TITLE:  Manly Devotion
AUTHOR:  Flynn
CLASS:  MSR, DAL, MulderAngst
DATE:  August 28, 2003
E-MAIL:  flyn121@yahoo.com
ARCHIVING:  Unlike Surferboy, I was taught to share my toys.
Please keep author and headers attached, and let me know where to
visit.
WEBSITE: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/
FEEDBACK: Almost as good as caffeine in the morning, and just
as addictive. 
RATING: R, mostly for earthy language
SPOILERS: Brief nod to Never Again and briefer mention of
Diana; nothing else worth mentioning.
DISCLAIMER: Archetypes belong to Carter. Besides, you know
what they say about the sincerest form of flattery, right?
SUMMARY: "Your fear of abandonment is compelling, Mulder,
but it's beginning to get on my nerves."


Special hugs to Christine - friend, pseudo-sister, fellow Phile.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Manly Devotion
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     It was raining.  
     Fox Mulder pulled his collar up closer and fought back a shiver
as  he hefted his suitcase. Perfect. Middle of the night, his car was 
parked out in the boondocks at Reagan National, he was tired and 
cold and smelled vaguely of cigarettes and coach class, and Mother
Nature decided it was a good time to open up on him. Freeze his 
ass off. Fine. Great. Whatever. It was the end of April, for  shit's
sake. Unseasonably cool? Was that how the weather  forecaster
phrased it just the other day? Jesus, what day was  it, anyway? He
couldn't remember. Too many days and nights spent  alone.  
     Alone.  
     He remembered a time when he liked working alone - like, hell, 
he'd *preferred* it. After joining the Bureau, after the hell of 
working Violent Crimes, after he found the Files ....  
     Now he hated it with a passion. 
     A misstep off the curb put his foot into a puddle inches deep. 
Bitingly cold water swamped his shoe, saturating both sock and 
skin, and he swore roundly.  
     He despised cases like this. A late afternoon phone call, a rushed 
consultation, a plane, and bammo! - he found himself in the middle 
of Shreveport, profiling not just some faceless kidnapper but the 
whole damned family the bastard had managed to spirit away. The 
kids turned up quickly enough, both dumped in the city park, both 
in drug-induced comas. They'd be fine, the doctors had said; 
trouble was, the whereabouts of the parents were still unknown. 
What had happened? Was it a drug-deal gone bad? Good people
caught in a terrible position by some hideous twist of fate?
Something  as simple and yet as sinister as a mob hit? Not that it
really  mattered now .... he'd done what he could and been
dismissed.  Asshole SAC. Mulder hated leaving before full
resolution. 
     And Scully. How things had been between them when he'd left
DC ....  well, he hated that even more. It wasn't completely unheard
of  for them to have a full-blown pissing contest, strictly speaking, 
but at the same time it wasn't what could really be called common-
place. The whole thing left him with a peculiar, off-balance  feeling.
He always felt like that when they quarreled. As usual,  it had been
over shit so petty that it barely merited note. How  he'd allowed it
to escalate to the point of angry words, he  couldn't really say.
Some profiler he was. Shit. 
     It began over paperwork. Funny, how so many of their
arguments  seemed to be rooted in that particular evil. She resented
him for  leaving her to tidy up when the brain- and leg-work was
done. All  but accused him of using her as his own personal
secretary. He'd  bristled, of course. Jumped right back with denials
and counter- accusations. He did nothing of the sort. If anything,
she rode to  success on his coat tails. How could it be fair to expect
him to  stop in the middle of his cerebrations and do the damned
filing?  Since she was admittedly better at certain aspects of
bureaucracy  than he was, it simply made sense for her to see to the
.... 
     Shit. Shit shit shit. *Shit!* 
     He did treat her like a secretary. Probably more than he was 
aware. The realization almost stopped him in his tracks -  only a
blaring horn kept him from lurching to a stop right  there in the
middle of the expressway. Guilt rapidly uprooted  any lingering
anger. Oh, shit. What a bastard. Jeez, he'd  blown it big-time.
Again.  
     *Can't keep doing that,* he told himself, the words following 
the cadence of the throb that was taking up residence behind  his
right eye. *Can't do it again. She's your partner. Your  friend.* 
     *Your lover.* 
     At least, she *had* been. Not for very long, certainly, but  long
enough to make them officially a pair, at least for the  few hours in
the day when they weren't on the clock. Enough  to know they
must be doing something right for each other.  She sure as hell did
for him, and he was pretty confident,  judging from the manic
panting he'd driven her to that last  time, to say *nothing* of the
soft, beaming smile she sported  for two days thereafter, that he still
knew how to ride that  particular bike.  
