Title: Your Love Like Thunder

Author: Trixie

Email: scullymulder1121@hotmail.com

Archive: Go right on ahead.

Rating: PG-13ish

Classification: MSR, A, V

Spoilers: En Ami (at least those are the ones I'm conscious of)

Summary: Picks up almost immediately after the episode. The conversation I
=wanted= to see between Moose & Squirrel.

Notes: I do not believe the contents of this fanfic are true =on the show=.
However, for the purposes of this fanfic, I think it worked best this way.
(You might understand this statement after you read. Or not. I'm goin' on
six hours sleep here, people, work with me!)

Disclaimer: Given the current status of contract negotiations & lawsuits,
are we even sure CC, 1013 & FOX own 'em anymore?

Hugs & well wishes to poor Brandon at work for the beta.
 

~

I do =so= love Mulder.

Infantile as it sounded, it was the only rebuttal she had wanted to give
that bastard when he went into his pop psychology routine.  Only common
sense had kept her from speaking the words. What did it matter, anyway, if
that was what he thought? He wasn't exactly speaking gospel truth to her
about anything else; who was going to care, in the grand scheme of things,
if a sick old man didn't realize the depths to which she loved her partner?

She cared. She cared far more than she was willing to admit.

It had never suited her, this "fondness" the old man felt toward them.
Mulder had always believed him to be a liar, only professing genuine
affection when he wanted something from them. Scully, on the other hand,
saw something different. The devil doesn't love the way human beings do, she
often wanted to argue with Mulder. His love would be twisted, identifiable
as love to no one but himself. Why would his true motives be obvious to
them?

This, like so many things between she and Mulder, was a moot point, one she
didn't want to argue with him. The longer they drove, the less she thought
of C.G.B. Spender and his motives. The longer they drove, the more she
thought of the confrontation that was surely to come.

He was so angry.

Beneath the surface of his seemingly cool exterior, she could feel it,
boiling, waiting to release itself with the minutest degree of provocation.
Unlike so many times in the past, she did not blame him for his anger. If
anything, she shared it. The anger she felt toward herself surely must be
stronger than anything he could direct her way.

Of course, she hadn't felt that way sitting in his apartment while the
Gunmen confirmed an empty disk. His refusal to even look at her spoke more
than the words of condemnation she knew bubbled within him.

Yell, she had wanted to cry then. Scream at me, blame me, fight with me,
forgive me, =anything= but ignore me.

But ignore her he had. The drive to the building where she'd originally met
Spender was even quieter than this one. They only spoke once she'd reached
the empty office, voicing her disbelief at having been duped. Used, she
reminded herself, Mulder's words echoing in her mind. She had been used,
the devil having effortlessly woven her into his lies.

Stupid, she thought for the hundredth time. How could she have been so
stupid? Hadn't she warned Mulder against this very thing dozens of times in
the past? Why, then, when the chance of an unbelievable miracle was waved
before her, did she react like a bull spotting a red cape? Never take candy
from strangers, little girl. The sticky sweetness of Spender's lifesaver in
the back of her throat made her want to gag.

"We're here."

Jumping slightly, his voice startling her, after having been silent so
long, Scully turned to regard her partner. Still, he didn't look at her, 
his eyes intently focused on the steering wheel.

"Come up."

That couldn't be her voice, sounding so needy and lost. Begging him, with
her tone, if not her words, not to leave, not to ignore her any longer.

And when he finally looked at her, she was struck by a memory, the force of
which momentarily stole her breath. It had been just like this that night,
three weeks ago. Driving back from some case or another, he was dropping
her off before he returned the car and took his own home.  It hadn't been a
particularly stressful last few days, nothing revolutionary had transpired,
yet they had both felt it then, the shift.

It had been the most natural thing in the world to lean across the divider
between them and press her lips to his. Chaste and short, less passionate
than the kiss they'd shared on New Year's Eve, it was nonetheless a
covenant entered into by both parties. In her eyes, when she had moved away 
from him, was an invitation and a promise.

"Come up," she'd said then, her voice huskier, surer.

Tears stung her eyes, temporarily blurring her vision as she struggled to
blink them back. In that gas station bathroom, she had hurriedly
outlined to him her situation. All she had wanted to say then was how much 
she loved him, how much she prayed this wouldn't disrupt this new, delicate,
beautiful thing between them. And now, as she could almost hear him formulating
reasons to leave, she mourned its loss with every fiber of her being.

His door opened, and her heart lifted in the smallest degree. A moment
later, her door opened, and he held it for her, waiting, it seemed. Why was
it that he always waited for her?

Stepping out of the car, they remained silent on the long walk to her door.
Each step they took echoed how differently they had traveled this same
distance that other night. He had touched her then, his hand at her back, a
bit more possessive than it had been before, his fingers drifting
undiscernibly lower along her ass. It shouldn't have been noticeable, but
she had felt it all the same, just as surely as she felt his distance now.

