Title: Graceful Hands

Author: Foxie Meg

Rating: NC-17

Category: MSR, vaguely AU

 

Disclaimer:  Neither Mulder, Scully, Skinner, the other characters involved nor the basic storyline of “Arcadia” belong to me.  They belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, whoever wrote that episode, and the actors who played them.  I’m just messing around with them because I was born to be a storyteller and it seemed like a fun story to re-tell.

Summary: A “what-if” moment from one of my favorite episodes, “Arcadia”.  What if, when Mulder invited Scully (as “Laura”) into bed, she’d said yes? 

Spoilers:  Anything up through “Arcadia” is fair game.

Feedback:  Send me feedback and I'll send you a copy of Rob & Laura's honeymoon video!  (just kidding…) [email protected]

Author's Notes at End

 

xXxXxXx

 

GRACEFUL HANDS

 

My partner has one of the most graceful pairs of hands this world has ever seen.  I’ve been fighting distraction for the last five minutes; I’m trying to listen to Skinner, but Mulder has his hands casually laced across his flat stomach and has been twiddling his thumbs, and my mind keeps straying from the business at hand, if you’ll excuse the expression.  It’s not until Mulder’s voice calling my name breaks through do I even remember that I am supposed to be an active participant in this meeting.

 

“I’m sorry; my mind was elsewhere.”

 

“Well, that’s obvious,” Skinner rebukes me mildly, and I drop my head to hide the flush of shame that comes to my face.  I don’t like being reprimanded, especially when I’ve actually done something to deserve it.

 

Skinner gives me a searching look, and then lets it drop.  Mulder has not taken his eyes from my face, and that is making me blush worse.  With great discipline, I silence my admiration for my partner and return my attention to the meeting.  Sort of.  Actually, I’m thinking how nice it will be to have a weekend away from Mulder.  Since he tried to kiss me in his hallway, I have been having trouble controlling my attraction to him.  I would love it if I didn’t have to, but his refusal to take up the subject when I tried to bring it up in Arizona and subsequent blind trust of Diana Fowley have been sending me mixed messages, and I’m too scared to try to press the issue.

 

I desperately need a break from him before I do something rash.

 

“Is everything satisfactory then?”

 

Mulder nods, then looks expectantly to me.  Assuming that Skinner is referring to the case report we just turned in, I smile politely and answer, “Yes, sir.”

 

“Good.”  He slaps a file folder into Mulder’s hands as we rise, and accompanies us to the door of his office.  “Enjoy your time at Arcadia Falls, Mr. and Mrs. Petrie.  You move in tomorrow.”

 

The door closes with finality and I’m left gaping at Mulder’s retreating back.

 

“C’mon Scully, let’s go!”

 

Somehow I get the feeling I’ve just been duped.

 

***

 

I’ve had the entire flight out from D.C. and then the drive from the airport to Arcadia Falls to read over the casefile and brace myself for an indefinite period of pretending to be married to Mulder.  I am determined not to let myself get carried away; not to enjoy it too much; not to be vulnerable to rejection like he’s given me twice recently.

 

Once was when our office burned down and he neither received nor returned my embrace; then again when I asked him to trust me, and he chose to trust Diana Fowley.  Or would have, had I not been fortunate enough to have DNA results that told him what he wanted to hear.  Anyway, his conditional acceptance hurt so much it might as well have been flat-out rejection.

 

Therefore, I will not allow myself to become too involved in this charade, no matter how much I would love to.

 

My eyes involuntarily flicker over to his hands on the steering wheel of the minivan, watching his long, graceful fingers tapping in rhythm to a tune that only he can hear.  I find myself wondering what song occupies his mind and hands, and then must stop myself from imagining what it would be like to be the occupation of that mind, of those graceful hands.  My imagination is being rebellious, however, and I avert my eyes.  I am looking down at my own hands, but I am seeing his.  Feeling them skim over my body… teasing, tickling, tugging…

 

His voice startles me out of my reverie.

 

“We’re here.”

 

This is going to be harder than I thought.

 

***

 

I wonder if she has ever realized how perfectly striking she is.  I would call her a timeless beauty – amazingly mesmerizing features that I never get tired of looking at; a tiny, delicate figure that seems to beg for my protection while disguising a powerful strength that demands my respect and allegiance; graceful hands that heal me and that can quickly and efficiently take apart a human body to tell me what I need to know.

 

Those same hands have been demurely folded in her lap for the past few hours.

 

She has been strangely quiet for this entire trip, asking very few questions and answering mine with short fragments.  I am experiencing a growing sense of trepidation – I can tell she is not looking forward to this case.  I actually am.  Admitted, it’s not an X-file, which I would really love, but it at least sounds like a nice vacation in close proximity to Scully.  Although that last bit shows signs of being less pleasant than I originally anticipated.

 

She obviously hates this assignment, and I’m afraid that by the time it’s over, she’s going to hate me too.

 

I see her gaze flick over to my hands and realize that I have been nervously drumming on the steering wheel and that it’s probably annoying her.  <Great.  We’re not even starting out on a good note.  I’m on her nerves already.>

 

It takes a conscious effort, but I still my hands.

 

I chance a glance at her face to see if I can tell exactly how much trouble I’ve gotten myself into, and find my fingers unconsciously gripping the steering wheel a little tighter in reaction to what I see.

 

If this is Scully when she’s trying not to be annoyed, I’m going to be doing my best to annoy the hell out of her every chance I get, even though it’ll only be increasing my own torture.

 

She is staring down at her hands, which are clenched tightly – no doubt in an attempt to keep from decking me.  Her eyes are half-closed, her cheeks are flushed – presumably with anger – and her lips are slightly parted, her breath whistling harshly through her clenched teeth.  As I watch, the tip of her pink tongue darts out to moisten her lips, and it is nearly my undoing.

 

With mixed relief and disappointment, I notice that we have arrived at what is to be our new home until we’ve solved these mysterious disappearances.  I sincerely hope she doesn’t hear the hoarse rasp in my voice as I say, a little too brightly perhaps, “We’re here.”

 

***

 

Our neighbors are busy.  In fact, they’re busybodies.  But at least this woman is helping ground me quickly, taking my mind far away from its recent trajectory path, and that’s to be appreciated.

 

Mulder is introducing me with the normal empty platitudes of “my lovely wife.”  Apparently not that lovely, I think with a measure of resentment.  It’s not like the man has ever made a serious pass at me without nullifying it with mixed messages later.

 

Why this concerns me all of a sudden, I don’t know.  Maybe I’ve got my own X-file to solve: Why is Dana Scully so damned worried about what her partner thinks of her as a woman rather than as a person?

 

Oops, sorry, no X-file in that.  Open and shut case.  Because she’s in love with him, that’s why, and she doesn’t even want to admit it to herself.

 

I come to my senses just in time to realize that she has mispronounced our name twice.  I correct her, politely of course.  And then Mulder makes one of his signature jokes.  One of the ones that advertises the fact that he has a dark sense of humor.  Admittedly, one that is decidedly more attractive than the normal bubbly lighthearted humors.

 

Of course, my preference could have something to do with the fact that I’m a pathologist, and even more to do with the fact that the X-files have become part of my life to the point that their darkness permeates even my laughter.

 

Or maybe just because it’s Mulder’s unique sense of humor and he has become as inextricably part of me as the X-files themselves.

 

Damn that man.  Nobody ever said he had to be so compelling.

That’s what he is.  He’s intense, and he’s passionate, and he is such a spiritual storm that I can’t help but be pulled along into his hurricane like a tiny ship on the ocean.

 

…and that’s not what I need to be thinking about right now.

 

Not with his arm around my shoulder.  Not with him being so… familiar… so damned husbandly.  Couldn’t we just have one of those marriages where the couple is already tired of each other and have settled back into a platonic relationship?  Must we present the image to these people that we simply can’t keep our hands off each other?

 

Of course, we do have a platonic relationship – not my fault! I tell myself firmly – and we can’t keep our hands off each other.  He is constantly stepping into my space, and I’m constantly reaching out for him.

 

What the hell is the matter with us?

 

I realize suddenly that I had better snap out of my reverie before I get the spooky reputation this time around.  Mulder is being friendlier than I am, and that can’t happen.

 

Once inside, away from the prying eyes I have to keep this charade up for, I shrug his arm away from me.  I can’t stand it.  His touch is enough – has always been enough – to make me want things I can’t have.  Promises he won’t carry through.

 

And I’ve got God knows how long to go through this.

 

And he didn’t even offer to take this heavy gift basket for me.  Geez.

 

I’m gonna kill him.

 

***

 

My suspicions were correct.  She can’t stand being near me.  Okay, so I didn’t jump-to and ask if she would rather me carry the basket… truth is, I would have taken it to begin with, only I had my arm around her shoulders and was rather enjoying it.

 

And after that, I didn’t want her to think I was patronizing her.  God help me if she ever suspects I’m being chauvinistic or suggesting that she isn’t strong enough to take care of herself.  So I let her keep the basket.  Fine.

 

But she won’t let me keep my arm around her.

 

Double fine.

 

But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop annoying her.  I love the look on her face when her emotion is high with anger.  It’s the closest I get to seeing what I really want to see – and that is her face close to mine, flushed with arousal and wanting me.

 

Sometimes I can see it so clearly in my mind it’s almost like a memory.  The part of me that lives for the paranormal whispers hope that it’s a precognitive memory.  A memory of something that hasn’t happened yet.  A prophecy.

 

The practical part of me shoots that theory down.

 

Right.  Dana Katherine Scully, the most ravishing woman on this planet – the only spitfire intense enough to match my passions and withstand my obsessions – is never going to think of me as anyone except the bane of her existence.  She should marry some nice, sweet, boring doctor and live in a prefabricated neighborhood like this one.

 

A place where you have to be moved in by six o’clock in the evening.  A place where you can’t have a basketball hoop by your front driveway.  A place where you can’t have more than X pounds of pet.

 

A place where you can only show certain amounts of emotion and open up only so far to the man whose soul you have become.

 

Yeah, that’s a place for Dana Scully.

 

Part of me likes to think she would be bored with that life.  That after six years with me she wouldn’t be able to stand the slower pace, the absolute normality of it.  That she would feel dissatisfied completing an autopsy without finding anything unusual.  And all of me wishes that part of me were right.

 

And I suddenly realize that this woman who was sent to be my arch-nemesis, the one who was sent to invalidate my life and shoot me down has been my truest ally, has given reason to my existence… has been the one to give me the strength to fly.  Has, in fact, been what makes me real, as the fire surrounding a lump of cold rock is what makes it a comet.

 

I’m hopeless

 

***

 

Okay.  Great.  We’re all moved in, sixty seconds before six. 

 

Mulder’s already started teasing.  Something about me not letting him carry me over the threshold.  Yeah, big boy.  Don’t think you could handle it.  But oh wouldn’t I love it if he would.  All right, so two can play this game.

 

I intentionally wait until he is standing in front of me to strip off my coat.  Yes, I mean strip.  You don’t think I’d just take it off normally?  “You ready?”  Oh what a wealth of meanings in that little phrase.

