let him go.

	Mulder slumps against me. Spent. Powerless. But I'm here. I feel
him, hold him, know the graze of his lashes across my skin, the
warmth of his seed in my hand, and the truth that burns behind his
closed eyes.

	One. We fit. We always have. Perfect, inseparable, like jagged
pieces of soul.

	I know, Mulder. I know.

7. 6:36 A.M.

	Well. That's one more thing I never would have guessed about Dana
Scully. Here we stand, in her kitchen, of all places, flushed and
sweaty and sticky, my come all over her stomach and my fingers still
buried inside her pulsing mound. And damn if she's not the sexiest
thing I've ever seen, her breasts heaving as she gets her breath
back, her hand stroking my back as if breast-to-breast and belly-to-
belly isn't touching enough.

	I bit her. Here, on her shoulder. I didn't break the skin but there
are red tooth marks. Good thing she doesn't wear low-shouldered
things . . . though I'd love to see her in something backless,
strapless, something to show off her tiny waist and luscious hips and
breasts . . . Anyway, I lick the bite mark gently and kiss it, and
she hums softly, her head lolling on my shoulder.

	"Sorry about that," I whisper.

	"No, 's good, Mulder," she slurs, and kisses my chest lightly.
"Felt really good."

	"No, I mean the bite." I run my fingers over the bite and kiss it
again.

	"Oh . . . hardly felt it. Too busy with other things." She smiles
and rubs her fingers along my jaw.
"You okay?"

	"I'm okay." I reach behind her and turn on the faucet, and rinse
off my hand. She watches me through her lashes as I get a paper towel
and start to mop up my come from her skin. I keep one arm around her
and kiss her gently as I do so, especially where goosebumps rise from
the cold water. She stretches out her head on her neck and hums
again, low and purring.

	All cleaned up now, I gently raise her panties and her pajama
bottoms, and find her t-shirt from where I tossed it aside. She holds
up her arms docilely so I can lower it over her, and I smooth the
shirt over her shoulders and her stomach. "There," I say softly.
"Decent."

	"Am I?" she says, and I do have to admit, there is something erotic
about the flush to her cheeks and the glow in her eyes. When she
walks into the office today with that "I got lucky" glow, the rumors
are going to just fly.

	I start to step away but she keeps her hand on my waist and pulls
me back. She kisses my chest gently as she kneels down, and she pulls
my jeans and boxers back up to my waist. She pauses, and smiles up at
me shyly. "I really don't know what to do here," she says softly.

	I chuckle and say, "I dress to the left," as I show her. She
buttons up my shirt and I tuck it in, and she strokes her hands over
my chest for a moment. She sighs and embraces me around the waist,
pressing her cheek to my chest.

	"Have I ever told you," she says, "how good you look in a dress
shirt and jeans?"

	"No," I whisper into her hair.

	"You look good enough to eat," she says, giving me a mischievous
flick of her eyes, and for that I have to kiss her. She laughs into
my mouth, and then gasps as I breathe in her breath. She eases
herself further into my arms and parts her lips, and her tongue darts
out to tease mine.

	"You sure you don't want to take a personal day today?" I whisper,
and she rubs her cheek against my hand for a moment before resolutely
stepping away.

	"We have important things to do today," she says, turning from
lover-Scully into partner-Scully like a Porsche taking a corner. "We
have responsibilities we can't just push aside."

	"I know. All right. But later--like after work--I think we should
take some time for ourselves. We really should, you know, talk."

	"Later," she says, nodding, and she takes me by the hand to lead me
to the front door. I pause only to pick up my jacket and slip it on,
and we stand in front of her door, holding hands, still not entirely
ready to part.

	"You know, Scully," I say, rubbing the inside of her wrist with my
thumb, "maybe we ought to look at this from a relationship point of
view."

	"What do you mean?"

	"Well, maybe we ought to . . . date."

	Her eyebrow raises at this, and her smile is uncertain. "Date?" she
repeats.

	"Yeah. Date. Like regular people. Like, I call you up and we
arrange a time and I pick you up and we go somewhere to eat, and
maybe to a movie or something--and, oo, Scully, we can hold hands in
the theater."

	"Mulder, I don't think we could be like regular people even if we
tried."

	"But will you think about it?"

	She smiles and leans her head forward, in a way that used to hide
her eyes when her hair was longer. "You can hold my hand in any
theater, any time," she says softly, then adds in a more businesslike
tone, "Go home, Mulder. I'll see you in a few hours." She unlocks her
door and opens it, but still doesn't let go of my hand.

	I raise her hand to my lips and kiss the back. "I love you," I say,
and she makes a funny, aching kind of sigh, working her hand free of
mine.

	"Go home, Mulder," she says again, more gently this time, and adds
as she's shutting the door, "Love you too."

	I smile at her closed door for a minute or two, then take my car
keys out of my jacket pocket and go out to my car. I feel euphoric,
joyous. Scully loves me. Scully, who could have any man she wanted,
wants me. She's a little scared still, a little worried, but I
understand that. I've got to show her I can do more than the grand
gesture.

	But what, though? She didn't sound too enthused about us dating--
and the truth is, I always find dating a little sophomoric, myself.
After everything we've done already in the last six years, dinner-and-
a-movie isn't going to bring us closer together. I rub my chin as I
wait at a stoplight, thinking. If a date isn't the answer, maybe
something less conventional is. Maybe I need to find an adventure,
tailor-made for the two of us, just something silly and safe. I was
hoping our Christmas outing would be along those lines, but it didn't
quite turn out that way. Well, except for afterwards. Christmas
morning together was, for all its unconventional trappings, just like
how a Christmas morning ought to be.

	As I pull my car into my parking space, it occurs to me I really
don't know what to do. Scully will come almost anywhere with me, if I
ask her, but I also know how much she dislikes a wild-goose chase.
The field probably isn't the ideal place for me to prove my love.
Striking out on our own only gets us in trouble--although, we may
have a new boss today, after we hammer out with Spender what's going
to happen to the X-Files.

	My hands tighten on the steering wheel. I will not think about
Diana. Her duplicity stung but in a way didn't surprise me. My
mistake was trusting her too long, I suppose, trusting in our history
instead of her present. And my own.

	Scully comes first now, in all things, always. I know it's going to
take more than an apology and a orgasm in her kitchen for her to
completely trust me again. I'll find what it is, somehow. I'll prove
how true I can be.

	Finally I get out of the car and go up to my apartment, which seems
even more cheerless and lonely than usual. When Scully and I live
together I'll make sure she does the place any way she likes, her
apartment always is so cozy and comforting--

	I stop this line of thought, and smile and sigh. No sense in
planning that far ahead. It may never come to that point. As nice as
it would be to see her first every morning and last every night, I do
have to be realistic.

	The message light is blinking on my machine. Considering that the
guys are still not speaking to me--and won't be until I apologize to
them too--I figure at best is Kersh's secretary with a message I
don't want to hear. I stab the Play button nonetheless--best to get
it out of the way quickly.

	But it's not Kersh's secretary, nor Skinner's, nor the man himself
nor any voice I was expecting to hear this morning. It's a former--
associate, I guess, is the best word--of my father's, Arthur Dales.
"Agent Mulder, this is Arthur Dales, calling from Florida. I don't
know if you're watching the news but we're in for a hell of a blow in
the next 12 to 24. I've been through hurricanes, Agent Mulder, been
through the alphabet. But I just got a distress call from my neighbor
down the road that set my teeth on edge. You don't have much time to
get the airport, but if you're the X-Files man you say you are, you'd
better get your butt in gear."

	That's it. No explanation but a nervous neighbor in a hurricane.
No, no, no, I am not going to drag Scully to Florida in the middle of
a hurricane.

	But I have to know what's going on. Arthur Dales doesn't call me
often, and certainly never for frivolous reasons. I get my address
book out of the desk drawer and dial the last number I have for him,
in Goodland, Florida. I know as I'm dialing that Scully is not going
to like this. But I know, too, she won't be satisfied until whatever
mystery that's worrying Dales is solved, either.

	This is not going to win me any points. Unless it turns into an
impromptu Florida vacation, which I'm not counting on either.

	The other end of the line picks up after several rings. "Mr. Dales?
It's Fox Mulder. I understand you've got a case for me."

8. 10:15 a.m.

	Mulder is staring at my legs. Smiling, and staring.

	I know what he's thinking. Spender is late, we're alone in his
office. Come on, Scully. Wanna give it a go?

	Actually, yes. But no, Mulder. No.

	I asked for this. I did. God, I need help.

	Navy suit. Sheer stockings. Four inch heels. More leg than I
customarily show, except in this skirt, which is why I chose it, of
course. To make him crazy. Crazier. For me. He liked this outfit a
lot the first time he saw me in it, at the gym where he was playing
basketball and neglecting his j-o-b. Something tells me he likes the
outfit even more now, knowing what's underneath.

	I like his outfit, too.

	He's wearing the charcoal gray jacket that hugs his shoulders so
nicely, and shows just enough when he moves. He held the door of
Spender's office open for me this morning, revealing the white dress
shirt under his coat, and the fine cut of his pressed and pleated
herringbone slacks. I had to force myself not to fixate on their
hang, and instead studied the thin black belt at his waist, noticing
how it matched his black and silver tie (the one with the green and
blue swirls), and the gun holstered over his shoulder--

	Oh, enough already. I'm thinking of his gun? And getting hot? Good
God. This is work, Dana, I tell myself, folding my arms across my
chest. No matter what amazing things Mulder has done to my body or
how incredible he looks with and without his clothes, this is work.
I'm adamant about us not bringing sex into the work place--at least,
I am in my head. And in my head I know that wearing this navy suit
with the short, tight skirt and my new fuck-me-Mulder shoes was a
mistake.

	A mistake Mulder appreciates, I'm certain. But I can't do this. I
can't have him look at me this way, and keep myself sane and dry.
It's impossible. All the wonders recently discovered between us must
be kept in their place, I tell myself. I glance sideways, see the
slow-sexy look in Mulder's half-closed eyes and can't help but think--
yeah, right.

	Keeping my legs demurely crossed at the thigh I shift slightly, the
tender pang in my center sharper than ever. I suppress a groan right
here in Spender's office, wondering how much longer we'll have to
wait. I'm getting irritated. Antsy.

	Mulder passed antsy ten minutes ago.

	Not that I blame him. I know what he wants. I know what I want.
Damn it, where in the hell is Spender? I steel myself, refusing to
look at Mulder again, as if that might help. Still I can see him out
of the corner of my eye. He looks good. Too good. Lanky and smooth,
his fine hands folded across his flat abdomen, his expression hooded
and sleepy, like a lean, lazy cat.

	Lazy, my ass. He's getting ready to pounce.

	One heartbeat, another--I wait. I don't wait long. As if I've
willed it his hand slides sideways, slow. His concentration is
absolute, his focus unerring. I'm fascinated. Almost lulled as he
steadily reaches for the forbidden--the slightly bared curve of my
thigh below the hem of my short-for-Scully skirt. Nearing his goal
now, one stroke, one squeeze--

	I seize his wrist, stopping him cold. "Uh-uh, Mulder." His skin is
warm. I can't resist a squeeze of my own as I firmly guide his hand
away from me, back to its resting place below his stomach. He doesn't
protest as I draw this professional line between us. I wonder why,
but as my fingers unintentionally graze him where he's rigid in his
slacks, I have my answer. My heart thumps wildly. "Don't do this to
me," I say, too breathless a statement. I clear my throat and declare
more forcefully: "Not here."

	He's still smiling. I let go of his hand, which dutifully remains
where I placed it, and start to draw away. His other hand shoots out,
grabs hold of my wrist and turn it slightly to read my watch--holding
my palm over his erection in the process.

	"Mulder!" I hiss.

	"10:20, Scully," he says, as if either of us is presently concerned
with the time of day. "Spender's late."

	I yank my hand free. "We'll wait," I tell him.

	Hazel eyes glaze over me, possessive and promising, shadowed by a
sweep of thick black lashes. My body begins to hum. Mulder leans
broadly back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of
him, the tent in his trousers more obvious by the minute. "You
think?" he says.

	Sexy sonofabitch. I want to kill him.

	"I *know*."

	"Oh." He's heard this tone of voice before. He understands the game
is over. He looks at me another minute, as if considering the risk
involved in pushing this any further, and makes the right choice.
Mulder sighs. No more game. Now he's bored. He puts his head back and
stares up at the ceiling, maybe contemplating sharpened pencils or
spit balls. I glance up, letting him know I'll put an end to that,
too. He shakes his head and closes his eyes.

	Anxious for something to do myself I look around. The place is
darker, it seems. Perhaps it's gotten that way under the auras of
Diana and Jeffrey. I tell myself that's a ridiculous deduction, and I
wonder where they are. I wonder why Kersh hasn't come down here to
interrupt a meeting that was supposed to begin at ten to force us
back to the manure piles and background checks. Something isn't right
here.

	The thought startles me, though the uneasy feeling it stirs is
accurate. Disturbingly logical. We've been left here alone for nearly
half an hour now, sitting side by side in our once and hopefully
future office, awaiting a meeting that seems less likely by the
minute. No one's called. No one's come to find us. There's a
Mulder/Scully tracking system in this building and no one has
bothered to utilize it this morning. What the hell is going on?

	"It's 10:30, Scully, " Mulder observes, eyes still closed. I glance
at my watch and note the time. I don't even wonder anymore how he
knows. He just does. "Spender isn't coming."

	His lips curve in another playful smile, as if he's waiting for me
to comment on his double entendre. I bite my tongue and opt for the
professional tack I've been striving to take since we walked into
this room.

	"You don't know that, Mulder," I tell him, choosing not to voice my
concerns. I don't need to. He knows. I can see it in his posture,
outwardly relaxed but inwardly alert. He fools everyone else. He
doesn't fool me. "Spender must be--held up somewhere."

	"Held up--or tied up?"

	"Held up, Mulder. It's strange that he hasn't called, though."

	"Hard to dial wearing handcuffs."

	"I wouldn't know."

	He opens his eyes and looks at me. "No?"

	"No."

	Mulder shrugs. "Who knows, Scully. Maybe he's out looking for
Diana. Skinner said she hasn't been to work since the big barbecue."

	I give him the look.

	He shuts up. Looks down. Starts staring again, and the lazy smile
is back. At least he's found something to do.

	I shift uncomfortably, feeling as though I'm being watched by
someone other than Mulder. "I'll give Skinner a call. Maybe he's
heard--"

	"We saw him on the way in, Scully," Mulder reminds me. "You know,
the tall, bifocaled guy you practically knocked over on your run down
the hallway?"

	"I didn't run, Mulder."

	"You walked. Fast. He wondered why you didn't stop to say hey.
Afraid he'd notice your brand new glow?"

	"I was late."

	"You were blushing."

	"I most certainly was n--"

	"Are those new shoes, Scully?"

	I ignore him. "Something must have happened," I say. "Spender
wouldn't leave us hanging like this, Mulder. Not after yesterday."

	He says nothing. Still staring. He either didn't hear me or he
agrees. There's no point in waiting any longer, either way. Abruptly
I stand and reach for the phone on Spender's clean desk. I look at
Mulder. He's studying my shoes. I roll my eyes and punch in Skinner's
extension. After four rings, his secretary answers.

	"Hi--good morning. Yes. Uh-- We-- Mulder and I had an appointment
with--" I watch, unbelieving, as Mulder slides out of his chair and
onto the floor, onto his hands and knees in front of my feet. "--Um--
We scheduled a meeting with Agent Spender for this morning at ten,
and he hasn't shown up yet. Have you--" I kick at Mulder as his long
fingers tap the side of my shoe, gently urging my feet to the right.
I adjust and kick again, this time harder, prepared to some damage to
the fine ass outlined by the fabric of his trousers. He grabs my
ankle, stopping me short. He doesn't let go. "--seen him?" I bite
out, struggling now for balance. I pull away, shaking Mulder loose.
"Oh--oh, okay. No, that's all right. Thank you."

	I jam my finger down to disconnect the call, get another dial tone
and try to reach Kersh. "Mulder, what the hell are you doing?" I
demand, the waspish tone of voice as much for the growing mystery of
Spender as for my shoe-stroking partner on the floor. "Spender didn't
show up for work today. No one's seen him since yesterday, and
apparently there's no answer at his--"

	A tap on my shoe. "Scully, get down here."

	The line is ringing. Another tap on my shoe, this one more
insistent. I glare down at Mulder. He's in front of the desk, peering
underneath it, a look of intense concentration on his handsome,
boyish face. He looks up at me and points at the floor.

	"Look," he says.

	Kersh's secretary picks up. I hang up the phone without speaking
and kneel down beside Mulder. "What?" I ask, squinting into the
darkness that exists beneath Spender's desk. Then I see what Mulder
is seeing. Three imperfect spots, almost the color of the floor. Dark
and rusty. Already dry. "Mulder, that--" I reach forward, brush the
too-familiar looking stain with my fingers. "It looks like blood."

	Mulder nods. He straightens and stands. "Spender isn't coming," he
says, but the tease is gone from his voice.

	So Spender is late. So there's a little blood on the floor. Mulder
is making an awfully big leap here and I have no intention of
following. "Mulder," I say in my best unbudging Agent Scully voice.
"That blood could have come from anywhere. Maintenance, the janitor,
the guy who programs the phone. It is not necessarily Spender's."
Mulder continues to stare at the spots. He doesn't reply. "And if it
did come from Spender, Mulder, he could have--he could have cut
himself. Scissors, stapler, letter opener, paper--"

	"A paper cut, Scully?"

	"Or maybe he was shaving."

	"Now that's even better."

	"Mulder, I don't know! You have an electric razor here at work, and
on occasion you use it--"

	"Not under a desk."

	"All right! Okay! It's strange, Mulder. But three drops of blood on
the floor under his desk do not equate to a murdered Agent Spender.
If he's dead, where's the body?"

	"I didn't say he was dead."

	"Wounded, then? Where? What hospital? No one's heard from him! And
where's the rest of the blood, Mulder? We're talking three drops
here."

	"Three drops they missed."

	They? "Who?"

	"Whoever cleaned up, Scully."

	"You can't be--" serious. But he is. I know he is because I'm
watching him walk to the supply cabinet with a look of purpose on his
face. I open my mouth and try to speak, try to say something logical
and cohesive that will get him off this bend. He retrieves what he
needs from the file drawer, a plastic bag, a thin scraper and a set
of gloves. He snaps the gloves on. I don't ask how he knew where to
find them.

	"This will only take a minute," Mulder says. "We'll get the blood
analyzed and go from there."

	"This isn't an X-File, Mulder," I tell him. "Spender not keeping a
meeting with us and three drops of blood on the floor in his office
isn't an X-File."

	"I've started files for less."

	I shake my head. How in the hell do I get through to this man?
"We'll find him," I say. "And he'll tell you the same thing. This
isn't an X-File."

	"Fine. Until then we'll go with it. And consider ourselves between
A.D.'s, Scully. Have you noticed that no one's come to find us and
put us back in the corner?"

	Yes, I've noticed. But I say nothing.

	"Don't you feel like an orphan?" he asks, sounding happier and more
excited than any orphan I've ever known.

	"No," I reply, but I sound sullen. I sort of do. Feel like an
orphan, I mean. With no word from Spender, an obvious lack of
interest from Kersh and no commitment as yet from Skinner, nothing is
settled. Nothing is done. I can't stand undone. "All right," I say.
"We'll look for Spender. Then what?"

	Mulder scrapes the blood from the floor into the bag and glances up
at me. He gives me a smile, one I've seen so many times before I
know, I just know, and I could shoot myself for asking. I cross my
arms and close my eyes--

	"Ever been to Florida, Scully?"


After Midnight: Something in the Water

	This is it.

	I'm going to die.

	In a matter of minutes I am going to dissolve into a puddle of
seawater and wash out to sea. All because of curiosity and Arthur
Dales and a sea creature that looks like one of those glow-in-the-
dark bracelets they give out at amusement parks.

	I'm going to die.

	At least I haven't seen the creature in the light fixtures in the
last few minutes. I did manage to get a few shots off at it when it
attacked me. Maybe it's gone away. Oh, God, maybe it's gone after
Scully--

	Maybe shining my flashlight up at the light fixture wasn't the
smartest thing I've done lately. Maybe I should have run as soon as I
saw the tentacle. Maybe I shouldn't have left Scully. Maybe I
shouldn't have come here at all.

	Scully, this is not what I wanted for us. I was even thinking about
getting a hotel room for us so we could have a little time for
ourselves. Florida vacation, Scully. Could have been sun and sand and
ocean . . . but instead I'm going to die.

	It's not the barely-able-to-breathe part that's so terrible. Or
even the life-flashing-before-my-eyes part. It's not the past that's
killing me now, Scully, it's the future that we're going to miss. I
wanted this future, our future. Oh, Scully, there was so much I
wanted for you.

	The door to the apartment building is open, and I hear a soft
sound, a cat's meow. I laboriously turn over and look out the doorway.

	The Shipleys' cat is sitting out in the rain. Licking its paw as if
it didn't have a care, as if it weren't sitting in a post-hurricane
downpour, calm as you please.

	The cat and I stare at each other.

	How, if the Shipley family were all reduced to saltwater, did the
cat escape? Why was it hiding in the washing machine? Why is it
sitting in the rain now? I thought cats hated getting wet.

	I feel like I'm missing something terribly important but I can't
make the pieces fit together. I can't think clearly, the world is
starting to grey out, I can't take a deep breath. Scully--if I had
five more minutes you know I'd spend it with you--

	A door slams open down the hallway. "Mulder!" I hear her footsteps
coming towards me, and she kneels down at my side. Her hand flits
over my face. "Mulder, it's the water--come on, we have to get you
out into the rain."

	I can't say anything, and even though I try to focus on her I can't
see her. I grab her hand and gurgle something, and I feel a brush on
my mouth like an angel's kiss. "Come on, Mulder," she says, and her
hands grip me under my arms. "Give me a little hand here, okay? It's
the water, Mulder." I try to shove with my feet against the floor,
and my shoes scrape against the concrete. Scully grunts with the
effort of hauling me outside. "It has to--oof--be in a large amount
of water--Mulder--to maintain cohesion." She pauses and smacks my
cheek, not too lightly, I might add. "Mulder, stay with me, can you
hear me?"

	I gurgle again and she makes a sound caught between a sob and a
chuckle. "Good enough. Can you stand?"

	I don't think I can, but Scully hangs my arm around her shoulders
and hauls me to my feet. My head whirls and my knees buckle and my
feet tangle together, and we both tumble face-first onto the grass. I
press my face against the cool, wet grass gratefully. Scully
untangles herself from me and sits up, and pulls me into her lap so
that my head rests in the crook of her arm and my body is sprawled
over her legs. She strokes my forehead gently.

	"You're going to be okay, Mulder," she whispers. "You're going to
be fine." I open my eyes to look at her and she shields them from the
rain with her hand. "Are you still with me, Mulder?"

	I nod and take hold of her hand and squeeze it, hard. She raises
her arm to lift up my head, and she kisses my temple.

	"I'm scared, Mulder," she says, and I open my eyes again in
surprise. "I don't know what's going to happen, exactly. I just--"
She sighs. "I don't want you to hurt anymore."

	That would be nice, I think, and squeeze her hand again. Her
fingers are wrinkled and waterlogged. I don't think either of us have
been dry since we arrived in Florida. We both have suitcases in the
rental car, but who knows when we'll get a chance to dry off and
change.

	And here my sweet Scully sits on the wet grass, her butt getting as
soaked as the rest of her, waiting to see if I'm going to die or not.

	I'm hoping for not. There's a warm fluffy quilt on a big comfy bed
in a St. Augustine B&B with our names on it, if we get out of this.
Oh, Scully, if we get out of this I'm never going to get you into
something like this again. I promise. No more, Scully, I can't put
your life in danger like this. You're too precious to risk.

	She continues stroking my face slowly, with her whole hand. It's
soothing. Her hand moves slowly over the entirety of my face, from my
forehead to my chin and back up again. I don't know where Scully
picked this up, but it's exactly right.

	I still can't get a deep breath, though. I'm gasping like a landed
fish. I don't know exactly what is inside me or where it is, but I
can feel something wriggling at the base of my esophagus. I turn away
from Scully onto my side, and her arm grips over my chest. She kneels
behind me and her other hand rubs my back, between my shoulder
blades. "Mulder? What is it? Oh, God, Mulder, you're choking--"

	Yes, dear, very astute of you, I think vaguely, and hurl up what
feels like a gallon of salt water. Scully holds onto me, rubbing my
back, and she chants into my ear, "You're going to be okay, you're
going to be okay." Between the cold drops of rain I feel something
warm and wet on my neck. Scully's tears.

	When finally my lungs are empty, I lie panting in her arms. I want
to curl up here and go to sleep, but the ground is cold and I'm
soaked through to the bone. Scully's hand continues to smooth over my
face, but I can feel her trembling still. "Mulder," she whispers.
"Mulder, can you talk? You neck looks terrible. I want to get that
bandaged as quickly as possible. The last thing you need is an
infection."

	"I want a breath mint," I croak, and she makes that sad half-laugh
again.

	"I think I have Tic-Tacs in the car. Orange ones, though."

	"I like the orange ones."

	"Can you stand up?"

	The prospect is less than thrilling, but with Scully's supporting
arms I manage to get to my feet. I have no desire to rejoin the
others, though, so when she tries to steer me towards the door to the
apartment building I stop. "Car," I croak.

	"We can't just abandon the others, Mulder. Angela had her baby and
George was attacked. We can wait for an ambulance in the manager's
apartment. I'll get on the radio again and see when they can send a
rescue vehicle out to us."

	I'm in no hurry for George to point a gun at me again, but she's
right, of course. We can't just leave. She guides me into the
building and down the hall, and into the manager's apartment again.
Walter and Angela are on the floor, and there's a bloody squalling
mess of a baby is in her arms, wrapped up in kitchen towels. George
is on the floor as well, a bucket near his head. He looks as worn out
as I feel. Scully lowers me to the floor as well and gets a cushion
off the couch to put under my head. What amazes me, though, is that
even though she's so stressed out that her hands are shaking, she
still takes a moment to caress my face. It's a simple, brief touch,
but it speaks volumes to me. Rest. You're safe. I'm here.

	I watch her move around the apartment, soothing everybody, and when
she sits down at my side and gets out her cell phone I close my eyes.
So tired. And Scully's here.

*****

	Mulder's neck looks awful.

	I watch him fiddle with the gauze as we wait for Dales to open his
front door. We don't wait long--Mulder nods as Dales waves us in. I
start across the threshold and my cell phone rings. Both Dales and
Mulder turn to look at me. "Go ahead," I tell them. "I'll join you in
a minute."

	So Mulder goes in without me, no doubt eager to share his war wound
with Dales, the pattern of holes in his neck that looks like he got
on the wrong side of an aerator. It's just as well, I think, as I
snap my phone open. I've seen enough of Mulder's wounded neck in the
past twenty-four hours to last me a lifetime.

	"Scully," I say into the phone. Someone stutters on the other end
as if they aren't quite sure they have the right person. "Agent
Scully," I repeat, and now they start talking. I nod, take in the
information and thank them for calling. I click the phone off and
start to go back inside, but I'm moving slow. I'm not ready. Not yet.
If Mulder is still showing his neck, I don't want to see it.

	Over night the tentacle wounds went from bruised and bloated to
bruised and simply swollen. I treated the area with antibiotic cream
every two hours, but had no idea what else to do. The toxins left by
the creature simply had to run their course, I assumed, the best
theory I could come up with given the facts at hand. The only
experience I'd had thus far with the victims of the sea creature
weren't exactly positive, and since the local hospital was packed
with victims of the storm and dead-on-their-feet doctors, my theory
and my first aid kit were all we had.

	We made the best of it. Mulder didn't sleep well. I didn't sleep at
all. Not that I expected to. Though I had no reason to believe the
fresh water hadn't completely killed the organism in Mulder as it had
the creature in the manager's apartment, I didn't know for certain.
And I was worried.

	So I treated him and sat beside him, holding his hand every now and
then, but mostly just watching him for signs. Mulder was nauseous and
feverish, alternately wracked with dry heaves and uncontrollable
shivering. I'd hold him during the spells, keeping him covered until
he drifted off to sleep. He'd start talking then.

	He talked a lot.

	Normally I don't give much credence to the ramblings of semi-
delirious patients, especially not when they're semi-delirious
Mulder. But this was different. We were different. I don't think I
realized how much our partnership had changed until, in that still
moment before dawn, Mulder rolled toward me and uttered "I'm sorry".

	The words don't come from him often. Ever. I wasn't sure how to
react to them when they did. This wasn't an apology for bad behavior
or misplaced faith where Diana Fowley is concerned. This was
something different. Something deeper. An "I'm sorry" between the two
of us that I still don't know how to take.

	"I'm sorry" I put you through this.

	"I'm sorry" I wasn't more careful.

	"I'm sorry" I almost died.

	"I'm sorry" I brought you into this and put your life at risk.

	Sorry.

	There was more. Mulder wasn't quite lucid and I knew it. Still, the
words stung. I pulled him to me and stroked his hair while he rasped
and mumbled and clung to me. I don't remember all the words exactly.
I couldn't understand half of them. But I understood that he was
sorry.

	I understood that he was afraid.

	I've known the same fear through the six years of our partnership,
but I've never been sorry for it. Not once. How could I be? This is
our job, what we know, what we've been trained to do. Danger is an
obvious element--violent death a strong possibility-- we both know
the risks. We've always known the risks. And while I'm afraid of
losing Mulder, and know that losing him now would feel something akin
to having my heart summarily ripped from my chest, I still want him
with me. My partner. Beside me.

	His apology told me he doesn't feel the same.

	We need to talk about this. Intellectually, I know this problem can
be solved. Emotionally, I'm not so sure. While I can't stop Mulder
from feeling protective of me, I can't have him hovering. I can't
have him distracted. I can't have him deciding which cases I
participate in based on their safety factor. I'm his partner, damn
it. His partner first. His lover second. His lifemate only if he'll
accept me on my terms. On the terms we set six years ago--terms that
a budding sexual relationship have no bearing on.

	I walk up onto Dales' porch, pocketing my cell phone and the car
keys. My resolve is strong, but Mulder is still weak. He'll need time
to recover. Now is not the time to show him distance, or even
concern. I draw a deep breath, open the door and step inside.

	Dales is in his chair. Mulder sits on the couch close to him and is
just letting go of the white gauze above his gray crewcut tee-shirt
when I walk in the door. I catch a glimpse of the wound and find
myself thinking, not for the first time since yesterday--too bad
Mulder didn't bring a turtleneck. Both men look up at me as I enter.

	"Well, it's official," I say. "Ten pounds, ten ounces of piss and
vinegar. El nino grande. Leroy Walter Villa Real Suarez, Jr."

	"Oh, no," Mulder chuckles.

	"Oh, yes," I state.

	Arthur Dales is beaming. "Oh, it's amazing," he says. "It's truly
amazing."

	"What's that?" I ask, settling onto the couch beside Mulder.

	Dales looks at me, blatant admiration in his eyes. "That you could
come here in the face of a hurricane, chasing a sea monster yet, and
end up bringing a new life into the world."

	Mulder glances sideways at me, a hint of pride in his gaze. We
exchange a smile, however fleeting; I can't maintain eye contact for
long and look away.

	"And then--" Dales declares with dramatic flair, "--slaying the
monster and saving this one's life as he was quite literally circling
down the drain."

	I clear my throat.

	Mulder blinks. "She--didn't save my life, really."

	"Oh, yes. Yes, she did," Dales tells him. "With a gun to her head
no less."

	I think about the scene Dales is describing and realize that yeah,
I did do a pretty good job. Woman in final stages of labor, sea
creature thrashing through the ceiling, latching onto Crazy George,
untrained civilian wielding a gun at my insistence and shooting out
the fire sprinklers to kill the creature just in time. Mass chaos. I
ran out into the hallway then, out to Mulder--

	"Well--" he's saying, and I realize he has a different perception
of events. I look at him, compelled to interrupt.

	"Well," I tell him, "you wouldn't have known to go out in the rain
if I hadn't pointed it out to you, and it was the fresh water that
killed the organism."

	"No--no--no, I--I saw the Shipleys' cat."

	What?

	"Oh, I can't swallow that," Dales replies, echoing my sentiments
exactly. Mulder was still lying in the hallway staring at the cat
when I found him.

	"No--I--" Mulder continues to protest, obviously suffering from
masculine pride syndrome, which has nothing whatsoever to do with the
tire track tentacle holes circling his neck. "I saw the cat which--uh-
-had been saved, which had been in the washing machine. And the
Shipley's had boarded up their house which means that the only way
they could have vanished was if the creature came up through the
plumbing--"

	Mulder looks at me. I'm thinking, nice try, Mulder. Keep going.
Maybe you'll manage to convince yourself.

	"--in a back wash of sea water," he says, and now he looks at
Dales, still trying. "Sea water--" he repeats, and Dales makes a
face. Completely unconvinced. Mulder looks incredulous. Still, he
pushes on. "And then the deputy who vanished in a bathtub full of
epsom salts."

	"If Agent Scully had not been there with you," Dales adamantly
declares, jabbing his finger rigidly at Mulder. "I shudder to think
what might have happened to you. Obviously, you owe her your life."

	I nod, thinking--yes, Mr. Dales, I do believe you have a point.
Agent Scully is capable. Agent Scully is dependable. Agent Scully can
save her own ass, and her partner's ass as well. But I don't dare
speak. I keep my mouth pursed, watching Mulder in profile. Poor guy.
Still fighting it. I almost feel sorry for him.

	Almost.

	Mulder opens his mouth to speak, then thinks better of it. He gives
an almost imperceptible shrug, which I interpret as surrender. To
arguing further with Dales, at least.

	Dales is rubbing his hands gleefully together. "It takes a big man
to admit this, but--if I had had someone as savvy as her by my side--
" Mulder glances at me again, then looks back at Dales. "--all those
years ago on the X-Files, I might not have retired."

	Mulder doesn't look at me again. I can't believe this. Whatever has
made Arthur Dales my sudden champion, I want to stand up and give the
man a kiss. Mulder needs to hear this. He needs to know I can take
care of myself--no matter what the circumstances. I look at him. I
wish he'd say something, but he doesn't. He just nods briefly and
smiles, his expression thoughtful--as if he remembers the things he
said last night, and wonders if I remember them, too.

	And I do.

	Dales pats Mulder soundly on the back. The old man stands,
apparently pleased. "I suggest we have a toast to your good fortune,"
he says, walking toward his stash of liquor. "I insist that we have
it. So what will it be?"

	Mulder is staring forward, still thinking. He mutters something
unintelligible.

	"Oh--uh--anyone for water?" Dales asks.

	Mulder and I look over at him and yelp in unison-- "No!"