After what seemed an endless time, they reached her door, and she let them
in, automatically flipping the deadbolt the moment they were inside.
Whether this was precipitated by her newfound love of locks, or the desire 
to telegraph to Mulder the message that he wasn't getting out before she'd
said her piece, she didn't know. Whatever the reason, it was a definitive
gesture and he leaned up against the arm of her couch.

"Scully," he began, only to stop when she threw a hand up.

"Mulder, no. I don't . . . I don't want to hear it, not until you've heard
what I have to say." Satisfied for the moment that he wasn't going to
speak, Scully stripped off her jacket and tossed it over the back of the 
sofa, using the movement to bridge some of the distance between them.

"I'm sorry that I lied to you." Pausing for a moment, gathering her
thoughts, Scully resisted the urge to touch her partner. One thing she'd
learned over the short time they'd been lovers -- when something wasn't
right between them, he did =not= like to be touched until things were
settled.

"Scully," he began again, only to have her forestall him again, this time
with two fingers, pressed to his mouth.

"Please."

As she'd known it would, that silenced him. Very rarely had she ever
beseeched of him so openly. The word please was indeed a magic word to him,
coming from her, and he closed his mouth firmly. He would not speak again
until she had finished.

"I'm sorry that I lied to you," she repeated again. "But that's the only
thing I'm going to apologize to you for. Because everything else . . .
everything else is my cross to bear, and my mistake to live with." Running
an agitated hand through her hair, she turned from her partner, finding it
easier to say this without looking into his eyes, without seeing the anger
he would soon unleash upon her.

"I trusted the devil and nearly paid the price for it. But Mulder, I
promise you, I never did so with the intention of betraying you, or hurting 
you. I only wanted answers, I only wanted . . ." Pulling her lower lip between 
her teeth, she bit down so hard she tasted blood. The pain kept her from crying.
"I wanted so badly to believe there was good in him," she whispered finally.

Behind her, she felt him move, come close to her again. He hovered at her
back, as near as he could be without touching.

When he spoke, his voice was raw. "Why?" Good question, she thought. Wanna
give me the answer?

"Because if there was . . . if even he, the most evil of men, could have
some sense of right and wrong, some sense of decency . . . maybe there's
hope. And if he was being honest with me, if he was leveling with me, that
meant there was a cure. There was even more hope, to alleviate so much
suffering." Turning, she faced him, her voice sounding half-crazed to her
own ears. "Mulder, think of it. If he had been telling the truth, all the
lives that could have been saved, all the suffering eliminated--"

"Scully," he interrupted.

"No! Damn it, no! I won't have you blaming me for trying to--"

"Scully, I'm not blaming you!" Both his hands landed on her shoulders, and
he shook her slightly, his gaze boring into hers. His voice lowered, the
look in his eyes intensifying. "I'm not blaming you."

"You're angry." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," he confirmed.

"At me," she added.

"Yes." A pause. "But not in the way that you think."

Confusion had to be plainly written across her face. "I don't understand."

"That's because you haven't stopped being mad at yourself long enough to
see me," he pointed out wryly. Slowly, his hands stroked down her arms
before he released her, turning away. She watched his fingers tunnel 
through his hair. "I thought self-recrimination was my gig in this 
partnership, Scully. You're gonna have to give me a copy of the new 
play book."

"Mulder, there's no play book. We've never had one, we've never needed
one."

"I don't know, Scully. It might be nice to have an easy reference guide, at
least so I know what the hell I'm supposed to do right now."

Cautiously, she moved toward him again where he stood by her couch. Her
hand on his shoulder was accepted, and she was heartened.

"Please," that word again, it was becoming a habit with her, "Mulder, make
me understand."

"I feel like a fool," he muttered. "A damned fool."

"Mulder, you're not a fool," she protested.

"The hell I'm not!" It was the closest he'd ever come to yelling at her
when he wasn't in a chemically altered state.

"Mulder."

"No. No, Scully, it's my turn now." A heavy beat passed between them. "Does
it ever get to be my turn?" His tone was almost sarcastic.

Inclining her head toward him once, she gave him the floor, metaphorically
speaking. Now we're getting somewhere, she thought, almost giddy. But do I
really want to go there?

"I am a fool," he repeated, "because my greatest burden is this need I have
to take care of a woman who won't let herself need anyone."

Scully opened her mouth to respond, but this time it was he who forestalled
her with a hand. He looked her in the eye, refusing to turn as she had.
Coward, she spat at herself silently.

"You've talked before of being a burden to me. Of holding me back, of my
not needing you. But the truth is, you're the one who doesn't need me. =You=
never have, Scully, and you think that's okay. You're so terrified of
losing, that you won't let me get close enough to love you."

