MAKING IT PERSONAL -- Introduction


This started as a standalone.  I wrote "A Slight Miscalculation" (which 
is now the prologue) shortly after "Biogenesis" aired, and I thought I 
was done.

Wrong.

Almost immediately, I started getting email from people who wanted the 
back story.  At first I didn't see any way to do that, but after talking 
it over with some of my net pals, I decided I could write a story or two 
to fill in the blanks. 

Ha.

Two months later, it's finally done.  Nearly a dozen and a half stories 
in all, and something in the vicinity of 270K in length.  And here it 
is. MAKING IT PERSONAL The Collector's Edition

by Brandon D. Ray


==================

RATING:  Mostly PG or PG-13.  Some chapters are NC-17, and have been 
appropriately marked.

CATEGORY:  Story, Romance, Angst -- there's even a bit of Humor

SPOILERS:  The entire series, but especially the second half of Season 
6, beginning with "One Son" and running through "Biogenesis".

KEYWORDS:  MSR.  M/S married.  MulderAngst.  ScullyAngst.  Explicit sex.  
Bad language.  Diana Fowley.  Maggie Scully.  Bill Scully, jr.  Lone 
Gunmen.

SUMMARY:  A series of episode-based vignettes, covering the second half 
of Season 6 and tracing the evolution of Mulder & Scully's relationship 
during that time.  Based on the following quote from "One Son":

"Because it is personal, Mulder.  Because without the FBI, personal 
interest is all that I have.  And if you take that away then there is no 
reason for me to continue."  -- Dana Scully

THANKS:  To all the lovely ladies at Babyfishmouth, without whose 
tireless beta reading this story would not be nearly as good as it is.  
If I try to list you all by name I'm afraid I'll leave someone out, so 
I'll just leave it at that.  ;)  Of course, any remaining lack of cool 
is my own responsibility.

DISCLAIMER:  Yeah, I own 'em.  I'm pretty sure I've got the proof around 
here somewhere.  NOT!!!!!




==================
==================

MAKING IT PERSONAL

an X-FIles novel

by Brandon D. Ray

==================
==================


==================

Biogenesis:

PROLOGUE - A Slight Miscalculation

==================


I've always prided myself on being thorough, and considering all the 
possibilities.  Preparation, I've always believed, is the name of the 
game.  Prior planning prevents poor performance.  You snooze, you lose.  
And all the other Type A cliches.

Even as a girl I was like that.  I was one of the kids who always 
arrived on the first day of school with all of the necessary supplies:  
Three number two pencils, meticulously sharpened; two wide-ruled spiral 
bound 118 page notebooks; and all the rest.

I continued this pattern in college, and later when I joined the Bureau, 
and it's always stood me in good stead.

Until I finally met someone who is even better at it than I am.  Until I 
met Dana Scully.

I underestimated her right from the start.  When I received the phone 
call summoning me back to the States, nearly a year ago, the man who 
calls himself C.G.B. Spender -- among other things -- warned me that Fox 
had a new partner, and that I would have to watch my step.  

Unfortunately I didn't take his warning seriously, and that was my first 
mistake.

I already knew about Agent Scully, of course, having kept tabs on Fox 
through various contacts over the years.  So when I reviewed the 
Project's dossier on her during the flight back from Europe, I found no 
surprises.

She is, like me, a Type A personality.  A place for everything, and 
everything in its place.  She lives in a neat, orderly world of straight 
lines and primary colors.  Her rent is always paid on time, she donates 
precisely ten percent of her annual income to charity and she's always 
exactly five minutes early for an appointment.

You see, I thought I had her number.  I even knew her most intimate 
secret, the quality which made her uniquely vulnerable and which she 
also happened to have in common with me:  I knew that she was in love 
with Fox Mulder.

What I didn't figure on was that *he* was in love with *her*.  It never 
occurred to me that the man I had known and loved so many years ago 
could ever form an attachment to a woman like Dana Scully.  They are so 
different from each other, with so many potential points of conflict, 
that I just didn't see how it was possible.  After all, if Fox and I 
couldn't make a go of it ....

That was my second mistake.

Once I realized the nature of their feelings for each other, of course, 
I did not hesitate to try to use the situation to further the goals of 
the Project.  I had been ordered to return to Washington for a very 
specific purpose, after all, and as they say in the military, no plan of 
action ever survives contact with the enemy.  This new development was 
simply another data point, something to be considered, analyzed and 
ultimately shaped into yet another weapon.  These unresolved feelings 
between Fox and Agent Scully would actually make my job easier, I 
thought.  And so I set about trying to drive a wedge between them on a 
personal basis, rather than just on the professional level as I had 
originally planned.

That was my third -- and most crucial -- mistake.  And this one has cost 
Fox his freedom and may very well wind up costing him his sanity.

There was a time when that would have bothered me -- and deep down 
inside, it still does.  I *do* still have feelings for this man, and it 
breaks my heart to stand here and watch him on the monitor as he 
stumbles back and forth across the room he's in, calling out, crying, 
*begging* ....

Begging for "Scully".  

There was a time when he would have been begging for me.

I angrily push the thought away.  My personal feelings have no place in 
this situation.  Whatever there once was between Fox and me, it really 
and truly is over.  If that wasn't clear to me the night of the El Rico 
massacre, Fox made it abundantly clear to me last night in his 
apartment.  I finally had to use a stun gun to keep him under control, 
and now here we are.

Agent Scully was here a few hours ago.  Fortunately Skinner was here 
too, so I didn't have to face her alone, and between the two of us we 
were able to prevent her from getting in to see Fox.  Skinner's 
influence as her supervisor was enough to turn her away, so that I 
didn't have to pull out my ace in the hole.

I think Fox knew she was here, though.  Something very strange has been 
going on inside his head.  From his behavior while she and I were 
watching him on the monitor, I am almost certain that he was aware of 
her presence.  He had been fairly quiet the last hour or so prior to her 
arrival, but as soon as she walked into the room he started up again.  
Which was a good thing, of course, since it made it easier to justify 
our claim that he is dangerous.

Even *I* know *that's* a lie.  Fox Mulder is not dangerous.  Not to her, 
anyway -- and she knows it.  Skinner and I were able to distract her, 
though, and now she's gone again.

I turn my eyes back to the monitor.  Fox has quieted down again; he 
quieted almost as soon as Agent Scully left.  He looks so sad and 
lonely, though, crouched there in the corner of the room, just staring 
up at the camera.  He looks scared.  I wish I could go to him and hold 
him, and make it all go away.  I wish none of this had had to happen.  I 
wish I had never been ordered to leave him and accept that transfer to 
Europe.  I wish they had chosen someone a little more reliably cold and 
closed off to replace me.  I wish ....

I hear the door open behind me, and I turn around to see who it is.  To 
my surprise, it's Agent Scully.  Dammit, I thought we were rid of her.  
And now Skinner is gone, and I'm going to have to deal with her myself.  
Alone.

"Agent Scully," I say calmly, trying not to betray the shock and dismay 
I feel at her sudden reappearance.  "What brings you -- "

Before I can even finish my greeting she has moved past me, as if she 
were unaware of my presence, and is staring intently into the monitor.  
My gaze follows hers, and I am unsurprised to see that Fox has risen to 
his feet and appears to be looking back at us.  This time, however, he 
isn't moving frantically back and forth across the room, and he isn't 
saying anything.  He's simply standing there, staring up at the camera 
as if he can see us.  No, not as if he can see *us*; as if he can see 
*her*.

"Mulder," she says, very softly.  "Mulder, I'm here."  And god help me 
if he doesn't nod slightly, as if he just heard every word she said.  
"I'm going to get you out, Mulder," she continues.  Her voice is gentle 
and tender, almost loving.  "I've taken the necessary steps, and you'll 
be transferred to Johns Hopkins first thing in the morning, so my mother 
can keep an eye on you.  I've got to make a quick trip to check a few 
things, but I'll be back in a couple of days.  Okay?"  And again he 
nods.

I can't let this go on.  I don't know what "necessary steps" she's 
taken, but I've got to stop this right now.  I step forward and grab her 
elbow and turn her to face me.  Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, as if 
she hadn't realized I was still in the room.

"I'm afraid he's not going anywhere, Agent Scully," I say firmly.  "He's 
going to stay right here, where he can be taken care of properly."  I 
wince inwardly at the double meaning in my words, but she doesn't seem 
to notice.  "He's staying right here," I repeat.

She shakes her head slightly, as if at a minor annoyance.  "No he's 
not," she says.  "I've already made the arrangements."  And she starts 
to turn away as if that were the end of it.

"Agent Scully!" I say sharply, and wait until I have her attention 
again.  "Fox is in no condition to be moved."

She stands quietly looking at me for a moment, and I am almost starting 
to believe that she's going to back down -- but then she shakes her head 
dismissively and turns away again.

I feel my eyes narrow at her casual disregard for my presence.  I was 
important in this man's life once; I was there when he found the X-
Files.  She hadn't even graduated from the Academy yet, and I was there, 
with him.  Even though part of me suspects that this reaction is just 
what she wanted, I can feel the anger building within me, and I stride 
forward into her personal space, trying to use my height to intimidate 
her.

"He is not going anywhere!" I say, biting off the words one at a time.  
"He is staying right here, and there is nothing you can do about it.  I 
hold his power of attorney."

There it is, the ace in the hole.  Prior planning and all that.  Top 
*that*, Agent Scully.

Her eyebrows twitch slightly in surprise.  Not shock, not worry, not 
panic -- just surprise.  Mild surprise.  As if she has encountered an 
unexpected obstacle, but one she is confident she can overcome.  Already 
she's reaching into her purse and pulling out a sheaf of papers.

"Then it's a good thing I had myself declared his guardian, isn't it?" 
she says, and I can tell that she's struggling to keep the amusement out 
of her voice.

Dumbfounded, I take the papers from her hand and let my gaze skim over 
them.  They are just what she said they are:  She apparently found a 
judge somewhere and obtained an emergency order of temporary 
guardianship.  This won't stand up, of course; it can't withstand the 
light of day.  The only situation where something like this might 
actually work would be if she and Fox were --

Oh my god.

I look back up at her, and the only thing I can think of to say is, 
"When?"

Her lips quirk slightly.  She's trumped my ace, and she knows it.  
"Shortly after El Rico," she says.  "I suppose I have you to thank for 
it, in a way.  If it hadn't been for all the head games you kept playing 
with him ...."  Her voice trails off, and she shrugs -- and I realize 
that I've lost.  After all that planning and thinking, after all that 
*scheming*, dammit, I've been outmaneuvered.

I've lost.

"I've got to go now, Mulder," she says, and I realize she's turned back 
to face the monitor.  "But I'll be back.  I promise."  One last time he 
nods, and then he settles back down in his corner -- but now he no 
longer looks lost and despairing.  He looks, in fact, about as content 
and happy as it's possible to look when you're locked in a room against 
your will.

Agent Scully moves past me and walks towards the door, but I continue to 
stare at the monitor in disbelief.  There is no possible way it should 
have ended like this.  I had it all planned out; I had everything under 
control, and I knew what I was doing.  How could everything have gone so 
terribly wrong?

And what can I possibly do to fix it?

"Have you ever read Nietzsche, Agent Fowley?" I turn at the sound of 
Scully's voice, and see her standing in the doorway with a look of 
amused triumph on her face.  Of course I've read Nietzsche, but I 
gesture numbly for her to continue.  "'That which does not destroy me, 
makes me stronger,'" she says.  She starts to turn away, but then she 
glances back over her shoulder one more time.  "I'm stronger," she adds, 
very softly.  And then she's gone.

I think there's been a slight miscalculation.


==================

One Son:

CHAPTER ONE - There But By the Grace of God

==================


They were some of the most powerful men in the world, but most of the 
world didn't even know of their existence.  And now they're nothing but 
ashes.  Literally ashes.

I sit at the desk in my cold, dark apartment, and I pore over the crime 
scene photographs.  Crime scene.   What a prosaic term to describe that 
horror chamber.  I can still smell the acrid odor of charred human 
flesh; it fills my nostrils and seems to permeate my soul.  I don't know 
if I'll ever get rid of it.

I don't know if I ever WANT to get rid of it.

A phrase keeps drifting through my mind, over and over, as I stare at 
these photographs:  There but by the grace of god go I.  

There but by the grace of god.

The phrase doesn't really apply to me, of course.  It has been many 
years since I believed in god, and it's been even more years since I 
believed god manifested grace to his creations.  But still I can't seem 
to chase the phrase from my mind as I examine these photographs.  Still 
it continues to haunt me, echoing and reechoing inside my head, 
reverberating in my soul.

There but by the grace of god.

There's always Scully, of course.  Always Scully.  If I could believe in 
a god who cared, it would be Scully whom he cared for.  It would be for 
her sake that I was moved to call her on my cell phone, allowing her 
voice to drag me back from the depths of despair.  It would be for her 
sake that I sent Diana on ahead of me, alone.  It would be for her sake, 
always for her sake.

There but by the grace of god.

Diana.  How could I have been so wrong about her?  How could I have 
failed to see the signs?  Especially when my own partner, the one I have 
come to trust as no other, my one in five billion, kept trying to get 
through to me, kept rubbing my nose in the unpleasant facts that I 
didn't want to see, didn't want to hear, didn't want to know.  How could 
I have been so blind?

God, Scully....I'm so sorry.

There but by the grace of god.

She came to me earlier this evening and tried to talk it out.  She was 
so gentle and understanding, so open and caring.  She wanted to forgive 
me; I truly believe she wanted to forgive me.  But I would not allow it; 
I shut her out and kept her at arm's length, and finally I sent her 
away.  I couldn't face her; not tonight.  Not with these horrible 
photographs freshly burned into my memory.  Not with the sure knowledge 
that if events had followed the course I intended there would be two 
more charred bodies on that hangar floor, and one of them would be hers.

There but by the grace of god.

I remember another time, another place.  I sat in a hospital cafeteria, 
and a woman eerily like my partner, yet very different, sat across the 
table from me and pleaded with me to save her sister's life.  I was in a 
very dark place that day, and somehow she could see that and tried to 
pull me out.  "You could spend the rest of your life finding every 
person who's responsible," she said.  "And it's still not going to bring 
her back. Whoever did this to her has an equal horror coming to them."

And I asked her, "Including myself?"

There but by the grace of god.

I think now perhaps Melissa was right after all.  For certainly the men 
who died in that hangar were partly responsible for what happened to 
Scully, both then and subsequently, and they have all now faced their 
own horror.  Whether death by fire is commensurate with their offenses I 
cannot say, but what's done is done.  And now only one of us remains, 
and surely my own punishment in the months and years to come shall cause 
theirs to dwindle to insignificance.  And that's as it should be.

There but by the grace of god.

Tomorrow I'm going to have to face her again.  Tomorrow I'm going to 
have to walk into the office and look her in the eye, and somehow I'm 
going to have to work with her.  Spender has asked for a meeting with 
the two of us, and with Skinner and Kersh.  I don't know what he wants, 
but for some reason I've agreed to go.  I suppose it will just be more 
flogging, more recrimination, and I hardly even feel the beatings 
anymore.  I hardly even feel that pain.

There but by the grace of god.

I feel a draft against the back of my neck and I turn to look, but 
there's no one there.  I didn't really expect her to return; I don't 
even really want her to return.  She doesn't belong here in the shadows; 
she should be in the light and sunshine, with the wind blowing through 
her hair and a sparkle in her eye.  That's why I sent her away, after 
all.  That's why she isn't here.  But god I miss her.

There but by the grace of god.

Something moves in the shadows and I squint into the gloom, but there's 
nothing there.  Then it moves again, and I think I see a flash of red 
and I hear a woman's voice.  "Why is it so dark in here?" she asks, and 
I want to say that it's because the lights aren't on, but I don't.  I 
know what she really means.  And she continues speaking:  "Listen. I 
don't have to be psychic to see that you're in a very dark place... much 
darker than where my sister is.  Willingly walking deeper into darkness 
cannot help her at all.  Only the light...only the light...only the 
light...."  And her voice trails off and is gone.

There but by the grace of god.

I sit numbly at my desk for a long time, still peering into the 
darkness.  It never occurs to me to question whether she was really 
here; some things you just know.  The photographs lie neglected on my 
desk, and somehow I no longer feel the urge to pore over them and 
examine them.  I no longer feel the need to obsess on them.  Something 
has changed.  Something has changed.

There but by the grace of god.

I am startled from my fugue by a knock on the door, and I rise from my 
seat and cross to answer it.  It never occurs to me to question who 
might be calling at this hour of the night; some things you just know.  
I stand before the door for just a moment, steeling myself for the 
ordeal to come, and then I twist the knob and pull the door open -- and 
it's Scully, as I knew it would be.  Her eyes are red from crying, but 
still she is strong, unbroken and unbowed.  And she says, very softly, 
"Mulder, we need to talk."  And I nod slightly and I reach out my hand 
to turn on the light, banishing the darkness, before I usher her into my 
apartment.

By the grace of god.


==================

One Son:

CHAPTER TWO - Making It Personal

==================


How has it come to this so quickly?

I shift awkwardly on the hard, wooden bench in the courthouse lobby.  
This is far from the first time I've had to wait like this, of course.  
Any law enforcement officer can tell you horror stories about long, 
tedious hours spent waiting outside of courtrooms.  Waiting for the 
lawyers to get their acts together.  Waiting for the judge to come back 
from lunch.  Waiting for the witness ahead of you to finish telling 
*her* story.  Waiting.

So yes, I've waited before.  But never when the stakes have been this 
high.

I cast a quick glance at Mulder, seated next to me on this godawful 
bench.  He's waiting too, of course, but for once he seems to be taking 
it better than I am.  Normally Mulder would be climbing the walls at 
this point.  He has very little patience for the antics of lawyers, and 
he hates being cooped up.

By now he should be up off the bench and pacing, making acerbic comments 
about the personal habits, probable ancestry and ultimate destinations 
of the other participants in the proceeding, and generally being a pain 
in the ass.  It would then be my job to keep him as calm as possible, to 
divert him and entertain him and have him ready when our turn finally 
comes.  But today he just sits, serene and to all appearances content.

I wish I could understand how he's managing it.

I force my attention away from my partner, and for the hundredth time in 
the past thirty minutes I look around the lobby.  It is an 
undistinguished chamber, no different from a hundred other rooms in 
public buildings where we've had to sit and wait over the course of the 
past six years.  Directly across from us is a portrait of Thomas 
Jefferson; the decor also includes a weathered bronze plaque 
commemorating someone I've never heard of, a hand-sewn tapestry 
proclaiming the Ten Commandments, and a relief map of the county which 
must be at least thirty years out of date.

As I said -- typical.

I shift restlessly in my seat again -- and then I start in surprise as 
Mulder lays a gentle hand on both of mine, where they sit tightly 
clenched together in my lap.  I look up at him, and I see the question 
marks in his gaze.

I know what he's asking, but despite my jitters at the suddenness of all 
this, I'm sure this is where I want to be.  And so I lace my fingers 
through his and give his hand a reassuring squeeze, and we both smile.

What time is it, anyway?  I free my hand and look at my watch.  12:17 
p.m.  Three minutes later than the last time I looked.  We're supposed 
to be back at the Hoover Building by a quarter till one, but unless 
something happens soon we aren't going to make it -- and Kersh is far 
less forgiving than Skinner when it comes to minor infractions.

12:17.  There's something about that number that seems familiar.  For a 
moment I can't place it, but then I remember:  It was 12:17 a.m., 
exactly 36 hours ago, when I arrived at Mulder's apartment for the 
second time.  Thirty six hours since I pushed over the first domino and 
started the chain of events that led us to this moment.

Thirty six hours.

#          #          #

I stepped off the elevator and walked slowly down the hall towards 
Mulder's apartment.  I'd been here earlier in the evening and he'd 
turned me away, flatly refusing even to listen to what I had to say.  
Rejecting the forgiveness I'd tried to offer, because that would have 
required him to acknowledge the pain he'd caused me, and the damage he'd 
done to our partnership.

I left his apartment fully intending to put an end to it.  I'd given him 
his chance, I thought.  I'd given him a clear and unambiguous warning in 
the Gunmen's office two days earlier, and he'd chosen to ignore me.  I'd 
then come to him tonight, in the aftermath of that nightmare at El Rico, 
and I'd tried to reach out to him.  I'd tried to build a bridge which 
might allow us to save what little we had left.  But he had not 
cooperated.  He'd refused to do his part to save our partnership.  And 
so I left, and as I drove away from Alexandria and back towards D.C. I 
truly believed that it was finally over.

Something wouldn't let me give up, though.  As I sat on our old bench by 
the Reflecting Pool, trying to say goodbye to Mulder in my mind, I found 
myself unable to let go.  I kept remembering all the things we'd been 
through together, everything we'd seen and heard and said and done, and 
I just couldn't put that down and walk away.

I couldn't leave him, no matter how much part of me wanted to.  And so 
at length I dried my eyes and blew my nose, and I headed back to 
Mulder's place.

Finally I stood in front of his door, trying to work up the courage to 
knock.  A small corner of my mind suggested that maybe he was asleep at 
last, and that I should leave him be and we could address these problems 
tomorrow.  But I knew better than to really believe that.  Mulder hadn't 
slept since El Rico, and I knew he wouldn't be asleep now.  I gathered 
up all my courage and knocked lightly on the door.

For a moment I thought perhaps he hadn't heard me.  It was so still and 
quiet; I couldn't even hear the TV playing, and that worried me more 
than anything.  Mulder always has the television on; if he'd turned it 
off that meant he was in a very dark place indeed.

Abruptly the door swung open, and my partner stood in front of me.  The 
lights were out in his apartment, and his face was lost in shadow.  He 
seemed so calm, so still, and I felt a shiver of fear race down my spine 
-- and in that moment, I knew I'd done the right thing to come back.

"Mulder," I said, "we need to talk."  And he nodded slightly, and turned 
on the light and allowed me to enter his apartment.

#          #          #

It's past 12:30 now, which means we are definitely going to be late 
getting back to work.  I've finally exhausted the possibilities in 
examining Mr. Jefferson's portrait, and I've had the Ten Commandments 
committed to memory since I was seven, and so I've resorted to studying 
the back of my partner's hand.

It's really quite an interesting hand.  Long lean fingers, such as you 
might find on an artist or a musician.  The knuckles are well-defined, 
but not so prominent as to be considered gaunt or bony.  Good muscle 
tone, and I know from experience that his grip is firm and controlled 
without being overbearing.

I turn his hand over in mine, and now I study the palm.  The soft, 
fleshy pads of his fingertips.  The bold pattern of creases and 
indentations.  The underlying structure of bone and tendon and ligament.  
The barely discernible network of veins and capillaries.

"Scully?"

I flush slightly as I realize I've been studying and manipulating 
Mulder's hand as I would that of someone on my autopsy table, and I 
hesitantly look up at his face.  But there is no reproach there, nor any 
sign of the weariness and resignation which I've seen in his features so 
often these past few months.  Instead I see a glint of the old humor in 
his eye -- and unless I am greatly mistaken, there is a hint of 
tenderness, as well.  Has that been there all along, and I've just been 
missing it?  Or is it something new?

Before I have time to examine that question, however, the door across 
the way swings open, and my attention is drawn to the middle aged woman 
who earlier took our names and told us we'd have to wait for a few 
minutes.  

"Fox and Dana?" she says, and there is a friendly smile on her face.  
"We're ready for you now."

As we rise to our feet I hear Mulder mutter something which sounds 
suspiciously like, "Geronimo."  

I couldn't have put it better myself.

#          #          #

"Scully ... I don't know what to say."

At last Mulder spoke, breaking the silence which had hung heavy between 
us since my arrival twenty minutes earlier.  We were sitting on opposite 
ends of his sofa, and at the sound of his voice I lifted my gaze from 
the floor and looked at my partner.

God, he was hurting.  He was hurting so terribly much.  In that first 
instant all I could see was his pain, and I so wanted to reach out and 
comfort him.  I very nearly did.

But I couldn't.  I just couldn't.  The anger of two days before was 
gone, but in its place there was a dull, burning ache, and I could not 
simply set that to one side, no matter how much I wanted to.  And so 
after the briefest of hesitations I looked away again, and resumed 
staring at the floor.

"Scully?" he whispered.

I closed my eyes and shook my head.  Not this time, Mulder, I thought.  
Not this time.  I've done as much as I can simply by coming here 
tonight.  I can't do anymore.  Not this time.

I felt the sofa sag a little as he shifted his weight, and I tensed 
slightly lest he try to touch me.  But either he'd never intended to do 
that, or he thought better of it.  And after another moment he spoke 
again.

"Scully," he said, using my name as if it were a talisman.  "Scully.  I 
don't know what you expect of me.  I don't know why you came back."  He 
paused, just long enough for my heart to begin to break.  Then:  "But 
I'm glad you did."

I let out a breath which I hadn't realized I was holding, and at last I 
was able to open my eyes and look at him again.  But still I could not 
speak; the hurt was just too strong.  It was almost more than I could 
bear just to sit silently in the room with him.  I knew that he was 
hurting too; I could feel it radiating off of him in waves.  But I 
couldn't find the strength to respond.  I just couldn't do it.

"Scully," he repeated, and now that I was looking at him I could not 
ignore how much this was costing him.  He looked as if he was tearing 
each word from his own flesh before offering it up to me -- and I was 
letting him do it.  Worst of all, deep down inside a small part of me 
was glad.

"Scully," he said to me one more time, shaking his head.  "Scully, I 
don't know any way to say this other than what I've said before.  If I 
knew how, I would; you know that."  Somehow, I managed the tiniest of 
nods, encouraging him to continue.  "You finish me, Scully," he went on, 
his voice a tragic whisper.  "You make me what I am.  If it weren't for 
you I would have long since withered up and blown away.  It's all 
because of you, Scully.  Everything is because of you."

It wasn't enough.  God, how I wanted it to be enough, but it just 
wasn't.  As his words flowed over and around me I tried to make them 
fit, I tried to use them to fill in that terrible emptiness, but still 
the void remained.

Almost against my will, I compared what he'd just said to the words he'd 
spoken last summer, when we'd both thought that I was leaving.  I 
remembered the sense of utter loss and despair I'd felt then, and I 
remembered the rising hope as his words -- just what I'd come there 
hoping to hear, I realized later -- soaked into my soul and seemed to 
offer salvation.  "You make me a whole person," he'd said then.  And I'd 
believed him, because I so wanted it to be true. 

I still did.

But I couldn't do it again.  Despite everything we meant to each other, 
despite all that we'd been through together, I could no longer put my 
blind trust in this man's words.  No matter how much I wanted to.  No 
matter how much part of me desperately needed to.

I think he must have read my answer in my eyes before I started 
speaking, because even as I opened my mouth to respond I could see him 
shutting down, and getting ready to turn out the lights.  But not even 
that was enough this time.  Not even that.

"I've heard that speech before, Mulder," I said, very softly.  "Last 
summer.  Right outside that door.  It didn't work out the way either of 
us hoped, I think.  I know it didn't work out the way *I* hoped.  And 
this time it just isn't enough.  This time, I need something more."

He sat silently for a moment, simply looking at me.  Finally, his voice 
even softer than my own, he replied, "That sounds suspiciously like an 
ultimatum, Scully."

I shook my head.  "No," I said.  "No, it's not an ultimatum.  I gave you 
the ultimatum two days ago in the Gunmen's office.  This is your second 
chance, Mulder; this is me coming back and saying I don't want to follow 
through on what I said then."  Work with me on this, Mulder, I thought.  
Don't force me to make this decision.  Please don't force me to do this.  

Don't force me to leave you forever.

He frowned.  "This is about Diana, isn't it?" he asked.

"Of course it's about Diana!" I snapped, trying and failing to keep the 
sudden surge of anger from my voice.  My God, I wondered.  How could 
this man be so brilliant and so stupid, all at the same time?  He's a 
profiler, for God's sake; how could he not understand?  

"Can't you see that by now, Mulder?" I continued.  "How many times and 
how many ways do I have to say this?  I've been by your side for nearly 
six years, and I need to know that you're by *my* side, rather than 
hers."

He tried to speak, but fell silent as I shook my head.  I'd thought 
about this so often in the past year -- worried over it, obsessed over 
it, and now even *cried* over it -- that it almost seemed like a 
preprogrammed speech.  I could only hope he would be able to hear the 
truth in what I was saying.  He hadn't heard me in the Gunmen's office, 
but maybe now, after all that had happened as a consequence of that 
error ....     

"When I follow you off to the far corners of the earth," I said 
abruptly, "I need to know that it's you I'm following, not her.  Because 
I don't trust her, Mulder -- you're the only one I trust.  And because 
you were right in what you said the other night:  It *is* personal for 
me, and it has been for a long time.  I don't want to give that up, but 
you have to give me something.  Some sort of reassurance.  Something 
tangible, something I can depend on, to tell me that you and I are in 
this for the long haul.  Together, Mulder.  You and me, together."

His lips quirked at my words, and for just an instant I saw the playful, 
spirited man I used to know -- and then from somewhere I had a sudden 
premonition of what he was about to say.  "You sound like you want to 
get married or something, Scully."

