The Unicorn, Tamed - The Collector's Edition
by Imajiru
<imajiru@mindspring.com>


Inspired by William B. Davis' comments at the San Francisco 
Expo, and by Deb and Tracy and the looks they shot me 
immediately afterwards.  Special thanks to Kristel for the 
use of her shoulders in that godawful autograph line, where 
this story first began.  Extra-special thanks to this 
story's Lone Beta-Readers:  Deb, Tracy, Anne, 
Janet/Bethany/Fred, Bethy/Caia, Alanna, Jaina the Blue 
Moose, and most especially Tim Scott for Feedback Which I 
Could Not Have Lived Without.

Among other things, this is my graduate thesis for X-Files 
University, School of Fanfic (MSR Division).  I have now 
earned a Master's degree in Mulder/Scully Virginity.  ...Now 
THERE'S something I can put on my resume!

DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to someone who, despite 
his evil mind, would NEVER put them through the kind of 
stuff I do.  No profit is being made from this story.  No 
characters were harmed in the writing of this story.  
Well... not permanently, anyway.  Traumatized a little, 
maybe... but then, they're used to that...
DISTRIBUTION: Please forward.  Please archive.
RATING: NC-17 MSR
CLASSIFICATION: Story.

SUMMARY:  Welcome to the flip side...

I. Admission

It was rather good wine, and he had ingested more of it than 
was usual -- but then, it was Saturday night, and he 
supposed that a certain amount of self-indulgence was 
permissible.  And then there was the fact that he was with 
Scully; and that was making him a bit reckless.

And nervous.

They didn't often spend off-time together, though he'd 
frequently wished they would.  Lately, though, they'd been 
growing closer; and when she'd extended the tentative 
invitation to her apartment, he'd leapt at the chance to 
spend his evening with her, rather than alone.  It had been 
a good evening; they'd nibbled at tortilla chips, drunk 
wine, watched television, talked...

But now, he was beginning to wish he'd never come over.

"So there we were," Scully was relating her tale, "on our 
way from the prom to the cabins, and the limo gets a flat 
tire..."  How they'd gotten onto the subject, he wasn't 
quite sure; it certainly wasn't one he'd have picked, not in 
a thousand years -- but here they were, talking about it, 
the very last thing in the world he wanted to be discussing; 
and here he was, tense and anxious and trying his damndest 
not to let it show, praying that somehow the conversation 
wouldn't get to the point that he knew it would.

"Finally, the driver gets the tire changed," she continued, 
while he struggled to maintain his facade of calm 
attentiveness, "we drive to the place, Patrick checks in, we 
get to the cabin... which has sleeping arrangements for two, 
as promised; except that they're bunk beds."  She chuckled 
at the memory, and he forced laughter to match.  "We managed 
to make it work, somehow; but it certainly wasn't what I'd 
expected."  A smile touched her face, her eyes softening 
with the fond remembrance.

And then she looked at him, her eyes intent and curious, and 
spoke the words he'd been dreading.  "So, Mulder," she 
wondered aloud, "what was it like for you, your first time?"

//*Shit.*//

He drew a deep breath, and prepared to lie.  "Oh, you know, 
the usual thing; cold night, warm beer, Dad's car..." and 
shrugged expressively, hoping that would end it.

"C'mon, Mulder, don't hold out on me," Scully parried -- 
slurring her words slightly; he hadn't been drinking alone -
- "I told you my story; it's a fair trade."  She reached to 
pour herself another glass of wine, found the bottle empty, 
and set to work opening the second.

"There's really not much to tell," he answered, struggling 
for nonchalance, "just, y'know, the typical teenage crap," 
and steadfastly kept his eyes averted, unable to meet her 
gaze.

//*Shit.*//

The silence grew, deepened, became ominous, as he sweated 
out the wait for her reply.  She didn't buy it, he knew she 
didn't buy it; the only question was, would she let him get 
away with it, or...

"You bastard," she muttered.

Startled by the vehemence of her tone, he glanced up, into 
her eyes.

And flinched, for it was like being hit in the face with a 
steel beam; the impact of the fury in her gaze was stunning.  
"After all this time," she said slowly.  "I told you my 
story, I trusted you with my past, and after all this time, 
you still can't trust me..."  She turned away from him, 
wrenched angrily at the recalcitrant wine cork, which seemed 
to be actively resisting her efforts to remove it from the 
bottle.

"Scully, it's not like that," he protested, miserably aware 
that he was fighting a losing battle.  "It's not a matter of 
trust, I just... you don't understand."

"No, I *don't* understand," she shot back.  "I don't 
understand why you can't share yourself with me; you want to 
know who I am, but you give so little of yourself away...   
Trust no one, that's really all you know, isn't it?  Except 
that this is *me*, Mulder.  This is *me* you're refusing to 
trust."

"That's not it, Scully!  I just... I can't tell you..."  He 
could have lived with her anger, but the hurt in her voice 
was awful; it wrenched at him, set up a resonating ache 
within himself.  //How am I going to get out of this?// he 
wondered dismally, with the sinking feeling that he *wasn't* 
going to get out of it, that he was trapped in quicksand, 
being sucked under.

"Why, Mulder?"  she pressed.  "*Why* can't you tell me?" 
muttering a swift angry curse as she struggled with the 
corkscrew.

He fumbled for a plausible lie, but none came to mind; he 
reached desperately for something to tell her, anything but 
the truth, but found nothing...

//*Shit.*//

"I can't tell you my first-time story because I don't have 
one," he mumbled, hating the world, hating himself.

"What?  Don't be ridiculous, Mulder; everybody has a first-
time story," still fighting with the wine bottle, barely 
paying attention to his words.

"I don't," he said, very quietly.  Then, awaiting the 
inevitable response, rallying irony as his last pathetic 
defense, he added, "But I'll tell you what, Scully; if I 
ever do manage to lose my virginity, I promise I'll give you 
a call and tell you all about it."

Watching her, he saw her realize -- finally, belatedly -- 
what he had said; she looked up at him with wide, astonished 
eyes.

And the wine bottle slipped from her grasp and fell with a 
muffled thump to the carpeted floor.

She was staring at him, staring as if she'd never seen him 
before... he endured it as long as he could, then turned 
away.  Unable to sit still, he stood and took several paces 
away from her, wishing he could distance himself from the 
issue as easily.  //Damn.  Dammit.  I shouldn't have told 
her, I should have let her stay mad at me, anything would 
have been better than this...//

"You're kidding," she said slowly, to his back.

"Why the hell would I kid about something like this?" he 
snapped.  "Oh, yeah, that's my idea of humor: humiliating 
myself for fun and profit."  Her continued silence unnerved 
him; he sought to fill the void with words.  "You wanted me 
to share -- well, I *shared*.  And now you don't believe me?  
Fine, Scully.  Believe what you want."

"It's not that I don't believe you..."

He wanted to be gone, as badly as he'd wanted to be there in 
the first place; as eager as he'd been to spend time with 
Scully, now all he wanted was to be away from her.  
//Anywhere else but here.//

"I just," she continued, sounding as if she was fumbling for 
words, "I just can't imagine anyone choosing to remain a 
virgin," and her voice dropped on the last word, as if it 
embarrassed her to even say it.

A harsh bark of laughter emerged from his throat.  "You 
think it was my *choice*?"

"Well, it couldn't have been lack of opportunity... I 
mean..." and her voice trailed off.

"Women don't exactly throw themselves at my feet," he 
muttered darkly, thinking, //I want to be anywhere but here, 
doing anything but having this conversation, and why the 
*hell* did I tell her, anyway?//  The secret had grown huger 
and more ominous with every passing year -- the derision and 
scorn he faced simply by being 'Spooky' Mulder was 
formidable; how much worse would it be, if people knew 
*this*?  And now he had handed that secret to the person who 
held the ultimate power over him, the one who could shatter 
him, now, with a single breath of laughter...

He felt a touch on his arm; it startled him, so that he 
nearly flinched away.  Her fingers brushed lightly against 
his sleeve, then curved around his arm, holding on firmly.  
"You have nothing to be ashamed of," she remarked, in a 
voice both carefully casual and deeply compassionate; a 
voice whose sympathy made him cringe even as it brought him 
nearly to tears.

"At my age?  You don't think so?  Forgive me if I don't 
share your opinion."  He could hear his voice shaking, could 
hear the sobs barely held in check, and struggled to hang on 
to his tenuous control.  Bad enough that she should *know*; 
worse by far for her to see him break and know how much it 
affected him, to be such a misfit in such a vital way.

Then he felt her other hand come to rest on his back, 
rubbing gently, long soothing strokes.  "I'm sorry," she 
murmured.  "I'm sorry I pushed you into telling me.  I... I 
didn't mean to hurt you."

The tears were far too close to the surface; he was 
trembling, he could feel it, and knew that she could feel it 
too.  "Forget it," he said harshly.

"Mulder..."

"No, I mean it.  I want you to forget I ever told you."  As 
if she could.  He knew better... and now, every time she 
looked at him, she would be thinking, //Mulder, the thirty-
six-year-old virgin,// unable to see him as anything more.

"I won't," he heard her say firmly.  "Mulder... you've 
shared something very personal, and obviously very painful 
to you.  It... it matters to me, that you trust me that 
much.  It means a lot to me."  Then her hand moved -- her 
arms slipped around his waist, hugging him; he felt the 
length of her body pressed against him, her cheek resting 
against his back, the vibration of her voice when she spoke.  
"I won't betray your trust," she added, very softly.  "I 
promise."

He couldn't talk.  He didn't trust himself to speak.  He 
drew a deep breath, and felt it shudder through him, felt 
her arms tighten around him -- then, the final blow; through 
the thin fabric of his shirt, he felt her lips form a brief, 
soft kiss against his back.

It undid him.  It unraveled him.

The first sob caught him by surprise, and his fists clenched 
as he fought to hold back the pain...  desperately, he 
tried, but it was a losing battle: the tears were liquid 
fire, burning his closed eyelids; the agony of the secret 
and the revelation far too much to restrain.  It was a long, 
slow slide -- tears slipped down his face, etching saline 
trails, and still he fought; sobs shuddered through him with 
every breath, and still he struggled; and all the while, 
Scully was holding him, holding on, refusing to let go, 
refusing to leave him to face the misery alone.

Finally, the weight of it crushed him, battering through his 
last fragile defenses: he crumpled to his knees, buried his 
face in his hands, crying helplessly.

A moment later, she was on the floor beside him.  Her 
fingers curled around his wrists and tugged them aside, not 
letting him hide from her; she brushed the tears from his 
face and pulled his head down to rest against her shoulder, 
one hand settling against the back of his neck, holding him 
as he cried.  She never said a word, for which he was 
unbearably grateful; there was nothing she could say that 
wouldn't make it worse -- too humiliating, to first confess 
his deficiency, and then compound it by falling apart this 
way -- but the feel of her arms around him was immensely 
comforting.

Acceptance.  Something he'd so rarely encountered in his 
life that he didn't quite know what to do with it when he 
found it.

And for awhile, he simply let himself sink into it, into the 
warmth of her embrace; allowed himself to cry, without 
restraint, without guilt.  But eventually, the inevitable 
self-consciousness set in, and with it, the awkward tension; 
it dried the tears in his eyes, stilled the sobs in his 
throat, and caused him to pull away from the haven of 
Scully's arms.

The world felt colder, outside her embrace; but then, he was 
well used to that.  For him, the world had always been a 
cold place, and moments of warmth the exception, rather than 
the rule.

He turned away from her, the better to regain some semblance 
of composure -- wiped the last traces of moisture from his 
skin, arranged his face into its usual calm, unrevealing 
mask.  The only way he could do it was to pretend that it 
had never happened, that he hadn't told her, that she didn't 
know...

"Do you want to talk about it?" he heard her ask.

"No," he said flatly, thinking, //and I don't want you to 
ever mention it again, Scully,// knowing somehow that he 
wasn't going to be that lucky.

A brief silence.  "Okay," she said, "want to order a pizza?" 
in the same tone of voice, carefully nonchalant with an 
underlying edge of empathy: a voice that said, more 
eloquently than words could, that she was willing to let 
things be the same between them -- as if he had never told 
her, as if it had never happened.

For the first time in an eternity, he looked at her -- gazed 
into her eyes, and found her gazing back steadily, 
unflinching, with that limitless acceptance.  As if he 
weren't a freak of nature, emotionally crippled by his lack 
of experience.  As if he were still, simply, Mulder -- her 
partner, her friend -- the same man he'd always been, and no 
less than that.

He drew a long, deep breath, released it in a sigh of 
relief.  //Maybe I'll survive this, after all.//  "Pizza 
sounds good," he admitted, and drank in the sight of her 
smile.

She got to her feet, pausing to pick up the fallen wine 
bottle on the way.  "Here," she said, "*you* open this; I'll 
order the pizza."

"Okay," he said agreeably, accepting the bottle and 
corkscrew she handed him, feeling as if -- maybe, just maybe 
-- everything would be all right, after all.


II. Disclosure

Mulder, a virgin.  *Mulder*.

God.

She kept trying not to think about it, to forget about it as 
he'd all but begged her to do -- but the thought kept 
creeping, unbidden, into her mind.  Mulder, a virgin.

Unbelievable.

In retrospect, so many things made sense now -- most 
notably, the collection of tapes that 'weren't his' -- but 
that didn't explain the underlying situation.  How was it 
that a man who looked like him could possibly suffer from a 
"lack of opportunity"?  And what about Phoebe, his British 
'fire', where did she figure into this?  So many 
questions...  But he'd made it plain that it wasn't 
something he cared to discuss, and she didn't want to 
violate his fragile trust by pushing the point; and so her 
curiosity remained, unabated.

And those were the more innocuous thoughts racing through 
her head.

She'd seen him naked, on a number of occasions, and had 
often fantasized about what he might be like as a lover -- 
not a fact that she was proud of, but perhaps inevitable.  
Now, though... now, if anything, the thought was more 
tantalizing than ever.  To not only be with him, but to be 
the first...

Even the barest whisper-touch of that thought against her 
consciousness was enough to cause a rush of heat and 
moisture to her lower regions, and a swift tingle of desire 
that fluttered throughout her nervous system.

And with uncanny timing, that was when he walked through the 
door; the sight of him, so close on the heels of her fevered 
imaginings, caused a vivid blush to suffuse her face.

"Morning, Scully," he said, in a perfectly normal voice.

"Uhhh, hi, Mulder," she stammered awkwardly.

He stopped short, took in her scarlet face and evident 
discomfort, and all the animation seemed to drain from him 
in a rush.  "Damn it," he muttered, "I knew it, I knew this 
would happen."

"Mulder," she rushed to explain -- then fell silent, because 
what on earth could she say?

"Damn," he whispered again, turned sharply, and strode out 
the door as swiftly as he'd arrived.

There was no other option, really; she got up and followed 
him.

He was moving fast, that long-legged stride of his, coupled 
with his evident desire to get the hell out of there.  
"Mulder," she called out after him, and though he didn't 
pause, didn't look back, it seemed to her that he slowed up 
just a bit; so that by the time they'd reached the exit, 
they were walking side by side.

"I'm fairly sure our office is bugged, at least 
intermittently," he remarked in passing, as they moved down 
the street at a more normal pace.  As if she weren't already 
well aware of his opinion on the matter; she thought that 
perhaps he meant the statement as an explanation of why he'd 
left so abruptly.

What amazed her was that he was walking beside her at all, 
that he hadn't done his utmost to leave her behind; after 
his reaction the night before, she'd expected to have to 
chase after him...  Maybe it was a relief for him, after so 
long, to not have to hold the secret so tightly.  To have 
someone know him well enough that the subterfuge wasn't 
necessary.

After a time, they ended up at a park bench, sitting next to 
each other, neither quite looking at the other.  "Mulder, I 
didn't mean..." she hastened to say, then realized anew that 
there was no explanation she could follow it with.  //I 
wasn't feeling uneasy about your 'condition', I was just 
considering taking advantage of it...//  Oh, no, that 
wouldn't go over well.

"It's all right," he said, neutral-voiced, staring straight 
ahead at nothing in particular.  "I should have realized 
you'd be uncomfortable with the knowledge."

"That's not it."  Now that she had him talking, she figured, 
why not see if she could get him to open up about it?  
//Worth a try,// she decided.  "I just don't understand," 
she said, very softly, very gently.  "You say that it's not 
by choice, but... you're a very handsome man..."  //Very 
handsome,// echoed a silent little voice from somewhere 
below her navel.  "I don't understand how you could have 
failed to find the opportunity..."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."  His voice was 
dejected, so downcast that she wanted to embrace him, but 
knew instinctively that he wouldn't allow it.  Instead, she 
settled for sliding her hand into his, was rewarded by an 
ever-so-slight lifting of the despair in his tone as his 
fingers curled around her hand.  "In high school, I was your 
typical misfit: no one liked me, especially not the girls.  
College was about the same, until Phoebe..." and it seemed 
to her that he almost cringed as he spoke the name.  "She 
messed up my head so completely that I didn't even consider 
trying to get together with anyone for years afterwards; 
then I went through the hypnotic regression, and got so 
caught up in my search for the truth about Samantha that 
everything else fell by the wayside."  His hand twitched in 
hers.  "And here I am," he said unhappily, "a thirty-six 
year old virgin; and unless I buy a quick lay from some 
streetwalker, I'll probably die that way."

She wanted to hug him more now than ever, and knew better 
than to try.  "Phoebe," she said tentatively, letting the 
single word hang between them.

His hand twitched again; he expelled a long, angry breath.  
"Phoebe," he echoed.  "She was the first woman who ever paid 
attention to me, and I was hopelessly in lust with her.  For 
the longest time, I was sure that she was the woman of my 
dreams.  I made the mistake of telling her that I'd 
never..." and his voice trailed off, as if he couldn't bear 
to say the words aloud.  "And she played me like a fish on a 
line.  She... she said that I needed to be taught, by an 
experienced woman like herself; and that she wanted to be my 
first.  When the time was right.  When I was ready.  So I 
took her out, wherever she wanted to go.  I held down two 
side jobs, just so I could afford her expensive tastes.  And 
on a good night -- maybe once a fortnight, if I was obedient 
enough and very, very lucky, she might let me touch her."  
The bitterness lurking in that level voice was 
heartbreaking.  "I thought... I thought she loved me.  I 
thought that she was trying to help me, that she wanted what 
was best for me.  I thought she was waiting so that it would 
be special.  And then I overheard her talking to her friends 
one day..."  His voice was so calm, so even; only someone 
who knew him as well as Scully could have heard the anguish 
in it.  "She was boasting about her little boy-toy from the 
colonies, her pet virgin, and how she had him by the balls; 
how he'd get on his knees and kiss her sweaty feet just for 
the slightest glimpse of a little skin, how he'd do anything 
she wanted 'cause he thought he was going to get some.  And 
how she'd been considering letting him, but then decided not 
to, because it was so much more entertaining to keep him 
hanging, and watch him squirm."  And still his voice was 
placid and steady, but there were tears rolling down his 
face: silent tears in a slow stream.

"I confronted her about it," he continued, his voice 
beginning to roughen with the repressed emotion, "and she 
denied it.  She said she hadn't meant any of it, that she'd 
just wanted to impress her friends."  His voice dropped 
abruptly, to a whisper.  "And I believed her," spoken with a 
self-loathing that was terrible to hear.  "I believed her, 
and I stayed with her and let her play me for two more 
years," his voice breaking on the last word, facade held in 
place by the slenderest of threads.

He was so vulnerable, in so much pain...  Scully couldn't 
bear it any more; she reached out and slid her arms around 
him.

And to her utter amazement, he not only allowed it but 
welcomed it: reaching back, burying his face in her hair, 
clinging to her as if she could assuage that long-ago and 
so-vivid hurt.

Smoothing her hands along his back in what she hoped was a 
comforting gesture, she thought, //Maybe I can.//

"The bitch," she muttered darkly.  "I wish you'd told me 
sooner, Mulder.  I would've kicked her ass across the 
Potomac while I had the chance."

She felt his body shake with something that was almost a 
laugh.  "I'd have paid money to see that," he said, voice 
muffled by her hair.

"I'd have done it for free," she responded.

"I know you would.  Thank you," and the last two words held 
such sincere gratitude that she felt tears spring to her 
eyes.

"Mulder..."  She sighed.  "You know, you're not the first 
thirty-six-year-old virgin in recorded history."

"Oh, yeah?  Name three others.  Even Jesus only made it to 
thirty-three."

And she was silent, unable to come up with a reply.

"It's not even that, it's...  I'm such a misfit, Scully.  I 
always have been.  I'm the weird one, the strange one, the 
one with the sister who went away and never came back.  The 
one in grade school who cried when the school bully came 
after him.  I've never been normal, I don't even have the 
slightest idea how to go about being normal, and this... 
this is just the last straw, you know?  I feel as if I don't 
even live in the same world as everyone else half the time, 
and this just makes it worse."  Again, that calm voice, 
laced with only the tiniest hint of his inner anguish: a 
voice all the more heartbreaking for its apparent 
acceptance.

"For what it's worth," she told him, "I like who you are.  
Even when you annoy the hell out of me...  I like you a lot, 
Mulder."

She could feel him smile.  "I feel the same way about you.  
And thanks.  But... that doesn't change the way I feel about 
myself, unfortunately."  He drew a deep, deep breath.  
"Anyway.  Now you know the whole story," his voice trying to 
be matter-of-fact, to restore the status-quo.  There was a 
small twitch of movement, silent signal for her to release 
him -- but she didn't let go.  It wasn't time for that, not 
yet; no matter how ready he might have been to pretend that 
it had never happened.

"Your self-image needs a radical overhaul," she remarked, 
giving him enough room to pull back, gain some breathing 
space, without completely allowing him to escape from her 
embrace.

"Heh.  Tell me something I don't know.  Why do you think I 
took up psychology in the first place?"  For a moment he 
seemed uncomfortable with their continuing closeness -- then 
she felt him relax, though it seemed to require a conscious 
effort for him to do so.  As if he liked being close to her, 
wanted to be close to her, but wasn't sure quite how to 
handle it.

Which was actually quite consistent with the situation at 
hand.

"And it didn't help, I take it?"  Silly question, more 
rhetorical than anything else: she knew him well enough to 
know the answer.

"All I learned was how screwed up I am."  A small self-
deprecating chuckle punctuated that statement.  "Which was 
actually something of a relief; once I figured out that I 
was psychologically warped beyond redemption, I could stop 
being afraid of my own liabilities and work around them."

Scully shook her head, dismayed.  //Beyond redemption.//  It 
bothered her that he should describe himself that way.  
"You're a good man, Mulder," she insisted.  "A little 
strange, maybe, but that just makes you interesting."

"You've been working with me too long," he demurred -- but 
she saw the small hint of a smile tugging at his lips, the 
infinitesimal lightening of his gloom.

//So,// she thought, //it *is* possible to bring him out of 
this,// not allowing herself to contemplate her reasons for 
wanting to do so.  //He deserves better than to feel this 
way about himself; he's my friend,// were her justifications 
-- and her other, deeper desires, she left safely buried 
within the layers of her subconscious.

"You're making excuses," she countered.  "I think you're 
afraid to believe that you might not be as much of a loser 
as you like to think you are."

She expected him to dismiss this out of hand, but instead he 
thought about it for several moments.  "You may be right," 
he said finally.  "After all, it's easier to believe that 
I'm hopeless than to think that there's a way out, and I'm 
too stupid to find it..."

"If there's one thing you're *not*, it's stupid," she 
disputed, letting her arms slip away from his waist, 
releasing him -- and now he seemed reluctant to relinquish 
the closeness, but followed her lead.  

"So what's the secret, Doctor Scully?" he inquired, and 
though his tone was teasing, the underlying current was far 
more serious.

"Well, for one thing, you need to get out more," she told 
him, lingering briefly on the consideration of how long it 
had been since she'd followed her own advice: Mulder and his 
X-Files had long since consumed her own life, with her 
willing consent.  "You need to spend some time in the real 
world, the one outside the Bureau and the paranormal and the 
conspiracies."

"It's been so long, I'm not sure I know how," he muttered -- 
then met her eyes with a direct gaze.  "What do you 
suggest?"

His eyes... god.  How was it that he could melt her, with 
just a look?  And now she knew, as she'd only suspected 
before, that he genuinely had no idea that he was doing it -
- that he had no idea of just how attractive he was, of how 
seductive he could be.  //What would he do,// she wondered, 
//if he knew?//

She hesitated briefly, for it was against all the written 
and unwritten codes of conduct that governed their lives as 
federal agents -- but then again, they'd left Bureau 
protocol behind so long ago that it hardly mattered anymore.  
"There's a bar I know," she mentioned, "they mix good 
drinks, they serve decent food, it's something of a singles 
hangout..."

"And you think I should go there."  Doubtful, his voice -- 
and fearful, too; though only to a trained ear like her own.  

//*I*,// she thought glumly, //how obtuse can he be?//  Or 
was it that he was so used to being alone that he hadn't 
even grasped the implicit invitation in her statement?

"We could go there," she responded, placing the slightest 
hint of emphasis on the first word -- and didn't miss the 
immediate look of relief that swept over his face.  
"Tonight?"

"Sure," he said; then, "Are you asking me out on a date, 
Agent Scully?" again in that teasing voice -- making light 
of the situation, lessening the chance that her rejection of 
the notion might harm him, she thought.

And in the space of an instant, her mind raced, considering 
how she might respond to his jest so that he wouldn’t take 
it as a rebuff.  "Just making sure you don't spend your 
whole weekend in the basement," she told him.

It seemed to be the right answer, for he smiled; and his 
mood seemed considerably improved as they walked back to the 
office together, side by side.

-------

//This was a bad idea.//

The dark musing sped through her mind, drawing her attention 
away from the earnest young man who was trying ever so hard 
to captivate and entrance her with his wit...  She sighed 
and forced herself to pay attention to her admirer: he 
seemed nice enough, was reasonably good looking in an 
innocuous sort of way, and since he'd bought her a top-level 
drink, she thought she owed him at least a chance at making 
a play for her.

Across the room, by the bar, Mulder's attention was 
similarly occupied, with an admirer of his own.

She was blonde, the woman: a natural blonde, in Scully's 
estimation, hair a soft collection of ash and gold tones.  
Her features were pert and pretty, her figure slender and 
trim, her attire subdued and businesslike -- not the brash, 
brassy look of a bar-fly, but the demeanor of someone more 
genuine, more real.  The type of woman who might be good for 
her partner.

Scully sighed, forced herself to look away, wondering why it 
should bother her so.

Her fantasies were, after all, merely fantasies -- and 
wasn't this what she'd wanted for Mulder? the chance to 
socialize, maybe meet someone he might connect with?  
Positive reinforcement, to help lessen the iron-grip of his 
terrible self-image?

//I want him to want *me*,// came the thought, seething with 
jealousy.

She swept it away, astonished and abashed by her own sudden 
emotion.  //No, that's not, it isn't; no, not that way at 
all,// but no amount of rationalization could alter the 
feeling that had lodged suddenly in the pit of her mind... 
she became aware that her admirer's voice had changed 
inflection, signifying that a question had been asked; and 
she smiled at him, in what she hoped would be seen as a coy 
non-response rather than a total lack of interest in what 
he'd been saying.

//I want to go home,// she thought dismally, but the worst 
part was, she *couldn't*.  She and Mulder had come to the 
bar in her car; she couldn't leave without him, and to drag 
him away now would be a cruelty.  And as well, counter to 
everything she wanted to do for him.

Or at least, what she'd *said* she'd wanted.

"Hmm?" she said, becoming suddenly aware that her gentleman 
friend -- Bob, was it? -- had repeated the question.

