TITLE: Lost and Found
AUTHOR: JLB (amory20@aol.com)
CLASSIFICATION: V, A, MSR
SPOILERS: only specific one "Paper Hearts"
RATING: R 
SUMMARY: Mulder is lost...
DISCLAIMER: still not mine. :( rightful property of CC and 1013.
FEEDBACK: oh please!  Amory20@aol.com
ARCHIVE: anywhere, but if it's the first time, please drop me a line.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: this was started prior to "millennium" so that fabulous scene 
you saw at the end of it didn't happen in my little world.  big thanks to my 
wonderful beta reader who in the midst of all sorts of RL concerns finds the 
time to read my stuff.  you're the best, michelle! 
hope you enjoy the story.


Lost and Found by JLB (1/3)
(amory20@aol.com)


When word finally comes, it's close to midnight.  

They've been waiting for almost two hours -- two
excruciatingly long hours where every tick of the clock
seems to signify impending doom, inspiring more fear
than hope.  She can practically hear his heart beat, loud
and frantic, as if she had her ear pressed to his chest, 
the starched white of his shirt front under her cheek.

The office is cold and dark and terribly silent.  Shadows
paint the room as they sit together, quiet and unmoving.

The lab is working quickly as a favor to her, because she 
managed to maintain some good will with fellow agents 
after descending into the dark basement world.  Now, like
Mulder, she doesn't play well with others.  She just wants
to be left alone, alone with him, so they can do their work, 
so they can quietly go about their business, the only people
in their dreary, silent world.

But when the intrusion finally comes, when an outsider finally
manages to push his way inside, it is in the form of a phone
call -- a dull, toneless voice providing the DNA results she
expects, dreads, hopes for, distrusts.

She hasn't told him but this is the second time she's had the
test run.  Earlier this afternoon, she received positive results,
but she couldn't accept them at face value, couldn't trust so 
easily -- another consequence of working with him so long she 
imagines -- and asked another technician to run them again.  
They couldn't have gotten to everyone in the Bureau Lab, she 
tells herself, forces herself to believe.

What she also hasn't told him, can't tell him, is that part of
her desperately wants to believe the results, hopes for a match.
For his sake.  To put an end to it, once and for all.  But she barely
acknowledges this desire within herself.  She feels it, tearing
at her, rising within her, but she stamps it out, forces it back
down to the dark place inside herself that she never studies too
closely.

So they sit tensely in his office -- he is huddled behind his desk,
eyes hooded, clothes rumpled, while she sits stiffly in front of
him, examining fingers that desperately need a manicure, playing
with a loose thread at the hem of her blazer.  He is so quiet, 
faraway, as if he's already gotten the answer and is trying to
make sense of it, lost in some thick fog, some raging storm,
somewhere she can't follow.

She maintains the silence, respecting his mood, his need to just
sit -- no noise, no small talk, no weak assurances that everything
will be all right.  He doesn't want that from her.  In seven years, 
he's asked for nothing but the truth, for the cold, hard facts her
science could provide.  It's what he wants even now -- now when 
everything he's worked for is on the line, when everything he's
lived for these past seven years could be taken away by unyielding
scientific procedure.

And yet, when the phone rings and pierces through the silence like  
a dull knife, she is tempted to throw it to the ground, stomp on
it, break it into a hundred pieces -- the satisfying crunch of plastic
and wires beneath her shoes.  He jerks up at the shrill ring, and
stares at the phone, confused almost, before turning soft, sleepy
eyes to her -- pleading, asking.

With a surprisingly steady hand, she reaches for the phone, turning
her back to him, unable to watch him as the results are confirmed
for her.

"Scully."

"Agent Scully?  This is Carleson from the Lab.  I've got those results
you've been waiting for," a flat yet vaguely kind voice tells her.

"Go ahead," she says tightly, her hand gripping the edge of the desk.
Behind her, she can feel him watching, feel his eyes resting on her 
with gentle insistence.

"The DNA sample you brought us is a match with the body they
found in Baltimore," he says blandly.  "I see this is the second
time we've got these results so I'm assuming there haven't been
any lab errors."

"I see," she says slowly.  "Thanks Carleson.  I appreciate
your staying to get this done."  She plays with the phone cord,
her body shaking, her head beginning to throb.

"No problem.  I'll send you a copy of the results tomorrow.
Have a good night, Agent Scully."

She doesn't respond, but keeps the phone pressed to her ear
for a moment, unable to turn and face him.  Unable to say
the words, to explain this to him.  

"Scully?"  His deep, husky voice cuts through the pain in 
her head, pulls her back to him.

Turning, she hangs up the phone, keeping her eyes on the
surface of his desk -- the half-empty bag of sunflower 
seeds, the scattered file folders, a pack of gum, the paper clip
necklace he made her only two days before when they were
a world a way, teasing one another in the face of a light 
caseload.  Playing carelessly in the cool, dark of his office.

She picks up the chain of paper clips, and toys with it for a 
second, slides it through her fingers.  He made her wear it 
for an entire afternoon, told her it was a gift for surviving
her hundredth mutant. She remembers the way he smiled 
as he finished fastening it around her neck -- the dreamy
softening of his eyes as he looked at her. 