 

As I expected, a wolfish grin spreads delightedly across his face.  “Let’s get it on, honey!”

 

Yeah, yeah.  Again, more promises he won’t carry through.  Maybe I’m not good at playing games after all.  I think I take it too seriously.  So I take out my camcorder and start recording the house, with a voice-over of the case file.  That seems safe enough.  “Seems” being the operative word here; a word that is suddenly inoperative as he materializes on the camcorder viewing screen.

 

“Want to make that honeymoon video now?”

 

I snap the camcorder off. 

 

He has no idea what he does to me, and I wish he’d stop.  Tease.  So I turn the conversation to the case, knowing it will sidetrack him on the lack of X-file involved.  And I’m right, so I can’t resist poking a little fun at him when he does complain about it not being an X-file. 

 

“Sure it is.  What do you want – aliens, tractor beams?”

 

The look that comes across his face frightens me.  It’s the one that warns me there’s no telling what he’s about to say.

 

“Wow.”

 

Okay, that’s even scarier.

 

“Admit it – you just want to play house!”

 

Oh, if you only knew how much, I think it would kill you.  It would just shock you to death that your straight-laced partner got all hot and bothered by the way you commented off-hand about a honeymoon video earlier.

 

I can hear myself now.  “Begin autopsy.  38-year-old Caucasian male, name Fox William Mulder.  Apparent cause of death: Spontaneous human combustion.”

 

Saved by the bell.  The door bell, actually.  I stand up straight to start taking off my latex gloves, and then he does it.

 

“Woman, get back in here an’ make me a san’wich!”

 

I’m trying not to laugh.  Trying to stay somewhat mad at him, because if he makes me laugh then I’ll forgive him and it will only make things worse.  So I throw the gloves at him.  Oh to be one of those gloves.  As I’m leaving the room I hear his voice following me, so adorably, endearingly Mulder.

 

“Did I not make myself clear?”

 

No, dearest, you’ve made yourself perfectly clear.  You want to play with my mind, but that’s all.  Too bad you don’t want to play with the body too… I’m sure we’d make great playmates.

 

***

 

I get the feeling I’m pushing too far.  She didn’t seem impressed with my comment about the honeymoon video (even though I got all hot and bothered by my own idea), but she did at least crack a half-smile at my sandwich line.

 

I wish she could see the goofy smile that’s coming to my face.  Or wait, maybe I’m glad she can’t.  She doesn’t need to know how much it thrills me when I manage to amuse her.

 

Am I pathetic or what?  I live for this woman’s happiness.  Well, sort of.  I live for her happiness so long as it involves me.  Every now and then I’ve had a selfless moment and begged her to leave me, to go on and be a doctor and be happy.

 

Without me.

 

God knows I’d die if I didn’t have her any more, but the guilt in the pit of my stomach is killing me slowly when I think of how selfish I am to not let her go be happy without me.  Maybe I should make her leave me so I could get it over with quickly.

 

This war between my primal need for her and my altruistic desire for her happiness is tearing me apart and I am no longer at the point of rational action.  I can feel it; I’m becoming reckless.  And some feral component of my id is enjoying the thought that I’m losing control; that pretty soon my superego is going to have curled up and died and my ego is going to be on life support.

 

There’s only one thing stronger than this basic primal craving for Scully; only one thing that would keep me from pushing her too far, against her will.  Seducing her when she doesn’t want to be seduced—because I know I could.  That’s not egotistical.  I know there is something spiritual about the way she lets me have any sort of power over her at all.

 

But the thing that keeps me from using that power to get what I want is not a sense of duty, or respect, or any sort of noble ideal towards her.

 

It’s simply the fact that I love her.

 

Okay.  Gotta stop thinking like this.  Gotta stop it now or I’m going to melt and be a puddle of Choco-Mulder-Chip ice cream here on the counter.

Where did that thought come from?  Chocolate?  Never thought of myself as chocolate flavored… although I would love to be chocolate flavored if that meant Scully would let me melt in her mouth like she does those bonbons I know she loves…

 

Whoa, Mulder.  Hold it right there, G-man, don’t go a step further or you’re going to be producing some rather incriminating evidence about your thought life, and she isn’t going to like it.  And you’re not going to like the fact that you’ve supplied her with hard evidence – so to speak – that you aren’t as immune to her as you’d like her to believe.

 

That’s right, big boy, just wander into the living room, no, don't look at the door… don't watch Scully's ass under her skirt while she's talking to your neighbor… just stretch your muscles out…

 

Oh God that felt good… my shoulders and back just popped.  Now my neck feels like it needs to pop… and as I loll my head back I catch a glimpse of something dark on the white ceiling fan.  Thank God, it’s just what I need.

 

A clue to get my mind away from where it was going… and I can’t believe I was letting myself go there about Scully.  My beautiful Scully who is the closest thing I’ve ever met to a saint, I realize as I stand on a crate and reach for the black stuff with my pocketknife.  It’s like having fantasies about the Virgin Mary… oh ick, there I’ve done it.  I think I’ve pretty much gotten over that feeling of warmth that was rapidly going south.

 

I hear her voice at that point and nearly jump out of my skin.  I’m still feeling guilty.  (Can we say Madonna/Whore Complex?  That's what I thought.)

 

“Hey, Mulder…”

 

“The name’s Rob,” I say, carefully scraping the substance into an evidence bag.  I’m hoping she can’t hear the slight edge of disgust that’s still in my voice at my own twisted psyche.  So I talk about the case and rapidly get my mind off the fact that her hips look very nice in that skirt. Okay Mulder, didn't I tell you not to go there? Damnit, boy, you really don't listen to you?

 

***

 

You know, Mulder looks really good when he’s stretched out full length.  It gives him almost a feline look, the easy grace with which he reaches over his head toward the ceiling fan.

 

I wish he didn’t. 

 

What he’s found, however, takes my mind at least somewhat off his intense good looks.  It’s blood.  On the ceiling fan.  How the heck… oh nevermind, I don’t really think I want to know.

 

I’m getting a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I really don’t want to think about what might have happened to sling this way up there.  For once I’m grateful that Mulder’s presence is a distraction.  No, that’s not right.  Now it’s more of a comfort.   Thank God.

 

I give him a look and a tight smile that I know tells him that I need his comfort.  And he puts his arm comfortingly around my shoulder—not like Rob embracing Laura, but Mulder supporting Scully.  There is a blessed difference in the affection, and I think I prefer Mulder’s.  At least it’s genuine.

 

At least it is straightforward, and honest, and I don’t have to worry about promises he won’t keep.  He will always be my friend.

 

Sleeping arrangements are a little tricky, though, even—or especially—with a best friend.

 

“Bed?” he says hopefully that night after we have decided that we will return Mike’s china to him tomorrow.

 

“Couch,” I say firmly.

 

Why the hell didn’t anybody have the bright idea to furnish the guest bedroom?  I really do hate sentencing him to the couch.  Especially when he goes so obediently and good-naturedly.  It is on the tip of my tongue to call him back and say that he can sleep with me.

 

Almost.

 

But it is too dangerous.  Being in the same bed with him is not a good idea.  For one, I know I talk in my sleep.  He’s complained about it before.  Two, I know I often walk or undertake other activities in my sleep.  Melissa used to complain about that.

 

And knowing how I’ve been feeling about him lately, it might be a little dangerous, especially if I start having *those dreams * again…

 

Oh hell, I can’t do it!  I just can’t make him sleep on the couch.  I know he’d be the perfect gentleman, and if I happen to say something or do something in my sleep that he gives me grief about, I’ve always got my government-issue weapon that I can pull on him.

 

“Mulder?”

 

No answer.  “Hey, Mulder!”

 

“It’s Rob,” comes a sulky voice from the general direction of the living room.  I’m reminded of when I saw the Beatles A Hard Day’s Night.  I think it was something George said about Ringo.  <“Oh ‘im… he’s sulkin’ again…”>

 

He’s trying to make me play this game, and I refuse.  I will not allow him to think we are married if we are going to sleep in the same bed.  While that sounds completely ridiculous, it makes perfect sense to me.

 

(And why do I get this feeling that I’m going to be telling myself later “It seemed like a good idea at the time”?)

 

But I take a deep breath and continue anyway, raising my voice so he can hear me.  “Mulder, do you want to sleep in the bed tonight?”

 

His voice close by, soft and silky, startles me and I turn to see him standing in the door—God help me, he’s barefoot and shirtless—with a deep, caressing expression in his eyes.  “I wouldn’t make you sleep on the couch, Dana.”

 

Oh, something’s gotten into him.  Or he’s just playing a trick on me.  Whatever it is, it won’t work.  Nope.  He will not make me “play house” with him tonight.  I will refuse… I will withstand his charm… and his good-looks… and his goddamned unadulterated sex appeal.

 

 “I wasn’t planning on sleeping on the couch,” I tell him haughtily.

 

His eyebrows go up then and his look of tenderness is replaced by one of wicked, teasing glee.  “Oh, finally coming to your senses?” he asks, coming close to me and tracing a finger up my arm.  I take a step back from him, hoping he doesn’t see the shiver that runs over my body.

 

He follows me predatorily.

 

He leans down to brush a butterfly-light kiss on my jawline and I draw blood from the tip of my tongue as I bite back – a little too literally – a moan.

 

I want to tell him “no,” but I also want him to take me into his arms… his charm is turned up all the way and I know he’s doing this on purpose.  He is purposely seducing me…

 

“You like that, Laura?” he murmurs when I gasp as he takes my earlobe between his teeth.

 

Laura.

 

Damn it, I am not Laura Petrie!  I am Dana Scully and I’ll be damned if I let this man play his fucking mind games with me for his own amusement.

 

I push him away violently and say coldly, “You, Agent Mulder, are to stay strictly on your side of the bed.  If you so much as make a move toward me at any time during the night—whether or not you are asleep—you will be sentenced to the couch without further delay and without extra blankets.  Understood?”

Something in his eyes shuts down and his voice is just as cold as mine as he says, “I understand.”

 

I have no idea why he’s hurt—he was the one playing games with me.  I can’t help it if I prefer being loved for being Dana Scully rather than Laura Petrie.  I am not Laura.  I am Dana.  And tonight, he’d better understand that I’m not even Dana.  I’m just Scully.  Friend and partner. 

 

Partner with a gun, I might add.  And I just might have to use it on myself.

 

***

 

This is torture.  This is fucking torture.

 

Scully has fallen right asleep on her side of this huge, king-sized bed—which means she’s far too far away from me to casually brush against “accidentally.”

 

And she’s sighing.  God help me, the woman is actually moaning in her sleep.

 

I squirm under the covers, wishing like hell I could fall asleep and not have to listen to her have these passionate dreams about some guy.

 

I don’t know whom she’s dreaming of—whether it’s Jack, or Ethan, or that guy Rob that she went out with once, or that … other guy… or some passionate memory from her college days… and I don’t want to know.

 

I can’t stand it, and I don’t want to know.