I paused and blinked, and in the space between two heartbeats a jumble 
of images flashed through my mind:

-- Me and Melissa giggling in our beds after lights out as we one-upped 
each other in imagining the most lavish wedding possible.

-- Dancing with Marcus Hollister at the senior prom, and realizing with 
regret that he would not be the one.

-- Lying in bed with Tom Danforth the afternoon I lost my virginity, 
terrified that I might be pregnant and wondering what I was going to do 
if I was.

-- Filling out applications for medical school and suddenly realizing 
that I hadn't seriously considered the question of a husband and 
children for years.

-- Leaving Jack Willis' apartment for the last time, after that horrible 
fight the night he proposed.

-- Sending Mulder away when he tried to comfort me, and then lying down 
next to Emily and waiting for her to die.

-- Hearing Mulder's voice on my cell phone asking me to marry him, and 
feeling a strange flutter of ... something ... in the brief instant 
before I turned his words aside.

-- Mulder's lips lightly touching mine for one eternal instant as we 
stood in the hallway outside this very apartment.

And then time started up again, and I was sitting on Mulder's sofa and 
looking up into his eyes, and very soberly I said,  "Maybe I would."

#          #          #

I'm sitting in the passenger seat of Mulder's car as we make our way 
through the late lunch hour traffic.  The ceremony didn't take very 
long; only ten minutes or so, fully half of which was consumed by the 
magistrate's desire to "get to know" us.  But finally we each said the 
necessary words and signed the necessary papers, and now we're in the 
car and on our way back to work.

I don't feel any different yet.

I turn in my seat and look at Mulder.  He wants me to believe that all 
of his attention is focused on the traffic, but I know better.  Inside 
that mind of his, wheels are turning.  Just as they are in mine.

I wish I understood a little better how this all came to pass.  Even 
more, I wish I knew what's supposed to happen next.  There are so many 
questions we haven't answered -- haven't even addressed.  So many things 
we still need to work out.  So many things I still want to know.

Will we live together?  If so, where?  How will we tell our families?  
*When* will we tell our families?  We never really discussed it, but 
somehow we've arrived at an agreement to keep this to ourselves, at 
least for the time being.  My mother will be hurt, and my brothers will 
be furious -- but I didn't do this for them.  I did this for me.  For 
us.  To save what we had.  To save each other.

God.  Will we sleep together?  Married people typically do -- but there 
is very little about my relationship with Fox Mulder which can 
reasonably be characterized as typical.

We haven't even bothered to buy rings.

Mulder is pulling into the underground parking garage at the Hoover 
Building.  In a few more minutes we'll be getting out of the car and 
walking back inside, back to the bullpen with all the other agents, 
where we'll proceed to spend the afternoon doing paperwork and 
conducting background checks.  Just as we did yesterday, and just as 
we'll do tomorrow.  

We've met with Skinner and Kersh and Spender, and we have hopes that we 
may soon get the X-Files back.  But so far that's all it is -- a hope.  
As of right now, nothing has changed.  It is still possible that nothing 
*will* change.

Unless we decide to make it change.

The car comes to a halt and Mulder switches off the engine, and for a 
moment we just sit together in silence.  He seems to be studying the 
dashboard, and for a moment I think he's trying to come up with 
something to say, but then I realize the truth:  He's waiting.  Waiting 
for *me* to say something.  And somewhere, deep down inside, I find the 
courage.

"Mulder?" I say, very softly.  His mouth twitches slightly, and then he 
turns his head to look at me.  In his eyes I see everything I'd ever 
hoped would be there, and I reach out one hand and lay it on top of his 
as it rests on the steering wheel.  "After work, would you like to come 
over to my place?  We could have dinner and ... talk."

A slow smile spreads across his face, and he says, "Yeah, Scully.  I'd 
like that."  And then he leans over and kisses me on the mouth, giving 
me a provisional answer to at least one of my questions.

And that's good enough for a start.


==================

One Son:

CHAPTER THREE - Objects in Motion

==================


I'm going to wear a hole in this carpet if I'm not careful.

I've been pacing back and forth through my apartment for something like 
twenty minutes now.  I glance at my watch.  Twenty-three minutes, to be 
precise.  It is now 6:54 p.m., and Mulder is due to arrive in exactly 
six minutes.

I tried sitting on the sofa, but it didn't work.  Isaac Newton said that 
objects in motion tend to remain in motion unless acted upon by an 
outside force, and I guess maybe that law applies to me tonight, because 
I just can't seem to stay still.

Or maybe I'm just nervous.

It's been a little over two hours since we parted company at the Hoover 
Building.  I've spent most of the intervening time getting ready -- 
putting together dinner and, God help me, changing clothes three times, 
from the skin out.

Which makes no sense at all.  Mulder has seen me in just about every 
state of dress and undress imaginable -- down to and including stark 
naked and covered with sticky green goo.  Still, somehow it seems to 
matter how I look tonight.  I guess in a way it's like getting ready for 
a date.

A blind date.

With my husband.

Jesus.

I can't believe I'm actually doing this.  I can't believe I've actually 
*done* this.  I can't believe I've actually married Fox Mulder.  Forty-
eight hours ago the thought had not even entered my mind.  Forty-eight 
hours ago I was ready to call it quits, and walk out -- on Mulder, on 
the X-Files, maybe even on the whole damned Bureau.  

Now I'm more committed than I ever was before.  Or maybe I should just 
*be* committed.  Or something.

I stop pacing for a moment and stare at the small collection of 
photographs sitting on the bookcase.  Pictures of my family:  Mom and 
Ahab; Melissa; Bill and Tara and Matthew; Charlie and Betty and their 
kids.  Bill, especially, seems to be staring back at me accusingly, but 
the others don't look too happy at the moment, either.  Except for 
Matthew, of course.  He's too young to care.

There's a knock on the door and I glance again at my watch.  6:59 p.m.  
Mulder is actually punctual tonight.  Well, he has reason to be.

I move to the door and pull it open, and there he is.  Fox William 
Mulder, Oxford educated psychologist and Special Agent of the Federal 
Bureau of Investigation.  My husband.  I turn the word over in my mind:  
Husband.  Husband.  Husband.

*My* husband.

Dear God.

"Scully?" he says.  "Can I come in?"

I realize with a start that I've been standing here in the doorway 
staring at him, mesmerized by his sudden presence.  He's gorgeous, 
simply gorgeous.  It has been a very long time since I've allowed myself 
to notice this about my partner, but there's no denying it.  He's 
dressed in black jeans, a white t-shirt and a v-necked pullover sweater 
which I don't remember seeing before, and the overall effect is 
absolutely ... something.

And he's holding flowers.  Two of them.  One red rose and one white one.

"Scully?" he says again -- and I'm finally prompted to move out of the 
doorway and allow him to enter.  As I do so I realize that he's looking 
at me, too, openly checking me out for the first time in years.  And it 
looks as if he likes what he sees.

I look down at myself and realize with embarrassment that I'm wearing 
what could be construed to be makeout clothes:  My nicest pair of casual 
slacks and my loose-fitting, low-cut, blue angora sweater.  I bought the 
sweater because I thought it went well with my eyes, but from the 
expression on Mulder's face it obviously has other qualities as well.  
The thing is, I only put it on tonight because it's comfortable.

I think.

This is just one of the many things we have to work out.  The whole 
question of sex, I mean.  I don't think it's going to happen tonight -- 
that is, actual sex is not going to happen tonight-- but we may be able 
to talk about it a bit.  Along with all the other myriad details which 
we never quite addressed before we drove over to that courthouse in 
Virginia at lunchtime today and swore we wanted to spend the rest of our 
lives together.

I've been working on a list.

"I brought you some flowers," Mulder says unnecessarily.  Who else would 
they be for, after all?  But the way he stutters it out is actually very 
endearing, and I find it reassuring to know that he's just as nervous as 
I am.

"Thank you, Mulder," I say, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice as 
I take the two roses from him.  White for friendship, red for ....

"I didn't know which color you liked best," he explains, and now he 
sounds even more nervous.  "So I got one of each."

I stand there in front of him for a moment studying the flowers, not 
saying anything.  Despite the subterfuge, it's easy to see that Mulder 
is actually asking me a question, in his own oblique, idiosyncratic way.  
And it would be so easy just to take the white rose and be done with it.  
It would resolve a lot of the stickiest issues and questions emanating 
from our actions of the past two days.  It really would.

But I can't do that.  I can't do that to him, and I can't do that to 
myself.  Most of all, I can't do that to *us*.  Us, I remind myself.  
Since this afternoon it's no longer him, or me.  It's us.

"Thank you Mulder," I say again, very softly.  "I think I'd like to keep 
them both, if that's okay."  I dare to look up at him, and judging from 
the relieved smile on his face I must have picked the right answer.  I 
reach out with my free hand and lightly touch the back of his, then turn 
away to get a vase from the kitchen.

I stand in the kitchen looking at the roses for just another minute 
after I put them in the vase.  They really are beautiful, and the 
symbolism is touching.  So Mulder is a romantic.  I wonder how I managed 
not to know that?

Maybe this marriage is going to have some fun in it after all.

Before going back to the living room I turn the heat on under the pot of 
water I left sitting on the stove earlier and throw in some vermicelli.  
The herbed butter sauce is already simmering, so I just give it a quick 
stir, then grab the bottle of sparkling cider from the fridge and two 
glasses from the cupboard and head back out to Mulder.

I find him standing in front of the bookcase, examining the same 
pictures of my family which I had looked at earlier.  He doesn't seem to 
have heard me come back in the room, so I quietly set the bottle and 
glasses down on the coffee table and then move up behind him.  

I hesitate for just a moment, and then I remind myself that this is my 
*husband* standing here, and that I'm allowed to show some affection 
towards him.  And so I take the last two steps until I'm standing next 
to him, and tentatively slide my arm around his waist.

He jumps slight at my touch, but I don't mind that.  I'm kind of jumpy 
myself this evening.  Then he puts his arm around my shoulder, and 
glances down at me for a second and nods his head in the direction of 
the photos.

"You have a nice family, Scully," he says, just a hint of wistfulness in 
his voice.  "Very normal and wholesome.

Coming from anyone else in some other context those words might seem 
self-pitying, but Mulder and I have been through a lot together, and I 
know exactly what he means.  He's referring to this whole "normal life" 
discussion that he and I have been intermittently carrying on ever since 
the X-Files were taken away from us at the end of last summer.  There 
are some incredibly subtle shades of nuance in his simple statement -- 
and as is so often the case with Fox Mulder, he's asking a question 
which is very different from what he seems to have said.

"They like who they are and what they're part of," I offer.  "They're 
happy."  I pause, then continue, "But I don't think I would be.  There 
was a time when I could have been like that -- " and now it's my turn to 
nod at the photographs " -- but that was a long time ago."  I raise my 
eyes to meet his, and I finish, "I've told you before, Mulder:  Even if 
I could, I wouldn't change a single day."

"They're your family, Scully," he replies, very softly.

"Yes, they are," I acknowledge, my own voice equally soft.  I can't 
force myself to go on; I can't force myself to say the rest of what I'm 
thinking, and tell Mulder that I've made my decision and that I'm happy 
with it.  I only hope he can read it in my eyes.

It seems he and I still have a few issues to work through.

#          #          #

It's later.  

Dinner is over, and Mulder and I are sitting curled up on my sofa, not 
quite cuddling, but just a little closer and more intimate than mere 
friends would be.  

I've discovered I like this; I like it a lot.  I like the warmth of his 
body only a few inches from mine.  I like the gentle comfort of his 
touch.  I like the fact that we can sit here holding hands and watching 
television, just sharing some quiet time together.  I like the soft 
rumble of his voice, and the friendly company of his laugh -- a laugh 
which I have not heard in so very, very long.

I like everything about this.  Maybe we really can make a go of this.  I 
have to admit that despite the determination I've been projecting the 
past two days, I have had my doubts.  I still do, but they seem to be 
slowly fading.  I don't kid myself that we're over the hump by any 
means, and I know there are still plenty of challenges ahead of us.  But 
I'm beginning to feel pretty good about my relationship with Mulder -- 
for the first time, really, in more than two years.

One challenge we face at the moment is figuring out how to draw this 
evening to a close.  It's getting late, and we both need our rest.  The 
problem is, I don't quite know how to ask him to leave.

"Scully?" Mulder says.  "Would you be upset if I went home now?  It's 
been a long day, and I have a few things I need to do around my place 
before I hit the hay."

I feel a slow smile spread across my face.  Score one for non-verbal 
communication.

I turn to face him, and dammit, this time I'm going to give in to 
temptation, just a little.  I slip one hand behind his head and draw his 
mouth to mine.  "That's fine, Mulder," I murmur, just before our lips 
meet.  "I've got some things I need to get done myself."  And then I 
kiss him.

It's not a great kiss, but it's a good kiss.  Much better than the one 
in his car this afternoon.  I think we're both just a little too nervous 
for it to be a great kiss, but this too is something that will come with 
time.  Finally I release him, and we share a smile.

I wait for him to get up and leave, but it seems he still has something 
on his mind.  I wait patiently for him to work up his courage, and then 
my eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he suddenly starts digging in his 
pocket.

"Mulder?"

"I brought something for you," he explains, and his hand emerges from 
his pocket and he opens it to display a ring.  

Not an engagement ring or a wedding ring; a heavy gold ring, suitable 
for a man's hand.  I feel my pulse speed up a bit, and I reach out and 
take the ring from him, and I turn it over and examine it.  There's a 
large blue-green stone, and as I look closer I realize there's a small 
crest of some sort with what looks to be a diamond chip on it.  Studying 
it still closer, I discover that the crest is a stylized rendition of 
the letters CHS, and on the inside is an inscription:  FWM, 5/24/80.

It's his high school class ring.

My vision is suddenly blurry, and I shift my gaze back up from the ring 
to my partner.  He appears nervous and embarrassed, but more than 
anything else he appears determined.

"I've thought and thought," he explains, his voice almost breathtaking 
in its sudden shyness.  "Trying to think of something I could give you 
as a ... present.  This is the only thing I have that really seems 
appropriate.  I know we haven't talked about rings and we may not want 
to wear them under the circumstances and this is kind of cheesy at our 
age, but -- "

"It's beautiful," I say, cutting him off.  "I like it.  Thank you."  I 
pull his head down again and we share another kiss.  This one is better 
than the last, but not as good as the next will be.  There is promise 
here, promise of wonderful things to come.  Promise that we *will* be 
able to work out all the other problems which still are unresolved.

This time when our lips finally separate I find myself a little short of 
breath -- and Mulder is, too.  Again we both smile, and he lifts his 
hand and lightly caresses my cheek.  I lean into his touch, just a 
little, and I close my eyes, and for a minute we simply share the quiet.

At last he rises from the sofa and heads for the door.  He stops with 
his hand on the knob and turns back to look at me.  

"See you tomorrow?" he not-quite-asks.

"Wouldn't miss it," I reply with a smile -- and I wonder how long it 
will be before we don't feel the need to say goodbye at the end of the 
evening.  Mulder smiles back, then he pulls the door open and in another 
moment he's gone.

I stay sitting on the sofa for several minutes, thinking about 
everything that's happened here this evening.  I'd thought we were going 
to talk about things tonight -- all the details, both trivial and 
important, and all the changes that lie ahead.  Money, living 
arrangements, sex -- all the things that most people work out *before* 
they get married.  And of course there's still the small matter of Agent 
Fowley and his misplaced trust in her ....

I shake my head and push those thoughts away.  We do still need to talk 
about those things, but I guess they can wait.  Establishing a comfort 
level, which I now realize is what we've been working on tonight, is 
more important, and even a necessary prerequisite to all those other 
discussions we're going to have down the road.  We're still not there 
yet -- we're still not where *I* want us to be, and I don't think we're 
where Mulder wants us, either.  But at least we've taken a step in the 
right direction.

Objects in motion tend to remain in motion, unless acted upon by an 
outside force.  Two days ago Mulder and I were in motion, all right, but 
we were moving away from each other.  Now we've been acted on by an 
outside force -- Diana Fowley -- and we're finally growing closer.  
We're still in motion, though.  We probably always will be.  It's not in 
either of our natures to remain still for long.

And now I'm tired.  I'm really, really tired.  It's been a long 
stressful day -- hell, it's been a long, stressful week -- and I truly 
do need to get some rest.  But first I have two things I need to do.

The first is easy.  I reach up behind my neck and unclasp the chain 
which holds my cross.  I thread Mulder's class ring onto the chain, then 
fasten it back in place.  The ring is cool and heavy lying against my 
skin, and its presence comforts me.  I touch it lightly with my 
fingertips, and I try to imagine the gawky, unhappy boy who wore this 
ring so many years ago.  That gawky boy has grown into the man who sat 
on my sofa tonight and kissed me so thoroughly, and I desperately want 
to know more about both of them.  Someday I hope I'll have the 
opportunity.

Now for the harder of the two chores.  I rise from the sofa and go to my 
desk.  It takes a few minutes of rummaging in the drawers, but finally I 
find it:  The one and only picture I have of Mulder.

It's a crime scene photo, taken by one of the Bureau's official 
photographers.  I don't even remember which case it's from anymore; it 
was taken years ago, very early in our partnership.  It shows Mulder 
supervising the investigation, looking very calm and authoritative and 
in control.  In the background there's a short, blurred figure with red 
hair -- me.  And I'm watching his every move.

Did I really used to be that person?

I shake my head and move back over to the bookcase.  For a moment I look 
once again at my family, considering where I want to put the newest 
member.  Finally I prop Mulder's picture up against the one of Melissa.  
Tomorrow I'll stop by Wal-Mart and pick up a frame, but this will have 
to do for tonight.  That shouldn't be a problem, though; Mulder can 
stand on his own for that long.

I stand gazing at my newly enlarged family for just another minute, 
before I finally turn the lights off and go to bed.


==================

Arcadia:

CHAPTER FOUR - Sin of Omission

==================


The good news is we've got the X-Files back!

The bad news is -- we've got the X-Files back.

I don't mean to suggest I'm unhappy about this -- and Scully seems 
pretty pleased about it, too.  I certainly don't mean to be looking a 
gift horse in the mouth.  But the timing could have been a little 
better.

I mean, it wasn't even a week ago that Scully and I managed to dodge the 
metaphorical bullet and save the tattered remnants of our partnership.  
Somehow in the process we wound up married -- I still don't quite 
understand how that happened, although again, I'm not going to look a 
gift horse in the mouth.  When it comes to Dana Scully, I'll take 
whatever I can get.  But the fact remains that we now have a huge number 
of issues to work through, both personal and professional, and it would 
be nice if we had a little breathing room to do it in.

Trust the universe not to allow that to happen.

Yesterday afternoon we were called into Skinner's office and informed 
that we had our old assignments back.  This morning, before we even had 
a chance to go down to the old basement office and see what kind of 
shape it was in, he called us in again and told us that we're being sent 
out to the field.  Immediately.  

As in, our flight leaves Washington National tomorrow morning at five, 
we have a briefing and other preparations at the San Diego field office 
scheduled to begin 30 minutes after we arrive, and then we're supposed 
to be on site by mid-afternoon.

Oh yes -- and it's an undercover assignment.  As husband and wife, no 
less.  When God decides to play games with our heads, He doesn't fuck 
around.

The end result of this is that we spent all of today -- Scully's 
birthday, when I had promised to take her out for an extended lunch at a 
nice restaurant -- cooped up in a conference room, eating stale 
sandwiches and receiving an intensive briefing on a series of mysterious 
disappearances at a planned community called the Falls at Arcadia.  This 
doesn't really sound like an X-File to me, but what the hell.  Skinner's 
got it classified as one, and it sure beats the manure patrol.

God, that briefing was long.  We were told what we will wear, how we 
will act, and what we're supposed to look for.  We were even told what 
sort of food we're going to eat.  My one contribution was our phony 
names:  Rob and Laura Petrie.  Nobody caught it except Scully -- of 
course -- who shot me such a glare that it should be no problem making 
people believe we're married.  Especially since we are.  

Anyway, now we're in her car on the way to Georgetown, where I will 
spend the night on her sofa since we have to get up at such a godawful 
hour to catch our plane.  We don't even need to pack; clothing and other 
personal necessities consistent with our cover identities will be 
waiting for us at the other end.

At last we arrive at her apartment building, and I'm just starting to 
really look forward to the opportunity to take my shoes and necktie off 
and relax -- and suddenly my partner begins swearing.

"Shit!" Scully says as she pulls into her parking spot.  "My mother's 
here!  Damn, damn, damn!"

"Scully?"

"I promised I'd let her take me out to dinner for my birthday," she 
explains.  "But I got so wrapped up in the briefing I completely forgot.  
I was supposed to be here at six.  Dammit, Mulder, I was looking forward 
to it, too!"  She slams her hands on the steering wheel in apparent 
frustration, then climbs from the car and heads for the front door, and 
I have to hurry to catch up.

As we wait for the elevator I take a moment to consider the situation.  
Mrs. Scully doesn't know yet that I've married her only remaining 
daughter.  In fact, nobody knows, other than a few clerks and one 
magistrate at the Fairfax County Courthouse.  Which means I am about to 
come face-to-face with a woman who does not yet know she's my mother-in-
law.

Christ.

I'm not quite sure how we came to the decision to keep our marriage a 
secret.  Certainly in the long run that's not going to work -- not if 
it's going to be a real marriage.  But I have the impression that Scully 
isn't quite ready to go public, and that's okay with me.  We both need 
some time to adjust to the situation, and it'll probably be easier to do 
if we don't have a lot of people watching our every move and second-
guessing us.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

At last the elevator arrives and we get on board and ride up to Scully's 
floor.  The walk down the hallway to her door seems to take forever, 
making me feel like a condemned prisoner being led to the gallows.  I 
like Maggie Scully, and I'm not at all comfortable with the idea of 
lying to her, even if it is a sin of omission.  Unfortunately, that's 
pretty much what we've been doing for the past week -- and if I feel 
this badly about it, it must be ten times worse for Scully.

Just as we reach her door I grab her elbow and turn her to face me.  We 
need to talk about this; we need to work out what we're going to do and 
say.  We just stood in front of Skinner for the fifth work day in a row 
and kept it from him, but this is different.  This is Scully's *mother*.

But before I can even open my mouth to say anything, Scully arches an 
eyebrow at me and shakes her head, and I can hear the message as clearly 
as if she'd spoken the words:  Shut up, Mulder, and follow my lead.

I acquiesce.  It's her mother, after all.  She studies my face for a few 
seconds, then turns and unlocks the door and we both step across the 
threshold into the living room.

Which is empty.

I glance at Scully, and she shrugs.  "Probably in the bathroom," she 
says.  "Or went for a walk."  She gets that nervous look which says 
she's about to kiss me, and then she does.  It's a pretty good kiss, 
too.  We got in a fair amount of practice over the weekend, and we're 
both finally starting to get comfortable with the touching that goes 
with a romantic relationship.  "I'll be back in a minute," she adds 
after she finally releases me.  "I want to get out of my work clothes."  
And she disappears down the hall in the direction of her bedroom.

While I'm waiting I wander over to the shelf where Scully -- my wife, I 
remind myself -- keeps her family pictures.  I have not yet told her how 
touched I was when I came over here the day after we were married and 
found that she'd added a photo of me to her collection.  It has been a 
very long time since I had any real feelings of belonging or intimacy 
with either of my parents, and Scully's simple, quiet act of inclusion 
has made me feel warmer and better loved than I am comfortable admitting 
to her, at least yet.

I only hope the rest of her family feels the same way when we finally 
get around to telling them -- although in the case of her older brother, 
at least, I realize that's probably asking a bit much.

"Fox?"

I turn to see Maggie Scully standing in the entrance to the hallway, 
apparently having just come from the bathroom.  "Mrs. Scully," I say, 
moving forward to greet her.  "Scu -- Dana will be out in just a minute.  
She just went down the hall to change.  I'm surprised you didn't bump 
into her."

"I see."  Her manner seems slightly stiff; I guess she must be a little 
angry at having been stood up.

"I'm sorry Dana wasn't here when she said she would be," I go on, hoping 
to smooth things over.  This *is* my mother-in-law, after all, even if 
she doesn't know it yet.  "We just got a new assignment and the briefing 
took longer than we'd hoped, and Dana forgot to call."

Mrs. Scully nods in acknowledgement of this information, but it seems to 
do nothing to alleviate her annoyance.  

I'm forced to remind myself that I really don't know this woman very 
well.  We spent a fair amount of time together after Scully was abducted 
by Duane Barry, but that was years ago, and a lot has changed since then 
-- not all of it for the better.  I am uneasily aware that there is more 
than a little justice in Bill Scully's reasons for disliking me, and I 
can't help but wonder if some of that dislike hasn't rubbed off on his 
mother.  If that turns out to be true, it's going to make it that much 
harder when we do finally break the news to her.

Which may well be tonight.

"Mom?"  We both turn to see Scully emerging from the hallway.  She's 
changed out of her suit and is now wearing soft gray slacks and a light 
blue blouse which sets off her hair and eyes.  She's been dressing in a 
more casually feminine style during our non-work time this past week, 
and that's one change of which I wholeheartedly approve.

"Mom," Scully repeats, moving forward to hug her mother.  "I'm so sorry.  
We had a meeting at work and it ran late, and I --"

"Yes, Fox was just telling me about it," Mrs. Scully replies, cutting 
her off -- and if I wasn't sure before, I am now.  This woman is angry -
- more angry than seems reasonable at what appears to me to be a fairly 
minor offense.  

Mrs. Scully steps out of her daughter's embrace and moves a few steps 
away before continuing.  "I suppose if you've got a new assignment that 
means you're going to be busy this evening getting ready, so I'd better 
be going."  And she starts to walk towards the door.

"Mom?"  Scully's voice is showing the strain; it's obvious she's picked 
up on her mother's feelings.  "Mom, what's wrong?"

Mrs. Scully hesitates, her hand on the doorknob.  I can see from the set 
of her shoulders that she just wants to keep on going, but she 
apparently can't quite bring herself to do it.  Unfortunately, I don't 
know her well enough to know whether that's good or bad.  And then she 
apparently settles her internal debate and turns to face her daughter 
again.

"When were you planning to tell me, Dana?" she snaps.

Oh my god.  She knows.  I don't know how she knows, but she knows.

"T-tell you?" Scully stutters.  "Tell you what?"  From the look on her 
face I can see that she's drawn the same conclusion I have, but she 
apparently couldn't keep herself from trying to dodge the question.

"Oh, come on, Dana," Mrs. Scully replies, the anger rising in her voice.  
"It's bad enough that you cut me out of this; please don't play stupid 
with me as well."  She gestures at Scully's desk, where a small stack of 
personal papers sits waiting to be processed or filed.  "You left your 
marriage license lying out in plain sight."

Scully's gaze flicks briefly at me, and I can see in her expression that 
even now she's considering denying our marriage -- denying *me* -- but 
then she looks back at her mother, takes a deep breath, and says, "Mom, 
I'm sorry.  I didn't mean for you to find out this way, but it just ... 
sort of ... happened."

"'Just sort of happened,' Dana?" Mrs. Scully replies, mimicking her 
daughter's tone.  "'Just sort of happened?'  To *you*?"  She shakes her 
head and takes a couple of steps towards Scully, who right this minute 
is looking pretty damned small and lost and vulnerable.  I wish I could 
do something to make this better, but even I have enough sense to 
realize that anything I say or do right now will almost certainly just 
make matters worse.

"More than any of us," Maggie Scully continues, "you were the one who 
always had everything planned out in advance.  A place for everything, 
and everything in its place -- including love and marriage.  And you 
want me to believe that you just woke up one morning and decided to get 
married -- and then you simply forgot to tell me?  I'm sorry, Dana, but 
I can't believe that."

I wince at her words, and I want to break in and tell her that's pretty 
much exactly what happened, and that she's trivializing the pain and 
heartache the two of us went through to get where we are.  But it won't 
help, I remind myself, and she's clearly not in a mood to listen even if 
it would.  So I remain silent.

"Mom -- "

"Save it," her mother replies.  "Don't even bother to try.  You've been 
progressively shutting the family out of your life ever since you joined 
the FBI, and I guess I shouldn't be surprised that it's finally come to 
this."  And she turns and walks to the door.

"Mom, wait!"  Scully runs after her mother and catches up with her just 
as the older woman opens the door to leave.  "Mom, *please* don't go.  I 
want to talk -- "

Mrs. Scully hesitates, then turns back to her daughter -- and I'm 
relieved to see that her features have softened, just a bit.  "We'll 
talk, Dana," she says.  There's still a grim undercurrent to her voice, 
but it seems suddenly a little less implacable.  "We'll talk.  Just not 
... not right now."  She looks over at me.  "I'm sorry Fox," she adds.  
"I know this should be a happy occasion, but I'm just not up to it right 
now."

"I'm sorry too, Mrs. Scully," I say, very softly.  "Neither one of us 
wanted it to be like this."