	We look at each other. I laugh. I can't help it. We're so in sync,
Mulder and I, and he's a fool not to have faith in that. A fool to
think of me differently just because I've bared my body to him and
come in his arms. I look into his eyes and see the struggle there,
and know the real storm hasn't even begun.

	My laughter quickly fades as we look away from each other, once
more uncomfortable. Dales comes with the drinks--stiff ones, I'm
certain, and I couldn't be more glad. We raise our glasses as Dales
makes the toast--

	"To partners," he says, with sincerity and style. He drinks without
waiting for us. I'm glad for that, too.

	"To partners," I repeat, looking back at Mulder, willing him to
look at me, willing him to hear.

	Mulder stares straight ahead. He doesn't take a drink. Without a
word he sets his glass down on the table beside the couch and gets to
his feet. He runs his hands down the front of his jeans, feeling for
the car keys. Time to go, he's telling me. But I haven't finished my
drink. Dales starts on his second and squeezes in next to me on the
couch. I make room for him, taking up some of the space Mulder has
just vacated.

	My partner stares down at me, his intent clear. But I'm not in the
mood to be pushed. After a time Mulder reaches that conclusion and
heads out the door. The screen slams with his exit, the stomp of his
boots on the old wood porch declaring his displeasure and absolute
intent to leave. But I'm not worried. He won't go far. I'm his
partner, after all.

Besides, I've got the car keys.

After Midnight: Almost Paradise

	"Marry me, Scully."

	Mulder is raising my hand, attempting to put the ring on my finger.
With a muttered oath I yank my hand away.

	"Stop it," I snap, wrenching the heavy-carated, expensively
sparkling platinum and gold ring from his fingers. "Don't make this
any harder than it is, Mulder."

	He looks momentarily hurt, but the expression passes so quickly I
know the hurt doesn't run deep. He's pleased. He's pushing. There's
no X-File here as far as he's concerned, and he's ready to play
house.

	I slip the ring on my finger--size five, perfect fit. I wonder how
the people in the Evidence Storage Section knew what size to provide.
Skinner, maybe. Or maybe they guessed. Five is a common size, isn't
it? I just don't want to know if Mulder was involved. At the moment,
watching him slide a gold band on his own finger, if I thought there
was any chance he had something to do with the choice of rings, I'd
probably scream.

	We're dressed to go and he's ready. I can tell. His yuppie-dom
outfit, complete with loafers, navy sweater and pink polo shirt, is
the masculine equivalent of mine--tight, straight skirt and
embroidered sweater, with comfortable blouse and sensible shoes. I
feel ridiculous. I can tell Mulder is intent on making me feel even
more so as he slides his arm around me.

	"Ready to go, honeybun?" he loudly inquires, giving my waist a
familiar squeeze. Everyone within proximity of the FBI Evidence
Storage Section inside the Hoover Building turns to look.

	I elbow him away with a snarl I feel to the tips of my toes and
start down the busy hallway. He hurries after me, sliding his arm
along my shoulders for another try. I shake him off none too gently
and continue toward the elevators.

	"Come on, Scully," he pouts, catching up with me again. "We have to
practice. Don't we?"

	"No. And my name is Lana."

	"Laura."

	I grit my teeth. "Laura, then," I bite out, hating every minute of
this, hating every second that's passed since 9:00 this morning when
Skinner called us into his office and welcomed us back to the X-
Files. Our once and present AD was as close to smiling as I've ever
seen him. Mulder, of course, was nodding and serious like the world
was suddenly right again--except for the case we were given. Routine
disappearance, he called it, and argued for a moment with Skinner. I
don't recall having much of a reaction to any of it, actually--I felt
numb. I still do.

	I'm not sure why.

	I knew the reassignment was coming. It was only a matter of time,
so I certainly should have been prepared. Nearly a month of limbo had
passed since the un-meeting with Spender and our fiasco in Florida.
We'd been keeping busy since that time, looking for the people who
had gone missing since the Syndicate's burning at the hangar. Diana
Fowley, the smoking man, and Spender, whose blood--tests showed--had
somehow ended up on the floor under the desk in his office. No leads,
of course, but that never stopped Mulder from digging and chasing.
With nothing better to do, I went along.

	Nothing was Bureau sanctioned about the Syndicate investigation or
our trip to Florida, and somehow I let myself believe that what
Mulder and I were doing in our off time (what little we were doing)
was nobody's business but our own.

	We'd kissed some since his recovery, indulged in some heavy petting
that led to one or two awkward attempts to repeat the scene in my
kitchen a month ago, with not much success. Mulder is trying not to
push, trying to be understanding. At least he was until this case.
Now I get the feeling I'm in for something I'm not in the mood for,
and I don't think he realizes the danger in that.

	We have yet to talk about our partnership, about the way things
have changed and the way we feel about those changes. We have yet to
talk at all, really, since the night we talked long after midnight,
what seems like forever ago. And that's not good. We're officially
partners again--partners with a new-found carnal knowledge of each
other that I doubt very much the Bureau would appreciate. Given his
behavior in front of the Evidence Storage people, I wonder what
Mulder has in mind.

	The elevator doors slide open. I feel the hint of Mulder's hand at
the base of my spine, an acceptable touch that I'm used to. That I
welcome. If he continues with this and tries nothing more while we're
on this case, we'll do fine. We walk--he's guiding me, and I let him.
I have no idea where he parked this morning--we've spent the last
week apart, and came to work in separate cars. I fold my arms across
my chest and try to fight the sinking feeling in my stomach. We can
get through this, I tell myself. Not a big deal. I'll be calm, and
he'll behave. Keep his hands to himself.

	Right.

	Mulder chirps the alarm. It sounds different. I look up to see the
blink of lights in response and stop in stride, slow shock settling
over me. He hasn't unlocked our familiar Chrysler. I tighten my arms
around my body and swallow hard. My eyes slide closed. Oh, God. A
minivan. He's unlocked a minivan. My stomach rumbles. I think I'm
going to be sick.

	"Come on, Scully," Mulder says, brushing past me to the driver's
side of the nightmare suburban boxcar. "We meet the moving van at LAX
at 2:00 this afternoon. We've got a plane to catch."

	I don't move.

	Mulder opens the driver's door, peers through the windows at me, a
curious expression on his face. "Scully, you okay?"

	I don't answer.

	He starts toward me. "Scully, what--"

	I force myself forward--to the minivan, to the passenger door, and
somehow inside. Smiling, Mulder slides himself in behind the wheel,
turns the key in the ignition and begins to back out. Looking over
his pink polo-shirted shoulder, still smiling. I slowly draw my seat
belt on, just waiting for Mulder to start whistling.

	He does. I close my eyes. I'm going to die. I will die here, I know
it, having to play this part beside a man who is doing his best to
mimic my image of Mike Brady from the Brady Bunch. Why?

	Why is he doing this? Why is he dressed like that? Why did he touch
me that way in front of everyone? And why the hell are we driving a
minivan to the airport when we should be taking our own car? He's
testing me. Pushing. *Shoving* at us from behind his Rob facade, and
I know it. I just don't know what to do about it.
Do I call him on it? He knows how I feel. Why should I have to? Do I
play along, play the part my job requires? I shake my head. There is
no way. No way I'll be able to walk beside Mulder--let him touch me
with such open familiarity--wear this heavy ring on my finger and
*pretend* I feel the things for him I really feel. I'll lose my mind.
Fast.

	He talks to me on the way to the airport, case gibberish that
barely registers. I stare at his wedding ring. We review the file on
the plane (he still doesn't think it's an X-File), we talk about
nothing some more, and meet the moving van right on time at 2:00 pm.
After renting the California version of our D.C. minivan, of course.
My nightmare is nearly complete.

	We begin the drive to the Falls at Arcadia in silence. The traffic
is abominable--fast-paced one minute, bumper to bumper the next,
zipping and stopping and honking all mixed so nicely with that odd LA
haze. We'll spend lots of time in the car this afternoon, I can tell.
Plenty of opportunity to tell Mulder not to take this touchy-feely,
"you're mine" game too far. To warn him, at least. But I don't. He
should know, I tell myself again. I stare out the window, my stomach
in knots.

	"Los Angeles, California," Mulder declares, glancing toward me. I
can see his reflection in the window, the smiling, sun-glassed guy
I'm supposed to be married to. Rob Petrie. Pee-tree. Like the dish.
Or a dog's favorite target. "Don't you just love it here, honey?"

	I shake my head. I don't speak. I can't.

	"LA. Home of the Dodgers. Land of the stars. City of the--"

	I reach over without a word and jab the radio button on. The inside
of the car fills instantly with a loud, bouncy Beach Boys tune. Help
Me Rhonda. Sounds of the '60's. No more Rob. I turn my head and gaze
out the window again, staring at nothing, watching in reflection as
Mulder moves his hand off the steering wheel.
The music disappears with another push of the button. This one
decidedly more gentle than mine.

	"Scully," Mulder says, and it's him. His voice. For some reason I
think I haven't really heard his voice since that morning we stood in
my kitchen, sated and weak-kneed, clinging to each other. My heart
hurts thinking about it. Loving him. Wanting him. Being like this.
Tears fill my eyes. He is looking at me and I fight to maintain.
"What's going on?" he asks me.

	I swallow hard. I will not cry. "Nothing," I choke out. "I'm fine."

	I'm not, and he knows it. And I want him to know why, but how do I
explain? I can't stand this charade. I'm afraid of being a part of
it. It's like playing with fire, edging too close to the "normal
life" I've longed for (minivan not included) though it isn't real at
all. I feel the ring on my finger again, touch it, and think he must
know. I'm so obvious.

	Help me keep this professional, Mulder, I want to beg him. Help me
find a way to make it all fit together, so I don't feel miserable and
alone even when you're beside me. Don't make fun of me, and please
don't push. Not now. Not like this.

	He lets it go. We ride along in silence for what feels like a
lifetime, my insides so twisted I can barely draw a breath. This is a
nightmare, pure and simple. He doesn't understand what this is doing
to me, what the past month has done to us, and I can't find the words
to make him see. I'm terrified. Repulsed. Uncertain and off balance.

	I can't stand off balance.

	Not that it bothers Mulder. Now that he's asked and I've answered,
he seems to have forgotten he was ever concerned. Either that or he's
a damned good actor. I'm not sure which possibility pisses me off the
most.

	He's smiling in his sunglasses like he's king of the world. Rob
Petrie, at one with Mulder. I am livid. How can he do this, be so
calm and at ease? How can he allow what we so tenuously are to each
other to mix with this case in such a dangerous way? Is he that
careless, or does he really not know? We'll be living together in
front of people, a couple--touching--acting out lives. Letting
strangers see us in unison for who knows how long--pretending to be
in unison, when we aren't pretending at all.

We are in unison, and it's so private. So private that I don't want
people to see me. I don't want them to know. I don't want Mulder to
know I wish this ring on my finger had come from him, or that the
sentiment behind the seamless bands circling our fingers is all I've
ever dreamed of.

	A tear escapes the tight rein I've clamped on my emotions. I stare
out the window and brush it away. We follow the moving van onto the
turn off for the 14 freeway and I know from the file that we're
almost there. Not far from the freeway exit we come to the fine brick
work and waterfall at the entrance to the Falls at Arcadia. Mulder
punches in the number provided by the realtor--

	"Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Petrie," a computerized voice purrs in
a low, soothing tone.

	Mulder glances over at me, lowers his sunglasses a moment and
flashes a thousand mega-watt smile. I shrink in my seat, wishing that
I could disappear into it for the next few weeks at least. Safe from
Rob. Safe from Mulder. Our fragile relationship intact.

	The gate slides open. Sunglasses back in place, Rob/Mulder drives
through, entering the private community I know I should look pleased
to be part of. I force a smile. It feels so fake my face hurts.
The minivan jets up the slight, curving hill, at the top of which is
the home Mulder and I will share as Rob and *Laura* Petrie. In front
of the house neighbors have already started to gather, hanging
curiously back from the anxious-looking woman in our driveway who
holds a huge basket in her arms. My heartbeat quickens. My forced
smile begins to fade.

	Mulder reaches sideways. He finds my hand and squeezes it. For one
brief moment he's him again, and I squeeze back. I don't know why. I
want him to stay, I guess. Not Rob. Mulder.

	We pull up behind the moving van. Mulder lets me go and tosses his
sunglasses onto the dash. He gets out of the car, his navy sweater
loosely tied over his shoulders, and stands, hands on hips, staring
up at the house. I exit the car as he starts talking. Already
morphed.

	"Wow," he declares. "Take a look at this. Honey, what d'ya think?
Is this place us, or what?"

	What, I think, but I manage to smile at him. Rob. People are
watching. He'll start touching me any minute, I just know it. The
woman with the basket approaches.

	"You must be the Petries," she says. "Hi. Welcome--" she holds the
huge basket out to us--Rob/Mulder doesn't make a move, so I take it.
The thing is heavy, and I can't see much past it. "Welcome to the
Falls."

	Rob/Mulder extends his hand. "I'm Rob," he says and moves behind
me, placing both hands with a gentle caress on my tight shoulders.
"And this is my lovely wife Laura."

	Okay, I don't like this. I don't like this at all. My name is not
Laura, I'm no one's "lovely wife" and Mulder is perilously close to
losing a lung to my left elbow.

	He respects the dig and backs off, but hovers around me, touching
and feeling every chance he gets. He wants to play. I don't. I want
to shove him backwards and smack the smile off his face--see what
kind of impression that would make on our neighborly neighbors. We're
on a case, damn it, whether he thinks there's a case here or not, and
I want him to help me solve it so we can get the hell out. I shrug my
shoulders, trying to loosen his hold, then step a little away from
him.

	He follows. Barely smiling now, I stand with Rob/Mulder and listen
to the basket lady. She introduces herself as Pat Verlander, then
checks her watch and nervously tells us we' re late. She isn't sure
we can make it by the six o'clock move-in deadline.

	Mulder and I exchange a glance. Move-in deadline? C C & R's? Under
the weight of the welcome basket, with no help from Rob/Mulder, I
make my way into the house. It is immaculate, scraped clean, it
seems. I shiver in the foyer, looking for a place to set the basket
down. My investigative adrenaline kicks in. I don't know how or why,
but I know there's a case here. The fact that two couples have
disappeared from this scraped clean house in the past six months is
no coincidence. I'm more certain of that than anything else here--

	Except that if Rob/Mulder touches me one more time, I'll kill him.

*****

	The species Scullia Pulchratissima, when cornered or threatened,
will do one of two things: attack, or retreat into official mode. I
am actually surprised that I have not provoked her into attack yet,
but the day is young.

	And we only have one bed.

	"Why don't we have a guest bed?" she hissed at me when we were
moving our furniture in, but I only shrugged. I don't know who chose
the furniture for us from LA's extensive Seized Property department,
but apparently they thought two beds was overdoing it.

	Once we have our preliminary once-over finished, I flop onto the
couch. "Pizza," I announce. "Pizza is good for the first night in a
new house."

	She moves my feet off the seat and says, "How does a pizza delivery
boy get in past the gates? We need to go grocery shopping. And we
need to unpack . . ." She rubs her forehead. Uh-oh.

	"I'll do the grocery shopping," I say, standing. "Why don't you
unpack some necessities. There's no point in getting much out, unless
it looks like we'll be here for a long time."

	She nods. She looks tired. Worse than that, she looks tense. I can
think of a few things that would help, but all of them involve
touching her and at the moment I don't think that's a good idea. That
"back off" look she gave me earlier said plenty.
	She curls up in the leather chair and takes off her shoes. She
leans her head back, her eyes closed. She's been quiet all day,
except for when called upon to be Laura and when we made the video of
our beginning investigation. A quiet Scully is an unhappy Scully,
I've found, but I resist the temptation to get her to talk and
instead find a notepad and a pen.

	"What do you want from the store?"

	"Basics," she says without opening her eyes. "Cereal. Bread.
Butter. Milk. Fresh fruit. I don't know, Mulder, improvise."

	I write down all of these things and a few more that come to mind,
and tuck the paper into my pocket and grab my wallet and keys. "I
won't be long."

	"Take your time."

	"Be careful with my delicates, okay?" I add on my way out, but she
doesn't even snort in response. Oookay.

	I saw a supermarket on the drive to the house, so I head there.
It's one of those big mega-marts, with a pharmacy and florist and
bakery. I get a cart and amble through the aisles, whistling along to
the Muzak and snagging anything that looks nourishing and/or
delicious. Mostly delicious. I thump oranges and sniff apples,
squeeze loaves of bread and ponder the difference between grape jelly
and strawberry jam. I get eggs and cheese and butter, and spend a
good fifteen minutes deciding on which ice cream would please Scully
most.

	Something is nagging at me, though. Not just Scully's obvious
dissatisfaction with our new situation, but something that I should
have remembered.

	It's not until I'm in the bakery and see the displays of week-old
Valentine cookies that I realize. Shit. Shit shit shit. Bad
boyfriend. Or whatever the hell I am. I remembered Valentine's Day--I
gave her flowers--but I forgot her birthday. Yesterday. I even bought
her a present, but in the rush of looking for Spender and getting
ready for this assignment I forgot to give it to her. It's been
sitting in my suitcase for almost three weeks, waiting for me to
remember.

	Well. Okay. Either I can let it slide or I can do something about
it. Since I'd rather be good boyfriend than bad boyfriend, I'll do
something about it.

	I'm in the right place for it. I have flowers, a cake with "Happy
Birthday" written on it in bright blue and yellow frosting, candles,
and the makings for a romantic, though simple, dinner in minutes. I'm
not about to give up my corner store back at home, but I can
understand the appeal of places like this.

	Finally I lug all the bags out to the minivan and head back to the
Falls. I find a radio station that's playing U2, and tap my hands on
the wheel to the time. "My hands are tied," Bono and I sing, "my
body's bruised um, something, with nothing to win and nothing left to
lose--"

	When I get home I see Scully has unpacked some pans and dishes. Big
Mike's box of dishes is still on the table. I can't see Scully
anyway, and I call for her. "Scully? Where are you?"

	"Up here."

	Oh. I wonder if she found my present. I hoped before I left that
she'd unpack some of my clothes but now I'm hoping she didn't. "I got
some food!" I call, and put the flowers into the fridge.

	"I'll be right down."

	I'm hunting through a box of utensils for candlesticks, wishing I'd
bought some at the store, when Scully comes back down. She's changed
her clothes, the tight skirt for loose jeans and the sweater and
blouse for one of my flannel shirts. It's way too big for her, the
hem comes down to her knees. She looks positively adorable, like a
little girl playing dress-up in daddy's clothes.

	"What?" she says, stopping at the foot of the stairs.

	"Nothing." Oops. Caught staring. I go back to the box. "Do we have
candlesticks?"

	"I didn't see them on the inventory," she says dryly, and starts
unpacking a grocery bag. She finds the ice cream--Ben&Jerry's, only
the best for my Scully--and raises her eyebrows at me, holding the
cartons. "Well. You splurged."

	"I know what it takes to keep you happy," I say, grinning. She
shakes her head slightly and puts the ice cream away.

	It's not until she puts the milk into the fridge that she notices
the flowers and the cake. "Uh, Mulder . . . are we celebrating
something?"

	"We are." I come over to where she's standing by the fridge and
kiss her forehead. "Happy birthday, honeybunny."

	She grimaces and moves away. "Please don't call me that." She takes
out the package of pasta and the jar of alfredo sauce. "I guess we're
having Italian tonight?"

	"Is that okay?"

	"That's fine." She leaves those things out, as well as the loaf of
sourdough bread and makings for a green salad. She raises her
eyebrows again at the bottle of wine, and I just smile.

	"So if I can't call you honeybunny, what can I call you?" I go on,
once more unpacking a bag of groceries.

	She sighs. "'Scully' is always good, though under the circumstances
'Laura' would also be appropriate."

	"Laura," I mutter with a sigh. Whatever. Her response has dampened
my own enthusiasm, but, dammit, there's got to be something I can do
to get her out of this funk. "How about you lie down for a while,
while I make dinner?"

	"I'm perfectly willing to help."

	Of course she is. I put down the tomatoes and go to her, and put my
hand on her shoulders. I ignore her slight flinch, and gently steer
her to the couch. "Sit. Relax, birthday girl. I've got everything
under control."

	She grimaces again at "birthday girl," but stays seated. She even
lies down against the arm of the couch and lays her hand over her
eyes.

	I start cooking as soon as the groceries are put away, and I try
not to rattle the pans too much. With the water boiling, the bread
sliced and the pasta sauce warming, I feel confident this meal will
accomplish something. I just wish I knew what.

	We eat in silence, though I'm glad to see Scully tuck away a
healthy portion of both pasta and salad. She lost so much weight
while she was sick, but she's putting it back on in all the right
places.

	Of course, thinking about that perfect curvy little body makes me
want to show my appreciation for it, but Scully's been putting off
"Don't touch me" vibes all evening. The baggy clothes aren't helping,
either.

	Scully wipes her mouth with a napkin and says, "Thanks for dinner.
That was very good."

	"You're welcome." She starts to stand, but I stand up and gesture
for her to wait. "There's more."

	"Oh, you didn't, did you?"

	"What didn't I do?" I grin at her and get out the cake. I put in
the number candles I bought at the store and light them, and bring
the cake out to the dining room table. I sing loudly, proudly, and
badly, "You say it's your birthday, na na na na na na, it's my
birthday too yeah, na na na na na na--"

	She laughs. She actually laughs. She covers her mouth with her hand
and shakes her head, but she laughs nonetheless. Good sign.

	"Make a wish, make a wish," I say as I set the cake in front of
her. She does that head-tilt thing and looks up at me through her
bangs, and smiles.

	"Okay," she says, leans forward, and blows. The flames go out
perfectly. She smiles in triumph and reaches for the knife. "A big
piece, Mulder?"

	"Sure. It's chocolate."

	"I thought so." She cuts us both huge slices and lays them on our
plates. They practically hang off the dessert dishes. She scrapes the
frosting off the knife with her finger and licks her finger clean.

	"So what did you wish for, Scully?"

	"You know I can't tell you or it won't come true."

	"How am I supposed to make it come true if I don't know what it is?"

	She opens her mouth, then closes it and give me a tiny smile. "An
interesting question," she murmurs, and eats some cake. "This is
good," she says with her mouth full. "This is very good."

	"I had a sample at the store. Oh, that reminds me. Be right back."
I jump up from the table and run upstairs. She has hung up some of my
clothes, but my toiletry case is untouched. I get her present out of
the side pocket and fluff up the store-tied and quite squashed bow.
The wrapping paper is also somewhat worse for the wear, but there's
no time to rewrap it. I go back downstairs, where Scully is still
eating cake.
"Happy birthday," I say for about the twentieth time, and put her
gift on the table.

	"Mulder . . . you didn't need to."

	I sit back down at her side and say, "Yes, I think I did need to."

	"Thank you," she says quietly. She picks up the package and slides
her fingernail under the ribbon to take off the bow. She rips off the
paper and puts it aside, and stares at the CD in her hands.

	All right. It's not the kind of thing one platonic friend gives to
another. The title of the thing is "Romantica," after all, and the
cover has hearts and flowers and frolicking couples. Scully turns the
CD over and her carefully-arranged face crumples slightly when she
sees the subtitle: Great love songs from around the world. She tears
off the plastic and opens the cardboard CD case, and flips through
the liner notes.

	Her silence is starting to scare me. "Do you want to know why I
bought that?"

	"Do I?" she says quietly.

	"I was in the store looking for a new copy of, um, 'Communion', and
they played this over the PA. And I thought it was nice, you know,
pretty. Different. Then, um, they played this song." I turn the CD
over to the back and point to the song. Number 8. "And--" And I don't
know if I should tell her this, but I do anyway. "And I started to
cry."

	Her eyes finally rise from the CD to meet mine.

	"Right there in the New Age section of Barnes&Noble. Big, blubbery
. . . anyway. I went back to the music section and bought it, because
I want you to hear this song." Still she says nothing. I say,
"Because a song has never affected me this way. And it says things
that I've wanted to, but couldn't. Didn't have the words for." She
closes her eyes, and I gently take the CD from her hands. "I'll put
this in the stereo."

	She doesn't say anything, doesn't even move, as I go from the
dining room to the living room and put the CD into the stereo. It was
one of the first things I did this afternoon--it's no fun doing
physical work without tunes, in my opinion. I set it to track 8 and
turn up the volume. I stay kneeling in front of the stereo.

	It's a soft piece, just a guitar, a piano, and the singer, who has
a pleasant, soft tenor voice. But it's the words that moved me. It's
the words that I hope will help me now.

"He walks, he does not run,
He has no overwhelming need to fly,
His heart remains unbroken,
No need to search the sky.
But me, I've never found that place,
I wander recklessly,
And I know that she will find me,
I know that she will find me,
Even if I vanish without a trace,
Oh, and though I'm running blindly,
I know that she will find me,
Hiding with the shadows that I chase."



	Behind me I hear the legs of the chair scraping on the dining room
floor. I close my eyes, expecting Scully to tell me to turn this
nonsense off and not be so sentimental. But she says no such thing--
she hardly makes a sound as she walks across the floor and kneels
down behind me. Her arms go around my chest and her cheek presses
against my back. I put my hand over hers and exhale slowly.

"No one can rock his boat,
Or make him stand and wait upon his sea,
Everything is calm and even,
steady, safe as it can be,
But me, I've never found that place, I wander recklessly,
But I know that she will find me,
I know that she will find me,
Even if I vanish without a trace,
And though I'm running blindly
I know that she will find me
Hiding with the shadows that I chase."

	Her hands work free of mine and she moves from behind me to beside
me. She touches my face gently, and I open my eyes. Her eyes are
sparkling wet, and she had that sweet sad smile that tells me she
doesn't have words for what she's feeling either. She stands, holding
out her hands, and I rise as well and put my hands in hers. She
reaches over and pushes the Repeat Track button, and then pulls me
gently into her arms.

"Sometime we search too deep
That's when the darkness feeds our fear
We turn away from one another
Just in case we get too near
Me, I stay on this mountaintop,
I shout so she can hear,
And I know that she will find me,
I know that she will find me
Even if I vanish without a trace
And though I'm running blindly
I know that she will find me
Hiding with the shadows that I chase."

	We hold each other tight. It's not really dancing, it's more of a
swaying, with her head buried in my chest and her hands stroking my
back. At the words of the last verse--"We turn away from one another,
just in case we get too near"--she looks up at me. Her mouth opens
for a moment, and then she pulls my head down and kisses my forehead.
Our foreheads rest against each other, and then she lifts her head
and kisses my mouth.

	Oh. Oh oh oh. It's been too long since I've kissed you, Scully,
it's only been a week but it feels like an age. I have to stoop to
reach her as fully as I want to but it doesn't matter, Scully is in
my arms and kissing me and it doesn't matter how much longer we wait
to make love again, because Scully loves me.

	And she will always find me.


Note: Pulchratissima is "I'm too lazy to look it up" Latin for "most
beautiful."
Songs: "With or Without You" by U2, "You Say It's Your Birthday" by
the Beatles, and "She Will Find Me" by Dougie MacLean. Used without
permission. "She Will Find Me" is on the CD "Romantica," available
from Putumayo World Music.

After Midnight: Heart In Hand

	I'm dead.

	Floating.

	Outside of my body I watch, fascinated by what I see. Not a Dana
Scully robbed of breath and a pulse by the cancer that had ravaged
her body, but a Dana Scully robbed of her heart. Literally. My life
brought to a halt not by a cruel twist of cells and nature, but by a
killer I couldn't fight. The choke-hold on his neck never slowed him;
the five bullets I pumped into his chest went right through.

	And so I died.

	He's got hold of my heart now and is staring down at it, his gory
trophy, his face cold and  expressionless, though his eyes betray
him. I see victory in their glittering depths. Victory--and revulsion.

	I should hope so.

	A brief energy flows between us and in an instant I know he is like
me--dead. But he is different from me--he had no purpose to live
again but to kill. And he knows it. He looks up at me and smiles
grimly, as if
he knows as well what will come. I'm not interested in anything more
his black soul has to share with my world, and I think he knows that,
too.

	Because he disappears.

	Fast. Vanishes right in front of me, and I can't even feel him
anymore, his shadowed, soulless presence gone from me as if he'd
never been there at all. But for this strange state of existence for
me, and my body lying still and bloody on the floor of Mulder's
apartment, I wonder. Am I dreaming? Was he real? Did this happen?

	And where the hell is my heart?

	I hover above my lifeless body, studying the blood on my shirt and
already feeling so far removed from the agony I'd only seconds ago
suffered it frightens me. Dream or not, I can feel the fragile thread
of existence fraying for me, and I know what I'm supposed to do next.
I turn slightly, look over my shoulder in this warm, dark place, and
see the light. I knew it would be there. I don't know how. I just
knew.

	Without hesitation I start toward it. This is what the dead do, and
I do it. The certainty is wonderful and deep. There is no fear at
all. So I'm moving--not walking, not flying, just moving. Slow. Too
damn slow
for someone who's time has come, in my opinion. I don't fight it,
but I have the strange, instinctive feeling that something is pulling
me back.

	I don't hear the door slam back against the wall of Mulder's
apartment, but I sense it. And then I see him, gun drawn as he
crosses the threshold, though the weapon comes down, slowly, slowly
as he spots me on the floor.

	Oh, Mulder.

	He mutters something as he comes toward me, and his voice rings
through my consciousness. "Oh, no," he's saying. "No, no...." Mulder
kneels beside me. I turn to watch him and try to tell him I'm all
right. I'm in a safe place now. It hurt like hell to get here, but
the memory is already fading, Mulder. Don't worry. Don't cry.

	He isn't crying. Not yet. He's scanning my body, head to toe.
Looking for life--looking for breath--his eyes flickering over the
blood covering my chest, willing this reality away. He waits an
agonizing second, then another, refusing to believe what I know he
clearly sees.

	I reach a hand out to him, unthinking. Short of my goal I realize--
oh, no. No, wait! I'm moving again, faster this time, on toward the
light. Away from Mulder.

	"Wait!" I call out with no voice, though I can hear my voice
ringing in this warm, comforting place. "Wait, please! I'm not ready-
-"

	Did I just say that?

	Either way, I stop. And when I begin to move again, I'm moving in
the other direction. Back to Mulder. Back to me.

	He stares down at me, hazel eyes fixed on my soul as it re-enters
my body. Can he see it? Does he know? He exhales, one life-giving
puff of air nowhere near my lips--and yet his life breath fills me. I
suck it in
and jerk away, and without a thought begin to fight. Because I'm
alive--I'm alive!

	But my killer is gone. I stop fighting. My hands go soft in
Mulder's hold. My heart beats strong inside me, an impossible gift
from the man who lingers above me. Slowly, with infinite tenderness,
he takes me in his arms. But I don't want tender. I want Mulder.
Solid. Strong. Vibrant with life--and a love for me so intense there
is no longer any question. I was dead. He willed me back. My truth is
found.

	Emotion surges through me, myriad, overwhelming. Fear, love, life,
devotion, gratitude rushes through my being, and I begin to sob.
Mulder's arms tighten around me, his hands clutch my shoulders and
the back of my head. I cling to him, claw at his back, needful,
desperate to make my way inside. Shelter is there, I know it. Shelter
from this storm, from my weakness, from the darkness I knew in that
warm, comforting place without Mulder there beside me.

	"Scully," he whispers, "Scully..." Over and over again, no other
words of comfort. Just Scully. He could whisper my name like this
forever and I would never get tired of hearing it. Never. There is
caress in his tone, absolute devotion, and reverence in the syllables
as he speaks them. Scully, Scully....

	The tumult slowly passes. I come back to myself slowly, feeling the
pieces fit themselves together. I'm aware of my heart beating solid
inside me, beating against Mulder's chest. I'm aware of our mingled
breath, our joined spirit, and the wetness of my blood sticking to
the skin under my blouse--staining the once snowy fabric, staining
Mulder's shirt. I wonder if Padgett is seeing this. I wonder if he is
writing it.

	But then I know, just as quickly, that he isn't. Because this is
real, honest and pure. Padgett knew nothing of those words. He knew
weakness and dreams, and the ugliness inside us all. He may even have
known my longing, but he knew nothing of *me*. The me I am here on
the floor of Mulder's apartment, cradled and rocked and whispered to
by my love. My destiny.

	The sobs subside and my hold on Mulder loosens. I want to let him
up, to release him, but he doesn't let go. I'm not surprised.

	"Mulder," I mutter into the safety of his muscled shoulder. "I'm
all right. I'm--"

	I feel his hands slide down me, one under my arms, the other gentle
against the backs of my knees as he lifts me. And I'm floating again,
lightheaded and heavy-limbed, though Mulder bears me with ease to the
couch. He lays me down on it then stands over me, cell phone already
in hand.

	"This is Special Agent Fox Mulder. I have an agent down--"

	"Mulder, I don't need--"

	"Yes. Fourth floor, apartment 42." Routine would have dispatch ask
Mulder to stay on the line with them until paramedics arrived, but he
doesn't. He pushes the talk button to disconnect then presses a speed
dial number, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder as he
bends over me and begins to undo my blouse.

	"Mulder, stop."

	"Skinner. No, I can't hold. Tell him Scully's down. He needs to get
here." Click. Mulder lets go of the phone. It hits the floor with a
unhealthy "thunk".

	"Mulder, this isn't necessary. I'm fine."

	He isn't listening. He's got my shirt unbuttoned and peels the
fabric away from where it's already begun to stick to my skin. He
stares at my chest, watches me draw breath, studies the blood-soaked
lace of my once-white bra. I blink and can't resist a look down
myself. Blood covers me, still wet. But there is no wound. No wound.

 	Mulder looks at my face. Our eyes meet and hold. Without a word he
places his hand, palm down, over my left breast. I feel the pump of
blood, the reassuring beat he's looking for, and smile. He closes his
eyes. My hand covers his.

	"Mulder, it's all right," I tell him, but he knows. He didn't hear
my screams, but he felt them. He doesn't know the agony of having an
assassin's hand invade his body, searching, digging, buried to the
wrist
in his chest cavity. But he's trying to know--for me. So I stop
trying to tell him everything is fine, and let him feel instead.

	It's what he needs. It's what we both need.

	A buzz fills my head and I close my eyes, listening to the sirens
fill the eerily still day outside Mulder's window. I'm suddenly
tired. So very, very tired. Mulder drops to his knees beside me, lays
his head
down on my chest, over our clasped hands. I raise my right hand and
stroke his hair, feel the brush of his lashes on my skin and the slow
trickle of his tears. He is quiet.

	We wait for the others to arrive.

*****

	The police left. Skinner is gone. The county morgue took Padgett's
body away. The paramedics told Scully to rest easy for the next day
or so, have a healthy meal, but not to worry because she lost no more
blood than your average donation.

	They couldn't find a wound.

	I saw it myself: her chest and stomach are as smooth and unmarked
as ever, only the fading scar from where that idiot Ritter shot her.
No new wound. No sign of entry. No source for all that blood.