She remembers a park now.  She remembers watching him claw
through the soil and leaves to find that small, broken body,
hoping for answers, terrified that he might finally get them.
In that park, he was desperate, frantic, and even then -- so
long ago it feels -- she loved him, could feel her heart
contracting with his pain as she kneeled beside him to
help him dig, their fingers tearing through the rocky dirt
together.  She couldn't have done anything else, not when he
pleaded with her -- his eyes, his words, the ragged tone of 
his voice.  

Again, he's asking her to help him dig, to help him
find his truth.  There isn't any way to refuse him, even if it
means hurting him, stripping him of the one dream he's held 
on to for years.  

"Scully..." he entreats again, more softly this time, his 
voice cracking just a bit.  Her eyes fly up to his -- the 
watery hazel fading even as she watches.

She lowers her eyes before speaking, steeling herself.  "The
test results determined that there is a match," she says
quietly.  "This is Samantha."  

She keeps her eyes on his as long as possible, watches
his eyes flutter closed, his chin crumble, his lower lip
begin to tremble.  And before she can get to him, before
she can lay a hand on him to comfort, he's crying -- soft,
barely audible sobs but his body shakes with the effort.

"Mulder.... Mulder, I'm so sorry," she says as she crouches
beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I am so sorry."

"Scully..." he moans, almost wails as his head falls to her 
shoulder, as his body collapses against hers.  She holds him,
pulling his weight against her, supporting him with her small
body.

"Mulder..." she whispers, stroking his hair.  "It's okay, Mulder.
It's okay."

"I didn't ever think..." he says brokenly against her neck. "All
these years I believed I could find her.  That we could know
each other again."

She rocks him now, falling to her knees, pulling him fully out
of his chair.  Stroking his back, she tries to whisper soothingly
in his ear, console him. But she knows there isn't a single word
that can comfort him now.  There aren't words to replace all he's
lost.  So she holds him, because that's all she knows how to do.

"Mulder, let me take you home," she says finally, after sitting on
the dusty floor with him for several minutes.  His shaking has
gotten worse, his breathing is more erratic, and he has begun
clawing at her back like a frightened animal.  "Let's get you
home."

He lifts his head from her neck, and stares at her wildly,
lost.  Instead of moving away to stand up, he just holds 
her tighter, pulls her closer, staring at her face with 
glazed eyes.  She brushes a hand over his cheek, just 
before she leans in and kisses his forehead.  His skin
is cool and damp, and her dry lips revel in the feel of
it.

"Home," she says quietly, moving to stand up, pulling 
him with her.


*****


He is lost.

Almost literally, she realizes, as he drunkenly wanders down
the hallway, unable to recognize his surroundings, remember
his own apartment number.  She runs up after him, laying
a gentle hand on his back, guiding him in the right direction
as he often does with her.

He stumbles through the doorway, and once inside, simply
stands there, hands clenched in fists at his side, eyes half-
closed with pain.  He's in a trance, teetering on the brink of
physical shock, and she wants to get him into bed as quickly
as possible.  She can't take his blank stare any longer, the
trembling of his lips as he silently sobs.

In her vast array of knowledge, she does not have the means
to deal with him emotionally, mentally, so she relies on her
medical training to provide the answers.  She will take care
of him physically if nothing else.

He's like a rag doll now, so limp and easy to move she almost
derives some pleasure from it, from being able to push her
large, solid partner around at her will.  But the tortured look
of his eyes, the ragged breathing, lips that keep moving 
without making a sound, strip all pleasure from the experience.
She has never seen him so hurt, so hopelessly lost, and she's
terrified because she doesn't know how to bring him back.

"Mulder, let's get you into bed.  Okay?" she says slowly, quietly,
careful not to startle him with a loud voice.  He doesn't respond,
doesn't even look in her direction.  She wraps her arm around his
middle and begins to move him towards the bedroom.  

Staggering like a drunk beside her, he begins to mumble 
incoherently.  She can't make out any actual words, though the 
inflection alone tells her it's something pained, broken.  She 
closes her eyes against the desolation of it all.

Inside the bedroom, he stops in front of the bed, perfectly still,
staring at it blankly.  He's shaking again, thrumming like a 
shivering child, and she moves to turn down the comforter and 
sheets.  She searches through his closet for an extra blanket to
throw across the bed, feeling like an intruder as she moves
intimately among his belongings, as if she's done it a hundred
times before.  When she returns to his side, he's moved closer
to the bed, his knees bumping the edge as he slowly bounces
up and down on his legs.

"Mulder, you need to get out of these clothes," she says softly,
gingerly reaching for his silk tie.

She feels incredibly self-conscious stripping him of his clothes,
nervous and embarrassed to be excited by the actions, guilty when  
she realizes he is virtually unaware of her. He stands absolutely
still, allowing her to slowly divest him of his tie, shirt, and pants.
When she gets him down to his boxers, she ushers him to the bed,
and he falls to his side, pulling his knees up to his chest and 
rocking slightly.  As she moves to pull the blankets against him,
he reaches for her, bringing her onto the bed beside him, curling 
himself around her like she's a teddy-bear, a beloved toy that can
keep the monsters away.