"What the hell are you talking about?!" Respect for his wishes was one
thing, but she wasn't about to let that go unchallenged. Besides, there was
something in his tone that hit too close to home, too soon after another
man had just challenged her heart. Never, in a million years, would she put
Mulder and that cigarette smoking bastard in the same thought, yet the
obvious comparison was there. They both claimed to know better than she the
state of her psyche.

"You thought I would be angry with you because you sought out an avenue of
investigation on your own, because you went with this man we both know
to be a liar and a murderer, and that you lied to me about it." There were 
no questions in his words, only statement of fact. Wearily, she nodded,
because he was right.

"News flash, Scully." He moved in close, his face nearly touching hers, and
she was reminded of another heated confrontation light years ago in a
storage room in Icy Cape. "I don't give a =shit= that you went with him. I
was afraid for you, and for me. I was worried that something was going to
happen to you, because you didn't have all the facts. I =know= you can take
care of yourself, but your judgment was obviously impaired and your
situation was compromised by information you didn't have.

"Which brings me to my point." A tired smile crossed his face and he moved
away from her, sagging wearily against the side of her couch. "You don't
need me. Or, at least, you don't want to need me."

"Mulder, stop it."

"And you don't love me--"

"Goddamn it, I said =stop it=, Mulder--"

"At least not the way that I love you."

Scully couldn't decide what made her angrier. The audacity he displayed
=leaning= there, so sure of how she felt, or the blind ignorance that would
normally be the last thing she'd associate with him. For he had to be blind
not to see the depth to which she would go for him, good God, she would
=die= for him . . .

That thought stopped her cold.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice hushed.

He shook his head. "I don't want your apologies, Scully, you don't owe me
any."

"Mulder, shut up," she snapped. He looked surprised. Apparently, he'd
thought after he made his point, she was just going to accept it and let it
be. Fat chance, G-man. "You're right," she began, wincing at the pain that
filled his eyes at her words, "and you're so, =so=, wrong."

That seemed to bring him up short. Good, she thought, good. That would give
her time to figure out what the hell she was going to say. Moving toward
him quickly, she grasped his hand in hers and held it tightly for a moment,
before bringing it to her breast, and placing the palm against her rapidly
beating heart. It had to be right, or he wouldn't believe her, and he =had=
to believe her.

"That man, that monster, that devil, he sat in the car with me and tried to
convince me that he knew the contents of my heart better than I did. He
played pop psychologist as he tried to ferret under my skin, to find a
weakness he could exploit, a sympathy he could play on. I don't doubt that
he's watched me, us, for years. I don't doubt that he knows me as well as
anyone can who watches from a distance." Her hand pressed against his
tightly, her heart beating faster as she held his gaze with her own. "He
knows, Mulder, but he doesn't =see=. He doesn't =feel=."

"What doesn't he see?" His voice, too, was hushed, paying respect to the
silence of the room. "What doesn't he feel?"

"He doesn't see that whatever walls I've built up around my heart don't
keep you out. He doesn't feel my heart take every beat the way that you do. 
I can't keep you out, Mulder, because you live here, inside me, in every
breath I take, you're there, so much a part of me that I can't even
distinguish it anymore."

His mouth moved, as though he was trying to speak, to find the words. It
wasn't his turn yet. He'd been giving her so much for so long now, not the
least of which was the past three weeks.

"You give me such beautiful words," she whispered, "so that I know how you
feel, and I know how you love me, how you cherish me." Damn tears again,
she thought, making no move to blink, letting her eyes fill, letting him
see. "I forget." Wonder colored her voice.

"What do you forget?" His own eyes were wet, she could see, and the hand
not securely holding his moved to his face, her fingertips stroking the skin
just below his eyes with reverence.

"I forget that you're not feeling me breathe you into my body. I forget
that you can't know, can't be sure of me, when I don't tell you." Shaking her
head, she was appalled at her own inattentiveness. He needed more, he
deserved more. "I wanted to laugh at him when he told me I wouldn't allow
myself to love you. I still had a love bite on my inner thigh from the last
time we were together, and =I= wouldn't allow myself to love =you=?" A
nervous laugh escaped her lips and she bowed her head, unable to look at
him.

He waited until she looked back up at him to speak. Removing her hand from
his face, he pressed her palm over his heart, letting his eyes speak for
him. "It hurt," he whispered. "It hurt so badly that you lied to me, when
you were the one person I knew would never deceive me, that you believed
him so easily, when I know had it been me to bring you this so called miracle,
you would have doggedly denied its merit."

"Mulder--"

"Shh, shh," he murmured, leaving her hand against his chest, his fingers
brushing against her lips lightly. "I'm not asking for more apologies. I'm
just being honest." His index finger lightly caressed her lower lip for a
moment, before he traced a path to her ear and tucked a lock of hair behind
it. "It hurt worse these past weeks, dreading the moment when you realized
this thing between us wasn't enough."