The man smiled at her.  "You're in another world tonight," 
he remarked.  "I said, do you want to dance?"

Mentally, she shrugged.  //Why not?  Might help me take my 
mind off... things.//  "Sure," she said.

Bob wasn't a half-bad dancer; at least, he didn't tromp all 
over her feet.  Nor did his hands wander anywhere that might 
be considered objectionable...  Good-looking, with a full 
head of hair; personable, or at least unoffensive.  She 
should have been at least mildly attracted to him: why 
wasn't she?

Her eyes flickered to the bar, to where the answer to that 
question should have been standing; but he was nowhere in 
sight.

She stopped herself from wondering where he and his new 
friend might have gone, managed to keep her attention firmly 
focused on Bob -- the song ended, and another began; and as 
she racked her brains to find a polite excuse to duck out, 
she heard a familiar voice that sent waves of relief 
cascading through her.  "Excuse me," it said, to Bob, "mind 
if I cut in?"

It was clear that Bob *did* mind, but Mulder left him little 
choice; he extended a hand to Scully, and she took it, 
letting him guide her away from her would-be paramour.

One arm snaked around her waist, and she mentally pushed 
away the thought of how much better *this* was...  "So," she 
said, determined not to let her feelings get in the way, 
"where's your friend?"

"Huh?"  For a moment, he seemed genuinely confused.  "Oh.  
Linda?  I dunno," and he shrugged a little, as if it didn't 
matter to him.

"You seemed to be getting along well," she probed, 
ruthlessly keeping her own emotions in check, not letting 
her inappropriate jealousy reach her voice.

"I guess," he murmured, "she gave me her number...  Listen, 
Scully, I'm, uh, I'm gonna call a cab, okay?"

"Everything all right?" she wondered, startled.

"Yeah, I just... I want to get out of here."  His eyes met 
hers, seeking understanding.

"So we'll go," she told him.

"No, listen, you shouldn't have to end your evening 
early..."

"Mulder," she said, "I want to get out of here, too," 
letting just a trace of her own relief show through: enough 
that he might know that the statement was genuine, and not 
some pretense masking pity.

He nodded, grinned at her; and when the song ended, they 
left the bar together.

The drive back was silent; she left him to his thoughts, 
mostly because she was too busy trying to make sense of her 
own.  //I should be happy for him,// she chided herself, 
//no matter what I feel; he needs to make connections with 
other people, normal people, to bring some feeling of 
normalcy into his own life.  He *needs* that, and if I let 
him see my... jealousy... what good can that possibly do?//

"This isn't going to work," he said abruptly, and she 
glanced sideways at him, her surprise drawing her attention 
away from her scrutiny of the road.

"What do you mean?"

"It just isn't."  His voice was soft, quiet -- she had the 
feeling that it was costing him an effort to speak at all; 
and that only the darkness and privacy of car and road and 
driving was making it possible at all.  "Linda... she was 
nice enough, but... it's like I don't even live in the same 
world as these people.  They all know what it means to live 
ordinary lives, with homes and families and *sane* jobs, and 
sex as a normal part of life instead of some huge, elusive 
mystery... it's as if everyone else knows this secret, and I 
don't.  And I can feel it, like a wall between us.  All the 
people in that crowded bar, and it was as if I was there all 
by myself."

She was silent, absorbing that: feeling his isolation, his 
loneliness, as if it was her own, and aching on his behalf.

"Except for you," he added, and the warmth of that 
afterthought caught her heart and twined around it, 
underscoring the bond between them with understated 
eloquence.

One hand left the steering wheel, found his; and she felt 
his fingers curl around her hand.

"Mulder, it'll work out," she said, loath to allow him to 
sink back into despair.

"How?"  Bitterness in that single syllable, and curiosity, 
and plaintive longing, as if he wanted more than anything 
else for her to possess an answer that he might be able to 
use.

"It just will."  And maybe she did -- though she had no 
idea, as yet, how she might cause it to happen.

The road stretched out before them, dark and silent, 
resplendent in its unspoken mystery; and they continued 
along its path, together.


III. Intrusion

...Taste of heated flesh, salt-sweet slippery against his 
tongue, quivering ever so slightly from his exertions...  
looking up, searching her face anxiously for her approval.  
"That was all right, I suppose," spoken in a nonchalant 
voice, holding vague disappointment, and cursing himself: 
//dammit, I still can't get it right...//

..."I'll do better next time," pleading, as he knelt before 
her; feeling his own flesh throbbing beneath the tight 
confinement of his trousers, begging for a touch, any touch, 
to soothe the aching need... 

...Unable to stop himself, a hand finding its way between 
his legs; and her face creasing with disapproval: "Oh, 
really.  Have you no restraint?" as she studied him 
clinically, measuring him ruthlessly.

..."Please," his voice desperate, "I need... please..." 
willing to do anything, *anything*, for even some slight 
relief...

..."You know how I feel about that," and forcing his hand 
away, though it hurt, it *hurt*...  "No, I'm afraid you 
really must learn to do better," and knowing that he'd blown 
this week's chance, for all his efforts: hating himself for 
the strength of his need, for not being good enough, for not 
having been man enough to keep his manhood under control.

...And the shower, cold needles against his flesh, freezing 
him to the core, yet not enough to subdue the raging heat 
within him: his erection, fierce and insistent, craving 
release, and not touching himself because *she* had 
forbidden him to, not even here in privacy where she would 
never know -- standing under the cold water for an hour, two 
hours, until his skin was all gooseflesh and slightly blue, 
until finally his cock had softened to placid submission, 
arousal once again beaten back in accordance with her 
specifications...

...Huddling in his uncomfortable dorm-room bed, feigning 
sleep as his rowdy roommate came in from a night on the 
pull, smelling of beer and sex and wanton abandon; cold and 
alone, feeling the small pulsings of suppressed desire 
racing through him, utilizing every ounce of control to keep 
himself sexless, so that next week he might please her, 
might win her approval, might finally be permitted to seek 
some satisfaction for himself...

The dream broke, left him awake and gasping for breath on 
his couch; he sat up, blinking at the moonlight streaming in 
through the window, reorienting himself to the here-and-now.

"Damn you," he whispered, into the darkness.

His body was taut with lingering arousal; one hand moved -- 
then stilled: the dream was too recent, too vivid to allow 
him even that meager fragment of satisfaction.  A 
conditioned response, drilled into his mind by years of 
effort: //oh, don't do that, it's vulgar// -- so that even 
now, years later, it was all but impossible for him to 
escape her disapproval.

He groaned, and rolled over onto his stomach.

Pressure against his loins; friction of fabric against 
flesh... his hips moved, erection rubbing against the couch 
pillow, kindling the spark of arousal into full flame...  
But it wasn't enough: he needed more.  Desperately, his hips 
ground against the padding beneath him, and still it wasn't 
enough...

In an agony of frustration, he levered himself off the sofa, 
fumbling with one hand for one of the tapes he'd 
painstakingly collected over the years, reaching for the jar 
of Vaseline with the other.  Slamming the tape into the VCR 
with unnecessary force and cursing his clumsy fingers as he 
fought to get the machine working.  Finally, the tape 
rolled; he stared at the screen, letting the imagery take 
over his brain.  Faceless women, breasts and hips and thighs 
and pussies, doing things to men that the British bitch had 
never done to him, faces contorted in expressions of 
passions that *she* had never worn, moaning in delight at 
the physical prowess that he had never been permitted to 
display... his eyes devoured the images, drinking them in, 
letting them encompass his brain.  It had to be that way, so 
that he wouldn't notice the moment when his hand wrapped 
around his straining hard-on; one instant of self-awareness 
would ruin the whole thing, and wreck all chances of 
bringing the act to its resolution...  He didn't let himself 
acknowledge the exertions of his hand, frantically rubbing 
his aching erection, harder and harder, working desperately 
at relieving the pressure within him.  He didn't exist.  His 
body, with its damnable needs, didn't exist.  No, all that 
existed was the television screen, the images of lust being 
portrayed there, the cries of the faceless women as penises 
pounded into them, bringing them to feigned climax... 

He felt his body shudder, felt the spasms ripple through him 
as the stickiness spread over his hand, felt the tension 
drain away from him, leaving him to some semblance of peace.

//I hate myself,// he thought.

With his untainted hand, he fumbled for the remote, switched 
off the TV -- the imagery held no attraction for him now, 
only served to accentuate his perversion.  //Can't even jerk 
off like a normal guy,// came the inevitable thought, filled 
with self-loathing.  //Goddamn her...//  But what did that 
make *him*, that he'd allowed her to mold him so thoroughly 
to her specifications?

As soon as he could move, he struggled to his feet and made 
his way to the bathroom.

Hot water, as steaming-hot as he could stand it, silent 
rebellion to her long-ago admonitions.  Soap rubbed into a 
washcloth to scour away the remnants of his lapse, because 
even that touch brought the memory of her condemnation...  
He scrubbed at his skin until it reddened from the abrasion, 
wishing that he could wash away the memories as easily.  
Wishing desperately that he could rid himself of the 
psychological damage she'd inflicted upon him.

At least it was over.  For now.  For another night.

He always postponed it as long as he could -- because he 
couldn't bear to face his own deviance, and because the 
longer he waited, the more quickly it was done.  Sometimes 
it took forever, tape after tape before he could finally 
manage to achieve release; and sometimes, just when he'd 
finally gotten almost to that point, something would 
distract him and make him aware of his surroundings, and 
thwart his efforts...  The latter times were the worst, 
because once that had happened, there was nothing he could 
do except marinate himself in the proverbial cold shower 
until the ache had more or less subsided.  Tonight's episode 
had been relatively painless.  Hell, at least tonight he'd 
remembered the Vaseline; there were times when he didn't, 
and the aftermath of that kind of unlubricated friction 
generally left him all but unable to walk for at least a 
day.

And what would happen if he tried to have sex with an actual 
partner?  How would Phoebe's 'conditioning' serve to 
sabotage him then?  The humiliation of such an encounter was 
his worst fear -- and the main reason he'd never tried.

Scully didn't understand.

The thought of his partner, even such a vague one, caused a 
reaction within him...  he groaned, and jerked the shower 
control over to "cold", forbidding the response to grow to 
the point where it would make his life difficult.  She'd had 
that effect since the beginning: something about her...  
Well, more than 'something'.  Everything, really.

She was the friend, the partner, the ally, the support, that 
Phoebe had never been.  And she was gorgeous, besides.

Cold water wasn't helping.  //Maybe I should try an ice 
pack,// he thought sardonically.

What would it be like to make love to her?  To caress that 
creamy-pale skin, to kiss her sweet breasts, to bury his 
face between her legs and taste her essence?  To feel her 
touching him, with those hands: so small, so strong, so 
gentle...  She'd given him backrubs, once or twice; they'd 
been exquisite...

His hand wrapped around his growing erection -- flinched 
away, as memory set in -- with a determined effort, he 
shoved the memory aside, and let his hand wander where it 
wished.

Scully.  God, she was beautiful.  That first case, forever 
ago, and seeing her half-nude and vulnerable...  times 
since, when he'd seen even more, when he'd dared to touch 
her in small, small ways...  Her compassion.  Her caring.  
Her steadfast loyalty, even when he didn't deserve it.  She 
wasn't just beautiful; she was wonderful, in every way.  
Perfectly natural, that he should be attracted to her.  That 
she should inspire his passion, just as she'd earned his 
respect and his trust.

Scully.  Never leaving him, never abandoning him.  Scoffing 
at his ideas, sometimes, but never at *him*; never seeing 
him as the buffoon that others seemed to.  Nobody ever took 
him seriously, and he'd managed to use that to his benefit, 
sneaking in under their defenses and getting his own way -- 
Scully might not agree with him, but she never dismissed him 
as a fool.

Scully.  Dancing with her at the bar.  Feeling her arms wrap 
around him when he'd needed it, dispelling his misery with 
the magic of her touch.  Sensing his need, and -- instead of 
using it against him -- reaching out to comfort him.  Had 
she known how much he'd wanted to latch on to her, and not 
let go?

Scully.  So intelligent, so capable, so composed and self-
contained.  Did she have even the slightest idea of how 
compelling a combination that was?  Did she have even the 
slightest notion of how incredible she was?

Scully... oh, god, Scully...

The spasms seized him anew, this time bringing an intense 
pleasure that most of his exertions lacked; it swept through 
him, sweet ecstasy leaving him weak-kneed and gasping for 
breath.  His hand moved in time with the contractions, 
prolonging the pleasure, drawing it out for as long as he 
could -- more than relief, this time; he felt satisfied, for 
a change, and vaguely triumphant that no old memories had 
intruded to rob him of that...

...And then it hit him, what he'd done.

//Oh, god.  You sick, perverted...//  His partner.  His 
*partner*.  As if she was some video whore, existing for no 
reason other than his cheap thrills...  //Oh, god.  How 
could I?//

Filled with shame and feeling nauseous, he stumbled from the 
shower, fumbled for a towel and wrapped it around himself, 
as if by hiding his fading erection from view he might 
banish the realization of what he'd done.

The memory lingered, even as he sat on his couch staring at 
a late-night infomercial, trying to think of anything else 
but.  //I jerked off.  Thinking of Scully.  Oh, god.//  And 
if she knew... what would she do?  Would she despise him as 
much as he despised himself, eyeing him with loathing and 
disgust?  Or -- worse -- would she view him with pity: poor 
damaged soul struggling desperately for normalcy in whatever 
small ways he could?

//God.  I really am hopeless.//

And though, after a time, he managed to divert his thoughts 
to the mundane realities of daily existence, the feeling 
stayed with him: the shame, the disgust, the self-loathing, 
cloaking him like a shroud.

-------

"Mulder?"

He should have expected it, he supposed.  Calling in sick to 
work, then not answering his phone...  She was his partner; 
she knew him.  Knew him well enough to know that something 
was wrong, even if she had no idea what.

//How can I face her?//

It wasn't the sleepless night that had caused him to book 
off work; he'd endured those before, more often than even 
she knew.  It was his knowledge that there was no way he 
could look her in the eye, no way he could face her, after 
what he'd done.  At least, not yet...

But here she was, all wrapped up in her concern for him.  
//I don't deserve it.  I don't deserve her.//

"Mulder, I'm coming in," in a voice filled with worry; and 
then there was the sound of a key in the lock...

"I'm fine," he called out hurriedly, before the door could 
open.  "I'm just... I don't feel good.  I think I'm coming 
down with something.  Something contagious," he added 
quickly.  "And I don't want you to catch it, so you'd better 
not come in," wincing as the words left his mouth, knowing 
that it was too much, knowing that her suspicions would kick 
in and that nothing would keep her on the other side of that 
door now...

A pause: then the lock clicked, and the hinges creaked as 
she opened the door.

He rolled over, buried his face in the pillow, hoping to 
avoid eye contact; subliminally, he could *feel* her 
presence as she moved silently to his side, knelt next to 
the couch.  "Mulder?" and her hand smoothed over his head, 
stroking his hair, such a gentle caress that it nearly 
brought him to tears.  //I don't deserve this.  I don't 
deserve you.//

"I'm fine," he muttered into the pillow.

Her hand found its way to his forehead...  "You don't feel 
feverish," she said dubiously.

"Trust me, I'm sick."  And cringed at his own words: why 
should she trust him?  He was inherently untrustworthy; his 
own actions had proven that.  His partner, his best goddamn 
friend in the whole fucking world, and he'd treated her as 
if she was just so much *meat*...  Even if she never knew; 
*he* knew, and that made all the difference.  He *was* sick, 
but not in the way she might have thought.

"Mulder," she said firmly, "look at me," and he tensed, 
knowing that he couldn't, he *couldn't...*

"Scully," he responded, hearing the pleading tone in his own 
voice, "please, just leave me alone!"

Soft fingers wandered to the back of his neck and lingered 
there, massaging lightly.  "What's wrong?"

"Don't ask me that," he whispered, as the self-loathing 
swept over him in a great, suffocating wave.

She was quiet for a few moments.  "I'm your friend, Mulder," 
she said finally, in a quiet voice; he winced, feeling anew 
the shame of what he'd done -- to her, his *friend*.

"Please, Scully, go away," he murmured, hoping, praying, 
that she would listen, and go.

Another small silence.  "Sometimes," she remarked, "being a 
friend means knowing when not to leave."

"Scully, please go..."

"No."

The touch of her hand against his skin was unbearable: such 
comfort in that small touch, and such despair -- he didn't 
have the right to that touch, or to the comfort it 
brought...  Part of him wanted to tell her, to bare his soul 
in confession: so that she would know what sort of monster 
he really was, so that he could plead for forgiveness.  So 
that he could know how awful he truly was, at the sight of 
her eyes widening in horror and revulsion...  And part of 
him simply wanted to reach for her, to be held by her, to 
cry in the arms of the only person in his life who'd ever 
let him cry in her arms and find consolation there.

"You don't know," he heard himself say, "you don't 
understand," knowing that it was the first step to the final 
rift: knowing that he would spill his guts, seeking 
absolution and finding only rejection.  It was inevitable.  
It was his lot in life: the only constant there had ever 
been, for him.

"Help me understand," was the soft reply; and he sighed.

"She fucked up my head, Scully... she really did.  You have 
no idea..."  //Why am I doing this?// he wondered.  //So I 
can lose my only friend?//

Steady soothing motion of her hand against his hair.  "I'm 
listening."

"I don't want you to know," he argued; last vestige of self-
preservation coming to the fore.  "I don't want you to know 
how fucked up I am."

"I'm your friend, Mulder."  Such powerful words, spoken in 
such a gentle voice.  "I will continue to be your friend.  
No matter what."

He drew a long, ragged breath.  Did she know what she was 
promising?  Did she have any idea that she'd be utterly 
unable to keep that promise, by the time he was through?

Did she know how completely she'd shattered his defenses 
with her vow?

In halting, broken sentences, he told her.  From the 
beginning.  What Phoebe had done.

...How it had started so innocently, the fumbling caresses 
of two young people in heat.  And then he'd told her his 
secret...  She'd seemed so sympathetic, at first.  'You must 
feel so awkward, so inept,' and though it had never occurred 
to him to feel that way before, suddenly he did...  She'd 
promised to teach him: to instruct him in the ways of love.  
So many men were unfeeling, uncaring brutes... But he could 
be better than that, she said.  He could be a truly 
masterful lover; and she would teach him how.

...Control, that was the key.  Not letting one's 
testosterone take command.  Male masturbation was, in her 
view, one of the key offenders: teaching men to find 
satisfaction quickly and brutally, so that when placed in a 
sexual situation, all they knew was how to thrust and thrust 
until they'd reached their own peak, leaving their partners 
unsatisfied.  The first step to becoming a truly masterful 
lover was to master one's own baser desires -- 'so you 
mustn't, Fox; remember that.'  Remember that...

...And of course, he needed to learn how to pleasure a 
female properly, with his hands and lips and tongue.  Like 
this, and this, and this... oh, but you're not doing it 
correctly.  Not hard enough, not gently enough, not well 
enough...  Never well enough to please her.

...But what about his desires?  'Oh, but that's part of 
learning control, Fox.'  No, no matter how aroused he might 
become, it was his duty to keep it at bay.  'When you've 
mastered the fine arts of feminine pleasure, we'll move on 
to the next step.'  Except that nothing he did was good 
enough, ever.

...Time after time, he'd thought of breaking it off.  'What 
a shame you've decided that, Fox.  I was ever so pleased 
with your progress...  I suppose we won't be able to 
continue with the lessons.'  And time after time, he'd let 
her lure him back.  More lessons.  More exercises in 
frustration.

...Finally, a small move forward.  She wouldn't permit him 
to touch himself; but she would touch him.  To a point.  
Until he was at the brink of orgasm; and then her hand would 
move to the base of his cock in a certain way, pulling him 
back from the edge, keeping his climax at an agonizing 
distance.  'All this time, and you still haven't learnt 
restraint...  I'm disappointed in you, Fox; I'd thought more 
highly of you.'  Hours of this, sometimes; arousal and 
frustration and more arousal and more frustration, until his 
body was shaking helplessly, screaming with desperate need.  
Then she'd pack him off to a cold shower, with admonitions 
that he should do better next time.  'And remember, Fox, you 
mustn't touch yourself without me...'  Not that reminders 
were necessary, by that time.  He'd already been conditioned 
to obey, and there was no respite beyond the occasional wet 
dream...

...Then the fateful day.  Too much, too much for him to 
stand.  She, in her slinky sheath of a dress, too impossibly 
alluring to resist...  He'd grabbed her, right there in the 
dormitory hallway; pushed her up against a wall, hard cock 
trapped in his trousers pressing fiercely into her crotch, 
rubbing against her like a horny dog humping someone's leg, 
unable to stop until flashpoint: a ferocious orgasm 
consuming him, downpour after a long aching drought.  
Strangely enough, he'd thought he'd felt her shudder in his 
arms, with a climax stronger than any he'd yet managed to 
give her; but when she pushed him away, her face had held 
nothing but disgust.  'I see you've learned nothing,' 
retaining her haughty arrogance despite the stains on her 
disheveled gown, 'you're worse than an animal.  Fox: how 
aptly named...'  And her dorm-mates, passing by, whispering, 
snickering, dissolving into downright laughter as she'd 
launched into her tirade, berating him mercilessly as he'd 
felt the hot tears coursing down his face...

...There had been threats of charges, but she'd spared him 
that; spared herself, actually, as she didn't want 'any more 
public unpleasantness'.  He'd begged, pleaded for her 
forgiveness, but she'd met his pleas with unyielding 
condemnation; and eventually he'd left England, left her 
behind, still feeling that he'd screwed up royally, that it 
was all his fault.

...It had taken awhile for him to realize just how severely 
she'd marked him; not until his first date, back in the 
States, months and months later.  When he'd kissed the girl, 
and felt the first stirrings of arousal -- and then the wave 
of humiliation, the memory of Phoebe's chiding voice...  He 
hadn't been able to call that girl again; after all, she'd 
seen him *horny*, and that was shameful enough...  And when 
his arousal grew too great to bear, and he tried to assuage 
it himself, he *couldn't*...

...He fought it, of course.  Studied abnormal psychology 
voraciously, striving to reach a comprehension of what she'd 
done to him, a way to find an escape...  From staid 
textbooks to less scholastic material; and one day he'd 
found himself seeking research materials in Rachel's XXX Fun 
Shop, in a quarter-per-five-minutes video booth, and 
realized that he'd found, if not an answer, at least a 
temporary respite.

...The viewing materials had to be carefully selected, of 
course.  The subject matter had to be... unobjectionable.  
No visuals that might remind him of *her*.  Just women being 
fucked, women on their knees with cocks in their mouths, 
women pleading the way he'd used to plead; and if their 
pleas were met with harsh indifference, well, so much the 
better.  Revenge.  Retribution, against the memories that 
haunted him still.

...And even so, it was difficult.  If he was lucky, he might 
manage to achieve orgasm on three out of every five tries.  
No pleasure in it, either; just the emptying of his balls, 
the release of tension, nothing more.  And the lingering 
shame and disgust of knowing it was the *only* way he could 
get off, not a decadent accessory but a vital necessity.  Of 
knowing that he was a pervert, a textbook case of 
perversion, unable to achieve sexual satisfaction (if one 
could call something so cold and mechanical *satisfaction*) 
through any other means...

...He kept fighting.  Trying.  Forcing himself to try to do 
it the 'normal' way, with nothing but mental imagery and a 
conscious awareness of what he was doing.  Sometimes, if he 
waited long enough between times, it would work.  More 
often, his efforts would leave him hanging on the brink of 
release, over and over until he *had* to resort to the 
tapes, because there was no other choice, except for last 
night, when...


And he bit off the rest of the words, just in time; because 
that was the part he *couldn't* tell Scully, no matter how 
much of a friend she was, or thought she was.

He still couldn't look at her; but he felt her looking at 
him, studying him closely.

Then she spoke.  "It was me, wasn't it?"

//*Shit.*//

Yet still her hand stroked his hair, never faltering.

She leaned close -- his face remained hidden, half in the 
pillow, half behind the arm he'd raised to shield himself 
from view -- her lips brushed against his earlobe, all she 
could really reach.  "Would it make you feel better to 
know," she said very softly, into his ear, "that I've done 
the same thing?"

Stunned beyond all rational thought, he had no idea of what 
to say to that.

"Do you know what this means, Mulder?" she continued.  
"Surprise!  We're human."

He heard a sound, an odd hoarse sound; and realized that it 
was himself, laughing.

Her arm wrapped around him, urging him closer; he still 
couldn't look at her, but found himself reaching out for 
her, like a moth instinctively drawn to warmth, to light... 
his face buried itself against her chest, and his thoughts 
weren't of how lovely her breasts were, but how wonderful it 
was to be held; and felt his laughter transform into sobs in 
the space of a breath.  Crying in Scully's arms: it seemed 
to be becoming a habit, and he supposed he should have been 
embarrassed or ashamed -- but apparently, she didn't mind; 
and it felt so good.  So good.

"I can't believe you put up with me," he managed, through 
his tears.

"Mulder, I love you," she said patiently, as if it was 
something he should have known.

"Do you?" he wondered aloud.  //Is this what love is, then?  
Holding someone when they need to be held?  Listening, and 
not laughing?  Understanding someone else's pain?  Being 
there, always?  I never knew...// 

"Yes, I do," and she hugged him a little tighter, rubbing 
his back soothingly.

It felt so good, her arms around him... so good.  Better 
than fantasies could ever be.  Better than anything the 
BritBitch had ever done, or even promised him.  Good to his 
soul, and so much more...

He pulled back a little, and looked at her.  Into her eyes.  
As he'd thought he'd never be able to do again.

She gazed back: a warm, steady gaze.  Accepting.  Inviting?  
Maybe.

What would she do if...  He moved a little closer, searching 
her face for any trace of hesitation, finding none.  Closer 
still -- a little bit closer -- and still, he didn't know 
what she would do, if she would let him... then her arms 
tightened around him, and she completed the move, her lips 
pressing gently against his.

Kissing him.

God.

It seemed only polite to kiss her back, so he did -- her 
lips parted, capturing his lower lip between them, sucking 
slightly.  Oh, that was nice.  Very nice.  So he kissed her 
again -- even more of a kiss this time; letting his tongue 
creep past her lips, exploring hesitantly... felt her tongue 
against his own lips, and that was... god.  Amazing.

Scully.  Kissing Scully.  He was kissing Scully.

No, wait...

He pulled away, feeling dazed -- looked at her; she seemed 
flustered.  "Why'd you stop?" she wanted to know.

Good question.  Seeing as his lips were still tingling with 
the feel of hers, and the taste of her mouth lingered, 
tantalizing...  He drew a deep breath, and remembered why.

"I don't want your pity," he told her sadly.

Her brow furrowed.  "Pity?" she echoed, not understanding.  
"Mulder, I love you..."

"Yes, I know," he murmured.  "I know you love me.  I 
think... I think that you even love me enough to try to help 
me with my problems.  Even if that's not what you really 
want.  But you matter to me too, Scully; and I don't want it 
to be like this between us.  It's not worth... getting laid 
is not worth jeopardizing what we are to each other.  It's 
just not."

//So this is love,// he mused, //turning down what you want 
most in the world...//

And watched, as the look in her eyes altered from 
startlement to... anger?  "So that's what you think of me?" 
she retorted.  "I have news for you, Mulder; I don't *do* 
pity fucks.  Not even for you."