She nods slightly, then looks back at her daughter and her features 
soften even further.  "I'm sorry, Dana," she says.  "It's just come as a 
bit of a shock.  Call me when you get back from wherever you're going."  
And then she turns and walks out of the apartment, closing the door 
quietly behind her.


==================

Arcadia:

CHAPTER FIVE - Fallout

==================


I'm trying to figure out just what's gotten into Scully these past few 
days..

I'm pretty sure it's got something to do with our stay at the Falls at 
Arcadia.  Just what, I don't know, because it seemed to me that things 
went pretty smoothly, considering it was our first time in the field 
together since last summer -- and especially considering the personal 
challenge it presented to both of us.  

Having to pose as husband and wife in order to conduct our investigation 
of the planned community was pretty well guaranteed to present us with 
problems -- especially in light of our *actual* marriage ten days ago.  
But somewhat to my surprise, we seem to have passed that test with 
flying colors.

I suppose Scully's upset must have something to do with that horrible 
confrontation with her mother the night before we left.  I can see Mrs. 
Scully's position, of course.  Oh boy can I see it.  It must have come 
as quite a shock to her to let herself into her daughter's apartment and 
discover our marriage license sitting there on the desk.  

But that doesn't change the fact that Scully ... my Scully ...  Dana ... 
my *wife*, dammit ... was pretty badly hurt by some of the things her 
mother said to her that night.  And I can understand that, too, and I 
can't help feeling partly responsible for having driven a wedge between 
my partner and her mother -- and probably the rest of her family, too.  
So, yeah, that's probably what's been bothering her.

Scully started giving me a hard time almost as soon as we arrived in 
Arcadia -- even going so far as to heckle me about squeezing the 
toothpaste wrong and leaving the toilet seat up.  By the time we got 
back to DC it was no surprise to me that she didn't invite me back to 
her apartment to unwind.  I may not have been married very long, but 
I've had enough experience with women to know when I'm in the doghouse -
- even if I don't understand why.  It even occurred to me to wonder 
whether she's going to keep our date for this afternoon -- but she 
hasn't called to cancel, so I here I am, pulling into the parking lot at 
the new shopping mall in Chevy Chase.

The venue was Scully's choice, but the basic concept was mine.  We've 
been working on establishing a comfort zone, adjusting to the idea of 
being married and all that it entails.  Most of this has taken place 
either at her apartment or mine, and at the end of last weekend I had 
hesitantly suggested that it was time to take the show on the road, so 
to speak, and start getting used to being a couple in public.

Somewhat to my surprise, she agreed -- but then, one of Scully's 
strengths is her ability to face up to reality and do whatever is 
necessary.  So here we are, about to embark on our first real "date", 
window shopping at the mall of all things.  As I said, it was Scully's 
choice, but I don't really mind -- assuming she shows up, of course.

I park my car and make my way into the mall.  The original plan was to 
come here on Saturday, but since we wound up spending the weekend 
working, we rescheduled for Monday afternoon.  And I have to admit that 
it's actually not too bad here, at least in terms of crowds.  All the 
kids are in school, of course, and a lot of adults are at work, leaving 
the place comparatively empty.

Well, almost all the kids are in school.  As I stand in the entryway a 
small group of teenagers -- three boys and two girls -- push roughly 
past me into the mall.  For an instant I'm tempted to go after them, and 
I have visions of taking them down with a bark of, "Federal agent!  
Freeze!"  But then I have additional visions, visions which involve 
explaining to Skinner why I was spending my day off using my badge and 
gun to enforce truancy laws in suburban Maryland.  And so I desist.

A few minutes later, having checked the directory by the main entrance, 
I find myself drifting slowly in the direction of the food court, which 
is where I'm supposed to meet Scully in twenty minutes or so.  There's a 
definite sameness to all of the shops I pass, despite the variety of 
products they offer.  It seems so strange to me that Scully would be 
drawn to a place like this.  She's so alive and vital and original, 
while malls have always seemed to me to be sterile places, stamped out 
of plastic and mediocrity.

Still, I remind myself, Scully must like it here, or she wouldn't have 
made the suggestion.  And so I amble along, not paying much heed to the 
other shoppers.  I have to admit that it's nice just to stroll along at 
loose ends, not needing to be anywhere at any particular time, and not 
having to watch every passerby against the possibility that he's an 
enemy.  The only thing I can think of that might improve the situation 
would be to have Scully with me, and she'll be here soon enough.

Maybe I'm beginning to see the point to this after all.

After a few minutes I come to a stop in front of  a jewelry store.  I 
hadn't been planning this; I haven't even been consciously thinking 
about the possibility of buying Scully a ring.  She seems pretty happy 
with my class ring, as corny as that may sound, and I'd sort of assumed 
we were going to leave it at that, at least for now.  It's not as if we 
don't have plenty of *other* issues we need to settle.

However I got here, I am now standing in front of this jewelry store, 
looking in the window and trying to get up the nerve to go inside.

And I'm having a sudden flashback to the last time I visited a jewelry 
store with this purpose in mind.  It was in early 1989, and Diana was 
with me that time, of course.  We spent a pleasant afternoon hitting 
every jewelry store in Georgetown that we could find.  We finally 
settled on a pair of simple gold bands, then went out to dinner before 
going back to my place to celebrate.

I can barely remember being that person.  Diana and I had been together 
for nearly three years at that point, and we thought we were ready to 
make the commitment.  Practical obstacles kept getting in the way, and 
we never did set a date, but we wore the rings as a sort of promise -- 
right up until the day she left for Europe, more than a year later.

I even continued wearing mine for several months after that.  I assumed 
she was coming back, of course; she never did quite explain how she got 
that assignment, but she promised me that it was temporary, and that 
when she came back we would finally finish what we'd started.  I 
believed her, of course, and I still think she was sincere about her 
intentions.

Then her letters stopped coming.

I shake my head and try to force the memories away -- and it occurs to 
me that my relationship with Diana is probably not the most suitable or 
constructive topic for reflection under the present circumstances.  It 
is, of course, one of the most important sore points still remaining 
between Scully and me, and although I know we're going to have to deal 
with it at some point, I don't think today is the best day for it.  
Besides, we're supposed to be having fun this afternoon.

"Is this spot taken?"

I can't help but smile at the familiar words, and I turn to see Scully 
standing beside and a little behind me.  She smiles back, and takes my 
hand, and there's hardly any awkwardness at all as she leans up and 
kisses me briefly.

I guess maybe I'm forgiven for whatever transgressions I may have 
committed.  I suppose I should be grateful for that, but I'd still like 
to know what I did.

"Actually, it is," I say, once my mouth is free.  "It has been for 
awhile."  That elicits another smile.  "And the woman who's taken it -- 
she sometimes experiences violent impulses."

"Well, I'm armed, so I'll take my chances," she replies, and at this 
point we're both grinning like idiots, so I kiss her again.

Finally we break the clench, and Scully raises an eyebrow and nods at 
the jewelry store window.  She doesn't even have to say anything; I can 
see the question in her eyes, and suddenly I'm nervous all over again.  
There's something in her manner that isn't quite right, despite her 
apparently outgoing mood.

"Well, you said window shopping," I point out, trying to keep the unease 
from my voice.  "This is a window.  I was shopping."

She studies my face for a moment, and if I wasn't sure before, I am now.  
Something's wrong.  For just an instant she looks as if she wants to say 
something in response to my comment, but then she just snorts softly and 
tugs on my hand, leading me away from the jewelry store and on in the 
direction of the food court.  "Come on, Mulder," she says.  "I'm 
hungry."

As we stand in line at Taco Bell I spend a few minutes pondering the 
situation.  The only things clear about it are that Scully is upset 
about something, and that she has deflected me from considering buying 
wedding rings.  *Why* she did so is a mystery.  Does she not need a 
ring?  Does she not want to spend the money on something we couldn't 
wear most of the time anyway?  Or is there some other thread of Scully 
logic that I'm just completely failing to see?

Is she having second thoughts about the whole marriage?

I don't know where the hell *that* idea came from, but I instantly 
reject it.  Whatever else may be wrong, I know that can't be true.  
Scully wouldn't do that to me.  She wouldn't jump into something like 
this if she wasn't absolutely sure it was what she wanted, and it would 
take more than a few days of stupidity from me -- from her husband -- to 
make her decide she wanted out.

God, I hope that's true.

Suddenly I feel very claustrophobic and oppressed.  I don't know where 
all these people came from; the rest of the mall is almost deserted, but 
the food court is actually crowded.  They couldn't all have come here 
just to eat, could they?  Eventually we reach the front of the line and 
place our orders, and a few minutes later we're making our way through 
the knot of people and sliding into seats at one of the ridiculously 
small tables.

For a few minutes we both concentrate on our food.  Scully doesn't talk 
much when she's eating, and in this instance that's fine with me, 
because it gives me a little time to collect my thoughts.

Not very much time, as it turns out.  She eats about half of her 
burrito, then sets it down with a sigh and catches my eye -- and I've 
already been married long enough to know what *that* means, so I swallow 
the bite I'm working on, and push the tray a little to one side.  
Clearing the decks for action, so to speak.

"Mulder, why did we get married?"

Oh my god.  She *is* having second thoughts.  I feel as if I've just 
been pitched headfirst into a bucket of ice water, and I am suddenly 
acutely aware of exactly how easy it would be to have this marriage 
annulled and just walk away from it.

I've got to find a way to talk her out of this.  Unfortunately, the only 
thing I can think of to say is, "W-why?  I thought you wanted to get 
married."

She nods slightly.  "I did.  I do.  I'm very happy with my decision."  
Before I can even breathe a sigh of relief, she goes on, "But that's not 
an 'us' answer, Mulder.  That's a 'me' answer.  If the only reason we 
got married was because I wanted to, that's not good enough."

I can't think of anything to say to that.  I'll admit, if only to 
myself, that I didn't expect her to take me seriously when I suggested 
we get married, that night in my apartment.  But that doesn't mean I was 
insincere when I took those vows, does it?

Does it?

But Scully isn't giving me much time for introspection today.  "Mulder," 
she says, "why did you act the way you did in Arcadia?"

"I -- I don't understand, Scully.  How did I act?"

She stares at me in apparent disbelief for a pair of minutes, and if my 
stomach hadn't already sunk through the floor it would now be doing so.  
"Scully?  I say quietly, "I really don't understand.  Help me out here."

She shakes her head slowly.  "You really don't know?"  I know better 
than to answer that question; instead, I just wait.  Finally she says, 
"Mulder, you were ... " Her voice trails off, and she seems to be 
struggling to find the words -- and suddenly there are unshed tears in 
her eyes.  I want to reach out and wipe them away, but something tells 
me touching her at this point would be a bad idea.  So I continue to 
wait.

Finally it all comes out at once:  "Mulder, you were treating the whole 
thing as if it were a joke.  You were treating *me* as a joke.  And I 
had to stand there and take it, and play the part of the happy housewife 
for the sake of our cover.  While *you* were mugging around and making a 
fool out of me."

"Scully, I never intended --"

"No, Mulder," she snaps.  "No, you never do intend to, do you?  You 
never intend to ditch me, you never intend to ignore my advice or 
embarrass me, you never intend to -- " her eyes widen slightly as if she 
hadn't realized what she was about to say " -- hurt my feelings."

Her words hang between us for an extended moment, and I'm just beginning 
to realize that I'm supposed to say something -- an apology, maybe -- 
when she speaks again.

"I think I need some time to myself," she says, rising quietly to her 
feet.  She turns to go, but she's only gone a few steps before she turns 
back again, and now I see she's got her hand resting lightly on her 
chest, right at the spot where the ring I gave her hangs beneath her 
blouse.  

"This wasn't a mistake, Mulder," she says quietly.  "Arcadia was just a 
little too much, too soon, and I  ... I need some time.  I'll see you 
tomorrow at work, okay?"  I nod dumbly, and she forces a little smile.  
Then she turns away again and threads her way through the crowd of 
strangers.  Away from me.

And I just sit there at the table watching her go.

I think this is going to be a long night.


==================

Monday:

CHAPTER SIX - All the Myriad Ways

==================


As I first awaken I'm afraid to open my eyes, for fear of what I might 
see.

My mind is assaulted by a jumble of confused and contradictory thoughts 
and images.  Things which appear to be memories, but cannot possibly be.  
I squeeze my eyes even more tightly shut, and try to banish these 
visions, and of course I fail.

#          #          #

MONDAY, 6:47 a.m.

I awaken at my usual time and climb promptly out of bed.  I step into 
the kitchen just long enough to start the coffee machine, then head back 
down the hall to the bathroom, stripping off my pajamas and underclothes 
as I go.

A few minutes later I emerge from the shower and stop to look at myself 
in the mirror as I dry my hair.  I frown.  My hand goes to the ring and 
gold cross suspended from a chain around my neck.  My frown deepens.  

It's been a week since I left Mulder at the mall in Chevy Chase, and 
told him I needed some time.  I realize now I should have stayed and 
talked it out with him, rather than leaving both of us hanging.  It's 
too late to change that decision, but it's still not too late to make a 
new decision.  Today, I decide.  Today we'll address the issue, and 
things will start to get better again.  

Today I'll tell him that I love him.  At last.  And I finish drying my 
hair and grab my robe, and I head back out to the kitchen.

Mulder is late for work, which is unusual since we got the X-Files back.  
Under Kersh it was different.  Neither of us really wanted to be here 
then.  But now that we have our proper work, we've both been coming in 
early and staying late.  Today, though, he's late.  The one day I need 
him to be on time, so we can talk, he's late.  I pace the office in 
frustration, but somehow I know we've missed yet another chance.

Finally I can't wait any longer, and I go to the budget meeting without 
him.  During a break I return to our office, to find that Mulder has 
finally arrived.  I want to talk to him about our relationship, about 
our marriage, and about my epiphany from this morning, but there's no 
time.  At lunch, I decide.  We will definitely talk at lunch.

I go back to the meeting and Mulder goes to the bank.  After more 
droning from Agent Arnold, Skinner finally asks me where my partner is, 
and I roll my eyes and go to try and find him.

I walk into the bank looking for Mulder, and find myself staring down 
the barrel of a gun.  Before I can react there's a flash of motion, and 
the man with the gun changes his aim and fires.  My own weapon is out in 
an instant, and then the two of us are facing each other down ... until 
he opens his jacket and shows me what's strapped to his chest.

I'm on my knees, trying to hold back the tears as the waning seconds of 
Mulder's life stain my hands and clothes.  I tear my eyes from my 
partner, my husband, and I beg the shooter to let me save this life.  I 
plead with him; I tell him he's in control, and that he doesn't have to 
let this happen.  My last thought before he throws the switch is that I 
never told Mulder that I love him.

#          #          #

MONDAY, 6:44 a.m.

I awaken in the predawn darkness.  Someone is in the room, but before I 
can become alarmed I hear Mulder whisper my name as he slides into bed 
and wraps his arms around me.

For just a moment I tense.  We have not taken this step before; we have 
not discussed it, and I have not agreed to it.  But even as those 
objections flash through my mind, I dismiss them.  This is Mulder, my 
husband, the man I love, and this is what I want.  His arms are wrapped 
around me, warm and strong and comforting.  I have never felt this 
cherished and secure.  For the first time since I walked out on him at 
the mall in Chevy Chase, everything seems right.

I smile sleepily and turn to face him.  I start to speak, but he puts 
his fingertips on my mouth to silence me.  No words this morning, then.  
That's fine.  We don't need words for this.

His fingers trace down my jaw to my neck, and then brush against his 
class ring where it hangs on the chain next to my cross.  He lifts the 
ring to my lips and I kiss it; then he kisses my cross.  The emotion 
evident in this simple gesture warms me, and sends waves of desire 
rippling outward from my center.  And then my husband gathers me into 
him and captures my lips with his.

We arrive at work together, and only a few minutes late.  The budget 
meeting is long and boring, but my memory of how we spent that early 
morning hour makes it bearable.  At last Skinner calls a break, and 
Mulder and I leave to run an errand at the bank.

We step through the doors just as the bearded man loses his temper and 
draws his gun.  We both reach instinctively for our own weapons, but he 
has the drop on us.  There's a burning in my chest as I fall to the 
floor, and an instant later Mulder falls beside me.  I turn my head to 
look at him, and I see him reaching out to me even as my own hand is 
moving towards him.  I want to touch him so very, very much, but our 
fingers are not quite in contact when the shooter throws the switch.

#          #          #

MONDAY, 6:52 a.m.

I awaken at my usual time, but I don't feel rested.  

It's been a week since I told Mulder I needed some time to think.  I 
realize now I should have stayed and talked it out with him, rather than 
leaving both of us hanging, but it's too late to change that decision.  
As I slowly come to full consciousness I realize with a heavy heart that 
I've been putting off the inevitable for long enough, and today I'll 
have to make some phone calls, and see what needs to be done to unravel 
this terrible mess we've made.  

Then I get to break the news to Mulder, but somehow I doubt that it will 
be too much of a surprise.

I lie in bed for a few minutes, fighting back the tears and thinking 
back on all the things that went wrong.  Our marriage was strange and 
unconventional, and obviously an error in judgment.  We were fools to 
think we could make something like that work under these sorts of 
circumstances.

With a sigh of resignation I climb out of bed.  Getting ready for work 
seems to take forever, and I finally decide to skip breakfast and just 
grab a cup of coffee to drink in the car.  Maybe by the time I get to 
work I'll be hungry, and I can pick something up in Hoover's cafeteria.

Mulder's late, of course.  I knew he would be.  We've barely spoken 
since I left him at the mall last week, and his working hours have been 
growing more and more erratic.  I finally go to the budget meeting 
without him -- but I take his ring off first.

I'm sitting in the meeting, not listening to the presentation being 
given by Agent Arnold.  Mulder's ring is clenched in my fist, and all I 
can think is that I don't want to do this, I don't want to give it up.  
But I can't seem to find a way out of this trap we've set for ourselves.

There is a dull booming noise in the distance, coming from outside the 
building, but I barely notice, so lost am I in my own despair.  A few 
minutes later Skinner's assistant enters the room, a stunned look on her 
face.  Somehow I know before she speaks that the decision has been taken 
from me.  And so has my husband.

#          #          #

MONDAY, 6:49 a.m.

I awaken in the predawn darkness.  Eyes closed, I reach out across the 
bed, but there is no one there, and the sheets are cool and undisturbed.  
I move my hand to my throat, and lightly touch Mulder's ring.  I feel a 
stinging moisture in my eyes.  I don't want it to be like this.  I don't 
want it to end like this.  I don't want to be alone, and I don't want 
*him* to be alone.  Not today.  Not ever, but especially not today.

Please God, not today.  Don't let us be alone today.  Don't let us die 
alone.  I'll give up anything else if at least we can be together.  I'll 
even settle for simple friendship, if only we don't have to be alone.

#          #          #

WEDNESDAY, 7:28 a.m.

As I first awaken I'm afraid to open my eyes, for fear of what I might 
see.  My body is drenched in sweat and my pajamas and the bedclothes are 
cold and clammy.

I don't want to know this.  I don't want to know which world I've 
awakened to.  I just want to keep my eyes closed and go back to sleep, 
and try to dream of better times.

The shrilling of my cell phone cuts off my thoughts.  Eyes still closed, 
I reach across the bed and fumble around on the bedside table until I 
find it.  Somehow, I manage to punch the connect button.

"Scully, it's me," comes my partner's voice, very hesitant and 
tentative.  "I'm about ready to leave; I'll be there in twenty minutes.  
You going to be ready?"

"Ready?" I ask.  Ready, Mulder? I think.  Ready for what?

"Ready for me to pick you up," he explains, almost as if he can read my 
thoughts.  And I'm in a strange enough state of mind that I think 
perhaps he can.

"Pick me up," I repeat -- and gradually the memories come filtering 
back.  Car trouble.  I had car trouble last night, and Mulder drove me 
home.  Now he's supposed to pick me up, and we'll drive to work 
together.

"Yeah," he says, sounding even more uneasy.  "You do still want me to 
drive you in this morning, right?"

More memories start reporting in.  Memories of my anger when we got back 
from Arcadia.  Memories of walking out and leaving Mulder at the mall in 
Chevy Chase.  Memories of working together in tight-lipped silence for 
the last week.

And still there's more:  The woman in the bank the day before yesterday, 
Pam Oates, throwing herself into the line of fire.  Even though I had 
never seen her before that day, somehow I'm sure she knew what she was 
doing:  Saving Mulder's life.  Saving my life.  Giving us another 
chance.

I realize that Mulder is waiting for my response.  "Yes, of course," I 
say, hoping that my voice is a little clearer, a little stronger.  "Of 
course, I do.  But I can't be ready that soon."  I glance at the clock 
and see that it's past 7:30.  "I guess I slept through my alarm," I add, 
suddenly feeling very contrite.

I wait for Mulder to reply, but he doesn't speak.  The silence stretches 
on, becoming heavy and uncomfortable.  I wonder what he's waiting for.  

And then I know:  me.  He's waiting for me to tell him what to do.  I 
have not invited him up to my apartment since we got back from Arcadia, 
and we've spent no time together outside of working hours in that time, 
either.  Even yesterday, when we were both in shock due to our brush 
with death at the bank the day before, I kept him at arm's length.  

I am tempted to do the same again today.  It would make things so easy.  
So simple.  So plain.  But then I remember Pam Oates, and my conviction 
that she died to give us another chance, and I just can't do it.  I 
can't deny this man's importance in my life.

I lick my lips nervously, and I reach up with my free hand to lightly 
touch Mulder's class ring, trying to draw strength from it.  Images of 
his blood staining my hands and clothes invade my consciousness, but I 
push them firmly away.  I can do this, I think.  I can do this, and I 
must do this.  It's really not that hard.

"Mulder," I say, "I need some time to get cleaned up and dressed.  Why 
don't you ... why don't you come on over and let yourself in.  That is, 
if you don't mind waiting a bit."  I've missed you, I add in my mind.  
I've missed you so very much.  Please hear me.

The silence on the other end continues for just a few seconds longer -- 
long enough for me to know he understands the layers of meaning in my 
words, and has heard my silent plea.  At last he says, in a very low 
voice, "Sure, Scully.  I'll be right over."  And then the connection is 
broken.

I sit in bed for another moment or two.  It has to have been a dream, I 
think, a nightmare brought on by the stress of Monday's events.  Just a 
dream, I repeat in my mind.  But even as I think those words my hand 
rises once again to touch Mulder's ring, and I know that much, at least, 
is real.

And I climb out of bed and go to start the coffee, so it will be ready 
when my husband arrives.


==================

Alpha:

CHAPTER SEVEN - A Little Comfort

==================


I make it as far as the elevator before I realize I'm doing it again.  
I'm walking out on Mulder.

I stop and look back down the hall towards our office door as I consider 
the matter.  We just got back from California a couple of hours ago, and 
I am really tired.  Jet lag has never been my best friend in the world, 
and on top of that this has been an emotionally stressful case, both 
professionally and, I admit, personally.

It's the personal angle that's making me want to leave Mulder alone in 
the office, I realize.  The rest of it -- the long days and short 
nights, the inevitable disagreements over the nature of the case, and on 
and on and on -- that part I could handle.  I *have* handled it, many 
times.  No, it's the personal side that's threatening to drive me away -
- just as it did when I walked out on him at the mall in Chevy Chase.

It took more than two weeks for us to recover from that little episode, 
and we still aren't completely over it.  Inviting him over for breakfast 
a week ago last Wednesday helped, and spending most of the following 
weekend together just kicking around doing nothing much in particular 
helped even more.  But there's still a bit of an edge whenever we're 
together, and the events of the past few days while we were in 
California investigating the supposed Wangshang Dhole have done nothing 
to help matters.

Mulder's relationship with Karin Berquist is at the heart of my 
discomfort, of course.  At least I can admit that to myself now, even if 
I haven't quite managed to work up the nerve to talk to him about it.

I've always been a jealous person where men are concerned.  This is not 
something I'm proud of, but I seem to be unable to change it, so I've 
tried to accept it as part of who I am.  From my earliest crushes in 
junior high school, right down to my relationship with Jack Willis, I've 
been possessive and protective of any man who I perceived to be mine.

That applies to Mulder too, of course, and not just since we've been 
married.  As long ago as our first year as partners, I remember doing a 
slow burn when I saw him kissing Phoebe Green.  I told myself at the 
time that I was just annoyed at his blatant display of 
unprofessionalism, to be necking with his old girlfriend when he was 
supposed to be working.  But deep inside I knew the truth, even then.  

I was jealous.

Through the years there have been other women, of course.  None that he 
slept with, so far as I know, but a steady enough parade of women 
showing an interest in him -- and him showing an interest back -- to 
keep me at a low boil a good deal of the time.  Bambi Berenbaum.  Angela 
White.  Melissa Ephesian.  Marita Covarrubias.  And now Karin Berquist.

And then there's Diana Fowley.

She, of course, is the crux of the whole situation.  It's because of 
Agent Fowley that Mulder and I had what could have been our final blowup 
-- and indirectly, it's because of her that we wound up married.  I 
guess I should thank her for that, but quite frankly I'm not feeling 
that generous towards the bitch.

Yes, I said bitch.  I do know the word, and I use it from time to time, 
when circumstances seem to warrant.  And boy do they ever warrant it in 
this case.

Fowley is a special situation, both because she actually has been 
Mulder's lover, and because she is now actively engaged in trying to 
discredit and destroy him professionally.  The mix of those two factors, 
the personal and the professional, has caused more pain and heartache 
for Mulder and me than any other issue in our six year partnership.

Damn her.

I push thoughts of Agent Fowley out of my mind.  I'm not ready to deal 
with her -- not today.  Mulder and I are going to have to settle that 
issue once and for all, but we just aren't strong enough as a couple to 
face it yet.

Which leaves Karin Berquist.  I would have to be blind not to see the 
parallels between Mulder's relationship with her and his relationship 
with Fowley:  In each case, he trusted a woman too easily and allowed 
her to take advantage of him -- *and* in each case he chose not just to 
ignore my warnings, but to openly dismiss them.

And of course, as he did with Fowley, Mulder kept Berquist a secret from 
me.  That's what hurt most of all.  I know I should be used to it by now 
-- Mulder has a pattern stretching back to the very beginning of our 
partnership in which he dribbles out information about our current case 
a little bit at a time.  But in this instance he was over the line.  As 
I stand here thinking about it, I'm once again experiencing that sinking 
feeling in the pit of my stomach that I get whenever I realize some 
other woman is interested in my man.

My man.  My Mulder.  My husband.

My husband, who I have just left sitting by himself in our office when I 
knew he was feeling hurt and depressed.  Suddenly I feel a stab of guilt 
at my own behavior.  Mulder may have been a little cavalier in not 
telling me about Karin Berquist ahead of time, but I'm just as wrong for 
having left him to his own devices when what he clearly needs is a 
little comfort.  Which, of course, is one of the things that husbands 
and wives are supposed to provide each other.  And so I take a deep 
breath and try to swallow my own feelings as I head back down the hall 
towards our office.

As I step across the threshold I see Mulder sitting in his chair behind 
his desk.  On the wall behind him is a new "I Want to Believe" poster -- 
presumably the one from Berquist's office.  So that's what was in that 
mailing tube.  I'd wondered about that, but he didn't offer to open it 
while I was still here, and I was too proud to ask.  

I can't keep myself from feeling a slight burn of resentment as I see it 
hanging there -- I've spent a considerable amount of time trying to find 
a replacement for him, and now *she* has stepped in to fill the gap.  I 
suppress the emotion, though; even *I* can see that's unreasonable.  I 
should be glad that he finally found a new poster, I tell myself firmly.  
I know how much the old one meant to him -- and to be perfectly honest, 
I was fond of it as well.

"Hey, Scully," he says.  I look back down from the poster to see a 
puzzled expression on Mulder's face.  "What are you doing here?  I 
thought you'd gone home."  His lips quirk slightly.  "Did you lock 
yourself out of your car again?"

"No," I say, shaking my head and forcing a smile.  You are not going to 
distract me today, Agent Mulder, I think.  I came here for a reason.  
"No, I didn't lock myself out."  I take a couple of steps closer to him, 
and I see his eyebrows rise slightly.  "I came back because ..." I 
hesitate, and the words catch in my throat for an instant. "Because you 
looked lonely," I finally manage.  "I thought you might like some 
company."

His eyebrows rise even farther, and it suddenly strikes me just how 
pathetic the two of us are.  Here we've been married nearly a month, and 
friends and partners for more than six *years*, and we *still* have 
difficulty expressing our feelings for each other.  We haven't even said 
"I love you" yet.  I intended to say it last week when we had breakfast 
together, but I couldn't quite manage to get the words out.  I don't 
know why it's so hard, but it's got to stop.  Now.

"Mulder," I say, my voice sounding far steadier than it has any right to 
sound, considering how much unease I'm feeling at the moment.  "Mulder, 
I ... I care about you."  I wouldn't have thought his eyebrows could go 
any higher, but somehow they do.  "I care about you," I repeat more 
firmly.  "And I don't like to see you hurting and unhappy.  So I came 
back.  To see if there was anything ... anything I could do."