 

I just want her to shut up so I can go to sleep and forget about how much these sounds are turning me on.

 

I close my eyes tightly and moan myself, commanding certain parts of my body to go away and leave me alone for one night at least.

 

And that’s when I hear it.

 

The name.

The name of the guy that I assume she is dreaming about.  It tells me I was wrong.  If anything, she’s probably killing the guy.

 

Hell, she’s killing him in real life this very moment, why not in her dream?

 

“Mulder… oh, Mul-derrrr…”

 

Oh shit.  Oh hell, no, Scully!  You have no idea what you’re doing to me!  I pull the pillow up around my ears to muffle those precious sounds that I have so often wished I could hear.  So long missed, and thought I’d never hear again.  I shouldn’t be hearing them now.

 

While I should be delighted to know that she is dreaming about me, and these dreams sound very erotic in nature, I also know that there is a great deal of sexual tension that has built up between myself and my partner over the last few years.  Hell, the second year we worked together we were actually lovers for a very short time.

 

Very short.

 

Until my perpetual guilt and insecurities caught up with me and I couldn’t stand the thought that I was bringing her down.

 

And I was.  Her judgment was sorely affected.  She risked her life and her job to follow me to almost the four corners of the globe and bring me back safely.  She even risked my life once.

 

Scully doesn’t belong with me.

 

But God I wish she did.

 

My anger at myself for involving her in a relationship long ago—and also, ironically, for breaking it off—has finally distracted me enough that I don’t feel compelled to sneak off down to the living room after all just to relieve the ever-building pressure in the lower part of my body.

 

Scully has quieted down, finally, the dream having passed mercifully into silence.

 

I am relaxing now, letting myself pretend that this is four years ago when it used to be policy not to spend the night in the other’s bed.  When I used to put off awakening her for as long as was possible, just lying still listening to her breathing.  I would pretend to be asleep when she finally woke up and left, sometimes pausing to place a gentle kiss on my forehead and whispering, “Goodnight, Fox.”

 

It would make me smile to hear her call me that name that I had told her not to.

 

To hear her rebel against the rules I had put in place with my insecurity.

 

And it startles me when she unconsciously breaks her own rule.

 

I jump painfully as her soft little hand actually slides over my stomach and up my chest to tangle in the hairs growing there.

 

Soon her firm, curvy body has snuggled into mine, falling back into our comfortable mold, and I realize how well we always fit together.  She nuzzles her face into my shoulder and sighs, “Mulder…”

 

It is then that I realize she is still asleep.

 

I put my arms around her and hold her, burrowing into her hair.  “Scully… Dana…”

 

I have put the thought of her as “woman” out of my mind for so long, to get over our former relationship, that I had almost forgotten she was one.

 

I had almost tricked myself into believing that I could work with her without being attracted to her.

 

“Oh, God, Dana…”  I love you, I love you…

 

“Mulder?”

 

Oh God.

 

Scully.

 

I know that voice.  It means she’s awake.  And that I am in trouble.

 

“Hi, Scully,” I say in a meek voice.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Hm?”

“You’re holding me.”

 

“You were holding me first.”

 

“Get on your side of the bed, Mulder.”

 

“Scully, I am on my side of the bed.  So are you.”

 

She sits up and looks around, realizing this is true.  “Good night, Mulder,” she says harshly, getting up and taking her pillow and a blanket.  “I’m going to sleep on the couch.”

 

I watch her leave the room, tears filling my eyes.  So different from her departures from my bed four years ago… so different from her farewells then.

 

“Goodnight, Dana,” I whisper.

 

The rest of my night is spent in fitful dreams and restless tossing and turning. 

 

We both put on our fake, happy Rob-and-Laura smiles to go take Mike’s china back to him relatively early the next morning.

 

We are surprised to find Wynn Schroeder washing off Mike’s porch.  I am distracted.  I am still hurt by Scully’s behavior the night before, although irrationally so.

 

“So how’s your first night, peaceful?”

 

I have the need to vent my anger somehow.

 

“Oh it was wonderful.  We just spooned up and fell asleep like baby cats.  Isn’t that right honey?”

She’s still mad too.

 

“That’s right, Poopyhead.”

 

Oh boy am I in trouble.

 

 

A man with a Spartan life, simple in his creature comforts if only to allow for the complexity of his passions.

 

That’s how I once described Mulder. 

 

It’s how I’d still describe him.  I think that’s why living with him in this lush environment is so disorienting.  In a funny kind of way, it makes me almost protective of him.

 

In fact, sitting here now, listening to this Nazi who rules Arcadia Falls with an iron fist, I feel an oddly intense sympathy for him.  I realize how uncomfortable he is here, and I really wanted him to have something familiar into which he could retreat.

 

Now we find out he can’t have his basketball hoop by the front driveway.  And while I can see where the thing would be “aesthetically displeasing” to most people, I think part of me actually wanted it there.  There is nothing quite so soothing as the rhythmic pounding of a basketball on concrete.

 

The sound is so strong, so masculine, so utterly Mulder… it reminds me that he is active, that he is energetic, that something in him knows how to have fun.

 

Some honest part of me quietly admits that I also simply love seeing Mulder physically exhausted as the result of a pleasant exertion.  The smile of purely masculine satisfaction that spreads across his face as he leans over, resting those graceful hands on his bare knees, his hair tumbling rebelliously into his eyes, sweat dripping from his face and shoulders and leaving a trail of moisture down his spine…

 

Hey, hold up!  What are you doing, Mulder?  Holding my hand?  Oh no, no you don’t.  Not after you managed to seduce me in my sleep last night.

 

I pull my hand back into my lap, conveniently forgetting that I had laid it on his arm first to comfort him.

 

Of course, he is what is termed as an unlawful attraction....  his arm around my shoulders, his hand on my elbow… which, oddly enough, I suddenly find myself clasping affectionately.  Bad hand!  Back in my lap, now!

 

 

Mulder is not what is known as a polite conversationalist.

 

He is riotously funny, but only so far as the situation allows for it.  And this time I’m just scared to death that he’ll get us into trouble.

 

I’ll admit that I thought it was a little cheesy when Wynn Schroeder bragged about how he and Cami “always use the dolphin-safe tuna.”  But in all honesty, I didn’t think it called for Mulder’s shockingly morbid comment.

 

“Gotta love those dolphins!”  He was okay right there.  Equally as cheesy as Wynn, but not crossing the line of propriety.  I was actually breathing easy for a second.  Big mistake.  “Although, they’re pretty tasty too.”

 

I can just see myself having to resuscitate Wynn and Cami after they choke on their dolphin-safe tuna.  Goddamn you Mulder, at least laugh to show you’re joking!

 

All right, so I’ll laugh for you.  Big baby.  Can’t even laugh at your own jokes.

 

It occurs to me momentarily that my above complaint is actually a compliment in his favor.  How many men with such sparkling wit manage to avoid the mistake of laughing at their own brilliant humor?

 

Mulder goes into his planned baiting of Wynn, much like Hamlet’s players baited Claudius.  I am momentarily distracted by the thought of how he holds his wine glass.

 

So delicately, it’s almost as if he isn’t touching the crystal at all.

 

How can those hands be so graceful when I know they are capable of such violence?

 

And such passion.

 

I shiver.  I haven’t forgotten our affair of four years ago.

 

I was completely open to him then… totally and unreservedly desperate for him, just as much as he was desperate for me.

 

There was one problem—he is afraid of getting too close.  And I know him too well to think that it’s because he doesn’t want to give up his freedom.

 

No, he has come too close to sacrificing everything for me too many times for me to think that it’s about his idea of bachelorhood.

 

It’s because he loves me so much that he doesn’t want me to be so vulnerable to the pain that comes along with loving him.  He just doesn’t realize it’s too late for that – I do love him, and I get the pain no matter what.

 

Now if I could only convince him of that, maybe we could share the pleasure too, since the pain is already part of the deal.

 

I am suddenly becoming philosophical, flashing back to a biographical film I once saw on the life of C.S. Lewis – when his wife, who was dying of cancer, told him, “The pain then is part of the happiness now.  That’s the deal, Jack.”

 

That’s the deal, Fox.  You get them both, and they become one.  Yin and yang.

 

Don’t deny me half of the equation in an attempt to save me from the other half.  It won’t work.

 

Uh-oh!  I nearly missed my cue!  Brightly, I rejoin the conversation.  “Do you know where he is, Wynn?”

 

There is an awkward silence.

 

It’s all blurred by the latent desire for my partner that has been stirred up again, but somewhere along the line I ask Cami if she’d like company while she’s walking Scruffy.  Cute dog.  Would’ve picked a better name—something literary, definitely.

 

Like Queequeg.  Or if they wanted something plain, they could’ve taken Steinbeck’s cue and named him Charlie.  Travels with Charlie.  All right, now I’m rambling.

 

Now we’re walking.  And it’s time to forget about my feelings for Mulder and get down to business finding out what’s going on around here.

 

Special Agent Dana Scully at your service.

 

Damn.

 

I think I would just rather play house.

 

 

God I’m in love with my partner.  I could cry.  I… she wouldn’t let me kiss her.

 

Of course she wouldn’t.

 

Of course she wouldn’t let you kiss her, you fucking idiot.

 

You’re the one who stopped her kisses one night and told her that it was wrong.  That it was all wrong.  That it should have never happened.  That it shouldn’t happen again.

 

And why?  Answer that question honestly, Special Asshole Fox Mulder.

 

Was it because you wanted to spare her the pain?  Partially, yes.

 

But why was it, really?

 

Because you couldn’t stand being hurt yourself.  Admit it.

 

Because after you gave your heart and soul – the whole package -- to Phoebe, she trampled it, crushed it into little bitty pieces and tossed half of it into the Thames and the other half into the English Channel.

 

Because after you proposed to Diana she went off to Europe and left you with a wedding band and no vows to go with it, and you insisted on wearing the stupid band because you thought it would bring her back.

 

And then when it did bring her back she nearly got you killed. 

 

I wanted to believe.  I wanted to believe in Diana.  I wanted to believe that she really did love me, that she’d made a mistake.  Not because I really loved Diana, I don’t think, but because I needed to be loved and I knew that hoping for her love was safe because she’d never love me.

Not like Scully does.

 

Scully loves me in an all-consuming manner.  I know she does.  Or at least she did.  She probably still does, I just hurt her very deeply four years ago and she’s not stupid enough to burn herself twice.  Oh God how stupid can I be?

 

And I’m on auto-pilot this entire time, carrying on a conversation with her… kind of… actually just listening to her berate me for squeezing the tube of toothpaste from the middle, not the end, and for forgetting to put the toilet seat down for the third time.

 

Sorry, Scully, I’m a consummate bachelor.  No one will have me except you, and I won’t let you.

 

And then—there she is, in all her green-faced glory.  Oi!  Forget chasing little green men!  Little green Scullys are highest on my list, and if I have to pull out my badge and my gun to prove to her that I have the authority to chase her for the rest of my life, I will.

 

I’m just scared shitless at the prospect of actually catching her.