     Whether he ever had the opportunity to get anywhere near her 
again remained to be seen. A gut impulse almost made him head to 
Georgetown, but a wiser thought stopped him. There was nothing 
he could say that would set the matter to rights tonight. Besides,  it
was late, and she never had been one to appreciate midnight 
drop-ins. Best to leave it until morning. She'd have had three  days
to cool off by then, and he'dhave another eight hours to  think of a
new way to make it up to her.  
     Coffee, he thought as he reached his car. It took just a moment 
to stow his suitcase in the back, but with the wind blowing down 
his neck, it felt like forever before he was in away from the 
elements. Yeah, good coffee, and with it some of those pastries  she
liked, the kind that came smothered with warm icing. All  brought
to her door, bright and early, on a fine, cold April  morning. 
     Except that tomorrow was Saturday. That realization sucker-
punched him as he drew up to a stoplight, and he felt his heart  sink.
Bright and early would definitely not fly on a Saturday.  Besides,
who was he kidding? There was no way she'd let this go  without
chewing on his ass a little, and rightly so. He hung  his head,
eliciting another blaring horn, this time when he  missed the change
from red light to green. Dejected, Mulder  stomped on the
accelerator and smiled grimly when the tires  squealed in protest.
As an after-thought he flipped the radio  on. The game was long
over, but maybe he could catch some  highlights. 
     Commercials. Great. Oh, and now a news bulletin. A rash of 
break-ins throughout Arlington and Alexandria. There were 
indications of some sort of organized gang activity, though 
authorities were not yet naming names. Places were hit when the 
occupants were not at home. He thought of his apartment, sitting 
empty and neglected for three days. His computer. His stereo.  That
new TV that would be oh, so inviting to the miscreants.  Okay, so
maybe his place being burgled didn't quite rate on the  tragedy scale
with the case-of-the-missing-parents .... it was  still his home, and
he'd be damned if he'd go to the trouble of  replacing all that shit
again.  
     Maybe he wouldn't have to. Hope nudge at him as he made the
turn  onto Hegal. All was quiet. A few cats scattered at his
approach.  He managedto wedge the Taurus between a Land Rover
and an aging  BMW without trading any paint, and swore softly as
he dragged  himself back out into the cold night air. There was
nothing vital  in the suitcase, so he left it. The case file went with
him, of  course. No telling what thoughts mightcome to him in the
long,  lonely hours between now and dawn. 
     Lonely. God, he was lonely. Maybe he *should* have gone to 
Scully's.  
     Despondent, he shouldered his way into the empty foyer. There
was  a note on the elevator door: *Temporarily Out Of Service.
Please  use stairs.* Figured. Shit. 
     An eternity later he lurched to a stop outside his door. The 
hallway was largely silent, with just the sound of a distant 
television echoing faintly around him. He looked around as he  dug
in his pocket for his keys. Maybe not so distant. Oh, who  cares, he
chided himself as he flipped the deadbolt and gave  the door a
shove.  
     And froze. 
     Not so distant. Not distant at all. His TV. It was on. 
     And on his couch, a slight figure was sprawled. One with red
hair. 
     For a brief moment curiosity warred with confusion, delight with 
concern. What was she doing here? Was she okay? He found
himself  beside the couch in the time it took to blink, hovering over
her  for a long moment, running through a quick once-over by the 
flickering light of the tube. No blood. No obvious bruises. No 
trauma of any sort. His shoulders dipped just a little as he  sighed
his relief. Wearily he eased himself down on his coffee  table,
elbows on knees, his gaze intent upon her. She slept  soundlessly
on, oblivious. Jeans and a T-shirt had taken the  place of her
tailored suit. She looked .... different. Softer.  A little vulnerable.
He felt his heart lighten just a little as  he studied her. Her shirt had
ridden up a little, he noticed,  affording him a glimpse of smooth,
pale midriff.    He quickly reined in a delicious surge of lust. Okay
.... so  what was this all about? Why choose his couch as her bed?  
     *Isn't it obvious,* his inner demons chirped. *She must have 
something to say, something that can't wait until morning.* 
Anxiety knotted his gut. Not hard to guess what that could be. 
     *Mulder, it's over.* Pain lanced through his chest, pausing just 
long enough to rip his heart into several large, messy pieces.  Oh, it
was not fair how easily his demons could mimic his partner  in tone
and inflection. 
     *Mulder, I'm leaving the X-files.*  
     Better and better. Not much she could come up with that could
top  that. Nothing that didn't involve protracted hospitalization, at 
any rate.  
     Should he wake her? She'd probably be pissed if he didn't. Then 
again, chances were she'd be pissed even if he did. No, best to 
leave her there. She'd get up in her own good time, perhaps rip  him
some new orifice he may or may not need but no doubt deserved, 
and then she'd be gone. For the night or for the rest of his life  ....