God, that sounded lame.  I can barely stand to look at Mulder; I'm sure 
that at any instant he's going to burst out laughing, or pop out one of 
his cute little jokes, or in some other way deflect my statement, 
humiliating me and hurting my own feelings in the process.  It's not 
that he *wants* to do that; I know him better than *that*.  He just 
can't help himself; it's the way he is.  

Which of course doesn't make it hurt any less when he does it.  God.  
Why did I decide to come back to the office tonight?  Why didn't I just 
go home, like I started to do?  Why --

"Scully," Mulder says very softly, interrupting my rapidly building 
panic.  "Scully, come here."  And he pushes his chair back from the desk 
and holds out his arms to me.

Somehow, despite my suddenly shaky legs, I manage to cross the 
intervening space, and then Mulder is drawing me down into his lap and 
wrapping his arms around me.

For a few minutes we just sit there in his chair and cuddle.  A small 
part of me, the practical part that runs me most of the time, is 
generating a dozen different reasons why this is a bad idea, at least 
here and now.  It's unprofessional.  Nobody knows about our relationship 
yet.  Physical intimacy, even of the limited variety Mulder and I have 
engaged in since our marriage, is no substitute for real communication.  
And on and on and on.

Except to hell with it.  This feels too good to stop, and I suddenly 
realize that holding Mulder and being held by him is one of the things I 
missed while we were in the field this week.  We never really talked 
about it -- we never seem to talk about *any* of these things -- but 
somehow we came to the mutual decision not to do this sort of thing 
while we were conducting the investigation.  And I hadn't even realized 
that I missed it until now, when I finally have it back.

It gradually occurs to me that the reason I came back to Mulder just now 
was to comfort him, and that I haven't really been doing that.  I've 
just been curled up here in his lap, letting the warmth of his body and 
the strength of his arms soak in through my skin.  I inhale deeply, and 
immediately add his scent to the equation.  Nothing else in the world 
smells quite like Mulder, and this is still another of the many things I 
am now allowed to notice and enjoy.

Still .. I *am* supposed to be comforting him.  I give a little sigh and 
raise my head off his shoulder and open my eyes.

God, he's beautiful.  He's looking right back at me, and the expression 
on his face is so warm and tender it almost makes me cry.  There are 
question marks in his eyes -- he's still wondering why I came back, I 
suppose.  But even the questions seem open and accepting.

I feel a sudden rush of sexual arousal spreading out from my lower 
abdomen.  This man is mine, I realize; mine in a way that no other man 
has ever been before, not even Jack.  Mulder and I have been through so 
much together; we have done and seen so much, and we've come to depend 
on each other so completely that sometimes I almost feel like we aren't 
two separate people anymore.  The sensible part of me is trying to tell 
me that this is not a healthy adjustment for us to have made, but my 
heart just doesn't want to listen --

And before I quite know what I'm doing, I'm kissing him, fiercely and 
deeply.  My tongue probes aggressively at his lips, and then his mouth 
opens and I plunge inside.  God ... he tastes so good tonight.  Mulder 
and I have kissed before, but he's never tasted this good.  I try to 
move a little closer on his lap, and I cup the back of his head with one 
hand while gripping his upper arm with the other.  One of his hands is 
holding the back of my neck, while the other is gently stroking his spot 
on my lower back.

I hear somebody moaning, and I realize it must be me.  It has been a 
long time since I've been this aroused, and it's come on so very 
suddenly.  I feel as if I should be afraid, but there's no room in me 
right now for anything but my desire.  My desire for Mulder.

I shift on his lap, trying to get a better angle on his mouth, and now I 
can feel his erection pressing up against me.  He's gripping me more 
tightly, too, and now his tongue is exploring my mouth the way mine 
explored his a moment ago.  His hand caressing my lower back is driving 
me wild, and I wonder for the thousandth time since I've known him if he 
has any idea what it does to me when he touches me there.

I shift my body again, moving so that I'm straddling his lap, and now I 
finally have to break the kiss so I can catch my breath.  I close my 
eyes and rest my forehead against his, and for a moment I just breathe.  
There are so many images flitting through my mind, and all of them have 
Mulder in them.  Mulder as I've dreamed of him; things I haven't allowed 
myself to consciously acknowledge for years, all coming to the surface 
in a sudden rush.

I lean forward and press my mouth against Mulder's again, very briefly.  
I then move on to shower fast, tiny kisses across his face, working my 
way along his jaw towards his ear as I press my center down against his 
erection.  A shiver runs through me as we make contact.  I have waited 
for this for so long, and now it finally seems right.  I press a long, 
open-mouthed kiss into the hollow beneath his ear, and then proceed to 
slide my tongue down towards the base of his neck, reveling in the warm, 
salty flavor of his flesh.

And then Mulder pushes me away.  He gently but firmly pushes me away.

I open my eyes and look at him.  I can't be wrong about this.  I simply 
can't be.  I know he wants me; I can still feel his erection pressing up 
against me, and I can see the desire in his eyes.  But as I try to lean 
forward to kiss him again, he grabs onto my shoulders and holds me at 
arm's length.

"Mulder?" I say, trying very hard to keep the hurt from my voice.  
"Mulder, what's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Scully," he says, very softly.  "I can't do this.  Not 
tonight.  Not ... not like this."

I shake my head in confusion, and I fight to keep the hurt from mutating 
into anger.  I thought he wanted this.  I *know* he wanted this.  He 
can't be refusing me; not now.  Not when I'm finally ready.

"What do you mean, 'not like this'?  I don't understand."  My voice 
sounds bitter and whiny, even to me, and I wince as I hear my own words.

"Scully," he murmurs.  "Oh, Scully."  He pauses a moment, as if he isn't 
sure he wants to say what he's thinking.  Then he does speak, but what 
he says only confuses me further.  "Why are you doing this, Scully?  Why 
now?  Why here?"

"I - I don't understand," I repeat.  "Why now?  Because, because you're 
my husband.  And I told you a few minutes ago, I care about you.  Don't 
you believe me?"

He releases one of my shoulders and reaches up to gently stroke my 
cheek.  "Of course I believe you, Scully," he says, his voice still very 
soft.  "I know you would never ... "  He lets his voice trail off, 
apparently not wanting to complete that thought.  He looks at me, and 
seems to be calculating something.  Finally he says, "Come here," and 
tugs gently on my shoulders.  I resist for just a moment, before 
allowing myself to be drawn back into his embrace.

We sit cuddled together on the chair for a pair of minutes.  I try to 
think, but with my body still buzzing with arousal it's difficult.  I 
don't understand why Mulder pushed me away, but it's clear he isn't 
completely rejecting me.  He still wants me, I reassure myself; I can 
feel the evidence pressed against the side of my thigh.  He still wants 
to hold me and touch me; he just doesn't want to make love to me, at 
least for tonight.  I may not understand the reasons for it, but I have 
to respect it.  No matter how much it hurts.

And then suddenly I have it.  I realize what I've been doing.  It's so 
blindingly obvious I want to kick myself, and then run from the room and 
hide somewhere.  Two months ago I would have done just that -- I would 
have gotten up and left the room, and shut Mulder out.  But I can't do 
that anymore.  If I want this relationship -- this *marriage* -- to 
work, then I have to learn to open myself to him, even when it's painful 
to do so.  And so I take a deep breath and lift my head from his 
shoulder again.

Mulder is still looking at me, making and keeping eye contact as soon as 
I turn my head towards him, and I am relieved to see nothing but caring 
and compassion on his face and in his eyes.  His clear willingness to 
accept and try to understand whatever I have to say helps me find the 
courage to speak the words.

"I'm sorry, Mulder," I whisper.  "I've treated you very badly tonight."  
I have to stop and swallow down the lump that's forming in my throat 
before I can continue.  Now comes the hard part.  "I've been ... using 
you," I say.  "I've been treating you like some sort of prize or trophy.  
I'm sorry."  And I close my eyes and press my forehead against his.

"I was jealous, Mulder," I go on.  "I'm still jealous.  I've always been 
that way.  I don't know why, and I can't seem to stop it.  But when I 
realized that you knew Karin Berquist, and had been keeping it from me 
...."  I let my voice trail off; I can't go on.  It's just too much.

"It's okay, Scully," he replies, his voice very soft and loving.  "I do 
understand.  But do you understand why I can't -- do that?  Tonight, I 
mean."  I nod silently, and try to keep my chin from quivering.  Mulder 
looks at me for another moment, then smiles and leans forward to kiss me 
lightly on the cheek.  

"I love you, Scully," he whispers in my ear.  I shudder involuntarily as 
I realize that this is the first time either of us has said those words 
-- at least, it's the first time when I was sure I could believe it..  
"I love you and I'm committed to you.  We can work this out.  We just 
need a little more time."  

He pulls back and looks at me again, and waits for me to nod.  "Now why 
don't we both pack up and go back to your place," he says.  "I'll fix 
some dinner; Frohike gave me a great recipe for huevos rancheros ...."  
His voice trails off, and suddenly *he's* the one looking nervous.  "And 
then, if you like, we could ... go to bed.  To sleep."

I study his face for a moment, and I realize that he's trying to offer 
me something.  Not a compromise, exactly, and certainly not a 
consolation prize.  No, it's much more than that.  Despite what I just 
put him through, despite the embarrassment and the frustration and the 
risk of further misunderstanding, Mulder is offering me everything he 
has to give, at least for tonight.

He's offering *me* a little comfort.  Which is one of the things that 
husbands and wives are supposed to provide each other.

No wonder I love this man.

I lean forward and kiss him lightly on the mouth, and then I climb off 
his lap.  I wait for him to stand, and watch as he stuffs a few papers 
into his briefcase and slips on his coat.  Then I reach out my hand and 
he twines his fingers through mine, and for a minute we just stand 
there, looking at each other.  At last Mulder pulls me to him and kisses 
me, briefly but thoroughly, before we finally turn off the lights and 
leave the office.

Together.


==================

Trevor:

CHAPTER EIGHT - Declarations

==================


I am 35 years old, I remind myself as I steer the car through late 
afternoon Baltimore traffic.  I am 35 years old, I am a professional 
woman, and I have been completely independent of my parents for more 
than a decade.

So why do I feel so much like a little girl being called in for a 
spanking?

I glance over at Mulder, sitting in the passenger seat next to me.  
Outwardly he appears completely calm and relaxed, but surely that can't 
be true.  Surely he's as nervous as I am.  He's got to be.  If he isn't, 
I may have to kill him.

I turn my attention back to the highway.  Almost there.  Shouldn't be 
long.  Not more than another 20 minutes until we arrive at my mother's 
house for dinner.

God help us both.

Mom finally called me at the end of last week.  We hadn't spoken in 
nearly a month -- not since that horrible confrontation in my apartment 
the night of my birthday.  I had intended to call her the next day in 
hopes of smoothing things over, but the case in Arcadia went longer than 
we'd hoped, and then Mulder and I had that fight the day after we got 
back, and then we'd barely made up before we had to go to California 
again, and there was always *some* damned reason not to call her.

Yes, it was avoidance, and I knew it even while I was doing it.  The 
truth of the matter was -- and is -- that I'm afraid to face my mother 
again.  I don't know what I'm going to say to her; I don't know how I'm 
going to explain the reasons which led me to marry Mulder.

None of this is going to make sense to her.  Hell, it doesn't make sense 
to *me* when I stop and think about it too hard.  It's not something I 
had ever considered, before that night in his apartment a few days after 
the El Rico massacre.  As I said to Mom the night she found out:  It 
just sort of happened.

But now I've done it -- *we've* done it -- and we have to move forward.  
We may not have thought this through as thoroughly as we might have, but 
we did make this decision, and we did act on it.  Together, I remind 
myself.  We did it together.  We've faced liver eating mutants and 
prehistoric insects and dark conspiracies against all of humanity.  We 
can face this, too, as long as we're together.

Besides, I *do* love the man, and I'm sure he loves me.  That ought to 
count for something.

I glance at Mulder one more time, and now he's looking back at me with 
warm, sympathetic eyes.  He smiles slightly and nods reassuringly, 
almost as if he can read my mind, and he reaches out to squeeze my hand 
where it rests on the steering wheel.  I force a smile in return, then 
face once more to the front.

And there's Mom's house, dead ahead.

It's showtime.

#          #          #

The first few minutes of the visit are taken up by empty pleasantries.  
I have just the briefest instant of panic as the front door swings open, 
but then Mom is stepping forward and giving me a warm hug, and I start 
to feel better almost immediately.

Then she turns to Mulder, and I don't even have time for another panicky 
moment because my husband is stepping forward and giving his best 
friendly smile.  He really can be very charming, even charismatic, when 
he wants to be.  For Mom's part, I'm pretty sure I detect a slight 
hesitation, and maybe just a little stiffness as she moves to embrace 
him.  Then she lets him go and leads us on into the house, ever the 
perfect hostess.

Now we're seated in the living room, Mulder and me on the sofa and Mom 
in the old recliner that was Ahab's chair for as far back as I can 
remember.  It doesn't really go with the rest of the living room, but 
every time I see it I'm glad she still has it.

As Mom rattles on about her neighbors and the letter she got from 
Charlie last week and all the other trivialities involved in getting 
caught up, it gradually dawns on me that she is as unsure about what's 
going to happen this evening as I am.  Ever since that night in my 
apartment I've been thinking of her as a powerful, threatening figure, 
but she's really not.  She's my mother and she loves me.  All she wants 
is for me to be happy.

Maybe this won't be as hard as I thought.

" ... but here I am chattering on, and I'm sure it's not really what's 
on any of our minds tonight," Mom concludes.  She pauses and takes a 
breath.  "Dana.  Fox.  I'm terribly sorry about ... that night.  Please 
accept my apologies."

For a moment there's an uncomfortable silence.  I glance at Mulder, and 
I see that he's looking steadily at me, waiting for me to take the lead.  
Fair enough.  It's my mother.  I take my own deep breath, and look back 
at Mom.

"Mom ..." My voice trails off and I shake my head.  "I don't know what 
to say."  And I really don't.  This is not at all what I had been afraid 
of -- Mom no longer seems to be angry or upset.  But it's still so very 
awkward.  I glance at Mulder again, and he's still watching me, so I 
reach out and take his hand before looking back at my mother.

"We never intended to hurt you," I continue.  "And I was telling the 
truth that night; it really was ... rather sudden."  Mulder squeezes my 
hand slightly, which for some reason I find infinitely reassuring.  "I 
... we never meant to shut anyone out, though."  I can see her start to 
cloud up again, and I realize this is still a sore point.  

"It just happened so fast," I add hastily.  "Honest, Mom.  I would never 
want to hurt you."  I wince as I realize I just repeated myself.  I'd 
better shut up now; I'm starting to sound like a teenager trying to 
explain what her boyfriend was doing in her bedroom.

There's another awkward silence, and now I can see in Mom's eyes that 
even though she's trying to make a clean breast of things, she still 
can't quite bring herself to forgive me for having kept her in the dark.  
She may feel guilty over the way she lashed out at us that night, but 
she also still feels she was wronged.

Finally Mom lets out a sigh, and reaches over to pat my knee.  "It's 
okay, Dana," she says.  "Sometimes ... things happen."  She smiles and 
rises from her seat.  "Now why don't we go see about dinner.  The pot 
roast should be about done by now."

But from her body language I can see that it's not quite okay.  Not all 
of it.

#          #          #

Things seem to get a bit more relaxed during dinner.  Mom really does 
have the gracious hostess routine down to a fine art, and Mulder -- 
well, Mulder can charm a baby away from its mother's breast when it 
suits his purposes.  And tonight he's pulling out all the stops.

While Mulder and Mom are chatting I take the opportunity to look around 
the dining room for a minute.  Not much has changed since I lived in 
this house, I realize.  The same display cabinet with Grandmother 
Kinsella's china in it.  The same reproduction of Winslow Homer's "Lost 
off the Grand Banks".  The same handmade linen tablecloth.

I'm suddenly reminded of the case we just finished in Mississippi.  All 
Pinker Rawls really wanted was an opportunity to live this sort of life.  
Another chance, Mulder said as we drove back to our motel the evening we 
closed the case.  All that Rawls wanted was another chance at ... this.

I doubt that he would have been interested in these particular 
trappings, of course -- but they're really just symbols anyway.  Symbols 
of a home.  A family.  Neighbors.  Kids playing in the yard.  All the 
conventional things.  A normal life, as I put it to Mulder last fall 
during our abortive trip to Area 51.  Rawls wanted it so badly he was 
willing to kill for it -- and ultimately, he was willing to die for it.

I wonder when *I* stopped wanting it?

I've always wanted a career, of course.  As far back as I can remember, 
I wanted to do something more with my life than just raise children and 
keep house.  I have nothing but love for my mother, and respect for her 
accomplishments, but I never wanted her life.

On the other hand, I never intended to sacrifice a family life in order 
to have a career.  I assumed that I would have all those other things, 
sooner or later.  I never really planned for them, the way I did for my 
career in medicine, and later in the Bureau, but I always supposed that 
somehow they would come to me.  Good things come to those who wait, 
after all.

But somewhere along the line I stopped wanting them quite so much.  
Despite what I said to Mulder last fall, sometime during the last six 
years a "normal life" stopped seeming so important.  And just in the 
past few months, whatever lingering desire I had for one seems to have 
completely vanished.

I force my attention back to the conversation.  Mulder is just finishing 
up an account of one of our less alarming cases, but from the look on 
Mom's face I can see that our idea of what's truly alarming doesn't jive 
with hers very well.  And I suddenly realize that this is yet another 
way in which I've become set apart from my family and left the 
conventional way of life behind.

My mother is not a sheltered schoolgirl, of course -- her husband was a 
Navy man, and so are both of her sons.  But the X-Files are something 
different, and there's a reason I've never tried to explain my work to 
my family in any great detail.  In retrospect, I can see now why Mom 
feels I've been shutting the family out of my life, but I was really 
only trying to protect them.

Wasn't I?

Almost as if she can read my mind, Mom is now turning her attention 
directly to me, and suddenly I feel like a bug under a microscope.  This 
is the moment I've been dreading ever since she called me last week.  
The gloves are about to come off.

"So Dana," she says, her voice deceptively calm.  "Where should I be 
addressing your mail these days?"

Shit.  Shit, shit, shit.  A very reasonable question, but one for which 
I don't have a reasonable answer.  Even worse, it will lead inevitably 
to other questions, questions for which the answers I have are even less 
reasonable.  Well, nothing to do about it now but respond as best I can.  
My mother loves me, I remind myself.  Even if she doesn't always 
understand why I do the things I do, she still loves me.

"I'm still living at my apartment in Georgetown, Mom," I reply, trying 
to match her calm as best I can.  "Same address and phone number."  As 
you well know, I add to myself.  You called me there last week, 
remember?

She nods slightly, and her gaze flicks to Mulder and then back to me.  
"I take it Fox has moved in with you, then?"

I sigh and shake my head.  No, this isn't going to be easy.  "No, Mom," 
I reply.  "We ... haven't worked out all those details yet."  We're 
sleeping together most nights, Mom, but we're not *sleeping* together, 
if you catch my drift.  Another one of those minor details we overlooked 
when we embarked on this little venture.

My mother's eyebrows do not shoot up in surprise -- she has raised four 
children, after all.  I do see the barest flicker of ... something ... 
in her eyes, but before I can say or do anything, Mulder intervenes.

"Mrs. Scully," he says, leaning forward slightly and catching her eye.  
"As Dana said, this has all been very sudden, and there are a lot of, 
well, practical details that we haven't worked out yet.  Some of it's as 
mundane as living arrangements."  He reaches over and takes my hand and 
squeezes it.  "But I want to assure you that I do love your daughter.  I 
wouldn't have done this if I didn't."

Damn him.  Or bless him.  Or something.  I couldn't have asked for a 
better speech if I'd written it myself.  Mulder and I aren't the types 
to go in for flowery declarations or wearing our hearts on our sleeves, 
but for Mom ... well, that was just about perfect.

It *was* just for Mom.  Wasn't it?

Mom is nodding thoughtfully, still looking at Mulder -- and I suddenly 
remember that the two of them have a relationship of sorts; one that 
does not include me other than as a common interest.  It was formed 
after I was kidnapped by Duane Barry, and I've never been able to find 
out much about it.  Melissa claimed not to know anything, and I've never 
had the courage to ask either Mom or Mulder directly.

"I see," Mom says.  She glances briefly at me and then looks back at 
Mulder.  "Well, I guess that's all that really matters, isn't it?"

"I like to think so," Mulder replies, and he actually reaches over with 
his free hand and briefly squeezes hers, and then his lips quirk 
slightly.  "Besides, there really isn't anyone else who'd be able to 
keep me out of trouble.  It's kind of a full time job."

Mom chuckles slightly and shakes her head.  "I have no doubt of it," she 
says, and then she turns back to me, which is just as well.  I was 
beginning to wonder if I was still part of this conversation.

"Dana," she says -- and I can see from the set of her shoulders that 
she's about to tackle a topic which she considers difficult.  "I realize 
you're probably going to regard this as a rather personal matter, but 
...."  Her voice trails off, and I suddenly realize what she's about to 
say.  Oh God, please no.  Not that argument; not again.

Unbidden memories flash through my mind; memories of the horrible fight 
the night Missy told Ahab she wanted to marry outside the Church.  She 
finally stormed out of the house, and was gone for more than a year.  
She didn't even come back for his funeral.  Mom, I can't go through 
that; not again --

"Dana, I really think you ought to tell your brothers."

"What?"  I'm so startled by what Mom *didn't* say that I almost didn't 
hear what she *did* say.

"Bill and Charlie," she says, much more gently than I had expected.  "I 
think you should call them.  Or at least write.  They're entitled to 
know, Dana."

"Mom, I don't know," I say.  My voice sounds childish and whiny, even to 
me, and I try to firm it up a bit.  "You know how Bill feels, and 
Charlie -- "

"You brothers will adjust," my mother says firmly.  "I know that Bill 
and Fox have had their ... differences, and I have to admit that I 
contributed to that a bit."  She frowns, and I know that she's 
remembering the same things I am:  The cancer, and Bill's reaction to 
the whole thing.  I'd always wondered why he responded with such extreme 
hostility towards Mulder, and I think maybe this is as close to an 
explanation -- or an apology -- as I'm ever going to get.

"Just tell them, Dana," she says, very gently.  "They may not like it at 
first, especially Bill, but they'll come around in time."  And now she 
reaches out and squeezes *my* hand, completing the circuit.  "We all 
love you, Dana," she adds.  "Whatever else happens, don't forget that we 
all love you."

#          #          #

It's later, and Mulder and I are on our way home.  Back to D.C., I mean; 
it's still a little premature to say that we have a well-defined home.  
We've spent a few more nights together at my apartment than we have at 
his, but that's mostly because I live closer to work than he does.

The rest of the evening ... passed.  Mulder's driving now because he 
seemed to be less stressed by the whole experience than I was.  To be 
fair, Mom never did subject us to the inquisition that I'd been more 
than half expecting -- but she didn't quite let us off the hook, either.  
There was always a slight edge to the conversation, and the end result 
has left me feeling pretty drained.

At last we arrive at my apartment building.  Our apartment building?  We 
have been sleeping here more often than not when we're not out in the 
field -- but is that enough to make it "ours" rather than "mine"?  I'm 
just tired enough to find that a meaningful question, but not nearly 
tired enough to believe that I can reach a useful conclusion.

I push that particular distraction away and turn in my seat to find 
Mulder looking back at me quizzically.  I know exactly what question he 
has on his mind -- but I also know that he will never, ever flat out ask 
me if he can spend the night here.  The fact that our marriage has not 
yet progressed to the point where my husband and I can count on sleeping 
next to each other on any given night is one of the many things I'm just 
as happy not to have had to explain to Mom this evening.

But it's an ill wind that blows no good.  Mulder's willingness to wait 
patiently for an invitation means that I have as much time as I need to 
decide how to broach the *other* subject that I've been ruminating about 
for a good part of the evening.  And so for a pair of minutes I study my 
husband's face.

He really has quite a good face, in my admittedly biased opinion.  
Sensitive, almost feminine lips.  A prominent, fleshy nose which some 
may think is too big, but which seems to me to be just right.  And his 
eyes:  warm and liquid and hazel colored; caring and compassionate.  
Mulder truly lives in his eyes, and I could spend a lifetime exploring 
them and never tire of his infinite variety.

As I examine my husband's face I feel the beginnings of a warm tingling 
between my legs, but I quickly suppress it.  It's not the time for that, 
unfortunately.  I tried to act on those feels last week, the night we 
returned from California, and it was an unmitigated disaster.  Mulder 
and I need to be on much firmer footing before we try to explore that 
particular extreme possibility.

"Mulder," I say, quietly but abruptly.  I need to say this quickly, 
before I lose my nerve.  "Mulder, I don't want to stop the car."

There.  It's out.  To his credit, Mulder's expression barely flickers -- 
but then, we've been carrying on this intermittent metaphor of a 
conversation for more than six months now, so there's really no reason 
for him to be surprised that I'm bringing it up again.  The only real 
uncertainty lies in the timing of my statement.  Profiler that he is, 
he's probably already figured out what I'm about to say.

"I mean it, Mulder," I continue.  "I've been thinking about it for 
months, and tonight when we were at Mom's ...."  I let my voice trail 
off as I struggle to find the words that will make my meaning clear.  "I 
got a glimpse of the world I used to live in," I say at last.  "The 
world I grew up in.  And as I told you a few weeks ago, there was a time 
when I think I could have found my niche in that world, and been happy 
in it."  

I reach out and lightly scratch the back of his hand as it rests on the 
steering wheel.  "But that's not true anymore, Mulder," I go on, still 
looking into his eyes, and finding nothing there but love and 
understanding.  "I *don't* live in that world anymore, and I don't want 
to go back -- if for no other reason, then because *you* don't live 
there.  Pinker Rawls -- I can get into his head, but only partly.  A 
normal life?  I don't want a normal life, Mulder; I just want what's 
mine."  I lean over and kiss him gently on the cheek.  "And I've already 
got it." 

Mulder looks at me for just a moment or two after I fall silent.  I can 
see that he's calculating something, trying to come to a conclusion.  
Only a few weeks ago seeing this look on his face would have filled me 
with unease, but not anymore.  Now I know beyond any possible doubt that 
whatever he decides and wherever he goes, he'll take me with him.

At last, without ever breaking eye contact, he moves his hand to the 
ignition switch and starts the car.  "Where would you like to go, 
Scully?" he asks, very softly.

I smile and shake my head.  "I don't care," I reply.  "As long as we're 
together."

He nods, and an expression flits across his face which can only be 
described as one of pure delight.  "I've been hearing reports from the 
back country in the Carolinas of an itinerant balladeer named Silver 
John.  Nobody seems to know who he is or where he comes from.  But they 
say that wherever he passes, good things happen.  Magical things."

My smile broadens.  "I'm sure there's a logical, scientific explanation, 
Mulder."

"We'll never know unless we go look, though, will we?" he replies, his 
voice the perfect mix of amusement and affection.

"No, we won't," I answer.  And Mulder throws the car into gear and pulls 
away from the curb and I lean back in my seat and close my eyes.  I 
don't need to watch where we're going; not with my husband at the wheel.

Later, it will be my turn to drive.


==================

Milagro:

CHAPTER NINE - Cherish

NOTE:  This chapter is rated NC-17

==================


Maybe I should just have my feet amputated, Scully.  It would certainly 
make it easier to get them into my mouth.

"Well, let's just say it ends with you doing the naked pretzel with the 
Stranger on a bed in an unfurnished fourth floor apartment.  I'm 
assuming that's *a priori*, too?"

Yes, that was indeed my voice saying those words.  Much as I'd prefer 
that it wasn't so, there really isn't any way to deny it -- just as 
there's no way to deny the shock and hurt that flickered through your 
eyes when you realized what accusation your husband had just leveled at 
you.

For the barest instant I thought you were actually going to cry, but 
then you just gave an agonized little laugh and said, "I think you know 
me better than that, Mulder."  Then you simply stood there, and I could 
almost hear your voice asking for reassurance.  But somehow I couldn't 
give it to you, and after a moment I handed you the manuscript, 
suggested that you read it, and turned and walked away.  

Damn me, anyway.

I told myself I just wanted you to read the manuscript so you would see 
I was right -- that I *am* right, and that Padgett really is responsible 
for those killings.  But the truth of the matter is I wanted to hurt you 
a little, Scully.  The truth is I was shocked and angered by what I read 
in his book, and I was dealing with it in my accustomed manner by 
lashing out at someone I love instead of at the person who was really 
responsible.

Even as I was throwing the "naked pretzel" in your face, Scully, I knew 
I was being irrational.  I knew that whatever Padgett wrote in his book, 
it was just the product of his own sick imagination -- the same 
imagination which conjured up the image of a man literally ripping the 
heart out of another human being.  It's not your fault that this guy 
became obsessed with you, after all.