 

It’s the thought that she won’t let me catch her that prompts my next action.  That’s the great thing about Scully.  She lets me chase to my heart’s content, always keeping me an arm’s length away with little to no effort at all.

 

“Come on, Laura, we’re married now.”

 

Calling her Laura helps too.  It’s like playing a game.  She isn’t really Dana Katherine Scully, the woman who holds the keys to my entire universe – she’s just Laura Petrie, a pretty little New Age-y housewife who disapproves of her husband’s public displays of affection.

 

I am grinning, knowing there is still a safe distance between us.

 

A safe distance that collapses at the same time the entire galaxy seems to implode on itself, taking my breath away.  I need somebody to catch me now; it’s my turn to start running.

 

“Okay,” she says.

 

I see the panic, full-fledged, in his eyes.

 

I see him gather his wits.  He wasn’t expecting me to do that.

 

Hell, I wasn’t expecting me to do that.

 

But you know what?  I’m sick and tired of his excuses.  He wants me.  I want him.  And you know what else?  That’s the end of it.  No questioning the wisdom or the morality of our desire, because quite honestly, I don’t want to.  All I want is him.

 

He gets up, takes a pillow, and walks quietly from the room.  I turn and call after him, “The thrill is gone, Agent Mulder!”

 

I’ve done it this time.  I’ve run him off.

 

After I wash the green goo off my face, I settle into bed, holding a pillow close to me, aching.

 

My eyes are closed, and my entire energies are focused on dredging up enough memories to carry me through the initial pang of loneliness.  How cruel could he be?

 

How cruel could life be?

 

A broken sob escapes my lips and I silently curse Mulder’s demons.  The ones that keep me from being happy because they keep him from thinking he deserves to be happy.

 

I am startled first by the sultry slide of a guitar over a seductive drumbeat, and next by the weight of a sultry body seductively sliding across the mattress towards me.

 

<World was on fire and no one could save me but you.  Strange what desire will make foolish people do.  I never dreamed that I’d meet somebody like you… And I’ve never dreamed that I’d lose somebody like you…>

 

“Mulder…”

 

“Ssshhh…”

 

<No, I don’t wanna fall in love… (this love is only gonna break your heart)… with you…>

 

His arms are around me, holding me, comforting me.

 

<What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way… what a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you…>

 

“Mulder, Mulder I can’t do this…”

 

<What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way… what a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you… and I, don’t wanna fall in love… (this love is only gonna break your heart)… with you…>

 

“Why not Scully?”

 

<This is love is only gonna break your heart>

 

I can’t answer him.  I’m sobbing, my heart in my throat.

 

<World was on fire, and no one could save me but you.>

 

“I’m sorry for everything, Scully.  I was wrong… I was so wrong… I need you…”

 

<Strange what desire will make foolish people do>

 

“Oh God Mulder, I need you too…  I don’t know why or how…”

 

<I never dreamed that I’d love somebody like you>

 

“I’m sorry I ever made you leave… that I ever let you go…”

 

<I never dreamed that I’d lose somebody like you>

 

“I’m sorry I ever left… that I let you let go…”

 

“I’m still afraid, Scully.  I’m still so afraid.”

 

<No I don’t wanna fall in love…>

 

“What are you afraid of?”

 

<This love is only gonna break your heart.>

 

“Of everything.”

 

“Of this?”

 

This is beyond what I remembered.  The intensity between us is tempered into a sultry rhythm by the seductive sway of the music… The way his hands are now drawing slowly over my skin, pulling away the sedate pajamas I wore to bed.

 

The way his lips are lazily seducing every square inch of my skin, returning every now and then to drink deeply from my mouth.  The texture of his tongue tracing leisurely circles on the insides of my cheeks, then stroking smoothly and strongly along my upper palate, tangling and placating my own tongue, drawing it into his mouth.

 

His beautiful, delicious mouth as full of honey as I remembered.

 

Honey is the wrong word.

 

Honeyed wine, maybe.  Rich and intoxicating.

 

But more salty.

 

More reminiscent of sunflower seeds. 

 

God, the man has no sense of hygiene.  Eating sunflower seeds after he’d brushed his teeth?  So typically Mulder.

 

But do I mind?

 

Hell, no.

 

Not when he has shifted to let his full weight rest against the length of my body and is pinning me down into the bed, moving his hips in gentle, calculated rotations against mine, in rhythm to the song he has obviously put on repeat.

 

“I’m not afraid anymore, Scully,” he murmurs into my mouth before moving down my jaw to my neck.

 

“I’m glad,” I manage to whisper, sliding my hands over the golden silky skin of his back.

 

I feel the muscles ripple underneath my fingers and reflect on how his build has changed since we were last lovers.

 

No more is he the scrawny, boyish psychologist in glasses.  (Although I miss the glasses sometimes.)

 

Now he is “sleek, suave, radiant with charisma… the moves of a jungle cat.”

 

Now his muscles would rightly intimidate Tom Colton or any other jerk who dared to call him Spooky to his face.

 

Now his muscles are working to bring me pleasure, and I have to say I’m pleased.

 

I’d be purring if I could find any breath to purr with.

 

“I didn’t think I could love anybody… But I was wrong.  I was so wrong.”  His breath is catching in his throat, his voice is low, broken, husky with tears and desire.

 

<Nobody loves no one>

 

“I love you too,” I manage to tell him as he rids me of my clothes and inhibitions.

 

The tears are falling down my face and I don’t even realize it until he is kissing them away.  Then I realize they are as much his tears as mine… that he is crying, and that his tears are falling and mingling with mine.

 

And suddenly I don’t hear the “don’t” in the song anymore.

 

<And I wanna fall in love… with you>

 

“Don’t ever let me leave you again, Mulder.”

 

“Don’t ever let me try to make you.”

 

“I’m staying.”

 

“I’ll keep you.”

 

Our love never died.  Not in the four years we let it lie dormant.  We should’ve known.  Both of us.  When I tried to leave for real.  When I tried to walk out and he tried to kiss me.

 

And I would’ve let him.

 

And we would’ve been lovers again before now.

 

Except I nearly died.

 

But that’s over now, and I’m here, and I love him and he loves me.  I don’t know how many times I repeat that to myself like a mantra, intermingled with my gasps as he moves in and out to the seducing beat of the song.

 

I’ll never be able to hear this song again without floating off into a private world hazed with love, desire, and a particular brand of Mulderlust that only I am familiar with.  I daresay Phoebe and Diana never needed him this much.  They never would have left him if they had.

 

He’s mine.

 

 

The light is still gray outside, deceptive pre-dawn.  He is sleeping soundly, the hint of a smile turning up the corner of his otherwise relaxed lips.

 

Beautiful, swollen lips, no longer bearing the glistening evidence of our tear-seasoned kisses.  The beauty of the passion makes me want to cry and kiss again.

 

But I simply brush my lips over his lightly, no pressure so as not to wake him.  He responds, even in his sleep, and whispers my name soundlessly.  I smile.

 

“Goodnight, Fox.”  Even though it isn’t night, old habits die hard.  And besides, I said that even when I waited ‘til morning to leave.

 

And I slip soundlessly from the room, unable to erase the smile on my freshly Mulderkissed lips.

 

 

At first I don’t feel my body.  The early morning sunlight coming in the window warmly caresses my bare skin and giving my muscles a golden, liquefied sensation, as if my skeleton has been melted like summer honey.  I stretch languidly, unable to remember at first why I am smiling.

 

I never smile.

 

Then it hits me.  Scully.  Scully crying, kissing, calling my name.  Scully melting around me, letting me melt inside her.  Oh God… Scully.

 

I reach for her, and my hand encounters empty sheets.  Cold sheets.

 

She’s gone.  She’s been gone for awhile; all the warmth from her body has dissipated into the now menacing sunlight.

 

My eyes fly open.  It’s my worst nightmare, worst because it started out like a perfect golden dream.  “Nothing gold can stay.”  Stupid poets, why do they always have to know everything?

 

Did I dream it?  I can’t have.  I know I have realistic dreams, but there is a certain feeling that one has after sex, especially when one hasn’t had sex for awhile… and my dreams are never realistic to the point of carrying over into physical evidence.  Not that kind anyway.

 

Then why did she leave?  I’m trying to remember if I in any way implied that this would be like our old affair, when we couldn’t spend the night together for fear of waking up together.  We didn’t want to have to face the “morning after” bit, and if we had a few hours to regroup, we could separate the MulderScullyLovers from the MulderScullyPartners and not have to worry about it.

 

No, nothing like that.

 

In fact, I had thought we had finally changed, and let the Partners and Lovers meld until we were just MulderScully.

 

Chalk it up to Mulderbrilliance.  Highly overrated.

 

I blow out an exasperated breath, trying not to feel too depressed.  Trying to remember the way the salt tasted on my tongue as she cried tears of love, mingling with my tears of surrender.

 

I get up, not bothering at first to shower, and pad downstairs to get some coffee.  Maybe she’s downstairs.

 

But she isn’t.

 

There is, however, a freshly brewed pot of coffee.  And a note on the counter.

 

“Mulder,

 

I’ve gone to get that sample analyzed.  I’ll be back this evening sometime.  Try to behave, will you?  I don’t want to have to do your autopsy – or anybody else’s – when I get back.

 

--S.”

 

I smile.  Her peace offering.  Sorry I didn’t wake you, you were sleeping.  No I don’t regret last night.  I’ll be back; I haven’t left you.

 

I love you too, Scully.

 

 

Behave?  She couldn’t have honestly meant that.

 

Not when there are so many people to piss off.  And especially not when I’m curious to see what will happen if I really do piss them off.

 

First order of business.

 

The tackiest pink flamingo I’ve ever seen in my life, in the front yard.

 

It’s ridiculous, I know, because flamingoes are always in pairs.  And mine is alone.  Poor little guy…

 

Damn.  Turn my back for a minute and he’s gone.

 

Next item on the agenda.

 

Hm, let’s see what sort of mischief we can get into here… the mailbox is just a little too neat.  Too straight.

 

Kick it over… Whaddya know, give you a black belt in karate, they should… but that’s not enough.  Flag up.  Open box.  And, just for good measure, a splash of this orange juice.

 

I’m not turning my back this time.

 

I’m gonna sit here until I see who’s cleaning up, and possibly why.  So I just sit here and muse over the meaning of life.

 

Which means I muse over Scully.

 

And suddenly I’ve drunk the entire carton of orange juice and my body is letting me know about it.  I don’t want to go to the bathroom but damn it, I just don’t feel right about relieving myself into this carton in front of the window.

 

Irrationally, I glare out the window at the mailbox, as if commanding it not to allow itself to be fixed before I get back.

 

But it is.

 

Damn.  Nobody ever listens to me… I finger the flag moodily, and on instinct open the box.  The note inside…

 

What’s gonna happen when it gets dark? 

 

 

Scully still isn’t back.

 

Which means I’m bored out of my mind and itching to figure out what the hell that note means…

 

Hey, a little basketball never did anybody any harm.  Except maybe in this neighborhood, from the way Wynn is acting.