No, it hurt too much to contemplate that thought. *Get up,*  he
told himself. *Go shower, then get your ass to bed. If she's  here in
the morning, you can talk about it then. If she's still  around the
morning after that, you'll be the luckiest fuck in  the world and
you'll never even think about treating her like  a secretary again.* 
     *At least, you'll try not to.* 
     He bit back a groan as he pushed himself slowly to his feet. The 
table creaked beneath the shifting weight, and he felt a rush of 
panic when she started to move. *Don't wake up .... just  don't ....* 
     Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit! With a soft sound that
sounded a  little like his name being yawned, she stretched and
opened her  eyes. They closed in a slow blink and then opened
again, this  time with a snap. For an instant she just stared at him in 
something like shock; then with a soft *Shit!* she scrambled 
upright, dragging her fingers through her hair as she tugged  her
shirt back down. "Uh, Mulder. Hey." 
     He didn't move a muscle, just stood there looking down at her 
like a dunce. "Hey." 
     She sneaked a look at her watch. "I wasn't expecting you until 
tomorrow." 
     He managed an indifferent shrug. "Case was over, at least as  far
as I was concerned. SAC Grier told me to get lost. I took  him at
his word." 
     She scowled as she muted the television. "What do you mean?" 
     He dropped the case file on the table before turning away, 
shrugging himself out of the trench as he kicked his shoes  off. The
wingtips went in different directions, one ending up  under a chair,
the other beneath the desk. He didn't care.  "Just that. Grier didn't
like some East Coast fed fucking  with his case. First opportunity
he had, he showed me the  door." Mulder sighed wearily. "Can't say
that I blame him.  I really could have used you on this one, Scully. I
couldn't  come up with shit." 
     Her scowl deepened into a genuine frown. "What are you
talking  about?" 
     He shook his head as he padded into the bedroom. "We found 
the kids, but the parents were still unaccounted for when I  left.
Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if they found them in  pieces in some
damned bayou." 
     "Mulder ...." He heard her push herself to her feet and hurry 
after him. He did his best to ignore her. Fatigue and defeat  had
effectively ground him down, and he just didn't feel like  sparring.
She stopped in the bedroom doorway. "Clearly you  haven't heard.
They found the parents. Unharmed. Well,  bruised and a little
rattled, but basically unhurt." 
     It took a few seconds for his tired mind to process her  words.
He spun back to her, confusion battling blind hope.  "Found them?
They found them? When?" 
     She gestured back toward the TV with a turn of her head.  "It
was on the news a little while ago. The family lived on  Farley
Street, right?" He nodded. A little smile drew at the  corner of her
mouth. "There's a rather infamous divorce lawyer  who lives on
Farley *Avenue.* Someone was evidently trying  to kidnap him and
got the addresses mixed up." Her smile  quickly faded as she locked
gazes with him. "Don't short- change yourself, partner. They
couldn't have figured it out  without you." 
     Sometimes it was a mixed blessing when the last puzzle piece 
fell into place, especially when he was bone-weary. Tonight  was no
exception. "Bastard *did* grab the wrong family." His  temper,
held in check for the past several days, abruptly  boiled over, and he
snarled viciously as he yanked his tie  off and flung it away. "Shit! I
told Grier that two God-damned days ago. Two days, he's had the
information, and he waited  for *me* to leave the investigation so
he could be the big  man with the fucking press."  
     She didn't move, didn't even blink at the outburst. "Well," she 
said quietly, "we know differently, don't we?" 
     He said nothing, merely stood with arms braced on his dresser, 
his breaths coming fast and hard. Rage made his heartbeat  thunder
in his head. When a hand touched his shoulder, he  flinched away.
"No," he snapped, falling back a step and  brushing her away. "Son
of a bitch .... just .... shit! I  don't want to talk about it. I don't want
to talk about  anything. I'm tired of talking, of thinking .... of.... of 
shoveling shit against the fucking tide only to catch it in the face
over and over and over again." 
     She stood motionless, her hand still suspended in the air. Her 
brows were knitting in concern. "Mulder .... are you okay?" 
     Oh, perfect. As if he didn't have enough to process, now she 
was pulling an obvious role-reversal. His anger flared again, 
mercurial and misdirected. *Yes, Scully, I'm fine. Everything's  fine.
Fucking peachy.*  
     She winced ever so slightly. "Don't say that," she breathed,  and
he realized with a stab of horror that he actually *had*  said those
hateful words aloud. 
     Fatigue. He was too tired to govern his mouth, and that  always
led to trouble. Listening to her decry her own words,  however,
was more than he could bear at the moment. "I'm sorry,"  he said
with forced calmness, "I thought that was the party line.  I'm fine,
you're fine, if we don't admit that we're dying just a  little bit every
fucking day, everything'll be just hunky dory."  Oh, shit. His eyes
fell shut, and in those few seconds he wished  with every crumb of
energy he had left that he could take those  hurtful words back, that
he could somehow un-say them.  
     She said nothing more, merely looked at him for a long, silent 
moment. One eyebrow arched to an impossible height. Then she 
turned on her heel and disappeared back into the living room. 