She thinks for a moment that she should fight him, should pull 
herself out of his arms, out of his bed, but his eyes -- the wet,
shattered hazel -- keep her where she is.  He's lost now, and 
she's something he can recognize, hold on to.

"It's okay, Mulder," she whispers soothingly, stroking his hair and
neck with warm hands.  "It's okay."  He begins to cry again, against
her neck -- long, loose sobs that wet her skin, chilling her.  She
pulls the blankets up against them, and lets him move his body 
against hers as he wants -- pressing into her, sinking into her
body.

"She's gone ... she's really gone," he repeats brokenly, his voice so
soft, so raw that Scully shudders lightly.

"Mulder..." 

"It's over.  There's nothing left."  His voice is low, wavering in
the darkness of the bedroom.

"No, Mulder. No... I'm here.  I'm here..." she says firmly, knowing
she'll stay with him as long as needs, as long as he wants.

Slowly he lifts his head from her neck, their eyes meeting, and
he breathes shakily against her face.  His lower lip trembles as 
he nods.

"Yeah ... yes," he says hoarsely.  "You're everything, Scully.  You're
all I have."  He lays his forehead against hers, closing his eyes.

She panics at his words, understanding the enormity of his 
statement. For Mulder, it is the truth.  Samantha -- the physical
being, the idea, the memory, all the she was for him -- is gone.
His quest, which bore her name since the beginning, can never
be the same.  His reasons, his goal, will have to change, evolve,
expand.  And all that Mulder can see now, will see, is Scully.  It's
almost too much responsibility, too much pressure for one person.

But now, with him broken and inconsolable in her arms, she knows
she'll do anything to make things right for him again.  If it means
becoming his personal cause, taking Samantha's place, then that's
what she'll do.  She won't let Mulder be lost.

"I'm here, Mulder.  I'm not going anywhere," she tells him, rubbing
his back beneath the thick cotton of his sheets. She's still in her
suit, still has her shoes on beneath the layers of bedding. But 
with each moment she feels a little more of her armor slipping,
feels herself being revealed.

"You should get some sleep.  Can you sleep at all, Mulder?" she asks,
trying to get a look at his eyes.

He lifts his head again, and looks at her for a long moment.  
His eyes are bright -- glassy and sharp in the dark bedroom. 
She sees words trying to form themselves on his lips, and
attempts to decipher them.  Finally he speaks.  

"Scully... I... I need..." he trails off, squeezing her waist gently, trying
to burrow himself into her, melt through the skin and muscle and bone.
It's not enough to simply touch her.  He wants more, needs more from
her.

In a haze of fear and doubt, she forces herself to make a decision.
Nothing has ever been so difficult before, but she chooses. She
chooses a path, and charges down it.

"Take what you need, Mulder," she says quietly, her hands still moving
slowly across the bare skin of his back.

His wet eyes focus on her intently, and he nods, a lock of hair falling
across his forehead.  With shaking fingers, she brushes it back from his
face, and watches as his gaze falls to her body, which is now beneath 
him -- slowly but surely, he has worked his way on top of her, so 
gradually she doesn't notice until this moment, until it matters.  

His hands move to her chest, fingering the silky fabric of her blouse.  
She can still feel the tremors in his body, but he's quieter now, 
softly pressing his body into hers.  He plays with the pearly grey 
buttons of her blouse, and she can feel the heat of his fingers even
though he's not touching her directly.  She feels like she's burning,
like the surface of her skin is on fire, a hundred tiny flames all
igniting under his hands.

