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Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine. Don't sue me. I'm just having a
little fun with 'em. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox Television.

Thanks to Christine, my Goddess, for all her generosity.

Scribbler's note: this is my first X endeavor. Let me know how you like it.


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part One
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: Slight one for Closure
RATING: PG-13 for language.
CLASSIFICATION: S, A, burgeoning MSR
KEYWORDS: Romance.
SUMMARY: What would it take for Scully to admit some things to herself?
How would Mulder take the news? Noromos, here be dragons.

~~~~~~~~~~

She drove home from the airport. His ankle was still stiff and swollen enough
that managing the accelerator would have been difficult. She managed to
park not far from the apartment, and hoisted his bag out of the trunk as he
struggled out of the passenger's seat. She hurried to his side and eased an
arm around him to help bear him up. He started to brush her off, then
thought better of it. He would rather get there under his own steam, but then
he'd rather the whole thing hadn't happened at all. They had a long block to
walk, and his foot hurt like hell. Now wasn't the time for pride. Besides, each
step with her was an experiment in pleasure. With each step he was aware of
the arm around his waist, of the body pressed up close to his. He was
enjoying the contact, perhaps more than he should. That was happening a lot
lately.

It was almost a disappointment to reach the apartment building. She stepped
aside and held the front door open for him, then took her place back at his
side. He was only too glad to have her back. It took forever for the elevator
to fall from wherever its last call had taken it. Not that he really cared. Every
moment they waited was another moment of touching her. Not a bad thing,
that.

She eyed him as they rode the car up to the fourth floor. "You don't look
much the worse for the past few days," she said dryly.

He half-smiled. Looks can be deceiving, he wanted to say.

She, on the other hand, looked pretty damned good. Maybe not crisp, but
certainly acceptable, and no doubt better than he did. She usually did manage
to look nice, even when she was out in the field; still, he had a particular
preference for her like this, in jeans and a plain white shirt. It looked -
different. Casual. Not the suit-clad business partner with the killer mind.
More a home-body. And what a body.

He studied it as she preceded him down the hall to his door. She was still
lugging his suitcase, and he chastised himself roundly for not having taken it
from her at the outset. Partner or not, he had to admit he liked watching her
ass. Was she at all aware of his scrutiny? He thought it unlikely, but didn't
discount the notion out of hand. They did share a bond that could only be
called unusual. One might even call it spooky. Of course, if she was aware of
it, she'd almost certainly turn around and kick his leg out from under him. He
could indulge himself. Yeah, nice ass. Slim waist. The long sleeves on the
shirt were rolled halfway up her forearms. That glorious hair was pleasantly
disheveled, and when she glanced at him, there was a soft pink glow to her
face. God, she looked good.

She set the case down with a little thud and looked back at him expectantly,
and for a moment he found himself just looking at her, taking in the sight.
She frowned a little impatiently, and he grunted and dug in a pocket for his
keys. "Sorry, " he muttered, unlocking the door and swinging it open for her.

She bowed him through. "Go ahead. It's your abode."

He scooped up the bag and carried it in. Dropped it in one of the dining
room chairs. He'd tend to it tomorrow. Right now he just wanted to rest his
fucking leg.

"Anything to eat around here?" she asked.

He waved a hand at the kitchen as he struggled into the living room. "Have a
look around. I'm not sure what I have." With a drawn out grunt he lowered
himself onto the couch. His shoe was too tight to kick off; he swore as he
unlaced it and gingerly teased it off. His ankle was discolored and painful to
touch. He could hear her moving around in the kitchen, opening cupboards
and looking in the fridge. There was rarely anything interesting to find.
Shopping was never high on his list of priorities, but he wished now that he
had something more to offer her than ovaltine.

She appeared in the doorway, sporting a bag of frozen vegetables and a beer.
"Which do you want first?" she asked.

He grimaced. "Neither. I'm just gonna take a shower and get my ass to bed."

She smiled as she twisted the lid off the bottle. "Good. I'll take care of this.
As for this - " she hefted the bag " - I didn't intend to feed it to you. Here,
put it on your foot."

He looked at her dubiously. "I like butter with my veggies, Scully."

She grunted as she knelt before him. "You like butter with your butter. Take
off your shirt and sit back, I'll do it." He gave her a blank look, and she
beckoned with a hand. "Come on, I want to get it iced down again. Gimme
your shirt."

He allowed himself a wry smile as he complied. "All those years of med
school and the best you can come up with is a bag of frozen corn and a dirty
T-shirt?" She said nothing, merely set about devising a poultice. He hissed
through clenched teeth. "Ow, shit that hurts. How 'bout a couple aspirin?"

She scowled as she took a sip of beer. "Tylenol would be better, Mulder.
Aspirin is an anticoag. You don't need those vessels in there bleeding any
more than they are. I still say you should just agree to have a doctor check it
out."

He plucked the beer out of her hand. "I've already had my doctor check it
out." He took a swig and burped. "Hey, this is pretty good. There any more
in there?"

She dropped into the chair across from him and laced her fingers over her
belly. "One, hiding in the back behind the graveyard of Chinese cartons. Next
time check your leftovers before we skip town. I think something's staging a
revolt in there."

He handed her the bottle, then sat back and slumped on his side and closed
his eyes. The makeshift ice pack was beginning to prick at his skin like a
thousand needles.

She was watching him, he could feel it even before he looked at her again.
Those eyes, that face . . . How many people know she's as beautiful inwardly
as she is to look at? *I am one lucky son of a bitch. I get to go to work every
day and sit across the office from her. Every damn day I get to watch her try
not to laugh at my jokes. I get to stare into those blue eyes and wonder just
what it is she's thinking. What she's feeling. Yeah, you got 'em, girlfriend.
You just don't like it when they run the show. I don't mind. Your reserve is
part of who you are. It's part of why I love you so damn much.*

He thought of a dream he'd recently had, and smiled. Sweet flutterings deep
in his belly, like warm butterflies. She noticed, of course. "What?" she asked,
her own smile starting.

He shook his head. "Nothing."

She eyed him doubtfully. "A smile like that couldn't be about nothing."

No, it couldn't, he thought to himself. Still, it made you smile too. I'm lying
here with my foot wrapped in a sweaty T-shirt, and I'm watching my partner
smile. I'm a happy man right now.

About fifteen seconds was all she could take. She rose with a jerk and
headed for the kitchen. "What d'ya want for dinner?" she called over her
shoulder.

He gave a mental shrug. The dream played through his head as a warm
breeze plays through the branches of a willow. *Yeah, that's what you are,
Scully. Graceful and giving, to the wind or to me. I know I had to let go. It's
time to lay aside the guilt. Samantha's gone. You're alive and she's not.
Mom's not. Forgive myself and move on. They don't need me any more.* He
smiled at the thought of his partner. *You don't need me either, do you,
Scully? You don't need me to take care of you. You don't need me to grieve
for you. Thank God you don't need me to avenge you. I would have, in a
heartbeat. That little prick who shot you last year, Ritter - I'd have put him
down in a New York minute, and to hell with the consequences.*

He heard her moving about in the kitchen. Before she left, she'd see that he
ate something. His foot wasn't so bad now. The cold had made it go numb. If
he moved carefully he could go lend a hand, or at least watch. Watch her
move around his kitchen like she moved in his life: unobtrusive and
undemanding, but unrelenting.

Carefully he rolled to his feet. She was standing at the sink, and looked up as
he rounded the corner, a frown drawing her brows together. "You shouldn't
be up," she said. The words sounded like a reprimand, but the tone didn't
match them. It was soft, almost inviting.

He shrugged as he brushed past her. The scent of her was enticing: aged
perfume and sweat. Delicious. He squelched the impulse to bury his nose in
her hair. "I'm okay. Big strong male and all that. What're you doing?"

She tipped her head toward the stove. "Heating water for tea. You really
don't have much here. How's Italian sound? I thought I'd get something
delivered. Don't just shake your head, I'm hungry, too."

He shrugged and nodded. He'd sleep better if he ate something. Besides, he
knew she wouldn't give up. "Yeah, that sounds okay. I'll phone it in, but you
realize it's gonna take a while. You want to take a shower while we wait?"

She shook her head. "No, thanks. Whatever I have in the car's worse off than
what I'm wearing."

He eyed her thoughtfully. "I can find something for you. Go on."

She opened her mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it and merely
nodded. "All right. I like onions on mine."

He gave her arm a squeeze as she passed him. "I know. Onions and
pineapple, hold the sausage."

He heard the shower begin to run as he placed the order. Pizza, with the
crust extra thick. Two salads. Some of that fattening garlic bread she always
bitched about but loved anyway. Half an hour, the disembodied voice told
him. Probably longer.

He dug in his closet and came up with the promised clothing. Running pants
and a sweatshirt. His socks would be ridiculously large for her, but she
wouldn't care. Something caught his eye and he drew it out. Studied it
thoughtfully for a moment. A tank rather than the sweatshirt? He smiled. No,
she wouldn't accept it; and besides, she'd probably hit him for even
suggesting it.

He spared a glance at the clock. Almost eight. He'd have time to shower too,
if she didn't use up all the hot water. He hesitated outside the bathroom door
and listened. She was there, just a few feet away, in a place he'd stood
hundreds of times without care or thought. And she was naked. The thought
made his face burn, which surprised him. Blushing was something he just
didn't do much anymore.

It took very little effort to imagine what she'd look like. No, the real effort
was in trying not to think of it. The brilliant auburn hair plastered to her
skull. Lather gliding down her body - oh, to be one of those bubbles. The
water playing over her face and neck, the tops of her shoulders, her shapely
breasts. Down her flat belly, over and around her navel . . .

Dangerous, he told himself, turning away. Very dangerous. Go do something
in the kitchen. Go watch TV. Go do your laundry - hell, go do *her*
laundry. Just get the hell away from here.

"Mulder, are you out there?"

*Dammit.* He froze and turned back, pressed his forehead to the closed
bathroom door. "Yeah, what is it?"

"Can you get me a towel? I got in here without one."

Shit. Shit. She couldn't be serious. Just the thought of her in there was
making his jeans tight. Now she wanted him to go in? The shower door
wasn't transparent, but neither was it what he could call opaque. Shit. Well,
maybe he could just toss the towel on the top of the toilet.

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

Shit, the mirror wasn't fogged at all. Chagrined, he whipped the towel over
the top of the shower door - it was closer than the toilet was. "Here you go.
Don't forget to wash behind your ears."

She gave a soft laugh. "Thanks for the reminder."

He saw her reflection in the mirror and froze.

The door wasn't fogged either, and what glazing it had was diminished by the
shower's spray. Through it he could see every detail of her body. Every
curve, every dip and hollow, damn near every freckle. The glint of gold chain
- shit, did she *ever* take that off? She was rinsing her hair now. He could
see the lather gliding down her flanks and hips, just as he'd imagined it, down
the dip of her back and over her butt . . . thank God her back was to him.

He realized he was staring. *Get out,* he snarled to himself. He bullied his
feet into moving, forced his hand to grasp the doorknob and afford him his
escape. The bedroom was a welcome sight after that: drab, disarrayed,
infinitely lived-in. Nowhere did he see anything as brilliant as the image - no,
the *vision* - standing in his shower.

Get a fucking grip, he snarled to himself. You've seen her naked. It isn't
really a mystery, is it? Remember the jaunt to Wilkes, a little place just north
of Hell? How about Fort Marlene? A half-dozen Marine thugs standing over
us, ready to pummel us to death if we refused their hospitality?

So where are those Marines when I need them, he asked himself, leaning
back on the door and letting his head go *thunk!* against the wood. At least
he'd managed to escape the bathroom with only his dignity the worse for
wear. No, he was way too aware of her now. He couldn't help how he felt
toward her, but it certainly wasn't appropriate to entertain any notion of
acting on it. So what that he loved her? So what that he had been dreaming
about her, and that in those dreams she'd done things to him and for him that
had no place in his sad life?

"Mulder?"

He steeled himself. "What is it, Scully?"

"Did you remember about those clothes?"

Shit! Dammit to hell, they were on the foot of the bed, right in front of him.
Taunting him. He glared at them impotently. "They're right here. I'm going
out to watch TV. You can get them when you're finished. Don't worry, I
won't look."

She immediately began to protest. "No, no, no! I'm not leaving this bathroom
wrapped in a threadbare towel! Come on, just open the door and leave them
on the floor in here."

Defeat ground at him. *She isn't going to be satisfied until I'm sporting a
conversation piece,* he thought savagely, scooping up the clothes. Opening
the door, he all but hurled them through, then slammed it again with a
pronounced thud. There. Pride intact. Levis now too tight for comfort. With
a furtive glance at the bathroom - the shower was still running - he quickly
stripped them off and flung them in the general direction of the hamper, then
pulled on a pair of sweat pants. Matters would resolve themselves. Maybe
he'd get lucky and find another bag of veggies in the freezer.

~~~~~~~~~~

Scully couldn't help but smile when the bathroom door slammed for the
second time. She'd heard him, of course, even over the running water.
Rather, she'd heard that interval of total inaction and knew that he was
standing motionless, probably staring as if caught in a spell. It made her feel .
. . decadent. How tempting it had been to turn, maybe just a little, and afford
him a glimpse. Just a glimpse. Common sense had asserted itself just in time
and she remained still, her back to him, rinsing her face and hair over and
over until she heard the door bang shut a last time.

If she'd turned, would he even have noticed her smile? Doubtful his eyes
would have made it that high.

*Good decision. He's your partner. Don't tempt fate.*

Her partner. So much implication in those syllables, and yet just what did it
mean to them? Were they friends? Yeah, and then some. Lovers? Uh uh.
Emotional co-dependents? There was some merit to that one, certainly.

His clothes were huge on her, of course. She shivered as she drew them on.
Between the soap and the shampoo, she smelled of him already; now she
found herself wrapped - cocooned - in his essence. She raised the shirt to her
face and closed her eyes as she took a long, deep breath. Strange how erotic
it was, swathing herself in him like this. What would he do if she went to him
and acted on a few of those impulses she'd secretly been fighting since -
when? When *hadn't* she been aware of him? Whether he wore suits at the
office and those jeans in the field, watching his ass had become her favorite
past-time. Couldn't she just once reach out and touch that -

*Don't do it, slick,* that irritating, reasonable inner voice said. *Don't screw
up. He has a hard enough time some days keeping that poker face in place.
He doesn't need any encouragement. Besides, rules are rules. No
involvement between partners.*

She sneered at herself. Rules? They'd broken every other rule over the past
six plus years; what was one more? It wasn't like there weren't already
rumors to that effect flying like the wind through the Hoover Building. The
crime might just as well fit the punishment.

She found him in the overstuffed armchair, surfing absently through the cable
channels. He didn't notice her, peering around the corner of the doorway.
She couldn't resist the opportunity to study him unobserved. He'd changed
into sweats, and still wore no shirt. God, it was going to be hard not staring
at all that skin. Poor guy - what would he have done if she *had* turned?
The thought of him actually stripping off what clothes he had on and getting
in with her - oh, at the sweet contemplations, her mouth went dry. The same
couldn't be said of the rest of her traitorous body.

Time was pressing on. Time for her musings to stop. The interlude was over.
Time for reality. It wasn't a bad one, as realities went. Look who she worked
with.

~~~~~~~~~~

He glanced up at her entrance and nodded a distant greeting. Shit, even
swimming around in his clothes, she looked good enough to rob him of
breath. How did she do that? Was she even aware of the power she had over
him?

She silently approached, and then to his dismay knelt before him on the floor.
He drew his legs in to give her room, but she caught his right calf and gently
drew it towards her. He jumped and tried to pull away.

"Jesus, Scully, a little warning next time, all right?"

She ignored the rebuke. "Sit still. I want to check it out before you go doing
it more damage."

Her hands were warm as she gentled back the elastic cuff. He recoiled. *Shit,
just when I was feeling a little more normal, she had to go and do that. Leave
the damn thing alone. A few more minutes and it won't be the only stiff thing
around here.*

She bent closer and peered at the mottled bruising around his anklebone.
"You should still have ice on it," she said, her tone matter-of-fact.

He leaned closer to her, following her gaze. Granted, he hadn't the training
she had had, but his ankle really didn't look all that different from its
counterpart. He grunted a soft protest when she explored it with her fingers.
She glanced up at him, evidently not surprised to find his face beside hers.

"Can you feel this?" she murmured, dragging a nail gently up the side of his
calf. He grunted again and nodded. "It's still pretty swollen, but I don't think
you damaged any nerves. Any numbness or tingling, you let me know."

She smelled of his shampoo. He warred briefly with himself, fought the
impulse to touch her face, to play with the damp hair forming lithe curls
around her ears. "It's tingling right now."

Jesus, what the hell had prompted him to say *that?*

She frowned, immediately falling into doctor-mode. "Where? Mulder, show
me."

He touched the spot beneath her fingers, then the fingers themselves. She
glanced at him, and he could see in her eyes that she understood. "Here," he
said softly. "Anywhere you touch, in fact." He stared into her eyes, felt
himself falling into the blue depths, and found he was unwilling to stop
himself. "Sometimes you don't even have to touch me. Just look at me like
that." She held his gaze for a beat before dropping her eyes, and he felt a stab
of self-reproach. *Dammit, there you go again, putting your foot in it. You
take a nice moment and blow it.*

Or had he? If she was so put off, wouldn't she move away or something?
Why was she looking at his mouth? He succumbed to a wicked impulse and
snaked his tongue out over his lower lip. Her eyes shut in a slow blink,
opened again. Anyone else would have thought her expression blank. He
knew better. Yeah, she was feeling it too, as much as she pretended
otherwise. He leaned a little closer. "You think that's anything to worry
about, Dr. Scully?"

God, what was he doing? He felt drugged, out of control, but he didn't care.
The smell of her was maddening. In the past when he teased her like this
she'd already have moved away with a wry half-smile.

She wasn't moving away this time.

Her eyes closed again and her shoulders slumped a little. "God, I'm so tired,"
she breathed.

A twinge of regret shot through him and he drew back a little, instantly
hating himself. It had been a tough week, a tougher case. Exhaustion was
hitting her, and here he was playing mind games.

"I'm sorry," he breathed. "You should have just gone home. I should - "

"No," she said, her voice somewhere between a whisper and a groan. "When
you look at me like that, I realize how tired I am of pushing away this
feeling." Her voice dropped even more. "I'm always holding you at arm's
length. I'm sick of telling myself this isn't something I want."

The words stopped him. He stared at her mutely, not daring to move, not
daring to breathe. *This has to be a dream,* he thought, suddenly afraid he
really was asleep and that it would end and he would wake up alone. Always
alone. He opened his mouth but found himself all but speechless. "This?" he
managed to breathe.

Her eyes met his again. She didn't pull back. Carefully he brushed a hand
along her cheek, stroking a stray lock of hair away from her eyes.

Abruptly she lifted her chin, closing the distance between them, and kissed
him. *She* kissed *him.* It wasn't a New Year's kiss either, or at least it
wasn't for much more than a few seconds. His breath caught in his throat as
her mouth moved beneath his, opening and inviting. It was all he could do
not to groan his appreciation. God, she tasted . . . good. Too good. For an
instant he wondered if he could be hallucinating. The throbbing in his chest -
and other places - leapt tenfold. His hands slid up her arms and caught
themselves around her face, and she didn't pull away. She met him kiss for
kiss, touch for touch.

Her hands were evidently no longer satisfied with where they were. One
moved to his neck, and the other settled on his jaw and tipped his head to the
side, changing the direction of the kiss. He moved without protest. His hands
slipped through her damp hair and then down her back. He enveloped her,
pulled her close, closer than she'd ever been, closer than she'd ever allowed.
Good, was all his bleary mind could think. Good. Good. Good.

At last they had to draw apart, if only to catch their breaths. She didn't look
away in embarrassment as he feared she would, but held his gaze measure for
measure. Her eyes were clear and bright. He stared at her stupidly, knowing
he had to look as feverish as he felt.

She tipped her head to one side. Her arms were linked around his neck and
gave no sign of relinquishing their hold on him. Her mouth didn't show it
much, but her eyes were smiling. "God, I've wanted to do that for so long,"
she breathed.

He stared at her mutely. How long, his fuzzy mind wanted to ask. No, it was
too great an effort, organizing his thoughts into meaningful words and
phrases. Besides, her answer might well be dangerous. He was painfully
aware of the hands playing through his rumpled hair and slowly stroking his
bare shoulders. Of the twin soft points pressing themselves into his chest, and
the pressure in other regions that was growing exponentially. She was a math
whiz - she should be able to understand that concept.

They should stop. Stop before something else started - *anything* else. It
was exhaustion, the rational part of his mind pointed out. Their reserves were
low, their emotional barriers flattened from their latest dance with danger.
Yeah, they should stop. But her laughing eyes and those full, gorgeous lips
conspired against him, struck him incapable of speech, drove all coherent
thought from his head, and he found himself falling again.

Joy. Utter and unutterable joy. His partner, his friend - his. *His.* He was
kissing her. Running his fingers through the mane of copper hair, meeting
teeth and tongue with teeth and tongue. No hesitation. It felt unreal, and yet
completely right. God, what was she doing now? Without breaking off the
kiss she was pushing herself against him, leaning into him until his bare back
was pressed against the cushion behind him. Her hands were on his neck, in
his hair, touching his face, and the sounds she made as she whispered his
name . . .

The pounding at the door was like an explosion. She started and pulled
away, breaking off the kiss with a resonating *smack.* For a moment they
just stared at one another, and he saw the same question in her smoky yes:
how long have we been at this? A testy glance at the door and her eyes swept
back to his. "I'll get it," she whispered, leaving him with one last, lingering
kiss. He gasped for breath when she pulled away. She glanced back at him
from the doorway, and he saw a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Don't get up."

He managed a shaky laugh. *Too late.*

No, he didn't move. Didn't even try, just sat there and listened to the
interchange. "Yes, we'd like peppers. Salads? And wine? Mulder, you
ordered wine? All right. Just let me get my wallet . . ."

The smell of pizza wafted through the dining room. He sat up straighter,
instantly famished. She appeared in the doorway, the pizza box in one hand,
the bottle in the other. A glow lit her face. "You really know how to cook,
don't you?"

He smiled. "My mother taught me to be self-sufficient."

Her eyes narrowed at that, and though she didn't say anything, he could
almost hear her thoughts as she set the food down on the coffee table.

*You could say that again.*

No, he hadn't meant it like that. He knew Scully, knew she was fair-minded
and practical; but she was also a good friend, and so was understandably
biased when it came to defending him. Mulder's childhood had ended with
the disappearance of his sister. An adult at the ripe age of twelve. Neither of
his parents had been able to protect him, nor had they even seemed
particularly sensitive to his anguish. Too locked into their own loss and
despair to help him bear his. Too busy blaming each other to see that he
blamed no one but himself. Not fair. Not fucking fair.

Scully turned on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen, returning a
minute later with plates, silverware, and a corkscrew. The tension from the
offhand remark quickly dissipated. They ate the food and drank the wine.
The TV was on, but they paid it no attention. She sat on the couch beside
him, her legs drawn up, her shoulder pressed intimately against his. He
watched with a squeamish wince as she ate her onion-pineapple combination.
"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it," she murmured. "I don't say anything about
your Cap'n Crunch, do I?"

He gave her a sidelong glance as he offered the wine. "No one knocks the
Captain. Here, you want to finish this?"

She gave her head a shake. "No, I've had enough. I still have to drive home."

He smiled slyly. "Not if you don't want to."

Blue daggers, however playful. "Don't get fresh."

He snorted at that. "Fresh," he repeated, putting his glass on his empty plate.
"After that tonsil hockey we just played? You've got nerve."

She bit back a giggle as she eyed him defiantly. "You're complaining? How
provincial." He pulled her close again, and she laughed as she put her glass
down with a thud. "Look out, I almost spilled."

He kissed her once, twice. "That's a common problem with some guys, I
hear," he murmured, pressing his mouth to the side of her throat. Bit very
gently.

She almost purred as her arms rose up around him. "So I've heard. That ever
happen to you?"

He found her mouth again. His answer was unintelligible. She sank back
without a struggle, taking his weight atop her as if it was old habit. As if it
wasn't for the first time. Kisses deepened, became less playful. Intense.
Frighteningly so. What were they doing? He couldn't seem to stop himself,
didn't even really want to. It was all he could do not to rock and grind
himself into her. God, everything about her was . . . it was succulent. Her
skin was soft beneath his mouth, and with every passing second there was a
lot more of it available to him. Another nudge at the sweatshirt and he'd have
a clear shot at her left breast . . .

The burring of a phone broke the spell. He lifted his head and looked at her.
Desire competed with disbelief in her eyes. Slowly he pushed himself upright.
She held his gaze for a moment, then rolled away and sat up, pulling the
sweatshirt down to cover herself. Her expression was already growing
distant. He swallowed hard as he reached for the phone. His fingers were
shaking. Shit, what was happening? This wasn't right. No, it was right, too
damn right - but it was also too strange. They couldn't spend the night here,
making out like horny teenagers. Their first time - if there was to be a first
time - it had to be better than this.

He muttered his name. The voice in his ear was terse. Skinner.

Scully drew her arms close to her chest and moved away. He followed her
with his eyes. He knew that expression. She'd leave now. Murmur something
polite, something sensible and pragmatic, and then disappear out of his life.
Not forever - but for too long. He ached to hold her. Ached to tell her all the
secrets in his heart. He watched her move from living room to kitchen,
conveying dishes and leftovers. He only half-listened to his superior. Said a
solemn good-night and hung up. Later he wouldn't remember half of what
had been said.

She was standing in the doorway leading into the dining room. Her arms
were still crossed before her, her eyes downcast. "That was Skinner," he
murmured. She nodded silently. "He wants to see us tomorrow. Debriefing
on the case. His office, ten."

She nodded slowly. They were silent for a moment; then she turned with a
sigh. "I'll just get my clothes," she murmured.

He let his head fall back. Let her go, he told himself. You can't keep her here
if she doesn't want to stay. Tonight isn't the night. She made that first move.
She needs space now. For God's sake, give it to her.

She returned a moment later, cradling her travel-weary outfit in her arms. "I'll
hang on to your things for now, if you don't mind," she said, her voice soft
and distant. "I don't want to change right now."

*Don't change, Scully. Not ever.* No, he couldn't say that. Instead he
nodded. "Sure. No rush." He tried for a playful tone. "You look better in my
clothes than I do."

Her smile wavered and died. "Good night, Mulder."

The sad tone tore at him. He balled a fist and crushed it to his forehead.
"Scully," he called. What was he going to say? What was there to say? *If a
friend is all I can be to you, then that's fine by me? Let's not screw us up by
screwing?* He heard her quiet footfall, knew she had turned back and was
watching him. He let his hand fall. His mouth opened and closed without a
sound being uttered. She stood motionless. He looked at the hand lying in his
lap. "I love you, Scully." Shit, where did that come from? Was that really
what he'd meant to say?

Had she heard? When she didn't respond, didn't react at all, he glanced at her
uncertainly. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but a smile was starting.
"I know," she whispered, tipping her head to the side. For a moment she
didn't move, just looked at him from the archway. No make-up, her damp
hair drying in hanks - he thought his heart would burst looking at her.

At last he dropped his gaze again. "Good night, Scully."

Quiet footfalls. The door opened and then closed. He was alone.


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part Two: The Heart Of The Matter
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: Beyond the Sea, One Breath, Triangle
RATING: PG-13 for language.
CLASSIFICATION: S, A
KEYWORDS: ScullyAngst
SUMMARY: Scully and her mom discuss life, men, and Mulder. Continues
where More Than A
River leaves off.

~~~~~~~~~~

*He loves me.*

She pulled out into traffic. Her mind was elsewhere as she drove. Meeting at
ten. Skinner was giving them the chance for a late morning. Not like him, but
not exactly *unlike* him either. Things were definitely been better since their
release from Kersh. Skinner was gruff and could be a real pain in the ass, but
as ADs went he was acceptable. More than acceptable. He left them free to
do their work, and bore Mulder's frequent tangents with little more than a
frustrated sigh. Sometimes even a little grudging respect.

Mulder. Her thoughts snapped back to what had just happened. What *she*
had started. Her heart sank. Mulder. He loves me.

Jesus, would you grow up, she snarled at herself. You've known for a long
time now how he feels. How many ways has he told you? You see it in his
eyes, you hear it in his words, and in all those damn weekend-I'm-bored
phone calls. Hell, you hear it in his silences. He even told you once; he came
right out and blurted the words *I love you.*

Yes, but he was drugged. It was the Demerol talking, to say nothing of that
crazy dream he kept rambling on about.

Bullshit, Dana. You just told yourself that to make it easier to blow him off.
To make it possible to walk away. That's what you did, you walked away,
and you've been doing it ever since.

But I didn't tonight.

No, you didn't. Of all the times when you should have. What you did do is
unbelievable. You kissed your partner. How forbearing would Skinner be if
he were to figure that out? And how the hell can you face him - face *them*
- in that office tomorrow and not have it written all over your face?

Shit, the meeting. She clenched her teeth at the thought. Oh Mulder, I
shouldn't have done that. I screwed up. I've allowed this Thing between us to
endanger everything we have, everything we are to each other. I'm sorry, I'm
so sorry.

Anger suddenly flared, self-righteous and indignant and strong. Damn it
anyway. Damn those mopey eyes of his, damn his ability to get whatever he
wants from you, and damn that sexy Goddamn mouth. That sweet, beautiful
mouth! A film suddenly blurred her vision. She swept a hand over her face.
Those eyes - the utter disbelief in them when she kissed him, and the stricken
expression when she turned away. A stab of self-reproach actually made her
wince. A tender confession - no, not a confession, an *admission* - and what
did you say? *I know*. What a dumb, thoughtless, cruel thing to say! You
know better than anyone what it cost him to say those words! Mulder doesn't
love, doesn't *need* anyone, but he loves you.

A tear escaped her lashes, tickling as it found its way down her cheek. She
swatted it away.

What was she supposed to say? She was hopeless at relationships, she knew
that now. She just didn't open up to anyone. Why couldn't she open up to
Mulder, even just a little?

Would it have changed things if she'd said the words? He hadn't said them to
make her stay, she was sure of that. Jesus, why had he said them at all? It
was one of those things they thought to themselves, expressed through
innuendo, through thoughtful looks and pregnant silences. She'd known for
years how he felt. How could she not see the affection in those puppy-dog
eyes, even when they were full of anger or frustration or reproach? How
could he not see it in hers? Why was it necessary even to think them? Had
saying those three words ever accomplished anything in her life? Oh sure,
she'd said them to Mom and Missy and even Bill, but they were family. What
about someone else? When had she ever felt comfortable telling a man how
she felt?

A hard sigh shook her. There's the rub, she realized. This isn't just about
Mulder and what he said. What he feels. This is about you. Your belief that
it's easier not to want than want something and not get it. Perfect and safe,
isn't it: the ultimate recipe for loneliness. You've always been a loner, haven't
you - and ever since Jack it's only gotten worse. You've systematically cut
yourself off from any chance of getting hurt again, and what have you
gained? He's your best friend, and you can't even tell him. So what that he
knows? Mulder suffers from an inferiority complex the size of this city - your
silence only justifies that self-contempt. Would it have hurt so Goddamn
much to tell him a little of how he made you feel tonight? You tell him plenty
when he pisses you off - why couldn't you just say those words back to him?
Chicken-shit. That's what you are - Dana Scully, Special Agent and total
fucking coward!

There was no way she could handle the meeting. She couldn't possibly face
him now. He'd understand. That thought made her smile bitterly. Like hell he
would, but he'd accept it without much of an argument. She'd call Skinner in
the morning and beg off. He'd make do with a verbal report. It wasn't like she
made a habit out of dodging. But it would wait until tomorrow. Right now
she just wanted to get home and crawl into bed. Alone. Cry if she had to.
Alone. She didn't need anyone to dry her fucking tears.

She didn't need. She didn't.

*Keep telling yourself that, Dana. You might start believing it someday.*

Home. She frowned as she noticed for the first time that she was nowhere
near her neighborhood. Shit, she hated it when she zoned out. Of course, she
was heading to Maryland. To Mom. Dana's in trouble, let's run and tell
Mommy about it. She'll make us feel all better about ourselves.

The front porch light was on, of course; the big brass fixture that was shaped
like the wheel of a ship. Ahab never could get the sea out of his blood. She
eyed it miserably as she mounted the walkway steps. Even with all the time
he spent out to sea, her parents had a good marriage. She didn't have
Mulder's excuse; he'd never known anything but a dysfunctional family life.
Why couldn't she let herself feel a little of what her parents had had?

Maggie beamed at her and immediately engulfed her in a hug. "Honey, what
are you doing here? Is everything all right? Come in, it's getting cold." She
drew her in and looked her up and down, bemused. "Dana, why are you
dressed like that? You look like a college student again."

Scully flushed as she ran her hands unconsciously down her sides. "Oh, I just
got back from a case. Mulder loaned these to me so I . . . " Her voice trailed
off, and she was horrified to feel the tears gathering in her eyes again. "God,
Mom, I didn't have anywhere to go. I guess it's just habit, coming here when
I can't stand myself."

Maggie caught an arm around her shoulders and steered her into the kitchen.
"Wait a minute. Come in here and sit down. What's going on? Are you in
trouble? What's happened?"

The alarm in her tone was unmistakable, making Scully feel even worse.
Great, now she was upsetting her mother, too. "No, it's nothing. I mean, it's
not nothing, but it's not important. I mean, it's personal. Nothing to do with
work. Well, not much. Oh shit, I don't know." She smiled contritely,
ashamed for the vulgarity. It wasn't like her to swear.

Maggie waved her away as she stooped to dig in a cupboard. "Honey, I
married one sailor and raised two others. You can't come up with a term I
haven't heard. Or used." She rose and set the bottle on the counter, then
produced two short glasses from another cupboard and filled them half-way.
"Here. You look like you need something stronger than tea. Go on. Tell me
what's going on. And don't say it's nothing. You wouldn't have driven all the
way over here at this time of night if it were nothing."

Scully shook her head as she picked up the highball. Where to start? "It's
Mulder," she said miserably. "Again. No, he's fine. He got hurt on this last
case - the stupid mule he was riding flipped out, and he sprained his ankle in
the fall."

Maggie smiled into her glass. "Fox never did strike me as the animal type,"
she said quietly.

"No kidding." She took a sip of the liquor, dropping her gaze. Jesus, she
couldn't even meet her mother's eyes. This really was bad.

Leave it to Mom. "Tell me, Dana. What's going on with Fox?"

She sighed and shrank in on herself. "He told me tonight . . . he told me
something. He told me he loves me." She glanced up uncertainly.

Maggie was smiling. Again. "That's not much of a surprise, dear. You must
have known."

It was Scully's turn to wave impatiently. "Of course. I've known for years.
That's not the point. It - it's simply something we've never discussed. Not
remotely. It's like if we never mentioned it, then . . . "

"Then you wouldn't have to deal with it."

She took another sip. "Something like that."

"And what did you say when he came out with this stunning revelation?"

Scully shuddered. "I know."

Maggie blinked. "I know you know. What did you say?"

She didn't look at her. "That is what I said. 'I know.'"

The woman's mouth fell open for an instant. She took a quick sip. "Oh."

Scully looked at her sharply. "Oh. That's all you've got to say?"

Maggie shrugged one shoulder. "You're doing a good job of punishing
yourself. You don't need me to do it for you."

Scully glanced away again. Her cheeks were flaming, she could feel it. "That
isn't all." She closed her eyes, summoning her courage. Just say the words.
Mom won't judge - well, not too harshly. Say the fucking words. "I kissed
him. Before he said it. Before he told me." Surely her mother would react at
that. Surely she would be shocked, or angered, or amused. She didn't know
which she'd prefer, a scolding or a snicker. One would be embarrassing, but
the other would just plain hurt.

But Maggie said nothing, merely looked at her calmly. "And?"

Scully blinked and looked away. "It was quite a kiss, Mom. Quite a few of
them. God, it was so . . . " She struggled to find words, and failed. "Nice. It
was nice."

Nice, Dana? Nice is when he brings you back a bagel and coffee, light. Nice
is when he loans you a pair of clean sweats so you can take a shower and feel
halfway decent. What happened tonight was not *nice*. It was sweet and
tender and sensual, and you diminish it with those stupid, lukewarm terms.

They were silent for a long moment as they each drank their brandy. Without
a word Maggie unstopped the bottle and filled the glasses again, then
recorked it and put it away. No getting drunk over this one. It wasn't worth
it. She glanced at her daughter as she straightened. God, it was difficult not
to laugh. Great oaks from little acorns. Mountains and molehills. She'd seen
the two of them together. Back in the dark days when she'd first met the
man, and those were black days indeed, even then she could see that what he
felt for her daughter was much more than what the Bureau sanctioned
between partners. When Dana was returned and miraculously recovered, she
saw those feelings reciprocated. Was it love? It was tender and respectful.
Tentative and utterly non-verbal, but strong. Dana's illness had only solidified
that. Platonic love, to be sure, but love nonetheless.

Platonic love no more, it seemed. Carefully she laid a hand on her daughter's
arm. "Honey, I don't mean to belittle your feelings, but I think you're making
more of this than there really is." She held up a hand when Scully looked at
her sharply. "Spare me the daggers. Your father was much better at it than
you." She sighed and swirled her glass thoughtfully. "You kissed. He said he
loves you. Dana, forgive me for asking, but why are you here?"

Scully dropped her head onto her folded arms and sighed. "I don't know
what to say to him. I don't know .. . . I know how I feel, but I can't seem to
find any way to express it to him."

"You love him, don't you?"

She rocked her head from side to side. "Well, yeah. I do. I just can't . . . It
would have made him feel so good to hear me say it, but I didn't. It's like it
didn't even occur to me. God, I just stood there like a dumbshit and said 'I
know.' Like he was reminding me it's time to get my taxes done." She heaved
a shaky sigh. "We have a debriefing in the morning. I just. . . I can't face him
right now. God, the look in his eyes .. . . I mean, we've never kissed. Well
there was once, but it wasn't much. I mean, it was nice, but not . . . not like
this . . . and then suddenly we were making out like a couple of kids . . .
God, he's my friend, and he's probably sitting there right now racked with
guilt because he thinks he let me down. Like he's the one who was going to
blow what we have out of the water for the sake of a good screw. God, I'm
sorry, I know this must be embarrassing for you."

Maggie hid her smile behind her hand. *If I'm the one who's supposed to be
embarrassed, why are you the one playing ostrich?* She prudently kept the
thought to herself. Try another angle.

"Honey, I'm not embarrassed. I just really don't see the problem."

*Or do I? You didn't tell him because you can't find the words. To say it
would make it too real. Too immediate.* She frowned. "Dana, tell me again
what the Bureau's take is on these matters. Between partners, I mean. Is this
anything you might get into real trouble for?"

Scully snorted softly. "Relations are not encouraged, but it's known and
accepted that the conditions that make for a solid partnership can lead to
deeper involvements. Besides, half the section's taking bets that Mulder and I
are already sexually involved. It's been a favorite topic of discussion for years
now. I wouldn't mind some of that money myself, if there were any objective
way I could prove that nothing's ever happened. Well, until tonight."

Maggie looked at her intently, all humor gone now. "So what's stopping
you?"

She looked up in disbelief. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if there's no threat of reprisal, and it's clear you're both . . . I'm not
encouraging anything, honey - I'm merely asking. What's stopping you? You
trust him, don't you?"

"Only with my life, Mom."

"Fair enough. And you're fond of him, right?"

Scully smirked. "If he didn't have that lip before tonight, he'd certainly have
one now. Yeah, I'm fond of him."

Maggie leaned forward intently. "Tell me something, sweetheart: what
provoked this in the first place? Why tonight? Why after so long?"

Scully was silent for a long moment, her eyes distant as she gave the matter
serious thought. She could feel his mouth on hers, opening and asking and
giving, and tasting so damn good she just want to consume every last bit of
him . . . She bit her lips together hard enough to turn them white. "I guess . .
. I guess it's like I told him. I'm tired of telling myself it wasn't something I
wanted." She sighed and her shoulders slumped again.

"So what's stopping you?"