     "Dammit," he breathed, hurrying after her. His fears were 
confirmed when she brushed past him, her keys clenched in  white
fingers. "Scully, wait ...." 
     She didn't even slow down. "Good night, Mulder." 
     He caught her arm, stopping her as she reached for the
doorknob.  "Scully, please. I didn't mean that. You just .... I just
...." 
     She didn't look at him, just stared fixedly at the dark wood 
grain of his door. "I'm tired. I'm going home." 
     He didn't let go of her. Couldn't, not with so much hanging 
unspoken between them. Oh, they were quite the pair, weren't they? 
A collective IQ that was how high? .... and the only sentiment  they
could ever manage to express around one another seemed to be 
anger. What thehell was wrong with them? "Scully, wait. There's - 
there's something I .... I want to tell you." 
     Her chin rose minutely. She still wouldn't look at him. "Fine, 
because I have something I need to say, too."  
     An invisible boulder settled dead-center in his gut. *Here it 
comes. Mulder, it's over. Well, it's not like it's any big shock.  The
real surprise was that she stuck around for so long. You  expected
this. Suck it up. Take it like a man. But at least tell  her, so she
walks away knowing that you know what a total and  complete
fuckup you are.*  
     Time ground to a standstill around them. His voice sputtered
and  died. *Say the words. Say, Scully, I'm sorry. Say them.* He 
blinked at her helplessly. "Uh .... um .... it's .... the middle  of the
night. What are you doing here?"  
     *Coward. Fuckup. Loser. Those are not the words.* 
     She threw him a scathing look. "THAT'S what you wanted to
say?"  She turned to him, her chin on the rise. "All right, IF I need a 
reason, and quite frankly I didn't think at this point that I  did .... I'd
heard about the break-ins around this area and I  figured with no
one around, your place might be targeted. I  suppose you could say
I was merely looking after my partner."  Chiseled eyebrows arched
over chilly blue eyes. "So, if there's  nothing more .... good night,
Mulder." She reached for the  doorknob and gave it a hard twist. 
     He threw himself against the door, slamming it shut again. "No, 
that's *not* it. I .... I .... Jesus, Scully, you turn me into  a blithering
idiot, do you realize that? You look at me like  that and I ...." 
     Her jaw clenched and set. "I don't have a whole lot to do with 
that transformation, Mulder," she said coldly, her eyes as hard  as
blue steel. "You always manage very nicely on your own. Now,  f
you don't mind, I'd like to go home." 
     "No." Her eyes widened, and he knew he was close to getting a 
fist in the face. Or the balls. He didn't care. "I-I mean, of  course
you can go. But I want to say something first, God  dammit." 
     He wouldn't have thought it was possible, but her expression
actually hardened as she folded her arms. "I can't wait." 
     Beautiful. She was beautiful. Dignified. Angry. He was so
fucking  stupid .... was it any wonder she couldn't take it any
longer? He  raised a hand to her face, desperate to touch her, but
the gleam in  her eyes made him think better of it. He let his arm
drop to his  side as he bowed his head, and finally the words
tumbled out of  his mouth. "I'm sorry, Scully. That's all. I just
wanted to say  I'm sorry." A sigh spasmed out of him and made his
voice unsteady.  "I'm full of shit. You know that. You're not my
personal secretary,  and you certainly don't need my help to
distinguish yourself.  You're an indispensable part of our unit, and
every day I thank  Skinner or Blevins, or whatever passes for God,
for bringing us  together." He lifted his gaze to hers again as he fell
back a  step. "I'm sorry. If what you have to say is what I suspect, 
then let me save you the trouble. We can have your request for 
transfer on Skinner's desk Monday morning."  
     She blinked twice, then a third time, and he could practically 
hear her temper skyrocket toward the heavens. "Mulder, what the 
hell are you talking about?" she demanded. "Who said ANYTHING 
about a transfer? We have a simple disagreement and you're  ready
to ship me out? After seven years and God only knows  how much
we've endured .... Is it that easy to get rid of me?" 
     His shoulders slumped even more. "No, of course not." 
     "Then why are you talking about transfers? Why would I go
anywhere  NOW, after so many years of putting up with your
crap?" 
     Oh boy, was she pissed. As if there was really any question. Her 
eyes were ablaze, and her whole body seemed to quiver with 
pent-up fury. Shit, he really wasn't any good at this inter- personal
stuff. He couldn't even find the energy to bridle at  her blatant stab.
She *did* put up with a lot of shit, from  him and because of him.
Unable to think of a reply, he plunged  his hands into his trouser
pockets and bowed his head. "I don't  know. I don't know much of
anything right now. I don't know  why you stay with me at all
sometimes. After the way we left  things on Wednesday, I guess I
figured that you'd never want  to see me again. Not to work, or ....
or anything else." 
