***DISCLAIMER***: All "X-Files" elements and references in this story belong to Fox Broadcasting, Chris Carter, and 1013 Productions, and I am making no money from it. ARCHIVING: Link only, please! ========== The Lessons Learned Series (compiled) by shannono shannono@iname.com A complete series in ten parts. Angst, Mulder/Scully UST-to-Romance Rated PG-13 Spoilers: Through "Field Trip" Series summary: A journey of education, acceptance, and love: Mulder and Scully explore the changes in themselves and their relationship ========== Author's notes: This series sprang out of the final scene of "Milagro" and grew from there into an exploration of how that one moment could have changed Mulder, Scully, and their relationship. It was fun to write, but as most of you have probably guessed by now, there will be no more. Technically, it fits within canon, so you can use it to fill in the blanks from "Milagro" through "Field Trip," at least. Thanks: Various people beta read various parts, but I'm going to thank them all here, because this would never have been posted without them: Brandon, Robbie, Lena, Jen, Paulette, and Lisa. :) ==================================================================== THE LESSONS LEARNED SERIES ==================================================================== ============== Written in Red ============== (From the moment Scully's eyes open in the final scene of "Milagro.") ========= Mulder! Oh God Oh God ... Mulder, God ... oh it hurts ... Don't let go ... God Mulder ... don't ... He was here, Mulder ... God, I remember it, I remember it all ... it hurt, it hurt so much ... I thought nothing could hurt worse than that gunshot wound, but I was so, so wrong ... The pain ... oh God Mulder ... it was indescribable. His fingers cut into me, rougher than a scalpel and twice as deadly, and I screamed, Mulder, I fought so hard ... I tried, I tried ... I fought the pain, got my weapon and shot him, emptied my gun, and I wonder now if we'll find the bullets transformed into charcoal in the wall, because he didn't stop, he wouldn't stop ... it hurt so *bad* ... No! Don't let go Mulder, don't let go ... If you let go, I'll fall to pieces right here on the floor, and I'll never be whole again. Hold on tight, Mulder, I need you ... It was real, Mulder, all of it, it happened, and I can't ignore it or deny it or make it all go away. It goes against everything I've ever believed or wanted to believe, but I can't shove this aside, Mulder. I saw it. I felt it, felt his hand inside my chest, reaching for my heart. I knew I was going to die, Mulder. I don't want to die. I've been there before, and I don't ever want to be there again, even though I know I will someday. It just hurt, it hurt so much. I know this is wrong, Mulder, but I can't stop myself. I shouldn't be lying here, sobbing against your shoulder, digging in with my fingernails to bring you closer. Oh God, digging in with my fingernails ... Could I do it, Mulder? Could I reach right into your chest and wrap my hand around your heart? You did that to me, you know. You didn't take it; you left my heart right where it still is, beating inside me. But you left your fingerprints behind. Have I done that to you? He said I was already in love, Mulder. He knew me, Mulder, he watched me, he figured out things about me that no one else knows, not even you. You've never done that, Mulder, not really, never turned your profiler's mind to me. You wouldn't do that. You would never invade my privacy that way. If you need to know something that badly, you ask. You rarely even do that. But he knew it all, Mulder. He got some details wrong, but he had watched me long enough to know my habits, my motivations, and once he got close enough, my feelings. He read me like a book, his book, the story that had taken over his life and nearly took mine away. He was right, Mulder. I'm in love. I can't be, I shouldn't be, it's the worst possible thing now, but I can't help it. I can't control it or deny it, and that scares me so much. I can't need you Mulder. I do, I need you so much, so much that I can't make myself let you go now, can't get my arms to loosen any more than I can stop the sobs. It's like I've been out of control for days now, Mulder, like I've only been doing what he wanted me to do. And now my emotions are my own again, and I can't handle it. It's too much all at once. Everything is hitting me at the same time, all the pain and longing and worry and hope and love, and it's spilling out like the blood from my chest, running in rivulets down my body and onto yours where we're crushed together, from head to hip. Everything in my heart, written in red and pouring out over us. Can you feel it, Mulder? It's all draining out of me, Mulder, and I can feel the calm looming on the horizon, see my protective coat of armor waiting for me. I close my eyes against it. I don't want to look, like Alfred Felling before me. I don't want to go back to my isolation. Don't want to hide from myself anymore, Mulder. Or from you. Tell me how you do it, Mulder. You wear your emotions on your sleeve sometimes, you find it so easy to show your feelings, even if you can't always say it. I can feel you doing it now, the only way you can, feel you soaking up my pain like a sponge, bringing some of it into you so I don't have to bear it alone. I want to do that, Mulder. I can't let it all go, can't let myself be ruled by my emotions. But I need to try, I have to do it now. I've spent so long holding everything in, but it's all broken free now, overflowing my cup, and it won't all go back inside. I don't want it to. Help me, Mulder. Help me write us a new story. =========== In Too Deep =========== (Mulder's perspective on the ending of "Milagro.") =========== If I never let her go, it will be too soon. God, I shouldn't be enjoying this. Shouldn't feel this stirring in my groin as my heart bleeds in sympathy with hers. I want to be doing this only to comfort her, but I can't help myself. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. I have never seen her like this, not once. She's cried in my arms a time or two, but they were soft, whimpering sobs, not the great gasps and shudders now wracking her tiny frame. Her arms are so tight around me I can barely breathe. I welcome the constriction, the uncomfortable position we're in. Anything that helps me empathize with her right now. She needs this release so much. This isn't just about whatever happened here. I hope she'll tell me, but I'm not going to push her on it. This goes so much deeper than what just happened to her, though. It goes back months, maybe years, to all the times she's pushed aside her emotions and carried on as if nothing was wrong. I knew it would happen eventually, that something would finally shove her over the edge, and I am immeasurably grateful that I am here to catch her. She has been my strength, my center, for so long, and I am more than happy to be able to give something back. Her body is pressed to mine, her face buried against my shoulder, her arms wrapped around me as if I'm the only thing holding her together. I cradle her against me, trying to be gentle but invariably tightening my grip with each of her hitching sobs. I want to say something to her, to offer words to comfort her, to do something to heal her pain. If I concentrate, I think, I can pull some of that pain into my own bottomless well of sorrow. I've lived with that kind of ache for so long that a little more won't make a difference. Anything to keep her from hurting. I can feel her heart pounding against me, strong and solid, safe and secure, and I relax minutely. She must feel it, because her arms tighten suddenly, as if she's afraid I'm going to let her go. I pull her a little closer, reassuring her silently that I'm not going anywhere until she says it's okay. She's covered with blood, her blouse soaked with blotches of red, and I want desperately to get a good look at her, to be sure her skin is still smooth and undisturbed. I want to know if he tried to do to her what he'd done to the others, if he'd tried to dig her heart out of her chest. I can't imagine what that would feel like, to have his fingers slice right through the skin like that. Shades of Eugene Tooms, and she so nearly became his victim, too. I don't know how much she remembers, but she must remember enough, from the terror I saw on her face before she buried herself against my chest. God, it must have been horrific, to send her into this kind of reaction. She is so controlled, so reluctant to show her emotions in any form, but most particularly in this way. I am afraid she will be ashamed of herself for it. No. I won't allow that. She's seen me in worse shape than this, and I won't let her be embarrassed about it. I feel privileged that she isn't hiding now, and that she actually reached out for me. I keep thinking about the things Padgett said about Scully. I've never really seen the connection between writing and profiling before, but it makes sense, I suppose. A writer must know his characters, like a profiler must know a killer. It's simple observation paired with analysis, really. But I have never tried to profile Scully. I haven't allowed it, other than a time or two when I needed to find her, or figure out what she would do next. I have never, not once, made an attempt to turn on those skills and try to read her, not the way Padgett did. I could never invade her privacy that way. Now, though, I can't help but remember what Padgett said to us at the jail. He was so far inside Scully's head that it frightened her, in a way I've rarely seen. She basically said he was right, or nearly so, with everything he'd said about her, and she was shaken to her core. And then he said she couldn't fall in love. Because she was already in love. And he was looking directly at me when he said it. It was a tossup which of us was more stunned. I know she loves me; I'd have to be a much bigger idiot than I am not to realize that. "In love," though, is an entirely different thing. It's what I've been trying to avoid -- unsuccessfully, for the most part. I can't afford it, *we* can't afford it, not now. But I don't know if we can avoid it. Or if we really should. We're in too deep. Trying to pull away now would likely destroy us both. I know what will happen in a few minutes. Scully will calm down, get herself together and push me away, draw her professional mask back on, and that will be the end of it. I don't know if I can let it go that way this time. My heart speaks to hers. Please, Scully. You've let me in. Now let me stay. ================ How Will It End? ================ (The aftermath, and the start of the healing.) ========== "How will it end?" The words are haunting now, forlorn, the last line written by a struggling author before he found the inspiration he wanted so desperately. Careful what you wish for. You just might end up holding your heart in your hands. Literally. He wrote the ending his characters demanded, the only true way these stories ever end. She died. His "stranger" would offer no respite. But human nature longs for the happy ending; we never want the strangers in these tales of horror and isolation to win. And so he wrote another ending for the masses, an ending of which the audience would approve. Writing may be an art, but even artists can crave success. In the end, he sacrificed himself not for his art, but for his unrequited love. Scully. Nearly a half-hour passed before she calmed enough to relinquish her hold on me, and I felt the loss the second her touch left me. I had cried with her for a time, partly out of my own fear, but mostly in relief for her emotional release. She needed it so badly, and I thanked the gods or fate or whatever force allowed me to be there at the right time. For once. But she did finally come back to herself, both a little worse and a little better for the wear. I was glad I'd started keeping the place a little neater, since it meant I could send her to wash off in a bathroom that was actually clean, and even knew where to find an old, soft cotton dress shirt for her to wear. I couldn't hold back the grin when she emerged, barefoot, scrubbed, and changed, the shirt's