	There was so much blood.

	She's now curled up in the corner of my couch under a blanket,
wearing three of my shirts and a pair of my sweatpants. I have a can
of soup warming up on the stove and cheese sandwiches assembled--the
best I can do on short notice--and I come out of the kitchen with a
glass of orange juice mixed with Sprite and ice.

	She's pale. She's been tanner than usual lately, from spending more
time in the sun, but she's pale now. I stand beside her and touch her
cheek, and her half-mast eyes fly up to my face. She smiles
uncomfortably and takes the glass with a murmured, "Thank you." She
drinks, holding the glass with both hands.

	"Chicken noodle soup," I say. "Is that okay?"

	"That's perfect." She rolls the glass over her face, her eyes closed.

	She looks fragile. Egglike. God, why does she make me think of
eggs? A perfect form unto itself, deceptively strong but breakable to
the wrong touch--

	I go back into the kitchen and snatch the now-boiling pot of soup
from the top of the stove. The frying pan is sizzling, and I put the
sandwiches onto it and press down on them with the spatula. As they
fry I get out bowls and spoons and plates, and divide the soup
between our two bowls. I flip the sandwiches onto their other sides
and bring a bowl and a spoon out to Scully.

	Her eyes are open but I know she's not seeing my apartment. Maybe a
sparsely-furnished, undecorated one that smells of cigarette smoke
and coffee. Maybe she's seeing an ordinary man made extraordinary by
the force of his imagination. Maybe she's hearing his voice, the soft
cadence of his seduction.

	Words. Only the signs of things, not the things themselves.

	I set down the bowl on the coffee table and her eyes meet mine. She
smiles again. Happier, this time. "Thank you," she says again. "It
smells wonderful."

	"Wait 'til you taste it," I say lightly, and she moves closer to
the coffee table to pick up the bowl. I catch her hand and she draws
in her breath sharply. "It's--it's hot," I say lamely, and she nods.
"I'll be right back I think I've got a tray somewhere." I go back
into the kitchen.

	It was only a book. Only words.

	But the words were enough, weren't they.

	I do have a tray. Another miracle. I grimace a smile and pass my
hand over my face. I take the sandwiches off the stove and put them
on a plate. I pour myself a glass of juice and bring all three out to
Scully.

	She's moved from the couch onto the floor, still wrapped up in the
blanket, and is eating the soup in slow, deliberate spoonfuls. She
pauses to watch me sit down on the floor opposite her, smiles again,
and
resumes eating.

	I eat automatically, swallowing the soup without tasting it. It
burns on the way down.

	How well do I know her? I thought I did. But then I read the book,
and now I'm not so sure. I can't ignore what I don't like--he was
right about so much else, he must have been right about the other
things
too. The Scully things.

	I know her better than I know anybody, and I don't know her at all.

	I lift my eyes from my soup bowl, and look at her. The sleeves of
my sweatshirt are rolled up to make fat doughnuts just above her
wrists. I'm finding her love of my clothes more and more appealing--
when she's
not here I can always find a shirt that smells of her. Beneath the
sweatshirt I can see the collars of two more t-shirts, which she put
on because she said she was cold. The blouse she was wearing is in
the trash. Her clothes are folded neatly in my bedroom. All her
makeup is gone from when she cleaned up after the attack. Well, most
of it was actually cried off, I think. Her hair is pushed back, held
off her face with a barrette from her gym bag. Her hands are steady.
Her expression is preoccupied.

	I remember the first time I saw her--the sensible shoes, the off-
the-rack suit, the hair, the handshake--I dismissed her the first
time I saw her. No, not dismissed. I just didn't think she would mean
anything me. I didn't want her to.

	But she crept into me. She consumed me. She remade me.

	And I still don't know her at all.

	I could rattle off a list of facts and that wouldn't begin to
describe the enigma that is Dana Scully. She runs, she paints her
toenails bright red but paints her fingernails with just a clear
varnish, she eats ice cream straight out of the carton, she goes to
church as regularly as she can, she has a dry, wicked wit and a
collection of fantasy-inducing shoes--

	I love her helplessly. Ferociously.

	"Mulder," she says, her spoon pausing on the way to her mouth,
"you're staring."

	I put down my spoon and lean my head on my hand. "You're
beautiful," I say softly, and she looks away.

	"Mulder . . ."

	"You have a face like a Renaissance painting of a virgin martyr."

	She grimaces. Okay, perhaps that was a poor choice. I say, "You
make me think of an egg."

	This brings out the Eyebrow, but I go on anyway. "You're an egg,
Scully. The most perfect marriage of form and function. The most
pleasing shape. The most pleasing texture. Completely self-contained."

	"Do I want to know what you think my function is?" she says dryly,
and then she closes her eyes and sighs. "I'm too tired for riddles."

	"How come you can open up to everybody but me?"

	Her eyes open and fix on my face, troubled. "You know me better
than anyone."

	"Do I? I used to think so."

	"I don't open up to everybody. I talk to you and my mother and my
priest, and that's basically it."

	I hold up one hand. "Eddie Van Blunhdt." I fold down one finger.
"Ed Jerse." I fold down another. "That Jack guy from Maine." I fold
down a third, and say deliberately, "Phillip Padgett." I fold down my
fourth finger, leaving only my thumb. "Where do I fit in all this?"

	She pushes her bowl away. "Mulder, please, I'm too tired for this.
I just want to sleep."

	The truth is, so am I. I let my hand drop. "Fine. All right. I'll
drive you home." I stand and collect our dishes to take them back
into the kitchen.

	"I'd like to stay here. If that's okay."

	When I look at her face there's pleading in her eyes. Say it's okay.

	"I want to sleep in your arms," she adds the softest voice I've
ever heard her use, and I can no more refuse than I can let her leave
me tonight.

	"Okay," I say gently, and bend down to kiss the top of her head
before going back into the kitchen. I rinse out the dishes and put
them in the washer, and stand for a moment leaning on the sink. I
want to hold her and keep her safe for as long as she'll let me. I
just want to hold her.

	No, that's not true. I want to make love to her. I want so much to
give her pleasure and comfort, to prove to her that I am committed,
that I am loyal, that there is nothing and no one that means more to
me.
And even though I respect her boundaries and her need to go slowly,
it's getting harder and harder because I want her so much. Just
sheer, animal want.

	But when she needs to be held, I'll hold her. When she needs to be
kissed, I'll kiss her. When she needs to be fucked, we'll fuck. It's
simple. It's inevitable.

	I'm aware I'm not going to sleep much tonight. That is also
inevitable.

	I splash cold water on my face. I have to wonder sometimes if she
has these same thoughts, that she's waiting for me to be ready for
sex too. Maybe we're both standing considerately back, waiting for the
other to step forward.

	Maybe it's time to take that step.

	However, when I come out of the kitchen, Scully is asleep on the
couch. So much for the pep talk. Her face is relaxed and trusting,
and her tiny body is curled up in the corner of the couch as if she's
trying
to wedge herself into the smallest space possible. She's so deeply
asleep that she doesn't even surface when I work my arms beneath her
and lift her up, and the only sound she makes is a soft "hmm" when I
lay her down in my bed and pull the blankets up over her.

	For a moment I stand there, watching her sleep, and I wonder how
long it has been since someone has carried her to bed and tucked her
in. Probably at least as long as it's been for me.

	I stroke her hair and kiss her face, and leave the door open so I
can hear her if she wakes up before I come back to bed. There's a few
things I want to do first, some calls to make and emails to answer. It
shouldn't be more than an hour.

	And then I'll come to bed and hold her.

*****

	The sound is tiny in the dark apartment, a mere whisper that I
wouldn't hear if I weren't listening for it. "Mulder?"

	Yet another odd association I make with Scully flits across my
brain--"It was little Cindy Lou Who, who was no more than two"--and I
answer just as softly, "I'll be right there, Scully."

	Instead she appears, ghostlike, in the doorway to my living room,
and I repress a shiver. Ghostlike. Just what I need, images of
Scully's ghost. She pads across the room it's an earthly enough
sound, and I relax as she put her hands on my shoulders. "I woke up
and you weren't there."

	"I wanted to get some stuff done before bed."

	"Will you be finished soon?"

	"Soon. I don't want to keep you awake with my tossing and turning."

	"You usually sleep soundly when we're together."

	Neither of us say it, but we both think it: usually when we sleep
together it's after some foolin' around. She sighs and kneads my
shoulders, and I turn back to the computer and resume typing.

	"Another e-pal?" she says eventually.

	"Acquaintance. We have fundamental differences."

	"About . . ?"

	"He's under the impression that aliens have a lot to teach us. That
a race advanced enough for space travel must be ipso facto
benevolent."

	"Ipso facto," she murmurs, and kisses my hair. "Come to bed, Mulder."

	I can't stop the shiver that passes through me, and shut down my
computer. "I just need to brush my teeth."

	"I'll be waiting," she says, and her feet are nearly soundless on
the floor was she walks away.

	After the fastest teeth-brushing of my adult life and a quick
washing of the face, I turn out any lights that are still on and go
into my bedroom. Thank God for whoever redecorated this place for me,
who decided that most of all I needed a decent bed. I've replaced the
water mattress, of course, with a regular one, but it's still a
wonderful, comfortable bed. And it's even better when it smells of
Scully.

	As it does now. I change clothes in the dark, just a t-shirt and
flannel pajama bottoms, and crawl into bed beside her. We spoon up
like usual, my body encasing hers protectively, and then she sighs
and turns to face me. "I want to hear your heart," she whispers, and
her hand comes to rest on my breastbone.

	I lay my hand on top of hers. She's trembling all over, and her
hands and feet are cold. "You're freezing, you should have told me,"
I say, and start to rise to get another blanket.

	She pulls me back. "I'm okay. Just hold me."

	I rub her hands between mine and blow on them, and take her feet
between my knees. She presses her body against me, her head on my
chest. She mutters, "You don't happen to have a sleeping bag around,
do you?" and I snort on a laugh.

	"Nope. Though I could go get one--"

	"It's okay. We'll improvise." Her hand slips under my t-shirt to
rest on my stomach, right on my skin. I have to take a deep breath,
but I put my hand on top of hers again, through the cotton.

	I lie there, feeling her breathe, feeling the heat come back to her
body, feeling the heat moving through my own, and I wonder if she
honestly expects me to sleep like this. I feel like Henderson the Rain
King, the endless *I want I want* nagging at me--but unlike
Henderson I know exactly what I want. I'm holding what I want in my
arms, I've kissed what I want, I've come into her mouth and made her
come with mine. And it's probably terrible of me that I can't stop
wanting her when she's tired and weak and trusting, but then there's
that warm little hand resting on my stomach. She's not oblivious.
She's not cruel. I know the desire is there, if not the energy.

	The headlights of passing cars glide over the wall opposite my
window, and I count them as they pass by. I'm up to four in about
twenty minutes when Scully says softly, "Mulder? Are you asleep?"

	"No."

	"Neither am I."

	"I wonder why," I rumble, and she chuckles. She props her head on
her hand and looks down at me. Her other hand leaves my stomach and
comes up to touch my lips.

	"Can we talk a little? I mean, really talk?"

	"Sure, Scully, what about?"

	She sighs and bends her head to kiss my forehead. Her hair tickles
my face. "Padgett," she whispers, and her hands starts stroking my
face. "I'm still trying to understand what happened, exactly."

	"They found him in the basement with his heart in his hand and his
manuscript burned. End of story."

	She goes on stroking my face. She says, "Do you think the killer
attacked him?"

	"I don't know. Did you see him leave?"

	"No. I told you I'd passed out by then."

	"I wonder why he left it unfinished. Of course, I'm glad he did "

	"Of course." She sits up, pulling up her knees. "Because I--I'm not
sure . . . I don't think he did leave it unfinished."

	"Scully, you're alive, your heart is right where it belongs,
beating the way it's supposed to. Somehow for whatever reason he left
and attacked Padgett instead."

	"Do you really think so?" She turns her head to look at me.

	I sit up and put my arm around her. I press my lips to her hair and
inhale the scent of her, and I whisper, "I don't know." She sighs and
leans against me, and I say, "Nothing in this case really makes
sense. The simplest answer is usually the right one, right? But
there's no simple answer here, that I can find."

	She puts her arms around me and lies her head on my shoulder, and
whispers, "Mulder, I think I was dead. I think I died. For a minute--
less than that I was dead."

	"Scully "

	"I'm serious. I saw him. I saw my body. I saw the blood. And then
he was gone and you were there and then--and then I wasn't dead
anymore."

	"It might have been the adrenaline, Scully, the fear people
sometimes think they've left their bodies in highly stressful
situations--"

	"He had my heart in his hand and it was beating, and then he wasn't
there."

	"Why didn't you tell the police this?"

	"Because you don't believe me, Mulder, why would they?"

	"Sweetheart, it's not that I don't believe you--"

	"I know what death feels like, Mulder, I've been there a few times.
And so have you."

	She's right. We've both hovered on that edge. I kiss her hair
again, and then move so that she's between my legs and I hold her to
my chest. Her arms tighten around my waist. "Tell me why you wanted
to believe him."

	"I don't know. Maybe because I was written to."

	"You were also written to fall in love with him, but you didn't."

	"Because I'm already in love," she says, raising her face to mine,
and I want to weep at how beautiful she is, how tender and fragile.

	"Do you love me?"

	"Yes."

	"Will you say it?" Because she's told me once. I'd like to hear it
more often than that. She doesn't have to express her undying
devotion to me every hour, but I'd like to hear it more often than,
say, once every four months.

	"I love you, Mulder," she whispers, and her hand goes into my hair
to pull down my head. She kisses me sweetly, and lies her head on my
shoulder again. I bend my head over hers to kiss her cheek.

	"Someday, Scully, it's going to be the right time. We're both going
to be healthy, physically and emotionally. We're not going to be torn
apart by other people's expectations. We're going to need each
other more than ever, and we're going to act on it."

	"Yes," she whispers into my shoulder. "But it's not now."

	"Just promise you'll stick around when it is. Okay?"

	I can't see her smile, but I know she is. "I'll be here. I'm not
going anywhere."

	I smile too, and lie us both back down. And even though both of us
sleep deeply, neither of us let go.

After Midnight: A Fine Piece of Ash

	There are moments in your life that you keep crystallized. Things
that you remember with such clarity, with such perfection, that they
stay with you all your life as if they happened five minutes ago.
Some you
would rather forget, some you would give anything to forget, but the
others . . . ah, the others . . .

	The suede of Scully's jacket is soft as butter. She smells sweetly
of baby powder and something lemony, maybe her lotion, maybe her
shampoo. Her hair is delicate as feathers brushing against my face. I
can feel the strength of her body as we swing the bat together, and
each time the bat connects with the ball she jumps like an excited
little girl. I can't see her smiling but I know she is.

	I've made Scully happy.

	This is a keeper moment, forever. This is what I want to remember
when I'm dying. This is what I want in the Good Deeds column. This is
what I want Scully to think of when someone says my name.

	We have so few moments like this, when we can relax and play and
enjoy each other. I want to tell Scully everything that's in my
heart, but I'm afraid that mentioning it will spoil it. You don't
point out a special
moment, you just let it be.

	She leans back against me and sighs, and her cheek nuzzles my arm
for a moment. "Hey, Mulder," she says softly.

	"Hey, Scully."

	"How long are you planning to keep the kid up past his bedtime?"

	I look at my watch. It's later than I thought, almost ten. "Yeah,
let's see him home," I say, and though I'm reluctant to let go of
Scully I do, and she holds the bat while I take out my wallet and go
pay Poor Boy.

	He grins at me when I hand him the twenty, and pushes his cap back
from his face. "She's pretty," he says matter-of-factly.

	"She is. Should I drive you home?"

	"Is she your wife?"

	I look back at the batting cage. "Not yet," I say softly, and the
boy giggles. Scully has picked up a ball and is rolling it in her
hands like an orange, and she smiles at us when she sees us looking.
"So anyway, do you want a ride home?"

	"Nah," Poor Boy says, and puts the twenty in his shoe. "I'm just a
couple blocks over. G'night, Mister!" He darts off into the darkness,
and Scully watches him go.

	"He doesn't want a ride?" she says as she walks towards the
pitcher's mound.

	"He said he lives close by. So, what do you want to do now?"

	"We should probably get home."

	"But tomorrow's Sunday."

	"Well, nobody said we had to go home separately, did they?" She
smiles at me again, and holds the ball to her nose and sniffs it. I
smile back at her--I love the smell of baseballs too--and take the
bat from her
hand.

	"Let's go, then, pretty girl. Your place or mine?"

	"Yours, cute boy. I'm in the mood for that ridiculous bed of yours."

	"I like my bed," I protest, but I put my arm around her shoulders.
I'm trying to not read too much into this: we do spend a lot of time
in bed together but we don't do anything more than kissing and
feeling and at
most a finger-fuck or a handjob. She hasn't been very comfortable
with even oral sex, which I suppose I can understand. It's an Issue.
And since we're not very good at talking about Issues, it's remained
an Issue.

	We start walking towards the parking lot, then I stop and pull her
back to the pitcher's mound.  "I've always wanted to do this," I say,
taking her face between my hands, and I kiss her soundly.  "You know,
kiss a
pretty girl on the pitcher's mound.  Though I wanted to do it at
Yankee Stadium."

	She laughs, and puts her hands on my waist. "You may yet get your
wish."

	I throw back my head and laugh, and we go to the parking lot. My
arm stays comfortably around her shoulders and her arm rests around
my waist. She leans her head against my chest for a moment when we
stop at
her car, and then she steps back and catches my hands. She stands up
on her toes and kisses me quickly.

	"Don't dawdle," she whispers, and gives me a smile and a flick of
her eyes that tell me I'll be rewarded if I hurry. I smile back and
squeeze her hands, and we both hurry to our cars.


******

	I'm tempted to race Mulder home the way we raced to our cars, giddy
like children but with wild  plans for the night. I gun the motor and
back quickly out, before Mr. Stodgy has even unlocked his door. He's
so
mechanical sometimes--so methodical and predictable. He watches me
as I shove the car into gear and take off, the expression on his face
telling me this is a side of me he's never seen before.

	Well, he's about to see another. Maybe more.

	Pebbles fly as I peel out of the empty parking lot, onto the dark
streets of Arlington and into the night, shooting like the stars
toward destiny.  I wrap my hands around the steering wheel and hold
on tight,
alternately glancing to the side for Virginia PD, out my windshield
at the  beautiful night, and in my rear view mirror for Mulder. No
red flashing lights or Mulder beams behind me, and I can't help but
laugh out loud. I feel free. Flying free.

	While he's probably still standing there looking for his keys.
Wondering what the hell got into me.

	He got into me. Big time. With his soft, sweet talk and his hips
before hands, his $20 birthday gift, his long, lean fingers and his
less-than-subtle instructions on how to hold a "bat". How to hold a
*bat*, Mulder? The minute he walks through his apartment door, I'll
give him a lesson in "bat" holding he won't soon forget.

	The thought brings another smile to my lips. I shake my head and
laugh out loud again. I love this man. I love everything about him.
Well, almost everything. If I wasn't absolutely certain before,
tonight was just one more inexplicable, undeniable reason why. He
called me to the park under a pretense that was see-through and I
went anyway, not in the best humor but wanting to see what he was up
to. And he showed me. Boy, did he ever show me.

	With his arms tight around me and his body pressed to mine, we
swung for the stars. Corny, I think now, speeding through the streets
of Arlington, but true. How many times have we reached for the
impossible, Mulder and I, only to come up frustrated and empty?

	"Not tonight," I tell myself, and still I'm smiling. We will not
come up empty tonight.

	I reach Mulder's apartment building and with the luck of the Irish
on this warm, spring night there's a place to park right in front. I
whip around from the opposite side of the street and take the spot
neatly, get out of my car, chirp the alarm and look over my shoulder--
force of habit. No sign of muggers, no sign of Mulder--I smile again.
He's probably a good ten minutes behind me, obeying the speed limit
like he always does when there isn't an alien, a smoking man or a
clone of his sister in the car up ahead of him.

	My keys in my hand like I always carry them until I'm inside, I
enter Mulder's apartment building and find the elevator waiting for
me. That never happens. But tonight is special, I remind myself.
Tonight is like
a dream. I punch the button for the fourth floor, still smiling--I
can't stop smiling. And now I'm smiling like some funky, virginal
teen. I feel like a funky, virginal teen, ready to take that step,
ready to give
myself over to the man I cherish, knowing more the  rightness of it
than the consequences. So I don't know the future. So I have no
guarantees. So what?

	The bell dings for Mulder's floor, the door opens and I head down
the hallway, *our* hallway, the place where this new feeling between
us exploded almost a year ago. I glance at the spot where he held me
and I fell, the smile drifting from my lips as I move in front of
Mulder's door. I use my key. On instinct I glance up at the brass 42,
making sure I've got the right place. I could find this place in the
dark and blind-folded, I know, but all of a sudden I'm feeling
nervous. I wonder why.

	Mulder's apartment is a mess. He wasn't expecting me. The smile
slides back. Somehow that makes what I'd planned even better. No time
to clean up, I tell myself, noting his dirty plate and iced tea glass
on the coffee table beside half a dozen X Files. His tennis shoes lie
on their sides in front of the couch, and his sweatshirt is draped
over the back.

	With a sigh I remove my jacket, hang it up, then flip the light on
and go over to the bookshelf where he moved his CD's. I find the one
I'm looking for--Barry White. Sex music. Perfect for what I've got in
mind,
and what I refuse to let my mind talk me out of. I put the CD in,
set the buttons--Barry White on continuous play. That'll work.

	In the kitchen I don't find much--more dirty dishes, an open box of
cereal and something that looks like a sprouting potato in the sink.
Ignoring it all I retrieve the bottle of wine I stuck in the back of
his refrigerator two weeks ago, pop the cork and locate two clean
glasses. Hardest part of all. I set everything on a tray and leave
the tray on the table just inside his front door--a little hint for
you, Mulder. Subtle as your bat. I leave the light on dim, sway a
little to the low hum of Barry White, then head into the bedroom.

	Ah, the bedroom. More of the same in here, only worse. I kick off
my shoes and they end up beside his work shoes, which look to be
awaiting a polish at the foot of his bed. For a few minutes I busy
myself walking
around, picking up Mulderwear wherever I see it--boxers, socks, a
tee shirt or two. Two dress shirts hang on the bathroom door knob--I
frown,but leave them be. He's usually more careful with his work
stuff, but he's been a little distracted the last few days.

	All right, a lot distracted.

	We've both been on edge since the Padgett thing. Too much talking
and very little else. I've been telling him for weeks we'll be
stronger for it all in the end, and he's just Mulder enough to give
that theory a try for the first five minutes after I've mentioned it.
But he always slips back, wondering and then asking what it is about
him or this new relationship that doesn't sit quite right with me.

	I leave his dress shirts on the bathroom knob, drop an armful of
his stuff in the hamper then sit down on the edge of his bed, mindful
of our shoes. They look so funny there next to each other--his 11's,
mine size
5, but taller. It's the only way I can meet his gaze without
straining my neck. Whatever the logistics, it works. We fit together--
we always have.  Isn't that what matters? Maybe I haven't found the
right words to
explain to him what I can't even explain to myself. Words and sex
aren't who we are. I just keep thinking when the time is right, we'll
know it.

	"Let go, Scully. Let it fly...."

	How often have I done that? *Never*, I tell myself, except with
total strangers. People who don't know me, people I don't care to
know and whose opinion of me matters less than Krycek's. Why is it so
easy to let
go with people you aren't vested in, with people you don't love and
who don't love you, when the people who *do* love you are the ones
that count? I shake my head, unable to answer, but I still hear
Mulder in my
brain.

	"Let go, Scully. Fly...."

	My hands are on the buttons of my blouse, half way down and then
done before my mind has even processed my heart's intentions. Yes, I
want this. I want this now. Tonight. With Mulder. There is no reason
to continue this silly, perfunctory dance--no reason to allow this
last wall to stay between us. It's just a technicality now. My God,
he's touched me everywhere, like I've touched him. The only real
mystery here is how much he'll fill me, and how fast. It's been a
while, remember.

	I remove my blouse, determined to do this, to see it through. This
is right. I know it. Mulder and I were destined to make love, like
Mulder and I are destined to be together, no matter how many past
loves,
conspiracies or virus-laden bees try to come between us. I can't
imaginemy life without him. I know he feels the same. There is
nothing more to talk or think about--tonight's the night.

	Oh, God, Rod Stewart, I think, as I fold my blouse across my lap.
*Please* don't start singing Rod Stewart, Dana. Not in the middle of
Barry "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Baby," White. And I don't. I
don't
sing. I mean, I don't feel like singing, really, and I don't much
care for Rod Stewart. Well, that "if you want my body" song wasn't
bad, but--

	"Scully?"

	I jump to my feet, letting my blouse fall to the floor over my and
Mulder's shoes. "What?" I choke out as I hear the front door close.
Mulder starts down the hallway. "Wait!" I cry. "Don't come in here!"

	He laughs a little, that low, wonderful sound. It always puts me at
ease. It does so now and I take a deep breath.

	"What're you doing in there?" he asks, not even trying to be sexy
with that husky, raspy voice of his, but it's there. Depth. Promise.
Control. Oh, Mulder....

	I push the bedroom door half-closed with my foot, just in case he's
tempted to peek. "You'll see," I say to him, and I can almost see his
quizzical smile. "Now go on. Clean your couch off. I'll be there in a
minute."

	Clean your couch off?

	Well okay, Scully, nice, seductive mood-setter there. Anything else
you'd like to add? "Mulder, the--uh--" I say, unzipping my pants and
stomping them to the floor. "The wine is on the table there--"

	"I saw that, Scully."

	Right. Bra next, front hooking and undone with a quick flick. I
toss it without looking to see where it lands--I'm too busy trying to
think of something sexy to wear. I put boxers, tee-shirts and stiff
socks into
the hamper, left Mulder's dress shirts on the bathroom door--I grab
one, white with razor thin blue and gray stripes. I recognize it
immediately. One of my favorites shirts....

	It's unbuttoned and I start to pull it on. Mulderscent surrounds
me. I bunch the shirt in my hands and bring it up to my face,
inhaling deeply. Him. Faint soap, musky sweat, a sprinkle of Downy,
spicy cologne.
I inhale again. Yum.

	I'm a fool. How can I doubt the rightness of this when all I want
to do is wrap myself in his discarded clothing and live there the
rest of my life? He is for me like no other man has ever been or ever
will be. We
are right. Nearly seamless. Whether we're chasing aliens, Samantha,
child killers or mutants; whether we're conjecturing, conspiring,
being conspired against or mind controlled, battling Kersh or batting
at stars, we are bound. Blended.

	With one exception.

	Mouth tight, I button myself into Mulder's shirt and head for the
bedroom door. There is one hurdle left between us and damn it, I'm
gonna straddle that hurdle tonight and wring it dry if it's the last
fucking
thing I do.

******

	Even though I drive as quickly as I dare, she still beats me to my
building, and when I park my car she's nowhere in sight. I punch the
button for the elevator and when it's slow in coming, decide to take
the
stairs. I take the stairs two and three at a time, and when I arrive
on my floor and go to my door it's already unlocked. I can hear music
from inside. I have to grin: we've been experimenting with mood
music, and
while she prefers classical and I prefer rock, we've found that R&B
works wonders for us both. So now she's got the Barry White playing.

	"Scully?" I call as I close the door behind me. "Where are you?"

	"What?" she calls back faintly. From my bedroom. "Wait! Don't come
in here."

	I chuckle.   "What're you doing in there?"

	"You'll see," she says, and the door clicks completely shut.  "Now
go on. Clean your couch off. I'll be there in a minute."

	Clean your couch off?  Okay, it is covered with clothes and files
and yesterday's paper.  I start gathering things up, and that when I
notice the wine.

	"Mulder, the--uh--" There's a faint rustling from my bedroom. "The
wine is on the table there--"

	"I saw that, Scully." This is an interesting development.  I turn
the stereo up a little and put the baseball bat away in the corner
behind my bookshelf. So, what has my lovely Scully gotten up to,
waiting for me? Will I open my door to find candles burning, Scully
lounging on my bed, her clothes already tossed aside? Or is she just
changing into the pajamas she's taken to leaving here, and will come
out in a moment for an evening on the couch with the TV, to fall
asleep in my arms before the news is over?

	It's almost a given, however, that we're not going to talk.  Not
about anything really important, anyway.

	I sit down on the couch to take off my shoes and socks, and then
lean back. Why don't we talk about issues? I think, and then notice
that my toenails need clipping. Why don't we talk? We do talk, but
not about the heavy things, the important things, or even the little
things, really. We have to agree to talk, and even then it's so hard
to say what we're really feeling.

	What about if, when she comes out of my bedroom, I say, "Scully,
when are we going to have sex?"

	And then she'll say, "When I trust you," and I'll have to ask why
she doesn't trust me and she tell me, and then we'll probably fight
and she'll leave in tears . . . no, scratch that plan.

	That, friends and neighbors, is why we don't talk. I am afraid of
what she'll say.

	The door finally opens and Scully comes out, and my mouth falls
open. She's not wearing sweats or pajamas or whatever else I was
expecting. She's wearing one of my shirts. And as far as I can tell,
nothing else.

	She smiles and walks over to me, and gently shuts my mouth. She
leans over and kisses me.  "I'm thirsty," she says. "Will you pour
some wine?"

	Wine, yes, wine, that's what this bottle is.  I manage to grasp the
bottle without my hands shaking too badly and fill the glasses as she
curls up at my side and leans against me.

	"Thank you," she murmurs when I hand her a glass.  I mumble
something and sip my own.  I am trying to relax. Okay. We're hanging
out. She likes wearing my clothes. It's a good night, but an ordinary
one, and
it's going to end like so many others.

	And her hand is tracing circles on my knee.

	Relax, Mulder. Relax.

	"Mulder, did you have dinner today? I know it's often the last
thing you think of."

	"I ate. I had, um, hot dogs."

	She laughs. "So healthy."

	"Man does not live on non-fat tofruitti Rice Dreamsicles alone,
Scully." Ice cream would be good right now.  Got to cool down.

	Her hand moves upwards, her nails scratching lightly through my
jeans. It feels good. Too good. Much better than it should at this
moment, when I'm trying to just relax and keep her company. I can
barely pay
attention to the music--Scully's gentle, knowing hand is massaging
my thigh.

	"Are you comfortable, Mulder?" she says softly. "Those jeans look a
little . . . tight."

	I look down at her, puzzling. Am I missing something? She lifts up
my arm and puts it over her shoulders, and my hand, purely by
accident, right? all but cups her breast.

	I could smack myself upside the head for my sheer stupidity. Well,
well, well. As it is, I just smile quietly and brush my hand lightly
over the top of her breast, then move it to her shoulder.

	I am being seduced.

	That's what this is. The music and the shirt and her bare legs all
but draped over my lap. She's seducing me.

	Scully, you are full of surprises.

	"You're right, Scully," I say, leaning back.  "These jeans are a
little tight."

	"Poor baby," she murmurs, and her hand moves up my thigh to my
waistband.  "Just relax, Mulder.  I'll take care of you."

	Truth is, I am feeling a lot more relaxed now than I was five
minutes ago.  She sets aside our wine glasses and pushes gently on my
shoulders, and I lie on my back beneath her.  She unbuttons my shirt
and starts rubbing my chest, a sweet gentle massage through my
undershirt.  She's straddling me just below my waist, I'm sure not by
mere chance, and her slight weight is unbelievably arousing.

	"Relax, Mulder, relax," she croons, and she undoes the first three
buttons on my jeans.  I gasp in my breath, and she chuckles.  "Well,
what do we have here?"

	"Scully, I, uh--"

	"Just shake hands with it, right?"  She undoes the rest of my fly
and eases her hands into my shorts.  Her fingers stroke my cock, and
I whimper and put my hands on her knees.

	"Hello, Mr. Penis," she says softly, her voice low and amused.
"It's a pleasure to meet you.  Oh, no, no, Miss Scully, the pleasure
is all mine."  She scoots down my body and starts maneuvering my cock
out of
the fly of my briefs.  My hands have fallen to my sides, but I raise
them up to grasp her shoulders. She looks up at me, her eyebrow
already arching.

	"Scully, I need to know . . . I need to know you're sure about this."

	She sits up to look into my face, resting her weight on her arms.
"Mulder, do you remember what you said about us knowing when the time
is right?"

	"I remember."  I cup her face in my hand.

	"I think it's not going to get much more right than this."  She
rubs her cheek against my palm.  "I don't think I could love you more
than I do at this moment.  I don't think I could like you more,
either."

	"Oh, Scully . . ."

	"Or want you more."  She moves her head and opens her lips, and
sucks my fingers into her mouth.

	I moan at the sensation.  It's hard to concentrate on the task at
hand. "Scully, talk to me."

	She smiles around my fingers and gives them an extra-hard suck
before letting them fall out of her mouth. "All in good time," she
whispers, and starts kissing my chest again.

	Something about this doesn't quite feel right.  The wine and the
lights and the music and everything is a perfect setting--too
perfect.  I don't know what to make of her concentration on me,
asking nothing for
herself, when all I want is to have my hands on her skin.  It's like
she can't stop long enough to let me do anything.  Like she's
determined. Like she's afraid to stop.

	"Scully," I whisper as she nibbles and licks her way over my
stomach. "Scully, tell me you're sure about this."

	"I'm sure."

	"Because I'm not so certain that you are."

	She stops and sits up.  "What do you mean?  Of course I'm sure.
Isn't this what you want, what you've been hoping for--all but
begging for--for the past four months?"

	"Yes, it's what I want, but not if you have any doubts."  She leans
back on her heels and gives me a hard look, and I sit up.  I put my
arms around her and kiss her.  "No lingering doubts, Scully. I don't
want you to ever regret this, or take it back.  This is forever,
Scully.  I want it to start right."

	Scully bites her lip and studies me, and then gives a strange sort
of sigh and leans her head against my chest.  "Forever," she says.
"You sound so sure of it."

	"I am.  I won't let you settle for anything less."

	She chuckles softly and rubs her lips on my collarbone.  "I think I
can do forever," she says.  "Forever is what I want, too."

	"So tell me about the rest of it, then."  Please, Scully, tell me
you don't doubt me anymore.  I run my fingers up and down her spine
and wait.

	"It's hard for me to need people," she whispers.

	"I know it is."

	"I want you," she whispers.  "I trust you.  I trust you with
everything."  But she makes no further movement, just sits on my lap,
holding me.

	I sigh. Maybe I shouldn't have asked.  Finally I whisper, "Tell me
what you're afraid of, Scully."

	Her arms tighten around me, and she whispers into my chest, "Losing
you."

	"Oh, sweetheart, you're not going to lose me.  I'm never going to
leave you."