     She blinked at him. "You're kidding." Any other time he might
be  tempted to chuckle at her bemused expression. "You mean you 
honestly thought I'd call an end to .... to ...." Her hand  waved
vaguely between them for a moment. ".... over such a  petty issue?
Mulder, I thought you knew me better than that." 
     He chanced a quick look at her. "I'd like to think I do." 
     "Then how the hell could you think I'd just walk away?" 
     He lifted one shoulder in a weary shrug. When he spoke, his 
voice sounded pitiful and weak. "I just don't want to take you  for
granted, Scully. Not about .... not about us." 
     She was silent for a moment. Her voice, too, was gravelly with 
emotion as she murmured, "Mulder .... that's what partners do. 
That's what *lovers* do. Don't tell me that's news to you." 
     He dropped his gaze to her shoes. To think of Diana Fowley
was  unpleasant under any circumstances, but right now it was
almost  unbearable. Diana the User. Diana the Trickster. The
Destroyer.  To compare her to the woman before him was an
obscenity in the  truest sense of the word, and yet the words were
out before he  could even think to stop them. "In all honesty .... that
has  not been my experience." 
     She flinched, and he knew without doubt that she had caught the 
inference. 
     How long did they stand there, motionless? He couldn't say for 
sure. He just knew that he'd hurt her again, in a way he'd  promised
himself he never would. Dammit. Dammit to hell. 
     "Well," she said at last, her voice barely above a rough whisper. 
She fell back a step, and he saw the familiar mask of stoicism  fall
over her. Gone was the angry lover. Gone was the woman who'd 
stood guard over his apartment and his belongings. In her place 
was the cool professional he'd worked beside for the better part  of
a decade. Her voice no longer shook with emotion. Instead it  was
flat, almost bereft of inflection. "I suppose that's it,  then. Good
night, Mulder." 
     "Good night." He said it by rote, as indeed he'd done most
things  for days now. Her sleeve brushed his fingertips as she
turned,  but he did not allow himself to reach for her. Let her go,
his  pride dictated. Let her go air out that Irish temper. Things  will
be all right next week. You'll spend the weekend apart,  and when
you see her on Monday, everything will be as it was. 
     *As it was,* he almost sobbed. *Not that. Can't go back. God, I 
love her - how can I go back to how things were?* 
     The front door closed with a soft thud. With that, she was gone. 
     *You will not cry.* The voice in his head was harsh and
demanding.  Pride again. He brushed a hand over his face, sweeping
away the  gathering tears. *Not that big a deal. I'm just tired. It'll be 
good to be alone for a few days. Rest. Get my energy back.* He 
took a deep breath and slowly turned on his heel. 
     *Go after her.* 
     *Let her go.* 
     Torn, he made his way back to his bedroom, yanking his shirt 
off over his head as he went. Buttons popped off - he heard  them
skitter and bounce over the bare floorboards, but once  again he
just didn't care. He left a trail of clothes to the  bathroom. Pants.
Shorts. Socks. Then the bittersweet agony of  the shower, water so
hot that it hurt, sheeting off his chest  and back and ass. *Coward,*
his heartbeat throbbed in his head  and against his ribs. *Coward.
Coward. Coward!* 
     Hot water sluiced over his head, washing away even hotter
tears. 
     Alone. Always alone. 
     Jesus, he was tired. That's all that was wrong with him. Two
days  with little more than the occasional catnap, sustenance
coming  in the form of vending machine crap and police station
coffee and  not much else. Always being watched, either by wary
flatfoots or  jealous colleagues, surrounded by people and yet
isolated, his  customary anchor that bound him to a very real Here
and Now  conspicuous in its absence. Even that asshole Grier had
commented  on it. *What, no Mrs. Spooky? What happened, you
forget to put  the seat down again?* 
     Anger rekindled in his gut, this time directed outward. "Fuck
them  all," he said, softly at first. Then, louder, "Steven Grier can 
kiss my ass." 
     "He can kiss mine, too." 
     Mulder's head snapped up. He looked around, but steam and 
condensation conspired to blind him. "Scully?" 
     "You were expecting someone else?" 
     He hesitated, trying to weigh the tone in those few words. Not 
enough of them - he couldn't guess her mood. "Actually, I wasn't 
expecting anyone. You sort of, uh, caught me with my pants
down." 
     "So I noticed." 
     Still angry, he decided. Not as distant, though. Wry humor,
even,  but humor nonetheless. He tried to peer through the
translucent  shower door, but it was too fogged. "Uh, Scully ....
what are  you doing in my bathroom?" 
     He could just make her out now, standing no more than an arm's 
length away. She reached for the door an instant before he did, 
opening it with a snap, not flinching at the spray that  immediately
hit her, spattering clothes and flattening hair.  "What should I be
doing?" 
     He blinked and swallowed as he fell back a pace. Without a 
word, she stepped in before him and pulled the door closed. 