tails falling nearly to her knees and the sleeves turned up several times. "You look like you're playing dress-up in your daddy's clothes," I offered from my seat on the edge of the bed, reassured when she smiled in return. "I feel like it," she said, a bit sardonically, as she held her arms out to the sides to show the extra room. "Remind me to leave a couple of my old t-shirts over here sometime." I refused to let my mind go in the direction it wanted to with that statement. Instead, I voiced the concern that had hit me only after I got a good look at the amount of blood covering her, just as she disappeared into the bathroom. "Scully," I said softly. "I think you should go to the hospital. There was a lot of blood." She shook her head vehemently twice, then more softly a few more times. "It wasn't as much as it looked like, Mulder," she said. "My ... my chest is kind of sore, and I'm a little lightheaded, but other than that, I'm fine." I was on my feet instantly, taking her arm gently and leading her toward the bed. "Why didn't you say anything, Scully? You should be lying down." She didn't resist my efforts, which only served to heighten my worry. She was settled against the pillows in just a few minutes, and I sat sideways on the mattress next to her. "You rest, Scully," I said. "Arlington PD came by while you were changing. I need to go down to the basement and speak to them. They ... Padgett's body was found down there." She tried, unsuccessfully, to cover the flash of terror that burst across her face, and although I was unsure what, exactly, precipitated it, I had a feeling she didn't want to be left alone. But the fear faded quickly, and she nodded. "Okay," she said. "I'll be okay." I reached for her hand, squeezing lightly. "I'll be back as quickly as I can," I said. "They'll need to come up here and look around anyway. Again. I'm considering just painting crime scene tape on the door to save them the trouble. What do you think?" She smiled at this, relaxing nearly imperceptibly, and I felt able to pull away and leave her. I was nearly to the door when her voice saying my name called me back, and I turned to look at her. Her eyes were closed, but the smile lingered around her mouth as she said, "Thanks, Mulder." ========== When I returned a half-hour later, leaving the police outside so I could check on her before letting them in, she was sleeping, her breathing deep and even. She had wrapped her arms around the extra pillow, holding it against her chest like open-heart surgery patients do to help ease the pain. I eased the bedroom door closed, then let the police in, asking them to be as quiet as possible so she could rest as long as possible. I knew they'd need to get a statement from her, but that could wait. Let them handle the physical evidence first. I was surprised to see them note five bullet holes in the corner of the wall behind my door. I heard the first gunshot from down in the basement and only later realized the only reason I heard it so distinctly was that she was right next to the heating vent when she fired. The ductwork amplified the sound. But I didn't hear the rest of the shots clearly, so I hadn't realized how many she fired. From the angle of the shots, she must have been already on the floor and aiming up at her assailant. I doubt she missed him with all five shots, but only a few dried spots of blood marked the floor. I am sure they will turn out to be hers. I left a forensic investigator to dig samples from the rug and scrape the blood from the floor while I went back into the bedroom to wake her. I hated to do it, but I imagined she'd rather get the questioning over with so she could go home. I slipped through to the bathroom to pick up the bloodied blouse and jacket first, taking them back out to the living room. I retrieved her her boots as well and left them on the floor next to the door. When I finally made my way to the the side of the bed to wake her, her eyes were already open, focused on a spot somewhere in midair. She'd pulled the pillow down so it rested against her stomach, and her right hand was lying on her chest, directly over her heart. "It's still beating," she whispered, a wondering tone in her voice, almost as if she wasn't sure it would be. "I had to feel it. I had to know it was still there." My own heart clenched in sympathy with her pained expression, and I lowered myself to sit on the edge of the bed. My hand rose unbidden to rest atop hers, and she immediately grabbed it and pressed my palm against her. "Can you feel it, Mulder?" she asked, her voice barely audible. "Tell me it's not just me. Tell me you feel it." "I feel it, Scully," I answered, just as softly. "It's there. It's beating. Just as strong and sure and beautiful as it's always been." Her eyes flicked to meet mine then, and she slid her other hand from the pillow, reaching out to place it against my chest. Neither of us moved for a few moments, simply taking the time to feel the life beating within us. Between us. Finally, though, I knew I had to do what I went in there to do. "Scully, the police are here and they want to get a statement from you," I said, gently. "I know you probably don't feel up to it, but I thought you'd prefer ..." "To get it out of the way," she finished, her hand falling away from me as she nodded resolutely. "And I need to do it while it's still ... while it's still fresh in my mind." She shot me a quick glance. "Although I don't know that it'll do much good." I nodded, slowly. "Do you want to speak with them alone?" I asked carefully. "No, it's fine," she said, pushing herself up to sit cross- legged on the mattress. "I'd just have to repeat the whole thing for you later, so you might as well listen in." She smiled again as she said this, and I grinned a little as I stood up. "So, let's go get it over with, then," I said, offering my hand to help her up. She actually took it, to my surprise and relief, and she didn't let go even when we got into the living room to face the detective waiting for her. She pulled me to sit next to her on the sofa, and I wasn't about to object, so I motioned the detective -- Miller, one I'd spoken with before, not surprisingly -- toward the armchair on the far wall. It was strange to hear the story of the last few days from Scully's point of view. I had read Padgett's novel, at least, as much as he'd completed before we released him from jail. I couldn't say how much of his narrative was based on watching Scully's movements, but nearly everything she said was backed up by what he'd written -- without the flowery language, of course. Scully's statement was neat, precise, unencumbered by the unneccessary and arcane. She's the one who should be a writer; she has a gift for finding just the right words to express her meaning without cluttering up the story with meaningless drivel. She only stumbled toward the end, when she got to her description of the attack and her attacker. My stomach tightened in tandemn with her grip on my hand as she related how he'd thrown her to the floor and started digging at her chest with his hand, even as she got him in a chokehold, pulled her weapon, and fired the five shots, emptying the clip. She minimized the level of pain involved in the attack, I could tell. But she did not shy away from the facts as she saw them, even though it was the kind of thing she normally would call impossible. "His fingers cut into my skin as if he was using a knife," she said. "The previous victims' hearts had been removed, and I believe that was what he was attempting to do to me." "What stopped him?" Miller asked. Scully shook her head slightly at that. "I don't know," she said. "He just ... stopped. His fingers stopped moving, and then they were gone. And then ... he was gone." Miller looked up from his notepad at that. "You mean, he left?" "No," Scully said firmly. "He was gone. He was here, and then he was gone." Skepticism flooded Miller's face, but he wrote down what she said. I could almost see his investigative mind whirling, ready to write off at least that part of her statement as due to blood loss or injury. No matter. She knew what had happened, and I knew what had happened, and we both knew it wouldn't be happening again. Miller asked a few more questions, then handed over his card, asked us to call if we had anything to add, and left. As soon as he was gone, Scully turned to face me. "Mulder, what happened to him?" she asked. Padgett. I knew she'd ask, and I shrugged lightly. "He was found on the floor next to the incinerator, his heart in his hand," I said. "He had burned the manuscript. I don't know if whoever, or whatever, attacked you, killed him, or if he somehow did it himself." Her face pulled up in a mix of confusion and horror. "How could he do something like *that* to himself?" she asked. "How could *anyone* do something like that?" I replied, without rancor. She conceded the point with a small quirk of her lips and nod of her head, then finally let go of my hand and stood. Hands on hips, she surveyed the array of recording equipment spread out on the coffee table. "We need to pack this stuff up and get it back to the Bureau," she said. "Those tech guys get antsy if their stuff is missing too long." "It'll wait," I said, reaching up to grab her hand in mine again, already addicted to the feel of it. "If they want it back that bad, let them come get it. We need to get you home." I could see her back stiffen slightly at my words, and I jumped in to clarify. "It's been a long couple of days for both of us, Scully. And you're hurt, even if it's not bad. We'll have plenty of time tomorrow to take this stuff back." She relented reluctantly, but at least she did. She went to get her shoes while I shut down and closed up the equipment, and when she returned, she allowed me to escort her downstairs and drive her home, in my car, without complaint. I think she knew I needed to do it, do something for her, and somehow, instead of pushing me away as she's done in the past, she let me do it. We were quiet for most of the fifteen-minute drive to her apartment, speaking only once or twice, and then only about mundane things. She glanced at me when I stopped the car, silently asking me to come up, and so I did. She went into the bedroom immediately and came back out minutes later, barefoot again and wearing a t-shirt, my own shirt in her hand. I shot her an off-center grin and said, "Leave it here. Never know when I might need it." She smiled back and nodded, stepping back into the bedroom to drop it somewhere out of sight. Probably on the chair just inside the room, where I sat and waited for her on one of the darkest nights of my life, a year and half ago. She sighed as she seated herself on the far end of the sofa from me, leaning back into cushions and closing her eyes. I watched her for a moment, noting the pallor of her skin, and said, "Scully, you should have something to eat, or at least to drink." She hesitated, then nodded. "I should have some orange juice," she said. "Water, sucrose, and potassium. There's a reason they serve it to blood donors." I was on my feet by then, headed into the kitchen. She did have orange juice, but I bypassed the short, rocks-style glasses in the cabinet in favor of a tall tumbler. As an afterthought, I grabbed one for myself, pouring for us both. She opened her eyes and smiled when I set the glass on the table, then grinned even wider when she saw me with a glass for myself. Picking up her drink to take a sip, she paused and said, "Sure that health food won't send your system into shock, Mulder? I know you lean towards Sunny Delight." I assumed what I hope was an expression of offended pride. "I drink orange juice," I said loftily. "I simply don't drink enough to use up a carton before it gets all nasty." I let my voice degenerate into mock disgust there at the end, scrunching my face up in distaste, and it got the desired result. Scully laughed, briefly but undeniably, and I had a smile on my face as I took a large gulp of the sweet juice. We fell into silence again for a few minutes, until Scully finally set down her nearly-empty glass and turned to face me. I took the hint and followed her lead, and she simply looked