Even when I burst into Padgett's apartment and found you, my wife, 
sitting on his bed, I didn't have any *real* doubts.  You wouldn't do 
that to me, Scully; not after all we've been through, especially these 
last few weeks.  The similarity between the scene I interrupted and the 
one in Padgett's book was just a coincidence -- or at least, that's what 
I keep telling myself.  I really *do* know you better than that after 
all.

Don't I?

It's that tiny, niggling shadow of a doubt that has me so upset, of 
course.  And which in turn made me rub salt in the wound with that 
asinine comment a few minutes ago.  Because Scully, even though I know 
that you would never betray the fragile trust we've been trying to 
rebuild since El Rico, I can't seem to stop seeing the images which 
Padgett conjured up.  The images of you and him, together.

Damn, damn, damn.

Now you're sitting all by yourself in a deserted conference room, 
reading some stranger's sexual fantasies about you.  Just like I asked 
you to.  I can't imagine how that must be making you feel, Scully.  You 
already felt violated just by the things he told you when he met you at 
the church, that much was obvious. And reading this manuscript is 
probably making it at least a thousand times worse.

And it's all my fault.

Good job, Agent Mulder.

#          #          #

I wish you would stop hovering, Mulder.  It's bad enough I have to read 
this crap without you walking by in the hallway every few minutes.

I wonder if you think I don't know you're out there?  I've been able to 
recognize you by your footsteps for a very long time, Mulder, until now 
it's almost an instinct.  You step into the room -- or in this case pace 
by in the hall -- and I *know* it's you.  It's almost enough to make me 
believe in auras, or maybe telepathy.

But not quite.

I release a soft sigh and try to concentrate on the manuscript, but it's 
not easy.  Not only is the prose dense and almost unreadable, but the 
subject matter, quite frankly, makes my skin crawl.

It's not the murders that are upsetting me, Mulder.  Grisly and cruel 
though these killings are, they're still just words on paper -- and in 
any case, I've seen far worse at crime scenes and in autopsy suites.  I 
long ago ceased being shocked at the brutality that humans choose to 
visit on one another.  Appalled and saddened, yes.  But not shocked.  
Not anymore.

What *is* bothering me is the way Padgett has depicted me.  The things 
he said in the church and in his apartment were bad enough; what he 
wrote about me in his book -- well, the only word that comes to mind is 
"lurid".

I can't imagine how you must have felt as you read these words, Mulder.  
When you confronted me about this in the hallway a short time ago I was 
angry -- angry and hurt that you would question my fidelity like that.  
We may not have consummated our marriage as yet, but I still take those 
vows seriously.  I am totally and completely committed to this marriage, 
Mulder, and to you -- my husband.  And I was distressed that you would 
even think otherwise of me.

Let alone say those awful words.

Now I think I understand your reaction a little better.  The sex scene 
Padgett wrote between himself and me -- I refuse to think of it as 
"making love" -- there's an eerie similarity between that scene and the 
encounter Padgett and I had in his apartment.  To you those similarities 
must have seemed even more pronounced and disturbing, since you saw only 
a few seconds of it, and of course had no way of knowing what was in my 
mind and in my heart.

And in truth, I don't entirely understand my own behavior this 
afternoon.  Most especially, I don't understand why I entered Padgett's 
apartment in the first place.  My only intention when I knocked on his 
door was to return the milagro he left for me, and make it clear to him 
that his attentions were not welcome.  But then he engaged me in 
conversation, and the next thing I knew I was sitting on his bed with a 
cup of coffee, just -- talking.

That's all we were doing:  talking.  And Mulder, even if you had not 
intervened, I have to believe that's *all* that would have happened.  I 
am not the helpless heroine of Padgett's book, nor do I find him 
particularly interesting as a man.  The only man whose touch I crave is 
yours; the only lips I long to taste are yours.  And the only man who 
can finally and completely fill me and fulfill me -- the only man I love 
and trust -- is you, Mulder.

Just you.

Only you.

This was not my fault, and in my heart I know it.  Nothing happened, and 
nothing was going to happen.  But still I pray to God that I haven't 
ruined everything.

#          #          #

It's over.

The police are gone now, Scully, and so are the paramedics.  You can 
relax now.  You're safe.

Most importantly, Padgett's gone.  He almost ruined everything for us.  
Everything we've worked for, everything we've built.  He almost ruined 
*you*, Scully.  Almost.

I'd like to find some way to apologize for my blundering, to apologize 
for once again allowing my own arrogant blindness to put you at risk.  
You're my partner; you're my *wife*.  But I let that fucking madman get 
under my skin and provoke me to the point where my own anger and 
stupidity almost got you killed.

Again, Scully.  Once again, I almost got you killed.

I don't know if you can understand how I felt when I stepped through the 
doorway and saw you lying there, covered with blood.  I thought I'd lost 
you.  After all we've been through and after all we've overcome, I 
thought I'd finally lost you.  And in that eternal moment I felt as if 
my own heart was being ripped from my chest

You're sitting on the end of my sofa, now, so stiff and still.  If it 
weren't for the slow, steady movement of your chest, and the very 
occasional flicker of your eyelids, I could almost believe you were 
dead.  Again.

You seem so small and vulnerable tonight.  You never seem small and 
vulnerable; you're the strongest, most courageous person I have ever 
known.  It makes me feel so safe, and even proud, to know that you're by 
my side and watching my back.  I would never have anyone but you in that 
role.

Do you know that, Scully?  Do you understand it?  Do you realize how 
much I need you with me?

Have I ever told you?

Tonight, though, I think perhaps *you* need *me*.  And maybe, just 
maybe, tonight you'll permit me to be there for you.  Will you let me do 
that for you?  Just this once, just for tonight, will you allow me to be 
the strong one?

I sit down next to you on the sofa, and I slowly, carefully put my arms 
around you.  I feel your body stiffen slightly at my touch before you 
relax into my embrace.  You lay your head on my shoulder, and though I 
can no longer see your face, somehow I know that you have closed your 
eyes.

This is all I've ever wanted from you, Scully.  This is all I've ever 
needed.  To be allowed to hold you and care for you when you're hurting.  
The Consortium, the quest for the truth, even the search for Samantha -- 
all these things remain important, but none of them has any meaning 
without you.  Not anymore.  Not for a long time.

I turn slightly on the sofa and lift you up and onto my lap.  You come 
willingly into my arms, resting one hand at the base of my neck and 
tucking the other in against my chest.  You are so warm and alive and 
vital, and as I lean down to kiss you lightly on the brow, you murmur, 
so very softly, "I need to be clean."

I can do that for you.  I swear I can do that.

I rise slowly and carefully to my feet.  Your muscles tense slightly 
once again, but then you relax as you seem to realize what I'm doing.  
Your hand slides further around my neck and your grip tightens.  It's 
unnecessary, because I won't drop you Scully -- I promise.  But you can 
hold me as tightly as you need to.

My bathroom is small and cramped, but somehow I manage to maneuver us 
into it -- and then, for just a moment, I have to set you down so I can 
draw the water for your bath.

I wish I had some of your nice soaps and shampoos.  I especially wish I 
had some of the bubble bath which I don't think you know I found out 
about.  I've been intending to stock some of your favorite toiletries, 
for the nights we stay over here, but somehow I never quite got around 
to it.  It seemed like an intrusion, I guess, if that makes any sense at 
all.  Now I wish I had, because I know how much those things would 
comfort you.

I know I should feel awkward undressing you for the very first time, but 
I don't.  Perhaps it's your own acceptance of the situation, or maybe 
it's my own deep certainty that what I'm doing is utterly necessary and 
completely welcome and right.  But whatever the reason, I'm grateful for 
it.

I quickly dispose of your blood-soaked blouse and bra, dropping them 
into the waste basket without a second thought.  Your slacks I treat 
more respectfully, folding them neatly and hanging them over the towel 
rack before turning back to face you.

For a moment I pause, briefly taken aback at the enormity of what I'm 
about to do.  It's really such a prosaic thing to have such 
significance; nonetheless, I'm suddenly breathless as I recognize the 
line we are about to cross.

Abruptly I feel awkward and uncomfortable.  Trying desperately to keep 
my gaze focused only on your face, I question you with my eyes:  Is this 
okay?  Is this what you want?  And your eyes answer back:  No.  This is 
not what I want.  This is what I need.  And so, eyes averted, I slide my 
thumbs inside the elastic band, and slowly, and gently, I lower your 
panties down your legs.

The tub is full now, and I bend to turn off the tap.  For a moment I 
wonder if I'm supposed to lift you into the bath, but for the first time 
since I found you lying in my doorway a smile flickers across your lips, 
and you step unassisted into the warm, welcoming water.

I kneel by the bathtub for a moment, finally allowing my gaze to touch 
your body.  You're beautiful, Scully.  Even covered in blood, you're 
beautiful.  So beautiful it makes my heart ache and my throat constrict.  
Before we were married I never allowed myself to look at  you so openly, 
even fully clothed, and now that I have, I don't ever want to stop.  I 
don't even know if I could.

You catch my eye, and I see question marks in your gaze.  This is me, 
Scully.  Not Padgett, just me.  Mulder.  Your partner and husband.  I 
don't really think that's what you're asking, but I feel the need to 
reassure you, and perhaps myself as well.  As I lean forward to kiss you 
lightly on the mouth, I feel your lips curving upwards against mine.  
And then I take a washcloth and begin to clean you.

The blood comes off easily; more easily than I had expected.  After only 
a moment or two of firm but gentle ministrations with the damp, soapy 
washcloth, your skin is clean.  Completely clean and unstained, as if 
the blood had never been there at all.  Pristine.

Still I continue washing you.  This is not just about the blood, and we 
both know that.  This is not just about wiping off the blood, or even 
the sweat and grime of the day.  It's a cleansing; a ritual.  And so I 
continue washing you, as softly and gently as I can:  Your shoulders.  
Your breasts.  Your ribs and belly.  Your hips and the outsides of your 
thighs.

Slowly and thoroughly I traverse your body, taking away as best I can 
the darkness and horror.  I know I can't banish it completely, though I 
would give anything if I could.  But I do what I can, Scully.  I always 
do what I can, no matter how pitifully inadequate my best efforts may 
be.

Finally I reach your inner thighs, and one last time I pause.  I'm not 
sure if I should do this.  I mean, I know I *should*, but I'm not sure 
if I can.  I'm not sure if *we* can.  I raise my gaze to yours once 
again, and once again I speak to you with my eyes:  This is a cleansing.  
A ritual.  May I do this?  And again your eyes answer back:  Yes.  
Please do this.  Please complete the ritual.  I trust you.

With a suddenly shaky hand I slide the washcloth upwards, until finally 
it glides across your core.  I hear a stifled gasp and I glance up once 
more at your face, but you smile and nod your head, and I know that it's 
okay.  

And I know, somehow, that we're going to be okay, no matter what the 
future holds.

#          #          #

We'll be okay, Mulder.  No matter what happens.  I know this; I feel it; 
I believe it.  Can you feel it too?

For once, I want to believe.

We're lying in your bed now, curled up beneath a heavy down comforter.  
After you finished bathing me you lifted me from the tub and toweled me 
dry, and then you carried me in here to tuck me into bed.  You didn't 
bother with finding something for me to wear. We don't need clothes 
tonight. You took just seconds to slip out of your own before you 
followed me under the covers, pulling me close and wrapping your arms 
around me.

I've never been cared for like this Mulder.  I've never *allowed* myself 
to be cared for like this.  I don't know why I'm allowing it to happen 
now, but much as it frightens me to release this much control, for once 
my need to be held and comforted has overcome my need to be self-
contained and isolated.

My need to be held and comforted by *you* Mulder.  No one else; never 
anyone else.  Only you.  I haven't yet managed to say those words aloud 
-- I have not yet even managed to say the words, "I love you."  You're 
braver than I am, in that respect at least.  But I'm working on it, 
Mulder, and one day soon I will say them, I swear.  Until then, I hope 
you can hear them in other ways.

One day very soon.

I snuggle back a little closer, silently reveling in the feel of your 
bare skin against mine.  You're spooned around behind me, almost 
completely enveloping me with your body, keeping me warm and safe and 
cocooned.  I know this can't last; I know that soon, in a matter of 
hours at most, we'll have to climb from this bed and face the world 
again.  But for now, for tonight, we have this.

We have each other.

At last.

I've been thinking, Mulder -- thinking about something I said to Padgett 
yesterday, when I went to his apartment.  Something important, although 
I hadn't really thought it through when first I said it.

I'd gone there to return the milagro charm he left for me.  It was a 
spur of the moment thing; I was walking by his apartment on my way to 
yours and I heard the typewriter going, and it occurred to me that I 
could simply return the charm and be done with it.  And so I knocked on 
his door.

The thing is, he wouldn't let me just return the charm and be done with 
it.  Somehow -- I still don't understand how -- he managed to engage me, 
with only a few simple sentences.  Prosaic words about his apartment and 
its lack of furniture, and about his writing.  Simple words -- words 
which may have been significant to him, but which for me were devoid of 
meaning.  But still I couldn't leave.  I felt transfixed.  Compelled.

Finally he came to the point -- the point which I now realize he'd been 
working towards ever since we met at the church.  He told me he was 
lonely, and suggested that I was lonely, too.  That perhaps we had this 
in common.

I told him he was wrong, of course.  Not in so many words, but the 
implication was clear:  "Loneliness is a choice," is what I said.  A 
choice which he had made, and I had not.  He had chosen to be lonely, 
while I had chosen simply to be alone.

I could see that he didn't believe me; it was written on his face and 
echoed in his voice.  He didn't believe me because he didn't really 
understand me, although he thought he did.  He thought I was in denial, 
and that with a little coaxing I could be made to see that he and I were 
meant for each other -- or at least that we could ease each other's 
pain.

But Padgett was wrong.  I'm not lonely, and I never could be.  Not with 
you by my side.  I've been alone, yes, but that's different.  And just 
as loneliness was a choice for Padgett, aloneness was a choice for me.  
A choice I made long ago, and one which I can change whenever it suits 
me.  And now it suits me.

I choose not to be alone anymore, Mulder.

I stir slightly in your arms, to let you know I'm still awake and about 
to move.  I feel you tighten your embrace, ever so slightly, as if you 
don't want me to escape, but I'm not trying to escape, and I'm not 
trying to push you away.  We're done with that, Mulder; I'll never run 
from you again.

I turn over in bed and allow you to draw me closer.  The touch of your 
skin against mine, the heat of your body, your scent ... all these 
things surround me and infuse me and intoxicate me.  Already I feel the 
arousal building within me.  Already I feel the desire spreading outward 
from my center.

This is not like the night in our office, Mulder.  That night, the night 
we got back from the Berquist case, I was aroused, but for all the wrong 
reasons.  I felt threatened and possessive, and I wanted to own you, and 
so I responded in that way.  I tried to take you and make you mine.  I 
tried to overwhelm you.  I tried to dominate you and make my feelings be 
yours.

Tonight is different, though.  Tonight, again, I want you physically -- 
I want you so much it makes me ache inside.  But it's a clean want, 
Mulder; a pure want.  Unlike that other time, tonight I long only for 
what you can give, and no matter how much or how little that may be, I 
know that it will be enough.  Because this time it's right.  This time 
it will be for love.

I press my body against yours and slide my arms around your shoulders.  
I can feel you responding, Mulder; I can feel your body fitting itself 
against mine.  Your arms are still around me, your hands caressing my 
back from my shoulders to my waist, sending urgent signals throughout my 
system wherever they linger.  I inhale again, deeply, allowing your 
scent to fill my lungs, but even that is no longer enough; I want more.  
And so at last I touch my lips to yours.

I feel an electric shock racing through my body, as if a circuit has 
finally been completed.  My lips part with a groan and our tongues meet 
-- and dear God, Mulder.  I never knew a simple kiss could be like this.  
Your lips are burning on mine; your tongue is thrusting deeply into my 
mouth, tasting, exploring; and your hands -- your hands are everywhere, 
touching me, feeling me, holding me.  And still it's not enough.

I can't hold still, Mulder; I physically cannot hold still.  I find 
myself rubbing my body against yours, exulting in the feel of your flesh 
sliding against mine.  Everywhere our bodies touch I feel pleasure and 
contentment; everywhere they part I feel bereft.  There isn't enough of 
you, Mulder; there will never be enough of you to cover me completely.

But I'll make do with what I can get, because even that is more than 
I've ever had before.

At last our lips separate, and for a moment we cling to one another, 
gasping for breath.  I look up into your eyes, and I see a question 
there.  You start to speak, and I shake my head.  No words, Mulder.  Not 
tonight.  Words have gotten us into so much trouble in the past.  So no 
words tonight.  As strange as it may sound, coming from me of all 
people, tonight I only want to feel.

I slide one hand behind your head, tangling my fingers in your hair, and 
again I draw your face to mine.  Our lips meet, softly, briefly, and 
then I'm peppering your face with kisses.  Your stubble is rough and 
abrasive against my lips and cheeks, and I know I'll have whisker burns 
come morning, but I just don't care.  All I care about is tasting as 
much of your skin as possible, as quickly as I can.  All that matters is 
the passion I feel building between us.

You have not been idle or passive, of course.  Your hands continue to 
roam across my back, touching and stroking and caressing, and setting me 
on fire in the process.  Now your head drops, and I have just an instant 
to prepare myself before your mouth closes over my left nipple --

Oh God --

Mulder ... oh God, Mulder ... oh God.  Don't stop.  Please don't stop.  
Your lips, your tongue, oh sweet Jesus, even your teeth.  How are you 
*doing* this?  My arms are wrapped around your head, holding it in 
place, and I just can't get enough.  Please don't stop --

You lift your mouth away from my breast, but before I can draw in my 
breath to protest, you descend upon the other one, and for a moment all 
I can do is close my eyes and gasp.  Oh God ... this is so good.  So 
very, very good .... 

And so very, very inadequate.  I can't remember when I've been this 
aroused, Mulder, and I just can't wait any longer.  I've been waiting so 
long for this, and I'm so ready.  I need this so much.  I need *you* so 
much.  I need you, Mulder.  Now.

I roll onto my back, pulling you down on top of me, and I wrap my legs 
around your waist.  Your mouth comes free of my breast, and you capture 
my lips with yours and kiss me so sweetly and tenderly it almost makes 
me cry.  Your tongue slips into my mouth again in a premonition of 
intercourse, and my head is spinning, my senses on overload.

I'm clinging to you for dear life now, Mulder.  You're my life raft in a 
sea of sensation.  You're my rock.  You're my stability.  Nothing 
exists, except for you.  Nothing is real, except for you.  Your warmth.  
Your weight.  Your touch.  Your scent.  Your taste.

Your love.

And now you're entering me.  At long, long last, you're entering me.  
Filling me as only you can, Mulder.  Fulfilling me as only you could.  

Making me whole.

For a timeless moment you pause, and I wait in an exquisite agony of 
anticipation.  With each passing second my desire and need for you grow 
stronger, yet still you do not move.  God, Mulder.  Oh God.  Please 
move.  Please move.  I need you to move.  I try to shift my hips, I try 
to create some friction on my own, to somehow ease the ache I feel 
inside, but you're too heavy, you're pinning me to the mattress with 
your weight.  I hear a whimper of frustration coming from deep inside my 
throat, and I force my eyes to open.

You're hovering over me, staring down at me, and yet again there are 
questions in your eyes.  Oh, Mulder, do you really still have doubts?  
Have I truly been so hard on you?  Have I  been so distant and walled 
off and unapproachable that even now, even as you're already buried as 
deep inside my body as it's possible for you to be, you still have 
uncertainties?  

Can you possibly believe that I don't want this?

Yes, Mulder, I reassure you with my eyes.  Yes, I want this.  Yes, I 
need this.  Yes, I crave this.  If I could hold you any closer I would.  
If I could touch any more of your skin, I would.  If I could kiss you 
any deeper, I would.  Kiss me again, Mulder.  Hold me tighter, Mulder.  
Make love to me, Mulder.  Please.  Now.

And at last your hips begin to move, and I am lost.

For a moment I am transfixed, in shock.  This is so much better, this is 
so much more intense, this is so much deeper and more profound than 
anything has ever been before.  I've been in love before, Mulder, and 
I've made love before.  I've been with men I cared about and to whom I 
tried to be committed, as difficult as that's always been for me.  But 
it's never been like this.  It's never been so nearly perfect.

Your movements now are smooth and steady, your heat and hardness 
penetrating my body in the age-old way of man and woman.  I didn't think 
it was possible to hold you any closer but I feel my arms and legs 
tightening around you further, drawing you ever deeper into me in a 
desperate attempt to fill my aching need.

My own hips have begun to move, reflexively and involuntarily, and that 
just makes it better.  I match your rhythm effortlessly, without 
thought, and now we two are becoming one as we move together in perfect 
synchrony.  This is sharing, Mulder; this is partnership.  We are no 
longer seeking my orgasm; we are no longer pursuing your release.  This 
is not about you, and it's not about me.  This is about us.  This is 
ours.

Abruptly I feel the first waves rippling through me and over me and 
around me.  I'm drowning in a tide of feeling, tossed about on foamy 
whitecaps of emotion.  I've never cried while making love before, but 
tonight my cheeks are wet with tears.  You've filled all my empty 
places, Mulder; you've filled me in ways I didn't know were possible, 
and in places I didn't know I had.  

My body cramps and shakes and arches against yours, meeting you and 
loving you and finally, at long, long last merging with you.  I feel 
your silent answer, and our climax sweeps across us, buoying us up and 
carrying us away, far, far, far out to sea, together.

A story can have only one true ending, but in every ending there lies a 
new beginning.

"I love you, Mulder."


==================

The Unnatural:

CHAPTER TEN - Outfield Interlude

NOTE:  This chapter is rated NC-17

==================


Eventually we grew tired of batting practice.

The evening was still comparatively young, though -- at least, for a 
Saturday night it was.  And so I paid off the boy and told him Scully 
and I would take care of gathering up the baseballs.  Which we will.  
Eventually.  Right now we're just too damned comfortable.

After the boy left I went back to my car just long enough to grab the 
blanket and picnic basket I'd stashed in the trunk.  Scully trailed 
along after me, and I saw her eyebrows shoot up in surprise when I 
turned back to face her, those two items in my hands.

"I think I've been set up," she said in an amused tone of voice.

I smiled and nodded.  "I do believe you're correct, Agent Scully," I 
replied, offering her my elbow.  She chuckled and took my arm, and 
together we moved back out across the baseball diamond.

She'd been set up, all right, I mused to myself as we walked on out into 
right field.  But then, she'd probably suspected as much from the moment 
she got the message from "Fox Mantle" asking her to meet me at the ball 
field.  Pay more attention to the mystery of the heart, Arthur Dales had 
enjoined me this afternoon.  Well, Mr. Dales, I intend to do just that.

Finally we wound up spreading the blanket on the ground about 250 feet 
from home plate, and a hundred feet short of the chain-link homerun 
fence.  Now we're both stretched out on the blanket, Scully curled up 
against my side with her head on my shoulder, and the open picnic basket 
a few feet away on her other side.  When we first sat down we munched a 
little of the fruit and cold cuts I brought along; now we're just lying 
here together, quietly enjoying each other's company and looking at the 
stars.

Scully sighs and moves a little closer to me, throwing her left leg up 
across my hips.  Since we finally consummated our marriage ten days ago, 
casual acts of intimacy have gotten a little easier for both of us.  
We've only made love twice more since then, but our comfort level has 
increased dramatically.  I tighten my arm around her shoulders, very 
slightly.

"Two months," Scully murmurs, her breath tickling the base of my neck.  
"That's what this is about, isn't it?"

I chuckle softly and lean over to kiss her lightly on the forehead.  
"Not much gets by you, does it, Agent Scully?" I reply.  She simply 
smiles and shakes her head, and snuggles yet closer.  

She *is* right, of course.  Tonight's our two month anniversary.  Our 
two month *wedding* anniversary, strange as that idea still seems.

Even before I had my encounter with Arthur Dales I'd intended for this 
to be a special night.  I didn't have more than the vaguest idea of what 
I wanted to do, but I knew I wanted it to be special.  Once I'd heard 
Dales' story, though, I knew exactly what I wanted:

I wanted us to play.  Have fun.  In the words of my adorable, enigmatic 
and occasionally infuriating partner and wife, I wanted us to get a 
life, even if it was only for a few hours.

Seems like maybe I got my wish.

My gaze drops down to Scully's left hand, resting comfortably on the 
center of my chest.  Seeing her bare ring finger reminds me that there 
is still one industrial-sized fly in our happy little ointment.  More 
than one, actually, but this is the one that's been bothering me the 
most these last few days, since the conclusion of the Padgett case.  And 
suddenly I want to talk about it.  Now.

"Scully, do you want a ring?"

She hesitates, then replies softly, "I already have a ring." She doesn't 
raise her head, but simply lifts her hand to touch the spot on her 
blouse over my class ring before returning her hand to its spot on my 
chest.

"That's not what I mean, Scully," I reply, equally softly.  I take her 
hand and kiss the bare ring finger.  "I mean a wedding ring.  You know 
that."  I don't know why, but this conversation has suddenly become very 
important to me.  Scully seems to have realized that, because now she 
raises her head up off my shoulder and seems to study my face, a 
thoughtful expression on her own features.

"I don't know," she says at last.  "I guess so, at some point."  She 
smiles slightly.  "It would be nice to be just a *little* conventional."  
Then she turns serious again, and squirms against me until her face is 
only inches from my own.  "But I don't need one right this minute," she 
continues.  "I've got everything I really need already.  Right here."  
And then she kisses me.

We've been getting pretty good at this kissing thing the past two 
months, and this particular kiss goes on for quite awhile.  I was 
already semi-erect just from having Scully cuddled up next to me; by the 
time she finally lets me come up for air I'm hard as a rock.

I'm not *quite* ready to let the subject drop, however.  Sex is good, 
and making love is even better, and I have a pretty strong intuition 
that's going to play a part in tonight's festivities -- but this other 
stuff is important, too.

"Scully," I say, "I think we *should* get you a ring.  And maybe me, 
too."  I place another kiss on her ring finger.  "I *want* to get you a 
ring.  And I want to have a proper ceremony, something your mother and 
brothers can attend.  And -- "

"Mulder," she says, freeing her hand and pressing her fingertips against 
my lips.  "Mulder, it's okay," she continues.  "I want those things too, 
but we don't need to do it all right away.  We've got plenty of time."  

I feel a chill pass through my body at her words, although I have no 
idea why -- but there's no time to consider the matter, because Scully's 
still speaking.

"Right now we're just barely getting to the point where we're really 
comfortable with all this," she says.  "I want to take a little more 
time so we can just enjoy being with each other.  Okay?"  And she kisses 
me again.

This kiss goes on even longer than the first one, and by the time it's 
over we're both gasping for breath.  Scully has crawled around until now 
she's lying almost completely on top of me, and her hand on my chest is 
fingering one of my nipples through the rough cloth of my baseball 
jersey and the underlying shirt.  She's also gently but deliberately 
rubbing her thigh against my erection ....

"Scully," I whisper, and then I have to stop to clear my throat and 
begin again.  "Scully?  Maybe we should be heading for home?"

Scully smiles, but shakes her head.  "Not yet," she says -- and then she 
lowers her head to my shoulder again and starts nibbling on my neck.

Automatically, my arms tighten around her, and I groan softly and tilt 
my head to give her a better angle.  All those years when we were just 
platonic partners, I never guessed that Scully would be sexually 
aggressive, but she is.  All three of our encounters so far -- four, if 
you count the aborted attempt in our office -- have been initiated by 
her.  That's at least in part due to my own residual uncertainty that 
Dana Scully could really be interested in someone like me.  I'm working 
on that, though ....

Now the hand which had been teasing my nipple is sliding down my chest 
to my belly.  At first I think she just wants to get under my shirt, but 
she keeps right going past the hem of my jersey, and I realize just 
before she gets there that --

Oh, Christ ....

Scully's hand gently strokes my erection through the denim of my jeans, 
causing my hips to jerk reflexively.  My wife chuckles softly, squeezing 
me slightly with her hand, and then takes another nip at my neck.

Okay, so that's the way she wants to play it.  I don't know exactly how 
far she wants to go with this, but I'm happy to go along for the ride.

As Scully continues to work on my neck and rub her hand across my 
erection, I slide both of my hands down her body, finally coming to rest 
on her lower back.  We're both still learning about each other's bodies, 
but I've already discovered that her lower back is one of Scully's hot 
spots.  And that's where I begin my assault.

Within seconds Scully is moaning against my neck, squirming and rubbing 
the length of her body against mine -- which of course just makes it 
better for me, too.  Before very long just stroking her back through her 
clothes isn't enough anymore, so I roll onto my side, carrying Scully 
with me, and immediately bring one of my hands up between us to cup one 
of her breasts.

"Jesus ... Mulder ...."  Her voice is somewhere between a gasp and a 
moan as she ceases ministering to my neck and captures my mouth with 
hers once again.  This kiss is frantic, savage, her tongue plunging into 
my mouth and aggressively probing and exploring.  My right hand 
continues caressing her breast, while the other leaves her lower back to 
grip the back of her neck, holding her firmly in place as the kiss 
progresses.  We're both moaning almost constantly, but I'm already so 
far gone I can no longer tell which sounds belong to whom.