 

He’s actually panicking, and the smell of his fear is sickening.  I have to admit, he’s almost scaring me.  What the hell is so terrible that it’s got him so scared?

 

“You’ve been warned.”

 

I barely have time to ask what I’ve been warned about when I hear Cami screaming.  Blood curdling screams.

 

And in that moment I regret having ever put up this basketball goal, having ever put the flamingo in the front yard, or abused an innocent mailbox.

 

Wynn’s fear settles into the pit of my stomach with a sickening thud as I realize that my antagonism may be costing this poor man his wife.  And no man should be without his wife, I think as I feel the weight of my ring reminding me of a lost wife.  Not the one I was actually almost married to, but the one who is in San Diego in this moment instead of protecting our neighbors from me.

 

I’m running before Wynn has enough good sense to even move.

 

Cami is being man-handled by a dark shape that bears only a silhouetted resemblance to a man and sounds like a trash bag when it runs.  “Stop!” I yell, barely catching myself before I shout, “Federal agent!” as I’m so used to doing in chase situations.

 

The attacker rounds the corner and I am baffled when I come up against a dead end.

 

I feel like the dog in those ridiculous cartoons, turning around in circles muttering, “Where did he go?”

 

Cami has to be attended to.

 

I think she’s in shock, staring off at a point over my shoulder somewhere.  I resist the curiosity to follow her point of focus in favor of making sure Wynn is finally concerned enough to comfort his wife.  Whatever is over my shoulder is apparently fascinating enough to mesmerize him as well, and it suddenly occurs to me that it could be the attacker.  I turn to look.

 

A broken light.

 

All I can think at this moment is, “What is going on here?”

 

 

Damn San Diego is a long way away and I’ve got too many things on my mind.  A dead-end on the supposed “blood” that Mulder found on the ceiling, and the almost-unwelcome remembrance that sex fosters the desire for more sex.

 

In other words, if I thought I was having trouble resisting Mulder before, “resistance” isn’t even a word in my vocabulary presently.

 

And since we don’t have any solid leads yet, and it’s late enough that we can do nothing more than wonder why there was brake fluid and all manner of stuff on the ceiling fan in an otherwise impeccable house, I’m thinking I deserve an encore of last night.

 

And… since I don’t have anywhere to go tomorrow morning… maybe I can just lie in bed and watch the sunlight play over Mulder’s sleeping face.  I have always wanted to do that.  Wake up with him beside me in the morning sunshine and just watch him sleep.

 

I’m liking this idea more and more, and trying to stop myself from liking it quite so much.

 

After all, I’ve had all day away from him, and we’ve done this before.  We’ve been lovers before.  Lovers… and he’s brushed me off.

 

We’ve been lovers and he denied me for Diana Fowley.

 

We’ve been lovers and he tried to tell me how much that meant to him.  Told me with words that I made him a whole person, and without words that even though he had called it off before, maybe he was willing to try it again.  Told me with the desire in his eyes and the tilt of his head and the caress of his thumbs that he’d missed my kisses and was going to give me another one.

 

We’ve been lovers and he dragged me back from the ends of the earth, frostbitten and miserable, though happy to have him with me.  I remember holding him closely on the edge of that crater thinking that this was it.  That Antarctica had frozen us together.  That just as soon as he regained consciousness I was going to give him that kiss he never got in his hallway.  In the meantime, I contented myself with kissing his freezing wet hair and holding him against the cold, whispering broken phrases of gratitude and devotion that I’m not sure ever made it past my iced-over lips.

 

We’ve been lovers and he chose to forget about all of it and trust another ex-lover, making me wonder if I had been a brief interlude, just an amusement and form of release until Diana came back to him.

 

We’ve been lovers before, and the only thing that changed was the faith I had in him.  It became guarded, not total.  I still trust him with my life… but I stopped trusting him with my heart.

 

Will it be different this time, now that we’ve been lovers twice?

 

I have every right to worry.  It’s not uncommon to worry like this… a song on the radio catches my attention.  Natalie and Nat King Cole singing “When I Fall In Love”… one line catches my attention.  “In a restless world, like this is, love has ended before it’s begun… and too many moonlight kisses seem to cool in the warmth of the sun.”

 

Viciously I stab at the radio, changing channels.  I don’t want to hear about it. 

 

It’s a conspiracy.  The consortium has taken over the radio stations of the world and are torturing me so that I can’t think straight and I’ll have to be admitted to a mental hospital and they can have medical reasons to take me off the X-files.

 

With a forceful twist that barely avoids breaking the knob, I turn the radio off, effectively silencing Carole King wondering, “Is this a lasting treasure, or a moment’s pleasure?  Tonight you’re mine, completely – but will you love me tomorrow?”

 

Now if I could just get my brain to shut up.

 

By the time I get home with my lab results safely tucked away in a shopping bag, I’m in a very, very bad mood.

 

 

Now this… this is NOT good.

 

A hole under the grass in our yard?  One that leads to a tunnel?  Well, I’ve always been a sucker for getting into places I don’t belong so why break a perfectly good record now?

 

I don’t like the dark.

 

Betcha didn’t know that.

 

It’s why I’m so obsessive about my flashlights.  Plural.  Why I carry more than one.  It came in handy in Antarctica when I accidentally dropped one into the bowels of that freaky alien ship where they were keeping Scully.

 

And it’s coming in handy now.  One flashlight in my mouth, the other in my hand… and I’m having suddenly inappropriate thoughts that mention something about “multi-tasking”… I constantly amaze myself with my ability to take a perfectly innocent situation and see something sexual about it.  Freud would have a field day with my psyche, if I ever let him within ten feet of it.

Especially when my body has been humming with the memory of last night’s encounter with Scully all day long. 

 

But now, now I’m feeling a different excitement stirring in my blood.  The thrill of the chase.  The thrill of the supernatural.  The thrill of an X-file.

 

 

I want to believe.

 

I want to believe that the noise I just heard was Mulder, playing a trick on me.  Mulder, trying to make me scream – although I personally can think of much pleasanter ways to accomplish that goal.  But in all honesty, I can’t believe.  I don’t think I’ve ever told Mulder this, but his spooky sense is contagious.  I feel it tingling in the base of my spine – that noise wasn’t Mulder.

 

Someone is in the house.

 

And suddenly I’m wondering if I haven’t become a little of Laura Petrie.  I’ve got this fluttering, trembling feeling in my stomach that some long-forgotten part of my mind catalogues as pure, unadulterated panic.  And I know why it is.  It’s because I’m dressed in Laura’s clothes, with Laura’s hairdo, in Laura’s house – without Scully’s gun and without Scully’s partner.

 

And I’m not sure what worries me most – that I don’t have my gun, or that I don’t know where my partner is.

 

I suppose Laura’s firepoker will just have to do in lieu of a firearm.

 

And although I swear I just heard someone behind me, I can still hear someone in front of me and I’m going to assume the first noise was just my mind playing tricks on me.

 

I can feel the tension coiling tighter in my belly as my fingers mimic that tightening around the brass handle of the firepoker.  Laura’s wedding ring clinks against the shiny surface and I feel a faint twinge in my stomach that I attribute to the adrenaline that has answered my mind’s call for assistance in posing a formidable threat to whatever is in the house.

 

Speaking of which… that intruder is about find out exactly how incompatible his skull is with brass.

 

I see a blur of dark hair and a hand come up to stop the downward stroke of the poker.  It is the hand that I recognize.  Nobody else in the world has hands that beautiful, that graceful.

 

“Sorry, Mulder…”

 

My voice is breathy – very little more than air, as a matter of fact.  To cover for the effect he’s had on me – which is really just relief anyway, right? – I quickly explain, “Somebody was in the house.”

 

I expect him to brush me off.  To tell me I was being paranoid.  (Oh wouldn’t that be rich.  Pot, meet Kettle.)  But he agrees.  Quickly and vehemently.

 

And I can feel a sinking feeling in my stomach as I ask for clarification.  I don’t want it to be true, but it is.

 

It flashes through my mind in a split-second, the realization that my jealousy increases every time I experience it.  The first time was his ex-partner Jerry… just a little twinge of insecurity, really, wondering if I was as good a partner as he had been – if he wanted Jerry back.  That didn’t last long, though.

 

The second time was his ex-lover… that bitch from England.  Phoebe Greene, her name was.  Oh yes, I remember her.  At first that was jealousy.  The sickened twist of my gut when she kissed him outside the car – when he didn’t push her away.  The despair and exasperation that I felt when I found them dancing – then kissing again. 

 

But I knew he was just hoping to find out that he was unforgettable.  That Phoebe hadn’t been able to forget about him.  That he meant that much to someone.  And that turned out all right in the end, despite the fact that I still cringe when I hear an English accent.

 

The jealousy then was nothing when compared with the pure hatred that still ripples through my mind and possesses my very spirit at the thought of… don’t make me even think her name.  You know who she is.

 

Right now, every shade of jealousy from those three incidents (not to mention the hundred or more similar though somewhat lesser incidents that haven’t been mentioned) have melted together and are aimed at Mulder’s very words.

 

“This IS an X-file.”

 

Damn it… Dana, meet Special Agent Mulder.  What this means for you is, put quite simply, this: You won’t be getting any tonight.

 

 

 

I find it appropriate that she is the one shining the light on my excavation as I show her what I’ve found.  The little hole in the front yard, the disturbingly fresh and loose dirt underneath.

 

Where I “thought” I saw a “huge creature.” 

 

Scully, I’m already sexually frustrated from not being able to get my hands on you all day – don’t piss me off now by questioning what I know I saw.

 

She doesn’t miss my look, and her tone is vaguely conciliatory as she changes the focus of our subject.

 

“Look, Mulder, huge creatures aside, do you care to hear what I think?”

 

<Bitch,> I think – in only the most affectionate of tones, I assure you.  But I’m feeling just a little bit like she’s sort of patting me on the head and telling me of COURSE there’s a monster in the closet, honey, but don’t worry about it tonight.  I’m sure it’s a vegetarian.

 

I don’t allow myself to think the word a second time, as by this time it would be much less affectionate.

 

“Always.”

 

 

I’ve hurt his feelings.  I know that.  Irrationally, I’m mad at him for being hurt that I questioned him – after all, isn’t that what he wants me to do?  Isn’t that the value he said I was to his work?  Isn’t that apparently all the value I have to him and the X-files?  I mean, after all, I’m apparently not as fucking loyal to him and the work as that Fowley bitch is.

 

All right, Dana.  That was a little unfair.  The poor boy’s got a sensitive ego (sensitive, my ass; he needs to grow up) and just would like you to believe him once in awhile.

 

I do, damnit.  And just for once, you know, I really wish I could hear something he has to say and not respond negatively or skeptically to it.  But it’s such an ingrained response in me, it’s as natural as drooling at the sound of Muld – uh, bell.  Bell.  Damnit, where’s Pavlov when you need him?

 

Right now, I’m putting my faith in science for a whole lot more than simply rational explanations for what’s going on around here. 