at me briefly before she spoke. "Are you lonely, Mulder?" she asked. Where the hell did THAT come from? I thought. I was expecting her to ask about the victims, about Padgett, about whatever it was that attacked her. I did not, in any way, shape, or form, expect anything like that. "What do you mean?" It was lame, but it was all I could think of to say. She sighed. "I mean just what I said, Mulder," she answered. "Are you lonely? In general, I mean, not just sometimes. Everybody gets lonely sometimes, so that's not what I'm asking. I want to know if you're lonely *all* the time." I was bewildered by her line of questioning, but I did my best do answer her truthfully. "I am lonely sometimes, Scully," I said. "Like you said, everyone is. But all the time? No, I'm not. I couldn't be. I have friends. Not many, but a few, very good ones. I have my work. No, I don't think I'm lonely." She nodded slowly, her gazing falling away from mine to land somewhere on the sofa back between us. She appeared to be deep in thought, and I wondered why she was asking. I was about to ask her when she saved me the trouble. "Padgett said I was lonely, Mulder," she said, still studying the pattern of the sofa's cover. "When I stopped by his apartment the other day to return the milagro. He had watched me for months, years, maybe, and he had come to the conclusion that I was unhappy. Because I was lonely." I pursed my lips and nodded slowly, listening carefully as she went on. "I was surprised that he would think that, surprised that anyone would," she said. "I told him that loneliness is a choice, and I've been trying to figure out since then what it was about me that made him think I was so lonely." She paused for a long time then, and I was beginning to think maybe I should say something. I didn't want to; I had a feeling this was something she needed to work out herself. And she proved me right. "I think it's because I live alone, and I spend a lot of time alone, and I don't have many friends or much family," she said, sounding as if she were simply thinking aloud. "Padgett saw me alone all the time, and because he so obviously disliked being alone all the time, he thought I must hate it, too. But he never really understood my motivations at all. He said it himself -- motive is a tricky thing. All he did was learn my habits, my patterns, like studying a computer game, or memorizing a routine. He knew what I did, but he never knew why I did it." I finally decided to speak, sending her question back to her. "Are you lonely, Scully?" She looked up at me then, then inclined her head a bit to one side. "Sometimes," she admitted. "Like anyone is. But in general? No. Most of the time, I *like* being alone. I like spending time by myself. It helps me unwind and relax, not having to worry about someone else. I've always been a loner, really." I nodded. "Like me," I said. "Yeah," she said, then quirked a small grin. "Although I usually leave more lights on when I'm sitting around being alone with myself." I felt a smile crease my face, but it quickly fell away as my next question formed. "But you're not happy, either, are you?" She tilted her head up slightly, and at first I thought she wasn't going to answer. But then: "All the time? No," she acknowledged. "But I think happiness, in some ways, is a choice, too. There are things I could to to make myself happier. But I haven't yet made those decisions. And in the meantime, I'm satisfied with my life." I nodded again. "Well said," I replied with a small smile. "Couldn't have done it better myself." She returned the smile briefly, then was serious again. "What do you think happened to those people, Mulder?" she asked. *There* was the other question I knew was coming. We did still had a report to finish on this case, and even after nearly losing her heart in a quite literal way, Scully wanted to get to the truth. One problem. I wasn't quite sure just what the truth was. "I don't know, Scully," I said, slowly, trying to decide just how to answer her. "I think it happened just as you described. It fits with the evidence, and you're certainly not one to make up something like that." She almost smirked. "Well, Detective Miller seemed to think so," she said. "Somehow I doubt the Alexandria PD will be putting much stock in that part of my statement." I shrugged. "They can write what they want in their report. They were more concerned with the report of gunshots than anything else, and they'll turn the rest over to us, since it was our case to start with." I grinned again. "Besides, they kind of expect this kind of thing from me." She didn't agree, but she didn't argue either, which I saw as a concession. Instead, she stood up and gathered our glasses, then disappeared into the kitchen. I heard water running, then clinking sounds as she rinsed the glasses and put them in the dishwasher, and I forced back the urge to go running in there and help her. I didn't relish the idea of getting my face bashed in, and besides, punching my lights out would hurt her far more than some minor kitchen work. She was back in a couple of minutes, and much as I hated it, I knew I needed to get out and let her get some sleep. She didn't say a word as I rose, just followed me to the door. But she stopped me just as I stepped into the hallway. "Mulder?" she said, her voice tentative for the first time since we'd arrived, and I turned back to look down into her upturned face. She moved closer, rising up onto the balls of her feet, and brushed a soft kiss across my cheek. "Thank you," she murmured against my skin, never once looking me in the eye, and then she withdrew into her apartment and closed the door. I stood as if riveted to my spot for a minute before swiveling on my heel and heading for the door, a smile on my face and my steps just a little buoyant. Yeah, I thought. I know how this story will end. ============= What and When ============= (Scully takes the lead.) ============= An ache opened somewhere deep inside me moments after Mulder left, and it took me a few minutes to recognize it for what it was. It had been so long since I let myself feel the things I'd felt that day. I was missing him already. It was a good ache, though, not like the lingering pain in my chest. I felt as if I should have deep bruises over my heart from that, but my skin was clear and unblemished, like nothing at all had happened. If only if had been true. No. No, I don't wish that, not really. I would do almost anything not to have gone through the excruciating agony I did that day, but I can't be sorry about the results. I felt ... free. Like a weight had been lifted from me. I was allowing myself to experience the full range of emotions I'd held back for so long. Terror. Worry. Longing. Love. As I half-sat, half-lay on the floor of Mulder's apartment, his arms wrapped around me as I sobbed into his shoulder, everything suddenly became so clear to me. My thoughts may have been jumbled, and it may have taken a while for my body to react and relax even after my mind settled a bit, but once I was calm again, I knew there was no way I was going back to holding it all inside. Mulder knew it, of course. Mulder knows me, better than he thinks, better than even I realized, and certainly better than any stranger could, no matter how much of his life he devoted to observing me. I told Mulder that all Padgett knew about me was what he learned from watching me, from a distance. I didn't think that much of his writing skills, but he certainly had a talent for observation. But his knowledge was, for the most part, superficial. He played a game of people-watching, believing that knowing my daily routine actually gave him insight into my innermost feelings. He did score a few direct hits, but those came by luck more than anything else. His interpretation of my motives was completely off-target. I read a large part of his book, and the best description I can give of it is a "fictionalization" of my life. He used me as his central character, and a dead psychic surgeon as the villain, but the characterizations were his own. He never understood me the way he thought he did. He projected his own wishes and wants onto me and expected me to fall into his expectations. I could almost believe he had some kind of direct influence over my actions. But while I did do a few things during this case I didn't fully understand at the time, in retrospect, they make sense. That little fantasy I indulged in following the autopsy, for example. Padgett wrote the scene as if I was picturing myself in bed with him, and that *is* where it started from. A man offered me compliments, something I am entirely unused to, and I allowed myself to wonder, just briefly, about him. About the possibility of ... *us*. I am, after all, a woman, and fantasies are completely normal and acceptable. Yes, I was ashamed and even repulsed when the images formed, as Padgett indicated. But that lasted only a moment. Because before I could even see the scene clearly, the stranger's face had changed. Into Mulder's. In that little daydream at the morgue, as I held the milagro in my hand, it was Mulder I was kissing, Mulder's hands that were opening the buttons on my blouse. Mulder's body pressed against mine. Not Padgett. Never Padgett. Padgett wrote me as embarrassed but aroused by my fantasy, and he was right about that. But he was dead wrong about the object of my desire. He was, however, right on target later. "Agent Scully is already in love," he said, voicing the truth I'd been trying so long to deny. Falling in love with your partner -- it's cliched; it's dangerous; it's just plain stupid. But love isn't something that fits into any simple definitions or boundaries. It develops in its own time, in its own way, and in my case -- *our* case -- falling in love was as logical as it was extreme. Just like our partnership. Loving Mulder and doing something about it, however, are two vastly different things. I told Mulder that there are things I could do to make myself happier but that I simply hadn't decided to do them yet. That wasn't entirely true. By the time I said that, I'd already decided the what and when -- what I wanted to do to take at least one big step toward happiness, and when I wanted to do it. The "when" was tonight. The "what" was actually still short of what I thought it would take to make us truly happy. But it was certainly moving in the right direction. Mulder was, as I expected, still sitting in his car outside my apartment an hour after he supposedly left. I checked on him every few minutes from the front window, smiling at the picture he made, slouched in the driver's seat as if he actually believed I couldn't see him. Not only could I see him clearly, but I could even see his hand lift to his mouth a couple of times, no doubt popping in sunflower seeds. I'm sure he was spitting half the shells out the window and half on the floorboards, as usual. There's a reason why we use his car so much more than mine; I refuse to deal with the cleanup. I did have an advantage over Mulder in this case, of course. He may not be entirely predictible, but sometimes he's so easy to read it's laughable. After our conversation, I knew Mulder would assume -- correctly, as it turned out -- that I'd want to be alone. So he left, and I had my time alone. After an hour of solitude, though, I was ready for some company. It was time to put him out of his misery. I had no idea if he had his cell phone with him or not. He rarely goes without, but things had been a little confused back at his place, so it was possible he walked out without it. I hoped he had it, though, because I really didn't want to have to go out and get him. He answered on the first ring with an uncharacteristic "Yeah?", so obviously primed for trouble that I nearly laughed. "You can come back up now," I said, watching out the window to see his reaction. As I expected, his head jerked up, and he caught sight of me immediately. "Scully," he said, guiltily. "I ... I was just ..." "Giving me some time alone," I finished, keeping my eyes on him. "And I appreciate it. But I've spent some time alone. And now I want to spend some time with you." I couldn't quite tell from that