Without looking at her, without a word, he begins to open her blouse,
gently, delicately, parting the fabric with care.  His breathing is 
ragged the entire time, but it seems to become more labored as
the black lace of her bra is revealed.  Scully looks down at herself,
her chest flushed a deep red, straining against the lace almost
painfully.  Her heart pounds so rapidly, so noisily she has to
believe he can hear it.  She closes her eyes as he smoothes his 
hand over it, almost as if he's trying to learn its rhythm, its 
pace.


~~~~~



She wants to watch, she wants to see what is unfolding here in 
Mulder's dark, quiet bedroom, but her eyes slip shut against her
will.  She has to force them open, so she can see him, see Mulder
touching her body, trying to find himself again.

"You're so warm, Scully," he whispers in a rough, awed voice. His
fingers gently brush over the skin above her bra, so lightly she 
almost wonders if she's imagining it.  "So warm..."

He lays his head against her, rubbing a stubbled cheek against
her breasts, and she holds him against her, one hand stroking
his shoulder, the other winding through his hair.

As she begins to sink into the blur of sensations, she hears him.
The sobbing returning again -- quietly, but fiercely, the shaking
getting worse, gasping for air ever few minutes.  She feels his 
mouth opening and closing against her skin -- hot, moist breath
thrilling her, sending her reeling.

She tries to tell herself to focus, to concentrate on Mulder, on his
pain and loss, but it's so difficult.  His body feels wonderfully
heavy against hers, solid and warm, and her hands keep moving 
against his skin -- chastely but entirely of their own accord.
This isn't about pleasure or desire.  He needs her to comfort
him, to make him feel less alone.

But suddenly his mouth falls closed again, against the lace, around
her breast, and she almost jerks off the bed at the sensation.  He 
stops, dead-still for a moment, crying quieted.  She panics --
she can't believe he feels like this, that this is how wet and hot
his mouth is, how easily he can affect her.  He seems to share
her sense of fear and wonder as he remains motionless, lips
still closed tightly around her.  

Before a word can be spoken, an explanation found, he's suckling 
her softly, carefully through the thin lace of her bra.  She hardly
notices that she's still clothed, his mouth so warm and strong on
her body.  

Her eyes close again as she feels his hand moving her bra out
of the way -- he doesn't bother to undo the clasp.  He simply
pushes the lace down, and exposes her breasts to his warm 
breath.  She wants to cry because it all feels so good, she
feels so alive, but Mulder is broken in pieces around her, 
hurt and confused, trying to recover himself by touching
her.  

Before she can apologize to him, before her conscience can
get the better of her, he returns his mouth to her skin,
laying wet kisses on the sides of her breasts, finally
settling in to suck at her again, gently but thoroughly. When
she feels his teeth scraping against her, she sighs, and it 
sounds indecently loud to her own ears, echoing off the bare
walls of his bedroom.

She's dreamed about this kind of thing before -- never full
details though.  She'd only allow herself vague, hazy ideas 
of it, shapeless conceptions that didn't focus on their 
bodies, on physical pleasure.  She couldn't let her mind
work that way, wouldn't permit such an important, pure
connection be tainted by tawdry fantasies, torrid daydreams.

Still, she imagined being with him, as more than a partner and 
friend. Some kind of deeper bond, something freer and more open. 
But she always imagined it would be some sort of culmination, the
reward at the end of a long, cruel journey.  She didn't ever want
it to happen in such a dark, sad place.  But his mouth feels so right
on her, so perfect, and she doesn't want to question it.  She doesn't
want to question her feelings for him ever again.

His mouth leaves her breast suddenly, and she feels the loss
like physical pain.  Mulder moves his fingers up to play with
her salvia-slicked skin, as he lays his cheek against her again,
nuzzling, rubbing his nose in the valley between her breasts.

"Scully... I feel so... I'm so tired," he whispers against her body.
She shudders lightly, and he pulls her closer.

Despite the blood pounding through her body, despite the 
desperate ache he's created inside her, Scully forces her 
attention back to him, to his well-being.  This isn't 
something to be rushed into anyway.  Mulder has suffered
such a devastating loss, and there's no way to be certain
this is truly what he wants.  It's best to hold back.

"Mulder, you should sleep.  I've got something in my bag 
that will help.  I'll go get it and be right back. Okay?"
she says calmly, forcing herself to revert to Doctor 
mode, allowing herself only a brief kiss to his forehead.  
She feels him nod, and slide off her slightly so she 
can get up.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pulls her bra back
into place.  The lace sticks to her skin, and she adjusts
it until its comfortable.  Almost in a daze, she moves 
through his apartment, getting the pills, a glass of water
making sure the door is locked.

When she returns, he's lying on his side, facing the doorway,
eyes sleepy but still alert.

"Will you take these for me?" Scully holds up the blue pills in
her hand, knowing she's treating him like a little boy but
sensing this is what he needs -- to be that twelve-year old boy 
who lost his sister, finally granted permission to grieve.

He nods his head against the pillow, and sits up against the 
headboard.  She watches as he swallows, watches the 
movements of his throat in an almost scientific, detached
manner -- she has to get control of herself, and her role as 
scientist, doctor is the only way she knows how.  He slides 
back down beneath the blankets, and looks at her expectantly.
She realizes she is standing beside his bed, flushed, blouse
hanging open -- there is an almost audible crash as she 
feels her cool, rational facade shatter around her.