 

I’m putting faith in its ability to smooth over the wounds we give each other – the wounds I give him.

 

When nothing else in our lives is right – when we are so mad at each other that we could probably nullify the need for half the Consortium’s conspiracies to break us up by killing each other ourselves – we can always talk about work.

 

The work that is our common passion, even when the only other thing we have in common is how vehemently we hate each other.

 

It’s working now, I can tell, as I see forgiveness flicker at me from those hazel eyes of his.  I have to admit, this suits him.  This look of casualty in his wardrobe.  Not that he doesn’t wear his suits well, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t look like he just stepped out of the pages of a catalogue.

 

GQ Cover Boys, eat your hearts out.

 

And finally, with the olive branch of the lab reports between us, he extends a theory that I can honestly say I think is the most plausible thing he’s said all night.  Even though he may not be right, it’s a conclusion I do not regret him jumping to.

 

“The Klines?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“What if they’re still here?”

 

Landfill.  Garbage.  Bodies.

 

“You mean buried in the yard?”

 

He nods, and I suppress a shiver.  No matter how long you work in crime prevention, no matter how many things you see, sometimes you are just hit with the reality of death and how casually some people treat it.

 

The fact that I don’t even have to remind myself not to question him is salve to my bruised conscience – the one I lashed earlier for disappointing and hurting him again.

 

Nevermind that his brilliant and entirely plausible theory is the reason I can agree with him so readily.

 

“But the minute we start a forensic excavation, our cover’s blown.”

 

And if our cover’s blown, Mulder, and there’s nothing there, then this has all gone to hell and we’ll be busted off the X-files again.  I’m not looking forward to desk duty.

 

The way he bites the inside of his jaw is just absolutely … arousing.  There is no other word for it.

 

“Come with me, Scully,” he says in an almost absent tone of voice as he begins backing away from me toward the stairs. 

“Why, Mulder?” I want to know.  I’m not getting my hopes up just yet.

 

“I wanna do a little brainstorming.  You up to helping me?”

“Sure,” I say easily, mentally patting myself on the back for not being disappointed – at least, not astronomically so.

 

He starts walking up the stairs backwards, reaching down a hand to hold mine as I follow him up.

 

“Good,” he says in a low voice, his eyes twinkling mischievously.  “Because I think I’m going to be up to helping us both out in just a very little while.”

 

Don’t do that, Mulder.  Don’t make my head swim by changing the subject so fast.  Don’t make my knees go weak by looking at me like that.  And – oh, God, Mulder – don’t make my insides experience a complete meltdown by smiling at me that way.

 

 

For a minute, I was almost afraid I’d overplayed my hand.  But the way her expression shifted – the cautious hope and then outright hunger in her eyes – made me grin like the idiot I know I am.

 

What we have, what we’re doing now, is dangerous.  The emotions between us are raw and volatile – so much has been injured by Diana Fowley’s re-entry into my life, re-opening that wound and inflicting new wounds on Scully.

 

Everything is so desperately close to the surface that our hearts are on our fucking sleeves.  We go from hurt anger one moment to this panting, clawing arousal the next.

 

We stumble into the bedroom and she giggles against my mouth as she yanks at the pull-over sweater I’m wearing.

 

“Damn thing,” she mutters.  “Too thick to tear, no buttons…”

 

There’s no other option but to break apart for a minute in order to rip it over my head.  Her brows furrow and she makes a sound of intense annoyance at the similar pull-over t-shirt I’m wearing underneath.

 

“Fuck you, Mulder,” she growls.  “You’ve got too many clothes on.”

 

Something about the way she says that makes me shiver, and I grin at her.  “I’d love to, Scully – but I believe that’s your job.”

 

And then I can’t talk anymore because she’s claimed my mouth in a violent, bruising kiss and is falling onto the bed, pulling me with her and then pushing me off of her to climb on top of me.  Now this is nice.

 

I can safely say I like being manhandled by Scully.

 

She pulls me up into a sitting position and straddles my lap, slamming me back against the headboard.  The next thing I know, she’s lifted herself onto her knees and has yanked my pants and boxers down quicker than I can say “Ride me like the pony you always wanted.”

 

Hot damn.

 

When she tries to pull them completely off is when we run into the obstacle of my shoes.  The ones I have idiotically forgotten to remove.

 

Well, I mean, you can’t really blame me.  After all, the blood isn’t exactly rushing to my =brain= just about now.

 

Muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “Fuck it,” Scully leaves my jeans bunched uncomfortably around my ankles and reaches for her own blouse – that pretty blue jacket having been discarded somewhere on the stairs – and pulls it over her head impatiently as I finally make myself somewhat useful and assist in removing her pants.

 

At least she had the decent sense to take off her shoes – but then again, all she had to do was let them slip off.

 

Mental note to self: Do not ever get in Scully’s way when she’s horny.

 

Unless she wants you in her… way.

 

Which she undoubtedly does at this moment if the way she pushes her breasts into my face is any indication.

 

I think I’ve been hard since the moment the first flicker of arousal sparked in her eyes, and that’s a =very= good thing, because at this moment I somehow don’t think she’d be terribly forgiving if she had to be patient.

 

With almost no preamble at all – whatever happened to foreplay, Scully? – she reaches down and holds me steady (as if remaining erect were any kind of problem right now) and lowers herself onto me in one not-so-smooth motion.

 

The sound that leaves my mouth at that startling sensation is not exactly one to make me confident in my manhood.

 

As she begins to ride me, hard and fast and deep, she bites into the side of my neck, doing more than she knows to feed into my occasional vampiric fantasy, and I throw my head back, gasping.

 

Maybe it’s the lack of blood flow to the upper part of my body that makes my brain choose that particular moment to remember that we actually do have a dilemma in the case we’re supposed to be working on.

 

“So – how – are we gonna – oh godDAMN it Scully… yeah – dig up the front… mmm, shit… -- the front yard?”

 

At least that’s what I think I said.

 

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she pants into my ear as she increases her tempo, her fingernails digging into my shoulders as she begins to swivel her hips on each downstroke, obviously looking for one special spot inside her…

 

I think I finally come to my senses long enough to be a little more useful to her than simply providing her with a good mount, if you'll pardon the lameness of that pun.

 

My hands give themselves permission to go to work, one of them grasping her waist just barely above her hipbone, helping her gain leverage, and the other one pursuing the lost cause of trying to find her clit despite the fact that she is now moving over me in such a way that my hand, sluggish with heavy arousal, will never be able to keep up.

 

But if there's one thing I'm good at, it's having faith in lost causes.

 

<"And his faith was counted unto him as righteousness…">

 

Her eyes glaze over and her mouth opens wide on a shuddering intake of breath as she arches over backwards, her hair brushing sensually over her shoulders as she moans, deep in her chest and goes almost completely still in my arms.

 

Her muscles begin trembling under my hands and around my cock and my name escapes her lips, carried by a sound I will never be able to categorize - nor will I try to.

 

She falls forward into me, and it takes every ounce of my willpower to be still and let her recover before I go seeking my own release.

 

"Come on," she whispers in my ear, tugging on my shoulders, and I push her backwards, inadvertently dislodging myself in the process.

 

She takes advantage of this accidental separation and surprises me, flipping over onto her stomach and raising herself on her knees, leaning forward onto her elbows and glancing around at me mischievously.

 

"Well?" she says.  "What are you waiting for?"

 

Just waiting for the alarm clock to ring before I throw it across the room and smash into a billion pieces for interrupted the most erotic dream I've ever had.

 

On second thought, let's not wait around for that to happen.

 

It is as I am pounding into her, taking her from this new angle that she looks up and catches sight of us in the mirror over the dresser across from the foot of our bed.

 

"Look, Mulder," she grunts.  "Look at us."

 

I do, and the sight is exactly what I needed (as if I needed much of anything at this point) to send me over the edge.

 

I collapse onto her with a heavy expulsion of air, and she bears my weight gracefully until I have enough strength in my muscles to roll off of her.

 

She immediately reverses our positions, climbing onto my chest, and her flushed face above me makes me moan with the memory of our reflection.

 

"Reflecting pool," I say hoarsely.  "We'll put in a reflecting pool."

 

She grins madly, kissing the tip of my chin.  "I knew you'd think of something," she teases just before I drift off. 

 

I'm in that hazy place between sleep and awake when I feel her shift against me, her elbow unintentionally digging into my ribcage.  I grunt with displeasure, as that's about all I'm capable of currently, and she readjusts her position with a murmured apology.

 

She sighs heavily, and I give her a questioning hum, despite really wanting to go to sleep.  Kissing my shoulder, she nuzzles in closer and says quietly, "Mulder, as much as I admire your genius, we really do need to check out the CC & R's."

 

I indulge in a long, drawn-out groan, letting her know just exactly how much I do not want to think about that right now.  I feel her lips curl into a smile against my skin, and she amends, "Well, maybe we can take a nap first."

 

"Thank you," I manage to whisper against her hair.

 

***

 

"Not a single mention of a reflecting pool in the seven thousand deadly sins listed here," she says triumphantly, poking me in the ribs a little.  When I don't respond, being so wonderfully drowsy and worn-out, she shakes me.  "Did you hear me, Mulder?"

 

"Mm-hm," I manage, cracking one eye open to look at her.  The sight is such that, despite my desire for sleep, both of my eyes open immediately to take it in.  She is sitting cross-legged on top of the covers, naked, and holding the community rulebook in her lap like an innocent little girl.

 

The look on her face, though, is not quite so young, nor innocent.  Her smile, which meets mine across the bed, is old with years of hardship; tempered by the stressful nature of our lives.  But hell, at least she's smiling. 

 

"So, we'll get the digger-thing in first thing tomorrow?" I ask hopefully.

 

"Backhoe, I think it's called, Mulder, and yes.  We will."

 

She smiles at me again, and suddenly -- despite our nudity -- we are Mulder and Scully of the suitss and "hi-we're-with-the-FBI" badges.  The warm feeling that spreads through me has very little to do, surprisingly, with the incredible sex we had not so long ago, and everything to do with the knowledge that Scully and I just conquered a problem as a team.

 

This isn't to say that we've solved all our problems or that everything -- or anything at all, for that matter -- is going to be just peachy now that we've revived our love affair and discovered how to dig up our front yard "legally," but at least we managed to do this one thing (okay, two things) together.  As functioning partners.  And that makes me happy.

 

***

 

Sleeping late isn't something I get to do very often, what with Mulder keeping the unearthly hours that he does.  (Who needs proof of extra-terrestrial life?  The fact that the man often survives - very well, I might add - on less than two hours of sleep a night is X-file enough for me.)  Therefore, I find it excusable that the first sound out of my mouth is a complaining one.

 

After all, I might have been able to sleep in for once, only there's this god-awful sound coming from the front yard.  The makeshift excavation team has arrived.

 

I roll over, burying my face in the pillow and pulling the comforter up over my head.

 

"Rise and shine, Morning Glory," Mulder's way-too-chipper voice greets me as he flops onto the bed beside me. 