Her head snapped up, and her eyes were like blue stones. "Dammit, Mom,
quit asking me that. I don't know what's stopping me! It's been with me my
whole damn life, this inability to let go and just *be*. I don't know why.
Personally I think I'm just a coward. A spineless, heartless coward. I mean,
Mulder's had the balls to say it not once but twice, and after I all but laughed
at him the first time."

Maggie stared at her, wide-eyed. "Honey, you didn't."

"Didn't I. Last year in Bermuda, after we found the little creep floating in the
wreckage of his boat. It was no big deal, really. I mean, what's a little CPR
between friends? Thank God it was November. The water was cold enough
to keep his brain from turning to jello. So he wakes up in the fucking
hospital, and he was babbling about some damn hallucination. Nazis and a
body double, and a ship named the Queen Anne. He was on a hefty dose of
Demerol - Langely and I broke a couple of his ribs getting his heart started
again. He was lying in that bed, and he called me back to him and said 'I love
you.' Just like that. 'Scully, I love you.' And what did I say? Not 'I love you,
too.' Oh no, not me. Not even 'You ditched me again, you goddamned shit.' I
rolled my eyes and I said 'Oh, brother.' And I walked away." She clenched
her fist and slammed it down on the counter, hard enough to make the
glasses - and her mother - give a little leap. "He's so goddamn good at
getting into trouble. Forever running off to tilt at his windmills, leaving good
old Sancho Panza standing on the sidelines with the stretcher and crash cart.
You know what they say about all the king's horses, right? Someday Humpty
Dumpty is gonna get himself into a situation I can't fix. Someday he's going
over that wall, and I'm not even going to know where he went."

And therein lies the problem, Maggie thought to herself. She doesn't want to
control him. She doesn't truly want to stop him from being who he is - she
just doesn't want to mourn him when he's gone. When he dies.

They were silent for a long while. As it frequently happened though, Scully's
thoughts had followed the same path as her mother's, and had reached very
much the same conclusion. "I *am* a coward," she said quietly, with
conviction. "He's a pig and a child and a complicated, tortured, beautiful man
all rolled into one package. It's a nice package as those things go, but it's
what's inside that has me by the heartstrings." She looked at her mother with
dull eyes. "I'm afraid to love him for fear of losing him. That's it, isn't it."

It wasn't a question.

Gently Maggie reached out and covered her daughter's hand with her own.
How often has Dana heard the tale, she wondered. About how her father
came off the ship and asked Maggie point-blank to marry him. No hesitation.
No doubt. And she had accepted, likewise without hesitation or doubt. And
what a life it was. Four children and three and a half decades - decades of
separation and nights spent sick with worry. How long would he stay this
time? Will the ship make it back, or will it be lost with all hands? Will the
world survive this latest crisis and allow her husband, her *beloved,* to
return to her for the usual handful of months until he shipped out again?

Again, her daughter followed her thoughts, almost as if she'd voiced them, as
if she could see them racing in her eyes. "Oh, Mom," she breathed. "It's like
you and Dad, isn't it? I mean, Mulder would never concede control of his life
to the military, but - " Her eyes sagged shut and she bowed her head. "How
did you do it all those years, Mom? How could you just let him go, not
knowing if you'd ever see him again? Ever?"

A sob caught in Maggie's chest. She struggled for a moment, forcing the
words past the painful blockage in her throat. "Well, I had to ask myself
something, sweetie. Every time it came to letting go, I spent a good day
talking to myself. It became a ritual. Would it be any less painful to lose him
after only a week? Or a month? A year? Would it hurt any differently to lose
him after ten years? Should I have spared myself the heartache by not
marrying him at all? What if I'd never met him? If I'd played it safe, I
certainly would not have endured all that heartache. And I wouldn't have had
all those sleepless nights, and the days would have gone much more
smoothly because I wouldn't have had four redheads to take care of and keep
track of." She reached out and stroked her daughter's cheek. Scully's eyes
were soft again, clouded almost imperceptibly with tears. Maggie smiled
through her own. "I made the decision, Dana. It wasn't an option for me,
living without him. It was part of the package. You gotta take the bad with
the good. Those used to be just words to me. Just a catchy phrase from some
pop psychology guru. It's when you're in it for the long haul that those words
take on a deeper meaning." She let her hand fall and tipped her head to the
side. "You have to decide. You. You have to ask yourself if what you have is
enough. Not enough for right now, but for the day when he's gone and all
you have are memories. Will a handful of kisses really be enough."

Scully held her gaze for a moment, then looked back down at her glass.
Leave it to Mom. She always finds a way to cut to the heart of the matter.
Well, that's why I'm here, isn't it? I needed someone to lay it out for me. So
there it is. I have a shitload of memories now, but are they enough? When
he's dead and buried and all I have are those faded recollections, will they be
enough to keep my heart beating? Jesus, what more might he give me, if I'm
just willing to accept?


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part Three: Hopeful Romantic
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: None
RATING: PG-13 for some earthy language.
CLASSIFICATION: S, A, burgeoning MSR
KEYWORDS: Romance, friendship
SUMMARY: Mulder obsesses about Scully. What is their friendship worth
to him?

~~~~~~~~~~

He was late, as usual. Hobbling as fast as he could from the elevator to
Skinner's office, he half-fell in through the open office door. The assistant
looked up, startled. "There's no fire, Agent Mulder," she said. There was an
edge to her voice. "It's still all right to walk in here."
He glanced around as he nodded. No Scully. He thought she'd meet him
there. No phone call either. Shit, that meant -

His phone chirped. He excused himself and stepped back out into the
hallway. He knew even without looking who it was. Touched the key and the
number pad lit up. "Mulder."

"Hi, it's me." Pleasure blossomed in his belly at the sound of her voice. It was
quickly supplanted by anxiety. Her next words confirmed his fears. "I, uh, I
won't be making the meeting with you. I've already spoken with Skinner. It's
a break in protocol, but I think we're forgiven."

He frowned, touched by something in her tone. "Scully, what is it? Is
something wrong?"

He could see her in his mind. The eyes would close for just an instant. The
hand would brush a lock of hair off her forehead. She'd draw her lower lip
into her mouth and bite it gently, just enough to blanch the color from it.
"No, not really. I, uh, I'm with Mom. Drove down here last night after, uh . .
. Anyway, I'll be back tomorrow. I'll see you at the office in the morning."

He stared blankly at the display case across the hall from him.
Disappointment crushed him. "Um, all right," he stammered. "Tomorrow."
He thumbed the power key and shoved the phone in his jacket pocket.

No surprise. She was frightened. Truth be told, so was he. What they had
was comfortable. Familiar. That's what they were with each other: familiar.
This step toward intimacy - maybe they shouldn't have made it. Maybe they
weren't meant to. Was it worth it, becoming lovers if it didn't last? Wouldn't
it be better to remain friends if they could *be* friends for the rest of their
lives?

The issue hung like a cloud over his head. No one noticed his gloom. No one
ever noticed him when he was alone. Scully was the one who drew the looks.
It was Scully who made him feel good about himself.

The meeting was uneventful. Skinner listened to his narrative, compared it to
Scully's, and signed off on the case. He made no comment about her absence.

The day passed. Mulder sat alone in the basement office, snacking on seeds
and drinking too much coffee. A few initial case notes arrived over the fax,
but he barely glanced at them. Hours passed with him rocking in his desk
chair and staring at the poster on the wall. *She'll come back. Even if she
opts for friendship, she'll be back. Can I accept that? Can I live with her as a
friend if I can't have her for anything else?*

*You bet your ass you can. She's the best thing that ever happened in your
miserable life. Don't fuck it up now.*

He gave up late in the afternoon and headed home. Nothing had been
accomplished. Sullen, he tugged on his jacket and limped out to the street,
where he hailed a cab and rapped out the address. Fuck it, he told himself
firmly. She'll be back tomorrow. Things go on. She loves you, you know she
does. Take what she can give. You'll never look back on this day and laugh,
but you *will* look back on it.

The apartment was empty, of course. The rotting takeout in the fridge gave
off an offensive stench. Disgusted, he emptied everything into the trash can,
then struggled down the hall and shoved it into the garbage chute. Dug some
pine-smelling stuff out of the cupboard under the sink and cleaned up the
crusted stains. When that was done, he hailed another cab and had it take him
to the nearest Safeway. Bought a month's worth of groceries and lugged it all
back home. By the time he was finished, his ankle was killing him.

She said to ice it. Fine, I'll ice it. Have a beer and watch some tube.

He got the bag of veggies out of the freezer and threw himself onto the
couch with the bottle in one hand and the remote in the other. He swore
under his breath as he molded the bag around his bare ankle. After the first
initial agony, the cold actually felt good. He popped the beer, but after three
sips gave up on it. Nothing on TV. Infomercials. Discovery was repeating
something on the real Jurassic Park. Great - perfect for the ten-year olds in
the audience. AMC had the most to offer in the form of an old Deborah
Kerr-Robert Mitchum film. He watched a while, but when the romance
blossomed he had to change it. Fine, go back to the dinosaurs. Dozens of
God-damned channels and there wasn't a fucking thing to watch.

There was a knock at the door. His gut immediately tightened as panic shot
through him. This is it. How could he know? Well, it made sense: the only
visitors he got besides Scully were the Gunmen, and all was quiet where they
were concerned, at least for the moment. He clenched his teeth as he
struggled to the door. He'd know as soon as he saw her. As soon as she
looked at him - or didn't look at him, as the case may be. A glance and he
would know. He'd have to be strong about it. Don't let her see how much he
hurt. That wouldn't do any good. Besides, friendship was okay. He could live
with that. He'd rather have a lover, but shit, he wasn't going to lose
everything.

*Stop obsessing and open the damn door.* He sighed to steady himself, then
peered out the small spyhole and caught a flash of auburn. The top of her
head. She was looking at her feet. His heart sank even further. Not a good
start. *Chin up, son. Take it like a man. Don't turn into a quivering mass, at
least not until she's gone.*

He forced his expression into something resembling a friendly smile and
opened the door. No, she didn't look away. At least not at first. That was
good - wasn't it? "Hey, Scully. Is it tomorrow yet?"

She managed a quick smile. "I, uh . . . can I come in?"

He ushered her past and locked the door. She set her purse in one of the
dining room chairs and kept going into the living room. Another good sign.
Her gaze lingered for a moment on the TV before she rounded back on him.
Her chin rose and her eyes were steady as they held his. When she spoke, her
voice was soft and even. "I'm sorry about today. I, uh, I needed some time."

He waved her away. "Turnabout's fair play. How many times've I ditched
you? You didn't miss a damn thing. Between your phone report and what I
had to say, the case is considered solved. Discussion over." He gestured to
the neglected beer on the coffee table. "You want something to drink? I can
get another one."

She frowned. "You only had one."

He forced a grin. "Naw, I did the unthinkable tonight. The Captain has the
week off."

She stared at him in feigned disbelief. "Don't tell me you bought food."

He nodded as he sat down in one of the dining room chairs. It creaked under
his weight. As well it should - the chairs never did get much of a workout.
No one ever sat at his dining table. "Damn straight. And I was just getting
comfortable with my trusty bag of frozen vegetables when you rang.
Thought maybe I'd pickup where I left off."

She took a half-step forward and leaned a shoulder against the living room
doorway. A tense half-smile pulled at her mouth as her gaze dropped to her
shoes again. "Funny you should mention that. What happened last night . . .
well, it's kind of been on my mind."

He glanced at her, then looked away. "Yeah, I figured." He forced himself to
look back. "You going to sit down or do I get the bad news long-distance?"

She blinked. "Bad news, huh? I thought I was the skeptic in our little act."

He almost cut her off, but a wiser impulse made him hold his tongue.
Besides, it was a joy just to look at her. At the glow of her milky
complexion. At the eyes that were almost as intense as the color of her hair.
How could he tell her what he was feeling without frightening her away for
good? He couldn't live without her. He didn't know how to *be* without her.

The silence hung between them like an invisible curtain. She laced her fingers
primly before her and cleared her throat. The navy turtleneck she wore
swathed her from chin to wrists. Had it been a conscious choice, he
wondered. Was it an attempt to make herself unattainable? Was she even
aware of that when she chose it?

"I came to a decision today," she said at last. "Mulder, I don't want to mess
up what we have."

His hopes plunged. He turned and looked back at the TV, trying to focus on
something other than his heartache. Well, he'd expected this. He'd get over it.
He'd done it before. Not over anyone remotely like his partner - but he would
find a way to get over it.

Did he give a tiny, disappointed sigh? He wasn't aware of it; but the way she
was staring at him, he had to wonder. "Mulder, are you listening?"

He nodded, his eyes and mind distant. "You don't want to mess up what we
have."

She snorted softly. "I thought so." She stepped closer and bent before him,
bracing herself with a hand on either arm of the chair. He forced himself to
look at her. God, the pain in his chest was awful. How could she not see it?
Go away, Scully. I'll be okay in the morning. Go away and let me grieve a
little. Just a little.

She looked at him, her gaze unflinching. "Neither of us want to mess up what
we have. But seven years, Mulder - I've been wondering what else we could
have. What else we might have had already." She smiled when his eyes
focused abruptly on her. "You're my best friend. Even after all we've seen
and done - and what we've put each other through - I don't see that changing.
Do you?" She touched his face with the back of her hand. "I might have lost
you. You were the one who was hurt, but I. . . It frightened me. I - I can't
*not* know what it is to love you." She bent still closer then and touched her
lips to his forehead. His temple. The curve of his brow bone. Finally his
mouth.

He shivered. With each touch the heartache lifted more and more until it was
gone. She was right - they'd been through so much together. What did the
future hold? At that moment he didn't care. All that mattered was that she
was here with him now. He caught her face in his hands, and a sob rose and
caught in his chest as he gazed into the blue depths of her eyes.

She reached for him, folding him in her arms and rocking him as she had so
many times in the past. His father's death. His mother's suicide. Her own
crippling illness. This time there was no sorrow, just tenderness and promise
and hope. He held her tight, his arms locked around her waist, his face buried
in soft navy.

The chirp of her phone shattered the stillness. She drew herself away
reluctantly, then bent for a lingering kiss before flipping the speaker open.
Her voice was soft, the tone a little uneven. "Scully. Yes, sir. I'm with him
now. Yes, he told me. When? All right, I'll be there." She disconnected
without another word and looked back at him. Pressed her face to his. He
closed his eyes. Just to touch her was a treat. God, how he missed her when
she wasn't there. Reality, however, provided its own strong counterpoint. He
put her away from him a little and looked up at her. "What did Skinner
want?"

Her eyes met his. "A prisoner turned up dead in the city lockup."

He groaned as he nuzzled into her softness again. Damn, his face was on a
level with her chest. It would be so easy to push that soft blue material up
and look at her breasts. All he wanted was a look. Yet she was leaving.
Again. "The M.E. can't handle it?"

She shook her head slowly. "Their office is tied up with a string of mob-hits.
It's okay, it won't take long. Just a post-mortem."

He sighed. Her breath was warm on his face. God, to be kissed by her was to
be touched by sunlight. Her lashes were like spidergauze on his cheek. He
groaned again when she gently drew herself away. "Mmmm. You want me to
go with you?"

She straightened and reached for her purse. "No. Stay here. You'll only
distract me."

He nodded slowly, smiling. "All right." He rose beside her, following as she
backed slowly to the door. His hands reached for her of their own accord.
She gently opposed them, keeping her distance. "Scully - " She looked at him
expectantly. "Don't come back here tonight. It's already late. Just go home.
I'll see you in the morning."

The corner of her mouth drew back. "Is that what you want, Mulder?"

He brushed a kiss along her jaw line, and she shivered. Even through the
turtleneck he could see what the prickleflesh was doing. Shit, how he wanted
to touch her. "Of course not."

Her smile broadened. "I'll make no promises."

She hadn't been gone for long when his own phone started in. Skinner again.
Mulder listened without comment. The report just came in. A child had
disappeared under peculiar circumstances up in Maine. An older sibling said
something about lights, and a weird inability to react. No reference was made
to his own past, but Mulder immediately heard the comparison. Fine, the
arrangements were being made. Scully had already been contacted and would
catch up with him at the airport. The M.E.'s case would have to wait.

He moved into automatic. Called for a cab, then packed a bag. But the
rehearsed movements, perfected through years of late-night summons, now
had a new significance. Shaving kit so he wouldn't scrape her face with a
day's growth of beard. Shampoo, which he'd never smell again without
thinking of her. Not one pair of running pants but two, just in case she
needed to borrow them again. He eschewed the formal suit and tie, opting
instead for jeans and sweaters. A turtleneck, like her. Maine would still be
cold this time of year.

The cab was late, so he drove himself. Ankle was better, or at least tolerable.
He parked in long term and rode the shuttle to the terminal. Caught a
glimpse of burnished copper from a thousand yards. The feelings it stirred
made him quicken his pace. Another late-night jaunt, just the two of them.
The infinite possibilities stretched out before him like some wonderful magic
carpet.

Her nose was in a book, of course. She rarely went anywhere without
something to read. He slowed as he approached, took an angled course that
would keep him out of her line of sight until he was almost upon her. Still, he
wasn't surprised when she looked up. They recognized one another's footfalls
in a carpeted hallway. Read in each other's silences and expressions what had
not been uttered. The flick of a brow, a narrowing of the eyes. Sometimes
whole conversations were carried out without a single word being uttered.

*My partner,* he thought with a smile as he dropped in the seat beside her.
*My friend.*


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part Four: Crossing Over
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: Closure, Redux II
RATING: R for some serious sexual content.
CLASSIFICATION: S, UST, RST
KEYWORDS: Romance
SUMMARY: Where is their relationship heading?

~~~~~~~~~~

The flight took off on schedule. They conferred in low voices, poring over
the file which had arrived by FBI courier just as the doors were closing.
Scully watched her partner as he recited the facts. Twelve year old girl, at
home with an older sister. Parents were at work. Lights and sounds, and an
apparent paralysis. Scully frowned, digesting the situation. The parallels were
too close; how could he be so calm? She saw none of the old tension in his
face though, no pinching at the bridge of the nose or squinting that would
betray inner conflict. It had been a couple of months since the LaPierre
ordeal in California. Had he finally let go? Samantha was gone. It didn't
matter anymore how or why she was taken. She was at peace now, and so
was he. Watching him, Scully felt a stirring of sympathy, of empathy, and
more than a little tenderness. What he'd been through should never have
happened to anyone. Jesus, a little kid barely out of grade school shouldering
a responsibility his parents couldn't even handle. Sometimes she marveled
that he was sane at all.

Almost without conscious thought, she reached out and grasped his hand.
His long fingers entwined with hers, and she found herself smiling. He looked
up from the file and caught her eye. She felt a flutter in her belly as they
leaned in. The kiss was slow and lazy. Her smile broadened as she sat back.
When they got to Maine, the case would take center stage. Until the plane
landed, she was content to let her mind fill with sweet, heretofore forbidden
images.

Soon they would make love.

It was no longer a matter of *if*. Just the thought of it liberated a thousand
butterflies in her middle. It wouldn't happen until the case was solved, surely,
or until it was decided the Bureau had no jurisdiction over it. For the
moment she closed her eyes and indulged herself in a little fantasizing. His
slim runner's body was a thing of beauty. She was already aware of that.
Dressed the way he was, jeans and a dark turtleneck and that flowing
trenchcoat - how the women in the airport waiting area had stared. She'd
seen him any number of ways. Slumped in the chair at the office, or sprawled
on a couch. Dressed to the nines and looking oh-so delicious, or lying
helpless and broken in a hospital bed. Last night had offered something new
and strange and a little frightening; yet at the same time it was somehow
wonderfully familiar. She liked it. She'd had a sample of him, had taken his
full weight on her, holding him in the cradle of her arms, of her legs.

It surprised her how much she wanted him.

His smile, when he used it, could stop traffic. In seven years it'd made her
catch her breath more than once. It took very little effort to imagine those
hands on her, his fingers caressing the tender spots she'd schooled herself to
ignore. Her neck. Her throat. The flesh over her breastbone. She ached to
feel his hands on her breasts.

"I know what you're thinking." The voice was silky, the breath in her ear
warm. God, he was kissing her without even touching her.

She looked at him. His face was inches from hers. What a liberty it was,
returning his gaze without having to temper her own with feigned
indifference. In Maine she'd have to resume that cool, distant exterior. She
didn't have to do it when it was just the two of them. Not anymore. 

"You do." It wasn't a question.

His sigh was soft and deep. "This is going to be tough, not being able to
touch you."

She smiled as she studied him. Eyes that fairly twinkled with mirth. The mole
on his cheek. The pouting mouth. Oh, that mouth. *God, tell me something I
don't know. I've been not touching you for years.*

The fingers squeezed her hand again, the thumb gently circling and stroking.
It was hypnotic. Erotic. God, how could he do that? How could he turn her
on so just by touching her damn hand? She held his gaze, trying to burn into
her memory the shade and character of his eyes. Hazel eyes. No, not quite
hazel; more green. Yes, green but touched with gray. Shit, she never had
been able to decide, and staring at them now gave her no clearer insight. She
touched his cheek with the back of her hand. *If we're ever alone again,* she
told him silently, *you are in such trouble.*

His mouth twitched in the faintest of smiles. *Likewise,* his eyes gleamed
back.

The pilot's voice came over the PA system. They were getting ready to land.
Seatbelts on, please. No smoking until well clear of the terminal.

*Oh, right*, she thought, trying to get her fill of his smoky eyes. *We're
sitting here absolutely smoldering. This goes on much longer and we're going
to spontaneously combust. They'll have to put us out with a couple of seltzer
bottles.*

The descent was mercifully short. They released each other and gathered up
their belongings. Habit and necessity helped her find the distance she needed.
The casefile went into her briefcase. His expression, like hers, now carefully
blank. No one looking at them could guess.

They knew. Things could no longer be as they had been. Not anymore.

The neighborhood was ablaze with lights. Yellow tape cordoned off one
whole block, keeping the crush of reporters and on-lookers from invading
the crime scene. Scully looked around, noting details, already analyzing. A
glance a her partner told her he was doing the same. Passion was set aside.
They were good at what they did.

Each took a parent and questioned them. No hint of judgment in their tones,
and not much in the way of overt sympathy. Don't get personal on a case.
Then while Mulder interviewed the sister, Scully conferred with the cops. No
ransom call. No petulant message indicating a runaway. No one saw the
lights except for the sister, who was understandably upset. Had she described
what she had seen? Yes, but in vague terms. She was in shock, or under the
influence of something. Parents would not consent to a tox screen. Scully
nodded thoughtfully. With his gentle persistence, Mulder would get it out of
them.

She heard him call her name and excused herself. He drew her down the hall,
away from any prying ears. "Kid's a basketcase," he said, his voice barely
above a whisper. "Something's bugging me though. It's too pat. It's like she's
reading the transcript from a typical abduction scenario, reciting the facts
verbatim."

Scully glanced down the hall at the parents. "So you think this is a
confabulation."

He shrugged and nodded. "Can't say for sure right now, not yet, but I don't
think this is anything like an alien abduction. She's disassociating herself from
the whole situation. I'll need a couple psych tests, but my guess is she's a
borderline personality type. Maybe even schizophrenic. If one child is like
that, there's a good chance the other is, too."

Scully's eyes widened minutely. "They didn't find any physical evidence, did
they? Is it possible she killed her sister?"

He shook his head. "I don't get that from her. I think the kid's run off. I
mean, look. Twelve year old kid. A dysfunctional family, parents who by
their own admission are hardly ever home . . . Hey, I know whereof I speak."

She nodded. His aptitude in such cases was remarkable. She'd learned to
trust him. "All right. What do you plan to do?"

He looked past her to the mother, sitting like a statue on the living room
sofa. "I'm going to get permission for a tox screen. Then I'm having the girl
taken to the local hospital. Get a shrink to talk to her, do a full psych
screening. Hey, it's amazing what you can learn from an inkblot."

That earned him a wry smile. "Okay. I'm going to talk to the forensics team,
see if they've found anything that looks even remotely like a bloodstain. Let
me know before you take off anywhere. I'd like to be there."

"Yeah, I want you there, too. You need to order the blood work. That's your
bailiwick."

She nodded, and he turned away. The woman looked at him with huge,
haunted eyes. He spoke at length. She shook her head vehemently, but when
he kept at her, pressing and cajoling, she finally agreed. He patted her hand.
Scully watched it all, knew how he sounded even without hearing him. It
didn't matter what he said so much as how he said it. His voice was soothing.
Unaccusing, but unrelenting. *Help me help you.* So typical. No one knew
the woman's pain better than Mulder.

No one knew his better than Scully.

They checked into the motel around six the next morning. The girl was in
custody at the hospital, though all involved were careful not to call it that.
Her blood was drawn for the tests Scully ordered. The psych screening was
scheduled for that afternoon. They had time to sleep a little. Recoup from a
long night of stress and questions.

They took adjoining rooms, of course. The door between them remained
open. He went to a nearby coffee shop and bought juice and bagels, and they
ate them in his room. She studied him over her glass. He looked tired, but the
old tension still had not found its place in his expression. Perhaps he was well
and truly free of it. Did that make him care less about this case, or this
missing girl? Not a whit. His senses were honed, his movements both
physical and mental smooth and efficient. If anything, he was more focused
now. Didn't project the family's grief onto himself. Didn't find their anguish in
his own heart. Didn't need to carry it with him as he would have once.

Meal finished, she yawned and stood up. "Get some sleep, Mulder. I'll call
and arrange a wake-up at noon."

He nodded as he rose with her. Walked her to the door of her room just like
he was walking her home. Stopped in the doorway, not placing so much as a
foot past the threshold. Proper. They were on a case.

Almost proper. He caught his hands on either side of the doorjamb and
leaned down to her. It wasn't planned, but it was welcomed. A single, long
kiss. His mouth was warm and tasted of cinnamon.

They were separated by circumstance, but they weren't alone. The door
remained open.

The tox screen was negative. The psych screening bore out his theory: the
sister was disturbed. A thorough search of the neighborhood turned up
nothing, but a deeper investigation turned up a boyfriend unbeknownst to the
parents. The girl was found hiding in his closet. She too was put through a
battery of tests. The parents were given a list of psychiatrists.

The case was closed.

They drove in near-total silence down the coastal highway, heading back to
the small airfield. The view was breathtaking. No one does the vast, rocky
shoreline thing like Maine, Mulder thought. An impulse made him pull off the
highway and down a narrow road, to a state beach named after some
long-dead war hero. Scully said nothing. Their flight wasn't for two hours.
They had time to sight-see.

He followed the meandering road to the shoreline. The tide was out,
revealing a battlefield of worn granite battered smooth by the pounding of
the sea. Mulder felt no little connection to them. Such relentless forces had
shaped him, too. Yeah, the hulking boulders were kindred spirits.

They got out and walked down to the still water of a tidepool. Scully moved
to his side and stood just beyond his reach. "God, it's beautiful here," she
murmured. So green. So gray. Jesus, like his eyes.

He gazed at her. The view was suddenly inconsequential. "You ever been up
here?"

She shook her head. "Naval bases all over the place, but never this far north.
You?"

He grunted softly. Connecticut wasn't that far away, but after her divorce, his
mother had never been interested in much of anything. Places with nice views
had no place in her self-imposed isolation. For him, vacations amounted to
time spent away at summer camp. A tall, thin kid with gawking limbs and a
big nose - oh, yeah, he'd been the life of the party. No, happiness had not
been a frequent visitor in his life.

Not until now.

It was evening when they landed in DC. They walked together to her car,
slowly because of his ankle. She matched her strides to his. His hand hugged
her low at her waist.

They loaded the bags into her car, and then she drove him out to long-term
parking where his own was waiting. He silently opened his door, then leaned
back for a slow kiss. She felt the heat in her face as he drew back and looked
at her. What was there to say? He smiled and limped away. Unlocked his
own car and disappeared into the shadowy depths. She smiled as she pulled
away, out onto the highway heading for home. His headlights in her mirror
were a comforting beacon in the descending night.

He remained behind her, for once not bombing past in his haste to get . . .
somewhere. Anywhere. He stayed there, too, all the way to her Georgetown
neighborhood. Drove slowly past and parked a half-block away. She didn't
wait for him, but hurried up the walkway and shouldered aside the outside
door. Her fingers were unsteady as she unlocked her apartment. There was a
definite chill in the air; had to do something about that. She dropped her bag
and briefcase beside the couch, then went to the thermostat on the wall and
turned it up to seventy-six. Went to the bathroom and looked at herself in the
mirror. Her face was uncharacteristically flushed. Her mouth went dry when
she heard the soft knock at the door.

Somehow she resisted the temptation to run to him. She steadied herself with
a deep sigh and forced herself to walk slowly to the door. They were
grown-ups. They could do this.

Even before she turned the doorknob, she knew what was coming.

There was no greeting. No pretense of polite conversation. He stepped in,
one hand on the jamb and one on the knob, and kissed her. She could have
backpedaled - he left her the out, bless him. Her hands latched onto his face
as if drawn there by magnets, turning his head this way and that, seeking and
finding more of what she wanted. His hands left the structures they were
clinging to and found their way around her. No hesitation. Her arms were
around his neck. He smiled against her mouth as he straightened, lifting her
bodily inside. She reached behind him, fumbling a little, and set the deadbolt.

Then she got a hand on the collar of his jacket and gave it a little tug. He
dropped a shoulder, and the offending article fell at their feet. His shirt soon
followed it. She tugged hers off over her head and lost track of it. They
found it later on top of the armoire.

Bare torsos touched for the first time, and he gave a soft groan. "God, you're
beautiful."

She kissed him hungrily. "Try to carry me anywhere and you'll be in the
hospital."

That made him smile again. "Wouldn't dream of it."

When had the hallway gotten so damn long?

It took about six months to reach the bedroom. A trail of discarded items lay
in their wake - shoes, socks, her pants. The bed creaked softly as it took their
weight. She didn't think they'd ever get his jeans off. Something was
definitely holding up the show. His hands caught hers when she started to
yank down her bra. "No," he breathed, drawing her fingers away. "Let me."

She clenched her teeth in anticipation. As sweet as it was, his slow-motion
torture was almost more than she could take. He seemed to have no such
problem. Slowly he rolled her over on her back, and her legs automatically
rose around him. He nuzzled and kissed the underside of her jaw line, then
her neck, then her collarbone. Slowly he slipped down one side of her bra,
baring her breast. Bending, he first nuzzled, then kissed it. She almost
screamed in anticipation. At last he opened his lips and took it in his mouth.
Suckled. His mouth was hot against her skin. It stole her breath away, and
she lay motionless, rapt, suddenly unable to move or think. Her hands
tangled in his hair, holding him impossibly close. More. Oh, more. She
couldn't open her eyes. The sensations were maddening. Had a mouth on her
breast ever felt like that?

"Look, there's another one," he murmured, turning his attention to the
neglected twin. She almost laughed, but opted instead to murmur his name.
Oh, this was insane. Her heart was beating a wild frenzy in her chest, and
they were just getting started.

He moved to her mouth and kissed her. She greeted him hungrily. He braced
himself on his arms, bearing himself up over her. She wanted his weight.
Sought it, asking with movements and whispers for him to let go and just
*be.* It was what their bodies were designed for, this full-frontal,
face-to-faceness. Gradually he relented, allowing himself to melt over her and
press her into the softness of her mattress. The sounds she made all but drove
him to distraction. There were no moans or histrionic sighs, but tiny gasps as
his thumbs worked themselves around her wet nipples, first one and then the
other. She was murmuring his name, too - always Mulder, never Fox. After
so many years, what was the intimacy of a first name to them?

He felt her arch beneath him, trying to work him closer, trying to work him
in. He looked at her and whispered her name. Kissed her face, her eyelids.
"Look at me. I want you to look at me." There was a pause, and then he
found himself staring into the most beautiful pools of blue he had ever
imagined. He fought the impulse to look away. She stared up at him as he
worked his hips a little, and for the first time a soft moan escaped her. He
needed no guiding; she was right, she was designed just for this. Just for
*him.* Male and female, meeting in an act as ancient as time itself. And she
was ready for him, slick and warm and open. But he felt so damn big and
clumsy - God, he didn't want to hurt her, and she felt so tiny beneath him.
"Look at me," he breathed. "Look at me. God, you're beautiful. You're so
beautiful."

With one slow thrust he was in her. She stiffened and her eyes went wide,
then closed. For just an instant she grimaced as if in pain, and he felt a stab of
self-loathing. Of course it hurt; how could it not? He froze, torn. Should he
move? Did she need him to be still? How could he know without asking?
How the hell could he ask anything so fundamentally stupid right now?

Her eyes opened again and focused on him, and he felt her move a little
beneath him. "Better," she whispered. Her hands glided up and down his
back, caressing, leaving trails of fire on his skin.

He kissed her once. Twice. He wasn't hurting her. God, he might be able to
do this right. His spirit suddenly soared. To be in her felt so good he almost
cried. He bit his lips hard, fighting the urge to move, because just a thrust or
two now and it would be over, at least for him, at least for a while. He
bowed his head and pressed his temple to hers, murmuring her name. "Scully.
God, Scully."

The insanity passed. He began to move, slowly at first. Experimenting.
Moving his hips this way and that. Gentle circular movements. She moved,
too, sometimes with him, sometimes opposing him. When she sought his
neck with her mouth, he found the sensation almost more than he could bear.
Gently he caught her hands and drew them up over her head, crossing them
at the wrists. His face hovered over hers. Their gazes were locked. One.
*They* were one.

He could feel himself growing within her. Actually growing. He couldn't hold
out much longer at this rate. He slowed his movements and then abruptly
rolled, placing her on top. She followed his lead without protest. His arms
slid up and crossed around her rib cage, binding her to him. It took only a
moment to adjust, to find the perfect pressure. She climaxed almost at once
and somehow he sustained it, drawing it out as he began to pound in earnest.
A soft gasp escaped her as she writhed, impaled. "Wait for me," he
whispered against her temple. A veil of copper hair fell over his eyes as he
drove into her. Again. Again. Again. Then he heard her cry his name and that
was it he couldn't stop the sweet madness he was coming coming hard losing
himself in their cries *"Oh God Oh God Oh God . . . "*

He thrashed, arms still locked around her, legs stiff. It was never-ending, it
was crushing him, draining him, it was killing him but it felt so good he
wanted to die forever . . .

And then it was fading and he could breathe again. He drew a deep,
shuddering gasp as he slowed, then went slack beneath her. She raised her
head and looked at him. He stared back, dumbfounded.

She didn't have to say it, he could see the emotions in her clear, beautiful
eyes. She loved him. *She* loved *him.* Her hand rose and stroked his face
as a sob rose in his throat. What the hell had he ever done that he should be
worthy of such a gift as this woman? "No," she whispered, first wiping and
then kissing away his tears. He shook his head and tried to look away,
ashamed of his emotions, mortified by his inability to control them. She
wouldn't permit it. "Shh. All right. Let go, Mulder. Just let go."

He held her tightly as he wept. The tears weren't for him, he wanted to say;
they were for her. She'd been through so much bullshit because of him. Jesus,
how she'd suffered. Fear and loss and terminal illness, her own death averted
by some act of intervention they *still* didn't understand. Yet here she was,
not only still with him by choice but willing to love him. It was unfathomable.

His tears were for her. All he was, she was responsible for now. Anything
good, she had made him.

At last the sobs died away. He pressed his face to hers, drawing on her
calmness and strength to center himself. As he always had. As he always
would.

She dipped her head to kiss him again. He stared at her mutely, utterly spent.
A smile drew at her eyes, spread slowly to her mouth. "Better now?" she
whispered, touching a fingertip to his lips. He kissed the finger and nodded,
and her smile broadened. He almost cried again. God, to make her smile like
that - he'd make it his mission in life to make that happen every day. Every
damn, glorious day.

She scooted down, separating them where they were still joined, and tugged
the blankets up over them. He cupped a hand around her neck, pillowing her
head on his shoulder as she nestled herself around him. She smiled when he
pressed his lips to her forehead.

He loved her. No, more than that: he adored her. He'd do anything - anything
- for her. Now. Always. Right now he would just hold her as she slept.
Would she dream of him? He hoped so.