distance, but I wouldn't have been surprised if his mouth had been hanging open in shock. And then I *could* see his mouth, because it started widening into a huge, sweet grin. I couldn't help it. I can never see that particular brand of Mulder's smile without reciprocating. I'd surprised him, I knew. It hasn't been my style to come right out and say I want to see him; we simply don't operate that way. But things have been changing between us for some time now, and the whole experience with Padgett had given me a mighty shove in Mulder's direction. My emotions had finally broken through the steel-reinforced box I'd kept them stored in for so long, and it felt good to let them out for a change. I just hoped it wouldn't scare him away. It didn't seem to. Mulder didn't say another word, just ended the call and climbed from the car, still looking at me and smiling. He kept up the eye contact as long as he could, until he disappeared around the side of the building. I waited, still holding the phone, until I could no longer see him before turning toward the door. He never got a chance to knock; I had the door open by the time he was halfway down the hall. Once he reached the doorway, we simply stood and smiled at each other for several moments, before I took his hand and pulled him inside. I turned away from him to close the door, hesitating for only a moment before sliding the deadbolt and chain into place. Mulder was staring at me curiously when I faced his direction, but I smiled again and took his hand back in mine. I walked through the apartment, leading him behind me, as I turned off lights and generally shut the place down. I'd already changed into shorts and a t-shirt for bed and was wrapped up in my big terrycloth robe. Mulder didn't question me or hesitate until I started to lead him through my bedroom door. He balked then, again as I expected. "Scully ..." Before he could say anything more, I filled him in. "This is very simple, Mulder," I said. "I don't want to be alone, and you don't want to leave me alone. My couch is too short for you, and you won't let me sleep there. So we will sleep in my bed, and we will not be uncomfortable or awkward about it." He couldn't argue much with that, so he didn't even try, just nodded in agreement and gave a small smile. He followed me into the room, pushing the door shut, and then dropped my hand to strip off his jacket, belt, shoes and watch, placing them all neatly atop the shirt I'd left on the chair by the door. He started toward the bed, but I shot him a dark look as he approached. He took the hint, removing his jeans as well and adding them to the pile. After everything, I admit I was a little surprised that we weren't really awkward about climbing into bed together for the first time. He lifted the covers and slipped in, then opened his arms for me, and I slid back against his chest without qualms. His hands settled in safely, the right stretched out across the pillows and the left on my waist, and we shifted for only a few moments before finding the right spot. My right hand came up almost without my knowledge to rest atop his at my waist, and he automatically twined our fingers together. His thumb came to rest on the inside of my wrist, where he could feel my heartbeat. Then he let out a great sigh, his warm breath ruffling through my hair, and murmured a "g'night, Scully," sounding half-asleep already. I smiled as I closed my eyes. Maybe this will be easier than we thought. ========= Curveball ========= (Mulder has an epiphany, of sorts.) ========= I shouldn't have done it; I know that now. But I'd been so good all week, and that little streak of Bad Boy Mulder just had to be let loose for a little while. It wasn't that bad; she was probably happy to be free of me for the rest of the day, happy to have her Saturday back for herself. Of course, in this case, my running off and leaving her behind might have been the best thing to ever happen to either of us. The previous four days had been precarious at best. Physically, Scully was fine, only a bit sore for the first couple of days. We stayed in the office most of the week, wading through paperwork and trying to rebuild a few more of the old X-files. Pretty much a normal week. At least, at the office. After hours was something brand-new for both of us. I spent five straight nights sleeping in Scully's bed -- just sleeping -- with her soft, warm body curled up against mine. Needless to say, I'm addicted now. When I say I was good all week, I mean I was *really* good. I managed -- I think -- to get through all five nights without a noticeable erection. Well, other than the standard morning wakeup calls, but I slipped out and headed for the bathroom each time before Scully stirred. When we got to the office today, though, Scully threw me a real curveball, if you'll pardon the expression. I expected her reaction to my Saturday plans. What I didn't expect was for her to do her damnedest to distract me from it. Holy shit. I have never in my life seen a woman make love to an ice cream cone before. Okay, so it was nonfat tofutti rice dreamsicle. Whatever. It was frozen and in a cone, and she was running her mouth and tongue over it like it was the best thing she'd ever tasted in her life. It was a damn good thing I had that huge book in my lap, let me tell you, and even then I had to get that thing away from her as soon as possible. I just hope she thought it was because I had a sudden craving for nonfat tofutti rice dreamsicle. Truth be told, I was insanely (don't say it) grateful for the distraction provided by that fortuitous photograph. Arthur Dales and that shapeshifting goon in the same picture? Just perfect. Great excuse to get me and my hard-on out of the office and away from Scully before I did something entirely too rash for the moment. It took me a while to understand what Dales was trying to tell me with his little tale. But I got it at last. Finally, something managed to seep through all those hardened layers of conspiracy and aliens and paranoia coating my brain and my soul. It finally sunk in. It's just a story. It doesn't have to mean anything in the long run to be interesting and meaningful. Just relax, and have a little fun. Well, gee, now, ain't *that* a kick in the rear. Dales thanked me, actually *thanked* me, for listening to his story -- although I think he was mainly grateful that I had stopped questioning him. But even if I hadn't figured out his point, I don't think I could have interrogated him about it. Not then. It was impossible not to see what Josh Exley had meant to him, and how much it had hurt to lose such a friend. And that's a feeling I understand all too well. So I left, and I walked. Just left my car sitting in the surface lot two blocks from Dales' rundown little place and walked. The neighborhood wasn't the greatest, but I was armed and avoided eye contact, so I wasn't too worried. I walked for nearly an hour and a half, in circles, mainly, until I saw the field -- or, what once had been a field. A hole- riddled chain link screen and a vaguely diamond-shaped dirt expanse with a slightly raised spot in the center were the only real clues to show that this used to be a baseball park. Before I even realized it, I was standing in the middle of the field, on the remnants of the pitcher's mound, staring in at where home plate would be if there had been a home plate. I could almost see Exley standing there, staring up at me from under the bill of his cap. Bat on his shoulder. Begging me to throw him a good one. And I knew what I needed to do. It was nearly dusk by then, and I had to hurry to take care of business. I started making phone calls on my way back to the car. Three hours later, I was standing in front of the screen at a much nicer, well-lit field just a few blocks from my house, wearing a crisp new jersey and holding a fresh bat. Dales' errand boy was feeding balls into the pitching machine, and I was letting it fly. It felt good to just hit, and hit, and hit, and to watch the balls arc into the outfield one after another. Sure, I missed a few; it had been years since I'd swung a bat. But there was just something ... magical about it. Someone once said that the hardest thing in the world to do is to swing a round bat at a round ball, and hit it square. It takes a combination of precision and talent, hand-eye coordination and chance, careful calculation and natural ability. Science and luck. And even *then* the best hitters only succeed three times out of ten. Makes my track record look a whole lot better. So I let it all go. I just kept my mind as blank as I could as I swung, and swung again, feeling the burn in muscles I hadn't used like this in longer than I cared to remember. Memories began to flow through me, of happier times. Thoughts of pickup games at Chilmark, little league tournaments, even teaching Oxford teammates the ins and outs of America's national pastime. I may play a mean game of hoops, but somehow it's just not the same thing. It doesn't have the same power. I fell into a rhythm before very long, sending drive after drive into the outfield, listening for the echo from each crack of the bat as it hit the sweet spot. I had just hit a monster, high and deep into the darkness, and was doing my best Ken Griffey Jr. impersonation, just standing there watching it go ... when I heard her footsteps behind me. And I smiled. ================ Point of Contact ================ (One perfect moment.) ================ I don't know what's gotten into Mulder, and right now, I don't really care. I refuse to analyze this. I'm playing baseball. I lied, of course, when I said I'd never hit a baseball. No tomboy with two brothers could escape childhood never having hit a baseball. But it has been many years since I've gripped a bat, watched the ball, swung and followed through. And I must say I've never done it quite like this before. Mulder is not quite pressed against my back, although I do end up leaning against him with every swing. He is, however, wrapped around me like a blanket, his legs spread slightly, leaning forward from the waist to equalize our heights. His hands hold the bat on either side of mine, keeping most of the control as we continue to swing in tandem. The night is cool, the sky clear and gorgeous, stars shining against the blackness. The field is deserted except for us and the boy operating the pitching machine, and the wide expanse of grass is broken only by the red clay and white chalk of the basepaths, the bases themselves, and the white dots where our hits have landed. The only sounds are the whir of the machine, our soft grunts as we swing, and the crack of the bat. Until Mulder speaks again. "So, Scully ..." he intones, his voice warm and a little husky in my ear. "Are you ready for an advanced lesson?" I turn my head just far enough to catch his eye with a sidelong glance. "Bring it on," I murmur. Something in his eyes flares briefly before he steps back, sliding away from me and leaving me holding the bat. I let the wood drop onto my shoulder, my right hand balancing it as my left slides down to rest on my hip. I raise an eyebrow at him, and he grins, then turns and lopes out toward the mound. A quick conference with the boy follows, and then they carefully tug the pitching machine over to one side. The boy scampers over to the side and grabs up a glove and a plastic bucket from the ground, then heads toward the outfield. My gaze drifts back from watching his progress to fall on Mulder again. He's bent over from the waist, one hand on his front knee, the other resting against his backside, and he's still grinning. "Batter up!" he calls. I give a slow, lazy smile in response and bring both hands back into place on the bat. It's a bit too long for me, but I just choke up a bit as I fall naturally into the stance I perfected as a 10-year-old, waving the bat in a small circle over my right shoulder. Mulder winds up, then tosses one in. He must think he needs to go easy on me, because the pitch is so slow I could give myself a manicure waiting for it to arrive. Instead, I just hold back until the last moment, then swing. The sound isn't loud, but the contact is right on target. I didn't hit it all that hard, but the ball flies back out toward the mound, and Mulder has to do some fancy stepping to get out of the way. I can't help laughing at his antics, until I realize he's running for the ball, which is rolling slowly toward the outfield grass on the first base side. Oh shit. Guess I'm supposed to run. I drop the bat and take off down the first-base line. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him grab the ball and head in my direction, and I increase my speed. I'm a fast runner, but Mulder has the advantage of both height and practice. As it turns out, we reach the bag in the same instant, from different directions, and I'm sure we're going to crash to the ground in an undignified heap. But Mulder saves us from it by pulling me into his arms, using all that momentum to spin me around and around. I shriek once in surprise as he grabs me, and then I laugh as he keeps spinning, long after he's regained his balance. My head tips back, and I feel the breeze stirring through my hair as I watch the stars tumble crazily across the night sky. I laugh again, feeling totally relaxed and completely free for the first time in entirely too long. This is perfection. For once in our insane lives, we have reached the pinnacle. Our own personal point of contact. Nothing could be better than this. Mulder gradually slows, and stops, and I lift my head, still feeling a little dizzy. Mulder's breath is heavy, but he's smiling as sets me down carefully. And then his hands come up to cup the sides of my head, and my eyes lift to meet his. And I realize only one thing could make this moment more wonderful than it already is. His lips meet mine halfway. ======= Paradox ======= (Mulder contemplates the two sides of Scully.) ======= Scully's kisses, I have learned, are nothing short of masterpieces. We stood there on that ballfield and kissed for what seemed like years and seconds at the same time. Her lips were just as soft and responsive as they always have been in my fantasies, but the electricity between us went far beyond anything I could have ever imagined. She was gentle, and firm, and tender, and passionate, and everything in between. She's always been a paradox, calm and serene on the surface but with a fire burning just beneath, reflected only in the cool burn of her eyes. That night, the fire was unleashed, if only for a brief moment, as our lips met and quickly became well-acquainted. When we came up for air, my ears roared so that it took me several long moments to realize I was hearing my name being called from some distance away. I turned reluctantly, my hands still cupping her face, and looked over to see my young assistant -- his name was Jimmy, we'd discovered -- standing uncertainly near the mound, a five-gallon bucket brimming with baseballs sitting on the ground next to him. "I gotta go, Mr. Mulder," Jimmy said. "If I'm not home by ten, my mom will have a fit." I grinned and turned back to look into Scully's upturned face. Her soft, soft lips were ever-so-slightly fuller than normal, swollen by our kisses, and she was smiling sweetly. "Better pay him off, Mulder," she said, her voice low and husky. "Don't want the debt from my birthday present to end up on the same list as your overdue triple-X bill." My grin widened, and I dipped my head for another quick kiss before releasing her face and grabbing for her hand. I dug with my free hand into my back pocket, pulling out my wallet as we walked the few dozen feet over to meet Jimmy, then reluctantly dropped my grip on her long enough to draw out a twenty and pass it over to the kid. "Here you go, Jimmy," I said, tucking the wallet away and sliding my arm around Scully's shoulders. "I'll let you know when we're ready for another lesson." Jimmy grinned at us. "Another *baseball* lesson, at least," he said, a little teasing taunt in his tone. And then he laughed at our shocked expressions and turned, running off toward the street. I looked down to see Scully chuckling a little herself. "God, kids are growing up *way* too fast these days," she said, a little wistfully. Then she shook her head and said, "Either that, or Jimmy's been spending too much time around *you*." I tightened my arm around her, pulling her around in front of me. She looked up at me, the smile still on her face, and I kissed it. Kissed *her*. Thoroughly. We were both practically panting by the time that kiss ended, and I was painfully aware that there was no way she didn't know what effect it had on me. We were pressed together from the knees up, and I knew she could not help but notice the erection that was pushing against her belly. She could always ignore it ... but she didn't even try. "I guess I don't have to ask you if you're okay with this," she said, not quite meeting my eyes. I puffed out a laugh and pulled her a little closer. "No, I guess not," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. She smiled again, her head still down, then took a deep breath. "I ..." she started, then paused. "This is not easy for me to say, Mulder," she said, slowly, as if choosing her words was the hardest thing she'd ever done. "Hey," I said, bringing one hand around to lift her chin, forcing her to meet my eyes. "This is me, Scully," I said. "I'm not going anywhere, no matter what you say." I grinned again, briefly. "And I've controlled myself for the past six years; I'm not going to lose it now." Her eyes flicked from side to side as she studied me, and then she nodded. "I know that, Mulder," she said, firmly, confidently. "I know you. I know you would never, *ever* do anything I didn't want you to do." She paused again, her gaze once again dropping away from mine. "But just because I might want you to ... to do something, doesn't mean we should jump right in." She was nearly whispering by now, and I had to bend down slightly to hear her as she continued. "You just said it yourself -- we've waited six years. Much as I'd like to just ... dive in ... I think ..." "We should take it slow." I finished the thought for her, both because I knew it was what she was about to say, and because I knew the reaction it would get. And I was right. Her eyes came back up immediately to meet mine, and I smiled. "I didn't plan this, Scully," I said, gently. "I want you to know that. I just wanted us to have some fun, play a little baseball, forget about everything we have to deal with all the time. And we did." I loosened my grip on her slightly, just enough to allow my hands to slide up and down her back. "But now we've opened up a whole new can of worms, so to speak" -- we both grinned at that -- "and tonight is not the time to deal with it." I slipped even further away, running my hands down her arms to grip her hands. "So tonight, let's just enjoy it for what it is, and worry later about what comes next. 'Kay?" She studied me for another moment, then nodded and smiled. "Okay," she said, squeezing my hands before releasing them. My hands were immediately lost without hers, but I refrained from reaching for her again. Slowly, I reminded myself. Give her some space. She looked over her shoulder at the bucket of baseballs, then turned slightly to take in the pitching machine and bat. She sighed. "Guess we should clean up the mess before we go," she said. "No way," I said, my hand in hers before I even realized I'd reached for her. So much for good intentions. She looked back up at me, and I shook my head. "This is *your* birthday present," I said. "No way you're helping with the cleanup." I tugged on her hand, pulling her a step closer, and bent down to brush my lips across her temple, then her cheek. My mouth near her ear, I said, "You go home, get some sleep, and let me take care of this. I'll call you tomorrow." I started to back away, but her free hand flew up to grasp the back of my neck and pull my mouth to hers. She kept the pressure light, her lips dancing across mine, our tongues brushing for just a second. She drew back just an inch, lifting up on her toes to bring her mouth near my ear. "Thank you, Mulder," she whispered, her breath caressing my skin and sending shivers down my spine. "It was a wonderful birthday." She ran her thumb across my palm as she pulled away, a soft smile still on her face. And then she turned toward the parking lot, not looking back. I watched her go, my eyes following her small form as she moved away. Her movements were just as graceful and controlled as always, but now I had proof it was all an act. I knew the truth about the paradox that is Scully. I'd just had a taste of the wellspring of feeling she keeps carefully locked away, and already I was thirsty for more. I didn't turn move until her car was out of sight, drinking up every last bit of her presence for as long as I could. And then, her image still foremost in my mind, I turned to the task at hand. ======= Honesty ======= (A little honesty can go a long way.) ======= My head is up and my back straight as a ramrod as I lift my hand and knock sharply on the door. I am outwardly calm, and I will remain that way. But looks can be deceiving. I can hear shuffling sounds from behind the door and resist the urge to glare up into the security camera. The sounds stop for an instant, then begin again, and I hear the plethora of locks being released. The door finally swings open, slowly, as if the denizens are fearful of what they might find -- as well they should be. But I merely nod, and in a level voice say, "May I come in?" Frohike nods in reply, a little jerkily, and I step through the doorway into the dimness of the Lone Gunman offices. I don't wait for the door to be closed behind us, simply walking toward the desk where Byers sits, a page proof in his hand, his eyes glued to the small, black letters. I don't for a minute believe he's actually reading them. I glance to my right, just in time to catch Langly looking at me. His head snaps back around to face the computer in front of him, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. They're afraid of me. Good. "Gentlemen," I begin in a cool voice as I see Frohike return from the door. "I believe we have some unfinished business." The room becomes so silent that for a moment the only sound I hear is my own breathing. I believe I have their attention. I take a few steps forward and turn slightly so that I can see them all, and they can all hear me clearly. And I begin. "I have just spent a half-hour talking with Agent Mulder," I say. "We have determined that the three of you, over the course of your association with him, have made numerous recordings of your telephone conversations. Most of these have come without his knowledge or consent. And while this is technically not illegal, I must remind you that impersonating a federal agent *is*. I could, by all rights, arrest you all right now." All three spines stiffen at my last statement. Langly actually turns toward me and opens his mouth as if to speak, but I simply look at him, allow my eyes to show a hint of the rage boiling just beneath the surface. He subsides, and I continue. "Agent Mulder and I deduced that one or more of you edited previously recorded conversations together and used the resulting audiotape to get me to go to Las Vegas." I pause and glance around me, to see Byers' eyes closed against my words. His reaction confirms that, as I suspected from the nature of the events which have occurred, he is the guilty party. "I realize that your actions were driven by emotion, rather than reason," I say, my tone still calm and reasonable. And then I harden my voice. "But there is absolutely no excuse for the manner in which you exploited my partnership with Agent Mulder." I remain calm, but my voice is laced with anger now. "I was awakened in the dead of night by what I believed was my partner," I say. "His voice asked me to meet him in Las Vegas and told me it was important. I trust my partner, so I agreed." I pause for just a second. "Listen carefully to those words, gentlemen," I say. "I *trust* my partner. There is very little in this world as important to me as my *trust*. And there is very little that enrages me more than for someone to use that trust for their own gain." I give each of them a long, hard look, then say, "You, gentlemen, have