"Scully..." Mulder whispers sadly.  "Please stay.  I don't
want to be alone..."  His lower lip sticks out slightly, and 
his eyes cloud in the minimal light, all soft and smoky as
he reaches a hand out to her.

"I won't leave, Mulder," she tells him softly, declaring it
to herself in the same moment.  She sits on the edge of the
bed, and removes her shoes.  Then her blazer falls to the floor,
her blouse along with it, and she thoughtlessly crawls back 
into Mulder's bed.

As she settles down on her back, Mulder moves against her
again, returning his head to her breasts as he clutches her
waist.

"My sister..." he starts to say, but the words seem to get 
caught in his throat, and he gives up, sighing softly.

"Shhh..." she soothes.  "It's okay, Mulder.  It's okay."

He rolls restlessly in her arms, as if he can't get 
comfortable. "You can sleep now, sweetie," she whispers 
against his hair, the dark, thick strands tickling her lips.

"You won't leave?" he mumbles sleepily, his yawn raining 
warm, moist air on her again, thrilling her all over again.

"I won't leave," she assures him.

He rubs his cheek against her chest in appreciation, then
goes still.  She feels his breathing even out, and tries to
calm herself as well.  The bedroom is dark and cool and 
silent.  Mulder is safely in her arms, where he can't hurt
himself or run off without her.

There's nothing else she can do now.

*****

She dreams. 

Lying in Mulder's bed, his body heavy against hers, she dreams.
Hazy, blurry scenes, grainy black and white images without sound,
hauntingly simple.  Like dreams she's had a hundred times before,
she's wandering, alone, with some vague purpose in mind.  The 
landscape around her changes slowly -- sometimes she's walking
through a dense forest, unable to see the sky above her through 
the thick canopy of trees.  Then she's in a lovely, overgrown rose
garden, the flowers tangled in intricate patterns at her feet.

She ends up at the ocean though, still unable to remember what it is
she's supposed to be doing.  The water is dark and foamy, pounding
the sand mercilessly, and she's frightened, shivering on the shoreline
helplessly.  She tries to turn back, to find her way back to the garden
but before she can move, a flicker of light, bright white, lands on the 
crest of a wave, and she sees a figure, a man, bobbing up and down in
the raging black water.  She calls out -- she can't hear her voice, what
she says, but her mouth opens and she can feel her vocal chords being
stretched, strained.  The swimmer can't hear her, or he ignores her --
she's not sure which -- and continues swimming out, back to her,
disappearing under the next wave.  She stands still, calling, crying out
soundlessly to the empty ocean.

When she wakes sometime later -- darkness still covering the bedroom,
the sky outside the window still a purply black -- Mulder is over her,
sliding down her body gracefully, like a dancer almost.  He settles with
his head on her stomach, and begins kissing her warm body, licking the 
skin around her navel.  She shivers, and he looks up at her, dark, shining
eyes boring into her.

"Scully..." he whispers thickly, his fingers now following the path his 
mouth has abandoned.  "I want... I need to..."

She wonders, fleetingly, if this is simply another dream, wishful
thinking, and she almost expects to wake up in a moment, before 
she gets to the good part, Mulder still asleep at her breast like a
baby.  She's scared to become too involved, to get too caught up in
case this warm, dreamy scene turns out to be nothing but fantasy.
  
"Scully..." he whispers again, such insistence in his tone, such need.
"Please..."  He fingers the zipper at the side of her pants, looking up
at her again with a smoldering pout that makes her tremble.

She nods slowly, watching him with dark, serious eyes, licking
her lips quickly as she moves her hands to his shoulders and aligns
his body over hers.

"Can I..." he asks slowly, hands moving toward her breasts, to
the clasp of her bra.  "Can I?"

There is only one answer, she knows.  Only one right answer.  
The word sticks in her throat, but she forces it out as she
closes her eyes.

"Yes."

She feels him hesitate for a moment, keeping his body perfectly
still over hers.  But then he moves, pulling at the clasp of her 
bra, helping her out of it, tossing it gently to the foot of the
bed.  Then he's sliding down her body once again. Stopping at 
her waist to pull down the zipper -- she hears the soft sound
that it makes as it falls and she realizes there is still time 
to turn back.  She could stop this now.  She could put him to
bed, grab her clothes from the floor, and walk away.  It
would be the safe thing.  The reasonable thing.  But so 
cruel too.  To Mulder, to herself.  To what they are to each 
other, have always been.

By the time she decides not to protest, he's already removed 
the rest of her clothes.  She is bare, exposed to the cool air  
in his room, yet she feels so warm, so comfortable under his
body.  He's at the edge of the bed, kissing her ankles, nipping
gently at her calves, covering her knees with quick, hot kisses. 

And then she feels his mouth between her thighs, and she is 
nearly undone.  It's been so long -- too long -- since she's felt
anything like this, the sensations hitting her more quickly than
she can process them, and with his tongue, his lips burning 
against her, she can't think at all.  She can't think of Samantha,
of that loss.  She can't think of their partnership, of how it will
be affected.  She can't think of colonization, the fate of the 
world.  She can't think of control, of what she's giving up to him.
The only coherent thought that filters through her mind as 
sensation takes a hold of her body is Mulder.  

Mulder... Mulder doing these things to her... Mulder needing her...
Mulder finally making love to her...Mulder...

She forces herself to open her eyes briefly, to watch his dark
head moving between her legs, and she falls back against the
pillows, coming so hard she can't even speak his name.  No
words, just a low, strangled cry that echoes through the room.