Her arms slipped away; she stood up, paced away from him.  
"I lie in bed at night," she said to the wall, "thinking 
about you.  Thinking about how attractive you are, and how 
attracted I am to you.  Thinking about the way you move, and 
the sound of your voice, and the way you look at me 
sometimes.  Thinking about the times I've seen you naked, 
and how much I'd like to repeat the experience under better 
circumstances.  I lie in bed, and I think about you, and I 
masturbate..." it seemed to him that her voice trembled a 
little on the word, as if it was one she hadn't often used, 
or at least not in this context "...and I still can't 
believe that I told you that; but even after I've told you, 
you continue to think that my only interest in being close 
to you is *pity*?  Get a clue, Mulder," and she turned 
around, stared at him challengingly, "I want you.  Very 
much.  And if you feel the same way about me -- which, it 
seems, you do -- then what the *hell* is the problem?"

"My problem," he said quietly, "is that I've had my head 
messed with too much to be able to approximate any kind of 
normal relationship."

"I *know* that..."

"And it's like I said.  I care about you too much to want to 
screw up what we have between us."  Silently, he pleaded 
with her to understand, to let it alone -- because he knew 
he didn't have enough strength to resist her for long.

She came back to the couch, sat down on the edge, gazed down 
at him.  "And I love you too much to let you push me away."

"Scully..." 

"Do you want me?" she asked him bluntly.

"Scully..."  //Don't do this.  I can't take this.//

"Do you?"

"What the *hell* do you think?" he snapped, then was 
instantly contrite.  "Sorry.  But that was a stupid 
question."

"It was," she agreed placidly.  Her hand moved, settled 
itself against his cheek.  "So why are you fighting me on 
this?"

He sighed.  "I'm afraid," he admitted.

"Of me?"

"Of you knowing me that well.  Of... you deciding that I'm 
not worth it.  Of losing you as a partner and a friend."  
//Be honest with her; she deserves that much...//  "I'm 
afraid of having sex," he confessed, in a voice that barely 
qualified as a whisper.  "I'm afraid of trying and failing.  
That I won't be able to overcome my hangups, and that... the 
attempt will come between us."

"You worry too much," she said, gently.

"Scully..."

"Mulder."  Her other hand joined the first, cupping his face 
in her hands.  "We can make this work," she said softly.  
"We can."

"I want to believe you," he murmured, "but..."

"So believe.  It's not as much of a stretch as some of the 
things you believe in," she added, with laughter in her 
voice; against his will, he smiled.

She smiled back, and leaned closer in silent suggestion; he 
levered himself to a sitting position and reached out for 
her, drawing her closer, nervous now that he knew what was 
happening, now that it was something planned...

This time, there was no shy brushing of lips; her tongue 
slipped into his mouth, sliding along his without 
restraint... God, it was wonderful.  Incredible.  *Too* 
good... he could feel his body responding to the kiss, 
tendrils of fire spreading from his lips straight down his 
spine to his groin... and pulled away from her again, 
sharply.

"What's wrong?" she wondered.

"I'm not ready for this," he muttered, hating himself more 
than ever.  //What a loser.  Can't even handle a simple 
kiss, for crying out loud...!//

He tried to turn away, but she still held his face cupped in 
her hands, and wouldn't let go.  "You're underestimating 
yourself," she opined.

"You're pushing me!"  He struggled, broke free -- huddled at 
the far end of the couch, feeling miserable and pathetic.  
//Damn.  Dammit.  I can't do *anything* right...//

A movement in the corner of his field of vision caught his 
eye -- her hand, sliding along the couch toward him.  
Silently, he reached out and took it.

"I'm sorry," Scully said quietly.  "Whatever pace you want 
to set, Mulder.  It's your call."

He wanted to reach out for her, take her in his arms and 
smother her with kisses; he wanted to run, as far away as he 
could, from the frightening idea of actually making love to 
her...  "I need to sleep," he muttered.  "I really... I 
didn't sleep at all last night.  I really need to get some 
sleep."

She thought about that, then nodded.  "Okay."

"You should probably get back to work," he added, as she 
showed no sign of leaving.

"I already booked off for the day," she informed him.  Her 
hand tugged at his.  "C'mere."

"Scully..."

"You liked it well enough when we were stuck in the forest 
together," she reminded him.  "C'mere."

He remembered that night, falling asleep with his head in 
her lap, how incredibly comforting it had been, and 
dubiously edged closer.  //What the hell am I afraid of?!?//  
It didn't make sense... but he felt nervous, nonetheless.

She helped him arrange the blanket over himself, found a 
suitable position and patted her lap.  "C'mere," she 
repeated, and he settled against her.  

Now that was comfortable: no stress, no tension, just her 
warmth against him.  "You're gonna get pins and needles in 
your legs," he warned her.

"I'll survive.  Relax."  And she stroked his hair with 
gentle fingers.

He sighed, tried to relax as she'd bidden him -- found it 
surprisingly easy.  His avowed need for sleep had been meant 
to get rid of her; but now the sleepless night was catching 
up to him, along with the tension of their conversation -- 
fatigue washed over him, and he smothered a yawn.

Was it really possible?  It seemed far too good to be 
true...  He'd given up hope of ever finding someone with 
whom he might feel close enough to even attempt to overcome 
the old hangups.  Scully was closer to him than anyone else 
had ever been; if anything could ever work, this would be 
it... but would it really be enough?

He didn't know.  But Scully was willing to make the 
attempt... and maybe they *could* make it work.  Maybe.

At any rate, it was incredibly sweet to rest his head on her 
lap, to feel her hands smoothing his hair; so soothing, so 
comforting, so much so that for an instant, for just a 
moment, his tortured soul dared to believe that there might 
actually be an end to his private hell...

If anyone could give him that, it would be Scully.

//I love you too, Scully,// he thought sleepily.

And slept.


IV. Initiation

//Life just keeps getting weirder by the minute.//

If anyone had informed her that she was destined to tell 
Mulder about her masturbatory fantasies, she would have 
called that person a liar.  Or else run for the nearest set 
of hills, and hid in some hermit's shack until that 
particular window of possibility had been nailed firmly 
shut.  Was there anything more embarrassing to reveal to 
another person -- especially when the subject of said 
fantasies *was* that person?

And yet, it had felt right.  More than right.  It had been 
absolutely the only way she could handle the situation.  
He'd been so down on himself, so filled with self-loathing, 
over something for which she herself had never felt more 
than momentary pangs of distant guilt...

//He wants me.//  And that was an even bigger mental 
adjustment than her revelation to him: the fact that her 
attraction to him wasn't merely a one-sided folly of her 
too-active imagination, but something reciprocal.

But good lord, she'd never dreamed that there would be so 
much emotional baggage to work through, first.

It infuriated her anew, each time she let herself think 
about it.  That twisted, warped little *bitch*...  Here was 
Mulder, utterly convinced that he was a pervert of the worst 
sort, when *she* was the one with the perversions: she'd had 
to have power over him, as much as she could possibly get, 
working her tendrils into his psyche so thoroughly that her 
influence had lingered to haunt him for decades...  //If I 
ever see her again,// Scully vowed, //I'm going to beat her 
to a bloody British pulp.//

He didn't deserve what she'd done to him -- and the worst 
part was, on some level, he believed that he *did*.

Well, she would just have to convince him otherwise.

Tonight, she hoped, would be the beginning of that.

She'd considered wearing something formal and sexy, then 
rejected the idea -- he was so nervous already; why 
exacerbate that by accentuating the purpose of their 
meeting?  He already knew why she'd invited him over -- 
Chinese take-out and the nine-o'clock movie on ABC, that was 
the ostensible reason; but both of them knew what lay behind 
the invitation.  No reason to spell it out in a way that 
might make him even more uncomfortable.

But she wanted to look appealing for him, and so she'd taken 
the concept of 'sexy' in a different direction.  Her 
favorite old plaid flannel shirt, buttoned only enough to 
allow her the barest amount of modesty; and no bra 
underneath.  A pair of old sweatpants that clung to her 
every curve, and sported a small frayed hole on the cheek of 
her ass; no underwear, either.  Plenty for him to look at, 
and easy access if he wanted it, but nothing dressy enough 
to send him into spasms of anxiety -- she hoped.  He was 
Mulder, after all; and nobody did anxiety as well as he did.

A knock at the door, then the sound of a key in the lock; 
she turned, as he stepped inside.

And was glad she hadn't dressed up, for he certainly hadn't 
-- blue jeans and a black t-shirt, and looking every bit as 
sexy in that as if he'd dressed to the nines.  More so, 
perhaps; everything fit him like a second skin...  "I got 
the food," he said, by way of greeting, and she could *feel* 
his nervousness even from the other end of the room.

"Great," she said, "I've got plates and things ready.  Come 
on in, make yourself at home," as he moved gingerly across 
the room toward her, "*relax*," in a meaningful voice, 
trying to let him know that he had no reason to be afraid; 
this wasn't a test, wasn't a pass/fail situation.  Tonight 
could be as much or as little as he wanted it to be.  No 
pressure.

His eyes scanned her face, swiftly -- she did her best to 
project a telepathic message, that he had nothing to fear -- 
and must have succeeded to some degree, for he favored her 
with a sheepish grin and settled beside her on the couch.

"Relax," she repeated, and took his hand as he set down the 
bag of food; his long fingers wrapped around her hand 
gratefully, and for awhile they just sat there holding 
hands, the food forgotten.

His eyes flickered to the front of her shirt, to the curve 
of her breast, just barely revealed -- then flickered away; 
his face reddening with embarrassment.  "I wore it for you," 
she told him, "look all you want.  Mulder, I've never seen 
you like this..."  The Mulder she knew was quick with an 
innuendo or a joke, not... not as shy as a schoolboy; and 
even knowing what she did about him, she was having trouble 
reconciling the change...

A twitch of a shoulder, a faint shrug.  "That's because 
you've never been someone I thought I might actually have 
sex with," he said.  "It makes a difference, you know; the 
whole cool facade goes right out the window," sounding 
vaguely unhappy about that.

She squeezed his hand.  "It's okay..."

"It is *not* okay.  I work hard on that facade, and you just 
get right in under my radar..."  A soft sigh.  "I'm not used 
to being known this well."

"It's not a bad thing," she countered.

"That depends on what's done with the knowledge," was the 
quiet answer.

Scully thought about what to say to that -- platitudes 
wouldn't do, not for him; he'd been hurt too often and too 
severely for casual reassurance to be meaningful.  "I'm your 
friend," she said at last, "and I love you," and he nodded a 
little, as if a theory had been confirmed.

"So," she said, changing the subject, "what'd you get?" 
indicating the bag of take-out food on the table.

"Oh, just a whole bunch of stuff, sweet and sour, chow fon, 
lo mein..." and she listened as he rattled off the menu; his 
hand disengaged from hers as he began taking containers from 
the shopping bag and setting them in a neat line on the 
table.

The atmosphere lightened significantly as they worked their 
way through dinner; after all, it was hard to maintain 
sexual tension while wrestling slippery noodles with a pair 
of chopsticks...  They talked of inconsequential things, 
laughed over small jokes, and it seemed to Scully that the 
sheer normalcy of the situation put her partner at ease in a 
way that nothing she might say could have.  After all, how 
many evenings had they spent this way? in dingy motel rooms 
scattered across small-town America, chasing one faceless 
threat after another?  Take-out food eaten on somebody's 
bed, mindless chatter to take their thoughts off the case at 
hand, or discussion about the case if it was a particularly 
thorny one...  This was familiar.  This was 'safe'.

They ate, and he helped her carry the plates and the 
leftovers (of which there were a significant amount) to the 
kitchen, stacked take-out containers in the fridge while she 
loaded the dishwasher...  Then they were on the couch again, 
sitting side-by-side, while the television droned away in 
the background, ignored.

"I almost copped out, you know," he mentioned, in an offhand 
tone.  "I almost came down with an unspecified virus and 
called you to say I couldn't make it tonight."

"I'm glad you didn't," she said softly.

Another one-shouldered shrug.  "Well, I'm not going to get 
anywhere by running away from the situation."

"Mulder, I love you so much."  Perhaps if she said it often 
enough, he'd begin to truly believe it; maybe he'd begin to 
understand what love *could* mean, when the person 
proclaiming the emotion didn't have their own agenda of 
cruelty.

Her words provoked a small smile -- she knew that look, knew 
what it meant: //I don't believe it, but it's nice to 
hear...//  and she sighed.

She took his hand again, but instead of simply holding it, 
began a slow massage -- stroking his fingers, the sensitive 
skin of his palm, in a subtle caress.  "Mulder," she said -- 
//not Fox, never Fox; *she* called him that// -- "look at 
me," because if he was looking at her instead of staring 
fixedly at a nondescript spot on her carpet, maybe he would 
see her instead of the nightmare-memories.  Maybe he would 
see *her*, and come to know that the past was gone, that 
there was no reason why it should continue to haunt him.

As bidden, he looked at her -- and she was astonished by the 
multitude of emotions written on his face: shyness mingled 
with desire, and wrapped up in five or six different types 
of fear.  "Relax," she said again, bringing her other hand 
up to the side of his face, feeling him lean into that 
caressing hand as if he wanted nothing more than to sink 
into her soul and be enveloped.

He reached out for her, drew her close, and she settled 
against him -- the scent of him, maleness accentuated by the 
cologne he always wore, was intoxicating; the feel of his 
strong arms around her was deeply enticing, and if the 
situation had been different, she would have pulled his head 
down into a passionate kiss -- but that would only make 
things worse, she knew.  *His* pace, that was what she had 
promised him.  No matter how frustrating that might make it 
for her.

And yet, there was something terribly exciting about that, 
too: wanting him, so desperately that her body and soul 
resonated with the wanting, and not knowing when, or if...  
Was this how Phoebe had captured him?  Had this been the 
trick she'd used to wind him inexorably around her little 
finger?

Never mind that now.  He was holding her, burying his face 
in her hair, pressing his lips against her forehead in a 
soft kiss -- //yes, Mulder; oh, yes// -- another kiss, on 
the tip of her nose, moving slowly downward until his lips 
hovered scant millimeters from hers, poised and breathless, 
knowing that the next step was irrevocable...

His lips against hers, gently.  So gently.  His tongue, 
gliding over her lips, past her teeth, meeting her tongue 
and being greeted like an old friend, more than welcome...  
his arms tightening around her as a shudder swept through 
his body, passion seizing him; and before that fact could 
reach his conscious mind and frighten him, as it had before, 
she slid her hand to the back of his neck, holding him in 
place, pulling him closer, encouraging him to continue.

From the few times they'd embraced, in times of great 
stress, she'd come to know that he was a deeply tactile 
person -- and yet he held himself separate so much of the 
time, maintaining a distance between himself and the rest of 
the world...  The dichotomy made sense to her, now.  But she 
was left with the realization that he was touch-starved, 
desperate for the contact that he refused to allow himself; 
and she thought that maybe that was the key to helping him 
overcome his fear...

The t-shirt was neatly tucked into the waistband of his 
jeans; she tugged at it until it came free, then slid her 
palms along his back -- a soft moan emerged from his throat, 
and she felt him shiver -- and his hands began to wander, 
finding their way under her shirt and mirroring her 
caresses.  His hands, moving along her back, pulling her 
closer with trembling urgency; even that small touch was 
remarkably intense, and she felt herself echo his cry of 
desire.

Then he pulled back, and she moaned again: //no, don't 
stop// -- his face was flushed, eyes wide and dark, holding 
an expression of dazed passion -- she gazed up at him, 
thinking, //god, he's beautiful.  Mulder, you're so damn 
beautiful, do you have any idea...?//

"This is too much," he murmured breathlessly, sounding 
forlorn.  "I can't handle this."

Her eyes flickered downwards, to the visible sign of his 
arousal -- //in those jeans? That's gotta *hurt*// -- 
"You're doing fine," she said.

"Scully, I can't..." and his words chopped off in mid-
thought, punctuated by a sharp cry, as her hand slid along 
his thigh to the prodigious swell of flesh between his legs.  
Just the barest touch: but he reacted as if she'd swallowed 
him whole.  //If he's like this now, my god, what will it be 
like when we get closer?//  Now *that* would be something 
worth waiting for...

"You can," she told him gently.  "*We* can," feeling his 
hips arch up into her hand, seeking the pressure, the 
stimulation she was providing.  "What are you so afraid of?"

"Anything.  Everything.  Oh, god, don't stop," spoken in a 
hoarse, ragged voice, as if he was already nine-tenths of 
the way there...  She thought, briefly, of what it must be 
like for him: dreading his own body's natural responses, 
unable to find even the most elementary relief without 
extraordinary measures, knowing that every time would be an 
ordeal punctuated by self-loathing -- felt the fury rise 
within her again, at what That Bitch had done to him -- set 
it aside, because he needed her love, not her rage; and 
because the prospect of giving him freedom from those mental 
chains was too sweet to let anything get in the way.

"I want to make you feel so good," she whispered, moving her 
hand away -- hearing him groan at the loss of contact -- 
just long enough to unbutton his jeans, then sliding down 
the zipper that held his erection confined.

There was a bit of awkward maneuvering as she worked the 
layers of denim and cotton underwear out of the way -- he 
didn't move to help, didn't move at all, as if the sheer 
strangeness of the situation held him paralyzed, or as if he 
feared it was all a dream that might burst like a soap 
bubble if he disturbed it.  Finally, though, it was done; 
and she wrapped her hand around his hard-on, felt him draw a 
long, shuddering breath in response.

Sprawled on the couch, legs spread slightly, chest heaving, 
head flung back, eyes shut tightly, sweat sparkling on his 
face...  "You're so beautiful," she told him.  "Do you know 
how beautiful you are?" hand moving slowly, gently, because 
he was so aroused that too much stimulation might well be 
painful.  She snuggled up beside him, felt his arm curve 
around her shoulders, holding her -- not so much an 
affectionate gesture as an attempt to keep her there, as if 
he feared she might stop, might go away...  "Mulder," she 
whispered, and kissed his sweaty cheek.

"Scully," the barest breath forming her name; and his head 
turned sideways, his lips capturing hers in a passionate 
kiss.  

She kissed him, kept kissing him as her hand found a steady 
rhythm; felt the effect she was having on him, as his body 
trembled against her, as small strangled sounds formed in 
his throat -- //was that part of her brainwashing? that he 
should remain silent?// -- as his hips rose, forcing himself 
further into her grip, begging silently for more, more...  
The arm around her tightened, hand clutching at her almost 
painfully; she was certain she'd be bruised in the morning -
- and didn't care; it was clear that her ministrations were 
having the desired effect, and it was one hell of a turn-on 
to know that she could affect him that way.

Closer now, closer...  He broke off the kiss, as a 
particularly insistent moan emerged from his lips.  The 
sounds were coming more frequently now, harsher and more 
relentless, beyond repression or denial: hoarse, plaintive 
cries that seemed to plead, //don't stop, don't...//  He was 
right on the edge, now, hovering there, achingly close to 
fulfillment -- and was this where *she* would have cut him 
off? half a breath from the point of no return, so that he 
could feel the agonizing specter of the pleasure she 
wouldn't permit him?  And if the thought was crossing 
Scully's mind, was it passing through his as well?  No, that 
wouldn't do...  "Mulder," she murmured, hoping that her 
voice could banish any memories that might choose to assault 
him at such a vulnerable time.  "Mulder, I love you.  I love 
you so much..."

And felt a ferocious tremor race through him, then another; 
and a ragged howl burst forth as his orgasm exploded through 
him.

She stroked him in time with the contractions, prolonging 
and enhancing the pleasure for him as best she could, amazed 
by the intensity of it -- such a reaction, to just a hand-
job?  -- stilled her hand as the spasms subsided, simply 
providing warmth and contact.  It took him a long time to 
come down, and she let him have that space in silence; when 
his breathing had returned to something approximating normal 
respiration, she asked, "You okay?"

A slow chuckle; he seemed to find that amusing.  "Okay," he 
repeated, in a soft, lazy voice.  "Okay... is an 
understatement," and suddenly both of his arms were around 
her, sweeping her into a crushing embrace.  "Scully," 
whispered in her ear, two syllables conveying a wealth of 
meaning; unseen, she smiled, pleased with the definite 
success of the venture.

He drew away, after a few minutes, began rearranging and 
zipping; she glanced at the white spatters adorning the 
carpet and coffee table, snatched up a few napkins left over 
from their dinner and began wiping up the mess.  "Sorry 
about that," she heard him say sheepishly.

"Not a problem," she assured him, thinking to herself, //I'm 
going to have to watch where I aim that thing,// and 
silently grateful that her carpeting was Scotchgarded. 

Kneeling on the floor beside the couch, she was startled by 
the feel of a single fingertip, coursing up the back of her 
neck.  "Seems like I owe you one," said a quiet voice behind 
her.

"Huh?"  She'd been so wrapped up in his pleasure that she 
hadn't given much thought to her own needs -- now that she 
considered the matter, she became aware of a lingering ache 
that definitely could use some attention...  "Mulder," she 
said, "don't worry about it."  This night had been for him; 
it had been a delight, to give him what he'd so desperately 
needed.  She could take care of herself later... far more 
easily and painlessly than he could, a fact for which she 
was thankful.

"Don't worry about it, she says.  She gives me a taste of 
heaven wrapped up in five kinds of ecstasy, and says, 'don't 
worry about it'..."  Hands on her shoulders, gently pulling 
her toward him.  "C'mere."

"Mulder..."

"C'mere," repeated with gentle insistence; and she rose and 
obeyed.

Her couch wasn't all that big; there wasn't much room for 
two people to stretch out along its length.  Somehow, they 
managed -- she settled into place as he urged her, half 
lying on her side and half resting against him, her back 
against his chest, his denim-clad crotch pressing against 
her ass cheek, his warm breath stirring strands of her 
hair...  "Comfortable?"

"Yeah," she assented.

His right hand slid under her shirt, drifted upward, cupped 
her breast; fingertips flicked across her nipple -- 
carefully, skillfully -- and involuntarily, she moaned.  "Is 
that good?" and he did it again, lingering this time to 
circle the areola, tantalizing the nub at its midst...

"So good," she whispered, and arched back against him, 
feeling his cock hardening and pressing into her.

She reached back, uncertain that she could twist enough to 
do anything substantial for him, but willing to try -- he 
deflected her hand, gently but firmly.  "Uh-uh, it's your 
turn," and his hand found her other breast, lavishing the 
same attention upon it, lest it feel neglected.  //Where did 
I get the idea that he wouldn't know what he was doing?// 
she thought hazily, as his hand smoothed over her stomach, 
over her groin, over the nest of curls below, exploring the 
folds of flesh and finding them wet and slippery already.  
//The bitch taught him well -- damn her for her methods; but 
oh, *god*,// as his fingers settled into position and began 
a rhythmic circular motion.  Not too rough, not too lightly, 
but just enough, just perfectly right.

The other arm, the one trapped beneath her, edged its way to 
a place where it could reach her left breast; and the dual 
stimulation was incredible...  "Scully," he breathed, "oh, 
Scully," and the sound of it, his voice low and soft and 
hazed with passion, was like a tangible caress, adding to 
the pleasure.  So damn good... being held, being stroked, 
being loved by the one man who'd taught her more about trust 
than she'd ever imagined -- who was teaching her even more 
by daring to trust her when it would have been so much 
easier for him to lie to her, to retreat, to keep his 
secrets to himself...  Only a few moments before, she'd held 
his cock and his soul in her hands and felt his cries of 
pleasure spreading joy through her own breast: and now here 
he was, aroused anew through his pleasuring of her, touching 
her in ways she'd only ever touched herself, loving her as 
no man ever had, with nothing but her pleasure in mind, 
nothing but her...

Normally, she was fairly quiet in bed, but this was several 
levels beyond normal, and Mulder deserved -- needed, she 
felt -- to know what he was giving her; so she let her 
pleasure surge through her voice... It would have 
embarrassed her, to be so vocal, except for the memory of 
Mulder's cries, and the knowledge of how powerfully it had 
affected her to *hear* him so aroused.

From the feel of the hard bulge pressed against her ass, her 
moans were having the same effect on him.

And he knew, as if they were telepathically linked, he 
*knew* when to pick up the pace, a little bit rougher, a 
little bit faster, hand leaving her breast to encircle her 
waist and pull her tight against him -- breathing ragged 
against her hair, hips thrusting his confined erection 
against her, as his own arousal grew -- but never faltering, 
bringing her steadily closer to climax.  Now it wasn't a 
matter of forcing herself to be vocal; she would have been 
hard-pressed to constrain the moans that issued forth from 
her lips, as he brought her to the edge, and over it...

Her climax was astonishingly intense, wave after wave of 
ecstasy exploding through her; she felt him shudder against 
her, heard him cry out, and knew that they were sharing the 
moment.

As it subsided, she lay still in his arms, feeling his hand 
still tucked cozily between her legs and the stickiness 
permeating the rear part of her sweatpants, feeling his 
chest heaving against her back even as she struggled for 
breath, not thinking at all, just *feeling*, luxuriating in 
the feeling and loving it, loving him.

"Did I leave a change of clothes over here?" she heard him 
ask, lazy-voiced.

"Uhmmm.  Think so," she murmured contentedly.

"Mm.  That's good," and he shifted position just a little, 
making himself comfortable without relinquishing contact.  
"Gonna need 'nother pair of pants."

"We could stick those in the washer," she suggested.  
"Later."

"Mm.  Tomorrow morning?" and she realized that it was a 
question, as if he honestly didn't know...

"Of *course* you're staying over," she told him, and didn't 
need to roll over and face him to know that he was smiling.

"'Course I am," he agreed sleepily.  "Hey, Scully... that 
was okay?"

A soft chuckle escaped her lips.  "'Okay' is an 
understatement," she echoed his words.  "Mulder, that was 
incredible."

"Good.  'Cause you're incredible, Scully.  You're just... 
incredible."  A moment later, very quietly:  "Thank you."

"Thank *you*, Mulder," she said, and again, felt him 
smiling.

It was comfortable, lying in his arms on the couch; but 
still...  "We should sleep in the *bed*, maybe," she 
mentioned.

"Mm.  Yeah.  Bed is good.  In a minute, maybe.  Don't wanna 
get up just now..."

A moment later, he was snoring lightly in her ear.

Fast asleep.  And hopefully, dreaming happy dreams...  If 
not, well, she was there.  She could soothe away the 
nightmares, bring him into a happier reality.  She had no 
doubt about that, now.

Loving Mulder had never been easy: it required a certain 
suspension of disbelief on her part, and a ridiculous amount 
of patience.  Loving Mulder as more than a friend and a 
partner was even less easy -- she'd known that before she'd 
learned his secret.

But it was worth it.  Oh, lord, was it ever.

She smiled, closed her eyes and let slumber overtake her.


V. Acquiescence

//This isn't my couch.//

First stray thought of the morning, penetrating through 
slumber to tickle his conscious mind with its realization.  
Scent of freshly-brewing coffee, reinforcing: //this isn't 
my apartment,// and adding the corollary thought, //what am 
I doing at Scully's place?//

Then memory came surging back to him, of what had happened 
the night before... 

//I have a sex life!//  Not much of one as yet, but so much 
more than he'd been able to enjoy for years...  //I have a 
sex *partner*.//  A real live person, not a body on a screen 
or a voice on the telephone; a warm, tangible presence 
beside him, doing things to his anatomy that went far beyond 
anything he'd dared to  imagine.

//And best of all, it's *Scully*...//  Scully.  Dana Scully.  
His partner, his friend; the only one he trusted.  The only 
person to whom he could possibly have revealed this part of 
himself.  She'd listened to him spill his humiliating 
secret, and had come to him anyway, unafraid of his damaged 
psyche or his fear, loving him and helping to make him 
whole.

God, it had been wonderful...

Movement from the kitchen caught his eye, and there she was: 
freshly showered and wrapped in a bathrobe, hair caught up 
in a terry-cloth turban -- she made her way to the couch, 
knelt beside him.  "Hi," she said, smiling.  "Sleep well?"