exploited my partnership with Agent Mulder. You have exploited his partnership with me. You have used our trust and our relationship for your own purposes. You have lied to me, and in doing so, lied to him." Their heads are lowered, shame written on their faces. Good. They deserve everything I've given them, and more. And I'm not done yet. "Your actions this week have been inexcusable," I say. "You have betrayed the *trust* that Agent Mulder and I have placed in you over the years. You have severely damaged your friendship with Agent Mulder and have left me unable to place any amount of faith in any of you. While I appreciate the fact that you assisted me after I was drugged, the fact remains that I would never have been placed in such a situation had you not deceived me." "Scully ..." Frohike's voice comes from behind me, and I raise one hand, palm out, as I turn to face him. "Don't," I say. "I am not here to listen to attempts at explanation or apology. I am here to explain to you the results and repercussions of your little escapade have been, and will be. We realize you have helped us many times in the past, and we will, in time, be able to forgive what you have done." My voice hardens again. "But do *not* expect us to forget, and do *not* expect us to forgive again if you ever do anything like this in the future," I say. "You are more than aware of the ongoing situation in which Agent Mulder and I are involved, and you should be able to grasp how essential it is that we trust each other implicitly. We do not take kindly to anyone who threatens that trust." Including ourselves, my mind supplies, but I ignore it; now is not the time for distractions. I look around at the three men again. "What saddens me most about this entire escapade is that you apparently did not consider the one thing that might have saved you," I say. "After everything that has happened between us over the last few years, I cannot imagine that none of you would have thought of it." I stop and wait, knowing one of them will eventually have to ask. And Langly finally does. "What's that?" he says, and I swivel to look directly at him. "It's very simple, Ringo," I say, my words slow and distinct. "Next time, try honesty." My eyes hold his as this sinks in, and then I allow my gaze to travel across the other two. When I'm satisfied they've heard me, I turn on my heel and, without pausing, walk out the door. ========== I slip into Mulder's car a minute later, catching sight of the small grin playing at the corner of his mouth. "Something funny?" I ask dryly. "You," he says simply, the smile widening into a full-fledged grin as he turns his head to look at me. I arch an eyebrow. "Oh?" I say. "How so?" He continues grinning. "You were simply ... magnificent," he says in a grand voice, and I can't help myself; I return the smile. "I've had plenty of practice," I say, reaching under my jacket to extract the wire I placed an hour ago. "All these years of dealing with *you* with a straight face have finally paid off." Mulder chuckles lightly and shakes his head as he starts the car. "Yeah, I didn't even need the visuals to know exactly what expressions you had on your face," he says. "I've seen them all directed at *me* enough times." I shrug. "As long as it worked," I say, my tone turning serious. "The setup might have been funny, especially considering you were listening to every word and they never knew it. But the facts remain the same, and they *have* to realize how serious this was." Mulder sobers. "I know," he says, sliding one hand from the steering wheel to reach for mine, interlacing our fingers. "When you called and said you were in Las Vegas, my first instinct was to laugh, but when you told me why you were there ... well, I saw red." His face twists wryly. "It's a good thing you managed to stay level-headed enough to keep me from doing what I *really* felt like doing to them." I squeeze his hand lightly. "Believe me, I felt the same way," I say. "I was ready to roll some heads when I realized what they'd done. I did mean what I said in there -- I can forgive them this. Once. But I won't forget, Mulder. We have enough to deal with on our own without having to worry about them pulling this kind of thing again." He nods slowly, and after a few moments of silence I notice he's chewing lightly on his bottom lip. This usually means one of two things: He's about to try to drag me off on some small pretense of a case and is worried I'll shoot him down, or he's about to delve back into the area of our still-changing personal relationship -- and is worried I'll shoot him down. Well, his hesitation is completely understandable, seeing as we haven't broached the subject since we parted at the baseball field a week ago. Monday at work was a little awkward at times but otherwise normal; I think we were giving each other a little time to get used to the idea before diving back in. But then I got the phone call at 2:30 Tuesday morning and was off to Las Vegas. I didn't get back until late last night, and we spent our only two hours together since then deciding what to do about the Gunmen. I've thought quite a bit about our kisses at the ballpark, of course. My mind turned the whole evening over and over a dozen times on Sunday alone, while I did mundane things like housework and laundry. And I'm no closer to deciding where we go from here than I was then. The only thing I know for sure is, no matter how slowly I am willing to move ahead ... I don't want us to go back. So this time, I take the initiative before he can. "Doing anything tonight, Mulder?" I ask. His eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, and he glances at me. "Uh ... no, nothing in particular," he stammers out. I've obviously flustered him, and I swallow a grin. I rarely get the best of him this way, but it's *so* much fun when I do. Calmly, I ask, "How about dinner? My treat." He looks at me again, a little longer this time. I think he's completely speechless at first, but then he smiles, a slow, soft smile that glows in his eyes. I can feel it resonating deep inside me. "Agent Scully, are you asking me out?" he says, his normal teasing tone back in full force as he turns his eyes back to the road. I smile a little Mona Lisa smile. Asking you *in* is more like it, I think, then shake off the thought. Don't go there, I tell myself. Instead, I just squeeze his hand again. "Dinner, Mulder," I repeat. "Don't press your luck." He seems to deflate just a little, but before I can say anything, he rubs his thumb across the back of my hand. "Dinner," he answers, his voice low and throaty. "I can do that." A little shaken by his reaction and my own muddled thought processes, I lean back against the seat, Mulder's thumb still brushing across my skin. My mind starts running back over my encounter with the guys, and one thing comes back to me above all else, the last thing I said to them. "Next time, try honesty," I'd said. But here I sit, ignoring my own advice. Lying to myself -- and to Mulder -- about what I really meant by my invitation. You can do this, Dana, I tell myself. You've taken much larger risks than this. You can take a little, tiny step here. And so I do. "Mulder," I say softly, my eyes half-closed. He turns his head just a bit to regard me from the corner of his eye, and I smile gently. "Will you go out with me tonight?" ============= Driving Music ============= (Barbecue, music, and conversation.) ============= Seems you really *do* learn something new every day. After six years together I thought I knew pretty much all there was to know about Scully. Okay, so she keeps some things secret; I certainly don't begrudge her the privacy. I have a few secrets of my own. Somehow, though, I think I should have known that the woman is an absolute expert on the subject of barbecued ribs. Now, I know she likes ribs; I wiped the remnants of a feeding frenzy off her face myself once. She dug into those things with gusto, and it was a sight to see. But that was four years ago, and I haven't seen her touch a single rib since. Apparently, I've been missing something big here. She's taking me to dinner. On a date, as she took great pains to clarify; our *first* date. So I was expecting quiet, secluded, maybe even a little romantic. I got noisy, a little grimy, and a hell of a lot of fun instead. We're ensconced in a corner booth at Jed's Rib Shack, just off Highway 234 in northern Virginia, about five or six miles outside the city but at least a light year away in atmosphere. The place is crowded and a little on the loud side, with country music emanating from the jukebox in the corner. Much to my amazement, Scully is mouthing the words along with Mary Chapin Carpenter. She feels lucky today, she lip-synchs, shooting me a grin as the music shifts to "Heartbreak Hotel." Ho, mama. If this is what I have to look forward to with this new, softer, more relaxed version of Scully, I think I'm a beaten man. From now on, whatever Scully wants, Scully gets. She ordered for us both, shooting me one of her "no arguments" looks, and for once I listened. This place is certainly authentic, right down to the huge Mason jars full of super-sweet iced tea the bleached-blonde waitress plopped down a few minutes ago. Giant bottles of pepper sauce and Tabasco sit alongside the ketchup, salt, and pepper at the end of the table, and an apparently permanent film of hardened grease covers the walls. I can't believe Scully even knows where to *find* a place like this, much less that she'd actually *eat* here voluntarily. Not after years of watching her try to find what passes for healthy food in the dives I tend to hunt up on the road. She'd rather eat three slightly-wilted lettuce leaves and a sick-looking tomato than trust anything cooked on a truck stop grill. But she walked into this place like she owned it, asked for a corner booth, and refused a menu. Now she's kicked back in her seat, crunching ice from her rapidly-depleting glass and tapping her toe in the air to the beat of Elvis. Even my best dreams aren't *this* good. I know I'm sitting here like a bump on a log, staring at her. I can't seem to do much of anything else. Shock, I guess. I wouldn't be surprised if I started shaking and sweating profusely in a minute. If she uses her tongue to pull an ice cube from her glass again, I just might. She's glancing at me every few seconds, a tiny grin playing around her mouth, and I can read her thoughts as if they're flashing in neon across her forehead. She knows she's surprised me, and she's loving every minute of it. Elvis gives way to Loretta Lynn -- they like it all here, it seems -- and I pull myself from my stupor long enough to take a good-sized drink from my own tea. The cold beverage chills me all the way down and leaves me a little more alert, and I grin at her as I set the glass down. "So this is your idea of a dream date, Scully?" I ask, leaning forward to brace my arms on the edge of the table. "Sure wish I'd known; I'd have been dragging you to every rib joint in the lower 48." Her smile spreads slowly across her face, gradually raising the meter on her beauty from simply lovely to absolutely breathtaking. Every time I see that smile, I'm thankful that she rarely uses it, or I'd never get any work done. "I've seen the places you pick when left to your own devices, Mulder," she says, her tone as playful as I've ever heard it. "I trust you with my life, but not to pick a good barbecue place. Not without a reference." I feign a hurt expression. "Hey, I found the one in Wisconsin, didn't I?" I half-whine. I'm teasing her, and she knows it. And she loves it as much as I do. "On a reference, Mulder," she points out, eyebrow up. "I stand by my statement. You wouldn't be able to pick a decent barbecue place without help. Now, every greasy diner in the lower 48 I'd believe ..." I give in and chuckle. "Okay, okay, I'll allow you your area of food expertise," I say. "Assuming, of course, that this place is really *that* good." "Oh, it is," she says, waving a hand around to indicate the dozens of filled tables. "Any place this far off the beaten path that stays this full *has* to be good. How do you think I found it in the first place?" I