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part Five: Small Hours
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: None
RATING: R for Romance, some tender loving
CLASSIFICATION: S, MSR
KEYWORDS: Romance
SUMMARY: Sacking out on the couch takes on a whole new meaning.

~~~~~~~~~~

He woke. Felt the softness of the blankets, the bulk of the pillow wadded
against his belly. His arms tightened around it as he muffled a quiet oath.
Alone. The dream was just a dream, but this time so real . . . so real. Her
eyes staring into his, her lips a warm open O against his, her warmth in him
and on him, surrounding him . . . but the dream ended. Again.

But where was he? This wasn't his bed. His place didn't smell like this. Shit,
these sheets smelled like . . .

They smelled like . . .

. . . like Scully.

He lifted his head with a jerk and looked around. A smile split his face.

There was a light coming from the living room. It cut the darkness in the
bedroom and cast long, writhing shadows on the walls. The TV was on. He
tossed back the covers and sat up, then drew on his jeans and buttoned them.
Carefully he padded out down the hallway and peered around the corner.

She was curled in a ball on the couch, wrapped in the soft green blanket that
lived there. She spied him at once and lifted her chin in greeting, as if it was
nothing new for her partner to wander out of her bedroom in the middle of
the night. He returned the gesture as he approached, then knelt on the carpet
before her.

The blanket fluttered and shifted, and her hand emerged and reached for his.
He quickly wrapped it in his own. "What time is it?"

She glanced at the wall clock over the TV. "Just after three."

He tried for a sullen pout but couldn't hold it. The dream had come true. "I
woke up alone," he murmured. Kind of scared me for a minute. I thought
maybe it had all been a dream."

She sat up and gestured to the couch beside her. He obediently draped
himself around her and drew her close. She pressed her face to the hollow of
his jaw. Oh, the times she had wanted him to hold her like this. "You were
asleep. I didn't want to wake you."

He nuzzled her hair. The faint scent of her perfume tempered with
perspiration still clung to her. He drew a deep, hungry breath. "Mmm, you
smell wonderful." Something on the TV caught his attention, and he looked
up curiously. The sounds of battle, of men dying. "Jesus, Scully, what are
you watching?"

She dropped a kiss on his nearest hand. "Braveheart," she whispered as she
unerringly found his mouth. No hesitation. She made love with the same
determination, the same singleness of purpose that she did everything else.
His heart skipped a beat. "I watched you sleep for a while," she said between
kisses. "It's weird though - " kiss "you knew you were being watched." kiss
"I could see it really bothered you. So I came out here." She kissed his brow
bone, his eyelids. He couldn't contain a soft moan of contentment. Didn't
even try not to respond to her touches. The first round of lovemaking had
allayed his appetite without satisfying it. Oh, the things she did to him could
drive all thought from his head.

Something in the film caught his attention and he frowned, squinting at the
screen. Uncontrolled mayhem. "You know, that's something we just don't get
a lot of around here."

She frowned a little. "What's that?"

He gestured with a lift of his chin. "The swords. We don't see many bodies
impaled on claymores."

She winced as she shifted, coming to face him. "And thank God for it, too,"
she murmured. The blanket slipped around her, and she smirked as his
attention immediately focused on her bare shoulder. He dipped his head and
pressed an open-mouth kiss to it. "If memory serves," she added, "there was
an impaling of some sort not long ago. I have to wonder if there won't be any
more of them."

He snorted softly with laughter. "You know how these characters work -
he'll keep it up as long as he can."

"Ooh, I hope so."

She opened the blanket and encircled him with it as she spoke. The hair on
his chest tickled her breasts, and her nipples immediately hardened. His arms
slipped around her bare back, caressing her with their warmth. God, it felt so
good. Every damn bit of him was like a draught she couldn't drink fast
enough. She kissed his mouth, then played her teeth down the line of his
stubbled jaw, tasting the salt and substance that was undeniably his. It was
like candy. She couldn't get enough of him. Her hand slipped down the
length of his torso, almost burning him with its warmth. "Dammit Mulder,
why'd you bother with your pants?"

He shivered as her lips played down the side of his neck, teasing the thin,
sensitive skin and setting him on fire. Jesus, but she was a quick study.
"You're right," he gasped, bucking his hips and shedding the jeans. "I don't
know what I was thinking."

She settled the blanket around them both, shuddering as she eased herself
down over him, around him. He bit back a gratified moan, then caught her
head in his hands and kissed her hard. She started moving, grinding herself
on him. His hands rose, caressing the flesh of her breastbone, circling the
hard nipples with his thumbs. He watched the changes in her expression.
God, she's beautiful. Her eyes closed and her head fell back, exposing the
pale column of her throat. He bit it gently, playing his teeth and tongue down
the length of her windpipe. A strange little smile drew at her lips as she
caught her breath.

"Hey," he murmured, lifting his hands away. She managed to open her eyes.
They were heavy and full of fire. Her hips kept up their unobtrusive
movements as he kissed her. "Enough with the sighs already. I want to hear
you." He gently bit the point of her chin. Her mouth found his again, but he
managed to drag himself away - God, the effort that took. "I want to hear
you, Scully. Let me hear you."

Her eyes burned as they stared into his. She was drunk with him, he could
see it. She nodded slowly as her rocking increased. His arms were around her
waist, increasing the lift, the impact. Harder. Harder. He whispered in her
ear, coaxing, teasing, pleading as she writhed in his arms. Within seconds she
was panting audibly, her arms locked tight around his neck, her face straining
against his. "What're you doing to me?" she breathed. "God, I can't . . . I
can't . . ."

At last a sound the likes of which he'd never heard rose out of her, a high
keening wail, soft and drawn out. Jesus, she was singing his name, over and
over in her rapture. *I'm making her sing.* With that realization, the last
degree of control slipped away. A sweet explosion ripped through him,
starting in his vitals, spurring him, rending him, squeezing and breaking and
consuming him. He couldn't have contained his own cry even if he'd tried.
His surrender was complete, the climax intense to the point of pain. He was
in her, in her heart and her body, and in that moment his own heart all but
exploded.

An eternity passed as they hung there in that nether-world, caught between
ecstasy and exhaustion. They were aware of sounds and smells, of the
smooth touch of warm, wet skin. To move was a physical impossibility. She
felt groggy, her limbs unwieldy, her thoughts scattered. Some part of her, the
clinical part, knew what it was. Oxygen deprivation. The effect of lactic acid
built up in overly-taxed muscles. The repeated sharing of carbon dioxide shed
during the exertion of sex.

What a cold description of something so sublime. To hell with science - it
was magic, this thing that existed between them. It was magic, what he did
for her. What she did to him. Stop the presses, world. She, Dana Scully, was
admitting to the existence of magic. How else could they go from frenzied
ecstasy to profound lassitude and even slumber in the blink of an eye? One
extreme to another in the time it took for pulse rates to fall back within
normal limits.

She summoned the energy to move, and his arms, which had gone slack,
immediately tightened around her again. A soft murmur rumbled in his chest.
"Jesus, Scully, I think I felt my heart stop."

It took tremendous effort to lift her head and look at him. His eyes held hers
effortlessly, beautiful gray-green in the half-light from the set. The madness
she had seen in them was in abeyance, but it was still there in the impish
twinkle. The slow half-smile that tugged at one corner of his mouth. Oh, he
might be subdued, but he'd never be conquered. She didn't fight the impulse
to kiss him. She could do that. Here, away from prying eyes and speculating
whispers, she could do whatever she damn well pleased.

He drew a breath and combed the hair away from her face with an unsteady
hand. "You take my breath away, Agent Scully," he whispered. "I'd like
nothing more than to accommodate you again, but I don't think I can move
right now."

She smiled as she lowered her mouth to his shoulder. "Mmm, you don't have
to," she murmured, gently biting the side of his neck. The fluttering carotid
throbbed just beneath the skin. She nuzzled and then kissed it. The smell of
him was intoxicating. How could she want him still, after what had just
happened? It made no sense. It just was.

She glanced at the TV. Wallace and the Princess were in the shepherd's
cottage, talking. He followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing just a little. "I've
never seen this before," he murmured, "but if I'm reading their body language
correctly, they're about to do the wild thing." Wallace stepped close for the
kiss, and Mulder gave a satisfied grunt. "God, am I good or what."

She smiled. Said nothing as she watched him watch the couple. He allowed
himself to be studied for a few moments, then turned his attention back to
her. Kissed her gently. "Mmm, I don't need a thigh-cam to know what they're
doing."

She smiled when his stomach rumbled softly. Something was definitely ailing
him, and this time sex was not the prescription. She leaned close. "Protein,"
she murmured against the stubbled skin of his throat. "Gotta have it if you're
going to keep giving it away." Slowly she pushed herself up, lifting away
from him. He gasped at the chill left in her wake. "Stay here. Watch the
movie. I'll be back."

Jesus, after his furnace-like warmth she was all but freezing. She left him the
blanket and hurried to her bedroom. Her teeth actually chattered as she
tugged on her robe and slippers. She glanced at the clock. It was almost four
in the morning. Breakfast at that hour wasn't insane. The fact that she hadn't
slept much and didn't even want to - that was insane.

She set about scrambling some eggs. Made toast and coffee. Found the
biggest glass she had and filled it with whatever juice there was in the fridge.
All the while she could feel his eyes on her. Eyes the color of that
wind-swept bay in Maine, green and gray and brimming with emotion. A
twinge of melancholy tugged at her heart. Eyes that had seen so much, and a
heart that had lost even more. A mind suddenly, violently forced to maturity
at an obscene age. Childhood arrested.

He'd had no choice but to take up psychology, if only in an attempt to come
to terms with himself.

She felt the warmth of his hand on her waist even through her robe. "Mmm,
can I have some?" he murmured, stepping close and linking his arms around
her.

His breath was warm on her neck. She closed her eyes for an instant, steeling
herself against his gentle onslaught. "Who do you think this is for?"

His reply was muffled against her neck. "I wasn't talking about the eggs." He
chuckled at her uncharacteristic giggle.

She managed to shrug him away. "Back off, G-man. I don't want to get
burned here. Here, take this and go sit down."

He took the proffered items, a plate of toast and the jam, then came back and
dug in a cupboard for a cup. Favored her with a lingering glance, then drew
out a second and filled them both. She scooped the steaming eggs onto a
plate and joined him. Stirred cream into her cup and watched as he attacked
the food.

He glanced at the microwave, making note of the time. "Going to be light
soon. Funny, I don't feel tired."

She allowed herself a patient smile. "No, my guess is the fatigue will set in
around one or so."

He took a sip of coffee and grunted behind the cup. "I think we should just
stay in today. Phone in sick. I'll tell Skinner I'm taking the day off. Wrapping
up case notes. Working at home is more interesting anyway."

She gave him one of her looks, the one that said Spare me the bullshit. "You
know that isn't possible."

He scowled. "You're really going to make me sit in that basement with you
and not let me even touch you?"

She shook her head. "No. I don't think we should spend much time together
at all today. You're very good with those blank looks, but I don't think I can
maintain the facade. Not today."

His scowl deepened into a frown. "You're not staying home alone." It wasn't
a question.

She smiled into her coffee. "I didn't say that. There're some things I can do
out at the labs. Enough to keep me busy. I can come up with a plausible
excuse for blushing as long as you're not around."

He reached across the table and stroked her face. He didn't smile, but his
eyes were full of laughter. "I make you blush?"

She cast a meaningful glance at the couch. "You make me do a lot of things,
none of which are suitable for the workplace. Are you finished? C'mon, we
can get at least a few hours' sleep before we have to haul ass."

He clutched the blanket around him as he pushed himself to his feet, the
twinkle in his eye already apparent. "Oh, I thought you'd never ask."

She gave him one of her pained looks. "Sleep, Mulder. Don't make me send
you home."

He opened the blanket and enfolded her. Nuzzled the hair away from her ear
and breathed on it seductively. Her eyes closed in reflex. "Mm, how would
you do that? I'm a lot bigger than you are." The nuzzle became an active kiss.
"Thanks for the food. I'm feeling stronger already."

She tried to push him away, but the attempt was half-hearted. "Sleep," she
repeated, her tone stern.

He shadowed her down the hall to the bedroom, and pouted when she
donned a long shirt in place of the robe. "Spoilsport."

She flashed him a wry smile as she drew back the covers. "Sleep, little fox."

He dropped the blanket and nestled in beside her. She didn't protest when he
drew her close, sculpting her body into the curve of his chest and hips and
legs. He buried his face in her hair and inhaled. Mmm, his little bit of heaven.
No longer an unknown, but always a mystery. Always that. He laid his head
on the pillow with hers and closed his eyes.

It occurred to him that she might never say the words. She was thinking
them, of that he was sure. Strange that it didn't bother him. Then again, her
reserve was a large part of who she was. Besides, some things didn't have to
be uttered. He'd seen it in her eyes.

Happily, he felt no such compulsion to silence. Lazily he dragged his lips
down the back of her neck, and smiled when he felt her shiver. "God, I love
you so much."

There was a pause, and then she turned and looked at him over her shoulder.
Returned the gentle kiss. Half-closed eyes sought his, and then she smiled.
"Likewise." He smiled and drew her even closer.

They slept.


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part 6: "Paging Dr. Scully . . ."
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: None
RATING: PG-13 for language.
CLASSIFICATION: V, H
KEYWORDS: Hickey.
SUMMARY: See above. Enough said.

~~~~~~~~~~

Quantico
Friday 10:17 a.m.

God, this was really awkward.

The whole day had started out surreal. No, scratch that - the day *started
out* like something from a dream. It was just since leaving her apartment
that things began to take on a certain strangeness. It wasn't a bad strange; but
it was definitely weird.

First off, she couldn't quit smiling.

It wasn't the goofy, I-just-got-lucky grin that she was sure would be on
Mulder's face for days. Rather, it was a gentle smile, perhaps even a smirk,
that simply wouldn't fade. It tugged constantly at the corner of her mouth
and drew at her eyes even when she tried to look stern. God, if she didn't
watch herself, she was going to start humming. How un-Scully would that
be?

She checked in with the pathology department and put herself down for a
couple of the overflow cases. There were always autopsies that needed
doing; with the exception of her partner, investigating officers usually didn't
tend to care who cut up their stiffs. Then she went to the lounge and changed
from her street clothes into scrubs. The gray-green of the simple cotton held
none of the appeal that her partner's eyes did; neither did the rather bilious
color do much for her complexion.

It *was* her complexion, wasn't it? She scowled at her reflection in the
mirror, barely recognizing herself. Okay, she'd always heard about the glow
that great sex could lend a woman, but up until now she'd never seen it. Shit,
even when she tried, she couldn't get rid of the simper! Sighing, she scooped
together as much of her hair as she could and trapped it in a tail. It was
largely a futile gesture; that last hair cut had been a big mistake.

And that's when the day got just a little stranger.

*Oh, hell. What's that?* Eyes wide, she tilted her head to the side and
frowned as she peered at her reflection. A mark. No, strike that - a bruise.
She had a God-damned bruise on her neck right below her ear, just the size
and shape of a human mouth. It was faint yet, barely more than a blush on
her skin, but by the end of the day it would be a shiner. *Ah, hell. Damn this
shitty pale complexion! Might as well wear a big damn sign on my chest that
says Yes, as a matter of fact, I did!* She immediately released the tail and
shook out her hair, then combed it down with her fingers. *There, that's not
so bad. God, why did I get it cut so short. Okay, think! I suppose I could
wear my turtleneck under the scrubs. Tell people I'm cold. The bays are
chilly; maybe they won't find it too strange, my being swathed up to my ears.
I swear I'm gonna kill Mulder. When the hell did he do it? Must have been
this morning's . . . session. Jesus, I can't believe him. I've always known he's a
sexual creature, but *three times?* What the hell does he eat? Is it all those
sunflower seeds? How in the name of God will he be able to function
today?*

She went to a bench and sat down with a little grunt. A twinge of discomfort
lanced through her pelvis, and she winced as she shifted a little. Oh, perfect.
She was sore. Small wonder; the last time some of those muscles had been
used, George and Barbara were still in office.

She stripped off the shapeless top, pulled on the blood red turtleneck she'd
been wearing, and donned the scrubs over it. The colors didn't work at all,
but at least the bruise was covered. Well, mostly covered. She scowled at
herself again. *Don't sing, Dana. Don't hum. Whatever you do, don't even
think about him. People around here aren't stupid. They've had you two in
bed for years, and here you are with bright eyes and a dumb smile and a
hickey on your neck the size of a fist. All you need to do is connect the dots
for them. Hey, everyone, look! The Icemaiden got laid last night!*

She rose and looked at her reflection again. There it was. The smile. *Love
you. Love you, Scully.* His voice whispered back to her from the night, and
she felt her skin tingle from his phantom touches. Oh, God, he could do it to
her without even being there. How was that possible? *Magic. You said it
yourself. What he does is magic.* She gave her head a shake. Yep, there it
was. Now she was blushing. Ah, hell. She heaved a sigh. *They've had us in
bed together anyway, maybe they won't notice that it finally happened.
Screw'em.* She lifted her chin and set her shoulders. *Don't forget why
you're here. The cadavers won't give a shit what you've been doing. Just go
get the work done.*

And don't even think about Mulder. Don't think about that sound he makes
when he's inside you, or that thing he does with his eyes at *just that
moment,* and for God's sake, don't think about the look on his face when
*you* made that sound last night . . .

She hitched her collar a little higher up her neck.

God, this could really get embarrassing.


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part 7: Hopeless
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: None
RATING: PG-13 for language.
CLASSIFICATION: V, MSR
KEYWORDS: none
SUMMARY: Trapped in a meeting with nothing but his thoughts for
company.

~~~~~~~~~~

He hated these meetings.

He was running late, of course. Barely made it into the Hoover Building
before Skinner lassoed him with a dreaded request. Quarterly staff meeting,
and McMartin was out with acute appendicitis. Could Mulder sub for him on
the Violent Crimes cases he and Scully had assisted on?

Appendicitis, for God's sake? Who the hell got appendicitis at, what - how
the hell old was McMartin anyway? Fifty? Okay, so it wasn't exactly
something that he could have planned on - but Mulder had seriously looked
forward to holing up in his warren and doing a little napping. A little thinking
about Scully. Just the thought of her brought a smile to his face. No, can't
smile, not here in a meeting surrounded by a dozen federal corpses. Just sit
there, numb with boredom and not able even to pop sunflower seeds. Shit.

He wondered absently if he had reacted to the sound of his partner's name
rolling out of Skinner's mouth. He was fairly certain he'd schooled his
expression, maintaining his customary blank look. Skinner was old school
when it came to such matters. There was no way he couldn't be aware of the
rumors that had been swirling for years around Mulder and Scully, but
because he expected more from them, it probably wouldn't even occur to him
that they had committed a sizable transgression. Well, transgressions. Plural.
Still, the man wasn't stupid. Mulder would have to watch himself. Shit, it was
going to be tough, not smiling when he thought of her.

Especially when he could still taste her. His flesh remembered her touch; he
could still feel her even though she was miles away at Quantico. Working in
the labs, assisting in classes maybe, or lending a hand with autopsies. Lucky
fucking stiffs, having those hands touch them. Those hands that, hesitantly at
first, had explored his body, stroking and probing, touching, fulfilling hopes
and fantasies he'd always felt guilty for ever entertaining . . .

With a start he realized that Skinner was looking at him. His turn to speak.
Calmly he recited the facts from the X-files that paralleled those in the
Violent Crimes Division. There were a few patronizing looks from the agents
around him, but he was long used to ignoring them. Stoically he gave the
facts and figures, then retired with a sigh and picked up his pen. Put it down
again for fear of doodling on the pad, for fear that, like a hyper-hormonal
teenager, he would begin writing her name over and over in the margins. Or
worse yet, draw shapes that reminded him of her. *No, don't even go there.
Distract yourself. Think about work. Think about cases.* No, that wouldn't
work either; Scully was too tightly interwoven through work. Almost
frantically he cast about for some thought that wouldn't prove arousing. Shit,
what was the matter with him? Three times in twelve hours wasn't enough?
He was hopeless! If he couldn't keep things under control when she wasn't
around, how the hell would he manage when she was right there in the room
with him?

The meeting lasted forever. When at last Skinner released them with a curt
nod, Mulder rose gingerly for fear that his burgeoning hard-on would be
clear and obvious for all to see. No, all the other agents were busy elsewhere,
drawing up their files and notes and such. Some looked bleary-eyed and
slumberous, as if they had indulged in a waking nap. He made a quick exit,
before anyone could ask him about his partner's absence, and beat a hasty
retreat to the basement.

A glance at his watch as the door slammed behind him. Three-thirty. Fatigue
still hadn't set in. He sighed as he dropped the files on his desk and picked up
the phone. He had her cell number dialed before he realized what he was
doing. Ring ring ring. The cellular customer you are . . . Dammit, she was
tied up somewhere.

Lunch? No, he wasn't hungry. Coffee would suffice. He set a pot brewing,
then checked the fax. There were a few incoming cases that might prove
interesting. Later though. God, what if Skinner came up with something for
him to do? He felt a twinge of genuine anxiety at the thought. What if he sent
him off on some miserable case in Nosewipe, Arkansas? Now, when he had
the entire weekend to look forward to? The thought was unbearable. Forget
the coffee, forget the new case notes. He'd done his bit for the company; he
was taking some personal time. After all, they'd just completed two cases in
one week. He still bore the battle scars. Without sparing it a second thought,
he called Skinner's assistant and asked her to break the news to the boss.
Scully would be occupied all day out at Quantico, and he, Mulder, was going
home to nurse a sprained ankle.

Okay, so that cleared him for the day. Should he go home? What he really
wanted to do was drive out to Quantico himself. Poke around, see if there
was anything interesting he could dig up. Hope to catch a glimpse of his girl.
His heart leapt at the thought. Not just his partner - his girl. The one he had
seen coming out of the bathroom that morning, swathed in that damn robe,
her face glowing from a lot more than a good scrubbing. The one who had
wrapped her legs around him in the night, and left small but impressive dents
in his back from her nails.

He felt a tickle deep in his belly as he headed for the garage. His partner, he
thought with a smile. His lover. His friend.

He'd give her something special to come home to.


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part 8: After Hours
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: none
RATING: R for sexual content
CLASSIFICATION: S, A, MSR
SUMMARY: What to do after a hard day's work?

~~~~~~~~~~

Scully glanced at the wall clock as her assistant whipped the sheet up and
covered the pale corpse. Almost four. She had time for a cup of coffee
before checking the PCR on the case she was looking into for McMasters.
Funny that she hadn't heard from Mulder all day. Something was keeping him
occupied. He'd been running late, of course, what with having to go back to
his apartment to change for work. Had Skinner been pissed off by his
tardiness? Not likely, but not impossible. Skinner was nothing if not prickly.

Then again, she didn't keep her cell phone on hand when she was up to her
elbows in a cadaver. Maybe he had tried to call and been stymied.

A voice called after her as she headed for the elevator. "Dana, do you have a
minute?"

Shit, it was Carl Lawrence. She tried not to wince as she turned. Nice
enough as colleagues went, but beyond dull. A regular CPA with a scalpel.
Hastily she forced her mouth into a polite smile. "Sure, Carl. What is it?"

He shrugged apologetically and nodded over her shoulder to one of the bays.
"I'm in a bit of a bind. More work than I can get done today, and I hate
falling short on promises. I heard you were still here, and I was hoping I
could prevail upon you for -"

A soft chirp cut him off. Her cell phone, quiet all day, thankfully chose that
moment to demand attention. She half-smiled as she dug it out of her breast
pocket. "Yeah, Scully."

"What're you wearing?"

Oh, the heat that rushed into her face at those words. Somehow she managed
to retain her composure, kept from grinning like an idiot. "Mulder, what is
it?"

"The question was, what're you wearing? One of those sexy scrub outfits, I'll
bet, with your hair tied back at the nape of your neck, maybe wearing one of
those paper hats. Has anyone noticed that bruise under your ear? I'm really
sorry about that. Haven't given anyone a hickey since college."

She closed her eyes. Restraint. Gotta have restraint, what with the Professor
standing beside her, listening to every word she said. "Yes, Mulder, I am
busy just at the moment. What do you need?"

Oh, bad choice of words. He promptly listed each of his desires, and the
litany quickly approached erotic. She stepped away with a hasty glance at
Lawrence, fearful that Mulder's voice would carry across the few steps
separating them. "Wait, wait a minute. Where are you? Please tell me you're
not at the office."

He gave a soft purring moan. "Where do you think I am? Home, in my dingy,
lonely apartment. I took the afternoon off. Told the boss I was coming home
to ice my poor little foot. Yeah, I'm having a real problem with swelling. I
was kinda wondering if you could come by and assess it for me. The rate it's
going, something's going to blow. Soon."

She pressed a hand to her forehead, unable to block out the image. "Yeah, I
get the idea. I, uh, I need a few minutes to finish up here. Stay put. I'll be
there as soon as I can." He started to say something more, but she cut him
off with an unceremonious stab at the power button, then turned back to
Lawrence with a contrite smile. "Sorry, Carl. My partner needs me on a
case."

He peered at her as he waved the whole issue aside. "No, don't apologize.
Dana, are you all right? You look flushed. Not coming down with something,
I hope."

She allowed herself a cautious smile. "No, I'm fine. I'm sorry I couldn't be
any help. Good luck." She spun away and stabbed at the elevator call button,
chewing furiously on her lip. Clearly it was time to set down some ground
rules.

First, though, he had to make good on a few things he'd just mentioned.

It was a long ride to Arlington. Not so many miles, but traffic was well into
its Friday night stutter-step, and the knowledge of what awaited her made
time absolutely creep. Nothing to do but snail along. She thought about him
in his darkened apartment, reclining on the couch, nursing that swelling he'd
mentioned, and her stomach did a flip-flop. Gotta find a distraction or I'll go
mad. Radio? Blah blah blah. New station. Some guy wailing I can't go on
without you. New station. Country? No way. Gotta remember to pick up a
few CDs! Back to silence. Her thoughts - and her body - were screaming.

Three weeks later, or so it felt, she pulled up outside the apartment building
on Hegal. Her fingers were shaking as she locked the car. Shit, how many
times in the past seven years had she been there, and now suddenly she was
an adolescent again.

Ain't love grand. Love, and the promise of some delicious sex.

Another three weeks' wait for the elevator. It lurched to a stop on the fourth
floor. Her knees went weak at the sight of his door. Get a grip, Dana, she
told herself firmly. It was laughable, what the thought of him was doing to
her. Funny that she hadn't the breath to so much as chuckle.

A note was stuck over the deadbolt, with two words in Mulder's familiar
untidy hand: *Use Key*. She fumbled for her key ring. The deadbolt went
thunk. She gave the door a little shove and took a hesitant step in.

The apartment was dim, the only illumination coming from the late afternoon
sun. It was also apparently empty. From very far away she heard the soft
strains of jazz. The sound was distant, diffuse - she wasn't sure it was even
coming from his stereo. She frowned as she looked around. "Mulder?"

Behind her, the door closed of its own volition. A hand caught itself around
her wrist, the long fingers molding themselves around her flesh like warm
steel. She suspected that any effort to pry them away would be wasted.

As if she would even try.

Don't move." It was barely a whisper. His breath stirred her hair and caressed
her face. She stood frozen in place, unable to draw a decent breath. The hand
released her, rose to her collar. He drew the blazer off and away, then hung it
with care on one of the coatrack prongs. Arms slid around her waist then,
and a warm mouth found its way under her hair and down her neck.

Someone moaned softly. She wasn't sure who.

"Welcome home," he whispered, spreading fire with his breath. She closed
her eyes as his tongue supplanted his lips, drawing a warm, wet line from ear
to collarbone. "Mmm, salty. Tough day at the office?"

She allowed her head to fall back against his shoulder, then reached back to
touch him with her hands. They encountered silk. His own hands slid up and
began slowly working at the buttons of her sweater. It wasn't a complicated
problem, and he proved to be adept. She murmured his name as he brushed a
hand along the bare skin of her abdomen.

They began swaying very slowly in time to the music. Yes, definitely his
stereo.

His hands were driving her a little crazy. She tried to turn into his embrace,
eager to lose herself in his warmth, but he stopped her with a murmured
reprimand. "Shh. No need to rush." He nuzzled her ear tenderly. She turned
her face, caught a hand around the back of his neck, and drew him down to
her. Their first kiss was slow and soft. He teased her with his tongue, playing
it just between her seeking lips before withdrawing it. She moaned a gentle
protest.

"I want to feel you," she whispered. Her voice was unsteady.

He smiled against her cheek. "I'm right here."

Her arms rose and encircled the empty air before her. "I want you here."

Those God-blessed lips were working their way around the back of her neck
and starting in on the other ear. "You know what Spock said," he replied
softly, punctuating his words with soft, wet kisses. "Having isn't so great a
thing as wanting."

A shiver racked her. For her very soul, she couldn't open her eyes. "Spock
was full of shit. I liked McCoy."

He snorted softly against her skin. "Figures." He reached the blemish under
her ear, the one that fit the dimensions of his own mouth, and kissed it.
"God, you smell good."

It was her turn to snort. "Like an autopsy theater?"

"Mmm, not at all. You have a smell all your own. All the chemicals and
mentholatum in the city couldn't change it. It starts out as your perfume and
shampoo and whatever else you use. Add a little sweat, and simmer all day.
God, there's nothing like it." He slid his hands up her sides and drew the
sweater off, then caught her hands and spread her arms wide. She shivered as
gooseflesh rose on her arms and chest. He made an approving sound. "Oo,
Braille. Thanks for the assist." His hands stroked down her arms and back
up, down and back, touching and caressing the tender flesh inside her
elbows, her wrists, under her arms. The sensations were intoxicating; she felt
as though she were drugged. Then the hands set a new course, encircling her
waist and at last turning her to face him. She murmured as she reached for
him, but found herself once again denied as he fell slowly to his knees before
her, clutching his arms around her and molding her to him. He pressed his
face into the valley between her breasts and groaned very softly. She stroked
his hair, mussing and then straightening it again. By stooping, she could just
reach his forehead to kiss it.

How long were they like that, frozen and yet hot enough to melt the wax on
his hardwood floor?

A finger caught itself under the strap on her shoulder and drew it down. She
knew what was coming and braced herself for it, but it was too little too late;
the sensation of the first suckle almost dragged her to her knees. She swayed
against him and tried without success to bite back a throaty moan. "Jesus
God, Mulder."

He looked up at her, and she had no trouble seeing the humor in his smoky
eyes. "Are those their names? Which one is this?"

It was all she could do not to crush his nose back into her breast. "Call them
anything you like, just don't stop."

He snorted softly as he lavished the overlooked breast with similar attention,
then gently drew the nipple between his teeth and let it slide free again.

Then he faltered. She looked at him in time to see his eyes narrow minutely.
He'd found it: the scar where that cretin from New York had shot her. It was
high up, right of midline and just under her rib cage. She didn't like the
stricken look that immediately replaced the teasing desire in those eyes.
Firmly she caught his chin in her hand and lifted his face, tearing his gaze
from the mark. "No," she said softly. "Don't you dare start deconstructing
the past. It happened. It's a part of me, part of the map that makes up who I
am." He looked at her silently, and she saw the guilt and uncertainty in his
eyes. He was unconvinced. Bending a little, she covered his mouth with hers.
If she couldn't banish the demons completely, she could at least drive them
back into the shadows. After a moment she felt him respond. Ah, that was
better. And she could hold him now. Jesus, to fold her arms around him was
one of life's sweetest rewards. She wasn't aware of falling to her knees with
him. Bare skin met bare skin. Lips touched and opened, inviting and
responding. Their tongues met and twined in a continuation of the caress.
Salt and sweet - God, the taste of him . . .

He broke off and looked at her, and she saw at once that she'd succeeded: his
eyes were shining with mirth. "We've brought each other to our knees," he
whispered, lifting her hand to his mouth and trailing his lips across her
knuckles. "I don't know about you, but I don't want to sack out on the dining
room floor. C'mon, let's take this to a softer playing field."

The sensual strains of music followed them to the bedroom. Her clothes fell
in their wake. His silk boxers joined them.

The sheets were soft and inviting and smelled of him. He too had his own
scent and, like him, she could not get enough of it. Their passions played out
not in the manner of the previous evening, but slowly and with great
deliberateness. They explored. Memorized. Experienced with every sense
available to them. Oblivion was their ultimate destination, but tonight the
journey was long and warm and sweet.

Still, it ended much the same. He watched her in the light of the dying sun.
The trust she had in him, in his ability to do these things for her - he couldn't
help but be moved. And to feel the changes in her, the hot fluid of her
excitement, the unrelenting need to hold and be held - her pleasure became,
in essence, his. As she approached insanity, he rolled her over and redoubled
his efforts, gliding without effort or thought into her, his stroke long and
heavy. She arched her back, rising to meet him, her delight finding voice
between her sharp gasps. He covered her mouth with his, muting her cries as
she succumbed, one wave following the next and each sweeter than the last.
He tumbled right after her, lost all semblance of conscious thought, felt
nothing but the crippling power of his own explosion. Throwing back his
head, he cried out from the depths of his soul.

How she liberated him.

She held him tight as he slumped around her, bones dissolved, limbs flaccid,
all thought driven from his head. He couldn't think at all, merely lived
through what he felt. The warm limbs still gripped him, her arms around his
chest, her legs his hips. Somehow he found the energy to lift his head and
kiss her. She caught her hands round his face, framing his flesh with hers. Oh,
the sweetness of her mouth against his. It was enough in life just to be there
with her, to feel her full lips caress his temple, his closed eyes. His own
mouth.

Slowly he rolled to the side, freeing her. She held him as post-coital inertia
claimed him. Coiling her fingers through his hair, she listened as his breaths
evened out and lengthened. His heart beat just above hers. So right. It was all
so right.


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part 9: Caught in the Act
~~~~~~~~~~

RATING: PG-13 for acts of affection.
CLASSIFICATION: S, H, MSR
KEYWORDS: none
SUMMARY: Sometimes that ringing phone should not be ignored.

~~~~~~~~~~

Somewhere, a phone was ringing.

Mulder groaned softly as he rolled over and squinted at the alarm clock.
Five-thirty? Who the hell would be calling now? He sighed as he dropped his
head back on the pillow. Let it ring. He knew who it *wasn't,* and that was
enough for the moment. The answering machine picked up on the fourth
ring, and he heard his own disembodied voice begin its spiel. *Fox Mulder,
yadda yadda yadda . . .*

Blindly his hand groped about the bed and encountered a warm body,
encased in cotton and burrowed under the warm comforter. Ah, there she
was. He edged closer and slid his arm around her. She murmured a sleepy
protest. "No, s'too early."

He sighed as he dragged her back against him. "Go t'sleep," he whispered,
settling his head beside hers on the pillow. She sighed, and he thought he
heard her murmur his name on the exhalation.

In the living room, the answering machine clicked and went silent. Almost
immediately the phone rang again.

Grumbling under his breath, Mulder rolled onto his back and reached for the
extension on the night stand. Scully stayed him with a hand on his hip, her
voice remarkably strong. "No. Let it ring."

He didn't take much convincing. He turned back with a grunt, nestling his
face closer to her hair. Mmm, she smelled good. God, sex with his partner
was nirvana itself, but sleeping next to her like this, as he had almost every
night for the past month, ran a very close second. Mmm, for once in his life
he was a happy man.

The machine cut out again, leaving the apartment silent. Damn the phone - he
was awake for good now. She twitched once in her sleep, and he heard the
soft click of her teeth as they met. She did that a lot in the mornings. He
wondered about the clicking. Was she hungry and dreaming about food? He
edged his face closer to her, pushing at her hair with his nose. A few of the
right moves and that dream might metamorphose into something a little more
sensual. Not a bad way to wake up your partner, was it, making love to her?
It was almost time to get up anyway . . .

She groaned when he carefully cupped her breast through the thin material.
"Mulder, you're insane."

He pressed a wet kiss to her neck. "Don't you mean 'spooky'?" he whispered,
sliding his hand under the hem of her shirt - well, his really - and rolled his
thumb over the furrowed nipple. "C'mon, it's time to rise'n shine. 'least it's
gonna be in about ten minutes. Less, if that fucking phone doesn't stop."

Her cheek crinkled under his mouth, and he knew she was smiling. "Feels to
me like you're already 'up'."

His hand moved to the other breast. "Mmm, what can I say. Your little friend
is an early bird. You have only yourself to blame, you know, lying there
smelling like that." He kissed her again.

She tipped her chin, allowing him access to the sensitive spot under her jaw
line. "And what do I smell like?" she murmured, rolling slowly onto her back.
Her hand encountered his burgeoning erection, and her smile broadened
noticeably.

He twitched under her touch. "Sex in the morning, partner," he breathed into
her ear, linking a finger under her chin and turning her face to him. "Makes
up for your morning breath. Kiss me quick. Let's get it over with."

She complied, and then broke away with a grimace. "Ugh, it's a good thing I
like you, buster. I wouldn't do that for just anyone."

He grunted as he quickly worked at the buttons of his shirt - wasn't it the one
he'd worn to the office just yesterday? What was it with women and men's
shirts? And what was it about her breasts? He never got tired of them. Hell,
he never got *enough* of them. It wasn't like he hadn't seen them just . . . he
spared a furtive glance at the clock . . . six short hours ago. He found them
wonderfully compelling, those soft, pouty things. In just over the span of a
month, he'd become an addict. Oh hell, that had happened the first night.
Now if he didn't get at least a look - or better yet, a long, lingering taste -
first thing upon waking, his whole morning was shot.

She giggled a little at his expression. "Jeez, Mulder, breathe." Her fingers
traced patterns through his hair, burning his scalp and drawing him down to
her. She let out a little gasp as his lips closed around her. *Same for you, isn't
it?* he thought as he feasted. *Doesn't get stale. Mmm, the things you do to
me.* He rolled closer and carefully draped himself over her. She opened her
eyes and looked at him - they'd fallen shut at the first touch of his mouth on
her nipple - and what he saw caught his breath away. *Is it possible that she
could love me as much as I do her?* Her eyes held his, unwavering, and her
chin rose a fraction as if she were responding to a question spoken aloud. It
was enough to make him shiver a little. *Spooky indeed. That's food for
thought, isn't it? Later though.*

She caught her hands around his face, drawing his attention from her breasts.
"I don't mean to sound ungrateful," she whispered, "but it's almost six. Let's
cut to the verb here, shall we?"

He pursed his lips in an impish pout. "Oo, a woman after my own heart."

She bucked her hips, divesting herself of her skimpy underwear. "Well, that
too."

He groaned as he pushed into her. Why couldn't the primal part of his brain,
at moments like this, come up with something more eloquent than "Ah,
sheeeyit"? True, primal man had never been much of a conversationalist, but
he really did want her to know he loved her for more than her corresponding
body parts. He did love her. He really did. He just couldn't say it when he
was . . . uh . . . doing . . . this . . . to . . . her . . .

He dropped onto his elbows on either side of her head, framing her face with
his forearms. Her eyes held his, but they were rapidly becoming unfocused.
Glazed, even. Her breathing was hoarse. Her hands were on his shoulders,
her fingers curling, her nails beginning to do that flesh-digging thing that pulp
writers always seemed to find so charming.

Primal woman didn't seem up to quoting Dickens right now.

Hmm. Dickens. More food for thought.

No, that was definitely not British lit coming from those succulent lips. They
opened on a gasp as he rocked into her, her tongue sneaking a quick glance
across her lower lip. Some foggy part of his brain wanted to suck that tongue
into his own mouth, morning-breath be damned.

Somewhere, a phone was ringing.

He growled as he redoubled his efforts, putting a pelvic spin on things that
never failed to get her attention . . .

Another success for Spooky. Her chin tipped up toward the ceiling as her
back arched, and a soft, delicious moan escaped her. Her nipples, teased hard
from the friction with the hair on his chest, felt like small rocks against his
skin. Her panting doubled, her eyes rolled back and then closed hard, and a
litany of single syllables, interspersed around his own name, fairly tumbled
from those delicious lips. "Yes, yes, yes, God, Mulder, yes. Yes. *Yes!"*

Oh, God, that was it. He wanted to make it last longer for her, he really did,
but he was already a goner. He reared back, biting his lip hard to keep from
screaming, and let go. It went on forever, he was pumping himself dry and
she was just sucking it in, still in full cry, squirming and panting and sweaty,
imploring him for more . . .

With a last shudder he collapsed over her, grimacing when her arms
tightened around his torso and refused to let him roll away. Shit, she always
held him in a vise. Didn't she get it? He didn't want to hurt her, and there was
no way he *couldn't* be crushing her . . .

"You're not," she whispered, her breath still fast and unsteady. "You can't . .
. hurt me . . . like this . . . told you before . . . love this . . . need this . . . "

He sighed and let himself go. His body melted over hers like chocolate over
ice cream. Yeah, he thought with an inward grin. About five feet of vanilla . .
.

The shrilling of the phone instantly chased those delicious thoughts from his
head, and he groaned as he pushed himself up on one elbow. She caught his
arm as he reached for the cordless that was screaming mindlessly on the night
stand. "No," she crooned, sliding the hand up around his neck and pulling his
face down to hers. This time there was no hesitation in the kiss, which
seemed to go on forever. Out in the living room, the answering machine was
in full cry yet again. Breaking off the kiss, she playfully nipped at his chin,
looking at him with laughing eyes. "You know the deal. When the alarm goes
off, I have to get up and go home. Shower, get dressed, the whole Special
Agent bit. So until that clock starts buzzing, you're mine."

He acquiesced, ignoring the phone which began ringing again the instant the
answering machine clicked off. Mmm, he was hers. No arguments from him.
He groaned softly as her hands trailed down his back to his ass, still nestled
comfortably in the cradle of her legs, and stroked him very slowly. *Keep
that up,* he thought to himself, *and little Spooky's gonna wake up again.
We'll be late for work. Hell, maybe that's what you have in mind.*

He felt her smile under his mouth. "Mulder, you're insatiable. How the hell
do you do it?" She bit the side of his neck tenderly. "Whoever said man
cannot live on coffee and seeds alone obviously never met you." He silenced
her with another kiss.

At last the clock gave a soft thud! and started its irritating buzzing. They
groaned in unison as he rolled away, swinging a hand blindly and slapping the
snooze bar. The buzzing stopped. He caught her arm as she started to roll to
her feet. "I have a shower here, Scully. C'mon, check it out."

She swatted him away and closed the shirt around herself. "We have this
same discussion every morning. You know the deal, G-man. Sleepovers are
okay, but that's it. I start wearing your dirty shirts to work, people might
catch on to something."

He sat up and caught her hand. "Please," he crooned, pressing his lips to the
open palm. To his delight, she hesitated. He redoubled his efforts, schooling
his gaze to its most doleful and pleading. "C'mon, Scully. Lots of hot water,
a least one clean towel, and some of that shampoo you like to swipe when
we're out on a case . . . I'll let you shower in peace. In fact, I still have some
of that French roast from Starbucks that you like." At that her eyes sagged
shut and her shoulders slumped just a little. *Success! Don't show it, you
idiot! No victory dances until she's actually in the bathroom!* He lifted his
brows hopefully. "Deal? I'll even let you wear my favorite shirt home."

At that her glance dropped to the garment she wore. "This is your favorite?
Since when?"

He allowed a little grin to pull at one corner of his mouth. "Since you put it
on last night."

She rolled her head back, chuckling. "Okay, fine. I'll stay long enough for a
shower. But I want my coffee when I get out. And none of that powdered
creamer crap. Real cream or nothing. Got it?"

He saluted sharply. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

She was grinning as she disappeared into the bathroom. He chuckled as he
tugged on his boxers, discarded the night before, and pushed himself to his
feet. A first, he mused as he padded into the kitchen. Now to get the coffee
on. Like he just happened to have her favorite blend of coffee here. Like it
was coincidence that he'd gone shopping the other night and brought home a
quart of half-and-half. Yeah, and it was coincidence that he had a pint of her
favorite ice-cream in his freezer, and that the beer she'd commented liking
once upon a time seemed to be a permanent fixture in his fridge now. He
grinned as he set the coffee brewing. This couplehood thing was kind of nice.
He could definitely get used to it.

A new kind of chirping started up as he was digging in the cupboard for
clean cups. What the - ? 

Her purse was still on the table where she'd dropped it. Her cell phone. He
hesitated for just an instant before digging through the bag and finding the
offensive thing. Nah, she wouldn't care. He hit the power button. "Hello?"