~~~~~~~


He lifts his head, finally removing his mouth from her body,
and looks up at her.  Sad, empty hazel eyes that beg for 
something -- something she can't identify or name.  She 
feels as if she should know without asking, that he would
know if their roles were reversed, and she hates herself
for being so confused.

"Mulder..." she whispers breathlessly, afraid of actual words,
actual sentences.  She lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing 
gently as she tries to bring him up to her.  She can barely 
move, and it's so hard to speak.

"It's you.  You're here," he says hoarsely as he moves up her
body.  His face is just inches from hers, and she can feel him
against her thigh, warm and ready.  "Tell me, Scully." 

Suddenly she knows what he needs to hear.  Suddenly the 
words form themselves in her mind, and she knows exactly
what to say, how to say it.

"You saved *me*, Mulder," she says, sliding her hands beneath
his boxers.  "You brought me back."

He closes his eyes at her words, and sighs deeply, almost as if
he's trying to breathe them in, graft them to his body so he can 
believe.  She pulls off his boxers with little help from him, and
then they are skin to skin, need to need.  All the time she's spent
at his side and she never knew he would feel like this, never
allowed herself to imagine he could so soft and hard all at the
same time -- so warm and solid and real.

As she holds him to her -- his weight on top of her reminding 
her that they are both alive, together and alive -- he grabs her  
face with both hands, staring at her with an intensity that makes
her squirm against him.

"Show me," he tells her in a rough voice.  "Show me, Scully."

She has never imagined this before, never permitted such
vivid fantasy about being warm and naked in Mulder's bed,
beneath him, feeling him move against her, focused on her body
so intently.  It's terrifying, she realizes.  Absolutely terrifying.
But she came in Mulder's bed... Mulder made her come, made all 
the thinking in her head grind to a dizzying halt.  It's just a 
matter of following through now.  He needs her, needs to feel 
the life in her, between them, as he's never needed anything
before.  Tonight she can't have doubts, she can't hesitate.

So she reaches for him, guiding him wordlessly to her, preparing 
for that initial contact, that first step, part of her convinced that
as soon as he is inside her, the room will burst into flames, the
ground will open up and swallow them, he'll disappear right before
her eyes.

But it doesn't happen -- he enters slowly, so agonizingly slow are his
movements that she doesn't think she can stand it, that she'll have to 
make him stop.  He picks up the pace before she crumbles, moving 
against her desperately, fiercely, and she holds on, trying to match
him, to keep up.

When he comes, it seems to surprise them both.  They've almost 
forgotten that they are working towards a goal, an end.  The simple
feeling of being joined, moving against one another, moving together,
warm slick skin meeting warm slick skin is more than enough.
Anything else -- the frenzied physical release -- is just affirmation.

He shouts her name, cries out in surprise, in fear almost, and pulls
her with him, her entire world distilling in that moment to Mulder --
his body, his breath, his scent -- and she hears herself calling out too,
deep and low, letting his heavy weight cover her, ground her again.

She falls asleep now quickly, easily. 

*****

In the early morning, dim light filters through the bare bedroom
windows.  Outside, the sky is still dark, purple and hazy before
sunrise.  It is silent in his room, only the occasional rustle of 
sheets, soft breathing, body moving against body.

She's warm in his bed, drowsy and unguarded as she feels his 
hair brush her shoulder, his hand moving whisper-soft against
her side.  She tries in vain to remember if it's a work day, if
there's a case to be worked on.  Regardless, Mulder's in no shape 
for the office, she decides, and neither is she.

"Scully..." he says quietly, his mouth close to her ear.  "Are
 you okay?"

She marvels for a moment that despite all he's gone through,
all he's lost, he can still see beyond himself, worry himself
about her.  

"I'm fine," she says calmly, pushing a strand of hair out of
her eyes.

He is still beside her, his body going rigid at her words.  For a 
second, she doesn't even think she can hear him breathing --
he is entirely motionless and unresponsive on the other side
of the bed.  And so she reconsiders -- he deserves more from 
her, especially after everything that's happened.

"I'm good, Mulder," she says, warmly now, pleasantly.

"I can attest to that," he says, turning on his side to smile
at her across the pillows.

She tries to smile in return, but she feels the tension,
the emptiness even in the warmth of his bed.

"Scully..." His voice is serious now -- tight, aching.  "I didn't
mean to... I wasn't planning on..."  He closes his eyes, rubbing
at them with rough fingers.

She would say something if she knew what he needed to hear,
what she needed to say.  

"Jesus ... I can't explain what I--"

"Mulder, I don't do anything that I don't want to do.  You know 
that."  Her voice is high, the truth making her uncomfortable
and agitated, but it's firm, leaving no room for him to doubt.
She plays with the sheets, twisting a corner between her
fingers roughly.

"I know, Scully.  I think I know that anyway," he says quietly, 
sounding more like himself than he has all night.  "But I didn't
even think about it.  I didn't want to stop and think because I 
just... Jesus, Scully I need you more than I have any right to."
He's not looking at her, his eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling.

She feels her heart beat double time in her chest.  There is
nothing to say.  She doesn't know how to respond.  Instead
she lies beside him, trying to will her body to relax.  He 
slides closer to her, his front pressed to her side, head
dropping to her shoulder, and brushes his hand over her 
body, gently, lightly, almost as if he's afraid to touch her.

"I used to imagine that I was an uncle," he says suddenly,
quietly, as he traces circles around her navel with his 
finger.  "I used to wonder if her kids would look like
me at all... I hope not.  No one deserves this nose."  She 
feels him smile against her shoulder.

She laughs quietly, nervously, because she doesn't know
what else to do. 

"Sometimes I'd imagine introducing the two of you ... the 
way you'd smile and whisper about me, compare notes.  
I knew you'd like one another.  I knew, and I thought we'd
all..."  His hand stills on her stomach then, fingers spread 
wide across her waist.

"Christ, you're so tiny," he says, awed almost. "I never
realized you were so tiny."

"That's because I'm always wearing those massive heels," 
she says, trying to keep her tone light.  "I'd get a crick in
my neck if I had to look up at you all day." She smiles tightly,
nervous again, and ruffles his hair like she would a little 
boy.