shrug and turn up one corner of my mouth. "A *reference*?" I inquire, innocently. She glares, but it's belied by the smile still hanging around her lips. "This place is my own discovery, and don't you forget it," she says archly. "Like I said, any barbecue place this crowded all the time in an area like this has *got* to be good. After I drove by three times and saw the parking lot always full, I stopped. And it was worth every moment." Now I'm curious. "You drove by three times?" I ask. "This is a little out of the way from Georgetown, Scully. You've got me wondering what you were doing 'this far off the beaten path,' as you put it." Her eyes drift off somewhere to my left, toward the window, as if she's looking at something outside. But I know the look in her eyes; she's hiding something. Not something bad, or serious. This is another tease. "Oh, I just passed by on my way to Norfolk a few times," she says. "It was always full, so I decided to try it out." My mind kicks into overdrive. She wants me to ask what -- or who -- she was going to see in Norfolk. She's hoping to make me think it was a man, trying stir up a touch of jealousy. As a joke, of course; she wouldn't deliberately provoke me like that. That's just not like her. One problem with her plan. She didn't take into account my memory. And I know good and well that her brother was stationed in Norfolk until three months ago. "So how is Charlie these days, anyway?" I say in a mild tone, lifting my drink for another sip. I watch her reaction over the edge of the glass and am rewarded with a roll of her eyes. "You know, you could at least *pretend* to be taken in once in a while," she grumbles. I smile wolfishly behind my veil of ice and tea. "That depends on what I'm being taken into," I murmur. *That* comment earns a faint blush, and she quickly changes the subject. "Charlie and Bill are both out on their ships for about the next six weeks," she says. "The good thing about it is that at least they're all in San Diego now, so Beth and the kids can visit with Tara and Matthew. It's a lot better than moving to a new base and not knowing anyone." Her voice is a little wistful by the time she finishes speaking, and I realize my hand has gravitated across the table to cover hers gently. I can't really understand what she went through as a child, having to move around so often. My childhood was far from typical and, at least in the later years, far from happy. But at least I lived in one place and didn't have to leave my friends behind every few years. Yeah, I lost quite a few of them after Samantha disappeared, and maybe moving somewhere new would have been nice then. But Chilmark and the Vineyard were about the only stability I had. Scully had her family. I know they weren't perfect, but at least they were together, no matter where they had to move. I can't really think of anything to say to reassure her, but I think just reaching out might have been enough. She's more relaxed now, looking out the window again, her foot once again tapping lightly on the floor in time to the music. I don't recognize the artist this time, but the song is nice, a little jazzy and with some good harmonica. Something about how a song can change your whole state of mind. That's true enough. I've never been one for sitting around and listening to music for hours on end, analyzing every line and every nuance. But I do like having some music around when I'm doing certain things, like driving alone. And some songs can bring back memories, both good and bad. Like this one. I want to memorize this moment, complete with the slightly-twangy soundtrack and the thin haze of smoke in the air. I want to save this forever, to be able to pull out the sweetness of the tea and softness of her eyes as a balm against the evils I know I still have to face. "Who's this singing?" My voice asks the question before my mind can register it, but I let the question hang. My memory is good, but it wouldn't hurt to have a little aural trigger to help me bring this back whenever I want. "Clint Black," Scully answers, her face a little quizzical. "Why? It's not exactly your kind of music, Mulder." I shrug, not bothering to ask how she knew. She's been here before; for all I know, she has the jukebox memorized. "I kinda like this one," I say. "Nice harmonica." She nods. "I actually bought his greatest hits CD after I heard this song," she said. "There's a few good ones on it. He does a great version of 'Desperado'." I grin at that. "Closet Eagles fan, Scully?" She returns the smile. "Nothing closet about it; I've got three CDs in plain view in my apartment, and four old albums in storage," she says. I feel my own eyebrow arching. "I've never seen those CDs," I say. "You sure you don't hide them when I come over?" She's saved a reply by the arrival of our food, and quite a feast it is. Two huge plates covered with slabs of baby back ribs dripping with sauce, with baked potatoes and mounds of cole slaw on the side. I don't even think I can finish this, and there's no *way* she can. Shows how much I know. Thirty minutes later, with hardly a word passing between us, we've cleaned our plates. And yes, Scully ate all of hers. It was just as good as she said it was, but unfortunately, she was entirely too neat about eating it. I was really looking forward to cleaning sauce off her face again ... She sighs and sets down her last stripped rib, wiping her hands on another of those little moist towelettes. We've collected quite a pile of those things, along with a collection of demolished napkins. I think maybe a bedsheet would have been the best bet. The combination of Scully and bedsheets in the same thought brings me up short, as I realize -- not for the first time, even tonight -- that this is no longer just a game, or a flirtation. I think it's just as well I didn't say that out loud. Innuendo is all well and good, but there's more here now. It's obvious this is going somewhere definite, and any double entendres have suddenly taken on a whole new layer of meaning. Because now we're fairly sure there's going to be some following through on them in the not-too-distant future. But not tonight. Tonight we have a nice dinner, we enjoy each other's company, and we go home alone, as usual. Slow and steady wins the race. We'll be going home together soon enough. Scully's leaned back against the seat now, her eyes closed in either contentment or pain at having eaten too much, I'm not sure. The waitress breezes by and drops the check, and I reach for it before Scully even notices. Hey, call me a male chauvinist pig; I'd like to pick up the check for our first date. I'll let her get the next one. I slide out of the booth and the movement draws Scully's attention. She opens her eyes about halfway and looks up at me, and a rush of arousal fills me at that heavy-lidded gaze, weakening my knees. I manage to keep both my feet and my cool, to my own amazement, and flash her the best smile I can muster. "Let's get out of here, Scully," I say. "After that amount of food, I'm likely to fall asleep on the drive home. We'd better head back into the city." "'Kay." She sounds half-asleep herself, and I hold out my hand to help her out of the booth. To my delight, she actually takes it. She's not normally one for chivalrous gestures, and I try to repress most of them around her when we're working -- other than the hand at her back, of course. She's my partner and my equal -- hell, my superior in many cases -- and I do my best to show her all the respect she deserves on the job. But this isn't work. *This* is an official date, so I guess she's allowing me to treat her as a date, rather than a colleague. I kinda like it. She rouses a bit after she's on her feet and starts looking around. "Where's the check?" she asks, digging in her pocket and pulling out a credit card. I shake my head. "You get the next one," I say. "You found this place, so let me get the check." She seems about to argue, but then something in her eyes softens and she nods. I take her hand in mine again and we head for the register at the front in comfortable silence. We're back in the car before she speaks again. "Are you sure you're okay to drive?" she asks, still sounding endearingly sleepy. "Yeah, it's fine, Scully," I say as I check the empty road and pull out from the parking lot. I glance over at her a moment later and see her eyes are closed again. "Do you need me to keep you awake?" she murmurs huskily. No, Scully, just that tone of voice was enough to put every nerve in my body on full alert. "Don't worry about it, Scully" I answer softly. "You rest. I'll wake you when we get home." And my music for the drive is the sound of her breathing as she sleeps. ========= Illusions ========= ("All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." -- Edgar Allan Poe) ========== Reality is illusion. Illusion is reality. And how will I ever know the difference again? He died. He was dead. I saw his bones, stripped clean of flesh. I ran the tests myself. He was gone. Forever. My heart didn't break. It disintegrated. I felt the hole inside my chest as I floated through the next few days: the meeting with Skinner, the unnatural wake in Mulder's dark home. Surreal does not begin to describe the experience. And then came the knock ... and there he was. Alive. Whole. With my heart in his eyes. It surged back into my chest, leaving me dizzy with the sensation. It was familiar, somehow, this feeling of having my heart back after it was lost to me. Maybe because I've been there before. He walked in as if nothing had happened ... and then I realized that nothing had. He wasn't dead. His bones had never been found. We had never gotten off that mountain in the first place. He glistened yellow and melted away, and for an instant I knew where we were. We tried to escape; we believed we had. We were wrong. Illusion again. Finally, finally, we were rescued, pulled whole and alive from the bowels of an organism that could so easily have eaten us alive. Woozy from the drugs and the imaginings born of them, I reached out for the only solid thing in my life. His hand met mine halfway. ========== It's been less than an hour since we were pulled from the ground, and already I feel much more like myself. We were taken only a mile or so away, to where a decontamination tent had been set up, and spent the next half hour or so being cleaned of dirt and digestive enzymes. I was flooded with memories of another, false "decontamination" not so long ago, and was thankful that this time we are in separate chambers, not sharing a shower. That last time was embarrassing enough, but much has changed between us since then, and I would much prefer that we be alone the next time we are naked together. Thankfully, I was exposed to the enzymes long enough for much damage, other than a few raw spots on my face and hands. The enzymes had not even started to eat through our clothes yet, as it turns out, so I feel hopeful that even Mulder's longer exposure will not leave him with injuries more serious than my own. Samples of both the dirt and the fluids are taken away to be analyzed automatically, before I can even gather my thoughts enough to order it done. Skinner is here, I remember; he knows what this thing is and that something must be done to protect others from it. Ointment is spread on the injured patches of skin, and then I am given a clean pair of scrubs and plastic clogs to slip on and sent out into the antechamber for something to eat and drink. I push aside the thick plastic sheeting and flinch despite myself as the fans click on from above, throwing strands of wet hair into my eyes. I brush them back, a little impatiently, looking around for Mulder, but he's not here. Just then, Skinner steps into the tent from outside. He's turned to one side, away from me, and he blinks a few times as his eyes adjust to the dimmer light. The moment it seems his gaze has cleared and focused, I speak. "Sir, how is Agent Mulder?" His head snaps around toward me, and he takes a few steps in my direction. "Agent Scully, are you all right?" he asks as he moves. I wave off his concern. "I'm fine, sir," I say as he stops in front of me. "But Mulder was in