	"I know.  Not voluntarily.  But if someone takes you away--Mulder,
if you were--if you died--if they took you away from me--what would I
do?" She lifts her face to mine, and there are tears in her eyes.
"What
would I do without you?"

	For a moment I don't know what to say.  I stroke her back and her
hair, and gently kiss her face.  I've often wondered what would
happen to me if Scully died, how I would handle it, what would I do.
It was as painful as a physical blow, when I saw her in a hospital
bed after I asked her to lie for me and tell everyone I was dead . .
. But it has never occurred to me that Scully might miss me that
much, if I die first.  If I were taken away as she was taken from me,
she would suffer as much as I did--even more, because at that time I
really didn't comprehend how much I loved her.

	"I can't make you any promises about that," I whisper finally, and
she heaves a shuddering sort of sigh.  "But I can tell you this--I
would fight, I would do everything and anything, I would claw my way
back to you.  They would have to kill me, to keep me away from you."

	"It will happen or it won't, whether we're lovers or not," she says
quietly.  "I know that.  But I still have nightmares sometimes.
Sometimes I see myself as a bitter, half-mad old woman who hates the
rest of the world because her lover died.  You are the love of my
life, Mulder," she whispers, and her eyes close as if it hurts to say
it.

	I gasp at her admission.  God.  The love of her life.  God.  I
stroke her cheek and kiss her again, and rock her in my arms.  "The
time isn't right yet, Scully," I say, and she sniffles.  "I don't
know when it will
be.  If you're waiting for some cosmic sign to tell you we're going
to live happily ever after--"

	"I don't know," she says pensively.  "Ever after is just that, it's
as much time as you have. Whether the rest of our lives means seventy
years or seventy days, I'm sure we can live them happily."

	"But you need something more first."  I run my finger under her
teary eye.

	"I wish I knew exactly what it was."

	"So do I."

	She lets me hold her a few minutes more, then she resolutely pulls
away. "I'm going to put some clothes on," she says quietly.  "Do you
want to find a movie?"

	"Okay."  I watch her go back to my bedroom, and I can't hold back a
wistful sigh.  Someday, Scully.  Someday.

After Midnight: Deuces Wild


	"Hello? Mulder! Can you hear me?" I walk past the tv, cell phone
pressed to my ear, half-listening to the local news about Timothy
Landau being arrested for the murders of Grant Ellis and Suzanne
Modeski,half-listening to Mulder.

	"Where are you, Scully?" he asks. I hear a crack, a spit, and the
rustle of a bag. Okay....

	Frowning, I cup a hand over my free ear and try to get a grip on
the situation. Mulder is kicked back somewhere eating seeds, while
I'm--Christ, alone in the middle of Fucked or Broke, Nevada. "I'm at
the hotel," I tell him. "Where are you?"

	Crack. "What hotel?" Spit. Rustle.

	"What do you mean, what hotel? Las Vegas. I'm in Las Vegas. Aren't
you? You called me."

	Mulder laughs. "I didn't call you." Crack.

	"What do you mean, you didn't call me?"

	Spit. Rustle. "Is this a game, Scully? How kinky. Great set up."

	Set up. *Set* *Up*. Instantly, I understand. The Gunmen got me--
they got me good. The little shits. "Oh, man," I mutter. "I am gonna
kick their asses."

	I can almost see Mulder sit up a little straighter. Crack. Spit.
"Whose?" he asks, significant rustle as he sets his bag of seeds
aside.

	I've got his attention, at least.

	Shaking my head, I walk back to the tv and jam the button off. This
would be funny, I tell myself, if it had happened to anyone but me.
On my only free weekend, the one I was going to use trying to catch
up on some reading, and sleeping, and--well, whatever. I had things I
wanted to do. Things that had nothing to do with the Three Stooges.

	"Scully?"

	"The gunmen," I tell Mulder, glad to find the connection clearer
with the loss of the tv noise. I sit stiffly down on the couch, more
than pissed. Really pissed. "Those shifty bastards. They lured me
here, Mulder, and used your voice to do it."

	"Lured you?" I can hear the doubt in his voice, and the suppressed
laughter. I wonder what the hell he finds so funny, but I don't ask.
"The gunmen *lured* you to Vegas? How--exactly?"

	I swallow hard and cross my arms over my chest. "I don't know--
exactly."

	"Oh." I hear another significant rustle. I've lost him already.
Crack. Spit. "Well, when's your flight back?"

	"Tonight at ten."

	Rustle. "Well, babe, you've got a few hours to kill." Crack. Spit.

	I grind my teeth. *Babe*? "You mean a few geeks to kill," I grumble.

	"I don't know what they were thinking, why they did what they did."
Rustle. Crack. Spit. "But they must've had a good reason."

	"Easy for you to say," I snap. "You're not sitting alone in a Las
Vegas hotel room, unable to show your face in the casino for fear of--
well, never mind."

	"Did you make new friends and influence people?" he asks, and again
I can hear the amusement in his voice. God, if he only knew.

	"Not quite," I tell him. Not quite the truth, but not a lie,
either. Not really. Those weren't friends I was making down in that
lounge, playing with a cigarette between my teeth and tongue. I did
manage, however, to flick a few Bics. I wave my hand in front of my
face. Hoo. Is it suddenly hot in here, or what?

	Crack. Spit. "You can always hang out at the airport, Scully,"
Mulder suggests. Rustle. Crack. "Lots of interesting people hang out
at airports." Spit. He laughs, some private joke about Krycek,
mutants, and the varied effects of the mysterious black oil. I make
no comment, not wishing to encourage him. "Scully? You still there?"

	Tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, I do my best to
shrug out of my jacket. "I'm here," I say, tossing the jacket onto
the glass table in front of me with a flick of my wrist. I lean back
against the couch cushions and sigh. My head is starting to hurt.

	"What's wrong?" he asks. "I mean--beside the obvious."

	"I'm tired," I tell him. "And--tense."

	His low laughter trickles through me, not irritating but doing
nothing to soothe the edge crackling along my every nerve. What the
hell is so funny?

	Crack. "Where's Frohike?" Spit. Mulder's grinning like a twelve-
year-old now. I can feel it. "He'll help you relax, Scully. You
wouldn't even have to ask nicely."

	All right. Okay. Adolescent humor, predictable as the seasons. I
draw a deep breath and close my eyes. "Fuck you, Mulder."

	Silence. I don't hear the bag of seeds being set on the desk, the
creak of leather as he leans back in his chair, or the slow,
deliberate unbuttoning of his comfy 501's. I don't hear anything but
our mingled breathing, but I feel the tension shift, like altered
current between us. "Go on," he says finally, his voice so low I
swear it's coming from inside me.

	I hesitate, barely managing to speak. "Go on--what?"

	A long exhale, and he whispers roughly: "Fuck me, Scully."

	Warmth floods me like a desert rain. I need no further prompting.
Breathing deeply, eyes still closed, I let my free hand drift over my
clothed body. My linen pants feel alternately arousing and confining,
soft on my sensitive legs. My nipples are hard against my thin silk
blouse. "I'm on the couch, Mulder. Pantsuit on. Bags packed. Ready to
go. But I'm bored. I'm so bored, Mulder. And warm. Very warm."

	"Warm...."

	"Hot. Everywhere."

	"Yeah."

	I smile, letting him stroke on that one a minute while I remove my
clinging blouse and unzip my pants. When I pick the phone up again,
he's waiting. "I'm in my bra, slipping my pants off now, down my
hips." I fold the slacks onto the table next to my jacket and blouse,
then sink back into the cushions of the couch. "Uhm.... There we
go...."

	"Better?" he mutters.

	"Much better," I concur. "I'm wearing my black bra and panties now,
Mulder. Nothing else. I'm--relaxing."

	"Good."

	"Do you want the bra on, Mulder, or off?"

	"Off."

	"And the panties?"

	He groans. "Ah--on."

	I smile and undo the front clasp of my bra. My breasts spring free,
tight and heavy, tingling with anticipation. "Done. Mmmmm," I sigh,
teasing my nipples with my thumb and forefinger. "I love it when you
touch me like this, Mulder. Let me touch you the same way. Take your
shirt off for me."

	I imagine my hands slipping under his untucked shirt, the warmth of
his muscles flexing taut beneath my fingers. Smiling, I listen to
buttons pop, and the quick toss of his shirt and something heavy,
onto what sounds like a glass table top. Glass?

	"Shirt's off," he breathes into the phone. Panting. Panting
already. A very good sign.

	"Good. That's good, Mulder. Mmmmmm, I love your chest. I love to
run my hands over your shoulders, touch your skin, feel the warmth of
you. I love to watch my fingers move with your breath, your heart
beat. I love to kiss your chest, feel the tickle of hair under my
lips, feel you respond. When I trace my tongue down, Mulder, I taste
you. Sweet, salty. Sexy. Spice. Uhmmm--- Yes...."

	"Yeahhhh...."

	My hands whisper over my body like a teasing breeze. I am amazed at
the sensations I've aroused. The slightest touch on my skin elicits
pleasured groans, from me, from him, my imagination conjuring images
of Mulder and me in each other's hands, squeezing, tasting, kissing,
pleasing. "Slide your jeans down, Mulder," I urge him, letting my own
hand glide over my stomach to the wispy edge of my panties.

	"They're--down."

	"I'm down, Mulder. Down in front of you. Between your knees." I let
out a breath, and with my eyes still closed picture myself where I
want to be. There with him. His legs spread. My mouth on his cock.
Sucking. Licking. Drawing my nails over his full, tight balls.
"Uhmmmm, Mulder. I love your cock. The way you move when I touch it,
the way you make me feel."

	"Ah, God.... Scully...."

I slide my fingers down, under the silk of my panties, and dip into
my heat. I'm ready. Wet. I want him. I miss him. I wish he was here.
"Talk to me, Mulder," I rasp, doing my best to mimic the thrust of
his fingers, the hard-gentle way he has of stroking me inside. "Oh,
Mulder...."

	"Scully--" I hear his strokes, begun with slow rhythm, now
increasing in beat. I push, he pulls, we slide in, withdraw. "You're
everything," he growls. "Everything."

	"We're good together, Mulder. Mmmmm-- Mulder...."

	"You say my name--like that again--" he grunts. "And I'm--gonna
come--"

	"I'm so ready," I promise him, letting my thumb graze my clit.
Once. Twice.

	"Let me in, Scully-- Let me--"

	"Yes, Mulder. Yes-- Now...."

	"You're so wet, Scully. Tight. Wet. I ca-- I can't--"

	Increased pressure with my thumb, again, one more time against that
tiny bead inside, and I explode. I'm there. Beyond. My throat
convulses, the phone held tight between my cheek and shoulder as I
ride the waves. I'm gone. "Oh, Mmmmmullllderrrr...."

	He groans my name in response, a sweet resonance in my ear as I
swim in color, moaning his name. He makes a guttural sound like he's
lost all capacity to function, and I pant into the phone as he chokes
out the words: "Holy-- Fuck. Scu--uh--uhlly...."

	Yes. Yes.... I smile as I float unhurriedly to the surface, half on
the couch, half off, the phone still near enough that I can hear him
breathing. In. Out. Like he's trying to remember how.

	"Mulder?" I sigh. "You still there?"

	"Where?"

	"Home. At your desk. With your seeds. In your chair." And however
else I imagined him being. We're both nearly naked, and definitely
sated. I can't think beyond that.

	"On the floor, Scully."

	"What?"

	"I hit the floor ten minutes ago."

	"Oh." I smile at the image of Mulder flat out on the floor, jeans
back up over his hips but still unbuttoned. He's pulling his shirt
down off the table top now, sliding his arms inside. I glance at my
own clothes folded on the glass table in front of me, and suddenly
I'm not smiling anymore. Tears fill my eyes. I sigh and sit slowly
up, reaching for my blouse.

	"Scully?"

	"Yeah?"

	"You okay?"

	I shrug, working my way into the blouse that seemed to come off so
much easier than it's going back on. "Fine, Mulder. I'm fine."

	He's silent a minute. "Scully," he says finally. "Talk to me."

	What can I say? I love him. I miss him. I wish he was here.

	"I'm tired, Mulder. And I want to be home. I miss you."

	"I miss you, too, Scully. I wondered what had happened to you this
weekend. You didn't return my call, and I got a little worried."

	I nod, only half listening again as I pull my pants back on and
slide the zipper up. "I was busy returning the call you *didn't*
make," I tell him, moving into the bathroom to check my face and
hair. I can see I'll need a little work before I go out in public--
the rose in my cheeks and the muss of my hair are tell-tale signs
that I've been fucked. So to speak.

	"...Langley and Byers," Mulder was saying. "But Byers can't lie. He
never could. So I knew where to--" There is a faint knock on the
door. I frown, not sure if I heard the sound from the other room, or
through the phone. "--look."

	"Mulder, are you expecting someone?"

	"No. Are you?"

	The knock comes again. I'm certain now I hear it in two places--in
my ear, and from the other room. I shake my head, obviously over-
sensitized. Amazed at the orgasmic power my partner unleashes in me,
even over the phone, I start into the other room. "Mulder, I have to
go. Someone's at the door."

	"All right, Scully. Just one more thing--"

	"What's that, Mulder?" I jerk the door open.

	He stands in the open doorway of the room across from mine, his
long sleeved shirt hanging open and untucked, his 501's barely
buttoned. Mulder smiles. "I've got a bed *and* and couch. Wanna come
see?"

*****

	Scully stares at me, her eyes huge and her mouth clenched tight.
She's still clutching her phone to her ear, too, until I lower mine.
She lowers hers slowly as well, and takes a deep breath. "You-" she
starts, and then clamps her mouth shut.

	"Hi," I say, putting my phone aside. "It's good to see you."

	"You son of a bitch," she bites out. "Have you been here all
weekend? Have you been hiding here? I bet you and the boys had a
great time, laughing at me, talking about me behind my back. I'm out
of here." She turns, her phone still clenched in her hand.

	"Scully--love, wait--" I reach out and grab her hand, and she
glares at me. "Scully. Sweetheart. Come on. I got here about an hour
ago. I was worried about you all weekend and then I remembered the
guys would be here in Vegas for the conference. Byers told me where
you were, so here I am. I was trying to get a hold of the guys when
you called me. We haven't been talking about you behind your back and
we certainly haven't been laughing at you."

	Her glare softens. "This whole thing is so embarrassing."

	"Oh, Scully . . . and that on the phone just now--that was so cool.
I didn't think you'd actually do it but you did and damn," I shake my
head in admiration, "you are so hot, Scully."

	"I'm not sure I feel any better about all of this," she says, but
there's a smile lurking in her face. She says shyly, "It really was
hot?"

	"Oh, yeah."

	She lowers her head, smiling. "Well," she says quietly, "that's
good to know."

	"Scully." I tug on her hand until she reluctantly comes into my
arms. "Scully. Change your ticket for tomorrow, we'll fly back
together, and we'll play around in Vegas tonight. How does that
sound?"

	"We need to go back," she says, leaning her head against my chest.
"We have to go to work tomorrow."

	"The guys feel guilty," I whisper. "They're willing to spring for
the hotel room, and they left us some treats."

	"Treats?"

	"Chips for the casino. A small wad of cash. Requests for permission
to continue worshiping you from afar."

	"I can just imagine."

	"I want to play James Bond," I whisper, nuzzling her ear. "I want
to put on a tux and play baccarat at the high stakes table and have a
gorgeous woman blow on my dice for luck."

	"They don't use dice in baccarat."

	"Whatever. Do you want to blow on my dice, Scully?"

	She laughs, looking up at me. "Are you sure that's what you want me
to blow?" she says, a wicked glint in her eye, and I groan and laugh
at the same time.

	"Wicked woman," I growl, and pick her up, making her squeal with
surprise. "If you want to stay here all weekend and play Secret Agent
I'm all for it, you know." I lie her down on the bed and she cradles
me between her legs and strokes my face with both her hands.

	"Secret Agent, huh," she whispers. "I seem to remember a promise
you made about handcuffs once . . ."

	I stop nibbling on her neck and look up at her, my eyes wide. My
sweet lovely Scully continues to surprise me, but this is . . . whoa.
I stumble out, "I think I have some around here somewhere."

	She crooks her finger. "Fork 'em over."

	I get my cuffs and my keys from my suitcase, and press them both
into her hands. I'm shaking with excitement. The symbolism of this
moment is one thing--she knows already that she's the one in control
and I trust her judgement without question--but the eroticism of it
is something else. I've got to get her to Vegas more often.

	She smiles at me as we change positions, so that I'm lying beneath
her and she straddles over me. She kisses me firmly and draws her
hand up my arm, and clamps the cuff around my wrist and the other end
on the bedstead.

	"God, Scully," I moan, shifting beneath her. "This is so
incredible. I love you, I love you so much--Scully?"

	Because she has climbed off the bed and is straightening her
clothes. She tucks the keys to the handcuffs into her bra and snags
the money the guys gave me from the table. "I haven't forgiven you
yet, Mulder," she says, still with that wicked smile.

	"Scully--" I tug my handcuffed arm desperately. "You're not leaving
me like this, are you?"

	"I want you to think about what you've done," she says with mock
severity. "Consider this a time out."

	"Scully--please, this isn't funny--"

	"I don't know, Mulder, from where I'm standing it's hilarious. Kind
of like being tricked into coming to Vegas on my first free weekend
in ages to help out the Three Stooges. And then giving you phone sex
because I missed you so much, while you're hiding in the next room.
Pretty damn funny, don't you think?"

	"I said I'm sorry, didn't I? And I didn't put the guys up to
getting you out here, you believe that, don't you?"

	"Actually, you haven't said you're sorry. And whether you put the
guys up to it or not, I'm still upset over the whole thing. And now,
Mulder, I'm going to do something to make me feel better."

	"Scully?"

	"I'm going shopping, Mulder," she says as she closes the door. "I
won't be long. Probably." The door clicks shut.

	I jerk on the handcuff some more, but the links hold and the
bedstead is solid. I'm stuck. "Well, fuck," I say, because at the
moment that's really all I can do. It's not so terrible, though, is
it? The remote to the TV is right at my free hand, I don't have to
pee, I'm fully dressed--pretty much--and I'm not thirsty. It could be
worse.

	And she'll be back soon. She'll show me what she bought and we'll
have a good laugh, and she'll have to uncuff me eventually, right? I
mean, she can't leave me here, right?

	She'll be back soon, right?

After Midnight: Down the Rabbit Hole

	Mulder's got his hand through.

	I stand in front of him, my eyes closed, my mouth moving. I can't
see him, but I can see him. The sunlight filters into the darkness
like God's own rays, and the dirt from above trickles down over
Mulder's head. He closes his eyes and pushes, struggling to speak,
though neither one of us can. I hear voices shout, but I'm too far
gone to know if they're from above or inside my head.

	"From above," I mutter, pray, hallucinate, whatever. "From above,
from above...."

	A hand reaches out, and grabs a hold of mine. Mulder. I can't see
him through the sticky yellow, pain-black haze surrounding me, but I
know. He squeezes my fingers, a tight grip telling me to hang on.
Hang on....

	"Hold on. I'm with you. Beside you. Inside you."

	And then he's gone. His hand leaves me grasping as he's hauled
heavily upward, away from me. The aliens have finally landed, I
suppose, and are taking Mulder to their leader.

	"Wait!" I scream, though I know it's a mere whisper, if the sound
has emerged at all. "Please, take me, too!"

	They return for me then, the aliens. Strange looking beings who
titter and hover around us, all of them looking like Skinner. They
all look like Skinner, every one of them--tall, bifocaled, face-
masked Skinners. How odd, I think, that we've spent so much time
looking for an alien race that looks like Skinner.

	The Skinners are concerned. I don't know why. They've strapped me
to a board and are rolling me toward their ship, a big, hulking army-
like vehicle. I wonder how it will fly. I wonder where Mulder is, if
he's already aboard, and if he's noticed that all his aliens look
like Skinner.

	One of the Skinners bends over me, whispers something to me that I
fight to make out. "Scully," he says, dark eyes grim and piercing
from behind his glasses. "You'll be fine. You'll be all right,
Scully."

	"Mulder...." I say, but they hear "mushroom".

	"We found it. Just take it easy."

	"Scully."

	I open my eyes. "Mulder?"

	"Hold on."

	"Mulder, where are you?"

	"Get 'em in the van!" the Skinner yells, and he stands back as the
rolling board I'm on is raised and shoved onto the alien craft. A
door is slammed. The place reverberates. I figure the switch has been
flicked and the engines have started. Do aliens have engines? I'll
have to ask Mulder.

	"Mulder?"

	We take off. We're flying. Where are we going? Wherever it is,
we're going fast. This is a fast ship.

	"Fast ship? You've never heard of the Millennium Falcon?"

	An old man leans away from a beat up table, shaking his head. He
looks like one of the Skinners, but he's dressed like--Ben Kenobi.

	I glance over at the handsome man next to me. Mulder?!

	"Han Solo. I'm captain of the Millennium Falcon. Chewey here tells
me you're looking for passage to the Alderaan System."

	Mulder, do *not* tell that man I am a Wookie. I'm your partner, but
I am not a Wookie, Mulder, and you're not--

	"I've outrun Imperial Starships. Not the local bulk cruisers, mind
you, I'm talkin' about the big Corellian ships now. She's fast enough
for you, old man. What's the cargo?"

	Wait a minute--wait a minute! This is all wrong!

	Obi-Wan/Skinner ignores my outburst, and looks directly at
Solo/Mulder. "Only passengers," he replies.
"Myself, the boy (Spender?!). Mulder. Scully. And no questions
asked."

	Mulder? Scully? What--what about the droids?

	I shake my head, trying to clear the vision. Mulder in a white
shirt and dark, Corellian vest. Pirate. Well, that's somehow fitting.
I open my eyes, half-expecting to see me or Chewbacca sitting next to
him as the cantina music fades. But I see nothing.

	Nothing. Inside the ship it's dark and empty, and I close my eyes
again, not wanting to see dark and empty. I wonder if I should be
afraid. Of course I should be afraid. But I'm not. I'm not afraid,
because I know--without seeing, without hearing--that Mulder is near.

	I reach my hand out.

	His hand is there. Waiting. His fingers clasp mine, tighten, and
through a sudden blast of blinding pain in my head, I hold on for
dear life. Hurts, this hurts, and the strength in his grip lets me
know he's feeling the same. I know without words what he's thinking,
what he's feeling. How can I know?

	"It's all right, Scully," he says without speaking, and my eyes
fill with tears. The pain is unbearable. I want to scream. I can't.
"Hold onto me, Scully."

	"I am, Mulder. Please don't let go."

	"I will never let go."

	"They want to separate us, Mulder."

	"I've got you. I'm here."

	"You were Han Solo a minute ago."

	"I know."

	"So how do I know you're really you now?"

	The conundrum doesn't phase him.

	"You know," he says, and smiles.

	"But *how*, Mulder?" I ask him, my un-voice pleading. "How can this
be? How can I hear you when you aren't speaking? How can you hear
me?"

	"I am you," he tells me. "You are me."

	I don't ask him to explain. I *know*. Not in the logical center of
my brain where one part of me is trying to process this experience to
the nth degree, but in my heart. In my soul. I know. Just as I know
that something inexplicable has flamed to life between us, and we
will never be the same.

	Flicked switch. Trust. Intuition. Absolute. One in five billion. I
believe. Strength of your beliefs. Scully, pick up the phone. I've
come back to you. Scully--*run*! The truth will save you, Scully.
It'll save us both. You made me a whole person. Breathe! I see it,
Mulder. I see it. I love you. Don't look. Don't look, Scully. You're
a lucky man. You love him, don't you? Agent Scully is already in
love. Love....

	"I love you." His voice sails inside me, fills me, flows with my
blood, gliding along every cell.

	"I love you," I tell him, hearing my voice echo through him as his
does through me. And I believe, but I can already see beyond. Far
beyond the words we've declared or are even capable of declaring,
because *we* are beyond. Love. Affection. Kinship. Regard. Devotion.
Where do we fit in?

	"We don't, Scully," he says. "Let go. Let it fly...."

	Another wave of pain rushes in, followed closely by the white light
with which he surrounds me. He's right. We are love. We are beyond. I
close my eyes as we hurtle through space, hands clasped, fingers
laced. Pain drifts away like he's willed it, my heart, my haven. And
with the first real peace I've known in six years, I smile.

	The aliens can't hurt us. The Skinners, the Fowleys, the Consortium
of Smoking Men in Imperial Starship Cruisers--all of them will try.
Pain, fear, separation, doubt--they will try anything, but in the end
they will fail. In the end Mulder and I will embrace the Truth. I am
he. He is me.

	We are beyond.

*****

	I'm thirsty.

	As if by magic a waitress appears at my side with her little drink
tray. "Your martini, Mr. Mulder," she says as she sets it on the
gaming table.

	Never mind that I don't drink, that martinis always seem like a
wuss's idea of a man's drink, that I hate the taste of gin, that if I
am going to drink I take the straightforward route of beer or at most
a Scotch, neat--I pick up the martini. There is a pearl onion glowing
in the bottom of the glass, and "Drink Me" is etched into the side. I
take a sip. "Thanks, baby," I say to the waitress, and she smiles at
me before she turns away.

	I am in a casino. I am wearing a velvet tuxedo. Neither of these
facts surprises me, though I suppose they should. Nor am I surprised
that I am at the baccarat table, though I haven't a clue how one
plays baccarat and I can't afford to be here at the high-stakes table
anyway. There is a stack of $500 and $1000 chips at my left hand, and
a stacked redhead at my right. Life, though confusing, is good.

	Scully's hand rests gently on my knee, and she leans over to
whisper, "Remember, Mulder, if you lose we can always hang out in
airports." Her neckline is dangerously low. Her skin is like cream
against the deep red wine of her gown. There are blood-red rubies at
her ears, a gold and ruby necklace about her neck. She looks elegant
and cool, and I want nothing more than to tear that satin gown from
her body and ravish her, right here at the baccarat table. Do you
think anyone would be shocked?

	"Do you feel lucky, Mr. Mulder?" says my opponent in clipped tones,
and I tear my eyes away from more skin than I've seen Scully show in
years to look at him. I know that scar, those freaky blue eyes, that
pinky held oh-so coyly to the corner of his mouth, the cigarette
grasped between his thumb and forefinger. It's my nemesis, my mortal
enemy. Dr. Evil.

	I narrow my eyes at him and say, in an English accent that's
improved a lot since my student days, "Bring it on, baby, this is
exactly my bag."

	He smiles at me evilly and places his bet on the table. It's an
egg, a white, perfect egg. He balances it on its larger end and leers
at Scully, and says, "How much is that worth to you, Mr. Mulder?"

	"More than all the evil petting zoos in all the world," I answer,
pushing my entire collection of chips onto the table. Scully cocks
her eyebrow but says nothing, and the dealer gives me the dice.

	"We don't use dice in baccarat," he says. "Roll."

	I hold my cupped hand below Scully's mouth. "For luck," I ask, and
she smiles and lowers her head, and blows lightly across my palm. I
shudder visibly and Dr. Evil snickers. I shake the dice and roll them
across the table.

	"Seven!" the dealer announces, and gives the egg to Scully, who
starts peeling back the shell.

	"If you get it all off in one piece and make a wish, your wish will
come true," she says, and lays the coiled shell on the table. She
bites the end of the egg and holds it to my lips. "You really should
eat some breakfast."

	"I'm groovy, baby," I say, but eat the egg out of her hand anyway.
"Better tasting than Godiva chocolates."

	She smiles demurely and dusts off her hands, and takes a chip off
my pile. She slips it between her breasts. "For safekeeping," she
says.

	"It's my turn," Dr. Evil whines, and picks up the dice, which have
transmogrified into eggs as well. He rolls them across the table and
they come to a wobbly stop in front of Scully.

	"These aren't real eggs," she says as she starts peeling off their
shells as well.

	"House wins," says the dealer, sweeping up Dr. Evil's chips. He
adds them to my pile, which has doubled since I last looked at it, as
fascinated as I've been with Scully and the eggs. "Your turn, Mr.
Mulder."

	"How do I roll without any dice?" I ask, the English accent gone,
and the dealer looks at me blankly.

	Scully hands me the eggs, which are now jeweled and heavy, as
ornate as a Faberge egg. "You have to be patient," she says. "You
have to go slowly to find what's inside."

	"You're my good luck charm," I tell her, and she smiles again and
rises from her chair to stand behind me.

	"I'm here," she whispers into my ear, placing her hands on my
shoulders. "I'll always be here."

	The band starts to play, a song I recognize but I'm not sure from
where. Scully hums along to it, stroking my hair and swaying slightly
to the music. I roll the eggs back towards Dr. Evil. He tries to blow
them back towards me, but his breath wheezes and stinks like stale
tobacco and has no effect on the eggs at all. They come to a stop in
front of him and the dealer cries, "Snake eyes! Snake eyes! Mulder
wins!"

	"You can't win!" Dr. Evil says, slamming his hands on the table,
and the eggs crack open and their gooey contents spill out. "I won't
let you! I've worked and planned too long, you little whelp!"

	"Whelp?" I repeat, but Dr. Evil is too occupied with his tantrum to
notice. He's knocking over chairs and spilling chips on the floor,
and he grabs an old lady's cup of quarters and throws it to the
ground. They tinkle like bells as they hit the floor.

	"No no no!" he screams like an overtired two-year-old, stamping his
feet on the ground, and behind me Scully chuckles.

	"Mulder," she says softly, and I stand and take her hand. "Let's go
home."

	"How? I'm not even sure how we got here."

	"It's a kind of magic," she whispers, and she starts to waver and
ripple as if she's being projected onto a screen. Her voice seems to
come from far away. "Close your eyes and wish, Mulder. Close your
eyes and wish."

	I close my eyes.

*****

	"Thirsty," I say, and open my eyes. Instead of the bright lights of
the casino, what meets my eyes are curtains around my bed, a TV
mounted on the wall, hospital machinery all around.

	Hospital.

	I remember now. The skeletons found in the field, the underground
cave, abducting a Grey, Scully in tears, voices from above us, Scully
covered in goo. Reaching out for her hand. Finding it.

	"Scully?" I whisper hopefully, and try to sit up.

	At once I feel a hand on my shoulder, and she whispers soothingly,
"Shh, Mulder, shh. You need to rest."

	"Scully." I grab her hand. It's warm. Even through the bandages, I
know her fingers. These are her delicate fingers, this is her palm,
this is her wrist. I kiss her palm and press it against my cheek, and
she smiles at me. "Scully, tell me I'm not dreaming anymore."

	"I'm . . . I'm pretty sure this is real."

	"Pretty sure?"

	"I think I'm still having flashbacks, every once in a while." She
sits down on the edge of my bed. She's wearing a hospital gown and a
bathrobe, and her hair is pulled back from her face with a headband.
Her face looks sunburned. She strokes my cheek with her thumb. "How
do you feel?"

	"Weird. Thirsty."

	"Oh--here." She reaches over to the table beside my bed and gives
me a lidded mug with a bendy straw. "It's water."

	I raise the bed behind me and take the mug. The water is warm but
still tastes delicious. She strokes my face as she waits for me to
finish drinking.

	"How long have we been here?"

	"Two or three days. I'm still fuzzy on the details. We're in
quarantine, basically. If you see guys in Hazmat suits they're
probably real."

	"I'll keep that in mind." I put the mug aside and take her hands
again, and pull on them gently. "Hey. Snuggle?"

	She smiles and says, "Just for a little while," and lies down at my
side. "Does your skin hurt any? We have a lotion for it, to help the
healing from the acid."

	"I'm okay. Are you okay?" Wisely, she chose my side without the
IV's stuck in my arm, and I cradle my arm around her and pull her
closer.

	"Aside from the hallucinations and acid burns, I think I'm okay."

	"Poor pretty girl," I coo, stroking her cheek gently. My own hands
are bandaged. The skin on my face and neck feels tight, raw, like I
took a nosedive on asphalt. More forms to fill out when we go back to
work. Joy.
Scully props herself up and turns to look at me. "I had the
strangest dream, Mulder, I thought you were Han Solo and I was
Chewbacca--"

	I guffaw. "You'd make a great Wookie, Scully."

	"--and all the aliens looked like Skinner."

	"Cool."

	She raises her eyebrows. "'Cool,' Mulder?"

	"I dreamed I was Austin Powers and C.G.B. Spender was Dr. Evil. We
played baccarat with dice and he threw a tantrum when he lost." I
play with a curl at the side of her face. "You were my good luck
charm, Scully. I won because of you."

	She smiles. "Yet somehow that makes sense," she says quietly, and
lies down again, her head on my shoulder. "I also dreamed you died,"
she whispers after a moment.

	I tighten my arms around her. "I'm here, Scully."

	"I know. I know. It was so real, for a while there, though. I went
to your wake and everyone treated me like I was your widow."

	I kiss the top of her head. "I'm sorry."

	"It confuses me, though. If the purpose of the hallucinogen was to
relax the prey, why would it give me something that would agitate
me?"

	"I don't know. Is that what you've decided the purpose was?"

	She nods. "I've been talking with our doctors, telling them about
my dreams. The hallucinogen lulls the prey into complacency so the
digestive enzymes can do their work. We ingested some of it, too, I
think, that may have prolonged the effect."

	"Uh-huh," I mutter, wondering what it is about smart women that
works so well. "I wish I had more energy."

	"Or more privacy," she murmurs, and then chuckles. "Yet the psychic
bond continues."

	"Mm?"

	"We were--I thought--in a way we were reading each other's minds,
for a while there." She pauses. "Or I dreamed we were."

	"I was just thinking how much I'd like to make love." She makes no
answer. "Scully?"

	"I was just thinking that too. If I had more energy. If we had more
privacy. If I weren't so worried about hurting you."

	"I'm tough, I can take it."

	She chuckles again. "But I'm not sure I can."

	"Ahh . . . Wookie, you're killing me."

	"Wookie? Did you just call me Wookie?"

	"Um . . . yeah."

	"Wookie." She laughs. "All right. You may keep that one. It's
better than honeybunny."

	I smile, and kiss my little Wookie on the top of her red head.
There are things I remember, that I'm not sure if they were real or
if I dreamed them. I say, "You were afraid. You thought we would
leave you behind. You held onto my hand as if it were a lifeline."

	"And you said, 'I'm with you. I'm inside you.'"

	"You panicked when you couldn't find me."

	"I thought the Forestry Service van was the Millennium Falcon."

	"You wanted me to hold your hand, you wanted it so badly I could
feel it."

	"You sent away my pain."

	"I just wanted your hurting to stop."

	"You said, 'I am you, you are me,' and it made sense." She pauses.
"It still makes sense, Mulder."

	"I'll never let go," I whisper, and kiss her hair again. "I love
you, Scully. They can't hurt us, no matter what they do. You're
here," I touch my heart, "and I'm here," I touch hers. She takes a
deep swift breath. Oh GOD I wish I had more energy. "They can't come
between something that's no longer two entities, Scully. We're one
now."