"Hello, who is this?"

The deep, resonating voice sent a shot of electricity from his brain to his
balls. Oh shit! Skinner! He briefly considered hanging up, but discarded the
notion. Think fast, dumbshit. "Sir? I'm sorry, it's me, Mulder."

There was an instant's hesitation. "Mulder? What the hell are you doing
answering Scully's phone? And why the hell haven't you been answering your
own? Aren't you home?"

Think! Think! *Think!* "Uh, yes sir, I am. Sorry, I must have inadvertently
traded phones with Agent Scully last night. We were, uh, working late. Yes,
I'm home. Just got in from running. Sorry, didn't think to check the
machine." Did any of that sound plausible? Had the man tried Mulder's own
cell phone? Where was it anyway? He looked around quickly. There it was
on the coffee table - he'd made a point of turning it off last night. Hey, at the
time it had seemed the thing to do.

He had no trouble hearing the irritation in Skinner's voice. Hell, even the
man's sighs echoed with impatience. "We have a situation brewing. I need all
available personnel not committed to priority cases to lend a hand with this
one. Case of a missing person up in New York, one who just happens to be
related to a very prominent Congressman. We're to meet with the New York
section chief as soon as we can get there. I'm on my way to your place now.
How soon can you be ready?"

A rock the size of a half-ton pickup slammed itself into Mulder's stomach,
and for what seemed an hour he struggled to think of something appropriate.
Shit, Skinner was coming *here?* With a wet, naked Scully in his shower?
Was this a terrible dream, some sort of worst-nightmare scenario he was for
some reason torturing himself with? He winced. "Here? How far out are
you?"

There was a pause and the sound of a horn blaring. In that interval Mulder
died a thousand deaths, each more gruesome than the last. *Oh, for Christ's
sake, answer! Tell me you're stuck in traffic. Tell me you're getting you car
detailed. Tell me you're not about to come in here and blow my fucking life
out of the water just when it's starting to show some promise!*

Skinner swore under his breath. "Same to you, pal," he muttered. "Sorry,
Mulder. I'm on Memorial, about six blocks away. I know that's cutting it
close, but you could have had considerably more warning if you'd just
answered your phone in the first place. Oh, do you have any idea where
Agent Scully is? I haven't been able to get a hold of her either."

Cold sweat pearled with amazing speed on Mulder's forehead. "Uh, jeez sir, I
don't know. Maybe she's out for her morning jog? We usually don't keep tabs
on each other *before* we get to the office . . . "

Skinner grunted. "Whatever. We'll have to swing by Georgetown on the way
to the airport. All right, I'm just pulling up outside."

*Don't babble! Be calm. Everything will be okay. Just for God's sake, don't
let him come in!* "Uh, all right, just wait for me there. I'll be five minutes."

"Wish I could, Mulder. I've been calling people since three a.m. My
cellphone's on a fast fade. I'm gonna have to use your landline to call Scully
again. Don't wait around for me, just leave the door unlocked and get
moving. And Agent, time is of the essence here."

No shit. Mulder forced down the lump that was lodged in his throat. "Uh,
yes sir. I'll be a, uh . . . just get yourself some coffee. I'll be as fast as I can."
He didn't listen to the answer, just hung up and started running. Wait! Go
back and unlock the front door like the man said. Run like hell to the
bedroom . . .

"Scully!" He pounded on the door as he sprinted by. Shit, clothes
everywhere. Her shoes were out in the living room, he remembered seeing
them under the coffee table. Desperately he tossed the comforter over the
bed, hiding any evidence of their conjugal activities, then scooped up as
many articles of her clothing as he could find. Shirt and slacks. Stockings.
Bra. Those little skimpy thong things he'd had no idea until lately that she
wore. Dazed, he found himself standing stock-still, listening to the sound of
running water as he stared at the impossible V-shaped garment. Could it even
be called a garment? How his heart had sung the first time he'd seen her in
one of -

Shit, what was he doing? He pounded on the bathroom door as he reached
for the knob. "Scully, are you drowning in there? I'm coming in!"

Her protest was immediate and indignant. "Hey, you said - "

"Shut up, Scully, and listen! Skinner's been trying to call. He's on his way up
right now to get me - us - me - Shit! Just rinse and get the hell out of there."

Her anger evaporated with astonishing speed. "What do you mean, on his
way up?" she demanded, her alarm skyrocketing. "Up the highway? Up the
block? Where is he?"

The panic that surged through him was so strong, he feared he might vomit.
"Up the elevator! Are you finished? I've got your clothes right here. Get
dressed, and for God's sake, don't step foot outside the bedroom. I have to
shower and get out of here. Skinner's been trying to call you too. Wait until
we're gone, then get your ass to the airport. Call me on my cell when you're
away. I told him you were probably out jogging. You have your travel bag in
your car, don't you?"

The shower door exploded open, smashing back into the wall with a
resounding thud. She glanced at him as she grabbed the towel off the rack.
"Yeah, of course. That was him calling all those times? Shit! Okay, we'll be
okay. Take a deep breath, Mulder. Wait, don't. You look like you're
hyperventilating now." She wrapped the towel around her torso, then
gestured at him impatiently. "Give me those and get out of my way. Where
are my shoes?" They fumbled with the wad of clothing, dropping a few
things in their panic. "God, this is ridiculous. Come on, Mulder, get out of
my way!" He opened the bathroom door and backed out into the bedroom.
She retrieved her underwear and shook them out as she followed him. "Go,
go! Get my shoes and bring them here - "

She froze as a towering form virtually filled the bedroom doorway, eclipsing
what light there was from the living room.

"Mulder, I can't find your phone anywhere. That bozo from the AG's office is
going to die of apoplexy if we don't - " He froze. Blinked. Blinked again as
he tried to reconcile what - or rather, who - he saw before him: Scully in
nothing but a towel, clutching her clothes in one hand and what looked like a
headband in the other.

God, the silence was deafening. Mulder couldn't look away, couldn't help but
wonder just what thoughts were racing behind those dark eyes. *Kill me
now,* he prayed fervently. *Heart attack. Lightning strike. Earthquake,
maybe. Hell, take your service weapon out and shoot me. Just don't look at
me like that.*

An agonizing moment crept by as they stood there, unmoving. Was it only a
minute? Hell, it could just as easily have been an hour. Mulder spared his
partner a quick glance. Under any other circumstances, her expression would
have been too funny for words. Her eyes were huge and round, her nostrils
flared, her mouth half-opened from her aborted command. Abruptly her gaze
dropped to the scrap of material in her hand. What color remained in her face
abruptly vanished, and with a snap she secreted that hand behind her back.

Skinner's complexion changed in perfect counterpoint, taking on a dangerous
red hue. When his lip began to curl, Mulder felt that wave of nausea crest
over him again. *Oh God, if he laughs . . .*

The moment passed . . . or did it? The man's eyes darted from her to him and
back again. With a soft snort, he turned and fixed a stony gaze on some point
on the opposite wall. "Agent Scully," he said very quietly. "I see he found
you."

She didn't move, didn't even blink. "Yes, sir," she breathed.

Slowly Skinner looked at Mulder. His gaze was impossibly hard. "Jogging,
Agent Mulder?" The muscles in his jaw clenched, and his nostrils flared as he
sighed hard. The corner of his mouth twitched as he pursed his lips. "Get
yourselves together, Agents. I'll be waiting in the car."

He turned on his heel.

An eternity passed as they listened to his retreating footsteps. Out the door.
Down the hallway, back toward the elevator.

Without a word, Scully dropped her clothes on the bed and toweled her hair
dry. Her movements were slow and deliberate. Mulder watched, unable to
look away. Her expression was blank, but he could make a fair guess about
what thoughts she was hiding behind it. *Now he knows. What'll he do? If
he's truly surprised, he might feel compelled to act. He'll report us. We'll be
reassigned. Unless he isn't surprised. Did he look surprised? At least he had
the good grace not to laugh.*

She glanced at him. "Mulder, go take a shower. I'll get a cup of coffee for
you." Her voice was strained but quiet. He nodded as he brushed past her.
Her hand snaked out and caught his. Dazed, he stopped and looked down at
her. Her eyes were deadly serious, but they were dry. Her voice was steady
when she finally spoke. "I'll quit rather than accept reassignment. They're not
taking you away from me. Not now."

He nodded slowly. He was numb. He felt nothing in the shower. Was the
water hot or cold? He couldn't tell. His movements felt oddly mechanical as
he dressed, as he drank the coffee she brought him. His thoughts were caught
on that one word. Reassignment. They will reassign us, won't they? If we'd
kept it to ourselves, at least for a while, we could have proven that we can
still do the job. Oh hell, they probably wouldn't care about that. Some
hard-ass would trip up on the appearance of it all. No involvement between
partners. You can like her, you can depend on her, you can spend so much
time together and go through so much shit together than you start blurring
around the edges, until you aren't sure just how much of you IS you and how
much is your partner - but you can't love her, and you certainly can't make
love to her. Jesus, how the hell did we get into this? And how the hell are we
going to get out?


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part 10: Conspiracies
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: Closure, Goldberg Variation, Orison, slight for
Avatar
RATING: PG-13 for language.
CLASSIFICATION: S, H, MSR
KEYWORDS: Skinner
SUMMARY: Reflections of a red-faced Assistant Director

~~~~~~~~~~

Holy shit.

He couldn't feel his feet. Couldn't feel the chill morning air in the vestibule, or
the frigid metal door frame as he shouldered the door aside and fled outside.

Holy shit.

He forced himself to walk slowly to the car. His fingers barely shook as he
singled out the correct key and unlocked the door. Ah, dammit, he hadn't
disarmed the fucking alarm - it immediately set up a furious wail that utterly
shattered the early morning calm. He clenched his teeth as he fumbled for the
right button. Fucking piece of shit car, waking up the neighborhood and
making an excruciating situation that much worse. Grateful for the sudden
throbbing silence, he slid in behind the wheel, calmly shut the door, and
reached behind him for the shoulder harness.

Jesus Christ.

You will *not* do this, he told himself firmly. You will not hide your face in
your hands and pray it didn't really happen. Get over it. Deal with it.

God, I'm glad I'm not them.

He thought about the tableau he'd just witnessed, and despite his best efforts
not to, could not keep a faint smile from tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Jesus, the look on their faces . . . the image would be frozen in his mind until
the day he shuffled off this mortal coil. He'd heard the rumors, of course.
They'd swirled around these two for years, but he'd ignored them. It wasn't
so much that he had consciously chosen to extend the benefit of doubt; he
figured they were too professional to let physical matters like these interfere .
. .

Oh, cut the crap, he told himself bitterly. You've always admired their
partnership, just like you've always wondered why they could spend so much
time together. You didn't want to believe they were doing anything . . . well,
just anything . . . because you like them. You like *her.* It doesn't matter
that it would never amount to anything, even if it could be reciprocated.
She's your subordinate, and you like her, and you didn't want this whole
thing to be remotely possible. It was easier, wasn't it, assuming they were
nothing more than friends . . .

It occurred to him he had no idea how long this whole thing might have been
going on. Quickly he thought back over the past week, the past month,
seeking and not finding clues in their behavior that might give something
away. Nothing. Nothing, either separately or taken as a whole. Nothing but
that indefinable element of singularity, and that had been in place between
them almost from the first. Certainly since her abduction . . .

He swallowed hard at the thought. Since the beginning - shit, was it possible?
No, he couldn't be that stupid, that blind. This kind of association almost
certainly left its own evidence. Maybe in the cases they'd worked recently.
He quickly ticked them off in his head. The case in California, following his
mother's suicide. Okay, that was certainly an emotionally-loaded one.
Skinner could recall with perfect clarity the expression on Scully's face as she
stood in that doorway and barred his access to her partner.

Yeah, he conceded reluctantly. True, he hadn't considered the possibility at
the time, but now . . .

The case in Chicago. Nothing remarkable in the case file. Or was there?

How about the escaped murderer, the one who'd messed Scully up but good?
Skinner bit his lower lip thoughtfully. Shit, that one could well have been the
catalyst. Of all the ways they'd come close to losing each other, if even in the
merest professional sense, that one must have been the most frightening.
Every agent faced stress in their professional lives, even if that position is a
forensic accountant. What these two faced was as far from that as they could
possibly get. Had the pressures drawing them together become just too
great?

Skinner glanced up at the row of windows four flights up and winced.
Mulder's weren't even visible from this spot, but he still felt as if they were up
there watching him. Whispering about him. For an instant he wished he could
just drive away, go someplace that this wouldn't follow, that the issue would
not exist. Shit, all those calls he'd made, and there must have been eight . . .
and Mulder hadn't answered because he'd been . . . well, they'd been . . .

For an instant he imagined what they might have looked like together under
that comforter: their limbs entwined, their faces contorted and sweaty . . .
what they did to each other, what they said to each other, about each other,
about that God-damned phone and its incessant ringing . . .

It was almost impossible not to groan aloud.

He ran a hand over his face, then shoved his glasses up and pinched the
bridge of his nose. Oh, God! It was just like that time in college when he'd
walked in on his roommate Paul Burton and his girlfriend. Why hadn't he
noticed the scent of . . . of . . . this morning? It hadn't been *that* long for
him, had it? Some small, irrational part of his brain grabbed hold of that.
Maybe they hadn't done anything. Maybe she'd just fallen asleep on his
couch. After all, the coffee just didn't smell *that* strong. Not strong enough
to cover the unmistakable odor of sex . . .

You're bullshitting yourself, Walter. You saw the look on his face. You saw
it go from *Holy shit, this isn't happening* to *You'd better get your eyes off
my girl, buddy*. And *her* face . . . total horror. Not a scrap of denial. She
didn't even try to invent a quick excuse, and why? Because she knew you
knew. She knew there was no point in offering up a lie.

I should have my shit so together.

Distantly he heard the sound of footsteps, and his eyes sagged closed for a
moment. God, there they were. Didn't take them long, did it? Eyes still
downcast, he used his peripheral vision to study them. Mulder had opened
the door to the vestibule and was holding it for her. Even wearing those
damn three inch heels, she barely had to duck to avoid his arm. Both wore
their trench coats. He was carrying a suitcase, she a soft-side brief. They said
nothing to each other as they approached, though when the sidewalk split he
smoothly took her case and continued to the car, while she turned off and
went a ways up the block. Where the hell - ? Oh, her own car was parked not
far away. He hadn't even noticed it. The alarm chirped as she disarmed it -
*shit, she must have heard me out here fighting with mine* - and then she all
but disappeared into the trunk. Reappeared with her own case. Her head was
held erect as she approached, her expression damn near blank. God, she was
pretty. For just an instant he felt a stab of envy. Lucky fucking bastard . . .

He caught himself. Mulder, lucky? Ostracized by the Bureau for his
unconventionality - that made him lucky? Father killed by some damned
shadow faction whose intent he could neither explain nor escape; mother
dead by her own hand, his sister taken God only knows where, his childhood
disrupted, his sanity endangered and questioned and doubted at every turn . .
. what exactly did he have besides this woman?

Skinner looked away quickly as her eyes found his through the windshield.
No, he couldn't find it in himself to reproach the man anything. Mulder and
Scully worked together. They didn't just do the job - *they* worked. Like he
and Sharon had, once upon a time. Maybe even better.

She passed him without a sideways glance, and Skinner felt the car jounce a
little as Mulder stowed her suitcase with the others. He held his breath,
listening for an exchange of words. He heard nothing. The trunk was still up,
obscuring his view of them. Were they kissing? Probably not. He imagined
Mulder touching her hand. That look would pass between them, the one
when everything in their world but each other ceased to exist. God, that
really was spooky. He allowed himself a wry smile at that.

Spooky. So much about the man came back to that word.

The trunk slammed, and they appeared together at the passenger side of the
car. Without hesitation she opened the front door and settled herself in the
seat beside Skinner. Her damp hair was beginning to dry in swirls. She
buckled her seat belt with steady hands. Mulder threw himself into the back
seat and slammed the door. When he showed no further signs of movement,
Scully turned and gave him a stony look. Sighing irritably, he grabbed the
seat belt and locked it in place.

The drive promised to be hell itself. For a full ten minutes - Skinner was
watching the dashboard clock - they sat in silence broken only by the sounds
of breathing. He managed to keep his expression blank, but inside he was
writhing in agony. They were used to each other's company. Was this utter
silence normal for them, or were they as miserable as he was?

At last Scully cleared her throat with a delicate cough.

"What's the case?" she asked simply.

Skinner resisted the urge to groan his relief. Christ, at last a return to
something like normality! He glanced at the rear view mirror and found
Mulder's eyes on him, gray and steady and very wary. He raised his chin in a
silent gesture of truce. *All right, I know about you. I saw your woman, and
I saw what passes for her lingerie. Let's just move on.*

"Congressman O'Brian, from New York," he said, glancing away from the
traffic around them just long enough to find the file and hand it to her. "His
son is a student at Columbia. Nineteen years old. Good grades, no
disciplinary issues. Disappeared two days ago. Some blood was found in his
dorm room, which showed signs of a struggle."

Scully thumbed through the case file, now and then reading passages aloud.
Mulder leaned forward, peering over her shoulder at the reports. Skinner
spared them a quick look. No, to all appearances, they were just like any
other set of agents he supervised. No untoward interest in her whatsoever. In
fact, if it weren't for that mark on her neck . . .

He looked at it again. Oh, shit. There was a bite mark on the side of her
neck, and now that he was actually looking, he saw that the flesh around her
mouth was unnaturally red, almost as if she had a rash. Contact with an
unshaven face had done that. He remembered that same thing on Sharon
after they'd made love, once upon a time.

Skinner set his jaw and looked away quickly.

The final blow to Maybe They Didn't Really Do Anything.

Oblivious to his scrutiny, Scully continued her examination of the file. At one
point she frowned and turned to share the report with her partner. "Look,
Mulder. There was a statement from the janitor. What do you make of this?"

He took the file and sat back. Skinner watched him in the mirror again.
Mulder tugged at his lip as he read, then quickly leafed through the file,
apparently double-checking some detail his partner's sharp eye had caught.
There was an agonizing silence. Scully stared fixedly at him, evidently
wondering if what she had seen was actually there, or if the connection was
one of her own making.

At last Mulder grunted softly. Skinner looked in the mirror in time to see him
nod. "Good catch, Scully," he murmured.

Skinner couldn't keep the impatience out of his tone. "You have something
already?" he asked.

Mulder nodded as he tapped the page with a long finger. "The janitor," he
said quietly. "He's a member of MUFON. Agent Scully and I interviewed him
once."

Skinner grimaced. "Agent Mulder, you are not on this case because it's an
X-file, you're here because you're one of the - "

"I realize that, sir," Mulder said, cutting him off smoothly. "I'm not trying to
suggest anything relating to the paranormal, at least insofar as the case itself
is concerned. But this janitor was involved in a case not dissimilar to this one
five years ago. Another state, another college, but the same scenario, almost
down to the layout of the dorm structure. He wasn't ever formally charged,
because the victim was found and offered up an explanation unrelated to the
janitor himself. She attributed her disappearance to a squabble she'd had with
her then boyfriend."

Skinner glanced at his reflection in the mirror. "And you're saying this janitor
is involved in this case as well?

Mulder shrugged one shoulder as he turned to look out his window. "Right
now all we have is a similar set of circumstances. It could just be the man's
bad luck that he's involved in two strikingly similar cases. Still, I think you
can guess my personal take on coincidence."

At that, Scully snorted softly.

Skinner mused on the new possibilities as he drove. "Be that as it may," he
said, guiding the car down one of the parking lots at National airport, or
whatever the hell the Republicans wanted to call it, "we will follow all
established procedures upon reaching New York. By now, all the residents at
the dorm have been interviewed. Scully, I'd like you to work with Forensics
on this. Mulder, you can pursue that line of investigation if you think it's
warranted, but I want you to be discreet. Congressman O'Brian isn't someone
given to belief in extraterrestrials. I don't want anyone making connections
that aren't valid."

Mulder's eyes narrowed. "Sir, I already said this isn't - "

"I heard the word MUFON, yes? If it isn't directly germane to the
investigation, I don't want that avenue broached, that's all I'm saying."

"Sir," Scully broke in then. She fixed a hard gaze on him. "Sir, I'm not a
forensic technician. Those people won't have any need for me until and
unless a body turns up. My overseeing their work could be construed as
something - "

"What's your point, Agent?" he demanded, cutting her off.

"That you allow Agent Mulder and myself to pursue what is a legitimate
course of investigation here. What happened this morning has not and will
not impact our professional life."

Shit, she'd caught it, his little attempt to separate them. Skinner clenched his
teeth as he glanced at her. She held his gaze, her eyes hard, her lips drawn
into a tight line. He knew the idea probably wouldn't fly, but could she
actually reproach him for making the attempt? They were caught in an
awkward and untenable situation, all of them. What did they expect him to
do, sit back and nod indulgently as they squashed yet another implicit Bureau
rule? He didn't relish dictating the personal lives of the people under him, and
in his tenure with the Bureau, this was certainly not the first multi-gender
partnership he'd seen head south because of emotional involvement. But it
was somehow different this time. The bond between them - it seemed only to
have strengthened their partnership.

He grunted as he guided the car into a parking place, then shut down the
engine and turned to her. She raised her chin, as if preparing herself for the
question she knew was coming. Of course he had to ask, sooner or later.
Surely she realized it.

"How long, Agent Scully?" he asked quietly.

Her eyes widened minutely, the anger in them clear and startling. Distantly he
realized how many ways that question could be construed. How many
meanings, from the innocent to the obscene. No, he could tell by looking at
her, she knew exactly what he meant.

Behind them, Mulder shifted uncomfortably. He'd caught it too. Skinner was
careful not to let his wry amusement show. *No, Fox. I'm not referring to the
size of your Johnson.*

After a long moment, Scully gave her head a shake. "No, sir. If you can't tell
by our job performance, then it doesn't matter how long."

She held his gaze for another beat before tugging on the inside handle and
shrugging the heavy door aside. The car gave a shudder as she slammed it
again. Skinner felt a little empathy for it. Shit, but that woman could be
frightening.

He felt Mulder's steady gaze on him. God, he hated it when they did that to
him, joining forces and managing to challenge him without so much as a
word being uttered. "What is it, Agent?" he snapped impatiently, yanking the
key from the ignition so hard that it almost broke off in his hand.
Mulder was unflappable. "What are you going to do, sir?" he asked. His tone
was soft and steady, and almost free of anything resembling emotion.

Almost.

Skinner looked out at Scully. She had walked a good distance away, but was
stopped and apparently waiting for them. Again he was struck by her
strength. If anyone could pull off what had to be the most difficult of
relationships, it made sense that it would be these two. Still, the arguments
against it were valid. It might make them vulnerable, either to internal
discord or external pressures and influences, and as such their relationship
might constitute a real threat to the Bureau. He sighed as he shoved his door
open. "I'm going to get us through this case, Agent Mulder. As far as this
other matter is concerned . . . I don't know yet."

Mulder opened his own door and thrust himself to his feet. "There's
something you should keep in mind, sir," he said in that same quiet tone.
Skinner slammed his door and turned a hard look on him. The man didn't
even flinch. Well, shit - look who he worked with. Baleful looks went with
the territory. Mulder nodded slightly in the direction of his partner, whose
bright copper hair was just visible over the cars separating them. "I think you
remember what happened the last time we were faced with reassignment.
She'll do it again. I realize the final decision is up to you, and I appreciate the
fact that this really is not the foremost issue right now. But you should know
now, breaking us up will only result in a marked decrease in your division's
efficiency ratings."

Skinner bit back a sharp reply. It was really hard sometimes, playing desk
shepherd to these two. Of course how his division looked on paper was
important, and Mulder knew it. Important, hell - it was vital. Someone had to
play by the rules. Someone had to prove something to the Bureau's
satisfaction.

They said nothing more, merely unloaded the suitcases from the trunk and
headed across the titanic parking area toward the terminal. Skinner passed
Scully her soft-side as he drew abreast, and felt an unsettling stab of
disappointment when she managed to accept it without touching him. He bit
his lip as he fell into step behind them. Despite the difference in leg lengths,
to say nothing of those wicked heels, she had no difficulty keeping up with
her partner. So what that she took three steps for each of his two.

They arrived at the gate with a half hour to spare. Skinner excused himself
long enough to use the rest room. God, he needed a cup of coffee. He'd been
running on adrenaline since - when? Two am? Sooner or later the fatigue was
going to hit. Unless the plane was diverted to, say, Chicago, he didn't see any
way of getting any real rest on the flight; it just wouldn't last long enough.
Besides, he still had papers to review. Shit, sometimes he really hated his job.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror as he washed his hands. Dark
smudges were pooling under his eyes, and he was a little flushed. Small
wonder, he mused; the morning hadn't exactly gone as smoothly as he'd
hoped. Wearily he took off his glasses and splashed his face with cold water.
It did very little to refresh him, but at least it rinsed away the sticky sheen of
sweat.

He realized he was nervous. Nervous about going back out there, of being
with *them*. How long, he wondered, reseating his glasses on the bridge of
his nose and securing the loops over his ears again. How long had they been
lovers? God, it made him feel so damn stupid. Working closely with them on
this was going to be a strain. Mulder was right though - until the present
situation was resolved, this matter was simply moot. He closed his eyes as he
heaved a fast sigh. *Don't blow it, Walter,* he told himself. *Don't make
more of it than it has to be.* He raised his chin and turned away from the
mirror.

They were standing at the window in the waiting area, just as he'd left them.
No, no quite: a cardboard carrier had appeared on the little table beside
them, containing three of those Styrofoam cups that sold for way too much
in airport cafes. Their backs were to him, their attention turned elsewhere.
Skinner's mouth watered in anticipation, but despite his hunger for caffeine,
he forced himself to slow, to watch. What they were saying to each other
was a mystery; but what was not was the purpose with which Mulder leaned
down and slowly, deliberately, kissed his partner.

*Shit, he's kissing her.* It wasn't deep and probing and invasive, but neither
was it a peck on her cheek. Their lips touched, lingered, separated a few
millimeters and then touched again. His hands were in his coat pockets, her
arms folded before her. They weren't touching any place but . . . Skinner felt
a strange tightness in his chest at the sight. Jesus, this made it too damn real.
These two didn't just work well together, they *loved* each other. Was it
any surprise that it wouldn't be contained within the confines of a partnership
any longer? Or had the term *partnership* merely taken on new, deeper
meanings for them?

It was so obvious now.

He really was a blind man.

They must have heard his approach - hell, maybe they sensed him - because
they started apart so abruptly that Skinner actually heard a little *smack!* as
they separated. Scully turned away, her cheeks immediately glowing, and
murmured something about forgetting cream. Skinner watched as she hurried
away. Jesus, if she was pretty just a little while ago, blushing like that made
her absolutely beautiful. He recalled what he'd seen in her hand there in
Mulder's bedroom, and his eyes dropped without thought to her receding
outline, swathed as it was in the dark trench. *That* surprised the hell out of
him. Sharon had hated those things. Like walking around with a rope up your
ass, she'd said. Shaking his head, he turned back to Mulder. What he saw
almost robbed him of breath.

Mulder was watching him. Staring - no, *glaring.* For just an instant he was
tempted to smile. *Touched a nerve, did I, Agent Mulder?* he almost asked.
No, that might provoke a physical response which, in addition to being
painful, would demand disciplinary action. That would make it rather difficult
to brush the whole thing under the carpet until . . . until it could be dealt with
later. He pressed his lips thin as he nodded to the coffee. "Your idea?" he
asked, his voice calm and even.

Mulder shook his head. "No. Scully's." The tone was neutral, but the eyes
were full of something much darker. After a moment he looked away, back
out the window.

Skinner nodded as he chose one and carefully peeled back the plastic lid. Ah,
strong and black. He bit back an appreciative groan. "Remind me to thank
her when she gets back."

"I'll do that."

He withdrew then, taking his coffee with him, and sat in one of the rows
farthest from the airline gate. Scully returned a moment later, her hands full
of tiny plastic containers and a few wooden stir-sticks. Mulder took them,
then sat and began peeling back the foil tops. She sat down beside him,
dumped a couple in each cup and gave them a thorough stirring, then picked
one up and took a careful sip. Her expression reflected her disgust, and
confirmed Skinner's own opinion of the brew: airport coffee was overpriced
*and* hideous. With a shake of her head, she forced down a little more, then
set the cup aside and opened the case file again. Mulder leaned in to read
with her. For a moment neither of them moved. Skinner sighed as he tried
another whack at the coffee. His eyes never left the couple. Were they
reading, or were they using the file as an excuse to be close? Skinner hadn't
detected any perfume on her, so it couldn't be that Mulder was enjoying her
fragrance. Or was he? What else *could* he do? He wouldn't chance kissing
her again, not with the knowledge that their superior was no doubt watching
them.

Slowly, carefully, Mulder leaned a little closer, licked a fingertip, and turned
the page in the case file. There - his lips moved. No sound was produced, at
least none that Skinner could catch, but he still had no trouble making out
the words.

*I love you.*

Ah, that was it. Skinner gritted his teeth until his jaws ached. That was too
damn much. How many secrets had that butt-puffing bastard forced him to
keep from these two through the years; how many things did he still keep to
himself not from choice, but out of concern for his own welfare? All his
professional life he'd been used as a pawn in some way: Blevins, Spender,
Krycek, a dozen other bastards through the years. How was this secret any
different? Lives didn't depend on it, after all; no one was going to live or die
depending on who he told, or failed to tell. Nothing depended on him at all,
except the happiness of these two.

He shook his head, his course decided. Reassignment would not be an issue.
As far as Walter Skinner was concerned, the need did not exist. He would
admire them, and he would probably always envy the dumb bastard; but as he
watched them exchange sidelong glances, he realized he would never be able
to separate them. He'd protect them. Intercede for them when it became
necessary. Do everything he could to see they remained together. It was the
least he could do.

It was all he could do.


~~~~~~~~~~
More than a River, Part Eleven: A Familiar Madness
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: Grotesque
RATING: PG-13 for language.
CLASSIFICATION: S, A, MSR.
SUMMARY: Mulder loses himself in the case he's asked to profile.
~~~~~~~~~~


~~~~~~
Scully
~~~~~~

You'd think I'd learn. You'd think that after so many years and even more
cases, I would have a handle on what happens to Mulder at times like this.
Such is not the case. I can't help myself. I know what's coming, and still I
can't help myself. I don't know which of us is the bigger basket case: him for
his preternatural ability to focus on the truly unseen aspects of human nature,
or me in my concern for his tenuous grip. On reality. On himself.

We got to New York three days ago. The place was already a veritable zoo,
what with the media setting up their broadcast posts all over the
neighborhood. You couldn't walk a straight line for ten feet without running
into another network or affiliate. Hell, you still can't.

I wasn't kidding when I told Skinner I'd have nothing to contribute to the
forensics team. Those guys are as good as they come. They had the situation
very well in hand by the time we arrived. The crime scene had been
catalogued and process. Interviews had already been conducted, with
follow-ups ongoing even as we were given a rundown of the case.
Afterward, Skinner and a few others split off to meet with Congressman
O'Brian. Mulder wanted to talk to him so bad he could barely sit still, but
Skinner muzzled him with a look. He took it okay, certainly better than he
would have once upon a time, but I could see he was not happy about it.

We went to check out the crime scene instead. Well, potential crime scene. I
tried to remind Mulder of that. He didn't answer, which didn't really surprise
me. I could see he was already in his hound dog mode. An hour since the
plane landed and he was already turning inward. God, I've seen it more times
than I care to remember. I have to remind myself that this is what he was
trained for. Profiling. Getting inside someone else's head. It's a singular
talent. When he's like this, I think I could dance around him naked and he
wouldn't notice.

Maybe I should test that theory sometime.

He paced around the dorm room and just took everything in. By now of
course the latex gloves are second nature, but I could see they still bothered
him. He's very tactile. He wants to touch everything, to feel everything a
victim saw and felt. The gloves were a hindrance. I'm not sure what
difference it would have made had his hands been bare. Maybe none. Maybe
he wasn't even sure what it was he was looking for. Mulder has never tried to
articulate exactly why he goes through this ritual. I have an idea. I also know
to leave him alone and let him move and think and do what he has to do. So I
left him there. I checked out the layout of the floor, ran the list of building
workers against what I already had, and re-interviewed the students who had
been in their rooms the night of the disappearance. Did anyone recall seeing
anyone loitering in the area, maybe waiting for someone? Were there any
unfamiliar faces in the building that night? Had anyone gone in to visit with
Mark O'Brian? Friends or relatives, anyone who didn't normally frequent the
dorm?

Mark O'Brian. I didn't call him the victim.

I found Mulder in the basement, flashlight in hand, inspecting the ducts that
ran from the furnace to the different floors. I think if he could have tolerated
the heat, he'd have shimmied up the piping just to see if it were possible.
Happily the ducts were intact and in relatively good repair, indicating that,
however the perpetrator had gained access to O'Brian's room - alleged
perpetrator, that is - it wasn't that way.

We conferred in the car as he drove us back to the Congressman's hotel. A
makeshift bullpen had been set up in one of the banquet rooms. Of the ten
students I had spoken to, three had seen the janitor, one Michael Speasey, in
the building only an hour prior to the disappearance. He'd been seen speaking
with Mark and his girlfriend, Sheila Wentz, also a student at Columbia. The
witnesses could not say for sure what they had discussed, but the
conversation had appeared quite friendly.

Mulder phoned Records back in DC and asked that the old case involving
Speasey be faxed to him immediately. Then he phoned the Gunmen and told
them to scare up as much information about the man as they could. Where
he'd grown up, when he'd joined MUFON, what chapters he might have been
involved with and who the regular members were. He glanced at me once
before hanging up. "I'll tell her you said so, Melvin. Call me when you have
anything." He cut the line and dropped the phone between us. "Frohike
wants a commemorative photograph of you standing in Time Square.
Clothing is optional."

What the hell was there for me to say to that? I handled it as I did all
entreaties from that particular quarter: I ignored it.

We got back to the hotel and managed to slip through the media's battle lines
relatively unscathed. Up in the bullpen, Mulder collected the files arriving
over the fax, then disappeared. I didn't try to follow. Now he'd hole up
somewhere and read everything, pore over every detail, use it as a map for
delving into the darkness that is Speasey. That is the very heart of the
difference between us. To me, the case was still very much up in the air. My
first thought is still, follow procedure. Find the trail. Follow the evidence and
see where it leads, then turn it back and follow it to its source.

Mulder just doesn't work that way. His mind zeroes in on what might seem
the most insignificant detail; he picks at it and studies it, like a slide under a
microscope, for an hour or a day, and from there makes a leap, finding a
connection based on little more than intuition and faith. I've heard a lot of
things said about him over the years, but among the kindest was the
observation that though he works as hard as other agents, he just doesn't
have to take every step. As fantastic as that sounds, that's exactly what
happens.

But it isn't a fast process. This is the third day. I don't know if he's eaten. I
don't know if he's slept. He's in his room, no doubt surrounded by files and
photos and tablets of his own scribblings, trying to piece together what is in
effect an acre-sized puzzle of a single, unbroken color. I hate cases like this. I
hate what they do to him. The trouble is, he's good at what he does. If
anyone can find the missing boy, it will be Mulder.

I used to wonder, in the beginning, why he left profiling. After all, it was
what he was trained for.

I supposed it appealed to his intuitive nature. And it must have been
rewarding when the monster was caught in the end.

Then came cases like John Mostow, and Bill Patterson.

Now I know better.

Now I wonder how he could have done it as long as he did.

I wonder how he could have done it at all.


~~~~~
Mulder
~~~~~

I can't keep doing this.

I have no idea what time it is. What day it is. I don't think I've eaten. I know
I haven't showered. No time to sleep. No time.

I do know Michael Speasey is the monster we're looking for. I have the proof
right here in front of me. I just can't piece it together in such a way that
anyone - anyone but Scully - would take it for truth.

I can't keep doing this. Getting into the minds of these men, these monsters,
who prey on children and kill their spirits even if they leave their bodies
intact. One more case, just one more instance of putting myself in their
minds, of struggling to understand why they do what they do, and I'm afraid I
won't be able to find my way back.

I glance at my watch, but it's an empty gesture. The hands read 3:48, but I
can't rally myself enough to figure a.m. or p.m.. Scully would know, but I
don't know where she is. I could call her - but if it's morning and not
afternoon, I'll wake her up. Well, I *might* wake her up. She doesn't get
much more sleep on these cases than I do. I don't want to take the chance.

God, I love her. I'd give anything to have her here right now.

I'm gonna get you, Michael Speasey. Michael No Middle Name Speasey.

My head is killing me. Gotta get up. I shove the files off my lap and gingerly
push myself to my feet. Man oh man, do I have to pee. How the hell long
have I been sitting here? I grab my tablet as I hot-foot it to the can. Plop it
on the counter and read over my notes as I stand there. Ugh, my bladder
must have stretch marks. How do you spell relief? P-I-S-S. No, that can't be
what I've written. I'm seeing things. Gotta take a break. Find Scully. Get
some food.

Scully. God, I love her.

I wash my hands, then splash water over my face. It douses my shirt, of
course, and soaks my sleeves. I hate that, but it gives me the impetus to
change. Hell, I'm half-naked anyway, and I smell offensive even to myself. A
shower. Take a shower. I stand under the spray and let it drive the poison
from my head. From my heart. You're out there somewhere, Michael
Speasey. You think you've gotten away with something because no one's
looking at you. You think no one knows about you.

You're wrong.

Gotta talk to Skinner. Get him to find this ass and put a tail on him. Hey,
that's kind of funny. I catch myself smiling, then immediately berate myself.
No it isn't. A nineteen year old kid might be dying somewhere, might already
be dead. Not funny at all.

Skinner.

Ass.

Skinner was looking at Scully's ass. The memory pisses me off, but I wrestle
it under control. Can't walk up and belt your boss, I warn myself. You've
already done it. Twice. He's gonna start to resent it. Cut the man a modicum
of slack. Of course he was looking at her ass. She's not exactly hard on the
eyes. And he does have a rather new take on her. A real Kodak moment,
seeing her standing there in a towel and nothing else. How could he *not*
stare?

Head's killing me. Gotta get some food. I get out and towel off, then wrap
the thing around my waist like all guys do and go back to the nightmare that
is my room. My suitcase is still lying on the luggage rack in the closet. I
plunder it, looking for I don't know what. Come up with sweats. Don't
bother with boxers. Hell, who's gonna miss 'em?

The clock on the dresser says 4:26. Should I call Scully? What if she's
asleep? In an instant of blinding inspiration - I *am* an Oxford grad - I jerk
one of the heavy drapes back and swear as agony stabs through my eyes.
Shit, it isn't the middle of the night, it's broad fucking daylight. What damn
day is it? How long have I been sitting here, trying to cram this bastard into
my mind?

Was that a tap at the door? I can't help but feel a little stir of excitement.
Scully has the adjoining room. Scully *always* has the adjoining room. I'd be
lost without that door between us. She understands. She knows I needed
time in here to thrash this bastard to bits, to see how he fits together.

There's a second series of little taps before I can reach the door. I open it not
with a snap as I want to, because that would probably scare the crap out of
her, but slowly. She's there, all right. God, she looks tired. No makeup, so
the dark circles under her eyes are pretty stark. But she smiles a little when
she sees me. Not a grin - those are for very special occasions indeed - but a
nice I'm-glad-to-see-you smile. I think I love her mouth best of all her
features. And her eyes. And that Roman nose which on anyone else might
look snooty but on her is just right. And of course I love her voice best of all
too, especially when it sounds like it does right now, so tender and caring
and relieved.

"I heard you moving around in here. Are you okay?"

I reach for her and pull her close for a hug. She resists for about half a
second, then accepts and just goes with it. Ah, I remember telling her that
very thing once. Go with it, Scully. Mmm, she smells good. Roses and
sunlight. What does sunlight smell like, exactly? I push at her hair with my
nose and breathe in her scent. That's what sunlight smells like. Like Scully.
My Scully.

She's talking to me, telling me about the case. She interviewed Sheila Wentz
herself, but learned very little. Mark O'Brian had driven her home, and then
apparently fell off the edge of the world. And Scully has more faxes from
Byers for me. I want to tell her about my headache, about the swamp that is
the mind of Michael Speasey, but I can't seem to find the words. I just hold
her. Rock her slowly from side to side as my eyes fall closed. Her sleeves are
rolled up and so her arms are bare, and they feel so good on my naked skin.
Her hands splay on my back and slide slowly up and back, up and back. So
good. So good.

"You," I find myself murmuring. I stroke her hair. "You. You."

She draws back a little and looks up at me. God, she's adorable when she
frowns like that. "Me what?" she whispers.

I kiss her forehead. She smiles and leans into the touch. I'm glad she doesn't
lift her face again, because I'd kiss her mouth and then it would go on to
other things, and I think I'm just too tired to do justice to that activity just
now.

You, I think to myself. You keep me here. You keep me sane.

You are everything to me.

"Mulder, when's the last time you ate?" She looks at me when I don't answer,
and I see the transformation as the lover retreats and the doctor appears. One
hand presses itself to my forehead. I miss its warmth on my back. It's hard
not to whimper a protest.

"You need to eat something," she says, twisting in my arms and stepping
back. The look on her face is close to dismay as she surveys the wreckage of
my room. Papers and files are scattered everywhere, on the bed and the
dresser and the floor. A little smile jerks at her mouth as she gives her head a
shake. "Hurricane Mulder," she murmurs, taking me by the hand and drawing
me through the open doorway into her room. "Come on. Sit down. No, not
the bed. You'll fall asleep, and I want you to eat something first. Here, watch
something on TV." She sits me down at the small table by the window, then
picks up the remote and punches the power button. "No CNN," she says
sternly as she reaches for the phone. "ESPN's on 14. I think the Knicks are
playing."

I sit there and smile to myself as she orders something from Room Service.
Then we sit in silence and watch a game I know holds no interest for her.
She sits down in the chair across the little table from me, her eyes slowly
glazing as she watches the flickering picture. She's so worried about me, but
when's the last time *she* slept?

I lose track of time. The sharp rap at the door makes us both jump. She
stands up, and it isn't until I feel her slip away that I realize she has reached
across the table and taken my hand. Jesus, I feel dumb.

The smell of food wafts through the room, and my mouth immediately fills
with saliva. Why didn't I know I was starving? Probably for the same reason
I hadn't spoken at all beyond my incredibly suave "you you you." I get this
way. I use up every bit of myself on some case I'm profiling. It takes a heavy
toll. She knows this. God, the times she's seen it. So she pushes the brain
food. Scrambled eggs, four pieces of bacon, wheat toast with jam. Not a
glass of orange juice, but a pitcher. I'll be pissing again real quick. Well, so
be it. I feel better almost immediately. She works on her chicken salad as she
watches me eat. Steals a piece of bacon when she thinks I'm not looking.

Anything, I think as I watch her from the corner of my eye. Anything you
want. Anything you need, if I can get it for you. Just don't leave me. Please,
God, let me never look up again and find you're not there. I think it would
kill me.

The Knicks are ahead, but I'm fading fast. Scully evidently realizes this,
because she tugs me to my feet and guides me to the bed. It's a queen, I
think. Plenty big enough for both of us. It's pretty clear she won't let me go
back to my room, not now. There's really no need for that anyway. That
unspoken agreement we have, the one not to indulge in each other when
we're on an assignment, will remain unchallenged at least for now. We're
both too damn tired for any sort of seduction.

She jerks the bedspread back, then folds the blanket and sheet down and
directs me to sit. I sprawl on my back, and she drags the covers back over
me. My eyes immediately close, and I am powerless to stop it. A hand gently
strokes my forehead once, twice, three times, and I groan very softly. Then
the bed creaks as she settles in beside me, and I feel the gentle radiance of
her body heat as she curls her back against my hip.

God, I hope I don't snore tonight.