Her words sailed right over his head, meaningless; he was 
wholly caught up in the sight of her, pink and rosy and 
glowing -- the scent of her, shampoo and soap and femaleness 
-- the utter glory of his memories, and the knowledge that 
he could reach out to her, touch...

His fingers caught a stray damp tendril of hair, then moved 
to caress her cheek, amazed by the pleasure inherent in such 
a simple act.  "Scully," he murmured, with something akin to 
awe.

She blushed, head ducking away from his scrutiny; he caught 
her chin, raised it gently so that he could look at her 
lovely face.  "Thank you," he whispered.

"It was my pleasure," she responded, "in more ways than 
one," and her hands rose, encircled his wrists and held them 
loosely.  "Want some coffee?"

"In a minute."  Other, more pressing needs than caffeine 
were making themselves known; he released her and sat up, 
finding the effort to be uncomfortable in several ways.  
"You did say that I had a change of clothes here, didn't 
you?"

"I did," she confirmed.

"Good," and he levered himself to his feet and stumbled to 
her bathroom.

Last night, he'd been so wonderfully fatigued that getting 
up to clean himself and change had been out of the question.  
Now, in the bright light of morning, he was discovering that 
semen dried overnight on flesh and fabric was a lot like 
glue...  All sorts of things were stuck together, and 
getting them unstuck was a challenge, especially since he'd 
only begun to wake up.  For a couple of awful moments, it 
seemed that he was going to have a choice between ripping 
out half his pubic hair and wetting his pants; but he 
managed to resolve the situation satisfactorily, with only a 
minor amount of discomfort and no further loss to his 
dignity.

Showering seemed a hell of a good idea, and he shed his 
clothes and stepped under the spray.  No cold shower this 
morning, to assuage the last traces of frustrated arousal; 
steaming hot water, instead, to rinse away the last traces 
of last night's pleasure and bring new life to muscles tired 
from unaccustomed exertion.  So much nicer, this way of 
facing the day.  He took his time bathing, stepped out of 
the shower finally to find last night's clothes gone, and 
fresh garments neatly stacked on the closed toilet lid: t-
shirt, sweatpants, socks, his 'emergency clothing stash' -- 
and a never-used disposable razor lined up beside a still-
wrapped toothbrush on the side of the sink.  Grinning at 
Scully's resourcefulness; he made use of both.

When he was finished shaving and brushing his teeth and 
dressing, he stuck the new toothbrush in the holder, next to 
Scully's, and spent a moment studying the tableau, liking 
how it looked.  There was a feeling of permanence about 
having his toothbrush next to hers in the bathroom, a vague 
primitive sense of ownership and being owned that felt oddly 
comforting.

By the time he emerged, Scully was dressed in jeans and a 
sweatshirt, sitting on the couch where he'd slept drinking 
coffee; an untouched mug, still steaming, rested beside hers 
on the table.  "Morning, beautiful," he said, settling down 
beside her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and 
pulling her close, loving the way it felt to do so, to have 
the freedom to do so.

"Afternoon," she corrected mildly, snuggling against him; 
forsaking the coffee awaiting him, he turned sideways on the 
couch so that he could embrace her properly.

"Already?" he murmured, burying his face in her hair -- 
scent of her shampoo, one he couldn't define: fresh and 
woodsy, the scent of green leaves and new forest growth 
after a spring rain.

"You slept through most of the morning.  I would have woken 
you, but you looked so peaceful that I couldn't bear to..."  
She twisted in his arms, gazed up at him, eyes filled with 
warmth.  "I know you don't generally sleep too well."

"Scully, you know me so well."  He considered the statement, 
couldn't help grinning.  "Better than ever, now."

"And getting to know you has never been so much fun."  Her 
face brightened into a smile -- then faded slightly.  "No 
regrets?"

"Regrets?  Are you kidding?  No."  Mulder studied her face 
closely.  "You?" he asked, dreading the answer.

The return of the brilliant warmth to her face was a more 
eloquent answer than her verbalization.  "No," she said, and 
he felt her arms tighten around his waist; he hugged her, 
held her close, savoring the contact.

"So," she said, her voice muffled against his chest.  "We 
still have the rest of Saturday ahead of us; what do you 
want to do today?  Besides *that*," she added, before he 
could give the so-predictable answer.

"Oh, I don't know," he answered, thinking, //I don't care, 
as long as we're together.//  "What do you suggest?"

-------

The skies were overcast, threatening rain; but that didn't 
seem to be dampening anyone's spirits.  Children laughed, 
while their indulgent parents shelled out money for yet 
another ride or game or tempting sweet -- the sounds of 
merriment rang out through the parking lot, transformed by 
the presence of the traveling carnival into a temporarily 
magical place.

Strolling hand-in-hand with Scully through the midway, 
Mulder couldn't help but wonder: //is that what's happening 
here?//  Temporary magic, illuminating the bleakness of his 
life for one brief moment, before...

"Mulder," her voice cut through the fog of his thoughts, 
patient and understanding, "come back to earth, will you?  I 
miss you," and he glanced down at her, smiled, and obeyed as 
best he could.

They stopped at a booth and he bought cotton candy, picking 
tufts of gossamer spun sugar from the skein and feeding them 
to Scully, momentarily distracted when her lips closed 
around his fingers to suck the last bit of sweetness from 
his flesh: it brought about thoughts of the logical next 
step, and how her lips might feel wrapped around his...  
Swiftly, he dispatched the concept to the back of his mind, 
before it could provoke a reaction beyond his control.

Scully, being Scully, didn't miss the brief tremor that 
raced through him; she caught his hand in hers, kissed his 
fingertips, her eyes conveying a silent promise.

"Don't," he cautioned her briefly, meaning, //not *here*,// 
and she nodded in agreement.

But as they took their seats in the tiny cabin of the ferris 
wheel and felt it lurch around them, she snuggled close, her 
hand settling against his chest...  "*Don't,*" he said, more 
firmly, and pushed her hand away.

She seemed hurt, for a moment; then the clouds lifted from 
her face, as she reached for understanding.  "Why?" she 
asked.

"Phoebe," he began, and didn't bother to continue; the 
single word was enough.

Scully sighed.  "Is there anything in your world that isn't 
tainted by her memory?"

He thought about it for a moment.  "Not much, no," he 
admitted, feeling the shame of it anew.

A soft hand caressed his cheek, gentle coolness against the 
hot blush that had crept over him.  "I hate her for what 
she's done to you," Scully muttered darkly.

Somehow, her anger cheered him; he smiled.  "Thanks," he 
said quietly.  Then, with a faint grin: "It's nice to have 
someone to hate her with."

Her laughter was like music to his ears.

The ferris wheel lifted them aloft -- the sun was beginning 
to dip lower, signaling the imminent onset of evening, and 
illuminating Scully's face with a golden glow; the balmy 
breeze stirred her copper hair.  "You're beautiful," Mulder 
whispered, letting himself discover the fact as if for the 
first time.  For so long, he'd repressed that knowledge, not 
allowing himself the luxury of appreciating her loveliness.  
Now, though, things were different.

//Why?  Because she jerked you off?// spoke the cold voice 
of insecurity within him, determined to shatter his fragile 
bubble of happiness.  //One hand job, and you think 
everything's rosy... you should know better than that; life 
isn't that good to you, not ever.//

But Scully was smiling up at him, her face alight with a 
glow that surpassed the sunlight's touch -- "Mulder, I love 
you so much," and for a moment, there was no insecurity, no 
fear, no lingering memories of the BritBitch, nothing but 
her smile, her warmth, and the promise of a future unlike 
anything he'd ever dared to dream about.

For that moment, the past was a thousand light-years away; 
and he reached out to her, slid his arm around her shoulders 
and drew her close.

Inevitably, though, the memories rose to haunt him; he felt 
himself tense, and glanced down to see Scully's eyes on him 
inquiringly.  "Phoebe liked to... play," he muttered, 
haltingly, forcing out the words because she deserved to 
know why he couldn't do a simple thing like cuddle with her 
on the ferris wheel like any of the other couples in the 
adjacent capsules.  "In public.  She said that it was 
another part of my lessons, another way of learning 
control..."

Another soft sigh from the woman in his arms; she moved to 
disengage -- but his arms wouldn't cooperate, wouldn't let 
her go.  "I just want to be with you," he murmured, feeling 
tears stinging his eyes, holding them back with all his 
strength because he was just so goddamn sick of *crying*... 

"I'm not Phoebe," Scully said gently.

"I know.  God, I know."  She was everything to him that 
Phoebe had never been; it seemed an obscenity to so much as 
mention Phoebe in the same breath as this woman, this 
*angel*...  "You deserve better than this, Scully.  You 
deserve better than I can give you."

"But all I want is you."  Such a simple statement, delivered 
in such a calm tone, yet it struck straight to the heart of 
him, lodging deep inside his soul and sending resonating 
tremors through him.

Scully, his angel; and all she wanted was him.  Fox Mulder, 
rampaging bundle of desolate paranoia and mental trauma... 
but *he* was the one Scully wanted, and no other.  It almost 
made him feel... worthy.  As if he were a normal man.

He fought to hang on to that feeling of worth, of normalcy; 
fought back the demons of doubt with every ounce of strength 
he possessed.

Her lips brushed against his, in a gentle kiss.  "Try to 
relax," she urged him, "enjoy the moment.  *This* moment, 
Mulder, not the memory of things that happened long ago.  I 
know -- I know you've been hurt, deeply, and I'm not 
trivializing your pain.  But the past is over, gone; and no 
matter how vivid the memories are, they're not real, not 
now."  And her hand moved, sliding across his chest in a 
slow caress, then down over his stomach.  "You and I," she 
said, "right here, right now -- this is real."

Down, and down... over his crotch, just the lightest feather 
touch, but it stirred embers of desire to full raging fire.  
"Scully..."

"*She* would have done this, and left you hanging," still in 
that quiet, calm, logical tone that brooked no denial.  "But 
I'm going to take you home tonight and give you... whatever 
you want, whatever you need.  I don't tease, Mulder; I make 
promises.  *That* is real.  That is the way things are, 
now."  Her hand settled on his thigh -- far enough away from 
his subsiding hard-on to allow him some measure of comfort.  
"No more broken promises, no more pain.  Not from me."

And he could only look at her, gaze into her eyes, seeing 
the sincerity there, and the caring.  "Scully," he 
whispered.

Again, her lips grazed his; and this time he kissed her, 
pulling her close into a *real* kiss, feeling the resurgence 
of need within him and not quite as afraid of it as he might 
have been.  //Tonight...//  God, what a promise.

The ferris wheel dipped lower, heading for the ground in a 
slow, lazy arc; one more turn, and the ride would be over.  
And then...  "I don't suppose you'd want to leave so soon," 
he said tentatively, resting his chin on top of her head.

She chuckled.  "I'd like to stay out a *little* longer," she 
said.  "It's not often that we have the chance to just be 
together, without chasing something or being chased..."

"True," he conceded; but just the thought of her, being with 
her, feeling her body against his, her hands on him again, 
was enough to make him want to break all speed limits 
getting back to her apartment.  "I guess there'll be time 
later..."

"All the time we need," and her voice was a throaty purr, 
incredibly seductive, sizzling down his spine to his groin 
and settling there, adding to the fire.

Mulder drew a deep breath, and forced back the feeling -- 
something he'd become well accustomed to doing, over the 
years.  "I need a little space," he murmured; and she gave 
it to him, moving to the far end of the bench seat without 
comment.

"You okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine," and it was true; a few scant days ago, the level 
of arousal he was experiencing would have led to a cascade 
of fear and dread, prompted by the knowledge of what he 
would have to go through to assuage it -- but now, things 
were different.  Now, there was the promise of sweet release 
in Scully's arms...

//Do you have any idea of the gift you're giving me?// he 
wondered.  //You're giving me my life back, Scully.  You're 
giving me back a part of myself I never thought I'd 
regain.//

And then, the inevitable whisper of doubt in his mind:  
//She's a doctor,// it said nastily, //it's in her nature to 
heal.  It's not *you*, it's not love; she's just doing her 
job...//

//Fuck you,// he told the voice firmly, resolved not to 
listen to it any more.

-------

But the voice persisted.

Back in Scully's apartment, his stomach comfortably filled 
with hot dogs and ice cream, he watched Scully settle her 
brand-new carnival-won teddy bear into an easy chair; 
watched as she made her way back across the room to sit on 
the couch beside him.  //Time for her to fulfill her 
promise,// said the icy voice inside him.  //She's an 
honorable woman; she won't break her word.  Desire has 
nothing to do with it...//

She reached for him, and involuntarily, he flinched.

"What's wrong?" she asked him, sounding surprised.

"Nothing," he said guiltily.  //She's my friend.  My 
partner.  She *loves me*.  That's what this is about, not 
some misguided sense of responsibility...//

//Are you sure?// the voice responded.

"Don't give me that."  Again, she reached out -- he forced 
himself not to shy away as her hands glided over his arms, 
his shoulders.  "Tell me what's wrong."

He couldn't.  How could he?  To admit to her that he doubted 
her love... intuitively, he knew that nothing he said could 
hurt her more.  "I'm just -- I guess I'm still nervous," he 
murmured: a partial truth.

She considered him, for a long moment.  "Come here," she 
said finally, stretching out on the sofa; and with only 
brief hesitation, he settled down beside her.

Her arms wrapped around him, guiding his head to her 
shoulder; he reached out and embraced her in turn, acutely 
aware of the curve of her breast, so close...  //Oh, God, I 
want her.  Why does this have to be so damn difficult?  Why 
can't I just... hold her, and make love to her, like any 
other man would?  Why does every damn minute have to be a 
struggle?  I hate this, I hate being this way...//

"Damn it," he whispered, feeling tears threatening again -- 
//and I'm so *damn* sick of crying!// 

"Mulder, Rome wasn't built in a day.  We'll get through 
this," and her voice was so calm and devoid of pity that it 
helped stabilize him, helped chase away the incipient tears 
and the doubt.

"Will we?"  //Will I?  It would be easier,// he thought, in 
a moment's despair, //just to crawl back into my goddamn 
hole and stay there, alone with my videos and cold showers.  
Not to have to be fighting, every moment...//

Her hand reached up, began nonchalantly unbuttoning her 
blouse, revealing a little lacy scrap of a bra covering 
gorgeous globes of flesh, and it was all he could do not to 
touch...  then she reached out, took his hand and brought it 
there.  Of its own accord, his fingers glided over the lace, 
finding the hidden nub of her nipple, palm curving to cup 
her breast...  //Oh, god.//

He could feel it starting, now; the heat building inside 
him, consolidating and centering at his groin -- 
involuntarily, his hips moved to bring his swelling cock in 
closer contact with her, rubbing against her -- and he heard 
the echo of Phoebe's voice, enough to thoroughly diminish 
his desire: //no better than an animal; for heaven's sake, 
Fox, control yourself...//

And then another voice, a *real* voice, stronger and more 
vivid in his ears.  "Mulder, yes," in Scully's breathy tone, 
letting him know that it was all right.

Who to believe?  The voice he'd been hearing in his head for 
years of his life, or this new voice of sweet reason?  He 
wanted... god, how he wanted; but no matter how hard he 
tried, the damning voice of loathing wouldn't go away.

"Mulder, look at me," and he opened his eyes -- when had he 
shut them? -- and gazed up at her.  Scully.  Not Phoebe, 
teasing him and taunting him and deriding him for the 
reactions she'd provoked.  Not Phoebe, Scully... holding 
him, stroking his back, moving to kiss him gently...  Not 
Phoebe.  Scully.

Scully.

She held his gaze, as her hand undid the front clasp of her 
bra and drew it aside, as the arm wrapped around his 
shoulders tightened; he stared into her eyes, willing 
himself to believe in the reality of *now* instead of the 
memory of then...  he moved, unable to resist the lure of 
her breasts, levering himself up on one elbow and leaning 
over to kiss her there.  None of his research, cinematic or 
textual, had prepared him for the fact that the underside of 
her breasts were warmer, and ever so faintly coated with a 
fine layer of Scully-flavored sweat; hesitantly, he applied 
his lips to the areola, sucking briefly on her nipple -- 
discovered he liked the sensation, discovered from her 
quivering and her moans that Scully liked it too, and kept 
it up, with more conviction than before.  Odd, that Phoebe 
had never let him do this; she'd let him touch her, after a 
fashion, had taught him how to perform oral sex, but never 
allowed him the intimacy of kissing her anywhere else but 
her lips...

//Phoebe doesn't matter, now,// he told himself, and 
struggled to banish the specter from his mind.

Easier said than done.  The ghost of Phoebe had lived there 
for so long that it knew the terrain: knew where to hide, 
where to lurk and wait for a vulnerable, unbarriered moment 
so that it could spring out and sabotage him.  //Will I ever 
be free?// he wondered, with momentary despair.

Beneath him, Scully moaned again, bringing him firmly back 
to the here-and-now.

Her breasts, her stomach, moving slowly down her body...  
Now, in *this* he had some measure of confidence: the 
BritBitch might have never thought him good enough, but he'd 
been able to bring her to climax.  Surely, he'd be able to 
do the same for Scully.  A return of favors granted, and 
favors promised; //and maybe I won't feel so damn stupid,// 
he thought briefly, //if I can at least display some sort of 
competence in *some*thing.//  Small slim fingers ruffled 
through his hair, stroking, urging him onward; small soft 
cries of pleasure, reassuring him that he was doing at least 
a passable job of pleasing her.

The couch wasn't the best place for what he had in mind; it 
took some awkward maneuvering to find a workable position -- 
eventually, they found one: Scully, half-reclining on the 
couch, himself kneeling on the floor between her spread 
legs.  "Mulder," came her token protest, "you don't have 
to..."

"Shh," he said absently, and applied himself to the task.

It reassured him that she was already wet; proof positive 
that her arousal wasn't feigned.  //Scully wouldn't do 
that!// protested one part of his mind, while a far more 
cynical corner of his consciousness ignored the statement.  
Now, to work: not a particularly pleasant job, not something 
he'd ever really enjoyed, but an equitable exchange -- a job 
that had to be done.

Or so he thought, until he bent his head to apply his tongue 
to fevered flesh.

A revelation: she tasted *nothing* like Phoebe -- her 
flavor, like her scent, was wholly her own.  Much more 
pleasant -- although that could have been his own subjective 
opinion, based on his emotional state.  But that wasn't the 
best part...  Phoebe had always been still, quiet, breaking 
her silence only with level-voiced instructions on how he 
should proceed.  On the other hand, Scully was all cries and 
moans and quivering tremors, whimpering a little as he found 
her rhythm, fingers lacing through his hair and shuddering 
with the effort of *not* pulling his head down against 
her...

//I could get to like this,// Mulder mused absently.

Scully was liking it, that was for certain.  And that -- the 
liking, and the certainty -- made all the difference.

At some point, he forgot all about Phoebe, too caught up in 
Scully's rapture for anything else to intrude -- he led her 
along the slow climb to climax, aware only of her heat and 
her pleasure, until she dissolved into shudders, crying out 
his name -- and was startled to find himself coming with 
her; he'd forgotten his own arousal, he'd been so submerged 
in hers.  //More laundry to do,// spoke up some overly-
pragmatic part of his mind; he barely listened to it, more 
concerned with the revelation of his own sexuality.  
Generally, achieving orgasm required major exertion -- this 
time, it hadn't even required *contact*, just Scully's legs 
draped over his shoulders and the taste of her on his 
tongue...

"You are *incredible*," he heard her say, and the breathless 
satiation in her voice rendered the statement utterly 
credible.

For a moment, he rolled it around in his mind.  //I'm 
incredible?//  Tremendously empowering, that thought; more 
so, coming from her.  //Say that often enough, Scully, and I 
might just believe it...//

He planted a parting kiss on sweat-damp curls, disengaged -- 
helped her arrange languorous legs into a comfortable 
position on the couch, then stretched out beside her as best 
he could.  "Mulder, you..." as her hands reached for his 
nether regions.

"Not necessary," he told her, "you're pretty incredible 
yourself," and found himself smiling as she nestled into his 
arms.

"I love you," he heard her say, and luxuriated in the sound 
of it: the words, and the sleepy happiness of her voice.  
//She loves me.  She does.  And we're so good together...  
Maybe this will work out after all.  Maybe... maybe, 
everything's finally going to be all right, for me.//

And the voices of damnation inside his skull were noticeably 
silent.


VI. Intervention 

She was tired, so tired.  How long had they spent tromping 
through the mud in the rain, looking for signs of something 
that might or might not exist?  The hot shower helped, but 
just barely; it soothed the aches in her muscles, but the 
fatigue persisted.

At least the day was over.  Tomorrow would likely be just as 
bad... but that was tomorrow.

As she exited the shower, struggling to force the cheap 
motel towel to cover the parts of herself most chilled by 
the sudden transition from hot water to cold air, she heard 
the television blaring sports from the adjoining room...  
Things had changed between them, but work was still work; 
and she knew his routine well enough to know what she would 
find, were she to step through the unlocked door...

After shrugging into a warm robe, she did so, and found her 
expectations fulfilled.  The television proclaimed loudly 
that the Mets were trailing at the bottom of the seventh, 
but he wasn't paying attention; instead, he was poring over 
the case file, papers scattered all over the bed.  "You want 
to order a pizza or something?" he said, without diverting 
his attention from the paperwork he was studying.

"I'm not hungry," she informed him, "I'm going to sleep."

At that, he looked up.  "You all right?" he asked her, the 
concern in his dark eyes unshielded by his reading glasses.

"I'm fine," she reassured him.  "Just tired."

"Okay, then.  Sleep well, Scully."  And the warmth in his 
voice went straight to the core of her, reminding her:  //he 
loves me,// she thought, knowing it without the tiniest 
fragment of doubt, even though he'd never spoken the words.

She smiled at him, went back to her own room, slipped out of 
the robe and into her standard on-the-road sleepwear -- t-
shirt and shorts; too inconvenient to be caught in a 
nightgown or in the nude, should something happen 
unexpectedly -- made certain that her weapon was concealed 
from casual view, yet within easy reach should it be needed 
-- shut off the light and slipped beneath the covers, 
letting the fatigue swallow her whole.

Sometime after that, between twilight drifting and true 
slumber, she heard the connecting door open.  "You asleep, 
Scully?" came the soft query.

"Mmmm," was all she could manage; and was dimly aware of the 
door closing again, then the distant sound of the shower in 
the next room running.  //Amazing,// she thought blurrily, 
//he's actually getting an early night's sleep,// just 
before the last fragments of consciousness drifted away.

...Then she was awake again, staring at the ceiling and 
wondering what had wakened her.  //Something's wrong?// she 
thought uncertainly, lying perfectly still so as not to 
alert any intruder to her change in status, readying herself 
for the quick spring to the bedside table where her weapon 
waited -- but there were no tell-tale sounds of intrusion, 
no sign of impending danger.  Only the sound of the shower 
going, in the next room...

Startled, she glanced at the clock.  Hours since she'd bid 
him goodnight; was he *still* in the shower?  That seemed 
odd...

//Something's wrong,// she thought.

Silently, she slid out of bed; noiselessly, she made her way 
to the connecting door, pressing her ear against the thin 
plywood.  Yes, that was definitely the sound of the shower 
running...  Carefully, she eased the door open and stepped 
through, into his room.

The television was displaying the pay-per-view porn channel 
advertised prominently on the cable box, and she glanced at 
the writhing bodies on the screen with a flash of 
irritation.  //I hope he charged this to his credit card 
instead of to the room,// she thought, annoyed at the 
thought of having to explain the line item on the motel bill 
when it came time to submit their expense report.  //And he 
isn't even *watching* the damn thing; instead, he's been in 
the shower for god-only-knows how long...//

And then, she remembered.

At the time, she'd been too concerned with his obvious 
distress to pick out individual details; her mind had been 
thoroughly occupied with how best to reassure him.  Now, 
though, his recount of the experience returned to haunt her:  
//She'd just leave me... hanging... and I was so completely 
under her spell that all I could do was stand in a cold 
shower until the feeling went away.  Even now, half the time 
that's the only thing that works...//

//Shit.  Oh, shit.//

Slowly, soundlessly, she opened the bathroom door.  No steam 
issued forth from the tiny room, confirming her suspicion -- 
and through the thin translucent shower curtain, she could 
make out his silhouette: fully aroused and making no attempt 
to assuage that arousal, standing in the path of the shower 
spray, trembling.

//Now what the hell do I do?//

He'd suffered so much humiliation already -- what would it 
do to him to be discovered in such a state?  Would it make 
it worse for him, to have her walk in on him...?  But she 
couldn't just walk away and *leave* him, either.  //What the 
hell do I do now?// she wondered miserably.

Then she heard the sound -- just barely; such a small sound, 
it was -- a whimper, or maybe a sob; and that decided her.

She moved determinedly into the room, flung back the shower 
curtain, reached past the ice-cold shower spray and wrenched 
the temperature-control over to the warm part of the 
spectrum in the same frantic motion, and stepped into the 
shower beside him.

The cold had taken its toll; his testicles were drawn up so 
tightly against his body that they had to have hurt, even 
though his erection had entirely failed to subside...  His 
eyes were closed, his face contorted into an expression that 
might not have been pain, but certainly wasn't pleasure.  It 
took him a moment to register her presence, and in that 
moment she wrapped her arms around him and pulled his 
shivering body close against herself, struggling to provide 
warmth and comfort at once.  "Scully?" came the hesitant 
query, in a voice that trembled as fiercely as the rest of 
him.

"*Why* didn't you wake me?" she asked him, fighting to keep 
her own anguish from showing.

"You were tired," in the same small voice, "you needed your 
sleep," and his arms slid around her, seemingly of their own 
accord, reaching instinctively to pull her close.

She wanted to rage at him: //you stupid fool!  Don't you 
know that I'm *here* for you, damn it?  How the hell can I 
help you if you won't let me?// but bit back her anger 
before it could surface.  Nothing could be more guaranteed 
to cause him to retreat completely into the shell he'd built 
for himself.

Instead, she merely held him, warming him and shivering 
herself, as the water temperature slowly climbed from 
freezing to something approximating heat, feeling her wet 
clothing clinging to her skin and exacerbating the chill.  
Her own discomfort was negligible, compared to his; he was 
so cold -- as the water warmed, she maneuvered him into 
position to receive the brunt of the spray.  //It's a wonder 
you haven't died of hypothermia, all these years.  Oh, 
Mulder, you damned *idiot*...// and she was glad of the 
water all around them, the water streaming off her hair to 
trickle down her face: it masked her tears, so that he 
wouldn't know that she was crying.

One thing to know what Phoebe had done to him, to witness 
his skittishness in all matters sexual: another thing 
entirely to see him like this, miserable and helpless, 
desperately trying to numb his desires because it was what 
he'd been painstakingly taught, and all he knew how to do...

Someday, she would have the good fortune to see Phoebe Green 
again; and when she did, she would just have to even the 
score on his behalf.  It was as simple as that.

In the meantime, she *had* to do something about this.

He clung to her, seemingly oblivious to his erection pressed 
against her, shivering even harder as the warming water 
streamed over him, restoring his body temperature to 
something approximating normality -- then she realized that 
it wasn't just chills making him shudder: he was crying into 
her hair, a soundless outpouring of misery.  She thought 
about what to do about that, finally opting to not notice -- 
it seemed kindest, at present, to let him have what privacy 
she could.  But she held him as tightly as she could as he 
cried, trying her best to convey her feelings without 
cumbersome words -- that she was there, that she loved him, 
that she wouldn't allow him to suffer alone, no matter how 
much he might want to.

Slowly, his tremors diminished; slowly, he seemed to regain 
some measure of control.

And then, the sweetest feeling in the world: his hips 
moving, thrusting against her, pressing his hard-on into her 
in an attempt to seek relief.