"She hated peanut butter," he says quietly, ignoring her words.
"She couldn't be a normal kid and eat peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches ... she ate jelly sandwiches.  Nothing but bread and
grape jelly.  It was disgusting."  He's speaking directly into her
skin, lips moving softly against her shoulder, tickling, warming.

He moves his hand to her thigh, massaging it absently.  She 
closes her eyes for a moment, allowing herself one brief second
to revel in the knowledge of what she and Mulder have done, one
second to enjoy the simple physical pleasure of his fingers intimately
touching her skin, before she concentrates on him again, on the
situation at hand.

"Mulder, it's okay to remember her.  It's good to hold onto those
memories--"

"But that's just it, Scully," he says quickly, squeezing her thigh
tightly before returning his hand to her waist.  "It's been twenty-
six years.  I've forgotten so many things.  I told myself it didn't 
matter because one day I'd find her, and I'd know her again.  Know
the woman she'd become.  We'd have new memories."

He looks up at her from her shoulder, a dreamy, sad look in
his eyes as he lays a soft kiss on the side of her neck.  She
can't imagine what he's feeling.  She knows the pain of losing
a sister, of knowing there's nothing you can do to bring her
back, of feeling responsible for the loss.  But this is beyond
the realm of her comprehension -- working for years to find
her, coming close so many times, fearing the worst, yet 
somehow maintaining hope, faith and pushing forward ... only
to learn how cruel fate can be, to know that for years she had
been alive -- a wife, a mother maybe -- living only forty-five
minutes away, and if you'd just tried harder, worked longer, 
been more focused, you could have been with her, for however
brief a period.  

She can't even fathom how that feels -- though she imagines
it might be something like finding a little girl you never knew
you had, a beautiful little girl who symbolizes all that you 
suddenly realize you want, and then watching her die, standing
by helplessly because there's nothing you can do to save her. 
Maybe it's a similar feeling -- she shivers when she thinks 
about that.  All the pain she and Mulder have endured, all the
different kinds of aches they've felt over the years.

"Sometimes..." he interrupts her thoughts, his voice hitching
for a moment.  "Sometimes I'll wake up, and I can't remember
what her voice sounded like.  I'll try to remember something 
she said to me once, the exact words, but it's all just... I 
wonder if I've just created it all in my head, this image of
her -- that her voice sounded like that, that her hair was 
exactly that shade.  I can't ever be sure.  I won't ever know..."
He lays his head against her breast, rubbing his cheek against
her skin slowly.

"Mulder, it's okay.  It's okay."  She holds him against her as
tightly as she can, and before she's realizes it's happening,
she's crying -- hot, salty tears running down her face, 
collecting in the hollow of throat. 

They lay together in Mulder's bed, fitted together like some
intricate puzzle, her tears wetting them both.

Scully doesn't even know who's she crying for -- For Mulder?  For
Samantha?  For herself ... all the people she's lost, all the time that's
been taken from her, all the things she'll never have?

There is Mulder though -- Mulder who's so open and beautiful and 
alone and afraid -- a gift she's never truly allowed herself to 
appreciate.  

"Mulder..." she says, raising a hand to dry her cheeks.  "Mulder,
you have every right in the world to need me.  Don't ever feel
ashamed about that."

He shakes his head against her body, and for a moment, she
doesn't think he's understood her.  He starts moving 
restlessly in her arms, then suddenly pulls himself out
of her grasp, and sits up against the headboard.  She gasps 
slightly when he grabs her, and pulls her into his embrace,
when he cradles her like she's a child, in need of soothing
before she'll go to sleep.

"Scully, I can't..." he sighs against the top of her hair,
and it unnerves her for some reason that she can't see
his eyes, his mouth, the lines in his forehead. "We both
know I ask too much of you.  I came into your life
and started making all kinds of unreasonable demands.
And you were there.  You're just always there.  Whenever
I need you.  I can't ask for anymore.  I won't."  

"What if I'm the one who's asking?" she says in a small,
low voice.   

"Scully, I--"

"Have you ever considered all the ways that I need you?
All the things you give to me without my even asking?"  
She's more confident now, and her voice takes on that 
sharp edge she uses at work, the tone that it makes it
very clear no questions should be asked.

"You're a good person, Scully.  An amazing person.  And 
I think you're doing it even now.  Giving me something
because you think I need it.  I don't want you to do that."
He's stroking her hair, letting the strands fall through 
his fingers like grains of sand.

She pulls back to look at him -- his sad hazel eyes have
hardened, grown cold, and she can see all the guilt there.
Guilt for Samantha, for her, for all the other people Fox
Mulder couldn't save.  

She will rely on the truth to get through to him -- the tried
and true method of dealing with Mulder.

"For years, I've watched you move heaven and earth to find
your sister, to reveal the tiniest scraps of information that
might lead you to her.  So I'd be lying if I said I don't feel
sympathy for you now, that I don't feel sorry for you," she
says calmly, looking directly into his eyes.  "I am so sorry, 
Mulder.  More than you'll ever know.  But I'm not giving
you anything because I feel badly for you.  I'm not here
because of pity.  I'm here because it's where I want to be.
Because if you're in pain, I *need* to be there to make
sure you're okay."

He looks at her, a bit incredulous, a bit doubtful, licking 
his lower lip quickly before looking down at his lap.