~~~~~~
Skinner
~~~~~~

I hate cases like this. Few witnesses, fewer clues, a roomful of agents who
don't want me here, and no sign of the allies I had with me when I arrived.
There are others here from DC, to be sure. Mulder and Scully and I - we
aren't the cavalry or anything, just bodies to help fill the quota demanded by a
grieving, powerful father. Hayes brought Chandler and Stevitz, and Garcia
and Dudynsky, all from the VC division. They're good agents, all of them.
That's the trouble though: lots of good officers not doing a hell of a lot
because there isn't a hell of a lot to be done. We have a team of profilers
working on this, but right now they can't seem to agree on any one type of
offender.

I know what Mulder's doing. I think about some of the stuff he might be
coming up with - mutant sewer-dwellers, maybe - and I can't help but wince.

I haven't seen Scully since early this morning. She was on the phone with
someone, talking about getting a fax to give to Mulder, who I haven't seen in
days.

What is it with those two? Do they think they're alone on this? They skip the
briefings, they don't give a thought to the legwork that has to be done - hell,
they don't seem to exist. I know how Mulder works. He's hard at it, I'm sure,
cut off from everything but the job. Only question is, when's he going to have
something to contribute? Will it come tomorrow morning - or in three
weeks, when the body's been found, sliced and examined, and is rotting in the
ground?

I can't push him, but I can sure as hell ask her what he's up to. She must have
some sort of handle on the situation.

It's getting late. Time for the rotation in the bullpen to change. God, I'm
tired.

They've given me the room next to Scully's. I guess that puts her in the
middle. How sadly appropriate.

I know how Mulder feels about her. I've suspected it for a while, but now I
have the proof I most definitely was not looking for. Scully's right, it doesn't
really matter how long they've been doing each other.

God, that's vulgar. I'm tired. It doesn't matter how long.

I just wish I didn't care so much.

I wish I didn't care. But I do.


~~~~~~
Mulder
~~~~~~

Something jolts me awake. Jesus, it was just a dream, just a dream please let
it be a dream. Blood everywhere, not dark but bright arterial blood the color
of fast death. My heart is hammering in my chest. I groan as I kick back the
covers and slide to the edge of the bed. God, I feel sick. It would almost be a
relief to puke and get it over with.

It's the case, I tell myself. The X-Files are full of some strange shit, but this
only happens when I profile a real monster. The nightmares begin with the
first day and continue, sometimes for months after the final resolution. The
cases I can't solve - those are the worst. When the nightmares get too bad,
when I see the dead every time I close my eyes and hear them in the pauses
between my heartbeats, that's when I have to do something. Like now.
Usually I run. Six in the evening or three in the morning, it doesn't matter. I
already have my sweats on. All I need is my shoes and I can run, run until the
voices are silenced, or I until drop from exhaustion.

God, it's bad tonight. I rub my eyes hard, then push myself to my feet.
Behind me, Scully murmurs something in her sleep. I look for the clock as I
sweep a hand through my hair. How long ago did she put me to bed? I can't
remember. Shit, it isn't even midnight. Haven't had enough sleep to work on.
I can't sleep now. I'm afraid to even try. The nausea gets worse, and I groan
as I bend at the waist, clutching my arms around my gut. Panting helps. The
urge to vomit abates just a little. Scully makes another little sound, but I can
barely hear her over the sounds in my head. Dammit, shut up. Shut up. Shut
up!

Would screaming help?

Has it ever?

Go for a run. Leave them behind. Leave it all behind. Where are my shoes?
Shit, the room's too damn dark. I feel disoriented now, almost panicky.
Where's my damn suitcase? I have to get out. Have to go - somewhere.
Jesus, make the voices stop, make them stop, make them stop!

Suddenly there's a muffled snap and the unwelcome glare of light. "Mulder?
What're you doing?"

Shit, I woke her up. Shit shit shit. I whirl on her. I want to apologize, I want
to tell her it's all right, I'm just going for a run, I'm just losing my fucking
mind . . .

She must see it in my eyes, because she's out of the bed like a shot. "Mulder,
talk to me. What's wrong?"

Ah Scully, what isn't wrong? The shit I've put you through. The shit I still
put you through. I shake my head and double over again. She's at my side so
fast, I wonder how the hell she did it. Her hands are wonderfully warm as she
touches me, and I realize I'm shivering. God damn this case. I can't keep
doing this. I sag against her, and she staggers under the sudden weight. I feel
a hand on my forehead, and for some reason it makes me smile. I don't have
a fever, Mom, I want to say. No, can't call her that. She isn't one. She won't
be one, ever. My fault. She's the best thing that ever happened to me. Too
back she can't say the same about me. Typhoid fucking Mulder. I wish I
could push her away. You should be the one to run away, Scully. Run away.
Get away from me, just for God's sake, don't leave me . . .

I realize we're on the floor, on our knees, both of us. She's holding me, and
I'm trying my hardest not to cry. "Can't do this," I manage to say. "Can't do
this. Too many monsters, too many children. I can't make the dreams stop . .
. "

She's rocking me. God, I love that. She's so good at it. Much better than I
could ever be. Is it a woman thing? A doctor thing? Did she take classes in
med school? Is it something her mother taught her? I bet she'd be a good
one. I know she would be. Would have been. God, I'm so sorry I happened
to her.

Somehow she gets me up on the bed. I cling to her, so she slides in with me
hanging onto her like a leech. "Okay, Mulder," she says, lying back and
taking me with her. God, I know I should be ashamed of this terrible
neediness, but I can't let go of her. She manages to switch off the light, then
lies back and holds me to her, settling my head on her breast just like I was a
big, overgrown child. I curl myself around her. I'm cold. I reach out and snag
the covers, drawing them up over both of us. She murmurs something under
her breath. I can't catch the words, but the sound of her voice is like balm to
an open wound.

The dead don't seem so loud now. I can hear something else. It's slow to
build, but it eventually drowns them out completely. The pauses between the
beats hold nothing but silence. I lie there for a long time, mesmerized,
listening to the sound of her heart. Her arms draw me a little closer, and I
feel her lips brush the scar just hidden in my hairline.

It's hard not to feel other things. Desire. I find myself craving her heat. The
human male is so incredibly attuned to sex, sometimes it's embarrassing. I
can't help it. God help me, I need it. I need her. I know she can feel it. She's
got one of her legs wedged up in my crotch, and the little rocking thing she
does every now and then is really getting someone's attention. I can't help but
moan a little. *I can't*, I tell myself. *We can't. This isn't going to happen.*

Yet even as I think these thoughts, as I derogate myself for thinking of sex
right now, I lift my head and find her mouth with mine. She stiffens just a
little, and for an instant I think she might push me away. Then I feel her let
herself go. Her mouth opens and she lets me in. At the first taste of her, I'm
lost. There's very little thought now, just impulse and sensation. An insatiable
hunger. My hands are on her face, turning her, holding her. I say her name, I
think, as I pull at the buttons on her shirt. Her shirt. My shirt. I can't tell the
difference anymore. She doesn't push me away, doesn't catch my hands and
force them to release her. Does she feel it too? Does the ugliness of Michael
Speasey crush her as it does me? Or is it just an excuse my warped psyche
has come up with just so we can do this?

Before I'm aware of getting there, I'm on top of her. Her hands are helping
me get rid of the running pants, and her own scant clothing. "We can't do
this," I say stupidly. Her only response is to wrap her legs around me. Ah,
hell. She's kissing me again, my whole face, with that incredible mouth. It's
impossible to fight, and so we don't. I'm not gentle with her. I will be later,
but right now I can't be. She doesn't protest except for a soft gasp as I drive
into her. I try to brace myself over her, but she's pretty insistent on having me
closer. I can't fight her. I start slapping into her, not especially fast but hard.
"You," I find myself saying again. I repeat it over and over in time to my
rhythm as I pound into her. "You. You. You."

What is the matter with me? How does this act make any difference at all?
Am I supplanting negative impulses with positive ones? Am I merely
diverting myself with what is probably the single strongest drive known to
the human species? Or am I trying to find something good to balance the evil
that's taken up residence in my head, and she is the best thing I have ever
known in my whole damn life?

The voices fall silent. All I can hear is her. Her breathing, her sighs, her
whispered entreaties. Gradually my pace quickens. Her hands have been
gliding up and down my sides, but before long they're forming tight fists over
my shoulder blades. My strokes are longer now. When she gives a long, low
moan - I feel it more than hear it - I realize what's happening. *Yeah, Scully.
Let it go. God, I can feel you.* I keep up the pace, and it just goes on and
on. How does she do that? She's arching beneath me, damn near lifting us
both off the bed. I hear her whisper something, but I can't make out the
words. *Don't sing,* I want to warn her, but of course I can't put even those
two syllables together. *God, don't sing tonight, here of all places. We aren't
supposed to be doing this. If Skinner finds out, there'll be hell to pay.*

Hell to pay. Hell to pay. I grimace as my own climax caroms out of control. I
want to let go with a bellow, but instead I turn my face and groan into the
side of her neck as a different insanity washes over me, taking me with it and
flowing into her like a hot river . . .

Love is made. I can't remember how many times we've done this, and it just
keeps getting sweeter.

At last we relax. Her hands are soft again as they slowly stroke my back. She
brushes her lips across my forehead. I'm panting a little. Gently I nuzzle her
face, and her arms settle around my neck again. God, she smells so good.
"Baby," I whisper, kissing that spot under her right ear. I'll leave no fresh
marks tonight.

I hear her giggle at that. "Baby?"

I find her mouth again. I can imagine her eyes shining with mirth as she looks
at me in the darkness. "Baby." I kiss her. "Lover." Kiss. "Friend."

Her hands settle on my face, pulling me away from her, and I can just make
her out in the darkness. "Partner. Don't forget partner. What happened,
Mulder? What set this off?"

I sigh as I roll onto my side, taking her with me, and settle my head on the
pillow beside hers. God, it's so hard to say the words, especially after what
we just did. "The case. The nightmares. Sometimes they get so bad that I
can't see or hear anything but . . . " I shiver. She waits patiently, her hands
almost but not quite still. I've never told her. I've never told anyone. It isn't a
gift, after all. I'm not psychic, at least not inordinately so. I just have a knack
for getting inside someone's head. Trouble is, sometimes it's difficult to get
back out.

She waits me out. At last I find the strength or courage or whatever it takes
to utter the words. "You remember Bill Patterson, don't you."

It isn't a question.

She's motionless for a few seconds. Then her arms tighten around me.
"Mulder," she whispers. I can feel her breath on my temple. "That isn't going
to happen to you."

I give my head a shake. Visions from the nightmare rise up behind my eyes,
and I shrink from them. I don't want to say the words, but I have to. Maybe
to say them will dispel some of their awful power. "I'm pretty sure Mark
O'Brian's dead. I think Speasey shot him execution-style." I prop myself up
on an arm and sigh as I pinch the bridge of my nose. "I'm not doing any good
on this. I can see the bastard, I think I know why he does it, and I have a
good idea of what he'll do next, but I don't know where to find him. I . . . I
just can't see that."

I feel her hand on my face. "You're not Superman, Mulder. You aren't the
only one working on this case." She paused. "Do you have enough to go to
Skinner?"

I shake my head again. "With nothing more than flashes of intuition? No."
Wearily I let my head fall back beside hers. My eyes close. God, I need to
sleep. Just a few hours without the nightmares. That isn't so much to ask, is
it?

Her touch is gentle, her skin warm where our limbs are entwined. I'm still in
her, but I'm too tired to move away. I realize I must be saying it aloud,
because she answers. "Shh. Go to sleep, Mulder. No more nightmares
tonight."

I can't help but smile. "You're good, Scully, but you can't hold them back
with sex. Not even you."

"Shh," she says again, a little more firmly. "No more nightmares."

Can her goodness really chase away the evil that has visited itself upon me?
Stranger things have happened to both of us.

My sleep is peaceful. She's right. There are no more nightmares.


~~~~~~
Skinner
~~~~~~

They probably think I couldn't hear.

I've seen a lot of things in this life. I've heard a lot. Hell, I've done a lot. I
don't recall ever engaging in a sex act with my direct superior watching TV
in the next room. Damn, these walls must not have much in the way of
insulation.

I was lying here catching up on the news - there is a world out there, one
quite unaware of the hell we're currently trapped in - when the sounds
started. Jesus, if I wasn't aware of the situation before this, I sure as hell
would be now. It's a good thing I've already decided to cut them some slack,
because doing what they're doing while they're working a case - well, it's
irregular, to say the least.

They weren't loud themselves. Quiet as church mice. The trouble was and
always will be the furniture. Few things are as unmistakable as the cadence of
intense sex. From what I could hear, 'intense' might be an understatement.
Those two don't ever do anything by halves.

It's been quiet for hours now. They must have fallen asleep around midnight.
It took me a little longer. Something came up. Christ, I may be their superior,
and I know I'm older than both of them by at least a decade, but I'm not
dead.

Not that I appreciated the noise, but I suppose it's a good thing they didn't
choose Mulder's bed. Bushnell's in the next room over. He and Mulder share
a common wall, just like Scully and I do. God help them if that s.o.b. were to
hear the symphony I did and do a little investigating of his own. The jig, as
they say, would be up.

I suppose it wouldn't be the end of the world, even so. They certainly aren't
the first pair of agents to find themselves in this situation. When that day
comes, I'm sure some small-minded colleague of mine will take it into his
head to cause Spooky Mulder some grief. The man's made a lot of enemies.
It doesn't help matters that he just doesn't care. Yeah, my work will definitely
be cut out for me then.

It sickens me, but I know what this means. I'm going to have to tell them. I'm
going to have to tell them I heard them. I'm going to have to tell them that
continued sexual contact would be foolish in the extreme up until such time
that this case is solved. I'm going to have to tell them to knock it off. For
their own good. Oh, that'll go over very well. Shit, she can barely look at me
now.

Well, she's going to have to. Besides, I need to find out what's happening
with Mulder.

My cell phone chirps then, and I can't help but swear as I reach for it.
"Skinner," I bark. Do I sound like they woke me up? They certainly haven't.

It's Stevitz. There are new developments, he says.

The news is not good.


~~~~~~
Scully
~~~~~~

He's been asleep now for almost seven hours. I shouldn't have left him alone
so long. I know I really had no choice, but he can't keep doing this. He
doesn't take care of himself at times like this.

Someone has to. He isn't thirty anymore.

I should get up now. Go take a shower. Get dressed, get ready for another
grueling day. I just want to sit here a while longer and watch him sleep. Just
a little while longer. He's on his back now, his face turned towards me. His
arms - the way he's lying there, it's almost as if he's cradling something in
them.

Me.

The thought makes me smile. I want so badly to touch him, but I don't dare. I
know he's about to wake up; his breathing has been changing the past couple
of minutes, getting shallower. I don't want it to happen yet. I don't want this
peace to end for him.

I don't want to have to stop watching him.

I sit back in the overstuffed chair and sigh. Why was I afraid? Not afraid of
*him,* but of *this*. I suppose it was the control factor. Control is important
to me. Control of myself, of my reactions to him. It's different with him.
Control, or the lack of it, doesn't seem to bother him.

What of it, I have to ask myself now. He doesn't want to restrict me or
govern me. He rides rough-shod over me from time to time, but that's
nothing he hasn't done before. He's the same man he was a year ago. Intense,
fallible, incredibly arrogant in some ways, delightfully insecure in others.
Emotional. Sensitive. Guilt-ridden. Oh, and damaged. Don't forget that.

Have I changed? I chew my lower lip as I consider myself. Maybe I've
mellowed over the past seven plus years, but I know I'm still what he has
politely termed *unyielding.* I still depend upon science for the answers I
seek. If science can't provide those answers, then that's because I haven't
asked the right questions. Or the science simply doesn't exist. Yet. It will,
and I'll understand it. I have to.

I'm going to have to do something about his room. Clearly we both can't
sleep in here. He can't stay in there like it is, and to leave it to housekeeping
would be out of the question. Maybe while he's in the shower I can go make
some sense of the chaos.

He frightened me last night. He would never hurt me, I'm sure of that; but
when he gets this way, there's no telling if he might hurt himself. God, I just
want us back in our own office. He's intense when we're investigating an
X-file, but he's nothing like this. These cases are hard on him. They always
have been, but it's obviously getting worse.

He's waking up. My heart aches for him, but it's time. There's a father out
there somewhere whose own heart is aching, and we have to do something
to help him.

I love watching at this instant. He draws in a deep breath as his eyes flutter.
There's a flicker of confusion just as they open, as they take in his
surroundings and he realizes he isn't in his apartment. Quickly he scans the
room, and when he finally sees me, sitting in the chair not five feet away, the
confusion and anxiety immediately fade. He smiles. Oh, the things that smile
does to me.

I kick myself as I smile back. What the hell was I afraid of all those years?
What was I waiting for?

I'm always a little surprised at what he says first thing in the morning.
Sometimes it's a simple greeting. Sometimes it's a smart-ass remark. I've
often wonder how the hell he does it; how he thinks of something so sharp
and clever when he's still half-asleep. I find myself waiting a little
breathlessly. What's it going to be today? A simple 'Morning'? Or a comment
on the world as only Mulder can phrase it?

He stretches for a moment, then rubs his eyes and yawns. I'm waiting. What's
it going to be? When he looks at me, the smile reasserts itself. The lips open.
Here it comes.

"You are so beautiful," he says.

Oooh. My heart does a little flippy thing in my chest, and I duck my face to
hide what I'm sure is a ruby-like blush. Damn this fair skin. He rolls onto his
side and props a head up in his hand. His eyes squint against the glare of the
morning sun that's finding its way around the drawn shades.

"I should apologize for last night," he said quietly. I can't help but frown at
that. He shrugs his shoulder once. I start to ask what he means, but he cuts
me off. "This case. It's getting to me. Doesn't really lend itself to personal
matters."

Ah, I think I know what he's talking about. I find myself smiling. The
delicacy of the male ego. Especially this ego. I slide out of the chair and
kneel beside the bed. Our faces are level, and I'm not surprised to see more
than a touch of guilt in his eyes. Damn his parents. Damn them for doing
what they did to that little boy with the braces and the big nose. He doesn't
deserve all this damn shame. How exactly did he fail me last night? Was it the
sex? Does he think it would offend me, his needing something tangible and
good? He can't think I'd begrudge him that, can he?

I stroke his rough cheek with the back of my fingers. "What are you sorry
about now?" I ask. Can he hear the teasing in my voice? I can see from his
eyes that he does. There's a spark of humor that wasn't there a moment ago.

He catches my hand and presses it to his mouth. It's a good thing I'm already
on the floor, because it probably would have buckled my knees had I been
standing. God, that mouth. I am a lucky woman.

Vaguely I remember another man doing that same thing not long ago. Funny,
all I wanted to do that day was rip my hand out of his and walk away. It isn't
the gesture, I realize. Hell, I knew it then. It isn't even the sensation. It's the
man who makes all the difference.

He gently worries one of my fingers with his teeth. "I didn't give you much of
a chance to say no, did I?"

I raise an eyebrow and give him one of my looks. After so many years
together, he's learned to read each and every one as if it were writing upon
my face. I'm not taking anything he says right now too seriously, especially
this well-worn self-flagellation. I don't want him to either. "And?" I ask
pointedly.

His lower lips slides out in a thoughtful pout. Damn, it's all I can do not to
lunge for it, suck it into my own mouth . . . "And my technique wasn't what it
usually is," he continued. I realize he's gotten into the game himself. Besides,
he's looking for a little stroking. A little affirmation of his place in life. In my
life.

I lean close and kiss him. Ugh, his breath is awful, but that mouth . . . I force
myself to break contact and then sit back on my heels. "Yeah, I wanted to
talk to you about that," I say, giving his hand a squeeze. "You wake me up in
the middle of the night, you grab me and hold me like you'll fall apart if I let
go, and then you make love to me like there'll be no dawn if we don't . . ." I
give my head a shake. "Don't let it happen again. I can't be held responsible
for my actions *all* the time."

He smiles, and for a moment we just look at one another. Reality must assert
itself sometime, and it does so as he glances away from me and notes the
time. 7:03. Things in the bullpen will be changing over in less than an hour.
Reluctantly I push myself to my feet. He releases my hand, and I turn on my
heel. "Take a shower and get dressed," I say over my shoulder. "I'm going to
do something about your room."

Jesus, it's a mess in there. Fortunately he hasn't taken apart any of the files,
but the faxes are a total loss. He'll have to go through and figure them out. I
scoop them into a pile, straightening and fussing and stacking. He's left his
tablet in the bathroom, along with a pile of well-worn clothing. I toss the
laundry into my own room, then place the tablet with the other material. I
pause to flip through it thoughtfully. The writing at the beginning is clear
enough, but the last five pages or so have degenerated to nearly illegible
scrawls. I frown as I try to make out what he's saying. This is him, I muse,
running a finger down the page, tracing the lines made by his own hand.
These are his thoughts, his patterns. Everything unseen, everything I can't
touch, everything I love even though it scares me a little.

What's this? A paragraph tucked in between his musings on Speasey. It
doesn't seem to be related to the case, because it's got my name attached to
it. Looks like he's listing my attributes. *Taking a mental break, are we,
Mulder?* I smile as I read. Actually it's written in the second person, as if
he's talking to someone. To me. He's recounting something. We were on a
case recently, the details of which have already begun to fade. Strange events
at a reputedly haunted church or something. Anyway, it was the last day.
We'd filed our reports at the field office, so the case was officially closed. All
we had to do was get on the plane and come home. With hours before our
flight, we'd opted to go sight-seeing. Ended up at a hotel, of course. When
has Mulder ever passed up the opportunity for sex? When have I, lately?
Funny, I can't recall the particulars of the case, but I remember that afternoon
with perfect clarity.

We ended up in the bathroom. That was unusual for us. I was bent over the
pullman, face to face with myself in the mirror, and he was behind me. Oh,
his enthusiasm took my breath away. He was pumping into me, and I was
giving it right back to him. The marble sink was cold on my breasts, but it
felt so good . . . God, what it did to me to watch in the mirror, to see his
expression change, to feel him in me, driving so deep it verged on pain. He
was watching me, too. I think that would have bothered me once, but that
day it only made it better.

He can be so expressive when it's just me, when we're just *us*. He let go of
my hips and draped himself over me, sandwiching me with his body. The
contrast of the cold and heat was maddening. His hands were splayed on the
counter, and his face was right next to mine. He was trembling. I remember
his beard scratching my temple. His eyes . . . the look in them . . . I still
shiver at the memory. It's like he wanted to be in me, and not just the little bit
that's physically possible. The turmoil and passion and fever in those eyes
were wonderful and terrible to see, and that was *before* he came. He was
looking at me when it happened. Looking right into my eyes, into my heart -
hell, into my soul. I'd have thought he'd be beyond speaking at that point,
because frankly I couldn't have uttered an intelligent syllable, but just as he
came he whispered *I love you.*

The textbooks all say a woman can't really feel a man's ejaculation. It just
isn't supposed to be possible. I'm here to say she most definitely can. It was
the most erotic moment of my life. To feel him in me even after he withdrew,
to know he'd be there when we were dressed and on that plane, in our own
homes . . .

Aw, God. To hell with the housekeeping. I drop the tablet on the dresser
with the other papers and go to my own bathroom. He's still in the shower.
Does it surprise him when I jerk the shower door open and step in with him?
Does he notice I haven't bothered to take his shirt off? He doesn't seem to
care. He accepts me with little more than a puzzled, "Scully?" I'm hungry for
him. I frame his face with my hands, pull him down to me, kiss his mouth, his
eyes, his throat. And it doesn't take long for his body to ready itself for me.
He hoists me up on him when he's still only half hard. This time it's my back
that feels the contrast of hot to cold as he pins me to the wall. Funny, the
height thing doesn't seem to be a problem like this.

I can't get enough of him. I don't know why this is, if my cycle's to blame, if
it's hormones, if the moon's full, or if it's because we both finally got some
sleep. Hell, maybe it's because we both like cream in our coffee. Before long
I'm coming hard, crying out in agony and anguish and joy all at once. He
traps my sounds in his own mouth. *You*, he'd said last night. *You. You.
You.* I understand now, because I find myself panting the same syllable over
and over.

He slides his mouth down low on my neck, and I feel him bite my shoulder as
he too gives in. I don't think he's aware of doing it. I know it's going to
bruise, but I don't care. I return the action, sinking my teeth into that ridge of
flesh that runs from his neck to the point of his shoulder. I know it has a
name, and I know someday I'll remember what it is, but right now it's simply
that spot that I have to have in my mouth.

How long have we been in here? I have no idea. Thank God it's one of the
better hotels we've seen in our travels, because I'm sure we're putting a real
strain on the water heaters. Gradually his arms relax around me and let me
slide off of him. I feel some of his fluids escape with him, and for some
reason it makes me want to cry. Twice in eight hours - his sperm count must
be reduced now. *Find an egg,* I beg of no one in particular. I know it's a
futile wish. My cycle is irrelevant. I have no eggs. I'm barren. I have what
countless women my age long for and will never have: a caring, giving lover
and no need for birth control. Oh, how I wish that were not the case.

I know he's watching me.

Those aren't tears on my face, I tell myself firmly. It's spray from the shower.
It's a reaction to the intensity of sex. I'm not crying. I'm not.


~~~~~~
Mulder
~~~~~~

Skinner just called. Sheila Wentz has disappeared. I don't have to be in the
bullpen to hear the mutterings - I know they're wrong. Sheila had nothing to
do with Mark O'Brian's disappearance. She isn't the perpetrator, she's
another fucking victim. Dammit, someone should have seen this coming.

I should have.

I've waited too long. I know better than to take this to the Division Head.
What I have isn't enough to impress any fed, I know. I just hope Skinner will
listen. I hope he'll find a way to divert some of the investigating team. They
can track Speasey's movements over the past few days or even weeks. If we
get lucky, and if Sheila Wentz is really lucky, we'll have a location in a matter
of hours.

I try not to listen to the niggling little voice inside my head that's telling me I
should know this already. I should have tracked the rat bastard right back to
his own hole by now. Me and Scully, rushing in where others fear to tread,
just like we did with Eugene Tooms.

Bullshit, I tell myself. I can't be everywhere at once. What did Scully say last
night? I'm not Superman.

She's been busy while I was away. Evidently she spent a lot of time in the
bullpen, making contacts within the New York bureau. I don't like the idea of
sharing her with anyone - call me selfish - but she does lend a certain
credibility to Spooky Mulder. I have to admit, that's a good thing. Some of
those contacts just might be disposed to believing her, and by extension, me.
I phone Skinner. He isn't thrilled by my request to speak with him, but he
complies readily enough. He meets us in Scully's room. He seems on edge.
He sits down at the little table and fiddles with his tie, adjusting it, tugging on
it. Christ, Walter, I want to say, just relax. This won't hurt much.

Scully's across the room sorting through some papers. She's been a little
distant since this morning, which has me on edge. I tried to ask her about it,
but she cut me off and assured me it's nothing. I can't detect any anger, which
should soothe me but doesn't. Anger I can deal with, even if it's just bitchy
female shit. I've seen my share in seven years. The prospect of something else
being wrong - like her being sick and not mentioning it to me - that makes
me crazy. I just can't take any more of her "I'm fine" bullshit.

I force myself back to the matter at hand. Quickly I outline what the Gunmen
have sent me. Mark O'Brian belonged to the Columbia chapter of MUFON.
Like it or not, I want so badly to point out, it's an established organization,
and it's going to keep popping up in the investigation. I don't, though. No
need to alienate my one known ally. Yes, Michael Speasey is also a member,
having joined nine months ago after moving here from Nevada. The other
incident took place at UNLV. The alleged victim in that case has moved on
with her life, and is now married and the mother of two. She is unwilling to
speak of any connection to Michael Speasey.

Skinner listens to my case, once in a while nodding his head, sometimes
asking questions that show he's paying attention and not brushing me off.
Scully puts her two cents worth in, touching on the forensics of this case and
how they appear to match details of the other. I watch her as she speaks.
She's good at hiding it, whatever it is. No marked stress in her voice. No
unusual hand movements, conscious or otherwise. No flash of any unveiled
emotion in her expression. God, she's locked down tight.

Skinner nods when we're finished. "So you're asking me to put someone onto
finding this guy," he says at last. "Even though everyone downstairs thinks
there's nothing to him."

I open my mouth to reiterate some point or other, but Scully beats me to it.
"If you don't find any credence in this, sir, then perhaps you should read
Agent Mulder's profile in its entirety."

We both look at her in surprise. It isn't like her to be abrupt, especially to
Skinner. He studies her for a moment before giving his head a shake. "That
won't be necessary, Agent Scully. I have every confidence in your partner's
work." He sighs then, a loud and harried sound. "I wonder if you could give
us a moment."

It's her turn to be surprised. We share a long, silent look, and then she rises
and walks purposefully to the door to my room, opens it, and is gone.

I clear my throat nervously as I turn back to him. He's eying me. I've done
something, clearly. How have I transgressed this time? Bailing out on an
investigation that I knew would go nowhere? He had me on a technicality,
certainly, but it wasn't enough to seriously bust me in the chops. And it
couldn't be bad enough to need privacy before he would do it.

He laces his fingers over his gut, and I realize he isn't pissed; he's nervous.
Something is up. He casts a furtive glance at the wall, the one the bed sits
against. His face is taking on that same ruddy glow I'd seen in my apartment
- when he was gawking at Scully - and I know before he says anything what
his problem is. Oh, shit. We'd been so quiet. We thought we were fooling
everyone. Jesus, who else knows? I hadn't been around anyone so I couldn't
even guess, but Scully . . .  shit, now what have I done to her?

"Before you say anything - " I begin, but he quickly cuts me off.

"Don't do it again," he says tightly. I shut my mouth. He still doesn't look
happy, but at least I'm not arguing with him. That's a step in the right
direction. He sweeps a hand over the back of his neck, then down his jaw.
When he speaks, it's softly and with deadly earnestness. "It made for a very
interesting night, I'll give you that. I've come to a decision, Agent Mulder.
I'm going to keep it to myself, and by that I mean the whole affair." His flush
deepens a bit, but he shakes his head and plows on. "No one else needs to
know. No one else can know, and the only way that happens is for you two
to keep your damn hands off each other until this case is closed. Is that
clear?"

What the hell is there to say to that? Talk about having me on a technicality.
He could cause all sorts of grief, yet here he is, getting all set to pull punches
for us. Jesus, will I ever have a handle on this guy?

He stands with a last glower at the bed. "I'd appreciate it if you would not
mention any of this to Agent Scully. Things are strained right now as it is. Do
everyone a favor and just . . ." He waves a hand at the wall. ". . . stay in your
own room until we get out of here."

I nod mutely. So that's why he's almost whispering. Well, he's sensitive to her
feelings. Gotta give him that.

He leaves without quite slamming the door behind him. Within seconds the
connecting door opens and Scully reappears. I glance at her quickly.
Something I see earns another look. Shit, she's been crying. Not hard, and
not long - she didn't have the time - but it's clear something is bothering her. I
feel a cold spot settle in my gut. Jesus, I can't handle anymore illness. I'll go
off the damn deep end and they'll never get me back.

She glances meaningfully at the door, then looks back at me. "What'd
Skinner want?" she asks.

I grunt as I start shoving piles of notes together. "A friendly talk between
guys," I say. She has a gift for seeing in my eyes what I don't want to talk
about, so I don't look at her. "He isn't going to pursue that . . . that little
personal matter. Evidently he's letting it drop. We're just not to allow it to
interfere with our jobs. Particularly this one."

Without a word she moves to my side. I turn to shoot her a look and maybe
a smart-ass remark, something to draw her out so she'll tell me what's upset
her so, but what I see stops me cold. Her eyes are brimming. I drop the files
and grab for her. My intensity is probably frightening her, but I can't help it.
For a moment we don't move, don't speak. After a moment I feel her arms
slide around my waist and hold on. God, I feel sick. Something's wrong.
Scully's coming to me for comfort. Scully never does that. Is she getting sick
again? Have there been warning signs I should have seen but didn't? I haven't
noticed any nosebleeds. God, what if the cancer's moved someplace else?
The thought makes me frantic. I try to put her away from me - I need to see
her eyes - but she won't let go of me.

"I'm not sick," she says. Her voice is muffled - her face is pressed against my
shoulder.

Relief makes me weak, and I hold her hard again. It takes me a minute to
find my voice. "What is it then?" I finally manage. Even to my own ears, I
sound like a child.

She shakes her head and tries to smile up at me. "I'm fine. Just feeling a little
. . ." Sighing, she brushes the tears from her eyes. "I'm okay, Mulder."

She finally breaks her hold on me and moves away. I don't know whether to
believe her or not. Of course I want to - but at the same time I'm afraid. I'm
afraid of so much when it comes to Scully. Afraid for her, afraid of myself
and the trouble that always seems to find me. Is it becoming too much for her
to handle? Shit, is she having doubts about us? When she came to me this
morning . . . I was shocked, I've never seen her so demanding. Does she
regret it now? God, this is agony. I don't think it could hurt more if she
turned around and shot me. Shit, my knees are beginning to tremble. "Jesus,
Scully, talk to me."

She looks back at me. She looks fucking miserable. Slowly she shakes her
head. "Mulder, breathe. I . . . yeah, something's bothering me. Normally it
isn't a problem, but right now, at this moment, it's difficult. It's got nothing to
do with you, so spare both of us the trials of blaming yourself. Not
everything in my life is your fault."

Okay, not exactly what I need to hear, but at least she isn't blaming me for
something I might have done. Uncertainly I move to her side. She's standing
at the window with her arms crossed over her stomach. Just a minute ago she
was clinging to me; now she's shutting me out. I don't get it. I raise a hand
and stroke her shoulder, a gesture I hope is comforting. Evidently all it does
is irritate her. She moves away with an impatient sound. I'm getting really
nervous. "Scully, I want to help. C'mon, this is ridiculous. You're a fist in
heels. What's going on?"

She turns away, but not before I see an angry red flush appear in her cheeks.
"Don't you dare," she says very softly.

I'm at a loss. Now what did I do? "Don't what?" I ask. I'm not stupid,
honestly I'm not. Just confused. And feeling like I'm in way, way over my
head.

She glances at me, and I see a cold spark in her eyes. "Don't profile me. I'm
not one of your subjects."

Okay, that was pissy. I fall back a step. Hands on hips, weight shifting to one
leg, jaw set. Shit, defensive posture. I quickly fold my arms. No, that's even
worse. I force them to hang at my sides. My head is starting to hurt, and my
heart's right behind it. "Scully," I say softly, pleading now, "talk to me."

Have I reached her? I think I might have. She turns to look at me, and I'm
overjoyed to see that the anger in her eyes is fading. Just what she's thinking
is still a mystery. Shit, why can't she talk to me? Why must she bottle
everything up? How can she not trust me after all this time? For an instant I
want to strike out, say something irrational and hurtful just to provoke a
response. After all, it wouldn't be the first time for either of us. I clench my
teeth until the muscles in my jaw ache. No, I won't. I can't force her. I know
I can't. She leaves me alone when she knows I need it. I have to do the same
for her. Is this one of those times? Does she need to be left alone, or does she
really need to be prodded? God, I don't know!

She looks at me for a beat, then slowly turns on her heel. "I can't," she says,
so softly I wonder for a moment if she's said anything at all. Then she opens
the door, this time the one out into the hallway, and is gone.

Someone has slugged me in the gut. I slowly double over. Dammit, dammit,
dammit . . .



~~~~~~
Scully
~~~~~~

What is wrong with me? I just left my best friend looking like I'd kicked him
in the stomach. He doesn't get it. He just doesn't . . . I need . . . I need
something, and I can't explain what, and to stay there and have him look at
me like he does . . . Does he honestly believe he can fix what's wrong? Is it a
guy thing, thinking there's a solution to every problem?

It isn't his fault. None of it is. It isn't his fault that Missy died in my place, or
that I was abducted, or that my life was changed forever, or that any children
I might have had are gone . . .

Gone.

How can I blame him for any of that? He does such a good job of hating
himself for it already.

I just made it worse. He doesn't understand. I tell him not to profile me like
I'm one of his criminals, yet I give him nothing tangible to go on. What is he
supposed to do?

I should go back in.

I should leave for a while.

I'm blowing hot and cold, and I know it. Jesus, what is wrong with me?

I only get a short distance down the hall before I find myself spinning on my
heel. Skinner's taking the case to the Division Head. There won't be anything
for me to do in the bullpen. Go back in and talk to him. Give him what he
wants, and what you need. Shit, you give him free access to your body. Why
can't you just tell him what's in your heart?

Habit stops me. He'll take it all, some part of me says. He's so needy, so
wound up and hurt and ready to jump at the slightest provocation. He has my
body, I can't let him into my head too . . .

I stand there, torn. I can feel tears welling up again.

I see his eyes in that bathroom mirror, looking right into my soul. No
barriers. The man has no defenses when it comes to me, nothing but that
smart-ass humor, and I've learned to read through that as if it's a wall made
of glass. No secrets. He's bared himself to me time and time again. I bite my
lips when they begin to tremble. Shit, now I'm crying again.

Go back. Talk to him. Let him in.

Resolute, I spin on my heel . . .

. . . a fist in heels, I hear him say . . .

. . . and hurry back to the room. Grab the doorknob, force the key in, give
the door a pop with my shoulder. "Mulder - "

The room's empty. I stand there for a moment, looking around, dazed. How
the hell . . .

Then I see it. The connecting door is standing open. He left through his own
room. Shit, that means he saw me. He stood there in the shadows and waited
until my back was turned.

And ditched me. Again.

Shit.