 

"Mmph," I manage to answer, inhaling deeply only to be inundated with the rich fragrance of him that lingers on the pillow.  Niiiiiiice.  Better than coffee.

 

He throws the covers back, and I lift my head slightly, giving him a bleary-eyed glare.

 

"You gonna sleep all day, bedhead?" he asks, rumpling my hair slightly.

 

"Okay, you are just way too happy," I grouse, snuggling back deeper into the mattress.  "And yes, that was my intention."

 

"No such thing as too happy, honeybunch," he grins, and this time I sacrifice my pillow for the worthy cause of slamming him with it.

 

"Go oversee your digging project," I grumble.  "Leave me alone."

 

The way he goes suddenly quiet and gets up to leave with no fanfare lets me know he took me a little too seriously, and I reach out blindly for his hand, managing to accidentally grab a handful of his ass instead.  That'll do.

 

"Muller," I slur, still hanging on to the edge of sleep.  "I didn't mean it that way."

 

"I know," he says softly, and places a tender kiss on my temple. 

 

I give a contented hum at the feeling of his lips and turn my face up for another helping.  "No you didn't," I sigh.  He takes the hint, leaning in to press his mouth against mine for a mere second.

 

"Well, maybe I didn't, but I do," he smiles, giving me another peck on the cheek before he gets up and goes herd-of-elephantsing down the stairs, leaving me to pursue the rest of my morning nap.  The problem is, he's succeeded in thoroughly awakening my mind, leaving me in the uncomfortable predicament of very active thoughts keeping my very tired body much too conscious.

 

I let my memories wander, too tired to attempt governing them.  They seem to be exploring special little moments of my on-again, off-again romance with Mulder.  And it has been, for years.  From the very beginning, there was something.  We came up against a force of attraction that was really quite ridiculous, considering how frumpy I was and how scrawny he was.

 

My mind lingers there for a moment, harshly correcting me.  Okay, so maybe he was scrawny, but he was still the most adorable thing I'd ever seen.  I snort.  To think of describing Mulder as "adorable".  How naïve I was.  C'mon, even then he was sex on a stick.

 

Which would explain why I, still at that time healthily aware of my libido, abandoned my usual MO for a much more dangerous route.  I usually didn't pursue a relationship until I was certain of reciprocity.  Fear of failure made me play games until I was assured of the success of the maneuver.

 

With Mulder, however, I wasn't prepared for the idea of rejection.  I knew he might initially reject me, sure; but I was certain I could whittle him down.  He took longer than most, and it was my growing impatience that should have alerted me to a very big problem.  When I put myself on the line for him -- in more ways than one -- I realized that I was over.  Done for.  Head-over-heels for Spooky Mulder.

 

And somehow, I think, that was what he was waiting for.  Somehow he knew when I stopped playing games with him and started being serious about what I wanted.  It was on the Tooms case -- the second time around -- that I proved to him how far I was willing to go.  Maligning my reputation willingly for him. 

 

I still remember, after we'd finally closed the case, how I caught him staring intently at a chrysalis, and his cryptic statement that things were about to change for us.  At the time, I didn't know what he meant.  A hunch, he said.  Hunch, my ass.  The man had a plan.

 

The courtship started so very slowly… so tenderly and romantically.  Nightly phone calls just to say good night.  Coffee and doughnuts in the morning.  An extra smile here, a lingering touch there.  Nothing ever blatantly obvious.  But the look in his eyes let me know: he knew what he was doing.

 

Not long after the Tooms case, we were running off to a case of jealousy and supposed channeling.  The Roland case.  Or, as I like to think of it, the last "fun" case before the shit hit the fan.  And not that the case itself was fun -- grisly deaths, a story of cruel separation -- but that Mulder and I were still having fun in our relationship.  We'd just hit the kissing stage, and one of my favorite memories is of steering him the wrong way toward the campus police.

 

<"We go this way, right?">

<"We go left.">

 

To the left, actually, there was nothing but a little alcove out of the way of the security cameras where I could -- and did -- pull him to me and ravish his delicious mouth.  He had been delighted, and we spent entirely too much time distracting ourselves before we finally got around to finding the police.  Even then it was in self-defense, figuring we stood less chance of being arrested for public indecency if we found the coppers before they found us.

 

After that… well, after that was when Deep Throat died and they shut down the X-files.  We tried to keep the relationship going, but Mulder had hit his dark stage.  Convinced that I was next in line to be removed from his life, he became quiet and withdrawn, until I finally forced him to meet me in secret one night just to see how he was doing.  And because I missed him like hell.

 

Then I saved his ass -- boy, it felt good to do that again -- and the relationship was back on tracck, if a little shaken.  The darkness had entered.  His kisses began taking on a hint of desperation, and I got the impression more than once that he was a very thin margin away from fucking me senseless.  But Mulder is nothing if not romantic, and he'd set his mind on a courtship.

 

Very frustrating for a modern girl like myself, who was really ready to get banged.

 

Then my abduction… and after that, I gave up on letting him take the lead.  I lost three months of my life, and I wasn't going to lose another second with him.  As soon as the doctors gave the okay, I had the man in my bed.  Finally.  And that first night, we'd had The Discussion.  One of the biggest mistakes we ever made concerning our relationship.

 

We knew I'd been taken because I was important to the X-files, to Mulder.  I'd been returned for the same reason.  And while it probably wouldn't keep any secrets from "Them," maintaining a professional relationship at work was paramount to keeping us safe from the lesser "them" -- the Bureau.

 

So we had our Rules.  No spending the night at the other's house.  No physical displays at work.  Although, quite honestly, those lines were blurred frequently, they still existed in our mental state, holding back the relationship. 

 

And then it happened.  One day Mulder decided it wasn't safe at all, and cut it off.  I'd been a big girl and dealt with it, although I will confess to indulging myself to one day of my post-break-up ritual.  Bubble baths, chocolate ice cream, a good book, and all day in my pajamas.  I even let myself cry a little while I watched sappy movies.

 

Truth be told, we were never quite the same after that.  Advances, retreats… and so much regret.  And so much damn pride.

 

Sighing, I finally give up on ever getting back to sleep and stumble out of bed to the window.  Mulder is standing beside the minivan, supervising the digging with his arms folded, pulling his grey t-shirt tight across his well-defined muscles.  The jeans he has on today are really a tad too small to be completely "decent"… in fact, they're probably illegal in several states, the way they cling to his ass and… other places.

 

God damn, but that man looks good.

 

I grin, remembering quite gladly that -- as far as this community is concerned -- that man is my husband.  I open the window and lean out, calling to him.  "Mu--" I catch myself, my eyes going wide at my slip.  "Uh, Muffin, come on in -- breakfast is ready."

 

He looks up at me, his expression both amused and hungry.  "I'll be right in, Sugarplum," he calls, and I resist the urge to cringe.  God, I guess I did deserve that one.

 

I trot down the stairs quickly, arriving at the bottom just as he comes inside. 

 

"Muffin, huh?" he smirks, closing the door behind him.  "I guess I know what's *really* for breakfast."

 

The grin that spreads across my face is so wide it hurts.  I haven't smiled like that in ages.  "You bet," I tell him, standing on tiptoes to reach his face.  "I'm starving."

 

***

 

She's delicious.  Utterly delicious.  She giggles -- actually giggles! -- as we stagger innto the living room, and I can't help but chuckle into the kiss as she enthusiastically pulls me down towards the couch.  Soon, both of us are laughing as she misses and lands us on the floor instead.  She pushes me over on my back and sits up, straddling my waist.

 

"Y'know, Agent Mulder," she says with a wicked grin as she toys with the waistband of my jeans, "The way you look in these jeans is downright… illegal."

 

"Oh is that right, Agent Scully?" I ask with a raised eyebrow, undeniably delighted by the emergence of this side of her personality.  I haven't seen it in years, and never realized until now just how much I missed it. 

 

She nods, giving me a mock-stern look.  Only it looks so much like the real one she gives me sometimes, the "mock" effect is almost lost on me.  "Yes.  It is.  And I, as you may recall, am a federal officer -- an employee of the United States government, sworn to uphold the law."  She rubs the heel of her hand down my crotch as she says it, and I grunt.

 

"Actually, I can't recall anything of the sort at the moment," I admit in a strained voice.

 

The wicked grin appears again as she slowly tugs the button fly open and reaches for the zipper.  "Well, I am… which means I'm going to have to remedy this little… crime of yours."  She yanks the zipper down quickly, and I suck in a harsh breath and close my eyes tightly, expecting something to get uncomfortably caught.  She notices and leans down, her breath hot and moist in my ear as she whispers, "Don't be scared.  I'm a professional, remember?"

 

"Yeah," I answer dutifully, still refusing to open my eyes. 

Her chuckle is low and guttural and she sits up again, beginning to shimmy my jeans down over my hips.  "So, Agent Mulder, unless you just *want* to be arrested, I'm afraid we're going to have to get you out of these jeans."

 

I crack one eye open and let a smile curl up one side of my mouth.  "Would handcuffs be involved in the arrest?" I leer.

 

She's just opened her mouth to reply when suddenly there's a banging on the front door.  "Mr. Petrie?"

 

"Damn," I mutter, and she giggles as I try to sit up and pull my jeans back up.  She hasn't moved from my lap, and that's making things a bit more difficult.  I kiss her quickly on the mouth before lifting her up and depositing her to the floor beside me.  "I'll be right back, honeybunch," I grin, knowing the only reason she won't castrate me for that is because she needs me to be fully functional almost as much as I do.

 

I open the door and am greeted by a young man dressed in a checked flannel shirt.  It's on the tip of my tongue to tell him he'd better put a jacket on over it before the neighbors burn him at the stake when I realize that I might do well to put on a jacket myself -- these jeans *are* kind of tight, now that I think about it…

 

"Mr. Petrie, we thought you might want to have a look at this," the unfortunately-dressed backhoe operator tells me.  The look in his eyes says it might be something important, and my excitement nearly overpowers my frustration at the interruption.  Almost.  I see him peer over my shoulder, and cast a glance backwards to see what he's looking at.  Scully.  Sitting on the couch, running her fingers through her tousled hair, her housecoat gaping open enough to reveal far too much of her cleavage.

 

"Of course," I growl, turning my most menacing glare on the man, and he skitters backwards, almost falling as he stumbles down the steps.  Serves him right, looking at my "wife" like that.  I grin at the thought of calling her my wife, and when his face pales, I realize with satisfaction that I must have looked positively malicious.  Take that, flannel boy!

 

What they've found is, to be precise, garbage.  The long-lost remains of what looks like someone's chicken dinner. 

 

"They're chicken bones," I sigh, dangling the wishbone from between my gloved fingers.  "I guess if the TV starts showing nothing but a string of those Young and Tender Chicken Funky Chicken ads with the dancing bird corpses, we'll know we pissed off some fowl ghosts." 

 

The man looks utterly confused and I tell him, "'Poltergeist.'  The movie.  You know…"

 

"I didn't see 'Poltergeist,'" he says sheepishly as I toss the bones onto the pile of rubble.  I shrug, dusting off my hands and pulling off the latex glove. 