	She nods. "One," she whispers, and moves up to kiss me. She smiles
and strokes my cheek. "Mulder . . ."

	"Yeah?"

	"When we get out of here you are going to get *so* lucky." She
kisses me again and lies her head on my shoulder.

	After a moment I manage to say, "Is that a promise, Scully?"

	"Go to sleep, you need to rest."

	Obediently I close my eyes--whenever she tells me to go to sleep I
do in seconds, it's weird--but I still say, "I sure hope that's a
promise, Scully."

	"Good night, Mulder." Pause. "I love you too." Pause. "Wookie."

NOTE: Neither "Star Wars" nor "Austin Powers" belong to us.


After Midnight: Revelation

	Scully is upset. I know I've upset her. Diana has upset her. Still,
I try to help her see.

	"You're wrong," I tell her, knowing what this will do to her,
knowing what it has already done. "It holds everything. Don't you see-
-all the mysteries of science, everything we can't understand or
won't explain--every human behaviorism, cosmology, psychology--
everything in the X Files. It all owes to them. It's from *them*."

	"Mulder, I will not accept that! It's just not possible!"

	I can hear the fear in her voice. The panic. I'm not helping her at
all. I can't give her evidence. Not from here. But I can give her
room.

	"Well then you go ahead and prove me wrong, Scully." I bring the
phone down and hang up, knowing Scully has already done so. I can't
convince her. I'm too tired to try. She will come to the truth not in
the same way that I have come to it, but she will know just the same.
We will both know.

	Diana takes the phone from my hand, but I don't look at her. I
can't. I push myself back down in the bed and pull the covers up over
my head, trying to block out the voices. With Scully it isn't
necessary. I feel, I know, I answer her. With Diana it's different.
Diana, I know, is plotting already.

	. . . check in . . . heard from Scully . . . players are in place .
. .

	I put my hands over my ears and close my eyes. Diana is calling
someone. I don't want to hear. Childish, I know. Gibson Praise would
shake his head in wonder, but Gibson Praise isn't among us at the
present time.

	Of course, hands over my ears does nothing.

	. . .Mulder called me scenario. . .safe for now . . .

	The lying bitch. Diana has her reasons. I can feel them. I don't
care. Who in God's name is she trying to kid? Herself, maybe. She
always had that narcissistic potential. Part of the reason we hit it
off so well. Neither of us required much from the other. Except sex.
She required sex.

	I enjoyed that aspect of our relationship, though thinking of it
now--thinking of Scully, of her soft beauty and the endless reaches
of her light--my stomach starts to twist. I feel the difference
between the dark and Scully's light, and realize too late that I have
slept with the devil. More specifically, with his daughter.

	. . . sex is good . . . talk in bed . . . he always does . . .

	Christ. I'm pathetic. Trusting and idealistic and too easily
controlled. These people know me inside out--or at least they did,
until Scully. Scully!

	. . . bra on . . . liked to take his time to remove it . . . white
. . . good, functional . . . know I didn't plan this . . .

	My chest tightens. I know I'm about to be ambushed in my bed, and I
am suddenly desperate to escape. I fight with the covers, suddenly
unable to breathe. She is getting closer. I want out. I want Scully.
Help me. God. I choke out her name, or the beginnings of it-- "Scu--
uh--" Oh, God. I can't speak. I can't breathe.

	. . . chin up . . . chest out . . . likes me confident . . . likes
my breasts . . .

	I kick the covers off, my legs tangled in sheets, my chest tangled
in panic. "Scu--lly!" I force the sound out. I'm in trouble, Scully.
She's coming. She's here--

	Diana strides into my bedroom, blouse off, and comes to stand
before my bed. I stare up at her, images of nights past confusing,
clouding my emotions. She begins to unzip her skirt. The
determination inside her chills my blood. My eyes widen as she leans
into me, but she only smiles at me and touches my shoulders, urging
me gently backward. I resist, still struggling to breathe. No, I tell
her. No.

	. . . perfect . . . he remembers . . . wants me . . . waiting . . .
looks good . . . we'll enjoy this . . .

	No.

	She meets my gaze and smiles, softer this time, her push on my
shoulders more insistent. The room sways around me. I push her back,
gasping for air, and try to stand. Skirt off, she straddles my lap
without a word and kisses my mouth, giving me air. Sucking my air. I
feel the life draining from my body, the will to fight her lost on my
limbs and the desire to participate non-existent.

	"Fox," she breathes against my mouth, and I realize that with her
voice in my ear, the burden of her thoughts is off me and I am able
to breathe. I focus on her words, knowing she will lie to me, not
understanding why. "I've missed you so much. Do you know how long
it's been--since the two of us...."

	She trails kisses over my face, working her way down. Expert.
Efficient. I feel my strength returning, but not for what she wants.
Never for what she wants. She slides her hand down me, slow and
methodical to the waistband of my boxers. I seize her hand. "No," I
tell her, the word emerging loud and clear. "Stop."

	"What?"

	"Get off me." I shove her off my lap and onto the bed.

	She smiles knowingly at me. Misinterpreting again. . . . oh, I see
. . . Yes. Yes . . .

	My chest tightens again. I press my hand over the place where it
hurts and look at her. "Get--out--" I struggle to say.

	She blinks at me. She's beginning to understand. This will either
work for me, or against me. I'm thinking against.

	. . . fighting it . . . fighting me . . . must know something . .
."You don't mean that," she says. "Fox, you're ill."

	"Stop--the lies--"

	Diana stares up at me. ...lies...only knew... "I care about you,
Fox. I want to take care of you--"

	I swallow hard. "Scu--lly."

	One word. One name. One gift that defines everything that is for me
now, and ever will be. Scully. I don't need to repeat it. Diana
understands. Her mouth tightens.

	"Leave," I say.

	She stands, her expression hard. Harder than I've ever seen, like
she's aged years in two minutes, and ages in ten years. The woman I
knew and trusted so long ago is gone, if she was ever really there at
all. Diana reaches sideways for her purse, and I want to think she's
collecting her things. Preparing to go. Then I know--

	. . . know about you . . . from the beginning I've known . . .
married you . . .

	I freeze. Pain squeezes my brain. I cover my ears and hunch my body
over, the weight of the conspiracy invading, depleting every muscle,
seeping into bone. I gasp for air as her thoughts rage on, twisted
and callous, invading all the corners, every inch of my brain.

	. . . they planned this. . .used you . . . I used you . . . get
what we need . . .

	Screaming. I'm screaming. I don't know what I'm saying, I only know
what I feel. My life has been darkness, Scully it's only light.
Scully--Scully! I fall to my knees, praying she will find me. Find
me, Scully. Find me. Agony stabs at my temples and I look
beseechingly up at Diana. End this. Stop it now. Do the right thing.
I make no attempt to defend myself when Diana holds the canister up
to my face and sprays.

	. . . lose you my own way . . . not to her . . . never to her . . .

	Chemical. Burn. Cold pain. Invading tissue. Icing every cell. I
don't even feel myself falling. I hit the floor hard, and the dark
rushes in. Like the tide it surrounds me, tugging, tenacious, and
though I fight its pull I clearly fight in vain. Before it drags me
under I think of Scully. I love you, I need you, find me, trust no
one, Scully--Liars.

	. . . liars . . .

*****

	"Well then, you go ahead and prove me wrong," Mulder says wearily,
and I click off the phone in frustration. Prove him wrong? With what?
An artifact no one can read, pieces of an increasingly insane puzzle,
a theory that sounds as terrifying as it sounds true?

	This isn't the first time Mulder has needed the impossible from me.
This is the first time I'm not sure I can deliver.

	And why wouldn't he tell me why that woman answered his phone?

	He said it was okay, but I am still terribly afraid. Not that he
will be unfaithful to me--I have moved beyond that fear. We have
moved beyond that point. And even though our relationship remains, as
Mulder likes to put it, unconsummated, we are still bound together by
something deeper than sex, deeper than friendship, deeper, maybe,
even than love.

	I am afraid of her. I am afraid for him. She will hurt him anyway
that she can, and he is so fragile right now.

	Sandoz approaches me and says softly, "Albert has asked to be taken
home. His family wants to do a healing ceremony for him."

	"Do you really think that's wise, leaving the hospital at this
point?" I whisper, glancing at the door to Albert's room.

	"They've done all they can for him here."

	I know that feeling. Science is exhausted, it's time for faith.

	Sandoz says, "Albert would like you to come as well," and I look up
at him in surprise.

	"I don't--"

	"As a friend," Sandoz says, and at this I can't refuse. Maybe
witnessing the ceremony will soothe my worries about Mulder.

	I collect my things to leave the hospital and meet the Hosteen
family at their home. Mulder said he's okay, I remind myself. His
"It's okay, Scully," was meant to tell me more than not to worry
about him--to not worry about us, either. It's okay, nothing is going
to happen. It's okay, she'll be leaving soon. It's okay, but I wish
you were here.

	Part of me wants to think I'm fooling myself, but I trust Mulder
more now than I ever have. I'm certain--beyond certain--that when he
says it's okay, he means it.

	Diana Fowley's voice on the line is not sending this unease through
me. It's not part of the never-ending Mulder-worry, either. If it
weren't for our need for answers I'd hop on a plane right now, even
if Mulder laughs at me for overreacting. I'd welcome him laughing at
me if I could just be sure he's really all right.

	I'd feel it if he really needs me, I think, and then laugh to
myself. At myself. Whatever connection, psychic or otherwise, we had
after our encounter with the giant mushroom, was due more to the
hallucinogens and our knowledge of each other than anything else. We
are connected, Mulder and I, but it's purely an earthly connection.

	. . . liars . . .

	I stop and look around. It's like someone whispering in my ear,
only softer, clearer. But there is no one nearby me to whisper such a
thing to me.

	But I heard it. I know I did.

	And I know whose voice I heard, as well.

	"Mulder, I whisper, and my hands fumble for the keys to my rental
car.

	"Agent Scully?" Sandoz calls to me. "Do you need directions to the--
are you all right?" He jogs up to me, and puts his hand gently on my
trembling ones.

	"I--I just had a terrible--worried about a friend--" Get a hold of
yourself, Dana.

	"I'm sure if Agent Mulder needs you to come home soon he'd have
asked you," Sandoz says, and I look up at him. In a way he's right--
if he truly needed me Mulder would have said Come home, and I would
have done it. I'd be on my way right now.

	But the ghost of his voice--was that pleading for my return? Does
Mulder need me, or am I imagining things?

	"He's been ill," I say quietly, returning to the search for my keys
in my purse. They're at the bottom, beneath my wallet and a travel-
sized bottle of lotion. "He's supposed to be resting but he's always
been so bad at following doctor's orders." Key in lock. Turn. Open
door. Movements like a reflex, most of the time, but today I have to
concentrate. I babble on, "Sometimes it's all I can do when he's sick
to get him to stay home--he once went running in 10-degree weather
with a 102-degree fever because he was bored--"

	"You'd feel it if he needs you," Sandoz says, and I look up at him
again. I lean against the car and clutch the keys in both hands.

	"I think--I'm not sure what I feel--"

	"If you want to go home we'll understand. Albert will understand."

	I should go. I should kick Diana Fowley out of Mulder's apartment,
out of his life. Bitch.

	But on the other hand maybe I'm just worried, overtired, wanting to
go home to him so badly I'm inventing an excuse. And she wouldn't--
seriously--supposedly she was in love with him once. He said it was
okay. He said it.

	"No," I say resolutely, "I want to come with you, at least for a
little while. If we can find anything more about the artifact--"

	"Albert is too weak to do any translating."

	"Perhaps one of the others . . . at any rate, I'll stay here.
Mulder will--he'll let me know if he needs me."

	Sandoz nods, not quite believing me, I'm sure. "All right. Why
don't you follow my car. I know the way well."

	The drive is unending, the scenery familiar. Though it's been years
since I've been to New Mexico I remember taking this road, looking
for someone to help us, a drugged and delirious Mulder in the seat
beside me. I thought I'd never be so afraid . . . and it was only the
beginning.

	I bite my lip hard. Mulder, be well. Be well, sweetheart. I love
you with everything that's in me. I'll be home soon, and you can show
me there's really nothing to worry about.

	I'm in the city so much it's easy to forget how dark the desert
night can be, and as I watch the stars I can't help but think of all
the implications this artifact has brought. Is there a purpose to
human life, as we like to believe, or were we an accident of
electricity and amino acids? All of us, with our cell phones and our
nuclear bombs and our Baby Gap and our video games, why are we here?

	And love, I think, and brush my eyes with the back of my hand. A
divine invention or a response of chemicals and affinity?

	If there is no God, is there no love?

	I am certain out of all of human history no one has loved the way
that Mulder and I do. There is no paradigm for this kind of love.
Cerebral, platonic, lustful--it is all of these and none of them. In
my more romantic moments I think we were guided together, formed for
each other so that we could not help but fall in love. He was meant
for me, soul mates and ex-wives and old lovers notwithstanding. He
was born to love me. I was born to love him.

	I wish Mulder were here, to run his hand through my hair and tease
me about trying to answer all the questions ever posed. Come here and
kiss me, woman, he might growl, and I might laugh and get into his
lap and kiss him and let him pet me until we're both trembling. I'd
rather spend the evening that way, but who wouldn't? Forget
philosophy, I just want to show the man I love what I love about him.

	I let my attention drift from the road as I daydream. Mulder's
hands caressing gently the swell of my breast, as he nuzzles my neck
with his nose and hums one of those silly songs he likes so much,
changing the words to suit his mood . . . an unexpected tickle on my
side, a warm chuckle as I laugh and writhe away from him, only to
return and give my own attentions to his more sensitive parts, biting
where he likes to be bitten and licking where he likes to be licked .
. . and finally kissing him, kissing him and kissing him, cradling
his body against mine and feeling his heartbeat steady and strong.

	I swallow the lump in my throat. I need him. I miss him. I still
need to make up to him for that handcuff thing in Las Vegas, though
he's dropped more than a few hints about how I could do that. When I
get home, Mulder, I promise the stars, you are going to get shagged
and shagged well.

	When we finally reach the hogan the Hosteen family has prepared, I
find myself unable to go inside. It feels disrespectful-I don't
believe as they do, my presence will not help matters any. I wait
outside and watch the stars. My mind whirls with questions, and I
know the answers are waiting, somewhere . . . maybe in the mind of a
dying man. Maybe in the mind of a living one, who needs me.

	I shiver in my jacket and stop myself from reaching for my cell
phone. In a day or two I will go home, when I have something to bring
Mulder, one more piece of the puzzle, one more answer, one more
explanation . . .

	Sandoz comes out of the hogan. "The healing ceremony has begun, if
you want to go inside."

	"No, I-I don't think that's right. I don't share in their faith."

	"The medical doctors say they've done everything they could."

	"I know. I think they have." My cell phone rings, and my heart
freezes. "Sorry," I murmur, and answer it. Please be Mulder. Please
be Mulder.

	It's not Mulder. And as I listen to Skinner's voice tell me to come
as quickly as I can, I know that something is wrong with Mulder,
something more than I ever imagined. Something worse than I ever
feared. And that woman is the cause.

	I take my leave from Sandoz as quickly as I can and get into my
car, and for a moment I can only sit and tremble. Mulder. Mulder. I'm
coming, Mulder. Hold on. I'll find you. I will.


After Midnight: Lamentations

	"Scully!"

	His voice wrenches my soul. I look at the tv screen, not even
conscious of Skinner or Fowley behind me, because I see Mulder--and
he sees me. He puts his hand to his mouth like a frightened child,
his eyes pleading with me. Help me, Scully. Help. My heart breaks
inside my chest. *I'm here, Mulder. Trust me. Trust me...*

	Outside in the hallway I stand between Fowley and Skinner, anxious
to be done with them. I need to think independent of the rules and
command they've imposed on me thus far, and find a way to Mulder. I
don't know what happened, how Mulder ended up like this, how Fowley
let it happen--or caused it to. I only know that he needs to see me.
Touch me. I need to see him, too. Face to face, not on some damned
closed circuit tv screen.

	"When did all this start?" Fowley asks, her stern voice filling the
hallway. She stands tall and straight in front of me, like an Amazon
warrior.

	*If you've hurt him,* I vow from the bottom of my 5'2" soul, *I
will take you down.* "When we took this case," I reply, giving her
nothing by habit, and by choice. "When Skinner gave it to us." I
don't know why I felt compelled to say that, but the words are out. I
see Diana's eyes shift to Skinner, but I don't track the exchange
beyond that. Somehow, I don't need to.

	"What kind of case it?" she asks, her tone cold. Still demanding.
She just doesn't get it.

	"Investigation into a murder."

	"Of whom?"

	Skinner lets out a barely perceptible sigh, apparently as tired of
the pointless interrogation as I am. "The case has nothing to do with
what's happened to him," he says.

	"Agent Scully says it does," Fowley replies, suddenly my
confidante, my new best comrade, as she fixes her deliberately
genuine gaze on me. The bitch. "Now you know my background, my
previous work on the X-Files. If I can help on this case--"

	*Help, my ass.* I open my mouth, intending to voice that reply,
when Skinner speaks up.

	"The X-File here is a fraud," he states. "Scully has ample proof of
that. Evidence authenticated by a scholar in authority."

	I stare up at Skinner, unbelieving. He avoids my gaze, and that
starts the images flying through my brain, scene to fractured scene--
Mulder and I in Skinner's office, Mulder and I in the elevator, the
rubbing of the artifact, Mulder's charge that Skinner was keeping
something from us, listening devices and hidden cameras in our
office....

	Finally Skinner looks at me, something odd and self-accusing in his
dark brown eyes.

	I stiffen and confront him. "I never sent you that report, " I tell
him, in as neutral a tone as I can manage.

	Skinner shifts uncomfortably, holding my gaze a split second too
long before he looks to Diana. "Anyway," he says, "the case is being
resolved."

	"Not as far as it effects Agent Mulder," Diana replies, and I look
at her, knowing as well as I've ever known anything that I'm caught
between two liars. Fowley and Skinner. Skinner and Fowley. *Mulder,*
I think. *God, Mulder, what did you see?* Diana looks down at me,
giving humility a try. "If you know what's happening why won't you
tell me?"

	Hate fills me. Lord, I swear, I've never felt this way toward
another person in my life, not even Duane Barry. It's more than
anger, more than fear, more than jealousy. I realize now it always
has been, but the first question out of my mouth is for Mulder. "Why
were you with him last night?" I ask. Not because I fear she helped
him when I couldn't, but because I think she's the reason he's here.

	Oh, and she looks so pleased. I want to draw my weapon and whack
her haughtily raised chin into submission. "He called me," she says.
"I found him in a university stairwell. He could barely speak. He
said I was the only one who'd believe him--about an artifact."

	Right.

	I study Diana, stare up into her eyes, and see my polar opposite.
Light. Dark. Tall. Short. Principled. Not. A difference in stature, I
think, that is skeletally in her favor, but intellectually,
spiritually and emotionally in mine. Like Mulder is mine. I am him.
He is me. I nod slightly in acceptance of that, and in
acknowledgement of everything base and underhanded that has
transpired over and around me in this hallway.

	"You're a liar," I say, leaving out the "traitorous bitch" part.
That will come later, most likely with violence if she lays another
hand on Mulder.

	I turn to leave, determined to find Mulder. Needing to soothe him,
provide for him, protect him until I can cure him. My mind is way
ahead of my body, half way to the Psych Ward on the sixth floor when
Skinner catches my arm.

	"Scully," he says.

	What? I look at him, right through him, I think, and he draws back
a little, as if I've seen too much. I don't know how deep he's in,
but he's in. Maybe I was wrong before, but I'm not wrong this time.
Jaw set, I wrench my arm free. "You're both liars," I declare, and
without another word I leave them to their own.

	Psych Ward. Psych Ward. My feet lead me down the hallway, even as
Skinner calls after me. First in gentle tones, as if I'm a wayward
child in need of guidance, and then in something stronger. His voice
rises, echoing through the hall, demanding and authoritative.

	"Agent Scully!" he roars, but he doesn't come after me, and I don't
stop.

	Psych Ward. Psych Ward. Sixth floor. I checked on the way in.

	"You will not get in to see him," Fowley declares as I turn the
corner for the elevators. I punch in the buttons, listening to
Diana's urgent whisper. "You can't let her," she says. "For God's
sake, stop her."

	There is silence. I tense, knowing if Skinner charged after me this
minute I wouldn't have a chance in hell against him. But I don't hear
him coming. And then I know he won't. I can't see Skinner's face, but
I imagine the look he's giving her. I've seen it before. Sort of a
cross between Clint Eastwood and Charles Bronson on a really bad day.
"You stop her," he growls, and I hear footsteps. Down the hallway,
walking away. From her, from me.

	An instant later, clicking heels start down the hallway in my
direction.

	The elevator doors slide open. I step inside, one hand on my
service weapon, the other on the elevator panel. I press the sixth
floor button, followed by the red "door closed" knob just as Fowley
rounds the corner. She skids to a stop and I give her my best "bite
me" smile as the elevator doors slide closed.

	Psych Ward. Psych Ward. I lean back against the wall, watching the
red highlighted buttons count off four floors down. Plan. I need a
plan. Fowley's on the phone this minute, giving her badge number, her
social security number and her star sign if it'll help to any nurse
who will listen. An agent is on the way down, the partner of Agent
Mulder in 223. She must not be allowed to see him. Call security, do
what you have to, I'll be there in three minutes....

	The doors slide open. I walk past the Admitting Desk, flashing the
pleasant looking nurse on the phone my badge as I pass.

	Her eyes widen. She slams down the phone. "Wait!" she cries,
running after me. "You aren't allowed in here! You can't--"

	I turn to face the woman, so tempted to draw my weapon and show her
what I can and cannot do in the name of my partner. But rational
behavior prevails. For now. "My name is Dana Scully," I cooly reply,
fixing her with a keenly felt don't fuck with me stare. "*Doctor*
Dana Scully." I let the red-faced nurse chew on that one a second,
fold my badge and shove it back in my pocket. "You have a patient
here, Agent Fox William Mulder."

	"Yes, Doctor. We--I-- I just spoke with the woman who admitted him,
Agent Diana Fowley--"

	"Agent Mulder is *my* patient, Nurse Kramer. He was admitted to
this hospital against his will, and without consultation with me. Are
we clear?"

	"Yes, sir--ma'am--we are. I just-- I just can't--"

	I narrow my eyes. Give her "the look". Hard ass, kill switch,
glacier blue and twice as cold. "Move."

	"What?"

	Pushing past her, I make my way behind the Admitting Desk and begin
rifling through papers and drawers, looking for a master key and
confirmation of Mulder's room number. I'm conscious of time. I've got
so little left.

	"Wait!" Nurse Kramer cries. "You can't do that! I'll call security,
Agent-- Doctor--"

	"Scully," I bite out, locating the key card behind the central
computer. "And go right ahead. I'll be calling the governing board of
this hospital myself, Nurse Kramer. You and I will both be busy." I
slam through the chart box, find Mulder--Room 223. I snag his chart
and start off again.

	The nurse follows me, pleading now. "Please. I don't-- Doctor
Scully, I mean no insult," she says, grabbing my arm as I start off
down the hallway with Mulder's chart and the key card in hand. "But
Agent Fowley told me--she *insisted*--"

	I turn to face Nurse Kramer, and the don't fuck with me look is
back with a vengeance. I am out of time, and we both know it.
"*She's* insistent. *I'm* merciless. Take your pick."

	Nurse Kramer stares at me, a look of shock and then of fear
crossing her fair features. She swallows hard and lets go of my arm.
"This way," she mutters, and now I'm following her down the long
corridor to Mulder's room. Through two secured doors and a burly,
scrub-garbed orderly, we pass with use of the key card in my hand.

	My stride is purposeful but my palms are sweating, and my heart is
beating way too fast. There isn't any time. I need to make time.
Diana is on her way.

	"Here," Nurse Kramer says, stopping in front of a non-descript
white door that looks like all the other non-descript doors in this
byzantine ward. Except this door has the numbers 223 stenciled in
black below the narrow window.

	I rise up on tiptoe, my ragged heart racing. I draw a deep breath,
mumble a prayer, and look inside.

	Mulder is there. On the floor against the wall, knees up, hands
covering his face. He's rocking. Back. Forth. Against the wall. Oh,
God.

	"Doctor? Doctor Scully? Are you all right?"

	Mouth pursed, fists clenched, I shake my head. I need to think.
*Concentrate, Dana.* I feel the key card in my hand and open my palm
to look down at it. "How many keys to this room?" I ask.

	"Two. One carried by the shift supervisor, and--the one you've got."

	"Who supervises this shift?"

	Nurse Kramer frowns at me and shrinks back, just slightly. "I do,"
she says.

	"Give it to me."

	"What?"

	"Give me the card for 223."

	"But--I--"

	"*Please*."

	We stare at each other, Nurse Kramer and I, for ten seconds that
feel like an eternity. That are an eternity, because now I can hear
Diana's heels clicking down the hallway in pursuit of me, shouting
orders to whoever will listen. Getting closer. And closer. To me. To
Mulder. Nurse Kramer looks back toward the sound. I pray for an
epiphany.

	She reaches into her pocket and comes up with a key.

	Oh, God. Thank you, God. I take the card she offers me and swipe it
down the scanner. The thing beeps and asks for a code. I stare
unseeing at the blinking pad, and feel myself shrink. *Fuck*. Nurse
Kramer called my bluff. And my hand's not worth shit. What now?

	Behind me I hear Diana clearly, through the last door now and in
the same hallway as me, my name stated repeatedly like acid on her
tongue. I don't answer, but a glance backward reveals her not five
yards away,looking like the Banshee with her eyes all wild and the
buff orderly at her side. And I'm stuck. Here. In *front* of his
door. Screwed. What now? What now?

	"1013," Nurse Kramer utters. "Use the same code to exit."

	I punch in the code. The green light buzzes on. I push the door
open and step inside, turning to face Nurse Kramer. Tears sting my
eyes, but I don't care. "I won't forget this," I whisper. She nods
briefly, and I slam the door shut.

	Mulder looks up.

	I stand with my back to the door, feeling more than hearing the
hands and feet hammering at us from the opposite side. "Get me a
key!" Diana screams, her voice distant and tinny, like she'd made the
request through ten feet of foamed rubber, rebar and cement. Which, I
guess, she had. "Get me a goddamned key!"

	"Scully?"

	My mouth trembles a smile and I move toward him slowly. I'm trying
too hard not to cry. My chest and throat are on fire. Adrenalin
crash, emotional meltdown, love so strong and abiding I can feel it
between us, in me, all around. I set the chart and keys aside and
kneel in front of Mulder. His eyes search mine, feel me, read me.
Speak. *You're here,* he says. *You're here.*

	"I'm here, Mulder," I whisper.

	He reaches out and cups my face in his hands. I blink, and fake
courage. A tear escapes, then another. He seems to follow each one,
brushing them back with his thumb, until there are too many to track.
His eyes gaze into me, through me, as he brings me slowly forward.
Without resistance I go with him, eyes falling closed, until I feel
our foreheads touch.

	His skin is cool. His heart is aching. His soul is full of light.
*Not safe here, Scully,* he tells me. "Go."

	I look at him. I shake my head. "No," I tell him. *Not without you.*

	He stares into me again. I feel him intensely this time, on my mind-
-*in* my mind. I blink in amazement and almost back away from him.
The feeling is strange, invasive, communal. More base and more
intimate than any touch we've ever shared. Raw ache shudders through
me, much more than I can bear--

	And then I know. All at once, beyond a doubt, I realize he's doing
this on purpose. *Trying* to make me run. Scully fury floods my
veins. I seize his wrists and glare into his face.

	*Fuck you, Mulder,* I reply, steeling myself against him. "We've
got fifteen minutes before they come up with another key. Tell me
what I need to know."

*****

	--no no no god no please no make it stop make it stop stop stop
stop stop no no please stop Scully please help me help me Scully
Scully Scully Scully god help me stop please no no no no no no no no
stop stop stop please Scully please please Scully-

	What can I do? What can I do? I pace my cell like a caged tiger,
clutching my head. Scully. Scully. Please, Scully. I need you,
Scully.

	I can feel them all around me. More than that, I can hear them.
Don't touch me anymore, Mommy. I gave her everything and she goes
back to that loser. The Vatican is bugging my telephone. He came in
drunk again today. Kill them all. I should report this-but what if
I'm wrong? Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah, someone's in the
kitchen I know-oh-oh-oh-- The air is full of knives. Where am I going
to find five thousand dollars by the end of the month? Kill them all.
Kill them.

	And her. Like a snake lurking in the tall weeds. Got you. Not
getting away from me. You need to be studied. First I have to get rid
of that bitch-

	I have to warn her. Stay away from Diana, Scully. She'll strike.
She'll bite you. Scully. I need you. I need you so much. We have to
fight this, Scully.

	Skinner is there. Worrying. Made mistakes. Have to correct them.
What can I do? He'll kill me. Can't help them if I'm dead. Have to
let Scully know. Help Scully help Mulder. Gotta find a way out of
this.

	Scully. Please, Scully. Scully. Need you, Scully.

	Her presence cuts through the cacophony like a machete through
jungle undergrowth. Mulder. I'm here, Mulder. Don't be afraid.

	I go to where I know they've hidden the camera, gripping my face.
"Scully!" I know you're there. Please. Please. Only you can help me.
I need you. Scully.

	I can't see her. Our eyes meet nonetheless. She sees me. She is
horrified. She wants to get me out of here, away from these people.

	They're lying, Scully, both of them. Skinner is scared, he can't
help us. Diana is--Diana is evil, Scully. Don't believe anything she
says. Only you, Scully. Only you.

	I can feel her coming closer. Her mind is smooth as glass. Simple.
No layers, no shadows. Scully hides nothing. She says what she
thinks, she thinks what she says. No, there are two layers to her
thoughts: on top is worrying, What can I do? How did this happen? How
can I get him out of here? Have to get him out of here, away from
her, there's got to be someplace safe for him. And beneath that: love
you love you love you love you love you . . .

	Love you too. Love you so much. Love you more than anything,
anyone, ever, forever. Love you.

	Diana is behind her. Angry. There's an orderly with her, the big
guy that held me down when they gave me the drugs. He's afraid of me.
I should be drooling on the floor. The nurse is afraid of them, more
of Scully than of Diana. Wise woman. Scully is the dangerous one.

	The door opens, she walks into the cell and slams it shut. Love and
concern wash from her in waves. Diana throws a tantrum outside the
door, but we're safe, for now.

	"Scully?" Don't be afraid of me, Scully. You know I'll never hurt
you.

	She comes towards me, trying to smile. Trying not to cry. Love you
so much. Hate this. Want you out of here. Have to protect you from
her. She puts down some papers and kneels in front of me. Her face is
as pure and open as her mind. "I'm here, Mulder."

	I cup her face in my hands. So beautiful. So fragile and tender.
Tears begin to fall, and I brush them away until they become too
many. I pull her to me until her forehead rests against mine.

	This is only going to hurt her. So much danger. Diana is just the
beginning. I should send her away, far, far away. Get out of the car,
Scully. Go have your house with children and picket fences and dogs.
"Go," I whisper, and she stiffens and shakes her head. Not without
you.

	"No."

	I don't know how to explain this to her. Your life, Scully, your
life, take it with both hands, go away from here, go as far away from
me as you can, go, Scully, go, let the rest of the world fumble on as
it will but forget about me, forget, please, forget about me--

	Her eyes are wide, warm, full only of love and tenderness.

	There's only one way she'll believe me. I have to show her.

	Reaching into her. Invading her. Forgive me for this, but you've
got to listen: they'll kill you. I love you so much but I can't
protect you here. And I can't let you put yourself in danger. Please,
Scully, listen to me, just this once, listen to me, believe me, there
has never been anything more important, go, Scully, go far away, just
go--

	She only stares at me for a moment, then fury floods her and she
grabs my face, forcing me to look into her eyes. Fuck you, Mulder.

	I nearly smile. No, it's going to take more than that to scare off
my fierce little Wookie.

	She says in a low whisper, "We've got fifteen minutes before they
come up with another key. Tell me what I need to know."

	God, I wish I could.

	"Diana. She's dirty." She tried to seduce me, to get me to talk.
She'll stop at nothing, Scully. She'll deal any hand, no matter how
low.

	"I know."

	"Skinner's in trouble. Not sure with who yet. Can't rely on him,
Scully." I pity him more than anything else right now.

	"I know."

	"Krycek. He's in this. Might be running the whole show. Can't tell.
Stay away from him."

	"All right." Unless I have to find him--maybe he has some answers--

	"Scully. I'm serious. Stay away from him."

	"Mulder. Please. Why is this happening to you? What caused it? Is
it the rubbing?"

	"I don't know. I don't know."

	She sighs and runs her hand over my hair. Oh, sweetheart . . .

	"So tired, Scully."

	"I know, baby." She shifts on her knees, opening them to pull me
closer to her. If she could wrap me up in her body, she would. She
strokes my hair and kisses my forehead. The noise all around me has
settled into a dull roar, almost like white noise now. Her thoughts
stroke me as soothingly as her hands. I'm here. I love you so much.
I'll get you out of here, I'll find a safe place.

	"I need to get away, Scully. Away from-all this noise-"

	"All right, Mulder."

	"The source, Scully. Go to the source."

	"Africa?" She shivers. That's so far away . . .

	"There might be more to find. Artifacts, answers. Anything. Go
there. Use the emergency fund."

	"All right." But before I go I'm getting you somewhere safe-I don't
know where yet-

	"Scully. I don't think there is a safe place. This might be the
safest place for me."

	"No," she whispers fiercely, but her thoughts are much more
eloquent. Not with her here, not where she can get her fangs into
you.

	I move my head under her stroking hand and lift my face to her. She
smiles, strokes my face with her whole hand. If I were feeling better
I'd start purring, which always makes her laugh. She knows I love
this.

	Love you so much, Scully. I have faith in you.

	There are voices outside the cell door. Diana, the head nurse,
orderlies, even a doctor or two. They could be arguing in Swahili for
all the sense they make to me. They make noises like chattering
birds.

	There is only Scully, her small warm hand, her warm sweet mind.
There is a streak of goodness in her, as firm as her spine, like a
band of light. A shimmering band of light, I think, remembering a
Kurt Vonnegut book I loved, and Scully shares my smile.

	And she hums. At first I think it's just to comfort me, but then I
recognize the song. She doesn't sing it--she doesn't believe that I
love her singing voice--but in her mind it's beautiful. She rocks me
gently in her arms.

"He walks, he does not run,
He has no overwhelming need to fly,
His heart remains unbroken,
No need to search the sky.
But me, I've never found that place,
I wander recklessly,
And I know that she will find me,
I know that she will find me,
Even if I vanish without a trace,
Oh, and though I'm running blindly,
I know that she will find me,
Hiding with the shadows that I chase."