Scully's left hand continues to squeeze and fondle the bulge in my 
jeans, causing my hips to spasm intermittently.  It's really getting 
uncomfortably tight down there, but her touch feels so damned good I 
can't bear to make her stop.

Abruptly the hand under my jersey is gone, and a moment later I feel 
something tugging at my jeans.  I barely have time to figure out she's 
pulling my zipper down before one of her hands delves into my now-open 
fly.

I break the kiss.  "S-scully," I manage to stutter out.  "Wait."

Immediately her hand stops moving, and anxiety and tension begin to 
replace the desire and hunger which had been in her eyes only seconds 
earlier.  This is still so very new for both of us, I remind myself.  It 
would be so easy for us to hurt each other through a misunderstanding.  
Once again I recall that night in our office, after we got back from the 
Berquist case.  I pushed her away that night, and the look on her face 
now is very similar to what it was then.

"Mulder?" she asks, softly and hesitantly.

"It's okay, Scully," I reassure her, still a little short of breath.  
I'm not pushing you away, I add with my eyes.  "I, I just think maybe we 
should pack up everything and go back to your place.  Or my place."  I 
stroke her breast lightly through her clothes, and smile as she shudders 
slightly in response.  "Or even the nearest motel.  I'm not fussy at 
this point."

That gets me a raised eyebrow.  "A motel?" she replies.  "Why a motel?  
What's wrong with right --" and she squeezes my cock through the thin 
cloth of my boxers "-- here?"

"Here?" It takes all my willpower just to get that word out.  Her 
strong, warm fingers have started to stroke and caress me again, and now 
there's essentially nothing between her hand and my cock to lessen the 
sensation.  "Scully," I manage to get out, "this is a public place!"

"That's true, it is," Scully murmurs.  As she continues to speak she 
begins planting soft, delicate kisses along my jaw.  "But it's almost 
midnight."  Kiss, kiss, kiss.  "No cars have gone by for at least an 
hour."  Kiss, kiss.  "And even if someone *did* happen by --" kiss, 
kiss, kiss "-- they'd probably just turn around and walk away."  A long, 
slow lick from the base of my neck to just under my ear.

"But ... the police ... "  My voice trails off as Scully goes to work on 
my ear, flicking her tongue in and out of it repeatedly.

"The police?"  A soft, sexy chuckle, followed by a nip on my earlobe, 
just as her hand finally slips into the fly of my boxers.  "Mulder, we 
*are* the police.  Remember?"  Her fingers touch my erection, and I moan 
and jerk my hips.  "And if a D.C. cop *did* happen to come along, the 
most he would do would be to tell us to zip up --" delicate squeeze "-- 
and move along."

Christ.  She's serious.  She actually wants to do this -- she actually 
wants to make love here on this damned ball field.  It occurs to me that 
she doesn't sound as if it's a new idea to her, either, but before I can 
really process this apparent fact she gives my cock yet another gentle 
squeeze, transfers her tongue to the side of my neck which she'd been 
neglecting -- and her hand starts sliding slowly up and down my shaft.

While I've been analyzing her behavior, she's been trying to unbuckle my 
belt with one hand while continuing to stroke my erection with the 
other.  There's something oddly comforting about the way she's handling 
me now.  Even as I'm becoming more and more aroused, I'm also getting 
more relaxed and comfortable with the whole situation.  

Finally I just give up.  This is going to happen, and I might as well 
cooperate and enjoy myself.  So as Scully continues to fumble with my 
belt buckle and the button on my jeans, I slide one hand back around to 
start caressing her lower back again, while the other slips up under her 
shirt to resume fondling her breasts.

She finally gets my belt and jeans unfastened, then pulls away, sitting 
up to push my jeans and boxers down around my knees before quickly 
disposing of her own clothes.  I promptly follow suit -- or unsuit, more 
accurately -- and as she stretches out next to me again I grab the far 
corner of the blanket to drape it over us, hiding the essentials from 
any prying eyes that might happen along.  Then she presses her body 
against mine once more, and we both groan with pleasure -- and her left 
hand resumes its now-accustomed stroking of my cock.

Before she can go back to working on my neck, however, I take her face 
between my hands and kiss her -- and this time it's *my* tongue that's 
doing the exploring.  Deep into her mouth I probe, and she accepts me 
willingly, tilting her head back and cupping the back of my head with 
her free hand, tangling her fingers through my hair.

At last we break apart, just enough to breathe, and as I move to plant 
another kiss just below her ear I murmur, "From the way you were talking 
it sounds like you've done this before, Scully.  Done the wild thing in 
the great outdoors, I mean."  I don't know quite why I asked that 
question; I certainly didn't plan it out in advance.  But I'm finding 
her attitude towards this whole thing unexpectedly exciting, and I want 
to know more.

She gives a throaty chuckle, just this side of a giggle, and says, 
"Yeah.  Yeah I have, a long time ago."  Her hand continues its slow, 
sensual up-and-down movement on my erection.  "There's not much to tell 
though, really.  It was the summer before my senior year in college, and 
there was this guy named Mike -- a Navy friend of Bill's who was 
visiting us.  We hit it off and went out a few times, and one night 
after everyone else had gone to bed we were sitting out on the porch, 
just talking -- and he started kissing me, and one thing led to another 
... "

Her voice trails off, and I wait to see if she's going to continue, but 
she doesn't seem to be inclined to do so.  Finally, I say, "And?"

She shrugs, but now she seems embarrassed, making me wonder if maybe I 
should have just let it drop.  "No 'and' to speak of, I'm afraid, 
Mulder.  We were both young and inexperienced, and it lasted about five 
minutes.  I like to think he got more out of it than I did, but who 
knows?"  She gives a wry laugh.  "And the next day he told me very 
gently that I was a sweet girl but he was seeing someone else and when 
he got back to Hawaii he was going to ask her to marry him.  I was 
crushed, of course, but he and Bill left the day after that, and I never 
saw him again."

"I'm sorry, Scully," I say softly, wishing I could think of something 
more eloquently comforting to say.  "That must have hurt a lot."

"Yeah, it did," she says, shrugging.  "But it was a long time ago, and 
it was a learning experience."  She smiles slightly, perhaps a bit 
wistfully.  "That which does not destroy me makes me stronger, right?"  

She seems to notice at the same instant I do that her hand on my cock 
has stopped moving, and now her smile broadens as she starts it up 
again.  "Besides," she goes on in a lighter tone of voice, "if I'd 
gotten tangled up with Mike I might not have been available when you 
came along, and we wouldn't want that, now would we?"  And she moves a 
little closer until there's no space between our bodies at all, and once 
again she presses her lips against mine.

I don't know if it will ever be possible for me to catalog all the 
different sorts of kisses Dana Scully has shared with me.  This one is 
tender and loving and giving, and so damned sweet it almost makes me 
want to cry, which is something I haven't done in a romantic situation 
since before I met Phoebe.

God, this woman can kiss.  Her lips and tongue seem to be everywhere, 
and the sweet taste of her mouth and the scent of her arousal just 
contribute to the rapidly-building sensory overload.  And of course, her 
body rubbing against mine and her hand continuing its slow, sensual 
slide up and down my shaft just makes it better.

My own hands have not been idle, of course.  One is now stroking the 
length of her spine, being careful to include that spot on her lower 
back, of course, while the other is cupping and caressing one of the 
cheeks of her ass.  Her hips are moving restlessly, and so are mine, and 
the air around us is filled with the mingled sounds of our pleasure.

At last our lips separate once again, and Scully buries her face in the 
hollow of my neck.  "God, Mulder," she whispers, her lips tickling my 
shoulder as she speaks.  "God, you feel so good."  She tightens her grip 
on me slightly, apparently wanting to ensure that I know what part of me 
she's talking about.  "I love touching you like this, holding you in my 
hand.  It feels so ... powerful.  Like there's an electric current 
running between us."  She chuckles slightly, I know not at what.  "It's 
almost like a switch has been flicked somewhere."

"It feels pretty good to me, too, Scully," I reply softly.  And it 
really does, and I don't just mean physically.  There's a profound sense 
of connectedness and sharing here, a level of intimacy I don't remember 
ever experiencing before.  I'm still pondering this strange new feeling, 
wallowing in it, really, when Scully suddenly lifts up again and scoots 
around until her head is resting on my belly.  And when she speaks again 
her voice is soft and dreamy.

"I really, *really* like this, Mulder," she says, now bringing both 
hands to bear on my penis and balls.  Her fingers are just fluttering 
around, touching here, stroking there, and occasionally giving a gentle 
squeeze for good measure.  "I could do this for hours," she continues in 
the same quiet, sing-songy voice.  "Days."  I hear a low chuckle.  "But 
I bet you wouldn't like that very much.  Not after awhile, anyway."

I'm about to take exception to that statement; I want to tell her that I 
actually could just lie here and let her fondle and touch me for days on 
end, because it's so heartbreakingly intimate and personal.  But before 
I can get the words out her head moves slightly, and then I feel 
something warm and wet sliding up the length of my shaft.

Oh, god ....

My hips jerk spasmodically, and I don't even have time to fully process 
this sudden new sensation before I feel her lips close around the tip.  
Oh, god, Scully ... Scully ... Oh, Jesus ....  All I can seem to force 
out of my mouth are inarticulate grunts and moans -- and every time I 
think I'm about to get myself back under control she takes a little more 
of me into her mouth, intermittently swirling her tongue around the head 
while her fingers continue to stroke and tickle the parts still exposed 
to the air.

"S-scully," I finally force out.  "Scully, you don't have -- " But then 
she finally takes the whole thing into her mouth, and my head falls back 
to the ground and I groan.

God.  I can't stop this.  I just don't have the strength.  From a purely 
selfish standpoint, of course, I don't *want* to stop it, but the thing 
is that I've never been with a woman who really seemed to enjoy doing 
this.  But I didn't coax her into it, and from the happy humming sounds 
that keep coming from her throat and vibrating against my cock, I don't 
think she's regarding what she's doing as something onerous, either.  

Scully's not like the others; I have to keep reminding myself of that.  
She really does seem to love me, for whatever unknown reason, and I have 
to learn to take that at face value.  Someday, maybe I will.  Someday.  
Then her head begins to bob up and down, up and down, up and down, and 
it feels so amazing .... 

But I just can't help myself.  I've got too much of a backlog of guilt 
and self-loathing to let this go unchallenged.  I have to tell her she 
doesn't have to do this; I have to let her off the hook.  Never mind 
that this is strictly voluntary on her part.  Never mind that to all 
appearances this is being done out of love.  I still have to say this.

"Scully," I pant out, reaching down and running the fingers of one hand 
through her hair.  She doesn't respond, though, and her head continues 
to move, her lips and tongue sending jolts of lightning down my cock and 
into my body with each motion.  "Scully!" I say again, somewhat more 
forcefully, hating the desperate tone I hear in my voice.  "Scully ... 
love ... you don't have to be doing this."

She actually takes her mouth off me at that, and looks up at me in 
surprise -- but her hands continue their work, even so.  "You don't ... 
" I say, feeling stupid and foolish even as I'm forming the words.  "I 
... I don't want you to feel obligated -- "

Scully laughs, but there's so much love and caring in her eyes even I 
can't manage to take it wrong.  She shakes her head with a smile, and as 
she bends her head back to her task she murmurs, "Shut up, Mulder.  I'm 
giving you a blow job."  Then she takes me into her mouth again and 
resumes that slow, sweet motion -- 

-- and it occurs to me that two can play at this game.  So I reach out 
and find her hips, drawing them close in to me, evoking a muffled yelp 
of surprise from my partner as I bury my face between her legs.  I take 
a moment to inhale her wonderful, arousing fragrance before I press my 
mouth against her ....

Scully stiffens and moans as my tongue slips between her folds and finds 
her center, and for an instant she just holds me in her mouth as I work 
at returning the pleasure she's been giving me.  Finally her head starts 
to move again, and without any effort at all we fall into a rhythm, our 
motions complementing each other in perfect synchrony.

This is partnership, I realize, as sensation and emotion build upon each 
other, sending us soaring towards the peak.  This is passion, and it has 
transfigured us, just as Arthur Dales said it would.  This is sharing 
and synergy and friendship and commitment and trust.  

This is love.


==================

Three of a Kind:

CHAPTER ELEVEN - TMI

==================


I blame Byers.  

It was, after all, his idea that we drag Agent Scully into this 
operation.  He was the one who insisted that we needed our own 
government agent to counteract the other government agents we'd run up 
against.  He was also the one who was adamant that it had to be Scully 
rather than Mulder that we called in.

To be fair, and to spread the blame as liberally as possible, Langly had 
a hand in this as well.  *He* was the one who suggested using a 
simulation of Mulder's voice to persuade her to help us, and he was also 
the one who let her wander away from the autopsy suite in this 
condition.  

Leaving me, as usual, to clean up the mess.  Byers is upstairs trying to 
jumpstart a relationship with a woman he knew for two days ten years 
ago, and Langly is playing D&D, which means he isn't even as close as 
Byers is to getting laid.  And people think *I'm* a loser.

I turn my attention back to the matter at hand:  to wit, trying to get 
the lovely Agent Scully upstairs to our room so we can maybe figure out 
what the hell's going on with her.  

I don't know what's come over her; I've never seen her like this, and 
for a few seconds there I didn't think I was going to get her out of 
that bar with her virtue intact.  I finally had to pull rank -- her rank 
-- to get it done, and Agent Scully herself was no help at all.

One thing I know for sure:  This is *not* jet lag, as Langly claimed a 
little while ago.  I'm not smelling any booze on her breath, either, and 
she doesn't seem to be uncoordinated, just ... goofy.  She even said she 
*likes* me, and much as I wish I'd been wearing a wire so I could 
immortalize those words for all time, that's just not ... Scully.

Hell if I know what's going on.

Not that those jackals she was hanging out with gave a damn.  To them 
she was just another bimbo, and the only question in *their* minds was 
which one of them was going to take her upstairs.  Good thing I showed 
up when I did.

Of course, now that I've got her out of the bar I still have to get her 
into the elevator and up to our room.  Which is turning out to be no 
easy task, as she's already escaped twice:  once to admire the color 
scheme used for the little pictures in the slot machine windows, and the 
second time to get acquainted with a ficus that reminded her of her 11th 
grade chemistry teacher.

And now here we go again.  I loosened my grip on her wrist for just a 
second, and she's broken away once more and is heading for the gift 
shop.

For just an instant I'm tempted to let her go.  I do have other fish to 
fry, after all, and it really isn't fair that I've been left to solve a 
problem all by myself which was at its heart created by my two fine, 
upstanding colleagues, the bastards.

I quickly suppress the impulse to blow it off, though, because not only 
is Scully one luscious babe and a half, she's also Mulder's .... Well, 
whatever she is to Mulder, he's very protective of her, and he'll kick 
our sorry asses if we let anything happen to her.  And if he ever finds 
out exactly *how* we lured her out to Vegas ....

I shudder and take off after Agent Scully.

"Look, Hickey!" she exclaims with childlike delight as I come to a halt 
next to her.  We're standing in front of the magazine rack, and Scully 
is paging through a copy of Sports Illustrated in apparent fascination.  
"It's all about Fernando Tatis!"

"Who?"  I glance over her shoulder at the magazine.  Some guy hitting a 
baseball.

She looks up from the magazine, her eyes wide and her mouth forming a 
little "o".  "Hickey!" she exclaims breathlessly.  "You haven't heard of 
Fernando Tatis?"  I shake my head, and she continues, "He hit homeruns.  
Two of 'em.  Grand slams.  All in the same inning.  Mulder's been raving 
to me about it.  Look!"  

She holds up the magazine about two inches from my eyes.  It's currently 
open to a full page ad for a BMW Z3, which sheds no light at all on the 
matter at hand.  But rather than try to explain that to her, I slide it 
gently from her hands and put it back on the rack, then take her elbow 
and try to steer her towards the door.

"N-o-o-o!" she says, sounding just exactly like a frustrated four year 
old whose balloon just got away from her and sailed off into the sky.  
She pulls away and heads back for the magazine rack.  "I wasn't 
finished!"

I sigh and go after her again, to find her once more looking at the 
picture of the baseball player.  "Two grand slams, Hickey," she says 
with little-girl seriousness.  "No one's ever done that before -- not in 
the same inning.  Two grand slams.  Mulder was very impressed."  

A slow, sweet smile starts to spread across her face.  On anyone else I 
would describe that smile as sultry and provocative, but this *is* Dana 
Scully.  For just a second certain images flash through my head -- but 
then I push them away and gently put my hand on her elbow again.  I have 
*got* to get her out of here; there are things that need to be done, not 
least of which is figure out why she's acting the way she is.

"Hickey," she says, pulling me out of my thoughts once again.  She leans 
towards me until her face is only inches from my own, and her breath is 
warm and sweet.  God damn.  How the hell does Mulder resist this, day 
after day?  If it were me --

"You know what Mulder and I did last week?" she asks in a conspiratorial 
whisper.  "We hit a grand slam of our own."  And she starts to giggle.

"Did you, now," I reply, my mind working frantically.  She did *not* 
mean that the way it sounded; that was just my own dirty mind supplying 
that interpretation.  If she and Mulder were doing the naked pretzel I 
would know about it.  At least, I *think* I would.  It's true that 
Mulder hasn't been around much the last few weeks, but that's a normal 
part of his cycle ....

"We went to this ball field," she continues through her giggles.  
"Mulder and me, Hickey.  We went there.  And there was this pitching 
machine and Mulder taught me how to swing a baseball bat."  More 
giggling.  "A baseball bat.  A real Louisville Slugger."

She leans a little closer and nudges me in the ribs with her elbow, 
lowering her voice still further so that now it's almost too throaty and 
sexy to bear.  "I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd played fast 
pitch in high school.  Besides, if I *had* told him that, ol' Poopyhead 
might not have let me play with his bat and balls!"  And as she 
dissolves into helpless laughter she stutters out, "S-see?  I d-do *so* 
have feminine wiles!"

If I didn't before, now I'm really beginning to understand the reactions 
of those men in the bar.  There's something incredibly arousing about 
seeing her like this -- like I need any help in *that* department.  But 
that's something else that just isn't going to happen, for a number of 
reasons -- not least of which is that it's blindingly obvious that she 
has eyes only for Mulder.  I figured that out within five minutes of 
meeting her, although the two of *them* have displayed a breathtaking 
level of denial on that particular topic.

Meanwhile, this little scene is getting out of hand, and people are 
starting to stare.  Agent Scully is laughing semi-hysterically, almost 
to the point of tears, while tightly clutching my arm for support -- and 
just as I'm thinking it can't get any worse she starts singing, in a 
reedy, offkey voice.  "B-ball Park F-franks!" she carols, barely able to 
get the words out between chortles.  "They plump when you lick 'em!  
Ball Park Franks!"  And then she loses it completely.

I've got to put a stop to this.  "Agent Scully?" I say, trying to get 
through to the rational part of her that I know must be lurking down 
inside somewhere.  "We need to get going.  We're late."  And I try to 
take the magazine from her again.

"No!" she says petulantly, the laughter dying out as quickly as it 
began.  She clutches the magazine more tightly.  "I'm going to buy it 
for Mulder.  I haven't got him a proper present yet, and I think he'd 
like it."

"Fine," I say, making no effort to keep the tone of exasperation from my 
voice.  At this point buying the stupid magazine will probably be 
quicker than trying to talk her into leaving it behind.  "The cash 
register is that way."

"Okay," she replies placidly -- and wonder of wonders, she allows me to 
lead her in that direction.  The transaction goes without incident, and 
a moment later we're out of the gift shop and heading for the elevator.  
Agent Scully has quieted somewhat, and is allowing herself to be led, so 
I guess letting her buy the magazine was the right decision.  Now we're 
standing in front of the elevators and she seems to be totally absorbed 
in reading about Fernando Tatis.

Thank God.

"Stardust!"

Oh, Jesus.  Not *him* again.  I glance quickly at Agent Scully, and see 
her eyes light up as she spies one of the assholes from the bar bearing 
down on us.  By great good fortune the elevator doors choose that moment 
to open, and I grab her arm and drag her bodily into the car.  Lover Boy 
speeds up a little as Scully waves to him enthusiastically, but the 
doors close again just in the nick of time, and I close my eyes and sag 
against the wall in relief as the car begins to move.

"Jesus!" I mutter.  "That was too close."

"Aw, Hickey."

I open my eyes to see Special Agent Dana Scully *pouting* at me -- and 
dear God help me if *that* isn't a big turn-on, too.  I've got to be 
strong, I remind myself.  Not only would it be wrong to take advantage 
of her in this situation ... but, well, it would be *wrong*.  That's 
all.  

But if she starts to tremble her lower lip at me I won't be responsible 
for the consequences.

"Hickey, you didn't have to do that," she says, in a sulky tone of 
voice.  "I just wanted to talk to him again.  He's funny."

"Uh, Agent Scully," I say, "somehow I don't think conversation is what 
that guy had in mind."

She rolls her eyes at me, looking exactly like an exasperated teenager.  
"Oh, Jeez, Hickey, *I* know *that*.  I didn't just fall off the turnip 
truck, you know."  She shakes her head.  "Besides, I'd never hurt Mulder 
like that; you know me better than that.  Don't you?"

Suddenly she looks anxious, and I want to reassure her -- but I have to 
reflect for just a moment.  I don't know all the details of their 
relationship, but from late-night beer-and-pretzel sessions with Mulder 
I know that she *has* hurt him from time to time, sometimes pretty 
badly.  On the other hand, Mulder can be a real pissant too, on occasion 
-- the whole tawdry business with Diana Fowley comes to mind.  On the 
whole, based on what I *do* know, I'd say the honors are about even.  So 
I just say, "Sure, Agent Scully; I understand."

Only I guess I took too long thinking it over, because rather than 
looking relieved, the anxiety on her face deepens.  "Frohike," she says 
with the hurt dignity of that aforementioned exasperated teenager, "I 
wouldn't do that.  I just wouldn't.  I know Mulder was worried about 
that during the Padgett case, but I would never betray him like that.  I 
take my vows very seriously."

Sometimes there are advantages to being short, and this is one of those 
times, because my jaw doesn't have nearly as far to fall as it would if 
I were a six footer like Mulder.

"Vows?" I say, hating myself for the stupidity of it, but not able to 
stop myself or think of anything more eloquent to say.  She does not 
mean that the way it sounds; she can't.  Not that I have any right to 
object, or even *want* to object; I've never known two people who were 
more clearly intended to be together.  But ... Jesus ....

"Yeah," she says, and suddenly her expression is softening, and there's 
that light in her eyes that says she's thinking about Mulder in a 
personal way rather than a professional one.  "February 18," she adds 
with a dreamy smile.  "That was the day.  We drove over to Fairfax 
County during our lunch hour and saw one of the magistrates.  Can you 
believe it?"  She shakes her head as if *she* is having trouble 
believing it.

I know the feeling.

"I know you're probably hurt we didn't invite you, Hickey," she goes on, 
looking and sounding like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.  
"But it was all very sudden.  My mother was very upset."  Then abruptly 
her happy smile returns, and she, God help me, coos, "But we're going to 
have another ceremony that all our friends and family can come to, and 
when we do I want all of you to be my bridesmaids.  You and Langly and 
Byers, I mean."  

I feel my eyebrows shoot up at that statement, but before I can respond 
Agent Scully goes on, "And you'll all wear pink tulle, because that's 
what I always wanted for my bridesmaids."  She starts to giggle again 
and clutches my arm.  "Don't you think Langly would look positively 
scrumptious in pink tulle?"

Now *there's* a thought.

The elevator comes to a halt at our floor and the doors slide open.  I 
take Scully's arm and lead her down the hall to our door, and she begins 
humming that Ball Park Franks song again -- and suddenly I realize what 
she was actually singing about.

Oh, Jesus.  They plump when you *lick* 'em?  That really *was* what she 
meant by "grand slam".

We finally reach the door and I dig in my pocket for my key card.  
Hopefully once we get her into the comparatively controlled environment 
of our hotel room, we'll be able to figure out what's wrong with her and 
find a way to fix it.  At least, I hope to God we can fix it, because if 
we *can't* there won't be anyplace on Earth where it'll be safe to hide.  
Mulder will find us if it takes the rest of his life, and he is *not* 
going to believe -- or care -- that this is really Byers' and Langly's 
fault, and that I actually argued against it.

Shit.

I finally get the key card into the slot, but before I can open the door 
Scully goes into another fit of giggles.  She grabs my arm again and 
says, "Hey, Hickey, you know what?  There's one thing you said about 
Mulder a long time ago that turned out to be true after all."  She 
pauses for effect, and lets out a couple more giggles.  "He really *is* 
a Redwood among sprouts!"

And that's it; that's all I can take.  Some things are just too much 
information, even for me.  I know the expression on my face must be 
comical, because Agent Scully starts to laugh even harder, but I just 
don't care anymore.  I turn the handle and the door swings open, and I 
propel her into the room.

Byers and Langly are gonna to pay for this.


==================

Field Trip:

CHAPTER TWELVE - Flashback

NOTE:  This chapter is rated NC-17

==================


I awake in the pre-dawn darkness, and Mulder's hands are already on me.  
I smile sleepily, but I don't open my eyes, nor do I make any move to 
turn over and face him.  Not yet.  I want to enjoy his touch for a 
little while first.

There is a game we've invented in the short time we've been together, a 
game in which we neither speak nor see.  We explore each other's flesh 
by touch and taste and scent, gradually building our mutual arousal to a 
fever pitch, until finally we join our bodies in a sweaty explosion of 
sensation and desire.  In just a few weeks this game has resulted in 
some of the most profoundly emotional sexual experiences of my life.  
And this morning I feel like playing.

When we finally returned from North Carolina late last night, we were 
both exhausted.  The emotional stress of those horrifying 
hallucinations, coupled with the physical trauma of nearly being 
ingested by a giant fungus, had worn us down.  So when at last we 
arrived at my apartment we didn't even bother to unpack.  We simply 
stripped off our clothes and fell into bed, with no thought of anything 
but getting a good night's sleep.

But that was last night.  This morning I, for one, am feeling remarkably 
rested and refreshed -- and judging from what just brushed against my 
butt, Mulder is doing better, too.  I give a contented sigh and move a 
little closer, so he'll know that I'm awake.  But still I do not open my 
eyes.

Mulder's fingertips begin drawing an intricate pattern on my back, 
touching here, rubbing there, even pinching in a few spots, very gently.  
To an outsider his motions might seem random and unplanned, but I know 
better.  Even though we've only been lovers for a very short time, 
already he has more intimate knowledge of my body than any other man has 
ever had, and he knows exactly what he's doing.

Now the fingers of one hand are tracing the length of my spine, 
beginning at my neck and sliding slowly downwards, thoroughly exploring 
each vertebra before moving on to the next.  His other hand is resting 
lightly on my waist, his fingers splayed out to tickle and caress my 
hipbone.  Already I feel the familiar, welcome dampness between my legs, 
and I shift my hips backwards again, pressing myself against his 
erection.

Finally his fingers reach the small of my back, stroking and caressing 
the sensitive spot which I have long since come to think of as his.  At 
the same instant, his lips touch the juncture between my neck and 
shoulder, and an electric shock jolts through my body, as if a circuit 
has just been completed.  I arch my back and moan, very softly, and I 
angle my head to expose more skin to his ministrations.  And for just a 
moment I am lost in a sea of passion ....

I can no longer remain passive; the desire has grown too strong within 
me, and I need to touch him, to taste him, to feel his skin beneath my 
hands.  Eyes still shut, I turn in Mulder's embrace, wrapping my arms 
around him and pulling him close against me.  I rub my body against his, 
desperate for more contact, and I feel him respond as he arches his hips 
to press his erection against my belly.  My face is buried in the hollow 
of his neck, and I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with him and with the 
mingled scent of our arousal.

I begin to explore his shoulder and chest with my lips and tongue and 
even teeth, nipping and biting and licking.  His skin is warm and salty, 
with an overlay of flavor that's uniquely his.  I feel his arms tighten 
around me as I stake my claim, my mouth browsing further down across his 
chest.  At last I close my lips around one of his nipples, gently biting 
down ... and he shudders, and moans.

Mulder, of course, has not been idle.  One of his hands is now cupping 
my left buttock, holding my pelvis tight against him and pressing my 
center against his thigh.  The other hand continues to stroke and caress 
my lower back, each touch adding more fuel to the need that burns within 
me.

Finally I can wait no longer.  I roll onto my back, drawing my husband 
down on top of me and cradling his hips between my thighs as I wrap my 
legs around his waist.  My center is on fire, and I cup the back of his 
head with one hand, pulling his mouth to mine for a savage kiss.  My 
other hand reaches between us to capture his erection and guide it 
towards its goal.