She tilted her head upward, and his lips met hers: no 
reticence in his kiss, no uncertainty, only a harsh, needful 
hunger.  For the first time, she felt his hands fumbling at 
her clothing, moving to pull down her shorts...

Again, she felt uncertainty consume her.  It was what she'd 
hoped for: to have him take the initiative sexually, and 
never mind whether it was confidence or desperation fueling 
his actions -- but here?  The bathtub surface beneath them 
was slippery, and if one of them should lose balance...  it 
was possibly the worst, most hazardous place for a sexual 
encounter.  But if she stopped him now, it would give his 
self-consciousness and fear a chance to kick in, and they 
might never recover the lost momentum...

For the second time that evening, a sound decided her: a 
soft moan of passion emanating from his throat -- and she 
resolved to simply be as careful as she could.

Her shorts hovered at mid-thigh; she wriggled them down and 
kicked them off without breaking the kiss -- had to separate 
herself from him a moment later, just long enough to wrench 
her t-shirt over her head.  Then they were naked together in 
the warm water, skin against skin, his hands roving urgently 
across her back to pull her against him, and she felt her 
body responding to his evident need, desire surging within 
her to meet his.

There was no finesse to his caresses: they were the artless 
gropings of a horny teenager in heat -- unsurprising, since 
his sexual development had been forcibly arrested at about 
that point.  Somehow, that turned her on even more -- that 
he was consumed with wanting her, beyond any remembrance of 
the teachings that the Bitch had so cruelly drilled into 
him.  For a moment, she thought he would try to enter her, 
but the logistics were all wrong -- instead, his hips ground 
against her, rubbing his erection frantically against her 
wet skin, until he came with a shuddering moan, spurting hot 
semen over both of them.

"Oh, god," he whispered, when he could speak.  "I am so 
sorry..."

"For not waking me up?" she responded, determined to derail 
the train of self-pity before it could emerge from the 
depot.  "You can apologize for *that*, if you want."

"Scully, I..."

"Shut up, Mulder," pulled his head down and kissed him 
fiercely; and after a moment, felt him relax and go with it, 
abandoning himself to the kiss.

"I'm here for you," she told him, when it was over.  "Get 
used to it, okay?"

"So, what, I should just impose my needs on you whenever I'm 
horny?"  His voice was sardonic.  "No matter how tired you 
are, no matter how inconvenient it might be..."

"I don't want you torturing yourself any more!  You don't 
deserve it," and her voice broke on the last words; she 
turned away from him, her hands clenching into fists as she 
fought to hold back the tears.

She felt his hands come to rest lightly on her shoulders.  
"Scully?" in a questioning, fearful voice.

"You don't deserve it," she forced out from between clenched 
teeth.  "You shouldn't have to go through this!  And I would 
give anything -- anything -- to make it all go away..."  Her 
voice failed her; her eyes closed, struggling to rein in the 
hot tears stinging her eyes.

Then his hands were turning her, moving her to face him, 
drawing her close.  "Scully," in a voice that held 
bewilderment, astonishment at the ferocity of her emotion, 
amazement that she should care so much, and pure unalloyed 
love... and she fell into his arms, buried her face against 
his chest and sobbed helplessly.

Once or twice before, she'd cried in his arms -- always when 
some case, some situation, had gotten so far out of hand 
that she'd been unable to restrain her misery.  Always 
before, it had been hellish -- hating herself for needing 
comfort, for needing anyone else, for not being strong 
enough to weather the disaster impassively.  Now, for the 
first time, she let herself cry -- let herself *need* him -- 
and was amazed by the sense of comfort that washed over her, 
by how sweet it was to cry and be consoled, by how 
wondrously safe she felt in his embrace.

Gentle kisses, on the top of her head, on her forehead, on 
her eyelids -- soft pressings of lips, speaking all the 
words he couldn't quite bring himself to say -- and then, 
the most astonishing thing of all.

"I love you so much, Scully."

Startled, she stared up at him, unblinking, unbelieving.

He met her gaze with level certainty.  "I love you," he 
repeated, and it seemed to her that he was marveling 
himself, at how easy it was to say the words, at how good it 
felt to say them.

She tried to speak, failed; and he pulled her close again, 
and held her as she cried into his chest.

Her tears slowed to stopping at about the same time the hot 
water began to run out; she sniffled and pulled away from 
him reluctantly, not wanting to let go.  //Now that I've 
learned to lean on him,// she wondered, in a moment's panic, 
//will it always be like this?  Will I forget what it means 
to be strong and self-sufficient?//  Then she remembered 
holding him as he'd cried, and came to know for the first 
time that dependence had nothing to do with strength.  //I 
can lean on him and still be strong,// she told herself, 
//just as he leans on me...//

She glanced upward to meet his eyes.  "I love you," she said 
softly.

His hand reached out, slid along the side of her face, 
cupping her cheek.  "Let's go to bed," he murmured.

-------

She was tired, so very tired; and so it seemed that the rest 
of the night passed in a jumbled haze of sensation.  Later, 
she would remember it in bits and pieces, isolated scenes 
without continuity or congruence.  The feel of the cool 
sheets against wet skin.  His fingertips tracing lazy 
circles around her nipples, driving her slowly up the wall.  
His startled cry at the sensation of her lips applying 
suction to his cock for the first time, a hoarse moan of 
pleasure so uncommonly intimate that she almost climaxed at 
the sound of it.  His laughter joining hers as they 
struggled to find a not-too-awkward position for sixty-
nining, and thinking how wonderful it was to hear him laugh, 
and in that context.  Her amused realization that his oral 
technique at cunnilingus faltered in direct proportion to 
whatever she happened to be doing to his cock at the moment.  
Tasting his semen for the first time, swallowing it because 
finding a discreet way to spit it out would have broken the 
mood, discovering that swallowing wasn't really *all* that 
bad, after all.  Being on the verge of falling asleep with 
her head on his thigh, only to have him jump out of bed, 
muttering curses, at the realization that the television had 
been playing the pay-per-view porn all that time, unnoticed, 
at the rate of fifteen dollars per hour.  Laughing with him 
again, at the realization that neither of them had noticed 
the porn transpiring on the screen, being more concerned 
with the erotic scene they'd been creating for themselves.  
Feeling his lips claim hers in mid-laugh, and deciding that 
she wasn't really *that* tired... 

She awoke to harsh sunlight battering her sensitive eyes, 
damp sheets tangled around her legs, and the awareness that 
she was alone in bed.  Sleepily, she dragged herself to the 
bathroom to deal with her full bladder and the cottony taste 
in her mouth, went to her own room to retrieve her bathrobe, 
then sat down in his room's only chair to wait for Mulder to 
return.

Within ten minutes, he did.  His shorts and sweaty t-shirt 
signified that he'd gone for a run; the paper bag in his 
hand signified that he'd gotten as far as the Denny's.  
Silently, he handed Scully the bag; she began to open it, 
then found her face being turned sideways and upward: he 
kissed her, slowly and sweetly and thoroughly.

"I think we've been going about this all wrong," he said.  
"I think the swamp is the wrong place to be looking for 
clues."

Scully stared at him, baffled.  //Oh, right.  The case.//

"What do you suggest?" she asked him, managing to hide her 
amusement.  Trust Mulder to wake up after a night of passion 
and be preoccupied with work.

"I think we should return to the scene of the crime.  Maybe 
we overlooked something."

"Maybe," she agreed, sipping at the coffee he'd bought her.  
"If it doesn't involve traipsing through the mud for hours 
at a time, I'm all for it."

He nodded, and began picking up the paperwork that had been 
scattered all over the floor when they'd hit the bed last 
night.  "There's got to be something I missed," he muttered 
to himself, leafing through the file.

She took another drink of the coffee, then levered herself 
tiredly out of the chair.  "I'm going to take a shower," she 
called out to him.

Mulder glanced up from the file -- set it aside at once.  
"I'll help," he said, in a soft, seductive voice.

Surprised, she stood still while he advanced toward her -- 
stood very still as he untied her robe and eased it off her 
shoulders until it fell to the floor, leaving her nudity 
exposed.  "If that's all right?" he queried, with a hint of 
his former uncertainty.

"It's *perfect*," she responded swiftly; and he smiled.

She was tired, still so tired; yet all awareness of her 
fatigue was swept away by the feel of his arms closing 
around her, and the knowledge that they were making very 
definite progress against his dysfunction.

And that knowledge, along with the memory of the night and 
morning past, sustained her as they spent another day -- 
yes, again -- traipsing through the mud together.


VII. Culmination 

//Maybe tonight?//

Things had been going so well.  Days spent working together, 
nights spent hanging out together, talking and laughing and 
sleeping together... everything but intercourse; it was the 
last remaining hurdle standing between himself and normal 
sexual function.

Oh, but what a hurdle it was.

//Maybe tonight.//

Once before, they'd gotten close, very very close, and he'd 
wanted it so badly -- and then the realization of what they 
were about to do had provoked a sudden tidal wave of fear; 
he'd lost his hard-on and his courage in the same heartbeat, 
and the resulting depression had been severe.  He'd gotten 
out of bed, started pulling on clothes, wanting nothing more 
than to go back to his own apartment and nurse his bruised 
ego in private -- but Scully had coaxed him back to bed, 
with soft words and softer hands, soothing away the memory 
of failure so thoroughly that afterwards, he hadn't been 
bothered by the whole incident... much.

Of course, he hadn't tried again since then, either.

But maybe tonight.  Maybe tonight.

It had been a long and busy work week.  No cases to keep his 
mind occupied and take them out of town to little cozy motel 
rooms where they could be together, just the quarterly stack 
of paperwork that had to be completed -- piles and piles of 
mind-numbing boredom, keeping them tied to their desks for 
so many hours that the only thing he'd wanted to do 
afterwards was fall onto his couch and sleep.  Yet there had 
been plenty of time for him to glance across his desk at the 
redhead on the other side of the office and let his mind 
wander... wishing he could let his hands and other things 
wander, into her clothes and between her legs and all over 
her...

'Horny' did not begin to describe what he was feeling, and 
cold showers weren't doing the job; and although the heavy 
petting they'd been doing had been wonderful, water after a 
long drought, it wasn't enough.  Not anymore, and not now.

Maybe tonight, it would be different.

It was all he could think about, and paradoxically, 
something he didn't dare let himself consider -- the more he 
thought about it, the greater the chance that he'd freeze 
up, panic and fail.  Not a trend he wanted to continue.  For 
so many years, Phoebe's 'training' had crippled him; now he 
was almost, *almost* free...  The last thing he wanted to do 
was perpetuate a pattern of failure.

But try as he might, it was very much on his mind as he 
drove over to her apartment.

Sex.  Sexual intercourse.  The insertion of Tab A into Slot 
B.  Fucking... no, strike that last.  It seemed somehow 
dishonorable, to apply an epithet to the act -- at least 
where *she* was concerned.  You could fuck with someone's 
mind, you could fuck someone over... with Scully, it would 
be lovemaking: nothing less.

If he could manage it.  If he could make it happen.

Maybe tonight.  Maybe tonight.

There was traffic on the Beltway.  Dammit.  Every minute 
spent staring at the back bumper of the pickup truck in lane 
ahead of him was a minute in which he wasn't enjoying the 
sight of Scully's back bumper -- or front headlights -- or 
all the rest of her lovely chassis.  The flowers he'd bought 
were wilting, and the wine was getting warm, and thinking of 
her was making his jeans progressively tighter, and all he 
could do was inch along in the lane, swearing between 
clenched teeth and wondering what she was doing... if she 
was thinking about him the way he was thinking about her... 
wanting him, and wondering if tonight would be *the* 
night...

It took forever to finally pass the three-car pileup in the 
left lane, and then he was moving again -- 'way above the 
speed limit, counting on fast reflexes to keep him from a 
similar fate, and the badge in his jacket to frighten away 
any cops who might decide to ticket him.  The road seemed 
too damn long, when someone as sweet as Scully was waiting 
on the other end...

Three blocks away from her apartment complex, his cellphone 
rang.  "Where are you?" said the voice on the other end, 
before he could so much as say his name.

"Almost there," he told her, savoring the sound of her 
voice, wishing devoutly that he'd chosen to wear a slightly 
less-snug pair of jeans.  "I hit traffic on the way over."

"Well, hurry up.  I miss you," and her voice dropped to a 
lower register, a sultry purr that brought his burgeoning 
hard-on to the point of pain.

"Oh, God..."  Involuntarily, one hand dropped from the wheel 
to his crotch, adjusting things into a marginally less 
uncomfortable situation, massaging slightly to ease the 
growing ache.  "I miss you, too.  You have no idea how 
much."  Finally: a quick left turn into the parking lot, and 
a miraculously empty parking space.  He negotiated the car 
into the spot one-handed, slid the gearshift into 'park' and 
scooped up the wine and flowers, opened the car door and got 
out of the car -- had to stop halfway and readjust things 
yet again before he could stand up -- kicked the car door 
shut and headed for her apartment, still cradling the 
cellphone against his ear.

"So show me, Mulder," she murmured, still in that phone-sex 
voice.

"Open the door," he said breathlessly, and she did... and 
for a moment, all he could do was stare.

The dress was new, or at least, he'd never seen it before.  
It was the exact perfect shade of green to highlight her 
red-gold hair and creamy skin; there was just enough of it 
to be legal in most states, and it clung to every contour as 
if it had been spray-painted on, making it exquisitely clear 
that the dress was all she wore.  Her scent wafted forth to 
greet him, a light spicy perfume mingling perfectly with the 
now-familiar scent of her arousal...

"Oh my *god*," he heard himself say, and was surprised: he 
hadn't thought himself capable of speech at that moment.

She smiled.  "You like it?"

"I'm... speechless," he murmured.

Her eyes flickered briefly downward, taking in the wine and 
flowers and his very evident arousal in the same swift 
glance.  "C'mon in," she said softly, making it far more 
than a simple invitation into her apartment.

He followed her into the apartment, so preoccupied with the 
way her hips and buttocks moved when she walked that he 
nearly collided with the sofa.  She laughed as she took the 
wine and flowers from his nerveless hands -- not the kind of 
laughter that made him cringe, neither mocking nor derisive, 
but the sort that signified shared humor -- her eyes met 
his, and for long moments, they held a conversation without 
words.  In silence, he told her how much he wanted her, and 
she conveyed the fact that she was just as eager to be with 
him: with his eyes, he mentioned how indescribably gorgeous 
she looked, and she answered with a complex combination of 
expressions that signaled shy pleasure at his appreciation, 
as well as the fact that she'd worn the dress purely for his 
enjoyment.

Then, smoothly and gracefully, she flowed into his arms...

Not just a kiss: it was lovemaking with clothes on, so 
intense and passionate that for a moment he thought he would 
climax right there -- the moment of urgency passed, but not 
the intimacy.  Close, they were so close and it was so damn 
*right* that it was as if they'd been born to be together, 
crafted by some greater all-knowing Power to fit so 
perfectly into each other's lives and souls and arms that 
anything else, anyone else, would have been obscenely 
inadequate.  For this intimacy, this intensity, he would 
have waited for weeks, months, years...

Had been waiting for years, actually.  But in the space of 
that kiss -- despite all of the years of agony, of 
loneliness, of misfit alienation -- he was certain that it 
had all been worthwhile.  The destination had been worth the 
endless frustration of the journey -- to be with this woman: 
for this woman to be his first.

When he could no longer bear the intensifying of the 
passion, he broke off the kiss and buried his face in her 
hair, inhaling her scent, feeling the contours of her body 
branding themselves into his, to be remembered for all 
eternity -- "God, I missed you."

"It's only been five days," in a voice that said eloquently 
that five days had been five days too long.

"It's been forever."  An endless interval of Scullylessness, 
accentuated by her daily presence in his life -- in the 
office, in the oh-so-proper environs of work, where he 
couldn't reach out and touch her, hold her, kiss her.  
Torture.  Every day, every moment, using the same control 
that had been so cruelly inscribed into his soul to keep 
himself from reacting to Scully's presence... but now the 
ordeal was over.

She was here, and *gorgeous* in that dress; and they were 
alone...

"That's an incredible dress," he said huskily.  "Mind if I 
take it off?"

Scully didn't respond at once, but a fractional change in 
her body language...  "I made dinner," she said quietly.

"Oh."  //Damn.//  "I guess... we could eat first," he 
acceded, knowing that it was what he had to say, and not 
giving a damn about food; the only hunger he was feeling was 
centered somewhat lower than his stomach.

"It'll burn if we don't," she added, and her tone eased the 
tension within him -- it was apologetic, her voice, 
signifying that she knew what he was feeling, and 
understood.  //Soon,// her expression promised him; and he 
knew that it was a promise she would keep. 

He made himself eat slowly, without displaying his 
impatience -- and once his body had relaxed enough to allow 
him some modicum of comfort, he discovered that the food was 
delicious.  He told her so, at length and in detail -- one 
quick glance into the kitchen had given him the impression 
that she'd worked hard to prepare the meal, and didn't 
deserve to have her efforts slighted just because his gonads 
were working overtime.  //She cooked for me,// he thought, 
as he dug into the fettucine, //ten to one she bought that 
dress for my benefit; she thinks I'm worthy of this sort of 
treatment, and I will by God be worthy of Scully.  Even if 
my balls explode from the strain.  No matter what it 
takes.//

Gazing at her face across the table, warmed by flickering 
candlelight and the sparkle of her eyes and her smile, he 
thought, //I love her so much.//

"I love you so much," he told her, just for the pleasure of 
seeing her react to that, and hearing...

"Mulder, I love you, too," resonating through his soul.

And the dinner he'd thought would be a chore became a 
pleasure -- flirting with her shamelessly across the table, 
every glance and word becoming foreplay, heightening the 
sense of expectancy.  Not that the mood they shared needed 
enhancement... but it was nice.  Very nice, to be with 
Scully, and know how the evening would end.  No wondering, 
no worrying, just sweet anticipation.

Afterwards, he helped her clear the table and load the 
dishwasher, finding the simple domesticity as appealing as 
the candlelit dinner had been.  It was as if they'd been 
doing it forever, an 'old married couple', familiar and 
comfortable with each other.  And then...

...then it was over, and it was time for the next part of 
the evening to commence.

It would have been easier, he considered, if they'd gone 
straight from the front door into lovemaking; now, the 
transition was considerably more awkward.  //What now?// he 
wondered -- and suddenly knew.

Moving toward her stereo, he thumbed the power button, 
flipped through a few stations before finding the one he 
wanted -- "Dance with me, Scully," he said, extending one 
arm to her.

She moved toward him, so sinuously that his breath caught in 
his throat, and took his hand; he drew her into his arms, 
and they danced.

Slow-dancing: another form of lovemaking, disguised as a 
social activity.  In the dress she wore, it was almost as 
good as holding her nude body in his arms -- better, because 
he could think about what it would be like to peel it off 
her.  The way her hips moved against his left no doubt about 
where the evening was heading, and he couldn't help but 
respond -- before long, he was hard enough to drill holes 
through steel, so aroused that the feel of her body pressed 
against him was nearly painful. 

Yet he didn't want it to end.  There was something magical 
in the act of dancing with Scully, swaying together to the 
music.  A perfect moment, the sort that lives in memory, 
precious and vital, no matter how much time might intervene.  

Years from now, when he and Scully had grown old together, 
he would remember this moment with the same clarity...

The music swelled and crested, and she gazed up at him with 
those crystalline eyes, and he *needed* to kiss her, as 
surely as he needed to breathe -- so he bent his head to 
meet her upturned face, and could swear that he felt a 
tangible crackle of electric passion as their lips met.

Perfect.  It was perfect.

Her tongue greeted his like an old long-lost friend, her 
arms wrapping around his waist and holding on fiercely as if 
she feared he might pull away -- //not much chance of 
that,// he thought wryly.  He could feel the heat of her 
through the layers of fabric separating them, and before 
long, that separation was more than he could bear; his hands 
located the concealed zipper of the dress and began to ease 
it downward, making it into a caress that ran the length of 
her spine.  She arched into him as the zipper descended, 
then pulled away from him to let the dress fall away...

God.

The sight of her nude body was such glorious perfection that 
it seemed only natural, only right, to fall to his knees 
before her -- the better to worship at the Sacred Temple of 
Scully -- and once he was there, it occurred to him that 
there were certain forms of worship that she might 
appreciate more than others.

She gasped as his fingers found her pleasure center, moaned 
as his tongue joined in the fun, and grabbed hold of his 
shoulders to steady herself as he applied himself to the 
task.

He knew her so well, now, that he could tell exactly how far 
along she was by the way her body trembled, the tone and 
texture of her cries -- and they were so attuned that he was 
*with* her, sharing every spasm of pleasure that coursed 
through her.  It was all he could do to keep from coming 
with her; he was so aroused, and she affected him so 
powerfully... but somehow, he hung on through the few 
crucial moments when it might have happened.

Licking his lips to catch the last traces of her flavor, he 
stood up -- *very* slowly -- lifted her in his arms before 
she could catch her breath enough to protest, and carried 
her to the bedroom.

She wriggled out of his arms before he could set her down on 
the bed, began undoing his shirt, and the feel of her hands 
against his chest working at the buttons was almost more 
than he could stand -- he caught her hands in his, kissed 
her fingers in silent apology, then finished the job 
himself.  Then the jeans -- sweet relief, to be freed from 
the constraining fabric -- kicked off his shoes, left his 
pants in a crumpled heap on the floor, and climbed into bed, 
where she was waiting for him.

And for the first few minutes, it was the same as always: 
deep kisses, sensuous caresses, relishing the slow sinking 
into passion.  But then somehow he was on top of her, and 
her legs were wrapping around his hips, and the moment was 
*right*, as it had never quite been before...

He gazed into Scully's eyes, seeking consensus; her gaze met 
his, steady and reassuring, and her lips formed a single, 
breathy word:  "Yes."

The time was right.  The time was now.  Now.  Tonight.

//Yes.//

And before his fears could catch up to his desire and 
smother it, he positioned himself and entered her.

Instant sensory overload.

She was so wet, and hot, and *tight*...  Nothing had ever 
felt like this, and no amount of studying literature or 
videotape had prepared him for the feeling.  He was engulfed 
in the heat of her, consumed by the slow friction of that 
first tentative thrust, utterly overwhelmed.  It was all he 
could do to hang on, to keep from being lost in the 
pleasure, as he buried himself within her -- then he was 
there, fully sheathed, gazing down into her eyes in wonder, 
that after all these years, it was actually *happening*...

Sweat sparkled on her skin; tears glistened in her eyes.  "I 
love you so much," she whispered.

He would have echoed the sentiment, but speech was beyond 
him; and he had to move.  *Had* to.  Now.

If entry had been a revelation, the second thrust was an 
epiphany.  Sensory overload, redoubled -- and then her 
muscles contracted around his cock, and the last remaining 
shreds of control he possessed went straight out the window.  
Nothing existed except for the feeling, the *feeling*; his 
hips found a rhythm and settled into it as if he'd been 
doing this for years, driven by the sudden ferocious *need* 
that was searing through his nervous system.  Harder, 
faster, each thrust more intense than the last, pleasure 
building until he thought he would die, or explode, then 
building beyond that, until...

Every muscle in his body contracted simultaneously into a 
tight knot; dimly, he heard himself make a sound he'd never 
uttered before in his life.

And then the world shattered into a million fragments of 
ecstasy, as his body convulsed in an orgasm unlike anything 
he'd ever experienced.

It took a long time for him to come down; aftershocks 
quivered through him, tremors of residual pleasure echoing 
the intensity of his climax.  Some vague awareness kept him 
propped up unsteadily on one arm, in a vain attempt to keep 
from falling against her like deadweight; beyond that, he 
couldn't move.  It was all he could do to breathe.

"We did it," he whispered, thinking: //I did it.  I really 
did it.//

Her lips brushed against his ear, forming a soft kiss.  
"Congratulations," she whispered back. 

Then suddenly he was laughing, peals of laughter that felt 
halfway like sobs, an inarticulate outpouring of relief and 
love; and her arms wrapped tight around him, hugging him, 
sharing the celebration.

After awhile, by mutual unspoken agreement, they found a 
comfortable snuggle-position away from the wet spot; by that 
point, fatigue was washing over him in great waves, an 
instinctive primal urge as strong as his desire had been.  
He chuckled faintly at the thought:  //Og have sex.  Now Og 
sleep.  Life good.//

"Thank you," he murmured, burying his face in her hair, 
reveling in the feeling of contentment that saturated every 
fiber of his being.  "I owe you big time, Scully."

"You don't owe me anything," he heard her reply, in a voice 
only slightly less fatigued than his own.  "I love you, 
Mulder."

The words were as sweet as the utter satiation; he took both 
with him into slumber.

-------

Sometime later, in the small hours of night, he drifted back 
to consciousness.  He hadn't slept nearly enough, yet 
somehow he felt more rested than he had in ages.  //I am no 
longer a virgin,// was his first coherent thought.

//God, I feel good,// was the second.

//My back teeth are floating,// was the third.

He stumbled to the bathroom, then wandered naked into 
Scully's kitchen and located a package of chocolate-chip 
cookies and a glass of milk; by the time he'd finished 
replenishing the resources depleted by his earlier exertion, 
he'd awakened sufficiently to remember a promise he'd made a 
lifetime ago...

His cellphone was where he'd left it, in the pocket of the 
jacket he'd left on her couch.  He retrieved it and dialed, 
speed-dial-oh-three; half a moment later, he heard Scully's 
home phone ring.

After four rings, she answered, her voice sleep-hazed and 
indistinct.  "H'lo?"

"Scully, it's me."

"Mulder?"  Bewilderment was evident in her voice, as she 
struggled to make sense of why he would be phoning her when 
he was supposed to be in bed with her...

"Guess what happened to me tonight?" he said, and waited.

It took her a second or two to put together the pieces; and 
once she had, her voice held warmth and tolerant amusement.  
"Tell me," she said.

"I finally lost my virginity," he told her gleefully, 
carrying the cellphone with him back to the bedroom.

"Congratulations," she said softly.

"Thank you."  He opened the door, and there she was, 
stretched out on her back, phone propped into place between 
ear and shoulder and pillow.

Her eyes flickered upwards, met his.  "So how was it?" she 
asked, into the phone.

"It was wonderful," he responded fervently, into the 
cellphone, as he slid under the covers.  "It was 
incredible."

"I'm so glad," and her voice came at him twice, from the 
phone and from the other side of the bed.  

"Scully?" he said into the phone, as he snuggled close 
beside her.  "I love you so much."

A soft breath of laughter.  "I know," she said, and hung up 
on him.

And rolled over to face him, as he thumbed the button that 
would terminate the call from his end; he reached past her 
to set the cellphone on the nightstand, then drew her into 
his arms and kissed her forehead.

Life had never been so good.


VIII. Incongruence

Mulder had changed.

She reckoned that it had been inevitable, necessary and 
natural.  After all, he'd managed to shed years worth of 
guilt and pain; it was right that the experience should 
change him in profound ways.

But she hadn't been prepared.  Somehow, she hadn't expected 
it.  And now, she was hard-pressed to deal with the new-and-
improved Mulder that had emerged since he'd lost his 
virginity.

For one thing, she had never seen him *smile* so much.  
She'd become accustomed to his deadpan expression, to 
deciphering the subtle shifts in the mask which indicated 
changes in mood.  Now, though, he nearly always seemed to be 
smiling -- not just at her: at everyone and everything that 
crossed his path.  Skinner had been overheard to wonder if 
Mulder had begun taking illicit narcotics, or perhaps 
Prozac... Scully could have enlightened him, but of course 
she didn't.