"Well, don't hesitate to come get me if you find anything else," I tell him, inwardly wincing even as I say it.  This means Scully and I are going to have to be prepared for any further interruptions… and there is no way in hell I'm letting this guy get a better view of her than he already got.  Action, regrettably, will have to be delayed.

 

I just hope I survive telling that to Scully.

 

***

 

"*What?*"

 

He cringes.  That's my "I did *not* hear you right" tone; the one that I don't even deign to use for his outlandish theories.  That one's reserved for personal insults.  He starts babbling frantically; worried, I suppose, that he's truly offended me.  I really should stop him, tell him I'm not angry… but he's just so damn *cute* when he babbles!

 

"Listen, Scully -- those guys -- they could knock on the door at any minute!  You think I want them to think of us as… as their own private peep show?"

 

Okay, aside from the fact that he's keeping me from the one thing my lust-addled brain desires most at the moment, that was incredibly endearing.  I think I'll keep him.  Still, I can't give in too easily.  If he knew just how easy he convinces me of things, he'd be impossible to live with.

 

"So… you're telling me… that I can't have your *body*--"  I stand up from the couch and sway over to him, pressing my body against his and loving the way he gulps -- "But you want to *talk*?"

 

I grimace inwardly.  That might have sounded a little too condescendingly incredulous.  But I'm not taking it back.

 

He nods, having gotten his reactions under control -- mostly -- and pecks me on the forehead, saying flippantly, "Yep.  And then, after the team leaves, you have my full and happy permission to jump my bones whenever you like."

 

I furrow my brow, pouting a little.  "Do I get to pick what we talk about?"

 

After a moment's consideration, he nods somewhat hesitantly.

 

I smile at him and lean up to kiss his lips softly.  He is *such* a good boy.  "Deal."

 

***

 

Us.

 

She would want to talk about us.  And I have a horrible, terrible, very bad feeling that she's going to want to know why there was no 'us,' in the romantic sense, for three and a half years.  However, her opening question never entered my mind.

 

"Were you that angry with me?"

 

"Ex-excuse me?"

 

"When… when you traded the Samantha clone for me, on the bridge… after that was when you ended it."

 

It hits me, suddenly.  She thinks I broke off the relationship because she was making me lose my focus.  And I confess that was a large part of the line I fed myself about it… that, and that it was too dangerous for her to be that closely involved.

 

What was it really, though?

 

I consider carefully, knowing that she wants honesty from me, and that if I don't give it to her, this may well be the last opportunity she ever gives me.

 

"I wasn't angry with you," I say slowly, my mind scrambling for the right words.  "I think… I think I was afraid of you."

 

"Afraid of me?"  Her face is carefully devoid of expression, her voice only barely inflected.

 

I nod.  "Afraid I was losing myself in you.  I had already done that once with Phoebe…"  I pause, wondering if I should mention her name under the circumstances.  Yes, I decide, Scully wants honesty above everything.  "I'd almost done it again with Diana.  I… I couldn't stand the thought of giving someone else everything I was… and then having them throw it away."

 

She takes a deep breath.  "I thought… I still think, a little… that you regretted trading Samantha for me.  That you felt like you had made a mistake… that you would have rather seen me go over the bridge than her."

 

"Scully, no!"  I shake my head.  I know there's something else I want to add to that, but right now the image of losing her instead of an imposter sister…! "Scully… I've lived for over twenty years without Samantha.  I nearly died in the three months I lived without you."

 

Tears fill her eyes and she says softly, "I was afraid you hated me!"

 

I can't help myself.  I pull her to me, clutching her tightly and say, "Oh, Scully, I could never hate you.  I was afraid you wouldn't want to be with a loser like me… my Dad… when I lost Samantha again…"

 

She laughs then, a soft, almost hysterical sound that mingles with her tears.  "God, Mulder, we're a pair of idiots, aren't we?" she asks as she pulls back from me, pushing with her hands against my chest until we're nose-to-nose, looking into each other's eyes.

 

I grin, still confused, still so emotionally mixed up I don't know what to do.  "Yeah… yeah we are," I agree finally, chuckling a little as her laughter is contagious.  "We're a couple of fucking idiots."

 

She kisses me on the lips, still laughing, still crying.  "No we're not," she responds.  "We're just plain idiots until the excavation team leaves."

 

"Smart ass," I respond, kissing her harshly in punishment, but unable to stop laughing myself.

 

"Learned from the best," she responds as she settles back against me, and at this moment I'm really glad we were forced by circumstances to be still and talk and hold each other. 

 

***

 

It's dark, and it's cold, and Mulder has been outside digging for the last few hours.  He was out there as soon as the makeshift excavation team was gone for the day, and he hasn't come in since then.  My impulses tell me I have three options:  One, to go out there and whine to him about how he *promised* me I could jump him as soon as the team left.  Two, to go out there and simply drag him inside bodily.  (All those martial arts classes weren't for nothing.)  Or three, to go out there and jump him where he stands, forget about the whining and the dragging.

 

In the end, though, I'm more civilized than even I would like to admit.

 

"Hey, Mulder," I call softly, folding my arms over against the night chill.

 

He stands up, groaning and arching his back as if it's in pain.  Oh, no, buddy… you're not getting out of it that easily. 

 

"Mulder, the Klines aren't down there."  Hint, hint, get the subtle hint, Spooky?  C'mon…  He's not getting it.  "Maybe it's time you called it a night."  If he makes me get much more obvious, I'm going to feel insulted that he doesn't remember. 

 

I inwardly chastise myself.  The case comes first, Dana.  No, damn it, *I* come first and then Mulder comes, and if we're really on a roll, I get to come again.  Bad Dana.

 

Despite myself, my mind keeps wandering along this train of thought until I notice what Mulder's got.

 

"Tasteful, isn't it?" he asks wryly, spinning around the little wooden windmill… uh, thingy.  He turns it around, examining it closely, and the beam from his flashlight catches the label on the bottom.  Pier 9 Imports.

 

"Gogolak," he mutters.  "Hey, can you get an excavation team out here?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"We need to dig deeper." 

 

Dana, stay away from innuendo and get your mind on the case.  Hey, speaking of -- "Where are you going?"

 

"To price some rattan furniture."

 

***

 

There's something to be said for the people of the Falls at Arcadia. 

 

Even when their next-door-neighbors have turned out to be FBI agents and their neighborhood coordinator -- or whatever the hell he's called -- has just been ripped to pieces by a Tibetan thought form (I still don't think Scully believes me), they still manage to be neighborly and find us a place to sleep for the night.

 

There's no way the bedroom could be cleaned enough for us by tonight, and the guest bedroom was never fully furnished.  They're going to have to paint the walls and replace the carpet, I can tell.  This house is a mess.

 

Instead, Wynn and Cami offer to put us up in their spare bedroom.  My lips quirk with amusement as they don't bother to offer us separate rooms, even now that they know we were working as undercover agents.

 

Scully ducks her head to hide her expression, and Cami suddenly realizes what she's done.

 

"Oh!  Oh, you mean you two aren't married?  I mean, I know you're agents and everything, but I thought you might really be… oh, I'm sorry… Listen, I can … oh, no I can't, the other guest room is cluttered with things for Sherri's birthday party next week…"

 

I quiet her with a shake of my head and a gentle gesture.  "It's fine, Cami.  If you could just find me some pillows and blankets, I'll sleep on the couch…"

 

Cami is still flustered, protesting that she couldn't possibly expect a guest to sleep on the couch, although I really don't know where else she expects to put me.

 

"No, no," Scully says finally, shaking her head.  "Mulder, you can sleep with me tonight if you promise to bite."

 

I feel my eyes go wide, although I quickly scramble for my panic face.  Is it just my imagination, or did she leave out the "not" in that condition?  From expression on Cami's face, I'm betting that it wasn't my imagination.  But then Cami smiles a tiny secret smile and I realize in a flash that she and Scully have just gone through some weird female absolution ritual.

 

I'd bet money that the other guest room is just as spotless as this one, with not a birthday decoration in sight.  But she's given Scully an excuse to take me into her bed… practically forced her to, in fact.

 

We thank our hostess quietly and retire to the bedroom.  It's only a queen-sized bed as opposed to the king-sized one in the master bedroom of "our" house, and I don't think we'll be up to any funny business tonight, what with two other people in the house, but it's a bed, and I'm tired, and I'm glad I've still got Scully.

 

She skips about half her nightly ritual tonight, opting to go the short route of simply changing into comfortable sleeping clothes -- which, coincidentally, are a pair of my boxer shorts and one of my t-shirts that I'd been wonder what had become of -- and brushing her teeth before she literally collapses onto the bed.

 

"G'night, Mulder," she slurs around a yawn as I crawl in behind her.  She seems surprised when I spoon her and tuck her in close to my body with my arm.

 

"Goodnight, Scully," I whisper close to her ear before kissing her temple. 

 

I want to tell her I'm glad we're both alive; that I'm glad Big Mike locked her in the bedroom closet to keep her safe, although it scared the shit out of me when I first realized she was trapped in there.  I want to tell her a thousand things, a thousand reasons I'm glad she's another year older and not dead and that I didn't forget her birthday this year, I just couldn't think of anything to get her that wouldn't be too little or seem to expect too much in return.

 

But I can't tell her any of that, so I just kiss her again and settle in to sleep.  We have a long journey back tomorrow… and not just in miles.  Tomorrow, as we've discussed, we're spending the trip home attempting to make the transition back into full time special agent mode.  You'd think we'd learn from our mistakes and not try to separate our romance from our "real" lives… that we wouldn't go back to a revised set of rules… that we would have had enough of dealing with CC&R's without imposing them on our revived relationship.

 

You'd think.

 

But the X-files are in a delicate state and keeping our division and our partnership where they belong is of utmost importance.  As I drift off to sleep with Scully in my arms, I can't help but wonder if we're killing it before it has a chance to get started good again.

 

Firmly, I tell myself to quit being such a pessimist and have a little more faith in us, in our love, than all that.  Everything's going to be okay, I reassure myself.  "Everything's going to be okay," I whisper to Scully, tightening my hold on her as I finally succumb to my exhaustion for our last night in Arcadia Falls.

 

***

 

˜The End™

 

 

 

Author's Ending Notes:  Good Lord!  It's been at least a year since I started this, hasn't it?  The ending isn't quite what I'd expected, but as usual, MulderMuse convinced me that he knows what he's doing, and despite the shotgun I've got in my lap (seriously, it's nearly six am, I've been up all night, I'm home alone, and I'm beginning to hear noises, so I have my father's shotgun here.  It's not loaded, but it's got a wicked heavy barrel and I figure I can give any intruder a bloody good concussion) I let him have his way.

 

I hope you've enjoyed the story… It won't be archived for awhile, as I've got to fix the formatting and I want to do a little editing on a couple of older scenes that are bothering me.  I'll probably do quite a bit of fine-tuning.  At any rate, it's over, and Merry Christmas to everybody!ë