The head of his cock brushes against my outer lips, and I hiss with 
pleasure as my hips arch upwards to meet him.  I realize in that instant 
that I need to see him, to watch his expression as he enters me.  I 
break the kiss.  My eyelids flutter open, and I look up --

-- straight into the eyes of Phillip Padgett.

#          #          #

For a timeless moment I hover over her, staring down at her face in 
shock.  I am poised, ready, the tip of my erection actually pressing 
against her entrance, ready to plunge inside her.  All it would take 
would be one sharp thrust and I'd be sheathed within her softness.  Just 
one thrust ....

But this isn't who I ought to be making love to; it's supposed to be my 
wife.  It's supposed to be Scully.  Scully is the one I can rely on; 
she's the only one I can trust and care for and love.  She's the one who 
was with me in North Carolina.  She's the one who nearly died alongside 
me in the dark.  And she's the one who knew without having to look that 
I was reaching for her hand as the ambulance carried us away to safety.

I close my eyes again and try to think, but the thrum of my arousal 
makes it difficult.  This woman lying under me and wrapped around me 
must be Scully.  She feels like her and tastes like her and smells like 
her.  She knows all our secret touches, our special intimacies and 
private rituals.  I don't see how she could be anyone but Scully.  I 
don't see how she can be ....

I open my eyes again.

Diana.

Abruptly I push myself off of her and try to climb out of bed.  I have 
to get away from this; I have to get away from *her*.  I don't know what 
happened or how I got into this situation, but I have to get away, I 
have to find Scully.  I need Scully.  But Diana reaches out and grasps 
my wrist with surprising strength and holds on tight.

"Fox!" she says sharply, anger and frustration now evident in her voice.  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I try to pull away again, but her grip remains strong -- unbelievably, 
inhumanly strong.  At last I give up struggling and acquiesce, allowing 
her to drag me back across the bed.  I can't resist, and I discover to 
my distant horror that a large part of me doesn't even want to resist.

But I have to try.  I have to.  For Scully, if not for myself.  I feel 
tears forming in my eyes as I try to hold back, and finally I begin 
whispering her name, as if it were a talisman:  "Scully.  Scully.  
Scully. Scully."

"Fox!"  Diana's voice cuts through my mantra, drawing my focus back to 
her face.  There is anger in her eyes, but I can see she's trying to 
hold it in; she's trying to project caring and compassion.  But even I 
can see it's a facade.

"Fox," she says, more gently than before.  "Fox, you have to let her go.  
You have to accept what happened.  You remember, don't you?"

I shake my head, but whether from denial or from honest lack of memory, 
even I cannot say for sure.

Diana reaches up and strokes my cheek.  "She wouldn't come with us, Fox.  
She didn't trust us.  She didn't trust *you*.  She was always that way -
- denying what you knew was true, doubting you, contradicting you.  
Holding you back."  She draws my head down for a gentle kiss.  "I know 
you cared for her, Fox, but she made her choice.  At least now she isn't 
suffering anymore."  And she kisses me again, and despite the agony in 
my soul, I feel my body begin to respond.

For an instant I feel as if I'm outside myself, watching as I settle 
down between her thighs again, watching as she once more wraps her legs 
around my waist and draws me closer.  Then her hand reaches down between 
us, lightly grasping me, bringing me back and sending a jolt of pleasure 
through my cock and up my spine as she urges me gently forward.

I see the passion and hunger on her face as I hesitate for one more 
moment.  This is wrong, and somewhere deep inside I'm screaming that 
it's wrong, but I can no longer help myself.  Her fingers are stroking 
and caressing my shaft and balls, and the tip of my cock is nudging past 
her outer lips as I move slowly downward and forward and inward.

And then with one quick thrust I'm all the way inside.

#          #          #

He enters me with one smooth stroke, sending waves of pleasure racing 
through my body.  My hips arch up to meet his thrust, and my fingernails 
dig into his shoulders as I try to draw him closer.  My doubts and 
reservations of a moment ago are gone, like dead leaves in the autumn 
wind, and all I want to do is feel.

He begins to move within me, drawing slowly out until only the head 
remains, then easing back in with a tender gentleness that makes me 
ache.  He pauses at the bottom of the stroke to place a gentle kiss at 
the corner of my mouth -- and then he begins again.

I am transfixed; overwhelmed.  My thoughts are slow and sluggish, but 
for once I just don't care.  This is what I want; this is what I need.  
I've been lonely for so very long.  So empty.  So bereft.  So lost.  
This man is my deliverer; this act is my salvation.

Deep inside a small part of me is screaming, insisting that this is 
wrong, so very wrong.  This is not where I should be, or who I should be 
with.  This man is a stranger; he doesn't truly know me or understand 
me.  He's not the one I love and trust; he never was and never can be.  
He's not my man.  My Mulder.  My husband.

Even as I think those words the pace of our lovemaking increases, and 
again my doubts are swept away.  I'm awash in a sea of passion, far out 
of sight of land, beyond all thought of turning back.  Everything seems 
clean and fresh and bright and new, and I feel myself being lifted up 
and up and up on tides of ecstasy.  

And I want more, so very much more.  I tighten my arms and legs around 
him, urging him onward:  harder, faster, deeper.  My eyes are tightly 
shut, my face pressed hard against his shoulder, my breathing sharp and 
shallow.  I'm so close, so close.  Just a few more seconds.  Just a few 
more strokes.  I arch my hips upward, seeking my release, meeting his 
downward thrusts in perfect synchrony.  Soon, soon, soon ....

I feel his body quiver, and I force my eyes to open as I realize that 
the moment is here at last.  I lift my head from his shoulder, ready to 
drink in his essence and mingle his orgasm with mine.  I see his face 
only inches from my own, and eagerly I lock my gaze with his .... 

But there is no emotion there, no engagement, not the slightest sign of 
joy or even pleasure.  There's nothing behind those eyes.  No thought.  
No feeling.  No soul.  Not the smallest trace of human contact.

I am alone.

My facade of wholeness falls away, and once again I am bereft and in 
despair.  I want to cry, but I cannot.  I want to scream, but I cannot.  
I want to rage and shriek and bellow my grief and anguish, but I cannot.  
In this eternal moment all I can do is meet his thrusts, and match his 
movements with my own.  All I can feel is my physical response, devoid 
of meaning.  All I know is what I see ....

All in an instant it hits me like a lightning bolt. This is false and 
untrue; this is impossible.  Phillip Padgett is dead, and even while he 
lived I didn't want him.  There was no spark, no attachment, no 
commitment.  There was no love or caring or concern.  No passion or 
devotion.  This is a shadow, a trick, a lie.

A hallucination.

And he turns yellow, and he glistens --

#          #          #

-- and all at once she melts away.

I collapse on the bed, exhausted, distantly aware that I'm still cradled 
between a woman's thighs and buried deep within her body.  I try to pull 
back, I try to withdraw, but she will not allow it, and after  a moment 
I lie still in her intimate embrace.

"Mulder?"

Her voice is soft and hesitant, so much so that at first I can't be sure 
I've heard it.  Her voice is what I want to hear, and she is who I want 
to see.  And so of course it isn't true.

"Mulder, it's me."  This time her voice is a little stronger -- but 
still I can't bear to look.  I want it to be her so very much; I want to 
be safe in her bed and in her arms.  But I'm afraid; I'm so afraid ....

"Mulder, it's okay," she says, and something touches my cheek, 
featherlight.  Her lips.  I feel a surge of energy and desire, but not 
even that is enough to overcome my fear.  Not even that.  "Mulder, 
please open your eyes," she whispers.  "Please look at me."

I don't want to refuse her.  A very important part of me *can't* refuse 
her.  I know she needs this, and I even know and somehow accept that she 
needs *me*, as impossible as that sometimes seems.

But I'm so afraid.

But she needs me.  And I need her.

I'm afraid.

I need her.  I want her.  I love her.

I can't live without her.

The fear is gone.

My eyelids flutter open, and I force myself to look.

It's Scully.

"Yes, it's me," she says, smiling through the tears I hadn't known that 
she was shedding, and I realize I must have spoken her name aloud.  Both 
of her hands are on me, touching me, feeling me, proving to herself and 
to me that I am real -- and my hands are doing the same to her.  Her 
fingers brush her lips, and then my own, and in hushed tones of joy and 
wonder she whispers, "And it's you."

"Yeah, Scully, it's me," I reply, as her fingers continue to trace the 
outline of my lips.  I lower my forehead to rest against hers, and 
continue, "It happened to you, too, didn't it?"  I know it did; I've 
known since the instant Diana began to melt.  But still I feel a need 
for confirmation.

"Yes, Mulder," she replies.  "It happened to me."  She kisses me gently 
on the mouth, and when she speaks again her voice is a little stronger.  
"But it wasn't real; it was just a residual effect.  There must have 
been some poison left in our systems, and now it's over.  It's over, and 
we're still here.  And we're still together."  

She kisses me again, and this time I return the kiss.  Our tongues meet, 
touching and caressing and sliding past each other with an urgency which 
wasn't there only seconds before.  I feel her shift slightly beneath me, 
and I know what she wants -- I know, because it's what *I* want, and 
need, and have to have.

Reassurance.  Validation.  Affirmation.

Her arms go around me, pulling me closer.  Her legs tighten around my 
waist, drawing me deeper.  Our eyes stayed locked on each other, holding 
our connection as our hips begin to move, driving us higher.  

Already her body is trembling, and so is mine.  This won't take very 
long; not very long at all.  Our need for each other is so great, so 
overwhelming, and our desire is so intense ... and when we're done, we 
will be better than we were before.

Because that which does not destroy us makes us stronger.


==================

Biogenesis:

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Out of Africa

==================


I'm on my way out of Africa in a wide-bodied jet.  I don't know where 
I'm bound, but I fear I've lost my way.

I've grown accustomed to some uncertainty, of course.  In the six years 
and more since I started working with Fox Mulder on the X-Files, there 
has been more than one occasion when we embarked on an investigation 
with no sure knowledge of our final destination.  But this time is 
different.  This time I've lost the anchor of my beliefs.

Thirty-six hours ago I stood on a beach on the Ivory Coast and watched 
all of my convictions crumble before me.  Everything I thought I knew, 
about science, about God, about humanity, about myself -- in those few 
seconds all of it came crashing down around me.  A day and a half later, 
I'm still waiting for the dust to settle -- and when it does, I'm not 
sure that I will like what I'm going to see.

I told Mulder when I called him from New Mexico that what he believed 
was impossible; that it was science fiction.  The artifact with passages 
from Genesis on it could not be extraterrestrial in origin.  It was a 
fraud; a hoax; a lie.  And if the object *was* what Steven Sandoz 
claimed, that still would not support Mulder's conclusions.  It would 
not abet his assertions that humans had not evolved on Earth, or that 
the Bible came from an alien intelligence rather than the Hand of God.

Even as I spoke those words to him, I knew that I was on thin ice -- ice 
which had been growing steadily more treacherous ever since the Gibson 
Praise case.  Where once I moved and spoke and thought with confidence 
and assurance, now I shuffle and creep, each hesitant step taking me 
further from the safety of the shore.  And now, at last, the ice has 
cracked and given way, and I've fallen through into the freezing water 
below.

Somehow I managed to go through the motions, back there on the Ivory 
Coast.  I interviewed the local residents, performing physicals and 
taking medical histories on whoever would cooperate.  I collected soil 
samples and water samples and air samples.  I took specimens from nearby 
plants and animals.  I am now smuggling these items, along with my 
notes, back into the United States under the aegis of a forged 
diplomatic passport provided by Langly and Frohike on the night I left 
Washington.  This one last time, at least, I will be a scientist.

I wish I could believe that it was all going to be of some use to 
someone.

I glance around the cabin at my fellow passengers, and for a moment I 
can't help wondering what they're doing here.  Why are all these people 
gathered in a fragile metal tube, five miles above the sea?  Don't they 
know how insubstantial the science is which holds this craft aloft?  
Don't they realize that all of it is based on the unproven and 
unprovable assumptions that the world is what we observe it to be, and 
that natural law is universal and unvarying?  Would any of them have set 
one foot in this plane if they *did* know those things?

Perhaps they would.  I did, after all.

My gaze falls on the empty seat next to me, the one where Mulder ought 
to be.  For the thousandth time in the past three days I feel a tremor 
of anxiety at his absence.  I've given up trying to stop this emotion; I 
fear for my husband's safety and well-being, and there's no use in 
trying to deny it any longer.  I spent six long years fighting my 
feelings towards this man, and now that I've given up that battle there 
can be no turning back.

For just a moment I try to imagine what Mulder would be doing if he were 
here with me right now, but I cannot.  From the day I walked into the 
office which once was his and now is ours, we have been at odds with 
each other.  Not over goals or values, and certainly not over trust; but 
over methods and evidence.  And although I have become intimately 
familiar with the nature of our arguments and disputes, I am unable to 
imagine the form of our agreement on such a fundamental issue.

I find this fact disquieting, because very soon -- in a matter of hours 
-- I am finally going to have to face that.  I am going to have to look 
Fox Mulder in the eye and tell him that he was right all along.  This is 
unknown territory, and the prospect of finally stepping off my chosen 
path and walking into the darkness terrifies me, even if I am going to 
have my husband at my side.

I turn my attention to the cheap paperbound Bible which I purchased at 
the airport in Accra.  This, of course, is the other part of the 
equation.  Just as my training in science provided the underpinnings for 
my professional endeavors, so my faith in God has guided my personal 
life.  But now even that has been called into question.  I no longer 
know if the Bible is what I've always believed it to be.  I no longer 
know if I can trust that this is the Word of God.

Trust.  Before this week, that's a concept I never thought to apply to 
my relationship with God.  I was raised to be a believer, to have faith, 
and although I've had my differences with the Church from time to time, 
it had never crossed my mind to question the underlying goodness of God 
-- much less His existence.  My deep, unquestioned certainty of His 
presence and concern has sustained me more than once through the years, 
as I faced the inevitable trials and tribulations of being human.  But 
now I don't know what to think.  Now everything has changed.

There are limits, though, even in this dark moment of the soul.  There 
are good teachings in this Book; rules for leading a just and moral 
life.  No matter where these ideas came from, I cannot believe that the 
injunctions in favor of peace and charity and kindness are ill-
conceived, or were merely part of a malevolent plan for our eventual 
subjugation.

I will not accept that we were not meant to love.

I reach up and pull Mulder's class ring from where it hangs beneath my 
blouse, as once again my thoughts return to him.

Mulder is the key, of course, as he so often has been in the past.  
Professionally and personally, he is the linchpin around which the rest 
of my life now revolves, both for good and ill.  I've long since passed 
the point where I can pull away from him; to do so now would be 
unthinkable.  And the only thing that makes that bearable, despite my 
need for independence, is the sure knowledge that I am just as necessary 
to him as he is to me.

Now he's more important than he ever was before.  I've come to believe 
that Mulder may be part of the chain of evidence -- along with Gibson 
Praise and Cassandra Spender -- that will finally allow us to answer 
many of the questions which have plagued us these past six years.  And 
with those answers may come the opportunity to finally take effective 
action against the aliens whose existence and intentions I am no longer 
able to deny.

In the few minutes I was in Mulder's presence, back at Georgetown 
Memorial, I had a sense of contact which I had never felt before -- not 
with him, and not with anyone.  I could perceive him in my mind.  I 
couldn't hear his words, but I could sense his being and his emotions; I 
could actually *feel* his thoughts surging as he seemed to realize I was 
there.  And I took vindictive comfort at the revulsion I saw coiled 
within him at the presence of Diana Fowley.

Even while it was happening I knew that I should fight what I seemed to 
be experiencing.  I knew then and I still know now that telepathy is 
impossible, and without any scientific merit or evidence.  I have spent 
the last six years of my life combating just these sorts of subjective, 
unmeasurable phenomena.  But what I felt inside me was so strong, so 
all-pervasive ....

When I returned to the hospital later that evening, I wanted him to know 
that I loved him, and that even though I had to leave, I would soon be 
back. Even as I was speaking to him I didn't really believe he could 
hear me, but I had to do something -- to assuage my own conscience, if 
nothing else.  So I used that connection to try to communicate with him, 
to let him know that he could depend on me, and that I was *not* 
abandoning him.

And then I had to leave him there, and I've prayed all the way to Africa 
and halfway back that my mother and the Gunmen can keep him safe for me 
until I can return.

I wish I could be sure there was Someone there to hear those prayers.

I'm on my way out of Africa in a wide-bodied jet.  In a few more hours I 
will arrive in Baltimore, my final destination unknown, my one remaining 
certainty residing in the man I am returning to.

I can only hope it will be enough.  For both of us.


==================

Biogenesis:

CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Into the Night

NOTE:  This chapter is rated NC-17

==================

"How is he?"

Those are my first words as I finally clear Customs and step forward to 
embrace my mother.  Those are the words which have been echoing and 
reechoing within my soul for the past three days, ever since I left 
Mulder at Georgetown Memorial to go to Africa.

I feel her body stiffen slightly, but whether at my question or at my 
touch I cannot tell.  Then she relaxes and her arms go around me, and 
for just a moment I'm warm and safe.

My mother has always had this effect on me.  As far back as I can 
remember her mere presence has been a comfort to me, her voice and touch 
a balm.  Through the years I have come to her when I was troubled, and 
although she has not always been able to solve my problems, she has 
nevertheless steadied and calmed me, giving me the chance to catch my 
breath and find my own solutions.

It was for this reason that I didn't hesitate to call her before I left 
for the Ivory Coast, and ask her to look after my husband in my absence.  
Despite the tension caused by my abrupt marriage to Mulder, I knew that 
she would be there for me -- and for her son-in-law -- in our moment of 
need.

Yet even as I take comfort from my mother's hug, I'm uneasily aware that 
she hasn't answered my question.  I keep holding her, and letting her 
hold me, waiting for her to respond, but at last I can't wait any 
longer, and I draw back a bit to look into her face, but she isn't 
giving anything away.

"Mom?" I ask.  "Mom, is something wrong?  Is Mulder --"

"Fox is fine," she says firmly, pulling loose from my embrace and 
turning to lead the way towards baggage claim.  I feel unaccountably 
cold at her withdrawal, as if she was never really in my arms at all -- 
and then I grab my carry-on with its precious load of evidence and hurry 
after her.  "As well as can be expected, at any rate," she continues as 
I catch up with her.  "He was released from the hospital this morning."

"They let him go?" I reply.  "That's wonderful!"  I feel like a little 
girl who's just been told that Christmas will be early this year.  
Mulder is okay!  He's been released, and soon I'll get to see him.  
Thank God....

"Dana!"  My mother's voice cuts through my thoughts, bringing my 
attention back to her.  She's stopped walking, and is standing in front 
of me with her hands on her hips, a grim look on her face.  "Dana, there 
are some things we need to talk about, and we may as well do it now, 
while I still have your attention."

This doesn't sound like it's going to be a fun conversation, but it 
appears that I have little choice.  When Mom gets determined about 
something, there's no stopping her.  I make no reply, but gesture 
reluctantly for her to continue.

She studies my face for a moment, and then she sighs, and her features 
soften slightly as she takes a step closer.  "Dana, first of all, know 
that I love you, and so does the rest of the family.  That has never 
been in doubt, and it never will be."

She pauses for a moment, and the silence stretches on as she seems to be 
unable to find a way to say whatever's on her mind.  Finally, keeping my 
voice as steady as I can, I say, "But?"

Another sigh.  "But there are some problems, Dana."  She raises her hand 
and quickly adds, "Not with Fox.  As I said, he's doing as well as can 
be expected.  The problems are with you."

"Me?" I respond, hating myself for the tremor I manage to put into that 
one word.

"Yes, Dana, you.  To be more precise, your relationship with the rest of 
the family."

Abruptly everything falls into place, and I realize what's about to 
happen.  I've been waiting for this conversation, dreading it, really, 
ever since my cancer went into remission.  And suddenly it's two years 
ago, and I hear my mother's words echoing inside my head:  //I don't 
know why you didn't tell me.  I don't know why you didn't tell me 
immediately .... I don't want to be kept in the dark.//

I promised her she wouldn't be; I told her I'd try to keep her better 
informed -- not just about my illness, but about my entire life.  And I 
tried to do it; I really did.  But so much of my work on the X-Files 
would be troubling to my family, and somehow it seemed ... easier ... 
just to gloss over a lot of that.  And once I'd started glossing, then 
even those things which weren't directly connected to my work became 
harder to explain.

Looking into my mother's eyes, I can see that she's recalling at least 
some of the same things, and that these memories are even less pleasant 
for her than they are for me.

Finally she sighs yet again, and says, "Dana, I know this isn't really 
the best time for this --" she glances around at the crowds of people 
hurrying past "-- or the best place.  But I've tried for over a year to 
find a time and place, and I haven't been able to.  And quite frankly, 
I've reached my limit, and I need to get this out.  And so has Bill."

"Bill?  What does he have to do with this?"

"He's here, Dana," she says, weariness evident in her voice.  "He's at 
home with Fox right now.  I asked him to come home and help me after you 
... left."

I feel my eyes widen in shock and concern.  "But Mom, I gave you the 
number for the Gunmen, and --"

She shakes her head sharply.  "Those are *your* friends, Dana -- and I 
did call them and they've been very helpful, especially Melvin.  But I 
needed someone *I* could trust.  I would have called Charlie, since I 
know Bill and Fox don't get along, but Charlie's out on a deployment 
right now."

I feel as if the walls are closing in on me, and the abrupt change from 
the joy I was feeling only a moment ago is almost enough to give me 
vertigo.  I shake my head slowly, not quite able to meet my mother's 
eyes.

"Mom, I understand what you're saying, but you didn't have any right to 
call Bill in on this.  This is --"

"Pardon me?" she responds brusquely.  "I didn't have any *right*?  May I 
remind you that *you* called *me* on two hours' notice and asked me to 
look after your husband for you?  And that you gave me very little by 
way of explanation of where you were going, or why, or even much in the 
way of guidance as to what I was supposed to do?  Other than to keep 
your supervisor and that Fowley woman away from him, of course."

"Mom -- "

"Which I was able to do, by the way, but *only* because I had Bill there 
to help me.  Mr. Skinner wasn't too difficult, but that woman was nearly 
impossible."  She shakes her head again, and her tone softens slightly.  
"I'm sorry, Dana; I know this is a difficult time for you --" and 
suddenly the edge is back in her voice "-- even if I don't know all the 
reasons.  But these matters are going to have to be addressed, for my 
own peace of mind if nothing else."  

She stands there studying my face for a moment, before she finally turns 
on her heel and heads off once more in the direction of baggage claim.  
And after just another instant, I follow.

#          #          #

The ride from the airport to my mother's home passes in silence.  Mom 
seems to have said what she wants to say, at least for the moment.  I 
don't kid myself that this discussion is over; she has simply given me 
her opening statement, and now is apparently allowing me time to digest 
it, and perhaps consider a response.

Whether or not that was truly her intention, I spend the drive doing 
just exactly that.  As my mother guides the car through midafternoon 
traffic, I remember with aching clarity her words last February in my 
apartment, on the night she found out the hard way that Mulder and I had 
gotten married:

//It's bad enough that you cut me out of this; please don't play stupid 
with me as well.//

//You want me to believe that you just woke up one morning and decided 
to get married -- and then you simply forgot to tell me?  I'm sorry, 
Dana, but I can't believe that.//

//You've been progressively shutting the family out of your life ever 
since you joined the FBI, and I guess I shouldn't be surprised that it's 
finally come to this.//

And I have to admit that there is some truth in what she said that night 
-- but only half the truth.  The other half is that my family started 
pushing me out the day I announced my plans to join the Bureau.  Neither 
my parents nor either of my brothers ever really understood that 
decision.  Only Missy seemed to accept it, and even she didn't grasp why 
I chose the FBI.  But at least she understood my need to put some 
distance between myself and thesepeople who I dearly loved, but who 
sometimes seemed suffocating and controlling when it came to my life and 
my choices.

So yeah, Mom, I guess you're right.  Perhaps it is time we had this out.  
I could wish for a better time and place, but that choice seems to have 
been taken from me.

I am drawn from my reverie by an odd tingling feeling deep inside me, a 
feeling I've experienced only twice before:  the two occasions last week 
when I visited Mulder at Georgetown Memorial.  I've given up fighting 
this feeling; he's close and somehow I know it.  This is just one of my 
many capitulations over the course of the last several days, but unlike 
the others this is one I cling to -- because as much as part of me hates 
this feeling of dependency, I *need* Mulder, now more than ever before.

A moment or two later we're pulling into the driveway of my mother's 
home, coming to a stop next to Mulder's car.  The tingling has now grown 
into a steady hum, buzzing lightly inside my head and filtering down to 
the rest of my body.  I'm beginning to understand why Mulder was so 
distressed over the things he was hearing.  What I'm feeling is barely 
noticeable, and pleasant, but it's still distracting.  I can't imagine 
what it must have been like for him.

Bill is waiting for us at the doorway, his features grim and remote.  Of 
course.  I pause for just an instant, trying to remember the last time I 
saw him look otherwise, but I cannot.  I know this can't really be true; 
I know my brother and I haven't truly grown so far apart that he hasn't 
smiled at me in years.  But right now it feels that way. 

"Bill," I say at last, breaking the impasse.  "It's good to see you."

He studies me silenty for a moment longer, then nods briefly.  "You 
too," he says, making no move to hug or kiss me.  He jerks his head in 
the direction of the living room.  "He's in there."

I want do something.  I don't know what, but I want to reach out to my 
brother, and try to break the wall of ice between us.  I should at least 
thank him for dropping everything on a moment's notice to take care of a 
man he despises.  But the words just aren't there, and finally I simply 
nod in return and walk on past Bill into the house.

And finally I'm with Mulder again.

I stand for a moment in the doorway, simply looking at him.  He's 
stretched out on my mother's sofa, a light blanket tucked loosely around 
him despite the early summer heat.  His eyes are closed, but from the 
way the humming inside my head has suddenly intensified I know he's not 
asleep.  And then his eyes pop open and he smiles.

"Thought so," he says quietly, mischief dancing in his eyes.

In the space between two heartbeats the universe seems to contract, 
until it's a bubble just large enough to contain the two of us.  We've 
been in this bubble before -- a few times before we were married and 
with growing frequency since then.  In the past, even since our 
marriage, it's made me feel a little restless and claustrophobic, but 
now it seems just right -- perhaps even a bit larger than it realliy 
needs to be.

Fortunately, I know what to do about *that*.

Keeping my expression calm and serene I begin to move across the room in 
the direction of my husband.  During this endless journey of perhaps 
half a dozen steps Mulder's eyes stay on me, his steady gaze like a 
beacon in the darkness.  And with each step I take, the joyful humming 
in my head grows stronger.

At last I reach the sofa, and without hesitation I set down my carryon 
and drop to my knees.  I reach out with one hand and gently brush a 
stray lock of hair from his forehead, just as he slips one arm around my 
waist.  And for a minute or two we stay that way, my hand now resting 
motionless on his cheek, while his fingertips lightly caress the small 
patch of skin where the tail of my blouse has pulled loose from the 
waistband of my slacks.

"You really can hear me, can't you?" I say at last, very softly.

He nods slowly.  "Yes, I can."

"That's why you were so cr --"  I almost bite my tongue to keep from 
saying that last word, but it's too late.  Fortunately, Mulder seems to 
take it well, because his lips quirk and there's a glint of humor in his 
eye.

"That's right," he says, nodding slightly.  "That's why I was even 
crazier than usual."  His expression turns solemn again.  "I kept 
hearing voices, everytime I was near that rubbing.  It was confusing, 
and it hurt, and I didn't know where it was coming from or what it 
meant.  I still don't know what's causing it, but at least I'm learning 
to control it a little."  He smiles slightly.  "It's not as hard as you 
might think.  It's sort of like tuning out the conversation at the next 
table when you're in a restaurant."

I nod in acknowledgement.  "It sounds like something I could stand to 
learn, too," I reply.

"You can hear me, too, can't you?" he asks quietly.  He lifts his hand 
off my waist to stroke the side of my head, and I lean into his touch.

"Sort of," I say.  "Not the way you describe; I don't hear voices or 
anything, and I don't hear anyone but you -- and even you I only hear 
when you're nearby."  I grab his wrist and bring his hand around so I 
can kiss his palm.  "All I really get is a sort of buzzing.  Nothing 
articulate; just ... I dunno.  Emotions, I guess."  I feel myself 
blushing slightly.  "I can tell when you're thinking about me."

"That's pretty much all the time," he murmurs, and he frees his hand and 
cups the back of my head, and finally draws me down and kisses me.

I don't know how I survived six years without this.  Having finally 
found it, I don't know where I got the strength to walk away from him 
and do without it for six long days.  I feel myself sinking into a warm, 
erotic haze as his lips press against mine and his tongue strokes and 
caresses the inside of my mouth, and the thrumming in my head grows 
stronger with each passing second.  Every other thought is driven from 
my head as we share a moment of sensual bliss.

Finally, our lips separate.  Eyes closed, I rest my forehead against his 
while I catch my breath.  Finally I pull back a little and open my eyes, 
to find him looking at me with such open adoration that it almost makes 
me cry.