	When the door opens again, neither of us look up. I know who's
there, she does not want to talk to them. We need only each other.
Fowley makes noises about regulations, dangers, my mental health is
fragile--

	"I am his doctor," Scully says, with an authority to her voice that
no one dares argue against. "I've treated him for everything from
gunshot wounds to stomach flu. If you bar me from seeing him you put
his health is severe jeopardy."

	The doctor looks from her to Diana, and says, "All right, Dr.
Scully, what treatment do you advise?"

	Even Scully is not so much of a saint to resist a glance of
triumph, and Diana's face hardens like a death mask.

	"No more drugs," Scully says. "I will write a list of authorized
visitors. No one else is to see him. I will also write a list of
psychiatrists that may speak to him. He is to have the best care--the
best--" Her voice trembles for a moment. I put my hand in hers and
she grips my fingers. "Most of all he is to have peace and quiet."

	I want to chuckle but it would hurt too much. My throat is sore
from screaming. No more of that. Scully's going to make it all right.
Scully's going to take care of everything.

After Midnight: Someone to Watch Over Me

	Fowley wants me dead.

	There's something in all of this she doesn't want me to find, and
something about Mulder she doesn't want me to know. Something she was
willing to kill to keep hidden. I saw the way her hand curved over
her weapon when she finally got inside tonight, the way she looked at
me. The way Mulder looked at her.
Death mask, indeed.

	I shiver, thinking of that one brief moment when Diana looked me in
the eye and I knew her. I *knew*. She's in this thing up to her chin,
and it's threatening her oxygen fast. I don't give a damn. Mulder is
my only concern here--Mulder and the truth. But I need to be more
careful. Take better precautions, and nothing for granted. Fowley up
to her chin is a formidable foe.

	I underestimated her tonight. I thought I had her buried when they
all came bursting in the door of Mulder's cell. The doctor and I
communicated on an immediate and deferential level, and Diana was
eating it. Big time. I bagged a victory smirk when the doctor asked
what I advised for Mulder, and I informed him. No more drugs, first
and foremost. A list of all visitors and psychiatrists authorized by
*me*. And quiet, above all. No noise. No more questions, no more
tests--

	And Fowley came unglued. I wasn't prepared for it. I honestly
thought I'd won--this battle, at least. She came forward slowly with
hate in her eyes and acid on her tongue, and the kind doctor who'd
been deferential to me kindly moved out of the way. I knew
immediately that there was more to this than I'd seen. And that for
one frightening instant Special Agent Diana Fowley didn't care about
careers, consequences or who was watching.

	Fowley wanted me dead.

	She might've got her wish those last few seconds on the 6th Floor
Psych Ward if Mulder hadn't started screaming.

	I smile now, despite myself. He's a good screamer. I mean, I think
he half meant it, actually, the furious way he screamed from his gut,
with his fists clenched and the tendons in his neck so taut I thought
they'd snap. And the way he charged Diana, roaring like some fierce,
painted warrior straight out of Braveheart. Well, performance or not,
it was inspired.

	Diana the Fearless backed up and got out of his way, fast, like he
was Hannibal Lecter or something. Which he could have been the way he
snarled at her and kept gnashing his teeth. Mulder turned to look at
me in the midst of scaring Diana shitless, his chest heaving, his
hazel eyes still wild with rage. And he winked.

	Then Skinner was there, and more orderlies. Mulder didn't try to
fight them but they muscled him anyway, four men who out-weighed him
by four hundred pounds shoving him hard up against the wall.
Proferring a syringe--

	"No!" I cried, lunging for the men, grabbing the hand that held the
needle poised above Mulder. Skinner grabbed me from behind,
restrained me when I fought him. "No!"

	Then Mulder looked at me. *Go*, he said. *You know what needs to be
done*.

	"You're not helping him, Scully," Skinner hissed in my ear.

	"You dirty sonofabitch," I bit out. "Take your hands off me!"

	*Go, Scully*.

	The men released Mulder, who sank slowly down the wall, his hazel
eyes wide and staring. At me. *Go*.

	I relaxed in Skinner's arms. The traitorous bastard loosened his
hold.

	"Mulder," I whispered, wanting so badly to go to him, knowing that
Skinner would grab me again or Diana would shoot me, but not caring.
I just didn't want them to touch Mulder again. I didn't want to
provoke anyone into hurting Mulder anymore.

	The injected drugs had taken effect, I could see it in the dullness
of his eyes. I wondered what he saw as he looked at me, through me. I
wondered if he could hear.

	I went slowly to him and knelt in front of him, casting a glance
over my shoulder to assure that Fowley and Skinner stayed where they
were. "Mulder," I said again, careful not to touch him. Careful not
to give anyone reason to touch either of us again. "Don't be afraid.
I'll take care of this. Trust me."

	He stared into me, his eyes so hollow but full of pain. I wanted to
scream, I wanted to cry. I did neither, but listened. Heard. *Trust
you, Scully. Still afraid*.

	I shook my head. "No. I won't let them hurt you."

	He turned his head slightly, looking over my shoulder at Diana.
Then his eyes found mine, deep and true. *Not me*, he said. *You*.

	*Afraid for you*.

	Am I surprised I made it back to our office without a bullet in my
back? Yes. Am I surprised to find our office door unlocked? Of course
not. I certainly won't bother closing it behind me, because I'm going
to find the camera they've hidden somewhere in our ceiling, and I'm
going to rip the fucking thing out with my teeth. What happens after
that is anyone's guess. Maybe I'll feed it to Skinner, through his
tiniest bodily orifice. Sort of like an old-fashioned syphilis
cleansing, only without the anesthetic.

	An image of Skinner in the greatest imaginable pain pleases me, but
I don't smile. I can't. I'm too busy looking for where they've hidden
the damn camera, and thanking my lucky stars Mulder and I never had
sex on his desk. Or anywhere near--Hello.

	Using Mulder's chair for leverage I climb up close to the ceiling,
squinting into the innocent smoke detector as if I've never seen it
before. Maybe I haven't. But I see it now. I reach up for it, cold
fury and determination coursing through my blood. Skinner, Fowley.
I'll see you both in hell for this.

	The phone rings as my hands reach for the plastic shell. I back
off, for a moment uncertain. Are they watching me now, calling me to
tell me they've already seen enough? I swallow hard and go to the
phone. "Hello?"

	"Agent Scully," Dr. Sandoz says, and I think--oh, Christ. No-- "I'm
sorry, I didn't know how else to reach you. There's something--"

	Wait, wait! "Dr. Sandoz, I-- I don't know if this is a secure
line." I can't believe I'm saying this. I can't believe Mulder the
Paranoid has been made like this, and that neither of us saw it
coming. Here, in our domain. God *damn* it.

	"Yes," Sandoz agrees. So why the hell does he keep talking? "--
realized something. The letters Albert translated on the artifact. I
know what they are."

	"What they are?"

	"Yes. They're coordinates, Agent Scully."

	"For what?"

	"For genes. They're symbols for gene clusters. The human genome."

	I am silent. What he's saying is impossible. I *can't* believe him,
and yet, how can I not? I don't know what to say.

	"Are you there?" Sandoz asks.

	"Yeah." But I'm speechless. I mean, if what you're telling me is
the truth--

	"I think it's all here," he rushes on. "The map to our human
genetic make-up. Every gene on every chromosome, proof of what I've
been saying. If only we could find more pieces."

	Then what? Would we have the truth? A new world Order? A cure for
Mulder? Perhaps radically revised author credits for the New and Old
Testament? I don't ask but I might as well have, as a strange, tense
silence builds on the other end of the line. I frown. "Dr. Sandoz?"

	He doesn't answer.

	"Hello?" I persist, fear beginning to spread harsh fingers through
my chest.

	A gunshot sounds in far off New Mexico, and I know this
conversation has ended.

	I glance up at the hidden camera and can practically hear Mulder
screaming "Get the hell out of the office, Scully!"

	*Now*.

*****

	Scully is daydreaming. She does this a lot when she drives,
particularly when she knows the route well. She's going to see the
Gunmen, to tell them what's going on and ask for help, but at the
moment she's daydreaming.

	She's thinking about something that happened before all this shit
started hitting the fan, when we were last together in her apartment.
We made dinner together, ate it in a comfortable silence, cleaned up
together. She liked the way the flavor of the salmon blended with my
mouth when she kissed me.

	"Mulder," she whispers, and there are tears in her eyes, which she
quickly wipes away.

	I'm okay, sweetheart. I am. The straightjacket really isn't my
color, but I feel okay.

	"Mulder," she whispers again, but it's stronger, not so sad. "I
feel you, Mulder."

	I feel you, too.

	She tells herself she's being ridiculous, I'm really not following
her like a guardian angel on her shoulder, but still . . .

	I feel him. He's with me.

	It comforts her. She is afraid, already weary, worried, and her
journey has not yet begun.

	All my love to you, Scully. All my strength, all my faith, all my
trust. You can do this. You can.

	She daydreams of us, of how I feel asleep in her arms just a few
nights ago, how she fondly stroked my hair and watched my face, and
she was so glad to see me sleeping peacefully that she didn't want to
wake me up to go to bed. So we slept on the couch, her body my
pillow, my body her blanket, and though we both were stiff in the
morning she loved it anyway and would do it again, anytime, happily.

	I'm scared, Mulder.

	I know. I won't tell you not to be, because I think your fear will
help keep you alive. You can't be too careful or too cautious.

	A brief flash of outrage--They were spying on us! Spying!--and then
she breathes deeply to calm herself down. She thinks about me, about
the taste of my mouth and the feel of my hands, and it soothes her
somewhat.

	I'll be coming home to you soon.

	And I'll be waiting.

	She parks a few blocks away from the warehouse where the guys hole
up, and walks quickly, her head high. No one pays attention to the
small redhead with the determined expression.

	She runs up the familiar stairs, and rings the bell impatiently.
"It's me, hurry up," she says, peering up at the camera over the
door.

	Frohike opens it and smiles at her, genuinely pleased to see her.
"To what do we owe the honor, Agent Scully?"

	"Mulder's in trouble, I have to leave the country, and I need your
help." She sweeps into the apartment and Frohike locks the door
behind her, his smile gone and his thoughts filled with concern.
Langley rises from the computer and Byers comes out of the kitchen.

	"What's going on?"

	"Where's Mulder?"

	"Mulder is in the hospital. The psychiatric ward. Something went
wrong with a case we were investigating--he's--he's--"

"He's finally cracked up," Langely says softly, and Byers glares at
him. Try and show a little sensitivity! I smile to myself, though:
Langley's got it pretty close, actually.

	"Our office was bugged." She drops her briefcase on one of their
tables and they cluster around to see the piece of hardware she takes
out. "I've disconnected it--it should be safe. I hope it is. I know
they've bugged his apartment before, it wouldn't surprise me if
they've done it again, and I'm sure my place is bugged too. I left my
cell phone in the office. I can't trust anything, anywhere." She is
so tired. Her right temple is beginning to flutter, a precursor of a
tension headache. Nonetheless she tells them what's happened to me in
a low, quick voice, and the guys are good enough to not interrupt her
despite their questions.

	Finally she says, "I've made a list of people who can see him, and
I've listed you, Byers, as one of his doctors."

	"Why not me?" Langley says, and Scully all but rolls her eyes. He's
never forgiven her for that "beeeep-splat" thing in Las Vegas.

	"Because you look more like a roadie for the Grateful Dead than you
do a psychiatrist. Byers can pull it off. I'm leaving you an address,
a place to take him if you need to get away. It should be safe for
you guys too. I don't know how things are going to get, I really
don't--I may be overreacting--but you can't be too careful--"

	Frohike puts one of his hands on her and says, "Breathe, Scully."

	She looks at him for a moment, and then smiles a tiny bit and
breathes deeply. I could kiss him. "Thanks. I'm okay." She clears her
throat. "Byers, I'd like for you to go to my apartment and pack a
suitcase for me."

	"All right," Byers says, and starts looking around for his car keys.

	"I'll do it," Frohike says quickly, and she smiles at him again.

	"I have something else I need you to do. I want you and Langley to
go to our safe deposit box and get the money to pay for this, and to
buy my airline tickets. Oh, Byers, while you're at my apartment get
my passport, it's in the top drawer of my desk. I don't want any of
us to be traveling alone for the next while, but I'm not going to go
into my apartment. Okay?"

	"Okay," they agree quietly, and in a minute or two they are ready
and out the door.

	Langley and Byers have gone on ahead down the stairs when Frohike
takes Scully's arm and says quietly, "He's going to be okay." He
believes it, too.

	"I know. I know. I . . . can't help but be afraid," she confesses
quietly, and it's a measure to me of how tender their relationship
really is, that she could confide this to him. I tease Frohike
sometimes about his crush on Scully, but the truth is they are
friends. I'm glad.

	The drugs are working in my system. I've been struggling to stay
awake for Scully's sake but I'm not sure I can anymore. But she's in
good hands. They'll take care of her, as much as she'll let them.

	Scully? Do you feel me, Scully? Do you feel me with you, watching
over you? I'm with you. Always.

After Midnight: The Spider's Web

	Skinner lay in his bed, his arm over his eyes. He had not slept. He
had watched the moonlight move over his bedspread, he had counted
sheep, he had listened to the breathing of the woman beside him.

	How the hell did I get into this?

	He turned onto his side and watched her for a moment, and asked
himself again, How the hell did I get into this? The moonlight on her
hair was pretty but unhelpful, and he sighed and rolled onto his
back.

	"Walter. Go to sleep already."

	It was not a kind voice, nor a sweet one. Brittle. No tenderness at
all. It was not the voice of a lover.

	He did not think of her as a lover. She was the woman who
controlled him, it was as simple as that. She knew where Alex Krycek
was, and what he was capable of doing. She relayed Krycek's wishes to
him, told him if Krycek was pleased or displeased with his behavior.
And because it amused her to have sex with him, they had sex.

	Skinner had grown to loathe the ringing phone, because more and
more often it was her teasing, low, "Walter . . . Mommy wants to play
. . ." He'd thought the games she liked to play existed only in the
darkest fantasies of very dark minds, but . . . God . . . had Mulder
had to live through this?

	If he had, no wonder he'd gone to someone like Scully. Scully would
be a sunrise after a dark--very dark--and stormy night.

	I could use a little sunshine myself right now, Skinner thought,
and sat up and leaned his head on his hands, his elbows resting on
his knees.

	"Walter." Reproving. "You're keeping me awake."

	God, no, one mustn't disturb the Queen at her rest. "Sorry," he
muttered and got out of bed. What was it that Rumpole had called his
wife? She Who Must Be Obeyed. That was it. Only Rumpole had meant it
with affection.

	"Where are you going?"

	"I can't sleep. I'm going to read."

	She sighed. It was petulant. She thought his taste in books was
beneath him. She thought when they both were awake and alone there
were better pursuits to-she's say with a tiny smile--pursue.

	Skinner went out into the living room, pulling on his bathrobe, and
turned on one of the endlamps. His wife had laughed at his love of
light mysteries too, but she indulged him in it. Bought new ones for
him when she saw one she thought he'd like. Had him read to her while
she painted her toenails. Would smile at him wickedly and say, "I
know who the murderer is," and make a show of not telling him. He
never told her he'd figured it out too, it would spoil the game.

	He missed his wife.

	That had been sunshine, for a while. Until he couldn't tell her
what was going on in his life anymore. And if you couldn't confide in
your wife, what was left?

	Loneliness and fear and a woman you don't love, who doesn't love
you.

	Skinner folded the book in his arms and closed his eyes. On the
inside cover in fading blue ink was written, "Sweetheart, I found
this for you yesterday--don't tell me how it ends!" He didn't have to
look to remember the words. He knew it well enough to know exactly
how hard she had pressed the pen into the rough cardstock. He could
imagine the quick flick of her wrist as she wrote the note, the smile
over her face when she decided to leave it in his briefcase, her
private chuckle over her small joke. He never told her how it ended.
She liked to figure it out for herself.

	Help me. Wherever you are, tell me how to get out of this. You
always knew how to solve a problem.

	It had started when he believed that this woman was sincere, that
she honestly meant to help Scully and Mulder, that despite some blank
spots in her past she was the real thing. He'd believed her.

	But that was before the phone calls, before Mommy wants to play.
Come here, Walter. Lie still, Walter. Close your eyes, Walter.

	He didn't know why he'd believed her, except that he'd wanted to
believe in someone.

	Take this, Walter, she's said. Take this and give it to Mulder.
It's a clue, it will help him. A clue to what? he'd asked her, and
she had smiled. You mean after all these years you still don't know?

	So he'd given it to Mulder.

	And now Mulder was insane, or something. And now Scully was in
Africa, or something. He could hardly believe that.

	And worst of all, she thought he was a traitor.

	No. That wasn't the worst. The worst was, it was true.

	I don't know what to do, sweetheart, he thought. I don't know how
to get out of this. Krycek could kill me with the touch of a button.
The Cancer Man owns my soul. And she--that woman--

	"Walter?"

	He cringed.

	"Walter . . . come back to bed, Walter."

	What would she do if he said no?

	He didn't know if he wanted to find out.

	He put the book aside and stood. She would be beautiful if she
weren't so hardened. "Walter," she said again, impatience coloring
her seductive tone, and death befell those who spurned She Who Must
Be Obeyed.

	"You're thinking about them again. You mustn't worry, Walter. You
mustn't worry about them. They'll be taken care of. Dana Scully is
only a minor obstacle. I know a good place for Mulder. A good, safe
place, where they can help him. They'll both be taken care of. I
promise. Trust me."

	I don't know if I can afford that anymore, Skinner thought, but lay
down beside her anyway.

*****

	I stand alone at the water's edge, my guide having deserted me, and
try to see what I know is here. Mulder said it would be, and I've
followed the coordinates Dr. Sandoz gave before his murder,
converting genome codes into longitude and latitude with the help of
the Gunmen. I'm in the right place. Whatever it is I'm looking for,
it's here.

	It must be. It has to be.

	The wind whips my hair and stings my eyes, but the coolness of it
keeps me awake. Keeps me fresh. I'm exhausted, but in the right
place. And I know I'd be content if this were another time and place,
with my bare feet sinking cool into the sand, and the smooth sea
lapping at my ankles. But I am not content. I am tense and alert,
looking for something I don't believe in but have to find.

	I hear Mulder whisper, *The source, Scully. The source....* but I'm
not sure what that means. I'm not sure where he is at this moment,
and I wish I did. I wish I could tell him....

	*I don't see it, Mulder.*

	*It's there. Trust me.*

	I close my eyes. All right, it's there. He's telling me it's there,
and I know it must be, but I can't see it. I'm beginning to wonder
why. Is it because I'm afraid? Is it because I'm skeptical? Is it
because I was never very good at seeing the pictures in those Magic
Eye books? Mulder can see them. Mulder gets them every time.

	Drawing a deep breath, I take a step back from the water. Still
nothing. I glance over my shoulder and up at the cliff behind me,
wondering if, from up there, the view would be clearer. Bigger, more
precise. Though my guide has disappeared I figure I can find a way up
on my own. There has to be a trail, some path to the top--

	"You can see the truth from up there, Agent Scully," a familiar
voice promises. "But you'll have to pay the price."

	Instantly, I am rigid. I don't see him, but I don't turn around to
look for him, either. I've seen the smoking face of evil before. I
have no desire to look on it again. "And the price is?" I ask, my
voice low. Just this side of civil.

	"Your life, of course."

	Of course. I clench my fists and turn to confront him. He smiles
the cold way I'm used to, with flat, soulless eyes. "What are you
doing here?" I ask. "Did you follow me?"

	"Don't flatter yourself, my dear. Alex does all the dirty work."

	I look up, back up the steep ridge behind me. Sure enough, on the
high cliffs above I see the black clad figure of Alex Krycek. He
stands with his feet apart, one arm down, the other across his
middle, casually showing me the gun he's holding, with silencer
already attached. He smiles.

	"Some truths are better left alone, Scully," the smoking man says.

	My jaw is rigid. I've been clenching my teeth for three days
straight, it seems, and I can't seem to stop. The pain has become
familiar, and keeps me on edge. At least, that's what I keep telling
myself. The fact that I've been tracked to this lonely stretch of
beach, though, tells me that perhaps I'm not as alert as I thought. I
shift my gaze from Krycek to the smoking man, wondering why I'm not
already dead. *Afraid, Scully,* Mulder had said. *Afraid for you.*

	The man in front of me studies my face, looking to feed off my
reaction. Fear. He wants my fear, I'm sure of it. I refuse to give
it. "What do you want?" I ask.

	The smoking man shrugs. "What I always want," he says. "A
satisfactory conclusion."

	His eyes are nearly black in the African sun. I stare into them,
thinking I should be whispering some kind of mantra-- I'm stronger
than this, I'm stronger than this. But the longer I stare, the more I
see. And suddenly I want to cross myself.

	"Leave us alone." I start away from him. I don't have to look to
know that he walks behind me. The hairs stand up on the back of my
neck, and I know Krycek is walking with us, too. My head in his
sights, his clever finger on the trigger. I picture the cross hairs
ever time he stops, sets, raises the gun. I shudder from head to toe.
But I keep walking.

	I head toward the outcropping of rocks where my guide disappeared,
where the group of men had confirmed that what was buried in the sand
here matched the rubbing Skinner had given to Mulder and me.

	"How did you find your way here, Agent Scully?" the smoking man
asks.

	I continue to walk without answering.

	"When did Agent Mulder develop telepathy?"

	I purse my mouth. Still, I say nothing.

	"Interesting that he can read your mind, I imagine," he says, in
that sly, suggestive tone of his.

	Around the rocks and with the smoking man following, I reach the
place where I'd left the men. The beach is deserted. The men, their
truck, my taxi--gone. *Christ*. I stop walking. I've got my weapon,
but Krycek is ready, and I'm sure the monster behind me would just as
soon kill me as blink. He exhales, and a cloud of smoke drifts past
my face. Still, I don't look at him.

	I clench and unclench my fists, waiting. I still myself. Breathe.
Resist the urge to turn and spit.

	"What do you want?" I ask again, knowing he's got something
specific on his mind. A trade off. A deal. Otherwise, one of us would
no longer be here.

	"A compromise," he says.

	I hate him. I hate this. Knowing I'm caught, knowing I have no
choice. An image of Skinner pops into my mind, passing a piece of
paper to Mulder that he should have kept to himself; another image of
the usually cool AD stumbling over words of revelation in the
hospital corridor, incriminating himself to me while Fowley watched.
I realize now what I was too angry to see then. This is what it feels
like, I think, to enter the spider's web.

	Mulder wouldn't do it, I tell myself. Mulder wouldn't even ask--

	"What compromise?" I utter. My voice is hoarse, rasping in my
throat. It hurts to speak, as if I'm betraying a confidence, a trust,
even myself.

	"Give me the rubbing," the smoking man tells me, "and go home."

	I frown and face him. "Where's the compromise in that? You have
everything. I see nothing in it for me or Mulder."

	"You leave Africa alive...." he says.

	"And?"

	"And nothing. That's a fair trade, don't you think?"

	No, I don't think. He made no mention of Mulder. The knowledge
makes my stomach twist, especially since I know this man could just
kill me and take the rubbing anyway. A rubbing I'm certain Mulder
would have duplicated. Then it occurs to me that this man isn't
stupid. He must know that. He must know--

	Awareness prickles through me. I shiver, then freeze. "Mulder--" I
whisper.

	"I'm sorry," the smoking man tells me, and for a moment I think he
is.

	I look up at him. Pain and fear clutch my heart.

	"Mulder became a liability," he continues.

	I shake my head, a move barely perceptible in the glare of the
light, the rush of the wind. "I don't believe you."

	He shrugs again. "It's happening as we speak. A simple injection,
Scully, he won't feel a thing. But if you need reassurance, we can
call Diana right now and listen in--"

	A crack! splits the air as my open hand connects with the side of
his face, leaving an imprint I'm glad to see. He is staring at me--
thinking of squashing me, no doubt, like a persistent, irritating
bug.

	"The rubbing?" he says.

	My palm is stinging. Otherwise numb, I reach into my jacket pocket.
*Mulder,* I plead, praying he's somewhere alive and listening.
Watching over me..... *Can you hear me? Mulder, I'm frightened. I
need to know where you are. How you are. If you are. * Inside the
pocket my fingers brush the cold metal of my weapon, and the precious
piece of paper our enemy is demanding. My hand edges closer to the
gun. *Do it, Dana,* I think. *The worst you'll do is die.*

	"Careful, Scully," the smoking man warns.

	My fingers close over the sig. It would be so easy. And Krycek
could stop me, but not in time to save his master. I have to. I must.
There is everything for whoever follows in this quest to gain, and
nothing left for me to lose. My finger curls around the trigger.

	*Don't*.
Mulder
	's voice shivers through me. I swallow hard, thinking I imagined
it. He can't be safe. The smoking man just told me. I couldn't
protect him. I left him there for Diana to bury.

	*Buried her*, Mulder says. *Under Frohike*.

	I cringe. Under Frohike?

	*Later*, Mulder says. *Give the bastard what he's asked for and
come home*.

	Without a word, I bypass the gun and take hold of the rubbing. I
hand it to the Cigarette Smoking Man.

	"Wise choice, Agent Scully," he says, not even glancing at the
precious piece of paper before ripping it in two, three, ten pieces.
He lets go of the pieces, lets them scatter on the wind. "Nice doing
business with you."

	He walks away from me. I watch the wisps of white float onto the
water, into the sand, almost like a mosaic. I frown, thinking about
the thing I'd seen in the water, wondering how much longer it would
be before whatever it is gets excavated and destroyed. Our enemies
know it's here. Mulder knows it's here.

	I walk back to the edge of the rocks for one last look at the place
I was directed to, following the coordinates aka genomes from Dr.
Sandoz. I see the circle of stone-like tablets in the water, and from
this angle something else--something that looks like the tide-worn
wing of a plane. I glance up at the cliffs. Krycek is gone, but I can
feel them watching me. I know Mulder isn't the only one.... *What is
it, Mulder?* I ask him. *What's here?"

	*The truth, Scully,* Mulder answers.

	Ah, the truth. I squint up into the cloudless sky, my gaze sliding
to the cliffs. That thing we've been looking for nearly seven years,
Mulder alone even longer. The elusive, nebulous truth. I scan the
cliffs, remembering the smoking man's words--from up there I could
see it. I wonder if it's worth it, worth the price I'm told I'd have
to pay. To know the truth for Mulder, even for just an instant.

	I feel the pressure of his hand in mine. I don't look down--I know
he isn't there. But I know what he wants. I know what he's telling
me. And then I hear him.

	*No*, he tells me.

	*No.*

After Midnight: Only an Ocean Away

	It was a long, hot walk back to the village, but Scully had already
taken a room in its one rooming house. It has no private bathroom, of
course, but it has running water and they provide her with a pitcher
and basin, towels and a sponge. Scully draws the shades against the
blazing sun and pins up her hair, and slowly starts to strip off her
clothes. There is a small round mirror over the bureau, and she
lingers in front of it, naked and flushed from the heat.

	"Are you still with me, Mulder?" she whispers.

	I'm here.

	She closes her eyes for a moment and smiles. "I feel you. I feel
you with me. Like you're right here with me."

	I am with you. I'm seeing all of this through your eyes.

	She smiles again and opens her eyes. She picks up the sponge and
soaks it in the basin, and then squeezes it at the base of her neck.
Water cascades down her sleek creamy back. "Enjoying the peep show?"
she whispers.

	Oh, yeah, baby.

	We both chuckle, which gets me a concerned glance from Byers. He
says nothing, however.

	"Mulder," Scully whispers an ocean away, "Mulder, why did I come
here? What was it that he didn't want me to see? I came all this way
and I feel like I've failed . . . like I've failed you . . ."

	Oh, sweetheart, you haven't failed. You haven't. You've seen what I
hoped you would see. It's where we came from, the origin of life,
maybe the origin of intelligence. Our connection with the rest of the
universe.

	She shakes her head slowly. "Mulder, the things I've seen . . . I
refuse to believe that God was an alien. Is an alien. Too much
happens that can't be explained that way." And I see in her mind a
vision she's never satisfactorily explained to herself, of a man with
four faces, of angels walking into blinding light, her little girl
saying, "Mommy, let me go . . ."

	I send her back an image of my own, of me cradling her in my arms
and kissing her face, and she smiles again, thankful for the comfort.
I can't make it fit together, Scully. I can only tell you what I
think it may be.

	"All right, let me get this straight, then. You think thousands of
years ago extraterrestrial beings came to Earth and started the
process of evolution? And they implanted in our genetic memory the
book of Genesis? With concrete evidence, just in case?"

	I don't think it was on purpose. I think what you saw was a crash
site, not a deliberate landing.
"I'm having terrible flashbacks to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the
Galaxy,"Scully says dryly, and I chuckle again.

	"Are you okay?" Byers says softly, glancing away from the road just
long enough to look at me. In my focus on Scully I've hardly heard a
thing from Byers's mind, which is just fine. I'd rather just listen
to Scully anyway.

	"I'm okay. Scully's okay."

	"I'm sure she is too."

	"No, I mean I know she is okay--"

	"Of course you do, Mulder."

	I give up and look out the window again. He doesn't believe it. Not
yet.

	I've tried sending thoughts to other people but it hasn't worked.
Only Scully can hear me. To me this speaks even further to the depths
of our bond--and it give me an enormous thrill, too, I won't deny it.
Scully believes it. She can't dismiss what she herself is
experiencing, participating in. She hears my thoughts and I hear
hers, and it's clearer, stronger, with each passing moment.

	"Mulder? What's going on?"

	I'm okay. Had to talk to Byers for a minute.

	"Then tell me all about that. He said--the Smoking Man said she was
going to kill you."

	Those may have been her orders but they weren't her intentions.
Make yourself comfortable and I'll tell you a story.

	She smiles and finishing brushing her hair, and gets dressed again
and packs up her things. There's a long bus ride ahead of her, to get
her back to the capital and on a plane again. A story will help pass
the time.

	I make myself comfortable as well, as much I as I can in this car
seat. Byers looks at me with obvious befuddlement but says nothing.
He's worried about upsetting me. He thinks I'm in some sort of shock
from what happened earlier today. I'm not--I feel better than I have
for days, especially now that I know Scully's okay--but nothing I've
said has convinced him yet. He wishes Scully were here, almost as
much as I do.

	All right, Scully. This is what happened.

*****

	Naming Byers as my psychiatrist was a stroke of genius, because the
nurse who supervised the floor developed an enormous crush on him at
first sight. She told him about your visit, Scully, and what happened
with Diana. "Everyone's afraid of him, sir," she said. "I don't want
to send you in there without an orderly."

	"I'm not afraid," Byers said with more confidence than he actually
felt, but since you had impressed on him how important secrecy was he
decided to brave it alone. "Mr. Mulder trusts me."

	The nurse looked at him a moment, then said, "I'll wait right
outside the door," and brought him to me.

	Byers stepped into the cell cautiously. He knelt down in front of
me, hating the straightjacket they'd put on me as an extra
precaution, full of pity towards me because he'd honestly never
thought I would crack up under the pressure, and said quietly,
"Mulder? How are you doing?"

	"I've stopped drooling." My mouth was dry and my words slurred
together. "I'm getting better. Tell me what's going on."

	"Scully is going to Africa."

	"Right. Okay." My legs twitched with muscle spasms and he leaned
forward with concern.

	"Do you want to stand? Walk around a little?"

	"No. They're a little too sedative-happy."

	"We're working on getting you out. I hope by the end of today."

	"John--" he was visibly surprised by my use of his first name--"I
don't want to put you guys into any more danger. Once I'm out of here
I'd better take off on my own."

	"Scully gave us a place to take you."

	This was the first I'd heard of it. You must have discussed this
while I was knocked out. "Safe?"

	"Safe. Isolated. We may make ourselves scarce for a while, though.
Scully offered for us to stay there too but I'm worried abut all of
us together being too easy to find."

	I smiled at his very-justified paranoia and said, "All right. Don't
tell me anything more until it's safe."

	He nodded. "All right. Do you need anything?"

	"I have this terrible itch--"

	He looked pained.

	"--between my shoulder blades. Relax, would you? I haven't bitten
anybody yet."

	Byers sighed and obligingly moved behind me to scratch my back.
"This whole thing gives me the creeps. If I thought I could get away
with it I'd drag you out right now. Your nurse is nice, but--"

	"She thinks you're cute."

	"Sure she does."

	"She does. You could use that to help us."

	"I can't take advantage of complete stranger--"

	"I'm not saying you should hump and dump her, I just think you
could cultivate some sympathy with very little effort."

	"Sympathy," Byers repeated skeptically, and stood up to leave.
"I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

	"Hurry," I said seriously, and he nodded, just as seriously. He
went to the door and tapped on it, and the nurse unlocked the door
and let him out.

	When he got back to the warehouse there was a package waiting on
the front stoop. At first he thought it was a bomb or some such
thing, but a quick once-over convinced him it was harmless. He took
the package upstairs and opened it, and found inside it a computer
floppy disk. He put it into one of the computers and opened the only
file on it, which was a simple text file. It said this,

	"Fowley is preparing to transfer Mulder at nine o'clock tonight.
The facility named in the paperwork does not exist. Get Mulder away
from Fowley or we lose him forever." It was unsigned, of course.

	Byers being Byers, he was somewhat disinclined to believe this.
However, lucky for me, he decided it was best to be prepared, and
started a transfer process of his own. By the time Frohike and
Langley returned from the airport he had forms printed and filled out
with forged signatures in appropriate blanks. Barely stopping to take
a breath they were off again, to the hospital to rescue me.

*****

	It's hard to explain how I tell Scully this story. Even our mental
communication is not strictly words--it's images, feelings, concepts
explained in symbols and shorthand like dreams. I tell her what
happened in a hodgepodge of memory and extrapolation, and I get
answering "hmm"s and "oh, I see"s from her in return. But that
doesn't explain it either, how she answers me. Her interior voice is
like a whisper in my ear, or more like a caress on my shoulder. A
soft, wordless, "yes, go on," like an encouraging nod. I picture her
face, her eyes wide with narrative anticipation, her body going
through the movements of leaving the rooming house, getting on the
bus, finding a place to sit, while her mind is an ocean away, in
Virginia with me.

	I have to interrupt myself for a few minutes, as Byers pulls the
car over to a gas station to refill and I get out to stretch my legs.
We've been driving a long time, and we're far out of the city. The
air smells of pine and grass, damp and cool, away from the smell of
gasoline. I go to the edge of the asphalt and look into the woods,
and think without wanting to, like a reflex, I miss you. I wish you
were here.

	I miss you too, Mulder. She pictures us together, our hands
clutching, our mouths locked as we play one of our kissing games. And
in her thoughts we go much farther than we have yet in reality, and I
moan softly.
Don't tease.