~~~~~~~
Skinner
~~~~~~~

The meeting with Carlson and Stutzneger went as well as could be expected,
I suppose. Mulder's reputation does precede him, even in New York. Okay,
so no one mentioned little green men. The sneers were there. I don't care
what you think of my profiler, I want to tell the bastards. He's good at what
he does, and if he gets results, I don't care if he believes Santa Claus should
run for president.

Stutzneger thinks it's a waste of time, but Carlson agrees to put two teams
onto it. Four men. I'm supposed to have Mulder and Scully join them, but
damned if I can find him now. I just talked to Scully, but she hasn't seen him
since our meeting. His cell phone just rings. Dammit. If he's run off,
half-cocked like usual, I'm going to kill him. If someone doesn't get to him
first.


~~~~~~
Mulder
~~~~~~

I'm pissed. I shouldn't let it get to me, I know I shouldn't, but it's never that
simple. I switched off my phone. Got tired of the damned ringing. I know I'll
catch hell for it. She hates it when I do that. Tough shit, Dr. Scully. You've
put yourself beyond my reach; I'm just returning the favor.

I've driven down to the campus. I guess I'm hoping to catch a glimpse of
Speasey. Pathetic, I realize, hoping for a chance sighting. Stranger things
have happened. I know. I've been there for some of them.

It's Thursday, I think. I'm not sure; my whole week has been screwed up
since the day we showed up for this little party. The neighborhood where I've
parked is pretty scarcely-populated right now. As I sit there, a car pulls up a
ways down the street. The passenger's eyeballing me. I've never seen either
him or the driver before, but it's blindingly obvious what they're doing there.
I wonder what they'd do if I rolled down the window and waved.

Shit, they do one better. The driver pulls back out into the roadway, draws
slowly up beside me and rolls down his window. Reluctantly I follow suit.
He's a perfect point-man: dull, nondescript features, but eyes that I'm betting
haven't missed anything on a stakeout since the day I took the FBI entrance
exam.

"You Mulder?" he asks.

I crack a seed. "Depends."

He jerks his chin at me. "Your AD's been looking for you. Said he thought
you might be down here. The redhead - is that your partner?"

I don't dare contemplate the different meanings of that question. I look away.
"Name's Scully."

He nods once. "Well, whatever her name is, she's looking for you, too. Said
if we see you, would we please remind you that your phone will work better
if you turn it back on."

I manage to fake a smile. "That a fact."

He jerked his chin again, this time in the direction of the building. "You seen
anything yet?" I shake my head slowly. His nose twitches. "Well, we got it
here. You'd better report in. You're supposed to be on with your partner. AD
Carlson's orders."

I nod a time or two. Sure. Fine. Whatever. Just how I want to spend the
afternoon: locked in a car with someone I'm not speaking with. No, that's not
accurate, is it? How about, locked in a car with someone who won't speak to
me. Yeah, that's closer to it, isn't it?

I swear under my breath as I start the engine, then reach for my cell phone.
It's on the seat beside me - I haven't touched it in an hour. Kind of nice,
sitting here with nothing but my own thoughts for company. No freeze-outs.
No arguments. A silence of my own making.

Reprieve's over, I think to myself as I dial up her number.

She answers on the second ring. "Scully."

Despite my petulance, I can't help but feel a tingle at the sound of her voice.
Shit, she doesn't even have to try to get under my skin. Damn it. Damn this
power she has over me. I force a light tone.

"Hey, I heard through the grapevine you're looking for me."

There's more than a little irritation in her tone, but a fair amount of concern
as well. I should be flattered. I am, too, but I'll be damned if I'll admit it to
her. "Where are you, Mulder? I've been trying to get you for - what time is
it? More than an hour."

I decide not to answer her. "Batman and Robin tell me we're up on stake-out.
You ready to go? I'll be there in thirty."

"You'll have to do better than that, Boy Wonder. We just got a call from the
other team. Speasey's been spotted exiting a bar fifteen blocks from campus.
They don't know if he saw them or if he just got lucky, but they lost him. The
guys in the bullpen have a couple addresses for us. We need to get there
yesterday."

Something stirs in my gut as she speaks - the thrill of the hunt, maybe. Time
to finish the job. She really knows how to piss me off, but when it gets right
down to playing serious ball, no one else
belongs here with me. And I belong with her. The shadow of a smile tugs at
one corner of my mouth, the first of its kind since she opened that shower
door this morning. "I'll be right there."

~~~~~~~~~~

Skinner calls just as I reach the hotel. Scully's evidently been waiting inside
for me, because she hustles out as soon as I'm stopped. A reporter tries to
shove a mike in her face, but it's easily deflected. Oh, the look that man gets.
I've been on the receiving end of those looks myself a few times.

Skinner sounds pissed, but thankfully doesn't go into a lecture on cellphone
protocol just at the moment. He gives me the latest of what we know for
sure about Speasey. One of the other teams has reported a number of places
he's been seen in the past couple days. We're stretched thin, so Skinner
himself is joining in the surveillance. Our assignment, mine and Scully's, is to
loiter outside a seedy-looking storage place and just wait for him to show up.
Evidently Speasey spends a lot of time here. It isn't the most glamorous of
duties, but I can see the reasoning behind it. Plain-face from the college
stake-out is as innocuous as they come; my partner is a vibrant red-head
whose looks do draw attention. And then there's my tendency to get worked
up, maybe take a chance when I shouldn't. Even Scully can't prevent that
sometimes. No, this is where I need to be.

It's an out-of-the-way business in a converted warehouse. From the
nondescript structure to the deserted buildings immediately surrounding it,
I'd say it's the perfect place for a guy to quietly indulge in some peculiar shit.
I'm betting Michael Speasey is planning to do just that. When is the only
thing I'm not sure about.

I can't help but think we're arriving too late for at least one of the victims.
Mark O'Brian, I'm sure, is already dead and probably disposed of
somewhere. Sheila Wentz could still be alive. It's very close to agony,
knowing she might well be in that damned warehouse, and yet without
Speasey there for us to make a direct connection, we can't make a move to
check it out. For once Scully doesn't have to convince me to keep my ass in
the car. I know exactly what's at stake here. One wrong move now on my
part, and a sharp lawyer might find a way to have the case against Speasey
summarily dumped.

But it's hard. It's so damn hard. I keep seeing those hideous images from my
dream. Bright arterial blood and brain matter mingling on a wall. I try not to
shudder. I fail, of course. It must catch her attention, because from the
corner of my eye I see her glance at me. "You okay?"

The question catches me off-guard. "Fine," I reply.

Oh, yeah, that's the other agony. After so many years of so many
investigations, we're old hat at stake-outs. We're partners. We sometimes
don't have to complete our sentences to be understood . . . somehow we just
know how to fill in the blanks.

No, the agony now isn't that we aren't talking, but that we really need to.
She's sitting in her seat, all bundled up in her trench like she's cold. It's early
April. Not exactly balmy, but far from Siberia. I glance at her from time to
time, but through the years she's gotten very good at avoiding eye contact. I
guess I have too.

My non-committal response evidently touches a nerve in her, because she
sighs irritably. "Fine."

"Yeah, fine."

We sit in silence for a few minutes. Our Bureau-issue car has a cheesy clock
set in the dashboard, the kind that emits a mushy-sounding plip! every couple
of seconds. The sound of it is slowly driving me insane. The images return in
a rush. Blood and brains on a wall. I can't help it, I abruptly lean forward and
press my forehead against the steering wheel. I don't remember saying
anything or making any noise, but I must have because I can feel her hands
on my face and wrist. *That's it, Scully - when in doubt, take my vitals.*

A wise impulse restrains me from offering that particular line. I'm sure that in
her present mood, its gentle wryness would be utterly lost. Instead I sit back
and shrug off her hands - *see, Scully, I don't need your concern* - and bang
my thumb in a quick cadence on my right thigh. "Come out, come out,
wherever you are," I murmur.

Did I hear her smile? Does a smile really have its own sound, or is this merely
inane mental drool on my part? The visions abate, leaving me once again
lonely and miserable, locked in a car with someone I absolutely adore but
presently cannot stand to be near. She's settled back on her side of the car,
but I can still feel her touches on my face. It makes my heart ache, knowing
that something is making her miserable too and yet not having the faintest
idea what. Why won't she . . . ? Shit, I'm tired of asking.

Plip! God, I hate that clock. I want to get out and stretch my legs. I need to
pee. I really want a drink of water, but of course we have nothing in the car.

"I'm sorry," she says suddenly. She's not exactly shouting, so I almost miss it.
I look at her in surprise. She's still looking around at the neighborhood.

I know I'm staring at her, but I don't care. She isn't looking at me anyway.
"What?" I ask.

She glances at me quickly, then looks away again. "I'm sorry I walked out
today. I'm sorry I walked away." Her shoulders lift as she sighs deeply. "I'm
not much for discussing small stuff, and that's all this was. I'm sorry if I hurt
you."

Hurt me? It was like a knife through the heart, but I can't tell her that, can I?
"You didn't," I grunt, shrugging once. She looks at me again, and I can see
she's not buying it. I look away, scanning the run-down buildings, hoping to
see our prey staggering out of an alley. She's apologized. Great. I still have
no fucking clue what set all this off in the first place, and that's what really
counts. *She* counts. Her problems, her concerns. Dammit, I wish I didn't
care so much. I can't help it. I love her.

Evidently my response was not one she was after, because she gets this
pinched thing between her brows and we lapse into uncomfortable silence
again.

Plip! It's tempting, but I will not take out my gun and shoot the fucking
clock. I will not.

Evidently she's going to give it another try. *Mark it on the calendar,* I tell
myself wryly - *Dana Scully's actually talking to me.* "Have you ever
wanted something without knowing what it is that you - there."

At her breathy declaration, I feel a jolt of adrenaline. I follow her gaze and
see our boy. He's making his way along the side of the building, having just
appeared from the alley I've been watching. As soon as I see him, I recall our
one and only meeting. Single white male, age 43. Intelligent enough to try
coming off as dumb when faced with a couple of feds. Something about him
just wasn't right, though. He couldn't quite pull it off.

Beside me, I feel Scully tense. Carefully she picks up the handset and
depresses the mike switch, muffling the burst of static in her lap. "This is
team two," she said quietly. "Subject acquired, approaching the Lock Tight
storage complex on Hennessey."

There's a brief pause. "Acknowledged," a voice barks. "I'm on my way."

Skinner. We trade quick looks.

We watch breathlessly as our target finally reaches the locked door and
fumbles for something in his pocket. "The key. Get the key," I hear Scully
murmur under her breath. She's only echoing my own thoughts. If Speasey
has the key to that door, he can't say he hasn't been there before. Yeah, there
they are. He tries a couple before finding the right one. Slides it home, then
flings the door open. Says something as he enters, loud enough that his voice
reaches us. I can't make out his words, but he sounds drunk. This should be
easy. Should be. Hell, how many *should-bes* have Scully and I seen?

Speasey is well out of sight now. There's a second entrance, but it'll be
locked, and we can't take the chance of alerting him. Scully shadows me
along the wall to the still-open door. We can hear his voice ringing out of the
darkness. Our boy is boiled.

Inside, we find a series of long alleys, each sporting dozens of doors. There
are lights suspended from the high ceiling, but they're barely adequate. Lots
of shadows, and no way to tell which of the storage units he's heading for. I
gesture to Scully, who nods and takes one of the first alleys. I take the
second. Is it dangerous to split up? We're armed and sober; with any luck,
our quarry is neither. We take the chance.

He's still singing, but in broken phrases with long silences in between. It's
hard to zero in on him. Shit, there are a lot of alleyways; this warehouse is a
veritable maze. His voice is definitely getting stronger though, and I can hear
other sounds now. More metallic scratchings. A couple clangs. Door
opening. Swinging back into the wall. Scully must hear it, too. It's
comforting, knowing she's somewhere in the dark with me.

Yeah, I'm close now. Maybe in the next alley . . .

I raise my gun and whip around the corner. Shit! No Michael Speasey, but
there is an open door. Bingo! I listen intently, my mouth half-open. Does it
really help with hearing, or is it a wives' tale? I'll have to ask Scully
sometime. Still clinging to the wall, I run on the balls of my feet to the open
door and cautiously peek around the doorframe.

It's a large storage unit. A couple iron beds are chained to the wall, and there
are other implements suspended from the rafters. Pretty obvious what's been
going on here. A little sado-torture. Jesus.

There's a woman sprawled on one of the beds. What I take for a mattress is
actually just a set of springs with a blanket thrown over it. She's unconscious,
and covered with bruises and welts. I crouch at her side, feel for a pulse in
her wrist, then roll back an eyelid. Her eyes move and twitch, and she moans
very softly. Most likely drugged. I pat her arm comfortingly as I push myself
to my feet. "It's all right, Sheila," I murmur, glancing around. The other bed
is empty. No surprise. And no bloodstains. Wherever Mark O'Brian was
killed, it evidently wasn't here.

Blood and brains spattered on a wall. It's happened. Or it's going to happen.
Where's Speasey?

"FBI! Freeze!"

Scully. I turn and race out of the unit. Where is she? The place is an
echo-chamber. I hear shouts and mumbled responses. "Get down! Get down!
Mulder, I have him! Michael Speasey, you are under arrest . . ."

Sounds of scuffling. The report of a handgun. Loud. Close.

I'm crazed. I'm running as fast as I can, but I don't seem to be moving at all.
The doors are a blur as they rush past me. Scully. I can't hear Scully. Who
was shot? If she took Speasey down, wouldn't she call out to me, tell me
she's okay? Shit, what if he shot her? I'll kill him. I'll kill the sick
motherfucker, and then if Scully's dead I'll kill him again. I don't care what
they do to me, I'll kill him and I'll kill him . . .

There! I almost fall because I take the corner too fast. Scully's sprawled
against a wall. She isn't moving. Speasey's standing over her, swaying.
"Pretty bitch," I hear him say. "Pretty dead bitch." He raises his hand, and I
see a pistol in it. Scully's own gun. He's going to kill her with her own
fucking gun.

Blood and brains spattered on a wall. Suddenly it makes sense. I'm not seeing
Mark O'Brian's death.

I'm seeing the death of my partner.

"NO!" I scream. They're too far away, my arm's shaking, I can't make the
shot. I run, run, I have to get there before he fires. "Drop it!"

He turns and fires. I feel a sting in my leg and I go down, but I roll with it
and bounce right back to my feet. Leg's burning and it feels weird, but I keep
going. He's firing again. At his feet, Scully's beginning to move. Not dead.
She's not dead. Fear becomes not the destroyer, but the enabler: my arm is
suddenly rock-steady. I take a bead and barely feel the recoil as I squeeze the
trigger. One shot. Michael Speasey folds over and disappears into the
shadows between the lights. I can see his form. It isn't moving.

I slide to a stop. Scully's still out, but she's moaning. First things first. I kick
her gun away from the bastard's outstretched hand. I'd like nothing more than
to kick him right in the head, but I stop myself. There's a bleeding wound in
his chest. He isn't long for the world. He's dying, and I just don't care.

I drop to my knees beside my partner and carefully brush the hair away from
her face. God, she's pale. My fingers fumble with the big buttons on her
trench, and I cautiously peel it back. There's going to be blood. Lots of
blood. I brace myself for the damage.

Only there is none. Her eyes are twitching, and there's fresh blood around her
nose and mouth, but I can't find any wound. What, was she wearing a vest?
Impatiently I tug her blouse, ripping it open. Sure enough. Smart woman.
But why's she still out? Carefully I feel around her head and neck. No
wounds, but there is an impressive knot on the back of her skull. The bastard
either clipped her with something or he threw her against the wall so hard
that the impact knocked her out. I'm so relieved, I'm weak. Carefully I lay her
out flat. Keep her neck straight. Yeah, she's breathing. She won't die. Not
today. I want to cry. I strip off my own coat and lay it over her, then drop
down beside her. God, I want to hold her, but until she comes around, I don't
dare. Keep her still. She might have hurt her neck. She hasn't been shot. She
hasn't.

I have.

My leg is numb, but it's bleeding like a son of a bitch. I should do something
about that. Too bad I'm not wearing a tie. Shit. Pressure. I look at Scully.
She's still out. I'm feeling faint. No pain, but I must be losing consciousness. I
hold my leg with one hand as I fumble for my phone with the other. Where
the hell is Skinner? How long ago did he say he was on his way? I punch in
his number, hit send, and then collapse on my side. Scully's okay. She's going
to be okay.

Voices. I don't know if they're coming from the phone I suddenly don't have
the strength to hold, or if someone has finally reached this fucking
warehouse. Tired. I'm too tired to keep my eyes open. "Scully," I say, or at
least I try to say. Does she hear? I think I feel her beginning to move against
me, but I'm not sure. It's too hard. Too hard.


~~~~~~~
Skinner
~~~~~~~

I found them. One dead, one just coming around, one out cold and bleeding.
Damn this fucking New York traffic.

I work on my report as I wait for word on Mulder. He's in surgery. The
bullet clipped an artery, naturally. Scully's up in X-ray having a CT done on
her head. Jesus, was she mad when she came to. Mad at herself, mad at
Mulder, mad at me for having the gall and misfortune to see her in such a
state. She wanted to take care of him herself until the ambulances came, but I
wouldn't let her. I did what I could to staunch the bleeding. I'm not an idiot,
and I'm not helpless.

My tie is a total loss.

Her own prognosis is good; it's a concussion, so they want to keep her
overnight. I've already arranged for their room. Hospitals are usually funny
about co-ed accommodations, but I talked them into it. Figured it would be
better to just accept the inevitable than have those two ride right over me and
everyone else. When it comes to single-minded determination, no one does it
like those two.

The news for the O'Brian family isn't good. We found Mark in another
storage unit. Speasey'd been beating him with a chain. He's up in ICU. At
least we got him back alive. Whatever happens from here on out, Mulder's
the only reason that boy's alive.

Congressman O'Brian came to thank me. He's pretty torn up. He's going to
want to speak with Mulder when he's up to it. Maybe by then he'll know
more about his son.

Carlson and Stutzneger didn't have a lot to say when they heard the news.
Some nods. False admiration for the work Mulder put in on this. Stupid
bastards. They know, they just won't admit it. Spooky Mulder did what they
couldn't manage. I think that's commendation enough.

I just want to get them home.



~~~~~
Scully
~~~~~

Mulder wakes up vomiting. I don't know which anaesthetic they used in
surgery, but it did not agree with him. I steady his head as I hold the emesis
basin for him; and when he's brought up all there is to bring up, I take the
pan to the bathroom and flush it all away. I wish I could do that to this whole
past week. Just make it go away. It's been hard on him. There are dark
circles under his eyes that have very little to do with surgery or blood loss. I
wish we were going home.

I wash my hands, then return to his bedside. He looks at me and shakes his
head. "Sorry," he says. His voice is a little rough from being intubated. I
shake my head as I press a damp rag to his face. His eyes close, and he very
subtly leans into my touch. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

What is he talking about? I've been vomited on before. By him, if memory
serves. I keep my voice gentle. "What are you apologizing for now?"

He almost smiles. No, it's more of a strained grimace. "I was angry. I could
have lost you, and the last thing I said was only meant to drive you away. I'm
sorry."

I recall that exchange. Fine, he'd said in his tense, clipped tone. Yeah, fine.
The irony does make me smile, but it's a bitter one. How many times have I
kept him at a distance with those same words? How fitting that they should
come back to haunt me now . . .  I shake my head as I bend and touch my
lips to his temple. He's clammy, and I wonder if he's going to throw up again.
Damned anaesthetic - hasn't he been through enough? I squeeze his hand,
and smile when his fingers curl around mine. "You don't have to apologize,
Mulder," I whisper, stroking his forehead. God, how many times have I seen
him like this, lying in a hospital bed, so hurt and so hurting? My heart aches
as I look at him. He sighs, and when he looks at me, his eyes are fogged. He
feels like shit, I can see it.

I pour a little soda into a cup and help him drink. He accepts my
ministrations with a familiar reluctance. He hates this, I know he does. And
he's a lousy patient. He's going to be a bear when I get him home. He always
is.

I'll put up with it. I always do.

I lean forward to kiss him again, but this time I chance it and touch his lips.
He winces and turns away. "Jeez, Scully - I just puked. You're sweet, but
you don't have to do that."

I can't help but smile. "Shut up, Mulder."

He doesn't, of course. Has he ever? There was that one time a few years back
-

"Your turn," he says. I realize at once what he means, but I'm not going to
make it easy on him. That isn't how we work. He shakes his head slowly
when I feign confusion. "C'mon, you know. What was bothering you? Scully,
you gotta let me in. I . . . Jesus, you drive me crazy sometimes." He looks at
me a little closer. "You said something in the car. Something about wanting
without realizing it." His brows furrow a little as he studies me.

I don't say the words, but neither do I do look away. Will he see it in my
eyes?

He blinks a time or two, and then his gaze drops to my middle. He can't see
it, of course; the bed does a fair job of obscuring most of me, and I am
wearing a shapeless hospital gown, just as he is. Then his eyes flick back up
to mine, and I see the realization in them. He grimaces again.

I lay my hand over his mouth to prevent another string of heartfelt apologies.
"Stop. Don't say it. You have some peculiar notions, Mulder, but that one
has to take the cake. Nothing about this is your fault. What happened
happened. I told you, sometimes it really bothers me. Yesterday was one of
those times. Yeah, I think about having a child from time to time, but . . ."

A smile quirks the corner of his mouth. "How can anyone have a child from
time to time?" I smile at his jibe. He tips his head to the side and looks up at
me through his lashes. "I suppose we can find a rent-a-kid, maybe take it to
the park on Sundays, pay too much for braces and piano lessons . . ."

"I don't need a rent-a-kid," I retort gently. "I have you. You want piano
lessons, pay for them yourself."

He nods, and his smile broadens just a little. "Poor Scully."

I shrug. "Not everyone gets to work with Peter Pan, you know."

He's silent for a while. The smile lines fade from around his eyes. "I wish I
could."

I have no idea what he means by that. I give his hand a squeeze as I stroke
his forehead and play with his hair. "You wish you could what? Fly back to
Never-never land? Wear green tights?"

His eyes fall shut. "Give you a kid." He draws my hand up to his face and
presses a wet kiss on my knuckles. "We keep going through the motions, but
there must be something we're not doing right. Guess we're gonna have to
keep practicing, huh?" His voice is fading. So is he, for that matter. Good -
he needs to sleep. The anaesthetic hasn't worn off yet.

When I think he's asleep I try to pull my hand away, but he doesn't let me go.
"'Course," he adds, and I see the corner of his mouth twitch a little, "we
could always ask the Gunmen for an assist . . . "

I slowly sink into the chair beside the bed, the one I've spent the better part
of the night in. I want nothing more than to go back to my own
uncomfortable bed, but it's too far away- it's all the way over there by the
window. I don't want to leave him alone, not even that little bit. After a few
minutes his fingers go lax around mine. I carefully pull away and sit back in
the chair. His breathing levels out. Yeah, he's out.

I pray he feels better when he wakes up.

I pray the circles disappear from his eyes.

I pray he puts this week behind him. Behind us.

Ask the Gunmen, I muse. And I smile.

Over my dead body.


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River Finale - A Family Affair
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: Nothing screamingly obvious. Slight nod to Follie A
Deux.
RATING: At times, NC-17. Very NC-17.
CLASSIFICATION: RST, DAL; MSR. Plot? <Who said anything about
plot?>
SUMMARY: Last case is a wrap; now for some quality time. After Scully
attends a little family thing, that is. Oh, and then there's Brother Bill, who is
not one of Mulder's biggest fans. Ever wonder how such a tall man can let so
many things over his head?

~~~~~~~~~~

Another week was drawing to a close.

And his leg was finally healed. That was a good thing, because for the past
month, Scully had evidently been determined to drive him out of his mind
with inactivity. Elevator instead of stairs, even after the crutches were
deemed unnecessary. No jogging. Absolutely no basketball. Light casework
how she pulled that off with Skinner, he could only guess.

And no sex. That was the hardest.

If he hadn't been crazy about her to begin with, he'd have killed her weeks
ago.

And that wasn't all. She'd been . . . . different somehow. Distant. He had to
admit, it was unnerving.

It all began the Friday after his release from the hospital. She stopped by
after work to change his dressing, as she did every morning and every
evening. She had take-out and a rental movie, as she always did; and like
always, she said she wouldn't be staying long. Didn't want to tax his strength.
His first couple of days out of the hospital, that was just fine with him;
between the throbbing in his leg and the medication he took to deal with it,
he *was* half out of his mind. But that night he pressed her to stay for a
while. Pressed? Begged. Just for a movie and a little companionship. He got
lonely sitting around the apartment, had nothing to do save for watching TV
or occasionally struggling from room to room on those damned crutches. His
leg was better; he'd taken a long nap that afternoon, and she already knew he
had no fever. She smiled as she gave in to his appeal, and he was thrilled
when she took her place beside him on the couch. His fingers itched to touch
her, of course, and it wasn't very long before his arm, draped in casual
affection around her shoulders, began to draw her closer. Just a little. His
hand, which at first dangled off the point of her shoulder, began a slow up
and down exploration of her arm. Her only response was to sigh and nestle
deeper into his side. Oooh, he liked that. Shifting his arm around her was a
natural reaction, wasn't it? Mmm, that brought the backs of his fingers right
up alongside her left breast. That, in turn, started a faint but very perceptible
buzzing down in his crotch. That led to the next natural step: he nuzzled his
face into her hair and slowly, thoroughly, fed his senses. Her smell. The
burnished copper of her hair, muted in the light from the TV. The warm
smoothness of her skin. When she didn't rebuke him, he pressed onward. A
finger under her chin brought her face up and around, and he sighed as her
mouth, curved in a soft pout, touched his. It really was all he could do not to
groan aloud. <A taste>, he thought, his mind suddenly and thoroughly gone
to fuzz. <Just a taste. God, if she stops me, I swear I'm gonna start crying.>

She didn't stop him. He kissed her gently three, four times, before he dared
ask for more. Her hesitation was brief, little more than a token, and his heart
began to pound when her lips opened, accepting him. God, he was in heaven.
Her tongue was warm silk as it sparred gently with his. He heard his own
soft groan. Well, that was okay. Expected, even, in a slow-motion
tongue-joust. He felt her hand crawl up his arm and bury itself in his hair. Ah,
that was more like it. *Much* better when she helped. Kisses deepened,
breathing quickened, and that buzz in his crotch was rapidly giving way to a
full-out throbbing. Good thing he was wearing sweats; the material had
enough give that he wouldn't have to start squirming. Not yet, at least. The
good doctor would say it wasn't wise, he was sure, but if he could just find
the right approach, maybe he could cater both to his hormones, which were
screaming for sex, and his leg, which with the abrupt increase in his blood
pressure was already beginning to ache. Dammit, he should have taken that
damn pill an hour ago . . . .

Why wasn't she stopping him? Surely she could feel what she was doing to
him. Hell, it was practically jabbing her in the side! He fought with his
sluggish thoughts, desperately seeking a plan to go along with these caveman
urges. Couldn't have her on his lap, not with the week-old gunshot wound to
his thigh. Ugh, couldn't be on top; *way* too much strain. Spooning? Yeah,
yeah, his testosterone-saturated braincells fairly screamed. Decision made:
proceed with all haste. Ignore the messages from his leg, which was now
throbbing in deadly earnest. He caught her face in his hands, his mouth no
longer gentle. He was hungry, and she knew it. He could tell from her
reaction that she was too, and his heart sang. Just a little encouragement and
she'd . . . . and they'd . . . .

Shit! An explosion of blinding pain tore at him and all but shut him down.
He'd moved wrong or something, and those delicious caveman impulses
evaporated with stunning speed, replaced by an overwhelming urge to vomit.
His heart was beating, but that was only because he didn't have to give any
thought to it; everything else stopped. *Everything*. For a moment, pain was
all he was aware of. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he felt himself slump
away from her as he grimaced in agony. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. . . ."

Awareness started to slide away, then slowly returned. He could feel her
hands on him, touching his face, his throat, tenderly rolling back an eyelid.
That was too much; he swatted the hand away impatiently. Goddamn doctors
always poking and prodding, don't know what's wrong so they go around
peeling at your eyelids and driving you crazy . . .

She was bending over him. That could only mean one thing: he was flat on
his back. Oh, very smooth, Romeo. Beautiful. Sweep the lady off her feet
and then pass out. Goddamn dickhead. He pressed his thumbs into his closed
eyes. "Ugh, I'm sorry," he groaned, trying to shove himself upright. She
restrained him with a hand on his shoulder, and it was embarrassingly easy to
just go along with her.

"Lie still," she murmured, tugging on the waistband of his sweats. He started
to protest, but she silenced him with a hard look. "Come on, hips up. I want
to check the sutures. Damn stupid of us, pushing so soon." She shook her
head as she teased down his pants, studiously ignoring the rapidly-deflating
bulge his boxers couldn't camouflage, and carefully removed the bandages.
"I'm sorry, Mulder. I should have known a simple hug would be too much
for you to handle. How is it now?"

He didn't have to look at her to know what expression she'd be wearing: the
lover was gone and the doctor had taken her place just as smoothly as inhale
becomes exhale. Her eyes wouldn't be cold exactly, but the heat he'd seen in
them just a moment ago would definitely be tempered with other things. He
ground mental glass into his wounded pride. Shit. Blown it big time. She
wouldn't risk it again, even something as simple as sitting and watching TV
with him; it'd probably be a week before she'd touch anything but his
forehead. Oh, and that goddamned bandage. Fuck.

And so it went.

From that night, she held herself a little apart. Not once did she initiate a kiss,
and acknowledged his own attempts with marked hesitation. Intellectually,
he knew what the problem was: he'd overextended himself, and she felt
responsible. That was okay for the first few days. Two weeks? Two weeks of
mending, of fuming in silence, of straining under her sanctions against
physical activity. Release came not in the form he so greatly anticipated, but
in a note from the surgeon in DC who had been assigned his case: the wound
was sufficiently healed to allow him to return to work. Chasing of suspects
was to be avoided for another month, but there was no reason he couldn't
resume the bulk of his investigatory duties.

With one door opening, the one he really cared about was, in effect, slammed
in his face. Cases had been piling up on his desk since they'd left for New
York. There was work to do. Work meant traveling. No involvement while
on a case; that was Unshakable Rule Number One.

Would they ever get back on track?

Anxieties left in a vacuum tend to feed upon themselves, and he knew that
when it came to obsessing, no one did it better than him. This particular
situation was certainly no exception. As days of work wore on with no sign
of interest from his stoic partner, fear began to grate like sandpaper. Shit, she
*had* to be as frustrated as he was. She'd enjoyed their physical relationship
at *least* as much as he had. Where had that interest gone? Before long, the
*what ifs* of the situation began to haunt him. What if she wasn't just feeling
guilty for him being hurt? What if she was having doubts? What if in the
intervening weeks since he was injured, she had decided that such an intense
relationship was simply not something she wanted?

What if she didn't love him?

No, he told himself firmly, it can't be that. True, she's never come right out
and said the words, but he never really expected her to. It had to be that she
didn't want to run the risk of hurting him. After all, he *had* been shot.
Again. And now the workload simply gave them no time. When they weren't
out on a case, they were either wrapping one up or preparing for the next.
But she never discussed it with him hell, did she *ever* discuss anything
personal without some crisis or other being involved? and so he was left to
guess. Wonder. Obsess.

No one did it better.

In the end, his fears were allayed with a kiss. A single kiss, shared only
moments before they left for the airport. A case in Ohio. God only knew how
long they'd be gone.

He wasn't in the best of moods when it happened. He was flipping through
the file, making a few mental notes, when he heard a quiet footfall in the
open doorway. She was watching him, of course. She'd taken off her jacket,
and the sleeves of her stark white blouse were rolled partway up her arms.
He could see the faint lines of blood vessels just below the skin at the curve
of her elbow. God, he was so aware of her these days, it could get
embarrassing *really* fast. He forced himself to look away. She closed the
door behind her and approached slowly, her expression pensive.

"Where to?" she asked.

He grunted softly as he shoved the file into his briefcase. "Haunting in Ohio.
Little place called Barrettsville."

Her lips twitched. "Really. You going alone?"

The question didn't do anything to assuage his anxieties. God, if she didn't
tell him what was going on behind those eyes, he was going to scream. Or
cry. His glance was sharp. "I will if you don't want to go."

She nodded quickly. "Oh, I'm going. If it's okay with you."

He grunted again as he turned back to his stuffing. She moved a little closer.
It was easier to hide behind a gruff exterior than explore his own insecurities,
especially where they concerned her. Besides, to dwell on them would result
in him either turning and devouring her whole, or saying something so
immature and downright pissy that she'd be hurt and angered, and then the
issue would never be resolved. He clenched his teeth and crammed another
file into the case.

"Wait," she said quietly, catching his wrist. He shuddered helplessly at the
contact. If she felt it, she gave no sign. "You're getting a little carried away,
aren't you? How many cases are you planning to investigate while we're
there?"

With an effort he pulled his hand away, relinquishing the file and falling back
a step. "You're right. I don't know what I was thinking." God, it was too
damn tempting to reach out and touch her, to stroke the fiery hair back so he
could see her face, whole. From there it would be only natural to bend a little
and touch his lips to the pale cheek, there by the corner of her mouth. He
forced himself to take another step back, to lean on the edge of the desk and
fold his arms. His gaze fell to his shoes. It always came down to her. If she
*had* changed her mind, she wouldn't appreciate any sort of seduction,
especially there in the office . . .

She finished with the files, then stepped a little closer. God, she was already
so close he could smell her. Pain lanced through his chest, and he couldn't
help but close his eyes against it. <It can't be that. It can't be that she's
changed her mind.>

Hands settled on his arms and whispered up his shoulders. He heard himself
gasp. The kiss was almost unbearable. Soft and unobtrusive. Melting and
sweet. It took a few seconds for his mind to register the event, to realize just
what was happening. With a soft groan, he caught his arms around her. Her
hands were on his face, framing him in her flesh, turning him, guiding him.
Caressing him.

Pulling away was the hardest thing he'd done in . . . he couldn't remember.
They had to breathe, after all.

For a moment they said nothing, merely stared at each other. A sheen of
moisture gleamed on her full lips that was from him. A faint smile drew at the
corner of her eyes, one that he knew was mirrored in his own. "I didn't think
you liked me any more," he blurted, his voice little more than a hoarse
whisper.

Her smile changed then, became tempered with something like sadness. The
pads of her thumbs made small, rhythmic circles over his cheekbones. "Why
would you think that?" she murmured.

He closed his eyes and pressed himself into her touch. <Don't whine,> he
told himself. "I've missed you," he breathed.

Another little circle with her thumbs. "I've been there every day. You've seen
me a lot since we got home."

He gave his head a shake. "Not the same."

She chuckled then, and he felt the softness of her lips on his closed eyelids,
one and then the other. "I can't believe you sometimes," she said. "Mulder,
your insecurity is charming, but it's also a little out of control. Just because
we're not doing the wild thing does not mean I'm calling an end to . . . us."
He looked at her. Her eyes were shining, but he heard that tone in her voice
that said she was deadly serious. "I let myself get carried away, Mulder, and
in doing so, I let you get hurt. I couldn't let that happen again." Her eyes
narrowed then, and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I know
how you work. I didn't see much good coming from you straining those
muscles and tearing the sutures loose. It was wiser just to leave you alone.
Believe me, you weren't the only one taking those long, cold showers."

He smiled, chagrined. She was right she did know him. "All right, so we
couldn't indulge in any gymnastics. You coulda said something."

Her lips quirked again. "Like what?"

He shrugged as he regarded her lower lip. "Like you still liked me. Like you
wanted me, too."

Her hand stroked his face gently. "Poor Mulder. I just keep letting you
down, don't I?" She brushed a kiss over the dark spot on his cheek, then
gently drew herself away from him and moved back to the door. He silently
commended himself for not groaning aloud in despair. She paused and
looked back at him. "How about I make it up to you? After we're back from
Ohio. Deal?"

His smile was genuine. "Deal."

~~~~~~~~~~

First there was the case, which fortunately only lasted a couple days. And
then the debriefing with Skinner. It would not be the worst of its kind the
case hadn't been solved so much as it fell apart around them. At least they
couldn't be blamed this time. The reported haunting, supposedly
substantiated by a dozen eye-witnesses, turned out instead to be a less than
amusing prank pulled by a pub full of locals celebrating some obscure local
holiday. Back to Washington, empty-handed and, in Mulder's case, a little
hung over. Scully, the quintessential Irish lass, touched not a drop of that fine
whiskey.

The door between their rooms had remained open, but not once had he
crossed the threshold uninvited, and never did he stay for very long. He had
to prove himself to her. He could do this. He could work with her and not be
directed by his dick.

Well, not completely. She didn't have to know about his dreams, did she?

At last they were back. It was Friday afternoon, and there was a lull in their
caseload. Unless something came up at the last minute, the weekend
promised to be free.

Mulder sat motionless throughout the meeting with Skinner, his face
carefully set, his hands folded in his lap. This one last obstacle was all that
remained between him and . . . whatever the next few days had to offer.
Down time with his partner, please God. His apartment, her apartment, the
bathroom at the Air and Space, the last car on the Metro Blue Line it didn't
really matter to him.

Beside him, Scully likewise sat unmoving, her hands laced primly in her lap,
her expression one of serene composure. <Bullshit, girlfriend,> he thought to
himself as he clasped his hands a little more tightly. <It's been a long time for
you, too. I can't be the only one feeling this.>

By some act of God, the meeting did not last all afternoon. Skinner wasn't
thrilled that they'd wasted manhours and Bureau resources chasing down a
practical joke, but he didn't take it out on them. When he released them with
a peremptory nod, they rose and fled as quickly as decorum would permit.

They made their way back down the congested hallway to the bank of
elevators. As usual, the building was clearing out in anticipation of the
weekend, and the resulting exodus more or less forced her up against him in
the crowded car. He did his best to maintain a non-committal expression. His
gaze dropped from the mass of faces in the dull chrome doors to the
shirtfront that was all but pressed into his left elbow. He wasn't staring. So
what that she had those three buttons undone in so cavalier a fashion. So
what that the ones that *were* done up were positively straining against . . .
shit, he *was* staring, and what was worse, he could feel himself getting
hard. Surrounded by federal deadheads and unable to so much as . . . <shit,
distract yourself. Say something. Anything.>

"Have any plans for the weekend, Scully?" he asked innocently.

She looked at him. Her own work-time mask was in place, but he thought he
saw something feverish in the blue eyes, in the way she absently drew her
lower lip into her mouth. No one around them would guess what they were
really thinking. <All right, Mulder, whose place is closer, yours or mine?
Tick tick, Scully. Pants are getting tight.>

She raised her chin as she glanced around at the dozen or so bored faces
squeezed into the elevator with them. "Have that family thing to go to
tonight," she replied. "Nothing beyond that. You?"

A frown immediately settled between his brows. "Family thing?" he echoed.
Ooh, was that a whine? Judging from the warning that flickered in her eyes,
he figured it was. Had anyone else noticed it?

He glanced around again. No, it didn't appear that anyone was listening to
them. Then again, appearances never did count for much. They'd both heard
about the pool going on down in Recruiting. No need to feed the rumor mill.
He bent a little closer, and she carefully licked her dry lips. "Yeah, the
wedding. My second cousin, remember? I told you about it Wednesday."