"Never," she vowed. It made him smile. Inexplicably, she was absurdly
pleased with herself. He smiled at her, even though his eyes were still
clearly shining with unshed tears.

"We need to talk more," he declared.

Another nervous titter escaped her, and she tried to hold back more.
Largely unsuccessful in this attempt, she found herself hauled against
Mulder's chest, her arms around his shoulders, his around her waist. And 
oh, it was so good, breathing him in, being close enough to feel every 
inch of him, being held so tightly that only balls of her feet touched 
the floor.

"Promise me, Scully."

"Anything," she answered without thought. It was an easy thing to say.
Trust made it easy. He would never ask more of her than she could give.

"Never do this again. No matter the incentive."

Gripping him a bit tighter, her nose buried in the base of his neck, just
beneath the collar of his t-shirt, she thought for a moment. "Can you
promise me the same?"

His fingers dug into her back for a moment, tightening then releasing. With
a sigh, she clung to him. It was unsurprising to her that he'd asked, and
equally so that he would be unable to promise it himself. It seemed there
=was= a double standard, even between-

"Yes."

Pushing against his shoulders, she found both her feet on the floor.
Staring, shocked, into her partner's eyes, she grappled for words. "Did you
just promise to never go off on your own without telling me the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but first?" She was sputtering and she didn't
care.

"If you'll search your recent memory, I haven't, in a very long time."

He had her there.

"I don't want to promise and risk breaking the promise, Mulder."

They exchanged a heavy look. Finally, he nodded slightly. "That's very
sensible of you, Scully." A weak smile pulled at his lips. "But then
that is what you do best in this equation, isn't it? Keep me from going
off half cocked."

Lines about half cocks ran through her mind, but she pushed them aside. Now
was not the time.

"I promise to try," she blurted out. "I promise to try my very best. I
can't know what the future will bring, but I promise to do my best."

He seemed to accept that. Then, he surprised her yet again, by saying, "I
promise you the best that I have in me, Scully."

There was so much in that statement. So much. They stood there for a time,
looking at one another. Then: "I should get going."

Going? As in, leave? Her heart lurched. No, you can't leave, she thought.
You're not allowed to leave. I need you with me, can't you see that, I
thought we'd just talked about it . . .

But she still hadn't said the words. God, what =was= wrong with her? Why
couldn't she just say them?

Because it wasn't who she was. Years of refusing to need took more than one
heart wrenching conversation to rehabilitate. It would be a long process,
but worth it, so worth it to give back to him some of the joy he'd given to
her.

The way she normally dealt with a crisis, even after they became lovers,
was to push him away. To demand her solitude so that she might build up her
defenses, and allow a chance to be totally calm, cool, and put together by
the next morning. Even the few times he'd held her when she cried, she had
still pushed him away in the end.

"Stay." One word, the only way she had of expressing how desperately she
needed him. His gaze was questioning, and so very, very afraid to believe.

"Gee, Ms. Scully, I'd like to, but I ought to be getting home . . ." He was
teasing her, and the blessed relief of it struck her to her very core,
tears escaping her eyes and running, silent, down her cheeks.

"Stay," she implored again, her voice marginally thicker than before,
secure now. He wasn't leaving. He just liked feeling her need. Liked 
knowing there were no walls between them, and hadn't been for quite 
some time.

"I'll get in trouble," he tried, close to her, so close to her, his hands
resting on her hips as she pressed her face to the hollow of his throat,
inhaling him deeply, taking him into her body in whatever way she could.

"Stay," she said again, this time whispering the words against his mouth as
he pulled her closer still. In his kiss, she found the absolution he did
not believe she had reason to crave.

From that first brush of his lips against hers, weeks ago, it had been
like this. A benediction, a haven where she could float and exist in a 
state of security and being. It was exciting, and passionate, and all 
those things love should be, but it was, paradoxically, also safe, and 
so very fine, in the truest sense of the word.

He accepted her for whatever she was, and she offered him the same in
return. And somehow, she had managed to never tell him how very dear he was
to her, how =necessary= he was to her.

She would tell him, she decided as his hands crept beneath the fabric of
her turtleneck. Maybe not tonight, maybe not as soon as he deserved, but
eventually, she would find a way within herself to tell him all the secrets
and mysteries that existed in her own heart. By the time she was done, his
heart and mind would be so full of her love, and hers so full of his, that
they would dream the same dreams at night.

And there would be no room left for doubt.

~

END

I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a
constitutional amendment outlawing astroturf in the designated hitter. I
believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents
Christmas morning, rather than Christmas Eve, and I believe in long, slow,
deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days. Goodnight. - Kevin Costner,
Bull Durham