"Jeeze, Scully... I'm not that good in bed."  He smiles at her
thinly.  "Or am I?"  He leers halfheartedly, and rubs her
back.

"Mulder, I'm serious," she says sternly, pulling away from
him.  "It's all right for us to need each other, to want to
take comfort in one another.  That's a really difficult thing
for me to accept but it's true.  There's no one else, Mulder,
so we have to have each other."

"It's not as simple as your making it, Scully.  I agree we should
be able to lean on one another, but what happened last night
was a lot more than leaning Scully," he says flatly.  "And I
didn't stop to ask myself if it was right for you, if I was
pushing you into something that you didn't want or weren't
ready for.  And all because I needed it, because I wanted
it.  It's hard to feel good about that, Scully."

She's never wanted to shut up him so desperately before.  
He's been trapped in some endless cycle of guilt and 
recrimination as long as she's known him, but she can't
stomach it a second longer.  It ends here.  It ends with
her.

Rising to her knees, she hovers over him, taking his face
with both hands, and forcing him to look her in the eye.
He seems frightened, cornered, and tries to pull away.

"Damn it, Mulder!  You lost your sister!  It's okay to feel
sorry for yourself.  It's okay to want someone to comfort
you. Stop beating yourself up for taking what I offered."  

He doesn't cry.  His face falls slightly, his lips trembling,
his eyes turning glassy and unfocused as he nods.  With
a soft sigh, he pulls her into his arms again.  

"God, Scully ... we both know I don't deserve you.  I think
this just proves it," he says into her hair, kissing the
top of her head.

"I think we're both getting what we deserve."

He starts rocking gently, the friction between their skin
warming her in the cool bedroom.  She starts to feel sleepy
again, feels herself drifting off.  Then his heavy, sad voice
touches her, brings alertness.

"Why, Scully?" he asks simply.  "I just don't understand..."

"I don't know, Mulder.  It's not fair.  I know it's not fair,
sweetie."

"We just keep losing and losing. I don't know how much
more I can..."  His fingers dig into her waist almost
painfully as she feels his heartbeat increase.

"I know, Mulder.  But I have faith that things can
change.  I believe that."

They're quiet for a long while, both too tired to keep up
conversation, just sitting in each other's arms, sleepy
and somber.  

"It's late, Scully.  We need to get going if we're gonna 
make it to the office by eight," he says forlornly as if
he doesn't ever want to move, let her out of his grasp.

"No.  We're not going to work today."

"We're not?" he asks, sounding both startled and amused.

"I don't think they'll miss us for one day.  You need to rest.
You deserve some time, Mulder."

He doesn't protest, doesn't agree either but there isn't
the fight she was expecting.

"I haven't taken a weekday off to just sit around in years.
What will we do?"

"We'll think of something," she says gently.  "You can tell
me more about Samantha."  She hears his sharp intake of 
breath, but feels him nod against her.

"I'm going to go call Skinner, and then I'll get us some
breakfast.  You should eat something," she tells him,
sounding something like his mother, or maybe his
wife, but she doesn't mind.  He needs someone to
take care of him.

As she pulls herself out of his lap, she realizes 
something.  They haven't kissed yet.  They made
love last night, and his lips touched virtually
every part of her body except her mouth.  It shocks
her, saddens her, spurns her into action.

"You haven't kissed me," she says, accusation 
deepening her voice.

"I haven't?" he responds, looking at her slightly 
suspiciously.  She can tell he's mentally reviewing
last night's activities, all the places he kissed, all
the skin his mouth covered.

"Not a real kiss."  She's getting shy, a warm flush
spreading across her cheeks.

"Well, that's no good," he says solemnly.

He leans toward her then, a hand settling on the back of 
her neck, and inches his face toward hers.  His breath
is so warm, gentle on her skin, and she closes her eyes
in anticipation.

"Thank you," he whispers against her lips, as he presses
his mouth to hers.

It's long and slow and wet.  Deep and relentless.  No one
has ever kissed her like this before.

She's shaking when he finishes -- very confused and 
disoriented.  She remembers something about Skinner,
breakfast.  She's supposed to be getting dressed.

With unsteady hands, she puts her clothes on, sitting 
on the edge of his bed, her back to him.  He's watching
her though -- she can feel him.  

"Okay, I'm heading out.  Any special requests for 
breakfast?" she asks, buttoning her blazer to cover
her wrinkled blouse.

"No.  Whatever you want," he says sleepily.

"Try to get some rest while I'm gone." She brushes
the hair back from his forehead to give him a quick kiss.

She's halfway to the door when he calls to her again.

"Hey Scully..." he says, his voice husky with sleep.  "Can you get 
some white bread?  And jelly?"  

When she turns to look at him, he's staring at her with
wide, little boy eyes.  

"Yeah.  Yeah, I can do that."  She smiles a little sadly,
feeling tears threatening.  "Sleep, Mulder."

He nods, closing his eyes, and turns to his stomach.

She takes her time getting to the store -- Mulder needs some
sleep, needs some time to grieve his loss privately.  She
understands, isn't as worried anymore.  

So she breathes more deeply now because she knows she'll 
still find him there when she gets back.  Warm and sleepy
in his bed.


the end.
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