He nodded, unable despite his best efforts to conceal his disappointment.
<Family thing. Yeah, I remember her mentioning it. Must mean the brothers
will be there. Not just the brothers, but Bill. The man who hates me. The
man who blames me for screwing up his baby sister's life. Figures. Our first
chance to be alone in I can't remember how long, and Big Brother shows up
with his disapproving glower and holier-than-thou attitude, and stomps any
chance we might have for intimacy into the dust.>

Nothing more was said for a while. The car stopped at the lobby, the doors
wheezed open, and the crowd around them lurched forward and out.
Happily, no one had need of a car that was destined for the basement; the
two of them continued on alone.

To touch her was a temptation, but he restrained himself. What if he couldn't
stop once he started? No sex at work: that was Unshakable Rule Number
Two. Carefully he balled his fists and shoved them in his jacket pockets.
"Second cousin?" he repeated, his tone soft. Thank God they were alone
now; at least he could look at her with unveiled emotion. "A second cousin
gets you before I do? Is that fair? I thought we had a deal."

The car lurched to a stop, and he allowed himself a little smile as she exited
before him. That brought her so close, her hair practically brushed his nose.
Mmm, the smell of her was enough to make his mouth water. His hands
ached to touch her, to caress the smooth skin over her shoulders, the snowy
white flesh of her breasts. Wait, what was she saying? Something about the
Hilton downtown? Oh yeah, the wedding. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I promised
Mom I'd be there if we got back in time."

He reached around her and unlocked the office door, then gave it a shove
and held it for her. She was so close, he could feel the heat coming off her
body. Damn her cousin anyway! Maybe he could convince her to pass on it,
to stay and let him . . . No, he couldn't do that to her or her family. She rarely
had the opportunity to spend any time with them these days. Better a
wedding than a funeral. Besides, it wouldn't last forever. A couple hours. An
evening. He could do an evening. True, he'd be alone, probably sacked out
on his couch, watching time . . . well, not exactly fly by. He could do it. He'd
done it before.

He gave her shoulder a squeeze as he brushed past her. "Want me to drive
you?" he asked, his tone carefully passive.

She glanced at her watch. He followed suit. It was just after three. They
usually didn't leave before five on a Friday, but hell everyone else was already
gone, and she *did* have a date. Sort of. Couldn't they treat themselves just
this once? He watched her closely, trying to guess what she was thinking.
She wouldn't have time for him now. Probably lots to do before the wedding.
Pick out a dress . . . wait, didn't women do that weeks or months in advance?
Some weird color to match an equally weird theme? Okay then, put the damn
thing on, do the hair, touch up the makeup . . . yeah, like she needed any. He
felt a flutter in his chest as he stared at her. God, she was beautiful. The
laser-blue eyes, and those lips . . . oh, the fantasies he'd had lately about
those lips! About the way they tasted, the way they opened when he did that
thing with his . . .

He clenched his teeth until they actually creaked. No way, mister. <Keep up
that line of thought and the guy downstairs really is gonna stand up and
salute.> He picked up a file and pretended to scan it.

"Sure."

He looked up at her, unable to hide his surprise. "Huh I mean, really?"

She shrugged, nodding. "Sure, why not? You'd be saving me time, if nothing
else. You don't mind, do you?"

He dropped the file as if it was suddenly too hot to handle. "No, of course
not. My pleasure."

*My pleasure.* God, what an imbecilic thing to say! Why did his IQ drop
seventy points at times like this? All those years at Oxford, and still she could
reduce him to asinine cliches. He grunted softly as she stooped to retrieve her
purse from the bottom desk drawer. Her movements caused her shirt to
strain over her breasts even more. He bit back a moan as he looked away.
<Ooh, don't do that again. Not until we're alone someplace that I can just . .
.>

<Hold that thought, buddy. You're not home yet. Lots can happen to blow
this little tryst out of the water. She has plans. She has a life. She doesn't just
wait around for you to >

A hand touched his then, slid up his arm to cup itself around his neck, and he
found himself being drawn down into her kiss. Did he actually groan into her
mouth? Fleeting thoughts bounced around in his head as that buzz started up
somewhere in the vicinity of his pelvis. God, the taste of her. Warm and
sweet and . . .

She did a number to his lower lip, drawing it into her mouth and worrying it
with her teeth; but before he could rally enough brainpower to react and
maybe do a little exploring on his own, she pulled back and looked at him.
Blue ice. Oo, *hot* ice. How could she do that? Blood was absolutely
thundering in his ears ..... What was she saying? Did it require a response
from him? Could he muster enough intelligence to string the words together
in the right order?

"Get a move on, Mulder. I have to be there at six."

Christ, the drive took forever. Her hand on his leg didn't help matters. Slowly
it played down the length of his thigh, hovered over his knee for a while, the
fingers dancing with his patella, then began its way back up to . . . whoa! He
did his best to glower at her as he trapped her hand beneath his, stopping its
progress toward his crotch. Unfair. Totally unfair. She was driving him half
out of his mind, and yet there she sat, wearing that same innocent, serene
expression. Bullshit. "Scully?"

She looked at him, startled by the strength in his tone. Okay, so maybe it had
come out a little loud. "Yes?"

"You ever do it in midtown traffic?"

Ooh, that little flush that rose in her cheeks was lovely. Her fingers curled
under his, but he did not relinquish them. "No, of course not."

He lifted her hand from his leg oh, the strength that took! and set it on the
seat between them. "Well, you're going to if you keep that up."

Her fingers curled through his. He sighed deeply, trying to distance himself
from the pleasure of even this contact. How was he going to handle this?
Normally when they made love he could make it last a while, enough to
gratify her at least once before he lost it completely, but he could already tell
it was going to be a problem this time. Too long, it had just been too long,
and now her hormones were combining with his and staging a coup, one that
his dick would be more than happy to follow, and. . .

This could get embarrassing.

Now what was she doing? Something with her finger right in the center of
his palm, circling and then probing just a little with the tip of her nail . . .
How the hell could she make such an oblique gesture so fucking erotic? He
swallowed hard as the buzzing in his crotch increased tenfold. <God, not
here, not here, please not until I get my damn pants off, at least . . .>

He was in agony by the time they reached her building. Standing up proved
to be one of the more difficult maneuvers of the day, but he accomplished it.
<That's it, G-man, button your coat over that tent in your pants. Close the
door, don't forget to breathe, God she's looking at me again, she wants me to
take her hand . . . take her hand . . . take her . . . take her, make her moan
out loud . . . God, not out here, you idiot, wait until you get her inside . . .
get her inside . . . get inside her . . .>

He shook himself as he reached for her hand. He was an adult. He also
happened to be well and truly caught in her spell, but he could at least hold it
together enough to reach the sanctuary of her apartment. He could do this.
Except that she was doing that thing with his hand again . . .

Good intentions were damned as soon as the foyer door closed behind them.
Who moved first? He couldn't tell. Arms tangled, lips met in a rush, tongues
groped and twined . . . how were they going to get up to her apartment?

Forget the elevator; there were just too many ways to get into trouble there.
Somehow they made it up the stairs without tripping each other. He turned
away from her long enough to fumble for his keys she obviously wasn't going
to waste time digging hers out of her purse but her mouth on his neck made
it difficult to concentrate on anything so mundane as a little brass key. He bit
his lips hard, unable to restrain a loud groan as she worked on that tendon in
his throat, the one that she knew was wired straight into his balls. <God, not
yet . . . not yet!> He almost sobbed with relief when the deadbolt finally went
*click!*

Shrug the door open. Peel her away from him, fling her inside, and slam the
door behind them. Set the fucking bolt and chains no repeat performances of
anyone walking in on them, please. His heart just couldn't take another
episode like that . . .

She righted herself against the couch, eying him intently as he shouldered off
his jacket. They'd managed to unbutton her shirt in their hallway gropings,
and her breasts were all but falling out of her bra. Slowly she stepped close
to him, and he braced himself for another direct assault. Her hand rose and
latched onto his tie. Turning on her heel, she dragged him after her like a dog
on a leash, down the hall to the bedroom. The next few minutes were a blur.
He found himself sprawled across her bed, his shirt open, his pants and
boxers abandoned on the floor. Jesus God, she didn't waste any time, did
she? Her skirt was off, her slip hiked up, and those little things she wore for
underwear . . . where did they get to? He gasped as she impaled herself on
him, burying him to the hilt in what felt like a hot, tight fist. Ah Christ, the
smell of her alone was enough to make him come. Up she went again,
emptying herself of him until he wanted to sob; then she slammed herself
back down again, and he felt her strain and quiver around him. Then she was
grinding on him for all she was worth, and man, was she worth a lot just at
that moment. He propped himself up on his elbows and she leaned forward,
meeting him halfway in a fevered kiss. He wanted to touch her face so badly
it was a physical ache, but his arms were occupied with holding him up. It
was a strain just to make sense of what she was saying, he couldn't possibly
organize his own response. "So long, I've be waiting so long, oh God,
Mulder . . . " She tugged at his hand, knocking him on his back again, and
slid it with hers up her smooth, white belly to her breasts. Her nipples were
already hard, but he rolled one between his thumb and forefinger anyway,
and after a minute her head fell back and a sound . . . *that* sound . . . rose
up out of her like distant thunder. It was low and soft, and between that and
her sweet, stricken expression, it was all it took, he was losing it too. He
couldn't seem to get the right angle, and he only had one hand to help guide
her hips, and his thrusts felt awkward and ill-timed, but it was enough it was
enough, she was coming, and he was too . . .

. . . oblivion . . .

He slumped beneath her, his breath coming in rasping pants. She looked at
him, her eyes dazed and glassy. "What was that?" she breathed.

He almost laughed. Hell, he *would* have laughed if he'd had the breath for
it. "You have to ask? Has it been *that* long?" He reached for her, intending
to whip her under him and make a real lesson of it. He was certainly still up
to it; or at least he would be in about twenty seconds. "Come here, let me
explain it to you again - "

She caught his hand and looked around anxiously. "Shit, I think that was the
doorbell." She pushed herself off him and staggered to her feet. He gasped
out a protest at the sudden chill. His erection, sated but far from slack,
slapped into his belly with an ignoble *whap!*

Scully yanked her skirt back on and smoothed it over her hips. "Stay here,"
she whispered, buttoning her shirt with unsteady fingers. "Whoever it is, I'll
get rid of them."

He pushed himself up and sat back against the headboard. "Hey, put your
jacket on before you answer the door. Not polite to stare."

She looked down at her erect nipples, then nodded briskly. "Good idea." She
paused at the door and looked back at him. What he saw in her eyes just
about made his breath stop in his chest. Lust. Love. Unquenched hunger. He
was an idiot for ever doubting her. "The things I do for you, buster."

With that, she was gone.

He clambered to his feet. Thank God she kept a box of tissue on hand --
post-coital housekeeping was something of a must. For a moment he
considered throwing back the bedspread and waiting for her between the
sheets, but he stopped himself and smiled as he retrieved his slacks and put
them on. <You've had your quicky,> he told himself. <Don't assume you're
going to spend the rest of the afternoon in the sack. Would that we could. He
could hear voices out in the living room, but they were muted and indistinct.
Must have been the doorbell after all. Well, what's a boy to do? >

He turned on a heel and surveyed her bedroom. Funny how little time he
actually spent there; their nights together so far had been spent at his
apartment. Man, she must really like houseplants. There was a little bonsai
tree on her nightstand, and a fern of some sort on the corner of her dresser.
Half hidden by the furled leaves was a collection of small glass bottles, each
topped with those little pump nozzles. He smiled as he picked one up and
gave it a cautious sniff. Ah, he recognized that scent. She wouldn't mind if he
sample it, would she? Just a little; just enough to dampen a spot on the back
of his hand, give him something to remind him of her tonight . . .

He pressed the little nozzle. Nothing happened. He frowned as he pressed it
again. Still nothing. "Must be plugged," he murmured, trying it a final time . .
.

. . . and unleashing a stream of fragrant white fluid all over the front of his
pants.

He swore as he turned to look at himself in the mirror behind the door. Ah
shit . . . Oh yeah, that looked cool. He found himself smirking. He could go
out like this. Whoever it was at the door was in for a rude awakening.

Then again, maybe he should strip everything off and mosey back out to the
living room wearing nothing but socks and a smile, give some dippy neighbor
a bit of a thrill. Mmm, the thought was definitely appealing. Smiling, he
carefully opened the door and pressed his ear to the crack. Yeah, he could
hear them now. Funny, it didn't sound like any neighbor. In fact it sounded a
lot like

"Mom, don't worry about that right now. Just slide everything to the back.
There's plenty of room for that stuff."

He shut the door quickly. Oh, fuck! He smiled again despite himself. Okay,
that thing with the socks was definitely out.

He heard footsteps in the hall and stepped aside just as the bedroom door
burst open. She brushed past him and quickly stripped off her jacket.
"Dammit! Mom and Bill are here. When I talked to her this afternoon, she
didn't say anything about going to this thing together!"

A jolt shot through Mulder's gut, and his smile immediately faded. "Please be
joking. Your brother is here? The one who hates me, who wishes I'd never
been born? Scully, tell me he doesn't know about us. Tell me I'm not going to
have a brawl with a professional soldier just because I'm sleeping with his
sister."

She glanced at him impatiently. "Get a grip, Mulder. Of course he doesn't
know. Jesus, he was middleweight boxing champ three years running. If he
knew, you'd be dead already." She bit her lips as her thoughts raced. "Okay,
here's what we're gonna do. Get yourself pulled together and go say hi. Play
friendly, then get out. Go home. I have to do this, but then when it's over - "

"No can do, Scully," he said, cutting her off. She followed his gesture to his
fly, and her eyes widened minutely. "Got a little problem here. I go out
looking like this and, right or wrong, they're gonna figure something out, and
then he'll hate me even more for arresting him for assaulting a federal
officer."

She peered a little closer at his crotch. "What have you gotten into, Mulder?"

He gestured to the bottles hidden in the foliage on her dresser. "That white
stuff. Hey, I just wanted a little. I didn't realize it only came by the gallon."

She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. "You know that's going to stain like crazy,
Mulder. It isn't lotion, it's a heavy moisturizer. Like crank case oil for the
face."

He grimaced. "I'll be sure to explain that to my dry-cleaners."

Her eyes sagged closed and she sighed. "You have your suitcase in the car,
don't you?"

He grunted. "We took a cab from the airport, remember? Suitcases never
made it out of the office. Want to tell me again what a bad idea it would be
for me to leave a change of clothes here?" Her eyes opened again, and she
leveled an icy look at him. He grinned. "I think there's a gym bag in the
trunk. I might have some spare jeans in there. Or I suppose I could just climb
out this three-story window . . . "

She brushed past him again. "Oh, shut up and stay here. I'll be right back."

He ducked behind the door and studiously locked it behind her. Seconds
dragged out into years. He heard Maggie asking questions, and then the
baritone of the man himself. Great. He was no coward, but he *really* didn't
like the thought of actually having to speak to the thick-necked bastard.
Mentally he ran through some polite, nondescript dialogue. <Hi, Mrs. Scully.
Hi, Dickhead. No! Hi, Lieutenant Scully. Better. Hi, Bill? God, no way. No,
I'm not staying. Just had a little incident in the bedroom Shit, what am I
thinking! Had a little accident in the car. Your sister poured hot coffee over
my crotch and . . . urghhh! Um, got some motor oil yeah, that works. Got
some motor oil on my pants and came here to change. Yeah, I could have
worn them home, but you know what a neatnick Scully is, she thought I
should change here . . . >

A decade or so later he heard her voice in the hall, then a sharp rap on the
door. "Mulder, it's me. Let me in!"

He unlocked it. She passed him the gym bag, then turned to set the lock
again. Her eyes dropped to his fly. "Yeah, that looks very . . . hell, they'd
have to be blind to miss that. Well, take ?em off. You've got jeans and
running shoes in here. Change and get out. I have to get dressed, too."

Okay, this was better. His shirt was a little dressy for the runners and jeans,
but the only other option was the battered tank top that never seemed to
make it into the laundry. He hesitated at the door. He wanted to kiss her and
tell her that the insanity of the moment wouldn't last, that sooner or later
they'd be able to savor that post-coital glow which had eluded them this time;
but the impatience in her eyes told him not to push his luck. Bullshit, he
thought to himself. Live dangerously. He caught her arm as she tried to brush
past him to the closet. The impatience flared into something that promised to
be far more violent, but he ignored it. He didn't care if she eviscerated him
right now; he wasn't leaving her like this. At first she resisted him, tried to
pull away when he captured her mouth with his. Her struggles didn't last
long, and he felt that stir in his groin when her mouth opened under his.
Mmm, better.

It was over far too soon. He drew away slowly, smiling at the flush he saw in
her cheeks. The anger had disappeared from her eyes. He gestured to the
door with a jerk of his head. "Don't let the bastard get to you," he murmured.
"I'm in your life and I'm not going anywhere. He doesn't like that, he can go
to hell."

She actually smiled at that. "I just don't want him winding up there for killing
you." She took a step back and gave him a small shove. "Get out of here."

Maggie Scully met him in the living room with a broad smile. "Fox! Dana
said you were here." She clasped his hand, and he found himself wondering,
not for the first time, how she could be so damn nice to him. Directly or
indirectly, he was responsible for everything that had happened to Scully. Bill
obviously had no problem hating him for it. Melissa had been a little weird,
but whatever animosity that had existed between them stemmed from his
inability to let go and just love her sister, not in blaming him for her fate.
What was it with women in this family?

He lowered his head for the customary kiss on the cheek. "Hi, Mrs. Scully.
You look nice."

She laughed a little. "We're going to a wedding. You're looking well. Taking
care of yourself? I like that shirt on you. Are you coming with us?"

Mulder shook his head quickly as he glanced back at the bedroom door. "Oh,
no. I just came by to drop her off. Had a little problem with the engine and
got some oil on my pants, so I came up here to change."

Maggie's smile faltered just a bit. "She did ask you to come, didn't she?"

He shook his head again as he eyed the figure looming up behind her. The
Scully women might be slight, delicate-looking things, but Brother Bill was a
different matter. He had Mulder beat by an inch or two, with a bearing that
made him seem even taller. And he was broad. What had Scully said about
his boxing days? Middleweight champion? Mulder shuddered inwardly.
<Shit, just don't come after me, Billy boy. I'll have to pull my gun and shoot
you, and that would piss Scully off something fierce. I don't want to go
without sex for the rest of my life.>

He held his smile under the fierce glower. Odd, how those eyes could be so
like Scully's and yet lacked all traces of anything resembling affection. Go
with Scully? With Big Brother standing guard, ready to beat the shit out of
him at the slightest provocation? That was an honor he could easily live
without. "No, she didn't. Besides, I'm not dressed for it." He gestured
vaguely to himself. "Kind of informal. I wouldn't want to wear this to a
wedding. I'd . . . clash."

At that Maggie actually laughed. "You don't know my cousin, Fox. The
whole affair's informal. Look how we're dressed!"

Mulder faltered a little. Jeans and blazers and buttoned-down shirts. Leather
loafers instead of runners. "I thought maybe you were going to change, too.
Seems to be the thing to do here."

Behind her, Bill Scully jerked his mouth into the barest semblance of a smile.
His eyes, however, remained chilly. "This isn't going to be a church affair
anyway, just a civil ceremony downtown. Don't need a tux for the Hilton."

Jesus, this wasn't happening. He did not want to spend the evening with that
man staring at him. It'd be difficult enough trying not to touch Scully in front
of her mother, but *Bill-?!* Try the graceful retreat again. "No, I really can't,
but thank you. I think I'll just go tell Sc- Dana that I'm taking off now.
Excuse me."

He heard the muffled smack from halfway down the hall. Oh, not hard to
guess what that was. Bill must have expressed his displeasure to his mother,
however silently, and she'd smacked his arm for his troubles. <Small wonder
the man hates me,> he mused as he hesitated in the hall. <His mom treats me
like I'm just another son. She treats me better than my own mother ever did.
That's pretty damn sad.>

He glanced over his shoulder as he cautiously tapped on the bedroom door.
It exploded inward under his touch, and he fell back with a startled curse.
Scully squeezed past him and hurried to the bathroom. God, was this a
conspiracy? Jeans and loafers. "Why are you still here?" she asked over her
shoulder.

He started to follow her, then hesitated. Hell, he couldn't stand in there and
chat if she was going to . . . well, do anything other than touch up her
makeup. Oh, thank God, that was exactly what she was doing. He leaned on
the doorjamb and watched for a few seconds. "Yeah, I'm just leaving. Give
me a call when . . . I mean, sometime this weekend. I have those files we still
need to go over. We have that meeting with Skinner Monday morning,
remember?"

She turned from the mirror, mascara suspended in mid-air, and gave him a
blank look. "What are you talking about? We just met with Skinner this
afternoon."

He tossed a quick look over his shoulder. "Not about these files. These are -
"

A warm hand caught itself around his arm. "Don't talk shop now, Fox,"
Maggie said, sliding her arm around his waist. "Honey, I think we should
have him join us. He's worried that he isn't dressed properly. You know how
Trish is. Informal doesn't even begin to describe her."

Scully looked at her uncertainly. "I don't know, Mom . . . If he doesn't want
to, I don't want to talk him into anything . . . "

Oh, those Scully women were nothing if not relentless. Mulder cringed
inwardly as Maggie turned to him again. "Don't be ridiculous! How often do
you two get to do anything fun together? I mean, *really* fun? Traveling
around all the time, living out of suitcases it *must* get old." She hugged
Mulder again, and her voice took on a new pleading tone. "Come with us,
Fox. It'll do you good. And you *will* have fun, I promise."