For another thing, Mulder had developed a one-track mind.  
She'd be questioning a suspect or a witness, and he'd be off 
in another world; it didn't take a mind-reader to figure out 
just what world that might be, especially when his eyes 
happened to be riveted on her chest at the time... It was a 
good thing, she thought, that Mulder was enough of a genius 
to be able to track three or four trains of thought 
simultaneously; otherwise, his job would have been seriously 
in jeopardy.  It was also a good thing that she'd long ago 
become accustomed to his off-hand use of innuendo as a 
defense mechanism.  Nor could she deny that she enjoyed his 
obvious appreciation -- but it made her wonder if someday, 
his new preoccupation with the pleasures of her flesh might 
endanger them both.  It hadn't happened yet; he still had 
that uncanny talent of catching infinitesimal 
inconsistencies that other people would miss and piecing 
them together into a coherent picture of the situation -- 
but someday, it might.

But most notable was the fact that Mulder, the same man 
who'd developed an annoying habit of ditching her with 
regularity, now could not be pried from her side with a 
crowbar.

In the morning, he was there: if he hadn't stayed over at 
her place the night before, he'd show up bright and early 
with coffee and danish and the offer of a ride to work.  All 
day long, he was there: in the office, in the field, even 
during autopsies -- which was something he'd avoided, in the 
past, whenever possible.  In the evening, he was there -- 
coming over to watch television and talk, or dragging her 
out for dinner, or parking himself in her motel room to 
review case notes.  And of course, at night...

There had been a time when it had seemed that she couldn't 
be with him enough.  That time had long since passed; now, 
she was actually beginning to get sick of him.

And try as she might, she couldn't quite come up with a kind 
way of telling him to leave her alone.

Oh, not for long.  Just for an evening or two, a weekend: 
just long enough for her to have some time to herself.  Just 
long enough for her to miss him... 

There was a knock on her front door, and she sighed, knowing 
who it would be.

She opened the door to reveal a brightly beaming Mulder, 
bearing the usual bouquet and bottle of wine.  "Hi, Scully," 
he said expansively, reached out with his free arm and drew 
her close...  she melted into his arms, into the kiss; even 
though his constant presence was beginning to grate on her 
nerves, she didn't think she would ever get tired of kissing 
him.  He was just so damned good at it...

"When you said, 'see you tomorrow'," she murmured 
afterwards, "I thought you meant..."

"Oh, that was just so no one would catch on."  A slight 
trace of worry marred his improbably cheerful face.  "You 
don't *mind* my coming over, do you?"

"No, no, of course not."  //Now why did I say that?// she 
wondered, annoyed at herself.  //That was a perfect 
opportunity to let him know that I need some space...//  She 
found herself hoping that he'd pick up on the ever-so-slight 
hesitation in her voice, in her manner, and press the point 
further.

He didn't.  "Great," he said, grinning -- and despite the 
fact that she'd really only wanted to spend a quiet evening 
alone with a book, she found herself smiling back.  His 
happiness was so infectious, she couldn't help but be swept 
up in it.

//Swept away,// the thought occurred to her.  //What Mulder 
needs, what Mulder wants; and what *I* need and want gets 
swept away...//

But he was so happy.  So very happy, to be with her, to be 
loving her, and to be whole.

"I'll get the wineglasses," he said, heading for the 
kitchen; and she turned away from him, so that he wouldn't 
hear or see her sigh.

As usual, his presence seemed less obtrusive as the evening 
progressed.  Watching TV, snuggled on the couch together... 
was a lot warmer than an evening alone, and a whole lot 
friendlier.  And when his hands began to wander, well -- 
that was a whole different sort of warmth.  Even when she 
least felt like his company, the lovemaking was always 
incredible...

Later, though, as she struggled to find a comfortable 
position in the sliver of mattress space not occupied by her 
sleeping, snoring partner, the annoyance returned full-
force.

She snatched up the pillow he hadn't commandeered, rummaged 
a blanket from the linen closet, and retreated to the 
living-room couch.  "Can't even sleep in my own damn bed," 
she grumbled under her breath, settled herself into place 
and closed her eyes.  //I have to do something about this.  
I have to.  Tomorrow, I'll tell him, and to hell with 
whether it hurts him...//  A sigh escaped her lips.  //No, 
I'll find a gentle way to tell him.  I do love him, after 
all.  I just don't *like* him too much at the moment... no, 
that's not true, either, it's just...//

//I want us to be lovers,// she realized, //friends, 
partners, companions.  Just... not joined at the hip.//

Sleep had just begun to tug at the fringes of her 
consciousness when she heard the sound of stealthy footsteps 
in the hall -- she squeezed her eyes shut tight and prayed 
that he was just on his way to the bathroom -- but no: the 
footfalls drew closer, until she could *feel* his presence 
beside the couch.  "Scully?" in a soft, querulous voice 
emanating from maybe a foot away.  "You okay?"

Wearily, she opened her eyes to find him kneeling beside the 
couch; dim moonlight danced over the contours of his 
concerned face.  "You took over the bed," she said, just 
tired enough to be overtly grumpy.  "There wasn't *room* for 
me."

"Oh... I'm sorry."  Concern mutated into contrition.  "Hey, 
look, you take the bed.  I'll sleep on the couch."  His 
fingertips grazed her cheek in a gentle caress; a moment 
later, his lips followed his hand's path, in a soft kiss.

She sighed again, longer and louder -- //dammit,// she 
thought with tired amusement, //he makes it impossible for 
me to be angry with him.//  "It's all right," she murmured, 
"go back to bed, Mulder."

"No..."  A moment later, he was picking her up, lifting her 
in his arms -- she thought about protesting, decided, 
//what's the use?// and let him carry her into her room, to 
her bed.  He set her down carefully, pulled the covers over 
tenderly, stood looking down at her with such devotion in 
his eyes...  //I love him so much,// she thought.  //So 
much.//

//If only he would go away.  Just for a little while.//

Again, he knelt beside her, gazing into her eyes.  "Get some 
rest, sweetheart," he whispered, smoothing the sheets over 
her bare shoulder, and a swift frisson raced through her.  
Mulder had never been one for pet names; she'd learned to 
hear affection in the way he said her name, 'Scully' 
becoming an endearment when it fell from his lips.  Now that 
they were lovers... occasionally, once in a very great 
while, he'd call her something other than Scully.  And it 
affected her somehow, deeply, whenever he did.

The way he looked at her -- she'd seen that look before.  
When she'd escaped death, or been rescued, or had rescued 
him from a similar fate.  When they'd been separated, and 
newly reunited.  She knew that look, but only now was coming 
to know what it meant: he was cherishing her.  Savoring her.  
Delighting in her presence.  Marveling at the fact that 
there was a Scully in his world, and so very thankful that 
it should be so.

Seeing him looking at her that way pushed the last lingering 
traces of annoyance from her heart, and reminded her that 
she felt the same.

She stretched, enjoying the feeling of having her bed to 
herself.  Not having to work around the limitations of 
another body sharing the mattress.  Being able to take over 
the whole space, if she wished.

It felt... lonely.

Slowly, regretfully it seemed, he rose to his feet and 
turned away...

"Mulder," she said.

"Mmm?"  His face was working hard at being impassive, but 
she could see the sudden hopeful look even in the near-total 
darkness.

"Come to bed, sweetheart."  It was the first time she'd used 
the word to him; she liked the way it tasted on her tongue.  
Such an intimate word.  So fitting.

In a heartbeat he was beside her, as if he'd only been 
waiting for her permission to give in to his own longing.  
Nestling against her, arms drawing her to him, pulling her 
close, as if he couldn't get close enough...

She felt a slow surge of warmth within herself, the first 
stirrings of desire -- she reached for him, sliding her hand 
between them, encircling his cock, and felt an answering 
response.  Not surprising: he was nearly always ready.  She 
supposed that he had a lot of lost time to make up for...

His lips claimed hers, slowly and thoroughly, and she 
relaxed into the kiss, grateful for the opportunity to stop 
resenting him.

For almost an hour, life was heavenly.  Mulder had become 
accomplished at pleasuring her, knew all the things that 
would make her moan and quiver, knew just how she liked it 
best, and brought her to a wonderfully intense orgasm with 
his hands and lips and tongue.  Part of their lovemaking 
ritual -- because during intercourse, once he was inside 
her, he lost track of everything except his own pleasure.  
She didn't mind; it was one hell of a turn-on to see *that 
look* on his face, to see him so completely engulfed in 
rapturous ecstasy -- most of the time, that look and the 
feel of him inside her was enough to bring her off again.  
It happened that way again; she climaxed with him, sharing 
the intensity of the moment with him, and snuggled into his 
arms afterwards, satiated and content.

Half an hour after that, she was once again jockeying for 
position in the bed, striving to evade his outstretched arms 
and legs as he snored contentedly.

//I love him,// she thought, //and I will love him for the 
rest of my life, if I don't strangle him first...//

-------

She was in the kitchen, fixing herself coffee and an English 
muffin, when she heard the first stirrings of life: the 
inevitable journey of sleepy footsteps to the bathroom...  
She speared a second muffin with a fork and placed it in the 
toaster oven, wondering when it had become such a chore.  
//When it became *necessary*...//

"Morning, Scully," he said, upon his arrival in the kitchen: 
well-rested, bright-eyed and cheerful.  "What's for 
breakfast?"

Her head ached, her vision was blurred from lack of sleep, 
and it took a severe effort of will not to tell him where he 
could stick the English muffin.

"Good morning, Mulder," she said, with forced courtesy.  
"Did you sleep well?"

This time, he caught the edge in her voice.  "I did it 
again, huh?" he murmured, with the sad-eyed puppy-dog face 
that never failed to garner her sympathy.

Except that this time, she didn't find it nearly as 
endearing as she once had.  "You did," she acknowledged, 
neutral-voiced, and took her coffee to the table.

"Why didn't you wake me up?  Or just shove me over?" he 
asked.

She'd tried, but he'd been dead to the world, so deeply 
asleep that not even an elbow in his ribcage had disrupted 
his slumber...  "Never mind," she said, dipping her face to 
inhale the scent of the coffee, and feel the steam rising 
against her face.

As long as he was silent, she could convince herself that 
she was alone, in peace and privacy -- then his hand settled 
on her shoulder...  "Mulder," she said sharply, then caught 
herself, and finished the sentence more calmly.  "I think 
you should go home."

"What?"  Panic in his voice; and when he pulled up a chair 
to face her, his expression was stricken.  "Scully, what'd I 
do?"

"I just... I could use a day to myself.  Some time to 
relax."  There.  She'd said it.  Now, if he would only 
*listen*...

"But... but Scully..."  He shook his head as if to clear it.  
"I'm sorry I took over the bed, I really am."

"That's not it, Mulder."  //Oh, please, don't...//

"Then what did I do?  Whatever it is, I'll fix it.  I'll 
make it right, I promise.  I just..."  His voice dropped, to 
a near-whisper.  "I just want to be with you."

He was trying to meet her eyes, but she steadfastly kept her 
gaze averted -- she knew that if she looked at him, if she 
let herself see the look she *knew* was on his face, she'd 
be lost.  "You haven't done anything, Mulder.  Truly."

"But it's Saturday!  We always spend weekends together...  I 
thought you liked it..."  His voice caught on the last word, 
just a little, just enough...

She glanced up at him -- and expelled a sigh, knowing in 
that instant that the battle was lost, for the hurt in his 
eyes was genuine.

//One more try.//  "Mulder," she said, sincerely, "I love 
you.  I love you so much.  But don't you think it would be a 
good idea to spend a *little* time apart?  If only to keep 
prying eyes from being suspicious?"

"The hell with prying eyes and suspicious minds."  The pain 
in his eyes faded, surmounted by fierce determination.  
"I've spent years waiting for the chance to love you, and I 
don't want to waste a second.  We've lost so much, we've 
nearly lost each other, so many times..."  His hands reached 
across the table, found hers and enfolded them, fingertips 
massaging her hands in small slow circles.  "I live for 
these weekends with you," and though his voice was nearly 
calm, his eyes were all but desperate.  "I thought you felt 
the same way."

Perhaps she could have explained it to him -- but she'd 
barely slept, and she was tired, and that look in his 
eyes...

"Hey."  His thumbs drew lazy ellipses on her palms, a 
movement both soothing and arousing.  "I'll make it up to 
you.  A long, hot bubble bath, and a full-body massage...  I 
really am sorry I kept you awake all night, Scully."

It was a losing battle, and she knew it.  "That sounds 
nice," she relented.

He grinned back at her.  "You won't regret it, I promise."

//I'll explain it to him later,// she decided.  //Or 
tomorrow.  Sooner or later, he'll get the hint.//

Mulder rose from his chair, came to stand behind her and 
began rubbing her shoulders -- deep, kneading strokes, 
working out the tension and fatigue.  "I love you so much," 
he murmured, content.

//He'll get the hint,// Scully told herself.  //Sooner or 
later.//

//Maybe.//


IX. Dislocation

'Hey, Scully, you want to get together tonight?'

'No, Mulder, I feel sick... must be coming down with 
something.  Maybe tomorrow.'

Granted, she'd been through things that made a simple 
stomach virus seem pleasant.  But even a head cold could be 
miserable, if you had to face it alone...  She was the love 
of his life; he couldn't stand to think of her facing 
illness alone, with no one to care for her.

And so he was on his way to her apartment, stopping only to 
pick up a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of Robitussin, 
thinking of his poor sick sweetheart, and how he might make 
her feel better.

She didn't look sick when she answered his doorbell summons.  
She didn't look pleased to see him, either.  In fact, she 
seemed downright annoyed.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped, not moving from the 
doorway.

Caught off-guard, he could only stammer, "I-I wanted to make 
sure you were okay...?"

"I'm fine, Mulder," she grumbled.  Nevertheless, she moved 
aside and let him enter her apartment.

Once inside, he presented her with the flowers, hoping that 
would lighten her mood.  Instead, she stared at the bouquet, 
making no move to take them.  "What's that for?"

"Just because," he said, attempting a smile; it faltered 
weakly on his face, then dissolved.  "Scully, what's wrong?"

"What's wrong," she growled, "is that I told you not to come 
over; and yet, here you are."

"But..."  This wasn't going right at all.  "You said that 
you were sick... and I thought I could take care of you..."

"I lied, all right?"  She stormed away from him.  "I see you 
every moment of every day, and I wanted to have some time 
*away* from you!"

"Well, then, why didn't you say so?" he asked reasonably.

"I did!  You didn't listen!"  A long, heavy sigh.  "'Not 
tonight, Mulder.'  'Maybe tomorrow, Mulder.'  But you don't 
listen.  You *never* listen."

"I want to be with you; what's wrong with that?  What's 
wrong with wanting us to be together?"

"Not every minute of every day, damn it!  Don't you ever 
stop *needing* me?  Can't you give me even a few hours to 
*breathe*?"

Her words stung, as abrasive to his soul as sandpaper.  
"Well, excuse me," he snapped, "I didn't realize that being 
with me was such a hardship."

"It is when I can't get rid of you!  You all but follow me 
into the ladies' room...  If I'd had any idea it would be 
like *this*, I would never have..." and her voice trailed 
off, as if she'd been about to say something else but had 
thought better of it at the last moment.

Abruptly, Mulder felt himself go cold.

"You would never have what?" he pressed.

"Leave it alone, Mulder," she said icily.

"Would never have *what*?"  Suddenly it seemed vital to know 
how she'd planned to end the sentence.  He grabbed her arm, 
tried to turn her to face him.  "Would never have *what*, 
Scully?"

Infuriated, she whirled to face him, her face a mask of 
rage.  "I would never have taken pity on you in the first 
place, damn it!"

This was a bad dream, it had to be.  It had to be.  This 
couldn't be Scully, saying this to him.  Not Scully.  She 
loved him.

Didn't she?

"I'm tired of this," she went on, every word a dagger in his 
heart, "I'm tired of your constant dependence, your endless 
neediness.  Do you have to be underfoot *all* the time?  Why 
don't you get yourself a life, and get out of mine?"

Mulder stared at her, unbelieving.  "Scully?"  he whispered.  
//No.  Not this.  Please, God, not this...//

"Just leave me alone!"  And she stomped out of the living 
room; the bedroom door slammed shut, resounding through the 
apartment.

The bouquet slipped from suddenly-numb fingers to fall to 
the floor, unnoticed; her words echoed cruelly in his head, 
careening off brain tissue, hurting more with every renewed 
impact.  //Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me 
alone...//

Finally, for lack of anything better to do, he made his way 
out of the apartment, out of the building.

Out of her life.  Just like she wanted him to do.

Back in his car, he drove aimlessly, too caught up in his 
thoughts to know or care where he was going.  //Get out of 
my life, she says.  Like she wasn't the one who pulled me 
*into* it in the first place?  What does she *want* from 
me?//

//She wanted the conquest,// spoke up the mean little voice 
in his head, the one always willing to trash his self-
confidence and make him feel like shit.  //She wanted to see 
if she could go where no one had gone before.  She wanted to 
play Get The Virgin.  She wanted to play games with your 
mind, just like Phoebe... a little kinder, maybe; but 
essentially just the same.  You were right the first time: 
it was nothing but pity, right from the start.//

//But she said she loved me!//  Anguish rose in his throat 
to choke him; tears stung at his eyes, but he refused to let 
them loose.  He'd cried entirely too much in his life -- 
he'd cried in Scully's arms, so many times, believing 
himself to be safe there, and now...

No.  He wasn't going to cry, not any more.

It took him a moment, though, to regain his composure; and 
when he had, he looked up, to see where his meanderings had 
brought him.

The light had turned green, but he was still stopped at the 
intersection; the street was empty, no one behind him to 
honk their horns and jar him from his reverie.  The only 
signs of life were on the next block, the neon blinking of a 
bar sign...

//What the hell,// he thought tiredly, and pulled up to a 
parking spot nearly in front of the place.

It was Friday-night-crowded inside the bar; he edged through 
the miasma of smoke and people, found his way to the bar and 
ordered a beer.  All around him, couples drank and talked 
and laughed...  he should have been part of a couple; 
instead, he was alone.  //She brought me from despair and 
misery to hope and happiness, and then I find out that it 
was *pity*...//  For the first time, anger rose within him 
to join the hurt.  //How dare she?  If she truly cared -- if 
she really loved me -- she wouldn't do this to me...//

Inescapable logic:  //She doesn't love me.  She never really 
did.//

//Sure.//

//Fine.//

//Whatever.//

The bartender brought his beer, and he started to slide a 
ten-spot across the bar to pay for it, when suddenly there 
was a slim hand on top of his, arresting it mid-movement.  
"This one's on me," said a soft voice directly to his left.

Curiously, he turned his head to look.

Not as tall as Phoebe, not as short as Scully.  Blonde hair 
in soft waves, framing her face attractively.  Nice-looking 
woman, if he were interested.

Well, why shouldn't he be interested?

"You don't mind if I buy you a drink, I hope," she said, 
with an uncertain smile.

He liked that trace of uncertainty; it made him feel less 
like he was being reeled in, more in control of the 
situation.  "As long as you let me buy the next round," he 
said with a smile, and she relaxed slightly.

"I'm Miriam," she introduced herself.

"My name's..."  //Mulder,// he almost said, but that was the 
last thing he wanted to hear on this woman's lips.  Nor 
'Fox'... and what was left, that wouldn't be a lie?  
"William," he continued, the hesitation barely perceptible.

"Nice to meet you, William," Miriam said, and smiled; the 
curve of her lips, combined with the curve of her breast 
disappearing behind the plunging neckline of her blouse, 
combined to cause a slow chain-reaction within him.  For a 
moment, his desire startled him -- then reassured him; it 
was nice to know that he could respond to another woman 
besides the one who had taught him how.

'Get yourself a life,' she'd said.  //Guess what, Scully?  
I'm about to take your advice.//

"Nice to meet you, too," Mulder told her, meaning every word 
of it.

-------

Later that night, he rested in an unfamiliar bed, catching 
his breath, while Miriam smoked a cigarette.  Since he was a 
nonsmoker, she'd quite considerately taken herself and her 
ashtray over by the open window.  Even so, wisps of smoke 
wafted across the room to tickle his nostrils annoyingly.

The sex had been good.  Not earth-shattering fulfillment, 
not like with //I will not think about her, I will *not*// 
but good, nevertheless.  From Miriam's behavior during and 
afterwards, he judged that his performance had been more 
than adequate; and he'd achieved orgasm without any problems 
whatsoever, without any ghosts rising in his mind to thwart 
his passion.

//Congratulations, Scully; you cured me,// he thought, 
feeling sardonic anger.  He'd thought that it was love; he'd 
been wrong -- but at least he was no longer a virgin, 
saddled and hampered by conditioning and fear.  At least he 
was whole, now, and ready to face the world as any other man 
might.  Miriam had been receptive enough -- and chances were 
good that there would be other women who would, as well.

There were a lot of women in the world, and plenty of time 
to get to know a substantial portion of them.

He could get along just fine without Scully.

He could.

He would.

No matter how much it hurt.

Miriam stubbed out her cigarette and came toward him, skin 
gleaming ivory in the dim light of streetlamps shining 
through the window.  "How do you feel about another round?" 
she asked.

Even from a distance, he could smell the cigarette smoke 
permeating her skin, her hair; knew that he would taste the 
nauseating flavor of it on her tongue.  But that didn't stop 
him from smiling, reaching out for her, even as another part 
of him stood back and watched in disapproval.

Love was a dream, a cruel lie.  But now there was sex, 
instead.

It would have to do.

He pulled her down atop him, and tried to lose himself in 
the pleasures of her flesh.


X. Circumscription

//Bastard.//

He wouldn't meet her eyes, and his voice when he spoke to 
her was cool and distant.  When she'd walked into the 
office, she'd tried to apologize -- but he'd cut her off 
before she could utter more than, "Mulder, I..." and begun 
talking about case files and paperwork, not giving her a 
moment to interrupt.  Then the phone had rung, and he'd 
turned to answer it; and she'd noticed the flowers on his 
desk...

//Asshole.//

There were two bouquets, both bearing prominent gift cards.  
The first was from someone named Alexis, thanking him for a 
wonderful Saturday night and hoping for more of the same.  
The second was from someone named Jill, stating how much 
she'd enjoyed Sunday, and asking him to call her, anytime.

//Slut.//

His cell phone kept ringing; he'd answer it, then get this 
weird little smile on his face and turn his chair away from 
her, to face the far wall, his voice dropping to a low, 
intimate tone as he conversed with the person on the line.  
She didn't know who was calling -- but from the sound of his 
voice, she'd have bet money that it wasn't one of the Lone 
Gunmen.  At first, she'd thought it was some kind of set-up, 
a way to bolster his pride and pretend that she wasn't the 
only woman in his life -- but the sheer frequency of the 
calls, and his attitude toward them, was convincing her 
otherwise.

Apparently, he was making up for lost time.

//Mulder, why won't you talk to me, damn it?!//

The phone rang, their office phone this time; Mulder was 
still busy on his cellphone, so she answered it.  "Hello, 
can I speak to William?" said the voice on the other end -- 
a female voice, sultry and sensuous.

She almost told the caller that it was a wrong number -- 
then it connected in her mind.

William.

Fox William Mulder.

Of course.

"He's on the other line," she informed the caller tersely.  
"Can I take a message?"

"Oh, you're his secretary?"

The blithe statement infuriated Scully -- //how dare she!// 
-- and conversely, brought her almost to the point of tears.  
She managed to scribble down the message on a piece of 
paper, letting 'William' know that Miriam was calling to 
confirm their date for Tuesday night, shoved the paper 
across the desk at his turned back -- then snatched up her 
purse and stalked out of the office.

//I will not cry.  I will not cry.//

She stayed in a stall in the ladies' room until she was sure 
she had her temper and her tears under control, then emerged 
-- but she couldn't go back to that office.  Not now.  Not 
when it meant witnessing his endless phone calls, and being 
his goddamn *secretary*, taking messages from the women he 
was fucking...

//I told him to get a life.  How dare he take me up on it?//

//I told him to get a life and get out of mine.//

//I told him.//

//It's my fault.//

Her feet took her to the park, to the same bench where she'd 
listened to him talk about his tortured past and held him as 
he'd cried, so long ago -- she sat there, staring at 
nothing, hoping against hope that she'd hear the sound of 
his footsteps approaching, that he'd miss her and come 
looking for her...

But he didn't.  And she sat there alone, staring at nothing, 
for hours.

//I just wanted a little space!//  Was that such a bad 
thing?  Of course, she'd yelled at him -- //it was an 
argument, a normal argument, like any other couple might 
have...//  But he wasn't any other man.  He was Mulder, more 
accustomed to rejection than anyone else she'd ever known.

//He won't even let me apologize.  He didn't even give me a 
chance...//  She'd called him on Friday night, when her 
temper had cooled -- and again, on Saturday -- and three 
times on Sunday -- and each time, had only gotten his 
answering machine.  Now she knew why: he'd been out 
tomcatting for all he was worth.

Or had he?

Maybe it *was* all a set-up, designed to do exactly what it 
had done: to make her angry, to make her feel hurt, to make 
her sorry she'd flung such hateful words at him.  Yes, that 
was it -- it had to be; Mulder wouldn't just go out looking 
for a cheap fuck.  Not so soon after their argument, not 
without trying first to heal the rift between them.  He 
loved her; he knew she loved him.  He wouldn't run off and 
sleep with the first woman he found.  He wouldn't.

She rose from the bench then, and headed back toward the 
office, composing in her mind the speech that she would 
deliver upon her return.  She would tell him how sorry she 
was, and how upset by his apparent liaisons with other women 
-- not letting him know, of course, that she was wise to the 
scheme; better to leave him with that measure of 
satisfaction.  She would apologize, and tell him that she 
loved him; and maybe she'd let herself cry in his arms, as 
she'd wanted to do all morning.

Scully walked briskly through the halls, opened the basement 
office door -- and stopped dead in her tracks.

There was a woman sitting on the edge of Mulder's desk, a 
curly-haired brunette with long legs; he was standing very 
close to her, holding her hands in his and whispering 
something into her ear.  She laughed, a light feminine 
giggle -- then they both became aware that they weren't 
alone, and turned to face her as one.

"Oh, am I interrupting something?" Scully said, in her best 
nonchalant voice, as her heart sank into her shoes.  //It 
wasn't a set-up.//

"Uh," Mulder said, flustered for the briefest moment and 
then covering it with the same cool facade he'd worn 
earlier.  "Jill, this is Agent Dana Scully, my partner.  
Agent Scully, this is Jill."

//Agent Scully.//  It hurt, that he was so distant.  It hurt 
that he was standing skin-close to this strange woman, as if 
she were his partner and Scully the stranger.  It hurt, all 
of it hurt, a deep aching pain that seized her heart and 
squeezed all the blood out of it in an instant, leaving her 
bereft.

She nodded briefly at the woman, the barest acknowledgement 
dictated by courtesy.  "I just came to tell you that I'm 
taking the rest of the day off," she said, "*Agent* Mulder," 
and beat a hasty retreat.

Once outside the door, the tears started.  She held them 
back as best she could, while making her way through the 
building and out to the parking garage; but as soon as she 
was safely in her car, she couldn't prevent their course any 
longer.  The tears streamed down her face as she exited the 
garage, as she navigated the snarls of Washington traffic, 
too distraught to curse at the drivers who cut her off, too 
miserable to care that her eye makeup was surely streaking 
down her face.

//So this was all I meant to him.  He loved me so much that 
he couldn't wait for the first chance to try out his 
newfound prowess...  I understood his pain and fear, I 
understood and understood and understood, and he couldn't 
even *try* to understand me...  Thanks a lot, Mulder.  
Thanks steaming loads.//

Her apartment was a sanctuary -- but even there, she 
couldn't be free of him; the place reeked of Mulder.  The 
couch, where they'd lain together that first night and 
since.  The damned bouquet he'd dropped on her floor when 
he'd fled, sitting in the vase on the table where she'd 
placed it in an act of contrition, later that night when her 
anger had faded...