Drenched, her T-shirt all but disappeared under the force of  the
water. She still wore jeans and socks - even her shoes.  He felt his
mouth fall open. This was insane. Impulsive. Not  like her at all. He
stepped back, sputtering, trying to find  space to put between them.
"Scully, what the hell -?"  
     She took his right hand in her left, apparently heeding neither 
the harsh spray nor the water streaming down her face. Her  other
hand was making its way up his arm, and he shivered  despite the
heat of thewater. "I wanted to tell you something,  remember? You
never gave me the chance."  
     He allowed himself to relax minutely. Strange, he mused as he 
studied her, that even now when she was at practically her most 
vulnerable, she did not strike him as being particularly small  or
weak. Slight of build and barely reaching his chin even in  her
sneakers, she still seemed to fill the narrow confines of  his shower
stall. "All right," he said at last. 
     Her hand rose to caress his face, then trailed through his wet 
hair. He closed his eyes and leaned toward her, savoring the  touch.
Then her hand closed into a fist, and when she gave his  hair a firm
tug, he couldn't restrain a startled yelp. 
     Her lips gently caressed his cheek, his ear. "Are you listening  to
me?" she murmured. 
     He jerked his head up and down in a spastic nod. "You have my 
undivided attention." 
     Her tone became edged. "Good. Because I don't want to have to 
say this twice." The fingers gripping his hair relaxed into  something
like a caress. She drew back and looked at him  intently. "Mulder, I
am *Dana.* There's no 'I' in my name. Do  you understand that? I
won't use you. I won't betray you. I  won't punish you for not
agreeing with me. I won't sacrifice  you for some vague goal or
some supposedly greater purpose,  and I won't let anyone else do it,
either." She paused and  brushed her thumb against his cheek. Her
eyes were solemn as  she regarded him. "And I won't leave you.
Not even when you  act like an arrogant, insecure prick. Not even
on the days  when I'm seriously tempted to strangle you, and we
both  know there've been a few of those. Do you get it now? I'm 
not going anywhere."   He stared at her, appalled to feel his eyes
tearing up again.  She held his gaze without effort, daring him to
question, to  doubt. How could she tolerate so much from him -
how could  she know so much about him - and still feel as she did? 
How could she love him?  
     Slowly he allowed himself to slump forward, pressing his 
forehead to hers as he closed his eyes. "I don't understand,"  he
whispered as his arms found their way around her. She moved
without resistance into his embrace, and he felt the  softness of her
lips touch his face. "You deserve more ....  you deserve better ....
you've always been the strong one and  I am so fucked up ...." 
     She shushed him gently, her tone soft and persuasive. "There's 
nothing to understand. You aren't so unworthy as you seem to 
think." Her hand stroked through his hair and down his neck,  and
he felt the pressure of her mouth again, this time beneath  his jaw.
Then she gently pushed him upright. "You're beyond  exhausted. I'll
bet you haven't slept since you left, have  you?" He closed his eyes
and gave his head a shake, shame-faced.  Her tone softened even
more. "Come on, let's get you dressed  for bed." 
     He opened his eyes again, and for a long moment they gazed 
silently at one another. A sigh rippled through him then, and  he
noted again how sheer the T-shirt was, how it highlighted  curves
and valleys. Fatigue might hobble him for the moment,  but it
couldn't quell a stir of anticipation. "What about you?"  he
murmured, indicating her attire with a lift of his chin.  "Can't let you
go anywhere dressed like that .... or rather,  *not* dressed like that
...." 
     She looked down at herself, and a dimple appeared in her cheek 
as she smiled. "That's what I get for acting on impulse."  She
looked up at him again. "I don't suppose you have something  I can
sleep in tonight, do you?" 
     He nuzzled her temple and found the energy somewhere for a 
contented smile. "As a matter of fact, I do." He slipped his  arms
around here, tucking her head securely beneath his chin  and folding
her hand in his over his heart. "And look ....  they're a perfect a fit." 
      
     ~*~*~*~ 
      The sky was just beginning to lighten when he woke. Rain was 
falling, striking the window across the room. A breeze was 
whispering throughthe sycamores, making the tender new leaves 
flutter and dance. Nearby, he could hear the soft rustle of  sheets on
skin, and the gentle, steady rhythm of his bed- partner's breathing.  
     It was tempting to turn and study her, but he forced himself  to
lie still for a long moment, to visualize the details  before allowing
himself the pleasure of actually seeing  them. He knew she liked
sleeping on her side. The pillow  would be plumped up under her
chin and clutched in both  arms, with just a sliver left to cradle her
head. The sheet  would probably be pulled up tight under her arm,
though if  he were very lucky she'd have pushed it down, or perhaps 
thrown it aside altogether. No, he reasoned; the chill in  the air
would no doubt deny him the joy of *that* particular  sight, at least
for the moment.  
     He found himself smiling at the thought.   "Mulder, are you
awake?" 