"You could do it because you had to," he says gently, apparently 
responding to the questions I was asking myself a few seconds ago.  "You 
survived because you're strong -- you're the strongest, most courageous 
person I've ever known.  I don't know if I'll ever be able to express to 
you the pride I feel at what you've done -- for us, and for our work."  
Then his head drops back on the cushion and he closes his eyes, and in a 
few more seconds he's fast asleep.

I continue kneeling by the sofa for a few minutes, trying to digest what 
he just said.  Mulder is proud of me?  I know he loves me -- I'm 
confident of that, at long, long last.  That he cares about me, is 
concerned, values my friendship -- all of these things I also know are 
true.

But pride?

I shake my head and allow a smile to touch my lips, and for just a 
moment longer I stay by my husband's side, watching him sleep.  He seems 
so calm and peaceful now; his face is so untroubled.  A small part of me 
wishes he could be like this all the time, but that wouldn't be who he 
is.  That wouldn't be the man I fell in love with.

At last I climb wearily to my feet.  It's been a really long day, coming 
at the end of a difficult, stress-filled week, with jet lag perched on 
top like a large, ungainly cherry.  I want nothing more than to crawl 
into bed and sleep for about a week, preferably cuddled up in my 
husband's arms, but from the conversation Mom and I had in the car, and 
the way Bill was looking at me a few minutes ago, I don't think that's 
in the cards.  But at least maybe I can get Mulder upstairs where he'll 
be a bit more comfortable -- not to mention being out of the direct line 
of fire.

I glance around the room, but neither my brother or my mother are 
anywhere to be seen.  Which isn't too surprising, really; whatever other 
differences I may have with either of them, they're still decent people, 
and they really do love me.  Given their obvious negative feelings, it 
was actually very sweet of them to give us a few moments alone.

But it does leave me the problem of getting Mulder upstairs and in bed 
unassisted.  Fortunately, it's not the first time in the past six years 
I've been faced with this problem.  After a small amount of coaxing he 
is sufficiently roused, and allows me to sleepwalk him up the stairs.  
He's had a hard week, too, I remind myself -- not that I ever really 
forgot, but my own exhaustion has suddenly become so all-pervasive that 
I'm finding it a little hard to focus.

Finally, though, I've maneuvered up the stairs and tucked him into the 
bed in my old room.  He smiles up at me sleepily, and whispers, 
"Scully," before closing his eyes and dropping back off to sleep.  Once 
again I'm sorely tempted just to crawl under the covers next to him.  My 
mother and Bill can wait.  This discussion has been building for the 
better part of a decade; a few more hours aren't going to matter -- and 
I am really tired, and have desperately missed sleeping next to my 
husband these past few days.

"I could have helped you, you know."

I jump at the sound of my Bill's voice, then turn deliberately to see 
him standing just inside the bedroom doorway, his face cool and 
expressionless.  I stand there looking at him for a moment, and finally 
I shake my head.

"It's okay," I say.  "I managed fine."  And I walk past him into the 
hall.  Of course, he follows.

"Dana!"  I stop at the top of the steps and close my eyes.  This is it, 
then.  I take a deep breath, open my eyes again and turn to face my 
brother.  "That's always the way it is with you, isn't it?" he says in a 
flat tone of voice.  "You're always in control; you never need *or want* 
anyone to help you -- no matter how deep the water gets or how close you 
get to the edge.  It's always, 'I'm fine, no problem, leave me alone.'"

"What if it is?" I snap, all the repressed tension and exhaustion coming 
bubbling out at once.  "What the hell business is it of yours anyway, 
Bill?"  I take another deep breath and he tries to interrupt, but 
something's just cut loose and I'm on a tear.  "You disappear from my 
life for years at a time, and then show up at the critical moments 
expecting to second guess the decisions I've made?  Is that how it 
works?"

"Don't knock it, Dana.  It looks like you could *use* a little advice!"

"You think so, Bill?  You think poor little Dana can't make her own 
decisions and manage her own life?"  I take a couple of steps towards 
him, my fists clenched at my sides.  "Well guess what?  I've managed 
pretty well without your help.  Sure, there were times when it would 
have been nice to have a little support for the things I was doing, but 
I gave up on that a long time ago!"

"Support, Dana? Which times were you thinking you'd like some support?"  
He starts ticking off items on his fingers.  "When you ditched all the 
money Dad spent to put you through medical school to run off and be a 
'special agent'?  When you then accepted this assignment to chase little 
green men instead of doing serious work?"  

He moves forward into my personal space and lowers his voice -- but his 
tones are drenched in anger.  "Or maybe you mean when you decided to 
*marry* that sorry son of a bitch in there -- without telling anyone, 
much less consulting with us.  Just exactly how long have you been 
screwing him, anyway?  I've been wondering about that for a long time."

I struggle to suppress the urge to slap him, and a dozen responses flash 
through my mind, each more angry and biting than the last.  Finally I 
say, "It's always me, Bill.  I'm always the one who has to ask 
permission.  You and Charlie -- you picked your careers and your wives 
and decided when and whether to have children.  But not me.  Not Dana.  
With me there was always someone standing there, ready to tell me I was 
making a mistake or that I was disgracing the family or some damned 
thing."

I take yet another deep breath, then continue, "Well I'm sick of it, 
Bill Scully.  I've had it up to here with your fucking paternalism and 
sniping and second guessing."  He tries to speak, but I keep right on 
going.  "I've chosen my career, and I'm damned proud of the work I do.  
You will never in your life understand just how important and fulfilling 
the pursuit of those 'little green men' is, Bill.  You will never 
realize what Mulder and I have accomplished, or what you owe us -- you 
and everyone else on this stupid planet."

Now our bodies are almost touching, and I'm staring directly into his 
eyes.  "And now I've chosen my husband.  I'm in love with him and he 
fulfills me and, and he makes me a whole person.  And if you can't cope 
with that, you can just go to hell!"  And I push past him and head back 
for the bedroom door.  I've got my hand on the doorknob when he speaks 
my name.

"Dana!"

I freeze in place.  A big part of me wants so badly just to go on 
through the door and slam it in his face, but I can't quite make myself 
do it.  This is my *brother*, I think.  He loves me and he wants the 
best for me.  

I keep repeating that in my mind as I slowly turn to face him once again 
-- and I just have time to recognize the glint of malice in his eyes 
before he says, "Have a good fuck."  And then he turns and heads back 
down the stairs.

I stand there looking after him for a long minute, my body shaking with 
shock and anger.  I'm so very tempted to launch myself after him, and 
take out all my rage and frustration on him.  I want to punish him for 
stealing the joy I should be feeling at being back home and having my 
husband safe and sound and in my arms once again.  Most of all I just 
want to beat some sense into Bill, and make him realize what an ass he's 
being, and how much his words have hurt me.

But that wouldn't accomplish anything, I realize.  Mulder needs me, and 
we have work to do, and that work won't be advanced by getting in a 
fistfight with my older brother.  And so I turn back around and reenter 
the bedroom.  Mulder is wide awake, of course, although I don't know if 
it was our voices or his new ability to hear people's thoughts that woke 
him.  He smiles at me, tentatively and uncertainly, and I smile back.  

Neither of us says a word as I strip down to my skin and crawl in bed 
next to him.  Mulder gathers me into his arms and tucks my head beneath 
his chin.  I want to cry, but I've never been good at that, and so at 
last I just close my eyes and let his touch relax me.  Now that I'm no 
longer focused on Bill I can feel that comforting hum of Mulder's 
presence, and in another few minutes I'm fast asleep.

#          #          #

When I awaken again the sun has set.  The sky outside the bedroom window 
has turned the royal blue of early evening, and shadows have invaded the 
room, making eerie patterns on the wall.  I'm drowsily reminded of all 
the times I woke up in this room when I was a teenager -- before Mulder, 
before the X-Files, before the Bureau.  Even before college and medical 
school.  

Those were good years, I think, still only half awake.  Those were 
family years.  My father and Missy were still alive, my mother was 
someone I could go to with all my troubles, Charlie was the closest of 
all my siblings -- even Bill seemed to fill an essential role, despite 
his overbearing ways.  A small part of me misses those years, that sense 
of completeness and belonging.  

But that was more than half a lifetime ago, I remind myself, and there's 
no turning back the clock, even if I wanted to, which I really don't.  
Going back would mean giving up who I've become, and all the things I've 
seen and thought and done.  No matter how terrible and heartbreaking 
some of those things have been, they led me in the end to Mulder, and I 
would never even consider giving him up.

No matter what the cost.

Still not completely awake, I force my attention back to the present.  I 
may be lying in my old bed in my old room in my mother's home, but I'm 
no longer that shy, uncertain fifteen year old.  I'm now a grown woman, 
with adult concerns and responsibilities.  I have a good job, I enjoy my 
work, and I even have a husband -- who at this moment is snuggled up 
behind me, his arms wrapped loosely around my waist and his chest 
pressed firmly against my back.

I don't even have to wonder whether he's awake or not.  The quiet, 
comforting hum is back, the hum I've come so quickly to recognize as 
Mulder's thoughts, and I feel his embrace tighten slightly.  I smile, 
knowing that he can hear my pleasure and contentment, and for a few 
minutes we simply lie together, enjoying a rare moment of peace and 
tranquility.  This is what I've missed the most of all these last few 
days:  the touching and casual intimacy that Mulder and I have worked so 
hard to establish since February.

At last I feel a delicate kiss at the base of my neck.  I tilt my head 
and sigh happily as Mulder's tongue lightly touches my skin, sliding 
slowly up my neck and sending a thrill of pleasure down my spine.  I 
snuggle back a little closer in his arms and close my eyes, and for a 
moment I just accept his attentions.

I notice the thrumming inside my head is growing louder, and is overlaid 
with something that wasn't there before.  I feel a strange quiver of 
excitement and urgency racing through me, clearly sexual, but different 
from and more intense than anything I've felt before.  For a moment I'm 
bemused by this, but then I realize what it is:  Mulder.  This is how it 
is for Mulder.  This is how I make him feel.  And he chuckles softly and 
whispers against my neck, "You ain't felt nothing yet."

Now his hands begin to move, his fingertips lightly touching and 
caressing my belly, moving in slow, steady circles and sending ripples 
of desire through my body and my mind.  I hear myself murmuring his name 
just as his lips reach my ear, and he kisses and licks the sensitive 
spot below it before nipping lightly at my earlobe -- and I feel a 
shiver of delight as I seem to taste my own skin, filtered through his 
perceptions.

God, this is good.  This is so, so good.  Mulder's hands are moving 
upwards now, his fingers skimming across my ribs and finally cupping my 
breasts.  I arch my chest outward against his hands, reveling at the 
dizzying sensation of his fingers on my nipples and the simultaneous 
feel of my breasts beneath his fingertips.  I push my butt back against 
him, until his erection brushes the backs of my thighs.  Instinctively I 
part my legs and allow him to slip between them ....

Suddenly I'm breathless as waves of arousal go sweeping through me.  
Part of it is mine and part of it is his, the two distinct and separate 
feelings somehow mingling and combining, the total rapidly becoming far 
more than the sum of its parts.  

The rational part of my mind is distantly aware that feedback is taking 
place, my own need and desire feeding into his, which in turn is 
reflecting back to me.  I push the thought away, though.  I don't want 
to think about this, and I don't want to understand it.  All I want to 
do is feel his cock between my legs, my thighs against his shaft.

I can no longer remain passive.  I reach up and grab his hands where 
they cup my breasts, pushing them more tightly against me and holding 
them in place.  I turn my head, pulling my earlobe from between his 
teeth and capturing his lips with mine.  My tongue plunges into his 
mouth, aggressively exploring and probing, the flavors and textures of 
our mouths mingling together in my mind.  The room is filled with the 
groans and murmurs of our passion, my soul with the golden haze of our 
desire, but I'm already so far gone I can't tell which sounds and 
thoughts belong to whom.

Mulder's hips start moving against me, his erection sliding slowly back 
and forth between my thighs.  A growl forms deep within our throats as I 
quickly complement his motions, and my explorations of his mouth grow 
even more demanding.  Everything about this is right:  the taste of his 
mouth, the feel of my skin, the sounds we're making and the scent of our 
mutual arousal, all of it driving us onward and upward.  Most of all our 
arousal buzzing inside us, separately and together, intensifying and 
reinforcing itself in an endless spiral of want and need and desire.

I can wait no longer.  My need for Mulder is a dull ache deep within my 
belly, an ache which is matched only by his need to fill me.  We break 
the kiss, gasping for breath, and I reach down between my legs and find 
his cock, long and hard and warm.  

My body shudders as a spike of electricity races up my arm, matched by 
the strange new eroticism of experiencing the touch from his 
perspective.  Mulder moans, his breath hot and moist against my cheek 
and ear.  I arch my hips, thrusting back just as he thrusts forward, and 
in an instant he's buried in me to the hilt.

For a moment I simply freeze, my head thrown back against Mulder's 
shoulder, my mouth wide open in a silent cry of wonder.  This is ... 
this is ... unbelievable.  I'm feeling this connection from both sides, 
and it's setting me on fire, sending wave after wave of heat coursing 
through my body.  I can barely breathe, it's so intense, and my body is 
already trembling, already on the brink.  Mulder's hands are on my hips, 
and now he begins to move, and I move with him ....

Oh God.  Oh God.  Oh God.  This is not going to take very long.  Between 
the abstinence of the past week and the nearly-overwhelming flood of 
sensation from this new connection we share, I'm wound up tighter than I 
can ever remember being.  Having him inside me, knowing that it's him, 
and simultaneously feeling his joy and pleasure at having me surrounding 
him is almost more than I can take.

But not quite.

I feel both our climaxes building as our hips continue to move against 
each other.  Each inward thrust seems deeper than the last, and Mulder's 
breath is hot and harsh against my neck, my skin warm and slightly 
bitter against his lips.  I want this to go on forever, and at the same 
time I can't stand for it to last another second.  I want to keep 
feeling him deep inside me, I want to keep feeling myself wrapped around 
him, I want to keep smelling the wonderful scent of our arousal -- but I 
also want our climax, and I want it now.

Please, God, I want it now ....

And then we're there, and we're together, crying out with our voices and 
our minds, the orgasm ripping through both of us with unbelievable 
intensity.  Mulder's hands slide off my hips and his arms wrap tightly 
around my waist as we buck and convulse against each other.  I feel as 
if any instant I may fly apart, and the only thing preventing it is 
Mulder's warm embrace, his body holding me and surrounding me.  He's 
keeping me grounded with his touch, and I'm doing the same for him.

It's so beautiful ....

Finally, slowly, gradually, I feel the storm abating.  My husband's arms 
are still wrapped around me, and his chest is warm and firm against my 
back.  I can still feel him, in my body and in my mind, the warm, joyful 
humming now soft and fuzzy around the edges.  I want to turn and face 
him, but this is so good, so comfortable, so pleasantly erotic -- and 
besides, I'm too worn out to move.  

Mulder knows my feelings, of course, and I know his, and so I turn my 
head just as he turns his, and once again our lips meet in a soft, 
gentle kiss.  After the intensity of our lovemaking, the quiet sweetness 
of this kiss provides comfort and reassurance.  I feel a great calm 
settling over me, and at last we break the kiss and I sink back into my 
husband's arms, both of us already more than half asleep again.

#          #          #

When next I awaken it's in near-total darkness, the only illumination 
coming from the hallway light.  For an instant I'm confused; I know I 
closed the bedroom door, but now it's open.  Then I feel a hand on my 
shoulder, shaking me roughly, and my brother's voice.

"Dana!  Wake up."

I squint at his form, silhoutted against the light.  I can't make out 
his face, but his voice sounds grim and determined.

"What is it?"  Even as I utter the words I'm aware of Mulder waking up 
behind me.  He doesn't move, or change his breathing pattern -- but I 
know.  I can feel it.  "What time is it?" I add grumpily.  The memories 
of my last conversation with Bill are still fresh and sharp, and I feel 
the pain all over again as I gradually come to full consciousness.

"You just had a phone call," he says brusquely.  "And it's almost three 
a.m."  

There's still repressed anger in his voice, but I put that thought 
aside.  Bill would not have come in here to wake me unless the call was 
important.  And I feel a surge of emotion from Mulder which I interpret 
as agreement.

"Who was it, Bill?" I ask, drawing the blankets around myself and 
sitting up in bed.  Still Mulder lies still, feigning sleep.  I can 
sense he's uneasy about letting me face my brother alone, but I try to 
send some reassurance.  It seems he must have gotten the message, as his 
anxiety quickly eases off.

"One of your friends," Bill replies coldly.  "Byers.  He wouldn't stay 
on the line, but he said to tell you that all work and no play makes 
Jack a dull boy."

For a moment I freeze.  My mind kicks into overdrive, and I can feel 
Mulder's thoughts accelerating too.  This is one of several code phrases 
we've worked out with the Gunmen over the years.  It was originally 
Langly's idea, and I admit that in the early years I thought it pretty 
silly and cloak-and-daggerish.  But recent events have changed my view 
on that, as with so many other things.  And the meaning of this one is 
crystal clear:

They're coming.  Run for your lives.  

And if Byers refused to stay on the line, that means the Gunmen are in 
trouble, too.

Jesus.  After all this time, everything we've been through, they've 
finally decided to take us.  Presumably because of Mulder's gift, and 
presumably they waited until I returned so they could scoop us up 
together.  But whatever the reason, they're coming.  And we have got to 
get out of here.

Already Mulder is sitting up in bed; I throw off the covers, heedless of 
my nakedness and my brother's presence, and hit the light switch.  Then 
I start tossing clothes to Mulder and pulling on my own.

"Dana?  What the hell?"

"We've got to go, Bill," I say as I finish tucking in my blouse and 
reach for my shoes.  "Right now."  I try to think of some way to explain 
it to him, but nothing reasonable comes to mind.  Sorry, Bill, but a 
bunch of men in black are on their way over with their zap 'em up guns, 
and we've got to head for the hills.  I shake my head and turn back to 
my husband -- to see him still only half-dressed and slumped back 
against the wall.

"Mulder," I say softly, sitting down on the bed next to him.  I can feel 
the exhaustion radiating from him, and I feel a pang of guilt over our 
earlier activities.  But God, we both needed that ...

"Mulder," I repeat, shaking him gently.  "Mulder, we've got to go."

He nods, then opens his eyes.  "Okay," he says, and he forces himself to 
a full sitting position as I begin buttoning his shirt.

"Dana!"  If anything, Bill's voice is even sharper than before.  "What 
the hell is going on here?"

I finish buttoning Mulder's shirt and help him stand before turning to 
face my brother.  "Bill, as I'm sure you've already figured out, that 
was a code phrase.  Something we've worked out with a few of our 
friends.  And what it means is ... "  Hell, I still can't find the 
words.  Finally, I just repeat, "What it means is that Mulder and I have 
got to go.  Now."  And I grab my carryon in one hand and take Mulder's 
elbow with the other, and we head for the door.

Which Bill is blocking, of course.

"Bill," I say through gritted teeth. "Move.  Now."

"Dana --"

"Bill, so help me God, if you don't get out of that doorway this second 
I'll never speak to you again!"  An empty threat, since that's a 
probable consequence of what's about to happen anyway.  But Bill doesn't 
know that.  Yet.

For a moment Bill hesitates, staring down at me -- and finally I see the 
question marks in his eyes, the ones I've been looking for ever since I 
arrived.  He really is concerned; he honestly is.  Despite all the the 
bluff and arrogance and plain pigheadedness, he does care.

Not that it makes any difference at this point.

Finally my brother moves reluctantly to one side, and Mulder and I pass 
through the doorway and into the upstairs hall.  He follows us in 
silence as we make our way down the stairs, until finally we're standing 
by the front door.  I know I can't just leave; I have to make one more 
attempt to make some contact.  I can feel Mulder's thoughts pulsing 
understanding and agreement, and he leans against the door while I turn 
to talk to Bill.

"Bill ...." I say, but then I let my voice trail off.  I just can't find 
the words.  We've grown so far apart, and now I have about thirty 
seconds to try to tell him everything that's led me to this point.  It 
can't be done.  I also want to go to my mother's room and at least kiss 
her goodbye, but I wouldn't be able to explain this to her any better 
than I can to Bill.  Finally I shake my head in frustration, hating 
myself for my cowardice, and I just say, "Take care of yourself."  

It occurs to me as I utter these words that taking care of himself -- 
not to mention Mom and Tara and the rest of the family -- might be a 
tall order, under the circumstances.  My only hope is that by leaving, 
Mulder and I will draw the attention away from the rest of them.  A thin 
hope, at best.

"You'd better get going," my brother says at last.  His voice is flat 
and unemotional, and the flicker of concern I saw a few minutes ago 
appears to be gone.  My shoulders slump and I feel Mulder's touch, on my 
elbow and in my mind.  Time to go.

I turn away from my brother for the last time, and once again I take my 
husband's arm.  The door swings open easily, and we move out onto the 
porch and down the steps.

It's dark and quiet outside, and the stars are shining down like tiny 
gems set against a velvet backdrop.  It's hard to believe there can be 
danger here ... it's so peaceful and beautiful.  But we can't ignore the 
Gunmen's warning; we can't afford to take that risk.

At last I get Mulder to his car and into the passenger seat.  He reaches 
in his pocket and pulls out and hands me his keys without comment, then 
slumps back in his seat and closes his eyes while I fasten his seatbelt.  
I move around to the driver's side and start the engine, then turn to 
look at  Mulder.

He is so beautiful.  I don't know how or why any of the rest of this had 
to happen, but as long as I've got Mulder I've got everything I really 
need.  I feel a lump forming in my throat, and I know he's still awake 
and listening, because the humming in my head is louder, and a tiny 
smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You ready, Partner?" I say at last.

His smile broadens, but he doesn't open his eys.  And he replies, "Yeah, 
Scully.  I'm ready.  Whither thou goest."

I lean across and kiss him briefly on the mouth, then straighten up and 
put the car into gear.  We back out of the driveway.  Another moment and 
we're moving forward, down the street and away from my mother's home, 
into the night.


==================

EPILOGUE - The Last Day of Summer

==================


I awaken before my usual time on the last day of summer.  Despite the 
early hour, Mulder is already up and active, which I know by the humming 
inside my head even before I reach sleepily across the bed to find his 
spot empty.

I sigh, regret mingling with contentment, and snuggle a little further 
into the bedclothes, happy in the knowledge that there's no schedule to 
keep today.  Two weeks ago I gave my notice to the Sheep's Head Cafe, 
and yesterday was my last day.  This morning Mulder and I will have a 
leisurely breakfast, load our few possessions into the car, and start 
heading east at last, and back into the fray.  There's no timetable for 
our departure, though; this one last day we can pretend we're on 
vacation.

There's no real reason why we have to leave today, for that matter.  But 
we've been discussing our future plans for several weeks now, and today 
is as good a day as any -- and the symbolism of the change of season has 
played a role in this decision as well.  We've rested long enough; just 
as summer gives way to fall and vacations end, so our sabbatical from 
our proper work must also draw to a close.

As the smell of coffee drifts in from the other room of the efficiency 
apartment which has been our temporary refuge, I let my thoughts drift 
back over the events of the past four months.  So much has happened in 
that time -- and yet the basics remain the same.

After we left my mother's home we headed west.  We had no particular 
destination in mind that morning, other than putting as much distance as 
possible between ourselves and anyplace our enemies might think to look 
for us.  We also hoped that by leaving we might draw pursuit away from 
our friends and families -- a goal which has met with mixed success, 
unfortunately.

Eventually we settled in a small university town on the banks of a river 
in the upper Midwest.  The pace is slower here; the lifestyle is less 
intense than what we'd been accustomed to.  The people are friendly 
without being pushy or intrusive, and the student population is 
sufficiently transient that no one took particular notice of two more 
strangers arriving unexpectedly from nowhere -- nor are they likely to 
miss us when we leave.  We've made a few acquaintances and engaged in 
some socializing, but we've deliberately kept it casual and remained a 
little distant.

When I found out about the cache of money and forged identification 
papers Mulder had in the trunk of his car, I didn't know whether I 
should be appalled or grateful.  He told me he'd put the packet together 
the morning after the X-Files were burned, and on the whole I'm glad -- 
it certainly has stood us in good stead.  The money tided us over until 
we could settle on a place to hide and find jobs; the new identities, 
courtesy of the Gunmen, have allowed Fox Mulder and Dana Scully to 
disappear without a trace.

We hope.

All of which has given us the time and space we needed.  When we left my 
mother's home in Baltimore, four months ago, we still had many issues in 
need of resolution -- issues both personal and professional.  We haven't 
settled everything, and I don't suppose we ever will.  But at least 
we've had the chance to catch our breath, and some things have slowly 
become clearer.

The small part of me that remembers being a law enforcement officer 
still cringes every time I use Betty Bruchstein's I.D. to cash a check, 
but as a practical matter I have little choice.  And in any case, the 
list of things I won't do for Mulder and for our quest has been 
shrinking steadily ever since I walked into that basement office so many 
years ago.

I draw my hand from under the covers and lightly touch Mulder's class 
ring where it hangs from the chain around my neck.  I feel a fresh surge 
of affection, both for him and from him, as I remember the night he gave 
it to me, and for at least the thousandth time I'm grateful that this, 
at least, is no longer in doubt.  We went through so much pain and 
suffering and heartache to get to this point, and much as I might wish 
some of those things had happened otherwise, I can't make myself regret 
the chain of events that finally led us to each other.

As I continue to hold Mulder's ring in my hand, my fingers brush against 
my cross.  This, too, has become more coherent and intelligible while 
we've rested here.  I've been reading the Bible a lot since we arrived, 
and I've done a lot of praying.  My faith is still not as strong as it 
once was; it's not even as strong as it was after my remission, and 
nowhere near where I would like it to be.  But at least it hasn't left 
me entirely.

Or more accurately, I haven't left it.
 
Somewhat to my surprise, Mulder has joined me in my Bible study.  He 
hasn't volunteered his reasons for this, and I haven't asked -- but 
despite his numerous questions and frequent skepticism, I do sense a 
warm feeling of contentment from him whenever we read Scripture 
together.  I don't know whether that's because he recognizes the comfort 
I find in it, or because he takes pleasure in our spending time 
together, or even because he's doing a little spiritual exploration of 
his own.  Perhaps it's a combination of the three.  

The one thing I do know is that I feel less alone, because Mulder is 
with me -- just as he always is.

Three weeks ago Langly and Byers passed through town in the guise of 
Jehovah's Witnesses, bearing news of the outside world -- news which 
Mulder and I had not dared seek out, for fear of drawing attention to 
ourselves.  Unfortunately, all of it was bad.

The night after we left Baltimore, my mother's house burned to the 
ground.  The fire was ruled to be an accident, and no one was home at 
the time, but none of us believe it can have been anything other than a 
warning.  No further incidents seem to have been directed at my family, 
but of course the threat remains.

The X-Files have been closed again, of course.  That was inevitable, 
once we had to go into hiding, and as much as the confirmation saddened 
both of us, it's not the worst thing that could have happened.  At least 
this time our work has not been burned, or handed over to a Consortium 
agent.  We can hope the Files will still be there, waiting for us, when 
we finally return.

If we're ever able to return.

Not surprisingly, Diana Fowley has dropped out of sight again -- but 
this time Walter Skinner and Teena Mulder have also disappeared.  So far 
as Langly and Byers have been able to determine, no foul play was 
involved.  The three of them are simply -- gone.  But whether that's for 
good or for ill is impossible to say.

The worst news is that no one has heard from Frohike since the night we 
were forced to flee.  After calling us with the warning the Gunmen split 
up, each going into hiding in a separate, confidential location.  They 
had plans to find each other once again, but when Langly and Byers 
arrived at the rendezvous point Frohike wasn't there.  We still have 
hopes he may appear, but at this point they are only hopes.

But hope is one of our most important remaining resources.  Hope is what 
allowed Mulder and me to find each other at last, after the disaster at 
El Rico.  Hope is also what allowed us to heal and become stronger 
during our sojourn here.  Rather than simply burrowing into the ground 
and giving up, we've held each other and cared for each other, building 
some happy memories to go with all the bad.  And now on the last day of 
summer we're finally ready to continue the battle.  

I'm drawn out of my reverie by the sound of Mulder's footsteps in the 
short hallway between the bedroom and the living area, and a moment 
later the shower comes on.  I feel his thoughts, suddenly erotic and 
inviting, and I smile as I throw back the covers and climb out of bed.

By the time I reach the bathroom I've already stripped off my clothes.  
Now I'm standing just outside the cramped little shower stall, a slight 
smile on my face, waiting.  This is a game we play from time to time.  
Mulder knows I'm here, and of course I know he's there; the object is to 
see which one of us will give in first, and finally open the door.

It doesn't matter which of us it is, of course, because either way we 
both win.  The shower door swings open at last and I step forward into 
my husband's arms, ready to make one more happy memory before it's time 
to go.


==================The end of the whole story.==================