His mouth opened and closed as he stared at her. He was helpless against
them. That must be it. Every female in this family could tie him in knots with
nothing but well-intentioned words. Sure. Fine. Whatever. At least he'd be
with Scully. Besides, Bill clearly didn't want him along, and that was enough
to make the whole situation endlessly appealing. He gave her a lopsided
smile. "O-okay. If it's all right with Scully, it's all right with me."

~~~~~~~~~~

"Actually, it's a bit of a family joke," she said, half under her breath as they
made their way through the Swann room in the DC Hilton. The reception
was in full swing. Mulder looked at her, his brows quirking curiously. She
raised her chin, indicating the festive decorations with thinly-veiled
amusement. "This is Trish's seventh marriage. Thus the informality of the
whole thing." Her careful half-smile suddenly took on the dimensions of a
grin. "We call her the family's Liz Taylor. Good Catholic girls don't sleep
around, you know. They get married, and then if it doesn't work out, the
whole thing is annulled."

Mulder grunted softly. "See the benefits of being agnostic? No head games."

She sneered gently but didn't loosen her hold on his hand. "Infidel."

"No, I'm discriminating. There's a difference."

"Yeah, it's called 'spelling.'"

He looked at her appraisingly. He loved her like this, dressed simply in Levis
and one of her plain shirts. Except that it *wasn't* her shirt. He frowned.
How the hell had she gotten her hands on another one of his? What, had she
pilfered his suitcase when he wasn't looking? And when? He hadn't noticed
anything missing. Then again, he didn't pay that much attention to such
things. Oh, it didn't matter. It was huge on her, of course, but the severe cut
did things for her that her regular blouses and business suits just couldn't
touch. She could wear his clothes any day.

She glanced at him, clearly expecting a tart riposte to her dig. "Why are you
looking at me like that?"

He leaned as close as he dared and looked at her with teasing eyes. "Where's
your brother?"

She gestured with a turn of her head to the exit. "I saw him taking Trish's son
to the restroom. Why?"

He drew her up close and kissed her. It was far too fleeting for his total
satisfaction, but beggars really couldn't be choosers. He drew back to find
her smiling. God, she was so pretty. He wanted to swallow her up right there
on the spot.

A hand on his shoulder made him start back with a little gasp. "The band's in
full cry, kids, in case you can't hear them. Honey, you don't mind if I borrow
your partner for a moment, do you?"

Scully immediately released his hand and turned on her heel. "Sure, suit
yourself, Mom. I think I'm gonna go check out the buffet."

Maggie smiled as she caught Mulder's hand. "C'mon, Fox. This is where that
fun I promised you starts."

He followed her obediently to the dance floor, which, he saw with a certain
wry amusement, was replete with a velvet-draped stage and flashing disco
ball. "I have to warn you, Mrs. Scully, it's been a long time since my last
dance lesson."

She smiled at something in his tone. "You had dance lessons? When was
that?"

He squinted, calling up long-faded memories. "Lemme think. Uh, sixth grade.
Mrs. Westcott. I was twelve."

She stepped into the curve of his arms. "Well, I've had a little more
experience, so we should do just fine. Want to put your feet on mine until
you get the rhythm?"

It was his time to laugh. "I thought I was supposed to make that offer."

Okay, this was weird, but it was really okay. She didn't ask much of him, and
that was his kind of dance partner. They passed a few moments in amiable
banter. The weather. The job. How her spring garden was shaping up. The
trips she had planned to see grandchildren.

Then she nodded to the table where Scully sat. She caught her mother's eye
and waved. "I'm afraid you're going to have another twelve-year old to deal
with soon, dance lessons not withstanding."

He followed her gaze and smiled. "Naw, she's fourteen, at least."

She looked back at him, deadpan. "Don't be ridiculous, Fox. Dana was born
twenty-eight. Her brother, on the other hand . . . " At that Mulder stiffened a
little. "He's going to find out, you know. He's got a hard head, Heaven
knows, but he isn't stupid."

Mulder raised his chin and looked at her carefully from the corner of his eye.
"I don't suppose it would do any good to ask what you're talking about,
would it?"

Her own eyes were calm and level. "No, not really. Dana told me a little
about it. The rest I figured out for myself. And that kiss a minute ago pretty
much confirmed everything."

He cringed a little. Hell. How much did she know? Why did it embarrass him
so much? "I see," was all he could say.

The deadpan slipped then and she smiled. Jesus, was he *that* transparent?
"Don't worry, Fox. You know Dana she doesn't ever say very much. She
really didn't have to. I've watched you two from the beginning. You light up
around each other like a couple of spotlights."

Not much to say to that. Transparency, thy name is Mulder. He turned
slowly in time to the music until he could see his partner. She was working
on a plate holding more food than he'd ever seen her eat in one sitting. Her
sister-in-law . . . what was her name? Tara, that was it . . . approached and
said something that made her absolutely beam, and his breath actually caught
in his chest. "Can you blame me?" he murmured, unable to keep the emotion
out of his voice. He set his jaw from old habit, then immediately relented. Ah
hell, why not just say it? What could he tell her that didn't she already know?
He let a faint smile pull at his eyes, his lips. "She's . . .. she's everything to
me, Mrs. Scully. She's strength and vulnerability and sorrow and joy, all
rolled up in one short, perfect package."

Maggie smiled. "I've known that for years now, Fox," she said quietly. "I'm
just glad *you* finally figured it out."

She caught sight of her son, returning from his errand with his nephew in
tow. Bill delivered the boy to one of the nearby tables, then approached his
sister and caught her by her free hand. Mulder couldn't hear them over the
music, of course, but he knew his partner well enough to recognize her
reluctance. She couldn't hide her discomfort as she let him pull her to her feet
and onto the dance floor. Bill caught her up with a flourish, and evidently
came up with something that cajoled a smile out of her. Mulder felt his spirits
lift. Good. Maybe they could work out their differences. The tension between
them was probably long-standing, but he knew his own presence in her life
just added another element of turmoil to the mix. Scully was tender-hearted
enough to sincerely want her brother's approval, but she was also stubborn
enough to tell him to go to hell if that approval continued to be withheld.

Would it be? Bill had never taken any pains to conceal his hatred for Mulder.
That fateful meeting outside her hospital room was only the first of many
difficult encounters. Mulder felt his own stubborn streak flex its muscles at
the memory. Tough shit, Billy Boy, he thought bitterly. You were upset that
your sister was dying, and that I think I can understand. What you clearly
missed was that I was losing my partner. *Partner,* in the truest sense of the
word. Well, she's still here and so am I, and neither of us is going anywhere.
You can't intimidate your little sister, and you sure as hell aren't going to do
it to me anymore.

Maggie was saying something, and he realized with a guilty start that he
hadn't the faintest idea what it was. She smiled at his blank expression. "I
said, Bill's got it into his head that he can actually do something about
keeping her safe. At least, his idea of safe. Unfortunately, you're an obstacle."

Mulder blinked. "Are you saying he's prepared to do something about it?" He
managed a weak smile. "Should I prepare to be boarded, as it were? Scully
told me about that boxing thing."

She scoffed gently. "Bill's temper can be a little harsh, but his bark really is
worse than his bite. He'll never take a swing at you, if that's what you mean.
His father would never allow physical altercations, and the past ten years
spent on carriers pretty much reinforced that. You can't fight a comrade at
sea, but you sure as hell can intimidate him. You, Fox, are a victim of that
tactic." Mulder grunted softly. She followed his gaze to her children, still
dancing awkwardly a dozen paces away. "He isn't a bully. Really he isn't. He
just takes the role of family protector to heart, and so he can't get it through
his head that Dana might really know what she needs in this life." She looked
at him. "Or who."

The band chose that moment to up their tempo. Half the couples on the floor
drifted back to their seats, while others filled the new vacancies. Maggie
turned with a smile, and Mulder slowly followed her. Scully's plate sat
neglected on the table where she'd left it, and he picked at it absently as he
watched his partner. They were still dancing, but her smile had become fixed,
and she wasn't making eye contact with her brother. Oh, he recognized that
expression all too well. That red hair wasn't a lie; when she got her back up,
her own temper could be wicked. Whatever Bill was saying, it was not being
particularly well-received. Mulder felt a flare of anger. Probably telling her
once again to dump her whining partner, quit the Bureau, find a normal guy,
and settle down. Set about adopting those kids she'd never be able to have
herself. Another reason to hate him.

She jerked away from him suddenly, and Mulder felt a stab of foreboding. So
much for making peace. The food in his mouth suddenly tasted like sawdust,
and he choked it down with a little . . . whatever she was drinking. Ugh, it
tasted like rum-spiked Gatorade. He shoved the plate away and watched,
fascinated. She was truly angry, that much was clear, though what was being
said was still a mystery. Bill's face was darkening nicely, and when she said
something with enough vehemence to toss her hair, he folded his arms
defensively. She delivered what appeared to be her parting shot and then
spun on her heel, but he stopped her with a firm hand on her arm. She tried
to twist free, but he didn't let go. The resulting tug-of-war was almost
comical in its intensity.

Almost, but not quite. And not something Mulder was prepared to sit
placidly by and witness. Brother or not, wedding or not, she was being
harassed, and by a much larger opponent. Almost before he could formulate
the thought, he was on his feet. He made his approach slowly, arms relaxed
at his sides, no longer a party-goer but a federal officer moving to back up
his partner. <Don't pose an active threat,> an old instructor had said in his
by-gone Academy days. <Move with a bearing that demands respect.>
Slowly he took up a position a few arms' lengths from them.

"Why do you want to know?" he heard her demand. Her tone was low, but
he had no trouble hearing her anger. "I'm not one of your subordinates, Bill,
regardless of what you think. You can't dictate to me and expect me to just
fall in line like a good soldier. I'm an adult, and I'll make my own choices.
Now let me go before this gets out of hand."

He didn't release her. "I asked a question, Dana. I think I'm entitled to an
answer."

She redoubled her efforts to free herself. "No, as a matter of fact, you're not!
What Mulder and I are to each other is none of your goddamned business! It
isn't enough that he dragged his ass to the polar icecap for me, is it? That for
every time *you* say he endangered my life, he was actually there covering
my ass. Or that I grieve for lost opportunities, but he agonizes over them.
Nothing he does will ever be enough for you, will it? Mulder's proven his
loyalty and, yes, even his love, a thousand different ways, and you'd be able
to see it yourself if you hadn't blinded yourself with misconceptions! You
want convention, Bill; you want me to have an orthodox, accepted, orderly
life. Well, it isn't going to happen. Mulder's as unconventional as you can get,
and that suits me just fine. He's gifted and passionate and intelligent, and he's
the best friend I've ever had, and if you can't get your mind around that, if
you aren't ever going to try to accept it and at *least* get along with him
when I'm around, then I won't have any choice but to stay away. Don't put
me in the position of having to choose, Bill. I have enough going on in my
own life, I don't have the time or energy to deal with your narrow-minded
bullshit!"

His grip didn't ease, even when she tried to pry his fingers away. "You're
even starting to sound like him," he snarled. "You're a federal investigator,
Dana, you're not a Man In Black! The security of the world does not rest on
your shoulders! Your work is consuming you, don't you see that? It doesn't
matter to me who you're with, I just want to see you get something out of
life, and I want to know you're safe. This guy can't even keep himself out of
trouble! How many times have you been in the fucking hospital because of
him? Jesus, how much have you lost? How much has this family lost? Every
time you get on a plane with him, Mom wonders if she'll ever see you again.
How can you be so damned selfish?"

Her struggles abruptly ceased, and she stared at him in open-mouth
astonishment. "How dare you? How the hell do you think she feels when you
get on that carrier? What, you think that because you're a man, what you do
is more important? Your job is indispensable and mine's an indulgence, right?
You haven't the faintest idea what I do! What we've unearthed just in the
past year would blow your fucking mind, Bill . . .. assuming you'd loosen that
chokehold you think you have on reality and accept what you were being
shown!" She succeeded in wrenching her arm free, but Mulder was sure she'd
bear the bruises for days. "My partner is part of my life. Mulder *is* my life,
and I don't give a shit anymore if you can't accept that."

He stood stiffly, hands on his hips, and watched her go. Then his pale eyes
twitched up and met Mulder's. The hatred in them was palpable. Classic
tertiary conflict, Mulder thought in a startling flash of clarity; what this man
cannot control, he will bully and belittle. Bill's lips twisted in an ugly
semblance of a smile. "Are you sleeping with him, Dana?" he barked.

She stopped and slowly turned back. Her eyes held his for a beat, and then
her own mouth twisted in a smirk. "Why?" she quipped. "Looking for
pointers?"

Ooh, bull's-eye! A muscle clenched and spasmed in the man's jaw. She said
nothing as she brushed past Mulder, though he felt her hand catch his and
squeeze once. Then she was gone, shouldering her way through the roomful
of celebrants, each and every one oblivious to what had just transpired.
Mulder held Bill's gaze for a long beat, then slowly turned and followed her.

She barely reached their table when she stopped so suddenly that he actually
bumped into her. "No," she said sharply, spinning around. "No, dammit. He
throws down the ultimatum and I retreat. That's been the pattern my whole
damn life. He's not going to win this time." She looked up at him, and he was
taken aback by the fury blazing in her eyes. "Mulder, would you do
something for me?"

He nodded cautiously. "Sure. Anything. You wanna get out of here?"

She shook her head, and her angry smirk suddenly coalesced into a dazzling
smile. "Dance with me."

He glanced back at the dancers. Bill was watching them. "Uh, Scully," he
began uncertainly.

She grabbed his hand and pulled him after her. "No, I have to do this. I
*want* to do this. He's convinced I've thrown away any chance of happiness.
Maybe we can show him otherwise."

He tugged on her hand, drawing her up short. "Scully, you made your point.
I don't see any reason to rub his nose in it." He hesitated. "I don't want . . ..
Listen, you burn bridges today, you're going to regret it. I just . . . I don't
want you to lose what . . . what little you have with that guy."

She stepped closer, close enough he could feel her warmth through his shirt.
"Listen to me. All *I'm* doing is calling it quits. I'm not going to hide from
him anymore. He wants to see me find a little happiness in this life? Well,
that's what he's going to see." She raised herself up on her tiptoes and
brushed a kiss along his jaw. He hesitated an instant before permitting
himself to respond. "Mmm, besides," she crooned as his lips trailed along her
temple he could feel her already beginning to sway against him in time to the
music "there's that deal, remember? I have something to make up to my
charming and oh-so insecure partner. And we *are* in a four-star hotel." She
caught his hand and stepped back toward the other dancers. "C'mon, G-man.
Dance with me. Eat delicious, fattening food with me. Then take me upstairs
and make love with me until we just can't move."

He allowed himself a smile as he slipped his arms around her. "All right," he
said, glancing around. "But if he goes ballistic and I end up shooting him in
self-defense, don't hate me. It'll be as much your fault as anyone's."

She pressed herself shamelessly against him, and he felt a sweet, answering
rush of desire. "Mmm, just aim low," she murmured, nuzzling her face into
his throat. "He's got a really fat head."

His smile broadened minutely. "Yeah, I've noticed the resemblance." At that
she shot him an amused look, and he actually laughed. "No, Scully, you have
a beautiful head. I was talking about his gift of obstinacy. Definite family
resemblance there."

She nestled herself against his chest and laced her fingers behind his back.
"Shut up and dance, Mulder. Bill's not the only one in the family who can
kick your ass."

Time slowed, then ceased to exist. He was aware of little save her warmth
wrapped deliciously around him, the tickle of her breath on his neck, the lips
that every so often caressed his stubbled throat. Her heartbeat was strong
and steady, the slow sweep of her hands on his back utterly delicious. Mmm.
Was it really just a little while ago that they'd made love? He couldn't help
but smile. If Bill hated him just for being in his sister's life, what would he say
if he knew they'd been making out like horny teens minutes before his arrival
that afternoon?

They stopped once, just long enough to refill and then empty her plate. The
food was delicious and utterly decadent. Smoked salmon, noodles in some
sort of rich herbal cream sauce, glazed ham, and a half dozen other dishes
he'd never heard of but instantly loved. They sat a little apart from anyone
else, eying each other intently as they ate. Then they returned to the dance
floor, and the solace of each other's arms.

The music changed from time to time, but they were barely aware of it. Their
movements remained slow and unbroken.

Until he felt a hard gaze upon them, and through some uncanny bent, he
knew precisely whose it was. He raised his head he'd been resting it atop her
own and caught sight of Bill and Tara, swaying in the crowd not far away.
The crowd. Yeah, there *was* a crowd now. How long had they been there,
lost together in their own warm little world? Didn't matter. Bill was staring at
them, of course. No surprise there. Mulder drew Scully a little closer,
shielding her with his bulk. She must have sensed his unease, because she too
lifted her head and tried to follow his gaze. "What is it?" she whispered.

"Your brother's watching us."

She looked around. "I can't see. Does he still look pissed?"

He shook his head once. "No, not exactly. Tara must be doing something
that he likes. He just looks . . . thoughtful."

A smile turned up the corners of her mouth, and he saw a playful gleam in
her eyes. "Mmm, how 'bout we give him something to really ponder?" One of
her hands slid up his arm and caught itself around his neck, drawing him
down to her. For a second he tried to resist how much could the man be
expected to take before he cut a swathe through the dancers, bellowing like
some crazed bull and ripping the miscreant away from his baby sister . . .?

God, her mouth was warm and generous and so damned inviting . . .

Ah, the hell with it. He had a gun. And he was surrounded by witnesses. It
would clearly be self-defense. He gave in to her gentle demands. Maybe if
they did it right and the bastard saw the depth of their feelings of their
commitment he'd realize his sister had something in her life right now. Mmm,
from that angle, they were doing him a favor. <See, dickhead? She's happy.
She has a job she's good at and a partner who's crazy about her, and he isn't
about to let anything happen to her. Let her live her life.>

He felt something brush his arm. Reluctantly he broke off the kiss and looked
up. Shit, they were right there, matching his and Scully's own languid pace.
Tara's hand still hovered over his tricep. It was not as warm as his partner's
and nowhere near as welcome, but it was nice nonetheless. He gave her a
polite smile. "Mrs. Scully. It's nice to see you again."

Tara smiled as she exchanged quick glances with her sister-in-law. "Yes, I'm
glad we made it back for this," she replied. "Dana needs to bring you the next
time she comes out to California. We just do not see enough of you." She
eyed him mischievously, totally ignoring her husband's soft, deprecating
snort. "How are you, Fox? I heard you were in the hospital not long ago."

He looked pointedly at Scully, his eyebrows rising. <You've been talking
about me?> She held his gaze, unflinching. <Of course I have.> His smile
grew as he nodded. "That's right. I was hurt on a case. And please, just call
me Mulder. I don't know what my parents were thinking when they stuck me
with 'Fox.'"

The woman's blue eyes not as blue as Scully's, but still very pretty actually
twinkled in the uneven light from that damned glass ball. "Mulder. Gotcha.
You were working with Dana when you were injured, weren't you?"

Working with Dana? More like *saving* Dana. If Scully mentioned the
incident at all, she'd surely have included that part, and that he hadn't just
been hurt, he'd been shot. As long as he'd known her, she had never tried to
cover up her own failings, even if she was the only one who perceived them
as such. With that thought, it was suddenly clear where Tara was going with
the questions, and he found it was taking all his self-control not to kiss her in
utter gratitude. <. . Explain it slowly and clearly so my dumbshit husband
makes the connection.' Bless you, Tara. You choice of mates certainly begs
closer examination, but aside from that, you are one sharp damned cookie.>
He fought down the impulse to laugh. "Yes, that's right. We were working."

She smiled up at her husband. "Would you jump in the way of a bullet for
me, honey? I bet you would, wouldn't you?"

Bill glanced at Mulder before grunting. "You know I would, sweetheart. I'd
die for you. Hell, I'd kill for you."

She smiled as she nuzzled his cheek. "Oo, you romantic, you." She flashed a
smile at Mulder and winked at Scully thank God Big Brother couldn't see
*that* from his angle and they slowly glided back into the crowd.

Mulder gave his head a shake as he watched them. "Unbelievable," he
murmured.

Scully frowned a little as she followed his gaze. "What is?"

He nodded after the couple. "Your sister-in-law. She's actually leading." He
looked down at her, smiling. "Remind me to send her a thank-you card for
that little demonstration." He kissed her then, slow and lingering. "You
know, I thought it was a congenital thing, your inability to let someone else
take charge. Maybe the trait's actually gender-specific. That would explain a
lot."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, and the hand that had been cradling his neck
suddenly dropped to his crotch. He flinched as she caressed him through his
jeans. "Maybe we shouldn't discuss who leads whom just at the moment," she
murmured, her voice silken. "I've known you to make decisions with the
wrong head from time to time."

Slowly, subtly, he rolled his hips and pressed himself into her palm. "That a
fact, Agent Scully?" he murmured.

Her fingers curled, and she squeezed him hard enough to make his eyes
widen a little. "That's a fact, Agent Mulder." She kissed his chin, then bit it
gently. His hips lurched helplessly, and she cooed. Dana Scully actually
cooed. "Ooo, Mulder, it feels like someone wants to come out and play.
Again. What say we blow this party in favor of something a little more . . .
private?"

He groaned into her hair, intoxicated by her touch. Leave it to a doctor to
know just where and how hard to squeeze a guy. "Mmm, just don't use the
word 'blow' again while your hand's down there. Might lead to disaster, and I
certainly want to leave you feeling . . . unsatisfied." He looked around.
Bodies were swaying all around them, but there was no sign of Bill and Tara;
no one was paying them any attention. "I s'pose you'll want to say good night
to your mother."

He shuddered when she gently worried that spot on his neck. "Mmm,
probably should. And Trish. And Tara. Meet me in the lobby, G-man. I won't
be long. Not as long as you are, at least." She caressed him again. "Ooo, and
apparently getting longer by the minute."

She smiled sweetly and walked away. He swallowed convulsively as he
watched the gentle sway of her hips, of her ass. Jesus, the things she did to
him . . . if it felt *that* good through his clothes, just think what it would be
like when he was . . . when they were . . .

Only when she was lost from view did he find he was able to move.

The clock in the lobby read a little after ten. <Shit, how time flies. Well,
Maggie did promise we'd have fun. . .>

He pulled out his wallet as he approached the front desk. "Need a room for
the night," he told the night clerk, presenting a credit card. "One bed's fine.
Just me and my wife."

Oo, that came out so easily. He could smell her on his shirt, on his hands,
could still feel her warmth in his flesh . . . the lingering sensation of which
was no doubt responsible for what was manifesting itself downstairs. And the
fun was really just starting. He smiled as he filled out the registration form.
Maybe they could snag a few snacks from the buffet, order a bottle of wine
from Room Service; then they could . . .

"Mr. Mulder, I'd like a word with you."

Shit. All those sweet images of cavorting with a naked Scully evaporated in
the blink of an eye. He turned slowly. Must be getting old. Or he was just
besotted with love; he hadn't even heard the bastard approach. From long
habit, he schooled his features into a blank mask. "Lieutenant Scully, what
can I do for you?"

The asshole thankfully stopped a few paces away. His eyes were hard, but
Mulder couldn't care less. "You should know, that little display you put on in
there really wasn't necessary," he said tersely. "I might be 'blinded with
misconceptions', but even I can see how Dana feels about you." He waved a
hand dismissively. "Whatever. It's her life. You know my feelings on the
issue, so I guess it doesn't bear repeating. Tara has a point, though. That bit
about being shot." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "There isn't anything I
wouldn't do for my wife. Or Mom. Or Dana." His eyes narrowed. "Just take
care of my sister, Mr. Mulder. If anything happens to her because of you, I'll
kill you. I want you to understand that."

Mulder stared at him. God, it was really hard not to smile. That was clearly
meant to be a threat. And he was sure the bastard was more than capable of
carrying it out. But it was equally clear that he just didn't get it. Tara had
picked up on it, of *that* Mulder was reasonably sure; and who knew,
maybe she'd find a way to explain it to her dim-witted spouse. Still, just in
case it proved too great a task even for her . . .

"Lieutenant Scully," he said, drawing himself up and returning the baleful
gaze, "if anything happens to her, whether it's due to her association with me
or not, you won't have the opportunity to kill me."

He saw a flicker of . . . something in the stone eyes. Dawning realization?
Could the idiot truly not understand what Scully meant to him? Didn't he
know Mulder had died a thousand times over the morning she told him about
her cancer? That he would have sacrificed his own health if it could have
spared her a single moment of agony? Or the grief of losing a daughter she'd
barely known? Her despair over facts and events the likes of which her
brother could not even guess? Or did the ass think him incapable of such
devotion? Should he try to explain? No, the effort would be wasted; he
realized that at once. Still, he had to say something. Not in his own defense,
because he truly didn't care what this bastard thought of him; but for Scully,
so that the thick-necked dickhead might understand his own sister, if only a
little. "You may not credit this, Lieutenant," he murmured, "but I love her.
More than life. More than our work. More than anything in my sorry
son-of-a-bitch life." He snorted very softly. "And there really isn't much more
to say."

They stood, unmoving, for what seemed an eternity. Then without a word,
Bill turned on his heel and walked away. Mulder looked past him and caught
sight of Scully standing by the doors of the Swann room. Even from that
distance he could see her own expression was carefully neutral. He watched,
suddenly breathless, as the big man approached her. What would they do?
Exchange clipped farewells? More angry words? Would he brush past her in
stony silence? God, he ached to think how that would hurt her.

He saw her jaw set as her brother drew up beside her. She didn't look at him,
merely clutched her arms about her middle and stared at something unseen as
she listened to him. Then he bent and, to Mulder's surprise, touched her
cheek in a lingering kiss. For an instant her expression reflected her shock;
clearly such a gesture was not what she had been expecting. She allowed
herself a careful half-smile when he straightened and looked down at her.
<Good night, Bill.> Her brother dropped his gaze as he moved past her, and
disappeared into the Swann room.

She stood for a few seconds. Mulder watched, unable to look away. Rousing
herself, she gave her head a shake and then crossed the lobby to him, her
steps measured and unrushed. He eyed her curiously. The temptation was
strong to ask what had just transpired between them, but he knew that was
something she'd have to volunteer. <All in good time,> he reminded himself.
"Everything okay?" he murmured.

She slipped her hand into his. "Not great, but better," she replied quietly.
"Mom said to send you her regards. Charlie and his family are coming for a
visit next month. We've been invited. The two of us. I told her we'll have to
see what happens between now and then."

He smiled as he accepted both the credit slip and key card from the clerk.
"Wouldn't want to miss that. At long last, the chance to meet the mythic
brother. Personally, I don't think he exists." He stuffed the receipt in a
pocket, then took her hand. "By the way, remind me to thank her for
tonight."

She shot him an amused look as she fell into step beside him. "We're a couple
of single people checking into a hotel for the purpose of satisfying our baser
appetites, and you're going to thank my mother for it? Lemme explain once
more about Catholics, Mulder: most of them don't go in for this sort of thing.
I certainly didn't tell her you're not planning to take me home tonight."
The elevator went *ding!* as the doors opened. He gestured her ahead, then
pushed the button for their floor. "Religious convictions notwithstanding,
Scully, you'll never convince me she hasn't guessed. You might be surprised
just what she already knows. The two of us had a nice chat tonight."

She immediately turned and slid her arms around his waist, molding herself
to him. "Really," she murmured. He obligingly draped his arms around her,
and gasped when her tongue resumed its exploration of his throat. A shudder
vibrated through him, and she giggled. "Nice galvanic response, Mulder.
Something happening here you like?"

He closed his eyes, relishing her touch. It took a few seconds to find his
voice. "Mmm, well now. It's just the two of us. No brothers threatening me.
No mothers giving me indulgent smiles. No truculent superior sending us off
to the far reaches of the country to investigate fertilizer. And my incredibly
sexy partner is doing things to me that are probably illegal in more the
conservative states. What's not to like?" He groaned when she redoubled her
efforts. "Oh jeez, Scully, how'd you know about that place? I'll give you a
month to knock that off." He groaned softly. "Okay, two months. I mean it."

She giggled again. It was an enchanting sound, one he hoped to hear a hell of
a lot more. "Trade secrets, Mulder," she murmured between plyings of her
teeth and tongue. "There's a nerve bundle right here. Notice it's just the right
height for me to do this while we're in the upright position." She sucked a
little harder and then laughed outright, and he knew that one was going to
leave a mark. "Oops! Little hematoma here. Sorry, Mulder."

He winced as he pressed a kiss to her temple. "It's called a hickey, Scully.
Get the term straight, will ya? You just gave me a hickey."

She gently turned his head, exposing the other side of his throat.
"Potato-potahto. I think you'd look good with a bilateral effect."

He raised his head just enough to deny her the prize, and she moaned a little
in protest. "Not if I have anything to say about it. If the one's still there the
next time we see Skinner, you get to explain it."

He studied her upturned face for a moment. Her lower lip was pushed out in
a delightful pout, one he was only too happy to smooth away. Her hands
rose as he kissed her, one finding its place behind his neck, the other
caressing its way through his hair. Someone moaned softly. He wasn't sure
who.

"Are you two getting off here? What I mean is, is this your floor?"

They broke apart, and Mulder cautiously looked over his shoulder. The
doors were standing open, and an older couple were watching them with
obvious amusement. Oh, hell. How long had they been there? The man held
one of the doors, and gestured with a slow sweep of his free hand. "We're
heading down, so if you don't mind . . ."

Chagrined, Mulder caught Scully's hand and brushed past the couple.
"Sorry," he muttered. "Newlyweds. You know how it is."

The gentleman glanced at his companion with a knowing smile. "Yes,
actually we do," he replied as the doors closed between them.

Scully eyed him. "Newlyweds? Really, Mulder?"

He held her gaze as he kissed her hand. "Might as well be. Besides, I couldn't
very well tell that nice couple we're just a couple of horny wedding guests,
could I?"

She mused on that for a while, and didn't reply until they'd reached their
destination and the door was securely locked behind them. "I don't think
that's true, Mulder. Not in the strictest sense."

He dropped the keycard on the dresser. "What do you mean?"

She shook her head thoughtfully as she stepped close again and slipped her
arms around him. "Oh, we are wedding guests, granted; and I realize I can
only speak for myself but my condition definitely predates that event." She
returned to her ministrations, and he groaned softly. "Something tells me the
same can be said of you."

God, it was hard to think when she was doing that. Somehow he found the
energy to organize his thoughts into a meaningful sentence. It didn't really
seem the time to bring it up, but then she never was surprised by the depth of
his insecurity, or his shitty timing. He could admit it, too, if only to himself:
Bill rattled him. The bastard didn't scare him, but he definitely gave his ego a
good, hard shake. "Uh, Scully, I wonder if you could tell me something." She
murmured something as she gently worried his adam's apple. Though it was
all but incoherent, he took is for a sound of assent. "Those things you said
about me. Wait, stop for a minute." She sighed as she looked up at him. "Did
you mean any of that, or were you just trying to shut down your brother?"

A pained expression replaced her patient look. "Mulder, you can't be
serious."

He shrugged and nodded. "Yeah, I am. C'mon. Placate my fragile
self-confidence. Were you serious when you said those things?"

She pursed her lips again as she considered the question. "Well, lemme
think," she murmured as she began to sway gently from side to side. Her
breasts brushed his chest. "Was there anything in particular that you found
unbelievable?" Her hands began a slow slide up his shirtfront, freeing buttons
as they went. "Maybe that part about you saving my ass? Or that you're not
what anyone could call a conventional partner?" She dropped a leisurely kiss
on his collar bone. "Oh, I know. It's that passionate thing, isn't it? You don't
think I find you passionate." She traced the notch of his throat with her
tongue and smiled when he shuddered. "Mmm, trust me, Mulder. You are. In
a little while, you're going to be passionate until you weep and cry my name
to the heavens."

Oh, something in the way she looked at him actually made his cock twitch.
He smiled, broad and unabashed. To hell with Bill, he thought as he framed
her face in his hands. Their kiss was long and slow, and he savored every
damn bit of it. Her hands found their way under his T-shirt, smoothing and
caressing his flesh. Her eyes were bright when he looked at her again. "Now
I want you to do something for me," she murmured. His nod was barely
perceptible. She raised her chin just a little. "Call and order a little something
for us. I'm going to take a shower. And then you are." She touched a finger
to his lips, silencing his protest. "No arguing. And make it fast, G-man. We
started something this afternoon we didn't have a chance to finish." She
caressed him gently through his jeans.

He watched, helpless, as she walked away. Jesus, was that his heartbeat
crashing in his head? Did she know she did that to him? She flashed him a
smile as she closed the bathroom door between them. Yeah, he thought with
a satisfied smirk. She knows *exactly* what she's doing.

He paced impatiently when he heard the shower start. God, the wait was
going to kill him. He wanted her here, now; not in twenty minutes. And not
just for sex, although that was indeed a compelling objective. He wanted to
look at her and hold her and listen to her; he wanted her warmth and her
substance and her very *being.* He wanted to give her everything he had,
everything he was. Was that the difference between a sexual relationship and
a romantic one? He thought back to the times he'd been with other women.
Diana. Phoebe. Jesus, what a piece of work she was. It'd been nice back in
those heady college days, he mused as he looked up the number for Room
Service; nice but temporary, and utterly without consequence. Phoebe was a
beautiful woman who found him desirable, but beyond that she was a means
to an end. He'd been answering the drives of his youth and hormones. They
were extremely compatible, sexually speaking. At the time, he hadn't thought
anything else was possible.

He knew better now.

The kitchen picked up on the twelfth ring. He didn't comment snidely on the
wait as he would have under normal circumstances, just ordered something
indulgent and hideously over-priced, and charged it to the room. A speedy
delivery, he said with assurance, would earn a tip proportional to the effort
made. And he hung up.

As an afterthought, he dug through his pockets and came up with a couple
bills. A twenty and a ten. At least he wouldn't get caught with his pants
down. So to speak.

He began to pace again when he heard the water shut off. Thoughts of
Phoebe tended to be unpleasant at best, and these particular memories really
made him look forward to that shower. And Scully would make him feel
better about it. She always did.

At long last the bathroom door opened and she emerged, swathed in the
huge bathrobe that the management provided. Her face was flushed and
shiny, her damp hair already beginning to form loose, lazy curls around her
ears and temples. He felt his own spirits lift. Was there a time when Phoebe
Greene had been the end-all and be-all of his existence? What a fool he'd
been. Hungry, he caught Scully up without preamble and kissed her. Her
response was exactly what he needed: languid, searching, tender. Now, as
always, he found himself pondering the enigma that was his partner. How
was it that she could both ask and offer with the same familiar gesture?

"How, what?" he heard her whisper, and only then realized he must have
voiced part of that question aloud. God, that was getting to be something of
a habit.

He shook his head, dispelling all thoughts other than of this woman. "How
do you put up with me?" he breathed.

There was a familiar gleam in her eyes as they dropped to his mouth. "Great
patience," she murmured, tracing his lower lip with the pad of her thumb.
"You're really not so bad, you know. Honestly, Mulder, you might consider
giving yourself a break." She kissed him again, very lightly, and smiled when
he groaned. "I've often thought that a guy with an IQ of a hundred and sixty .
. ."

"A hundred and sixty-eight."

". . . should realize he's got more going for him than the average man." She
gently grasped his hands and pulled them away from her, then turned him and
steered him toward the bathroom. "Go. Water. Soap. Clean. Hurry."

He smiled. Hurry. Like he needed to be reminded. He stripped his T-shirt off
and tossed it to her. When had he taken off his dress shirt? He had no
memory of doing so, and yet there it was, crumpled on the dresser beside the
television. He toed his shoes off and kicked them into the closet alcove.
"Don't start without me," he called over his shoulder. "Tip's on the dresser
next to the TV. Give the kid a twenty."

"Dammit, Mulder, I know how to tip the bellhop. Just hurry!"

<*Hurry,> he muttered as he adjusted the water. Hell, too hot, too cold what
the hell did it matter when she was waiting for him? There was one of those
tiny little bottles of shampoo on the shelf; she'd left half for him. He'd smell
of her, even more than he already did. His heart raced as he rinsed his hair,
his face, his body. She was waiting for him. His half-formed erection had
begun to subside, but he saw he was still heavy with blood. She would
restore it with a touch. A kiss. He closed his eyes for an instant, replaying
their rushed lovemaking that afternoon. God, the look on her face as she
guided his hand to her breast. The rapt expression as she centered on her
approaching climax, on what he was doing to her. He felt his cock twitch at
the memory. <Hurry. She's waiting.>

The order had arrived, he saw at once; the wine was chilling in its ice bucket,
the tray of fruit and cheese covered and waiting on the dresser. She was
sitting on the side of the bed, her robe still tied but gapping deliciously over
one smooth white thigh. The neckline was beginning to slip as well. She was
holding a strawberry as she looked at him contemplatively. He watched,
entranced, as she touched it to her lips. He felt his breath catch in his chest.
"Lucky damned berry," he murmured, leaning against the wall and folding his
arms. "What does a guy have to do to get that sort of attention?"

One cinnamon eyebrow rose slightly. "What does a woman have to do to see
what's under that towel?"

He didn't move, merely pursed his lips as he studied her. Was it deliberate,
the little shrug that dropped the robe off one shoulder? Her chest rose and
fell as she sighed. Slowly her hand rose, offering the treasure. "Here."

He considered her for a long moment before pushing himself away from the
wall. Her gaze remained steady as he knelt beside her. Slowly he leaned
forward and bit the berry deliberately in two. Its flavor was sweet, but
inconsequential; all his attention was on her. Only her. <What are you
thinking,> he wondered as he draped an arm across that bare leg and hugged
her to him. Her irises were cobalt blue, the pupils within enormous. He saw
the flutter of the artery in the side of her neck, noticed how she seemed to
quiver as her own breath caught.

Slowly her free hand rose and touched his face. "You're beautiful," she
whispered.

Without a word, he took what remained of the berry and raised it to her
mouth, offering and then withdrawing, gently playing it around and around
her lips. "You are," he said softly. "*You* are, Scully. You are beauty itself.
Do you know that? God, you take my breath away." Her hand settled on his,
steadying and centering him, and he watched, rapt, as her white teeth sank
into the berry's flesh. Blood pumped, fast and hard, through his body, and he
felt himself expand just that little bit more. He couldn't remember ever
witnessing anything so erotic.

Slowly she stood, drawing him back to his feet, and moved into his embrace.
His thoughts raced as he held her. <What does a man do when he finally gets
everything he's ever wanted? When he realizes that he's happy for the first
time in his sorry life? He accepts it. He learns to live with it.> Her hands
were on his back, stroking and kneading and then finding their way into the
towel tied around his waist. It puddled at their feet. His hands moved to her
belt, tugged gently at the loose slipknot. The garment opened and fell away.

How many times had he seen her like this? How many times had his heart all
but stopped at her beauty? How many times had he silently implored her,<
How can you look at me like that?> Never once had she put words to the
emotions in her eyes, but did that matter? They knew each other. She didn't
have to say it.

Her hands rose and framed his face. He shivered as his knees buckled, and he
slowly sank to the bed. His erection reared up in his lap, full-bodied and
defiant. Her perfect, rose-tipped breasts were there before him, begging to be
kissed. Caressed. He ached to hear her make those sounds. To *make* her
make those sounds. His fingers trembled as he touched the succulent white
flesh. *Yes*, he thought as he looked up at her. Her eyes were dark, full of
desire, of want. Slowly he leaned forward, urged on and guided by the hand
on his neck, and carefully ran his tongue across one nipple. It hardened in his
mouth. It seemed unfathomable, and yet the evidence was there before him:
every part of her, down to the tiniest hair, was hungry for him. He opened his
mouth wider and suckled. She sagged against him with a soft moan.

It was exquisite torture to deny himself, and in the end he acquiesced not to
his own desires, but to hers. He could see the excitement in her eyes, in the
gentle part of her coral lips, could hear it in the way she breathed his name.
He could smell it too, rolling off of her like the sweetest perfume. He bit his
lip as his dick twitched impatiently. He tightened his arms around her just a
little as he looked up at her. <Top or bottom?> his eyes asked.

She blinked languidly. "Bottom," she whispered, evidently unaware that the
question had not been voiced. "I can feel you better when I'm on the
bottom." A shiver darted through her then, raising minute bumps on her arms
and torso, and she closed her eyes as she drew her lower lip into her mouth.
"I want to feel you. On me . .  and in me."

Without a word, and pausing only to yank down the bedcovers, he moved
away to make room for her. She stretched out and then reached for him.
Eagerly he moved back into her embrace, shifting his weight between her
thighs. Ever practical, she reached between their bodies to guide him. She
was ready for him, open and wet and inviting. He made a single exploratory
probe, rolling his hips to prepare her for the assault; then in a slow
movement, he delved into her, sheathing himself. She gasped his name as her
back arched. Oh sweet God in heaven, he almost lost it right then. He was
seeping. . . semen was already trickling into her, and there wasn't anything he
could do to stop it. Abruptly her contortion reversed and she curled
upwards, grinding herself against him as she pressed her forehead into the
hollow beneath his jaw. Her breath was hot on his skin and her voice rose in
pitch, took on that familiar high, singing tone. One hand moved to the small
of his back, pressing him down on her; the other latched itself into his hair,
holding without pulling, and she moaned as she pumped briefly and forcefully
against his pelvis.

It was agony, but he didn't move. He couldn't. <Don't come yet. Oh God,
think of something . . . it's time to get the car done. Gotta take it in for a
tune-up, get that little noise checked out. Time to go through the filing
cabinets and get rid of whatever isn't strictly an X-file. Have to do the . . . the
. . . oh shit, I can feel her, she's still doing it, she's still coming, Jesus in
heaven help me, she's gonna make me come and it's gonna be over too soon .
. .>

He clenched his teeth and forced a breath into his lungs. Slowly, gradually,
the awful need began to subside. She was relaxing beneath him, and his own
sanity was filtering back. He could feel her hands on his face, stroking,
drying the pearls of sweat. "Hey," he heard her whisper. "Where'd you go?"

He took a deep, quivering breath and looked at her again. Jesus, she was
beautiful! She was also expecting a response, and his brain was all but mush.
"Sorry," he mumbled, rallying enough to kiss her. "I was concentrating on
keeping it together. God, it's hard when you do that."

A little smile tugged at her mouth, at her eyes. "Do what, Mulder?"

He grunted softly as he gave his hips an exploratory push. "Figure it out. It
was all I could do not to blow right there."

Her lips pursed in a little pout, and he felt her hands glide up and down his
back. "How're you now?"

He winced. "Need a minute yet. Unless you want to end it quick and get a
good night's sleep?"

"Over my dead body, buster." Shit, the gleam was back in her eye. "What, so
you're telling me you wouldn't want me to . . ."

He eyed her sternly. "Scully . . ."

". . . say, do a few Kegels . . ."

Sweat beaded on his forehead again. "God, Scully, gimme a break!" He
groaned aloud as she clenched around him several times in quick succession,
each one tighter and more delicious than the last; and for an instant he
considered throwing any further concern to the wind and indulging himself.
A half-dozen slaps and the point would, as they say, be moot. God, no. Fight
it. Fight it. Fight *her*. He closed his eyes and bit his lower lip hard, so hard
he thought he tasted blood.

"Stop." For a minute he thought he'd been the one to speak, but then her
touch reached him. She smoothed his mouth with a finger as she made gentle
shushing sounds. "Shh. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. C'mon, look at
me." Her eyes were serious, almost solemn, as they held his. For a moment
they neither moved nor spoke. Then she drew him down and trailed soft
kisses up the side of his face, along his cheekbone to his temple. The
sweetness of the gesture was soothing, not seductive. He sighed and melted
down around her.

"You're trembling," she whispered.

He smiled into her hair. "Me Leonardo, you Kate."

He heard her own smile. Yes, they definitely came with their own sounds.
"No, I mean it. I can feel your arms trembling. Are you getting tired? How's
your leg feeling?"

He opened his eyes and scowled at her. "Don't start with the leg, Scully. Just
at the moment, I have no interest in being your patient."

Her eyes narrowed and she playfully mirrored his expression. "Nothing new
there. You're the lousiest one I could ever have." Her hands settled on his
shoulders. "So your leg's okay." He grunted shortly. "And you're not tired.
You're back in control, I can see that in your expression. So . . . if nothing
else is bothering you "

How the hell did she do it? He was a foot taller, seventy God-damned
pounds heavier, *and* relaxed . . . and yet she flipped him off her as easily as
if he weighed no more than her briefcase. He yelped as he landed on his back
beside her, his cock bereft and throbbing in protest. "Hey! Jesus, Scully, take
it easy! Ask! I'd have gotten off you, really I would . . ."

He bit back his words as she quickly straddled his hips, gliding back down
around him with a soft groan. "Ugghh. Shut up, Mulder. I wanted a change
of scenery." She looked at him hungrily as she shifted on him, rising and
falling in time to their breathing.

He clutched her hips, encouraging her movements as he steadied her. Christ
but she felt good on him; hot and fluid and yielding. Her expression was
stunning. Open. Ungoverned. Uncontrolled. Whatever she was doing to his
rational mind, he was evidently doing the same thing to hers. 

"How's the view?" he managed to gasp.

Her eyes were fast becoming glazed. "Oooh. Better. Beautiful." She winced
then as if in pain, and her tempo picked up just a little. "Oh-yes, Mulder.
God, this feels so . . . good . . . *You* . . . feel . . . good . . ." Slowly she
draped herself forward on his chest, teasing her hardened nipples in his hair.
"Let's hear it for evolution," she panted, bracing herself with a hand on either
side of his head. Her back and hips continued to undulate as she impaled
herself on him over and over. "Why else . . . would you have that hair . . . in
that particular spot. . ."

He grimaced at the fluid rush of her excitement, and his own answering
drive. Oh, he was close. So close. <Get the car tuned up. Clean out the
glovebox. Vacuum the trunk.> Her eyes were inches from his now, her nose
brushing his, her breath mingling with his in his own lungs. He was breathing
her tasting her feeling her, she was moving faster and faster, her words
dissolving away in moans and more of those high, soft, sweet cries. Her head
dropped, pressed hard against the ball of his shoulder, and she breathed his
name . . .

*Mulder . . .*

. . . and then exploded around him. Long, rapid movements suddenly became
erratic, staccato and incomplete. Her eyes clouded over and shut, her
expression becoming agonized, her breathing all but stopped. Shit, there was
no way he could hold it now. She was cleaving to him with that nethermouth,
drawing it out of him, writhing and panting and begging and goddamn
*sucking*, like a blow job only infinitely better. His blood was liquid fire, his
skin where she touched him hot and fluid, and he smelled of her, Christ the
smell, every bit of her was crying out for his release . . .

He gripped her waist hard as he pounded into her. Three, four, five . . . no
more than a dozen strokes and he felt it, the incredible heat as his explosion
began. He contorted violently beneath her, his back arched at an impossible
angle, heels digging into the bedding as he drove himself up again and again
and again into her soft, pliant heat, the searing ecstasy ripping him apart as he
screamed her name . . .

~~~~~~~~~~

Awareness returned gradually. He was facing her, lying on his side, and her
hands were gently stroking his face. Her eyes had calmed somewhat but now
they were a little worried; there was a vertical line between her brows that
only made an appearance when he was hurt and usually in the hospital. He
blinked, swearing inwardly as his eyes took their damn sweet time to focus
on her.

Her lips smoothly joined the hands on his forehead, his temples. "There you
are," she murmured.

He summoned the energy for a smile, one that she immediately mirrored, and
he was rewarded when that little line between her brows magically
disappeared. Her hands swept through his hair it was drying in spikes, he just
knew it, but for some reason he didn't care right now then settled behind his
head and drew him to her. He sighed as he nestled comfortably on her breast.
He could hear her heartbeat, still fast but beginning to even out. His own was
still unnaturally loud in his head. He sighed in contentment, and his eyes
sagged shut. No, he chided himself, it may be sorely tempting, but now
wasn't the time for sleep. This was what they'd missed that afternoon, what
that bastard Bill had denied them with his very existence. His sigh became a
soft groan as he gently kissed what skin he could reach. "Was that
passionate?" he murmured, shifting a little, pushing himself higher on the bed
so that it was her head resting on his shoulder.

She smiled as she curled herself around him. His arms encircled her, cradling
her, and his hand made slow, meandering circles on her cooling flesh.
"Mmm," she breathed, and he felt the rise and fall of her chest as she sighed.
"I think the guy in the room above us won't soon forget my name, if that's
any indication."

He smiled into her hair. "You were wrong about that weeping thing,
though."

She giggled, and he felt her nuzzle his throat. "Night's still young, Mulder.
Lots of hours ahead of us yet."

They were silent for a long time, content to experience each other through
smell and touch. Then she tipped her head back and looked at him. "Did Bill
threaten you?" she asked, as if that had been the topic between them all
along.

He smiled as he shook his head. White lies were nothing new between them.
Hell, big monstrous black lies weren't exactly uncommon. Sometimes the
truth was just too painful. Sometimes, like now, it was just damned
irrelevant. He saw no reason to upset her all over again. "Bill doesn't like
me," he replied, his tone soft, "and he doesn't make much effort to hide that
fact. If getting in my face and telling me to take care of his sister or else
constitutes a threat, then yes, he threatened me. No, he didn't say he's was
going to kick my ass or break my leg or do me in." Oops, big white lie.
Would she catch that? <Shouldn't have let that last one slip in; distract her.
Now.> "No offense, Scully I mean, I know he's your brother and all, but he's
kind of a . . ."

Her brows twitched. "A dickhead? Believe me, you aren't the first person to
notice."

He managed to hold his bland expression, though barely. "Yeah, that works.
He's lucky he has a forgiving sister you can still love him, though I don't
know quite how you manage it. I'm just glad I don't have to."

She nestled back against him shoulder, and her hand began its own lazy trek
up and down his chest. "Mmm, he's my brother, and yes, I do love him; but I
love you, too. He can't keep up this big brother strong-arm act or I'll kill him.
No one knows murder like pathologists." She abruptly pushed herself up
onto her elbow. "Hey, that reminds me did you ever see Coma? Oh, look
who I'm asking. A movie about conspiracy theories of course you saw it.
Well, I must have watched it a dozen times when I was a kid. Remember that
scene in the morgue when . . . what?" She frowned at him. "Why are you
staring at me like that?"

Was he staring? Was he smiling? Hell, right now *breathing* was difficult.
"What did you say?"

She frowned. "What, about the movie? About Bill? You'll have to be a little
more specific."

Yes, he was definitely smiling. Probably grinning like some besotted idiot,
but right now he didn't care. "You said you love me."

Her expression softened minutely. "Yes, I did say that. I do love you." Her
lips twitched. "Mulder, blink, would you? It isn't like I haven't said it before."

"You haven't."

She scowled. "Yes, I have."

His gaze didn't waver. "Name one."

At that she shrugged. "I didn't happen to catch the dates and times, I'm sorry.
I'll start to mark them down on my agenda if you'd like, so I can produce
tangible, irrefutable evidence." She stroked his face tenderly. "Mulder, would
you stop with the puppydog act? C'mon."

He leaned into her touch and closed his eyes. "Say it again. Please."

She hesitated an instant. Then, "I love you." Her lips touched his forehead,
skated along his browbone, lingered over the tender skin of his eyelids. "I
love you." *Kiss*. "I love you." *Kiss*. "I know what you're afraid of,
Mulder. I won't leave you." *Kiss*. "Never." *Kiss*. "I promise."

Okay, what had he said about not weeping? Damn, she'd made a liar out of
him, big-time. He smiled, chagrined, as she kissed away the tears that
suddenly matted his eyelashes and left big, wet tracks down the sides of his
face. She was with him. She loved him. She wasn't going anywhere. And he
believed her.

"Scully?" he blurted, grasping her face in his hands and putting her away just
enough that he could see her. She gazed at him expectantly. "Scully, what're
you doing in six months?"

Her brows knitted in a gentle scowl. "I'll . . . probably be on my way to some
backwater town with my partner to investigate Mother Theresa's image on a
tortilla chip. Why? You have something better in mind?"

His mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed to frame the
words. "I . . . I was kind of thinking of asking you what you have planned for
the rest of your life. I'd ask right now, but I don't think I could say the words.
So I thought, maybe in six months. . ."

She blinked slowly. "Mulder, are you asking what I think you're asking?"

He gave his head a shake as he stroked her cheek with his thumb. "All I'm
asking for is a date in six months." He paused and licked his lower lip. "Meet
me at the bench. Our bench. At the reflecting pool. Eight o'clock. Tell your
idiot partner to leave you the hell alone, you have a really important date."

She smiled. Jesus, if it was hard to breathe before, now it was all but
impossible. "Hey," she scolded gently, "I happen to like my idiot partner.
Where I go, he goes. Live with it, Mulder." She started to kiss him but then
drew back, a frown marring her expression. "I don't want to ruin the glow or
anything, but isn't that going to lead to problems? Skinner almost certainly
won't let us keep working together. I mean, for the time being he's giving us
room to maneuver, but that's because he's the only one who knows about us.
As soon as it gets out that we got . . . that we're . . . I mean, do you know of
*any* married partners in the Bureau?"

He shushed her with a finger over her mouth. "Scully, slow down. We'll find
a way for it to work. We always do." He kissed her lightly.

She shook her head, unconvinced. "That's easy to say now, lying here naked
and glowing," she said, pushing herself upright and clutching her knees to her
chest. "Think practically for once, would you? They'll transfer us, one if not
both. Can you live with that? Because after all I've seen and done with you, I
don't think I could ever go back to just teaching or performing autopsies or
consulting with those boneheads from Quantico it'd drive me crazy. And
*you* I can just see you trying to teach Criminal Psych over at
Georgetown."

This time he used his whole hand to silence her. "Scully, shut up." He sighed.
"Jeez, you sure know how to kill the moment, don't you? All right, for the
sake of argument, and I'm not saying we won't find some way around the
regs . . ." He held her gaze, unwavering. "Our work's been the most
important thing to me. You know that. It's driven me and kept me both sane
and crazed for almost eight years. Maybe . . . maybe it's time for that to
change. Maybe I've found something else that means more to me." He leaned
forward and nuzzled her cheek with his rough-stubbled face. "The future still
isn't set, remember? We don't know what's happening with the Syndicate, or
if their plans for colonization are going to be carried through. I'd like to think
we threw them a curve ball in Antarctica, but there's no way to know for
sure. I don't know if we'll have a year together, or half a century." He felt her
shiver at that, and he drew back and held her gaze firmly. "I don't know,
Scully, but I'm not prepared to sit back and miss out on the good stuff
because I'm afraid of the bad. If the bad's gonna happen, it's gonna happen
whether we're together or not. Right?"

She held his gaze for a long moment, and he thought she was going to offer
up another objection; then her eyes closed, and she sighed gently as she
nodded. "I suppose you have a point."

He allowed himself a ghost of a smile. "Damn right I do. And as far as the
Bureau is concerned . . . well, what they don't know won't hurt them."

She stiffened again at that. "I know what you're thinking, Mulder, but I don't
want to lie about this. You're pretty damned important to me too, you know.
Jesus, it's been difficult enough these past couple of months, walking through
those damn halls, knowing people are watching and whispering about us, and
not being about to touch you or hold your hand . . . some days I have to fight
the urge to drag you into Kersh's office and lay a big one on you." She smiled
when his eyes widened. "Seriously, I don't . . . I mean, I want . . ."

He silenced her again, this time with his own mouth. Her resistence was
fleeting. "We'll deal with it," he murmured, laying a path of soft, wet kisses
down her neck to her shoulder. She sighed and slowly unfolded herself
beside him. "I promise, we'll do this, Scully. And when someone objects to
federal officers making out in the elevator . . . well, we'll jump off that bridge
when we get there." He gently settled her on her back and turned his
attention to the soft, pale skin of her throat. "So, is it a date? Six months?
The reflecting pool?"

He smiled when a sigh rippled through her. "All right," she whispered,
stroking his hair with a warm, steady hand. She moaned softly at his tender
ministrations. "So, now that that's decided, what're we going to do with
ourselves the rest of the night?"

He glanced over his shoulder at the wine bucket, at the plate of high-priced
snacks. "I'm going to feed my partner in bed," he murmured, kissing her
cheek, her jaw, her earlobe, "and we're gonna drink wine, and probably
watch some sappy movies on the tube; and I'm going to make love to her
some more, then hold her and watch her while she sleeps my partner's
beautiful, did I ever tell you that? Then tomorrow we're going to drag our
asses out of here and go back to her place or my place, I'm easy and we'll do
it some more. And she's probably going to drive me crazy asking how my leg
is, and is the scar itchy, and I shouldn't be doing power moves like pounding
her up against the wall yet, and besides, what are the neighbors going to say .
. . and I'm going to love her for every irritating word she utters."

She smiled against his mouth. "Mmm, sounds like your partner's as idiotic as
mine is."

He snorted softly with laughter. "Hey, take it easy on her. She means well.
She takes care of me."

She rolled him over and nestled herself comfortably under him. "Mmm, lucky
woman. She has what I've wanted for years."

He kissed and then carefully bit her neck. Gentle suction brought a nice pink
mark to the surface, just in the shape of his mouth. He smiled. God, she was
going to kill him when she saw it. "One thing about her that grinds my ass,"
he said, kissing the mark.

Her fingers were combing themselves through his hair. "What's that?"

He affected a harried sigh. "Well . . . she won't let me do this at work.
Something about propriety . . . professionalism . . . conducting ourselves in a
manner befitting our position, which I gotta admit, just at the moment is
pretty damn tasty . . ."

She silenced him with a long, hard kiss. "Shut up, Mulder, and feed me
already."

~~~~~~~~~~

The answering machine picked up on the fourth ring, and the outgoing
message announced itself to both the caller and the empty apartment. <This
is Fox Mulder. Can't make it to the phone. You know what to do.>

"Agent Mulder, this is Skinner. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but I felt I
should give you a heads-up on this, and I can't get through on your
cellphone. Accounting is kicking up a stink about your expense reports. I'm
afraid I can't deter them this time: the X-Files division is going to be audited.
Uh, you have until ten a.m. Monday to get yourselves organized. At that
time, you are both to report to Accounting to be interviewed. Uh, if you have
anything that might substantiate your expenditures, any facts or articles you
haven't already filed through this office, this would be a good time to present
them." There was a pause. "Mulder, I have to warn you, they're serious this
time. I, uh, have some concerns, but . . .not on this damn machine. If you get
in before midnight, I'd appreciate a phonecall. You can reach me at the
office." There was another pause, longer this time. "I've already left a similar
message on Agent Scully's answering service. If you see her, would you be
so kind as to explain the situation to her. Uh, I'll . . . see you both on
Monday. Good, uh, good night."

~~~~~~~~~~
End, More Than A River