     It came as no surprise, really, that she was not asleep. He 
blinked as he looked at her. She lay precisely as he'd imagined, 
though the clarity of her gaze made him wonder just how long 
she'd been awake, and no doubt studying *him.*  
     He stretched a little, grunting in satisfaction when his  vertebrae
gave a few soft cracks, then shifted onto his side,  facing her.
"Hey," he said softly, touching her hand with the  back of his. "Did
you sleep?" 
     She nodded a time or two. A frown was drawing her brows 
together, and he wondered how long it would take her to  give
voice to her thoughts. "I've been thinking," she  murmured, linking
one of her fingers with one of his and  hanging on tightly. 
     He feigned a shocked gasp. "You? No! Say it isn't so." 
     The frown softened into something resembling a pained smile. 
Her mouth opened again, though for a long moment she seemed 
unable to find the words she needed. "Mulder," she began at  last,
"why are you so hard on yourself?" 
     He stared at her, dumbfounded. Whatever he had been
expecting, it was not this. "I'm not sure I know what you mean." 
     She scowled gently at him. "You are one of the brightest people 
I've ever had the privilege to meet, and probably the most  sensitive.
You can relate to suspects and victims alike.  You're great with
children, however much you protest to the  contrary, you're good
with the elderly, with skeptics, *and*  with those individuals who
are, shall we say, a little too  quick to believe." 
     He lifted an eyebrow, mimicking the move he'd seen her make 
so often. "Well, I just figure no one gives Frohike a break,  I owe it
to him to listen to his manic ramblings. Besides, he-" 
     "You give everyone the benefit of the doubt, Mulder, except 
yourself. And, by extension, me." 
     Those words robbed him of humor. Of course, his limited 
expectations of her had hurt her. Expectations, or lack  thereof, he
corrected himself. Did she understand that his  defenses were not
directed at her, personally? He took a  deep breath, summoning
courage to confront this issue. He  knew himself to be selfish, and
occasionally prone to  narcissism. He had learned, first from an
unhappy childhood  and then through a serious of disastrous
personal relationships,  to keep his expectations relatively low.
Hard to be disappointed  in life when you don't expect much out of
it.  
     Then he'd met her, of course. She challenged him. Frustrated 
him. Occasionally angered him. But disappointed? Hardly. 
     "I suppose," he said at last, choosing his words carefully,  "it's
because I've never had anything worth having for very  long.
Something always happened to take it away. I guess it's  become
second nature." He tightened his grip on her finger.  "You learn to
push it away before you begin to depend on it.  You learn not to
care. It's easier, somehow."  
     She studied him for a moment. "Your fear of abandonment is 
compelling, Mulder, but it's beginning to get on my nerves."  She
gently traced the fine lines that framed his eyes. "I may  not be a
shrink, but I do know you. You make out like you don't  care, but
you really do. Too deeply, that's your problem. You  care more
about people than most of them are capable of  reciprocating.
Because of this, you get hurt. I've seen it  happen. I *hate* when it
happens." 
     A smile licked at the corner of his mouth. An answering flicker 
touched hers in return. "Most of them?" he repeated, catching  her
hand and bringing it to his lips. 
     She quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah. Most." She was silent a while, 
considering her next words. "In my line of work, I deal with  death
and disease. It's easy to lose sight of what comes  *before* those
particular elements." The finger touching  his eyebrow slipped
lower, pausing to linger on the spot  on his cheek before finding its
way to his mouth. "I'm not  the most open person in the world. I
don't talk about my  feelings much. I don't ...." She sighed gently. "I
don't know ....  maybe if I'd been a little more open, you wouldn't
have gone  through the last few days convincing yourself that I was 
cleaning out that desk I still don't have." Her gaze held  his, somber
and without guile. When she spoke again, her  tone was even
softer. "I should have gone with you. I should  have been there. I
know how you get on cases like this. I'm  sorry, Mulder. I guess I
let you down." 
     He gently pushed a lock of hair away from her brow. Sometimes 
he could hear in her silences all the things she wanted to say  to
him. Sometimes, like now, a few words wielded as deftly as  a
scalpel redefined the dynamic of their partnership: no matter  what
else happened, their paramount thoughts were for each  other.
"Don't be too hard on yourself," he murmured. "With  that idiot
Grier in the driver's seat, you would have been  as constricted and
useless as I was." Her earlier words  suddenly returned to him, and
he allowed a playful smile  to crinkle his eyes as he edged his way
toward her. "Since  you brought it up, I *would* like to dispute
something you  said a little while ago. I'm never unreasonable, and
I'm hardly  ever pig-headed." 
     One cinnamon eyebrow arched haughtily even as she leaned
toward  him. "Clearly your definitions of those terms differ from
mine." 