She strode across the room, picked up the vase and hurled it 
at the wall; glass shattered, littering her floor with water 
and shards and flowers.

Slowly, she walked over to the wreckage, stooped and picked 
up a single rose, clutched it to her chest.  //It's all I 
have left of him now...//

And then *she* shattered, into a corresponding wreckage of 
racking sobs and blinding tears.

-------

The morning wasn't any better.  She phoned in sick, hoping 
against hope that he would stop by her apartment to see what 
was wrong, knowing that he wouldn't.

He didn't; and she spent the day drinking tea and crying 
intermittently.

She took the next day off, too, and the next; and on the 
evening of the third day -- not a visit, not even a phone 
call, but an e-mail dropping into her box.

   Agent Scully:

   I don't know how long you're going to 
   keep this up, but it's becoming damned 
   inconvenient.  Skinner has been asking 
   where you are, and your mother called 
   twice, and I'm not going to keep lying 
   for you.  I have better things to do 
   with my time.

   If you can't handle the situation like 
   a professional adult, then say so: but 
   in the meantime, I expect you to show 
   up for work and do your job.

   F. Mulder, Special Agent
   Department Head, X-Files Division

//He went out of his way to be as nasty as possible,// she 
recognized; and that knowledge depressed her even more.

For a while, she pondered how she might handle the 
situation; finally, after some hesitation, she picked up the 
phone and hit the familiar speed-dial number.  Three rings, 
four, five; and finally, "Mulder."

"Mulder," she echoed softly, struggling to get the words 
past the lump in her throat.  "We need to talk."

A brief silence; then, "Are you coming back to work?"

Hope surged inside her breast.  "Yes," she murmured.

"Then we have nothing to talk about," he said curtly.  In 
the background, she heard a faint noise -- a woman's voice, 
speaking words she couldn't discern.  "I'm busy right now.  
I'll see you at the office tomorrow."  And then the click of 
the receiver being disconnected, cutting her off effectively 
before she could say a single word in response.

She stared at the phone in her hand, feeling mingled anger 
and hurt -- the anger won, but it was a hard struggle.  She 
was grateful, though; anger was better than tears, and she'd 
done entirely too much crying over Mulder.  He wasn't crying 
over her, that was for certain... he'd found *better* things 
to do with his time.

It was time for her to get over him.

The following morning, she rose extra-early; she took a long 
bubble bath and spent more than the usual time on her hair 
and makeup, making sure she looked just right.  She selected 
one of her favorite outfits, a suit that managed to be 
wholly feminine and wholly professional at once.  When she 
looked in the mirror, she liked the image that looked back 
at her:  a competent, attractive woman, the sort who didn't 
let a man, *any* man, disrupt her existence.

Too bad she didn't *feel* that way...  But looking the part 
was the first step toward making the image real.

She walked into the office as if she owned the place, got 
there before Mulder as per usual; rummaged around in the 
stacks of paperwork on his desk and found the latest, 
perused the files carefully, bringing herself up to speed.  
By the time he entered, she was absorbed in her work -- to 
all outward appearances, at least.

"Good morning, Agent Scully," delivered in an abrupt, cool 
tone.  "I trust you've recovered from your unspecified 
ailment?"

Scully looked up at him, into his eyes, utilizing every 
ounce of self-possession she had to level him with a razor-
sharp glare.  "I've recovered," she said aloud, leaving it 
to her eyes to deliver the *real* message:  //Fuck you.//

She watched his cold, set face to see the effect: for a 
moment, he seemed taken aback, and the mask *almost* slipped 
-- then he met ice with ice, his expression sealing over 
into something utterly impenetrable.  "Fine," he said.  "I 
see you've been catching up with our work."

"I have," she said.

"Good.  Finish your reading, and we'll discuss the case."  
And seated himself at his desk, as if this were the usual 
course of events between them, as if nothing was the least 
bit amiss.

There hadn't been so much distance between them on the day 
they'd met.

Stifling a sigh before it could become audible, she returned 
her attention to the file; and when he picked up the phone, 
dialed a number and began speaking to someone in a low, 
intimate tone, she pretended not to notice, not to care.


XI. Oscillation

//Bitch.//

Look at her, with those cold eyes.  As if she expected him 
to feel guilty.  //As if.//  But that wasn't going to 
happen: he'd spent entirely enough of his life feeling 
guilty for one thing or another.  Now, he was going to enjoy 
himself; and never mind those ice-cold eyes on the other 
side of the office.

For all his years of hesitancy and fear, it was surprisingly 
easy.  Miriam and Alexis and Jill, Louanne and Tania and 
Karla and Shannon and Jeannine...  Each of them stunningly 
beautiful, each of them perfectly content to take whatever 
part of him he was willing to give.  And if the first one he 
called happened to be busy, it didn't matter; best of all, 
they were completely interchangeable, since none of them 
actually *meant* anything to him.  His perfect memory helped 
him track which one he was with, so there was no 
embarrassing calling-of-the-wrong-name; and as long as there 
was a woman next to him in bed, it really didn't matter 
which of them it was.

As long as there was a woman next to him in bed, he didn't 
find himself missing her.  Her, the bitch with the ice-cold 
eyes who'd broken his heart back when it was fragile and 
raw.  Now, he was busily constructing a wall of armor around 
his soul: no one else would get in, not now, not ever.

Who needed love?  Sex was good enough.

For the first time in his life, he had a little black book -
- he'd bought one specially for the purpose, little and 
black, just like the stereotype -- and it was filling up 
rapidly.  Womens' names, only ever the first name, and their 
phone numbers... sometimes he delighted in riffling through 
the pages and picking one at random, just for the sheer fun 
of knowing that there were so many, he couldn't choose.  
After a lifetime of starvation and hunger, here he was on 
the buffet line, indulging himself in a sumptuous feast...

And never mind the cold, accusing eyes of his erstwhile 
lover.

Leafing idly through his address book, he glanced up when 
the office door opened -- froze for the briefest moment, 
pinned by years of conditioning -- then shook it off, and 
stood to greet her.  "Hello, Phoebe," he said mildly.

She was aging.  Was that why she didn't seem nearly as 
gorgeous as she once had?  Or was it just that he'd 
extricated himself, finally, from her spell?  Whatever: it 
was about time.

"Hello, Fox," she purred, and he managed not to flinch.  
"And you, ah..."

"Dana Scully," said his partner, and her voice was steel.

"Oh, yes.  I'd forgotten."  Of course she hadn't.  Just 
another of Phoebe's little games.  "At any rate, I happened 
to be in town for a conference, and I thought we might catch 
a spot of dinner.  Wouldn't that be lovely, Fox?"

It amazed him, how easy it was to look at her now.  How 
simple it was to gaze at her, the woman who'd once held his 
heart and his balls in her hands and twisted for all she was 
worth, and say...

"Sorry, I have a date."  He didn't have one, not yet.  But 
he would; he'd make sure of it.

Phoebe seemed unperturbed, confident (he was sure) of her 
ability to wrap him around her pinky.  "Oh, come now.  
Surely, you can reschedule it, to spend time with... an old 
friend?"  Just enough of a pause to speak a thousand old 
promises in the space of the silence, designed to send his 
imagination soaring...

He shrugged.  "Nah."

His offhand response, or perhaps the calmness with which it 
was spoken, seemed to surprise her.  "Well," she said, after 
a moment.  "I see.  Unfortunate; I'd hoped we might be able 
to catch up on old times..."  Another pause, to see if the 
fish would nibble at the bait.  When he didn't, she 
continued smoothly.  "But if you haven't the time, perhaps 
we can arrange something the next time I'm in town..."

"I don't think so," Mulder said.

Her eyes met his... and it was unbelievably easy to stand 
firm, to refuse to melt in the heat of her gaze.  Her spell 
was broken; she couldn't touch him now.  Decades, it had 
taken -- but finally, the spell was broken: he was free.

"Well," she said.  "I suppose this is goodbye, then."

"I suppose."  He sat back down at his desk, picked up a file 
folder and pretended to engross himself in the contents, 
ostentatiously dismissing her from his thoughts; and after a 
moment, he heard the door open and close again.

A quick glance told him that she was gone; he set aside the 
folder with a sigh.  Reflexively, he opened his mouth to say 
something to Scully, to savor his triumph with the only 
person who could understand the magnitude of what he'd won -
- and then remembered, and closed his mouth again.

Scully was staring at the closed door; he couldn't see her 
face, but the set of her shoulders was... odd, somehow: 
tense and angry.

It bothered him that he couldn't share his victory with 
Scully.  It brought home to him how distant they'd become...  
//We're not even friends anymore,// he thought miserably.  
Then banished the misery sharply: he'd sworn he wouldn't let 
it happen.  Scully had broken his heart, and he wasn't going 
to give her the chance to stomp on the shattered fragments.

Picking up his phone book, he debated for a moment and then 
called Lucy, a tall stunning blonde -- she was almost always 
free; and she'd be happy to celebrate with him.  Even though 
she'd have no idea what was being celebrated...

-------

The following morning, he walked into the office, stifling a 
yawn -- Lucy was astonishingly creative, and they'd been up 
until dawn.  "Good morning, Agent Scully," he said to his 
partner, with the stark formality that had become routine.

As he seated himself at his desk, she looked up from the 
form she was filling out -- one glance, and formality went 
straight out the window.  "What *happened* to you?"

One finger involuntarily rose to touch the shadow of the 
black eye that she hadn't quite been able to mask with 
makeup.  "I walked into a door," she said briefly.

He would have argued, if there had been time -- but the 
phone rang; he picked it up, listened to the voice on the 
other end.  "Skinner wants to see us in his office," he 
said, and listlessly his partner shrugged.

The meeting was brief, and illuminating.  As they entered 
the outer office, Phoebe was just leaving -- she shot Scully 
a venomous glare and stalked out, but in that brief moment, 
Mulder had time to notice the bruises.  It seemed that they 
covered every square inch of her flesh, arms and legs and 
face...  and was her hair just messy, or had chunks of it 
*really* been pulled out?  "A.D. Skinner will see you now," 
the secretary told them, and they entered the inner sanctum.

Skinner wasted no time, got straight to the point.  "I 
understand that there was a bit of an incident last night, 
Agent Scully," he said, watching them both for a reaction.  
"Ms. Phoebe Green alleges that you ambushed her outside her 
hotel and proceeded to -- in her words -- 'beat the crap' 
out of her.  Is this true?"

//She...//  The world was spinning wildly, and nothing made 
sense.  //She beat up Phoebe...//  It shouldn't have been 
surprising; he'd heard Scully make that very vow.  But that 
was *before*, when they were lovers...  when he'd thought 
she loved him.  She didn't love him now, he knew that, so 
why...

"Scully was with me," he heard himself say.  "We were going 
over some paperwork; she was with me all evening."

"Is that true, Agent Scully?" Skinner asked her.

Scully hesitated, very briefly.  "Are you calling Agent 
Mulder a liar, sir?" she said smoothly.

Skinner sighed.  "Get out of here, both of you."

They walked toward the elevator together, side by side.  
"Scully," Mulder murmured, not knowing what exactly he was 
going to say, knowing that he needed to say *some*thing, 
"I..."

"I need to check on some things," she cut him off bluntly.  
"I'll see you later," walked past him and was gone.

He watched her go, feeling the world still spinning around 
him; it continued to whirl crazily as he found his way back 
to his office alone.  //She doesn't love me.  I know that 
now; she never loved me.//

//But why would she...?//

//It's like... my best friend just beat up the school bully 
for me,// and suddenly he was very close to tears.

She didn't come back to the office -- he waited for hours, 
but she never showed; at noon, he gave up and went to meet 
with one of his lunch-break women.  Felicia chided him 
several times for not paying attention; he tried his best, 
but came away from the luncheon date with the feeling she 
wouldn't be granting him another.  At that moment, it didn't 
seem like any great loss.

He walked slowly back to work, in no hurry to get there, 
still puzzling over his contradictory feelings.  He was over 
her -- he was determined to be over her -- why did it affect 
him so, that she'd exacted retribution against Phoebe on his 
behalf?  Memory struck: sitting on a ferris wheel at sunset, 
breathless with wanting Scully and utterly intoxicated with 
the thought that it might actually happen, speaking the 
words:  //It's nice to have someone to hate her with.//  
Scully had understood.  He'd let her know his heart, and 
she'd understood -- right up until the time she'd stomped it 
into the ground.

Was it possible that she hadn't meant to?  

But then... did it matter whether she'd meant to or not?

Loving Phoebe had destroyed him.  Loving Scully had cured 
him -- and shattered him all over again.  It was the *love* 
that was the problem: the opening up of oneself to let 
another person in.  To do so was the ultimate folly, 
inviting that visitor to do whatever damage she pleased...  
Too dangerous.  Too frightening.

Never again.

Yet even as he strengthened his resolve, he was aware of 
something within him, some tiny voice, that ached and cried 
for Scully...

So caught up in his thoughts was he that he never saw the 
car that jumped the sidewalk, mowing down passersby in its 
course toward the plate-glass window of the clothing 
boutique -- he only felt the impact, a force too swift and 
stunning to impart pain; surprise lit his mind from within -
- //What the...?// -- as he fell into darkness.

-------

The moment he awoke, he knew he was in a hospital room.  
Something about the smell, the glare of all the whiteness, 
and most importantly, the awareness of pain not-quite-felt, 
struggling to surface from beneath a numbing blanket of 
medication...

He turned his head, and there she was: asleep with her head 
pillowed on folded arms on the edge of his bed, auburn hair 
spilling over the sheets.

"Scully," he said -- tried to say; it came out as a croak.

Her head lifted: tired, bloodshot eyes, face streaked from 
the trails of long-dried tears.  "Mulder," she murmured.

"What're you doing here?"  Of course she was there; she was 
always there.  But why?  That was the part he still couldn't 
comprehend.

She made a sound -- not quite a sigh; closer to a sob.  
"Where else would I be?"

"Thought you wanted time to yourself," he said tiredly.  His 
head itched -- with the arm that wasn't strapped down and 
stuck with an IV, he tried to scratch it, but the bandages 
got in the way.

"Mulder, you..."  Scully drew a deep, shaky breath.  "You 
don't understand.  You never understood."

"Of course not; I don't understand anything.  I'm just some 
big stupid guy who chases aliens."  The meds were wearing 
off, and his head hurt.  A lot.

"No, you're just some big stupid guy who chases anything 
with a cunt," she snapped back, and the sharpness of her 
tone, combined with the unusual use of profanity, drew his 
attention to her face.

It was a mask of fury, barely leashed -- and there were 
tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I loved you," she went on, and her tone of voice made it a 
curse.  "I loved you, and I gave you everything I could, 
everything I thought you needed.  And you... you just 
couldn't wait for the *first* excuse to dump me and screw 
around, could you?  That's all *you* wanted: to fuck your 
way through D.C...."

"Aren't you twisting the facts a little?" he interrupted 
acidly.  "You were the one who told me to get out of your 
life..."

"It was *one* argument!  No sane person breaks off a 
perfectly good relationship because of *one* argument...!"

"You told me to get out, I got out.  You told me to get a 
life, I got a life.  Now you're saying that I didn't 
understand; tell me, Scully, what part of 'fuck you' did I 
fail to comprehend?"  There was a pounding pain in his 
skull, just behind his right eye; every word he spoke made 
it worse, every word she shouted turned the pain into bright 
agony.

"All I wanted was a little space!  Why can't you..."  She 
broke off her reply, as the door opened.

A nurse came in, with a hypodermic needle -- //relief!// -- 
she took in the scenario, and frowned.  "Time for your 
medication, Mister Mulder," she said to him; and to her:  
"I'm sure you'll agree, *Doctor* Scully, that considering 
the extent of his injuries, a sustained conversation isn't 
medically advisable at this time."

He had the satisfaction of watching Scully's face flush 
scarlet.  "Of course," she muttered, and moved away from the 
bed to give the nurse room to work.

The woman checked the various tubes running into and out of 
him with brisk efficiency, administered the shot; almost at 
once, he could feel the blissful numbness sweeping over him, 
eliminating the throbbing pain.  "What're you doing tonight, 
beautiful?" he asked her hazily.

His nurse -- a large black woman who could not, by any 
stretch of the imagination, been called beautiful -- emitted 
a hearty laugh.  "Making sure you don't pop any stitches," 
she said, "and then going home to my husband and three kids.  
Now, you just get your rest."  Turning, pointing a stubby 
finger at Scully.  "And you, *let* him rest.  Visiting hours 
were over ages ago; it's time for you to leave..."

There was an argument, then, but he missed it; the 
painkiller dragged him under, into a deep dreamless sleep.

-------

When next he awoke, a hand was holding his -- strong and 
soft and sweet, a familiar sensation...

"Scully?" he murmured.

"How do you feel, Will?" and he opened his eyes to a 
stranger's face.

It took him a moment to dredge her name from memory.  
"Lisa," he said, finally.  "Thanks for coming."

"I had to stand in line," she told him, with a grin to let 
him know that she took no offense.  "Juliana said to tell 
you that she hopes you feel better soon, and Amanda left 
flowers -- and this is from me," and she bent over him, 
planted a warm kiss on his lips.

He endured it, rather than enjoying it -- her kisses meant 
nothing to him, no more than any of his other women.  It was 
a promise, of sexual favors to be granted in the future, and 
so he smiled at her as she pulled away; she smiled back, and 
he was aware that he'd managed to maneuver the situation to 
his advantage.  Poor sick 'William' would have no shortage 
of ladies willing to play nursemaid during his recovery...

//My god,// he thought, in a moment's stunned realization, 
//I've become Phoebe.//

Before he could reflect on this latest, distressing 
revelation, the door swung open...  "Excuse me," said 
Scully, "I didn't know you were... busy."

Her face had been washed, makeup and facade retouched to 
impeccable stillness, displaying no sign of her earlier 
anger or tears.  Lisa turned, surveyed her, frowned.  "Wait 
your turn," she advised, "*I'm* with him now."

There was no way, he knew, that Scully was going to put up 
with that; silently, he waited for his partner to assert 
herself, to let the other woman know who belonged there and 
who didn't, to put Lisa firmly in her place...

"My apologies," said Scully, with a faint smile, and closed 
the door behind herself as she left.

Startled, he stared at the closed door.  //She just... 
left...//  The impact of it hit him like a hammer; he 
felt... he felt... he didn't know what he felt, but it was 
like being cast adrift in an endless sea, with no anchor to 
hold him in place, no lighthouse to guide him to shore.

"Well, now that we're alone..."  Lisa smiled at him warmly, 
and in her pearly-white teeth Mulder suddenly envisioned 
sharks, circling, waiting to snap at him and pull him under.

He shuddered, covered it by saying that he was cold, let 
Lisa pull the covers up over him and cluck over him 
soothingly -- she was solicitous, soothing, all the things a 
wounded man might want in the woman by his bedside -- and 
none of it mattered.

She left after awhile, so that he could 'get some rest', and 
he waited... doctors came in to explain what was wrong with 
him, and tell him that he was doing well, considering... 
nurses came in to change his bandages, fill some bags and 
empty others, and monitor his progress... women came and 
left in a steady stream, all the names in his little black 
book... and still he waited, not knowing what exactly he was 
waiting for...

After the sun had set, changing the windowpanes from day-lit 
to night-dark, it came to him that he was waiting for 
Scully.

And still she didn't show up.

Voices spoke to him inside his head, in a plethora of tones:  
//You knew she wouldn't come, she doesn't love you, it was 
only ever pity / love, it was love, she said she loved you, 
and you pushed her away, you were so eager to show off your 
manhood that you / did what was right and necessary; she 
pushed *you* away, and you found yourself a better way / all 
the faces and bodies and none of them mean anything to you, 
only her / she HURT you, she's the only one left who *can* 
hurt you, you're better off without her / all alone without 
her / love her / need her / hate needing her / don't want to 
need anyone else / what am I doing?  What do I do next?//

Questions and questions and no answers; and finally he fell 
into a restless sleep.

He awoke to the blackness of no lights, nothing but night-
darkness, and the certain knowledge that he wasn't alone.

//Scully.//

"You came back," he said aloud, to the darkness.

A soft voice floated back to him.  "Where else would I be?"

He thought about that for a moment.  "You weren't here 
before."

The voice, when it returned, was shadowed with the faintest 
tinge of hurt.  "You were busy."

Right: the women waiting, in line (so to speak) outside his 
door.  "I guess I was," he agreed.

Silence spread; he felt compelled to break it.  "I don't 
need you," he said, hearing his voice echo in the fathomless 
chasm that separated them.  "I can do just fine without 
you."

A moment's pause; then, "I guess you can," she agreed.

//But I can't.//

"I loved you," Scully said, from the other side of the Great 
Divide.  "I still love you.  I suppose... I thought that 
might still matter to you."

//Nothing else matters.//

"But we're too far from that now, aren't we?  Too much has 
changed for us... for you."  She was silent for a moment, 
then continued.  "I have to admit, as much as I despise you 
for the way you've chosen to live your life... I'm glad that 
you have the ability to live whatever way you want.  If I've 
left you with nothing else, at least I've given you that."

//Left me.  She's leaving me.  This is it, then.//

"There's no future for us, is there?  Just more of the same.  
It's all downhill from here."  He heard her draw breath, as 
if it was an effort for her to do so.  "I guess it's time to 
say goodbye."

//You knew this would happen.  You've always known.  It's 
what you expected, isn't it?  People always leave...//

//...especially if you shut them out of your heart and life 
and take up with others...//

A brief touch, fingertips brushing against the back of his 
hand; then the creaking of the chair as she rose, the soft 
footfalls as she headed toward the door.

In another heartbeat, she would open the door and step 
through it, and then she would be gone.  Reassignment?  
Probably; Scully wasn't one to do things halfway.  What 
would it be like, to work with another agent?  To face the 
mysteries of the X-Files alone again?  A fresh start, a new 
beginning: erasing her number from his telephone speed-dial, 
erasing her face from his heart.  The first would require a 
bit of reprogramming; would the latter ever happen?  Not 
likely.

The door opened, and the light from the hallway spilled into 
the room, silhouetting her figure as she turned back to look 
at him one last time.  One last time.  No more midnight 
conversations, no more chasing rainbows together, no more of 
the strange trembling intimacy that had lived between them 
for far longer than they'd been lovers.

Over.  It was all over.  One more moment, and it would all 
be over, with no chance to ever make it right.

Now the door was closing, taking the light with it, leaving 
him in the darkness.  Another moment, and she would be 
gone...

"Scully," he whispered.

The light still shone through the doorway, a brief 
reprieve...

"Don't go..."  Would she listen?  Would she care?  Or was it 
true, that the chasm between them was too great to allow any 
bridging of the gap?

Was it really too late?

The sound of the door closing felt like the slamming-shut of 
a coffin, sealing his doom; and again he was surrounded by 
darkness.

And then, footsteps in the dark.

And then, a hand slipping into his, holding it.

And then, a soft voice illuminating the darkness.  "I'm 
here."

//Nothing else matters.//

He closed his eyes, felt tears leaking out from beneath the 
lids; his hand tightened around hers and held it, refusing 
to let go.

The darkness was total, encompassing him utterly.

But he wasn't alone.


XII. Correlation 

There were dark circles under his eyes, yellowed remnants of 
deep bruises on his face and arms.  Part of his head had 
been shaved, in order to suture his wounds; it was starting 
to grow in, but his hair still looked as if small woodland 
creatures had been nibbling at it while he slept.  He walked 
unsteadily, but he was walking, having spurned the 
wheelchair they'd offered -- still, she stayed close to him 
as they made their way to her car.

He was going home.  She was taking him home.  Not one of his 
playthings -- there had been offers aplenty, but he'd chosen 
her to play chauffeur.  She wasn't sure if this was his idea 
of offering an olive branch, or only tossing her a bone -- 
but she wasn't about to turn it down.

Throughout the weeks of his recovery, the female traffic to 
and from his room had been intense.  Some of Mulder's 
girlfriends had been friendly, some had been wary, some had 
been downright hostile -- she'd learned to confine her 
visits to after-hours, using her pull as a fellow M.D. to 
gain access, for those were the only times they could talk.

Not that there was much talking.  The gulf that separated 
them was still vast.  But Mulder seemed content with her 
presence; and so they sat together in silence, hour after 
hour, broken only by the occasional fragment of small talk 
or shop talk -- nothing real, nothing important, no 
discourse about their feelings or their relationship.

At least they were together, and that was a start.

Now, she got him into the passenger seat, belted him in, 
tucked a pillow behind his head -- he was still prone to 
severe headaches; his recovery was far from complete -- not 
daring to allow herself to react to his physical proximity, 
trying not to react to him at all, and so his voice in her 
ear came as a shock.

"Taking pity on me, Scully?"

Pity?  Where the hell had that come from?  "Just trying to 
make sure you're comfortable for the drive back," she 
responded.

"Mmm," and he closed his eyes and said nothing more.

Halfway back, miles later, it came to her -- what she'd 
said, when they'd fought -- //Shit!//  Words of anger, 
nothing more; but just *try* convincing him of that now...  
"It was never pity," she said, struggling to keep her voice 
calm and steady.  "It was always love, Mulder.  Always."

The only answer she got was the same unresponsive, "Mmm."

She drove him to his apartment, parked in the 'No Standing' 
zone in front, displayed her FBI parking permit prominently 
to (hopefully) prevent being towed.  "Well, here we are," 
she said, with a sigh.

His eyes opened, and he glanced out the window -- "This is 
my place," he said with a faint frown, sounding puzzled.

"Yeah," Scully agreed, wondering.

Mulder seemed at a loss for words.  "I thought... you asked 
me if I wanted you to take me home."

It took her a moment to sort it out in her mind.  "You 
thought I meant *my* home?"  But of course, it made sense -- 
the head injury had been a nasty one, and he still had 
headaches, dizzy spells; Mulder could barely take care of 
himself at the *best* of times, let alone now...

"Never mind," he said abruptly, and began fumbling with the 
seatbelt.

"No, wait..."  She reached out and grabbed his hand, stopped 
him from unfastening the restraint.  "Do you mean that you 
*want* me to look after you, is that it?"

His face was closed and set -- he wouldn't allow himself the 
luxury of begging, of course: not her, not now.  "Wouldn't 
want you to take pity on me again," he said tightly.

She sighed.  "It wasn't pity, it wasn't ever pity."

"'S what you said."  He wouldn't look at her, but the 
expression on his face as he stared pointedly at the 
windshield told her how badly her words had hurt him.

//Shit.//  "I was angry," she said plaintively.  "I lied."

"Sure," he said, "fine.  Whatever."

Another sigh.  "Mulder, haven't you ever said anything in 
anger that you regretted later?"

"I never told you that I was only using you for sex," he 
said shortly.  "I never told you to get the hell out of *my* 
life.  And I never told you how irredeemably ugly that 
tattoo is."

//Ouch.//  "Point taken," she said softly.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, and she wondered 
what he was thinking.  Was he hoping that she'd take him 
home with her?  Was he counting the seconds until he could 
be free of her?  What did he really want?  Once upon a time, 
she would have known -- but everything had changed, and now 
she couldn't tell.

Her hand still held his arm, which was stiff and tense in 
her grip; but he'd made no move to break the contact.

"Mulder," she asked him finally, "what do you want me to 
do?"

Something like a shudder passed through him.  "Do whatever 
you want," he said curtly.

She thought about it for a moment, then let go of his arm, 
started the car again and pulled away from the curb.