that ... thing ... longer than I was." I pause, then say, slowly, "Considering what I just went through, I don't think it would be a good a idea for me to check on him right now." Skinner almost smiles, I think. "I'll look in, Agent Scully," he says. He reaches out a hand as if to take my elbow, and I try not to flinch, but he apparently sees it on my face and pulls back. It's not him, I want to tell him, but I can't. It's all still too raw. He sighs softly. "You get something to eat and drink, and I'll check on Mulder," he says, turning away before I can even nod. I take the few steps to the small table and chairs at the side of the plastic-walled chamber and sit down, eyeing the covered plastic containers and the several plastic bottles of juice sitting before me. I am suddenly thankful that the scrubs I'm wearing, at least, are cloth; I feel as if I'm living in a plastic world. I lift the corner of one container and peek inside to see a "meal" of a plastic-wrapped sandwich, a bag of chips, and a package of dried apples. Yum. I pull the lid off completely and start opening and unwrapping, taking a small bite of the ham sandwich first. It's actually not bad, for institutional food, even if the bread is a little dry. I grab a bottle of orange juice and open it as well, alternating between eating and drinking until I've finished everything in both containers. I take a bottle of water then and sit back in my chair as I sip at it. I glance at my wrist involuntarily, before I remember that my watch has become yet another casualty to my job. I look around for a clock, but there isn't one. Not even a plastic one. What the hell is taking Skinner so long? As if my thought has summoned him, he emerges from behind the plastic to my right, his gaze immediately zeroing in on me. I open my mouth to ask about Mulder, but before I can say a word, Skinner steps aside to allow Mulder through. He is dressed in white scrubs like mine, the pants legs about an inch too short for him, and his hair is damp as well. Again I feel a sense of deja vu about this whole thing, but it vanishes as I take in the bright red patches of skin on his face and neck. "Mulder," I say. Jumping up, I'm at his side in just a few steps. "Are you okay?" I reach automatically to inspect his injuries, and he starts to grin, then winces as the movement pulls at the raw spots on his face. "I'm okay, if slightly digested," he says, in his normal, wry tones, and I feel a flood of relief. My hands slip down from his face to brush along his arms, and then I remember that Skinner is standing right next to us, and I take a careful half-step back. "Come eat something, Mulder," I say, gesturing toward the table as I start in that direction. "It's not exactly gourmet, but it's no worse than what you normally eat," I add teasingly, getting another aborted grin for my efforts. Mulder sits down slowly, and I watch him like a hawk, wondering how far the acid burns reach on him and whether he'll be willing to tell me. He pulls one of the remaining plastic containers toward him and fumbles a bit with the lid, and I realize that the backs of his hands are a brilliant red and almost completely covered with ointment. "Here, Mulder, let me," I say gently, reaching for the container. He lets me take it without protesting, a silent sign that he really is in pain, so I not only pop the lid but also unwrap the sandwich and pull the bags of chips and dried fruit open for him. Then I reach for the hand nearest me, careful to keep the gesture as clinical as possible, mainly for Skinner's benefit, since he's still standing nearby. I study the raw patches, gauging the damage and recovery time, and finally nod, satisfied. He'll be sore for a while, but he'll be fine. "You should be wearing gloves to protect the skin, Mulder," I say, placing his hand back on the table and resisting the urge to lay my hand over it. "White gloves and pearls aren't exactly my style, Scully," he says, eyes twinkling as he picks up his sandwich and takes a huge bite. Skinner clears his throat behind me, and I twist in my seat to look up at him. "Sir?" "Agents," he says. "You have tomorrow off; please spend it recuperating. Be in my office at 9 a.m. on Tuesday morning to give your final report." I nod once. "Yes, sir," I say, hearing Mulder swallow behind me and echo my words. Skinner gives us both one last, long look, then spins on his heel and exits the tent without another word. I turn, slowly, back to face Mulder, and our gazes lock. "I wish I could hold your hand right now, Scully," Mulder whispers, his voice so tender and his eyes so soft that I feel my cheeks flush and my heart speed up. My gaze falls away involuntarily, and I can't make myself look back up at him. His eyes are so expressive, so intense, broadcasting his every emotion, and it's so very hard to hold his gaze when he's focused on me. It's terrifying, to tell the truth. I can see the power within him when I look in his eyes, and it's going to take me a while to get used to seeing all that energy turned in my direction. Especially in this situation. A half hour or so ago, we were naked in adjoining rooms, and now we're sitting across a tiny table wearing nothing but thin cotton scrubs. No, they don't supply underwear with emergency clothing, thank you very much, and we both know it. Without my normal clothes as armor, I feel as if I'm still naked. Mulder knows what's bothering me, I'm sure. He's gone back to his mini-meal, leaving me to my thoughts, and I let my eyes drift shut as I listen to him chew, sip, swallow. There's something comforting about the sound, something about the familiarity of it, gleaned from hundreds of meals eaten together on the road over the years. The background is all wrong, of course, much too clean and quiet, the only noise from the humming of the fans and the muted voices of technicians finishing their jobs. And it certainly doesn't measure up to our last meal together, a feast of ribs and country music ... but then, I don't imagine much could. But the rest of it, sitting together while we eat -- well, while *he* eats -- it's reassuring to my battered mind and spirit. It's simple, and it's familiar to the point of mundanity, but it's real. It *feels* real, not like the hallucinations that never quite seemed right. And I thank God that they were only illusions. "Scully?" Mulder's gentle voice pulls me from my reverie, and I open my eyes to look at him. He's pushed aside his plate and empty juice bottle, and already he looks better, despite the raw patches on his skin. I smile at him. "I'm fine, Mulder," I say, longing to reach out for his hand but not wanting to hurt him. Instead, impulsively, I slip a foot out of the clunky plastic clogs and reach across under the table, brushing my toes against his ankle. His full-body jerk draws a half-laugh from my throat, and his eyes widen comically. His mouth opens and closes a few times, and then a wicked, if small, smile builds across his face. "Why, Agent Scully," he says, his voice a low rumble of humor and pleasure. "Are you playing footsie with me?" I answer silently, placing my elbow on the table and resting my chin in the palm of my hand as I extend my other bare foot to touch him. I give him a slow, lazy smile, and I watch with interest as his chest hitches with his breath. "Scully," he lets out on a sigh, and I feel his feet move as he pulls them free of his own clogs. Our toes meet, touch, brush, and we let our feet slide against each other, caressing in a most unusual but highly erotic manner. My breath speeds up, my skin flushes, and I am amazed at the sensations from just this. I am incredibly aroused already, and only our feet are physically touching. But his gaze feels like another touch, burning into mine. I'm surrounded by him, encased totally in his bottomless well of emotion and passion. I feel his hands on me as if they're really there, smoothing over every inch of my skin, bringing to the surface everything I've kept hidden away, from him and from me. My eyes fall shut again, and my head drops back, suddenly too heavy for my neck to support. His long toes venture up under the bottom hem of my scrub pants, and the sensation shoots all the way up my leg and takes up residence between my thighs. I gasp aloud, my eyes flying open to meet his gaze, as shocked as mine must be. Oh God, he's just as aroused as I am, and this is not the time or the place for it. But our feet keep moving. What are we doing? I think wildly. Why aren't we stopping? Why aren't we pulling away? And then Mulder does. His feet lift away from my skin, and I feel a physical jolt as his entire manner shifts. And then the pain hits me. I gasp again, from shock this time, and I hear our harsh breathing for the first time. My heart is pounding and jumping in my chest, and I'm shaking all over. What the hell was *that*? "Wha ..." I try to voice the question, but my body won't let me. I cough and gasp again, trying desperately to get my breathing back under control. Peripherally, I'm aware that Mulder is having the same difficulty, covering his face with both hands as he fights for control. I don't know what just happened here, but whatever it was, I don't think I ever want to go through it again. Finally, I feel in control enough to look directly at him. He's still breathing too fast, but his eyes are clearer, and we simply look at each for a few long moments. I open my mouth, but before I can ask the question, Mulder's speaking. "It was the hallucinogen, Scully," he says. "It's not out of our systems yet. We're out; we're free. This is real, not another illusion. But ..." His voice trails off, and he tries again. "But what just happened was because of the hallucinogen." He pauses, then stumbles a little as he goes on. "I mean, the ... intensity. The pain when I pulled away. Not *what* happened, but *how* it happened." I nod, slowly, and process what he's said. It felt so good, caressing each other with just our feet; so intense. But then I couldn't stop, and when he finally managed to pull back, it hurt. It hurt a lot. "So ..." I start, "so maybe we should ... let this wear off before ...?" I let the question die, but he knows what I'm trying to ask. "We should probably go home and take our day off to recover, like Skinner said," he confirms in a gentle voice. Then he leans toward me, his tone lowering to an intimate whisper. "Because when *this* finally happens, I don't want either of us questioning its reality." There's no question what he means by "this," and my breath catches as our gazes meet. His eyes are more controlled this time, letting me see only a glimpse of what he feels, and this time I can take it. "You're right, Mulder," I answer, my voice sounding much calmer. "As good as that felt, it wasn't completely real." I take a deep, cleansing breath. "And I've had enough illusion today to last me a long, long time." He gives a half-grin. "Wait 'til you hear about *my* hallucination, Scully," he says. "You're gonna love it." I raise an eyebrow. "What, did you drop into the middle of a party at the Playboy mansion?" He chuckles and pushes away from the table, rising slowly to his feet. "Not even close," he says. "Although you could say it's something that used to be pretty high on my list of fantasies." I stand up as well, slipping my feet back into the uncomfortable clogs. "Mulder, if it's anything from *your* fantasy list, I'm not sure if I want to know," I say teasingly, looking up at him with a small smile. He chuckles, then bends down to murmur into my ear, "Even if you're directly involved?" I pull back and give him a reproachful look. "Mulder ..." I start, but he cuts me off with a falsely shocked look. "Good grief, Agent Scully," he says in mock disgust. "You've got *such* a dirty mind. I never said it was a *sexual* fantasy." I shake my head as I turn toward the door. "Too bad," I shoot back over my shoulder. "I might have been willing to trade." Dead silence follows in my wake, and then I hear his voice again as he hurries to catch up. "Well, I might have something to barter with ..." And as I step outside, I lift my face toward the bright sunlight. It feels wonderful. It feels real. ==========END OF SERIES==========