     If time ground to a standstill earlier as they faced each other  in
anger, it did so now in anticipation. God, but it felt good  to kiss
her. It was like starlight .... like the purest magic.  The kiss
deepened little by little, involving first lips, then  hands, then
tongues and bodies; and as he drew her close and  molded the
curves of her body to the planes of his, they both  felt the earth
begin to move again. 
     A few gentle nudges, the shift of a leg, and he lay atop her,  held
in the halo of her arms, in the warm V of her legs. A  lingering
shadow not of regret, but of realization, made his  smile
bittersweet. Willfully or not, he had treated her badly.  He intended
to find a way to make amends. Not just with sex,  although that was
certainly the perfect place to start. 
     "I want you to know something," he murmured against the soft 
skin of her neck.  
     She linked her arms around him and held him close. "What
would  that be?" 
     He sighed away the dregs of his melancholy. Would she accept 
him at his word, or write it off to the power of what was about  to
happen between them? "I won't do that again. I hate that I  did it at
all. I won't treat you like a secretary again." 
     He heard her smile. "Yes, you will." He lifted his head and 
looked at her, brows furrowing. She gave her head a shake and 
touched a finger to his lips, silencing his protest. "You  will,
because you're you and I'm me. Just because we're finally  at a point
in our relationship when sex has entered into it,  that doesn't change
who and what we are." She drew his face  down and kissed him
briefly. "Like it or not, Mulder, you're  always going to be a little
arrogant, a little gullible, a  little too easily swayed by hope and not
enough by facts.  Whereas I'm always going to be a little ...." She
paused,  searching for the right word. 
     "Rigid?" he offered with a smile. 
     She made an amused sound as she tilted her hips, guiding him. "I 
suppose that term does apply from time to time. Cautious, maybe, 
and not so prone to emotional outbursts. Yin to your yang, if  you'll
forgive the gender-switch." 
     He nuzzled the side of her throat as he pressed inward. "Scully, 
I happen to know you are *fully* capable of emotional outbursts. 
Besides, you make ..... aaaahhh ...." He paused on a gasp as she 
tightened up around him, briefly robbing him of speech and 
intellect.Her kiss did little to remedy that, and he could  practically
see stars orbiting his head when he finally got  his eyes open again.
Well, maybe he could show her the joy of  two playing that game.
"You .... make .... rigid sound like a  bad thing," he whispered. He
withdrew completely,then slowly  glided in again. A little swivel of
his hips made her breath  catch in her throat, and for a moment her
eyes seemed to lose  their focus. "Mmm, something tells me your
yin likes my yang  just fine." 
     Color was rising in her cheeks, and her eyelids had fallen to 
half-mast. "Mmm, the thought has occurred." 
     He pressed his forehead to hers as their bodies established a 
long, slow rhythm of stroke and counter. "So tell me, Dr.  Scully ....
there are times, are there not, when being rigid  is not only
permitted, but also advised? Perhaps even necessary?" 
     The arch to her back was answer enough. That she could still 
talk was testament to her tenacity, though her words were  rushed
and breathless. "Thank you for .... pointing that out ...."  
     He slowed a little, eliciting a protest from her, one that he 
stopped with a long, deep kiss. "I have a slight confession  to
make," he whispered. "I left town before I could do anything  about
food for the weekend. I don't think I have so much as  a cookie in
my whole, lonely kitchen." He felt gooseflesh rise  up under his
mouth, which he soothed with a gentle lap of his  tongue. "Guess
I'll have to step out in a little while and get  some of those danishes
you like, huh? Bring them back here and  feed you in bed." 
     Her hands delved into his hair, one ending up at the nape of  his
neck, the other sliding down to clasp his chin, and she  levered him
away from her for a moment. Her eyes were bright  with laughter
and lust. "Actually, that isn't exactly the  situation," she replied,
breathless. She smiled at his confused  frown. "It didn't take long
for me to realize you didn't have  much to snack on, so I made a
trip to the grocer's down the  block and picked up .... a few things.
Enough to keep us from  starving for a day, anyway." 
     "Mmm, what'd you get us?" he murmured, picking up the pace
again.  Just what would it take to deprive her of the powers of
speech? 
     Her eyes rolled back and then closed. "B-b-bagels ...." she 
managed to say. "The .... ones .... you .... like .... cream  .... cheese
.... and .... sh-sh-Shiner .... oh oh oh ...." Her  voice tailed off as her
back arched again and her hands knotted  into fists on his shoulders.
He smiled to himself as he gently  bit her upturned chin. Mission
accomplished. Now, what would  it take to get her to scream his
name? 
      Danishes and bagels. Hot coffee and cold German beer. A case 
successfully closed, a bridge he'd believed charred beyond 
recognition rebuilt stronger than before, and the woman he  just
happened to adore, speechless with passion. How had  Shakespeare
phrased it? All's well that ends well? 
     He may just have had something with that one. 
      
     
~~~~~~ 
end 
~~~~~~