As she drove, it occurred to her that if he'd meant to 
maneuver her into playing nursemaid, he'd done a damn good 
job...  The thought chilled her.  Mulder, with his 
detachment and his intuitive knack for profiling, could 
easily manipulate just about anyone into doing just about 
anything.  He knew Scully better than anyone else; if he 
wanted to exact his revenge against her, it wouldn't be a 
difficult task -- She shivered, and not from the air-
conditioning.

But as she glanced at him sideways from the corner of her 
eye, she saw the fatigue and the pain, and most of all the 
despair -- and thought that perhaps it was just his 
loneliness at work: that no matter how much he might shy 
away from her, he needed her even more than he could 
consciously admit.  If she was being manipulated, she 
thought, it was for that reason rather than any sort of 
vengeance.

At least, she hoped so.

She hadn't made any sort of preparation for a visitor, but 
she always kept the guest bedroom ready -- serendipity, that 
she had a guest room at all: there hadn't been a one-bedroom 
apartment open for rent when she'd chosen the complex, and 
by the time one *had* become available, it had been too much 
trouble to move.  In the intervening years, it had been 
useful to have that spare room at hand -- Mulder had slept 
there more than once -- and now, he would reside there 
again.

There was something comforting in that.  Despite the 
distance between them, for a little while he would be at 
least physically close by...

Scully got him settled in bed, then went off to see about 
getting his prescriptions filled -- the hospital had 
provided a small supply of meds, but not enough to last, and 
she wanted to get that task out of the way.  It occurred to 
her at the drugstore that she should have grabbed a few 
things from his apartment while they were there, and she 
detoured past Target on the way home: after their breakup, 
his spare suits and shaving kit had remained at her place, 
but there had never been much need for sleepclothes in the 
course of their relationship.  She bought him a couple of 
pairs of cheap pajamas, t-shirts and sweatpants on sale... 
and then it occurred to her that she could use some extra 
food in the fridge...

//I'm avoiding him,// she realized, as she paid the 
supermarket cashier and carried her bags to the car.  //I 
don't know what to say to him, how to act or react, so I'm 
finding any plausible excuse to stay away.//  The knowledge 
added to her sense of dread, so that when she finally did 
get home, she sat in the car for ten minutes before she 
could force herself to get out of the car and enter her 
apartment...

...which was an anticlimax: Mulder was asleep.

She sat at his bedside for awhile, watching him sleep.  
Awake, he always looked like he was carrying the weight of 
the world on his shoulders; asleep, some of that fell away 
from him -- but only some of it.  The burden of being who he 
was had long ago etched itself onto his soul, and not even 
slumber could erase its mark.

//Pity,// she thought.  //Of all we've shared, all the 
things we've said to each other, that's the one thing he 
chooses to remember...//

It made sense -- too much sense.  Having become convinced 
that she'd slept with him solely from pity, he'd set out to 
find women who wouldn't share that sentiment.  How else to 
convince himself that he wasn't a pitiable creature, 
deserving only of contempt?  All things considered, she 
supposed that it had been a more healthful option than the 
next logical alternative: that of crawling back into his 
shell alone, destroying all the progress he'd made toward 
normal sexual function.

She only hoped that he hadn't contracted anything nasty in 
his travels...  The blood screens at the hospital had turned 
up negative, but one never knew what might show up later.  
Hopefully, Mulder was smart enough to practice safe sex...

...but he wasn't smart enough to know the difference between 
an angry remark and a truth, which didn't give her much hope 
for the future.

Or was there?  He was here, after all.  And knowing Mulder, 
she was certain that he'd rather have starved to death in 
his own apartment than accept lodging in hers, no matter 
*how* sick he might be -- unless deep down inside, he 
*wanted* to heal the hurts that separated them.

On the other hand, knowing Mulder, it would require all her 
time, energy and attention to do so.

Scully sighed, knowing that she had already, intuitively and 
without stopping to think about the consequences, made her 
choice.  After all, she wouldn't have brought him home, no 
matter *how* badly he might need her, if she didn't feel he 
was worth the effort...

But it would be a long, hard road for both of them.

-------

She found him in the kitchen when she awoke, managing to 
stay upright by virtue of a hand clutching the countertop 
and holding on for dear life, struggling to make coffee with 
the other.  "I'll do that," she said, taking the filter 
basket from his hand, "you sit down, before you fall down."

He must have been enduring one of his dizzy spells, for he 
didn't argue.  "You'll be late for work," he reminded her.

"Huh?  Oh... that's right, you don't know."  She busied 
herself with filter and coffee and water.  "Ms. Green 
elected to file a formal complaint.  Skinner doesn't think 
she'll bother pursuing the matter to the point of 
disciplinary action, since she's already gone back to her 
side of the pond, but... I'm on an unpaid leave of absence 
while the matter is investigated," and snuck a quick glance 
sideways to see how he was reacting to the news.

Surprise first, then unmitigated anger.  "That *bitch*," and 
the sound of a fist thumping against her kitchen table.  His 
anger was gratifying; for a moment, it felt as if they were 
on the same side again...

"You never did tell me why," he added, a moment later.

"Why what?"  Water and filter and coffee in place, she 
flicked the switch that would begin the brewing process.

"Why you beat the crap out of her."  His voice was very 
soft, almost hesitant.

Was it truly possible that he didn't *know*?  "I told you I 
would," she said, "if I ever got the chance."

"Yeah, but... that was before..." and the rest of the 
sentence died on his tongue.

She turned to look at him directly -- thought better of it, 
for the movement would allow him a clear look at her face as 
well.  "Mulder," she said tiredly, "some things don't 
change," and escaped to the bathroom, to fetch his 
medication, wash her face and regain her composure.

It took her some time to accomplish those tasks, especially 
the last; and by the time she emerged, the coffee was ready.  
Mulder had apparently tried to pour himself a cup, had 
succeeded only in spilling a goodly portion of it on her 
floor, and was trying to clean up the mess by means of 
pushing a paper towel around the linoleum with one foot.  
She shooed him away, grabbed an old dish-sponge, and 
finished the job before filling two cups with coffee and 
bringing them to the table.

"How am I supposed to take care of you if you won't let me?" 
she grumbled -- then flinched at her own words, for they 
evoked a memory that was more painful in retrospect than the 
original event had been: a too-cold shower, and his body 
shivering against hers...

"I don't need your pity."  The pain in his voice, so 
carefully veiled yet still so obvious, wrenched at her.

"You're not listening to me, Mulder.  It was never pity... I 
said that in anger, damn it."

"And the truth will out," in a voice so soft that it was 
nearly a whisper.

Her restraint began to fray; temper seeped through.  "If 
that's what you really believe, Mulder, why are you here?"

His eyes met hers, wearing an expression she couldn't fully 
decipher.  "I'm a glutton for punishment," he murmured.  
"But then, you knew that already."

She almost lost it completely, then; almost snapped back at 
him -- stopped herself just in time.  That was how they'd 
gotten *into* this mess, and giving in to anger now would 
only make it worse...  Instead, she drew a deep breath and 
reined in her temper.  "Tell me something, Mulder," she 
began, trying for a more logical tack, "do you truly believe 
that I'd have sex with somebody unless I sincerely cared 
about him?"

"No, but..."

"No buts.  Answer."

It took him a moment.  "No," he admitted.

"Do you believe that I was lying to you when I told you that 
I had desired you for some time prior to your confession?"

"Not lying, exactly..."

"Just answer the question, Mulder."

An even longer time before he could bring himself to 
respond.  "I guess not, no."

"So what makes you believe that I had sex with you purely as 
a result of pity?"  Surely, even Mulder could see the logic 
of that chain...

"The amount of shit you put up with between point A and 
point B," he replied, very softly.

Her eyes closed of their own accord.  "Maybe I just thought 
you were worth it," she murmured.

"Now why would you think that?"  His tone was wry, almost 
joking; but all the self-loathing he carried around with him 
expressed itself within the parameters of that sentence.

"Because you are?" she tried, knowing that it was an answer 
he wouldn't accept.  "Or maybe you're not; I don't know.  
But I believe you are."

"Or maybe you just pitied me enough to think you believed."

She sighed heavily.  "If you're that determined to believe 
that you're pitiable, there's not much I can do to change 
your mind," she said slowly.  "But consider this:  I've 
stayed with you for five years, despite suffering personal 
consequences for having done so.  Despite the fact that I 
don't believe in the things you consider gospel.  I have 
stayed with you for five years as your partner and your 
friend, simply because *I believe you're worth it*.  Which 
means: either I am an abominable judge of character -- or 
your opinion of yourself and your worth is a load of 
bullshit."  Fatigue washed over her in a great wave, as if 
she hadn't slept at all the night before; the conversation 
was wearing her down as little else could.  "Figure it out 
for yourself, Mulder; I'm tired, and I'm going back to bed."

Abandoning her untouched coffee, she left him there at the 
table, and retreated to her own room.

-------

Rising some hours later, she found his mug in the sink, 
rinsed but not washed.  Hers was still on the table; 
apparently, he hadn't trusted himself to carry the full mug 
of now-cold coffee.  He had, however, managed to find his 
way to the fridge, and cannibalized half of a Sara Lee 
chocolate layer cake she'd left there; she chided herself 
for not having offered him breakfast before her retreat.

As for Mulder himself, he was sprawled on the living room 
couch, snoring.

She retrieved the bottles of medication and a glass of 
water, placed one hand on his shoulder and shook him awake; 
he managed to lever himself into a sitting position, and 
swallowed the pills without fuss.

Afterwards, she let him lean on her as he stumbled to the 
bathroom, and waited outside while he took care of his needs 
-- "I'm going to take a shower," he stated through the 
closed door, over the sound of the toilet flushing.

"I don't think that's too wise," she responded.

"I don't care.  I feel downright scuzzy."  The door opened, 
and he stood there staring down at her, daring her to argue.  
"I'll be fine," he said flatly.

She looked at him -- looked at the tight grip he was 
maintaining on the door frame, and how even that support 
wasn't enough to keep him from swaying.  "You can't even 
stay on your feet," she scolded lightly -- hesitated over 
her next words, then said them anyway.  "I think you need 
some help."

"You helping me," he murmured, "is how we got into this mess 
in the first place."

It was a moment before she could reply.  "We got into this 
'mess'," she said finally, "because I said something untrue 
in a moment of anger.  And because you don't have the sense 
to realize it."

He shrugged.  "Be that as it may."

"Be that as it may," she retorted, "I will not have you 
slipping and falling and breaking your neck in my bathtub.  
Shower with help, or don't shower; your choice."

Mulder took his time making up his mind.  "Fine," he said at 
last, sounding as if he were forcing out the words from 
between clenched teeth, "you can *help*," making it sound 
like an epithet.

He undressed with his back to her, struggling to get the 
sweatpants off without having to bend and possibly lose his 
balance -- she thought about offering to assist him, decided 
that it wouldn't go over well, and instead sloughed off her 
own robe and nightgown.  She stepped past him and got the 
shower going, adjusted the temperature until it was 
comfortably warm, and waited for him to decide that he was 
ready...

Not so long ago, it had been natural and pleasurable to 
shower with him.  Now, the situation was painfully awkward.  
It was clear to Scully that he hated having her there, would 
have done anything to avoid it -- she reached out to wash 
his back, and he flinched from her touch.  But he couldn't 
do it himself; he was hanging on to the washcloth-rail above 
the soap dish, fighting to stay on his feet -- so she 
lathered him up quickly, trying for his sake to get the 
ordeal over with as quickly as possible.

Halfway through, "Scully," she heard him say faintly, "I..." 
and he swayed sharply; she grabbed hold of him as he fell 
backward, eased him down to the tub in a sort of controlled 
fall until his butt was safely resting on terra firma.

Utilizing all her restraint to keep from saying, 'I told you 
so,' she asked instead, "Are you okay?"

"Just a little dizzy," he muttered, "I'm fine," and moved as 
if to try to stand.

"Oh, no.  You just sit still," she admonished, reaching for 
the hand sprayer.

She washed his hair, using the shampoo from the bottle he'd 
left in her bathroom, remnant of when showering together 
hadn't been a chore -- she tried hard not to think of that, 
instead devoting her attention to keeping the foam out of 
his eyes.  While she did, he finished washing himself, 
having two hands to devote to the task -- she rinsed him off 
carefully, leaving no trace of soap on his skin or hair -- 
turned off the water, when the job was finished, and 
listened to the last droplets of water falling from the 
showerhead in the newfound silence.

Looked at him, huddled on the floor of her bathtub, and 
couldn't keep herself from hugging him: wrapped her arms 
around his shoulders and chest from behind, resting her 
cheek against his wet hair.  "I'm sorry," she whispered.  
"Mulder, I'm so sorry."

"So'm I," she heard him say.  But it wasn't a 
reconciliation, only an expression of bleak despair; with a 
sigh, she released him and reached for a towel.

-------

Dinner was Chinese take-out -- she thought perhaps that she 
should have cooked him a more nutritious meal, but he seemed 
happy with his chicken chow mein, and she was tired.  The 
parts of his hair that weren't regrown-stubble had gotten 
long; strands kept falling into his eyes, despite her 
attempts to comb them away from his face, and he kept 
shoving them back with an annoyed gesture.

It was an oddly companionable meal: as if the tension 
between them had been set aside, by mutual consent, as being 
too damned inconvenient to sustain.  There was little 
conversation between them, but that was better than the 
studied small-talk that had passed for conversation in the 
hospital -- better not to talk at all than to talk about 
nothing and know that there was something huge and ominous 
being deliberately ignored.

"I could cut that for you," she said, after the fifteenth or 
sixteenth time he'd stopped eating to shove the hair out of 
his face.

"I'll survive."  The hand lingered along one of the stubbly 
patches of scalp self-consciously.  "I'm missing enough hair 
as it is."

"It'll grow back," she reassured him: stubble though it was, 
the regrowth was thick and even, showing no trace of 
impending baldness.  "Don't worry; I'm sure your girlfriends 
won't mind."

She'd been trying for humor, but apparently it was the wrong 
thing to say: his body tensed, all over and in the space of 
a heartbeat.  "What do you know about my girlfriends?"

Scully shrugged.  "Not much," she said, lying through her 
teeth.  She'd spent enough time listening to them chatter 
amongst themselves in the hospital's waiting room and 
ladies' room -- enough to know that most of them considered 
him a 'mystery man', signifying that he didn't have a single 
confidante among them.  Enough to know that his contacts 
with these women were shallow and insubstantial things, 
dinners and movies and sex and not much else.  Enough to 
know that he hadn't seen fit to demonstrate many of his oral 
skills to them, as he had to Scully; and that those who 
needed more than a straight screw to achieve satisfaction 
considered him a passable lover at best.  Not that it 
mattered to a single one of them -- Mulder was handsome, 
could be incredibly charming when he wanted to be, had been 
educated in old-fashioned notions of courtesy and gallantry, 
and wasn't inclined to scrimp on a date with a woman who he 
intended to take to bed -- all of which made him a notable 
catch for any woman out fishing for a man.

As she'd only ever known Mulder as Mulder, it had been a 
real eye-opener to discover what these women thought of him.  
A wholly new perspective on an old friend...

"I don't want to talk about that," he said flatly, and she 
shrugged again and let it drop.

The meal progressed in silence.  "It's funny," Mulder said 
at last.  "When I wasn't having sex, it seemed like the most 
important thing in the world, and now that I am..."  He 
shrugged, a more expressive conclusion to the sentence than 
any words could have been.

//So much for not wanting to talk about it,// Scully 
thought.  "I don't know if it's the same for men," she said, 
choosing her words carefully, "but I've always found that it 
matters more who you're having sex *with* than the mere fact 
of sex itself."

"You could be right," he mused.  Then, very softly:  "It 
mattered with you."

She looked up sharply, studying him closely; but he'd 
devoted himself to the chow mein, and his too-long bangs 
covered his face and hid it from view.

"I thought so, too," she murmured.  To stop the moment from 
lingering and becoming awkward, she rose to her feet and 
asked, "You ready for another soda?"

"Sure," he said, sounding relieved, and she went to get it.

//Halfway there,// she thought, doing some unnecessary 
puttering in the kitchen to kill some time and let the dust 
settle.  //At least he's talking.  At least he's admitting 
that what we had together *meant* something...  Finally, 
we're getting somewhere.//

But where?  And how long would it take?  //Who knows?// 
Scully thought wearily, and did her best to put the question 
out of her mind.

Returning to the living room, she found that Mulder had 
finished his meal and was toying with a fortune cookie.  
"Ready to see what the future holds?"

"Not really," he muttered; but he cracked open the cookie 
anyway.  The slip of paper seemed to startle him -- he read 
it twice, then folded it in half and slid it into the vest 
pocket of his pajamas.  "Your turn."

Idly, she picked up the other cookie and snapped it in half 
while Mulder nibbled on the wreckage of his own, read the 
paper she found inside.  'That which you thought lost will 
soon be found' -- she sighed, and hoped that it was true.

"What's it say?" Mulder asked.

"I'll trade," she retorted.

He thought about it for a moment.  "Never mind," he 
dismissed, while her curiosity itched.

//Whatever.//  "You want to watch some TV?" she asked him.

"Actually, I'm kind of tired," he demurred.  "I could use 
some sleep."

//Where have I heard this before...?//  "Okay," she said.  
"Shove over," and didn't wait for him to comply, instead 
wriggled onto the couch with him.

"What the... oof... what're you doing?"

"You liked it well enough last time."  It took some doing, 
but she managed to wedge herself behind him, so that if he 
leaned back as he had been doing, he would be resting 
against her.

"That was different..."  He seemed -- nervous?  No, not 
quite.  But definitely edgy, as if confronting something he 
feared.

"No, it's not."  She took hold of his shoulders and tugged.  
"C'mere."

He resisted -- for a moment, then acceded to the inevitable, 
turning slightly onto his side and letting his head rest 
against her shoulder.  Still, his body was tense against 
hers, and she pondered what she could do about that.

The answer came to her in a flash of sudden insight, as his 
hand raised to rub at his forehead.  "Headache?" she asked 
rhetorically, and began to stroke his hair.

"Some," he allowed, not moving to stop her; after awhile, he 
began to relax.

It wasn't long before he fell asleep, and she resigned 
herself to several hours of pins and needles in slowly-
numbing arms and legs -- but first, she let her fingers 
wander, just a bit, to the pocket of his pajama shirt.  He 
stirred once, slightly, and she froze briefly; but after 
another moment, she had it in her fingers.

One-handed, she fumbled the slip of paper open, and read his 
fortune.

'That which you thought lost will soon be found'...

//I'll be damned,// she thought.  //Coincidence?//

One way or another, they'd find out.

-------

She awoke to the feel of a blanket sliding over her; 
startled, she opened her eyes and found him bending over 
her.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he said, by way of explanation.  
"You looked cold..."

"Thanks," she said blurrily.  "You okay?"

He shrugged.  "As well as can be expected.  I'm a little 
dizzy, but I'm not nauseous, and my head doesn't hurt."  
Ever since the injury, it had always been at least one of 
the three.

Then he knelt beside the couch, reached out and touched her 
face with a single fingertip.  "Thanks," he murmured.

Heartened by the touch, she moved quickly, grabbed his hand 
before he could withdraw it.  "It was my pleasure," she 
said.

He'd turned off the lights; the television screen flickered 
with unseen pictures, its sound muted, providing the only 
illumination.  She could just barely see his face in the 
shadows, could just barely discern its expression -- somber, 
troubled, as it looked sometimes when he was fighting to 
solve a puzzle, struggling to make it come clear.  "You read 
my fortune," he said, his tone carrying no censure for the 
invasion of privacy.

She nodded slightly.  "It was the same as mine," and noted 
by his lack of surprise that he'd read her fortune, too.

"So," he said, and had to stop to clear his throat before he 
could continue.  "What do you think, do fortune cookies 
really tell the future?"

There was only one answer to that.  "You tell me," she said.

Silence.  "No," he said, at last.  "You tell *me*, Scully.  
Tell me..." and his voice caught, so that he couldn't 
continue.

"Tell you what?" she countered softly, when the silence had 
again lengthened between them.

His eyes flickered away, as if he feared what she might say 
next.  "Tell me the truth, Scully," he whispered.  "Tell me 
how you really feel."

She hesitated for a long moment, knowing that what she said 
at that moment would define the future of their relationship 
-- would define whether there would be a relationship at 
all.  "You're my friend," she said quietly, "you're my 
partner.  I trust you with my life, and with my soul."

He made a small, dismissive motion with his free hand, as if 
to say, //I know that already,// and she continued.

"When I found out... what had been done to you... I was so 
*angry* at her, and so unhappy for you.  I wanted... I would 
have done anything to heal that pain.  Even if it was at my 
own expense.  Even if, once you were healed, we were never 
together again.  It... it meant everything to me, to be able 
to give that to you."

A spasm of pain crossed his face, as if his worst fears had 
been realized.  "I see," he mumbled.

"No, you *don't* see," she insisted.  "You see the pieces of 
the puzzle, but not the reason...  Why do you think it 
mattered to me?  Why do you think I cared so much whether 
you were emotionally scarred or not?  It's because I love 
you, Mulder.  I love you so much..."  The tears were 
beginning to choke her; she fought them back, because she 
*had* to finish, while he was still listening.  "I love you 
so much that if it means losing you -- if that's what it 
takes, if that's what you need to be whole again, and leave 
the old pain behind you -- it's a price I'm willing to pay.  
Just to know that you're all right."

The tears choked her then, and blinded her: she closed her 
eyes, so that he wouldn't see her crying.

Then she felt his fingertips caress her face, gentling away 
the teardrops; felt his hand settle alongside her cheek.

"I love you too, Scully," she heard him say.

She opened her eyes then, found herself gazing into his, 
great dark liquid pools of misery and hope and pain and 
love, shimmering with unshed tears.

"Mulder," she whispered. 

His head dipped closer, and she raised her head to meet him 
halfway, and his lips brushed against hers -- so hesitantly 
at first, as when they'd first kissed, then with the 
sureness she'd come to know later -- his arms moved to 
embrace her, to draw her closer; and almost of their own 
accord, her hands clutched at his shoulders and pulled him 
down.  The feel of that kiss, of his tongue twining with 
hers, the taste of his mouth again, after so long...

That was when the tears broke free of her tenuous restraint, 
began to roll down her face in earnest -- it didn't matter; 
his cheeks were already wet.

Finally, breathlessly, they parted, gazing at each other 
with the same fearful hope.  "Is it... are we going to be 
okay now?" she murmured, her voice trembling.

Again, his fingertips brushed the tears from her face.  "I 
want to believe," he murmured.

She caught his hand in hers and tugged him closer.  
"C'mere..."

This time, he moved willingly closer, snuggling into the 
room she made for him on the narrow couch; his arms closed 
around her, and for the first time in a perceived forever, 
she felt his body pressed against hers...  They kissed, and 
now there was no room for tears between them: only desire, 
only love.

And it had been entirely too long since it had been that 
way...

There was no room for fancy technique, and no need.  She was 
aching to feel him inside her again, and could tell easily 
enough that he was feeling the same way.  A few moments of 
hurried fumbling got the clothing out of their way; she 
pushed him back against the pillows, straddled him, guided 
his hardness inside her until he was fully sheathed.

//Oh, God...//  It was perfect, it was bliss, it was...  
//Completion.//  More so than she'd remembered.

From that point, things progressed quickly -- the emotion 
between them demanded swift culmination, as if sex was the 
only way to really resolve the issues they'd fought so hard 
to mend.  Almost at once, she felt herself hovering at the 
brink, knew from his ragged breathing and his hoarse cries 
that he was right there with her, increased her pace to 
bring them both there together...  and the waves of pleasure 
shuddered through her as she heard him cry out her name.  
Her orgasm was prolonged, sharp and sweet and satisfying; 
and afterwards she fell against him, too suddenly exhausted 
to do anything else.

"Are we going to be all right?" she asked him blurrily, as 
she slid down the slope toward sleep, head nestled against 
his sweaty shoulder, breathing in the fragrance of him and 
savoring the scent.

Beneath her, he moved slightly, one long arm snagging the 
blanket that had fallen to the floor in the course of their 
exertions, retrieving it and tugging it into place to cover 
them both.  "Ask me in the morning," he murmured, over a 
yawn.

She smiled a little, knowing that she wouldn't need to ask, 
knowing that everything was going to be just fine, and let 
herself complete the headlong tumble into slumber.

-------

But when she awoke the next morning, she found herself alone 
on the couch.

She dragged herself to her feet, wrapping the blanket around 
herself like a toga, and made the journey to the bathroom; 
when she emerged, she was wearing her bathrobe instead.  It 
didn't take a rocket scientist to follow the scent of 
brewing coffee to the kitchen, and sure enough, that was 
where she found him.

Mulder was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing clean 
sweatpants and a T-shirt, a half-drained mug of coffee by 
his elbow.  He'd lit one of her candles -- not the tall 
tapers she occasionally utilized for semi-formal dinners, 
but one of the little votive jobs she liked to use for 
candlelit bubble baths -- and was staring into its 
flickering flame.  Next to the candle was one of her bowls, 
holding not food but a small amount of black ash... and 
before him was the little black book in which he kept his 
girlfriends' numbers; he was perusing one page, and punching 
a number into the touch-pad of her telephone.

As she approached, he favored her with a quick, wary glance 
-- his face was closed, shuttered, absolutely impenetrable -
- and her heart sank to her feet.  //It's over.  Last night 
doesn't matter, our love doesn't matter... he's decided that 
it's over between us.//

To cover her confusion and her hurt, she moved past him, 
poured herself a cup of coffee, and tried not to listen to 
his telephone conversation -- tried, and failed utterly.

"Hello, Miriam?  It's me, Will...  No, I'm fine.  I just... 
I wanted to thank you for coming to see me in the hospital.  
The flowers were very kind..."  He paused briefly.  "Listen, 
Miri... I can't see you anymore."

Hope sprang to life within her, warring fiercely with the 
despair.

"There's someone else... someone very special to me, and 
I've decided that our relationship needs to be exclusive."  
Another pause, this one longer.  "I know that, and I 
appreciate your feelings... but this means a lot to me."  
One quick, searing sidelong glance at Scully.  "She means... 
more than anything to me."

//Oh, Mulder.//

"Yeah, well, thanks.  Take care of yourself, okay?  Good 
luck with the dancing; I hope you make it big someday, and 
then I can tell myself that I knew you when...  Oh, and give 
up the smoking, will you?  That stuff'll kill you.  ...Yeah, 
you too.  And thanks.  Goodbye, Miriam."

He hung up the phone, stared at it for a moment -- then 
picked up the little black book and very deliberately tore 
out a page.  Carefully, he held it over the candle, until 
the flame caught the paper; as it burned, he dropped it into 
the bowl, sipped at his coffee as he watched the page 
dissolve into ash.

Again, he glanced at Scully, his expression not quite as 
guarded -- "Morning," he said casually.

"Yes," she agreed, "it is."  She moved to stand beside him, 
noting as she did that he was already halfway through the 
book.  "You want some breakfast?"

"That'd be nice," he assented.  "Pancakes?"

"If you want."

"If it's no trouble..."

"It's not."

"Pancakes, then."

She let her fingers trail along the back of his neck in a 
slow caress.  "Sure," she said, and moved back toward the 
stove, leaving him his privacy.

//It's okay,// she thought with relief, as she mixed milk 
with the powdered mix to produce batter.  //Or maybe it's 
not okay just yet.  But it will be...  *we* will be.  We're 
going to be okay, and that's enough.//

//More than enough.  It's everything.//

"Hello, Patty?  It's me, Will..."

//Everything's going to be just fine,// Scully thought, 
picking up her mug and taking a long, long drink.

And coffee had never tasted so good.

-----/end