	I'm not teasing. I want to make love to you when I get home. I need
you.

	"Oh, Scully . . ." I whisper, and sigh. You're so far away.

	I'm getting closer all the time. Tell me what happened next.

*****

	"Dr. Byers," the nurse exclaimed when the three of them entered the
ward, "Ms--Agent--Fowley is here. She brought me these." She thrust
some papers into Byers's hands. The transfer papers.

	"She's not authorized to do this," Byers said, barely glancing at
them. "She has no legal jurisdiction. Agent Scully has Mr. Mulder's
power of attorney--"

	"The top one of short-term guardianship of Mr. Mulder in the name
of Agent Fowley. I can't imagine who she blackmailed to get that
one," she added darkly, and in my cell I would have chuckled. "She's
downstairs now with Dr. Varner. The man has a spine of spaghetti,"
she added again, and this time Byers smiled. They were already down
the hall, the four of them, clutching papers like shields against the
dragon. And this one is a tough old bird, boys. "She'll convince him
to transfer Mr. Mulder--he'll put up a token protest, I'm sure,
considering what Dr. Scully said--is it true Dr. Scully's not even in
the country anymore? That's what Agent Fowley said."

	"Dr. Scully is pursuing a cure for Mr. Mulder," Byers said. Any
politician would kill to have his ability for double talk. It's
always the innocent-looking ones who are the best liars, when they
need to be. Even you can lie with the best of them, Scully, when you
need to.

	Nurse Kramer passed him a room key and gave Frohike the other. "I
have to go back to my desk. In five minutes I'm going on my coffee
break early. When I get back I won't notice anything different for
half an hour. Okay?"

	All three of them looked at her with admiration, and she smiled at
them quickly and hurried back down the hall. "Now that's a fine
woman," Frohike said, and Byers sighed and said softly, "Yeah."

	They swiped the key cards quickly and Byers entered the cell again,
alone. I looked up at him groggily. "Hi again. We're leaving."

	"I think they slipped me a mickey," I said, or meant to say, but I
think it came out more like "I shink shey slupp m' mickey," and he
didn't crack a smile. He just knelt down and started on the straps to
the straightjacket.

	"That woman . . . Fowley . . . I don't know what she has in mind
and I don't want to know. But we're going. We're going now."

	"Elevator," Langley said, and Byers froze for a moment. We all knew
it. Fowley.

	"Fuck," Byers said mildly, and started working the straightjacket
off me. And Byers doesn't swear. He finally got the damn thing off me
and hauled me to my feet as we heard high heels click down the hall.

	"Where is the floor nurse?"

	I shuddered at her voice, I couldn't help it. Did I ever think that
voice was melodious, soothing? At that moment it was like fingernails
down a chalkboard.

	She stopped when she saw Frohike and Langley, and had to compose
herself for a moment. She strode forward briskly. "Mel. Paul. How
good to see you again."

	They both gave noncommittal grunts. She was getting closer.

	"I wish it could be under more fortuitous circumstances." Regret
colored her voice. She lay it on like cheap paint. "I suppose Agent
Scully asked you to look after Mulder while she's away? She chose an
interesting time to go halfway around the world. How is the patient?"

	By now Byers had me on my feet, my arm over his shoulders like he
was trying to get me to walk if off. He was starting to sweat. How do
we get past her now? The best way to go is the brave way. He stepped
forward, half-dragging me, his spine straight and his head high. I
have the perfect right to do this. Ten years of friendship. Scully
asked us to take care of him. Just following doctor's orders.

	Fowley paused again at the open door, and stood in the doorway, her
hands at her sides. "John. It's a reunion. Too bad Mulder can't enjoy
it properly."

	"We're leaving," Byers said, and I wanted to cheer.

	"I'm sorry, no. Dr. Varner is signing the papers now. There will be
orderlies here in a few minutes. I'm taking him to a private facility
in Maryland, where he can have the proper care and the peace Agent
Scully was so concerned about."

	Gun. Silencer. She hates these guys, always has, hated that I
trusted them so much, hated that I liked them, hated that she was
never enough for me--she'll kill them, and Byers first because he
looks so smug right now--

	"Put him down, John," she said softly, her tone as tender as her
thoughts weren't, and started to step towards us, her hand out to
help me down to the floor again. "Put him down. You can follow the
ambulance, if you want, if it will make you feel better. I'll put
your names on the visitors list. You'll see. He's going to be fine.
He'll get the best care--"

	Her hand slipped into her pocket. Won't miss you at all, you always
were a little man--

	I shoved Byers as hard as I could to the floor as the shot zipped
out. "What the hell--" from Langley, and Frohike just acted, he
tackled her from behind and the gun clattered from her startled hand.

	"Go!" Don't think, just go!

	"Get off me, you troll!" Diana's feet flailed against the floor.
Byers and Langley both were moving, dragging me through the doorway
and to my feet, to run stumbling down the hall.

	At the elevator Langley panted, "Can't leave him," and waited only
for Byers to nod before running back. Byers looked at me.

	"They'll be okay?"

	I could only nod. Yes. She's angry but she won't hurt them now,
she's made too much noise already and it won't be clean. It would be
pointless, too, without me. Without her prize.

	Byers took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and when the
elevator finally came he dumped me in the corner and slammed his open
palm on the Door Close button. She thought you were a little man,
Byers, I thought, and pitied her.

*****

	That's pretty much it, Scully. Fortunately for us the hospital was
busy so two pale men weren't noticeable, and we got to the car okay.
And we've been driving ever since. He let me sleep a little but I'm
okay, I think. I'm not sure what caused that last relapse, I didn't
eat anything and I drank only some water. Of course they could have
put something in the water . . . well, whatever. I'm okay. The guys
are okay, Frohike and Langley got away with only flesh wounds from
scratching fingernails. I don't think they'll be going back to the
warehouse anytime soon, though.

	Quite an adventure, Mulder.

	Yep. I yawn.

	Frohike's not a troll.

	Nope.

	I'm glad you're okay.

	So am I, Wookie. Hurry home.

	"We're almost there," Byers says, and Scully tells me, I hope you
like the place.

	She's weary too, so tired she feels it behind her eyes and in the
back of her neck and the soles of her feet. The bus jostles and bumps
her so that she can't find a good place to rest her head. I want to
sleep, Mulder.

	Do you want a lullaby?

	She smiles. Only if you're singing it.

	I am. And I only know one. You know the one.

	Oh, yes. I know.

	I start humming, and an ocean away she hums with me, " . . . I know
that she will find me, I know that she will find me, even if I vanish
without a trace . . ."

*****

	"...and though I'm running blindly, I know that she will find me,
hiding with the shadows that I chase...."

	I hear his voice inside me, lulling me to sleep with the same song
begun hours ago on a bus ride from hell through the Ivory Coast. Have
I slept at all? I don't think so. But Mulder's voice in my head or my
heart or wherever it is soothes me, takes my brain out of Dr. Agent
Scully mode and lays me in a place that I don't recognize, and feel
no need to analyze. Peaceful. Like a fine buzz.

	It's a nice place, but I've remained there for as long as I can.
The captain's disc jockey smooth voice over the intercom tells me
we're approaching Dulles and our seats should be in the upright
position. I check. My seat hasn't moved--in the same way I haven't
moved--since I boarded this plane.

	"I'm here, Mulder," I say out loud, but you don't answer. I wonder
where you are. Safely at Uncle Miles' cabin, I guess. I hope. I pray.
I've been hearing your voice, Mulder, but how in the hell do I know
it isn't just me? Be safe, please.

	I almost expect to hear you respond to that one. You don't. With a
sigh I look out the window, the last traces of the lullaby echoing
through me, centering me with the kind of peace I need at this
moment. I have no idea which way to go from here, or how. In fact, I
half expect Diana to be waiting for me, flanked by an armed escort
prepared to seize me as I disembark.

	Is she out there, Mulder? Is that why you don't answer?

	Nothing.

	Okay, is this a test?

	Irritation sweeps through me, just one more manifestation of an
exhaustion begun a week ago, when I dialed your number and got
Fowley. My stomach tenses. It has nothing to do with the bump and
screech of the plane landing on the runway, though the race of my
heart seems to be keeping perfect time with the mantra "harder on the
brakes, harder on the brakes, HARDER ON THE BRAKES!" The plane slows
and my heartbeat slows, but my stomach is still tense as we coast to
a stop.

	Everyone seems to jump out of their seats at once, the men and
women of business class first up and out the open door, of course. I
move slower. Why am I in no hurry? Is Diana waiting for me, Mulder?
Is she?

	No answer.

	I purse my lips and tell myself I'm tired. More tired than I think
I've ever been in my life. So tired I can't hear myself think, or
even begin to understand the feelings roiling around inside me.
Confusion. Anguish. A sense of failure. Fear for you. If I can't
think, Mulder, and I'm not sure what to feel, how will I find you?
You're at the cabin, right? Please tell me you're at the cabin.

	Nothing.

	Tears of frustration and fatigue sting my eyes. Of course I don't
cry them, but I feel ridiculous for feeling them at all. Jaw clenched
tight I join the steady stream of passengers out of the plane,
wondering if I look any differently than I looked a week ago, and if
maybe Diana and her henchmen won't recognize me.
Because they're there, aren't they, Mulder? I can't hear you, but I
know they're there.

	As if in confirmation I see the long dark hair and eye-masking
sunglasses of my enemy as I follow the line of passengers out the
door and toward the crowd at customs. She zones right in on me the
minute I enter the waiting area. Diana starts forward, her legion in
tow. Four of them, actually, all well above six feet. She must really
be afraid of me, I think, and within the same heartbeat I know. I'm
had.

	I checked my weapon with my luggage. I should have tried to use my
badge for a special dispensation, but I'd been too tired. I wasn't
thinking, Mulder. And now I'm had.

	*Think now*, I tell myself, as I blend and move with the herd
toward the customs inspectors. Diana and her backup are aligning with
me on the other side, ready to nab me as I come through. Where the
hell else am I going to go? I catch Diana watching me, see the hint
of a smile on her stone-like face, and know beyond a doubt what she
has planned. She wants to use me to get to Mulder.

	The bitch will have to kill me first.

	I bite my lower lip, the tension inside me building. I try to
leaven it. I think better that way. So I shuffle along with the
crowd, studying the people around me, the space, the security, every
now and then letting my glance take in Diana. Dressed to the nines in
a white silk dress and her Hollywood sunglasses. She crosses her arms
above her ample chest and I think about Frohike, wondering if he
bounced when they went down in Mulder's hospital cell, or if he ended
up impaled on her cast iron tits. I go for the latter, and imagine
Frohike with war wounds. Twin bruises on his chest from the double D
missiles of death, all for a good cause.

	A smile twists my lips. Diana looks so smug now. She knows I'm had.
I want to ask her who she screwed to save her life this time. Surely
the Smoking Man has already found and scolded her for losing Mulder.
Or did he sic Krycek on her instead? So she lost Mulder and that
wasn't planned, and now she wants to get him back, but what for? On
CGB Spender's orders it would be to finish the job, to kill him. But
somehow that doesn't sound right to me. It never has sounded right to
me. I know the Smoking Man has an agenda. I know Diana works for him.
Part of the time. I also know she has an agenda all her own, with
Mulder in the center of it.

	Why?

	"Anything to declare?" The customs inspector stares at me, awaiting
my reply. I watch him rifle through my carry-on and shake my head,
realizing I'm close to clearance here and I still have no plan. I can
think of no diversion that won't get me arrested. With Diana and her
goons standing three yards away a customs arrest would be a pointless
endeavor, simply postponing the inevitable. Still, I've got to do
something. The inspector unzips the other side of my bag. I reach
out, ready to snatch the innocent carry-all away from him and run--

	*Wait.*

	My hand stops in mid-motion. The customs inspector looks at me
curiously. I smile, and withdraw.

	Fine timing, Mulder.

	*Sorry,* he says.

	Sorry, my ass. Where the hell have you been?

	*Busy, Scully. You're a popular woman this fine afternoon.*

	I don't know what the hell to do. Diana is waiting. She's looking
right at me, Mulder, and I don't--

	*She intends to kill you.*

	No kidding.

	*The guy to her right has pheno barb.*

	All right.

	*The guy on her left has the cuffs.*

	And Diana has the sig.

	*They're all armed, Scully.*

	"Thank you, ma'am," the customs inspector says, and I look to find
my bag waiting on the other side.

	Diana is walking toward it.

	*Talk to her, Scully. Like it's been years since you've seen your
old friend. Use her full name.*

	What?

	*Do it now.*

	"Diana Fowley!" I cry, and not knowing what else to do I start
toward her, arms raised in greeting. "Diana Fowley, I can't believe
it's really--"

	The goons move in. The one to the left has the cuffs out of his
pocket. Diana turns toward me, looking puzzled and annoyed. "What a
ridiculous ploy, Agent--"

	"Fowley?" a deep, unfamiliar voice questions behind me. I see
Diana's gaze shift momentarily over my head, and instantly her eyes
widen. I'm not sure what I see in them. Confusion? Fear? "It is you.
I thought I recognized you behind the glasses, but I told myself it
wasn't possible."

	The man comes into my field of vision, tall, mid-forties, well-
dressed, out of uniform but with an air of authority that is
unmistakable. I knew it in my father. I'd recognize it anywhere.
Military. Big time.

	He walks past me and up to Diana, looking mildly agitated. Angry,
even. "What the hell are you doing here?" His cast-iron eyes shift to
the guy on her right, then to the three on her left. I notice the
cuffs have disappeared back into the first one's pocket. The goons
take two steps back as the man's eyes settle on Diana. "Explain
yourself," he commands.

	I surreptitiously reach for my bag.

	"General Akins, I -- This woman here--"

	The General leans in close to Diana and hisses: "I should think
you'd have more important matters to attend to, Agent."

	Sounds like a redress is coming. I've got my bag and I take a few
steps away. No one follows. No one will follow, given the stricken
expressions on the Goon Brigade's faces, and I wonder if the fileting
of Diana is something I've got time to stick around and watch.

	*Krycek's on the move, Scully. Go.*

	The General lays in and I'm sure Diana is shredding behind me, but
I hustle back into the crowd without a backward glance and toward
baggage claim, down the escalator and straight ahead.

	*Go left.*

	I do, without missing a beat. The crowd thickens around me, a
flight having just arrived from--

	*Minnesota,* Mulder says. *Left again.*

	All right. I'm surrounded by families now, tense parents, crying
children. And some elderly folk, just up ahead. I smile at people as
I pass them, trying to look normal though I'm sure I look shell-
shocked and frazzled.

	*You look beautiful.*

	I wasn't fishing for compliments, Mulder. Where the hell am I
going? My luggage is back that way.
I smile at a man in passing. He smiles back.

	*Forget your luggage, Scully. Ask that guy for the time.*

	"Excuse me, sir?" I'm getting really good at this. It's like
following directions from myself. The man pauses and turns back
toward me. I walk a few steps back toward him. "Could you give me the
local time?"

	"One thirty," he says, then after a brief pause: "Monday afternoon."

	I must really look pathetic if he has to tell me the day of the
week. I nod gratefully and he gives me another polite smile, then
starts on his way.

	What the hell was that all about, Mulder?

	*Krycek.*

	I don't ask, certain that we've screwed with time and destiny just
enough now that the man will bump into Krycek, or hold him up in an
elevator, or something else of a detaining nature that my brain is
much too tired to wrestle with at the moment.

	*I don't want to wrestle, either, Scully. Turn right.*

	I turn right, and continue straight without any further
navigational input from Mulder to the sliding doors that take me
outside the busy terminal. The street is bustling with crazed
activity, cars buzzing past, horns beeping, passengers loading and
unloading, cabbies waiting around for fares along the yellow lines at
the curb. It's awfully manic for a Monday--

	*Memorial Day,* Mulder says. *Get in the cab.*

	But my car-- I cut the protest short, realizing if Diana and Krycek
both knew what flight I'd be on, they've certainly been to my car.
More than once. I get in the first cab, knowing there is no safe
place in this city.

	*Come on home, Scully. It's beautiful up here.*

	I smile, close the door and sink down low in the seat. "Roanoke," I
tell the driver, who looks back at me like he can't believe what I've
just said. I reach into my purse for what remains of the emergency
fund, miscellaneous bills wadded up in my wallet. It'll be enough.
"Lose anything that follows, and make it fast."
The driver sees the cash, smiles and jams his foot down on the gas,
whipping the cab into traffic and the anonymity of the interstate,
and me sideways and down onto the soft leather back seat. My eyes
roll I'm so tired. I'm dizzy. I'm smiling. I don't bother to sit back
up.

	*Sleep, Scully,* Mulder whispers. *I'll keep watch.*

	I nod and close my eyes, feeling his arms wrap tight around me. I'm
warm. Safe for now. Beginning to drift. I could get used to this,
Mulder.

	*Sweet dreams, Scully.*

	Wake me when we reach Virginia.

After Midnight: Eden

1.
	I sense her approach before I hear her footsteps on the dock behind
me. Scully's Uncle Miles' house sits on the very edge of Smith
Mountain lake, as private and isolated as you please, and there's a
small dock from the shore to about fifteen feet into the water.
There's a rowboat tied to the dock, gray and dilapidated with 'Queen
Mary III' painted on the side.

	I've fallen hard for this place. The cabin is small and simple, but
comfortable and cozy. The lapping sound of the lake against the
shore, the crickets and the frogs and the forest sounds, have soothed
me to sleep the last two nights while I've waited for Scully to come
home. Even the invasion of thoughts, the white noise of a million
minds, is not so overwhelming as it first was.

	I feel safe here. I feel more tranquil than I have for years, for
decades. I have slept soundly, eaten heartily, swum in the lake and
run on the shore, and devoted the attention of my mind to Scully
whether she was aware of me or not. Mostly she was not, particularly
in the last day or two as she's moved about in a sleep-deprived haze.

	And she comes up behind me now on small quiet feet, kneels down and
lays her head on my shoulder and wraps her arms around my chest.

	"Hi," she says softly. You didn't turn around.

	I lay my hands on top of hers. "Hi." I knew it was you.

	She's smiling despite her weariness, and she says, "And you know
exactly how good you look, too, sitting here in the sunshine."

	"Maybe the thought did cross my mind."

	"You are a sight for sore eyes." She sighs and hugs me closer. "I
feel like I haven't seen you for a year."

	"It's only been a week."

	A long and draining week. She sighs again. And then, slowly,
softly, she starts kissing my neck and rubbing her face against it.

	"Scully." She doesn't stop kissing me, and I say more firmly,
"Scully. Stop."

	"I don't want to stop."

	"Scully. Stop. You haven't slept, you've hardly eaten, you're
exhausted, and I am not going to take advantage of your state of
mind."

	"I'd love for you to take advantage of me." She slides her hands
down my chest, to the waistband of my shorts. "And it's so private
here, Mulder. You could do me right here on the dock and nobody would
know."

	I groan at the image she shares with me: lying on the hard hot wood
in the setting sun, our howls carrying across the lake, my face
sweaty and tense as I drive into her--

	No. Not this way. I want it to be perfect for you, Scully.

	"Hard and fast is perfect for me."

	"But not when you're so tired you can barely think straight,
sweetheart."

	"I am thinking straight, dammit! Don't you want me anymore, Mulder?"

	At this I finally turn, shifting myself around in her arms, and
clasp her impatient hands in mine. "I want you," I growl, and rapid-
fire send her snippets of every daydream, every fantasy, every
position I have ever imagined, every dream that's woken me up hard
and aching for her. I show her everything.

	Her eyes go wide and dark and her lips part, and she starts to gasp
as if there isn't enough air to feed her lungs. "Oh my god," she
whispers. "Oh, my god."

	I feel almost as if I'm fucking her now, it's that intense, that
relentless. I show her how she feels cupped in my hands or slick
around my fingers. I give her the taste of her skin, of her mouth, of
her arousal. I show her her courage, her warmth, her strength, her
beauty; how she fills me, consumes me, wrecks and rebuilds me; I show
her memories I will always hold precious, a smile, a kiss, a joke, a
connection, a caress.

	And I show her love, which I always picture as purple and soft,
like rich quilted satin, billowy and sheltering. This is the way I
see love, Scully. This is the way I see you.

	At this she sighs and leans her head against my neck. "I'm
convinced," she whispers.

	"Don't ever doubt it. Ever."

	She shakes her head slowly. "Never again. Mulder. I'm so tired,
Mulder."

	"I know." I ease her from my lap and stand, and help her to her
feet. She is drooping with exhaustion, she can barely hold up her
head, and she lets me guide her up the dock, her eyes closed. It
quickly becomes apparent she is not going to make it on her own, so I
scoop her up in my arms easily as a rag doll. She puts her arms
around my neck and lies her head on my shoulder.

	"Where are we going?" she murmurs.

	"You're going to sleep, unless you'd rather eat something first."

	"Sleep. Yes. That first." We navigate the steps leading up to the
cabin and I take her inside to the master bedroom. I pull back the
covers and lay her carefully on the bed, and she smiles and rolls
over, burrowing her face in the blankets. It smells like you.

	"I've been sleeping here the last few nights. Stay right there."

	"'M not moving."

	I have a small supply of clothes, hastily grabbed for me by Byers,
and a slightly larger one for Scully, hastily bought as we made our
getaway. Still, I choose a clean T-shirt and boxer shorts of my own
for Scully to sleep in. I know she won't complain.

	When I come back to the bed it's apparent Scully has left the
building, so to speak. I take off her shoes and her hose and she
barely stirs, and when I sit her up to help her take off the jacket
and dress her eyelids flutter and that's it. The thoughts of sleepers
are like flannel, soft and fuzzy and blurry. She wakes up a little
more, though, when I start undressing her.

	"What are you doing?" she whispers.

	"Putting you to bed."

	"Mmm . . . you're going to stay, aren't you?"

	"Of course I am."

	"I sleep better when you're with me."

	"So do I."

	"Don't go anywhere."

	"I'll be right here." I strip her down to her panties and pull the
T-shirt over her head and the boxer shorts up to her waist. They're
both huge on her. To complete this maneuver I have to hold her in my
lap, and once she's dressed in her makeshift pajamas she turns in my
arms and lays her head on my chest.

	"Just a little nap," she says, yawning kitten-like, her tongue
curling in her mouth. "And then we need to fuck, Mulder."

	"I think you mean we need to talk." I stroke her hair and stretch
myself out, getting comfortable.

	"No. We need to fuck. We've needed to fuck for a long time and
we're going to fuck. Making love will come later. First we need to
fuck."

	"It'll happen, Scully. All of it. Any way you want it. Just like
it's meant to."

	"We needed to fuck that first night," she murmurs. "But I was too
scared. You can break my heart so easily, Mulder. I hate that about
you."

	"Oh," I say softly.

	"And I guess some people would say it doesn't matter whether we've
fucked or not, we've done just about everything but. But it's still
important to me, Mulder. It means something, you know. That last
intimacy."

	"It does mean something." I kiss her forehead, which is warm and a
little dewy. I ease my hand beneath her hair to massage the back of
her head, between the top of her spine and a ridge of bone at the
bottom of her skull. "Go to sleep, Scully."

	Her hand moves slowly over my chest to my waist and she strokes me
with her fingertips. "You'll stay with me?"

	"I'll stay."

	"Always?"

	"Always, Scully. Until you tell me to go."

	"'M never gonna tell you to go. Love you . . . love you like crazy
. . ."

	I close my eyes and kiss her again, and whisper, "I love you like
crazy too, sweetheart. Now go to sleep."

	She hums in her throat and draws up her legs, curling me beneath a
Scully-blanket like when she falls asleep in my arms when we're
watching TV. I love this. It has hurt, when I've allowed myself to
think about it, that she didn't trust me enough to have sex with me,
but when she falls asleep in my arms I feel like there is no gesture
that could speak more of trust and love. Hell, she could have sex
with anybody, from any random stranger on the street to our very own
Walter Skinner--I'm probably not going to tell Scully some of the
thoughts I've heard from him concerning her, it would only embarrass
her--she'd need only to crook her little finger and they would come,
shaking with lust as I do when she does let me touch her. But there
is no one, no one at all, that she would let hold her as she sleeps.
No one but me.

	When I am feeling very fine and noble I tell myself that's all I
need, that I have her trust, having her body is not going to change
things between us or even improve them, necessarily. Then the rest of
the time I am salivating with the knowledge that someday, some
magical day, Dana Scully is going to let me fuck her and it is going
to be amazing.

	It had better be, or I'll never be able to look her in the eye
again.

	Banishing all thoughts of performance anxiety from my mind, I let
my own eyes close and listen to her dreams, which are sweet and
soothing and mostly about me.

*****

	Mulder is on my mind. Literally.

	"What are you doing?" I mumble, rolling slowly over in the big
brass bed. I expect to see Mulder lying beside me because I feel him,
have felt him the whole time I've been sleeping, however long that's
been. He's here. Close. I feel him so close I'm sure he's in bed with
me, but as I open my eyes I'm surprised to find he's not. Surprised,
and disa--
*Don't
	 be, Scully,* he tells me in his way. *You've been asleep, for the
most part, for twenty-six hours. I could only stay prone for so
long.*

	I roll the other way on the bed because I know that's where I'll
find him, ensconced in a chair near the window, his hazel eyes fixed
on me.

	Mulder smiles.

	"Good afternoon," he says.

	"Hi," I grumble. Asleep for twenty-six hours? Well, yeah, I feel
it. I sigh deeply and fall back on the pillows, willing myself to
wake up and be human again. I stare at the ceiling, while Mulder
stares at me. Bed hair big time, I'm sure, and I don't even want to
think about my breath. When was the last time I ate? Flossed? Brushed
my teeth? I run my tongue over the thickness of my teeth and suddenly
wish that I was alone.

	Mulder doesn't say anything, but I don't want him to. I lie staring
upward, my hands folded on my abdomen. My stomach rumbles and I
glance sideways. The expression on Mulder's face is priceless.
Knowing, hearing, seeing everything, handsome and wise and wonderful.
But saying nothing, bless his heart, because I need a modicum of
privacy at this point and he recognizes that. I soften a little and
give him a smile, despite my mood.

	"Hungry?" he asks, and my stomach rumbles again. Mulder smiles and
stands. "I'll make us some sandwiches."

	He walks to the bedroom door and I watch him, my gaze taking in the
long, lean grace of his form. His shoulders are wide, muscled and
perfect in the heather gray tee-shirt he wears like a second skin.
The length of his back and the narrow angle of his waist entice me,
even more so his pleasing lower half hugged in a pair of faded 501's.
New jeans, Mulder?

	*The boys and I went shopping,* he responds, then turns from the
door, his eyes on fire. *I liked choosing underwear for you, Scully.*

	Cotton?

	*Silk.*

	Oh, Mulder. I like the way you think.

	"The stuff's in the bathroom for you, Scully," he says, and the
smoldering gaze drifts into something more sheepish, a little
apologetic. "The clothes were the easy part. I didn't know what other
kind of--girl things--you'd need, so I improvised. A lot."

	I sigh again and stare at him with more love than I've ever thought
myself capable of feeling. "Thank you, Mulder," I whisper.

	"You're welcome."

	He disappears into the other room and I lie there a moment,
listening to the sounds he makes in the kitchen. Some humming, as
cabinets are opened, left open, pots clanging, glasses clinking,
something crashes to the floor. *Shit,* he says. "God damn it," I
hear him mutter, and then the sounds start up again. Loud. Very loud,
and chaotic into the bargain. Mulder in the kitchen is not a soothing
experience.

	Kicking the covers back off my bare legs, I rise from the bed and
head for the bathroom, not realizing until I get there that I'm clad
in Mulder's boxers and one of his sleeveless tees. I don't even
question how I got this way, since there is only one way it could
have happened, and that's by Mulder's hand. I'm sure I enjoyed the
process. I just wish I could remember it.

	I flip the bathroom light on and deliberately avoid looking the
mirror, heading straight for the tub instead. Uncle Miles installed
the claw foot because of me. I smile softly at the memory. My mom and
I were visiting Uncle Miles, just the two of us, and she'd given me
the okay to use the outdoor shower without supervision. My body stirs
at the memory of how grown up I'd felt under that huge towel, all of
twelve years old and coming in from an otherwise enjoyable shower
with a slew of slivers in my butt. My mother removed them with
rubbing alcohol and tweezers, and the following summer when we came
to visit Uncle Miles, this tub was in place.

	I still like the outdoor shower on occasion, I think, as I turn the
knobs and watch the tub fill. Perhaps Mulder and I will put the
shower to some use while we're here, a use that will have little to
do with getting clean, if I have anything to say about it. And I
will....

	My body tingles as I remove my clothing, a Mulder tingle I feel
from head to toe. With an inner heat and tremble more profound than
anything I've ever felt, inside a body considerably more grown up
than the one I inhabited the summer of my sliver experience, I step
into the steaming tub.

	I love hot baths. I sink into the unscented water and lie there a
moment with my head back, my eyes closed, imagining Mulder's body
covering me as the water does. "Ummmmm...." I moan out loud, because
it feels so good. The water, the heat, the intense feeling of Mulder.

	*Kind of hard to make lunch with a hard on, Scully.*

	I smile. I liked that image, Mulder. I'm enjoying myself immensely.

	"You're starting without me, Scully," he calls from the kitchen,
and I hear the laugh in his voice.

	Don't worry, Mulder. You're here. Believe me.... My hands drift
over my body, touching places he tells me to touch, and touching them
well. I imagine his hands on me and shiver, feeling my fingers trace
down my arm, my wet forearm brushing the water, teasing my rigid
nipples.

	*Squeeze.*

	I do.

	*Oh, Scully....*

	I let my hands drift down, over my stomach, my thighs, down my
legs, back up again.

	*Soft. Firm. More. Touch yourself.*

	A smile teases my lips. I do as he says, feeling the heat grip me
inside. The feeling in my belly tightens, an ache he started six
years ago the minute I walked into his office. It was chemical then,
pure and simple. He looked good in his dress shirt and slacks, smug
and confident in those glasses....

	My mind drifts and I let my hand fall, relaxing into the water. I
sense Mulder's smile, and smile myself as he starts singing in the
kitchen, some old rock tune Bill used to listen to. A good, mimicked
guitar lick on Mulder's part, then "Turn it up." Lynyrd Skynyrd, I
think.

	*That's right, Scully. Now name that tune.*

	Sweet Home Alabama.

	"Oh, you're good, Scully."

	I close my eyes and listen to him go on about blue skies and Neil
Young, recognizing how far we've come in the six years we've traveled
together. This is right. True and even, level and comfortable in a
way I never expected the day I walked into his life.

	Using the soap and shampoo Mulder left for me beside the tub, I
wash my hair and soap my body, still thinking about us. How we began.
I was young and he was an enigma, a mystery my scientific mind wanted
to crack. I felt myself up to the challenge and met him head on,
which triggered the sexual part of us, I think. The desire to know
him in every way possible, if anyone could ever truly know Fox
Mulder.

	He let me in, eventually. He let me close. And I saw things through
him and with him that I never would have believed otherwise. His
passion made me believe, to an extent, and brought respect into the
mix. And caring. Love followed, I don't know exactly when, but even
that wasn't enough to settle us.

	I dunk my head under the water and rinse the shampoo from my hair,
scrubbing lightly, trying to decipher how it happened for us really.
I'd never imagined reaching a point with another human being where
feelings took on a life of their own and multiplied, evolving into
some unnamable force that alternately thrills and terrifies me. But
it did happen. I find myself connected to Mulder in ways that defy
logic, but are just the same. I am him. He is me--

	"And we are hungry," I hear him say from the kitchen. He laughs at
his joke and starts on Skynyrd again. "Watergate does not bother me.
Does your conscience bother you? Tell the truth."

	He's enjoying this too much.

	*You're getting too serious for cheese sandwiches.*

	I rise from the tepid water, grab a towel and quick dry my hair,
then move in front of the mirror to brush my teeth.

	"Come eat, Scully," he calls out. "Your iced tea is turning into--
tea."

	"I'll be out in a few minutes, Mulder," I mumble around the
toothbrush, spitting into the sink. I rinse my mouth out, spit again.
"Go ahead and start without--"

	"What did you--"

	We both start and stop at the same time, then stop altogether as
Mulder stands in the bathroom doorway, his gaze taking me in top to
bottom, but centered mostly in the middle. His mouth drops open. "I--
uh--"

	What?

	He looks at my face, focuses deep in my eyes. *Christ, Scully.*

	I smile. Thank you, Mulder. But it's not like you haven't seen me
naked before.

	He shakes his head. Swallows hard. Takes a tentative step toward
me, then stops. His chest is tight. His heart is pounding. His cock
is on fire. *My cock is on fire.*

	I glance down at the telltale bulge in his pants and close the
distance between us, putting my hand where I know he wants it. He
closes his eyes and leans into my touch. I lay my head against his
chest, his arms falling loose around my body. I rub him, listening to
the sounds he makes, some spoken, some not.

	My stomach rumbles. I laugh a little and continue the pleasing
motion of my hand, until I feel the pressure of Mulder's fingers
around my wrist. I look up at him, meet his barely tethered gaze.
*You need to eat,* he tells me.

	Lunch can wait. You need to come.

	He leans toward telling me *no kidding*, but Mulder the Protector
prevails. His hand covers mine, more certain this time. He slides my
caressing fingers slowly away. "Later," he says, his voice hoarse.

	I don't ask him if he's sure. I know he's not, but I also know
he'll be preoccupied by my rumbling stomach through a hasty session
of sex, and that isn't what I want. That isn't what he wants. So I
draw away, reaching for the jeans, shirt and undies he's left for me
on the counter.

	His gaze shifts to the pile of clothes in my arms, held just below
my bare breasts. *I chose a bra that hooks in front,* he tells me. "I
hope everything fits."

	I give his chest a slight push. He drifts backward into the hall.
Don't worry, Mulder. I won't be wearing it for long. "I'll be there
in a minute, " I say.

	He stares at my chest another long, hard second, then he nods and
turns and heads stiffly back into the kitchen. I watch him go,
appreciating the view. He looks back at me and gives me a "just you
wait" Mulder grin.

	Oh, man, this is gonna be fun.

2.

"i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . .And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new"
--e.e. cummings.

	Yesterday's sunshine has given way to murky gray clouds, and as
Scully and I do the dishes I watch the clouds turn the lake dark as
slate. Scully is humming to herself, wordlessly, happily. It bears
more than a passing resemblance to "Tonight, Tonight" from West Side
Story.

	Bernstein's an improvement over Andrew Lloyd Webber, Scully.

	"Shut up," she says good-naturedly, and puts the last dish in the
rack to dry. She wipes her hands on the dishtowel and hangs it on the
edge of the sink, and turns to me, her eyes eager and bright. In a t-
shirt, denim shorts and one of my flannel shirts she looks cute and
sweet and pretty, and as tasty as a cream puff. "Mulder . . ."

	"You wanna play Parchesi?"

	She laughs softly. "No . . ."

	"There's also Trivial Pursuit, but I don't think it would be quite
fair under the present circumstances."

	"If it's the Star Wars special edition I probably would beat you,"
she murmurs, and hooks her fingers into the belt loops of my jeans.
She tugs slightly and I step towards her, trying not to grin.

	"No T.V., Scully, I hardly know what to do with myself."

	"I have a few ideas."

	"I know you do," I whisper, because her mind is awhirl, promising
me pleasures untold if only I'd stop messing around.

	"I've slept and eaten," she goes on in her low voice, "and you've
run out of excuses."

	I take a deep breath. "You think that's what I've been doing?
Making excuses?"

	"Dithering like an old maid faced with soiling her virtue. Come on,
Mulder. Let's get this over with."

	That was the last thing I expected out of her lovely mouth, and I
stare at her. "What?"

	"Well, think about it. We've been working towards this and building
up to this for so long that it couldn't possibly live up to our
expectations. And sex is nine-tenths anticipation, anyway."

	"Uh-huh."

	"So we should just do it and hope for fireworks later on."

	"Uh-huh." Her reasoning sounds very logical and very realistic and
boy, do I ever want to prove her wrong. I want to give her fireworks.
I want the earth to move, I want angels to sing, I want her to moan
and shake and tremble and cry. I want to be the Best Ever. Her Best
Ever. My Best Ever.

	I share none of this with Scully, however, and just say, "Let's go
for a walk."

	"Now?"

	"Yeah."

	"Mulder." She tilts her head to one side. "What are you thinking?"

	"I'm thinking it would be nice to go for a walk."

	"There's a storm coming."

	I kiss her forehead and say, "We won't go far. Come on, get your
shoes on. Don't want to bruise these tender little feet."

	She watches me pull on Tevas sandals, then puts on her own pair.
"It worries me when you don't tell me what you're thinking."

	"It just means I'm not thinking anything. Come on."

	"You're never 'not thinking anything,'" she says, but puts her hand
in mine and follows me outside.

	We follow the path to the north of the house, past the outdoor
shower--which would be a great place if I weren't worried about
slivers--and past Uncle Miles's hot springs. That would also be a
great place but I'm sure Scully could name a hundred different
bacteria living in the water that would spoil the mood.

	I glance at Scully's preoccupied face and think, What mood? and
sigh. She's puzzled and little annoyed, and expects me to point out
sights like the local Satanic cult meeting hall or where they filmed
certain scenes of "Deliverance."

	Oh, Scully. You have such little faith in me.

	"Did you say something?"

	"No."

	She sighs again and works her hand loose from mine. "Where are we
going, Mulder?"

	"Is it always necessary to have a destination in mind?"

	"Sometimes it can be very helpful." Oh, now she's just irritated.
She's tired of games and double talk and fooling around--she want an
honest answer from me, simplicity for just once- -

	"Hey, Scully." I stop on the path and catch her shoulder. "Relax a
little, would you? Look around. Take a deep breath. Tell me what you
see."

	"I see trees."

	Sometimes my darling shows an appalling lack of imagination. "Try
again."

	"Okay, I see lots of trees."

	This is going nowhere. "All right, here's what I see. I see an
ancient dignified forest in the height of summer. It's green and
verdant and rich, and so alive it's humming. Do you hear it humming,
Scully?"

	And my sweet skeptic actually listens for a moment. "Bees?"

	"Life, Scully. All around us. Eating and fighting and fucking and
dying. Life at its most simple, Scully."

	"Mm."

	"I can hear animals' thoughts, Scully, have I told you that?
They're so clear. They're pure. They're like--like water. No layers.
No hidden meanings. They're basic. But beautiful, too, primitive.
Like a cave painting, you know? And they're so aware, Scully, they're
incredibly aware."

	"Are they."

	"Oh, yes. They're aware of the rain that's coming, they're
preparing for it. And they're aware of us. They're wondering why
we're not scurrying back to our burrow to avoid getting wet."

	At this she smiles but says nothing. I've been wondering that
myself.

	I smile too and take her hands to pull her closer to me. "They
smell us," I whisper, drawing her off the path to a cluster of trees
nearby. "They smell you, all roses and honey and sunshine. And they
smell me, Scully. Tell me what they smell."

	"Cedar," she whispers after a moment. "And sage." Her eyes have
gotten that sleepy look she gets when she wants to be kissed. "And
grass in summer."

	I smile, glad she's playing along with me. I love it when she does.
"They know we're mates," I whisper, trying to move her against one of
the trees without her noticing it yet. "Like wolves or eagles,
Scully, we've found our mates for life."

	"Mmmates for life," she moans softly, and then gasps as the hard
bark of the tree wedges against her back. She feels so aware and
alive herself that what should be an annoyance feels unbearably
erotic, a welcome roughness like my stubble against her neck. She
catches my waistband and pulls me closer to her, and smiles at the
glad discovery of how aroused I am, how hard I am for her.

	"They're waiting," I tell her. It's so hard not to touch her, but
I'm still waiting, just a little longer. "They're waiting for us to
mate. The two odd humans out here just before a storm begins. The
whole forest, Scully, it's breathless with anticipation."

	"I think that's because of the storm," she whispers, but her hand
doesn't stop caressing my cock through the denim of my jeans.

	"Even the storm is waiting for us, Scully."

	"Oh, is it."

	"Yes. Waiting for us like Adam and Eve at the gates of Eden."

	Too caught up in anticipation herself Scully lets my fudging of
that story slide. But she's going to ask me what I mean later. Kiss
me, Mulder. Kiss me.

	But I don't, not yet. I bring my face as close to hers as I can
without kissing her, and whisper, "What do they know that we don't,
do you think? Maybe that when the urge to mate strikes we should just
let it happen. We should just drop everything and fuck. There's no
denying nature, in the end."

	"Kiss me, Mulder." She takes hold of my face.

	"Animals love, Scully, did you know that? They love like we do.
Fully. Passionately. Forever."

	"Mulder. Stop talking."

	I smile and lift her up a little, lean her against the tree trunk
for balance, and kiss her.

	And of course the storm chooses that moment to break, with a teeth-
rattling clap of thunder and an onslaught of rain.

	I expect Scully to push me away and tell me we should go inside
before we catch pneumonia. She doesn't. She whimpers in her throat
and wraps her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck, and
soon her kisses taste of sweet cool rain, her skin is damp with it
and she's twisting her hips in a none-too-subtle hint against mine.

	It is probably a little-known fact that while fucking in the woods
is a romantic notion--to some segments of the population, anyway--
actually doing it is a logistical challenge not unlike the invasion
of Normandy. That's my thought, anyway, as I try to figure out how to
get Scully naked without scraping her up on tree bark. Well, leave
the shirt on, genius, I decide, and start to unbutton her.

	She breaks off the kiss abruptly. "Here, Mulder? Anyone could see
us."

	"But no one will. There's no one for miles and miles."

	"Mm," she says softly, and starts kissing me again. There's an
exhibitionist streak in her I'd love to bring to the fore someday.
Solely for my benefit, of course.

	As soon as her shirt is undone the rain soaks her t-shirt to near
translucence, and I stoop to warm her cold breasts with my mouth. She
gasps and whimpers and holds my head to her chest--as if I need the
encouragement--and her wet hair snaps in her face as her head rolls
back and forth.

	It takes a minute to figure this out, but she catches on to my
intentions quick and works the t-shirt off while keeping as much of
the flannel shirt on as possible. Blessing the name of whoever
invented front-loading bras, I work the clasp loose with my teeth and
nudge her bra open. Raindrops cascade down her torso and catch on her
nipples, where I lick them away. She's shivering and gooseflesh has
arisen but she hasn't said or thought a word of complaint about the
cold. I feel a stab of pride--this is because of me, this is my doing-
-and unwrap her legs from my waist to set her on the ground.

	Scully looks at me with lust-addled eyes. "What is it?"

	"Ballast." I kneel--oh, this is perfect--and start to explore her
with my mouth, the hills of her breasts and the valley of her belly,
the ridge of her collarbones and the long straight road of her spine.
I map her body with my lips and tongue, memorizing textures and
tastes so I will know this territory when I return.

	And I will return. Yes. Until the world falls away, I will return
to this place.

	"Mulder! Oh . . . Mulder . . . yes . . ." She bends to kiss my head
and stroke my face, and starts tugging on my shirt. "I want your
skin, Mulder, I want to taste you."

	Soon enough, I tell her as I rub her nipple with the flat of my
tongue, and she moans.

	"That feels--that feels--"

	Yes. Tell me.

	"--so good--Mulder!" Her body is trembling violently and I wonder
if maybe down on the grass wouldn't be better.

	No. I want her to remember every detail of this, and no boring old
missionary position is going to be a part of it. You asked for
fireworks, Scully, and this is what I've got.

	Finally she pushes my mouth from her breasts, gasping, "Too much,"
and we look at each other in the rain for a moment. Overhead thunder
rolls and lightening flashes, but we both feel safe in our little
thicket. She runs her hands over her hair and thinks, I must look
awful.

	"You're beautiful. You're a forest creature. Naked and unashamed."

	She smiles and shakes her head, and leans over me to grasp my
sopping t-shirt. She pulls it off with a little work and drops it to
the ground, and starts kissing my neck and my shoulders. I nuzzle my
face against her breasts and undo her jeans, and draw them and her
panties to her ankles. She steps out of them and leans back against
the tree, her legs slightly spread. I look up at her again and she
gives a tiny nod. Yes.

	I spread her legs further and lean into her, still on my knees.
She's wet between her thighs but it's a different kind of wetness
here, warm and spicy. I lick the wetness that's seeping down her
thighs and tell her, I love the way your pussy tastes, Scully.

	She gasps a laugh and puts her hands on my shoulders. Just do it.
Please.

	But I only tease at her lips with my tongue before finally standing
and unzipping my own jeans and discarding them. "My pretty girl," I
whisper, taking her into my arms again and lifting her up, "my sweet
Wookie, love of my life, I am going to fuck you now."

	Her eyes widen and she gasps again. There is an eternity of a
moment as she decides. Then, "Yes." Soft and simple. She hooks her
legs over my hips and her arms around my neck. "Yes, Mulder."

	I lean her against the tree, lifting her, steadying myself, and
then bring her down until my cock is sheathed completely inside her.
"Ahh . . " she breathes, closing her eyes. "Yes, Mulder." There's a
brief pain for her, she's tight, so tight, but I kiss her and fondle
her and wait until she relaxes a little more. She squeezes her inner
muscles around me.

	"Ff-fuck!"

	"Exactly." Her eyes open, gleaming. "Do it, nature boy."

	Our heads are more or less level, and I stare into her eyes as I
thrust my hips. Is this what you want?

	"Yes!"

	How bad do you want it?

	I want it bad . . . "So bad," she croons, breathing through her
mouth, and her eyes close again as her head lolls against the tree
trunk. I kiss sweat or rain or tears from her face and neck and
shoulders. I kiss her breasts and suck her nipples. She licks rain
from my neck and kisses my mouth, her tongue hot and eager. She tilts
her head back and opens her mouth, her tongue flicking against her
lips, and I am enchanted by the sight of Scully drinking rain.

	And I thrust, hard and fast, holding nothing back from her
physically or mentally. This is what you feel like. This is what
fucking you feels like. This is what you taste like. This is what
kissing you feels like. This is how beautiful you are to me. This is
how much I've wanted this. This is what I've fantasized about. This
is how perfect you feel.

	Of course it's not in those words, or not even in words at all. I
give her the sensations as I feel them, and as I do she shares with
me what I feel like, taste like, sound like. She tells me what it
feels like to be full with me, to feel the strength of my body
striving only to pleasure her, how sweet the rain tastes when she
licks it up from my skin. Even though neither of us says a coherent
word, we give and listen and hear and speak.

	"Mulder," she gasps suddenly. I grunt in response. "Mulder. Mulder.
Look."

	I look over my shoulder to what she's staring at. There's a doe
watching us, one hoof raised as she prepares to flee this strange
sight. Her eyes are dark and liquid.

	"What is she thinking, Mulder?" Scully whispers.

	I turn back to her and smile. "'How beautiful,'" I tell her. "She's
thinking, 'How beautiful.'"

	Scully smiles and kisses me, tightening her arms around my neck and
her legs around my waist. "Yes," she breathes into my mouth. "Yes, we
are."

	Soon the doe grows bored and ambles off. And Scully's writhing has
increased, she's slippery as a mermaid from the rain and growing
harder to hold, and all I want to do I stay here within her and
please her but she's close, she's at the edge, she's--oh, yes, Mulder-
-nearly there--Mulder--don't stop, Mulder--

	She cries out and her spine arches, and I see what she sees, the
explosions of color and light that rip through her until there is
nothing left but warmth and moisture and the sound of my breathing. I
stare at her, amazed, until she opens her eyes again.

	"Wow," I whisper.

	"Fireworks," she whispers back. "I want to see yours. Show me,
Mulder."

	I show her. I show her Mardi Gras and Bastille Day and the Fourth
of July. I show her the nine circles of heaven. I show her the gleam
in Zeus's eye that drove him to transform into bulls and swans and
showers of gold. I show her how an almost unbearable tightness is
soothed and loosened with one powerful stroke.

	And as if nature agrees with me, thunder booms overhead as I shout
and empty myself into her, and she comes again, small and quiet, as
if to keep me company.

	My arms are shaking. I can't hold her anymore, I'll drop her. I
lift her up reluctantly and she makes a tiny mewl as my cock slides
out from between her thighs. I set her on the ground and she wraps
her arms around my chest and breathes through her mouth against my
breastbone. We both sink to our knees, hanging onto each other, and
still the rain falls.

	"We should--we should go inside," Scully says shakily.

	"Uh-huh." Her hair is darker when it's wet, auburn instead of red
and gold. I smooth it back from her face with my palm.

	She chuckles. "I don't want to move."

	"Neither do I."

	Her fingers trace the muscles on my chest and she sighs. "Of
course, sneezes and a swollen red nose are so sexy . . ."

	"Is that a hint?"

	"Just a suggestion." She lets go of me and starts buttoning up her
soaked shirt, then shrugs and lets it hang open. "Come on. A hot bath
and then a warm bed are just what the doctor ordered." She stands and
gathers up her clothes and starts to walk down the path. The shirt is
long enough to hide everything from her thighs upwards, but I watch
her anyway until she turns. "Mulder? I'm not taking that bath alone."

	That's all the impetus I need, and I pull on my wet boxer shorts
hastily and scoop up my clothes, and run to catch up. I grab her
waist with one arm and lift her enough to kiss her, and she laughs,
delighted. We walk down the path kissing, and when we reach the cabin
is strikes me as the height of absurdity that we made love in the
woods and kept our shoes on.

*****

	In a warm, freesia-scented bath I sit with Mulder. He has his back
to me, and sits still enough for me to wash his skin. But he is
restless. I listen to his thoughts like I listen to the rain, and the
crash of thunder as it shakes the tiny cabin. Inside we're safe,
inside we're warm. Here, with each other. And yet I know without his
speaking what he is thinking, what he fears. What I fear....

	"Stop it," he whispers.

	You started it.

	I smile and ignore the predictably smart ass remark that follows,
squeezing the wash cloth out over his wide shoulders. The water
gushes down, like rain drops over his skin. I soap his back gently,
rubbing away the tension in his muscles as he has done for me, loving
the strong smooth feel of his body under my hands.

	"We're safe here, Scully."

	For now.

	He sighs, but doesn't disagree with me. Those who would harm us
will find us eventually, if we stay here too long. There is no real
safe place, save the ones we forge from the darkness with our joined
hands and spirits. If I can always touch Mulder, if he can always
touch me, we are indomitable. It's when they separate us that we
falter; someone somewhere must have figured that out.

	"We've been too obvious," I tell him.

	*It took us six and a half years to get here, Scully. That isn't
obvious. It's twisted.*

	Well, it was certainly worth the wait.

	He laughs a little and touches my hand where its come to rest over
his chest. I move the wash cloth in a pretense of finishing what I'd
begun long minutes ago, watching the movement of my hand and the
texture of Mulder's skin in the flickering candlelight. The candles
were a good buy, since the cabin lost all power an hour ago. Not that
I mind. Time passes slowly in the dark, like unclocked moments that
won't be counted against us. I hoard them like chocolate, and wish I
could stretch them into forever....

	"What are you thinking, Scully?" His voice is low and dark in front
of me, a sexy tone that makes me shiver.

	"You know what I'm thinking, Mulder," I tell him, mildly annoyed
that I can't even keep my mini-revelations private, to my self. I
lust after and love my partner, and he knows it. And he pushes all
the buttons he should, absolutely, pressing an advantage I know too
well he didn't always have. I remember the night he came to me before
our aborted meeting with Spender, how he banged on my door at 3:33 in
the morning, pleading and promising and begging me to tell him what I
thought.

	I notice he isn't begging now.

	"Tell me, Scully," he says, giving my hand a squeeze.

	"Mulder, this is silly." I lean against the back of the tub, my
legs spread around Mulder's body. Splayed around him, I think, and
it's none too dignified a position. I study us a moment, our naked
forms blending, even back to chest. There certainly isn't any mystery
left here, though I don't seem to mind the loss of it. I wonder if he
does. "What comes next, Mulder?" I ask him.

	He draws a deep breath and relaxes against my body, most of his
weight absorbed in the cushion of my breasts. His body is heavy,
healthy and wonderful. I feel slight compared to him, holding him,
but not fragile. Strong, privileged, a warm, sheltering haven for a
man who's known none.

	"We love each other, Scully," he says. "The rest will fall into
place."

	His optimism floors me. "How can you say that? We have no viable
allies! Skinner is one of the enemy now, whether he can help it or
not. Krycek and Diana are working for God knows who, and CGB Spender
wants to kill us, Mulder. We've got three friends, and my mother,
that we can count on. It's us against the world."

	I feel more than see his smile, the way he closes his eyes and
rests his head back on my shoulder. He turns his face into mine, his
hazel eyes smoldering in the darkness. "It's always been us against
the world, Wookie," he whispers.

	Wookie. What an unfortunate hallucination on my part, and now to be
stuck with such an unflattering alter-ego. I could think of a hundred
things I'd rather he called me.

	*Honeybunny?*

	Not that one, either.



	*Wookies are warm,* he tells me. *Loyal. Fierce.*

	And tall, Mulder. Don't forget tall.

	"I won't forget tall, Scully," he utters, his breath on my cheek
signaling a kiss before it comes. His mouth brushes mine, firm and
full, but soft. Soft like the stroke of his lashes on my skin, soft
like the breeze of his hand up my thigh. Before I know it he's turned
in my arms, no longer content to be gently held, suddenly the
aggressor. Full and hard, in control.

	He fills my vision, his face, his body, lanky and lean but rigid,
strong. I marvel at our differences, his hard, long torso shadowing
my smaller frame, aware of his dominion, and of mine. I imagine our
strengths entwined, even as my heart slams a beat of primitive
submission inside my chest. There will be times when I won't succumb
so easily, times when I'll want the control and I'll take it.

	This is not one of them.

	He stares into my eyes and shows me hunger, a fire in his body, in
his soul that burns just for me. Forever for me. He marvels at the
richness of it, the immortal way it makes him feel. I show him true
immortality then, and we both gasp out loud.

	Mulder lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me. Hard. Deep. His
passion breathes between us, his greatest strength, his fatal flaw.
Passion for most people is like a heart beat, something that simply
is and you take it, and pace it, act in its stead. But passion for
Mulder is something different. It is heated and consuming, a live
entity on its own, sometimes led by Mulder, many times leading him.
Only now the two are in compromise, a bond reached in an instant and
bestowed upon me.

	I open my mouth to him, the slide of his tongue against mine
dragging me deeper down. We're in water, shallow water, thank God,
because I'm sinking, and the more Mulder kisses me the less aware I
become of how to make myself stop, how to hang in this game. I feel
him move up and over me, stretch his leg back and kick out the
stopper for the tub. The water begins to drain. I listen to it, and
the rain, and the crash of thunder overhead, and think of myself back
up against that tree.

	Mulder's hands clasp my waist and shove me upward, hard, against
the porcelain back of the tub. His lips and tongue trail a path
downward, teasing my chin, my jaw, the sensitized skin of my neck. I
moan out his name, at least I try to, supported by his hands as he
pushes me up, and up, the further he goes down. I find myself on the
edge of the tub now, my back against the wall, my legs spread for
Mulder.

	Without eye contact or permission Mulder finds my heat with his
tongue. Oh God. I am wild with wanting this, his hands on my body,
his mouth on my clit. He shows me ridges and texture, wetness,
warmth, sweet fluid honey, and I groan. "Mulder...."

	"Mmmmm...." he says. "More."

	He flicks me senseless and I fight to hang on, not wanting to come
too soon. It's heaven and hell to work so hard, mostly heaven as I
arch my body, shivering tight with want and pleasure. Mulder mutters
words against me, words I hear, words I feel. I look down, see his
dark head bent at a task he's proved himself an expert at. He glances
up, his hazel eyes hooded, hot, and I know before he moves his single
thought, his one intention.

	This.

	Strong hands lift me toward him, fitting me to the place where he
waits for me on his knees. I straddle him easily, my arms around his
shoulder, one arch of his hips, one slight shift of mine....

	Ah, this.

	His eyes slip closed. My head drifts back, tendrils of hair teasing
my shoulders. We glide, slide together, our bodies in perfect tandem.
Of course. Of course.... He fills me with his life and guides me with
his hands, strong and sure at my waist. I receive him with my warmth
and tightness and everything I have to give, always, anything.

	"Scully...." he whispers, and in his heart something equally
abiding, just as profound. *Need you, want you, love you always.
Always.*

	"Oh, Mulder...." Stay with me, be with me, partner, lover,
soulmate, friend. "Now. Please--"

	*Look at me, Scully.*

	I rock forward, into him, my eyes fluttering open. His gaze slams
into mine, in time with his body.
Once, twice. Now--

	*Now.*

	Shudders possess me, my lips part on a gasp. My body pulses around
him, again, again, pulling life from him, his passion, his very soul,
and he gives. Pushing, emptying himself into me with ferocity, with
intent, with loving, feral calm. What God and the Universe have
joined together let no man put asunder. I stare into his eyes.

	*I am you.*

	You are me.

	CGB Spender, bring it on.

3.

	It's still raining, and dark but for flashes of lightening when I
wake. I inhale the scent of us and burrow beneath the blankets, not
wanting to venture into the chilly night. But the space beside me is
empty and I'd rather be with Scully than without her, so I get up,
pull on a pair of sweatpants and go looking for her.

	Scully is in the kitchen, poking around in the cupboards. She's
wearing her pajamas that are really my underwear, and I have to admit
there are few sights quite as fetching as my girl in my clothes. She
picks up cans and puts them down, wrinkles her nose at boxes of
crackers and dry pasta, and then looks over her shoulder and sees me
standing in the kitchen doorway, my arms crossed over my chest.

	"I'm hungry."

	"I thought so." I cross the kitchen and sit down at the table,
turning a chair around to face her. "Either that or we had raccoons."

	"Well, I'm a forest creature now, so this must be foraging." She
continues opening boxes and rejecting their contents. "You've been
here, what, four days?"

	"I think of it as stocking up. I wasn't sure how long we're going
to be here."

	The smile leaves her face. "That's something we need to talk about."

	"This is a great place to spend the summer."

	"We can't stay here all summer. What would we live on?"

	"Roots and berries?"

	"Very funny." She sighs, and, our food supply not offering anything
of comfort, climbs into my lap and puts her arms around my neck. "I
used up the emergency fund."

	"You used up the cash. The bonds are still there, I hope."

	"Oh, yeah. I forgot about the bonds. I can never remember those
anyway, it's like they're not real money."

	"They're real enough. We cash in a few of those and we have enough
to live in style all summer. We could even go on a cruise in the
Bahamas if you wanted." This kitchen is small enough that I can reach
around easily. I take out a box of Oreo cookies and open it, and feed
her one. She leans her head on my shoulder like a sleepy child.

	"We shouldn't be wasteful," she murmurs finally. As if to
illustrate this point she licks cream from my fingers. "It's one
thing if we have to hide here for a while . . . it's another to be
extravagant just because we can."

	"So we hide out here."

	I feed her another cookie quietly. Her thoughts are a low hum, and
as much as I send her Don't worry, don't worry, she goes on worrying.

	She says finally, "Do we need to hide out? Is that what you're
getting?"

	I could lie and say yes. I say, "I'm not sure."

	"They want you dead. At the very least. They want to kill you or
they want to study you, and either way you're not safe."

	"There's dissention among the ranks. I'm not sure who wants what
and who's the biggest threat."

	"That woman is," she says, and as if to protect me from any harm
the name can bring she kisses me soundly.

	"Scully . . . we're dealing with people who are double- and triple-
crossing each other so much even they're not sure what's going on."

	"But I don't want to sit here and wait for them to descend on us. I
want to keep you safe," she whispers. Her arms clasp me closer.

	"I know. I know, and I love you for it. But we're safe here. Nobody
knows where we are."

	"They could find us easily enough. Uncle Miles left my mother this
place, she has the deed and pays the property tax. One or two clicks
of a button and they'd have us, Mulder."

	"We're safe here," I repeat, not sure of how to convince her of
this or why I feel it so strongly. They're squabbling like children,
far away from us, and they have bigger threats to deal with. I don't
want to tell Scully about those. "The whole world could go to pieces
and we'd be safe here."

	She lifts her head and says, "And you'd let the world go to pieces
while we stand by?"

	"No, I was just saying--"

	"Tell me what's going on, Mulder."

	You wouldn't believe me anyway, I think without meaning to, and her
eyes flare. Oh, she heard that, all right. "Try me," she says, her
mouth tight, "try me, Mulder, see what I'm capable of believing."

	"Invasion," I say bleakly. "Colonization, or worse."

	"But those men--the ones who died--Cassandra Spender--"

	"Conspiracies are like cockroaches, Scully. Kill off a few and
there are always more to take their place."

	She stares at me, then says, "So that's it. That's the end of the
human race. Another civilization comes along and decides to wipe us
out and there's nothing we can do about it. All our accomplishments,
everything that makes us unique, they'll just . . . disappear."

	"It won't be the first time."

	"Can you hear them, Mulder? Can you hear . . . Them?"

	"If I do I don't understand what they're saying. I hear a lot of
things. It's like flipping channels on a ham radio, some of it is
clear but I don't know the language, some of it is so full of static
I can only catch a word or two." I rub her tense shoulders and kiss
her forehead, and she sighs and leans her head against my neck again.

	"And you think there's nothing we can do."

	"No, I didn't say that. I just think right now the best thing to do
is lie low. Wait and see."

	She says nothing, but it wouldn't take a telepath to feel the
sadness and weariness that covers her. I move her a little so I can
cradle her body more fully, her legs draped over my lap, her head
against my chest and her arms around my neck. She shivers a little--
these are really skimpy clothes she's wearing, after all--and slips
one hand under the hem of my t-shirt to warm on my stomach.

	"We're going to be all right, Scully," I whisper, kissing her hair,
and she sighs.

	"It's all very well to say love is going to conquer all, Mulder,"
she begins, then pauses and looks as me curiously. "You don't think
that. You . . . you want us to stay here because this may be the only
time we have. Right?" She looks up at me, so pretty and honest and
sad that I can't lie to her, even to comfort her.

	"Yeah. I just want some time, Scully." My throat tightens and my
voice goes hoarse, and I whisper, "I just want to pretend, for a
while, that we've got a future, that we're normal people with normal
lives and that this is just the beginning, Scully, that we've got our
whole lives--"

	Her lips have been turning down and down as I speak, and when my
voice cracks and my own tears spill she kisses my forehead and it is
her turn to rock me, to whisper soothing nonsense and kiss my tears
away. There's so much that I want for us, I tell her, and she tells
me, I want it too.

	"I guess we have to make every minute count, don't we," she
whispers.

	"Yeah."

	"Mulder." Her hands clutch my upper arms. "Mulder. I wouldn't trade
the last four months for anything, not a hundred years, if it meant
living without you. I wouldn't trade one minute with you if it gave
me a lifetime without you."

	"Even the pain, Scully?" I look up at her, more than a little
afraid of her answer.

	She smiles tenderly and brushes her hand over my face. "Even the
pain." She kisses me, and whispers, "Pain is what makes the good
stuff better. Like salt and sugar."

	I smile and whisper back, "Speaking of sugar . . ." and kiss her
deeply, tasting chocolate cookies and cream on her teeth. She
chuckles--Oh, yeah, give me that sugar, baby. I clean her teeth like
the most intimate of hygienists and she laughs, low in her throat,
her tongue chasing mine and stroking it thoroughly whenever she
catches it. We play chase back and forth in each other's mouths, her
tongue in my mouth, my tongue in hers, and it doesn't surprise me at
all when she pulls back and stands between my legs.

	I start to stand as well and her thought stops me: No. Stay. I
smile and stay put, and she touches my face, stroking it with both
hands. "I love you," she says quietly.

	"I know," I whisper, because I do. No more doubts, no more fears,
no more wondering. She loves me. It's a hard-won love and I am never
going to let it go.

	"Until the world ends, Mulder," she whispers, "we're together."

	"Until the world ends." Whether it's next week or fifty years from
now. "I love you."

	Her hands, gently insistent, continue stroking me, my neck and my
shoulders. "I love your body," she whispers with a self-conscious
laugh. I start to reply in kind and she lays a finger over my lips. I
kiss her finger and wait for her to say what she needs to say. "I
love your hands." She strokes my lips with her fingertips. "I love
your lips. I love your feet. I love your knees and your back and your
shoulders. I love your face. I love the look you have right now, that
tells me you want me. I love your ass, Mulder. And I love your cock.
I love it inside me. I love it in my hands and in my mouth. I love it
how it is right now, growing harder for me, hungry for me."

	My breathing has both deepened and quickened, and there's love and
desire and triumph in her eyes. Hungry doesn't begin to describe it,
Scully.

	"You're so precious to me, Mulder." She steps closer to me and
raises my face, still stroking me as they have been all the while
she's been talking. "You're so beautiful to me."

	"Scully," I whisper, so softly it's not even a whisper, it's a tap
of my tongue against my teeth. "Scully."

	Her own breathing has increased, and her breasts seem like with
very little effort they could escape the confines of my shirt. Her
nipples are hard little nubs poking at the soft cotton, and I can
smell her desire, her arousal, her need.

	Scully, let me touch you. Let me love you. I turn my head to her
caressing hands and kiss them, kiss her arms and her wrists and the
insides of her elbows. Let me love you, Scully.

	When I look up at her again her eyes are closed, her head is tilted
back and her face is--oh, God, her face is achingly beautiful,
flushed and smiling, her lips wet and full. She opens her eyes and
looks down at me, and stops touching me long enough to lift the
undershirt over her head and toss it aside. I can't help but gasp,
stunned by her boldness. Yes. Show me everything.

	With a soft secret smile she lowers the boxer shorts and stands in
front of me, naked, her skin made sacred by the flickering
candlelight and the worship I know is in my own gaze. She runs her
hands over her own body, and I groan as she caresses her neck and her
breasts and her belly, her ass and her hips and her thighs. She
stands with her feet apart and I can hardly breathe, I don't know
where to look, I watch to watch her face but I want to follow her
wandering hands, I want to see where they go, what they do--

	Scully cups one breast in her hand and raises it. She licks her
lips and holds my eyes, daring me to dare her. Yes. Do it. Please. I
want to see you. She smiles--oh, you're so easy, Mulder---and lowers
her head to fondle her nipple with her tongue.

	"Fuck," I gasp, and my hips rise from the chair as I grip the seat,
white-knuckled. "Hot damn, Scully."

	She gives me a look that is decidedly obscene and raises her other
breast, and licks it until her knees buckle. She lifts her head and
looks at me again, breathing through her open lips, and her hands
drop to her sides. They brush her hips and her stomach, and then
descend between her legs.

	Yes. Please. Oh, God, please.

	Two fingers part her lower lips and another creeps between. I can't
see because of the shadows but I can hear, oh, I can hear as she
touches herself, as her breath turns harsh and fast, as she shows me
her most secret self and cries out at the pleasure of it.

	"Do you want me?" she demands.

	"Yes. Yes!"

	"How bad?" and she smiles wickedly, her hips undulating to the
rhythm of her hands.

	"So bad, Scully, so bad it hurts, Scully, make it stop hurting." My
own hands are trembling as I shove the sweats to the floor, gasping
as the waistband brushes over my cock.

	"How?"

	"How--how what?"

	"How do you want me?" And she shows me all the ways, up against the
counter, over the table, in this chair, on the floor. The choice is
mine.

	"No," I whisper, and her eyebrow raises for a moment. "The choice
is yours, Scully." It always has been.

	She smiles and steps to me, her legs straddling my lap, and she
holds the back of the chair and winds her feet into the rungs. I
grasp her hips but don't pull, giving her support and steadying her.
She licks her lips and her eyes hold mine, and her hands grip my
shoulders and she lowers herself onto me.

	There is nothing like it. Nothing. Even if the actual physical
sensations are exactly the same as any other woman, there is still
nothing like this. This is Scully. This is us. This is me inside her.
This is us making love.

	"Yes," she whispers, giving me angel-wing kisses over my face.
"This is the way we make love, Mulder." This is Scully making love to
Mulder, and Mulder making love to Scully.

	Her lithe mobile body arches and quivers over me, and I kiss her
neck and her chin as she groans. I kiss her smooth round cheeks and
her eyelids, rub her nose with mine and meet her playful tongue when
she sticks it out to meet mine. "Scully, Scully," I whisper, and she
kisses my face and my neck and my mouth.

	And our bodies move, oh yes, that doesn't stop. Her strong legs and
my hips and her strong arms and my hands, bringing us together and
together and together until oh yes the colors and the heat and the
lights, yes and her voice and her hands, yes, this is the way love is
made, Scully, this is the way we make love. We may not have invented
this--we're not the first, we won't be the last, there are a million
million people making love tonight--but with Scully I can believe
that we are creating something new.

	She looks at me sleepy-eyed. She takes a deep breath and lets it
out, and lays her head on my shoulder. I stroke her back and listen
to her breathe, and watch the rain.

	"Scully. Don't go to sleep on me, babe."

	"Don't call me babe," she mumbles, and makes no move to disentangle
us.

	"Fair enough." I go on stroking her and watch the rain, and when
she's asleep I carry her to bed and lie us both down and cover us
over. I watch her face as she sleeps, and try not to think about that
ache around my heart. "If we had all eternity, Scully," I whisper,
"it still wouldn't be enough."

	Her eyelids flutter and she moves closer to me, reaching for me
even in her sleep. I pull her to me and we curl around each other.

	And the rain beats against the windows and her heart beats against
mine.


After Midnight will continue . . . as season 7 calls for it.
Consider this . . .
THE END